a/n: I've waited for months to publish this! (Don't let the beginning fool you).
You never celebrated Valentine’s Day. It wasn’t a boycott, exactly. You didn’t storm out of stores covered in heart garlands. You didn’t scowl at flower displays or hiss at couples clutching pink gift bags. You didn’t need to. The whole thing missed you like an arrow shot in the wrong direction.
Henry had called it “ritualized embarrassment,” the first year you’d been together. You’d asked if that was his formal opinion or just what he said to get out of dinner reservations.
He’d lifted a brow, book in one hand, fingers absently curled around your ankle beneath the blanket. “If it were a Dionysian ritual, perhaps I’d consider it. But this...” he’d nodded faintly toward the shop window across the street, some garish display of foil-wrapped bears and cheap pink satin, “is something else entirely. Obligatory affection is not affection. It’s coercion.”
“And here I thought you just didn’t like crowds.”
“I don’t,” he’d said evenly. “And I like compulsory crowd-based sentiment even less.”
So it became a tradition, an anti-tradition, really. You stayed in on February the 14th. Every year.
Not for lack of romance. You had that in spades. But you preferred it in its natural habitat: in handwritten notes on ripped paper, tucked into coat pockets weeks after they were meant to be found. In the small, unrepentant acts: herbs Henry dried and labeled for your soups, letters he translated for you without being asked. You’d once caught him rewiring a broken lamp because you’d said in passing that you missed its light.
You never once wanted a mass-produced card. Henry would take you out to dinner any day if you asked, and was already prone to buying gifts unexpectedly, so going out on the 14th would be just for show, squeezing through other couples to preen and pose.
By late morning on Valentine's day, the streets were unbearable.
Through the windows, you could already see couples clustering in packs, emerging like seasonal birds with red paper cups and mittened hands interlaced. There were chalkboard signs outside every café: two-for-one tiramisu, couples only. Balloons tangled on fences. A teenage boy had just tried to sell you a rose on the sidewalk. You had politely declined. Twice.
Henry locked the front door as if bolting a castle.
“Do you think the park’s a risk?” you asked, peering out through the curtain.
“Statistically, yes,” he said. “I saw two couples kissing in a single rowboat yesterday.”
You made a face. “In your rowboat?”
“Our rowboat,” he corrected. “And yes. It was ghastly.”
There were lilies waking up in the south garden already, too early and too bold for the weather. The peonies had curled in their sleep, waiting their turn. You could see them from the upstairs window, pale green shoots poking through the soil where Henry had once bent and planted them, muttering Latin to himself like a spell.
No florist's bouquet could compete.
“I don't want anything wrapped in cellophane,” you told him now, lounging across the fainting couch in cotton so loose it slid off your shoulder. “I already have everything I like.”
“You do,” he agreed. “Though I did refill your chocolate drawer.”
You grinned. “That’s not a Valentine’s gift. That’s good manners.”
“Of course.”
You had long since trained yourself to keep your favorite bars stocked in the fridge. Not because it was romantic (though, in its own way, it was) but because the world was too inconsistent to trust with your cravings. And Henry knew better than to intrude on that system. He simply kept the drawer full.
Around noon, someone rang the doorbell.
You both froze. Then slowly, you turned toward Henry. He was reading in a pool of window light. His glasses slid low on his nose.
“No one sane would visit us today,” you whispered.
“It’s probably a florist,” he said grimly.
“We’re under siege.”
He rose and crossed to the door silently, peering out the narrow window.
“Jehovah’s Witnesses.”
You both relaxed.
You passed the day exactly as you preferred: inside, uninterrupted. You played Mahler on low volume while Henry annotated a battered book of Plato, his fingers moving quickly, his mouth pursed in concentration. You sat cross-legged on the rug, sketching nonsense in the margins of a crossword puzzle you didn’t intend to solve. At one point, he reached down and ran his hand over your back, pausing at your shoulder blades to rub them.
“Valentine’s Day,” you muttered. “What a joke.”
“Mmm.”
“You should only ever give someone flowers because you want to. Not because you feel like a criminal if you don’t.”
“And only ever wear lace,” he murmured, “if it’s because you can’t help yourself.”
You raised your eyes. “You have opinions on lace now?”
Henry blinked at you over his book. “It’s lovely,” he said slowly. “But it itches. Don't deny.”
You laughed and sank into his lap.
By the time the sun dipped low, couples were pouring through the street outside like a migration. You watched them from the window, shoulder to shoulder with Henry.
There were squeals of laughter. Car doors slamming. Someone running in heels. Another bouquet clutched in cellophane.
Henry leaned his chin lightly on your head. You could feel the smile in his voice before he said anything.
“Do you think they know it doesn’t have to be like this?”
“I don’t think they want it not to be like this.”
“Strange,” he murmured. “The things people are convinced they want.”
You reached for his hand and laced your fingers through his.
“I’m glad we’re not like that.”
He pressed a kiss to your temple.
“As am I.”
By evening, the rain had started again, just a gentle patter against the windows, a far cry from the dramatic storm you’d half-expected. It tapped at the glass like it wanted in. Henry was reading again, the blanket at his waist had slipped low enough to expose the faint dip of his abdomen. You’d been trying not to stare.
You approached without ceremony. He didn’t look up right away, he was copying something into the margin of a book, left-handed, still fully focused. But when you reached him and curled a hand into the loose collar of his shirt, he closed the book silently and looked up at you.
“You’re in a mood,” he said quietly, already leaning toward you.
“You’re not?”
“When am I not in the mood for you, sweet girl.”
His hand found the back of your thigh, warm and easy, the pad of his thumb sliding up toward the curve of your hip. No rush.
The bed was cool when you slipped into it together, and then warm within minutes. You nestled beneath the sheets, knee sliding up beside his, and kissed him without effort, mouth open and relaxed. He returned it without teeth or edge, just that steady pull of his hands, coaxing your spine into the curve of his chest.
You breathed each other in. You kissed him again, more lingering this time, your fingers slipping beneath the hem of his shirt and skating along the skin of his stomach.
His breath caught, but only faintly. He tilted his head to deepen the kiss, but his hands stayed where they were. You knew he liked to draw things out.
The cotton of your slip tangled around your thighs as you shifted. He nudged it upward with a careful hand. His knuckles grazed your hip, then your waist, then up to cup your breast, thumb circling lightly through the thin fabric.
You made a small sound, not quite a moan, more like a sigh with weight behind it. You pressed your forehead to his.
You slid over him slowly, thighs straddling his. When you sank down onto him, it was with a long, shaky breath. He was already murmuring things into your skin. You couldn’t even catch all the words. Just fragments. Your name. Love. A line in Greek. Something about wanting to stay in your warmth.
You rocked against him, letting the heat build like a tide. He groaned low in his throat as you clenched around him, fingers tightening on your waist, but still didn’t rush. It felt like he was trying to learn you again, every time.
When you came, it was with your face buried in his shoulder, your body trembling slightly, your hands curling in the sheets. He followed soon after. A low sound ripped from him as he pressed his face to your neck and let go.
You felt him kiss your shoulder lazily. Then again, a little lower. They were his way of staying tethered.
Valentine’s day raged somewhere outside: restaurants packed, champagne uncorked, roses wilting under table lights.
The next day, you’d both assumed it was over.
Valentine’s day had passed, the real date, at least, and you’d made it through with your usual silent victory. No roses. No dinner for two. No overbooked tables or public kissing or limited-edition soufflés in the shape of a heart.
You’d woken slowly on Sunday, still weighted with sleep, only to find Henry watching you. Already touching you.
His fingers traced the curve of your hip, then skimmed up beneath it. His palm was cool and certain. You turned your face into the pillow and groaned.
“Mm. What are you doing.”
“Good morning,” he said.
You didn’t have time to respond before his mouth found your collarbone and his hand slid down between your thighs. Already coaxing. Already knowing what to do.
You weren’t fully awake until he was inside you.
You weren’t sure your eyes had opened yet. But Henry didn’t seem to mind. In fact, he made a low, pleased sound when you pulled your knees up and shifted to let him in deeper.
“You’re very awake,” you murmured, breath catching.
“Sun’s out,” he said mildly, like that explained it.
He fucked you slowly, then thoroughly. His hands on your hips, his mouth near your ear, his hips grinding deeper every time you arched toward him. It was less about lust than about rhythm. Waking you like this, filling you before the day started.
You came still half-drowsing. When you eventually peeled the slip off and stretched toward the edge of the bed, he handed you a cup of water without needing to be asked.
By noon, you had decided you needed groceries.
“I’ll come with you,” he said, scanning the list you’d started while still in your bathrobe.
“You hate the store,” you said.
“I hate most places,” he replied. “But I won’t have you carrying all this home.”
You didn’t argue. You never really won when he got like this, holding your coat open for you like it was a foregone conclusion that you’d let him come along.
It wasn’t until you reached the sidewalk that you realized something was wrong.
At first, it was subtle, just the faint repetition of pink in store windows. The same cluster of helium balloons at the corner. A couple darting across the street hand-in-hand, trailing a string of red paper hearts like it was Mardi Gras.
You froze.
Henry paused beside you. “No,” he said flatly.
“They’re still doing it,” you whispered. “Why are they still doing it?”
And then, all at once, the ambush began.
A woman shoved a sampler box of chocolates toward you, all smiles and glitter eyeshadow. “Couples discount!” she chirped. “Just yesterday and today!”
A man with a laminated flyer stepped directly into Henry’s path. “Sir, sir! Would you like to book a personalized couples’ escape room experience? Last-minute Valentine’s weekend bookings still open..."
“No,” Henry said sharply.
Another flyer. A table of sparkling wine samples. A man dressed as Cupid with actual wings. You saw a pop-up tent advertising “One Hour Romantic Carriage Rides through the Park.” The very park you’d been avoiding.
You looked up at Henry. His jaw had gone tight.
“I thought it was yesterday,” you hissed, clutching the grocery list like a shield.
“It was,” he said. “But evidently the ordeal is being extended since it fell on a weekend. Like some sort of plague.”
You tried to dodge another vendor trying to press a couples’ massage voucher into your hands. Henry gently but firmly inserted himself between you and her.
“Let’s get what we need and go,” he said, and took your arm.
Inside the store, things weren’t much better. Aisles of discount roses. Pink cardboard displays that played music when triggered. An entire freezer shelf marked DATE NIGHT ESSENTIALS in swirly font. You narrowly avoided walking into a tower of teddy bears.
Henry handed you a bag and started piling in essentials.
You paused at the shelf of olive oils. Turned toward him.
“You’re mad.”
“I’m not,” he said shortly.
“Henry.”
He looked at you, not angry but taut. He looked away. You saw it, then: the faint, guilty crack in his calm.
He wasn’t angry at the vendors. Or the hearts. Or the carriage rides. Not exactly.
He was mad at himself.
Because part of him, some awful, ridiculous part, was starting to wonder if he should have done something.
Just a small thing. Just to honor you. Just to prove he wasn’t taking your certainty for granted.
You saw it flicker across his face like the tail end of an eclipse.
“Henry,” you said softly, stepping closer.
“I know you don’t need anything from the holiday,” he said without looking at you. “And I agree. Entirely. But...”
“But?”
His hand closed around a jar, held it like it might steady him. “You’re the only person I know who deserves ritual. And if the world insists on dedicating a day to devotion, it’s galling that the rituals are so...garish.”
You leaned into him, a little amused, a little fond. “So you’re upset that Valentine’s Day exists badly.”
“Yes,” he said with conviction. “If they must have a festival, why not a proper one? Sacrifice. Fire. Your handwriting pinned to my chest.”
You smiled and nudged your shoulder into his arm. “You already have my handwriting all over your books.”
“And you already have a garden full of flowers,” he said, finally softening.
“And you wake me up with sex,” you added. “Very respectfully. That’s more than a lot of people get from their devoted boyfriends.”
He flinched. “Please never call me that again.”
You laughed and bumped his hip with yours. “Then don’t buy me anything today.”
“I won’t,” he said, after a beat. “But not because you don’t deserve it.”
Henry steered you through the crowd like a priest ushering someone sacred, his stride inexorable. One or two people still tried to intercept with perfume samples and glittery discount coupons, but they dropped back the moment Henry’s eyes met theirs.
It was raining again by the time you reached home. A fine rain, more like mist, but cold, and it clung to your coat and tangled your hair. You shrugged it off and stepped inside.
Henry followed, set the groceries down, then vanished into the other room.
You unpacked slowly. Refilled the olive oil. Put the good butter in the fridge. Hung up your coat. You were halfway through rearranging the spice shelf when you realized he hadn’t come back yet.
“Henry?” you called out.
No answer.
You wiped your hands on a dish towel and padded into the next room.
He was waiting in the study, back straight, hands behind his back. Too composed. His glasses were slipping down his nose a little, which meant he’d been standing there for longer than he intended.
“You didn’t answer me.”
“I needed a moment.”
“For what?”
There was a pause.
And then he brought his hands forward.
He was holding a box. Not wrapped. Wooden. Ornate.
Antique, probably. Dark, carved, with brass fittings and a lid that looked older than the country. Something you’d seen once, long ago, in a locked drawer of his desk, the one you didn’t open on purpose, even though he hadn’t forbidden you to. A box that had been tucked away with the careful privacy he reserved for things that mattered.
You blinked. “You’re giving me that?”
“I’m sharing it with you,” he said, as if that were an important distinction. “Because it’s not a gift. It’s a piece of something.”
“A piece of what?”
He opened the box.
Inside was a bundle of papers. Some folded. Some torn from larger pages. Some perfectly preserved, others rubbed at the corners from handling. A few you recognized. A few you didn’t. All of them clearly chosen not for show, but for himself.
You reached out and touched one.
It was a line from Euripides. You frowned.
"Love is all we have, the only way that each can help the other."
“These are yours?” you asked softly.
“They are now ours,” he corrected. “I’ve always kept them for days like this. When the world insists on calling something devotion but has no idea how to practice it. I thought we might use them. As an alternative.”
“To what?”
“To this.” He gestured vaguely, as if meaning the holiday. The world. All of it.
You looked down again. Touched another card.
This one was handwritten, your handwriting, you realized, and it wasn’t a quote at all. It was a grocery list from last year, smudged and folded. At the bottom, you’d doodled a little bird. It had a stupid hat.
Your throat caught.
“You kept this.”
“Of course I did,” he said, as if that were obvious.
You looked up at him. “So what is this? What are we doing?”
“A ritual,” he said, stepping closer. “We each choose a piece. One for now. One for later. Something we can burn or bury or fold into the bed. Something only we know.”
You stared at him.
He didn’t blink.
This was how Henry did romance. Something obscure, borrowed from older times. Nothing that could be sold in a store or captured in a photograph.
You reached into the box and pulled out a folded scrap.
It was just a word.
Greek, ancient, hand-scrawled, one Henry had once translated for you at a lecture. You remembered the way his voice had dropped when he said it aloud:
He did. Pulled a square of cream vellum from near the bottom and held it close to his chest without showing you.
You moved to stand beside him.
“What now?”
He turned toward you, solemn. “Now we place them somewhere hidden. Yours in my coat pocket. Mine beneath your pillow.”
“And then?”
“And then,” he said, “we agree that today is not a holiday. But it is ours.”
You kissed him. “I’d rather have this,” you said.
“I’d rather have you,” he murmured. “Not as a spectacle. As a practice.”
It became a ritual not because you named it so, but because it kept happening.
It wasn’t marked in the calendar. But it always began the same way: with Henry pressing a small wooden box into your hands.
You sat cross-legged on the rug. The box lay between you.
First, you each selected one slip of paper from inside. It didn’t matter what language. You didn’t have to explain your choice. Only read it, once, out loud. Then place it in the center dish.
His this time was from Virgil. Yours, a note you’d written on a napkin after a particularly long, silent dinner last autumn. It read: You’re lucky you’re brilliant, because you’re so odd it wouldn’t fly otherwise.
He smiled faintly as he placed it on top of his own.
Next, came the burning.
One at a time, you lifted your offerings to the flame, letting them blacken and curl.
Then came the binding.
You each took a thread, his burgundy, yours ivory, and tied a single knot around the tiny glass vial that would hold the remains. One knot each. Not tight. Not sealing anything. Just a symbol: it had been shared. It had been seen. Now it would be held.
The vial would go beneath your mattress. Or into the garden wall. Or hidden in the drawer of your desk that only Henry opened. There were dozens by now. You’d never kept track of where.
And then came the last part.
The vow.
This part was always made up. Always different. Never rehearsed.
Henry knelt before you. Not like a knight, not with pomp but as if this were an altar.
You placed your hands on his shoulders.
He bowed his head and whispered, “I will remember you when I forget myself.”
And you replied, just as soft, “I will carry your name even when I’m too tired to speak.”
That was it.
Sometimes, you made love after. Sometimes, you wandered the garden and let the air return to your lungs. Sometimes, he'd pull out a present he couldn't help but buy even though he knew you'd chastise him.
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summary: after a rough weekend with your family, where your mother’s harsh criticisms cut deep, you come home tense and withdrawn. remus won’t let you bear it alone. he stays close, reminding you that you are loved far beyond her words.
warnings: body image issues, emotional distress, family criticism, verbal abuse, low self-esteem, anxiety, remus being a total sweetheart, intimate moments, reader has a horrible mother. masterlist
You were perched on the kitchen counter, legs swinging idly, while Remus stood a few feet away at the stove. The steam curled up from the pot between you, carrying the smell of pasta and herbs.
He had a wooden spoon in one hand and a crease of worry etched deep into his brow.
“Are you sure you don’t want more food, love?” he asked, holding up the spoon like an offering. “If you don’t like this, I can make something else.”
You shook your head with a small smile. “No, I’m full.”
His eyes flicked to the pot, then back to you. “You haven’t even had breakfast,” he said gently, almost like the fact itself was enough to convince you.
“I just… I’m not hungry,” you murmured, watching the steam rise as though it might shield you from the conversation.
He gave a soft sigh, then scooped up a small portion of pasta and held the spoon toward you, stepping closer. “At least try a bite? Please, dovey?”
The warmth in his voice made it harder to refuse, but you shook your head again. “Remus, it’s fine. I promise it’s not the food.”
Still, he searched your face like he was trying to solve a puzzle. “You haven’t been yourself since you came back from your parents’ house two days ago.”
“It’s only been two days,” you said with a faint laugh, though it didn’t quite reach your eyes. “What difference could you possibly notice?”
He set the spoon down on the counter and moved to stand between your knees, cupping your face in one warm, calloused hand.
His thumb brushed along your cheekbone in slow, absent circles. “I always notice a difference when it comes to you,” he murmured. “You’re my girl. ’Course I notice.”
Your throat tightened, the gentleness in his voice pressing against the ache you’d been holding back. “I’m sorry, Remmy,” you whispered.
He shook his head, leaning in to rest his forehead lightly against yours. “Don’t be sorry. Just… let me take care of you, yeah?”
You nodded, eyes fluttering shut as his other hand came to rest at your waist. For a moment, the world shrank to just the warmth of him, the quiet hum of the stove, and the soft scent of basil in the air.
When you finally opened your eyes, he was smiling at you — small, reassuring, and impossibly fond. “One bite,” he said, picking up the spoon again and holding it to your lips. “For me?”
This time, you let him feed you.
Remus coaxed two spoonfuls past your lips, his palm steady beneath your chin as if afraid the pasta might tumble away before you could take it.
The warmth of the food lingered on your tongue, fragrant with garlic and olive oil, and for a moment you almost managed to forget yourself.
But then—unbidden, like a wasp slipping into a summer room—the memory arrived.
Your mother’s voice, sharp and unyielding, as if it had been rehearsed for maximum incision. You had been reaching for another helping at her table, laughing at something your cousin had said, when her hand had stilled the serving spoon.
Her words were not loud, yet they rang with a precision that had lodged itself deep into your chest.
How much you had eaten already. How, at this rate, you would not grow into the sort of woman worth looking at twice. How some people were born with self-control, and others were destined to learn it the hard way.
The sting of it returned in full, curling like smoke through your ribs. You set the fork down and leaned back, your mouth gone dry.
“Dovey?” Remus’s voice was gentle, but you stepped away before he could offer another bite.
“I don’t want to eat, Remus,” you murmured, your voice almost breaking on the last syllable. You tried to smile as if to soften it, but it felt more like a grimace.
His brows furrowed, the soft confusion in his eyes searching yours for an answer you could not yet give.
You moved past him into the sitting room, curling on the couch with your knees pulled to your chest, arms wrapped tight around them like you could make yourself disappear if you just stayed still enough.
You feel the shift of weight as Remus lowers himself down beside you. He doesn’t crowd you immediately — he just sits there, elbows on his knees, head tilted to watch you.
“Talk to me, love,” he says gently. “What’s going on?”
You shake your head without looking at him. “It’s nothing.”
“Nothing doesn’t make you look like that,” he replies, voice quiet but steady. “You were fine a few days ago. Now you’re barely eating, you’ve gone quiet, and you’re sitting here like the world’s just ended. So, no, I’m not buying ‘nothing.’”
Your throat feels tight. You keep your eyes fixed on the fabric of the couch, tracing the weave with your fingertips. “You’re gonna think it’s stupid.”
“Try me.”
You let out a shaky breath, the words catching before they even leave you. “When I was at my parents’ this weekend… my mum—” Your voice wavers, and you have to stop, pressing your lips together hard before you continue.
“She was going on about how I’ve… I don’t know… put on weight. How I’m ‘letting myself go.’ How if I keep looking like this, I’ll just… lose you eventually. That someone like you wouldn’t want—” Your voice breaks completely, the rest coming out between hiccuping sobs.“—wouldn’t want someone like me.”
Remus’s eyes darken immediately, his jaw tightening. “Oh, love…” He shifts closer, his arm sliding around your shoulders, pulling you in against his chest even as you try to hide your face.
“Come here. No, don’t pull away. Let me hold you.”
You’re crying properly now, your shoulders shaking against him, your words spilling out in fragments. “It’s— it’s just— I can’t stop hearing her voice in my head. Every time I look in the mirror, it’s all I can think about. And now I just… I don’t even want to eat because I feel so— so—”
“So what?” he murmurs into your hair.
“So disgusting,” you whisper.
He pulls back just enough to meet your eyes, his hands steady on your face. “Your mother? She’s being cruel, plain and simple. What she said isn’t just wrong—it’s pathetic. She’s spent years trying to tear you down, picking apart everything because she’s miserable or jealous. But none of that says anything about you. It only shows how small and bitter she really is.”
You sniff and look away, but he gently lifts your chin so your eyes find his again. “And listen carefully: what you eat, how you look, how you live—that’s your business. Not mine, not hers, and not anyone’s. You owe no one an explanation, and you certainly don’t owe them the satisfaction of shrinking yourself to fit their nonsense.”
He holds your gaze, his voice softening. “And lastly—I need you to hear this—I am completely, utterly in love with you. The kind of love where I see you and know you’re the one. It breaks me that you think I’d be repulsed by you.”
He presses a hand to his heart in mock offense, which earns him the faintest watery laugh from you. “Truly. How little you must think of my taste, darling.”
You shake your head, wiping at your cheeks. “It’s not that I think you’re shallow—”
“I know,” he says quickly. “I know, love. But I need you to remember that I didn’t fall for you because of a number or a measurement or any of that. I fell for you because you’re… you. And that’s never going to stop being enough for me.”
He leans in, kissing your temple, your cheek, the tip of your nose. “Now, how about I make you a cup of tea, and we find something to watch? And maybe — maybe — you let me feed you a little more pasta?”
You let out another small laugh, your chest still aching but a little lighter now, and you nod against him.
You sniffle one last time, eyes still a little wet but softer now. “You’re the best, Remmy,” you murmur, voice quiet but sure.
His mouth curls into that slow, crooked grin you know so well. “Matter of fact,” he says, brushing his thumb softly over your cheek, “you’re the best for putting up with my stubborn streak, my scarred body, and my horrible laundry skills.”
You laugh, a little hiccup still catching in your breath. “It’s okay. I love you lots for it.”
“Yeah?” he teases, leaning closer, his forehead resting gently against yours, his breath warm on your skin.
“Yeah,” you whisper back.
“I wanna show you just how much I love you,” he murmurs, voice low and husky, eyes darkening with something unspoken but unmistakable. “And this body.”
Before you can respond, his lips brush against yours—slow, deliberate, lingering. His hands slide down to your waist, fingers curling possessively as he pulls you closer, the heat between you unmistakable.
You melt into him, the silent promise of the moment heavy and full of things left unsaid.
Just as he starts to lift your top, his lips moving to kiss along your collarbone, you gently push him back.
Remus pouts, his lower lip jutting out in mock disappointment, eyes shining with playful defeat.
“Wait!” you say breathlessly, catching your breath and laughing softly, “I wanna eat the pasta first.”
Bullshit repeats itself / Is that how the saying goes? / Been here a thousand times / Selective memory though
You say we're drifting apart / I said "yeah I fucking know" / Big deal we've been here before and we'll be here tomorrow
Overview: A headass couple: people acting in a "slightly delusional, somewhat cheesy bubble," oblivious to how cringy or ridiculous they appear to others.
For some reason, you'd thought yourself to be the untouchable exception to the rule that all relationships eventually hit a rough patch. Peter and you were perfect, best friends first, and then dating. There wasn't a better match than the two of you. Except, of course, until there was. Your perfect image is shattered as you realize he's hiding more from you than you'll ever know. After a rough breakup, only one person seems able to cheer you up. A certain webbed viglinate. But, wait... why does his voice sound so familiar?
a/n: There will be the occasional ridiculous name/reference; if you catch them, they're all real (including Jumbo’s Clowns)
wc: 10.0K
They say that the best foundation for a relationship is built on friendship. And you used to believe that. When you first met Peter, it was like coming together with a missing piece of yourself. Even before the romance, the dates, the sex. When it was nothing more than something wonderfully platonic, you thought everyone was right.
But you were delusional. Your head had been too far up your ass to realize the truth of your relationship. You weren’t soulmates. You weren’t any more special than anyone else dating their best friend.
You would think, though, that being friends with someone for years would build enough respect for them not to blatantly mistreat you. To not lie to your face when they hide where they are at night. Sure, maybe other couples who didn’t know each other lied. But not you and Peter.
That’s what you thought, at least. Shows what you know.
Two Months Earlier
“Hi,” Peter rushes into your apartment, breathless and flustered as always. You get a firm kiss to the cheek before he disappears into your bedroom.
Laughing slightly, you peer around the corner and try to get a glimpse of him. “Everything okay, Petey?”
You get a slight hum of acknowledgment before he goes back to what sounds like rustling through papers. Shaking your head, you bring the popcorn bowl over to the couch and wait for him to reemerge.
It doesn’t take longer than a few minutes until he’s strolling back toward you, a slightly cocky pep to his step. You narrow your eyes at him but fail miserably at holding back a grin. “Whatcha up to, Parker?”
“Who, me?” He shrugs, playing dumb as he jumps over the back of the couch, landing on the cushion beside you. You spot something folded in his hand before he tries to hide it.
With little warning, you lunge forward, reaching for his hand. “Hey!” He jumps back, unable to hold in his laughter. “That’s cheating, you know?”
You don’t acknowledge him, grunting in frustration as he holds his hand further and further away from you. “Alright, well, what happened to no secrets?” You push, slightly embarrassed at how breathless you sound.
“Oh, wow,” his hand comes up, cupping your jaw as he pulls your face closer to his. “That’s playing dirty,” he whispers. You can’t subdue your smile, inching closer until your noses are brushing.
“You like it when I play dirty.” Peter’s eyes widen, a visible flush on his face as your lips just barely brush together. The whisper of a kiss. He was so focused on that, he failed to notice you ripping the paper from his hands.
He groans as you lean back on the couch with a triumphant grin. “You’re too easy, Parker,” you tease.
He props his chin on your knee, “Only for you.”
“Oh God, you are so cheesy.” He opens his mouth, a stupid grin on his face. You pinch his lips together and laugh, “Don’t say it again. For the sake of our relationship, please.”
You release him and he presses a quick kiss to your hand before leaning back. “Well,” he nods toward the paper in your hand. “Don’t you want to see what you’ve won?”
Excitement bubbles inside you as you unfold the small piece of paper. The print’s slightly smudged from your wrestling match, but when you bring it closer, you can’t help the sharp gasp that escapes you.
“Peter!” He’s smiling widely, posture relaxed and completely smug as you gush. “I can’t believe you managed to get tickets.”
“One of the guys in my lab knows someone at the museum. He owed me a favor,” he shrugs it off like it’s not a big deal. Like he didn’t just get you into one of the most exclusive exhibitions in Queens.
He lets out a slight grunt when you toss yourself at him, arms wrapping like a vice around the back of his neck. You can feel the exhale of a laugh as he buries his head in the crook of your shoulder, arms quick to wrap around your waist.
“Thank you,” you whisper, pulling back slightly to get a proper look at him. He keeps his grip firm, reluctant to let you get much further.
“You know I’d do anything for you,” he tells you and he has all the conviction of a man who really believes it.
“That’s a big promise,” you smile. “Sure you can keep it?”
“‘Course I can.” When you lean in to kiss him this time, you make sure it's real. Not the whisper of a touch, but something deeper as he pulls you into his lap completely. You don’t think you’ll ever get over how wonderful it is to be loved by Peter Parker.
“Christ,” you blow into your gloved hands and hope some of the warmth bounces back to your face. You knew it was going to be cold today, but you hadn’t thought it would be a problem. Peter had said he was going to meet you outside the museum, but it’s already been fifteen minutes and you’re losing feeling in your nose.
He does have a mind going 100MPH most days. Usually, you like to give him a leeway on timing. But it’s absolutely freezing today and snowflakes have just started falling. If you were with your boyfriend, this would be like a scene out of a romcom.
Instead, it’s about to be a nature documentary on wild stood-up girlfriends freezing in Queens tundra.
Pulling out your phone again, you bite the thumb of your glove and tug it off. You’ve sent Peter about twenty messages, none of which have even so much as gotten a ‘read.’ You try calling him this time, tucking the phone between your shoulder and ear as you hurriedly tug your glove back on.
“Hey, this is Peter, you know what to do.”
You roll your eyes at his voicemail. “It’s your girlfriend, Pete. But, I swear, if you make me wait any longer in this damn snow, I’m going to be your ex.”
“Good thing you don’t have to wait.” With a squeak, you whip around to find Peter standing behind you. You slap his shoulder and he bounces back with a laugh. The tip of his nose has been nipped red by the cold and his cheeks aren’t much better.
“You’re lucky I like you,” you snap.
“Extremely,” he agrees, not an ounce of sarcasm in his voice. It softens you slightly. When you can feel your fingers again, you’ll consider forgiving him. He throws his arm over your shoulder, struggling slightly with the scarf triple-wrapped around you.
Glancing down to hang up the call, you see a little news notification pop up.
Spider-Man & Molten Man Spotted in Times Square
“What’re you looking at?”
You shake your head, tucking your phone away. “Nothing.”
You send him a smile that he returns eagerly. He passes the staff your tickets and opens the door for you as you step into the museum. You’d like for the first thing you appreciate to be the gorgeous mural on the wall in front of you. But you are far more interested in the blast of heat coming from the vents above.
“Oh, thank God,” you grumble, blocking the door as you greedily soak up all the warmth you can.
“Come on, bug,” Peter laughs, tugging you along so the line of people can get by. “We’ll get you an overpriced coffee at the cafe.”
“You’re paying,” you tell him sternly. “I still can’t feel my nose.”
“Deal.” Peter doesn’t hesitate, just leans down and presses a quick kiss to the tip of your nose. It’s the type of thing you used to see others do in public and gag.
You’d think about how you would never be one of those touchy-feely couples. Peter makes it feel so natural, though. As if you’ve been together all your life and this is just another one of your daily routines.
The giddy smile on your face is wide and can’t even be hidden behind your scarf as you lean into him. He chuckles as he pulls you closer, taking you toward the cafe. “What do you want to see first?”
“I read online that they’ve got a bunch of Monets by the south entrance, we’ll go there and then circle back to the front.”
“You’ve had this planned since you saw the tickets, haven’t you?”
You laugh and shake your head. “Since I read about the exhibit. Remind me to thank you again when we get home.”
Peter glances down, brows raised with a cheeky look on his face. You snort and push his face away. “What? I didn’t say anything.”
“Your face did,” you tease. Peter laughs, pressing a kiss to the top of your head as you get in line for a coffee. You don’t even feel like you need it anymore. You’ve been warmed inside-out just by Peter’s presence.
God, when did I become such a cliche?
9:50
where the hell are you
they keep talking about distillation columns and thermo-something
you know I don’t understand nerd
Checking the time on your phone for the nth time, you feel your leg begin to bounce. Something uncomfortable has tied itself around your stomach, squeezing until you can’t stand one more sip of your beer.
Peter’s labmates celebrate around you. They keep jostling each other’s shoulders, talking in technobabble. You have never felt as stupid as you did when Marcy asked you what your thoughts were on a plug flow reactor. Whatever the hell that is.
You’d just said, “Oh, yeah, they’re great.” She’d smiled and slowly backed away, eagerly jumping into the next conversation.
It’s not that they’re not nice people, but this clearly isn’t where you’re meant to be. Not without Peter, at least. You’d promised to come thinking, oh, you know, that your damn boyfriend would be here.
10:30
Peter
Please
I feel so stupid
Nausea is thick in your throat as you hunch over the bar. Peter’s friends have all moved to a table, but you didn’t feel like following. It’s not like they were talking to you anyway. They didn’t know how and you didn’t either.
“This is so stupid,” you mutter, dragging your hand down your face. You push away your empty beer and find yourself drawn to the TV, looking for any sort of distraction.
It’s the news and, of course, Spider-Man’s swinging around the city again. His suit is bright against the night sky, and there’s an odd shape on his head that’s catching the snow. Leaning forward slightly, you snort when you see he’s wearing a red beanie.
“Of course, New York gets the weirdo for a hero,” you mutter. You grimace as you watch Spider-Man get punched down by a man who looks like he’s made himself a megazord. Pulling back the sleeve of your blouse, you sigh at the time.
There’s a tight pinch in your chest as you slide off the barstool.
11:02
I’m going home
You debate saying anything else but decide not to. Tugging on your winter attire, you stop by the others’ table and bid them all goodnight. They’re nice enough to say bye, but you’re pretty sure they thought you had already left.
The wind pushes against the bar’s door as you make your way outside. Snowflakes are quick to whip at your cheeks, landing in your lashes and melting into your scarf. You pull the scarf tighter and trudge forward.
The cold isn’t bothering you any more than your absentee boyfriend is. You’ve always been gracious with Peter about being late. It’s a chronic sickness for him at this point and you’ve been around it the majority of your life.
But it feels different now that you’re dating. Waiting outside an arcade or a restaurant for a friend isn’t a big deal. But when you’re sitting on your own at a table in a crowded restaurant, that’s absolute humiliation.
He’s been dropping the ball a lot more lately and that hurts. But he hasn’t given you any other reason to worry about the state of your relationship. So, despite the sting, you’ve resolved to just swallow down the embarrassment and keep on going.
You hear a small thud behind you and your hand instinctively goes to your purse. Swallowing thickly, you keep walking, hoping it’s nothing more than your paranoia. Then you hear the crunch of snow behind you, the clear footsteps matching your pace. Your hand wraps around the mace Pete bought you and you whip around on them.
To your absolute horror, Peter’s standing behind you. He throws his hands up and lets out a nervous laugh. “Okay, an hour late is really bad, but please don’t mace me.”
You tilt your head and give him a flat look. “Two hours, actually.”
His face screws up and you cross your arms. “Sweetheart, I am so sorry.”
You shake your head and turn back around. “Forget it, Pete. Just go celebrate with your friends.”
Peter jogs to catch up with you and darts in front of you, a frown on his face. “Wait, no, come on. Why don’t you head in with me?”
You let out what can only be described as a guffaw and push past him. “And suffer through more questions about plug flow-whatever’s? Pass.”
“Plug flow reactors?”
You glare at him over your shoulder and he fails horribly at hiding the amused look on his face. “Trying to speak nerd with them was humiliating, Peter.” His face softens at that and he reaches forward to pull you closer.
Out of pure stubbornness, you should resist. But standing outside in the cold is making you desperate for Peter’s insane body heat. “Come inside, just for a little while,” he brushes a hair off your cheek and smiles softly. “I swear, I’ll teach you all our science jargon.”
You roll your eyes, but he knows he’s won when you sink into him. “You’re way too persuasive,” you snap. Peter does his best to lace your mittened hands together as he turns you back toward the bar.
“Yeah, but you love me.”
“Unfortunately,” you glare at him, but your smile gives you away.
For once in your relationship, you’re the one running late. Something you know Peter is about to take far too much joy in. He’s already sent about fifteen texts. The majority of them bemoan being all alone and then asking if this is how you always feel. Those were followed by an influx of apologies.
You’re not thinking about the texts, though, as you jog down the street. You spot Peter waiting outside the diner, leaning against the wall. He’s got his phone in his hands, fingers moving rapidly across the screen.
Sure enough, you can hear your phone ding with yet another passive-aggressive text. “Would you quit it?” You demand, completely out of breath, as you stop in front of him.
He tosses his head back dramatically and groans. “God, finally. I thought you were just going to leave me out here to freeze.”
“Would serve you right,” your brows furrow. “When’d you get this?” You flick the edge of the red beanie shoved over his hair.
Peter shrugs and readjusts it. “I dunno, I’ve had it forever.” You frown, biting your lip as you think. You swear to god you know it from somewhere, but you must’ve just seen Peter in it before and forgot.
He holds the door of the diner open for you and lets out a relieved breath as you both step into the warmth. You would feel bad for him if he hadn’t done this to you five times within two weeks.
“How come you wanted to…” The go to this place so bad trails off into a laugh. You should have known when he kept badgering you about coming here.
Plastered floor to ceiling are comic book characters, clips from the stories, and various forms of memorabilia. You’re absolutely surrounded by a hundred different fandoms, and you’re honestly surprised Peter hasn’t had a heart attack yet.
“I really should have seen this coming.”
Peter laughs and leads you over to an empty table. A busty woman with a purple leotard stares you down from where she’s painted on the wall. You give Peter a flat look and he flushes.
“I mean… the name is Strips.”
“Oh, seriously, Parker. Why would my mind immediately go to comics? I was worried you were taking me to a strip club or something.”
Peter wrinkled his nose and frowned. “That’s way too on the nose. I’d take you somewhere classy like Jumbo’s Clown Room.”
Your lips part and you just shake your head. “I don’t want to know if that’s a real place. And if it is, I don’t want to know how you found out about it.”
“Blame Flash,” he mutters as a waitress comes over with a coffee pot.
You smile and thank her as she walks away. “Oh, I don’t think I’ve gotten a chance to tell you about this, yet.” Peter perks with interest and a wide smile blooms on your face. “You know how I was trying forever to be Professor Beeter’s TA. The position never opened but,” you trail off slightly as the people behind you start getting loud.
“Oh my god, he is wrecking this place!” Frowning, you glance over your shoulder and take a look at what they’re watching. Someone’s phone is propped in the middle of the table and you see yet another ridiculous villain punching through the Chrysler building.
Rolling your eyes, you settle back in your seat. “What was I saying?”
“Um,” Peter’s leg bounces under the table and his gaze shoots toward the door. “I’m not sure.”
You frown, watching him warily as he grows more antsy. “Oh, it’s about Professor Beeter. He offered me a-”
“Sweetheart,” he interrupts you and jumps to his feet. “I’m so sorry, but I just remembered I promised I would help May today.” He presses a kiss to the top of your head.
“What? Peter! You wanted to come here!” He’s already running out the door. You watch, astounded, as he races past the window like hell’s nipping at his heels. You sink back into your seat with a stunned expression and your heart aching.
Clearing your throat, you look up to find your waitress giving you a pitying look. She offers you a sympathetic smile that only makes you sick to your stomach. Grabbing your bag and coat, you jump out of the booth, rushing outside.
What the hell is going on with him? You think, glaring down the street where Peter had gone. Pinching the bridge of your nose, you swallow down a lump in your throat and decide to just head back home.
After his abrupt exit, you haven’t heard from Peter all day. You’ve sent him a few texts, checking in on him and asking about May, but you only got one answer before he went AWOL.
You:
Everything good with May?
Petey:
Yeah
Her pilot was out had to make sure she had heat
After that, you’ve gotten nothing from him. Also, as far as you’re aware, May doesn’t use gas for heat. Peter hooked her up with better appliances forever ago.
It’s as you’re dialing May’s number that you have to try and convince yourself you haven’t gone total psycho girlfriend. It’s perfectly normal to want to check on your boyfriend. Especially after how he was acting today. The line only rings a few times before she picks up.
“Hello?”
“Hey, May.”
She says your name and you practically hear the smile in your voice. “Hey, sweetie. How are you?”
“Fine,” you answer quickly. “I just wanted to be see how Pete’s doing?”
She’s silent for a moment too long. She clears her throat and you frown at the pitch of her voice. “Oh, yeah, Pete’s fine. I’d let him talk to you, but he’s busy right now.”
You hum, fingers twisting your hoodie (Peter’s hoodie) strings as your stomach ties itself into a knot. “Right. Uh, what’d he say he was helping you with, again?”
“Cleaning out the gutters. Apparently, it can be a fire hazard or something, I’m not sure.”
Your body goes cold while something venomous rushes up your throat. “Okay,” you can barely hear your own voice. “I’ll let you go, then.” You hang up before she can respond, phone slipping from your hand and clattering to the ground.
“Oh, my god,” you let out a panicked whisper, smoothing your hands over your hair as you try to think of a reasonable explanation. But there are no anniversaries, no birthdays, nothing special coming up that he might be lying about for a surprise.
You’re honestly more shocked that May would lie to you. Growing up, she’d always seemed like the type of woman to protect a girl from sleaze-bag boyfriends.
So maybe that means Pete isn’t doing anything bad. Maybe she’s covering for him for a good reason.
So, why can't you think of one damn reason May would lie to you?
You don’t want to start spiraling for no reason. People lie, not just boyfriends, and not always for insidious reasons. Plucking your phone off the floor, you call Gwen. She’s usually good at pulling you out of your head when you start getting bad.
The phone rings a few times before she finally answers. “Hey, what’s up?”
You frown and cross your arms across your stomach, trying to keep the nausea down. “Why do you sound so out of breath?”
“What?” She clears her throat but that only makes her sound worse. “No, I’m not. Did you need something?”
“Uh,” slightly taken aback by her tone, you struggle to find the right words.
“Gwen!” Your heart beats ruthlessly against your ribs as your entire body stills.
“Is that Peter?” You know it is. You could pick his voice out of a crowd if you were blindfolded.
Gwen lets out a tense hum. “Yeah, it is. Uh, he was helping me with some chem stuff. So, I gotta go. Call me later, yeah?”
She’s hanging up before you can say anything else. Your hands are trembling as you set your phone on the table. Squeezing your throat to try and keep the lump back, you shake your head.
There’s a reasonable explanation for everything. Right?
The nausea’s still coiled tight around you by the time Peter gets to your apartment. Your eyes are staring blankly at the wall, the only light coming from your window. You’re not sure how long you’ve been lying there. Trying and failing to sleep as you consider all the reasons Peter might have lied to you.
Why he would be with Gwen instead of you.
You hear him padding through the hall and shut your eyes, tugging the blanket slightly over your head.
“Bug?” He calls softly. He’s quiet as he approaches the bed. He brushes a hair off your cheek and leans down to press a kiss to your temple. “You awake?”
Part of you wants to tell the truth. She wants to spring up and start laying into him, demanding to know why he lied. And the other half, she’s a coward. So, you stay curled into a ball, eyes closed, and pretending like you’re not falling apart.
Peter lets out a low groan as he settles in your bed behind you. It takes everything in you not to jerk away when he wraps his arm around your stomach, pulling you into his chest. The last thing you want right now is to have him touching you. But saying that requires being awake.
And that’s more painful than a sleepless night.
Peter wakes up slowly, his body aching after last night. He’s not sure who decided a “living robot” was a good idea. But his ribs are paying the price.
Stretching, he ignores the twinge of pain along his side. His arm gropes blindly along the sheets, searching for you, for your warmth. When his fingers brush against the wall, he reluctantly opens his eyes.
He frowns when he realizes you’re not in bed beside him. Turning toward the rest of the apartment, he doesn’t hear you. You’re not in the shower or humming in the kitchen.
With something cold settling inside him, he gets out of bed. “Sweetheart?” He calls out, hoping to hear you answer. It’s Saturday, and while it’s never been something you’ve both spoken aloud, traditionally, you spend all day in bed together. Just crashing from stressful weeks and overloaded uni schedules.
“Bug?” He tries again, wandering through your apartment. He already knows, deep down, that you’re not in here. But he doesn’t want to accept it. He’s barely had any time for you this week and he was really looking forward to just being lazy with you all day.
In the kitchen, pinned to your fridge, he finds a pink note with his name on it.
Prof. Beeter asked me to come in. Someone messed up last week’s research log
Should be home for lunch <3
The only thing stopping him from spiraling is the little heart at the bottom of the note. He knows it’s silly, but he’s slightly worried that you’re mad at him. He can’t explain where the feelings are coming from, but it's gnawing along the back of his mind.
Peter glances at the clock and groans. It’s only 9, and lunch to you is usually 2 O’Clock. He’s not sure if he’s patient enough to last that long. Peter glances at the note again and leaves it on the counter to go get dressed.
He had Professor Beeter last semester and they got along pretty well. He’s sure the older man wouldn’t mind Peter bugging you for a little while.
Still heavy with the feeling that he’s done something wrong, Peter brought along your favorite sweet treat from the cafe on campus. Hopefully, that will soothe his worries and give you a boost for the day. He knows you look forward to Saturdays just as much as he does.
Peter’s heading toward the lecture hall when his brain finally catches up with the rest of your note. What research were you talking about? You hadn’t told him you were a part of any projects.
He’s always yapping to you about his labs. He figured you would do the same. Maybe it’s new, he thinks.
Pushing open the door, he spots you immediately. You’re at a desk, papers and books piling all around you. There are three other people with you, each of whom he has a vague recollection of.
“I mean, I don’t even know how we’re supposed to salvage this.” Your voice sounds strained, completely pulled taut. Peter frowns, wishing he could just take your problems and shoulder them for you.
“It’ll be okay,” one of the girls assures you.
You finally lift your head from your hands. “Twelve pages with zero references, we’re going to be at this all damn day.” Peter draws back slightly, suddenly wondering if this is such a good idea.
He knows how testy you can get about school. Especially major projects. Sometimes just leaving you alone seems to work better than smothering. But, then, before he can back out, one of the girls, he thinks her name’s Mila, catches sight of him.
“Peter?” She calls out. Your eyes instantly snap to him. If he thought you were angry at him before, he does not feel any better now. Your gaze is sharp, lips in a flat line, and there’s absolutely nothing on your face except perpetual irritation.
“What’re you doing here?” You snap and your voice is way sharper than he was expecting. Holding his hands up slightly, he approaches slowly. He doesn’t want to treat his girlfriend like a stray dog, but you look ready to go for someone’s jugular.
“I thought you might want something to eat. Figured you didn’t have any time before you left to get something.”
Mila and the other girl both aw over him and it gives him the briefest amount of hope. But then you’re shoving out of your chair and storming toward him. Peter swallows roughly as you approach. He almost wishes he were fighting that living-fire guy right now.
You snatch his sleeve in your hand and drag him back toward the door. “Peter, why are you here?” You demand, voice lowered so the others can't hear.
He frowns and shrugs helplessly. “It’s Saturday, we always spend Saturday together.”
You cross your arms, a sharp, derisive look on your face. Okay, definitely mad. “Oh, so you can remember dates now? What’s next? Are you going to show up on time for once?”
“Hey,” he objects, hoping to lighten the mood. “I was on time yesterday.”
Your eyes narrow and something on your face goes blank. He can’t place it exactly, but it’s like there’s a wall where he can usually read you so well. “Yeah, doesn’t count if you ditch me ten minutes later, babe.”
The venom in your voice makes him take a step back. He looks down, knowing you’re right. But he doesn’t want you any more mad than you are, instead of addressing it, he nods toward your desk.
“What’s going on here?”
“We’re working on the dementia research project with Professor Beeter.”
Peter wants to light up, to hug you, and congratulate you for finally getting an in with the professor you’ve been trying to work with since last year. But you deliver him the news so flatly he feels like you’d only get more mad.
“You didn’t tell me about that,” he says instead. Which is very clearly the wrong answer, by the way you back off with a sharp scoff.
“I’m not sure when I would have, Peter. I got placed two weeks ago and I haven’t seen you for more than an hour since then. Besides, when I tried to tell you yesterday, you fucking bolted to May’s.” You pause, and your lips curl up into something cruel. “Or was it Gwen’s place? Sorry, I can’t remember which lie you bullshited your way through.”
Peter feels his heart drop to his feet. It’s like a film goes over his eyes as his mind scrambles for any explanation that isn’t ‘I was busy beating up a robot with a weird, creepy human brain in it.’ Because he’s pretty sure that would be grounds enough for you to dump him right now.
You really don’t give him a chance, either way. You snatch the bag from his hand and the smile drops from your face. “Thanks for the visit. You can go now.” You turn back toward your teammates without another look at him. “Hungry?” You call out to Mila.
She gives a hesitant nod and you toss Peter’s pastry at her. “Dig in.” Even when you sit down, you don’t look up from your books. Not even a twitch as he opens the door.
Peter walks out, still slightly numb from the whole… argument? Did that even count as an argument? Or was that just you finally calling him out?
You’ve let him get away with a lot and maybe he took advantage of that, but he’s worried you might have the wrong idea. He doesn’t know why you would bring up Gwen, but the tone of your voice was so accusatory that he feels sick to his stomach.
Yes, he was at her house last night. But that’s because he needed to be stitched up. She’s known about Spider-Man since high school. It was either bleed out or have her use her beginner's sewing kit.
Peter lets out a shaky breath and runs his hands through his hair restlessly. You’ve both gotten into worse fights before. It’s not like you were a perfect couple. Surely, you could find a way to get over this. He just needs a half-decent excuse for his lying.
Peter perks up as he hears you step into the apartment. He glances at the clock and grimaces. You’re going to be pissed that you had to stay there until 6, fixing someone else’s screwup. When you round the corner and see him, he hears you let out one of the most exhausted noises he’s ever heard from you.
“Peter,” he finally turns to meet your eye. “Why are you here?”
His chest clenches as he forces a smile. “I figured you would be hungry.”
You pinch the bridge of your nose. “Are you ever at your own place?”
Ouch. “I just wanted to make you dinner. I’ll be out of your hair as soon as it’s done, bug.”
You shrug off your jacket and take a seat at the kitchen island. Peter takes your silence as agreement and goes back to stirring the pasta. When you speak again, his ears practically touch his shoulders. This dreadful feeling in his stomach has just been mounting all day. He feels ready to vibrate out of his own skin.
“Peter, where were you last night? I want the truth.”
Peter’s hand clenches around the spoon and he keeps his back to you. “Went over to May’s to help around the house and then I saw Gwen.”
You let out a loud scoff and your hands slap against the counter. “Did you all get your stories straight? Am I hearing the right lie, now?”
Peter drops the spoon and turns to face you. He expects anger, maybe sadness. But you’re not giving him anything. You’re just… cold and Peter hates it. He’s seen you use that look before. It’s always been directed at people you don’t care about. You don’t hate them, you don’t love them, you just… don’t care. He doesn’t want to be someone you don’t care about. He can’t be.
“Look me in the eye,” you command. “Tell me the truth.”
Peter takes in a steadying breath, doing his best not to make it obvious. “Sweetheart, I swear, I went to help May with the heat and the gutters. Gwen called and she needed my help on her chemistry project. I’m sorry that I got home late-”
“I can’t,” you clear your throat and the way your voice cracks makes his heart ache. “I can’t believe that you’re just going to stand there and lie to me.”
He shakes his head and takes a desperate step forward. “No, bug, I’m-”
You hold your hand up and his jaw snaps shut. “You’ve talked Peter, now it’s my turn. I have put up with a lot from you. If anyone treated me the way you do, you know what you would tell me?”
He opens his mouth and you shoot him a look that makes him shrink into himself. “Do not answer that, I am still talking. You would tell me to cut them out. If someone doesn’t respect my time, my dates, if they lie straight to my fucking face, then that’s not someone who deserves to be in my life. You are never on time, if you even show up at all.”
He wants to object, he really does, but he knows you’re right. Still, you must sense his apprehension. “Scroll through our texts from the past two months. It’s just a block of me asking where you are and telling you how stupid I feel. Then you show up, make everything better, and I just let you get away with it. Because I have known and loved you for so long, I let you disrespect me. I can handle missing dates, I can handle not being on time, always being at my place and never letting me over at yours. But I can’t do this, I can’t just swallow down you lying straight to my face. Getting your aunt and my best friend involved in this is sick, Pete. What do you expect me to think when Gwen’s lying about why you’re at her place?”
“No, sweetheart,” he finally speaks, rushing toward you, voice breaking on something desperate. He reaches for you, but you jerk back and he swears something cracks open inside him. “I would never.”
“Yeah,” you whisper. “Why would I ever believe you?”
Peter flounders. He tries to think of anything. Anything that isn’t a lie and isn’t the truth about who he is. But his mind is blank. The panic flooding through him is overriding anything that might get you back, might get you in his arms again.
You suck your teeth and give him a jerky nod. “Why do I feel like I’m losing you?” He whispers, afraid that if he speaks any louder, he might actually cry.
“I think this has been happening for a long time, Peter. It’s just your first time realizing it.”
No, no, he can’t handle that. He can’t handle knowing that this awful, barbed feeling ripping through him is how he’s made you feel for so long. But he can’t just spill his guts and tell you everything.
Right after Gwen had discovered him, it was like the bad guys had a missile lock on her. She kept getting thrown into danger, nearly dying, because of him. He can’t be the reason you get hurt. He can’t live with that.
But he’s hurting you either way and for once, he can’t think of a way to make this all smooth over.
You take in a sharp breath and turn away from him. You walk to the stove, turning off the burner as the food begins to smoke. “I think you should go, Peter.”
“Bug,” but he doesn’t have anything to say and you still won’t look at him. He just wants you to look at him. He feels as if you did, if you saw how sorry he was, something here might be fixed.
“I’m going to take a shower. When I’m done, I expect you to be gone.” You toss the pot in the sink and head down the hall, not another word spared for him. And Peter…
He just spirals. Every mistake, every time he showed up late, just pummels into him as he realizes this is all his fault.
You turned off your phone yesterday. The missed calls and texts from Peter were bordering on obnoxious and you couldn’t take it anymore. Even Gwen kept trying to call you. Kept texting you that it’s not what you think.
But did they ever offer any other explanation?
No, they fucking didn’t.
So, not only did you lose your boyfriend, the man you’ve been in love with as long as you’ve known him. You also lost your best friend.
Best. Week. Ever.
Sick of being sad in your bed, you decide to go be sad outside. Maybe just grab a pint of ice cream from the bodega and lock yourself inside your apartment for the rest of your life. That sounds like a decent plan.
Leaving your phone, you grab your keys and some cash. It’s still cold outside, though the snow has calmed down a little bit. It soaks through your tennis shoes, now, seeps along the hem of your sweatpants. No part of you can be bothered to care about that as you trudge toward the shop.
It’s unusually quiet as you walk inside. Usually it’s a lot busier this time of night. Maybe the universe decided to give you a break.
Digging through the freezer section, you frown when you don’t see your favorite flavor. You turn toward the shop owner, Al, who has gotten used to you coming down here the past few days. “You guys don’t have any more Turtlesaurus Rex?”
Al’s silent and you frown, finally turning to fully face him. A man in a black jacket lingers by the counter, hands stuffed deep in his pockets. Al gives you a tense smile, and your brows furrow as dread picks at you.
“All out. Maurie down the street might have some.” There’s something about how wide his eyes are that’s making you think you probably should have brought your phone. Especially because you definitely just saw the handle of a gun in that man’s jacket and you really need to call the cops. (Even though they probably won’t do anything.)
“Yeah, I’ll go check over there.”
“Have a good night.”
You try not to sound stiff as you return the sentiment. But you’ve barely made it to the door when you hear the distinct sound of a hammer being pulled back.
“You think I’m stupid?” What a wonderful time this would be for a freak in red and blue spandex to show up.
You turn slowly and shake your head, absolutely zero idea how to defuse this.
“I think the lady’s just being polite. Personally, I don’t think I’ve ever seen someone encapsulate the term ‘mouth-breather’ so well.”
Your eyes widen, and you whip around to see Spider-Man standing at the entrance of the bodega. What the fuck is your life?
“Hey, jackass,” you hiss, and his head whips toward you. “Who’s he pointing the gun at?”
Spider-Man shrugs, “What gun?” You barely have a second to blink before a thick white string is twhip-ing past you and jerking the gun out of the man’s hands.
“Smartass,” you mutter under your breath.
“I think you mean, ‘thank you, Spider-Man for saving my life,’” you shoot him a flat look and walk out of the bodega. Maybe it’s time to just accept that you’re not meant to be in the outside world. You’re better off cocooned in your bed.
There are no robbers there. No cheating boyfriends and conniving best friends.
About a minute later, you hear rapid footsteps approaching. “I don’t have a purse, phone, or wallet.”
“Wow, great mugger-deterrent. I totally don’t want to rob you now.”
You plant your feet in the snow and hear Spider-Man let out a sharp breath as he skids around you. “I thought you were the friendly neighborhood Spider-Man. Not the quippy, neighborhood pervert who follows girls around at night.”
Spider-Man lets out a noise that can only be described as a guffaw. “I’m making sure you get home safely. Since clearly you don’t care. I mean, who walks around this late at night without mace at least?”
“Me,” you tell him flatly.
“Pretty girls shouldn’t be walking around here on their own.”
Your lips curl and you gag as you continue toward your apartment. “Okay, first of all, totally not helping with your creep angle.” He groans and you almost laugh at the defeated sound. “Also, I’m fresh off a break-up, so keep the compliments to yourself.”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” Spider-Man quickly jumps in front of you and you frown as he blocks your way. “Breakup,” his voice is pitched so high, you swear it almost sounds familiar. “You broke up with someone?”
“Uh… yeah.”
“R-really?” He tries to lean against a lamppost, slips, and then straightens awkwardly like he meant to do that. “Because you know sometimes people think that it’s just a break and not a breakup, you know? Big difference. Are you sure this isn’t just a break?”
He’s talking so rapidly you can barely understand him. It doesn’t help that he’s got that mask on, so you can’t try to catch the words on his lips to decipher them. You think you might have gotten half of that word-vomit.
“Well, I’m the one who did it. I feel like I should know.”
“Does he?” He holds up his hands, quick to correct himself. “Or she? Spider-Man doesn’t judge.”
“Oh, good to know, he’s a pervert, but at least he’s an ally.” You push past him. “Look, if he doesn’t know, then he’s a lot stupider than I gave him credit for.”
You hear a low, “Ouch,” behind you and figure you might be being a tad harsh about Peter. But what the hell would Spider-Man care?
“You know,” Spider-Man continues after you.
Jesus, he’s like a damn dog.
“I’ve always believed that everyone deserves a second chance.”
You glare over at him and swear you see the eyes of his mask turn down. You’ve never seen a mask emote before; it’s incredibly bizarre. “Do they deserve a second chance after sleeping with your best friend?”
Spider-Man shrugs, throwing his hands in the air. “Do you have evidence that it happened, though?”
“Dude,” you snap. “What do you care? And what other evidence would I need besides the fact that he wouldn’t tell me the truth? If there was nothing to hide, why would he continue to hide shit?”
You hear his inhale of breath and shake your head, holding your hands up. “No, you know what, no. Alright? I didn’t get my Turtlesaurus Rex and I am not going to listen to some weirdo in a unitard give me relationship advice.”
“Unitard?” He scoffs. “I’m not a weirdo.”
“Oh, yeah?” You call over your shoulder. “Then stop following me home!” It takes a few minutes to believe he’s actually gone and you can finally breathe again. What weird ass fever dream was your life turning into?
You sit on the ledge of your roof’s building, a blanket wrapped around your shoulders. You’re scrolling through all the texts Peter’s sent you in the last three hours. There are at least fifty of them. But it’s the one at the end that really catches your eye.
Is this really it? Are we done? Bug-
You stop reading at the nickname and put your phone down. Reluctantly, Spider-Man’s words from the other night pop into your head. Some people think it's a break, not a breakup.
How could Peter not have gotten the message by now?
“Fancy meeting you here.”
You let out a screech and jolt forward. Arms winding wildly as you try to regain your balance. The city tilts below you until something’s latched onto the back of your shirt and you’re suddenly being pulled into a firm chest.
“Why would you sit on the edge?” Again, his voice gets an impressively shrill pitch.
Shoving away from him, you whip around and slap his shoulder. “Why would you scare someone sitting on the edge?”
You can hear his sharp intake of breath before his argument fizzles out. “That’s what I thought Spider-Boy-”
“Man.”
“Whatever.” You walk back to the edge and rewrap yourself in your blanket. With a pointed glare over your shoulder, you hop right back on your perch. Spider-Man lets out a world-weary sigh before he jumps up beside you.
“You know,” he drawls. “Most people say thank you when a superhero saves you.”
“Oh,” you laugh. “Is that what you are, now? A superhero?”
“Dude. What is your problem?” His voice goes so flat, all humor sucked out of it, that, for some weird reason, it’s the first thing he’s said to get a real laugh out of you. He seems just as confused as you are if the way he tosses his hands up means anything.
“I cannot figure you out.”
You shake your head and brush a stray curl from your eyes. “It’s not you, Bugboy-”
“Rude.”
“It’s life,” you spread your palms out, gesturing to the sprawling city across from you. “Just broke up with the love of my life. Lost my bestie. The research project I’ve been trying to join for a year is falling apart at the seams. Oh, and I almost got shot yesterday.”
You point your face to the sky and let out a dramatic sigh. “God hates me.”
There’s a light nudge on your arm and you look over to see that Spider-Man’s moved closer to you. “God doesn’t hate you.”
“Oh, yeah?”
“Yeah. Because I didn’t let you get shot. I’d say that’s pretty damn lucky.” You snort and from the mask, you think he’s… pleased? It’s really hard to tell.
“I guess that’s fair.”
Spider-Man lets out a satisfied hum as he turns to the city. “You gotta stop being so hard on yourself, bug.”
Your entire body goes still. Your eyes widen as they stare down at your lap, adrenaline rushing through your blood as you turn toward Spider-Man. “What’d you say?” You ask, voice so low you’re surprised he even registers it.
He shrugs, “I said to stop being so hard on yourself.”
“No, you called me something. What’d you call me?”
“Bug,” Spider-Man drawls and you swear you’re going crazy because that voice is painfully familiar. “You called me Bugboy, I thought it would be fair.”
It’s too hard to distinguish whether this swooping feeling in your stomach is relief or disappointment. And you hate yourself for not knowing which one you want it to be.
“Right,” you scoff and rub your eyes. “I’m going crazy, now.”
Spider-Man lets out a long sigh as he watches you. “You kind of seem like you’re having a mental breakdown. Maybe, I don’t know, get off the edge of the very tall building.”
“Oh, don’t tell me Bugboy’s got a crush.”
Your lips curl at his scoff. “You’re impossible.”
Feeling only slightly guilty for the hell you’ve given him, you slip off the edge and get your feet planted firmly on the ground. “Better?”
He surveys you suspiciously before nodding. You pick your phone up off the ledge and, for some reason, are compelled to open up the texts with Peter. You should have guessed how nosey Spider-Man was going to be about it.
“That the ex?”
You shoot him a flat look as he kicks his legs over the ledge. “Yeah. That’s the ex.”
“So, what are you going to tell him?” He motions toward the last text. “Break or breakup?” Your mind snags on how Peter called you bug and Spider-Man’s weird slip-up before you force yourself to dispel the thoughts.
“Breakup. I guess I should have made it more clear.” Your fingers hover over the keyboard before you shoot Spider-Man a look. His back has gone weirdly tense and you frown. “Hey, you’re a guy. How’s the nicest way to tell him it’s done.”
“Don’t.” His voice is clipped, almost angry. “He’ll get the hint. Trust me.”
Your brows furrow as you eye him warily. “Are you okay?”
“Gotta go. Superhero business, you know?” You shrug, but he doesn’t seem to care. He’s already leaping off the ledge, thwip-ing his way to the building across from yours.
“Weirdo,” you scoff.
You figured that after Spider-Man’s abrupt departure on the roof, that would be the end of it. But, no, it’s only gotten worse for you. He’s everywhere now. He’s somehow more consistent than your ex ever was.
Walking home from late research sections, look who wants to be a walking buddy.
Heading to the bodega for a midnight snack, somehow, Spider-Man had the same idea.
Your life is now a Sunday comic strip in the paper. It’s like there’s some sadistic artist out there exploiting your misery for humor. It’s not just him, either. It’s the month. In all your drama with Peter, you’d failed to keep up with the dates.
Now, freshly single for the first time in a couple of years, you sit alone preparing yourself for the next week. Valentine’s Day is Saturday, which means suffering through pink streamers all over campus and girls walking around with gift baskets lovingly curated by their boyfriends.
“I don’t like how often I find you on this ledge.”
You spare a glance over your shoulder and smile. “I don’t like that you still haven’t learned not to scare me.”
“Touche,” Spider-Man breathes out, taking quick strides toward you. “You seem tense. Feel like sharing? I’m a great listener.”
“Nothing big, just Valentine’s Day. I’ve had a boyfriend for so long I forgot how bitter and annoying it is for single people.”
“Tell me about it,” he sighs.
“Really? The Spider-Man is single?”
“I appreciate the surprise in your voice, no matter how forced it is.” You let out a wry chuckle and you swear you can hear a smile in his laugh.
“Probably a good thing, though. I can’t imagine any girlfriend would be happy with the amount of time you spend on this ledge with me.”
“No,” he agrees, “probably not.” The next noise he lets out is soft, tired in the kind of way that resonates with you. For the most part, your interactions are shallow. There’s banter, stupid quips, and then he’s off. You don’t usually hear something so real from him.
“Freshly single?” You ask. His head whips toward you and you shrug. “I recognize the misery of your sigh. It resonates within my withered heart.”
Spider-Man swats your shoulder lightly and you grin. “Yeah, it’s fresh. I still don’t think I’ve accepted it.”
You prop your chin in your hand and smile at him. “What level of not accepted are we talking here? Stalking? Or just crying over Instagram posts?”
Spider-Man goes quiet and you pull back. He recognizes the suspicion on your face and waves his hands. “No, no, no, this doesn’t count as stalking. Not really. I mean, it’s consensual?”
He sounds more unsure of himself at the end than you did. “Let's just not talk about that,” you offer. “I don’t think I want to know what your idea of consensual stalking is.” Spider-Man snorts and you shake your head.
A billboard across from you catches your eye. It’s Gwen’s favorite band, an announcement that they’ll be coming through soon. There’s a sharp ache in your chest when you remember you can’t just text her about stuff like that anymore.
“Gwen would love that,” you say, almost without thinking.
But what’s worse is when the man beside you doesn’t think either. “Oh, yeah, she would.”
Consensual
Stalking
Oh. My. God.
Your entire body stiffens as you turn to Spider-Man/maybe your ex-boyfriend. He doesn’t seem to realize his slip-up and that just makes you freeze up. You don’t know what to do. You can’t just blindly accuse him of being Peter. If you start hinting at secret identities, he might stop talking to you.
Loathe as you are to admit it, you’ve begun to enjoy his company. The main reason being he reminded you of how it was with Peter before you guys started dating.
Oh, Jesus, you’re gonna throw up off the ledge of your building. When the pavement below seems to swim up to you, it’s time to slip off the ledge. Slowly, fighting off the vertigo of your discovery, you drop back to safety.
Spider-Man watches you, head tilted in question. “Um, I have to go.” You search for an excuse, but none comes. “Yeah, I have to go.”
“Oh,” he seems taken aback, but doesn’t comment. “Alright. I’ll see you later?”
You let out a noise between a hum and a squeal as you rush back into your apartment building. Your mind is racing while you scramble through the door of your apartment. Like a detective, you flit through different memories, red string connecting each one as you start to line up Peter’s disappearances with Spider-Man's greatest hits.
Every missed date, every time he showed up late, it was all right there. But you never thought to connect it because… Well, why would you? Peter is Peter. He’s not a superhero. He definitely doesn’t have webs. Please, don’t let him have webs.
Scrambling for your phone, you dial the first number you can think of. It’s barely ringing before it’s getting picked up. “Gwen,” your voice is incredibly shaky as you try to calm yourself down. “I’m going to ask you something and if you don’t tell me the truth, we’re never talking again.”
Spider-Man/Peter Parker/ex-boyfriend-
No, no, too many titles. Peter has not been around in the past week. Not as his alter ego, and not at his lectures. Unfortunately, a lot of your schedule seems to intersect and the majority of your day is spent hiding in a hoodie and trying not to make eye contact.
But there hasn’t been any of that at all this week.
Maybe Gwen told him you know. He’s probably losing his mind right now.
But, no, she swore she wouldn’t and you know she’s not going to risk hurting your friendship again. Though you did profusely apologize for ever thinking that she could do that to you. And then she berated you about thinking she would ever be attracted to Peter.
Which… Ouch.
It’s Saturday, which used to mean days spent with him. Instead, it now means watching people get all mushy on Valentine’s Day. That used to be you, disgustingly in love, kissing way more than you should in public.
Now, you watch it all on the subway with that same old glare you used to have before Peter. You’re thinking about him a lot more than you want to. Especially given that he’s supposed to be an ex.
After your long speech on respect and boundaries and honesty, you should be completely over him. But it sort of makes sense now. Especially after Gwen told you what happened to her when she found out about him.
Peter wanted to protect you. You can understand that. But it doesn’t just erase all of the pain you felt while you were in the dark. You let out a low groan, ignoring the people around you as you walk home. You just keep going in circles over and over again.
The streets around you begin to thin out the closer to home you get. You’re still so deep in thought, you don’t notice the man dangling in front of you until your forehead is smacking into his.
“Ow,” you hiss, pressing your palm to the bruise that’s probably already forming. Backing up, Spider-Man, Peter, is dangling from the small overpass, upside down, as he waits for you.
“Dude,” you drawl. “How long have you just been hanging out here?”
He shrugs, “An hour, maybe.” Only in Queens would people pass by a dangling man in spandex and not question a thing.
One of his hands is tucked behind his back, and the other is holding onto his webbing. “Here,” he says. “I’ve got something for you.”
He untucks his free hand and passes you a bright pink, smothered in glitter, Valentine's Day card. You can hear his proud smile as he asks, “Be my Valentine?”
Narrowing your eyes at him, you shake your head with a low laugh. This is the dork you fell in love with. The boy you swore you would follow anywhere. It’s not his fault he’s such an idiot, not really.
Something soothes the ever permanent ache in your heart as you imagine the smile he’s probably got plastered on face. God, you bet he’s so proud of himself for this silly little Valentine.
A deep longing echoes through you and you reach up, going for the edge of his mask, when he reels back. “What’re you-”
“Relax, Parker,” you whisper. He goes completely still and you take hold of the mask.
“Did Gwen tell you?”
“You did, dumbass. You know, you’re really bad at the whole secret identity thing when it comes to consensually stalking your ex.” He lets out a low groan as you peel down his mask, just enough for his lips to be visible.
Pulling back, you take his face in your hands and smile. “Do you want me as your Valentine, or not?”
“What do you think, bug?” With a soft laugh, you lean forward and press your lips to his. It takes a second to get the angle right, what with his chin brushing your nose and all. But you don’t need perfect, you just need him.
Pulling back, he’s got a goofy grin on his face and you smirk. “Parker?” He hums as you fix his mask. “If you ever lie to me again, I’ll cut a hole in the crotch of your unitard. Or, worse second option, I’ll tell Jonah Jameson where you live. Got it?”
He goes still and you raise a brow. “You’re not joking?” You shake your head, expression flat. “Yeah, I got it, sweetheart.”
Smiling, you press a kiss to his cheek and step back. “Be home by six,” you tell him. “And bring some takeout.” You walk around him as he swings himself back up to the top of the overpass.
“I love you!” He calls after you.
“I know you do, Bugboy!”
𝘞𝘦 𝘈𝘭𝘮𝘰𝘴𝘵 𝘉𝘳𝘰𝘬𝘦 𝘜𝘱 𝘈𝘨𝘢𝘪𝘯 𝘓𝘢𝘴𝘵 𝘕𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵
𝘚𝘢𝘣𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘢 𝘊𝘢𝘳𝘱𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘦𝘳 ♥︎
⇄ ◁◁ I I ▷▷ ↻
⁰² ⁰⁸ ━━━━━━━━━●━ ⁰⁰ ²⁵
💿 We've been here before and we'll be here tomorrow 💿
a/n: this was meant to be angstier but, well, I started writing him in the Spider-Man “voice” and folded like a wet paper towel
you talked about bartender!sirius in a previous post and omg i can't stop thinking about it!!! could you do a fic with costumer!reader and him being all flirty and stuff (maybe even angst where reader is really drunk or has come to drink all her problems away or someone icky is hitting on her or smth?? idk i trust your judgement<3)
litterly giggling and kicking my feet just thinking about it😭🤭
Thanks for requesting gorgeous <3
cw: alcohol
bartender!Sirius x fem!reader ♡ 1.4k words
There are three people working the bar, and you have basically no hope of ever capturing one’s attention. You’re not as assertive as the other patrons vying to get their orders taken, not willing to lean across the bar or shout like they are and perfectly willing to let yourself be pushed out of the way when one of them decides their cause is more prevalent than yours. It probably is. This pub is noisier and more rowdy than you’re accustomed to, and you’re not much of a drinker to begin with, only trying to pay your tax to sit with the friend that invited you here. You’re considering abandoning the endeavor entirely when the next man shouldering you out of the way gets waved off by the bartender nearest.
“Oi, she was here first.”
The bartender’s gaze fixes pointedly on you, which is kind of a lot. He has sharp gray eyes paired with superblack hair—like, the kind of black no light can penetrate—and a crooked smile, a handsome and somewhat menacing combination. He leans across the bar, lowering his voice as if he can tell that’s what you’d prefer.
“What can I get you, doll?”
You fumble for your tongue. “Um, can I have a citrus spritz, please?”
He grimaces. “Wish you could,” he says, “but we just ran out of that gin. Got a second choice?”
“Oh, uh...” You’d only found your first choice after perusing their menu and asking your friend what each thing was, so no, you do not. You take a step back from the bar, yielding your time. “Sorry, I’ll have to—”
“No, come on, it’s alright.” The bartender doesn’t move, but his voice is loud enough that it reaches you, gets you to turn around. He’s on you with that smile again, one hand beckoning you towards him. “We’ll figure something out for you, sweetheart. Come back here.”
You step up to the bar stiffly, more than aware of the irritated looks being shot your way by other patrons.
“What do you like?” he asks you.
You feel your eyebrows pinch, shaking your head helplessly. Your face feels like it could heat a small home. “I don’t—I’m not sure, sorry.”
“You’re alright,” he promises, grin vanishing for a moment as he cuts a glare towards a man trying to talk over you. It’s back before you can miss it. “A sweet kinda drink, yeah? Fruity? D’you want something else with citrus?”
“That sounds good,” you manage.
He winks and pushes off the bar. “Stay put, babe, I’ve gotcha.”
You do your best, keeping your front pressed to the bar even as everyone else moves around and into you. You feel like a rock in a stream. With no one else to talk to, you watch him work behind the bar. He grabs a bunch of bottles at once, pouring without measuring or counting or hardly even looking, and when he starts shaking it all in a metal cylinder you have to look away from how his tattooed biceps bulge from the short sleeves of his shirt. You’re scanning the rows of liquor behind the bar when he gets back, trying to will the warmth away from your face.
“Give this a try.” He sets the drink down in front of you. You notice it’s got a bit of dried fruit on top, and then he sets a small shot glass of something bubbly and transparent down next to it—you wince. A garnish and a side; probably not as cheap as you were hoping for. “If you don’t like it,” he says, glancing between you and the drink expectantly, “don’t tell me. Just bring it to the bathroom and flush it. My ego can’t take the rejection.”
You press your lips together into something you hope approximates a smile and take a careful sip. It is sweet. You can barely taste the alcohol. You rub your lips together as you set it down, hoping you haven’t gotten foam on your mouth.
“It’s really good,” you tell him honestly, and he grins in response. You raise it to your lips for more. “What is it?”
“A pornstar martini.”
You nearly spit foam right at him, somehow reversing at the last moment so you take in a hearty sip instead. His grin widens, showing canines, like he knew the effect the name would have on you. It should make you feel childish, but he doesn’t seem like he’s laughing at you so much as with you.
“It’s good,” you say again, taking out your card. “Thank you.”
He holds up his hands, stepping away from your credit card like it’s a weapon. “Put that thing away,” he says. “You’re insulting me, dollface.”
You let your card hover in the air between you, unsure. “I can’t let you—”
“Sure you can. You have to,” he insists, setting both hands on the bar and leveling you with a significant look. You can’t look back for more than a second before your gaze flees downward. “If I can’t comp a pretty girl’s drink, what am I doing here?” He lowers his voice, leaning across the bar so his face is just a few inches from yours. “And if I can’t add a pretty girl’s drink to a tosser’s tab—” he flicks his gaze over to the man who’s been especially persistent in trying to get his order in over yours since you’ve come up “—then I may as well quit.”
You press your lips together, trying desperately to keep from looking as flattered and flustered as you feel.
“You don’t want to leave me without purpose, do you?”
“No.” You smile down at the bar, privately rolling your eyes. When you glance back up, there’s a waggishness in his eyes that suggests he saw. “Thanks.”
“Thank you. Have a good night.”
“You too.”
You turn, starting back for your table, but stall a couple of steps in. Your seat’s been taken by a man around your age, all smiley and nodding as your friend talks. They’ve both got their elbows leaned on the table, eyes locked like they’re in some sort of competition. And you may not spend a lot of time in pubs, but you know enough to stay away when two people are looking at each other like that.
You stand awkwardly on the fringes of the bar crowd, looking around for another empty table, but it’s too crowded tonight; there are none. You consider dropping by to tell your friend you’re leaving, but now you’ve got this full drink in your hand. Maybe if you finish it quickly…
“Hey!” You pivot, and the same bartender is looking at you again, craning his neck to see you over the crowd. “Hey,” he all but shouts to be heard, “come here.”
You’re nothing if not obedient, working your way through the crowd with murmured apologies and your eyes on the ground to ensure you don’t step on anyone’s toes. When you get up to the bar, he’s waiting for you, holding up a hand to pause the man—the tosser, he’d dubbed him—trying to talk to him. You wonder if he’d halted his order halfway through.
“What’s going on?” he asks, eyebrows twitching together. “You looked lost over there, babe.”
“Sorry,” you say, though you’re not sure what for. “I just—my seat was taken, so I was just trying to figure out—”
“You can sit here.”
You blink, and he motions to the stools tucked under the bar in front of you, the ones nobody’s using. “I mean, you don’t have to,” he says, the closest thing to hesitant you’ve seen from him yet, “but you’re welcome to. I could use some good-looking company. We’re severely lacking over here.”
“Fuck off,” says another bartender, skimming behind him to grab a bottle off a shelf.
“Not counting you, Marls.” He shoots a sharp-edged grin towards the blond woman before fixing it back on you. His eyebrow twitches slightly in question.
“Okay.” You pull a seat out. “Okay, thanks.”
“Don’t thank me, doll, you’re doing me a favor.” He sets his forearms on the bar, leaning towards you like you’re having a far more private conversation. “I’m Sirius.” Something about him softens when you tell him your name in response, and you get the sense he’s been waiting for it. He repeats it back to you like it’s something special. “Alright, y/n, enjoy your drink, and I’ll try to be as decent company as I can while dealing with these pricks.” He makes no effort to keep the man beside you from hearing, then turns to him with an extremely false-looking smile. “Hi, what can I get you?”
Even as the man starts giving his order, Sirius’ eyes flicker your way to see if he made you smile. He did.
hmm I don’t know if you write this but could you do bartender!Sirius with a reader who doesn’t really belong in the bar scene but starts to frequent it and then he figures out she’s got a little crush on him?
love your theme btw! 🧸
Thanks angel!
a/n: Please do not misconstrue my participation in the marauders fandom as support of JKR. If you’re new here and want to participate in the fandom, I encourage you to do so without participating in anything that would provide financial gain to her or her vile agendas
cw: alcohol
Sirius Black x fem!reader ♡ 896 words
Etiquette can work differently in bars. On busy nights, Sirius only has to make eye contact with someone on the other side of the bar and they'll tell him their drink order; not for lack of politeness, just for efficiency's sake. Most of the time the first words he hears out of customers' mouths are "vodka," "gin," or "pint."
You always approach with "hi."
"Hi," you say, leaning your elbows on the bar while Sirius shakes with one hand and stirs with the other.
He spares a grin for you. "Hello," he replies. Purring a bit, because he can. "What can I get you?"
The smile you shoot back is gut-wrenchingly sweet. "Anything you'd recommend?"
"Well…" Sirius passes off the two drinks and starts on a pint. "What did you think of the one you had last time?"
Your eyes blink wide. "I, um. It was good. I don't remember what it was called…"
"Mojito," he supplies. A customer down the bar calls for his attention, and Sirius slides a napkin to you, his fingertips touching yours briefly. "Sorry, lovely, can you excuse me for just a minute? I promise not to forget you."
He gets that customer's order and a few others, pouring some shots quickly to quell the urgency surrounding the bar for a little while. While he darts around, Sirius is conscious of the feeling of your eyes following him, like a shiver held at the base of his spine.
"So," he says when he circles back, "what'd you think of it? The mojito."
You make a sound like a puff of air turned to a laugh. "I can't believe you remember that." Sirius raises an eyebrow at you while he pours vodka into a shaker, and you go on almost shyly, "You must serve so many people every night."
"You remember certain faces."
And Sirius remembers yours. He thinks of it as his right, after putting up with so much shit from customers, to pay the pretty ones a bit of extra attention. You came in first a couple of weeks ago. Since then, you've been back fairly regularly, though usually with various other friends. This is the first time Sirius has seen you here alone.
"You can tell me if you didn't like the mojito," he says, looking you in your eyes. Indulging in a private delight at the way your lashes flicker when you have his full attention. "I won't take it personally, promise. We can make you something else."
Honestly, Sirius hopes you didn't like it. Mojitos are a bitch to make. He'd do it again for you, though.
"No," you say, "I liked it. I'd have another, if—only if it's not too much trouble."
"None at all," Sirius lies, and gets out the muddler.
"Thanks," you say, with enough quiet sweetness to make him happy to do it.
He finishes the drink he was making, delivering it to its customer and starting on yours. You watch his wrist twist as he muddles mint in the bottom of a clean shaker. Sirius flicks his eyes up, and yours move away quickly.
"You don't seem like a barfly," he says.
"Oh?" You lean closer as if to hear him better. "I don't know, what makes someone a barfly?"
"Hours logged, I reckon. Gotta do at least ten a week."
Your eyebrows fly up. "Ten?"
"Ten's really on the low end."
"Oh—then, yeah. I guess I'm not one."
Sirius snickers. No shit—you don't even know what a mojito is. "You've been coming around a fair amount, though."
You hear the question he isn't asking. Your bottom lip dents sheepishly. "I just like it here, I guess."
The shiver chooses this moment to zip up Sirius' spine, the feeling tingling all the way to his fingertips. Despite your obvious bashfulness, you hold his gaze across the bar. He almost spills simple syrup on the counter.
"It seems like you're always here," you say after a moment.
"Well, I actually work here," Sirius tells you.
You smile. "I mean that you're here every time I've come in. Do you work every night?"
"From five to two," he confirms. Your smile dims a bit, and Sirius feels himself frown in response. He sets your drink on the bar. "Try that for me, lovely."
You pull the straw towards you dutifully and take a sip. The soft breath you let out after does something funny to his knees. "That's really good, thank you."
"Yeah? It's okay? We can try something else if you like."
"No, it's perfect. I think this is my favorite." Well, Sirius has done it now; he owes an apology to all other bartenders you encounter. But you smile at him again, your eyes crinkling endearingly, and fuck all other bartenders, actually. Sirius will get out the muddler for you as often as you like. "Thanks very much."
"You're very welcome," he tells you. Sincerely, though not without a heavy dose of flirting. Your lashes kiss at the corners. "I do work every night, but that means I'm free during the day. I like coffee."
Your voice softens as though you're trading secrets. "You do?"
"I do."
"There's a coffee shop I like down the street from here. Would you want to go sometime?"
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soooooooo, would you be willing to write a wisdom teeth fic for tasm!peter??? 🥰👉👈 (counting this as an ‘official’ request) but don’t wanna pressure you, and obvi no rush if you decide to, considering you just put that one fic out, but if you’d be willing to grace us with more fluffiness;
tasm!peter x fem!reader (established relationship?), super fluffy post-wisdom teeth fic. maybe classic scenario where reader forgets peter’s her bf under the anesthesia, and basically falls in love w him all over again ?? please and thank you ! :D
He's so perfect for this trope, thank you!
cw: amnesia, reader is on drugs, probably wildly inaccurate depiction of post-wisdom tooth removal care/procedure but hey it's for the love of the game
tasm!Peter Parker x fem!reader ♡ 964 words
Your eyes land on Peter as a nurse wheels you out into the waiting area, but you don’t look as happy to see him as you usually do. He smiles at you.
You move your gaze somewhere else.
The nurse bends closer to your ear, asking, “Who’d you come here with?”
You finger the bandage on your arm. “Um…”
“Me.” Peter stands when he starts to worry you’re going to choose someone else. “I’ve got her.” Your nurse wheels you over, and he meets you halfway, absorbing your unfocussed stare. “Hi, pretty girl.”
“Hi,” you say back, sounding unsure around a mouthful of cotton.
Peter feels his eyebrows lift, but looks at your nurse. “Do we need to sign any papers or anything?”
“Nope,” he says. “All taken care of before the procedure. You’re good to go.”
“Sweet. Ready to go?” Peter asks you.
You make a wary sort of humming noise, but let Peter get his arms around you, helping you out of the chair. Your nurse steps back once you’re standing (more or less) on your own, wheeling your transport back the way you came. You sway, hands at your sides while Peter tries to steady you, letting him hold you without really holding him back.
“Hey,” he says lightly. “You know who I am?”
You look at him, wide-eyed and puffy cheeked, and shake your head.
“Yeah, okay. That’s okay. I’m Peter. I’m here to take you home.”
“Oh,” you say, still unrecognizing. “Okay.”
A laugh stumbles out of him. “Okay?”
You nod.
“Okay,” Peter echoes, concluding that you trust far too easily. It’s concerning. “Let’s get you out of here.”
He manages to get you out onto the sidewalk, but each step seems to sink your legs beneath you. It makes you hard to maneuver. A couple of young boys almost bump into you, and Peter has the impulse to web their backpacks to the nearest brick wall.
“You okay?” he asks, adjusting his grip; you’re slippery.
You look relieved to be asked. “My mouth hurts,” you confess.
Peter softens. “Aw, yeah?” You nod pitiably. “I’m sorry, bub. Are you having problems walking, too?”
You appear to contemplate this for a few moments. While you do, Peter shifts his hold again to keep you from puddling down onto the pavement.
“I’m a little dizzy,” you surmise.
“Why don’t you…” Peter grapples for one of your hands, guiding it up around his neck. “...put your arms around me, like this? I’ll help keep you up, okay?”
Your eyes go round, the tips of your fingers touching Peter’s hair gingerly. “Thank you.”
He smiles. “Don’t mention it, sweetheart.”
Walking is easier with you clinging to him like a koala. Peter hardly bothers letting your feet touch the ground—which provokes a startled squawk of “You’re so strong!” from you; Peter catches the cotton ball that falls from your mouth and handles it all very humbly—as he gets you to a less crowded street corner. His sharp whistle and raised hand hail a cab. You stare at him like you’ve just stumbled upon a unicorn all the while.
Peter isn’t usually the type to spring for a cab fare, but he doesn’t like the idea of trying to get you down the subway stairs and through the turnstiles, and you’d be harder to manage down there anyway. The cabbie doesn’t ask any questions when Peter pulls you close and traps your hands in his lap when you won’t stop trying to touch your face.
“It’s okay,” he promises. “It’s healing. You’ve got to let it do its thing.”
“They took my teeth,” you say, your upset out of nowhere and building like a summer storm. “They gave me cotton instead of teeth.”
Peter tries to look like he’s taking you very seriously. “The cotton’s not going to stay there forever. And you didn’t want those teeth anyway, trust me. They did you a favor.”
“They poked me,” you bemoan.
He pouts, thumbing the bandage on your arm gently. “Yeah? Here?”
“Yeah.”
“Does it still hurt, sweet girl?”
You shy, wanting compassion but not sure what to do with it once you’ve got it. Your voice quiets. “Not still.”
“Oh,” Peter tsks. “So, no reason for me to kiss it better, huh?”
You’re still for several long moments, your eyes moving over Peter’s face. “It hurts a little.”
“Yeah? It does now?”
“I was confused,” you say. Your smile sheepish, cotton and teeth peeking through.
Peter smiles, too. “Okay, let me see.” He lifts your arm, slouching to touch his lips tenderly to the crook of your elbow. When he straightens again, your eyes have gone huge.
“How does it feel now?” he asks.
“Good,” you reply. Staring.
Peter grins. “That helped?”
“Mhm. A lot.” You consider him. “Can you make my face better, too?”
He has to smother an even larger grin. “Not right now, bub, I’m sorry.” You look crushed, and his heart rebels. “We can take out the cotton when we get home, though. That might help.”
“But when are you…” Your eyes search Peter’s for something he doesn’t know how to give you, troubled. “Are you going to stay with me? Or, when do you have to go back to your home?”
His eyebrows lift. “Well, my home is actually your home.”
Yours sew together. “What?”
“We have the same home.”
“H…how?”
“I mean, I don’t just kiss the pokes of anyone. Though maybe you’d think I do, since apparently you’ll just go along with any random guy who tells you he’s going to take you home. We’re seriously going to have to talk about that, actually, because you asked, like, no questions. I could have been a real freak, you know?”
summary: you’re an insomniac, and you can’t help but notice your new roommate's comings and goings at odd hours. Peter’s a not-very-good liar that gets worse as he falls in love
tasm!Peter x fem!reader ♡ 14k words
You hear the first stirrings when sunlight is already spilling warm and bright through your apartment. The groan of bedsprings, followed by a more human groan, followed by feet hitting the floor. The floor groans too, old wood with old water bubbles trapped beneath.
It’s a short time later that Peter trudges out from his room, going immediately to the kitchen and the pot of coffee you started early this morning. The pajama bottoms he puts on for your benefit are on backwards.
“Good morning.” You stop looking at him as soon as he looks at you, peering intently at the textbook in your lap. You’ve been on the couch since before the sun rose. The fall semester only began yesterday, and already you’re bogged down with readings and the early stages of projects. This couch is new—or new to you, you found it on a curb last week—but soon you suspect the cushion you’re sitting on will have an indent just about where you’re sitting now.
“Morning,” Peter mumbles, tired but not unfriendly. “You’ve got homework already too, huh?”
You give him a rueful smile over your shoulder. “I don’t think it ever stops.”
Peter makes a noise somewhere between humorous and sorrowful and pulls a mug down from the cupboard. One of yours, but you don’t care.
You think that if he’s this tired on the second day of classes, you’re going to hate to see him during finals. You’re tired too, but at least you have a reason. Though, you allow, you don’t know for sure that Peter’s reason might not be the same as yours.
This is the problem with random roommates. You don’t know if it’s more likely that the person sleeping across the hall from you is a nocturnal studier or has a drug problem.
“Did you go out last night?” you ask.
Peter’s brows jump together. He watches his mug as he fills it up. “No. Why?”
You feel immediately stupid. You’ve overstepped. You’re nosy. You don’t mean to be.
“I heard the door open.”
No way to say that without sounding like a paranoid freak. You have a quiet door in a loud city. At nearly midnight, with sirens wailing and your neighbor singing in the shower on the other side of your wall, you shouldn’t have heard it. But you did.
If Peter finds this odd, he doesn’t mention it. “Oh,” he says, dragging the word out long and slow. “Out as in out of the apartment. I thought you meant out out, like to the club or something. No, I just…I had a late night craving. Went down to the bodega to grab some chips.”
You feel yourself frown. You hadn’t heard the door open again until a couple hours later, far longer than a trip to the bodega would take. But to ask more questions would be to admit you’d still been listening, so you don’t. Maybe Peter has some emotional attachment to a bodega in Queens. He said he was from Queens, right?
Peter joins you in the living room. You’ve opened a window to let the air in, still warmish but getting cool enough that you can get away with running the fans and not the air conditioning, and Peter turns his face into the light as he settles in on the opposite side of the couch. You wonder if he’ll have his own dent in time, too. He doesn’t strike you as the type.
“You were up late, too, huh?” he asks. The smell of his coffee mingles with the smells of wet pavement and car exhaust coming in through your window.
“Sorry,” you say, before you can stop yourself, “I didn’t mean to pry.”
“It’s cool. It’s not prying to make sure the door to your apartment isn’t left unlocked in the middle of the night.” Peter grins. Two dimples dive into his cheeks. “Were you doing homework then, too?”
“No.” You don’t consider lying. It’s not something you feel the need to be private about, even with virtual strangers. “I just don’t sleep much.”
Your roommate’s head tilts. The movement reminds you of a cocker spaniel. “Like, you can’t?”
“I can’t,” you confirm. “Not usually, at least.”
“Ouch. That sucks.”
Peter’s sympathetic bemusement confirms for you that his reasons for being tired are not, in fact, the same as yours. Whatever they might be, you file it away as None of Your Business. You’ve asked, he’s told, that’s the end of it. You sleep not twenty feet apart, but Peter is a near stranger to you. You don’t have any right to his mysteries.
“So,” he says into the silence that follows, “any classes today?”
“Yeah.” You check the time on your laptop. Corner the page of your textbook. “Actually, I’d better go. It starts in twenty minutes. Do you care if I leave my mess on the coffee table?”
Peter glances at your collection of pens and highlighters with a look that makes you think his version of mess might be different to yours.
“Go ahead,” he says. “So long as you don’t mind my mess joining it.”
“Of course not.” You zip up your backpack, relieved.
“You coming back for lunch? I think I’m gonna go grab a bagel in a sec, I can bring you back one.”
“Oh, that’s…” That’s too much. That’s more than roommate duties, and more than you want to return. “That’s okay,” you say, moving towards the door. “I packed a sandwich, I’ll probably camp out on campus between classes.”
Peter raises his hand in a lazy salute. “Let me know if you change your mind.”
“Uh, yeah. Thanks.” You try to mirror him. It feels weird; you let your hand drop halfway through. The door shuts nearly silently behind you.
—
Peter plies you with meatloaf when you return. He’s been to his aunt’s in Queens and brought back enough to feed a family of four.
“It’s not…I’m not gonna lie to you, it’s a not world-renowned meatloaf,” he says, bringing a forkful to his mouth. “But it’s food and it’s free and I can’t eat it all by myself, so.”
You’re not in any position to turn down free food. You sit on the couch next to him. Peter’s left the cushion by the window open, and you wonder if already you each have your own spot. The meatloaf isn’t bad.
You talk about your classes. Peter’s studying biophysics and biochemistry, two words which mean nothing to you but apparently require lots of time spent at the labs on campus. He congratulates you on the achievement of getting matched with a roommate who will make you feel like you live by yourself; his classes are only getting started, but soon he’ll be in the lab most of the time. Though your own classes are far from easy, you don’t envy him.
Peter doesn’t need any help from you; he finishes the rest of the meatloaf in that one sitting.
—
You get into a rhythm quickly. On campus from your first class in the morning until your assignments (or at least the ones due the next day) are finished usually sometime in the evening, cooking at home, eating on the run, plasma donation on Thursdays at seven to make some extra cash, four scoops of coffee grounds in the machine because both you and Peter need it strong. Peter brings home more meals from his aunt. Her name is May, you learn, and after the third free dinner you write her a thank-you note for Peter to bring back to her.
Your hot water goes out. Peter sweet-talks the landlord while you send stern emails to the leasing company until it gets fixed. You bring his laptop instead of yours to campus by mistake and have to meet up at a library to swap. Peter comes from the lab, half-jogging with plastic goggles pushed up into his hair and making it stick out in every direction. It’s endearing beyond reason. You make him a sandwich to take to class when he oversleeps. He comes to pick you up from the plasma donation clinic when you forget to eat beforehand. You develop inside jokes about the flickering light above your stove, and the erratic banging you think is your upstairs neighbors having sex, and the too-good-for-this-world cashier at the bodega on your corner. No matter how Peter tries to get you in on it, you refuse to develop inside jokes about his Aunt May’s cooking.
It’s in the dull blue of a sleepless night in September, Aunt May’s pasta pomodoro still heavy in your stomach, when you hear the lock on your front door click. It’s a quiet sound, but you’re too antsy to miss it in your otherwise silent apartment. The door opens with a shush of air.
You wonder if Peter is going out or coming in. It’s late, but not so late for the overworked grad student population. He warned you that he’d eventually be spending long nights at the lab.
You don’t get up with any suspicions. You only want to make sure the door gets re-locked, and you haven’t heard the second click.
There’s an odd sound as your bedroom door opens. Like plastic ripping or cast fishing line, blink-and-it’s-over. You step out to find Peter wrapped up in your largest blanket and absolutely covered in filth.
You blink.
Peter blinks back at you.
“Jesus,” you say.
“Nope, just me.” Peter grins, but it falls short of his usual. “Sorry, lame joke. My uncle used to make it. It was lame then, too, I guess.”
“What happened to you?”
“Uh, there was a small accident at the lab. You should be asleep.”
“Small? Is that soot?”
“It’s…it’s soot, yeah.”
You’re reeling. You turn the kitchen light on to see him better. Peter’s left footprints in from your front door. There’s soot even in his hair, tinging it a darker color. “Was there an explosion?”
He grimaces. “It was a super small explosion. Very contained. But, you know, chemicals. Volatile stuff.” You shake your head, baffled, and his expression softens. “It was freaky, but everything’s fine now. It’s late, you should go back to sleep.”
“I wasn’t sleeping.”
Peter’s brow furrows; the lines are more pronounced with soot etched into them. “You weren’t? It’s almost three,” he says, as if to himself.
“What’s with the blanket?”
“The…oh.” He looks down. “Right, yeah. The lab actually took my clothes. They’re probably not contaminated or anything, but they’re being disposed of for liability reasons.”
You look down at your blanket, covering him toe-to-chin, and back up at Peter. “They made you walk home naked?”
Peter blinks. “Uh. No, no, not…totally naked.”
You raise your eyebrows at him.
“They gave us…lab coats?” His voice tips up at the end like a question and the corners of his mouth tip up with it, sheepish. He gives a little shrug. “It’s not super modest, but it’s what they had on hand. Sort of like a slutty nurse costume situation? I didn’t want to, uh, you know, scar you as you were coming out of your room.”
“Right.” You frown, embarrassed of the heat you can feel coming to your face. “I…appreciate that.”
“Anytime. But you can go to bed now, seriously.” Peter starts edging towards the bathroom. “Don’t let me keep you up, I know you have that nine a.m. tomorrow.”
You wave him off. “I’ll be fine, we don’t have any explosions in my class. Are you okay? Is there anything I can help with?”
“Nope! No help.” Peter’s voice pitches slightly when you step towards him. He draws the blanket tighter, walking backwards until his back bumps the wall and feeling his way into the bathroom. “It’s just that I’m really basically naked. Like, so, so naked, and it’s embarrassing, so you should just go to your room and I’ll shower and then we can, uh, probably just not talk about this, if you’re alright with that. Because I’m embarrassed. Okay?”
“Okay.” You hold your hands up peaceably. “If you’re sure.”
“Super sure.” Peter flashes you a smile before shutting the bathroom door. “Goodnight!”
You go back to your room and sit with your head laid flat in the middle of your pillow, your bent knees making a tent of your covers. You listen to the shower running until it squeaks off at three-thirty.
—
Your backpack feels heavier leaving the library than it did on the way to campus this morning. Your train runs less frequently after midnight, so walking is nearly just as efficient. It’s a long, slow trudge up the hill that leads from campus to your neighborhood, past empty university buildings and through dapples of pale streetlights. A raccoon stops riffling through a trash can to look at you as you pass. You raise a hand to let him know you’re a kindred spirit.
It’s cliché, but you sort of love the city after dark. It’s less glitzy than people think. The city may not sleep, and neither do you, and apparently neither does Peter, but some people have to. The streets are relatively quiet, technicolor dulled into grays and blues that blur together as you pass them by. Somewhere out of view, a siren wails like a ghost’s cry.
It’s the quiet that allows you to hear the schwick and rush of air that comes before feet hit the sidewalk beside you.
You flinch hard. Nearly send yourself tumbling into the street, but a hand whips out to catch you before you can slip off the curb. Slippery red fabric with black latticework spanning up the wrist.
“It’s okay.” Spider-Man steps back as soon as you’re steady. He holds his hands up. “It’s okay.”
You put a hand to your heart, feeling it beating beneath your palm. “Jesus. Don’t you know not to sneak up on girls walking by themselves?”
“Don’t you know girls shouldn’t walk by themselves?” Spider-Man counters lightly.
You suppose you’re meant to feel chastened, except you are a girl, and you have to get places, you can’t have a chaperone at all times. Also, this superhero speaks in a deep, rough voice that makes you think of teenage boys trying to sound tough.
“Is this really the most pressing thing you have to deal with?” you ask him. Spider-Man’s head tilts, and you gesture around you at the empty street. “Aren’t there any bank robberies happening? Or, like, serial killers on the loose?”
He’s wearing a mask, and yet you could swear it’s like his eyebrows raise. “How common do you think those are?”
You shrug and keep walking, though you’re careful not to put your back fully to him. Even Spider-Man could turn out to be a bad guy to be stuck alone with. “I don’t need any help,” you say. “Thanks for the tip, though.”
He keeps pace with you. “Are you a student?”
You look at him sideways. “Maybe. What makes you ask?”
He taps the pin on your backpack. “The university has a walking buddy program, you know. So students don’t have to walk home alone after long nights at the library.”
“How long have you been following me for?”
“What?”
You narrow your eyes at him. You don’t like that he guessed you were coming home from the library; however, on the chance that it is a guess you’re not about to tell him he was right.
“I’m just saying.” Spider-Man’s hands are up again, in a gesture of peace. “You should think about calling a walking buddy next time.”
“Maybe I’d rather be alone than alone with someone who’s volunteered to learn the routes to people’s homes.” You throw him a pointed look.
Spider-Man’s casual gait doesn’t falter, but he lets out something that sounds almost like a laugh. “Are you always this suspicious of people trying to help you?”
“John Wayne Gacy was known to lure victims by promising help.”
“But I’m…” The voice behind the mask changes, turning younger and less polished. He lifts his gloved hands haplessly. “...Spider-Man.”
You shrug, not allowing yourself to feel bad. “I’m suspicious of people in general. And I don’t need help.”
“Noted. Listen, can I just walk you to your building to make sure you get in safe? I won’t know your apartment number or anything.”
You give him an appraising look. Spider-Man walks with a respectable distance between you, his hands swinging at his sides. It’s not like you could actually make him go away even if you wanted to, but you do think he would fuck off if you said no. Ultimately, that’s what makes the decision for you.
“Okay,” you say, tacking on reluctantly, “thanks.”
“Hey, all in a day’s work. Until there’s another bank robbery or serial killer, obviously.”
Spider-Man turns out to be a half-decent walking companion. He offers to give you a lift instead—but once he clarifies what he means by lift and you swiftly decline, he only continues walking beside you at a New Yorker’s amble. He asks you about your classes. You admit to having fallen asleep earlier at the library, and then staying late to make up for the study time you’d missed. He tells you about how it feels to swing through the city at night; how there are some neighborhoods he likes better than others for their calmness, but of course by the nature of what he does he tends to stick to the noisier ones. Times Square isn’t only a hotspot for crime during the day, as it turns out. He says, in a light, kind voice, that he’s glad to have the break of walking you home. He enjoys the quiet of your little neighborhood, too.
True to his word, Spider-Man lets you go at your building. He watches you walk up the front steps, waving when you turn around briefly before buzzing yourself in. You hear the schwick of his webbing shooting out just before the door closes behind you.
You slog up the flights of stairs to your apartment, letting your backpack drop by the door and sending a silent apology to your downstairs neighbors right after. You feel lighter without it, but still your body all but drags you to the floor when you sit to take off your shoes. You turn at the sound of a door creaking open.
Light spills out into the hall as Peter emerges in his plaid pajama bottoms. You wince.
“Hey,” you say softly. “Sorry, did I wake you up?”
“No.” He shakes his head, though you obviously did. His hair is all messy from sleep, sticking out in every direction. “Did you just get back?”
“Mhm.”
Peter makes a face highly reminiscent of a sad puppy. “You were on campus all day?”
You shrug, like what can you do? Peter’s a grad student, too; he’ll get it.
But your roommate looks troubled. “Did you eat?”
“I…” You blink, realizing why, besides the late hour, you might have felt so tired on your walk home. “I guess I forgot about dinner. I fell asleep for a while in the library.”
“Yeah?” Peter’s already moving towards the kitchen. “Sit down, I’ll make you something.”
“Peter, that’s okay.”
“I’m not gonna have you passing out waiting for the microwave or whatever. Just sit down.”
You find you don’t have much argument left in you. You’re dead tired, and the couch does look like a nice place to rest. “I thought we ran out of May’s lasagna.”
“We did. I can’t cook as good as her, but I can whip up a half decent quesadilla.”
You fall silent, resting your cheek on the back cushion of the couch and watching as Peter puts a thin slice of butter into a pan on your stove. Your teeth worry into your lower lip.
“Doesn’t the library close at midnight?” he asks.
“Two,” you correct him. “It’s open twenty-four hours during midterms and finals week, though.”
Peter glances at you out of the corner of his eye. “It’s not midterms or finals.”
“Hence why I got kicked out.”
He makes a chuffing sound like laughter, familiar in a way you can’t place. “Can’t believe you stayed late enough to get kicked out.”
“I know, right? It’s like bar close for students.”
“Are you really comparing yourself to people who get kicked out of bars?”
“Hey, we’re both committed, just to different pursuits.”
Peter hums, ceding the point. “I guess the only difference is that you got kicked out on a Tuesday.”
“You think the barflies aren’t there on Tuesdays?” You give him a droll look. “Wisen up, Parker.”
Your roommate casts you a glance paired with a half-smile. “You know productivity decreases with exhaustion, right?”
You scoff. “You don’t get to talk about healthy sleeping habits. I know you work just as hard.” He brings you a plate with a neatly folded quesadilla on it, and you soften your tone as you take it. “Thank you.”
Peter settles into his side of the couch, putting his feet up on the coffee table. He watches you take your first couple of bites. “I just think,” he says, “that if you pass out somewhere from sleep deprivation or low blood sugar or whatever, there might be some part of our lease agreement that says I’m responsible for that.”
You raise your eyebrows at him. “Did you read that whole thing?”
“Oh, hell no.”
“Me neither.”
“I’m only saying that it’s possible. Landlords love weird clauses.”
You hum as you chew, playing along. “Okay. That’s fair. What if I kept a note constantly on my person that said this isn’t Peter’s fault, so that if someone finds me passed out you can avoid culpability? Would that make you feel better?”
Peter’s lips twitch. He shrugs. “A little.”
“Perfect. That’s what I’ll do, then.”
“You could also just come home before some poor librarian has to kick you out. Or,” he goes on, “call me to walk you home if it’s late.”
You give him a look. “I’m not going to call and wake you up so you can come get me every time I stay late on campus.”
“I wouldn’t mind being woken up. I might be on campus too, and anyway I’d want to help.”
“I don’t need help.”
Peter frowns. “If you say so.”
You nod, trying to smile to soften the rejection. You hold up what remains of your quesadilla. “This is really good, by the way.”
Peter mirrors your half-hearted smile. “I learned from the best.”
“Yeah, you did. I really owe May another card.”
“You don’t owe May anything, and if she were here she’d tell you that herself.”
—
You feel like something is amiss. It’s not a new feeling. Some nights, you can’t stop going over things you’ve done wrong. Times you said something you shouldn’t have, acted without thinking, didn’t act and regretted it, going back as long as you can remember. It’s enough to make you hate yourself.
Other nights, like this one, you become convinced there’s something still yet to be done. You didn’t actually hit submit on that assignment. You’ve left the stove on. Your water bottle is sitting abandoned on your table in the library, begging to be stolen. Someone’s trying desperately to call you, but you clicked your phone to silent without realizing.
The anxieties worm their way into your weary bones until the only option is to drag yourself out of bed and quiet them. It’s not like you were going to fall asleep anyway.
Your building is old and creaky. You take care to walk on light footsteps into the kitchen, reassuring yourself forcefully as you go. The stove is off. The freezer is shut. The heater is not turned up so high that you’re going to be surprised by a heart-stopping electrical bill. The kitchen sink isn’t leaking. Your school things are just where you left them, heaped together in your backpack beside the door. The front door is…
The front door is unlocked.
You know you locked it when you came in. You’re sure you did, because you don’t allow yourself to put your keys on the hook unless you have and there they are. You look towards Peter’s room.
When you text him, there’s no chime you can hear.
YOU: Hey, are you home?
PETER: Just left, forgot my laptop on campus! Everything ok?
YOU: Yeah, it’s fine. The door was unlocked.
PETER: Shit. SO SORRY!!!
PETER: U can lock it, I have my key.
YOU: It’s fine. Locked now.
PETER: Won’t happen again. Promise!
You double-check that Peter’s key is missing from his hook before actually locking the door. You think wryly that you and Peter may have synced in your sleeping habits; you always seem to be awake at the same times. Or maybe you were simply both such terrible sleepers to begin with that the comings and goings of the other don’t make much difference.
You run through a few more checks before going to bed. The window that goes to the fire escape is latched. The oven is off. Your laptop is charging.
Right next to Peter’s.
—
The next night, you’re not woken by worries but by cold. You rouse from a fitful hibernation to find yourself coiled tight like a crab within its shell, knees pressed together and chilled nose hidden beneath your covers. Early winter seeps through your apartment like a frozen kiss.
You take your blankets with you as you stumble out of bed, bleary-eyed. You feel the chill more when you leave your room, though less in the living room. The heat is supposedly on. Peter’s door is closed, but you knock to see if it’s woken him, too. There’s no answer.
“Peter,” you whisper.
Still nothing, and you knock again.
“Pete, are you up?”
When another minute of this produces no response, you turn the door knob tentatively. You know it’s a massive invasion of privacy. You know that. But your apartment feels like it’s teleported to the Arctic, and for all you know Peter could be comatose with hypothermia right now.
It feels all the more plausible when you open the door and the air that meets you is cool enough to make your skin pebble under your blankets. Peter really might have hypothermia. If he was here.
But Peter’s bed is empty, and his window is open.
You decide to leave it that way in case it’s how he needs to get back in. You take more blankets with you to go back to bed.
—
There are few things you can think of which require someone to be out in the darkest hours of the night. None of them are reassuring. Things too illicit to be exposed to daylight, risky things, illegal things.
If you’re being honest with yourself, you probably should have realized sooner. New York is expensive, and Peter doesn’t seem much better off than you are. You’re both full-time students without jobs; everyone has to supplement their income somehow. He probably makes more doing whatever he’s doing than you do pimping out your plasma once a week.
Peter may not seem like the type, but you don’t have to be the type to do drastic things when you’re broke. Anybody could be doing anything. Some people do yard work, some people babysit, some people buy cheap shit and resell it on ebay; you donate plasma; Peter deals drugs, probably. It’s fine. It’s…well, it’s not fine, it’s dangerous, but you can understand it. He has access to a lab and pays for school with government grants. He had to be paying for your rent somehow.
“Hey.” Peter returns to your table with a mug in each hand. “You good?”
You let out a little hum. “Yeah, why?”
“You just looked kinda spacey.” He sets your coffee in front of you. You pick it up, gratified by the way it sears your tongue and seeps sweetness into your tastebuds.
You’ve taken to spending your Saturdays together at this coffee shop, The Daily Bean. It’s big enough in size that you can always find a table in some hidden corner if you look hard enough, small enough in popularity that regulars can still stare-shame anyone who talks too loudly when everyone else is trying to work. You and Peter like that it’s walkable from your apartment, and that the chairs are comfortable, and that every mug is unique so you can debate who got the better one when your drinks come out. The icing on the cake is that if you order a simple drink, refills are free so long as you bring back your mug. You keep asking Peter to go up to the counter because you’re worried the employees are going to get angry with you for abusing their policy by camping out all day, and no one can get angry with Peter.
And that’s sort of the sticking point, isn’t it?
Peter is a good guy. He’s nice, he works hard in school, he pays rent on time. Obviously he has this other thing going on on the side, but that doesn’t make you like him any less. It’s not fair that he should have to give up sleep and put himself in god-knows-what dangerous situations just to live. Lately, the crescents under his eyes are nearly as bad as yours. You’re worried about him.
“You do photography, right?”
Peter looks up, blinking, from where his attention had gone back to his laptop. He’s working on something he told you about during the walk over, some report of some sciency thing. You think he could tell you weren’t grasping it even as he explained it to you.
“I take pictures sometimes,” he says, doing a side-to-side sort of nod. “Not really the same thing.”
“But you’re good.”
It’s not a question. You’ve seen the photos all over Peter’s room. They’re stuck to the walls with scotch tape like he’s not even proud of them, but they’re incredible. Candids of a graying woman you imagine to be Aunt May in different locations of the same lovingly cluttered home. Stills of people in the motions of their day, on the subway and lounging on front steps and smiling at dogs. Angles of the city that make you feel like you’re flying.
Peter makes a face. “Eh…”
You huff a laugh at his humility. “I’m just saying, have you ever thought of charging people for that?”
“For…”
“To take pictures of them. Or to buy your pictures, either way.”
“I don’t know.” Peter shrugs. He looks almost like he might be blushing. “I can’t think of anyone who would want to pay for that, and anyway I’m not sure I have the time to, like, monetize it or whatever.”
“I could probably help,” you say casually. Take a sip of your coffee to sell it.
Peter watches you, unabashed in his staring even when you won’t look back at him. “Yeah? You’d do that?”
You lift your shoulders. “Sure.”
“How come?”
You meet his gaze, though it sends tingles from your ears all the way down your spine to do it. The brown eyes waiting for you are just as warm and thrice as sweet as the drink in your hand. “Because I want to,” you say.
Peter’s mouth kicks up in the corner. “Noted,” he replies. “Thanks.”
You make a mumbly sound of acknowledgement, going for your coffee again. Your roommate’s grin worsens.
“Hey.” He bumps your ankle lightly with his under the table. “You want to learn something about protein misfolding and Alzheimer’s?”
“No.”
“Yeah, you do.” Peter shuts his laptop, setting his elbows on it to lean closer to you. “So, when proteins lose their functional shape…”
—
Lately, the only place you can find sleep is in places it shouldn’t be. Slumped over the table of a study room, in the chair of the plasma donation clinic, in your sunlit living room between classes. When Peter finds you, you’ve started a small puddle of drool on your textbook. The fluorescent lights of the library press at your eyelids, obscuring any awareness of time in a distant outside world.
Peter says your name with something soft curled around the syllables.
Your eyes burn as you open them to find him crouched by your chair, one hand on your textbook and the other floating a few inches above his knee like he’d been thinking of reaching for you. His hair is sticking up the way it does when he’s run his fingers through it.
“Peter?”
“Hey. Hi.” He clears his throat, blinking something away from his expression. “Glad you still know my name. Since, you know, you seem to have forgotten where we live.”
“What’re you doing here?”
“I’m hoping to save the librarians some hassle.” His mouth curves, pink and lovely, into a little smile. “Ready to go?”
You peel yourself off of your textbook, allowing Peter to close a pencil in it to mark your page before dropping it into your backpack. You feel like you’re moving through molasses, back clicking as you stretch; you must have been sleeping deeply.
“What time is it?” you yawn as Peter helps you into your coat. He shoulders your backpack without saying anything.
“One-thirty.” When you blink blearily at the near-desolate library, he touches your shoulder gently to direct you toward the elevators. You try to take your backpack from him, and Peter only hikes it up further on his shoulder. “They’re gonna put posters of you up at some point. I think you’re here more than anybody else on campus.”
You send him a droll, sleep-addled look out of the corner of your eye. “I don’t think you get to talk about staying out late.”
He doesn’t look at you. “No? Why not?”
“Because you’re always at the—” You yawn hugely. “At the lab.”
Peter huffs a laugh. If it sounds a bit relieved, you’re perhaps too tired to judge. As you step into the elevator, he hits the button for the ground floor and steps back beside you to put an arm over your shoulders. “Touché.”
You stand still in silent uncertainty as the elevator descends. This is closer than you and Peter have been before. It feels a slight shift from bumping elbows in the kitchen or accidentally brushing each other’s knees under your table at The Daily Bean, though maybe that’s just you. Regardless, it’s going to be a cold walk home; Peter’s body is emanating an enviable warmth through his coat, and you’re just sleepy enough to consider leaning a bit on him as you walk. You stay where you are.
“How’d you know where I was?” you ask as the elevator doors open. Peter steps out with you tucked under his arm as if it’s the most natural thing in the world.
“It’s almost two in the morning on a Thursday.” He waves to the librarian at the desk, pushing the front door open for the both of you. “Where else would you be?”
“Ha ha,” you mutter. “But, like, how’d you find me?” It’s a big library. Five floors, dozens of tables, and you’d been hidden away in your own private corner chosen specifically for how rare it is for any other student to stumble across. You suppose someone outside might have seen you through the window by your table, but even that seems unlikely. It’s higher up than most people think to look.
“I’m an efficient search committee,” says Peter. He adjusts his hold on you when the wind picks up and you step closer unconsciously, hand slipping down your arm to encourage further sharing of his warmth. “Cold?”
“Yeah. It wasn’t this bad when I left.”
He makes a half-smug humming noise; you feel its vibrations kiss the top of your head. “That’s what happens when you stay out this late, I guess. My Uncle Ben used to say nothing good happens after midnight.”
“Have I called you a hypocrite yet?”
“Only in implication.”
“Well, you are.”
Peter laughs, the sound wonderfully crisp. “Did you at least eat?”
“It’s not your job to feed me, you know.”
“Seems like someone’s gotta do it.”
“Well, for the record, I did.”
“Glad to hear it.”
Peter seems to gather that if you walk all the way home he’s going to end up carrying you for at least part of it, so you go down into the subway to wait for the next train. You fall briefly asleep on his shoulder waiting, and again in your seats once you get on. It’s a feat, considering you’re only a stop away on this line, but both times Peter rests his chin on the top of your head like he’s surrendered to the idea of keeping you there.
It’s only after he’s half-dragged you up the stairs to your apartment and is digging your key out of your backpack (why he doesn’t seem to have his, you don’t bother asking) that you say, “I’m sorry you had to come all the way to campus to get me.”
Peter makes a quiet scoffing sound, jiggling the handle until the door gives way. “I didn’t have to. I don’t mind, I just wanted to make sure you were okay.”
“You’re always doing things for me, though.” You shuck off your coat, tossing it over the back of the couch as he does the same with his. “You’re either making me food or picking me up from places or bringing me my stuff…”
Peter’s eyebrow twitches, a teasing curve to his mouth that fits his voice to its shape. “So what, I’m not allowed to do things for you? You’re gonna rob me of that?”
“Do you have a hero complex or something?”
You think it’s obvious you’re teasing him back, but Peter’s expression flickers with something that makes you wonder if he didn’t catch the levity in your tone. He recovers fast. “Maybe.”
“I’m just saying,” you try on a bit of sincerity, “you don’t have to.”
“Hey, I know.” He moves closer, eyes dark in the low light. Neither of you have moved for a light switch, your apartment cast in the cool blue tones of the moonlight coming in the window. “I really don’t mind. I like doing things for you.”
“But,” you ask, hesitating, “who does things for you?”
Peter’s eyebrows lift slightly, as though he’s surprised you’d ask. When his voice lowers, there’s something about the roughness of it which tugs at a memory. “You do.”
You feel yourself frown. Yes, you try to do things to make Peter’s life a bit easier, but that’s half out of a sense of gratitude for all he already does for you and they’re never really sizable things. A few extra pancakes left in the fridge when you know he won’t wake with enough time to make breakfast before class, a pack of twizzlers snagged from the bodega when you notice he’s running low. Is that as much care as Peter gets? It can’t be.
You’re about to tell him that he deserves better, but when you open your mouth you realize he’s right there, and letting yourself list forward is just as easy.
Peter kisses you like he’s breathing you in. Slow at first, the beginnings of an inhale, and then in great pulls. He cups the side of your face, stepping forward, crowding you, his other arm winding around your waist to keep you from falling when you move backwards into the couch and nearly tip yourself over the edge. A few seconds later and he’s changed his mind, sending you both over so you collapse down onto the cushions in a heap, him all on your side and you all on his. One sleepy, confusing tangle.
“I thought you wanted me to go to bed,” you mumble against his lips.
“Who said that?” Peter rolls you sideways, putting you to the inside of the couch so he can push your hair away from your face. “Tomorrow’s Friday. It’s basically the weekend already.”
“Could’ve probably stayed at the library then.”
“Too cliché.”
His hand coasts up your back, and you find you’re out of cleverness. “Yeah?”
“Mhm. Plus, what would the librarians think of you? You’re a big name over there.”
“You’re such a hypocrite.”
Peter sighs into your mouth. “Tell me about it.”
—
Maybe it should be awkward, but it’s not. You and Peter already live together, already have your routines and your in-jokes and an ease of moving about each other in a small space, so adding kissing to the mix really doesn’t feel like so far of a leap.
It’s not fireworks. Or butterflies or cartwheels or any of that. It’s…easy. Like slipping into a warm bath. You feel yourself unspool one inch at a time, until coming home from class to lay yourself down in Peter’s lap and go over flashcards with him is as natural as breathing.
“It’d be over in Chelsea, so I could stay here and take the bus.” Peter’s got his glasses on, which always make you want to kiss him hard enough to get them all askew, and his hands are wandering your legs and waist as he talks, not helping matters. “And they’re doing this really cool stuff with ion channels that I could get involved in…”
He’s telling you about an internship he’s applying to for the summer. You’re sitting in his lap trying to look engaged and not humiliatingly wanton. Really, you like the sound of this internship. It would mean you’d both get to stay in the apartment for the summer, since you’re returning to a previous internship in the city, too, and of the options Peter’s told you about this one offers the best pay. You may not understand ion channels or space radiation or half of what he talks about, but you love the idea of anything that might supplement his supplemental income.
“Didn’t you say your internship’s in Greenwich?” Peter asks, touch coasting up your back.
You hum in the affirmative.
He grins, flashing a dimple you want to poke your tongue into (because you’re a nonsensical, depraved thing). “We could meet in the middle for lunch.”
“That would be nice.” You give into your baser urges and lay a soft kiss on the side of Peter’s nose. The frames of his glasses dent into your cheek. “Where would we go?”
“I know a good sandwich place on Eighth and Hudson,” he murmurs, pushing his glasses up into his hair to kiss you properly. Damn him. His voice hums against your lips. “Maybe lunches there sometimes, dinners at Chelsea Market.”
“Chelsea Market?” You smile, and Peter’s quick to kiss the corner. “Are we made of money in this fantasy?”
“Duh. We’ll have high-roller internships—”
“Speak for yourself.”
“—and those of us who are possibly being taken advantage of for their cheap labor and wonderful, perfect—” He mushes his lips to your face with each word. “—really very valuable brain will luckily have a lovesick biophysics intern to sponsor them.”
You hum, sliding your finger along the curve of his glasses behind his ear. “Where am I gonna find one of those, you think? Should I start loitering on park benches reading genetics books and looking confused?”
For someone so gentle and who spends so much of his time in labs, Peter is surprisingly strong. You’ve discovered this several times over now, enough to want to goad it out of him when you can, and still it surprises you to find yourself flat on your back against the couch cushions less than a second later. You’re giggling breathlessly before Peter even gets to you.
“You think you’re so funny,” he mutters, a far cry from menacing as he smooshes wet kisses into the underside of your jaw.
“Or I—I could try hanging around the three-in-one shampoo at the discount store—” Peter squeezes your waist, and you gasp out a laugh. “—or hoard all the city’s ramen so they come to me.”
“Okay, you know I eat better than that, you traitor. Are you trying to get yourself cut off from my culinary resources?”
You squirm, pushing at Peter’s hands and enjoying how useless it is. “You wouldn’t dare.”
“Also” —he breezes right past the threat, because you both know he wouldn’t— “if you have a problem with my hair, all you’ve gotta do is say something. Does it smell bad?”
He sticks the top of his head in your face, the soft ends of his hair tickling your nose. You stick your face in dutifully to take in a pull. You know the scent of Peter’s three-in-one (you live together, you’ve read the bottle), but somehow his hair always manages to smell like fresh laundry, too. You have every intention of feigning shock and disgust, except you’re overtaken by a rush of affection and the teasing mood leaves you.
You press your lips to his forehead. “It’s perfect.”
“Wow. Even with three-in-one in there?”
“I’m surprised, too.”
Peter tilts his head up, bumping your noses together. “Guess you don’t have to go on the search for some other biophysics guy to fawn over you, then.”
Fawn. That’s exactly what Peter does, fawn over you, but it’s somehow worse that he does it knowingly.
“Maybe not,” you say, “but you know I’m not just going to let you get my lunch every time.”
“Oh, yeah? How are you gonna stop me?”
“I don’t know.” You heave a long, thoughtful sigh. “I guess probably start selling your photos to make my own way in the world.”
Peter laughs. “I think probably one of the most adorable things about you,” he says, lips to your cheek, “is that you think those are worth something. They’re all yours, pretty girl.”
“They’re definitely worth something. I’m going to make millions.”
“Sure you are.”
“You’ll see, when I move out of this place into a penthouse and you’re still just scraping by on your measly STEM salary.”
Peter watches you with an analytical gaze. You’re playing at levity, but he knows by now when you’re hiding your sincerity away, and he also knows what you’ve been pushing for for weeks now.
“Why do you want me to sell them so badly?” he asks.
You shrug. “Because,” you say, “I’ve never seen the city the way I do when I look at them. I think other people would like that, too.”
He mushes your hip in his hand affectionately. “They’re not that original. I’d be one of a thousand people trying to sell pictures of New York.”
“Yeah, but yours are good.”
“You’re so stubborn,” he mumbles, pushing his face into yours to kiss you with a vengeance, “and cute. I just don’t have the time, sweetheart.”
“I can set you up a website.” It’s not said in haste. You’ve been trying to think up ways to get this idea off the ground for a while now. “That way you don’t have to do anything, I’ll just list them for you and handle the shipping when people buy them.”
Peter blinks at you. It’s clear he’s caught offguard, and it aches a bit that you offering to help him out is still so unexpected. You’ve been trying to do it more—though it’s near impossible to keep up with how often Peter helps you, and it seems like he ups the ante with every attempt you make—but you wonder if Peter will ever get used to the feeling of someone wanting to do things for him. You can relate to that particular discomfort.
“Would that make you happy?” he asks after a moment.
“It would,” you reply honestly.
He hesitates. “I would want to choose which ones you put up. And I don’t want you to be disappointed if they don’t sell…”
“I won’t be disappointed.” You wave him off, already reaching for your laptop despite still being trapped underneath him. “They’ll sell like hotcakes.”
“What even is a hotcake?” Peter muses, though he moves when you nudge at him, allowing you to sit up and open your laptop.
“Pretty sure it’s an old-timey word for pancakes.”
“Do pancakes sell famously well?”
You cut him a dry look. “Then they’ll sell like Mets merch, Peter. Is that better?”
The distracted look in Peter’s eyes diminishes, replaced by a more familiar one. “I think you’re the hotcake they were talking about,” he says, smarmy.
“Are you saying I sell?”
“No! No. You know that’s not what I meant.”
“Yeah, walk that one back, Parker.”
—
You’re halfway to a dream about holiday break and Peter’s fresh-laundry smell when the fire alarm goes off. It knocks you out of your study fugue state and knocks your coffee clean over, making you gasp and fumble for your laptop. It’s gotten all over your lap, too, but you don’t have time to think about that, ignoring the burn and the shrill wailing in favor of wiping your keyboard off on your shirt.
A moment later, and the coffee is no longer your laptop’s paramount threat. The sprinklers go off. You stow your laptop in your bag, hugging the whole thing to your chest like you can shield it with your body. It’s then that you remember what a fire alarm means.
You’re not the only brain dead, half asleep straggler in the library who hasn’t been quick to action. There are other students just now making their way to the stairwell door; you grab your notes and follow suit.
The alarm is deafening in the stairwell. It bounces off the walls in a painful, ceaseless screech, punctuated by flashes of bright white light. Coming down from the top floor, you’re joined by a throng of others as you descend. People shove; a girl shouts her friend’s name; someone else stops by the railing, halting the flow around them as they try to make their way back up to some forgotten item. Most heads are ducked, the sprinklers still raining down and water dripping from chins and noses. You say an apology that gets swallowed up by the cacophony when you step on someone’s foot. You wince when someone else steps on yours. You curl around your backpack and keep going.
You’re near the back of the push down the stairs, so when Spider-Man arrives your only indication is the change in tone of the shouting below you. Cheers go up with the siren’s shriek, and you peer over the railing just as a stream of webbing shoots past you, sticking to the ceiling. The spandex-clad vigilante follows it up. He goes slowly, scanning faces as he goes by.
“All good? Everybody okay? Let’s make our way down in a neat and orderly fashion, folks. No need to push. Where’s the fire, am I right?”
If he wanted to go put out the fire, or even to sweep from the top floor down to make sure no one’s still not evacuating, there are surely quicker ways, but you’re a bit warmed that Spider-Man is taking the slower route to check that you’re all okay. He’s risen nearly to you now, and while some of the students around you have stopped or taken out phones, you’re still trying to get out of here. Of course, now that you’re looking at Spider-Man and not your feet, you fall straightaway onto your ass.
It’s embarrassing. You narrowly avoid hitting your chin on the stair railing; someone near you gasps. Your tailbone and your pride both feel terribly bruised.
“Oh, shit. Hey. You okay?”
It doesn't help matters that you’ve pulled Spider-Man’s attention, too.
He swings neatly over the very railing that nearly concussed you a moment earlier, reaching down to pull you upright.
“Yeah, you’re okay. Nothing feels broken, right?” He skims touches over your elbows, your waist. It’s all too much at once, an overwhelm, but you step away quickly when he lays a probing hand at the small of your back.
“What?” Spider-Man’s voice rings with concern just loud enough to be heard over the alarm. “That hurt?”
You’re shocked speechless. Does he just go around touching everyone like that? It feels intimate to you.
“Oh.” He seems to get it. His demeanor changes, a few more inches of space appearing between you. “Sorry. Are you hurt?”
“I’m fine,” you say.
“Can I, uh.” He looks up in the direction he was heading, then back to you. “Can I give you a lift down?”
You feel yourself frown. “I can make it on my own.”
Spider-Man breathes out a dry chuckle. “I forgot how suspicious you are of people who want to help you.”
You blink, biting your tongue against the question that rises to it. You remember me? It’s difficult not to feel flattered, but you’re also just baffled. Spider-Man saves dozens of people every day, and yet he remembers a conversation with a girl he only walked home on an uneventful night?
“Just let me take you to the ground floor,” he asks. “I won’t be able to relax if I think there’s some injured bootstrapper hobbling their way down the stairs.”
You don’t remember deciding to agree, and you certainly think you’re going to argue his bootstrapper label more than comes out, but you find yourself clinging to spandex-clad and surprisingly warm shoulders a minute later, Spider-Man’s hold far from unwelcome now as he lowers you gently to the ground.
“Come on,” he says, ignoring the people who stop and stare in favor of guiding you outside.
You think it’s probably a good sign that there isn’t smoke visibly pouring out of any windows you can see. The library’s fire suppression system may have worked fast enough to put the fire out before it grew too large. Spider-Man keeps you close, maneuvering you both through the gathering crowd and past the arriving firefighters to the curb across the street.
“What happened here?” he asks you, something achingly familiar about the gentleness of his tone as he looks down at your lap. Whereas most of your clothes are speckled with dampness from the sprinklers, across your thighs is a dark, prominent splotch.
“Coffee,” you answer resignedly.
He hisses. “Hot?”
“Not cold.”
“Does it hurt?”
“No, not really. I think the sprinklers cooled me off.”
You try on a smile there. You think maybe Spider-Man mirrors it, his tone lightening some.
“Is your butt okay, too?”
“My butt’s none of your concern.”
“Hey, I concern myself with every butt in this city. You’re all under my care.”
It feels ridiculous, laughing while your university library is still being evacuated and alarms are still going off. It’s also nice. The laughter gathers like bubbles in your chest, fizzing and popping and disrupting the tension in there. You wonder if this is how Spider-Man does what he does, if it’s what makes him so good at it.
“I’m fine,” you tell him.
“Promise?”
“Yeah. Don’t you need to…” You look at where the firefighters are running into the building.
Spider-Man follows your gaze. “Yeah,” he says, though he doesn’t move. He glances between you and the building a few more times, fingers twitching at his sides. “I, uh.”
“Thanks for your help.”
The dismissal is clear, and it seems to snap him out of it.
“Right. Okay.” He finally takes a step back. “Stay put, okay? Don’t go anywhere. I’m serious. Just, I have to—you stay here.”
“Okay,” you say. He’s already shot away on a web, and with the sirens and the shouting, you aren’t sure if he hears you.
You aren’t sure why Spider-Man would ask you to wait. Does he plan to come back? He seemed flustered; he might not have meant it. You’re resting your head on your knees with eyelids growing heavier, but it seems rude to leave when someone rescues you and then asks you to wait up.
“Hey.” You jolt when a hand lands on the back of your neck. “Hey, hey. It’s just me.”
Peter’s a sight for sore eyes. His grin is tentative as he sits on the curb beside you, all soft brown eyes and hooked brows. The apprehension goes out of you in an instant.
“Hi,” you say, warmth filling your chest.
“Hi, sweetheart.” Peter rubs between your shoulder blades, looking you over. “What happened?”
“There’s a fire in the library.”
“Yeah, I think they put that out.” He offers you a small smile. “I mean what happened to you? What’s this?” He sets a hand to your thigh, over the wet spot on your jeans. His brows rise. “It’s warm.”
“Yeah, I…” You shake your head, breathing out a sigh. “I knocked over my coffee when the alarm went off.”
Peter frowns. “Ouch.”
“How’d you even know about the fire? I thought you were at the lab tonight.”
“I, uh.” He seems distracted, still looking concernedly at your burnt jeans. “I saw it on the news.”
“Already?”
“Yeah, the school sent out a text alert. Hey, don’t you want to get those pants off?” Peter gives you a look in exchange for the one you give him. “Not like that, you delinquent. Get your mind out of the gutter. I mean let’s go home and put some ice packs on your or something, okay? Are you good to walk?”
You’re shaking your head before he’s finished talking. “Pete, I’m fine. But I have to…” The words shrivel up, humiliated with themselves, before leaving your mouth.
Can you really tell Peter that Spider-Man asked you to wait here for him? Peter might like you well enough to make out from time to time, but you can’t imagine they make rose-tinted glasses thick enough to look past anything that sounds so pathetically made up as that. Why would the city’s favorite vigilante, with his very busy schedule, want you to stay put so he could come back for you after saving the day? It’s a good question. Peter said the fire is out; if Spider-Man was coming back, surely he would have already?
“What’s up?” Peter asks you. His voice is gentle. “You okay?”
“Yeah.” You shake your head to clear a nagging thought. “Let’s go home.”
You stand on your own, though Peter’s hands hover while you do and he gets an arm around you as soon as he’s allowed. You walk tucked close to his side, his thumb rubbing absently over your hip.
“How’d you know I was gonna be here?”
“Well, it’s quarter to midnight on a Friday. I was gonna go around checking the clubs first, but…”
“Asshole.”
“Nerd.”
“...Did you really come looking for me?”
“Duh. And it’s not like I was far, the lab’s just across campus. Hey, did you hurt your butt somehow?”
“What?”
“You’re walking funny.”
“I am not.”
“Yeah you are, it’s like…it’s sort of a hobble. Did you?”
“You’re making this up.”
“I’m not! What happened to your butt?”
“I am not hobbling.”
—
You find out the next day that the fire was started by some idiots who tried to smoke and then freaked and tossed their still-lit blunt when they heard someone coming. If it had fallen onto the carpet or a table it might have gone out, but of course it landed right on the corner of a bookshelf, seemingly endless kindling spread out in front of it like the promised land. The fire was put out quickly, but not before most of that shelf went up and not without incurring water damage on everything else in the library.
You read the news article and seethe while Peter applies burn cream to your legs, doing it for you because he claims you’re neither gentle nor patient enough with yourself to do it nicely. His touch is featherlight.
It’s Saturday, and so Peter succeeds in cajoling you into spending the day in bed, napping and touching and musing in whisper-soft voices about what you might order for dinner, but Sunday you heed the university’s call for help.
The library is all but destroyed. The carpet needs to be ripped out, some of the furniture needs to be recovered or replaced, hundreds of books need to be inspected and salvaged. The librarians and janitorial staff can’t do it all themselves.
You may be selfish (Peter calls it single-minded), but this isn’t something you’d normally concern yourself with; you’ve got your own shit to deal with, impending exams and a now-glitchy laptop that could use some attention. It bothers you that this was your library, though. You’ve spent a lot of time tucked away in its stacks, Peter’s spent nearly as much navigating them to come drag you home, and if the fire had been more serious you could’ve been in real trouble. You feel like you owe it something, a little bit. At least a few hours of your time.
Peter comes to help, because Peter doesn’t need a sense of obligation to step up. He’s made of better stuff.
You go through the shelves with other volunteers, sorting books into bins based on how damaged they are. Peter gets tasked with bringing old furniture out into the sun, stuff that should have been replaced decades ago but the school is still going to try to save, even if it’ll probably smell like mildew forever. You get periodically distracted when he walks by with some musty armchair and you can see the shapes of his biceps through his shirt. At lunchtime you run home to make sandwiches, and you and Peter eat them on the same curb he found you sitting on two nights prior, the sun on your faces and breaths clouding in front of your mouths.
You call it quits when it gets dark, though some of the volunteers switch the lights on and stay. Peter buys you both hot chocolate on the way home. He waves you off when you try to pay and teases you about being extra careful because you’ve already had enough hot drink incidents for one week.
Despite knowing you have heaps of studying left to get through, you feel strangely energized. Peter sits down in his couch dent when you get home and pulls up his notes, and you can’t stop thinking about the library. There’s got to be a more efficient way to dry the books. Who’s making sure the staff gets meals, when they’re there supervising all day? And surely there’s a more durable flooring than carpet to put in a library. If they take it down to the hardwood, and then people donate old rugs to help swallow sound…
You go back. It becomes a part of your routine. You go to class, you study, you help at the library, you bring Peter something to eat at the lab, you study some more. Peter goes for dinners at his Aunt May’s and comes home with tupperware intended specifically for you. At night, he tries to help you fall asleep, experimenting with different things he’s read to see what works. On some of those nights you end up faking it so that he feels accomplished. Most nights, you don’t, so that he’ll stay with you for longer before eventually saying he has to go to the lab or to the bodega or to wherever before slinking off. Those nights you think you sleep the least, though it’s hard to be sure.
You and two other students haul a donated couch up the library stairs. You learn how to wedge paper towels between the pages of the most waterlogged books, a tedious but rewarding process. You get friendlier with the librarians than you ever have been, which Peter finds ironic considering you spend half the time you used to there. One of them is married to one of your professors, and your efforts earn you a bit of extra credit, a small miracle you’d never have dared to hope for.
“What’s this?” Peter asks one afternoon at The Daily Bean. You’re meeting between classes for a quick study session; you haven’t seen him since you left him sleeping early this morning to go to the library. Rain falls in gentle patterings outside the window, fog clinging to the panes. Autumn is having its last hurrah. Thanksgiving is next week, and the city tends to grant everyone’s wishes for snow soon after that. The last of the leaves have been shaken from the trees, and now they squelch rather than crunch under your feet.
You look at where Peter’s turned your hand to the side. “Oh.” You roll your eyes, rubbing at the white so that it flakes off. “It’s paint.”
“They’re making you paint now?”
“Yeah. I guess they figure if they’re already gutting so much of the building, may as well do a full remodel.”
“Is it starting to feel like they’re just using you for free labor?”
“Oh, definitely,” you laugh.
Peter’s dimples frame his smile in parenthesis. “You don’t seem mad about it,” he says.
“No, I’m resentful.”
“You are?”
“I am.”
“Yeah?”
“Yup.”
“You seem resentful.” Peter’s grinning for real now, his eyes warm. Sometimes you think you’d say anything to get him looking at you like this. It’s addicting. “You seem ready to revolt.”
“I might.” You take a sip of your coffee. “No, I don’t know. I don’t mind it.”
“Aw,” he says. “You’ve gone soft.”
“I have not. Don’t think I’ve abandoned my get-rich-quick scheme. The website is up.”
Peter blinks. “My website?”
“My website,” you correct him, teasing, “since you won’t sell your own photos yourself. I’m just waiting for the go-ahead from you on which ones to put up.”
“Yeah,” he says, quieting. “We can do that.”
“Soon?”
“Tell you what, pretty girl.” Peter takes your hand, kissing the side of your pinkie just before the paint starts. It sends goosebumps all the way up your arm. “You find some time to pencil me in between your studying and being the school’s go-to laborer, and we’ll do it.”
You have to look away from your roommate’s sweetheart brown eyes. He’s still holding your hand. “I’d probably have less studying to do later if we actually did some now.”
“You can’t study now. This is a date.”
“It is?”
“Yeah, duh. Did you think we were actually going to study? That’s just how I get you to come to these things, loser.”
—
“Is it, like, the suit and tie kind of dinner or the nice sweater kind?” you ask.
Peter’s exhale suggests he’s trying to be quiet about his amusement, but not very hard. “You could show up in yoga pants and my sweaty t-shirt, and she’d still think you were gorgeous.”
“Could you try to be a little less biased?”
“If I was being biased, I’d tell you to wear my sweaty t-shirt and forget the pants.”
“Peter, I’m serious.” You step out of your room and into the hall where he can see you. “Is this going to be okay, or should I pick something nicer?”
Peter turns around from where he’s standing in front of his own mirror trying to subdue a cowlick. He’s wearing a sweater and jeans, which is reassuring. It’s also new. You’re used to seeing Peter in his pajamas, or in rumpled sweatshirts he threw on in a rush to get to class, but this is…well, your roommate cleans up nice. His handsomeness is no surprise, but the new effect on you is. The green of his sweater somehow makes his eyes look an even softer color as they take you in.
“You look beautiful,” Peter says.
Your cheeks tingle at the bald reverence in his tone. You finger the hem of your dress. “It’s okay?”
“Come on.” He huffs a laugh. “Are you kidding me?”
“No.” But Peter looks like he wants to eat you, and he’s dressed more casually than you are, so you think you have your answer. You move on before he gets any ideas. “I’m thinking of trying to throw together a pumpkin pie,” you say, going to check on your rolls in the oven. Peter tails you. “I’d have to run to the bodega, though. Do you think we have time?”
Peter leans against the counter. “What would you have to get?”
“A pie tin, crust, pumpkin puree, eggs, and…um, I think there might be milk…” You take out your phone to check.
Peter steals it from your hand, kissing the frown that comes to your lips. “Don’t sweat it. Your rolls are going to be more than enough.”
Your frown persists. “It feels rude to only bring one thing and let her do everything else.”
“It’s not rude. Are you kidding? Aunt May’s had me mooching off her since forever, she’ll be psyched that you brought anything at all.”
“I already owe her for probably a dozen meals.”
“Sweetheart.” Peter puts his arms around your shoulders, drawing you into a lazy hug. “You’re freaking out.”
“I’m not freaking out.”
“You are. And it’s sweet,” he allows, kissing your temple, “but you don’t have to. May’s already obsessed with you. She’s asked me, like, six times this week if you like green bean casserole.”
“I like anything she makes,” you mumble.
“I know. Kiss-ass.”
You can’t deny it. You want Peter’s aunt May, this woman who’s fed you for the better part of a semester and now invited you to Thanksgiving at her home, to like you, obviously. And part of you suspects that Peter’s reassurances aren’t entirely empty. It’s hard to imagine anyone who raised a boy this kind being anything but loving and generous. You’ve seen pictures of Aunt May in Peter’s room; she has eyes remarkably like his, considering they’re related by marriage, and smile lines etched onto her face the way only genuine warmth can scar. It’s not so much that you’re worried she’ll dislike you for wearing the wrong thing or using the wrong fork, but she’s something to Peter and it’s becoming harder to deny that Peter’s something to you now, so you can’t help but want to make a good impression.
“Not trying to be a kiss-ass,” you murmur, circling your arms around Peter’s waist, “but you look really nice.”
Peter smiles. “See, that’s exactly the kind of thing a kiss-ass would say.”
“I know. It was a risk I had to take, because I needed to tell you.”
You get squished to Peter’s chest. You suspect it’s so you won’t see him fluster.
“Don’t tell her the rolls were frozen, okay?” you plead. “The story is I made them from scratch.”
“Right. With, like, yeast and wheat?”
“And whatever else goes into bread, sure.” You squeeze him back, but your grip slackens when Peter hisses. “What?”
“Nothing.” His voice buoys with false levity. “Sorry.”
“Peter, what?” You retreat enough to see him, hand skimming up his side. “Are you hurt?”
“It’s nothing,” he says again. His hand comes up to cover yours when it lands on his ribs, and you know without asking that’s the sore spot. “I just, I fell yesterday. I’m a little bruised up.”
You look up at him. Your concern feels like a tender thing, like your guts are spilling out into the space between you. It makes you a bit sick. “What happened?”
“I was, uh, skateboarding.”
“You were skateboarding.”
“Yeah.” Peter’s shrug looks bashful. “I haven’t done it since high school. Turns out it’s not exactly like riding a bike.”
You don’t know if you believe him. You want to. You really want to, you want to think Peter would never lie to you, but you know already that he does. It used to be something you could ignore, but now it makes you too sad to bear thinking on.
“Please be careful with yourself,” you ask him.
Peter catches the sobriety in your tone. “I’m fine,” he says, more sincerely now, cupping your face. “I won’t do it again. Anyway, maybe I’m tougher than I look, did you ever think of that?”
You chuff a laugh. “You’re not.”
“Mean.” He kisses you. “You’re a meanie.”
“Kiss-ass, meanie. Pick something to call me and stick with it.”
When you arrive at Aunt May’s, she already knows who you are, but Peter introduces you anyway. This time, he calls you his girlfriend.
—
On occasion, when you know Peter’s gone on one of his late-night errands, you also take the opportunity to do away with the pretense of sleep. Finals are nearly done. There’s nothing you can do for the library at night, though repairs are nearly completed and the school expects for it to reopen at the start of the spring semester anyway. There’s really not much for you to do, but your head drives you out of bed with an itchy sense of urgency nonetheless.
This time of year, your apartment is well lit all through the night. The wattage of the city has increased tenfold, lights of white and red and gold twinkling at all hours to entice tourists and holiday shoppers into storefronts. Peter insisted on getting you a cheap tinsel tree, too. It glows warmly in the corner of your living room.
You hear Peter’s window slide open somewhere around two-thirty. It’s a bit earlier than he usually comes back, but you hope he’s in to stay. You know Peter knows that you wake up to find him gone at least some of the time; but you don’t ask, and so neither does he. It’s…an ache.
You imagine the silence sometimes like a physical thing, a weight balanced on a string that stretches between the two of you, pulled tight. You feel it some times more than others. You hear the slide of Peter’s window, and the string tugs at the center of your chest, impeding on your breathing room. A dull, familiar ache.
You know from experience what will happen now. Peter will sleep in his room for the rest of the night. You might hear another few sounds—a shoe being tossed into the closet, the groan of bedsprings. He’ll come out in the morning to find you—maybe asleep, maybe still awake—on the couch, and he’ll chide you between playful kisses so as not to seem too serious, and you’ll pretend not to resent his hypocrisy, though really it’s not the hypocrisy you resent.
You don’t expect him to come out of his room.
You almost wouldn’t know it was him if not for the way the figure steps carefully over the squeakiest of your floorboards. Peter is wearing sweatpants and a bulky hoodie, so rumpled you almost wonder if he threw them on just now. He cracks the door to your room, peering inside.
“Peter?”
Peter turns on his heel lightning-fast. “Hey,” he says. He looks flustered, face mostly in shadow but the whites of his eyes are lit in your tree’s glow. “Hey, hi. What’re you doing up?”
“I couldn’t sleep.” Your voice sounds shockingly normal for the tension crackling through the room. Peter shifts on his feet. “Are you okay?”
He shrugs, giving a quick shake of his head as though unsure why you’d ask. “Yeah, I’m just—I had a weird feeling, so I wanted to see if you were okay. Nightmare, I guess.”
“Oh. Sorry.”
“So you are?”
“Huh?”
“You’re okay?” Peter’s acting twitchy, and it’s making you nervous. Of the two of you, he definitely seems the least okay.
“Yeah, Pete,” you say gently. “I’m fine.” You open your arms in invitation, and Peter hesitates a moment before stepping forward. It’s a bit of an awkward hug, you half twisted to reach over the back of the couch and him bent over to get to you, but you make the most of it.
“What’s going on?” you murmur, raking your fingers through the hair at his nape. It’s sweaty, like he’s been running. You don’t really anticipate a genuine answer to your question, but it feels important for Peter to at least know you care enough to ask.
You feel his head shake. “Nothing,” he says. He gives you a squeeze, some other half of an excuse probably already on his tongue, but before he can get it out you both jerk apart.
“Ow.” Your skin burns where Peter’s wrist pressed to it.
“Shit. Sorry, baby, let me see.”
You turn around, allowing him to pull the collar of your sleep shirt down enough to look at it. “What was that?”
“I have, uh. I was just tinkering around with something in my room—you know me, tinkering—and this thing I was messing with sort of exploded. I didn’t realize it was still hot, I’m sorry.” He blows a bit of cool air on your skin. You turn to try and see for yourself. “Hold on, I think we still have some of that burn cream.”
But in turning, you can now see the light on his face. “Peter,” you breathe.
Peter must hear something in your voice, because he stops mid-pivot. The weight between you heavies. You feel the strain on your lungs.
“What happened to your face?”
His expression twinges. You wonder that it doesn’t reopen the cut on his lip, or if that slow seep of blood is all it can muster anymore. Your boyfriend’s jaw is marred with an ugly splotch of color, already darkening in the center. The cheery glow of your Christmas tree shows in unforgiving starkness the dried blood crusted around his nostrils and the bruise of his nose.
“This?” Peter smiles, and now his lip does reopen. He hardly seems to notice. “I, uh…well, it’s embarrassing, but I fell out of bed.”
“Peter.” Your voice thins.
“I know, it’s so stupid. Didn’t put my arms out to save myself or anything, just boom—face to floor.”
“Peter,” you say again. “Just tell me what happened. Please.”
“I’m telling you.” He’s smiling still, like you’re silly, his silly girl, but you can see the strain around his eyes. “Babe, I think you’re more tired than you notice. Let’s go to bed, okay? I actually have to go out and get a replacement part for the thing I exploded, but—”
“Don’t.” Your eyes are burning. You see Peter see them, his smile dissolving at the edges. “Please just tell me the truth. Who’s doing this to you?”
“Sweetheart—”
“No, I—I got it at first, because we’d just moved in and you had no reason to trust me. It wasn’t my business, and I got that. I didn’t—I was fine with letting you do whatever you wanted to.” Tears blaze hot paths down your cheeks, but you refuse to break Peter’s stare long enough to wipe them. “It just seems like it keeps getting worse, though, you know? Or maybe it was always this bad and I just didn’t know, but now—I don’t know, I don’t really know what this is, but it’s different than it was at first. We’re not strangers anymore, right? You can trust me. Please, I just—” Your voice splinters. “I just want to help.”
Peter’s looking at you with something desperate in his expression. You can see the whites of his eyes again, and his chest is moving like he’s breathing harder than he needs to. He takes a step back, and the string between you pulls taut. It feels sharper than an ache now.
“I have to—”
“Don’t go,” you cut him off.
Peter’s face pinches. “I have to. I have to, I’m sorry. Please go to bed.”
“Why?” Your shoulders jump, something in you crumpling as you realize there’s nothing you can do to make him stay. Your nose runs. “Just stay here.”
He glances toward his bedroom, then back at you. He must have left the window open; you can feel the night chill beginning to permeate your apartment. Peter’s fingers twitch at his sides.
“Please,” you try again.
Sirens wail outside, and Peter takes another step away from you. “Sorry,” he says. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I have to go right now. I’ll be back, okay?”
You don’t reply, watching through blurred vision as he goes.
It takes you less than a minute to come to a decision after that. You’re still leaking from your eyes and nose, so you grab a wad of toilet paper from the bathroom, cramming it into your pocket before throwing on a sweatshirt over your sleep clothes and shoving your feet into shoes.
Peter’s not on the fire escape when you stick your head out his window. You have no clue how he climbed down so fast. You push the window closed and go out the front door.
Your neighborhood is less quiet tonight. The sirens that make up the city’s constant white noise are closer than usual, louder, echoing down alleyways to reach your peaceful cluster of buildings. You think half-humorously that they might create an opportunity for Spider-Man to pay a visit; maybe if he’s not too busy, you can get him to help track down your runaway boyfriend and scare some sense into him.
You hate to think of what could compel Peter to come back out here tonight, when he was already so beat up and he clearly didn’t want to. You don’t understand what role he could play. Is he making things for someone? Is that why he had that exploding thing on his wrist? Peter’s skilled, and smart, but you don’t think he’d get mixed up in anything that required him to pass off dangerous technology to anyone who wouldn’t be responsible with it. Unless he had to, at least.
You’re so furious with him. You tear off a square of toilet paper, blowing your nose. If he gets any more hurt than he already is, you’ll tell Aunt May on him, you swear to god.
It’s almost funny, considering how much better lit the streets are, that you don’t notice anyone around until the gun is at your back.
“Purse,” says a voice at your ear.
“I don’t have one.” Your voice wobbles, but mostly because of the whiplash. Christ, what a shitty day. “I don’t have anything on me.”
“Don’t fucking lie to me.” The gun presses harder into your back. “Phone, then.”
“I don’t have one.”
“Don’t lie.”
“I don’t! I left it at home.”
“You know what—”
“What?” Comes a voice from behind you both. A familiar voice.
For a millisecond, you could swear it’s Peter, your heart clenching, but you turn after the mugger does to find Spider-Man standing a few feet away. As soon as the gun is trained on him, white webbing jams the barrel and it’s cast harmlessly to the side.
“I don’t think she’s lying, man.” Spider-Man moves toward you, firing webs on the way that plaster the mugger’s feet to the concrete. “I think you just picked the wrong girl tonight.” He jerks his head at you, and you get his meaning instinctively, stepping out of the way as he moves close enough to give the mugger a shove. The other man goes careening backwards. As soon as his hands land on the ground, webs ensure that’s where they stay.
Spider-Man takes your elbow in hand, guiding you away. “What are you doing here?”
“I’m…” Something’s nettling you. You wish for Spider-Man and he appears, is that how it works now? You have the feeling like you’re forgetting something. “This is where I live.”
He laughs, but it doesn’t sound very amused. “I know, but why are you here? What’re you—” He pulls the waist of your pajama pants up from where they’ve started to slip. “Sweetheart, it’s freezing out. Couldn’t you at least have put on a real coat?”
Sweetheart.
Your voice sticks in your throat.
“Your fingernails are gonna fall off,” Spider-Man goes on in a familiarly chiding tone (playful, so as not to seem too serious). He walks you out of the alley, ignoring the calls of the man stuck to the pavement. “What do I have to say to get you back inside? I’ll come with you, how’s that?”
“Peter?”
Spider-Man looks over at you. Eyes of all white, and yet everything said in the tilt of his head. “I was going to tell you when I got back,” he says, still walking towards your building, “but of course you had to go out and find trouble. You probably think I’m full of shit now.”
“Peter,” you say. Not a question this time, but an exhalation. Something released.
“I’m not making it up, though, I really was going to tell you. I would have told you before I left, but there wasn’t really time, I could hear the cops having a shootout and I really felt like I had to go—I actually only came home because my web-shooter caught a stray, so I needed a backup…”
You’re reeling, you think. Or swooning. You’ve never figured out the difference. Spider-Man’s (Peter’s. Spider-Man’s?) hand has found its way around your waist, keeping you propped up against him. Silly, to be treated like you’re the delicate one when you know for a fact he’s all bruised and bleeding under that mask. There are probably other injuries you don’t know the half of.
When Peter stops, you don’t understand why until you realize you’re standing in back of your own building. You’ve crossed streets without noticing.
“I thought we’d take the fast way up,” he says.
You manage a “hm?” before he’s tightening his grip on you and you’re sling-shotting up six stories. Peter sets you down on the fire escape. You grip the railing when he lets you go, the cold metal digging into your palms as he jimmies open his bedroom window. He has to gently uncurl your fingers to usher you inside.
It’s clear one of you is more practiced at going in and out of windows than the other. You half-crawl onto Peter’s bed, stumbling a bit in an attempt to avoid getting your shoes on his pillow, whereas your boyfriend slips gracefully through and is laying down before you’ve managed to turn around. He pulls the window shut so that it hardly makes a sound. You wonder if it’s habit.
“You okay?” Peter asks as he pulls off his mask.
You stare. “Me?”
He looks chastened, but says anyway, “Yeah, sweetheart. You’re shaking a little.”
“I’m…” You reach for him. Your fingertips lay themselves over the bruised bridge of his nose. Peter’s eyes are sorry. “I’m surprised.”
“You also just had a gun pointed at you.”
“So did you. You probably have guns pointed at you all the time.”
He shrugs, as though this is more or less true. “Are you mad?”
“I don’t know what I am,” you admit. “Probably, a little.”
“Is it okay to ask for a hug?”
“Am I going to hurt you?”
“No,” he promises, reaching forward to bring you to him. His lips mush to your cheek. “It looks worse than it is. Perk of the spider mutant thing, I heal fast.”
You’re still careful with him. You hug him with your arms around his shoulders, feeling the strange texture of the webbing spread over his suit. There’s a strangeness to your senses; it feels like a tuning fork has been struck, everything reverberating and trembling its way into alignment. Your heart trembles with it.
“This isn’t what I was expecting,” you hear yourself say.
“It’s not? I sort of thought you had it all figured out.”
You shake your head.
“Well, you’re taking it a lot better than I expected. If that helps at all. I kind of thought you might freak out.”
“I don’t know how much freak out I have left.” You intend to stop there, but the next admission comes tumbling from your mouth unbidden. “I’ve been worrying for a long time.”
“Oh, yeah?” Peter sounds genuinely apologetic, and so doting it makes your chest tight. He rubs your back like he can feel it happening. “I’m sorry. Really. I didn’t want to drag you into this, but then it seemed like you were gonna find out no matter what, and…honestly, I just thought I’d get matched with a roommate who didn’t give a shit.”
“Bad luck.”
“Yeah, maybe. Not really.” He pulls back enough to kiss you, bumping his nose against yours affectionately. “Hey, maybe it’s too soon, but there might be a pro to the whole dating Spider-Man thing.”
You look at him. A face you know as well as anything, and from the neck down a suit you’ve seen mostly in news clips. He’s your boyfriend; he’s Spider-Man. He’s your boyfriend who’s Spider-Man.
“Yeah?” you ask.
“If you really like those pictures in my room, I can bring you to the places where I took them from. It’s not, ah, something most of the public can access. Special privilege only.”
“Oh.” You nod slowly. “Yeah, that’s cool.”
“Too soon?”
“Maybe. I’m still coming to terms with the fact that you work for the cops.”
“Uh, okay, I don’t work for the cops, I work with them. I’m not some narc.”
The incredulity in his tone is so distinctly Peter that you come back into yourself. All of the trembling pieces settle into alignment.
“Right, it’s just. I don’t know.” Your lips give a small tug. You see a familiar amused curiosity ignite in familiar warm brown eyes, and you press a quick kiss to his lips before delivering the news. “I’ve been picturing you more or less at odds with the law. I was pretty sure you were a drug dealer.”
it's valentine's day, and reader finds something she shouldn't have in dally's room.
wc: 959
warnings: none just fluff <3
it's not like you had any crazy expectations for what dallas winston had in mind for valentine's day. sure, you spent all your time with each other. you'd gotten real close, in every sense of that word. but he would avoid that commitment conversation like the plague, so you weren't exactly expecting a declaration of love or a bouquet of roses.
but flat out acting like the holiday didn't exist? that was just too far.
the two of you had just left buck's after you'd spent the afternoon doing homework on his bed while he sat around bothering you. like every friday night, dally had stolen the thunderbird to take you to the nightly double. but this was just a routine occurrence, of course. not like he would ever believe in such a mushy holiday.
still, you'd hoped for something - a box of chocolate, some grocery store flowers, maybe a card. you try to take your mind off it as dally puts his foot on the gas, fiddling with his pockets haphazardly.
suddenly, his face scrunches up in frustration and he grumbles, tapping his fingers on the steering wheel as he cuts the gas.
"hey. do me a favor, will ya? grab my smokes from my desk. top drawer on the left."
you roll your eyes but go back anyway. his room is the usual mess - clothes draped over the chair, a couple beer bottles on the windowsill, your textbooks and notes spread out on the bed. you yank the drawer open, already expecting to have to dig past god-knows-what to find the cigarettes.
instead, you find a stack of papers shoved carelessly to the side.
you don't mean to snoop, but something about them seems out of the ordinary. it's not like he's the type to be keeping a diary, but these aren't just receipts or homework. as you take a closer look, you see they're notebook pages crumpled at the edges, ripped out hastily, the ink a bit smudged and messy.
then you see the date at the top of the first one. an entry from over a year ago. you hesitate for a moment, knowing this must be personal. a flicker of guilt runs through you, but you can't help paging through the headers on the first couple of slips. you swear you can make out your name somewhere between the lines, and against your better judgment, you start reading.
november 5th, 1963
she fell asleep on my shoulder at the drive-in today. she really needs to stop doing that. swear i almost decked steve in his face for laughing at it, but i knew she'd hate if i did it. it's funny, she fucking mumbles in her sleep. i swear she said my name a couple times under her breath. i acted like i didn't hear it but i can't stop thinking about it.
january 17th, 1964
she had to babysit pony today and she dragged me along to keep her company. i was supposed to do a run for buck, but i'll have to figure that out later. it's funny, she was real apologetic about it, like i'm ever gonna be mad that i have to spend time with her.
april 28th, 1964
we were watching some stupid rerun in her living room and i guess i must've been exhausted. she started running her fingers through my hair all sweet like she always does, messing it up. didn't have the energy to tell her to knock it off. next thing i know i wake up laying down on her side. she says i knocked out. whatever.
august 12th, 1964
buck decided to go sticking his nose where he doesn't belong last night… asking me about her. why i won't make it official? make what official? i come to her window every damn night. she lays on my shoulder and tells me all her secrets. not like i let anyone else make me act that way. that's official enough for me, far as i'm concerned.
november 1st, 1964
i swear she did something different with her hair today, or maybe her makeup or something, or her outfit. whatever it was. i just couldn't stop staring at her. she's so pretty it makes me forget what i'm thinking when i look at her…christ, i'm sounding like a fucking sap. if buck ever found this, i would have to kill him.
december 9th, 1964
i found her crying today when i walked in. i wanted to hug her or something, kiss her on the forehead and make everything better. i didn't. just sat there smoking by her side until she stopped, let her get everything off her chest. then she had the nerve to say 'thank you dal,' like i did anything special. i have no idea what the hell she sees in me.
january 28th, 1965
glory, she's got the worst taste in music. i told her that today and she threw a fucking pillow at me. truth is i would listen to the beatles for the rest of my goddamn life if it meant she let me lay in her bed and listen to her sing along. it's cute.
february 3rd, 1965
if she finds these i'm gonna have to tell her it's for an english assignment or something. no, never mind. even she wouldn't believe that. man, i'm fucked.
you reach the last entry in the pile, this one laid out nicely with neater handwriting, on a fresh sheet of paper:
february 14th, 1965
if you find this, happy valentine's day. figured there's no point in keeping these a secret. i'm sorry i'm not better at saying it. you should know i'm not much for words. but i mean everything i wrote, doll, swear.
a.n. writing this made my heart all warm and fuzzy haha happy (late) valentine's day guys!!! hope you like it!
reader gets attacked by a grp of socs and the whole gang is worried when they find her, especially dally cuz subconsciously he cares for her but he obvi wont show it in front of others
so when everyone goes to sleep he sneaks in her room and gives her his st. christophers necklace cuz its supposed to protect from danger
────۶ৎ for protection.
or... you being the only girl dallas would ever believe in saints for !!
The air was thick that night —warm and damp, the kind of Tulsa evening where the pavement never quite cooled after sundown. You were supposed to be on your way home, having stayed late at the DX waiting for Sodapop to finish a shift that ran longer than he’d promised. But Soda had a way of losing track of time, especially when a cute girl pulled into the lot with car trouble and fluttered her lashes.
So you walked home alone. Ponyboy had gone ahead after dark started creeping in, muttering about homework. You weren’t too worried, the streetlights buzzed, and the familiar hum of motorcycles and distant rock music made the neighborhood feel alive. You could take care of yourself, right? You were a Curtis.
Still, when the sleek, shining headlights swept across the empty street behind you, your stomach turned cold. The tires hissed as the car slowed beside you —a bright blue Mustang. You didn’t need to see the rings on their fingers to know what they were.
“Hey, lookit that,” one of the boys slurred from the back seat, leaning halfway out the window. “A little Greaser girl out all alone.”
You froze, every instinct in you screaming to run, but running meant they’d chase.
“Maybe she’s one of the Curtis brats,” another one sneered, and you stiffened. They knew your name before you even spoke. “Yeah, yeah, it's the baby sister! Heard she’s real sweet.”
The Mustang stopped. Doors opened. Laughter spilled out like smoke.
You stepped back, heart in your throat, hands trembling. “I don’t want any trouble, i swear!” you said, voice shaking.
But Socs never needed a reason for trouble.
“Trouble?” The blond one laughed, and his breath smelled like whiskey and cigarettes. “Honey, we’re just bein’ frieeeendly. Don’t’chu like Soc company?”
You turned sharply, taking off toward the vacant lot the one where the boys always met up, where the ground felt safer somehow. But before you could make it far, a hand grabbed your arm, jerking you back. You screamed, sharp and involuntary, and that seemed to startle them, if only for a second.
“Hey! Don’t fight, sweetheart—”
You kicked. Hard. Right in the shin. The boy cursed and shoved you back against the fence, to favour holding his damaged pride, not hard enough to bruise but enough to knock the air from your lungs. Your pulse was screaming in your ears.
Then —from somewhere behind them— came a sound. A voice that carried rougher than gravel.
“Get the hell away from her!”
The Socs turned and you could’ve cried with relief at the sight of that familiar leather jacket cutting across the street, a cigarette burning between the fingers of the one and only Dallas Winston. Beside him, a shorter, tenser silhouette: Johnny Cade, jaw clenched, switchblade glinting in his hand.
“Dally—” you started, but he’d already shoved you behind him.
“Go ahead,” Dallas said, grinning, teeth white against the dark. “Lay one more finger on her. I dare you, man.”
The drunk blond Soc hesitated, then laughed. “Winston? You gonna play bodyguard now?”
Johnny moved first. Quicker than you’d ever seen him. He swung the flat of his blade against the guy’s troath. He did not cutt, yet, but it was enough pressure to make the soc stumble back with a curse. His voice was steady, cold. “Ain’t nobody touchin’ her, you got that?”
He wasn’t shaking. He wasn’t scared. He looked ready to gut someone.
“You touch her again,” Johnny hissed, voice cold, “and I swear to God I’ll gut you.”
He meant it.
Dallas didn't wait any further and shoved one of the other guys so hard he hit the dirt, the Soc scrambling to his feet only to meet Dally’s glare and think better of it.
“Go on, man” Dally growled. “Try somethin’. Give me a reason.”
“C'mon Winston, just share her for a while! I bet you can have her anytime you want.”
Dallas swung at the bastard who had dared speak. Fist met jaw with a crack, and one of the Socs hit the ground like a sack of bricks. The others cursed, scrambled, half-dragged their friends back into the car.
“Bunch of cowards!” Johnny spat, glaring at their taillights as they peeled off. Seriously considering grabbing the big rock a step off to the left and throwing it at them.
The silence that followed was thick and broken only by the sound of the car doors slamming and the Mustang’s tires squealing as they tore away.
When it was over, you realized you were shaking.
Johnny was already beside you, tucking away his knife. “Hey, hey,” he said softly, voice switching instantly from rage to comfort. “it’s okay now, you’re okay,” he murmured, gently brushing your hair away from your face. “They didn’t hurt you, right? You okay, doll?”
Dallas’s chest was still rising and falling like he’d run a mile, eyes wide and wild before they flicked to you: to the trembling in your hands, the tears in your lashes. His jaw tightened, and he looked away fast.
You shook your head, half-sobbing. “They didn’t— they just-”
“You sure you’re okay, kid?”
You nodded up at Dallas, though your lip trembled.
“Damn Socs, man” he muttered, jaw tight. “If Johnny hadn’t stopped me, I’d’ve—”
“You’d’ve ended up in the cooler again, that’s what would’a happen’d, Dally” Johnny said quietly, giving him a look.
Dallas growled under his breath but didn’t argue.
“Come on,” he muttered, grabbing your arm —gentler than you expected. “We’re takin’ you home.”
The walk back to your place felt like it took forever, though Dallas and Johnny flanked you the whole time like bodyguards. You didn’t speak, didn’t trust your voice not to shake. Johnny kept a steady hand on your shoulder, murmuring things like, “You did good,” and “They didn’t get to you, that’s what matters.”
Dallas didn’t say a word. But his hand occasionally brushed your back to comfort you. Once, when he thought you weren’t looking, he looked up at the sky and muttered something under his breath.. something that sounded an awful lot like a prayer.
When you reached the house, the porch light snapped on before you even hit the steps. Darry was standing there —arms crossed, face carved from stone. Sodapop was right behind him, eyes wide and worried.
“What happened?” Darry barked immediately.
Dallas answered first. “Socs. Four of ‘em. Tried to start somethin’.”
Soda’s voice cracked. “She okay?”
Darry’s whole expression changed. His fists curled. For a second, you thought he was going to explode.
“Did they touch her?”
“Barely,” Dally said quickly. “We got there before anything happened.”
“Yeah,” Johnny said quickly. “Didn’t touch her. Just scared her bad.”
Darry’s expression melted —from furious panic to something more soft, in a single heartbeat. He pulled you into his arms so fast you nearly fell forward, his hand going straight to your hair. “Baby girl,” he muttered into your temple. “You okay? They didn’t hurt you?”
You shook your head against his chest, finally letting the tears spill. “I’m fine,” you whispered. “I’m fine, Darry.”
But Darry was already looking you over. Hands brushing your arms, your shoulders, tilting your chin up to check for bruises.
“You’re sure they didn’t hurt you?” he asked again. His voice trembled, just barely, and you shook your head.
He didn’t believe you until he’d checked every inch of your skin for bruises. Soda’s eyes were glossy too, though he was more upset than angry, muttering under his breath about how he should’ve walked you home.
But Darry was still fuming. “If she’d come home with so much as a scratch- I swear, I’d have every one of those Socs’ hides.”
Dally just muttered something like, “You’d have to get in line.”
The gang was already there, Two-Bit sitting up straight on the couch, Steve leaning against the wall, Pony pacing. When they saw you, everyone started talking at once, but Darry lifted a hand.
“She’s fine,” he said firmly. “And she’s goin’ to bed.”
You didn’t argue. You were exhausted. Your body numb, nerves fried. Pony fell silent and followed you down the hall, both of you walking together until you split paths, he went into his and Soda's room (not before softly mumbling about how he was glad you were home safe) and you into your shared room with Darry. You crawled into your bed, the sheets cool against your skin, and tried to slow your breathing.
But sleep didn’t come easy. The shadows on the wall looked like moving hands, the sound of a car outside made your pulse spike.
You didn’t hear the door creak at first —or maybe you did, but you thought you were dreaming.
Then came the softest whisper: “Hey. You awake, baby Curtis?”
You turned your head. There he was: Dallas Winston once again, standing in your doorway, his usual swagger gone, replaced by something quieter, heavier. The house was dark except for the faint yellow glow from the hall.
“Dally?” you whispered.
“Shh.” He glanced toward the living room. “Don’t need your brothers flippin’ out again.”
You sat up slowly. “What’re you—”
He shut the door behind him and came closer. “Didn’t mean to wake you if you were out.”
“I wasn’t,” you said quietly. “Couldn’t sleep.”
He stepped closer, scratching the back of his neck, looking uncomfortable as hell. He sat on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, looking down at the floor. For a minute, neither of you said anything, then he reached into the collar of his shirt and pulled something from around his own neck.. the St. Christopher’s medal he always wore, the silver chain glinting faintly in the dark.
“Here,” he said, almost gruffly. “Take it.”
You blinked. “What?”
“Just— take it, alright?” He tossed it lightly onto your blanket, and it landed beside your hand. “It’s supposed to keep you safe. Or some crap like that.”
“What? No, Dal, that’s yours.”
He cut you off, voice low but firm. “You’re wearin’ it. End of story.”
For a second, neither of you spoke. You could hear the faint tick of the kitchen clock down the hall. Then you picked it up, fingers brushing the warm metal. “You… really mean that?”
He smirked faintly, then leaned down, using his hand to press the chain further into your hand. “Yeah”
For a second, he looked at you like he wanted to say something else— something that sat too deep in his throat. But all he did was reach out and brush your hair back, muttering, “Don’t scare us like that again, huh?”
“I didn’t mean to,” you whispered.
“I know.”
“Thank you. For— for coming.”
He shrugged, trying to play it off. “Johnny saw the Mustang first. I just ran faster.”
“Still,” you said softly. “Thank you.”
His lips twitched, almost a smile. Then he nodded at the necklace. “Don’t take that off. Ever.”
You nodded, fastening it around your neck. “Promise.”
“Good.” He hesitated at the doorway. “Now get some sleep, yeah? Or your brothers’ll think I’m tryin’ to corrupt you or somethin’.”
You smiled faintly. “You kinda are.”
That earned you a quiet chuckle, low and rare. “Get some rest, baby,” he said, his tone suddenly gentle. “You’re safe now.”
And before you could say anything else, he was gone —footsteps fading down the hall.
You lay back, fingers brushing the cool gold at your collarbone. The medal still smelled faintly like cigarettes and leather. For the first time that night, your heartbeat slowed.
henry has been watching you for exactly 7 minutes.
he watches the way your eyes shine, the way your chin is resting on your hand while the other holds a glass of wine, tracing gentle circles around the rim every now and then. he watches your smile, the look of curiosity and concentration in your eyes while his friends are telling you a story.
he watches the way you smile, the way you furrow your brows, the way your lips move when you speak, the way you look at him and smile. a silent and subtle question of, "what are you looking at, my dear?"
and then he realizes he wants to live this forever.
he wants to watch you for the rest of his life, he wants to take you to dinner with his friends for the rest of his life. he wants the privilege of being able to watch you, to love you, to wait for you, to yearn for you. suddenly, this is the only certainty in his life.
his heart races in his chest as his mind forms the words; i want you forever. i want to marry you. i love you so much that i want to involve god and the government in our story.
he remains serious, as though nothing is happening. but inside, his body warms with joy and recognition, as though he had been waiting for this moment, this certainty, his entire life.
"can i ask you something?" you say as you fasten your seatbelt, hours after that moment.
"always, darling," he says as he starts the car, shifts into gear and pulls onto the road.
"why were you looking at me so much tonight?" you say, the smile unmistakable in your voice.
he keeps his eyes on the road, his expression giving nothing away. he looks at you briefly and then back to the road.
"was something wrong?"
"no, of course not..." you say, looking at his profile; his glasses occasionally catching the glow of the other cars' headlights, his hair still perfect even after hours, his jaw, his nose, his lips... "it's just that... today you were watching me much more closely than usual."
"more than usual?" he says, a small smile forming.
"yes. c'mon henry, everyone knows you love looking at me," you say teasingly. but deep down, his gaze continues to leave you flustered. you know he looks at you, watches you and admires you ever since the beginning of your relationship, but you can't get used to it. being henry winter's fascination runs much deeper than you could ever imagine.
"you look beautiful today, my love. more beautiful than usual. i was simply admiring what is mine," he says, simply.
"what is yours?"
"yes, mine." he looks at you again, his right hand resting on your thigh and tracing gentle circles while the other remains on the steering wheel.
you feel your heart race in your chest. there's something about him tonight; his tone of voice, the way he says mine, the way he looks at you. there's something different, pure, raw. but you can't distinguish it, and you know he won't tell you. like all of henry's feelings, he'll wait and, at the right moment, you'll understand what has been happening inside his heart.
"yours, henry," you say, intertwining his fingers with yours and bringing them to your lips.
still looking at him, you notice the way his jaw tightens, like he's trying to hold something back. a feeling, a word, a look or a confession. you simply smile, and wait for him.
it's been a week since that moment.
a week in which henry has been admiring you more. a week in which he's been playing with your fingers while the two of you talk in bed at night; you talking about your day while his fingers gently caress yours, especially your ring finger. his touch is so gentle and soft, almost ghostlike.
a week in which henry has been coming home late.
he says richard needed help studying. he says francis was dealing with some personal problems and needed someone to talk to. he says julian requested his presence for an important meeting...
he never elaborates, he simply tells you the reason for being late, walks over to you, kisses your forehead and gently strokes your cheek while asking about you; your day, whether you were doing well, what you would like for dinner.
the truth is that he has been tirelessly searching for the perfect ring.
he searched countless websites, places, with trusted jewelers and different ones alike, because he refuses to buy the first beautiful ring he sees.
he wants the ring to look as though it has existed for centuries; nothing ostentatious, nothing fashionable. he dislikes trends, he wants something timeless, something that could have belonged to a woman in oxford in 1890 or florence in 1520. maybe delicate filigree, soft platinum, an old european-cut diamond that catches candlelight instead of screaming beneath fluorescent lamps. something elegant enough that, one day, your granddaughter might wear it and people would still call it beautiful.
he wants something that reflects just how beautiful, important and precious you are. something that emphasizes your beauty, your elegance, your essence. something that makes you shine with joy and love, not only because of him, but because of your story together.
after a while, he finds the perfect one.
when he sees the ring among the many the jeweler showed him, he freezes. as though the jewel had been waiting for him, calling him there. he doesn't ask the price, he doesn’t care, he found the one. then, he simply asks for your size and requests something to be engraved inside. not your initials or the date, but one line in ancient greek; small enough that only the two of you know it's there. its translation simply reads, "wherever you are, there is my home."
he carries it carefully in the pocket of his coat.
as he walks home, thinking about you, his hand finds the little box holding the ring. he thinks about the perfect moment, the speech he'll give, your reaction... his heart races, his mouth goes dry, his eyes begin to sting as though the tears are begging to come out.
he's so, so happy.
so genuinely and profoundly happy.
when he gets home, you're there to greet him with a smile on your face.
"henry," you say, walking toward him.
he closes the door and turns to you, ready to welcome you into his arms. his embrace is warm, comforting, like home. like safety and love.
"are you alright?" he says against your hair. he kisses your temple and looks at you, his hands holding your face as he waits for your answer.
"yes, i am. where were you?" you say as you place your hand over his.
"i went to buy you a gift."
"really?" you say, furrowing your brows.
he should wait. god, he should. he should prepare more, think more, organize himself better. but he can't. he physically can’t. your smile when you see him, your eyes shining with curiosity and love, your hand tracing gentle caresses over the back of his.
he lets out a slow breath and lowers his hands from your face. he steps back slightly, but keeps looking at you.
"my dear," he says, taking your hand.
he looks down at your joined hands, gently stroking them before looking back at you.
"...i've spent a great deal of time trying to decide how this ought to be said." he looks at your hands again. "a rather embarrassing amount, actually."
you listen to him in complete silence.
"i wrote drafts and i discarded every one of them. one was excessively formal." he smiles, still stroking your hand. "another quoted plato... a third somehow became an essay on permanence."
he lets out the faintest, almost self-conscious smile.
"none of them sounded like me. like us. a curious thing happens when one tries to write honestly. as if any language becomes unexpectedly insufficient." he looks at you for a long moment. not searching for words anymore, simply looking. admiring.
"i've always believed that certainty was life's greatest luxury. i liked knowing what came next." he takes a deep breath. "you know i liked order. discipline, distance... i thought those things made a person invulnerable."
his smile fades into something softer.
"then you arrived. and, rather inconveniently, none of those things seemed especially important anymore."
he laughs quietly under his breath.
you only realize you're crying when warm tears begin sliding down your cheeks. but you remain silent when a genuine smile appears on your face.
"i didn't notice it at first... it happened so gradually that i almost missed it. you became part of my habits before i realized you'd become part of my life." he adjusts his glasses. you know he wants to cry.
"i stopped buying books for myself, without thinking, i began wondering whether you would like them. i stopped walking home alone, because somehow, home became wherever you happened to be. i began measuring my days by the moments i knew i'd see you; the morning, the afternoon, dinner. your voice from another room. the sound of you laughing at something i hadn't intended to be amusing."
he lowers his eyes briefly before looking back at you. his free hand gently wipes away your tears. resting his hand against your face, he strokes your cheek with his thumb.
"i've loved beautiful things for as long as i can remember; languages, architecture, poetry, paintings... they've occupied my thoughts for years. yet somehow..." he smiles. "none of them prepared me for you."
there's a quiet pause. the only sounds are the street outside, the passing cars, and your occasional sniffle.
"do you know what frightened me most?" his voice is quieter now. you can’t speak, so you just shake your head.
"it wasn't realizing i loved you. it was realizing that loving you no longer felt extraordinary. it felt..." he searches for the word "...ordinary. natural. like breathing. like reading. like waking up. like i want to do this every single day of my life."
he keeps looking at you, gently caressing your face. but now there are tears on his own face; his blue eyes search for yours as though he were drowning and you were air. he doesn't wipe away his tears, he wipes away yours.
"there came a day when i could no longer distinguish where my life ended and yours began. and instead of terrifying me..." his voice softens. "...it brought me so much peace."
another pause. long enough that only his breathing fills the silence.
he smiles to himself.
"you've made an extraordinary fool of me, my dear. because now i look for you before i enter a room. i reach for your hand without thinking, i sleep better when you're beside me. and on the rare mornings when you wake before i do, i pretend to remain asleep." a tiny smile. "only so i can feel you kiss my forehead before you think i've noticed."
you smile and he kisses your forehead.
"y/n..."
he says as he kneels in front of you, taking the little box from his pocket.
he's still crying.
still looking at you.
"i don't wish to spend the rest of my life pursuing extraordinary things. i've already found the most extraordinary person i will ever know. i simply want more mornings, more evenings, more conversations that last until sunrise. more books left open beside each other. more winters, more summers, more years in which i can look across a room..." he smiles "...find you, and still think, with complete disbelief... there you are."
he opens the little box.
"if you'll allow me, i would consider it the greatest privilege of my life to spend every one of those ordinary days... as your husband."
he holds your hand while the other holds the little box with the ring.
"will you marry me?"
you can't speak.
the words remain caught in your throat. butterflies dance in your stomach while tears continue to slip down your cheeks.
you simply nod, already kneeling down to wrap your arms around him.
he lets out a deep breath, relieved.
"thank you," he says against your hair. "thank you, my love. thank you."
"i love you, henry," you say, holding his face with both hands. "i love you so, so much. i can't wait to spend the rest of my life with you," you say with a laugh.
he smiles against your lips before kissing you.
"i love you," he whispers against you, looking at you with eyes shining with tears, pride, and happiness.
"give me your hand, my fiancée."
you smile as he slips the ring onto your finger and brings your hand to his lips, kissing it gently.
he looks at the ring on your finger and smiles, almost in disbelief.
"this is the first day of our forever together," he says, pulling you against him.
you hold him tightly, still crying, but melting into the warmth of his body. he smiles against your hair and, for a moment, nothing else matters.
it doesn't matter that you're sitting on the living room floor, holding each other with tears running down your cheeks.
it doesn't matter that your heart is racing with joy inside your chest.
all that matters is that you'll be together; your souls will become one until the very end, until they become nothing more than a whisper of dust among the stars.
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henry winter warming your hands between his hands, but his hands are even colder than yours... so the next best option is for him to tuck you away into his coat, to reel you right against his chest and heat you with his entire body warmth. of course, wrapping you into his coat like this makes him blush much harder than just warming your hands with his hands. but he's got to keep you warm, it's his first priority when the winter starts seeping deeper into your skin.
can we get shy! reader x remus where they’re just in their own little bubble and the other marauders and lily and the girls think it’s the cutest thing ever?
i love you and your writing!! <33
thank you!! ♡ shy!fem!reader | 0.6k words
Remus has always been steady. His voice is warm and measured, his every movement thought through.
You'd love to be that way. You're not and you never have been but sometimes, with Remus, you get close. He's pulled your thighs over his lap and you've forgotten to feel bashful about it, though there's a heat from being so close to him spreading over your entire body.
You're smiling. Really smiling.
"It's disgusting," Sirius says where he sits a little ways away with the rest of your friends.
"I think it's nice," James says. "She never smiles like that."
"She smiles like that all the time," Lily argues
"Only with Remus. When they get like that," Sirius says, pretending to gag.
Remus has inclined his head to yours, his hand clasped lightly around your forearm for no reason at all. He's just said something to make you laugh, a peel of giggles foreign to the group despite having known you for years. You sound pleased though shy. It's obvious what he's saying, his lips curled up, sweet nothings that have you closing your eyes and dropping your head into his shoulder.
Remus raises a big hand to your back and claps it gently.
"That's, like, illegal right?" Sirius asks.
"It's a bit much, Pads, but I don't think it's prosecutable." James says, wrinkling his nose as Remus ducks down to whisper something in your ear. "Might be soon, though."
"Keep your hands to yourself, Moony!" Sirius shouts.
Remus pulls his hand from where it had been perfectly chaste on your thigh and throws the bird in the general direction of your friends.
"It's PDA to the extreme."
"Technically, it's not public," Lily says.
"Might as well be. It's my house," James grumbles. "Why are they always gross in my house?"
"Do you think they know we can hear them?" Remus whispers to you.
You pull your head off of his shoulder. You're embarrassed about being so lovey-dovey in the middle of a party, really, it's not like you, but Remus has this way about him that you're hopeless for. He's a warm flame. You melt anytime he gets close enough, and right now you're more than close.
Worse than his proximity is the clear, undeniable affection and esteem that he holds you in. He's adoring in more than touch. The way he talks to you, as if every word is something to be treasured - ugh. You feel sick with it.
"I think it's fucking adorable," Mary chimes in.
Sirius scowls at her. "You think everything's adorable."
"It's cute," Marlene agrees reluctantly.
"McKinnon!"
"What? Look at them! And Lily's right, when do you get to see Y/N smiling like that? Only when they're together being gross. I say leave them to it."
"It's nice," Emmmaline says.
You tilt your head back and whisper something to Remus, looking unsure of yourself.
He bursts into laughter, loud and urgent, his hand gripping your thigh in a tight grip. "Dove," he says, almost chiding.
"What?" you ask, though his laughter has swiftly infected you and left you breathless, gasping for air through thick rounds of giggling.
"Ugh," Sirius says, looking over his shoulder at your laughing with a scowl. When he turns back, everybody is smiling. "Oh, get a hold of yourselves, I beg."
hey lovely jade! i hate to be a bother and u can completely ignore this if u want, but could i request some hurt/comfort with remus? maybe the reader is rly upset about something but she’s holding back the tears bc she doesn’t want to show him she’s sad, and remus is just really comforting like “u can let it out, bub. it‘s just us here” etc etc ?
like i said before, feel free to ignore this or not write it if u don’t want! i hope ur having a good day! 💌
this is not good but tysm ilysm <3
The TV is playing some blurry transatlantic film you've seen a thousand times. You lie with your spine digging into a spring or five, your head upside down and hanging off the edge, legs hooked over the back of the sofa. The subtitles are difficult to understand from this angle but you're familiar enough with the scene to mouth along the words anyhow, muscle memory alone guiding you through it.
"And," you say, aligned with the pretty heroine on screen, "whatever of love? However of love? What shall I do differently, now I am loved?"
"Nothing," Remus says, in time with the romantic interest, his voice quiet and wry. "You will do nothing differently if you do not wish to."
"Nothing?" you act.
Remus' hand reaches out from his novel to rest over your ribs. "Nothing. Only that whatever you did before you must now do in lengths reach of my arms."
You smile to yourself as they kiss, suspended in the air, and twine your fingers over Remus', trying to feel the lines in his skin, the small hairs on his knuckles.
Something about the movie makes you emotional, and that opens the poorly scabbed wound of your upset, the worries you've been carrying around this week. You're still greatly hurting from the events of last week and acting like you're not, but something keeps giving you away - you're sure you're hiding it, so sure, only you must do the wrong thing or say the wrong words - because Remus won't leave you alone.
Space, of course, is allowed. Today's gap on the sofa is a whole cushion's width. By next week you might be able to stand at the bottom of the driveway by yourself.
You huff a small laugh through your nose at the thought of it.
"I've missed that sound," Remus murmurs.
You lift your heavy head up and see he's put down his novel and is looking at you with too much love. You quickly let your head fall back down despite the rushing feeling it's given you in your ears, hoping that if you don't look at him he won't ask.
He doesn't. Instead, the hand pressed into your ribs tugs on your shirt insistently.
"Sit up."
"Stop," you say bossily, "I like this."
"You like brain damage?"
"Poor taste."
"Dove."
And you're being pulled, what was suggestive now dominant handling as Remus pulls you up, pulls your head into his lap.
Your face feels hot. Remus looks down at you. He's so handsome it makes you want to die.
"What was that?" he asks.
"What?" you ask in return, nervous.
"This," he says, smoothing the pad of his finger between your eyebrows. "Here."
"Am I spotty?"
"No," he laughs, "no, baby. Your skin jumped."
"Jumped?"
"Like your eyebrows came together. Twitched," he amends, smoothing your skin, smoothing your hair, a repetitive motion that makes your throat ache.
"You're delusional."
Still, the more he looks at you and the longer he touches the more your eyes begin to burn. There's no safer place than his lap, you know it, your body knows it, and the twitch between your eyebrows becomes a crease. You press your lips together in an attempt to hide it.
"What's the matter with you?" he whispers. "Huh? Why are you holding out on me?"
"I'm not."
"You can let it out, bub. It's just you and me here."
You shut your eyes and turn your face into his thigh as the tears start, hot and thick as they slip past your lashes. You don't want to let it out.
His hands are calming, cupped to the back of your head. "You're okay."
"It just… hurts," you tell him, face pushed into his trousers. There's no other way to explain it.
"I know. It's okay."
Those few words have you bawling like a baby. It's hardly a cute look but Remus never flinches, movements showing no surprise at your sudden change. It comes on hard and fast, your brain half memory and half hurt. You throw your arms around his waist all twisted up and he leans over you protectively. A chest burning wave of sobs overtakes, Remus whispering encouragement all the while.
"Why'd you have to ask me?" you gasp out during a lull of sobs, shame in your skin like pins and needles. "I was doing okay."
"You were suffering in silence. Martyrdom doesn't suit you, bub."
You pinch his waist, your tears interrupted by a wet giggle when he hisses loudly.
"Sorry, sorry," he apologises quickly, squirming away from your punishing fingers. "Sorry." His voice is a mix of love and relief and humour, too much. "All I mean is that we both know you're not okay. Why do you insist on pretending otherwise? With me?"
"I don't know."
A tear dribbles over the bridge of your nose. Remus catches it with the side of his finger. "It's you and me. It's always gonna be you and me."
"You and me," you echo. Another fat tear.
"Exactly." He wipes away another tear, then another, fondness lining his eyes. "So don't hide, okay?"
rockstar!remus meets a shy you
rockstar!remus gets patched up after a fight
sleepy rockstar!remus clings to you after a show
rockstar!remus knows you don’t mean to be cold
starving artists!remus wants to spoil you
rockstar!remus finds your glasses
rockstar!remus invites you to a party
rockstar!remus comes to find you when you’re upset
rockstar!remus comforts you when techies are mean
rockstar!remus refuses to leave your side
rockstar!remus gets back after a show
you and rockstar!remus escape a party together
you and rockstar!remus get rained in
rockstar!remus is soft for drunk!you
rockstar!remus comes to find you after a tiff
rockstar!remus comforts you after online hate
rockstar!remus is a softie for their selfless roadie
you and rockstar!remus have your first morning after
baby fever [multi-chapter]
self-preservation [multi-chapter]
wilmand street [multi-chapter]
by tired hands [4k]
losers [10k]
tell me again on a good day [9k]
heavy handed [3k]
mean streak [5k]
my perfect girl [2k]
does that answer your question? [4k]
you’re welcome, sweetness [2k]
summertime (is meant to fall in love) [4k]
far to fall [8k]
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Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
summary your debut as the marauders’ new guitarist doesn’t exactly go to plan when remus gets handsy with you on stage.
warmings bassist!remus x guitarist!reader, singer!sirius, drummer!james, on stage anxiety, stage fright, remus being hot, light hurt/comfort, completely consensual touching but people get the wrong idea [wc 2.5k]
<3
"What if they don't like me?" you ask.
It's so loud on side stage that you might as well have whispered, but Remus seems to hear you fine.
"They will," he says.
You still can't believe you're here. When Remus had called and said they were opening auditions for a second guitar player now that they'd fobbed off Peter, you hadn't quite believed it.
And then, when your former friends from college had actually been impressed with your playing and asked you to do some test runs, you'd pinched yourself.
But this was unreal.
You can hear the crowd. Marauders, Marauders, Marauders, in your spine, their cheers and screams loud enough to send vibrations through the entire venue. You mess with the tie around your neck.
"Do I look stupid?" you ask.
Remus smiles, the smile you remember from school. "You look awesome," he says.
You aren't so sure, looking down at your black ensemble; a miniskirt with a flaring hem, a satin top that showed a daring amount of cleavage, your silly red tie. You feel like you're playing dress up. You feel stupid.
Remus had made it very clear that you could wear whatever you liked, a black bag, if you fancied it. But you wanted to be cool and you wanted their fans to like you, so you'd let Sirius dress you up.
The boy in question appears with James in tow, the first in his usual rock star get up, the latter missing his shirt. The defined plains of James' dark torso explain why he's a fan-favourite.
You bite your lip and look down at your shoes, a brand new pair of original converse. Simple. Sweet, a gift from Remus. He'd spelled, 'Welcome to the band,' in white paint pen across the side of your left shoe. You take a deep breath.
"It's gonna be fine, jezebel," Sirius says, all shark tooth grin and eyeliner.
"I mean," James begins, "it might not be. People are sexist."
You wince, your worst fear said aloud. Remus rolls his eyes and throws a bare arm over your shoulder, looking a little less punk rock than the rest of you in a cream-toned Metallica t-shirt and olive green trousers that hug his thighs in a way that makes your heart skip.
"Don't listen to him," Remus says, hugging you close so his words float straight into your ear. "I promised everything is gonna be fine, didn't I?"
You nod but can't look at him. He had made you that promise a week ago, before the tour buses and airports, before the first paparazzi pictures and interviews. You'd called him in the middle of the night.
"I don't think I can do this," you'd confessed, staring down at the magazine in your hand. You'd been announced as their new guitarist and people had a lot of opinions. Bad and good, you worried about living up to expectations.
"You can, dove."
You'd laughed bitterly, throat burning. "I'm not a- a rock star."
"And I am?" he'd asked, laughing with much more lightness.
The tears had started then, and you'd covered your mouth. Remus had listened for a moment, and then he'd made his promise. "I know you can do this. I know you can, and better, I know you're gonna love this. Really, dove." You'd taken a ragged exhale and he'd doubled down. "I promise, everything is going to be fine. It's gonna be amazing. You just have to trust me."
"Are we ready?" somebody asks, someone important that you should know but don't.
The three boys look to you. "What?" you ask, startled.
"Are you ready?" Sirius asks.
You can't believe you're making decisions. You can't believe any of it, but you know they're gonna look after you out there. You nod before you can stop yourself.
Remus swings his bass on. You let a pretty girl who smells distracting help you into your guitar. There's so many wires and microphones and packs clipped to you and you're already sweating despite being so scantily dressed.
Sirius runs out first. The crowd is deafening. James is quick to follow, drumsticks already thudding against his thigh. Remus is signalled to make his entrance, but he waits.
"Good evening, London!" Sirius screams.
You look at Remus with wide eyes. "What are you doing? Go!"
"You're after me, yeah? Don't freeze, don't look at the crowd if you don't want to. Find your footing first, and we'll manage everything else after, okay?" he says, a rush of words, his brown eyes lightened by adrenaline.
You nod, a little listless. He grasps your shoulder hard enough to ache and walks on stage, just as Sirius says, "We have a treat for you guys tonight, as you're all well aware by now- no, not him! Fuck that guy. Where's our best girl?"
And that's your cue.
You try to walk exactly as Remus had. Despite his warning, the first thing you do is look out at the crowd – how could you not? It's blinding, thousands of people, cameras and flashing lights and noise, an overwhelming cacophony of screaming and whooping. You smile your best ditzy smile, the one you'd been practicing in the mirror all week, raising your hand to give a little wave. Another roaring of sound.
You go a little deaf for a while, messing with the ear-piece tucked over your ear and then the microphone taped to your cheek.
James sits at the back, hands messing with his cymbals, with foot pedals, back muscles moving as he bends over. Sirius is a ball of energy walking from one side of the stage to the other, then down the small catwalk. Remus stands stationary at the edge of the stage next to an amp the size of you. You don't want to impede on anyone's space and so you hover in the middle ground, pick shaking in your fingers.
"There she is! Everybody, give our girl a warm welcome!"
If you weren't deaf before you are now. Something in the uproar lifts your heart, and you find yourself looking toward the front row, making eye contact with audience members pressed bruisingly into the metal barrier.
"Yeah! Give it up, and if you think she's something now you won't want to wait to hear her play."
The next cue. Remus starts to play and receives another gratuitous uproar of sound. You feel mildly dizzy.
The introduction of their first song is long, slow, allowing you a few seconds to remember that you're supposed to be playing as well.
Sirius continues his chattering when he's supposed to be singing and Remus handles it well. You follow his lead.
"We had a lot of things happen this summer that we never expected," a cascade of boos. James scowls in memory and Sirius laughs at the crowd. "Right, right. We thought, fuck? What the fuck are we gonna do? We need to find someone who can keep up with me, of all people."
James laughs wolfishly, drumsticks beating his leg still. Poor boy.
Remus makes a signal at Sirius to wrap it up. Sirius ignores this, and so Remus clears his throat. "We needed to find someone who fit," he explains.
"Right, someone who fits," Sirius agrees.
"And he almost didn't allow it!" James shouts, mostly joking, to your knowledge.
"Well, I wouldn't-" Sirius starts.
"When we asked Y/N to come on with us, Sirius was reluctant," James talks over him.
"Why?" an audience member shouts.
"Because," Remus says seriously, "now he's not the prettiest girl in the band anymore."
You flush from head to toe and your fingers slip. You don't think anyone besides Remus notices, and he smiles at you apologetically.
"I'm not sure I'd say that," James jokes.
"Fuck everybody except James. Let's play something already, Jesus, Moons, what are you doing?" Sirius asks, mock annoyed.
Everybody laughs, yourself included, and it freaks you out to hear your own giggling projected wide.
It gets easier as you stand there. You know how to play, and what's more, you're good. You can keep up, you can do everything that Peter did and you can do it better. Sirius sings how he talks, erratic, moving from rough to smooth to soothing, jumping when you need to jump; he keeps the crowd enthralled.
It's about halfway through the planned setlist where things start to deviate. You're not as sure of yourself as you thought. You falter. The adrenaline makes your hands shake and you skip over chords you know like the back of your hand, amateurish.
You can feel yourself sinking, wandering over wires and tape and rogue bottles of water to stand by Remus' side. He looks at you, plays the bassline expertly anyways, head inclined. You okay?
You nod. A complicated mess of a solo is coming up, and you're getting jumpy. You focus every bit of energy and attention you command on making it through, chin pressed to your chest, lips pouting, eyebrows creased. Weirdly, you feel like you might die.
You make it through and struggle to catch your breath. The lights grow lower for the next track, a blistering mesh of sounds that you'd practiced over and over and over together in the last few months.
You gasp. Your microphone is off for now, and the only person who can hear it is Remus. You can't seem to catch your breath, leaning back to strum along, so lost that not even his unflinching playing can help you out.
Remus gets this look on his face that you don't know. He finally moves from the spot he'd been standing in all night to slink up behind you.
You feel the hot body of his bass press into your back, feel his breathing on your neck.
"You're okay," he says. "Steady, dove."
You nod mindlessly and play well. The bass line drops out as his hands fall away from his instrument, so hot they're branding. He pushes one over your shoulder and one under your armpit, careful to allow you your range of movement.
He hugs your back to his chest, face pressing into your shoulder.
"Calm down," he says into your skin.
He smells like sweat and amber and woodsmoke. Everypoint of contiguity is alight with chills.
You miss a strut, pick it up, feeling something akin to safety as his arms tighten around you and his hands brush your naked, stagelit skin. His fingers spread and his pinky finger ghosts your breast and everything is white noise and screaming as you let yourself lean back into him. He breathes with you. Long, unending seconds of his skin on your skin and his careful breaths in your ear, hands soothing. He's dizzying.
"You got it?" he asks softly.
"Yeah," you say, eyes shining with tears from the bright lights. Your heartbeat is loud, but you can breathe, and it's enough for him.
He brushes his thumb over your skin and slowly pulls away, lips touching lightly to the nape of your neck. He brings his bass back into his hands and plays like nothing happened.
You look back to where you know James will be with questioning eyes.
"What?" he mouths, confused by your attention.
You shake your head at him, exasperated. What does he mean, what? Didn't he see that?
He smirks. "Do I look hot right now?"
"Boiling!" you mouth back indulgently.
He tips an open bottle of water over his head, pecs and abs shining, black hair dark and sticking to his face.
You're pretty sure someone faints, James is that attractive. Still, for some reason, you find your eyes drifting back to your bass player, find some strange need to stare at the back of his head, how his shoulder blades move under his shirt. Watch his hands slide over strings and flinch back to the minutes before, where his hands had been all over you.
You meet eyes with a girl in the front row. She's sweating and singing her heart out, and she smiles at you like it's the best night of her life. You smile back, and play pretty damn well after that.
"I'm sorry," you say, when it's all done and you're sweaty and aching in line for the tour bus shower. James lies in his bunk, Sirius leans against the bathroom door. "I know I was a mess."
Sirius makes a face of disgust. "Babe, you were fucking amazing."
"I choked."
"Everyone chokes. But let me know if we're taking turns with the on stage fondling," he says, winking, "I have pretty big hands."
You feel heat rise to your face. "Was it bad?"
"The tabloids can't decide whether to paint him as a charlatan or a sexual predator," James informs you, dropping his phone against his chest.
"He barely touched me," you say, shocked, "it was a hug."
"It was a very heavy handed hug," Sirius snorts.
"Lily wants to talk to you about it," James says, a whipped smile on his face at even the mention of your social manager.
"About what?"
Sirius looks at James and shakes his head, and the ever shirtless boy falls quiet. You look between them with a pit in your stomach, glaring daggers. "About what, guys?"
Hi there! I saw requests were open for shy!reader and I was hoping that you’d be up to maybe write something about rockstar!remus and his shy reader? Maybe their first kiss? Or first time waking up beside each other? If not, that’s okay! I’ll devour anything you write! Thank you!
i changed it a little bit to waking up after their first time together, i hope that’s okay! 18+ please for suggestion of smut and one line of dialogue <3 shy!fem!reader | 1k words
It takes a few moments for you to realise where you are once you wake. Those moments… you don’t think there’s a word in the English language that can describe it. Blissed contentment, a bone-deep feeling of safety and a warmth you’ve never felt.
Remus’ chest is bare under your head. He holds the hand you’ve brought to his heart tightly despite his sleeping state, his other hand wrapped around your back, fingers spread over your bare shoulder blade.
I’m naked, you think. Then you remember everything.
You lift your head from his chest and try to take your hand back. Remus moans in his sleep and won’t let you, his face wrinkling with dissatisfaction. There’s still eyeliner smudged under his left eye. You sigh, alarmed at the ache between your legs and the dull pinching coursing up the length of your spine. Sleeping draped over him the way you had been can’t have been a good idea, but you wouldn’t have done it any differently.
His eyelashes twitch.
You sit up. You need to pee badly. You should’ve before you slept but everything had been a haze. He’d been smiling at you like you were something special — something more than special, like you were a wonder — and all you’d wanted was to be with him, on top of him, whatever. Close.
It feels the same now. You need to use the bathroom but he looks so pretty. Just as pretty as he had last night, but different. The way he’d been, how gentle and patient and sweet he’d been, it furthers the fall.
But god, the way you’d been. The sounds he’d managed to carve from you. What had he said? He’d been as close to you as he could be with his face a half inch above yours and his hand had caressed the length of your arm, and you could barely breathe, and he’d said, “Fuck, look at you. Taking me so well, dove, so fucking pretty.”
He’s called you pretty before, a hundred times, every time as heart-achingly sincere as the first, but you don’t reckon you'll forget the way he’d said it last night any time soon.
Your face is aflame with heat. Embarrassment has warmth flushing your entire body like a wave. You let it sweep you up, falling back into Remus’ chest with a huge smile on your face.
The movement rouses him. He clears his throat and groans like he’s in pain. You turn onto your stomach to peer up at him worriedly, but the creasing of his eyes slowly fades and his mouth returns to an absent smile. Then, a flicker of confusion, his hands grabbing at your skin, his big palms climbing up the length of your back before crossing tightly around you.
“Hey,” you say.
His smile is achingly bright as his bleary eyes open. “Hey,” he says, as if on automatic. He meets your eyes and his smile somehow grows. “Hey,” he says again. “Y/N. Dovey,” he can’t seem to make up his mind on anything, his words stilted but not without affection. “Hey, baby.”
You laugh under your breath and drop your face back into his skin, breathing him in. “Hey baby,” you echo.
“Are you okay?” he asks in a murmur, pulling you up higher until your face is propped on the pillow beside his. He leans back to accommodate you.
“I’m perfect,” you whisper.
His fingers curl around the back of your shoulder. “That’s true.”
You shake your head and avert your gaze, dizzy pleasure welling up, desperate to escape you in a happy sigh.
“That’s a nice sound,” he whispers.
He steals back one of his hands to bring it to your face and push against your hairline, more rough than he usually is but certainly not cruel. He pauses with his thumb skirting your eyebrow. This close you can see every colour of his irises, honey gold with flecks of amber towards the edge, darker nearest his pupils.
“I'm so happy,” you say suddenly.
It’s not the kind of thing you’d usually say aloud, especially so close, especially after everything you did last night, but he needs to know.
“Yeah?” he asks, obviously surprised and extremely pleased by your uncharacteristic forthcoming attitude. “How happy?”
“So happy. I’ve never felt this happy before.”
There, his rockstar smile, that smug smirk that you adore, though you’d never tell him that. You bring your index finger to his mouth and trace his top lip with your fingertip, bumping over the Cupid’s bow. “Me neither.” His talking disrupts your tracing, your fingers falling to his soft cheek.
The room is cool enough to give you goosebumps. Remus pulls the sheets all the way up to your chin and dedicates himself to warming you up, hands roving your skin indiscriminately, giving his attention to any inch he can reach, and all the while he’s looking at your face.
You hug your arms around him. “I love you,” you tell him.
You’ve never ever said it first. Remus doles ‘love you’s’ out whenever he wants to, and it’s not because you don’t love him back in those instances, just that it feels raw to say.
“As I love you,” he says. His grin tapers the words, softens them, his voice thick as dark honey.
Again, Remus proves that just because you're scared to do something doesn’t mean it won’t end up exactly how it should. You tuck yourself into the juncture of his neck and kiss the entire column of his throat, every inch of skin, every beauty mark until he’s laughing and telling you to stop.
“My turn,” he says, pushing your face gently into the pillow, his lips aligning over your neck. You can understand why he asked you to stop. After the twentieth kiss you're blissed by his affection and ticklish, as if his lips were made of downy feather.
He slows. The kisses come fewer and far between, but never any less sweet.
