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cherienymphe · 11 months

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Basic Training VII (Peter Parker x Reader)

Warnings: NON-CON acts, DUB-CON acts, MURDER, violence, kidnapping, captivity, public sex, degradation, forced pregnancy, forced marriage, stockholm syndrome, ptsd, housewife kink, cop!Peter

➥ banner by @vase-of-lilies | divider by @whimsicalrogers

➥ series masterlist

summary: A pit stop during a road trip ends tragically when a small town cop sets his sights on you. You’re the newest addition in a long standing fucked up family tradition.

Keeping track of the days wasn’t hard. Night and day announced themselves with the setting of the sun and the rising of the moon. It was strange how it failed to feel monotonous, each day so different from the one before despite doing so many of the same tasks. You helped with breakfast in the morning, yes, and you ate dinner with the entire house every evening, but the activities in between weren’t always the same.

It was only just the other day that you’d been shown the nursery, a modest room that had been decorated by the wives and would serve as a classroom from what you’d been told.

Faced with another visualization of how permanent this all was made you lightheaded. You knew why you were being shown these things, why you were slowly being exposed to more and more of what your life here was expected to be. It felt depressing, but not as much as it should’ve been.

After all, at least you knew what the rest of your life would look like…even if it was some sick man’s fantasy.

You hadn’t had another incident with Steve since the vase debacle. You hadn’t been able to do your household tasks for a week, and even when you rejoined the other wives, you found yourself wincing here and there. You got the feeling that Steve had long wanted to punish you, ever since that incident in the kitchen, and while you still felt heavily watched, like you’d try to make a run for it any minute…

Peter was around more, now.

You didn’t like Peter. You were sure you never would, but you couldn’t deny the security you felt in his presence. You couldn’t ignore how much safer you felt all the while knowing that he was just a few rooms away. Sometimes when you were cooking or cleaning or even just attending to some vegetables in the greenhouse, you’d look over your shoulder and make eye contact with a familiar brown pair.

The relief you’d feel was something you didn’t want to focus on.

Sometimes he’d even take over for Jane or Margaret and would take it upon himself to show you how something was done instead. He was the one to show you the nursery/playroom, following close behind him as he prattled on about it. Maybe he’d seen the slight fear in your eyes, the combination of defeat and nervousness as you stared your future in the face.

…because Peter had reached out to take your hand, squeezing it.

Something about his presence had become like a shield. Like protection against Steve and anything else you feared in the house, so dependent upon it that when you woke up for the first time in a while, and Peter wasn’t there, you felt your heart drop. You were fully awake in seconds, sitting up in a slight panic and taking in his empty side of the bed. It wasn’t made, and it was still warm, telling you he wasn’t gone long.

The bathroom light was off, and you didn’t know where he could’ve gone, but when you looked outside the window, you were rewarded with the sight of him. You felt your shoulders relax, but your heart did pause at the sight of Steve and Bucky with him. All three were talking in the yard. About what, you didn’t know, but you didn’t think you were able to go back to sleep until it was time to get up again.

It was too early to get started on breakfast, so you weren’t surprised by the silence of the house when you left your room. You could even faintly hear the cry of an infant coming from somewhere on the other side of the household. It felt surreal to be up so early. With the sun just barely peeking over the horizon, the calm atmosphere, and the faint sound of a child, the place almost seemed like…a home.

You weren’t really thinking much when you approached the backdoor, not even questioning if it would even be unlocked. You guessed you just assumed it would be seeing as Peter and the other two were outside. When you opened the door, it was clear that the sound had caught their attention, all three halting in what they were saying.

You shuddered when your gaze briefly met Steve’s, quickly looking away when it fell on Bucky instead. You gave Peter your attention as you unsurely stood in the doorway, not quite certain on how to voice your need for Peter to come back. You didn’t want to be alone. You didn’t like being alone, and as Peter quickly made his way to you, as if afraid you’d take off at any moment, you felt your eyes water at how ridiculous you were being.

“You know you can’t be out here-.”

“I’m not,” you hurried to say, keen to point out that you hadn’t even stepped outside lest Steve try to use the technicality as a reason for punishment. “I woke up, and you were…”

You trailed off, taking a step back, eyes finding the floor. You felt Peter’s hands on your shoulders as he tried to look into your eyes, and you swallowed, shrugging.

“You weren’t there.”

Peter seemed to understand what you were saying, and you heard him softly exhale. He stepped inside with you, embarrassment filling you for so many reasons, quickly looking away when your gaze caught Bucky’s as Peter shut the door behind him.

“I’m sorry-.”

“Don’t be sorry,” he assured you, guiding you back upstairs. “You just scared me, is all. You’re not allowed outside yet, so you were the last person I was expecting to see.”

You hadn’t even been able to focus on the feel of air and sunlight on your skin for the first time in months. It was something you should’ve been soaking up, cherishing before you were forced inside again, but instead, you’d only been able to focus on how much you didn’t want to be alone.

“Is Steve…? Will he…punish me for that?” you quietly asked as Peter closed the bedroom door behind you both.

“No, no,” he said with a shake of his head. “I’ll talk to him.”

He rubbed your arms before leading you towards the bed, and you made yourself comfortable. You felt the need to apologize again, feeling like you’d still done something wrong by basically dragging Peter back to bed. You frowned at your word choice, something twisting uncomfortably in your gut.

“What were you talking about?”

The question came out before you could really think about it, and Peter paused at the sound of it, looking at you with a look you couldn’t name, and you swore you saw the hint of a smile on his lips before it disappeared.

“Just something Thor did the other day,” Peter eventually told you. “He’s a very unserious guy.”

Peter chuckled at a memory you weren’t privy to, and you nodded.

It wasn’t lost on you that everyone in the house seemed to have the kind of relationships with each other that you hadn’t quite mastered yet. Truthfully, you didn’t know how any of the men knew each other, but they all seemed as thick as thieves. Not even just that, but you noticed how at ease Laura seemed around Sam or Nat around Stephen or Sharon around Clint. They all seemed so familiar and comfortable with each other.

Like a family.

It was hard for you to view this place as anything close to that. After all, these women were here the same way you were, but Margaret had been here for years and seemed to find genuine enjoyment in her relationship with Steve despite how cruel he was. Peter wasn’t half as cruel as him, so that only made you wonder what would become of you in three years’ time. Sometimes you didn’t want to think about that too hard, afraid of what answer you’d come up with.

You knew that you were weak, and you were genuinely scared that you might not be able to even recognize yourself.

It was sometime after breakfast had been made, when you were hidden away in the greenhouse, when Peter called for you. Afraid that you’d gotten into trouble for something, you’d quickly risen to your feet. You could feel Nat’s eyes on you as you stumbled into the house, voice shaky.

“Yes?”

Despite your nervousness, your voice had carried, and it wasn’t long before Peter rounded the corner.

He wasn’t alone.

The man with him had dark hair, but it was greying ever so slightly, and simple glasses framed his face. He and Peter were about the same height, and you warily eyed the strange man as they both approached you. You brushed some dirt off of you, swallowing.

“Am I in trouble?”

Peter seemed slightly taken aback by your question before quickly shaking his head, gaze softening.

“No,” he told you, reaching for you. “Bruce is our call-in doctor. He helps with all the births and health visits. We just figured it was time for a physical. Make sure you’re healthy and all…”

You were looking between them as Peter relayed this all to you, and you found yourself wondering if the doctor…knew. You wanted to believe that he didn’t, but then again, you never thought so many horrible men could congregate in one place and cohabitate with one another and their sick ideals. What was one more horrible man?

“It’s okay,” Peter softly assured you with a hand on your back as he guided you upstairs. “He’s just going to take some urine and blood samples.”

“Blood?”

You had questioned that before Peter even finished, eyes wide as you remembered your last…run-in with blood. The mention of the red substance had you feeling spacey, and for the first time in what felt like too long, you had a brief recollection of your friends…and the sight of their bloody bodies.

“Woah, woah, woah,” Peter murmured as he grabbed hold of you, quick to do so when you started swaying. “It’s okay…”

He helped you sit on the bed, and you eyed the other man as he came into the room.

“Dr. Banner will be quick. He’s efficient like that. Isn’t that right, Bruce?”

His agreement didn’t make you feel better, and you frowned when Peter spoke about getting the blood out of the way first. You couldn’t take your eyes off of the other man as he approached, heart racing at the sight of the needle. Your lips trembled, but before you could see him do anything, Peter took it upon himself to cup your chin, turning you to face him instead.

“Don’t look at him,” he murmured, brown eyes studying yours. “Just keep your eyes on me.”

Peter’s fingers brushed along your skin when you felt the pinch, and you struggled to swallow.

“Did the others have to do this?”

Peter hummed an affirmative, softly smiling at you. His other hand came up to stroke your cheek, and when you felt relief in your arm, his smile grew.

“You did so good,” he praised before looking at Dr. Banner.

You felt Peter’s hand trailing to your neck, massaging the crook of it where it met your shoulder as the other man searched for the cup you were meant to pee into, murmuring about needing to check up on Jane too.

“Thor used to come into my job, sometimes…”

Jane’s voice was very low in the greenhouse, her careful eyes on the door as she recounted her history with the God-like blond. Talking about your previous lives or anything close to it wasn’t encouraged, but after Jane had told you her ‘good news’, a hand on her stomach with a smile, you hadn’t been able to stop yourself from asking.

“I always thought he was handsome…funny…a little too optimistic, at times, but very sweet…”

There was something in her eyes you couldn’t quite place, something in her memories that made her smile dim some. If you had to guess, you’d say it was the memories and feelings of a time before she knew what Thor was really like. A time where she was just an innocent woman with a crush on a seemingly innocent man, unable to imagine the hell he’d put her through.

“He finally asked me out, and of course, I said yes.”

Her face fell some, and she sighed.

“As he was driving me home…I got lightheaded…drowsy…and then I woke up downstairs.”

You frowned at that, somewhat horrified that Jane had known Thor prior to this. Peter was a complete stranger, someone you had never even seen before, and you couldn’t imagine being subjected to this by someone you knew. Someone you trusted, your eyes burned with tears as you looked at Jane, but either out of genuineness or a practiced way of coping, a smile was already on her face again.

“That was… Well, it feels like a lifetime ago,” she slowly said, shaking her head. “…but, now we’re married, and I’m pregnant.”

She rubbed her stomach again, and you felt your own turn.

“Don’t you ever think about leaving?”

Your question was barely audible, fearful of anyone overhearing, but Jane heard you all the same.

“Not anymore,” she honestly told you. “It seemed…pointless. Masochistic to torture myself like that.”

You took a deep breath, heavily exhaling.

“Did you ever…?”

“Try?” she finished with a smile. “Oh, yeah. Twice, I think. After Thor had to sink to Steve’s level of punishment for the whole house to see, I never tried again.”

Your eyes met hers at that, and something seemed to pass through you both at the reminder of how Steve punished Margaret, sometimes. You didn’t even know that any of the other wives knew, and you wondered if it was something like an open secret. Again, you found yourself hurting for the new mom, unable to fathom how your humiliation at the hands of your so-called husband was just a known fact amongst the household.

“You shouldn’t…you shouldn’t try,” she eventually told you, making you look up. “When I was finally able to go outside, it was the first thing I did…and you’ll get caught…and it’s just not worth it.”

She sounded sad for you, but you felt sadder for yourself. You didn’t know how to tell her that you hadn’t even considered the thought in what felt like ages. It was just the other morning that you’d opened the door, and the thought of taking off, the thought of dashing right by the three men in the hopes that you could make it, hadn’t even crossed your mind.

You just hadn’t wanted to be alone.

You looked down as her words marinated within you. Jane had tried to escape twice, and there was no telling how many times Natasha had tried. You’d tried once, and it was barely an attempt, caught by Peter before you could even get your room door open. You didn’t need anymore confirmation of how weak you were, and even at dinner, you found yourself entertaining Jane’s advice and how masochistic it was to entertain thoughts that would never come true.

You weren’t half as strong as she was, and if she’d eventually given in, then what were you holding out for?

Peter could tell that you seemed distracted, touching your hand here and there, grabbing your attention. You gave him small smiles, unable to do much else, until he took another bite of the casserole.

“Pepper said you made this…”

You glanced over at the strawberry blonde, watching as she was engaged in a conversation with Steve and Tony.

“I did,” you told Peter, your eyes meeting his again.

“Really?” he quietly wondered, smile widening as his brows rose. “You did a good job.”

His hand came up to touch your cheek, and something like relief filled you. It was your first time cooking it without having to dump it afterwards, and while Pepper had assured you it looked and smelled great, Pepper was also known for placating you.

“I did…?”

Peter chuckled at how unsure you seemed.

“It tastes great.”

When he turned back to his food, you didn’t mirror him, keeping your eyes on him instead. You thought about when he’d eventually go back to work regularly like he used to before…and you didn’t like how it made you feel. Your chest tightened, and you blinked, finally turning towards your plate.

Without Peter, you really didn’t know how you’d function. After your punishment, you were even more afraid of Steve than you had been before, and you knew how much your slow adjustment irritated him. You knew that if it were up to Steve, you’d be punished every time you ruined a dish or burned some bread or messed up a load of laundry.

You didn’t even want to think about how many talks Peter had with the blond on your behalf.

It was something that weighed on your mind deep in the night, tears in your eyes at having to tiptoe around everyone again. Sure, you were adjusting much better, now, but that was exactly why Peter would have to go back to work again. You were better, now…so, he no longer needed to be here so much and neglect his job.

The thought had you shaking, holding in tears, and Peter must’ve felt it.

“Hey,” he said, turning on the lamp. “What’s wrong? Was it another nightmare?”

You shook your head.

Even those had become less frequent as of late.

“What is it?” Peter worriedly wondered, reaching for you.

You sat up, moving out of reach and wrapping your arms around yourself.

“I don’t want you to go back to work,” you eventually admitted. “I don’t like it when you’re not here. Steve…”

“He’s a lot, I know,” Peter softly said, touching your back. “…but I’ll have to eventually. This was only temporary…to help you adjust without the threat of severe punishment hanging over your head.”

You squeezed your eyes shut, hating that, and Peter made soothing sounds as your head drooped.

“You’ve been doing so well…”

You didn’t say anything to that, unable to voice the mindfuck this entire ordeal was. Peter was the reason you were even here, and so he should be the last person you want around. On the other hand though, he felt like the only thing standing between you and Steve’s ire, the memory of how the blond almost seemed to spit the word ‘weak’ out that day in the basement. He thought you were pitiful.

Pathetic.

…and he was right…but Peter didn’t make you feel that way.

Peter didn’t make you feel dumb for messing things up. He didn’t look at you like a bug he scraped off the bottom of his shoe, like a nuisance. Peter never looked at you like he was just waiting for you to screw up, but instead like he believed it wasn’t possible for you to. You wiped your face, hating that some tears had escaped.

“Why me?” you murmured.

He didn’t hear you, at first, a soft hum escaping him as he moved closer, fingers brushing your neck.

“Why me…? You didn’t even know me…not like Thor knew Jane,” you forced out, voice shaky. “So, I don’t get it.”

You looked at Peter, gaze almost pleading.

“Why did you choose me?”

Why did he choose you and change your life forever? Why did he choose you and get your friends killed? Why did he choose you and force you to leave your mom all alone? Why did Peter choose you and ruin your life?

Peter reached up to wipe your face, moving closer and grabbing your arm. You couldn’t read the look on his face as he pulled you against him, his other hand coming up to rest on your head. You could hear his heartbeat beneath your ears, and your lashes fluttered at the sound.

“I just…knew. “

Your brows furrowed.

“I watched you smile and laugh, and get that little knit in your brow when you hear something that confuses you…”

Your frown deepened at Peter’s words.

“You do it all the time here, like you’re always confused…and you probably are, but I think it’s too cute.”

You could feel Peter’s lips against your hair.

“I just knew it had to be you.”

You didn’t know what you were expecting to be honest. It’s not like you and Peter had ever been anything more than stranger who almost ran into each other at the bathroom entrance once. What else could you have possibly expected him to say? Peter hadn’t known a thing about you then, and it could be argued that he still didn’t, and you suddenly found the bedding interesting.

“I knew I had to have you…and I’d regret it for the rest of my life if I didn’t take you.”

You pressed your lips together, sniffing.

“…that wasn’t your decision to make,” you tearfully mumbled.

Peter heard you though if the way his hold on you tightened was anything to go by. His fingers briefly pressed into your skin, hard enough to make you wince, before he eventually loosened his hold. He let out a sigh, chest dramatically rising and falling beneath your head.

“I disagree.”

He pulled away, forcing you to do the same, but his hands remained on you, pressing into your shoulders as his eyes met yours. You had never seen Peter look so serious, lips pressed together and face even as he looked at you. You didn’t think you liked it, and you got the feeling that you said something you shouldn’t have. He suddenly took your chin, his grip tight.

“I wanted you…and so I chose you,” he slowly began. “…and that’s never going to change.”

Your lips trembled.

“You’re mine, now, and you’re never getting away. Do you understand?”

You started to nod before his hand slid down your neck, thumb lightly pressing against the front of your throat. The corner of his lips curved upwards into a small smile.

“I need to hear you say it,” he softly encouraged, and you took a deep breath.

“I understand…”

Peter’s gaze was expectant.

“I’m yours, now,” you whispered.

Satisfied, Peter pulled you against him again, burying his face into your hair.

It was the first really bad nightmare that you’d had in a while. A whole month actually. You woke up out of your sleep gasping for breath, clawing at your throat like something was choking you. You barely registered Peter beside you, waking up with you and reaching for you. He was faintly calling your name, that you could make out, but once you could breathe again, you paid him no mind.

You were too preoccupied with screaming.

It hurt your throat, rubbing against it like sandpaper and making it raw. It came from deep within your chest, the faces of your friends staring at you in the darkness, and you flailed on the bed. Your face felt colder than usual, and you realized it was the cool air hitting your wet cheeks. Every time Peter tried to grab your arms, you pushed at him, sobs festering in your chest.

“Y/N, you have to be quiet,” you heard him tell you. “You’ll wake up the whole house…”

You couldn’t really find it in you to care all that much. Your chest was so tight that it hurt, agony paralyzing you at the memory MJ’s final bloody act to push you away. You sobbed as you remembered Wanda’s heartbroken scream at the sight of her dead brother before she too was treated like nothing more than a wild animal. The disbelief you’d felt at Pietro’s murder was so vivid despite the fact that it had long happened, and you’d had months to accept it.

Peter finally wrapped his arms around you as you cried into his chest, the dark-haired man shushing you. Something about waking the whole house again. Something about Steve, and the mention of the blond had you crying harder. You pushed against Peter, nails digging into his skin as you tried to get away, but he only pushed back.

“Y/N…Y/N, stop,” he softly hissed. “Stop it.”

You’d never heard him sound so stern, and that too made you cry.

A choked wail escaped your lips…and then it wasn’t.

…because it was swallowed by Peter.

His lips on yours had you gasping, heart skipping a beat and chest clenching. His hands were still on your arms, trying to settle them as he moved his mouth over yours. When he let one of them go to rest his hand on the back of your neck, you used your free hand to push against his chest, but it was futile. You only realized it was so dark because your eyes were closed, but when you opened them, Peter was so close that you really couldn’t make him out.

Moonlight cast a pale glow in the room, shining light onto Peter holding you against him, tasting the inside of your mouth as he laid you down. His other hand was on your face, now, holding it in place as he kissed you. You could feel his heart beating against yours, his body completely pinning you down.

“You’re okay,” he murmured against your lips. “You’re okay…”

That’s what he always said, but it never felt true.

When you tried to push him away again, he took your wrists, pinning them on either side of your head. Peter was still kissing you, mouth molding almost perfectly against yours, a hum escaping him when your lips parted. He kissed your bottom lip and then your top one, his own finally trailing to the corner of your mouth as he kissed that too.

When he lifted his head, his nose brushed against yours, and under the glow of the moon, you could see his eyes boring into your own.

“There’s my pretty girl,” he softly said when you blinked at him, sniffling. “You’re okay.”

He let one of your hands go to run a finger down your lips, brushing it along your chin as he briefly pressed his lips to yours again.

“You’re safe, alright…?”

Your heart was still beating wildly in your chest, but remnants of your nightmare were slowly fading away, and you gave him a shaky nod. Peter kissed your cheek a few times before sitting up and pulling you with him. When he had you fully leaning on him as he laid back down, his arm curled around your waist, keeping you against him. You were still shaking, breathing still uneven and tears still in your eyes. Your lashes fluttered as you could feel Peter wiping them away, and you closed them completely when you felt his lips brush over yours one more time.

#dark!peter parker #dark!peter x reader #dark!peter parker x reader #peter parker x reader #Peter Parker #peter parker fic #peter parker fanfiction #peter parker imagine #marvel imagine #marvel fanfiction

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my-castles-crumbling · 2 months

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Anonymous Request: James is jealous because he thinks Barty and Regulus are dating.

Jegulus - Rated T

James didn’t hate many people.

Okay, that was a lie. He hated serial killers, of course. And like…bigots. And Walburga Black. Fuck that bitch.

But really, that was all warranted. Normal. Rational.

His hatred for Barty Crouch, Jr?

Completely irrational.

He tried to put a reason to it. “He’s just so ugh,” he would complain, watching as the taller boy laid himself over Regulus Black’s lap. Peter would just roll his eyes and chuckle.

“He’s bloody annoying!” he would burst out, watching the sixth year plant a loud kiss on Regulus’s cheek, Regulus blushing profusely. Remus would scoff and ignore him.

“I wish he’d just go somewhere else!” He almost yelled, staring across the lake at Barty wrapping his arm lightly around Regulus’s waist. But Sirius just looked over at the two Slytherins and looked back at James, smirking.

“I hate Crouch!” James exclaimed again one night, storming back into their dorm, to a chorus of grains from his friends.

“I miss him prattling on about Evans,” Peter murmured quietly to himself.

“Oi, Prongs?” Remus called from Sirius’s bed, where the two lay. “You know Crouch isn’t dating Regulus, right?”

James stared. “I- what does that have to do with-?” he stuttered indignantly.

“Prongs. Prongs. Prongsie. Prongs, darling,” Sirius drawled, pulling himself into a sitting position. “You only ever get annoyed with Barty when he’s all over my little brother.”

James thought about that. “No. No! No, I-” he argued.

“We’ve all agreed,” Sirius interrupted, gesturing to Remus and Peter, who were nodding. “You don’t hate Barty. You fancy Reg. Which is good, I guess, because Barty’s dating Evan Rosier. I mean, it’s not great, though. Because I don’t know how hard you were hit on the head to fancy Reg, but-”

“Point is, you’re being an idiot,” Remus cut in dryly.

But James wasn’t paying attention. He was thinking. Reflecting.

“Fuck. Sirius, I think I like your brother,” he murmured after a minute in a shocked voice, the information making him feel oddly light.

“No shit, James.”

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jamespottersdaisy · 5 months

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Dulcet

Peter Parker x fem!reader

in which it's a game

a/n: let me know if there are mistakes, more notes at the end <3

Shallow breaths echo around the forlorn silence. He keeps a distance. You endure pain.

He doesn’t talk much. He doesn’t want to. He brings you water when you ask and carries you from one room to another. He ensures your pillow is high enough while you eat,and your TV show is amusing enough while you lie. But he doesn’t talk.

You can’t speak, either. You don’t dare. Besides the meek requests and whispered gratitude, your lips fail at words. You want to ask him if he is angry with you and if he hates you as he attends to your wounds. You want to know if he counts the minutes until he leaves you to bed and if he’s been sleeping enough because his eyes are red most of the time. But you can’t speak.

Peter’s hands are shaking as he pressures your wound, his vision blurry, his ears ringing. Mark is dead. Soon, you will be, too, if he doesn’t find a way out of this.

He needs to think. Fast. He needs to stop crying your name and calm down. He has to get it together, he has to stop trembling, and he has to calm down, and he has to–

He can't breathe, so he takes off his mask. He hates the garment on his hands that prevents his touch. They are shaking as he moves your shirt up to see the wound. Curses echo in your ears.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck, I told you not to–” he moves around, estimating the safest way to hold you. “Why didn’t you listen? Why don’t you listen?!”

Your mind is foggy, the ability to move your limbs lost on you. You hear Peter’s complaints and pleas, feel his firm grip on your weak body.

“Peter…”

“Why? Why?! I told you! I told you to- Why don’t you never listen?!” he holds your hands and brings them on his. “Pressure the wound. Don’t move your hand, you hear me? Just, just- just hold them tight–”

So you do. You put all your strength left into your wound, feeling your hand get wet and red, all while Peter gently places his arms around you, careful not to move you too much. He elevates your legs while carrying you. He doesn’t know what he is supposed to do.

He doesn’t know where to take you.

You listen to the faucet running as your nails dig into your palm. It is lamentable how the only sound ringing in your ears is either water splashing or footsteps thudding when he is around. Heavy words have soared akin to a mountain between you two, one that is painful to climb. The high walls of unspoken cries refuse to crack now that neither of you dares to speak.

He exits your bathroom, head down, hands wet. You know the routine; he’ll dry his hands with his shirt, pad to your kitchen, and make you a sandwich. He’ll ensure you eat it and then leave to come back late at night to attend to your injury again.

He stops midway to the kitchen and turns around. You watch him enter your room and avoid eye contact with you. He frowns and moves his eyes from one corner of the room to another.

“What is it?” you ask, voice hoarse.

“It’s time for the,” he gesticulates carelessly, and then he nods to your desk as if he found what he was looking for. “the thing that you always watch at five.”

He grabs the remote from your desk and places it next to you. You wish he hadn’t moved his hand so fast before you could touch it. “Thank you.”

He glances at you for the first time in that hour and quickly averts his eyes.

You let him walk away. What can you even say?

“Peter, it hurts.”

“I know, I know, I know, just hold on, trouble, come on,” he prattles, all while holding you in his arms. He doesn’t know if he can swing you in this position, but it is the only solution.

Where was the nearest hospital? He swings around the sky all the time; why did he never pay attention? What was he thinking dragging you into this? Why does his heart sting as your whines pierce his mind?

He shakes his head.

Standing still is no help to you. He needs to move. Thus, he shoots one web after another, flying with you in his arms, searching for a place that will keep you safe. Safe from danger, safe from hurt, safe from him.

You are clinging to him the hardest you can, eyes closed, face in a frown. He wonders if you feel sick or dizzy. If you do, it is his fault.

All of this is his fault.

You are bleeding on him, and it is his fault. It should have been him. It should have been him staining your shirt red, not the other way around. This is not how it goes. You are not the one crying from agony. You are not the one in need of saving. You are not the one whom he gets worried over; you are the one that does the worrying.

If not, then it’s his fault.

He thinks of the possible replies to doctors' questions.

You would think the female lead would understand that the boyfriend is lying and that the right person for her is her best friend, but for some reason, she keeps ignoring the poor guy’s pure love. You would also think that Peter would have the same opinion as you.

“He is not stupid. He is in love.”

“Which made him stupid,” he murmurs as his eyes trace the bloody scar on your torso. It’s one of the few sentences he has given you that day. “Sit straight.”

“How is wanting to be near the girl you lo–”

You sit straight after Peter shoots you a harsh look. He places a pillow behind your back, and you let him slowly take care of your wound.

“As I was saying,” you start again. This is a mere attempt to have him talk to you more than usual, one that is very uncomfortable for you. “He just wants the girl he loves to be happy.”

“He should leave her alone then,” Peter glances at you when you hiss at the burning sensation of the antiseptic.

“Why?! She loves him, she just doesn’t know it yet.”

He doesn’t reply, and you know no more words will leave his lips until he is done with his work. Thus, you talk no more, letting silence dawn per usual.

If only one of you broached the subject that’s growing heavier day by day, this could have been easier.

He lays you down on your bed, careful not to wake you up. When you whimper as he does, he curses under his nose. Stepping back, he stares at you for a moment.

He thought he was late.

He thought all the flying in the air had made things worse. He thought your wound would not close, your bleeding would not stop. He thought he’d have to–

Peter feels faint. His limbs are weak, and he remembers he hasn’t eaten all day long. He also hasn’t drank any water, which explains the headache. His body is sore, rightfully so. After getting you to the hospital, he has flown back to his house, changed into something he now realises is wrinkled, and ran back to you as Peter instead of Spiderman.

He drinks your water and nibbles on your bread. He falls to his place by the window and stares at the carpet.

He knew this day would come. He knew he’d have to wait by your bed, count the seconds, and listen to your heavy breaths. He knew he wouldn’t be able to protect you from harm.

Nothing is new.

Moonlight shines and glazes as Peter watches you sleep.

He has no idea what and how to say when you wake up. He doesn’t know how to act. All he knows is that he will take care of you until you are strong enough to slap him when he leaves.

"I can do it myself," you protest.

"The hell you can," Peter grumbles, face in a grumpy scowl as he grabs your arms. You refuse to lean to him, determined to carry yourself around with as much grace as possible.

By around, I mean the toilet.

It is embarrassing enough that Peter helps you shower; you don’t need him to know your bowel movements.

“How am I supposed to heal if you keep coddling me?” you murmur.

Peter stops in his place, snaps his head towards you. He doesn’t say anything, and yet the look in his eyes is enough words to your heart.

You know you strike a chord each time you mention anything regarding your wound, healing, hurt and pain, but he needs to grow up. He needs to handle this without his emotions, ones that he refuses to communicate.

You seize the opportunity and enter the bathroom yourself.

“Call if you need help!” you hear Peter yell behind the closed door.

“Don’t spy, you creep!”

You hear him step away from the door; he must have really pushed his whole body to hear your movements.

“It’s not spying,” he calls back. “I was just making sure–”

“Peter!”

“Sorry!” he says, steps fading away.

It takes time, but you manage to leave the bathroom without a call for help. Bittersweet, that is. A few days ago, you would groan and whine with each movement, trying to stifle yourself so that Peter wouldn’t hear you. As of now, you are slowly gaining your strength back, and the only reminder of the unfortunate incident is the occasional sting and Peter’s distant mannerisms.

“I think I want to make my own sandwich today,” Peter’s back greets you when you enter the kitchen; he’s been going through your fridge in the hopes of ingredients.

"I was gonna make you pasta," he turns around, and you suppress the urge to smile.

He wanted to cook for you.

But again, he's been doing that for some time now.

"Are you hungry?"

When he nods, you slowly walk up to your shelves. Another thing you have noticed is that since Peter has been living in your apartment part-time, your fridge and shelves are full of groceries.

"You shouldn't be walking around," he opens the shelf next to yours.

"I'm sick of lying in bed," you shrug, stretching your hand to take the pasta.

The sting strikes, almost knocking you over; you shouldn’t have pulled your arm that swiftly.

Peter hisses your name, “Mule,” he utters before taking down the pasta himself as his other hand rests on your bicep.

You scowl at him while recovering, “I’m fine.”

“Sure you are,” Peter bends over to find your pan. He’s looking at the wrong places.

“I can handle myself, you know.”

“And I’m Spiderman.”

“You are Spiderman,” you hand him the pan, which he takes without glancing at you.

You notice the subtle curl of his lips and the effort he wasted to hide it. You are doing the exact same; bickering with him has always been fun, even if he is distant and you are injured.

“How about you make yourself useful and sit on a chair?”

“How’s that any useful?”

“It helps the worrying.”

“I see no reason for worrying.”

“That’s because you are slow,” he turns around once he has put the pasta to cook. You feel his arms around your limbs, firm but gentle not to push your body to its limits, and let him lead you to the chair behind the table.

“You look pretty without being a hindrance,” he says when you sit down.

You don’t think you look pretty at the moment at all. “Mind you, you are the one in my apartment.”

“Preparing you a meal,” he nods and starts making the sauce.

“One that I’m perfectly capable of making.”

Peter scoffs. “Uh-huh. You as in you who whines every time she moves her arm.”

He finds it amusing that you are willing to banter even in a state like this.

“Oh, I wonder why.”

“Probably because you are so intent on hurting.”

“I am just strong enough to handle it,” you shrug playfully, pretending not to feel his burning stare piercing through your forehead.

You know what he is thinking; you can almost hear his thoughts. You haven't forgotten the fights roaming in your room, his harsh looks and raised voice against your aching body and breathless words.

He doesn’t remember when the silver hues of the moon abandoned their place for the golden light of the sun to take over. His mind has fled from the grasp of time, running amok with the perilous thoughts between its palm.

Its games have been played. Deceptions toward self, fear and rage dangling from the ropes it clutched have triumphed in gaining power over his heart.

The sound of his heart has been drowned, its echoes only blurring the clarity of the past, staining the white flames of apathy.

He has made up his mind.

A low whine averts his darkened eyes from his bruised knuckles to your frame on the bed. He slowly rises from the floor, staring at you, gaining consciousness back as the sore muscles and agony of your injury kick in.

It takes time for you to fully focus.

You are confused, in pain, and uncomfortable.

Memories of red, blue and black flashing like pictures in your mind, sounds echoing around, but none of them makes sense. Not yet.

You can’t move around. Your eyes look for water and find Peter instead. Maybe he can bring you water.

He’s standing a bit far away.

“Peter,” you say, but your voice doesn’t seem to reach him. Or you.

You clear your throat as he steps forward, hovering over you beside your bed. “Good. You’re awake,” he nods.

His voice is far, or maybe that’s just the ringing in your head.

“What happened?” you manage to ask. “I need water.”

He turns around and leaves, coming back with a glass of water.

“Thank you,” you whisper, attempting to rise from bed. He helps you.

“How are you feeling?” he asks.

Now, they all make sense. The cure and your running. Peter and Mark, the excruciating pain in your bones, Peter’s distressed calls. You remember now.

“Hurt. What happened? Did you cure Mark? What about the–”

“Mark is dead.”

You look up to him, your face in a grimace and your breathing shallow. His face has no indication of feeling. His eyes are shrouded. “You couldn’t cure him?”

“I had to kill him.”

It means the same thing; you know it does. But it doesn’t feel the same.

“What happened after,” you look for the right words. “You know, after I–”

“Almost bled to death?”

He is angry. Not the screaming and yelling one. The silent one.

“Peter, look,” you try to move up, but the pain arises. “I’m sorry, alright? I know what you said, and I know what I did, and I’m truly sorry. It won’t happen again–”

“No, it won’t.”

His tone is curt, and so are his eyes.

You put the water glass away. “What is that supposed to mean?”

He doesn’t say anything at first.

“Nothing, really,” he shrugs. “It just won't happen again.”

You don't like how that sounds.

“Peter–”

“You should lay down,” he cuts you off. “Don't tire yourself out.”

This is not right. This is not how you left things. You are too weak to play games.

“What the hell is wrong with you? If you're mad at me, just say so–”

“If I'm mad at you,” his eyebrows shoot up as he scoffs. “If I'm mad at you?”

“That's what I said, yes.”

Your eyes watch him pace around, his face changing with every thought his mind produces.

“You could've died,” he says, mostly to himself.

“I–”

“You could've died there. In my arms, from a wound that I caused,” he turns to you.

You finally see it.

The anger. Fear. Desperation and exhaustion. All have painted his countenance into something unrecognisable to you. Something strange. Distant.

“You didn't cause anything,” you decide to reason.

“Oh, I did. I did, and I won't ever again because this,” he gestures the distance between you two. “Is not happening again.”

Your heart drops. You don't try to hide the feeling.

“What are you even saying?”

“What I'm saying is after I make sure you are okay, that you can walk and talk without groaning from pain, I'm not seeing you again.”

No.

You shake your head, albeit it makes you dizzy. You want to reach out to him, but you are not sure you can stretch your arm without hurting.

“That's not fair,” is all you can say between the pain and hurt. “That's not fair, you can't punish me like this–”

“I'm not punishing you, I'm protecting you because clearly, you can't do that yourself when I'm around.”

You abhor the way he composes himself.

“No, you're punishing me, you're punishing me with your absence, you know damn well it was an accident–”

“Accident or not!” he raises his voice this time. “Accident or not, you could’ve died, alright?! I’m not betting on that again.”

“It is not up to you, Peter! I can die walking on the sidewalk, too!” you match your tone to his regardless of how much it’s agonising. “You can’t protect me all the time!”

“I can try.”

He is not thinking properly. This is not right. You need to make him understand that this is not right.

“Peter, please, listen to me–”

He shakes his head and takes the glass you’ve put aside. “No, don’t. Don’t, okay? You need to rest. Rest and heal, exhausting yourself won’t do any good.”

Maybe it is not so nice for you to start healing. To start not needing Peter as much as you used to do.

He can see it. He can see that you are getting back on your feet, and it absolutely terrifies you that he will leave.

You don’t think he’s changed his mind.

Otherwise, he would talk to you. Not talk to you as if you are a civilian he is responsible for taking care of, but as if you are his friend. Yet, he refuses to.

“How are you feeling?” He enters the room with bags in his hands. The flex of his biceps under the shirt distracts you, and you wonder if he chose the shirt on purpose, as the weather is far from welcoming this kind of attire.

It’s late; you figure he must’ve come back from nightly patrols, which means he’ll leave to sleep in an hour or so.

That makes one visit a day.

You avert your eyes from him to the laptop screen. “Is that pizza?”

You hope it is; you’ve been too lazy to prepare yourself a proper meal.

“Have you eaten today?”

He knows you haven’t; he knows you too well after caring for you all this time.

“Coffee?”

He nods with an ‘ah’ to your sheepiness. “No wonder you have a headache.”

You do not want to miss this, him worrying over you in a teasing way. You don’t want to miss him.

“And I’m–”

“And you’re cold, yes, I know,” he puts the pizzas next to you. “Plates?”

“Nah, we can eat without.”

“All right, loafer,” he nods but still heads towards the kitchen.

“I’m sure I said no plates.”

“How many glasses of water have you had today?” his voice echoes from the kitchen, and you start to count in your head.

“Two?”

“So, two glasses of water and coffee, am I right?” he returns with a bottle of water, aiming it at you.

Your eyes widen at the ominous possibility, your hands already in the air to shield yourself. “Yes, but– hey, DON’T THROW IT!”

He does and you fail at catching it.

“Yeah, you’re a hopeless case,” he nods before taking a slice of the pizza.

“You need to stop throwing things at me,” you take the bottle from the ground, noticing the absence of pain. You are indeed healing.

“Someone has to train those reflexes, you can’t catch a ball to save your life,” you watch him pick the mushrooms on the pizza and eat them separately.

“I’ve got you for that.”

“Not always.”

“I don’t understand!” no matter how hard you’ve tried not to raise your tone, there you are, getting irritated by your own voice.

“What is there to not understand? We’ve been over this for a hundred times by now,” he says calmly.

He is not wrong.

No other words have been heard in the last twenty-four hours.

“It’s bullshit. Leaving me for my own good. If you don’t want to see me anymore–”

“Nope. No, absolutely not,” he abruptly stands up from the chair, shaking his head. “I’m not playing that game.”

“You can’t make a decision on my behalf!”

Your name leaves his lips in a whisper.

“I’m tired of this, trouble,” he leans to the counter with a disappointed look on his face. “You know why I’m doing what I’m doing.”

You know. You do know, and yet knowing does not make it any less painful.

“You are a selfish jerk, Parker.”

Your heart beats in your ears as you try not to make it obvious that Peter’s every touch sends shivers down your spine. You wonder if you’ll ever feel his touch again after this, ponder what to say, how to behave to not break the already strained thin string between you.

“It’s healed,” he reclines, dropping his hand to his knees.

It takes all the vigour in you to keep your face still, to not let him know how much you are devastated to hear the words.

“Thanks to you,” is all you can say, and he leaves it unanswered.

Peter doesn’t think he deserves thanks for anything he has ever done. He watches your dismal eyes and knows he doesn’t even deserve a smile anymore. Especially not from you.

He’s been acting distant to the best of his abilities, breaking your heart into a million pieces, readying you for his decision.

He hates himself for that.

He absolutely abhors himself for being the reason for your gloomy countenance, broken laugh, and moments spent ruminating on the things he renders no control from you.

They falter him, placing doubts in his mind, pushing his mind against its limits and his heart down its cliffs. He often finds himself contemplating if this is the right choice. If cutting ties with you will indeed save you from future disasters. If speaking how he actually feels towards you will put you in further danger.

Sometimes, the words push against his lips. They threaten to spill over, to relinquish every hold he has over his heart to you, to divulge all his soul’s secrets to yours.

Then, he remembers.

He remembers the red in his hands. He remembers the echo of your whines in his ears. He remembers the unconscious moans haunting him all night long.

“I better get going,” he stands up, dusting himself off, attempting to remove the image from his mind.

“Where?” you ask, eyes following him around.

He doesn’t know how to answer. He can lie and tell that he has things to do. He can avoid any reply.

“Home.”

But he doesn’t. Instead, he watches your smile waver, sees your exertions to hold everything together.

“This soon?”

“Yeah.” he nods, not noticing his tone lower to match yours.

“I’ll see you tomorrow then?”

There it is.

There goes the hope you’ve been holding onto, and he is about to strip you off from it.

Peter whispers your name and the light in your eyes ebbs. The sofa you’ve been sitting on shrinks, suddenly unable to hold you. You rise from your seat, hoping to be close to him as if it would help.

“Peter, come on, you know this is ridiculous,” you try to reason once more. “Don’t toss this away just because you’re afraid.”

He shakes his head. “You don’t get it, do you?” he stares into your eyes. “This has put you into danger so many times that I’ve lost count.”

“Peter–”

“Sweetheart,” he takes a big step towards you, holding you by the arms. “Don't make this any harder than it already is.”

Peter feels a lump in his throat as you shake your head and squirm away from his hold.

“You have no right, no right to do this,” you say, this time firmer than before. “You can’t decorate your own decision as ‘protecting me’, Peter.”

“My decision is to protect you!” He steps forward, hovering his hands close to your body.

“I don’t want that!”

Peter tries to calm himself. He knows exploding won’t do any good. He reminds himself that this is a lot more agonising for you than it is for him– he is the one making the decision while you are not allowed any control over it.

“It is not about what you want–”

“Peter, do you even hear yourself?!” your tone raises, and he can feel the anger burning in your veins. Anger from being desperate, from failing to change things, from not being able to have a say in this. “Do you even fucking hear yourself?!”

He knows this is his cue to leave. He can not stay any longer.

“That’s it, I’ve overstayed my welcome,” he looks around to find his jacket. He doesn’t see you run a hand through your hair or hear you mutter curses under your nose.

You don’t try to persuade him any longer. He is not sure if he is grateful or resentful for that, but he knows you won’t lose further dignity to get a boy to stay.

He takes his jacket, throwing it around his shoulders, and striding to the door. The door creaks open, and he, despite all the protests of his mind, spares you one last look.

“Take care, trouble.”

“You are a coward, Peter Parker,” you shake your head and dash to your own room, shutting its door.

He knows you are right.

You’ve become bitter. Easily irritated and grumpy. Tired most of the time from overthinking.

You brush your teeth and think this is taking too long. You’ve never noticed how much time you've been putting aside for this.

You sit to study and find your thoughts fled to him. You believe your attention span has declined since the last time you studied. Either that or he has become the only thing you can think of.

You walk to campus and expect to run into him. You never do, and yet, you wait for it.

In the class, you notice you don’t take notes any more. Instead, you doodle so you don’t stare his way.

You return home with him in your mind, leave the room with him in your mind, and eat and drink with him in your mind.

And when you get in bed, that’s when the real nightmare begins.

That’s when not only your mind but your heart wreaks havoc as well.

Your feelings stain the sober thoughts, fogging your brain, deeming you unable to probe the facts.

Most of the time, it’s rage.

It’s the rage of being deprived of a say. It’s the rage of having all the ropes clutched off your palm. It’s the rage of being tossed aside in the name of love.

It burns in you.

It consumes you whole, blinds your senses. Its poison reigns in your veins, conquering your heart over his image. You rally no longer, welcoming the safety it provides.

Sometimes, however, it’s the heartbreak simmering under it.

It’s whys and ifs haunting your nights. The questions you want to ask him meddle in your mind no matter how well you know their answers will make no change.

You detest the sorrow of it– of losing someone you loved. Someone you love.

You struggle to tolerate it. The moment the tears prickle your eyes, you remind yourself of the rage, sheltering under its wings.

You run, and run, and run to escape the heartbreak’s crushing heft. Some days, you prevail. Some nights, the tears do.

You miss him.

You miss the evenings that dimmed into nights with him by your side. You miss his weight on your bed when you’ve just washed your sheets. You miss the light things around your home being thrown at you because he wants to train your reflexes. You miss the food he makes you eat.

You miss his laugh echoing around your heart.

You hate him for that.

You want to slap him across the face for keeping your favourite person away from you. You want to kick him in the stomach for marking every inch of your room with his memory. You want to hit him in the chest for rendering your body yearn for his touch.

You want to make him regret your absence, and you want to drive him crazy while doing it.

You simply don’t know how.

It’s midnight, and he’s not swinging in your room any more. He hasn’t been for a week. You shouldn’t wait.

Just close the damn window.

In the end, Peter is not visiting, and your room is cold.

Dusks turn into dawns, each hour a torment inflicted upon you. A day becomes one of the many others, yet he doesn’t become one of the others.

He is still there, alive and well.

And away.

Stolen glances are each a sharp knife in your heart. Clandestine yearning pulls you down, drowning you in his memory.

Nothing happens, but your heart beats as if it intends to abandon your ribcage.

You don’t talk, you don’t banter, you don’t even acknowledge each other.

He passes through you like the wind when you encounter. You don’t look him in the eye when you have a professor putting you two through a painful exercise together. He hides his wounds from you, and you don’t ask about them when you catch a glimpse of the bruises.

People pick on quickly.

They feel the loss of dynamic between you two in the class. Whispers arise behind your back, as well as the questions before your face. All of them get left without a reply.

“Please drop it, Ash,” you shake your head, sighing in annoyance. Not only in annoyance, but you can’t dwell on the other feelings in public. “Or ask him, not me. I’m tired today.”

“Okay, sorry, honey,” the redhead smiles, helping you with your drinks as you carry the meal to your table. “It’s just he also acts a bit off, you know?”

“He does?” you can’t help but ask as you two sit.

“Yep, it’s as if he’s not there. It’s not really productive for the project.”

“He must have a lot on his mind,” you say, playing with your food. You should eat it before it gets cold, as the weather is not forgiving these days. Or you simply shouldn't have chosen to sit outside. “Anyways, how’s the project going? We’re struggling a bit.”

“We can do better if Parker gets his shit together,” Ashley frowns, taking a bite from his burger. “Other than that, just the same old–”

A scream soars in the distance. Not a long time passes before it gets accompanied by the gunshot, wicked echoes of instructions. You see the silhouette of the people running around in the hopes of hiding.

You definitely shouldn’t have chosen to sit outside.

You don’t think; holding hands with Ashley, the first thing you do is to leave the table and flee to the inside, and if you are lucky, hide inside the bathroom.

Inside of the building is crowded to its limits, but there’s no turning back. You have to hide; that’s the only thing your mind instructs you to do.

“Ash, quick,” you drag her to the left, running the length of the corridor. If you remember correctly, which hopefully you do, there needs to be stairs.

Your heart beats in your ear, silencing every scream and yell echoing around the building. You don’t feel the push and pull of each person bumping into you, all of them rushing into some other place their mind decided.

Apparently, most of them indeed trust the building’s bathrooms enough to run there, blocking the stairs.

“Holy shit!”

“It’s okay, we can–” You look around to find something and fail to see anything.

“What about the classrooms?” Ashley asks, and you shake your head frantically.

“Too out in the open.”

“We are out in the open here too!”

You feel your body shaking in terror, mind operating too swiftly to regulate your breathing. “The other stairs! If we can circle the building–”

“You go,” she lets go of your hand. When you see what she’s doing, you find her boyfriend stretching out his hand towards her. It turns out he has a place for one next to him. “You go and, and, and text me when you get to safety, alright?”

When she leaves, you feel the sheer panic run down your spine. You waver between the two decisions. You wouldn’t think of leaving if only…

If only you weren’t the last person in the crowd pushing each other at the stairs. If they make it to this point, you’ll be the first one to get hurt.

Maybe it’s better if you run and circle the building. You turn around to take off, charge to the other side.

Instead, a taller figure crashes onto you, holding you by the arms as firmly as possible.

“Stay here! Don’t you dare move!” Peter orders with a stern expression. “You hear me? Stay here!”

He doesn’t give you much of a chance before taking off. Next thing you know, while you try to make your place between the frenzied crowd, a loud crash before the building hurts your ears.

You see Spiderman swinging around, and that is the only thing you see.

He blocked the main entrance by wrecking the billboard against the door.

Which gained you enough time to hide.

Your mind reflects his image only while your body runs for safety. If you look back to those moments, you wouldn’t remember a thing–how you pushed through the crowd in enough time to hide, how the shooting blarings got only closer and closer, how Spiderman’s fight only echoed in the place as descriptions from the girl close to the door.

You hoped he wouldn’t get injured in the process. You wondered if he’d visit in case of an injury or if he already had someone to ask for help. You scolded yourself for creating jealousy in your head in vain when he can be in pain out there.

You don’t know how the time passed.

All you remember is the shake in your legs as you followed the crowd outside after the announcement, according to whom criminals have been disarmed and neutralised. Only then you notice your phone being gone, left forgotten on the table you were dining at an hour ago.

You need your phone back.

If the announcement is true, there shouldn’t be any problem with you going back to the yard.

Checking your surroundings, you decide to make a turn and head in the opposite direction once you’re sure no one has their eyes on you.

You hope no one has touched your purse. Not only your phone but also your wallet and ID card are in there. It would be a big headache if you were to lose them all at once for a bunch of criminals–

“Where you going? Everyone is going that way.”

Your heart skips a beat at first, thinking one of the professors caught you, and then takes the pace after recognising the voice.

You don’t turn back.

“My purse is out there, I’m not letting it get stolen,” you continue walking, hearing Peter’s footsteps following you. “That is if it’s not already stolen.”

His hand grabs your arm and turns you around. “I’ll go get it, you get back to the others.”

“I can get my own purse, Parker, it’s not like there are any other bad guys running around–”

“There is one I haven’t caught yet, they just didn’t mention it in the announcement. Now, will you please get back to the others?”

You frown, forgetting the history with the guy before you.

“Then why the hell would they want us to expose ourselves? Are they crazy?”

Peter scoffs, letting you go. “They didn’t expose you, they asked for you to gather in the Hall, did you even listen?”

“I must’ve missed that part,” you murmur. “Anyhow, I need my purse. Take care, Parker.”

“No, absolutely not,” he grabs you by the arm once more when you turn around. “You go to the Hall, I’ll find it and bring it to you.”

“Such a gentleman,” you pull your arm from his hold, and walk to catch up to the crowd.

As you enter the Hall, your eyes look for Ashley or her boyfriend, and it doesn’t take much as there are only a handful of redheads around.

“I thought I told you to text!” she hugs you for a short moment, and you smile at her.

“You had the chance to take your phone?”

“Oh, honey, my phone is always with me.”

Looking around, you focus on people’s faces–distraught, confused, worried, and angry ones. For some, it still doesn’t feel real, for others it was shaking to the core. You still don’t know how you feel; you’ve been through worse.

Still, it doesn’t mean the worse doesn’t show up in your dreams. It does. It wakes you up in a cold sweat and obliges you to turn the lights on for a few moments. It gets better with time, but again, you’d wish there was nothing to get better in time.

“There you go,” Peter interrupts your thoughts, your belongings in his hand. “Nothing was stolen.”

You take them from him, relief washing over you. “Thanks.”

“Are you alright?” he asks, eyes wandering around your body, checking for an injury. You miss the feeling of his hands on you. “You didn’t get hurt, did you?”

“I didn’t,” you say. “I’m fine.”

He averts his eyes up to yours, and at last, the feeling hits you in the gut.

Who would’ve thought a pair of brown eyes could drown you to your death? You would laugh at yourself once if I told you your heart would cripple under his brown eyes, your breath would hitch, and your core burns in yearning for him.

And yet, now, there you stand.

Ready to ignite under his touch.

“Right,” he drops his hands. “Nice.”

He nods, like he always does, biting his lips. “Just follow the crowd, alright? Don’t- don’t change the route or something.”

With that, he turns around to leave.

The feeling sinks back.

He finally acknowledged you when he thought you were in danger. This was the first time after that day that he actually held a conversation with you.

Suddenly, a lamp lights in your brain.

You know how to drive him crazy.

Peter narrows his eyes, trying to decipher your intention. This is the third time this week– not to mention it’s been ten days he’s been babysitting you from the air– yet you are determined to die.

At least, that’s how it looks from the roof of a skyscraper.

Yes, he is following you. No, he is not stalking you.

In his defence, you are proving to be more of a challenge than any other criminal he has ever fought; he needs to keep an eye on you.

It was rather confusing at first; how all the bad luck seemed to greet you only. However, later on, the realisation has hit him like lightning, shedding light on your clandestine intentions.

In the beginning, it started with small clumsiness.

Peter felt the ache hammer his temples as if thorns were prickling against his eyes. He needed to sleep. Three hours were simply not enough for every day of the week.

He would sleep if only the haughty professor giving the lecture would stop scrutinising him the moment his head hit the desk. Thus, there he is, attempting at his best to force his eyes open.

He stares at the board. Takes in the numbers and denoted letters, notices how none of them mean anything to him. He must’ve stopped listening a long while ago.

He glares at the lecturer. Notes how he glares back and that the green of his eye is extremely vibrant. Wonders if he is indeed human.

He focuses on the lecturer’s lips. Thinks the professor might not be the cleanest person on earth because of the beards surrounding his lips. Decides he is too sleep-deprived for this.

He looks around. Doesn’t understand how and why his eyes land on you. You look bored as well. And dismal. He’d know; he has looked at you more than anyone else.

He wonders if you are upset because of him or if something happened in your life that he is not allowed to know any longer. He’d hate to drag you back into the same hell of a place as he did before everything went south. To have your sleep poisoned, your smile broken, and your heart shattered.

He wishes he never agreed to your help; it ended the same way regardless– him without you on his side.

He wonders whether your hair still smells like heaven, whether your phone screen is still cracked, and whether you bought a new kettle for your home.

He doesn't see the yearning in the brown of his eyes, but he can feel it in his heart. The crave to reach out and touch you. Feel your skin aflame under his touch. He has always, always, felt it, felt you melting under him. It filled his heart with something greater than he was willing to admit.

Losing it– losing you– was the hardest decision he has ever had to make.

He averts his eyes before yours can find them.

He closes them for a moment– just for a moment– and lays his head on his arms. He will raise it back in a few minutes. He will.

When he does, he realises the lecture has ended, everyone has left, and his spider senses are tingling.

Almost everyone except you.

You are on your tiptoes, reaching for a globe almost your own size, dragging it by your fingertips. The black plastic base makes a low screeching sound, and Peter grimaces.

“Stop that, what are you doing?” he asks, standing up and shoving his backpack to his shoulders.

“I need that,” is all you murmur as you drag the base closer, not minding the fact that the heavier part of the globe is facing you.

“Let me,” he says as he advances, but before he can approach you, you shoot a nasty glare in his way.

“I can do it myself,” you say and drag the base swiftly.

The globe falls with your force, aiming at your pretty head, threatening to break it in two. You are too late to protect your skull from it. Peter is not.

A silver web of Spiderman sticks to the sphere and pulls it away from you, right beside your feet.

You flinch at the sound of the impact, and Peter frowns. “Where’s your head at? Did you really think you could carry that around?”

“I hoped. Is it broken?”

Peter scoffs, almost laughing genuinely, but stops. “Would be surprised if it wasn’t.”

He doesn’t wait for any reply, moving past you to the door.

Peter didn’t denote any meaning to it. It was an unlucky accident and a lucky coincidence that he was there. He had to admit, he did panic when he saw your frightened face, trying to cover yourself from the blow, but that is how he always felt when something happened to you.

Thus, by the next day, he had forgotten about it. That is until he took notice of the bandage around your dominant hand.

His eyes were narrowed, trying to figure out how you’d managed to harm yourself. There was no way for it to be broken, and yet it was a mystery to him how you managed a gash that deep to be bandaged.

It was none of his business.

Yes, of course. None of his business. He shouldn’t wonder, as there is absolutely no reason for him to worry. He shouldn’t give in to the urge to walk up to you and question you. Or get mad at you for not being careful like he used to do.

He put distance between you for a reason.

Albeit you are indeed with an injury, it could have been worse with him around. Or he could have prevented it. You could have been captured, or tormented, or gotten into another accident trying to save him, and even though your hand must have bled again, you are better off, right? You could’ve been—

“What happened to your hand?”

You look up, eyes nonchalant grey and countenance indifferent towards him. He glances at the papers before you, deducing that he must have intervened with your studies. You shouldn’t have studied in the canteen anyway.

“Nothing serious,” you wave off your bandaged hand, which only makes Peter more uneasy. He doesn’t enjoy seeing you injured– no matter how small and insignificant it is.

“You cut it?” his brown eyes never leave yours, and he feels heartburn inside his chest at the sight of you. This might not be the best idea.

“Yeah.”

You are cold. Distant and indifferent. Unlike the first days, when he’d drown in your sorrow, cursing himself for your every shed tear, and burn to ashes at the sight of you, you now have a nonchalance painting your visage shadowed with a confidence he is not sure where you’re getting from.

“Knife?” he nods.

Your eyebrows raise, and Peter feels strange in his own skin. What is he doing? He has no right to this.

“Worried much, Parker?”

“Just want to make sure it’s nothing–”

“Nothing serious, that was the first thing I said,” you cut him off.

Peter feels himself falter. “Alright, that’s-that’s good.”

You nod, lowering your gaze back to the letters and numbers before you. Peter takes the cue and turns around to leave.

He looks back and sees you smile to yourself.

Going back, all of many things made sense, except that one. He didn’t think you’d be crazy enough to inflict pain upon yourself.

Peter shakes his head, jumping to another roof to have you in his vision. You are walking out of a coffee shop with a boiling hot one in your hand. He wonders if you’ll somehow manage to spill it and burn yourself again.

He watches your hair get wet in the rain and knows you deliberately didn’t take an umbrella with you. It is absolutely frustrating.

You are absolutely frustrating.

The birds that are chirping at this time of the year must be a simulation, Peter thinks. Or robots. He remembers the game that had android birds. Although he never understood their purpose, he supposed it was one of the ways to signal the player that twenty years later, androids will–

“Parker!”

Ashley’s call startles him and he turns around. Oh, she has dyed her hair purple. And you are there with her.

“Hey, Ash, what’s up?” he cracks a subtle smile after failing to catch your gaze. You are staring at the hot coffee before you. He thinks it is hot– who would want an iced coffee in winter? Maybe you, he’s not sure.

“Wanna sit with us?”

No, he doesn’t. Not with Ashley around. “Uh, actually, I was just about to leave.”

He wasn’t. He was going to think of the game and its complicated flowchart. Maybe guess how other choices may lead to totally different endings.

“Didn’t you just come?” She raises a brow.

Five minutes doesn’t count as just. “Yeah, for a change of air.”

Peter smiles and gets up from his seat to approach yours. “You ladies need me to bring you something?”

You don’t cast him a glance, toying with your coffee cup. He’d tell you to stop doing that unless you want to burn yourself, but he bites his tongue. It’s not his business.

“You’re gonna burn yourself.”

“No, I won’t. Thanks for the warning, though, Parker,” you continue to do it nonetheless.

Ashley is talking, and yet Peter can’t hear; his eyes are on the cup and the steam that hovers over it. Another blow that is a bit stronger than the one before, you’ll spill it and burn yourself–

Peter sees you hit the cup harder, and in a swift moment, he pushes the cup towards himself in the hope of not burning you. The dark liquid spills over, its steams soaring slowly.

“You alright?” his eyes check for anything wrong like they always do and rest on you when they don’t find any.

“Did you just spill her drink?” Ashley laughs.

“No–”

“He totally did,” you nod, determinant in your movements.

Peter scowls in confusion, staring into your eyes. You tilt your head in response. You still are so pretty, he realises. He thinks it is not the right time to miss the taste of your lips against his. He never got to kiss you the second time, did he? If the first one even counted as a kiss.

“You owe me a cup of coffee, Parker.”

He watches you leave in perplexity.

As he follows you from the air, the irritating regret fills him for not kissing you the second time, but he shuns the thoughts away. He doesn’t know what this game will result in, how hard the limits will get pushed into the verge of the break, and he certainly doesn't want any new ideas to get to his head now that he sees you frequently.

What goes through your head with your each escapade is still a mystery that he has yet to solve. How you dare to face the most ridiculous circumstances without even a tremble in your hands is a wonder to him.

How much more any of you is willing to go…that’s another story that Peter can complain about for hours.

His shoulders sulk with his idle steps. Gray stains the weather and his heart. He thinks of Mark. How he had to kill him. How the rage had blinded him, numbing his senses. What worries him sometimes is the fact that he does not regret Mark’s death, unlike all the other criminals who had to die in the battle against him.

All he could think was you when he was face to face with that man.

He wonders if that makes him a bad one as well.

He only wants to get back home and sleep.

He looks around the campus, finding the best route out of all the busy chatterbox students and couples who are about to have sex out in public.

He recognises your frame a few steps ahead from your backpack. He notices your limping state, frowns, and, without a second, thought approaches you.

“Why are you limping?”

“I sprained my ankle,” you don’t seem surprised to see him as the reply flows smoothly from your lips.

“Where?”

“The stairs.”

Peter’s heart stings with every one of your winces as you step on your feet. “Don’t you have a ride home?”

“I sprained my ankle after I turned down the ride.”

He checks his surroundings. “Let me take you to a doctor.”

You shake your head while Peter practically drags your backpack from your shoulders and carries it on his own. “It’s just a sprain.”

“Maybe, but you are walking on it, at least let me swing you home,” he keeps his tone as reserved as possible, not wanting to give away how this situation annoys him.

“What’s the worst that can happen?”

How would he know? He is not a doctor. “I don’t know, but I do know it’s not good to walk on it. Don’t insist, come on–”

“Peter,” this is the first time you’re calling him by his first name after everything. “If you weren’t around, I would still walk on my sprained ankle.”

“Yeah, but now that I’m around, let me help you,” his tone changes to irritation, and surprisingly, he knows you enjoy it.

“Oh, no,” you frantically shake your head before wincing again. And yet, a smile climbs up to your lips. Not a happy or a genuine one. One that resembles a smirk. “See, you being around has a big possibility that I’ll end up hurt.”

Peter’s frown deepens as his heart skips a beat. His mind runs amok with many interpretations of your words. “Is this what this is about?”

When you don’t answer, time fills in the gaps. He finally makes sense of every little bad luck. Pieces merge together like a puzzle.

You’ve been putting yourself in trouble on purpose.

He doesn’t plan to confront you about it yet. He has some thinking to do.

“What?” you ask, genuinely confused.

“Don’t torture yourself, let me carry you home,” he ignores the question altogether.

“I said no.”

He could not change your mind that day, just like you could not change his once. Yet, he did not have the heart to leave you alone unattended.

Thus, he followed you home from a distance.

From that day on, he's made sure to keep an eye on you.

Of course, there was no way of always being around you, and yet when he was, he’d have to prevent a disaster, whether from happening or from hurting you.

It was flattering, truly. To know you have placed enough trust in him to put yourself in ridiculous situations. It even drives him to actually not help you once, but his heart just won’t let him.

His night was mostly done; all he needed and wanted to do was idly check around the neighbourhood and make sure everyone was safe. He had a nice night– no big fights, just a few pickpockets and drunk potential dangers.

On his way home, he decides to pass through your street for the last time just to make sure you are indeed safe.

To his luck, you are not.

At first, he struggles to recognize you from the tiny silhouette and almost passes through you swinging in the air. Something, however, stops him in mid-air.

His eyes squint under the white cloth of the mask, and he jumps to the ground.

“It’s three in the morning, trouble,” his tone is indifferent, but what he feels is far from indifferent.

“Didn’t ask for time, Spider,” you don’t cast him a glance, shrinking to your coat instead. He turns around, walking backwards.

“Only homeless people and criminals wander around alone at this time. Which are you?”

“Just a girl,” you disregard. “You should leave me alone.”

“It’s not safe,” he shakes his head. “You gotta stop this, sweetheart.”

He can feel the shift in the air around you. Your confident walk wavers only for a second, and yet he notices.

“Stop what?” you ask, pretending that the name had no effect on you.

“Whatever game it is that you are playing,” Peter stops in his tracks; so do you. “Cut it out. It’s not safe.”

You look at him and shrug. “I can’t take you seriously with that mask.”

He takes it off with a quick movement, tousling his hair in the process. He would pay a heavy sum to know what you were feeling in the moment. He catches the change in your gaze and the quick glimpse at his lips.

He murmurs your name, “I know why you are doing this.”

“Pray tell.”

“You are trying to prove that you can get hurt without having a Spiderman in your life–”

“You said it, not me.”

“By jumping at every damned opportunity to get hurt,” he finishes the sentence ignoring your interruption.

When you don’t say anything more, Peter feels the frustration slowly climb up his core. He is tired from worrying about you every day. For a few days, he exhausted his own mind for a glimpse at yours to understand the logic behind all this.

He doesn’t know what to do.

“How long do you plan on keeping this up?”

To his surprise, you finally look him in the eye. His heart skips a beat. He forces himself not to dwell on how much he misses you.

“Until you stop the ‘for your own good’ bullshit.”

“Trouble, it was for your own good,” his tone has changed, growing tender now that your eyes rest on him.

They remind him of the glow he's been admiring for the past months. The laughter echoing in his heart, the light shining in his soul. The heat and desire and lust burning to ashes in his veins.

Maybe it is late. Nothing good happens after 2 a.m.

“Then I guess I’ll see you tomorrow, Parker,” you stride forward, and Peter hurries after you. He can’t leave this conversation like this.

He has to show you how insane it is to hurt yourself deliberately for his attention.

“Are you seriously that mad? That crazy enough to cut your own hand?” he demands when he catches up to you.

“When the hell did I cut my own hand?”

You sound truly confused, and he is only a step left to madness.

“The bandage!”

“Oh, no, it had nothing under it. But it did work, didn’t it?” you laugh, and Peter’s body ignites in so many colours. “Did you really think I would hurt myself for someone?”

“You burned yourself and dropped a globe!”

“No, I didn’t,” you laugh again, and not only Peter feels the desperation mingle with anger, but he also feels the self control slowly slipping between his palms. Ah, that laugh.

“You did–”

“You prevented any of that happening, remember?”

“And you bet on that chance?!”

When you giggle again, Peter’s eyes fall to your lips. He drowns the urge. It is neither the time nor the place.

“Yeah, I did. You should try the same thing sometimes instead of running like a coward.”

He has no idea what you said. The only thing he can hear is the dulcet tone and the lips singing the tune. Would you slap him if he slammed his lips to yours?

You’d have a right to.

“Trouble–”

“Stop calling me that, Parker,” you beckon with your hand. “And goodnight.”

Peter does not think he is a coward. Not when it comes to being the hero. When it comes to his heart, however, he is not so sure.

All he knows is that the obligation to keep you safe is growing heavy on him.

Its stress is straining his nerves thin, his feelings elevating the unease further. He can’t handle this any longer, and yet here he is, wanting to make sure you cross the road safely.

Watching you from afar proves to be more difficult than he had guessed initially.

To have you in sight all the time and yet not be able to hear you, talk to you, or touch you is pushing him to the verge of madness. Your memories start to haunt him, your smile before his eyes, your touch on his skin, and, oh sweet Lord, your lips hovering over his lips.

He curses every interruption ever hindering your lips away.

The feelings he has buried deep dig their way up to the surface with every strand of your hair wavering in the wind. Every laugh that is not presented to his ears taunts him. Every touch lingers on a skin that isn’t his burdens his chest.

He feels like he’s going crazy.

Lost in thought, he misses how you don’t check the road before walking. How the cars won’t stop for your sake.

He was afraid that you’d spill your hot coffee and burn yourself. No, you’re going to kill yourself in a car crash.

His heartbeat picks up as he stands up in a second, sticking a web to the roof after jumping off it. The cold breeze would not usually hurt him; thus, he is sure it is the adrenaline that spills cold water down his spine.

When you enter his vision, so close to a car that’s speeding as if it’s going to fly, he opens his arms and grabs you by the waist.

Your coffee spills on him, burning his skin, yet he clenches his jaw at the pain.

Swinging over the cars, his ears sting from your screech. He carries himself up by the web and lands on the rooftop.

Leaving your waist empty, he takes off his mask in rage.

“Are you out of your mind?!” he yells. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

Your nose is red from the bone-shattering weather, but your smile radiates sunlight enough to warm hearts. “Oh, hey, Parker.”

“No! Don’t ‘hey, Parker’ me, you hear me?! Just-just stop this madness!”

Peter is frantic, which amuses you more. His face is red, and you are certain it is not from the weather. The vein in his neck bulges, but it does nothing to scare you.

“What madness?”

“Stop trying to kill yourself to prove a point, trouble, or you’ll actually die one of these days!”

Your smile widens. Your plan worked. It took a terrifying amount of fear to implement it and much more trust in him to act on it, but in the end, it worked, and you are so close to what you want now.

“I can die any time of any day.”

“Yes, but no,– fuck!” Peter curses roughly.

You know you just have to push him a little bit more. Make him face his fears. Just a little bit more, and he’ll break.

“I can jump from this roof, you know, you are practically encouraging me.”

He lets out a frustrated groan. "Alright! Alright! Fine, fine! Stop this! You win," he screams, hands in the air, eyes wide with fear and defeat. "Hell, you're gonna be the death of me!"

“I win?” you ask, eyebrows raised. "So, you’ll stop the 'for your own good' bullshit?"

Peter stays silent for a moment, the only indicator of his distress being his swiftly heaving chest.

Your shoulders sulk at his hesitation.

If you’ve gone through all the trouble and still failed to change his mind, then maybe it is not worth it. Maybe it was easier for him to endure your absence than it was for you to endure his. Maybe he has already accepted the situation, unlike you, who was simply tolerating it for a change to betide.

Defeat and desperation grow heavy on your shoulders. It carries to your eyes as well.

You shake your head and turn to leave.

Peter’s hand grabs your wrist before pulling you into his chest. His thumb raises your chin, and before you can react, his lips crash with yours.

Your heart hammers against your ribs. The last breath leaves your lungs as Peter’s hand travels to your waist and lower. This time, you don’t hesitate; you don’t let the shock confuse you.

You kiss him back.

You welcome his lips over yours, letting your hand touch his soft skin.

God, you’ve missed it.

It is soft and tender. The reminder of the affection you once had, of the tension you never lost.

It is not enough, and yet, nothing ever made you feel this at peace.

You draw a sharp breath when he slowly breaks the kiss.

"You owed me one,” he whispers against your lips. You flutter your eyes open, gazing at the brown you’ve missed.

He parts his lips to talk, "And yes, I will... stop the- the thi–”

You don’t let him. You know what he’s going to say anyway.

You don’t want to hear it. Why would you wish to hear it when you can feel it, taste it?

This time, the kiss is sloppy, hungry, filled with a yearn radiating from your lips to your hearts. It is rough and firm, just like his hands around your waist. You didn’t know there was any distance left between you two, and yet he managed to pull you closer by his hand on your lower back.

His other hand climbs up your neck, cupping your cheek.

It was cold outside, and now you are sweating under your coat.

You play with the hair behind his neck and let his tongue between your lips. The deepening kiss feels wrong out in the air, but his body against yours numbs any morals.

You forget frost, the traffic, the spilled coffee.

He forgets the mask, the roof, rain falling onto you.

There is nothing and everything, and both of them are you.

“How about you tidy up your place from time to time?”

You step on Peter’s shirt on your way to his bed.

“This is the tidied-up version,” he lays next to you, a cookie plate in his bed.

“You sure you’re okay with the crumbs?” you involuntarily smile and take one, but instead of biting it, you divide it in half.

“Yeah, it’s seen worse,” Peter watches the crumbs fall to his bed and averts his eye back to you. You look disgusted.

Instead of denying it, he smirks.

“Ew, Peter!”

“Ew yourself, missy. My bed is cleaner than your room.”

“There is a sock,” you point to the corner of his bed.

“Does it smell?”

“No, but it has a gap,” you laugh and don’t notice Peter staring at your lips. “Can you wear it?”

“Later,” he murmurs before moving you by the chin to face him. You smile against his lips as he kisses you.

Your days have turned into soft touches with him by your side and your nights into lustful kisses with you on his bed.

You don’t complain. He still drives you mad, pushes your limits with every study you two ever have to do, but he also encourages you, loves you, and on nights like this where it is only you, the serene darkness and him, kisses you like it’s the first time every time.

A slow, almost non-existent moan escapes from you, and he smiles his mocking smile. You let him guide you to your back as he props himself up by his elbow over you. His hand roams your body and reaches the hem of your shirt to travel under it–

“You guys want anything else?” the door cracks open.

“Oh, come on, May!”

okay, this is the final! i'm so so so sorry that it took almost three months, and thank you to every one of you who patiently waited for me <33

i loved writing dulcet, and i hope you loved reading it with me, please let me know what you think of the series and the final.

if you want, buy me a coffee

tags✿ : @starsval @taylorann2013 @miwagila @just-henny @pepsicolacoochie @teddtheweeb @1ts-izzy @simp-sentral @naok-iyuu @hearttjason @itsfloorcry @olivezgalore @wildestestdreams @patis643 @lovelyweepingrebel @thedavax @qwintlimon7 @delwrites @daddyjackfrost @eddieslooneymoonie @msstillinskimorgan @lilmaymayy @tarzinnia @warrenposts @thehappygrungelife @peridotermine @ihearttities @hitoshislut @sassyrizznerd @aheadfullofsteverogers @booksandfairytales-mainblog @marmie-noir @thelonerlover @ttulipwritezz @unicornforscale @gorillaglue23 @inkthgoat @dinovickydzillarex @simp-sentral @miwagila @adiaz-25 @void21 @pingpongfingfong @just-levyy @mommymortuary @kindlover @turningtoclown @xreaderbooksreads @anuncalledbridge @ezzynf @birdsinmywalls @somethingsmart123 @dreamsarecloserwithyou @sincericida @hollandweather

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amethystunarmed · 5 months

Text

I Need a Shovel to Love Him

Word Count: 4,226 A03 Link Richie calls Peter after the events of the opening night of Workin' Girls.

~~~

Holy fucking shit.

Peter is about to lose his virginity to Stephanie Lauter.

They are on the couch in Peter's brother's apartment. Ted is gone for the evening, went to Ruth’s musical at the Starlight, but he had thrown a condom at Peter with a wink before he left. Peter was equal parts mortified and grateful.

By pure luck, Peter and Steph had managed to avoid getting tickets the same night Ted was going, giving them an opportunity to finally go all the way. They are making out on the couch, Steph straddling him while he gazes up at her in awe. Neither of them are wearing their shirts (Peter has come a long way from the first time he saw Steph in her bra and got so flustered he had to stop. He's just lucky she thought it was both hilarious and adorable). Her skin is hot against his, and when she trails her fingers down his spine, it gives him chills. Steph has finally taken pity on Peter, and moved to take her bra off herself, when the phone rings.

Pete sits up to grab it and Steph groans, flopping forward so her head rests on his chest.

"Are you serious Spankoffski? You're answering your fucking phone right now?"

"I figure if it's my brother telling us he's on his way back because he finally realized the show isn't about sex workers, we'd want to know."

"... You get a pass just this once." She slides off his lap and Peter immediately misses her weight.

Peter fumbles for his phone and is surprised by the name that pops up.

The Power of God and Anime. Richie.

Peter frowns down at his phone. Richie would rather die than make a phone call. For all Ruth loved talking to telemarketers, Richie about broke out in hives every time he had to make a call. (Between his phobia and Ruth's penchant for making the delivery boy uncomfortable, Peter had been making calls to Pizza Hut for them for years.) Richie wouldn't call. Not unless...

Peter hits the button and brings the phone to his ear, even as Stephanie groans behind him. He slides his legs off the couch and stands as he talks.

"Hey Richie, what's up? Aren't you at the show?"

Sobbing. Richie is sobbing. Peter's stomach sinks. "Richie? Richie, what's happening?"

"Pete?" Steph asks, suddenly concerned. Peter holds a finger up to her.

Richie hiccups. His voice is shaky, so much that Pete can barely understand him.

"He- he- He went crazy, he killed them-"

Peter feels like he's had ice water dumped over him.

"Who? Who killed who, Richie?" Peter gets up and grabs his shirt from where he'd thrown it earlier.

"Everyone, he- he-"

"Where are you?"

"The Theater."

Oh thank God.

"Richie, my brother is there, go find Ted, okay?" Ted was a fucking asshole but he would (probably) look out for Ruth and Richie, if only so Pete didn't tear him a new one. "He'll get you and Ruth out of there okay?"

"That's what I'm trying to tell you," Richie says, sniffling, voice hitching. "Ruth and Ted are dead, Peter."

Peter drops his phone.

He doesn't remember what happens next. He blinks and they're in the back of Mayor Lauter’s limo. Steph is holding Peter's now cracked phone to her ear. Miss Tessburger is prattling on about something but Pete can't understand her. Her words sound like a broken garbage disposal, continually revving but never getting any clearer.

He blinks again and Steph is kneeling in front of him. She sways as they take a sharp turn. She should be wearing a seatbelt, he thinks, inanely.

"Pete, you're scaring me."

Peter doesn't know why. He hasn't even done anything.

He blinks and they're at the theater. Steph's hand is firm in his, the only thing that keeps him from drifting away. He trails behind her, letting her guide him to the sirens and the flashing lights. Until he sees-

Richie.

Peter loses time again. Suddenly he is sprinting, and Richie is too and Peter slams into him and they fall to the ground and Peter has his fingernails clawed tightly into Richie's vest so nothing can pry Richie away from him and-

He is sitting in the back of the ambulance. A scratchy orange blanket is wrapped around his shoulders. Richie is next to him. He has Peter's hand in a death grip, squeezing so tight Peter is beginning to lose feeling in his fingers.

An EMT is shining a light in his penlight in Peter’s eyes. It fucking hurts. Peter blinks aggressively at him.

“His pupils dilate, I don’t see any sign of concussion. As far as I can tell, Peter here is just suffering from a pretty extreme shock.”

He gives Peter a pitying little smile. Peter wants to knock his teeth out.

“But he’s not responding.” Stephanie is standing off the shoulder of the EMT. She has her arms crossed over her chest, her chin cocked out. It’s the same stance she’d had when she’d stood down Max Jagerman after they first started dating. It means she’s scared. “You can see it, he did it in the car too. Why the fuck can’t he hear us?”

The EMT hesitates a moment, then speaks slowly, like an adult on Sesame Street.

“Sometimes, when someone goes through something terrible, their brain will... take them away for a little. It’s a defense mechanism.”

Peter has already heard enough of this.

“You don’t have to talk about me like I’m not here.”

“Oh, thank god.” The tension melts out of Steph as she throws herself at Peter’s free side. Her arms wrap around his shoulder and she tucks her head into his neck, like she is trying to get as close to him as possible. “You’re okay. Jesus Pete, never scare me like that again.”

"Pete?" Steph and Peter pull away from each other to look at a Black man in a checkered shirt. He nervously fiddles with a button on the cuff of his sleeve. Peter hadn’t initially noticed him, but he’s pretty sure the man had been standing there for a while. He seemed vaguely familiar, but Peter couldn’t place him. "You're Peter Spankoffski, right?"

Steph pushes over the ambulance, and stands in between him and Peter and Richie. "Listen, if you want a statement, go talk to some other smarmy asshole looking to get famous off this. Try Linda Monroe, she has an affinity for vultures." She is so fucking cool, so brave. Peter thinks he may be in love with her.

Oh my god he's in love with her.

He's in love with Stephanie Lauter.

He wants to tell Ruth, even though she'll ask a million uncomfortable questions.

He wants to tell Ted, even though he'd give some awful advice about not being tied down.

Peter squeezes Richie’s hand.

"No, no," the man says. "I'm one of Ted's co-workers? Bill. Do you remember me?” The name slots into place. Peter remembers him in the backgrounds of office party pictures Ted had shown him and from when Ted brought Peter to a “Bring Your Kid to Work Day” even before he moved in with Ted full time. He has a recollection of Bill smiling at him from where he had hidden behind Ted, telling him, Richie, and Alice Woodward to all play nice together. Peter gives him a faint nod, which puts Bill somewhat at ease.

“Look at you, all grown up. So tall!” He is studying Peter with a sad sort of softness, cataloging all the changes from that little kid he’d met years ago. Peter wants to find the nearest bridge he can jump off of to avoid this conversation. “I wouldn’t have recognized you if Ted hadn’t had a picture on his desk."

Peter wonders if he spontaneously developed a latex allergy, it feels like his throat is swelling shut. “He... He has a picture of me on his desk?”

"Yes, he does.” Peter waits for him to elaborate, but Bill just offers him an awkward little half smile. Which, what the fuck? Did he just come over to here to remind Peter he was going to have to go to his brother’s fucking office and clean out his desk?

“Bill, I don’t want to be rude, but... why are you here?”

“Oh.” Bill furrows his brow at that, like he isn’t actually sure. “We came here together. Ted and I."

Peter squints at him. "Like a date?" He knew Ted had been sleeping around the office (knew too much about it, because his brother was kind of a slut), but he'd been pretty sure he'd been hung up on someone named Charlotte.

"No!" Bill denies, "He- I had an extra ticket, and I- he was the only one who wanted to come." Bill suddenly looked nauseous. "H- he was the only one who wanted to come tonight, and to spend time with me, and the whole night I just-"

"So you're the reason my brother is dead." The whole group snaps their heads to stare at him, even the EMT. He doesn’t know why they all look so surprised. It seems like a pretty logical deduction to make.

Steph wraps her arm around Peter’s shoulder, but she stays standing. He feels small tucked against her side. It feels nice.

Richie gives his hand a squeeze and runs his finger along the side of Peter’s hand. It feels nice too.

Bill sucks in a breath, like somebody stabbed him. Which is fucking hilarious, given the circumstances. He looks at Peter like Peter did something to hurt him. It does not feel nice.

“What? Don’t have anything to say about it? You just said it, you were the reason he was here.” The EMT winces, and Peter glares at him. He wisely decides to fuck off to the front of the ambulance.

“Peter, that’s not- I’m didn’t-” Bill fumbles over himself. Peter isn’t sure what he fucking expected.

“I think you should go.”

“Right, right, but I just wanted to say, if you need anything, you can-” He fumbles with his back pocket and pulls out a wallet, nearly dropping it on the ground. Ted always says that Bill never knows when to drop a subject, and so far, Peter isn’t seeing anything to disapprove this fact.

“Here,” Bill says, as he holds a white card out to Peter. “My number’s on there, you can give me a call-"

And Peter just wants him to shut the fuck up.

"I said fucking GO!"

Bill jumps and drops his business card. Peter feels bad, but he's too fucking tired to apologize. He slumps against Steph's shoulder. Her breathing feels like a gravitational pull, and he doesn't think he could escape it if he tried.

Bill scurries off, and Peter is grateful. “Fuck,” he groans, hiding his face in the crown of Stephanie’s head. She smells like sweat and that fruity shampoo her dad won’t stop buying for her. “Ted was right, he’s a fucking busybody.” It tears through his chest, even saying his brother’s name. He thinks the only thing that could hurt worse would have been not saying it.

It grows quiet. At least, as quiet as the site of a disaster can be. If he listens carefully, he can hear Chief Sweetly crying about one of the actors or Officer Bailey debating with Grace Chasity over who gets to keep his gun. (He's pretty sure Grace is winning.) The noises of the parking lot combine into a low background, police interrogations and muffled sobbing weaving into a dull drone. The police have turned their sirens off, but the lights still flicker red and blue and white. Peter closes his eyes, and the solid colors flicker across the black of his eyelids. The repetition is soothing, smoothing over the anxious hum that has been blaring a klaxon in the back of his brain. Between the warm pillar of Steph in front of him and Richie’s solid weight across his back, Peter finds his eyes drifting shut.

Richie’s shoulders hitching, however, gets him wide awake in an instant. Peter sits up, away from Steph, and pulls Richie closer to him, so he is angled toward Peter. Silent tears flood Richie’s cheeks. His mouth is screwed up in a crooked line.

“What happened?” Peter asks, frantically looking Richie over. He seemed fine when they arrived, but Peter had just been happy he was breathing, he could have missed something important-

"It's my fault Ruth is dead," Richie weeps.

"What?"

"I killed her, Peter. I killed Ruth." Tears stream down Richie's cheeks.

"I thought you said-"

"I told her to audition! She wasn't going too, she said she wouldn't get in. I'm the one... I'm the reason."

Oh fuck.

"Richie..."

Richie just sobs and latches onto his shoulder. Peter can feel time slipping again and he digs his nails into his palm to stay present.

"Richie, it's not your fault."

"I'm the reason she was here."

The sick feeling in Peter's gut twists deeper. That isn't what he... Fuck. What does he say? What does he say?

Steph sees his hesitation and gets a wild look in her eyes. Her hand flutters to the back of Peter’s neck. Her fingernails graze the skin in a repetitive line, like she is trying to beckon him back. He wonders if she thinks he lost time again. If so, she doesn’t say. She focuses all her attention on Richie. "It's not your fault, okay? You blame the murderer, you blame the theater for hiring this whackjob, you blame God for all I care, but you don't blame yourself for that shit, okay? That's how you drive yourself crazy, and Ruth wouldn't want that, you torturing yourself for believing in her. Okay?" She reaches across Peter and takes Richie's free hand. "Promise me."

"Promise you?"

"You won't blame yourself. Promise me."

"I'll... I'll try.”Steph opens her mouth, most likely to argue, but she is interrupted. From the side of the ambulance, the EMT clears his throat, far too loudly, and rounds the corner.

Steph glares at him, but only says, "We'll work on it.” Richie nods, and Peter is positive he is counting on her forgetting about it.

With the EMT back, their closeness starts to itch. Peter can feel him searching them, trying to figure out just what they mean to each other. Peter is pretty sure a vivisection would feel less intrusive.

The three of them untangle from one other. Steph habitually tucks her hair behind her ears, straightening to perfect posture. Even at the scene of a disaster, she maintains her image. Not that Peter blames her. He is sure Dan and Donna will have all sorts of footage from tonight all over the news tomorrow. As a local celebrity, Stephanie will probably get a featured segment. The thought makes him feel nauseous. "Everything seems to be in order!" The EMT says brightly. "I don't think you two need to go to the hospital. Do you three have someone who can take you home?"

"My uncle is coming to get me," Peter lets him know. He looks toward Stephanie and Peter. “He can probably get the two of you too!”

Stephanie's frown deepens. It has been such a common expression for her tonight, Peter feels bad. He has etched so much grief into her face. "But Peter-"

"I'm fine, Steph."

"No you're fucking not. You keep fucking... Leaving."

"I've been here the whole time."

"But you haven't. The lights are on but nobody is home. It's... It's fucking terrifying, Pete."

Oh.

Pete turns to Richie, who nods. His palm is slick with sweat against Peter's. He looks freaked out, even considering everything that has happened tonight, which Peter again feels bad about. He is letting everyone down today. Still... There is one person he can't fail. He can't.

Peter looks up at the EMT.

“Where is my brother?”

Richie swallows nervously. Peter feels his Adam's apple bob against his shoulder. "Pete...” He says slowly, like Peter just asked if he could move to Clivesdale. “He's d-"

"I fucking got that." He doesn't need a reminder. "Where... Where did they take him. After."

The EMT presses his lips together. “You should let your parents handle that, sweetie-”

“Then it’ll never get done. Where is he?”

“Everyone who was... who had passed before we arrived was taken to the hospital morgue.”

“Huh.” Images of Ted, pale and expressionless on a silver slab flash through his head. So many nurses were going to see Ted naked. He would have been ecstatic.

Then Peter is laughing. He is laughing so hard he can’t breathe. Stephanie and Richie are saying something, and they sound almost frantic and someone is shaking his shoulder but it’s so fucking funny Peter can’t stop. Tears stream down his cheeks as he cackles. And at some point his laughs have turned to sobs. They shake his whole body, and he thinks he might be screaming. He falls into Richie, and Richie is sobbing too. He wraps his arms around Peter, and hugs him tight to his chest. Peter can feel wet spots on Richie’s shirt where he is soaking him with tears and snot, but Richie only holds him tighter.

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, Pete,” he murmurs over and over into Peter’s hair. A warm weight drapes over Pete’s back, and Stephanie reaches up to pet through Peter’s hair.

“Let it out baby, let it out.” Her voice is wet.

Peter isn’t sure how long they sit there, crying. Long enough, that Peter runs out of tears, and he just sniffles through shaky breaths, feeling like a wrung out dish towel.

“What am I going to do?”

“What do you mean?”

“Where... Where am I going to stay?” His parents were out of the question. Peter wouldn’t go back, even if they wouldn’t just slam the door in his face. Without Ted to pay rent on the apartment... “I’m homeless. Fuck.”

“You can stay with me!” Stephanie assures him.

“Your dad is going to be okay with that?”

“Are you kidding? He’ll love it. Taking you in right before the election? He’ll look like a hero.” She scoffs. “He’ll probably claim it was his idea.”

A car pulls into the parking lot, a beat up red Toyota probably older than Peter is himself. The bumper is more rust than metal. At the wheel is the mean barista from Beanie's. She is wearing an expression that Peter has never seen on her before, blatant concern weighing her face. Out of the car, comes Richie’s uncle Paul. He is still in his suit, like he was relaxing at home in a starched shirt and tie. Considering everything he knows about Paul, that probably was the case.

“Richie!” He yells, louder than Peter imagined he could be, “Richie!” His head frantically turns back and forth as he scans the crowds.

“Over here!” Richie yells, standing and waving his and Peter’s conjoined hands. He has backed up, so the lines of their legs are still pressed together.

Paul’s entire body decompresses when he sees Richie, like he is sighing with his entire body. He staggers against the hood of the car, briefly studying himself with his hands, before pushing past it. He cuts the corner too fast, slams his thigh into the headlight, but he doesn't even seem to notice the impact. He speedwalks over to the back of the ambulance, running up to his nephew to take Richie's face into his hands. “Richie,” he gasps, like holding him is the first breath of oxygen he has gotten all night. Something about it makes Peter's already sore eyes sting, and he has to swallow a lump in his throat.

Richie looks up at Paul with a brittle smile. “Hi Uncle Paul. Thank you for coming.” He says it like Paul has picked him up early from a sleepover. Paul doesn't even answer. He just opens his mouth and then closes it, once, twice, then a third time. Then he pulls Richie forward, unflinchingly, into his chest. His shoulders shake.

“Jeez, Uncle Paul!” Richie shrieks, “You're crushing me.” He doesn't fight the hold though, merely wraps his free arm around Paul and squeezes. The hand still holding Peter’s trembles.

The mean barista jogs up to them, finally catching up from where Paul had run off without her. Peter remembers Richie mentioning she and Paul were dating, but Peter hadn't realized they were “Drive me to get my nephew from the scene of a mass murder” serious. Good for Paul.

"Hey kid. How are you holding up?"

Richie sniffs. "Sorry, Emma. I know you were excited to have dinner with Tom and Tim."

"Kid, you don't have to apologize for... For any of it. I'm just glad you're okay." She places her hand on Paul's shoulder. “Babe, you're going to suffocate him.”

“Right, right,” Paul says, distantly. He lets Richie lean away, hands slowly falling, like he is ready to reach out and grab him again at any moment. He glances over, paling at the sight of Peter and Stephanie. He clears his throat as he processes their presence. “Hello Peter. Stephanie.” He says Stephanie's name slowly, like midway through saying it, he realized he wasn’t actually sure he was right.

She graciously doesn't mention it. “Hey, Mr. Matthews.” Paul frowns, like he always has the few times she's joined them for a study session, but for once doesn't argue. Instead, he turns to Peter.

“Richie mentioned that Ted... Is... Is he, um-”

Peter doesn't have the patience for this. “Ted's dead, yeah.”

Paul gets that same stricken look Bill had, and maybe Peter should be nicer, but to be honest, he just wants people to stop looking at him. Even the fucking barista, who Peter is 99% sure has spit in his hot chocolate, is looking at him like he's a walking tragedy and Peter can hardly stand the writhing weight of their pity.

“Okay... Okay, okay,” Paul repeats, slowly, taking a deep breath. "I'm... I'm sorry for your loss. Ted and I weren't close but... I know he really, really loved you."

It's so impersonal, so distant. It’s a stranger’s eulogy.

It's exactly what Peter expects from Paul. Their mismatched relationship used to be something Peter, Ruth, and Richie laughed at Ted recalling his "best friend Paul" while Paul clearly only tolerated Ted, at best. Ruth had once called it a "tragic, one-sided bromance" and Peter had laughed so hard, milk shot out his nose. But Ruth isn't here. And Ted isn't here. And Paul doesn't like Peter's brother. And Peter can't help but say it.

"Ted called you his best friend." From the way Paul's eyes widen, this is news to him.

"Oh. I... I didn't know he, um, felt that way. I kind of thought he didn't like me."

"Being mean is how Ted shows affection. He learned it from our parents."

"Jesus fucking Christ, Pete," Steph exhales, like the words pain her. She nuzzles closer to his shoulder.

"Speaking of parents,” Paul says, in that frantic way he does when he is trying to change the subject, “are they coming to pick you up?"

"Fuck, I hope not." Peter says, before he can stop himself. He groans. Fuck his filter tonight, apparently he’ll just say anything. Stephanie, Paul, and Emma are looking at him with barely masked concern.

“Peter can stay over, right?” Richie asks, nervously. He still hasn't let go of Peter. Peter can't imagine asking him too.

“Of course,” Paul says and nods toward Peter. Then he looks at Stephanie. “Are you... Are you coming as well?”

“I...” Steph looks between them. “I’m not-” It is the most at-a-loss Pete has ever seen her. “I wouldn’t want to... You guys were... Ruth and I, we weren’t... We only hung out a few times, and... I shouldn’t.” It’s Richie who reaches out and grabs her hand.

“Please, come with us. For Pete, and... for me?” Somehow, tears begin to drip down Richie’s face. (Peter is distantly impressed. He thinks that if he cried anymore, he would crumble into dust.) “You’re our friend, Steph. You are Ruth’s friend too.” He chuckles, and chokes on it. “She was so excited to have a friend who was a girl, you had no idea.”

Steph sniffles a bit. “She was my first girl friend too. At least, the first one who was actually nice to me.”

“Steph...” Paul says. Peter didn’t realize it at first, but his eyes are red. “Even if you think you weren’t as close-” Paul’s voice cracks, “-as you should have been, you get to be sad too, okay?”

“Paul...” Emma says, a twinge of genuine grief in her tone, but Peter can’t bring himself to care about whatever the fuck they are talking about, because Steph is looking between him and Richie like she is waiting for them to say something. Words are fucking impossible but to be honest, Peter doesn’t want to talk anyways. He holds his arms out and Stephanie falls into them. And Peter was wrong, because as Steph silently cries into his shoulder and Richie worms his ways into the hug, shoulders heaving, Peter finds he has more tears left to shed after all.

#peter spankoffski #npmd #stephanie lauter #richie lipschitz #hatchetfield #workin boys #workin boys spoilers #character death #lautski #ted spankoffski #ruth fleming #hatchetverse #angst #hurt/comfort #my writing #my fanfic #paul matthews

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amostimprobabledream · 2 months

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forbidden fruit is the sweetest (Gin Ichimaru x Reader)

Wrote this little AU smutfic because there isn't enough of Gin in general and he should be in more porn. Also available on Ao3!: https://archiveofourown.org/works/53897803 Your nails tap against the wineglass on the table. You haven't touched much of it because the taste is acidic, sour. You're not sure if it's a bad bottle or if that's just how this brand tastes - you're not much of a wine drinker, but at least sipping from it (or pretending to) gives you something to do between awkward silences. To be honest, this entire evening is well out of your comfort zone. You don't know what you were thinking letting Rangiku talk you into this - one day she just plopped herself down in the seat across from you, her chest heaving. "We really need to get you out there." she declared in final tones, like she was continuing a conversation you'd just been having. "It's not good to mope around after some guy."

It’s pretty ironic, really, since no doubt Rangiku had done plenty of moping over the same person you were. But it wasn't like you could tell her that - even if nothing official had been confirmed, you weren't stupid, you knew that Gin and Rangiku had a long, complicated history that an outsider couldn't possibly hope to understand. And how you were supposed to compete with a woman like Rangiku Matsumoto - even if you wanted to? So here you are, at a speed dating thing, sitting here in the vain hope that you might find some guy that might make you forget about Gin Ichimaru and the fact that, despite your better judgement, you were in love with him.

"So, um…" the fifth guy opposite you stumbles through his line of questioning, and you can't even remember his name. All the men you've spoken to so far tonight talk like they were given a script they didn't bother to learn properly - the same questions, same responses and the whole time you want to scream. You've even started just making things up to just try and inject a little variety into your responses, because why not? “Where are you from?”

Oh, riveting question. It’s not like I haven’t been asked that four times tonight.

You know you’re being judgmental, so that’s a winning combination, judgmental and unattractive, but you tried going into this with an open mind and despite your expectations being low, you still find yourself feeling disappointed. How can so many different people all talk the same? It doesn’t help none of them are that attractive, either.

You wonder if you can overcome cost sunk fallacy and just get up and leave – just walk out of here and leave the shitty wine and overly loud music and interminably dull conversation behind. Sure, you’ll go home, curl up on your futon and feel like a failure, but at least you’ll be at home, in your futon, and not here.

The conversation peters out, namely because the responses to such inane questions can only be milked for so much prattling smalltalk before it dwindles into awkwardly nodding at each other. You play with your phone, wondering if it’s normal to feel so desperately ill at ease you want to rip your own skin off. Probably not, but you’re sure you can’t be totally alone in that regard. When it’s time for the men to get up and move seats, you don’t even bother hiding the relief on your face. After all, no doubt he was as keen to get away from you as you were him.

That’s when the next guy sits down and introduces himself as Takeshi. A salaryman. He’s nice. Which may sound like you’re damning him with faint praise, but considering everyone else has been mediocre at best, you’ll take “nice” gladly. You tell him your name and he smiles, like you’ve given him some good news.

"What do you do for work?” he asks, picking up his shochu.

“Well...”

You hate answering this question – it’s just a job. It’s not like you’re not a doctor or a firefighter or something, someone who lives for their job and studied for years to become one. You do your work because you have to, because it’s how you pay to live in your apartment and that’s preferable than living under a bridge. It doesn’t really say much about you as a person, really, except for the obsession with your boss.

Stop it. You think to yourself, sternly. Give him a chance.

Rangiku is right – you do need to get laid.

Easy for her to say, though. Rangiku doesn’t need to attend events like these because the idea she’d ever need to is absolutely laughable. You’ve seen men actually walk into things because they were too busy staring at her to watch where they were going. Women either hate her or they look at her in awe. Rangiku Matsumoto ever being short on offers for dates, or sex, or even someone to just do her bidding is ridiculous. But it’s not for you, even though you hate yourself a little bit for admitting it, because you know it’s the truth. You’re not like her.

“Oh, nothing special, just office stuff.” You say, trying to sound breezy. “What about you?”

God, you sound so fake. Why can’t people talk about things that are actually interesting? This is the equivalent of conversational elevator music. When does expected standard become acceptable to ignore for the sake of spicing things up a bit?

Perhaps you’ve been a little spoiled, though. You can think of someone who always manages to keep you on your toes and never bores you. But you give your head a quick shake like you’re trying to flick away a fly and try to pay attention to Takeshi, even though you’re more focused on the movement on his lips than the words themselves.

“So…what do you like to do for fun?” Takeshi asks.

Another kind of generic question, but at least he does sound somewhat interested when you answer. He's easy to read, you notice. His emotions are all just right there on his face, which feels…strange. Not necessarily in a bad way, but it’s like the difficulty on a video game has suddenly dropped.

“And you?” you prompt, deciding to go out on a limb and ask something direct. “What brings you here? Looking at you I wouldn’t think you have problems getting asked out.”

Shit, did that sound sarcastic? You didn’t mean it to be. But Takeshi seems pleased by the comment, and you notice he has a dimple when he smiles.

“Well, to be honest I’m usually so tired after work I go home and just crash.” He says with a self-deprecating laugh, combing his fingers through light brown hair. “And most of the women in my office are married. Or over fifty and smell of boiled sweets.”

“Ha!” you bark out a laugh, the first time you’ve laughed or even smiled genuinely all night. “Yeah, I get that. Plus, there’s that whole worry about if things don’t go well with a colleague, you still have to face them all the time over the water cooler.”

“Water cooler?” Takeshi blinks.

“Nevermind.” You take another sip of your wine, then make a face. It truly is disgusting – why are you still drinking it at all? Time to be the change you want to be. “Excuse me, let me go buy myself something less vile.”

“I’ll come with you!” he practically jumps out of his seat.

Things flow surprisingly easy once you find someone you can talk to – Takeshi doesn’t understand all your little jokes and you suspect he finds your habitual sliding into sarcasm somewhat confusing, but he’s at least got enough social intelligence to ask questions and reply with more than one-word answers and he even insists on paying for your drink. A little unease creeps through you, wondering if it’s a trick and he’s trying to build a tab against you by doing it, but he seems so eager to be of use in some way that you capitulate. You can always buy him one later.

Soon enough there’s a call for a break – apparently events like these are split into two to give everyone a little time to gather their thoughts, buy more alcohol, go to the bathroom, smoke, whatever. You decide to slip outside, where there’s this surprisingly pleasant little outdoor seating area with picnic tables and a few plants in huge planters (probably so drunk people can’t knock them over), an alleyway leading out to the street. You perch down at one of the tables and suck in a deep breath, before checking your phone and generally enjoying some quiet. With the music pumping through the speakers and the buzzing of conversation, you know that if you linger too long, you’ll wake up with a headache tomorrow. You make a mental note not to just collapse into bed when you get home no matter how much you want to and get something to drink – juice or whatever you have in the fridge.

“There you are.”

You glance over your shoulder. Oh. Of course, Takeshi followed you out – why wouldn’t he? Still, a little irritation nudges at you, which you try to ignore.

“Yeah. The music in there is…kinda loud.” You say, with a friendly grimace.

“Yeah, it is.”

He comes to sit down next to you, and he’s very close, his thigh pressed against yours, denim rubbing up against your skin. Again, a spark of annoyance at how he didn’t even think twice about encroaching on your personal space when you clearly want a minute alone. You clear your throat, feeling a sudden weight between you that wasn’t present when you were talking inside. Rather than being exhilarating, you feel nervous. Almost a little queasy – now there’s a subtle sort of pressure, bearing down on you. An expectation has formed and one way or another, you’re going to have to meet it. Irrationally, you resent Takeshi a little for this, for this sudden invisible hand pressing down on the back of your neck.

Do you have a right to feel uncomfortable? Isn’t this why you came here – for something like this to happen?

Yet…

Takeshi says your name, making you jump, and when you turn to look at him, he’s staring intently at you, his eyes looking oddly gooey and wet in his head, almost like he’s on the brink of tears. Or is that just a trick of the light?

“Yes?” you say, hyperaware of everything suddenly. Your clothes, previously sitting comfortably on you, feel itchy. You want to take off your necklace, your makeup. You want to run away. To not be seen.

“Can I kiss you?” he breathes.

If he notices that the pause that follows this question is slightly too long, he doesn’t comment on it. Perhaps he chooses not to notice it. Your throat feels dry, and you swallow.

“Okay.” You answer, because you’d feel like a hypocrite if you said no.

So he does.

It's…fine.

Damned by faint praise again, huh? You think, as his mouth touches yours. He only makes a couple of seconds pretense at actually kissing you, before he’s clumsily licking at your mouth to ask for you to open it. You do, because the way he’s licking your lips is tickling them and it’s kind of irritating, and then his tongue, a wet slab, thrusts between your top and bottom teeth. Your own tongue is buffeted to the side for a second and you have to push it into his mouth just to get some air.

And, most damning of all… in your head, a countdown starts – you’ve been kissing for a couple of seconds and you’re already bored and waiting for it to be over.

You make a noise like a gag and draw your head back, wiping saliva off your chin with the back of your hand. Ugh. Ew.

“Sorry.” Takeshi says with a breathy laugh, and he can’t ignore the disapproval in your face. “Let me try again-“

“My, my.”

You both freeze.

Like something out of a comedy movie, except you don’t feel much like laughing, both of you slowly turn your heads towards the voice, even though you don’t need to – you know who has caught you out here – you’d know that voice anywhere.

Gin stands watching you both with a slight tilt to his head, that permanent smile stretched wide.

And your heart, weak, traitorous thing it is, begins to thump loudly at the sight of him, like a dog wagging its tail.

He looks good too – white shirt, black trousers, a thin silver chain of a necklace disappearing into his collar. You can smell a hint of the cologne he uses, a subtle tease to your nose instead of the cloying, overpowering brands you’ve been unintentionally inhaling all night.

Both you and Takeshi stand up in sync, like you’re in a play and have just remembered your stage directions. Gin glides closer with graceful, soundless footsteps, the white of his shirt making him look not unlike a ghost in the dim outdoor lighting.

The appearance of Gin drives home a truth that you have been subconsciously fleeing from, as efficiently as a sledgehammer whacking down a nail. Because the thing is, it doesn’t matter if somebody is nice, or if they’re a decent kisser, or if they don’t mind waiting politely for you to make up your mind about what you want to do next.

The fact is, as long as Gin Ichimaru holds your heart in his hands, there is no hope of giving it to anyone else. And he knows it.

You freeze and a trickle of panic crawls down your spine. Your lipgloss is smudged and it's pretty obvious what you were just doing. Your eyes dart from Takeshi to Gin - does he know? Know that your heart didn't even change its speed the whole time Takeshi was touching you? Know that all you could think about when you spoke to every guy in there, you could only see inscrutable smiles and long, elegant fingers in your mind's eye?

"Sir." you say, feeling silly - it feels a little late to fall back on protocol now, but what else can you say?

"I'll take it from here," Gin says, ostensibly to Takeshi, but it’s no doubt difficult for him to tell considering Gin’s eyes are closed as usual and his face is still squarely facing you.

“I-“ Takeshi says, glancing at you, but you barely register the quizzical tilt of his eyebrow, too busy staring at Gin like a deer in headlights.

Ordinarily a man gatecrashing another man’s date and summarily dismissing him would provoke anger, defiant, maybe even the beginning of a fight, but despite the constant smiling, Gin’s don’t-fuck-with-me vibes are immaculate and since you clearly know him, Takeshi gives in rather quickly.

“Oh, um…sure. Goodnight, then.” He said, with an awkward little nod.

You know that you should be insisting he stay, apologise for…well, for before, that you should do something. But keeping him around for Gin to torment would be far crueller than indifference, so you just nod back.

“Night.” You say, firmly, and wearing a look of polite bewilderment, Takeshi goes back inside.

Silence settles like snow as the door shuts with a dull thus behind Takeshi. Gin looks at you, and you find your eyes sliding away. Words tangle in your throat. “Why are you here?” you demand rather rudely, blinking hard to fight back the peculiar but strong urge to tear up. Did Rangiku tell him about this?

Why does he have to spoil everything?

“I went for a walk,” Gin replies with that fucking smile still adorning his face and he moves closer to you, his footsteps smooth and flowing as water. “Imagine my surprise to come across such a racy little scene. Tell me, do ya always let strange men kiss you in alleyways?”

“How’s that any of your business?” you bite back, yet your find yourself being crowded back against the wall as Gin steps closer, getting in your space.

His smile doesn’t waver, but working under him for so long has made you something of a specialist at reading the subtle nuances of his facial expressions – there’s a slight forcedness to his smile and a pinch of tension between his eyebrows that even he can’t totally smooth away.

“So, she has a tongue.” Gin hums, as if to himself.

His hand reaches out, pinching your chin, tilting your face up. You don’t resist and hate yourself for the undeniable crackle of electricity when he touches you – Gin rarely puts his hands on anyone, so that you’ve pushed him to do so gives you a stab of victory, paltry as it is.

But your feeling of triumph is incredibly short-lived as, with deliberate care like he’s excavating a fragile artefact from the ground, Gin swipes the pad of his thumb across your bottom lip. Your mouth tingles where he touches you and you stand stock-still, gazing up at him with wide eyes.

Gin raises his hand to his mouth and, slowly, his tongue glides across the pad of his thumb, licking off the sweet tasting gloss that had been formally coating your lips. You can only stare at him, transfixed, watching his tongue slide back into his mouth.

“Tastes sweet.” Gin remarks in that teasing lilt of his. He still hasn’t let go of your face. “But I think…”

You’re given no time to react before suddenly, he is pulling you in, one hand clamping on your waist, leaning down to your mouth-

Oh, fuck.

This isn’t possible. It can’t be. As long as you’ve known him, Gin has always held you at a very specific arm’s length – far enough to leave you in a perpetual state of yearning, but close enough so that he can have you yanked back to him by a crook of his beckoning fingers.

That he could cross this barrier any time he liked to kiss you and chose not to, only to do it now, is almost inconceivable.

But-

His lips are surprisingly warm against yours, which is funny because his hands are cold. But heat is all you can think about, your body surging with it, a blush rising to your face, your mouth opening for him without a thought. He invades your mouth like he invaded your head, leaving you no room to say a word, he won’t allow for any feeble denials or pointless questions. There are many ways to communicate, after all – words are just one of them.

Your back meets rough brick wall and you give a muffled grunt. Gin has your wrists pinned either side of your head and you feel like a butterfly on a slab – yet your cunt doesn’t seem to have the common sense to be wary of him like your brain does, because you can feel a telltale throb of excitement between your legs as he easily holds you in place, keeping you exactly where he wants you.

“Gin - sir-“ you stumble over your words.

“Shsh.” He hisses, and you shut up.

He pauses as he looks you up and down, even though his eyes are shut as always. A teasing smile curls at his lips and you dimly note he’s probably never seen you dressed up before, at least if you don’t count work Christmas parties. It seems he doesn’t have any problems with what you’re wearing, since nothing catty leaves his lips.

“I was right,” Gin nods slowly, his words a slow, measured singsong, like he’s about to read you a story. “Things like this gotta be savoured, y’know? I wonder…do you taste so good everywhere?”

Your mouth drops open, and your cheeks turn hot. Is he implying what you think he is?

“I- that’s-“ you splutter, because he’s always had the power to turn you into a gibbering moron even when he isn’t casually dropping sexual innuendos like a bomb.

Gin chuckles and gives your cheek an affectionate poke, before he tips his chin down, and slowly, with elegance, sinks down onto his knees. You can only watch him, transfixed, as he settles comfortably between your legs and he doesn’t have to tell you to part your legs – you do it without even thinking about it. You make the mistake of looking down.

Gin is looking up at you, between your spread thighs, his hands gripping your thighs so tightly that you know you’re going to have bruises where his thumbs are digging into your flesh.

And his eyes are open. Oh, fuck me sideways. You think, your own widening.

“Be a good girl and hold still.” Gin says in a silky voice, and now his eyes are open the gleam of amusement in them is all too visible to you. You could almost kick him for keeping them shut most of the time – they’re a beautiful shade of pale blue. You don’t have time to admire them for long though. Gin has business to attend to.

And attend it he does. He barely needs to do anything to keep you pressed against the wall, you’re rooted to the spot as his hands slide up your thighs, taking the gauzy material of your dress along with them. Cool air brushes up against your legs, but that isn’t the reason you’re shivering.

He smirks at the sight of your underwear – you’d worn something somewhat sexy to try and get into the spirit of tonight, but not a thong since you knew you’d be sitting down a while and didn’t want to think about it the whole time. So instead, he’s greeted by black panties with lacy panels on the sides, heated flesh just concealed beneath it.

“Now these,” Gin says in a singsong voice, snapping the elastic against your hip, the pop of noise in the stillness making you jolt. “Are the kind of panties you’d wear if you wanted to get fucked.”

“G-Gin…” you mewl.

He snickers at your embarrassment, eyes shifting back to your crotch. Teasingly slow, like you’re a dessert he wants to savour, he starts to peel your underwear down, fingers massaging your flesh, kneading it. He leans in, his breath hot on your core.

His tongue is skilled, you knew that already, but now you’re getting a real firsthand experience with it. He isn’t shy about nuzzling up against your cunt, nails digging crescent marks into the flesh of your legs as he licks inbetween your folds, hot and mercilessly and you keen out loud. If anybody comes outside for a smoke right now, you are so fucked.

But all of it – the thrill of getting caught, shock of Gin touching you, the roughness of the brick scraping your bare skin, the chilly bite of a spring night and the way your head is swimming from nasty cheap wine and boiling-over lust…all of it throws what’s going on into blinding focus.

“Gin…” you keen aloud, wanting to pull his pretty silver locks but you don’t quite dare, so you settle for resting a hand on his shoulder instead, your fingers clamping down on him in a voice grip. “Oh, fuck…nngh…”

He just gives a muffled chuckle and amps up the pace, his long, slender fingers creeping up to tease at your clit while his mouth attends to your cunt. Your legs are wobbling as you try to maintain your balance, but it’s not easy when he’s working you over like this, reaching places you could never manage with your own fingers…how the fuck is he so good at this?! It’s like he has a perfect, 3-D map of where everything is and exactly what to do to drive you insane. Your head has gone from verging on a headache to pleasantly, blissfully light and fuzzy, electricity zipping up and down your limbs, heat blooming in your core. He has to stop or you’re going to explode, but if he stops now you think you really might die…

“I’m coming…” you gasp out, tilting your head back, breath coming out in stuttered gasps. “Gin, please, fuck…don’t stop…”

Fuck you. I love you. Fuck you. The words ring over and over in your head as – for once - Gin obliges you.

The feeling is so intense that for a second you’re practically swooning, supernovas of lust and relief exploding like fireworks behind your shut eyelids. It’s ridiculous – you’re against a brick wall outside a bar, you can smell cigarettes from a nearby ashtray, it’s chilly and any moment somebody wanting their nicotine fix could see you. Yet your heart is pounding, warmth painting your face, swelling in your chest and yes, the satisfaction of seeing Gin leaning back, licking his lips and slowly rising to his feet like he did nothing more taxing than tying his shoelace helps. You hurriedly make sure your dress is safely floating about above your knees once again, smoothing it down with shaking hands. As illicitly thrilling as it is to do this outside, you don’t want anybody who passes you to immediately know just what you’ve been doing. Though you’re sure it wouldn’t be hard to work out – you probably smell of sex now, overpowering the perfume you’d picked out to wear tonight. Of course Gin would figure out a way to exert his influence by masking your scent as well as ruining your lipgloss.

How are you supposed to go back inside now? Well, obviously, you aren’t. Gin’s made that abundantly clear – no toy of his is to go exchanging clumsy kisses with other men until he’s bored of playing with them, and if he has to go to extremes to prove his point, so be it.

He's a fucking cruel bastard.

You nearly ask, What are we? Out loud, but thankfully before you can speak, Gin grabs your wrist and starts tugging you along after him. He doesn’t explain himself and you stumble after him on unsteady legs, still tingling with the afterglow and feeling the phantom touch of his tongue on you.

There’s a taxi waiting in the street outside, the driver sitting patiently, checking something on his phone. Your eyes snap to Gin – how long has that been there? When did he order it? But you don’t get to ask any of these questions, before Gin steps across to the back door and opens it, practically bundling you inside.

“Take this one home, will ya?” he says cheerfully to the driving, reeling off your address and you’re astonished that he knows it well enough to be able to repeat it off the top of his head. “She’s had enough to drink, I think.”

“Gin, what-? Why-?” you blurt out, trying desperately to get some semblance of an explanation for all this out of him.

Surely he can’t have done all that for his own amusement. You never were sure if Gin was fully aware of how you felt. Most people in your office tend to be wary of him at best, so your skittishness with him could easily be attributed to that. But Gin is a very perceptive man, so perhaps those times when he would lean over you as you worked to point at something on your screen, or stood too close to you whenever you were in the lift together, or when he’d send you these secretive little smirks across the room…maybe that was more than just a tease. Was he trying to tell you all along that he knew?

He leans in close to you, one hand gripping the door, and your heart flutters in your chest, wondering if he’s going to kiss you again, wanting him to but also feeling that familiar swoop of fear and excitement-

He just smiles and boops your nose and unceremoniously shuts the door on in your face, and the car speeds away into the night. And belatedly, you realise something else, something that makes your legs clamp together – He took your fucking panties.

His voice rings mockingly in your head, the last thing he said before sending you on your way, the mirth in his voice brimming over.

“See you on Monday.”

#Gin Ichimaru #Gin x Reader #Bleach x Reader #Fanfiction #Smut #Gin being a bastard #Reader Insert

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