You’re Saying There’s A Multiverse?

Truthfully, in part, this was a bad idea from the beginning. 

He knows who he is—always has—but no one really prepares you for what you lose of yourself when people leave. 

Not really. 

Sure, there’s pieces of it—age-old sayings, over-quoted self-help books, your pushy therapist’s nagging mantras—but it’s not only that a part of you dies with the person you lose— It’s that you start to question if what’s left of you is able to survive. 

Or willing to, for that matter. 

So, he was doomed from the start. He used to lie awake at night pushing back against the threat of morning light like his life depended on it. He used to come alive in the afterglow, swinging through the city like it was his heartbeat, chasing after it like a lifeline. 

Now, he counts the hours down. He watches his clock move so slow it might as well be going backward. He stops wishing for days to be longer and foams at the mouth for more time asleep. 

Unaware. Unbothered. Unmocked. 

And suddenly he’s suffocating. He feels it in every thread he runs worn, tired fingers over. Frayed at the edges, torn and half-stitched together too many times to count, bloody knuckles laying so many patches he loses the seam.

It hangs, derisive as it clings to a crooked doorknob. 

Fated blurs of blue and red used to fuel him, used to make every decision—every action, every mistake—feel worth it. It gave him purpose, gave him direction. It made him forget the violet in between every wrong turn and right hook and focus on the parallel fate propelling him forward. 

Now it all feels eroded, taunting what he let slip away. Laughing in the face of failures that stopped making him stronger and won. Watching, waiting for a next move he could never make. 

He only slipped deeper with every month that passed, desperate for something to tether himself to. His responsibility started to feel heavier, and his motivation to get off his futon and to a fire escape was few and far between. 

Because what did he really have to fight for anymore? 

Then the wails of sirens and veins of flickering streetlights tracing down the cool city pavement roared like a heartbeat he couldn’t shake, rattling him from the inside out, making him remember where he came from. 

Reminding him that he is this city, and this city is him. 

So he pushes through. She shoves it down. He pulls the mask off his doorknob and fixes what was broken in more ways than one. He conquers the battle one fight at a time. And the greater good remembers that it’s just the good in him. 

Because after all, Peter Parker knows who he is. 

And Peter Parker doesn’t give up. 

But this wasn’t giving up— At least that’s what he’d convinced himself of. He was simply accepting a fate beyond his control. Giving credit where credit was due. Letting go, even if it hurt like hell. 

He’d gotten particularly good at that. 

Besides, how could he surrender when it was starting to feel like there was nothing to give up in the first place?

No matter how much he tried to ignore it, he keeps getting the reminder. Like when he sees her new friends, or when she waves past him in a room full of people, making him foolishly wave back at no one. When he says hi to her across the hall and she responds, 

“Oh, hey… you.” And keeps walking, brows knit and laughing off the fleeting awkwardness with that guy. 

With Paul. 

“You,” he echoes in bitter disbelief, dropping into a seat he barely kicks half-out. “She called me you. Buddy or Pal would’ve stung less.”

Ned doesn’t even bother glancing up from the essay and lunch he’s hunched over, expression flat and unbothered. “Because she doesn’t know you, Peter.”

Right. Of course. Tact was never lost on him. 

“Yeah, but you think she’d at least sense something by now, right?” He sighs, slumping deeper into his seat and mindlessly picking at something non-existent on the table. “She just looks right through me.”

Ned shrugs loosely. “It’s been two years. Maybe you should finally move on.”

The unwelcome words settle, rooting themselves inside his head and making him nearly choke on nothing. 

“You can’t be serious.”

Ned lower his laptop screen, leveling him with a look. “She has a boyfriend.” 

“Yeah, and people… break up,” he says with a shrug, completely unconvincing. Ned’s glare narrows, irony sharp on his tongue. “And don’t say that’s what we did,” he adds. “I really don’t need the reminder.”

“This is college, Peter,” Ned urges, tossing his hands up to the room of laughing students and chatty professors around them. “There’s way more options out there than just MJ.” 

His face shifts into a scowl, making Ned sigh and adjust his approach, expression softening a notch.

“Listen, you know I love MJ— We’re still friends.” Yeah, just not with him. “But you’ve been chasing after her for a while now and you’ve gotten nowhere.” 

Peter steals a fry from Ned’s tray, shrugging innocuously. “And?”

“And maybe that means it’s just not meant to be.”

Ouch. His stomach twists on cue despite the harrowing, irrefutable truth: Ned was probably right. 

He’d been chasing after a ghost so long he could feel his own body going cold. He was trying to pin down something that kept slipping away so persistently, it was starting to dissipate from reality. He was stuck running after something that didn’t want to be found, a fate he couldn’t face.

Maybe they just weren’t right for each other anymore. 

He still loves her— At least he thinks he does. Things fell apart before he could really figure it out. He’s grown a lot. Changed a lot, too—a bit for the better, certainly some for the worst—and despite it all, he was still standing, still pressing on like forward was all he knew.

But maybe he couldn’t ever really move on until he accepted what was so glaringly in front of him. The shell of his high school romance flatlined at his feet. 

And the echo of a DNR order looming over it. 

It killed him to surrender— To let something he always thought was special slip away like he’s mourning a piece of himself he never really had. Not in the ways that counted most. He didn’t even get the chance. 

He was supposed to be resilient. He was supposed to face a challenge head on when all else fails. He was supposed to be a hero—hers, and his own—but lately it felt like he wasn’t even capable of that. 

And if he wasn’t… then who was he, really? 

The void that met him in the mirror was starting to fade faster than he was willing to accept. And choosing to acknowledge the barren, fractured truth sitting between him and someone who was nothing more than a stranger now was making him question if letting go was really worth it. 

Or if it was just another crack he couldn’t fix. Another mistake that tarnished what was barely left of him. 

Another loss he couldn’t stop.

“But what if we are right together?” he counters, voice low from its weight in raw, unbridled reckoning. “What if losing her means I lose me too?”

Ned frowns, eyes laden with something he can’t hide.

“You’re already lost, Peter.” He pauses, brows creasing in something too close to pity. “I can’t keep watching you chase after what’s already gone.” 

He swallows, rough and tight. God, he hated when Ned was right. But he needed to hear it. He needed the truth to scream through his lungs instead of whisper. 

Maybe then he could find himself again. 

“I’m not saying it’ll never happen,” Ned adds through a mouthful of fries. “I just think this is a good opportunity for you to get it out of your system.”

Peter’s brows lift and not from intrigue. “My system?”

“You know what I mean,” he defends, polishing off his lunch and sliding his laptop into his bag. “Meet new people. Enjoy being single. Use it to your advantage.” 

“That’s, like, the complete opposite of me, Ned.”

“Is that really a bad thing?”

“Dude,” Peter mutters, expression twisting.

Ned holds his hands up in faux surrender. “All I’m saying is it won’t kill you to let loose a little.”

“I’m totally loose!” He was not at all loose.

“Go to a party, have some fun for once,” he explains like it wasn’t abundantly obvious. “Maybe even hook up with someone.”

Peter shakes his head immediately, the thought foreign and sour swimming in his head. “No, no way. That’s not something I can just do.”

“Why not?” Flashbacks of the weird, flukey flings he’s witnessed his oddly-charming friend go through rush in all at once. Of course Ned wouldn’t get it. “Have a couple drinks and find someone hot. Easy.”

“I’m just not wired like you. I’m a relationship guy.”

“You’ve had, like, one girlfriend, Peter.” 

“No,” he defends, voice cracking like it was on a mission to expose him. “There was Liz, too.”

Ned’s mouth tilts. “Yeah, if you consider ditching her at homecoming and sending her dad to jail a date.” 

Jeez. He was right about that one, too. 

Ned glances at his watch, quickly shoving the rest of his stuff into his bag while Peter mulls in the completely undesirable suggestion floated his way. Let loose. Party. Hook-up? No way— No chance in hell. 

Ned lingers in front of the now empty table, weighing if being late to class was worth one last attempt at convincing Peter this was sound advice.

“Do me a favor and at least think about it? Please?” 

Despite himself, he caves, giving Ned a half-hearted smile. “Yeah. I will.”

He sits alone in silence, helplessly watching as his friend disappears into the flood of mingling students he’s still a stranger to. Everything buzzes around him, alight with life and the fresh promise of summer’s rapid approach. All he can hear is himself, trying desperately to rationalize the new question humming in his brain.

What the hell did he just get himself into?

Three weeks. It had been three weeks since that conversation with Ned. The topic wasn’t really brought up again—at least not directly—and he wasn't exactly complaining. 

Not at all. 

It was mentioned in passing—a vague invitation to a party, a harmless question about weekend plans that hummed with the hope for more, a not-so-subtle nod at a pretty girl passing by—but neither of them dared to push it further. 

Ned was smart enough to know Peter would take the push when it was needed, and Peter was too scared to even entertain the idea of it looming in his mind. 

How could he? How was he expected to just turn his brain off and let himself go? Pluck at the loose strings of his body that beared too much tedious tension. Unravel just enough to do something that didn’t require meticulous, painstaking logic for once.

Knowing the option existed only made it worse. 

His mind raced behind blank stares in class. He got more clumsy with every building he swung from in the crest of midnight. He tossed through every hour of sleep, desperate for silence to sweep his brain again. 

Was it really over? Just like that? A love he thought was going to last a lifetime dying a pitiful, worthless death— Reduced to the shape of a name that decays, growing unfamiliar when it whispers through his soul. 

And the worst part was that he was starting to consider it. Like, actually consider it.

Put himself out there. Reclaim his identity again. Kiss someone new like it means absolutely nothing and enjoy being young for once. Forget about the crushing threat of responsibility constantly burdening him.

It was becoming abundantly clear that he wasn’t capable of the mantle he took on, so maybe he should. 

He tried to fight it—the nagging doubt staining his mind, the ghost of his failures coming back to haunt him—but how could he when he was grappling with the fact that this was just another thing he couldn’t save?

And if he couldn’t save this, was he worthy of saving anything? Was he worthy of the pressure put on his shoulders? To be the one people turn to when they need hope? 

He didn’t particularly want that answered right now. 

The longer it lingered in his mind, the more it crawled to the forefront. The last time he spoke with—no, spoke at—MJ was 12 days ago. 12 whole days and all he could come up with was an invitation to join his group in their Experimental Physics lab when she already had one. 

Things were rough, to say the least. 

All he had to do was survive a few more pointless lectures and drill through his pile of neglected work. Then maybe he could spend his weekend remembering what it’s like to recharge.

His phone buzzes as he slides into his usual seat for his 2pm: Ned with his end-of-the-week attempt to drag him out to some Greenwich Village hole-in-the-wall spot called Lion’s Head Pub tonight. Pass.

He sighs thinly and clicks his phone off without replying, slumping further into the cool, sterile chill of his lecture hall chair like it could swallow him whole.

He wasn’t sure how much longer he could keep doing this. Ned was getting his hopes up only for Peter to inevitably decline or go MIA. He hated the guilt that followed, making him question if he was even capable of starting over again. And it didn’t matter how many times he expressed his disinterest, Ned still offered like he might finally change his mind.

It was the same doomed cycle.

His stare hones in on the board in front of him, littered with indistinguishable strings of words that were starting to hurt his head. All the pre-lecture noise slips away with his attention—eyes glazed over, expression blank and unreachable—completely aloof to someone gently nudging his foot. 

“Parker? Did you finish it?”

He blinks back to life, glancing up to find someone looming over him, blocking the blinding slats of stale overhead lights. And his brain nearly short circuits when he realizes it’s a girl— A really pretty girl.

Talking to him. 

Your eyes flick between his in a straight-cut motion, silently beckoning his answer. Impatient fingers lightly drum a pencil against the edge of a thick stack of notebooks curled into your chest, studying him with barely pouted lips he suddenly can’t stop staring at.

His senses shift into overdrive, stumbling their way through trying to catalog everything about you: the soft strokes of hair gently framing your face in static light. Your perfume lingering around the heat of your skin, completely captivating and haunting through his head. The way your weight shifts the longer you’re forced to stand there, like time kneels to you and knows it has no business being wasted in your midst.

Then he realizes he’s just staring— Mouth parted, thoughts stuttering, eyes slack and completely silent like a fool… Or a freak.

Fuck, Peter, pay attention.

He clears his throat sharply, choking on the ghost of words that don’t come. “S-sorry, what?”

He’s completely thrown. Sure, he’s caught your eye once or twice when you transferred into this class, but you’ve never once spoken to him. Or really looked, for that matter. Why would you?

The slim clock hand usually brushed a few minutes past two when you slipped in, slowly easing the door shut like you could muffle the resounding click that echoes through the room, making heads snap to yours in a nosy wave. You always found an inconspicuous seat tucked in the last few rows, darting toward it like your name was etched there. Most days you were covered in an oversized hoodie, your eyes heavy from too many late nights, shoes shuffling, headphones in. 

He didn’t know your name—or much of anyone’s anymore, for that matter—but he’d be lying if he said his attention didn’t snag on you when you scooted past him for the last remaining seat in his row the second week of class.

The warmth lingered in him, the memory of your hand brushing his shoulder to steady yourself over some asshole who wouldn’t tuck in his knees unmoored. 

You didn’t speak, just offered him a soft, lopsided smile when you finally reached your destination like you appreciated that he didn’t slip away from under you— Like the steady weight of his shoulder simply being there was worth more than it should be. 

He didn’t say a word either. Just matched your expression and went back to packing tiny, mechanical font into his notebook like it could help shake the way his thoughts were suddenly frazzled… And the fact that his favorite elective class was suddenly the least interesting thing in the world. 

He forgot about you after that. It was better for everyone if he continued being invisible. Unknown, unnamed, un—

Wait… How the hell did you know his name? 

“Your transcript?” Your eyebrows tick up in quickly fleeting patience, staring at him like it was obvious.

Right. The final project. The interview he totally hasn’t typed out yet… And you must be his partner.

Everyone was randomly assigned a faceless-name to work with through the class portal. Most identities in a class this big were a mystery, and it worked that way. No one cared. As long as your partner did some semblance of work that was good enough for a mostly passing grade, there wasn’t a second thought given.

The same went for you and him.

When the rubric was handed out and the deadline was set, you emailed a handful of times—designating roles, coordinating plans, dividing everything evenly—and that was that. You both had your tasks to do. But the way you peered down at him with a question held a between your brows told him you clearly did your part.

And the way his palms began to sweat and his brain started frantically flipping through its fuzzy filing cabinet of every half-assed assignment he barely survived this week made it abundantly clear he didn’t. 

“Shit,” he mutters under his breath, digging through his bag and saying a silent prayer it looked convincing enough to you. “I think it got lost on my desk.” 

It wasn’t even a titled document on his computer yet. 

You sigh, tilting your head like this was the last thing you wanted to hear. His stomach twists on cue. 

“I can’t start writing the feature without it.”

“I know, I’m sorry,” he rushes, crumpling his bag shut and shoving it under his chair to distract from the heat crawling up his neck. “I’ll get it to you tomorrow, I swear.”

You pause, weighing it through narrowed eyes that were far too sharp to be making his heart flutter the way it was. Then you cave, sighing gently. 

“Fine. First thing.”

He nods with a little tug at the corner of his mouth, settling back into a reality where he was known enough to have someone’s nerves grated because of him. 

“O-of course. Promise.”

Your gaze stays on him for a beat longer than it should’ve, and he swears the room slips away when your expression softens, barely, just enough to make his brain go a little numb. 

Then you smile—routine, polite, lined with something he wants to turn around inside his head—and slip past him for your seat in the back, same as always. 

And for once he doesn’t feel too bad about being distracted during class if it was because of you.

By the time the clock crawls toward 11, he’s starting to genuinely consider the very plausible reality he’s no longer conscious.

He turned into a machine, natural instincts clicking into place as he tore through the growing pile of work looming on his desk.

Now he can finally see through his window again, dark and dusty reflection catching the bleak glow of his lamp light straining to cut through the shadow-swept room. 

He glows like a ghost from the dying light of his laptop, clinging to a despondent seven percent battery, a victim of his relentless focus. He plugs it in, stretches against the chair squeaking under his weight, and stares at the ceiling, slowly recalibrating his psyche.

The city roars beyond his window with the resurgence of nightlife, floating conversations and the symphony of sirens a blanket of sound down below. He finished relatively early considering the dense amount of work he had to chew through, but now his reward was being left alone in his shamefully empty apartment.

Like even his walls could come to life and judge the lack of one he had. Nice.

Then his phone buzzes on his crumpled sheets. The muffled sound rips through the silence, and he doesn’t have to bothering looking to know who it is. 

“No, Ned,” he mutters, rubbing a tired hand over his sunken, aching eyes.

There was no way in hell he was entertaining the idea of some overcrowded, borderline-animalistic dive bar when his skull was still throbbing with the lingering remains of theorems and study guide questions. 

He kicks his music up a notch higher in retaliation when it buzzes again, focused on filing away his work. 

By the third interruption, he breaks, letting out a tired groan and blindly fumbling just to find the ringer. He freezes before he gets the chance, blinking back at the hollow glow of the screen tracing the outline of his jaw in late evening indigo.

His eyes have to run across the subject line four times before he realizes his eyes aren’t playing tricks on him. It wasn’t Ned. It wasn’t his reminder to pay rent or a new assignment added to his dashboard. None of that. 

It was you. You, who now had a face he could connect to the name decorating his inbox. A pretty one, at that. 

One his mind admittedly drifted to more times than it should’ve during class. And the class after that… And every hour between, slouched over his desk and trying to stay focused on slicing through his stack of work. 

You still managed to slip in between the cracks he couldn’t seal. Your presence, your expression, your eyes. All of you lingered where he didn’t want you to— Where he felt like you weren’t allowed to. 

Not yet. 

He stares back at the notification, stunned like the universe was mocking his mind for drifting to you all night long. It wasn’t much—just a routine email with an outline for the rest of the project attached—but that was enough to do it. That was enough to make him realize he somehow, someway, wanted it to be more.

He quickly taps the dimming screen back to life, sliding the notification open, eyes tracing over every letter of your name like it could allow him to know more than just your student email address and a tapping pencil in midday Manhattan sunglow.  

He opens the outline, slowly dropping onto his bed and running over the meticulous, fine-tuned details you laid out in the document. Something buzzes under his skin from it, like he just got another tiny piece of you—the way you were wired, the way you worked—all through a couple bullet points and bylines.

And if that was as close as he’d get, then he’d take it. 

Suddenly something aches in him— Something he’s done such a good job of suppressing. Something human, hungry for more he knows he can't have. 

This was stupid. The isolation he swore himself to had gotten so bad he was excited over an email for an elective credit group assignment— Over the fact that someone knew his name besides his landlord or Ned. 

Someone clearly driven. Someone with soft skin and kind eyes edged with something that made his heart hammer. Someone with a baggy sweatshirt that brushed his desk every Tuesday and Thursday at two. 

Someone he wanted to know more.

He shakes it off, quickly closing the document and marking the email as unread so it wouldn’t get buried in his inbox. This was something he already made peace with, something he already accepted: the less people know him—even as simple as a first name or assigned seat—the better. He couldn’t risk it again.

Besides, he couldn’t get distracted. He was meant for MJ— Now, and always.

No one else.

But it wasn’t you that was throwing him off. It couldn’t be. It was the nagging, persistent tenacity of his friend finally catching up with him, poisoning his focus and making him wonder if he was worthy of moving on.

He had enough on his plate as it was. He didn’t need to add to what he already couldn’t sort through. He needed to forget about you and every dangerous, fleeting thought that came with you.

He fails miserably. 

You linger in this mind like you belong, warmth sparking through him like wildfire. The way you glowed in lecture hall light, hair a little messy and unkempt, but never careless. The way your eyes quickly flitted over him, like you sized him up and had him completely figured out before blinking, all with a faint tug at the corner of your mouth that made his bones hum.

He couldn’t get you out of his head. Why couldn’t he get you out of his head? Was Ned actually right about everything? That he was tying himself to something sinking, something already gone?

That maybe he was worth another chance again?

Regardless, some harmless, completely illogical little crush curls at the corners of his shredded heart, curious to try to put him back together again. 

He blinks at the ceiling, letting frayed curls sink into his pillow, and thinks. His brain wrestles itself until it’s numb, making room for something to settle between his ribs— Something daring he hasn’t felt in forever. 

The willingness to begin again. 

And this time when his phone buzzes, he pulls himself off the bed, powers through a shower, shrugs on fresh clothes, and leaves his apartment with the address Ned sent lighting up his screen.

Because maybe sacrificing a little more hurt was worth the chance to feel something again. With someone—anyone—even just for a minute. Just for one night.

And you made him believe it might be possible again.

The place was easy to find considering the dense group of drunk ESU kids flooding the doorfront, shouting and laughing over music that’s easily drowned out. It’s a small place, almost unrecognizable along the strip, just one wobbly brick away from being swallowed into the rest of the building. 

He slips between swaying bodies, following a dingy, stone staircase down to the roaring basement pub. There’s people everywhere: pressed against the walls, hanging over sticky tables, packed together in the tiny space surrounding the bar, all looking for attention. 

Everything was dark, bathed in silhouettes and draped in the smell of margarita mix and mistakes clinging to the thick, balmy air. Shadows dance between bodies, painting slick skin in flickers of colored Christmas lights draped across the ceiling. Every inch of exposed brick was plastered in garage sale collectibles and old bar games that were charming enough to pass as decor. 

Toward the back of the room he spots Ned near a high top with a tray of shots that were surely all sugar. He catches his eye, stopping dead in his tracks and instantly lighting up at the shocking sight of Peter swiftly cutting through the crowd. 

“Dude, no way,” Ned beams, quickly pulling him in for their handshake. “I can’t believe you finally showed!”

Peter shrugs, trying to hide the fact that he was already regretting this decision. “If I had to look at one more derivative, my head was gonna explode.”

Ned shakes him by the shoulder, clearly tipsy. “Let’s get you a drink.”

He winces, scratching the back of his neck. “I don’t know, man. I just came to…” Well, he didn’t really know what he came for, to be honest. “Check it out, I guess.”

He hadn’t even been there for two minutes and he was already starting to get cold feet. The reality was setting in quicker than he could handle, and allowing himself to divulge in this fickle moment of bravery might equate to something he couldn’t take back. 

With someone who wasn’t MJ. 

Then he scans the room and his attention immediately settles on the person behind the bar, tilting a pint under the tap and politely indulging in a customer clearly too old to be alone at a college bar.

You. 

You were here. Not in his class, not in his head, not on his screen. Here, standing in front of him under dusty, jagged spotlights and falling perfectly into his line of sight like it was the only place you belonged. 

His pulse thumps in his ear, cheeks hot while he stares, in awe of you completely in your element. Then you laugh and he swears it cuts right through the crowd and punches him square in the gut like the sweetest sucker punch to his better judgement. 

Wait, why was he regretting this again?

“Peter,” Ned whines, immune to the spellbinding daydream he was suddenly stuck in. “You didn’t come all the way out here just to go dry on me.”

He clears his throat weakly, trying to act normal. “I live, like, four blocks away, Ned.”

“And you didn’t walk four whole blocks just to bail on me again. Come on— Just one drink.” 

Ned’s right: he didn’t. He came to let loose, to get out there. To explore the feeling you helped him remember how to have—and now here you were—so he mumbles, 

“Yeah… yeah, you’re, uh— I’m gonna go… Yeah.” 

He says it under his breath, meandering over to the line at the bar like a moth drawn to life’s last light. If Ned responded, he didn’t catch it— Just cuts his way through every sweaty body like a man on a mission. 

To say what, exactly? That was still unclear. 

He almost turns on his heels and abandons ship when your attention lands on him— Smooth, mindless motions buffering, almost like him being thrown into your orbit again made you do a double take. 

You blink, calculating how to place him in your mind, and smile. It’s small—almost missable—but it’s there. 

And it’s for him. 

The moment slips away like it’s nothing—probably because it was—but the stutter in his heartbeat grows with every step he takes toward to you. 

As soon as a narrow, empty spot clears up at the counter, he takes it, patiently waiting with his nerves in his throat while you top off a drink with the soda gun. You look so effortless, gliding through motions like you were keeping the whole bar afloat without even trying. 

There’s something about you that has him captivated with every little thing you do— So much so that by the time you sling the towel over your shoulder and slide up in front of him, he’s completely unprepared for it. 

You smile, expression lined with something that makes his brain buzz, head gently cocked as you size him up with one swift tick of your eyes. 

“You know, when I said first thing tomorrow, I didn’t mean it literally,” you tease, glancing at the overhead clock showing just a hair past midnight. 

Red covers the top of his ears, lips pressing into a tight, sheepish smile.

“So you mean to tell me I came all the way down here for nothing, then?”

Your confidence falters, disbelief slowly seeping in. “Oh my God, did you actually bring it with you?”

“No,” he chuckles, a little proud. “But the look on your face kinda makes me think I should’ve.”

Your shoulders loosen a notch, smiling with a shake of your head that was anything but annoyed. “Very funny, Parker.” You pause a beat, watching him like you’re searching for something. “What’re you having?”

He blinks. “Huh?”

“To drink.” You casually lean against the counter until the heat of your skin brushes his. “You’re at a bar, remember?” 

He clears his throat, praying his synapses click back into place and start doing their job.

“Oh, uh, right. Sorry.” He quickly glances over your shoulder at what was on tap like he has any idea what kind of beer he even likes. “Can I get the, um,” he pauses, eyes narrowing, “the Voodoo Ranger?”

You grab a clean pint glass, glancing over your shoulder while you pour. “You don’t come here often, do you?”

“What makes you say that?” he asks against the thin head of foam before taking the kind of sip that wants to prove something. The second it hits him, his face twists, sheepishly coughing on the bitter trail of honey-gold liquid that cuts down his throat like a threat. 

You cross your arms, smiling in satisfaction. “That.”

His cheeks heat in a way he can’t hide, but it’s hard to care when you’re looking at him like that, laughing in a way he knows will get stuck in his head.

“What,” he manages, “is this, like, a notoriously bad beer, or something?”

“Not necessarily.” You shrug, taking the glass and dumping it. “You just don’t strike me as an IPA guy.” 

His eyes settle on the tug at the corner of your mouth, soft and undeniable. It makes his heartbeat skip.

“You seem to know a lot about me.”

“This kinda job comes with a lot of people watching,” you say casually, just the simple truth. “You learn how to read people pretty quickly.”

He smears the ring of condensation left on the bar, staring at it like it could wipe his smile away.

“Okay, what am I drinking, then?”

You lean a fraction closer and it’s like thunder strikes behind his ribs. He barely even knows you but suddenly none of it matters.

You hum, eyes sharp. “You tell me.”

He studies you for a second, gaining the confidence to look you square in the eye again and raise you. It comes out of nowhere—this low, pulling buzz—but he can practically feel the electricity pulsing between you now. 

“Whatever you wanna make me.”

Your eyes sweep over him, the movement kickstarting his pulse. Then you pull away, nodding just once. “You got it, Parker.”

The world falls away while you work behind the bar, slipping into an easy rhythm like garnishes and simple syrups were second nature. He’s completely hung up on your every move, so much so he barely catches Ned across the room flashing an ever-so-obvious thumbs up and toothy smile. He ignores that.

“Alright,” you say, sliding a freshly chilled rocks glass to his fingertips. “Give this a try.”

He studies the drink like it bites. “What is it?”

“A secret. Just try it.”

“I’m good at keeping secrets.” His grin unfolds despite himself. You have no idea just how true that really is.

You cock your head, weighing it. “Okay. Only if you tell me why you finally decided to show up here tonight.”

“Because I was bored. Your turn.”

You roll your eyes, laughing under your breath while he beams over a cautious sip of his new drink. 

“Weak answer, but fine.” You tilt your chin to the glass between you. “7 and 7— Easy ingredients, stronger than a tap beer, and more interesting than a Captain and Coke. You’re welcome.” 

The warm, woody burn of whiskey floods his system, perfectly balanced by the fresh tang of lemon-lime. It’s good—genuinely something he likes—but with a smile that inviting and eyes impossibly soft under faint splashes of copper spilling through the room, he know’s he’d happily take just about anything you made. 

“Has anyone ever told you you’ve got a knack for this?” 

You huff a timorous laugh, dropping your stare to the counter like the loose pieces of hair falling in your face could hide the way your smile lightens with something that lands right between his ribs.

“Yeah— Only the creeps who tip too much and, well… you.”

He nods, mouth tilting as he pushes two measly, crumpled singles he had in his pocket across the counter to you. “Glad I’m neither of those things, then.”

You laugh, all sweet and breathless like it was meant to find itself along the way. It’s fleeting, but he actually makes you blush. His nerves flutter from knowing he’s the reason behind that kind of sound.

It was terrifyingly easy to become enamored with you. You were like a trap he walked himself into and didn’t want to escape. Why was he even here, again?

You slide the bills back, fingers tentatively meeting his in the process. “Get that transcript to me and we’ll call it even?”

Before his nerves could talk himself out of it, he takes your hand—small, warm, gentle in his palm—and shakes it, sealing the promise of more between you. “I would anyways, but deal.”

His voice comes honestly, almost too quiet beneath the blanket of social sound unfolding around him. It didn’t matter— Not when something dangerous runs behind your eyes as you watch his fingers loosen from yours. 

Everything else goes forgotten between the brick and sloppy string lights. Nothing more exists. Just you, just him, watching each other like maybe you’d find a way to define what was starting to settle inside the thinning space between you. Not the crowd, not the noise, not—

Ned plants a firm hand on Peter’s shoulder, slurring a loose hello and shaking him free— Literally. He places the tray that’s now a graveyard for the sticky-sweet shooters from earlier down for you to take.

“Thanks again for the shots,” Ned says to you, trying way too hard to be cool about what he just stepped into as he passes over his card to close out his tab.

Peter’s brain blanks, eyes basically screaming for Ned to please be normal about this as he watches in mild-panic. Then he glances between you both with the kinda look Peter hates—especially when it’s preceded by alcohol—and his stomach drops in preparation.

“You guys know each other?”

“We’re in Investigative Journalism together,” Peter quickly cuts in, not willing to risk things when Ned was currently on a one man mission to make his life more interesting. He introduces you, silently praying his friend doesn’t take it as an invitation and leaves.

“Woah,” Ned breathes, looking at you like you’re a paradox. “You go to ESU, too?”

You nod, finishing up a quick vodka cran for someone else. “Yup. Sophomore. What about you guys?”

“Same,” Ned affirms. 

“Wait,” Peter interrupts, brows furrowing gently. “How are you a bartender if you’re still a sophomore?”

He regrets it immediately, fearing he might have offended you. You could’ve been held back or taken a year off or something, but he was too caught up in daydreaming over you, he didn’t really properly assess how his question would come across. 

Or how much of his drink he’s already thrown back.

Luckily, you just shrug and hand Ned his card back. 

“Eh, Eddie doesn’t really care that I’m underage. The less he has to report to the IRS, the better.” You pause, smirking at Ned. “Besides, according to your friend here, I’m pretty damn good.”

It flashes across Ned’s face immediately: the kind of dangerous curiosity Peter could only silently curse.

“Oh, I’m sure he’s probably thinking more than that.”

Peter exhales sharply, quickly steering Ned away while you laugh under your breath at just how obviously flustered he is. “Okay. See you later, Ned.”

Your easy laughter only makes the embarrassment knot tighter through him, skin hot with harmless heat as Ned takes the hint and disappears into the crowd.

The bar is rocking far beyond full capacity now, finally at the height of Thirsty Thursday fun. His vision goes a little hazy as he scans the crowd around him, dense and desperate for drinks. Some girl immediately slips into the space Ned left, eager in hopes of getting some service, but you don’t pay her a shred of attention.

And he notices.

Instead, your eyes stay locked on Peter, sharp with something that toed a line neither of you have decided to draw yet. You glance down at his freshly empty glass, lips curved with curiosity.

“You plan on sticking by for another round, Parker?”

A thick beat of heady silence pulses while he lets his nerves drown in the sweet, careless buzz of warm whiskey and wanting. The tension stretches, humming with a shameless electricity dire for direction. 

The same perfume from earlier floods his senses, his eyes heavy with something he couldn’t ignore, and it hits him: there was no where else in the world he’d rather be right now. So he tilts his head, leans closer to you bathed in dusty, yellow spotlights that suddenly look like heaven, and dares to feed the spark.

“Do I have a reason to?”

You don’t say a word, just reach between you, grab the sweating glass, and pour a fresh drink in record time, garnish and all. When you slide it back, you lean in to match his stance, bass and breath brushing his cheek until his heart makes a good case for cardiac arrest. 

“You say that like it’s a challenge.” The trace of heat in your eyes raises the stakes instantly, not daring to back down.

“Maybe it is,” he murmurs, low and level. 

In this moment, he is truly, wickedly, in deep, and he doesn’t want to even think about climbing out of it. He’d happily drown in indulgence if it meant he got to spend another second under the pressure of your full attention. 

You huff a laugh, soft and fatal. Then your voice falls low, the danger in it criminal for anyone else to hear. 

“I like you loose, Parker.” 

Before he can respond, your coworker who’s been swarmed by a rush of drunk, demanding college kids—and no longer willing to cover—calls you over, a gunshot in the spell. So you sigh, fingers brushing his as you slide the drink closer. 

And this time, they don’t leave.

“Stay here and think about what you want that reason to be.” Then you slip away to the other side of the bar, leaving him alone with a spark coiling between his ribs. 

It was insane— The dizzying, undeniable combination of you and whiskey all rushing to his head. Traces of anything else behind his eyes melts away between the heat of stolen glances at you across the room and the alcohol striking like fire through his veins. 

All the responsibilities, all the overthinking—all of his desperation to cling to what was lost—is gone. The only thing he can think about is how he would do anything to make this night last forever— To tie himself to the feeling of falling, to keep his head above water just a little bit longer. To lose the air in his lungs by making you breathless instead of from suffocating in the reality he’s faced every day since the last time he was looked at and known.

But tonight—for one fleeing, thoughtless night—he had an identity. His face was next to his name. His soul, perceived again. 

And, God, it felt good. 

So he was okay with this being a bandaid on a wound that needed sutures. He was okay with leaning into this dumb, reckless rush. He was okay with caving to echoing impulse and seizing what was right in front of him instead of chasing after ghosts. 

And he was damn well tired of being one. 

His second drink is noticeably stiffer, but still downed nice and easy without any pretense catching in his throat. His depth perception grows foggy, his nerves loose and looking for something to hang onto.

He doesn’t know how much time passed, but he doesn’t care— Not when his self-control was slipping away with every minute he watched you work. His knee won’t stop bouncing, his mind won’t stop running to you. Restless fingers fiddle with the edge of his empty glass, eventually earning the attention of one of the other bartenders to replenish it.

Every sip swaps his apprehension with a familiar buzz that curls between his ribs and replaces his better judgement. Not a problem— It didn’t want to be found.

By the time the clock nears one, you find your way back over to him, smile all temptation and trouble. The late night crowd filed in: bodies packed, bass slamming through the speakers, drunken drama traded for dancing under flashing strobe lights. 

Everything got too loud—too intense—including the bubbling ache knotting at the pit of his stomach for you. The alcohol was making him want to do something dumb— To jump, to lay it all on the line and finally forget the consequences. 

Go where he normally wouldn’t have the guts to.

But right now—with the salacious way your eyes glimmer in the spill of midnight, with the way your soft lips curve like you know you have him undone—denying the spark that was tired of threatening to catch was the complete opposite of dumb. 

“You stayed,” you hum over the wall of sound, warmth brushing the shell of his ears going hot as you lean in.

He tucks his head closer to your neck, lips ghosting your hair. “I had a good reason to.”

You laugh gently, making his heart hammer senselessly behind the cage of his chest as you pull back a fraction to study him. God, he was in trouble with you. 

“Oh, yeah?” you murmur. “And what might that be?”

His cheeks flush, boyish nerves written raw across his face. It was miraculous just how easy it was for you to get him all worked up. 

“If I say,” he begins, stare helplessly flicking down to your lips for a beat, “you won’t believe me.”

You hum, narrowing your eyes like you were preparing to sink him. “And why’s that?”

“Whiskey.”

You glance at the almost-empty glass tilted to his lips, brow lifting gently. “Still nursing those?”

“No.” He swallows, setting it down between you with a final, echoing thud. “Waiting for them to be worth it.”

It flashes across your features so quick you’re able to hide it, but not to him. He sees it: throbbing under your skin, lingering in your eyes, slipping across your sly smile that almost falters— Almost.

You look nervous, like you’re slightly taken back with the way he matches your game. Like you weren’t expecting him to flirt back—all harmless and fun—but weren’t opposed to the surprise of it, either. It makes you shift your weight from the whisper of wicked want.

Even if just for a second, it’s there. 

And it counts. 

You shake it off in an instant, cocking your head like you’re ready to go toe-to-toe with him to see just how far he’s really willing to take this.   

The answer on his end was abundantly clear.

“You know,” you murmur, voice low and syrupy-sweet as you reach to take the glass between you. “If you wanted to kiss me, you could’ve just said so.”

His heart slams into his chest, hard and ruthless. His breath catches, brain trying to rationalize that your fingers were still touching his on the lukewarm glass— Curious. Tempting. Deliberate. He’s truly no match for you, and the way his eyes go a little wide and his lips part in pure elation tells him you know it, too. 

But he tries, anyway.

His lips tilt, trying to hide the way his mind was struggling to reboot under your intensity. “Kinda sounds like you’re putting words in my mouth now.”

“Careful, Parker.” You smile, soft and fatal. “Say the right thing and you might get more than just words.”

His blood’s on fire, his heart awestruck, completely and hopelessly so. You were water in the circuit board of his self control, quickly sparking through him until he shorted.

Maybe it was the drinks, maybe it was the loneliness or the abandoned feeling he’s been chasing after for years, but suddenly he doesn’t have a single thought behind his eyes that isn’t getting his hands on you. 

So he swallows any innocence sitting his tongue, humming like he knows something that could raise what you put down.

Your eyes flit over him, curious. “What?”

“Nothing.” He lowers his voice, finding your hand splayed on the sticky wood. His eyes hold yours as he slowly uncurls your fingers and places his card in your palm to cover his tab. “I just like how you say my name.”

The tension hums, thick and persistent in the air that suddenly feels electrifying. His heart was a mess, his nerves the same. You were so close— Your heat, your breath, your lips, full just like the blush crawling up to your cheeks.

Your hand, still held in his.

Every doubt folds into impulse, every impulse demands action. Every action loses its command between the adrenaline and alcohol flooding his system. You’re the only thing he feels— The only thing he wants.

The principle checks out of his brain, the sanctions he placed on his hunger dissipate. It’s all you, and only you.

So when you slip toward the back of the bar for the night, clocking out and reaching for the back door, he grabs your wrist— Gently, but with complete and total desperation.

You find his eyes in the sweeping shadows, the dangerous spell of high stakes and low contrast wild beneath your body aching for his.

He’s not prepared to speak, he doesn’t know what he’s willing to do— All he knows is he can’t let you go just yet. Not when his bleeding heart was finally patched by the tourniquet of tender touch. Not when it was still in his hands, hammering pulse tying itself to yours. He needs you. He needs to know you want this too.

So he whispers the only truth he has left, raw and timid.

“I don’t want you to leave yet.”

Your lips curve, eyes molten under his gaze as they catch the dim, dusty blur of a bleeding bar behind you. Then you lean closer and take his hand in yours. Your skin shocks his like a defibrillator bringing him back to life, the promise of dawn in his palm.

“I’m not. I’m making those drinks worth it.”

Before he can process it, he’s stumbling through the backdoor and slamming you against the wall. Limbs tangle, new heat is knelt to, every cell of his body fights for dominance against unshed need sparking in the narrow alleyway of the rear bar exit. Your mouths are hot—hungry and demanding—as they devour every inch of each other. Sounds, skin, spit— All of it. 

His palms trace every spill of your skin, frantic to uncover more. He grips tightly, tilting your head back to kiss you deeper. Your tongue curls around his, legs wrapping around his waist, tiny little hands pulling until every messy curl comes undone right along with him. 

He groans into your mouth, lips melting into yours, teeth tugging at his bottom lip. His hands are wild: skimming up your sides, looping through the hem of your shirt, palming you through the fabric until your whimpers ring through the echoing brick.

“I don’t usually do this,” he breathes between kisses, trialing his wet mouth down your neck. “I swear I don’t just hook up with people all the time.” His weight presses you into the wall, pinning you to it. “Do you?” He laps at your collarbone, pausing for a second as that thought settles. “Wait— Fuck, sorry,” he pants. “Don’t answer. That sounded wrong. And judgey. I meant—”

“Just shut up and touch me, Parker.”

He obeys like he was made for it, letting you yank him by his hair back to your lips, crashing together.

He follows your lead like he’s possessed, letting you guide his ravenous fingers from their bruising grip on your waist down to the hem of your skirt. They rest on the crest of your bare thigh, inviting him to cross the line he long but killed in his mind. 

You smile, slow and sly at the way his breath catches when you return the favor. Fingers he can’t get enough of find the pressing weight at his zipper, stroking him through his pants until he can’t think straight. 

He didn’t come here for this. He didn’t plan this. 

But, fuck— He doesn’t care. 

He wants you badly, and the way you’re looking at him while your fingers dig in deeper—hips mindlessly shifting against his rough, calloused touch like you’re desperate for it—tells him you want this just as much. 

And he’d be damned to deny you both of it.

He unravels quickly, turning off his brain and blindly following every sensation that rips through his cells. His teeth graze your swollen lips. Your breath catches on a soft, sinful sigh. His body jolts with heedless need, blood rushing so far south his head spins.

His fingers drift under your skirt, tattered knuckles brushing the smooth fabric as he slides his hand to the lace stretched over your pulsing center. He shudders into your mouth as you fumble with the zipper of his jeans, fingers tracing the soaked spot sitting between your thighs. 

His mouth latches onto your neck, sucking your skin like it could distract from the needy way his hips follow every drag of your touch. He’s ready for it—to finally feel your bare skin wrapped around him in more ways than one—when you stop, pulling back a fraction to look him square in the eyes despite your fingers still hovering over the crest of his newly unbuckled jeans.

Your voice is husky, slicked over with wild, messy want that hits him low in his gut. “You’re sure, right? You’re not, like, drunk drunk?”

He shakes his head instantly, still helplessly teasing his touch at your clothed core. “Barely buzzed.”

You snort in the spill of abandoned darkness and the sound etches its way deeper into his heart.

“We both know that’s not true.”

“Probably,” he pants, “but I’m still sure. I want this.” 

He pauses, leaning closer until his lips brush yours. His eyes are heavy, mouth daring to capture yours when he adds,

“I want you.”

You waste no time going to his bulge, thick and straining below his belt. Catharsis finds its breath when you finally mold your palm around the long curve of him, hips bucking into your patient pressure, chasing more. 

His lips smash into yours, swallowing your breathless, little moans as he circles your folds through your panties. His mind is soaked in sin, teasing pace increasing tenfold on a desperate mission to make you fall apart first. 

His head spins, veins buzzing like they're pumped full of jet fuel. Every wired, heightened sense is dialed into you like you’re where life begins again— Each touch slowly bringing him back to the wake of resurrection. 

Your mouth is wet on his, finding the waistband of his underwear and diving underneath. The hot and heavy weight of him greets you, held closely in your clumsy fingertips, both limbs screaming with need. 

He returns the favor, pushing soaked, clinging lace to the side until he feels your bare, throbbing skin. Both of you indulge in every desperate, collapsing need, fingers working over each other in ruthless tandem.

Nothing else matters—not pounding bass, not the distant noise, not the drinks or bruised feelings he shoved down to get here—just this.

Just you and him. 

When he finds just the right spot, he’s rewarded with a gentle tremble in your thighs, fingers blindly swiping in a frantic, building rhythm against your clit swollen from the friction you chase. Your hips rock, completely drunk on the pressure he pleasures you with.

His mind starts to blank, knees threatening to give as you stroke him with the same vigor now, shamelessly smearing the pool of precum while you work him ruthlessly through his pants. 

Every thread of tension pulls tighter until neither of you can breathe. A moan breaks in your throat, rhythm on his length faltering, hips grinding into his hand— Needing more without saying it. He listens, hoisting you up in one smooth, quick motion so you’re pressed against the wall on top of his thigh.

You gasp against his mouth at the new position, melting against his firm muscle as he holds you up around your waist with one hand, anchoring you to the wall while your legs wrap around him and your fingers blindly search for his cock again. 

Your strokes go slow, twisting at the base and tracing the heavy curve of his underside in a tedious, aching motion. You continue to pump him while he runs his finger through your slick and plunges inside, making you adjust around the sudden stretch. 

“Fuck, right there,” you whisper into his mouth while he thrusts inside you, curling up against your soft, spongy walls. “Feels good. You feel good.”

He effortlessly adds a second finger, sloppy and slow as he strokes you from the inside out, knuckles disappearing between your slick-smeared thighs. Your thighs tremble, muscles locking in focus as you teeter on the edge of euphoria. He’s knocking on the same door, body ready to implode with a ravenous release he’s desperate to nail down as you work him harder. 

Your fingers coax his throbbing head, twisting around his length until his breath catches and his movements falter, fighting back against the plummet of his own pleasure to get you exactly where you need to be. You cling onto him for dear life as his fingers slam inside of you, filling the dark, dingy hallway with the shameless sounds of sweat and sex. 

Your lips fall to his neck, breath fanning over the juncture of his shoulder as your body thrums with a quickly approaching climax you desperately chase. 

“I’m close,” you pant against his skin, eyes fluttering shut in focus while you work your relentless rhythm around his cock. “Please tell me you’re close.”

He hums, broken and breathless, completely devoid of forming coherent a sentence when you quicken the pace and circle your thumb quickly around his head.

“Uh huh,” he mumbles, needy and pathetic. “Keep going. Just like that.”

You bite gently at his shoulder, body shaking as his fingers thrust inside you, slick thumb gliding in vigor over your clit in determination despite the burn.

He could feel you going slack at the pleasure building inside your body, moaning with every torturous, messy slide of his fingers. Your words are a mess, spilling helplessly into the sweat building on his skin as his pace falters and his arm burns from the chase.

“Don’t stop,” you plead. “Don’t you dare stop.”

“I got you,” he groans, deep and low in his throat, breath hot and spent. “I got you, baby. Take what you need.”

Your walls shudder around him, hips thrusting into his hand as you follow his command and grind into his palm. Oh, what he wouldn’t do to give you his cock right here right now if deeper was what you needed.

His eyes screw shut, breath hot and strained in your ear as he crumbles from every dirty stroke, begging to unravel him like it’s the only thing you know.

Sinful sounds bounce off the walls— Your moans, his panting. The sloppy slam against your cunt, his twitching cock, wet and muffled in his pants.

Neither of you care. Nothing else matters.

His pace turns dangerous, fingers demanding you to cum with their messy, filthy movements. His thumb sears into your clit, commanding your finish. He can feel it coming. Your muscles lock, stiff with focus, fingers barely surviving the rest of his handjob. Your voice gives out with a weak, winded little sound crawling from low inside your throat, hips slowing. 

And just like that, you fall apart around his fingers, walls pulsing, throbbing as they flutter in pleasure at the way he rubs you through it. Your forehead collapses into his neck, breath wrecked and spent despite still being desperate to push him off the same ledge as you. 

It doesn’t take much between the broken little sounds you make or the way your soft, slick walls swallow his fingers, soaking down his hand. Part of him wonders if it wasn’t even about his own pleasure, but yours— Or the pride of knowing he was able to get you there.

Regardless, one testing, tedious slide of your finger along his slit before you pump him with tight, desperate demand is all it takes to tear him apart. 

His groans into your hair, spilling ropes of thick, hot cum into your hand and his pants. You pump him through it, fingers tightly wrapped along his shaft until you slow your pace when his release stops twitching. 

Both of you go completely silent, hands still buried in each other's pants like stupid, horny teenagers. The alleyway hums with released tension finally given the kind of space it demands, thick and sweet with hammering heartbeats and sweaty, reckless sex.

Both your breathing eventually evens out, regulating itself as you take a moment to unwind and slowly untangle, a little dazed at what just happened… Because what the fuck just happened? 

His head is swimming with lust and raw, undeniable afterglow. You look euphoric, fucked-out and free of frustration. He slowly sets you down, sliding his fingers out from between your legs while you both situate yourselves.

And it dawns on him, slow and creeping, invading the fleeting ecstasy fading away with the night,

Maybe he has no idea who he is anymore. 

By morning, he’s half convinced all of it was a dream. 

The scrape of the exposed brick against his burning arms, powering through every move to make you fall apart. The whisper of every word and sound you made for him echoing through his head. The unbridled, deteriorating speed of it all like nothing else mattered.

It crashed just as quickly as it built. One minute you were demanding his half of your project, the next his fingers were buried between your legs in a very public space as he spilled himself into your trembling hand. 

Jesus. What the fuck was he thinking?

He regrets it… and yet doesn’t all at the same time. The feeling was foreign— Something he doesn’t really know how to name swimming through his gut as he blearily blinks up at the ceiling bathed in pale morning light. 

Maybe if he could lean back into the clean-cut, meticulous, logical part of his brain, he could compute the solution in ways he knows how to. Sort through what he couldn’t shake and settle into a rhythm he could navigate again.

There were some undeniable, irrefutable facts he could file away with this: he was interested in you. He thought you were pretty, thought you were intriguing. He wanted you in the moment—the quick, haphazard connection, the sexual frustration, the costs that came with it—all enough to override the doubt. 

None of what happened was just the liquor talking, but it gave him the confidence to let go. It gave him the permission to find what he lost— Something buried under the dusty, desolate semblance of a heart that could still be heard.

Not forgotten.

But the other side to that coin was the fact that he let himself betray every truth he tied himself to. Just a few days ago he was only focused on getting MJ back. That was all that mattered. He was completely opposed to even entertaining the idea of letting loose.

Drinking. Socializing. Hooking up. 

He thrived on structure. He had a responsibilities on top of crushing grief and a girlfriend to win back. Finding the guts to let go was completely unparalleled to the neatly sanctioned rules that keep his brain in check.

…So then why did last night feel so good?

Life flickered for a moment, penance suddenly bathed in careful, cautious saturation. He indulged in the chaos. He let his tension melt. He blended in with a crowd instead of avoiding it and talked to someone who wasn’t just a ghost in his head. 

Then did a lot more than just talk.

But why couldn’t he stop overthinking the jumbled, tangled mess of it come morning? Waking alone in his cold, rickety bed, only joined by knotted nerves and doubling doubts. Thinking about MJ… and you.

Betraying something that wasn’t there anymore. 

He pushes that to the back of his mind as he gets ready for the day. The thin toothpaste trail swirling down his sink was like a trance, stuck staring dizzy and dazed as his mind remains riddled with memories of you.

He sighs, scrubbing his hands over his tired eyes, headache pounding beneath his skull. He didn’t do anything wrong… Right? It’d be different if MJ knew who he was. Or if he never found her. Never tried.

Instead he was busy waiting—holding himself at bay—because he knew eventually, somehow, someway, she would remember and come back to him. She would realize the guy she was with wasn’t worth it, and see she was meant to be with him instead.  

Because wasn’t she meant to be with him?

Worse than the self-inflicted guilt, he feels a thread of insecurity threatening to tangle out of control. It spirals deeper, waiting for him to finally accept the harrowing truth—

MJ moved on. 

If she could, then maybe he should, too. Which was exactly what he did. Even if it was brief—unplanned, and doomed to end before it could really begin—he still did it. And he liked it more than he thought he would. 

He tugs his hoodie closer to his chest against the sharp chill of morning air, popping his headphones in and starting down the street like it could clear his head. It didn’t matter how far he walked, you linger everywhere.

It wasn’t fair for him to drag you into this mess— All just to chase down the dizzy taste of lust that would never fix what was broken in him. Even if it could, the boundary between you was set in stone.

You didn’t owe him anything. This was strictly sex. Just imploding hormones, or erroneous adrenaline. That’s it. And that was all he needed it to be, even if deep down it felt wrong— Even if it silently sliced through his gut until he felt nauseous with the implications.

He had no right to your heart… But he also couldn’t act like it didn’t happen, especially if he still had to work with you— Pass you by on the street and navigate how to associate more than just your name to your face.

So he buys two coffees and follows a street he’s walked a million times like he’s lost. He goes, hoping you could exchange something a little more baseline— Even if he has no idea how you’ll take it.

Both the coffee and the opportunity to start fresh. 

Maybe it was unorthodox to smooth things over with a one night stand, but it was one of the only things he felt sure about right now. He was too hung up on the feeling of hearing someone else speak his name and know him.

That was all he needed to try. 

The pub looked different in the light. It might as well’ve been abandoned in the soft shimmer of sunlight slowly brushing the atmosphere again, empty, without a soul in sight. The door at the end of the descending stairs was left wide open, letting lulls of cool city air filter through like it could cleanse the lingering echoes of cheap bar crawls and impulsive tequila shots.  

His nerves ignite, rising to his throat as he slips down the weathered steps. He inhales, sharp and tight, trying to convince himself this was still a good idea. 

You don’t notice a thing. Fresh light paints you perfectly, filtering through thin hopper windows, clinging to the soft edges of your skin. Your hair is pulled out of your eyes, attention lazily locked on a dusty broom’s labored drags across the floor still sticky with sin. Everything was turned off like the whole bar needed time to reset, only the stale overhead spotlights piercing through the room.

Pretense falls away when it’s just you and him in a small space that suddenly feels huge in its silence. He clears his throat softly, internally wincing at the sudden interruption.

Your attention snaps toward the empty, echoing sound, expression blank and unreadable as you process the fact that he’s awkwardly wading in the entryway— A place he certainly didn’t belong at 10 a.m. on a Friday. 

He half-expects you to call out the absurdity of it, but instead you cross your arms like it’s nothing, letting lips he could still feel the memory of curve into a smooth, knowing smile. 

“One night and suddenly you’re a regular, huh?”

He laughs, thin and nervous in a way he hopes you miss despite knowing you won’t. 

“I figured it was my turn to get you a drink now.” He takes a small step over the threshold, holding out the humble offering of standard-order caffeine. “Hopefully you like subpar bodega coffee.”

He glances down to the sweating cups, one with cream and sugar, the other one black, just in case. You let him simmer in the uncertainty—just long enough to remind him how wildly you could make his heart race—then you tilt your head, beckoning him inside.

“I like anything that makes up for the sleep I lost.”

He shuffles inside, careful to avoid the pile of dust bunnies and bottle caps you swept up. He passes over your coffee with a wobbly smile, trying to ignore the way his skin sparks when your fingers brush his again.

“So…” you hum over a sip, swirling the ice around to fill the awkward beat of silence. “I’m kinda surprised you’re alive before noon.”

If he didn’t already know you handle the afternoon regulars for a bit of extra cash on days you don’t have classes, he’d say the same about you. But he does.

It’s the kind of soft, domestic information he tries not to dwell on despite filing it somewhere in a deeper cavity of his heart. 

He unzips his backpack and pulls out a copy of the transcript, still warm and slightly curled at the corner. 

“I’m a man of my word,” he says, running his thumb over the crease before passing it over. “Sorry it took so long.”

You study him, eyes flicking between his sheepish expression and the packet. Then you take it, shaking your head with a gentle smile. 

“It’s, like, twelve hours late. You’re good, Parker.”

“Didn’t seem like it yesterday,” he points out, not judgmental— Just honest.

“You know how it gets. I got kinda worried you might be bailing on me or something.” You sigh, running your fingers through your hair. “Plus Thursday was kinda the only time I had to do it because I work the night shift here and… basically the whole weekend.”

“But, thanks.” You pause, glancing up at him with something far too soft lining your eyes— Just a flicker of it. “I appreciate it. And the coffee.”

He smiles, warm and honest. “No problem.”

Silence unsure of itself settles in the hazy morning light, catching the soft curve of your jaw and exposing the subtle pink hiding in your cheeks. Lingering traces of exhaustion poison your expression, smile weighed down just enough that it doesn’t quite reach your eyes. 

You look pretty despite it.

He’s still standing in front of you with his heart in his hands, unsure of what to do next— What you’ll do next.

“So…” you start, grabbing the broom and glancing his way again. “I’ll see you Tuesday?”

“A-actually,” he sputters, thoughts quickly snapping back into place as he steps an inch closer. “I was kinda thinking, um… Maybe you wanted to hang out and study?” He pauses, face going red. “I-I mean, like, actually study,” he adds quickly. “With me.”

His pulse roars in his ears, fingers uselessly fidgeting at his side for what feels like an eternity. His eyes are nervous as they meet yours, always steady and even.

Always holding something that makes him want more. 

You study him, clearly amused at the way he trips over himself in every sense of the word.

“You don’t do this very often, do you?”

He shifts his weight, nerves pressing. “Not exactly.”

“I can tell,” you tease, light and harmless. “Plus you made sure to tell me that last night.”

He groans, dropping his head to the ceiling in agony as he pinches the bridge of his nose like it could erase the very painful memory of his mouth running when it wasn't on yours. 

“Can we pretend that didn’t happen? I was drunk.”

You cock your head, not biting. “And nervous.” 

“…Maybe.”

“Or barely buzzed— Your words, not mine.”

He sighs, reduced to a ball of embarrassment plagued with the echoes of last night. “Please don’t remind me.”

You laugh softly, the sound kissing over his bruised ego and wounded memories. “We can sign the marriage license later.”

His cheeks go crimson, heat crawling up from under the collar of his shirt. Man you loved making a mess of him, didn’t you? He’d be crazy to admit he kinda loved it, too, but he did.

You scan over the tension in his posture, leaning the broom against the bartop soaked in the sterile scent of clean citrus and chemicals, expression unbothered.

“Relax, Parker. We hooked up. It happens. Life moves on.”

“So what happens next?” He asks it honestly, a little quiet from the traces of genuine uncertainty seeping through the edges of what you both danced around. 

Things were clearly different, one way or another. 

You gesture to the packet still in hand with that same knowing smile as you comb over the first page. “You tell me why you referred to Al’s children as kids,” you tease. “Your AP style needs work, Parker. They’re not baby goats.”

He chuckles, shoulders loosening a notch. “Writing’s not really my thing.”

“Right,” you say, pulling out a stool and raising a brow at him still standing awkwardly in the middle of the room. “What is your thing, then?”

He shrugs, mouth tilting as he takes the hint and joins you. “I do better in STEM stuff.”

“Okay, but that doesn’t necessarily make it your thing.”

His brows knit, really thinking about it as he drops his bag to the floor and slouches against the counter.

“I’m into photography, I guess.” He hesitates, insecurity suddenly sinking in. “It’s kinda dumb.”

“It’s not,” you counter, nudging his foot gently. “Can I see?”

His eyes widen, surprised you’re actually interested— Or willing to pretend, at least. When you don’t change the subject, he fishes his phone out of his pocket and pulls up a folder with some final edits.

“What’s yours, then? Your thing,” he echoes, watching as you swipe through with a faint smile on your face. 

“Writing, actually.” You glance up from the screen, sliding it back his way. “Original, I know.”

“Well, that explains a lot,” he teases, nudging your foot back. It’s only then he realizes you haven’t pulled away.

Your smile tugs. “Should I be offended?” 

“N-no, the opposite. Definitely the opposite.” He rakes through his messy curls, giving his nervous fingers a distraction. “I just meant it makes sense why you care so much about our feature when half the class is just trying to survive for the credits, you know?”

Your cheeks tint an innocent shade of pink. “Well, that and the fact that I have to be. I’m a journalism major and I’m interning at the Daily Bugle, so…”

He shifts his weight, trying to hide his visible disdain at the clickbait-machine of a tabloid that has a particularly colorful opinion on him.

“Really? People still read that thing?”

“No, not at all,” you snort, soft and genuine. “But hey, an internship is an internship… Plus they kinda let me do whatever I want, which is cool.”

He smiles, dimples deepening as he watches the way you lean against the bar, traces of the night before roaring through the veins wired to his fluttering heart. Soft, desaturated light pours in from the door, casting your features in the hazy, muted crescendos of spring. You made everything so easy. He loved the easy.

And suddenly, whatever’s left of the semester wasn’t nearly long enough. 

“…Safe to say you’ll have a busy summer, then?”

He hopes you don’t hear it— The undercurrent of a low, unidentified ache threaded through the question, cushioned in casual formalities like it didn’t hurt to think you’ll clearly be much too busy to get to know him outside of a drunken hookup and a group project. 

But his heart knows things his mind doesn’t, and showing up here today was clearly about more than just smoothing things over and easing his conscience. He didn’t realize he wanted it until it was staring him square in the eye and making him name it. But he does.

He wanted to see what you could look like in his life.

“You can say that.” You pause, stare dropping to your hands like your expression gave away more than you were willing. “They’re always looking for photographers to buy from, actually… You should check it out.”

His pulse flips, nerves buzzing again. 

“Yeah? What kinda photographers?”

“Whatever the articles need, really.” You shrug, running a finger along the edge of your cup starting to leave a ring of condensation on the counter. “Maybe you could shoot for me— If I ever make any progress, that is.”

His posture straightens, instantly intrigued. “Y-yeah— Of course. What’s yours on?”

He’d take pictures of anything you wanted, actually. 

“Don’t laugh, okay… But I’ve been trying to track down Spider-Man.”

Anything but that. 

He nearly chokes on his coffee, eyes going helplessly wide as he tries to suppress a strangled cough.

“Oh my god, you think it’s dumb,” you mumble, shrinking in your seat. “I knew that would make me sound insane.”

“N-no, not at all! It’s not that, it’s just, it’s—”

“Then are you one of those weird conspiracy theorists or a pro Mysterio guy or something?”

“No! Definitely not that.” Quite the opposite, actually. “I-it’s just…” He’s Spider-Man. “That seems like a hard subject to tackle, you know? Tall order.”

“Exactly!” You lean in, face lighting up. “That’s what makes him so interesting. Haven’t you noticed that dude’s been like a ghost lately? Doesn’t that make you wonder why?”

Nope, definitely not. The reality was disappointing.

“Like, what’s he so busy doing?” you continue, passion lining your eyes despite his posture going rigid. “Is he just old and ready to retire? Is he going through something personal?” You sigh, obsessed with the possibilities. “Imagine it: a hero who hurts… That’s the perfect story.”

Leave it to you to make his grief-ridden identity crisis sound cool and mysterious. He wishes he could agree and mean it, but the truth is pretty disappointing. You’d hate the reality maybe more than him— Maybe more than the sour truth settling deep in the pit of his stomach: he couldn’t get involved with this. With you.

He clears his throat, trying to sound unassuming. “You said it yourself, though… The guy’s a ghost.”

You smile like you know something he doesn’t, swirling the thin line of coffee lining the bottom of your cup.

“Do you know what a ghost is?”

He blinks, lost. “What?”

“They’re just souls with unfinished business,” you add, eyes sparkling in a way he’s gotten too used to seeing in the likes of him. “We only have ghosts because they can’t move on—can’t rest—so they linger in between.”

His brows knit, unsure of what you were getting at.

“Point is, all ghosts want to be found eventually.”

Maybe, but not this one. It took some time, but he was perfectly fine with falling off the face of the Earth. It was for the best. The less people who pried into his life, the better. They’d only come up empty.

And so would you once you realize he’s a ghost in more ways than one. 

He goes quiet, the thoughts fast and unreadable behind his eyes as he tries to find a casual way out of this… And maybe convince you to follow.

“I don’t know… He’s, like, really hard to get pictures of.” He shrugs, innocuous and empty. “There’s no way they’d buy from me even if I could.”

“Printed media is a dying art,” you level. “They’re so desperate they’ll take just about anyone.”

He smiles tightly. “Gee. Thanks.”

“Which is why you’ll definitely get it because you’re actually good,” you add, nudging his arm. You pause, grabbing a pen and empty piece of receipt paper from the register behind the bar, scribbling something down. 

“Just think about it.” You slide the slip with the Bugle’s email address inside his jacket pocket, heat tangling with his. “You never know— Your summer might get a lot more interesting.”

Something tells him you’re right, regardless. 

By the time his last class gets out, Ned’s already blown up his phone.

He sighs, pulling it out of his pocket as he assesses the damage, quickly climbing out of his seat and beelining for the exit. 3 missed calls and 17 unanswered texts. 

No wonder why Happy never used to answer him.

None of it phased him. The whole time his mind was riddled with you. Your body, your laugh, your voice. 

…And now your investigation as well. 

Every thought he had lately was a contention point, all opposite of each other. You were like the best kind of quicksand, enticing despite his resistance. He tried to chalk it up to the fact he’s been living like he never existed the last couple of months—that any semblence of human connection was fucking with his head—then the memory of your roots itself deeper, carves lower into his bones until you linger without eviction. 

Every class. Every lecture. Every question and equation answered. You were there, making him second guess if this spiraling feeling was something he could contain. 

Or wanted to, for that matter. 

Then the logic seeps in. What you did in your free time. Who he already belonged to. What happened was strictly sex—reckless release, a casual thing—and both of you agreed on that. 

Anyone he got involved with only got hurt. It would be selfish to let himself get close to you, and the last thing he wanted to be was that. Maybe it was best if he never saw you again. He was busy with more than he could handle, and he definitely couldn’t let you get near that. He’s been there before, and every time it somehow ended up worse than the time before.

Liz. Ned. Happy. All collateral damage he had to answer for. Then there were the real losses. Tony. May. MJ.

At least maybe one of those could still be salvageable. 

That’s what he had to focus on—getting back to what mattered—not distracting himself with you. Not when his life was an irreparable mess and he still wanted—

MJ clips him as he rounds the corner, completely caught up in himself: feet shuffling, face buried in his phone, mind stuck on a different planet entirely. It sends him reeling, leaving him a speechless, sputtering mess as he helps her pick up her things and rambles through a string of flustered apologies. 

“Sorry,” she echoes. She pauses, tilting her head toward the lecture hall he just left, letting out the last few stragglers for the day. “So… How’d you do?”

He blinks, mouth dry with unannounced contrition.

“H-huh?”

“Ket’s exam.” She says it like it’s obvious, probably because it was considering he just took it. “I thought it kinda sucked— Especially on a Friday.”

“Oh, right, yeah,” he rushes with a nod, trying to act normal like she didn’t just knock the wind out of him, more so than literally. “Y-yeah, it did. How, uh… How’d you do?”

“Standardized testing is subjective to the true measure of intellectual truth.” She shrugs. “We’ll see.”

It melts his frozen heart, all while exposing a pulse of something foreign curling at the pit of his stomach. It’s MJ—it’s the MJ he fell in love with—but there’s still an awkward beat of silence like neither of them were sure how to be around each other anymore.

It wasn’t new, it just built up enough to be noticeable now. Every conversation didn’t make things easier. It didn’t remind either of them of their shared past. It only exposed just how quickly things slipped into a void of nothing.

He hated to even think it, but it's still there. It’s still true.

She presses her lips together, giving him a tight wave—polite, but distant—and continues down the hall like she was never there.

His shoulders slump as she slips out of view, fighting the the betrayal crawling up his throat and sitting like a lump of guilt. Why did everything feel so forced? If they were meant to get back together, shouldn’t it come naturally? Like things never changed?

The sharp jolt of his phone buzzing in his hand snaps him out of it. Everything forgotten from last night comes crashing back at full force. 

MJ might be different, but now he was, too. 

He slides the answer bar with a defeated sigh, already bracing himself for an onslaught as he heads to the coffee shop on the corner of 8th and Astor he already knows Ned will be at. 

“Dude,” Ned says as soon as the call connects. “Where the hell have you been? I’ve been texting you, like, all morning.”

He shrugs loosely, tucking his phone between his ear and shoulder as he cuts between passing cars.

“I had class.”

“Yeah, at noon and three— And you never sleep until noon.”

His lips pinch together, already regretting the words before they find themselves in his brain. “I stopped by the Lion Head before my first class…”

“To go see—”

“Yes,” he hisses under his breath, suspiciously scanning the room through the window like his classmates could somehow sense this was a new version of the walk of shame. “Just keep your voice down, alright?”

Ned might as well’ve inherited his own version of a sixth sense with the way his attention immediately snaps up to Peter opening the door and darting toward their usual back-corner table, head tucked and cheeks flushed.

“What the hell happened after I left?” Ned pushes, hanging up once Peter got close enough, sliding his backpack off the unoccupied seat to make room.

Peter hesitates, shame creeping up the back of his neck. “We just… hung out.”

“Hung out?”

“Yes,” he says weakly, dropping into the chair. “Hung out.”

“And by ‘hung out’ you mean hooked up, right?”

The way he goes helplessly silent with crimson-warmed cheeks might as well’ve just spilled his entire personal life to the whole Coffee Bean. Ned’s eyes blow wide, coughing on a sip of his drink in disbelief as the realization sets in. 

“Holy shit, no way!” he gapes, eyes alight with intrigue. “You actually slept with her?”

Peter exhales, strained and tired. “Can we not talk about this now? Please?”

“Peter—”

“I’m serious, Ned.”

“Yeah, so am I!” He closes his laptop, hanging on every imaginary detail like this was life or death. “Are you gonna see her again?”

Peter’s face twists like the question was egregious. “What? No— No way. This was a one time thing.”

Especially after what he learned this morning. 

“Why not? Peter, come on— This is your chance.”

“Chance for what?” He bristles despite himself, muscles going rigid with the obvious. “It’s just… not a good idea, okay? It’ll ruin things with MJ.”

Ned blinks. “You can’t be serious.”

“I promised her, Ned!” He pauses, slumping forward like the guilt was taking a physical toll on his body. “Besides, it’s too risky. I can’t get involved with someone else like that again. I just can’t.”

Ned goes quiet, brain running a million miles a minute behind his eyes. 

“Did you have a good time last night?”

He shifts in his seat like it’s sinful to admit. “…Yes.”

“And you’re into her, right?”

His mouth tilts like he hated to admit it, but couldn’t stand to lie, either. He does like you—more than he probably should—but he also wasn’t ready to say that. 

Then his mind drifts to you, soft swells of spring sunlight sweeping over you, eyes warm and honest, sparkling like you couldn’t help yourself around him. You made everything lighter, made everything in his life suddenly feel meaningful without trying. It didn’t matter if he just met you, or if what you shared was something you brush off and don’t look back at.

You still made him feel like it was more. Or could be.

So, despite his vicious doubt, he nods.

“Then there’s your answer!” Ned levels, eyes grounded and certain. “MJ’s happy, you’re happy— Or having fun, at least. That’s all that matters.” 

His jaw works with a truth he couldn’t accept. He knew MJ was happy—and the thought that she was probably better off without him certainly wasn’t a new one—but his mind fought the idea of moving on like it was ingrained in his bones and woven into his DNA.

Like he had a duty to die with the part of him that died to the world. 

He shakes his head, loose and evasive. “That doesn't really change things.”

“That changes everything, Peter.”

He exhales sharply, voice low. “It’s just… complicated, okay?” His eyes drop down to his lap like the truth was drowning him. “I’ve had enough problems lately. I really don’t need another.”

He doesn't elaborate, prompting Ned’s brows to lift past his glasses, silently urging him on. He tilts his head like he has to weigh it, wincing in painful surrender, voice low and shameful.

“I think I like her…”

“Peter, how is that possibly a problem?”

“Because…” He pauses, rubbing his temple. “Because it just is, okay? I’m not supposed to. This is supposed to be a one time… two time thing— Nothing more for either of us.”

It didn’t matter how many times he turned it over in his head—how many times in the last 24 hours he’s tried to file away every feeling and redefine it with firm, resolute logic—you hummed between what he knew of himself. You warmed your way into a soul that forgot what it’s like to be spoken to. 

You were in his head—your smile, your charm, your body, slick and needy against his—all of it. You were there, exactly where you shouldn’t be, and it didn’t matter in the least.

Nothing could come of this, that much was obvious. Even if he wanted it—just a sliver of it—it couldn’t happen. You established the boundary yourself.

Casual. Thoughtless. Something to help block out the noise, even if the way he chose to muffle it only made it louder. The amplified sound of exile’s rest sang through him when he was with you.

And that scared him.

Then there was the other piece of it. The piece that made his heart stutter and his head hurt. The reminder that the face behind Spider-Man needed to be forgotten for a reason. No excuses. 

You’d only end up hurt. 

Ned frowns. “Dude, this sounds like the solution. She’s hot. Like, way-out-of-your-league hot.” 

He’s right. You were. That much they could agree on.

Like Ned could read between the anxious lines etched on his face, he sighs, expression softening a notch like he knew Peter needed to hear what they both avoided if he wanted a shot at pulling him out of his head. 

Something true, more so than he’d like it to be. 

“You’re allowed to be happy, Peter.” He pauses, eyes searching. “You don’t have to punish yourself forever.”

Peter goes quiet, letting the words sink into his skull. Was he? After everything—after everything he’s lost, everything he’s become, everything he’s failed to save and ruined while trying—was he really worth the risk of being a taken chance again? 

And if he was, who was willing to take it?

It crawls under his skin slowly, the hungry, human crave, whispering with what he wanted more than he realized. Something starved and no longer patient after a taste of indulgence.

Maybe he did deserve to be happy.

Even if the path to get there wasn’t what he planned.

You had no idea how to file Peter Parker in your mind. 

There was something there— Something right beneath the surface that didn’t want to be found, yet didn’t know how to stay hidden, either. He was quietly interesting, a paradox dressed in zip-up hoodies and wired headphones. He lingered like a color just a shade off: close enough to blend in, but noticeable if you stared long enough. You didn’t, and yet there he was.

In your class. In your life. In your mind. 

It didn’t start out that way— Or not intentionally, at least. It was routine. Controlled. He was nothing more than just another faceless-name you hoped could string together a coherent sentence and carry his weight. The only space he occupied in your head was attached to a few deadlines and an email address that frequented the top of your inbox.

That was it. You didn’t give him a second thought. 

Until about a week later.

Rain clung to the edge of tall window panes, dripping down the glass in steady, weighted drops. Stale, droning sounds of your professor blurred into already-answered questions and the soft scratch of your pen pretending to be busy. The clock was a hostage to your eyes, diligently tracking every tick full with the promise of just five more minutes. 

And that’s when you heard it.

His name. 

Your head snapped up, eyes scanning across the room until they landed on a guy five rows in front of you, lowering his hand and slinking back into his seat. 

He didn’t crash into your system, he didn’t completely upend your balance or make you lose focus. He just simmered under your skin, clinging to the edge of your mind until you caught the side of his face slipping out of class.

He was nothing more than just the back of a head, but it would be a lie to say the day you first saw him didn’t trip you up. The moment was nothing—because it wasn’t one—but you still remembered it like it was. 

You were barely half-awake, eyes and feet heavy as you moved up the aisle with your head down. Past-due rent was coming in faster than your already pathetic paychecks, and suddenly the offer of extra hours and handling closing at Lion’s Head was worth a little less sleep. 

It was embarrassing enough to be late, but pulling open the lecture hall doors to find one empty seat left felt personal— Like the universe tilted a little off-axis just to make sure the memory of him would stick when it really counted. 

And it did.  

He was all soft stares and scuffed up sneakers, like he’d seen every edge of the city. Soft curls framed his face, stubborn and wind-tossed with a mind of their own. His shoulder stayed steady, ready to catch you like waiting came naturally to him. 

Then there was the brief smile once he saw you safely reach your seat— The kind that was softer than most, like he was afraid of it leaving an impression. 

He slid into your mind with ease after that. 

Your thoughts drifted to him without permission, eyes cataloging the quiet confidence he tried so hard to hide. It lived in the way he carried himself—reserved, but certain—like he didn’t have to be rewarded to persist. 

He was always there before you, same seat halfway up the hall. Ankles crossed. Slumped low with his hood half-up, pretending to work while his attention wandered somewhere else entirely. He thrived on routine, on quiet systems that let him disappear into the background. Smart enough to coast, but diligent enough to care.

It only made the day he failed to send the transcript more confusing. 

You woke up half asleep, blankly scrolling through your notifications with the expectation of seeing his name at the top of your inbox bright and early. 

It wasn’t. 

Your brows furrowed slightly, helplessly refreshing the screen like it might pop up. Eventually, you forgot it and moved on with your morning. It was the end of the semester, he was always relatively prompt unlike half the barely-functioning students in your class. He was probably just busy with a million other things. Whatever— You could crunch the first draft of the feature before your shift like you’ve done a million times before. 

Then the whole day went by. 

The radio silence was unnerving. The assignment was due next Tuesday, sandwiched between an early opening, long shifts, and an exam Monday you’d surely fail—not to mention you had to make some serious headway on your piece for the Bugle—so the decision to ask him about it was an easy one. 

You expected a lot of things to happen when you did, but what you didn’t expect was how easily it changed everything. 

Your pulse stuttered with something fierce and foreign under his attention. Your heart became cautiously aware of its rhythm like his stare could write a cardiogram. And it didn’t matter what you had reserved him to— Peter Parker stuck.

He lingered, settling somewhere you couldn’t find. He found his way into everything without trying. 

That was new.

You weren’t one to get caught up on guys—you’d spent too much time watching them disappoint you to expect anything else—but no matter how hard you tried, you couldn’t find any trace of what you avoided in Peter. 

And suddenly seeing how far he was willing to go with you was the only thing that made any sense at all. 

Despite being a little unassuming, he wasn’t one to scare easily. He held the kind of strength that made for a sound soul, and the physical traces of it were just an extra added bonus. You could fall breathless from the memory of the way he had you pressed up against that wall alone— Effortlessly holding you like you were nothing while he moved in time with your whimpers.  

Maybe it was your own fault, but he wouldn’t stop buzzing under your skin after you opened that door. He was like a string left loose, still finding what to thread itself through. And for the first time, you found yourself disappointed at a one night stand being just that.

One night.

Luckily, he felt the same, lingering in the doorway with more than just coffee in hand. Guilt hummed low in your stomach as he left that morning, leaving you stunned at the way you flipped your own world upside down to fit him in it like you didn’t have a choice. He was supposed to be a one time thing. He was supposed to be nothing.

Why did you suddenly hate the idea of that? 

It didn’t matter what you wanted from him— Not when you had to focus on your article. Your lede was buried in more ways than one, and the last thing you needed was a distraction in the form of warm eyes and soft lips.

The Bugle wasn’t going to entertain your petulant fantasies of Spider-Man forever, especially once they figured out your angle was pretty opposite to theirs. You couldn’t coast by with complicated conspiracies, and you certainly weren’t going to secure a job with only the concept of an article to your name.

You needed real journalism. Now, or never. 

Even fighting through your mind riddled with memories of Peter, you managed to shift into survival mode. It was your only option if you wanted to get through being pent up with drunk assholes for the rest of your Friday at Lion’s Head… And most of the weekend.

Whispers of the day clung beneath your eyes, heavy and indifferent as you peeled off your tank top soaked through with sweat and the stale bite of basement vodka the second you stepped into your room. The city never stopped moving, always waiting beyond your window no matter how little time you had for it.

Your phone showed a little after 10 as you climbed onto the fire escape, desperate for a minute to recalibrate before collapsing into bed and doing it all over again tomorrow.

And that’s when you found it. A sticky note. 

It was missable, like it was meant to flutter against the rusted metal with regular city litter. You almost left it—almost didn’t even notice it, actually—but then you realized in the soft pulse of breeze, it’s tucked. A simple corner curled under the curve of the railing so it stays put. You glance around, quickly examining the empty spill of shadows, and snatch it before it blows away. 

I know you’re looking for Spider-Man, it says, written in stiff, block letters. I can show you who he really is.

A chill runs up your spine as you slip inside, locking the window behind you with a final click. Damp, hollow desk light clings to the corners of it tight in your grip, eyes darting between every word like something bigger could hide between. 

Whispers of doubt runs through your head as you trace your finger over the bottom, memorizing the vague address scribbled at the bottom.

Then something else curls in your veins, reclaiming your nerves and demanding they cave to the other part of you. 

A tip. Your first tip. Maybe even real. 

Someone who wanted to nail Spider-Man and was desperate enough to hand you the trail. Someone looking for the right person to blow it wide open. Maybe you— The one who could finally uncover another facet to the face of New York, who could finally shed some light on why he’s gone dark.

Yeah, Peter Parker was gonna have to wait. 

The late evening air was unforgiving, sweeping the city in a blanket of hollow breeze. The edge of May bites your cheek while you wait, discreetly tucked on top of a subway station elevator entrance in Midtown East. 

You didn’t know the area, but you knew it well enough to know it was littered with low traffic allies. The only life this late came from the wailing sirens floating by, perfect for shaping shadows. No one was around to catch you watching— Or care, for that matter.

That’s one of the things you loved most about New York: people would die for this city all without giving a damn about what went on within it. 

It’s been about an hour of you staring blankly at the starless, light-polluted sky. A blanket of black stretched across the skyscrapers and the last trickle of traffic up a handful of blocks. Maybe all of seven people walked by in the time you were there, making you jump at any sign of other warm bodies, scrambling to the edge of the station cover to peek around the corner.

Nothing was ever there. 

You checked your phone constantly, groaning in agony at the inevitable reality of the clock only changing by a minute or two. There wasn’t a soul in sight— No sign of someone wanting to meet you. No sign of danger or another life-altering event to plague the city. 

But most importantly, no sign of Spider-Man. 

You sigh in defeat, watching your breath curl in the midnight chill, ready to pack up your things when it happens: a flash of light in the distance. Just once. 

You freeze, shuffling just enough to study the block around the corner. The same block written on the note. 

You wait a minute. Then two. And you almost fall off the edge when you catch it just out of the corner of your eye— A quick blur of red and blue swinging from one building to the other. 

You bite back a squeal of shock, bursting with excitement as you watch him scan across the streets from a rooftop.

The distance didn’t swallow his intent. His posture was rigid, almost defensive in nature, legs folded in a stance ready for action if it came. His eyes felt obsessive, even behind the mask as he watched for something, same as you. 

You tried to calm down, tried to regulate your nervous system, but God, how could you? It was Spider-Man. Actually Spider-Man— Here, in front of you, just like you were told he would be.

Your heart hammers ruthlessly behind your chest, a ball of conflicted feelings bubbling up inside your body. You’re completely enamored, blindly fishing a pair of flee market binoculars out of your bag and scooting to the furthest edge of the structure to see him better.

This couldn’t be real. This couldn’t be happening. You were in complete and total shock—

So much so you forgot about the mysterious, unnatural flash of light that brought him here in the first place. 

A violent, bone-shattering noise rocks the concrete beneath you, making you drop the binoculars to scramble for purchase against the dingey, faded metal. Your breath catches in your lungs, tight and sharp as you quickly slide away from the edge, still equally as desperate to search for whatever Spider-Man was surely watching too. 

Anxiety floods your veins as you crouch down, blindly fumbling for your phone as a shadow melts into the corner. He flickers in your mind for a moment, thoughts wandering to the kind of pictures he’d take if he were here— How he’d probably protect you at the first sign of danger. 

You shake it free, adjusting your phone’s lens. Focus.

Everything around you quickly spirals into frantic static. There’s yelling in the distance between mercenaries and the masked hero, whirls of strange technology and the shattering sound of explosions imploding. Bodies collide, the sharp sting of punches and whipping webs striking through the air.

You couldn’t see much from this distance, but zooming in only further compromised the blurry altercation, so you push your luck and slide closer to the edge. The focus racks, your fingers slipping across the screen in a rush to combat the ashy static on your screen.

One second he’s there, the next, he vanishes.

Then he gets closer.

Spider-Man is suddenly hurling straight toward you, swinging down at full speed, increasingly filling your frame. He’s right there, he’s right in front of you. He’s—

A violent burst of heat engulfs the block, light blasting, concrete bones shaking so intensely they might as well shatter. The building across from you erupts, crumbling back to the dust it was built from.

And suddenly you’re falling.

The structure holding you up explodes, slicing through the city in shards of flying glass, shattering from beneath you. Heat curls around your body, fear striking through your spine as you plummet to the ground.

Your stomach drops. Everything slips away from under you in the blink of an eye like it never existed. Fear crawls to the top of your throat, tight and helpless like the frantic pulse hammering in your ears until you’re in someone’s arms right before hitting the pavement. 

Before you could process that you’re falling, your feet brush solid ground again, watching in shock as a vehicle flies by you, blasting everything in sight. Flames catch the shell of broken buildings, eroded and barely standing. Sirens scream around you, painting the crisp edges of skyscrapers in flashes of red and blue, surely chasing what left you behind as collateral damage. 

You’re frozen, clinging to a solid frame that tries to stop the van screeching around the corner by webbing loose scaffolding down in its path. Everything spins as you desperately try to ground yourself in the middle of imploding, adrenaline-hungry chaos.

Dust and debris clings to your matted hair, caught in wind that refuses to settle like your nerves. Slowly, you turn in his grasp, measuring the humming aftermath still catching its breath along with you. Then it hits you, slow and crawling, but all consuming. All at once.

Spider-Man. You’re standing in front of Spider-Man. Real and warm beneath your trembling touch.

He’s shorter than you expected, hovering beside you like he hasn’t figured out how to step away yet. His suit has character up close—less high-tech, Stark-type build, and more homemade—like only he knows exactly what makes it move. It’s tattered, covered in flimsy stitches trying to hold more than just fabric together. The eyepieces fluctuate like he’s quietly assessing you, ensuring you’re still standing in one piece.

It stops your breathing, sweeping you off your feet even after he put you back on them. You should be talking to him, questioning him—saying literally anything that might help your story—but you’re frozen, completely speechless as you blink up at him in the curl of smoke. 

“You alright, Miss?”

Your lips part, but nothing comes out. Embarrassment floods you, making your mouth snap shut as you feebly nod. He matches your movement, nodding once like he could move on now that he had the confirmation.

“Good. You stay safe out here.” And he swings away before you could say a word. 

You blink, stunned and starstruck. Your phone is buried under rubble, cracked and covered in dust, barely holding on for dear life. Blurred photos of nothing litter your camera roll, fingers shaking, mind in overdrive as you run through every unthinkable piece of what just happened— And the fact that you failed to come away with anything useful. 

Except, maybe in a way, you did. 

Now you know that tip was real, and maybe they’ll come and find you again. Your heart hammers, nerves fierce with lingering traces of adrenaline. Only one thing comes to the forefront of your mind. One person. 

You had to tell Peter. 

He’s halfway through his window when his phone rings, buzzing with what had to be your newly added number.  

He fumbles for the answer bar, snapping the window shut and tugging off his mask, fighting to keep his voice casual as he says your name and quick hello. 

“Oh, so you do know the girl.”

He freezes, veins going cold under his skin. “Detective Dewolff.” He swallows, rough and thick, trying to calm his racing mind before it runs away on him and dives head first into the deep end. “I-I’m sorry… who?”

“Seems you already know,” she says evenly. “You don’t have to worry, she didn’t show.”

His mouth goes dry, lungs tightening. “Show where…?”

“Doesn’t matter. The important thing is you’re not being followed like I thought. In other news, how did tonight go? Please tell me you made some progress.” 

His phone buzzes against his ear while she talks, your name dropping down from the top of his screen. 

You

i got a tip. can u come by my place?

His heart stops, clues snapping into place quicker than he could handle. You. A tip. From the high-profile detective he was working with as Spider-Man… Who apparently knew you were looking for him and sent you straight to the first sign of danger just to prove it. Fuck. 

“Wait, wait— You sent her that tip?”

“Did your hearing get damaged in the fight? I just said she didn’t show.”

Anger bubbles up in his throat, ruthless and fast as his defenses click into place. It takes everything in him to bite his tongue and keep what he knows to himself. The fact that there was someone else out there who knew who you were—knew you were looking for him and exactly where to send you—swims with twisting, unshed panic in his stomach. 

Silence crackles on the other end, thick and empty while the detective waits for his response. He has nothing to give that wouldn’t cause more problems, so he says, 

“I can’t do this right now.”

“Wait, we need to—”

“Sorry. We’ll talk soon.” And he hangs up the phone before she can get another word in. What matters most right now is getting to you.

The faded brick and cool concrete on the edge of the East Village slips away in blurs behind him as he finds the address you sent. Nothing else matters—not the fight and the failure that came with it, not what got away or came after—none of it. The only thing on his mind as he smoothes over his hair and brushes lingering soot off his fingertips is knowing you’re okay.

Sure, he caught you before you fell. The danger skirted by you like it was never there. He saw you in one piece—held you that way, too—but something bordering on the perfidious edge of panic slices its way through the pit of his stomach until he feels sick with the possibilities.

He didn’t really want to think about what it meant.

Or why he felt so strongly about it. 

It was nothing, right? It was his job to keep people safe. This was no different, nothing special… But why does that feel like a lie when he knocks on your door, nerves crawling up his throat, eyes, anxious to see your face instead of drab, chipping paint. 

The lock unlatches with a groan, swinging open to reveal him straightening his shoulders and tugging his sleeve down to cover a gash on his forearm he forgot about. You greet him the same way you have ever since he met you— Efficient. Controlled. A whirlwind that makes him reassess how he fits into a world you share. 

Warm kitchen light spills through the apartment behind you, bathed in milky white tiles and little signs of life. Your face is freshly washed, shadows hugging the gentle curves of your skin. Delicate, sweeping blush settles at the tops of your cheeks softly carved from midnight. Traces of the city cling to you in smears of dust on your clothes, chaos still knotted through your hair, but your eyes are alight with something unbridled. 

You tug him inside and lock the door behind him, wasting no time dragging him down the dim hallway to your room, steps sharp and purposeful. Everything slips away, eyes stuck on the way your soft hand is wrapped around his again. 

He hovers awkwardly in the threshold while you slip into quick, calculated motions: closing the door, locking your windows, flinging your curtains shut. Despite the evidence of your paranoia, excitement floods your expression, buzzing and palpable like the adrenaline hasn’t settled yet. 

Luckily, you’re distracted enough to miss the way he quickly scans over you for anything out of place. 

“No one followed you, right?” You glance over your shoulder, raising a brow at him like the question was a test created for him to fail. “You were careful?”

He clears his throat and weakly gestures to the dark grey sweatshirt swallowing his frame, hood still half-up in his thoughtless pace. “I was inconspicuous.” 

If only you knew the half of his experience with that. 

You nod, disappearing into the tiny ensuite bathroom, leaving him alone in your space. It was intimate, soft and spilling at the seams with you. Your heartbeat was threaded through every blanket, your past pressed between the pages of every book on your shelf. Your soul sang through every inch, clean and concise, but free. 

Undeniably you. 

His hands wring, timidly stepping further inside like he was crossing a boundary bigger than an invitation. 

The faint drone of running water melts into the gentle hum of midnight just beyond the windows. Delicate little string lights illuminate the room, draped over your bed that’s a bundle of thick, plush pillows and smooth sheets. A sweater he’s seen you wear to class a million times hangs on the post of your bed next to a tiny candle on your nightstand, stained with scorched wax from being burned too low for too long. The scent of it is unmistakable, subtle and tender just like the perfume that always clings to the warmth of your skin. 

Everything about your space was comfortable, easily likeable at first glance— Much like you. 

He’s caught up in it, completely immune to you leaning against the frame of the bathroom door, mouth curved and eyes locked on him.

“Are you gonna take a look, or what?”

He freezes like he’s done something wrong, eyes wide with slight alarm. “W-what?”

“The tip,” you explain like it’s obvious, tipping your chin to your desk, neat and well-organized. “You don’t need an invitation, you know.” 

The knot of anxiety in his throat loosens, chuckling as he scratches the nape of his neck. “Right. Sorry.”

You shake your head softly, laughing under your breath at his innocent apprehension as you cross the room. A damp towel scrunches through your hair, holding up a tattered, electric-orange sticky note like it was a prize rather than a warning sign shooting through his soul. 

“Check it out, Parker.”

He shrugs his hood down, slowly dropping to the edge of your bed as he takes the note and studies it. The letters were sharp like a threat in disguise, draining the blood from his face until he feels faint. A lump crawls to his throat, crushing his lungs as he runs his finger over the folded edge, searching.

“Well?” you urge, peeing down at him while you work through your dusty, matted hair. “It’s cool, right?”

He clears his throat, trying to settle his nerves. “You sure it’s real?” Oh, it was real alright. 

You grin like you won the lottery instead of a death sentence. “Totally real. He was right in front of me.”

He exhales, carefully putting it down like it was a ticking time bomb. “Wait, you actually went?”

Yeah, and almost plummeted your way to a couple of stitches and a concussion in the process. 

“Why wouldn’t I? If I manage to track him down, that’ll, like, guarantee me a job after we graduate.”

Everything slips away as he stares past your elbow at the note, taunting him from your desk. The words were menacing, sinking their teeth into every rational part of his brain trying to sort this. 

Was it a bluff? Were you a pawn, just someone to get in the way? Or was it a serious offer from a person who figured out his identity and wanted to destroy him with it again? 

But the biggest question was how do they know you.

There were hundreds of reporters always looking for him—desperate to find the edge of his mask, hungry to poison his reputation for attention—but why you? Why an entry level intern— A college student who slings drinks to pay rent?  

Someone he cares about more than he should. 

He didn’t want to be involved—he wanted to stay far away from you and your work for more reasons than one—but he keeps getting pulled back in. 

“So, what happened, then?” he asks, playing into the part of being invisible he hates the most. “He was just swinging around or something?”

“No, there was, like, a full fight,” you gush, dropping the towel on your desk and peeling off your dirty sweatshirt. “Looked like some high-tech stuff that’s always being trafficked. He was chasing a group of guys with these crazy weapons, but I couldn’t get a good look.”

“I don’t know… That sounds intense.” He hesitates, dropping his stare down to his fingers running along the seam of your comforter. “There’s, like, a million things you could write about.”

You blink, brows pulling together. “We literally have the best subject right here in the city.”

He shrugs, weak and unconvincing. “So?”

“You’re telling me you’re not even the least bit curious?”

“He just… stops bad guys.” His voice is laced with evidence of his internal contradiction. “People do that all the time.”

“Yeah, but, like, insane felons.” You toss your sweatshirt into the hamper, thinking. “That vulture guy who was stealing stuff, the Doctor Strange wannabe, the freaking giant lizard thing… I mean, how am I supposed to resist that?” 

In any other situation, he’d be obsessed with your passion, hanging on every word like he couldn’t get enough, but with this, his stomach drops. There was no way you were letting this go. 

He swallows his pride, nodding slowly. “I get it, I do. I’m just…” He loses the words, fighting what he was too afraid to admit. “I-I just think you should rethink this.”

Your answer is immediate. “No. No way.”

“You said it yourself— These guys are crazy dangerous, same with whoever sent you that.” 

You grab your brush on the nightstand, starting to work through the tangles, scanning over him steadily. “Or it’s someone who has a lead they wanna share.”

“Or it’s someone looking to hurt you.”

“Why would anyone want to hurt me? I don’t know Spider-Man, and clearly the person who sent the tip knows that.”

“It’s just a big risk, okay?” He sighs, strained and weighted. “You really shouldn’t go back.”

Your eyes sparkle with a challenge, leaning against your desk and slowing your methodical strokes through your hair. “And what if I don’t listen? Are you gonna stop me?”

Warmth crawls to his cheeks despite himself, glancing out the window for refuge. “C’mon, that’s not fair.”

You tilt your head, eyes flicking down his frame. “Live a little, Parker.” 

“Are you always this bossy?” he counters, shifting his weight on your mattress like he could handle your gaze. 

“You didn’t seem to mind being told what to do the other night,” you hum, lips curving like a tease. His heart hammers, cheeks on fire under your attention.

“Come on,” you add, putting the brush down. “Just think about it.”

He looks away again, hands raking through his hair, ready to fold, when he catches it. 

Your arms crossed over your chest reveal a thin slit of your midriff, soft and swallowed by shadows. It’s faint, barely there, but the thin fabric of your tank top rides up just enough that it’s eyeline with him. Something he wasn’t supposed to see, but does. 

The blooming edge of a reddened bruise. 

“Woah, woah, hold on,” he says softly, shifting closer as his eyes search yours. “Did you get hurt?”

You follow his stare down to your side, shifting your weight as you try to tug the hem down to cover it. 

“It’s nothing,” you dismiss easily. “I’m fine.”

Something wanders across your face despite your words, bearing what you didn’t want him to see. The stress was creeping up on you, thinning adrenaline exposing the dim whisper of exhaustion clinging to your features. Your lips were a little chapped, pressed into a thin line like you could keep your frayed composure buttoned up with them. Hesitant eyes search his, glossy with the reflection of city lights beyond the world you tried to trap yourself in. 

And suddenly nothing else mattered. 

Slowly, his fingers find the hem ghosting the dip of your waist—tentative, testing—touch barely brushing your skin, warm and familiar under his. You flinch, watching his hand like you weren’t sure if you should let him in like this, but you don’t pull away. Instead, you let him peel it up to reveal an unattended cut.

It was a little swollen, puffy with bitter blooms of purple and red swallowing your bare skin. The gash was still open, starting to crust over with dried, browning blood. It wasn’t the worst, but it certainly wasn’t just a light scratch either.

His throat tightens in its wake, sharp through his soul.

He glances up at you, struck with silence as his finger runs just underneath it, gentle and questioning. He doesn’t know what changed—doesn’t know what passed between when he first felt your skin against his and now—but it was like he never touched you before. 

And suddenly the contact felt like it was making you both cross a line together for the first time. 

His lungs tighten around the realization, silence between you stretching like the moment lived on an edge it didn’t know which side to take. The splintered world hums around you, still buzzing with blurs of city sounds and faded lights in the hush of midnight.

A different darkness than the night before. 

His eyes hold the offer: to turn back, to brush it off, and return to the boxes you drew around yourselves like it could make whatever wanted to burn between you safer.

Because even if this was nothing, it never felt like it. 

Not with you. 

He whispers your name, soft like the sound was breaking something set in stone. “You’re hurt,” he says carefully.

“It’s okay.” Your eyes flick between his, trying to sense where your denial landed on him. “I’m okay, really.”

Slowly, he rises, body eclipsing yours. “You’re not the only one who gets to tell people what to do, y’know.” 

It runs behind your eyes, fast and unreachable— A flicker of something raw you weren’t ready to face. 

An edge that softens without knowing why. 

Then you cave, sighing as you feebly point to the bathroom behind you. “Top drawer on the left.”

He watches you a beat too long like you might slip away in a moment too delicate for its own good, then nods. 

When he comes back, you’re tucked on top of your comforter, legs crossed and bare. Vulnerability clings to you in ways that make his heart rattle. Damp hair brushes your shoulders, fingers tangled around each other in wait. Your eyes are trained on the window, trying to hide what lines them.

Everything slows, narrowing like time has no place between what was and what could be. Stillness threads through every fiber of panic, leaving him frozen in the crest of your doorway like he’s finally seeing you for the first time.     

He buries it, nerves simmering despite the jumping pulse beneath his ribs, and he ties himself to what he knows. He moves efficiently through your first aid kit, taking what he needs and setting it aside, but then he pauses like sitting next to you was closer than anything you’ve already shared. 

Maybe in the spill of sudden stillness—in the limerence that whispers through his soul, demanding to be reassessed—it was. 

He distracts himself, stare locked on his meticulous motions through your supplies as he lowers himself to the spot beside you, mattress dipping under his weight. 

When he looks up, you’re already watching him, eyes intentional and honest. It makes his mind stumble, tension tight in his spine. You don’t say a word, just shift closer until your heart brushes his.

Slowly, your fingers slip to the hem of your shirt, cautiously lifting it so the whole cut was visible to him.

Everything goes static—his brain, your history, the lines you set after wrecking them long before they were needed—and suddenly nothing else exists to him besides skin he can finally heal instead of hurt. 

So he leans in, eyes flicking up to yours with the offering of another out, breath caught low in his lungs when you don’t take it.

His hands fiddle with the bottle of peroxide, soaking a cotton pad until it drips on his jeans. 

“Sorry,” he murmurs, softer than intended. “This might be a little cold.”

You don’t answer, just watch carefully as he presses the cotton pad to your side and slowly soaks the cut clean. 

He couldn’t figure it out— Why even the most innocent of touches felt so charged with weight it couldn’t bear. You rendered him speechless, completely at a loss at the way you somehow managed to make his heart a mess without the help of whiskey. 

The way you made it worse.

But this time—unlike the consequences he lies awake sorting through, unlike the indulgence he feels no right to, defenseless and blindly devoted—he doesn’t fight it. 

He can’t. Not when your exhale thins with a hiss at the antiseptic bubbling through the lingering dirt and debris— The same breathless sound you made when he touched you where your skin bled into shadows. 

Not when your eyes fluttered shut at the subtle sting coursing through the cut— The same way they closed when he kissed your neck and whispered into your hair. 

Not when you watched him patiently— The same way you looked at him when he showed up with more than coffee in hand, ready to reset the line you both moved. 

Something quietly warm in the curve, finally accepting that he was meant to exist in this moment with you. 

“You’re good at this,” you say after a moment, voice seeping into the silence. “Taking care of people.” 

His heart flips with innocence, careless curls hanging in his eyes that stay glued to your cut finally fresh beneath his touch. The words land somewhere open and aching he didn’t know they could settle in. 

He doesn’t respond—he doesn’t know how to—not when the passing time sharpens the lines of your face, tired and bare in late night glow. It clings to you, exposing what burned-through adrenaline could no longer hide once you put your heart in his hands. 

The silence settles, thick with something neither of you knew how to face. The raw contempt of reckoning lingers in your expression locked on him, holding back.

“You know,” he says, low and careful. “I already told you I can keep a secret.”

Your brows knit softly, watching as he tosses the stained cloth and searches to find your Bacetracin. He catches your eyes, leaning a fraction closer to apply it.

“You’re allowed to be scared,” he whispers.

It’s free of judgement, completely unassuming. Just the opportunity to exist with what was. To listen.

To allow. 

You don’t say a word, but you don’t deny it, either. It’s there—raw and throbbing under your skin, no longer able to hide in the delicate intensity of manhattan midnight—a mask shifted just enough to remind itself of the human part hidden underneath. 

After a moment, you lean into his touch— Not enough to notice, just enough to count. Your lungs loosen around a breath, ribs retracting softly under his gentle pressure.

“It just happened so fast,” you confess, voice even like it’s all you know. “One minute I was staring straight at my cover photo of him, the next, I’m falling 15 feet.” 

You pause, watching the way he runs his thumb over a fresh bandage, patiently waiting for you to give him what’s been on the tip of your tongue the whole night. 

“That’s why I can’t let this go.” You peel the corner for him and place it back in his palm. “So many people act like he’s the problem— Or part of it, at least.” 

You sigh, the warmth of a bare soul brushing the edge of his cheek tilted near your lips, body leaning in to press the dressing to your skin. 

“He didn’t hesitate,” you whisper. “Even if it meant losing the fight, he didn’t hesitate to catch me.” 

The words land into the palm of his wild pulse, waiting to be taken. It crawls from deep inside him, patient and persistent, wrapped around a heart that suddenly forgot it’s purpose wasn’t just to beat for you. 

Something he hasn’t felt in years— A sacred truth reserved for those few and far between. 

He’d drop anything to catch you. Always. 

And worse than that, he’s not scared of the way the realization etches itself into his bones. Not at all. It feels tragically fated, meant for only him to find.

He says the only thing he can think of, eyes steady as he peers up at you in the hush of spring’s final breath. 

“Because it’s not a sacrifice to save you.”

Your inhale catches as he smoothes the bandage over your ribs, touch soft and timid like it’s afraid of awakening something finally tired of lying dormant. He can feel your mind moving, familiar rhythm ticking behind your eyes as you study him like it would help both of you make sense of this fragile, foreign thing taking root without permission.  

“Still… There’s more to him. I just know it.” You pause, searching his eyes. “I need to see this through.” 

It hits him somewhere raw — The honesty in your voice when it comes to the other side of him, lonely and forgotten.

The way you somehow already saw him better than most despite that part of him being stranger to you. The way passion bleeds through every word, your soul on fire with every glance, the spark reaching for him and warming what’s been dead and cold for so long. 

The way you see him without seeing him at all. 

It didn’t matter if you did or not. He couldn’t let you do this alone. There were risks, there always were, but the reward felt worth it if he got to land in the safety of your eyes. 

His fingers still against the soft splay of your skin, lingering along the bandage longer than he should. His eyes find yours, suddenly steady like his voice.

“I guess I’ve got summer plans now.”

continue reading here where part two is posted .ᐟ — i hit block limit (boooo) so this seemed like a good place to stop. i really wanted to avoid posting two separate parts but, alas, i never shut up. i hope you enjoyed this in the meantime ! part two is almost done, so let me know if you’d be interested in that <3 thanks for stopping by xx

edit: omg the love on this already ?? it’s been up for 9 hours and already has 500 likes what ?? my notifs are literally broken lmao. just had to say a quick thank you to who read and made it down here 🤍

“Thank you.. oh f-fuck thank you,” Peter whines, his pitiful voice barely coherent as he watches you take him in his mouth, head bobbing rhythmically as he lays before you on his plushy bed.

Peter’s hands seek your head, wanting to pull it closer to him, but he ultimately plants them on the bed, grasping at the sheets as if they’re some sort of lifeline. His knuckles turn white, his eyes rolling involuntarily. He can’t focus, how can he?

It’s not like this is the first time, or that he’s too nervous to make such a move… he’s thankful for anything you give him, and doesn’t want to take it for granted.

“Yes, oh god, thank you s-so m-much..”

Every time you suck him off, Peter can’t believe how fucking good it feels. He wonders how you’re so good, then quickly pushes the thought aside. He doesn’t want to think about the how or why.

Peter’s moans are fucking pitiful. Such a whiny boy with shaky thighs and rosy cheeks, the heat of it all rushing to tint his skin. You can taste the pre leaking from him, his cock pulsing against your tongue. The smirk that spreads across your lips as you lick the tip and hold eye contact with him makes Peter huff. His cheeks darken even more, his body heating rapidly at the sight of you as you take him fully again.

“Oh, please… I’m, fuck,” Peter’s pathetic attempt to warn you dies out, his hands gripping the sheets even harder, seemingly seconds away from ripping them. Another reason why he’s careful with touching you. Sometimes, he just can’t help himself. Pathetic.

When you slow down your pace just to tease him, you hear his squeaky whine, the breath being knocked from his lungs. Just as you expected. Peter gets so fucking needy, and you relish in it. It doesn’t take him very long to get close, ever, and a part of you can’t stand it because you want this too. You want to make it last just to see and hear how pitiful he gets.

“No- shit, please,” Peter whimpers, emphasizing his plea to gain some sort of sympathy from you. You oblige, gradually fastening your pace, the filthy, sloppy sounds echoing between you. He can’t help it. His hand flies to your hair, fingers lacing through the soft strands before he tugs. “I-I’m-“

Unable to properly speak, his jaw slacks and his eyelids squeeze shut. Thighs trembling, he chokes out a cry, feeling his cock pulse with each string of cum that stuffs down your throat. Then, it’s over. Just like last time.

Peter shoots up into a sitting position, gulping thickly with a huff as reality sets in. His duvet covers are thick, splayed across his lower half, which is feeling exceptionally more warm than usual. The room is dark, cold, and very much empty. He feels it instantly, the way his briefs cling to his skin, wet and warm.

“Fuck… not again,” he whimpers, peeling his briefs down just enough to expose the globs of thick cum sticking to his skin. Now this wasn’t the first time. It’s almost nightly at this point. He glances over at his door, as if you would somehow know what happened or be there. You never were. He then turns his head toward the alarm clock on his nightstand, 3:14am. “Hey evie?”

Peter’s desktop illuminates with light as numerous monitors flash on, the system starting up.

“Yes, Peter?” evie’s artificial voice responds.

“We need to make a different kinda inhibitor,” he groans, pushing the covers off his legs before getting up, making his way toward the bathroom.

Peter didn’t go back to sleep. He spent hours trying to formulate an inhibitor that would target his arachnid DNA and block hormone levels… particularly his testosterone. With a cheap Newport cigarette lit between his lips, his fingertips pattered across his keyboard, his eyes laser-focused on the screen.

With a soft chime, his phone illuminated on the desk just beside the keyboard. He quickly glanced over, scanning the words across the screen before looking at the map beneath the text, the pinned location insinuating that you’ve arrived to work.

Peter knows it’s wrong. Having secret hidden cameras around the city is one thing, but using them to watch someone that’s not a threat is another.

He tried, really fucking tried, to let it go. To stop. But he can’t.

That’s just another reason why he needs to make an inhibitor that actually fucking works.

Ever since you moved into the apartment across the hall four months ago, he hasn't been able to get you out off his mind no matter how hard he's tried. He’d often think about the first time you met, running into each other in the hall as you rush to work and he heads to get flowers for May.

All of the innocent conversations in passing, the friendly smiles and waves… He tried so fucking hard. You’re just so pretty. So sweet. God, you smell so sweet.

He can smell you from your apartment across the hall, the scent similar to fresh-picked strawberries. He fucking loves strawberries.

That wasn’t what started it, though. After the incident two months ago, with you stuck in the middle of a bank robbery, it was as if a flip had switched and caused a surgical spell. You were sweet and innocent, just trying to deposit a measly check, and next thing you knew, you had a gun pointed at you. Since then, he feels like he has an obligation to protect you — to keep you safe. Knowing you only strengthened that feeling, but your voice… your face… the way you smell. It all adds to it.

He wants to get closer to you, so fucking badly, but he just can’t with how hectic his life is. He tells himself it’s safer for you to stay acquaintances, no matter how much it bothers him.

Ever since that incident, ever since he saw your terrified expression through the lens of his mask, he had your face in his records. He specifically had evie program a separate alert system with facial recognition just for you. So when he gets a legitimate alert, he knows if you’re nearby. That's what he tries to tell himself, anyway.

If only you knew that spider-man had a special system just to keep you safe.

But that's why he needs this to work. It has to. He knows his behavior is wrong. It's weird. Fucking creepy, even...

“Smoke detected,” evie’s voice alerts, prompting a banner message across the monitor screen. Peter’s eyes roll, mentally damning Tony for implementing smoke detection into her programming.

“Just a cigarette, evie. Same as last time, and the time before that,” Peter murmured, his voice muffled from the cigarette trapped between his soft lips.

“Cigarettes can impact your vitals,” evie’s voice responds, to which Peter sighs, pulling the cigarette from his lips and smashing the end into the ashtray beside his phone, the bright amber ash crushing into a pasty grey. He wasn’t a casual smoker. It was usually during late nights or early mornings like this, where he just needed something to ground him. He hated to admit that it calmed him, or at least thought it did. Maybe it was all in his head, but either way, he knew it wasn’t good for him.

While he waits for the inhibitor to finish, Peter thinks of a few ideas on how he could test it. Truly, there’s only one way to really test it. He has to talk to you, really talk to you, without making things awkward. He needs an excuse to see you that wouldn’t lead to a “hi” and “bye” situation. He hates how his heart races every time you smile at him or even pass by him. You have his mind completely scrambled with your fingers wedged in the folds of his brain.

He’s pacing now, crossing back and forth in front of his desk with his eyes planted on the hardwood floor. His hands moved around as he spoke, a somewhat comforting expression he did during deep thought.

“Maybe… I can wait and we bump into each other in the hall? No, that’s stupid. I could just… knock? What would I say?” Peter groans at himself, covering his cheeks with his hands and slowly pulling them toward his temples. “Or I could…”

Peter’s feet come to a halt, his eyes slowly moving to his apartment door, then to his monitor. The pin on the electronic map shows you’re still out in town.

Oh, he has an idea alright.

Not a sane one, at that.

He really needs that fucking inhibitor.

Within minutes, he has his suit on and is swinging around the outside of the apartment building, his webs allowing a clean swing around the brick structure before he lands on your fire escape just outside your bedroom window.

No, this is insane.

With his eyes squinted behind his mask, he looks through your window, immediately spotting it. A beautiful silver chain necklace with a diamond pendant, carefully laid on your nightstand. The same one he sees caressing the skin of your neck every time he sees you. He recalls the way it lies against your chest, the chain slightly pooling against your collarbones. Why’d you leave it today?

No, I shouldn’t do this, he thinks, shaking his head at the reckless idea. But he couldn’t muster any real flaws in the plan. He gets your necklace, then returns it to you as himself. Not as Spider-Man. That’s innocent, right? No, it’s not.

It’s not like he’s stealing it— well, he is. But… he’s giving it back to you. It’s not a total robbery; it’s harmless.

His gloved hands latch onto your window, pushing it up with ease despite the lack of a handle. It’s as if the breath had been knocked out of his lungs, replaced by the intoxicating scent of you.

Fuck it, he thought, slipping through the open window with ease and landing on his feet with precision. His heart was thumping, but not out of nervousness. Excitement.

Glancing around your bedroom, he takes in the sight of your decor, mentally picturing and framing it inside his head against his will. He’d remember regardless.

He slowly stalks toward the nightstand, the finger pads of his gloves gently catching on the chain just before he tightens his fingers around it, holding it up at eye level. Yes, it’s the exact same one you wear all the time. Not particularly expensive looking, as far as he could tell. Not that it mattered much.

Peter felt another thump in his chest, you’ll notice it’s gone. That should’ve been enough for him to put it down. But he’s giving it back to you. Shit, what is he gonna say? That he found it in the lobby? That’s ridiculous.

Peter groans, clenching the thin chain in his fist, pressing it against his mask-covered forehead.

“This is fucking stupid,” he whispers, cursing his own thoughts. No, it’s going to work. It has to. He wants you to understand that you can trust him. He’s more than just your neighbor. He’s your secret protector, but he wouldn’t directly call himself that. He has good intentions, but that doesn’t make his actions any less wrong. He knows it too: “…and creepy.”

The skin on the nape of his neck prickles. He should put it back. This is wrong. This isn’t who he is.

Peter’s thoughts are suddenly interrupted as his head snaps up, his senses spiking. As soon as he hears the familiar jingle of your keys, his throat tightens.

Fuck.

He quickly tucks your necklace into his suit, where his phone would usually sit. Of course he forgot to grab it. Too fucking concerned about getting into your apartment, he was completely unprepared. No wonder he had no idea you were on your way back.

Peter slowly stalked back toward your window, his footsteps completely silent. As soon as his hand grasps the frame of your window, he hears a startled gasp that was awfully similar to a yelp. He whips around, seeing you in the doorway of your bedroom, eyes wide and mouth slightly agape. Peter’s lenses widened on his mask, emphasizing his own surprise.

For several seconds, the two of you just stared at each other.

“Oh my god.”

Think. Quick!

“Hi,” Peter greets you with a slight change in his voice, lifting a hand and giving you a small wave. He's pathetic, really.

“Spiderman?” you breathe, unsure whether you should take a step forward or a step back. The spider-man is standing in your room. You’ve seen him in person once before, your mind flashing to the incident at the bank. The way he focused on you, but never spoke to you. How could you forget?

Your expression shifts, your wide eyes narrowing slightly, eyebrows leveling and furrowing closer. Why the hell is Spider-Man in here?

“What… are you doing here?”

“Oh- aha. Just a, uh, mixup. Wrong apartment… building. Entirely. I’m a little scrambled. Hit my head on the fire escape,” Peter rambles, mustering lies while using his hands to emphasize his words since he lacked showing expression from behind the mask. His pulse is racing; he's sure you can see the way his suit shifts against his chest.

Your eyes are intensely boring into him as you take in the explanation. Strange, but believable.

“Well... are you okay?” you take a step forward, the space between you shrinking, dangerously close. Thump. Thump. Thump.

Peter feels like he’s about to fucking explode. Is he okay? No, not at all. This wasn’t supposed to happen. You weren’t supposed to see him.

“I.. yeah! I’m fine, I’ll just go—“ he stammers, turning back toward your window.

“Wait-“ you stop him, slightly lifting your hand in his direction to halt him before crossing your arms over your chest. You couldn’t help but wonder. “This might be a stupid question, especially since I'm sure hundreds of people a day, but… do you remember me?”

Peter’s eyes widen again, his mask mirroring his expression. He turns back in your direction, his eyes scanning your face. Of course he does. He knows you way more than you think. It’s not a stupid question, but kind of ridiculous considering what Peter knows about you.

Though, you’re referring to him infiltrating the bank robbery, saving you amongst other innocent civilians. A pang strikes in his chest as he remembers how terrified you were, but it quickly dissipates just being in your presence.

“Uh, well,” he ponders, quickly trying to muster a response that doesn’t sound creepy while also wanting to validate your curiosity. He mirrors you and crosses his arms over his chest, trying his best to shove his panic to the side. “Now that I think about it… yeah, I do.”

“Really?” your eyes light up, and you take a step closer, your arms falling to your sides now that you feel less strange for asking. “I just- I never got to thank you.”

“Oh, no need. You don’t have to-“

“I know,” you shrug, your lips spreading into a slight smile as you step even closer, your eyes shifting from his face to his chest, then his biceps— fuck, he’s built. “but, thank you. Really. I feel a lot safer here, living here alone and all.”

Truth is, you don’t have any family here in New York. Peter didn’t know that, though. You weren’t sure what compelled you to tell him, either. Regardless, he's Spider-Man — not a threat.

Peter’s breath hitches in his throat. This is exactly what he’s been craving; your undivided attention. He made an impact, and you made it a point to mention it. He quickly shakes it off, taking in your words.

You’re not alone here. You’re so blissfully unaware that he is the same man living across the hall from you. He tries not to think about the way he feels himself twitching against his briefs within the suit the closer you step toward him. He physically can’t help it, and it doesn’t matter how tender the conversation is. He can practically feel the warmth radiating from your body despite being just a few feet away.

He needs to leave. Now.

If he doesn’t, if he allows himself to sink into your spell any further, he’s afraid he won’t be able to help himself. He can’t avoid the filthy visuals raiding his mind, disarming him of critical consideration. Your fingers had somehow sunk even deeper in the crevices of his brain. Leave.

“O-of course! Yeah, no worries at all,” he waves you off, his voice matching his relaxed, confident persona. He climbs through the window, stepping onto the fire escape with ease. “Someone’s gotta do it.”

“Whoa, hey! You can’t just break into someone’s apartment and then leave like it's normal,” you softly scoff, arms raised at your sides to express your disagreement.

“Technically, I didn’t break anything. Just came through the window, which was unlocked,” he quips with a matter-of-fact tone, the space enabling him to finally breathe and collect his thoughts.

“How is that any better?”

Well, it’s not.

Avoid the question.

With his hands still planted firmly on the windowsill, he tilts his head at you, “Lock your window.”

Mirroring him, you tilt your head as well, raising a brow at the order, “Why, so no one else can stumble in here after getting concussed?”

“Because there are people out there who aren’t as nice as me. Now lock it, and keep it that way unless you’re home, yeah?”

It’s somewhat of a cocky response, but it’s true. He lets you sit with that for a moment, the two of you just sharing a few seconds of silence before he shoots a web to the top of the building, making a quick getaway.

You stand there astonished, still trying to comprehend the fact that you came home to find Spider-Man in your room. You wish he stayed at least a little bit longer. There was something about him that felt comforting and familiar, but you couldn’t quite figure out why. You have to admit, you feel a sense of pride at the fact that he remembers you.

If only you knew.

Two nights later, Peter is pacing around his apartment, per usual. The clock on his monitor strikes 9:34pm; he's been contemplating for hours. The more he thought about how he'd return the necklace to you, the more he realized how risky it is.

There was no way he could return it as himself, as Peter, and manage to pull off a lousy lie about how he found it.

All he can think about is how you'd figure it out. He can't risk you putting the pieces together. Fuck, why didn't he think of this beforehand?

Truth is, his behavior has been beyond risky and ridiculous. You quite literally drive him insane to the point where rational decisions are nonexistent. For a split second, he even considers moving away, saving himself the absolute torture of living beside you and not being able to do anything about it.

Deep down, he knows he would never do such a thing... but he can't involve himself personally with you, he just... can't.

He has to return your necklace, but not as Peter. He understands that, but what is he going to say?

Doesn't matter. He can say a lot more with a mask on, knowing you won't figure him out. In fact, he could just tell you he took it and face zero consequences, but what's the fun in that?

As he waits for the inhibitor that’s just nearly finished, Peter lies down on his bed, staring up at the cracked brick ceiling. Maybe a tranquilizer is what he needs. He doesn’t even realize he’s fallen asleep until evie’s voice cuts through the haze.

“Inhibitor complete. Trial number forty-seven on standby.”

Finally.

The washer in Peter’s apartment tumbled, numerous articles of clothing swishing and sloshing, covered in suds. His suit was laid flat on top, shaking along with the rumbling of the machine.

“Alright,” Peter sighs to himself, reaching around to settle the inhibitor on the back of his neck. He feels it latch on, letting out a small grunt as his eyes scan the monitor in front of him.

“Arachnid levels decreasing,” evie states as the orange-tinted bar lowers in real time.

“And my hormones?” Peter inquires, raising a brow.

“Decreasing,” evie’s responds, pulling up a second page on the screen to show various hormone levels. Peter lets out a breath of relief, nodding to himself.

“Perfect," he whispered, snatching his suit off the top of the washer.

In your bedroom, you're comfortably sprawled out, sketchbook in hand as you continue marking the thin sheet of paper with a charcoal pencil. A loud knock startles you, causing you to jump and inevitably scratch the pencil across the paper, ruining your work.

Your head whips in the direction of the sound; your window. On the other side of the glass stands Spider-Man, his arms crossed comfortably on the outside of your windowsill as he waits for your response. His suit is glistening, the loud pattering of rain bellowing in his ears.

You quickly close the sketchbook, tossing it aside before standing from the bed.

Peter would usually feel his heart racing the moment you look at him, but he feels calm. Much better. Even though you look so fucking good in your pj shorts.

Hands finding the latch, you unlock the window and push it up, opening it swiftly. The sound of the rain pattering loudly against the fire escape and nearby streets is much clearer now. Before you can even ask why he's here, his voice shuts you down,

“Good girl,” he drawls out in a high teasing tone, voice still quippy and unrecognizable. You blink, your lips parting slightly, but no words come out. What an introduction.

That's the first thing he says? Not that you can complain. You'd be lying if you denied the way it made your stomach twist deliciously.

“W-What?”

“You locked the window.”

You let out a breath, unable to contain your smile and the slight tint in your cheeks. Face flushing, you turn away from the window to make your way back toward your bed, sitting on the edge of it.

“You scared the shit out of me. I can’t keep seeing you like this, you know,” you say, which catches him completely off guard. You can't see it, but a sense of hurt mixed with panic flicks in his eyes before he can control it.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I mean with you, at my window, uninvited,” you explain. Peter’s mouth opens slightly, words dying in his throat. Before he has a chance to panic further, your next words take him by surprise. “Come in.”

“What?”

“I said come in. You can’t be uninvited when I’m telling you I want you here,” you add softly. You took the chance, throwing the ball into his court for him to catch.

Was it bold? Yes. Did he find it hot? Also yes.

Feeling an instant wave of relief, you hear a cute, "Oh," before he chuckles, slipping through your window, his feet landing effortlessly on your bedroom floor as he stands upright. He takes in the environment, your ambient lighting causing the droplets of water on his suit to reflect even brighter.

"Care to tell me why you've blessed me with your presence again? Everything okay?" you ask jokingly, yet still surprised by his sudden return. It's been two days, and you'd be lying if you said you hadn't thought about him since then. That’s what he hoped, at least.

"I was just coming to check on you," he lies, standing still so as not to get any of your belongings wet. Besides your floor, of course.

“Why?”

“Because someone broke into your apartment.”

Another lie.

“That was you."

“I meant the building.”

“Still applies.”

“I’m aware,” he quips, the eyes of his mask squinting playfully at you as he tilts his head slightly. You snicker. This back-and-forth game gives him a rush he hasn’t felt in a while. He feels much more confident this time, much more willing to play such a game.

That fucking smirk, he thinks.

“Well, as you can see,” you start, holding your arms up at your sides. “I’m fine.”

Peter tsks, sucking his teeth slightly as he steps toward you, almost as if he's sizing you up. "Well, that's not the only reason I'm here."

You watch as he lifts his hand, loosening the grip of his fingers to release the chain in his fist, dangling it in front of you. Your necklace.

"Oh my god," you softly gasp, reaching for the silver chain and grasping it from his hold. "How did you... Wait, did you take this?"

Now he's panicking.

"W-what? No, no. I found it," he lies again, his tone strong but his legs are feeling a bit weak. Shit.

"...In my room?"

"No," he laughs, trying to muster an explanation before you can dig any deeper. His heart is thundering so fast, he can feel it in his veins, causing him to twitch slightly. "Why would I steal from you?"

Good thing you're gullible enough to believe Spider-Man wouldn't steal from you. Because that's not who he is, right?

"Where was it?"

He rehearsed this, but the way you're looking at him makes it impossible to mutter out a lie. On the ground outside of Delmar’s? No. Fuck it.

"Don't worry about it."

"But how did you know-"

"I've seen you wear it," he admits, unable to control the smile spreading across his lips beneath the mask.

You don't think much of it. He must’ve recognized it from the bank. Opening the clasp, you reach behind you to latch it around the back of your neck, the necklace now resting against your collarbones, the pendant nearly reaching your cleavage. You twist slightly to face away from him, “Can you help me, please?”

He doesn’t answer, immediately grasping the ends from your delicate fingers. His gloved fingers graze the nape of your neck, and he notices the instant goosebumps that litter your skin. He struggles at first, the chain being so small and not having much to work with, but he manages, “anddd... got it.”

You turn back and smile up at him, at his figure standing directly in front of you, head peering down at you.

You felt incredibly inferior, watching him stare with his head tilted in such a way, like you were some sort of prey. If only you could see what's underneath the mask.

"Thanks. I owe you one, again,” you smile, eyes fluttering up at him. His stomach is doing somersaults.

"We talked about this. You don’t owe me anything," he quickly responds, referring to your last conversation. All in all, he’s grateful to return it without consequences. He appreciated the gratitude, but he didn’t expect a damn thing from you. Just the ability to see you.

Pausing, unable to form a proper response, you gaze up at him. Never, ever would you have thought you would be in this position before. Especially with him being so intimately close to you.

You stand, instantly feeling the heat radiating from him. He’s so close. Less than a foot away, chests just barely touching. His posture is steady as he awaits your next move, shocking even himself. If it weren't for his inhibitor, his mind would be going absolutely nuts.

"I know," you finally murmur a response, your eyes searching for his, but all you can see is white mesh. You lift your hand, instinctively trying to reach for him, but you stop yourself. He doesn't move.

You do it anyway. Your hand finds rest at his jaw, your thumb softly rubbing over the ridges of the mask. What is it about him that gets you so?

Is it that he saved you? No...

Maybe the fact that he remembered you and made it a point to make you safe.

It's not like you could stay casual after hearing him praise you like that.

"You... you should probably stop," he warns softly, but doesn't pull away from you. He knows you can feel his chest thundering just a mere inch from you. Despite that, the inhibitor was working, because if it wasn't... you'd definitely not be standing any longer.

"Do you want me to?"

He doesn't answer immediately, his eyes intently focusing on yours through his mask. Is that even a question? It's not like he could just tell you that this is practically torture for him.

"No."

That's just enough for you to raise your other hand, fully grasping his jaw on both sides to get a good look at his mask. Curiosity gets the best of you, your thumb reaching down and gently tugging at the edge of his mask beneath his neck. You just want to feel his skin, feel how warm he is. Feel how real he is.

In a flash, his hand wraps around your wrist, stopping your hand in place.

"Hey, hey. I didn't say you could do that," his tone is playful but his thoughts are a complete contrast, his grip tight on your wrist, but not too tight. Just enough to convey the message. God, he wanted to let you, though. So fucking bad.

It’s too risky. No matter how badly he wants to.

Even if he only shows his lips, he’s sure you’d recognize them after so many small talks. After so many exchanged smiles.

"Then how am I supposed to..." you trail off, the word kiss dying in your throat as your eyes trail down to where his lips would be beneath the mask, then down to where his hand is wrapped around your wrist, his grip firm but soft. He understands immediately.

"You don't."

It killed him to say it.

"I can't kiss you?"

"No."

Your lips curl into a small frown. You understand and respect his boundaries, but you can't deny how much you've thought about this. Rehearsed this. Ever since you caught him in your room, you couldn't help the thoughts that pooled in the moment he left. The fact he'd saved you once before only strengthened that.

What if he just took you, right then and there? God, that's fucked up. You knew that, but... the way you'd feel your core twist and get damp, fuck.

I mean, who doesn't want to fuck him? He's a hero. He's sweet. He's incredibly muscular, and his suit only accentuates that. You could go on and on.

It's not crazy to think about. You're not the only one that thinks this either, confirmed by the many reddit forum threads you dove down after he left. But, you are the only one to have this kind of luxury. The luxury of him being in your room, so close to you, touching you

"You're right, I'm-" you cut yourself off, taking a step back as you rethink your actions. What the hell are you doing? You don't even know him. You're being ridiculous - pathetic, even. You shake your head at yourself, shyly plastering your hand over your face. "I'm so sorry-”

"No, no, don’t be,” he whispers, releasing your wrist from his grasp, shaking his head. If this is his chance, he’d be a goddamn fool to pass it up.

“I can’t kiss you, but..” he continues, his hands moving to find your waist, gently gripping your soft skin through your soft, silky shirt. "I can touch you.”

No, he shouldn’t be doing this. He should’ve left right after giving you the necklace. This wasn’t part of the plan at all.

Tilting your head back up, you peer at him through the gaps of your fingers, your cheeks tinted rosy pink.

“Wha.. what?”

It's a bold move, he knows that. At least it's something he can actually give you.

Slowly, he backs you up, the back of your knees hitting the edge of the bed, inevitably making you fall back down into a sitting position. He leans down, hands planting on your plushy covers on either side of your thighs. You’re trapped.

“You heard what I said. I can touch you— I want to touch you,” he repeats, his teasing grin beneath the mask widening as he watches your eyes melt. Despite his rather audacious idea, Peter truly didn’t have a dominant bone within him. Not when it came to sex, anyway.

He would try for you, though. If that’s what you wanted.

The heat radiating from your skin through your shirt was a clear sign of just how much he was affecting you. You don’t know he can tell, but he does. He can sense it. He can smell it.

Despite how much he’s wanted this, how much he’s been dreaming of this, he couldn’t shake the thought in the back of his mind that this wasn’t right. This feels too fast. No real connection. No romance.

But if you want this just as much as he does, he’s not fucking leaving.

“I…” you start, your words absolutely failing you. You feel so small below him, so vulnerable. An idea sparks, and there’s a particular glint in your eye. Fine, you can play that game. “If I can’t see you, then you can’t touch me until I say so.”

Oh.

Peter wasn’t expecting that. Not by a long shot.

“Oh really?” he murmurs, his purr causing you to instinctively squeeze your thighs together. You’re fucking leaking. Maybe he can… just only when you tell him to. You’re calling the shots. His padded fingers move to gently caress your jaw, softly grasping your chin. “You sure about that?”

Who is he kidding? Peter knows he would be a fucking mess if you told him when he could and couldn’t feel you or take control of himself. He loves seeing you flustered, though. It’s a sight he will never forget.

You grab his hand, pulling it away from your chin before pushing him over to land beside you. He lets you, allowing himself to plop down on the bed, his legs still hanging off the edge. He stabilizes himself, sitting up to grab your waist as you straddle him.

Just before his hands can make contact with you, you quickly grab his wrists, shaking your head at him with a grin, “Nu-uh.”

“That’s not very fair.”

“You heard what I said.”

Peter let’s put a short, weak huff of protest at you using his own words against him. You’re fully aware that he’s much stronger than you could ever be, and yet he was letting you control him. You release his wrists, pressing a hand against his chest, pushing him down until his back is against the bed.

Softly grinding your hips on his way down, you could feel him twitching and hardening against your clothed cunt, his suit failing him tremendously.

“Shit, you’re that easy?” you tease, moving your hips back and forth, the friction only worsening the wet spot forming on your panties, seeping to your shorts. He could feel it.

“F-fuck, so are you,” he whimpers in defense, unable to control how pathetic he is from the change in dynamic, his gloved fingers grasping at the blanket to avoid touching you without permission. “You’re so wet.”

“You can feel that?” you smile, leaning forward to cup his jaw, running your thumb over his mask-covered lips. You lift yourself up, and he whines at the loss of contact. A playful smirk tugs at your lips, “Aw, don’t be like that.”

Your hand moves from his face and down his chest until you feel his abs, feeling them twitch beneath your touch. You need to see him.

“Take it off,” you demand softly, removing yourself from his lap and moving to lay properly on the bed, watching as he struggles to regain himself to stand. Once he does, you watch him discard the suit, taking note of the way the cloth tightly hugs his muscles until it’s gone. Your eyes light up as soon as his abs are exposed, you almost want to throw the whole game out the window and have him take you. But you had to admit, watching him struggle and fall apart was even better.

Your eyes trail down to his briefs, the large tent exposing just how much he needs you. Of course, he kept the mask on. He stands there, unsure of what to do, suit discarded to the floor.

You twist your wrist, motioning for him to come closer with your finger, curling it toward you. His drops his bare hands to the bed, carefully crawling onto your covers until he’s hovering over you.

“Now take mine off.”

Holy fuck.

Swallowing thickly, Peter’s hands shift to the hem of your shirt, wanting to slip them underneath and touch your warm, bare skin. He contains himself just enough. He gently pulls your shirt up, his heartbeat picking up once again. He pushes it above your waist, exposing your bra that's so pretty and lacy. Almost as if you'd planned this already.

"You're so beautiful," he whispers to himself, the barrier of the mask making it difficult for you to hear. You don't bother having him repeat himself, lifting your back slightly to allow him to pull your shirt over your head.

He reaches to grab your clothed breast, eyes wide and hungry, but he stops himself. Still lifted, you unclasp your bra and before you can even move another inch, he's tugging it off you, the straps easing off your shoulders.

"Shit," he nearly moans, the sight enough to have him leaking. He's already throbbing, it's almost painful. He wants to touch them, to squeeze your plushy skin, but you haven't told him to yet. "You're so pretty. You know how fucking pretty you are?"

"I've been told," you smile irresistibly, your shoulders lifting slightly in a shrug. You've been told? By who?

Stop it, he thinks to himself, to his own thoughts. He has you right here, underneath him.

His hands shift downward, eager and cold, his fingers slipping beneath the hem of your shorts. He doesn’t waste any time. As he tugs your shorts down your thighs, you hear a pitiful, muffled whimper. You look down to see his thumb just barely grazing the wet spot on your panties.

God, you smell so sweet.

“Please,” he whimpers again, his fingers hovering over the side of the thin cotton, wanting to pull them aside. You smile, your hand lowering and wrapping around his to guide his hand, having him push them over, exposing your slick folds.

"Go on," you nod, slightly condescending and full of pity as you hand-over-hand guide him further, allowing his finger to graze before pushing closer, his finger slipping between your wet slit and making a filthy squelch. 

“Pretty,” he huffs. He’s fucking vibrating. Every bone in his body, his mind, everything is telling him to just take you. He’s being good, though. You have to give him that credit. 

He pushes his finger inside you, a puff of air being knocked out of his lungs as he feels your walls hug around it. You’re tight. He curls it inside you, earning a tiny moan from you as you buck your hips up ever so slightly. All restraint is lost. 

“Oh, god,” you whimper softly, melting beneath him. You sound so pretty. He can’t take it. He can’t keep holding back. He needs you to break and give in fully. 

Peter’s free hand moves to your lower stomach, pressing down to hold you in place as his finger works inside you, pumping slowly yet deliciously loud. 

“S-shit, so wet. So fucking wet,” he murmurs to himself, easing in a second finger. It almost feels like he’s done this before, or it’s just from the spike in confidence after hearing the pretty noises you make. 

Softly biting your lower lip, you try to grasp his hand, wanting to stop him just to tease him but he surprises you. Quickly, moves his free hand to grab yours before holding it down against your stomach, on the same spot that his was previously. “J-Just.. wait. Please, let me.”

Of course, you give in. Peter experiments, pumping his fingers as deep as he can, the veins in his hands prominent. He watches, completely mesmerized, at the way your pussy sucks in his fingers, accepting them, your juices leaking around them. The filthy sound your pussy’s making combined with that warm squeeze — he can’t wait any longer.

If you smell this good, he can only imagine how you taste. He needs to know. He pulls his hand back, looking up at you.

“Please… Cover your eyes,” he demands in a gentle tone, waiting until you cover them with your forearm, your back resting comfortably against your plushy sheets. He pulls the mask up just enough to expose his lips, raw and plump from him biting them, trying to keep himself from sounding utterly fucking pathetic. 

He doesn’t even bother properly removing your panties first, he just keeps them held to the side as he dives down. You gasp, feeling his tongue dip between your folds, collecting your wetness on his tongue before swiping it up to your clit. You taste just as sweet as he thought you would; even more so. 

He groans against you, the vibrations shooting straight into your core. His lips wrap around your sensitive bud, pulling a loud, unapologetic moan from your throat. The pretty sound causes his cock to twitch against his briefs, his hips starting to slowly rutt into the mattress. He’s ravenous. 

“Fuck, you taste so sweet... so good.. s'good,” he slurs incoherently, his tongue working almost expertly, swirling around your sensitive bud with such focus, softly sucking then lapping at it. Over and over. 

You feel his fingers push inside you again, your mouth falling open with a pitiful cry. His mouth works meticulously with his fingers, feeling your orgasm creeping closer, the spindle in your core tightening with each passing second. 

“My fucking g-god, you’re… you’re doing so good,” you breathe between your words, your chest rising and falling rapidly as he laps at your messy cunt like a little puppy. He whimpers against you, his fingers curling each time he sucks around your bud. The friction he's created, rutting his cock against the mattress, he's already fucking close.

So are you. It shocks you, really. You’ve never had someone get you so close so quickly. It’s like he was made for this.

“Shitshit, I’m— fuck, I’m gonna cum,” you squeak softly, whimpering when you feel his free hand on your waist, his fingers squeezing your soft, plushy skin. He keeps the same pace, not wanting to ruin this for you. He can feel you squeezing around his fingers that are expertly pumping inside you, curling deliciously to graze your sweet spot. “F-fuck!”

Your thighs squeeze together, trapping his face against your messy cunt as you start to cum, your eyes blowing wide. You’re shaking, and not just because of the force of his fingers ramming into you, working you through your orgasm. Peter can feel how hard you’re breathing, his thumb rising and falling on your stomach as he keeps his grip on your waist firm, holding you.

Just as you start to reach down for his head to pull it closer, he pulls away from you, the filthy pop of his lips disconnecting from your clit echoing between you. 

"Shit, what's wrong?"

"Nothings wrong," he responds a little too quickly.

You can hear the rustling of him pulling his mask back down, your heart jumping in your chest. 

“You can look now,” he breathes, moving to hover above you, his cock throbbing against your thigh within the confines of his briefs. You’re still panting as you move your arm away to see him hovered above you, your eyes searching his through the mask. “Did I do a good job?”

“Such a good job,” you huff, a smile pulling at the corner of your lips. Your hand instantly moves down to his clothed cock, your fingers curling around him. You feel the definition, and how much he’s throbbing. 

Nearly instantly, he’s whimpering. You feel his two fingers, still wet and messy from you, pushing against your lips. You were hoping to taste yourself on his tongue, but this’ll do. You part them, sucking them as soon as they touch your tongue.

Peter didn’t expect it to feel so good, the way your tongue wraps around his fingers makes his head spin. You hadn’t even really touched him yet and he’s a leaking, moaning mess. 

Taking him by surprise, you slip your hand into his briefs, your soft fingers wrapping around him to slowly stroke him as you continue sucking on his fingers. His eyes roll, his head tilting back slightly as he relishes in the feeling. It’s just like how he imagined it. 

Despite being unable to see his face, you can tell he’s falling apart. You swear it’s like he knows what he’s doing, but has never been touched before. Maybe he really is just that pathetic. 

You start to fasten the pace of your hand, but just as you start, he’s just as quick to stop you.

“S-stop,” he whimpers, pulling his fingers from your mouth and lifting his hips. You retract your hand, and before you can ask what happened, he’s quick to continue, “I’m already getting close.”

What?

He pushes his briefs down the rest of the way, kicking them off. You see the way his cock springs free, aching red and already leaking precum at the tip. In an instant, he's hovering over you again, his cock just mere inches from you. From where you want him the most.

“You poor thing-” your teasing is cut short when you feel his arms wrap around your thighs, pulling them closer to him. You gasp, eyebrows raising as he softly grinds his tip against your slit free-handed. He’s rushing and he knows it. He can’t fucking help it. 

You wanted to degrade him, to remind him of his rules, but he's just so desperate. So needy. It's a pretty sight.

“J-Just tell me when I can, please,” he huffs, his tip rubbing between your folds causing a filthy squelching sound. His eyes are focused on your pretty cunt, at the way his tip fits perfectly against your slit before he starts to push in, “Oh my god, fuck, please. Tell me. Tell me I can—“

"Of course you can, baby. Touch me," you purr teasingly, your hands move to his hips, gently tugging to pull him even closer. The pet name nearly makes him rut, but he's hanging on to the last thread of control he has left. He pushes in slowly, the pitiful sound he makes nearly making you gush.

"O-oh my, fuck. Thank you. Shit, you're so tight," he whines, pushing into you slowly, watching your pussy take him, sucking him in inch by inch. Your hands tighten on his hips, your nails sinking into his taut skin.

“Feels so good, doesn’t it?” you purr, intently watching the way his movements stutter at your teasing. He can't take it. He can't fucking take it anymore.

"Yes, yes. Feels so fucking good," he whimpers, pushing in the rest of the way before bottoming out completely with his hips snug against yours. The feeling makes your eyes roll slightly, your head tilting back against the pillow.

When you move to roll your hips against his, his hands fly from your thighs to your waist, pushing you slightly up the bed with such ease, stopping your movements, "S-stop, stop."

You look up at him, naturally searching for his eyes through the mask, "It's okay, we can stop."

"No, I just," he grunts, his hips shaking slightly as he fights to control himself. "I need a second."

“Okay,” you nod softly, lifting a hand from his hips to wrap it around the side of his throat, your thumb gently caressing his adam’s apple. He swallows thickly, and you feel it bob under your touch. 

With the remnants of your orgasm still rippling through you, you can’t control the way your cunt flutters around him. Fuck, is he gonna have to cum before he can keep going? He wants this to last. 

Slowly, his hips start rolling against yours, “I-I’m okay, sorry, m’sorry,” he whispers, looking back down at where you’re connected before rambling on. 

"You have no idea-" he grunts, eyes locked onto the way his cock is fully stuffed inside you, your pussy taking him so good. So wet and eager. He pulls his hips back until his cock slips out halfway, glistening with your juices before he slowly pushes back in, listening to the filthy sound it makes, "-how much I've thought about this."

His hands are still tightly gripping your waist as his hips work to keep a steady pace. He doesn't want to go too fast, he can’t. This is so embarrassing. 

Your eyes light up at the admission, hand still gently wrapped around the side of his neck, “Shit. I’m- me too.”

His ears perk, his hips never faltering. His thrusts are slow and deliberate, your response making him whimper. 

“I want to see you,” you whisper, your fingers slipping down to the edge of his mask at the base of his neck. “Let me kiss you.”

He stills. Is it too risky? At this point, how would a kiss be more ridiculous than him literally eating you out?

Well, it’s not, but it’s too much risk. 

“You can’t.”

“Why? You don’t have to tell me your name.”

“That’s not the problem.”

“Then what is?”

How is he supposed to answer that? 

His hands leave your waist, leaving your skin cold. He slips a hand underneath you, between your back and the mattress, lifting you enough to press your chest against his. Your face rests just above his shoulder as his hips continue thrusting against yours, deep and slow. His arm stays there, tightly holding you against him, your eyes struggling to stay focused. That’s when you hear it. 

With his free hand, he pulls the mask off, but purposely holding you close enough that he could hide his face over your shoulder. 

“Y-You really don’t trust me?” you manage with a moan, feeling his bare chest tighten against yours at the accusation.  

“That’s not it,” he groans softly against the side of your neck, his lips finally touching the skin of it, warm and wet. You feel his cock twitch inside you, your eyes hooded with the inability to focus. 

“Mmh, then what is it?”

“I trust you. I don’t trust what might happen.”

“Please.”

“I can’t, f-fuck,” he whimpers against your skin, his hips starting to fasten in pace at the sound of your plea. The filthy fucking sounds your pussy is making is driving him insane, his cock easing in and out effortlessly. You know there’s no winning this. 

You wrap your arms above his shoulders and around his back, holding him as you tuck your chin into the crevice between his neck and shoulder. You feel him breathing into your neck, his breath shaky and weak. That oh-so familiar scent has Peter’s head spinning. 

“You smell so good. I fucking dream about this, about you,” he pathetically admits, voice weak and breath hot against your neck. “Y-You- fuck, you make me fucking cum in my sleep. Make me- agh, wake up all messy.”

He’s losing it. He’s so vulgar.

He hears your gasp, so close and soft beside his ear, it sends a chill down his spine. 

“It’s pathetic, isn’t it?” he whimpers, his voice barely audible when all you can focus on is how much of a loud fucking mess he’s making of your poor cunt. “I dream about fucking you, just like this, making you cum around me, s-shit.”

The thought has his hips stuttering before he picks up the pace even more, his hips smacking yours with a force that causes your body to jolt with each thrust. His grip is tight as he holds you, feeling you jolt against him all while he whimpers in your ear, struggling to not look at you. His other hand remains on your waist, helping to stabilize you as he fucks into you. The filthy squelching of your cunt grows even louder, and you feel the vibrations of a low growl against your neck, “F-Fucking god, do you hear it?” 

“Mh-m, yes,” you moan, your nails digging into the skin of his back. Peter wouldn’t be able to explain the sudden confidence boost, particularly with his words. 

“S’fucking messy,” he whimpers, your wetness splashing on his thighs after each deep thrust, dribbling down his skin. You feel his lips connect with the side of your neck, sucking a harsh love mark into your skin before softly licking it to soothe it. He does it again, over and over, his pitiful noises vibrating against your throat.

Your eyes roll at the feeling, your senses overloading. You feel your core tightening, your second orgasm growing dangerously close. 

“I’m gonna… mmph, fuck, I-I’m close,” you moan into his ear, your pussy milking him with each jolt he causes. With the arm wrapped around your back, he pulls you closer. With his other, he releases your waist, his free hand moving to grab your arm and guide your hand down to your stomach. Pressing his hand on top of yours, he forces you to feel your lower stomach.

You feel it immediately, your stomach bulging slightly with each pump of his cock. He’s in your fucking guts.

“Y’feel it? Feel me in your tummy?” he moans softly in you ear, his pathetic expression one that he’d be embarrassed for you to see. There’s no way you don’t feel it, even he can as he holds your hand down against your rapidly bulging skin. “Feel me filling y’up.”

That was a statement. A demand. Your eyes roll back again, your body growing weak in his hold as he takes complete control. You don’t have any fight left in you to tease him. You’re so fucking close, facing an internal conflict with the need to cum and the desire to keep going. 

“Fill me up,” you whimper, rolling your hips against his, purposely squeezing your pussy around him, wanting to milk every last drop. “I wanna feel you cum.” 

“O-oh my, haah, g-god, aaagh,” Peter instantly whines, his mouth parting open as he starts driving into you faster, pounding his hips into yours. It wasn’t supposed to go like this.

He was being so good, now he’s rushing just because you told him to fill your pretty cunt with his cum? 

How pathetic can he get?

“You’re doing so fucking good,” you praise softly, feeling him fuck into you even deeper with your hand still prisoned between his and your stomach. That’s all he needed. 

“S-shit, t-thank you,” he whines louder, his voice cracking in your ear as his chest tightens against yours, his breath growing shallow. He doesn’t have time to warn you before he’s cumming. “Thankyouthankyou, fuck!”

His cock twitches with each spurt of thick, warm ropes of cum stuffing inside you. The pathetic sounds he’s making and the feeling of his cum filling you up is enough for you to break, your pussy spasming around him uncontrollably. Your body goes slack against him, thighs trembling as you gasp like all the air in your lungs was violently knocked out.

What’s shocking is he doesn’t stop. His hips keep moving, pistoning relentlessly as he keeps cumming. Your pussy can only contain so much, the leftovers of cum leaking out of you, bubbling around your slit and making a filthy mess each time he pulls his hips back and thrusts back in. It’s like he purposely wants to overfill it, to stuff you full and keep fucking it back into you, not wanting to waste it. 

With your limbs weak and achy, you’re completely limp, but that doesn’t mean you want to stop. You lift your hand from your stomach, lacing your fingers with his before he plants your hand back down against your plushy skin, not letting up. You move your other hand from his back to the nape of his neck, barely grazing his hair as your fingers unintentionally land on his inhibitor.

Oh dear. 

“F-fuck, don’t. Don’t touch that,” he struggles, a whiny moan escaping him as he feels your pussy squeezing him so fucking tight. He pulls his hand from yours on your stomach, quickly moving to grab your wrist, but it's already too late.

He feels it detach from his skin.

You didn’t mean to, only wanting to grab onto him, but it catches onto your fingers and slides out of place. 

“Shit!” he grunts, his free hand moving to cover your eyes. He sits up, still inside you as he looks around for the inhibitor that’s now fallen and out of sight.

“W-what! What was that?”

“Just- don’t move,” he pleads, his head twisting as his eyes search the bunched up sheets. “Fuck, where did it go?”

“Please, just let me see you,” you beg, your hand moving to grab onto his that’s blocking your vision. 

“N-no! Just hold on a second—“

“Peter.”

Oh, no.

He stills completely, eyes widening as he takes in hearing his name coming from your mouth. His ears start ringing. 

“Peter, I know it’s you.”

“What? That’s… not my name,” he lies, eyes still wide, his cheeks flushing rosy red. 

“Inhibitor complete. Trial number forty-seven on standby.”

This can't be happening.

“What did you say?”

Peter gasps, his back shooting up from his bed. Eyes wide, heart pounding. He’s in his room. Peter’s hand quickly moves up to graze the back of his neck. His skin is damp, a cold chill creeping through him at the realization he never had the inhibitor on.

No, no, no. It felt so real.

Whipping his head in the direction of his monitor, he sees the notification that the inhibitor is complete, blinking across the screen. The same notification he swore he already saw. But he didn’t.

When he laid down for that nap at nine, he never truly woke up.

How did he possibly wake up from a nap, put the inhibitor on, and go see you, all within one dream? It made sense, considering how fast things escalated and how he knows what your bedroom like looks now, but…

Something is wrong. It felt too fucking real.

He glances over at his nightstand, the clock blinking 6:26am. Beside his alarm clock was… nothing. No, he could’ve sworn that’s where he put your necklace, carefully laid on the stained wood.

What is going on?

That’s when he feels it. The dampness in his briefs, warm and sticky. His hands fly to his face, a frustrated groan bellowing from him.

“Fuck!”

a/n: phew… this was a big one. forgive me for the sloppy sex, i wanted it to feel natural & unnatural at the same time since he was ‘dreaming’ about it. did you catch on?? (feel free to send in requests <3)

You had begged your godfather to let you take part in every aspect of the hockey business, whether it fell under PR and communications or had absolutely nothing to do with your degree, because you wanted to understand what happened beyond the screens, cameras and social media schedules. 

One thing you never managed to escape, however, was business dinners. The sort of events where the entire organization, from players and coaches to the people responsible for keeping everyone on the ice and in shape, could occupy an entire restaurant and spend the evening talking numbers, contracts, sponsorships, schedules and whatever else came up over several bottles of wine and increasingly empty plates. 

It was unpaid work, technically outside everyone’s hours. It meant dressing properly, smiling until your cheeks hurt, remembering names, shaking hands and listening carefully even when the conversation had nothing to do with you. 

You were always seated at the most important table because you were Coach Jensen’s goddaughter, giving him the perfect excuse to bring you along and offering you a front-row seat to the business you had been so determined to learn. 

He could talk hockey before breakfast and still have enough energy to rehearse speeches in his sleep, humming to himself first thing in the morning while pacing around the kitchen with a coffee in hand, already thinking three steps ahead. 

Tonight, you were surrounded by men in tailored suits whose titles carried enough weight to fill the room and women who looked every bit as formidable as the empires they represented, each conversation polished. 

The players were always placed a few tables away, close enough for you to hear them but far enough to keep business from bleeding into their usual chaos, and they always seemed to end up beside the same teammates, their table inevitably becoming the loudest in the restaurant. 

You caught fragments of genuine laughter between conversations, the clink of glasses and bursts of familiar teasing carrying across the room and you couldn't help feeling like you were missing out as you watched the minutes crawl by while waiting for your meal, which always seemed to take forever because business came first and dinner, drinks and everything else followed once the important conversations were out of the way. 

You briefly wondered whether joining them for a drink would make the evening easier, then quickly reconsidered with the uncomfortable reminder that Dean was somewhere near you and you already knew exactly what he could do to your composure while completely sober. Sex hadn't found its way into whatever unlabeled thing existed between you again, but you had started expecting it anyway, waiting for it with the unease of a bomb with no visible timer.

Dean laughed, leaning against Logan as Garrett continued telling some hilarious story you weren’t there to hear, his shoulders shaking with the last of his amusement while the noise of the table carried around you. His bright eyes found yours across the room and the grin on his face softened. You held his gaze for as long as your composure allowed, studying the slight narrowing of his eyes as he silently searched your expression for an answer to a question you weren't willing to decipher.

Your godfather laughed too, throwing an arm around your shoulders and pulling you comfortably against his side, his broad grin making it painfully obvious how proud he was to have you there. “The best there is and I don't say that just because I raised her.” 

You gave a small, awkward chuckle, shoulders tightening beneath his arm as your eyes moved around the table, searching the faces around you for some clue about what you'd apparently missed while the conversation had moved along. A few people were watching you with polite interest, glasses paused halfway to mouths, while someone farther down the table gave an encouraging nod that only made your confusion worse. 

“Pitch your idea, kiddo,” he said, giving your shoulder a light squeeze before releasing you. “You'll explain it better than me.” 

You blinked, finally looking up at him. “My idea?” The words were quiet, and he frowned at your confusion, because you were usually the person at the table who caught every detail. “Yeah, what you talked to me about at dinner last week,” he reminded you, tilting his head slightly. “I told you it wasn't my decision, right?”

“Oh, yeah.” You sat up straighter, the realization finally clicking into place as your eyes flicked instinctively toward Dean, who had just picked his phone up from the table and lowered it discreetly into his lap. 

You shook your head, forcing yourself back into focus as your godfather gave you the floor. “Uh…” You glanced around the table, meeting each pair of eyes in turn and mentally counting how long you should hold their attention before moving on, trying to project sufficient confidence to convince them that you hadn't just been caught off guard. 

“Social media is more important to business development than you think it is. Hockey is the business and that business naturally slows down in the off-season, but a brand can survive those changes because we can adapt to the public's needs and build a relationship with them that doesn't disappear once the season does…Having an official business account for the team is great but it limits us. We should put money into growing something that's already essential to the campus community. The Fifth Line account could transition into something that serves both the business and the social side of the team.” You paused, gathering your thoughts as a few people around the table leaned in. 

“Right now, the sponsors the guys work with and their partnerships cater largely to a male audience. I think women are the backbone of any lasting creation and next season should focus on bringing them into the equation, their creativity, their passion and perspective. Some of the reputations hockey players have don't do the business any favors and I believe…I know, that our boys aren't like that, but not actively working for the cause means standing against it.” Your confidence grew as you spoke, your hands beginning to move with your words as the idea took shape beyond the notes you'd originally written. “Student interviews, podcasts, letting them be more than players should be what we focus on next. Letting people actually know who they're following.” 

You motioned toward the players' table, where the guys were still carrying on with their own conversation, completely unaware that they were being used as examples. “Tucker loves cooking…I'm sure he'd love to show some of the things they eat to stay in shape, maybe with one of the guys at a time while answering the questions people actually want to ask. Logan is a great mechanic. Garrett is all about taking care of people…you can count on him for anything.” You hesitated when you reached the final name, your eyes lifting and finding Dean already looking directly at you, his phone forgotten in his hand as his attention had been fixed on you since you'd started speaking. “And Dean…” You paused, the smallest crease appearing between your brows as you searched for something professional to say. “He's just…uh…hard to get rid of.”

The whole table broke into genuine laughter, the sound spreading warmly across the table as you swallowed hard, your heart beating so violently against your ribs that you briefly wondered if you might actually throw it up. 

You forced yourself to breathe through it, keeping your posture straight even as heat crept up your neck, and once the laughter settled enough for you to continue, you cleared your throat and pressed on. “My idea is shining a light on what ensures their balance, what makes them keep coming back to the rink. The more relatable and normal they remain, the more their success feels like something shared between them and the people supporting them. Let’s make their supporters part of the process.” 

Heads nodded around the table, a few murmurs of agreement following your words and although several people looked ready to applaud, they stopped themselves, knowing the noise would carry across the restaurant and interrupt the other dinners nearby. 

Instead, their attention shifted toward your godfather, who gave a firm, approving nod, his expression settling into the proud look you knew too well. One of the women spoke first, leaning across the table as she looked directly at you. She was one of the people who made things happen, the woman always somewhere at the forefront of Briar’s public image and there was a sharpness to her attention that made you sit a little straighter. “How soon could you have that structured? And with your main ideas fully conceptualized?” 

“By tomorrow morning, ma’am,” you assured, giving a firm nod. 

The work was nearly done, you could finish it overnight if necessary. At this point, you would have agreed to practically anything if it meant filling your free hours with something productive instead of sitting alone with your thoughts, replaying Dean's body, moans, and everything else happening behind the curtain. 

She smiled, satisfied and simply said, “You know where my office is,” waiting until you nodded before the table flowed naturally into another round of business, contracts and projections replacing your presentation as easily as if you'd never interrupted them. 

Only once your nerves finally calmed did you notice the notification glowing on your phone beside your plate, an email sitting in your personal inbox from none other than Dean. You lifted your eyes toward the players' table and found his seat empty. 

Keeping your expression neutral, you slipped your phone beneath the edge of the table, bringing it into your lap and tapped the notification open.

Subject: Urgent public relations matter.

I’ve received threats that will affect my career and very livelihood. Please help.

Big Dick Di Laurentis.

Despite the absurd signed name you were unfortunately becoming far too accustomed to, your mind immediately began racing through every possible interpretation of the word ‘threats’, your stomach tightening as you imagined whatever stupid situation Dean had managed to create now.

After the impromptu presentation you'd just pulled off, after finally getting people at the table to take your ideas seriously and potentially opening a door you'd been working toward for months, you couldn't let him of all people ruin the night for you. 

“Everything okay, kid?” Your godfather leaned toward you, lowering his voice so that only you could hear. His brows drew together in concern. 

You nearly jumped at the interruption, quickly locking your phone and slipping it beneath the table before nodding. “Just something I have to handle for work.” 

He glanced down at his watch, clearly unconvinced. “I'll see that you get that promotion, okay? I don't want you overworking yourself. You're supposed to enjoy tonight.” His words softened your anxiety, especially after the effort you'd just put into proving yourself but you forced a smile anyway and carefully pushed your chair back from the table. 

“It's just a quick call. I'll be right back, I promise.” You excused yourself before anyone could ask another question, slipping out of the main dining room and into the quieter hallway where the restaurant's warm chatter dulled behind the closed doors. 

You raised your phone, found Dean's number and pressed call before leaning your shoulder against the wall, one heel shifting restlessly against the polished floor as you waited. “C'mon... pick up,” you muttered under your breath, impatiently listening as the call continued to ring. 

Every few seconds, you leaned to the doors to glance back toward the dining room, checking whether Dean had returned to the table without you noticing, only to duck back out of sight when you found no trace of him. You were just about to pull the phone away from your ear when another ringtone suddenly echoed through the hallway, unfamiliar at first until you recognized the sound coming from somewhere farther down the corridor. 

Your head lifted, attention snapping toward the noise.

You walked farther down the hallway, stopping at each door and leaning in to listen, checking one after another until you reached the end and found only a single door left. 

You pushed it open cautiously and there he was, leaning against the counter with an infuriating grin already spread across his face. 

Fuck…You hated this part. 

He was dressed in a dark suit, tie included, his hair still perfectly styled despite the fact that he'd probably been wandering around the restaurant plotting his little stunt and the phone in his hand was still ringing. 

You stared at him for a second before pressing your own screen to end the call, then motioned toward the sign on the door with an incredulous lift of your brows. “I've never known you to wear a skirt.” You pointed toward the unmistakable women's restroom sign. “I'm pretty sure your kind is supposed to use the bushes outside.” 

He laughed under his breath, pushing away from the counter. “Our pisser is upstairs and it's not nearly as clean or fancy as this one, so maybe we should be using those bushes.” Before you could answer, he crossed the short distance between you, gently caught your wrist and pulled you inside, turning to shut the door before locking it with a quiet click. 

“What's so important that you had to lure me here with lies?” you asked, though the question barely survived before his arms settled around your waist over the fabric of your long dress, drawing you against him and catching your lips in a kiss. 

The warmth of him, the faint scent of cologne beneath the sharper restaurant air and the familiar pressure of his hands quickly made every argument you'd rehearsed disappear. 

“You respond faster to emails,” he murmured against your lips before kissing you again, deeper this time, his grin returning between breaths. 

You managed a quiet protest against his mouth, still trying to hold onto the reason you'd supposedly come. “You still haven't answered my question.” 

Instead of answering, he guided you backward toward the vanity while you let him, your heels clicking softly against the tiled floor until the edge of the counter met your ass. 

There was no point pretending this wasn't happening anymore, not when you'd already had a taste of whatever existed between you and had spent every day since wanting more.

He gave your lower lip a gentle bite before pulling back, his grin spreading as he watched your expression. “Well, I've noticed how hard it is for you to give me praise,” he said, clearly far too pleased with himself. “I know we've talked about keeping count of these...slipups we keep having, but I think we should focus on you and start seeing this as exposure therapy.” 

Your brows furrowed, eyes narrowing as you studied him. “So the ‘threats’ are...” You shook your head, trying to piece together whatever ridiculous logic had brought him into a women's bathroom in the middle of a business dinner. “Celibacy and the lack of praise?” 

He nodded solemnly, though the amusement tugging at the corner of his mouth ruined any attempt at sincerity. “Amongst other things...” He lowered his head, suddenly adopting such an exaggerated look of sadness that you almost laughed. “Which I'd rather not talk about. Like I said, it affects my livelihood.” 

You grinned, folding your arms loosely as you looked him over. “I know you've become big on solutions, so hurry up with exposing those. I have to get back out there.”

“I prefer showing you,” he replied, leaning closer until his words brushed against your lips, his voice dropping into that softer register he knew made it harder for you to think. “I like living on the edge…and I especially like when you meet me there.”

He turned you carefully, the press of his palms guiding your hips until you faced the mirror above the vanity. The glass reflected the two of you in soft, golden light from the wall sconces, your glowy skin, the slight part of your lips, the way his dark suit looked immaculate against the more rumpled elegance of your dress as he began gathering the fabric in slow, measured handfuls, drawing the skirt upward in folds that whispered against your skin, baring the backs of your thighs and the curve of your hips until the soft material rested in a loose bunch at your waist.

His chest settled against your back, the warmth of him seeping through the fabric of your dress as his mouth found the sensitive spot beneath your ear, lingering there to make your breath catch. “The words I want to hear from your mouth can’t be degrading,” he murmured, the low vibration of his voice traveling through you. “No trial and error…or I won’t be letting you cum.”

You answered by shifting your weight, pressing back against the hard line of his clothed dick, watching in the mirror as your eyes met his. “You’re incapable of it,” you teased, keeping your voice sultry as your fingers curled against the edge of the vanity.

“You don’t want to question that, trust me.” His expression sharpened with amusement.

You bent forward to deepen the angle, letting your gaze flick left and right across the glass as if daring the reflection itself to look away.

His hands moved efficiently and the soft metallic slide of his belt followed and then the muted sound of fabric and the heat of his cock freed and rested against you. He eased your panties aside with two careful fingers, the pad of his thumb tracing once along the already slick folds, gathering the evidence of how ready you were. 

“You kept playing eye tag,” he added. “You should’ve known this was coming.” His other hand stroked himself in slow passes, the sound of skin against skin lost beneath the distant murmur of the restaurant beyond the locked door.

Your grin widened in the mirror. “Won’t be the only thing coming tonight.” 

He mirrored the expression, the corner of his mouth lifting. “And it’s entirely up to you…” He paused, “Think fast.”

The broad head of him pressed and parted, sliding forward in one continuous, measured thrust. The stretch was immediate and deep, your body tightening around the sudden fullness as he seated himself fully. 

A low, restrained groan left him while a softer, broken sound rose in your throat. He shushed you at once, the sound gentle but absolute, one hand tightening to hold your hip steady. Your eyes had gone half-lidded yet focused on the controlled tension in his jaw as he held still, letting you feel every inch of him inside you, letting the pulse of your walls flutter and adjust around the thick, unyielding size of him.

He leaned in until his breath warmed the shell of your ear anew, the words low. “I don’t want to keep messing up that lipstick of yours. Don’t make me gag you again.”

Dean withdrew in a single glide, the thick length of him sliding free until only the broad head remained nestled at your entrance, slick and gleaming. The sudden emptiness made your breath catch and the next thrust answered it, driving him deep again in one unbroken motion that forced a pathetic sound from you. Your face twisted in the mirror, brows drawn and lips parted as the stretch returned, fuller this time, pussy yielding and closing around him with every inch he reclaimed.

He kept that unhurried rhythm, each withdrawal a slow drag that let you feel the ridge of him along every sensitive place inside, each return a deep, claiming press that seated him fully and held for a heartbeat before beginning again. You braced both hands on the cool marble of the vanity, fingers spread and arms locked, using the solid surface to keep yourself from folding forward under the steady force of him. 

Pleasure kept pulling your eyes shut, the heavy lids fighting the effort to stay open, yet every time they drifted he was quick to correct it.

His free hand left your hip to slide up, palm settling along the side of your throat, fingers and thumb framing your jaw with firm, inescapable pressure. He tilted your face until the mirror held you both completely and kept you there. The other hand remained at your hip, fingers digging into the soft flesh just above the bone, anchoring you as he thrusted. 

You could feel everything in exquisite, overwhelming detail. The slick glide of him was continuous now, your body so wet that the soft, slick sound of each stroke filled the small space between you. His length moved through the gathered warmth with liquid ease, the broad head nudging against your cervix on every inward press, the thick shaft stretching you open and then letting the walls flutter and cling as he withdrew. 

Your essence coated him completely, you could feel it cooling slightly on the skin of your inner thighs where it had spilled, then warming again each time he sank back in. The friction was never rough, only a dense, sliding pressure that built continuously, the kind that made your legs tremble and your breath stutter into short, helpless whimpers you couldn’t quite swallow.

The mirror showed every reaction you couldn’t hide, from the way your mouth fell open around each silent moan and the way your arms shook against the countertop, to the way your body kept accepting him greedily.

He drove deeper still until the thick length of him reached a place that stripped away the last of your control. The next thrust forced a low, unguarded moan from within, the sound no longer something you could swallow or soften. Pleasure spilled past your lips in broken pieces of praise you hadn’t planned to offer so freely.

“God…you’re so fucking deep–”

Dean answered at once, a rough, involuntary groan torn from his chest as his hips snapped harder. Your fingers unsuccessfully dug into the cool marble of the countertop, knuckles lightening as you braced yourself against another thrust, slower on the withdrawal so you felt every inch of the thick cock dragging along the slick walls of you, then deeper again and more praise slipped free, breathless and half-formed.

“So thick…you feel so good inside me. Fill me just like that–”

He cursed under his breath, the sound low and pained and the rhythm intensified again. Each time your voice offered him something soft and filthy, he answered with a deeper groan, a muttered curse and a harder drive that made the counter edge dig into your front. Your pussy welcomed every return without resistance, walls fluttering and clinging to his length. The wetness had long since soaked through the lace of your panties and now trailed down the insides of your thighs in warm but quickly cooling streaks.

His hand left your hip and slid upward over the bunched fabric of your dress, palm settling over one breast, massaging thoroughly, thumb brushing across the tightened poking peak until a fresh shiver ran through you. He then drew you fully back against his chest and your spine arched naturally into the new position, the change in angle letting him sink even deeper while your body remained open and offered. 

“It wasn’t that hard, was it?” he murmured against the side of your neck before pressing open mouth kisses there.

You met his eyes in the glass through a hazy, pleasure-blurred gaze, a grin still managing to curve your mouth even as another moan spilled between the words. “Not harder than your dick.”

The teasing answer pulled another obscene sound from him. He bit down lightly on the slope of your shoulder, the sharp edge of his teeth a brief, bright contrast to the deep, rolling thrusts that never slowed. At the same time his free hand reached lower, catching the edge of your panties and drawing the damp fabric farther aside, giving himself more room, more access. The lace stretched taut over your ass, the cool air of the restroom kissed the newly bared flesh for only a second before he filled you again.

The pleasure climbed in slow, dense waves in an overwhelming presence, building low in your belly. The feeling pulled another unbroken string of praise from your lips, soft and breathless and increasingly desperate, the words no longer filtered through any caution or pride.

“You’ve always known it was yours, huh? Fuck, Dean…don’t stop, please don’t you fucking stop–”

Your breath caught hard on the next thrust and a loud, broken whimper escaped before you could soften it. One hand left the countertop and flattened against the cool glass of the mirror for balance, fingers spreading as if the reflection could steady you. The other stayed braced on the edge, holding your weight as your arms trembled through the push and pull.

He was no longer holding you against his chest and he watched as his length disappeared into your greedy pussy, exiting with an obscene sheen that coated him completely. You kept speaking, the words tumbling out in a breathless, repetitive loop as the pressure low in your belly tightened past the point of any remaining restraint.

“I’m gonna cum…Yes, fuck! Keep going, just like that…please, don’t stop, I’m so close. Ugh…baby, I’m gonna cum–”

He leaned in, one arm wrapping firmly around your waist so your body could meet his punishing thrusts. Your walls fluttered and clenched around the thick length of him in helpless waves.

“Let me leave you with a parting gift, yeah?” he asked, the words rough and pleading, stripped of every earlier arrogance.

You were already tipping over. The first wave of release rolled through you in a long, shuddering crest that started deep and radiated outward, your body seizing around him in tight, rhythmic pulses. You nodded once, sharply, eyes locked on his in the mirror as the pleasure overtook every other thought. He watched your mouth fall open and your arms shake against the counter and glass. 

His words broke on a groan. “Attagirl…keep coming like that for me. I’m so fucking proud of you.”

His own climax followed, forehead dropping between your shoulderblades, the weight of him pressing you forward while his hips stuttered and lost their measured pace. Your walls continued to pulse and pull around him, drawing every thick pulse of his release deeper into your clenching cunt. His thrusts became short, involuntary rolls, the thick length of him throbbing hard inside you with each spurt as the sensation of being filled so completely pulled fresh, pathetically broken sounds from your throat. He kept moving through it with shallow, desperate strokes that dragged every last tremor from both of you, until his body finally gave out and he could no longer push forward.

You collapsed onto your forearms against the countertop, breath ragged, the cool marble a sharp contrast to the heat still radiating between your legs and the lingering throb of him still buried inside you. 

For a long moment neither of you moved. He eventually looked down, the sight of your body drawing a shaky breath from him. Carefully, he began to pull his length free, watching the way it twitched and throbbed as it left you, the mixed slick of both of you coating the shaft in a thick, shining layer, then he pushed back in once more, burying himself to the hilt again with a satisfied sound and stayed there, simply feeling the residual flutters of your walls around him.

“I’ve always known that mouth could do more than talk back and hit the wrong nerves,” he rasped, voice edged with lingering pleasure as he watched your reflection. His open palm landed in a firm, stinging smack against the curve of your ass, the sharp sound echoing softly off the tiles. 

The sudden contact pulled a fresh, involuntary whimper from your throat, body tightening around him in a final, helpless response. “Don’t get used to it,” you answered, breathless but unwilling to surrender the teasing defiance that had carried you through the entire encounter, even as the warmth lingering between you made the threat considerably less convincing.

You lifted your head to meet his eyes in the mirror, a small, sated smile curving your mouth while the last traces of tension slowly left your body. “Keep living on the edge and someone might just give you the final push.”

His lips curved knowingly, that earlier arrogance returning in a softer, more intimate form as his gaze stayed fixed on yours. “Bet you’d like doing the honors.”

“It’d be my pleasure, Dean.” You nodded firmly, the two of you still joined and in no rush of changing that.

You hoped tonight might’ve taught you how to pitch the most sanitized version of this to your godfather without inciting the rest of the players to start planning a eulogy for Dean’s funeral. 

If all else failed, maybe a public announcement around the dinner table could be the best way to soften the blow, preferably with carefully chosen words that would make the whole thing sound significantly less catastrophic than free-falling from the highest peak imaginable.

Taglist for this 'mini series': @almacaeruleum @bumbdlonde @sombrrlife @maikwasauski210 @hiiiannn @6000-fandoms @liafieldnotes-03

Faint whispers trickle through your eardrums. They’re soft, quiet at the rounded vowels, and the hushed words almost go undetected. 

“Do we just let her sleep?”

“What other choice do we have?”

A third hushed voice breaks through your haze of sleep. “Or we could just wake her up, dipshits.”

“Real nice, Henderson.” 

“You asked for my input, so I gave it.”

“That doesn’t mean you have to be such an asshole about it.” 

Suddenly the voices rise in volume as Steve and Dustin break out into yet another exhausting argument. Faintly you register Jonathan’s soft voice pleading with them to be quiet, fearful of waking you up, but the fear has long since come to pass.

Your eyes open and your gaze lands on Steve and Dustin in the front seat, bodies facing away from each other in a tense standoff with Jonathan next to you, a worried hand on the base of your ankle as he anxiously endures the conversation. 

“Listen, if we don’t wake Y/N up then she’ll wring our asses.” Dustin says, rolling his eyes at Steve’s dismissive huff. 

“But this is the first time she’s slept in days,” the older boy reminds your brother. “Like hell am I waking her up. She needs the rest.”

The reminder of the events from the last forty-eight hours settles into your bones. Forcing yourself to sit up, ignoring every fiber of your body that begs to be laid to rest, you look out through the van’s window and realize you’re parked in front of the radio tower. 

Daylight surrounds itself around you. A deep, dull ache sits in your back. 

You must’ve slept the entire night on the van’s floor. 

“Unfortunately I’m already up.” 

All three boys whip their heads to look at you, staring down at you as if you’re some science experiment they haven’t quite figured out. 

Steve clears his throat sheepishly, now red. “Did we wake you?”

“Of course you woke her up.” Jonathan snaps, removing his hand from your ankle as if it has stung him. Although the movement doesn’t go unnoticed by either you or Steve, whose eyes narrow dangerously. 

He sucks in a breath, reeling for another fight, but you fling your hands out in annoyance and beckon towards the radio station. “I’d prefer if someone explained to me why we’re back here.”

Both Dustin and Jonathan turn to Steve expectantly, forming an unspoken alliance against him. Steve’s face pinches together as he waves his middle finger at them before turning to you. “Robin radioed us while you were asleep.”

Immediately you sit up properly. “What’d she say? Is everyone okay?”

“She’s with Will and Joyce,” Steve continues, fingers brushing over yours to quell the sting of your rapidly building hope. “But that’s all she told us before demanding that we meet here to discuss a new lead she has.”

While the information remains vague, it’s enough to snag at the remaining fragments of hope inside your chest as it expels the remnants of your exhaustion. Scrambling to your knees, you frantically crawl out of the van before anyone can stop you. 

Early morning birdsong greets you as your feet touch the grass. Time almost seems to stand still as you take in the rolling hills and green meadows before you. In the sunlight the red of Karen Wheeler’s blood on your clothing burns to brown and the kiss of the sun’s warmth masks the multitudes of grief that you can never seem to outrun. 

Yet in the distance Nancy’s car sends billows of smoke signals into the air and the minute she steps out of the vehicle her legs carry her to you. 

“Y/N.” Nancy’s small frame shudders against your chest as you hold her in your arms. Her eyes are as bloodshot as yours.

“I’m so sorry,” you breathe into her neck, apologizing for the unfair hand she’s been dealt as you hold onto her so tightly that her skin becomes yours. “How is she–?”

You’re unable to utter Karen Wheeler’s name, though her daughter understands anyways. “She made it to the hospital. That’s all we know.”

You exhale at her words, your fingernails dig into her back and you’re not sure you’ve ever seen Nancy so frail. A heavy hand falls on your lower back, accompanied by a gruff voice, “let me see her.”

If it were anyone else you’d bare your teeth and spit foul words, but for Jonathan Byers you lessen your grip on Nancy Wheeler and watch, silently, as she melts into his embrace. They come together like water, melting into one, and for a moment they’re just two kids in love. 

“You look like hell.” Mike steps out of the car and bypasses all formalities upon noticing you. Lucas stands next to him and both boys look about as well as you feel.

Though try as he might, Mike can’t hide his hurt from you. Traces of dread etch his face, and you’re pulling him into your arms before he can escape. “How’re you holding up?”

He stiffens at the unexpected embrace, but after everything he’s been through the last sixteen hours, he can’t bring himself to pull away. His chest rises slowly, exhales even slower as he says, “I-I don’t really know what I’m doing–holy shit.”

Suddenly Mike shoves you away and rushes towards your brother, eyes narrowed at the onslaught of bruises and blood that stain his face. 

“You look like hell, dude.” Mike lets out a low whistle, studying Dustin’s face.

“Bike crash.” The lie comes out of Dustin’s mouth with a practiced ease that makes you uncomfortable. 

Lucas raises an eyebrow. “Seriously?”

“Yep. Flew headfirst into a light post.” 

You feel Steve bristle next to you. Everyone knows that Dustin is lying.

Sharp pain coats your mouth as you bite the inside of your cheek. There’s nothing you can say that would change anything. 

“Look, I’m sorry about missing the crawl, and about… Everything.” Dustin averts everyone’s gaze. The guilt eats him alive. You know how painful the sensation of its hunger can be. 

“It’s not your fault,” Mike’s quick reassurance to comfort his friend leaves a bitter taste in your mouth that you find hard to swallow. “Don’t beat yourself up.”

“Looks like he already did.” Lucas steps closer to your brother and grimaces at the injuries that scatter his face. 

He reaches to Dustin’s nose, as if about to grab it, before you slap him away like a mother scolding a child. “Please don’t make the injury worse.”

Lucas glares at you, immediately defensive. “I just wanted to see if it was broken!”

“By touching it?” Dustin takes several steps back, alarmed at the idea of Lucas prodding at his still sore nose. 

An argument starts to break out between the two boys, but it quickly comes to an end when Robin flings the radio station’s door open and gestures wildly for everyone’s attention.

“Hey, this isn’t a social call, guys.” Her tone borders on annoyance and the manic glint in her eyes tells you that she hasn’t had a pleasant night, either. “Let’s go!”

Slowly everyone settles back into the realization of where they are, of why they’re in the middle of an abandoned field running on exhaustion and paranoia. Mike is the first to follow Robin inside, followed by Lucas and Dustin, and eventually even Nancy manages to break herself out of her grief long enough to grab Jonathan’s hand and guide him inside. 

You’re left with Steve and a silence that presses into your ribcage. 

You’ve never known how to survive in the silence. 

But then Steve’s arms wrap themselves around your waist, uncaring of the torn clothing and bloodstains. He holds you to his chest, cradles your head so that you can hear every beat of his heart, and in his embrace you find a solace that not even silence can bring.

“I can feel you slipping away,” Steve whispers, arms tightening around you with every word. His steady breathing gets interrupted by a sharp inhale, as if bracing for impact, before he says, “It scares me.”

You stiffen in his embrace. The unwavering way that Steve has always managed to see right through you still sends shockwaves through your system. It isn’t fair. 

“I’m not trying to.” You wish there was more you could say to reassure him, but exhaustion has long clouded your mind and you’re not sure how to piece together the fragments that are left.

“I know you aren’t,” Steve’s thumb traces the crest of your cheek. His eyes shine down on you soft, familiar and warm, though through the years they’ve weathered with worry. “But I need you to stay, angel.”

You’ve become a border edge of the silhouette you once were. A ghost that inhabits an abandoned body. 

“Stay here in the present with me, alright?” Steve pinches your nose and smiles bashfully when it elicits a small laugh from you. “I can’t have you getting lost in the past or stuck in a future that nobody can control. No shutting down. I won’t allow it.”

And you? You’re here. You’re here, stuck in the present with me and the party.

Lucas’ words remain etched into your mind. You haven’t forgotten them, though you suppose you haven’t quite figured out how to remain present, given how tirelessly the past tries to drown you. 

“Are you done lecturing me now?” You brush Steve’s hand away and encase it within your own, tugging him along. “Because I’m not sure how much longer we have before Robin sends a search party after us.”

But Steve doesn’t move. Instead, he remains in place and stands before you, arm extended with your hands still intertwined. His boyish face changes for a moment, flickers into something more real, more serious. “We have all the time in the world, Y/N.”

Time has always been a dangerous promise to keep, yet somehow its liminality morphs into something finite as it falls from Steve’s lips as he pulls you in.

He spins you around, holds you close to his chest as you dance together for only a brief second, before he seals his promise with a kiss that not even time itself could ever take away from you. 

– 

A distinct sense of horror freezes over your body when Robin reveals why she brought everyone to the radio station. 

Vecna has a new target. A little boy, not much older than Will had been. 

You’ve been here before.

“Derek? As in, Derek Turnbow?” Steve’s voice carries your own disbelief as he sits next to you on the couch, weight pressed to your side as a way to ground your ever growing nerves. “From the Turnbow Realty family?”

“The one and only.” Robin affirms, body hunched over in her own exhaustion. 

Your eyes close and the sensation of your nails digging into your palms provides enough of a sting to abate the panic swelling in your chest. 

“The whole family’s a menace.” Lucas says unhelpfully.

You bite back your disdain for the comment, knowing that Lucas doesn’t mean any harm. You understand why he said it, having spent a rather awful night babysitting Derek for a few hours when you were fourteen. He had been nothing but cruel, obnoxious, and vindictive. Ultimately you declined Mrs. Turnbow when she asked if you’d be willing to babysit him in the future.

Yet despite how terrible Derek Turnbow may be, he’s still just a kid. 

And you’re still marked. Vecna’s curse. It still resides in your bloodstream.

You’ll do anything to remain his sole victim. 

“How do you know it’s Derek who’s next?” You’re careful to keep your voice level, calm. The less emotion you show, the better. “I mean, as far as we know, I’m still marked. Who’s to say it isn’t me that Vecna’s looking for?”

Steve inhales sharply and Dustin drops his head to his hands. You refuse to look at them, instead choosing to aim your gaze at Robin.

Only it’s Will who answers.

“Because I saw Derek,” he says softly, almost regretful. “Not you, Y/N.”

His words confuse you. “I don’t think I understand what that means.”

“I’ve learned that when I’m close enough to the hive mind, I can tap into it. I can tap into Vecna’s mind.” Will explains, eyes regretful as he delivers the news he knows will upset you. “I can see who he’s targeting.”

Your stomach twists painfully as a new wave of horror washes over you. Will was once called a spy and declared a traitor who was forcibly locked away in a cabin in the woods in an attempt to expel the monsters inside of him. 

Now, years later, Will has become the very thing you promised him he wouldn’t.

Vecna’s spy. A weapon against his will. 

“But were you seeing through the eyes of Vecna or of Derek?” Steve rubs his temple, trying desperately to keep up.

“Both.” Will clarifies. “I-I was Vecna, but inside of Derek’s mind.”

“And you’re absolutely sure that you didn’t ‘see’ Y/N in that hallucination of yours?” Steve questions, adamant he ensures that there isn’t a hint of a possibility of you being in danger. 

Will shakes his head. “All I saw was Derek.”

“That doesn’t make any sense.” You insist, eager to find an answer that involves your life on the line. “I was Vecna’s last target. It should be me he comes after next. Not Derek or Holly.”

“Vecna’s a psychic serial killer. Nothing he does makes sense.” Robin reminds you gently. “I mean, he stalks his victims by invading their minds. That’s what he did with Chrissy and Max and you–”

Then Robin seems to remember just how close she came to losing you, and her mouth snaps shut immediately. “Sorry.”

You shift away from the others, uncomfortable with the sudden mournful expressions on everyone’s face. Their pity only builds resentment within your chest.

Memories from last year haunt you. Sometimes you can still feel Vecna’s claws in your membrane, but that doesn’t mean it makes you any more willing to be mourned over. Not when it was Max who suffered the consequences that should’ve been yours. 

Steve’s hand falls to your thigh as he tries to comfort you, yet Nancy, sharp as a knife, doesn’t shy away from your past.

“Vecna stalked Holly before he took her.” She looks only at you. “Only he stalked her as Henry, befriended her, for weeks.”

Nancy clenches her fists, exhales slowly, before asking the question that she dreads the most. “Were there any signs before he attacked you?”

A phantom sensation of dandelions choking you constricts your breathing. The memory of them slices your tongue, tangles your airway, and you have to bite the inside of your cheek to stop the memory from drowning you. 

“The summer before Vecna attacked… I had a nightmare.” The words get stuck in the grooves of your teeth, forcing you to spit them out like a dirty confession. “I was in a field of dandelions before they suddenly swarmed around me and I was suffocating.”

The room stands still. Unable to look at anyone, you look down at your bloodied palms instead. “Then, when Vecna showed me and Nancy our visions, he told me I've become fragile… like a dandelion.”

You steady your breathing. You don’t know why this feels as if you’re confessing something terrible. Maybe you are. 

“That’s when I realized he’d been watching me for months.”

A cacophony of reactions overtakes the room. 

Steve nearly topples out of his seat due to how fast his body turns to yours, talking a mile a minute and demanding to know more about the nightmare. “Are you serious–”

But his worries get lost in Dustin’s stunned confusion. “Why didn’t you say anything? We could’ve used this information sooner!”

“Was there anything else in your dream?” Mike is quick to ask his own investigative questions, knocking his elbows into your side in his hurry to get closer to you. “I mean, anything useful besides stupid dandelions?”

The voices begin to overlap in a way that dizzies you. Seeing your discomfort, Nancy places a hand on her brother’s chest and pulls him away from you while simultaneously flicking Dustin’s hat. “Give her some space.”

Mike makes a face and Dustin grumbles under his breath, but without another word the boys go back to their seats. Thankful for the breathing room, you smile appreciatively at Nancy. “Thank you.”

She smiles back, soft, tired, before it falls into a broken frown. “I’m sorry. I didn’t intend to cast the attention onto you.”

“Don’t apologize,” you shake your head. “I want to help however I can. If it means finding Holly and protecting Derek, then I’ll answer whatever questions you have.”

“Do you… know why Vecna gave you evil dandelion nightmares?” Mike asks cautiously, unsure how much you’re willing to disclose.

“No,” you admit, regretful. You’re the only person alive who was marked by Vecna and the only source of information available. You despise how little you’re able to help. “I never understood why. All I can remember is that the field felt familiar, like I’d been there before. I…” You clear your throat and cast a nervous glance towards your brother. “I think he was showing me Virginia. Where I grew up.”

Dustin’s spine goes pin straight at the revelation, though he remains quiet. Mike, however, narrows his eyes. “Nancy and I think that Vecna was trying to earn Holly’s trust. That’s why he befriended her. Maybe he was trying to earn yours, too?”

A sarcastic laugh falls from your mouth. “Yeah, well if his long-term goal was forming a friendship, then giving me a nightmare where I suffocate in dandelions was a pretty shitty attempt.”

“Maybe he was shy?” Robin suggests with a wince.

Steve shakes his head in disappointment while you huff lightly. “Unlikely.”

“Well whatever Vecna’s plan is,” Will recenters the group, silencing the room once more. “We have to stop him, and we have to save Derek.”

And the rest is decided.

–

Will herds everyone downstairs and instructs you to stand in front of the projector. Within minutes he has a pointer aimed at the map of Hawkins as he explains his plan with a confidence that surprises you.

“The Turnbows live here.” Will points to a neighborhood on the map. “We wait in a van across the street.”

For as long as you’ve known Will, he has always been a follower rather than a leader. Now, as you watch him command the room, you’re confronted with just how much he’s grown, and it fills you with warm, pleasant pride. 

Then Will proposes kidnapping a child and you’re reminded all over again just how naive and insanely young he still is.

“As soon as they’re asleep, we move in, we grab Derek, and we take him to the McCorkle farm. It’s completely abandoned and isolated.”

“Oh absolutely not.” You gawk, baffled. “There’s no way I’m kidnapping another kid.”

Lucas’ eyes widen. “‘Another kid’?”

“Unfortunately Erica counts as the first.”

“We’ll be using a blindfold.” Will waves his pointer at you. “So technically it isn’t kidnapping if Derek never finds out who we are or where he is.”

“That’s literally the definition of kidnapping.”

“Better than Vecna kidnapping him.” Robin snaps her fingers. “I’d consider us a much better option.”

While she’s right, you still wholly dislike the plan. “Can’t we do something a little less… extreme?”

“Yeah,” Jonathan agrees, looking over to his mom who has been silent the entire time. “Are you alright with just kidnapping a child?”

“Robin’s right. We’re saving a child via kidnapping. So it’s fine. I think.” Joyce shrugs, though she grimaces at her own words and quickly backtracks. “Alright. Now’s not the time to play it safe, Jonathan.”

You step forward, casting an apologetic look towards the woman. “With all due respect, Mrs. Byers, I think now is the exact time to be playing it safe. We’ve already lost El and Hopper and Holly. We can’t just blindly run into whatever Vecna has planned for us.”

Dustin nods. “I’m not morally opposed to the plan, but I agree with Y/N. There’s a few holes in it.”

“Like what if Derek falls asleep before the Demogorgon attacks him?” Lucas suggests.

“That’s one.” Your brother agrees. 

“Or what if Derek wakes up before we grab him and alerts his family? We’ll go to jail.” Nancy points out.

“And there’s another.” Dustin nods again. “But the third, most gaping hole is that even if by some miracle this plan even works: saving Derek won’t bring us any closer to finding Vecna and the others. It just buys us some time. That’s it.”

The atmosphere turns somber at the reminder of just how much none of you know. Without El and her powers, you’re practically helpless against Vecna and locating him. 

But just as the silence becomes deafening, Mike breaks it.

“Not necessarily,” he slowly looks up at the others. “There might be a way to save Derek and find Holly.”

In a heartbeat he stands up and rummages around the basement, mumbling under his breath with every passing second. No one interferes, either too confused or too worried it will only set the kid off more.

Then Mike lunges towards a small, blue bag and he lets out a small victorious cheer. “Yes! Okay, everyone around the table, now.”

Curious, you do as he says and watch as he dumps the bag out, revealing a multitude of old, worn D&D pieces. 

“This is Derek,” Mike holds up one of the pieces, silently instructing everyone to follow along. He sets the piece down and arranges the others into a circle. “And this is the rest of the Turnbow family. We’re gonna need to recruit someone that the family trusts and can gain access to the house.”

“And this person will do what? Ask the Turnbows not to call the cops?” You ask, uncertain of the plan. 

“No, the person is going to knock the family out so we can extract them from the house.”

Mike’s words cause you to sigh. “Right. Should’ve assumed that.”

“Knock them out?” Joyce’s concern reflects your own. 

“Safely,” Mike assures her. “With sleeping pills or something.”

“I might know where we could get some benzos.” Robin supplies. “Those things are like elephant tranquilizers.”

“How would you know?” Steve eyes her wearily.

“Don’t worry about it.”

You pinch the bridge of your nose. “There are now multiple felonies included in this plan.”

Robin winks. “Only the two, pretty girl.”

“We’ll take the benzos.” Mike ignores your disdain. “That way, if Vecna spies, he’ll just assume that Derek is fast asleep in bed and he’ll send his Demos to grab him. Only he won’t find Derek. He’ll find us.”

“Wait a minute,” you place your hand in the middle of the table, blocking Mike from putting any more pieces down. “Who is ‘us’?”

“Everyone in this room.” He leans forward, eyes daring you to argue. “Me and the rest of the party included.”

You go to open your mouth to argue, but Dustin interrupts before you can start. “Save your breath, Y/N. You said yourself that we’re missing Hopper and El. Like it or not, we need all the help we can get.”

As much as you want to protest, you know that your brother is right. While you hate the idea of the kids staging an ambush against Vecna, you don’t have any other option. Biting your lip, you reluctantly remove your hand and nod to Mike to continue. 

He flashes you a sarcastic thumbs up and explains that Murray will be supplying the traps that’ll hopefully burn the demogorgon. Then he stuffs his hand in his pocket and pulls out a small device. “But not before we stick him with one of these.” 

The telemetry tag flashes red on the table. “We’ll track the Demo across the Upside Down in the Squawk van just like we did with Hopper, and if we’re lucky the bastard will lead us back to its lair.”

“Where Vecna will be with Holly. Two birds, one stone.” The pieces fall into place and you nod, impressed. “Clever as always, Wheeler.”

“Someone has to be.” 

And when no one voices any complaints or possible flaws within the plan, Mike smirks triumphantly and dismisses the group to prepare for what lies ahead. 

Lucas and Mike set off to the middle school to find Erica, who apparently used to be close friends with the Turnbow’s daughter. You find it ironic that it’s somehow Erica that the plan hinges on, given her history of forced compliance. 

Robin all but drags Will outside with her to secure the benzos needed, despite your many attempts to stop her. 

“Why the hell are you taking Will with you on your drug run?” You grab at her hand and try to use all your body weight to prevent the girl from getting into Joyce’s car, but Robin has somehow become shockingly strong and tugs you away. 

“Because little Byers won’t lecture me!” Robin pokes her tongue out at you and grabs the back of Will’s collar, shoving him into the passenger seat. “See ya, pretty girl.”

Will waves. “Bye!”

You stand in the driveway alongside Joyce, who has watched the whole ordeal as you all but pout, watching as the two drive away in a fit of laughter. Neither you nor Joyce have any idea when they became the best of friends, but you’re starting to hate their newfound friendship.

“Do I have to ask if your friend will keep Will safe?” Joyce nudges her shoulder against yours, breaking you from your moody disposition briefly. 

“Robin will keep him safe,” you reluctantly promise, though you’re a little weary of their relationship. “I just have no idea how she managed to find a stash of drugs in Hawkins.”

Joyce chuckles while Steve walks up behind you and kisses your temple. “I’m sure Robin will tell you all about it the next time she orchestrates a drug deal.”

“I’m never leaving her unsupervised ever again.”

Steve’s chest rumbles in amusement and you allow yourself a moment to sink against him and close your eyes. Your days are slowly blurring together, but here, in his arms, you’re able to breathe.

Sensing the desire to be alone, Joyce gently squeezes your upper arm and places a kiss to your shoulder. The act of affection soothes the open wounds left from the night before. Her presence will always soothe you.

“Anyway, I came out here to tell you that I’ve left a spare change of clothes inside the station.” She says delicately. Her eyes never stray from yours, though you know she struggles against herself not to look down and see the mess of blood that soaks your clothing. 

A piece of your ribcage softens. “How did you–?”

“Jonathan radioed while you were asleep.” Joyce squeezes your arm again, this time with a smile you can’t quite decipher. It appears small, timid, almost nostalgic, but before you can ask her anything else, she lets you go. “I’ll be inside if you need anything.”

And with that, Joyce leaves.

–

Mike hadn’t specified what exactly Murray would be smuggling over for the Turnbow house, but when the man opens his truck and unloads the supplies, for a moment you’re fearful he somehow intercepted a serial killer’s delivery. 

Murray hands Jonathan a hyper-realistic CPR dummy that makes you highly uncomfortable to look at and Nancy an armful of ammo before turning to you with a crazed smile on his face.

“And, for little miss unbearable, I present this,” he stretches out his arm and reveals a misshapen frog puppet. “Mike said it’d help ease your nerves. Unsure why, but I’ve learned not to question the kid.”

Any more useful insight from Kermit the frog?

Jonathan does a poor job of hiding his laughter while Nancy bites back an amused smile. Both Steve and Dustin outright laugh at you. 

Glaring at them, you grab the frog and hold it awkwardly between your hands. “I really hate how funny Mike is sometimes.”

“He’s an odd duck.” Murray jumps down from the truck and walks over to a crate. He throws open its top and reveals a mass of wire. “Speaking of ducks, do take care to keep your precious frog away from the 3,000 feet of barbed wire.”

“That seems excessive. Even for Mike.”

Murray shrugs at you. “It’s what he asked for. Now, onto Bilbo Baggins,” the man hands Dustin a box. “Some sparkling new spark plugs.”

Dustin frowns. “Spark plugs? That’s it?”

By the tone of his voice you know that he’s unamused with the shortchange he’s been given. 

“I’m also giving out free hugs.” Murray smiles. 

Disgust marks your face. “Do not touch my brother.”

Murray bares his teeth at you while Dustin groans. “You didn’t get the turbocharger, either?”

“No.”

“The suspension kit?”

“No.”

Sensing that your brother will only run the man in circles, you leave him to deal with Murray and go follow after Steve. Mike heroically left him the job of clearing out the van in order to smuggle the Turnbows away. While he withheld his complaints, you know that Steve will enjoy the company as he wrestles with the vehicle and its contents.

You hear Steve before you see him,

“Lousy piece of shit!” A loud thump follows his exasperated groans, proceeded by a pained yelp when he inexplicably drops whatever heavy item he’d been carrying on his foot. “Fuck!”

Turning the corner, you find your boyfriend hunched over his knees amongst an endless sea of wires and leather seats gutted from the Squawk van. Sweat drips down his forehead and his flushed skin tells you he’s one stumble away from driving the van into Mike Wheeler’s house. 

“Need some help, honey?” You brace a hand on his back, steadying his disheveled body as you carefully step inside the vehicle, careful not to fall.

Steve grabs your wrist and kisses it, his overly warm skin cools at the sensation of yours. “Have I ever told you how much I hate Mike?”

“You’ve mentioned it once or twice.”

“I mean,” he kicks at a loose bolt, upending yet another seat from the van’s floor. “Why am I the one tasked with cleaning out this hunk of metal? Do we even need the entire bed of this thing, anyways? Can’t we just squish everything inside and call it a day?”

You snort. “You do realize that we’re throwing an entire family back here, right?”

“They’ll be too knocked out to care.”

“You’ve always had such a way with words.”

Steve chuckles and reaches for your waist. Once he has you where he wants you, he pulls your body down onto his and lands on the last remaining seat within the van. The old leather cracks beneath your bodies, but neither you nor Steve pay any attention to it.

Steve’s head buries itself into your chest and you feel him exhale slowly. Your fingers find his hair, entertaining themselves within the strands you’ve long since have claimed as your own, and he presses himself deeper into your touch. 

“Miss you,” he mumbles, hands roaming down to your thighs as he pulls them over his lap so that you’re seated flush against him. It’s been so long since Steve has had you this close.

And though he’s been at your beck and call ever since yesterday morning, you understand the ache that Steve feels in his longing for you. “I miss you, too.”

You haven’t been alone, truly alone, with Steve in nearly three days. Once, the absence would’ve gone unnoticed. It was you who insisted on spending an entire summer ignoring him and his stupid boyish charm. Now, with the knowledge of just how lovely it is to be Steve Harrington’s, you feel devoid of any pleasure whenever he’s gone.

Steve’s stomach presses against yours as he inhales deeply. Light, butterfly-soft kisses litter themselves along your collarbones. Your breathy laugh accompanies the tender admiration, which Steve smiles in response to as well. 

“I’m sorry about Dustin,” the apology falls between each kiss. “I know I can be a massive dick to him sometimes.”

“Sometimes?” You look down at him with a teasing smile, though you both know you mean it. 

“More than I’d like to admit.” Steve relents, placing a kiss to the base of your throat. You hum at the sensation, and your satisfaction gives him the confidence to find the rest of his words. “I know I should be more patient with him, but I just… I hate the way he treats you.”

“It isn’t your responsibility to defend me. I don’t want you to defend me.” Your fingers dance over Steve’s, intertwining them together. “Not when I understand Dustin’s anger better than anyone else.”

“That still doesn’t make it fair to you, Y/N.”

You can’t help but laugh at this. “And when has anything in my life been fair?”

Steve’s jaw clenches. He doesn’t find your words as funny as you do. 

But rather than continue to try and convince you of all you deserve, knowing it to be a useless endeavor, he instead accepts what he knows you can offer him. “How’re you holding up?”

Though he can’t bring himself to say Vecna’s name, you know that Steve’s question resides in how everyone’s eyes fell on you when you revealed he’d been watching you for a long time.

“I’m fine.” Neither you nor Steve can tell if you’re lying.

“You know that you can always step away, right?” His fingers grow restless in yours. The unease that follows his question makes you wonder just how long his worry has festered. “Let Mike and the others handle the Turnbows if you need the break. I mean, no one would blame you.”

Though you know he means well, you fervently shake your head at what Steve has said. “I promised Nancy I’d bring Holly back to her, and that’s exactly what I’m going to do.”

Now Steve is the one who shifts uncomfortably. “Y/N, you just had to relive your worst nightmare in front of an entire group of people. You had Mrs. Wheeler’s blood all over you not even an hour ago. I-I can’t imagine what you must be feeling–”

“However I’m feeling doesn’t matter.” You cut off Steve’s concerned rambling. “Nancy and Mike lost their sister, Steve. Their parents are laying in hospital beds. Whatever I may be feeling, I can promise you that what they’re going through is even more painful, even more debilitating.”

You straighten your back and look down at the man beneath you. His fingers dig into the flesh of your thighs and despite the fact that you’re solidifying every fear that Steve has, he still gazes up at you as if you’ve given him the ocean and its waves. 

“I’m going to the Turnbow’s.”

Your tone remains definitive. There is no room for arguments or discontent. 

Bittersweet worry infiltrates Steve’s mouth. He understands that there isn’t any way he can change your mind or convince you to place yourself first. The bags underneath your eyes have only grown worse these last few days. He doesn’t think they will ever get better. 

And while Steve wants nothing more than to encase you into his chest and keep you away from everything that could ever hurt you, yourself included, Jonathan’s obnoxious voice leaks into his mind and reminds Steve that he can’t sideline you.

You’d never forgive him if he did. 

Exhaling the last of his doubts, Steve caresses your lower back and you watch his eyes soften. He will always love you and your selfish desire to be needed. You will always love him and his inability to resent you for it. 

Even if it means one day you’ll burn yourself up, leaving Steve to bury your ashes. 

“What are you guys doing?”

Dustin’s arrival forces you to pull away from your boyfriend. Stuffing your hands behind your back, feeling like a little kid caught, you clear your throat and face your brother. “We’re getting the van set up. Mike’s orders.”

“But why even bother?” Dustin kicks at one of the many discarded objects outside of the vehicle, which all lay haphazardly on the grass. “This van is a lost cause, anyways.”

“Oh, yeah?” Steve rolls his eyes. “Take it won’t help us, then. Like usual.”

The throwaway comment causes you to stiffen while Dustin narrows his eyes. But rather than bite back at Steve’s bark, your brother surprises you.

“No, what I mean is that this piece of shit once stalled out chugging up Pickett Road.” Dustin clarifies, tone neutral. “It’s not fast enough to keep up with a Demo without serious modifications.”

“And this is us modifying.” Steve gestures between you and him before pointing towards the discarded pile. “A lighter van is a faster van.”

“We’ll also be attempting to fit an entire family inside,” you remind him. “But sure. I guess we’re making it faster, too.”

Steve nods. “And if we’re just tracking, we won’t need half the shit that’s in here. Speaking of, can you go to the front and empty out the window washer fluid?”

You tilt your head. “The… window washer fluid?”

“I’m sure emptying it will work wonders. Good job, Steven.” Dustin claps his hands, emphasizing his nasally and cruel words. 

“Dustin!” 

He ignores your warning. “No, truly. I’m stunned by Steve’s intellect. Who knew your boyfriend could think?”

You’re about to snatch Dustin’s hat off his head and show him exactly how little patience you have left, but Steve puts a hand in front of you, blocking him.

“You know what, Henderson? I think we should do what your sister suggested yesterday.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Dustin frowns, unused to Steve’s delay in the fight.

“It means we should both just shut up.” And with that, Steve shushes your brother and goes back to clearing out the van.

You’re so stunned by Steve’s uncharacteristic diplomacy that you don’t notice Dustin’s greedy eyes landing on a drill. He grabs it, investigates it with a terrifying smirk, before walking away with a pep in his step.

“Where the hell is he going with that?” Steve asks you, annoyance and slight fear tainting his voice. 

“I have no idea.” You quickly climb out of the van and follow after your brother. “Dustin, what are you–” 

Your words die in your throat when you realize he’s walking straight towards Steve’s car.

Nothing ever ends well when Dustin is given a power tool.

“Steve’s right, Y/N.” He climbs up onto the car’s roof and tilts his hat at you. “We don’t need half of the crap in there for our mission. In fact, the only thing we really need is a telemetry tracker, which I can affix to any vehicle.”

“You little shit!” Immediately understanding what Dustin intends, you lunge towards the car and attempt to climb it, but Steve’s hands force you down. “Let me go!”

He winces at how violently you thrash around, but his grip on you remains firm. While he’s worried about his car, he’s even more worried you’ll wind up getting hurt. “I really don’t want you accidentally impaling yourself with a power drill.”

You ignore his concern and flail your legs around, trying desperately to free yourself. “Dustin Henderson, put down your obnoxious ego so we can talk about this–”

“Thought you told me and Steve to shut up?” Your brother laughs like a deranged child at his own joke before bringing the tip of the power drill down to the roof.

Even Steve can’t keep his composure as Dustin switches the tool on, inches away from his beloved car. “Woah, hey! Don’t make me let your sister go!”

As if to emphasize his threat, you seethe at Dustin, “I’m going to kill you!” 

But Dustin knows that Steve would never, ever put you in a situation where you could potentially harm yourself, and it’s with this knowledge that he happily punctures the BMW with the drill. 

The unnecessary attack on the car you fell in love in only causes you to writhe in Steve’s grasp harder, almost animalistic as you shout threats and curses at your infuriating little brother.

“I’m telling mom you ruined Steve’s car!”

“Then I’m telling her you told me to shut up!”

“You’re so annoying!”

“Where do you think I get it from?”

Soon both of your voices get drowned out as you and Dustin bicker back and forth with no end in sight. For a moment you’re just two little kids tattling on each other and throwing around harmless insults from when you were children. 

Steve would find it endearing if your screeching and the roar of the power drill weren’t seconds away from deafening him. 

So much for the Henderson charm. 

– 

Because Mike hates you, he shoves you, Dustin, Jonathan, and Nancy into Steve’s car before anyone can process what’s happening.

“Good luck,” he said with a smug smile. “You’ll all make a fantastic lookout squad.”

Mike then slammed the car door shut and ran away before Steve could run him over.

Which is how you find yourself stuck in between Jonathan and Nancy in the backseat of Steve’s now ruined car parked outside of the Turnbow house.

Somehow Dustin winds up in the passenger seat, which you resent him for.

The nighttime air is unusually warm, doing nothing to help abide the tension in the car as you all sit stiffly beside one another with too much unspoken history.

You twist your fingers together in your lap, unable to say anything as Dustin peers out the window with binoculars held up to his eyes to watch for Erica.

“She’s in,” he finally says into the walkie, alerting the others. 

“Thank god,” you exhale the breath you’d been holding. The sooner you’re out of the car, the better.

Jonathan shifts next to you, awkwardly adjusting himself so that he doesn’t press too deeply against your side. “It’s… a bit warm in here, don’t you think?”

Both you and Nancy turn to him, unsure which of you he’s talking to.

After an uncomfortably long pause, Jonathan seems to sense the confusion and clears his throat. “Nancy, why don’t we wait outside? Get some fresh air?”

Nancy frowns at the offer and looks at you, silently asking what she should do. All you can give her is a helpless shrug. “A walk sounds nice.”

This doesn’t seem to be the answer Nancy wants. Her frown deepens. “But what about keeping a lookout for Erica’s signal?”

“We’ll stay here,” you gesture towards Dustin and Steve. “We’ll get you guys when it’s time to go.”

Nancy bites her lip and considers this. Steve watches her hesitation through the rear mirror. You’re not the only one who’s noticed the bizarre shift between her and Jonathan.

“C’mon, Nance.” Jonathan reaches over you to grab her hand, squeezing it gently. “Who knows how long until Erica knocks the Turnbows out?”

“Fine,” she finally gives in, unbuckling her seatbelt. “But we aren’t going far, alright?”

Jonathan nods, happy just to have gotten Nancy out of the car, and quickly the two of them close the doors behind them. 

Their departure eases the tension in the vehicle slightly, and you allow yourself a second to enjoy the small moment of peace. 

But Dustin and Steve waste no time ruining it.

“What the hell is going on between them?” Your brother asks the second Jonathan and Nancy leave.

You open your eyes and find both boys turned towards you with like two curious street cats. You’re immediately defensive, weary of their intentions. “What do you mean?”

“C’mon, Y/N.” Steve scoffs. “It’s obvious to anyone with eyes that they’re clearly miserable.”

“They’re one awkward hug away from becoming depressing to look at.” Dustin adds. 

You stare at them both, stunned. While you can’t say that Jonathan and Nancy have been their normal selves recently, you’re surprised that even Dustin and Steve have caught on.

“I don’t really think now is the best time to be talking about this,” you hiss at them, nervous that the couple in question could be right outside the car listening. “This feels incredibly wrong and invasive–”

“So there’s definitely something wrong with them.” Dustin concludes from your uncomfortable reaction. 

Steve nods. “I bet it’s all Byers’ fault.”

“Duh.”

“And I bet Y/N knows more than she’s willing to let on.”

“Correct again, Harrington.”

Suddenly Dustin and Steve gang up against you like brothers, nosey and annoying, and watching them fall back into their easy connection that you’ve missed so much makes you helpless against their interrogations. 

You’ll do anything for one more minute of their friendship. 

“Fine,” nervously you look out the window, making sure neither Nancy nor Jonathan are close by. “I’ll admit that there’s… something wrong with them.”

“Aha!” Steve exclaims, pointing an excited finger at you. “I knew it!”

Mortified, you push his finger away. “Shhh!”

Dustin leans forward, eager for more. “Go on. We’re listening.”

You push your hair back, suddenly too warm. “Look, I really don’t know much more than you guys. All I can tell you is that Jonathan has been really weird lately and Nancy has been incredibly distant.”

“I still think Jonathan did something.”

You glare at Steve. “You’re ridiculous.”

He smirks, ready to tease you even more, but he’s cut off by Jonathan’s quick taps on the windshield to catch everyone’s attention. “Erica gave the signal. Let’s go.”

The bright mood in the car dims once again, and without saying another word the three of you exit the car and follow after the others into the Turnbow house.

–

Hiding the bodies is the easy part, as horrifying as that sounds. 

Joyce backs the van into the Turnbow’s garage while you help Robin wrap the family in sheets. Their sleeping bodies look too similar to corpses, making your stomach twist at the thought. 

“It concerns me how many felonies I’ve committed with minors.” You choke back a gag, wrapping Tina’s small body up.

Erica rolls her eyes. “Shut up, Y/N.”

Once you have every family member safely inside the van, you knock three times on the vehicle to signal to Joyce that she can now drive off. Once she’s gone, everyone immediately gets to work. 

Rearranging the house becomes a harder task than anticipated. It’s huge, filled to the brim with expensive items and large pieces of furniture with limited time to get rid of it all.

Everyone has a designated job as you all work in silence together. You stick with Steve, Dustin, and Mike and help them set a trap for the Demogorgon. As you hammer nails into a piece of plywood, a sickening sense of deja-vu overwhelms you. 

Years ago you were in the Byers’ home doing this very same thing, preparing to face a creature you didn’t yet have a name for and you were in way over your head. You had no idea what you were getting yourself into. Back then you had been naive to the monsters that lay hidden beneath Hawkins. 

Now, as you help set a trap for a Demogorgon you’ve faced before, you still can’t help but feel that you’re biting off more than you can chew. That your naivety still haunts you. 

Once the trap has been laid, Dustin gathers everyone into the garage and hands out the necessary weapons. While none of you hope you’ll have to use them, you all recognize the reality of what may come. 

You choose to stick with your knives. They bring you comfort in a way no other weapon can. As you go upstairs and sit in a corner to sharpen the blades, a loud, metallic sound pierces your eardrums. 

“What the fuck?” You turn in your seat and find Steve wielding a large, far too dangerous chainsaw. 

“Like it?” He waves the chainsaw around as he laughs like a kid in a candy store. “Don’t I look badass?”

Mike visibly groans while you cover your ears and shout, “Turn that thing off!”

Steve obliges, though not without pouting. “Admit it, angel. I look hot carrying this.”

“Kill me.” Dustin and Jonathan gag. 

“I prefer men with all five fingers, Steve.”

Nancy snickers, holding her hand out for a high-five which you readily accept. Steve visibly deflates at your disapproval, but when Mike orders him to cut through the Turnbow’s living room floor with the chainsaw, he’s all too happy to help. 

“This is by far the weirdest thing we’ve ever done,” you stare down at the gaping hole in the floor, which leads directly into a nest of barbed wire. “And we’ve fought evil Russians before.”

“Just savor the moment, Y/N.” Dustin pats your back roughly. “We’re about to successfully trap a Demogorgon.”

–

Your feet tap nervously against the floor of Steve’s car, anxious as ever with your eyes glued to the skyline for any sign of danger. There are so many aspects of the plan that could go horribly wrong. 

Lucas could get hurt distracting the creature, or Mike could trip over his own two feet and fall into the barbed wire pit himself. 

The Demogorgon could completely run past the faux floor and not fall in, leaving you trapped in a house with it.

Or worse, Nancy could miss her only shot at the Demogorgon and fail to implant the telemetry tag, meaning all the work you put in and all the laws you broke would be for nothing.

“This is gonna work.” Dustin reassures the doubts that you don’t voice. 

You stare out the window. “It better work.” 

Holly and El are depending on the plan. 

Their lives are on the line and you’re helpless against the forces that separate you if something goes wrong tonight.

They’re just kids. 

Steve senses your worry and tries to get you to smile. “If this plan doesn’t work and I drilled a giant antenna into my car for nothing, I’m gonna kill Wheeler.”

Despite yourself, you manage a small laugh. “I think it adds character.”

“Hey.” Robin’s voice floats through the walkie. “Talk to me, guys. How’s it looking out there?”

You reach over for the device and respond. “It’s quite over here. How are the Turnbows holding up?”

“They’re still in their ‘food comas’, but I swear to god, this Demo better show up.” Robin huffs out. “If we took out an entire family for nothing, I don’t think my conscience will recover.”

“I’m really tired of committing felonies.”

Robin laughs at this. “Isn’t your boyfriend, like, super well connected with a ton of rich lawyers? I doubt Steve would ever let you anywhere near a jail cell. You’ll be fine, pretty girl.”

Steve snaps his fingers. “Damn right.”

You ignore him and continue talking to Robin. Her ability to soothe you with her soft humor comforts you. “His uncle is a lawyer, actually.”

“Even better! Although I do hope that Steve isn’t related to some douchebag who defends rich criminals, even if white collar crime sounds like a Harrington thing to do.” Robin rambles on. “I do think in this case, however, the rich douchebags would be coming for us.”

You think for a moment before responding. “Technically, I think his uncle his legally required to take a few cases pro bono, so maybe he can help us–”

“Shh!” Dustin harshly shushes you, eyes glued to his binoculars.

Your body springs to attention, leaning forward so that you can get a better look at whatever the hell he’s spotted. You squint your eyes, straining to see something, until you finally find it.

The streetlamps are flickering. 

Your fingers find your knives, pressing the base of its handle into your palm. Adrenaline courses through your veins, it rips through your ribcage and sets every cell in your body on fire. 

It’s time.

“I fucking hate doing this.” You spit out, body bracing for an impact yet to come. 

Dustin ignores you while Steve grabs the walkie from your hand.

“I think we’ve got company. It’s going south down Arlington, T-minus thirty seconds.” He informs the others. “Status check. Taggers?” 

“In position and set.” Nancy confirms. “Launcher?” 

Lucas confirms as well. “Set. Catcher?”

“Set.” Mike’s voice crackles through the walkie. “Trackers?”

You, Dustin, and Steve all look at each other. Anticipation hangs in the air.

“Set.” Steve confirms. “Let’s do this thing already.”

The channel goes quiet as everyone prepares for what’s to come. 

One by one the streetlamps flicker to life, a trail of light that slowly ebbs its way to the Turnbow’s house until suddenly the house itself begins to flash wildly. Shadows dance across its porch and windows as the lights rapidly fade in and out.

“It’s inside.” Dustin reveals to Steve. “Minimize chatter.”

He quickly relays the information to the others inside the house. “It’s inside. No one talk.”

You get out of the car, ready to run at a moment’s notice. Your muscles pull taut, aching to be released. 

Will had been right. There’s no turning back now. 

Through the window you’re able to faintly see the outline of the Demogorgon creep inside of Derek’s room. It sniffs the air, head low as it hunts for the prey you know it won’t find. The minute it reaches the foot of Derek’s bed and claws at the decoy, you run. 

Someone has to be the one to ensure Lucas makes it to the living room in time, and you’ve spent all your life running. 

Within seconds you fling the front door open and shout as loud as you can, “Run!”

You hear Lucas attacking the Demogorgon upstairs with gasoline waterballoons. You anxiously wait for him, heart in your throat, and remain on high alert as the kid comes flying down the stairs, narrowly dodging the trip wire as the monster chases him.

Its pained screams tell you the trip wire has worked, and Lucas lands next to you with a loud thud and you quickly scan his body for any injuries. “Are you alright?”

“No time to talk,” he grabs your arm and pulls you towards the living room. “We need to go!”

Just as you start to run, the Demogorgon jumps over the stair’s railing and nearly crushes you both with its body. You scream, shoving Lucas behind you and stab at it with your knives all while Lucas narrowly manages to navigate the two of you to where Mike awaits. 

Then you’re flying through the air, jumping over the carpet that hides the trap beneath it, and somehow, miraculously, the Demogorgon falls into it just as you’ve landed on the couch across. 

Only its claws grip onto the wooden floor, scratching at the panels as it fights its way back up. Mike bludgeons the monster with a shovel in an attempt to get it to surrender to the inevitable. 

“Get him!” You shout alongside Lucas, hands braced on your knives in case you need to use them. 

With one last blow, Mike sends the Demogorgon down into the Turnbow’s basement where the barbed wires and Nancy and Jonathan await. It writhes in pain, stuck in the painful wire, and in its torture it doesn’t see the shotgun that Nancy aims at its defenseless body. 

The shot echoes within the house and embeds the tracker into its thick skin. The Demogorgon doesn’t have time to register its pain before Jonathan throws a lit flare at it, devouring the monster in flames. 

Just as you think the Demogorgon will finally succumb to its wounds, it thows its body back up towards you, Mike, and Lucas as it screeches in pain. The heat of its flame infested body sears your skin as Mike pushes you out of its way, attacking it with his shovel.

“Get him, Mike!” Lucas screams from the other side, unable to do anything else but watch. 

You lunge at the creature, slicing through its armoured skin as you try desperately to ignore the burning sensation that coats the whites of your knuckles. All you focus on is protecting Mike. Nothing else matters.

The Demogorgon unexpectedly throws its body towards Lucas, and you scream his name so loud that it tears through your vocal chords. He only just barely dodges the monster’s attack before a gate tears open in the wall and the Demogorgon slips inside, making its escape.

“It flipped! I repeat, it flipped!” Mike screams into his walkie before frantically turning to you. “Go follow it, now!”

You flee the house with Nancy and Jonathan right behind you. The three of you throw yourselves into the back of Steve’s car, long past the uncomfortable sensation of being so close together as adrenaline eats you alive. 

“Where is it?” Jonathan demands the second he slides into the seat.

Dustin waves his arm around. “Give me a second!”

Everyone shuts up as he carefully angles the antenna to catch any signal he can find. “Bearing northwest and fast.” Dustin tells Steve, signaling him to start driving.

Steve turns the key, but the engine sputters and groans. “C’mon, work with me here.”

“The Demogorgon is tagged and released.” Dustin clings onto the antenna, radioing everyone your every move. “Trackers in pursuit. Repeat, trackers in pursuit.” He gestures wildly at Steve, who still hasn’t gotten the car to start. “Hit it!”

Your body gets thrown against the seat as Steve accelerates down the road far faster than he should. One more law broken tonight.

“Signal is holding. Keep steady… Holding…” Dustin’s eyes never leave the decibel meter until he abruptly instructs, “Turn right!”

“Right?” Bewilderment covers Steve’s face. There isn’t any road to the right.

“Right! Turn right!” A crazed glint overtakes Dustin’s eyes. “Now!”

Not having any time to argue, Steve blindly jerks the steering wheel and barrels through several fences and mailboxes. The car jumps and lurches at every collision and you have to cling desperately onto Nancy and Jonathan to avoid flying through the windshield. 

“Sorry!” Steve shouts over and over with every bush and curb he hits.

Your stomach twists into painful knots as nausea overwhelms you.

You really didn’t miss the car chases. 

“We’re going to crash!” Jonathan wraps you in his arms, barely clinging onto his own seat as Steve hits yet another fence. “Jesus!”

“Dustin said turn right!” Steve screeches back, hitting his head against the roof after the car runs over something else. 

But Dustin ignores the pained screams and panic. Instead he studies the decibel meter and when the signal suddenly seems to weaken, he silences everyone in the car. “Shut up! Stop! We need to stop right here!”

Steve slams on the brakes and Nancy has to catch your body before you face plant into the center console. “Fuck!”

“Goddamn it, Henderson!” Steve hits the steering wheel in frustration. “What are we doing?”

“We lost the signal!” Dustin erratically steers the antenna in every possible direction.

Dread fills your lungs with every passing second. Have you gotten it all wrong? Did Vecna manage to win again? Will Holly’s blood stain your hands the way her mother’s did? The way Max’s stain still lingers?

“I got it!” Dustin’s voice breaks you from your terror. “It’s headed southeast now.”

“Southeast?” That’s the complete other way you were originally going. “Why would it go–”

You’re unable to finish your sentence before Steve propels the car into reverse, following the signal before it’s lost again. “Hang on!”

“But why would it turn around?” You lean forward as far as you dare, hands gripping the seat tightly as you force Dustin to look at you and reckon with the question that haunts you. “Where is it going?”

“I don’t know,” your brother confesses, risking looking away from the decibel meter to catch your eye. “I’m sorry, Y/N. But I don’t know where the hell this thing is going.”

None of it makes sense. “There’s nothing east except…”

Hawkins urban development predominately took over the west side of the city when it was first established. The west is where all the stores, houses, and schools are. 

But east of Hawkins has remained untouched, rural ever since your mother was a child. While the rest of the city grew and expanded, the east kept its trees and farmland.

Then it hits you like a truck. “The farm!”

The Demogorgon is leading you straight towards the McCorkle farm, where Will and others are. It was supposed to be a refuge for them. A place to hide the Turnbows. A place to be utterly defenseless. 

And now there’s a Demogorgon hunting for blood, running right towards them.

-

⌑ series masterlist

⌑ if youd like to buy me a coffee ☕︎

All good stories started with a kiss.

In the version you found yourself trapped inside, it came in the form of tangled hands, stolen breaths and mouths crashing together with weeks of restrained frustration behind them. Your marketing lanyard swung wildly against your chest before catching between your bodies, the plastic clip snapping with a sharp crack neither of you acknowledged as Dean backed you into one of the arena's forgotten offices. The door barely had time to click shut before his hands found you again, your own disappearing into hair that had looked impossibly perfect only minutes earlier for a sponsor photoshoot and now sat hopelessly disheveled beneath your impatient fingers. 

Somewhere beyond the walls, people were counting down until they needed their star defenseman back in front of the cameras, smiling for a brand deal that would add another paycheck to a bank account already far healthier than yours. Meanwhile, everything that defined your own worth had slipped from your neck and landed face up on the floor. The cracked plastic ID card attached to the broken lanyard rested somewhere beneath the desk as he lifted you onto it, your legs instinctively making room for him while your foreheads brushed between hurried kisses, every breath filling your lungs with the clean scent of soap, cologne and melting rink ice that seemed to cling to him no matter where he was.

The scratched photograph staring back from that abandoned ID badge never failed to remind you how little the card itself was worth, what mattered was everything it represented. A scholarship, a tuition you couldn't pay yourself and opportunities you had spent years earning. One careless mistake could cost infinitely more than a piece of plastic ever would and unlike Dean, there was no comfortable safety net waiting beneath you. You couldn't afford to lose any of it, not for one reckless evening or for a few stolen afternoons, not even for the man who seemed determined to make every sensible decision feel unbearably difficult.

All good stories were supposed to start with a kiss. 

Giving in to temptation wasn't usually part of the opening chapter…which was exactly how you knew yours would probably be as short-lived as a social media caption.

“Did you draft it?” Jules' voice drifted over from somewhere behind you, followed by the soft thud of the refrigerator door closing, the ordinary sound pulling you back into the present so abruptly your shoulders jerked.

You blinked and you were back on a stool at the hockey house kitchen island, your laptop open in front of you, notebook half-filled with scribbled ideas, one hand loosely wrapped around a mug that had long since gone cold. 

Your gaze had wandered through the large windows overlooking the backyard, where the boys were running drills beneath the afternoon sun. It wasn't an official practice, just one of those extra sessions they insisted on organizing themselves, chasing each other across the grass with the same competitive energy they brought onto the ice. When you'd first started working with Jules, watching the boys had been painfully distracting. Months later, it had become little more than background noise, at least until one particular player decided to make looking away impossible.

“What?” You finally turned toward Jules, they were staring at you like you'd just arrived on the planet, entirely elsewhere, exactly where you'd been.

“The post the team needs to review,” they reminded you, twisting the cap off their energy drink before taking a long sip. The sharp hiss of carbonation filled the brief silence between you. “It goes up tomorrow morning. I thought you had it handled.”

Your eyes dropped to the laptop sitting open in front of you, then to the neatly organized to-do list beside it, every task carefully color-coded, several already crossed off in your tidy handwriting. Your cursor blinked patiently over an unfinished caption, waiting for your attention with far more discipline than your mind had managed all afternoon. You nodded once to yourself before looking back up. “I do, yeah.” You reached for the mouse defensively. “I'll have it ready before tonight, I swear.”

Jules chuckled softly, following your line of sight toward the backyard where another burst of laughter drifted in through the cracked kitchen window. They motioned outside with the can still in their hand. “No one's going to blame you for indulging in a little peek.”

“I wasn't–” You stopped yourself halfway through the denial, letting out a tired breath instead as both hands dragged slowly down your face. There was no point pretending anymore. “I appreciate you doing this for me,” you said, dropping your hands as you met their concerned eyes. They'd been covering for your wandering attention for nearly two weeks now, gently nudging you back on track every time your thoughts drifted somewhere they had no business going. “I still remember begging professors for extra credits anywhere I could get them, praying something would count toward my degree, and this…” Your hand gestured vaguely toward the laptop, the content calendar, the stacks of marketing reports spread across the island. “This is more than perfect. I get to put my soon-to-be digital marketing diploma to work before I even graduate. I just need to stick around long enough to earn it.” You gave them a small, apologetic smile. “Me being distracted shouldn't end up doubling your workload.”

They answered with a quiet huff of laughter, shaking their head as they leaned back against the counter. “Relax. We're partners, remember?” they said. “Your scholarship's safe and I wouldn't admit this to my brother if you paid me, but they’re incredible. You know how to make people care, how to make the rest of campus see the team the way they deserve to be seen.” Their expression softened as they looked at you more carefully. “It's also okay to admit that sometimes you need to stop thinking like you're at work.” They paused before asking, “When's the last time you actually had fun? Took a few liberties?”

Your eyes drifted away, settling somewhere beyond the kitchen windows without actually seeing the boys outside. Instead, your mind supplied a different picture entirely, one of Dean’s hands, the frantic rhythm of your heartbeat, the effortless way your mouths had found each other after weeks of pretending they wouldn't, the warmth of his breath against your skin and the quiet sounds he'd failed to swallow. Your lips felt strangely dry as you unconsciously wet them, guilt settling heavier in your stomach with every passing second.

“Can't afford any more liberties,” you replied quietly.

The sliding door to the backyard rolled open, immediately flooding the kitchen with laughter, overlapping conversations and the heavy scent of fresh-cut grass mixed with sweat. 

One by one, the boys poured inside after training, still catching their breath as they made a beeline for the fridge or the pantry. Water bottles were grabbed on instinct, cabinet doors opened and closed in quick succession as packet after packet of Liquid I.V. disappeared into bottles efficiently. 

Ever since the team's partnership with the brand, the house had become an unofficial storage unit for the stuff. 

“Thought you hated doing that photoshoot,” Jules called toward Dean as he tore open one of the packets with his teeth before emptying it into his bottle. 

Dean only shrugged, shaking the mixture until the powder dissolved. “Well, I got paid,” he replied with an easy grin before taking a long drink and letting out a satisfied sigh. Damp strands of hair clung to his forehead, his T-shirt darkened with sweat across his chest and back, every muscle still carrying the slight fullness that came after a hard workout. “And we can't let the stock go to waste.” His eyes found you before he finished speaking, lingering only for you to feel them without looking. “Besides...” You heard the smile slip into his voice. “That day wasn't all so bad.” 

Heat prickled across the back of your neck a split second before he stepped in behind you, close enough that you caught the clean scent of body wash fighting against sweat as he leaned over your shoulder to look at your laptop screen. “You in charge of picking the pictures this week?” 

Your throat tightened as your fingers hovered over the keyboard. “You'll have to use your connections for that one,” you answered evenly. “I don't work for the brand.” 

“Mmm.” The quiet hum came from much closer than it should have. Around you, Garrett argued with Logan over whose water bottle was whose, Tucker laughed loud enough to shake the cabinets and Jules was already reminding someone to throw empty packets away instead of leaving them on the counter.

The noise wrapped around you both like a curtain, giving Dean room to lower his voice another notch. “What's with the tone?” he asked softly. 

You closed the laptop with a careful click before turning your head merely to acknowledge him. “I'm not a music major,” you said matter-of-factly, “but I'm pretty sure your vocal cords have to vibrate for sound to come out... meaning we've all got tones, if you want to get technical.”

A quiet laugh escaped him. “And an attitude too,” he observed, clearly entertained until Garrett bumped his shoulder to pull him back. 

“Are we still on for tonight?” Garrett asked you with an easy smile. Your eyes quickly dropped to the to-do list lying beside your laptop, mentally scanning every note you'd written that morning in search of whatever plans you'd apparently committed to. 

“What's going on tonight?” Dean asked from somewhere beside you, the last few words muffled as he tipped his bottle back for another drink. 

“Going out with Hannah,” Garrett answered with a grin.

“And you got Y/n to be the third wheel?” Logan asked from his spot on the counter, already wearing an apologetic smile as he looked your way. “You think you know someone–”

Garrett only grinned further with a shake of his head, entirely unbothered. “If you saw those two together, you'd know I'm the one third wheeling.” His expression softened for a brief moment, the smile turning fond. “I'm just the driver, they're the date.”

“Means the house is gonna be empty tonight,” Tucker chimed in from the pantry, rummaging through shelves already overflowing with protein bars, pasta and enough groceries to feed the entire roster for three weeks. He pointed around the room as he listed everyone off. “Logan and I are out of town, Jules is going to a party, Garrett's busy making sure Y/n and Hannah don't end up making tomorrow's headlines…” His gaze landed squarely on Dean, whose grin only widened. “And Dean–” Tucker narrowed his eyes. “You better not throw a party in this house. I never agreed to clean up your disasters and this pantry needs to survive until the end of the week. I've got meals planned unless you're volunteering to starve.”

Dean raised both hands in surrender, looking entirely too innocent to be believable. “Don't worry,” he said with an easy smile. “My mouth'll be occupied.”

Jules winced. “That's disgusting,” they muttered under their breath.

Your stomach tightened, nausea creeping up your throat as your fingers curled a little tighter around the edge of your closed laptop.

“What the hell does that mean?” Logan asked, genuine confusion written across his face.

Silence settled over the kitchen, every pair of eyes moved toward Dean except for yours, the only sound left was the quiet hum of the refrigerator. Before anyone could answer, the sharp chime of the front doorbell echoed through the house and once again, every head turned instinctively, yours included.

Dean chuckled under his breath, setting his water bottle beside your laptop and notebook before making his way across the kitchen. “You guys better move your plans up,” he called over his shoulder, one hand already resting on the doorknob. “Otherwise you'll be getting an earful of mine.”

He pulled the door open and standing on the porch was a woman you recognized, though you couldn't place from where, maybe campus, the library or one of the parties you'd attended before life became too complicated to enjoy them. She smiled the moment she saw him, stepping inside without hesitation and Dean greeted her just as naturally, leaning down to kiss her deeply and thoroughly before she could even set one foot fully into the house.

Your chest tightened.

“Perfect timing,” Dean murmured against her smile before taking her hand and guiding her toward the staircase. Halfway there, he glanced back at the rest of you, amusement dancing across his face. “You guys know how bathroom acoustics work, right?” He flashed an effortless grin. “It’s every man for himself now.”

He gave a lazy salute before taking the stairs two at a time, the girl's laughter trailing behind them as they disappeared onto the second floor, leaving the kitchen wrapped in an uncomfortable silence no one seemed eager to break.

You quietly slid off the stool and began gathering your belongings with fingers that suddenly felt clumsy. Your notebook disappeared into your bag crookedly, pens tossed in without their usual order before you snapped the zipper shut and swung the strap over your shoulder. 

They all lived with him, they didn't have the luxury of escaping whatever chaos Dean chose to bring through the front door but you did. You weren't tied to him, you weren't obligated to stay and as much as your body seemed intent on proving otherwise, you could still leave before your imagination filled in the blanks your ears would inevitably hear. 

“Uh...you guys stay safe,” you murmured, forcing your voice to stay light. “Or invest in immediate shipping for some high-end noise-cancelling headphones. I'd like to keep my sanity intact.” 

Jules reached dramatically across the island toward you, fingers stretching as though they might actually catch your sleeve. “Take me with you.” 

As you walked toward the front door, a smile tugged at your lips but it never reached your eyes. “Don't pull a double Van Gogh on me,” you warned before pulling the door open and slipping outside, letting it swing shut behind you with a quiet click. 

The evening air hit your face like permission to breathe again. You remained there for a moment, your back pressed against the closed door as you drew in one slow breath after another, searching for the exact point where everything had gone wrong. 

Somewhere between harmless banter and lingering glances, between shared jokes and stolen moments and between complicity and wanting. Friendship had become messy and somewhere along the way you'd let yourself believe you could keep your footing. 

You couldn't anymore, it was finally time to admit what had been clawing at your chest for weeks. It was jealousy, raw, ugly and entirely undeserved jealousy, tangled together with a dread that settled deeper and deeper into your stomach, as though it were trying to bury itself before it reached your heart and poisoned that too. 

Your heart had never been meant to outrank your head, not when your future depended on keeping the two separate. Yet no matter how hard you tried, you couldn't stop picturing what might be happening upstairs. The images followed you long after you left the hockey house, lingering through the drive, through dinner and every laugh Hannah managed to coax out of you. You smiled when you were supposed to, accepted another drink when it was offered, nodded through conversations you barely heard, but your body carried the weight of thoughts you refused to give a voice and by the end of the night it ached with the aftermath of grief you hadn't realized you were capable of feeling.

You ended up backing out of the plans halfway through the evening, insisting Garrett and Hannah deserved some time alone and that you still had reports to finish before morning. None of it was a lie, they had barely seen each other all week, your deadlines were very real and there were still posts to schedule before sunrise. 

What you conveniently left out was that your mind hadn't stopped racing since you walked out of the hockey house. It kept circling the same thoughts, trying to calculate probabilities you had no idea how to solve, weighing every possible outcome and escape route, every reason why you should walk away before this became something you couldn't control. 

You'd always trusted logic more than feelings but lately the numbers refused to add up. 

The library remained open despite the late hour, yet your feet carried you somewhere else. Your apartment was only a few blocks from the bar but instead you found yourself sitting on the front steps of the boys' house, your laptop balanced across your knees as its pale glow illuminated your face against the darkness. The porch light buzzed softly overhead, attracting moths that threw fluttering shadows across the railing while the quiet neighborhood settled around you. 

You never knocked, as far as anyone inside knew, the porch was empty. At least, that had been your reasoning. 

There was logic behind your decision, enough to satisfy the part of your brain that insisted everything needed a practical explanation. From there you could connect to the house printer through the shared network, send tomorrow's social media reports straight to Jules and spare them another string of late-night notifications. It was efficient, somewhat professional and entirely innocent. 

Your fingers moved steadily over the keyboard, the familiar rhythm of typing gradually slowing your breathing as your attention narrowed to captions, engagement metrics and scheduling windows. You became so absorbed in rearranging tomorrow's content calendar that the front door opening barely registered. 

By the time it did, your heart had already dropped, recognizing his presence before your ears caught his voice. “Been waiting for you to knock,” Dean said quietly. “Or just walk right in.” 

You didn't look up. Your fingertips stumbled across the keys for barely a heartbeat before continuing to type as though nothing had happened. The screen reflected in your eyes while his footsteps drew closer, slow and unhurried, until the wooden steps creaked beneath his weight. 

He lowered himself onto the stair beside yours with a quiet groan, forearms resting on his knees as though he'd been invited there. Only then did it occur to you that the house had a doorbell camera and he hadn't simply opened the door at random. There was every chance he'd been watching you sit there for the past several minutes, patiently waiting to see whether you'd gather the courage to come inside.

“Thought you had company,” you replied absentmindedly, your attention never quite leaving the screen balanced across your knees. Your shoulders sat barely inches apart, close enough that your arms nearly brushed every time either of you moved. Heat radiated from him into the cool night air, the contrast impossible to ignore. He looked like he'd only just climbed out of bed, a loose Briar T-shirt hanging from his frame, soft gray sweatpants sitting low on his hips and hair still tousled from whatever pillow it had been pressed into. There wasn't a trace of the polished athlete from sponsorship shoots or game nights. 

A quiet laugh escaped him. “My kind of Six Flags doesn't sell night passes.” The joke landed softly before he let the silence settle between you instead of rushing to fill it. His head tipped slightly, studying your profile with growing concern as he waited for even the smallest reaction. 

He'd felt the distance creeping in over the past couple of weeks but every time he reached for an explanation, he'd landed on the same conclusion, it was merely a matter of school and deadlines, the pressure you put on yourself to earn every opportunity instead of simply accepting it. 

He admired that about you more than he'd ever managed to admit. You worked harder than anyone he knew, carried responsibilities none of the guys on the team had ever been forced to consider and somehow still showed up every day with another idea, another campaign and another plan. From where Dean sat, you were chasing a future you deserved more than anyone…and he wasn't sure what place he had in it. 

Gently, he nudged your arm with his elbow. “Something wrong?”

The question almost made you laugh. He dared ask as though he wasn't the very thing unraveling every carefully laid plan you'd built for yourself. As though the problem wasn't sitting beside you in sweatpants, smelling faintly of laundry detergent and body wash, making it impossible to remember why you'd come here in the first place. You kept clicking distractedly between tabs, trying to focus on anything but him until his eyes caught the title sitting open across the top of one document.

Resignation letter.

You saw the exact moment he noticed it. His relaxed posture disappeared, shoulders straightening as he sat upright on the step. He didn't ask if something was wrong again since the answer was already staring back at him.

“I'm way in over my head,” you admitted quietly after another failed attempt to connect to the house printer. You clicked ‘Print’ again, watched the loading icon spin uselessly before disappearing and sighed through your nose. “It just took me way too long to realize it.”

“About what?”

“This job.” You finally closed the printer window, your fingers resting motionless on the keyboard. “I should be focusing on my grades. On getting through the baseline credits instead of chasing every opportunity that comes my way because I think it'll look better on a fucking résumé.” Your eyes stayed fixed on the screen, unwilling to risk meeting his. “I'm spending time I don't have, trying to prove I deserve to be here at all when I should be proving it in the classroom.”

Dean frowned. “Did I do something?” The question came faster than he'd probably planned, genuine worry replacing the easy confidence he'd walked outside with. “I know I say stupid shit sometimes and not all of it lands the way I think it does, but…”

You shook your head, your attention fixed stubbornly on reconnecting your laptop to the printer instead of acknowledging the far more complicated disconnect sitting beside you. The loading wheel spun, failed and spun again, giving your hands something to do while your thoughts threatened to unravel. “You didn't do anything I didn't let you do first,” you said quietly. “I should've known better. There are lines that shouldn't be crossed.”

“Is this about the kiss?” he asked suddenly.

The question stole the air from your lungs. You finally turned to look at him, eyes meeting his for the first time since he'd come outside. He looked prepared, as though he'd been carrying the beginning of a speech around with him for days, waiting for the right moment to finally say it. You could practically see the words lined up behind his eyes and that made your chest tighten even more. 

Whatever he was about to say would only reinforce the conclusion you'd already reached. You didn't need him to twist the knife any deeper. “I know it shouldn't be,” you murmured, giving a small nod more for your own benefit than his. “I don't need you to tell me that.” Your gaze slipped away again, landing on the street stretching beyond the porch where pools of amber light spilled from the streetlamps onto the pavement. Cars passed only occasionally, their headlights sweeping briefly across the neighborhood before disappearing into the night. After several long beats of silence, you spoke again, your voice so quiet it nearly disappeared with the breeze. “Is it fun?”

The words caught in your throat despite every effort to steady them.

Dean frowned again then shook his head once. “You can't make this about you. This isn't what you want, believe me.” His eyes stayed on you, searching for something that might convince you to believe him. Being desired had never been the problem, he'd spent years hiding behind easy smiles and meaningless hookups because they were simple, predictable and temporary. He liked knowing he could leave before anyone expected more, liked never giving someone enough of himself to stay long enough to disappoint them. It wasn't fun so much as familiar.

“You have no idea what I want,” you replied, forcing yourself to meet his eyes again despite every instinct telling you to look away.

“I know it shouldn't be this,” he answered carefully, giving the smallest shrug.

A humorless laugh escaped you. “You're right.” You nodded to yourself as your gaze drifted back toward the empty street, trying desperately to picture the finish line you'd been chasing for years. Graduation, a career and financial stability, all part of a future earned entirely on your own. If you could just hold that image firmly, maybe it would drown out everything else, maybe it would be enough. “There are things I want more,” you said softly. “And heartbreak isn't one of them.”

You lowered the lid of your laptop with a soft click and pushed yourself to your feet.

“Walking away from something you're good at isn't either.” His voice caught you before you'd managed a single step away from the porch. “Especially because of me.” He pushed himself to his feet as well, whatever confidence usually lived in his posture was nowhere to be found. His hands hovered uselessly at his sides before disappearing into the pockets of his sweatpants, as though even they didn't know what to do. “I'll stop talking. I'll keep my eyes down...I'll quit teasing you if it makes you stay.”

A short, disbelieving scoff escaped you before you could stop it. You turned back toward him, tightening your grip on your laptop. “Wouldn't that just make things easier for you?” you asked, your brows drawing together. “Is that why you do it?” You searched his face, looking for the answer you'd already convinced yourself existed. “It's like you expect to disappoint people eventually, no matter what. You give them exactly what they want, let them think they might get something tangible and then...” You shrugged, the motion carrying far more exhaustion than anger. “You pull away before they have the chance to ask for more…before they realize they already want it.”

Dean stood there for a long moment, jaw tightening as his eyes dropped briefly to the porch beneath his feet. When he finally looked back up, there wasn't a trace of amusement left on his face. He lifted a hand and motioned vaguely toward himself with a small, self-deprecating gesture. “I don't have much more to offer,” he admitted. “Especially when it comes to love.”

You frowned slightly, one shoulder lifting in a small shrug as you tried to find the right words without letting them turn sharp. “Why would you?” you asked quietly. “You keep letting it elude you.” 

Your eyes dropped to your shoes, focusing on the cracks between the porch boards as you gathered your thoughts. You shouldn't have been angry at him and the worst part was that you weren't. Dean had never promised you anything, he hadn't lied or asked you to expect more than what he was willing to give. You just needed somewhere to place the disappointment, someone to blame for the ache sitting heavily in your chest, because you couldn't let that person be the one staring back at you in the mirror every morning. 

You stepped back once, then again, putting space between the two of you as though distance could make everything clearer. “Listen...this isn't a ‘you’ or ‘me’ thing, okay?” Your fingers tightened further around your laptop as you looked back at him. “I read it wrong…I always want more. I have this hunger for life and success that doesn't turn off and it's the one thing I can chase without being afraid because I know I can deliver.” A small, humorless smile touched your lips. “Expecting that if I just work hard enough, nothing can get in my way is probably my only character flaw.” 

Dean blinked, watching as you moved farther away, the motion-activated lights along the walkway flickering on one by one and illuminating the space between you until the entire scene felt strangely unreal. For a second, with the empty street behind you and the warm glow outlining your figure, it looked too perfect for an ending. 

“There's nothing flawed about you,” he said, shaking his head as he took a step forward, then another, unwilling to let the distance settle. “Nothing.” 

You nodded slowly. There was no anger left in your voice, only the acceptance of something you'd already decided would hurt before it even began. “There is,” you replied softly. “And it starts with wanting you.”

You turned and walked away, not allowing yourself the luxury of looking back. A tear slipped down your cheek somewhere between the porch and your car, disappearing before you could even decide whether to wipe it away. 

This wasn't abandonment, it was protection, a choice made before something already fragile became impossible to repair. If the scholarship was meant to be yours, it would remain yours through whatever effort you put forward away from the house you were leaving behind. The Fifth Line would survive with one less person behind its screens, one less person organizing posts and analyzing engagement numbers and making sure the team looked exactly the way they wanted the world to see them. 

But everything with your name attached to it required you to show up as yourself, clear-headed and focused, not constantly fighting against feelings you couldn't afford to have. Your career was the one thing you trusted completely, the one thing you knew would reward the effort you gave it…The only thing you knew would love you back.

All good stories ended with love…they just never advertised where it came from.