— Master list. Rules. —

-> sup!! Names nazla, 18 and im just writing to write?

-> Anon’s [ none yet ]

-> Requests ( open rn — anything!! )

katseye only blog!!! [ if Yoonchae is requested — no smut ]

— Recent work ->

— All rights reserved [ no translation ect ]

Guys tbh — i’ve got bad writers block for the series.

[ Tangled Webs & Netballs — Megan Skiendiel ]

chapter two || Masterlist || chapter four

— #synopsis :: When the mask finally slips and you discover Megan’s secret, the betrayal cuts deep, unraveling the fragile bond between love and trust. Yet in the chaos of confrontation and tears, forgiveness takes shape in trembling hands and whispered apologies, binding you closer than ever before.

— #paring :: Megan Skiendiel (G!P) × Fem!Reader

— #warning :: Emotional intensity, angst, identity reveal, trust issues, heavy themes of guilt and forgiveness, strong romantic tension, smut, creampie, rough sex, p in v.

— #A/n :: Sryy for the long wait guys!!

— #taglist :: @riris-heart @wtfisthisnoclueman @urm0onagedaydream @bookkeepersnook @levilash @dreamingst99 @sofaiscomfy @ironpenguinwombat @love-manon @spideybils @kristalag @love-manon @vivilvr @tehesamueltehe @kimmeiy

Sunlight filters softly through your blinds, illuminating the room with a golden haze. You blink awake, heart still pounding from dreams that feel too real.

Your hoodie — Megan’s hoodie — is draped over you like a warm weight. You realize with a jolt that she’s next to you, curled against your side, her steady breathing loud in the silence.

Neither of you moves. The world outside the small apartment continues as if nothing has changed, but inside, time is paused.

The memory of last night hovers between you, unspoken and impossibly heavy.

You shift slightly, careful not to wake her. Your hands tangle in the fabric of her hoodie, the faint scent of her shampoo clinging to the threads.

When she stirs, you freeze, pretending to be asleep. She does the same. Neither wants to meet the other’s eyes.

It’s not shame, exactly — not regret — but the weight of unspoken truths presses down. Megan is distant, and you can feel the guilt radiating from her even through her calm exterior.

You think about the tension in her fingers, the way she held you, the softness of her voice, and your chest tightens.

Eventually, you both drag yourselves into the kitchen, still avoiding direct eye contact. Megan pours coffee, your hands brushing over the counter, sending sparks that neither acknowledges.

You move like strangers, speaking only when necessary, words clipped and careful.

“Did you sleep?” you murmur.

“Yeah,” she says softly, not looking at you. “You?”

“Fine,” you lie.

The lie hangs between you like smoke — not malicious, just protective. Neither of you wants to tip the fragile balance.

By mid-morning, Megan has retreated into her laptop, headphones on, fingers flying over the keys as if she can code the guilt away. You sit across the room, mind replaying every moment from last night.

You realize how much the physical closeness meant — and how fragile it all is now.

Every glance, every brush of hands, every whispered word from last night carries weight that neither of you is ready to confront.

The air is heavy with tension, yet suffused with a quiet warmth that neither wants to disturb.

Your phone buzzes on the counter. Megan’s name lights the screen.

The brevity is telling. Each word is loaded with unspoken confession, regret, and longing. You set the phone down, staring at the screen as if staring hard enough will unlock her words.

By afternoon, you’re at practice, but the dynamic has shifted. Megan is present but quiet, focused on drills, yet her eyes flicker to you more than usual.

You notice how her jaw tightens when she passes the ball to you, how her fingers brush yours slightly longer than necessary. You know the tension isn’t just residual from the party — it’s guilt, longing, and fear of what comes next.

Every movement she makes is layered with meaning that neither of you will speak aloud.

Later, you sit on the bleachers together, silent except for the rhythmic sound of sneakers hitting the court.

You lean back, letting your hand brush against hers — tentative, a reminder that the connection isn’t broken. She doesn’t pull away, but she doesn’t squeeze back either.

“Last night…” you start.

She sighs softly, looking away. “I know.”

The words are minimal, but they carry a thousand unspoken emotions: fear, desire, reverence, guilt.

You close your eyes, letting the moment linger.

That evening, walking home, you find yourself side by side again, the way you always have. But the energy between you is different — electric and heavy.

Her hoodie hangs loosely on your shoulders, and the faint scent of her still clings to you. You can feel the almost-touch of her fingers when you adjust your bag strap.

Neither speaks. Neither moves away.

And both of you know that this quiet tension is more intimate than any words you could say.

At home, you both sit on the couch, the TV flickering. She leans slightly against your shoulder, closer than necessary, but still holding back.

“Are you… scared?” you ask softly.

“For what?” she murmurs.

“For us. For everything.”

She exhales slowly. “Yeah.”

Her confession is minimal, but it pierces you. You realize that the guilt eating her up isn’t about regret — it’s about hiding herself, hiding everything she’s capable of, hiding who she really is.

Night falls again, but neither of you moves from the couch. You rest your head near hers, the silence thick but comforting.

You feel her warmth, the rise and fall of her breath, and the quiet knowledge that your bond has changed irreversibly.

You don’t speak of last night. You don’t need to. The touch of her hand against yours, the tilt of her head, the faint hum of her presence beside you — all of it says more than words ever could.

And as sleep finally claims you both, tangled in her hoodie again, you realize: some truths are safer left unspoken… for now.

The street outside your building is a low hum of city life — rain hissing against pavement, sirens fading somewhere far away. You’re walking home from late practice, muscles sore, hair still damp.

Then a sound cuts through the drizzle — a thwip, sharp and unfamiliar, followed by a crash.

You pause. There’s movement in the alley across the street: a blur of red and blue, a figure wrestling someone to the ground.

For a heartbeat, you think you’re dreaming. Then you see it — the unmistakable webbing stretching across the brick, glistening under the streetlight.

A mugger — maybe two — scramble to run, but the figure moves faster. One shot of web pins a knife from midair, another traps a man by the arm.

Your heart pounds as you realize what’s happening.

Spider-Man.

Right here, outside your building.

The masked hero you’ve only ever seen on news feeds — the one who saved you at the tournament.

You step closer, your breath visible in the cool air. “Hey!” you call without thinking. “You’re—”

The hero’s head snaps toward you. For a second, you lock eyes — or try to — through the black lenses of the mask.

And something clicks inside you.

She freezes, body stiff. Her breathing falters. The tone that answers is low, almost nervous.

“You should… get inside.”

Your pulse spikes. That voice. You’d know it anywhere — that same unsure rhythm, that same tremor she gets when she’s flustered.

“Megan?” you whisper.

The hero takes a step back, as if retreating might erase what you just said.

“I—I don’t know who that is,” she stammers, but her voice cracks halfway through, betraying her.

Wind sweeps through the alley, tugging the hood of your jacket. You step forward slowly, unwilling to believe, yet unable to stop.

“Look at me.”

She doesn’t move.

“Please, Megan. Look at me.”

The mask wavers. She lifts a hand, hesitating as though the fabric itself weighs a ton.

And then it happens — the mask slips halfway, revealing the familiar curve of her jaw, the faint cut on her lip from the last practice, the freckles dusting her cheek.

Your breath catches. “Oh my god… it is you.”

Neither of you speaks for what feels like a full minute. Only rain fills the space between you.

Megan’s eyes are wide, glassy with panic. “I didn’t want you to find out like this.”

“Find out?” you echo, your voice trembling. “You mean the lying for months part? Or the almost-getting-yourself-killed part?”

Her shoulders tense. “I had to, okay? You don’t understand—”

“I don’t understand because you never told me!”

The words echo against the walls, too loud, too raw. She flinches like you’ve struck her.

“I wanted to protect you,” she blurts. “Every time I went out there, every night, I thought—what if something happens to you because of me?”

Your throat burns. “So you decided to just… keep me in the dark? Pretend you’re just my awkward best friend while you swing through the city?”

She looks away. “I didn’t want you to see me like this. The bruises, the blood. I didn’t want you to worry.”

You laugh, but it sounds hollow. “Too late for that.”

You take a step toward her. The rain soaks through her half-removed mask; droplets slide down her neck.

“Megan,” you whisper, “do you even realize what it feels like to be lied to by the one person I—” You stop yourself.

She meets your eyes, pain flickering there. “The one you what?”

You shake your head. “Forget it.”

“I can’t,” she says quietly. “Say it.”

You don’t. Instead, you turn away, hands trembling.

“I thought you trusted me,” you say softly.

“I do. That’s why I hid it,” she replies, and the contradiction cuts you deeper than any wound.

Silence stretches again, broken only by rain and the faint hiss of webbing dissolving. The muggers are long gone, but the damage remains.

Megan steps closer, guilt written across every line of her face. “I’m sorry. I never wanted to hurt you.”

“You didn’t just hurt me,” you whisper. “You broke something I didn’t know could break.”

Her eyes close, rain mixing with tears. “Please don’t hate me.”

You look at her — the same girl who carried your netball bag, who made you laugh until your stomach hurt, who held you like you were the most precious thing in the world.

And you don’t know whether to scream or cry.

She holds out a hand — gloved, trembling, hesitant. “Let me explain everything. Not here. Please.”

You stare at it. The hand that saved your life. The same one that lied.

Finally, you shake your head. “Not tonight.”

Her face crumples, but she nods, accepting the sentence without protest. She pulls the mask fully back into place, hiding herself again.

“Be safe,” she murmurs, and then she’s gone — a streak of red and blue vanishing into the skyline.

You stand there, soaked and shaking, watching the empty sky.

Later that night, you sit on your bed, staring at the faint spider emblem glowing faintly on the building across from your window.

Every puzzle piece fits now — the bruises, the exhaustion, the way she disappeared for hours.

And yet the knowledge feels less like closure and more like loss.

Your phone buzzes once. A message from her.

You type, erase, re-type, then leave the screen blank.

Because right now, you don’t know what hurts more — that she lied, or that even knowing the truth, you still care too much to let go.

The rain hasn’t stopped. It drums against Megan’s window, a constant heartbeat to the night.

You’re standing by her desk, soaked through, anger and hurt clinging to you like the damp clothes on your skin.

Megan stands across the room, still half in her Spider-Man suit, the mask discarded on the floor. Her breathing is ragged, her hair plastered to her forehead.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” you ask again, quieter this time, voice trembling. “You could have trusted me.”

She looks like she’s shrinking in on herself. “I wanted to. I swear I did. I just…” She swallows. “I didn’t know how to be both things around you.”

You laugh bitterly. “So you chose to lie.”

“It wasn’t a choice, it was survival,” she says. “If people found out who I am—if you got dragged into that—it’d kill me.”

“You think it doesn’t hurt now?” you whisper. “You think watching you disappear, wondering if you’ll come back, doesn’t already kill me?”

The air feels sharp, filled with words that cut both ways.

Megan presses a hand to the back of her neck, eyes glassy. “You were the only thing that ever made me feel human again. I couldn’t risk losing that.”

You look around her room for the first time. The walls are lined with sketches, mechanical pieces, half-finished web shooters, photos of the two of you tacked between maps of the city.

Everything here is her—every secret, every attempt to make sense of her double life.

Your chest tightens. “You’ve been alone in this for so long.”

She nods once, then looks up at you, voice barely above a whisper. “I didn’t want to be.”

The words hang there, fragile, shimmering like the reflection of light on broken glass.

When she steps closer, you don’t move away.

“I’m sorry,” she says, her voice breaking. “For lying. For hiding. For making you doubt everything I ever said.”

Tears sting at your eyes before you can stop them. “You broke my trust.”

“I’ll earn it back,” she says quickly. “However long it takes. Just don’t walk away from me.”

Her hand reaches out, shaking, stopping inches from your sleeve. You can see the faint bruises along her knuckles. The part of you that still loves her aches.

“I don’t know if I can just forget it,” you say.

“I’m not asking you to.” She takes a small breath. “I’m asking you to see me. Not Spider-Man. Me.”

Her voice cracks on the last word, and that’s what breaks you.

You cross the space between you, grabbing her by the wrist—not out of anger, but out of desperation. She looks startled, then meets your eyes.

And suddenly the anger shifts—melts into something softer, messier, impossible to name.

Your voices overlap, apology and accusation tangled together. She’s trying to explain, you’re trying not to cry.

And then she says your name, quietly, like a plea.

Everything stops.

You don’t know who moves first, only that she’s closer now—her breath against your cheek, her hand trembling against your jaw.

“I can’t lose you,” she whispers.

“You already almost did,” you murmur back.

The sound of rain fills the silence that follows. A cup on her desk slips and breaks, shards scattering across the floor. Neither of you look away.

Something gives way between you—the last fragile thread of distance.

You step forward. She meets you halfway.

The kiss is clumsy, fierce, full of everything you’ve both been holding back: fear, regret, want, forgiveness. It feels like falling and finding balance all at once.

When she pulls back, both of you are shaking.

She murmurs your name again, this time softer. Her forehead rests against yours, eyes closed.

“I didn’t deserve that,” she says.

“Maybe not,” you reply, voice unsteady, “but I needed it.”

The air between you hums with warmth, with everything neither of you can say out loud. Her thumb brushes away a tear on your cheek, lingering there like she’s afraid you’ll disappear.

The next moments blur—touches becoming apologies, whispers becoming promises.

You can feel the tremor in her hands as she draws you close, both of you desperate to erase the hurt in each other’s skin.

There’s no clear line between anger and affection anymore, only the sound of rain and the rhythm of your hearts finding the same pace again.

The light from the street outside spills through the blinds, soft and gold.

The kiss broke only for breath, a ragged gasp swallowed by the drumming rain. Megan’s eyes, wide and dark with disbelief and a sudden, dawning hunger, searched yours.

Her thumb still rested against your damp cheekbone, a point of searing warmth on rain-cooled skin.

The apology in her touch hadn’t vanished; it had merely fused with something else – a raw, aching need that mirrored the tremor in your own limbs.

“Please,” she whispered, the word barely audible above the storm, yet it resonated through you like a plucked string.

Her hand slid from your jaw, trembling fingers brushing down your neck, over the soaked collar of your shirt.

There was no hesitation now, only a desperate urgency fueled by relief and the lingering sting of betrayal. Her other hand found the hem of your wet shirt, bunching the fabric in her fist. “Need to feel you. All of you.”

You didn’t resist as she peeled the clinging cotton upwards. The damp air kissed your bare skin, raising goosebumps.

Megan’s gaze dropped to your chest, her breath catching audibly. The dim light from the streetlamp outside cut through the blinds, striping your skin in gold and shadow.

Her hands, calloused from web-slinging and combat but now surprisingly gentle, cupped the weight of your breasts through your bra.

A low groan rumbled in her chest, a sound of pure, primal appreciation. “God, you’re beautiful,” she breathed, her thumbs finding the hard peaks of your nipples through the lace. The friction was electric, sending jolts straight to your core.

Deftly, with a speed born of spider-agility, she unhooked your bra. It slithered down your arms to join the discarded shirt on the floor. The cool air hit your bare skin again, but only for a heartbeat before Megan’s warm mouth replaced it.

She bent her head, her lips closing around one taut nipple, sucking firmly, deeply. The sensation was immediate and intense – a sharp pull that melted into liquid heat radiating outwards.

Her tongue swirled, flicked, teased the sensitive bud, her teeth grazing it just enough to make your hips jerk involuntarily against hers. Her hands held your breasts possessively, kneading the soft flesh, her thumbs continuing to stroke the other nipple in counterpoint to her mouth’s demanding rhythm.

A low moan escaped you, arching your back towards her seeking mouth. She switched sides with agonizing slowness, lavishing the same ardent attention on your other breast, her groan vibrating against your skin as she tasted you.

Each suck felt like a claim, a silent vow replacing the broken words.

The intensity built until you were trembling, breathless, your fingers tangled desperately in her still-damp hair. When she finally lifted her head, her lips were slick, her eyes glazed with lust.

She looked utterly wrecked and impossibly desirable. The sight, combined with the throbbing ache between your legs, spurred you into motion. Sinking to your knees on the cluttered floor beside her bed, ignoring the scattered shards of the broken cup nearby, you reached for the zipper at her hip where the Spider-Man suit met her leggings.

Your fingers fumbled slightly, urgency making them clumsy.

“Let me,” she rasped, helping you peel the lower half of the suit down her strong thighs, revealing simple cotton underwear already dark with moisture at the center.

You pushed them down impatiently. The scent of her arousal hit you – musk and salt and something uniquely Megan – driving a fresh wave of heat through your own body.

Her cock sprang free, thick and flushed, already leaking pearly drops at the tip. You didn’t hesitate. Leaning forward, you took the head into your mouth, swirling your tongue around the sensitive ridge.

Her gasp was sharp, her hips bucking slightly. Her hand flew to your hair, not pushing, just holding on as you sank lower, taking more of her length into the wet heat of your mouth.

You hollowed your cheeks, sucking firmly, tasting the pre-cum that beaded on your tongue. Your other hand cupped her balls, rolling them gently as your head bobbed steadily.

Her breathing became ragged pants punctuated by choked-off groans. “Fuck… yes… just like that,” she moaned, her fingers tightening in your hair.

You could feel the powerful muscles in her thighs trembling under your touch, the tension coiling within her. You looked up at her through your lashes; her head was thrown back, eyes squeezed shut, mouth open as she surrendered to the sensation.

You worked her with lips and tongue, relishing the weight and heat filling your mouth, the salty tang of her arousal, the desperate little sounds escaping her throat. You wanted to bring her to the edge, wanted to feel her lose control.

Just before she could tip over, you pulled back slowly, letting her slick cock slip from your lips with a soft pop.

Her eyes snapped open, blazing with frustration and need. “Why…?” she started, but you were already moving.

“Lie back,” you commanded softly, your voice thick with desire. Your hands pushed firmly against her shoulders.

She yielded instantly, falling back onto the rumpled sheets of her bed with a soft thump. You stood, quickly shedding your own soaked jeans and underwear before climbing over her.

You straddled her face without preamble. Her hands instantly gripped your hips, pulling you down firmly against her mouth. There was no teasing preamble.

Megan devoured you.

Her tongue delved deep into your soaked core with a hungry groan that vibrated through your entire body. It was possessive, almost feral – broad strokes lapping up your slickness before focusing ruthlessly on your clit.

She sucked the swollen bud hard into her mouth, her tongue flicking over it with dizzying speed. She did eat you like it was her last meal, with desperate, greedy licks and sucks that had you crying out almost immediately, your thighs clamping around her head.

Her nose pressed against your mound as she buried her face deeper, tongue plunging inside you, then swirling back to torture your clit relentlessly.

One hand released your hip to slide between your bodies; two fingers pushed easily into your drenched channel, curling upwards in a come-hither motion that rubbed directly against that sweet spot deep inside.

The dual assault was devastating.

Pleasure coiled tight and hot in your belly, threatening to snap. “Megan! Oh god, right there!” you gasped, grinding down onto her mouth and fingers shamelessly.

She moaned against you in response, the vibration pushing you even higher. You could feel the tension singing through her body beneath you as she focused entirely on pulling your orgasm from you.

It crashed over you violently – a wave of white-hot ecstasy that tore a ragged scream from your throat as you shuddered uncontrollably over her face, riding out the pulses against her relentless tongue.

Before you could fully recover, before the tremors even subsided, Megan was moving. With inhuman speed and strength, she flipped you onto your back. Her eyes were wild, pupils blown black with lust.

She didn’t ask.

She didn’t hesitate.

Gripping your hips hard enough to bruise, she positioned herself between your legs.

You felt the blunt, slick head of her cock nudge against your entrance, still fluttering from your climax. With one powerful thrust, she sheathed herself inside you to the hilt.

The stretch was intense, bordering on painful after such recent climax, but the cry it tore from you was pure pleasure. “Yes! Fuck!” She filled you completely, stretching you deliciously wide.

She didn’t pause for adjustment. Setting a brutal pace immediately, she drove into you with hard, deep strokes that jolted your body up the bed with each impact.

Her hands anchored your hips, fingers digging in as she fucked you with raw abandon.

The room filled with the slick sounds of her thrusts, your gasps and moans mingling with hers, and the relentless percussion of rain on glass.

Every powerful drive of her hips slammed against that sensitive spot deep inside you that she knew so well, reigniting the embers of your previous orgasm into a fresh blaze.

You wrapped your legs high around her waist, locking your ankles at the small of her back, urging her deeper still.

Sweat slicked both your bodies now, mingling with the rain still drying on her suit-top and skin.

“Look at me,” she growled through clenched teeth, her thrusts never faltering. You forced your eyes open to meet hers.

The raw need there – the possessiveness mixed with a desperate vulnerability – undid you completely. She leaned down, capturing your mouth in a fierce kiss that tasted of your own arousal and her sweat.

Her pace became even more frantic, losing its rhythm as her own climax built rapidly. Her cock pulsed hotly inside you with each stroke.

“Gonna fill you,” she gasped against your lips, her voice thick and strained. “Need to… claim you… mark you mine…” The words sent another shockwave through you.

Her hips stuttered then slammed home one final time, burying herself impossibly deep as she threw her head back with a guttural cry that echoed yours.

You felt it – the hot, thick pulse of her cum flooding your channel as her body locked in place above you. She shuddered violently through her release, each pulse triggering fresh tremors in your own oversensitive flesh.

She held herself deep inside you for long moments as the waves subsided, both of you breathing in ragged unison.

Slowly, bonelessly, she collapsed onto you, pressing her sweat-slicked forehead against yours. Her breath puffed hot against your skin as aftershocks still trembled through her frame.

You could feel her softening cock still nestled deep within you, her release a warm presence inside. The scent of sex and rain hung heavy in the air.

“Mine,” she whispered hoarsely against your temple, an echo of her earlier declaration, laced now with profound relief and exhaustion rather than fierce possession.

Outside, the rain continued its steady rhythm against the windowpane, a softer heartbeat now for their tangled limbs and shared breath amidst the wreckage of secrets and spilled coffee grounds on the floor.

[ Tangled Webs & Netballs — Megan Skiendiel ]

chapter one || Masterlist || chapter three

— #synopsis :: From teasing glances on the court to heart-racing near-misses, your bond with Megan deepens as her secret life as Spider-Man starts bleeding into the world you share.

Each close call — a saved fall, a bruised arm, a trembling confession — tightens the web between you until friendship can no longer contain it.

By the time the team’s victory party ends, the tension finally snaps, and years of restraint erupt into a tender, breathless night that changes everything.

— #paring :: Megan Skiendiel (G!P) × Fem!Reader

— #warning :: Slow-burn romance, emotional tension, p in v, car fuck, virgin Megan & reader, first time, creampie, mutual pining, identity secrecy, jealousy, light angst, physical intimacy (soft smut), mild language, and themes of trust and vulnerability.

— #A/n :: Okay guys..

6.5k words.

— #Tag-list :: @riris-heart @wtfisthisnoclueman @urm0onagedaydream @bookkeepersnook @levilash @dreamingst99 @sofaiscomfy @ironpenguinwombat @love-manon @sp1derbutch @kristalag @love-manon @vivilvr @tehesamueltehe @kimmeiy

The morning air is sharp enough to sting your cheeks as you wait by the school gate, netball bag slung over your shoulder. Megan’s usually the one who gets here first — leaning against the wall, hoodie pulled up, half-asleep but still smiling when she sees you.

Today, she’s late.

You scroll absently through your phone until her voice cuts through the hum of traffic.

“Hey—sorry, I overslept.”

You look up and stop short.

Her smile’s there, small and lopsided as ever, but there’s something off — a stiffness in her movements, the faint wince when she adjusts her backpack. The sleeve of her hoodie rides up just enough for you to see it: a purplish bloom along her forearm.

“Whoa,” you say, reaching out. “What happened?”

Megan glances down like she’s forgotten it was there. “Oh. That? Uh—helped my uncle move boxes yesterday. He’s got a whole storage unit full of junk.”

You raise an eyebrow. “You? Moving boxes?”

She shrugs. “I’m stronger than I look.”

“That’s not saying much, Meg.”

She laughs, too fast, too forced. “Fair.”

You study her face — the faint shadows under her eyes, the tension hiding behind her grin. “You sure you’re okay?”

“Totally. Just clumsy.”

You let it go for now, but the unease lingers as you walk to class together.

You grin at your phone, but her last text feels like a deflection — playful, yes, but evasive too. Megan always jokes when she doesn’t want to talk about something.

You just don’t know what it is this time.

By the time practice ends, the sky’s streaked in pink and indigo. You towel off, glancing at the bleachers — no Megan.

That’s weird. She always shows up, even on days she says she won’t.

You check your phone. One unread message.

You frown. The message is time-stamped ten minutes after school ended — and you know Megan’s handwriting speed about as well as you know your own. Homework mountain your ass.

Daniela passes you a bottle of water. “Where’s your bodyguard today?”

“Busy,” you mutter.

Daniela laughs. “Maybe she finally realized she’s overqualified for the position.”

“Doubt it.”

Still, something in your chest feels hollow as you pack up and start walking home alone. The streetlights flicker to life one by one. The wind smells faintly of rain again.

And that’s when you hear it — a distant thwip.

You freeze.

Another sound follows — faint, rhythmic, like someone moving fast across the rooftops. You look up, heart hammering. For a split second, framed against the dusky sky, you see a figure swinging across the gap between two buildings.

Red and blue. Masked. Fluid. Effortless.

Spider-Man.

You’ve seen him online — short videos, blurry photos, the city’s newest obsession. But in person, the movement’s different. Familiar.

You track his silhouette as he disappears behind a billboard — but it’s the shape that makes your stomach twist.

The same height as Megan. Same lean, wiry build. Same slightly crooked right shoulder, the one she dislocated playing basketball two summers ago.

Your pulse quickens.

You shake your head. No way. It’s impossible.

But the image sticks — vivid and stubborn — all the way home.

You can’t shake it.

Everywhere you look, little details start connecting themselves like threads you never meant to pull.

Megan’s constant exhaustion. Her late-night texts sent at 3 a.m. (“couldn’t sleep lol”). The random scrapes on her knuckles. The way she disappears for stretches and shows up the next day with that same tired smile.

It’s ridiculous, you tell yourself. She’s clumsy, curious, secretive — but not that secretive.

And yet…

You open your texts again.

You hesitate before typing back.

But the pause before her reply — the small, deliberate way she types — gives her away.

She’s lying.

You stare at the message until the screen goes dark, your own reflection staring back at you — brows furrowed, lips pressed tight.

You want to trust her. You do.

But something in your gut whispers: She’s hiding more than you think.

It happens the next night.

You’re sitting by your bedroom window, textbook open but ignored, your earbuds playing soft music. The air outside hums with crickets and the faint whoosh of cars on wet streets.

Then — that sound again.

Thwip.

You turn off the music. The room goes silent except for your heartbeat.

Another thwip, louder this time.

You press closer to the glass just as a blur of red and blue sweeps past the streetlamp outside — close enough for the light to catch the curve of the mask, the flex of the gloved hand shooting another line of web.

The figure flips midair — graceful, precise, but with that same off-balance landing that Megan has after a jump shot. Slightly heavy on the left leg.

You don’t even realize you’re whispering until the words leave your mouth.

“…Megan?”

The figure pauses mid-perch on the neighbor’s roof, head snapping in your direction.

For three long seconds, you’re sure they see you.

Then they vanish into the night.

You fall back onto your bed, chest tight, mind racing. You grab your phone, hands trembling slightly.

You stare at the lie glowing on your screen. Her “just got home” came seconds after Spider-Man disappeared.

You lie back, staring at the ceiling, heart pounding so loud it feels like thunder.

You don’t want to believe it.

The next morning, you catch her waiting outside the gym again — hoodie up, hands buried in her pockets. She’s smiling, but her eyes flicker with something unreadable.

You walk straight up to her. “Rough night?”

She blinks. “Uh—what?”

“You look exhausted.”

“I stayed up studying.”

“Right.” You tilt your head. “Studying how to fly between buildings?”

She freezes, caught off guard. “What?”

You take a slow step closer. “You’ve been weird lately, Megan. Disappearing. Coming back with bruises. Lying about it.”

“I’m not—”

“Don’t,” you say softly, cutting her off. “Don’t lie to me.”

She swallows hard, gaze darting away. “Im not.”

“….”

A pause. Rain starts to fall again, soft and steady.

Finally, she forces a small, crooked grin. “You really think I’m Spider-Man?”

You stare at her, trying to read her face — the humor that doesn’t reach her eyes, the faint tremor in her hands.

“I don’t know what to think,” you whisper.

Her jaw tightens. “Good. Keep it that way.”

She turns to walk toward the gate, rain darkening her hoodie, the droplets clinging to her lashes.

You stand there, watching her go — every instinct screaming to call her back, to demand the truth.

But instead, you pull out your phone.

No emoji. No follow-up.

Just that.

And for the rest of the day, that single message sits in your chest like a heartbeat you can’t quiet — proof that the web between you and her has already been spun, tighter than either of you can untangle.

The gymnasium hums with life. Sneakers squeak against polished wood, the sound of whistles and shouting bouncing off every wall. The netball tournament is halfway through — the air thick with competition, sweat, and the faint echo of cheers that vibrate right in your chest.

You wipe your palms on your shorts and glance up at the bleachers. Megan’s there, hoodie up, chewing on a straw from a half-empty juice box. Her glasses catch the glare of the lights, but you can still see the faint twitch of her lips when she notices you looking.

You roll your eyes, grin anyway. She raises her juice box like a toast.

Daniela elbows you. “Your boyfriend showed up again.”

You groan. “She’s not my—”

“Yeah, yeah,” Daniela says, smirking. “Just your emotional support golden retriever.”

You try to focus as the whistle blows, but your stomach does that annoying little flip anyway.

The match starts. You fall into rhythm — catch, pivot, pass. The world narrows to motion and breath. Until—

A sound.

A low, distant rumble.

You don’t even register it until a shadow crosses the ceiling. Someone shouts. Then comes the deafening crack.

The world goes silent before it explodes.

A chunk of ceiling — part of a lighting rig — snaps loose and tumbles downward. It happens too fast, too sudden, for your mind to process.

Your instincts scream to move, but your legs freeze.

Someone in the crowd yells your name.

Then — thwip!

A web shoots out of nowhere, silvery and perfect, catching the falling debris midair. Another line follows, anchoring it to the rafters. The rig swings harmlessly aside, slamming against the wall.

Gasps ripple through the gym.

And standing in the center of it all — as if she materialized out of the air — is Spider-Man.

Your heart stops.

The masked figure straightens slowly, chest rising and falling under the suit. The crowd bursts into frantic applause, but you just stand there, wide-eyed, frozen.

Because that build. That posture. That nervous half-hunch of someone who doesn’t quite know what to do with their height.

It’s too familiar.

For a split second, your eyes meet through the mask.

You swear you can feel something shift — recognition, even if it’s impossible. The air feels thick, like the two of you are connected by invisible threads.

“Y-you okay?” the voice comes out distorted through the mask, deeper — but the hesitation, that faint stammer… it’s Megan’s.

You blink. “I—yeah— I think so.”

Spider-Man nods awkwardly. “Cool. Uh… great. Just—be careful, yeah?”

That nervous tone. The same awkwardness when she talks too fast. The way she scratches her neck even when she’s covered head to toe in spandex.

No. It couldn’t be.

You whisper under your breath, heart pounding, “Megan?”

Spider-Man freezes. Just for half a breath.

Then — thwip — a web line, and she’s gone.

The tournament halts for an hour. Everyone buzzes with adrenaline. Coaches talk. Reporters shove mics into faces. You just sit on the bench, replaying that moment in your head over and over again.

Daniela plops down beside you, fanning herself. “Can we talk about the fact that Spider-Man literally saved your life? Like, you could’ve died, and now you’re trending on school TikTok.”

You blink, still dazed. “Trending?”

She turns her phone. There it is — a shaky clip of you looking up, Spider-Man swinging down, your name in the caption:

SPIDER-MAN SAVES NETBALL CAPTAIN?! (is it just me or was that kinda hot)

You groan, burying your face in your hands.

But behind the embarrassment, your mind keeps whispering one thing:

Same height.

Same shoulders.

Same nervous stance.

You laugh softly at the screen. But when you lock your phone, that same unease — no, curiosity — keeps tugging at your gut.

That night, somewhere high above the city, Megan crouches on the edge of a building, mask pulled halfway up.

She exhales into the wind, every nerve still buzzing from the close call.

She hadn’t meant to be so close — she was just passing by. But when she saw the ceiling crack, she didn’t think. She acted.

She saved you.

And almost gave herself away.

“Smooth move, genius,” she mutters. “Totally inconspicuous.”

Her phone buzzes.

Your name lights up her screen.

She doesn’t answer. She just stares at it until the vibration stops. Then she looks out at the city lights, guilt pressing against her ribs.

Because no matter how much she wants to tell you the truth — she can’t risk it.

Over the next few days, you can’t stop noticing patterns.

Spider-Man sightings line up too perfectly with Megan’s “disappearances.”

Late arrivals. Sudden excuses. New bruises.

Even the little things — the scrape on her knuckle, the way she flinches when someone slaps her back, the faint smell of smoke in her hoodie.

You’re not crazy.

You know what you saw.

What you felt.

You tell yourself it’s impossible — she’s just a shy, nerdy, golden-retriever of a girl. But when you see her limping slightly one morning, a fresh bandage around her wrist, the thought hits harder than ever:

She saved me.

At lunch, you decide to push.

“So,” you say casually, biting into your sandwich, “you ever seen Spider-Man up close?”

Megan stiffens. “N-no. Why?”

“Just curious.” You lean on your hand. “You kinda sound like him.”

Her eyes widen behind her glasses. “Sound like him?”

“Yeah. You both stammer when you’re nervous. It’s cute.”

She nearly chokes on her drink. “Wh— I— that’s— I don’t stammer.”

You grin. “Sure you don’t, hero.”

She narrows her eyes. “You’re weird today.”

“Am I?” you say sweetly, leaning a little closer. “You’d tell me if you were secretly a superhero, right?”

“Totally,” she deadpans. “Right after I tell you I moonlight as Beyoncé’s backup dancer.”

You laugh, but when you catch the flicker of panic in her expression before she masks it with humor, your heart kicks harder.

You’re close.

That night, rain splatters against your window. You should be sleeping — but you’re not. You’re watching the skyline.

It’s 1:37 a.m.

Then — a blur.

A red-and-blue figure swings past your building, web line glinting in the rain.

You scramble to the window, breath fogging the glass.

“Spider-Man…” you whisper.

And as the figure lands briefly on a nearby rooftop, you see it — the same tilt of the head, the same awkward, slightly hunched stance you’ve teased Megan about for years.

Your chest tightens.

There’s no denying it now.

It’s her.

The next morning, Megan greets you at the gate like nothing’s changed. Hoodie. Coffee. That same tired grin.

“You okay?” she asks. “You look like you didn’t sleep.”

“I didn’t,” you say softly, searching her face. “Had a lot on my mind.”

“Wanna talk about it?”

“Maybe later.”

You fall into step beside her — the same walk you’ve done since childhood. But everything feels different now.

Every glance. Every brush of her hand. Every quiet laugh.

You know.

And she has no idea that you know.

When you look at her, you see two versions at once — the shy, nerdy girl with the crooked smile… and the hero who caught you mid-fall, whose hands shook as she set you down safely.

And as you both cross the street, her sleeve brushes yours — the same arm that had webbed a collapsing ceiling out of the air.

There’s something fragile and electric between you now — not just friendship.

Not yet confession.

Something in between.

Something caught between nets.

Then — knock, knock.

You glance toward the door. It’s late.

When you open it, Megan’s standing there, hood up, hair damp from drizzle, glasses slightly fogged. She looks like she ran the whole way over.

“Hey,” she says softly. “You okay?”

You blink. “You could’ve texted first.”

“I did. You didn’t answer.” She holds up a paper bag. “So, I brought soup. Chicken and corn — from that diner you like.”

You smile despite yourself. “You didn’t have to.”

“Yeah, well,” she mutters, stepping inside, “I wasn’t gonna let you starve.”

She sets the soup down, shrugs off her hoodie — and you notice the faint bruise on her collarbone, just visible where her shirt dips. It’s shaped like the edge of a harness strap.

You look away before she notices you staring.

“Sit,” she says, gentle but firm. “You’re not supposed to be walking too much.”

You sink back into the couch, watching her pour the soup into bowls like it’s the most normal thing in the world.

The soup smells rich and comforting. The kind of warmth that hits deeper than your stomach.

Megan sits beside you, cross-legged, her knee brushing yours as she balances her bowl carefully. The couch dips toward her side — she’s close enough that you can feel her body heat through your sleeve.

You both eat quietly at first. The sound of rain fills the room.

Then you glance up, voice soft. “You always know what to do.”

Her eyes lift from the bowl. “What do you mean?”

“Just… when things go bad.” You swirl your spoon. “You always show up.”

She looks away, smiling faintly. “Yeah, well… guess I’ve had practice.”

Her tone’s light, but something in it feels loaded.

You tilt your head. “Practice?”

“Helping people,” she says quickly, deflecting. “You know — holding doors, carrying bags, saving clumsy netball captains from themselves.”

You nudge her shoulder. “Hey.”

She laughs, the sound low and fond. “Kidding.”

But the silence that follows isn’t empty. It’s thick. Heavy with everything unsaid.

You don’t know what makes you ask it — maybe the way her laughter fades into something softer, maybe the way the light catches in her eyes.

“Megan?”

“Mm?”

“What would you do if… someone found out your biggest secret?”

The spoon stills halfway to her mouth. For a moment, she doesn’t breathe.

Her gaze flicks to you — sharp, vulnerable, almost frightened. “Why?”

You shrug, pretending casual. “I don’t know. Just thinking. You always seem like you’re carrying something.”

She looks down into her soup, lips pressing together. “I guess… I’d hope they’d still love me.”

Your breath catches.

“Love you?” you repeat, voice smaller than you meant it to be.

She smiles weakly, eyes still on the bowl. “Yeah. Not run away. Not look at me different.”

You study her face — the slight tremor in her jaw, the way she won’t meet your eyes. You’ve never seen her look more human, more breakable.

Something inside your chest twists.

You want to reach out. You want to tell her she doesn’t have to hide whatever it is.

But you don’t.

Not yet.

The soup’s gone cold, but neither of you moves to clean up.

Megan’s sitting sideways on the couch now, head tipped against the backrest, eyes half-lidded. You can see the exhaustion written all over her — faint circles under her eyes, the slump of her shoulders.

“You should sleep,” you whisper.

She hums. “You first.”

You hesitate, then rest your head gently on her shoulder. Her body stiffens for a heartbeat — then melts.

Her breathing evens out.

The rain outside turns to a soft drizzle. You can feel her warmth through her shirt, the steady thump of her heart.

It feels safe. Familiar. Right.

Your voice barely rises above a whisper. “You know, if you did have a secret… I’d never stop caring about you.”

Megan’s breath catches — just once.

“I know,” she murmurs. “That’s what scares me.”

It’s late when she finally gets up to leave. You walk her to the door, the hallway dim and quiet.

She’s standing there, hoodie back on, one hand on the knob, the other half-raised like she’s about to say something.

“Thanks for the soup,” you whisper.

“Anytime,” she says.

You both linger.

The air between you feels like a held breath.

You think she’s going to say it — whatever’s been sitting on her tongue for weeks. Her eyes flicker to your lips, then away. Her fingers twitch.

But she just smiles instead, that small, nervous, heartbreakingly fond smile.

“Night,” she whispers.

You nod, even though something in your chest aches. “Night, loser.”

She laughs under her breath and walks away, her silhouette fading down the hall.

When you close the door, you lean your forehead against it, pulse still racing.

Because you almost heard it — the truth sitting just behind her silence.

And for the first time, you realize that if she ever did tell you everything…

you wouldn’t run.

You’d stay.

It’s quieter inside now. Most people have moved out to the patio or are tangled in laughter on the far side of the room.

You walk together down the narrow hall where the sound fades to an echo.

She’s behind you, close enough that her breath grazes the back of your neck. You stop at a corner, the light flickering above.

You turn to say something — anything — but the words die when you see her expression.

The careful, nervous calm she always wears is gone. What’s left is raw and open — every feeling she’s tried to hide for years, right there in her eyes.

She steps closer, slow enough to give you time to stop her. You don’t.

Her hand rises — trembling slightly — and tucks a strand of hair behind your ear.

“You’re beautiful,” she says, voice barely audible.

Your pulse stutters. “You shouldn’t say things like that.”

“I’ve been trying not to for years.”

Her thumb lingers at your jaw. You lean into it without meaning to, eyes fluttering shut. The world tilts.

You open your mouth to reply, but she beats you to it.

“Can I—”

You nod before she finishes.

Her lips meet yours gently, uncertain at first — then firmer, desperate, like something breaking free.

You taste the faint sweetness of her drink, the warmth of her breath, the quiet sound she makes when you kiss her back.

It’s clumsy and perfect. Years of stolen glances and swallowed confessions poured into one fragile moment.

When you part, your forehead rests against hers. You’re both shaking.

“I shouldn’t—” she starts, but you silence her with another kiss, softer this time.

“Don’t,” you whisper. “Don’t ruin it with logic.”

She laughs quietly against your mouth, and it sounds like relief.

You don’t remember how you ended up back in her car, parked on the empty street. The world outside blurs, rain misting the windshield, the engine off.

You’re sitting close — too close — knees touching, breath mingling. Her jacket drapes over your lap like an anchor to reality.

Neither of you speaks. There’s nothing to say that won’t change everything.

Finally, you whisper, “I’ve been trying not to think about you like this.”

She swallows hard. “You failed.”

“Guess I did.”

You turn to her, eyes meeting again, the air charged and fragile.

“Now what?” you murmur.

She brushes your cheek, gaze soft. “Now… we stop pretending.”

She kisses you again — slower this time, deeper. The tension melts into something tender and inevitable.

The rain whispered against the roof of the car, a soft percussion to the frantic drumming of your heart. Megan’s kiss was a slow, deliberate exploration now, tasting of desperation and something infinitely sweeter – relief.

Her hand, no longer trembling, slid from your cheek to cradle the back of your neck, holding you gently but firmly as her tongue traced the seam of your lips.

You opened for her, a low moan escaping you as she deepened the kiss, the world outside the misted windows dissolving into insignificance.

Her other hand found its way under the edge of your shirt, fingers splaying across the warm skin of your lower back, pulling you impossibly closer on the cramped car seat.

Your own hands were trapped between you, knuckles brushing against the soft cotton covering her stomach. You needed to touch more. Breaking the kiss, gasping, you fumbled with the buttons of her shirt.

Your fingers felt thick, clumsy with nerves and desire. She didn’t help, just watched you with those dark, liquid eyes, her breath coming in short, sharp puffs against your damp lips.

"Let me," she murmured, her voice husky with an intensity you’d never heard before. Her hands covered yours, stilling them, then moved to her own buttons.

They parted with agonizing slowness, revealing the smooth plane of her stomach, the soft swell of her breasts beneath a simple cotton bra. The sight stole your breath.

Then her hands went to the waistband of your jeans. The scrape of the zipper was obscenely loud in the quiet car.

You lifted your hips, helping her tug them down your thighs, along with your panties, the cool air hitting your overheated skin making you shiver.

Her jacket slipped off your lap onto the floorboard, forgotten.

Megan’s gaze raked over you – the bared curve of your hip, the vulnerable apex of your thighs, glistening already with undeniable proof of your need.

A strangled sound, part groan, part growl, rumbled in her chest. Her own movements became hurried then, frantic.

She shoved her unbuttoned shirt off her shoulders, wriggled out of her jeans and underwear in a tangle of limbs. You watched, mesmerized, as she revealed herself fully.

And there it was.

Thick and proud, rising from the dark curls at the base of her belly. It was larger than you might have imagined in your secret fantasies, flushed a deep, tempting red at the tip which glistened with a bead of moisture.

Your mouth went dry.

This was Megan, your Megan, but transformed by a raw masculinity that sent a jolt of pure, liquid heat straight to your core.

She was entirely exposed, breathtakingly beautiful in her duality – the soft curve of her hip meeting the rigid length of her arousal.

"Never seen one?" she asked, her voice tight, a flicker of vulnerability crossing her features despite the commanding presence of her body.

You shook your head mutely, unable to tear your eyes away. The sheer reality of it, her, made your pulse throb between your legs.

"Me neither," she admitted with a shaky breath that sounded almost like a laugh. "Not like this." She shifted closer on the seat, the worn leather creaking beneath her weight.

The tip of her cock brushed against your inner thigh, leaving a slick, hot trail. You gasped at the contact, your hips jerking involuntarily towards that impossible heat.

Her hand wrapped around the base, guiding herself. The broad, velvety head nudged against your entrance, testing, spreading your slickness.

"Sweet Jesus," Megan breathed out, her eyes fluttering shut for a second as she felt your wet heat against her sensitive skin.

"You're so… ready." The wonder in her voice made your heart clench.

"Tell me… tell me if it's too much." There was no hesitation in you now, only a desperate, aching need to be filled by her.

"Now, Meg," you whispered, reaching down to guide her, your fingers closing over hers where she held herself. "Please. Now."

She met your gaze, that raw openness back in her eyes – no pretense, just pure desire and a fierce protectiveness. With a low groan that seemed ripped from her soul, she pushed forward.

There was pressure, a sharp, stretching burn that made you cry out and clutch at her shoulders. Megan froze instantly, her muscles rigid with tension.

"Did I—?" she started, panic edging her voice.

"No!" you gasped, pulling her closer, urging her deeper despite the sting. "Don't stop! Just… oh god… more." The pain was already receding, drowned in a flood of sensation so intense it stole your breath.

She was inside you.

Filling you.

Stretching you open in a way that felt irrevocable. Megan’s hips jerked forward another fraction, sinking deeper, and you felt her entire length slide home in one smooth, claiming motion until your bodies were flush, the wiry curls at her base pressed against your sensitive flesh.

The feeling was shattering.

Full beyond imagining. Her thickness stretched every nerve ending into screaming awareness.

You could feel the heavy throb of her cock buried deep inside you, feel the tremor running through her thighs where they pressed against yours. She was breathing like she’d run a mile, her forehead pressed against yours.

"Okay?" she rasped, her voice raw. "Darlin’, talk to me."

"Y-yes," you managed, arching against her slightly. The slight shift sent sparks dancing behind your eyelids.

"It’s… big. So big inside me." The admission, crude and honest, made a shudder wrack her frame.

"Christ, you feel…" she trailed off, unable to articulate it, and began to move.

A slow withdrawal that made you whimper at the loss of that exquisite fullness, followed by an even slower, deliberate thrust back in.

The drag of her cock along your inner walls was electric friction. She set a rhythm: deep, aching strokes that hit a spot inside you on every inward

glide that made stars burst behind your eyelids.

Your whimpers turned into broken moans.

Your hands scrabbled over the sweat-slick muscles of her back, down to grip her hips, urging her deeper, harder.

Megan needed no further encouragement. Her thrusts gained power and speed, driven by a building urgency that matched your own.

The car filled with the sounds: the wet slap of skin on skin, your mingled gasps and cries echoing off the glass, the rhythmic creak of the suspension protesting their vigorous movement.

Rain streaked down the windows, blurring the streetlights into glowing orbs, sealing you both in this humid, primal world.

You felt your climax begin as a tightening deep in your belly, coiling tighter and tighter with each powerful thrust. Megan felt it too; her rhythm faltered for a second as you clenched around her impossibly hard.

"That’s it," she growled against your neck, nipping at the sensitive skin. "Come for me. Let go." Her hand slid down between your joined bodies, her thumb finding your clit with unerring accuracy despite the awkward angle and grinding against it in tight circles.

The double assault was too much. Pleasure detonated through you like lightning – a white-hot shockwave that arched your back off the seat and tore a ragged scream from your throat.

Your inner muscles clamped down on Megan’s cock in relentless spasms, milking her as wave after wave of ecstasy crashed over you.

The feeling of your tight heat convulsing around her shattered Megan’s control. With a guttural cry that was more roar than anything human, she buried herself to the hilt and held there.

You felt her cock pulse powerfully within you, again and again, jets of hot release flooding your depths as she surrendered to her own climax, hips jerking erratically.

Her body slumped over yours, trembling violently, her face buried in the curve of your neck as she gasped for air against your skin.

Long moments passed filled only by the sound of rain and your struggling breaths. Megan remained buried inside you, softening slowly but still intimately joined.

She pressed soft, almost reverent kisses along your collarbone and shoulder. Her hand stroked your hair back from your damp forehead.

"Alright?" she murmured finally, the word thick with spent passion and lingering awe.

You managed a weak nod, too overwhelmed to speak. Every nerve ending still hummed. The scent of sex and rain and leather filled the close air. Her weight was solid and comforting.

Reality – the hallway confession, the party still happening somewhere nearby, everything that came after this – hovered at the edges of your awareness like the blurred lights outside the window.

But here, now, tangled half-naked in the front seat with Megan still inside you, her heart hammering against yours… nothing else mattered but the profound stillness after the storm they had created together.

She shifted slightly, pulling out with a soft gasp from both of you at the sudden sensitivity and loss.

A trickle of warmth escaped down your thigh as she reached for her crumpled shirt to gently clean you both up with clumsy tenderness that made your throat tighten.

"Stopped pretending," you whispered hoarsely, echoing her words from earlier as she settled beside you on the seat, pulling you close against her side under the jacket she retrieved from the floor.

A slow smile touched Megan’s kiss-swollen lips as she looked down at you. Her eyes were still dark, but soft now with something profound and new.

"Yeah," she breathed, tracing your jawline with a fingertip still damp from you both. "Guess we finally did."

Outside, the rain has stopped. The world feels different — softer, realer — like something sacred just shifted into place.

And though neither of you says it aloud, you both know:

Nothing will ever be the same again.

— #synopsis :: Your just a cable girl, the one who stays backstage making sure celebrities mic’s are always working. But with your secret relationship with a star, lara, you were trapped in the security room.

— #paring :: Celeb!Lara Raj x Masc g!p reader.

— #warning :: Suggestive context, dirty talk, secret makeout.

— #A/n :: Loving these requests, ( send more ) from this request. 1.1k words long. Masterlist

The backstage greenroom of the Nashville Roadhouse was thick with the smell of stale beer, cheap perfume, and sweat – a symphony of Friday night desperation.

Lara Raj, shimmering in a fringed silver top that caught the dim light like scattered stars, leaned against the cracked leather sofa, her dark eyes locked onto you.

You, known backstage simply as "Cable girl," a lean back girl with surprisingly rough calloused hands and perpetually flushed cheeks, was desperately trying to coil a stubborn mic cable.

Trying, and failing, because Lara’s gaze was a physical weight, and the memory of her mouth from just an hour ago – warm, demanding, tasting faintly of whiskey – was still imprinted on your lips.

"Y/n, honey," Lara purred, her voice a slow, smoky drawl that curled around you like velvet rope.

She uncrossed her long legs, the movement deliberate, and stretched, letting the hem of her tiny skirt ride scandalously high on her thigh.

"You look like you're wrestlin' an angry snake over there. Need some help?" She pushed off the sofa, hips swaying with innate rhythm as she closed the distance.

You froze, the cable slipping from your suddenly sweaty fingers. Every nerve ending screamed. Keep it low-key.

For God's sake, keep it lowkey. The a band members was just outside the flimsy door; any second, Daniela or one of the others could barge in.

"Lara, please," you whispered, voice tight, cheeks burning.

You bent quickly to snatch the cable, hoping the movement hid the betraying stiffness already pressing uncomfortably against the worn denim of your jeans.

Too late.

Her hand, cool and soft, landed on the nape of your neck, fingers tangling lightly in your hair. You shuddered, a full-body tremor you couldn't suppress.

"Not here." The plea was ragged.

"Why ever not, darlin'?" she murmured, leaning in so close her breath, sweet and warm, ghosted over your ear.

Her other hand drifted down your spine, fingertips tracing each vertebra through your thin cotton shirt, stopping just above the waistband of your jeans.

"Ain't nobody paying us no mind." She pressed her body lightly against your back.

You could feel the swell of her breasts, the heat radiating from her, smell the intoxicating blend of her perfume and her skin.

Your own treacherous body responded instantly, the burgeoning hardness between your legs swelling further, straining against its confinement.

You squeezed your eyes shut, jaw clenched.

Focus on the damn cable.

But Lara wasn't done.

Her exploring hand slipped lower, dipping below your belt at the small of your back, her thumb rubbing slow, maddening circles against the sensitive skin just above your tailbone.

"You're all wound up tighter than a new fiddle string, sugar," she breathed, her lips brushing the shell of your ear now.

"Seems a shame." Her hand slid around your hip, dangerously close to the front of your jeans.

Panic and desire warred violently within you.

You tried to twist away, but lara had you pinned against the gear crate, her body a pliant but unyielding barrier.

"Lara," you gasped, your voice rough with the effort of control.

You could feel the dampness at the front of your jeans now, a tell-tale sign of your body's helpless surrender.

"Someone will... see." You bucked your hips instinctively, not to dislodge her, but seeking friction against her thigh that had insinuated itself between your legs.

The contact, even through layers of denim, was electric. A low moan escaped you before you could even bite it back.

Her laugh was a low, husky chuckle against your neck.

"See what, darlin'?" Her fingers abandoned his hip and boldly cupped the prominent bulge straining against your zipper.

You jolted as if shocked, a choked cry catching in your throat. She palmed you firmly through the rough fabric, feeling the rigid length, the insistent throb.

"See how much you need me? How hard you are just from a little touch?" Her voice dropped to a sultry whisper.

"How wet you get for me?" Her words, acknowledging the slick evidence of your arousal that soaked your own briefs beneath the denim, sent a fresh wave of heat crashing through you.

Shame warred with dizzying pleasure. You were panting now, your knuckles white where they gripped the edge of the crate.

The flimsy doorknob rattled.

You froze, terror icing your veins.

"Lara? You decent? Soundcheck in five! Everyone is supposed to be there!" Manon voice boomed from the hallway.

Lara didn’t flinch.

Her hand remained possessively on you, squeezing gently, making your knees threaten to buckle. Her other hand came up to cup her jaw, turning your face towards hers.

Her eyes were dark pools of pure mischief and hunger.

"Decent as I ever am, Manon!" she called back, her voice steady, sweet as pie, while her thumb traced your trembling lower lip.

She leaned in, capturing your mouth in a searing, open-mouthed kiss.

It wasn't gentle.

It was claiming.

Her tongue delved deep, tasting you, silencing any protest you might make. You kissed her back desperately, helplessly, youe own tongue meeting hers, the cable forgotten on the floor.

She ground her pelvis against your trapped hardness, the friction exquisite torture.

When she finally pulled back, leaving you gasping, lips swollen and glistening, she winked.

"Hold that thought, darlin'," she murmured, her gaze flicking meaningfully down your body.

"We got unfinished business." She gave you one last, deliberate stroke through your jeans, her fingers lingering on the damp patch, before sauntering towards the door, smoothing her skirt. "Comin', manon!"

You slumped back against the crate, heart hammering against your ribs like a trapped bird. The bulge in your jeans felt monstrously obvious, the damp spot a humiliating brand.

You was trembling, utterly exposed and completely undone, the secret they were supposed to keep plastered across your flushed face and straining body.

Lara made it impossible to hide.

And may God help you, as you heard her laughing with Manon and Sophia outside, the ache between your legs a persistent, throbbing demand, you wasn't sure you even wanted to anymore.

The lowkey was officially dead.

All you could feel was the heat of her handprint burning through denim and skin, and the devastating promise in her parting glance.

- [ Bricks & Bitches — Daniela Avanzini ]

[ Chapter four || Masterlist || Chapter six ]

— #Synopsis :: As Daniela and you grow closer, playful distractions turn into something real. She flirts her way through study sessions, defends you against her exes, and finally lets her walls down during a late-night Lego build — confessing feelings she never meant to have.

— #Paring :: Daniela Avanzini × G!P Masc Reader

4.5k words long.

Daniela shows up at your place with a backpack that looks suspiciously light for a “study session.”

You raise a brow.

You: “You actually brought notes?”

Daniela: “Of course. I even highlighted the boring parts… so you can read them while I look at you.”

You roll your eyes, but she follows you to the table, dropping her bag and spinning the chair around to sit backward, arms folded over the backrest. She’s watching you like the equations on your paper are competition.

The first fifteen minutes are quiet—almost. Her pen taps the table in rhythm with your heartbeat. Each time you reach for a page, her hand “accidentally” grazes yours. When you ask her a question, she leans in close enough that her perfume wraps around you, warm and sweet with something sharp underneath.

Daniela: “You know, if you keep frowning like that, you’ll get wrinkles.”

You: “If you keep talking like that, I’ll fail this test.”

Daniela: “Mmm. Maybe I want you distracted.”

She grins, eyes flicking from your mouth to the notes, then back again. You try to focus, but her voice slides between every line you read. When she bends forward to point at a problem, her hair brushes your arm; when she laughs, it’s low, private.

Daniela: “You’re actually trying to study. That’s… cute.”

You: “That’s the point of a study session.”

Daniela: “Is it?”

Her tone drops a notch, teasing but soft. She stands, circles behind you slowly, fingertips trailing over the back of your chair. Your shoulders tense before you can stop them. She leans down, her breath close to your ear.

Daniela: “You make it really hard to concentrate, you know that?”

For a second, the only sound is the pencil rolling off the table. You turn slightly; she’s inches away, eyes searching yours, that same mischievous glint burning brighter.

You could move. You should.

Instead, you stay perfectly still, pulse hammering, her hand resting lightly on your shoulder—testing, daring.

Then the moment stretches.

Her smile widens just a little, the air between you charged and waiting.

Daniela (whispering): “Maybe we should take a break hun. I think we've both earned a little...distraction.'

She runs a hand along your thigh, tracing teasing circles higher and higher. Daniela's sultry gaze meets yours, a clear invitation as she slides into your lap. Her soft curves mold against you, stoking the embers of desire into an inferno.

Daniela grinds down, not bothering to hide the effect she's having on you. 'Mmm, someone's happy to see me,' she purrs. 'Why don't we put this book to bed, and I'll show you just how good I am at multi-tasking?'"

The tension builds as Daniela continues to grind slowly on your lap, letting you feel every inch of her curves. Her fingers trail up your chest, playing with your collar. Leaning in, Daniela's lips brush your neck, her hot breath making your skin prickle.

"What do you say, big girl?" she whispers sultrily. "Should I keep focusing on the book...or do you want me to focus on you?"

For a heartbeat, the air doesn’t move. Daniela’s words hang there — soft, charged, impossible to ignore. You can feel her breath against your cheek, her hand still resting on your shoulder. One small shift and the moment would tip over the edge completely.

But it doesn’t.

You lean back a little, just enough to put space between you. Her hand slips away, the warmth fading almost instantly. She straightens, trying to disguise the flicker of something uncertain behind her usual smirk.

You: “You always do this?”

Daniela: “What? Help people study?”

You: “Distract them.”

Her grin falters for half a second before she forces it back into place.

Daniela: “Only when it’s fun.”

She picks up your pencil from the floor and twirls it between her fingers, pretending not to care. But her voice is a little tighter, her laugh a touch too quick. You can tell she felt it too — the heat, the almost — and now she’s hiding it behind bravado.

You try to refocus on the open textbook, but every number blurs. Daniela sits across from you again, chin propped on her hand, pretending to read. Her eyes flick to you every few seconds, as if waiting for you to say something.

Minutes stretch. The silence isn’t comfortable anymore — it’s fragile, humming with the memory of what almost happened.

You: “You’re not exactly great at helping people concentrate.”

Daniela: “You’re welcome.”

She smirks, but it doesn’t quite reach her eyes. When she gathers her bag later, there’s something hesitant in the way she pauses by the door.

Daniela: “Next time… I’ll bring actual notes.”

You: “You sure about that?”

Daniela: “Mmm. No promises.”

She leaves with that, shutting the door softly behind her.

You stare at the empty chair for a while, heart still racing, trying to figure out what just happened — or more importantly, what almost did.

Across town, Daniela sits in her car, hands gripping the steering wheel too tight. She tells herself it was just teasing — another game, another reaction to win. But the way her chest feels tight and electric tells her it wasn’t.

Not this time.

By the next morning, the entire world looks the same — the halls are loud, lockers slam, friends gossip — but everything between you and Daniela feels different.

Heavier. Quieter.

You catch her in the corridor before first period, surrounded by her usual crowd. She’s laughing too loud, flipping her hair, wearing sunglasses indoors like she’s in a commercial. It’s textbook Daniela Avanzini — but when her eyes meet yours across the hallway, the act stutters.

For a split second, it’s just you two again.

That same energy hums between you, unspoken and impossible to ignore.

She looks away first.

Sophia (to Daniela): “Why are you zoning out? Don’t tell me you’re actually tired from studying.”

Daniela (too quick): “Please, I don’t get tired. I cause it.”

The group laughs. You roll your eyes, heading to class, but you can still feel her gaze on your back — hot, sharp, searching.

In third period, you end up seated next to her. It’s unintentional — alphabetical order — but it might as well be fate’s cruel joke. She sits stiff at first, tapping her pen, glancing sideways like she’s waiting for you to acknowledge her.

You don’t. Not immediately.

When you finally look her way, she’s biting her lip, trying to seem unaffected.

You (low): “You’re quiet today.”

Daniela: “Don’t get used to it.”

You: “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

The corner of her mouth twitches, a half-smile she quickly hides by pretending to write.

By lunch, rumors are already spinning — people whispering that Daniela was seen leaving your street last night, that maybe the queen bee has found her next fixation. She pretends she doesn’t hear, but her posture changes — shoulders squared, jaw tense.

When one of her so-called friends jokes about her “hanging with the Lego kid,” her eyes flash.

Daniela: “Say that again.”

Friend (nervous laugh): “Relax, Dani. It’s just a joke—”

Daniela: “Didn’t sound funny.”

The table goes silent. You’re a few seats away, watching her shift from defensive to something else — protective, maybe.

She notices you looking. Her expression softens for half a second, then she gets up, tray in hand, and walks past your table.

As she passes, she murmurs — quiet enough that only you hear:

Daniela: “Next time, you’re the one tutoring me.”

Your pencil stills mid-note. She doesn’t turn back.

That night, you both text less than usual — neither sure what to say. But every time your phone lights up, you hope it’s her. And every time Daniela picks hers up, she types something out, deletes it, then throws it onto her bed with a frustrated sigh.

She’s not used to losing control.

But after last night — after almost — that’s exactly what it feels like.

Monday starts with the low hum of gossip that’s almost comfortable by now — whispers that trail you through the hallways like static. But there’s a new edge to it today, sharper, dirtier. You can tell it’s different by the way people look at you — not curious, but expectant. Like they’re waiting for something to happen.

Daniela doesn’t notice at first. She arrives fashionably late, wearing her signature smirk and sunglasses she doesn’t need indoors. The crowd parts when she walks in, same as always. But she feels it eventually — the eyes on her, the sudden hush that ripples as she passes.

You’re at your locker when it starts. One of her exes — Jake — leans against the wall beside you, smirking like he owns the place.

Jake: “Didn’t think Daniela was into… your type.”

You: “Didn’t think she had one.”

Your tone is even, bored. You don’t even look at him as you shut your locker, backpack slung casually over your shoulder.

Jake: “She used to like a challenge.”

You: “Guess she’s still chasing one.”

A few people snicker. He wasn’t expecting that.

By the time Daniela rounds the corner, there’s already a small audience. Jake’s joined by another ex — Marnie — a cheerleader with a sugar-sweet smile that doesn’t reach her eyes.

Marnie: “Guess everyone’s standards drop eventually.”

Jake: “Hey, maybe it’s charity work. Good for her.”

The words are designed to sting. But you don’t bite. You stand there, silent, staring them down until the laughter starts to falter.

That’s when Daniela’s voice cuts through the noise.

Daniela: “What’s this?”

Everything stills.

Daniela walks in like she’s stepping onto a stage — slow, deliberate, the kind of confidence that doesn’t need volume. Her heels echo against the floor as she stops between you and her exes. She looks from one to the other, expression unreadable behind her perfect eyeliner.

Jake: “Just catching up. Didn’t know you’d downgraded.”

Her smile doesn’t move, but her eyes flash — cold and dangerous.

Daniela: “You sure you want to finish that sentence?”

He blinks, confused.

Daniela in a lower tone, “Because I don’t remember you ever being an upgrade.”

There’s a pause — then laughter, sharp and genuine this time, rippling through the crowd. Marnie’s smile drops. Jake’s face turns red.

Daniela doesn’t raise her voice once. She just turns, checking on you briefly — a flicker of warmth before she’s back to ice.

The air thickens. Marnie tries to recover, stepping forward with false bravado.

“You’re really defending this? Come on, Daniela—”

Daniela takes one step forward. Just one. But it’s enough to make Marnie stop talking.

“You know what I love about you, Marnie? You always think you’re the main character until someone reminds you you’re not.”

Marnie swallows hard.

“Here’s your reminder.”

She doesn’t have to say more. The silence does the rest.

Jake tries to save face.

“What, you her bodyguard now?”

“No”

Then, slowly, she steps closer to him — calm, steady. Her hand lands on the locker beside his head with a quiet thud. Not rough, not loud, but the message is clear: enough.

He flinches. She doesn’t blink.

Daniela said in a soft tone, “You want to humiliate someone, try me. But next time you come for them—”

Her gaze slides toward you.

“You’ll regret it.”

A teacher’s voice echoes down the hall before things can go further. The crowd scatters instantly, whispers buzzing again. Daniela steps back, calm as ever, collecting her composure like she’s brushing dust from her sleeve.

Daniela: “Let’s go.”

You follow her without a word. She doesn’t look at you until you’re both clear of the hallway.

You: “You didn’t have to do that.”

Daniela: “I know.”

You: “Then why—”

Daniela: “Because they don’t get to talk to you like that.”

Her tone is sharp, final.

By lunch, the story’s already spread: Daniela Avanzini shut down her exes for the Lego transfer. People whisper it like it’s scandalous. You’re half-expecting Daniela to be angry about the rumors, but she’s quieter than usual.

Sophia raises an eyebrow at her across the table.

Sophia: “You realize people are saying you defended your new girlfriend.”

Daniela: “Let them talk.”

It’s the calmest she’s sounded all day.

After school, she finds you sitting on the bleachers, sketching out a new Lego design. She hovers for a second before sitting beside you.

Neither of you speak at first. The sky’s orange and low.

Daniela: “You handled them better than I did.”

You: “You didn’t have to step in.”

Daniela: “I wanted to.”

She says it like a confession she didn’t mean to make.

You glance at her, but she’s staring straight ahead. For the first time in weeks, she looks unsure — like she’s trying to measure the weight of what she just admitted.

You: “Why?”

Daniela: “Because… I don’t like seeing you small. And they were trying to make you small.”

That’s as close to honest as she’s ever been. You nod, the silence stretching between you again — not tense, just heavy with things neither of you are ready to say.

The sound of footsteps pulls you both out of it. Marnie and Jake pass by the field, laughing too loud, forcing smiles like nothing happened. Daniela’s jaw tightens, fingers curling against her knees.

You: “Don’t.”

Daniela: “I’m not.”

You: “Yes, you are.”

She exhales, trying to shake it off. But when you stand to leave, she grabs your wrist gently — not stopping you, just holding on for a second too long.

Daniela (quietly): “If they try again… I won’t just talk.”

The words are low, a promise more than a threat.

You don’t answer. You just hold her gaze — that careful balance between warmth and warning — before you walk away.

She watches you go, the wind catching her hair, the taste of restraint still bitter on her tongue.

And in that silence, one thought rings clear in her mind:

This isn’t just a game anymore.

The clock had already slipped past midnight, the house draped in the kind of silence that felt fragile — like one wrong sound could make it shatter. Your desk lamp was the only light still on, throwing a soft glow over the hundreds of scattered Lego pieces that sprawled across your desk. The air smelled faintly of plastic and Daniela’s perfume — sweet and heady, the kind that lingered in the air long after she moved.

She was sitting cross-legged on your floor, still wearing her uniform skirt and a loose hoodie she’d “borrowed” from you hours ago. It was a soft grey thing that hung off one shoulder, the neckline slipping low enough to reveal the gold chain around her neck — the one she wore every day. She looked completely out of place among the Lego chaos, but somehow she belonged there now, chin resting on her knee as she watched you click pieces together with quiet focus.

“Do you ever sleep?” she asked finally, voice a little raspy from how late it was.

You didn’t look up. “Do you ever stop talking?”

She scoffed, tossing a small blue brick at you. It bounced harmlessly off your shoulder and fell to the floor. “I wasn’t talking. I was observing. You’re like… weirdly focused. It’s kind of hot.”

You glanced up at her — half amusement, half disbelief. “That’s what you call hot?”

Daniela grinned, chin tilting as she looked up at you through her lashes. “You’re the one making architecture out of toys at one in the morning. I’m just saying — dedication looks good on you.”

You tried to ignore the warmth crawling up your neck. “Help me find the 2x3 grey plate, then.”

She blinked. “The what?”

“The flat one. Two by three. Grey.”

“Right.” She dug through the pile, clearly clueless, nails clicking against the tiny bricks. Every few seconds she’d pull up the wrong piece and hold it up proudly like she’d found treasure.

“This one?”

“That’s a window.”

“Looks grey to me.”

“Daniela…”

She grinned wider, clearly enjoying your exasperation. “You love this, admit it.”

You looked at her — her hair a little messy now, her hoodie sleeves pulled over her hands, a faint smudge of black eyeliner under one eye — and sighed. “You’re hopeless.”

She nudged your knee with hers, tone dropping just enough that it made your stomach twist. “Maybe. But I’m your hopeless, right?”

You didn’t answer. Not because you didn’t want to — but because your throat suddenly felt too tight.

By 1 a.m., the floor was a battlefield of half-built structures and empty Lego bags. You’d moved down beside her, both sitting cross-legged now, your knees brushing every time you reached for the same piece. Daniela had given up pretending she knew what she was doing; instead, she watched your hands, occasionally stealing a piece just to see your annoyed face.

“You’re doing that on purpose,” you muttered as she pocketed another brick.

“Maybe.”

“Why?”

“Because you make that little face when you’re annoyed — the one where your nose scrunches up.”

You paused, blinking. “You notice that?”

“Of course I do.” She said it like it was obvious, like she’d been keeping tabs on every version of your expression since day one.

When you didn’t reply, she went back to helping, her movements slower, more thoughtful. Every so often her hand brushed yours — a tiny, deliberate contact that sent a pulse through the quiet.

And then, after a long silence, she spoke.

“You know, when I first met you,” she started softly, “I thought you were gonna be one of those quiet types that fade into the background. Turns out you’re just… quiet until someone earns your noise.”

You looked at her. “Is that your way of saying you like me?”

Daniela’s mouth curved — small, unsure for once. “Maybe it’s my way of saying you got under my skin.”

She leaned back against your bed, stretching her legs out, and looked at the almost-finished build — a miniature skyline you’d been working on for weeks.

“So this is what you do to escape?” she asked.

You nodded. “Yeah. It’s just… I don’t have to think when I’m building. Everything has a place. It all makes sense eventually.”

Daniela’s eyes softened. “Must be nice. Having something that always fits.”

There was something in her voice — something that didn’t match her usual confidence. You set the Lego piece down. “You mean people don’t make sense to you?”

She laughed, but it came out quiet. “People see what they want. The ‘mean girl,’ the dancer, the one who’s got it all together. No one ever… tries to look past the picture.”

You studied her — the curve of her jaw, the faint tiredness under her eyes, the way she picked at the hem of your hoodie like it was the only thing keeping her grounded.

“I did,” you said quietly.

She looked at you.

“You looked bored before. Now you look real.”

For a heartbeat, Daniela said nothing. Then she reached over, fingers brushing yours, slow and uncertain. “Careful. Say things like that and I might start believing you actually like me.”

“Maybe I do.”

Her lips parted — the usual smirk gone. Just silence and heartbeat and the faint click of the Lego bricks settling between you.

The rain outside started tapping against your window, soft and rhythmic. The two of you sat shoulder to shoulder, the lamp light catching on the shiny plastic pieces scattered between your knees.

Daniela let out a long breath. “I used to think getting close to people was a waste of time.”

“Why?”

“Because everyone leaves. Or they use you for something. It’s easier to just… play the part they want and keep it shallow.”

You hesitated before saying, “And now?”

She tilted her head, looking at you — really looking. “Now I’m sitting here, trying to remember when the hell I started caring what you think of me.”

You smiled, just barely. “Probably around the time you started stalking me between classes.”

Daniela laughed, throwing her head back slightly. “That was research.”

“Sure.”

She reached out, tugged at your sleeve. “Don’t flatter yourself too much.”

But her tone was soft, the edge gone.

It was almost 2 a.m. when the Lego skyline finally came together. You both sat back, admiring it in silence. Daniela traced a finger along the miniature towers, pretending she knew what she was looking at.

“It’s pretty,” she murmured.

“You helped,” you said.

She laughed. “Barely.”

“Still counts.”

And then — without warning — she leaned in and pressed a quick kiss to your cheek. It was clumsy, too fast, but your breath still caught.

“Daniela…”

She smirked, trying to play it off. “What? You had something on your face.”

You rolled your eyes, but your cheeks burned anyway.

The silence that followed was thicker than before — heavy, expectant. Daniela’s gaze dropped to your lips for a fraction of a second before she looked away.

The rain outside had become steadier now, a muted rhythm against the window. Daniela leaned her head back against the bed, eyes half-closed, your lamp light outlining her lashes in gold. You sat beside her, fiddling with a small leftover piece — one that didn’t seem to fit anywhere.

Daniela reached out, plucked it from your hand, and held it up between her fingers. “Maybe it doesn’t have to fit,” she said absently. “Maybe it just exists.”

You gave her a look. “That’s not how Lego works.”

“Maybe that’s why I like you,” she murmured. “You make rules out of everything. I break them. Somehow, it still works.”

You looked at her then — the way her hair fell slightly over her face, her usual confidence softened around the edges. The girl who used to tease you across classrooms was sitting quietly in your room, talking about Lego like it was philosophy.

She noticed your stare, smirked a little. “What?”

“You’re different tonight,” you said quietly.

Daniela blinked, eyes flicking away. “Maybe I’m just tired.”

But you both knew that wasn’t it.

Minutes passed in comfortable silence, both of you staring at the half-built skyline. Daniela kept shifting — pulling her sleeves over her hands, tucking her knees closer. The restless energy was so unlike her that it pulled you out of your thoughts.

You finally said it. “You can stop pretending.”

Her head turned slowly. “Pretending what?”

“That you don’t care,” you said, meeting her gaze. “About me.”

For once, Daniela didn’t have a comeback. No teasing smirk, no flirty deflection. Just wide eyes and the faintest inhale, like the air had been knocked out of her.

She looked away, laughing softly — nervous. “You’re too good at reading people. It’s annoying.”

You leaned your chin on your hand. “You’re bad at hiding feelings. It’s kind of cute.”

Daniela’s head snapped up, eyes narrowing — but there was no bite in it. Just embarrassment. “Don’t call me cute.”

“You are,” you said simply.

She let out a breath, shoulders slumping in defeat. “You’re gonna kill me one day, you know that?”

The clock read 2:37 a.m. Daniela had gone quiet again, but this time, her silence carried weight. She traced circles on your desk with her fingertip, not looking at you as she spoke.

“I don’t do this,” she said.

“Do what?”

“This.” She gestured vaguely between you two. “Talking. Letting someone in. Feeling like this.”

You didn’t say anything, just watched her — waiting.

“I like being in control,” she continued, voice low. “I like knowing how people see me. But you — you don’t see me the way they do. You don’t… need me to be anything.”

You shifted a little closer, careful not to break whatever fragile truth was hanging in the air. “Maybe that’s why you keep showing up.”

Daniela huffed a small laugh. “Yeah. Maybe.” She looked up, meeting your eyes. “You scare me, you know?”

You frowned. “I’m not scary.”

“Not in that way.” She paused. “You make me want to be honest. That’s new for me.”

The rain had stopped by now, replaced by that soft, empty quiet that comes before dawn. The Lego city sat finished between you, shining faintly under the lamplight.

Daniela leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees, head bowed. “When I said I didn’t do this kind of thing… I didn’t mean just talking. I meant feeling. I’ve had flings, games, whatever — but you’re not that. You never were.”

You swallowed, heart beating too fast. “Then what am I?”

Daniela looked up at you, eyes open and raw in a way you’d never seen before. “Someone I can’t stop thinking about. Even when I try.”

You didn’t reply right away. Instead, you reached out, brushing your fingers against her sleeve. “That’s called liking someone, Dani.”

She gave a shaky smile. “Yeah. Guess so.”

You smiled back, soft and real. “Took you long enough.”

It was nearly 4 a.m. when Daniela finally spoke again. You were sitting shoulder to shoulder now, both staring at the Lego skyline — quiet, exhausted, but unwilling to end the night.

She broke the silence first. “I like you.”

It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t dramatic. Just a whisper — the kind that carried more weight than shouting ever could.

You turned to her. “Say it again.”

Daniela laughed softly, looking down at her hands. “You’re gonna make me repeat it?”

“Maybe I just like hearing it.”

She exhaled, then met your gaze — eyes steady, voice trembling just slightly. “I like you. More than I should. More than I planned to.”

You didn’t think. You just smiled — slow and genuine — and leaned your head against her shoulder. “Good. Because I like you too.”

Daniela froze for a second, then relaxed — shoulders dropping, breath evening out. She reached up, fingers brushing your hand, and the two of you sat like that — surrounded by tiny towers and quiet confessions, the kind of peace that didn’t need words.

Outside, dawn was starting to break. The sky was pale pink, soft light spilling across the floor.

Daniela looked at you once more, eyes tracing the curve of your cheek, the faint smile still lingering there.

“Don’t make me regret this,” she murmured.

You looked up, half-asleep, half-smiling. “You won’t.”

She didn’t answer. Just leaned her head against yours — the city you’d built together standing quietly beside you, a small, perfect reflection of something new being built between you too.

@loccki

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

— #Paring :: g!p manon x fem reader

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your heart hammered against your ribs like a trapped bird.

Three weeks.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

No tenderness.

No preparation beyond her spit and your slickness.

She slammed home.

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

She didn’t pause.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your vision blurred at the edges.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She didn’t offer support.

Didn’t speak.

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

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

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

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

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

[ Tangled Webs & Netballs — Megan Skiendiel ]

chapter one || Masterlist || chapter two

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

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

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

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

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

Work count :: 6.4K.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Everyone but you.”

She snorts. “Yeah, right.”

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

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

“You spaced out again,” Megan murmurs.

You blink. “Did not.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Are they dating?”

“They’re always together.”

“Honestly, they look good.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yeah,” she says softly. “I know.”

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

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

“You okay?” you ask quietly.

She nods. “Yeah. Just tired.”

“You’ve been tired a lot lately.”

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

“You literally only hang out with me.”

“Exactly.”

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

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

Her pupils dilate.

Neither of you speaks.

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

“Wow. Smooth recovery.”

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

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

“That’s not saying much.”

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

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

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

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

And you realize — for her, it is.

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

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

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

“See you tomorrow?” she says instead.

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

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

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

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

You cover your face with a pillow and groan.

Why did it feel like more?

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

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

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

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

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

No one can know. Especially you.

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

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

“Megan… it’s 6:30.”

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

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

“Correct. But a thoughtful kind of insane.”

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

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

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

The moment lingers.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And for now — neither of you says a word.

Because this is how it’s always been.

Because neither of you wants to risk changing it.

Not yet.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Her phone buzzes.

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

Another message pops up almost instantly.

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

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

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

Because being Spider-Man is dangerous enough.

But loving you? That’s the real risk.

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

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

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

The transformation is instant.

The nervous, mumbling Megan disappears.

Spider-Man takes her place.

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

Then she leaps.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

They mean safety.

Routine.

A reason to get through the day.

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

She tries again.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Sure. And I’m the Queen of England.”

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

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

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

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

You arch a brow. “You were watching.”

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

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

“Not weird! Just factual!”

“Sure.”

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

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

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

“I know,” she replies. “I wanted to.”

“Still gonna call you my pack mule.”

“Better than being called a proud dad.”

You grin. “That one fits though.”

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

“Not a chance.”

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

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

You blink. “Did you?”

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

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

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

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

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

She grins. “That too.”

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

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

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

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

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

“You okay?” you whisper.

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

You laugh softly. “Why?”

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

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

“Oh yeah?”

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

Her lips twitch. “Fair.”

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

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

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

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

She swallows hard. “Yeah.”

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

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

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

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

“Still gonna share the hoodie?” you tease.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m not your chauffeur.”

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

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

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

“Guess you’re just what?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You grin. “You offering to protect me?”

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

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

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

“Uh huh.”

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

You try not to stare.

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

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

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

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

“You.”

You blink. “Me?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

If only you knew how close you were.

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

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

“In case what?”

“In case you get scared.”

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

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

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

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

She glances at you. “You tired?”

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

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

You hesitate. “You’ll actually stay?”

“Yeah.”

You smile, small but real. “Okay.”

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

You whisper, “You ever think about it?”

“About what?”

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

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

You nod.

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

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

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

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

“Night, Meg.”

“Night,” she says softly.

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

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

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

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

Your breath hitches.

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

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

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

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

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

But you already have.

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

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

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

You snort. “Shut up.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You tell yourself it’s just the weather.

But deep down, you know it’s not.

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

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

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

“Basically your boyfriend.”

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

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

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

The next day, something shifts.

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

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

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

You blink. “Oh — thanks.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What?”

“You didn’t have to do that.”

“Do what?”

“Scare him off.”

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

“I don’t.”

“Good.”

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

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

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

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

Her head snaps toward you. “Jealous?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“See you tomorrow?” you ask.

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

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

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

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

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