Believe Me When I Say - Actually I Dont Have Anything To Say. I'm Speechllessss!! Ive Read Every. Peter.

believe me when i say - actually i dont have anything to say. I'm speechllessss!! ive read every. peter. parker. fic. ever. AND THIS ONE had me GRINNING AND INTERNALLY SCREAMING. easily one of my favorites. your writing is so FOOKING POETIC AND AAAAA thank you for giving me butterflies you incredible human <3

No Words Needed

TASM!Peter Parker x Reader

Word Count: 2.7k

Summary: Peter’s love language is something of which he is very deprived. You’re his exception.

Peter Parker is incredibly touch starved.

Living without that typical parental warmth surrounding you can do that, he figures, especially after losing the uncle who so kindly took him in along the way. Of course, that’s not to downplay the generous sacrifices of his Aunt May, who he undeniably adores beyond words.

Yet, as much as Peter’s grateful for what he still has left in his life, he wishes affection could be a more constant presence.

In all honesty, he’s learned to want that sort of thing through his work as Spider-Man—most commonly because of the longing he feels when he can save someone and return them to their loved ones. He gets the opportunity to connect a family together again, to see friends embrace and cry and reach out for one another, to watch on as couples kiss each other’s cheeks and foreheads feverishly, as if they’ve just realized the fragility of existence in that very moment. He’s fortunate enough to have people he’s saved extend an arm to him in thanks, people who’ve hugged him just for the sake of needing it. He’s torn to bits in the circumstances where he can’t save everybody. But he takes the risk of personal heartache with a grain of salt, and he pushes on to prevent their frequency.

Peter Parker is touch starved, but he earns enough compensation for it by rescuing others from the same fate.

He figures that it’ll be another ten, fifteen years of waiting to get that sort of thing for himself—hell, maybe he’ll never get it. Some days, he thinks that he’ll eternally have nobody’s arms to wrap around him but his own.

But then there’s you.

You discovered that he was Spider-Man by complete accident. Peter has an awfully reckless tendency to pull off his mask whenever he thinks he’s alone, even if he’s not in the safety of his own room. On a night when he needed a moment to think, following a very lengthy and tiring few hours of chasing police radio calls all over the city, he just so happened to find himself sitting atop the roof of your apartment complex (and by just so happened, he was being completely intentional in choosing your building, although not yet realizing the weight of his decision).

It was a comforting spot to him—almost as good of a view as the Empire State Building, whilst also providing with him a dose of nostalgia that made him think of all the times you’d brought him up there after school; it was a tradition he’d passed on in the few weeks prior, given that his hero duties started taking up a considerable amount of his time. He found himself missing it.

What he also missed was you walking out onto the roof, right up until you tentatively gasped out his name into the frigid evening air. Peter nearly fell off the side of the building in shock, but you were quick to pull him back to you, very easily pulling an honest explanation out of him when he began to see the concern in your eyes.

He didn’t expect a lot of things that happened that night, but the one that stunned him to his core was the way you hugged him after everything was thrown out in the open.

It was so warm. You were so warm. Sure, he’d known you long enough where basic touch was next to normal. A bumping of shoulders, the ruffling of hair, the unintentional brushing of hands. He saw you so often, after all. Even so, something as standard as a hug was causing a flood of emotions to rise up in him, nearly drowning him in the process, yet letting him breathe so effortlessly that his chest ached. He could feel the erratic rhythm of your heartbeat against his, could map out the grooves in your fingertips as they curled into the hair at his nape. He couldn’t help the onslaught of heat that bloomed on his face at the realization that you weren’t letting go anytime soon.

That night, you stayed up there with him for hours in the cold (although you made a few trips to your room and back with a handful of hot drinks and much warmer clothing at the ready, praying that Peter wouldn’t dart from your rooftop without warning), convincing him to open up sides of him that nobody had ever seen before. You offered him a wool blanket to drape over his suit and a reassuring hand on his shoulder, and it was like a light-switch got flipped in his head.

Peter realized that he had finally found it, not a day or a decade too late, and that he never wanted to live without it again.

He became much more affectionate from then on, keeping a gentle hand on the small of your back whilst navigating the school halls, brushing stray wisps of hair away from your face, and letting you fall asleep against his shoulder on the subway. No matter how many times he’d initiated contact before, it always sent your mind into a frenzy—especially when he would lean down and murmur, “is this okay?” beside your ear whenever his proximity bordered on near-romanticism.

Of course, you wouldn’t mind if it was romantic, but Peter didn’t need to know that.

You’ve discovered that it gets even more pronounced when he’s Spider-Man, because apparently a mask enhances a person’s confidence tenfold. Seeing videos of his cheeky commentary and caring acts of heroism paled in comparison to watching him work in person. You got the opportunity to learn that firsthand when—soon after his accidental reveal to you on the rooftop—some deadbeat decided to rob the convenience store on 14th by Midtown, and you were left to hide in the back corner, ducking beside a wall of energy drinks that you were damn near prepared to start throwing at the criminal if you had to crouch down any longer. Luckily, Peter caught wind of the situation before you could resort to such irrational aggressions, and he took care of it with practiced ease.

“You alright there?” he had inquired once he discovered your “hiding” spot, reaching out a hand as if you were the only person in the place—which you most definitely weren’t. “What’s a sweetheart like you doing caught up in a situation like this, huh?”

You could only stare back at him with an unimpressed look etched on your face—although the way he murmured sweetheart echoed in your head the whole time, like a church bell going off on a Sunday morning. “I just wanted to grab some snacks before my friend came over later.”

“Yeah?” he hums, amusement ringing clear, “Tell your friend that he owes you.”

He was the friend, of course. You had agreed to meet up after his daily patrol for a traditional session of studying and watching TV, but apparently the world had slightly modified intentions before that.

“Oh, don’t worry,” you assured him, sarcasm layered into your voice. “He’s already paid me back.”

Peter then insisted on carrying you out of the store (because there was some shattered glass on the floor, he reasoned—but it was more sincerely because he’s an asshole), and as a result, you couldn’t stop thinking about the way he had held you so effortlessly for the rest of the afternoon; an arm secured snuggly around your waist, the other supporting your legs up; it was as if you’d just said your vows on the way down the chip aisle.

God, his proximity was overwhelming. How in the world could one person’s touch be so intoxicating?

Unbeknownst to you, Peter was asking himself the exact same question. He was always this close to telling you how he felt, always acknowledging the urge to confess to you as the words sat on the tip of his tongue, but nothing had ever actually come out before. He remembered the night that his identity was revealed to you, and he longed for that sort of moment again—even if just to convey the sheer amount of affection he held for you.

But the back of his mind itched with doubt, and that doubt morphed its way into a sort of selfishness that made his stomach churn. He couldn’t stand the thought of having you distance yourself from him if his feelings weren’t returned. After all, you were his best friend above everything else.

So he stuck to the warmth of you like a moth to a flame, getting just enough before the absolute blaze that was you could singe his wings. It was a game of give and take that fueled you more than he understood, and it only kept rising in stakes as the days trudged on.

Your hand on his face here, his hands on your waist there.

The smudging of whipped cream against a nose, the bringing of a fork to parted lips to steal a bite of pastry.

Breaths of a shared closeness mingling on a winter’s day, a quick peck on the cheek in parting—

“Hey,” he finally can’t stop himself from saying, sitting up straight on the cushioned stool that he’s pulled up to your family’s kitchen counter. He’s watching you intently as you scour for drinks in the fridge, your face illuminated by the fluorescent glow of the open door. Even hunched over and with your body partially engulfed by the stainless steel appliance, Peter finds himself thinking you haven’t looked more lovely a day in your life.

Maybe it’s because of the kiss he can still feel lingering on his skin—on the place just above the right hand side of his jaw, right where you’d left it before dashing off to third period that morning—but even without that, he’s almost positive you’d still look just as beautiful.

You eventually maneuver out from the door, triumphantly grasping two cans of soda in your hands with a grin before kicking your heel back to shut it. “Hey,” you mimic. “What’s up?”

You know what’s up, seeing as you almost banged your head on your desk in Physics earlier out of pure frustration. The awkward atmosphere was most definitely due to the impulse you hadn’t gained the strength to fight, and you’re sure enough that you’re about to pay for it with the way Peter shifts in his spot.

He offers a slanted grin when you slide a cola over to him, snagging it before it can topple over and get shaken up. “I was going to ask you that.”

“Were you now?”

You’re avoiding his gaze, putting all your focus into pulling the tab of your drink open with a satisfying hiss, downing a gulp of it before he can say another word. Something like hope (and a hint of bemusement) flutters in Peter’s chest.

“Do you really not want to talk about kissing me all that much? I’m hurt.”

“On the cheek, Pete. I kissed you on the cheek. But anyways, do you want to order delivery tonight?”

“You’re not answering my question.”

You finally glance up at him, shooting a pointed glare his way. “There’s not much to discuss. It was an accident, and I’m embarrassed about it. There. Now—delivery or something else?”

Peter frowns, the brightness in his pretty brown eyes dimming, and you find your heart seizing in your chest at his change in demeanor. He seems almost…disappointed. But as soon as you see it, he shakes it off just as quick.

“Why do you need to be embarrassed about something like that?” He mutters softly. “We’re best friends. I’ve seen you do more outrageous shit than something as simple as a kiss, you know.”

Simple. Your heart twinges at the term. “Doubtful.”

“How about that one time you bought a pound of gumdrops on Christmas Eve and threw up trying to finish the bag before midnight?”

“Okay, except for that.”

“I had to hold your hair up for ten minutes straight,” he persists. “I still don’t think I’ve ever seen such colorful—”

You’re smiling now. “Alright, alright, I get it! Hush, before I lose my appetite for the day, Parker.”

Peter just laughs, reaching a hand out across the kitchen countertop and placing it over your own. You let him.

“See? Nothing you could ever do would make me not want to be around you. So talk to me.”

He squeezes your fingers in reassurance, and against your better judgement, your heart palpitates. Damn him and his unrealized talent for flirting. You take a deep breath, mulling over whether to dodge his curiosity, to pin your butterflies to a corkscrew board and keep them there, or to let them fly out into the world without restraint.

“I don’t know, Peter,” you eventually sigh. “It just happened. To be honest, I didn’t really think about it before I did it.“

He’s rubbing soothing circles against your knuckles now. You’re hyper-aware of how sweaty your palms must be. “Why is that?”

“If you mean why I didn’t think about it, then…” Choose. Now or never. “I kind of just wanted to.”

Bye bye, butterflies.

A beat of silence. You don’t realize it, but Peter’s breathing has turned almost dangerously shallow.

“Oh.”

Of course, how could you possibly realize such a little thing, at least with the way the corner of his lip is quirking into the faintest of smiles?

You can’t bring yourself to comment on it aloud, but seeing how you can feel his eyes watching your own—tracing the subtlety with which you’re just barely outrunning the interlocking of his gaze with yours, like a game of cat and mouse—you’re sure he knows well enough. Peter’s never needed many words to read your body language just fine, and you with his in turn.

He’s enjoying this.

It’s a wordless communication, but timid hope radiates off that stupid little grin of his in droves. One that he knows you can see.

“I should’ve asked you if it was okay,” you manage. “I’m sorry.”

Peter’s out of his seat now, hand slipping out of yours as he makes his way in front of you. He makes up for the lack of his touch quickly, though, as a hand reaches up to tilt your chin—gently coaxing you to look him directly in the eyes for the first time since the conversation started. The sodas are growing lukewarm on the counter, all but forgotten.

“I already told you,” he says, breathy and low and so very pretty, “you don’t need to be embarrassed. It’s okay.”

You nod, feeling the hairs on your arms stand. The irony of it almost makes you laugh aloud, but the rate at which Peter is closing distance is enough to captivate you into silence. You wonder if he can hear the sound of your thoughts from this far—a difference of inches; an unknown territory that teeters on the verge of something completely relationship-altering.

A proposition.

“And what about now?” He ventures. “Do you still want to? Because I really do.”

You could sense it coming—could recall the memory of lingering touches that lasted far longer than needed, could feel the electricity that shot through you every time—and yet, it still made your heart stutter with unbridled elation.

“Yes, Peter,” you affirm, grinning. “Please do.”

He doesn’t need to be told twice, bridging the gap and pressing his mouth to yours like his life depends on it. It tastes like cola, sweet and syrupy and surreal, and you’re blown away by the gentleness with which Peter kisses you, letting the pads of his fingers trace the outline of your face with the delicacy of handling porcelain. The colors of monarch, morpho, and swallowtail wings erupt behind your eyelids like fireworks.

You have to convince yourself to take a breath of air, but Peter doesn’t stray from you for long, eliciting a fit of laughter from you when he plants a flurry of pecks to your cheeks, nose, and forehead.

“Peter!” You groan, halfheartedly pushing him by the shoulders.

“What?” He teases. “This is payback for this morning!”

You surge forward to press one last kiss to his lips, backing away from the kitchen with a bounce in your step. “Shut up and get your coat, you ass. We’re going out for dinner now.”

Peter easily catches up to you, a goofy smile stretching across his face. “Like a date?”

“Yes, like a date.”

You blink owlishly when you turn to find Peter offering his arm to you, but you happily loop your arm with his after the second of surprise passes.

“This is much better than ordering delivery.”

“I swear, Parker…”

Peter was touch starved. As in, he used to be. And if you had anything to say about it, he wouldn’t face that issue ever again.

FANTASTIC

— INTO THE BLOGOSPHERE.

pairing: tasm!peter parker x female reader

summary: peter’s crush is now his chem partner. complicated? not until he finds her blog dedicated to a certain masked vigilante.

warnings: swearing, mild violence, peter being an idiot, reader being an idiot, shitty writing

author’s note: as requested by anon a while ago! please excuse the terrible writing, i did this on no hours of sleep. happy reading! - ni x

Peter didn’t mean to look at your laptop.

He swears it was a complete accident that he found your blog, but really isn’t it your fault that you left it open?

In fact, he can’t feel too guilty because you did say he could use it to search whatever he needed for your joint project while you went to go find your notebook. Well, that reason and the fact he feels like he’s going to be sick.

Peter isn’t too surprised. Because, of course, it’s just his luck that his Chemistry partner and crush since forever has a Spider-Man blog. Not only that, but he knows you. In the least stalkerish way possible, especially considering he doubts you even knew his name before you were partnered up. You’ve been partners for the whole academic year thus far, so he can say you’re definitely on a friend level. But he would be lying if he said he hadn’t noticed you before that. He knows that you volunteer for everything, you’re always doing something or other for charity, always pinning up petitions to the notice boards and asking people for signatures with your bright and cheerful disposition.

Shit, if he wasn’t Spider-Man, Peter would be ashamed at his lack of charity work compared to you!

So, really, he can’t be surprised that you’re a fan of Spider-Man. He helps people, so obviously you have a blog dedicated to posting think pieces about the guy. The guy being him.

The thought makes him smile before he snaps out of it, realising you don’t even know that side of him.

And for that he has to be a little grateful, Peter thinks to himself as his spidey senses thankfully pick up your footsteps and he jumps back onto the bed. A couple seconds later you bound into your room, blowing your hair out of your eyes and offering an apologetic smile that almost blinds him, because it’s literally like the goddamn sun itself.

Keep reading

I DONT READ SERIES BUT FOR THIS ILL ALWAYS MAKE AN EXCEPTION 😩😩😩

Band-Aids on Broken Hearts ➾ Part Two (tasm!PeterParker x Reader)

Summary: Spider-Man visits you to say thank you for patching him up last night and you share what you think might qualify as a "moment"

“Stay for a bit?” you whispered, “If you don’t have to go get beat up, that is.”

“I’ll stay if you stop being mean,” he teased gently. “Get some rest.”

You hummed quietly in your throat. “Speaking of rest, do you ever get a day off? Or is New York always a shitshow?”

“Sometimes everyone collectively decides to not break any laws,” he laughed, and you found that you liked the rumble it produced through his chest, the way it eased his posture so you could sink deeper into his side. “I had a night off two weeks ago.”

“I should get you a sign, like those little workplace incident ones, so you can keep track.” Words: 4.2k A/N: grief, mentions of death, coping with loss and hurt; cursing, mentions of food and alcohol, canon-typical violence; fluff and flirty banter; slow-burn; strangers to friends to lovers; there's a plot! part 2/5 -> previous parts: (one)

You must have drifted off to sleep sometime around four in the morning because when your eyes fluttered open, there was pale pre-dawn light filtering in through the small window over your kitchen sink. You shifted, rubbing sleep from your eyes as you sat up, the movement making your back crack loud enough to make you wonder if you’d aged fifty years overnight. Truthfully—well, you hadn’t been truthful at all last night when you’d told Spider-Man that the couch was comfortable. No, it was a ratty old thing, the cheapest piece at the Salvation Army on the particular Tuesday you’d gone thrifting. Its lumpy cushions sagged under you and it creaked with protest if more than one person sat on it at a time—which was fine, given that you rarely had visitors. Still, you figured that Spider-Man needed the comfort of a mattress more than you, since he had been the one soaring around New York and bleeding profusely.

Speaking of…You glanced over to your left, at the bedroom door at the end of your hall. It was open, which meant that the hero you’d helped was gone. Unless it had been a dream? A very vivid stress dream brought on by the fact that you were overtired, overworked and underappreciated. That was, admittedly, quite possible.

But when you stood, stretching your arms over your head to get your blood flowing again, your eyes immediately fell upon what had been left for you on the counter of the adjoining kitchen. It was your paring knife, with a Post-It from the pink pad you kept on your bedside table stuck underneath it. Curious, you padded over to the kitchen, taking note of the empty glass in the sink and the fact that the last of your bananas had mysteriously vanished from the fruit bowl. Smiling, you slid the knife into the sink and picked up the note.

You should sharpen this. It wouldn’t even defend you against an apple.

There was a crudely drawn spider next to the scrawled initials YFNSM. It took your brain a moment to process—your friendly neighbourhood Spider-Man.

Okay, so not a dream. Your smile grew, this time accompanied by a shake of your head as you wandered into your bedroom. The sheets had been removed and left in your already embarrassingly overflowing laundry bin. And, judging by the streaks in the layer of dust that had built up on the hallway floor, Spider-Man had also at least attempted to wipe up where he’d dripped blood on your tiles. Friendly indeed.

An alarm buzzed on your phone, making you jump. You’d left it on the coffee table and quickly scurried back to stop the grating noise, the sound that alerted you it was time to get ready for your shift at the hospital. You could think about what had happened last night later.

-----*

Peter shoved his hands into the too-big pockets of borrowed grey sweatpants, thinking to himself that you hadn’t been kidding when you said they were enormous. His torn up Spider-Man suit had been shoved into his backpack which he’d thankfully found exactly where he’d left it last night, tucked away on a rooftop corner at the intersection of 10th and West 29th, right near the High Line.

He managed to slip into a local coffee shop and change back into his own jeans and sweater before lining up to buy a coffee he didn’t feel like drinking solely because he could never get over the awkwardness of using the washroom in a place he wasn’t buying something from. At the register, when the barista asked him if he’d like anything with his small black dark roast, he paused, glancing at the display case of pastries and pointing to a decadent looking chocolate cupcake.

Feeling like himself again, Peter stepped out of the coffee shop and proceeded to give the coffee to the first homeless person he saw, along with the change he’d gotten from his purchase. The autumn air was crisp on his cheeks, the sharp smell of slowly decaying leaves rich in his nostrils. He was tired and sore and wanted a shower, but there was something he had to do first—something that he hoped would quell the uneasy feeling he’d had since waking up that morning in a stranger’s bed, albeit without said stranger.

One quick purchase at the florist, three short stops on the subway, and a lonely walk over a well-maintained asphalt path, Peter found himself sinking to the ground in front of a large grey stone, etched with a name he still had a hard time uttering aloud and two dates that were far too close together.

He laid down the floral arrangement he’d bought by the headstone, beside the fresh wreath he knew had come from her parents. And then he took a long, steadying breath and he spoke, hands balled tightly into fists and eyes closed.

“Hi,” that seemed like a good place to start. “Hi Gwen.” Saying her name still hurt and his tongue nearly didn’t let it past his lips, his mouth stumbling over that single syllable. Peter cleared his throat and continued.

“The weirdest thing happened last night. And it made me think of you which made me realize it’s been a bit, yeah? Two weeks. Sorry about that, work has been busy and Dr. Octavius says we’re close to a breakthrough so that’s a good thing and—”

He paused, a choked laugh caught in his chest, “I digress, as always. Anyways, this girl—no wait, back up—I got hurt pretty bad, but don’t worry, the other guy looks way worse and so yeah—I landed on this girl’s fire escape all bloody and disgusting and she bandaged me up and it was weird because it almost felt like you were looking out for me, you know?”

Peter had to stop again. Stop his words because he knew he was rambling and stop his mind from playing back images of Gwen sitting on his bed with a towel, gently wiping away his pain. “It was like,” he continued after a long silence, “Like you were up there rolling your eyes at me for being reckless and still doing this whole Spider-Man thing. I don’t know if it’s what you’d want. I don’t know. I was so lost when you—I just didn’t know what else to do and now it feels too fucking late to change.”

“I’m sorry, Gwen. I’m still sorry. I wish I’d done things differently, that night and every night since. I miss you.” Tears now, falling freely, caught on his lashes and cheeks and the sleeves of his sweater as he tried to wipe them away.

“I’m going to go see her again, I think. To say thank you. I feel like it’s a bad idea, but she’s nice and she’s a bit broken, just like me so, yeah. I, uh, I just wanted to tell you.”

It was 7:15 by the time Peter walked, defeated and uncertain, back into the home he shared with his Aunt May, who just so happened to be waiting for him at the tiny table in the breakfast nook, a stack of pancakes ready.

“Sorry,” he muttered, trying out a smile. May pursed her lips and gestured at the seat opposite her.

“It’s okay,” she told him, “I checked the news and didn’t hear anything about you, so I hoped you were with a girl.” She said it lightly, gently, knowing the depths of her nephew’s anguish and powerless to stop it. Humour had always worked with him—of that, she was grateful.

Peter snorted as he slipped into the chair, shower forgotten in the face of May’s famously airy pancakes. “Yeah,” he mused, “I guess you could say that I was.”

-----*

One hour. That was all that was left in your shift before you could go home and kick your feet up and bury yourself in the clinical case studies you needed to finish by next week. Fun.

Days in the pediatric ward were hectic at best and probably some of the most exhausting you’d had in your training so far, physically and emotionally. You had a collage of Scooby-Doo bandages on your cheek, courtesy of one of the kids in your ward, and your hair had long since fallen to pieces, but thankfully kids weren’t all that judgy and most of them considered you either a princess or a hero which was both flattering but also hilarious because you were certainly neither of those, lacking the grace and poise (and money) of royalty as well as the power and agility (and absence of self-preservation instincts) of a hero.

With 43 minutes left, one of the kids you were checking in with for rounds asked “Do you think Spider-Man goes to the doctor?”

You grinned. Maybe not the doctor, but definitely the unsuspecting nurse. You weren’t very good at children generally, but imagined it wouldn’t be the best to regale a story of Spider-Man dropping onto your balcony with fractured bones to anyone under the age of 12. So you settled for whatever passed as tact in child-land.

“For sure! Everyone needs to see the doctor sometimes, even Spider-Man.”

With 34 minutes left, you downed a cup of coffee and a protein bar and thought about whether you’d buy boxed or bottled white wine on the way home. You wondered if Spider-Man might be back, maybe even with the sweatpants he’d borrowed.

With 27 minutes left, all hell broke loose.

You were very nearly dead on your feet, stifling yawns like that was your job and trying to file away the last of your papers at the nurse’s station when you heard Dolores, your supervisor, gasp and the murmur of seven other nurses followed.

“Are you seeing this?”

“Oh my god…”

“Is Spider-Man there?”

You turned, your gaze following everyone else’s to the television set over the desk that was perpetually tuned to the news. Your tired eyes had only just refocused when something exploded. You felt your face go taut. Fuck.

The screen was filled with smoke and ashes and, then, amazingly, Spider-Man swinging through it all, following after something—or someone—that looked disconcertingly like sentient sand, a living and moving desert settling over the wreckage.

You felt your hands start to shake again and automatically pinched inside your elbow.

“Who can get down to the ER right now?” Dolores was speaking, but her voice sounded far away, “We’ve got five transports that are heading out and are gonna need all hands on deck when they get back.”

You raised your hand, not aware you were doing it until Dolores called your name and wished you luck.

So much for a lack of self-preservation instincts.

Downstairs, the ER was a mess of broken bones and contusions and lacerations and you noticed every detail while somehow being so zoned into your work that nothing mattered at all. Three hours went by in the blink of an eye, casts set and cuts stitched and the man who’d been responsible for all of this unconscious in OR #7, beaten to within an inch of his life by someone whose whereabouts you were considerably worried about. What would you find on your fire escape when you got home?

Your hands were shaking all the way home, along with your knees. The attending physician had done you the kindness of calling you a cab and paying for it, bless her, telling you that no one needed to take the train after sixteen hours of being buried in the sickness and hurt of others.

The fire escape was the first thing you checked after locking your apartment door. It was empty and you weren’t sure if you ought to feel relieved or worried so you settled on confused because what did it even matter? Spider-Man had landed there by accident and you’d likely never see him again other than on the news or in the paper. Why did that bother you? Normally, you’d find a spider in your apartment and throw it out onto the fire escape, not the other way around.

You flopped onto the couch, exhausted, not even caring if you ended up spending another night on its lumpy cushions. You had work to do, sure, but it could wait, your brain just needed a break before it imploded. A quick moment to shut out the world and everything in it. Earbuds in, you shuffled your playlist of 80s music and closed your eyes, letting the smooth sound of Bowie synths lull you into something like relaxation.

You didn’t know how much time had passed when you woke up, music still going softly in your earbuds, mouth dry with thirst, and hair sticking to the nape of your neck with sweat. You shifted to grab your phone from where it was digging into your waist, its illuminated face letting you know that you’d only crashed for 20 minutes. Not bad, it had felt much longer and you didn’t have that awful post-nap grogginess.

“Hey! You’re awake.”

You weren’t quite sure how to categorize the noise that left your throat, somewhere between a scream, a gasp, and a laugh when you spun around and caught sight of Spider-Man sitting on your kitchen counter, doing the crossword puzzle from yesterday's New York Times by the dim light of his own phone.

“Jesus Christ, what the fuck is wrong with you?” You had jumped to your feet, sweater falling back down around your waist from where it had ridden up while you slept. Your iPod clattered to the floor, pulling your earbuds out along with it, but you didn’t care. You practically flew to the light switch, turning it on so that your apartment was bathed in warm white light.

“What?” Spider-Man said lightly, putting down the paper and hopping off the counter, “I thought you’d be happy to see me. I’m returning your clothes. And I brought you something.” He gestured toward the pile of neatly folded clothing on the counter, on top of which sat a little white box.

You shot him a quizzical look but joined him in the kitchen, opening the box to find a slightly squashed and smeared cupcake. Admittedly, it was cute.

“It had a bit of a bumpy ride,” Spider-Man shrugged and you could swear he almost sounded sheepish.

“It’s thoughtful,” you said quietly, “But you could have knocked! Do you know who else breaks into people’s houses with a mask on? Michael Myers. Jason.”

“That guy from Scream,” he added as you dipped a finger in the icing and tasted it. You almost groaned at the flavour. Hell, that was sinfully good.

“Not helping your case. You should have knocked.”

“I did,” Spider-Man retorted, “But obviously over your music and snoring you didn’t hear me.” You didn’t even bother to deny the snoring—it was something that you’d done since high school whenever you were running on empty. “Plus,” he continued, “Those guys bring butcher knives when they go visiting. I brought a cupcake. It’s very different.”

You made a noncommittal noise in your throat, instead breaking off another piece of the cupcake and eating it. You realized, as your stomach grumbled for more, that you’d skipped dinner. “And you’ve been waiting in the dark for…”

“Only, like 3 minutes. I’m not a creep,” he assured you, “I was gonna wake you up if it got to five.”

“How’d you get in?”

“Picked the fire escape lock.”

“That’s criminal.”

“I like to think of it as resourceful.”

You shook your head, slightly disbelieving that this conversation was even happening but happy that it was.

“Busy day at work?” you asked, changing the subject because you had a strange feeling you wouldn’t win this argument. Spider-Man visibly winced, sucking in a breath through his teeth.

“Yeah, sorry about that. I guess you had to clean up Sandman’s mess?”

“I helped. And it’s not your fault. You didn’t blow up the bank,” you said matter-of-factly. “Any injuries you need bandaged?”

“All healed up,” he said and you could hear the grin in his voice, “But thanks.”

“Damn,” you sighed playfully, “I was hoping for an excuse to have you bring me another cupcake.”

“You don’t need to play nurse to get a cupcake out of me. All you have to do is ask.”

“Can I ask where you got it because cupcakes have no right being that good?”

“I made it,” Spider-Man said, lifting his shoulders with a shrug.

“For real?” Your jaw fell open, “You need to quit the hero gig and open a bakery!”

“Oh god no!” he laughed loudly, “I was fucking with you. The extent of my kitchen talents is brewing coffee and making cereal.”

“A good cup of coffee is an art,” you replied and he shrugged.

“I got the cupcake in the Meatpacking district,” he revealed, “Place near the High Line.”

“Oh.”

“Oh?”

“It’s, uh, that’s where we used to live, before he died.” You frowned, feeling the tightness behind your eyes that was a harbinger of tears, and bit your tongue to distract yourself. Absently, you waved a hand toward the fridge and watched as Spider-Man’s gaze shifted to follow where your fingers pointed, an old Polaroid pinned up with a pumpkin-shaped magnet.

He observed for a moment, as he took in the details of the picture; a lush forest in the background, two smiling faces shaded by baseball caps, two figures with canoe oars held up like lightsabers, her standing on a rock outcropping level with his shoulders.

“I had the high ground,” your laugh was broken, forced. Spider-Man let out a small noise of amusement, his gloved hand hovering tentatively over the photo before he turned back to you. You wished that you could see his face, but were almost happy you couldn’t. You wouldn’t want to see the pity you were certain would be there.

“You look happy,” he commented, voice low. There wasn’t pity there, though, only certainty, understanding.

“I was. I am, but differently now.”

There was a beat of silence, something thick in the air between the two of you. “What happened?”

Your eyes widened, briefly, breath caught in your throat, your chest. For a moment you thought you wouldn’t answer. Then, the words began rolling from your lips like a tidal wave, furious and relentless.

“One day he started complaining of a sore neck and a month after that he was really sick and six months later, he was gone.”

It was the shortest version of the story you could tell, the one that hurt the least. The cold, hard facts. But there was something about the way Spider-Man took a step toward you, the way he placed a hand on your arm, that made you keep talking, that made you say all the things you’d never said to anyone except your weeping reflection. He was a hero after all—wasn’t his job to help? To save? Then again, wasn’t your job to heal? Hah, sure.

“You know, I hated him. I loved him so much that I hated that he was going to leave me. There was a whole week, right at the end, where I couldn’t drag myself out of bed to go see him because the thought of seeing him like that made me want to die too. But it wasn’t fair. So, I showered and forced myself to go and I sat with him and we talked for two whole hours and I left when he fell asleep. His sister called me an hour later to say that he—he was dead.”

You lurched forward, the weight suddenly too much to bear and Spider-Man caught you, holding you up when you wanted nothing more than to crumble under the waves of anger and sadness and injustice that you thought you’d long since learned to live with.

“And I know,” your voice was shrill, gasping for words, “I just fucking know that he waited for me. He waited because he knew I’d never forgive myself if I didn’t get to say goodbye.”

You felt your tears on Spider-Man’s chest, gathering but not absorbing into his uniform. Of course it was fucking waterproof—you found the realization oddly comforting, like you could cry into his shoulder forever and your tears could never touch him. You could keep your sorrow all to yourself.

“I’m sorry.” Spider-Man was ushering you back to the sofa, helping you sit, filling you a cup of water from the sink. Hero shit, you thought, he’s so good and…

No, you wouldn’t allow yourself to finish that thought. You were just emotionally wrecked and all those feelings were trying to go somewhere. You pulled them back, stitching them deep into the fabric of your heart.

“Nothing to be sorry for,” you sighed, taking the proffered glass and gulping it down, your heart slowly calming, sudden cold setting into your veins as a shiver ran up your spine.

“It’s not sympathy,” he said, sitting beside you, doing a double take when the couch creaked in warning.

“It’s old as shit,” you muttered and you thought that if you could see his face he’d be smirking. You looked at him for a long moment, trying to imagine what he looked like under the suit, how his eyes might be soft and kind and how he might have dimples or freckles or a five o’clock shadow.

You imagined that he might have tears welling up behind long lashes or a crease in his forehead from the frown he sported as you stared. And maybe it was the sound of his voice, the way it was twinged with understanding rather than fear of saying the wrong thing. Or maybe the sharp angle of his shoulders, a defensive stance you’d recognize anywhere—not against anyone else, but against yourself and all the things your mind wanted to wander toward. But all at once you realized that this hero—this person—sitting on your crappy sofa in a mask and with web shooters attached to his wrists, was someone like you.

“Who were they?”

“What?” Spider-Man tilted his head to the side, but you knew he understood the question. You didn’t say anything, just letting him take his moment.

“She was,” he couldn’t seem to find the right words, clicking his tongue, clearing his throat. “She was brilliant and beautiful and perfect. I loved her. I still love her.”

You put your hand out, gently letting it fall over his and nodded. He sighed, you imagined, weighing how much he wanted to reveal about himself. In your experience—and you hated how much of it you had—broken people didn’t want to talk so much as need to.

“I think I kept being Spider-Man after she died to prove something. To prove to myself that I was still alive but somewhere along the way I think I stopped being good and just started being angry.”

“It’s okay to be angry,” you shrugged, running a thumb over his knuckles, “A month after the funeral, I burned a bunch of the notes he took for his classes. If my life was going up in flames why not, you know? It’s human. Don’t lose that.”

“I think I might already have lost it.”

You took a moment, flashes of the villain who’d shown up at the hospital that afternoon near dead flickering behind your eyes. Nearly dead, but not.

“Well,” you sighed, squeezing his hand reassuringly, “I think that you even being able to think that proves you haven’t.”

“Thanks, Y/N.” He put an arm around you, pulling you close until your head rested on his surprisingly comfortable shoulder.

“Stay for a bit?” you whispered, “If you don’t have to go get beat up, that is.”

“I’ll stay if you stop being mean,” he teased gently. “Get some rest.”

You hummed quietly in your throat. “Speaking of rest, do you ever get a day off? Or is New York always a shitshow?”

“Sometimes everyone collectively decides to not break any laws,” he laughed, and you found that you liked the rumble it produced through his chest, the way it eased his posture so you could sink deeper into his side. “I had a night off two weeks ago.”

“I should get you a sign, like those little workplace incident ones, so you can keep track.”

“Oh yeah, please do.” You felt him smile against the top of your head, “This city has been crime free for 2 days.”

“More like, this Spider-Man has been injury free…”

“This Spider-Man?” he poked you gently in the arm, “I am a complete original. There is only one of me.”

“In this universe,” you mumbled, words stifled by a yawn.

“What was that?” Spider-Man asked.

“Nothing,” you said, your eyelids growing heavy with sleep, “Just an old joke my parents used to make.”

Spider-Man didn’t reply. Or perhaps you just didn’t hear him as you drifted away into a deep and dreamless sleep, feeling safer than you remembered feeling in a long while.

-----* I also want to take the time to thank you all so much for the support you showed Part 1 of this story. I sometimes have a hard time with more complex plots, so I tend to stick to one shots or two-parters, but I'm in love with this story and can't wait to tell all five parts of it. A lot of the stuff on grief and death here is pulled from my personal experience, but these things are different for everyone so if you are feeling them or carrying them with you, take care xx

Taglist (tysm friends, for actually wanting to be part of this with me): @v1oletvenus // @violetrainbow412-blog // @veraocruel // @morgane--stark // @frannyyy03 // @nervouslaught3r // @the-newfistofhydra // @alijulia87 // @kdatthecastle // @di4na // @infp-t-rhi // @dreamer7black // @plutoneu // @equivocalshit // @yodelingzavia // @lewispool // @pinkybee926 // @can-we-meet-in-a-dream // @where-is-my-oat-milk // @lia-andari // @multiple-boxes-of-earthworms // @starkovsmarvel // @lucyysthings // @panicattheeverywherekid // @earthgirl616 // @huhurrr-r // @astoria-reads // @schmuckyschmarnes // @mypalbuck // @spider-starry

“What is that? I swear to Merlin, if you turn me purple.”

LMFAO i can imagine him saying that.

STOPP THE CONFESSION WAS ADORABLE.

“None that I know of, but if it makes you this friendly, I might have to insist you wearing a leaf patch constantly.”

HJDKS summer you popped off with this fic. literally so adorable. soft draco is the best.

Who Could Have Guessed? ¬ Draco M.

Plot - The greenhouse was the last place you'd expect to find the Slytherin Prince, but what was more unexpected was his confession.

Genre - Fluff

Pairing - Draco Malfoy x Hufflepuff!fem!reader

Notes/Warnings - Happy New Year peoples!! This is for the Harry Potter writing event and I really hope you enjoy <3

Swearing warning, mentions of blood, Draco being a bit of a wreck but cute

Word Count - 1.3k

Rumbling through the messy drawers, fingers aching to find that silly booklet of herbs that could help halt this throbbing pain. Once kept-hair now fell in strands against Draco’s frustrated face and framed his frantic eyes that were bloodshot from attempting to hold back tears.

The moon rippled over the greenhouse, sending faint light onto all the snoozing plants and flourishing flora. But those alluring beauties had no use to the pureblood, no, he needed Mimbulus mimbletonia.

Spell after spell failed in his attempt to fix the vanishing cabinet, struggling to master the techniques needed to solve the problems that lay before him, and unfortunately, one of the spells backfired, causing gnarly cuts to take over his unblemished pale forearm. Being hurt wasn’t a valid excuse to halt the Dark Lord’s request, and so he sought the sap of mimbulus mimbletonia.

“Oh, for fuck sakes, where is this stupid thing?”

“I’m pretty sure the plant won’t apperate to your hand if you swear at it.”

That teasing whisper caught the blonde off guard, sending him into high alert at the prospect of being seen in such a pathetic situation. A Malfoy stealing a plant in the midnight hours? Unfathomable.

Wand raised as he turned to meet the fellow-intruder, preparing to obliviate them. But as his eyes locked with theirs, the height of his wand slowly fell until it was resting by his side.

A lone Hufflepuff, a student who should definitely have meant nothing to him. And yet, this was the witch who had taken his interest earlier in the year after she’d hexed him for the Slytherin gang's unkind words towards her friend.

Her hair hung effortlessly, almost if she had paid no mind to it and yet, it still looked perfect. Sweater clinging to her figure, coloured like sunshine that seemed to radiate from her being at all times. She was effortless, she was good, she was unattainable to such darkness.

“I feel like I should report you, but this is very intriguing. Draco Malfoy breaking in? It’s like a scandal.” The giggle that rang through the air following her words made his heart flutter.

Weighing up the consequences and attempting to pull any ounce of logic to his being; with little luck as the sight of you clouded his heart and the ache of his wound dulled his mind. If he asked for help, would she be disgusted or curious? Or would she run and report him to Flich?

“A spell backfired, and I need to heal my arm, but I can’t find the stupid mimbulus mimbletonia. So, as you now know that I am not doing anything evil, you can go back to bed and forget you ever saw me”

Turning hastily away from her entrancing gaze as the blonde tried to focus on finding the elusive remedy. The rattling sounds of drawers being tugged open filled the greenhouse once more, before her velvet tones broke the dissonance.

“Show me your arm”

“What? Why?”

Stepping forward to rest a lone hand against his shoulder, attempting to calm his irritated movements. “So, I can help you. If I see the wound, I might know another plant that could fix it.”

Draco’s throat emitted a stammer breath, the weight of her hand seemed to double as his heart raced at the small amount of care being offered to him. Even though she had every right to turn away and leave the Slytherin to his own pain, she offered help.

Cautiously turning to meet her eyes again, preparing himself for the worst as he gently raised the fabric till it bunched up at his elbows. The harsh red contrasting with the burgundy of dried blood, those slits varied in size but all seemed to ooze pain in the same way.

Watching her face contort into that of concern sent a pain through his heart, much to his dismay. “Oh, Draco, that looks painful. The good thing is that I know exactly how to help.”

Sauntering towards the rickety cupboard that looked daunting amongst the greenery. Noting every movement she made, every huff of frustration and every little self-directed word that fell from those lips. He wasn’t sure if it was the pain making him feel fuzzy, or being alone with her.

A small exclamation of delight burst from her figure as she hurried back to the resting blonde with a small box with emerald leaves littered within. Fumbling with the lid as she gestured for him to take a seat, allowing her to work on his wound.

“This might hurt a bit, but we have to keep it on for a few minutes.”

Reaching out to place the floral covering over the nasty cuts, only to be stopped by his panicked voice. “What is that? I swear to Merlin, if you turn me purple.”

Her laughter rang through his bones, laughter that he had caused. That sound was liquid sunshine and he would drink it everyday if he were able, as if he could never be quenched.

“Oh shush, it’s just shrivelfig leaves. I’m not really in the business of turning people purple, yellow is more my colour”

With a quick wink, the light of her fingertips grazed over his wound with a tender touch that he swore was healing. The press of the leaf pulled a pained wince from his lips, reminding him of the situation he was currently in.

As she backed away, he worried that she’d send him off to deal with the healing back in his dorms. But alas, she rested herself upon a precarious looking chair, covered in veins and spontaneous flowers.

“So, wanna tell me how you did it? Could pass the time”

Assessing the panicked look that fell over his face at those words, she was quick to correct. “Or, you could tell me about something else? Some super embarrassing story maybe?”

A gentle snicker left his lips as your odd request. Brain thinking up a story, but his mouth already raced on, with his heart manning the reins. “Well, being caught in a greenhouse at midnight by my crush is definitely in the top 5 of my embarrassing moments.”

The silence in the air hung like a guillotine, waiting to fall at any hint of a problem. Draco swore that his chances of ever speaking to her again faded as the words left his mouth, but what he hadn’t expected was giggles.

Giggles erupted from her gut, causing a flushed look to fall across her beaming cheeks as she clutched her chair to centre herself. It was a pure sight to witness, letting the happiness and joy overtake her being as he watched in fear of what this meant. Was she laughing at how pathetic his confession was?

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry, just I-. Just wow, who could have guessed that the prize of Slytherin would fancy a Hufflepuff.” Wiping the laughter tainted tears glistening behind her eyes as she spoke. “You have to see the comedy in it, Draco.”

“In my defence, I don’t know many Hufflepuffs who could hex someone whilst looking that beautiful. Basically, your fault that I fancied you.” The sincerity of his words frightened him. Only 10 minutes ago, he had feared speaking to her and now he spoke as if she’d been his only confidant. “Wow, what other magic does this leaf have?”

“None that I know of, but if it makes you this friendly, I might have to insist you wearing a leaf patch constantly.”

Those sparkling orbs met his as he clung to the confidence she raised in him. Expectations of the Dark Lord be damned, family pressures begone from his mind, and any feeling of being the Slytherin prince mattered not. Because he held her attention and that’s all that mattered in the moment.

His lips parted to speak but no sound escaped, so she took that as her opportunity to make the first move instead. “Once that arms healed, maybe you could take me to Hogsmeade and we can see if the friendliness is a long-term side effect.”

Taglist - @yogirl-willow @silverose365 @fairycirclebrat @instabull @ildm4ev @carmellasworld @comfort-reads @guccixgemini @d22malfoys @scandalous-chaos

Walls & Veils (Draco Malfoy x Reader): Vol.1 

Masterlist

Summary:

Monday to-do-list:

Coffee! Coffee! Coffeee

Go through pending reports

Eat that almond biscotti everyone is talking about

Draco Malfoy.  Focus. I mean, he is kinda hot

(Where Draco and the reader work for the ministry and communicate every day via “work reports” passed back and forth and have no idea they are actually talking to each other)

Genre: Fluff, workplace romance, enemies to lovers (ish) 

Warnings: none except some light swearing and mentions of food and one mention of scotch

Words: 2900

A/n: I wrote this for the Harry Potter Writing Event. Don’t forget to keep an eye out for stories written by other amazing writers. (Feedback and reblogs are always appreciated). Please note that the POV switches constantly in this but every switch is divided by “****” for your convenience. This is my first time writing a story set in the ministry, hopefully it worked out..

Keep reading

And guess what the boy did? He sabatoged your fucking work.

IM NOT SURPRISED IM NOT

James simply nodded and stopped his actions, his leg still scuffling but not making a loud sound.

i wanna hug him or kiss him or both.

But you couldn’t stop the raging feelings whenever your eyes needed a rest. He was quite the sight, tall, muscular, and that hair. You were quite obsessed with his hair, dark and soft. Whenever it felt too long during classes or you needed to focus on something else, your eyes would shamelessly land on James.

like i said *cough*

Since all our trophies have been polished, cauldrons have been scrubbed, and you can’t be trusted to tutor first years without competing with each other—really there’s nothing else you could do.” Slughorn explained, sighing and rubbing a hand hand his forehead.

LMAO I LOVE THAT SM

When James nods, you don’t see it. You don’t see how he says “I am.” While he’s looking straight at the back of your head.

fuck you mae now im gonna go read more james fics cause this just reignited all my love for him.

When I met Pads, he gave me an hour of advice on how collared shirts effect our daily lives.

HAHA I LAUGHED OUT LOUD SIS WENT *suspiciously squinting*

“Really? I’m a little extra, I though you’d appreciate a guy who challenges you and does it subtly.” “Things change, maybe I just want you.”

MAYBE I JUST WANT YOU MAYBE I JUST *screams* WANT YOUUUUU

literally my fav fic by you. LITERALLY.

Obliviously yours (4.3k)

summary: when you and james get detention and are tasked to serve drinks at slughorn's party, you have no choice but to agree than fail the class. but the whole night, everybody gives their piece of mind about you and james' relationship. this makes you rethink everything you do and everything you feel for james.

warnings: drinking

pairing: james potter x fem!reader

a/n: oh god writers block sux!!! I've finally took the time off and wrote this little gem. actually loved this piece, hope u do too <3

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

James Potter was evil. Absolutely vile. You knew how your relationship with him worked. It was the type where you argued whenever you saw each other, debated about almost everything, and made most of your subjects a competition. But it also had boundaries you both put up, the first one being not sabatoging the others work.

And guess what the boy did? He sabatoged your fucking work.

You were near bursting, your sneer louder than you've ever let out. Slughorn was panicking in front of your table, where he stood with a frown on his face. "Miss Y/l/n, I suggest you go clean yourself up." He announces, his voice loud for the whole class.

You huffed out a tired breath. "Yes, I'll go do that. Right after Potter is held accountable for his sticky fingers sticking into my potion!" You said on the top of your lungs, pointing at James.

James Potter, who had the audacity to sit on his chair looking so innocent, began to smile. You knew it was him who ruined your potion, who else would it be? Your potion was the one that looked the most presentable in that class, and James must've been jealous.

James scoffs, "Excuse me? Professor, I think Y/l/n should be punished for even accusing me of such things!" He said dramatically, making your eyes roll in place.

"I know it was you! You were jealous because I did better. I always do, that's why you couldn't bear seeing me with the praise and you put in the powder into my potion!"

You swore you were about to launch over where James sat if it wasn't for Marlene gripping your arm tightly. She kept you in place while you and James eyed each other like you were in battle.

"Enough!" Slughorn interrupted, his face hot red with anger. "Both of you, I'll see you in detention at six! And no, this isn't because of who sabotaged who's potion. It's because both of you disrupted my class. We'll investigate the 'sabotaged potion' later." He said, gripping his wand tighter into his fist.

You were about to shout another quip to James, knowing you'd be in detention anyway and decoded that he deserved a rude comment. But with a flick of his wand, Slughorn silenced both you and James with a spell then walked to the front of the class casually.

You rolled your eyes as James did the same. Sirius patted his back beside him, and Marlene gave you a deathly look. Just another ordinary day.

—

Tap, tap, tap. James' shoes echoes through the room, his fingers tapping on the wood of his chair. He seemed impatient, maybe the waiting was driving him mad. Or maybe it was simply the uncomfortable feeling of being in the dungeons, with the dark green and the freezing walls surrounding him.

"Can you stop that?" You asked quite rudely, your eyes sliding to look at him.

James simply nodded and stopped his actions, his leg still scuffling but not making a loud sound. Sometimes, times like these for example— James Potter was ... tolerable. It doesn't happen very often, because as he says, "You're always the cause of my headache, Y/l/n." So you always saw him whenever he was uptight and stressed out.

"Sorry." He muttered lowly.

One of these rare moments of him, was also quite ... attractive. You would never say it out loud and to anyone. It was the same as coming up to him and getting his ego fed even more.

But you couldn't stop the raging feelings whenever your eyes needed a rest. He was quite the sight, tall, muscular, and that hair. You were quite obsessed with his hair, dark and soft. Whenever it felt too long during classes or you needed to focus on something else, your eyes would shamelessly land on James.

You only got the side view of him from where you usually sat in class. But it didn't stop you from ogling the boy. So now, when you were alone with him while seated in Slughorn's dark office— you couldn't help it. James was fiddling with his fingers, and your eyes didn't leave burning into his face.

"You think he's going going make us clean all the trophies again?" He asks suddenly, his voice sounding more raspy after all the silence.

You quickly looked away, hear rushing to your cheeks. "That's probably the worst punishment I've ever gotten." You admitted, trying to focus on the conversation. "It didn't help that you had like ... five or six trophies and pretended not to see them so I had to clean it." You added.

You still remembered the day vividly, just last week you received detention with James Potter as well. It was one of the worst days you've had. Being stuck in a small dimly lit room with him and having to clean dusty trophies. It quite literally felt like you were being trapped in a cage and having to deal with the devil.

James interrupted your thoughts with his snicker. "Had to show 'em off, y'know? I thought girls liked smart guys." And when he said it, you froze.

Maybe the freezing cold Rook suddenly got hot, and you couldn't breathe because your neck felt restricted with your red and golden tie wound tightly around you. "What? Were you trying to impress me?" You asked, your brows furrowed together in confusion.

As if James had just noticed what he said, he sat straighter but kept his gaze in front of him. "No I was just ... no— no I was trying to make you jealous." He stuttered.

You suddenly scoffed, but laughed at the same time. "Please, I've done better in almost all of our classes and you know it."

James takes offense in this, his arm looping on the side of his chair and looking at you. "Yeah but you've gotten us in more messes." He shoots.

"Oh, so you admit I'm smarter than you!" You couldn't help but reply.

"What—! No, remember how Flitwick praised my part of our group project?"

"Don't try to change the subject, Potter. I'm better and you know it. You know it but you can't admit it." You said, looking down at your nails as the conversation bored you.

"Yeah, right. I can't believe I ever tried impressing you, Y/l/n." He said coldly, barely sparing you a glance.

"It didn't fucking work, because I will never be caught dead being impressed in you." You sneered, your words cutting his wounded heart into two halves.

Just when you were about to take back what you were about to say, offer him an apology or do something— the door busted open and Slughorn came in with the same angered expression he had during class.

—

"The problem I've had with you two ... it's an endless list." Slughorn explained, his fingers intertwining together. "It's been six months, and all those six months have felt like pure hell to me whenever both of you are in my class." He said, making it clear how angry he was.

"Professor—" James tried, but was rudely interrupted.

"No! You will stay silent for as long as I'm talking, Mr. Potter. And I won't be tolerating a word from you either, Miss. Y/l/n." He said calmly, though his expression said otherwise. "Is that understood?"

You both nodded, "Yes, professor."

"Alright, now let's talk about your form of detention. Since all our trophies have been polished, cauldrons have been scrubbed, and you can't be trusted to tutor first years without competing with each other—really there's nothing else you could do." Slughorn explained, sighing and rubbing a hand hand his forehead.

"Might I suggest—"

"No talking!" Slughorn repeated, making you slump on your seat. "I've had it enough with you two that I'm considering kicking you both our of the Slug Club." He complained, lighting up at his own words. "Wait a second ... both of you are in the Slug Club, yes?"

You and James nodded, not saying a word as both of you stared at the angry professor.

"Well, then! You could serve the drinks! This is perfect, I needed last minute volunteers for students who needed extra credit. I think both of you would do well for servers, hm? It's not that hard to pass around drinks." He said to himself.

James scoffed, "No, wait— you're asking us to be servers? To a party that we were respectfully invited to?"

Then you added, "Yeah, this is just— quite rushed, sir. I was looking forward to this party, to meet people from the ministry and make connections. I— I even bought a dress for this occasion, I thought—"

Slughorn put up a hand, "Now, now. Don't you complain to me about all this. Both of you deserve this punishment, after making it really hard for me to teach in class." He said, looking like he's had enough. "Don't worry about the dress Miss. Y/l/n, both of you can come in formal clothing— I shall not ruin your night of confidence." He cleared his throat while getting up from his chair.

Both you and James tried to reason with the man, but it was to no avail.

"Sir—"

"I can't believe—"

Slughorn waved his wand, and both of your mouths were sealed shut. When the room was quiet, he muttered, "Now excuse me, I shall be going over some papers. Both of you should go to bed, you must be exhausted after all the fighting, I'm sure."

—

The common room was empty, it was just past seven but it seemed like no one wanted to witness you and James' quarrel that almost always happens after a talk with a professor.

After the painting door closed, James skipped to the couch and threw his body on it tiredly. "I am fucking exhausted." He admitted, sighing heavily and stared at the fire that was still burning brightly.

"Shut up, Potter. I can't even hear your voice without getting upset. This party was important to me!" You said suddenly, throwing your bag to the ground, the contents spilling out.

"Right, because it didn't to me. Got a new suit and all." He muttered, his expression obviously looking more sour now.

You decided to sit on the lounge chair that was next to the couch, striking up a conversation. "Yeah? Was it snazzy? Plain black ... or?"

"Why do you care?" James snaps, "Yeah, it's plain black." He adds sheepishly.

You roll your eyes, chuckling all the while. "You're so lame, Potter. Who're you trying to impress with a plain black suit?" You mocked, your eyes glancing at him.

Just as he talks, your eyes don't dare to move from his face. He pushes his hair back, still short black curls tumbling down his forehead. You think then, that he's so gorgeous, with his eyes looking so warm and brown. His lips are red, highlighting his pale features.

Then he makes a small sound, flicking his fingers to signal you to listen. "Hey, you listening?" He says, his tone so low. And it sounds so different than how he usually talks to you.

"Er .. yeah. You were saying who you're trying to impress ... and I dunno, blanked out." You admitted, trying to look anywhere except his pretty face.

"You really wanna hear this? I don't think sharing who we fancy are part of this rivalry relationship." He says, a teasing grin painted on his lips.

"Sure, whatever." You agree, shrugging your shoulders. But inside, you felt uneasy. You didn't know much about James Potter's lovelife, all you did was that he fancied Lily Evans. Once upon a time he did, because lately it didn't seem like he was interested in the redhead at all.

Part of you felt jealous, but then you remembered that you had no right to be. James Potter wasn't your boyfriend, or even friend on that matter. Even though you admit you are attracted to him, and would maybe want to snog him in a broom cupboard — you really had no right to be jealous.

"She's ah ... witty. I guess that's a word to describe her, she's beautiful too of course— but her beauty doesn't compare to her brains. I love a smart girl, y'know? A friendly competition in a relationship would be awesome." James chuckles. You nod your head, turning your head to the fire after you saw James' enamored expression.

"You sound like you're obsessed with her." You comment, trying trying avoid his gaze.

When James nods, you don't see it. You don't see how he says "I am." While he's looking straight at the back of your head.

"One thing I hate though, is that she's so fucking hard to talk to. I don't think I've ever had a proper conversation with her ... she's always way too busy to pay attention to me. It sucks that way." James admits, biting his gums and fiddling with his fingers.

"Who is she?" You asked bluntly, desperate to know about this mysterious girl that James is apparently in love with.

James tsked, "Not a chance I'm telling you."

You looked back to him, "I think you should do something about the suit. Plain black won't impress anyone. Maybe add a flower or something, girls love that." I love that. You tried to keep it in your head, careful not to let it out of your mouth.

—

"How do I look?" You asked Marlene, who was laying in bed with a book in hand. She glanced your way and dropped the book, getting up and approaching you.

"Amazing!" Marlene exclaimed, her hands smoothing down the fabric of your dress.

"Not exactly house spirited, but I thought yellow would have a nice touch." You smiled, happy to see your best friend just as excited as you were.

The dress you were wearing was long, going down and nipping your ankles. It was made of an intricate silky design, layers of white and yellow overlapping each other. The top half was just as beautiful, detailed green flowers sprinkling the area near your chest. Then, the straps on your shoulders were thin. It was made out of white fabric, a beautiful detail covering them.

"Merlin, Y/n. You look gorgeous. I'm sure Potter will stare at you the whole night. What a shame you'll have to serve drinks, though." Marlene complimented, her fingers tracing the designs of your dress.

"Potter? James Potter?" You asked, not paying attention to anything else she was saying. "What are you on about, Mar?" You said, half angry and half curious.

"I'm just saying ... you look beautiful tonight, Y/n. He may be your enemy, but he's a boy and he's got eyes. There's no telling what would happen tonight, what with your tension as well." Marlene shrugged, handing you another fresh smile.

"He's not— he won't. He's into someone else, anyways. I'm betting all my galleons it's Lily Evans." You said, an irritated look coming on your face.

Marlene traced a last shape on your dress, then her hands reached up to comb through your head of hair. And finally, she put her hands on your shoulders, smiling enthusiastically. "Or maybe it's you, honey."

—

Marlene's words made you rethink every decision of yours as you made your way up to the seventh floor. Your hands was nervously picking at your dress, looping through the fabric and smoothing it. James had agreed to meet you in front of the tent an, because as Slughorn had ordered, the both of you were supposed to stick together where he could see you.

You bite your lip as you see James' figure, his body clad in the black suit he told you about. It didn't usually feel like this when you were approaching him. Maybe it was because of Marlene's words and because you were wearing a dress. A beautiful dress, that made you look gorgeous. Any other time, you'd be dressed in normal clothes and approaching James to gloat about your marks in Transfiguration. But this time it felt different.

But perhaps, it was also the quickly approaching attraction and/or feelings you had for James. Before you had time to rethink anything else again, James waved a hand your way.

You approached him confidently, making sure you didn't mess up anything while you walked to him. James turned his head to peer inside the tent ad you want towards him. When you arrived behind him, he didn't bother looking at you as he kept his gaze on something— or rather someone else.

"Slughorn wants us to pass drinks for that side. Those are his friends and connections, so we're allowed to serve them alcoholic drinks." James explained, his hand pointing to a group of someone.

You muttered a yes to him and let the boy continue. "And that side, those are all students. You can probably tell the difference between them, but just a heads up before you shove firewhiskey down their throats." He said, chuckling at his own joke.

"Got it, Potter." You told him, keeping quiet as James stood silently as well. "What else?"

James seemed to be knocked out of a trance, as he shook his head but kept his gaze where it was. "Huh?"

When you shoved him over to see who it was he was looking at, you weren't surprised. "We're you looking at someone?" You teased, though a smile wasn't present on your face. "Lily Evans, huh? I love her dress." You commented, closing the tent flaps shut after that and looking at James entirely.

"No, I— I was looking at—" he seemed to cut himself off, not knowing what to say I the midst of it all. Because in front of him stood a pretty girl, standing straight looking heavenly.

You didn't dare to meet his gaze, not wanting to suddenly catch his eye and let him see through your expression. So instead, you focused on his breast pocket. A single flower sitting limply inside it, pale green— just like the ones that detailed the top half of your dress.

"Oh, wow. You really took my advice and went with the flower." You raised your brows, flicking the flower playfully. "Looks great on you ... you look great tonight." You praised, feeling gutsy.

James didn't say anything, his body frozen in place and his lips sealed. Then he looked at you and caught that perfect second where you frowned just the smallest bit. And he thought his heart would break into pieces any moment then.

"Guess I'll see you inside, then."

James didn't have time to respond, letting you walk away as you heels clicked and echoed through the halls. All he wanted to do was pull you closer, kiss your hand gently and tell you how incredible you looked tonight. But he couldn't, just like he couldn't all these past years he's been obsessed with you.

—

"No, Longbottom you can only have the drinks on the left. Usually I'd let you do the fuck all you want, but I don't really want to fail Potions this year." You said with an annoyed tone, your hand already growing tired after holding a tray full of drinks for the past hour.

"Oh you're serving drinks for extra credit? Y/n, I though you were excellent at everything!" The boy in front of you laughed, some alcohol clearly already inside his system.

"No you idiot! I'm here because James Potter decided to be a dick to me again and got us both into detention. Detention being serving drinks to people like you— who can't follow the rules."

Longbottom put up his hands defensively. "Woah, just because loverboy got you into another mess don't take it out on me." He said with slight amusement in his tone.

"Lover— why does everybody keep saying that? Me and Potter aren't fucking dating. We aren't anything." You said with a scoff.

A voice behind you startled your nerves, "Really? Because I thought we had some sort of friendship after last night. Advice giving is actually one of the things that start a friendship, Y/l/n. When I met Pads, he gave me an hour of advice on how collared shirts effect our daily lives. It was bullshit honestly, didn't grasp a single thing out of that hour." James rambled, but finally ending on giving you a grin.

With a confused look, Longbottom scrunched his nose and slurred out an excuse from both of you. Then you turned to James, seeing that his hands were empty, you shoved your tray on them. "Hold that for me, I need to go to the bathroom." You told him, trying to escape from the situation.

James smiled like he knew what was going on. "No way. I observed you the whole night and you didn't even drink a single drop. Which I'm quite concerned about because you must be parched— point is, you don't need to go to the bathroom."

You sighed, "Alright, I don't need to. But I want to. It's so crowded in here and I can't even breathe without people asking for drinks."

James muffled his laugh, "That is your job." He replied, giving you a small smile. Somehow, that smile made you feel a little bit better. You used to be confused when someone told you that James had the ability to make someone feel better so quickly. But now you understood it. Because that small grin had made your heart quicken and your lips tingle to smile back.

"I'm just ... exhausted. But that won't cover it, I'm more than exhausted. My arms sore and my legs hurt so much in these heels." You complained.

James' face lit up, an idea sparking in his mind. "Everyone here is either drunk, or too busy chatting up with each other that they won't notice two servers sneaking out. Come on, I know a place."

—

"It's chilly up here." You muttered, rubbing your arms to get some warmth in. It was no use though, because the wind blew harsher. James had bought you to a small balcony, just like the Astronomy Tower but without the big telescopes and much smaller.

"No one's been here everytime I come up here. It's pretty much deserted, me and Remus found out about it in a rush." He told you, looking out to the sky.

The sky and it's endless limits, tiny dots on the sky blinking back to you. You admired the night sky, taking note of every little movement of the clouds and smiling in awe.

"It's so beautiful." You comment, your hand fiddling with your dress to distract you from the numbing cold.

"You are." James said from behind you, walking closer to where you stood.

You turned back to look at him in haste, "I'm what?"

"You're beautiful." James said, his mouth twitching at the excitement of finally saying those words to you. "You look beautiful tonight, like every other night."

Your expression wasn't readable when you talked. "Shut up, Potter. Don't say shit like that." You tell him, turning back to look at the dark sky.

"What do you mean?"

You scoffed, "Don't say things you don't mean. You tell me I'm beautiful now. Then you bring me down everytime we compete in class. It's like you manage to make me hurt everyday and not notice it."

When you finished, James touched your shoulder with his fingers. A nudge, his finger grabbing at you gently. You can feel his icy cold skin on yours, marveling at the new feeling. "Is that what you think? That I'm only competing with you?"

"What else? You've never seen me, and I'm always just right behind you, stupidly staring." You say the last part lowly, feeling ashamed that you said the words.

"I just— I just wanted to impress you." James said, scratching the back of his neck.

"I don't like to be impressed like that. It feels like shit. Why don't you try to impress me like Evans? She might not like it ... but I would." You  confessed, saying it sheepishly.

"Really? I'm a little extra, I though you'd appreciate a guy who challenges you and does it subtly."

"Things change, maybe I just want you."

James stepped closer, his fingers snaking up to the sides of your face. "You mean that, darling?" He asked you, a smug smile making its way on his lips. His thumb traces the curve of your lips, getting a bit of gloss on his skin. "I've wanted you for so long ... and I don't want you if you're still unsure about it."

"Kiss me." You ordered, your hands climbing up to lay flat on his chest.

"Are you sure—?"

No more hesitation this time. You don't let James finish as you press your lips to his. He obliges and bring you closer, fingers slipping under to grip your waist. You let out a small sound come out from your mouth, James' heart growing weak at it. You breathe into his mouth, sharing oxygen in the small confines of his kiss.

As if it's like a competition, you don't want to pull away and admit defeat on who was out of breath first. So finally, James pulls away and grins at the sight of you. It felt good to see him smile so sweetly at you, wanting to get used to the sight.

"I'm still confused how you didn't notice, Potter ... I stare at you so much in class I'm surprised I even know the material." You laughed.

"I dunno." He shrugs.

"You're so oblivious." You comment, picking at his suit jacket and shuddering at the slightest when he leans close.

"Obliviously yours, though." He mutters, pausing just a second to take in your image before kissing you sweetly.

—@ wrathspoet

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