anything you need i will provide

You remember the very first one you wrote. Your first love letter. 

Although, it wasn’t a love letter in a traditional sense. It was a ‘I need you to stop consuming my thoughts, so I’m writing it all down on paper and then sealing it away forever’ kind of love letter. And it was never meant to be seen by anyone else’s eyes but your own.

You wrote 3 in total, and all of them were coincidentally for boys with the same name: Peter Parker.

You knew the universe had a funny sense of humor with that one. Thankfully, they all had nicknames to avoid any confusion.

The first letter you wrote was for Pete. He was a few years older, with beautiful blue eyes, perfectly combed hair, and a smile that was worthy of being plastered all over a dental ad. Pete was your classic boy next door, always riding his bike to school, the local Y.M.C.A to volunteer on the weekends, and to Joe’s Pizza for his after-school job. You met him when you signed yourself up for science tutoring sessions your freshman year. He was a senior then, and your tutor for that entire semester, but even after that, he would still always say hi to you in the halls. 

He was sweet and soft-spoken and always encouraged you, even going as far as supporting you at the freshman science fair when it was senior skip day at school.

“You didn’t have to come, you know. You’re only a senior once,” you say bashfully, looking down at your display table to keep him from catching the heat rising to your cheeks. 

“And miss out on you destroying your competitors? Not a chance,” he says, like it wasn’t a big deal. Like his attendance didn’t mean the absolute world to you. “I mean, biodegradable alternatives to plastic? That’s life-changing stuff.”

You chuckle, flashing him a grateful smile. “Well, I did have the best tutor. If it weren’t for you, this would be the 8th volcano entered today,” you say, and Pete laughs. 

“I always knew you were smart. You’re capable of anything you set your mind to,” he says, and your heart swells. 

You ended up placing second, and you’ve never forgotten the way he cheered for you when you were presented with the big blue ribbon. He even treated you to pizza afterwards.

It was almost impossible not to have a crush on Pete. He was perfect. 

Right before he left for college, however, you knew he would take your crush with him. So you decided that the proper way to let him go was to write him a letter that you would never send.

Dear Pete…

And in that letter you described everything you felt for him. The way your breath caught in your throat every time he leaned in closer to you to gently correct an answer you got wrong on a worksheet. How seeing him clap and smile for you at the science fair made you feel like the luckiest girl in the room. How all of Midtown High was obsessed with him, but he still always had time for you, and it made even the hard days easier. You wrote until the all-consuming love you had for him no longer felt all-consuming. 

You wrote your second letter 2 years later. 

You met Peter in your second period economics class. He was a total boy genius, the first-place winner of your freshman year science fair. He knew the answer to every question, aced every pop quiz, and the worst part was that he was always humble about it.

Worst, because it was one of the reasons why you inevitably fell in love with him.

Aside from being ridiculously smart, he was also the kind of cute that made butterflies flutter in your stomach, with puppy dog eyes and fluffy brown hair. You would chew through pens just staring off at him during class, something that your friend, MJ, had to regularly snap you out of.

“You’re literally drooling,” she whispered to you, and you felt your face heat up as you tried to compose yourself.

You even went as far as joining the academic decathlon team that year so you had a chance to spend more time with him. The problem was, you sucked, but Peter, being the good guy that he was, never made you feel bad about it.

It started with him inviting you to ‘brush up on those decathlon skills together’ right before your club meets and soon turned to homework at the library, Star Wars marathons with him and Ned, and hitting up the bodega to split his favorite sandwich together every Wednesday after school. 

On one particular Wednesday, you had sat together at a bench in the park, making up conversations and scenarios for the people who walked past you, a little game you both would play often.

“You see, I really must go; I left a pot roast in the oven, and it’s burning as we speak,” Peter says in a high-pitched voice, mimicking a lady who was pulling at her poodle’s leash, very obviously trying to eject herself from the conversation with a man beside her.  

“Your pot roast? I’ve had it before, trust me, you're better off letting it burn,” you say in the deepest voice you can muster, voicing the man next to her who looked completely over the conversation himself, and you both fall into a fit of laughter.

Peter turns to you, eyes seemingly catching something as he leans in close.

“Oh wait, you got mustard on the side of your mouth,” he said, and you still remember the way his thumb gently wiped at your skin, a trail of heat left behind.

He stares at you for a moment, cheeks flushing before letting out a nervous laugh, shaking the strands of hair away from his forehead.

“S-sorry.”

You had to practically force yourself to wash your face that night. Wanting to keep his touch forever on your skin. You were absolutely smitten with him until the day he confessed to you. 

“I like someone,” he says, and for a moment you think it’s actually you until you see the faraway look in his eyes and droopy smile on his face. “Liz Allan,” he says, and your heart breaks with it.

Peter asks Liz to the junior prom that year, and you decide that an unrequited crush was not how you wanted to spend the rest of high school. So you write him a letter to release him once and for all.

Dear Peter…

It details the very truth of your feelings for him. The way your stomach did flips whenever he smiled, how you admired the twinkle in his eyes whenever he passionately expressed his interests, the love you felt for him beyond just that of a friend. How you wanted him to touch your face again, the way he did that Wednesday afternoon at the park. All of it, until it was finally out of your system. 

Your 3rd love letter, and your last, was written in your first year of college. 

You had Peter B. for your photography class, but you remember first seeing him riding his skateboard towards the school building. When you entered the class, you pinpointed him immediately; Tall and effortlessly cool-looking, with a face that made him look like he could model if he wanted to. He wore an oversized army jacket, and you wondered what it would be like to wear it. 

For how handsome he was, it didn’t seem like he knew it, because he mostly kept to himself. You and Peter B. didn’t interact as much, but in the moments that you did, it was all you could think about for days at a time. 

Can I borrow a pen?

Hey, do you know when the next assignment is due? 

I forgot my 50mm lens at my dorm; do you mind if I borrow yours real quick for this shot?

So maybe that last one was just you looking for an excuse to talk to him, but each interaction made your heart flutter. There was something about Peter B. that was mesmerizing to you. In the soft way he spoke, in how he skillfully glided on his board around campus, in his quiet wittiness. 

Falling in love with Peter B. was unlike the past two Peters, because unlike them, it wasn’t fast and all-knowing. It was quiet and snuck up on you, like time or growth. In fact, you wouldn’t have even thought you were in love with Peter B. until one night, right before the holiday break. You were tipsy at a dorm party, and all the tightly pressed bodies and loud music made you queasy, so you stepped out of the building for some fresh air. 

Your teeth shattered as your hands crossed over your arms, rubbing them up and down to create some kind of heat. In the distance, you spot something zooming at you. You raise a brow as the mysterious figure makes it close enough for you to distinguish them; Peter B. landed in front of you, foot extended out as he stopped his board. He pulled his headphones off his head and hung them around his neck.

“If it isn’t my pen savior. What are you doing out here so late, Mother Teresa?” he asks, and you spot a twinkle of amusement in his eyes. 

“Shh, don’t blow my cover, but I’m actually undercover as a typical college student. The current assignment is to get drunk at a party inside of a dorm that’s too small for the amount of people stuffed in there. I’m taking it very seriously,” you say, and he chuckles, and you almost want to puke from how giddy it makes you.

“Noted. Wouldn’t there be something in the rules about not drinking on the job though?” he shoots back.

“Not if you’re the one who made up the rules in the first place,” you state with a wink, earning another chuckle from him and another stomach flip for you. 

“Giving and funny. Careful, you're after my heart there,”  he says, and you have to stop yourself from thinking you had enough liquid courage to say, ‘And what if I am? Would you give it to me?’

He spots a shiver run through you and immediately shrugs his jacket off, gently laying it over your shoulders.

And now you knew what it was like.

The action was soft and innocent, but it made your heart beat rapidly in your chest. He ended up walking you to your dorm after that. Or, well, you stood on his skateboard as he held your hand and guided you there. 

Your hand felt like it was tingling the entire night.

You wanted to know more about Peter B., but sadly, you never had the courage to. That night was all you had to show for it. 

So you wrote him a letter to put an end to it, as it looked like it would never begin in the first place.

Dear Peter B.…

It detailed the rush of emotions you felt for him. How the way he viewed the world through a lens left you in awe. How you craved more from him, but the lack of understanding didn’t take away from the beauty you already saw within. How he should really stop wearing his glasses on a whim because it made him look unbearably attractive. 

And that was the last and final letter you wrote.

You were now a graduate of Empire State University and worked as a journalist for Vanity Flair, a pop culture and fashion magazine with an office located in the city. You lived in a two-bedroom apartment with your best friend since high school, MJ, and you were the proud owner of a fiddle leaf fig, regifted from your boss Ms. Felicia Hardy, who hated taking care of any living thing. 

Another thing Felicia hated? Uninspired magazine articles. Which she now claimed all of the ones you had just pitched to her were. 

“It’s not interesting. It’s not exciting. I want people to be inspired when they read our magazine. Not bored to death,” she spat, looking at her sharpened fingernails.

You process her words, trying to keep your composure. “I agree, Ms. Hardy. I was also thinking maybe I can write about trend predictions? Like how fashion moves in 20-year cycles and maybe the next style trends would be-”

“You know what people love reading about?” Felicia questions out loud, interrupting you unapologetically. 

You remain silent because you knew she already had the answer. 

“Love,” she answers. “I want you to write about that.”

Your eyes just about bulge out of your head. “Ms. Hardy, I-I don’t know much about that…”

“You know, you’ve survived 3 months here already, so I'm gonna give you some advice in the hopes that you can survive another day. What I want most out of the people who work for me is growth. This magazine is all about elevating yourself. I’m not hiring one-trick ponies to bring out whatever comfortable party trick they’ve mastered over the years. I want versatility. Just like the readers, I want to be excited. So either bring me something that does, or clean out your desk. I expect either decision by tomorrow’s morning meeting,” she states, and you can pretty much see your hopes and dreams burst into flames. 

You can even picture a mini version of yourself screaming and running around with her hands up at the chaos, 4 years of student loans and a journalism major down the drain…

Well, there goes your future. 

That night when you get to your apartment, you make a beeline for your room, ignoring MJ, who was cooking in the kitchen, the smell of something tomato-y filling your shared space. You push the door open and immediately flop on your bed, head first.

“Tough day?” you hear her call out, and you groan into your pillow. 

You feel eyes on your back, so you turn over and see her leaning on the door frame, wooden spoon in hand. “You know what we said about wallowing. We’re not doing it in the big 2026 anymore. We’re adults now. We fix our problems. And…” she leaves the door for a moment, voice trailing, before returning with a bottle of wine. “We use wine to help.” 

Getting wine drunk on a Tuesday evening was nothing new for MJ and you. In fact, ever since working for Felicia, you found yourself participating in it more often than not. But it was all in good fun, and MJ always made you feel loved and supported, and at the end of it you felt as carefree as the $8 grocery store wine could get you.

“Felicia is such a hardass. She acts like y’all are writing for The New Yorker or Foreign Affairs. You guys once had Ariana Grande’s dog as the cover for your magazine. Like, sans Ariana Grande,” she says, and you burst out in laughter, your wine glass jiggling in your hand.

“No, for real! Her expectations are absurd. She also couldn’t have picked a worse person to give this assignment to. I literally have zero experience with love,” you state, grabbing handfuls of chips from your shared bowl.

“Oh, come on. It’s not zero. You’ve dated a couple people,” she says, rolling her eyes at you.

You shove the chips in your mouth, messy as you shake your head and muster up a ‘Nuh uh’ before swallowing. “I mean. I’ve dated, yeah, but I was never in love with any of them. And the only times I felt like I was ever in love, like, for real, all I did was write them a letter. And I never even sent them,” you confess, the wine transforming itself into truth serum. 

At this, MJ snaps her head towards you. “Letters? What?” she asks, intrigued.

You hiccup, nodding. “Yup. Like old-fashioned, handwritten, tied up with a bow and everything. To the three boys I’ve fallen in love with,” you say, licking the salt from your fingers.

“Shut up,” MJ says, arms crossed. “Proof or you're lying.”

You raise a brow at her. “Proof? Like you want me to pull out these letters?’ you ask, and MJ nods.

“Or else it’s total bullshit,” she says with a challenge.

You laugh, swatting the air. “Well, you’re in luck ‘cause I’m a memory hoarder and I’ve kept them after all these years,” you say, standing up from your cross-legged position on the couch. “One sec,” you say as you practically bounce over to your room, heading straight to your closet.

MJ laughs, yelling out a “No way!” from the living room as you open your closet door and stand up on your tiptoes, grabbing a shoebox from the very top. The shoebox was decorated in pink wrapping paper featuring delicate-looking white swans; An old elementary school Valentine's Day box you made to stick all your cards in.

You then race back into the living room and present the box to her. “Madam,” you say playfully as you bow and hand her the box. 

MJ stares at you, hand over her mouth as she eyes the box. “Stop. You’re totally not kidding, are you?” 

She takes the box from your hands and practically tosses the lid open. Inside were several cartoon Valentine cards from the past, but at the very top were 3 pastel colored envelopes. One was a light yellow, another a baby blue, and the third a soft pink. All three were tied in white ribbon and lace. 

“Dudeeeeeeee!” she practically squeals, grabbing the 3 envelopes out of the box.

“Now why would you think I made this up? This is like real heart-yearning stuff. I've never told anyone about this,” you say, and MJ looks up at you.

“Oh my gosh. It’s like the plot of a rom-com. Letters to boys that you love? That you never sent?”

“You wanna know the worst part?” you say, biting your lip. MJ nods vigorously. “They all have the same name.”

“SHUT UP!” MJ yells, slamming her hands on her thighs. 

You crack up at that, nodding as you flop on the couch, hands in your face, embarrassed. “Yup. I couldn't make this up even if I tried.”

“Wait, wat, wait,” MJ says, crawling over to you, head resting on the couch seat next to you. “Who are they?” she questions, and you shake your head.

“No, absolutely not.”

“Oh come oooooon. You can’t do that to me. You just gave me like the juiciest secret ever and only shared, like, half of it. You might as well just reveal the whole thing.”

You pry the hands away from your face and look at her. “Ok, fine. So two of them actually went to our high school. The first letter was to a guy who was a senior when we were freshmen. It was before you and I became friends. His name was Peter Parker,” you state, bracing yourself, because you knew that with one name, MJ would immediately figure out who the next letter was for. 

MJ stared at you, wide-eyed, before collapsing dramatically on the floor. “Oh my gosh, oh my gosh. Peter Parker?! Golden boy Parker?? Shut up!” she says, and you squeal, both embarrassed and giddy at finally confessing.

You nod. “Yeah. He used to be my science tutor. He was a pretty great guy.”

“Wait, so if you sent a letter to Golden Boy Peter Parker, then that means,” and she lifts herself up like a zombie being resurrected, wide eyes on you. You form just the beginning of a nod before MJ collapses once again, yelling, “Lover Boy Parker!! OH MY GOSH, YES! You were literally drooling for that kid!”

You try to shush MJ through your fits of laughter, face on fire. “I know. I had it bad. So embarrassing,” you say, pressing the cold wine glass to your cheek in an effort to cool it down.

“Wait, so we have Golden Boy Parker, Lover Boy Parker, and… there’s seriously another Peter Parker on this planet that you wrote a letter to?”

You nod, biting your lip. “First year of college, a guy in my photography class. Peter. B. Parker,” you say, and MJ’s eyes look like they're about to fall off her head.

“That’s literally insane. Like, Twilight Zone level of insane,” she says.

You lean over and grab the envelopes from her hand. 

“Golden Boy Parker, AKA Pete,” you say as you lift the yellow envelope up.

“Lover Boy Parker, AKA Peter,” baby blue envelope.

“And….” you pause, thinking for a moment before continuing. “We’ll call him Skater Boy Parker, AKA Peter B.,” pink envelope.

As you're now face to face with each envelope after years of storing them away, you feel the emotions rush back to you. There were only three boys that you’ve ever loved in your entire life, and it was like they were face to face with you now; each envelope holding a moment in time inside of them.

“Well, there’s your article,” MJ says, snapping you out of your nostalgia.

You look at her, brows furrowing. “What? Write about my letters? Isn’t that like… juvenile? Like for a sophisticated magazine like Vanity Flair?”

MJ snorts. “Vanity Flair. Sophisticated. Sure,” she says sarcastically before proceeding, “Anyways, this is juicy stuff. If Felicia was all on you about an ‘exciting love story’, this is it.” 

You take a moment to process her words.

An article about love letters written to the boys of your past, who all share the same name, whom you've never even sent them to.

“And if you're scared about them finding out, though I doubt any of them would be spending their time paroozing through Vanty Flair, you can just keep the names out,” she continues, and maybe it was the wine or the way MJ was very persistent about this, but you jump out of your spot on the couch and fetch your laptop from your room. 

To: VF Felica Hardy

CC: VF Editors 

Subject: Love Letters I’ve Never Sent (Article Idea)

═════════════════════════════════════════════

The next morning you wake up hungover with yesterday's mascara crusted on your lashes and half a chip inside your shirt. Your head pounds as you shower and get ready for the day, tiptoing around a snoring MJ who had passed out on the couch after last night's escapades. You pour yourself a cup of coffee before a sudden memory makes itself known to you, and you gasp as you immediately fish your phone from out of your pocket.  

There it was.

The email you sent. The one that detailed how pathetic your love life truly was. The one with pictorial evidence of your letters, so you couldn’t even say it was made up out of desperation.

Nope, you were just authentically that desperate. 

You let out a deep breath as you closed your eyes, hoping and praying that Felica would be gentle with you when you entered the meeting room today. You knew she would rip into you for thinking that idea was even good enough to send to her at 1 am, let alone to cc the editors, a step only made when it was ready to be edited for publishing.

Your career at Vanity Flair was officially over. 

You wondered if Felicia would ask for the fiddle leaf fig back. You grew to really like that plant.

You entered the meeting room that morning like you were walking to your death sentence. You were one of the first few people who arrived, so thankfully you wouldn't be eaten alive for being late as well. You watched as the rest of the staff trickled in, and finally Felcia, with her long white curls and another perfectly tailored business suit.

The meeting goes off without a hitch. Talks about the rollout for the upcoming issue, suggestions for future celebrity features, and details on next month's Vanity Flair gala.

No mention of your email.

You think it's some kind of miracle you were gifted. Maybe the universe did you a solid, seeing as you’ve dealt with so much already. But once the meeting is adjourned, and Felicia tells you to stay behind, you know why she waited till the very end; she wants to destroy you in private.

No witnesses. Smart move.

“Yes, Ms. Hardy?” you ask, acting like you had no idea whatsoever why she would want to talk to you.

Pathetic.

“So I got your email last night. At 1 am, was it?” she says, and you feel your stomach climb up your throat.

“A little unprofessional if you ask me. Lucky for you, however, I was riddled with insomnia and was going over my emails when lo and behold, I see a very interesting subject matter.”

Interesting, ok. Not a bad word. Not offensive or horrible or ludicrous. You could live with interesting.

“‘Love letters I’ve never sent’,” she quoted, an eyebrow raised as her eyes never left yours.

You braced yourself.

“Absolutely brilliant,” she says, after leaving you hanging for a few seconds, and you feel yourself immediately regain the ability to breathe. “It’s intriguing and authentic and just the right amount of sad and pathetic to reel people in. And most importantly, it’s exciting,” she says, a smirk on her lips, the closest you'd ever get to a smile.

You couldn’t believe it; MJ was actually right. You make a mental note to stop by the cafe after work to get her her favorite drink and pastry as a thank-you gift. 

“I'm not going to lie, however, I was prepared for you to disappoint me. But you really came through with this article. So much so that I sent it to print expeditiously so that it can come out with this month's issue.”

You stiffen for a moment. Eyes wide. “Oh really? W-wow, that’s really fast. I mean, the issue is coming out next week.”

“No need to thank me. I mean, you did already tag the editors on the email. Something I would refrain from doing again in the future, by the way, but even you knew you struck gold here. Why wait a month when we can feed the hungry now,” she states, and you nod in agreement because whatever Felicia wanted, she got. 

“Oh, and we’re keeping the names.”

And your stomach immediately drops. “I’m sorry?”

“Yeah, the anonymous thing just doesn't work for this story. And part of its charm is the fact that you fell for not one, but three Peter Parkers? I'm sorry, but that's the selling point of this article,” she states unapologetically, and you immediately gnaw at your bottom lip.

“So, you’re saying everything in my letters will be published in the magazine next week. Including the real names of the real people I wrote real love letters to?” you say out loud, trying to process the reality of it.

Felicia gives you a wink. “Get ready. You got a hit in your hands,” she says as she grabs the portfolios on her desk and struts her way out of the meeting room.

You remain in your seat, unable to move as you mentally go through a quick slideshow of everything that has transpired in the past few hours. 

The feelings you kept hidden away in letters for years were now going to be exposed for the whole world to read in just a few days' time. 

Dear Y/N…

it was a rainy morning, dark clouds had covered the sky, and the atmosphere was melancholic. you had just stepped out of the book cafe you usually went to study or read in, it was a hidden gem in the ever-crowded streets of new york city, usually quiet and peaceful. this time, you’d just paid a visit to buy a drink with some pastries.

today’s gloomy weather felt right to you, somehow, it spoke to your soul and fit your mood. you’d stuffed the pastries you’d bought into your bag, and you were going to walk around a little bit, holding your drink in one hand, your umbrella in the other. you thought you might sit somewhere, maybe go to a park after walking for twenty or so minutes, you enjoyed the smell of rain mixing with earth to bring life to the world.

and that’s when you saw him.

he was standing at the other side of the road, wearing a simple hoodie, getting wet from the rain. an expression on his face as gloomy as the weather. he’d grown, his face had taken a sharper shape, his hair had curled on the tips from meeting with water.

peter parker, the boy from your ap chemistry class, from days long forgotten, and much less destructive.

you froze, your gaze set on his face, which had been painted in subtle and few scars, and bent downward from either the rain getting into his eyes, or life. the regular noise of the city was reduced to background buzzing in your ears, all the pedestrians walking past you, and the people waiting to cross roads around peter had turned blurry and faceless, the cars passing by had become trails of colors. the boy, or perhaps now man, you had just noticed, was someone you’d never thought you’d see again.

peter parker had been the smartest student in the class you took together, you used to keep notes and read ahead before every lesson, and he’d come sleep-deprived, busy himself with unrelated trinkets, and answer every unexpected question coming his way correctly. later, when you learned that he was spiderman, you realised he must’ve been so tired and out-of-it every day for saving lives and fighting crime.

you had learned of his superhero activities, like everyone else in the world. you didn’t use to see him outside of your shared lecture hours, not because you were actively avoiding him, fate just hadn’t coincided a conversation between you two. after you’d passed the course and stopped seeing peter entirely, you hadn’t busied your mind with thoughts of him, until that incident with mysterio. learning that he’d been trying to help people every step of the way, back when you used to see him, had changed your view of him.

and then, suddenly, no one remembered anymore. you saw it all happen. you saw the sky shatter and shadows watch the earth through its cracks. you saw what you could only describe as hundreds of aliens preying on your planet. you knew spiderman fought to save the world from their clutches. yet when it was all over, no one remembered the hell-torn skies. or peter parker.

no one remembered he was spiderman. no one remembered he was peter parker. no one remembered peter parker was. no one from your old high school, not even his best friend, not even his girlfriend. they all looked at you as if you spoke of a ghost, he was a painted over memory, he’d escaped from the weak grasps of the growing brains of the youth and the ever-tired minds of the grown.

he’d even escaped from records and photos, like how short-lived cherry blossoms disappeared in a week, as if trees had never been pink. like how spring never lasted. you’d questioned whether you’d made him up, if something was wrong with you. but how could you make up a whole person, that you simply never had a relationship with? he wasn’t an imaginary friend, he had never been a friend.

trying to catch a glimpse of his existence had been like trying to catch smoke with bare hands. and yet, now, he was standing right in front of you, waiting to cross roads. waiting to come towards you.

the lights turned green for pedestrians, and peter snapped out of his stillness, he gained motion, he slowly came closer. people around you made noises indicating they were annoyed at your inaction, but you could barely hear any of them. you were focused completely on one person only.

he crossed the road, and started walking the opposite way from where you had been nailed to the ground, unable to take your eyes off him.

no, don’t go. i must know. i must talk.

you ran after him, forcefully making yourself a way amongst bodies covered in layers of clothing. you closed your umbrella, so it wouldn’t get tangled in others’. you caught up to peter, and grabbed his arm.

he turned instantly, gripping your arm in return, a shocked expression on his face, ready to take you down, had you posed a threat. he looked into your eyes; questioning, confused, hesitant… sorrowful? how had he grown so solemn? how had he lived forgotten?

“peter?” you asked, “peter parker? is that you?”

his eyes widened, grip loosened, lips parted. he looked completely dumbfounded, drops of water dripping down strands of his hair, and the tip of his nose. he searched for something in your eyes, just silently thinking. trying to process, you assumed.

he opened his mouth to talk, and his breath hitched.

“you…” he started, seemingly talking feeling like labor to him, “you know who i am?”

you couldn’t help giving him a sincere smile, he really was peter parker. the boy from your class who was remembered by no one. he was real.

“i was in the same ap chemistry class as you in high school,” you explained, he might not have remembered you, as you’d never interacted outside of topics regarding course materials, “if you don’t remember.”

“no, no,” said peter, his voice still laced with shock, and a tune that dropped a tiny piece of despair into your chest, “i remember. you were the smartest student in class.”

“that’s… debatable,” you said, your surprise clearly read from your face.

“it wasn’t,” he said, defensive, “everyone borrowed your notes, and you always had the correct answers.”

“so did you,” you said softly, the bitter taste of nostalgia repainted with a blue hue catching up to you, tightening your chest, placing a lump in your throat. “what happened, peter?” you asked, “why have you disappeared?”

peter closed his mouth, and his grip slightly hardened, he hadn’t let your arm go. you hadn’t let his go, either.

he lowered his head, and fixed his gaze on the grey stone ground. you couldn’t quite name the emotions you saw in his eyes, but they made you tear up. what must it have been like to suddenly cease existing? what must he have been through? what must he have thought, watching his chosen family from afar, like a vampire looking at a mirror, erased from his own reflection?

the cloudy weather truly felt fit for the day, maybe peter had been feeling it too, today. raindrops fell on earth like shattered glass pieces, you thought you might’ve been bleeding with your umbrella down, but peter wasn’t, was his skin thicker?

“would you like to sit down somewhere, peter?” the tale must have been long, how else could a person, and a rift in the atmosphere, be erased from the minds of billions? “like a bench at the park, or maybe my place?”

he looked deep into your eyes, thinking.

“okay,” he said at last, determination adorning his words now, “we can. we can,” he said while nodding.

“okay,” you repeated after him, and finally let his arm go.

────── 𓆩˚.⋆🕸⋆.˚𓆪 ──────

peter had been on his way to his small apartment, by himself, as always, after another long, sleepless night, that rainy morning. clouds had covered the sky, obscuring the sun, as if to match the weather inside his ribcage. the sun hadn’t shone on him since it had seen space ripped apart because of him, for his mistakes.

it was a day the same as any other; he was walking in the crowd, unseen without a mask, faceless. then, someone he hadn't sensed had touched him, must have been because no harm was intended, yet he'd felt alarmed.

a girl, he'd realized, a familiar face. that wasn't strange, he was used to seeing people he used to know, what was strange was... the look you had in your eyes, almost like you recognized him. a kind of tiny beam of light in your irises, aimed at him.

and then you called out his name.

the world tilted. he felt as if hit by a shockwave, rolling backwards, losing the tightness of his grip on reality, on you. he’d been completely dumbfounded, he could barely process what was happening. someone remembered him. you remembered him. you knew.

he looked you over again, he remembered, too. he remembered how you sat at the front seat, carefully trailing the teacher with your eyes, focus unbreakable. you didn’t use to look his way unless he was asking or answering a question related to the course, he wouldn’t think you would recognize him under normal circumstances, without happenings made foggy through magic, let alone when the whole world has left him behind. the whole multiverse.

he couldn’t get out of the shock he’d been thrown into, not even enough to wonder the why, the how, or think of the implications of the possibility that someone(s) might not have forgotten. he had been erased even from stone and paper, ink had evaporated, computers had lost their binary numbers. human memories couldn’t even be held, they must’ve been so easily broken apart and mended without wholeness again, didn’t people always forget things, anyway?

that had been hard to accept, of course. the fact that the feelings people reserved for him were fragile and unresistant, that they could be so fully erased, that they could be erased at all. but you remembered, was your mind stronger, or was it the impression he’d left on you? was it you, or him?

he hadn’t even been able to ponder if this was a good thing at all, if he should be worried, if he should accept this, how he should react. the past year had been so soul-crushing, so lonely, that after slightly getting over the initial shock that had hit him, holding back his tears had been all he could manage to do. you were wet from the rain, a drink forgotten and an umbrella folded in one of your hands, the other one holding him, looking at him expectantly, worried. you had come after him. you were holding onto him. he tightened his grip again.

you’d even wanted to talk more, to learn of his story, to listen. so he’d agreed, he suspected he would chase you on that road if you’d walked away. his chest had been closing in on his veins and heart, increasing the pressure and twisting his organs, breathing had become harder every day for the past year, he was suffocating. you’d held his arm like a tree branch offered to a drowning kid, an olive branch offered to a warring people, a willow… willows were hunched and weary, weren’t they? he was like a willow, layers of leaves covering his face, unseen.

he didn’t have anywhere to go, or anyone waiting for him. he hadn’t wanted to let you go, now that someone had finally, truly seen the shape of his face. so he had just followed you, let you draw a destination for two.

you had brought him to a small apartment, similar to his own, in an austere street lined with buildings that were short compared to the signature buildings of new york city. you’d told him you were staying there for the time being. your place, as you’d put it. the inside was much nicer than his living space, expectedly, and it contrasted with the grey view of the street from your windows and the pipe-filled outer layer of your apartment building. the floor was covered in soft carpets, the living room was filled with books, its walls covered in bookshelves, academic books left open and stationary scattered about on a table, notebooks filled with your handwriting, it was lived in.

you had taken him to the kitchen, said you’d just bought pastries and had some leftovers to reheat for him, he’d insisted it wasn’t necessary, but you’d shut him down. “how could i send my guest off on an empty stomach?” you’d asked, made him sit down at the kitchen table, and gotten to work on the countertop. the living room had smelled of a flowery incense he couldn’t name, the kitchen was now smelling of baked dough and vegetable soup, making him feel his hunger. he hadn’t eaten anything for breakfast, or during the night.

“i apologize for the mess,” you said, while putting two bowls of steamy soup on the table, “i wasn’t expecting a guest.”

“oh, no, no,” he quickly scrambled to apologize himself, “i don’t mind at all, i’m sorry for… for…” he gestured around himself, trying to find the right words. being a burden? interrupting?

“for accepting my invite? i’d say that was the polite response,” you said, finally sitting opposite to him, having brought the pastries you’d sliced and placed on plates nicely, and the fruit salad you’d quickly put together. “thank you for that, by the way.”

he didn’t know what to say, he looked down flustered, “i- of course- i mean, thank you for inviting me,” he said, gesturing towards you with his hand, a slight smile on his face. how long had it been since he last smiled? it sure didn’t feel like an every day occurrence.

you gave him back a smile that made him… feel warm. he was still on the verge of tears, he was barely holding it together, focusing on the moment, trying not to let all the overwhelming feelings leave his body.

“please, enjoy,” you said, as you slid the plates closer to him, and he nodded in gratitude. he was hungry, and looking at the warm vegetable bisque… he hadn’t eaten a homemade meal in a very, very long time, especially one that was delicious, one that was warm.

and it was delicious. it tasted like a hug, a hearthfire, a blanket. it tasted like something you would eat at your home, like something your mother would cook for you. “this is,” he started, in between spoonfuls, “this is great. you’re a good cook.”

“thank you,” you said, and then started explaining. “i roasted tomatoes, carrots, zucchini, potatoes, bell peppers, and an onion, and blended them with vegetable broth and cream, so probably the easiest way to make something like…” you trailed off as you realised peter was… crying. he was looking down on the bowl of soup in front of him, and tears were silently rolling down his cheeks, as he kept taking spoonfuls.

peter was mortified at his reaction, he quickly scrambled to wipe his face with the tissues you’d placed on the table, and apologize. you told him it was fine, and he could take however much time he needed or wanted. you let him eat and think in silence for as long as he needed, you gave him time and space as he filled his stomach with warm food and sweet fruits. he didn’t know why tears had won against his willpower this time around, considering how good he’d gotten at holding them in. he didn’t know why just eating in your kitchen, with you, had made him feel emotions overwhelming enough to rush out of him. he was embarassed, despite your reassurances. it was the first time he was meeting with you in years, the only person who still remembered him, and he had started crying over a soup. he wasn’t a teenage high schooler anymore, why was this happening?

after a silence long enough to make someone less patient uncomfortable, he finally felt he could talk, and decided to tell you everything that had happened. all of it. you were the only person who knew him now, was it wrong to want to be known fully? to be understood?

so he told you everything, from the start… from a time too early, one might’ve thought; from before he even became an avenger. there had been people in his life who knew of his journey, how he became a hero, how he became an avenger, who he fought against, who he fought with, what really happened with mysterio, and then… then aunt may’s death… then everyone else’s little deaths.

peter used to be talkative, he used to converse with even the people he was actively battling, yet telling you all he wanted made him realise it had been a long time since he’d spoken so much. so transparently, willingly. had life crushed him under a fallen bridge without him noticing? he had been feeling it, but couldn’t guess how dire his cuts and walls had been drawn.

you listened all of it, without looking away once, without looking at the time. and then, once he concluded his speech and drifted off to silence, you let it fester. it seemed as if you had a hard time proccessing everything peter had dumped on you, or maybe couldn’t find the right words to continue with. this time, peter left you in your own silence, his hands slightly shaking in nervousness. what was your reaction going to be? what were you thinking?

“i’m truly sorry,” you said at last, a rueful expression adorning your face, making you look older than you had when telling him of the soup recipe. you had grown older, peter had noticed, more beautiful. “i’m sorry about your aunt, too. i had no idea. i thought… i guess i assumed at least your family would remember you.”

“yeah,” said peter in defeat, “there is no one.”

you looked deep into his eyes, pain visible on your face, “i remember,” you said. “and now i know.”

peter sighed and put his face in between his hands, closing his eyes in despair. “there is nowhere i belong, now. i fight for this city, and… and no one cares.”

this was horrible. truly horrible. a weight had been lifted off his shoulders when you’d recognized him, listened to him, welcomed him into your home. but he also felt bothered by it, too. had being known always been so scary? he hadn’t meant to say the last bit, he hadn’t even thought that to himself before. he’d been on the verge of it, but hadn’t actually thought it. why did he say it out loud now? why did he tell you?

you took a deep breath, “a lot of people care, especially the ones you save. you’ve been making a huge difference, peter. yours can be a thankless job sometimes, but many are grateful.” you paused for a moment, “i’ve always been grateful. when i learned how you’d been fighting for people this whole time, my respect for you skyrocketed. i thought i would help you in any way i could if it ever came to that.”

peter pressed his hands harder on his eyes, he didn’t want to start crying again. he didn’t know if you realised how your words had fallen into the deepest part of his soul. it was strange, how only a few words could help people keep going, how humans could be built merely by caring, and how humans could be so worn-out that they could stop tasting without even realising.

his phone vibrated silently in his pocket, taking him out of spiraling. he sighed again, what was it now?

strong fire in a building, spreading speedily, authorities unable to protect the citizens despite doing their best. he stood up abruptly, “i should go,” he said.

“what is it? what happened?”

“fire in a tall building, i need to save those people,” he said while walking towards the door, you trailing behind him.

“okay- be careful, peter. and come back here after you’re done there, okay? even if it’s late, because i’ll wait for you, and if you don’t come back, i’ll wait until morning,” you said quickly as he was wearing his shoes, the door to your house open.

“okay,” he said, stuttering slightly, “thank you.” truly. you’ve made breathing possible for me again. thank you.

and he left you behind like that, because he never had a break. he didn’t know if he deserved a break. none of that mattered though, there were people suffering, and he couldn’t leave them behind, no matter what.

────── 𓆩˚.⋆🕸⋆.˚𓆪 ──────

you were leaning on the metal handrails of your small balcony, looking at the few people and cars that passed by the road in front of your apartment. it was desolate, compared to most of new york, but it was steadily never-ending, there never was a time when people stopped in this city. your view was made up of other grey apartments like yours, sharp corners and square shapes, nothing tasteful added to their designs. could this be good for the soul?

you looked up at the sky, to watch the stars, but as always, not many were visible. you counted four stars that could be clearly seen from your balcony. the same as yesterday. you sometimes wondered: if you could reach greater heights, would more of them shine on you? the city had offended the stars in an effort to be independent from them, brighten night time, they didn't show their faces anymore. even if they wanted to, they couldn't be seen.

peter had been shining since he was a kid; clever, kind, righteous, fair-faced in a way the cleanness of his heart had reflected on his features. how big of a loss was it for the world to be forsaken from his face? it was lucky that peter was good-hearted, for he kept showing up under a mask anyway, offering those who looked a glimpse into his light.

it was past midnight already, and peter was still nowhere to be seen. he'd left you a little past noon, the fire had been extinguished by now, and spiderman had left the premises after saving dozens of lives (that the firefighters would've been too late for, despite their best efforts), and yet, peter was nowhere to be seen. it worried you, you wished you had asked for his phone number; you'd considered asking, but decided against it, thinking he might be bothered by the request.

after you'd talked to michelle, his girlfriend, some time back, and she hadn't remembered the boy she’d been in love with, you'd been thinking of peter regularly. even if you had made him up in your mind, it had just flooded your chest with such profound sadness, that you had decided at least you would remember him, whether it would matter to him or not.

and, he was real, he was spiderman. and he’d been so lonely. graveyards had become his only sanctuary, teenage diaries and late night messages had been buried next to the corpses of anyone who'd ever taken care of him, and he did not know their hiding spots. he just wandered around graves, knowing they were somewhere under his feet, to stay there forever. if he tried to dig them out, he would be swallowed up by lava, dooming the rest of the world to a volcanic apocalypse.

it seemed like volcanos had already been erupting behind his eyes, in his lungs. the peter you remembered used to be a jolly kid.

your head perked up as you heard your doorbell ring, and quickly rushed to open the door. a smiling peter greeted you, clothing changed. he looked more put-together than he had in the morning; a clean shirt under a black jacket and denim pants, not the baggy sweats he had on before.

you welcomed him inside, and brought him to sit on your couch, in the living room.

“are you all right?” you asked, “does anywhere hurt? do you need anything?”

he hesitated for a moment, a little surprised. “no, no- it’s fine. i didn’t fight anyone, so didn’t really get injured… much. it’s fine. i took care of it.”

you looked at him in silence for a few seconds, thinking. “liar,” you said.

“what?” he said in low voice, sounding worried. did he think he’d messed up somehow?

“you gave me your word that you would come straight to me, instead you took your sweet time tending to your injuries and changing your outift? you showered too, didn’t you?”

“i… i-” he quickly started talking, and then stopped to think. that was fine, he didn’t need to rush a response, never with you. he would learn that you’d always wait for him patiently. with time, he’d become more comfortable. you assumed this must be… somewhat of an uncomfortable experience for him, after being alone for so long. “i thought-”

he didn’t know what to say, you supposed.

“did i sound mad? i’m sorry. i was just worried. i.. uh, i’d wanted to help you with your injuries and stuff, too,” you weren’t exactly used to these kinds of conversations either. “since you’re not alone anymore… and all.”

“oh…” was all he could say.

“i mean, i’m glad you’re okay, and you look great, and i don’t mind that you had some alone time before coming and all, but you could, uh, if you want to, just come straight to me as well. after a fight or whatever. and you can take care of… your stuff here,” you forced the words out, you had to take these kinds of initiatives, if you wanted to have a closer relationship with him. because he wouldn’t impose anything on you. “if you want to, of course,” you added.

“i… thank you, i would, uh, yeah,” he said. you supposed that was a positive answer.

“so, what happened?”

he recounted the fire and the struggles in detail, how he saved the people trapped, how he had to deal with the authorities after him, how he got injured (only a little, he emphasized), and then how he went home to wear something better to come back to you. he’d wanted to rid the smell of ash and soot off his skin.

“i got tired just listening to you,” you said.

he chuckled slightly, “ah, yeah, things like this happen sometimes.”

“would you like anything to eat or drink?”

“no, no. not necessary, thank you,” he said quickly, raising his hands.

“okay, just tell me if you need anything.”

“all right, thanks… again,” he had a beautiful smile, but it looked like guilt had mixed into his skin, stopping him from smiling fully, with his eyes, or eyebrows. you wanted to tell him that none of this was his fault, he wasn’t responsible for the cruelty of others, he wasn’t at fault for being a victim. his aunt hadn’t died because he’d shown mercy, he was just being humane, the fault lied solely with the… whichever supernatural freak had done that, it was getting harder to keep track of them now. and the spell hadn’t gone wrong because of him, couldn’t doctor strange tell that he obviously wouldn’t want his own family to forget him? why wouldn’t he automatically add that to the spell? and the second time? surely he could’ve just kept two people out of his spell. none of it was his fault.

but you couldn’t bring yourself to, you didn’t want to push too hard, or overstep your bounds. peter didn’t know you, not really. you assumed he must be happy that someone remembered him, but you wouldn’t be too surprised if he had forgotten you.

why had you remembered? you weren't magical, as far as you knew, so what had gone wrong? wasn't this... somewhat bad news? if you remembered, could it be possible that someone evil might, too? you didn't know, you supposed maybe you should try to ask doctor strange, somehow.

after a while of silence, you decided telling him how you feel, being straightforward, should be better than leaving thoughts to go back and forth in your head, bothering you. “peter,” you started, “i know what kind of a person you are for the most part. i know that you have a good heart, and you’re loyal, and honest. i… don’t doubt that you’ll be a good friend, that’s why i can be… this comfortable with you. i know, because i’ve been able observe you quite well until now.”

he was listening to you, eyes getting wider and smile dropping slowly, as you went on.

“i also know that you don’t really know me as well, so i’ll have to prove my character to you, in the way that you’ve already proven yours,” you quickly added, which was the point you’d wanted to make. “so, uh, i just wanted to say that… is the reason why i would like to be… good friends with you, even though we didn’t interact much back then. telling you just in case… you were wondering.”

he gave you a shy smile. "thank you," he said, occasionally glancing away.

then a small chuckle escaped his lip. “all i’ve been doing the whole day has been thanking you."

you giggled in return, "i thank you as well."

"for what? i haven't done anything."

"for saving this city and the world over and over again."

his expression turned serious, thoughtful. "i just do what i should. it’s my responsibility."

you leaned back on the couch, observing him. was it? did he really have to do what he did? he didn't have to, no one had to do anything. but it was right that he did. you supposed, being able to help people did mean you should, would it be wrong if he didn't interfere?

"what are you thinking?" he asked.

you hummed. "i think you are right, but then it's our responsibility to be grateful, and to help you in any way we can, even if that's just emotional support." you looked into his eyes carefully, "you've been doing your duty, but most others in the city haven't."

"that's all right," he said. "i don't expect anything. i don't do this to get anything in return."

"well," you started, "you can expect things from me, and feel free to let me know."

the shy smile returned to his face, "thank you again," he said. "you as well," he hastily added, raising his eyebrows while gesturing at you.

you were glad he seemed to be in a better mood now, compared to this morning. he was more put together, and somewhat more confident. you assumed having more time to process your situation must've helped.

the two of you talked for around another hour, peter got more talkative as you went on, and by the end, he was the only one talking. he'd started to tell you all about the various villains he'd been fighting, and you were very interested; you enjoyed listening to him.

but the time was getting closer to two in the morning, and you were having to fight your own eyelids to keep yourself from dropping to the floor right at that moment.

peter stopped abruptly mid-sentence, looking at you concerned. "oh," he started "i'm sorry, it's really late, i talked too much."

"no, no," you said, shaking your hand, "i really want to know about all of these things. let's continue tomorrow?"

"okay, sure," he said, smiling. "i'll get going now, and uh, see you tomorrow."

"get going? i could arrange my living room for you, if you'd like to stay the night? should you be alone when you're injured?"

"i don't want to bother you," he said as he stood up. “it’s fine, this isn't really all that bad, I've had much worse."

"okay, but call me if anything happens. i'll be more upset if you don't," you said as you followed him to the door.

"i will. you call me too," he said, having gotten out, wearing his shoes.

"deal."

“good night."

"good night."

and he was gone.

and you were so sleepy that you could fall asleep standing there. as you made your way to your bed, you decided to go over today's events tomorrow, when your braincells wouldn’t be forming a union to counter your abuse.

────── 𓆩˚.⋆🕸⋆.˚𓆪 ──────

peter opened his curtains to look outside, as soon as he managed to get out of his bed.

the sun was shining down on him, bathing his room and face in its light. he opened the window, and took a deep breath in. the air had the beautiful smell of rain, still lingering, left from yesterday.

he leaned on his window, and for the first time in forever, a smile graced his lips for the sun, for the day ahead of him.

he wanted to put on his spiderman suit and swing around in the city, not out of obligation or because he didn’t have anything else to do; he had an unfamiliar motivation in him to do something with his day.

so he did. he quickly got ready for the day, and all the steps felt less intimidating today. even brushing his teeth had become a tiring chore. he'd supposed it must've been because he was so tired all the time, but today, it had been easier, all of it. even breathing.

and it wasn't like he'd gotten more sleep than usual, either. sleeping was something out of routine for peter. sometimes he could only get a few hours at night, having to be spiderman. sometimes he would stare at the ceiling, unable to drift off to sleep. sometimes he would end up sleeping for more than ten hours, not wanting to get out of his bed, forcefully scraping his body off of it with a mental spatula, skin tearing apart from muscle, using every bit of his willpower. but, no matter which scenario happened to play out, peter would never feel rested.

he got mad at himself sometimes. for sleeping. or not sleeping. surely none of this was supposed to be this hard, everyone always did them just fine. so why was he like this? what was wrong with him?

he shook his head, getting out of his window as spiderman, and started wandering new york from the tops of buildings. not today, though. today he felt rested. and like something good could happen, strangely. and his chest could host the air he breathed in, unlike any day he could remember in months. he hadn't realised how air had been refusing to get into his lungs, until it finally did today.

he watched people walking towards their destinations without looking anywhere else. the streets of new york were always overfilled with motion and a million faces, and no one stopped to look at one another.

how had you seen him, yesterday? were you looking? were you always looking at people? were you searching for someone, something?

clouds had poured more rain on the city at night, and towards the morning. it was almost as if they had only stopped momentarily for the fire in the building to spread.

peter had gone to his apartment as soon as he was done rescuing civillians from the fire. he'd wanted to wear something nice, look cleaner for you. he was sort of embarrassed that your first meeting had been when he looked... less than ideal, let's say.

while showering, he'd spaced out, and ended up thinking for almost an hour. mostly about you.

he'd tried to remember everything about you, any kind of clue about your exceptional situation, but there was nothing. you used to mostly keep to yourself, peter hadn't even interacted with you all that much.

despite that, you'd been so accepting of him so quickly yesterday. he had wondered why, before you explained that you… knew him.

not only remembered, you knew him. not completely, but enough to trust. his heart fluttered in his chest, making a gentle movement for the first time since the last time he'd been called peter by anyone at all. thinking about your words excited him, energized him, made him move faster,

you wanted to get closer. you offered to patch up his wounds. you weren't afraid or displeased. you wanted to be close. his friend.

he would call you around noon, he'd decided. he'd kept you up quite late and didn't know when you would wake up. then maybe you could meet up this evening. outside, perhaps? he could take you to... he would come up with some ideas, by then.

he stopped and perched on top of a building, examining the back alleys. he knew the way to your house from where he was, he was really looking forward to seeing you again. was that why waking up had been easier today?

he shook his head and took a deep breath, preparing himself for the day, and the task in front of him. he needed to focus, do his job. he would get to see you when the time came for it. you would respect him more for his service, anyway... or at least he hoped so.

────── 𓆩˚.⋆🕸⋆.˚𓆪 ──────

the the sun had just started setting, the orange hue of dusk hadn't settled in the sky yet. you were sitting on the stairs at the entrance of your apartment building. the ground was still wet, but the upper part of the stairs had been protected from yesterday's rain thanks to the architecture of the building. you would just need to dust off its filth once you stood up.

peter was supposed to come any minute now, he'd called you around noon and asked if you'd like to meet up this evening, and he could take you to see some places. you had started preparing some hours ago. you hadn't known what to wear, or what he had in mind, and had been too nervous to feel completely good about an outfit. you didn’t want to mess this up. at last, you'd just decided to get out of your house and wait. sitting on cold stairs. you were beginning to regret your choices slowly.

“hi,” appeared a head suddenly in front of your nose, making you yelp in surprise and slide backwards on the stairs. you put your hand on your mouth, wide-eyed, and finally processed what the dangling head in red was: peter. he was hanging from your building, held by his web, upside down, in his spiderman suit. he wouldn’t be as instantly recognizable from afar, as he was wearing a jacket, pants, and sneakers on his suit. it looked good.

“sorry,” he said, landing next to you, but not moving towards you. “sorry,” he repeated quickly. “i didn’t mean to scare you.”

“my goodness, peter,” you said, exhaling a deep breath. “no, sorry, spiderman.”

he chuckled lightly. “did i make you wait too much? sorry about that, too.”

“no, no, you are…” you looked at your watch, “right on time, actually.”

“uh,” he started, then hesitated for a moment before taking out a piece of cloth… no, a mask from the pocket of his jacket. “this should be really comfortable, i brought it in case you wanted to, you know, keep your identity hidden.”

“oh, you will stay in your spiderman costume?” you asked, taking the mask, and putting your hand in it so see what it looked like.

“yeah,” he said, “i can’t do what i want to do with you without my suit.”

you looked at him questioningly, “what is it that you want to do with me, peter?” you asked with mock seriousness.

he made a low-volume laughing sound. “i was planning on carrying you in the sky with me. if that’s okay.” he raised his hands in hurry, “it’s okay if you don’t want to, of course. just… i just thought you might like it, is all.”

you looked at the mask, and swiftly wore it. fixing it on your face, you looked at peter. “how do i look?” you asked.

“wait, let me help,” he said as he came closer to you, and fixed the back of the mask.

“thank you.”

so peter took you to the skies.

you held onto him like your life depended on it (it did), arms wrapped around his shoulders. his movements in the air were fast and sharp, the wind felt like a slap to the face at points. yet, you didn’t feel an ounce of fear, if anything, excitement and joy would be descriptive of your feelings. peter had a strong grip on you, somehow, you trusted that without doubt, he would never drop you.

──────

he had taken and placed you on top of a skyscraper, with a view of busy streets and the decorated balconies of shorter buildings. having ascended on the city as rain yesterday, clouds in the sky had thinned, and the atmosphere was clear. the sun was half gone by now, and all your gaze rested upon was dusk-touched; bathed in the burning scarlett of the sun’s farewell.

you smiled, looking over at the city. the wind was caressing your face gently, and breathing had become easier since seeing peter. being where you stood now, it felt freeing.

“this is amazing.” you glanced at peter briefly, and saw he’d been looking at you.

“i’m glad you like it,” he said, then joined you in gazing towards the horizon.

──────

you’d been sitting where peter had caried you to, on top of the skyscraper, for a while now. topics chased each other with ease, built onto each other, and you ended up talking about things you’d never told anyone before. but peter listened, contributed, he seemed truly interested, and then he outclassed your yapping, so words ended up spilling out of your mouth naturally.

“my favorite tree is willow, actually. i love willows, they are so pretty, they have leaves like drapes. they look magical," you said, adding onto the conversation that you’d ended up talking about because… the city layout, then parks, then trees, then if many people have favorite kinds of trees, then his being olive trees…

he looked into your eyes carefully, like you'd said something that struck a cord, something he'd considered before.

"really?" he asked, then turned his gaze towards the city again, eyebrows laying heavier, eyes looking below. "willows look hunched," he said, "they look weary."

was he hunched? had he grown tired? was he trying to tell you that was how he saw the world now? hunched, instead of magical?

"hmm, " you thought for a moment, "do you know why willows are hunched?"

he looked at you questioningly. "no?"

"i've been told a story from someone who'd been told a story; there once was a willow next to a lake. you know how willows like wetlands. and there once was a child sweet as a sugar beet, yet did not know how to swim. choose one day from the countless days the old willow had seen, the sweet child fell into the lake right next to its roots, he couldn't stay on the surface, so he asked the willow for help. the willow bowed its leaves as fast as it could, to offer a branch to hold onto, but it was too slow, and the leaves touched the water too late. after that day, the willow's leaves never rose again. word spread to every willow with time, and they lowered their branches one by one, so if a child were ever drowning, they would never be too late."

he was still looking down, but his expression had changed lightly. his brows were slightly tented, his eyes seemed watery. you studied him, it looked like the story had touched him; he was quietly in thought.

was he a willow? had he failed to save a drowning child? had he been hunched?

had he realized being hunched didn't have to be ugly?

"stories are great," you said, not to fill the silence, but because you now felt comfortable enough to share your thoughts with him. "they can verbalize things you keep in your head, and make you realize; oh, someone else thought the same thing back when who knows how many years ago, and i’m not the only one."

he nodded after another moment of silence. "that was a beautiful story," he said, looking at you, "do you know many like it?"

"short tales like these? not many. i generally read novels."

"maybe i should start too."

you perked up. "you could!" you said, voice coming out too excited for your liking, "i'll lend you some."

"okay," he said, smiling in his usual, reserved way, "thank you."

poor, innocent peter. he had no idea what he'd just signed up for, basically accepting to be subjected to a reader's propaganda of their favorite books.

"i should be thanking you," you responded, "for bringing me here."

the sun had fully gone down, no traces of orange left in the sky, although it hadn't gotten fully dark yet. the moon could be seen, finally getting out of the sun's shadow. or more so, light. too bright for anything else to stay visible near it, yet nothing on earth would be visible without its light, including the moon.

you looked down at the ant-sized citizens of new york, ever-moving, flowing like a river. the wind was caressing your face, chilly, up here was colder than down below, yet it didn't feel as hostile.

"i used to really like it," he said while nodding, a half-smile left on his face from your previous conversation, and perhaps memories of years gone.

"sitting atop buildings?"

"yeah. sitting or swinging or... just height."

"it is kind of freeing."

"and just... you know, a different kind of perspective."

"yeah, i get it," you said, looking at your ant subjects, "why don't you like it anymore?"

he seemed to search for words for a moment, looking around. and then shrugged. "i guess i just... don't really like things anymore."

you sighed, nodding. "well, it's a miracle that you liked my below-average vegetable soup, then."

"it was very much above average!"

"as i said, a miracle."

"why am i having to defend my tastes in the middle of a date right now?"

he stopped abruptly, his smile fading, eyes widening. "i mean!" he quickly scrambled to fix his mistake, "not like- not a date like a date date, you know, i was just saying... just-"

was this a time for you to interrupt? he didn't seem like he wanted to finish that sentence.

"i know," you said, chuckling, "don't worry. i'm also really glad we're doing this. take me soaring the skies more often."

"i wouldn't necessarily call it soaring."

"well, whatever it was."

and then, once again, hours chased one another, carrying your long-winded conversation back and forth, and the deep black of night had fallen on the two of you like a blanket.

peter was sweet, it was like honey dripped from his lips; you hadn't found a conversation so enjoyable in years. you were glad he'd opened up more, back in high school, you had no idea he was so talkative.

you had brought a homemade meal with yourself, considering how much he'd appreciated that yesterday. and you’d shared it over the hours you’d spent together.

peter seemed to relax more and more around you, smile actually coming naturally to his face now, dangling his feet with comfortable, quiet joy.

“ah,” he said at some point, “this is… somewhat hard.”

“what is?”

he thought on it for a moment. “no, nothing. forget i said anything.”

“nooo,” you grabbed his arm and slightly shook him, “i’m curious now!”

he chuckled, “no, it’s embarrassing.”

“peter, listen to me,” you started with mock seriousness, “whatever it is, it cannot be as embarrassing as my cringeworthy memories, so i won’t even register it as embarrassing.”

“okay,” he said after a short silence, “i guess… i guess i got used to being alone too much, now i find it kind of hard to… be known, i guess. it leaves me with a kind of anxiety.”

“it wasn’t like that before?”

“no,” he turned his gaze to the city, “i don’t remember it being like this.”

you hummed, nodding your head. you were going to tell him that you understood, that you felt similarly occasionally, that it was normal, but he kept going before you could.

“at least, the bad parts.”

“what bad parts?”

“you know, my mistakes and flaws and other such things,” he took a deep breath before continuing. “i told you everything but… i wish you didn’t know some of it, now.”

you studied his face; he definitely looked more youthful, like the weight of the world wasn’t crushing him anymore. like he could put his burden down for a moment, take a break. peter didn’t seem like a person who would have a hard time being vulnarable, or being known, but pain did change people. was it just being alone, or being alone with what he thought were his mistakes, scenes repeating over and over in his head as he stared at empty walls, with no one to talk to?

“i like you as you are,” you said, “with your mistakes and flaws; that’s being human, and you’re not lesser for any of it. not objectively, and not in my eyes.”

he was looking into your eyes now, he’d become more comfortable resting his gaze upon yours; you found it comforting, you tried to make him feel the same.

“isn’t that the part of being known that matters?” you asked. “knowing the imperfect parts, the harder to accept parts, and accepting anyway, and loving anyway. doesn’t it make you feel better that i know you fully and like you even more for it?”

peter seemed truly lost for words, for the second time since you’d met. you’d wanted to make him feel welcome into your life, so you’d done your best to tell him things you’d wish to hear yourself, and they were the truth, but you really hoped it would come across right. he wasn’t the only one to overthink conversations.

he opened his mouth to give an answer, and then, suddenly, chaos erupted.

the thunder of a bomb going off shook the ground and the buildings around you. screams mixed into a deafening whistle of the wind that carried them as people ran away from the sound collectively, pushing each other.

peter stood up instinctively, looking towards the explosion. it had happened close enough that you’d felt the shockwave.

“what was that?” you yelled, trying to be heard over the sound, clumsily standing up next to peter, as you were quite high up. he held your arm to steady you.

“i’m not sure, but i think i know who’s responsible for it,” he said with a serious expression on his face, brows furrowed, thoughtful, voice lower than yours, but you could still hear him.

“are you going to go?”

“i have to, this is… these people are dangerous, you should go home.”

he grabbed you by your waist and brought you down to the ground in a hurry, gently placing you. “i’m sorry,” he said, “i’ll come back, uh, to your house, if that’s okay?”

“of course,” you responded, “i’ll be waiting. and don’t be sorry.”

and he dissapeared into the sky, swinging.

────── 𓆩˚.⋆🕸⋆.˚𓆪 ──────

peter hated villains, truly. criminals who committed heinous acts of terrorism, knew nothing but cruelty, unashamedly hurt people, kidnapped, wounded… there were so many of them, too. he kept defeating those hurting new york, and new ones kept popping up.

well, he thought he hated them, but he didn’t know how exactly he felt. he remembered a time when feelings so negative and irritating hadn’t ever been inside him, it was like they added onto each other. one would think it would get easier with time, that he would get used to repeated things. like losing… but not only had losing aunt may been harder than losing uncle ben, he was now more bitter, and more mournful over the past deaths he’d thought he’d gotten over, as well. or, how instead of growing numb to seeing horrible crimes unfold, every act of abuse and cruelty made him angrier, every time he hated… he hated more, although he wasn’t sure exactly what he was hating.

when he tried to track the target his hatred was pointing at, he saw blurry pictures. villains were a part of it, surely, but he didn’t feel a burning rage while fighting them, it was more so weariness, or disgust, mostly, he just wanted all of it to be over. he didn’t want to… ponder more on it, after that point. he had tried once, and then felt an untangible pain. he couldn’t admit it to himself, but he was afraid of what else he could find in that blur. himself? tony? aunt may? mj? new york? the world?

so the picture stayed anonymous, and he couldn’t fully direct his fury at anything, and he disliked all the villains, but could hardly muster up the energy to truly hate them. and perhaps it wasn’t in his nature, either. anger and hatred, he’d never been very good at those. was that why his heart was withering? because he couldn’t feel well? because those were all there was to feel in his life now, and he failed at it?

he felt so done with everything, currently. was he not going to be able to spend time with you uninterrupted? the conversation was going well, too. or at least he thought it was. he hoped you would agree.

back in high school, he knew you were smart, and funny, and would be a good friend if anyone could approach you, but you’d prefered to stay away from him, and he hadn’t had the courage to initiate a relationship with you, he’d found you intimidating. now getting to know you better, he wished he’d just done it, back then. but maybe not. maybe then he would lose you too.

would he lose you now, as well? he’d lost everyone, hadn’t he?

or he’d break your heart, maybe. he’d left liz, he’d left mj, he’d left ned. thrice taken, something was wrong with him.

he arrived at the site of the explosion, looking from above. the thick, suffocating hotness, the pain-filled wails of the survivors, the rubbles of the building crumbled down, his eyes searched for certain signs in between the horrors. he would first save those who couldn’t save themselves, then he would stop whoever was responsible.

as he started carrying survivors out of flames and rubble, he also started scanning everything around him carefully. a sign, a clue, a mistake on the culprit’s part… he knew who it was, he was almost sure the organization he’d been tailing down for the past few months was responsible for this. they were onto him, too, they knew.

he’d found out the position of their base was last week, a site with several factories and buildings in it, towards the border of the city, in a mostly desolate area, as it used to just be an industrialized site, but had now turned into an unpreferred place for bussiness. he’d wondered if they had something to do with that as well, but he supposed that didn’t matter much, in the grand scheme of things.

he would go there, and… and confront them. fight them. end them. something. somehow. the police were rendered useless for the most part, when it came to these underground syndicates, some were bought puppets, some were too powerless, peter knew better than to give away his knowledge now. he’d been burned enough. he would have to do it himself, and do it quick, before any other disasters struck his city.

────── 𓆩˚.⋆🕸⋆.˚𓆪 ──────

you hadn’t gone back home, you were waiting next to a shop near the place peter had left you, looking at the exploded building from afar. you were growing more worried by the second; peter had seemed serious, and talked about a criminal organization who would bomb a whole building like it was a normal thing. was he engaged in a fight, currently? how often did things of this magnitude happen to him?

your phone buzzed, you immediately looked at the screen, it could be important in these circumstances. peter. peter was calling. he’d gone to fight, said he’d come back to you, and now was calling-

“peter?” you answered before you made any assumptions.

quick gasps cut short responded to you, and peter’s voice had taken the shape of slow, low wailing, or wheezing, or… regardless, it was obvious he was in pain.

“i…” he started, clearly having a hard time speaking, “i’m stuck. it was a trap.” he was breathless, his voice kept cracking.

“you- where?” you asked, choosing your words carefully. he was stuck. trapped. time. time was important. ask only for the information that matters right now.

“the building- that- there were people, i wanted to save them,” he was crying, it was obvious. “but i couldn’t, they are stuck too, and unconscious, some are dead. i couldn’t-” he cut his sentence short, taking quick breaths, most likely trying to keep himself awake, or too pained to continue. you understood it anyway.

“where are you, peter?”

“the building crumbled down, and it’s all rubble- but, it’s a huge- a huge, i don’t know. i’m under a heavy part, big, i can’t move it. not safely. i can’t try anything too dangerous, or the- the others might get crushed,” he managed to say in between his gasps and pained groans.

your heart sank, an awful dread dropped into the pit of your stomach. what to do now?

“i’m sorry,” he said, “i just- i didn’t know what to do, and i’d told you i’d come back, i don’t know. there is no one else i could call, i’m not- i’m sorry.”

no one else.

“don’t apologize,” you said, voice firmer, having gotten slightly angry. you weren’t angry at peter, you were angry at… at the reason why peter was hurt. it had only been two days since you’d truly gotten to know him, and you wanted to scream into a void at the top of your lungs already.

you started walking towards the road, looking for a taxi, or you would call one. the initial chaos had subsided, but now people wanting to immediately go back home around you had taken its place, taxis were working, you just didn’t know how fast you could go to wherever peter was.

“send me your location or describe where you are,” you said.

you could only hear his gasps for a moment. “no,” he said, “no, no, i don’t want you to come, that’s not why i-” his breath hitched, he started coughing.

your eyes had gotten teary, you blinked harshly a few times to get rid of the blurriness. would a bicycle be faster? a… motorcycle, perhaps? you started looking around to see any unclaimed ones, you could maybe pay someone-

“i’ll come either way, i’ll help you,” you said, as you started walking towards the site of the explosion, you thought finding an abandoned vehicle might be easier there… maybe even one that no longer had an owner. maybe even a gun. “send your location or i will go into the flames and try to find a clue.”

another pause.

“okay,” he said, exhaling in pain, “but be careful, run away the moment you see anyone dangerous. okay?”

“all right.”

────── 𓆩˚.⋆🕸⋆.˚𓆪 ──────

it had been a long while since peter had been in such peril, had he underestimated his opponents? had he been too rash, reckless? it was highly unlikely that his street-level work would be as dangerous as the avengers-level threats, and he’d survived those, hadn’t he? so why was he crying now?

when he’d arrived at the site, and looked around a little, he’d found people, kidnapping victims, being sent to somewhere. he’d thought he’d needed to act fast to save them, but he’d fallen into a trap. not a trap specifically set for him; it more so looked like a last resort to cover up their traces while killing anyone at their tail, just destroying the building with evidence and their enemies in it. peter was just one person though, was that enough for them, or had they not bothered to check?

he didn’t know where exactly he was wounded under the rubble, everything was hurting. somewhere on his abdomen, he assumed, and legs, they were stinging like a thousand needles were sinking into his flesh at the same time.

he sighed, putting his forehead on the fallen stone in front of him.

he hated himself. that was it, yeah. that was the true target of his hatred. more than anything else. he realised so when he admitted it to himself; hating had suddenly gotten much easier, much deeper.

he’d just killed the last person on earth who knew him. why had he called you, anyway? he should’ve just… done as he always did before meeting you, deal with it himself. or die. the world wouldn’t lose much if he did, there was no one to mourn him. well, maybe you could get a little sad, but it wasn’t like you were particularly close to him, you’d never really been friends before. and you had a life, other people around you, you had no reason to hold onto him like he did you. so why were you even coming? why would you do this to him?

he killed everyone around himself. he would kill you. he would kill you. he would lose you.

no, no, stop. you could survive this, right? sinking into despair had never been helpful. he would need to stay sharp for you. he would… you could survive this much, right? and then he would never see you again. he would block your number, and… good thing he hadn’t brought you to his apartment.

he’d been so selfish, thinking only of himself, the happiness he felt at being remembered. what was he thinking? he should’ve never talked to you. he should’ve told you to raise your umbrella and go home without getting wet. he’d been erased from existence for a reason, hadn’t he? had he forgotten why he hadn’t gone back to mj and ned? how could he do this? how could he keep doing this? why did he never learn from his mistakes?

────── 𓆩˚.⋆🕸⋆.˚𓆪 ──────

you were breathless, having ridden a bicycle (that you really had managed to find abandoned next to the explosion) until a point where traffic wasn’t jammed, then taken a taxi to the point where the driver would be willing to drive to, then ran until you could see the eerie factory site peter had told you about. you’d stopped to catch your breath briefly, your throat was hurting, sweat was coming down on your face like rain had been on the morning you’d grabbed peter’s arm. you put your hand on the right of your abdomen, you had a bad case of side stitch pain. you were holding a metal pipe in your other hand, you hadn’t been lucky enough to stumble upon a gun lying around, unfortunately. you had wanted to find a shield of some sort, but the blown off car bits were mostly too heavy, and couldn’t be carried on a bicycle.

there it was, the area of a dangerous mafia organization. how many cameras were there? you wore the mask peter had given to you, even though you really didn’t want to when you needed so much air.

you could see the remnants of a big dust storm behind a few buildings, you would need to get closer to truly figure it out, but you assumed you could go towards that direction to find peter. your heart was drumming against your chest, your fingertips had suddenly gone cold. a tiny portion of it was because of your previous marathon, mostly your nervousness and… fear were the cause.

but you had to do this. there was simply no other choice. someone needed to save peter, and the authorities wouldn’t do it, and the heroes wouldn’t do it, and you were there already. so you got a move on.

you mostly walked behind walls and next to corners, nervous about being seen and shot dead on the spot before you could even get into the mafia’s base. you reached… a chain-link fence, surrounding the complex.

“NO TRESSPASSING” the sign on the fence read, “PRIVATE PROPERTY”.

well, you’d already stolen a bicycle.

you took a shaky breath, and put your foot into one of the chains. you’d never climbed over a chain-link fence before, but everything had a first time, right? so you gripped the chains for dear life, and although you probably looked ridiculous and unnatural doing it, managed to climb to the other side. you did scratch a few places on your legs and hands, but it was mostly a success.

now you needed to sneak deeper into the complex, somehow.

you walked half-crouched down, mostly next to walls, looking around yourself nervously, yet as fast as you could. as you got closer to the collapsed building, you started hearing screams, and gunshots. there was a commotion going on somewhere close to you, was it the kidnapped people? the ones peter had been able to save, the ones who’d gotten out? you stopped where you were and pressed your back to the building next to you, where did you go from here? where were the gun noises coming from? what did you need to do to avoid that, yet still reach peter?

your hands had started shaking, would it be possible to find an abandoned gun as you walked closer? it would be so easy for them to kill you.

you'd only managed to make a few turns from that point before you were caught. by a man with a gun in his hand.

"look at that," he said, as he pointed the gun at you. “it seems a little mouse sneaked in, in this chaos."

you stopped, completely frozen. your heart was beating in your throat, your hands were trembling, you'd forgotten how to breathe. you'd never been so fear-stricken in your life.

what could you do? one shot and you would be dead, what could you do with the metal pipe in your hand? you couldn't look away from the man to see what else you could use.

he started walking towards you slowly, saying things that would only distract you and make you more nervous if you focused on them, so you blocked them out.

he was clearly enjoying cornering you like a prey animal, that must have been why he was walking closer to you; to scare you. you fought against your urge to back away, to protect a distance between you two; you had a metal pipe. a gun was a long-range weapon, being closer might make it harder to run away, but would make it easier to fight back, and running away in this situation would do you no good. if he missed the first time, he would get you in the second. so you forcefully nailed your feet to the ground, ignored the alarms setting off in your mind, and tried to prepare yourself for a confrontation. your legs were trembling; you hoped the man would just think you'd frozen in fear.

he came close enough to put the gun to your head, just an arm's length of a distance between you. “you can't run even when the gun is in your face?” he asked mockingly.

would begging work? would it keep you alive long enough to catch an opening?

you would die. you would die.

you hadn't opened your mouth to form a single sentence since this man had found you, and you didn't think you could now. one wrong word and it would be over. you needed to act.

was there anyone else around? why was he alone? had you lucked out, somehow? they weren't going to take you into custody, you were a transgresser, they were going to kill you. you assumed this man had stumbled into you coincidentally in the ruckus, and hadn't felt the need to call for reinforcements. even if there were others in places you couldn't see, you had no choice but to act now.

the gun's tip was touching your forehead. seconds. i must act in seconds. by bending your knees, you ducked your head faster than he could process what happened and pull the trigger, and while ducking, swung the pipe in your hand as fast as you could, with as much force behind it as you could muster, and hit him in the groin.

you immediately made a move to get behind him while he buckled over; there was no running away from someone with a gun.

should you hold his hand with the gun, or hit it with your pipe? he was turning his face towards you, and would shoot you the moment he got a good view.

no, you’d taken too much time to think, and he’d already directed the gun at you, pulling the trigger. you immediately hit his hand with your pipe. the shot wasn't completely wasted, however, and grazed your leg.

you screamed in pain.

he reached for you with his other hand, grabbing your hair.

no time.

you gripped your pipe with all your strength, and hit his hand again while he was yanking your hair. and then kept hitting his hand, lest he direct the gun at you again. one, two, three, four, five— he kicked your leg. you buckled over in pain as he put your head to the ground, your hair still entangled in his hand. he was saying something, eyes bulging, looking very mad, but you weren’t proccessing any of it. your ears were still ringing because of the gunshot, and the pain in your leg was so powerful that you couldn't focus on anything. it was as if endless knives were constantly stabbing you. it was unbearable.

his hands were occupied with your head and the gun, you were nowhere near strong enough to set free from his grip, but he'd forgotten you were still holding onto the pipe. or maybe he'd just thought you'd be in too much pain to use it now. or maybe he just hadn't had the time to do something about that yet, everything was happering in seconds.

you swung it again in one last, reckless effort to fight back, and hit his head. the momentum tossed him to the side while taking you with him as he hadn't let go of your hair. before he could turn to face you back, you hit his head again, with all your might. he let go of your hair while balancing himself with his other hand, and hit you across the face before you could land your third hit, but you planted yourself to the ground, and landed another hit anyway. his head was bleeding, and he was clearly distraught.

what now? a few seconds. this had given you a few seconds of decision time. what now? should you keep hitting him? take the gun, somehow? how could you get rid of him?

you tried to move reflexively, to get away. but your leg was done for, you couldn’t get up. no. no. you couldn't move.

your heart was going to burst out of your chest, your nerves were completely wrecked; you couldn’t get up.

what, then? did you have to… kill? you were going to throw up. your hands started trembling even more violently. you couldn't. you just couldn't.

you wished you could yell for help. but you were supposed to be the help. it was as it had always been before, pick yourself up and dust yourself off.

no time to think.

you hit his head again, and when he flailed, this time you put his head to the ground, climbing on top of him, twisting his gun-holding arm under his body. now… now you could... how could you stop him? if you managed to take the gun, and told him to stay put until you could run away... you couldn't move, though. you couldn't even properly restrain him because you were having to drag one leg. the concussion he had was doing most of the heavy lifting.

an idea did come up in your mind. you supposed you had no other choice.

──────

you were lying on the floor, your back towards the sky. you’d left your unconscious attacker where he was lying, and managed to drag yourself for a few centimeters before you’d stopped, and leaned your forehead against the ground. you needed to get away, you knew. at least near a wall, somewhere you wouldn’t be seen so clearly, but your leg was hurting too much to use.

you couldn’t raise your head, and just started sobbing openly. you’d already been crying, but trying to hold back, keep quiet. you needed to sit up, and look at how bad the wound was, and how much blood you’d lost. the pain was all you could think about, your head was hurting from stress and forcing yourself to think through the pain, your eyes and throat were hurting from crying (and maybe also sleep-deprivation, as time was diving deeper into the night), your face was hurting from the hit you’d taken, and yet, nothing could be compared to the pain you felt in your leg. you wanted to take off your mask, it was suffocating enough even without it, but any cameras catching your face would be more of a disaster long term.

you took a deep breath, and put your hands on the ground. you pushed yourself up while shaking, and turned around. you looked at your leg, and immediately regretted it. it was bleeding a lot, and your flesh had been ripped apart. you didn’t know what to do, there was no one you could call.

you took out your phone from your pocket, and found peter’s number. you really didn’t want to, but you had no other choice.

peter answered by calling out your name questioningly, his voice came across better than last time; it still did sound like he was in pain, but he was calmer.

“peter,” you said, failing to sound like you weren’t crying. “a guy shot me. my leg is hurt.”

“a- what? where are you?”

“i’m near the collapsed building you should be in.”

“i- i-”

you took a second to breathe. “no, no, i… i just don’t know what to do,” you said, sniffling and gasping, “i can’t get up. i, uh, should i wrap something around my leg?”

“yeah,” he said, “a piece of cloth until you can get out, how close are you to the exit? you should call an ambulance or a taxi or—” he also had to stop to take a breath in pain, “i don’t know— i’m sorry. i’m really sorry.”

“what are you sorry for? it’s the fault of this piece of— well, garbage. at least i have a gun now.”

“who was it? is he still there?”

“i don’t know, some random guy. he’s unconscious.”

“… how?”

“well, i… kind of strangled him? he was,” you huffed, “he fainted because he couldn’t breathe, he’s alive though. i did hit his head a few times, i don’t know how that bodes for him.”

“probably not well,” he said, now with a hint of surprise and amusement in his voice, “you, uh, you did well. very well.”

“huh, thank you.”

good, this was good, hearing peter’s voice had been good for you. you pushed yourself up somehow, and sat up straight.

“what happened?” he asked, “why is the pain worsening?” probably because of your increasing groans.

“i was trying to sit up. i need to find a piece of cloth.”

you looked around, and decided to take anything you could from the man who attacked you. you went through his pockets, and sure enough, found a knife. you cut a piece off of his shirt, and used it as bandage.

“how tight should it be?”

“you should be able to slide a finger under it.”

next, you needed to drag yourself away from the middle of the road, to somewhere you could hide—

no.

no, that wasn’t why you were here.

“how are you doing, peter?” you asked, but couldn’t add that you would be there soon.

“i’m…” he started, but drifted off. and then you heard silent sobbing. “i’m sorry,” he said.

“you have nothing to apologize for.”

“no, it’s all my fault. i never should’ve dragged you into this mess.”

“you didn’t drag me into anything, i stole a bike and ran a marathon to get to you,” you’d sounded firmer now, although still couldn’t stop your crying; the pain just wasn’t getting any better.

“i let you down along with everyone else,” he wasn’t listening to you, “and i don’t know what to do, i can’t come to you, i don’t know how to get you out,” his voice had gotten frantic again.

you sighed, trying to get your sobbing under control, and think of a reply. was it his fault? no, you were certain it wasn’t. had he let you down? no, the thought hadn’t even crossed your mind. should he stay away from you? were you afraid of pain or death? would you rather live a more stress-free life than stay with peter?

you closed your eyes to let the tears roll down your cheeks as the realisation that you couldn’t immediately say “no” set in, you felt betrayed by yourself. you’d thought about this, yesterday… or two days ago, you supposed, as it was past midnight. he’d told you everything, so you knew the risks, and you’d thought about it. you’d decided it would be fine; worrying for his safety or being at risk yourself. and if you got injured, then you could handle some pain. and if you died, well… there was no getting ahead of death. if you died, that would mean your time had come.

so where had your conviction gone to? had the pain been too much, after all? it was the pain, the stabbing sensation was making your brain foggy, demanding all the attention be on it. you hated it, you hated everything. you were mad at yourself; why couldn’t you just be better?

“peter,” you cut him off, “i know i can’t understand you fully, but i get it,” you’d decided to just ramble. you couldn’t come up with the perfect answer to make his worries disappear, so you would just… tell him whatever was going through your mind.

“i lay awake some nights, randomly afraid of the dark. then i curl up under my blanket, and try to comfort myself. because there is no one to lie next to me. i look out from my window and see grey walls. i look up at night and see no stars. i walk outside and hundreds of people just walk past me without even looking at my face, and i don’t remember any of theirs the next hour. all i hear all day are the honks of cars, and depressing news. abuse. crime. kid died. alone person went missing. don’t go out at night. don’t talk to anyone. there is no one anyway, who would i talk to?” you paused to sniffle again, and catch your breath.

“i come home and say ‘hello’ to emptiness and darkness, i turn on the lights myself, then think about what i’ll eat. and i don’t properly eat most days, because i just don’t want to prepare something only for myself. yesterday, i was so happy you liked the food i made, i wanted to cook something for the first time in months while waiting for you,” words were just coming out of your mouth without restraint now, was it the sleep deprivation?

“in high school, i used to watch you and your friends, and wish i could find someone who would be in sync with me too. i used to wish i had a reason or an excuse to join in when i saw you three laugh or talk. i go to university now, and i attend lectures, and i make small talk with a few people, and then i drown in my own thoughts the whole day. i tell myself that i’m fine by myself, but i feel like my soul is getting thinner by the day, looking at walls. is it just me, or is everyone just disconnected now, i don’t know.”

you finally stopped, and let silence stretch after your words. your crying had gotten worse as the suffocation of your life had built up enough to rush out of you; you didn’t cry much, not really. sure, you sometimes shed silent tears, sitting by yourself on your couch, but normally, you just kept going without thinking much about it. you had your exams, and job, and volunteer work, and projects to worry about, so pitying yourself was at the bottom of your to-do list. but now? you were crying waterfalls. was it because you’d finally found someone to tell what you were really thinking? no, it was probably because of the pain you were already in.

peter didn’t answer, for a long while, it was just silence.

“you were right,” you said, “being known with your negative sides sucks.”

“no,” he said, “you were right. i’m glad to know you as you are.”

he didn’t sound good. he didn’t sound good at all. you sighed in resignation, closing your eyes tightly shut to clear your view of tears. “i’m closing now, peter, wait for me,” you said, and closed the call before he could reply.

you looked at the ground, and furrowed your brows in concentration. you would get up. you had to. you had no choice. peter had called you for help. he had no one. no one else to call. no one else to save him from making a choice between death and killing innocent victims under rubble. no one else to save him from death.

you gritted your teeth, your leg hurt as the deep cut touched the bad guy’s shirt, and in some parts, the cold air of the night. the wound kept bleeding, and hurting more by the second. but you gritted your teeth anyway, through your tears and gasps for air that you had an abundance of, but your lungs refused to take in. you put your hands on the ground, and pushed yourself up, using all the strength you had.

you whimpered and groaned in many attempts to stifle your screams before they could come out, and alert whoever was close enough to hear, and managed to set your back straight. it was unbearable, the pain was holding you from the collar, trying to drag you down, making your vision red, exploding in your brain.

it’s just pain, you kept repeating to yourself, it was just a feeling, you could move through it. so you would walk now. towards peter. as quickly as possible. you needed to reach him, that was why you’d come this far, how could you let pain make you forget? it was simply unacceptable, the thought of peter dying under that rubble.

so you put one foot in front of the other, and made your way to peter through every force working against you.

──────

"peter?" you asked, trying to walk through the rubble, and then heard your name back.

"i'm here!"

you tried to reach him at least enough to see his face, as fast as you could, but it was still taking too long with your injured leg. too long for your impatience currently, anyway.

"i'll remove the victims so you can get out of there," you said as you stretched your head enough to see his face, not being able to get closer. he was... he'd taken off his mask, and he looked horrible; his eyes had become red from tears and most likely his injuries, his face was covered in dust and some drops of blood. looking at him stung your chest. "tell me where they are."

──────

peter was strong. he truly was. not only mentally; you were currently watching him lift what was essentially an entire ceiling with other pieces of rubble on it off himself, with most likely many crushing injuries. insane. he was insane. no wonder he couldn’t move with all with those unconscious people around.

you had somehow managed to move them out of his way, seven people in total, much more than you’d anticipated. how could you get them out of here now? you were injured, peter was probably in worse condition… although he did seem to be able to carry significant weight. maybe you could carry them until the exit and call an ambulance, for yourselves, too.

──────

peter walked towards you until he was a breath away, his face was covered in sweat on top of everything else, and he was gasping for air, as were you. he looked at your leg.

“i’ll carry you,” was all he said. he seemed so tired.

“we need to carry these people first.”

“no, i’ll carry you first. until you’re out of this complex.”

──────

you were sitting on the sidewalk, waiting for the ambulance you had called. well, ambulances, as they’d be carrying nine people. you had, also, finally taken off the mask you’d come to despise at this point, associating it with very negative feelings.

you saw peter swing down with the last one of the survivors. he landed, placed the unconscious man on the sidewalk, and sat right next to you.

you sat together in silence for a while, until you took a deep breath, and chuckled lightly. it was over. you’d done it. everyone was alive.

peter looked at you questioningly, although it was hard to read his face; he’d turned mostly expressionless. because of how much effort it must have been taking to even stay awake for him, you assumed.

“it’s over,” you said, “we did it.”

he looked away again, to the desolate road in front of you. “you did it,” he said, “i messed up.”

“how so?”

“i acted rashly. i should’ve been more careful. now they’ll find a new base, and i have to start from nothing to track them down again. and they know i’m after them. and i couldn’t change anything in the end, i just made things worse. all of this was for nothing, it could have been completely avoided. it started with the collapse of one building and then it ended with the collapse of another for no reason.”

you were watching him carefully. lines of exhaustion had formed on his face, the sorrow and… and whatever it was that dropped a boulder of burning despair into the pit of your stomach from when you first met had come back; you’d thought the youth had somehow returned to his face this evening.

“so,” you started, taking another deep breath, “you came here after they exploded a building to stop them, like, end them in general, or at least weaken them, do something. that makes sense to me. then you acted rashly here? why?”

“i saw… the kidnapped victims, and they were suffering, so i wanted to save them.”

“then you didn’t mess up, right? you saved them.”

“not all of them, and i wouldn’t have without you.”

“well, a big majority of them, you did save. all of them would die without you. and what else could you have done but to directly interfere? you did the only thing you could.”

he just stayed silent, was he not convinced?

“i don’t think this was a failure, peter. i think you did well and saved many people, and i think it was worth it.”

his eyes were teary, but he didn’t look at you again, he turned his gaze to the ground, and just stayed silent.

──────

you had decided on what to tell the authorities before the paramedics had arrived, and then you’d been separated, put into different ambulances.

then… well, the rest was as you imagined it would go. still a lot of pain, and a lot of hasty doctors as they asked questions and barked orders. it was horrible, really, with the way your head had been aching, but at least they were numbing your leg. and you would most likely be allowed to drift off to sleep at some point, right?

──────

you lied on the hospital bed, staring at the ceiling. it was almost noon, and you’d waken up not so long ago. you just kept playing what happened again and again in your head, trying to make sense of every detail.

it was a miracle you were alive. you’d faced off a gun. an actual gun.

it was good that all you could do by yourself in this hospital bed was think; you’d been asking yourself the same questions for a while now. did you still want to be involved with peter? you’d known him only for two days, and you’d ended up in a hospital already.

you’d considered every outcome and every reason, every choice you could make. in the end, it boiled down to a few core options. would you rather live a less risky life by yourself, or risk getting hurt like this to be with someone? someone who can meet you as deeply as you crave?

not just that, human bonds were too important to be disregarded because of what external threats might arise. the reality now was that you loved peter, he was a good person, he didn’t deserve to be abandoned because of what evil people did. your choice didn’t come out of loneliness; even if you had a dozen bonds like this, you would still choose to stay with peter, because you’d formed a relationship with him now. and that was that.

out of every outcome you considered, the worst one was definitely living your life without peter, and then getting news that spiderman just died somewhere, by himself. even the thought of it was nausiating. then again, the thought of just him getting hurt like this, and having no one to go to was just as horrible. so you needed to choose the opposite of what would cause that outcome to happen.

it hadn’t been that hard a decision to make; staying involved with peter. you’d already been tangled, it wasn’t much of a possibility to untangle yourself now, a part of you would be left behind.

besides, you somehow remembered him, didn’t you? that had to mean something. there had to be a reason for it.

──────

after finally being discharged, the first thing you did was look for peter, but he’d somehow gotten out before you. not because his wounds were less severe, quite the opposite, the nurses had said he’d been restless to get out, and they couldn’t keep someone against their will.

the orange of dusk had faded away, although it wasn’t fully dark yet. you were on your way to your apartment while you kept ringing peter’s phone, he was stubbornly refusing to answer.

you huffed as another attempt turned out to be in vain. you looked at the taxi driver, who did not acknowledge your existence, and then turned back to your phone.

“peter, are you okay? is everything all right?”

you messaged him. then waited for him to see. aaand waited. still waiting.

you huffed again, three minutes of staring at your screen impatiently and he wasn’t responding.

although you’d asked him if he were okay, you knew the truth. it wasn’t that he couldn’t answer, it was that he’d decided to go through with his stupid “i’ll never see you again because i’m ruining your life” nonsense. in your heart of hearts, you knew. so you sent another message.

“if you’re thinking about cutting ties with me, then do it properly. come and talk to me about it.”

and then looked out the taxi’s window for the rest of your journey.

────── 𓆩˚.⋆🕸⋆.˚𓆪 ──────

you were right, peter knew. after everything that happened, opening up to you and accepting you into his life, if he wanted to step away now, he needed to respect you, and tell you about it properly. so he was standing in front of your door now, trying to gather up the courage to ring your bell, and tell you he’d never see you again. this door had seemed so inviting one night ago, and it had tricked peter. he was not supposed to be invited into any house, didn’t your house know that?

he took a deep breath, and rang the bell. when you opened the door, you looked tired. not your expression, but the lines on your face and the look in your eyes gave it away. that was his fault, wasn’t it?

you stepped aside to welcome him, and he followed you into the living room, the couch he’d sat on the night he’d told you everything.

bidding you farewell was going to be hard, he didn’t know if he could be brave enough, or selfless enough. he’d been so when he had been wiped from the memories of every living being, and that was much harder a task, wasn’t it? so couldn’t he do it a second time?

but he hated waking up every day, and hated… well, he couldn’t even properly hate. getting up, putting one foot in front of the other was becoming harder every day, he didn’t want to do anything, anymore. so circumstances had changed since then, but he still kept fighting every day, and he still kept doing what he thought was right. so he could do this too.

or you would die. he’d lost enough people. to love was to lose. to love was the possibility of loss eventually.

he shouldn’t even have sat on this couch, actually, why had he done so? he should’ve just told you he was leaving, and then leave. he made a move to get up again, you grabbed his arm to stop him.

“you should stay seated,” you said, “i’ll bring something to eat for dinner.”

“please don’t, i’ll be on my way shortly anyway.”

“no,” you said as a statement, firmly, and left him alone in the living room.

peter never should’ve come. you deserved to have one last conversation, but how could peter move on from you? he supposed it would’ve been impossible even if he hadn’t come to your place today, even if he’d told you to turn back without getting wet the day you first recognized him. he would just have to live missing you forever, and that wasn’t unrealistic. it’s what he was doing now, missing everybody he’d ever known. and he was living, wasn’t he? well, he was alive.

you brought pasta with chicken, obviously freshly made, and put down two plates on the couch.

“we could eat in the kitchen,” he said.

“couch is comfier.”

he sighed, looking at his plate. he really didn’t want to eat anything made by you again, he didn’t need more things to miss. you’d said you didn’t feel like preparing a meal just for yourself, that he made you want to cook something… he remembered everything you said, of course. that you’d apparently wanted to get closer to him in high school too, why had he been so nervous? afraid?

it was for the best, though. otherwise, you might’ve died years ago. no matter what you felt, he couldn’t be selfish enough to assume he could be there for you, or good for you.

“so,” you started, “you decided to go forward with your plan of ignoring my existence for the rest of your life?”

“it’s not ignoring,” he had a defensive tone, “i was wrong to even confirm i’m peter at the start, i’ll fix my mistake.”

“it wasn’t a mistake, how can you say that? would you prefer i believed i’d lost my mind?”

you had a hard time walking now, limping although you tried to hide it, and several wounds were visible on your face. you’d beat up a man with a metal pipe, what kind of damage did that leave on your psyche? peter didn’t know, he’d been warring since he was fifteen.

“you wouldn’t be in pain, at least.”

“you’re unbelievable,” you sounded exasparated, and seemed offended, but peter didn’t know what else to say. it was the truth. “i’d rather know the bitter truth, or suffer from its consequences than believe a lie any time. besides, you couldn’t have known this would happen, it’s not on you.”

“you can’t tell me you would still get a gunshot wound yesterday if we hadn’t met two days ago.”

“maybe not, but i don’t blame you for it and i don’t care.”

“you don’t care?!” peter was getting angry, was it because you were getting angry? he was angry at himself, was it dripping out of his chest into his tongue as poison?

“no,” you backtracked, “i mean, i’m fine with it. i can live with it. and i don’t hold it against you, i don’t have any resentment for you. i don’t know how else to explain this.”

he took a deep breath to hold back his tears. he couldn’t let your words get to him, make him feel better about what had occurred. he needed to protect you, he kept reminding himself.

“i can’t put you in harm’s way,” he said.

you paused for a moment.

“do you take care of your wounds by yourself? you did so after the fire the other day, and you basically ran away from the hospital this time around.”

peter was taken aback. “uh, yeah?” he answered.

you grabbed a bag that was positioned right next to the couch on the floor, and took a… first aid kit out of it. and then a salve, and bandages, and… what was going on?

“i bought these today after being discharged, figured you might need some.”

“i’m… fine?”

your expression was very unimpressed when you looked at him.

“so you think i don’t see your arm, or the way you have a hard time eating or breathing, or even just your hands?”

ah, right. his hands were bruised, not enough to warrant bandaging though, this happened regularly. and his arm did hurt, but the pain would go away in a few days or so. his abdomen… that was taken care of, too, the dressing they did at the hospital would be enough.

“it’s all taken care of,” he said.

“we need to put salve on your hands, and then wrap-”

“we don’t, this happens all the time.”

you looked at him in surprise for a moment. “this happens all the time and we don’t need to treat it?” you repeated with your eyes wide, tone something between offended and shocked.

he didn’t know what to say, so you just started doing whatever you’d set your mind to even before he came to your house. you gently held his hand, and started applying the salve. he sighed, and closed his eyes, leaning his head to rest on the couch. he shouldn’t have, but you didn’t give him much choice.

“i’ll learn how to suture,” you said, “and anything else that’s necessary.”

peter spoke your name, “i’m sorry,” he said, “i am so, so sorry. i don’t want to leave you either, but you saw what happened. mj and ned have forgotten me, and they are happier for it. this is what i need to do.”

“peter,” you said, as you started wrapping the bandage around his hand, “i haven’t forgotten you, and if you leave now, i still won’t forget. i don’t know how mj and ned are doing, having forgotten, but you can’t compare me to them. and even if i had forgotten, i still would want to know. how else can i put this?” you searched for the words, “i care about you more than i care about happiness. i’d choose you over happiness, i’d rather be in pain with you than be painless by myself.”

peter had straightened his back, his gaze fixated on your eyes, as you spoke. a lump in his throat, tears threatening to roll down his cheeks in his eyes, his hand in your hands… a warmth in his chest, how he hadn’t felt in so long. your words did soften his edges, but he couldn’t accept it. he still held back his tears, and still wanted to escape. run away. was that why he wanted to leave you? was his true reason to protect you, or his fear? he wanted to run, he wanted to run as fast as he could and hide, from anyone who could see him.

it was too much, but he couldn’t exactly tell what was too much. he was afraid of hurting you, but that wasn’t all he was afraid of, yet he couldn’t recognize what else scared him so.

“but,” you continued, “being with you will make me happy anyway, do you understand? i’ll be happier with you than alone, even if my life is at risk, and even if guns chase my back.”

you had teared up too, peter realised, but were wiping your tears away, to keep your vision clear while working on his now other hand, he assumed.

and that was it, the last drop of water to make his glass overflow. silent tears started finding their way to his chin, his gaze lowered in embarrassment. he’d already cried a dozen times in front of you, and he wished he hadn’t, he wished he could be stronger, firmer, he wished he could aspire confidence instead of silently crying. he hadn’t been able to cry for a while, before meeting you. even when it hurt deep inside his bones, his tears had dried up. were they all spilling out now?

he wanted you to stay, too, he was tired of being alone. he was tired of imagining “what if”s. he was tired of walking directionless with his hoodie covering his face, face a blur in crowds, never known by anyone. if you could bandage his hands every time after a fight, or have your textbooks scattered around in his room, then-

he didn’t want to imagine it. he just couldn’t accept it.

you were done with his hands, even though peter didn’t want you to let go. “how about this,” you started, “why don’t we give it some more time? i mean, how many times did mj or ned get wounded while knowing you?”

“… never, really.”

“yeah, so, either i’m also cursed, or this was a rare occurrence. either way, me staying with you won’t change anything. so, instead of making a rash decision like this, why don’t we try to be friends first? and if it doesn’t work out, then you can put some distance?”

that was… peter thought on it. and then his silent tears turned into straight-up sobbing. because that could work. he could accept that, it made sense to him.

he leaned down and buried his face in his hands. you started caressing his hair, which made it impossible for his tears to stop.

when everyone had forgotten, you'd remembered him. when faced with a gun, you'd survived. when injured, you'd walked. maybe he really was cursed, considering what had happened to you after you just met, but you seemed determined to break it.

and it might not be perfect, but it would be.

it must’ve been hard for you to make such a decision, you must’ve thought about it; staying with peter. you’d chosen him anyway. he could do the same, too. despite his fears, his horrible instinct to shrink and escape, he could stand his ground, and choose to stay, as you had. and maybe with time, it could get easier.

he stopped his sobbing, calmed down enough to face you, and raised his head.

“i don’t know what tomorrow will bring,” he said with a hint of nervousness in his voice.

“right,” you smiled, “exciting, isn’t it?”

ghost towns (youtube music) by radical face... as we part ways for now.

“Yeah. Actually, he said he needs to meet you if we’re going to continue dating.” You said through a nervous smile.

“Oh. Wow. Okay.” Peter gulped. “Your dad wants to meet me. Your dad needs to meet me. Oh my God. The FBI is demanding to meet with me. I’m freaking out!”

“The FBI is not demanding to meet you. My dad who works for the FBI is asking to meet you.” You said as you cupped Peters face to calm him down.

“I’m freaking out, baby. I can’t do this. He has a gun!” Peter whispered harshly.

“Well it’s not like he’s gonna use it on you.”

“He might!”

“He won’t. I won’t let him.” You said as you smiled sweetly at him.

“Baby, this is a really big deal.” Peter whined. “I’ve never done anything like this before. And your dad is really scary. Like, FBI scary.”

“I know. But I’ll be by your side the entire time. Plus, he’s away all the time. This probably won’t even happen for a while.” You shrugged. Your phone buzzed in your pocket and you took it out.

“Oh god.” You gulped.

“What?”

“It’s him. He finished the case early. He wants to do dinner with you this weekend.” You said as you showed Peter the text from your dad.

“This weekend?” Peter shrieked. “You said he was away until the end of the month.”

“I guess they caught the guy early. He was escalating so his killings were getting closer together and sloppier. Happens all the time.”

“You know a disturbing amount about serial killers.” Peter said as he rubbed his eyes.

“I know. And you will too if you continue to date me.”

“That’s the goal.” Peter said as he cracked a smile. You kissed his cheek quickly before texting your dad back.

“Okay. We’re on for dinner this weekend.” You told him. “I’m scared. Are you scared?”

“Should I be?” Peter worried.

“Yeah.” You shrugged. “I would be.”

“What?! You’re supposed to be telling me there’s nothing to worry about.”

“I know but lying isn’t good for a relationship.” You said as you cupped his face again.

“Are you worried he’s not gonna like me?” Peter asked as he wrapped his hands around your wrists.

“No.”

“Okay.” Peter sighed. “Good.”

“I’m positive he’s not gonna like you.” You added.

“What? That’s not what you’re supposed to say.” Peter whined and buried his face in your neck.

“I know but it’s true.” You chuckled and kissed the side of his head.

“Oh my God. This was a huge mistake, baby. We have to cancel.”

“You can’t cancel. He’ll hate you even more.”

“Oh no. Is he gonna hate me?” Peter gasped and picked his head up.

“Probably.” You shrugged.

“You’re not helping!” Peter exclaimed.

“Sorry! But you’re a boy that I’m dating. That automatically makes you the enemy. No matter how charming and respectful you are, he’s gonna hate you.”

“Maybe I can get him to laugh. That’ll make him like me, right? I’m funny. Sometimes. Everyone likes sometimes funny people.”

“Uh uh.” You shook your head. “He hates jokes.”

“He hates jokes? What kind of person hates jokes?”

“He does. He’s the freaking unit chief of the BAU. That means he spends all his time putting himself in the shoes of serial killers. I have never seen the man so much as chuckle.”

“Oh no.” Peter groaned. “Why couldn’t your parents be dead like mine?”

“I know. I’m sorry.”

“No. You don’t have to apologize.” Peter sighed. “It’s good that I’m meeting your dad. It means we’re serious.”

He rubbed your arms up and down as he thought about what he was saying.

“We’re serious, right?” He asked insecurely.

“Of course we are.” You smiled and leaned in to kiss him. He kissed you back and felt himself relax. When you pulled away, you had an idea in mind.

“Maybe it doesn’t have to be just us. What if we invite Tony and Pepper and May? It could be like a meet and greet of our respective parental figures.” You suggested. “That way, Pepper could get to know May. Tony and my dad could meet. And Morgan could play with Jack.”

“Okay. Yeah. We could do that.” Peter smiled in relief as he listened to your idea.

“Don’t worry, Peter. Once my dad sees how much we love each other, he’ll warm up to you.” You said as you tilted Peters chin up.

“Do you really think so?”

“I know so. Because personally, I find you irresistible.” You smiled and leaned in to rub your nose against his. Peter relaxed and little and leaned in to kiss you again.

When the weekend came, Peter nervously got ready in his room as he waited for your family to arrive. After changing his outfit three times, he anxiously paced in the living room until he heard a knock at the door.

“They’re here.” Peter gulped. “Be cool, May. Please don’t embarrass me.”

“Your fly is down.” May told him. Peter looked down and screamed before zipping his pants up. He smoothed his outfit down and quickly answered the door.

“Hi! Come on in.” Peter said through a smile so big, it hurt his face.

“Is everyone okay? We heard screaming.” Your dad said as the three of you stepped into Peters apartment. Peter looked your dad up and down and gulped. He was in a suit, like he always was, looking as stern as ever.

“Everything’s fine.” May smiled as Peter turned bright red. You turned your face and bit back a smile at how nervous Peter was.

“You must be May. I’m Aaron.” Your dad said as he smiled politely and held out his hand.

“Nice to meet you, Aaron.” May returned the smile and shook his hand.

“Peter!” Your little brother, Jack, let go of your hand and rushed towards Peter.

Peter bent down and did his handshake with Jack, making Aaron crack the slightest smile. You all heard a timer off and May clapped her hands.

“Op. Those are my cookies. I’ll be right back.” May smiled and left the room.

“Cookies?” Jack asked.

“Double chocolate chip.” Peter smirked at winked at him. You left your dads side and stood next to Peter with a nervous smile.

“Dad, this is Peter.” You said as you pushed Peter forward.

“Mr. Hotcher. It’s a pleasure to meet you sir. I’m Peter.” Peter said as he kept his hands behind his back.

“What, no hand shake?” Aaron gave Peter a strange look.

“I thought you hated hand shakes because of the germs.” Peter said as he looked at you for help.

“No, baby. That’s Spencer.” You said softly as you patted Peters back.

“Oh. You’ve mistaken me for Reid.” Aaron chuckled dryly.

“Is that a bad thing?” Peter asked in fear.

“It’s certainly not a good thing.” You mumbled.

“Sorry, Mr. Hotchner, sir. Y/n just talks about everyone in the BAU so much that I must’ve mixed up some of the facts she’s told me. Seriously, she talks so much.” Peter forced a laugh as he tried to redeem himself.

“Well I’m glad you think my daughter talks too much. Will you excuse me for a moment?” Aaron smiled sarcastically and left the apartment to take a phone call.

“That went so bad!” Peter whispered harshly once your dad was out of the room.

“Yeah, that was awful.” You agreed.

“You’re so bad at comforting people!” Peter exclaimed.

“It’s not my fault! My dad is a freaking profiler for the FBI. He would never comfort me when I was sad. He would just analyze my micro expressions and tell me why I’m feeling the way I’m feeling.”

“I’m freaking out, baby. I can’t get through this dinner. I’ve already ruined my chances with him.” Peter said as he began to panic.

“You need to relax. He can smell fear.” You whispered as you cupped Peters face in your hands.

“Oh God. He’s coming back.” Peter gulped. Your dad came back into the room and smiled apologetically.

“Sorry about that. Prentiss had a question for me.” Aaron explained as he put his phone away.

“That’s all right. Can I get you anything to drink, Mr. Hotchner?” Peter asked.

“I’m all right, thanks.”

“Okay. What about you Jack?” Peter bent down to ask your brother.

“No thank you.” Jack said to be polite.

“Are you sure? I have juice boxes.” Peter said with a pointed look.

“You do?” Jack lit up.

“Yeah. I’ll grab you one.”

“He likes-“ Aaron began.

“Apple juice. I know. I keep a couple here for when he comes over.” Peter smiled as he left to go to the kitchen.

“Dad.” You whispered harshly once Peter was gone.

“Yes, sweetheart?” Aaron asked innocently.

“You promised you’d be nice.” You reminded him.

“I am being nice. This is me being nice.” Aaron insisted.

“You’re making him nervous.” You whined.

“I know. I can tell. Actually, his body language suggests that he’s terrified.“

“Can you stop being a profiler for two seconds and be a normal father? Please?”

“It’s highly unlikely.”

“Oh my God.” You groaned.

“He’s a little short for you, no?” Aaron shrugged.

“Dad.” Your eyes widened.

“And very fidgety. I don’t like it.”

“Well I do. So be nice.” You whispered as Peter came back into the room.

“Here you go buddy.” Peter said as he handed Jack a juice box.

“Thank you.” Jack smiled in excitement as Peter opened the straw and put it in the juice box. May came back into the room as well with a plate of cookies wrapped up.

“Shall we go?” You asked the room.

“Yes. Let’s go.” Your dad nodded. You all left Peters apartment and went to your car. Aaron noticed the way Peter opened the car door for you and made sure to buckle Jack in before buckling his own seatbelt. As much as he was determined not to like Peter, Peter was making it difficult.

You kept light conversation in the car as you drove out to Tony’s cabin. Peter was relieved that May and Aaron did most of the talking on the car ride there. As much as Peter wanted your dad to like him, he needed a little break.

“Is this a horrible idea?” Peter whispered to you as you all stood outside Tony’s cabin door.

“Honestly, probably.” You nodded. Peter let out a nervous sigh before knocking on the door. Tony opened it soon enough with a wide smile.

“My darling Y/n and my prodigal son. Thank you for joining me. Do come in.” Tony said as he stepped away from the door. You all walked in and Tony shut the door behind you. Peter hugged him hello, then you did the same.

“Hi, Mr. Stark. Thanks for having us.” You said as you pulled out of the hug.

“My pleasure.” He smiled as you before turning to May.

“May. You’re looking as yummy as ever.” Tony said as he brought Mays hand up to kiss the back of it.

“I do my best.” May shrugged confidently.

“And you must be Y/n’s father.” Tony’s tone shifted a little when he turned to your dad.

“Aaron. Hotchner.” Your dad said he held out his hand.

“Tony. Stark.” Tony shook his hand firmly. “I’m sure you’ve heard of me.”

“I could say the say. I believe my unit and I were asked to investigate you back in 2013.” Aaron replied, still shaking Tony’s hand.

“All of my acts of eco terrorism were completely incidental.” Tony shrugged, never dropping your dads hand.

“I’m sure they were.” Arson smiled dryly.

“You guys have been shaking hands for a long time.” You spoke up. The men gave each other a look and dropped each other’s hands.

“So I hear you’re in the FBI?” Tony smiled tightly.

“I am. Acting unit chief of the BAU.”

“The what?”

“The behavioral analysis unit.” Your dad replied.

“Interesting. And have you analyzed me?” Tony wondered as you folded your arms.

“Well judging from the size of your property, the tightness of your jeans, and the slight heel on your boots, I say you’re a white classic male in his mid to late 50s who’s a text book narcissist with a hint of a Napoleon complex.”

“Dad.” You said angrily.

“No, no. Don’t worry, my darling.” Tony assured you. “I love when people talk about me. It doesn’t really matter what they say as long as I’m the subject. What did you say that makes me? A narcissist?”

“Precisely. Though it’s not just your behavior that leads me to that conclusion. The giant building with your name on the side that we passed on the way here helped.” Aaron replied, making you cover your face in embarrassment. Pepper came into the room just then and immediately went to May.

“You’re here! I’ve missed you.” Pepper smiled as she hugged May tightly.

“I’ve missed you too.” May sighed. “We need to do this more.”

“I agree.” Pepper said as she went over to you and Peter. She hugged you both hello before looking at Tony.

“What’s wrong with you two?” Pepper wondered as she gestured between Aaron and Tony.

“They’re men. They’re weird.” May shrugged.

“Excuse me. Hi, I’m Aaron.” Your dad dropped his icy attitude and shook Peppers hand.

“Pepper.” Pepper smiled warmly.

“What? No analysis?” Tony wondered.

“I haven’t figured her out yet.” Aaron said, making Pepper smile proudly. Jack, who had been busy hiding behind your leg, noticed Morgan playing in the living room. They made eye contact and Morgan waved for him to come over.

“Jack. Do you want to go play?” You asked as you bent down to your brother. Jack stayed silent as he shook his head.

“He’s a little shy.” Aaron explained, not wanting Morgan to feel disappointed.

“I got it.” Peter said as he bent down as well.

“Jack, why don’t you tell Morgan about the Lego Death Star we built? Go tell her how many pieces.” Peter suggested. Jack nodded and ran over to where Morgan was.

“I’m Jack.” Jack said quietly.

“I’m Morgan. Do you want to see my room?” Morgan asked.

“Okay.” Jack nodded and they left together. Tony and Aaron felt the tension between them begin to melt now that their kids were playing together.

“She’s cute. How old is she?” Aaron asked.

“6. And already the head of the household.” Tony answered. “What about your boy?”

“7.” Aaron replied.

“Ah. Anything I need to know about 7 year olds before I have one of my own in two months?” Tony wondered.

“Well he’s currently in a phase where he eats chapstick when we’re not looking. Unlike last week where he refused to eat anything that wasn’t orange.”

“Yeah.” Tony sighed happily. “Morgan has recently decided she hates her name and will only respond to “Miss Sprinkles”. She also fully believes she is a horse and makes us feed her.”

“Because of the hooves?” Aaron smiled.

“Because of the hooves.” Pepper confirmed.

“Jack had a phase like that.” Aaron chuckled. “He changed his name to Spot for about a year and would only speak in barks.”

“Ah yes. The Spot year. That was a good one.” You smiled at the memory.

“Who’s hungry?” Pepper asked the room.

“I am. This way to the dining room, ladies and gentlemen.” Tony said as he nodded towards the dining room. You and Peter exchanged a relieved look as you walked to the dining room together. Your dad saw the way Peter pulled your chair out for you and smiled a little to himself. You and Peter got up to help Pepper serve everyone as Tony disappeared into the kitchen. When he came back, he placed an orange on Jacks plate, making Jack light up in excitement. Aaron looked at Tony curiously and Tony just shrugged.

“You said he liked orange, so.” Tony said sheepishly.

“I did say that.” Aaron smiled. “Jack, what do you say?”

“Thank you, Mr. Stark.” Jack said through a shy smile.

“Don’t mention it, buddy. You know, your dad said that if you eat all your vegetables, you can wear my iron mask after dinner.”

“Did I say that?” Aaron tilted his head.

“I definitely heard you say that.” You chimed in.

“So did I.” Peter added.

“Fine.” Aaron agreed. “But only if you eat all your vegetables, Jack.”

“Wanna see who can finish them first?” Morgan asked. Jack eagerly nodded and they began to race to finish the broccoli on their plates.

May and Pepper took on the task of breaking the ice and soon enough, everyone was laughing and having a good time. You had never seen your dad smile so many times in one evening and you took that as a good sign. You reached over and squeezed Peters hand to let him know you appreciated the effort he was making. After dinner, Jack grabbed his orange and brought it over to Peter.

“Can you open this, please?” Jack asked.

“Yeah, dude. Here you go.” Peter handed him the orange back after beginning to peel it.

“Thanks Peter.” Jack smiled before running off to play with Morgan. Tony was showing Jack and Morgan the iron suit while you, May, and Pepper were getting dessert ready, leaving Peter alone at the table with your dad. Peter heard Aaron chuckle a little and tensed up.

“What?”

“I’m sitting right here and my son just asked you to open his orange.” Aaron said with a sad smile.

“Oh. I’m sure he didn’t mean anything by it.” Peter tried to assure him.

“Probably not. But it says a little something about how often I’m away.” Aaron sighed. “He needed help and his first instinct wasn’t to come to me because I’m not normally there. But you are. So now when he needs help, he goes to you.”

“I’m sorry.” Peter said quietly. He didn’t know what else to say to help the situation and worried that he just permanently screwed things up with your dad.

“Don’t be. It’s a good thing that he feels comfortable with you. He doesn’t like a lot of people.” Aaron said as he looked at Peter.

“It’s probably just because I’m over so often. I get to see him all the time.”

“Yeah. I wish I could say the same.” Aaron smiled sadly and looked away.

“Sir, what you do is incredible.” Peter began. “I’m sure you wish you could be home more often, but you’re gone because you’re out there making the world a safer place. Jack will understand that when he’s older. I know Y/n does.”

“I hope so. I just worry he’ll grow up and feel like he doesn’t know me. I think he’s already starting to resent me.”

“With all due respect sir, you couldn’t be more wrong. Jack adores you. You know what his favorite game to play together is?“

“What?”

“He calls it “working the case”. Basically, we play as FBI agents and solve cringed. It’s his favorite thing to do. He made me and Y/n matching badges and everything. And you know what character he always wants to be?”

“What’s that?” Aaron smiled, happy to know Jack still played the game the two of them made up.

“Unit chief.” Peter answered. “He says that’s the most important person in the FBI.”

“It’s not.” Aaron chuckled.

“To him it is.” Peter shrugged. “You’re his hero.”

“You know, you’re a good kid, Peter. I was wrong about you.” Aaron said as he smiled fondly at Peter.

“How did you feel about me before?” Peter wondered.

“I didn’t like you.” Aaron admitted. “But that’s just because you’re dating my daughter. That automatically makes you the enemy.”

“Y/n said you would say that.” Peter chuckled.

“I bet she did.” Aaron smiled. “I hope you know my feelings weren’t personal, Peter. Ever since I adopted Y/n, all I wanted to do was protect her. It’s hard to do that when I’m gone so often. But seeing the two of you together just reminds me that….”

“That I protect her?” Peter asked when Aaron trailed off.

“No. It reminds me that she doesn’t need protection. Do you seriously think my daughter needs you to protect her?” Aaron asked sternly, making all the color drain from Peters face. Before Peter could explain himself, Aaron cracked a smile to reveal that he was joking.

“That was entrapment.” Peter playfully whined.

“Yeah.” Aaron chuckled. “That’s what the kids call it these days”.

Peter could hardly believe your dad who allegedly hated jokes had made a surprisingly funny joke. He hoped it meant he had charmed your dad enough for him to let his guard down.

“Excuse me. My technical analyst, Garcia, wants to know how dinner went. I’ll tell her it went well.” Aaron said as he pulled out his buzzing phone.

“That’s nice of her.” Peter smiled. “What did she say?”

“Yass mama kiki vagina slay the house down boots sissy that walk.” Aaron read the text out loud with a blank expression.

“Oh.”

“I’m not sure I know what that means.” Aaron said quietly and put his phone down.

“I think she’s just relieved it went well.”

“That makes two of us. I was actually quite nervous for this dinner.” Aaron admitted.

“You were nervous? I thought you were gonna shoot me.”

“Don’t be silly. I never come to dinner armed.” Aaron waved his hand.

“I don’t believe you.” Peter said as he narrowed his eyes at your dad.

“You shouldn’t.” He smiled a little and pulled open his blazer to reveal a gun strapped to his hip. They both laughed and shared a fond smile with each other. Peter felt he had successfully gotten on your dads good side, and Aaron felt the same.

“Desserts ready.” You said as you came back into the room with the plate of cookies that May had made. You noticed your dads blazer was opened a little and saw his gun.

“Dad, you didn’t pull your gun on Peter, did you?” You asked. “You promised you wouldn’t.”

“Relax.” Aaron assured you. “I like Peter. I wouldn’t do anything to hurt him.”

“Really? You like Peter?” You asked hopefully as you sat down beside your dad.

“You didn’t let me finish. I wouldn’t do anything to hurt him unless he gave me a reason to.” Aaron said as he pulled his blazer back to reveal his gun again. Peter couldn’t tell if he was serious or not, but when you laughed and rolled your eyes, he felt himself relax.

“So we can continue dating?” You asked with a hopeful smile. You reached across the table for Peters hand and the both of you looked at your dad for an answer.

“You’re the smartest girl I know. You don’t need me to make your decisions for you. That being said, I can sleep easy tonight knowing you have good taste in the company you keep.” Aaron smiled as his eyes flickered to Peter. Peter sighed in relief as you threw your arms around your dad.

“Yay!” You cheered. “Thank you, daddy.”

“Daddy?” Peter snorted. “I thought I was the only one you called that.

“What was that, young man?” Aaron asked sternly, all playfulness in his voice long gone. You gave Peter a shocked look as his face burned bright red.

Elijah had kept a professional relationship of sorts with the Salvatores and Elena. He made a deal, offered some benefits and gained what he needed.

But Y/N, she had no place in the deal except for being one of Elena’s loved ones. When he had saved the others, they still treated him with disdain. However, upon rescuing Y/N from the wolves, she’d continued to hug him tight. Arms up around his neck as she whimpered.

“They’re gone” he murmured, though his arms were still looped around her waist. “You’re safe…” his eyes fluttered, her warmth making his skin tingle beneath the suit.

“Thank you.” She whispered, slowly releasing his blazer and settling down onto her feet. Y/N glanced back, sighing at the sight of the werewolves dead across the floor. Yet somehow, Elijah didn’t have a speck of blood on him. Her hand went to his, and he could tell when he looked into her eyes that she was still scared.

“Let me walk you back home.” He nodded, leading her past the bodies, gently lifting her by the waist while he stepped over them. She stayed close to him, slowly becoming calm as they walked through town.

“You’re really strong.” She told him, her cheeks already a shade of pink. “Those wolves nearly killed Damon, I don’t know how you fight them all at once.”

“Fortunately, I’m a much more advanced vampire than young Damon.” He smiled, his eyes glancing just for a brief second to her lips.

“Because you’re an original?” Her head tilted as they came to stop outside her house. “How old does that make you exactly?”

“A little over a thousand.” He smiled, his hand letting go of hers. “So perhaps a year or two over your limit.” His eyes deepened when her cheeks got redder and she let out a laugh.

“Maybe” she scratched the back of her neck and stepped forward, hugging him once more. “Thank you, again.” Y/N smiled before heading into her house. Elijah lingered for a moment longer before vanishing into the night.

He had developed a soft spot for her. That much was obvious just from the way he spoke to her in comparison to the others. Elijah was happy to hear her out. When the others daggered him, he knew she had nothing to do with it.

That much was clear when they undaggered him. She was hugging him once again, apologising that it had happened him. Asking if it hurt, if he still hurt. Elijah enjoyed her warmth, the care radiating off her as if she’d known him for years. He hugged her back, holding her to him and breathing in her scent.

However, despite his centuries worth of self control, he could feel his blood rushing south. Slowly, he untangled himself from her and smiled.

“It’s late.” He nodded, squeezing her hand gently before releasing her. “You should be in bed so you’re safe.”

“I was gonna go stay with Bonnie, so she’s not alone down there.” She explained and though he liked how sweet and considerate she was, he didn’t want her being at risk.

“I’m sure Miss Bennett will be perfectly fine. I hear she has managed to engage in a ‘face-time’.” The last two words were said with a slight questioning tone that made Y/N laugh.

“Well…”

“I think it would be best if you were inside, where you’re safe.” He gently turned her to face her house. “Niklaus isn’t one to show mercy.” And because she trusted him, she went back home.

Unfortunately, Elijah wasn’t able to see her again until Damon woke him.

After showering, getting into a new suit and getting a hair cut, he made his way to her house. The door opened before he could knock making him smile.

“You’re back!” She beamed before hugging him again and taking his hand. “Come in!” She tugged him and the second his foot went over the threshold, he knew he’d be seeing a lot more of her. Visiting in the day…perhaps once or twice in the night to check on her. “Your hair looks nice.” Y/N reached up, her fingers gliding through it and messing up the style.

“Thank you.” He murmured, his eyes flickering to her lips again. She pulled her hand away slowly and smiled.

“Are you thirsty?” She asked and he suppressed a smirk.

“Parched.”

He sat quietly, accepting the glass of water and watching her sit opposite him. “I hope my brother hasn’t been too much of a bother.” He sighed and she shrugged.

“He’s been a little troublesome.” She laughed and he shook his head in dismay.

“Has he hurt you?” He questioned and her head shook.

“No, he’s only really hurt Damon since he got back.” She shrugged and he chuckled.

“Well that’s…expected.” Elijah mused, “though I should warn you that I’ll be waking the rest of my siblings this evening. I hope your friends won’t face any more harm but I can’t promise their safety from all of my siblings.” He glanced down, slightly disappointed with himself.

“Elijah, you know that it’s not your job to protect everyone, right?” She asked and he fell silent. After a moment, she reached over to hold his hand, her fingers touching his daylight ring. “Do you all wear the same design?” She changed the subject but still showed the same amount of interest.

“Our mother made them shortly after we turned, when we realised the sun burned us.” He nodded, stretching his fingers out for her to admire it. But as he felt her gaze, he couldn’t help but wonder if she was looking at them and thinking of anything else.

“Do you like being a vampire?” She asked quietly and he looked to her, seeing the genuine curiosity in her eyes.

“I enjoyed being human.” He answered vaguely but she nodded with understanding.

“What was it like back then?”

“Different. Five of us had to share a room, we were struggling, but we were happy.” The furrow in his brow made her heart clench. Elijah was slightly surprised when she stood at his side, his hand between both of hers. “Now, Niklaus controls us with daggers and keeps us in coffins.” His throat cleared and he too stood. “I’m going to fix that tonight.”

“Good luck, Elijah.” She smiled and leant up on her toes to kiss his cheek.

He let her words ring through his mind once more as he pulled the last dagger from Finn’s chest.

Within a few days, he had personally pushed an envelope through her door, and sat patiently at home, carefully selecting which bow tie he would wear for the ball. Rebekah could tell instantly that he was trying to impress someone after he had changed the way his hair was brushed three times.

“So…what’s her name?” She pressed as he checked his tuxedo again.

“I should have a waistcoat.” He murmured and Rebekah rolled her eyes.

“You look fine, Elijah, now who is she?”

“Y/N.” He answered faintly and Rebekah beamed.

“What does she look like? What will she be wearing? Are you sending her a car? Are you going to meet her at the door?”

The questions were fired left, right and centre. Elijah’s head was spinning, his mouth failing to form any answers.

He did in fact, linger by the door, listening intently as people approached the door and quickly heading out when heard her thank the driver. In a flash, he was at her side and offering his arm.

“Well, I know they say you’re a gentleman but I didn’t expect all this.” She laughed, smiling brightly at him as he led them inside.

“You should expect higher of me.” He teased, welcoming her inside and shooting Rebekah a look when she immediately moved to come over. “You look,” he took a breath, glancing her over slowly before looking back to her eyes. “Exquisite.” He landed on, swallowing thickly as he felt his cheeks blush.

“Thank you.” She smiled, her hand coming to rest on his arm making him unconsciously flex the muscle. “You look lovely.” She squeezed the muscle lightly, her eyes glancing down at it when she felt how firm he was.

“I have to go to the stairs for my mother’s welcome but I’ll find you for the dance.” He promised, Y/N let him go and smiled as he kept glancing back, making sure she didn’t suddenly disappear.

Her hand was back in his soon enough, his hand tentative against her waist. Y/N slid her hand to his shoulder, admiring the fabric of his suit.

“So, how has it been with your mother back?” She asked and he offered a half hearted smile.

“It’s been a very long time…she’s spent her time on the other side planning out demise. I think it’s fair to say that I’m not entire convinced of her performance yet.” He explained, voice low and serious.

“Well you better not go anywhere.” She teased and he preened.

“Of course not.”

Elijah danced with her until almost everyone had left. Only then did he walk her back to the car, reluctant to let her leave but also not wanting to appear so forward as to ask her to stay the night. He wouldn’t want her in such proximity to his siblings anyway.

“Goodnight, Y/N.” He whispered, his hand on hers still lingering. Y/N tilted her head, clearly waiting for something but when Elijah didn’t move she ended up leaning up herself to kiss him goodbye. Elijah’s hand came up to cup her face, his body stepping forward and pressing her back to the car. When her lips parted he felt the veins raise from beneath his eyes and his fangs ache. He pulled away, forcing himself to look away but her hands pulled him to look back at her.

He could see the slither of fear in her, though it was quickly masked as she kissed him again. Her hand against his chest made his heart soar but it also made him ravenous. Y/N moaned softly into his mouth as his hands held her tight, one hand grasping her rear making her gasp against him.

Elijah panted softly, turning his head away once again in an attempt to push his beast back down. “Forgive me.” He breathed, sliding his hand back up to her waist. Y/N leaned up, pressing her lips to his cheek for a lingering kiss before gently pushing his arms away.

“Goodnight, Elijah.” She smiled, settling down into the car and looking at him through the window and the driver set off.

Elijah remained stood outside for a minute or two after, needing the cool night air to help settle him.

He thought it had, but once he was back in his room, looking at the fresh sheets he had laid just in case, he couldn’t help but imagine her there. Quietly, the door was clicked shut and he settled down into his chair at his desk. His gaze set on his bed just imagining her.

How she would giggle, smile at him. Nervous but eager.

Slowly, his hands pulled his trousers open before sliding under the waistband of his boxers. He shuddered at the touch; he hadn’t realised quite how hard he’d become. He handled himself gently, pulling himself out into the open air and picturing her sweet face. Her soft hands wrapping around him. Stroking shyly.

His eyes fell closed, allowing him to picture her smile, to hear her breathy words as her thumb would roll over his tip. Elijah’s hips stuttered up, but he reminded himself that he’d take his time with her. Let her explore. He teased his balls, wondering how she would fondle them, how tight she would grip his cock. If she’d dare to put it in her mouth. A groan left him at the thought.

The drawers beside him were opened hastily, a squirt of cool cream squirted into his hand before being spread generously along his length. He moaned at the wet sound when he stroked quickly, instead of her mouth, he craved her pussy.

The thought of her on top of him, thighs over his as she rocked her hips. He’d finally see her breasts, feel them against him, in his hands and his mouth. How tight her pussy would be, how hot and soft.

His hips thrust up without restraint, fucking his own fist viscously as he imagined her begging him to go faster- harder.

She’d let him on top of her, legs around him, perhaps even over his shoulder as he thrust deep into her. Elijah tried to imagine the sounds she’d make, how needy her moans would be when she came. Would she like it slow and intimate? Or would she let him turn her over? Put her on all fours and caress her hips as he took her from behind.

A desperate sound came out of him, his hand moving impossibly fast as I came across his floor, spurting thick, hot streaks across the carpet and imagining how she would cry for more.

After a moment, he released himself, sinking into his chair with a long breath. His cheeks went red, as if he were embarrassed with himself. He was, a little.

But that didn’t stop him from wrapping his fingers back around himself the next morning, wishing desperately that he had asked her to come to bed with him.

But soon, his attention was torn from Y/N and placed back on his family. His mother’s plotting and his siblings demises. Once their mother had fled, Kol and Fin disappeared too. Rebekah had decided to stay and Elijah did too, though this time he did not stay for Niklaus.

She closed her eyes, feeling the bed shift as he moved behind her. His fingers wrapped around her wrist, thumb pressing against her pulse point.

"The radial artery," he murmured, his breath warm against her ear. "Right here. Can you feel your heartbeat under my thumb?"

She could. Her heart was doing complicated things that had nothing to do with anatomy and everything to do with his proximity. His fingers traced up her forearm, pressing gently.

"The radius bone runs here, along the thumb side of your forearm. And just beside it..." His other hand traced a parallel line. "The ulna. Two bones working together to let you rotate your wrist. Like this."

He demonstrated by turning her hand palm-up, then palm-down. “Now you'll remember," he said, voice thick with amusement. "Because you'll think of this every time you look at that textbook."

"That's cheating," Y/N breathed.

"It’s effective teaching." His hands slid higher, fingers trailing along the inside of her elbow. "The brachial artery branches here. Major blood vessel. Very dangerous to sever. I've seen men bleed out in minutes from a wound right here."

"You're supposed to be helping me study, not giving me nightmares."

"I'm doing both." She could hear the grin in his voice. "Where's the humerus, love?"

"Upper arm bone. Runs from shoulder to elbow."

"Good girl." His hands moved to her shoulders, thumbs pressing into the joint. "And here's where it connects to the scapula. Feel that? The way it rotates in the socket?"

He guided her arm through a slow circle, and she was acutely aware that this was the least educational anatomy lesson in the history of education.

"Now," Klaus said, his hands settling on her ribcage, "tell me what organs the ribs protect."

"Heart and lungs," she managed, though thinking was becoming increasingly difficult with his palms warm against her sides.

"And where exactly is your heart, sweetheart?" His hand slid to rest over her left breast, palm flat against where her heart was hammering. "Right here. Between the fourth and fifth ribs, slightly left of center. I can feel it racing."

"That's because you're being distracting."

"Am I now?" His thumb traced the curve of her bottom rib. "The liver sits here, on your right side, just beneath the ribcage. Largest internal organ. Extremely vascular, which means—"

"It bleeds a lot if damaged. I know. I read that part."

"But now you'll remember it." His hands spanned her waist. "Because you'll remember this."

Y/N opened her eyes and turned her head to find him watching her with that intense focus that still made her stomach flip even after three years.

"This is the worst study method ever," she said.

"Is it working?"

She grabbed the textbook, flipping to a diagram of the skeletal system. "Radius is thumb-side forearm bone. Ulna is pinky-side. Humerus is upper arm. Scapula is shoulder blade. Heart between fourth and fifth ribs, left of center. Liver right side, beneath ribs."

Klaus's grin was absolutely wicked. "See? Effective. You're going to ace this exam." He pulled her into his lap, textbook and all. "Now, shall we discuss the skeletal structure of the hand? I have very strong opinions about metacarpals."

"Of course you do."

But she didn't pull away. And when he started explaining the twenty-seven bones in the human hand while tracing each one on her palm, she actually retained the information. Even if he was using a thousand years of creative violence to help her pass anatomy.

· · ─────────── ·· ────────── · ·

Klaus was sprawled across his bed the following evening, reading a first edition of Byron's poetry. One he'd acquired directly from the source back in 1816. That’s when Y/N burst through the door with her anatomy textbook and a determined expression. 

"Take your shirt off."

He lowered the book slowly, one eyebrow arching in amusement as a slow smirk spread across his face. "Well, love, I appreciate the enthusiasm, but generally there's a bit more preamble. Perhaps some—"

"I need to study muscles," she interrupted, already pulling sticky notes and markers from her bag. "You have muscles. Take your shirt off."

The smirk faltered slightly. "You want me to...what, exactly?"

"Be my anatomical model." She was flipping through the textbook, completely focused. "Yesterday you helped with bones and organs. Today I need to map muscle groups. The trapezius, deltoids, pectoralis major, all of it. So. Shirt. Off."

Klaus set the book aside, genuinely caught off guard for possibly the first time in decades.

"You're serious."

"Dead serious. I have an exam in three days and I still can't tell the difference between the flexor carpi radialis and the flexor carpi ulnaris."

"Those are in the forearm, love."

"I KNOW." She looked up at him with those eyes that had been wrecking his composure for three years. "Which is why I need a three-dimensional reference. Please?"

He couldn't quite suppress his grin as he sat up and pulled his henley over his head in one smooth motion. "You know, most people would just use diagrams."

"Most people don't have a thousand-year-old vampire boyfriend with perfect muscle definition." She stepped closer, textbook in one hand, sticky notes in the other. "Now hold still."

For the next twenty minutes, Klaus discovered what it was like to be treated as a living anatomy chart. Y/N circled him with scientific precision, comparing his actual musculature to the diagrams in her book. She pressed her fingers against his shoulder, feeling the way the deltoid connected, her touch clinical but maddening. 

Klaus's breath hitched. It was subtle, just the slightest catch, but enough that he had to close his eyes and concentrate on maintaining his composure. Legendary self-control, and here he was, undone by her fingertips tracing the contours of his shoulder.

She scribbled "DELTOID - raises arm laterally" on a pink sticky note and pressed it onto his skin, completely oblivious to the effect she was having.

Her fingers moved to his chest, mapping the pectoralis major with careful attention. Klaus kept his eyes firmly shut, jaw tight.

"You alright?" she asked absently, not looking up from her textbook.

"Perfectly fine, love." His voice came out rougher than intended. "Just...focusing."

Another sticky note landed on his chest. Her palm pressed flat against his sternum as she smoothed it down. His breathing definitely wasn't steady anymore.

She moved to his back, and he felt her fingers trace the line of his trapezius from neck to shoulder blade. The touch was exploratory and entirely innocent in intent. But it was driving him absolutely mad.

"This is absolutely ridiculous," he muttered, more to himself than to her.

"This is effective studying. You said so yourself yesterday."

"Yes, but yesterday I was the one doing the teaching. This is different."

"How so?"

"Because yesterday I got to touch you. Today I'm supposed to sit here like a statue while you—" He broke off as her fingers found the tricep. "Bloody hell."

She patted his shoulder absently, already moving on to label different muscle groups. By the time she'd covered his arms, shoulders, chest, and back with sticky notes, Klaus looked like he'd been attacked by an overeagerly organized student, and his self-control was hanging by a thread.

Then her eyes landed on his paint supplies.

"Oh, that's perfect."

"What's perfect? Y/N, what are you—"

She'd already grabbed his cadmium red and a fine brush. "The book shows the muscles in different colors to distinguish them. If I outline them on you, I can see exactly where they start and stop."

"Absolutely not."

"Klaus, please? It'll wash off."

"I'm a hybrid, not a canvas!"

But she was already uncapping the paint with a look that meant arguing was pointless. He sighed, resigned to his fate. "You're lucky I love you."

"I know." She dipped the brush in red paint. "Now flex your arm."

Klaus sighed, obeying her commands snd she just...stopped. Stared. Her eyes fixed on the way his bicep curved under the skin, the definition of muscle that came from a millennium of fighting. 

Klaus's eyes opened. The corner of his mouth twitched. "See something you like, sweetheart?"

She blinked, cheeks flushing. "I'm studying."

"Studying requires looking at the textbook occasionally." His smirk widened. "You've been staring at my arm for fifteen seconds which I would know because I counted."

"I was comparing it to the diagram."

"The diagram is on the table behind you, my love"

Her blush deepened. "Shut up."

"Make me." His voice dropped lower, teasing. "Or are you too busy admiring the brachialis? Perhaps the biceps brachii? I can flex again if you need a longer look." He flexed again, deliberately slow. "What happened to clinical detachment, love? All that scientific focus?"

"I hate you," she muttered, but she was fighting a smile as she finally pressed the brush to his skin.

She traced the bicep, her tongue caught between her teeth in concentration. The paint was cool against his skin, her touch feather-light as she followed the muscle's contour from shoulder to elbow. Klaus watched her work, and despite the torment of sitting still while she touched him so innocently, there was something quietly perfect about this moment. The little furrow between her brows and even the way she muttered anatomical terms under her breath.

She switched to blue for the triceps, yellow for the deltoid, and green for the pectoralis major. "There," she finally announced, stepping back to admire her work. "Perfect. Now I can actually see how everything connects."

Klaus looked down at himself covered in paint outlines and sticky notes, looking like the world's most ridiculous anatomy lesson.

"I look like a child's art project."

"You look educational." She was already taking photos with her phone from different angles. "This is going to help so much."

"Thrilled to be of service," he said dryly. 

She laughed, finally looking up from her phone to really look at him. "Thank you. I know this is weird."

"Weird doesn't begin to cover it, love." He plucked a sticky note off his chest. "But if it helps you pass your exam, I suppose I can endure the indignity."

"My hero," she teased.

"Speaking of which." He stood, paint-covered and sticky-note-decorated, and closed the distance between them. "Since you've quite literally decorated me, I think it's only fair you help clean it off."

"I was going to let you shower—"

In one smooth motion, he had her lifted over his shoulder. "Klaus!"

"You put it there, sweetheart. You're helping wash it off." He was already heading toward his bathroom, her protests dissolving into laughter. "Consider it additional anatomy study. I'll even quiz you on muscle function while we're at it."

"That's not how studying works!"

"It is now."

The shower turned on, steam immediately beginning to fog the glass. Klaus set her down just long enough to start pulling sticky notes off himself, dropping them in a colorful pile on the bathroom counter.

"This is going to take forever," Y/N protested, but she was already pulling her sweater over her head. "Some of those paint lines are really detailed."

"Then I suppose we'll be here a while." He stepped under the spray, colored water already running down his chest as the paint began to dissolve. He held out his hand. "Coming, love?"

She took it, stepping into the shower with him, warm water cascading over them both. "You're going to quiz me, aren't you."

"Absolutely." His hands were already working shampoo through her hair, fingers massaging her scalp. "What's the largest muscle in the human body?"

"Gluteus maximus."

"Good girl." His hands slid down her back deliberately, finding exactly that muscle and squeezing with intent.

She gasped against him. "Klaus—"

"What? I'm being educational." But his smirk was absolutely wicked. "And what does the sartorius do?"

She tried to focus through the distraction of his hands still kneading her backside. "Flexes the hip and knee. It's the longest muscle in the body."

"Excellent." He pressed a kiss to her temple, then without warning, lifted her effortlessly against the shower wall. Her legs wrapped around his waist instinctively as the water streamed over both of them.

"What muscle did I just use to lift you?" he asked, voice dropping lower. Her brain scrambled to function while pressed against tile, held up by nothing but his strength.

"The—the deltoids helped. Biceps. Core muscles for stabilization."

"Very good, sweetheart." One hand slid up her thigh, squeezing the muscle there. "And what muscle is this?"

"Quadriceps," she breathed.

His hand moved higher, fingers tracing, caressing. "And this?"

"Adductors. Inner thigh."

"Mmm. You're doing so well." His lips found her neck, teeth grazing. "What about here?" His hand splayed across her ribcage.

"External obliques."

"Perfect." The word rumbled against her throat. "See how much better you remember when there's proper motivation?"

"This is—" She lost her train of thought entirely when his thumb traced circles against her hip. "This is not proper study technique."

"Isn't it? You're answering every question correctly." He shifted his hold, demonstrating his point. "What muscles am I using now to keep you exactly where I want you?"

She was trembling, and not from the cooling water.

"Deltoids, biceps, pectorals for...for holding. Core strength. Gluteus maximus for hip extension and—oh god—"

"Keep going, love. You're doing brilliantly."

"I can't think when you're—"

"When I'm what?" Pure innocence in his tone, completely contradicted by the way his hands were mapping her body. "I'm simply providing hands-on education. You said you needed a three-dimensional reference."

“I did?” 

“Mhm. And you're going to ace this exam,” he finally lowered her back to her feet, though his hands remained at her waist. "Because every time you look at those diagrams, you're going to remember this. Aren't you?"

Her legs were unsteady, her heart was racing, and yes, she was absolutely going to remember every single muscle group now. "You're very pleased with yourself."

"Extremely." He tucked wet hair behind her ear. "Now, let's actually wash this paint off before the water runs cold. And I expect you to identify every muscle I use while doing so."

"You're going to make me work for this, aren't you?"

"Always, sweetheart." His grin was devastating. They stayed in the shower until every trace of color had washed away, Klaus continuing his relentless anatomical quiz while she scrubbed paint from his skin, both of them laughing when she got an answer wrong and he found creative ways to help her remember the correct one.

By the time they finally emerged, wrapped in towels with the bathroom thick with steam, Y/N had successfully memorized twelve major muscle groups and several creative applications thereof. And Klaus had a pile of sticky notes on his counter that he absolutely was not throwing away, along with the private satisfaction of knowing his girlfriend would never look at an anatomy textbook the same way again.

· · ─────────── ·· ────────── · ·

Klaus drove into her, his hands gripping her hips as she lay beneath him. But something felt off. Her responses were all there. The usual soft gasps and the way her body arched but her focus wasn't. Her hands weren't clutching at him desperately as they usually did; instead, they were...exploring. They were focused and dare he say too focused as they traced patterns across his shoulders and down his spine.

He slowed his movements, watching her face. Her eyes were slightly unfocused, her brow furrowed in concentration that had nothing to do with pleasure.

"Are you..." he began, disbelief coloring his tone, "Are you studying my musculature while I'm fucking you?"

Y/N's eyes snapped to his, a guilty flush spreading across her cheeks. "What? No! I'm—" she broke off as his expression darkened. "Maybe a little?"

Klaus stilled completely, still buried inside her, his jaw tightening. "Let me understand this correctly," he said, his accent thickening dangerously. "I have you naked beneath me, my cock inside you, and you're using this opportunity to mentally catalog my trapezius?"

She bit her lip, fighting a smile despite the tension. "It's just...they're right there," she explained weakly as he drops his head into the crook of his neck "And they're so well-defined when you're holding yourself up like this. I can see exactly where the latissimus dorsi connects to—"

"Oh my god." Klaus lifted his head to stare at her in utter disbelief. "I'm literally inside you and you're thinking about anatomy."

"It's your fault!" She tried to defend herself, fighting the smile tugging at her lips. "You made me use you as a study model and now I can't stop thinking about it!"

"That was supposed to help you pass your exam, not ruin our sex life!"

"It's not ruining—"

Klaus cut her off with a growl, pulling out of her entirely and flipping her onto her stomach in one fluid movement. Before she could protest, he'd pinned her wrists above her head with one hand. "If you insist on treating me like an anatomy lesson," he murmured against her ear, his free hand sliding beneath her to lift her hips, "then I'll make certain it's one you won't forget."

He entered her again, the new angle drawing a genuine gasp from her lips. "Now," he continued, his voice conversational as he established a punishing rhythm, "since you're so interested in muscle function, let's discuss what's happening right now."

His hand released her wrists to slide down her back, following the curve of her spine. "The erector spinae," he informed her, fingers tracing the muscles along either side of her vertebrae, "contracts to arch your back just like this."

His hand moved to grip her hip, fingers digging into the flesh there. "The gluteus medius," he continued, punctuating the words with a deep thrust that made her cry out, "stabilizes your pelvis while I'm taking you."

"Klaus," she moaned, all thoughts of studying forgotten as her fingers clutched at the sheets.

"No, no," he chided, reaching around to cup her breast, thumb circling her nipple. "Pay attention, love. This is educational. The pectoralis major," he squeezed gently, "so sensitive to touch."

His other hand slid between her legs, finding her center with ease. "And here," he murmured, circling the bundle of nerves with his fingers as he continued to move within her, "is where all those nerve endings converge. Fascinating bit of anatomy, wouldn't you agree?"

Y/N could only respond with incoherent sounds of pleasure, her body trembling beneath his expert touch.

"I asked you a question," he prompted, slowing his movements until she whimpered in protest.

"Yes," she gasped out. "Fascinating. Please, Klaus—"

"Please what?" His voice was silk wrapped around steel. "Continue the anatomy lesson?"

"No!" she cried out. "Just...please."

He leaned down, his chest pressed against her back, lips at her ear. "I want to hear you say it," he demanded softly. "Tell me where your attention is now."

"On you," she breathed. "You. I swear."

He smiled against her skin, satisfaction evident in the curve of his lips. "Good girl," he praised, resuming his earlier pace. "Now, shall I demonstrate what happens when these muscles contract all at once?"

His fingers moved faster against her center, his thrusts becoming more intense as he drove her toward the edge.

"Klaus!" she cried out, her body tightening around him as release crashed over her.

He followed her moments later, his own release punctuated by a low groan against her neck. They collapsed together, a tangle of limbs and ragged breathing. After several moments, Klaus rolled onto his side, pulling her against his chest. His fingers traced lazy patterns on her arm as their breathing returned to normal.

"So," he said finally, amusement coloring his tone, "did that help with your studies?"

Y/N turned in his arms to face him, her expression sheepish but satisfied. "Definitely," she admitted. "Though I'm not sure I could explain any of it on an exam."

"Perhaps not," he agreed, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. "But I guarantee you'll never look at a muscle diagram the same way again."

She laughed, burying her face against his chest. "You're never going to let me live this down, are you?"

Klaus shook his head, a rare genuine smile softening his features. "Next time you need to study," he suggested, pulling her closer, "perhaps just ask me to pose for you properly. Less distracting for both of us."

"Where's the fun in that?" she countered, but he was already pulling her on top of him, all thoughts of anatomy lesson forgotten as her lips found his once more.

· · ─────────── ·· ────────── · ·

Ordinarily, your work does not put you in the direct line of the Harbingers. You’re more of the downstairs kind; the neat little maid who peeps into bedrooms only when they’re empty, to dust mantelpieces and clear the ashes of fireplaces and make the beds so that the inhabitants of Zapolyarny Palace find their abode in perfect condition no matter when they return to it. In the rare cases that somebody does enter a room whilst you’re working, you’re to stand in front of the nearest wall and avert your eyes until they’ve passed, or until you can find a suitable moment to back out of the space and leave them to their business. Whatever that is.

One doesn’t get very far in this line of work if they’re too interested in what goes on behind closed doors here.

Speaking of closed doors: you have drawn to a stop before Lady Sandrone’s chamber door, the tea tray in hand. A brief frisson of fear goes through you: you are not used to being looked at. You are not used to having the eyes of your betters upon you. You try to resist the urge to pat your hair and pull at your clothes to make sure that you’re presentable: you’re certain they won’t give you more than a moment’s notice.

You’re simply furniture to them, you remind yourself, as you balance the tray carefully on one hand in order to give a sharp tap upon the door. A low, amused voice comes from within that most certainly does not belong to Lady Sandrone.

“Come in.”

Of course they do not get the door for you; that would make things far too easy. They probably have not even thought that you might struggle to do so: servants are furniture, after all. You carefully use your elbow to press down the door handle and your shoulder to push it open, thankful that they have at least thought to kept the door unlocked. You slowly enter the room, the teapot and the teacups on their heavy silver tray held before you like it is a sacrifice to them.

It takes a moment for your eyes to adjust, and when they do your breath catches in your throat at the sight of the four beautiful Fatui Harbinger women before you.

“Oh!” Lady Columbina – you recognise her, the ethereal woman with the mask over her eyes. “Our tea!”

They’re dressed as casually as you’ve ever seen; whenever the newspapers or magazines print images of Harbingers, they’re always draped in furs and silks, proud faces staring from the pages. But here, in Lady Sandrone’s rooms, they are dressed down as if ready to sleep. The Fair Lady reclines on a sofa in a ruffled nightgown. Lord Arlecchino wears slippers and a shirt open low in the chest. Lady Sandrone and Lady Columbina wear comfortable nightgowns – frilled and embroidered, naturally, and far more expensive than anything you’ve owned in your life, but undoubtedly nightwear all the same.

You try to bob into a curtsey and almost spill the tea, your cheeks going hot at the feeling of being looked at by all of them. Their attention focuses in upon you: far more than they would a piece of furniture.

“Oh,” purrs the Fair Lady, stretching out on the sofa like a cat before she pushes herself up. “Good. They sent a pretty one, like I asked.”

She moves towards you with purpose, with a leonine kind of grace that makes your heart beat too fast in your chest. The neckline of her nightgown hangs off her shoulder, and you’re struck suddenly by how much taller she is than you. How much this feels like a cat playing with a mouse.

“M-may I put the tray down and leave you in peace, My Lady?” You ask, your voice coming out in a nervous warble – and from the armchair in the room, a lower voice gives a satiny chuckle.

“You’re scaring them, Rosalyne,” says the Knave, and you see that despite her words she has a mild smile on her face. Lady Sandrone scowls.

“Put it down then,” she says. “Come into the room and let us look at you.”

“My . . . My Lord Harbingers--”

An impatient click of Sandrone’s tongue.

“We don’t have all day, you know,” she says, waspish. You’ve heard of Lady Sandrone having an awkward demeanour and a temper that’s quick to fire – you suppose they’re right. Still. You do not want to be getting on the wrong side of any Harbinger. You think helplessly of the tasks you haven’t yet gotten to (the windowsills are supposed to be dusted down, the grand table laid for supper) – but you’ve been witness to too many conversations about how the Harbingers treat those who displease them then to want to find yourself amongst those ranks.

Awkwardly, you bob another curtsey as you walk into the room proper. Signora gives a satisfied hum, and you just about manage to stop yourself from jumping in alarm when the door slams shut behind you and you hear the unmistakeable click of a key turning in the lock.

You place the tea tray upon the low table in the room. You’re grateful to see that not a drop of it has spilt. At least you can be certain of one thing amongst all of this strangeness.

You fist your hands in your apron, horribly aware of how it feels to have so many people’s eyes (although you’re not sure if you can truly consider the Damselette to be ‘looking’ at you) upon your form when you’re so used to being an invisible member of the masses. Signora walks back into the centre of the room, taking her place on the sofa once more although not lying prone upon it again. Instead, she leans forward slightly, interest colouring the one visible eye.

“Come here,” says the Knave, curling her fingers toward you and motioning to the spot in front of her chair. The Damselette has drifted towards the three other Harbingers and you now, taking a seat on the floor on her knees. There’s a faint smile on her face, too. Your cheeks still hot, you follow the instructions as a servant is supposed to, and find yourself stood before the woman. “Turn around and face the others,” she says, her voice still quiet and calm, strangely comforting in this unusual situation. You swallow audibly, but do as she says.

“My . . . Ladies?” You hazard, aloud, but your words are stopped in the air as quickly as they come when Arlecchino places her hands consideringly upon your hips, her fingers curling into the soft flesh there.

“Very nice,” says Signora, appreciatively. Sandrone makes a soft harrumph.

“They’ll do, I suppose,” she says, as Columbina stands from her position and practically floats over to Marionette. That faint smile on her face does not budge an inch, as she lays a hand on Sandrone’s shoulder and gives her own nod of assent, humming out a snatch of melody. A faint flush rises in Sandrone’s cheeks.

“D-do for what?” You ask, your voice coming out quiet and warbling in the room, which suddenly seems to have gotten ten times hotter than before. Arlecchino laughs softly, her hands curving down over your hips, lower and lower beneath the apron and the skirt of your uniform, until they alight on bare thigh. You let out a surprised cry, realise what you’re doing, and try to stop the cry in its tracks by biting into your lower lip.

“Oh,” Signora practically coos, and now she’s standing too, walking towards you with a sultry sway in her hips. You hadn’t realised just how tall she was before, but your eyeline is roughly around her generous chest before she leans down towards you and uses one finger to tilt your chin up to look her in the eye. “Absolutely adorable. I think I’ll allow myself the pleasure of being first.”

“First--?”

Your words are stopped by Signora’s hand wrapping around the back of your head and pulling you in for a kiss that feels like it burns down to your bones.

There’s a cry of complaint from across the room that you think comes from Sandrone, but you can’t concentrate with the Fair Lady’s mouth pressed against yours, soft and cool and full. Her tongue laps across the seam of your lips, and in surprise you open them and she takes the opening and slips it into your mouth. Arlecchino’s hands on your thighs move to grip, holding you in place – but her fingertips come far too close to the place between your legs, and panic alights like a dull flashing light in your brain.

Your gasp is swallowed up by the kiss you’ve found yourself in, though, and so you’re helpless to do anything other than let yourself be anchored in place and let Signora plunder your mouth hungrily.

After another long moment, another sweep of her tongue, she pulls back from you with a satisfied sigh and a wet pop. She regards you with a smile from beneath her half-closed eyelid.

“Oh, but you’re a sweetheart, aren’t you? Arlecchino, you ought to kiss them too, seeing as you helped so much . . .”

“These are my chambers--” Sandrone’s outraged voice seems to rise in pitch, but Signora turns and holds a finger up to the incensed other Harbinger. Columbina keeps her hand where it is, even as Sandrone seems to burn with the indignation of it.

“Watch. If anyone can work them over, it will be our Knave. You know what an effect Lord Arlecchino has on the . . . timid ones.”

You don’t know quite what you expect, but you don’t expect the tug backwards on your thighs until you find yourself pulled onto Arlecchino’s lap, all ungainly frills and aprons and lace and stockings. Your face is so hot you fear you could fry an egg on it, but you’re too scrambled by everything going on to say anything, as much as you want to babble out your apologies and run for the door.

Arlecchino, though, seems to know exactly what to do – she pulls you closer against her, rearranges your uniform, and then you find yourself sitting on her lap with your back to her front, your legs bracketing one of her solid thighs.

“Poor thing,” Arlecchino murmurs into your ear, her voice soft and low and soothing. “You’re not used to being looked at, are you? Don’t worry. You’re very easy on the eye.”

You want to protest against that, but Arlecchino has reached between you both and you give a squeak of surprise as your apron falls to the floor, untied by one clever hand.

“You don’t need all of this in front of us,” Arlecchino continues. “It’s easier if we take it off, isn’t it? Ah. The dress too, I think--” The soft clink clink clink of the hooks and eyes of your dress being removed, and this garment is pulled over your head and you cry out aloud as you’re left in just your underwear in front of all four of the Harbingers. “There we are. Oh, you are pretty.”

The Damselette, never one for traditional manners, removes her hand from Sandrone’s shoulder to walk over to you – even with her eyes covered, you can sense her interest, and she hums in the back of her throat as she runs a hand over your collarbone, dipping to the line of your chest through your thin brassiere. When your nipples harden at the brush of her palm, she lets out a soft, musical laugh.

“Columbina,” says Signora, surprisingly gentle, and she pulls back, but still hovers closer than she has been before. You have the unnatural sense of being watched, far closer and more intensely by Columbina than she was when she was by the Marionette. Sandrone, for her part, does not seem to want to be left behind, and she stands too so that the three of them bracket you in, a loose half-circle around where Arlecchino has you straddling her thigh. The Knave gives a little chuckle.

“See?” Arlecchino murmurs. “They can’t resist. Shall we give them a show?”

“I don’t . . . understand . . .” Your voice is a helpless thing, when you can feel the pleasant curls of heat low in your belly that remind you of how lovely you find every lady Harbinger, how enjoyable it is to be viewed as something pretty. Arlecchino’s hand brushes lower, lower, over the soft curve of your stomach and onto the plain cotton of your underwear.

“Shh,” she murmurs in response. “I won’t hurt you. None of us will. At least . . . not in any way you won’t enjoy.”

A rush of heat; those dark-tipped fingers, so much like claws, slipping past the waistband of your underwear. You let out a heated gasp as they stroke over your pubic mound and then lower, lower, slipping between the plump lips of your sex to the slick heat between.

“Speak for yourself,” Signora says, her voice husky. “I think that something that’s been hiding their loveliness from us for so long deserves a touch of punishment. Perhaps a spanking?”

You practically quiver under the idle threat combined with Arlecchino’s fingers, as they continue to slide between your thighs and map out the length of your slit. You’re aware of just how hot you are; the warmth and the wetness all at once making you feel dizzy. And the thought of being spanked--

“I said that they wouldn’t enjoy,” Arlecchino says mildly. “Judging by how they feel here . . .” Arlecchino punctuates her sentence with the briefest brush of fingers over the swollen button of your clit, “that’s not something they’re entirely against.”

“Take off their underwear,” Sandrone orders, imperious. “I can’t see.”

“My Lord Arlecchino--”

The Knave presses a kiss to the side of your head and you go all-over useless, your limbs melting under the brief moment of affection. It is so difficult to find anyone who is truly thankful to you in your line of work – anybody who really appreciates what you do. Would it be so bad, to let yourself be used by these women who already seem so much more appreciative of your presence than you’ve encountered in months?”

“I think we can oblige, don’t you?” She asks, her voice very warm and low like liquid honey, and you find yourself nodding in agreement as if hypnotised – letting her urge you onto your feet for a moment, off her thigh, in order to pull the sodden garment down your thighs and off your legs and onto the floor. “This too, I think--” And then you are divested, too, of your brassiere, your nipples standing to stiff attention in the room before them all. Tight coils of embarrassment mixed with arousal seem to keep them hard, noticeable to every woman in the room. Signora practically coos to see you standing there like this.

You dither for a moment, but are quickly pulled back onto Arlecchino’s lap – albeit in an entirely different position to the one you were in before.

Your thighs spread wide, your feet hooked behind her ankles, your back pressing against Arlecchino with one arm wrapped around your waist. In this position, there is no shying away – your thighs are forced wide, the lips of your sex open and displaying your clit and your entrance and just how wet you’ve allowed yourself to get from Arlecchino’s touch. Your chest heaving in soft little pants.

“There,” Arlecchino says, with more than a touch of the smugness about her – and then she reaches between your legs, delving between your thighs, and uses two finger to spread your lower lips even further apart. “My. Messy little thing.”

Columbina tilts her head to the side and then says, in her soft, strange, musical voice;

“I can help.”

You don’t realise exactly what she’s going to do until she’s before you, and her fingers are brushing along your thighs with the most feather light of touches, and then she is sinking onto her knees. You almost buck against Arlecchino in alarm as you feel surprisingly cool breath against your heated sex, but the woman has you in too strong a grip to do anything but squirm a little.

“Don’t,” Columbina says, voice lilting. “Don’t worry. You just seem like you need to relax. I think you could do with some help.”

You don’t think this is one of the usual ways that a superior – for that is what every woman in this room is to you – helps a servant relax, but you find yourself unable to say much to that effect as Columbina leans in and you feel the cool, wet muscle of a tongue flick teasingly out to taste you.

You suck in a ragged breath, your mind warring with your body about everything that is currently happening to you. You cannot deny that Columbina’s tongue against your most private and intimate parts feels good; you should know, from her singing, that she is entirely aware of just how to use her tongue. And yet it does come as a surprise – just how much she takes to working that same tongue over you, the delicate flick of the tip against your clit, the sensation of her dragging the flat of it down the length of you.

The way she doesn’t seem to mind that your arousal is wetting her cheeks; the fact she keeps making soft little hums of pleasure as she does it. Despite the blindfold covering her eyes, it’s as if she knows every one of your weakest spots – every sensitive little nerve that has your body feeling like tiny jolts of electricity are ricocheting all over your skin.

Arlecchino’s breath hitches in her throat, too, as she watches Columbina’s head between your thighs. You cannot imagine what you look like to the assembled throng; all in disarray over one of superior’s lap with another of them between your legs, Arlecchino’s fingers still lewdly spreading you open so you can’t even try to get away from the exploring tongue.

She doesn’t go at it with aplomb; she takes her time lapping at you, as if you’re some new flavour she wants to take the time to enjoy. But your body does not agree with the idea of taking time, and you feel the way that hot curls of want seem to keep curling inside of you. Helplessly, you reach for the arms of the armchair you’re spread over, digging your fingers into the plush upholstery.

“Columbina,” comes a petulant voice, and you look up to see that Sandrone is staring at you both with her lip twisted to one side, as if she’s considering whether or not she wants to get involved in this – but despite that, her hands are fisted in her dress and there’s a layer atop her words, a kind of breathlessness you didn’t realise an artificial body could create, that suggests she’s being rather flustered by the show. “If you go at it like that, you’ll never achieve any results!”

Columbina’s mouth pulls off your sex with a luridly wet pop, and you go hot again to see the way her delicate tongue flicks out to clean the wet droplets of your arousal still painting her lips.

“Oh?” Columbina asks, with only the slightest tilt of her head and a smile still on her face. “Isn’t the process just as enjoyable?”

Sandrone huffs out a noise of outrage and frustation.

“Of course you would think that,” she seethes, and she, too, moves towards you. She nudges Columbina aside with her foot and – much to your surprise – sinks down to join her on her knees. She takes a moment to look at you (and oh, you’re so terribly aware of the way Arlecchino is spreading your sex apart, so that she can see exactly how wet you are, exactly how it feels as though your clit is pulsing under the scrutiny).

“Sandrone,” Arlecchino says, and though her voice is mild there’s something that’s almost a warning – Sandrone looks at you again, and rolls her eyes.

“Alright,” she says, with a sigh. “I won’t hurt either. I just want to show our Moon Maiden how she should have gone about it if she wanted to get results—”

You let out a faltering noise as Sandrone, business-like and ruthless, runs her finger down your slit. Making a pleased little noise at how wet she finds you, she rotates her wrist slightly, so that she can press a finger against your entrance and gently circle her thumb around the pulsing button of your clit. And then, with no more fanfare, she slides that finger inside of you.

You jerk, unused to the intrustion – but Sandrone clicks her tongue and Arlecchino makes a soft soothing noise against your ear and keeps you anchored against her.

“Don’t mind our Lady Sandrone,” she says, whisper-quiet like a secret. “She gets rather invested in her projects – if anything, you should feel honoured she’s finding you worthy of her attention.”

“That’s right,” Sandrone says, looking up, as she crooks her finger inside of you, testing the way you feel around her. Her thumb doesn’t stop the maddening circle of your clit. “You should thank me, I think!” She pulls the finger out and pumps it once or twice, in and out of you, before she puts another finger against your entrance and looks up at you expectantly.

Your mind feels like a mess of wires, all tangled up. You can’t deny that the feel of something inside of you is intoxicating; that Sandrone knows what she’s doing with the inexorable rotation of her thumb, that Columbina’s exploratory tongue has stoked a fire in you that you can’t ignore. But it still takes you a minute to puzzle around it, to let your own heavy tongue reply to the request for gratitude.

“Th-thank you, My Lady . . .?” You hazard, and Signora laughs. Everybody in the room must be able to hear how flustered you are and how out of it all of this attention is making you feel. You, too, can hear the breathiness in your words, the thickness in your throat – and as Sandrone slides her second finger inside of you, you release a whining, stuttering moan.

There’s the slightest stretch, of course – but there’s also a feeling of fullness that you’re entirely unfamiliar with, a kind of slight sting that makes you want to roll your eyes back in your head. Sandrone gives a little pleased ‘hmph’, before she once again sets to working those fingers in annd out of you, pumping slowly, mimicking the movements that you’d one day thought a man might do to you--

You would never have once imagined this particular situation. Even in the midst of it all, you can barely believe it’s happening – all four of these beautiful women, all so focused on you, on the noises you’re making and the reactions you’re giving them . . . Sandrone crooks her fingers inside of you again in a come-hither motion, and somehow it seems as though she brushes against some kind of switch in the hot, tight channel of your sex and you moan, louder and more wanton than any noise you’ve ever heard yourself make.

“I’m trying to concentrate,” Sandrone admonishes you, but there’s a smug pride in her voice as she continues to mercilessly work that new spot inside of you, forcing more shockwaves of pleasure forward. It’s . . . overwhelming, in the most primal of ways. To have Sandrone do this for you, her fingers curling and pumping, her thumb working over your clit now with more pressure. You can feel the muscles in your thighs jumping, your toes curling helplessly, your shoulders shaking.

“Don’t worry,” says Signora, and you can hear her smile even as your lashes flutter. “You can be as loud as you want, sweet thing. The rest of us don’t mind hearing you at all.”

A click of Sandrone’s tongue, but she doesn’t sound all that angry – she’s far too busy being pleased with herself, as helpless little whines and whimpers keep escaping from your mouth. The slick sound of her fingers pumping into you embarrasses you and thrills you all at the same time, and that feeling does nothing to quell the excitement you feel building up in you.

“That’s right,” Arlecchino coos. “Let go.”

“So soon?” Sandrone asks, but then she lets out a laugh and she seems to increase her speed to a point that almost seems inhuman, more machine than anything else – and that feeling you’ve felt building in you, that ball of heat and wanting, that need to do something without the knowledge of what it is . . . that all escapes you, all at once, and you come under Sandrone’s clever fingers.

Oh.

You do more than come.

Something about where she’s been stroking you and the pressure and the speed all comes together, and you feel something else inside of you break – and you feel a gush, fluid spilling forth from you, onto Sandrone’s fingers and onto Arlecchino’s lap and onto your own inner thighs.

You barely notice all of that, though. Far more pressing is the way that your orgasm seems to explode into being, the fireworks, the way it feels your body is being disassembled and then being put back together. Your thighs shake – and your mouth is moaning, whimpering, helplessly making noises into the heated air.

She carries on through your orgasm, though she does at least have the decency to slow down, to help you over the peaks of your release with stroking, gentler fingers. She waits for your breath to almost even out, before she slowly, slowly pulls her fingers out of you.

She looks down at those fingers and shakes her head, making a click of displeasure with her tongue.

“You’ve made a mess,” she tells you, as smug as before – but then Signora laughs from her place.

“Then have the sweet little thing clean you up,” she says, and a hot flush climbs up the back of your neck – but Sandrone smiles sweetly and stands up and then places her fingers in front of your lips, wet and glistening with your ow slick.

“With your tongue,” Sandrone says. “Be good, now.”

You’re hesitant as you do it – but you do it even so, almost enjoying the thrill of how corrupt it makes you feel, to move your head forward and envelope Sandrone’s fingers within the warm, wet cave of your mouth. She’s clearly not expecting you to be so eager about it, either – when she feels your tongue hesitantly probing against the finger joints, she lets out a shaky breath as she waits for you to finish.

She pulls her hand back and tries to gather up her poise again, and with a little sniff she says;

“Well. I suppose . . . that was very nice.”

Columbina laughs, and then the Damselette is at Sandrone’s shoulder again, placing her delicate hand upon the other Harbinger’s own and pulling her back. As they retreat a little further into the room, you swear you see Columbina press a fleeting kiss to the corner of Sandrone’s mouth--

“Oh my,” says Signora, smiling at you. “It seems I didn’t get to go first after all. What a terrible pity.” Her uncovered eye gleams. “Still – I suppose that it means I get to do something a little different. After all – you’ve gotten to come, haven’t you? Been happy to be the receiver? I daresay it’s about time for you to try giving.”

“My lady?” You warble, unsure of what she means – but Arlecchino makes a noise of agreement, and she lets her arm around your waist ease off and gently assists you to stand on shaky legs, like a fawn taking its first steps.

Signora laughs.

“Oh, how cute.” She turns and walks purposely towards the sofa, where she comfortably settles herself – and then she takes the hem of her nightgown in her elegant fingers and pulls it up around her waist, bunching up the fabric behind her so that her legs and her thighs and the tempting golden pale hair at the vee of those thighs is revealed. She heaves a soft sigh and pleasure and then, stretching like a cat, parts her thighs so that you can see her own sex between them, pink and glistening in the firelight. “Look what you’ve done to me. The least you could do is come and do something about it.”

“H-how, My Lady?” You whisper, though your mouth has gone dry at the sight of her, so beautiful and statuesque and entirely at ease. Signora laughs aloud once more.

“Why, Columbina’s already done it for you and you don’t have an inkling at all of what I might want you to do with your pretty mouth?”

You take back what you thought about your mouth going dry before – because now it is a Sumeru desert.

“I . . . you would allow me to do that?” You whisper, and Arlecchino stands too. She places a gentle hand in the middle of your lower back and pushes you forward.

“Oh, sweetness,” Signora purrs. “I’d be getting even more out of it. Think of it as . . . repayment for me having the forethought to summon such a pretty maid to the tea party. Come get on your knees for me, hmm?”

You don’t know if you would have been able to do it – to gather up enough courage to walk over there and dare to put your mouth upon a Harbinger – if it hadn’t been for Arlecchino, walking with you. She gently pushes down on your shoulder once you’re there, and as you sink to your knees she takes a seat beside Signora, pulling the other woman’s thigh onto her lap.

Signora makes a soft noise of pleasure not unlike a cat’s, and then wraps her hand around the back of Arlecchino’s head to pull her into a kiss that makes your heart hammer in your chest, it’s so full of sensuality and hunger. Arlecchino kisses her back, hungry for the other woman’s mouth, her teeth tugging at the plump fullness of Signora’s bottom lip. When they separate, both of them have half-lidded, wanting eyes as they look down at you.

“Isn’t that cute on you,” Signora purrs, and she places a hand loosely on the top of your head, fingertips tangling in your hair. “Don’t be shy now. I’m sure you’ll be an expert in no time.”

It still requires determination to breach that final gap. You can smell Signora on the air; sweet and slightly musky, something that makes you fair dizzy with wanting. Her fingers pet through your hair again, as she coos sweetly at you and you finally manage to bring forth the courage to put your mouth on her.

She’s so beautiful. Stately and graceful and above you – and yet here you are, about to do this for her, after she’s said so many sweet things about you . . .

Your tongue hesitantly reaches out, lapping against her heated core. She tastes sweet, a slight tang at the back of your mouth, but far from unpleasant – and as your tongue moves against her, she lets out a pleased sigh, shifting just so in order for you to be able to access her sex better. She rests her head on the back of the sofa with a pleased ‘mmm’ noise, and you notice that Arlecchino is drawing patterns with her fingers on Signora’s bare thigh.

Emboldened by the reaction, this time you flick the tip of your tongue against the slightly hidden pearl of Signora’s clit, and the woman gives a little thrust of her hips forward to encourage you to repeat the motion again. You do exactly what you think she’s guiding you to do and lick and suck at her clit, and you’re encouraged with sighs of pleasure and breathy little moans that make that ache low between your own thighs return.

“You could try sucking on it,” says Arlecchino, and you briefly glance up from below your lashes to see that she’s resting her head against Signora’s neck and chest, gazing down at you with those strange eyes and hunger in the set of her mouth like a wolf looking at a tender morsel.

You follow her advice, gently sucking the swollen bud (peeking out from beneath the hood now) into your mouth and sucking gently on it, and Signora’s hands tighten in your hair almost painfully. She groans, chest-deep, and then she adds her own voice to the advice though hers sounds more like an order:

“Don’t stop doing that.”

With such clear instructions, how could you possibly ignore her? You continue to suck on it, feeling it almost twitch in your mouth, the way that she keeps her legs apart even though she clearly wants to press them either side of your head and pull you in. Harbingers don’t get where they are by not having self-control, you suppose.

“Next time we’ll teach you how to use your fingers too,” you hear, a whisper behind you, and you realise that Columbina and Sandrone have come to join in. You think, from the sound of their voice, they’ve settled back onto the large pillows on the floor – but the far more pressing matter is in your mouth.

“I won’t be long,” Signora sighs, tilting her hips up even more. Her voice shakes and shudders. “Mm . . . you have no idea what watching you being worked over did to me--”

You double your attack on her, the thought of being the person who makes the Fair Lady come sending frissons of excitement all through you again. You let go of her clit for a moment to give more eager laps of her cunt, up and down, over and over, her sweet slick coating your tongue. You pay particular attention, though, to her clit – to keep going back, over and over.

And only partly because the insistent hand in your hair keeps dragging you back to it. You flick your tongue over it, an ache in the root of the organ because of how hard you’re trying – and then you feel it. Where your chin is practically buried in the softness of her sex, her entrance pulses once, then twice against you--

And Signora whines aloud, she finally gives in the urge to wrap her thighs around your face, a slippered foot digging into your back, and pulls you in to keep licking and sucking at her as she rides out the heated waves of her orgasm, soaking your cheeks, pulsing against you with hungry moans and the flex of those strong, lithe thighs.

By the time her shaking and groaning is done, and her thighs have released their hold on you to settle lazily back on the sofa, feet on the floor. She gazes at you, sleepy and sated, every inch a beautiful house cat.

Your gaze flickers nervously to the last woman in the room. You’re suddenly aware that, once again, there’s a pounding between your own legs that feels like a second heartbeat.

“Lord Arlecchino?” You whisper, shyly, your mouth still wet from Signora’s recent release. “Do . . . is there anything I can do for you?”

Signora lets out an amused laugh. Arlecchino looks at you, consideringly – it is not exactly a kind look, but you feel warmed by it even so.

“Our Knave prefers to play with toys,” Signora says. “And we hadn’t had enough time to procure them for this little soiree. Still . . . I daresay she’d very much like to play with you again. Don’t you think?” She addresses the last question to Arlecchino, who now gives a little smile to the other woman.

“Very much,” Arlecchino says. “I don’t think you’ve been nearly filled up enough tonight. Ah. One makes do, though.” She leans forward and brushes her dark-tipped thumb over your cheek, down to the corner of your mouth to wipe an errant droplet of slick from it. “I’m sure we’ll call on you again. Still. Until then . . . I think you ought to put your uniform back on. Someone from the palace is probably missing you.”