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fleckcmscott · 3 years

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Coffee & Donuts

Summary: Arthur’s thrilled to be part of a crowd. Though the evening doesn’t go perfectly, Y/N’s flirtations make it sweet.

Warnings: Smut

Words: 4,602

A/N: Alright. After the heart wrenching angst of my last piece (which I love, by the way; don't get me wrong! 😂), I had to write another story in which Arthur and Y/N are happy and together. It's inspired by one of Arthur's visions during their kiss. I hope you all like it! Special thanks to @jokerownsmysoul for beta-ing!

If you have any thoughts or questions, please comment, feel free to message me, or send me an ask. Requests for Arthur and WWH are open!

Parties and celebrations weren't foreign to Arthur. He'd worked plenty, enough to make him realize what he'd been missing out on. He was well-versed in pin the tail on the donkey, musical chairs, and balloon animals. But as an adult, those activities didn't satisfy. He wanted to be included rather than paid. Connect with people, introduce himself. Discuss his experiences and pursuits. Feel sufficiently at ease to loosen up a little and have a good time.

Now he was a guest - a certified guest - at Patricia Gorman's fifty-sixth birthday party. The first party he'd been invited to since being the weird kid in class who'd rotated between three worn out sweaters and could never afford a gift.

He'd been a tad apprehensive about going to Burnside. Gotham's nicest borough had a reputation for high rents and low tolerance. When Y/N and he had entered 2E, however, Patricia's greeting ("You made it!") and the apartment were thoroughly welcoming. Crocodile brown walls and forest green shag carpet made the spacious living room a cozy hideaway. Marigolds leapt across the polyester of the T-cushion sofa and its easy-chair companion. The floor lamp's amber, crimped glass shades cast the spacious living room in a glow borrowed from warm autumn days.

Patricia's husband, Robert, was out on an emergency call. An HVAC had gone haywire in a residential building in Hinckley. Her daughter, son-in-law, and grandson had been by for lunch. That meant the only other guests were Matt - Y/N's old boss - and a bottle-blonde in a black halter dress and spike heels, who Y/N introduced as Laura. ("She's Matt's ex-wife," Y/N later disclosed. "He's been trying to win her back since I moved to Gotham.") Both shook Arthur's hand when he offered it, and he felt a little thrill whirl his stomach when Y/N laid claim to him by telling the woman, "This is my husband."

A collection of appetizers served as dinner, a fun and novel menu. The slow cooker meatballs Y/N and he had lugged over on the subway were a bit tangy; he still couldn't believe the recipe called for grape jelly. The deviled eggs with paprika, a pleasant mix of savory and sweet, was a dish he'd heard about on television. Cream cheese and cucumber sandwiches were light and airy, a good match for his iced tea. Only the artichoke and spinach dip gave him pause. Its beans and hot sauce made his taste buds wince.

That unpleasant flavor was quickly forgotten when Y/N pulled him to sit next to her on the sofa, so Patricia could open her presents. She proudly showed off the orange, clay ashtray her grandson had made for her. Arthur, having successfully kept the secret of her light smoking from Y/N, chuckled at Patricia fibbing she'd put candy in it. She thanked Matt and Laura for the champagne, wrapped in a silver bow with a simple "Happy Birthday" tag. The bottle wasn't popped. Upon peeking into the large giftbag Y/N placed on her lap, she made a soft sound. The Dazey whirlpool bath, which attached to the side of the tub and had three strength settings, was a hit. She announced her plans to try it in the morning. The dark blue Rexbuilt briefbag was intended to replace her cracked, leather briefcase, Y/N explained. Patricia ran her fingertips along the expanding inner compartments, the personalized planner that included the credential "CLA" after her name, and flipped through the included steno pads, eyes brimming.

She sipped at her cocktail and put an arm around Y/N. Melancholy tinged Patricia's voice. "At my age, the people in your life tend to stay the people in your life. Whether you like them or not." She reached further and patted Arthur's knee. "I'm glad an old dame like me gets to call you all friends." His throat clenched in gratification, though he wasn't daring enough to squeeze her hand and thank her for deciding he was a friend.

Still on top of the world an hour later, Arthur sauntered to the red and white enamel dining table to serve himself a second slice of upside-down pineapple cake. The evening had gone well, better than a guy with a natural inability to mingle could've expected. He bobbed his head to the beat of "Come Fly with Me." It was a happy coincidence that Patricia's taste in music aligned with his. She'd regaled him with tales of seeing Sinatra and Count Basie on her and Robert's honeymoon in Vegas. Arthur took a bite absentmindedly, wondering how long it would take for him to save the money to surprise Y/N with plane and concert tickets.

The daydreaming didn't last long. Matt's plodding footsteps preceded him, followed by a long sigh as he propped himself on the beige stone of the dining area's accent wall, across from the u-shaped kitchen. He held out a Budweiser and smirked. "Marriage is a hell of a lot of work."

Pleased that he was being treated like one of the guys, like a regular husband with a regular relationship who got to speak about his regular wife, Arthur accepted the beer and considered the comment. Matt's sentiment was hard to grasp. Dr. Sally had said marriage could be difficult, and Y/N's first hadn't survived the ripples of her life. But it didn't feel like work with her. Their arguments were minor. Her nagging him to find a primary doctor for annual check-ups, even though he'd survived this long without one. Or back in Missouri, when he'd told her to stop shielding him and trust he could take anything she had to give.

Arthur adopted a similar nonchalant posture and jutted his hip against the table's edge. "I like it. It's easy to take good care of her." He wasn't able to completely erase the smugness of success from his tone.

"You're what? Two years in with the most headstrong woman in Gotham? She's great and all, but she spikes my blood pressure." Matt slapped Arthur's back and let out a hearty guffaw. "Give it five more and you'll be in my office trying to avoid alimony."

"Don't. Say that." Arthur crinkled the can in his grip and glared up at him.

"Hey," Matt started, withdrawing even as he tried diplomacy. "It was just a joke. I didn't mean anything by it."

Flinching, pulling at the cuffs of his red sweater, Arthur fought the surge of anger in his veins. It wouldn't do to lose control and cause a scene. Of course Matt's comment about them splitting up was supposed to be a joke. But Arthur didn't find it one bit funny. Even with his complete faith in her and his firm belief that they were meant to be together, the possibility that she'd stop wanting him hurt. It didn't occur to him that the implication of the punchline could be that he'd get sick of Y/N.

With a muttered apology, Matt walked to the others in the kitchen. Arthur glanced over to see her laugh tipsily, until she grabbed her stomach and swatted Patricia's shoulder, a stark demonstration of how much he and Y/N differed. She always knew how to respond to people, the right comebacks. Appropriate timing and levels of interaction. It seemed she was in her natural element, the loveliest swan on a lake. Whereas after years of therapy and practice with her, he was still a fish out of water, flopping around on the shoreline in hopes some stranger would take pity on him and throw him back into the sea.

Maybe that was the real punchline. Eventually their contrasts would no longer complement each other and instead become a chore.

Scowling, he ambled towards the record player stationed before two double-hung windows. Increased the volume to drown out the intrusive notions. It didn't really work. He settled on a grounding technique he'd practiced, all the while lamenting that he couldn't handle a party without needing it. His attention went to the spinning LP, the needle following its grooves. The bright blue album cover, where Ol' Blue Eyes beckoned him, the scuff marks on the cardboard's corner edges. He acknowledged the spider plants sat on the windowsill, worried a papery leaf until it broke off. He stared out the window, taking in the whole of the city. Pinpricks of light dazzling in the darkness.

"Gotham's beautiful at night," Y/N said from behind him. He glanced over his shoulder to watch her approach. Her cheeks glowed with alcohol and good cheer, the collar of her ivory blouse unbuttoned. "There's a life behind every light out there. Ten million of them. Here. Try this." She offered her hurricane glass, filled with an off-white slush.

He sipped the pina colada with cautious skepticism and grimaced as soon as it hit his tongue. The blend of pineapple and coconut tasted of cheap sunscreen and tropical imitations, the kind advertised in smudged brochures for bad cruises to islands with made up sounding names. "No, thanks."

Snorting, she shrugged and embraced his back at the waist. "How are we doing?" she asked, curling into his side. After a few seconds, she prodded him. "Had your fill of Matt?"

"He was just joking." Arthur rubbed the back of his neck and sighed. She set the drink next to the record player and brought her hand to his, trailed it over the inside of his wrist, up his forearm. She pecked his chin and nudged him until he turned to her. As soon as their gazes met, the concern in hers told him she'd continue to pepper him with questions. But he wasn't about to let his misplaced doubts spoil her evening. And he knew the perfect way to distract them both.

A new song started. An oldie that sang of Jupiter and Mars, playfulness among the stars. He cupped her cheek, thumb sweeping the corner of her mouth. "Dance with me," he said. Before accepting his proffered palm, she laid a sloppy kiss on him. With a flutter of her eyelashes, she grinned, and his smile grew to match her own. As he held her side, led her in a slow, swaying circle, he marveled at her. At her ability to soothe every molecule, every lingering ache. Self-assurance welled in him, chased away his earlier dejection. He cradled her to his lanky frame, trembled and felt himself blush. She was the only woman for him. That was as certain as his cigarette habit.

Despite Patricia's reassurances she was fine, that Robert working late wasn't unusual, Y/N insisted on staying until he got home. Though Arthur would have preferred they take their leave an hour earlier, being allowed to smoke inside blunted his grumbling. The disarming flirtations she bestowed on him also didn't hurt. She'd pour herself a drink (four in total, if he counted correctly), help Patricia make a plate of leftovers for her husband, then throw him a wink. Whisper and cackle while cleaning, then kiss his temple.

Around midnight, Patricia put her foot down. Ushered them out with a promise to call and a hug fierce enough to crush his ribs. She raised a brow at Y/N's unsteady gait, grasped Arthur's arm, and said with a wry, tired smile, "Make sure you put that woman straight to bed." His dark brows shot up and held. Had she intended a pun? Or had Y/N's spare caresses caused the interpretation? Either way, he liked being trusted to take care of her. And the hint of arousal that flared in his belly.

By the time they stumbled into their apartment, that arousal had reduced to a dull exhaustion. She kicked off her heels on the way to the bathroom, calling a slurred "night!" as she closed the door. Yawning, he put dish soap and hot water in the crockpot, scrubbed burned bits of sauce from its rim, turned it upside down on a towel to dry. Once he'd brushed his teeth for one minute rather than the recommended two, he tossed his sweater, trousers, briefs, and socks in the hamper, and went to the bedroom. He found his blue pajamas in their usual spot, the chair in the corner, and slid them up his skinny but toned legs. Tucked in next to her, he was carried to sleep on waves of fatigue and her quiet, wet snoring.

~~~~~

A tickle threatened to rouse him. Whispers along the waistband of his bottoms. Heat snuggled his back. Delightfully drowsy, he cuddled deeper into cozy, cream-color sheets, already returning to a pleasant, dreamless slumber. But a rumble of exhaust, likely from a bus that needed a new muffler, dragged him to consciousness. Arthur grumbled and tucked his arm under his pillow, not ready to transition to a world of overcrowding and concrete, commotion and bad jokes.

Yet, Y/N's insistent grazes continued, luring him with promises of placid pleasure. Her toes wiggled at his heel until he made space for her to slip her foot between his ankles. The corner of his mouth quirked. He was reminded of last night's playfulness, her endless teasing. The way he'd held the crockpot as a shield to fend off her advances on the train home, her forwardness to the point that he would've preferred having a laminated card to present on her behalf. Forgive my wife: she has a condition. It causes frequent and uncontrollable displays of affection.

Nimble fingers edged lower, loosened the tie of his pajamas before dipping beneath the loose elastic to lace through his dark brown curls, darker than the chestnut hair on his head. Her knuckles ran over him, lazy caresses full of intent. Up and down, up and down. Delicate. Deliberate. The blood racing to his groin, the pleasant swelling, made his abdomen twitch. Soon full and heavy, the sensitive tip straining the cotton seams, he pressed his lips together. When she skimmed the tender skin resting on his inner thigh, he flexed the muscle at the base of his erection. It bobbed and hit her wrist and she let loose a girlish giggle, more intoxicating than wine.

With her left leg draped over him at the knee, she undulated against his rear. Plush lips brushed the boney knobs of his spine, damp breath fanned the nape of his neck, labored, needy. Pebbled nipples grazed his back through the thin nylon of her nightgown, taunting and compelling. He made up his mind to throw an arm around her, to yank her on top of him. To eagerly take part in her seduction.

But she withdrew from his bottoms to palm his stomach and plant a gentle kiss to the shell of his ear, whispering, "Sleep tight." The mattress shifted and she rolled away from him. He furrowed his brows. She rarely relented this easily - other times he'd awakened, hard and aching, enveloped by the captivating wetness of her mouth. What was she up to?

Covers rustled. Her calf bumped his. And the opposite of what he'd assumed occurred. Instead of light footfalls leading out of the room, there was silence, silence that seemed to stretch on and on...

Until a hitched gasp gave her away.

Touching herself. She was touching herself. She'd just been all over him, acted like he was some sort of model on the cover of Vue magazine, and now she was touching herself. Right beside him! Ecstatic to have inspired such brazenness, he grinned and fisted the pillow. Her fleeting, stifled moans tangled him in knots, implored him to give her what they both burned for.

He flipped in her direction, his hand shooting under the sheet to grab hers. "Gotcha."

Eyes wide, she gaped at him in surprise. But adoration softened her expression as she entwined their fingers. "How long have you been awake?" she asked.

"Long enough."

He stretched to rewind the shades, the diaphanous curtains staying in place. Sunlight diffused over them, wrapped around her face, lent her disheveled hair a warm luster. He twirled a feathered lock and pecked her eyelids. "Finishing what you started on the subway, hm?"

"Me?" Y/N brought his knuckles to her mouth. "You're the one who came to bed without any underwear."

"Well, it was a late night." The pad of his thumb tugged at her bottom lip to reveal the pink tip of her tongue. He bent to claim it. "I was lucky to find my pajamas."

Chuckling, she broke their connection. "Did you have a good time?"

"Yeah. The cake was good. And the music. Everyone was nice."

"Patricia loved having you there. She thought you were very sweet." A pause as she mapped a dimple. "Matt said he'd upset you. Something stupid about breaking up?"

Vague shadows of discomfort flashed through Arthur, a frustration he'd mostly moved on from. He did his best to ignore it, waving her concern away. "Don't worry about it."

"He was just jealous, you know." Her nails ran along the small of his back. "He wants Laura to look at him the way I look at you."

Arthur had spent so much of his life yearning for change, to understand his purpose in the world and improve himself. The idea that a man with a good education, a successful career, and no disabilities could ever be jealous of him was, frankly, bizarre. But he didn't correct Y/N, instead locking her praise within his heart, preserving it for when he needed it most. He boosted himself on his forearm and fiddled with her V-neck, traced its button loops as he slipped the plastic knobs through them. "And how's that?'

A hint of scandal glimmered in her irises. She arched into him as he eased a strap down her upper arm to reveal her shapely breast, the lilac fabric momentarily catching on its taut peak. "Like I can't get enough of you."

He huffed at that, fondled her faintly before his lips met the velvety skin of her chest. A tonic comprised of the musk oil she'd dabbed on before the party and distinct sexual wanting wafted to his nostrils. He licked at her nipple, the bumps on her areola, and drew it between his teeth. She whined softly and lifted the bottom of her nightdress to her waist.

Hurriedly, he yanked on the waistband of her cotton panties, pushed them past her knees. She kicked them off while he knelt to lower his bottoms. Straddling her, he pumped himself back to hardness and opened the drawer of her nightstand. He searched haphazardly until he retrieved a small, glass bottle of lubricant. (She'd ordered it from a mail catalog, both of them a bit too bashful to walk into an adult shop, even together.)

She snagged it from him and poured half a teaspoon in her hand, then palmed herself. He moved between her legs and she grasped his length, coating him with the warm, slippery liquid. He pushed forward into her. Gradually, slowly, savoring every millimeter of her enticing heat. He noted the stretch of her mouth, the jut of her jaw, the lifting of her upper lip. "Mmm..." she breathed and begged him to keep going. When he did, her head tilted back into the pillow, eyelids falling shut. A smile cut across her cheeks as she purred her satisfaction. "Arthur, I love you."

His touch wandered down the curve of her thigh. At the sight of her subtle writhing beneath him, the sway of her slightly uneven breasts in time with his languid thrusts, he pushed her knee into the mattress, splayed her wider. He grunted lowly. "Look at me."

Their gazes met but didn't hold for long; hers dropped to where they were joined. She caressed right above his pubic bone. "I love seeing you like this." Her fingertips walked a line up his sternum to his chest. "And touching you like this." She wrapped her arms around his middle and drew him to her, locked their lips in a greedy kiss. "And making love like this."

He snorted. "I think this is the only reason you married me."

"Well, not the only reason. There's your good hair, too."

"I've been thinking about cutting it. Trying something new."

"Don't you dare." She tugged at his loose curls, wore her best pout. "What else would I hold onto when we're doing this?"

Laughing lightly, he bumped his nose to hers. Falling into her was like falling into his old fantasies, the ones that'd sustained him through years of isolation. Dates at diners, at comedy clubs, at donut shops, at home. Their shapes had changed as he'd matured, his role in them, his aspirations and infatuations. But they'd remained a warm comfort nonetheless, a place that felt like belonging. And now he belonged with her. Hunger filled him. Happiness. And love. So much love, more than he'd ever believed he'd carried in him. He bucked a little harder. "You feel so good," he murmured. "You make me feel so good."

A strained cry left her and her pelvis answered his steady rhythm with demands of its own. Her calves rose to squeeze him closer, encircle his narrow hips. They were pressed together so tightly; it felt like they were one flesh. He never wanted it to stop. But a dizzying euphoria had ignited, one that eclipsed the romantic yearnings of his heart, twisting his desire to last all morning into the desperate drive to possess her. Gasping, Arthur raised himself to his knees, delving deeper with each push. Their foreheads met and he grit his teeth at the scald of her, the texture of her walls. She fit as though she'd been made for him.

He supposed she was.

Pressure began in the base of him, building and building in terrific torment. The muscles of his inner thighs contracted inward. Tingling climbed his shaft, his tailbone, his spine. He wove his fingers into the sheet, his grip a vise that wrested its corner from the mattress. She kissed the spot where his jaw met his neck, all the while murmuring encouragements for him to let himself go.

Bliss shot through him, from the tips of his toes to the follicles on his scalp, and his back stiffened as he whimpered and poured into. Fever engulfed his frame, sublime in its frenzy, leaving him in a heady stupor. Aftershocks made him tremble. Once, twice. Until, sated and spent, he landed on top her. He closed his eyes, ribs rising and falling as he forced air into his lungs.

A minute later, he swallowed and looked down at her. "You didn't come."

She carded through his sweaty locks. "It's all righ-"

"Shh." He slid out of her and settled at her side, reached between her legs to swipe at her core. "I'm not done," he declared, tracing the edges of her entrance, slick and swollen. One of his favorite things about getting her off was demonstrating his prowess in bed, how well he'd learned with her. His thumb met her plump clitoral hood, and he felt her throb beneath his ministrations.

Nails biting his bicep, she rocked upwards. A bewitching blush crept up her breast, her neck, spread across her cheeks. Shallow pants hit his face, short puffs suffused with high-pitched whines, utterly irresistible. He circled her nub at a steady cadence, tapping when she'd shiver, and she clasped the back of his hand. He swirled his tongue around her nipple, sucked the pretty peak, and lowered the other strap of her nightgown to bare her completely. A hushed plea fell from her lips. "Please, please..."

Suddenly, her vulva grew white hot and she seized, her hips stuttering with each flutter of his touch to her folds. She thrusts her breasts towards him, a sharp moan caught in her throat. Liquid pooled against his fingers, proof of her rapture that made him wish, with mild amusement, that he could be an unmedicated young man again. He would've gladly taken her a second time.

Giggling and rubbing her temple, she released a long exhale and opened her eyes. He brushed her hair back and grinned, completely smitten, like the first time he'd heard a joke and understood the punchline. The light brown picture frame on his nightstand caught his attention, and he regarded the wallet size photo in it, one of the shots of Y/N from the booth at Amusement Mile. The last thing he looked at before turning in each night. He lay his head her shoulder and hummed, listened to the drum of her heart.

She smooched his hairline and wriggled out from beneath him to stand. Her nightie had been reduced to a crumpled stripe of lilac cinched about her waist. It felt tawdry and shameless and he wanted to see her in it for the rest of the weekend. But she peeled it down her legs, wrinkling her nose when it got stuck on her thighs, and stepped out of it one foot at a time. She dropped it on the floral bedspread and retrieved her bathrobe from the closet. "Meet you in the kitchen," she said, opening the door.

The sun had risen higher, its beams slanting across the covers. He basked in it, catlike, then swung his legs over the side of the bed. He pulled on his pajamas, got a new pair of socks from their dresser, and made his way to the kitchen. He washed off the remnants of Y/N's arousal from his fingers, popped open a prescription bottle and took a tablet. He poured water into the coffeemaker, grabbed the can of grounds from the second shelf, added three scoops to the paper filter. Their three-tone brown mugs sat in their spot next to the machine, waiting to be filled.

When the glass coffeepot was half full, Y/N emerged from the bathroom, chuckling to herself. She opened the breadbox on the opposite counter and took out a wax paper bag. "Do you have any idea how dull this morning would have been if we'd never met? I'd have read the Sunday paper, had a drink. Probably worked on a file." He handed her a couple dessert plates, watched her put a donut on each one. "I wonder where you'd be. What woman you'd have breakfast with, what jokes you'd be writing, what magic tricks you'd have learned."

"Um..." At first he wanted to ask where this speculation had come from, if Matt had let her in on exactly what he'd said. But the confident slant of her smirk told Arthur she was teasing. He tried to play along but winced. No matter how appealing, how extraordinary she found him, his gut told him there wouldn't have been another woman. There'd be no more stand-up routines, no more Carnival. He certainly wouldn't be taking care of Penny. He'd likely be locked up in the hospital, maybe even dead. Without an anchor, his life would have lost what little sense it had.

Y/N was one of his anchors now, hooked into the sand alongside his material, treatment, the ability to pay bills. He seized her hand and squeezed it tight, unaware he was squishing her fingers. "I don't wanna think about it," he said quietly.

She sidled up to him and pulled him to her side. Rubbed his flank soothingly and pecked the corner of his mouth. "Don't worry." She took his chin and guided him to look at her. The intimate comfort of her smile helped him believe her next words, even before she spoke them. "I'll always be here."

~~~~~

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#arthur fleck #arthur fleck fanfic #arthur fleck smut #arthur fleck x reader #arthur fleck x female reader #arthur fleck x ofc #joker 2019 #watchwhathappens

124 notes · View notes

brawltogethernow · 4 years

Note

Opinions on hair clip!Gwen vs MJ bangs!Gwen?

(Personally I think that the hair clips give off some kind of vibe and I don’t know what it is but it’s definitely there)

Very niche topic you were correct to guess I would have involved, impassioned thoughts about.

(Quick visual rundown of the history of Gwen’s hairstyle for the normal people out there:)

Aesthetically, of course the bangs are superior. At least some of why the headband and bangs look is iconic is because it’s a Look™. But that’s not...the point.

Copying MJ’s hairstyle - and then immediately needing to return to having something holding her hair back and experimenting with how to do that with short bangs for a while - is one of those little things that makes Gwen feel like a person despite her comparatively minor volume of appearances. It’s just such real social circle of 17-19yos behavior. Her smiling on the outside despairing on the inside face when Harry points it out??

Agonizing. I love it.

(Digressing but the panel immediately before this where Harry is like, “Peter, in my unprofessional opinion I diagnose you with Every Single Disease.” I love this era.)

Simultaneously, the vibes of Gwen stealing her hottest friend’s look? Her hottest friend who her other hot friend is clearly attracted to’s look?? Girl was really going through it. [Here I tried to casually insert a bi flag emoji, but there isn’t one.] Every leg of this love triangle-cum-OT3 is real.

So I love all of that, and you sacrifice all of it when you act like Gwen was born with a black headband fused to her skull divorce the bangs from their context. Having her already sporting the hyper-recognizable fringe look in high school is my sole critique of what we got of the Gwen Stacy solo title. (Marvel, please? The rest? I am but a starving Victorian orphan--) I was rooting so hard for acknowledging her awkward high school senior hair.... Like to a weird degree probably. I was texting people updates about the projected likelihood of the established hair continuity being adhered to as new promotional art dropped.

Because the clips are valuable shorthand to convey what era of Gwen you’re looking at! The sharp corners and exposed widow’s peak and old fashioned bit of curl tell you right away you’re looking at a less settled Gwen, someone with only one firm friend who, for all she’s remembered as a bookish sweetheart, did very much and by her own design hook up with Peter via an enemies-to-lovers route.

Gwen was MEAN when she was introduced! You can’t use the clips without remembering Gwen being mean, which honestly I think everyone writing her should take a couple of minutes a week to do, for health reasons. (Sometimes it’s for reasons of my health, as a reader.) I talk about how Peter/MJ is bitch4bitch and the poetry of two liars being honest only with each other, but Gwen and Peter? Very much united by a shared passionate drive to deck the world hard in the face and watch it bleed. And also science or whatever, I guess.

I don’t read Gwen as becoming a less intense, angry character through the different micro-eras you can mark by her hairstyle, but she gets more comfortable with the rest of the core cast while also picking up a thread of melancholy. (Okay sometimes...you have to read against the text a little to reconcile it with itself.) The sum effect of this mix gets flanderized into characterizing Gwen as a Good Girl, and when creators go with the headband look for periods where Gwen-the-character would be wearing hair clips, you know that even if they’re writing good content they view Gwen as a Good Girl who was Too Good For This World who would never ever start a petty feud or or insult someone who doesn’t deserve it or escalate a situation into minor violence. (Because, you know, women must not cause narrative drama by wanting things, only by being wanted.)

...More charitably, it’s just not going to hit the same, because it’s a sign the team is working with the concept of Gwen without either enough affection for or knowledge of her personal history to adhere to it. If you keep snipping bits out of her like this, you’re going to run out of girl pretty fast.

The silver clips anchor things in an era where there’s a greater discomfort with themselves in the whole cast and they’re all taking it out on each other. THERE IS DEFINITELY A WHOLE VIBE.

Also the style is actually very fun to draw, in my experience.

I’ve been sort of talking around the Doylist angle -- I think it’s excellent how much the progression of Gwen’s hair works from a characterization standpoint, given how every single minute change is very clearly a creative team shift thing. Horror art style to romance art style followed by whatever Stan Lee was doing to whatever Gerry Conway was doing had an effect on how the first stretch of Spider-Man reads you just. Could not bottle. Most of Gwen’s look shifts are very blatantly an ongoing series of nudges deeper into Romita Sr.’s favorite things to draw -- which incidentally looked excellent, so who was going to complain?

Of course, then if you continue with a meta lens beyond the JRSr era...the bangs look depreciates considerably! I was originally planning for that infographic at the top to do much harder double duty as a joke, with more images in between the last two. Death! Every single clone! Spider-Gwen! Flashbacks set before the bangs! But it’s like! How much effort do I really want to expend just to lampshade that her style has been frozen for 45 years!? Also it wasn’t going to be worth it without the skeleton as the punchline, so I had to go get that first because it was the only one I hadn’t actually seen personally, and finding it really sapped my energy for balancing good-natured ribbing with deep appreciation for a topic. I was kind of hoping people on Twitter had made that up!

Like. God damn. It still looks good, but the overlap with not really empathizing with this character or getting into her head is intense. Every day I thank Into the Spider-Verse for its bid at unfreezing Gwen’s hairstyle for the first time since 1973.

So like, yeah. I like looking at the bangs look slightly more, but adhering to them fanatically is refusing to use all the weapons in your arsenal. And to all the Marvel writers using the bangs while simping for either side of the Gwen vs. MJ thing: That’s MJ’s hairstyle, and that’s a little gay.

#gwen stacy #spiderman #spiderman meta #gwenmj #spidey #marvel #tortillas #asks answered #essays

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lady-divine-writes · 7 years

Text

Kurtbastian one-shot - “Fighting Words” (Rated PG13)

Sebastian and Blaine get stuck in line while trying to get to the ice where Kurt's warming up for his next competition. They're standing behind three girls making obscene remarks about Kurt. When Sebastian tries to defend him, they not only don't recognize Sebastian, but they don't believe that Sebastian is his boyfriend.

And Sebastian doesn't take that well. (2007 words)

I think I may have written something similar to this before in another verse, but I don't care. This turned out too good. :) I'm really enjoying writing this reluctant friendship between Sebastian and Blaine xD Thank you for sticking with this series, and please leave comments if you're enjoying it. <3

Part 11 of Outside Edge

Read on AO3.

“I can’t believe we still aren’t inside yet!” Sebastian taps his foot and checks his watch. “We’ve been waiting on this line for four hours!”

“With everything going on in the world these days, security’s tight,” Blaine says. “They’re not taking any chances. They just want to make sure everyone stays safe.”

“But we’ve got V.I.P. passes!” Sebastian gripes, flashing his pass in Blaine’s face as if he doesn’t have the exact same pass hanging from a lanyard around his own neck with his picture on it. “What is the purpose of having these damn passes, going through the nine other security checkpoints, getting patted down by Man Hands Dolores downstairs, and having our credit checked if we still have to stand in line like everybody else!?”

“They said there was a glitch in the system. I’m sure they’ll have it straightened out in no time.”

Sebastian sighs dramatically and hangs his head. “Look, Blaine, if this friendship thing between you and me is ever going to work out, you’ve gotta stop being so damned accommodating. We are being inconvenienced here! At least have the decency to act upset!”

Sebastian lifts his head. Blaine looks Sebastian square in the eye.

“Those bastards,” Blaine says flatly.

Sebastian gives Blaine an approving pat on the shoulder. “There you go, my dude.”

“It probably would have helped if they hadn’t put coach on your uncle’s pass instead of yours.”

“Yeah, well, these people are ageist. No amount of gold medals is going to change that.”

“Oh my God! Let us in already!” a blonde girl in front of them whines over the heads of her two bored-looking friends. “I need to watch the pre-competition warm-up! It’s what we came here six hours early for!!”

“You see!” Sebastian points to the girl ahead of them, slamming her head against her friend’s shoulder and making loud weeping noises. “Now that’s how you act when you’re being inconvenienced.”

“I’ll make a note.”

“They’re streaming it on ESPN right now!” The friend that blonde girl isn’t assaulting shows her her phone.

Sebastian takes out his iPhone and loads up ESPN in the hopes that he can catch a glimpse of Kurt. Since they’ve been together, Sebastian hasn’t missed a warm-up yet. He’s pissed off that he’s missing this one.

“Oh look! It’s Nathan Chen! He’s here!” the sore shouldered friend exclaims.

“And Brendan Kerry! Oh my God! Isn’t he gorgeous?”

Sebastian bobs his head as he watches the feed, craning his head as the camera pans as if he’s going to be able to see past it and around the rink.

“Stand aside, ladies and gentlemen,” blonde girl says, beaming at her phone, “because there’s my new boyfriend - Kurt Hummel.”

Sebastian and Blaine snap their heads up and look at one another. Not seeing what this chick is obviously seeing, Sebastian peeks over her shoulder to take a look at her screen. She’s streaming feed from ESPN 2. He quickly switches over.

“God, he’s handsome,” blonde girl’s friend agrees as Sebastian watches his boyfriend stretch against the boards, leg up, hands caressing his skate as if folding himself in half is no big deal. “I mean, look at those legs. And those hips. Those are some thrusting hips right there.”

“And those pants … mmm,” blonde girl hums. “I wonder what it takes to get into those, if you know what I mean.”

“A dick,” Sebastian says, disgusted by the running commentary about his boyfriend’s body. Yes, his boyfriend is an attractive man. Sebastian gets it. That doesn’t mean he necessarily wants to hear about the lewd fantasies of strangers regarding it, especially when said strangers are probably a good three to five years older than him.

“Specifically, his dick,” Blaine adds, bumping Sebastian’s shoulder.

“What?” Blonde girl scrunches her nose. Then she laughs. “No way! You’re trippin’!”

“Way,” Sebastian says.

“Yeah, right. I don’t believe you.”

Sebastian’s brow wrinkles, confused. “I don’t want to pull a don’t you know who I am? but … don’t you know who I am?”

Blonde girl looks from one friend to the other, each shaking their heads. “Should I?”

“Well, believe it or not, I’m Kurt Hummel’s boyfriend … and his coach.” All three girls stare at him for a moment, blank as a sheet of paper, then they laugh as if that comment is the punchline to the joke of the century.

“Stop frontin’, alright?” blonde girl says through harder than normal snorts of laughter. “It’s pathetic and sad.”

Sebastian’s face goes red. “You can actually Google it, you know!”

“If you’re his boyfriend, why aren’t you down on the ice instead of up here, waiting on this line?”

“There was a glitch,” Blaine says helpfully.

“Look, I’ll bet you $50 that I can prove it to you in about fifteen seconds,” Sebastian says, frustrated by this situation he’s never been in before - not in a skating venue anyway. With success comes fame, and Sebastian doesn’t begrudge his boyfriend any of his success, but Sebastian’s no slouch. He won two gold medals here. His photo’s in the lobby. He’s been on TV! With Kurt! How can these sheeple not know who he is?

“You’re on,” blonde girls says with the confidence of a person who thinks there’s no way they can lose.

Sebastian goes to the photo gallery of his iPhone and brings up the last twelve pictures of him and Kurt together - some from the Spring Hop, a few candids from skate school that the Ice-plex put up on their website, and one of Kurt standing beside Sebastian, dressed in his hockey uniform, after Sebastian and his team won their last big game against Northwest High. He holds the phone up to her face and scrolls through the images, but she seems unimpressed.

“No way those are real.”

“What do you mean no way those are real!? I was there when they were taken! I know that they’re real!”

“I took some of them,” Blaine says, raising his hand to be acknowledged. “So I can vouch for them.”

“Gentlemen,” blonde girl says condescendingly, “I’m no naïve sap. I’m what you might call a professional fangirl. And I know a manip when I see one.” She leans in closer to Sebastian’s phone to look at one particular photo of Kurt and Sebastian on the ice, performing a pair sit spin. “This one isn’t even a good manip. You can see the cut and paste right there.” Her comment brings her two friends closer. “Do you see where it gets fuzzy in between? Right there?”

“Oh yeah,” one friend says even though she doesn’t really sound too convinced. But that’s what best friends do – defend you even if you might be wrong.

“Yup. The colors on the costume don’t even match,” the other friend chimes in more certainly. “The red on the sleeve is much lighter than the red on the rest of the shirt.” She tsks. “Definitely Photoshop. Learn to use filters, dude.”

“I don’t believe this!” Sebastian closes out the gallery and pockets his phone so that the heathens can’t insult his pictures any more than they already have. He turns to Blaine with arms thrown in the air. “When did we cross the border into crazy land!?”

“Well, it’s been over a minute and you haven’t proven anything, so pay up,” blonde girl says, arms crossed over her chest.

“Make me,” Sebastian counters, taking a challenging step forward.

“Hey, Sheila,” blonde girl’s friend says. “Your man just left the ice.”

“No!” Blonde girl looks back at her phone. “Dammit! I spent so much time arguing with this loser, I missed his whole warm-up!” She glances at Sebastian and seethes. “Where do you think he …?”

“Sebastian! Blaine!”

The five of them turn as Kurt’s voice rings down the walkway. Sebastian smiles at the sight of his boyfriend, blockers on his blades, jogging down the carpeted hall to meet him and Blaine.

“Ugh! I knew something went south when they split us up downstairs. Your uncle and I have been looking for you guys everywhere!”

“Kurt, we’ve talked about you running in your blockers,” Sebastian scolds, the coach part of his brain kicking into gear at Kurt violating a small but important rule. “I don’t want you twisting an ankle before your performance.”

“Sorry, coach.” Kurt giggles, sneaking underneath the retractable barrier and throwing himself into his boyfriend’s arms. “You gonna spank me for it later?” he whispers, so low in Sebastian’s ear that, even in the now pin-drop silence, no one, not even the girls creeping closer, can hear.

“Only if you’re a good boy,” Sebastian teases, his hand ghosting Kurt’s ass before settling on the small of his back. “But that means finishing your warm-up and landing that jump. So let’s get down to the ice.”

“Yes, sir,” Kurt says with a playful growl. “Oh, you’ll need this.” He switches out Sebastian’s incorrect lanyard with a new one, the same badge and picture but with the addition of the word coach imprinted in holographic lettering on the front. “And I got a new one for Blaine, too.” Kurt turns in Sebastian’s arms, grabbing his boyfriend’s hands and reseating them on his hips when they fall away. He replaces Blaine’s lanyard with one that has the word assistant written across it in the same holographic lettering. “We’ll have to get these old ones shredded downstairs.”

Blaine looks at his new badge and smiles. “Thanks! But how did you get them to make these up so quickly?”

“Quickly!? It’s been over four hours!” Sebastian scoffs, still not copacetic with how forgiving Blaine is. But that’s one of the reasons why Blaine and Kurt get along so well.

They both have the same temperament.

They’re both so damned forgiving.

“Thank Sebastian’s uncle when you see him,” Kurt says, cuddling close to his boyfriend’s chest. “He ripped admin a new one for misplacing you guys and not doing a simple Google search when you checked in.”

Sebastian flashes blonde girl a triumphant smile. She huffs and rolls her eyes away.

“But assistant what?” Blaine asks.

“I don’t know. Assistant to me and Sebastian, I guess. But it means you can flash this badge and go everywhere we get to go, even if we’re not with you.”

“Sweet.”

“Totally,” Sebastian agrees. “So does that mean I get to send him running around for water and pens and small pastries?”

“Sure,” Blaine says. “If you start paying me.”

“It’s an internship,” Sebastian says. “You’ll get paid in experience.”

Blaine laughs, but Kurt slaps Sebastian on the shoulder. Or he tries to. Sebastian catches his hand by the wrist. Kurt looks at him, surprised. Sebastian smiles, biting his lower lip. Then, as if in silent agreement, they kiss. It’s short and sweet, but long enough to earn them a few aww’s and a couple of photo snaps.

“I missed you,” Sebastian whispers.

“I missed you, too. Let’s get out of here. I still have a warm-up to finish.” Kurt bounces his eyebrows.

“Absolutely.”

Kurt starts to walk away, but Sebastian keeps him tethered by his hips. He turns to the three girls glowering behind him and puts out a hand. He makes a give me motion with his fingers and blonde girl groans.

“All right!” she concedes, begrudgingly handing over two twenties and a ten.

“Thank you,” Sebastian says, shoving the bills in his pocket. He takes Kurt’s hand, kisses it, then leads him underneath the barrier and down the hallway to the elevator.

Kurt looks from a smug Sebastian to an amused Blaine. “What was that all about?”

“He made a bet and he won,” Blaine says simply, not eager to rat out his new friend.

“And you didn’t stop him?”

“Have you ever tried to stop your boyfriend doing anything? Plus, I’ve seen your man play hockey. I’d like to keep my limbs, thank you.”

Kurt makes an agreeing face, wrapping his arms around one of Sebastian’s as they stroll towards the elevator. “Fair enough.”

#kurtbastian #sebkurt #sekurt #frankie writes

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