Do You Ever Read A Really Questionable Fanfiction Or A Spicy Love Story And Think "what The Fuck Did

Marc Spector: 12

WHAT??? HOLD ME BACK HOLD ME BACK IM SO SERIOUS

Ranchero Miguel sketch inspired by this amazing little fic ❤️‍🔥

₊˚⊹˚ 𐙚 this is awkward..

pairing: james potter x f!reader

➥ In which, you were fed up with James, deciding to put aside your pettiness you drag him away from the gryffindor party to talk to him.

Warnings: angst, fluff, james pov, this inspired by awae (aka the best show ever), r and james speaking is 𝓱𝓮𝓪𝓿𝓲𝓵𝔂 inspired by gilbert confessing that he wants anne so effing bad bc he 𝓯𝔀 𝓱𝓮𝓪𝓿𝔂, lowkey dont hate me for making the “dreams” u want so like…. I just didn't know what to do bc like idk smh i set back women 50 years by that

a/n: tysm for all the love on this series!! y’all are NOT ready for the next chapter, writing it rn and 😭🙏 BUTTT tysm for 300🫶🫶 also I finished the last chapter... do y'all want me to post it today or edge y'all and post it tomorrow

series masterlist ! - divider creds: i-mmaculatus & dollywons

It was now nearing the end of the school year—even if there was still a month to go. James could now be in the same room as you without glaring daggers at whoever you were talking to. Though he told himself he was over you, he knew deep down that the feelings never faded.

He told himself it didn’t matter. He told himself he was fine. And yet, every time he caught sight of you, every time your laughter reached his ears from across the room, it was as if someone had set fire to his resolve.

He wanted to talk to you so badly it was almost pathetic. But it was like the universe itself was conspiring against him—or, more specifically, like Finn Laurier had developed some sort of sixth sense for James’s intentions.

Because every single time James gathered enough courage, every time he braced himself to walk over to you, Finn would appear out of nowhere. Whether it was in the Great Hall, the library, or even during Quidditch practice, Finn always seemed to materialize by your side at precisely the wrong moment, stealing away your attention and leaving James feeling like the outsider in his own story.

It was infuriating.

“Mate, you’re grinding your teeth,” Sirius remarked casually one afternoon as they sat under the beech tree by the lake.

James startled, realizing with some embarrassment that Sirius was right. He quickly unclenched his jaw and let out a frustrated sigh.

“Sorry,” he muttered, running a hand through his messy hair. “I’m just…”

“Just what?” Sirius prompted, raising an eyebrow.

“Nothing,” James lied, though his voice betrayed him.

Sirius gave him a knowing look. “If this is about her again, just—”

“It’s not about her,” James interrupted quickly, though he winced as the words left his mouth. He knew Sirius wouldn’t believe him, and he wasn’t sure he even believed himself anymore.

Sirius sighed, shaking his head. “Prongs, you’re going to drive yourself mad if you keep this up. Just talk to her already.”

“I’ve tried!” James snapped, louder than he intended. He lowered his voice and added, “I’ve tried, but every bloody time, Finn shows up. It’s like he’s got a bloody tracker on her or something.”

Remus, who had been quietly reading nearby, finally chimed in. “You know, maybe you’re overthinking this,” he said, not looking up from his book.

“How could I possibly be overthinking this?” James demanded, throwing his hands up in exasperation.

“Maybe Finn’s not doing it on purpose,” Remus suggested calmly. “Maybe it’s just bad timing.”

“Bad timing?” James repeated incredulously. “Bad timing doesn’t happen this often, Moony. This is a pattern.”

Remus gave him a skeptical look but didn’t argue further.

James leaned back against the tree trunk, closing his eyes and letting out a long breath. He hated how much this was bothering him. He hated how much control this entire situation had over him.

But most of all, he hated the thought that you might actually be happy with Finn.

It wasn’t that he thought Finn was a bad guy—quite the opposite, really. Finn was charming, talented, and annoyingly good at everything he did. He was the kind of guy parents adored, the kind of guy professors went out of their way to praise. And worst of all, he was the kind of guy who could make you smile in a way James had only dreamed of.

James opened his eyes, staring up at the branches overhead. “Maybe I should just give up,” he muttered.

Sirius snorted. “Yeah, right. That’s the most ridiculous thing you’ve said all day.”

“I’m serious,” James insisted.

“No, I’m Sirius,” Sirius quipped, smirking.

James groaned, throwing a small pebble in his direction. “Not the time for jokes.”

“Fine, fine,” Sirius said, holding up his hands in mock surrender. “But seriously, you’re not giving up. You’re James Potter, remember? Stubborn, arrogant, never-takes-no-for-an-answer James Potter. You don’t give up on things you care about.”

James hesitated, staring at the rippling water of the Black Lake. He wanted to believe Sirius. He wanted to believe that there was still a chance, that you weren’t as far out of reach as you seemed.

But as he watched you across the courtyard later that day, standing beside Finn and laughing at something he said, James couldn’t shake the feeling that maybe, just maybe, it was too late.

But his doubt soon melted into something far more unsettling when he noticed your gaze shift. For the first time in what felt like forever, your attention wasn’t on Finn Laurier—it was on him.

James felt like he might throw up.

His heartbeat thundered in his ears, and his hands fidgeted with the hem of his robes as he quickly looked away. In fact, he didn’t just look away; he turned his entire body in the opposite direction, hoping to mask the flush rising to his cheeks.

“C’mon, James, you’ve got a Quidditch game to win today! Channel all that anger you’ve got towards Laurier into winning us the Cup!” Sirius said, clapping a hand on James’s shoulder with his trademark grin.

James gave a faint nod, trying to let Sirius’s words sink in. He wasn’t sure if it would work, but he had to admit—focusing on Quidditch might be better than brooding.

As the match began, Sirius’s advice started to help. Flying through the air, the roar of the crowd, and the adrenaline coursing through his veins almost made him forget the mess he was tangled in. Quidditch always had a way of making the weight on his shoulders feel lighter.

Almost.

At first, he wasn’t paying much attention to the game. His mind wandered back to you, back to everything that had gone wrong. He thought about what he would say, how he could even begin to fix things. And, like always, he couldn’t resist scanning the crowd for you.

Even in the middle of a fight, even when he swore to himself that he was done, James always looked for you in the stands.

And he found you—right where he didn’t want to.

You were sitting with Finn Laurier, your hand clasped in his. James’s stomach twisted painfully at the sight, and he forced himself to look away, though the image burned into his mind.

Of course. Finn fucking Laurier.

He sighed, his grip tightening on his broomstick. There was no point in hoping anymore. Whatever chance he’d had—if he’d ever had one—was gone now. Maybe he’d already been downgraded in your life: a friend at best, a stranger at worst. The thought stung, and James shoved it down, refusing to dwell on it any longer.

And then, something golden caught the corner of his eye.

The Snitch.

For the first time all game, James’s focus snapped into place. He leaned forward on his broom, his heart pounding—not from heartbreak this time, but from the sheer rush of competition. If nothing else, he could still win this. He could still bring home the Cup.

James shot after the Snitch with everything he had, the rush of wind against his face only fueling his determination. The crowd roared, but their voices blurred into the background. His world narrowed to one thing: the golden glimmer darting just ahead.

The Hufflepuff Seeker was hot on his trail, but James barely registered them. This was his moment. The Snitch veered sharply to the right, and James followed, his reflexes razor-sharp. He could feel the weight of his emotions—anger, heartbreak, frustration—all pouring into this chase.

The Snitch dipped low, skimming just above the grass, and James dove after it, his fingers outstretched. The Hufflepuff Seeker was closing in fast, but James didn’t care. He pushed his broom harder, faster, his body leaning forward so much it felt like he might fall off.

And then, his fingers closed around the Snitch.

The Gryffindor stands erupted into cheers, deafening and jubilant. The sound echoed across the pitch as James pulled up, the Snitch held high in triumph. For the first time all week, a genuine smile broke across his face.

He’d done it.

Back on the ground, his teammates swarmed him, yelling and celebrating as they lifted him off the ground in a flurry of hugs and pats on the back. Sirius was the loudest, of course, laughing as he shouted, “That’s my best mate! Did you see that dive? Bloody brilliant!”

James grinned, allowing himself to soak in the moment. But as the initial adrenaline rush faded, his thoughts drifted back to you.

Through the crowd, he spotted you walking toward the castle with Laurier. You looked happy—laughing at something Finn said, your hand still in his.

James’s chest tightened, the pain creeping back in.

Sirius slung an arm around his shoulders. “Oi, don’t let that git ruin your moment. You just won us the Cup, Prongs. Focus on that, yeah?”

James forced a nod, plastering a smile on his face. “Yeah. You’re right.”

But deep down, as the team carried him back to the common room, the ache lingered. Winning the match had been a distraction, but it wasn’t enough to erase what he felt for you—or the sting of seeing you with someone else.

Still, James promised himself one thing: he’d get through this. Maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow, but eventually. And who knew? Maybe, someday, you’d see him the way he saw you.

ʕ•̫͡•ʕ•̫͡•ʔ•̫͡•ʔ•̫͡•ʕ•̫͡•ʔ•̫͡•ʕ•̫͡•ʕ•̫͡•ʔ•̫͡•ʔ•̫͡•ʕ•̫͡•ʔ•̫͡•ʔ

The Gryffindor common room was a chaotic blur of red and gold, filled with triumphant cheers and laughter. The moment the team returned from the pitch, the party was already in full swing. Someone had charmed a banner to flash "Gryffindor Wins the Cup!" in shimmering letters, and butterbeer bottles floated around the room, courtesy of a cheeky charm from Sirius.

James stood in the center of it all, grinning as his teammates and housemates patted him on the back and congratulated him. For a brief moment, he allowed himself to bask in the glory of the victory, letting it drown out the knot in his chest. He’d won the game, and Gryffindor had the Cup—he deserved to enjoy it.

“Prongs!” Sirius yelled over the noise, shoving a butterbeer into his hand. “You’re the man of the hour! You better milk this for all it’s worth, because Merlin knows you deserve it.”

James laughed, shaking his head. “Don’t let me hear you say that too often, Padfoot. I might start believing it.”

Sirius gave him a devilish grin. “Oh, you will. Now, c’mon, let’s make some noise!” He climbed onto a table, raising his bottle high. “To Prongs, our Quidditch hero!”

The room erupted in cheers, and James couldn’t help but laugh, taking a sip of his butterbeer as the noise washed over him. For the first time all day, he felt lighter.

As the party went on, James moved through the crowd, chatting and laughing with his housemates. But no matter how loud the celebration got, his eyes kept drifting to the door, half-hoping, half-dreading to see you walk in.

And then, you did.

James froze mid-conversation, his heart doing that familiar stutter-step it always did when he saw you. You looked radiant, wrapped in Gryffindor colors, your cheeks flushed from the cold. But his chest tightened when he noticed Laurier trailing behind you, his hand resting casually on the small of your back.

James quickly turned back to his conversation, forcing a smile and pretending not to notice. He wasn’t going to let Finn Laurier—or his own stupid feelings—ruin the night.

“Oi, Prongs,” Sirius said, appearing at his side again. “Stop moping and do something fun. We just won the bloody Cup, mate! At least pretend you’re having the time of your life.”

James forced another grin. “I am having fun, Padfoot. Loads of fun.”

Sirius narrowed his eyes. “You’re staring at her again, aren’t you?”

“I’m not,” James lied, taking a long sip of butterbeer.

Sirius groaned, grabbing James by the shoulders. “Look, here’s what you’re going to do. You’re going to stop torturing yourself, and you’re going to have a bloody fantastic time tonight. And if that doesn’t work, we’ll prank Laurier so hard he won’t know which way is up. Deal?”

James couldn’t help but laugh at that, shaking his head. “Alright, deal.”

Hours later, the party was still going strong. Someone had turned the music up, and the common room had transformed into a dance floor. James found himself dragged into the middle of it by Lily Evans, who gave him a pointed look.

“Stop sulking, Potter,” she said, smirking. “You just won the Cup. Act like it.”

“I’m not sulking,” James said, though his half-hearted smile gave him away.

Lily raised an eyebrow but didn’t press further. Instead, she tugged him into the rhythm of the music, and for a while, James let himself get lost in the moment.

It wasn’t until he caught sight of you again, laughing at something Laurier said, that the knot in his chest returned. He took a deep breath, plastered on another smile, and decided that, for tonight, he’d keep pretending.

He watched you from across the room as you and Laurier continued talking, laughter bubbling between you two. He could see the way you looked at him now—so different from the way you looked at him before. It was like there was a barrier, a wall that hadn’t been there when he first met you.

“Prongs,” Sirius appeared at his side again, his voice low and concerned. “Look, I know you’ve been through a lot, but this is ridiculous. You’re letting Laurier ruin your night—and you just won us the Cup, for Merlin’s sake. You’re allowed to be happy tonight. So go talk to her. If you don’t, I swear I’ll do it for you.”

James frowned at him, irritated. “I’m not talking to her, Pads. Not now.”

“Then at least get out of here and enjoy yourself,” Sirius pressed. “We’re celebrating, mate. You’ve earned it.”

James looked over at you one more time, and for a second, he almost gave in. But the knot in his chest was still there, tightly wound, and it made everything feel so much harder than it should’ve been.

But maybe... maybe he could find a way to feel better. Maybe he could lose himself in the celebration.

“I’ll think about it,” he finally muttered, glancing at his friends.

Sirius didn’t seem convinced but let out an exaggerated sigh. “Fine, but I’m not letting you go off and brood in some corner. The whole bloody school’s celebrating with you tonight.”

James smirked faintly, feeling a little lighter. Maybe he could pretend to be okay, at least for tonight. He could let the victory, the laughter, and his friends drown out the ache for just a little while longer.

But as the night continued, and as the music played on, James found himself once again looking toward the doorway, hoping—just hoping—that you’d look his way.

For the first time in forever, the world was finally on his side as he saw you quickly leaving Finn and walking straight to him.

“May I speak to you, please?” James nodded, Dumbfounded. 

You quickly grabbed his hand and went outside the common room and into the corridors. 

You took a deep breath, your fingers twisting nervously. “James… I’ve been meaning to talk to you for a while now.”

James’s throat went dry, his pulse quickening as he struggled to find his voice. “Yeah?”

You nodded, glancing down at your hands before meeting his gaze. “I—I’m sorry.”

That wasn’t what he had expected. Of all the scenarios he’d played out in his head, an apology hadn’t been one of them.

“For what?” he asked, genuine confusion coloring his voice.

“For everything,” you said in a rush, your words tumbling out before you could stop them. “For avoiding you. I was confused—about what I did that made you ignore me. And I guess I wanted to get back at you for ignoring me, so I decided to do the same to you. And… I’m sorry for whatever happened between us that made things so weird.”

James stared at you, your vulnerability hitting him like a Bludger to the chest. His heart ached at the uncertainty in your voice.

“You don’t have to apologize,” he said quickly, shaking his head.

“Yes, I do,” you insisted, your voice firm despite the tears welling in your eyes.

“No, you don’t,” James countered, his tone soft yet resolute. “It’s not fair to put all of this on yourself. You’ve always been there for me, and I—well, I’ve been a terrible friend lately. I was practically acting like you didn’t exist.”

James faltered when he saw the blank expression on your face. Panic flickered in his chest—had he said too much?

But before he could say anything more, you stepped forward and wrapped your arms around him.

“Oh, James,” you murmured into his shoulder. “It’s okay. I—I was acting like you didn’t exist too, but only because you were doing it to me.”

He blinked, caught off guard, before slowly relaxing into the hug. He looked down at you, his hand instinctively reaching up to brush away a stray tear trailing down your cheek.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, his voice thick with emotion.

You shook your head, a small, watery smile breaking through. “We’re both sorry. Let’s just… not do this anymore, okay?”

James nodded, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “Deal.”

“It feels so much better having my best friend around again.” James’ smile faltered again, he never liked the word “best friend” when it came to you, he always wanted more.

“Definitely”

You two let each other talk for what felt like hours even though it was barely fifteen minutes. He enjoyed every second though, until you brought up Finn and future plans they may include him. He couldn't believe it, when had your parents met his? He remembers your dad telling him how much he was rooting you and him to be together, now he's okay with you dating some other dude? And worst of all, your father was okay with that same dude wanting to marry his daughter? James felt like throwing up.

“Then he said that my father laid it out on a silver platter.”

“Laid... what out on a platter?”

“My future! Gave him the blessing to...to propose. I don't know what to do.”

“You told me you don’t mind being married straight after Hogwarts if you truly loved the man. That being a wife and mother... is your dream. Finn is.. nice, and both of your guys’ parents are supportive. I don't understand. What's holding you back?”

“Just… one thing.”

“What am I supposed to do? Everyone else is just... moving on, and now you’re... and I’m still... We never even... And he’s there, and you’re—Merlin, you’re never going to find someone who—” James stopped, his voice cracking. “I know that much, so how... how am I supposed to... I can’t... I— We...”

Before you could speak–a drunk Sirius somehow found you two. “Woah James you're really speaking to her? Atta boy, now, let's get back to the party, cmon, we are going to do something cool, have you heard of ....” Sirius rambled on, tugging on James’ arm to drag him back to the party.

“I’ll be off, then.” You said, voice quivering as if hesitant to leave.

ʕ•̫͡•ʕ•̫͡•ʔ•̫͡•ʔ•̫͡•ʕ•̫͡•ʔ•̫͡•ʕ•̫͡•ʕ•̫͡•ʔ•̫͡•ʔ•̫͡•ʕ•̫͡•ʔ•̫͡•ʔ

All James could think about was the previous night—the talk you two had shared. Your words, your voice, the hesitation in your eyes—it all replayed in his mind like a haunting melody. What would’ve happened if Sirius hadn’t barged in, if James had told him to leave, if he’d been brave enough to stay in that moment with you?

“I think…” James began, his voice breaking as he paced the Gryffindor dormitory, “I think she might’ve been asking if I love her. And—and I think I told her to marry someone else.”

Sirius, slouched in the chair by the window, looked stricken. “Mate…” he started, his tone heavy with guilt. “If I’d known—if I knew what was happening—I wouldn’t have gone looking for you. I—I practically ruined your chances. Merlin, I’m so, so sorry.”

James stopped pacing, running a hand through his already-messy hair. “It doesn’t matter. I don’t even know if she meant it. She said so much without really saying anything, and now I don’t know if I imagined it all.”

“‘Sure, take option two,’ when option one is all she wants for her future?” James muttered, his voice thick with frustration.

“What is option one?” Peter asked, his curiosity breaking the tension.

James scoffed, bitterness creeping into his tone. “It’s Finn, obviously.” He paused, his anger flaring. “But both their parents support it, and she told me that! Before she spilled all of that on me, we were talking and laughing like nothing was wrong. But now…” He exhaled sharply, his voice softening as he sat down on the edge of his bed. “Now it feels like I’m being asked to explain the rest of my life on a bloody ticking clock. And if I make the wrong decision, I’ve either ruined my life—or hers.”

The room fell silent. Sirius and Peter exchanged uneasy glances, while Remus seemed lost in thought, unsure of how to respond.

ʕ•̫͡•ʕ•̫͡•ʔ•̫͡•ʔ•̫͡•ʕ•̫͡•ʔ•̫͡•ʕ•̫͡•ʕ•̫͡•ʔ•̫͡•ʔ•̫͡•ʕ•̫͡•ʔ•̫͡•ʔ

Meanwhile, you had confided in your mother about your plans the night before: to finally tell the man you truly loved how you felt. You hadn’t wanted to bring it up while you and James were laughing and enjoying each other’s company, but you knew if you didn’t seize the moment, you’d never say it at all.

What you hadn’t expected was for him to turn you down. To tell you—calmly, almost dismissively—that you should marry Finn.

Your mother was waiting for your response. You knew she expected good news, a letter confirming that you and James were finally together. Instead, you sat at your desk, penning words that left a bitter taste in your mouth.

Dear Mother,

I did what you told me to do, but I fear I shouldn’t have. We were talking just fine, and then I told him everything. I told him how I felt. And he told me to marry Finn.

Finn is lovely, yes—but he’s not James. I asked James if there was any chance for us, and he said no. At least now I have clarity on where I stand with him. And I know it sounds awful to compare Finn to James, but... maybe knowing what I know now, I can learn to be happy with Finn. Father and Finn’s family are all thrilled, after all. I don’t even want to think about what I would’ve done if James had said he felt the same.

You sighed, folding the parchment carefully and sealing it in an envelope. The weight of your words sat heavily on your chest, but you couldn’t dwell on them any longer. You needed to send this letter immediately.

Pulling on your cloak, you found yourself heading for one of the secret passages to Hogsmeade—the ones you and James had used so often. The memories stung, but you pushed them aside. This time, you’d be using the passage alone.

The quickest way to deliver your letter was through the owlery. You knew exactly which owl was the fastest.

As you walked, you let your mind wander to James one last time, allowing yourself the quiet ache of what could’ve been. You would never speak to him again, not like before. That part of your life was over.

Finn was your future now. And while it hurt to admit, deep down, you knew it was for the best.

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Eight Nights (in December)

Based on this poll, 407 of you voted, and this story is your winner!

Summary: The story of how two children and and their very handsome dad come into your life during the holiday season. Or - is it possible to fall for someone before you ever make it to date #1?

Pairing: Marc Spector x gn!reader, Steven Grant x gn!reader (Jake is mentioned)

Word Count: 7465

Content: regular fluff, domestic fluff, mentions of food, The Spector-Grant-Lockley family celebrates Hanukkah. Seasonal fun, nothing religious in this story. Fic does not indicate reader's gender, description or what, if anything, they celebrate. No use of y/n. This fic is for everyone! Not beta'd.

I named this fic after the beautiful Hanukkah song "Eight Nights" by Rosi Golan. Go listen!

☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ

"Ask themmm."

The whisper of a child grabs your attention. You whirl around, causing the jingle bells dangling from your ridiculous hat to ring.

"Be quiet," a young girl hisses to the boy beside her, but he is not deterred.

"Ask me what?" You smile down at the adorable duo.

The little boy's eyes drop to his feet as he scuffs his foot uncertainly.

"He wants a candy cane," his sassy companion informs, folding her arms over her chest. "But I told him they're for kids going to see Santa."

"Oh. Are you guys here to see Santa?" You ask them. "Because there's a long line unless your family made a reservation. Do you want me to help you find the end of the line?"

"No," the little girl replies, tossing her mane of chocolate curls. "We don't need to see Santa. We're Jewish."

"Ohhh," you nod understandingly, kneeling down to their level. "That’s wonderful. You have eight special nights, don't you?"

The little boy's brown eyes sparkle as his long eyelashes blink up at you. "Yes, eight nights in a row, and we play dreidel and make lakkas."

"Latkes," the little girl corrects. She peers up at you as if giving you all the important info. "He always says it wrong."

You chuckle at how cute they are. They could be the same age, but the girl acts a little older. Both of them have bright brown eyes shining under thick eyebrows, olive skin and matching mops of brown curls.

"Max! Elle!" A frantic male voice calls. Their little heads snap up as a very handsome man comes jogging around the corner. As soon as he sees them, he sinks to his knees and pulls one of them into each arm. "You guys scared me." He presses a quick but fierce kiss to each of their foreheads.

"It was Max," Elle doesn't hesitate to blame, who you assume is her brother. "He's trying to ask this elf right here if he can have a candy cane. I told him it's only for kids who want to meet Santa and we aren’t here to meet Santa."

The man nods, climbing to his feet to address you.

"Sorry about that, we'll get out of your way," he apologizes, practically walking away from you already.

"No harm done." You grant him a warm smile, boldly stepping forward. "They are more than welcome to have a candy cane if it's alright with you. These are a kosher brand."

He makes a face and you wonder if you’ve overstepped. “They-they mentioned they weren’t here to see Santa - "

"Can we, Daddy? Can we have one?" Max bounces on his toes in anticipation.

"Uhhh, sure," he relents, "but any more sneaking off and we're going straight home. No carousel and no hot chocolate."

"Ooh, did you know it's so yummy to stick your candy cane in your hot chocolate?" You pipe, producing two sticks of candy for the kids.

"Really?" Elle skeptically questions. "Won't it just melt?"

"Eventually," you confirm, presenting her with a candy cane. "But not before you get the most delicious mint hot chocolate ever." Your eyes glisten with merriment because you love seeing the joy on kids' faces.

"Ooh, me, me!" Max holds out his hand to receive your offering. "I want to try hot mint chocolate."

"It's mint hot chocolate," Elle corrects.

The man regards you carefully, seeming protective of them. "Uh, guys, what do you say to this nice...elf?"

"Thank yoouuu," they dutifully chime.

Your cheeks go hot as you imagine what you must look like to this man, in elf garb. But he surprises you, mouthing a grateful 'thank you' over the kids' heads, his warm brown eyes shimmering with something kind, or at least relieved. His shoulders turn away from you, as if ready to bolt - his hands cupping the children’s shoulders as if to guide them away. But he makes an effort to be polite. 

"One more thing," you risk his indulgence a moment longer, reaching for a flier. "Have you been down to the south end of the plaza? We have a giant menorah there. We'll be lighting it next week." You lean back down to kid-level. "And we'll be passing out gelt instead of candy canes."

"Gelt?" Elle breathes in amazement, while her brother vibrates with excitement.

"Daddy, can we go? Can we go, please?"

Mr. Handsome Dad stares at you a little too long and you hope you haven’t meddled.

He gives them a warning look, but it’s warm. "We’ll see.”

"Okay," they pipe in unison.

He takes the flier you've offered and smiles sincerely, his shoulders relaxing a fraction. "Thanks again. This is..." He drags in a breath, nodding to the Christmas emporium where Santa is basically enthroned and ready to be worshiped. "This can be hard to explain. So thank you." His eyes lock onto yours and you get a really good look at how attractive he is - you can definitely see where the kids get their features.

"You're so welcome," you kindly return, offering your hand and your name. "I'm the Event Coordinator for this plaza, and the mall too."

Electricity zings up your arm, straight to your heart as he shakes your hand. It takes him an extra few moments to offer anything more. "I, uh…I'm Marc. And this is Elle and Max, my kids."

"And Steven too, and Jake!" Max excitedly informs, while Elle seems to hush him.

Marc’s gaze falters as he hugs his children closer. "Uh, thanks again. I really appreciate it. Say 'bye', guys."

"Byeeee," they cutely chorus, chomping happily on their candy canes as they scurry away. 

Whew.

He is...really handsome and those kids? The three of them must be someone's holiday wish come true. 

Oh well, back to work, overseeing the Santa line.

You've worked with the mall for years, but once this newer shopping plaza opened, you jumped at the job opportunity. The outdoor shopping, variety of restaurants, and high end stores attract tons of business. Even the families unable to afford some of the shops bring their kids to the play areas and the events you plan and coordinate each month.

It’s important that people feel welcome here. You just finished up a kids' Diwali event last week. Santa arrived to govern all of December, and Hanukkah is coming up quick. Those are just a few of the many wonderful events you champion.

Convenient, since the menorah lighting is about to change your life.

☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ

Marc tucks his children into bed, his mind preoccupied by the events of the evening. Max and Elle wandered away from him for just a couple of minutes, almost sending him into a full panic. They were prone to do this, always one of them blaming the other. Sometimes he got so worried that Steven or even Jake had to resolve the situation. 

The worry is most acute when it reminds him of Randall, who loved to do the same.

He should have known one or both of them would be enchanted by the Santa Claus display. What child wouldn’t be? He found it sweet, however, when he realized they were only in search of a candy cane.

Which led them to you. Marc’s every instinct is to protect his children from anyone new. They’ve been through enough. Their mother passed when they were babies and since then, Marc, Steven and Jake have worked like hell to provide a safe and stable environment for them. This includes individual and family therapy, and one hell of an amazing nanny: Esperanza. 

Jake particularly loves the influence of their sixty-year-old nanny on the children. She’s kind but firm, resourceful, a great cook, and she helps him teach the children Spanish. 

Venturing back to the kitchen to pour himself a drink, Marc notices your flier resting on the kitchen counter. No way this kind invitation will be overlooked by his daughter. She never misses a thing, just like her mom.

His first instinct is always to withdraw and he wants to now. Maybe Steven will be up for taking the kids out to the menorah lighting. 

But there’s something about you…

☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ

"Look, right there!"

You hear your name called several days later. Two fireballs scurry toward you, wrapped adorably in winter gear, brown curls poking carelessly out of their matching hats.

“Guys, slow down,” Marc calls after them hopelessly. Something resembling a groan mixed with a chuckle rumbles out of him as he catches up.

“Heyyy, it’s Max and Elle, right?” You question, smiling warmly down at them before gazing at their dad. “And Marc?”

“They remember, I told you they would remember,” Elle pipes. 

Max ignores her, stepping close and speaking softly. “Where’s your elf hat?”

You exchange glances with Marc. “I left it in Santa land since we’re here to light the menorah.”

“The nine candle menorah is special for Hanukkah. It’s called a chanukiah,” Elle informs, as she seems prone to do regularly.

“You are absolutely right,” you agree with her, glancing back at her dad. “So smart.”

“Oh, she won’t let you forget it,” he quickly replies, although his eyes glow with adoration. 

You kneel down to talk to the kids. “Who wants to help light the shamash candle?”

Both kids excitedly volunteer but you see Elle take a step back. “It’s okay. You can let Max do it. You probably only need one kid, right?” She asks, brown eyes wide and pleading.

“If it’s okay with your dad, I could use the extra help.” All three of you wait for Marc to answer.

“Fine with me,” he shrugs. The kids are the reason he paced his room for a half hour, mustering up the gumption to bring them tonight. They might as well enjoy the event.

The kids cheer and you take them over to the gigantic menorah, which elicits an excited clap and cheer from each of them. 

A decently sized crowd gathers to hear a blessing and get ready for the lighting. The wonder on Max and Elle’s faces immediately reminds you how important it is to include as many people as possible in events, and also sponsor non holiday themed events for those who don’t celebrate.

After the beautiful but brief ceremony concludes and the appropriate torches are lit, a fire truck pulls up, dazzling the kids with a horn honk and flashing sirens.

“Who’s ready for the gelt drop?” A local firefighter calls out to the kids, who jump up and down excitedly. 

Marc groans but can’t help but chuckle as he jogs after his two little firecrackers, hoping they will appropriately accept a piece or two of gelt rather than beg for the whole bag or start climbing up the fire truck’s ladder. 

If it’s up to Elle, she’ll somehow activate the siren or drown every member of the gathered crowd with the hose.

You watch as the firefighters “sprinkle” gelt from the top of the fire truck, amused at the children’s antics.

Marc, Elle and Max find you several minutes later, proudly carrying a stash of chocolate goodness in the holiday bags provided.

“I foresee a trip to the dentist in their future,” Marc jokes, one arm slung around each of their small shoulders.

What a sight these three are. Such a gorgeous little group and so sweet, you can hardly stand it.

“Daddy, the firefighters said we could look at the truck, so can we please go back now?” Elle begs, wrigging free of his protective grip.

“Nooo, we gotta say thanks first,” Max dutifully pipes. 

The children thank you, leaving their father holding their hats, scarves and bags of candy.

He sheepishly chuckles, shifting all the items to one arm. “I thought it would be such a relief to get rid of the diaper bag when they got old enough,” he explains, “but I still end up holding all their stuff anyway.”

“They are so cute,” you can’t help but tell him. “And smart. You must be really proud of them.”

“I am,” he sincerely agrees. “They’re my whole world.”

Your heart melts as his fatherly gaze lingers on them a little longer, just to make sure they’re safe.

Finally, he tears his eyes away and meets your own, only for a moment, before flickering away. “Thank you again, so much, for this. My kids have been looking forward to it for days. They, uh…they couldn’t wait to see you again.”

“Me?” You ask, astonished and hesitant to admit you’d spent the last few days dwelling on thoughts of the three of them too. “I was so glad you guys could come out tonight. I was hoping you would.”

Marc blinks over at you, seeming surprised. Maybe even pleased. “You…have kids?” He flinches at his own question. Probably too personal. 

“Me? No. No, I…I would love to. But…not yet,” you somewhat vaguely answer. “Just haven’t found myself in that place…if that makes sense?”

Probably too much information to explain how your ex-fiance finally admitted he never wanted kids just a few months before your wedding…

“It makes sense,” he agrees. “You’re ready when you’re ready. And sometimes it happens before you’re ready.”

“Oh, I’m ready,” you accidentally blurt, immediately feeling your face warm at your overshare. “Sorry. I, um…it’s a long story.”

“It’s okay,” he sympathizes, feeling the slightest bit of warmth bloom inside him. You’re kind. So he tries. “It’s…nice…to talk to another grownup. My five and six year old are great company but…this is nice.” He swallows, a very serious wrinkle appearing between his dark eyebrows. You believe him, but the words almost seem difficult for him to express. 

“It’s nice for me too, really.” You grant him a genuine smile. “I guess I thought Max and Elle might be twins,” you add, glancing over to where the kids are climbing all over the fire truck.

“They may as well be,” he explains. “They’re twelve months apart. Elle is older - I’m sure you could tell that. And Max was an even bigger surprise than Elle. Love ‘em though. So glad I have ‘em.”

“They’re wonderful,” you gush, thrilled that he seems to have warmed to you some. “I think children are such a blessing.”

“They definitely think they are,” Marc jokes, the wrinkle between his eyebrows softening.

It doesn’t take the kids long to bound back over, bursting with news about how great the firetruck is.

You remind them of the free hot chocolate, but Elle informs you Marc is taking them to the Spaghetti Barn. The name sounds rustic or contradictory at best, but it’s actually a popular place.

“Daddy,” Max asks, blinking up at his father while pulling on the sleeve of his navy blue coat. “Can they come with us? To eat spaghetti in the barn?”

Marc’s eyes dart over to you apologetically. “Oh, um…”

You feel bad for putting him on the spot. And you do need to wrap up the event, despite the feeling inside you drawing you to this little family.

“Oh, it’s okay - “

“You’re more than welcome to - “ 

You and Marc speak at the same time, a bit flustered as four brown eyes and chubby cheeks peer up at the two of you expectantly. 

Elle is uncharacteristically quiet, but Max reaches for your hand. “You’ll please have spaghetti with us? It’s really good and they have bread too.”

Chewing on your lip, you bend over a little. “I think you guys might have some family time planned. I don’t want to intrude on that.”

“You’re not,” Elle finally chimes, sounding much older than her six years. “Daddy wants you to, right, Dad?”

Marc shifts from foot to foot, handing the kids back their piles of winter gear and candy. “You guys go thank the firefighters for me, okay? I’ll be right there.”

Elle seems to understand what’s happening - that she’s being sent away so the grownups can talk. Reluctantly, she helps her brother with his hat and drags him away. 

“I’m sorry - "

“Sorry about that - "

You both start again.

“Uh, you first,” you decide, your cheeks going warm for about the hundredth time since you met Marc.

“Look,” he starts, focusing in on you. His hands are free now and his eyes find yours once more. “I know you’re working right now, and…we’re strangers to you. It’s okay. You don’t have to say yes to my kids.”

“Oh…” you start to say, disappointment creeping into the center of your chest. 

“But,” he goes on, stepping closer to you, “We would love to have you join us, if you're free, and…if you want to.”

“Really?” You breathe, feeling a smile brighten your face. “I would absolutely love to.”

“Yeah?” He returns, smiling back at you. “Okay. Good.” He glances around, noticing a crowd gathering at the hot chocolate table. “Need some help here first?”

It takes you over a half hour to conclude the menorah lighting event and walk over to the Spaghetti Barn. Thankfully, Marc called ahead, so, despite the line going out the restaurant door, you only have to wait about ten minutes for your table for four.

As you eat and laugh and share with this little family, they burrow under your skin and seep into your heart, one laugh at a time. By the end of dinner, you realize you’re crazy about all three of them.

The thing is, you still have no idea if Marc is in a relationship, and, after Max mentions this Steven several more times, you wonder if he’s the other half of the team raising these kids. The name Jake also comes up again, but Marc changes the subject and never elaborates.

The only female name mentioned is Esperanza, but Elle is quick to clarify that she is their nanny.

At any rate, they seem like a wonderful family, so you invite them back to the plaza for another event. Only this one is a volunteer event, packaging toys and toiletries for children who need them. 

They both enthusiastically agree, but, as usual, nothing gets past Elle. “Will Hanukkah be over before then?” She turns to you. “I want you to come over and eat latkes with us.”

“Yeah, and play dreidel!” Max adds.

“Guys, calm down,” Marc mildly warns. “Let the grownups decide what our plans are, okay?”

You find yourself walking them to their car, waiting as Marc tucks them into the back seat before shutting the door.

“Sorry again about my very blunt children,” He chuckles, seeming more relaxed with you now.

“It’s okay, I really don’t mind,” you assure him. “I had such a great time tonight. It was so sweet of you to invite me along. And don’t worry about what they said, I understand. I don’t want to step on any toes at home. I hope I’ll see you guys at the next event.”

“You’re not, you know,” Marc assures you, boldly easing closer to you. “You’re not stepping on any toes. I promise.”

“Right, okay,” you whisper, swiping your tongue over your lips because you suddenly feel thirsty. “Just wasn’t sure who might be waiting for you at home.”

There. You said it. He would have to be an idiot to not recognize the blatant are you single? question you just posed. 

The corner of his mouth curls knowingly. His social reservations aside, he knows how to talk to a someone when he wants to. “It’s just the three of us. No one else.”

You swallow, nodding quickly. 

“I have to be honest though,” he smoothly intones, his smirk making his dark eyes twinkle. “I burn the damn latkes every time.”

You burst out laughing and he joins you, the corners of his eyes crinkling in merriment. 

“I’ll consider myself warned,” you tease back.

This leaves the two of you on the edge of…something. You’re not sure if you’ve actually been invited over to his home, and you can tell there’s something in him that’s closed off somehow. Maybe it’s this Steven? Or maybe it’s the mother of his children.

Whatever it is, he gives into it because the wrinkle between his eyebrows returns, he withdraws, and the two of you part ways without any plans to meet up further. 

☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ

Marc Spector is something else. He’s a beautiful man - that much is obvious. He’s rigid and there’s something stern in his countenance. But one look at those children and he shimmers.

You find yourself tossing and turning in bed, replaying your magical night together. The children’s eyes twinkling as they soaked in your attention, their little curls bouncing as they chattered away animatedly. 

The candlelight reflected in Marc’s matching eyes - the way the corners of his eyes would crinkle when his children made him laugh was stunning. The slight struggle as he attempted to be firm with them, but hesitated to speak to them with anything except gentleness. 

Whatever there is to know about this man, you want to discover it. You’ll get a chisel or a shovel and dig and excavate until you find the gems that assuredly lay buried inside.

But you’re getting ahead of yourself. You don’t even know who this Steven is…

Until, two days later, you do. 

☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ

Thankfully, you do see the kids at the next event only a couple nights later. But Marc isn’t with them.

Well, he is, but…he’s not Marc.

Max runs up and throws his arms around you before tugging insistently on your sleeve. “This is my dad Steven.”

“You’re not supposed to say it like that,” Elle huffs, holding onto…not Marc’s hand.

Max pouts for a moment, but their dad steps forward and extends his hand. “Not sure if Marc told you but…we’re a system. I’m Steven,” he announces in a lovely British accent. His brown eyes sparkle with warmth and openness. His dark eyebrows arch with curiosity and he shakes your hand with fervor. 

“It’s called DID,” Elle informs. “But we’re totally normal, right, Dad? And honest too.”

“Oh god, sorry,” Steven quickly apologizes, his long lashes kissing his cheeks as he blinks, flustered. “Em…it’s a pleasure to meet you. I know you’ve met our children.”

“Yes, I have,” you beam at the kids, a little confused, but thrilled to see them nonetheless. “Max and Elle helped light the shamash candle for the menorah. They did an awesome job.”

Max tugs on Steven’s gray jacket, his soft voice as sweet as a tinkling bell. “See, Daddy, I told you they’re so nice.”

“Thank you, Max,” you chuckle. You gaze into the eyes of this man whose face you think about all too often, but is completely new to you at the same time.  “Steven, it’s very nice to meet you. Your children are wonderful.”

“What do you two say to that, then?” He prompts, with an arm around each of their shoulders. 

“Thank you,” they dutifully chime.

Steven offers to get to work, helping box toys and toiletries for children in need. You help everyone get organized, promising to check back on them soon. Once you get a free moment, you meander back their way, noticing the stark differences in the way Marc and Steven hold themselves. 

Steven’s shoulders are a bit hunched and his clothes are…colorful. His gray coat covers a vibrant, patterned sweater and his scarf is another print entirely. You’ve only met Marc twice but he was all neat solids and neutrals, with styled, kempt hair. Steven’s curls carelessly tumble across his forehead, and you try not to stare as he continuously pushes them aside while leaning over to speak to his children. 

Where Marc hangs back and lets the kids take the lead, Steven jumps right in and the children gladly follow. His eyes scrunch with laughter as he entertains the kids, pantomiming some sort of story with the items about to be boxed.

You almost hesitate to approach them, content to observe how good he is with them, like Marc, but in a vastly different way. 

He’s apparently telling a story so riveting now, that several other children have paused their box-packing tasks to listen to him explain. You creep closer and hear him relaying something fascinating about ancient Egypt.

“Did the ancient Egyptians have Santa Claus?” One girl questions.

“They do now,” Steven answers her, “for those who celebrate - he’s called Baba Noel. But in ancient Egypt, there was a celebration for the birth or rebirth of the sun god…” He rambles on for another minute before he catches you watching. 

“Alright, back to work, you lot,” he pretends to scold, with a sly wink your way. “No hot chocolate for slackers.”

He catches you giggling and shrugs his shoulders, smiling sheepishly.

The event finishes up and everyone enjoys some piping hot chocolate. You’ve found it’s one of the cheapest freebies to give out at winter events. Max and Elle play for a few minutes with the other children and Steven makes his way to you.

“Wonderful event you’ve organized here,” he compliments, pulling his fidgeting hands to the center of his chest. 

“Thank you,” you beam, thrilled to have his attention. “This is a great turnout. Thanks so much for bringing Max and Elle to help.”

“Oh, couldn’t keep ‘em away even if I tried,” he confesses, gazing at you openly. “Don’t know if a day has passed where they didn’t talk about you…if you don’t mind my saying so.”

“Thank you for saying that. They’re so sweet.” You wonder if Marc talks about you too. You make a mental note to dive head first into DID research tonight. 

Speaking of which. “I’m sorry if em…well, if you were expecting Marc tonight,” Steven apologizes sincerely. “Can’t always tell who’s gonna be around. I hope it’s alright.”

Before you can answer, he barrels on. “Sorry if it’s strange, me not being him - "

“Steven, no, there’s no need to apologize for who you are.” You may not be an expert on DID but you’re not about to make anyone feel uncomfortable in their own skin. “To be honest, I was wondering about you.”

Steven holds your gaze, his eyes wide and unblinking. “About me?”

“Yes,” you smile sweetly at him. “Max kept mentioning your name. At first I thought you must be Marc’s partner.”

“His partn - oh,” Steven laughs and the sound of it makes your insides sing. “You mean like…”

“I wasn’t sure,” you supply, offering him an out from speculating aloud. “He also mentioned Jake? And your nanny Esperanza.”

“Yes,” he laughs, “Sounds like a full house when you say it like that. But it’s really just us and the kids.”

Your eyes travel over to where the children are playing. “They adore you. You’re so good with them.”

“I do try. Always wanted kids,” Steven replies, gazing at his little loves as if they are the wondrous treasures of Egypt in the story he was just telling the children. 

“Me too,” you find yourself mindlessly replying, your eyes regarding them longingly. 

Steven turns to you, seeing an opening. “You know…our daughter insists that you need to eat latkes with us. And our son thinks you can help him win the dreidel game.”

“They did mention it,” you slowly answer, wondering if this is an actual invite to their home.

He studies you closely, as if trying to gauge what you might think of him, or of his quasi-invitation. His gaze is warm and open. “I know it can be a lot. The way we are, I mean. We’re used to it, but it’s a bit different.” His eyebrows shift hopefully. “Would it be alright if I gave you my number? You could think about it and let me know. Sorry if that’s like too forward. I don’t mean - "

“No, Steven, it’s okay.” Immediately reaching for your phone, you unlock it. After you exchange numbers, he sends you a quick text.

'Hi, it’s me Steven, with a V - the bloke standing right in front of you.'

You giggle and text back, ‘Hi Steven with a V, I’m really glad I have your number.’

You feel like a teenager again. 

You and Steven text several more times through the night, after you’re home and reading multiple articles on DID. 

☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ

The next morning, you get a text from Marc.

‘Sorry I missed you last night. Steven says you might come over to watch me burn some latkes. - M’

Then a follow-up text, ‘We share a phone, so we sign our texts. Sorry, I understand if it’s a lot.’

Your heart somersaults, knowing that Marc is really inviting you over.

‘Please don’t apologize, I’m so glad you texted. I would love to come over if you’re sure it’s okay.’

You and Marc text all day long and you can hardly contain your excitement to see him and the kids. You feel so nervous to be entering their home, almost as if this is an audition of sorts. Drawing a deep breath, you relax and try to remember to be yourself. 

☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ

“It’s time, they’re here!” You hear the kids chanting through the other side of the door. You hear a shuffle, then a bossy, “Move!” followed by, “Come on, guys.” Finally, the door opens.

“Hi,” Marc greets you, wearing an apron with a vegan pun on it. You think it’s Marc anyway. His hair looks a little Steven-ish. Then again, you’ve only met Steven once and Marc twice. Your heart melts at the sight of flour on his cheek and the two little ones trying to break free of his grip and tackle you.

“Hey you guys,” you beam, bouncing a little on your toes.

“Uh, come on in,” Marc invites, dragging his littles a few steps back to give you some space. 

Marc releases the kids, warning them to take it easy on you. They leap into your open arms and you’re sure your heart might explode.

“Happy Hanukkah,” you warmly greet them.

“We were getting the lakkas ready,” Max whispers against your cheek, while Elle toys with your scarf. She forgets to correct him, happy to have some TLC for the moment.

Marc instructs the children to let you breathe. They unwillingly release you and that’s when you realize they are both wearing little matching aprons with their names embroidered on them. Max’s reads: ‘Max: chef in training’ and Elle’s says: ‘Head chef’. You compliment their attire before Marc sends them back to the kitchen so he can greet you properly.

“Sorry for the ambush. How are you?” His words are tinged with an air of uncertainty. As if he knows you shared a night with his family, but not him.

And now you’re in his home, frankly, at Steven’s invitation. He swallows - seems to be a habit of his, and the usual wrinkle appears between his stunning brown eyes.

A navy sweater shows off his broad shoulders and you lick your lips at the way he’s pushed his sleeves up to his elbows, revealing the musculature of his forearms.

“I’m good,” you finally answer him, pulling off your scarf and coat, hoping he hasn’t caught you staring. “Happy Hanukkah.”

“Thanks,” he nods at your attire, taking your winter gear from you to hang it up. “You look incredible.” 

“Oh, thanks - sorry, I - “ You glance down at your leftover work attire. You rushed to get here. Thankfully, you dress nicely for work, when you’re not donning elf garb, but… “I guess I’m a little overdressed.”

Maybe there is something guarded in Marc Spector, but he knows perfectly well how to respond to attraction. 

“Come on, I’ve got just the thing.” The corner of his mouth curls as he nods his head toward the kitchen. Following along behind him, you wet your lips at the sight of him from behind - the bits the apron does not cover. Mmm. 

In the kitchen, you find Elle waiting for you with a watermelon print apron. 

“We all have to wear them” she informs. Marc simply shrugs, pointing to her apron, as if indicating that she is indeed the head chef. 

The four of you get to work making the yummy potato pancakes. The kids want to wedge themselves on either side of you, but Marc’s not having it. In fact, he hovers rather close to you in an almost protective way. Maybe he’s worried his children might be overbearing or - if you could be so lucky - maybe he wants to be close to you.

He stands beside you at the countertop and tells the kids they can take turns on your other side. 

“I’m the one who invited them,” he argues. 

“Nah-uh, Steven did!” Max refutes.

“No, I did,” Elle corrects. “I asked first, so I should get to stand there.”

Marc bumps your shoulder and flashes you a grin. “Glad you came?”

You chuckle, trying to remember the last time this many people wanted your attention outside of work.

“I am,” you softly reply, reaching for a paper towel. “Here, let me just…” You wet your lips, hesitating before brushing the flour from his cheek.

The heat of his breath tickles your hand, prompting you to linger as his eyes find yours.

“We already chopped the onions so Daddy wouldn’t cry in front of you,” Elle pipes, gathering a bowl of chopped onions from the fridge. 

You and Marc quickly snap out of your brief trance.

“I think you mean we chopped them because you guys think they stink,” Marc wryly corrects, glancing at you. 

Max tugs on his father’s apron, his soft voice such a contrast to his sister’s. “Daddy, Jake chopped them, right? So we should say, ‘thank you Jake’ for chopping up the stinky onions that make Dad cry. Right?”

Marc chuckles, ruffling his son’s hair. “Yes. Thank you, Jake.”

Before he can try to explain, Elle’s already taking the lead, as she does. “Jake is our dad too. Like Steven. But when they’re not here we can just say their names. Right, Dad? But we call them Dad if they’re here.” She gets a silly idea in her head and starts to giggle. “Right, Marc? What if we call you Marc all night?”

Max, ever following after his sister, catches the giggles from her and chimes in, “Hello, Marc, is it time to make the lakkas, Marc?”

The children are snorting by now, but Marc narrows his eyes. “That’s it. You’re going in the blender, little girl, come here!”

She laughs out a, “Daddy, no!” as Marc scoops her up and spins her around in a circle. 

“That’s right, we’re going to blend you up instead of the potatoes and onions.” He winks at Max. “Should I turn the blender on high? Blend her up really good?”

“Yes, blend her on high!” Max chortles, jumping up and down as Marc spins his daughter faster.

Laughing hysterically, she begs him to stop. He doesn’t go too far before he sets her safely down, making sure she’s not too dizzy.

“Daddy, can I go in the blender?” Max pleads, bounding over to his father. 

“Not right now, bud,” Marc answers, hands on his knees as he leans down to the little one’s level. “Dad needs a breather and we have to get the real food into the food processor.”

Chuckling, he straightens up, finding your gaze - your beaming smile - just the essence of you has a gravitational pull and Marc finds himself behaving in ways he would normally only reserve for his children at home.

Which he is, but still…the warmth you radiate soothes him. As sure as he notices it, however, he clears his throat and takes a step back. 

“Sorry, we get a little silly when we cook.” Despite his fun, unguarded moment just now, he can’t find it in him to look away, holding your gaze steadily as he runs his hand over the sexy stubble on his chin.

You drag in a ragged breath, struggling to remember, for only a moment, that children are in the room with you. Somehow, this holiday season, you’ve managed to unearth a gem. You feel certain he’s wounded in some way - that he must see himself as damaged. The subtle body language as he reaches out with warmth and instantly withdraws. The pinch of worry between his eyes. The way his eyes darken and slide to the side when he shows vulnerability. 

Only, he can’t hide it around his children. They’re his tether. He must have some loss in his past - surely, these children had a mother, or a co-parent at some point. It’s possible Marc used a surrogate and they’ve always lived this way, but you can feel the hesitation: sense something brewing between the two of you, only with the slightest dark cloud hanging overhead.

Maybe it’s Steven, or Jake, but Steven seems wonderful, and Jake chopped the onions ahead of time for goodness’ sake.

The urge to soothe whatever raw nerve is left exposed, or comfort whatever tenderness might linger from long ago propels you forward, boldly fixing your eyes on his.

“Don’t be sorry. This is the most fun I’ve had in a long time.”

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Fortunately, the latkes don’t burn and the four of you sit down and enjoy them, sampling them with sour cream and applesauce. 

Max is over the moon to play dreidel and fortune smiles on him. He wins several rounds, but Marc limits the amount of gelt actually consumed. 

“You guys have had enough gelt and hot chocolate to last three Hanukkahs,” he warns. 

Soon enough it’s bedtime and Elle is already asking Marc if you can help tuck them in.

You immediately step in, not wanting to put their father in an awkward position with such an intimate request. It’s one thing to be invited over for food and games, but bedtime is a level you’re perfectly aware you haven’t reached yet.

“Actually, your dad can help you with that, because I’m on dish duty,” you decidedly inform. “But I’ll take a goodnight hug, if you’re up for it.”

Elle seems a little pouty but hugs you anyway, and Max seems thrilled with the way the night has gone. 

Marc sends them on ahead, lingering to speak with you. “Don’t worry about the dishes, I’ll do them in the morning. Just give me a few minutes…okay?”

“It’s okay, I got it,” you smile warmly at him. “Take your time.”

Several minutes later, you’ve loaded the dishwasher and are searching for the dish soap when Marc makes it back from the kids’ bedroom.

“Thank you for this,” he tells you, finishing up the task and powering on the machine. 

Feeling as if you’ve sampled a slice of his domestic life - washing his dishes, searching under the sink for detergent, noticing brands of cleaners and a plant watering pot - his reentry into the kitchen makes you prickle with anticipation. 

“You’re so welcome, thank you for inviting me.” Your eyes dip as you attempt to not gush too much. “I haven’t done anything like this in forever. Not outside work anyway.”

Marc folds his arms over his chest, leaning his weight against the countertop as he regards you with interest. There are secrets behind those deep, eternal eyes. You want to know every one of them.

“Well, I couldn’t tell - you’re a natural,” Marc compliments, hitching his thumb toward the coffee maker. “Want some? Or tea? Or something stronger?” His eyebrows shoot up teasingly.

Your insides warm as you realize he’s inviting you to stay longer - just the two of you. Possibility blooms within your chest as you consider having his undivided attention. 

You opt for tea and Marc offhandedly comments that Steven is actually the tea expert, Brit that he is. And this somehow feels important to you that Marc speaks about his alter so freely with you.

He seems relaxed now, which soothes you. Admittedly, you wondered if he would button up once the children were no longer influencing the atmosphere. 

You and Marc settle onto the couch - he’s nursing a beer and you have ginger peppermint tea with a spoonful of honey. Marc puts The Cure on the record player, but keeps the volume low. “This okay?” He sweetly asks, alluringly volleying between his clear ability to talk to someone he's interested in, and his more somber nature. 

“Mm-hmm, thanks for asking me to stay.” You watch as he cozies into the couch’s corner, navy sweater fitting him perfectly, complementing dark gray pants. He seems peaceful in his domain.

Time to be bold. “I was hoping you would…ask me to stay.” You slide a little closer to him, really needing to…connect to him somehow - just the two of you.

Your eyes meet, but it seems he wants to clear the air. He shifts in his seat, wetting his lips as if concentrating on how this all needs to go. 

“So, uhm, Steven told me about the charity event,” he says slowly, glancing away. “He said Elle was…pretty blunt about…well, us.”

You can tell this is the elephant in the room, at least to Marc. The familiar wrinkle appears between his eyes, he chews the corner of his lip and reaches for his beer bottle, chugging down a bit more.

“I think Elle tells the truth and that’s a remarkable quality,” you diplomatically answer.

Taking another drink, he nods as if he’s made up his mind about something. “I’m not like them. Steven, or Elle. Max, even. I’m still…I just don’t…”

“Hey, it’s okay,” you let him know. “You don’t owe me some sort of explanation. I just want to get to know you…if you want.”

The confession rushes out of you and you suddenly wish you had a cold drink instead of a warm one. Is it too soon to wish you were climbing across his lap to seal your mouth to his?

Staring at the floor for a moment, you see his leg bouncing and wonder if you’ve made him feel uncomfortable in his own home.

“You know, this isn’t how I saw our first…night together going,” he carefully admits. “Sometimes my kids don’t understand that they don’t have to do everything I do, all day every day.”

You nod understandingly. “What did you see then? For our first…whatever this is?” You peek over your teacup, longing brewing inside you.

“I don’t know - dinner, maybe?” He takes his final swig of beer and sets his bottle down on the end table beside him. Running his hand over this stubble on his chin, he gestures animatedly between the two of you “I wanted to ask you out for real, just us.”

“Willing and able,” you tease, giving him a mock salute. “Just say the word.” Ugh, why are you such a dork…

Marc regards you with interest, his dark eyebrows shifting as he studies you. Leaning toward you, he rests his elbows on his knees. “I’m not always good at this. Kids broke the ice, I think.”

The mention of those little firecrackers lights up your countenance. 

“I’m glad they did, Marc.” If he’s trying to gauge your interest, you want to make it perfectly clear that he is definitely your cup of tea. “Or we wouldn’t be here…would we?”

He inches closer. “Haven’t done this in a long time,” he offers an apologetic shrug.

Setting your tea down on the table in front of the couch, you slide closer to him. “You mean, had someone meet the kids?”

One finger carefully reaches out to brush your wrist. “I mean…a date. At all.” 

By now your shoulders are touching, side-by-side on the couch, with your bodies angled toward one another’s, leaning in. Warmth seeps from his navy sweater through your work shirt to your arm.

“Me either,” you confess, clearing your throat. “I’m pretty rusty.”

“You’re serious,” he scoffs, almost playfully nudging your shoulder with his. “You?”

“Yeah, me,” you confirm, nudging him right back. 

The finger bold enough to trace over your wrist pauses. Dark eyebrows shift curiously. Then all his fingers wrap around your wrist - the small motion seeming to envelop and warm your entire being.

“We need some practice then,” he decides, almost nonchalantly, his gaze falling to your mouth. His gaze lingers there indulgently before his impossibly long lashes blink and his warm brown eyes find yours again. “Maybe this weekend? No kids allowed.”

The corner of his mouth curls temptingly.

How far gone is it possible to be before a first date?

*ೃ༄ The end?

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Thank you to the moots who listened to me whine about this storyyyy ILY

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Another great series!! Check it out!

Plot Twist || Reader x Moonboys

Moon Knight AU

Word Count: Around 1.3k

Summary: in which your boss sends you to keep an eye on a possible avengers recruit. You’re tasked with following him, figuring out who he is, and if he’s good enough for the team. That’s it. But it’s never that simple.

Warnings: None (I don’t think?) it’s really just a story full of fluff.

MARC SLOWLY WALKED out of your bedroom. He was nervously fiddling with the t-shirt that you had given him. His heart was pounding and he felt like he was going to have a panic attack, but he tried breathing through it. He knew he could do this - and he wanted to.

"There you are." You said sweetly as your eyes landed on the man.

"Here I am. ." He responded, scratching the back of his neck.

"Steven asked if he should be worried that you have men's clothes here." He said lightheartedly.

You laughed as you cooked, elegantly moving around the small kitchen. You set her spatula down and looked to the man.

"Is he. . Jealous?" You raised an eyebrow teasingly.

"Little bit." Marc felt the tension slowly leaving his body as you fell into comfortable banter.

"I assure you that Steven - and you - have nothing to worry about. I stole them from an old friend of mine back home." You said as your cheeks turned pink.

"Sorry, I don't mean to insinuate that you like me or have to like me. I was just -" You began to ramble as you tried to fix your mistake.

Marc smiled softly and closed the gap between the two of you, standing in front of your short person. He raised his hand hesitantly before wrapping it around yours.

"No, no. . I understand what you were saying." He assured you.

Your skin burned at his touch, in the best way possible. Steven was so lighthearted and silly, while Marc was mysterious and dark. It drove you crazy. You wanted to know everything about him.

"Well. . Good. Take a seat and I'll serve you." You told him, shooing him towards the table.

He happily obliged and took a seat, adjusting the sweatpants that hung on his hips. You set a plate in front of him consisting of a small stack of pancakes and waffles. You set syrup in the middle of the table before grabbing yourself a plate and sitting opposite of the man.

"I wasn't sure what you guys liked so I just made both." You said referring to the breakfast items, a nervous glint in your eyes.

"I'm good with anything. Steven prefers pancakes." He chuckled as he dug in.

"I'll keep that noted." You said as you tapped your head.

The two of you fell into a few minutes of comfortable silence before you decided to request something from him.

"So, Marc. Just like I asked Steven to, tell me about yourself."

"I - uh. There's really not much to tell." He told you.

You studied his reaction and saw the nervousness and uncomfortable look he suddenly held. You would have to take it much slower with Marc, you realized. He wasn't an open book like Steven.

"Let's start simple. Tell me this, what's your favorite movie? Because I already know how much Steven loves The Mummy."

☽ ♞ ☾

Marc was sat on the couch, waiting for you to find a particular blanket you were looking for. He watched you with humor in his eyes as you scurried around the apartment, looking for the item.

After a few minutes, you returned to the living room, wrapped up in a large fluffy blanket. You took a seat near the man and glanced at him.

"Sorry, I tend to misplace things." You giggled as you grabbed the remote and pressed play on the movie.

The two sat near one another, your knees almost touching. Marc glanced to you and back to the tv, contemplating what to do. Should he hold you? Or should he just stay where he was? He didn't want to make you uncomfortable.

"You can lay with me. . If you want?" You broke his train of thought. It was as if you could read his mind.

He looked over to you, to see you holding your arms open towards him. Without hesitation, he dove into your arms and laid his head on your chest. You giggled at his eagerness and wrapped your arms around him.

"I'm sorry. . You just don't know how long I've waited for this." He admitted in just barely a whisper.

"Really?" You asked with surprise.

He nodded his head in reply, resting his palm against your stomach. You bit at your lip before reaching up and running your fingers through his wild curls - causing him to let out a sigh of content.

You didn't press further and adjusted the blanket so it was covering the both of you. Your focus became engrossed in the movie and that's how you two spent their day off.

☽ ♞ ☾

You were stood at the museum gift shop, a clipboard in your hands as you examined the items for purchase. You had to keep rereading the words on the paper - as your mind was completely distracted with thoughts of Marc and Steven.

Your heart fluttered at the mere thought of the men, a smile always finding a way to your lips when thinking of them. You had come to the realization that you were inevitably falling in love. You knew you shouldn't be and you knew you should feel guilty - in a way you did. Would you ever be able to tell the boys the real reason you came into their lives? They would probably hate you.

That thought made your stomach drop. Should you just tell them now instead of pushing it off? You didn't know what to do. It was another instance of when Natasha would come to your rescue. But that was no more. And you certainly weren't going to ask Peter, the 15 year old, about it. You were on your own and it was nerve wracking.

"Love." The familiar sweet British accent rang in your ears, pulling you back to reality.

You spun on your heels, now facing an adorable Steven. His lips were broken into his toothy smile and all you wanted to do was plant kisses along his face. But you refrained - hardly.

"Hey, you." You beamed as you set your clipboard down and stepped towards him, gently tugging him closer by his jacket.

His curls were wild and unruly - and you loved them that way. His eyes carried bags underneath, alerting you to his lack of sleep. A frown immediately replaced your grin.

"You didn't sleep did you?" You asked him, your voice filled with worry.

You hadn't seen him in a day or two - ever since you met Marc for the first time. He had been busy with work and what you assumed was Moon Knight business.

"I uh. . no." He admitted, a frown now on his face.

"Well. . I guess you know what that means?" You tilted your head slightly as you asked him. He shook his head no and gave you a confused look.

"It means you have to sleep with me tonight." You told him, a smile popping back onto your lips.

Steven's eyes widened at your words. He knew what you meant, but he couldn't help but think about the other thing. He blushed deeply before smiling at you.

"That is very much needed." He told you, an eager look in his eyes.

"Marc says it's just what he needs." He added on with an eye roll, making you laugh.

"Tell Marc, there's enough of me for both of you this evening." You sent him a wink, knowing it would make the man blush even more.

"I uh -"

"Bye, love." You turned and grabbed your clipboard, walking away from the awestruck Steven.

He was stood stuck in his spot, his eyes wide with adoration and lust as he watched you walk away. Marc was rattling around inside his head, demanding him to go after you. Marc wanted to continue that conversation.

"No, no. I have work to do." Steven took a deep breath as he calmed himself, still watching your retreating figure.

"We gotta keep ourselves in control." He muttered to his alter before trudging towards the cash register.

☽ ♞ ☾

thank you for the feedback on the first 2 parts, i really appreciate it <3

okay so, these are the options i have so far. i'd really like to make the last part of this mini-series with content that y'all would like. If you'd like to see other stuff, pls comment them or send them through requests if you want to do so anonymously :)

these options include angst, fluff & smut.

minors/ageless blogs dni

INFINITELY YOU

part two // crullers & constants

SUMMARY - In every universe, Peter Parker seems destined to fall in love with you. And, in every universe, he realizes it too late. When universes collide and two of them are granted a second chance at rectifying their biggest mistake, neither of them are willing to let the opportunity go to waste–even if you end up not being the person they thought you were.

WARNINGS - 18+, story will contain mentions of blood, broken bones, weapons, suggestive language, and more. I will try to update warnings accordingly for each chapter, but please read at your own discretion

WORD COUNT - 4.2k

// masterlist // series masterlist // send me your thoughts // no way home fan fiction // rewrite

name key: tom!peter = peter // andrew!peter = parker

Peter Pan Donuts is a sacred place. 

Or, rather, it was a sacred place—and walking back into the shop now felt awfully strange. 

Back when you and Peter first started high school, it had become a tradition to end every Friday with one of the renowned pastry shop’s legendary frosted crullers. You considered it a well-deserved reward for surviving another week of more drama than either of you could stomach, thankful that the weekend was finally upon you and that you could finally breathe without inhaling the reek of the unwashed teenage boys that lined the halls of Midtown. 

Peter Pan’s quickly became a haven. A safe place where the two of you could tuck yourselves away at the end of the bar, talking for hours about the teachers you hated and the bullies you hoped would fall from the face of the Earth. There was nothing that you couldn’t talk about, no secrets kept between you and Peter. 

Or, at least, none that mattered. 

But things changed as time passed, as they so often do. 

It started with the inclusion of Ned. You didn’t particularly mind his presence, even if the conversations had begun to shift towards less intimate topics, focusing instead on movies that you all wanted to see or upcoming video games that you would all try to play. 

Then came the inclusion of Mj a few months later, after she landed a job at the shop. That was when everything truly changed—when it was no longer you and Peter tucked away at the bar, but you and Ned, left to pick at your food and watch as Peter leaned across the front counter and talked to Mj over her shift. 

After a few months of testing every donut on the menu with Ned, you stopped going altogether. 

And Peter never even asked why. 

“I was surprised to see you texted me,” you quip as you slid onto the free barstool, “what happened to not wanting me to get involved?” 

Peter exhales sharply through his nose, and even though his eyes are glued to his phone, you can tell that he was already regretting asking you to meet him here. “I already told you that what I want doesn’t matter.” 

And how true that must have been. 

There had been nothing kind about his text to you this morning, although there was nothing inherently rude about it either, you supposed. It was simple—meet me at Peter Pan’s asap, need 2 talk—but you could almost sense the begrudging nature with which he had typed it. And, sitting next to him now, you could almost feel it, too. 

He didn’t want you here, even if he had been the one to invite you, and you couldn’t help but wonder why he had decided to involve you at all—especially so soon. What had changed in a single night? 

Sitting on the barstool to your left, Parker pops his lips. “Well this is fun. I’m not at all uncomfortable right now.” 

You turned towards him, acknowledging just how different he looked in the civilian clothes that he donned in place of his suit—black jeans that certainly looked worse for wear and an old Ramone’s t-shirt that you immediately recognized as yours. Oversized on you, the short sleeves clung rather tightly to his well-muscled arms. Did he seriously go through your stuff?! 

 “Why are you even here?” You ask, perhaps a little sharper than necessary. You weren’t angry that he had gone sifting through the armoire in the spare bedroom, especially since he couldn’t just parade around as Spider-Man all of the time. But he could’ve at least asked. “Shouldn’t one of you be busy patrolling?” 

It was hard to tell if the offense on his face was real or feigned, but you didn’t care much either way. “Peter wanted answers about my world, I wanted food,” he shrugs, gesturing at the crème-filled donut in front of him. “And Peter 2’s handling patrol.” 

Peter 2—you had almost forgotten about him, the version of Peter that hadn’t wanted to come with Ned and Mj to your apartment last night. As far as you could tell when you woke up this morning, he hadn’t shown up in the middle of the night, either—no trace of Parker or anyone else when you had finally stumbled out of your room to get ready after reading the text from Peter. 

You didn’t figure it was really your business where the mystery Peter was, but you were a little surprised to hear that he was still out patrolling. Was he not exhausted?  

“Ametaur move getting crème-filled,” you tell him, ignoring everything he said. “Should’ve gone with the frosted vanilla cruller, it’s way better.” 

“No way,” he gapes, grabbing the half-eaten pastry and shaking it for emphasis as he said, “this is god-tier, alright? No way anything’s topping it.” 

The expression on his face was actually hilarious, his brown doe eyes alight with pure euphoria as he took another bite of the donut. An exaggerated moan slipped his lips, coated with bits of sugar and crème. It was hard not to laugh at him, especially when you knew that was probably his goal—to combat the evident tension between you and Peter. 

Chuckling, you lift your hands in mock defense. “Suit yourself, Parker. But if you ever wanna experience true pleasure, then you know what to order.” 

Parker looks as if he's about to continue his borderline-lustful tangent about the donut, but Peter spoke up instead, his attention snagging on the name you used. 

“Parker?” He echoes in disbelief, letting his phone clatter against the bar. 

Peter’s sudden resurgence to the real world left Parker silent, sinking back against his stool and taking another bite. 

“What?” Your brow arches, your voice laced with incredulity. “Did you really think I’d keep calling him Peter 2? No offense to Ned, but everything about that feels stupid.” 

Peter’s eyes narrow, coupled with a subtle shake of his head that indicates he doesn't care nearly enough to have this conversation right now. 

You didn’t care much either, and so you steered the conversation in a more productive direction. “So what is this grand plan of yours?” You ask with a somewhat sarcastic lilt. “And where do I fit into it?” 

Another huff of breath escaped his nostrils. “We don’t even have a plan. Not yet,” he reluctantly admits. “But I tried talking to Doctor Strange last night, to see if he had some sort of magical spell or something that would let us go back and fix all of this.” 

Your lips press together, nibbling on the skin and pretending you didn’t notice the hidden meaning behind his words. He hadn’t just gone to Doctor Strange to find a way to get rid of the villains now lurking in your world, because if he had, then he wouldn’t have gone specifically seeking out a spell that would let him go back—not just to stop the villains from ever coming here, but to save May, too. 

“Did he?” 

Peter reached for his cup of iced coffee, if only to occupy his now-fidgeting fingers. “No,” he murmurs, the sound of sloshing ice nearly overpowering him as he swirled the cup. “He didn’t.” 

You frown at the tinge of disappointment that snuck through his otherwise even tone, your chest aching. You had to fight against the urge to say I’m sorry, remembering what he had said to you last night—he didn’t want your apologies, nor did he seem to want anyone else's. 

In truth, you weren’t sure what Peter wanted; or what you could do to help him. 

“Well did he have anything useful?” 

He shook his head, lifting the cup to his mouth. “Define useful,” he scoffed, sounding uncharacteristically sharp. He took a sip of his drink, his nose scrunching as soon as the coffee hit his tongue—too bitter. 

Despite the coffee’s pale color that indicated it was more cream than coffee, you weren’t surprised that it was still too strong for him. Peter had never truly developed a taste for coffee, only pursuing a caffeine addiction for the sake of combating the exhaustion that came with being Spider-Man. That didn’t mean he had ever grown to like it though, masking the taste with copious amounts of sugar and syrups. 

“Something that will keep multiversal villains from tearing our world apart?” You venture half-heartedly, guided by pure instinct and muscle memory as you reached over to take his cup from him, snagging a few packs of sugar from the plastic canister on the bar to0. 

“He has a theory,” Peter gives you a tight-lipped smile, born of pure frustration. 

“A theory? And he expects us to save the world with this theory?” You ask, a bit more derisive than you would have been if Doctor Strange were around to hear. 

Peter scoots closer to you, his voice purposefully low. “Do you remember when I told you about him using the Time Stone before Mr. Stark died? To look through all the different outcomes with Thanos?” 

Ripping open the sugar packets and dumping them in his cup, you managed to mask a wince at the mention of Peter’s dead mentor. You only nodded, not trusting your voice to stay steady if you tried for any sort of verbal affirmation. 

“Well… when he did that, he thinks that he might have actually seen through the multiverse—he just didn’t know for sure at the time.” 

Your forehead creased as you popped the lid back onto his cup, sliding it back towards him. Given his advantage of Spidey-sense, he easily caught it before it could slide too far and end up on the floor—which is what would have definitely happened pre-Spider bite. 

“And you don’t consider that to be useful to our current situation?” 

“No. I don’t.” Peter answers firmly. “Because at the center of it all—in every universe the Stone showed him—all he saw was you.” 

You nearly laugh, your lips curving as you rose a brow at him. “Me?” 

Peter gave a nod as he took another sip of his drink. This time, his nose didn’t scrunch. 

“But it’s been almost a year since the Avengers took down Thanos,” you reminded him, your stunned amusement beginning to fade into confusion. “If he saw.. Me, when he used the Stone, then why didn’t he say anything until now?” 

By no means would you consider yourself to be close with New York’s resident Sorcerer, and so you wouldn’t have expected him to come to you with this knowledge. But Peter—he knew Peter, and he knew that you were Peter’s best friend, and so it didn’t make any sense to you why Doctor Strange chose to wait until now to mention what the Stone had shown him. 

Given the aggravated expression Peter wore, it was clear that he was thinking the same. “I don’t know, and trying to get answers out of Doctor Strange that he clearly doesn’t want to give is like pulling teeth.” 

“But what does that mean?” You couldn’t stop yourself from pressing further, concern starting to bubble up inside of you. Regardless of his answer—if he had one—you had a feeling you wouldn’t like it. “I don’t get how I’m at the center of every universe.” 

Peter blew out a breath, his fingers going back to tapping against the sides of his plastic cup. “Alright, so there are probably well-over a hundred thousand different parallel universes, okay? Some of them are probably super similar to ours, and then there are others that are the complete opposite.” 

“O-kay,” you drone, your brows drawing together. You felt the start of a headache coming on as you prepared yourself for the confusing science-talk that was surely about to start pouring out of his mouth. 

Perhaps noticing your pained expression, Peter tries to find a way to simplify whatever explanation he was about to use. “Try and look at it like this,” he started, “think of the multiverse as some giant, cosmic loom, alright? Now imagine that each thread on the loom signifies a person. As the loom weaves all of these different threads together, different decisions get made and different actions are taken—and with every choice, a new thread is spun, branching off and creating a variation of the original tapestry.” 

“So it’s like you and Parker, right?” You interrupt him, rubbing at your temples. “Same thread, different reality?” 

“Exactly! And, technically speaking, that’s how it’s supposed to be. As the loom weaves and alters reality, each thread continuously evolves into something different.” He paused, his fingers finally falling still. “But now imagine that—in the center of all of these branching tapestries—there exists one thread, entirely unbroken and unaltered by this ever-weaving tapestry of existence, okay? A glitch in the cosmic fabric, a constant that’s woven into infinite realities and yet, somehow, remains fundamentally unchanged. How does that work?” 

You couldn’t ignore the sense of dread creeping up your spine, nor could you escape the slight wobble in your voice as you said, “It doesn’t sound like it should.” 

“You’re right, it shouldn’t work.” Peter confirmed, his expression nearly impossible to read. “But according to Doctor Strange, you are that thread. A constant anomaly that defies every potential law of the multiverse.” 

Nausea bubbled in your gut. God, you did not want to deal with this right now! 

“And let me guess,” a bitter laugh follows your words, “that’s as much information as he was willing to give, wasn’t it?” 

“Yep,” Peter pops his lips, leaning back into his stool. His brows raise slightly in a silent I told you so before he says, “Hey, you’re the one that wanted to be involved, right? Now you’re at the center of everything-” 

“I said I wanted to help you,” you correct him sharply. “Not that I wanted to be at the center of Doctor Strange’s weird Time Stones fantasies!” 

He only shrugs, barely acknowledging the dirty look you gave him as he plucks his phone off of the counter, clicking on a notification. “Same thing, isn’t it? Either way, you get what you want.” 

“What I want?” You echoed, your mouth hung open in disbelief. 

“Doctor Strange seems to think that whatever is wrong with you might help us solve all of this. That you might be connected to the multiverse somehow, or that you’re at least immune to it. So yeah, you get what you want. You get to help,” he spat the word out like an insult, too focused on typing something to even notice how rude he sounded. 

If it weren’t for the feeling that stomach acid was about to come crawling up your throat, then you might have taken some time to unpack the bitterness in his tone or be hurt by the claim that something was wrong with you—but you didn’t. Even if you had, you weren’t sure that it would have gotten you anywhere. 

You weren’t stupid. Peter was wielding his insolence like a shield, purposefully trying to hurt you as an effort to keep you at arms length—and, if you had to guess, Mj and Ned were probably receiving the same treatment right now. 

“Well this isn’t exactly what I had in mind when I said I wanted to help,” you admitted, one hand going to rest against your cramping stomach. At least the throbbing in your temples had died down… 

Peter only shrugged at you, shoving his phone in his back pocket and rising to his feet. “Too bad,” he told you, offering a smile that most definitely wasn’t genuine. “I’ve gotta go, but make him walk you home, alright? I’ll text you if I hear anything else from Doctor Strange.” 

Parker frowned beside you, and whether it was because Peter was speaking about him like he wasn’t here or because of his attitude in general, you couldn’t tell. 

“Whoa, hold up! You didn’t even tell me what your plan is until you hear from him!” You argue, reaching for his wrist to keep him from walking past you until he answered. 

He pulls his hand back from your grip, but not before your stare snags on the reddish hue that stains his nails—blood. Noticing it only served to make you feel sicker, and to make your concern for Peter grow larger. Was he really still walking around with May’s blood caked under his nails? Has he rested at all since last night? 

“Same plan as always,” he told you, your eyes snapping up to meet his, suddenly noticing how rimmed with exhaustion they were. “Stop the bad guys.” 

He didn’t leave any time for protests or further questions before turning his back to you and heading straight for the exit. When the little bell on the door chimed as he shoved his way back out onto the streets, you couldn’t stop the worried sigh that escaped your lips. 

Peter was an Avenger by every right. He had battled alongside a Norse God and helped take down a literal Titan, and so knew that you shouldn’t have any reason to doubt his capability when it came to taking down whatever villains had crossed into your world. 

But it wasn’t that you doubted his ability to survive against them, or even his ability to stop them—you were worried about whether he could handle the weight of it all. 

The weight of him placing yet another thing on his shoulders. Another villain, another fight, another burden, another chance to lose someone. 

Thinking of that, it suddenly dawned on you that maybe Mj and Ned weren’t getting the same treatment as you. Maybe you were getting the worst of it, if only because now whatever connection you had to the multiverse was just another weight he thought he had to bear, another person he had to worry about protecting. 

Guilt flooded your veins, and even as you tried to remind yourself that you hadn’t caused this, you still couldn’t shake the anxious feeling that it was somehow your fault anyway. 

“Y’know, I get that this probably isn’t the right time for this,” Parker starts. When you look at him, your attention immediately snags on the dozen donuts that he had ordered while you were talking to Peter. “But I think it’s so cool that you guys have magic in your world!” 

He takes another bite of the donut in his hand, powdered sugar falling from his lips as he says, “And these donuts! It’s a tough call, but they might be even better than magic!” 

You didn’t know him well enough to be able to tell if he was intentionally trying to lighten the mood or if it was just incidental, but it worked all the same. Laughter poured from your mouth, and it wasn’t until it died down that he said anything else. 

“Sooo… That was tense, wasn’t it? Like, it wasn’t just me, right?” 

You groan, propping your elbows against the counter and placing your cheeks in your palms. “Was it that noticeable?” 

Parker snorts a laugh, stretching an arm past you to reach for Peter’s abandoned coffee. “Oh, yeah. It’s actually painful to be in a room with you two.” 

His playful tone made it clear that it was just a joke, but it still made you feel bad. You already didn’t like how hostile things felt between you and Peter, even if it was only one-sided, and to know that others felt it too just made it that much worse. 

“Things are just.. Difficult, right now.” You tell him, choosing your words carefully. 

“So it hasn’t always been like that with you guys?” He asks, and the delicate arch of his brow made it seem as though he were shocked by the possibility that things had ever been civil between you and Peter. 

There was a chance that you had misread his expression though, as it was very quickly wiped away once he took a sip of Peter’s half-drank coffee, gagging as soon as it hit his tongue. “Holy shi-” he started coughing, cutting off the vulgarities that threatened to spill out. “How does he drink this?!” Parker yelped as soon as he could take a full breath, looking utterly disgusted as he shoved the cup back across the bar. “It’s literally just liquid sugar!” 

You found it hard to stifle your amusement at his suffering, even as he shot you a teasing scowl for it. “No,” you answer his previous question, trying to ignore his melodramatic display, “believe it or not, things between us actually used to be really… I don’t know—easy, I guess.” 

Parker was still smacking his lips to try and rid himself of the cloying aftertaste. “What changed?” 

In retrospect, you realized that it probably would have been smarter for you to bite your tongue. To offer him some cheap, cop-out excuse rather than tell him the truth. After all, you already had experience in hiding from the truth and it wasn’t like you really knew Parker, and so lying to him shouldn’t have been a hard task. 

Yet, for some reason, you told him the truth anyway. 

“Mj happened.” 

Parker’s brows furrows. “The girl from last night, right?” 

“Yep. That’s the one.” 

“Y’know, I don’t really like her all that much,” his words were spoken like a balm, seeking to ease the dejected look etched upon your face, but tinged with enough playful sarcasm for you to know he didn’t actually mean them. “She threw a bread roll at me. A few of them, actually.” 

It was hard not to laugh at the thought considering that it was such an Mj thing to do. “Sounds about right,” you crack a smile, although you don't feel particularly happy. “She’s always been slow to trust, especially complete strangers.” 

In an odd sort of way, the statement felt like a lie. Not because it actually wasn’t true—because Mj was wary of strangers—but because Parker didn’t quite feel like a stranger in your mind. While last night had been a bit awkward, you now felt like talking to him was effortless, each sentence rolling off your tongue with unnatural ease. 

“But she trusts you?” Parker asks, picking a crumb off another one of the pastries and popping it into his mouth. 

You sucked in a breath. 

“I don’t know,” you answer him, with a bit more honesty than you're comfortable with. “I mean, I know that she used to trust me. But now… I’m not even sure if she likes me anymore.” 

His brow snapped up. “What changed?” 

Suddenly the truth no longer felt so easy, and you found yourself wishing that you could change the subject altogether. You didn’t want to talk about this—especially not with him, some boy that you had known for less than twenty-four hours. 

But you had backed yourself into a corner, and so in an effort to try and satiate whatever interest he had developed in the story you had told, you settled on offering a vague half-truth. 

“She started dating Peter,” you tell him simply, putting effort into looking disinterested. “They got together a few months ago and things just… It just got weird, y’know? It’s always awkward when two of your friends get together, I guess. Creates too much drama.” 

“Yeah, for sure,” Parker hums, agreeing with you. “Especially when you have feelings for him, right?” 

An incomprehensible noise escaped your throat, best categorized as something between a laugh and a cough. Your mouth fell open to try and defend yourself, to try and deny his claim—but he didn’t even give you a chance. 

“Oh c’mon!” Parker groans, grinning when he notices the now rosy complexion of your cheeks. “Did you really think I wouldn’t notice? I mean, let’s be real here, alright? That whole sugar thing earlier?” He jutted a finger towards Peter’s abandoned iced coffee, “Was a dead giveaway.” 

“You’re insane,” You declare, shaking your head and masking your embarrassment with uncomfortable laughter. “I don’t have feelings for Peter—and even if I did, it wouldn’t matter! Regardless of what it’s done to our friendship, Mj is literally perfect for him and-” 

“I think it’s cute,” he interrupts, a delicate smile gracing his lips. Noticing the way your brows furrow, he elaborated, “How much you care about him. And how much you care about her, too, since you’re so willing to pretend like you don’t like him.” 

“I’m not pretending-” 

Parker jokingly cut his eyes. “Yeah, sureee.” 

Blowing a frustrated breath, you push yourself up from the barstool. “Alright, I think it’s time to go home.” You tell him, far too flustered to try and come up with a good defense to his teasing. “You can take the rest of your donuts to go, Bug-boy.” 

There was a subtle shift in his demeanor as the taunting nickname fell from your lips, and he almost felt as though his heart had stopped dead in his chest. 

“Fine,” Parker yields, rising to his feet and snagging the box of donuts from the bar. “But I really hope that you have your wallet—cause I definitely don’t have a way to pay for these.” He flashed a crooked smile before continuing, “Or we can just run really fast and hope they don’t call the police on us for stealing pastries.” 

“I can’t imagine that robbery would be very good for your reputation as a hero,” you chide sarcastically, your own lips curling into a half-smile, “so I’ll pay—but only if you give me every cruller in that box. Deal?” 

Parker spares a quick glance down at the dozen box of donuts in his hands. Half of them were already gone, but through the small cellophane window he could see that there were three frosted crullers left. “Deal.”

series masterlist

a/n - for those who read IY before the rewrite, you may already be able to note some rather major changes going on lmao. i genuinely can't describe how much i actually enjoy rewriting this story, as i'm finally able to collect my thoughts enough to write the plot the way i originally wanted to.

as always, please leave any feedback, opinions, etc.! any and all comments/reblogs definitely encourage me to write/edit faster! and, if you'd like to be added to the tag list, just let me know!

part three, titled "spitfire", to be released april 15th

I love Britain 🇬🇧

Harry and Andrew Garfield at the Valentino show in Paris - 29/09