kyushii ☆

He flounders for a second, turning his head sharply on the pillow to look at you. You're in no better state, perhaps worse. Your hair is a mess; his fingers had been all over you—and if he squints, there may just be a bit of web fluid in there. He won't mention that until you have to wash it out. You're glistening too, not just with sweat but his own spit, Jesus Christ.

"W-What?" His voice is a little wrecked, a side effect of grunting like a caveman, apparently. He tries to clear it.

"Yeah. When male spiders moult, they reach maturity and have to find a mate. Sometimes they survive after, but the female always tries to eat them. For dominance or protection, maybe."

Peter grimaces at the memory of his own moult. You're not even looking at him as you ramble off about male spiders, how their pedipalps look like big boxing gloves to help subdue the female into mating. He doesn't miss how your hands flick down to his own large hands.

"So you're going to eat me?"

The silence that follows shouldn't be as long as it is. It shouldn't make him squirm when you glance at him, the flat expression to your face—are you joking around? Are you serious? Are you about to knock him out, wrap him up in some foil and shove him in the oven? He can win that fight, right? He can fight back against a woman trying to eat him-

Your laugh is like light at the end of the tunnel. His shoulders immediately unbunch, and his eyebrows relax. You're grinning, laughing in a way that makes his heart flutter in his sweat-ridden chest.

"'Course I'm not going to eat you." You roll onto your side to face him, he matches you. "My oven's not big enough anyway."

His face falls, and it's nearly impossible to not crack into a wider grin at the expression on his face.

"Not funny, by the way."

"It's a little funny."

He lunges, not in the way Spider-Man might with a villain, but the way a boyfriend would when he's wrapped in a small warm bubble with his girlfriend. His arms are around you before you can squirm away, muffling your indignant squeak into the plushness of his pectorals. He's holding back despite having an ironclad grasp on you; you know that too, apparently, when you suddenly go lax in his arms.

Peter nuzzles his nose into your hair, taking in a deep breath in and letting his body relax now that he's got you all wrapped up in his arms. Nice and quiet. As it should be after he just essentially fucked you through the bed, he's not even sure where you got the energy after all that.

"Is this the part where you try and mate after subduing me?"

Peter groans, long and loud to the point where you're giggling in his arms at the vibrations. "Stop using the word mate."

Wrong thing to say, seemingly, as you're pulling your head out from under his chin so fast that it actually causes his teeth to clack. His eyes blink at the sharp pain in his mouth before readjusting onto you... aaaand you're pissed.

"You don't see me as a mate?" You're pouting now, and Peter hates that because it works on him every time. He's already melting, using those big hands to smooth down your hair and pull you in closer. You try to resist, but you somehow end up nose-to-nose with him.

"I mean, in the sense of relationships and my own biology, yeah I guess you're my mate. But when you say it like that, it sounds so barbaric and primal and a little silly, if I'm honest. What ever happened to boyfriend and girlfriend?"

He doesn't notice at first, with how close you are, how your smile grows the more he rambles nonsense about his spider hormones, how he's not entirely an arachnid. It's a kiss on the lips that has him falling silent, chasing after your lips when you break away.

"I'm just messing with you, Peter."

"I know." His voice softens when you smile at him again, naturally falling into you to lay another delicate kiss on your lips. He loves you, perhaps more than anything he's ever loved before. You get him in a way that no one else does; you question things he's not thought of yet and support his nighttime activities.

His tongue is still gentle when it invades your mouth, a large hand angling your head just-so, giving him the room he needs to work. You're pliant under his hands, soft in a way that maybe Spider-Man doesn't deserve but soft for him regardless. Your quiet moans are enough to stir that feeling back up in his stomach, to have him rolling over until he's between your legs and his body caging you in once again.

You both break for air, just enough space between you that Peter can see every speck of colour in your eyes.

"You can't cum out of your hands, right?"

If he was a stronger man, he might've rolled off of you and went to sulk in his corner with all his computers—but he's not. He's weak, especially for you, because he drops his head down into your neck with an amused groan.

"Shut up." There's no bite to it, not when your laugh fills his stomach with the butterflies he always gets when he's around you.

Every scan had come back normal. "There isn't anything medically wrong with you," the doctor had gently insisted. She had smiled in a way that you knew was an attempt to be encouraging but it had missed its mark. At least if there was something medically wrong, you would have some sort of an explanation.

You pinched your eyebrow tightly and stayed where you were for another minute, staring at the ceiling whilst you waited for it to pass. Most of the times, that was enough. This morning, however, it wasn't.

Letting out a slow breath, you pushed yourself upright. Outside was a normal day, car horns echoed somewhere below your apartment, followed by the sounds of arguments. The familiar rumble of the subway beneath the street sounded through the air.

Today was a normal day, and so yours would be too.

By the time you were dressed and made it to the kitchen, the headache had dulled into something more manageable.

MJ was perched on the kitchen counter, sipping a hot drink while watching Ned wrestle with a string of fairy lights that had somehow tied itself into an impossible knot.

With a genuine attempt at a smile and a grumbled good morning, you moved through the kitchen almost on auto-pilot. Pulling out breakfast ingredients without a thought as to what you actually wanted to eat.

“I hate decorations,” Ned muttered sometime later.

The snort that came from you was louder than intended and two pairs of eyes turned to look at you. MJ had a shit-eating grin on her face, while Ned's eyes narrowed.

“My sympathy is very low,” you shrugged. “You're the one that brought them.”

“I know.”

“You also suggested the party,” MJ added helpfully.

“I know.”

“Plus, invited half of the population of our graduate class,” you added, mouth full of toast. “So, our home has to look presentable.”

“I know.”

MJ took another sip from her mug to hide her smile. “So... whose fault is this?”

Ned sighed dramatically, his head dropping. “...Mine.”

“Bingo.”

Turning his attention back into the project before him, Ned continued untangling the fairy lights. It only took five minutes of silence before he was sighing again.

“You're hanging those back-to-front,” MJ called out.

Ned's eyes widened as he looked between you both. “Fairy lights have a front?”

“They do,” you smiled, Ned made it too easy sometimes.

Ned's eyes continued to move between you both, waiting for one of you to break. It was always you. The laugh slipped past your lips before you could contain it.

“I swear,” Ned muttered, shaking his head, “we need another person to balance this...” Ned gestured between you both “...out.”

For a few seconds, everything went quiet, like someone had turned the volume down on the world.

An image flashed in your mind, you, MJ, Ned, and a fourth figure that was there, but not really. You could see where they were supposed to be, where they'd fit if they were actually there. It was like someone had taken a pair of scissors to the picture, leaving behind nothing but the outline of a person.

Before you could focus on it, it was gone.

The headache arrived a heartbeat later, sharp enough that you instinctively reached for the edge of the counter to stabilise yourself.

“You okay?” MJ's voice cut through the haze.

The apartment rushed back into focus as you blinked, willing the image away. Ned was already looking at you. It was irrational, and you knew it, but the look of concern only made you feel the sudden urge to shrink until completely invisible.

“Yeah,” you said. You straightened to quickly and your words came out too snappy to be the truth. “Fine.”

Ned ignored it. “Headaches getting worse again?”

“Not worse. Just...” You searched for the words, finding it harder when two pairs of eyes looked at you with a pity that rested uncomfortably on your skin. “...I don’t know. It’s stupid.”

“Try us,” Ned said, untangling the fairy lights from his arm to move next to you. He rested his hand on your forearm.

When you offered no more words, MJ set her mug down and turned to you. “You know, Governments like us to think what’s going on in our heads is stupid, keeps us compliant.”

You would have laughed if you thought MJ was joking.

Fingers drumming against the counter, you swallowed the lump in your throat and began trying to pull non-coherent emotions into something logical. Your eyes remained fixed on the counter as you stumbled through your words.  

“It’s like... not worse because it’s more painful. It the feelings that come with it. And... like...the images. It’s a lot.”

There was so much more that could be said, “My headaches make me feel like there’s something I left behind.” “They leave me searching for something I can’t name.” But they barely made sense to you and, despite their reassurances, you knew it was something you’d have to try to explain, so you trailed off.  

“You’re seeing things?”

There were probably nicer ways that Ned could have asked that question. He clearly noticed it too, because he immediately winced.

“Harsh, dude,” MJ said.

“It’s okay,” you said quickly, stopping Ned’s response before it could even form. “It’ll pass, I think it’s just stress or whatever.”

MJ watched you with that same unreadable expression she always wore when she was thinking something she wasn’t sure she should say aloud.

The resulting silence stretched over the three of you in a way that made you shift on your stool. You glanced around the apartment, grounding yourself with what you saw. The unpacked boxes that still lined one wall despite having moved in nearly a month ago, the ragged sofa that you’d watched Ned and MJ argue over, and the clock, that flashed a time that told you you were boarding on lateness.  

“I’m with Dr. Banner today... I should go.” The words came out quieter than you intended. You cleared your throat, forcing a warmth back into your voice. “I hope those decorations will be ready for later.”

Ned dramatically stood, straightening his spine and raising his arm in a salute. “I will make it my sworn mission.”

Dr. Banner’s lectures always followed the same pattern.

He’d make a genuine attempt to impart years’ worth of knowledge, while at least half of the lecture hall made equally genuine attempts to steer the conversation towards his time as an Avenger. Every so often, the guy that always turned up in green body paint would shout, “Hulk smash.” And, every time, the lecture hall would descend into a fit of giggles and cheers.

By the time the lecture came to an end, you were fairly certain that everyone knew more about what an Avenger had for breakfast than they did about the actual topic.

You smiled to yourself as you zipped your bag shut and made your way down the steps.

Dr. Banner was already talking to a student by the time you reached the front.

He had his back to you, but even with his back turned, there was something strangely familiar about him. You didn't mean to listen in to the conversation, but it happened so naturally as if something declared your attention was needed.

“My name's... Ned.”

The hesitation caught your attention before the name did.

“Ned?” Dr. Banner sounded unconvinced.

‘Ned’ shifted awkwardly, his hand finding the back of his neck. “...Yeah.”

“Well, Ned,” Dr. Banner said, folding his arms, “what you’re talking about is dangerous. If you were going to target specific strands, how would you decide which ones are the ‘bad’ ones?”

You hadn't heard enough of the conversation to know what they were talking about, but you’d never heard Dr. Banner sound as serious as he did now.

“Just... theoretically,” ‘Ned’ responded.

Dr. Banner held his gaze for a moment, looking deep in thought as if he was considering whether or not to answer the question.

“Theoretically,” he repeated, more to himself than anyone else.

“Please, sir.”

Whatever he found in ‘Ned’s’ expression seemed to reassure him. “Yes. In theory... it’s possible.”

“Thank you.”

Before you could try to piece together the conversation, Dr. Banner glanced over ‘Ned’s’ shoulder.

“Ah, there you are,” he smiled, all traces of seriousness gone from his features. “Would you mind meeting me in my office in about ten minutes?”

Banner barely waited for your response before making his way out of the lecture hall.

“Of course,” you replied anyway.

At the sound of your voice, ‘Ned’s’ shoulders stiffened. He turned around slowly, eyes finding yours immediately. No words came out when his mouth opened, and then closed, and then opened again. He just stood there, brown eyes wide and slightly glassy.  

Without thinking, you smiled at him. It wasn’t the polite smile usually offered to a stranger who happened to make eye contact, but something warmer and more familiar. Like seeing someone you'd forgotten you were looking for.

Something shifted in his expression, a flicker across his face that you might have missed had you not been looking at him. It was replaced by a small, tentative smile of his own.

Neither of you looked away, even after the socially acceptable length of time for staring had long passed. His gaze wandered over your face, lingering on your eyes before dropping to the smile you'd barely realised you were still wearing.

His hair fell in soft brown curls in a way that made him look like the kind of person who had their life together, but there were faint shadows beneath his eyes, the kind that only came from too many late nights.

Under your gaze, he swallowed hard, his fingers gripping the straps of his backpack. When he finally spoke, his voice was somehow softer than it had been before.

“Hi,” he murmured, the word tentative, as if testing whether he was allowed to say it at all.

“Hey,” you replied. “Do I... know you from somewhere? You look really familiar.”

“No,” he said softly. “No, I don’t think you do.”

That should have been the end of the conversation. You could laugh it off, wish each other a nice day, and walk away. But the desire to know more about the boy with the familiar soft brown eyes and a curious mind who felt the need to lie about his name consumed you.

You tilted your head slightly, studying him. “What’s your name?”

He pointed to himself, eyebrows lifting. “M-my name?”

The corner of your mouth twitched, a smile threatening to break through. “Yes, your name.”

He looked caught off guard by the question, lips parting, and then closing again. It was like you could see the lie forming on the tip of his tongue.

“And don’t say Ned,” you added, unable to hide your smile now. “I’m pretty confident that’s not it.”

A breath that sounded suspiciously like a laugh escaped him. “You caught that, huh?”

“You weren't exactly convincing.”

“I've never been very good at lying.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

The words slipped out of you so naturally that neither of you questioned them.

He rubbed his thumb along the frayed edge of his backpack strap as he drew in a deep breath. For a moment, he looked like he was working up the courage to say something far more difficult than his name.

“It’s Peter.”

“Peter,” you repeated.

The name vibrated against the walls of your mind like it was a word that you had thought of a thousand times.

“Yeah,” he said quietly.

You tilted your head slightly. “It’s nice to meet you, Peter.”

“You too.”

Silence settled over you both again and you found yourself trying to think up ways to start the conversation again. Your eyes drifted past him, towards the hallway where Dr. Banner had disappeared. The question came to you almost immediately. “Are you a fan of the Avengers?”

Peter blinked, his hands shifting nervously on his backpack straps. “Uh... what? Why do you ask?”

You smiled slightly. “Why else would you be pretending to be one of Dr. Banner’s students?”

“I just wanted to pick his brain about something,” Peter admitted. “He’s... kind of brilliant.”

“I mean I agree, but why do you think so?”

The way Peter’s face changed when the topic of science came up was almost unfair.

He spoke with an enthusiasm that was impossible not to get caught up in, his hands moving just as much as his words while his thoughts raced just ahead. More than once, he caught himself drifting off-topic, only to circle back again a heartbeat later.

You found yourself smiling, a warmth spreading across your chest.

“...Sorry,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. “I kind of talked your ear off there.”

“I enjoyed listening to you,” you said easily. “Now I understand why you risked committing identity theft in front of a literal Avenger.”

Peter groaned, his head tipping back for a moment. “When you put it like that...”

“It sounds unhinged?”

“Very.”

“Good. Just so you’re aware.”

He laughed again, this one a little louder. “What about you? Are you a student of his?”

“No, I’m doing project work with him for my PhD.”

Peter’s face lit up, his eyes crinkling deeply around the corners with a pride that felt entirely too big for someone you'd only met less than ten minutes ago. “I’m happy for you. You’ve always wanted to do that.”

 “Yeah, I have actually.” You tilted your head, eyes narrowing on him. “How did you know?”

“Would you believe me if I said that was supposed to be a question?”

His question earnt a small laugh from the both of you, his cheeks turning a pretty shade of pink. Peter had a dangerous ability to disarm you, you realised. Even more dangerously, you weren’t sure you were bothered by it.  

Students drifted past in the hallway, heading towards their next lectures as you and Peter settled into another round of silence and stares.

“So...” Peter said eventually, shifting his weight to break the heavy silence. “I should probably let you get to your meeting.”

“You probably should.”

Peter rocked back on his heels, but made no attempt to move. It was such a small thing, but the fact he seemed just as reluctant to leave as you were sent a pleasant tingle through your body.

Sighing, you opened your mouth to say goodbye, but instead, you heard yourself ask, “are you doing anything tonight?”

A woosh of air left Peter’s mouth, as if he’d been holding his breath. “...Tonight?”

“Yeah.”

“Um... I don't... think so.”

“My roommates and I are throwing a party. You should come.” The silence from Peter was long enough that you wondered if you’d completely misread the situation. “If you've got other plans-.”

“I don't,” Peter interrupted. He let out a quiet breath through his nose. “I'd... I'd like to come.”

A grin spread across your face before you could stop it. “Really?”

He mirrored it, smaller than yours, but no less genuine. “Really.”

“Great.”

“Good.”

You reached into your bag for your phone, then paused. “Actually...” Holding out your hand, you nodded towards the phone sticking out of his hoodie pocket. “Give me your phone.”

Peter raised an eyebrow, even as his hand slowly moved towards his phone.

“I mean, unless you're planning on memorising my address.”

“Oh.”

He fumbled the phone out of his pocket so quickly it nearly slipped through his fingers. Once unlocked, he held it out to you.

Your thumbs flew across the screen, typing in your number and name before shooting yourself a quick text.

“There,” you said, sliding the device back into his hand. “Now you have my name too, since you forgot to ask.”

Peter looked down at the contact for a long moment. When he looked back up, there was something in his expression you couldn't quite place.

“Thanks.”

You smiled. “I’ll see you later?”

“You will,” he promised.

You’d changed outfits five times before finally deciding that the first one had been fine. The apartment was already loud by the time the first wave of guests arrived and you found yourself glancing towards the front door more often than you cared to admit.

By the time the party was in full swing, you’d convinced yourself you weren’t waiting for anyone even though your eyes kept scanning over the crowd.

The disappointment that settled in your chest was irritatingly disproportionate for someone you’d only known for a few hours and had one conversation with.

You were halfway through a conversation you weren’t really listening to when the front door opened. Without thinking, you looked over. The relief that washed through you was immediate.

Peter stood just inside the doorway, a red cup in his hand, looking around the apartment like he was still deciding whether he belonged there.

You excused yourself before you could think better of it and crossed the room.

“You came.”

Peter smiled softly when he saw you. “I promised.”

“Good to know you keep promises.”

It took less than thirty seconds for Ned to spot the unfamiliar face. He appeared seemingly out of nowhere, all smiles and unnecessary enthusiasm, a half-eaten slice of pizza in one hand.

“Hey! I don't think we've met.”

A look flashed across Peter’s face; one you’ve become all too familiar with in the short time you’ve known him.

“I'm Peter.”

“Ned.”

As they shook hands, Ned turned to you, his eyes twinkling. “You invited him?”

“Evidently, Ned.”

“Wow. Good for you.” He nodded slowly as he disappeared back into the crowd.

“Sorry about him,” you said, turning back to Peter. “He gets overexcited.”

“I know,” Peter laughed softly, the words a little too confident.

You spent the next few minutes introducing Peter to people and trying to coax more information about himself out. But as the party grew, so did the tension in his shoulders.  

“Do you want to go up to the roof?” you asked. “It’s less crowded there.”

Peter looked back at you. “Yes, please.”

You set your drink down on the counter. “Come on.”

A rush of cold New York air met you the second the door to the roof opened. You stepped out first, pulling your sleeves over your hands as the breeze caught against your skin. You rested your arms against the low brick wall and looked out over the city. The noise of the party faded behind the door, replaced by the distant hum of New York.  

“I forgot how nice it is up here.”

Peter moved beside you. “The view is always nicer from above.”

Glancing over, you caught him staring at you. The second you caught him, his eyes shifted away.

You smiled slightly. “What?”

“Nothing.”

“Sure, Peter.”

You let out a soft huff of laughter, turning your attention back to the city in front of you. Out of the corner of your eye, you watched him shift his weight, his shoulder brushing against yours before he pulled back.

The contact was brief, but the warmth of it lingered through the fabric of your top, leaving a strange, electric tingle in its wake. You kept your eyes fixed on the traffic below, suddenly hyper-aware of the distance between his arm and yours, waiting to see if he’d move closer again.

Instead, the wind picked up, sharp enough to cut through the quiet and make your shoulders shiver. Peter looked at you, his jacket was already coming off before you could stop him.

You immediately shook your head, waving your hands. “No.”

“It's fine.”

“You'll freeze.”

“I'll survive.”

“Peter...”

“I promise,” he said, holding the jacket out to you.

You hesitated, looking from the fabric to his earnest face. Then, quietly, “thank you.”

It was still warm from him as you put it on. You pulled it a little tighter around your chest, eyes closing as you buried your face slightly into the collar, and breathed in absentmindedly.

“Mhm, your aftershave smells good.”

The smell of the jacket brought a dull pressure behind your temples, like something was gently gnawing at the back of your head.

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah.”

Your eyes opened as you turned to face him. He was much closer than you’d realised. Close enough that the rest of the city lights seemed to blur out of focus. Peter's hand came to cover yours, his thumb brushing over your knuckles. You weren’t sure if he even noticed he was doing it. But maybe he had. Maybe that's why he looked as though he was trying very hard not to breathe.

Your eyes drifted, just for a second, to his lips. When you looked back up, he was already looking at yours.

Peter couldn’t seem to stop himself from taking a small step forward, crowding into your space. Your fingers curled instinctively into the fabric of his jacket.

His hand lifted slowly, hesitating for the briefest moment before reaching you, as though he was giving you one last chance to pull away. You didn’t. His fingertips brushed against your chin, his skin warm against the chill of the night.

“Can I?”

When you nodded, Peter tilted your face up slightly. His breath warmed your lips, the tip of his nose brushing against yours as he titled his head.

He was so close now, less than half an inch away when the heavy rooftop door swung open. Your entire body flinched, and you practically fell into Peter’s arms.

“There you are.”

Ned's voice carried across the roof before you’d even had time to register what had happened.

Peter let go immediately, dropping his hands to his sides and taking a step back. The cold air rushed back into the space between you where his warmth had just been.

You cleared your throat. “Hi, Ned.”

“MJ sent me,” he explained, narrowing his eyes slightly at Peter. “She’s deeply mistrusting of people and we don’t know you.”

“She is,” you admitted, looking up at Peter. “We're alright,” you called back to Ned, surprised by how steady your voice sounded.

Ned looked between the two of you, his eyes lingering on the jacket. “MJ said to tell you there's cake.”

You managed a small smile. “I suppose we can't ignore that.”

“No,” Peter murmured, his voice quieter than before. “I suppose we can’t.”

Before anyone could move, Peter’s phone buzzed. The smile disappeared from his face as he looked down at the screen.

“I have to go.”

You tried to hide the sudden drop of disappointment in your voice, but it leaked through anyway. “But you just got here.”

“I know.” Peter looked at you and for a moment, he looked almost as disappointed as you felt. “I’m really sorry. I have to.”

“Okay.” You immediately started to slip your arms out of the sleeves to hand his jacket back. “Thanks.”

He hesitated, his hands resting on top of yours to stop you from taking it off. “Why don’t you keep hold of it?”

“Won’t you need it?”

“I’ll come back for it.”

You bit your cheek to stop the smile from showing too brightly.  “Is that your way of saying that I’ll see you again?” “Yeah,” he whispered, words heavier than you knew. “It is.”

"What?" He mumbles, the word falling soft out of his cotton mouth.

You stir slightly in response to the grazing of his touch, and it kicks Peter-Tingle on high-alert that this was not a figment of his imagination. He's quick to un-hand you, scooting backwards towards the edge—and tumbling harshly onto the floorboards with a loud thump, snatching the sheets with him.

The noise echoes in his eardrums, curls splaying out over the floorboards, and Peter is completely frozen. In absolute cold, drowning terror, he watches you stir fully, turning around and stretching at your limbs—a dissatisfied frown perched in your lips at the sudden loss of warmth.

What has he done?

"Spider-Man?" You mumble, voice groggy, almost muffled as your nose dips deeper into the pillow, the one he occupied seconds ago.

Your gaze finally peers open, one palm coming to rub at your undereyes—before meeting his own widened, nearly terrified expression.

"You're awake." You state, as if his existence within the walls of your apartment is a daily, common occurrence. Even if he hasn’t stepped foot into his most favourite apartment, in years. "Hm, you've got brown eyes, who would've thought?"

Why is he here? Why are you so calm about this?

“I’m—so, so sorry.” His words fumble over each other, ears reddened at the tips. Feeling awfully exposed, he wraps his arms around his knees as he lifts himself into a sitting position, caving in on himself as he averts his gaze. “I don’t know why—or how—oh god. Was I hugging you? How did I even—I’m so sorry, I swear I have no clue on how I ended up here.”

Worse, he wasn't wearing a mask. Or much of anything really, aside from an old t-shirt, and Hello Kitty shorts that barely fit his thighs. As his fingers grip at the edge of the shirt, running over the hem, it hits him that these are his clothes. Ones he never stole back from your place, that he had merely assumed was lost to time.

Nothing could have prepared him for this situation, no prep-time or warnings from E.V.I.E.. He didn't have the protection of being Spider-Man and the mask that's become his second skin. No, he had landed bottom-first as bare-faced, shell-shocked Peter.

"You really don't remember how you got here?" You question, lashes fluttering shut as you struggle to stir awake. "Damn, I was wondering if you could tell me."

"No—I swear, I completely blacked out." He scrambles for a response. "Next thing I knew, I was in your bed—I can't believe I just said that."

Running a hand past the bridge of his nose, he hides pathetically behind his fingers, his best attempt of a mask against the chaotic churn of nerves bundling through his gut. He had promised to keep you safe by staying as far away as he could—aside from the daily checking of your social media pages and the occasional swing down your usual coffee shop just to see if your favourite order remained the same, but this? How was he ever going to forgive himself for it?

He hears shuffling, in the normal sense and not the heightened echoes he’s used to ever since his arachnid side started spinning out of control. Strangely, his senses have been dialed down to normal since he regained consciousness—and he can’t dumb it down to just a good rest. It has to be cause of you.

His lashes flutter against the pads of his fingers as he meets your gaze through the gaps. You face him head-on, sitting cross legged right in front of him, head tilted in innocent curiosity.

“You’re a cuddler.” You hum in acknowledgment.

He was genuinely going to be the first Spider-person to ever die of shame, not that he's met many, but he's sure Peter 1 and Peter 2 have never unknowingly climbed into the bed of their special someone because they couldn't control their own DNA evolution. A low sound escapes his throat, clenched through his teeth—completely at a lost for words.

He has no clue on what he’s supposed to do, not when there's no routine or steps to fall back on. Be Spider-Man (Mask's gone). The man the city actually wanted (One who preferably doesn't have panic attacks wearing Hello Kitty pants). Stay far away from his previous life (Scored a huge FAIL here). Get flowers for May (Done). Scroll through your social media pages (..Done). Feel the thrumming vibrations of the washing machine after patrols (Skipped, was too nauseous). Rinse and repeat.

There’s no coming back from this, and it wasn’t even in his control. He hadn’t meant to find you. The last thing he could recall before passing out in his apartment was—he had just wanted to go home. He swore that was all he intended.

“Hey.” Your voice, soft and warm, finally coaxes him out of his thoughts. He hadn’t even realised just how tight he had been clenching his eyes shut—as his gaze takes a few seconds to adjust back into colour with you in his full view.

Slowly and gently, your own fingers raise to pry his away from his face. He’s sure he has hand marks all over his skin, but you look at him with such a soft expression—he nearly keens.

“I got you. You're safe.” You reassure, repeating it as a mantra. “You’re safe here.”

His Adam’s apple bobs harshly, and he feels the tightening of his chest nearly burst at the seams. God, he missed you. All he wanted was to hug you, and tell you he was sorry—for all of it. That he hadn’t gone a single day without wanting to hear your voice, to be exactly where he was right now—that this was all he needed if he wasn’t so weak. If he wasn’t cursed.

“Sorry.” That’s all that comes out, a croak in his voice that he failed to swallow back.

Your lips quirk into a soft smile, and you look like home. He feels his muscles physically deflate in tension at the sight, something no inhibitor or invention could ever replicate. His life has been spinning out of control, and you've just set the needle aside without even blinking.

“You’re all good, Spidey.” Your voice is warm, comforting. “Aside from hogging the blankets, it wasn’t half-bad for my first sleepover with a vigilante.”

His lips part, a laugh caught in his throat—half shattered, half hopeful.

“Could you—I don’t know, explain to me what happened?” He raises his hands, gesturing to your apartment. “I can’t believe I lost control—I don’t remember anything.”

Your lips part, a small grin tucked between your lips. "If you insist."

A loud crash resounds behind you, kick-starting your frightened senses. Head whipping to the window, you spot your window ledge shoved half-way with brutal force, and a body covered in deep reds and blues on your wooden floorboards.

"Holy shit." You mutter to yourself, skillet pan still in hand, the oil coating its surface bubbling into tiny pops.

Spider-Man is in your living room. Spider-Man is spread out across your floorboards, seemingly knocked out cold, in your apartment.

Another sizzling pop snaps you out of your stump, and you realise the collapsed vigilante is your responsibility. Your fingers fumble to switch off your stove with a click, skillet haphazardly placed over the stove burner—apron still hanging around your neck as you rush towards the body. God, you hope it wasn't an actual body.

"Spider-Man?" You call out tentatively, and you're struck by how his body moves in response, the stretch of his back with that familiar logo disappearing to reveal a mop of dark brown curls.

He wasn't wearing a mask. You didn't know what you expected from a hero who seemed nearly indestructible on the news, even when in the process of being smashed into buildings by tanks, but Spider-Man looks much younger than you expected, ahead of you by at most a couple years—bearing a youth that is almost frightening.

He certainly did look battered. Bruises littered his cheek, as if he had slammed himself into bricks or concrete on the way, before he had landed himself in your apartment. Dark circles pooled as a dark shadow under his eye-bags, and his hair was a wet, clumped mess from the rain.

You didn't know where to begin—if you were even allowed to touch him to check if he's hurt, or to call a professional. Did the professionals even know who he was, of his true identity? What if you doomed New York City's most beloved vigilante to his fate, just because you made the wrong call?

Your knees meet carpet, hands trembling in indecision and nerves, coming to rest on his shoulder. At your touch, a hiss escapes his lips and you immediately snatch your hand back, clutching it at the wrist. Who were you kidding, you were the last person equipped to save a person's life—much less a hero's.

You rise halfway, head swinging around to locate your phone—when you feel an insistent pull of your apron, tripping you back to land on the carpet.

"Don't go." He whispers.

Your gaze snaps back to his face, and find his eyes open. Or at least, that's where his pupils should've been. He must be half-unconscious, with the way his eyes are blown into a darkened void, lips parted in some sort of daze.

"I'm going to get help." Your words form despite the panic arising in your chest at the state of him. Is this poisoning? What else could explain the blackened sclera, the way darkened veins coated his skin in an almost bluish-purple. "I'll be right back." You promise.

He shakes his head, almost insistently stubborn, jaw clenching in panic. "No, don't go." His grip tightens almost instantly, and you're swept by his abnormal strength with a sudden tug, tumbling on top of him. "Please."

You freeze, feeling the wet raindrops from his suit seep into the cotton of your apron. Before you even have a chance to push yourself off, his arms wrap around you protectively. Squashed between his broad chest and the tight grip of his hold, your nose is buried into the crook of his shoulder. You smell fresh detergent, sweat, and something so achingly familiar—it churns your senses into mush that it takes you a few seconds to register.

He's shaking, and almost feverishly warm.

"Spider-Man." You plead. "Listen to me. You don't look good. And I do not want a dead Spider on my conscience, so please—you have to let me go so I can find some professionals, just someone to check if you're alright."

His touch is a sizzling heat as the warmth envelopes you, almost like a weighted, heated blanket.

"No. Stay." He pleads. "Please, I don't want—I just need you."

He sounds so exhausted. Why wouldn't he be? Before he had suffocated you into this strange circumstance of a hug, his entire face had been dull in colour, sweat pooling at the curls over his forehead, and he just looked—fragile. Completely unlike the hero of the city you're used to seeing on screen, whether it be receiving the keys to the city or those cheerful quips that make its frequent rounds through the internet when he swoops in to save the day.

"Spidey." You call him gently, trying to think of how to persuade him. "—I won't leave you alone, I promise. Just let me get up, to at least fetch you a change of clothes. You're soaked."

The seconds passing by without a response, or the loosening of his muscles, feel like the longest beats of your life. Your own heart thumps along with the rise and fall of his chest, waiting with bated breath.

"Promise?" He murmurs weakly.

"I promise." You whisper. "I'm not going anywhere."

You feel the slow release of warm breath against your skin, the way his fingers tremor over the small of your back. Something in him relaxes just enough, and his arms give in, thumping heavily at his sides. You rise instantly, palms pushing at his chest and falling back onto the carpet. Feeling the wet residue of the rain coat your apron, and the side of your cheek that had been buried in his shoulder—your cheeks grow impossibly hot.

You need to snap out of it. He needs clean clothes. Yeah, that's a start.

Stumbling in your step, you rush towards your wardrobe—digging through the unorganised mess for a bag of clothes you had kept hidden in the most corner nook. One you hadn't thrown out since your first discovery of its existence, containing Hello Kitty shorts, some old, faded T-shirts—choices you would've never purchased for yourself but had for as long as you could remember.

You had run through a list of reasons for its existence, seemingly packed for an overnight guest. Maybe from that house-warming party you had thrown once before deciding you much preferred your space being reserved for only you, and someone had left their clothes mistakenly. Despite whatever plausibility or excuse—you never found the strength to throw them away. Even when you had every reason to, your mind instinctively buries the thought and the bag remained exactly where it was, kept in a zip-locked bag for it to be used by someone.

Apparently, today was its much-needed day.

Hoisting the bag over to the living room where he still laid, cheek pressed to the carpet, you’re relieved that the tension that previously consumed his expression has faded somewhat, with his lips parted slightly in slow exhales. His body seemed to be recalibrating, instinctively calming down right in the centre of your home.

Your hand comes to rest on his cheek, tapping it gently. Although his eyes with that dark void don't open, a low rumble escapes his throat—convincing you that he's still somewhat conscious.

"Hey, Spidey." You whisper. "I brought some clothes. Do you have the energy to change?"

He doesn't respond, and you poke your tongue into your cheek, analysing the length of him with dawning dread. It's no big deal, you just have to peel off this ridiculously tight suit with no zipper in sight without making it weird, and attempt at successfully pulling a T-shirt over his head.

Making your choice of a 'I Survived My Trip To NYC' graphic tee found at the top of the pile inside, your gaze switches back to the sprawled vigilante. From how heavy his arms had been earlier, rendering you immobile when pinned under them, you wouldn't dare make the mistake of assuming his weight would be easy to flip over. You could attempt to at least expose his back for you to take off that suit—assuming the costume even had a zipper.

Your long calculation apparently does the job for you as Spider-Man senses you near, and his arm curls protectively around your thigh, burying his nose into the crook below your knee. Your entire body stills, a tight grip over the tee as he gently rests his head over your knee, the soft texture of his curls brushing goosebumps against your skin. HIs body turns just enough to expose the expanse of his back—and the sight of a hidden zipper beneath that familiar symbol is a good sign.

Okay, sure. You could work with that.

He was ripped. You should've expected that, but the slow rise and fall of his chest expands the muscles across his exposed torso. You force yourself to tear your gaze away from the sight, reassuring yourself that your eyes were purely looking for possible injuries. You wouldn't go that low to check out a vigilante who was passed out in your living room.

Your fingers press into the sides of his cheeks, maneuvering his head so you could fit the opening of the tee over his head. Curls run through the white fabric before landing over his shoulder blades. It's strangely intimate, the way he's easily pliable in your hands—trusting you so completely. His lashes flutter once every few seconds, but he remains exactly where he is, body wrapped almost completely around yours—acting as a human barrier to you and the outside world—as you dress him in something soft and clean.

He's not supposed to be here, and you're not supposed to feel this protective over a stranger who dresses in two primary colours. Yet, seeing him at rest—makes you feel calm. The quiet of the apartment is a low hum rather than the empty chasm you’re used to, and your fingers run through his hair almost habitually.

You can't just leave him on the floor. There's also the latter half of his suit you don't want to deal with.

"Spidey." You whisper.

He lets out a low groan, wincing as his eyes shut tighter—burying himself deeper into your skin.

"No-no." Your hands come up to gently cup his cheek, coercing him.

His lashes part, and you're met with that same, expansive void, finding your own reflection in his gaze. He's still not quite himself, you believe—but he is able and willing to listen to you.

"I need you to put on these shorts." You gesture to the Hello Kitty pants you laid out for him. "Then, I need you to come to bed."

His brows furrow, lashes fluttering slowly as he processes your request. "Bed."

"Yes." You repeat. "You're exhausted, and I'm not leaving you on my floorboards. It's not too far, so please—help me out a little, Spidey."

His gaze doesn't blink, but you feel the shift in his muscles at your command. He stumbles as he raises himself, body slumping into you—but you steady him with your own grip. His nose buries itself once more into a crook to inhale your scent, this time being your shoulder.

"Okay." You mutter. "That's progress. Come on, up."

It takes you a couple minutes, mostly because he clings to you with every step and he is made of heavy weight. Whatever they feed the heroes of New York, it was clearly something out of limits from your measly grocery bill. By the time he managed to slip himself into those Hello Kitty shorts while you kept your gaze heavily fixated on the ceiling, making sure only to look when the waistband was tight around his torso, it wasn't long before he tripped himself face-first into your blankets. Your own body collapses beside him—equally tired as he is.

You attempt to form a pillow fort in your daze, a barrier of sorts. More for him than you, as you're sure in the morning once this side of him disappears—he'll have a much different reaction to waking up in an apartment with a stranger he doesn't know.

It gets demolished within seconds.

As if the pillows have formed a personal vendetta against him, they're thrown aggressively onto the floorboards. Your hand reaches out to grab them because you had just put them in the laundry—but your wrist is snatched too and you're tugged into his embrace.

You land back into the sheets, cheek smothered against his chest, and there he goes again, wrapping himself around you like a cocoon.

Here in your bed with his arms wrapped around you like you're his only anchor, brows furrowed tight—Spider-Man looked so human. Soft, and incredibly vulnerable. His arm still grips limply onto you even if you can feel his consciousness fading, as if the lack of contact would have you disappearing completely from his reach.

"Those pillows were meant for you, y'know." You mutter, unable to hide your amusement.

His lips curl into a stubborn pout. "Don't want them." He grumbles, words nearly incoherent with the small parting of his lips. "In my way."

You snort softly, before noting the dirt that coats his cheeks. With such a close proximity, you see everything. The soft lines at the corners of his eyes, the bridge of his nose, and just how beautiful he was.

"You've got dirt on your face." You whisper softly. "I should help you with that."

His grip tightens considerably, and you're dragged up so close to his face that your noses nearly bump into one another.

"Okay-okay. I'm not going anywhere." You feel the need to remind him, hand slowly lifting to press against his bruised cheek.

If the press of your finger-pads against the bruise was painful, he didn't show it—only burrowing his face deeper into the curve of your palm, a relieved sigh escaping his lips. The crease between his brows finally unfolds, and the years coated on his expression fades with it—leaving him looking impossibly young.

"Smells like you." He grumbles lowly, pressing the tip of his nose deeper into your palm.

Your heart skips a beat, traitorously even when you're sure he won't remember any of this by the morning.

“Do you have anyone?” You ask gently. “Someone I need to call?”

It’s heart-breaking, the way he immediately shakes his head, his curls ruffled against the sheets. For someone so beloved by the city, even in such a weakened state, he still believes that he has no one.

"Why are you here?" You murmur more for yourself, gazing openly over the fanning of his lashes over his darkened circles.

If it weren't for the expansive heat seeping from his broad chest through the cotton tee you tugged over his head, you would've believed yourself to be in the thick of a sweet, non-sensical dream.

You expect him to be fully asleep, but you hear it, low and almost inaudible. "Home."

Your heart tremors, barely able to comprehend it. "What?"

His words grow muffled against the sheets, the mess of his curls sinking deeper into the pillows—but you hear it. “Wanted to come home.”

Peter watches as you wring a cloth of its excess water over the sink, and the familiarity is dangerously luring. How many times has he sat here on your couch, watching as you prepped a medicine kit or a towel after his patrols? It’s almost unfathomable how quickly the new routines, rigorous with repetition and duty, all that control—that responsibility that leashed him tight falls apart the second he is in your proximity. Where old overpowers the new, because there is nothing he craves more than this. The past—the memories that became more present than reminder, when his own life had pressed ‘pause’ the moment he lost you.

He should’ve insisted on leaving when you offered to clean up the dirt that still coated his face. He should’ve shattered the hope that gleamed in your eyes when he gave you the barest nod, knowing how dangerous that fleeting belief could be when his own had never held value.

He did none of what he was supposed to do—and he didn’t even have the gull to feel ashamed for it, taking in the sight of you with unconditional hunger, absorbing every trace of movement and the way your voice resonated in the hearth of your home. He belonged in your life once, the same way the remains of his old t-shirts were kept in your wardrobe, or how the bathroom door still has the replaced hinges he fixed once on your third home date. There’s him all around, and the sight was its own guilty pleasure that the universe hadn’t completely stripped away the parts of him that used to exist in your life.

"You didn't do anything." You reassure him from across the kitchen counter. "Trust me, when you showed up in my apartment—you weren't in a state of anything other than being near-collapse."

His expression contorts. As if he needed more reasons to hate these new changes to his body—messing up all that is predictable. Predictable is good. It's safe. What isn't within even the remote levels of safe, is forcing you to look after him the entire night because he isn't even in control of his own body.

You stop in front of him, brushing some magazines and half-littered candy wrappers to the side as you sit on the coffee-table, knees brushing against his.

"Breathe." You murmur softly, eyes crinkling with a soft teasing expression.

He hadn't even realised he was holding his breath, being so close to you that it makes him feel faint. Oxygen swoops back into his lungs, his chest rising and falling as he stares at you openly with his mouth slightly gaped.

The cloth in hand raises to press against his cheek, and he feels the slight sting of its cool temperature against the warmth of his skin, the bruise above his cheekbone.

It doesn't truly register for him, not when you're staring at him so keenly he feels the need to ask. "What?"

"I just didn't expect Spider-Man to be so—" You struggle to find the words. "Human. I don't know. I suppose that sounds stupid, but you could pass by me in a coffee shop and I'd just sum you up as a cute stranger I'd never see again, not an actual crime-fighting vigilante."

The two of you were together, so it shouldn’t have struck him with elated surprise to hear it, but the admission that you still found him—he feels sixteen again, taken back to when you had first pressed a kiss onto his cheek and he understood immediately on what it meant to fall in love so completely that you could never look back.

You're too focused on dapping the wet cloth to notice his widened gaze, or the way he swallows dryly—licking at his lips. "You think I'm cute?"

"I mean—this entire time, I half-expected Spider-Man to be at least half-spider. Plus, I have eyes." You tease, your fingers gently brushing the wet cloth over the darkened soot across his cheek, rubbing off the marks. "I meant to do this last night, but you kept protesting when I tried to leave the bed. Clinging onto me—"

"Okay, okay." He raises his hand, catching you by the wrist. He's definitely flustered now. "I don't need to hear the details. I believe you."

You snort softly. "Thought you wanted the full story."

"Yeah, summed up—minus the details." He splutters. "I'm already dying inside from shame, and I've definitely ruined my impression with you forever."

"That's not true." You hum.

He blinks slowly, processing your words.

"There's no shame in reaching out for help, hero or not. I know you’re under a lot of public scrutiny but—it doesn't change who you are, y'know? You're deserving of support, just as much as everyone else. Even if the world expects you to be a hero—" You state. "You're still a person, and it seemed like you really needed someone."

He stiffens, jaw tightening as his eyes avert from yours to pinpoint his focus elsewhere—anywhere but you.

"You're not just someone." He mumbles lowly.

The press of the cloth against his cheek falters. "What?"

"You're—" His voice trails off, jaw clenching tight. “You weren’t scared of me?”

He understands how he can get when he loses control. The way his vision blacks out, and how his mind caves into silence—with his body moving on instinct rather than command. The reflection of a monster in the mirror, everything he swore not to be. The version of him that snuck into your apartment, clinging onto you as a lifeline—was stripped of the rules and promises he had made to keep everything together.

It was him at his most selfish—doing what his instincts pleaded—no, begged for him to do, and he had caved in for all of it. That's why he's here, and why you're staring with an expression he didn't dare uncover.

“I think you’re a lot more scared of yourself right now than I am.” You answer truthfully. “You were in a lot of pain. The last thing I would be was scared, when all you needed was someone to look out for you. Even if it's just for a little while.”

"I—" What is he supposed to say to that? That you're right on, and you've always been even without knowing who he is, and that he's been losing himself ever since he lost you? He swallows thickly. "I haven't been myself lately."

Your fingers tighten imperceptibly, grounding him. "You're still you, maybe you've just been putting aside what reminds you of that. I'm no vigilante, but working yourself to the bone and collapsing in a stranger's apartment—I think that's a signal for a horrible work-life balance."

"I have been resting." He argues. "I get enough hours, I have proof."

"Yeah, that's definitely why you slept like a log last night."

His lips part, gaze finally meeting yours, staring at you wordlessly. Eventually, a laugh escapes his lips, deepening the lines near the corners of his eyes. It's a little sad, and you wonder just how much he had to carry on his own—for a laugh to sound that broken.

"This is hard. I'm not supposed to—" He mutters, and that's the closest thing to raw honesty that you've pulled out of his mouth. "You're way too good for me."

Your smile deepens, and your fingers trace gently over his cheek where the bruise was finally fading. That must've been the mistake of it—the familiarity of muscle memory after a long patrol. He leans in, pressing a soft kiss to your cheek in thank you.

It’s only when he spots your frozen expression that he realises what he's done.

"I was not supposed to do that." He mutters to himself, widened eyes locked onto the spot where he left the kiss.

You blink, and he follows the movement—staring at each other in complete silence. His expression contorts, and you can't help the giggle that bubbles out of you.

"That was—wow." You choke back on your laughter. "I think you're running out of things you're not supposed to do, Spidey."

His own gaze crinkles into a smile, abashed. "I'm sorry, I just—I wanted to thank you. It was out of habit."

"Habit—you crash into people's apartments often and give out these free kisses?" You tease. "Is it part of the job description?"

He shakes his head immediately, terrified by the suggestion. "No—no. I swear this is my first time ever doing anything like this. I got the habit from my aunt, she used to—um..."

His expression dampens considerably. "Kiss my cheek for good luck."

Your gaze softens. "She sounds sweet."

"Yeah." His laugh churns awkwardly with a wince. "You would've loved her."

You watch him, and you sense it again—that chasm that ran deeper than the surface of his winced smiles. The way he shook his head when you asked if he had anyone, and even now, the way he fumbled with his fingers as if he didn't quite know what to do with himself in your gaze—and how he hadn't suggested once since waking up that he wanted to leave.

He was waiting, the way one waits for permission to exist in a room when they haven't been invited in one for years.

"Spidey." You call out.

He whips his head to look at you, pupils still widened in some perpetual disbelief, over the fact that he was in your apartment—that you were right in front of him.

"I'm going to make breakfast." You start, not leaving room for argument. "And you're going to help me."

He blinks once, then twice in astonishment. He swallows dryly. "O-Okay."

Your smile loosens into something reserved for a vigilante you had stayed up all night checking his temperature for.

You find that Spider-Man is pretty good in making pancakes, and that he easily maneuvers himself around your kitchen as if he had already memorised the layout. Of where your favourite mugs are, and how he didn't question twice when taking out the ice-cream tub without you needing to say it.

You could narrow it down to Spidey-senses, or whatever theories that's come up on your feed for his inhuman capabilities—but could it really just be that? Could his super-human abilities be the only reason behind why the warm hazel of his eyes light into the tiniest fireworks as he watches you scourge on your pancake, smiling at him with butter at the corner of your lips—as if the sight of you eating breakfast was the most beautiful thing he's ever seen?

Or why he picked you as his destination for home, or the slip of his tongue on how you meant a great deal more to him than just a someone who so happened to let him stay the night.

You have so much to uncover, but for now, he's just a boy in a NYC graphic tee that’s his exact size, and fluorescent shorts that do nothing for his thighs. He catches your gaze on his peculiar outfit, and his own lips purse in amusement.

"Any reason for the outfit choice?" He murmurs, a knowing smile covered by his fist as he rests his chin over his wrist, head tilting slightly as he gazes at you. "It's inventive."

"Oh—" You blink. "I don't know. I kinda always had them. They don't belong to me, but I just didn't see a need to throw out free clothes."

Your lips quirk up, teasing. "Suits you though. Think you'll keep it?"

He shrugs. "I don't know. I think I'll have to return it."

"Why?"

"So I can borrow it again." He suggests slowly.

You stare at him, unable to hide your growing grin. "Smooth, Spidey. Real smooth."

His gaze lights up. "Better than the cheek kiss?"

"Tons better. You could try it again—I'll see if I can adjust the scores." You tease.

"Really?" He stutters, akin to a flustered high-schooler.

"Yeah, but you'll have to tell me your name." You gesture with a point of your fork. "Can't go around giving free kisses without ID."

You meant it as a joke. You're no expert in superhero protocols, but you're sure the codenames meant no personal information spilled outside their work-life. Even when you've already seen his face, and shared a bed with him, and let him take your second favourite mug though he can't possibly know that last one. There's lines you've certainly crossed, but his name?

You part your lips to take back your impulsive request, to brush it off—only to find genuine consideration forming in his expression. Your smile falls slack in wonder. No, he wouldn't. He couldn't possibly.

Yet, he looks at you, almost peering deep into your soul. He looks at you as if he knows you, all boyish and unguarded. Whatever he sees, past the bed-hair and ice-cream smothered lips—it's worth it to him. It's worth something honest, and sacred—a truth he'll never be able to take back. It's a genuine, soft thing—a precious smile that lifts his lips, one you have no idea how brave he is for keeping. He has made his choice, and you're a part of it, always.

Peter looks at you, and he sees the only present he'll ever want. Past spells and starting-overs and stupid choices—at the centre of it all, it all becomes so simple. You—who his body sought out of instinct, who inhabited his mind with your own personal island, who had taken his heart from the first time he saw you. You're home, and no rules or lines drawn could've stopped him from returning back to you. His everything.

"Peter. Peter Parker."

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His apartment was too warm around you, the little box fan in the window doing nothing but dragging in the humid city air, taxi horns and distant sirens smearing together somewhere below. The sheets had twisted loose from the corners, damp beneath your shins, damp under his back, damp everywhere your bodies had rubbed friction into cheap 300-thread cotton.

Your thighs were shaking badly enough that you could feel it in your bones. Sweat gathered at the base of your neck, between your breasts, at the crease at the back of your thighs and elbows. Your throat ached from keeping quiet for the sake of his neighbors, your thighs trembled with the strain of holding yourself up, and the place where your bodies met was slick and swollen and so sensitive that even the smallest shift made your stomach pull tight.

That had been the most overwhelming part, worse somehow than the stretch of him inside you, worse than the careful roll of his hips or the way his hands could not decide whether to hold you steady or let you move however you wanted.

He watched like he couldn't afford to blink. Like the first time with you was something he had already convinced himself he would never get to have, and now that he had it, now that you were above him, flushed and shaking and breaking apart on him, he did not trust memory to do the moment justice later.

Peter had been painfully careful from the start. His palms trembled at your breasts, your waist, the back of your neck. His voice kept cracking around soft check-ins, asking if you were okay, if it felt good, if you wanted more, if he could touch you there, if he could help, if he could move, if you were sure. You teased him for talking too much, to which he answered with one amused chuckle. Then you sank down on him again and watched the laugh die in his throat.

Now, there was nothing.

No nervous check-in, or shy smile. Not even an attempt to joke his way out of wanting too much.

His fingers tightened at your hips with a strength that thrilled you before it worried you, the pads of them pressing into skin made slippery by sweat, and his mouth agape. His chestnut eyes were fixed on a point beyond your shoulder, while the flush across his cheeks sank lower toward his chest. The curls at his forehead were damp, sticking in messy pieces to his skin. Beneath your clammy palms, his heartbeat kicked fast and hard once, then seemed to hold itself still with the rest of him.

You blinked down at him, still pulsing around him, still too sensitive to consider what changed.

“Hm? Baby?” you frowned, trying to sound calmer than you felt. “Are you okay?”

Peter swallowed hard, gaze dropping to your lips.

"Wh—what did you say?" he cleared his throat. "Just now."

You stared at him through the dark. Your hips shifted, a tiny, involuntary grind as your body tried to ride out the aftershock and ease the ache settling into your knees, and his cock twitched inside you so suddenly you whimpered.

"I—I said your name?" The answer came out unsure, the end of it pitching higher than the rest.

His eyes snapped back to yours fully.

For one awful moment, you convinced yourself you had done something wrong, offensive, or forbidden, crossing some undisclosed boundary. He didn't press a reassuring kiss along the crease between your furrowed brows. He didn't slip into a clever little quip. His whole body remained as unflinching as his stare, causing unease to settle low in your belly like bricks tied to your feet.

"Can you say it again?"

You licked your swollen lips, cocked your head, and swallowed. "Peter."

He groaned, a low, filthy rumble felt beneath your fingertips, sounding nothing like the sweet, careful young man who kissed and hugged you like he was afraid of wanting too much. His hips jerked up, and you gasped, fingers curling against the firm plane of his chest as the movement sent a sharp, tingling pulse through your overstimulated body.

"Again, baby," he rasped. "Please. Say it again."

The plea made you clench around him.

You leaned forward until your palms pressed flatter against him, close enough to feel the frantic beat of his heart beneath your hands and the uneven rise of his ribs as he tried to breathe through it. Under your fingers, you could feel old scars, faint ridges and shallow lines scattered across his skin, each one a small history he had tried to laugh off whenever you noticed too long.

"Peter," you murmured, slower this time, letting every letter land. "You feel so good."

His head tipped back into the pillow, jaw slack, Adam's apple bobbing while stifling a moan. His hands slid to the meat of your ass, dragging you down against him. Wetness smeared between your bodies with every small, shaking movement, your thighs slick against his hips, the room full of soft skin sounds and the broken mess of both your breathing.

"Peter," you tried again, quieter this time, curious to see what it would do to him. "You’re so good to me. You’ve been so sweet with me."

He shut his eyes.

"Baby," he warned, but it came out as if asking for mercy.

"Peter," you mimicked his tone, rolling your hips down in a slow circle, and felt his hands flex against you. "I know you. I know how you try to say sorry before you even ask for something. I know how you look at the door like you’re already planning how to leave before anyone can make you. I know how your hands shake when you’re trying to be gentle."

His eyes opened when you touched his cheek, thumb dragging over the damp heat beneath his eye.

"And now I know you like hearing me say your name in bed."

You barely had time to blink before his arms locked around you, and the room turned.

One second you were above him, trembling and dizzy, and the next your back hit the damp sheets with a little gasp knocked from your chest. Peter's body covered yours, one hand braced beside your head. His curls fell forward and tickled your cheek. His mouth hovered over yours, open and panting, so close you could feel every exhale skin across your lips.

You stared up at him wide-eyed and far more awake.

"Too much?" he got out, stunned by himself. His hips were still pressed tight to yours, buried deep, his whole body held taut. Even like this, even frantic, Peter was careful with you. Careful enough not to hurt you. Not careful enough to hide that something in him had gone ravenous and needy all at once. "Tell me if it’s too much."

You wrapped your arms around his neck and pulled him down until his mouth hovered over yours, fingers massaging nape. "Don’t stop, Peter."

His forehead dropped to yours, then thrust into you so deeply your nails dug into his shoulders.

"Fuck!" you gasped, back arching and head falling back against the pillow.

Peter kissed the corner of your open mouth impatiently, missed, kissed your cheek instead, then your jaw, then the side of your neck like he could not decide where he needed to be. His nose dragged against your pulse. "Say it again."

"Peter."

He groaned, mouth brushing yours without quite kissing you.

"My Peter," you added before you could think better of it.

"Shit," he choked. "Don’t call me that unless you want me to lose it."

You held his face between your hands and looked right at him beneath your lashes. "Lose it, Tiger."

Your body dragged tight around him, too sensitive and too wet, every stroke making your stomach jump and your toes curl into the ruined sheet beneath you. Sweat gathered where your chest met his, skin sliding against skin until there was no clean place to hold. Your hands ran down his back and found the hard shift of muscle beneath slick skin, the flex of him as he held himself above you, the raised edge of an old scar near his ribs that made your chest ache even as your body pulled tighter around him.

Your fingers pushed into his hair, catching in the stubborn curls at his crown, and when you tugged, his pace broke.

"D'you like—that?" you managed, shaking against his lips.

“Yes.” He confessed immediately, shoving his face into the side of your neck again as if he could hide from how badly he meant it. “Liked that. God, Don't—hmm— don’t—stop saying it, too. Please. I need—”

His sentence faltered when you clenched around him.

"Need what?" you pushed, and maybe it was cruel, maybe you should've stayed soft with him, but the way he shook above you made your head swim. "Tell me."

Peter laughed, embarrassed, and completely gone.

"I need to hear it again," he mumbled, hips slowing enough to make your breath catch. "Nobody—baby, nobody says it— like you. Nobody says it like they know me."

Your heart twisted, and your eyes burned.

It was then you understood.

There were only a few things Peter Parker let himself have anymore. He let himself have the raggedy apartment with the rusted window lock and the radiator that rattled all winter. He let himself have the suit, hidden in places no one would think to look. He let himself have coffee gone cold on the fire escape, cheap takeout eaten standing over the sink, bruises he pretended were not as bad as they looked, and jokes that never quite burrowed the loneliness underneath.

But his name was different.

His name was not something the world gave him anymore. Not knowingly or graciously. Not with your hands in his soft curly hair and your body warm beneath his, not with your voice trembling around each vowel and consonant like it belonged to you too. It had been so long since anyone had known him enough to say his name with familiarity, with love, with want, with worry, with need.

And he was still moving, dragging the words out of you with every deep roll of his hips, still looking at you like he was two seconds away from begging on his knees if that was what it took. His mouth hovered near your throat, his nose brushing your pulse each time he sank into you, like even your heartbeat saying he was there was something he needed to listen to.

So you gave it to him.

"Peter," you cried, louder this time. "My Peter."

He lost the rhythm but found it again, rough enough to make the bed knock once against the wall, then again. His hand dropped to your thigh and hitched it higher against his side, opening you up until you cried out. Your skin tingled everywhere he touched you. Your stomach pulled tight. The place between your legs was slick and swollen and loud, every thrust pushing wetness between your bodies until you could hear it, until the sound made your face burn and his hips stutter.

Peter's focus dropped where you were connected for one hot second, and the look that crossed his face almost finished you by itself.

"Geez," he breathed, then looked back at you like he needed to watch your face or he would completely lose his mind. "You hear that? You hear how wet you are for me?"

You nodded frantically. "You’re so deep. You’re so good. You’re making me feel so good."

His mouth dropped open against your temple.

"Again."

"You’re good," you stressed, softer but no less wrecked. "I love you, Peter, so much. Wish—wish you could see yourself. You look— so damn good—when you let me have you like this."

He kissed you so hard it almost hurt.

It was messy, all tongue and teeth and panting into each other’s mouths. He swallowed your moans like he needed them. His hand slipped between your bodies, fingers finding your clit with the same frantic lack of patience, and your back arched so hard at the first firm circle your chest dragged against his. The pressure was too sharp after already coming once. Your legs started shaking around him again, heels digging uselessly into the backs of his thighs as your second orgasm started to build fast and unbearable.

"Baby, I’m-I'm close"

"Me too,” You clung to him, frantic from the steady pressure of his fingers and the drag of him inside you. "I can feel it."

"Say my name— when you come," he urged, the words nearly falling over each other. "Please—Please, I need to hear it. Need to know—it’s me making you feel like this."

Your chest tightened, but there was no room to make it gentle. Not with him moving like that. Not with his fingers rubbing you in tight, desperate circles while his hips drove into you, not with the wet slap of skin against yours.

Your second orgasm hit harder and longer than the first. You gripped him, mouth open, breath catching uselessly before sound finally broke out.

"Peter!" you sobbed, dragging both hands down his back, feeling the muscles jump beneath his slick skin, and pulled him as close as he could get. "Peter, it’s—you. It’s you! Only you!"

He came with a groan against your neck, hips shoved deep, arms wound right around you. He kept moving in shallow, helpless little rolls that made you whimper with each wave of his release.

Your body was too sensitive, still pulsing around him, thighs straining, but that didn't stop you from talking because you could feel what it did to him.

"I’ve got you," you soothed, stroking his hair while his weight settled heavier over you. His curls brushed your cheek every time he tried to breathe. "I’ve got you. You’re here with me. I know you."

A sound left him at that, quiet and exhausted, vulnerable just for your ears.

For a while, you were both content to be tangled in each other's arms.

The air was hot around you. The sheets needed to be changed. Your legs felt weak where they had fallen loose around his hips, and your fingers tingled from how tightly you had been holding onto him. Peter stayed tucked against you, breathing hard into the space above your collarbone, his body still trembling in little aftershocks he could not seem to control. Every so often, his thumb moved against your side in a small, absent stroke, careful now in the aftermath, almost shy with the same hands that had just held you down.

You kissed his temple. "Baby?"

His arms tightened around you immediately, swallowed hard, then lifted himself just enough to look at you. His face was flushed, his eyes still dark, his mouth swollen from yours. He looked embarrassed now, a little scared by how much you had seen, but still yearning to show you more.

"I'm here," he answered from somewhere far away, like he still couldn't believe someone called for him and meant him. "Yeah. I’m here. I love you."

"Peter Parker," you cradled his jaw, one thumb sweeping the apple of his cheek gently. "You're here, and I love you, too."

His eyes fluttered at the touch, the tenderness, and then a smile broke across his face before he could hide it, wide, warm, and unbearably young. It tucked into one cheek first and brought out the crinkles at the corners of his eyes.

For a second, he looked younger than the bruises, younger than the suit, younger than all the years he had spent without anyone to call him home.

If only he and the world had been kinder to him, you achingly thought.

You barely had time to spiral in that thought before he leaned down and let himself have a couple more things: a kiss against your lips and his name between you.

.

He was extremely hesitant at first, understandably so given what you knew now about the whole spiderman and everyone forgetting him thing, but after getting to know you and hearing about the barrage of troubles the universe had thrusted your way, he figured if there was anyone he could trust, it was you.

A year later, not much had changed in your lives. You were still two struggling adults in your twenties just trying to get by on the day-to-day, except now, at least you had each other to cope. At least you were able to find some reprieve and light, though the pain from your lives remained a low hum in the background. 

You weren't exactly sure when it began happening—maybe a few months in—but you noticed it randomly one day. Your heart started beating faster around him. Then, he began taking up extra space in your mind until eventually, the thoughts became too loud to ignore.

You chalked the feelings up to all the trauma bonding and hours you’d spent together trying to shut out and disappear from the real world. You tried to ignore the rush of joy you felt when he laughed, or the dizziness of your head whenever you caught a glimpse of him changing out of his suit, until you were drowning in a pool of affection that you weren't sure you could surface from. 

There’d been a few times the confession almost slipped from your tongue. The intimate nights sitting out on the fire escape with food and the sound of the city in the distance, or the times where he sat a little too close to you on the couch during movie nights.

But then he’d sigh, his gaze going foggy as he zoned out on some far off point, murmuring, “MJ would have hated this movie,” or “Ned used to love this burger place.”

And just like that the words would die on your tongue. How could you ever compete with the monument of love he carried for his past relationships? No, it was easier to suppress the feelings and toss them atop the mountain of other struggles you carried. You’d learn to manage with the extra weight simple because the alternative—a life absent of his presence—wasn’t something you could fathom.

Then things started changing.

First, he was suddenly busy on your sacred days off, days you would always spend together exploring new restaurants and coffee shops around the city. Then, he started turning you away on his patrol nights, nights where you’d kept him company and even helped patch up the nastier cuts he couldn't reach. Excuse after excuse came and the fear that he’d figured out your feelings twisted your gut with nerves.

It didn't take long for you to come to the conclusion that he was building a wall to preserve the sanctity of his memory with MJ. There could be no other reason for the sudden distance. You tried convincing yourself it was for the best. The perfect solution to help you cope with losing him, because if it wasn’t now, it would be later.

You lasted exactly three days. Three days of radio silence was what it took for you to realize that no, you couldn’t do this. You couldn’t stay away from him. Maybe it was the return to a forgotten loneliness, a deep, screaming void, that had you knocking on his door frantically that night, your fist nearly pounding through the paint-chipped wood.

The door cracked open an inch and before he could get the opportunity to reject you, you pushed your way through, bursting into his apartment with a temper he’d never seen.

“Hey, stranger,” you said with a hint of venom in your voice. You turned to face him, your eyes widening slightly at the sight of his pale, flushed skin, a fine sheen of sweat settled on his temples. His eyes looked unusually dark; you blinked your own a few times to clear them and make sure you weren’t seeing something that wasn’t there. 

He said your name through the rasp of his shaky voice. “I-I’m sorry, I’m busy right now… you should go.”

“Like hell I should,” you scoffed, any anxious thoughts replaced by an unwavering surge of protectiveness. “Is this why you’ve been ghosting me? Are you sick or something?”

His face suddenly scrunched up, his hand raising to hold his head as he whimpered in pain. “I’m n-not ghosting you… I just…”

You took a step closer to him, freezing when he flinched back and held out a hand to stop you. Your heart fell to your stomach as you watched his eyes darken further. “Pete, I don’t know what’s going on but, please, let me help you… Stop pushing me away.” 

You attempted another careful step forward until he pushed himself back against the wall.

“S-stop, stop! Please just… don’t come closer.”

You swallowed down the thick lump in your throat that had risen, clenching your hands into fists to stop them from shaking. You waited patiently for him to speak, scared that the next words that left him were going to be the ones to shatter your world.

“I,” he paused, breathing in a deep breath before continuing. “I can’t… trust myself to be around you right now.”

Your brows pressed together in confusion. “Why not?”

His eyes bore into the ground as he tried to gather his thoughts over the multitude of senses that surged the moment you approached his door, but everything was fuzzy and melted together until all he could feel was you. Your presence, and it was driving him crazy.

“My systems are detecting an abnormally high heart rate, Peter,” Evie’s robotic voice rang out. “System overload is approaching.”

“Not now, Evie,” Peter choked out.

You shook your head in disbelief. “You can trust me, Peter. Please. Haven’t I proven that to you? After everything?”

“I-It’s not that—”

“Then what?” You approached him despite his protests, not stopping until you were a step away from touching.

His brain nearly short-circuited, any lasting restraint vanishing as he allowed you to fully flood his senses. The shampoo you used this morning, the perfume you’d applied a few hours ago, the fast thump thump of your heart, a beautiful rhythm that drowned out all rational thought to disarm him completely.

“Something is happening to me,” he gasped, the words tearing from his chest. “My arachnid DNA is… it’s evolving. Mutating. Everything is turned up to ten thousand a-and my impulses—” he cut himself off, slamming his head back against the door hard enough to make it rattle on its hinges. 

You shook your head, your hands reaching for him again. “If you’re scared you’ll hurt me, you won’t—”

“No!” he spat out desperately. “It’s not that I—I c-can’t—” He was practically shaking now, violent tremors racking his body.

Your heart ached as you watched him. Unable to control yourself, you lifted your hands to cup his flushed cheeks, his skin burning under your palms. “Peter,” you whispered softly, your voice reaching him over the storm raging within.

He stared at you, his pupils dilated so wide, only a thin ring of the soft brown you loved so much was present. Your lips parted with a pant at the hunger displayed in them as you got lost in their depths, a raw need you’d never seen before. “Woah…”

A low, tormented whimper escaped him when your thumbs rubbed along his skin, the sound shooting straight to pool low in your stomach, spreading a heat you scolded yourself for internally. Now was not the time.

“I can’t think straight when you’re near,” he confessed through a strained voice. His hands clenched into fists at his sides. “I can’t act normal. I can’t pretend like I usually do… not when all I want to do is—”

He groaned, tipping his head back against the door, a final sliver of restrain returning before he crossed the line.

“What, Peter?” you pressed, leaning closer to eliminate the last inch of space between your bodies, your chests brushing. You looked at him with such care, your gaze so gentle and understanding and comforting. “What do you want to do?”

In the split second before he moved you were able to catch the black swallowing the last fragment of brown, followed quickly by the entirety of the whites of his eyes. Then his lips were on yours.

It was all consuming as his mouth moved over yours, desperately kissing as if you were the very air that filled his lungs and it was being threatened away from him.

His hands dug into your sides, fisting your skin to pull you flush against his body until you could feel the taught muscle hidden beneath his shirt. You gasped into his mouth when he lifted you to wrap your legs around his waist, moaning when he took the opportunity to slide his tongue along yours.

He fell back onto the couch behind him, keeping you close as he continued to devour your lips, whimpering when your fingers threaded through his hair, tugging to pull him back so you could take a breath.

He fought against your grip, his eyes opening to lock onto yours when you pulled harder. Your chest heaved as you stared into the black pools with awe.

“I-I’m sorry,” he managed to say through clenched teeth, barely suppressing the desire to ravage you whole. “I tried to hide my feelings but it's harder like this.”

The smile that graced your lips had his head spinning all over again, his eyes burning as they turned glassy.

“Feelings?” you mumbled, leaning down to ghost your lips over his, the heat in your belly spreading further when he tried to chase them. You curve into him just enough to feel something poking you as he let out another strangled gasp. “You like me, Peter?”

A tear slips down his cheek when you say his name, the sound falling so beautifully from your lips, making his cock pulse harder in his sweatpants. The grip he has on you tightens, subconsciously pressing you down over his throbbing boner.

“I’m sorry,” he repeats with a shake of his head. “I don’t want to ruin what we have, I just… can’t lose you, too.”

Your heart clenches when his voice cracks with agony. You want to scream at him and the world the depths of your feelings for him, how he could never lose you and how the same fear had been tormenting you for weeks. But words felt small, too insufficient. So you showed him by capturing his lips with yours once more.

He met them with relief, his arms wrapping fully around your torso to cage you against him in an attempt to get as close to fusing your bodies together as possible. You arched into him, fully dragging your core against his cock, the friction a sweet torture that had his mouth falling open in a broken moan. 

“Please,” he gasped against your cheek.

You buried your face in the crook of his neck, your lips latching onto the sensitive skin as you rocked your hips faster. You could feel every inch of his cock pressing against your heat, your aching clit pulsating in your soaked panties. His grip on you turned bruising, his fingers digging into the flesh of your hips as he guided your movements to match how much he needed you.

“So g-good… you feel so—mngh—” he whined.

Just then a sharp blaring came from the other side of the room, a sound you recognized as his police scanner. You stilled your movements and removed your head from his neck. Before you could say anything, Peter’s arm flung out. A web whipped through the air and a second later it connected with the phone, striking it hard enough for a loud crack to sound out, silencing the alarm.

His black eyes shot back to find your surprised ones. He’d never, ever, ignored the call. But tonight he didn’t care. Tonight, all he wanted was you.

You could practically see the possession in his eyes as he stood up, holding you against him. Seconds later, your back met the soft mattress of his bed as he laid you down, quickly pressing himself back between your legs, his mouth finding your neck, kissing and nipping a trail of fire. Your mind, however, was still trying to comprehend what you’d just seen.

He intertwined his fingers with yours, pinning your hands beside your head, his hips rutting shamelessly into you with a pressure that stole your breath. You turned to stare at his wrist, bare of the bulky web shooters.

“Peter,” you panted, arching into his thrust. “How did you… the web?”

His lips trailed up your cheek, messily kissing over your lips with a desperate fervor. 

“Arachnid DNA,” is all he mumbled.

“O-Oh.. cool,” you managed to say before he swallowed the word with his tongue.

He parted to sit back on his heels, pulling his shirt over his head to reveal his sweat slicked torso. Your mouth went dry when he pulled down his sweats and underwear in one go, kicking them off the rest of the way.

Your gaze dropped, a heady moan slipping at the sight of his thick cock flushed a deep red as it pulsed against his stomach, streams of precum dripping down the sides.

He climbed back over you, pressing his cock into your clothed heat to resume his rutting, panting little sounds of pleasure into your ear.

“Mnmh—ah! I can—fuck… I can feel how warm you are, can smell you." His hands slipped beneath your shirt, running up until they grazed the soft skin of your breasts.

Something new in him snapped when he realized you weren't wearing a bra. He started snapping his hips harder into you until your body was climbing up the bed. “I’m sorry—oh god… fuck, I’m so sorry—I can't stop—”

“It’s okay, Peter.”

“No,” he pleaded, his lips brushing your throat. “I can’t hold back anymore. Fuck—I need you to tell me—”

“I’m here for you, Peter,” you whispered, cupping his face to force his dazed eyes back to yours. His lids were blotchy with tears, his lips red and kiss-swollen. You could see the struggle in them, the fight against his depraved thoughts to make sure you were okay with this. It only made you want him more. “Use me.”

Any remaining tension in his face melted. His brows relaxed, the cute crinkles by his eyes smoothing over at your permission.

He shoved your shirt over your head, moaning at the sight of your chest, your nipples peaked and begging for his touch. He captured one in his mouth, laving it with his tongue before sucking hard. His other hand rolled the other between his fingers, flicking and pinching the sensitive bud, drawing out high pitched cries from your lips.

“Mmm, so pretty, taste so sweet.”

His free hand fumbled with your pants in an attempt to push them down, a frustrated, almost animalistic groan escaping him when they caught on your hips. He gave a small tug and tore the fabric away from your body, discarding it without a second thought.

“Hey!” you yelped, the protest dying when he pressed the hot head of his cock through your sodden folds, rubbing it through the slick mess. 

The slick sounds of your wet heat were enough to make his consciousness slip as he failed to suppress a sob.

He could hear every microscopic hitch of your breath in his heightened ears, every pulse at your clit against his shaft a divine torment, the rush of your blood beneath your skin. You watched, enamored, as his eyes fluttered weakly when his tip caught at your hole, and then he was pushing in.

“O-Oh fuu—” his eyes fluttered as your tight cunt clenched around the invasion.

“I’m sorry, so sorry—so tight, fuck, ‘M sorry—” he apologized in a continuous stream as he sank in, forcing himself deeper until he was fully bottomed out. Tears slipped from his eyes, cascading down his flushed cheeks, your walls clamping down to draw out more small cries from him, basking in the sight.

You sucked in a sharp breath at the stretch. It had been a while for you and Peter was so thick. You could feel every vein, every ridge of his cock dragging against your velvety walls as his hips met yours.

Before you could fully adjust and let the sting subside, he was pulling out and driving back into you with a punctured breath, stealing the air from your lungs. You dug your nails into the muscles of his back, biting your lip to suppress a yelp as he set a brutal pace, each thrust burying him just as deep.

The head of his cock kissed your cervix with an overwhelming, euphoric pressure. 

“Cunt feels so fucking good, squeezing me so tight.”

The pain began to fade, replaced by a pleasure so sharp it bordered on agony. You wrapped your legs tighter around him, locking your ankles, pushing him deeper inside you. “'M so full, Peter.”

He collapsed onto you, his lips leaving wet, sloppy kisses wherever he could reach as he fucked you mercilessly, his cock pistoning in and out of you.

The pressure in your belly snuck up on you, building and coiling tight like a live wire trapped beneath your skin.

“P-Peter—!” you cried out, your cunt fluttering around his cock. You bowed off the bed, your back arching as he fucked the orgasm out of you, wave after wave of white-hot ecstasy flowing through your nerves.

The foreign scent of your cum invaded his senses, something he could only describe as overwhelmingly you and all-consuming, causing his eyes to screw shut with a sob.

The violent constrictions of your walls around his cock only edged him on further. He fucked you through your climax with ragged, desperate bucks, his movements dissolving into a frenzy, the filthy sounds of wet skin slapping together filling the room.

You latched onto his wrists beside your head, feeling an intense heat radiating from the hypersensitive skin over his organic webbing. Before you were even aware of your actions, your head was turning, your lips pressing a soft kiss to his wrist.

Words were beyond him as your touch reduced him to incoherent, whimpering babbles. “Feels… s’good—mphm. C-Can’t… ‘M yours… all yours—”

His thrusts turned erratic, his gut tightening as he rested his forehead on your chest, nuzzling into your skin in an attempt to sink into you, to become one.

"It h- it hurts—can't stop... 'M sorry—"

You could feel his cock swelling inside you, his thrust faltering to shallow, uncoordinated thrusts. A sob wretched from him, wanton and broken, hot tears spilling from his clenched eyes, dripping onto your skin.

"Come for me, Peter."

He sank all the way in one last time, burying himself as deep as he could go as his body tensed.

Then his mind blanked.

His vision went black, speckled with stars. With a guttural cry, he came, his release a torrent, spilling deep into your cunt in thick, hot pulsing waves. He whined into your chest, his body spasming through each powerful jet.

You panted through each hard twitch of his cock, overwhelmed with the sheer volume of cum as he continued to fill you, the sensation so intense you struggled to catch your breath. It just kept going as he shook above you, his cum leaking out around the base of his cock still stuffed deep inside you.

He stayed there as your cunt milked every drop, creating a home for himself, content with living inside you for as long as you'd let him.

You carded a hand through his hair as tremors continued to wrack his oversensitive body. “Shh, you’re okay,” you whispered into his ear, your voice hoarse. “You did so good.”

He went boneless above you, a dead, spent weight. Eventually, his softened cock slipped from your used cunt, followed by a stream of his release dripping down to soak the sheets as you whimpered through it all.

A few moments later, the silence in the room was broken by Evie’s voice. “Heart rate regulated. Vitals have returned to baseline levels.”

It seemed to bring Peter back to earth. He lifted his head from your chest with a groggy moan, blinking blearily down at you. His eyes were back to their normal, warm brown, the black reduced to his pupils, though still glazed with wonder.

You guided him to his back, leaning over to wipe the tears from his cheek before pressing a soft kiss to his lips.

He sniffled, fresh tears welling in his bloodshot eyes. “I’m sorry,” he whispered, voice wrecked. “I didn’t… I didn’t want it to happen like that. I wanted to be… better for you.”

You shushed him gently, kissing his cheek. “We’re okay.”

“I’m sorry,” he insisted, the vulnerability clear in his tone. “I am.”

You shook your head, a small smile playing at your lips. “Then never ignore me like that again.”

He sniffled with a nod, his lips squirking up into that boyish smile that made your heart ache. “Okay.”

“Do you feel better?” you asked, your hands smoothing down his chest.

He nodded, a dark blush spreading across his cheeks and down his neck. “I didn’t know I could feel that good,” he admitted with awe. 

“Has it been a while for you, too?”

He swallowed hard, his gaze flicking away for a second before meeting yours again anxiously. ‘I’ve never, um…” he took a shaky, deep breath. “That was my uh, first time.”

Your hands froze on his chest. “What?”

He winced. “I told you I couldn’t control myself.”

You laughed at the surprising confession, leaning down to brush your nose against his. “Well, at least it was memorable.”

He smiled, all shy and genuine and so Peter-like, you couldn’t resist kissing him, tender and slow. Your hand continued rubbing, your thumb brushing over a nipple, circle it to a peak when he whimpered, his whole body jolting back away at your touch.

“Tsk, so sensitive.” Your hand trailed lower, grazing over the dips of muscle to rest just above where his cock was stirring back to life. “So how easy is it for that side of you to come out?”

His breath caught as your finger dug into the sensitive skin of his lower stomach. When you flicked your eyes back up to his, you saw it again.

The inky blackness had started to expand, swallowing the warm brown, once again drawn out by you. 

Don't be shy to leave a like comment or reblog, truly means the world to me :D

You set your mug down before yanking your jumper tighter around your shoulders, and head into the corridor. The hallway smells of damp carpet. You step up to 4B, fold your knuckles, and rap four beats against the door.

A violent rustle erupts inside.

Someone scrambles blindly over a piece of furniture, trips, curses under their breath, and finally unlatches the deadbolt. The door opens a paltry three inches, held fast by the brass security chain.

Peter Parker peers out through the vertical gap. His curls are plastered to his forehead with sweat, a fresh purple streak blooming right along his jawline. He looks as though he had just finished wrestling.

“Hey,” he rasps, voice sounding like he swallowed a handful of gravel. He pulls a faint, utterly hopeless squint, resting his forehead lightly against the edge of the door. “Is... is everything alright out there?”

“I was going to ask you the same thing,” you say, leaning your side against the doorframe. “Considering you sound like you’re tossing all sorts of things around your flat.”

Peter winces, his hand tightening on the edge of the timber. “Right. Sorry. I just... lost my balance.” he nods, more to himself than to you. “My shoelaces were untied.”

“Your shoelaces.”

“Yeah. Double knot failed me.”

“Right. And the shoelaces hit you in the face?”

Silence fills the corridor. Peter blinks, his brain clearly grinding its gears to manufacture a backup lie, but the bone deep exhaustion in his eyes catches up to him. He lets out a defeated breath that rustles his messy fringe. “It was a very aggressive knot.”

“You are a dreadful liar.” Your eyes drop to his knuckle where he grips the door. “Is everything okay? You look like you’ve been through it.”

“Appreciate the honesty.”

“I’m serious. You look about one breath away from collapsing onto the floor.” You turn on your heel without waiting for his rebuttal. “Don’t lock the door.”

You disappear into your kitchen, grabbing a make shift ice pack that is frozen peas wrapped in a towel out of the freezer compartment. When you return, Peter hasn’t moved an inch, though his eyelids are half closed, his weight propped against the doorframe just to stay upright.

You shove the wrapped pack through the narrow gap, causing him to jolt back to life. He fumbles it, his rough fingers scraping against yours as he secures a grip.

“Hold it against your face.” you order, stepping back. “And if you’re going to keep dragging yourself home in pieces at midnight, at least learn how to fall properly.”

A crooked smirk cuts through his exhaustion, tugging at the corner of his split lip. “I’ll uh add soft landings to my list.”

“Do that.” You tap the wood of his door with a knuckle.

“Night,” he calls out, his tone dropping into something surprisingly quiet as you turn away.

You don’t linger to watch him shut the door, but the click of the lock follows you back to your flat, accompanied by the muffled sound of him finally sliding down against the wall to rest.

Three nights later, the knock comes on your door.

It's a tentative, almost apologetic tap—two soft thuds against the timber at a quarter past one in the morning.

You pull your headphones down around your neck, shoving your laptop aside on the sofa before padding over. When you swing the door open, Peter is standing in the dim light of the corridor, looking remarkably clean compared to his last appearance. His curls are damp from the rain outside, and the purple bruise along his jawline from earlier in the week has already faded to a dull yellow.

A ridiculously fast recovery that you brush off.

In his hands, folded into a neat, lopsided square, is your towel.

“I washed it,” he explains immediately. “And I bought my own ice pack. A proper gel one this time. So your frozen peas are safe.”

You take the laundered cloth with a slow tilt of your head. “You know it’s past one, right? Normal people exchange laundry during daylight hours.”

“Yeah, well, my schedule isn’t exactly normal,” he admits, shifting his weight between his feet. He rubs the back of his neck, his fingers tangling briefly in his messy hair. “Plus, I saw the light under your door. Figured you were still awake.”

“I work better when everything else has settled,” you shrug. “What’s your excuse?”

Peter offers a small, self deprecating grin, though his eyes wander past you into the warm glow of your flat. “Odd jobs. Whatever pays cash under the table. Late night shifts keep me out of people’s way.”

He shifts again, and as he does, a sharp wince catches in his throat. His left shoulder hitches up unnaturally high, his right hand instantly snapping up to brace his elbow.

You don’t miss the subtle flinch. “What did you do now?”

“Nothing,” he says a fraction too fast, eyes locking back onto yours. “Just pulled something. Lifting heavy boxes.”

“Heavy boxes.” You raise a brow and take a step back into your entryway, leaving the door wide open. “Come in.”

Peter hesitates on the threshold, his eyes widening slightly. “Oh, no, I really don’t want to bother you–”

“You’re already bothering me by standing there,” you cut in, heading straight for the kitchen counter. “In. Before the cold freezes the whole flat.”

With a quiet exhale, he steps across the entryway. Having him inside your tiny space immediately alters the air. He’s broader than his oversized clothes let on, his presence instantly filling the narrow entry. He stands awkwardly by the coat rack, his lips forming into a thin line as he watches you retrieve a tub of muscle rub from a cabinet.

“Shirt stays on, don’t worry,“ you break the silence, turning back to face him with the jar in hand. “Just turn around and sit on the edge of the sofa.”

Peter blinks, a charming flush creeping up from the collar of his jumper, tinting his face a faint pink. “You really don’t have to do this–”

“I know I don’t,” you answer, gesturing toward the cushions. “Sit.”

Peter sinks onto the cushion, perching on the absolute edge. You sit down beside him on the sofa, unscrewing the small jar in your hands. The crisp scent of eucalyptus instantly fills the space between you.

“Lean forward,” you instruct, rubbing a dollop of the cool cream across your palms. “And try to actually relax for five seconds.”

Peter ducks his head without argument, resting his elbows on his knees. His messy curls drop over his forehead, exposing the skin at the nape of his neck. When you press your hands against the base of his neck, working your thumbs into his left shoulder through the wool of his jumper, he stiffens instantly. A ragged breath hitches in his chest, his whole frame going solid beneath your touch. It’s like pressing your hands into solid granite. Beneath the knitwear, there is no give—just dense hard muscle wrapped tight with strain.

“Breathe, Peter,” you murmur, digging your thumbs in harder to work around a stubborn knot near his shoulder blade. “I’m not gonna break you.”

“Right. Yeah,” he rasps, though his knuckles turn white where his hands grip his knees. He swallows hard, his shoulders slowly dropping under your steady pressure. “Sorry. Just... not really used to it.”

“Not used to what? Basic self care?”

“People…” He hesitates, the word hanging heavy in the room before he quickly catches himself. “People touching my shoulders, I guess. Usually it’s just someone shoving past me on the subway.”

The answer is delivered with a light chuckle and yet it hits with an unexpected sting. At that, you slow the rhythm of your hands, smoothing the warmth of the cream deeper into the stiff muscle.

“Well, you have dreadful posture anyway,” you joke softly, “so you’re going to have to suffer through it.”

Peter lets out a genuine laugh that vibrates right through his back and into your fingertips. His head dips lower, his breath hitching once more, not from pain this time, but from something far quieter, his eyes fluttering shut as he finally lets his full weight sink back against the cushions.

For a few minutes, neither of you speaks. The only sound in the flat is the rhythmic hum of your fridge and the pattern of Peter’s breathing as your thumbs work out the tension in his upper back. The heat radiating through his clothes is almost absurd. Beneath your palms, the stiff line of his spine finally relaxes.

“Better?” you ask quietly, lifting your hands.

Peter turns his head slowly, looking back over his shoulder. Up close, without the shadows of the draughty corridor hiding him, his brown eyes are calm and unguarded. Near his collarbone, a faint, restless pulse flutters, beating far too fast for someone sitting completely still.

“Yeah,” he murmurs, voice dropping an octave. “Yeah, actually. A lot better.” He nods.

You wipe the excess cream off your palms onto a tissue, maintaining a steady posture despite the sudden spike in atmospheric pressure. “Good. Because I’m not making a habit of running a wellness centre out of my living room.”

A smile tugs at his lip. He shifts his frame on the cushion, angling his knees toward yours in the narrow space between you. He looks down at his scraped knuckles for a brief second before his gaze travels back up to your face, tracing the line of your jaw before settling firmly on your eyes.

“I could pay you,” he offers, his tone light, though the way he is watching you is anything but casual. “I mean... not in money. But I could do your heavy lifting. Or fix your radiator. It rattles at three in the morning, by the way.”

“You’re listening to my radiator at three in the morning?”

Peter goes dead still, his mouth parting as if to instantly retract the statement. A deep, telltale flush surges right up to the tips of his ears. “I–well, paper thin walls. I just hear things. I’m not... I promise I’m not lingering outside your wall like a creep.”

“I know, Peter.” a quiet laugh bubbles in your throat as you tilt your head. “Relax.”

He exhales a breath that seems half relieved and half flustered, running a hand through his hair. Then, as if suddenly remembering himself, he pushes off the sofa with fluid grace that seems too fast for a guy who claims to be clumsy.

“I should um... probably get out of your hair,” he stammers, taking two quick steps back toward the entryway. “It’s late. Or early. Whatever it is.”

You follow him at a more leisurely pace, resting against the archway as he unlatches the front door.

“Try not to fall on your journey back to 4B,“ you call out.

Peter pauses and looks over his shoulder. “No guarantees,” he chuckles, his gaze lingering on your face for one beat, two beats, before he finally steps out into the corridor. “Night.”

“Night, Peter.”

The following evening, you’re standing in the overcrowded aisle of the corner shop down the block, debating between two identical jars of pasta sauce, when a shadow falls over you.

“The basil one,” a voice says from right behind your shoulder. “The garlic one tastes like cardboard.”

You turn around to find Peter precariously balancing three trays of meat, a carton of milk, and a loaf of bread in his arms.

“No basket?” you breath a laugh, putting the garlic sauce back and taking his recommendation.

“I wasn’t planning on buying much,” he awkwardly clarifies, “I came in for milk. The rest were an impulsive buy.”

Another soft laugh escapes your lips before you reach over to pluck the meat trays out of his arms and drop them into your own basket. “Here. Give me the rest.”

Both his brows raise in surprise. “Thanks.” he falls into step beside you as you head toward the till. “I actually… I owe you one anyway. For the shoulder thing.”

“You don’t owe me anything.”

“I could carry your groceries,” he insists, tapping the side of your plastic basket. “If–if you want.”

True to his word, he waits for you by your checkout counter immediately after paying for his own groceries, taking your brown paper bag the second the cashier finishes packing it up. The sun warms your skin as you walk side by side back to your building.

When you reach the fourth floor, he hands the bag back, his fingers brushing against yours for a second longer than necessary.

“See?” Peter says smoothly, leaning his back against his front door with a proud smirk. “Not one bruise. Flawless execution.”

“Impressive,” you tease as you tilt your head, unlocking the door to your flat. “Don’t let it go to your head.”

“Too late,” he chuckles lightly, eyes staying on you until you step inside. “I’ll um see you around.”

Three nights pass without a squeak from him.

Outside, a relentless deluge lashes against the glass, drumming a chaotic rhythm across the roof. It is nearly three in the morning when the sound hits. A heavy impact that rattles the picture frames on your partition wall.

You drop your phone onto the desk, sprinting across the cold floorboards to the front door. When you yank it open, Peter is on his knees in the dark corridor.

He is completely drenched, water pooling around his worn trainers. His chest heaves in wheezing gasps, one arm pinned tightly against his ribs while his forehead rests against your doorframe. Worse still, the grey hoodie he is wearing is torn open down the left side, heavily saturated in a dark, terrifying crimson.

“Peter,” you breathe, dropping to your knees beside him without a second thought.

“Hey,” he manages, though his voice is barely a thread of sound. He tries to force a reassuring smile, but his face is ghostly pale, his skin shivering violently from shock and cold rain. “Sorry... didn’t mean to... hit the door so hard...”

“I don’t give a shit about the door,” your brows furrow in disbelief as you take his uninjured arm, looping it over your shoulders, and hauling him up with every bit of strength you possess. “Get inside. C’mon.”

He weighs far more than anything you’ve ever carried— dense muscle unanchored by energy—but somehow, you manoeuvre him across the threshold, kicking the door shut behind you. You guide him toward the sofa, letting him slide down onto the cushions.

“I need to see where it’s coming from,” you warn, grabbing a clean towel, a pair of scissors, and a first aid kit from your drawer. Your heart is hammering rapidly against your ribs, pure adrenaline wiping out any lingering fatigue.

“It’s just a scratch. Looks... worse than it is,” he slurs, his hand rising weakly to intercept yours as you reach for the hem of his ruined jumper. “Seriously. I... I heal ridiculously fast–”

“You are bleeding all over my house, Peter, so stop arguing!”

You cut cleanly through the soaked cotton of his jumper, peeling the wet fabric back to assess the tear. But as the dark material parts, your fingers go still.

Beneath the ruined clothes, there is no bare skin or cotton undershirt. Wrapped tightly over his chest and shoulders is a sleek, textured fabric of vibrant red and deep blue—badly torn at the waist, where a shallow, nasty laceration is weeping blood down his side.

Silence drops over the kitchen like blunt weight.

Slowly, your eyes travel up from his torn suit, past his bruised collarbone, to meet his eyes.

Peter’s breath hitches in his chest. His eyes are blown wide with raw, terrifying panic as he looks down at the exposed suit, then back up at your face. He looks braced, desperately searching your expression as if waiting for you to do something crazy.

“Wait–I–” he struggles, his voice cracking with frantic concern. “it’s not–I can explain, please don’t–”

But you simply stare at the web pattern for a long moment, taking slow breaths to steady the overwhelming thumps of your heart.

“Right.” you pick up the antiseptic. “A really aggressive shoelace knot, was it?”

He lets out a breathless laugh, though it quickly falters. “... Wait, you’re not–you’re not freaked out?”

“Of course I’m shocked, Peter.” You unscrew the cap of the bottle. “But you’re currently losing blood, so maybe right now isn’t really the time for questions.”

A gasp escapes him, a mixture of laughter and a sob of sheer relief. The crushing tension in his posture snaps, his head thumping back against the sofa cushions. “You have no idea how hard it was coming up with those lies.”

“I do, actually. They were terrible.”

You work carefully, dousing a pad of gauze in warm water and antiseptic. Peter winces as you clean the edge of the wound, but he stays completely still for you. Once the side cut is cleaned and neatly bandaged, you shift up to sit beside him, bringing a damp cloth to his face.

“Hold still,” you mumble softly.

Peter doesn’t move a muscle. His eyes trace your face with focus as you gently wipe a streak of grime from his temple, moving down the sharp line of his jaw. Right at the corner of his lower lip, there is a tiny, fresh split. You dab delicately at the split on his lip with the corner of the warm cloth. Peter’s breath hitches, his lower lip trembling ever so slightly under the subtle touch of your thumb.

He looks undone. Unmasked, battered, and stripped of every defense he usually hides behind, sitting in half of a spider man suit in your living room while the rain lashes against the glass outside.

“Does it hurt?”

“No,” Peter whispers. He exhales a long breath, leaning his head back with a weary chuckle. “Pretty sure I can’t even move right now.”

You look up for a second, catching the intensity in his gaze. His eyes are no longer on yours, but staring straight at your lips.

A sharp flutter hits your chest, catching the breath in your throat as the air between you turns thick. Your own gaze helplessly drifts downward, tracing the curve of his lips, the faint tremble of it, and the tiny cut you were just tending to.

His hand reaches up, fingers sliding around the back of your neck, his thumb resting against your pulse point. He pulls you forward with patience, closing the narrow gap between your faces until your breath fans warm over his skin.

The second his lips meet yours, everything fades into the background. The kiss is unhurried and soft at first—careful of the split on his lip—that is before his grip in your hair tightens just so to pull you flush against him. A shuddering sigh escapes him against your mouth.

When he finally parts from your lips, staying close enough that your noses brush, a tinge of crimson colours both your faces.

You take a steadying breath, a teasing smile curving your lips. “I thought you couldn’t move?”

“For this?” His thumb gently strokes your jawline. “I can manage.”

“You’re unbelievable.” a smile grows across your face as you reach over the armrest to grab the soft fleece blanket from the back of the sofa.

You drape it over his broad shoulders, tucking the edge around him to keep the draft off his skin. Peter fully settles into the cushion, the exhaustion finally catching up to him. He doesn’t move away, instead letting his weight shift until his head comes down to rest comfortably against your shoulder.

“You’re staying here tonight.” you guide your fingers through his damp curls. “No arguments.”

“No arguments,” he repeats against the fabric of your clothes, his eyelids fluttering shut as his breathing slows into a steady pattern.

“Oh, yeah,” Peter says with affected certainty. “I mean, why would you doubt the sign? Everyone knows you have to get things like that certified.” 

You glance up at Peter, but one look into his smiling eyes is too much for you. You have to turn your face away. “I’m pretty sure there are three #1 Indian Restaurants in my neighborhood.” 

“Oof. Must make for some brutal decisions when you’re craving Indian.” 

Two weeks ago, you offered to buy Spider-Man dinner for walking you home. It was stupid—he can’t eat through the mask, which he told you kindly and which you could have figured out if you thought about it for more than a second before opening your mouth—but you were feeling guilty about stopping to pick up takeout and indebted for all the time he spends walking you home instead of preventing mob activity or whatever Spider-Man does. He professed, upon smelling your takeout, that Indian food is one of his favorites, too. 

You haven’t told Peter about your vigilante escort. Spider-Man never comes to you while Peter’s around—presumably because you don’t need his help if you’ve already got a companion—and it’s the sort of ridiculous story you know will sound made up out loud. Why do you know that Spider-Man likes matar paneer? What makes you so special? They’re unanswerable questions, and you’d never be able to look at Peter again if he laughed at you. 

“Hey.” Peter bumps your hip with his. You go stiff at the contact. “You okay?” 

“Hm?” You look up, and he’s watching you with concern. “Yeah, sorry.” 

“You seem a little quiet,” he says. And when your face heats, “Well, quieter than usual.” 

“Sorry,” you say again, embarrassed. “I think I’m just tired.” 

“Oh, yeah? Class was a long one, huh?” 

“Yeah.” 

“That makes sense.” Peter sounds disappointed. You blink at him in confusion, and he almost winces. “I don’t suppose…I mean, if you just want to get home I get that, but I was wondering if you wanted to grab food? With me?” 

Your steps stutter. It’s not that you and Peter have never hung out before. Or even that all the time you’ve spent together centers wholly around class—there have been coffees, chats in the hallway, walks in the park near your university building—but it’s something about the way he asks, like it’s important this time, like it means something. You want for it to mean something. 

“I could still grab food.” You’re not quite looking at him, fiddling with the contents of your jacket pocket. Popping the lid to your chapstick on and off. 

“Yeah?” Peter asks hopefully. 

“Yeah.”

“Are you sure?” 

“Mhm.” 

His voice softens, a smile in it. “Could you look at me, maybe?” 

You glance up, regretting it instantly as always. Peter is resplendent. Dimples framing his smile like parenthesis, hair mussed by the wind that beats at you while crossing every street, he’s the sort of handsome that’s only just starting to figure out how handsome he is. You think you probably make it easier for him. To figure it out. 

“Do you really want to,” he asks in a sincere tone, “or are you just appeasing me? If you’re tired I can take you straight to your place.” 

Your heart thudders. If you have to look at him for much longer you worry you’ll melt into the cracks of the pavement. “I want to,” you say. “I’m sort of hungry, too.” 

“Okay, awesome.” He sounds happy again. You think if you were lucky, that’d be the only thing you were put on Earth to do, make Peter happy. “Maybe we could try one of those Indian places near yours? See who’s really number one.” 

“Sure.” You smile up at him, brain buzzing when Peter beams back. 

"So, what's he like? What are they both like?" Your co-worker Mila has been hounding you all night with questions about your patient in 301.

"Mila," you hiss as a group of doctors and interns pass by the nurses' station.

"What?" she whines out, still draped over the counter as she watches you log some medical information into the computer. "Do you think you'll have to sign an NDA? I mean, if it's really him?"

"Him, who?" you distractedly ask as you finally meet her inquisitive gaze.

She heaves a sigh before looking around, making sure there are no prying ears. She leans in closer to you and whispers, "Spider-Man."

You try not to roll your eyes. "You're still on about that? It's been about a week."

"Oh, please. Stop acting like it's no big deal," she counters.

"It's not-"

"Lies. C'mon, when's the last time we had anything exciting happen around here?"

You shrug. "I mean, we're the night shift. We see a lot of weird stuff."

She dismisses your words with a wave of her hand. "Psh. Rashes and removing inanimate objects from noses and butts is a typical slow night for us."

"Great, you've jinxed us," you joke as you stand to stretch your legs. As you do so, you can't help but look down the hall on the left towards room 301.

You still can't believe it's been almost a week since Spider-Man's unexpected arrival. Since then, the hospital has been in an uproar. The floor he's on has been pretty much on lockdown. Surprisingly, there are no cops camped outside Spider-Man's door, but you're pretty sure it's because of the Punisher himself, who's become a permanent fixture inside the hospital room. Along with the silent vigil of Spider-Man fans and reporters outside the hospital.

Just you, Dr. Weaver, who's been assigned to Spider-Man's room, and the day nurse have clearance. You're not even sure if it's official clearance or Frank Castle's. So far, no New Avengers have been in the hospital to check in on Spider-Man.

"Is the Punisher actually scary looking up close?" Mila muses as she stares at the same room you've been thinking about all night.

This time you do roll your eyes. "Mila, you've seen Frank Castle on the news. It's not like he hides his face."

"Yeah, but he's always glaring or covered in blood and yelling."

Mila's not wrong there. The first time you interacted with Frank Castle, he almost gave you a heart attack. It was the second night, 2:15 a.m., and you were doing your rounds. You saved Spider-Man's room for last. All you had to do was check his vitals and see if he'd woken up.

When you first walked in, the room was empty, except for the unconscious superhero. If you weren't at Dr. Weaver's side that first night, you wouldn't have believed it was Spider-Man himself.

As you move closer, you can see the faint rise and fall of his chest and the steady beeping coming from the heart monitor. You give a sigh of relief. Honestly, the first night was touch-and-go with him. He had lost a lot of blood, and Dr. Weaver wasn't sure what other injuries Spider-Man had sustained. Frank mentioned something about the Hulk and Spider-Man going at it at the DODC building that same day.

You can't help but wonder how he's still alive. Maybe it's the spider DNA running through his body or his suit? You move next to the bed, reaching out to grab the empty IV bag and replace it, when a gravely low voice directly behind you causes you to jump and almost drop the new bag.

"What are you doing?"

Spinning around, you see Frank Castle at the foot of the bed. Even in civilian clothing, he's intimidating. Eyes intense, locked on your figure and face, void of any emotion. You do notice, due to your staring at him, that his eyes briefly move towards the bed and then back to you in a flash.

"I-I-uh," you stumble over your words, completely caught off guard. It was well past visiting hours, and you didn't expect Frank to still be there. Instead, you raise the IV bag so he can see you mean no harm to his friend.

His eyes furrow as he takes in your face, and then his gaze drops to your nurse's badge pinned to your front pocket.

"You're not the nurse from earlier." He moves a little closer to you, and you can't help but tense.

"Uh... yeah, I'm the night nurse. Ian will be back at 8," you say, finally finding your voice, and you point to the badge even though he's already seen it.

His gaze slightly softens, and his shoulders drop as he gives a slight nod and then moves to the chair that's on the other side of the bed. The next words out of his mouth surprise you.

"Sorry... didn't mean to startle you or anythin'. I'm just..." he trails off as if he's not sure what to say or he can't find the right words in that moment.

"I get it," you quickly say as you change out the IV bags. "You're just worried about your friend." Turning back, you see that Frank is carefully watching Peter's unconscious form. It's quiet for a moment, just the sound of the heart monitor beeping as you check the rest of Peter's vitals before jotting them down on his chart.

You're about to head out when Frank's voice stops you.

"He'll be okay." His voice is lower than before, and you're not sure if it's a question for you or if he's talking to himself.

Reassuring himself.

Again, you're not sure what to say. The next second, Frank looks up at you with a raised brow.

You muster a small smile. "Of course. His vitals are good," you reassure.

He doesn't say anything else, just nods as he settles back in his chair, crossing his arms. It looks like he's staying the night.

The sound of the call button brings you back to the present.

"Oh my god, it's his room," Mila excitedly breathes as she checks to see which room you're being called to.

"Mila," you lightly chastise as you push her back. "He's still a patient. Also, don't you need to do your rounds?"

She makes a face as she watches you head towards Peter's room. "You're no fun," she calls after you.

---

As you draw nearer to Peter's room, you hear some familiar voices floating down the hall. You met Ned and MJ the other night. Again, aside from the Spider-Man suit poking out of the patient bag and Frank's constant presence, it seems like a typical patient's room.

You pause in the doorway. Ned is by Peter's bed, showing him something on his phone. MJ and Frank are out of view, but you can hear them talking near the windowsill. You give a slight knock, alerting them to your presence.

"Hey," Peter says, immediately sitting up, hand going to his slight bed head.

"Hi," you reply, slightly uncertain as your eyes scan over him. MJ and Frank's conversation dies off as they spot you entering the room. "Visiting hours end soon," you gently remind Ned and MJ. You know Frank isn't leaving.

"Oh! Yeah, cool, no problem. We're heading out," Ned says, gesturing to MJ.

"Yeah, we'll be back tomorrow," MJ adds as she grabs her coat. She gives you a small smile as she passes you and heads out the door. Ned says something to Peter before grabbing his things and hurrying after MJ.

"Bye, Frank!" Ned says to the man who's currently staring out the window. "Bye, y/n," he adds as he passes you, and there's a teasing grin on his face as he says your name.

"Bye?" you barely get out, slightly confused and taken aback by that grin. You focus your attention back on Peter, who's messing with something in his hands. "So, what can I do for you?" you ask as you check his IV bag.

"Huh?" Peter replies, confused as he blinks up at you.

You can't help but smile. "You hit the call button."

"I did? Oh! Sorry, I uh didn't mean to. I guess I sat on the remote," Peter slightly rambles.

"Yeah, again." You hear Frank mutter from the window.

"Don't worry about it," you reply as you move closer to the bed and reach out, gently adjusting his pillows. Something you do out of habit with all your patients. "Happens all the time." Your arm brushes his shoulder, and there's a slight spike on the monitor.

You put on some gloves to check his bruised ribs. As your hands gently roam over his side, the monitor increases, and that alarms you.

You quickly pull back, scanning his body and face. "Are you still in pain?" you ask as you look at the monitor, still beeping away.

"Wh-what?" Peter slightly chokes out, trying to calm his heart.

"Didn't that happen last time you checked in on him?" Frank adds, and Peter shoots him a glare.

"Did it?" you muse, frowning slightly as you check his chart and the previous records of his monitor. Frank's right. Everything was fine during Ian's morning shift. But you do note his slightly elevated heart rate from last night during your rounds.

"It's nothing," Peter quickly reassures, reaching out to briefly touch your arm to get your attention away from his chart.

You look up, and Peter notices the worry and concern written across your face. "Maybe I should get Dr. Wea-"

"No! No, really, I'm fine," Peter cuts in, voice slightly raised.

You eye him and then reach out and touch his forehead with the back of your hand. Just by touch, he feels warm, but you're not sure if that's his natural body temperature or if he has an infection. You listen to Peter's persistent reassurance that he doesn't need Dr. Weaver as you continue to check his vitals. The constant semi-frantic beeping of the monitor still worries you.

"Peter," you gently cut in, your hand resting on his shoulder, and his rambling about how his body runs hot and there's no need to worry dies away at your touch. "I know your body heals faster, but still, maybe Dr. Weaver should-"

"No, no, really, I'm good. I can prove it to you." Peter is pushing back the blankets, and you quickly realize he's trying to get out of bed.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa," you exclaim, pushing him back. "Stop moving so fast. You were literally knocking on death's doorstep a few days ago."

"That's a bit dramatic," he teases, still trying to get out of bed.

"It's on me if you collapse on the floor," you counter.

"Eh, she's got a point," Frank says, watching you two. "That Grey girl was basically keeping you alive the whole time you were unconscious."

"Frank, seriously. Like I keep saying, I'm fine. Go home-"

"The only way I'm leaving is if you force me out-"

"Don't think I can't. Just because you shot me-"

"Seriously? You're gonna hold that over my head? I was literally aiming for the girl, and you decided to pull some hero bullshit-"

"I'm not holding it over your head, Frank! I'm just saying-"

"Yeah? Let me tell you something, kid-"

"Guys!" you interject while simultaneously trying to push a standing Peter back on his bed. Their whole partnership... friendship? Was giving you a headache. A moment they're having a heart-to-heart, and next they're at each other's throats.

Peter's heartbeat slowly dies down as the monitor does. "Sorry," Peter sheepishly says, sitting down.

"You guys can go back to arguing, or whatever it is you two do once you're out of the hospital." You point a finger at Peter, who just stares up at you.

Frank mutters something under his breath and goes back to staring out the window. The rest of Peter's checkup goes smoothly.

"So, same time tomorrow night?" Peter jokes.

You grin. "It's a date."

The sound of the heart monitor picks up, and you eye it before looking back to Peter.

"Don't think I won't mention your heart rate to Dr. Weaver."

"Oh, come on-"

"Nope," you firmly say as you head out of the room.

"Maybe it's the machine," Peter calls after you.

Frank snorts. "Right, the machine. So, what's the reason for the red face every time she comes in?"

"Shut up."

"I uh, that- that thing back there? Well— yeah, of course!" He scratched the back of his neck, smiling sheepishly.

So both parties may or may not have trouble in delivering a full sentence without slipping a stutter or a gazillion amount of um's. Yet unfortunately that's just how things go when an awkward person and a shy person likes each other.

Too busy smiling at you, Peter almost tripped on his own untied shoelace, which you couldn't help but bite your lip at to stifle the tiny laugh trying to escape your lips, "See you around...?" You chuckled, stepping back.

And he certainly did see you around. A coincidental groupwork pairing somehow led to the two of you sending texts after texts some nights. In which, some nights turns into most nights.

Even with his lip cut, lungs terribly out of breath, and his spidey mask slightly ripped and in desperate need of tailoring, he'd still have a smile on his face once he open his phone to find an unread text under your name.

Though every little interaction would have five to six sentences only from Peter, he would still occupy your mind day and night, and so did you occupy his mind, no matter what bad guy he had to defeat behind the red mask at night.

Peter thought about you so much that at this point, his motivation to go through his Spiderman missions isn't just "for Queens" anymore at this point, but for you, knowing you could be one of those people in danger in the dark of the night.

"What got you grinning?" Aunt May teased one day when he came home with a wide smile, cheeks just slightly rosy, "Is it that sweet Gwen girl?"

Peter's smile almost faltered, groaning out a laughter, "No, May... It's not Gwen Stacy." He shook his head, "'M just happy, y'know?"

Thanks to Uncle Ben, he learned his lesson to not put the girl he had a crush on as his desktop wallpaper. Instead, he kept candid pictures of you, which he took by himself, inside his drawers. Hidden, yet opened every now and then. He kept a smaller copy taped onto the underside of his skateboard.

"You need to stop taking pictures when I'm not looking..." You once scolded him playfully, huffing and blowing away a piece of hair that was in front of your eye, "Wasn't even my good side."

Peter's eyes darted away from his camera to your face, "I... What?" He chuckled softly, "Not your good side? This one?" He poked a cheek, his tone showing disbelief.

Your cheeks became a shade of pink, warming up as that fluttering feeling fills your stomach, "Yeah," You nodded, "It's... odd-looking."

"No, it's not." Peter shook his head, smiling gently with his eyebrows creasing in confusion, "If it is, then I... I don't believe in the existence of good sides."

What started out as awkward convos and looks in the hallways, gradually shifted to spending time with each other most of the time— and when you're not, you're thinking about one another.

And even that sweet dynamic gradually shifted into something new. An even more special connection between the two of you quietly blooms, no loud confessions or dramatic plans. (Not that he had the time or money)

Just you and him sitting on the edge of a rooftop, an empty box of New York-style pizza, when he finally shot his shot and leaned forward to capture your lips in his, hands gentle as they cradle your face.

Because no matter how much duty being Spiderman involves, it was a matter of time before he gets his heart pierced forever by cupid's arrow.

He rounds the corner into the living room and stops, his breath catching in his throat with the familiar sharpness that has become his constant companion these past few years, ever since he realized that the protective warmth in his chest had twisted into something darker, hungrier, something that wakes him in the night with his hand wrapped around himself and her name on his lips.

She is sprawled on the couch, one arm dangling off the edge, her fingers brushing the carpet, the other tucked beneath her cheek. She is smaller than him—she always has been, and she always will be—and the oversized sleep shirt she wears has ridden up to expose the soft curve of her stomach, the waistband of her sleep shorts sitting low on her hips. Her breathing is deep and even, lips parted slightly, hair fanned out across the cushion in a mess that makes his fingers twitch with the need to touch, to tangle, to pull.

Caleb stands frozen for a moment, the weight of his bag sliding from his shoulder to thud quietly against the floor, immediately forgotten in the face of this. 

The house is silent except for his heart and the soft sound of her breathing. 

Gran is gone for three days. 

No one is watching, and no one will know.

His heart hammers against his ribs as he crosses the room, each step is deliberate, his boots are silent on the rug. He stands over her, looking down at the face he has known since childhood, the face he has watched transform from a gap-toothed child into this—this woman who haunts his every thought, his every dream, his every dirty fantasy. 

She calls him gege, still, even now, even when the word feels like a brand on his skin, marking him as hers even as he marks her as his in the secret corridors of his mind.

"Gege's home," he whispers, so quietly it might be a thought rather than sound.

He cannot help it. He knows he should cover her with a blanket, retreat to his room, shower off the day, be the good brother she believes him to be. But the devil that lives in his chest—that possessive, obsessive creature that whispered to him when he locked her in the attic that one time, that urged him to eliminate anyone who looked at her too long at school—that creature stretches and purrs and demands that he pounce.

Caleb kneels beside the couch. His hand trembles as he reaches out, brushing a strand of hair from her forehead. She doesn't stir. Her skin is warm, flushed with sleep, and the urge to feel more of it, to drown in it, overwhelms his restraint.

An arm slides beneath her knees, the other behind her shoulders, and he lifts her effortlessly. She is light, always so light to him, and she makes a small sound—a whimper that sounds more like a sigh—that goes straight to his groin, making him ache with a sudden, painful hardness that presses against the zipper of his flight suit pants. 

He settles himself onto the couch, arranging her carefully on top of him, her back against his chest, her head tucked beneath his chin, her legs draped over his thighs.

The position is perfect. Too perfect, in fact; her ass presses directly against the straining bulge of his cock, and he has to bite his lip to stifle a groan, his eyes falling shut as he rocks upward just slightly, just once, testing the pressure. But she settles deeper against him, trusting and pliant, her breathing unchanged.

"Good girl," he breathes against her ear, his voice barely audible. "Such a good girl for gege. Sleeping so pretty. So peaceful."

His right hand slides beneath the hem of her sleep shirt, and her skin is impossibly soft, softer than anything he has ever touched, softer than clouds or silk or the petals of the flowers he once picked for her. 

Caleb spreads his palm across her stomach, feeling the subtle rise and fall of her breathing, the gentle flutter of her pulse beneath his thumb. "You have no idea," he murmurs, his lips brushing the shell of her ear, his voice a low vibration that he hopes drifts into her dreams. "No idea what you do to me. Walking around this house in these little shorts, these little shirts. Do you know how many times I've had to take myself in hand in the shower, thinking about you just like this? Soft and warm and mine?"

His hand drifts upward, slowly, giving her time to wake, to protest, to stop him. 

She doesn't. 

A sigh escapes from her mouth instead, and she's pressing back against him, her head turning to nestle into the crook of his neck, and he takes it as permission—the only permission he needs in this moment where morality has fled and only want remains.

He finds her breast, fills his hand with the weight of it, and his vision spots at the edges. She is perfect, full and soft, her nipple a hardening peak against his touch as he brushes his thumb over it, circling, teasing. She arches into his touch in her sleep, a silent plea that makes him throb against her.

"That's it," he praises, his voice shaking with restraint. "You like that, don't you? Even in your dreams, you know it's me. You know gege is taking care of you."

Caleb pinches her nipple gently, rolling it between his fingers, and she whimpers, a sound that goes straight to his cock. He is so hard it hurts, trapped against her softness, and he grinds upward again, unable to stop himself, seeking friction even as he knows he should be still, should be careful, should not wake her to find him like this. "Look at you," he whispers, his free hand sliding down her side, tracing the curve of her hip, slipping beneath the loose waistband of her sleep shorts. "So wet already. Even asleep, your body knows. It knows who it belongs to, who has always owned it, even when I pretended to be the good brother. Fuck, baby, I was never good. I was just waiting; waiting for moments like this when I could have you without you looking at me with those eyes and seeing the monster I've become."

His fingers find her heat, slick and swollen and hot, and he has to press his face into her hair to muffle his groan. 

She is drenched, absolutely soaked, and the realization that she is this wet in her sleep, that her body responds to him even in an unconscious state, shatters what little control he has left. "Jesus, look at this," he breathes, spreading her folds with two fingers, circling her clit with the lightest touch, watching her face for any sign of waking. She only breathes deeper, her hips shifting slightly, seeking more. "Soaked for me. This pretty little cunt is weeping, isn't it? Crying because it wants gege's cock. Because it knows who it belongs to."

He presses a finger inside her, slow and steady, feeling her walls clench around him, hot and tight and perfect. 

She makes a sound and he freezes, his heart pounding, but her eyes remain closed, her face peaceful, lost in whatever dreamscape he has invaded.

"Good girl," he croons, beginning to move his finger, curling it to find the spot that makes her squirm, even unconscious. "Taking gege's finger so well. So tight, and so fucking perfect. You were made for this—made for me. I knew it the first time I saw you looked at me. I knew I would ruin you, ruin us; and I don't care—I don't care as long as I can have this, as long as I can feel you come apart on my hand while you dream of me."

He adds a second finger, stretching her gently, scissoring them inside her tight heat, feeling her grow wetter around his knuckles. His other hand continues to work her breast, pinching and rolling her nipple in time with the thrust of his fingers, building a rhythm that has her hips rocking now, seeking, chasing. "That's it," he encourages, his voice dropping to a gravelly whisper, his own hips bucking against her ass, grinding his cock against her through his pants, seeking the friction that will send him over the edge. "Chase that pleasure. Gege's got you. Gege's giving you what you need. This is what you want, isn't it? My fingers deep inside you, fucking you open, preparing you for when I finally take you for real. When I spread you out on my bed and eat this pretty cunt until you scream, until you can't walk, until you forget your own name and only know mine."

Caleb crooks his fingers, pressing against her sweet spot, and her breath hitches, her back arching sharply. He feels her clench, feels the flutter of her walls around his fingers, and he knows she is close, so close, hovering on the edge of orgasm even in her sleep.

"Baby, my pretty baby, cum for me," he commands, his voice shaking, his own pleasure mounting, his cock pulsing with each thrust of his hips against her softness. "Cum for gege. Let me feel it. Let me feel you squeeze my fingers. Milk them like you'll milk my cock one day. Fuck, yes, that's it, good girl, such a good—"

She breaks with a keen, her body going rigid, her back bowing against his chest, her cunt clamping down on his fingers so hard he sees stars. She is beautiful in orgasm, even unconscious—mouth open, brows furrowed in pleasure. He feels her pulse around him, drawing out her peak, and he keeps fucking her through it, gentling his touch but not stopping, dragging out every aftershock until she goes limp against him, boneless and satiated, her breathing deep once more.

"Pretty," he breathes, his voice wrecked. "So fucking pretty. My good girl, my perfect girl."

But he doesn't stop—he can't. 

The sight of her coming undone, the feel of her wetness coating his fingers, the pressure of her ass against his throbbing cock—it is too much. He continues to thrust his fingers, shallow and slow, milking her sensitivity, even as his other hand releases her breast and slides down to grip her hip, holding her steady as he grinds upward, seeking his own release.

"Look what you do to me," he pants against her neck, his tongue darting out to taste her skin, salty and sweet. "Look how hard you make me. Just from touching you. Just from feeling you come. Fuck, I'm going to—I'm going to—"

He buries his face in her hair, inhaling the scent of her shampoo—something floral, something innocent—and lets go. His hips jerk upward, once, twice, three times, and then he is spilling into his pants with a choked groan that he barely manages to muffle, his cock pulsing in waves of pleasure that make his vision go white at the edges. It is messy and shameful, feeling the wet heat spreading in his underwear, but he doesn't care.

When it is over, when he can breathe again, when his heart slows from its frantic hammering, he carefully withdraws his fingers from her. 

They are coated in her arousal, glistening in the afternoon light, and without thinking—without the ability to stop himself—he brings them to his mouth and sucks them clean, groaning at the taste of her, sweet and musky and perfect.

He needs more, and he needs to taste her straight from the source.

Caleb shifts carefully, manoeuvring her limp body until she is lying on her back on the couch, her head turned to the side, her legs parted slightly. He kneels between her thighs, his hands trembling as he hooks his fingers into the waistband of her sleep shorts and her underwear—both soaked through, both ruined—and slides them down her legs, lifting her feet one by one to free the fabric completely.

She is exposed to him now, her sex glistening and swollen from her orgasm, pink and perfect and his. He stares for a long moment, memorizing the sight, filing it away in the vault of his obsession where he keeps every stolen moment, every glimpse of skin.

"Gege needs to taste," he whispers, more to himself than to her. "Just once. Just this once."

He leans forward, his hands spreading her thighs wider, and presses his mouth to her. She tastes like heaven, like sin, like everything he has ever wanted and cannot have. He laps at her slowly, licking up her folds, circling her clit with his tongue, cleaning away the evidence of her pleasure and his own transgression. She is sensitive, twitching beneath his mouth, making small sounds that drive him wild, but she does not wake. She is too far gone, too deep in sleep, too trusting that she is safe in her own home.

If only she knew; if only she knew that her brother is currently between her legs, feasting on her like a starving man, his cock already stirring again in his wet pants, desperate for more.

Caleb kisses her there—her glossy cunt, her perfect sex—and whispers against her folds, "Goodnight, my love. Sweet dreams of gege."

He lingers for one more moment, pressing a final kiss to her clit, feeling her shudder, before he forces himself to pull back. He cannot leave her like this, exposed and messy. He retrieves a warm washcloth from the bathroom, returns to clean her gently, thoroughly, wiping away every trace of his touch, his mouth, her own arousal. 

She sighs in her sleep, peaceful, sated.

From his room, he retrieves a fresh pair of her panties—not the sexy kind, but the soft cotton ones she wears to bed, the ones he has imagined peeling off her a thousand times—and a clean pair of sleep shorts. He dresses her carefully, lifting her hips, sliding the fabric up her legs, tucking her back into her clothes as if nothing has happened, as if he hasn't just defiled her in the most intimate ways while she slept.

He stands back to survey his work. She looks innocent again, untouched, her breathing steady, her face relaxed. No one would know. No one but him.

And the trophies he has taken.

Caleb picks up her discarded underwear and sleep shorts from where he dropped them on the floor. The cotton is drenched, heavy with her scent, with her arousal, with the evidence of what he has done to her. He brings them to his face, inhaling deeply, his cock twitching one last time, and then he folds them carefully and slips them into the pocket of his flight jacket.

They are his now, his treasure. The first of many, he knows.

He lifts her again, cradling her against his chest, and carries her to her bedroom, laying her down on her bed, pulling the covers up to her chin. He stands over her for a long moment, watching her sleep, his hand in his pocket, fingers brushing the damp fabric he has stolen.

"Soon," he promises softly. "Soon you'll wake up. And you'll know. And you'll want it too."

He leans down and presses a kiss to her forehead, then her lips—chaste, but possessive.

"I love you," he whispers. "My little sister. My girl. Mine."

SAINT'S NOTES ! originally uploaded in the server back in the 31st of may, before the entire shitshow and my decision to move past canon content, so don't quote me on this lol—past me was idealistic about this game while present me simply does not give anymore fucks about it.

jealous!rick 

– who’s careful to keep how he feels quiet, but that doesn’t stop his body from speaking for him. most people wouldn’t recognize it, but those closest to him realize it in an instant–the way his jaw would tense, how his eyes lock onto you like a hunter to a deer, and that deep crease sinking further into his brow the longer he would scowl.

– if you got the hint and were able to pry yourself away from whoever was getting too close, rick was quick to mark his territory. his hands would be on you the entire day, starting with subtle, creeping hands that always found their way to the small of your back–tapping impatient circles on your skin, he would try to distract himself from whoever was bothering him in the moment.

– any longer in public than he had anticipated and he would begin to slowly wrap his arms around your waist, pulling you close to his chest–a seemingly innocent gesture. it wasn’t until after a few minutes would go by and he’d slowly sway your hips in sync, humming to whatever melody was stuck in his head, only to brush his lips impatiently against your ear.

– “y’know everyone in here s’lookin’ at how pretty you are,” he’d whisper, breath leaving goosebumps in its wake. “some of ‘em gettin’ too good of a look.” his voice more stern now, he’d grip your waist tight, pulling you even closer.

– once you two were alone, he would always be quick to run his mouth. “i don’t like the way he was talkin’ to you–gettin’ so close like that.” he’d seeth, lips already sucking spots into your skin, fingertips roaming the hem of your shirt. “he ain’t makin’ it in the group makin’ moves at you like that.”

– you’d try to protest, brush the interaction off as playful banter–that they were just trying to be friendly. rick would have none of it though, possessiveness running deep in his veins at the thought of what was his being taken. the group itself was a large enough responsibility–one that the actions of were mostly out of his control, people did what they wanted and kept secrets–but you, you were something that was certain. 

– he would love the way you always looked up to him, those big puppy dog eyes glancing up at him each time something went wrong, knowing he’d have the answer, and even if he didn’t, you’d trust him to come up with one. his jealousy wouldn’t stem from a lack of trust or some deep insecurity, but rather the fact that he knew you relied on him to swoop in and claim his mark–almost expected it. 

– no matter the pushback, the excuses you’d give, it was all some drawn out game to see that territorial glint in his eyes, the way his grip would gain some extra force, that last bit of restraint within him snapping. so when he would stuff you deep, hands clumsily wrapped in your hair, you were right where you wanted to be. 

– typically rick was a giving lover, a more tender and gentle approach to sex–only even referring to it as ‘making love’–but things would be different when he gets jealous. it’d be raw passion, barely ever even making it to the bedroom. he’d have you draped over the first surface he could find in the house. rick would be teasing and cruel, chasing his own release while denying you your own and only after you had properly begged for it would he give it to you.

“think you deserve to cum, hmm?” he’d tease, playfully smiling down at you, brushing the hair from your eyes. “let me hear what you’d say next time someone tries to talk to you like that? maybe then you’ll get a reward.”

babbling out nonsense, you’d grab at his chest, trying to brace yourself against the counter. 

“p-please, i need it so bad,” you’d whine, arching your back up into him each time he’d pull away.

he’d tsk, popping his slick coated fingers into your mouth. “that’s not what i asked, darlin’.” although his pace was slower, each time he’d pull out there would be a brief moment before he’d slam back into your walls, ripping a muffled scream from your lips.

jealous!daryl

– daryl would be more vocal in the moment, typically resorting to a short burst of anger that he would instantly regret. any lingering emotions would all be tucked back within himself, hiding in some reserved shell the rest of the day.

– without a second thought, anytime he saw something that made him the slightest bit jealous, there would immediately be a conflict. he would come in between you and whoever was getting too close, angrily spitting out a warning.

– “i ain’t one to talk so i advise you back off,” he’d say, voice low with warning. turning to you, his arms would be crossed, not the slightest hint of amusement in his stare. “‘n don’t you start lookin’ at me like you’re all innocent.” his words, coming from a deep place of insecurity and mistrust, would test your patience and press a nerve sometimes, but you always knew it was a storm that would pass.

– sometimes you’d give into his anger, push back when he’d step too far and his insults crossed a line. even though you would know he didn’t mean it, there were times he wouldn’t know when to stop and you’d scream right back at him with tears prickling in your eyes.

– daryl would usually be the first to storm off. in any other situation he would resort to violence, be hasty to get his fists across anyone’s face who ticked him off the way you did. but he knew it wasn’t actually you, rather a version of yourself his mind tried to make him see–a false reality of a hateful, cruel lover who was using him, just like everyone else in his life. so he would remove himself from the situation, especially when he could see the hurt written plain across your face, loud and clear for him to see and feel like a bullet through the chest. 

– letting his feet take him wherever, he always took a walk after he let his jealousy get the best of him. clearing his mind, he’d rehearse some fumbled apology in his mind–the words never coming out as sincere as he’d meant them. only when the sun dipped low beneath the horizon would he come back, knowing that despite being mad, you were still worried for him.

– head hung low, daryl would creep back into the camp, guilt bubbling in his chest. you were of course awake and waiting for him, arms crossed as you held your gun steady in your hands–pointed straight at him. “tell me why i shouldn’t shoot you right now, daryl.” he knew you would never, just trying to show how worried you were without actually having to say it. “had rick on my ass for hours asking where you were.”

– he would never admit it, but he loved the way you worried about him–the way you’d make him feel cared for. even if it was through stern scolding and harsh swears, he knew it was all because you loved him and it reeled him in each time. “m’real sorry.” he’d say your name to get your attention, let you know that he truly means it. “shouldn’t have said all that stuff…i jus’ don’ like seein’ guys look at you like that. they get all bug eyed like they ain’t ever seen a pretty woman before ‘n-”

– you’d always cut him off in his rambles, reassure him that things were okay and you’d always be right there waiting for him. “shut up,” you’d sigh, patting the spot next to you. “i’ve been up all night, the least you could do is give me a good night's sleep.”

– smiling, he’d wonder what he did to deserve someone as understanding as you. no matter how many times he’d let his own self get in the way of things, let his self-doubt speak for him, you were always there to reassure him. he’d lay beside you, back turned with that last piece of guilt shielding him from fully giving into you. wrapping your arm around his waist, you’d pull yourself closer, breathing in his scent.

jealous!shane

– this man would go absolutely feral for you if you’d let him. over time he’d learn to control his temper, lower his impulses and not do anything you’d be disappointed in him for later. that temper would never leave him though–fist clenched and jaw tense, he would immediately be by your side the second he smelt trouble.

– even if things seemed innocent enough, the second you were alone with any man, he would intervene. whether it was more subtle like casually tossing his arm over your shoulders, or to make a statement like bumping shoulders with whoever you were speaking to, wrapping an arm around your waist and pulling you close while he took over the conversation–shane always made his appearance.

– in the beginning of your relationship he would be more violent. shove, punch, or even beat any guy that so dared to innocently flirt with you. after many screaming matches and late night arguments though, shane was able to take out his jealousy in another way.

– he knew you were all his and you made it clear to him that you knew it too. giving yourself to him each time you stumbled to bed after a big dinner or party–sometimes wandering further away from the group–his hands would be all over you, roughly grasping at every part of your skin, marking the parts that only he could see.

– even with your entire body marked as his–bite marks, scratches, his scent lingering deep into your skin–it still wouldn’t be enough for him. every outing where there would be new people, someone he’d sense as a threat, he would be right there beside you the entire night. when someone would call him off to the side, no matter the urgency, you were either coming with him or he was sat still with you happily talking away seated right on his lap.

– shane’s jealousy would be just a permanent part of him nor would he care to learn where it stemmed from–if anything at all. it would always be a large part of him, the reason he had never kept a solid relationship. but with you, his jealousy was something you would crave–the possessiveness a trait you had just expected with him. his endless desire for you would be shown through every word, lingering touch, and the way he made sure everyone in the room knew you were his. 

– in his moments of anger, the rage he’d feel boiling in his stomach would never be directed at you. he knew you’d only had eyes for him–he was just upset that others couldn’t see that too. so if it took the occasional bloodied fist and broken nose for someone to get the hint, then that’s what he would do.

He'd never admit this if you asked, but he wanted to show off, too. To impart upon you the message that if you really want to feel good, you need to go to him.

So he sits down beside you and takes them from your hands. "Allow me?"

You give them over easily, shyly pressing your head against the side of his thigh and watching his hands as he leans over you. They dwarf yours in size, making your toys look much smaller than they do when you're handling them.

He starts off slow, not wanting to overwhelm you too quickly. But this already has your breath hitching and a little whine catching in your throat. Just a couple minutes of seemingly effortless movements from his hands, and you're already feeling much more pleasure than you could on your own in quadruple that time.

You glance up at Sylus's expression, and he catches you red-handed, raising a brow with a self-satisfied smirk as he starts to speed up his pace.

This has you gasping and burying your face in his thigh, unable to hold back your whimpers as you muffle them the best you can with the fabric of his pants. It doesn't take you long to peek back out at his hands, though, your breath growing labored as he keeps getting faster.

You let out a weak-sounding whine as you find yourself rapidly reaching your peak. It's only been five or six minutes, and getting this far on your own would have taken at least half an hour. And he was being deliberately slow to ease you into things.

You grip the sheets at your sides, your breath shuddering as your toes curl. "S-Sy-!"

"Wanna come for me, sweetie? Go ahead. Let go."

You jerk under his talented hands, your eyes squeezing shut as the pleasure hits you hard and you cream with a squeak that you mostly manage to hold back. You expect him to slow down, but he doesn't.

"T'much Sy-! S-Sensitive- ah!" You squirm in place, trying hard to get away, but it looks like Sylus has other plans for you.

Before you can even register what's happening, he's using one arm to hold you in place and the other to grip the hair on the back of your head, tugging lightly to get you to meet his intense stare. You glance down for a moment, finding his Evol handling the toys in his stead.

"Aht. Sweetheart. Eyes up here."

His stern, commanding tone has you looking back up at his face, your wide eyes already filling with tears of overstimulation. You kick your legs out weakly, more in protest than a genuine attempt to escape.

"Just one more? One more, that's all. You can handle one more." He coos, his gaze focused intently on you. Captivated by his enticing, sharp, ruby-red eyes, you find yourself nodding dumbly, reaching up to wrap your arms around his neck in an attempt to pull him closer. He chuckles softly, cupping the back of your head and leaning down.

"Do you want a kiss, sweetie?" he breathes into your lips, his right eye glowing as he devours your debauched state beneath him. When you bob your head up and down, he tsks, shaking his head. "Now that's no good. Can you say please for me?"

"P-please-mhh, Sy, need it, please," Your arms tremble as you fruitlessly try to pull him down to meet your lips, whines escaping with every exhale. Tears drip down your cheeks, desperation for his mouth on yours eroding any shred of self-consciousness you had left.

Sylus doesn't respond verbally, merely closing the few centimeters between you as he softly presses his lips to yours. You pant into his mouth, struggling to focus on giving him a proper kiss as your hunger for him clouds your mind.

Sylus takes the lead, deepening the kiss and holding you tightly against him as your lips firmly slot together. He swipes his tongue into your mouth, and the taste of him sends sparks through your brain.

You yelp against his lips as your body seizes up, your hips jerking and shuddering as your vision goes white and cum sprays out of you, unable to control your muscles as you're hit with one of the strongest orgasms you've ever experienced. He slows his Evol, gradually milking the pleasure from you as you cling to him and shiver, gasping for breath.

You whimper and hiccup into his sweater as he shushes you gently, placing the toys to the side and gathering you up in his arms. He doesn't tease, doesn't hit you with any cheeky remarks. He rubs your back until your trembling gradually slows, your body instinctually melting into his.

"Are you alright?" he murmurs, and when you nod, he hums, scattering kisses across your face with a fond smile.

"D-Didn't expect t'cum so hard," you mumble, and you feel a quiet laugh rumble through his chest as he holds you a bit tighter.

"Yeah? That was quite a spectacle, sweetie. You did well." Your cheeks heat at his praise, and you tuck your face into the crook of his neck.

His arousal throbs insistently against the zipper of his slacks, but it's left ignored as he centers his attention on your needs. Besides, you're so loopy from your release that you can't even notice, let alone feel guilty for leaving him unattended.

"Go ahead, kitten. You can nap if you want to." You hum in approval, and he pulls you closer. "I'll hold you for a little while, then we can get you wiped down and changed into pajamas. Sound good?"

When you slur out your approval, he presses his lips to your forehead, helping you cozy up in his embrace. Your desperate grip on him slackens as his hand caresses your back in slow circles, and you let yourself melt.

And even a year later, you still hadn’t quite found your footing.

Grief made it hard to get up some mornings, while other mornings felt totally normal. You knew logically that a loss that significant would make you feel deeply, but it was still so suffocating to not know when something or someone would trigger you. Especially since every-day life was tied into your father like air.

Even at home, you kept his TV on and his door closed like he was still in there resting. Sometimes pretending made things easier, but not always. 

Most days were mundane at this record job for you, but definitely more interesting than the office. You actually liked your coworkers and manager for the most part. And you got to meet all kinds of interesting people that walked through. It made for great distraction most days.

You saw just about everyone there was to see come through the store; business execs, mothers and fathers, fitness gurus, influencers. Everyone came through to look for their music they loved.

And just being in Metropolis itself was bound for some chaos too. 

It made things even more interesting having the newly formed Justice Gang around. Trouble did seem to find the city at some inconvenient times, bringing the craziest things like giant monsters and mutants. But the Justice Gang did a pretty good job of keeping the city safe.

Most of the thanks went to Metropolis’ hero, Superman. 

You admired Superman a lot after your Dad’s passing. Or at least the way he was portrayed on TV - resilient and indestructible. You envied that, wishing you could be just as strong.

The chime above the door sounded, causing you to snap out of your deep thoughts. 

It hadn’t been a busy day, and in your downtime, you had let yourself get caught up in your memories. It was one of the parts of the job you disliked the most - having so much time alone - but there wasn’t much the customers could do about your own wandering thoughts.

Putting on your best customer service face, you approached the man who’d walked through the door.

The first thing you noticed was how tall the man was. Even slightly hunched, he towered over the gondolas that held the records. 

Next, you noticed how ill-fitted his suit was. It looked like the heavy tweed of his suit jacket just fell over his shoulders, as well as the pants. For someone his size, he was being swallowed by his clothes, which felt… off.

And lastly, when he spotted you approaching him, he locked his eyes with yours. You couldn’t help but notice that they were bright blue, brighter than you think you’d ever seen. Even with just a glance, his eyes held something so deep and sincere. It almost felt otherworldly. 

This man’s gaze made you stop in your tracks, your heart starting like a motor. 

He was handsome. 

It had been a long time since you’d found attraction in anyone, and even then, it still took a while for you to see features that felt striking to you. But with this stranger, you were nearly dumbstruck.

“Can I help you find anything?” 

The words finally left your mouth without your volition as more of muscle memory. Months of asking the same dull question helped you here, as your brain felt as though it were turning to mush.

“Yes ma’am.” The man’s voice was velvety and rich with the smallest country twang in it. He was starting to smile wide at you, “I was looking for any old Johnny Cash records.” 

It was like his voice encompassed you, surrounding you with warmth. Just like his eyes, it wasn’t like anything you’d herald before, and it took you more by surprise than you’d anticipated. It took a moment before his question fully registered in your mind.

“Oh,” you breathed, shaking your head to try and put you back into customer service mode, “Yes. You can follow me. Everything is alphabetized by last name.” 

He gave you a grateful smile before you led him the short walk to the country section. Once there, you awkwardly stood off to the side, allowing the handsome stranger to look for himself. There were a lot of “C” names, so both of you started to sift through the records after a few moments.

“So, you’re a country fan?” you asked, albeit quietly.

You tried not to cringe at yourself as you chanced a look his way. He was still smiling, dimples forming at the corners of his mouth. As if he couldn’t get even more handsome.

“Kinda. I like it just fine, but not as much as my Pa. I’m grabbing these records for his birthday coming up.” 

You nodded, “That’s kind of you.” 

“Sort of…” The tall stranger shrugged once, but his smile didn’t waver, “I kinda messed up and his records got damaged a while back, so I’ve been slowly rebuilding his collection for him. It’s been slow going though. I’ve been busy, and he doesn’t live around here, so I’ll have to fly these out to him.” 

A sad sort of longing crossed his features as he spoke about his Pa. It didn’t dim his eyes, but it made them look weary. It made you think of your own father and how you would’ve done the same for him.

Shaking the thoughts away before you could get sad, you plucked out a sleeve of an old Johnny Cash album with a small, triumphant smile, handing it to the stranger. 

“Hey, well, at least you’re trying for him,” You said gently, “Even if it was a mistake on your part, your Pa must really appreciate the effort you’re putting in to rebuild it.” 

Once again, the blue eyes met yours and another smile graced his face, taking the record from your hands, 

“Thank you…” Just barely, you could see his cheeks growing a dark crimson, “Now you’re the one being kind.” 

You felt your face doing much of the same and you shrugged back at him, “I’m just trying my best.” 

He stood there for a long moment, just staring at the album, his large fingers fiddling with the paper cover. It was like he was thinking of more things to say, but couldn’t quite get them out. It would’ve been comical had you not been in much of the same boat.

Finally, he murmured, “I never got your name.”

Just above a murmur, you gave him your name and he hummed aloud with a larger smile than before. The small sound to him nearly reverberated the entire store, but no one else but you seemed to notice that.

“Clark.” He outstretched his hand immediately, and an air of confidence suddenly surrounded him. Your hands met and it was much more firm than you’d expected. It was even more surprising just how warm his skin was, “Clark Kent.” 

The name was instantly familiar to you, “Like the Daily Planet reporter?”

Ever so slightly, his eyes lit up.

“Uh, yeah, that’s me,” He said with a short nod and an awkward laugh, “So you read the news.” 

A laugh escaped you too, “I do. My Dad kept the news on all the time, so I kinda just gravitate towards keeping up with everything, plus there’s a lot going on here. You kinda gotta know the news in order to not get eaten by something alien… even if a newspaper is expensive these days.” 

Clark let out a small chuckle, more sure this time as he held up his hands in defense, “Listen, I just work there.” 

The two of you gave a smile to each other once again. The two of you stood there for a long few moments just looking and staring until you realized neither of you had made another move. You motioned for him to follow you again, starting to head toward the register when he stepped to your side. 

“If you don’t mind helping me find one more thing,” He said quickly, nearly stumbling over his words, “Do you have The Mighty Crabjoys?” 

Furrowing your brows in confusion, you looked him up and down. He was more the nerdy type than anything with the big glasses and swallowing suit. You didn’t think he seemed the type to like pop punk bands. 

You smirked, deciding to tease him, “Don’t tell me that’s for your Pa too.”

“No, it’s for me,” Clark shook his head, biting back a laugh, “But there seems to be some judgement coming from you about my taste in music. Not so nice now, huh?” 

Laughing again, you also held up your hands in surrender, 

“No judgement, Mr. Reporter, but I wouldn’t have pinned you as a Crabjoys fan.” 

“I enjoy them a lot,” he said with a small huff, “I need something to pump me up when I’m working on an article.”

You rolled your eyes and nodded your head toward the pop-punk section, “Follow me then, Mr. Kent.” 

As you turned, he let out another hum. His voice, even with small sounds, made you feel warm inside. You could still feel that same buzzing energy from him, like a beam of light bursting through a pitch black room. All of your thoughts went to how you wanted nothing more than to be enveloped by whatever he was giving off. 

You led him to the pop-punk area and began searching through the “M”s until you found exactly what you were looking for fairly quickly. You pulled the sleeve from its place and handed it to the much taller man standing beside you.

Clark bit his lip for just a second to try and hide the small smile that formed.

You on the other hand weren’t hiding your grin anymore, “Anything else I can help you find?” 

He let out a small sigh and held out his collection of records for you, “I guess this will be it, thank you, ma’am.” 

You both smiled at each other a little longer than necessary before you walked him to the register. Albeit, your pace slowed, feeling abnormally sad that your time together was coming to an end. Your limbs felt like they were moving at their own pace; becoming noodles as you got to the counter and started to ring up the incredibly handsome man’s items. 

Adjusting his glasses, Clark cleared his throat, “Are you new?” 

You nodded, “Kinda. I’ve only been working here for a couple of months. Why?” 

“Just curious. I haven’t seen you before,” He shook his head quickly, “It’s not that I come in here that often, but it’s been the same people here for so long. The other guy that works here, B-Dog, is a really fun guy. Met him a couple of times.” 

Laughing, you nodded, “He’s certainly a character.” 

“Well, for what it’s worth, I’m glad you’re here today instead.” 

His murmur was almost too quiet for you to hear, but when it hit your ears, you began to reel. You could feel your cheeks heating up again. You tried to hide your growing flush from him by ducking below the counter to grab him a bag for his purchase. 

You took a deep breath, trying to convince yourself that a little flirt was nothing serious. You popped back up quickly, giving him a genuine smile.

“I’m glad you’re here today too. It’s been really nice talking with you.” 

Clark smiled wide at that as he reached into his pocket. A confused look took over his face, and after tapping his suit pockets for a few seconds, he let out a defeated sigh.

“Shoot…” He whispered, “Silly me. I think I left my wallet at home. Would you be able to keep these for me?” 

Those piercing blue eyes gave you an almost pleading look, and you couldn’t help but nod in response almost automatically. 

“I can put them on hold for two days.”

There wasn’t actually a policy for that.  

“Perfect,” he smiled wide, biting his lip, “And will you be working in those two days?” 

The prospect of possibly getting to see him again was more than exciting. With your heart hammering hard against your chest, you felt like you could barely breathe enough to answer him. Eventually, you managed to speak again, “I’ll be here tomorrow… Nine to six.” 

“Good, Thank you,” your name rolled off his tongue, “It was a pleasure meeting you today.” 

 This time, you were the one to hum in response “The pleasure’s all mine.” 

With a small, final smile, he rushed out the door, calling over his shoulder, “See you tomorrow!” 

No one else seemed to hear the boom of his voice; it was like it shook the entire earth. But as you looked around to see if anyone else was stunned, it was like you were the only one encapsulated by him. 

So, you chalked it up to just having a small, tiny crush.

***

The next morning, grief had other plans for you. 

It struck you hard especially after good days, making it difficult to get out of bed in the morning. Some days felt real and normal, while others felt fake. And now everything felt just a little too fake for you. 

Waking up in the apartment was always the hardest part. As you got ready for your day, you felt yourself going through all of the motions, but almost as if your head were underwater the entire time. 

It took so long for your brain to catch up sometimes, and you wished desperately that you could just bounce back and put on a brave face. You allowed yourself to cry to try and relieve some of the pressure in your mind, but it only proved to make your head even more foggy than before.

Some solace came from the news. Trying to distract yourself, you turned the TV on and tried to look for the good in life.

Superman, the protector of your city, had done it once again from a comet-like entity. And again, you found yourself wishing you could’ve been more like him. He seemed to do it all, and he did it with a smile on his face. Obviously you didn’t have the powers he had, but you figured he must’ve been so strong mentally just as much as physically. 

Once you got to the store later in the morning, you helped open slowly and did everything that was asked of you. It was a decent distraction for you as well, but sometimes the feelings were just a little too heavy. 

As the day progressed, busier than the day before, you successfully had gotten your mind off of some of your sadness, but had nearly forgotten about the tall man and his records from the day before. 

You had made yourself too busy to greet Clark when he walked in sometime after five. One of your other coworkers had greeted him and retrieved his records from the back. Feeling slightly defeated, you tried to stay out of their way, letting your coworker have the sale. 

However, nearly moments after you’d thought that, you felt his warm presence before you saw him approach you. When you saw him, it was like your entire demeanor changed.

“Hey there!” He greeted you with a chipper voice, “I was beginning to think you weren’t here today.” 

You chortled, but it didn’t feel as genuine as the day before, “Yeah. Barely made it.” 

Clark’s voice dropped almost immediately, “Barely, huh?” 

The sudden mood change shocked you a little. You hadn’t expected him to take you so seriously. 

Not wanting to sour the mood between the two of you, a small tug happened at the corner of your lip as you nodded, “Guess I’m not feeling the greatest today.” 

“I’m sorry to hear that.” 

His voice cut deep; inviting and enveloping just like the day before. It was welcome, but the warmth made you want to cry again. There was something about Clark that felt so familiar; nostalgic even, that it reminded you of spending your days in the sun as a kid. 

He frowned when you didn’t answer right away, “Anything I can do to help?” 

Gently, you shook your head, “That’s very sweet of you, but… no, I’ll be okay.” 

“I’ve got tylenol in my bag.” 

That made you laugh the tiniest bit, much more authentically, “It’s okay, Clark. Thank you. I’m just… a little sad. Nothing I can’t deal with.” 

“I have no doubt.” A soft smile graced his lips, “I’m sorry you’re sad. I wish I had some magic pill to cure that.” 

“Talking to you has been really helpful,” You murmured, hoping he wouldn’t hear you, “It’s made this day a little brighter.”

Before Clark could respond, your coworker B-Dog came back around, looking for Clark, but saw that he was talking with you. Luckily, Clark let him know that you’d been the one to initially help him, so your coworker relinquished the records to you to ring him up. You began leading him to the register again, feeling a small air of confidence arise in you.

When you turned at the counter to ring up his items again, you noticed a small dusting of pink overcoming Clark’s cheeks. Just your luck, he’d obviously heard you before, but he thanked you anyway. Quickly, he swiped his card to pay, keeping his eyes to the floor. 

After taking his purchase from you, he still made no move to exit. He stood there, somewhat awkwardly, staring at you with a sort of battle going on behind his eyes.

“S-Sorry.” Clark stammered, “I know this is very forward, so forgive me, but you’re very pretty.” 

This time, you knew your cheeks were burning too as soon as the words left his lips. Your mind went haywire as you were now the one to stare right back at him. You mumbled something of a thank you as you felt it leave your throat, but it was incredibly incoherent.

Clark was the one to laugh this time, breathlessly, like he was trying to catch up with himself as well. 

“I-I’m sorry. I know that was brash.” 

“No, it’s okay. I just don’t get compliments very often,” You said quickly, trying to regain your composure, “Thank you… you’re handsome yourself.” 

He smiled wide as the nervous energy expelled off of him, “Would you like to get lunch sometime with me? I know it can’t cure sadness, but maybe being near you would help a little. You know… like you said.” 

Biting your lip, you nodded, “I’d love that.” 

“Great!” Clark had said it a little too enthusiastically; too loud for the space. He cleared his throat again, speaking at a much more normal volume, “What day are you free next?” 

“Friday,” You said, slightly winded, “I’m off Friday.” 

“I could take you out on my lunch break. Guess it’ll even it out for disrupting your work time here.”

“This is far from disrupting me,” you said with a short laugh.

“How does noon sound?”

“Sounds like a date.”

You gave Clark a smile, the blush never leaving your cheeks.

“Yeah, sure does,” His voice cracked, “Um… how will I get in contact with you?”

Smirking, you thought of teasing him again, if only to make him blush more.

“I guess you can have my number.”

He smirked, shaking his head, presumably at himself, “I’ve forgotten how to talk to people.”

You were already writing your phone number on a post it note. You quickly tore it off and put the sticky side just below his pocket protector on his ill-fitted suit jacket. You weren’t normally this forward either, but it felt fun - exhilarating - to be so free with someone.

Clark’s smile got wider as he took off the sticky note and peeked at it before stuffing it in the pocket. He adjusted his glasses before looking back at you.

“Thank you again,” it was like velvet as he said your name, “See you Friday?”

“See you Friday.” You nodded. 

Leaving it at that, he walked out the door, but not before turning back to look at you once again. You couldn’t help the laugh that escaped you watching him trying to balance all of the things in his hands as he gave you a small wave. 

The light of the day sort of shifted after that, and you were left back to work and your own thoughts. The grief had still been there, quieting for a while as you spoke to Clark, just waiting to rear its ugly head back out. It seemed to come crashing back down as soon as he was out of sight. 

You excused yourself to the bathroom, just to give yourself a few extra moments alone and to allow some tears to escape. 

It was strange always feeling this whiplash of emotions especially after something so good. 

However, not even a minute after the tears had sprung, your phone dinged in your pocket. You dug it out, managing a smile as you read the message:

This is Clark! I look forward to helping you cure some sadness Friday!

Wiping away your tears with your palm, you felt as though he was already trying.

***

Friday came around much quicker now that you had something to look forward to. Most weeks, mundane as they were, tended to drag on. So, this was certainly a welcome change.

You woke up feeling a lot better than you had in a long time; you felt giddy and excited for what felt like the first time in forever. 

Admittedly, you’d only been on a handful of dates, and none of them had gone very well, so you were hopeful this would change too.

The two of you had been texting back and forth since you’d given him your number. Most of your messages were about the date and other details, like where to meet. But sometimes, you’d both delve off into other things, like talking about your days or tiny flirty messages back and forth. 

This felt different.

As you got ready, you made sure to wear some of your best clothes and put on the best smelling scent you had before walking out the door. You wanted to put in effort for yourself since it’d been so long, and in leaving the house, you felt fresh and confident.

The walk to the little cafe you decided to meet at felt excruciating long, like trudging through a dream. It felt like no matter how long you walked, you weren’t getting anywhere. You kept forward though, pure determination keeping you going. 

You felt your phone ding in your hand and you lifted it to see the message:

Just made it. I’m in the third booth from the back. 

Beside the text was a little winky face. Again, you smiled, luckily right around the corner. 

Trying to be as confident as you felt, you strode into the little cafe. You scanned the room for only a second before your eyes landed on the tall figure - already seated at a booth - waving you over. You couldn’t help the small giggle that escaped your mouth as you made your way over to him. Awkwardly tall against the booth, he still clambered out of the seat to greet you, giving you the utmost respect.

“It’s nice to see you again.” He said as you approached, motioning for you to take the seat across from him, “I haven’t ordered yet. I thought I would wait for you.” 

“Thank you Clark,” You said as you sat, “It’s nice to see you again too. And it’s even nicer of you to sacrifice your lunch break for me, no less.” 

Clark gave you a wide, toothy grin, letting his dimples show and his accent pop out.

“It was nothin’. I usually take my time for lunch most days, anyway.” 

Surrounded by his warmth, especially being in the booth with him, you felt a lot closer than you were; more intimate than talking in the record store. 

You had some time to scour the menu before the waitress came by to take your orders. It was all mostly breakfast, so you settled for a small fruit salad and toast. Clark on the other hand got the works: a large breakfast, complete with eggs, toast, hashbrowns, bacon, and a small stack of pancakes. 

As the waitress walked away to put in your orders, Clark sat back in the booth, giving you a funny look, “Fruit salad and toast?” 

Again, you felt your cheeks burning, “There seems to be some judgement coming from you about my food choices.”

He shrugged, smirking, “A little. Doesn’t seem like much of a breakfast.”

“Well, it’s lunch,” you chided, “And it’s not much of a meal, but it’s better than the greasy breakfast food.”

Clark’s mouth fell open like you’d just said the most shocking thing in the world. You bit your lip, trying your best not to laugh as his hands started to frenzy around him.

“What?!” he guffawed, though a grin still evident on his face, “What’s wrong with greasy breakfast food? You can’t tell me you don’t like pancakes or waffles. Everyone likes one or the other! There’s, like, a whole stupid song about it…” 

Another laugh escaped, “There’s nothing wrong with it, but it’s just not my preferred food choice.” 

“But fruit salad and toast?” 

“What’s to say I just wanted something small? This is my first date in a long time, after all, I’m a little nervous.” 

Clark didn’t say anything for a moment, only letting his smile widen slowly. He cleared his throat, “I haven’t been on a date in a long time either. I suppose I’m a bit nervous too.” 

“I’m relieved to know I’m not alone,” you murmured. 

The conversation flowed easily for a while until your food was sat down in front of you a few minutes later. The country twang in his rich voice came and went as you’d spoken, sparking your next question. 

“Where are you from, Clark?” You asked, beginning to prepare your toast the way you liked it, “Pa doesn’t sound like a Metropolis term.” 

“Because it’s not.” 

You glanced over at him to see that almost all of his eggs were already gone. Holding in a laugh, you let him continue. 

Swallowing his food, he took in a deep breath like he was about to reveal a secret, “I’m from Kansas. My Ma and Pa raised me on their farm and I moved here a few years ago for work.” 

The answer still felt vague, like there was more to be said, but you didn’t press him further. 

Instead, you hummed back with a small smile, “That makes a lot of sense.”

“Being from Kansas?” 

Clark shed his suit jacket off to the side, leaving him in just a light blue button down shirt. You watched as he rolled up his sleeves to his elbows, and you came to realize you were getting a little lost. 

His arms were… huge. As he crossed them to get his other sleeves, it was like all of his muscles pulled at the thin fabric of his shirt, barely able to move and mold with him. The ill-fitted suit suddenly made even less sense as it obviously did him no justice. 

The man in front of you looked at you, clearing his throat when he noticed you watching him without any words. 

Speaking without volition, you blurted out, “Well, you definitely have a farm-boy physique. But... no, it's your southern hospitality.” 

Clark laughed aloud, the room booming again. 

He shrugged, trying to be modest, “I threw hay barrels around for a long time.” 

“Do you miss Kansas?” 

“Every day.” He admitted softly, "Sometimes, I wish I had stayed. But… most days I’m really proud of my work that I do here in Metropolis.” 

“Then you must really like writing for the Daily Planet. You’ve gotten to interview some pretty cool people.”

A smirk graced his face as he cut into his pancakes. He hiked his glasses up his face with his finger, shielding himself for a second before speaking, “You’ve read my work?”

“I have. I like your articles about Superman.” 

“Superman, huh?”

 It was like his pace slowed significantly; taking slower and more deliberate bites of his food as his eyes perked up to you. He seemed to watch you and study your reaction.

You took a small bite of fruit, “You make him sound really… human. I like the thought of that; being able to do anything, but still having the capacity to be kind and compassionate.”

Clark nodded, speaking softly, “I think it’s important for people to see that too. He’s just like everyone else.”

It gave you pause again as you locked eyes, a charming smile gracing his lips. You couldn’t help but let yourself smile too. It was almost making your cheeks sting with how much he made your lips curl up, but you couldn’t stop it even if you wanted to. 

“So,” he started as he wiped his mouth with a napkin, half of his food devoured, “You got a long round of questions. Mine starts now: Where are you from?” 

And again, your mouth curved up, “I’ve lived in Metropolis all my life. I am a born and raised metropolitan.” 

“We just call you folk city slickers back home.” He chuckled, “You must be close to your family then.” 

Biting your lip, you knew something like this would eventually come up. There wasn’t a use in being so vague, so you came out with it, trying to mask the grief that started to travel through your body.

“I was. I don’t have any immediate family here. It was just me and my dad, but he passed away last year.” 

Another look overtook Clark that you couldn’t place. You hadn’t told many people about your father, expecting a lot of pity looks, but this wasn’t that. He was looking at you like he understood very well. It had been difficult to talk about your father without getting emotional, but with Clark, you were able to keep calm. 

“Gosh,” he murmured, “My condolences.” 

You tried to smile through your growing sadness again, trying not to let the mood drop too far, “It’s still a little fresh, but I’ve been okay. Thank you.” 

“Of course.” Picking up that you didn’t want to speak on the subject anymore, Clark gave you a polite nod before pivoting completely with his next question. “Have any pets?”

His bright eyes trailed you as he took in another big bite of his food, now blatantly gauging your reaction. You were grateful he didn’t press further about your past with your dad. 

“Do fish count?” 

“Sure,” he shrugged, “Do you like your job?” 

“Are you investigating me?” you asked with a small chuckle. Clark didn’t answer, simply motioning for you to continue through his mouthful of food. “I like my job most days. I like it better than the office job I had before.” 

He swallowed, “What do you like and dislike most about your job now?” 

“You are investigating me,” you mused, “I love music and people who also love music. I don’t like sales tactics.”

"Is that what was wrong with the office job?"

"Kinda" you sighed, "Just needed a change of pace."

“So you take pride in sharing your passion with people.” 

Your brows furrowed at him curiously as you nodded slowly, “I guess so.” 

Another smile graced his face, making his dimples show. 

The two of you ate and talked for a little longer with more basic getting-to-know-you questions. He asked things like what your favorite color was, or your favorite movie. Even with the most mundane questions, however, he looked as if he were filing every bit of information away for later.

His raven hair fell in a curl over his forehead as he moved, and all you could think of was reaching forward and putting it back in place. As much as it pained you, you kept your hands to yourself.

Towards the end of the date, Clark happily paid for the both of you, waving you off with a short, “You can pay for me next time.”

As you stood together from the small booth, you took a deep breath and asked him, “Can I walk you to work?” 

He flashed you a toothy grin, “I’d love that.” 

The short walk to the Daily Planet was filled with extra questions, but mainly it served as an excuse to be around him more. The feeling of warmth he radiated was addicting, making you wonder why herds of people weren’t following him around for it.

And all too soon, your walk came to an end. 

Both of you stood in front of the massive building, making no moves to go further. Neither of you said anything for a long while as exchanged short, shy glances. You didn’t want the date to end, and you were silently cursing yourself for it being such a short meeting.

“When can I see you again?” 

Clark was the first to break the ice, asking in a fast, hushed voice. Pushing his glasses up on his face nearly covered the blush that was forming on his cheeks. 

“That is, if you want to see me…” 

Your face was doing much of the same as you nodded back at him, “I do. What about Sunday?”

“We could have dinner?”

“It’s a date.” 

Smiling sheepishly, Clark’s hummed, low and deep, just like the day you met him. Slowly, he upturned his hand to you, silently asking for you to take it. Once you did, he brought it up to his lips slowly, leaving a light kiss along your knuckles. You were already reeling from that, but as he pulled his hand away - in one swift movement - he leaned forward to leave a kiss on your cheek. 

“This has been the best lunch I’ve had by far.”

“I’m glad. Very glad.” you stammered.

“See you Sunday?”

“Yeah," you breathed out, "See you Sunday.” 

With another big smile, he backed away toward the entrance of the building, nearly stumbling when his eyes wouldn’t leave you. His large, clumsy limbs flailed as he waved at you, and you couldn’t help but giggle. You waited until he was inside before making your way back to your apartment. 

At that moment, you felt like the luckiest person in Metropolis. 

You’d been on dates with others - plenty, actually - but had never felt the way you did on that one. Not even by a mile. Even in just that short time, he made you feel seen and listened to without having to blurt out every aspect of your life. 

Even being near him made you feel giddy, like a child with a crush. 

What left you even more dumbfounded is that Clark seemed to like you back, like he felt just as happy and carefree with you. And that was refreshing.

Almost as if to solidify your thoughts, you got a text almost as soon as you closed your apartment door. 

Hope you made it home safe. I can’t stop thinking about our date. I’m very excited for Sunday!

A bunch of emojis flooded in after: smiley faces, sunshine, and little hearts. 

You held the phone close to your chest and let out a small squeal of joy. Clark really did have a way of curing sadness. 

***

Sunday came before you knew it. In those near 48 hours, you were glued to your phone, responding and waiting on messages from Clark about when and where your Sunday date would be. You’d been texting even more since your date, and every text was like a breath of fresh air. 

The two of you decided - well, Clark decided - on a nicer, more upskaled restaurant in the heart of downtown. He made reservations for the two of you and everything.

It wasn’t until Sunday morning leading up to your date that something started to feel… off. 

Leading up to your date in the evening the both of you still had to work. To you, it was a nice distraction from the nerves pooling in your stomach. Your heart beat wildly against your chest the entire day any time you thought of the nerdy, dark-haired man.

Throughout the day, you and Clark continued to talk intermittently, but you notice he’d pulled back somewhat pretty early in the day. The messages he sent were still sincere and enthusiastic, but shorter and less frequent than they had been. 

You thought that maybe he was just having a busy day. And very desperately, you tried not to think about what else it could be.

Once work was done, you had some time to go home and get ready for your date. However, that weird feeling that something was wrong kept popping up. So when you entered your apartment, you stood in the living room, typing out a message to Clark.

We’re still on for tonight?

You decided to take a shower as you waited for his answer. 

Despite the strange feeling, you were beyond excited to go on another date with Clark. It had been a long time since you’d looked forward to something like this. You found yourself even wanting to put effort into how you looked; making yourself look as good as you felt. It wasn’t something you’d felt in such a long time. 

After your shower, you could feel anxiety building as you checked your phone. Luckily, there was a text waiting for you from Clark: 

Of course! I’m still at work, but I’ll get off soon!

A sigh of relief left you as you shot back another text, confirming that you’ll see him at the restaurant. 

Before long, you were checking yourself out in the mirror, putting on your last touches of jewelry and accessories. Another weird feeling washed over you, despite Clark’s confirmation, but you thought of it just being your nerves.

As you locked up your apartment, you took in a large breath, looking at the time and making sure that you were still on time for the reservation. You glanced at your messages, but the screen remained blank after the last message you sent. 

Although you didn’t know him that well, it didn’t seem normal.

Still, you sent another quick text, telling him you were on your way to the restaurant, hoping he would respond to you when he could.

Throughout the train ride downtown, the feeling that something wasn’t right was growing deeper in your abdomen. Especially with the radio silence from Clark. It had already been almost an hour since you’d last heard from him and normally he wouldn’t have gone that long without sending you something back already.

Still, you persisted. 

At the restaurant, you kept a brave face as you approached the counter. Part of you thought that maybe your date was already there, waiting for you at the table he reserved. But it was no such luck as you looked around the mostly vacant restaurant. 

You smiled at the hostess, giving her the name “Kent” and the reservation time. You felt a small rush of relief as she nodded to you, leading you back to a booth. She placed down two menus before giving you a polite smile back.

“Still waiting for your guest?” 

You tried to sound confident, “Yes, he’ll be here soon.” 

She gave you a solemn look before nodding and taking your drink order. Still hopeful, you decided to order a glass of red wine. As she walked away, you looked around at the few couples that littered the place before pulling out your phone.

You sent another message, telling him you were there. But there was nothing in return.

Feeling your heart pounding in your chest, you didn’t want to give up just yet. Although something felt wrong, you knew Clark wouldn’t put in effort to make reservations just to stand you up. He’d been so sweet to you that this didn’t seem like his character. 

But then again, you didn’t know him like that.

Against your better judgement, you still waited. And waited. And waited. 

After an hour, you felt more embarrassed than anything. The waitress had come up and asked you if you were waiting still, and each time you would nod, asking for another glass of red wine. Three glasses later, the waitress set a small appetizer down in front of you for free. 

Your heart couldn’t take it anymore.

Just as you were gathering your things, ready to go to the front to pay, your phone dinged. Reaching for it, you finally got some form of an answer by text. 

I’m so sorry. I got so caught up at work, but I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you–

Without reading the rest of the message, you stuffed your phone in your purse, not wanting to read any excuses. You finally asked for the check and paid for your wine, keeping your head low as you slowly made your way out of the restaurant. 

The waitress, and you were sure any of the patrons, were giving you sad looks, only making you feel worse. You took a mental note that you would never go there again out of pure embarrassment. 

You held your tears in until you were fully out of view of any prying eyes, but as soon as you were out the door, the dam broke and it was like a waterfall fell over your cheeks. You tried to wipe them away to no avail, only for more to continuously fall. 

As you walked home, you tried to cover your face with your hands, trying to focus on simply getting to the apartment. The subway had too many eyes, and you didn’t want anyone else to see you. With your eyes casted to the ground, the walk felt like an eternity. 

Halfway home, you passed by some men sitting on some apartment steps. You kept your head low, hoping no one could see your tear stained cheeks. Still, a low whistle sounded from one of the men who stood up, trying to get your attention. Typical of a lot of men in Metropolis, but you never budged, you simply ignored them, continuing on your walk.

But a little ways away, you could hear footsteps behind you and low murmuring as the men talked to each other. You tried to quicken your pace, feeling that they were trailing behind you fairly quickly. 

Your heart started to thud fast against your chest as you lengthened your stride. Easily, however, they were able to keep up, some of them being much faster. 

“Hey!” One of the men chimed behind you, “Where you going?”

You kept walking, ignoring him again. With just your luck most of the shops you passed were closed and no one else seemed to notice or care that these men were following you. Taking in a large breath, you remained forward, using all of your strength to speed up.

“This is a nice view back here. I would love to see the front.” 

Another man said, or maybe the same one. It didn’t matter though, and you didn’t dare to look behind you.

You were almost at a job, but judging by their footsteps, you knew they were still gaining on you. The tears that you’d been trying to keep in were freely flowing down your cheeks, creating a harsh sting against the cool night air. 

As a hand caught your shoulder, you let out a yelp, and in an instant, he showed up.

Superman.

You heard the commotion before you even had the chance to turn around. There was a smack and a groan as some of the bystanders around you finally started to turn their heads. As you finally looked behind you, there was Superman with his hand around the neck of who you could only assume was the man that grabbed your shoulder. 

From where you stood, you couldn’t see the strong man’s face, but you knew it was Superman just by everything else. You could obviously see how big and tall he was, but you could also feel the presence and power he had. 

The three other men were watching in horror as the large meta-human stood incredibly still, his cape flapping lightly in the wind as if he were waiting for them to speak first. 

“Fellas.” His voice was loud and pointed. He let the man by the neck go, shoving him towards his friends, “Why don’t you run home?” 

As the men scampered off, Superman watched for a moment, crossing his arms in front of him before turning to face you. 

“Are you okay, ma’am?”

Words and thoughts weren’t coming easily as you stared possibly for too long. The super hero in front of you started to smile wide, dimples poking out of the corners of his lips. 

A soft buzzing noise began in the back of your brain, low and soft, like it was trying to grab your attention. Maybe it was the combination of everything that had happened that day; the shoddy communication with Clark, him standing you up, the men, and now Superman, but you couldn’t hold your tears in any longer. The dam broke once again as tears spilled from your eyes. 

“I don’t know,” you sobbed. 

Superman’s eyes softened as he uncrossed his arms, making himself just a bit smaller for you. 

“It’s okay to not know.” The large meta-human motioned to a bench along the sidewalk about a block away, “Want to talk?” 

Nodding at him, he gave you a kind smile before leading you over to sit. As he sat beside you, you could immediately feel the inhuman warmth radiating off of him. It felt almost familiar but not enough to come to mind. 

Instead, you thought of your father. 

Superman didn’t say anything or make you feel like you needed to talk back at him. He simply sat with you and waited until you were ready. 

When you did finally speak, you tried to deflect off of your sad feelings, “Aren’t you supposed to be out saving the world?” 

The question came out more accusatory than you’d wanted, but it didn’t seem phased as he answered. 

“The world starts with the people in it.”

Without pressing, he waited again for you to continue talking. You took a deep breath, shaking your head at how ridiculous it was to be telling Superman of all people your mundane problems.

“This sounds so stupid saying this to you,” your laugh was wet as you tried to gain composure again, continuing, “I got stood up by a guy I really liked. And then this happened. But… this guy felt really different. Now, I’m not so sure.” 

“That’s not stupid.” His voice became quieter like it was just for you, “The only thing that’s stupid is the guy that stood you up.” 

You sighed, nodding, “Guess so. I got so frustrated and embarrassed. I think he tried to apologize, but I didn’t read his messages.”

“You have a right to be angry,” Superman caught your gaze and you weren’t sure if you ever noticed that his eyes were blue, “Regardless of if he apologizes, you don’t have to accept anything else from someone that wronged you.”

You thought for a moment. 

“I don’t want to feel angry though, and maybe that’s naive. But everything was going really well until a few hours ago.”

Superman sighed, cautiously placing a hand on your shoulder. That same warm familiar feeling washed over you once again as you leaned in to him. 

“I can’t offer you much, but I can offer you my opinion.” Nodding lamely, you urged him to continue, “It sounds cliche, but trust yourself. He miscommunicated and made you upset, rightfully so. If you feel like this bond you’ve made with him has severed beyond repair, don’t read the message, and don’t waste anymore energy on just some guy. But on the other hand, maybe he had a valid excuse and now he’s trying his best to apologize. It’s ultimately up to you to decide whether you give him the benefit of the doubt or not.”

For a long moment, you stared at the super human before you in complete awe. You’d looked up to him for a while, and here he was in the flesh giving you advice. 

“What would you do?” 

Superman laughed, his voice echoing through the city. 

“I have a bad habit of giving everyone the benefit of the doubt. It’s hard not to want to see the good in people. And who knows, maybe now he knows that he should’ve made time for you.”

You didn’t say anything to that, studying him again. The low buzzing in your head was getting slightly stronger; his blue eyes and dark hair were setting off sparks of something that you couldn’t place. No matter how hard you tried, you couldn’t grasp what was so familiar. 

After a few moments, your head started to ache. You shut your eyes for a second to recalibrate, giving up on trying to figure anything else out for the night. 

Certainly, he noticed you taking the moment, “You should rest.” 

He stood up from the bench and outstretched his hand to you. Gently, you took his offered hand, standing to face him. For someone so strong, he was incredibly gentle as he helped you up. He gave you a wide smile, standing tall once you were on your feet.

“Thank you, Superman.” You sighed, “You’ve done so much for me tonight. Not only saving me, but taking the time to talk to me too. I can’t thank you enough.” 

“You’re welcome, ma’am, but you don’t need to thank me. I’m just a guy trying to do what’s right.” He nodded to you once, beaming at you, “If you ever need to talk again, I’m just a shout away.” 

You nodded back and before you knew it, Superman was flying off into the evening sky.

Swiftly walking the rest of the way to your apartment, you felt more at ease than you had before. Once you got inside, you felt like you could breathe again finally. 

Still feeling utterly conflicted, you cleaned yourself off and threw your outfit in the hamper before finally crashing onto your couch. You didn’t let the tears well in your eyes this time as you pulled out your phone. 

Thinking over your conversation with Superman, you mulled over what you wanted to do with Clark. 

On one hand, he had stood you up. Plain and simple, that was a really awful thing to do. You’d felt so embarrassed and stupid at such a nice restaurant that it would make sense to cut him off much like he did for you. 

But Clark felt… different. That feeling you got while you were with him was unlike anything else you’d felt with someone before. He’d been so sweet before that there must’ve been something wrong for him to not show up.

You thought of what Superman said about giving people the benefit of the doubt. And you came to the conclusion that if the most powerful man on earth could give people a chance, you could too.

Finally, you opened up your phone to your unopened message from Clark. 

I’m so incredibly sorry. I haven’t stopped thinking about you, but I’m still caught at work. I hate to think you’re waiting for me, and I understand if this is inexcusable. It’s not my intention to leave you hanging. I’d love to try again.

You sighed heavily before typing out a reply: Can we talk?

Mere seconds after you hit send, your phone was ringing. It almost would’ve been funny had the situation been a little lighter. 

“Hello?” Clark sounded first, your name slipping quietly from his lips.

“Hey.” You said timidly. 

“Listen, before you say anything, I’m really sorry. I-I know I messed up really big. I get caught up with work like that sometimes, and I should’ve warned you instead of making you think I was leaving you high and dry. It’s not an excuse for being a jerk, but I thought I should at least offer you an apology.” 

Tears pricked at the back of your eyes again, but none fell. You were too tired to let anything else out, “I waited over an hour for you, Clark.”

“Gosh,” He sighed, “I… I understand if that was too much.”

“I really like you… but right now, after this, I-I really don’t know.” 

“It’s okay to not know.” He murmured.

Lightning zapped at your brain again and you furrowed your eyebrows, trying to shake it away as you didn’t want to think too hard. Clark waited silently on the other end of the line for you to speak. Hesitantly, you took in another deep breath. 

“Clark?” 

“Yes?” 

He answered like you took his breath away

“Can we try again… like you said?” 

He let out an audible sigh - like he was finally releasing the air he’d been holding, “Of course. Yes, we can try again. Thank you. Wherever you’d like and whenever you want, I’m all yours. I’ll even take off work for the day.”

You let out the smallest laugh, “You don’t have to do that much.”

Clark let out a hum of thought over the phone like music to your ears, “What about now?” 

Your eyebrows nearly shot to the ceiling.

“Now?” 

Over the receiver, a low chuckle sounded, “I can pick up some wine and a midnight snack?”

Your heart began to speed and stutter, your head already beginning to whirl. In your silence, Clark’s voice dropped even lower to a murmur, speaking again before you had the chance to overthink it.

“You can say no to tonight and we’d still make time for another date. I just want to make things up to you.”

“Okay…” you bit your lip, beginning to feel that giddy feeling again as before, “But you better bring a red.”

“Yes ma’am.” 

Once you hung up, it only took about fifteen minutes before there was a knock at your door. You ran out of your bathroom to answer the door, having thrown on a more casual outfit than your pajamas.

At the door stood a very disheveled Clark, like he’d been running around. His curly dark hair was in disarray and he was still in his ill-fitted work suit. He held out a bottle of red wine, a bag of snacks, and a large bouquet of flowers. You looked at him incredulously as he beamed a large smile back at you. 

“Can I come in?” He said breathlessly.

A giggle escaped you as you stepped aside, letting the tall man walk through your door. He placed the items he brought on the nearest surface except for the flowers, which he held back out to you. 

Clark said your name quietly, catching your gaze, “I can’t express to you how genuinely sorry I am. Any excuse I give is not enough. I wanted to be there, but I wasn’t.”

Carefully, you took the flowers from him, but before you could pull away, he enveloped your hands with his. His strong fingers squeezed yours with a soft pressure, gazing into your eyes with his deep ones. 

“You’re here now,” you whispered.

His eyes flickered down to your lips. Your heart started to dance in your chest as he placed one of his hands along your cheek. He was hesitant, like he was testing the waters with you. Although he wasn't fully forgiven yet, you couldn't find yourself to pull away.

“Can I kiss you?” His voice was just above a whisper.

You nodded once, but he didn’t move immediately. 

Ever so slowly, you pressed your lips together, like you were savoring every second. It was a quick, small beck before you pulled away to look at each other. 

And for a moment, things felt blissful again. 

No words needed to be spoken as you leaned in again, pulling him to you. The second kiss was longer, more intimate and slower… hungrier. But he didn’t make any moves to go any further. He was content with your lips, keeping you grounded as he molded to yours. He began to smile into the kiss, wrapping his arms around your waist.

The two of you kissed for a few moments longer, only pulling away when you needed to get air. 

Soon, the two of you were sitting on your couch with two glasses of wine in hand, eating your snacks as you slowly fell into a comfortable rhythm of talking and getting to know each other again. It felt like you could talk about everything and nothing with him all at once. 

And after a while, it was like the forgotten dinner never happened. 

Sometime in the night, Clark stood up from your couch to inspect the bookshelf of records you owned. 

“Golly, you have quite the collection,” He mused aloud. 

Clark walked over to the record player and carefully opened it up. The last record you’d been playing - The Righteous Brothers - was queued already and Clark simply pressed the play button.

“It was both me and my father’s collection.” you said as music started flowing through your speakers. 

“Unchained Melody.” Clark hummed, “My Pa loves this one.”

“Mine did too.”

Clark outreached his hand to you and for a moment, you had a flash of deja-vu back to your conversation with Superman. That moment with the super human felt like a lifetime ago, but in reality it had only been a few short hours. That low buzzing started in your head again, but this time, you could feel something poking and prodding as you looked at the man in glasses before you.

But the thought that crossed your mind was impossible.

Instead of thinking too hard, you took Clark’s hand, letting him help you off the couch. Ever patient, he waited for you to get closer before wrapping his arms securely around your waist, placing his chin on your shoulder as you swayed to the song.

“If you'll let me fix things,” He whispered, “I want to be yours if you’ll have me.” 

You smiled wide, nodding.

“I’d love that.”