Mini's Library

The day that spider at Oscorp bit you, your whole life took a 180. 

You practically became a superhero overnight, going from someone who walked the streets terrified of what was lurking around the corner, to kicking the ass of whatever evil was waiting to stir up trouble. You protected the people of New York, taking on the title of the friendly neighborhood Spider-Woman, and you loved every second of it. 

One thing you didn’t love, however, was how it continuously got in the way of your everyday life. You struggled to balance both your secret persona and your life as an average high school student. 

Especially since your high school life wasn’t all it was cracked up to be. 

“Move it, loser.” 

You’re immediately shoved into your locker roughly, forcibly snapped out of your thoughts.

Mary Jane Watson is walking away, heels clicking as she disappears into the crowd of people in the hallway.

You glare at her, eyes shooting daggers at the back of her head, before you’re approached by a tall blonde.

“Would it be misogynistic of me to call MJ a bitch?” Gwen asks, eyes watching her as well.

“I dunno’, but at least you’d be right,” you say, rolling your eyes before turning to open your locker.

Gwen laughs lightly, moving so she’s now leaning against the locker next to yours, blue eyes watching you intently.

“Mhm, so, I don’t know if you noticed, but a certain someone is wearing a Spider-Woman shirt today…” she says, and your head turns to see a smirk on her face.

“Flash? Again? Geez, that’s the third time this week. That guy needs to chill with the fan fever” you groan, grimacing. 

She laughs, shaking her head. 

“Nope, try again. This time, think of someone you’re not completely repulsed by. Maybe a cute photographer with glasses and big brown eyes you’re constantly swooning over,” Gwen teases. 

Your eyes widen. 

“Peter?” you whisper, and she nods eagerly. 

You’re silent for a moment, trying to calm the excitement in your chest, before closing your locker. 

“For the record, I do not swoon over him,” you state.

“Oh no, you definitely swoon. It’s like swoon city over here whenever Peter’s brought up.” 

You blush, looking away from her. 

“Shut up.” 

As if on cue, Peter Parker himself walks past you and, just as Gwen stated, is sporting Spider-Woman’s face on his t-shirt. 

Peter Parker has been your crush since freshman year, when you spotted him skating down the hallway. A teacher had barked at him to stop, and when your eyes met as he picked up his board, he flashed you a small smile, and you were hooked. 

“Hey, try not to make it so obvious that you’re gawking at him, ok?” Gwen interrupts with a wave of her hand over your face, bringing you back to the present. “I don’t understand why you don’t just talk to him.” 

“Because, Gwendolyn, not all of us possess the self-confidence and social skills that you do. I mean, what do I even tell him? Hey, nice Spider-Woman shirt. Oh, by the way, that’s me,” you state sarcastically, walking down the hall to your next class, Gwen in tow. 

“Honestly, that’s not bad. You know, aside from revealing your secret identity, but yeah, you know, just ask him about stuff.”

“Stuff?”

“Yes,” she says in exasperation. “Come on, get a grip. This is Peter Parker we’re talking about. Not some jock boy who every girl at school is in love with.”

“Oh yeah, like Flash Thompson, who likes to shove chopsticks up his nose and act like a walrus in public. What a prize,” you state sarcastically with another roll of your eyes. 

Truth was, you couldn’t stand Flash. You thought he was an asshole, a caricature of a high school bully from the 1950’s. It also didn’t help that he was constantly messing with Peter. 

Which, during lunch, you caught him doing once again. 

“Why are you always walking around with that camera of yours, Parker? You know it makes you look like a creep, right? I bet you take pictures of the girls during class so you can check them out later when you’re feeling lonely,” he says, voice loud and obnoxious as he high-fives one of his stupid basketball lackies.

Peter’s silent, ignoring him as he continues to fiddle with his camera. 

Flash stands up from his spot at the lunch table, walking towards Peter and snatching his camera from him. 

“Come on, Flash, knock it off,” Peter says, obviously annoyed as he tries to reach for it, but Flash moves it away. 

“You want it? Come take it from me,” Flash boasts, tossing the camera from one hand to another. 

You can see Peter visibly stiffen, concerned that Flash might drop it, and you feel rage begin to boil inside of you. Before you even know what you’re doing, you stand up from your seat.

“Leave him alone, Flash!” you yell from across the courtyard. 

All eyes snap towards you, and your face immediately flushes.

Flash’s attention is now fully on you.

“Well, if it isn’t the other village freak. You know, you could be really hot if you weren’t so fucking uptight,” he says, camera still in hand. 

You feel Peter’s eyes on you, but you don’t care about anything else. The anger in you grows as Flash continues to speak. 

“I mean, we get it. You think you’re so beyond us, right? ‘Too cool’ to care. But guess what, you’re stuck in this shit hole just like the rest of us. So how about you give us a little smile every once in a while, huh? Come on, sweetheart, smile for me.”

He’s smirking at this point, knowing he’s hit a nerve. 

You don’t even realize that you’re now walking, eyes locked on him. 

“Put the camera down,” you say, and your tone is so cold that it surprises even you. 

“Give me a smile, and I’ll put the camera down. Come on, I know you can do it. You smile all the time at Penis Parker over here. What, you’re only into dorks? Is that it?” He asks, and before he even registers it, you’re right in front of his face.

You quickly snatch the camera from him, tearing it from his grasp effortlessly. Just as he’s about to say something about it, though, your fist collides with his face, and he’s forcibly sent flying backwards into a brick wall at the end of the courtyard. 

It’s pure silence as everyone’s eyes land on the clearly injured Flash before turning towards you, mouths hanging open in shock. 

You’re speechless, eyes wide as you realize what you’ve done. You looked down at your fist, and although it was shaking, it was perfectly fine despite hitting someone who was twice your size square in the face. 

You swallow the lump in your throat, trying to ignore the whispers and stares from everyone around you. You look at Peter, whose eyes are as wide as saucers, and you hand him his camera. 

“I’m… I’m sorry,” you say and run off, wanting nothing more than to get away from this situation you’ve put yourself in. 

You head inside the building and into the hallway, back sliding down a row of lockers as you sink down, face hidden between your knees.

Great, now the whole school knows you have the strength of The Incredible Hulk.

Another reason for them to think of you as some kind of freak.

You wish you were more discreet, better at keeping your emotions at bay. But you were a ticking time bomb just waiting to explode. 

Adolescence man. That shit is tough. 

You feel someone approaching you, but you refuse to lift your head up, already assuming it must have been your best friend checking in on you.

“Gwen, please. Let me wallow in self-pity for at least two more seconds.”

“Oh no, please, don’t stop on my account. I understand how necessary it is to make time for wallowing. Feel free to carry on.”

You freeze.

The voice is deep and masculine and most definitely not Gwen’s.

You lift your head slightly so only your eyes are visible as you take in the appearance of Peter Parker in front of you. 

You immediately sit up properly now, passing a hand through your hair as you clear your throat.

“S-sorry, I thought you were… umm,” you shake your head, obviously flustered. “Listen, about what happened back there…”

Peter offers you a soft smile, one that instantly calms you down.

“Yeah, that’s why I’m here. I just wanted to say thanks for standing up to Flash like that. You didn’t have to, but it’s nice to know that someone has my back,” he says, and you can see the blush forming in his cheeks. 

It was enough to make your face flush as well. 

“Oh. No problem. Flash is an assshole. He’s just jealous ‘cause you have an actual future ahead of you.”

His eyes light up at that, and he lets out a light chuckle, rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly.

“T-thanks.”

You're both quiet after that, your heart hammering in your chest as your mind goes back to the event that transpired just minutes before. You’re sure he must be wondering why you were able to punch the living shit out of Flash, and you didn't want him to start making up conclusions, so you take matters into your own hands and come up with a plausible excuse.

“I drum,” you say suddenly.

He tilts his head, confusion laced on his face.

“Oh?”

You rub your shoulder, the awkwardness beginning to settle as you continue to speak.

“Y-yeah, I do. And that’s why I’m so strong, cause I…I use my hands….a lot…” You visibly cringe, unable to disguise your humiliation.

Oh yeah, a very plausible excuse. 

He chuckles, nodding.

“Yeah, I've seen your drumsticks peeking out from your backpack before. That’s really cool. Actually, uh, there’s this local band that’s going to play tonight at the coffee shop around the corner. And I wanted to ask if maybe you wanted to go? Like… together?”

Your eyes widen with every word, completely in disbelief.

Was Peter Parker actually asking you out?

“Uh,” you get up, realizing that you had still been on the floor throughout the entire conversation, dusting your pants off. 

“Y-yeah, I’d like that.”

He smiles.

“Cool. Can I pick you up?”

“Yeah, of course, let me just…” You feel around in your back pocket for a Sharpie, having developed a habit of carrying one around.

Sharpies make an excellent last-minute substitute for nail polish.

You take his hand in yours and scribble down your address, not even noticing the light blush in his cheeks at the feel of your hand in his. 

“There. Try not to smudge that,” you tease. 

“Trust me, I’ll guard this with my life,” he says with another chuckle.

Your eyes then settle on his Spider-Woman shirt.

You smirk.

“Nice shirt.”

He looks down at it, almost as if he forgot he was wearing it in the first place.

“Oh, thanks.”

“You a fan?”

“Yeah. She uh…she actually saved my Uncle Ben,” he says, tone shifting to something more serious. 

You swallow, taken aback. 

“R-really?”

“Yeah. There was a robber, and Ben had stopped him. He had a gun and was about to fire at him, but thankfully Spider-Woman webbed the gun out of his hand, and he didn’t get the chance to. I owe her a lot. All I have are my Aunt and Uncle, and I don’t know what I would have done if I had lost him that night,” he says, eyes drifting to his shoes. 

You feel emotional at his confession, processing his words in silence. 

You saved his Uncle Ben. 

You understood that your job was to save people, but you never really thought hard about what would happen if you didn’t. What would happen if you weren’t there to stop criminals like that robber that night. 

That’s why your job as Spider-Woman was so important. That’s why you couldn’t let anything get in the way of that. 

You place a hand on his shoulder.

“I’m so glad he’s still here, Pete,” you offer him a smile. 

He looks up at you and returns it. 

“Yeah, me too.” 

You both remain like that for a moment, you internally swooning over his big brown eyes that you adored so much. 

Shoot.

Maybe Gwen was right….

“You know, you remind me of her,” he says suddenly.

Your eyes widen at this, amused yet somewhat nervous.

“Oh, really?”

“Yeah. I mean, not like that you have super powers or anything, but in the sense that she stands up for the little guys, which is what I like most about her. She’s also really cool.”

“So you think I’m really cool?” you ask, a smirk growing as you raise a brow. 

“Without a doubt,” he answers with no hesitation. 

The conversation ends with both of you confirming your plans for the night before walking away in your respective directions. 

If you had looked back, though, you would have seen the happy little skip Peter gave on his way down the hall. 

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

You can’t believe it. 

You can’t believe you missed your date with Peter, all because a stupid metal rhino had to appear out of nowhere and fuck shit up. 

Now your night was ruined because you had to ditch Peter without even being able to warn him about it. You were sure he hated you. He probably thought you had stood him up on purpose. 

The thought of him waiting for you ate you up. 

He deserved better. 

And the worst part was that you were pretty sure you had broken something because the pain in your leg was unbearable. You needed to get home and try to patch yourself up.

Once you make it to your apartment building, you crawl up all the way to your floor before climbing through the window and entering your bedroom. Once inside, you shoot a web at the window, slide it down, and crawl on the ceiling towards the connecting bathroom. Once you reach it, you jump down and grab the first aid kit that was stowed away under the sink and enter your bedroom again. 

Upon doing so, you spot Peter Parker seated on a bean bag chair on the other side of your room, watching you in complete shock. 

Oh no…

No no no no no..

“Holy shit, you’re….!”

You immediately shoot a web at his mouth, effectively shutting him up. 

“What are you doing here?!”  you shout at him, face hot and anxiety settling in your chest. 

He mumbled something against the webbing over his mouth, and you sigh as you rip it away. 

“Your mom… she…she let me in. I was just worried cause you weren’t at the concert and…holy shit, you’re Spider-Woman!” he exclaims, eyes as wide and tone a mix of nerves and disbelief. 

“Yes, but no one can know, ok? Not even my mom knows, so please keep your voice down,” you plead. 

Peter nods his head rapidly. “I-of course. I wouldn’t tell a soul. I just…wow. That’s incredible. I mean, you’re incredible. And you…y-you saved my Uncle Ben.” His eyes soften at the realization, staring at you with so much gratitude that it makes your chest flutter. “I’ve been wanting to thank you for that, and now I can. Thank you,” he says, tone earnest and expression soft. 

You swallow, the anxiety of his finding you out fading. You offer him a small smile, allowing yourself to relax. 

Peter Parker is a good guy. He wouldn’t be running to The Daily Bugle with your secret. You’re sure of that.

A sudden pain shoots through your leg, reminding you of its injury, and you hiss. Peter’s brows furrowed in worry, but when his eyes drift down to your leg, he realizes what it is. 

“Shit. Let me help you clean that up. My Aunt May’s a nurse, and she taught me a few things,” he says, reaching over for the first aid kit in your hands. 

“A-are you sure? I can do it myself. I’ve been doing it for a while now.”

Your confession pains Peter, the thought of you cleaning your wounds up all alone, beaten and bloody. The loneliness that came with such a secret sounded awfully sad. 

So he smiles warmly at you, reassuring you that he wants to help.

He owed you at least that. 

“Umm..I’m going to need you to take your suit…off,” he states, cheeks blushing.

Your face flushes as well, clearing your throat as you nod. 

“Y-yeah. Of course. Let me just…” and you walked towards your dresser and grabbed an oversized shirt to change into. 

Peter turns around, giving you the privacy to change, but his heart is hammering so hard in his chest that he’s sure you can hear it. 

A few minutes later, you’re lying on your bed, leg outstretched as Peter works diligently on your wound. 

“You’re really good at this,” you say, and then hiss immediately after.

Turns out, your wound was bad enough that you needed stitches. Something Peter was thankfully skilled at. 

He winced, looking up at you apologetically. 

“Sorry. And Aunt May is a great teacher. She thinks it’s important to learn as many skills as you can ‘cause you never know when you’ll need them.”

“Like right now. Helping the spider menace not bleed out on her bedroom floor,” you state, and Peter chuckles, shaking his head. 

“You’re not a menace.”

“Oh yeah? Tell that to The Bugle. Or the NYPD,” you say with a scoff. 

“The Daily Bugle is a crock of shit. And the NYPD is obviously intimidated that you can do their job better.”

You snort at that, and Peter looks up at you, smile soft once again. 

“You are a hero. Ok? And I know the rest of the city agrees. You’re the best thing to happen to us, and on behalf of everyone, I want to thank you for putting in the time and work to help make this city a safer place. You don’t owe anyone anything, and yet here you are doing everything you possibly can for us,” he says, and your heart feels like it’s going to burst from the genuine sincerity in his voice and the look of utter adoration he’s directing towards you.

“You know, there’s a saying my Uncle Ben always says. ‘With great power comes great responsibility.’ I never really understood it much, but now, I get it. And I know he’d think you’re the perfect example of that.”

You can’t help it. You really can’t. With the way he’s looking at you, and the awe in his voice and the way his hands move gently as he tends to you, it was inevitable. 

You lean towards Peter, breath mingling with his. You close your eyes, allowing your heightened senses to read him for you. The quick beating of his chest, his shallow breaths, the unmistakable wanting inside of him. 

“Can I kiss you?” you whisper, eyes gazing at him through your lashes. 

Peter feels like he’s dreaming, his throat running dry at the way you look at him all pretty. “Please,” he breathes out, hands coming up to cup your jaw, leaning into you. 

The kiss is soft and sweet, and you immediately feel yourself melt. His lips move in perfect rhythm with yours, and you start to think that he was made for you. You couldn’t help but smile into it until Peter pulled away.

“Listen, I just need you to know that this has nothing to do with you being Spider-Woman. Don’t get me wrong, that’s the coolest secret on the planet, but…I’ve had a crush on the girl who carries drumsticks in her backpack for the longest time now,” he clarifies, resting his forehead against yours.

Your face is absolutely flushed, but a genuine smile graces your features.

“You have such a way with words, Parker. I’m in trouble, aren’t I?” you state, and he meets your gaze with a smirk. 

“Probably. But I have a feeling you like it.”

Before any of this was a bet, Fred Weasley had been shameless about it for two full years before the bet ever existed.

He wasn't subtle. He never tried to be. He'd corner you in corridors just to tell you your hair looked good, hand you the last treacle tart at dinner before you'd even reached for it, materialize at your elbow in Hogsmeade with some excuse about ‘just happening to be going the same way’. Half the school had watched him do it so often it had become a kind of background noise to Hogwarts life, like Peeves or the moving staircases — Fred Weasley, hopelessly gone on you, making absolutely no effort to hide it.

"You're doing it again," you told him once, fourth year, when he'd shown up at the library table where you were studying for no reason except that he'd seen you go in.

"Doing what?"

"Following me around like a lost Kneazle."

"I prefer 'devoted.'" He dropped into the chair across from you, propping his chin on his hand, watching you with the kind of open, unembarrassed adoration that should have been unbearable and somehow, infuriatingly, wasn't. "Also I wasn't following you. I was here first."

"You were not."

"Prove it."

You couldn't, because he'd clearly followed you in, and he knew it, and he grinned at you like getting caught was half the fun.

He flirted with other girls, plenty of them, loudly and cheerfully — but it never once looked the same as whatever this was. With other girls it was a performance, easy and weightless, over the second it stopped being fun for either of them. With you it had teeth in it. It meant something, and everyone could see it meant something, including, eventually, the entire castle.

There was an afternoon in fifth year — you never knew about it, not for a long time — when a Slytherin boy named Warrington had made a comment in the corridor outside the Great Hall, loud enough in a malicious tone for a knot of people to hear, about how you'd 'been through half the boys in your year' and ought to charge admission.

Fred had been three feet away, and something in his face went very still and very cold in a way that people who only knew his easy grin rarely saw.

"Say that again," he said, quiet, which was somehow worse than shouting.

Warrington, sensing an audience and stupidly emboldened by it, said something about how he was "just being honest," and Fred stepped in close enough that the corridor went silent around them.

"She can kiss whoever she wants, however many times she wants, and it's worth exactly nothing to you," Fred said. "You don't get a say in what she does with her own life. And if I hear you talk about her again — if I hear you talk about any girl in this castle like that again — you'll wish McGonagall had gotten to you before I did."

He hadn't hexed him o punch him. Hadn't needed to. Warrington had gone pale and muttered something and left, and by the next week the story had made its way quietly through Gryffindor and half of Hufflepuff, and nobody — not once, in all the time since — ever said anything like that about you again where it could be traced back to a source.

You never found out it was Fred. He never told you, never held it over you, never once used it as leverage in all the months that followed. It simply sat there, one more thing he did for you without expecting anything in return, the kind of thing that made George, who had seen it, look at his twin sometimes like he was trying to solve a puzzle he already knew the answer to.

All Hogwarts had opinions about you, and none of them were particularly kind.

It wasn't just that you moved from person to person without apology — that alone might have earned you a raised eyebrow and nothing more. It was that you did it loudly, unapologetically, with a kind of sharp, biting wit that made you genuinely frightening to cross. You'd been known to reduce a seventh-year Slytherin to stammering silence in the middle of the Great Hall over a comment about your skirt length. You'd hexed a boy's eyebrows off in third year for grabbing your wrist too hard on the dance floor, and never once apologized for it, even when a professor docked house points. You picked fights the way other people picked flowers — easily, often, and without much regard for whether it was strategic.

"She's not exactly warm," a Ravenclaw prefect had said once, within earshot of Lee, not realizing — or not caring — that word traveled. "Fun to watch from a distance. Terrifying up close."

It wasn't entirely fair, and it wasn't entirely wrong either. You were sharp. You picked fights with people who deserved it and let the collateral reputation fall where it may, because defending yourself — and, quietly, defending anyone smaller or softer than you — had always felt safer than being soft yourself. Better to be the girl people whispered about than the girl people could hurt.

This was, more or less, why the rest of Gryffindor found Fred's devotion so baffling. It wasn't that you were unlikeable. It was that loving you looked, from the outside, like signing up for a fight you hadn't started.

"You're an idiot, mate," Lee Jordan said, not unkindly, one evening in the common room a few weeks before the bet, watching Fred watch you across the room with an expression Lee had personally seen aimed at nothing but a decent plate of chips before. "She's turned you down, what, four times now? Five?"

"Six," George supplied helpfully, not looking up from his cards. "I'm keeping a tally."

"She called me an insect last week," George added, half delighted, half baffled, "because I asked if she and Fred someday they would go out and she would be my sister-in-law.. An insect, Fred. Unprovoked."

"You deserved it," Fred said, not looking up from his toast. "You'd been needling her for ten minutes."

"That's not the point. The point is most people would be scared off by that. You're just — encouraged."

"She only bites when she's protecting something," Fred said, simply. "Usually herself. Sometimes other people. It's never actually cruelty, George, it just looks like it if you're not paying attention."

"You're never going to wear her down by mooning at her from across a room," Lee tried again.

"I'm not trying to wear her down," Fred said, mildly. "I'm not a bloody millstone."

"Then what are you doing?"

Fred considered the question with more seriousness than either of them expected. "I like her," he said. "Properly like her. Not the version everyone talks about — the reputation, the casual thing. I like that she memorizes people's likes and dislikes and never tells anyone she does it. I like that she reads the same three books over and over because she says knowing how they end is comforting, not boring. I like that she's rude to people who deserve it and unbearably gentle with everyone who doesn't. I like that she pretends she doesn't care what happens to Kettleburn's ridiculous creatures and then sneaks food to the injured ones at two in the morning." He shrugged, entirely unembarrassed. "I'm not chasing an idea of her. I know her. That's the whole point."

Lee and George exchanged a look.

"You've actually got it bad," Lee said.

"Been saying that for two years," George muttered, and dealt another hand.

"Someone should have thought about why she bites first," Fred added, quieter, almost to himself, "since she's spent five years making sure nobody else bothers."

The thing about Fred Weasley was that he never pretended to be subtle about it.

You'd been at the Three Broomsticks for exactly eleven minutes when he abandoned the sixth-year Ravenclaw girl he'd been leaning over — hand braced on the table, grin doing all the work his mouth hadn't gotten around to yet — because you'd walked past the window. Just walked past it. Hadn't even looked in.

He was outside a minute later, coat half-on, cheeks red from the cold or from running, you couldn't tell which.

"You didn't come in," he said, like it was an accusation.

"I wasn't invited."

"You don't need an invitation, you're — " He gestured at you, vaguely, as if the rest of the sentence was self-evident. "You're you."

Behind him, through the frosted window, the Ravenclaw girl was watching with the particular expression of someone recalculating her entire evening.

"Go back inside, Fred."

"Come with me."

"I have somewhere to be."

You didn't. But it was easier than telling him the truth, which was that being anywhere Fred Weasley was for longer than ten minutes had a way of rearranging things in your chest that you'd worked very hard to keep in order.

He caught your wrist — not hard, just enough that you stopped. "One of these days," he said, "you're going to run out of somewhere to be."

"Careful, Weasley. Almost sounded like a threat."

"It was a promise." He let go, stepped back, and the grin came back like it had never left. "See you at the match Saturday? George says Angelina's captaining us to an early grave but I have faith."

"Wouldn't miss it."

You would have missed it, gladly, except that everyone in Hogwarts had come to understand, without ever being told outright, that watching you and Fred Weasley orbit each other without touching was better entertainment than most of what happened on a Quidditch pitch.

It was Angelina who finally said it out loud, three days later, sprawled across your bed with a Chocolate Frog card held up to the candlelight like she was reading tea leaves instead of Dumbledore's face.

"You know he means it. The thing he says. That you're ‘the love of his life’."

"He says that to everyone."

"He says charming things to everyone. He says ‘you're the love of my life’ only to you. There's a difference." She flicked the card onto your blanket. "He turned down Diane Fenwick at the party last week. Mid-flirt. Because you walked by and glanced at him for maybe two seconds."

"I didn't glance."

"You glanced."

"I was looking for the exit."

Angelina gave you a look you'd been on the receiving end of enough times to recognize instantly — patient, a little exasperated, entirely too knowing. "You like him."

"I like a lot of people. Liking people casually is sort of my whole thing."

"Right. Casual." She said the word like she was testing it for weak spots. "Except you've never once been casual about Fred. You've been very deliberately, very determinedly not about Fred, which isn't the same."

You didn't answer that, because there wasn't a good answer that didn't require unpacking things you'd rather leave packed.

It was true, what people said about you — that you didn't do serious. You did fun, you did easy, you did a few weeks of somebody's attention and then a clean, friendly end before anybody got in too deep. It wasn't cruelty. It was maintenance. You'd learned a long time ago that the deeper a thing got, the more of you it could take when it left, and you had exactly one data point on what that looked like, and it had nearly ended your father.

Fred Weasley was not a few-weeks kind of complication. Fred Weasley was the kind of complication that rearranged furniture in a person's life and didn't apologize for the mess.

So you didn't do Fred. You did everyone except Fred, sometimes rather pointedly, and if his ears went a bit red every time he found out about it, that was his business, not yours.

The bet happened almost by accident, the way the worst — or best — decisions usually do.

It was at Katie Bell's birthday, the common room too warm and too loud, and Fred had been telling some story about the twins' latest almost-catastrophe with a swamp-in-a-teabag prototype, gesturing so widely he knocked over someone's drink, and you'd said, half into your own cup, "You'd never survive being someone's boyfriend for longer than a week, you know. You've got the attention span of a niffler."

The common room didn't go silent, exactly. But it definitely leaned in.

Fred set his drink down very deliberately. "I beg your pardon."

"You heard me."

"I could absolutely be someone's boyfriend."

"For a week. Maybe. Before you got bored, or they got bored, or George set something on fire and you forgot the person existed."

"Name a month," Fred said, "and I'll prove you wrong."

"A month?"

"A month. Thirty days. You pick the person, I'll be the perfect, patient, devoted boyfriend, and you'll eat your words."

And this was the part where you should have laughed it off, should have said 'sure, ask Diane, good luck,’ should have done anything except what you actually did, which was look at him — really look, the way you tried very hard not to — and hear yourself say:

"Me. I'm the person."

The common room, this time, actually did go quiet.

Fred blinked. "You?"

"Me. One month. You be my boyfriend, properly, no cheating, and if you make it thirty days without losing your patience with me — " you paused, because some reckless, self-destructive part of you had already decided to make this as impossible as you could — "I'll stand up in the Great Hall and tell all of Hogwarts I've fallen hopelessly in love with you."

Somewhere behind you, George choked on a Butterbeer.

Fred didn't say anything for a long moment. Then: "And if I lose my patience even once?"

"Then I get to say I was right, and you never bring it up again."

"Deal." He held out his hand, and when you shook it, his grip was warm and sure and didn't let go half a second longer than it should have. "Thirty days, starting tomorrow."

"You're going to lose."

"Maybe." His eyes were bright, delighted, entirely too pleased with himself. "But I've wanted this for two years, love. I'll take losing on these terms over winning on any other."

You went to bed that night with your heart doing something complicated and refused, absolutely refused, to examine it.

You had a plan, and the plan was simple: be exactly difficult enough, exactly often enough, that Fred's patience — which you privately suspected was more myth than fact — would crack within the week.

Day one, you were forty minutes late to meet him at the lake, on purpose, and arrived to find him lying in the grass reading a Quidditch magazine, entirely unbothered.

"You're late," he said, without looking up.

"I got held up."

"Sure you did." He turned a page. "Sit down, I saved you the good spot, the one without the ant hill."

"I didn't say I was staying."

"You didn't say you weren't, either." He patted the grass beside him, and — this was the maddening thing about Fred — he didn't beg, didn't sulk, didn't make you feel guilty for the lateness. He just waited, easy as anything, like your company was worth the wait and the waiting itself wasn't a hardship.

You sat down. You told yourself it was strategic — better to needle him up close.

That first week you noticed, despite yourself, the small things. The way he always split whatever food he had in half without being asked, sliding the bigger portion toward you and pretending he hadn't. The way his handwriting went looping and careless in his own notes but turned neat, almost careful, on the little scraps of parchment he occasionally left folded on your books — a joke, a doodle, once just the words 'you looked tired at breakfast, sleep well tonight’ — as if the difference in penmanship was his way of saying ‘this part is serious, even when I'm not.’

He had a habit, too, of touching the back of his neck when he was nervous, which he almost never was except, you began to realize, around you, in the seconds right after he'd said something that mattered to him and was waiting to see how you'd take it.

You weren't supposed to be cataloguing these things. You did it anyway.

Day four, you flirted, deliberately and obviously, with a Hufflepuff boy in front of him at breakfast, waiting for the flash of jealousy, the crack in his composure. Fred watched for a moment, then turned to George and said, loudly enough for you to hear, "d'you reckon she's trying to make me jealous, or does she actually fancy Wentworth's personality?" and went back to his eggs, apparently unbothered, though you noticed — you always noticed, damn it — that his knuckles had gone white around his fork.

He found you after breakfast anyway. Not angry. Just there, falling into step beside you like nothing had happened, and he'd slipped his own scarf around your neck without asking, because you'd complained about the corridor draft the day before and he'd apparently filed it away like everything else.

"You're not going to ask about Wentworth?"

"Do I need to?"

"Maybe I like him."

"Maybe you do." Fred shrugged, hands in his pockets. "Doesn't change my thirty days. I'm not trying to win you by being the only option, love. I'm trying to win you because I'm the best one."

You had absolutely no response to that, so you didn't give him one, and he seemed content to let the silence sit between you all the way to Transfiguration, his sleeve brushing yours the whole walk, never quite closing the last inch of distance unless you closed it first.

It happened in the middle of the Great Hall, at lunch, with absolutely no warning and no discernible reason, sometime around day ten.

Fred stood up from the Gryffindor table, climbed — actually climbed, one boot on the bench, one on the table itself, ignoring the way plates rattled and pumpkin juice sloshed dangerously close to the edge — and cleared his throat with the exaggerated gravity of a man about to deliver a State of the Union address.

"Fred," you hissed, already feeling your face heat up. "What are you doing."

"Attention, Hogwarts!" he announced, arms spread wide, entirely unbothered by the two hundred faces now turning toward him. "I would like it formally recorded that I am, as of this moment, the luckiest man in this castle, possibly this country, arguably this hemisphere."

"Fred, get down — "

"I am dating," he continued, undeterred, gesturing grandly at you like you were a prize being unveiled at a fair, "the cleverest, funniest, most terrifyingly competent witch in our year, who has, against all odds and several of her own better instincts, agreed to put up with me for thirty days! I would like everyone here to know that I do not, in any way, take this for granted."

Someone at the Hufflepuff table actually started clapping. McGonagall, three seats down at the staff table, had pressed two fingers to her temple in the specific way she did when deciding whether a rule violation was worth the paperwork.

"You're an idiot," you said, hiding your face in your hands, mortified down to your toes, while half the hall laughed and George banged appreciatively on the table.

"A very devoted idiot," Fred corrected, hopping down at last, landing with a flourish, entirely pleased with himself. "Ten points from Gryffindor, probably, but worth it."

He was right. McGonagall docked exactly ten points on his way out of the Hall, muttering something about theatrics under her breath, and Fred didn't look remotely sorry about any of it — grinning at you the whole walk to class, utterly without shame, while you buried your burning face in his shoulder and told him, with zero real conviction, that you were never speaking to him again.

You forgave him by dinner. You suspected he'd known you would would before he even climbed onto the table.

One evening that same week, George cornered his brother by the fire while you were off at something, and asked, half-teasing, half-genuinely baffled, the question that had apparently been bothering both him and Lee for a while now.

"Why do you keep at it? She's said no more times than I can count. Most blokes would've called it after the third."

Fred didn't even look up from the essay he wasn't really writing. "Because she's not actually saying no to me. She's saying no to the version of this that scares her." He tapped his quill against the parchment, thinking. "You know she's got the entire Hogwarts kitchen staff's names memorized? Talks to every one of them like they matter, because to her they do. You know she reorganizes her whole schedule during exam week just to sit with first-years who are panicking, doesn't tell anyone she does it, would be mortified if I brought it up to her face. She picks fights with people who bully smaller kids and never once mentions it afterward like it's something worth being proud of, even though it obviously is."

"That's — a lot of very specific detail, mate."

"I pay attention." Fred finally looked up, and there was nothing performative left in his face at all. "Everyone sees the version of her that flirts and moves on and doesn't stick around. I see the rest of it. The part she doesn't let people see because she thinks it'll get used against her eventually." He shrugged. "I'm not chasing someone who doesn't exist. I know exactly who she is. That's rather the whole problem — once you know, you can't really unknow it."

George didn't have anything to say to that, for once, and simply reached over and clapped his brother on the shoulder instead.

Day twelve, you told him, flatly, over a shared table in the library, that you thought this whole thing was stupid and he should give up now and save you both the trouble.

Fred looked up from his essay, and for once there was no grin, no performance. "Why do you want me to give up?"

"Because you're wasting a month on something that isn't going to end how you want."

"That's my risk to take."

"It's not just your risk. It's mine too, and I don't — " You stopped yourself, aware you'd said more than you meant to.

"You don't what?"

"Nothing. Forget it."

He didn't push. That was the thing about Fred that you hadn't accounted for, hadn't built into your plan at all — you'd expected loudness, persistence that grated, the kind of pressure that would make walking away easy. Instead he gave you room. He noticed when you needed the room and he gave it to you without making a production of it, and somehow that was so much harder to resist than anything else could have been.

It was that same evening, walking back from the library, that he asked, apropos of nothing, "What's your favorite flower?"

"Why do you want to know that?"

"Because I don't know it yet, and I'd like to."

You considered lying, just to be difficult, and then didn't, mostly because the question had caught you off guard enough that the honest answer came out before you'd thought better of it. "Lilies."

"Yeah? Any particular reason?"

"They're the only thing that ever grew properly in the garden at home. My dad planted them the year my mum left, said the garden needed something that would keep coming back even if nobody remembered to look after it. They just do it on their own." You shrugged, embarrassed at how much you'd said. "I don't know. I like that about them."

Fred didn't say anything clever back, for once. He just nodded, filed it away the way he filed everything else, and didn't bring it up again for weeks — not until much later, when he mentioned to Hermione in passing that he wanted to get you lilies for your birthday, and Hermione, delighted and a little smug, informed him that in the old language of flowers, lilies carried a particular meaning: I dare you to love me.

Fred laughed for a solid minute once she told him, half disbelieving, entirely charmed, because of course — of course — the flower you loved without knowing anything about its meaning turned out to be exactly, precisely the dare the two of you were already living inside.

Whatever else you wanted to say about Fred Weasley, this much was true and had always been true, long before the bet: he noticed people. Not in the loud, performative way he flirted — that was for show, mostly, harmless and a little silly — but underneath it, quieter, he actually saw people.

He'd seen you, once, crouched by a first year's trunk in the corridor outside Gryffindor tower, helping a small, frightened boy repack the mess of robes and books he'd spilled everywhere after some older student shoved past him too fast. You hadn't known Fred was there until you stood up and found him leaning against the wall, watching, something unreadable in his face.

He'd seen you with Ginny, too — hadn't said anything at the time, hadn't needed to, but he knew you'd sat with his little sister the night of her first period, scared and embarrassed and not wanting to bother Molly over the holidays, and that you'd talked her through it with the kind of steady, unbothered warmth that made a terrifying thing feel ordinary. Ginny had told him, eventually, in the offhand way siblings share things, and Fred had filed it away like he filed away everything about you — evidence, slowly accumulating, of the person underneath the reputation.

He'd seen you be kind to professors, too, the ones the students mostly ignored or mocked behind their backs — Professor Kettleburn, half-forgotten by the current wave of Care of Magical Creatures students, and you always stayed a few minutes after class to ask him something, anything, because you couldn't stand the idea of someone feeling invisible in their own castle.

None of that was casual. None of it fit the story Hogwarts told about you, the story you told about yourself. Fred had known, for two years, that the girl everyone thought was allergic to seriousness was in fact one of the most quietly serious people he'd ever met — she simply reserved it for everyone except herself.

He didn't say any of this to you. Not yet. But it was why, when you tried to provoke him, tried to be difficult and prickly and impossible, he never quite managed to be as frustrated as you wanted him to be. He wasn't fighting the version of you that you were trying to perform. He was fighting for the version he'd already seen.

What you didn't expect — what genuinely surprised you, somewhere around the second week — was how much you had started noticing about him.

You noticed that he was left-handed but wrote with his right because a teacher had corrected him as a child and he'd never bothered to switch back, and that when he was truly exhausted, past the point of performing anything for anyone, his handwriting would slip back to the left without him seeming to realize it.

You noticed the small scar above his eyebrow that he'd gotten from a garden gnome incident at age nine, which he told you about with such delighted, self-deprecating detail that you'd laughed until your ribs hurt.

You noticed that he hummed under his breath when he was concentrating on something fiddly — usually a prototype for one of the twins' inventions — and that the humming stopped entirely the second he thought someone was watching, like he was embarrassed by a habit that was, in fact, one of the more endearing things about him.

You noticed that he always let George take credit for the funnier of their jokes in front of teachers, quietly stepping back so his twin could have the moment, and that he never once seemed to mind.

You noticed the way his ears went pink before the rest of his face did, every single time, a full half-second warning system for whatever he was about to say.

None of this was information you had gone looking for. It had simply accumulated, the way sand collects in the folds of a coat without anyone noticing they've been to the beach, and by the time you realized how much you knew about Fred Weasley that had nothing to do with his reputation, it was already far, far too late to pretend you hadn't been paying attention.

It happened on day sixteen, in a mostly empty corridor after dinner, torchlight throwing long shadows, and you weren't entirely sure afterward which of you moved first.

You'd been arguing — not seriously, the kind of argument that was mostly banter with teeth — about whether he'd cheated by having George slip you compliments on his behalf—he hadn't, George had done it entirely of his own accord, delighted by the whole arrangement—, and somewhere in the middle of your sentence Fred had simply stepped closer and kissed you.

It was not a gentle, testing kiss. It was two years of 'almost finally’ allowed to happen, and for several long seconds you kissed him back like you meant it, like your hands hadn't fisted in his shirt entirely on their own, like this was easy, like this was nothing.

Then you pulled back, breathing unsteady, and said the cruelest thing you could find fast enough to reach for:

"I've kissed better than you, Weasley. You're not the first, and you won't be the one who makes me fall for anyone."

You watched it land. Watched something flicker across his face — hurt, quick and real, before he shuttered it.

"Alright," he said, quietly.

"Alright?"

"You're allowed to say that. Doesn't mean I believe it." He tucked his hands in his pockets, and there was none of the usual performance in his voice, just something steadier and sadder. "But you don't kiss someone like that if you're trying to convince them you don't feel anything. You might want to work on your delivery."

He walked away before you could answer, and you stood alone in the corridor for a long time, furious at him for being right and furious at yourself for kissing him like you meant it, because you had.

The next Quidditch match fell three days later, Gryffindor against Ravenclaw, and Fred found you at breakfast that morning with a piece of chalk-paint and an expression far too pleased with itself.

"You're coming to watch."

"I always come to watch."

"You're coming to watch as my girlfriend, which means you're required, by ancient and binding tradition, to wear my number." He was already reaching for your cheek before you'd agreed to anything, carefully painting a small, crooked 5 just below your cheekbone, tongue between his teeth in concentration like it was the most important spellwork he'd ever attempted.

"This is ridiculous."

"This is tradition." He leaned back to inspect his work, grinning. "There. Perfect. Now everyone in the stands will know exactly who you're cheering for."

"I could cheer for you without face paint, Fred."

"You could. But this is more fun." He kissed the corner of your mouth, quick, easy, like it cost him nothing at all to be that soft with you in front of half the Gryffindor table, and jogged off toward the pitch before you could tell him to stop grinning like an idiot.

You cheered loudest for him that match, whether you meant to or not, and when he help to scored — showing off, clearly, doing an entirely unnecessary loop before landing — he looked straight up into the stands and found your face in the crowd like he'd known exactly where to look the whole time.

The invitation came two days before the holidays, delivered with the kind of casualness Fred clearly hoped would disguise how much he wanted you to say yes.

"Mum's doing Christmas at ours. Everyone'll be there. You should come."

"Fred, we're in the middle of a bet. I don't think 'meet the family' is part of the terms."

"It's not a term. It's an invitation." He shrugged, but his ears had gone slightly pink, the way they did when he was hoping harder than he wanted to admit. "You don't have to. But I'd like you there. And Ginny's been asking, and Mum already knows about you — "

"Your mum knows about me?"

"Ginny wrote her a very detailed letter. I had no editorial control." He grinned, but it softened almost immediately. "Come. Please."

You went. You told yourself it was for the sake of the bet, optics, keeping up appearances — you did not tell yourself the truth, which was that some small, starved part of you wanted, badly, to know what it felt like to be somewhere a family actually wanted you.

The Burrow was chaos in the best way you'd ever seen it — crooked, warm, impossibly full of noise and love in a way that made your chest ache before you'd even taken your coat off. Molly Weasley hugged you like she'd known you for years, pulled you into the kitchen, put a mug of something hot in your hands before you'd said a full sentence, and asked about your classes with a warmth so unguarded it nearly undid you on the spot.

"Fred talks about you constantly," Molly said, conspiratorially, stirring something on the stove. "Has done for ages. I was starting to think we'd never actually meet you."

"He's — persistent."

"He's smitten, dear, there's a difference, and don't let him tell you otherwise." Molly's eyes crinkled with quiet amusement, and then, gentler: "You look tired. Not sleep-tired. The other kind."

You hadn't expected to be seen that clearly, that fast, by someone you'd known for twenty minutes, and it knocked something loose in you that you weren't prepared for.

"I'm alright."

"You don't have to be, in this house. Whatever you're carrying, you can put it down here a while." Molly patted your hand once, brisk and warm, and went back to her stirring like she hadn't just cracked something open in your chest with a sentence.

The days passed, the afternoon turned bright and cold, and the whole yard behind the Burrow dissolved into an impromptu game — some chaotic Weasley variant of tag crossed with a made-up Quidditch drill, played entirely on foot because Ron insisted his broom needed ‘repairs’ that suspiciously coincided with him being terrible at flying that week. Ginny recruited you onto her team without asking, on the grounds that you ‘looked fast,’ and George immediately declared this an outrage and demanded a trade.

Fred ended up on the opposite team, which meant the entire game rapidly stopped being about the actual rules and became almost exclusively about the two of you trying to tackle each other into the frost-hardened grass, laughing too hard to actually catch anyone properly.

"That's cheating," you shouted, when he scooped you clean off your feet to stop you scoring past him, spinning you half around before setting you down, both of you breathless and pink-cheeked from the cold.

"Everything's fair in love and backyard Quidditch."

"You made that up just now."

"Doesn't make it less true." He was grinning at you in a way that had nothing performative left in it at all, snow-dusted and delighted, and for one unguarded moment you grinned back just as helplessly, forgetting, entirely, that this had ever started as a bet.

From the kitchen window, Molly and Arthur stood side by side, drying dishes that had long since stopped needing drying, watching the two of you chase each other across the yard.

"She's laughing," Molly said, quietly, like it mattered. "Really laughing. Have you seen her do that before?"

Arthur shook his head, smiling. "Not like that." He nudged his wife gently. "Reminds me of someone else I used to watch through a window, actually."

Molly swatted him with the dish towel, but she was still smiling when she turned back to the glass.

Dinner that night was loud and enormous, plates passed hand to hand faster than anyone could track, Fred's knee pressed warm against yours under the table the entire meal, and it was somewhere in the middle of the noise and the warmth and the sheer, overwhelming muchness of the Weasley family that it slipped out of you before you'd caught it.

"Could you pass the potatoes, Mum?"

The table didn't go silent all at once. It went silent in pieces, the way a held breath does, Ron's fork stopping halfway to his mouth, Ginny's eyes going wide, George actually turning to look at you properly for the first time all dinner.

You heard it a half-second after you'd said it, the word sitting in the air long after it left your mouth, and your face went hot with a mortification so total it felt like drowning.

"I — sorry, I didn't — " Your chair scraped back before you'd finished the sentence. "Excuse me."

You were up the stairs before anyone could stop you, into the first empty room you found, door shut, back against it, hands pressed to your burning face, humiliation crashing over you in waves you couldn't seem to get ahead of.

Hermione found you there less than a minute later — she'd been at the table too, had followed without a word, and simply sat down on the floor beside you without asking permission or offering platitudes.

"That was mortifying," you said, voice thick.

"It was an accident. Nobody thought anything of it."

"Everybody thought something of it, Hermione, I just called Molly Weasley ‘Mum’ in front of her entire actual family and Fred and — " Your voice cracked. "I don't even know where that came from. I don't call anyone that. I haven't had anyone to call that in five years."

"Maybe that's exactly where it came from," Hermione said, gently. "You've been sitting in a house that feels like what you didn't get to have. It doesn't mean anything's wrong with you. It means you noticed something you needed."

You didn't have an answer to that, and Hermione, wisely, didn't push for one, just sat with you on the floor until your breathing evened out.

It was Fred who came up eventually, knocking once before letting himself in, dropping onto the floor across from you with the specific, careful casualness of someone who'd clearly rehearsed several serious speeches on the stairs and decided, at the last second, against every single one of them.

"So," he said. "Word around the house is you've adopted my mother."

You groaned into your hands. "Fred."

"I'm only saying, if this keeps up you'll technically outrank me. Mum's had five sons and a daughter, and you managed it in one dinner. Efficient, really."

"I want to disappear."

"Don't. I like you visible." He nudged your knee with his. "For what it's worth, Mum nearly cried into the gravy boat after you left the table. Good tears. She's been saying for weeks she hoped you'd feel comfortable enough here to slip up exactly like that."

You peeked at him through your fingers. "You're not going to let me be embarrassed about this in peace, are you."

"Not a chance. It's far too good material." But his voice had gone soft underneath the teasing, and he reached over, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear with a gentleness that didn't match the joking at all. "You didn't do anything wrong. You just felt safe somewhere for a second and it came out sideways. That's not something to apologize for, love. That's just a house doing its job."

You let yourself laugh, finally, shaky and real, and let him pull you up off the floor and back down to a dinner that had, mercifully, moved on to arguing about dessert by the time you returned.

Later that night, unable to sleep, you found Fred out by the garden fence, staring up at a sky far too full of stars for anywhere near a city, and settled beside him without a word.

"Can I tell you something nobody outside my family knows?" he asked, after a while, voice quieter than you were used to hearing from him.

"Of course."

"George and I want to open a joke shop. A real one — Diagon Alley, our own name on the door, everything we've ever built and tested finally getting sold properly instead of confiscated by Filch." He picked at the fence post, not quite meeting your eyes. "Mum thinks it's a phase. Dad's supportive but worried, because it's not exactly a stable career, is it, and everyone assumes we'll end up doing something safer eventually because that's what's expected." He exhaled. "We've got savings hidden away. Not much. Enough to start, maybe, someday, if we're careful and lucky. But I don't really tell people that part, the plan, because it's — it's the thing I actually want, underneath all the jokes, and it feels like it'd hurt more than usual if someone laughed at it."

"I'm not going to laugh at it."

"I know. That's rather why I told you." He glanced over, something unguarded and slightly nervous in his face — the same look you'd catalogued weeks ago, right before he said something that mattered. "You're one of maybe four people who know that's real and not just a running joke with George."

"For what it's worth," you said, quietly, "I think it's a brilliant idea. And I think you'll actually do it. You're the most relentlessly clever person I've ever met, when you're not busy being an idiot about girls."

"Only one girl," Fred said, "and she's sitting right here," and you let him take your hand in the dark without pulling away, both of you quiet for a long time after that, comfortable in a way that had nothing to do with a bet at all.

"My mum left," you said, eventually, into the dark. "When I was eleven. Told my dad she couldn't do it anymore — couldn't do me anymore, said living with us would kill her. She wasn't wrong to leave, probably. But she made it sound like I was the reason staying wasn't possible."

Fred didn't say anything for a moment. Then: "That's not love talking. That's her limits talking. Those aren't the same thing, even if it felt like they were."

"You don't know that."

"I know you helped a terrified eleven-year-old with her first period because you didn't want her to feel alone with something scary. I know you sit with Kettleburn because you can't stand the idea of him feeling forgotten. I know you shoved half your dinner at a first year last week because his trunk got trampled and he looked like he hadn't eaten." He looked at you, steady, unflinching. "You are not difficult to love. You're just used to people who weren't equipped to try."

You didn't have an answer for that. You let him keep the silence with you instead, and for the first time in longer than you could remember, the quiet didn't feel like something you had to fill or flee.

You wrote to your father that week, from the Burrow's kitchen table while Molly hummed over the stove, and found yourself telling him more than you'd meant to — about the noise and the warmth of the house, about Fred, about the word that had slipped out at dinner and the shame that had followed it.

His answer came back three days later, his familiar cramped handwriting filling both sides of the parchment.

'You don't have to feel guilty for wanting a full table, love. I've watched you build yourself into someone who doesn't need anyone, these last five years, and I've let you, because I didn't know how to teach you otherwise while I was busy learning it myself. But your mother leaving wasn't a rule about what happens to people who let themselves be loved. It was one woman's limit, not a law of the universe. I've thought that every day since, and I should have said it to you sooner. If this Weasley boy makes you feel like a full table is possible again, don't apologize for it. Let yourself have it. We're a good team, you and I, always have been — but a team of two was never meant to be the whole shape of your life."

You read it twice, sitting very still at the Weasleys' kitchen table, and folded it carefully into your pocket instead of your trunk, where you could find it easily whenever you needed to.

Back at Hogwarts after the holidays, the little things kept accumulating, on both sides, in a way neither of you commented on directly.

Fred gave you his jumper without being asked, the first properly cold morning back, sliding it over your head before you'd finished complaining about the temperature in the corridor, sleeves swallowing your hands entirely. He saved you breakfast on the mornings you slept through your alarm, wrapped in a napkin and left on your usual seat with a scrawled note 'eat something,’ before he'd gone to Quidditch practice. He fixed your hair without thinking about it, tucking a strand behind your ear mid-conversation the way you'd catalogued him doing for weeks, an absent, easy gesture that had nothing showy in it at all.

You, in turn, had started doing things you didn't fully notice yourself doing until Angelina pointed it out over lunch one day.

"You've been carrying an extra quill in your bag for two weeks."

"So?"

"Fred's quills keep exploding because George keeps testing prototypes on them. You've been quietly replacing his without him asking." Angelina raised an eyebrow. "You also started reminding him to eat when he skips lunch because he's too deep in some invention to notice he's hungry."

"I haven't — " You stopped, because you had, actually, done all of those things, without deciding to, the way you'd apparently decided things about Fred a long time before you'd agreed to admit it.

"You're taking care of him," Angelina said, not unkindly. "You've just been doing it so quietly you didn't clock it as anything."

You didn't have a response to that, mostly because it was true, and because some part of you had apparently started treating Fred's wellbeing as something worth quietly managing long before you'd agreed this was anything more than a bet.

There were other things, too, that you only noticed because you were looking for reasons to stop noticing him, and kept finding the opposite.

You once braced for him to say something petty about a boy you'd dated briefly the year before. Instead Fred just shrugged. "He seemed alright. Didn't work out, clearly, but I've no interest in trashing someone just to make myself look better by comparison. Not really my style."

When Angelina needed to talk to you privately during a Hogsmeade trip, Fred didn't sulk about being excluded or ask what it was about. He simply said, "Take your time, I'll get us a table," and did exactly that, without a single pointed question when you returned.

He'd shout compliments across the Great Hall without a shred of embarrassment, but the second you were alone and something had actually gone wrong — a bad grade, an argument, a bad day — his teasing dropped instantly, replaced by something quieter and far more careful, like he understood the difference between performance and the moments that actually mattered.

None of it was dramatic. All of it, taken together, was somehow harder to argue with than any grand gesture could have been.

It hit you at the most ordinary moment — Fred's hand laced through yours at breakfast, nothing dramatic, nothing new — and still your chest went tight and your pulse spiked and some old animal part of your brain screamed this is too much, this is too close, this is exactly the kind of thing that gets taken away.

You excused yourself before anyone noticed, made it to an empty corridor, and stood there with your back against cold stone, breathing hard, furious at your own body for betraying you over something as small as a held hand.

Fred found you five minutes later — you hadn't heard him follow, hadn't wanted him to — and didn't touch you, didn't crowd you, just stood a careful few feet away.

"You don't have to tell me what that was," he said quietly. "But I'm not going anywhere, whatever it was. Take whatever time you need."

"I don't understand why this is so hard," you admitted, voice cracking. "It's just a hand. It's nothing. Why does nothing feel like everything with you?"

"Because it isn't nothing to you," Fred said gently. "It hasn't been nothing in a long time. That's allowed to be frightening. It doesn't mean you're broken for finding it hard."

He didn't bring it up again after that — no careful check-ins over breakfast, no meaningful looks — just quiet, steady normalcy that let you decide, on your own timeline, whenever you wanted to explain it further. You didn't, not for a while. He never once made you feel like you owed him the explanation sooner.

The closer you got to the end of the bet, the less it felt like a bet and the more it felt like something... natural, something that was always meant to be.

It happened on an ordinary Tuesday, late, the common room fire burned down to embers, most of Gryffindor tower gone up to bed. You'd been curled against Fred's side on the sofa, half-listening to him and George argue happily about a Filibuster firework variant, and at some point, without deciding to, you'd simply fallen asleep against his shoulder.

Fred noticed the exact moment it happened — your breathing evening out, the weight of you settling fully against him — and went very, very still, like any movement might undo it.

"Oi, don't wake her," he hissed, when Lee came thundering down the stairs a few minutes later with some story that clearly required a loud audience.

Lee stopped dead, took in the sight of you asleep against Fred, and grinned slowly. "Oh, this is precious."

"Lee, I will hex you."

"Wouldn't dream of waking her." Lee lowered his voice to an exaggerated whisper, which somehow drew more attention than his normal volume would have, and George, delighted, immediately shushed the common room with the enthusiasm of someone orchestrating a very important event.

"Everyone quiet, Fred's got a girl asleep on him and he looks like Christmas came early."

"I hate all of you," Fred whispered, and did not move an inch, one arm curled carefully around you, expression so unguardedly happy that Angelina — arriving from the girls' dormitory, hand in George's the second she reached the bottom step, since the two of them had gotten together earlier that term — actually laughed out loud at the sight of him.

"Someone get a camera," she said. "This is going in a frame."

Someone did, in fact, get a camera — Colin Creevey, roused from his dormitory by the commotion and thrilled beyond measure to be included — and the photograph that resulted, developed and delivered the next morning, showed you fast asleep against Fred's shoulder, his arm around you, his face turned slightly toward you instead of the camera, wearing an expression of such uncomplicated happiness that even you, seeing it for the first time, felt something in your chest go soft and unguarded.

Fred kept that photograph in his trunk for the rest of the year, tucked inside the cover of his Charms textbook where nobody but him would think to look.

You woke an hour later, disoriented, to find the common room mostly empty and Fred still exactly where he'd been, patient, unmoving, one hand resting loosely against your hair.

"You didn't wake me up."

"Didn't want to." He smiled, soft in the low firelight. "You looked like you needed it. Figured Lee's shouting could happen literally anywhere else in the castle."

"How long was I out?"

"Hour, give or take. George took a photo. Fair warning, it's going to end up somewhere embarrassing eventually."

You should have minded that. You found, somewhat alarmingly, that you didn't.

All that new familiarity, this affection, awakened something in you had come loose and frightened, and you did what you always did when things got too real too fast: you reached for the one language you trusted completely.

You sent Fred a note — the password to the prefects' bathroom, a time, nothing else. He arrived to find candles floating over water gone opal-soft with bubbles, and you, waiting, dropping your robe with a steadiness you didn't feel, offering him exactly the kind of easy, physical, uncomplicated thing you knew how to give without breaking.

Fred didn't move toward you. He looked, for one unguarded second, and then very deliberately looked away, reaching for a towel and holding it out instead.

"Put this on."

"Fred — "

"I'm not doing this." His voice was gentle, but there was no give in it. "Not like this. Not because you got scared and this is easier than talking about it."

Something in you flared, humiliated. "I'm offering you exactly what you've wanted for two years and you're turning it down?"

"I've wanted you. All of you. Not the part you hand out easy so the rest stays safe." He kept his eyes carefully, deliberately on your face, patient even now, even with you furious and half-dressed and lashing out. "If we do this — when we do this — it's going to be because you want me, not because you're trying to prove something's still simple between us. That's not a punishment. That's just — that's what I want it to mean, when it happens."

"You're an idiot," you said, voice thick.

"Probably. Ask George." He held the towel a little further out. "Get dressed. I'll wait outside. We can still talk, if you want to."

You didn't talk that night. But you didn't send him away either, and something about the walk back to the common room in silence, his hand loosely, carefully not-quite-touching yours the whole way, felt like the first honest thing that had passed between you in weeks.

It happened on day twenty-four, and it was, in retrospect, almost funny how small the argument actually was.

Fred had made plans — dinner, just the two of you, sneaked down to the kitchens with help from a very smug house-elf — and you'd cancelled at the last minute with a flimsy excuse—Just because your self-destructive side was faster than your new feelings—, then been caught twenty minutes later by George, laughing easily with a Ravenclaw boy in the library, clearly not otherwise occupied at all.

Fred found you afterward, jaw tight, some of the easy warmth gone out of his face entirely.

"You lied to me."

"I didn't lie, I just — didn't feel like dinner."

"You didn't feel like dinner with me, so you made something up instead of just saying so." His voice had an edge to it you'd never heard directed at you before, frustration finally breaking through weeks of careful patience. "Do you know how that looks? I planned something, I told the elves, I was excited, and you couldn't even be bothered to tell me the truth instead of making something up."

"I didn't think it mattered that much — "

"It mattered to me!" It came out louder than he meant it to, echoing slightly in the empty corridor, and you both went still, startled by it. Fred's hands had curled into fists at his sides, and for one long, terrible second you thought, with something like grim vindication, 'there it is. There's the crack. He's finally done’.

Then you watched him catch himself. Watched him take a breath, visibly, deliberately, and unclench his hands one finger at a time.

"I need a minute," he said, quieter now, strained but controlled. "I'm not — I don't want to say something I can't take back. Give me a minute."

He walked a short distance away, back to you, shoulders tight, and you stood there in the sudden quiet feeling something you hadn't expected to feel at all: not triumph, but a strange, unfamiliar guilt.

When he turned back around, a minute or two later, his voice was steadier, though his eyes were still bright with the leftover heat of it.

"That hurt," he said, simply. "I'm not going to pretend it didn't. You lied to me over something small, and it stung more than something small should, because I keep hoping you'll trust me enough not to need to." He exhaled. "But I'm not giving up on you. Not over this, not over one bad night. I got frustrated, and I'm allowed to get frustrated, and I'm telling you honestly instead of swallowing it — but that's different from losing patience with you. I haven't. I'm still here."

"I thought you'd bolt," you admitted, quiet, thrown by your own honesty. "I thought that was it. I thought I'd finally found the thing that would make you stop."

"I'm not your mother," Fred said, gently, echoing Hermione's words from weeks before without knowing it. "Getting annoyed isn't the same as leaving. I'm allowed to be human about this without it meaning I'm done with you."

You reached for his hand, and this time it was you who didn't let go first. "I'm sorry, i-i get scared…again.That wasn't fair, what I did,"

"No," he agreed. "It wasn't. But I forgive you, and I'd still rather have dinner with you tomorrow than not have you at all." He squeezed your hand once. "Next time, just tell me the truth. Even if the truth is you'd rather have a night alone. I can handle that far better than I can handle being lied to."

The habit didn't stay confined to Fred, and it hadn't started with him, either — which was, in its own strange way, some comfort a few days later, when Hermione was the one who felt the edge of it.

You picked the fight with her over something so small you could barely remember it afterward — a comment about a shared essay, a joke that landed wrong — and escalated it far past where it needed to go, voice sharp, words chosen precisely because you knew they'd sting.

Hermione didn't yell back. She just went quiet, hurt clear on her face, and said, "Why are you doing this? I didn't do anything to deserve that."

The question landed like a slap, mostly because you didn't have a good answer. You apologized within the hour, mortified, but the pattern was old enough that Hermione recognized it before you did.

"You do this when you're scared," she said later, gently, no accusation in it. "You did it to Fred a lot of times. You're doing it to me now. It's like you need to test whether people will still want you around after you've been at your worst — and it's exhausting for the people on the other end, even when they understand why."

"I'm not trying to hurt you."

"I know. But you are, a little, and I'd rather you just told me you were scared instead."

It happened again later, worse, with Fred himself, though this time you knew exactly what you were doing even as you did it.

You told him, unprompted, that you thought the entire relationship had been a mistake, that you'd been counting down the days until you could stop pretending.

It wasn't true. You knew it wasn't true the second it left your mouth. But some old, frightened part of you needed to see what his face did when you said it — needed, badly, to catch him in the act of finally, finally giving up on you, so you could point at it and say see, ‘I told you so’ and never have to risk this again.

Fred went very still. Then, quietly: "That's not what you actually think."

"How would you know?"

"Because you've been leaving me notes in my Charms book and you cried actual tears telling me about your mom and your dad and you fell asleep against my shoulder in the common room like it was the safest place you'd been in years. People who think something's a mistake don't do any of that." He wasn't angry, just steady, watching you with something that looked uncomfortably like understanding. "You're trying to make me leave first so it doesn't feel like your fault when it happens. I'm not going to do that for you."

You didn't have an answer. You went to bed that night furious at yourself, and it was Hermione, again, who found you crying about it afterward, who said nothing except I know and let you sit with the shame of it until it passed.

The letter had been sitting under your pillow for eleven days.

It was from your half-brother — a name you'd known about only distantly, a fact more than a person, the son your mother had gone on to have after she left, at a school in the north with a name that sounded cold even to say. He'd written to you out of nowhere, careful, hesitant handwriting, saying he'd like to meet you, if you'd be willing. He didn't mention your mother beyond a single line: ‘she's not really part of my life either, not the way you'd think’.

You hadn't answered. You weren't sure you could.

Hermione was the one who finally asked about it directly, catching sight of the parchment corner poking from your bag. "Are you going to write back?"

"I don't know what I'd even say."

"You don't have to know everything before you start. You could just say hello."

"He's got the same mother who thought staying with us would kill her. What if he's — what if there's something about the way she raised him that means he'll leave too, eventually, the second I'm inconvenient?"

"Or," Hermione said, carefully, "he's a kid who never got a sister and is trying, awkwardly, to have one. That doesn't mean he inherited anything except her handwriting."

You looked at the letter a long time that night before you finally wrote back — three sentences, tentative, an agreement to meet during the Tournament, when the delegations were all at the castle together. It felt like the bravest thing you'd done in years, and also the smallest.

By the last days of the bet, something had settled between you that no longer felt like performance at all.

You'd started sitting together at breakfast without any prompting, your hand finding his under the table as easily as breathing. He walked you to class even when it took him wildly out of his way. You'd started leaving your own notes back, tucked into his books — nothing profound, sometimes just ‘good luck in practice’ or a badly drawn picture of George's face — and he kept every single one.

"Twenty-eight days," Fred said one evening, lying beside you in the grass by the lake, fingers laced loosely through yours. "Two to go."

"Feels strange, doesn't it. Counting down to the end of something."

"Doesn't have to be the end of anything." He turned his head to look at you, something hopeful and a little nervous in his face, the look you'd catalogued weeks ago. "I know how this started. But it doesn't have to stop just because the thirty days run out. I'd rather this kept going. Properly. No bet attached to it at all."

"I know," you said, and found, to your own quiet astonishment, that you meant it entirely. "I'd like that too."

He kissed you then, slow and unhurried, nothing like the first kiss weeks before that you'd tried so hard to undercut with a cruel joke. This one you didn't pull away from. This one you leaned into, both hands fisted gently in his shirt, and when you finally broke apart he rested his forehead against yours, breathing uneven, smiling in the dark.

"Two more days," he murmured.

"Two more days," you agreed, and let yourself, for the first time in five years, imagine what came after without flinching from it.

Your brother's name was Kirill, and he was younger than you by two years, gangly and awkward in his Durmstrang uniform, with your mother's eyes and none of her coldness that you could find, not yet, not in the hour you spent with him in a quiet alcove near the courtyard.

He talked too fast, nervous, told you about his father — not yours, a stepfather who'd never quite warmed to him — about a mother who was, in his words, ‘around, but not really there, not for either of us, I think’. Somewhere in the middle of him showing you a battered photograph of a ship he wanted to sail someday, something in your chest cracked open with a feeling that wasn't grief exactly, more like relief: 'it wasn't just me. It was never just me.’

When he finally, awkwardly, hugged you goodbye — stiff-armed, unpracticed, clearly unused to affection — you were laughing, eyes bright with tears you hadn't let fall, cheeks flushed from the cold courtyard air and the strange, enormous feeling of maybe, possibly, gaining something instead of losing it.

Fred saw you like that. From across the courtyard, half-turned toward the castle doors, he saw you wrapped around a Durmstrang boy, laughing, glowing, happier than he'd seen you in the entire month he'd been trying to earn exactly that look.

He didn't wait to find out who it was. He turned around and walked back inside, something cold and quiet settling into his chest, and told himself, with the particular, practiced ease of someone protecting a heart he'd handed over freely: 'of course. Of course it was never really me’. She was always going to find someone easier to be happy with.

Fred didn't confront you. That was almost worse.

For the last day he was polite — cordial, even, still technically your boyfriend, still technically inside the bounds of the bet — but the warmth had gone out of it, replaced by a careful, controlled distance that felt like watching a fire go out one ember at a time. He didn't seek you out at meals. He didn't find you in corridors. When you spoke, his answers were short, correct, and utterly without the teasing warmth you'd only just let yourself start expecting.

"What's going on with you?" you finally asked, cornering him outside the library.

"Nothing. Everything's fine."

"You're lying."

"I saw you," he said, finally, voice tight, "with him. In the courtyard. Looking happier than you've looked with me all month." He wasn't looking at you, jaw set hard. "I'm not angry. You're allowed to want someone else. I just — I'd rather know now than keep pretending for the sake of a bet you never wanted to lose anyway."

You stared at him, and for a second you almost laughed, except it wasn't funny, it was awful, this entire month reduced to a single misread hug.

"Fred. That was my brother."

He blinked. "Your — what?"

"My half-brother. From Durmstrang. My mother's son." Your voice was shaking now, some mixture of fury and relief and old grief all tangled together. "The letter I've been avoiding — I finally answered it. I met him for the first time today. He hugged me because neither of us have ever had a sibling, and I was crying because for once in my life something about my mother didn't feel like it was going to hurt, and you thought — you actually thought — "

"I didn't know." His voice cracked, just slightly, guilt flooding in fast behind it. "I'm sorry. I should have asked. I should have come and asked instead of just — deciding."

"Yeah," you said, some of the fight going out of you, replaced by something rawer. "You should have."

"I was scared," he admitted, quiet now, all the careful distance gone. "The whole month I've been terrified you'd wake up one day and realize you didn't actually want any of this, that I'd just worn you down instead of actually winning you over, and then I saw you look at someone like that, and every fear I've had for two years just — came true, all at once, before I could stop it."

You let the silence sit a moment, let both of you breathe through it.

"I'm not in love with my brother, Fred."

"I know that now."

"Are you still in love with me?"

"I have been for two years," he said, simply, no performance left in it at all. "That's never been the question. The question's always been whether you'd let yourself believe it."

Day thirty one arrived on a grey, ordinary Tuesday, and you stood at the doors of the Great Hall with your heart going faster than it had any right to, watching four long tables full of people who had, whether you liked it or not, spent a month watching this exact thing unfold.

Fred was at the Gryffindor table, not looking at you, giving you the space to do this on your own terms, which was, you thought, exactly like him.

You didn't need to stand on a table or make a speech dramatic enough for the whole month to deserve. You simply walked to the middle of the hall, waited for enough eyes to land on you that the room quieted on its own, and said, plainly, "I lost the bet."

A ripple went through the hall. Somewhere near the Gryffindor table, George was already grinning like Christmas had come early.

"Fred Weasley did not lose his patience with me once in thirty days, which is either the greatest feat of patience in Hogwarts history or proof I'm not nearly as difficult to love as I've spent the last five years convincing everyone, including myself." Your voice wavered, just slightly, and you let it. "So. I fell for him. Completely, embarrassingly, against every plan I had. I'm in love with Fred Weasley."

The hall erupted — laughter, a few cheers, someone, definitely George, actually applauding — and Fred was already crossing the hall toward you, disbelief and hope and something helplessly fond all fighting for space on his face.

"You didn't have to do the whole hall," he said, when he reached you, voice low, just for you now. "A quiet word would've done."

"You didn't win a quiet bet. You won loudly, in front of everyone. Seemed fair you got your answer the same way."

"I love you," he said, like it was easy, like it had always been easy, like the only hard part had ever been getting you to a place where you could hear it without flinching.

"I know," you said. "I love you too. Try not to let it go to your head."

"Too late," Fred said, and kissed you in the middle of the Great Hall, in front of all of Hogwarts, like he'd been waiting two years for exactly this moment and finally, finally, wasn't waiting anymore.

Later, much later, curled together by the lake with his jacket around your shoulders and his fingers laced loosely through yours, you asked him the question you'd been sitting with since the courtyard.

"What would you have done? If it really had been someone else. If I really had wanted out."

Fred was quiet a moment, thoughtful in a way that had nothing to do with the easy performance he gave the rest of the world. "Let you go," he said, finally. "Badly. Probably pathetically. But I wouldn't have made you stay somewhere you didn't want to be, no matter how much it would've wrecked me." He looked at you, steady. "Wanting you was never about winning, love. It was always just wanting you happy, even in the version where that didn't include me."

You thought of your mother, then, the version of leaving that had nothing to do with love and everything to do with limits she wasn't equipped to hold. And you thought of Fred — thirty days of staying, of noticing, of giving you room instead of pressure, of a hand held out with a towel instead of taken advantage of, of a moment of real frustration met with honesty instead of an exit.

Not everyone who could leave, would. Not everyone who loved you was destined to find you too difficult to keep.

"Good," you said, finally, resting your head against his shoulder. "Because I'm not going anywhere."

"Neither am I," Fred said. "Never was." He reached into his pocket, a little sheepishly, and produced — of all things — a slightly crumpled lily, clearly transfigured rather than grown, given the season. "Hermione told me what these mean. In the old language. Apparently I've been daring you to love me since October without even knowing the word for it."

“You’re so dependable, my friend.” Phainon says with a smile. “Checkmate”. He holds the white knight piece in his fingers, moving it in the L-formation to bump against Dan Heng’s king. The black king tips over onto the board with a light clatter. 

Dan Heng frowns.

“Woah. Someone actually managed to beat Dan Heng at chess? That’s a first.” You pipe up from beside Phainon. You’re lounging on the wine-red seats of the parlor car, belly down and propped up by your elbows. Almost all of the pieces are crowded around the edge of the coffee table, taken in a back-and-forth battle between the two players. “How did you manage to pull that off?”

“It’s all about predicting the battlefield.” Phainon replies proudly. “I was lucky enough to have the esteemed Imperator as my mentor.” He leans onto the backrest of the seats and glances at Dan Heng. “And an audience worth putting up a fight for.” 

“It seems that the esteemed imperator did not teach you basic chess etiquette,” Dan Heng counters. The loss of a game, especially in front of you, stings. He picks up the black king, setting it right side up on the board. “Your last action was a violation of touch-move rules. A player should never make contact with the opposing side’s pieces, with the exception of a capture. According to volume 5 of the IPC’s official galactic chess federation rulebook, such a fault would result in a time penalty during the match.”

“Come now, my friend. No need to be so formal.” Phainon replies with an easy smile. “A time penalty is hardly possible now, unless my partner here remembers how to use Oronyx’s prayer outside of Amphoreus.” 

Dan Heng is steadfast. “In this case, I believe a rematch is in order to determine the best possible outcome.” 

“A rematch?” Phainon asks, the corners of his mouth quirking upwards. “Of course. Wouldn’t want to leave you unfinished.” 

“A rematch?” Your eyes light up. “I’ll do you one better. Whoever wins this round gets to decide what’s for dinner, on me.” 

“Perfect!” Phainon beams. “You know I love your cooking, Partner.” 

He begins to set up his pieces again, lining them up on the board. Dan Heng follows suit. There’s no way he’d let the Deliverer slip by his defenses again. 

“Pawn to e4”

“Pawn to d5”

“Knight to f3”

“I capture your pawn on e4.” 

“Knight to g5.”

The ensuing game is much, much briefer than the first. Before Dan Heng can blink, his queen piece is captured, and his king is in mate in only a few more moves.  

“Good game, my friend.”

Dan Heng doesn’t dare lift his eyes from the board. 

He hears you giggle. “Grilled fish with salad, then?” 

“You know me too well.” 

Your shoes get up and shuffle around the table before you take off for the kitchens. Phainon follows suit, stopping briefly by his side. A large, gloved hand grips his shoulder, patting him on the back once. “Try not to let it get to you, yeah?” 

+++

Dan Heng cuts his losses and  spends the next few hours in the bowels of the Archives room, letting the darkness soothe his bruised ego. He left the chessboard and the rest of the pieces standing where they were. The Deliverer won their match– he could clean up the proof. 

His stomach growls. Normally, skipping dinner would be fine for him– his Vidyadhara side means that he eats lightly and gets the missing energy from sunlight. But the Express gets very little in the way of sunbeams out in space, and the tiny radiator in the corner of his room doesn't do much to substitute. 

He sighs. Tonight is movie night, anyway. The rest of the crew members would be concerned if he didn’t show up. Pushing himself to his feet, he makes his way through the corridors down to the theatre car. 

The soft lighting of the theatre room does wonders to lift his mood as he slides open the heavy oak doors. Comfortable couches and chairs modeled after Penacony’s cinema seats circle the room amphitheater-style, with a large, arching screen acting as the centerpiece. Raven statues and black and white movie posters line the walls, reminding him of past film capers with you and March 7th, from the space themed scenes taken from Dreamjolt Havoc to the darker, more surrealist posters of Possibly in The Reverie.

March had warned you against watching it, since it was supposedly cursed. She had left the room early, leaving just you and Dan Heng to lean against one another in the darkness. Later that night, you had been so nervous that you couldn’t sleep, so Dan Heng had moved his cot into your room for the rest of the week. 

Speaking of March 7th, he spotted her in her usual chair at the front of the room, a scattering of colorful snacks around her feet. She’s already halfway through a pack of trick snacks. Her mouth is too full to talk, but she beams at him as he passes. Dan Heng suspects that she’ll get up halfway through the movie to refill. 

He makes his way over to a certain seat toward the middle-right of the room. It’s a loveseat with well-worn blankets tossed over the side. Just like every week before, you’re curled up in the corner with your phone open, waiting for the movie to start. 

“Dan Heng!” You perk up immediately when he approaches, pulling back your legs to let him sit down. He settles in next to you, letting you rest your ankles in his lap. It comforts him to have this routine, sitting in the same spot in the same position with you, even if the others tease him about it. 

He couldn’t recall it himself, but according to Himeko, he had once audibly growled and snapped at Sunday when the former had sat in this spot during his first week on the Express. Himeko had called him possessive. Dan Heng just liked to think that he didn’t like change. 

“Did you see the group chat? I convinced Mr. Yang to play The Princess Bride for you tonight.” You’re wearing a loose red tunic, he notices, with one of Himeko’s gold accessories tucked into your collar. You’re clearly trying to imitate the princess’ outfit from the movie, and doing a pretty good job of it at that. 

“It’s my favorite.” He smiles, pleased that you had remembered. “Mr. Reca had to be removed from the set several times while they filmed the Fire Swamp scenes. He kept muttering to himself during the filming which was picked up peripherally on the microphones.”

You smile at him and nod, even though he’s definitely told you that fact a hundred times before. “You didn’t join us for dinner today, and you didn’t respond to my messages. I was a bit worried about you.” 

Your eyes are so sincere. Dan Heng winces. “I was a bit tired,” he mutters. He doesn’t want to admit that he avoided reading the group chat messages because he didn’t want to see Phainon’s name anywhere near yours after that morning. “I must have slept through the notifications.”

“I figured. The fridge in the kitchen car has an extra portion for you, if you want it.”

“I’ll go get it. I’ll be back in a second.” 

The grilled fish is exactly where you said it would be, packed neatly in a tupperware with a bed of rice. He smiles to himself as he thinks about you taking the time to prepare this just for him. He can even tell from the smell that you added extra spices to his portion, along with a scoop of curry in the second compartment. He places it in the microwave, picking out a few snacks from the pantry while it turns under the artificial lights. 

He wasn’t gone for more than five minutes, but the others have filed into the room while he was busy. As expected, March’s snacks are nearly all gone. She’s engaged in what seems like a very one-sided conversation about chimeras with Sunday, who, to his credit, is trying his best to follow along. Dan Heng takes out a packet of Sour Dream candies from his pocket and places it on the armrest next to them as he passes. 

Himeko and Welt occupy luxurious recliners near the back of the room, a mug of coffee in the cupholder of the former’s. They’re conversing idly about something that Dan Heng is too far away to catch. He gives them a nod, intent on getting back to his seat so the movie could start. He’s almost there when another body brushes past him and plops down into the spot next to you. 

Phainon’s distinctive white jacket and blue-and-gold cape are gone, leaving him in just his dark undershirt. A haphazard black eye mask sits in his messy white hair. “Ready for the movie, Partner?” 

The chatter in the room dies instantly. March audibly gasps, slapping her hands over her mouth. 

Dan Heng clears his throat.

“Black isn’t your color, Deliverer.” 

“Hmm?” Phainon turns to look at him. “Oh! There you are, my friend. We missed you at dinner.” He gestures to the container in Dan Heng’s hands. “I hope you like the fish. A little birdie told me to make it just how you like it.” 

“You’re in my seat.” 

“Oh, I am?” He laughs. “Sorry about that. I was just saying how excited I was for my first movie night aboard the Express. I even dressed up for the occasion!” 

Dressed down is more like it, Dan Heng thinks. He lets his eyes roam over the muscles under Phainon’s compression shirt. The Deliverer’s pectorals aren’t leaving much to the imagination. “I can see that. It’s a little… small for you, isn’t it?” 

“Size has never been a problem for me.” Phainon smiles self-assuredly. “You’ll let me sit here for tonight, right? You’ve all been so welcoming.” 

Dan Heng opens his mouth. He knows the eyes of every other crew member is on him, but the ones he is most aware of are yours. 

The retort dies in his throat. He doesn’t want to disappoint you twice in one night. “Just this once.” 

March’s mouth falls open. 

Dan Heng slinks away to sit in a single armchair just behind the two of you. He tries to get comfortable, but the cushion is much stiffer than he’s used to. 

The movie begins. The light from the screen illuminates the silhouette of your head in front of him, huddled close to Phainon’s.

“Since they were filming during the winter, Robin told me she got cold wearing just her character’s dress. The guy who played Fezzik would help keep her warm by covering her head with one of his hands.” 

“The tapestries in the castle are real Oak Family relics dating back to the creation of the Dreamscape. Mr. Reca said he wouldn’t continue filming if his sets weren’t authentic enough.” 

“Mr. Reca had to send hundreds of emails to the original author of The Princess Bride in order to get permission to turn it into a movie. Apparently it was his favorite thing that he had ever written, and he didn’t want anyone making the story into something he disliked.”

Phainon nods eagerly at everything you say. He leans in closer every time you tell him a new fact, replying in a voice so quiet that Dan Heng can’t catch it. It was like staring into a mirror image of himself, watching you relay all of the facts that Dan Heng had once told you, to someone new. 

Just before the halfway point in the movie, after the man in black and the princess share a kiss, Phainon lets out an obnoxiously loud, exaggerated yawn. He stretches his arms upwards, laying them over the back of the couch and around your shoulders. Dan Heng watches the muscles under Phainon’s tight shirt flex as he pulls you closer, and sulks. 

By the end of the movie, you were fully snuggled into Phainon’s embrace, head resting on his chest. You look so warm and comfortable, lost in a dream that Dan Heng hopes is sweet. The others file out of the room as the screen goes dark. Phainon stays still, arms securely around you. 

Dan Heng approaches. “I’ll take them back to their room.” He goes to wake you up, but Phainon stops him. 

“I’ll take care of them.” 

He watches as Phainon lifts you up gently, carrying you all the way back to the passenger cabin. Phainon pauses at the bottom of the stairs that lead to the second floor, where yours, Phainon’s and Sunday’s rooms are. “Good night, my friend.” 

Dan Heng chooses to keep his peace.

+++

The Deliverer has done a good job of monopolizing your time over the next two weeks, and Dan Heng rarely sees you outside of mealtimes and group settings. Word had spread quickly about Phainon taking his crown in chess, and what used to be your weekly one-on-one matches on Saturday mornings have turned into a public spectacle with a scoreboard. The current tally is 12 to 15, with Phainon on the winning end. Dan Heng misses when it was just you and him. 

“We only have a few hours to spare, so don’t go too overboard.” Himeko instructs everyone as they disembark at the docking station at Aurum Alley. “We’ll meet up at midnight back at the Express. Keep the sugar and alcohol to a minimum and don’t buy too much.” 

She directs the last statement towards March, who is already bouncing on the balls of her feet. Dan Heng reaches out and catches her shoulder before she can run off, earning him a thanks from Mr. Yang. 

“Look! Tall Auntie’s stall is having a collab with Love and Deepspace!” March points to an advertisement posted outside of a building The chalkboard is crudely penciled in with the icon of her favorite otome game, and the dates that the collab was running for. “Do you think they have any merch of Sylus left? He’s my favorite.” 

“Of course you’d like the head of a crime syndicate,” Sunday shakes his head and lets out a long-suffering sigh. “Isn’t there more beauty in life to look for than a proclivity for violence and a deep wallet?” 

“But that’s what makes him hot! Besides, you can’t say anything. You took one look at Caleb on my homescreen and downloaded the game the next day,” March shoots back. Sunday has the decorum to look embarrassed, but makes no move to correct her. 

“Personally, I think Sunday wins this one,” you add from Dan Heng’s other side. “Caleb is cute. Plus, I’m a sucker for a good friends to lovers story.” 

Dan Heng smiles at that. 

“Caleb? Who’s Caleb?” Phainon appears over Dan Heng’s shoulder in an instant. He wears his usual smile, but the smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes. 

“He’s a character from March’s favorite dating simulator,” Dan Heng explains, mystified. He’s never seen Phainon like this before. “He’s not a real person, if that’s what you’re… worried about.”

Is that what I look like around you? 

Just like black, jealousy is not a good look on the Deliverer. 

March yelps. “You’ve never heard of Love and Deepspace? Oh, that changes tonight.” She grabs ahold of Phainon’s forearm before he can protest. “You’re coming with me! You can help me decide whose washboard abs are the hottest.” 

“I can do that! I’ve got loads of experience!” Phainon replies with a grin, causing Dan Heng to raise an eyebrow at him. He links his arm with March’s as he’s led off, Sunday bringing up the rear.

You and Dan Heng are left alone at the dock under the streetlamps. “Sushang texted me earlier today. She told me about a bookstore down the street that opened last month.” You smile at him. “Let’s go check it out together?”

“Mm-hm.”

+++

By the time you’ve finished up and paid, the moon is bright yellow and rising above your heads. Though it’s still a little while before midnight, you and Dan Heng decide to head back to the loading docks early to wait for the others. 

The streets have become bustling; every vendor set up along the way calling to you to catch your attention. 

“Cheap and tasty chop suey!”

“Try your luck betting on jade!~”

“Fresh herbal tonics for your skin! Eternal youth! Apply once a day and look 200 forever!” 

Dan Heng cringes at that last one, moving in the opposite direction from the stalls. He feels your hand grasp his, leading him down a quieter side street.

“You’d think the Cloud Knights would be here in an instant to shut that down,” you remark as soon as you’re out of earshot. “Are you okay? I know you told me about that encounter with Dan Feng’s shadow on Amphoreus…” 

“Mhm.” Dan Heng nods. “Don’t worry about me. I’ve made my peace.” The shadows cast by the street lamps flicker over his face. “Losing you down in the depths of that world, going on that thousand-year journey just to find you… I can understand it now. Why he did what he did.”

“I wondered when we’d get a chance to talk about that again,” you say. “It’s hard to believe we really only spent a year or so there, in the scepter. No one else wants to talk about it, with everything that happened, and I can’t really blame them.”

Dan Heng nods. 

“... But I wanted to tell you how much it meant to me, that you came to find me when I was down in that cave.” You continue. You’ve stopped walking now, at the edge of the docks, grasping his hand still. “Even beyond the whole saving the universe from destruction thing. I can’t tell you how much that meant to me. How much you mean to me.” 

You're gazing at him, your face just inches away from his. He barely dares to breathe. 

Are you leaning in? He can’t tell. 

“There you are! I’ve been looking all over for you two!” 

You pull back abruptly, and a cold breeze fills the place where your lips were seconds ago. Dan Heng straightens up, disappointed.

March 7th waves to you from up the street. Her arms are full of merch of her favorite character’s face, some of which drops onto the paving stones when she does. Sunday picks them up for her. “Phainon, they’re over here. You can stop fretting now.”

“Oh, Partner!” The white-haired man rounds the corner, hurrying over to you. “It’s getting windy tonight! You must be cold. Here, take my jacket until we get back onto the train.” He unwraps the white coat from himself and lays it across your shoulders. “Did you have fun?”

“I did,” you smile at him. “But I think Dan Heng might be colder than I am, since he’s part dragon and all. Here.” You pass Phainon’s jacket off to Dan Heng, who accepts it awkwardly. He can feel Phainon’s eyes linger on him as you help him drape it around his shoulders. 

“I don’t see any merch on you,” You observe to Phainon. “Did March not convince you to play?” 

Phainon laughs, eyes still on Dan Heng. “March and Sunday– well, mostly March– showed me some photos of abs from the guys in their game, but to be honest, I’ve seen better.” 

“I’m sure you have,” Dan Heng snips. He wonders if Phainon is talking about himself and the rather impressive physique that hides under his armor, or a certain blonde-maned prince back on Amphoreus. Maybe if he sent the Deliverer back in a box, Mydeimos would keep him there. 

“Welt and Himeko must be waiting for us by now.” He tugs at the jacket. “The sooner we get inside, the better.” 

He tries to catch your eye as Phainon leads you away. The Deliverer’s broad shoulders block his view. 

+++

1 message from you to Astral Express Family

Cold_Dragon_Young: Busy with data bank on last trailblaze mission. Will be absent from dinner tonight. Don’t wait up. 

From: Astral Express Family: [12 unread messages]

From: GalacticBaseballer: [3 unread messages; 1 missed call]

It’s easier to hide in the Archives room under the guise of completing data bank entries than it is to find you and ask you what your intentions were that night in Aurum Alley. If it was up to Dan Heng, he would have continued to run on nothing but the warmth of his radiator for a week if a knock at his door hadn’t disturbed him. 

He wonders if it’s you, but when he slides the partition open he nearly gets a faceful of solid chest covered in a gold-lined breastplate. 

“Hey there, my friend.” Phainon smiles down at him. The Deliverer is leaning against his doorframe like a loitering teenager, biceps crossed one over another. 

“Your jacket is on the table in the laundry car.” Dan Heng goes to shut the door, but Phainon’s annoyingly muscular shoulders are in the way. 

“Hold on a second.” The Deliverer shoves a foot in the door and steps into the room without asking, and Dan Heng’s annoyance grows further. He wishes he could glare at Phainon without craning his neck. Unfortunately after leaving Amphoreus he had lost the extra height gained from the Coreflame of Earth. He was sure that with the coreflame, he was just a bit taller than Phainon. 

“Mr. Yang told me that you were working on the data entries on Amphoreus,” Phainon explains. He’s surveying Dan Heng’s room as he speaks, and it makes Dan Heng feel exposed. “He suggested I come and help you, since you didn’t have much time to spend in Okhema before everything… happened.” 

“Oh.” Dan Heng isn’t the happiest with that arrangement, but he respects Mr. Yang too much to refuse. “Yes, that would be helpful.” He goes to pull up a stool next to the rolling chair at his desk.

“Thank you.” Phainon sits down, the seat almost comically small compared to his frame. “So what do you have so far?” 

Dan Heng types his password into the login. Long rows of text pop up on his monitors.

CHIMERAS

Chimarae okhema An intelligent life-form created by Amphorean researchers in the Garden of Life. The Chimera shares a common ancestor with the Chryseus Leo of Castrum Kremnos (see Mydeimos[1]) “Awoo~”

DROMAS

Dinosauria georios Large beasts of burden created by Georios. Prefer earth as sustenance. Prime material for insults due to their perceived low intelligence, despite scientific consensus stating otherwise. (see Anaxagoras[2])

“I don’t think I need much help on the ecology index.” Dan Heng muses, skipping the page. 

HYACINTHIA

Demigod of Sky. A physician and scientist descended from the skyfolk. Her companion Little Ica has a digestive tract that defies all biological reason. A good library companion. 

AGLAEA

Demigod of Romance. Wise and fair in judgement. Runs the teleslate communication in the Holy City. (see Okhema[10]) Note: Refrain from sending anything improper by teleslate. Search history cannot be wiped. 

ANAXAGORAS

Redirected from: “a dromas draped in finery” A scholar and professor from the Grove of Epiphany. Expert in alchemy and life sciences. Talks a great deal about things that annoy him. (see “Aglaea[11])

PHAINON

Deliverer from Aedes Elysiae. Skilled with a sword. A personality quite unlike any other. (see "笨蛋"[12])

Phainon points to the words under his own incomplete entry. “What does that mean?” 

“It’s not important.” Dan Heng hastily deletes the Xianzhouan text and scrolls away. 

The bottom section is Dan Heng’s most recent entry, and one he thinks the Deliverer will find most favorable. “Here. This section needs working on.” He turns the screen towards Phainon. 

AEDES ELYSIAE

A small agricultural village on Amphoreus. Known for its abundant wheat harvests and fishing. Hometown of the two heroes of Amphoreus, Phainon and Cyrene. 

Dan Heng opens the dropdown tab under the page. An unfinished swath of colors on a grid marks the bottom half of the screen. “I wanted to model a comprehensive map of different fish species and their habitats near Aedes Elysiae,” Dan Heng explains. “Using geospatial data and mapping systems provided by Madam Herta, we can track movements of populations and their habits. I’d like to add your local expertise and anecdotal knowledge to our database, if possible.”

Dan Heng can tell that Phainon is pleased with this assignment. “Of course,” the Deliverer nods eagerly. “I’ll tell you everything I know.”

The more Phainon talks, the more Dan Heng finds himself beginning to relax. He can understand now why you enjoy Phainon’s company– the Deliverer is charismatic and intelligent, beyond the cocky exterior. Alone with him, Dan Heng can stop scrutinizing every action the Deliverer makes towards you and instead listen to him talk. Phainon paints a picture of golden kernels of wheat against a sky the same color as his eyes, and clear rivers brimming with simple childhood promises. 

The digital clock in the corner of the screen ticks by four hours before Dan Heng stands up. “That’s enough work for today. I need to give the data bank time to upload. He regards the Deliverer. “Thank you for your help.”

“Thank you,” Phainon replies with a sincere smile. “It was nice to relive those memories again.” He stands up from the tiny stool, stretching out and arching his back sharply. “Say, why don’t you join me for a soak in the bath parlor? You can experience an Amphorean tradition for yourself, instead of just writing about it.” 

Cultural immersion? Dan Heng is familiar with the concept. “I suppose I could. I’m not sure how accurately you could recreate an Amphorean bath with just the materials we have aboard the Express, though.”

“That’s not something you need to worry about,” Phainon laughs. “I’ll make sure you enjoy it.”

+++

The third floor bath parlor is vacant when the two men step inside, sliding the door shut behind them. White-and-gold marble tiles and personal cubbies line every wall, with heavily tinted arched windows giving the passengers inside a view of space without letting any prying eyes see in. Two long benches run down the middle until they reach a large, steaming pool reminiscent of a hot tub in the center, and individual showers are located near the back wall with curtains to protect one’s privacy. Various cart tables around the room hold bathing supplies and fresh towels. 

Dan Heng makes a beeline for the cubbies, placing his phone and earpieces inside. He hesitates before taking his clothes off— he isn’t terribly uptight about showing skin, but being completely naked in front of someone is different. 

Phainon, however, seems to have no qualms about stripping down. Dan Heng watches surreptitiously as the Deliverer unbuckles his harness and belt, taking off his cape and armor pads and folding them neatly before putting them to the side. The loose-fitting vest and tunic come next, leaving him in just the tight black compression shirt that he had been dressed in during movie night. 

Phainon catches his eye, and Dan Heng turns around quickly, shedding his own coat and tugging off his shirt and pants before wrapping a towel around himself. When he turns around again, Phainon is fully bare, from his broad shoulders to the valley between his pecs and abs. Instead of wrapping the towel around his waist, Phainon has it slung over his shoulder. His skin is evenly tanned, and Dan Heng can spot a faint silver trail leading down his stomach to…

“You have an impressive physique.” Phainon’s voice cuts into his thoughts. He has his hands on his hips, and Dan Heng can feel his gaze roaming over him, assessing every dip, curve, and tone laid out in front of him. He opens his mouth to thank Phainon. 

“… For an archivist,” the Deliverer finishes with a smirk. 

So the peace was too good to last. Dan Heng turns away. “Just get in the bath already.” 

He climbs into the steaming pool, sighing as the warm water soaks into his muscles and draws out the long-standing aches . 

Phainon steps into the pool on the opposite side. “Ahhh…” He leans back against the side of the pool, arms thrown over the rim and eyes closed. “A long bath always hits the spot after a hard day at work.” 

Dan Heng murmurs in agreement. He doesn't broach any subject in particular, but Phainon keeps talking. 

“You know, you’re quite the expressive person once you’ve been coaxed into something. I’m starting to believe that you have a heart under there after all.” 

Dan Heng glares at Phainon through the steam. “I thought this bath was supposed to be a relaxing affair, not a dissection.” Without his armor, the Deliverer looks less like a hero and more like a siren in the heat, hair damp and loose, moisture accumulating in droplets and rolling down muscular shoulders. The skin on Phainon’s neck and collarbones are clean and white. Dan Heng thinks about what it would be like to bite down there. Maybe that would shut him up long enough for him to get the hint. 

“Ah, well. It’s all in jest. I’m just getting to know my new cohorts. Besides, we all want reciprocation, don’t we?” Phainon’s words echo on the tiles, dancing across the gap. “I can’t help but notice it when you look at a certain companion of yours.” 

Dan Heng freezes. “Leave them out of it.” 

Phainon smirks, and Dan Heng knows that Phainon knows he’s caught him. “Come now, my friend. You don’t have to be shy about it. You wouldn’t be the first person to find them so… alluring.” 

What is that supposed to mean? Is Phainon alluding to something that Dan Heng doesn’t know about? “There are far more dignified words to describe them than alluring,” he replies, stone-faced. It’s true, to a degree. Dan Heng doesn’t dare let himself think about you that way. You deserve far more than that. 

And yet… a small voice in the back of his mind nags him. He feels the blood rush southward when he thinks of how you might look here in the bath with him, sitting across from him and the Deliverer.

Phainon meets his gaze steadily. “And yet you don’t deny it.” 

Dan Heng doesn’t, and that’s the worst part. He stands up abruptly, water falling off of his bare body with a swash. “I have no reason to discuss something so tasteless with you, Deliverer.” 

He climbs out of the pool and strides back to the lockers. He hears the water ripple behind him as Phainon follows him. “I’m just saying! Be too slow about it, and I’ll have to swoop in and make my own move.” 

Dan Heng hastily grabs the towels from the cart and wraps it around his waist to hide the forming erection between his legs. He disregards drying off his hair to gather his things quickly. Anything to ignore the other man behind him. 

“You seem frustrated, my friend.” 

Dan Heng says nothing.

“So you’re just going to ignore me, then?” The Deliverer is annoyingly persistent. He sits on the edge of the marble bench, still bare. Water still drips from his hair. “What a shame. And here I thought we might have so much in common.”

Dan Heng marches up to him. “I am not frustrated, nor do we have anything in common,” he hisses. “Choose your next words carefully, Deliverer, or I’ll…” 

Phainon’s smirk widens. He’s leaning forward now, elbows resting on his spread knees, clothes sitting in a pile beside him. The curve of his cheek is dangerously close to Dan Heng’s nether region. “You’ll what?” 

The ghost of his breath caresses Dan Heng through the thin towel, and that’s the last time that Dan Heng ever thinks about reasoning with the Deliverer. 

His hands seize into Phainon’s hair, shoving him hard against the erection that’s been long since straining between his legs. The towel falls without anything to support it, pooling between his feet and Phainon’s. Dan Heng swears he sees the white-haired man smirk, and barely a second later, his snarl turns into a gasp as he feels lips, and then tongue, as Phainon swallows his length whole.

Size has never been a problem for me, Phainon’s earlier words echo in his ears as he tries and fails to suppress the gasp he lets out. Dan Heng wonders how many times he had to train with the prince of Kremnos before becoming this talented. He feels the quiver of Phainon’s throat as he bucks his hips deeper, a fantasy he would never enact had it been you on the receiving end, rather than a rival made by his own words. 

The Deliverer is enthusiastic, bobbing his head in time to Dan Heng’s thrusts. “Fuck,” Dan Heng throws his head back and moans. How long has it been since he’s felt something like this? A memory of a previous white-haired companion flashes in his mind. Dan Heng digs his fingers deeper into Phainon’s scalp and pulls him off of his cock with a wet pop before he can cum.

“There’s that fire I saw during our chess game,” Phainon laughs, panting. He stands up, picking up the towel to wipe the drool hanging from his lips. “I knew you had a different side to you. I just wasn’t sure how far I’d have to go to bring it out.” 

There are still far more sides to me, Dan Heng thinks of his more draconic forms. “How long were you prepared to wait for it?”

“As long as I needed to,” Phainon replies. He leans down, nose brushing Dan Heng’s. The Deliverer smells like the soap from the baths and radiates warmth. The kiss that follows is heavy and deep, and Dan Heng can feel the saltiness of his own precum on Phainon’s tongue. 

Dan Heng begins pulling him back towards the baths, but Phainon stops him. “Hold on for a second.” He goes to a side cabinet and crouches down, fiddling with the lock on it. When he stands back up, there’s a bottle of clear, viscous liquid in his hand. 

Dan Heng raises his eyebrows. “You store a bottle of lubricant in here?” 

Phainon shrugs. “No one uses this car except me. I might as well make use of the privacy.”

“There are sleeping quarters right downstairs.” 

“I’m quiet, I promise.” 

Dan Heng gives him a look, but doesn’t push it further. He takes ahold of the Deliverer’s other arm, leading him into the water once again. As the warmth envelops them, Dan Heng pulls Phainon in for another kiss. This one is less aggressive, and Dan Heng finds himself nibbling on the Deliverer’s bottom lip before he turns him around, bending him over the side of the bath. 

He takes the lube, smearing an ample amount of it onto his fingers before spreading Phainon’s ass. As soon as Dan Heng’s digits make contact with his rim, Phainon shivers, the small movement rippling up his spine. “You run a little cold, you know.” 

“It’s the vidyadhara biology,” Dan Heng replies, sliding a finger inside and stretching him. He takes another portion of the lube and begins spreading it on his own length. “I can change my outward appearance at will, but the inner processes of my body will always stay the same.” 

He presses his tip to Phainon’s hole and begins to push in. The Deliverer lets out the most delicious moan, and Dan Heng groans as well, letting the feeling envelop him. Dan Heng begins to rock his hips gently, slotting himself into the curve of Phainon’s ass as he sinks into him. 

“Maybe– ah– maybe you should change, then.” Phainon pants. The teasing lilt in his voice is still there despite the obvious difficulty he’s having in speaking. “This form is a little small for my tastes.” 

“Small?” Dan Heng scoffs. “You’re barely stringing a sentence together, Deliverer.” Dan Heng is having trouble thinking straight himself, with the way Phainon’s inner muscles grip around him. 

Dan Heng chokes when he feels Phainon suddenly clench on him. “I can take more.” The Deliverer’s voice is clearer this time, with a hint of challenge in it. “Show me the side of you that you wouldn’t dare show your precious companion.” 

“Don’t ask for things that you can’t handle,” Dan Heng grits out, but he complies. His shoulders broaden and horns sprout from under his hair. Phainon lets out a strangled cry as he feels the cock inside him grow, stretching him past what he imagined was possible. A second member springs up just underneath the first, arching underneath Phainon’s ass and rubbing textured scales along his thigh as Dan Heng speeds up his thrusts. 

He’s pounding into Phainon now like his life depends on it, losing himself in the sensation of the contraction of Phainon’s insides around him. The Deliverer himself is crying out, moaning louder than Dan Heng would ever have thought possible. He already came, Dan Heng observes, sticky strings of white trailing off of his swollen cockhead and making a mess on his abdomen. 

Dan Heng feels himself reaching his peak quickly. He braces himself, grabbing onto a nearby pipe and clutching it as hard as he can as he cums with a loud gasp, filling the Deliverer with his spend. His second cock paints the inside of Phainon’s thighs white, dripping downwards as it settles. Dan Heng collapses on top of Phainon’s back, panting. 

Returning to his normal form, Dan Heng’s softened cock slides out of him. “Phainon–” 

Both men pause when they hear a screeching of metal and a cracking sound. The pipe that Dan Heng had grabbed ahold of is trembling. As they watch, it begins to split apart from the main and spray water in an arc across the room. 

Dan Heng curses as he dodges the jet, pulling away from Phainon. He had forgotten to account for the extra strength he gained during his Permansor Terrae transformation. “Grab some towels, quickly.”

Phainon pushes himself up onto his knees before staggering upwards. “Looks like you were a little too boisterous,” he huffs, his voice hoarse. He limps over to the towel cubby, grabbing an armful. It quickly becomes apparent that this is a problem bigger than the two of them can handle alone as the room begins to flood, waterlogging both the floor and the towels they used to try and contain the mess. 

“I need to inform Himeko,” Dan Heng ignores Phainon’s jab at him. He hops between puddles, picking up both his and Phainon’s clothes from the bench. “Get dressed and go back to your room. The second-floor bathroom has showers; you can go clean off in there.” 

The two men hastily don their clothes and shoes. Phainon’s gait has improved enough to make it down the hall. “Didn’t know you had it in you, my friend.” 

“This means nothing, Deliverer.” 

“Sure.” Phainon says lightly. “Remember what we talked about.” 

+++

At dinner, Himeko is twenty minutes late and changed into a fresh pair of clothes when she joins the rest of the Express cohort at the table. “I was able to fix the pipe, but the flooding was already pretty extensive when I got there.” She nods at you. “I apologize, but I wasn’t able to contain all of it before it seeped through the ceiling.” 

You sigh, propping up your head with your elbows on the table. “Just my luck that my room is right underneath the bath parlor.” You pick at the plate in front of you. “At least I wasn’t in there when it started, and nothing seems too damaged so far. I think I can dry everything out with a bit of time.” 

Guilt rises in Dan Heng’s belly, and he shoots a glance at Phainon, who’s seated next to him. The Deliverer’s expression is serene, but the corner of his mouth is quirked upwards in an amused expression that makes Dan Heng scowl at him.

“I can call Madam Herta to see if we can make a stop for fresh bedding at the Space Station,” Mr. Yang says. He gestures for Sunday to pass him the bowl of baked potatoes. “In the meantime, you’ll have to find somewhere else to sleep for the time being.”

March throws her hand up so fast that she nearly smacks Dan Heng across the face. ““Ooh! A sleepover! You can come stay with me–” 

“I have room.” Dan Heng cuts her off. He shoots March a look from across the table, but she doesn’t seem to absorb his meaning at all. 

“The archives? But there’s no space in there! Where are they going to sleep, on your bookshelves?” 

“I have a bed, you know.” 

“Sure, if that’s what you call that pile of tissues on the floor.”

You laugh. “Tissues? What have you been up to, Dan Heng?” 

“March is right,” Mr. Yang says, shooting you a look. “You do have a limited amount of space in the archives room. Plus, your room is on the first floor. It would be a hassle for them to have to carry their things down a flight of stairs. And you’re on dish duty today– you can’t help.” Mr. Yang turns toward Phainon and Sunday. “Since you two also have your rooms on the second floor, would one of you be willing to share instead?” 

Sunday flushes, standing up and excusing himself from the table abruptly. 

Phainon beams at you. “Of course! You can stay with me for as long as you need, Partner.” 

He’s clearly welcoming this opportunity with open arms. Dan Heng scowls. 

“Thanks, Phai,” you smile back at him. “I’ve got quite a few things that survived the worst of the flood. Would you help me carry them?”

“Of course!” Phainon stands up. “We can start now, if you’d like.” He takes your hand, leading you towards the door to the parlor car. “I’ve got something that I wanted to ask you, anyways.” 

His eyes meet Dan Heng’s over his shoulder as he leads you out. 

Dan Heng stays frozen in his seat, stomach churning. For ten minutes he tries to stay, but the apprehension overtakes him. 

“Take my dish duty for today,” he mutters to March as he gets up. “I’ll owe you one later.” 

She tries to protest, but Dan Heng hurries out before she can. 

+++

Racing through the parlor car and the party car, Dan Heng nearly trips over the conductor on his way to the escalier. He takes the flight of stairs two at a time, heart pounding, but finds your room empty save for the heaps of towels on the floor. Slowing to a halt, he backs out before making his way down the hall to Phainon’s room, hoping he isn’t too late. 

He slides open the door. “(Y/N). I have something to tell you–” 

Dan Heng freezes, breath catching in his throat. 

You’re splayed on your bed, naked from the waist down with Phainon looming over you. His broad frame cages you in, and you’re locked in a passionate kiss. One of his hands is buried between your legs, and your back is arched, exposing your midriff as your shirt rides up. You’re letting out small whimpers, hips bucking up into him as he pins you down. The Deliverer’s wrist flexes as he pumps his fingers in and out of you, no doubt brushing against every sensitive spot inside of you. 

“Nice of you to join us, my friend.” It takes Dan Heng a second to realize that Phainon is speaking to him. The Deliverer sits up, pulling his fingers out of you and wiping them on his slacks. His shirt is halfway open, giving Dan Heng another taste of what he had already seen earlier that day. “Why don’t you say hello to him, Partner?” 

Phainon pulls you up into a sitting position. “Hi, Dan Heng.” Your voice is breathless. “I’m glad you’re here.” 

Your hair is mussed and your shirt is wrinkled, and Dan Heng thinks that you couldn’t get any more beautiful. His eyes trail over every inch of exposed skin he can see, feeling like the greediest man in history. 

“He’s glad he’s here too,” Phainon smirks. Dan Heng looks down to see a tent forming in his pants. He ducks his head, cursing the obviousness of his feelings. “There’s no need to be shy. We all know you’ve wanted this for a while, right?” 

“Mhmm.” You walk over to him, taking his hands in yours. “Come here, Dan Heng.” Leading him back to the bed, you press soft kisses to his cheeks while shedding his coat. Wisely, Phainon has stepped aside and pulled out his desk chair, sitting down and unbuckling his pants. 

“I wanted you to kiss me that night in Aurum Alley” Dan Heng murmurs. He couldn’t care less about Phainon beginning to stroke himself at the sight in the corner of the room. He leans in further as your hands cup his cheeks. “I just couldn’t tell if you wanted to kiss me too.” 

“Of course I did. And I would have, if we hadn’t been interrupted.” You smile fondly at him. “You mean the world to me, Dan Heng.” 

Your lips press against his, and finally everything Dan Heng has ever wanted is right in front of him. He doesn’t pull away until you come up for breath, and even then, he presses one last peck to your lips before you do. 

“Isn’t that sweet.” Phainon huffs in amusement from his chair.

Dan Heng eyes the Deliverer’s cock, which stands at full mast. “You liked it.” 

“I did,” Phainon replies easily. “I went through a lot of trouble to make sure this happened, you know.” He reclines back, gesturing to his length. “The least you could do is help me enjoy it.” 

Despite everything that had already happened, Dan Heng feels his face heat up. He glances towards you, as if asking for permission. You’re nodding at him eagerly, so he goes and kneels in front of the Deliverer. 

He feels one of Phainon’s hands thread into his hair, guiding him towards the swollen cock in front of him. Dan Heng wraps one hand around the shaft, slick with lube, and gives it a few experimental pumps. He hears Phainon sigh. 

You nudge him. “Go on. It’s mouth-safe, if you’re wondering.” 

Dan Heng takes the tip into his mouth, and immediately chokes when Phainon pushes into his mouth deeper than expected. He digs his nails into Phainon’s thigh and hears the Deliverer hiss. 

“Don’t be mean,” he hears you scold Phainon. The Deliverer says something that Dan Heng can’t quite make out but relents, his grip on Dan Heng’s hair loosening. Dan Heng allows Phainon to guide him further down the shaft, slipping slowly in and out until he gets a good rhythm going. The Deliverer’s loud groans echo off the walls of his room, and he’s just big enough that Dan Heng can’t fit him in his mouth all at once. Still, he relishes in the feeling of Phainon’s thickness in his mouth. 

“You rushed me earlier, but now you want to take your time,” Phainon murmurs as he thrusts slowly. His fingernails scrape Dan Heng’s scalp. “Isn’t that a bit unfair?” 

Unfair? Dan Heng could fix that. Vidyadhara biology lent him more than just two members. Taking a deep breath, he allowed his jaw to slide open further until Phainon was fully inside his throat, swollen tip threatening to gag him. 

He hears Phainon gasp in pleasure, and allows the Deliverer to buck into his mouth for a few more minutes before pulling off of his shaft. For all his posturing, Phainon lets out a downright pathetic whine when he’s denied his release.

It’s Dan Heng’s turn to smirk. “Wouldn’t want you to finish too early, Deliverer.” He picks up Phainon’s dark shirt from beside the bed, spitting Phainon’s precum into it and wiping up leftover saliva. 

You laugh, “Oh, I think Dan Heng’s gotten bolder.” Pulling your shirt off, you’re left fully nude in between the two men. “Does that apply to me, too?” 

Dan Heng is too busy staring at your breasts to notice. He quickly snaps out of it when Phainon starts for you first, shoulder-checking the Deliverer to the side. He climbs onto the bed, pulling you with him until you’re straddling him. Hastily, he sheds his own pants and underwear, before going to pull off his shirt. 

“Wait.” You stop him, and he looks up at you inquisitively. 

“Hm?” 

“I’ve always wanted to do this.” Your hands go to his collar and unzip one of the two zippers at his throat. Leaning down, you kiss his bare collarbone before sucking a dark mark onto it. “There. Now you can take it off.” 

Dan Heng sheds his shirt. He lies back down, letting you drizzle lube onto his shaft, and tries not to moan too loudly when your soft hands wrap around him to spread it. Finally, you line your hole up with the tip of his cock, and slowly sink down onto him in one smooth motion. 

Dan Heng nearly cums on the spot. Maybe it was his long-buried feelings talking, but he could swear that you feel so much better than the Deliverer did. He claps his hands over his face to stifle the cry he lets out. 

“Let me see you,” you murmur to him. “Let me make you feel good.” You pull his hands away from his face, no doubt taking in his flushed, panting state in all its glory. You lean down to kiss him as you begin to rock your hips, whispering praises into his mouth. Dan Heng bucks his hips to match your pace. The stifling heat and your tight, gummy walls contracting around him make Dan Heng feel as if he’s in heaven. His cockhead drags along a particular spot inside of you, and he hears you keen, throwing your head back.

He reaches between your folds with his fingers, finding your clit. “I want you to feel good too,” he pants, rubbing and pinching the little bud. You squirm and whimper in his hold when he uses the slender digits to brush the hood of your clit back, rolling the sensitive nub between his fingers. “All I’ve ever wanted was you.” 

A gush of wetness follows his words, warm and pleasurable as you pulse around him in orgasm. Dan Heng barely registers that Phainon has joined you on the bed until the mattress dips under his weight. He feels the Deliverer’s hands steady you as you bask in the bliss of your release, and then Phainon’s cock is sliding into your warmth alongside him. Dan Heng groans as Phainon’s shaft rubs against his, the delicious friction bringing him closer to his own peak. 

“Give us one more, partner,” Phainon sighs into your ear. “You can do that, can’t you?” 

You whimper from overstimulation but nod your head as the two men begin thrusting in time, your sensitive pussy quivering. 

Dan Heng decides he wants to draw one more orgasm out of you before he finishes himself. He does his best to time his thrusts with Phainon’s, reaching down to play with your clit once more. He sees Phainon’s own hands come up to squeeze and palm at your breasts, pinching and toying with your nipples. 

“You look so beautiful like this,” Dan Heng pants. They’re both speeding up and getting sloppier with their thrusts at the same time, and Dan Heng knows his climax is near. “Cum for me, please. I want to watch you come undone.” 

His words are directed towards you, but his eyes meet Phainon’s over your shoulder, and the Deliverer doesn’t seem opposed to his declaration either. Dan Heng feels Phainon’s cock twitch before warmth floods your insides, and his own orgasm washes over him afterwards, adding to the mix.  

Dan Heng catches you as you collapse onto him. “You did so well,” he murmurs. He strokes your sweaty shoulder. Phainon pulls his own softening cock out of you, moving closer to give you a kiss on the forehead. After a moment, he plants one on Dan Heng’s, too. “Let’s go get them a towel.” 

Dan Heng pushes himself to his feet, the post-orgasm haze dissipating. He allows Phainon to lead him out of the room and into the hallway. 

“Do they know about the pipe?” 

“Nope. And I’m not telling them.” 

+++

BONUS

“Ah.. hahh.. Aeons, forgive me.” 

Sunday kneels against the anterior wall of his room, eyes closed and hand clenched around his exposed cock. 

Moonlight filters into the room from the train’s open window, illuminating his pale, sweaty skin. Long past the point of overstimulation, he strokes his shaft in jerky, weak motions, listening to the muffled sounds of your pleasure from next door. 

What must you look like in there, beneath the broad shoulders and moving hands of not one, but two lovers? He’s seen the way Dan Heng reveres you with his eyes in public. Does he do the same with his hands in private? Does Phainon kneel at the altar of your legs, licking up the ambrosia you give him, drenched in sin?

The fantasies behind his eyes are too much. He cums into his palm for the second time, biting into his palm to quell his pained, pleasured whimpers. 

He just can’t stop. Aeons, he just can’t. 

Sunday doesn’t know how long he lays against the cool paneling while the haze of pleasure washes over him. Abruptly, he hears two voices in the hallway. 

“Do they know about the pipe?”

“Nope. And I’m not telling them.” 

To confess is to atone for your sins. Sunday stores that bit of information in the back of his addled mind.

How very, very interesting. 

because, you're denki's high school best friend.

best friend, like, best fucking friend. best friend like you made denki what he is today.

he took his first shot with you, smoked his first joint with you, bought his first vape with your fake id.

every morning, he'd meet you at the bus stop, share those cheap ass, shitty ass, earphones of his, with your playlist saved onto his phone, only half of it downloaded with the 200MB he had left, using your phone to check the homework updates that neither of you completed.

and then you'd get the homework answers off some random, and spend registration scribbling out absolute bullshit, because even if it's incorrect and illegible at least it was done, and you wouldn't be given detention.

because you guys couldn't get detention, not when you had rustled up twenty dollars between you, to buy cheap weed off some sketchy guy, and smoke in the park next to his house.

late nights on face-time during family holidays, dinner at his house almost three times a week, helping your dad fix something that was broken in the backyard.

your lives were so intertwined, that when you made-out for the first time, it didn't feel like a big deal.

because, of course your first kiss would be with denki, of course the first guy to see you naked would be denki, of course the first guy to dry hump you on some random girl’s couch, would be denki.

so natural, so not-a-big-deal, so normal.

and then he left for college.

you knew it would happen at some point, that he would leave, that he would get tired of having to hide himself, quiet himself, tone himself down, in your small conservative little town, fucking duh. right?

and he told you he was going to leave, you were there when he applied for the university. and you were there, right fucking next to him, jumping for joy, when he got accepted.

doesn't mean it didn't hurt.

doesn't mean you didn't feel it in your chest.

despite the fact that you were doing your own thing, living your own life, becoming your own person.

it doesn't mean that every time you get a notification from him, an update about his new friend group, or something dumb that happened on a night out, or he comes back for a weekend, and he has a new piercing or tattoo or a different hairstyle, that you don't miss him so fucking much.

that doesn't mean that he doesn't miss you too.

every time he makes a joke that doesn't land, or references a meme from five years ago, or wants to go to a gig, or talk bullshit, or get high and go grocery shopping, he sighs to himself.

because no one really gets him like you do. no one sees him like you do.

you’re his person, his everything.

he had to invite you to come and see the city eventually, it took a while for your schedules to align for sure, but you got there in the end.

got here.

and denki's late.

you're late too if we're being honest. you missed the transfer, and had to wait for 45 minutes for the next train, enough time to leave the station for a smoke, fall asleep on the train, and nearly miss your stop.

but you're here now.

outside this big, loud, city station, suddenly feeling conscious of how you must definitely reek of weed, tapping your foot on the cracked concrete, lent up against the metal railing, idly scrolling on your phone.

travel bag full, headphones on, you don't even realise someone is calling your name till—

“—holy shit dude, are you that fucking deaf?” a sun-kissed hand waving in front of your face, “haven’t changed a bit—”

he cuts himself off to borderline tackle you into a hug, you nearly drop your phone, his warm body heat enveloping your system. arms wrapped tightly around your waist, he still smells the same, so do you.

you barely notice how he takes a deep inhale when he noses at the junction of your neck.

it’s so fucking weird to have you here, but in the best way. it feels like a dream, you feel like a dream, all disgruntled and weary from the journey.

“you gonna take her bag or what?”

oh right.

denki’s head stays where it is, nestled into your shoulder. the only move he makes is to stick a finger up from behind his back, but your gaze snaps up, meeting with the owner of the voice.

dark eyes meet yours, half-lidded, grin creeping onto his face, cigarette hanging out of his mouth, a few paces back from where you’re embracing the blonde.

“hey—”

“oh, fuck off, man,” denki still hasn’t let go, you feel his voice rumble through your skin, “don’t even talk t’er.”

“relax,” you say grabbing the back of his hair and pulling him off you, he lets out a small whimper, minuscule really, but you know him, yank a bit harder, voice dropping to a whisper, “don’t you dare.”

but denki doesn’t budge, he hums almost dreamily, “don’t talk to me like that, y’know it’s been a while.” with his arms squeezing you tighter, practically melting into your chest.

“free show for the general public, i knew you were freaked out but seriously dude—”

that does the job, denki finally unwinds his limbs from you to turn and scoff at his friend, talking about some, “you can’t let me have a moment,” and then turns back without waiting for answer, grabbing your travel bag and slinging it over his shoulder.

“not if i’m uninvolved,” the other guy scoffs out, hands in his back pockets, and he smirks down at the blonde who’s marched over to give him a light shove in the chest.

denki snatches the lit cigarette from his friend’s mouth, with a mocking sneer, and pops it into his own.

“‘uninvolved’ that’s not even a real word,” the words curl around the smoke as he waves you over.

“maybe you should read a fuckin’ book.”

“maybe you should shut your fuckin’ mouth,” he clears his throat, then dramatically flourishes to the guy standing next to him, whom you vaguely recognise. from blurry snaps, from instagram stories, from half of his figure in face-times, the one, the only, “hanta sero.”

he smirks at the introduction, something you reckon he does a lot of, and nods at you in greeting, “i’m surprised you’re a real person, i was almost sure this shit-head was making you up.”

your smile is strained because of the sunlight glaring right in your eye line, but your tone is warm, if not a little dry, when you reply with, “talks ‘bout me a lot, does he?”

“you don’t know the half of it—” denki shoves him forward, and sero laughs, bright and loud, let’s the momentum carry him into a step, which turns into another, and another, and then denki takes your hand to pull you along with them, as you make your way down the street, away from the station’s exit, back to their place.

↻ ◁ || ▷ ↺

“finally.”

denki huffs as he flops onto his bed with a groan, it creaks and shifts when you drop down next to him, his legs intertwining with yours like second nature.

and denki’s smelling you again. it’s less weird than it sounds, but still weird. it’s not his fault, you smell like sunshine and home, how could he not, nose buried into the top of your head, arms curled around your body.

you both lay like that for a minute, content in the silence, just basking in each other’s presence. electricity buzzing under your fingertips as he softly grazes his knuckles against your back.

until you decide to be a little bitch.

“your friend’s cute,” you murmur into his chest, you can feel denki’s heart pitter-pattering, vibrating through your body.

he doesn’t say anything for a beat.

you crack open an eye, try again, “i said, your friend is hot—”

he doesn’t give you the reaction you’d hoped for, which is a shame. instead he chuckles, snickers, softly against your hair, still tracing patterns into your skin, “you really gonna talk about another guy while you’re in my bed, no class.”

“take that back asshole,” and he catches your hand when you move to hit him, brings a thumb down to curl around your wrist, rolls his eyes as you squint up at him, “no class?” you repeat, “i’m so classy, so fuckin’ classy i brought my own bud—”

yeaaahhh, that wakes him up.

and because it's denki, because he has no manners, or boundaries, or concept of personal space, both his hands start sliding down your body until they feel the bulge in one of your back pockets.

you squirm out of his grip, feebly kicking at his legs, but he's so solid. you can feel his muffled snickers as you smack his arms away from you, but he barely moves, just presses you further into the mess of pillows and blankets that cover his bedspread.

“you're such an asshole,” but your shoulders shake with the uncontrollable laughter that tumbles out of your body when he starts trying to curl his fingers into the pocket.

you get a face full of armpit. “and you smell so fuckin’ bad, couldn't even take a shower before inviting me over here—”

he kisses his teeth at your insult, but doesn't flinch when your heel catches his shin, just lightly slaps your thigh to get you to chill the fuck out, because his bed-frame is cheap and creaking like it might collapse any second.

"dude," as he sits back on his knees and sticks out his tongue in victory, shiny foil package dangling between his fingertips, "the water pressure here sucks balls, i promise you, i tried my best."

you kick at him again when he starts to open it, and the baggy drops from his grip. you snatch it up before he gets a moment to breathe, and point a finger at him in warning, “nah-ah-ah. say please.”

he collapses on top of you again, bullshit doe-eyed expression, and juts out his bottom lip as he simpers, “oh please, my perfect princess,” you don't budge, “oh, please, dear goddess, let us roll a zoot.”

“well, seeing as you’ve always been a loyal subject.”

“you’re such a fucking dork.”

“me? me? i’m a dork?" you repeat back to him, voice wavering in astonishment, “the first thing you did when you moved in here was put up that zelda poster,” and you gesture to the aforementioned poster, corners peeling, plastered onto his wall next to the window, “and you wanna talk about dorks.”

“well if i'm a dork and you’re a dork,” he says, and with his face so close to your own, you can practically count the freckles matted across his cheeks. and that annoying little smile, so unchanging despite the time you've spent apart, despite the distance. "what does that make us?”

he answers for you, not before his eyes flick down to your lips as his tongue pokes out to wet his, “it makes us perfectly compatible.”

your eyes roll and you shove his face back with the palm of your hand, “you're a fucking loser.”

his hands crawling over your thighs, “yeah, what else?”

“a freak.”

his eyes boring into your soul, “keep going.”

“pathetic.”

his breath ghosting over your ear, “nearly there."

“and,” your hand suddenly stretches out, and denki keens when you take a fistful of his hair into your grasp, his body folds inwards towards you as you pull him closer, gently grazing your teeth across his earlobe while he shudders and you murmur, “i don’t fuck with blondes.”

unserious to a fault, denki breaks down into snickers, nuzzling his nose against your neck. it would’ve been believable, if not for the fact that, “y’know i can feel your lil’ boner pressing against my stomach.”

that makes him chuckle even harder into your neck. “guilty,” sarcastically muttered, and then denki cranes his head so he’s at the perfect angle to lick your cheek.

you groan in disgust and push his face away, but that doesn’t stop him, and you get his slobber all over your palms.

“get the fuck off me, i swear to—” he covers your mouth with his palm and continues to lick your face like a demented cat, what the fuck? “is this what the city life does to people?”

“no,” he whines suddenly, interlocking his fingers with yours against either side of your head, “i-i just missed you.”

oh.

you didn’t expect him to say it outright.

there’s been an annoying, awful, nagging, voice that has been whispering in the depths of your brain ever since he left. whispering that he stopped caring about you, that you were just a placeholder until he got cooler, funnier, friends, that you were nothing but an insignificant speck in the long, vibrant, life he was going to live.

denki’s warm, honey, eyes scan your face.

he’s frowning, and, well, denki should never be frowning.

you shake his hand off one of your wrists and he sits back immediately. no longer breaching your personal space, a brief look of hurt flashing through his eyes as you say nothing.

but then, your free hand reaches up, and your thumb, very carefully, very gently, smooths out the wrinkle that has appeared between his brows.

“i missed you too.”

the corners of his mouth uplift, his eyes shine, god, it's like the sunlight breaking through the dawn, the way denki's face contorts into a smile, “you really know how to make a guy sweat, baby.”

you snort, “oh, you're sweating now?”

“amongst other things, yeah.”

"amongst?" you repeat, eyes squinting in the way they do when you're about to take this piss, “is that a new vocab word?”

you’re trying to ragebait, but it doesn’t work.

because denki can't stop smiling.

there's just something so fucking dreamy about how you're here, in his college house, on his horrible twin xl bed. it's really hard to describe the feeling, because, sure, he's seen you, during holidays, on face-time and the like, but it's different having you in the city with him.

with him.

as in, not only did you trek all the way here, three fuckin' buses, two trains, all your essentials packed, with the sole intention of spending time with him.

but you missed him too?

that notion, that suggestion, that you thought about him nearly a fraction as much as he thought about you.

it makes him dizzy.

"you really like being mean to me, don'tcha?" and he can't keep his hands off of you, his fingers tracing patterns along your sides.

"i think you like it more than i do."

"you can't prove that."

that makes you laugh, genuinely, because, it's like, do you mention the hard-on that is throbbing against your thigh, again, or do you let him live in his delusion? questions, questions.

or…

the secret third option.

bringing your hand down, and cupping his erection through the material that covers his bottom half. using your nails to scratch at the seam that is straining with his hard cock, and watching his breath hitch, his brow furrow, his eyelids flutter.

"you're playing dirty," denki whines, as if that could hide the guttural moan that literally comes from the depths of his spirit.

you lean up towards him so you can mouth at patch of skin where his ear meets his neck, and you murmur into his ear, "i think you like it when i play dirty."

“well, i think,” as he traces your pulse points with his nose, “that you only have one voice line option," and then with his teeth, like the most least obvious vampire, "where's the variety?"

"don't be a dick."

"thought you liked my dick."

"i like your mouth more."

"oh yeah," he turns his head, kisses along your jawline, softly, like you’re something delicate, something he has to hold very carefully, something that he couldn't afford to break, something he wants to take his time with.

it makes your heart race, being loved on like that, you needed it to be honest. someone that knows you intimately, someone that knows exactly what you want.

you shrug his hand off you, from where one of his palms still had a firm grip on your wrist, so you can grab his chin, bring his face closer to yours, your breath intermingling.

and the next time he opens his mouth to make a smart comment, you stop him before he can even start.

by grasping his tongue with two of your fingers.

you know him as much as he knows you.

and you absolutely could not miss the shudder that wracks his body, or the way his eyes practically roll back into his head.

you have to tut at him until he stops trying to wrap the pink textured tip of his tongue around your digits.

so you have the space, to spit in his mouth.

oh wow.

there are not enough words to describe the pathetic mess denki makes out of himself at that moment.

i won't bother attempting to walk you through it.

but sero can.

denki's bedroom door slams open, hanta sero, giving no prelude before making his entrance, "are we still gonna go out tonighhh…"

now imagine this, your best friend, practically on his knees, on top his best friend, literally eating out of the palm of her hand, with both of his hands underneath her shirt.

sero grins.

and carelessly swats away the pillow that comes flying at his face.

the three of you just kinda blink at each other for a minute.

before sero turns on his heel and walks right back out.

↻ ◁ || ▷ ↺

“this is the best spot in the entirety of the old town, i'm telling you.”

“you said the same thing about the bar by the river—”

“—and about that arcade on the high-street.”

“anddddd, when we found the spot along the bridge with the benches.”

"that, that, that, that,” denki slurs, well stutters, a step behind you, “that doesn't diminish my point.”

you can’t see him but you hear the sound of him smacking sero when he mocks the blonde with a, “uh-ba-ba-ba-ba-da-ba-dah."

"shut up, just shusshh,” oh god, he really is licked, you can’t take him seriously, “i'm trying to show my beloved friend–in fact, you guys are even proving my point.”

"and what is your point exactly."

"well... that old town has all the best spots."

they all hum in agreement.

all being, the rest of denki's new friend group.

honestly, they're a cool bunch.

the girls are fucking lovely, stunning, nice as hell, like surprisingly. not that you thought his friends would be dickheads, but still, it's refreshing to be around.

almost as refreshing as the cool night air.

the sunset a while ago, while you were still pre-gaming at this one girl's flat, mina. she's a fucking legend. super hospitable, one of those people who never let's anyone sit out of conversation, a little prying but not enough to make you uncomfortable.

but she mixes drinks like a demon.

sero had warned you.

after denki had, ahem, had a shower and cleaned himself up, the three of you made your way over to mina's together.

but, denki was on the phone the whole time. one of the guys was having a crisis and apparently, it was very, super, extremely, important, so he had left sero to entertain you on the twenty minute walk over.

this sero guy is something else.

there's something very telling about the way he talks, like he's constantly trying to sus you out, but in the least discrete way he can. his questions are really leading, and it doesn't matter how you answer, it feels like you've fallen into a trap.

it doesn't help that he's fucking sexy.

with the piercings, the way his hair falls into his face, and that ridiculous sleeve of line-drawn patchwork tattoos, that denki seems intent on copying.

but his smile gets you the most.

this annoying, slick, grin that he gets when you say something a bit too sarcastic, or a bit too rude, or a bit too risky, and he visibly bites his tongue while he cheeses, flashing his pearly whites, all half-lidded eyes and barely concealed snickers.

fuck denki for leaving you to your own devices.

you'd been walking side by side with the dude, bare arms brushing, up until you got to the front steps of mina's flat, and even then, denki had disappeared almost instantly, leaving you with this guy, again.

and sero had not left you alone, maybe denki had told him to keep an eye on you or something, but you can't deny it, the attention was addicting. fetching you drinks when you asked, lighting your blunt for you, letting you smoke his cigs with nothing but a shake of his head and another one of those confusing, biting, grins.

aside from that, the rest of denki's friends had been great.

aside from the drinks.

sero, and the other girl, jirou, had fuckin’ warned you, that mina enjoys playing bartender, and that she takes her job very seriously. you had waved them off at the time, because honestly, two blunts deep, the glass you had tasted like fuckin' juice. really sweet, really orange, and apparently chock full of tequila.

which leads us to now, a large gaggle of about seven undergrads, arguing, then bursting into cackles, then tripping over their own feet, then arguing again, stumbling along the high street.

one dude, the guy that was having a "major crisis sorry for stealing him," is on your right, recounting the lore of their last night out, the group of 'em, getting lost on the way home, missing the last train, no ubers picking up the request, and having to walk back to the student housing, two hours away from where the gig was.

"and then, and then, that's not even the worst part," kirishima nearly hits you in the face when he gestures towards the other blonde of the group. he pats you gently on the shoulder in apology, but the volume level of his voice does not lower in the slightest when he says, "this dude, this fuckin' dude, ran off, like literally, sprinted into the distance, and left us."

jirou, who is to your left, chokes on her snort, pulls on your arm, calling your attention back to her, "all of our phones were dead, mind you."

"don't start talkin’ shit," the blonde in front of you suddenly cuts in, he's been quiet most of the night, aside from the occasional jeer, "i left you with the portable charger, i'm not a fuckin' asshole."

kirishima buffers, and then cries out, "dude, you left us. stranded."

"y'all made it home, didn't ya?"

"that is sosososo not the point."

the girls burst into snickers again, you are included in the hyena laughter, and you take a deep breath.

the streets are not quiet. it’s late, but it’s still so busy. cars and buses whizzing past, laughter and music pouring in from every open bar door.

this place, this city, it’s no wonder denki wanted to move up here.

bright, loud, vibrant.

just like him.

speaking of…

there’s suddenly a horrific, wailing, screech, that echoes around the street. you spin your head, sero and denki, both two steps behind you. or… were?

sero’s standing, sorry, crouching, hands on his knees, in a fit of cackles, coughing and spluttering. and denki, poor, sweet, denki, rushing back over to the group from where, you’re guessing, he was pushed into the road.

“stop fuckin’ around,” the blonde, scary, one bellows out at the both of them, to which they suddenly stand up straight, like well trained military dogs, “i’m not goin’ to a&e again for you schmucks.”

ah, that kicks off the idiots, “whadidhesayyy?”

“schmuck.” —and they both burst into another fit of boisterous cackles.

“are they always like this…?”

“yup.”

↻ ◁ || ▷ ↺

“mhmm, mhmmm that’s it baby, shiiiiit.”

denki’s always had this weird obsession with the way you smell. it’s not that you smell bad, usually you smell really fucking good, you have a… what’s the word… routine.

you have a routine. he’s seen you, watched you, even earlier tonight, he was sat on his bed ready to go, half scrolling, half watching you lather lotion across your limbs, practically drooling at the sight of your doughy thighs glistening with body butter.

and he thought that was the end. but then you pulled out your body oil, oh okay, which is actually very different to body lotion… apparently? and then, you’re done— oh, wait, no, now you have, uh, body spray? okay now you’re definitely finish– perfume oil? how many oils does one person need?

he can admit, the routine lasts, it does the job, he can get hints of it now, this close to you, whiffs of jasmine, and vanilla, and whatever that yummy spicy smell is, but that’s not what he means.

he loves the smell of your skin, of your sweat, of your natural body odour, that’s what makes it weird.

like right now, you’re sat on the closed toilet seat, in the back of that bar, the supposed ‘best spot in old town,’ with your legs thrown over denki’s shoulders, and him, on his knees before you, taking turns between viciously eating your pussy, and taking deep inhales of your cunt. he can’t help himself, there’s something addictive about you, pretty pink lips suckling on your clit, tongue lolling out to lick fat stripes across your sloppy, gummy, entrance, and his eyes rolling at you scent.

fuck, it’s “so good,” he dazedly mutters, nose buried into your bush, “sosososo so goooood mama holy fu-uck.”

your foot digs itself into his shoulder blade, as the vibrations of his drunken praise send shivers up your spine, “you’re so fucking nasty.”

“mmmm, i know, i know,” he does know, but he also doesn’t care, how could he, your fingers gripping his hair, your nails scratching at his scalp, your clit throbbing between his lips.

he takes a moment to very carefully trace his teeth along your pulsing bud, that makes you jolt, and hiss at him through your teeth, and clamp your thighs around his head, just like he wanted.

fffuck, he’s dizzy.

denki was already decently faded, but the smell of your pussy is even more intoxicating then any liquor, and so much sweeter, your juices just spilling into his mouth, so fucking delicious, oh lord.

“denks’, denki, denki, s’too much, fucking relax—”

you always get mean when you’re close, like your body doesn’t allow itself to experience pleasure without a negative output.

good thing denki likes it, right.

“shiiiiiit,” he gasps, between, disgustingly wet slobbers, his tongue prodding at your sensitive, stimulated, walls, “you gonna squirt in my mouth?” your mushy, gummy, pussy, just oozing with slick, all for him to gobble up, “oh, shit, please, pleasepleaseplease—”

and you cum with a hand burying his face into your cunt, hectic rolls of your hips, quivering thighs. your jelly legs collapse around his shoulders, your body slack against the wall, just panting for a minute, chest rising and falling with your laboured breaths. denki looks stupidly proud of himself, with that smug grin gracing his shiny lips. your heel kicks out again to smack that ridiculous look off his face, but it literally does nothing to deform his starry-eyed face.

“well, shit,” you breathe out finally, your eyes, half-lidded, as you watch him stand up, and snort at the crack of his knees.

“s’that all you got t’say?” denki snickers down at you while dusting the floor imprints off on jeans.

“what d’you want me to say?”

“oh, i dunno,” he fake contemplates, and then, in a stupidly high pitched tone that sounds absolutely nothing like you, goes “thank you, big dick daddy denki for eatin’ my pussy— OW FUCK.”

your foot, again, saying hello to his shin.

“who the fuck is calling you big dick daddy denki, you fucking loser?”

“ehhhh you’d be surprised.”

you’re about to say something else, maybe comment on how there’s a little wet patch on the crotch of his jeans, when a loud thump at the stall door interrupts your train of thought.

and, of course, no shame kaminari goes, “yellooo?” in the fucking most ridiculous, you’ve used ridiculous to describe him many a time but there really isn’t a better word, voice you’ve ever heard from a guy who was literally on his knees, seconds prior.

but, who’s voice is coming from the other side of the door?

“you’ve got all my smokes in y’er pocket, shitface.”

and you watch denki check, then pull a face, because he does have all sero’s smoke in his pocket, “oopsie, we’ll be right out!”

“we?”

and again, no-shame kaminari, just hits the latch on the door, and swings it open, while you’re still sat on the fucking toilet, recovering, and he’s still got your remnants smeared all over his mouth.

“stop fuckin’ disappearin….”

sero’s dark lazy eyes scan his friend, his glossy mouth, his flattened hair, the stain on his jeans.

he raises an eyebrow very slowly, then calls out to you, whom he can not see, but still, he knows his friend, “we have to stop meeting like this.”

“what did i say?” denki practically whines, “don’t fucking talk t’er.” and shoves his friend in the chest to make him back away from where he was leaning against the doorframe.

“what the fuck is your problem today,” sero sighs, not moving an inch, instead crossing one arm over the other and sneering down at his friend, “one minute it’s don’t talk to her, the next it’s please stay with her? what— i don’t even know what you’re thinking half the time.”

this is so fucking awkward, you wanna say something, or get up at least, but you also think, maybe, if you don’t move a muscle, they’ll both forget you’re there.

“unless…” sero pauses, the tip of his tongue peeking out, as he releases another one of those, vicious biting grins, “i know exactly what you’re thinking ‘bout.”

“you don’t know shit.”

“oh really?” he snarks back at denki, who is shaking with… you can’t even tell, and you’ve known denki for a long time, agitation? maybe?

until.

denki decides to make the very poor choice of turning his head, only slightly, to look back at you.

and it’s written all over his face.

because he's flushed, with something that is not the embarrassment of being caught eating pussy in a public restroom. in fact, he’s bitten his lips raw, his pupils are blown, and his eyes are formed into an expression you know very well.

you’re not stupid.

and this time you do want to say something, but you don’t even have the time to formulate the sentence in your head because denki pushes sero out of the stall with one hand, the other hand firm against the door frame, obscuring any vision of you from the outside, and says to you, “can you… uh… give us a minute? we’ll meet you outside—”

and then he’s gone. not by his own will, but because a tanned, flexed hand, has reached out, gripped his t-shirt and pulled him away.

the two guys stumble their way outside, through the bathroom and the purple lit bar interior, with sticky carpeted floors, and overwhelming chatter. there's no 'sorry’s' or 'excuse me’s' as they push past the intoxicated crowd with their elbows out, just denki spluttering the whole time.

“you are so— you’re such a— i can’t even—”

“then don’t,” sero breathes against his neck, as he pushes the blonde against the wall of the deserted alleyway. before his lips attach, grow teeth, and sink deep into denki’s skin, just below a mark that, sero assumes, you had left.

“so fucking needy, ain’t ya?” as he nibbles across the blonde’s pulse points, and curves his palm so he can cup denki’s straining erection. “s’kinda embarrassing if you ask me.”

“good thing no one was asking,” denki replies with his own fingers tracing along sero’s waistband.

sero groans at the tease, bucking his hips up into the sensation, “m’just saying, if you wanna ask her, ask her.”

this is like, the worst place possible to have this conversation.

it’s nearly 2am, the rest of the group is still inside, getting up to some bullshit like they always do, like denki has spent most of his college career doing. except he can’t participate properly, not this time, not when he has the self-proclaimed 'biggest moral dilemma of the century' looming over his head.

sero sighs, giving up on trying to undo denki’s belt, and rutting forward against his friend so both their crotches meet in this delicious tingle of friction, “i can hear you thinking y’know.”

“what if,” denki cuts himself off with a groan, and a roll of his hips, the cold brick wall doing nothing to soothe his feverish skin, “what if she thinks it’s weird?”

“why the— shit, that’s good— why the hell would she think it’s weird?”

his nails dig into sero’s shoulders at a particularly forceful thrust that has his head reeling, and his body whining, “’cos what do i even say like, hey i want you and my other-bestfriend-slash-roommate-slash-guy-i’m-currently-fucking-with to share me?”

“is that it?”

denki stills at the sound of your voice.

he tilts his head left and, you’re lent against the other side of the wall, half a joint hanging out of the corner of your mouth, patting your pockets down in search of a lighter.

sero, cheeses again, you roll your eyes at the sight of it, but hum in thanks when tosses a zippo your way. the sound of the spark wheel is like a honing signal, and sero release the tight grip he had on denki, who now crumples against the wall in embarrassment, to get a hit from you.

you inhale deeply, the end flaring up a bright cherry red, illuminating the bored look on your face in the dark alley.

you exhale in silence, pass the joint to sero, and make your way over to denki.

“dude,” you say softly, leaning your shoulder against the blonde, “you know you can ask me anything.”

↻ ◁ || ▷ ↺

“now what do you say?”

denki’s bed frame sounds like it’s gonna break, for real this time. it’s creaking and rattling like it only has seconds left to live before it collapse in on itself and takes the three of you down with it.

your pussy won’t let go, denki thinks he might actually die, with the way your walls are pulsing around his dribbling cock, practically milking him.

it wouldn’t be a bad way to go, the crease where your stomach meets your thighs and the sight of your jiggling tits will follow him into the afterlife. along with the way your hips tortuously grind down on him, and the unforgettable sensation of your pussy bubbling around the base of his cock, coating him in a juicy shine of slick, leaving that creamy ring stained forever into his memory.

“s-s-sorry?” he gasps out with laboured breaths, his chest caving, his heart feels like it’s gonna fall out of his throat from how fast it’s beating.

“hmmm, sorry for what?” you don’t give him a moment to think, sucking the soul out of his dick, you see his eyes rolls back into his head, dreamy, dopey, pussy drunk smile glazing his face.

“for–for being weird about it?” he finally croaks out when you slow at his silence.

you share a look with sero across denki’s shaking shoulders, from where he’s pistoling his cock into the blonde’s ass.

he sends you a smile, it forms slowly, beginning with a small grin, eventually spreading across his face, his lips stretching and curving, his teeth biting, with that same smirk in his eyes.

“and,” sero murmurs into his ears as his hands find purchase in denki’s hair, a mean grip that has the blonde carolling into your sweat slicked chest, the stimulus making his mind hazy, “you can ask for anything.”

denki’s head lolls, the sight of him, disoriented with pleasure, has you involuntarily clenching, which send him into another spiral, and leaving sloppy marks over any part of your body he can reach.

“say it.”

“i can—” denki groans against your skin, absolutely fucked out, his fingers bruising your hips with his grip, “holy fuck— i can a-ask for anything.”

"good boy," your voice is like honey in his ears, trickling sexual syrup right through his nervous system. the praise makes denki throb inside of you, you can feel it, the pulse, and you send it right back, rudely clenching down on him again, making him jerk his hips back in agony, right back into sero's cock.

it's disgusting, so fucking filthy, the room reeks of weed and your combined bodily fluids, his mattress is probably soaked in your sweat, and in denki's drool.

it's agonisingly good though, the near constant push and pull of three bodies.

denki feels like he's about to black out, and he keeps pathetically humping into both you and sero like that's gonna keep him from disaster.

his head tilts to suck on your tits, and you use his shoulder for leverage, so you can bounce on his properly, the motion sending him backwards into sero's hard chest, "denki, baby, you gonna cum for us?"

he gurgles in reply, too sex drunk to string any coherent thoughts together, just pleasure, pleasure, and more pleasure, his kiss-bitten body trembling, all your grunts and moans poured into his ears like fucking music.

"denki, denki, denki—"

god, he's gonna cum, he can feel it building, the two of you aren't far behind if the pick up in pace is anything to go by.

he can feel, fuck, hot under his veins, ecstasy thrumming through his body, it's never felt this good, he might die.

"denki—"

he's so fucking close, so close, oh god, everything, this long ass day, the constant tease from the both of you, and he finally gets to have this—

"DENKI!"

"huh, huh, what?"

his head flops back down into the pillow, the sunlight streaming through the open blinds is hurting his eyes, and god, his head is fucking pounding. his tongue slips out to wet his dry lips, fully content in going back to sleep, back to that fucking dream, anything to get away from the horrible light he can't seem to escape.

oh nevermind, he can't go back to sleep, not with his excrutiating morning wood, leaking pre all inside his boxers. he ruts down against the suprisingly smooth mattress beneath him with a satisfied groan, and another sleep filled sigh.

"dude are you serious?" an equally sleep stricken voice calls out from next to him.

oops. turns out his soft, smooth, mattress was his best-friends thigh.

denki's eyes flutter open weakly, and sero stares back at him, his dark hair a mess, his limbs stretched out across the bed.

"are you gonna stop that or what?" sero drawls back, voice hoarse with disuse, he raises a tatted arm to cover his eyes, and curses the morning under his breath.

the blonde's hips are still moving on auto pilot, relentlessly chasing a pleasure he can only imagine, until sero swats at him to stop.

hands rubbing his face, denki turns back around with a deep yawn, then starts feeling under the blankets for his vape.

"aren't we," sero yawns uncontrollably mid sentence, so hard tears start forming in his waterline, "uhh, aren't we supposed to go meet your friend at the station in a few?"

they can't stop the yawns now, denki stretches out his back as another one rips out, "s'too early man, s'way too early."

the blonde sits up against the headboard, smacking his dry lips for a minute, then says:

"dude, i just had the craziest dream."

taglist my asshole im so sorry im like dead on the inside lowkey

so you noticed everything in the way a skittish rabbit notices the shape of the field before it dares to move.

the first thing you noticed about him was his jacket. white and padded, with a golden scorpion stitched into the back. it was a normal jacket, you suppose. but it caught your eye anyway, just for a few seconds. you didn't even properly register his face before he was already gone.

he had looked quiet, you thought. the sort of quiet that made you wonder if he had been born that way or taught it, piece by piece, by whatever had raised him. a jacket like that felt like it belonged to someone louder, someone who took up more space in a room.

maybe it had belonged to someone else. an older brother, perhaps.

maybe it was borrowed, or inherited, or simply the only warm thing left in a crowded house where clothes passed from one child to the next. you imagined a mother with too many mouths to feed.

none of it had to be true, your mind supplied possibilities the way lungs supplied air.

you looked back down at your notebook, without remembering picking up your pen, you’d already written two words: blonde hair.

your unconscious was already building a list.

you bit your lower lip, wondering whether it was worth it.

you supposed it was.

next to it, you wrote; black coffee. no sugar. his order.

you wondered what else there was to learn.

——

you didn't fall in love with him the second time you saw him either.

that would have been too simple, too neat. too easy to explain, too… clean.

it was only a coincidence, really, being in the same place at the same time. after all, you had lost the trail of him after he left the cafeteria. there hadn’t been enough to follow, not really. l.a was far too large to search with nothing but blonde hair and a memorable jacket.

you were at the laundromat when the bell over the door chimed in. your headphones were in, old house music filling your ears. you were sitting by the dryers, the television in the corner played a soccer match no one seemed interested in watching.

that was when your eyes found the jacket again, golden braided scorpion on the back. you nearly dropped the coins in your hand.

your gaze caught on everything it could: his boots, his hands, his jeans, the set of his shoulders. heavy boots with worn soles, hands rough enough to suggest work rather than hobby and fresh scratches across his knuckles.

there was grease on his clothes. he must have been working on something. a car, probably. a mechanic? or someone trying very hard to become one because paying someone else wasn't an option.

there were dark circles under his eyes, he didn't sleep much.

huh, you didn't either.

you waited until your clothes were done drying. you pretended to watch the soccer match on the television, though your attention never really left the room.

when he left, you left a few seconds later.

you watched him get into a car. a chevrolet something. you weren't especially good with car models, but that seemed like the kind of detail you ought to memorize.

you watched him drive away until the taillights disappeared around the corner.

you walked three blocks before ducking into a bookstore. a folded map of the city cost less than lunch.

the laundromat had to be close to his apartment, you thought. far enough that a car made the trip easier. you were sure he had an apartment. he didn’t look like a house man. he looked like someone who lived in rooms with thin walls and small kitchens.

you marked the laundromat with a red circle. then you opened your laptop and started searching for apartment complexes nearby.

six, at first.

you needed cheap places. he didn’t look like a big money man.

then four.

still unlikely, the parking lots were too small.

two.

you wrote the directions in your notebook and stared at them for a moment. tomorrow, you supposed, you would take the bus and see them.

your fingers brushed against the camera resting in your bag, you wondered if it would be worth bringing.

——

you had luck in the first location. the 73’ chevrolet was there in the parking lot, exactly where you had hoped it would be. you took a picture or two of the car before walking back to the elevator.

your breath caught when the metal doors slid open and he was suddenly there, in front of you, eyes fixed on your face.

fuck, had he seen you? there’s no way. you had checked the angles from the parking lot before taking the pictures. there weren't any windows overlooking the spaces. you had made sure of that. you always made sure.

he didn't leave the elevator. instead, he shifted slightly to one side, making room for you.

only then did you notice the blonde woman beside him, short-haired, holding a grocery bag in one hand.

you gave them a small smile, your pulse felt impossibly loud inside the small metal box.

what if he asked about the camera? what if he said he'd never seen you around before? what if he asked your name?

you could ask his first.

you weren't very good at starting conversations.

before you could try, the woman pressed the button for the fourth floor.

“i like your hair,” you told her, shy and careful. “it suits you.”

she smiled, her hand instinctively brushed against it.

“i like your coat,” she said back.

the man’s eyes were on you now.

you let out a little laugh that didn't sound quite real. “thank you. it’s thrifted.”

your gaze moved to him. you smiled, just briefly.

the elevator chimed, and they both got out. you watched him pull out his keys and unlock his door.

apartment 405.

four. zero. five. you repeated the number to yourself until it stayed.

the woman disappeared inside with him. friends, you assumed. the groceries suggested familiarity.

the receipt had come from the convenience store three blocks away.

you stared at the closed metal doors for another few seconds.

you supposed it was time to get a new job.

——

you started building your entire week around the possibility of seeing a man you didn't know for mere thirty seconds.

you spent your mornings in the coffee shop where you had first seen him. you went to the laundromat every friday, because that was where you had seen him the second time. you learned when his apartment was usually empty because those were the hours you could photograph the hallway without anyone asking questions. you kept your camera close, always.

then you got a job, partly because it seemed practical, and partly because there was always a chance he might come in.

and one week later, he does.

he buys only two things: a carton of milk and a pack of gum. he isn't wearing the scorpion jacket. you almost ask him where it is, before realizing that would have made you sound like a fucking weirdo.

“that’ll be $12.47,” you say.

he slides the money across the counter and doesn't even thank you.

you wonder what made him so closed off.

you need to know.

before he leaves, you reach for the camera you kept beneath the register almost without thinking.

——

“he’s cute,” one of your friends says, because you do have friends, even if it doesn't always look like it. “is he your friend? a model?”

your stomach tightened, you had forgotten to hide the last two pictures you took of him. your room has a board for everything you know about him—photographs, addresses, receipts and timetables—, though right now it is tucked away in your closet.

“yeah,” you lie. “he’s a friend of mine.”

he isn't, but somehow he has started to feel like one.

“what’s his name?” your friend asks. “is he single?”

you look at her.

it's not exactly a mean look, more like a confused one. the question felt oddly invasive, as though she were asking about someone she had no right to know.

she raised both hands in surrender.

“okay, okay," she laughed. “he's all yours.”

yours. the word stayed with you after she’d gone.

funny. you still didn’t know the sound of his name.

still, he was yours.

you finally took the board out of the closet. it looked exactly how conspiracy boards always looked in films, all photographs and notes. ridiculous, almost embarrassingly obvious. it felt cliche, painfully so, the kind of thing people rolled their eyes at in movies.

but it worked.

your brain had always understood the world better once it could spread it out in front of itself.

you pinned up the newest photographs, shifting older ones a few centimeters to make room. his apartment, his car, the laundromat, where he worked. the grocery store, fridays. coffee. black, no sugar.

lately there had been one question you still could not crack, and it had begun to eat at the edges of your mind.

you knew he went somewhere at night.

you didn't know where. not every evening, not always at the same hour. but somewhere.

you had spent enough time hidden in the dark mouth of an alley across from his building, watching the square of yellow light appear in his apartment window.

you kept looking at your board, straightening the timeline of the last places you had followed him, pressing each photograph into place. the pictures you took at the grocery store were finally up.

then your phone rang.

the sound dragged a loud sigh out of you before you could stop it. your thoughts scattered at once. you answered, still half trapped inside your own head, it was your friend.

“what’s wrong?” you asked.

“you’re going to kill me,” she said, “but my car broke down in the middle of the road.”

“are you okay?” you asked immediately, already reaching for your bag and keys.

“yeah, yeah. i’m fine.” you could hear the dismissive little wave of her hand through the phone. “but i know this might sound weird, because you don't have a car, but do you know a good mechanic?”

well, if it wasn't the universe handing you a cleaner excuse.

your eyes drifted to the business card resting stuck on the board. shannon's garage.

you picked it up between two fingers.

“i might know one,” you said. “do we need to call a crane?”

your friend laughed. “as if we could afford one, girl. we’re pushing it.”

you groaned into the phone.

——

your hair sticks to your forehead. your jacket is tied around your waist, sleeves hanging loose against your hips, and the graphic t-shirt you'd thought was a good idea this morning now feels like punishment. the heat has worked its way beneath your skin, settling there until even standing still feels exhausting.

“hi,” your friend says to the man you assume must be shannon. “we just pushed my stupid car all the way from reseda boulevard. i have no idea what the hell is wrong with it.”

“oh, girls, you are both sweating. let me get you a glass of water,” he says immediately.

you want to tell him there is no need, there absolutely is.

you lean your weight against your friend's car, letting the warm metal hold you up for a moment. your eyes close. just for a second.

then your friend says, “hey, do i know you?”

your eyes open at once, you feel your stomach drop.

fuck.

he is standing there in a mechanic's coverall, sleeves rolled to his forearms, looking at you. there is no way he doesn't recognize you. but this really was a coincidence. you could have sent your friend to any garage in the city, any street, any corner with an open sign in the window. this looked like a coincidence, right?

“no, i don’t think so,” he says.

“yes, i know you,” your friend insists, nudging your arm. “don’t we know him from somewhere?”

you let out a nervous giggle.

“i don’t think so,” you say quickly. “sorry, she does this with every handsome guy.”

he actually looks embarrassed by that, color rises faintly across his face before he looks away.

your friend turns to you, offended. “no, i don’t— i mean, yeah, but—”

shannon returns with two glasses of water before she can finish.

“here you go,” he says. “can’t believe you pushed it from reseda. can you hear that?” he adds, glancing at the younger mechanic.

“we’re strong,” you say, while your friend beside you drinks the entire glass in one go.

you shoot her a look, but two seconds later you do the same. when you lower the glass, he's still looking at you.

shannon glances between the three of you. “oh, you two know each other?”

your friend turns to you with a huge smile and a look that says told you so.

“no,” you say too fast. “i mean, maybe. i don’t know.”

“you work in the grocery store, down at—” he starts.

“yes!” you cut in before he can finish. “yes, i do.”

you are absurdly relieved that this is why he recognized you.

your friend looks at you, surprised. “you changed your job? why didn’t you tell me?”

“it was sudden,” you say. “it doesn’t matter. your car is the priority right now.”

you look at her with pleading eyes that say please do not make me explain this right now.

shannon walks over to the front of the car, and the younger mechanic follows. the hood lifts with a metallic clunk.

“found the problem,” he says.

he opens a cap you recognize immediately. oil filler cap. you have been doing your homework.

“there’s no oil in your car.”

your friend frowns at him. “that can’t be. i just changed it three days ago.”

he slips a finger inside and lifts it back out. almost dry. proof, plain and rude and undeniable.

your friend looks from his hand to the engine, eyes looking lost. you shrug, without knowing what to say.

“but i don’t have that much money,” she says, smaller now.

you reach into your bag immediately.

“i’ll pay for it,” you say. “don't worry.”

her eyes go watery so quickly it almost hurts to watch, and for a second you are sure you see something soften in his face too.

no, that’s probably not real.

your crush is making you delusional.

well, more delusional than usual.

——

“hey, i’m taking a break,” you say to your coworker.

she nods without really looking at you, a cigarette held lazily between her fingers while she counts the money in the register, lips moving silently with the numbers. you are close to closing. people don't usually come in this late, and the store has already begun to feel emptied out, stripped down to its fluorescent bones.

there’s a plastic chair near the trash bin, the kind your coworker drags out every night so she could smoke. you sit in it anyway.

the heat is still unbearable even at night, and the thick fabric of your uniform makes it worse. it clings to your skin like it’s trying to keep every trace of the day inside you.

you close your eyes for a second and let the city happen around you.

distant traffic. a siren far away. someone laughing on the sidewalk. the low, electric hum of a place that never really sleeps.

then, suddenly, a crash cuts through everything.

two gunshots.

your eyes open at once.

“what the—?” you whisper, your attention snapping towards the mouth of the alley. you know robberies happen almost every night around here. you know because everyone knows. but you have never been this close to one before.

your coworker yanks the door open. “get the fuck in. there’s a lunatic shooting.”

“i think they’re robbing lucius’ store,” you say, body still half outside.

a car bursts past the alley before the words have even settled, moving too fast to be anything good. the windows are dark, tinted so heavily you cannot see much of anything inside.

nothing but a flash of pale hair beneath the windshield.

your stomach drops, you know that type of blond.

your coworker grabs your arm and forces you inside, muttering something mean about your reaction time, but you barely hear her. your thoughts have already gone elsewhere, gone soft and sharp at the same time.

“are they common?” you ask, though your attention is somewhere else entirely.

“what? robberies?” she looks at you like you have asked something deeply stupid.

“no, i mean—” you hesitate, because now the question sounds ridiculous even to you. “the getaway cars?”

your coworker stares. “yeah. fucking stupid question.”

you give her a thumbs-up while she keeps complaining, but your mind does not stay with her for long.

you cannot stop thinking about the hair.

that blond. that exact shade. it could have been the light. it could have been your imagination, your brain reaching for him in the wrong place because you miss him more than you are willing to admit. you hadn't had time to see him much this week. you’d taken extra shifts to pay back the money you gave your friend for the oil change.

you don't regret it.

you just wish you had a better job.

you walk to the lockers, leave your uniform behind, and pull your real clothes back on. a loose t-shirt and an old pair of thrifted jeans that have softened with time.

in the full-length mirror on the wall, the yellow light makes your hair look darker than it really is.

there is no fucking way you could have confused his hair with anyone else’s.

your heart stumbles at the realization.

oh, god. that is where he goes every night. to be a getaway driver for criminals.

your lower lip catches between your teeth as the thought settles in.

does his boss know? does the woman with the grocery bags know? would he have trusted you with that kind of truth if you had met under different circumstances? if you had been someone else? if he had been someone else?

your coworker bangs on the door.

“what the fuck is taking you so long?” she yells. “you’re closing the store now.”

you huff in surprise, because she scares the hell out of you more often than she should. you hurry out and find her standing there, already irritated, keys wrapped around her hand, dangling them in front of you.

“i’m leaving now,” she says. “try not to get yourself killed. again.”

she laughs at her own joke and shuts the door behind her.

you start locking up every other door and window.

a car parks outside.

you don't think much of it at first. cars always use the lot at night. people leave their cars there overnight all the time.

but this one doesn't turn its lights off. the beams stay on, aimed directly at the door you are about to close.

your skin prickles.

for a second, your mind fills in a stranger in the driver’s seat, a drunk man, a threat with no shape yet, only intention. your pepper spray is in your bag, but you're not sure it would help enough to matter, fear feels familiar to you now.

still, you go outside.

you close the door behind you and the click of the lock sounds louder than it should. the awful part is that closing the door means you will be the one to open it tomorrow, too. but that almost feels impossible now. you're not sure you're going to sleep much at all. there are too many things about your mystery crush that need thinking through.

then your gaze shifts from your bag, to the car.

a silhouette stands against the hood, leaning there with an almost lazy stillness

the headlights of a ’73 chevrolet malibu hit your eyes directly, bright enough to make you half-close them. you lift a hand to shield your face.

as your vision adjusts, the silhouette becomes a person. you can see him now.

“you saw me?” he asks.

you nod, and then immediately regret nodding.

“yeah,” you say. “yeah, i did.”

“are you going to tell someone?” he asks.

“no,” you answer at once. then, quieter; “i don’t want you to get in trouble.”

he licks his lips. he doesn't have the toothpick with him tonight. you wonder, briefly, if he keeps one there to stop himself from biting his skin raw. if he is as restless as he looks.

“get in,” he says, opening the passenger door.

you do. without hesitation.

——

the city unfolds outside in streaks of amber and neon.

neither of you says a word.

the radio is on, but low enough to barely be heard. the window is down, and the wind brushes your face with the kind of cold that feels almost kind after the day you’ve had.

you wonder if he is going to say something. you’ve imagined talking to him in every possible way, in every possible version of yourself. you’ve thought of a hundred opening lines.

but your mouth refuses to open.

you steal a glance at him.

his hands stay firm on the wheel. his eyes stay on the road. he looks tense, though not from fear exactly. more like focus.

he doesn't look at you.

still, you have the feeling that every other sense he has is fixed on you.

you stop trying to think of something clever to say.

instead, you watch the city lights wash over him in blues and golds, turning his profile into something unreal for flashes at a time.

this is the closest you’ve ever been to him. at least physically.

then you notice a storefront passing behind him that looks familiar. the same stretch of road that runs just around the corner from your apartment.

fuck.

your head turns sharply towards him before you can stop it. he doesn't react. he keeps his eyes on the road, as if he cannot feel your stare boring into the side of his face.

the car slows, then stops outside your apartment building.

for a moment, neither of you moves.

“how did you know where i…?” you begin, and the question sounds ridiculous the moment it leaves your mouth. slightly hypocritical, too, which is almost embarrassing enough to swallow the rest of it. but he isn't you. he couldn't possibly…

he glances at you once, briefly.

“you need to be more careful,” he says.

you almost laugh.

him? talking about being careful? you have a whole board back home covered in photographs of him.

he gets out of the car and comes around to your side, opening the door for you. you understand the hint.

you step out, still looking at him.

he leans against the car and tips his head towards your building.

your face twists in confusion, but you do what he wants anyway.

you run up the stairs to your apartment, unlock the door faster than you ever have in your life, and drop your bag to the floor the second you get inside. then you go straight to the window.

he is still there, watching you.

you watch him back.

instead of feeling afraid, you move closer to the glass. he reaches into the pocket of his jacket and takes something out.

a cap.

one of those football caps with a stitched logo on the front.

you've seen that cap before.

but where?

you close the curtains and press your body against the window, trying to think, trying to pin the memory down before it slips away from you.

you have seen it before.

in the cafeteria. long before you noticed the white jacket, he had been sitting behind you.

how did you not recognize him?

you’ve seen that cap in the stairwell of your building, just behind you. you’ve seen it at the laundromat. long before that friday. long before you thought you were following one man when in truth he may have been following the edges of your life the entire time.

a shaky gasp leaves your lips.

you can hardly believe you didn't notice sooner. you notice everything.

your hand trembles as you pull the curtains open again.

he hasn't left. he is still watching your window, watching you.

exactly the way you’ve been watching him.

the air leaves your lungs in one unsteady breath.

he is just like you.

Everything was shot in just one take- which was hard for even seasoned actors to do- and it had been so convincing, some of the staff around set began spreading rumors of a secret relationship between you and this stranger because there was simply no way two complete strangers could’ve filmed a scene that flawlessly.

That was already a hard enough pill to swallow. Someone was on set for what, a couple of hours, max? And stole the show?

Tom’s temper heightened when he found out the body double they recruited hadn’t been another random actor or just some guy they pulled off the street that somewhat resembled him. It was Colt. Tom’s stuntman! 

Tom had always been a little (lot) jealous of Colt. He could do stunts and scenes that Tom couldn’t and he looked so cool while doing it. But he was just a stupid extra! Tom was the real star. Colt was just a guy in the background that the stunt directors used as a punching bag sometimes. And now everyone was kissing the ground he walked on.

“I could’ve done just as good. Better, actually,” Tom complained to his hairstylist, glaring daggers back at himself through the mirror. His hairstylist said nothing but her face was tell enough. She didn’t agree with him.

Well, he would show them.

Tom was bound and determined to redeem himself. They were filming the fight scene in a couple of weeks- an explosive argument between characters that leads to the passionate, hungry kiss; a shoot that will set the heated tone for the sex scene that follows. Colt wouldn’t be able to steal his spotlight again and Tom could take the credit for everything that happens afterwards (he couldn’t fool the crew but he could fool the fans). Plus, it was one of the last scenes they were filming for the whole movie. Tom wanted to give everyone something new to gossip about at the wrap party.

Tom was about to act his ass off.

-

You were not looking forward to acting in the fight scene with Tom. At all. 

He’d been… off ever since you’d acted with Colt. 

He was always bitchy, but he’d been extremely so for the past couple of weeks. Every scene he filmed, he was snippy and wanted everything about the shoot to be perfect. Tom seemed more passionate about the movie than normal- going above and beyond with his acting. Usually, he’d do the bare minimum.

Something had changed and you had a suspicion it was because of the rumors circulating about you and Colt. Rumors about your acting with the stuntman spread around set like wildfire, and knowing Tom, he was taking it personally (like he hadn’t been the cause of the whole curfuffle in the first place).

You’d heard these rumors of course, several set friends swarmed your trailer the night after the shoot to press you about it. Unfortunately for them, you had nothing to say.

You had barely seen Colt since the shoot together. Your schedules had been too packed and too conflicting. Plus, the legal ramifications of hooking up were fuzzy and neither of you wanted to jeopardize the movie. But you did get his number

Texts between you were off and on, nothing super consistent- usually just the two of you complaining about Tom. 

Colt had noticed Tom was acting weird too. The actor was being short with Colt and didn’t talk to him more than he absolutely had to. The stuntman didn’t care at all about this change of course, but he still noted it.

I think he’s jealous 

Colt had texted you one night. You responded back almost immediately like a loser.

definitely. I don’t think he’s ever done a scene in one take before

Colt responded back just as quickly.

no like

jealous about us

Jealous about you and Colt? What was there to be jealous about? You weren’t in a relationship and would most likely never act in a scene together again (much to your disappointment). Colt was probably guessing wrong. You didn’t respond back to him- you just didn’t know what to say.

-

Your worries about the fight shoot were spot on.

Tom was acting like he was the director. Pointing the light and sound crews around like he knew what would look best for the scene. He was snippy about random set pieces that he felt didn’t belong, like a hand towel or the clutter of various cooking things around the stovetop. You had to bite your tongue from saying anything. You were supposed to be cooking in the scene before you start arguing, of course there’s supposed to be things on the counter!

While poor Charlie tried to get Tom under control, you leant back against the prop fridge with folded arms, watching the manchild whine about this or that. At this pace, you weren’t going to finish the scene by midnight- and it was 8 am. 

Among the crowd of panicked crew who were trying to piece together a manageable set, you failed to notice the man sliding up next to you, leaning a shoulder against the fridge.

“He’s in a mood.”

Colt smiled at your squeak of surprise and offered you something. A cup of coffee. 

It was still warm in your hands, steam curling from the tiny slit in the lid to heat your cheeks when you took it from him.

“He is. This scene is doomed.”

Colt was in casual clothes- a vintage looking car t-shirt and a pair of jeans that hugged him in all of the right places. He didn’t look like a man who was prepping for a stunt, so why was he on set? You asked as such.

“What are you doing here? Don’t you have the day off?”

The burly man pursed his lips and nodded, shrugging. “Yeah but I have nothing important to do, so… I wanted to come see how miserably Tom performs. Who knows, maybe they’ll need me to sub in again.”

There was nothing on planet Earth you would love more than that. However, there was something oddly intimidating about knowing Colt was watching you act. It was one thing acting with him, but having him watch? Watch you argue and yell- watch you kiss Tom? An unfamiliar twist of anxiousness filled your stomach. 

“Alright everybody, let’s get started!” Charlie yelled from where he was standing next to a camera guy, quickly whispering in the man’s ear and coming onto the set. The cameraman moved back to where he had originally been standing. Tom must’ve ordered the poor man around too.

Colt straightened up and gave you a double thumbs up, a “Good luck!”, and wandered off behind the cameras. He weaved between the crowd and stood at the very back so he wasn’t in anyone’s way. Despite the sea of people in front of him, he still stood out from the rest. To you at least. Your cheeks warmed under your makeup.

Blinking away the inappropriate thoughts that began bubbling in the back of your mind, you tried to get into your acting headspace. Charlie was describing how the scene was supposed to play out (mostly talking to Tom) and made sure the last bits of set preparation were done. You took up your place at the stove after handing your cup of coffee off to an assistant, where a fake pot of food sat. You were meant to be cooking food for the two of you in an Airbnb of sorts where your characters were holed up for a couple of days after a dangerous mission.

Tom didn’t seem to be paying attention to Charlie’s words at all. In fact, he was glaring off set. Following his gaze, you realized the icy stare was aimed in Colt’s direction.

Oh boy.

While everyone got into position and Tom moved past you to stand at his mark, he paused to talk to you, feigning nonchalance but failing miserably. “A little birdy told me that you and my extra have been rather friendly towards each other lately.”

He was bringing this up now? That had been weeks ago but he apparently decided he wanted to confront you about it right before a huge scene. You scoffed under your breath and glared at him. “Your extra?”

The way he called Colt something like that in such an obviously demeaning way had you seeing red. Colt was insanely talented and Tom knew that. He should show a little respect.

“Yeah. I just wanted to let you know that inner-actor relationships aren’t allowed. Insurance won’t allow it… or something.” Tom didn’t know what he was talking about, clearly. While he was right, he didn’t actually know the reasoning behind the rule. 

Besides, he was one to talk. He never followed that rule. You knew for a fact that Tom had slept with at least 3 of the supporting actors during filming of the first movie. 

He didn’t give you a chance to retort, moving to his mark and giving you a stupid smug smirk. Well, if his intention was to get you angry and ready to act out a fight, he had succeeded.

-

You’d been at it for hours. 

Hours and hours of reshoots- all because of Tom.

And you hadn’t even gotten to the kissing part yet.

The argument was supposed to be about Tom’s character’s disregard for his own safety. Your character was worried about him and his carelessness. The scene was supposed to be filled with tension and emotion, arguing that builds and twists until years of repressed feelings explode into passion. 

The arguing part was easy- it was the emotion that was proving difficult.

Your throat hurt from yelling- as your character became increasingly upset with Tom’s and began yelling at him for being stupid and reckless. Initially, you thought a hint of tears would fit the vibe too, and you’d done so for the first several takes, but at this point you were at risk of becoming severely dehydrated if you wasted any more water on tears.

Tom was acting strange, exaggerating everything about his performance- his voice, his actions and movements. While some of that is good for filming, overdoing it becomes weird. And Tom had reached weird status ages ago. There was a fire in his eye that you’d never seen before, and it was offputting. You wanted to comment on it, but refrained out of fear he’d lose it and stomp off of set. He already seemed on edge, you worried about pushing him too far and having him quit the scene entirely. He wasn’t above doing that, as you’d seen. Maybe Colt would have to step in again.

Speaking of the stuntman, Colt was still lounging in the back. You thought he would’ve left, but there he sat- sitting in a director’s chair and watching with crossed arms and a knowing smile.

He’d worked with Tom long enough to know that it didn’t matter how many takes you did: Tom’s acting was not going to get any better. Charlie seemed to think so too because he stood up from his own chair after the most recent attempt and gave a pained grin.

“Ok, I think we’ve got it.” 

Poor editors. How they were supposed to put together a decent scene with the hours of footage you just shot, you didn’t know. “How about we shift gears and move on?”

You set down the wooden spoon you’d been holding and took a breath. The kiss. Tom even paused, oddly quiet for how loud and boisterous he’d been for the first half of the day, nodding at the man’s words and suddenly serious. Everyone noticed the change- even Colt perked up.

With a refresh of your makeup and a dab of fake tears on your cheeks (you couldn’t muster up real ones anymore), you turned to your co-star. His off demeanor remained, and he seemed to be nodding to himself. Hyping himself up? 

Once the makeup crew left the set, he faced you and moved his head like he was cracking his neck. Except he didn’t actually crack his neck, he was just doing it to look cool. You had to stop yourself from rolling your eyes.

“Ready on set. Let’s dig deep for this one, ok?” Charlie begged. He was talking to you. It was probably obvious to everyone how annoyed and exhausted you were after acting with Tom for hours. Just a little more and you could go back to your trailer and scream into your pillow. 

When Charlie yelled action, you channeled all of your annoyance into your performance.

“You don’t get it, Vance!” you cried, shoving at Tom’s chest. The man stumbled back in exaggerated shock. “Year after year, you’ve thrown yourself into these missions without thinking. I get that our job is dangerous- I do. But you have to be smart too.” 

You jabbed your pointer finger into your temple, getting into Tom’s space. The sharp scent of some potent cologne assaulted your nose. It was a test of your professionalism not to flinch back at it. Tom stood his ground, letting you get close. His face pinched into fake guilt.

“The shit you pulled last week was the last straw,” you continued. “I can’t do this anymore. I’ll ask the agency to partner me with someone else.” You shook your head. Tom’s face turned painful. 

“No- you don’t mean that.” Tom had a stupid accent when he spoke. Something New Yorker adjacent but not quite. His character wasn’t even supposed to have an accent but he made the executive decision that his character needed an accent when filming the first movie so he’s had to act with one ever since. 

“I do, Vance! I do! I will not watch you get killed. I love you too much.” You choked out the last bit.

Tom’s brows pinched. “You… love me?”

You looked to the side a little embarrassed at the confession but didn’t back away. “You’re blind if you’re just realizing this now. I have for years. If you’d stop spending so much time obsessing over work, maybe you would’ve noticed.”

Turning your gaze to your shoes, you watched with a twisting gut as Tom’s shoes stepped closer and watched as his hand hooked under your chin.

Kissing Tom was nowhere near as lovely as kissing Colt. You didn’t even feel guilty for thinking that as Tom’s mouth quite literally attacked yours. In fact, it helped you stay in character imagining that it was Colt.

There was no gradual buildup in the kiss, no underwritten gentleness like the one you’d shared with the stuntman. It was pure lip, tongue and teeth. 

It took everything in you to not cringe away from him. You felt his arms wrap around you to fist into the back of your shirt, keeping you pinned to his torso and tilting his head to get you closer. You grasped gently at his shirt like you were supposed to before a loud “CUT!” echoed through the set.

Tom unlatched himself from your body and looked extremely annoyed. “What gives? That was a good take!”

“Love the passion but… could we tone it down a little? More heartfelt? The heavy desire comes after you’ve taken your clothes off.”

Tom grumbled as the scene was reset and you chanced a look between the sea of people.

Colt was still there, sitting silently like he had been. But he didn’t seem to be having as good a time as he had before. His lips were turned down in a small frown and one of his legs was bouncing. You wanted to throw him a questioning look, silently asking him if he was ok, but ‘action’ was yelled before you could.

The next take wasn’t any better than the last. 

So you had to do it again. And again. And again.

After the ninth take, Charlie seemed to give up and instructed the two of you just to keep going. Your lips felt swollen and wet thanks to the actor. Your waist ached from where he’d been grabbing at it.

Tom sure seemed to be in a good mood now, adjusting his clothes in preparation for you to take them off of him. Ick. He was all smirks and smiles, too- regularly glancing across the set towards the crew. You knew what he was doing. Colt was right, Tom was jealous. Whether it was due to the fact that Colt was being praised for his work or he was jealous of the fiery chemistry between you and the stuntman, you didn’t know. Either way, Tom was trying to get back at Colt for stealing the spotlight. By kissing you.

The rest of the scene didn’t go any better.

Tom ripping your clothes off was something you immediately decided you never wanted to experience again. He was harsh and clumsy, not very gentle at all. Colt would’ve been gentle.

Over and over and over, you had to put your clothes back on only to have them ripped off again. Tom was being too aggressive- it wasn’t going to match with the soft, heartfelt sex you and Colt had faked. Tom kept getting increasingly agitated that Charlie kept resetting the scene. The actor was convinced he was doing a splendid job.

By the seventh reshoot, Charlie had enough too.

“I think we’ve got it. Good work everyone.” He rubbed at his brow as he said it, obviously not believing that anything you just shot was good enough, but it was hopeless. 

Tammy rushed forward with robes to cover up your near naked forms, giving you yours with an apologetic look before going to Tom to put his on for him.

While Tom blabbed about his impeccable acting prowess, you quickly walked off of set and cast a hopeful glance around for the stuntman who had so diligently stayed to watch you act for several hours. You needed to talk to someone- anyone- other than Tom. But you couldn’t see him.

He’d left.

“Looks like your boyfriend couldn’t handle seeing a real actor outshine him, huh?” Tom smirked, walking past you in his own robe, throwing you a sly grin before he disappeared into the crowd.

. . . 

The wrap party was in full swing.

Gathered in one of the larger buildings on set, everyone was dressed nicely, celebrating the end of filming and a job well done- crew and actors alike were mingling and sharing food and drinks. Charlie was elated that his movie didn’t completely crash and burn, Tom was hammered, and you were trying to avoid the flutes of champagne being passed around just in case your alcohol riddled mind decided to light into Tom for being a complete perv a couple of days ago. And Colt was nowhere to be seen.

You were saddened at his absence, but you figured he wouldn’t show. He’d been oddly silent ever since he’d watched you kissing Tom on set. You couldn’t imagine why- you weren’t anything to each other. Besides, it was all an act and he knew that. You were just doing your job. If he wanted to pout then whatever- you wouldn’t let it bother you (lie).

His loss anyway- because you looked hot. You totally didn’t spend several hours making sure you looked your best just in case he did show up.

Maybe you did need a drink.

“Where’s your hunky side piece?”

Oh God, you definitely needed that drink now.

Tom stumbled up to where you stood next to the desert table, picking through a tray of several different cookie flavors. He was in a rumpled tux, a glass of something clear  in his hand and a heavy look in his eye.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Tom looked at you like you were stupid. “Colt. Obviously. Aren’t you two a thing or somethin’? Cuz everyone’s fuckin’ falking about it. Annoying,” he grumbled behind his glass. “Even after all my hard acting work. So stupid.”

“We’re just friends.”

“Yeah right.”

“I’m serious.”

“Friends don’t look at each other like that.”

That brought you pause. “What do you mean?”

“I dunno, during the fight and kissing scenes Colt was watchin’ us like you were actually cheatin’ on him for real. Every time I opened my eyes, I had to see his sad, kicked puppy face in the background.”

Your phone buzzed.

Ignoring Tom’s (annoyingly astute) observation, you fished your phone from the deep confines of your dress pocket and glanced at it.

Colt.

You instantly ignored everything Tom was still blabbing about to read the text message.

EMERGENCY

Your heart sank into your gut. Another text came through.

WAREHOUSE C

One of the sets.

Turning on your heels, you left Tom in the dust and exited the party. The summer night was warm but you didn’t have the mind to appreciate it. What had happened to Colt? Was he hurt? It would explain why he hadn’t shown up to the party, if he was trapped somewhere or hurt too badly to go find help. What he was doing in one of the set warehouses, you didn’t know.

Since filming had wrapped, he couldn’t have been filming any scenes and it was too late to be doing any kind of movie work. It didn’t really matter though, whatever had happened must’ve been bad.

The large rooms and hallways inside of the warehouse Colt had led you to were mostly dark and void of life. A couple of stray white lights were on here and there, illuminating some older sets or set pieces, but other than that, there was no sign of the stuntman.

“Colt?” You asked hesitantly. Despite not talking very loud, your voice sounded explosive in the silence.

No response. 

Using the lights that were on, you followed their fluorescent trail further and further into the building while keeping your ears open.

“Colt? Are you here?”

Still nothing. 

You started to worry. Should you call him? Maybe leave and get help? Right as you were passing by a room holding a large collection of draped furniture pieces, fingers dug into your waist and you screamed. 

Whirling around, you blanched at the tall blond standing behind you, dressed up in a white button-up that looked like it was hanging on for dear life as it stretched over his pecks and a nice pair of black slacks. He still wore sneakers. You wouldn’t expect anything different.

“Colt?!”

The man was grinning, eyes shining at your fear and laughing like nothing was wrong. “Fancy seeing you here. You look gorgeous.”

His smile dropped when you growled and shoved at his chest in anger. “What the fuck is wrong with you?!”

The blond held up his hands in surrender and backed up a step. “Woah! I’m sorry, I was just joking around.”

You clutched at your dress and looked him up and down. He looked perfectly fine. “Jesus. Are you ok?”

“Yeah? Why?”

His gorgeous, sturdy looking neck was just begging to be strangled. “Uh, your text?! Emergency? I thought you were hurt.”

He suddenly seemed to realize what you were talking about and waved his hand in the air. “Oh, that was just a text to get you here.”

You slid your hands down your face in agitation as you tried to calm your racing heart. “I hate you.”

Colt’s lips turned downwards and he looked a little hurt, like he actually believed you thought that. You immediately backtracked. Tom was right about one thing, Colt had a very convincing kicked puppy look.

“I don’t hate you Colt.” He smiled again. “Why were you trying to get me here?”

The tall man’s smile turned a little shyer, the round apple of his cheeks glowing as he reached for your hand and began weaving you through the busy halls. Any anger you had felt towards him evaporated and all you could focus on was how surprisingly soft Colt’s hands were in yours. During your faked romp in the sheets, you hadn’t focused on his hands. You expected them to be rougher thanks to the stunts he pulled. He must moisturize or something.

The further he led you, the more you started to recognize where you were going. 

Sure enough, in one of the further recesses of the warehouse stood the set you’d acted in together- the cozy bedroom that looked no different than it did the last time you were here; the sheets were still rumpled, the lights were still golden. This time however, it was void of people. No one besides you and Colt. There was also a bottle of red wine on the nightstand, two wine glasses and a box of what looked like chocolate covered strawberries.

“W-? What is this?”

You’d never seen the large man look so shy, shrugging at your question like his answer didn’t matter too much. “I just thought… I don’t know. Maybe we could pick up where we left off?”

It took a while for you to really process what he’d said and what he might be insinuating. He didn’t take your shocked silence very well.

“Unless I read things wrong? Oh shit, did I?” He quickly let go of your hand and you missed it instantly. “I just thought we had some sort of like… animalistic- no, not the right word. It felt like more than just acting to me. Well, to be fair, I’ve never done anything like that before so maybe it’s always like that and I just didn’t know. But I sort of hoped it,” he started to trail off. “Wouldn’t be a one time thing. Even though I guess it wasn’t really a thing. Because, y’know… the cameras. The people.”

You still didn’t have the words. Colt kept going. “When we were done and I told you my Friday’s were free, I was being serious. I know there’s a lot of legal stuff with set relationships but now that filming is done, I figured…”

Your fingers fiddled madly with each other, stomach erupting in so many butterflies you could’ve thrown up. Finally, you quietly stammered through a response. “I thought you were kidding. And I thought everything that had happened during that shoot was just a physical reaction to what we were pretending to do. It’s a pretty normal and natural thing that happens, especially to someone who’s never done it before.”

Colt ran a hand through his hair and shook his head. “I’ve got a pretty tight leash on my, uh, feelings. If it were anyone else, I would’ve been able to do the scene without any… side effects. But with you? It was real. As real as it could’ve been, anyway. For me.”

Your heart soared. “It was real for me too.”

A pregnant pause- warehouse so quiet you could’ve heard a pin drop and lighting so warm, Colt’s golden skin looked like it was glowing- before the both of you were throwing your arms around each other and mouths meeting in the middle.

The kiss wasn’t any less dizzying than the one you’d shared months ago- in fact this one was even more so because it was real.

Just like before, Colt walked you back towards the bed, lips dancing with yours and large palms pressed tightly to your lower back to keep you pressed against him. He was kissing you so intently, you could feel his eyelashes fluttering against your cheeks.

When the back of your knees hit the bed, you didn’t fall back this time. This time, Colt cradled the back of your neck to keep your head supported and slowly lowered you to the mattress. The sheets were just as silky as you remembered them, and the mass of muscle standing between your parted legs was just as dreamy.

With your legs dangling off the side of the mattress as you laid, you admired the man again. His face was red, chest heaving against the poor button up he wore. He looked too damn good. Colt looked you up and down too. Splayed on the mattress, high off his kiss and dress riding up your thighs. You knew he could see right between them too- where your panties hid away what he was so eager to find.

“Beautiful,” he mumbled, lips quirking up in a smile as his palms found your legs.

Your high-heels fell to the floor one by one, and his lips found the arch of one of your feet. The stubble around his mouth tickled but his lips were soft. Then a kiss was pressed to your ankle. Then your calf. 

Colt’s lips slowly trailed up your leg, worshiping every bit until he couldn’t reach any further from his standing position without bending awkwardly. Your other leg received the same treatment.

Once your heart was good and racing, Colt’s hands took over and found the hem of your dress. He didn’t have to peel it back very far to expose black lace. Thank God you had chosen a nice panty for the wrap party for no particular reason other than to feel fancier.

The stuntman fell to his knees and your pussy clenched in response. This brought him perfectly face-to-face with your cunt. With gentle hands, he tugged your thighs towards him a bit which brought your hips right to the edge of the bed. Your knees hooked over his shoulders and your heels dug into the strong cords of muscle along his back.

When his mouth found your inner thigh, you preened. When his lips traveled further and further up just to the edge of your panties, you panted. When he pressed a gentle kiss on the delicate lace, right over your weeping sex, you moaned. 

Colt moaned too, rumbling between your legs.

“Fuck, you don’t know how long I’ve-“ he trailed off. Another kiss and a steady inhale through his nose.

You nearly came right there.

“Colt- please,” you whimpered.

A sturdy finger hooked through the seat of the lace, brushing right over where you needed him most, to tug the offending clothing off of you. Exposed to the air, your whole body shivered in want and you were sure Colt could see the evidence of your need.

Colt kissed you again- this time directly to your clit- and your vision went blurry. He didn’t stop there, no. His mouth stayed pressed to your skin and suckled the bud into his mouth. One of his hands kept your hips in place while the other explored the rest of you. His fingers found no resistance as they found your entrance, your body happily welcoming two of his fingers without fuss. They were thick, dull nails scraping deliciously against your walls.

You never wanted to leave that sacred bed ever again.

The stuntman knew what he was doing- a masterclass at the sport if you’d ever seen one- and had you cumming faster than you ever had before. 

Once you were a puddle, Colt audibly licked his lips and wiped his wrist along his chin to gather what juices had escaped his tongue and seeped into his scruff. It was hot and you clenched around nothing. He pressed a wet kiss to your bellybutton before standing.

Clothes were shed next.

Colt’s clothing fell away first, since his were the easiest, and you finally got your first look at what you’d been daydreaming about for weeks. His chest wasn’t anything you hadn’t seen or touched before, but below the belt? His cock was beautiful.

Thick, heavy and standing at attention despite the cool room.

You wanted to touch it- you wanted to touch him- but the stuntman pressed a firm hand to your sternum to keep you laying down. “Later.”

Couldn’t argue with that.

Your dress came next. Colt did the honors, carefully maneuvering you as he saw fit in order to carefully tug the silky fabric off of your body. His pink tongue poked between his lips at the sight of your bare breasts. Your dress was supportive enough that you had forgone a bra and you were so happy that you had.

Colt gave the sensitive mounds some attention, gently pawing at them and brushing his thumbs over your nipples so they pebbled under his touch. He looked like he wanted to abandon your pussy all together and attack your breasts, but he literally shook his head to stop himself.

“Focus, Colt,” he groaned under his breath. You smiled. God, you were so ready to fuck this man.

Your legs were hooked over Colt’s torso again in a flash and he tugged your ass as close to the edge of the mattress as possible. He actually moaned at the sight alone- standing between your legs with his cock resting heavy against your navel, your eyes shining as you gazed up at him. Colt suddenly seemed to remember something and craned his head to look down at his slacks that sat abandoned a couple of feet away.

“Shit. I left the condoms in my car but I can run and grab them. Should only take like 5 minutes if I run fast-“

“Don’t worry about it.” You were not about to let him leave and ruin the moment. 

“Y’sure?”

“Yes! Forget about the condoms and just fuck me already, would you?”

Colt was stunned at your language, fingers tightening around your thighs. His Adam’s apple bobbed and he nodded in a daze. “Ok. Ok, yeah. Ok-“

You couldn’t take it anymore. The pulsing heat in your cunt was going to start ebbing if he took any longer. Reaching down, your hand found his length and gathered his cock firmly in your palm.

Colt’s mouth popped open and his eyes screwed shut. His tip was quickly slathered in your juices and you guided the head to your pussy, pressing him against the opening until he slipped inside. The stuntman remained immobile and trembling.

“Are you going to do something or am I gonna have to do all the work?” You tease, already breathless at how tight the stretch of him was by his tip alone. Then you thought of something truly cruel and you couldn’t help yourself. “Or, maybe I should give Tom a call.”

At your snip, Colt’s eyes opened and squinted down at you in a challenge. Oh… maybe you shouldn’t have said that. Was he going to get angry? It wasn’t like him, but you didn’t know how Colt handled jealousy. You half expected him to pull away, but when he did the opposite- pressing deep and bending your legs up towards your torso so he could tower over you- you whimpered. His cock was easily bigger than anything you’d ever taken before and reached parts of you that even your larger toys never touched. And without a barrier of latex, you felt every silky smooth inch of him.

“Y’think Tom could fuck you better than I can?”

You were barely able to breathe out a no. Colt’s hair was ruffled and hung down over his hooded eyes. He looked like a pornstar and you were willing to bet everything you owned that he would make out like a bandit in the industry if he ever decided to switch careers. 

“Was Tom a better kisser than me?” Colt looked completely serious when he asked the question.

“No.”

“Did Tom make your pussy throb when he kissed you?” 

The calloused pad of his thumb pressed firmly against your clit. No rubbing, no brushing, just a deep pressure. You mewled and shook your head. “No.”

“Would you have preferred it to be Tom grinding against you with a room full of people watching?”

“No,” you whispered, hips jolting to try and find some type of relief from his thumb or his cock. He didn’t move.

“Would Tom have done a better job eating you out?”

You couldn’t physically breathe another word, barely able to shake your head. Your core was throbbing so much at his questions you were sure he could feel the pulse. Colt leant forward a little more to press into you even further, bending your legs back an inch more to the point where it almost hurt. His next words were a gentle whisper.

“Then I don't wanna hear Tom's name come outta your mouth for the rest of the night. Okay?” He asked so softly, like a lover would. You nodded. He grinned. “Good.”

The pace he set had started out gentle- pulling back so your legs weren’t trapped against your torso anymore and a languid thrusting of his hips as he found a rhythm. You had to grip the sheets below you to stay mentally grounded because his dick felt that good.

His hold on your thighs were firm, keeping your legs spread to fit his muscle. If anyone was near the set, they surely would’ve heard the moans that began crawling out of you, as well as the slick slap of skin.

Colt’s demanding demeanor seconds ago vanished as he started rutting into you properly. 

“Oh fuck,” he whimpered. His head hung like he was praying. His posture wavered, like he was struggling to stand. Amidst the sounds you both made, Colt continued to talk.

“I should’ve come to your trailer that night. After the shoot. Fuck, I wanted to so bad. But I didn’t know- I didn’t want to read into things and cross some bullshit industry boundary. Had to get myself off and I hated every second of it. I wanted it to be you.”

Colt’s cock was battering you so deeply, you immediately knew you were going to have trouble walking tomorrow. The veiny girth slid smoothly despite the stretch, and the coarse smattering of hair around his base scraped deliciously over your clit at every thrust. You couldn’t help but confess your own secrets too, spurred on by his.

“I-I touched myself that night,” you breathed. Colt’s eyes snapped to watch you. “Used my fingers. Thought of you while I did.”

The burly man whined; whined at your words. “Yeah? Did fantasy me treat you well? Does he compare to the real thing?”

“He doesn’t hold a candle to the real thing.”

“Heh. Good. I’d have to beat him up if he did.”

What a Colt thing to say. Silly, considering he was balls deep in your pussy and grinding against your clit so hard it started to hurt. 

Each minute that passed brought you closer to that peak you’d been dreaming of for weeks. You were squeezing Colt’s cock so tightly, he had to abandon his grip on your thighs to plant his hands on the mattress next to your hips to keep upright.

Just when you felt like you might be getting close, Colt was suddenly pulling his cock away and spilling over your inner thighs.

“Sorry, baby. I’m sorry. I don’t usually- I always let the lady finish first but you’re so…” he made a sound that sounded like a groan and a growl. You clenched around nothing.

The man seemed distracted by watching his release drip through your folds and you frowned. He blinked when you snatched his hand from your side and pressed it to your mound.

“A little help here, Colt? Please? You’re losing me.”

“Right! My bad-“

His fingers were just as lovely as they had been the first time. With the added lubricant of his warm cum, your buzz returned quickly and with the sensual things he began whispering to you while he rubbed in circles, you were arching off of the bed again.

Colt held you through your orgasm, brushing your hair off of your forehead and watching you in wonder. He looked like a kid in a candy store.

“Y’alright?”

His body was heavy as he laid over you, pressing a line of kisses over your cheek, legs tangled together where they dangled off the bed. You just nodded. Colt’s chuckle vibrated your chest. Your arms wrapped tightly around his neck to hold him close. He was so warm.

“Remind me again why we didn’t do this sooner?” Colt mumbled against your neck, now fully pressing his weight onto you.

“Because we’re idiots.”

“That’s right.”

-

You reached a personal record.

6 rounds of sex with Colt Seavers (not including the highs he helped you reach with his fingers and mouth).

And watching him now- laying on his side, propped up on an arm and pouring you wine, you could’ve easily gone another 6 more. 

You were curled up next to him, admiring his torso that was on full display and modesty only covered by the thin sheet that was draped low over his hips. While he filled up your glass, he kept glancing up at you and smiling; like he couldn’t believe you were laying in the bed next to him. 

“Do you think there’s cameras in here?”

The set was still dark and quiet. Through the couple of hours you’d spent here, no one had ever come by to see what all the noise was. Or if they had, they hadn’t made themselves known.

“Besides those over there?” Colt nodded over his shoulder to the mass of film cameras sitting idle outside of the bedroom setting while he set the bottle on the prop nightstand. “Probably.”

“Poor security guards.”

The wine in Colt’s glass swirled as he agitated the liquid, bringing it to his lips. “Nothing they haven’t seen before. Bet Tom’s had sex on every set we’ve ever shot in. Hell, he’s probably fucked in this bed.”

That wasn’t a pleasant thought. Colt’s eyes were still icy saying Tom’s name. Your little jab earlier still rang through his head it seemed. 

“Colt. You’re a billion times better in every way than Tom. Every. Single. Way.”

He looked at you with uncertainty, like he still maybe didn’t believe you. “Even kissing?”

“Yes. Especially kissing. So stop being jealous.”

Colt choked and got a few splatters of red wine on the pristinely white sheets. “Jealous?! Of Tom Ryder? Definitely not!”

His ears turned a little red around the edges. You smiled over the lip of your glass. “You so are. Did you not hear yourself earlier?”

“Am not!”

“Are too!”

Colt snatched the wine out of your hands and rolled over to put both of them on the nightstand before rolling back over to straddle your naked, giggling form.

“Take it back.”

Between a fitful of giggles, you wheezed, “No!”.

Colt’s wiggling fingers dug into your sides and his scruffy mouth found the sensitive junction of your neck. “Take it back or say mercy.” His words tickled and you snorted a laugh, arching into him. You could feel his smile against your throat. You could also feel the hardening length between his legs poking at your navel. Colt’s refractory period was impressive and the fact had been proven time and time again over several hours.

Round 7 was underway quickly after that.

“But I want to.” You respond faster than you mean to, but he doesn’t seem to mind so you keep going. Internally blaming it on your desire-clouded brain. “I really, really want to. I’m just thinking out loud.”

“Well since you are so insistent,” Dan Heng eyes you as if to be sure, but you’re already nodding, so he relents, “We will take it slow then.”

The mattress suddenly dips as Dan Heng pushes a little closer to you following the understanding, until he’s holding himself above you with one muscled arm and you’re only left to spread yourself out for him and stare.

He gets himself comfortable between your thighs and for a second you’re able to tear your gaze away from his pretty features to cast a glance downwards. The look is just in time for you to catch his free hand wrapping around one of his cocks, giving himself a few long, slow strokes as he readies himself above you.

The image alone makes your gut twist in anticipation, while at the same time your thighs twitch with a similar feeling.

They’re pretty. Really pretty. Besides the obvious, daunting look to them, there’s a certain, mouth-watering sheen to the shaft that you can just barely make out through Dan Heng’s fist. You narrow your eyes at the one he’s left untouched so far, admiring it with a flutter of your lashes and you can’t say for certain, assuming it may possibly be a trick of the light but it almost looks like some of his veins run golden.

You hear a hiss from above as a bead of precum gathers at the tip of the cock that rests lower down and Dan Heng appears to consider that enough as he shifts again. Your thighs spread wider to accommodate him and he takes the opportunity to position the lower cock at the entrance to your cunt, stroking the thick head back and forth through your folds until it makes you keen.

“They’re so big… t-they’re a little scary.” You say, voice catching slightly with the tacky sound that comes from your pussy as he rubs his cock back and forth through your folds.

“If it’s too much, do not be afraid to make it known.” Dan Heng reminds you, but his breathing sounds strained— needy, his brows pinching together with pleasure. “We need not rush this.”

The expression alone makes you feel even wetter, so by wiggling your hips you decide to try help him, rising up to hump yourself against the shaft of his lower cock as if communicating just how much you want this. It feels incredible, heavy and soaked, but somehow the daunting weight of the second cock that looms above makes you feel even better. It taps on your lower tummy as your hips rise up with every thrust and you give him a fluttered, pretty look when you feel precum begin to smear from that one now too.

It coats your skin until it’s sticky, and you continue to bump your pussy along the lower shaft until it’s slick and wet. Suddenly filled with a newly sparked confidence that makes you hungry for it.

“It won’t be too much, I’ll be able to take it.” You say, as if Dan Heng’s the one that needs reassuring.

But your words make him exhale fondly, almost like he’s chuckling. “Was that not the opposite of what you implied just a moment ago?”

“I’m just nervous but…. I don’t want to stop either. It’s not like you can blame me, I mean look at them.”

“Very well then.” Dan Heng takes that as his go ahead before the next stroke of his lower cock brings it to rest at your hole again. And when you glance up at him over top of you, as if searching for something to ground you, you’re pleased to see him already staring back. “Just keep holding onto me.”

You heed his command quickly by wrapping your arms up around his broad shoulders and within that next moment, he begins to sink into you.

The stretch is as you would expect is immediate and thick, accompanying a particular sort of burning sensation that makes your toes curl and your back arch. Your nails dig themselves into the skin across the back of Dan Heng’s shoulders as he curls you into him a little tighter and he sinks in another inch.

Your legs spread open a bit wider, welcoming in more of Dan Heng’s cock as you feel the other continue to leak precum over your lower stomach and you think that’s what makes it all the more overwhelming. You can feel the twitch of his cock inside of you mirrored in the one that’s not, not to mention that there’s a lot of him being smeared along your skin right now.

You consider it another unique characteristic of this new form perhaps, one that makes him produce more precum than the average man might but that only makes you think of other things. Like how much he’s going to cum when he’s finally fucking you like you’ve been imagining or if you’ll even be able to take it all at all.

The idea of being so full makes you twitch and as if by their own accord, your hips jolt, forcing in another inch that you weren’t exactly ready for as Dan Heng’s hand comes to pin you back down to the bed. He hisses as your walls clench at the intrusion and your gaze becomes cloudy from the sting.

“Slowly.” He grunts, completely flushed now as he continues to sink into your plush pussy. “Don’t force yourself.”

“Sorry.” You babble, half-coherent but thick with desire and as if it’s some sort of award, Dan Heng satisfies you with a slow draw back of his hips followed by another short thrust.

“Don’t be, it’s nothing you need apologise for.”

From what you can gather in you’re mind, he must be about half way in but before you can mentally prepare yourself for the coming inches Dan Heng draws himself away from you. It makes you whine slightly as he pushes himself up straight, but when the new angle allows you to admire him in a better light you can’t find it in yourself to complain.

“It will be easier this way, trust me.” Dan Heng clears his throat as he rolls his hips into you again, making you keen as the new position allows the second cock to weigh down just right on your folds. Immediately, the pleasure is overwhelming; in the same way it would be if there were two sets of hands on you.

He draws his hips back once more and then juts them forward again, gritting his teeth as your fists slam down to twist in the bedsheets and again, you feel that silky grind of his second cock through your folds.

“S-so that’s where the second one goes.” You say through a gasp, answering your own question and there’s a throb from inside of you as Dan Heng watches.

“It would seem so.”

Dan Heng immediately appears to pick up on what you mean, tilting his hips in such a way that grazes the second shaft right over your clit, stiffening the bud with pleasure. He’s come to find a gentle, back and forth stuttered pace; one that eases his cock into you while at the same time letting the other roll through your folds at a mind-numbing angle.

He hisses for his own desire, feeling your walls squeeze again and he gets a bit braver now. He pulls himself out a little more this time before going again, pushing himself in with long, languid thrusts that press up against your sweet nerves just right.

“How are you holding up?” Dan Heng says after a moment, jaw clenching taut and tight.

You can’t nod your head fast enough. “S-so good, it feels so good.”

“I’ll keep going then? I am almost there.”

“Please, oh my—“ Your voice cracks, words breaking off.

You would never have imagined you would be in a position like this. With Dan Heng sinking one cock inside of you while the other rubs and humps itself through your folds from above, and maybe if you were half-coherent enough you would be able to pick up on the pleasurable swish of his tail going on behind him. Almost like he would never have planned for such a sweet pleasure either. But you’re not coherent at all, not when he’s filling you up so incredibly it almost burns and the glistening veins of his heavy cock are grazing against your clit just right.

You feel so full and overwhelmed with pleasure, to the point your mind feels like it’s filled with cotton and you can only gasp and hump yourself up against the second cock that bares down on top of you. Your hips tremble, shake as a sticky heat begins to trickle its way up from the base of your spine and you can only gasp and moan at how good this all feels at once.

Another deep, slow thrust and you hear Dan Heng groan, the sound alone making you shudder and by his next breath he’s pinching at your lower stomach. You only come to realise what he’s doing when you feel the heavy weight of his cock angle itself against your clit once more, his hand having manipulated the folds of your pussy in such a way that raises it just enough to accept more of the friction.

It’s no surprise that when Dan Heng finally pushes completely into you with one deep, hard thrust that you suddenly see white. Your orgasm hits you so hard and so good that you almost sob, your body arching into a shuddering bow as he hisses from the sudden squeeze against him.

But he doesn’t stop there, infact he fucks you through it. With gentle, shallow thrusts that press up against your nerves with ease, his second cock continuing to tap and shiver against your puffy clit until it’s stiff and you’re hissing from overstimulation.

The ringing in your ears eventually calms down to a low, muffled sort of chime as you try to catch your breath, coming down from your orgasm as cream begins to gather around the base of Dan Heng’s cock.

He clears his throat before speaking, looking more than overwhelmed himself as he rests inside of you, twitching uncontrollably with his hips flush against yours. “Well that was certainly unexpected.” He swallows loud and your eyes peek open, looking almost guilty.

“S-sorry, it’s just… it was so good.” Your voice cracks again but it’s much gentler this time, “Just keep going, don’t pull out.”

“Are you sure?” Dan Heng asks quickly, considering your fucked out state, he would hate to overwhelm you. So he soothes you instead, gentle hands resting down on your hips. “I don’t mind stopping he—“

“Yes. Please, don’t pull out.” You cut him off with certainty and Dan Heng accepts your request with a shuddered breath of his own. There’s another loud swish of his tale behind him and by his next exhale, he’s pulling out of you again, slow and careful and your walls continue to twitch with his wet withdrawal.

The cock above you still weighs down on your folds, drawing back with his hips until it’s leaking all over the top of your pussy and it makes you shake with anticipation when you feel it twitch against your skin again.

Dan Heng’s voice sounds much lower when he speaks this time, almost wild in tone as the thick head of his cock remains the only part that rests inside of you. “Well if you’re certain. I have no doubts you will be capable of another.”

Peter’s brows jump together. He watches his mug as he fills it up. “No. Why?” 

You feel immediately stupid. You’ve overstepped. You’re nosy. You don’t mean to be. 

“I heard the door open.” 

No way to say that without sounding like a paranoid freak. You have a quiet door in a loud city. At nearly midnight, with sirens wailing and your neighbor singing in the shower on the other side of your wall, you shouldn’t have heard it. But you did. 

If Peter finds this odd, he doesn’t mention it. “Oh,” he says, dragging the word out long and slow. “Out as in out of the apartment. I thought you meant out out, like to the club or something. No, I just…I had a late night craving. Went down to the bodega to grab some chips.” 

You feel yourself frown. You hadn’t heard the door open again until a couple hours later, far longer than a trip to the bodega would take. But to ask more questions would be to admit you’d still been listening, so you don’t. Maybe Peter has some emotional attachment to a bodega in Queens. He said he was from Queens, right? 

Peter joins you in the living room. You’ve opened a window to let the air in, still warmish but getting cool enough that you can get away with running the fans and not the air conditioning, and Peter turns his face into the light as he settles in on the opposite side of the couch. You wonder if he’ll have his own dent in time, too. He doesn’t strike you as the type. 

“You were up late, too, huh?” he asks. The smell of his coffee mingles with the smells of wet pavement and car exhaust coming in through your window. 

“Sorry,” you say, before you can stop yourself, “I didn’t mean to pry.” 

“It’s cool. It’s not prying to make sure the door to your apartment isn’t left unlocked in the middle of the night.” Peter grins. Two dimples dive into his cheeks. “Were you doing homework then, too?” 

“No.” You don’t consider lying. It’s not something you feel the need to be private about, even with virtual strangers. “I just don’t sleep much.” 

Your roommate’s head tilts. The movement reminds you of a cocker spaniel. “Like, you can’t?” 

“I can’t,” you confirm. “Not usually, at least.” 

“Ouch. That sucks.” 

Peter’s sympathetic bemusement confirms for you that his reasons for being tired are not, in fact, the same as yours. Whatever they might be, you file it away as None of Your Business. You’ve asked, he’s told, that’s the end of it. You sleep not twenty feet apart, but Peter is a near stranger to you. You don’t have any right to his mysteries. 

“So,” he says into the silence that follows, “any classes today?” 

“Yeah.” You check the time on your laptop. Corner the page of your textbook. “Actually, I’d better go. It starts in twenty minutes. Do you care if I leave my mess on the coffee table?” 

Peter glances at your collection of pens and highlighters with a look that makes you think his version of mess might be different to yours. 

“Go ahead,” he says. “So long as you don’t mind my mess joining it.” 

“Of course not.” You zip up your backpack, relieved. 

“You coming back for lunch? I think I’m gonna go grab a bagel in a sec, I can bring you back one.” 

“Oh, that’s…” That’s too much. That’s more than roommate duties, and more than you want to return. “That’s okay,” you say, moving towards the door. “I packed a sandwich, I’ll probably camp out on campus between classes.” 

Peter raises his hand in a lazy salute. “Let me know if you change your mind.” 

“Uh, yeah. Thanks.” You try to mirror him. It feels weird; you let your hand drop halfway through. The door shuts nearly silently behind you. 

—

Peter plies you with meatloaf when you return. He’s been to his aunt’s in Queens and brought back enough to feed a family of four. 

“It’s not…I’m not gonna lie to you, it’s a not world-renowned meatloaf,” he says, bringing a forkful to his mouth. “But it’s food and it’s free and I can’t eat it all by myself, so.” 

You’re not in any position to turn down free food. You sit on the couch next to him. Peter’s left the cushion by the window open, and you wonder if already you each have your own spot. The meatloaf isn’t bad. 

You talk about your classes. Peter’s studying biophysics and biochemistry, two words which mean nothing to you but apparently require lots of time spent at the labs on campus. He congratulates you on the achievement of getting matched with a roommate who will make you feel like you live by yourself; his classes are only getting started, but soon he’ll be in the lab most of the time. Though your own classes are far from easy, you don’t envy him. 

Peter doesn’t need any help from you; he finishes the rest of the meatloaf in that one sitting. 

—

You get into a rhythm quickly. On campus from your first class in the morning until your assignments (or at least the ones due the next day) are finished usually sometime in the evening, cooking at home, eating on the run, plasma donation on Thursdays at seven to make some extra cash, four scoops of coffee grounds in the machine because both you and Peter need it strong. Peter brings home more meals from his aunt. Her name is May, you learn, and after the third free dinner you write her a thank-you note for Peter to bring back to her. 

Your hot water goes out. Peter sweet-talks the landlord while you send stern emails to the leasing company until it gets fixed. You bring his laptop instead of yours to campus by mistake and have to meet up at a library to swap. Peter comes from the lab, half-jogging with plastic goggles pushed up into his hair and making it stick out in every direction. It’s endearing beyond reason. You make him a sandwich to take to class when he oversleeps. He comes to pick you up from the plasma donation clinic when you forget to eat beforehand. You develop inside jokes about the flickering light above your stove, and the erratic banging you think is your upstairs neighbors having sex, and the too-good-for-this-world cashier at the bodega on your corner. No matter how Peter tries to get you in on it, you refuse to develop inside jokes about his Aunt May’s cooking. 

It’s in the dull blue of a sleepless night in September, Aunt May’s pasta pomodoro still heavy in your stomach, when you hear the lock on your front door click. It’s a quiet sound, but you’re too antsy to miss it in your otherwise silent apartment. The door opens with a shush of air. 

You wonder if Peter is going out or coming in. It’s late, but not so late for the overworked grad student population. He warned you that he’d eventually be spending long nights at the lab. 

You don’t get up with any suspicions. You only want to make sure the door gets re-locked, and you haven’t heard the second click. 

There’s an odd sound as your bedroom door opens. Like plastic ripping or cast fishing line, blink-and-it’s-over. You step out to find Peter wrapped up in your largest blanket and absolutely covered in filth. 

You blink. 

Peter blinks back at you. 

“Jesus,” you say. 

“Nope, just me.” Peter grins, but it falls short of his usual. “Sorry, lame joke. My uncle used to make it. It was lame then, too, I guess.” 

“What happened to you?” 

“Uh, there was a small accident at the lab. You should be asleep.” 

“Small? Is that soot?” 

“It’s…it’s soot, yeah.” 

You’re reeling. You turn the kitchen light on to see him better. Peter’s left footprints in from your front door. There’s soot even in his hair, tinging it a darker color. “Was there an explosion?” 

He grimaces. “It was a super small explosion. Very contained. But, you know, chemicals. Volatile stuff.” You shake your head, baffled, and his expression softens. “It was freaky, but everything’s fine now. It’s late, you should go back to sleep.”

“I wasn’t sleeping.” 

Peter’s brow furrows; the lines are more pronounced with soot etched into them. “You weren’t? It’s almost three,” he says, as if to himself. 

“What’s with the blanket?” 

“The…oh.” He looks down. “Right, yeah. The lab actually took my clothes. They’re probably not contaminated or anything, but they’re being disposed of for liability reasons.” 

You look down at your blanket, covering him toe-to-chin, and back up at Peter. “They made you walk home naked?” 

Peter blinks. “Uh. No, no, not…totally naked.” 

You raise your eyebrows at him. 

“They gave us…lab coats?” His voice tips up at the end like a question and the corners of his mouth tip up with it, sheepish. He gives a little shrug. “It’s not super modest, but it’s what they had on hand. Sort of like a slutty nurse costume situation? I didn’t want to, uh, you know, scar you as you were coming out of your room.” 

“Right.” You frown, embarrassed of the heat you can feel coming to your face. “I…appreciate that.” 

“Anytime. But you can go to bed now, seriously.” Peter starts edging towards the bathroom. “Don’t let me keep you up, I know you have that nine a.m. tomorrow.” 

You wave him off. “I’ll be fine, we don’t have any explosions in my class. Are you okay? Is there anything I can help with?” 

“Nope! No help.” Peter’s voice pitches slightly when you step towards him. He draws the blanket tighter, walking backwards until his back bumps the wall and feeling his way into the bathroom. “It’s just that I’m really basically naked. Like, so, so naked, and it’s embarrassing, so you should just go to your room and I’ll shower and then we can, uh, probably just not talk about this, if you’re alright with that. Because I’m embarrassed. Okay?” 

“Okay.” You hold your hands up peaceably. “If you’re sure.” 

“Super sure.” Peter flashes you a smile before shutting the bathroom door. “Goodnight!” 

You go back to your room and sit with your head laid flat in the middle of your pillow, your bent knees making a tent of your covers. You listen to the shower running until it squeaks off at three-thirty. 

—

Your backpack feels heavier leaving the library than it did on the way to campus this morning. Your train runs less frequently after midnight, so walking is nearly just as efficient. It’s a long, slow trudge up the hill that leads from campus to your neighborhood, past empty university buildings and through dapples of pale streetlights. A raccoon stops riffling through a trash can to look at you as you pass. You raise a hand to let him know you’re a kindred spirit. 

It’s cliché, but you sort of love the city after dark. It’s less glitzy than people think. The city may not sleep, and neither do you, and apparently neither does Peter, but some people have to. The streets are relatively quiet, technicolor dulled into grays and blues that blur together as you pass them by. Somewhere out of view, a siren wails like a ghost’s cry. 

It’s the quiet that allows you to hear the schwick and rush of air that comes before feet hit the sidewalk beside you. 

You flinch hard. Nearly send yourself tumbling into the street, but a hand whips out to catch you before you can slip off the curb. Slippery red fabric with black latticework spanning up the wrist. 

“It’s okay.” Spider-Man steps back as soon as you’re steady. He holds his hands up. “It’s okay.” 

You put a hand to your heart, feeling it beating beneath your palm. “Jesus. Don’t you know not to sneak up on girls walking by themselves?” 

“Don’t you know girls shouldn’t walk by themselves?” Spider-Man counters lightly. 

You suppose you’re meant to feel chastened, except you are a girl, and you have to get places, you can’t have a chaperone at all times. Also, this superhero speaks in a deep, rough voice that makes you think of teenage boys trying to sound tough. 

“Is this really the most pressing thing you have to deal with?” you ask him. Spider-Man’s head tilts, and you gesture around you at the empty street. “Aren’t there any bank robberies happening? Or, like, serial killers on the loose?” 

He’s wearing a mask, and yet you could swear it’s like his eyebrows raise. “How common do you think those are?” 

You shrug and keep walking, though you’re careful not to put your back fully to him. Even Spider-Man could turn out to be a bad guy to be stuck alone with. “I don’t need any help,” you say. “Thanks for the tip, though.” 

He keeps pace with you. “Are you a student?” 

You look at him sideways. “Maybe. What makes you ask?” 

He taps the pin on your backpack. “The university has a walking buddy program, you know. So students don’t have to walk home alone after long nights at the library.” 

“How long have you been following me for?” 

“What?”

You narrow your eyes at him. You don’t like that he guessed you were coming home from the library; however, on the chance that it is a guess you’re not about to tell him he was right. 

“I’m just saying.” Spider-Man’s hands are up again, in a gesture of peace. “You should think about calling a walking buddy next time.” 

“Maybe I’d rather be alone than alone with someone who’s volunteered to learn the routes to people’s homes.” You throw him a pointed look. 

Spider-Man’s casual gait doesn’t falter, but he lets out something that sounds almost like a laugh. “Are you always this suspicious of people trying to help you?” 

“John Wayne Gacy was known to lure victims by promising help.” 

“But I’m…” The voice behind the mask changes, turning younger and less polished. He lifts his gloved hands haplessly. “...Spider-Man.” 

You shrug, not allowing yourself to feel bad. “I’m suspicious of people in general. And I don’t need help.” 

“Noted. Listen, can I just walk you to your building to make sure you get in safe? I won’t know your apartment number or anything.” 

You give him an appraising look. Spider-Man walks with a respectable distance between you, his hands swinging at his sides. It’s not like you could actually make him go away even if you wanted to, but you do think he would fuck off if you said no. Ultimately, that’s what makes the decision for you. 

“Okay,” you say, tacking on reluctantly, “thanks.” 

“Hey, all in a day’s work. Until there’s another bank robbery or serial killer, obviously.” 

Spider-Man turns out to be a half-decent walking companion. He offers to give you a lift instead—but once he clarifies what he means by lift and you swiftly decline, he only continues walking beside you at a New Yorker’s amble. He asks you about your classes. You admit to having fallen asleep earlier at the library, and then staying late to make up for the study time you’d missed. He tells you about how it feels to swing through the city at night; how there are some neighborhoods he likes better than others for their calmness, but of course by the nature of what he does he tends to stick to the noisier ones. Times Square isn’t only a hotspot for crime during the day, as it turns out. He says, in a light, kind voice, that he’s glad to have the break of walking you home. He enjoys the quiet of your little neighborhood, too. 

True to his word, Spider-Man lets you go at your building. He watches you walk up the front steps, waving when you turn around briefly before buzzing yourself in. You hear the schwick of his webbing shooting out just before the door closes behind you. 

You slog up the flights of stairs to your apartment, letting your backpack drop by the door and sending a silent apology to your downstairs neighbors right after. You feel lighter without it, but still your body all but drags you to the floor when you sit to take off your shoes. You turn at the sound of a door creaking open. 

Light spills out into the hall as Peter emerges in his plaid pajama bottoms. You wince. 

“Hey,” you say softly. “Sorry, did I wake you up?” 

“No.” He shakes his head, though you obviously did. His hair is all messy from sleep, sticking out in every direction. “Did you just get back?” 

“Mhm.” 

Peter makes a face highly reminiscent of a sad puppy. “You were on campus all day?”

You shrug, like what can you do? Peter’s a grad student, too; he’ll get it. 

But your roommate looks troubled. “Did you eat?” 

“I…” You blink, realizing why, besides the late hour, you might have felt so tired on your walk home. “I guess I forgot about dinner. I fell asleep for a while in the library.” 

“Yeah?” Peter’s already moving towards the kitchen. “Sit down, I’ll make you something.” 

“Peter, that’s okay.” 

“I’m not gonna have you passing out waiting for the microwave or whatever. Just sit down.” 

You find you don’t have much argument left in you. You’re dead tired, and the couch does look like a nice place to rest. “I thought we ran out of May’s lasagna.” 

“We did. I can’t cook as good as her, but I can whip up a half decent quesadilla.” 

You fall silent, resting your cheek on the back cushion of the couch and watching as Peter puts a thin slice of butter into a pan on your stove. Your teeth worry into your lower lip. 

“Doesn’t the library close at midnight?” he asks. 

“Two,” you correct him. “It’s open twenty-four hours during midterms and finals week, though.” 

Peter glances at you out of the corner of his eye. “It’s not midterms or finals.” 

“Hence why I got kicked out.” 

He makes a chuffing sound like laughter, familiar in a way you can’t place. “Can’t believe you stayed late enough to get kicked out.”

“I know, right? It’s like bar close for students.” 

“Are you really comparing yourself to people who get kicked out of bars?” 

“Hey, we’re both committed, just to different pursuits.” 

Peter hums, ceding the point. “I guess the only difference is that you got kicked out on a Tuesday.” 

“You think the barflies aren’t there on Tuesdays?” You give him a droll look. “Wisen up, Parker.” 

Your roommate casts you a glance paired with a half-smile. “You know productivity decreases with exhaustion, right?” 

You scoff. “You don’t get to talk about healthy sleeping habits. I know you work just as hard.” He brings you a plate with a neatly folded quesadilla on it, and you soften your tone as you take it. “Thank you.” 

Peter settles into his side of the couch, putting his feet up on the coffee table. He watches you take your first couple of bites. “I just think,” he says, “that if you pass out somewhere from sleep deprivation or low blood sugar or whatever, there might be some part of our lease agreement that says I’m responsible for that.” 

You raise your eyebrows at him. “Did you read that whole thing?” 

“Oh, hell no.” 

“Me neither.” 

“I’m only saying that it’s possible. Landlords love weird clauses.” 

You hum as you chew, playing along. “Okay. That’s fair. What if I kept a note constantly on my person that said this isn’t Peter’s fault, so that if someone finds me passed out you can avoid culpability? Would that make you feel better?” 

Peter’s lips twitch. He shrugs. “A little.” 

“Perfect. That’s what I’ll do, then.” 

“You could also just come home before some poor librarian has to kick you out. Or,” he goes on, “call me to walk you home if it’s late.” 

You give him a look. “I’m not going to call and wake you up so you can come get me every time I stay late on campus.” 

“I wouldn’t mind being woken up. I might be on campus too, and anyway I’d want to help.” 

“I don’t need help.” 

Peter frowns. “If you say so.” 

You nod, trying to smile to soften the rejection. You hold up what remains of your quesadilla. “This is really good, by the way.” 

Peter mirrors your half-hearted smile. “I learned from the best.” 

“Yeah, you did. I really owe May another card.” 

“You don’t owe May anything, and if she were here she’d tell you that herself.” 

—

You feel like something is amiss. It’s not a new feeling. Some nights, you can’t stop going over things you’ve done wrong. Times you said something you shouldn’t have, acted without thinking, didn’t act and regretted it, going back as long as you can remember. It’s enough to make you hate yourself. 

Other nights, like this one, you become convinced there’s something still yet to be done. You didn’t actually hit submit on that assignment. You’ve left the stove on. Your water bottle is sitting abandoned on your table in the library, begging to be stolen. Someone’s trying desperately to call you, but you clicked your phone to silent without realizing. 

The anxieties worm their way into your weary bones until the only option is to drag yourself out of bed and quiet them. It’s not like you were going to fall asleep anyway. 

Your building is old and creaky. You take care to walk on light footsteps into the kitchen, reassuring yourself forcefully as you go. The stove is off. The freezer is shut. The heater is not turned up so high that you’re going to be surprised by a heart-stopping electrical bill. The kitchen sink isn’t leaking. Your school things are just where you left them, heaped together in your backpack beside the door. The front door is…

The front door is unlocked. 

You know you locked it when you came in. You’re sure you did, because you don’t allow yourself to put your keys on the hook unless you have and there they are. You look towards Peter’s room. 

When you text him, there’s no chime you can hear.

YOU: Hey, are you home?

PETER: Just left, forgot my laptop on campus! Everything ok?

YOU: Yeah, it’s fine. The door was unlocked.

PETER: Shit. SO SORRY!!! 

PETER: U can lock it, I have my key.

YOU: It’s fine. Locked now.

PETER: Won’t happen again. Promise!

You double-check that Peter’s key is missing from his hook before actually locking the door. You think wryly that you and Peter may have synced in your sleeping habits; you always seem to be awake at the same times. Or maybe you were simply both such terrible sleepers to begin with that the comings and goings of the other don’t make much difference. 

You run through a few more checks before going to bed. The window that goes to the fire escape is latched. The oven is off. Your laptop is charging. 

Right next to Peter’s. 

—

The next night, you’re not woken by worries but by cold. You rouse from a fitful hibernation to find yourself coiled tight like a crab within its shell, knees pressed together and chilled nose hidden beneath your covers. Early winter seeps through your apartment like a frozen kiss. 

You take your blankets with you as you stumble out of bed, bleary-eyed. You feel the chill more when you leave your room, though less in the living room. The heat is supposedly on. Peter’s door is closed, but you knock to see if it’s woken him, too. There’s no answer. 

“Peter,” you whisper. 

Still nothing, and you knock again. 

“Pete, are you up?”

When another minute of this produces no response, you turn the door knob tentatively. You know it’s a massive invasion of privacy. You know that. But your apartment feels like it’s teleported to the Arctic, and for all you know Peter could be comatose with hypothermia right now. 

It feels all the more plausible when you open the door and the air that meets you is cool enough to make your skin pebble under your blankets. Peter really might have hypothermia. If he was here. 

But Peter’s bed is empty, and his window is open. 

You decide to leave it that way in case it’s how he needs to get back in. You take more blankets with you to go back to bed. 

—

There are few things you can think of which require someone to be out in the darkest hours of the night. None of them are reassuring. Things too illicit to be exposed to daylight, risky things, illegal things. 

If you’re being honest with yourself, you probably should have realized sooner. New York is expensive, and Peter doesn’t seem much better off than you are. You’re both full-time students without jobs; everyone has to supplement their income somehow. He probably makes more doing whatever he’s doing than you do pimping out your plasma once a week. 

Peter may not seem like the type, but you don’t have to be the type to do drastic things when you’re broke. Anybody could be doing anything. Some people do yard work, some people babysit, some people buy cheap shit and resell it on ebay; you donate plasma; Peter deals drugs, probably. It’s fine. It’s…well, it’s not fine, it’s dangerous, but you can understand it. He has access to a lab and pays for school with government grants. He had to be paying for your rent somehow. 

“Hey.” Peter returns to your table with a mug in each hand. “You good?” 

You let out a little hum. “Yeah, why?” 

“You just looked kinda spacey.” He sets your coffee in front of you. You pick it up, gratified by the way it sears your tongue and seeps sweetness into your tastebuds. 

You’ve taken to spending your Saturdays together at this coffee shop, The Daily Bean. It’s big enough in size that you can always find a table in some hidden corner if you look hard enough, small enough in popularity that regulars can still stare-shame anyone who talks too loudly when everyone else is trying to work. You and Peter like that it’s walkable from your apartment, and that the chairs are comfortable, and that every mug is unique so you can debate who got the better one when your drinks come out. The icing on the cake is that if you order a simple drink, refills are free so long as you bring back your mug. You keep asking Peter to go up to the counter because you’re worried the employees are going to get angry with you for abusing their policy by camping out all day, and no one can get angry with Peter.

And that’s sort of the sticking point, isn’t it?

Peter is a good guy. He’s nice, he works hard in school, he pays rent on time. Obviously he has this other thing going on on the side, but that doesn’t make you like him any less. It’s not fair that he should have to give up sleep and put himself in god-knows-what dangerous situations just to live. Lately, the crescents under his eyes are nearly as bad as yours. You’re worried about him. 

“You do photography, right?” 

Peter looks up, blinking, from where his attention had gone back to his laptop. He’s working on something he told you about during the walk over, some report of some sciency thing. You think he could tell you weren’t grasping it even as he explained it to you. 

“I take pictures sometimes,” he says, doing a side-to-side sort of nod. “Not really the same thing.” 

“But you’re good.” 

It’s not a question. You’ve seen the photos all over Peter’s room. They’re stuck to the walls with scotch tape like he’s not even proud of them, but they’re incredible. Candids of a graying woman you imagine to be Aunt May in different locations of the same lovingly cluttered home. Stills of people in the motions of their day, on the subway and lounging on front steps and smiling at dogs. Angles of the city that make you feel like you’re flying. 

Peter makes a face. “Eh…” 

You huff a laugh at his humility. “I’m just saying, have you ever thought of charging people for that?” 

“For…”

“To take pictures of them. Or to buy your pictures, either way.” 

“I don’t know.” Peter shrugs. He looks almost like he might be blushing. “I can’t think of anyone who would want to pay for that, and anyway I’m not sure I have the time to, like, monetize it or whatever.”

“I could probably help,” you say casually. Take a sip of your coffee to sell it. 

Peter watches you, unabashed in his staring even when you won’t look back at him. “Yeah? You’d do that?” 

You lift your shoulders. “Sure.” 

“How come?” 

You meet his gaze, though it sends tingles from your ears all the way down your spine to do it. The brown eyes waiting for you are just as warm and thrice as sweet as the drink in your hand. “Because I want to,” you say. 

Peter’s mouth kicks up in the corner. “Noted,” he replies. “Thanks.” 

You make a mumbly sound of acknowledgement, going for your coffee again. Your roommate’s grin worsens. 

“Hey.” He bumps your ankle lightly with his under the table. “You want to learn something about protein misfolding and Alzheimer’s?” 

“No.” 

“Yeah, you do.” Peter shuts his laptop, setting his elbows on it to lean closer to you. “So, when proteins lose their functional shape…” 

—

Lately, the only place you can find sleep is in places it shouldn’t be. Slumped over the table of a study room, in the chair of the plasma donation clinic, in your sunlit living room between classes. When Peter finds you, you’ve started a small puddle of drool on your textbook. The fluorescent lights of the library press at your eyelids, obscuring any awareness of time in a distant outside world. 

Peter says your name with something soft curled around the syllables. 

Your eyes burn as you open them to find him crouched by your chair, one hand on your textbook and the other floating a few inches above his knee like he’d been thinking of reaching for you. His hair is sticking up the way it does when he’s run his fingers through it. 

“Peter?” 

“Hey. Hi.” He clears his throat, blinking something away from his expression. “Glad you still know my name. Since, you know, you seem to have forgotten where we live.” 

“What’re you doing here?” 

“I’m hoping to save the librarians some hassle.” His mouth curves, pink and lovely, into a little smile. “Ready to go?” 

You peel yourself off of your textbook, allowing Peter to close a pencil in it to mark your page before dropping it into your backpack. You feel like you’re moving through molasses, back clicking as you stretch; you must have been sleeping deeply. 

“What time is it?” you yawn as Peter helps you into your coat. He shoulders your backpack without saying anything. 

“One-thirty.” When you blink blearily at the near-desolate library, he touches your shoulder gently to direct you toward the elevators. You try to take your backpack from him, and Peter only hikes it up further on his shoulder. “They’re gonna put posters of you up at some point. I think you’re here more than anybody else on campus.” 

You send him a droll, sleep-addled look out of the corner of your eye. “I don’t think you get to talk about staying out late.” 

He doesn’t look at you. “No? Why not?” 

“Because you’re always at the—” You yawn hugely. “At the lab.” 

Peter huffs a laugh. If it sounds a bit relieved, you’re perhaps too tired to judge. As you step into the elevator, he hits the button for the ground floor and steps back beside you to put an arm over your shoulders. “Touché.” 

You stand still in silent uncertainty as the elevator descends. This is closer than you and Peter have been before. It feels a slight shift from bumping elbows in the kitchen or accidentally brushing each other’s knees under your table at The Daily Bean, though maybe that’s just you. Regardless, it’s going to be a cold walk home; Peter’s body is emanating an enviable warmth through his coat, and you’re just sleepy enough to consider leaning a bit on him as you walk. You stay where you are. 

“How’d you know where I was?” you ask as the elevator doors open. Peter steps out with you tucked under his arm as if it’s the most natural thing in the world.

“It’s almost two in the morning on a Thursday.” He waves to the librarian at the desk, pushing the front door open for the both of you. “Where else would you be?” 

“Ha ha,” you mutter. “But, like, how’d you find me?” It’s a big library. Five floors, dozens of tables, and you’d been hidden away in your own private corner chosen specifically for how rare it is for any other student to stumble across. You suppose someone outside might have seen you through the window by your table, but even that seems unlikely. It’s higher up than most people think to look. 

“I’m an efficient search committee,” says Peter. He adjusts his hold on you when the wind picks up and you step closer unconsciously, hand slipping down your arm to encourage further sharing of his warmth. “Cold?” 

“Yeah. It wasn’t this bad when I left.” 

He makes a half-smug humming noise; you feel its vibrations kiss the top of your head. “That’s what happens when you stay out this late, I guess. My Uncle Ben used to say nothing good happens after midnight.” 

“Have I called you a hypocrite yet?” 

“Only in implication.” 

“Well, you are.” 

Peter laughs, the sound wonderfully crisp. “Did you at least eat?”

“It’s not your job to feed me, you know.” 

“Seems like someone’s gotta do it.” 

“Well, for the record, I did.” 

“Glad to hear it.” 

Peter seems to gather that if you walk all the way home he’s going to end up carrying you for at least part of it, so you go down into the subway to wait for the next train. You fall briefly asleep on his shoulder waiting, and again in your seats once you get on. It’s a feat, considering you’re only a stop away on this line, but both times Peter rests his chin on the top of your head like he’s surrendered to the idea of keeping you there. 

It’s only after he’s half-dragged you up the stairs to your apartment and is digging your key out of your backpack (why he doesn’t seem to have his, you don’t bother asking) that you say, “I’m sorry you had to come all the way to campus to get me.” 

Peter makes a quiet scoffing sound, jiggling the handle until the door gives way. “I didn’t have to. I don’t mind, I just wanted to make sure you were okay.” 

“You’re always doing things for me, though.” You shuck off your coat, tossing it over the back of the couch as he does the same with his. “You’re either making me food or picking me up from places or bringing me my stuff…” 

Peter’s eyebrow twitches, a teasing curve to his mouth that fits his voice to its shape. “So what, I’m not allowed to do things for you? You’re gonna rob me of that?” 

“Do you have a hero complex or something?” 

You think it’s obvious you’re teasing him back, but Peter’s expression flickers with something that makes you wonder if he didn’t catch the levity in your tone. He recovers fast. “Maybe.” 

“I’m just saying,” you try on a bit of sincerity, “you don’t have to.” 

“Hey, I know.” He moves closer, eyes dark in the low light. Neither of you have moved for a light switch, your apartment cast in the cool blue tones of the moonlight coming in the window. “I really don’t mind. I like doing things for you.” 

“But,” you ask, hesitating, “who does things for you?” 

Peter’s eyebrows lift slightly, as though he’s surprised you’d ask. When his voice lowers, there’s something about the roughness of it which tugs at a memory. “You do.” 

You feel yourself frown. Yes, you try to do things to make Peter’s life a bit easier, but that’s half out of a sense of gratitude for all he already does for you and they’re never really sizable things. A few extra pancakes left in the fridge when you know he won’t wake with enough time to make breakfast before class, a pack of twizzlers snagged from the bodega when you notice he’s running low. Is that as much care as Peter gets? It can’t be. 

You’re about to tell him that he deserves better, but when you open your mouth you realize he’s right there, and letting yourself list forward is just as easy. 

Peter kisses you like he’s breathing you in. Slow at first, the beginnings of an inhale, and then in great pulls. He cups the side of your face, stepping forward, crowding you, his other arm winding around your waist to keep you from falling when you move backwards into the couch and nearly tip yourself over the edge. A few seconds later and he’s changed his mind, sending you both over so you collapse down onto the cushions in a heap, him all on your side and you all on his. One sleepy, confusing tangle. 

“I thought you wanted me to go to bed,” you mumble against his lips. 

“Who said that?” Peter rolls you sideways, putting you to the inside of the couch so he can push your hair away from your face. “Tomorrow’s Friday. It’s basically the weekend already.” 

“Could’ve probably stayed at the library then.” 

“Too cliché.” 

His hand coasts up your back, and you find you’re out of cleverness. “Yeah?” 

“Mhm. Plus, what would the librarians think of you? You’re a big name over there.” 

“You’re such a hypocrite.” 

Peter sighs into your mouth. “Tell me about it.” 

—

Maybe it should be awkward, but it’s not. You and Peter already live together, already have your routines and your in-jokes and an ease of moving about each other in a small space, so adding kissing to the mix really doesn’t feel like so far of a leap. 

It’s not fireworks. Or butterflies or cartwheels or any of that. It’s…easy. Like slipping into a warm bath. You feel yourself unspool one inch at a time, until coming home from class to lay yourself down in Peter’s lap and go over flashcards with him is as natural as breathing. 

“It’d be over in Chelsea, so I could stay here and take the bus.” Peter’s got his glasses on, which always make you want to kiss him hard enough to get them all askew, and his hands are wandering your legs and waist as he talks, not helping matters. “And they’re doing this really cool stuff with ion channels that I could get involved in…” 

He’s telling you about an internship he’s applying to for the summer. You’re sitting in his lap trying to look engaged and not humiliatingly wanton. Really, you like the sound of this internship. It would mean you’d both get to stay in the apartment for the summer, since you’re returning to a previous internship in the city, too, and of the options Peter’s told you about this one offers the best pay. You may not understand ion channels or space radiation or half of what he talks about, but you love the idea of anything that might supplement his supplemental income. 

“Didn’t you say your internship’s in Greenwich?” Peter asks, touch coasting up your back. 

You hum in the affirmative. 

He grins, flashing a dimple you want to poke your tongue into (because you’re a nonsensical, depraved thing). “We could meet in the middle for lunch.” 

“That would be nice.” You give into your baser urges and lay a soft kiss on the side of Peter’s nose. The frames of his glasses dent into your cheek. “Where would we go?” 

“I know a good sandwich place on Eighth and Hudson,” he murmurs, pushing his glasses up into his hair to kiss you properly. Damn him. His voice hums against your lips. “Maybe lunches there sometimes, dinners at Chelsea Market.” 

“Chelsea Market?” You smile, and Peter’s quick to kiss the corner. “Are we made of money in this fantasy?” 

“Duh. We’ll have high-roller internships—” 

“Speak for yourself.” 

“—and those of us who are possibly being taken advantage of for their cheap labor and wonderful, perfect—” He mushes his lips to your face with each word. “—really very valuable brain will luckily have a lovesick biophysics intern to sponsor them.” 

You hum, sliding your finger along the curve of his glasses behind his ear. “Where am I gonna find one of those, you think? Should I start loitering on park benches reading genetics books and looking confused?” 

For someone so gentle and who spends so much of his time in labs, Peter is surprisingly strong. You’ve discovered this several times over now, enough to want to goad it out of him when you can, and still it surprises you to find yourself flat on your back against the couch cushions less than a second later. You’re giggling breathlessly before Peter even gets to you. 

“You think you’re so funny,” he mutters, a far cry from menacing as he smooshes wet kisses into the underside of your jaw. 

“Or I—I could try hanging around the three-in-one shampoo at the discount store—” Peter squeezes your waist, and you gasp out a laugh. “—or hoard all the city’s ramen so they come to me.” 

“Okay, you know I eat better than that, you traitor. Are you trying to get yourself cut off from my culinary resources?” 

You squirm, pushing at Peter’s hands and enjoying how useless it is. “You wouldn’t dare.” 

“Also” —he breezes right past the threat, because you both know he wouldn’t— “if you have a problem with my hair, all you’ve gotta do is say something. Does it smell bad?” 

He sticks the top of his head in your face, the soft ends of his hair tickling your nose. You stick your face in dutifully to take in a pull. You know the scent of Peter’s three-in-one (you live together, you’ve read the bottle), but somehow his hair always manages to smell like fresh laundry, too. You have every intention of feigning shock and disgust, except you’re overtaken by a rush of affection and the teasing mood leaves you. 

You press your lips to his forehead. “It’s perfect.” 

“Wow. Even with three-in-one in there?” 

“I’m surprised, too.” 

Peter tilts his head up, bumping your noses together. “Guess you don’t have to go on the search for some other biophysics guy to fawn over you, then.”

Fawn. That’s exactly what Peter does, fawn over you, but it’s somehow worse that he does it knowingly. 

“Maybe not,” you say, “but you know I’m not just going to let you get my lunch every time.” 

“Oh, yeah? How are you gonna stop me?” 

“I don’t know.” You heave a long, thoughtful sigh. “I guess probably start selling your photos to make my own way in the world.” 

Peter laughs. “I think probably one of the most adorable things about you,” he says, lips to your cheek, “is that you think those are worth something. They’re all yours, pretty girl.” 

“They’re definitely worth something. I’m going to make millions.” 

“Sure you are.” 

“You’ll see, when I move out of this place into a penthouse and you’re still just scraping by on your measly STEM salary.” 

Peter watches you with an analytical gaze. You’re playing at levity, but he knows by now when you’re hiding your sincerity away, and he also knows what you’ve been pushing for for weeks now. 

“Why do you want me to sell them so badly?” he asks. 

You shrug. “Because,” you say, “I’ve never seen the city the way I do when I look at them. I think other people would like that, too.” 

He mushes your hip in his hand affectionately. “They’re not that original. I’d be one of a thousand people trying to sell pictures of New York.” 

“Yeah, but yours are good.” 

“You’re so stubborn,” he mumbles, pushing his face into yours to kiss you with a vengeance, “and cute. I just don’t have the time, sweetheart.” 

“I can set you up a website.” It’s not said in haste. You’ve been trying to think up ways to get this idea off the ground for a while now. “That way you don’t have to do anything, I’ll just list them for you and handle the shipping when people buy them.” 

Peter blinks at you. It’s clear he’s caught offguard, and it aches a bit that you offering to help him out is still so unexpected. You’ve been trying to do it more—though it’s near impossible to keep up with how often Peter helps you, and it seems like he ups the ante with every attempt you make—but you wonder if Peter will ever get used to the feeling of someone wanting to do things for him. You can relate to that particular discomfort. 

“Would that make you happy?” he asks after a moment. 

“It would,” you reply honestly. 

He hesitates. “I would want to choose which ones you put up. And I don’t want you to be disappointed if they don’t sell…” 

“I won’t be disappointed.” You wave him off, already reaching for your laptop despite still being trapped underneath him. “They’ll sell like hotcakes.” 

“What even is a hotcake?” Peter muses, though he moves when you nudge at him, allowing you to sit up and open your laptop. 

“Pretty sure it’s an old-timey word for pancakes.” 

“Do pancakes sell famously well?” 

You cut him a dry look. “Then they’ll sell like Mets merch, Peter. Is that better?” 

The distracted look in Peter’s eyes diminishes, replaced by a more familiar one. “I think you’re the hotcake they were talking about,” he says, smarmy. 

“Are you saying I sell?” 

“No! No. You know that’s not what I meant.” 

“Yeah, walk that one back, Parker.” 

—

You’re halfway to a dream about holiday break and Peter’s fresh-laundry smell when the fire alarm goes off. It knocks you out of your study fugue state and knocks your coffee clean over, making you gasp and fumble for your laptop. It’s gotten all over your lap, too, but you don’t have time to think about that, ignoring the burn and the shrill wailing in favor of wiping your keyboard off on your shirt.

A moment later, and the coffee is no longer your laptop’s paramount threat. The sprinklers go off. You stow your laptop in your bag, hugging the whole thing to your chest like you can shield it with your body. It’s then that you remember what a fire alarm means. 

You’re not the only brain dead, half asleep straggler in the library who hasn’t been quick to action. There are other students just now making their way to the stairwell door; you grab your notes and follow suit. 

The alarm is deafening in the stairwell. It bounces off the walls in a painful, ceaseless screech, punctuated by flashes of bright white light. Coming down from the top floor, you’re joined by a throng of others as you descend. People shove; a girl shouts her friend’s name; someone else stops by the railing, halting the flow around them as they try to make their way back up to some forgotten item. Most heads are ducked, the sprinklers still raining down and water dripping from chins and noses. You say an apology that gets swallowed up by the cacophony when you step on someone’s foot. You wince when someone else steps on yours. You curl around your backpack and keep going. 

You’re near the back of the push down the stairs, so when Spider-Man arrives your only indication is the change in tone of the shouting below you. Cheers go up with the siren’s shriek, and you peer over the railing just as a stream of webbing shoots past you, sticking to the ceiling. The spandex-clad vigilante follows it up. He goes slowly, scanning faces as he goes by. 

“All good? Everybody okay? Let’s make our way down in a neat and orderly fashion, folks. No need to push. Where’s the fire, am I right?” 

If he wanted to go put out the fire, or even to sweep from the top floor down to make sure no one’s still not evacuating, there are surely quicker ways, but you’re a bit warmed that Spider-Man is taking the slower route to check that you’re all okay. He’s risen nearly to you now, and while some of the students around you have stopped or taken out phones, you’re still trying to get out of here. Of course, now that you’re looking at Spider-Man and not your feet, you fall straightaway onto your ass. 

It’s embarrassing. You narrowly avoid hitting your chin on the stair railing; someone near you gasps. Your tailbone and your pride both feel terribly bruised. 

“Oh, shit. Hey. You okay?” 

It doesn't help matters that you’ve pulled Spider-Man’s attention, too. 

He swings neatly over the very railing that nearly concussed you a moment earlier, reaching down to pull you upright. 

“Yeah, you’re okay. Nothing feels broken, right?” He skims touches over your elbows, your waist. It’s all too much at once, an overwhelm, but you step away quickly when he lays a probing hand at the small of your back. 

“What?” Spider-Man’s voice rings with concern just loud enough to be heard over the alarm. “That hurt?” 

You’re shocked speechless. Does he just go around touching everyone like that? It feels intimate to you. 

“Oh.” He seems to get it. His demeanor changes, a few more inches of space appearing between you. “Sorry. Are you hurt?” 

“I’m fine,” you say. 

“Can I, uh.” He looks up in the direction he was heading, then back to you. “Can I give you a lift down?” 

You feel yourself frown. “I can make it on my own.” 

Spider-Man breathes out a dry chuckle. “I forgot how suspicious you are of people who want to help you.” 

You blink, biting your tongue against the question that rises to it. You remember me? It’s difficult not to feel flattered, but you’re also just baffled. Spider-Man saves dozens of people every day, and yet he remembers a conversation with a girl he only walked home on an uneventful night?

“Just let me take you to the ground floor,” he asks. “I won’t be able to relax if I think there’s some injured bootstrapper hobbling their way down the stairs.” 

You don’t remember deciding to agree, and you certainly think you’re going to argue his bootstrapper label more than comes out, but you find yourself clinging to spandex-clad and surprisingly warm shoulders a minute later, Spider-Man’s hold far from unwelcome now as he lowers you gently to the ground. 

“Come on,” he says, ignoring the people who stop and stare in favor of guiding you outside. 

You think it’s probably a good sign that there isn’t smoke visibly pouring out of any windows you can see. The library’s fire suppression system may have worked fast enough to put the fire out before it grew too large. Spider-Man keeps you close, maneuvering you both through the gathering crowd and past the arriving firefighters to the curb across the street. 

“What happened here?” he asks you, something achingly familiar about the gentleness of his tone as he looks down at your lap. Whereas most of your clothes are speckled with dampness from the sprinklers, across your thighs is a dark, prominent splotch. 

“Coffee,” you answer resignedly. 

He hisses. “Hot?” 

“Not cold.” 

“Does it hurt?” 

“No, not really. I think the sprinklers cooled me off.” 

You try on a smile there. You think maybe Spider-Man mirrors it, his tone lightening some. 

“Is your butt okay, too?” 

“My butt’s none of your concern.” 

“Hey, I concern myself with every butt in this city. You’re all under my care.” 

It feels ridiculous, laughing while your university library is still being evacuated and alarms are still going off. It’s also nice. The laughter gathers like bubbles in your chest, fizzing and popping and disrupting the tension in there. You wonder if this is how Spider-Man does what he does, if it’s what makes him so good at it. 

“I’m fine,” you tell him. 

“Promise?” 

“Yeah. Don’t you need to…” You look at where the firefighters are running into the building. 

Spider-Man follows your gaze. “Yeah,” he says, though he doesn’t move. He glances between you and the building a few more times, fingers twitching at his sides. “I, uh.” 

“Thanks for your help.”

The dismissal is clear, and it seems to snap him out of it. 

“Right. Okay.” He finally takes a step back. “Stay put, okay? Don’t go anywhere. I’m serious. Just, I have to—you stay here.” 

“Okay,” you say. He’s already shot away on a web, and with the sirens and the shouting, you aren’t sure if he hears you. 

You aren’t sure why Spider-Man would ask you to wait. Does he plan to come back? He seemed flustered; he might not have meant it. You’re resting your head on your knees with eyelids growing heavier, but it seems rude to leave when someone rescues you and then asks you to wait up. 

“Hey.” You jolt when a hand lands on the back of your neck. “Hey, hey. It’s just me.” 

Peter’s a sight for sore eyes. His grin is tentative as he sits on the curb beside you, all soft brown eyes and hooked brows. The apprehension goes out of you in an instant. 

“Hi,” you say, warmth filling your chest. 

“Hi, sweetheart.” Peter rubs between your shoulder blades, looking you over. “What happened?” 

“There’s a fire in the library.” 

“Yeah, I think they put that out.” He offers you a small smile. “I mean what happened to you? What’s this?” He sets a hand to your thigh, over the wet spot on your jeans. His brows rise. “It’s warm.” 

“Yeah, I…” You shake your head, breathing out a sigh. “I knocked over my coffee when the alarm went off.” 

Peter frowns. “Ouch.” 

“How’d you even know about the fire? I thought you were at the lab tonight.” 

“I, uh.” He seems distracted, still looking concernedly at your burnt jeans. “I saw it on the news.” 

“Already?” 

“Yeah, the school sent out a text alert. Hey, don’t you want to get those pants off?” Peter gives you a look in exchange for the one you give him. “Not like that, you delinquent. Get your mind out of the gutter. I mean let’s go home and put some ice packs on your or something, okay? Are you good to walk?” 

You’re shaking your head before he’s finished talking. “Pete, I’m fine. But I have to…” The words shrivel up, humiliated with themselves, before leaving your mouth. 

Can you really tell Peter that Spider-Man asked you to wait here for him? Peter might like you well enough to make out from time to time, but you can’t imagine they make rose-tinted glasses thick enough to look past anything that sounds so pathetically made up as that. Why would the city’s favorite vigilante, with his very busy schedule, want you to stay put so he could come back for you after saving the day? It’s a good question. Peter said the fire is out; if Spider-Man was coming back, surely he would have already?

“What’s up?” Peter asks you. His voice is gentle. “You okay?” 

“Yeah.” You shake your head to clear a nagging thought. “Let’s go home.” 

You stand on your own, though Peter’s hands hover while you do and he gets an arm around you as soon as he’s allowed. You walk tucked close to his side, his thumb rubbing absently over your hip. 

“How’d you know I was gonna be here?” 

“Well, it’s quarter to midnight on a Friday. I was gonna go around checking the clubs first, but…” 

“Asshole.” 

“Nerd.” 

“...Did you really come looking for me?” 

“Duh. And it’s not like I was far, the lab’s just across campus. Hey, did you hurt your butt somehow?” 

“What?” 

“You’re walking funny.” 

“I am not.” 

“Yeah you are, it’s like…it’s sort of a hobble. Did you?” 

“You’re making this up.” 

“I’m not! What happened to your butt?” 

“I am not hobbling.” 

—

You find out the next day that the fire was started by some idiots who tried to smoke and then freaked and tossed their still-lit blunt when they heard someone coming. If it had fallen onto the carpet or a table it might have gone out, but of course it landed right on the corner of a bookshelf, seemingly endless kindling spread out in front of it like the promised land. The fire was put out quickly, but not before most of that shelf went up and not without incurring water damage on everything else in the library. 

You read the news article and seethe while Peter applies burn cream to your legs, doing it for you because he claims you’re neither gentle nor patient enough with yourself to do it nicely. His touch is featherlight. 

It’s Saturday, and so Peter succeeds in cajoling you into spending the day in bed, napping and touching and musing in whisper-soft voices about what you might order for dinner, but Sunday you heed the university’s call for help. 

The library is all but destroyed. The carpet needs to be ripped out, some of the furniture needs to be recovered or replaced, hundreds of books need to be inspected and salvaged. The librarians and janitorial staff can’t do it all themselves. 

You may be selfish (Peter calls it single-minded), but this isn’t something you’d normally concern yourself with; you’ve got your own shit to deal with, impending exams and a now-glitchy laptop that could use some attention. It bothers you that this was your library, though. You’ve spent a lot of time tucked away in its stacks, Peter’s spent nearly as much navigating them to come drag you home, and if the fire had been more serious you could’ve been in real trouble. You feel like you owe it something, a little bit. At least a few hours of your time. 

Peter comes to help, because Peter doesn’t need a sense of obligation to step up. He’s made of better stuff. 

You go through the shelves with other volunteers, sorting books into bins based on how damaged they are. Peter gets tasked with bringing old furniture out into the sun, stuff that should have been replaced decades ago but the school is still going to try to save, even if it’ll probably smell like mildew forever. You get periodically distracted when he walks by with some musty armchair and you can see the shapes of his biceps through his shirt. At lunchtime you run home to make sandwiches, and you and Peter eat them on the same curb he found you sitting on two nights prior, the sun on your faces and breaths clouding in front of your mouths.

You call it quits when it gets dark, though some of the volunteers switch the lights on and stay. Peter buys you both hot chocolate on the way home. He waves you off when you try to pay and teases you about being extra careful because you’ve already had enough hot drink incidents for one week. 

Despite knowing you have heaps of studying left to get through, you feel strangely energized. Peter sits down in his couch dent when you get home and pulls up his notes, and you can’t stop thinking about the library. There’s got to be a more efficient way to dry the books. Who’s making sure the staff gets meals, when they’re there supervising all day? And surely there’s a more durable flooring than carpet to put in a library. If they take it down to the hardwood, and then people donate old rugs to help swallow sound…

You go back. It becomes a part of your routine. You go to class, you study, you help at the library, you bring Peter something to eat at the lab, you study some more. Peter goes for dinners at his Aunt May’s and comes home with tupperware intended specifically for you. At night, he tries to help you fall asleep, experimenting with different things he’s read to see what works. On some of those nights you end up faking it so that he feels accomplished. Most nights, you don’t, so that he’ll stay with you for longer before eventually saying he has to go to the lab or to the bodega or to wherever before slinking off. Those nights you think you sleep the least, though it’s hard to be sure. 

You and two other students haul a donated couch up the library stairs. You learn how to wedge paper towels between the pages of the most waterlogged books, a tedious but rewarding process. You get friendlier with the librarians than you ever have been, which Peter finds ironic considering you spend half the time you used to there. One of them is married to one of your professors, and your efforts earn you a bit of extra credit, a small miracle you’d never have dared to hope for. 

“What’s this?” Peter asks one afternoon at The Daily Bean. You’re meeting between classes for a quick study session; you haven’t seen him since you left him sleeping early this morning to go to the library. Rain falls in gentle patterings outside the window, fog clinging to the panes. Autumn is having its last hurrah. Thanksgiving is next week, and the city tends to grant everyone’s wishes for snow soon after that. The last of the leaves have been shaken from the trees, and now they squelch rather than crunch under your feet. 

You look at where Peter’s turned your hand to the side. “Oh.” You roll your eyes, rubbing at the white so that it flakes off. “It’s paint.” 

“They’re making you paint now?” 

“Yeah. I guess they figure if they’re already gutting so much of the building, may as well do a full remodel.” 

“Is it starting to feel like they’re just using you for free labor?” 

“Oh, definitely,” you laugh. 

Peter’s dimples frame his smile in parenthesis. “You don’t seem mad about it,” he says. 

“No, I’m resentful.” 

“You are?” 

“I am.” 

“Yeah?” 

“Yup.” 

“You seem resentful.” Peter’s grinning for real now, his eyes warm. Sometimes you think you’d say anything to get him looking at you like this. It’s addicting. “You seem ready to revolt.” 

“I might.” You take a sip of your coffee. “No, I don’t know. I don’t mind it.” 

“Aw,” he says. “You’ve gone soft.” 

“I have not. Don’t think I’ve abandoned my get-rich-quick scheme. The website is up.” 

Peter blinks. “My website?” 

“My website,” you correct him, teasing, “since you won’t sell your own photos yourself. I’m just waiting for the go-ahead from you on which ones to put up.” 

“Yeah,” he says, quieting. “We can do that.” 

“Soon?” 

“Tell you what, pretty girl.” Peter takes your hand, kissing the side of your pinkie just before the paint starts. It sends goosebumps all the way up your arm. “You find some time to pencil me in between your studying and being the school’s go-to laborer, and we’ll do it.” 

You have to look away from your roommate’s sweetheart brown eyes. He’s still holding your hand. “I’d probably have less studying to do later if we actually did some now.” 

“You can’t study now. This is a date.” 

“It is?” 

“Yeah, duh. Did you think we were actually going to study? That’s just how I get you to come to these things, loser.” 

—

“Is it, like, the suit and tie kind of dinner or the nice sweater kind?” you ask.

Peter’s exhale suggests he’s trying to be quiet about his amusement, but not very hard. “You could show up in yoga pants and my sweaty t-shirt, and she’d still think you were gorgeous.” 

“Could you try to be a little less biased?” 

“If I was being biased, I’d tell you to wear my sweaty t-shirt and forget the pants.” 

“Peter, I’m serious.” You step out of your room and into the hall where he can see you. “Is this going to be okay, or should I pick something nicer?” 

Peter turns around from where he’s standing in front of his own mirror trying to subdue a cowlick. He’s wearing a sweater and jeans, which is reassuring. It’s also new. You’re used to seeing Peter in his pajamas, or in rumpled sweatshirts he threw on in a rush to get to class, but this is…well, your roommate cleans up nice. His handsomeness is no surprise, but the new effect on you is. The green of his sweater somehow makes his eyes look an even softer color as they take you in. 

“You look beautiful,” Peter says. 

Your cheeks tingle at the bald reverence in his tone. You finger the hem of your dress. “It’s okay?” 

“Come on.” He huffs a laugh. “Are you kidding me?” 

“No.” But Peter looks like he wants to eat you, and he’s dressed more casually than you are, so you think you have your answer. You move on before he gets any ideas. “I’m thinking of trying to throw together a pumpkin pie,” you say, going to check on your rolls in the oven. Peter tails you. “I’d have to run to the bodega, though. Do you think we have time?” 

Peter leans against the counter. “What would you have to get?” 

“A pie tin, crust, pumpkin puree, eggs, and…um, I think there might be milk…” You take out your phone to check. 

Peter steals it from your hand, kissing the frown that comes to your lips. “Don’t sweat it. Your rolls are going to be more than enough.” 

Your frown persists. “It feels rude to only bring one thing and let her do everything else.” 

“It’s not rude. Are you kidding? Aunt May’s had me mooching off her since forever, she’ll be psyched that you brought anything at all.” 

“I already owe her for probably a dozen meals.” 

“Sweetheart.” Peter puts his arms around your shoulders, drawing you into a lazy hug. “You’re freaking out.” 

“I’m not freaking out.” 

“You are. And it’s sweet,” he allows, kissing your temple, “but you don’t have to. May’s already obsessed with you. She’s asked me, like, six times this week if you like green bean casserole.” 

“I like anything she makes,” you mumble. 

“I know. Kiss-ass.” 

You can’t deny it. You want Peter’s aunt May, this woman who’s fed you for the better part of a semester and now invited you to Thanksgiving at her home, to like you, obviously. And part of you suspects that Peter’s reassurances aren’t entirely empty. It’s hard to imagine anyone who raised a boy this kind being anything but loving and generous. You’ve seen pictures of Aunt May in Peter’s room; she has eyes remarkably like his, considering they’re related by marriage, and smile lines etched onto her face the way only genuine warmth can scar. It’s not so much that you’re worried she’ll dislike you for wearing the wrong thing or using the wrong fork, but she’s something to Peter and it’s becoming harder to deny that Peter’s something to you now, so you can’t help but want to make a good impression. 

“Not trying to be a kiss-ass,” you murmur, circling your arms around Peter’s waist, “but you look really nice.” 

Peter smiles. “See, that’s exactly the kind of thing a kiss-ass would say.” 

“I know. It was a risk I had to take, because I needed to tell you.” 

You get squished to Peter’s chest. You suspect it’s so you won’t see him fluster. 

“Don’t tell her the rolls were frozen, okay?” you plead. “The story is I made them from scratch.” 

“Right. With, like, yeast and wheat?” 

“And whatever else goes into bread, sure.” You squeeze him back, but your grip slackens when Peter hisses. “What?” 

“Nothing.” His voice buoys with false levity. “Sorry.” 

“Peter, what?” You retreat enough to see him, hand skimming up his side. “Are you hurt?” 

“It’s nothing,” he says again. His hand comes up to cover yours when it lands on his ribs, and you know without asking that’s the sore spot. “I just, I fell yesterday. I’m a little bruised up.” 

You look up at him. Your concern feels like a tender thing, like your guts are spilling out into the space between you. It makes you a bit sick. “What happened?” 

“I was, uh, skateboarding.” 

“You were skateboarding.” 

“Yeah.” Peter’s shrug looks bashful. “I haven’t done it since high school. Turns out it’s not exactly like riding a bike.” 

You don’t know if you believe him. You want to. You really want to, you want to think Peter would never lie to you, but you know already that he does. It used to be something you could ignore, but now it makes you too sad to bear thinking on. 

“Please be careful with yourself,” you ask him. 

Peter catches the sobriety in your tone. “I’m fine,” he says, more sincerely now, cupping your face. “I won’t do it again. Anyway, maybe I’m tougher than I look, did you ever think of that?” 

You chuff a laugh. “You’re not.” 

“Mean.” He kisses you. “You’re a meanie.” 

“Kiss-ass, meanie. Pick something to call me and stick with it.” 

When you arrive at Aunt May’s, she already knows who you are, but Peter introduces you anyway. This time, he calls you his girlfriend. 

—

On occasion, when you know Peter’s gone on one of his late-night errands, you also take the opportunity to do away with the pretense of sleep. Finals are nearly done. There’s nothing you can do for the library at night, though repairs are nearly completed and the school expects for it to reopen at the start of the spring semester anyway. There’s really not much for you to do, but your head drives you out of bed with an itchy sense of urgency nonetheless. 

This time of year, your apartment is well lit all through the night. The wattage of the city has increased tenfold, lights of white and red and gold twinkling at all hours to entice tourists and holiday shoppers into storefronts. Peter insisted on getting you a cheap tinsel tree, too. It glows warmly in the corner of your living room. 

You hear Peter’s window slide open somewhere around two-thirty. It’s a bit earlier than he usually comes back, but you hope he’s in to stay. You know Peter knows that you wake up to find him gone at least some of the time; but you don’t ask, and so neither does he. It’s…an ache. 

You imagine the silence sometimes like a physical thing, a weight balanced on a string that stretches between the two of you, pulled tight. You feel it some times more than others. You hear the slide of Peter’s window, and the string tugs at the center of your chest, impeding on your breathing room. A dull, familiar ache. 

You know from experience what will happen now. Peter will sleep in his room for the rest of the night. You might hear another few sounds—a shoe being tossed into the closet, the groan of bedsprings. He’ll come out in the morning to find you—maybe asleep, maybe still awake—on the couch, and he’ll chide you between playful kisses so as not to seem too serious, and you’ll pretend not to resent his hypocrisy, though really it’s not the hypocrisy you resent. 

You don’t expect him to come out of his room. 

You almost wouldn’t know it was him if not for the way the figure steps carefully over the squeakiest of your floorboards. Peter is wearing sweatpants and a bulky hoodie, so rumpled you almost wonder if he threw them on just now. He cracks the door to your room, peering inside. 

“Peter?” 

Peter turns on his heel lightning-fast. “Hey,” he says. He looks flustered, face mostly in shadow but the whites of his eyes are lit in your tree’s glow. “Hey, hi. What’re you doing up?” 

“I couldn’t sleep.” Your voice sounds shockingly normal for the tension crackling through the room. Peter shifts on his feet. “Are you okay?” 

He shrugs, giving a quick shake of his head as though unsure why you’d ask. “Yeah, I’m just—I had a weird feeling, so I wanted to see if you were okay. Nightmare, I guess.” 

“Oh. Sorry.” 

“So you are?” 

“Huh?” 

“You’re okay?” Peter’s acting twitchy, and it’s making you nervous. Of the two of you, he definitely seems the least okay. 

“Yeah, Pete,” you say gently. “I’m fine.” You open your arms in invitation, and Peter hesitates a moment before stepping forward. It’s a bit of an awkward hug, you half twisted to reach over the back of the couch and him bent over to get to you, but you make the most of it. 

“What’s going on?” you murmur, raking your fingers through the hair at his nape. It’s sweaty, like he’s been running. You don’t really anticipate a genuine answer to your question, but it feels important for Peter to at least know you care enough to ask. 

You feel his head shake. “Nothing,” he says. He gives you a squeeze, some other half of an excuse probably already on his tongue, but before he can get it out you both jerk apart. 

“Ow.” Your skin burns where Peter’s wrist pressed to it. 

“Shit. Sorry, baby, let me see.” 

You turn around, allowing him to pull the collar of your sleep shirt down enough to look at it. “What was that?” 

“I have, uh. I was just tinkering around with something in my room—you know me, tinkering—and this thing I was messing with sort of exploded. I didn’t realize it was still hot, I’m sorry.” He blows a bit of cool air on your skin. You turn to try and see for yourself. “Hold on, I think we still have some of that burn cream.” 

But in turning, you can now see the light on his face. “Peter,” you breathe. 

Peter must hear something in your voice, because he stops mid-pivot. The weight between you heavies. You feel the strain on your lungs. 

“What happened to your face?” 

His expression twinges. You wonder that it doesn’t reopen the cut on his lip, or if that slow seep of blood is all it can muster anymore. Your boyfriend’s jaw is marred with an ugly splotch of color, already darkening in the center. The cheery glow of your Christmas tree shows in unforgiving starkness the dried blood crusted around his nostrils and the bruise of his nose. 

“This?” Peter smiles, and now his lip does reopen. He hardly seems to notice. “I, uh…well, it’s embarrassing, but I fell out of bed.” 

“Peter.” Your voice thins. 

“I know, it’s so stupid. Didn’t put my arms out to save myself or anything, just boom—face to floor.” 

“Peter,” you say again. “Just tell me what happened. Please.” 

“I’m telling you.” He’s smiling still, like you’re silly, his silly girl, but you can see the strain around his eyes. “Babe, I think you’re more tired than you notice. Let’s go to bed, okay? I actually have to go out and get a replacement part for the thing I exploded, but—” 

“Don’t.” Your eyes are burning. You see Peter see them, his smile dissolving at the edges. “Please just tell me the truth. Who’s doing this to you?” 

“Sweetheart—” 

“No, I—I got it at first, because we’d just moved in and you had no reason to trust me. It wasn’t my business, and I got that. I didn’t—I was fine with letting you do whatever you wanted to.” Tears blaze hot paths down your cheeks, but you refuse to break Peter’s stare long enough to wipe them. “It just seems like it keeps getting worse, though, you know? Or maybe it was always this bad and I just didn’t know, but now—I don’t know, I don’t really know what this is, but it’s different than it was at first. We’re not strangers anymore, right? You can trust me. Please, I just—” Your voice splinters. “I just want to help.” 

Peter’s looking at you with something desperate in his expression. You can see the whites of his eyes again, and his chest is moving like he’s breathing harder than he needs to. He takes a step back, and the string between you pulls taut. It feels sharper than an ache now. 

“I have to—” 

“Don’t go,” you cut him off. 

Peter’s face pinches. “I have to. I have to, I’m sorry. Please go to bed.” 

“Why?” Your shoulders jump, something in you crumpling as you realize there’s nothing you can do to make him stay. Your nose runs. “Just stay here.” 

He glances toward his bedroom, then back at you. He must have left the window open; you can feel the night chill beginning to permeate your apartment. Peter’s fingers twitch at his sides. 

“Please,” you try again. 

Sirens wail outside, and Peter takes another step away from you. “Sorry,” he says. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I have to go right now. I’ll be back, okay?” 

You don’t reply, watching through blurred vision as he goes. 

It takes you less than a minute to come to a decision after that. You’re still leaking from your eyes and nose, so you grab a wad of toilet paper from the bathroom, cramming it into your pocket before throwing on a sweatshirt over your sleep clothes and shoving your feet into shoes. 

Peter’s not on the fire escape when you stick your head out his window. You have no clue how he climbed down so fast. You push the window closed and go out the front door. 

Your neighborhood is less quiet tonight. The sirens that make up the city’s constant white noise are closer than usual, louder, echoing down alleyways to reach your peaceful cluster of buildings. You think half-humorously that they might create an opportunity for Spider-Man to pay a visit; maybe if he’s not too busy, you can get him to help track down your runaway boyfriend and scare some sense into him. 

You hate to think of what could compel Peter to come back out here tonight, when he was already so beat up and he clearly didn’t want to. You don’t understand what role he could play. Is he making things for someone? Is that why he had that exploding thing on his wrist? Peter’s skilled, and smart, but you don’t think he’d get mixed up in anything that required him to pass off dangerous technology to anyone who wouldn’t be responsible with it. Unless he had to, at least. 

You’re so furious with him. You tear off a square of toilet paper, blowing your nose. If he gets any more hurt than he already is, you’ll tell Aunt May on him, you swear to god. 

It’s almost funny, considering how much better lit the streets are, that you don’t notice anyone around until the gun is at your back. 

“Purse,” says a voice at your ear. 

“I don’t have one.” Your voice wobbles, but mostly because of the whiplash. Christ, what a shitty day. “I don’t have anything on me.” 

“Don’t fucking lie to me.” The gun presses harder into your back. “Phone, then.” 

“I don’t have one.” 

“Don’t lie.” 

“I don’t! I left it at home.” 

“You know what—” 

“What?” Comes a voice from behind you both. A familiar voice. 

For a millisecond, you could swear it’s Peter, your heart clenching, but you turn after the mugger does to find Spider-Man standing a few feet away. As soon as the gun is trained on him, white webbing jams the barrel and it’s cast harmlessly to the side. 

“I don’t think she’s lying, man.” Spider-Man moves toward you, firing webs on the way that plaster the mugger’s feet to the concrete. “I think you just picked the wrong girl tonight.” He jerks his head at you, and you get his meaning instinctively, stepping out of the way as he moves close enough to give the mugger a shove. The other man goes careening backwards. As soon as his hands land on the ground, webs ensure that’s where they stay. 

Spider-Man takes your elbow in hand, guiding you away. “What are you doing here?”

“I’m…” Something’s nettling you. You wish for Spider-Man and he appears, is that how it works now? You have the feeling like you’re forgetting something. “This is where I live.” 

He laughs, but it doesn’t sound very amused. “I know, but why are you here? What’re you—” He pulls the waist of your pajama pants up from where they’ve started to slip. “Sweetheart, it’s freezing out. Couldn’t you at least have put on a real coat?” 

Sweetheart. 

Your voice sticks in your throat. 

“Your fingernails are gonna fall off,” Spider-Man goes on in a familiarly chiding tone (playful, so as not to seem too serious). He walks you out of the alley, ignoring the calls of the man stuck to the pavement. “What do I have to say to get you back inside? I’ll come with you, how’s that?” 

“Peter?” 

Spider-Man looks over at you. Eyes of all white, and yet everything said in the tilt of his head. “I was going to tell you when I got back,” he says, still walking towards your building, “but of course you had to go out and find trouble. You probably think I’m full of shit now.” 

“Peter,” you say. Not a question this time, but an exhalation. Something released. 

“I’m not making it up, though, I really was going to tell you. I would have told you before I left, but there wasn’t really time, I could hear the cops having a shootout and I really felt like I had to go—I actually only came home because my web-shooter caught a stray, so I needed a backup…” 

You’re reeling, you think. Or swooning. You’ve never figured out the difference. Spider-Man’s (Peter’s. Spider-Man’s?) hand has found its way around your waist, keeping you propped up against him. Silly, to be treated like you’re the delicate one when you know for a fact he’s all bruised and bleeding under that mask. There are probably other injuries you don’t know the half of. 

When Peter stops, you don’t understand why until you realize you’re standing in back of your own building. You’ve crossed streets without noticing. 

“I thought we’d take the fast way up,” he says. 

You manage a “hm?” before he’s tightening his grip on you and you’re sling-shotting up six stories. Peter sets you down on the fire escape. You grip the railing when he lets you go, the cold metal digging into your palms as he jimmies open his bedroom window. He has to gently uncurl your fingers to usher you inside. 

It’s clear one of you is more practiced at going in and out of windows than the other. You half-crawl onto Peter’s bed, stumbling a bit in an attempt to avoid getting your shoes on his pillow, whereas your boyfriend slips gracefully through and is laying down before you’ve managed to turn around. He pulls the window shut so that it hardly makes a sound. You wonder if it’s habit. 

“You okay?” Peter asks as he pulls off his mask. 

You stare. “Me?” 

He looks chastened, but says anyway, “Yeah, sweetheart. You’re shaking a little.” 

“I’m…” You reach for him. Your fingertips lay themselves over the bruised bridge of his nose. Peter’s eyes are sorry. “I’m surprised.” 

“You also just had a gun pointed at you.” 

“So did you. You probably have guns pointed at you all the time.” 

He shrugs, as though this is more or less true. “Are you mad?” 

“I don’t know what I am,” you admit. “Probably, a little.” 

“Is it okay to ask for a hug?” 

“Am I going to hurt you?” 

“No,” he promises, reaching forward to bring you to him. His lips mush to your cheek. “It looks worse than it is. Perk of the spider mutant thing, I heal fast.” 

You’re still careful with him. You hug him with your arms around his shoulders, feeling the strange texture of the webbing spread over his suit. There’s a strangeness to your senses; it feels like a tuning fork has been struck, everything reverberating and trembling its way into alignment. Your heart trembles with it.

“This isn’t what I was expecting,” you hear yourself say. 

“It’s not? I sort of thought you had it all figured out.” 

You shake your head. 

“Well, you’re taking it a lot better than I expected. If that helps at all. I kind of thought you might freak out.” 

“I don’t know how much freak out I have left.” You intend to stop there, but the next admission comes tumbling from your mouth unbidden. “I’ve been worrying for a long time.” 

“Oh, yeah?” Peter sounds genuinely apologetic, and so doting it makes your chest tight. He rubs your back like he can feel it happening. “I’m sorry. Really. I didn’t want to drag you into this, but then it seemed like you were gonna find out no matter what, and…honestly, I just thought I’d get matched with a roommate who didn’t give a shit.” 

“Bad luck.” 

“Yeah, maybe. Not really.” He pulls back enough to kiss you, bumping his nose against yours affectionately. “Hey, maybe it’s too soon, but there might be a pro to the whole dating Spider-Man thing.” 

You look at him. A face you know as well as anything, and from the neck down a suit you’ve seen mostly in news clips. He’s your boyfriend; he’s Spider-Man. He’s your boyfriend who’s Spider-Man. 

“Yeah?” you ask.

“If you really like those pictures in my room, I can bring you to the places where I took them from. It’s not, ah, something most of the public can access. Special privilege only.” 

“Oh.” You nod slowly. “Yeah, that’s cool.” 

“Too soon?” 

“Maybe. I’m still coming to terms with the fact that you work for the cops.” 

“Uh, okay, I don’t work for the cops, I work with them. I’m not some narc.” 

The incredulity in his tone is so distinctly Peter that you come back into yourself. All of the trembling pieces settle into alignment. 

“Right, it’s just. I don’t know.” Your lips give a small tug. You see a familiar amused curiosity ignite in familiar warm brown eyes, and you press a quick kiss to his lips before delivering the news. “I’ve been picturing you more or less at odds with the law. I was pretty sure you were a drug dealer.”