#Be some shell of something somebody I am supposed to be | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

devilfic · 2 years ago

Text

❝small favor❞

IV. another white guy from new york.

parts: previously / next plot: it's uncanny, but it can't be. right? because that would be stupid. and spider-man isn't stupid. right? pairing: mcu!peter parker x gn!reader. cw: violence, guns, knives, blood mention, alcohol consumption, peter parker isn't beating the average white guy allegations, well. when he smiles like that he might. words: 6.7k.

You almost expect them to turn you away at the door when you hand over your badge, some paranoid part of you thinking they’ll take one look at you and know you don’t belong here, but the man at the check-in hands it back to you with a pleasant, “Enjoy your evening.”

That was half an hour ago, and Parker was nowhere in sight.

He was going to “meet you there” as Jameson promised, though without a clue what to look for, you found yourself aimlessly floating through perfume clouds of high society. You didn’t want to hit the bar this close to eight, but if you didn’t find an anchor quick, you’d vibrate right through the floor. Worst of all, you didn’t even have the guy’s number. What would you do if he was a no-show?

Your job, you suppose, sullen and already dreading the evening to come.

There’s no sign of Wilson Fisk either. In your usual setting, you might’ve already flagged down a guest or two to ask what they thought about the rumors, but your usual settings were messy, bloody, and out in the real world. Here, you had a list of questions to ask that didn’t even scratch your curiosity.

What’s your name? Are you excited to be here this evening? How does the Stark Charity Ball reflect the New York City you know and love? Were you attacked? Can you confirm Wilson Fisk was on the scene?

You hadn’t even made it to the fourth question before you’d given up. How would you last a night like this?

Slithering through the crowd, you make your way to the snack table with hopes to eat your way through the night. At least you could count on rich people to shell out on good cheese.

There’s a band playing in the corner, a gentle stringed melody that you appreciate over the chatter of the guests. You make your way over and let yourself get carried away in the tune, only glancing every so often at your watch to gauge the time. It was nine minutes to eight, nine minutes until Pepper Potts took the stage to start the night, and you still had no idea where your partner was.

It’s almost natural the way your hand finds your phone, swiping over the familiar contact name and pressing out a quick message.

The party can’t start without you.

Towering windows make up most of the ballroom, fading sunlight overpowering the chandeliers above, and you take advantage in hopes it might reveal your webbed friend hanging off the roof.

Almost immediately, you get a text back.

Aww, you really do like me :) No kidding. Are you already in place? Just about. Doing a quick perimeter check. You enjoying the party? I would be if my partner was here on time. Hey, cut Parker some slack! His train’s probably late and I don’t see any signs of Kingpin yet. I'm just glad you've stopped trying to fight me on this. If you can’t beat ‘em... And maybe look up every once in a while, you’re gonna run into somebody.

Just as your eyes scan the very last word, your senses go haywire. There’s cold liquid running down your hand and you've just run into something. When you finally tear your eyes away from your phone, you unfortunately realize that something is now wearing the remainder of your drink.

People nearby have formed a clearing around you, but it feels less out of courtesy and more to point and laugh at you. Regardless, you’ve got to fix this, “I am so sorry, I wasn’t looking where I was going. Are you okay?”

Your victim stands in a small puddle of sangria, the front of their tux dripping in it still, and you could see how red stains crawled up crisp white. You could only imagine how much every bit of their suit cost (and the Daily Bugle definitely didn’t have the budget to cover it).

They lift their copper head and you’re at first struck by the smile on their face, then the peppering of freckles across the bridge of their nose, and finally... their name.

He carefully removes his suit jacket to assess the damage to his shirt, “Nah, don’t worry. I was looking for a reason to leave early anyway.”

You’re breathless, certain you should be rushing to grab towels or begging him not to sue you into oblivion, but you don’t really get that far, “I’m... really sorry.”

He laughs, so genuine that you feel the tension in your shoulders deflate just at the sound. Just then, a waiter rushes over with a hand towel, insisting he lead him to the men’s room to clean up, but he’s waved off with little more than a “thank you” and “I’ll survive, I promise.”

He steps out of the puddle to allow someone to clean it up, bringing him that much closer to you. When he's done with the towel, he hands it off to you. His eyes trail to your chest and his eyes widen some, “The Daily Bugle. You a reporter?”

You realize he’s spotted your press badge and rush to introduce yourself, wiping absentmindedly at your sticky hand, “Uh... yes. Actually. Crime beat reporter.” You set your empty cup on a passing waiter’s tray and hold out your clean hand to shake.

His hand is warm, if not a little sticky like yours, though you have no grounds to complain, “Nice to meet you. I’m Harry.”

“Oh, I know.”

He quirks an eyebrow, still smiling, “Then... was that drink a calculated assault?”

“No! God, no. I genuinely wasn’t looking where I was going.”

“Not very safe for a crime beat reporter, don’t you think?”

You’ve got to be on fire. You feel like it, struggling between a laugh and a whine, “I’m sorry you had to be the one to teach me that lesson.”

“No worries. Like I said, you did me a favor.” Harry glances around, “So… you're reporting on what, exactly? You betting on a robbery or something?”

The humor of that isn't lost on you, “Actually, I’m filling in tonight. Our usual reporter definitely wouldn’t have ruined your nice shirt.”

“Oh, I don’t know. I find this stain rather charming.”

You can’t help it. You giggle and he smiles even wider, “May I ask why you want to escape so soon?”

“Not if you’re gonna write it down.”

“Off the record? In exchange for the stain.”

Harry Osborn has a boyish look to him even though he’s steadily approaching 26, some baby fat still clinging to his cheekbones when he smiles wide enough, “Well, this was my first stop since hopping off a nine hour flight from Oxford and I’m, as the English say, absolutely knackered. I was gonna leave in half an hour after photos but…” He laughs, casting a look over his shoulder at the stage, “I’ve made my donation. I won’t be missed.”

Perking up with an idea, you reach into your bag and pull out a recorder, “In that case, how about I get you down for a comment on your generous donation of…”

“Five million.”

You blink, swallowing hard, “Five million… to make up for it? I'll even throw in a few questions about your study at Oxford. I hear you're working on a revolutionary breakthrough with lab-grown bacteria that breaks down plastic.”

Harry's eyes light up. For a moment, the image of Harry Osborn is just Harry, “You sure Jameson would let you publish something nice about an Osborn?”

The Daily Bugle was no friend to Spider-Man, but neither was it a friend to Norman Osborn. You recall some of the more scalding headlines about Oscorp’s president that you’d published in the past. It was the one thing you and Jameson could agree on. “You know Jameson well?”

“Of course. I’ve got a buddy who works there too, actually. You might know him. His name’s-”

Harry’s voice is drowned out by the collective oohing and awing of the crowd when the lights dim, shrouding the grand ballroom in the fading glow of the sun. The stage, once empty, is now illuminated with the presence of Pepper Potts. Uproarious applause fills the room. Harry smiles politely at you. His buddy would be a conversation for later.

You want to focus on Pepper, you really do, but it’s like you’ve broken out of a spell the second Harry’s eyes leave yours, and you find yourself once again scanning the crowd for Parker. There was no good reason for him to be this late and you couldn’t even give him a piece of your mind about it.

You shoot off an indignant text to Peter.

Your guy better have been hit by a cyclist on the way here or he’s getting an earful when I see him. Pepper looks amazing :(

But no instant reply. In fact, three minutes pass and there’s nothing. You glance up to the windows for any sign of him watching and find none. Was... he here?

You glance at Harry. If Jillian were here, she’d punch you in the face for what you’re about to do, for the opportunity you're about to squander. Okay, maybe not a punch, but it’d be violent.

But then you’re thinking about Peter, about that night that changed everything, about his blood and bruises and the men with guns for hands. You think about how Peter worried for you. You think about Harry, who has just donated five million dollars to charity, and how there are over a hundred more of him packed in this ballroom right now. You think about Wilson Fisk, and how much havoc he could wreak if he put Spider-Man out for good.

And then you're elbowing yourself through the crowd, searching for the nearest emergency stairwell, hoping that if Peter’s still watching he might meet you halfway. Parker and those questions be damned. You'd find a way to make it up to Jameson somehow.

You’re about ten feet away from the nearest exit when someone takes a hold of your wrist, a few seconds away from the end of Pepper’s speech, and whoever is holding you back has a grip so iron it stings. You can’t clearly see the face of who’s grabbed you but it doesn’t feel familiar. Your heart jumps into your throat. Had Fisk's men infiltrated the room already? Had they gotten to Spidey? Did they know you? Were you next?

You’ve got no pocket knife on you, but you have a fist.

You curl your fingers inward and aim right for your captor’s head. Your fist makes contact with skin. The room erupts into thunderous applause. The lights go up.

You never actually land the punch, but your captor looks a little too wide-eyed to be one of Fisk’s men, too soft in the face. His own hand has completely stopped yours in its tracks, just a hair away from breaking his nose, and he’s staring at you like a deer in headlights. A big, brown doe-eyed deer. “Uh, hi,” your eyes flicker down to the camera hanging from his neck, almost blocking the badge beneath it that reads "P. B. Parker", and then you meet his eyes with the same bewilderment, “sorry I’m late.”

Parker is about average height with a build you can't quantify when his shirt is draping off him. It's a ridiculously huge plaid thing, the kind of thing someone would wear to hide themselves, but all he does is stand out in the sea of Armani and Givenchy. Old jeans, old shirt, high-tops, and a muddy-grey beanie to top it all off. It was a wonder they let him in the door at all.

What you can feel is the strength behind his hand as it holds your fist in place. Some people are looking—you realize, after the tremors of your punch reverberate back up your arm—and so you yank your hand back before any security can take notice.

Your partner waits a full second before holding out his own, offering a subtle, wobbly smile, "I would've been here sooner but... traffic, ya know?"

His voice is low, you notice this next. Practically a mumble. You kind of realize why your coworkers said you weren't missing much; outside of his awkward mannerisms and sweet, unassuming baby face, he looked like any other white guy from New York. He also seemed like he didn't want to be seen or heard, and you imagined that Jameson had no problem with that.

But his mumbling forces you to take notice of his lips so you can read them, and their thin, blushy quality is only marred by a little dryness. Broken by biting or... or something. "You're late." Is all you manage to say.

His lips part, turning downward, "Yeah, I know," he stutters, the pitch of his voice going up a hair, "I said- um, I caught the last half of Mrs. Potts’ speech." And then he turns his camera to you, flicking through images that are too small on the screen for you to assess the quality of. You actually have no doubt they're good, but you're upset he's late and you're certain there's nothing remarkable about this guy—nothing at all—and yet you can't stop staring.

"You know Spidey?" You blurt out next, and his eyes widen and zero in on you. You don't know why he's surprised. "He's mentioned me, hasn't he?"

Parker blinks, "Oh! Yeah. Yeah. All the time. You're very... good. At your job."

"Thank you. So are you."

And wouldn't you know it, he actually blushes. It's sweet and alarming how quickly red blooms across the apples of his cheeks, how his hands wobble around his camera a bit, how it disarms you for a moment. It'd be cute if you could just figure out what about him was throwing you off.

In fact, you're so enthralled in figuring out that something that you see his lips moving but just miss his question, barely hearing the tail-end of it. You watch his lips again as you ask him to repeat it, but the musicians have started up a jaunty tune with trumpets and high white keys, so you duck closer to him and ask him to repeat it once more.

"I asked-" And as you get closer, you have an excuse to look at him more deeply.

Your eyes follow the curve of his mouth to his chin (and all its little hairs that he hadn't caught shaving), down to his neck where you see, just peeking out beneath the lip of his beanie, a curl. You've abandoned his question now. You just feel, as strange as it is, that you need a closer look...

Your hand is moving before your mind can catch up with it, until it's caught in Parker's halfway to his throat. You're so close to him that you can see the way the skin of his chin rolls with the effort to lean away from you, or the honey speckles in his eyes that are all but eclipsed by his blown-wide pupils.

His fingers are latched around yours. He's not using the same strength he was before, doesn't need to, but you can sort of feel it beneath the callouses. Even then, it's so gentle. You don't know why you react with just as mush wonder. The world might as well be at half-speed. You almost wish him to speak again because you've got nothing to say for yourself here.

Parker looks on at you, still holding onto your hand. He smells... like the city.

"Do you-" He starts, chokes on his spit, and then swallows, "are you always this friendly when you're tipsy?"

You blanch. "What? I'm not-" You yank your hand back, cup it to your mouth and nose, and breathe in the sangria. Could he smell it on your breath? "I'm not tipsy. I barely even had a drink before I spilled it all over..."

You catch Parker's eye to find him looking interested. "Spilled it all over...?"

"Someone. Whatever. It was an accident."

"You spilled your drink on someone?"

"It was an accident."

"You know, I was feeling real bad about showing up late, but Jameson's gonna have a field day with this." You're mortified. He wasn't interested, he was amused. "Are we gonna get sued?"

"No!" Your voice draws the attention of a couple nearby, making you shrink even closer to Parker, "I told you it was an accident and I apologized. And you're still not off the hook for being late."

He folds his arms across his chest, smiles steadily this time, and agrees. The action is so unmistakable that it saps all the lightheartedness right out of you. Parker notices the change.

The only thing that breaks the moment is Harry Osborn finding you both.

Your head whips at the first "Peter!", thinking you'll see red and blue somewhere nearby, but Harry is gunning straight for Parker with the widest smile on his face. You break away just in time for him to envelop Parker in a big, friendly hug that would've knocked Parker off his feet if not for how solid he was. A few onlookers take in the scene, some amused, others not so much.

It takes you a moment to digest that Harry meant Parker, had called him Peter with such love and affection that there was no way he was mistaken, and Parker had returned the hug a beat later without correcting him.

There were probably a million Peters in New York alone. And yet...

They stay intertwined a minute longer, only breaking away so that Harry could hold... Peter's face in his hands. "Peter Parker! What the hell are you doing here?" Harry seems to remember you're there. He releases Peter and points to you, "So, you two know each other after all. Pete's the buddy at the Bugle I told you about. We've been best friends for years."

As if this Peter business wasn't enough for you to wrap your head around, you struggle to imagine these two being best friends. One of New York City's richest heirs and a contractor for the Daily Bugle. Your disbelief is evident as you ask, "How did you two meet...?"

"College. We went to ESU together. We were even roommates before I went off to Oxford." Harry smiles proudly, patting Peter on the back. It's then that you notice Peter is looking very, very uncomfortable. You wonder for a moment if this is all some elaborate joke Harry's playing, but it hadn't struck you as his type of humor.

This is, in fact, a man named Peter Parker. He works for the Daily Bugle, he's best friends with Harry Osborn, he works with Spider-Man, and they both share a name. Unremarkable Peter Parker. Nothing you were missing, they'd said.

Peter must see that you're focused hard on him, so he turns to Harry, "Yeah, Oxford. Why aren't you... there? Again?"

Harry laughs, unbothered, "Don't tell me you didn't miss me?"

"No, it's just... last I remember, your dad wanted you there until your project got approved."

The very mention of Norman Osborn kills the mood entirely. Harry's smile falls quick, though he tries to hide it, and shuffles a bit uncomfortably. "That was the deal. But you know dad: the world revolves around his every whim." Harry's eyes cut to you so fast that you tense up, recovering quickly. "Off the record."

Jillian would not accept that. You, on the other hand, swallow it down and tuck it away for another day, "Anything for a friend of a friend."

That gets Harry smiling again, however terse. The conversation quickly changes course as Harry pulls at the stained white of his shirt to show Peter, "Speaking of: you like? Our new mutual friend gave it to me."

Peter glances at you, chuckling with a nervous edge, and grabs at the fabric to examine for himself, "Something tells me you deserved it."

Harry immediately resorts to banter that Peter melts into. It was no doubt now that they were friends, that Peter's awkwardness had only been on account of you being here.

You can only smile and nod, smile and nod, while you watch Peter's every move. You couldn't say anything even though you were bursting, but now your heart was beginning to pound in your ears, making it hard for you to do what you were trying to pretend you weren't doing.

Spider-Man was smart. Beneath the quips, he was extremely smart. He wouldn't tell you his real name and then show up here as a civilian, so brazen, knowing that you'd instantly figure out it was him. That'd be too easy. He trusted you, sure, but he wasn't stupid. He'd been uncomfortable at the very thought of unmasking when you'd mentioned it last night. If Peter was... Peter, he wouldn't have come at all. Because that would be stupid.

And he wouldn't have bothered to pretend, up until the last second, that he wasn't Peter, if he was just going to flay himself before you like this. Because you would've figured it out eventually.

So, surely, there were a million Peters in New York and you happened to know two of them. And they knew each other. And one of them was a superhero. Of course.

You slip your phone out, checking your recent messages with your heart in your throat. If Peter wasn't Peter, he'd have texted you back by now. Because Peter—fuck—Spidey wouldn't miss a chance to make that joke.

There's one new message. You barely get to see what it says before broken glass sprays from above.

There’s a cacophony of sound all at once. Glass breaking, screaming amongst the crowd, and the sound of gunfire letting off into the ceiling. One minute, the room had been in peaceful bliss, and the next, a tidal wave of terrified guests were rushing at you.

You’re lucky that Peter’s arm is like iron, strong enough to rip you back and away from the crowd that converges on the exits, because if you had stayed in your spot for a second longer you would have been trampled underfoot. Like your phone, which is in pieces the second it slips out of your hand.

Harry is there too, huddled against the two of you in the corner, but that doesn’t stop you three from all being pressed upon by the panicking crowds. There’s no rhyme or reason, no order in the chaos. Beautiful clutches embedded with Swarovski crystals lay abandoned at your feet. Everyone in the room can see, whatever it might be, that their life is worth more than a single thing in this room. Even worth more than the lives of the other guests they shove to get out first.

You try your best to see over the heads of the swarm to get a glimpse of what had set the entire party off, and immediately two things are visible. One: Pepper Potts is center stage, the bright white stage lights beating down on her. If it weren’t for the sweat beading at her brow, you’d think her bored. The second thing was that there was a man standing beside her who wasn’t standing there before, a microphone in one hand and a gun in the other.

Even from all the way at the back of the room, you could see the gun trembling in his grip as the barrel kissed Pepper’s temple.

The next thing is his voice. It’s loud, feedback screeching off the walls so high that you think they might shatter the windows. The crowd is loud and he’s louder. You can hear him saying something about how everyone shouldn’t leave just yet, that they’d want to see this front row and not on the 10 o’clock news. You do not see Kingpin. This man is utterly alone.

Harry is shouting something at you, you can feel his breath and the spit that flies out in the hurry of his words, but you can barely make out what he’s saying over the guests. Peter clutches you both even closer.

“We… we have to…” You start, glancing up at the windows for any sign of Spider-Man, but you see nothing. Your eyes drop to Peter’s to find him already staring right at you. You’ve no idea what’s going through his head, and the adrenaline rushing behind your eyes makes it hard to speculate. You only know what you need to say, “…we need to find Spider-Man.”

“We need to leave!” Harry argues. He wriggles out of Peter’s grip and starts pulling you both toward the nearest exit, but he only makes progress with pulling you forward.

You were about to argue back until you felt Peter’s hand at the base of your spine, pushing you into Harry with ease and right toward one of the exit doors. You turn, clutching onto Harry as to not lose him in the crowd, only to find Peter isn’t following you. “You both need to get out of here.”

“Both? Wh- Peter! We’re not leaving without you!” Your attempt to grab at him is futile. He shrugs away from your touch, keeps pushing you and Harry through the stampede as if he really intended on staying behind. “Peter!”

He finally looks you in the eyes that second time, the desperation with which you’d said his name snapping him out of some dissociative spell, “I’ll be right behind you! I’m gonna help get people out. Some got trampled, I-I’ve got to-”

Harry is next to admonish him, “Pete, come on. This isn’t the time to play fucking hero!”

But Peter’s not listening again—eyes faraway, slipping over the crowd as if searching for something—he’s heading back into the fray, calling to you some half-hearted promise that he’d follow soon, and then his head disappears into the whirlwind of bodies. You were able to follow him up until the moment his hat got pulled off, and then… nothing.

The current pushes and pulls at you and Harry, dragging you down the hallway. You feel your ankle twist awkwardly and are thankful that Harry is still clinging to you because had he not been, you would’ve been dragged down and trampled for sure. He holds you upright, pressing you to his side, assuring you over the noise that you’d go back in to get Peter in a minute.

You think that Harry Osborn is much kinder than his father seemed to be, and that you really do owe him a good soundbite in the Bugle after this.

You feel a draft coming from outside, promising you were close to being free from the confines of the hallway. You grab Harry’s hands and peel them off of you, pushing him forward into the crowd without a second thought, just as you see the light of the city come up ahead. His head whips to you. He calls your name as he’s swept away, but you press yourself hard against the wall and let the crowd lead him out to safety.

The crawl back to the ballroom is awful.

There are fewer people escaping, thankfully, and so it’s less like an undertow, but there are so many people and all of them are perfectly fine with throwing their bodies forward with caution thrown to the wind.

It takes you longer than a minute to get back to the door you’d come out of, even longer to squeeze through with elbows hitting you square in the chest and heels digging into your feet.

The room is less than a third of what it had been when the gunman had arrived. You frantically search for Peter in the remaining, scattered crowd; people are frozen in awe, in horror. Some people in the crowd were begging the gunman to reconsider, and others were praying. Your heart sank. A woman was about to die and there was virtually nothing you could do.

You look up to the windows one more time. You couldn’t see him, couldn’t call him, but you close your eyes and pray too. Whoever he was. Wherever he was.

And then you hear it. The familiar thwip! cuts through the air. You open your eyes and a second later, the clatter of the gunman’s pistol hitting the floor follows. You’re blessed with a whole five seconds of glee before the gunman surges forward and pulls a knife on Pepper, holding it to her throat in a panic.

“Easy there, buddy.” Your head snaps up to the rafters. From a single thread of spider silk, Spidey descends from the ceiling with a hand outstretched. He’s a ways away from the two of them, offering some sense of space. “You don’t wanna do this.”

The gunman has since abandoned his microphone, but his voice reverberates in the near empty room just fine, “Get out of here, Spider-Man! You’re next!”

“Why don’t you and I hash it out, then? Just you and me. Leave Mrs. Potts out of it.”

“No, no,” the man mutters; you can hear sirens growing closer to the building, “she’s part of it. You’re all part of it.”

Pepper speaks up for the first time, “Whatever you want, I can get it. This doesn’t have to end badly.”

That must’ve been the wrong thing to say. The man jerks his knife closer to her skin and you can see, after a moment, a thin bead of red dribbles down her collarbone.

Spidey holds out both his hands, “Whoa, whoa, whoa-”

And it happens in a flash. One second, Pepper is being held at knifepoint, and the next, she’s being pushed off the stage.

Spider-Man immediately swoops in and catches her, swinging her to safety on the other side of the room, but you’re too mesmerized by the new body on stage pinning the attacker down by the throat. How you’d missed him, you’ve no clue, but he’s wrestling the man onto his stomach and restraining his arms behind his back just as the doors to the ballroom are thrown wide open.

Cops stream in, rushing the stage to take the gunman into custody. Some head straight for Spider-Man and Pepper, but it’s the guests that catch your attention. There are maybe fifty of them in the room altogether, but applause catches on like wildfire. All of them, and the musicians and the cops at the door, erupt into applause.

Because the man on stage, the man who’d thrown himself at the gunman and disarmed him, the man who had just saved Pepper Potts’ life… was Wilson Fisk.

You can’t find Harry anywhere. Most of the guests had stayed behind out of sheer curiosity, but Harry was nowhere in sight.

You stand out on the sidewalk with the rest of the crowd as the police escort the gunman into a cop car, murmurs flitting from ear to ear on who he’d been, what he’d wanted, and whether they should stay behind for interviews. Pepper was still inside getting questioned. But Wilson Fisk was out here.

You’d been in the same room as Fisk only once before, the night of his infamous press conference three years ago when you were still an intern trailing after the likes of Jillian. He’d struck you as a measured man, one who carried himself with impenetrable humility, and even in the face of his detractors kept a cool head.

Back then, he’d been accused of money laundering, something to do with all his companies not adding up. In and out of trouble, he was. Jameson had likened him to a cockroach: never quite dead, even when he really ought to be by now.

And now he stands before reporters, guests, onlookers, and the like, giving a statement about his “harrowing” rescue of Mrs. Potts. He hadn’t even been invited.

You know you should be right up there with the rest of them, fiending for a soundbite, but you’re gnawing your bottom lip from afar trying to catch him in a lie. Something about this was refusing to add up, and thankful as you were that Pepper was safe, the whole thing was off. Convenient, even.

You watch him smile and nod, none of the charm ever reaching his dead eyes, but everyone eats it up anyway.

Just as you’re about to force yourself to head over, knowing Jameson would have your head otherwise, you’re flying.

“Jesus!” You screech, scrambling to cling onto Spidey as the crowd below watches the two of you swing away. Your stomach drops as he carries you to a nearby rooftop, and you all but collapse when you meet solid ground. “Oh my God, don’t ever do that again.” You expect a quip in return, but when you look behind you, Spider-Man is sitting with his head on his knees, utterly silent. Your stomach drops again, “Spidey?”

That gets him to look at you, big white eyes narrowing, “We’re not on a first name basis anymore?”

You’re stunned, and then you scowl, “Peter Parker.” When he says nothing, you repeat it, “Peter Parker.”

“That’s his name.”

“His? Or yours?”

His eyes stay narrowed at you, only now his head is lifted upright, “I’m not the only Peter in New York.”

“I’m sorry if I find it a little suspicious there’s a Peter Parker who works at the Daily Bugle selling the only decent photos of you in the city, who just so happens to share your name and- and your lips.” That last part awkwardly tumbles out of you and his eyes are no longer narrowed.

“My lips?”

Peter’s lips flash in your mind. You don’t know how to say it without sounding more suspicious than him, “You’re… you both… your mouths are very similar.”

A beat passes. The silence isn’t enough to convince you you’re wrong, but it is enough to make you fidget.

But then Peter bursts into laughter, and, well, it’s not funny to you at all. “Quit it.” You demand, meek.

“I’m sorry, I just- I stick to walls and you think it’s crazy that we’re both named Peter?”

“You can’t convince me I’m off with this one.”

“There were like… four Peters in my graduating class!”

“He even kind of sounded like you! When I could hear him clearly.”

“He sounds nothing like me!”

“He sounds a lot like you.” You say, and wish that there had been a moment when you’d caught him speaking at an octave higher than his, frankly, forced baritone and an octave below shouting. Peter—this Peter—has a voice you know well enough. You’ve memorized his vocal fry when his voice gets a little too high, that nervous ramble-y pitch of his. It’s so distinct. If you had just… heard him use it just once, “You can’t make me feel crazy about this.”

“’m not trying to make you feel crazy, I swear. You’re one of the smartest people I know. I’d be skeptical too.” You wait patiently for a confirmation or a denial, but he gives you none. He takes a deep breath and stares out over the edge of the building where Fisk is being escorted to his car. You crawl over to sit beside him.

Part of you wants to ask him to prove it, to peel his mask off and show you, but you can’t make yourself do it. He’d only just given you his name. He trusted you with that. You’re wary about pushing it.

Because the pieces fit so well, but he’d never make that kind of mistake. Would he?

Would he think it was a mistake?

Peter sighs. “Hey, you alright?” You ask.

He doesn’t really look at you, though his voice answers at a lower volume than before, "This was too convenient.” You hum in agreement. “That guy… he said we were all ‘part of it’. Like it was planned.”

“You think Fisk planned it.”

“I think he’s a little too eager to be in the spotlight about it.” But getting that off his chest doesn’t seem to change the solemnness in his tone.

“Pepper was never in danger.” Your hand presses against the scratchy concrete, itching to touch him. To comfort him. “If this was Fisk’s plan, it was all for publicity. Pepper was never gonna get hurt.”

“She got hurt.” Peter whips his head to you.

You knew Iron Man was his mentor, had plucked him off the streets and thrust him into a world of gods and aliens before his untimely death. And maybe with Tony gone, he thought it was his job to keep her safe.

“Peter, you can’t… you can’t think like that. You can punch your way through a lot of things, but that? That back there? You did what you could.”

“I could do more.”

You get that urge to touch him again, only this time, you let yourself do it.

Your hand touches the side of his mask, cupping below his ear. He watches you the entire time but doesn’t move to stop you. Your thumb rests on his cheek and your pinky- it brushes the overlap between his mask and the rest of his suit, “It’s not just that you’re Peter, too.”

You feel the muscles in his neck twitch, “What?”

“It’s that… in all that chaos, you chose to stay behind. To help people. You made sure me and Harry got out, but you stayed behind. Everyone was so busy trying to save their own lives and you were thinking about them. I don’t know Peter Parker very well. Maybe he’s just that kind of guy. But I know you. I know if anyone in that room was you, he’d be it.” Peter doesn’t say anything. You feel the tension in his jaw, feel the way his throat bobs with a hard swallow, but he doesn’t say anything. He just watches you. You stare hard into those white eyes and imagine a someone staring back at you. “Or maybe that’s just the kind of people Spider-Man hangs out with.”

He huffs humorously, “Yeah, that checks out. We’re friends, after all.”

Your heart swells to hear it, “friends”. “Don’t make this about me when I’m trying to expose your secret identity.”

“I think Peter Parker would be flattered you think so highly of him. He was kind of worried he made the wrong impression… after you tried to punch him in the face.”

Your jaw drops, having nearly forgotten in the mess of the night. “Well, maybe Peter Parker shouldn’t go around grabbing people in the dark.”

“You were walking so fast. How else would Peter Parker get your attention?”

“Are you just saying Peter Parker over and over to convince me that you’re both completely different people?”

“I just think it’s funny that you don’t believe more than two Peters can live in the same city.”

“There are other factors!”

“Can’t believe you’re the type of reporter who flies by the seat of their assumptions. But you do work for Jameson, after all.” When Peter stands, you naturally follow.

You decide to switch tactics, bruising the alter ego, “You- you know what? You’re right. You couldn’t be Peter Parker. Peter Parker would be shaking and crying if I so much as raised my voice at him.”

“Wow. I’m gonna tell him you said that—wrap your arms around me?” And he snakes an arm around your waist, sending your heart into overdrive again, “he’s never gonna talk to you again. He’s probably gonna issue a copyright claim every time you put his pics on the Web-Blog, now. Legs too.”

“Wait, no. We are not swinging again. We are taking the stairs.”

“How else am I gonna get you off the roof? Legs, please.”

“We can take the stairs!”

“Door’s probably locked and Kingpin’s already on his way back to his super-secret evil lair. Legs or I’m webbing you up in a baby wrap.”

You grumble. It’s enough to make you grab onto his shoulders and jump, locking your ankles across his back with the fear of gravity instilled in you. You reckoned he’d be fast enough to catch you if you did fall. The very possibility makes you sick to your stomach, though. “Please don’t drop me.”

Peter dips his chin into the crevice where your neck meets your shoulder. "Don't worry," and it's not even that you hear his voice, you just feel it, "I've only dropped someone once."

And you're plummeting off the ledge before you get the chance to run away.

#peter parker x reader #peter parker scenarios #peter parker imagines #peter parker fic #peter parker fluff #peter parker angst #peter parker #spiderman x reader #spiderman scenarios #spiderman imagines #spiderman fic #spiderman fluff #spiderman angst #spider-man #tom holland #mjwrites #pp; small favor #fandom; marvel

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dreamtydraw · 2 years ago

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i gotta know more about your mc and baxter (i am never free from this man somebody help me). do they date in step 3, or just crush on each other? and the angst, pls gimme some angst >:D

oh, and do you have any headcanons about them together? :3

*slap my knee* WELL HONEY you have a BIG storm coming-

I’m a multi-shipper so Cerise has a storyline where they date and one where they were just really good friends and in both cases: Baxter was someone extremely important to Cerise.

Important context to understand: Cerise was nonverbal for almost half of her life. She has an important communication problem that actively ruin her personal life as she struggle to talk to people and so not isolate herself. Regardless of the nature their relathionship take, Baxter is extremly important to her as he's the first person she managed to befriend by herself. He came off strong and she took her chance to try talking with someone else and it ended up feeling easy around him.

They are vastly different and this is one of the main reasons they work together: They get to experience, learn and witness a new way of living life. Cerise gets to build her confidence slowly, they have an agreable moment and the dating is all new and attracting to her. She feels a lot and is in the company of someone who appreciates her and makes her come out of her shell.

You can imagine how such an impactful relationship can turn from the loveliest encounter of your summer to the most emotionally damaging event of your life.

Also worth mentioning is that in my playthrough Baxter closed the door in Cerise's face while she was bawling her eyes out on his porch... Yeah it didn't went well....

The reason why this breakup impacted Cerise so much is how some little details spiral in an endless train of negative thoughts: "If I was worth it, he would have tried" and "I am not even capable to move on from something so insignificant for him" "I feel stupid for having felt confident" "I should have known that I was not made to be around people, I can't even talk to someone properly" "I'm too much"

Cerise's self-confidence got shattered, having walked right back of all the effort she managed to make and her mutism coming back into her daily life. It only took one conversation to ruin an entire process of self grow.

The reunion was a painful one and here is where I call my phase the: Baxter pain and regret.

Just imagine for a second, you are so miserable because of your own choices, you left someone who loved you by convincing yourself they'll move on and 5 years later when you meet them again they are a shell. You hurted them so much that to this days your presence haunted them, the person you loves because of their positivity, their smile and bright kindness are now dull, sad and scared. The regret of it all and the pain of wanting to ask why, to wanting to help but also desperetly not wanting to furter implicate yourself while they still look at you with hope. How much would it hurt you to be given a chance even after all you destroyed ? After all the joy you denied for both of you and with all the regrets of have spent so much time in your selfish perception of the world. It would sting and that something that can never dissapear, even if she's back, even if you try again, even if you make progress, you simply can't make up for what you caused and it hunt you at night. You always been loved, you always loved them, and like a fool you reciprocate those feelings by doing the opposite of what love is suppose to be.

NOW THAT ANGST HAVE PASSED- Here is some cute dating headcanon I have of these two :D

Oh and one last sad stuff :

Cerise cut and dyed her hair because Baxter used to say he liked her long orange hair and the compliment felt so bittersweet that she couldn't stand seeing herself in the mirror...

ANYWHOOZIE

-Cerise likes jewelry and likes to make colorful jewelry so she wanted to make bracelets for Baxter. One colorful green to keep as a souvenir and one black and white.

-Still on jewelry, they traded. In exchange for a bracelet, he gave her some rings of his (that she kept wearing for the 5 years )

-They kissed in the car watching the firework because Cerise doesn't like loud noises

-Cerise doesn’t like sudden louse noise but had fun listening to Baxter’s music during some car rides.

-Because she can’t drive she asked him to pick her up or give her a ride to some stores just to have some time with him.

-They met at the cypres during the "soirée" moment and this fun fact always makes them laugh, life sure like them together.

-Fear of the ocean vs Fear of height, both are here to help the other fight against their fear with a little help

-Cerise gave Baxter a glass shot as a souvenir and he only once drank in it alone but was too scared to break it so he kept it hidden.

-I have this hc that once they get married ( because yes they will ) Baxter has a picture of her somewhere in his office and if someone asks "Are you married ?" he just pull up the pic of his very colorfull and and cheerful wife so people look at him confuse

you married a rainbow ?!

-Everyone had their moment of "don't ever hurt her again" with Baxter but the worst one was Liz who profaned murder hunt if he did.

-Still, Baxter got accepted nicely back into the family.

-Cerise's services as a photographer got added to Baxter's wedding contact of people he can recommend and they at least worked on some weddings together.

-Neither of them are morning people, but they spend a lot of their nights hanging out and simply talking until late.

-Some dinner nights they take a detour to dance a bit on the side near the beach

-Travel around the world travel around the world! Cerise has some nice vacation places she wants to do with Baxter and they sometimes need some calm time.

-They just love each other, 5 years are nothing compared to the rest they spent together

THANKS YOU FOR READING THIS FAR

#my art #my oc #ask about my otp #olba oc #baxter ward #dreamty's ramble #olba #our life begining and always #baxter x mc

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gutterballheart · 6 months ago

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KEEP UP

“You breathe funny, silence then you’re gasping for air”. He lays with his head cradled in his palm, studying my ill expanding chest like I am the last standing member of some lost, barbaric tribe. Equal parts pitiable and profitable. Well yes, perhaps I never stopped driving alongside that cemetery. You know how when we were kids our faces would start turning blue and we’d slap each other on the thighs manically just to keep what little life we had left from creeping out the corners of our mouths and dissipating into the stagnant car cabin. Perhaps I’ve been riding hand in hand with loss for a while and I didn’t know when the jig was up. People are dying all around me, in one way or another. He won’t be immune to that either. Perhaps I’m holding my breath waiting for something good, for something tangible, something that changes me. But whatever changes me tends to be painful; a thorn in my side buried between the cracks of my shell. I notice the nice stuff far too late. When the party’s over and I’m cleaning your spit off the rims of my glasses. When the balloons start to squeal and flail and pop. There was something here once. Things are dying all around me, in one way or another. Tammy gazes at me knowingly beneath mascara laden lashes, bound together with a clumpy, lilac dust. “You thrive in chaos, you thrive in your suffering”. No but don’t you see, I am ready for a quiet life where I smile from Monday through Friday and it isn’t pulled back over gritted teeth. Where I fall into somebody’s arms and kick my feet up on the couch and I am at peace with all that is and all that never was. I am tired of everything holding a mirror up to me and begging I stick my fist through the glass. He is still eyeing me expectantly. “Yeah, suppose it’s all the cigarettes.”

The world is dying all around me while I mutilate myself with my own lies.

-----------

#poetry #poem #words #writing #writeblr #writers on tumblr

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sorrowful-wallflower · 1 year ago

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Caught in the act (SFW)

@struttingstag

March 14 Prompt: Caught in the act. | 1213 words | SFW version

James just came home from work and he was exhausted. It had been a hectic day and he just wanted to relax. Regulus would still be at work for another hour when he walked in the house and Sirius had texted him to let him know that he had plans with Remus that evening and he didn't know how long he was going to be. Sirius and Remus had just hit their year mark last month and had been talking about moving in together, but they hadn't really made any headway on that front. And don't get him wrong, James liked living with his best friend and his boyfriend but it did make things difficult when James and Regulus wanted to be alone.

James took a quick shower to clean off the grime from his work day and changed into some comfy joggers and the red jumper that Regulus bought him for his birthday. When he went to the kitchen to grab a drink and something small to eat, Regulus was already sitting at the kitchen table.

"Oh, hey, baby. I wasn't expecting you home yet," James replied when he saw him sitting there.

"Why? Did you have somebody else in your bed that I should know about?" Regulus teased as he took a sip of his coffee and pushed James' mug towards him.

"Of course, not. You know you're the only one for me," James laughed lightly as his smile grew on his face.

"Am I?"

"I- Of course, you are. What would make you think any differently?" James was concerned now.

"I'm just teasing, Jamie. I know there's nobody else in the house," Regulus laughed lightly and James took a deep breath. "What do you want for dinner?"

"I don't know. What do you want?"

"Pizza?"

"Sure."

They ordered a pizza and some chicken wings from the new pizza shop down the road. It was delivered quick enough and they settled in on the couch to eat. Regulus had also gotten out the wine before he turned on the telly and started to flip through the channels. After he found nothing that he wanted to watch Regulus turned the telly off and turned towards James. And James knew that look like the back of his own hand.

James was nervous. He didn't want to make Sirius upset but he also didn't want to upset Regulus. His boyfriend had been begging him to do it for the last week and James' resolve was cracking. He didn't know how much longer he would be able to hold out before he inevitably caved to Regulus' begging.

"Please?" Regulus asked again for the third time in the last ten minutes.

"What if he catches us? I really don't want to be in the dog house with your brother... again. Once was enough," James whined.

"He won't know, besides Sirius isn't supposed to be home until at least later tonight, based on what Remus told me the other day. We have the whole house to ourselves."

"When did you talk to Remus?"

"Last week. He said he had a date planned for them. Something big I'm thinking, if the smile he failed to hide was anything to go by. I'm pretty sure we are safe for a while."

"I don't know, Reg. Every time I even think about doing something that could hurt him, he always seems to know. I don't know how but he does." James was fidgeting with his ring.

"I'll make it worth your while, Jamie," Regulus replied with a tone dripping in honey as he sat up on his knees on the end of the couch and ran his hand gently down James' chest making him shiver.

"Oh. Oh, that's not fair."

James threw his head back onto the back of the couch and groaned. He knew if he looked into Regulus' deep grey eyes when he was like this then he was going to crack within a second. James could already feel the fissures forming. It wouldn't take long and Regulus knew that, based on the smile he had when James chanced a glance at his boyfriend. Regulus was crawling over James' legs and dropping all of his weight down onto his lap. James closed his eyes.

"You know you want to," Regulus whispered into his ear as he ran his lips along the shell of it.

"You're going to be the death of me, love," James groaned, refusing to open his eyes.

He knew what would be there when he did. Regulus would have his best pouty face with the puppy dog eyes that James could never say no to. It was an evil tactic and it worked every single time. James took a deep breath before he slowly tipped his head back down and opened his eyes to find exactly what he thought he would.

"If we get caught," James started slowly, "I won't hesitate to blame you."

"Oh, I know," Regulus beamed as he got off of his lap and gave James his signature smirk before he walked back to the kitchen.

They didn't even make it ten minutes before the door was slammed open and Sirius let out a shriek that could be heard in every room in the house and probably outside as well. James groaned as he ran his hand down his face, knocking his glasses askew. He looked at Regulus, who was now sitting with a scowl and his arms crossed over his chest. As soon as James looked over at Sirius, he started his tirade.

"James?! How could you? And with my brother of all people." Sirius was flailing his arms all over the place.

James thought about actually blaming Regulus like he said he would but he didn't have the heart to.

"It's not what it looks like," James tried after a few moments of contemplation on what to say.

"Really? Let me guess, he just happened to crawl into your lap and you couldn't help it. Is that what you were going to say?"

"Well..."

"James, don't you even confirm that you fell victim to my baby brother... again."

James didn't say anything and he could see that Regulus was trying not to laugh beside him.

"James?"

"Hmm?"

"I'm waiting," Sirius said firmly as he tapped his finger on his now-crossed arms.

"Do you want me to lie to you?" James asked after a minute as he tried to hold back the smile that was threatening to appear.

"I can't believe you. You said it wouldn't happen again."

"I know that but he is very convincing," James tried to defend himself but Sirius just glared at him and he looked at Regulus for help.

"Will you fucking calm down, Sirius?" Regulus grumbled. "It's not like we can't restart it from the beginning."

"That's not the point, Reggie." Sirius sunk into the chair opposite them. "We were supposed to watch it together."

"Yeah, well. You weren't home and I wanted to watch it." Regulus shrugged his shoulders in nonchalance.

Sirius gaped at him and James groaned again before he picked up the remote and started the next episode of Peaky Blinders over again. Regulus curled into James and Sirius grumbled something about them being traitors but got comfortable in the chair anyway.

Also posted on Ao3: Tempting Choices

#marauders fandom #dead gay wizards #regulus arcturus black #marauders fanfiction #james fleamont potter #regulus x james #jegulus fanfic #jegulus microfic

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tobiasdrake · 1 year ago

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In a world filled with terrible wrongs that have been committed, the worst has finally been righted. I'm so proud of us.

Look at that smile. Have you ever seen a more beautiful smile in your life? The answer is no. You haven't.

That is the face of hope rewarded.

The sun and moon still helped. We didn't get the surge of power until the sun was shining directly onto the moon, which is itself glowing so obviously it's doing something.

But also, this is definitely some proto-Guardian Gods shit. Luanna and Solen's power was with us.

Which means we should be able to fly under our own power now. Fort Fleshy is no longer unassailable. We should go see how he's enjoying the monsoon.

But first?

This is an unmistakable declaration of war. We're coming for you, Aephorul!

Right. Uh. Right after we do some other stuff.

Stuff like that. There's a whole lotta stuff that still needs doing before I'm ready to besiege Ganon's Castle.

This looks interesting. Let's start here. What's this place do?

IT'S PRETTY AND I WANT IT

Some people might have reservations about cultural graverobbing. However, counterpoint: gimme gimme I want it.

As dissatisfied as I am with their prophesizing, these liquid walls are pretty sweet. Sturdy enough to stop an object from passing through without a certain amount of force behind it.

Okay so this is where the pretty thing goes. Somebody wanted whatever's in here kept locked away so badly that they broke the key into fragments and stashed the fragments in different corners of the Docarri civilization across the globe.

I bet it's treasure. Blindly opening ancient vaults is usually both rewarding and profitable. Or there's an unkillable horror behind them. One of the two.

Combination lock. I have no fucking idea how we're supposed to open this.

I guess there's no pressing reason why we'd want to open this, other than to rob Roro again for funsies. Though that is a valid reason.

Hm.

Finally, we get to see what's behind this--

MOTHERFUCKING LAVOS SPAWN ARE YOU KIDDING ME WITH THIS SHIT

AGAIN

AGAIN!?

NO I REFUSE

Fuck out of here with your "knock people down to 1 HP" bullshit. I'm having none of it.

I love how even the Achievement is outraged. "Hey, that's a reskin!"

What. What. No. How dare.

I am so furious right now. Nobody fucking appreciates the work I do I swear to the moon

He's not listening, Zale. he's a hollow shell of a person that Resh'an left to mock us.

Uh, he didn't lead us here. I came here of my own volition. Nobody fucking appreciates my leadership decisions either, apparently.

Let's get out of here. I'm mad and I want to punch something.

Speaking of, I wonder if the arena's finally open? Brisk's been working on that for ages.

Interesting choice of branding. Personally, I would not name my business after a national tragedy that claimed the lives of countless people. One that's so fresh in people's memories that the victims are likely still in mourning. That's a good way to get molotovs thrown through your window. But sure.

Oh, sure. Glad you like it, B'stie!

And now it's all about me again. Sorry to steal your thunder during your big moment, B'st but... What can I say? The public knows who the superstar here is.

Aww, Serai's up there cheering us on. I almost didn't recognize her in her getup. THIS ONE'S FOR YOU, "CAP'N"!

Is that supposed to be intimidating? The claws are literally the only threatening part of a crab. What are--

*heavy sigh*

"Please welcome the legendary Supreme Lunar Abbess without whom all of our lives would have been forfeit on that great and terrible day! But she still has to work up through the ranks from zero anyway."

Okay. It's fine. At least the crowd already knows my name. I'll take out your trash for you.

#sea of stars #drake plays sea of stars

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dear--charlie · 5 months ago

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Dear Charlie,

how long has it been since I've written? ages right? maybe just a year or two? who knows anymore, really? everything is happening all at once and yet not at all... i'm stuck in a timeline where "time" itself is moving forward, but the world as i know it, is regressing at a blindingly fast rate.

i'm lost charlie. truly lost. i don't know what i want or who i want to be. i don't know how to become that person or how to find the people that i'm supposed to surround myself with to allow change or growth to happen. so many things are wrong with me that i don't even know where to start. i'm going to be 25 in less that 2 months and i have yet to accomplish anything in my life. i don't know how to love properly or like properly, i don't know how to take up space in a way that allows me to be myself without drowning everyone around... charlie, i'm truly just a fucking mess.

i hate who i am becoming. i look back at every age i've ever been and ache for the girl. she dreamt of so much more... of becoming someone so much better... and yet here i am. pathetic.

and sadness used to be so much easier... now it feels like singing the wrong words to the same tune you've always known. as i morph into this agregious being that i'm becoming, i somehow get worse and better at the same time. i don't hate my body like i used to, but it still keeps me from doing things, because i'm still fat and i'm afraid that people will judge me as they always do. i thought i had found love, but really i just sunk my claws into someone else, only it was worse this time because at least with D and M, i had the excuse i'm being young and growing up the way i did, but this time... i thought i'd changed. i thought i understood. but as i'm coming to realise about most things... i'm pathetically ignorant and abhorrently obsessed with someone finding me as i am and loving me regardless.

does any of what i'm saying make sense? i'm too embarrassed by my effort to express these things, that i can't make myself go back and read over the words i've already written. i'm sickened by myself.

charlie, i was supposed to be somebody by now.

but instead i'm some stupid, hollow shell, etched with longing and grief and despair... i used to believe it would get better...

but now i think i was born into this life just to suffer.

i'm sorry for whatever i did in my past lives. the mistakes i made... just please let things get better. please let things be easier. please let me find all the things i've ached for. it's always struck me as paltry to beg, but i'm on my hands and knees regardless. if that's what will allot me even just a slim ounce of peace.

if i could just have some company to keep me... perhaps they could be someones who understand.. even that would be more than enough.

i'm exhausted of suffering and walking alone.

i'm exhausted of everything.

what do i do charlie? will i ever become someone who is worth something?

living is by far the hardest thing i've ever had to do... i want to be done.

love always,

fat girl.

#dear charlie #fat girl

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midnightwerewoolf · 8 months ago

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OCs as patron saints

The instructions are to do this uquiz for as many OCs as you'd prefer - was tagged by the amazing @drhu0806

M██████ (Dhara) Ward - patron saint of lost faith

patron saint of leaving it by the roadside. patron saint of it slipping out of your fingers. patron saint of searching and searching. patron saint of yearning for it back. patron saint of scraping your fingers down to the bone trying to hold onto it. patron saint of losing it anyway. saint of lost faith. not the saint of getting it back.

Dante Castillo - patron saint of heartbreak

not of comfort. not of condolences. there is a heart and there is a fissure, a fracture, something that starts to splinter and break open. you're the patron saint of the way a heart is rent open. the way it tears itself apart. patron saint of the rift. patron saint of the gash. when they say to "open your heart" to somebody, you are the patron saint of bleeding out.

Ren Kurosawa - patron saint of horror

you're the patron saint of the dawning moment of realization. the patron saint of comprehension, maybe. the patron saint of understanding. the patron saint of knowing exactly what's going to happen. of seeing clearly. of not being able to look away.

Daniel Ward - patron saint of houses

but not of homes. only the shells of what keeps us enclosed. houses can be decorated or well-built or crumbling or haunted but only a home can truly be warm; you are the patron saint of that lack.

Diana Kim - patron saint of relics

patron saint of remembering. patron saint of holding something close. patron saint of holding on for too long. for a saint, a relic is often a part of the body, kept for some physical memento of their holiness. they are all in your hands, now: does it feel like remembrance? does it feel sanctified? are the dust and blood as precious as they're supposed to be?

████ ███████ (Aria Nous) - patron saint of creation

patron saint of explosions. patron saint of More. patron saint of something new entirely, something unfamiliar, something you can't recognize. was frankenstein's monster an abomination or had his like just never been seen before? you're the patron saint of all those new, beautiful things. you're the patron saint of the monsters, too.

@lonery-w I am peeking from across the room, looking at you, batting my eyelashes... if you want to do it, of course 💖

And @g8ggles get your ass here 💖

#Okay but Dhara and Dante have the most fitting results possible to who they are #The power couple at it again #Also funny how both groups are a mirror of the other #mwoolf #oc #tag game

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dwarf-vader-of-middle-earth · 1 year ago

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As a 4ft11 (149cm) adult man, I second literally all of this. I have to fucking custom order all my sneakers and boots and even get some hand made because nobody sells size 4.5 men's/13.5 boy's shoes. I spent 3 weeks trying to find in person and online a pair of formal shoes and I gave up and wore sneakers because I ran out of time and I can't afford several hundred dollars for a pair of shoes I only wear on special occasions.

I have the height of a child but I am shaped as an adult man, and I can't fucking stand buying pants that are size 36 but the shortest fucking leg size is 30in. Bro that's more than half my fucking height how the hell am I supposed to walk in pants several inches longer than my legs??? And they don't make boy's pants fit for 36in waists.

Do you KNOW how impossible formalwear is???? Shirts fit for somebody of my size will never go around my wide hips and waist. The only shirts that do fit have sleeves the length of a fucking interstate highway. I literally cannot find any formalwear that fits me. I never have. It's been a struggle since high school, and it always will be.

Sleeveless shirts are horrendous. I like the ones that are basically tees but without sleeves. But I am small. The shirts that do fit me, they sag to no end and just look weird.

And before anyone says, "Well just take your clothes to a tailor!!" DO YOU KNOW HOW EXPENSIVE THAT IS??? TO TAKE EVERY SINGLE PIECE OF CLOTHING YOU HAVE TO A TAILOR ALWAYS AND FOREVER???? Tell me average height folks. Do you have the money to take dozens of shirts and pants, several pairs of shorts, all your socks, jackets, hoodies, and PJs to a tailor? Can you afford the price of a tailor every single time you need to buy something new??? I shouldn't have to need a tailor for my average everyday clothes. Nobody should.

Sincerely as THE shortest man you'd ever probably meet in person, I am begging designers to recognize that it's exhausting to live in a world where short folks are incapable of being adults when we have to use adult things and they don't fucking suit us in any capacity. Small adults exist. Of all genders. Of all sorts. For fucks sake just recognize this and give us reasonable clothes and generally accessible utilities (kitchens, store checkouts, etc.) so we can fucking live without tiring ourselves out always to find one company that will make things for people like us, and so we don't have to shell out thousands for custom everything just to live somewhat normally.

There is nothing normal about shelling out fortunes for accessibility.

I hate it when companies are like “oh we’re making gender-neutral clothing!” and it’s just sweats. We’ve had gender neutral sweats since the 70s.

#i fucking hate this world for the sheer fact that it has zero accessibility for short people

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presidentbungus · 3 years ago

Text

request from @truekingpumpkin because he drew something for me (yes i take these in exchange for drawings and fic trades hmu). spy helping scout out while he's disguised or something along those lines, I don't know, I am very tired. enjoy!

ao3

Don't get him wrong—thank god for respawn, or whatever. He just hates dying. Especially this kind of dying: too hurt to move, just kinda laying against a wall and waiting for the blood to stop running. It doesn't even hurt that much anymore, compared to the other kind of shit that's happened to him (burning to death sucks balls)—it's just annoying. Sitting still and waiting. He should stop taking the flank routes. No one comes by the flank routes.

He hears explosions somewhere, Soldier's barked calls--maybe a spy decloak, and his entire body twitches, and he remembers where he is and curses very loud. His vision's starting to swim a little. To be honest, actually, he's tired as shit. And his whole body feels like a ton of bricks, so maybe that makes sense.

Maybe it wouldn't hurt to rest his eyes. Just for a little.

"Scout! There you are."

He jerks awake. "Five more minutes," and then it sets in that he's still on the battlefield and his whole body's burning to hell, and Engie's sitting next to him shaking him awake and unpacking a medkit with his other hand. "... Engie? What the hell?"

"Don't move, you'll make it worse. You were almost dead, you know that?"

"... What? Aren't you supposed to be... at your nest, or something?"

Engie rubs his shoulder, and something about it feels unmistakably weird but his nerves also aren't really in the best shape right now. "Was just passing through and thought you needed some help. It'll just be enough for you to get Medic, I'll be done lickety-split."

"Your voice is... weird."

He just scoffs, uncapping one of the heal juice-thingies and holding it in front of Scout's face. "You've lost a lotta blood, son. Open up."

Scout does, even though the liquid in the bottle tastes like bitter lemon and seems to coat his entire mouth, and his body still hurts but he's finally able to feel his legs again. He pulls them to his chest, hissing--his clothes are still encrusted with blood, but he's pretty sure the active bleeding has dropped to a minimum. "Agh... thanks Engie. I think my head's gonna explode."

"Well, that oughta do it," he chuckles, and he tosses the medkit shell somewhere into the battlefield and slaps Scout on the shoulder. "Alright, sport, get back out there. Cause a ruckus. Be more careful."

His brain feels like it's sloshing around in his skull. "… Whatever.”

“Alright, see ya ‘round.” And Engie stands, and Scout blinks, and he’s gone. Scout cranes his neck around the corner and sees nothing.

… Huh. Must be bookin’ it today. When he gets to his feet he feels like the weight of about six heavies are sitting on top of him, but nothing catches him on the way to the point—and Engie’s nest actually ain’t that far, he seems to find it after only a little bit of stumbling, and he brushes past him (he’s already there, that’s weird) and collapses on a dispenser, sighing as his body cools and his headache gradually starts to vanish.

A metal hand comes up from behind and ruffles his hair. “What happened to you?”

“… What?”

“Nothing. Gotta get back out to the point soon, son, their pyro’s on everyone’s asses and we need somebody to flank.”

“Weren’t you there?”

He chuckles. “Weren’t I where?”

“By the, uh…” In the distance, Heavy swivels and mows down an outline of a man, and Spy’s corpse goes sprawling across the ground, and…

“You okay there?”

“Oh, shit.”

#bungus fics #fic requests #spydad #tf2 scout #tf2 spy #tf2 engineer #tf2

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jxthics · 3 years ago

Note

As somebody with zero knowledge of firearms who has never even held one: feel free to rant about the most common mistakes you see in movies and shows? I love that sort of thing!

OH I HAVE SO MANY HANG ON

(if anyone wants to keep this as reference you're welcome to!)

this list is nonexhaustive i could complain all day but here's some top ones

- BULLET PHYSICS. i don't really have an issue with bullet physics in terms of how they hit people because the research required for learning that usually requires like, looking at actual injuries? and i am pretty harshly against traumatizing some poor intern working in the entertainment industry with exposure to real violence just for the sake of "realism" when stylized violence would have been more interesting to look at from an audience standpoint and without cruelty from an industry standpoint. but everything else about bullet physics makes me so mad!! this is usually an issue with comics, but bullets do not fire with their shells on! BULLETS ARE NOT FIRED IN A CURVED LINE! if a bullet hits something, it will generally go through it unless it is very very thick! keep in mind what is behind your target!

- the amount of ammo a gun has. the number of times i've seen someone fire like, 15+ rounds out of a 6 shot revolver..... as a general rule of thumb, revolvers usually fire 6, a standard pistol USUALLY fires 10-15, though extended mags exist. in this specific instance realism would make your action scenes SO much better too so i dont understand why its skimped on! make your characters force themselves to contend with and manage resources!!!

- TRIGGER DISCIPLINE. this is an extremely hard rule when handling guns, you need to keep your finger off of the trigger until exactly when you are ready to fire. if you need to rest your trigger finger while holding a gun, that is what the trigger guard is for. it's fine if like, your guy has literally never held a gun before in their lives? but if they have even a slight understanding of handling guns, they're going to follow trigger discipline because that shit is insanely dangerous. so watching "trained assassins" or whatever wave around guns with their finger on the trigger drives me nuts.

- sound from guns! when someone fires a gun in a small room and then immmediately starts talking after? or like, someone fires a gun in a small room and then is 100% Profoundly Deaf For The Rest Of Their Lives? both of those are incorrect. make more of your badasses wear hearing protection pleeease they make electrical earpro that only blocks out sounds from guns and does not block out everything else so they can still talk. you don't have to make them wear full on cans you can just wear some earplugs. it's ok. i promise

- this one's kind of broad, but incorrect terminology almost always takes me out of it.... especially when the character is supposed to know their shit like lol you just sound like a douche. unless your character is using ammo that is designed to physically clip onto their vests they probably do not carry clips for their guns, they carry magazines/mags, for example. big badass people in action movies looove to talk about technical aspects of guns and just completely get it wrong, which is such a simple fix. and like... for the most part tech talk about guns isn't very advanced, it's not like scientific terms, they're usually slang terms meant to be understood by a lot of people, so if your character fucks up those it tells me that they do not actually know what they're talking about. in the very instance that is supposed to show me that they do.

and like... the thing that drives me up the wall with stuff that has to do with the user itself is that IT WOULD ALWAYS ADD TO THE CHARACTER especially in like long term tv shows. everyone has their own preferences on what they use and everyone does things in their own ways, especially if they are trained to work with firearms. it's not just "oh this guy's using a weapon" in most instances and it would tell so much about how they act!!!! are they militant about cleaning their guns, do they enjoy that part of the process? do they have favorites? do they prefer revolvers or automatics and if they have a preference, why? do they have a type of gun they dislike? why? if you're handling guns day in and day out for a long time you will inevitably develop these!! and it would humanize them so much..... i wanna see some guys in an action show on their downtime cleaning their guns, or some guys getting along by debating about AK vs AR. just like.... cmon. make your professionals look professional.

i could go on for waaaay longer but i will cut myself off here tysm for asking i go nuts on this stuff 🫂 UM AND IF ANY WRITERS ARE READING THIS the best way to avoid inaccuracies is by contacting someone who knows shit about guns to beta read, i promise you will not be bothering them. myself included cmere let me proofread your fics so i can tell you about your heroes firearms pspspspspsp

#jacasser #im so serious please hmu i will read over it

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valerianavow · 3 years ago

Text

"Val."

The frog stood in the entryway to the tent. Valeriana set her quill and the cipher key down, sighing as she pinched the brow of her nose. Val, Val, Val. Nobody called her 'Mother' anymore. So much for the grand tradition. "What is it." She felt like she got a year older every day, the way things had been lately.

Her visitor stepped into the torchlight, her deep pink skin tinted even redder in the fire. "I'm going."

"Tonight? We've not yet finished the preparations."

"He suspects something. Barrel had to kill two of the Thronesguard that were getting close to our embedded contacts." She pulled her hand out of her cloak, dropping two medallions of the secret Leviathan-loyal police on Valerian's desk.

Valeriana blinked down at the symbols, picking one up and flipping it over in her hand.

She looked at up at the other woman. "You realize this is deeply incriminating, yes? It's a very dramatic reveal to be sure, but even taking the badges is dangerous. It tells those who find the bodies that somebody targeted them for their role, not just money or violence." She watched the frog's back stiffen under her cloak and smirked to herself. "Well, it's no matter. Damage done, and I half-assume we'll all be dead by this time tomorrow, if you're going off as half-cocked as I think you are."

"I am not," growled the woman through gritted teeth, "going off 'half' of anything. I can tell he's getting suspicious. I have his deepest trust. I'm the only one who can get close enough. If we don't move now, he'll likely activate one of the Battalions ahead of schedule, and then there won't be guards that can be tricked or bribed in between us and the box. It'll just be cold, unfeeling-"

"Still unconfirmed, on that," Val interrupted dryly. "They do draw their power from our temple's gem, as it were. It stands to reason that they'd have feelings. If you wanted purely logical drones, you'd tie them to Mind, and I think the old bastard's scared of keeping anything smarter than him around." She chuckled to herself. "Not that that's hard to do. His horrid master does all the thinking for him."

The frog's arms were crossed. "Right." Her voice was out of patience. "Well, I'm going, before we lose our chance. So."

Valeriana waited, stretched back in her chair, staring at the other woman. Her visitor shifted awkwardly under her gaze. "I suppose I was looking for... advice? I don't know. I'm quite scared, Mother," she finally admitted, and there was fear in her voice.

Valeriana sighed. There it was, finally. "Your grand plan is to place hands on the device, warp to some distant, likely deeply hostile world and seal the Calamity's Harbinger away. I understand why you are scared. It amounts to stealing a beetle's saddle from her jockey and then letting the bug trample you underfoot."

She stood, turning to face a map of Amphibia that was spread out behind her chair. She didn't want to admit to herself that she didn't want to look the other woman in the eye.

"You are dooming yourself. You are surrendering this chance to halt the path of the empire forever on the assumption that removing the key will bring it grinding to a halt. This is a one way trip, and if there are sentient creatures where you travel, they are bound to discover it. Soon enough, be it a hundred or a thousand years, the unbound energy of the plane will recharge it. And someone, some poor creature, will open it, and we'll be right back where we started, less one brilliant young disciple who I trust more than any other amphibian on this vast green plane."

Valeriana heard the woman draw in a breath. That may be the only compliment you have ever paid her, she observed to herself. You really should get better at that.

She looked over her shoulder. "It will not stop him. He will rave and slam against the walls thrown up by you, and he will mutter and plot and connive as he retreats to his little shell of a city and waits for his precious box to fall back into his lap. You know that the former wielders of the Gem's powers cannot die by natural causes. Just as I have lived and seen the world since the day of Leviathan's grandfather, so too will Andrias Leviathan persist long after your death on some distant, lonely world."

Her hand came to the empty sleeve on her bad shoulder, and she rolled it experimentally, grimacing. Heart's powers had a heavy cost. The woman behind her gathered herself and ventured, carefully- "But you'll be here, Mother? You'll still be ready to fight..."

"To fight? In a thousand years?" Valeriana threw back her head and cackled, enjoying the long moment. "My dear Daughter, in a thousand years I had hoped to be dead and dust. I'd say this immortality is not a fate I'd wish on my worst enemy, but his majesty has done a level job of filling in for that role! No, no, my hope was that we'd be done with this nasty business in a decade or so, and the throne and the temples would lay empty and toppled, and that great bloody hive mind of a ship could serve as a grave for the damn souls it stole. And I'd be able to die in peace, since none of the scattered worlds would ever need to know what a damnable gem was ever again. But, alas! All plans are made to be broken, and suchlike."

Her visitor was studying the ground at her feet. She drew in a breath and Valeriana stopped, watching her. The woman sighed.

"I'm sorry, Mother. I wish it had worked out. I just, if we don't act now..."

"Oh, Plantar." Valeriana smiled. "I expect nothing less of you. I may be annoyed that you are happily flying off to your death to taunt the mad emperor for a fleeting handful of years, but I agree with you. What other plans we had are falling apart at the seams as the throne unravels our threads. It is only a matter of time before the inevitable comes." She paused, sitting back at her desk and steepling her fingers against her gloved tail. "So, yes. Olm Daughter Plantar, Sister of Heart, be it a hundred or a thousand years, the Mother of Olms will persist. We will find the bearers of the gems who come long after you, and we will hope that time has been long enough for Amphibia to rise against the cruelty of the Leviathan throne."

The frog sighed. "Thank you."

Valeriana inclined her head in response, smiling slightly. "Never let it be said that I did not take every single dramatic opportunity to be completely insufferable." This caught her visitor off guard, and she laughed, her breath hitching in her throat. Val leaned forward on her desk.

"Go, Plantar, with the Olms' blessing. The fate of all the worlds merely hangs in your hands."

The frog shook her head. "You are insufferable."

"It came with the job," Valeriana drawled. "Now, get out of here. I have evidence to destroy." She scooped up the Throneguards' badges and stood, pointing at the much shorter woman. "If that overstuffed armchair of an emperor catches you, you have no idea who I am, understand?"

The frog turned with a bright smile and a lilting tone, saying, "Of course, Val. Wouldn't dream of selling out the cause!"

Valeriana shook her head with a matching smirk. "You children and your causes. I am an idiot for continuing to get involved in this worldly nonsense. You'll be the quite final death of me, one day."

...

A thousand years later, Valeriana sat at the edge of a vast pillar, looking out over the sea of clouds at her feet. Somewhere beyond, there was Newtopia. Somewhere below staggered out the machinations of a mad emperor and his petty old master, mucking around in the mud for a silly little act of prophecy.

She looked up at the moon on the horizon, musing as she picked at the fraying edge of her black cloak. It'd be time to repair the hem again soon. She sighed. If this girl didn't pull it off, there'd be another inevitable wait, and she might squeal about her involvement and what she saw of the Olms, and Valeriana would have to go to ground again for probably another hundred years to dodge the stuck-up old man, and it was all just so inconvenient...

"Bwaaawk! Time to go!"

She lifted her eyes to her companion, the little parrotfly that followed her everywhere. He had been repeating Anne's words for weeks now in her absence.

"I suppose it is, Leander." She pushed herself to her feet. "I suppose it is."

Valeriana stood at the edge, and looked out over the world.

One way or the other, this will be over soon. Either the Heart breaks and the Empire picks up their conquest where they left off, or the Heart prevails.

And then what?

Her hand curled around her staff. Valeriana thought of the frog child with her poor long lost Daughter's face and color. His smile, looking so familiar. His human sister's fierce and stubborn determination, how much she sounded like her. Their family name, how she thought she would never hear it again... how much she had lost in a thousand years. How strange it was, to see it all come around again.

Leander landed on her shoulder and puffed out his chest. "Bwaawk! Gotta go!" Valeriana chuckled, and fed him a scrap of meat from her cloak.

I don't know. But I'd like to find out.

The lonely Mother of Olms stood at the top of the world and waited for the sun to rise again.

----- Based on this art by the talented @dashintrash! Thank you for reading.

#amphibia #amphibia analysis #amphibia fanfic #valeriana's mysterious goods #val writes #doctor plantar #plantar ancestor #valeriana #amphibia golden age

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shokami · 4 years ago

Text

I HATE ALL MEN...

pairing ; megumi fushiguro x reader

word count ; 2.8k

genre ; fluff to angst. established relationship!

warning(s) ; major character death (not descriptive). mentions of blood, injuries. minor spoilers to ep nineteen.

i hate all men, but when he loves me… i feel like i’m floating...

doubling over in laughter, you held your side as you let out several gasps of air. listening to the ridiculous spout of words between itadori and kugisaki, never failed to make you crack a wheeze or two.

your bubbly sounds echoing around the room quickly caught your boyfriend’s attention. those laughs were always capable of making him stop dead in his tracks, all so he could take a mental picture of that moment. your laughter slowly died down as you turned to look over your shoulder, finding fushiguro watching from afar. he looked at you with nothing but fondness in his gaze, a soft smile tugging at the corners of his lips.

fushiguro swore that you were the sunshine in human form. that genuine smile, and intoxicating laugh— was exactly what he would expect the sun to appear as. those were also the very things that had made him fall for you so long ago. he never spoke about it, but he was glad that being surrounded by curses, and the constant negativity invading your life, never dulled your happiness. he didn’t know what he would do without such a beaming sunshine.

“you know, i heard that staring isn’t polite.”

basking in your presence, and appearance caused megumi’s mind to momentarily drift off into an abyss of his own thoughts. so much so, that he hadn’t even noticed that you had approached him from across the training room.

“earth to megumi— hello?” you snapped your fingers in front of his face, rolling your eyes at the distant minded boy as his eyes suddenly snapped to yours “hi, yeah. there you are!”

“sorry, i was distracted.” fushiguro said simply, that same soft smile from earlier returning to his face.

to those who didn’t see him the way you did, or even to those who weren’t a part of your immediate friend group— no one saw fushiguro smile. ever. if you had to compare his daily facial expressions to someone, you’d probably say he reminded you of nanami. always straight faced, serious, and ready to get to the point. but his smile was never foreign to you.

despite the assumption to anyone else, a smile or laughter, or sense of joy from megumi was not a rare sight. in fact, it happened more and more than usual. his tormented soul began to lighten up, and feel free once more. some say it was because of you, but that wasn’t a credit you deserved to claim. not when itadori existed, and gave him the friends he deserved.

you were but a mere bonus in his life.

megumi was no stranger in displaying the fact that he fell for you based on your smile, and humor. he would tell you until he was blue in the face, but what he didn’t know was that the sight of that once rare grin is also what had you swooning in a matter of minutes.

leaning up towards his face, you pressed a gentle kiss to his cheek that quickly became the rosy color of the flowers outside in the garden. he was always so easily flustered, “distracted by what, hm?”

between you and megumi, neither one of you craved public displays of affection. you preferred keeping any acts of shared love just to yourselves, behind closed doors only accompanied by the soft glow of the moon.

that however, never stopped the occasional peck on the cheek, or subtle hand holding.

“what am i ever distracted by?”

“training? cursed techniques? shadow puppets?”

fushiguro snorted, “shadow puppets?”

several more giggles left your throat, sounding just the same as earlier, “yeah! you know, demon dogs… flying owl things—“

“divine dogs, and nue.” he interrupted.

“shadow puppets!”

“... shikigami.” megumi looked at you, quickly shaking his head at your antics and refusal to use his cursed techniques proper titles. “no, to all of those... i was distracted by you.”

you gasped loudly, drawing the attention of yuuji and nobara still standing across the room, “by me?! me oh my! not THE fushiguro megumi being distracted by little ‘ol me!”

yuuji and nobara bursted into a fit of laughter, enjoying the scrowl that crossed megumi’s face. though you loved him indefinitely, there was nothing more you enjoyed doing than bringing him embarrassment from your flare for dramatics.

“you’re worse than gojo, you know that?”

“worse than gojo how?” you jetted your bottom lip out, creating a fake pout.

“annoying. a nuisance. unnecessarily loud,” for what felt like the first time in your relationship, megumi took no care in sharing a moment of affection with you in the public eye as he leaned in to steal a kiss. “and a brat… but i suppose that’s why i love you.”

three words was all it took. three words and suddenly the world froze. you couldn’t see anything beyond megumi, you couldn’t hear your friends gasps’ in the background, and you struggled to exhale the breath stuck in your chest. love?

neither one of you knew love before each other, just like neither one of you dared to drop that damned four letter word until now… love terrified you. how could it not in this life? how could love not make you want to run in the opposite direction, fearing that the moment you loved— something would rip away that serenity.

“you… you love me?”

“i love you, y/n.”

another long pause.

your mind was racing, your heart beat felt like it would pulsate out of your chest at any given moment. why did the temperature skyrocket so suddenly? please don’t faint, you told yourself over and over.

surely, at this rate megumi thought he screwed everything up. did you not love him back? was the feeling not mutual? after months of being with one another, growing close, learning each other inside and out… did he read it all wrong?

“y/n, i’m sorr—“

“i love you too.”

that was the moment everything in this dark and gloomy world suddenly made sense. if you had nobody to love, what was the point of living?

megumi fushiguro may have seen you as the sun, and his never ending happiness… but he didn’t know that he was your reason for becoming that light. he would never understand the joy he brought to your dull world.

when he calls me pretty, i feel like somebody.

why is it always raining? you wondered.

to be fair, you didn’t hate the rain. you enjoyed it at times, and found peace in the sounds that came along with it; but it became a hassle when you’d have to travel across the jujutsu high campus. you cursed them for making the dorms such a distance from classes.

mentally preparing for the journey to your room, you tucked your books away into your bag to shield them from the downpour.

the onslaught of rain grew as you stepped out from the awning that protected you. an earthy smell wafted through your nostrils, filling your senses. the wetness against your skin was freezing, making goosebumps rise with each prick of the harsh rains. seconds ago you dreaded stepping out into the horrific weather, but now you stood perfectly still with your face tilted towards the sky enjoying the refreshingness.

all you could hear was the raging thunder up above, and it made you feel free. no sounds of other students could be heard, no screaming noises from the bustling city of tokyo, no ugly walling from cursed spirits. just the thunder, just your breathing, just the droplets of rain falling against the concrete and rooftops around you.

it was a beautiful moment.

which is why you dropped your bag, spread your arms as far as they could reach, and spun in the violent rainfall. the world slowed down for those few seconds.

“are you crazy?!”

your eyes snapped open as you turned to watch fushiguro rush towards you, an umbrella in hand.

“you’re going to get struck by lightning one of these days,” he picked up your bag and tossed it over his shoulder, before holding the umbrella over both of your bodies. “what the hell are you doing out here?”

smiling up at fushiguro, you stepped out from the umbrella once again with a laugh, “i’m enjoying the rain! enjoy it with me!”

you snatched the umbrella, quickly closing it and tossing it to the ground. letting all of your worries and fears fade away, you yearned to have one moment with megumi that wasn’t ripped away by the darkness of your world… one normal moment.

one normal moment where you were just kids playing in the freezing rain.

expecting him to look annoyed at your antics like usual, you were pleasantly surprised to find him matching your smile and looking at you with nothing but bliss.

“you’re so annoying.”

“and you love me,” you grinned.

“... and i love you.”

fushiguro stepped towards you, encasing his arms around your waist as he picked you up and spun you around in a circle. laughter filled the air, and you felt nothing but joy.

time froze as the two of you basked in your youth, enjoying only the company of one another and the rainstorm. it felt like an eternity before your feet met the ground once more. your hair and clothes were soaked, strands of your own hair felt plastered to your face as you giggled. megumi pushed those strands aside, and replaced them with smothering kisses.

“you look different when your hair is wet,” you told him as you pushed it all out of his eyes.

“and you look just as pretty as ever.”

ever since your relationship with megumi began, he’s slowly come further out of that shell that he placed himself in. seeing him be able to enjoy himself like this… it brought a new type of happiness.

kissing his nose quickly, you looked up at the sky as the rain finally lightened up, “you know, if i didn’t know any better i’d say i’m wearing off on you.”

“is that so?” megumi asked, picking up your bag again along with the umbrella.

“mhm! you’ve let loose more,” you huddled close to him underneath the safety of the umbrella for warmth, “finally taking back your youth.”

megumi chuckled, holding you close. “i guess i have my beautiful sun to thank for that, don’t i?”

even when we fade eventually to nothing...

everything was blurry. there was an ache spreading throughout your body, and it felt as if someone was landing a blow to your rib cage over and over again. there was barely any fight left in you, but you would continue to push forward until someone got to you. surely one of the teachers would find you soon, right? of course they would! gojo must’ve been on his way.

that’s what you thought.

it’s what you desperately wanted to believe, but as the time passed you began to think their fight had just begun. you knew what was happening back at the school, you were there when that special grade stepped out and attacked you and inumaki.

the problem was, everyone knew you weren’t strong enough to fight in that battle. inumaki knew. before you knew it, megumi’s divine dog was shoving you away as inumaki commanded you to run in the opposite direction. damn him.

you wanted to curse him for sending you away with the shikigami, but deep down you knew he was right. there were still lower level curses running around, and they needed to be dealt with… but you didn’t foresee coming face to face with mahito as he made his get away from jujutsu high.

“your friends left you all alone? what a shame.” he spoke with a bubbly laugh, watching the blood trickle down from your hairline.

you wanted to speak, you wanted to charge at him and rip him to shreds for everything he’s done. yet, all you could do was cry out in agony as you fell to your knees. every part of your body felt like it would combust into flames at any given second, you weren’t sure if it was from the pain or the sickening warmth of your blood soaking through your clothes. your eyes became heavier, struggling to focus on the laughing maniac in front of you.

the shikigami shielded you from mahito, a deep growl emitting from its body as it took a stance to protect you. the divine creature had one job, and it was to protect you when he was not with megumi; but you couldn’t stand by and watch another one of his shikigami be destroyed. not for your sake.

“return to megumi.” you reach out, your fingertips barely ghosting over it’s fur.

with a sad whine, the divine dog gave you one last look before disappearing from the air. he was safe, and that is all that mattered. he could protect megumi now, and be far away from the monster you faced.

“that demon dog could’ve been your only chance of survival, y/n!” mahito laughed again, causing you to grimace at the sound.

“divine. dog. you scum,” you made no move to try and stand, nor defend yourself. the wounds in your chest, and side were fatal and crippling. there was nothing left for you to do, other than to accept your fate.

as a jujutsu sorcerer, you are taught to live without regret. to live without fear of death. to accept it, when your time comes… but you were terrified.

what kind of cruel life was this?

this was why you did not want to love fushiguro… because every sweet thing, has a bitter end.

you couldn’t remember when your eyes had closed, or when all of the pain in your body seemed to go numb. all you knew is that when you awoke, mahito was gone. you were face to face with gojo as he carried you away from the scene.

your teacher noticed your eyes drifting open almost immediately. for the first time, you saw him look concerned. he wasn’t smiling, or laughing like usual— he looked like he was in as much pain as you felt.

“gojo…” you coughed, blood quickly filled your lungs and nearly made you collapse at the loss of breath.

“save your energy, yn.”

your eyes slowly shut once more, the willpower to survive was fleeting, “tell him… tell him i love him?”

in a whisper that you barely caught, gojo tried his best to scold you for your shitty goodbye, “you’re not going to die, you’re staying here.”

“protect him, satoru… protect them all.”

they say that when you die, you experience a flashback of your entire life in seconds. that was the worst lie you had ever heard. aside from finally escaping the pain, all you saw was a blinding flash of white and the memory of the very last kiss you ever shared with megumi…

… you will always be my favorite form of loving.

weeks after your funeral, megumi visited your grave every single day. each day, a new flower was brought from the garden of jujutsu high. the garden where he grew the nerve to ask you to be his girlfriend, the garden where you kissed for the very first time, said your first i love you, and danced in the rain as if your youth depended on it.

an array of flowers built up around your grave, and you all swore that before you knew it? megumi and nobara would have their own garden to tend to around you.

you hoped they would, and that it would bring them joy… just as you once had.

staring down at where you laid in the ground, megumi placed down the head of a single lotus flower on the front of your tombstone.

ETERNAL SUN Y/N L/N.

friend. family. student. lover.

cherished by many, adored by all.

in life, or in death, you would always be the eternal sunlight to megumi fushiguro. no matter the consequences to your spirit, you vowed to never leave his side and to always protect him and your friends.

a loyal guardian from the other side. their guide.

your spirit smiled, glancing from megumi’s tear streaked face to the sight of the moon as you placed a hand on his shoulder. being a part of the supernatural world now, fushiguro could sense your presence.

“the moon is beautiful, isn’t it?” megumi mumbled to your grave, the rain pouring down around the umbrella you once shared together.

you whispered to the wind, “i can die happy…”

authors note ; this was so fun to write. this is the first thing i’ve written that’s over 1k words and posted. if megumi is ooc, mind your business </3 i’m trying to learn him as a character xoxo

reblogs are appreciated!!

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