help in kitchen

lyssnh  asked:

okay okay but mistletoe kisses!!! you’re at the holland’s on christmas eve, and you’re helping nikki in the kitchen before dinner and you hear sam calling for you and you hurry over to him “what’s wrong?” “nothing just need to continue tradition” and you look up to see mistletoe “you cheeky shit” but you definitely kiss him nonetheless and you pull back “i gotta go help your mom” and he pulls you back for one more nice long one before letting you go (he def taps your ass as you walk away) -lyss

IM SOFTTT!! this boy would press his lips against your so quickly and lowkey his hands would find their way to your ass so when you pull back and claim you have to go he can tap it real quick with a smirk plastered to his lips

send in headcanons

peterplanet  asked:

sam is 100% the type of boy to go home with you for a lil over the holidays and always be close to you while he’s there bc he’s a lil shy. he’d help your mom cook and put on some cheeky tunes to cook to and be all cuddly after a good meal and just cling to you on the couch so that your entire family is like :’’’) and he’d ask, “d’you think they liked me, love?” so sincerely and you’d be like, “they want you to come back more than they want me to come back.” and it’s !!! true !!!

canon!!! if i brought home a boy that helped in the kitchen my mom would instantly love him for like ever. especially if he came over for thanksgiving and after you eat you’re both on the couch and you’re all curled into his side and he’s holding onto you and he definitely goes black friday shopping with you and when you go home he keeps bugging you about if your family liked him and you tell him that they loved him and can’t wait to have him back over and wow this turned into a thanksgiving headcanon i’m not too sorry lol


send in headcanons for the boys

Ereannie headcanon:

You know how sometimes people will say the food they made was made with love, or the secret ingredient is love, or something along those lines? For many years, Annie thought that this was just a bunch of bullshit that chefs and bakers would say to attract more customers, and that the food wouldn’t taste any different. The idea of love being an ingredient or component in food just sounded ridiculous to Annie, or at least until she met Eren.

During the years spent in the Cadet Corps, everyone would take turns at cooking meals for their division, or at least would help out in the kitchen. There were set groups on a schedule, so everyone would end up doing it on a specific day, but that schedule wouldn’t always be followed entirely. Normally Eren and Annie were in separate groups, but sometimes Eren would volunteer to help out on the days that Annie cooked so that he could get more advice on her fighting style, or they would be forced to work together when others fell ill or complained.

Now, neither one of the two were exceptionally good at cooking. Annie was just about average, if not better, while Eren was below average, and so in their normal groups they wouldn’t do the best at helping out, and would occasionaly receive some complaints, but they mostly brushed them off. It didn’t really make sense that they were bad at cooking, because they follow the instructions as usual, but somehow they always messed up.

However, on the occasions where Eren and Annie ended up being paired up, with their combined cooking ability, something changed. They continued to follow the instructions, and would serve the food the exact same way they did before, and they would see on peoples faces that it wasn’t the best tasting food they’d ever had. Over time, though, Annie grew to enjoy cooking with Eren more and more, and it helped that her fellow cadets seemed to enjoy the good more and more, even though as I said nothing changed. No new ingredients, no new instructions. Nothing. Annie would taste her food, and when she did she noticed the change in taste. It felt like there was something new. Was this what they meant when they say some food was cooked with love? It certainly felt like it.

Hell, the way that Eren’s face lit up once he found out how good their creation tasted was more than enough confirmation that the food was made with love. Falling in love with Eren Yeager caused Annie to cook with love, and caused her to finally see something beautiful in life.

After Annie left the Cadet Corps and moved onto the Military Police, food started tasting bad again. Even though the food in the inner cities was supposed to be of higher quality and was supposed to taste better than anything else, it all tasted like gruel compared to what Annie had made with Eren. The only thing that came close was the donuts that Annie had been introduced to, though that could have just been the sweetness reminding her of Eren.

Maybe saying your food was prepared with love would work on most people, but for Annie, it only worked when she made it alongside Eren.

why do people think household stuff is Sad and Boring

my kitchen has enough cast iron in it to go to war with the Seelie AND Unseelie courts, I get to have a tiny box that CONTROLS MICROWAVES and I don’t even really know what microwaves ARE but THEY ARE HARNESSED AT MY COMMAND, I have a box that makes Winter Happen in a controlled space AND at two different levels of Winter AT ONCE

like please just appreciate sometimes how much Awesome is in your house 

2

New to witchcraft or want to expand your library? Here are two wonderful books.

The first book, The Book of Kitchen Witchery, is a very good book for anyone starting out and wanting to learn the basics. It gives you a step by step how to set up an altar, how to purify your sacred space, seasons/holidays of the year, how to make different potions, and brews with herbs you grow and cultivated.
You can buy this book here: https://www.amazon.com/Book-Kitchen-Witchery-recipes-enchanted/dp/1782493727


The second book, The Hearth Witch’s Compendium, is my personal favorite. You really can’t go wrong with adding this to the collection of books you have at home. Not only does it give the basics on witchcraft, but gives a complete guide on what herbs treat and heal certain illnesses. Many recipes on brews, tinctures, potions, and so much more! You won’t regret this book, I promise!
You can buy this book here: https://www.amazon.com/Hearth-Witchs-Compendium-Magical-Natural/dp/0738750468

hey i just wanted to say that if you’re already scraping by to make ends meet, the holidays are really hard. and that puts pressure on you and on your whole family. and if there’s one thing i hope you know it’s that you don’t need to prove you love someone by buying them something. i know we all want to get the people we care about really fancy things. but i’m okay if you get me like a smooth rock you found by the ocean. i know it’s true of other people, too. i’d rather you hand me a diy picture frame from popsicle sticks than something you had to go into debt to buy, and i think any person who’s worth their socks will tell you the same thing. and on that note? everybody loves socks, and they’re pretty cheap. yes, it’d be great if you and i stumbled on enough money to actually afford things. but love, i’ve learned, isn’t about the buying.

and on that note? for those of you out there who find the holidays a particularly dark time… i hope you know there will always be someone willing to open the door for you. even when it feels like there’s no one. even if that door is a window you have to crawl through. 

and for those of us who have more than we need, i hope we open those doors. if you notice someone who is going to be alone during the holidays, or who is usually depressed but for no apparent reason seems markedly happy and is giving away their things, please invite them over. hang out with them, no matter how awkward it is. sudden cleaning and long notes about how much they love you are also signs of suicide. with recent changes in insurance, it’s increasingly harder to find mental health care, so help a friend out (and maybe even yourself!) by figuring out who still takes the insurance offered so we can all give ourselves the gift of coping mechanisms, the gift that keeps on giving.

i hope you all are happy and safe this season!

🍳Taste Correspondences☕

As a kitchen witch, flavor is a very important component in my practice. Certain spells aimed towards particular needs dictate what something should taste like; we know what foods we associate with what need, here I just list what tastes are therefore associated with those particular needs.

There are eight kinds of tastes: sweet, salty, sour, bitter, savory, menthol (ingredients that cause a cooling sensation, such as mint), spicy (ingredients that cause a hot sensation, such as pepper) and dry (ingredients that cause a dry sensation in the mouth, such as certain wines). 

Anxiety Relief: Sweet, Menthol, Bitter

Banishing: Salty, Bitter, Spicy

Beauty: Sweet, Dry

Calming: Menthol

Cleansing: Sour, Bitter, Menthol, Spicy, Salty

Creativity: Sweet, Savory, Spicy, Dry

Depression: Sweet, Menthol, Dry

Energy: Salty, Savory

Happiness: Sweet, Savory, Spicy

Healing: Sweet, Sour, Spicy, Dry

Love: Sweet, Spicy

Luck: Menthol, Savory, Spicy

Memory: Sour, Bitter, Menthol

Motivation: Savory

Pain Relief: Menthol, Spicy

Protection: Salty, Spicy

Sleep: Bitter, Menthol

Success: Sweet, Savory

Tinctures, tinctures, tinctures!

Many witches from all walks of life have been using tinctures for generations. Tinctures can be used for healing a whole variety of illnesses. Let’s be clear though, tinctures are more soluable in alcohol than in water. Alcohol will dissolve and extract natural resins, oils, alkaloids, sugars, starches, and hormones, though tinctures do not extract nutrients such as vitamins or minerals. Most often vodka or brandy is used to make tinctures. Unlike an infusion or decoction, tinctures are much stronger making it so you only need to use a few drops in water as a medicinal dose. You can also use a few drops in salves or baths.

Making a Simple Tincture

You will need:

• (4) ounces of dried herbs or (8) ounces of fresh herbs

• (1) clean jar for storing your tincture (something that can hold at least (20) ounces.)

• (1) pint of brandy or vodka

• (1) dark bottle (used to store the tincture when it’s finished)


Let’s get started!

To make a tincture, take (4) ounces of dried herbs or (8) ounces of fresh picked herbs in a clean jar. Make sure this jar can hold at least (20) ounces. Now pour the (1) pint of alcohol you have chosen slowly over your herbs. Simply seal your jar now and keep it in a warm place (no colder than 70°F/21°C) for 2 weeks, shaking it up a couple times a day. After the 2 weeks is over, strain out the herbs so all that is left is the liquid. Lastly, pour your tincture in a dark colored bottle and store away.

Have fun with this. There are endless opportunities when making tinctures. It’s a very easy way for any witch to cleanse and heal the body naturally. You don’t have to be a hearth witch to love making tinctures! ♡

spiritworldly  asked:

( whispers quietly ) eros & psyche ?

Aphrodite can’t get comfortable during her pregnancy. She’s always too hot, constantly sweating whether she’s in the in the oppressive heat at the bottom of the volcano, or in the icy air at the top of it. It makes no difference. No matter where she goes or what she does, she can’t find any relief. Hephaestus hovers over her, wringing his hands and leaning his head against her stomach. Her distended skin is too warm to the touch, and both of them can’t help but worry about their child that grows inside her.

They beg help from Artemis, who has no help to give them. “The child is healthy,” she tells them, mystified. “The mother is healthy, though pained. I can do nothing for you because there is nothing to be done.”

Time passes. The child is born. They call him Eros.

He burns.

~

He warms in Artemis’s hands as she cleans him and Aphrodite eagerly waits to be handed her son. Artemis cries out and has to put him down, blisters appearing on his hands. Aphrodite moves to pick him up, and she can stand his heat for longer, but after a few minutes he leaves a welt of burnt flesh against her chest. Hephaestus tries next, and manages to hold his son for a whole quarter of an hour before his skin is eaten away.

Artemis can do nothing. She insists there’s nothing wrong with him, it’s just how he is. Hephaestus crafts gloves of flexible metal so they can care for him – the babe’s fire reacts to the warmth of another person. Clothes and objects remain unburned. They go to Hermes, to Apollo, to Hestia, and none can help them. Hestia tries to hold the child. She is the keeper of celestial fire, which burns hotter than anything, yet she too comes away burned. “The celestial fire is of me, and so it cannot harm me,” she tells them regretfully, “Eros is not, and so he can.”

No one can help them.

Eros cries, constantly unhappy because he longs to be held and rocked, longs for the warmth of his parents but they can only give him snatches of affections, stolen moments before he burns them and they must retreat behind cool metal.

Aphrodite is desperate. She sneaks away to Mount Olympus, goes against her husband’s wishes and goes to Hera. She’s crying as she speaks, and Hera watches her with cool, impassive eyes. “There is nothing wrong with your son,” she says. “He is as he was made to be. If you cannot provide the care he needs, find someone who can.”

Aphrodite stares, betrayed. Hera has been kind to her in the past, was the one who helped her choose her husband when all of Olympus sought her hand. Aphrodite is a daughter of Zeus, but not of another woman, and so Hera hadn’t hated her.

Hera loses some of her sternness. “I have given you the answer you need, if not the one you wanted. Return to you child and husband.”

She goes.

She tells Hephaestus where she went, and instead of angry he becomes contemplative.

~

Ares is blood soaked and exhausted when his brother appears beside him in the middle of a battlefield. “Hephaestus,” he greets, startled, “Is something wrong?”

“I need your help,” says the man who had never once asked him for anything, “I know it hurts to leave, but–”

Ares shakes his head, “There will always be another war. What do you need?”

~

He can wield the lightning bolts of Zeus and he takes bathes in lava to soothe the ache of his muscles. Ares is not bothered by heat or flame because it passes through him, he manages to do these things because he absorbs their heat instead of being harmed by it.

He’s in his brother’s bed, holding his nephew, and Eros gives him a gap-toothed little grin from where he’s splaying out against his chest, skin against skin. “Cute kid,” he yawns. Hephaestus is on one side of him, and Aphrodite on the other.

Ares leeches most of the heat from Eros, so he’s cool enough to touch, so his parents can pat his back and kiss his forehead. “Thank you,” Hephaestus says, finally able to touch his son without consequence.

“Anytime,” Ares says, eyes sliding shut.

With his brother’s family curled around him, Ares finds enough calm to sleep.

~

When Eros is older, he learns to control it. He always runs hot, but by the time he’s gotten big enough that the cyclopses are constantly chasing him in fear of him getting into something he shouldn’t, he’s learned to regulate his temperature to the point he doesn’t burn anyone any more.

Or at least, he doesn’t burn any gods anymore. No matter how hard he tries, he’s too hot for any mortal to touch unharmed.

Before that, Ares spends every moment away from the battlefield with Eros that he can. He’s not always able to sleep, but he lies down with Eros on top him and with Aphrodite and Hephaestus on either side.

Rumors run rampant, like they always do. People say Eros is the product of a union between Ares and Aphrodite, they say that Aphrodite has been cheating on her husband since the moment they married.

“I’m sorry,” Ares says, face pinched.

Hephaestus smiles, and Ares relaxes. “You are only doing what I’ve asked of you. There’s nothing to apologize for.”

Ares can’t help but feel guilty anyway.

~

Eros grows, from a toddler to a man. He burns, a wide laughing mouth and eyes like the sun. When he’s declared the god of passion, no one is surprised.

He has the best features of both his parents, and is devastatingly beautiful, with a face that Helen herself would weep over. He is the son of the goddess of love and the god of craftsmanship, and passion is necessary for both.

Passion is many things. There is passion in love, and he goads many a shy couple into a desperate embrace. There is passion in war, and when the battlefield grows stilted and tired he joins his favorite uncle there and brings their energy to the fore. There is passion in academia, and Eros encourages many scholars who spend long nights seeking answers they may never find. There is passion in art, and he blesses uninspired artists to create their heart’s desire.

Passion is a quickening heartbeat, a want that must be sated, a determination to follow through. It is burning until you are nothing more than ash simply because the fire is too beautiful to put out.

Eros is a favorite among the gods, because so much of what he does benefits them. He quickens the pulse of a people, and they use that energy to do great deeds in the gods’ names.

He is beautiful and powerful and loved. He wants for nothing, until –

- until his mother sends him to help a village girl who has been praying to her for months.

Eros sees Psyche, and instantly knows the weight of love in his chest.

~

Psyche is beautiful.

She knows this, it is the one thing about herself that she knows. All her life people tell her this, when she’s a babbling baby and a little girl and a fully grown woman, it’s what people say to her.

Men come to her seeking her hand, crossing borders and monsters to end up at her door. “I have no dowry,” she tells them, “I cannot cook, I am a poor seamstress, I have never cleaned a home.”

“I do not care,” they all tell her, with their greedy eyes and their greedy hands, “You are beautiful.”

Her mother and aunts shooed her from the kitchen as a child, saying the steam would ruin her pretty hair, wouldn’t let her sew because the needles would harden her soft hands, didn’t want her to spend hours cleaning because the she was too lovely to mar with common dirt.

Other children wouldn’t play with her, including her sisters, and soon she ran from all her tutors whose gazes made her shoulders itch. The first time someone lays tribute at her feet, like she is some sort of goddess and not a simple village girl, she runs away and locks herself in her room.  

The tributes and prayers don’t stop, and she hates them. She only wants to be like everyone else, wants to read and cook and have friends. Every night she bundles up the gifts and tributes people give her sneaks away to the temple of Aphrodite. She lays these things where they belong, with the goddess of beauty and love. “Please,” she begs, every night, “please make it all stop, revered goddess. I can’t live this way.”

She does this, for years and years, but her prayers are never answered. She sinks lower and lower, feeling confined to her home like a prisoner since she can’t leave it without flowers being thrown at her feet or someone remarking on her figure and face. Her sisters will not speak to her, and her parents will not listen to her. She eats less and spends days languishing in bed, growing weaker and more tired by the day.

One day, after turning away yet another suitor and being turned away yet again when she tries to help her mother in the kitchen, she goes far out of the village, where no will find her, where no one will be able to remark on the beauty of her corpse.

She walks to the edge of a cliff, and takes a deep breath. “Lady Aphrodite,” she whispers, “let me be ugly in my next life.”

She jumps.

~

Eros sees her falling, and bids Zephyr to save her. She is caught gently by the wind. However, she’s so weak and malnourished that the shock of not falling to her death causes her to pass into unconsciousness. He wishes he could have save her himself, that he could take her in his arms now and cradler her close to his chest.

But he burns.

If he touched her, he would harm her, so he will not.

“Take her to my home,” he says, conflicted because he has no interest in growing into either Zeus or Poseidon. But he cannot touch her, so it’s not the same. “I’ll be along shortly.”

Zephyr carries her away, far into the distance.

This is not what his mother intended when she sent him here, but he can’t leave Psyche among the mortals. If she tried to kill herself once, she’ll do it again, and then where will he be?

Eros feels heavy with love, and he does not know this girl, he does not know how this is possible unless it has been arranged by the Fates. Psyche is a beautiful girl, but he is a god. He is the son of the goddess of beauty and every other goddess he knows is comparable in the grace of their form and face. Beautiful mortals do not tempt him.

He has other things to attend to, so he puts aside the problem of Psyche so he can go convince a young noble lady to kiss the baker’s daughter.

~

Psyche wakes up, which she wasn’t expecting. What’s more, she’s not in pain. She’s being carefully deposited on soft grass by a being she can’t see. “Where am I?” she cries. She doesn’t think this is the afterlife. She’s on top of a large mountain, and a large, gorgeous home with marble columns sits on the edge.

There is an edge. She can still jump. She takes one hesitant step closer when a strong gust of wind pushes her back and something like a voice says, This is the home of a god, do not desecrate this place with your blood.

“Okay,” she says, a mixture of relief and fear clogging her throat, “Can I – can I go inside? It’s cold out here.”

The wind pushes her towards the home, so she takes that as permission.

It’s all marble and gold and fur, perfectly decorated and with many rooms and interesting things. But Psyche finds the bedroom, and in between the long journey outside of her village and the adrenaline of being caught by the wind and brought here, she’s exhausted. She climbs onto the soft bed without thinking, and is asleep the moment her head touches the pillow.

~

The moon is high in the sky by the time Eros returns home. He steps inside, and doesn’t light any of the torches out of fear of startling the girl. He finds her in his own bedroom, and only has a moment to stare at her silhouette against his white blankets before she’s stirring, pushing herself up looking around the room. Her eyes aren’t as good as his, so she can’t even see the outlines of objects. To her, it is complete darkness. “Who’s there?” she demands, voice scratchy from sleep, “What do you want?”

“I am a friend,” he says, not saying his name. He knows the impression mortals have of him, and the last thing she needs to hear is that he’s the god of passion while she lies helpless before him in his bed. “The wind brought you here because you threw yourself from the cliff face. Why would you do that?”

She sits up and pulls her knees to her chest. “I don’t want to talk to about it.”

He sighs, but doesn’t push. “I’m not here to make you do anything you don’t want to do.”

“What are you here to do?” she asks, “Why am I here?”

She sounds sad, and scared, and he wishes he could touch her. He wishes he could take her hands and kiss her forehead, but he can’t, not without hurting her. “I think it would be best if you stayed with me, for a while. Until you no longer find cliffs so tempting. I have a beautiful home, and am often gone while attending to my duties, so feel free to make full use of it.”

“What do you get out of it?” she demands.

He smiles, wry, and knows she cannot see it. “I suppose I could use a housekeeper.”

He meant it as a joke, but she perks up at the words. “A housekeeper? Really?”

“If you like,” he says, although there are nature sprites who tend to his home for him if necessary. “I apologize, we’ve been speaking in the dark this whole time. I’ll light the lanterns.”

He moves to do so, a flicker of flame already appearing on his fingertips when she screams, “NO! DON’T!”

Eros freezes. “Psyche?”

“You can’t look at me,” she says desperately, “Please. Not – not ever. If you saw me, you wouldn’t be so nice to me. I – I want you to be nice to me. Don’t light the lanterns.”

“Never?” he asks, and he’s already seen her from afar, he knows what she looks like. But it sounds as if she’s seconds away from away from crying, and it seems like it would only be a cruelty to tell her this now.

“Never,” she says, “please. Please.”

Staying away from home during the day is a small thing, what with his parent’s volcano always open to him, and he can see well enough in the darkness that he’s not in any danger of tripping over his own feet. “Very well, Psyche. If that’s what you want. We will only meet in darkness, and I shall never see your face.”

~

Psyche takes his offhand comment about housekeeping seriously. She’s never cleaned before, but she’s seen it done, it’s simple if not easy. The first time her hands blister and crack she can’t stop smiling for the rest of the day. She spends her days cleaning, and at first that takes up all her time. She’s unpracticed, and slow, and she falls into the same bed utterly exhausted. It leaves her no time to dwell on the life she left behind, or the hollow ache below her breastbone.

It’s hard work, and it leaves her ravenous. Before, she ate almost nothing and slept most of the day away. She doesn’t do that here, can’t, has more of an appetite than she’s had since she was a child. Nymphs bring food to the home, fruits and vegetables, bread and cheese and meat. At first she makes only simple meals, but as the cleaning takes less and less time she finds herself trying more things. Cooking is harder to get the hang of than cleaning.

Her friend comes to her at night, slipping into her room. She always knows when he’s there, even if she’s deep in sleep, and will wake up to speak to him. Psyche never leaves the bed, and he never comes from across the room. She sits up and listens to his voice, of the people he saw and things he did. She tells him the same, even though at first she thinks he does not care. But he does, because he asks her questions and compliments her on polishing the floors until they shine. One night after a particularly bad failure, the first thing he does is ask, “Did you try and burn down my kitchen, Psyche?”

He’s laughing, so she throws a pillow at him, and is satisfied by the dull thud of it hitting true and his laughter growing louder. “If I had tried I would have succeeded, and you would have come home to an ash pile.”

“Then I’m pleased by your restraint,” he says, and she scowls at him even though he can’t see it. “What was that horrible smell supposed to me?”

“Lamb,” she says, sighing. “I don’t think I’m a very good cook.”

“Perhaps not. Why don’t you try doing something else? What else do you enjoy?” he asks.

She sits cross legged on the bed and frowns. “I don’t know,” she says finally, “I’m a poor artist and a worse singer. I have no eye for needlework. I like knowing things, but I’m not a fan of learning. I – I like cleaning. I like using my hands.”

“Focus on what you like. Try to do some things with your hands. The garden could use some looking after,” he suggests.

“I do have to eat,” she points out, “I might as well learn to cook.”

He snorts. “Spare both yourself and my kitchen. Don’t worry about that. Worry about the mint that’s taking over the rose bushes.”

She doesn’t know what he means until she gets up the next morning and finds a day’s worth of food waiting for her, already made and much tastier than anything she’s managed. Next to it is a book on gardening.

This, she has a knack for. It is a god’s garden, so it has always been beautiful, but under her hands it becomes even more so, flourishing and vibrant under her attentions. She plants flowers that bloom and glow at night, so that her friend may walk through the garden and be greeted by something that doesn’t slumber.

Her hands are calloused and hard, and dirt gets stuck under fingernails. Her hair is a sweaty mess and breaking at the ends, and her skin is tanned in patches, her arms and the back of neck darker than her stomach and thighs. Freckles pop up in unexpected places, on her wrists and shoulders, a single one slightly off center of her sternum.

She has never felt more beautiful.

Psyche is stronger now, food and hard work having thickened her waist and brightened her eyes. She does not fall asleep exhausted each night, but instead sits up waiting for her friend to visit her, eagerly listening to his adventures of the day and telling him of all the things she did, of the new plants she’s trying to grow and how the shrubbery is stubbornly growing in uneven heightd.

“My hands are all rough,” she tells him one night, like it’s a secret.

He doesn’t understand. “Have you tried rubbing olive oil in them?”

She laughs, and gets to her feet, confident she knows the room well enough that she won’t stumble or fall and walking towards his voice. “No, it’s a good thing, it’s never happened before. See?”

She reaches out and he shouts, “No! Don’t touch me–”

It’s too late, her hand has already blindly grabbed onto his arm. She lets go, “I’m sorry! I didn’t know–”

“We have to get you to Hermes, before the burns get too bad,” he says urgently.

Now she’s the one who doesn’t understand. “What burns?”

He quiets. “You’re not hurt?”

She flexes her hand, mystified. “No. Should I be?”

“I – everyone else always was,” he says.

“I’m not everyone else,” she says confidently, and takes another step closer. She grabs onto his arm again, fumbling until she can hold his hand in hers. He flinches, but doesn’t pull away from her. “See, I’m fine.”

Carefully, and oh so slowly, he curls an arm around her waist and pulls her forward until she’s flush against his chest and full lips press against her forehead. “I’m – I’m glad.”

He’s not just talking about her not being burned. She feels such a surge of affection for him in this moment, and being held in his arms she realizes something. She loves him, this man she’s never seen and doesn’t truly know. He’s kind and funny and has given her back a life she hadn’t known she’d lost. He’s never touched her or coveted her, and even now in his arms there’s nothing lecherous or uncomfortable about his touch.

That might change, if he saw her. If he knew how she looked, he might forget about the rest of her, and to lose his affection and regard now would kill her as surely as that fall from the cliff would have.

But he does not need to see her to touch her.

She shifts enough so that he raises his head, and gathers her courage. She presses their lips together, lightly at first, then less lightly when he returns it. “Come to bed,” she says, when they part, dizzy with emotions she’s never had before.

“Are you sure?” he asks, voice rough.

She’s never been more sure of anything in her life.

“Yes.”

~

That’s her life now, her days filled with cleaning and gardening and her nights with her friend, her now lover. He’s never told her his name, and she doesn’t want to ask. He doesn’t see her and she doesn’t know his name. It seems better that way, more fair. She falls asleep in his arms every night, and he’s gone by the time she wakes, gone before the first ray of sunlight creeps through the window.

He loves her. It’s obvious, so incredibly obvious that she’s ashamed she didn’t notice before. He let her sleep in his bed even before they were sleeping together, gave over his home to her and requested nothing in return, listens to her and laughs with her. He loves her, and she loves him, and it’s time she trusted him.

She’s wide awake when he comes to her, greeting her with a kiss. He notices her stiffness and pulls back. “Is something wrong?”

“I think it’s time you saw my face,” she’s shaking, and she can’t stop it. She loves him and is terrified his love for her will change when he sees her.

She sits up in bed, and he kneels in front of her on the floor, holding her hands in his. “Psyche, you don’t have to if you don’t want to. It’s okay.”

She shakes her head, “No. I love you, and – and we should be together in the light of day, our love is too big to fit in this room anymore.”

He kisses her wrist and says, “Whatever you like.”

How will she live without this love? Hopefully she won’t have to find out. She reaches for a lantern and sets it in her lap, lighting it with careful fingers. A soft glow fills the room, and she squeezes her eyes shut, waiting.

A finger touches a spot on her sternum, then her shoulders, her neck, her cheeks, then the tip of her nose. “You have freckles,” he says, “I like them.”

She opens her eyes. Her lover is smiling at her, and he’s gorgeous, every bit as pretty as she is with dark eyes and even darker skin. Most importantly, he’s looking at her like a person, with love and affection. Not with something blank and othering like so many people have looked at her before, not like she’s an object or an art piece.

The tidal wave of relief is so great that she’s weak with it. She realizes her mistake a second later when the lantern slips out of her hands, spilling hot oil.

Her lover reacts faster than any mortal man could, pushing her out of the way and catching the lantern at an awkward angle, so most of the burning oil spills down his arms and chest. “No!” Psyche cries.

He looks down at his blistering skin with fascination, “That’s never happened before.” He winces, and clenches his hands as the burns spread along his body, as his skin cracks and bleeds.

“Lie down!” Psyche cries, grabbing the sheets and trying to mop up the oil, trying to stop it from spreading. “What were you thinking? You should have let it fall on me!”

It’s burning more than hot oil should, and she’s sobbing as tries to stop it. “Don’t be ridiculous,” he says, voice slurring as his eyes slide shut. “I would never let anything hurt you.”

“No!” she grabs his shoulders and shakes him, “Wake up! You have to wake up!”

He doesn’t respond. Psyche thinks back, frantic, to when he thought he had burned her when they first touched, to the person he said they needed. “HERMES!” she screams, “HERMES! A GOD NEEDS YOU!”

There’s a flash of light, and the messenger god of healing and is in front of them. “Eros,” he says, dropping down beside him and not looking at Psyche at all. “What happened to you?”

He touches his chest, and then they’re both gone.

Psyche is left alone crying next to an oil soaked sheet.

~

Hermes takes Eros to his parents, both of whom drop everything to come to his side. “What happened?” Hephaestus demands.

Hermes concentrates on containing the burns before they can spread any further. He can worry about healing them alter. “He dropped oil on himself.”

“He’s a god,” Aphrodite snaps, “no oil can harm him. Even if it could, it wouldn’t be able to do this.”

Hermes shoots them both a grin, “It seems like your boy’s fallen in love. Only true love could cool him enough to burn him, only true love could hurt him like this.”

It’s at that moment that Eros gasps awake. He reaches out, and Aphrodite takes his hand. “Mom,” he says, eye wide, “please, go to my house, there’s a girl there–”

“Did she do this to you?” she asks dangerously.

“It was an accident. I pushed her out of the way, I didn’t know I would burn,” he moans in pain, then grits his teeth against it. “Mom, please. Please go to her.”

She looks to Hermes, who’s busy mixing a salve. He doesn’t look up at her as he says, “Your son will be fine. I’ll take care of the burns.”

Hephaestus meets her gaze and gives a sharp nod. “Go, I’ll stay with him.”

Aphrodite doesn’t want to leave him, but gives in and does as her son asks of her.

~

She shows up just in time to stop the mortal girl from hurling herself from the mountain side. “What do you think you’re doing?” she snaps, and takes a moment to register that it’s the village girl she sent Eros to help so long ago. This wasn’t what she’d had in mind.

Her red eyes and tear soaked face does more to sooth Aphrodite’s temper than any excuses she could have given. “He’s dead,” she sobs, “I love him, and he’s gone, and there’s no reason for me to live any longer. Please, let me die.”

Aphrodite sees the glow of love on her, and knows the girl’s affection for her son is true. “He is not dead,” she hesitates and adds, “yet.”

True love has started wars and left all involved nothing but dust and regret. Her son deserved more than that. A love must not only be true – it must be pure.

“If you wish for him to live, you must help me,” she says.

Psyche prostrates herself before her, “Anything! I’ll do anything!”

Aphrodite moves them to warehouse full of mixed grains. “You must sort these before dawn. Barley is necessary for a poultice that will heal my son. Hurry.”

~

Psyche looks at all of them and despairs. But her lover needs her. Eros needs her.

She gets to work.

The night is halfway gone and she’s not even a tenth of the way complete. There’s no hope, her love will die, and there’s nothing she can do to stop it. She gives in, and is sobbing in the middle of the warehouse when she feels a tickling sensation on her hand. She looks down to see a small ant. “Why are you crying?” the ant asks.

“I need to sort all these grains, and I cannot do it,” she says, sniffling. “My lover needs the barely to heal.”

The ant considers this. “I will help you,” it declares, “and in return you must allow me to take all the beans from this store.”

“They are not mine to give,” Psyche says regretfully, “so I cannot accept your help.”

“Then your lover will die,” the ant says callously, and leaves.

She looks at the unsorted pile of grains. Not if she can help it.

Psyche shoves up her sleeves and gets back to work.

~

Aphrodite shows up, and Psyche is still working. She’s gotten through three quarters of the grains, and Aphrodite is impressed. She did not think she would manage to get through even half. The girl clearly hasn’t slept, and even now doesn’t pause in her work. “Lady,” she says, “I’m not done yet.”

“That is enough,” Aphrodite says, looking at the sizable pile of barley. She produces a glass bottle and puts it in front of her. “To stave of death while we make the poultice, we need water from the river Styx. There is a spout on top of my son’s mountain. You must collect this water and return it to me.”

Psyche’s shoulder’s slump, but she doesn’t hesitate when she takes the glass bottle. “I will do it.”

~

Psyche calls for the wind, begging it to take her to the top of the mountain. If the lady wishes, it says. She’s lifted into the air, and brought there. She’s freezing, and it’s hard to breath in the cold air. Dragons sit on either side of the spout, snapping their jaws at her. “Please!” she calls out, “I need the water of the river Styx! I act in the name of Aphrodite.”

They hiss and spit fire at her, and she clings to the side, trying to avoid the flames. “We are not commanded by the Lady Aphrodite,” a child’s voice says, and Psyche looks up to see a girl with black skin and grey hair looking down at her from the back of one of the dragons.

“Please,” Psyche says, “Lady Styx, grant me some of your river. Eros need it to live.”

Styx frowns, and says, “This is not a water which brings life.”

“Please,” she repeats, “I swear no harm will be done in your name, I swear my intentions are honest.”

The child goddess sighs and says, “Come and get it then. If my dragons’ flames pass through you, then you speak the truth, and may have some of my river. If you lie, then I shall see you again in the underworld.”

Psyche nods and walks forward, not breaking eye contact with the child goddess. The dragons screech and flame roars towards her and then – it goes through her. She reaches the top of the mountain safely. She holds out the glass bottle.

Styx laughs and fill it for her. “Happy travels,” she says, right before pushing her off the mountain. Zephyr catches her halfway down, and it takes several seconds for Psyche to stop screaming.

Zephyr deposits her back on the ground, and Aphrodite appears before her. Psyche hands over the bottle.

Aphrodite undoes it and pours the water out, and the grass dies wherever it falls. “It’s too late,” she says, and Psyche’s heart is in her throat, “the only thing left to do is to go to Persephone and beg a spark of life from her.” She slashes her hand down, and opening into the underworld appears. “Persephone will not grant any request of mine. You must go.”

She barely finished speaking when Psyche throws herself through the portal.

~

Aphrodite stares at the place where the girl stood, stunned. Hermes appears beside her. “Your son is well and only sleeps,” he says, “Isn’t this a bit unnecessary?”

“My son has a heart that will never stray. She must prove herself worthy of it,” Aphrodite answers.

Hermes stares, “You will petition Zeus for her?”

“If she proves herself worthy,” she says, then looks at the place where she poured out the incalculably dangerous water of the river Styx. “She’s doing quite well, so far.”

~

Psyche stumbles as she goes through the portal and falls on her knees. This ends up being rather lucky, as it’s taken her to the throne room of the palace of the underworld. Not only is Persephone there, but so is Hades and a god she thinks might be Thanatos. Both Persephone and Thanatos throw Hades narrow eyed looks, which he ignores. “Miss Psyche,” he says, “we’ve been expecting you.”

“Have we,” Persephone says dryly.

Psyche shuffles forward until she’s kneeling in front of Persephone and presses her forehead to the cool obsidian floor. “Lady Goddess,” she says, “I beg a spark of life from you.”

Persephone rises from her throne, and circles her with slow measured steps, her face blank and cold. “I’ve seen you garden,” she says finally, “you have quite a talent with plants.”

“Thank you, Lady,” she says.

Persephone crouches and grabs her chin, jerking up her chin to get a good look at her. “Well, aren’t you a pretty little thing,” she murmurs. “I will give you a spark of life. In return, you must give me your beauty.”

“Take it,” Psyche begs, elated the price is so small, “I don’t want it, I’ve never wanted it. All I want is Eros.”

Her coldness melts away, and the goddess of life and death shakes her head, a small smile curled around the corner of her lips. “He chose well,” she says.

Psyche doesn’t understand until there’s another rip in the air, and her lover steps through. He looks healthy, alive and well. “Eros!” she cries, forgetting her place and standing in the presence of the king and queen of the dead. Before she can kneel once more, Eros runs to her and picks her up in his arms, raising her into the air and spinning her.

“I was so worried about you,” he says, kissing her, then kissing her tears away.

“I thought you were dying!” she says, running her hands over his chest and shoulders and nearly falling in relief when the skin there is whole and unburned.

He winces and kisses her once more, “My mother – I asked her to help you, not test you. I’m sorry.”

“You should be grateful,” Hades says, and they both turn to face him. “Psyche has proven herself, and Aphrodite intends to contest Zeus so that she may stay by your side for eternity.” He smiles, “If Aphrodite is unsuccessful, come to me. I will do what I can.”

They both bow to him, and then are gone in the next moment.

~

Aphrodite goes to Hephaestus, “You are his son, Zeus would want the request to come from you.”

“You are his daughter,” he shoots back, even as he paces.

She sighs, “I was born of his blood and sea foam. It is not the same, and you know it.”

Hephaestus gives a grudging nod. Neither of them are favorites among Olympus, so he goes to someone who is.

Ares looks at him consideringly. “You should ask Mom yourself. Father will do as she says.”  

“Hera hates me,” Hephaestus snaps. “She will reject my son’s request if I’m the one to present it.”

Ares grabs the back of his brother’s neck, pulling them together until their foreheads touch. Some tension gradually bleeds out of Hephaestus. “Try, for me,” Ares says. “If she denies you, I will ask her, and she will not deny me.”

Hephaestus goes to Mount Olympus when Zeus is gone and kneels before Hera. He looks up, and can’t help but think that Ares is right – they have her eyes. Eros has her eyes too. “My son has fallen in love with a mortal girl whom he wishes to marry. I petition you to allow her to become immortal.”

He’s braced for anything, shoulders hunched. Her laughter, her scorn, for her to throw him from Mount Olympus like she did when he was freshly born. “Would this make you happy?” she asks.

He blinks, mouth open. Is this some other cruel trick, to force him to admit it’s something he wants only so she can take greater pleasure in denying him? “Yes,” he says, because it’s true. It will make Eros happy, and when his son is happy, he is happy.

“Very well,” Hera says coolly. “We will have the wedding on Mount Olympus, and once they exchange vows she will become like us.”

He stares, frozen in shock. He didn’t expect it to be that easy. He’s never heard of anyone requesting anything from Hera and just getting it besides Ares.

“Was there anything else?” she asks.

Hephaestus shakes his head, “No, my queen. Thank you.”

He’s gone before she has a chance to respond, before she has a chance to change her mind.

~

Eros and Psyche’s marriage is the event of the century. Gods great and small show up for it, even Hades is convinced to leave his realm to attend.

They pledge their lives to each other, and Hera officiates as the goddess of marriage. Once they swear their loyalty to one another, she takes a small square of ambrosia and hand feeds it to Psyche. She swallows it in two bites, and when she’s finished she glows with her new status as an immortal.

Eros grabs Psyche and dips her.

When he kisses her, the gods’ cheering is loud enough that it causes thunder storms all across earth.

gods and monsters series, part xix

read more of the gods and monsters series here

4

I’m not saying Dex has a teeny crush on Bitty and that’s why he learns to bake and always helps Bitty out in the kitchen except that’s what I’m totally saying. 

Bonus: the moment he probably started feeling all gross and mushy towards that weird baking sophomore

Most of the time, Even loves Jonas. 

He does- Jonas is quick witted and intelligent. He loves films and art and Even has the most interesting conversations with Jonas when they’re both high off their ass. Even more interesting ones when they aren’t.

He means, yeah sure, every now and then they butt heads when it comes to Isak because they both love him dearly in their own ways, but at the end of the day; they are always willing to laugh it off into a can of beer.

So they’re chill. Even likes Jonas.

But at this moment, Even wants to break the curly headed fuck’s neck.

“Let’s take marriage for instance,” Jonas says, sipping a can of beer and gesturing wildly to both the other boys in their squad and the girls, “It’s nothing but a capitalistic invention. People throw these huge ceremonies and spend millions of dollars on bullshit like valentine’s day cards and wedding receptions. I mean really– marriage is obsolete in this day and age. What the fuck is a piece of paper going to tell you? Completely unnecessary.”

Even clenches his jaw, because Isak is nodding in his hesitant way, looking interested in the topic. Slowly being convinced maybe.

That just won’t do. Because Even has a ring in his pocket that he’s been carrying around for ages and tonight was supposed to be the night that he was going to drop down on his legs and ask the fucking question.

But fucking Jonas is messing shit up.

“I don’t think it’s obsolete,” Even says through gritted teeth, “Standing up in front of you family and friends and promising yourself to the one person in the world you can’t live without.”

Jonas snorts, “One person you can’t live without? Should we talk about divorce rates?”

The fucker.

Sana, bless her, must notice that Even is about to blow a gasket and maybe jump Jonas in the not at all fun way. She clears he throat and changes the subject easily enough.

But Even glares at him steadily. Clearly boldly enough that Isak gives him a bizarre look and a nudge

Sorry baby, Even thinks, I know he’s your best friend, but I’ll kill him if he affects how you see us.

Jonas stands up and stretches after a minute, pecking Eva’s head in the process. “I’m going to grab some chips.”

His chance. Even stands up, “I’ll help you.”

“Oh no, it’s alright I’m just-”

Even narrows his eyes, “I’ll help you.”

So the kitchen is awkward because Jonas can’t figure out why Even is laser beam staring and him and Even is just crossing his arms and glaring.

“Did I… do something?”

“You’ve gotta stop with this no marriage shit,” Even whispers, moving closer and giving the entrance to the kitchen a surreptitious glance, “You’re killing me, Jonas. Like actually killing me.”

Jonas raises his eyebrows, “What the fuck? Why?”

Even sighs through his nose, “Because I have a fucking ring in my pocket that I’m planning on proposing with in approximately 45 minutes, you shit.”

Jonas’s eyes go wide, “No way! You and Isak are getting married? That’s fucking awesome!”

Even throws his arms up and hisses, “Yeah, it’s awesome. But it’s going to be less awesome when Isak decides suddenly that marriage is a capitalistic trap!”

Jonas winces, “Okay I see your point. Sorry man, I didn’t know.”

Even lets out a breath. At least he was being reasonable. “It’s chill… just cool it a bit until after.”

Noora’s high pitched voice, “Everything okay in there? Where are the chips?”

Jonas pats Even on the back and grins, “This is fucking awesome. Married. Isak is so gonna ask me to be his best man.” And then louder, “We’re coming out now. Couldn’t find them!”

Jonas and Even settle back into the respective seats. There was a brief lull of silence before Jonas cleared his throat, “Ladies and gentlemen, I’ve had a change of heart. Everyone should get married. Marriage is the fucking best.” 

know it all — p.p.

summary : may parker can’t fathom that you and her nephew aren’t dating yet- she can’t wait forever, you know, and she knows it’s going to happen eventually. when has may ever been wrong?

word count : 3k

author’s note : long time no see?? LOL sophomore year is successfully kicking my ass but i wrote this and it’s semi long so?? 

   May Parker prides herself on a lot of things- namely, her stunning resilience in the face of immense adversity, and the way she just seems to know things. She can’t help it, it’s her not so lame superpower and she uses it on Peter all the time, much to his annoyance. She earns a roll of the eyes whenever she says something out of the blue, so profound Peter can’t help but contemplate its credibility for the hours that follow their interactions. She knows things, she does, and she knows that you and her nephew are as meant to be as her and Ben were- are, she chastises herself sometimes- and she knows it so truly in the deepest recesses of her heart that the fact that you and Peter aren’t together is something that goes right over her head. 

   “Peter, hon, when’s your girl coming over? I miss having other ladies in the house,” she says one day, interrupting the silence that had settled upon the pair  as Peter recited the periodic table of elements so naturally in his head in preparation for a quiz the following day. Peter loses track somewhere between lithium and beryllium or maybe it was phosphorus, he doesn’t know anymore, when he hears May call you that, his girl, and he shakes his head at her wildly. “What? What’d I say?” May points her wooden spoon at him, and Peter’s reminded that she’s Italian for the fifth time that day. 

   “May, she’s not- she’s not my, like, girlfriend,” he stresses each syllable the word carries, practically throwing his pencil across the table when he turns his chair to get a better view of his aunt as she prepares dinner- pasta, again, because she claims it’s the only thing she can’t possibly mess up. “You know that! Y/N’s been my best friend forever.” 

    “You realize you can be best friends with your girlfriend, don’t you?” Peter can sense May’s eyes rolling even though he can’t see her since she’s facing the stove with her back turned. “You two have definitely kissed. You can’t tell me you haven’t.” 

    Peter’s entire face feels hot when she says that, his hands clammy when he presses them together against his cheeks, placing his elbows on the table to prop his head up. “That’s embarrassing, May. Why would you ever ask me that?” He runs his hands through his hair and the gel is so terribly packed on it that the carefully prepared hairstyle comes undone with one swift movement. “We haven’t, in case you’re wondering, which I know you are because you’re nosy.” Peter feels the spoon lightly poke into his back, a playful warning. 

   “Anyways,” May continues loudly, “as I was saying before, your girlfriend should come over for dinner sometime this week. I’m making pasta.” She grins before placing a bowl of penne in front of Peter, his least favorite pasta shape. Peter scowls at the penne but picks up his fork anyway and shoves some in his mouth, chewing thoughtfully for a moment before giving May a thumbs up. At least she was proud of it. “I won’t make penne if you get her to come over.” 

    She knows she’s got him when she sees the slow, unsure nod start. He sticks his hand out, and May shakes it happily. “Only because of the penne. I want bowties. Please,” he gives his aunt his best, brightest, sweetest smile he can form, much like the ones that come so naturally when he turns his gaze to look at you- but May won’t bring that up just yet. “And don’t make girlfriend jokes in front of her.” His utensil stabs into the pasta as he thinks to himself, ‘cause if you keep it up in front of her, she’ll think I’m a weirdo and I’ll never genuinely get to call Y/N that, ever. Honestly, he’d much rather launch himself headfirst off of the Empire State Building than never get to experience kissing you, holding your hand, being with you in all those sorts of hopelessly romantic ways that he daydreams about regularly. He’s doing it again, slipping into that endless reverie he always seems to find himself lost in. But it’s okay. His mind is a chasm of soft loves and sweet words shared between the two of you. It’s a beautiful, long mess of a dream. 

   “You lost, Pete?” May snaps her fingers in front of his face, bemused. 

    “A little,” he sighs in that dreamy tone she recalls her own self indulging in so fondly in her younger years. His gaze becomes hazy again, like he’s on another plane entirely, but she lets him be. For now. 


    Peter knows he’s dressing up a little too much for just a friend. He’s spraying too much strong cologne and gelling his hair excessively and praying you won’t notice the fact that it’ll be dryer than the leaves in the wintertime, but it’s all too much for someone he insists is his best friend and his best friend alone, nothing more and nothing less, certainly not his girlfriend. Never that, right? Peter frowns at his reflection and tilts his head down, rubbing his head in attempt to remove most of the gel that had been a serious mistake in the first place. You preferred his hair curly, anyway. Not that he cared. Not in the slightest. He puts on the sweater that you once said looked lovely on him and he wears his nice jeans, the ones without that stupid hole near the butt cheek that you can’t really see unless you’re trying

   His cheeks flush when May gives a tiny, satisfied smirk upon seeing his perfectly put together outfit. He acts as if no time at all was spent on his appearance, but she knows him, like she knows everything else, and she knows that he’s been holed up in the bathroom for over twenty minutes now trying to see which shirt matched his eyes best and debating the chances of you realizing that this was the sweater you liked the most on him before he put it on and beamed at himself in the mirror. Maybe it was the color or the stitching or the fabric but he was starting to like this one much more, too. 

   “You look very handsome, sweets,” May says to him, squeezing his shoulder as she brushes past him to place a salad on the table. Peter surveys the salad with a strange look on his face. 

   “Why’d you make a salad? Since when does Y/N eat salad?” He raises his eyebrows at her, before adding with haste, “not that I don’t love your salad, Aunt May, ‘cause I do. I promise.”  

   Aunt May places her hands on her hips, peering at him through the tops of her glasses in a way that makes her look too wise for someone as young as she was. “I’m making a good impression, obviously.” 

   “You’ve known her for like ten years now, the time for good impressions is over, May. You missed your chance.”

   “This is the first time I’m seeing Y/N as your girlfriend, though!” Peter lets out the loudest groan imaginable, running his hands over his cheeks and slapping his forehead with great vexation. 

   “Still not my girlfriend,” he insists on insisting, taking the extra plates out of her busy hands and helping to set the small kitchen table. 

   May smooths back a loose strand of hair from his forehead with a kind, teasing grin on her face. “Doesn’t mean you don’t want her to be, kiddo.” 

   He can’t possibly argue with that sort of logic, especially not when his aunt hits the nail right on the head in that peculiar way she has a habit of doing, so he just smiles and kisses May on the cheek. There’s a knock on the door less than a second later, and the pair scramble for the upper hand before Peter beats her to it and nearly flies to grab the handle of it and yank it open so he can greet you accordingly, slightly out of breath with his hair flopping to one quite nicely and a joyous smile making its way across his mouth when he sees you for the first time that day. May hovers earnestly behind him, hands fluttering over her nephew’s shoulders so she can push past him to wrap you in a hug if need be. Sometimes Peter has the impression that May adores you even more than he does; he wasn’t sure if he should be glad for that, or a bit offended that you seemed to return the blatant favoritism with ardency. 

   There was a brief second where your eyes raked over your best friend’s face with soft admiration, hidden as carefully as you could manage. When you met his appreciative gaze you felt the palms of your hands clam up and so you cast your look back to his aunt and playfully pushed past him to give her a hug. 

   Peter, offense overriding his previously somewhat moonstruck expression, backed away from you when you finally turned toward him with your arms outstretched. “Oh, now I get a hug? Interesting,” he rolls his eyes in a teasing manner, unable and unwilling to conceal his little, loving smile that appeared when you pried his arms off his chest and defiantly wrapped them around yourself as you hugged him. “Didn’t seem so interested in hugging me when you were shoving me away to get to May,” he says, craning his neck to stare at you whilst continuing to drag the embrace out for as long as possible. 

   “You’re still my favorite Parker,” you reply, poking his chest lightly. Then you turn away before you can say anything else that could be considered too revealing of certain, carefully concealed feelings that had the possibility of being detrimental to a beautiful friendship that had manifested over the years into something more, but not quite, not yet. “Sort of,” you put as an afterthought, lest he get any ideas about you feeling… something for him. “Anyways, what’s for dinner, May?” You anticipate pasta, and when May announces the dish with a great flourishing of her hand, you grin. Typical, yes, but nothing if not welcomed. 

  Peter, gentleman that he is, pulls out your chair for you, and you let yourself imagine that he’s doing it as a chivalrous boyfriend and not simply a polite friend. He imagines the same, though. Imagines that he’s on a date with you and he pulls out your chair and smiles kindly and lovingly- and he basks in this image for as long as he can. May calls you over then, and the daydream is shattered. You make your way over to her in the kitchen, leaning against the counter. 

   May lowers her voice before speaking, “Y/N, I’m gonna need you to explain something to me,” she starts. You nod, raising your eyebrows at her. “Explain why you and Peter aren’t together yet. Honestly, honey, I just can’t understand it.” She talks with her hands the way Peter does. 

   “Uh- what? I, um, I don’t… understand?” Your voice cracks a little, as if having May practically shove your less than friendly feelings for Peter back in your face wasn’t embarrassing enough. “We’re, um, you know, like, friends.” 

   Her hand waves dismissively, pushing that sentence away. “No, no, see that’s what he said, too! I have to disagree. I know everything, kiddo, and I know that you two are going to make it as a couple, so if that’s what your afraid of, don’t be. Go for it. I see the same thing in him that I see in you right now, and that thing is love. So, I’m going to need you to go make my nephew the happiest kid on Earth and tell him you’re falling in love with him, and you’ll see that he’s going to say the same thing to you. Trust me. Aunt May knows all,” she shrugs in a casual manner, brushing her confidence off, before she steers you around and gently pushes you back toward the tiny dining room table where Peter sits awkwardly fiddling with his thumbs with his lip caught between his teeth. 

   “Hi,” you almost whisper, settling down in your seat across from him. 

   He glances up. “Hey,” he says, smiling again. A reflex, in your presence. He clears his throat, then asks, “So, what’d you and May talk about?” He knows May loves him as if he were her son, which for all intents and purposes he is, but he can’t be sure of her secrecy. He wouldn’t put it past his aunt to let slip “accidentally” that he liked you, loved you, cared for you. 

   You take a sip of your glass of water that Peter must have filled in your absence from the table. You had a tendency to take sips of your drink when in uncomfortable conversations, or conversations you felt nervous in. He notes that. “Oh, um, nothing really… but if were gonna talk about it, I’d wanna do it in, like, private?” You twirl your straw around your drink, mixing the ice in the glass. Peter abruptly stands from his chair. You watch him sling a jacket around his shoulders and throw one of his sweaters at you, which you catch easily. “You wanna go now?” 

   He nods, licking his lips anxiously. “No better time than the present, right?” If you’re going to confront him and crush his heart with a single sentence that stands along the lines of I see you as a friend, he wants it done sooner rather than later. He wants it over with, so he can go back to his suffering in comfortable silence and start an attempt to move past this crush the way he had easily drifted away from his crush on Liz Allan. You fumble with the sweater as you stand. “May, we’re gonna step out for a bit!” Peter announces, opening the front door of his apartment and letting you slip out first. He doesn’t wait for her response before he disappears, too. May watches the two of you leave and feels her heart grow twice its size. 

  You’re standing outside the apartment building ten minutes later in the chilly autumn breeze, thankful for the cologne scented sweater that rests over your body like a warm blanket. Peter’s hands are never cold, and so they linger outside of his pockets as opposed to yours, shoved inside the front pocket of the sweater he’s given you. He reaches for your hands wordlessly and rubs them over his. “You’re always freezing,” he laughs quietly, lacing his fingers through yours with a new burst of confidence that you find endearing as you squeeze his hands. “Hey, wanna know something? You might know it already but, I figure I should tell you myself, if you wanna know.” He swings his hands back and forth, and yours swing along with his. 

   “Yeah, please,” you insist, twisting your head to the side to sweep the windswept hair out of your face. One of Peter’s hands comes up to brush it out of the way, typical and cliche and an overplayed move but none of that matters when the action is being carried out, because it makes your stomach constrict in that funny way and your heart melt into a puddle on the dirty sidewalk. His fingers linger over the softness of your cheek, and he keeps his hand there to see what you’ll say about it. You say nothing, let remain there. “You gonna tell me or not?” 

  “Should I- I could maybe…” he sucks on the bottom of his lip. “Forget it, I don’t know how to speak properly around you like this.” You start to protest, demand he tell you because you won’t be able to stop thinking about this if he doesn’t, but every word dies before it can touch the edge of your lips. Peter has his head lowered down toward you and he’s kissing you, a thought that’s crossed your mind more times than you were able to count but now, it’s happening. Real lips pressed against yours feverishly, shyness forgotten in the heat of the moment. When he pulls away first, it returns and collides with him as if he’s hit a brick wall, and his cheeks burn red. He makes no move to back away, still. “D-Did I step out of line? Was that okay? Do you hate me? ‘Cause if you do we can go back upstairs or you can leave and then on Monday we can pretend that this never happened because you’re still my best friend no matter what even if it’s awkward-” 

   Your hands clasp together around the back of his neck as you yank him down toward you again, and this time you kiss him back. You can feel him smiling so hard it makes it difficult to kiss him, but when you break away to tell him that, he just laughs and smiles harder and keeps kissing you. He doesn’t know how to stop now that’s he had the opportunity. You’re both laughing hysterically and trying to kiss properly and his nose bumps against yours repeatedly, and it’s the most perfect first kiss in the world. 

   He keeps his hand firmly grasped in yours when you go back upstairs to his seventh floor apartment, opens the door for you and everything. May is sitting at the table, turns her head to the both of you and peers at you from the top of her glasses. Peter raises his hand and yours, triumphant. May claps her hands together as he, your boyfriend, declares proudly, “Aunt May, I would like to formally introduce you to my girlfriend, Y/N Y/L/N, who I hope will be sticking around?” He looks to you for reassurance, and gets what he needs from the happy kiss you bestow upon the side of his face. 

   “I told you two I know everything!” Is what breaks the joyous silence, and then the laughter starts again; a perfectly lovely family. 

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