#I think? They're from the eighties (?)

[batsplat]

Sepang 2006: After an exhausting race, Valentino Rossi brings a chair to the podium and sits down. Loris Capirossi joins him to sit on his lap.

[stick-by-me]

Got a sweet tooth?

New follower sticker for: @milkycookiereads!

[david-watts]

I was looking through crime scene photos (morbid curiosity took the better of me) and ngl I'm kind of desensitized on the autopsy photos and the ones of the space where the crime took place (mostly thanks to movies and an accident I had when I was a kid)

And it's wierd bc someone's life literally ended there and suffered unimaginable pain and yet it doesn't seem real, it seems like a movie set

I mean I definitely knew I had to stop after looking at the black dahlia photos but still I shouldn't have gotten that far in the first place

Idk it might be the way I was raised culturally but I still feel like something is terribly wrong with me for wanting to know what those things look like

I'm drunk and my stomach feels a little bit off after the last couple pictures and idk I just felt like sharing the realization I had

Maybe the media was right when talking about how much violence we are exposed to

personally? I don't think there's anything wrong with deliberately seeking out gory things like that, so long as the family has given permission for the images to be shared as there is something disrespectful in not asking them before sharing something incredibly tragic. morbid curiosity is human nature, and there really isn't anything wrong with anyone wanting to know those things. it's when people continue to try and seek them out against the family's wishes and push into harassment territory that it becomes a problem, but that goes for anything that gets media attention. that and the pervasive victim complex associated is the issue with popularised true crime, not that it shows grisly things. saying you can't look at a crime scene photo just because it's a dead person, or considered 'gruesome', doesn't really help anyone.

humans are exposed to violence every single day. car crashes, assaults of any sort, accidents, and violent death, these are things that happen to someone at least once a day. if we pretend these things don't happen, it becomes even more hurtful when it does! and on one hand we need to be exposed to things so we're aware of the possibilities. but on the other, the media does give us twenty-four hours of blood and guts a day, every day, because doom and gloom gets people's attention. it makes everyone feel paranoid about what could happen because the news cycle feeds them, in the words of christine chubbuck; 'immediate and complete reports of local blood and guts news', you're not exactly gonna be thinking everything's fine and dandy and nobody's out to getcha. especially in the case of those types of true crime fans.

so basically, you're not a bad person for being morbidly curious, and so long as you're able to expose yourself within your limits and without developing paranoia then there really isn't anything that wrong about it

[alatus-k]

Y’know sometimes I’m happy my family is gone/not a part of my life, lol- I feel like I absolutely dodged how guilty they’d make me feel for leaving things messy or undone sometimes.

[nunyabznsbabes]

Katniss is like Lucy Gray this, Katniss is like Sejanus that, and yes fine that's all good and true and lovely but Katniss Everdeen is also a direct parallel to Coriolanus Snow and people NEED to start talking about this because it's driving me crazy.

Think about it: they both grew up poor and deeply vulnerable, losing parents at a very young age, with a matriarchal adult (Katniss' mother and Coriolanus' Grandma'am) who fails to provide for them emotionally and physically. They intimately understand the threat of starvation, even developing with stunted growth because of it, and their narrations in the books share a fixation on food. Throughout their childhoods, both experienced constant fear and suffered a fundamental lack of control over their circumstances. Because of this, they're inherently suspicious of the people around them. They resent feeling indebted to others, especially those who have saved their lives. They're motivated almost entirely by family and deeply connected to their communities. Both are used and manipulated by the Capitol, both are forced to perform to survive and despise every inch of it, both are thrown into the Arena and made to kill. Both have a self-sacrificial, genuinely sweet sister figure acting as their conscience. Peeta and Lucy Gray - performers and love interests with a fundamental kindness and sense of hope about them - fulfill markedly similar roles in their narrative. Both contribute to the development of the future Hunger Games, Snow throughout tbosas and Katniss towards the end of Mockingjay.

It's easy to ignore these similarities because, as mirrors of each other, they are exact opposites. Katniss is from District 12, viewed and treated as less than human; Snow is the cream of the Capitol crop, given the privilege of a name with social weight, an ancestral home, and the opportunity of the Academy despite having no more money than a miner from 12. Katniss has no agency over her life, and responds by being kind whenever she's able, while Snow justifies horrendous evils in order to continue his quest for complete control. Katniss does everything she can to protect her family; Snow does everything he can to protect his family's image as an extension of his own ego. Katniss loves her District and connects with its inhabitants on a meaningful level, but Snow is indifferent at best to his peers - the apparent "superior people" - and only engages with his community for personal gain. Katniss emerges from the Arena horrified at herself and the system, but Snow takes his trauma and turns it into an excuse to perpetuate the violence with himself at the top. Katniss cares for Prim until her death and then snaps at the loss of her little sister, while Snow survives on Tigris' blood, sweat, and tears and then torments and abandons her, presumably because she calls him out on his insanity. Snow actively adds to and popularizes the Hunger Games because of his vendetta against the Districts following his childhood wartime trauma - Katniss briefly agrees to a new Hunger Games in the pursuit of vengeance, but later stops them from happening by killing Coin and choosing a life of peace and privacy. Snow is obsessed with revenge, but Katniss empathizes with the Capitolites and does what she can to keep them from suffering. He exists in a cruel system and selfishly upholds it; she exists in a cruel system and works to dismantle it for the good of her family and community, at great personal cost. And Peeta and Lucy Gray are incredibly similar, but Katniss and Peeta forge a relationship of genuine love and understanding that shines in comparison to Coriolanus' obsessive projection onto Lucy Gray.

So, yeah, Katniss is Lucy Gray haunting Coriolanus. But I bet you anything that eighty-something year old President Snow looks at her, the girl on fire, bright and young and brilliant, emerging from a childhood of starvation with a relentless hunger for success, a talented and charming performer helping her win the Games, and he sees the ghost of his own past. And that's why he's so afraid of her! Because if he sees himself in her, then he's up against his own cunning, his own talent for manipulation, his own charisma, his own genius. He's up against the version of himself that he once wished to be, with the nightmare army of his childhood at her back and her star-crossed lover at her side, spewing Sejanus' truths in his own voice. This isn't to say that Katniss ever achieved the level of power and agency that Coriolanus did during her time with the rebellion, but it is to say that Snow was taken down by what truly terrified him - his own morality, come to finish the job.

[mostlysignssomeportents]

Greenwashing set Canada on fire

On September 22, I'm (virtually) presenting at the DIG Festival in Modena, Italy. On September 27, I'll be at Chevalier's Books in Los Angeles with Brian Merchant for a joint launch for my new book The Internet Con and his new book, Blood in the Machine.

As a teenager growing up in Ontario, I always envied the kids who spent their summers tree planting; they'd come back from the bush in September, insect-chewed and leathery, with new muscle, incredible stories, thousands of dollars, and a glow imparted by the knowledge that they'd made a new forest with their own blistered hands.

I was too unathletic to follow them into the bush, but I spent my summers doing my bit, ringing doorbells for Greenpeace to get my neighbours fired up about the Canadian pulp-and-paper industry, which wasn't merely clear-cutting our old-growth forests – it was also poisoning the Great Lakes system with PCBs, threatening us all.

At the time, I thought of tree-planting as a small victory – sure, our homegrown, rapacious, extractive industry was able to pollute with impunity, but at least the government had reined them in on forests, forcing them to pay my pals to spend their summers replacing the forests they'd fed into their mills.

I was wrong. Last summer's Canadian wildfires blanketed the whole east coast and midwest in choking smoke as millions of trees burned and millions of tons of CO2 were sent into the atmosphere. Those wildfires weren't just an effect of the climate emergency: they were made far worse by all those trees planted by my pals in the eighties and nineties.

Writing in the New York Times, novelist Claire Cameron describes her own teen years working in the bush, planting row after row of black spruces, precisely spaced at six-foot intervals:

https://www.nytimes.com/2023/09/15/opinion/wildfires-treeplanting-timebomb.html

Cameron's summer job was funded by the logging industry, whose self-pegulated, self-assigned "penalty" for clearcutting diverse forests of spruce, pine and aspen was to pay teenagers to create a tree farm, at nine cents per sapling (minus camp costs).

Black spruces are made to burn, filled with flammable sap and equipped with resin-filled cones that rely on fire, only opening and dropping seeds when they're heated. They're so flammable that firefighters call them "gas on a stick."

Cameron and her friends planted under brutal conditions: working long hours in blowlamp heat and dripping wet bulb humidity, amidst clouds of stinging insects, fingers blistered and muscles aching. But when they hit rock bottom and were ready to quit, they'd encourage one another with a rallying cry: "Let's go make a forest!"

Planting neat rows of black spruces was great for the logging industry: the even spacing guaranteed that when the trees matured, they could be easily reaped, with ample space between each near-identical tree for massive shears to operate. But that same monocropped, evenly spaced "forest" was also optimized to burn.

It burned.

The climate emergency's frequent droughts turn black spruces into "something closer to a blowtorch." The "pines in lines" approach to reforesting was an act of sabotage, not remediation. Black spruces are thirsty, and they absorb the water that moss needs to thrive, producing "kindling in the place of fire retardant."

Cameron's column concludes with this heartbreaking line: "Now when I think of that summer, I don’t think that I was planting trees at all. I was planting thousands of blowtorches a day."

The logging industry committed a triple crime. First, they stole our old-growth forests. Next, they (literally) planted a time-bomb across Ontario's north. Finally, they stole the idealism of people who genuinely cared about the environment. They taught a generation that resistance is futile, that anything you do to make a better future is a scam, and you're a sucker for falling for it. They planted nihilism with every tree.

That scam never ended. Today, we're sold carbon offsets, a modern Papal indulgence. We are told that if we pay the finance sector, they can absolve us for our climate sins. Carbon offsets are a scam, a market for lemons. The "offset" you buy might be a generated by a fake charity like the Nature Conservancy, who use well-intentioned donations to buy up wildlife reserves that can't be logged, which are then converted into carbon credits by promising not to log them:

https://pluralistic.net/2020/12/12/fairy-use-tale/#greenwashing

The credit-card company that promises to plant trees every time you use your card? They combine false promises, deceptive advertising, and legal threats against critics to convince you that you're saving the planet by shopping:

https://pluralistic.net/2021/11/17/do-well-do-good-do-nothing/#greenwashing

The carbon offset world is full of scams. The carbon offset that made the thing you bought into a "net zero" product? It might be a forest that already burned:

https://pluralistic.net/2022/03/11/a-market-for-flaming-lemons/#money-for-nothing

The only reason we have carbon offsets is that market cultists have spent forty years convincing us that actual regulation is impossible. In the neoliberal learned helplessness mind-palace, there's no way to simply say, "You may not log old-growth forests." Rather, we have to say, "We will 'align your incentives' by making you replace those forests."

The Climate Ad Project's "Murder Offsets" video deftly punctures this bubble. In it, a detective points his finger at the man who committed the locked-room murder in the isolated mansion. The murderer cheerfully admits that he did it, but produces a "murder offset," which allowed him to pay someone else not to commit a murder, using market-based price-discovery mechanisms to put a dollar-figure on the true worth of a murder, which he duly paid, making his kill absolutely fine:

https://pluralistic.net/2021/04/14/for-sale-green-indulgences/#killer-analogy

What's the alternative to murder offsets/carbon credits? We could ask our expert regulators to decide which carbon intensive activities are necessary and which ones aren't, and ban the unnecessary ones. We could ask those regulators to devise remediation programs that actually work. After all, there are plenty of forests that have already been clearcut, plenty that have burned. It would be nice to know how we can plant new forests there that aren't "thousands of blowtorches."

If that sounds implausible to you, then you've gotten trapped in the neoliberal mind-palace.

The term "regulatory capture" was popularized by far-right Chicago School economists who were promoting "public choice theory." In their telling, regulatory capture is inevitable, because companies will spend whatever it takes to get the government to pass laws making what they do legal, and making competing with them into a crime:

https://pluralistic.net/2022/06/13/public-choice/#ajit-pai-still-terrible

This is true, as far as it goes. Capitalists hate capitalism, and if an "entrepreneur" can make it illegal to compete with him, he will. But while this is a reasonable starting-point, the place that Public Choice Theory weirdos get to next is bonkers. They say that since corporations will always seek to capture their regulators, we should abolish regulators.

They say that it's impossible for good regulations to exist, and therefore the only regulation that is even possible is to let businesses do whatever they want and wait for the invisible hand to sweep away the bad companies. Rather than creating hand-washing rules for restaurant kitchens, we should let restaurateurs decide whether it's economically rational to make us shit ourselves to death. The ones that choose poorly will get bad online reviews and people will "vote with their dollars" for the good restaurants.

And if the online review site decides to sell "reputation management" to restaurants that get bad reviews? Well, soon the public will learn that the review site can't be trusted and they'll take their business elsewhere. No regulation needed! Unleash the innovators! Set the job-creators free!

This is the Ur-nihilism from which all the other nihilism springs. It contends that the regulations we have – the ones that keep our buildings from falling down on our heads, that keep our groceries from poisoning us, that keep our cars from exploding on impact – are either illusory, or perhaps the forgotten art of a lost civilization. Making good regulations is like embalming Pharaohs, something the ancients practiced in mist-shrouded, unrecoverable antiquity – and that may not have happened at all.

Regulation is corruptible, but it need not be corrupt. Regulation, like science, is a process of neutrally adjudicated, adversarial peer-review. In a robust regulatory process, multiple parties respond to a fact-intensive question – "what alloys and other properties make a reinforced steel joist structurally sound?" – with a mix of robust evidence and self-serving bullshit and then proceed to sort the two by pantsing each other, pointing out one another's lies.

The regulator, an independent expert with no conflicts of interest, sorts through the claims and counterclaims and makes a rule, showing their workings and leaving the door open to revisiting the rule based on new evidence or challenges to the evidence presented.

But when an industry becomes concentrated, it becomes unregulatable. 100 small and medium-sized companies will squabble. They'll struggle to come up with a common lie. There will always be defectors in their midst. Their conduct will be legible to external experts, who will be able to spot the self-serving BS.

But let that industry dwindle to a handful of giant companies, let them shrink to a number that will fit around a boardroom table, and they will sit down at a table and agree on a cozy arrangement that fucks us all over to their benefit. They will become so inbred that the only people who understand how they work will be their own insiders, and so top regulators will be drawn from their own number and be hopelessly conflicted.

When the corporate sector takes over, regulatory capture is inevitable. But corporate takeover isn't inevitable. We can – and have, and will again – fight corporate power, with antitrust law, with unions, and with consumer rights groups. Knowing things is possible. It simply requires that we keep the entities that profit by our confusion poor and thus weak.

The thing is, corporations don't always lie about regulations. Take the fight over working encryption, which – once again – the UK government is trying to ban:

https://www.theguardian.com/technology/2023/feb/24/signal-app-warns-it-will-quit-uk-if-law-weakens-end-to-end-encryption

Advocates for criminalising working encryption insist that the claims that this is impossible are the same kind of self-serving nonsense as claims that banning clearcutting of old-growth forests is impossible:

https://twitter.com/JimBethell/status/1699339739042599276

They say that when technologists say, "We can't make an encryption system that keeps bad guys out but lets good guys in," that they are being lazy and unimaginative. "I have faith in you geeks," they said. "Go nerd harder! You'll figure it out."

Google and Apple and Meta say that selectively breakable encryption is impossible. But they also claim that a bunch of eminently possible things are impossible. Apple claims that it's impossible to have a secure device where you get to decide which software you want to use and where publishers aren't deprive of 30 cents on every dollar you spend. Google says it's impossible to search the web without being comprehensively, nonconsensually spied upon from asshole to appetite. Meta insists that it's impossible to have digital social relationship without having your friendships surveilled and commodified.

While they're not lying about encryption, they are lying about these other things, and sorting out the lies from the truth is the job of regulators, but that job is nearly impossible thanks to the fact that everyone who runs a large online service tells the same lies – and the regulators themselves are alumni of the industry's upper eschelons.

Logging companies know a lot about forests. When we ask, "What is the best way to remediate our forests," the companies may well have useful things to say. But those useful things will be mixed with actively harmful lies. The carefully cultivated incompetence of our regulators means that they can't tell the difference.

Conspiratorialism is characterized as a problem of what people believe, but the true roots of conspiracy belief isn't what we believe, it's how we decide what to believe. It's not beliefs, it's epistemology.

Because most of us aren't qualified to sort good reforesting programs from bad ones. And even if we are, we're probably not also well-versed enough in cryptography to sort credible claims about encryption from wishful thinking. And even if we're capable of making that determination, we're not experts in food hygiene or structural engineering.

Daily life in the 21st century means resolving a thousand life-or-death technical questions every day. Our regulators – corrupted by literally out-of-control corporations – are no longer reliable sources of ground truth on these questions. The resulting epistemological chaos is a cancer that gnaws away at our resolve to do anything about it. It is a festering pool where nihilism outbreaks are incubated.

The liberal response to conspiratorialism is mockery. In her new book Doppelganger, Naomi Klein tells of how right-wing surveillance fearmongering about QR-code "vaccine passports" was dismissed with a glib, "Wait until they hear about cellphones!"

https://pluralistic.net/2023/09/05/not-that-naomi/#if-the-naomi-be-klein-youre-doing-just-fine

But as Klein points out, it's not good that our cellphones invade our privacy in the way that right-wing conspiracists thought that vaccine passports might. The nihilism of liberalism – which insists that things can't be changed except through market "solutions" – leads us to despair.

By contrast, leftism – a muscular belief in democratic, publicly run planning and action – offers a tonic to nihilism. We don't have to let logging companies decide whether a forest can be cut, or what should be planted when it is. We can have nice things. The art of finding out what's true or prudent didn't die with the Reagan Revolution (or the discount Canadian version, the Mulroney Malaise). The truth is knowable. Doing stuff is possible. Things don't have to be on fire.

If you'd like an essay-formatted version of this post to read or share, here's a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveillance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/09/16/murder-offsets/#pulped-and-papered

[alchemistc]

Gonna be pissed as hell if Tim throws out a plotline to replace it with a three episode arc about LA on fire (what will Brad do when his house burns down?), which makes me a hypocrite and a half because here's some ripped-from-the-headlines bullshit.

Tommy's duffle lands on the bottom stair with a thump.

He glances around the space like he's seeing it for the first time - or maybe like he's just taking in the gravity of the situation. There's a quirk of his lip, an ironic shake of his head, and Buck can't quite stop himself from imagining the thought running through his mind. Despite his intentions, he'd landed here anyway.

They're both bone tired. Exhaustion seeping into their marrow, the kind of tired Buck hasn't felt like this since Texas, maybe. He wants a shower and about 48 hours of sleep.

"I'll take the couch," Tommy says, voice raspy, eyes refusing to draw towards Buck.

And the thing is.

The thing is Tommy definitely had other places to go. Other friends who would have put him up as long as he needed, people he trusted, people who cared about him. But it was Buck he'd found as things wound down, the both of them covered in soot and ash, Tommy dropping to sit beside him on the curb as they waited for relief teams to finish up at the command tent.

They'd stared at the burnt out husk of Tommy's home just long enough for the tiredness to really settle in.

"You're not taking the couch," Buck says, and flips the light switch in the downstairs bathroom. Tommy's shower gel is still under the sink, his fancy curl conditioner down to the last few dollops because he'd spent enough nights here to go through most of a bottle. They've already showered at their respective stations, but Buck knows from experience how much Tommy hates the Harbor showers ("You'd think a fire station would have better water pressure, but I'm telling you, Evan, it's about as strong as an eighty-year-old's dribbling piss.") and Buck knows he still feels like he's caked in days of grime.

"Evan," Tommy starts, and Buck can't read into that, refuses despite the way it knocks around in his chest.

"You need the rest just as much as I do," Buck argues, and Tommy's shoulders just... slump. He sighs. Nods his head. Shifts on his feet and accidentally catches Buck's eye.

The contact holds just long enough for Buck to see the tears swimming in Tommy's eyes, and he can't imagine -

It strikes Buck for maybe the first time how dumb he'd been to ask Tommy to move in here. Tommy had a life, a home, a place he'd spent a decade making his own.

He'd made a joke once about a firefighter living so close to the hills, the first time he'd had Buck over, that ironic lilt to his voice while he talked about replacing all the east facing windows the first time he experienced the Santa Ana's after moving in, and Buck had spent a good ten minutes watching the light fade from his backyard, dusk casting the hydrangea bushes in a rose-gold hue.

"If I hug you are you gonna make a break for it?" Buck asks, regretting the spiteful tone when Tommy curls further in on himself, but he ducks his head even as he's shaking it, and Buck doesn't fight the urge any longer, three long strides before Tommy's curling fists around Buck's waist and pressing his nose into the skin of Buck's neck.

("It's just stuff," he'd said, knee knocking against Buck's where they huddled together on the curb across the street, Tommy uncharacteristically fidgety as they both stared straight ahead.

"Come stay with me," Buck had responded, and felt Tommy tense so quickly he'd sort of expected him to bolt to his feet and leave.

Instead, the stillness eased out of Tommy's body all at once on an exhale, and he'd nodded out of the corner of Buck's eye. "Okay."

He hadn't quite been able to stop himself from reaching out to squeeze Tommy's knee. "Okay.")

Tommy's never been one to take more than his fair share. He breaks the hug before Buck can really get into it, sniffs once like Buck didn't notice the wetness against his neck, shifts backwards and sideways. He stops halfway through the doorframe when he catches sight of the canvas bag on the counter.

Buck just hopes Maddie actually bought the specific list Buck had sent her three hours ago. Tommy's particular about his stuff, and he'd pressed the point with his sister despite the eyebrow raise he could see in every text back she sent him. He can see Tommy doing the math - only so many people with a key to the loft, only so many people who weren't there in Tommy's neighborhood for a stretch of exhausting hours that hadn't amounted to much other than saving that purple house down on the end of the street that Tommy was always bemoaning for having a better garden than him.

"Tell Maddie thank you," Tommy says, still with that rasp to his voice that under any other circumstance would have Buck vibrating in place. When he digs through it, Buck catalogues his findings - that weird organic toothpaste Tommy swore by, the cheap electric toothbrush he refused to switch out for the better one Buck had a subscription to; a pack of briefs and socks in Tommy's preferred brand.

It's not the first time Buck has wished there wasn't a canyon between them, but he strikes the urge to quip, to smile, to reach out and try to comfort him.

His phone buzzes in his pocket and he digs it free, glances at the readout and immediately feels the ire rise in his throat again. It's from Eddie, a private response to the group message he'd sent out letting everyone know Tommy had a place to stay.

Is that a good idea?

And Buck gets the point. Understands that Eddie has his best interests in mind, but he's not here, hasn't been here, hadn't been there when they rolled down the street to find three houses already fighting the blaze.

Buck can't hold in the annoyed snort, and when he glances up it's to find Tommy's eyes on him.

"I'm gonna go shower," Buck tells him, and manages three whole steps before Tommy's hand curls around his wrist.

He doesn't seem to have the words to ask, but Buck reaches back to strip his shirt over his head anyway and shuffles them both towards the shower.

It's the least sexy thing they've ever done together, if he's being honest. Buck hasn't felt this tired in years, hasn't felt this grim in years, barely has the energy to do more than scrub at Tommy's back while he rinses his hair. Perfunctory, is a term for it, except for the way Tommy leans into the press of his fingers when he suds up Tommy's hair, except for the way Buck drops his forehead to Tommy's chest while Tommy aims the showerhead at Buck's back.

This is the kind of stupid shit Buck had meant, all those months ago, even if he'd done an extremely shitty job of expressing it. This is the kind of shit he'd pictured while Josh waxed poetic about some television show and wondered if Buck saw a future with Tommy.

By the time they're rinsed off and toweled dry Buck can barely stand, but as Tommy's footfalls echo just behind his up the stairs Buck has just enough sense left to roll open the drawer he'd never cleared out, toss Tommy a pair of clean briefs and one of his threadbare LAFD shirts.

Tommy stares at the drawer long enough for Buck to pull on his own clothes. He blinks himself out of it only when Buck stubs his toe wrestling the body pillow Tommy always pretended he wasn't going to end up curled around out from under the bed.

The drawer closes with an echoing 'snick'. Tommy tosses his own towel in the hamper and makes quick work of dressing.

His hair is gonna be a nightmare in the morning. They're both gonna be absolute messes. Buck's pretty sure the only food in this place is raw flour and approximately seventy-five chocolate croissants - he's pretty sure he used up the last of his eggs trying to perfect his meringue technique.

There's a stiff moment after they slide into bed where they both just lay on their backs and stare at the ceiling, oozing into Buck's mattress. Tommy shifts first, and Buck's sure it'll be away - no matter how often they fell asleep tangled together Tommy always ended up hugging the edge of the bed, and it's not like -

"Is this okay?" Tommy asks, even as he's shifting a leg over Buck, hands finding purchase in the cotton of Buck's sleep shirt.

It's like he's been dosed, for the way Tommy's body sliding into place next to his steals all the energy he has left in him. He blinks once, twice, manages to get a hand in Tommy's damp curls in response. The rest of it can wait for tomorrow.

"Evan?" He's sinking into it too, Buck can tell - the weight of his arm and leg pressing Buck further into the mattress, the drawl of Buck's name drifting instead of sharp.

Buck hums. Presses lips into whatever skin he can find without opening his eyes - a temple, or a cheekbone maybe. "Go to sleep, Tommy," he manages, but if Tommy responds he doesn't hear it.

[michelle-is-writing]

Unsuspecting Suspect, Spencer Reid

Word Count: 2.2k~

In movies, the "pregnant women always have to go to the bathroom" is a popular joke to use. However, what most people don't realize is that the joke is highly played down. What you see in movies is nothing compared to what really occurs.

What really occurs is getting up from bed after only five minutes of getting comfortable to go to the bathroom for the fiftieth time that day. Not to mention you've become so used to the bathroom that you don't even have to turn the lights on or anything - you already know where everything is. Plus, if you're me, then that also means picking up your husbands lazily discarded pants that are crumpled up on the floor with his gun and all of his badges still hooked on there just so you can wash your hands.

"Spencer, I know you've worked long and hard," I start, picking up his wrinkled slacks from the bathroom floor. "But if your pregnant wife has to continue bending over and picking up your pants every time she has to use the bathroom because your daughter seems to think my bladder is a punching bag," I begin taking everything off of his belt. "Then I might just have to use you as a punching bag."

"I'm sorry!" I hear him apologize from the bedroom, an ounce of laughter behind his voice. "I forget and just leave them there - I'm sorry!" Spencer repeats himself, making me bite my lip from laughter. He has eidetic memory, and yet, he still 'forgets' his pants when he takes them off everyday he comes home from work.

Taking his badge off his belt and placing it on the counter, I begin dismantling everything else as well. The last thing to remove is his gun and holster, and with this clunky thing, I try as hard as I can to not let it make a sound as I put it on the countertop. Spencer has been very quiet for the past few minutes, and if he's fallen asleep, I don't want to accidentally wake him up.

I just hope he's not quiet because he's worrying himself sick. As of lately, he's had a stalker that the BAU can't seem to figure out who they are. They know they're male, going by the style of handwriting, and they know he has a pattern. Every Tuesday, a letter is sent to Spencer's desk at the BAU, and yet, there's never a return address or fingerprints to go off of. Today was Tuesday, and for some reason, Spencer didn't receive anything. It worried Spencer a lot, but I'm just hoping the stalker has given up; however, his previous letters show no sign of him doing this which makes this all more worrisome.

"No, no, please," I hear Spencer's voice from the bedroom once more, making my eyes go wide as I quickly catch onto the fright and panic in his tone. Who is he talking to? Especially when I've been in this bathroom no longer than five minutes, and I didn't hear a phone ring or anything.

"You are Spencer Reid," My ears catch a very unfamiliar voice, causing me to fully come to a halt with Spencer's revolver still in my hand. Who the hell is in my house? And how the hell did they get in?

Silently padding over to the bathroom doorway, I try as hard as I can to crack open the door enough to see who's in our house. As I do so, I feel my heart beat a mile a minute, and the little girl in my stomach still hasn't given up on her kicking assault. "Your birthday is October of nineteen-eighty-one. Your mother,"

The man pauses to laugh, appearing as if he were trying to mock Spencer; I take this chance to open the doorway as much as I can without alerting the man, and thankfully, it seems to be a success. "The poor old broad can't decipher through her own mind - never has been able to," The man continues. "Finally, you turn eighteen, you send her away, and you go on to live your own life in college and, soon enough, the BAU,"

Slowly peeking around the corner, I see the man talking to a very wide-awake Spencer with his gun raised at him, no mask concealing his face. Instead, his entire body is covered in black material spanning from a dark turtleneck all the way down to pitch black slacks and charcoal boots. Yet, his head and face are completely visible to anyone who sees him, and going by the fact that he's doing such a thing, he thinks he's going to get away with it and not get caught. Not on my watch.

"You've spent- no, wasted! Wasted nearly eleven years of your life on a job that prevents you from actually having a life!" At the mans words, I squint my eyes while readying Spencer's gun in my hands. "Face it, doctor Reid - you are nothing! I am smart - we are smart! But you have married yourself to your job that doesn't need you; it needs me," with that, the man pauses once again, but this time, he begins to pant, obviously worked up over what he's been saying. This guy has to be one of the most conceited guys to walk the earth.

"Now," The man states, leveling his eyesight with the gun once again. "Was there anything I missed?"

At this point, I come around the bathroom corner with Spencer's gun raised at the man. Through the sights, I see the two small pieces of metal lining up with the mans head, and in my peripherals, I see Spencer warily nod his head as he glances over me with extreme and utter nervousness.

"Uh, y-yes, actually," my husband answers, swallowing down his worry as the fate of his life rests at the tip of my fingers. Now that I think about it, if it weren't for Spencer's bad habit of leaving his pants in the middle of the bathroom floor, I wouldn't have the ability to save him right now.

Just as the man turns around, I line up the sights with his head once again as I pull the hammer back, the trigger following soon after. Watching as the man quickly goes down with no life left in him, only slight convulsions surging through him now, I slowly let my hands fall back to my side as the realization of what just occurred passes through me. I just shot someone... someone who was threatening my husband's life, but still! I've never done that before, and I never want to have to do it ever again!

Within a few moments of my eyes widening in shock, I feel Spencer take me into his arms while slowly taking the gun out of my hand and tossing it onto our bed. "You did so well, love," Spencer assures me in my ear, making me slowly sit on the ground with him as shock runs through me. I'm so stunned by what just happened that I can barely breathe. "You did good, baby, you did so good. I'm so proud of you."

Despite Spencer's words running through my head, I find myself suddenly gasping as I realize something. "Baby! The baby!" I almost shout, turning my head toward Spencer as my now free hand falls to my thirty-week old bump. "Spence, the-the noise, the noise! Could the noise have hurt her ears?"

Immediately, Spencer shakes his head before moving to place his hand on top of mine, his other hand raising at the same time to wipe away the sudden rush of tears falling down my face. "No, no, she's fine, (Y/n), she's fine," Spencer assures me, gently rubbing his thumb against my clothed belly. "The muscles and amniotic fluid protect her, so when the noise does reach her ears, it's extremely muffled," he further explains, gently taking my face into his hands to turn me toward him. "But I am going to have a medic look over you and the baby when they get here, okay?"

Keeping my eyes on his, I nod before laying my head against his chest, a small sigh falling from my lips. "He was the stalker, right?" I ask Spencer, my eyes flickering up to his face as his hand reaches down to gently card through my hair.

Spencer simply nods. "Yeah, he was," he tells me, making me shake my head. "The way he spoke, it's how he wrote his letters," Spencer further explains, "He was an obvious narcissist with a superiority complex - just like his letters."

That would explain the man's words from earlier and how selfish they all were. Although, what if the cops don't believe us and arrest me in spite of what's been going on? I know Spencer wouldn't have gotten in trouble shooting him as a BAU agent, but what about me?

"Spencer, am I going to jail?" I immediately ask, my eyes growing wide as panic sets in my chest.

"No, no, you aren't, and you need to calm down," Spencer tells me, holding my head to his chest as he kisses my temple. He's trying to comfort me while also preventing me from looking over at the dead man currently lying on our bedroom floor. "You did nothing wrong, that was self-defense, and you protected me as well as save me from the man who was going to kill me, no doubt," he points out, his voice growing softer with every word. "You're awesome, love."

In response to his comment, I find myself lightly laughing with tears rising to my eyes again. That's what I usually tell Spencer when he gets back from a case and they successfully stopped a killer. Even if the case goes awry and Spencer returns home sad or disappointed in himself, I still remind him of my usual compliment. Now, much to my disbelief, the roles have reversed and now it is me who has stopped the bad guy.

Once my breathing is slowed and my panic has settled down, Spencer helps me go back to our bathroom where he makes me stay. Without wasting anymore time, Spencer grabs his phone from his side table and dials the police before walking through the house with his gun in hand to make sure there are no other intruders. Thankfully, there isn't, and Spencer soon returns to the bathroom to take me out to the living room, getting me as far away from the dead body as he can all the while making sure I remain comfortable.

Sitting behind me on the couch, Spencer makes me lie between his legs as I rest my back against his chest, his right hand rubbing soothing circles against my bump while he uses his other to dial up his team. Thankfully, soon of them are still at the office working late when Spencer calls.

"(Y/n) shot the stalker?" I hear Derek's familiar tone over the phone as Spencer explains the situation. As he goes on, the sound of sirens in the distance slowly grow closer, and the only thing I can do is hold a hand to my swollen tummy as our little girl gives the occasional kick to my ribs.

"Yes, directly in the head," Spencer answers Derek with a quick glance over to our bedroom where the dead body remains, the spilled blood from his wound no doubt soaking into floor. I never would have listed 'blood is easier to clean up' as a pro when choosing hardwood over carpet. "She shot like a trained officer."

Spencer's comment warrants a rare chuckle from their boss. "Too bad she wasn't able to help you when you failed your shooting test and needed to retake it," Hotch's voice pipes up from the background, causing Spencer to let out a little 'hey!' in response. In light of the situation, I laugh a little at that. I can remember him calling me after failing it and I had to tell him it was okay. Of course, in his mind, it wasn't.

"I don't fail tests." I remember him telling me, making me laugh. No matter what I said, he still continued on about failing the test, unable to let it go.

"The team will be here in a few minutes, okay?" I hear him tell me, bringing me out of my thoughts and back to the moment. I hadn't even realized he ended the call with his team.

Still, I nod back at him, only a few seconds passing before he's leaning over and pressing his lips against my cheek. "It'll all be okay," He assures me, making me slightly nod with another small shuddered breath. "I promise," He further assures me, sensing my anxiety. "I'd never let anything happen to my hero~"

[misseviehyde]

UPCYCLED

Madeline was shocked when she opened the present from her daughter to find two sexy pearly hooped earrings nestled amongst the tissue paper.

The earrings seemed familiar somehow, yet she couldn't quite remember where she'd seen them before. A slight chill ran down her spine, almost a fear reaction, yet she couldn't say why.

Her daughter Katie smiled proudly as her Mom lifted them out of the box and eyed them suspiciously.

"They're not really my style darling," she whimpered.

"Exactly Mom. You need to try something different. You've become a total social outcast since Dad left. You dress like an eighty year old spinster, spend all your time online or in front of the TV. You need to get back out there."

Madeline lowered her head and choked a sob. Her daughter was right. She was an overweight loser who spent all her time at work or sat at home wrapped up in a cardigan reading by the fire or watching trash TV. She was a total dork. Her brief relationship with Katie's Dad hadn't even lasted that long. He'd left her for his secretary, a hot high maintenence bitch who could give him what she never could.

She hadn't even had sex in eleven years!

Katie looked at her Mom... the holes in her sweater, the lack of makeup, the grey in her hair, the overweight tummy and felt pity. She did love her Mom but Madeline was frustratingly introverted. Her Mom was something of a disappointment.

Katie had been shocked and surprised to find the old hoopsd earrings in a box in one of her Mom's drawers. They were sexy and hot, so unlike anything she'd expect her Mom to own. She'd taken them to a jewellers and had them upgraded. She hoped the upcycled earrings reminded her Mom of a time when she was young. Maybe it would bring a spark back.

What Katie didn't know though was that these earrings were NOT Madelines.

Long ago, nearly twenty years ago now, they had belonged to Madeline's bully Ashley. The traumatised Madeline had stolen them as an act of rebellion and daring, keeping them as a reminder of how cruel and evil some girls could be. Ashley had been the epitome of a cruel and dominant Alpha Girl. She had been the most popular girl at school and had made Madeline's life a living Hell. That was why she had felt instinctive fear when she saw the earrings.

"Why don't you try them on Mom?" asked Katie as Madeline looked at the hoops suspiciously. There was something not quite right here, but she also felt a dark temptation to put on the earrings. With a shiver she took out her own simple studs and slid in the bitchy hoops.

They looked like something a rich bitch would wear and to Madeline's surprise she felt a surge of confidence and pride as she admired her new earrings in the mirror. Her back straightened a little and her posture became more confident.

"Wow Mom, you look great," smiled Katie.

"Yes I do don't I?" purred Madeline, ignoring her daughter. "I never imagined I could ever feel sexy again, but now I do. It makes me wish I could start over again. Be young and hot and popular again. Not that I was ever popular, but imagine if I had been?"

Madeline's lips twisted into a smile as she imagined herself as Katie's age... but hotter... worshipped by hunky boys and served by beta girls. Beta girls like Katie.

She shook her head causing the hoops to tinkle and came back to herself. "Thank you darling, I love them."

"You don't have to wear them if you don't want," smiled Katie.

"No... I want to wear them. I think I'll leave them in. They feel... good."

***

Madeline snarled as she tore through her wardrobe. It was two hours since her daughter had left and she had been in a frenzy since then.

These clothes she was wearing felt pathetic, but nothing in her wardrobe suited her either. She tipped over her makeup table. Pathetic too. No wonder her husband had left her.

She needed fashion, she needed expensive makeup. She needed to look hot.

Madeline staggered to the mirror. Her body was burning, her brow feverish. She felt like she was on fire, but it felt good. It felt like all the weakness inside her was burning up. It felt like she was becoming stronger and more powerful.

"Yesssss," she hissed as she gazed at her reflection. Could it be? Her skin looked younger, her waist thinner. Surely it wasn't possible but it almost looked like she was... transforming?

She reached up and touched the earrings. They tingled and in that moment she remembered. "These... these are Ashley's earrings."

She nearly ripped them out in fear and disgust... but another part of her suddenly thrilled at the thought. These were HER earrings now. Her foolish daughter had given them to her not even realising what they were.

Madeline groaned. These strange feelings, the changes to her body - they must be something to do with the bullies earrings. She should take them out now whilst she still had the strength to remove them.

Her hand wavered by her ear...

She moaned and a wicked smile lit her lips. Mmmmh, it was already too late. She wanted this so badly now...

She was going to become a bitch...

***

Madeline writhed on the floor in ecstasy. It was five hours now since she had put on the earrings. Her desire to remove them had completely faded an hour ago. She was damned and she didn't care. She welcomed the evil now flowing through her. She wanted to be completely remade.

She had stripped down to her underwear. Her once flabby body was drenched in sweat. Saggy skin had tightened and wrinkles vanished. Greying hair was now bright blonde and her ass was tight and round.

A demonic grin on her now young and pretty face, Madeline rubbed her pussy and screamed as she squirted again to drench the carpet with more of her juices.

"Fuck yes. Hahaha I can't wait to get FUCKED!"

Madeline?

No... she was no longer Madeline. She was Maddy now.

Maddy grinned as she imagined all the evil mean things she'd do now she was an eighteen year old bitch.

"Steal my daughters boyfriend, bully her and make her suffer... fuck YESSS!"

Maddy groaned as her already dripping pussy got even wetter. Long slutty fingernails decorated each finger now and she rubbed her sensitive clit, screaming as her warped mind filled her with pleasure.

Every inch of her was now built for narcissistic pleasure. She was a Goddess.

In her body, her soul had been warped and corrupted beyond recognition. Kindness and love were now alien emotions to this bitch. Selfishness and ego ruled Maddy's personality. She was now a spoiled brat who only cared about herself.

The earrings had corrupted her beyond recognition.

Maddy purred as she orgasmed again. She couldn't wait to go shopping.

***

"Hey loser," laughed Maddy as Katie walked into her apartment.

Her boyfriend was lying on the bed naked, drained and exhausted from the marathon fuck session he'd just had with Maddy. Seeing Katie, he blushed and slipped off to the bathroom.

"Who... who the fuck are you? What are you doing with Richard?" screamed Katie.

"Ohhh don't you recognise me dear? It's me... your Mommy. I'm still wearing those earrings you bought me. Isn't this what you wanted? Didn't you want your Mommy to be more outgoing and find a man?"

Backing away Katie screamed as Maddy leapt up and with superhuman strength lifted her up and pinned her against the wall.

"Madeline is gone. From now on you call me Maddy... or even better, Mistress. Your man is mine now and you are going to be my loyal beta servant."

"No! I won't let you..."

Katie screamed as Maddy suddenly jabbed something into her ear, then the other.

A pair of stud earrings marked with the symbol for beta.

"Oh you will. I bought these from the shop where you got these earrings improved. Turns out they make magic jewellery. Those Beta Studs won't take long to make you into my subservient slave."

Katie sobbed as she felt the fire drain from her. She could already feel a terrible temptation to serve Maddy growing within her.

"I bought ten more pairs of these beta earrings. You're going to help me pierce all your friends until they all worship me. What do you say?"

"Yes Mistress Maddy," groaned Katie as to her horror she felt an urge to worship and admire Maddy swell in her chest.

Yes... she had to serve. It would be hot to make others serve Maddy.

Clicking her fingers Maddy laughed as Richard walked back into the room.

"She's been neutralised just like I promised. Now if you don't want me to take out that stud earring I gave you, you better come here and fuck me again."

Richard grinned and bent Maddy over the bed whilst Katie watched happily subservient.

Yes... life was going to be better for everyone from now on. Maddy would make sure of it.

THE END

[minminbunny]

Stalker X Stalker AU - Dom! Lee Minho/Sub Gender Neutral! Reader

*smut part - AFAB/AMAB

💕Drabble Masterlist

❤️Ultimate Masterlist

"Good morning, gorgeous," you whispered, taking a few silent photos from the roof into Minho's room. His sleeping body looked so precious with Dori snuggled against his face. You shuddered an exhale, licking your lips as you pulled away. Minho chuckled, watching you through his phone, "Kitty, you look so desperate," he cooed, zooming in. You realigned your camera, disappointed to see him sitting up, "It's too early, darling. You should sleep more," you whispered, watching Minho scroll on his phone. 

Minho crossed his legs, his back facing the window, "Aww, they're sulking," he chuckled, endeared by your obvious pouting. You hummed, watching the time on your watch, "It's almost here," you whispered, keeping your camera in exchange for a burner phone. The parcel arrived at Minho's doorstep, "I didn't order anything," he murmured, bringing it into his room. You gulped, shakily calling his number. 

Minho felt his phone ring and picked it up, "Hello?" he asked, making your breath hitch. You turned on your voice modifier, "Hope you like the gift, darling. It's curated for you," you said, breathing heavily. Minho bit back a smirk, "How did you find my address?" he asked, faking a worried victim. You shivered at his voice, "You shouldn't sign random forums, pretty. You wouldn't know who's getting them," you said, before hanging up.

Minho faced away from his window, chuckling into his palm. Making it seem like it was crying with his shaking shoulders. Guilt swirled within you but you knew the gift would cheer him up. Minho wiped the tears in his eyes, "Such a sweetheart," he cooed, tugging on the ribbon. The box was a stunning red with a cream coloured ribbon. 

Minho lifted the lid and his eyes widened, "This isn't fair, kitty," he smiled, seeing his favorite pudding, cat treats for his children and a lovely looking letter. He shuddered, smelling a tinge of blood coming from the letter, "As much as I don't like knowing you got hurt, kitten. You really do excite me," he groaned, opening the letter. It wrote: 

"To my dearest darling, 

Was my gift to your satisfaction, I wanted to make you feel special. I hope I didn't scare you too much. The way your face lights up when you take a bite of pudding makes my heart swell. I'm always watching, gorgeous. Please dream of me.

Your admirer,"

At the bottom of the letter lies a kiss mark, Minho gulped, tracing the perverted stain, "Fuck, your lips look pretty," he whispered, checking his phone if you were still on the roof. After seeing the empty rooftop, he kissed the mark and held the letter close to his chest, "Definitely one for my collection," he chuckled, opening a secret door being his clothes, a room filled with pictures and items you've used before. "I wanted to extend our little game but after today. I don't think I can hold back," he chuckled, messaging his friend to set him up on a blind date.

You huffed, getting dressed for a date you don't want, "Lix, I told you. I'm not interested in dating right now," you sulked, letting him comb your hair. Felix chuckled, "It's just one. Plus, Jisung said it was their treat. So, you get a free meal and have a good time," he said, patting your shoulders. You frowned, "I guess," you murmured, looking into the mirror. Felix really dolled you up, your lips plump and glossy. 

Your eyebags covered nicely. It was a total one-eighty from your usual attire. Felix nuzzled his cheek against yours, "Ready?" he asked, raising an eyebrow. You gulped, "Ready as I'll ever be," you said, grabbing the necessaries. Minho loosened his tie, "It's time," he whispered, waiting for you at the table. He laced your glass with sleeping powder, hoping this date would go smoothly. You exhaled, pushing open the door. 

You faked a smile and looked for the table number. 'No way,' you thought, seeing your darling, sitting where your date was suppose to be. Excitement flooded your senses, 'Is this a dream?' you thought, making your way to the table. You tapped the table, "Are you Jisung's friend?" you asked, trying to be calm as possible. Minho smiled, nodded his head, "That's me. My name's Minho," he introduced, reaching out his hand. 

You wanted nothing more than to screenshot this moment like an otome game, "Nice to meet you, Minho," you said, taking his hand. Minho crossed his legs, hiding his growing bulge, 'My name just glides off their tongue. I can't wait to hear them cry it,' he thought, gesturing you to sit down. You took a sip of water, finding the taste to be odd but you didn't want to ruin the mood, "Have you ordered?" you asked, wondering why the table didn't have any menu. 

Minho nodded, "I have, it's allergen free. I didn't want to you wait long for dinner," he said, pouring you more water. You beamed, "Thank you for your consideration," you said, sipping more of the water. Minho allowed his mind to spin, your pretty smile, your stunning figure, the way you dressed up for the occasion. A brief thought of jealousy surged through his thoughts, 'They dressed up not knowing it was me. Does that mean that anyone would've since my kitten like this?' he thought, gripping his knife. 

You anxiously glanced peeks at him, his pronounced jawline, his piercing eyes, the veins on his arms. 'Fuck,' you thought, trying to keep your eyes from rolling back at the thought of his fingers pounding your hole apart. The waitress placed your dishes on the table, "Enjoy," she said, walking away. You jolted from your dazed, smiling at Minho, "Dig in," you beamed, eating your dinner. 

Minho did the same, watching your movements get more sluggish from the powder. 'Don't worry, kitty. I'll take great care of you,' he thought, enjoying the night.

You groaned, waking up in an oddly familiar room. One you've only seen through your digital camera. One you've come to love over the years. You tried to sit up, only to feel your wrists tug against the bed frame. Minho chuckled, sitting by the window the whole time, "Slept well, kitten?" he asked, moving towards you. He stroked your hair, gently grazed your arms and thighs for any weapons you kept hidden. 

You gulped, pressing your legs together, trying to hide your dagger between your thighs. Minho clicked his tongue, "Now, now. Good kittens don't hide dangerous things," he cooed, brushing his hands between your inner thighs. His smirk grew, feeling a leather holster. He unclasp the holster and placed it aside, "There we go, all helpless for me," Minho chuckled, brushing your hair. 

You couldn't help but feel aroused, every sense in your body melting into his dominating presence. Minho hummed, "For a perverted little kit, you sure are obedient aren't you? Did you like watching me, sweetheart. Do you touch yourself while stalking me?" he asked, holding your neck. You moaned from the pressure, you eyes hazy with pleasure, "I do. I'm sorry, Minho. I'm sorry," you whimpered, tears spilling down your cheeks. 

Minho cooed, tightening his grip, "You're not sorry at all, kitten. I love hearing your unbashful moans when you ride your pretty little dildo," he chuckled, loving the confusion on your face. "What?" you whispered, staring up at him. Minho traced your bottom lip, "You should really close your windows, kitten. It was so easy to hook up a camera in your room," he said, booping  your nose. You moaned at the realisation, "You know everything?" you asked, desperation lacing your tongue. Minho kissed your forehead, "Everything, kitty. You're not the only one who's been watching," he chuckled, stroking your cheek.

NSFW BELOW CUT

AFAB

"Hhgh, hah, hah," you moaned, riding his cock at a relentless pace. Minho chuckled, spanking your plush ass, "Clench for me, kitten," he growled, thrusting his hips upwards in tandem with your bounce. You did as told, your ribbed walls contracting around his girthy veiny hot cock, "Hah! Good, so good," you whined, burying your face into his chest. 

Minho groaned, his fat cockhead kissing your tiny crevix with each thrust, "How many times have you imagined this, kitty? Tell me," he growled, gripping your hips hard enough to bruise. You hiccuped, gasping and moaning into his chest, "Every other day. Needed you, needed you so bad," you sobbed, licking his puffy nipple. 

Minho groaned into your hair, his face buried in the scent of your shampoo, "Yeah? Needed my Fat. Throbbing. Cock. dragging within your swollen little cunt, huh? I watched you play with that girthy dildo the other day. Tell me which is better, kitty. My cock or that toy?" He rambled into your ear, his tongue licking your earlobe with a lewd squelch. 

You whimpered, shuddering within his hold, "Your cock. Yours Minho," you cried, tears dripping onto his chest. Minho grunted, pumping his thick shaft up your cunt, his hand reaching down to rub your puffy clit,  "Say my name. Say it," he growled, picking up the pace. You arched your back, clawing his chest in sheer pleasure, "Minho! Min, Min, Hhgh," you whimpered, your thighs sore and aching. 

Minho groaned, feeling his cockhead ease beneath your cervix, "Cum for me, sweetheart. Let me feel your obsession," he hissed, feeling you clench hard around his shaft. Broken moans escaped your lips, drool got mixed with your tears and snot. "Hah, hhgh, cumming!" You gasped, creaming around his throbbing cock. Minho groaned, his head pounding from your tight searing cunt. 

"Fuck, fuck, hah," you moaned, his semen coating your inner walls white. You panted, catching your breath from the raw intensity. Minho kissed your forehead, "You can't escape me now, sweetheart," he whispered, licking your jaw. You clenched around his sensitive cock, "Neither can you, darling," you beamed, staring into his equally possessive gaze.

AMAB

"Hhgh, hah, hah," you moaned, riding his cock at a relentless pace. Minho chuckled, spanking your plush ass, "Clench for me, kitten," he growled, thrusting his hips upwards in tandem with your bounce. You did as told, your ribbed walls contracting around his girthy veiny hot cock, "Hah! Good, so good," you whined, burying your face into his chest. 

Minho groaned, his fat cockhead kissing your tiny prostate with each thrust, "How many times have you imagined this, kitty? Tell me," he growled, gripping your hips hard enough to bruise. You hiccuped, gasping and moaning into his chest, "Every other day. Needed you, needed you so bad," you sobbed, licking his puffy nipple. 

Minho groaned into your hair, his face buried in the scent of your shampoo, "Yeah? Needed my Fat. Throbbing. Cock. dragging within your swollen little hole, huh? I watched you play with that girthy dildo the other day. Tell me which is better, kitty. My cock or that toy?" He rambled into your ear, his tongue licking your earlobe with a lewd squelch. 

You whimpered, shuddering within his hold, "Your cock. Yours Minho," you cried, tears dripping onto his chest. Minho grunted, pumping his thick shaft up your hole, his hand reaching down to rub your puffy cockhead,  "Say my name. Say it," he growled, picking up the pace. You arched your back, clawing his chest in sheer pleasure, "Minho! Min, Min, Hhgh," you whimpered, your thighs sore and aching. 

Minho groaned, feeling his cockhead ease against your prostate, "Cum for me, sweetheart. Let me feel your obsession," he hissed, feeling you clench hard around his shaft. Broken moans escaped your lips, drool got mixed with your tears and snot. "Hah, hhgh, cumming!" You gasped, creaming between your torsos’. Minho groaned, his head pounding from your tight searing hole. "Fuck, fuck, hah," you moaned, his semen coating your inner walls white. You panted, catching your breath from the raw intensity. Minho kissed your forehead, "You can't escape me now, sweetheart," he whispered, licking your jaw. You clenched around his sensitive cock, "Neither can you, darling," you beamed, staring into his equally possessive gaze.

[amongsnot]

wip!!

gonna draw the gang in using my favorite just dance songs as refs. will be back shortly.

[catelyngrant]

So I'm thinking about the Fourteenth Doctor, and the bi-generation, and how he may have come to an end. What happened to him after those years he spent with Donna and her family, and with so many other friends on Earth (oh, I am headcanon-ing, friends), existing day-to-day and beginning to heal? After he learned how to let himself be loved, and shown compassion, and forgiven—and, eventually, learned to love, forgive, and care for himself? What happened when, at the end of this journey, his regeneration energy (I assume?) traveled back (in some hand-wavey fashion) to become the Fifteenth Doctor, who is born out of that love and forgiveness and compassion and is ready to move forward in the universe?

Fourteen becomes Fifteen—but what about the TARDIS?

Fourteen's TARDIS was created for the same reason Fourteen was: they needed to slow down, to be gentle. They needed to find a home that wasn't moving at the speed of light. So maybe this TARDIS is a little gentler, too. Maybe she's a little more careful of herself and her charges.

When Fourteen takes Rose to Mars, they land right where they're supposed to, and Rose sees wonders. Nothing bad happens, and they return home five minutes after they left.

When Shaun wants to see a football match from 1988, he opens the TARDIS door and she takes him right there, flying all by herself, to Fourteen's chagrin.

When Fourteen takes Mel to New York, they have adventures that don't involve running, or hiding, or screaming with anything but laughter. When Fourteen takes Jo, Ace, and Tegan to the Jurassic era, the only danger he faces is when he makes an age joke.

When, after Sarah Jane dies (yeeeears in the future, tyvm), Fourteen takes Luke, Maria, Clyde, and Rani to see Florana—the place he promised to take Sarah Jane all those years ago—the TARDIS chooses the safest, most beautiful moment in time for them to honor her memory.

When Donna and Martha and Yaz and Shirley sneak in for a joyride, they have the time of their lives, and the TARDIS covers for them. (Fourteen suspects, but can't prove it.)

When Fourteen is struggling, and chafing at life on Earth, and just needs to run, to fix things, to solve puzzles, to get away from the day-to-day of it all, the TARDIS lets him. She takes him so many places he's never been before, and they're all beautiful and wild and remind him what he loves about the universe.

(He tries, a few times, to go places that might bring him pain, and she gently refuses.)

And every now and then, someone will try to get in. This TARDIS doesn't have a key; she just opens to those in her care, and refuses entry to those she doesn't trust. She is safe, and so are they.

When Donna's in her eighties and can't get around as easily, the TARDIS takes her where she can manage. When Rose is overwhelmed with the pain of the world, the TARDIS takes her to places where none of that pain exists, and lets her stay as long as she needs to.

They live magnificent lives, and the TARDIS takes care of them. And then, at the end of it, Fourteen is ready for what comes next, and he becomes Fifteen. There's only one Doctor again.

But this TARDIS...

I think she stays, right in the corner of that yard. She leaves and then lands so precisely that roots and ivy grow over her. The Doctor is gone, and eventually Mel and Sarah Jane and Jo and Donna and Martha and everyone that traveled with the Doctor once upon a time in a different TARDIS are gone too.

But Rose is still there. Luke, Maria, Rani, and Clyde are still there. Their families, their kids. The TARDIS opens to them, and shows them the universe. She takes them only where she chooses to, and it's always exactly where they need to go.

She always takes them home, to the garden that once belonged to Donna Noble.

The Doctor finds new companions. Some of them come home to Earth after awhile, but they're not stuck dreaming of the universe. You showed me the furthest reaches of the galaxy, Sarah Jane said. You showed me supernovas, intergalactic battles, and then you just dropped me back on Earth. How could anything compare to that? We get a taste of that splendor, but then we have to go back.

These new companions, they return to Earth and their lives there, but every now and then, they swing by that old house that the Noble family has lived in for generations. They say hello to this old/new box, and she invites them in.

They don't have to say goodbye to the universe. She's right there in Chiswick, waiting for them.

And sometimes—on rare occasions, when they need it, or when he (or she, or they) does—she takes them to the Doctor.

[like-rain-or-confetti]

When the Past Fades (Demetri Volturi x Reader)

Demetri and some of the other guards had travelled to the Cullens territory to check on Renesmee's development. What he hadn't expected amidst his visit was catching Renesmee in tears.

"Pardon me, are you alright?" Demetri raised a brow. Renesmee jumped slightly wiping her eyes and turning. "Yeah!" She said a little too forced. "I'm fine just..." She looked down taking a breath. "I'm being stupid. Sometimes I get...overly emotional, I guess. The human part of me." She sniffled. "I see." Demetri hummed. "And what has provoked this?" He asked. "You'll think it's silly." She shook her head. He smirked at the challenge. "Try me."

After a moments pause, she no longer could see the harm. "Sometimes... I get really, really terrified. That...that my body will fail me. That...that I'll succumb to the human in me. I...I forget things and my parents, my entire family, they don't. They spent so long worrying I wouldn't be here for long and now I worry if I'll be here longer than I can function." She sniffled. Demetri thought for a moment. "You're worried you'll forget things? Like humans do?" "That I'll forget important things. Pieces of my life." Renesmee clarified.

After a moment, Demetri gestured to the couch across from him. "Take a seat." She looked a little confused but complied with his request, sitting down. "Do you know my mate, (Y/N)?" He asked as he sat down. Renesmee shrugged. "A little. Human. You've been together for-" Renesmee was cut off by Demetri. "Eighty-eight years." He smiled, knowing she'd get it wrong. Renesmee looked taken aback. "But they -" "they're human? Not quite, but they certainly look the part, hm?" He smiled. "I changed them eighty five years ago but something went wrong. We still don't know what it is, a defect. It's mostly deemed a fluke. (Y/N) can heal quicker than a human, doesn't age and is warm blooded, but their stomach can't take human food." He leaned forward. "The most challenging thing of all being as their life goes on, they forget their past. Much like humans do. (Y/N) can't quite remember what year we met. I have all of our memories whilst theirs fade with time as we make new ones. We believe one day, they'll forget how we met or when or why. I'll just have always been there and i always will be. As it stands, they don't remember their parents faces or voices but can piece a brief description of hair colour or height or body stature. For someone who you'd think would be miserable forget such things and will even forget that they forget one day. Well I think you or I would think their life was as good as done. Yet they're thriving. They won't know what they're missing. Not for long anyway." He leaned forward, bracing his arms on his knees. "That's the part humans forget. Very rarely, almost impossibly, as their bodies slowly break down or their sense of self and the world begins to fade away - they're never alone. They have someone to make sure they're alright and that they'll carry on with the best quality of life they can have.Do not doubt that in the end, you won't be alone. You're loved too much to be cast aside. Everyone is remembered by someone and every single human I guarantee has that exact same fear...but don't let it own you when it's a part of life that you won't know, Renesmee." Demetri finished with a reassuring smile.

After a moment of silence, he got up to leave. Renesmee watched him, scrambling for a response before she stood up and followed after him out the room. "Demetri!?" He turned. "How do you handle it? That (Y/N) forgets?" Renesmee asked and Demetri smiled. She may not have looked her physical age and mentally even older still but Renesmee Cullen in this moment was just a child in his eyes. Too young to have to have a care in the world. Her anxiety's showing the flicker of humanity Isabella had transferred to her. It lived through Renesmee. Perhaps that was comforting to Edward. That if he stopped for a moment, he could see the humanity he had adored in his mate. His answer came with warmth. "When we're back in our territory, almost every night might i add, I find them reading by the window. Enthralled by my diaries."His tone softened. "I wrote them for (Y/N). So that even if it didn't jog their memory and was too far gone, theey'd still have something to look back to. They relieve them over and over as much or as little as they wants. Every night when they sleep as they must. I write for them. I will continue to write everything. It's how I show my love."

[shanastoryteller]

HAPPY HALLOWEEN GRANDMA!! You already know what I want, nay, what I crave when the days get shorter and the only thing that brings me any solace is my favorite rarepare. Please, Tonks x Percy siat - specifically something abouth Tonks telling Percy about her powers maybe, just an incredibly intimate scene please and thank you 😩🧡

The first time Percy rushes to the St. Mungo's on the heal of a battle and bursts into Tonk's room, he doesn't understand why he'd needed to threaten his way in in the first place. She's stripped to her underwear and looks perfectly fine.

But there are three healers surrounding her and completely ignoring him. "Time?" the oldest asks, her hair pure white and her face a layer of wrinkles.

Tonks closes her eyes. "Eighty seconds."

"External first," she says briskly. "It doesn't do us any good if you bleed out."

She breathes out.

Then blood floods across her body, soaking the bed instantly as wounds big and small erupt over her skin. In some places he sees flashes of what he thinks are bone.

Tonks doesn't scream as magic starts flying, and he doesn't either, keeping himself plastered to the wall.

"Internal," the healer says.

What little of her skin he can see beneath the blood pales and they're casting more healing spells, longer and more complicated the any he's heard before.

"Head," she says. "Go slow."

Tonks swallows and then there's another rush of blood as her eyes roll and she passes out and all three of the healers are flinging spells with a speed and intensity he didn't know was possible.

He's almost grateful that he can't see what injury they're treating.

Then the other two step back and the old healer casts a diagnostic spell that Percy tries to interpret and can't. Her shoulders drop and she says, "Good," casting a scourgify to take care of the blood and pulling the blanket over her with a flick of her wand.

She turns, noticing Percy for the first time. Instead of anger, she just raises an eyebrow. "You're the boyfriend, then?"

He really hates what that implies about how often Tonks needs to be treated by healer quite this talented. "Is she going to be okay?"

His stomach had twisted itself in nots but it finally starts ease when she gives a short nod. "We'll let her get some rest and keep her overnight from observation." She tilts her head to the side. "I'd kick you out, citing the no visitors policy for this ward, but you're already here. Seems like a big of wasted effort."

"A bit," he agrees, pulling a chair next to Tonks's bedside and collapsing into it. "Thank you."

~

Tonks wakes up slowly, feeling the hospital sheets that she hates with the smell she can't stand and she's already trying to figure out how she can get herself released early without bringing Nanu's wrath down on her.

She pushes herself upright - or tries to. She can't mover her arm.

She looks down, alarmed, but her arm is just being used as a pillow.

By Percy, who's asleep and hunched over her bed. Percy, who needed to be coaxed and cajoled into leaving his desk for so much as a tea is here. He doesn't even have any scrolls or work spready out. She wouldn't blame him if he didn't, but he's just here, and from the way his clothing's rumpled he's been here for a while.

Tonks's heart feels so full.

She's going to marry him.

He only just accepted that they were dating, so she'll give him some time before introducing the concept of marriage, but she knows. This man is going to be her husband someday.

[pricegouge]

prompt fill based off this request.

part two of the honey series

rat race

Simon x gn!reader

cw: predator prey dynamic and i really mean it. implied deaths offscreen. MDNI

it's a new maze every time. peg board floor, the walls mounted to it shifting with each session to keep you confused and, lost amid the erratic angles and dead ends. sometimes they're mirrored, reflect your mounting dismay back at you with every turn. mostly, he likes other obstacles, small puzzles you have to solve before continuing on to the next part of the maze.

today's impediment is a little more dire.

you smell it before you see it, the familiar reek of soiled bedding and cloyingly strong aspen. you're not alone.

simon sees the minute you register your predicament, dark eyes becoming hyperfocused when you stiffen up, fear locking your joints. he looms overhead, bad omen hung double in the sky where the glass which prevents you and the rat both from climbing out catches his reflection just enough to mirror him again, superimposes his mask just there above you. inescapable.

you think maybe one of these days he'll make the maze the same and pray it's not this day. you'd rather starve to death within it's confines than let the rat live off your corpse for a few days longer. maybe that's where he'd gotten all those fairy specimen that lined his study, their little shadow boxes visible even now, his largest mount displayed proudly behind his desk, looking over his shoulder at you pityingly. maybe you'll get a spot of honor, too.

but not if the rat finds you, vicious teeth and ravenous appetite. it had come close a few times, clever little nose giving it a leg up on you. simon had never once moved to help as it had closed in, just leaning closer to watch as the rat closed in, eyes darting between the two of you with the sort of anticipation and excitement one usually reserved for a well-balanced match.

so you can't depend on his mercy - not that he's ever given you reason to, really, but you'd hoped -

the pegboard holes are just big enough to catch your toes. you trip as you scurry along, fingers trailing on the walls next to you lest you miss a turn in your haste. not that it really matters, not when each turn looks the same. simon used to leave you little hints, offerings of sweets which would guide you closer to the end. he'd long since stopped that, seemed content to watch you twist yourself into knots for hours before you found a way out if needed. you hoped that wouldn't be the case tonight. the rat rarely ever needed hours to find you.

you stop to catch your breath when you reach the next four-corners. it's a dangerous spot to be, what with all the straight shots where the rat might see you, but it also gives you the most options for an escape if it comes to it, something you've learned the hard way. your chest rises with effort, tiny cloud of condensation collecting on the glass above. beyond it, you see simon's eyes dart to your left with just a little too much excitement and you take off to the right before you can even collect yourself, wood paneling flying by as you run blindly, right, left, left again, one-eighty when you hit a dead end. you huff in frustration, a muted spark flying when your fists clench in frustration and fear. you have options, you know, but you don't like the odds and -

it's surprising how quiet your companion can be, when it suits him. you don't hear the quiet chuffing of his breathing, nor the gentle patter of his little paws as he creeps closer. it's not even the slithering of its tail that gives it away, but the subtle scrape of its whiskers against the paneling, the wall on your left seeming to swell closer as the beast stalks by on the other side of it.

simon had lied, that pointed look from before meant to send you scurrying in the wrong direction - right into the rat's clutches. you'd be more mad, if you had time to be.

the path to the right is short - doesn't let you wander too far away from the beast that dogs you before forcing you to turn left. you're running parallel with it now, or at least you would be if it had kept on its same path. but that's unlikely in this labyrinth, and one right hand turn could send it your way. another could have it barreling down the aisle at you. you dip right as soon as you're able, do it again at your next chance -

and stop dead in your tracks when you see the very end of its scaly tale disappear around a corner up ahead.

faltering where you stand, you take a minute to try and find your bearings, weigh your options as you see them. there's no exit behind, but death could be waiting before and it takes you a minute to remember that if it's not there, it will be around the next corner (or the next, or the next) until you find your way out of here.

so you creep forward, each step placed carefully lest you slip, bare skin squeaking off the cheap wood. you don't make a sound as you approach the blind, not even as you peek around the corner to find the rat still at the end of the path, strong nose raised as if to sniff out whatever might be on the other end of the wall before it. you keep your wits about you, pull your head back to collect a calming breath before darting past the gap while it's distracted, your footsteps coming a little more calmly, a little more confidently as you slink away. you can feel simon's heavy gaze on you, seemingly magnified by the glass overhead. he's rapt now, his unwavering gaze only adding to your stress, nerves a tangled ball of pollen you can't find the end of, can't get a grasp on.

maybe that's why you're too distracted to mind your breathing, the harsh pants of your panic alerting the rat to your presence. it chuffs in its excitement, long body struggling as it tries to turn around in the close press of walls that surround it. you hear the scrape of its little claws, a series of suppressed sneezes it would never emit if it was still in stalking mode. the gig is up.

you don't even bother to look behind you before you're off, feet slamming against the pegboard in your haste. simon's too excited to bother suppressing it, unwittingly leading you toward the exit by how he leans too far forward, a subconscious tell which you try to focus all your concentration on. anything to avoid looking back, avoid seeing the scurrying beast which tails you.

it's gaining is the worst part. you can take corners quicker than it, but it's faster on straightaways and it's only now, as you weave your way through row after row of them that you realize there are a lot of straightaways in this maze. simon's note taking wasn't just for show, it seemed.

right, left, straight, right and right again. teeth snatch at your clothes, sharp enough to tear instead of catch. a mixed blessing as it allows you to slip its grasp this time. you drive yourself harder, chest aching with your labored breath as you try to stay just outside of its range. it squeaks and squeals in its excitement, a terifying littany you can't quite drown out even with your blood pounding in your ears. you focus on trending right because that's the way simon's leaning, are just starting to worry you've misjudged him when you see it: sweet sanctuary, a perfect circle in an external wall, the sweet smell of candy sitting just beyond.

you leap through it as soon as you're able, shriek in fright when you swear you can feel teeth snapping at your toes. but simon shutters the door as soon as you're through it, dull thud of the rat slamming against it the last thing you hear of it for the night.

supine, catching your breath, you watch almost disinterestedly as simon stands and collects the massive box from off his desk, big meaty hands lifting it gently before carrying it off to the other side of the room where he takes a minute to extract the rat and return it to its cage. it nips him, retaliation for a pointless maze, but simon just chuckles darkly, calls it cheeky as he feeds it a grape from his pocket. when he turns back to you, he asks why you haven't had your treat yet and you just shake your head, stomach turning at the thought of sweets right then. or maybe it's because the thought of being treated like just another one of his lab rats leaves a sour taste in your mouth.

the chair groans under him when he sits back down, his fist heavy as it drags over the pad of paper before him, taking more notes. everything about him is heavy and he never lets you forget it - movements purposefully drawn out to emphasize it, as if he's any need for it. even for a human he's a large man, and there's nothing your paltry sparks could ever do against him. you're not stupid, despite what he thinks.

"almost got you that time," he grumbles as he finishes up. you're still laying on your back, processing your predicament. he just uses it as an excuse to slide the paper you're laying on closer, his palm planted frimly next to you, framing you between forefinger and thumb. you don't bother arguing with him, don't see the point.

over his shoulder, some long-dead kin seems to agree.

"you'll be a wet specimen, won't you?" his mask hides his expression when he says it, but his eyes are just as animated as they'd been when he'd lead you astray, gleaming darkly in the low light of his banker's lamp.

you can only pout up at him, confused until he picks you up, turns you so you face the cupboard, one of its door's hanging slightly ajar, the low glint of glass glowing from within. even static it seems to dance, and you imagine the jarred contents within rippling, the mangled little corpses preserved in formaldehyde bobbing along. you shake your head adamantly, fear bubbling back to life in your belly. you'd only seen inside the cupboard once but it had been enough, shelves full of gored little fairies haunting you ever since, constant threat.

simon tuts, as if you're being petulant and contrary. "you'd best shape up, then. can't mount a half-eaten fairy."

[the-kr8tor]

Reporting for duty Captain!

A tasm Peter Parker request for a shy reader who likes Peter but backs out when she wants to talk to him or- OR, (more like and) a reader with w rizz who's known Peter since forever and ever. Who has the same interest in photography as he does?? Works in a photo store??

Cook chef!

*gasp* a peter parker request?! Got you, my love 🫡 happy to oblige.

Pairing: TASM! Peter Parker x fem! Reader/ TASM! Spider-Man x fem! Reader

Tags: use of Y/N sparsely, no specific physical description of the reader, CW food mentions, Love struck Peter, Fluff.

ʕ⁠·⁠ᴥ⁠·⁠ʔ

Peter doesn't need to ask around campus for you, he already knows where you are, a perk of knowing you since grade school. He evens his breathing when he finally reaches the worn out doors.

The bells jingle as he enters the old store, yellowed wallpaper greeting him and drab shelves lined with rolls of films, the vintage cameras make up for the boringness of the gray shelves. Ancient posters of movies lined the walls, a time capsule of the early eighties. It's silent inside, no other customer than him.

His sneakers squeak on the linoleum as he walks towards the cashier, expecting to see your smile, your hands occupied with whatever book you're currently (hating) reading. He finds it empty.

Peter's spidey senses don't tingle so he can relax knowing that you're in the back of the store. He jumps over the counter effortlessly thanks to his abilities. Knocking on the door, he hears the muffled sound of your speaker.

“Y/N?”

“In here, Pete—! Wait!!” With a creak, Peter opens the door without skipping a beat. The light from the store filters through the dark room, white covering and filtering out all the red. “No! Close it quick!”

“Oh shit!” He shuts it quickly behind him, too fast and harder than he thought, the wood almost cracks at the sheer force. Wincing, you both mirror each other's expression.

“Pete…” you sigh, closing the distance to check the door, you can't afford to lose a chunk of your paycheck for repairs. But you don't blame him, it's hard to stay mad at Peter especially when he's looking so apologetic at you, almost like a kicked puppy. “You got too excited to see me huh?”

He shuts his eyes with a smile, head falling down, chin atop his chest. He looks exasperated but he did it to hide the blush on his cheeks, hoping that if you manage to glimpse it you'd think it's from the red light.

This won't do, you thought. You missed him too much today just for him to hide his face from you. To remedy the feeling, you grasp his cheek, thumb gently placed right under his eye.

“There you are webhead,” your voice is saccharine, the ruby light bouncing off your face, illuminating your features perfectly. Peter thought he'd melt right on the spot. “Missed me?” In truth, you're the one who misses him most.

He wants to say yes without a second thought but knowing you, you're already aware of his answer. Even though you refuse to acknowledge it. Under all the teasing exterior there's shyness underneath it all, with just one flirty comment thrown your way you'd probably collapse.

Peter finally meets your smiling eyes and for a moment you're the only thing that matters.

With classes and spiderman responsibilities, hanging out with you has been scarce, he needed a fix right away, that's why he came sprinting towards the store immediately after a three hour class and after swinging across town to your favorite deli with his wind swept hair and shirt that definitely needs ironing.

“Not really.” A lie, an awful lie on his part.

“Aww,” you dramatically clutch at your chest, hand leaving his skin to his dismay. “Hear that? You just broke my heart, Parker.”

“D’you even have one?”

“Hey!” You playfully punch his shoulder. “You're the one who ruined my pictures.”

His eyes flick towards the clothesline filled with pictures that just screams ‘you.’ “I can see from here that they're not ruined.”

You click your tongue, hands on your hips, you walk back towards the table. “What are you doing here then, webhead?” Lowering the volume of your speaker, you decide to shut it off when his voice is a much better alternative.

“I feel like I should be offended by that.” Peter stands beside you, hip to hip, arm brushing along yours.

Placing his hand on the small of your back casually, he loops his thumb around your belt loop, pressing softly on your skin. He's done this a hundred times during your friendship but it never fails to wake up the butterflies in your stomach.

“I've called you that numerous times.” Holding the tongs, you carefully place the developed photo in the chemical mixture in the basin, eyes watching the picture pop up slowly.

“Stop being mean, I've come bearing gifts from the deli you like.” His voice is quiet, soft just for you.

“The one that's on the upper west side? Peter, that's really far away.”

“I don't mind, that's what web swinging is for right?”

You scrunch up your nose, Peter has the best seat in the house while he admires your expression.

“And here I thought it was for fighting crime.” You chuckle, pushing the paper further down in the basin. His deep chuckle stops abruptly at the sight in front of him.

Peter's own smiling face greets him and your charisma cracks.

“Oh” you manage to let out with your dry mouth.

You can hear him shudder a breath next to you. The picture is framed perfectly, his face centered in the middle amongst the crowd, zoomed in more like. You clearly avoided having other people in the frame, your main subject was him and him alone.

“...Good picture.” He slaps himself mentally.

“Yep, one of my best, I think.” You say quietly, too quietly. Clearing your throat, you avoid his eyes, “why don't you ready the food? Outside, please?”

Peter shakes himself awake. His skin feels like lava, there's a bead of sweat rolling down his temple. Hands clammy, he nods wordlessly. He awkwardly pats your back before leaving your side.

Walking towards the exit, your back turned towards him, shoulders slouched and tensed. He turns towards you before exiting, “looks like you missed me more, sweetheart.” He's called you that millions of times, all filled with more affection than the last but this one, oh this one he added with so much love that it could stop your heart.

And you think it has.

Peter hears you squeak, a sound he hasn't heard you make since high school when he asked you to dance during the winter formal.

You whirl around, catching sight of his Parker smile, charm oozing out of him that's already gone before you could admire him in the crimson light.

He leaves, shutting the door quickly. Laying his sweaty forehead on the door, he tightly closes his eyes again, feeling like a lightning just struck him and adrenaline coursing through his veins, needing to swing off the extra energy.

Blowing hot air, he takes his clammy hands off the doorknob to take out the food he bought, grinning through it like a mad man.

Meanwhile, you clutch the table with a grip, heart threatening to jump out of your chest, heat in your cheeks as the photo of Peter smiles at you.

Laughing to yourself, you take out his picture to clip it on the clothesline next to the other pictures. You have no idea what to say to him once you leave the room, or do you just stay in the dark room forever? Either way, you're absolutely fucked.