✨ EVAN PETERS ICONS/HEADERS ✨

𝐋𝐎𝐕𝐄 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐃𝐄𝐄𝐏𝐒𝐏𝐀𝐂𝐄 ⋯ 𝐖𝐇𝐄𝐍 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐖𝐀𝐍𝐓 𝐂𝐔𝐃𝐃𝐋𝐄𝐒

𝐗𝐀𝐕𝐈𝐄𝐑

Xavier lies on the couch, eyes closed, chest rising and falling in a steady rhythm. His hoodie is slightly rumpled, one arm dangling off the edge of the cushions.

You approach quietly, drawn by an irresistible urge to feel his warmth. Without hesitation, you slide into the space beside him, immediately seeking the comfort only he can provide.

Xavier stirs, his eyes fluttering open briefly. For a moment, his expression shifts—the corners of his mouth lifting slightly—before his arms instinctively wrap around you.

“Mmm,” he murmurs, voice thick with slumber. “You’re here.”

You press closer, burying your face against the soft fabric of his hoodie, inhaling deeply. His scent envelops you completely—familiar and grounding.

“You’re so warm,” you whisper, feeling the day’s tensions begin to dissolve. “I could stay like this forever.”

Your bodies fit together perfectly, the rise and fall of his chest gradually syncing with your own breathing. The world outside fades away as you focus on the steady rhythm of his heartbeat beneath your ear.

“I don’t mind if you do,” he replies quietly, his fingers finding their way to your hair.

His eyes close again, but that subtle smile remains—a sight that makes your heart flutter. Here, in the silence between you, words become unnecessary. When he adjusts his position, it’s only to draw you closer against him.

As consciousness begins to drift away, you tighten your hold slightly, unwilling to let go even in sleep. The last thing you register before falling asleep is Xavier pressing a gentle kiss to the top of your head, his silent way of saying everything words could never quite capture, and his arms securing you against him—steady, reliable, exactly what you needed.

𝐙𝐀𝐘𝐍𝐄

The sight of Zayne seated on the edge of the bed, still in his day clothes but with his collar unbuttoned, sends a wave of longing through you. Your body aches with the need to be held—specifically by him.

“I need fifteen more minutes,” he states without looking up, somehow sensing your presence. “Twenty, at most.”

You retreat to the bedroom, arranging yourself among the pillows, the wait almost unbearable. Every minute crawls by as you imagine the feeling of being gathered against his chest, surrounded by his warmth. The pull toward him is almost physical, a tightening sensation that only his touch can release.

True to his word, exactly fourteen minutes later, the soft pad of slippers against hardwood signals his approach. Relief floods through you at the sound.

He appears in the doorway, and you extend your arms instinctively, the need for his closeness overwhelming all other thoughts.

“You’re early,” you note with grateful surprise.

“Apparently, I can do my tasks faster when I know you’re waiting,” Zayne replies.

The mattress dips as he slides in beside you, and you waste no time pressing yourself against his chest, your arms wrapping around him with desperate need. His body is warm against yours, and you sigh with contentment as his scent surrounds you.

“I’ve been needing this all day,” you confess against his shirt, feeling the tension finally release as his arms encircle you.

Zayne shifts slightly, tilting your chin up with gentle fingers to study your face with the same intensity he gives his most complex cases. Whatever he finds makes him pull you closer, adjusting his position to maximize your comfort.

“Better now,” he murmurs, tightening his arms around you before you feel him press a kiss to your temple, lingering there for a moment.

𝐑𝐀𝐅𝐀𝐘𝐄𝐋

The urge builds throughout the day—a growing, insistent need to feel Rafayel’s arms around you. You find him by the window, humming softly as sunlight bathes his figure. The sight of him—so vibrant and alive—only intensifies your craving for his touch.

“Rafayel,” you call softly, arms already half-raised in anticipation.

The moment he sees you, understanding dawns immediately. He spins toward you with a flourish, meeting your unspoken need without hesitation.

“Perfect timing. I was just thinking of you,” he says as he closes the distance between you in quick strides.

You collide with him halfway, arms wrapping around his waist, face pressed against his chest. The contact sends immediate relief coursing through you—like cool water after a long thirst.

“You smell like the ocean and sunshine,” you mumble against the fabric of his shirt. “I couldn’t resist anymore.”

His arms encircle you completely, lifting you slightly as he backs toward the overstuffed couch in the corner, understanding your need without explanation.

“Then you shall have me,” he declares, falling backward onto the cushions and bringing you down with him in a tangle of limbs. “For as long as you need.”

You settle against him, fingers clutching at his shirt, drawing him closer still. He smells of turpentine and sea salt, of creativity and freedom. Your body relaxes completely for the first time all day, the desperate need that drove you to seek him out finally satisfied in his enthusiastic embrace.

You sigh contentedly, ear pressed against his chest to hear the steady rhythm of his heart. His fingers find their way to your hair, twirling strands around his fingers as your breathing synchronizes with his. Outside, seagulls call to each other, but neither of you makes any move to break the perfect connection.

“Stay just like this,” you whisper. “I don’t want to let go yet.”

His laugh bubbles up in response, the sound vibrating through his chest against your ear. “Then the rest can wait.”

𝐒𝐘𝐋𝐔𝐒

The longing strikes without warning—an intense need to be held in Sylus’s arms. Nothing else will satisfy this particular craving; only him.

You make your way to his room, the journey giving you time to acknowledge how completely this need has consumed you. You find him standing by the window, the city sprawled below.

He turns at the sound of your footsteps, one eyebrow lifting slightly as he takes you in.

“Well,” he says, setting down a glass of wine, “this is a pleasant surprise.”

Words feel unnecessary as you approach him, arms already reaching for him, need written plainly across your face. You press yourself against him, inhaling his distinct scent, feeling your pulse steady at the contact.

“Don’t reschedule on my account,” you say, voice slightly muffled against his chest, though you make no move to pull away. “But I couldn’t wait another minute to see you.”

“Simply my company?” he murmurs against your hair, arms encircling you with practiced ease.

There’s something warm in his tone as he guides you to sit, arranging you both so you’re nestled against his chest, exactly as you’d been craving all day. His fingers trace idle patterns along your spine, releasing tension you hadn’t realized you were carrying.

“Tell me,” he says, tilting your chin up, eyes searching yours. “What brought on this sudden need for closeness? Not that I’m complaining.”

The city lights reflect in his eyes, catching on the edges of his features as he studies you with uncharacteristic patience.

You shake your head slightly, unable to articulate the bone-deep longing that drew you here. Words seem inadequate to explain how completely his embrace satisfies something essential within you.

“Just wanted to be close to you,” you answer simply, settling back against him, feeling the rightness of being exactly where you belong.

“Hmm… I wonder what you might demand next.” Yet his arms tighten around you. Outside, the city continues its evening pulse, but here, in this moment, his attention is focused solely on you, as though nothing beyond this room matters.

𝐂𝐀𝐋𝐄𝐁

Caleb tosses his uniform jacket over a chair, his face lighting up the moment he spots you lingering by the bedroom door. In an instant, his professional demeanor melts away completely.

“Caleb,” his name escapes your lips, arms already outstretched.

“There you are,” he says, voice warm with affection as he closes the distance between you in long, eager strides. “Best sight in the entire galaxy.”

His arms are around you before you can respond, lifting you slightly as he spins once, the movement playful despite the strength evident in his embrace. When he sets you down, he doesn’t let go, instead dropping his forehead to rest against yours.

“Please tell me you’re waiting for cuddles,” he breathes, already walking backward toward the bed, guiding you along. “Because after that strategy meeting, I’ve been thinking about holding you for approximately four hours and seventeen minutes.”

Your arms wrap around him eagerly, face pressed against his chest, breathing him in deeply. The contact sends immediate relief flooding through your system, like finding shelter in a storm.

“The entire room feels cold without you,” you confess, clinging to him. “Want cuddles.”

“Then you’re in luck,” he murmurs against your hair, already walking backward toward the bed, keeping you firmly in his embrace. “Because holding you happens to be my specialty.”

The back of his knees hit the mattress and you follow him down eagerly, arranging yourself against his chest, unwilling to allow even an inch of separation. His scent envelops you—warm and comforting.

His hand finds yours, fingers intertwining as he presses a kiss to your temple. Through the view beside the bed, stars streak by in ribbons of light, but his eyes remain fixed on you.

“I could hold you like this forever,” he whispers against your hair, his arms forming a protective circle around you.

In this moment, wrapped in Caleb’s arms, the rest of the universe fades away—leaving only the two of you, connected exactly as you needed to be.

Based on this request.

I wanna do some poetry. I'm back on this account //hopefully

Is anyone still here?

Being Danny Rand's queen would include...

Masterlist

Danny Rand x fem!reader

Since this post, I can't stop thinking about marrying Danny Rand and living a peaceful life with him!!!

Warnings: fluff (is that even a warning?)

Inspiration song: Love me like you do by Ellie Goulding

After long years working as superheroes and arduously protecting the world, both of you decided to finally retire and get married.

You wanted to live the rest of your lives as a normal couple before you were too old to do so.

You'd move to Kun Lun and have your marriage there, and you'd be officially named as his queen.

Danny would treat you so right and spoil you so much.

You saw something you like on a store? He's buying it, no questions asked.

Everytime he'd have his king duties to fulfill you'd go with him bc you want to be aware of everything that is happening, Kun Lun is your kingdom too after all.

At least once a year you and the old team meet again, be it on New York or Kun Lun, you always find a way to make this meeting happen.

Kun Lun is a land of peace, so you'd hardly get into a real fight but you'd regularly train together to don't get rusty.

You'd meditate together, have calm walks on the courtyards of the castle, just appreciating the peaceful enviroment the kingdom provides and later you'd watch the sunset together from the balcony of your room.

If you were cold he'd hug you to keep you warm.

Talking about hugs, he loves to hug you in every way possible.

If he's hugging you in the regular way he'll kiss your forehead and lay his chin on top of your head - you can bet you'll stay that way for a long time.

If he's hugging you from the side he'll kiss your cheek or temple - this one is more for farewells.

If he's hugging you from behind he'll trace kisses along your neck and jaw - which normally leads to you going to bed (¬‿¬).

It's in nights like that you'd stay awake 'till late night, still naked and cuddling on your shared bed, talking about anything.

You'd talk about the old days at SHIELD, when you were younger and excited to enter your next fight to once again save the day.

You'd talk about your childhoods, even tho you already shared most of your memories you always still have something to tell, be it a new story or one you already told but never get tired of.

You'd talk about having kids in the future, he doesn't mind if the kid is a boy or a girl bc the only thing that matters to him is that you'll be building this future with him.

He'd caress your face 'till you fall asleep, and he'd watch you sleep, admiring your features, 'till he couldn't fight his own tiredness.

And with a smile on his face he'd finally allow himself to rest, happy that you were the last thing he saw that night and the first he'd see the next day.

I'm okay, I promise

Pretending to be Okay when your really not is like smiling when your lips are dry. And I mean really dry. Dry to the point where they crack and bleed when you open you mouth all the way. Dry to the point where you can feel them stretch and break with every movement of your mouth. Dry to the point where it hurts to eat or drink anthing because it stings you lips and seeps into the cuts like salt. Dry to the point where you can feel you pulse in them and they almost burn with fever. Dry to the point that your whole face goes numb when you move them to much. But you smile anyway. Because it's temporary right? Drink some water and I'll be fine. Because all your friends are smiling and it would be weird if you didn't. You smile and you laugh even though it is torture and all you can feel is the pain in your lips. The pain as they just crack more. It's the same feeling when you tell people you are okay when you want to break down, or panic, or stop everything. Except it isn't your lips that hurt. It's everything. So it's okay to be messed up. To want things to stop. To say that you need help. To say that you just can't smile right now. So get up, go get yourself some mental vasoline (whatever that may be) and heal. You can do it. You dont have to break you lips to smile. And You dont have to break you mind to say "I'm okay, I promise."

Silver Wit: IV - Let Barricades Be Bygones 

══ ≪ °❈° ≫ ══

'“Cool, cool. Great, even,” Peter hums his approval. Leaning in impossibly closer, somehow taking care not to touch me, he whispers into my ear.

“So– we’ll just have to get to know each other better, then.”"

Silver Wit Masterlist Silver Wit on ao3 taglist: @silverzoomies, @quickandsilvers, @icannot3

tw: more adhd coded trauma and vulnerability, not sure it warrants a tw

a/n: i cannot believe it and i apologise deeply for doing this, but i wrote another entire fucking chapter of this first conversation between speaker and peter. i promise this is the last one - their conversation ends at the end of this chapter i am baffled that i ever intended on having their first interaction be a couple of minutes. even a few seconds. wtf also idk how i keep churning out these chapters so im not sure if the quality of the writing is being maintained - i'm still very impulsive, though, so i'm publishing them as i go anyway. i have no beta so please forgive me

══ ≪ °❈° ≫ ══

The two of us bathe in silence for a moment that to me – feels simultaneously both like eternity and nary a trice. Calling this ‘perplexing’ would be a gross understatement. 

I wonder how long this moment is for Peter.

My god, how easily the flutters in my chest from only moments ago had turned into aches, so much like thunderstorms buried deep within my chest; bitter storms not unlike the London rains that punished me not long ago. At my heartstrings is Aphrodite pulling, breaking, tearing away with forces unattainable by any of us mortals, but she has absolutely no need. Whatever the higher powers may do upon me would be in vain; I would feel this deeply for Peter regardless of anything that tried to stop me.

I can’t bear holding my words back anymore. “Peter…” I whisper, my voice breaking, a tremble, a tremolo.

“Yeah?” From his eyes being fixated on the floor, back to me they flicker in an instant. I can just about see wells of stifled sorrow threatening to spill from them; only a dam he’s been building for years is stopping the flood. His mask of jocular self-deprecation is cracking. 

It’s difficult to read his expression, but he can’t read mine either. 

In the few years of my life, admittedly so far short - living as whatever it is that I am - I’ve learned that in silence readily comes doubt. The mind panics as it reels, from a self-loathing spiral to desperately attempting to console itself; often, with little to no success. If in Peter I see myself, perhaps he’s the same way.

A small part of me hopes he sees me in himself too. 

“I think I understand… I get what you meant now. How you told me that what I was saying felt like it was straight out of your head?” I confess.

The unreadable look on his face turns into that same sombre smile I saw from before. He shakily nods as he takes in a breath, shallow.

“Maybe you’re afraid - that those people who’ve already gotten to know you as Quicksilver - wouldn’t like to see you change – no, not change; open up. That you don’t want to upset the equilibrium that’s already been established?”

I’m making sure to look him in the eyes. He needs to know whatever I’m saying is the truth and nothing but the truth. “But the person I met here was you, Peter. I didn’t meet ‘Quicksilver’,” I say slowly, such that he has the time to ingest every single word that I’m saying to him.

Peter swallows and hums an affirmation, his head dipping before he nods.

I continue, “I… can’t even explain how much I understand being afraid of being honest. Being authentic. But from what I’ve seen, whoever ‘Peter’ is? He’s hilarious, he’s kind, and he’s insightful. He’s loveable. Even from the little while we’ve sat here together, I know for a fact that there’s more to you than meets the eye. You don’t have to keep hiding. We already have to do enough hiding as it is.”

“Thank you… seriously,” Peter whispers, choking. He takes another breath in, lets it out, and closes his eyes. “I’m sorry, I– I need a second. It’s not that I’m not thankful that you’re being so nice. I am, really. You’re being so understanding and I– I just… gotta process everything. I’m good, promise.” 

I nod and internally smack myself in the head once I realise he can’t see it. You absolute pillock. “Of course. Take whatever time you need.”

“Thanks,” he mumbles, relieved. Through the look on his face, I can see clearly how quickly his mind is racing. As he props his head up in his hands, elbows on his knees, his eyes remain closed. The outside has to be shut out – inside is chaos enough. It doesn’t matter that I’m growing anxious waiting for him to respond. He needs this respite. 

Peter finally opens his eyes and returns his gaze to meet mine with a timid smile. “Sorry about that,” he breathes. “You don’t know how much I needed to hear what you said. I worry about it so much, but I just can’t tell anyone, y’know? Like, that’s the entire problem. It’s a fucked up paradox.”

Shaking my head, I say, “Mm-mm, it’s alright. I think I do understand, now. I mean– it wouldn’t be fair to say that I know exactly what you feel,” I glance up at the clock above the fireplace. “After all, we did just meet for the first time only half an hour ago.”

“Wow… Half an hour? Man… it feels like I’ve known you for ages. Or that you’ve known me for ages, anyway…” Peter murmurs in disbelief.

“I know. It’s… strange. I– I will never know what it’s like to be you, that’s impossible, and I’ll never try nor claim to. But… I just can’t shake this feeling. Somehow I feel like we’re–” I catch myself before I say something daft. What the hell are you thinking?

“Don’t overthink it,” Peter interjects. Silently, I thank the Fates for saving me from impulsively humiliating myself. “I feel it too, man. I mean, yeah. We’re not the same person, obviously. You have your own personality and I have mine, but…” He stops for a second, his face turning pink once more. “I’ve never ever met someone else who’s so much like me– At least, someone else who’s… I don’t know what you would even call it, but… different; and I’m not talking about being a mutant.”

Peter stills for a breath. “Like, fine, sure, we just met. Doesn’t mean it’s not true. I’ve been more myself around you than I have anyone else in years.” It’s a relief to see how quickly he’s bounced back.

What Peter just said doesn’t register immediately, but my eyes fly wide open the moment it does. The blush I’ve been trying so hard to force back down decides to bend to my rule no longer. My heartbeat is drumming against my ribs. Pursing my lips in my completely flustered state, I turn away to hide whatever idiocy is emanating from my entire being. 

Without meeting his eyes, I say, “I’m glad you said it and not me, because I think I might have died if you hadn’t agreed. And… I agree– about never meeting someone else like me before. I don’t know how else to say this, but it’s really comforting knowing I’m not the only one who’s… like this. Whatever ‘this’ is.”

He sniffs then chuckles; the sound of it sends reverberations saccharine straight into my heartbeat. “You aren’t the only one, and now I finally know I’m not either, so, thank you; and seriously, thanks for saying what you said. I never thought I’d ever hear anyone tell me what you just did.”

“I meant all of it,” I say sincerely.

He tries to suppress that smug smirk I’d seen so many times before. “All of it? So… Loveable, huh?” he finally says.

Fuck.

══ ≪ °❈° ≫ ══

Mission abort. Mission abort. Turn around now before you can never go back. 

“Oi! You know what I mean, stop poking fun at me. I was trying to be nice and you just take it as an opportunity to take the piss out of me? You’re such a prat,” I swat at him as I joke.

“I know, I know. I’m just making a little fun. What’s a prat? Also... taking the piss? Does that mean what I think it means?” Peter asks, a sly grin plastered across his face.

I sigh loudly. “Oh come on, you can get these from context, can’t you?” I say, exaggeratedly exasperated. Inwardly, I’m tickled pink.

“Oh, the genius can’t take the time to teach the idiot about one little thing?” He feigns a fainting spell in despair, much like those so common in tragic theatricals. Charming.

“Hey, you’re not an idiot. But seriously, do you actually want me to sit you down so that I can teach you British slang? Learning is my entire thing, and even I have to say that that sounds like a dreadful class,” I cock my head to the side, raising an eyebrow dubiously. 

Peter beams coyly, tousles his hair, and bounces his leg. “If I get to listen to you talk the whole time? Yeah, man, I’d take a whole course. I know you said that you think Slavic languages sound pretty, but your accent is real pretty, y’know? It’ll probably get even stronger if you start talking about all of your English stuff. Come on, I can’t miss that.”

I blink. Did not expect that response, at all. I did think to myself that I would eventually educate him on British slang, but I didn’t think he’d actually want to sit down and learn about any of it.

“You’re… probably right, actually. I imagine my accent would start getting even more painfully British if I actually focused on talking about… well, Britain. Still though, I truly don’t believe you’ll enjoy sitting through me lecturing you about our weird insults and euphemisms.”

“Try me,” Peter taunts me, a coy smirk lacing his tone with mirth. “Hell, I’ll even speak some Russian to you in exchange.”

“Really?” I ask, doubtful. I can’t lie, getting to hear Peter speak in Russian does seem really appealing. Not because it’s Peter, I tell myself. It’s just getting to hear a Slavic language for the first time. I’ve always wanted that, right? 

Peter nods.

“Don’t complain when I come back with a three hour lesson plan, then,” I jokingly warn him. The teasing is starting to grow on me. I can see why he’s been doing it to me so much now.

He grins, pleased. “I’ll ace this class. You don’t even know, man. I try not to brag about it–”

I point a finger at him accusingly. “You try not to brag?” I interject rhetorically. “That’s definitely not consistent with whatever I’ve seen so far.”

“Hey! That’s just about my powers. I’m a totally badass speedster and I’m not afraid to show it. If that means I’m bragging, then fine,” Peter harrumphs, defensively denying whatever I insinuated, and I snicker. “Anyway, like I was saying - before someone rudely interrupted me…” Peter looks at me pointedly, to which I disapprovingly raise my eyebrows in response. 

He continues, “I try not to brag about it, since I’ve been maintaining this whole class clown schtick I have going on? But I’m actually a pretty good student. Only when I want to be, though. I’m not good at the actual studying bit.”

“I’m honestly not surprised, Peter,” I say, and I genuinely mean it. 

It’s not like he had tried to be overtly intellectual while we’d been getting acquainted with one another, but he did carry himself with an intelligence – admittedly, an intelligence that might have gone unnoticed to some if they hadn’t paid attention. It takes brains to consistently pretend not to have them. “And also, you really don’t have to dumb yourself down for me. Please don’t. I actually actively dislike it when people do.”

Peter tilts his head side to side. “Oh, so the little genius wants me to get on her level? Challenge accepted, I’ll do it, just you wait,” he chaffs. 

For all of my worries that I’d be treated differently for being slapped in the face with the ‘genius’ label, Peter’s nonchalance about it really eases my spirits. Hell, the boy was even incorporating it into his banter. I’ve been so afraid that it would make people think that if I was honest about it, that I was being haughty, ‘holier-than-thou’. To Peter, it’s as if it’s just another regular thing about me– it doesn’t make me an outsider, and he doesn't think I need to be placed on a pedestal. I can finally breathe again.

Still, I don’t want him to get the impression that I’m just an arrogant arsehole. “Oi, bugger off. I don’t think I’m better than you or anything like that. I’m just saying; you shouldn’t have to pretend to be someone else, right? Like we were literally saying just a moment ago? Especially if being ‘someone else’ means you have to hide your strengths,” I clarify.

Peter squints as he looks off into the middle distance, calculating something in his head. “Hey… I couldn’t impress you by breaking into the actual Pentagon, right?”

I frown. “I never said that.”

Peter touches his hand to his heart, shaking his head. “Didn’t have to– heard you loud and clear, man. It wasn’t good enough for you, that’s fine,” he showily gestures and huffs with finality.

I roll my eyes at the melodrama. “Again, never said that, but sure mate, whatever you say,” I concede with a sigh. 

“Listen, I made a vow to myself that I’d impress you. Fine, the superhero stuff doesn’t cut it for you. And y’know, I gotta say, I was kinda expecting that the whole superhero thing would impress girls by default. You’re gonna be a challenge, but Peter Maximoff will not be defeated. So… Maybe I just have to take the intellectual route with ya’, huh?” he ribs at me, ruffling his hair.

Teasing Peter is fun, but being teased by him is mortifying.

I can maintain my calm. I can be smooth. “Alright, sure then, if you insist,” I fold my arms and press myself back into the cushions behind me. “I don’t know why you’re so hellbent on trying to win my admiration, but it’ll be entertaining to watch your many attempts. What do you have for me?”

Peter bubbles his lips with a loud pop. He looks at me warningly. “I know I said I only brag about my powers, but fuck it, I’ll boast about this– And hey, before you complain, you invited me to.”

“Fair enough, fair enough. Go on, the floor is yours,” I motion for him to proceed.

“Yeah so, no one would expect it, but I get top marks all round, baby. Only the teachers know that, ‘cause I wanna keep things on the down low, yeah? But hey, you’ll find out for yourself soon, right? I’m gonna take this class o’ yours, and I’ll turn in assignments, I’ll go to every class, I’ll do all of your required reading—” Peter rattles on.

“Really?” I interrupt to ask dubiously, bringing my hand up to my chin, “What about the recommended reading?” No one does the recommended reading. This has to be a joke, right?

Peter clicks his tongue and winks. “Hey, if it’ll get me in with the teacher, I’d do all the reading and more. I can totally be a teacher’s pet. You just wait and see.” 

Let me implode right now.

══ ≪ °❈° ≫ ══

“But uh, seriously, joking aside,” Turning sincere again, Peter clears his throat again and adjusts his seating position on the sofa to face me better. Thank god, he was joking. “I know I can get carried away trying to joke about things and all? But what you said before that means a lot to me.”

Right. That.

“Oh, uh– Don’t worry about it, yeah?” I’m getting embarrassed again remembering what I’d said. I was so caught up in the moment, I called Peter loveable? I know we brushed it off, but this is a nightmare. Why did I have to be reminded of that? 

I find myself unable to stop over-elaborating in an attempt to cover up my awkwardness, “I just think you should start being more yourself, Peter. Since that’s what you want, right? Maybe break out of your shell? Oh, god, that’s too much of a cliche– uh, live more authentically? Be who you really are? Ugh, no, now I sound like some counsellor. How do I even say this? I… just hope that you can feel comfortable being yourself some day.”

“Hey, you don’t needa freak out. I get what you’re saying, and uh… thanks. Thank you, I mean. Don’t wanna make you think I’m not appreciative or whatever,” Peter begins twisting a silver lock between his fingers. “And uh… I hope you get to take them off one day, if you want. The gloves, I mean.”

The gloves – I’m caught off guard. I try to look down at my hands but I don’t see them. All I do see is the leather gloves covering them, separating me from the rest of the world. There are a few biological mutations that propelled humans into becoming the complex lifeforms that we are today. Overdeveloped brains, larynxes capable of complex speech, bipedalism. Our hands. Our capacity for fine motor control, for heightened kinesthetic sensitivity in the pads of our fingers, grip with the opposable thumb. It can easily be argued that our hands are one of the core ways in which we as people can interact with the world around us.

Mine are covered. “I do want to. I hope I can.”

Peter smiles ever so slightly, and lets out a breath of relief. I didn’t even realise he was holding his breath. Tension leaves his frame, and he relaxes. Just how worried was he for me, exactly? Was it just as much as I was worried for him?

“Good, good. I’m glad,” he tilts his head slightly to meet my eyes. They’re looking into me, bittersweet. “I hope you don’t mind me asking, but…”

“It’s alright. Go on,” I encourage him.

Peter takes a sharp breath and looks around - I don’t think at anything in particular - and brings his hand to cup the side of his face, fingers twisting the hairs that frame it. Looking away, he asks, “Do you think you’ll ever be okay touching somebody else again?”

My body trembles at the thought — what if I can never take the gloves off? All I’ve been thinking for the last few days since leaving my parents was to cover, protect, shield. Of course, I covered myself up after that first attack. How could I even think to let myself be vulnerable to that kind of torment again?

It was like Hades himself had personally devised for me some tortuous punishment. I didn’t even know what I was being punished for. My heart is sinking at the realisation; this buffer between my skin and the external world wouldn't be my safety if it was for forever. It would be my own prison. The harrowing reality is that I have no idea if I can ever let myself escape it.

I blink slowly, swallowing, and try to hold the tears back. “I want… to be able to.”

The gloom in the air is blatant and palpable. Whatever Peter’s thinking, he’s giving me no indication whatsoever as to what it is that’s going on in his mind. “This might sound a little insane–” he hesitates, a flurry of anxiety in his eyes.

“No, say whatever it is you want to say. I’ll hear you out.”

He scratches the back of his neck. “I’m just proposing this, so it’s totally fine if you don’t like the idea. Wouldn’t blame ya at all, no hard feelings. But, y’know - only if you want - whenever you think you’re ready to… take the gloves off? I don’t mind being your test subject. I can be your lab rat.”

Shock doesn’t begin to describe this. My heart catches a beat. My jaw slacks. My stomach twists. My eyes widen. The butterflies come back. I squash them down. 

“Peter, I don’t think you understand what you’re offering to me,” I whisper. 

Before I can make out his expression, he looks away. “It’s okay, if you don’t wanna. You don’t have to justify it.”

“No, no, it’s really not that. I’m honoured and so grateful that you’d even offer, but… I really don’t think you would if you understood what it meant,” I try to explain. 

He nods, and I go on, “You’d be letting me into everything. I could see your whole life, know every thought you’ve ever had, feel every emotion you’ve ever felt. I could know everything there is to know about you. You don’t have to give me all of that. It’s not even about how we just met. No one should have to give me that, and I’ll never ask for it.”

“... Oh.” 

“... Yeah. I don’t think you really want to be my ‘lab rat’.”

Peter presses his hand into his jaw, his forehead tenses and his eyes frantically dart around. He blows a puff of air out into his hand and it escapes with a hiss.

“Okay… do you wanna make a pact, then?” he eventually asks.

With much hesitance, I ask back, “What kind of a pact?”

“I try to stop hiding myself from everyone, you try to stop hiding your skin. I’ll already be trying to be real, authentic, right? Share myself with everyone and all? And… If I’m already doing that…” he trails off, beginning to himself. “Then maybe it won’t be so different if you actually touch me.”

For once, I truly don’t know what to say back. Peter cuts into the silence, “Shit, that’s not what I meant. You know that, right? I don’t mean touch me like tha–”

“Peter, I know that’s not what you meant,” I interject in his panic. God, it’s like looking into a mirror.

He stops talking, taking in my words. “Okay, uh– good. Good.”

Sighing, I say, “I don’t know, Peter, we barely know each other. I don’t want you to impulsively promise to let me in like that. If we were already really close - like childhood friends for years, or, I don’t know, if it wasn’t literally the first time we’d ever spoken to each other? Maybe things would be different. It’s not because I don’t like you or anything, honest to god. I just… You shouldn’t. You would stand to lose everything in this pact. I can’t do that to you.”

After a moment’s hesitation, Peter rustles his hair, shoots me an oddly confident smirk for the context, and he shifts. Biting the inside of his cheek, he begins shuffling his way over to my side of the sofa. What in the actual fuck is happening? 

Processing the sight of Peter edging closer and closer towards me feels… unreal. It’s as if I’m an audience member watching a scene play out before me on a screen. My heart is a furnace whose fires crackle raucously in my ears, head-splitting. There’s simply no possibility that I’m here on this plane of existence, at this moment in the temporal line. He’s dangerously close now – teetering on the line between the platonic and… something more. 

I just know my face is red.

In a pace so slow it almost kills me, he slinks his arm behind me to rest on the back of the sofa. In a dulcet tone most incongruous with his demeanour, he softly asks, “Is this okay?”

Whether I nod or only tremble out of how flustered he’s getting me is almost unknowable. Taking in a breath, deep, so deep it nearly feels like I’m not breathing at all, I attempt to desperately cling onto whatever sanity is left within me. I give him a nod with more certainty.

“Cool, cool. Great, even,” Peter hums his approval. Leaning in impossibly closer, somehow taking care not to touch me, he whispers into my ear.

“So– we’ll just have to get to know each other better, then.”

══ ≪ °❈° ≫ ══

writers and artists will go "this isn't good enough." my brother in christ, you're creating something new out of nothing and expressing yourself creatively. your productivity and unrealistic standards of perfection do not define you or the worth of your art. you're doing great.

As someone who grew up with "I'm not going to praise you for doing what's expected of you; that's not being good, that's doing the bare minimum" I want to encourage you to celebrate every little thing you can. Everything that takes energy and effort should be appreciated and you're allowed to be happy about trying.

Maybe, no revolution? Maybe we should just "find our own tree"? A, Edmond Dantes?

— You, of course, won't take off the mask, will you?

— Of course.

YES

This right here is the hottest thing a man can do