#ghostxrose

“Fuck you, Bronte,” you whisper bitterly, sniffling and scrubbing your face with your hands.

With a sigh loaded with exasperation and various forms of bone-deep exhaustion, you stand up from your desk. Grabbing your phone, you open it to scroll through notifications as you make your way across your studio apartment to the kitchen. A ghost of a smile tugs at your lips as you read the various comments left on your most recent Instagram post informing your followers that you’ll be posting a new song soon. Something small yet warm sparks in your chest seeing how excited people are for another one of your originals.

A couple of years ago, you never would have guessed that your hobby would garner much attention, let alone that you would ever have the confidence to share it on the internet. But encouragements from friends and the prospect of doing something more with your outlet were enticing enough to post a video and see how it went. Now, you have what you would proudly call a small fan base. You’re more than grateful for not only the love and support of strangers, but the high from serotonin and a bit of extra pocket money.

Sending a dread-filled glance to your laptop as you munch on a piece of toast, you decide that finishing your essay can wait until later. You send a quick message to your friend asking if the small studio you record in is free as you quickly finish off your toast, then head back to your laptop to save and close the essay document. In the moments you spend changing into something more socially acceptable than sweatpants and an oversized sweater, your phone chimes. The excited tone of your friend comes through in their “hell yeah, get your ass over here” message full of caps and exclamations. With a huff of a laugh and fond shake of your head, you grab your bag and keys, then head out.

𖤛 𖤛 𖤛

“I want your things in my room, I miss you all of the time.. You make it look so easy, leaving everything behind..”

You bob your head to the music, eyes closed and letting yourself get lost in the notes. The lyrics flowing from your mouth, pained and yearning, memorized like they were engraved on your tongue.

“Not asking for much, man, thought maybe you’d call me.. I’d slit my own throat just to see if you’d mourn me, yeah..”

Heartbreak pangs violently in your chest, and you let it out in the form of sung words, willing away the sting of tears threatening to push past your closed eyelids.

“I stalk myself on the internet just to see what you’ll find..”

A sliver of doubt slithers into your psyche, telling you that you’re baring too much of yourself in this song. That you’re revealing too much of the pathetic heartbreak you’ve been wallowing in for months on end. That you’re showing everyone the bleeding wound you refuse to let scab over and heal from in order to move on from someone who didn’t want you after all.

“You look so cool getting high..”

Mini replays of the countless videos you’ve watched of him scaling buildings and swinging from skyscraper to skyscraper flash through your mind.

“No handlebars, you wanna fly..”

Memories of him flipping through the air, arms spread wide, as carefree shouts of joy and laughter burst from his lungs as he free-falls before catching himself. The phantom feeling of momentary fear and adrenaline makes your heart skip a few beats in real time.

“You look so cool, I wanna die..”

Okay, sure, maybe that line is a bit melodramatic, but teenage heartbreak is melodramatic even if you are 18 and in college and supposed to be a “mature adult.”

“Oh, oh, oh, oh, oh, oh.. Oh, oh, oh, I want your things in my-”

As the music fades out and the studio goes silent, you take a deep breath and slide the headphones off your head. Hooking them around the microphone, you head out of the recording booth into the control room where your friend is sitting. It’s quiet for a long moment as they just stare at you as you take a seat beside them, their face a mix of emotions you don’t have the energy to discern.

Right as you’re beginning to feel too raw and exposed under their gaze, they speak, “Holy shit, Y/N, that was fucking killer! Who hurt you??”

Their words bring both a sense of relief and irritation, and as you open your mouth to snap at them, they wave a dismissive hand and smirk, “Yeah, yeah, ‘I don’t wanna talk about it, Pey,’ I know, I know. I’m just messing with you, jeez.” Their sassy imitation of you forces an abrupt laugh from you, and you find yourself shaking your head fondly at their antics.

The rest of the time at the studio is spent with both of you going through the song and editing it until you deem it ready for the world to hear. With the flash drive in hand, both you and Peyton head out of the studio with plans to drop by your favorite diner for dinner.

By the time you get back to your apartment, you’re eager to post the song, but you force yourself to hold off until your essay is finished. Surprisingly, it doesn’t feel as daunting or dreadful as it had earlier, and you hash it out in record time. Once you’ve sent it off to one of your peers for review, you’re quick to open your editing software and plug in the flash drive containing your song.

You work into the early hours of the morning, creating visuals to go along with the audio of your song. It’s nothing mind-blowing, but you’re proud of the skills you’ve built since starting this journey. As you add final touches and hash out what all needs to go into the description, you can feel the final traces of energy leaving your body.

Hitting the button to start the upload process to your YouTube, there’s nothing left in you for you to feel anything but content. Smiling to yourself tiredly, you push away from your desk, ready to be dead to the world for at least 10 hours.

𖤛 𖤛 𖤛

It’s past noon by the time you wake up from being well and truly dead to the conscious world. You linger in bed for more than a few minutes, enjoying the serenity of warmth, comfort, and the sound of rain. Eventually, your grumbling stomach and full bladder force you to get up, and you move about your apartment going, through your lazy weekend routine.

An eagerness fills you as you sit down at your desk and see that your video successfully uploaded, your bagel and coffee quickly slipping from your focus. You curse under your breath in amazement when you see the number of views and likes you’ve already gotten. You immediately begin reading through the comments, laughing quietly or audibly cooing at what some people have said between bites of your bagel.

MVS1C0BS3SS3D: “This was so beautiful and painful!! Definitely gonna have this on repeat for the next year!!”

the_chosen_one: “Girl, who hurt you?!? I’ll beat them up for you!! *sobs*”

TMBTE_fr: “Damn, did you at least kiss the brick before you threw it at us?? Amazing as always!!”

justsomerandom: “I- *violently sobs*”

Gilded-Lilyyy: “IM NOT CRYING, YOURE CRYING”

W3HAV3A2319: “JKHASDKBFSAGHIFEABVCAUHER- UR AMAZING AND ILY”

You go through liking comments with an evil little giggle every now and then from the angsty chaos you’ve created. You ignore the odd few comments complaining about “another break-up song” or how you only ever sing “depressing ass” songs with a roll of your eyes, but you don’t let them get under your skin. As you continue scrolling through comments, your eyes catch on one in particular. The username is generic as hell, probably randomly generated, but it’s one you recognize because they always leave a comment on your videos, always lyrics from other songs that seem to be responses to whatever it was you had sung..

user84719056423: “I’m not a perfect person.. There’s many things I wish I didn’t do.. But I continue learning.. I never meant to do those things to you.. I’m sorry that I hurt you.. It’s somethin’ I must live with every day.. And all the pain I put you through.. I wish that I could take it all away.. And be the one who catches all your tears..”

Once again, you’re left wondering why this person doesn’t just leave a normal comment, but, hey, at least they have good taste in music. You give the comment a pity-like, definitely not the first time you’ve done so, and move on to reading other comments. By the time you’ve finished your bagel and coffee, you figure that you should give reading comments a rest and see if your essay has been reviewed yet.

The rest of your Sunday goes by quick like Sundays always seem to do, the impending case of “the Mondays” already weighing on your shoulders. Peyton drops by with takeout from a pretty good Thai place down the street from your apartment. It’s warm and tasty, and while you try to keep your mind on the here and now of Peyton’s conversation, you find yourself getting lost in memories of a special Thai place back in Queens.

“I really feel like you should talk about it, Y/N..” Peyton’s words break you from your painful nostalgia, and you meet their eyes as they continue, “Maybe you’ll feel at least a little better, hm? I’m not trying to upset you, but girl, c’mon, it’s one thing to space out sometimes, but it’s a whole other thing to space out every time we have freaking Thai food. I just, I love you, and all I’ve wanted since we met was to see this pain you’ve been carrying lessen at the very least.”

You’re quiet in your surprise, eyes widened slightly as your gaze meets theirs, their eyes begging you to open up to them, to let them help in some way. Blinking, you look down at your plate, biting your cheek as you let out a heavy sigh through your nose. You push your food around with your fork in the moment of heavy silence before setting your plate on the coffee table and meeting their eyes again.

“I’m sorry, Pey,” you start quietly, guilt gnawing at your insides for concerning your friend, and for how you’ve treated them every time the topic has come up. Hugging your knees to your chest, you pick at the threads of your sweater as you continue speaking, “It’s stupid, if I’m being honest. Stupid, and such a universal experience.”

From there, you get into the nitty-gritty details of the boy you fell for freshman year of high school. The boy who finally asked you out junior year in a mess of jumbled and stuttered words, but never losing his sunshine-bright smile. The boy you shared many firsts and exchanged ‘I love you’s with. The brown-eyed, bright-smiled, outrageously brilliant, and adorably awkward boy you had given your entire heart and soul to hold in the palms of his hands. You told Peyton the story of how Peter Parker brought you to the top of the world, only to drop you over the edge and let you watch everything crumble to dust around you the day after graduation.

With seemingly no reason at all, and no excuses to give despite how much you begged and pleaded, Peter broke up with you. He ended things, shiny-eyed in the face of your despair and tear-drenched one.

Of course, you didn’t tell Peyton about Peter being Spider-Man because a secret like that is far bigger than a teenage break-up. But you tell them about everything else from the last two years that’s haunted your psyche. You tell them that you just haven’t found it in yourself to heal and move on yet, that you still go through every heart-shredding memory to see where you went wrong. Could you have been better somehow? Could you have done more in some way?

“Fuck, Y/N, that’s.. god, get over here,” Peyton murmurs in disbelief tinged with guilt for pushing you to talk as they pull you into their arms. They whisper apologies into your hair as they soothingly rub circles into your back. You sob into their chest, your tears soaking into the fabric of their shirt, your anguish and heartbreak sharp in the air.

“Let it out, there you go,” they murmur as they begin to rock you slightly in their arms. “I’m so sorry for pushing, but I think you maybe needed this.. and, hey, that asshole didn’t deserve you. He fucked up by letting you go, and you listen to me when I say this; you did nothing wrong. You did nothing to deserve what he’s put you through, and if I ever meet him, I’m punching him in the face.”

That last little bit gets a small, wet laugh out of you despite knowing that Peter’s Spidey senses wouldn’t even let Peyton’s fist get anywhere close to his face. It brings a small spark forward in your chest, a drop of warmth breaking through all the cold, knowing you’ve got such an amazing friend.

When the tears have dried, and you both have exchanged apologies and forgiveness, you and Peyton spend the rest of the night on the couch watching movies that you eventually fall asleep to.

𖤛 𖤛 𖤛

The months fly by without much fanfare. Sure, you feel a bit lighter after that night you broke down to Peyton, but your heart is still a beating, painful, bleeding mess. You try to let it out through song; a couple more originals and a few covers of songs. ‘deepfake’, ‘THE GREATEST’, ‘Cry For Me’, and anything else that feels like it even comes close to how you feel inside. In the end, though, you’re still pathetically stuck in the same place you were a few months ago.

When your parents come out for Thanksgiving, you spend the week forcing the heartbreak to the depths of yourself. You manage to get through the week without it managing to overtake the warmth and joy your family brings you. And when it’s time for them to head back to Queens, you agree to come home for Christmas with a smile on your face.

The weeks after Thanksgiving are full of studying, homework, cramming for exams, and working on songs. You want to get a couple of videos out before winter break since you won’t be posting, though your small fan base encourages you to focus more on your studies, reassuring you that they’ll still be there. Even so, you’re nearly finished with a couple of songs that you’re excited to share with them, and you’re determined to get them out as soon as possible.

That eagerness is what has you hastily making your way across campus to the library. Tugging your scarf up over your nose, you walk briskly through the not-quite-snow, not-quite-rain slush that falls from the sky, running through your mental list of homework to finish. Your phone buzzes from the inside pocket of your jacket, but you choose to ignore it until you’re seated in the library.

When you finally get through the door of the library, a wall of warmth hits you, and you welcome it with a contented sigh. Lowering your scarf, you breathe in the scent of books and the underlying aroma of coffee. You wipe your boots off, then head for the most secluded table available.

Once seated, you shrug off your jacket and scarf before pulling your laptop and headphones out of your bag. As your laptop boots up, you pull out your phone to connect your headphones and check your notifications. The sight of a text message all but stops you in your tracks, and that’s just from the name of the sender. Your hands begin to shake slightly as you tap the notification to open the conversation.

Ned The Nerd: “Hey, Y/N!! Been a while, hasn’t it, sorry about that! College life is seriously no joke, haha! Anyways, I just wanted to see if you were going back to Queens for winter break?? If you are, then you should totally come to the New Year’s party I’m throwing!! It’s not going to be anything too crazy- I hope, haha- just the old friend group, good music, and some drinks while we watch the countdown! Let me know if you’re down!”

You blink at the message a few times, an odd numbness spreading through you as you try to take deep breaths. You didn’t even know that Ned still had your number; neither he nor MJ reached out after everything with Peter went down. You just kind of figured they picked a side after it was all said and done, and cut ties to you. Even if that is what happened, you can push aside the lingering betrayal in favor of seeing everyone again. You truly do miss Ned’s goofiness and MJ’s sarcasm.

“Yeah, it’s definitely brutal out here.. I will be in Queens for the holidays, so I’ll try to swing by the party. Is it okay if I bring a plus-one?”

You chew on your bottom lip as you re-read the message before hitting send, already feeling a pang of regret and dread over saying you’ll go to the party. You set your phone to the side and try to distract yourself by going through the work you need to do. The buzz of your phone on the table top nearly makes you jump out of your skin, and you fumble your phone a bit as you pick it back up.

Ned The Nerd: “Oh, uhm, yeah sure! The more the merrier! See you then!”

Letting out a slow, controlled breath, you send Ned a couple of thumbs-up emojis, then try to focus back on your homework. Your leg starts bouncing, and you bite at the skin of your bottom lip before scrubbing your face in your hands. With another deep breath, you try not to think about what you just got both yourself and Peyton into.

𖤛 𖤛 𖤛

You sag back into the driver’s seat of your car, letting out a long breath before continuing to sing along with the music flowing through the speakers as you wait for traffic to start moving again. With the stress of exams behind you, you’re excited to go back home and just be in Queens again. You’re already imagining the warm joy and pleasant surprise that’ll be on the owner’s face when you inevitably stop by your favorite bodega before getting to your parents’ house. Of course, you’re anticipating the other feelings that’ll come with being back in Queens, but you’re trying to heed Peyton’s advice of keeping positive.

Just about an hour later- traffic was a bitch, given the upcoming holidays and the weather- you’re standing at the counter of your favorite bodega getting lovingly smushed in a hug from the owner, Nelly. The kind older woman asks you a hundred questions about college and how you’re faring in adult life as she makes your go-to sandwich without even needing to ask what you want. You tell her about your studies, the friends you’ve made, how your hobby has taken over a small corner of the internet, and how Peyton is going to come out for New Year’s. As you’re leaving, you promise her that you’ll bring Peyton by so she can meet them after stressing for the thousandth time that they are just your friend.

Your parents are standing out on the small porch when you pull up to your childhood home, excited smiles painted on both of their faces. A group hug ensues when you get out of the car, and you playfully roll your eyes when your dad insists on carrying your small amount of stuff inside. Once you’re settled into your old bedroom, you can feel the heartache trying to slip through the cracks of the wall you’ve put up, but you’re quick to try to distract yourself.

The days leading up to Christmas grant you plenty of distractions from the ache of being back in Queens. Your parents take you out ice skating, and to see the decorations that people and the city have put up. Time at home is spent huddled under warm blankets on the couch while sappy Christmas movies play on TV. You bake cookies and other treats with your mom while your dad tries to steal spoonfuls of batter and frosting. Overall, there is very little time for you to dwell pathetically on memories of places that you used to go to and activities that you used to do with Peter.

Christmas Day comes and goes with vast amounts of joy, warmth, and laughter. It had stunned you to realize that you hadn’t felt such genuine pleasant contentedness in months, always wrapping yourself up in your pain while on your lonesome. Though, unfortunately, when day fades into night, and you realize New Year’s is next on the list, anxiety begins to creep in, overshadowing your excitement for Peyton’s arrival.

𖤛 𖤛 𖤛

You and Peyton stand outside of the Airbnb Ned rented, the sandwich from your and Peyton’s stop at your favorite bodega churning in your stomach. It threatens to make a reappearance as your anxiety hits an all-time high, and the platter of brownies your mom made and insisted you bring shakes slightly from the slight tremble in your hands. The front door seems daunting as you stare at it, chewing the skin of your poor lower lip.

“Jesus, Y/N, we can just leave, make up some bullshit excuse for why we couldn’t come. Just please make a decision, ‘cause I’m freezing my ass off.” Peyton speaks up from beside you, trying to hide the chattering of their teeth. You cast them an apologetic look and take a deep breath, the cold winter air kind of soothing your nerves. You step forward, Peyton in tow, and make your way up to the door, having Peyton ring the doorbell since your hands are full.

A moment goes by before the door opens and Ned’s smiling face greets you, “Hey, Y/N! You made it- oh, brownies!”

You let out a small laugh, shaking your head fondly at the fact that Ned hasn’t changed much in the months since you’ve seen him, “Hey! Yeah, my mom made them, said I couldn’t show up empty-handed because it’s rude. It’s good to see you, Ned!” You beam as you and Peyton step into the house.

“Well, I guess I didn’t say to bring anything, but your mom makes killer brownies, so it’s a win in my book! Who’s this?” Ned sends you and Peyton a bright, friendly smile as he leads you to the kitchen. Peyton introduces themselves and shakes hands with Ned as you set the platter down on the counter next to various other finger foods and a punch bowl.

“-we met at ESU and just clicked, ya know? I love this girl with my whole heart!” Peyton exclaims over the bump of music and voices of other people as they rest an arm on your shoulder. You nod your head along with what they’re saying, not really paying attention as you look around at the crowd of faces that have filled the house. You recognize some of them as people from your old high school friend group, but you quickly realize that there are more than just those people in attendance. You’re so absorbed in taking in your surroundings that you miss the questioning and disheartened look Ned shoots you.

“Oh, well, that’s awesome! Glad to hear you’ve come out of your shell since high school, Y/N! You were so shy back then,” Ned responds, his tone a bit awkward, and your head snaps to send him a look of mock offense.

“Oh my gosh, like you weren’t shy and awkward back then, too!” Your teasing retort gets a laugh out of him, and he shakes his head while holding his hands up in surrender, “Yeah, yeah, you got me there! Well, you guys, grab some drinks and food, and get to enjoying yourselves! I’m sure Pet- I, uhm, I’m sure MJ is somewhere hiding in a corner if you wanted to catch up with her, Y/N!”

Ned’s fumbled words and awkward smile don’t go unnoticed as your body tenses up at the near mention of Peter, but you send him a strained smile and nod your head anyway. He gives you a thumbs up before walking off into the crowd, and Peyton leans down to speak quietly into your ear, “Did he just try to skip over mentioning that the guy I wanna punch in the face is here?”

You let out a heavy sigh as you shrug Peyton’s arm off your shoulder to grab a plate and serve yourself some sweets, “Peter has been Ned’s best friend since they were kids, Pey. It’s only natural for him to bring him up. Please do not punch anybody tonight.”

“No promises,” Peyton responds in a sing-song tone, and you playfully kick at their ankle.

Once you and Peyton have small plates of food and drinks in hand, you move through the crowd to find MJ or an unoccupied corner. As you pass by familiar faces, you exchange pleasantries with whoever recognizes you. Right as someone is asking you about Peter and Peyton’s glare is beginning to set in place, you spot MJ and hastily bid them goodbye as you make an escape from the dreaded conversation.

You call out her name over the music, and she looks up with a brow raised and a completely bored look on her face until she recognizes you. A small, completely MJ-type of smile breaks out on her face, and she sends you a little wave. Getting up to her, the two of you share a brief side hug, then you introduce her to Peyton. As the party livens up, the three of you get into conversations about college life and the struggles of being new to adulthood.

Eventually, there’s a lull in conversation, but it doesn’t bother you much as the alcohol moves through your system and you sing quietly along with the song that’s come on, your body swaying slightly with the beat.

MJ suddenly clears her throat, looking down at the water she’s swirling around in her cup, with an unusually hesitant and contemplative look on her face, “So.. have you seen Peter, yet? You know, he really-”

It’s like a bolt of electricity runs down your spine, the way your body goes immediately still, and you can almost feel yourself sobering up from the light buzz you had going. Before MJ can finish whatever she was going to say, you’ve turned toward Peyton with a strained and fake smile on your lips, “Hey, I think I need some air! You happen to have your pack and lighter on you? You know how I get at parties!” When Peyton just nods, and you both start heading for the door to the back porch, you can feel MJ’s heavy gaze on your back the whole time you’re walking away.

As soon as you’re outside, you lean against the railing that wraps around the porch, holding a hand out with a silent plea, and trying to take deep breaths of the cold winter air. Peyton doesn’t ask any questions before fishing their pack of cigarettes and lighter out of their pocket and placing them in your hand. You don’t hesitate to take out a cigarette and light it up, relishing in the warm burn of the first drag and the slight head-spin on the exhale.

“You have to let me punch him if we see him,” Peyton says quietly as they light their own cigarette, and you can’t tell if they’re trying to lighten the mood or if they’re dead serious.

“Pey, just, please,” you utter, not even sure what you were trying to say, as you brace your elbows on the railing and hold your forehead in your palms, your cigarette held between two fingers away from your hair and skin.

In the lull of silence that encompasses you two, you hear the door to the back porch open and a voice you know so painfully well, a voice you could recognize even if it had been hundreds of years since you heard it, calls out your name so soft and pathetic. With a shaky gasp, you turn around to the owner of the voice and see the one person you’ve simultaneously yearned to and never wanted to see.

You take in the sight of Peter, your heart bleeding and torn between joy and devastation. You feel Peyton’s eyes on you, and when you look toward them, it’s like they’re silently asking you if this is the guy that broke you, their free hand already balled into a fist at their side. For a moment, you don’t know what to do: go back inside with Peyton and try to enjoy the party, or talk to the person you haven’t been able to move on from.

“Pey, can you, uhm, can you give us a minute?” Your voice is small, almost trembling as it leaves you, and you have to try not to wince under the heated and incredulous look Peyton sends you. You look at them, eyes pleading for understanding, before they finally nod and move to head back inside, glaring at Peter as they move past him. You turn away from Peter, unable to look at him for much longer as tears burn and sting at your eyes, and take another drag of your cigarette.

Peter says your name again, stuttered and soft and pleading, as he walks up to stand at the railing beside you, when he pauses, “Since when do you smoke?” And his tone becomes confused and concerned, and you feel the urge to roll your eyes.

You let out a slow exhale of smoke, blowing away from Peter because you’re courteous, goddammit, but your eyes stay on the view of the city as you reply, “It’s just a social thing, Parker. Picked it up from one of the first parties I went to at ESU.” Your voice comes out quiet and numb, a stark contrast to the whirlwind of emotions taking over you.

Peter scoffs as he leans against his forearms on the railing, “Yeah? Same party where you met your boyfriend?” And, holy shit, the disdain and accusation in Peter’s voice sends rage through your bloodstream so fast you’re dizzy.

Whipping your head to look at him, there’s a fire in your eyes as you retort, “Let’s get a few things fucking clear, Parker; one, Peyton is non-binary. Two, they are my best friend, not my significant other. And fucking three, you broke up with me, so what gives you the fucking right to make any comment about my dating life, huh? You ended things, Peter, so any bullshit bitterness or jealousy or what-the-fuck-ever, that’s all on you!” You end your outburst panting and glaring at him until you turn back toward the city and wipe a few stray tears from your face.

Taken aback by your outburst, Peter is wide-eyed and silent beside you until he closes his eyes, a hand running through his hair as he curses under his breath. You don’t look at him as he splutters for a response, just try to get your hands to stop shaking and ignore the sound of your heart beating and blood rushing in your ears. You take a few more drags of your cigarette before stubbing it out in the snow on the railing, shaking your head at the word salad Peter is stuttering at you, “Actually, I can’t do this, Peter.” You say, voice thick with unshed tears as you move to head back inside.

You barely make it one full step before Peter grabs your hand, his voice a pleading whimper as he begs you to wait a second. It feels like your heart physically cracks when you pause to look back at him, and you wonder if his enhanced hearing could pick up the sound it had to have made. Silence hangs heavy between the two of you as you stare at each other. His hold on your hand is gentle, light enough for you to pull away if you wish to, and his thumb is softly running across your cold knuckles almost absentmindedly, and you have to bite back the pained whimper in your throat.

“Pete, I-” you attempt, voice wrecked from emotions and tear-soaked despite not letting the tears roll, but he steps closer to you with words falling from his lips, interrupting whatever it was you were going to say.

“Y/N, please.. I-I know that no apology could ever make up for what I’ve done to you, wha-what I’ve put you through, but I am so fucking sorry.” Peter stammers out, a few stray tears falling from his tear-shined eyes. His hands, ever-warm from being enhanced, come up to your cheeks, his thumbs stroking along your cheekbones, as his eyes stare into yours.

The tears that had been building so painfully in your eyes finally fall, and you choke on a sob. You wait for him to continue because this is Peter Parker, and he always has more to say. He’s silent for a moment longer, bottom lip trembling and face scrunching over seeing the pain he’s caused you before he sniffs and lets out a shaky exhale.

“Whe-when I.. when I ended things, I was going through some stuff that I hadn’t shared with you.. and I know there isn’t a single good reason out there to excuse breaking your heart the way I did, a-and I’m not looking to make excuses, but I need you to know. I-I need you to know because I haven’t stopped loving you, not for a single damn second. Letting you go was the biggest, most regrettable mistake I’ve ever made, inside and outside of the suit.”

You’re both fully crying now, Peter’s words driving you to feel a new mix of emotions that you’re trying to untangle. You open your mouth in an attempt to say something in response, but he shakes his head, eyes begging you to let him continue, to let him get it off his chest.

“It had all hit me on graduation.. I didn’t know how I was going to do it, any of it; go to college, be Spider-Man, help the Avengers, maintain our relationship long-distance.. I was overwhelmed. Mr. Stark was pushing so hard for me to give the suit a break and go be a normal college kid, a-an-and it felt like he was taking it from me all over again.. And I know, I know, I should’ve talked about it with you, all of it.. but I just shut down, and in the mess of it all, I broke you.”

Peter breaks eye contact with you, his face scrunching and eyes squeezing shut as his head bows and a small sob pushes past his lips. Spiderweb cracks spread further across your heart at the sound, and you push his hands away from your cheeks in favor of wrapping your arms around him, holding him tightly as you both fall apart. He doesn’t hesitate for even a millisecond to wrap his arms around you as well, burying his face in the crook of your neck. The minutes feel like hours as you hold each other, Peter sobbing apologies and you trying to soothe him through your own sobs.

Eventually, you’re composed enough to pull back slightly and take his face in your hands, your red-rimmed and tear-soaked eyes meeting his, “Yes, you should have told me. God, I wish you had told me, Peter. I was your girlfriend, your partner, the person who would’ve shouldered your burdens with you. I would’ve been there for you, and we could’ve tried to at least figured out a solution for us.. Nearly anything we could’ve come up with together would have been far less painful than what we’re going through now.”

The guilt, pain, and regret sits heavy on Peter as he stares back at you, and he tries to cry out more apologies, but you cover his mouth with a hand, “I don’t want any more apologies, Pete. I.. I just want you to promise to do better if we give ‘us’ another shot. Can you do that?” There’s a small, trembling smile on your lips when you finish speaking, and you let out a quiet, wet laugh when your words process in his mind and he nods his head with a dumbfounded look on his tear-soaked face.

“B-but, why?” Peter asks in a disbelieving whisper, voice cracking, and his eyes searching yours.

“Because we’ve both suffered enough, Peter, and if this is meant to be, then I don’t want to just walk away from it. Everything isn’t magically fixed, obviously, but I love you, Peter, and I’m willing to put in the effort to make this work if you are..” Your voice is quiet but full of hope, your eyes filling with tears all over again, but they’re from happiness this time.

“A thousand percent, I am. I love you, Y/N, so much.” Peter murmurs, those same happy tears shining in his eyes and that ever-bright smile of his pulling at his lips.

The seemingly ethereal glow of his happiness only lights up your own eyes for a moment when Peter suddenly pulls you in for a kiss. It surprises you at first, but your lips slot with his like puzzle pieces fitting together, and all of the cracks in your heart fuse back together. You both laugh into the kiss for no reason other than the pure bliss of being with each other again.

The two of you abruptly break away from the kiss when the door open, and Peyton walks out with a scoff, Ned and MJ following behind them. Peyton walks up to your side, glaring at Peter the entire time, while Ned is cheering and enthusiastically shaking MJ by the shoulders.

Crossing their arms, Peyton puffs out their chest, trying to come across as intimidating, “If you screw this up again, Parker, I really will punch you in the face.”

Both Peter and Ned go stock-still at Peyton’s dead-serious tone, while MJ laughs at Ned going a shade paler. You bring a hand up to your face, shaking your head and muttering a quiet, “Jesus, Pey, quit it.”

Then, as if a switch flips, Peyton goes back to their usual chill and happy demeanor, holding their hand out to Peter, “Anyway, hi, I’m Peyton!”

Their complete 180 just makes MJ laugh harder while Ned lets out an awkward laugh and takes a cautious step back. Peter lets out his own awkward laugh as he shakes Peyton’s hand and properly introduces himself. You huff a quiet laugh at the questioning look Peter sends you and shrug.

And as you all head back inside, Peter’s hand in yours, you feel an easy and weightless kind of happy contentment that you haven’t felt in months.

Note ~ Oh, Tom Holland, the man you are.. that beautiful brit boy is one of my husbands fr fr, lmao. Anyway, send in requests because I wanna write but I don't have any solid ideas rn. Much love, Lovelies!! <3 <3

The Director had told you in a tone so plain and empty, as if you weren’t sitting in that meeting room staring into a handheld mirror, experiencing major derealization. It still astonishes you how unfazed and apathetic the Director can be. You still have trouble accepting that nearly every single detail about you has been changed except for your very DNA, while the Director acts like you’re the same as you were before.

“Just remember, Ms. L/N, you willingly signed up for this…”

Those are the words coldly thrown at you every time it is suspected that you are breaking down or trying to abandon the mission. You are never allowed to forget that you volunteered to do this, that you sacrificed your normal day-to-day comfort on your own accord. You are frequently reminded by the Director, and by yourself.

“We’re so close..” You mutter aloud, in a voice that wasn’t yours until two years ago, the reassurance as you finish putting makeup on the face that also wasn’t yours until two years ago.

If it meant saving them, you’d live as someone else a thousand times over.

“Hell yeah, we are,” an enthusiastic response comes through the speaker of your phone, and you flinch slightly as you’re pulled from your mind. The owner of the ditzy and upbeat voice is Hinata Mae. She ranks fairly low within the organization, with her tasks being gathering and reporting intel, and recruiting. She was your in with the organization, and for some reason, she attached herself to you. So, you grit your teeth and pretend to be best friends with the annoying woman.

“You’re working tonight, right, U/N?” Mae continues, and you suppress a sigh as you work on doing your hair. “Apparently, all of those so-called ‘heroes’ are gonna be there tonight, not just the usual odd few. Souta heard while he was monitoring the audio from the bug in the dumb one’s office that they plan on making a tradition out of it. Something about ‘honoring the memory’ of the bitch we killed.”

Your hand comes up to the left side of your chest as you feel a sharp pang of phantom pain. If you looked like your normal self, there would be a scar marring the skin just beneath where your hand is rubbing. You really had died that day after being shot, but the HPSC medics had managed to bring you back. After regaining consciousness, the Director had visited you and explained what exactly was going on. That day, you had learned that you and every other Pro Hero ranked in the Top Ten were being targeted by a cunning and elusive organization. Shock and rage had ruled over your other emotions, knowing that your friends were on that list, that Katsuki was on that list.

When the Director had offered to send you into the organization undercover, you didn’t hesitate to accept. So you were stripped of your identity, your Quirk, and your day-to-day life. Everything that made you you was buried. It all died the day that Pro Hero H/N died. Now you are U/N U/L/N, one of the few Quirkless members part of a radicalist group that wants to see Heroes fall.

You make a face at Mae’s words, but bite back the urge to say anything or make any sort of noise of annoyance. Two years of this undercover crap and embedding yourself within the True Light Organization, you still have to consciously hold your tongue to keep from biting someone’s head off. It’s an increasingly difficult task when one of them spouts crap about your friends, your grieving friends.

“Yeah, I go in 2 to 10 tonight. Ugh, but I’m stuck with working with Onishi.. Hopefully, he can actually focus on gathering intel rather than my ass.” You say with authentic dread in your voice. It’s one thing to deal with a guy’s flirting after you’ve expressed your disinterest, but it’s another thing to have to put up with that flirting when it’s coming from the man who tried to kill you.

“Oh my gosh, U/N, you have no idea how lucky you are to even be on his radar! He is so hot, and it’s, like, only kinda unsettling that his hand turns into a gun and the bullets are literally made of bone.. Ugh, I’ve been trying to get his attention for, like, ever!” Mae whines, and you roll your eyes so hard it hurts.

“Well, keep tryin’ because you can have him- Listen, Mae, I gotta go. I’ll talk to you later, ‘kay? Bye.” You rush to end the call before she can blabber on any further, and you let out a heavy sigh.

Sliding your phone into your back pocket as you stand up from the vanity, you make your way to the nightstand and open the drawer. Grabbing the Quirk-suppressing bracelet the HPSC had given you for this mission, you sit on the edge of the bed and clasp it around your ankle. You watch as it self-tightens to fit snugly around your ankle, and then changes colors from cold metal gray to your skin tone, disappearing. It’s a process you watch happen every day because even though it’s such a small and nowadays simple tech trick, you find it cool.

With another sigh, you get up from the bed and head for the closet. You shove past clothes and random junk to get to the small safe hidden at the back of the closet. Punching in the code you’ve long since memorized and waiting impatiently for the scanner to read your fingerprint, the door to the safe opens. The small space inside the safe is nearly barren except for three items. There’s a cellphone provided to you from the HPSC that’s only to be used for short messages or mission updates, a flash drive containing all the information the HPSC has on the True Light Organization, and a picture.

Reaching in, you grab the cellphone and go through the process of not only turning it on and unlocking it, but getting into the heavily secured email app. You type out a short email to the HPSC relaying the information that was given to you by Mae. After sending it, you feel a bit better inside knowing that the HPSC will send out disguised agents to watch over your friends tonight, like they’ve done in the past when they all go out.

You turn the phone off and place it back into the safe, but hesitate to bring your hand out. Your gaze lingers on the photo, fingers hovering just near the edge of the only piece of your old life that you secretly brought with you. You weren’t supposed to have anything that could give away your true identity, nothing that could link you in any way to Pro Hero H/N. But out of all the items that the HPSC cleared out of your work locker at the agency, out of all the things they forced you to change, they weren’t going to take this one thing from you.

Carefully picking the photo up by the corner, you bring it out of the safe. The icy-cold feeling of loneliness, the heavy weight of longing, and everything else that has been building up inside of you for the last two years flood to the front of your psyche. You gaze down at the happy faces of your friends, and at your own smiling face, at your actual face, with a sad fondness.

The picture was taken at the party your class held after the UA graduation ceremony. You remember how chaotic it was to gather the whole of Class 3-A for the photo, but it was very much worth it. Everyone’s joyous faces captured and frozen in time, even Katsuki had put on a small smile. But it’s not just that it’s a photo of your old classmates that makes it so dear to your heart, that makes it so dangerous and damning if someone from True Light were to find it, no.

It’s the signatures on the back of the photo.

Flipping the photo over in your hands, your eyes trace over everyone’s names, each written in their own individual and unique handwriting. You’re reminded of how eager you were to get all of Class 3-A’s signatures before you all set out on your paths. And you were successful in not only getting everyone to sign their names, but to sign their Hero names right under their names, autograph style. To this day, you feel a silly giddiness over being the only person to have all of their first autographs as Pro Heroes.

Turning the photo back over, you bury all of the feelings that would push you to end your mission early as you look at your friends’ faces a moment longer. To help make sure they all get the chance to smile despite being Pro Heroes, despite the known or unknown threats of villains, that’s one of the reasons you’re doing this.

Even if you had to die and watch their smiles fade.

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