Sometimes Being A Girl Is A Little More Gloom Than Glamor `••●●☆

Vintage ads are so oddly nostalgic considering that when they came out I wasn't, you know, alive.

Thinking about horrible sad beige houses and how much nicer they could be if people would accept NOVELTY

lana.

I don't know what to do. I don't know what to create. I am looking for a comfort that does not exist. I am afraid it never will. Maybe it isn't made for me-- I'm afraid it wasn't made for me.

AYO this had me blushing smiling kicking my feet rolling around my bed giggling-- I'm so happy. This is soso good

this idea just came to me rn: reader and tom have been writing secret notes to each other and leaving them around the castle for the other to find and reader finally gets the courage to confess/flirt in a message but for some reason the note never gets to him :( and its kinda angsty bc reader takes his lack of response as a rejection but ends with him finally finding it

A/N: I went feral when I read this so obviously I had to write it ASAP. I changed the premise only slightly, I hope you enjoy!!! And thanks for the super cute idea, I'm really feeling the soft fluff tonight 🥺💖

･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ.

Ink From The Well

Summary: “We sit at the same desk,” he calls after you. When you looked over your shoulder he’s still standing there with a glint in his eyes that makes you suspect that he’s already put two-and-two together. “Though you already knew that,” Tom continues, head tilting back a little as he smiles. [GN reader ★ no pronouns ★ ambiguous house ★ fluff ★ mutual pining]  Wordcount: 3.1k Warnings: none

ℙ𝕖𝕣𝕞𝕒𝕟𝕖𝕟𝕥 𝕋𝕒𝕘𝕝𝕚𝕤𝕥

𝔸 - 𝕄 @abhorredlara @anevrismes @arana-alpha @books-butterbeer @catastrophicalllyy @cranberrypills @dear-fifi @dropssofjupitter @dravenwitchmusings @empath-bunny @evertiel @expectoscamander @fish-eg @grimdevil @herfantasyworldd @hueanhdang @itsjustfics @just-wordsandthoughts @lemirabitur @lovelyysiriuss @lucys-brain @mentally-in-northern-italy @mikariell95 @moatsnow ℕ - ℤ @niallwrld​ @nothinghcppens @obliviouspotterhead @oui-magnifique @pearlstiare @pink-kixxes @raven-riddle @rededfoxy @saintsha @seriouslyginnychase @silverdelirium @sokkasdimples @suicide-sweetheart636 @sunles @tallyovie @tm-mrvl-rddl @toasterking @valentinecarnage @vallastempermental @voidmalfoy @weirdowithnobeardo @whentheskyispinkandabitblue @whoevenfrickenknows @whoreforgeorgeandfred @wizardcherryblossom​

The Potions dungeon is always cold, always a little damp, and only ever lit by sickly yellow lights hanging in grim iron cages from the hewn stone ceiling, but it has an ethereal, sinister sort of beauty to it. The Charms classroom is nearly the reverse, bright and wooden and polished, smelling faintly like fresh popcorn and lined with teetering stacks of bound parchment. The Greenhouses are beautiful too, burnt orange bricks lined with vibrant green weeds, gnarled tables bowing under the weight of strange, colourful plants, and vein-like vines spreading up across the grubby glass ceiling panes in a way that always casts the sunlight into dappled streams. There’s something to love about every classroom the castle, but there’s one that you love most of all.

Transfiguration isn’t necessarily your best class, and Dumbledore isn’t necessarily your favourite teacher, and yet walking into his classroom fourth period on Tuesdays and first period on Fridays never fails to make you smile like nothing else can. It’s not so much the classroom itself that you love, but rather where in the classroom your desk sits. It’s in the back row, first on the left from the door.

Because that just so happens that, in second period on Wednesdays and fifth period on Mondays, Tom Riddle sits down at the very same desk.

Professor Dumbledore likes to ask questions with two correct answers so that even when you answer correctly, he can still be a little bit more correct than you, you’d written absently one day on a scrap of parchment. You’d rolled the scrap between your fingers until it was a twig-thin scroll and discarded it into the inkwell of your desk when the bell rang, forgotting about it completely until the following Tuesday. Perhaps you would have missed it if you hadn’t remembered the note, leaning forward to check if it was still there. You’d not been expecting much but your brows had raised in surprise when you’d caught sight of a little square of very yellowed parchment sitting in the bottom of the well, nondescript and folded along perfectly aligned edges.

You’d pulled it out quickly, replacing it with your ink pottle and sitting back without anyone noticing – though you hadn’t had a chance to open the note until Dumbledore turned his back to write up a very long explanation of the dormant life potential of live creatures transformed into inanimate objects.

You’d pulled the square note from under your textbook and unfolded each razor-sharp margin to reveal a single sentence written in an alluring slanted script.

And in this practice, is it Dumbledore’s intention to challenge his students or to insist on retaining the intellectual high ground?

There had been a strange exhilaration to it. Someone had actually found your absent thought, someone had taken the time to indulge in writing out a reply. Your response, which you’d left folded up, flat, and covert in the bottom of the inkwell just like the stranger, had read;

Conscious or subconscious?

It had been at the forefront of your thoughts walking to class that Friday, your heart skipping a beat when you’d peeked into the ink well as you’d sat down and found another yellowy square of parchment.

Your implication is not lost on me.

Your excitement had dwindled, your smile slowly fading. It wasn’t much to reply to. Fearing that the close-ended comment had been a subtle request to end the strange exchange, you’d left the inkwell empty when the bell had rung, and an entire month had passed before you’d scribbled out another note to the stranger in a fit of boredom.

This class is 30% people trying to impress Dumbledore, 5% Dumbledore actually being impressed, 15% him saying the phrase “now I’m sure the problem here immediately presents itself,” 20% an unhinged monologue, and 30% watching the guy next to me create monstrosities that defy imagination out of common household items

And there it was. A reply waiting for you three days later as if the month-long silence had never occurred.

You’ve left very little allowance for actually practicing Transfiguration in those calculations. Perhaps Dumbledore would be more impressed if his students spent less class time writing to strangers and more time paying attention to his unhinged monologues.

Which had made you retort with a sarcastic accusation that they, too, were spending class time writing to strangers, and then they’d replied with an equally sarcastic invitation to compare grades, and that had been that. A reply waiting for you in every single Transfiguration class, not a single one missed, each note growing a little longer until you started to wonder what would happen if one of the other students who sat at that desk took a peek into the inkwell by chance between your conversations.

You hadn’t had any idea exactly who you’d been writing to until one fateful Wednesday when, after realising a little too late that you’d left your textbook sitting beneath your desk the previous day, you dashed back to the Transfiguration classroom during break to retrieve it. The double doors were open, the previous class was still filing out, Dumbledore calling after them about the upcoming due date for the very same essay he’d assigned you yesterday.

You wait for the crowd to clear a little, craning your head around the door to see if you can pre-emptively spot your book on the ground under your desk when you catch sight of the person still sitting there. At that moment he’s placing a tidy stack of notes into a simple black folder and sliding it into his bag, head bowed to his task and leaving you to stare quite freely at his very striking profile. You watch frozen as Tom Riddle stands, slings his bag over his shoulder, leans forward, and in a fluid series of very nonchalant motions, picks up a capped pottle of ink and drops a small cleanly folded square of parchment into the empty inkwell in its stead. He turns and steps through the door into the corridor as he stows his ink in his bag, looking up curiously when he notices you standing there motionless.

You stare at him, coming to terms with the impossible realisation that apparently, you’re very good friends with Riddle, the jewel in Slughorn’s crown, most likely to be Minister for Magic before 40, and current record holder for number of Outstanding O.W.L.s in Hogwarts history. Plus there’s the whole thing about him being catastrophically gorgeous.

Tom has paused in front of you, expression polite but with a definite hint of amusement as he clicks his bag shut. “Are you quite alright?” he asks, lips just barely quirking.

“Yes,” you say hastily, turning for the door and leaning down to seize your book off the ground where you’d left it. “I forgot my book,” you mutter as you pass him with averted eyes, hoping it’s enough of an explanation to write off your slightly erratic behaviour as you try to flee the scene.

“We sit at the same desk,” he calls after you.

It’s your turn to hesitate. When you looked over your shoulder he’s still standing there, lips still quirked, a glint in his eyes that makes you suspect that he’s already put two-and-two together.  

“Though you already knew that,” Tom continues, head tilting back a little as he smiles.

“I just found out,” you say, waving a little sheepishly at the door.

He turns to you, striding closer with intimidating ease and his smile visibly growing as he watches your eyes widen – but he moves straight past you with nothing more than a single quiet comment in your ear, lilted with humour. “I await your reply.”

You don’t tell anyone. Not even your friends. Everyone is in love with Tom and you can’t help but suspect that things would quickly get out of hand if anyone found out that you’ve been in close correspondence with him for the past four months, even if you hadn’t technically known it yourself. And things had already become hard enough now that you knew who was reading the notes you left, and whose hand was penning his replies.

You try very hard not to think about it too much, you try not to wonder if he smiles when you write something funny, if he looks forward to your answers to his questions, if he thinks about the notes outside of class like you do. Maybe he’s just bored. Maybe he’s just messing with you. Maybe it had been the anonymity he’d liked about the interactions, and now he’s just humouring you.

It’s useless. You’ve been wondering who was on the other end of the notes since the beginning, wondering exactly which of your peers is made up of this striking mix of shrewd humour, clear intelligence, and measured charisma, and it’s very, very hard to continue as if things are normal once you know that it’s him.

It’s not really that surprising that he evidently noticed your replies shortening, becoming steadily more stilted and less familiar as your nerves get the better of you – though you’d hardly expected him to be so blunt in pointing it out, and you definitely hadn’t anticipated how he’d apparently been interpreting your distance.

Were you disappointed that it was me?

You reread Tom’s note countless times. It lies open and looming at the head of your desk for half the lesson as you try very hard to focus on the class to no avail.

Is this seriously what he’s been thinking? Is it a joke? Is it supposed to be so clearly ridiculous that you’re supposed to understand it as just his way of coaxing the real answer out of you?

You write out your reply, knowing it’s the overly cautious way forward but unable to bear the thought of misinterpreting him.

What do you mean?

In the three days before you get his answer, you find yourself actively avoiding any situation in which you might see him – you attend meals at peak hours to get lost in the crowd, you avoid the library like you’ll disintegrate if you set a foot inside, and you don’t dare stray near the 6th floor on Saturday when you know for a fact that Slughorn is hosting some poncy get-together in his office.

When you finally sit down on Tuesday at your desk, you don’t even pretend to pay attention to Dumbledore starting the class at the front of the room. You seize the yellow parchment square from the inkwell and hastily flatten it on your desk.

I’ve noticed that you’ve been somewhat different since we met. I’m sorry if you were disappointed to learn of my identity, if you’d like to retire our correspondence I promise to let it go gracefully.

Your eyes widen. You pick up the tidy little square and hold it a little closer, barely believing what you’re seeing.

The parchment bears tiny little ink marks, the faded ghosts of letters adjacent to the pitch black carefully constructed script of his insane note. You could just barely make out some of the words – reserved, one of them seems to say, apologies, says another, a couple more faint letters here and there but nothing else you can properly decipher.

It’s heart-wrenchingly obvious what the marks are.

Tom must have drafted the note at least once before leaving this final version for you, his ink bleeding through onto the parchment below.

Dumbledore’s open hand suddenly appeared in front of you and you jump out of your skin, looking up with burning cheeks and a thundering heart. “Note-passing is not tolerated in my classroom I’m afraid,” Dumbledore says kindly, “now please hand it over, and content yourself with note-taking for the remainder of our lesson.”

You crumple up Tom’s note into a ball over the snickers of the rest of the class, placing it in Dumbledore’s hand and ducking your head in embarrassment as people cast looks your way from all over the room. Dumbledore nodded and made his way back to the front of the classroom, and you try to ignore the way people were still giggling at you.

Tom had drafted the note. He’d drafted it.

It’s this more than anything he’d actually written that makes you consider actually answering him honestly.

When everyone’s attention finally slides away from you and Dumbledore is helping a trio of boys at the front of the class with their Augor charms, you surreptitiously tear off a scrap of parchment. You carefully write out your reply, hoping that Tom doesn’t pay half as much attention to your handwriting as you do his. If he did, he might notice that your lettering is a little more shaky than usual.

I wasn’t disappointed at all, Tom, kind of the opposite. You just make me nervous.

You fold it very hastily just to get your own nearly-confession out of your sight before you second-guess yourself, slipping it underneath your ink pottle. Your heart’s beating too fast considering nothing’s actually happened yet.

It takes all of twenty minutes after class ends for you to regret being so honest. You have to force yourself not to go back and retrieve your note before Tom’s lesson the following day, dreading someone seeing you and demanding an explanation. Instead, you throw yourself into a series of distractions that are almost successful in keeping your mind off your square of parchment sitting in that little wooden nook waiting for Tom’s elegant fingers to lift it from its hiding place.

You don’t know what the hell to expect when you sit down on Friday, but nothing could have prepared you for what you found in your inkwell when you leaned forward.

Nothing.

Absolutely nothing.

You sit back, stomach sinking so hard your throat closes up like you’re about to be sick. It’s the first time in half a year he’s not left you a reply.

It had been really stupid to read into those marks, he’d probably just been writing notes for class overtop of the note. It had been really stupid to read into any of this, now that you think about it. You drop your ink pottle into the well, jaw tight, wishing you weren’t this disappointed.

There’s nothing there the following Tuesday either, the nook sits empty and dusty and silent. When Friday comes and there’s still no note you start to accept with grim, hard-to-swallow shame that your confession hasn’t gone unanswered at all. The silence is his answer.

Maybe it had been a ruse after all. Maybe he’d lost all interest in the game when he’d found out you’re just like everyone else in the school, harbouring feelings for him. You have no trouble coming up with increasingly mortifying reasons for his silence over the week that follows, and  you very quickly come to the resolute decision that you need to put the entire ordeal out of your head – clearly Tom already had.

You’re winding your way back to your common room after a late night finishing Slughorn’s assignment on the ethics of using fairy blood when you hear the footsteps.

Someone was running somewhere nearby, echoing through the vaulted stone ceilings and airy corridors, and you pause at the corner looking around curiously as the footsteps seem to be getting much, much louder. You jump back a bit as Tom suddenly skids to a stop in front of you.

You blink at him, stunned. His normally pale face is flushed, the black waves of his hair slightly stuck to his forehead, his lips parted and he’s breathing hard, his tie askew and his usually perfect robes hanging slightly off one shoulder. He’s leaning forward a little, squinting at you as he tries to catch his breath.

“Tom,” you say in utter astonishment.

“He just gave it to me,” Tom says through hard breaths, lifting a small scrap of paper in his hand that, with a feeling much like being impaled through the stomach with a large icicle, you instantly recognise as your note. “Dumbledore.”

“Dumbledore just gave you my note?” you ask dumbly, still very bewildered by his appearance.

Tom nods. “I went to ask him some questions, about some of the comments he left on my essay,” he manages to say, his dark brows pulling together and his chest still rising and falling a little more than usual. “And afterwards, he asked if I recognised this.”

You find yourself wishing violently Dumbledore had thrown the thing out. “He caught me reading yours the other day,” you mutter, holding your books a little tighter to your chest and looking away. “He must have seen me hide it.”

“He just gave it to me,” Tom repeats, holding it out a bit more.

“Well he may be a little unhinged but he’s still pretty sharp,” you quip, turning your shoulders away and hoping he takes the hint and lets you leave. “I’m not surprised he knew it was for you, I suppose he recognised your handwriting in the first one –”

“You don’t have to be nervous,” Tom interrupts loudly.

You go very still, staring at him again. Tom’s lips press together, and he finally lowers the note.

“I just wanted to tell you,” he adds with a slight frown, and if this wasn’t Tom Riddle you would have sworn that there was something almost awkward in the way he averts his gaze from yours.

“Did you run here?” you ask suddenly, even though the answer is very obviously yes.

Tom’s uncomfortable look intensifies, and you watch him shift slightly on his feet with a mixture of deep gratification and a sudden bursting fondness so intense you feel a smile appear on your lips.

“How did you know I was here?” you add curiously, turning back to him.

“I saw you when I was in the library earlier,” Tom says quickly, sliding the note into the pocket of his trousers like he’s hoping you somehow won’t notice. “I thought I might still catch you.”

You nod slowly. Tom’s eyes are now flicking between yours and the smile on your lips like he’s trying to figure out exactly what this combination of emotions means and someone’s timing him to do so.

“Well,” you say after a long second, taking a step back down the corridor and savouring the sight of him standing there with his ruined hair and dishevelled uniform before you have to turn away. “I await your reply.”

He nods wordlessly, watching you retreat, and you bite back your smile as you force your eyes off him and hurry away.

Maybe you’d been a little too harsh on Dumbledore after all.

“how could you be so stupid” well you know what. its really not that hard

Yeah

In my peter parker phase again and I think I'm going to use this as my bedtime story for the next week xoxo

first date | tasm!peter parker x reader

“How can you think about kissing me right now?” you ask him, scrubbing your eyes with your hand.

“I think about kissing you all the time.”

<3

summary you take care of a sick Peter on your would be first date. later, he returns the favour and makes some promises. [3k]

warnings fluff, hurt/comfort, sickfic, vomit tw, friends to trying really hard to be lovers, fem!reader

<3

Peter stands in the doorway wearing a rumpled shirt and sweatpants and you know before he opens his mouth your plans are cancelled.

"Pete," you whine, in your prettiest dress and your best jewellery. "You couldn't have called me?"

"I'm sorry, dovey, I fell asleep." He sneezes into his elbow. "Your knock woke me up. Sorry.”

You shiver as a cold breeze whips past you. "It's okay."

He opens the door wider. "You look killer. And cold. Let me find you a jacket. "

You withhold the evil urge to step on his socks. Closer now you can see his clammy skin and dirty hair, the minute trembling of his hands.

"You know, Pete, maybe you should get back in bed. Or I could run you a bath," you say, knowing it's a little weird. He scrunches his eyes shut and opens them, blinking hard at you. "When did you last eat?" you ask, frowning at him.

"Last night."

"It's six o'clock," you say, sighing.

You look around him and see the living room sofa covered in tissues and a quilt. The TV's on mute. There's a hoodie on the back of the sofa. You pick it up and press it to your nose. It's clean, and you shrug it on over your silly sparkly dress. Peter offers his arm and you take it, using him for balance as you toe off your heels.

He's looking at you a little too despondently for your liking. You take him by the forearm and lead him back to sit on the sofa.

"I can't remember the last time you got sick," you say, pressing the back of your hand to his forehead.

He's not feverish. You straighten up and smile at him.

"How are you feeling?"

"I'm alright," he says, the words sounding taffy sticky in his mouth.

"Are you hungry?" you ask.

He frowns. You want to stroke his cheek, smooth the line away. You get to work instead. In a flurry you collect all his dirty tissues and take his empty glass from the coffee table. You fill the glass up to the top with cold water and take it back in. He's already deflating, eyes closed.

"Will you drink this for me?" you ask, pushing the limp hair from his eyes. They flutter open. "I'll make you something to eat, too. It'll make you feel better."

He takes the glass and holds it to his chest.

"You don't have to take care of me," he says, voice scratchy.

"I can't go on our date alone, either."

"Date," he repeats. "Was it a date?"

"Yes, Peter," you say, not even slightly surprised by this. He goes to stand up. You push him back down. "Where are you going?"

"We had a date," he says, looking up at you.

You smile at him, you can't help it. He's a total sweetheart. "We can have another date."

"I didn't even know this one was a date," he says, frowning. "No wonder you're dressed so pretty. Oh my god."

"It's okay, Peter. I promise you can have a do over, so could you please just sit?"

"A date," he murmurs to himself, sinking into the cushions. "Are you sure it was a date?"

"I'm starting to think maybe it wasn't," you say under your breath. You pile your hair up out of your face and push up your sleeves.

"I'm sorry," he calls, voice all scratchy and croaky.

You feel bad, then, for the inkling of dejection curled up in your chest. It wasn't his fault he was sick, and maybe you hadn't made yourself clear enough that it was, in fact, a formal date.

Cutlery rattles as you pull open the first drawer next to the stove top. You fish out a can opener and shake your head. "It's really okay, Peter. Even if you'd known that I thought it was a real date, you couldn't have prevented yourself from getting sick."

You were familiar in his kitchen. Months of Peter bringing you home to tend your wounds and feed you. Last week he'd kissed your bandaged knees, so when he'd asked you to dinner, yes, you'd thought it was a date.

Pouring the newly opened can of soup into a pot over the stove top, you put the burner to simmer and stirred for good measure.

You wander back into the living room without really thinking. Peter looks positively miserable with the quilt pulled over him. You work your way into his side and tentatively pull his head into your chest, push your fingers into his hair to brush the tips of them against his scalp. He relaxes under your touch.

"You asked if I wanted to go to the new Thai place. I said, 'I'll meet you at six thirty,' and you said, 'it's a date,'" you tell him quietly, using your other hand to hold the hair from his face.

"I know I said that," he admits sheepishly.

"Then why are you surprised?"

"I didn't think you actually wanted that from me."

You feel your eyebrows pinch together. "You don't think I really like skateboarding that much, do you? I'm awful. My knees are more scar than skin."

His hand finds your thigh, fingers brushing over your tights. "I thought you were enthusiastic."

"I am, just not about skateboarding," you whisper, happy when he laughs at your teasing tone.

So what if you were a little reckless at the skatepark? Peter was always there to tape up your bleeding knees.

You lean down and press a very short kiss into the skin where his hairline begins. "I want a real date, please," you say into his skin. "When you're feeling better."

"You'll get whatever you want," he says firmly. You would've found it romantic if he didn't sound so ragged.

"I'll hold you to it."

Sputtering from the kitchen. You push him off of you gently and tuck a pillow behind his head before attending to the soup, tights slipping over tile in your hurry. You giggle a little as you stir the soup, excited by this revelation in your relationship with Peter. You pour soup into a bowl and cut two slices of bread into smaller pieces.

He's back in a fugue by the time you return.

"Come on, Peter. Sit up. I made soup."

"You really don't have to do all this," he says, swallowing. You set the tray on his lap and sit on the floor by his legs, holding his drink in your hands. You offer it to him soundlessly as he sits up.

"How many times have you taken care of me, I wonder," you say, letting your head rest against his leg. You're startled when he reaches out to pet your hair.

"Eat your soup," you scold.

"I am," he says through a mouthful.

You watch TV with his hand in your hair, running your nails over your tights. Your heart beats loudly in your ears, overly aware of every shift, every slight movement. His hand trails down from the top of your head to rest on your shoulder, thumb massaging your trap muscle lightly.

He eats about half the bowl before he puts it aside and shuffles out from under you.

"I'm gonna go shower, dovey. Sorry you saw me so gross," he says, edging over your legs carefully.

"I see you everyday."

"Hilarious. Stay there looking pretty. I'll be back."

"Pretty," you repeat to yourself, listening as his footsteps fade away upstairs. You pick at the edge of your dress for a little while and then stand to clean up the mess you made in May's spotless kitchen.

Peter emerges freshly dressed and damp as you're putting the dirty dishes out on the draining board.

"You scrub up well. I wouldn't even guess you were sick," you say sweetly.

Peter does look better. His skin has a new flush of colour. He takes the tea towel out of your hands and puts it on the countertop. "Stop cleaning."

"It's not for you! Don't get it twisted, it's for May."

He looks a little worn still. You shuffle your feet, close enough to reach out and touch him. Like he can read your mind, his arm slides over your shoulder, bringing you into his side. You rub your face in his new shirt and melt under his touches, his fingers spreading out over your arm.

"I'm sorry for not calling."

"You were sleeping."

"I'm sorry for not knowing it was a date."

"It technically wasn't."

He squeezes your arm, groaning. "Let me be sorry for something, dove. You're in my house all dolled up taking care of me and I'm like, a pathetic little stepped on worm."

You laugh into his side. "I like taking care of you: you're a cute worm."

"Awful. I don't know how to make it up to you."

"You can take me somewhere really, really nice for our date."

"Done. You wanna watch Seinfeld reruns?"

-

You're sick. You feel at least a little better when you call Peter to tell him, smug.

"I'm sick," you announce down the phone, in your thickest pajamas with a tissue pressed to your face.

"Oh, dove."

"It's not your fault. My little cousins came over full of the flu. But I don't think I'll be able to go on our date tonight, I'm sorry."

"Well, don't be sorry. First one's a freebie."

You laugh and the laugh turns to a cough. You push the phone away from you and wheeze into your tissue, chest aching.

"Sorry," you say when you manage to pick the phone back up. It hurts to talk.

"Do you have someone taking care of you?"

"I'm a big girl."

"I can be there in twenty minutes."

"I'm fine, Pete. Really. I'm just, you know, hurting. And wheezy. It'll be gone in a day or two and then I'll be tip top shape. You can teach me how to heelflip."

"I don't think you could heelflip at the peak of health, dovey. No offense."

"How is that not offensive?"

"Let me come over. I'll make you soup. Please."

You cough again, loud and crackling. "I'll get you sick again. We'll be in a constant loop of sickness."

"It's a risk I'll take. What soup do you want? Chicken? Cream of mushroom?"

You sigh and dig the heel of your palm into the building throbbing in your head. "Can you get me tomato soup? With the basil?" you ask, and even to your own ears you sound sad. It's overwhelming to have someone care so much, you decide, though you like how it feels.

"Whatever you want," he says, mushy soft. "I'll be right over, okay?"

"Okay," you say. He hangs up. You try to stay awake and end up falling asleep bent over, face digging into the throw cushion in your lap.

-

You won't answer your phone and you won't come open the door. Peter has no choice but to assume you've fallen over in your state and smashed your head open, and so he only feels a little guilty when he lifts up your doormat and finds your spare key.

He unlocks the door, closes it safely behind him as he lets himself in. Your apartment is dark and quiet. He can hear the small beeping of your washing machine, the sound of a finished load. He sets his paper bag on the counter and approaches your bedroom on light footing.

He knocks. You don't answer. He pushes the door open a fraction and peeks in, and there you are, asleep on the bed and folded in half.

He takes his shoes off and steps into the carpeted boundary of your room, feeling like a burglar. He doesn't want to scare you with any sudden movements, settling down at the top of your bed with care. You've slouched to one side with your face driven into a pillow, the waffle knit patterning your face with indents. He rubs the top of your thigh gently, whispering your name.

You stir and moan, stretching yourself out. He takes the opportunity to push his hand against your forehead. You're on fire.

He pulls the sheets off of your legs and helps you, still sleepy, into a more comfortable position for the meantime.

"Do you want to keep sleeping?" he murmurs.

You look at him through half closed eyes. "I think I'm burning."

"You're not, you're just hot. Do you have a different shirt you can put on? What's with the fleece, dovey? It's supposed to hit 78 today."

"They're soft. Um, in my top drawer. The left one."

He retrieves a t-shirt for you to change into and climbs up on your bed to open your window. Your bed is pushed up against an almost full length window. Boiling in the summer and freezing in the winter, he'd recently helped you reseal it with filler. You grabbed his leg to steady him, an unnecessary move that made his fondness for you triple. Quadruple. Maybe even heptuple.

"You get that new shirt on," he said, climbing down to go make some soup. "I'll be right back."

He is not right back. It takes him an embarrassing amount of time to make soup. First your hob won't work and then it's too hot and he burns the grilled cheese. He rushes to open your front door as the smoke alarms starts screaming and you emerge in the kitchen with the new shirt on and no pants.

"You've misplaced your pants," he says, looking pointedly at the new grilled cheese he's making.

"They're shorts."

"Ah," he says. Man up, Parker, he thinks.

"What's burning?" you ask hoarsely.

"Grilled cheese."

"You're making grilled cheese?"

"I'm making grilled cheese."

"Say grilled cheese five times fast," you say, leaning your elbows on the countertop heavily.

"Why don't you sit down?" he asks.

You sit down on the kitchen floor and he has to reevaluate how sick you are, turning down the stove and crouching in front of you. He tilts your head up and looks between both eyes.

"Are you feeling alright?" he asks.

"You're pretty," you say.

"So are you," he says. He massages your cheeks with his thumbs until you're laughing and inching away from him, batting his hands with yours.

"You can't sit there. You're a safety hazard."

You try to stand up. "I'm dizzy. My head feels really heavy."

He puts his hands out and slides them under your armpits, lifting you up with ease. You wobble in his hold and search for grounding with your hands, fingers grabbing at his shirt. It feels natural to push his chin over your head and pull you in for a hug, letting you rest your weight against his chest.

"Poor girl, you're really out of it, huh?" he asks, running his hand over your hair, your back. "Alright, I'll put you on the sofa, how's that? You can watch a movie."

You nod. He's glad for that. Soon you're tucked up on the sofa with a plate in your lap that holds a bowl of soup and two triangles of grilled cheese. You force half the sandwich into his hands before you start eating, an expectant look on your face.

You mostly eat big spoonfuls of soup, pausing to cough. He winces at each one.

"What did your cousins have? Whooping cough?"

You laugh, cough, and nibble on the end of your grilled cheese. "Jungle fever."

He takes your plate when you're done and you sink into the sofa, listless as you watch TV. He doesn't mind, your legs in his lap. He even thinks to himself, hey, this isn't such a bad first date.

You sit up abruptly and pitch to the side, gasping. He looks on in horror as you heave bile onto the ground. He rushes to the kitchen, straight for the bucket you keep under the sink for washing dishes and employs a little spidey speed to push it under your face as you throw up. Your rug lives to die another day.

He catches your hair and pulls it out of the way, soothing and patting your back as you go.

You pant with tears in your eyes when you're done. It's just soup and bile and hardly bothers him, he's seen worse, but you push it away from you and cover your face with your hands.

"Oh my god," you moan.

He helps you sit up and hunts down a tea towel for you to wipe your face with, slotting himself thigh to thigh with you. He puts his hand on your back. “Here.”

“I didn’t think it was a sickness bug, Pete, I swear, I never would’ve let you come over here,” you say. Your voice is raw.

“I don’t care,” he says.

“You’ll be sick again. Endless sick loop. No first date,” you say, remorseful.

“No, I’m getting my first date. I don’t care how sick we get, I’m gonna take you out and you’re gonna have a really good time, and then I’m gonna give you the best kiss of your life.”

He wipes your face with the tea towel, flattening the edges of your small smile. You wrinkle your nose at him.

“How can you think about kissing me right now?” you ask him, scrubbing your eyes with your hand.

“I think about kissing you all the time.”

You smile at him weakly. “Maybe I’ll believe you when I don’t smell like puke.”

“You wanna shower?”

“Don’t think I can stand up right now.”

“I don’t mind helping,” he says, and he’s completely genuine. He doesn’t think of the double entendre until you’re laughing a wheezing laugh and sinking into his side, face buried in his chest. He wraps his arms around you.

“Take me out to dinner first,” you mumble. Well, it’s not like he hasn’t been trying.

<3

𝗆𝖺𝗌𝗍𝖾𝗋𝗅𝗂𝗌𝗍

thanks for reading ❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️

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A collection of my favorite adorable Flapper Fanny clips! ೄྀ࿐ ˊˎ-