#Literature is the only thing that saves me

[shuyume]

one piece doesn't have power creep it has incredibly depressing origin story creep

[mmmmuffins]

went to watch shakespeare in the park and GODDDDD why am i not doing literature in uni i hate this stem oriented society so much i shd be doing lit

[mygnolia]

to weave my love ⭒ n. riki

⭒ SYNOPSIS -› Riki is good at many things- dancing, making fun of his friends, playing it cool (debatable.), Hell- he’s even good at saving people from falling buildings without getting whiplash. But the things he’s bad at? Well, it’s asking you out to prom, and trying to balance the shared assignment he has with you…while being Spider-man.

⭒ PAIR -› spiderman!nishimura riki x fem-pres!reader

⭒ GENRE -› fluff, banter, action ⭒ TROPES -› classmates to lovers, idiots to lovers ⭒ WC -› 17k (i’m sorry idk why either.)

⭒ INCLUDES -› SPOILERS FOR GREAT GATSBY, cursing, non-graphic injuries (reader discretion advised), yes i made the patching up with first aid kit trope SUE ME!! takes place in a busy city similar to new york never specified, reader is rich, jake and heeseung are seniors and riki’s a junior, is riki stupid? yes… jake reveals stuff because he is also a little silly, reader wears a red dress!

⭒ GREAT GATSBY -› basically jay gatsby has this weird amt of money but no one rlly knows how he got it (nefarious reasons) and hes been in love with this girl daisy for five years but then she got married to tom buchanan but he gets rich so he can get the house across from her and wistfully watch her and he pines after her like CRAZY but he dies at the end

⭒ REN SAYS...special huge fat kiss to thena @sensitively-taken you will be in the will when im a millionaire THANK YOU for helping me with so much of this I WUV U AND I WLL BE WAITING FOR UR HUENING FIC!!! | LIBRARY

NISHIMURA RIKI MIGHT DIE FROM PRE-ADULTHOOD STRESS, IF THAT’S EVEN A THING.

What exactly does Riki have to worry about as a seventeen-year-old junior in high school? Right now, his most daunting responsibility is catching up on the chapters of The Great Gatsby because the only thing Riki’s actually read from the novel is that the main character shares a name with his best friend and senior, Park Jay. His second most daunting responsibility is handling the fact that with the new seating chart in his Literature class, it means he’s sitting next to the object of his very subtle affections, you. 

See, the problem with having a crush on you is that Nishimura Riki’s committed to thinking that you’re way out of his league, and unfortunately, the boy believes that almost too well. Not only are you minted beyond his wildest dreams (having seen your posts on social media), but you’re hardworking, helpful, and dedicated to your role as student body treasurer. He’s already understood that you’d never go for a guy like him. Maybe someone more like Park Sunghoon, whose parents’ salary matches yours. If Riki lived in a rural estate with generational wealth, handling the whole ‘Spider-Man’ thing might be a bit easier for him, considering he wouldn’t have to try so hard in school. It might even change the fact that Riki dealt with some alleyway criminals last night and is currently catching up on lost sleep, as your English Literature teacher goes on and on about a project on the book you’re reading. 

In class, and even sometimes outside of the classroom, your small tendency to not pay attention to your surroundings has landed you in some awkward situations—like now. 

“I don’t really tell anyone this, but I hate Daisy.” And instead of getting a response, you glance over to see Nishimura Riki slumped on the desk. Without trying to make preconceptions about what could land him in a situation like this, you poke his arm, stifling a smile at how his eyes widen when you’ve caught him rubbing the very obvious sleep from his eye. 

“Sorry,” he whispers, still fighting the post-nap grogginess, “Did I miss anything?” 

(Nope.)

Shaking your head, you return your attention to your teacher as he continues to answer questions. The second Mr. Yoo assigned a report, you wanted to die even more considering the work you had to do on top of the impending due dates. But for it to be partnered? And for you to get seated and paired with the one boy who's known for not caring about school? Maybe things are a little stacked against you, but there has to be a reason why Riki’s somehow still passing all his classes…right?

Considering it’s the last assignment about the book, you’re glad that you already read it so many times to know what you want to put into words. And in retrospect, answering a few open-ended questions about it can’t be that hard—the hardest part would be getting your partner to stay awake in class. 

A small tap at your side makes you turn to face Riki, who you see has frantically written a page full of notes about the project in the past three minutes and how he can succeed. “Can you go over the first part? Sorry…I was…y’know.” 

“It’s a partner project. And we’re partners.” You wince at the awkward wording. 

Great! Riki was caught sleeping and that was your first impression of him for your paired assignment? Riki feels so stupid in front of you right now—in front of your meticulous notes with annotations and proper highlighting. He wants to curl up into a ball when he sees you glance over at his haphazard attempt to look like he was paying attention when, in truth, he was trying to remember the dream he had just ten minutes prior. When you offer him a small smile and nod, leaning over with your notebook in hand, he sighs in relief, thanking whoever it was that let him get away with his naps without the consequence of irritating you afterwards. 

The bell rings when Mr. Yoo stops talking, and you pause, startled by the sound. Instead of leaving, however, you pack your bag and shuffle to his side of his desk, continuing to parrot details about your report in hopes that it all makes sense. You need to make sure he knows what he’s doing. 

“I think one of the questions he mentioned was like ‘Is Gatsby a good person?’ and do you remember how in Chapter Eight…” The rest gets zoned out and forgotten in the boy’s head, because he in fact does not know what happened in Chapter Eight. He doesn’t know what happened…in any part of the book. But he agrees anyway, pretending like he understands what scene you’re trying to explain. What he notices is how thorough and dedicated you are towards ensuring he comprehends what you’re explaining, and although it could be because you don’t want him to fail you both, he chooses to believe you’re doing it because you tolerate him. 

You’re so engrossed in covering all the little details and telling him random tidbits regarding the book that you don’t realize your feet have made it all the way to the cafeteria. “But here, let me get your number. I’ll totally explain more over text.” 

Riki is definitely not freaking out when he silently grabs his phone and hands it to you with the contact page, staring a little longer than necessary at the cute smiley face you added to your name. “Thanks,” he mumbles, forcibly tearing his eyes away from the ten digits of your number, “For helping me with this, too.”

“Of course! The Great Gatsby is a fun read for me. A little hard to read sometimes because of some of the characters, but still easy to understand.” And Nishimura RIki realizes that he has to do well. He’ll read the book five times over if it means gaining your approval. 

Jake notices something a little different about the tuft of black and blonde hair when his friend walks in. The first thing is that he’s actually here, and that you’re next to him, smiling. The boy rubs his eye to make sure he’s not dreaming somehow, but when he looks up again, you’re waving goodbye and joining your friends across the room. 

“Did you get hit with something while fighting a villain that makes you more bold? I feel like I just saw you and ____ talking,” Jake starts when Riki finally joins him with his lunch. 

Riki laughs, shoving Jake’s head out of embarrassment and opening his chips. “It’s just school. Got some project in English and she says we’re partnered.” He looks over at his friend chuckling, rolling his eyes at how Jake pokes at his side and wiggles his eyebrows. 

“I better hear you two are dating by next week.” 

“Who’s dating by next week?” Heeseung places his bag of food in front of them and takes a seat, opening the fast food he got last period and stuffing a fry in his mouth. 

“Riki and ____. Let me have one,” Jake answers, reaching inside the bag. 

Heeseung looks over at his junior curiously. “You asked her out?” And the two older students hear a groan from the boy in question. 

“Me and ____ aren’t anything, for your information.” He prods at the vegetables on his tray and takes a bite before a look of displeasure washes over his face. “You’re both way too excited for two guys who do not have girlfriends.” 

“Hey! You know the girl I’m always fighting with is the reason why I’m single. I have to focus on studying to do well in school to do better than her.” Heeseung’s whining falls on deaf ears as Riki smiles victoriously, seeing how defensive the former got. 

Jake offers him a shrug of defeat. “I got nothing.”

The three of them fall into normal conversation and Riki finally explains everything that happened during English.  “So you’re telling me your plan to ask ____ out went down from 18 months to 6?” And with a nod from the younger, they both groan once more. Heeseung exclaims, “We’re both going to graduate, dumbass. Make the plan go down to like…two months? Please?” 

Jake cuts in before Riki has a chance to respond. “Make it one and a half, so we can see you with a prom date before leaving forever.” 

“You act as if you’re going to die after graduation. It’s like you’re begging to be a super senior.” 

And they’re silenced immediately. 

“Do you think the guy I was with earlier hates me?” you ask on the other side of the room. Minjeong stares at you blankly, waiting for your explanation. “I don’t know if you saw when I walked in but I was talking to this really tall guy with blonde hair and black tips. He seemed really out of it, like he kept staring at me and nodding. I think I scared him off by talking about the book too much.” 

Sunghoon, who is also listening in, opens his neatly packed lunchbox and begins mixing his noodles. ��I think you did scare him off, ____.”

“Not helping,” Minjeong interjects, “Just talk to him more and maybe he’ll warm up to you. You two sit together in class anyways, so hopefully he’ll talk more?” 

“I know him,” Sunghoon comments, “Well, sort of. I’m friends with Jake who’s friends with Riki, and it seems like all that boy does is sleep.” 

“Maybe he’s really good at subconscious in-class comprehension?” you try, taking a bite of your sandwich. “I just hope it doesn’t interfere too much with treasurer stuff.” 

NISHIMURA RIKI MIGHT DIE IF HE SWINGS INTO ANOTHER WALL AT 100MPH LIKE HOW HE ALMOST DID TONIGHT.

All he’s had on his mind since school ended till now is how he should probably text you, if he really discarded the slimy acid monster from last week properly, and when the prom theme is going to be released, but there’s something amiss that confuses his spidey-senses and makes Riki much more alert. 

He snaps out of whatever train of thought he had before, focusing on the situation at hand and looking around to follow his instinct. Riki cautiously plants himself on the side of a random apartment building to get a sense of what's going on. A tingle of some sort of in the air permeates the material of his suit and leaves him shivering from the cold. 

He doesn't like it one bit. 

Moving to the side of the building to the top, the boy finally catches a glimpse of something when he gets a decent view of the city and highway systems. Riki knows something’s wrong with the bridge the closer he gets. He zips from one side of the tall, metal tower to the other, crawling down on all fours making sure he isn’t caught. He feels the electric feeling once more, only amplified. It runs up his spine and he wants to slap it, almost like a frantic, summertime bug. The air around him is charged with something he has never recognized before. With a puzzled expression under his mask, Riki continues to investigate the surrounding area. 

Riki finds a lone figure with some sort of attachment to his left arm, like a long glove made out of metal. The bulkiness of it seems to have no impact on his body as the man fiddles with the contraption, and the boy watches with bated breath as the machine fizzes and spurts with electricity. It begins to glow as power concentrates on his plated palm and the superhero sees it for the first time. It’s like a fizz, like a match striking at fire only to produce a quick burst of friction, but it almost feels liquid when he watches the person play with the flickering blue ball of electricity. It dances in the dark in a hauntingly beautiful way, with bolts jutting out from the metal as it spurts and buzzes with a life-like manner. 

A spark. 

“Hey, what the hell do you think you’re doing?” The sound of Riki’s voice from the end of the bridge causes the stranger to look up with wide eyes. Although Riki fully expects it to simply enhance strength or block damage, the immediate strike of blue that flies straight towards him is anything but defensive. With a yelp, he jumps away, this time refusing to show himself. 

What the hell was that?

He knows he should go back down there to change things and get the person and the metal pieces away before it escalates, but when he goes back down to watch, it's ten times worse. The bright blue illuminates the scarred face of the villain as he’s picked up the metal arm–but this time, it’s no longer clunky and sparking, but fused into his arm. 

Riki’s face pales at the sudden change before his body acts on its own and he shoots out a web to stop the man. 

The villain is shocked by the intrusion, but quickly yanks free from the webbing and flicks another bolt of electricity, one that flies much faster now that the metal flows into the arm instead of simply resting on the skin. It’s unlike something Riki has ever seen, something that is so controlled in motion and yet so erratic in nature, and it instills a deathly fear when it grazes his arm he hisses in pain. The sharp feeling springs Riki into action as he jumps away. He’s lucky another bolt isn’t sent his way, seeing how the villain’s too busy marveling at the power of his new gadget.

“You know that fucking hurts, right?” He yells out, cupping his wound. “Maybe leave the gadgets to the kids!”

The man scoffs. “It better have hurt. I sacrificed half my body for this to work.”

“But why?” All Riki wants is answers. Some sort of explanation.

The man charges up yet another bolt, almost like a laser gun is built into the machine. “Less talking, more running, Spiderman.” 

That scared the shit out of him. 

The boy doesn’t have time to think as he jumps out from the dark tunnel to the bridge and up the metal towers—he hates having to fight with people right below. The villain follows in pursuit, almost crumbling the metal with his engineered arm as he hoists himself quickly. Riki continues to jump between the structure to avoid the flashes, trying to get out and apprehend the man as quickly as possible. When he reaches the top, however, he feels death is near as he glances down at the villain below who’s quickly gaining on him. He shoots out webs to slow him temporarily, letting himself fall and swing from the side of the tower to escape. 

What he doesn’t see on the way across the bridge is the flash that misses his cheek and hits his thigh instead. It burns, and mid-air, Riki gives the wound a quick assessment before he lands on the metal, immediately forcing his body to climb. While dealing with his wound, he fails to notice the villain swinging from the bridge support lines to meet him. 

He needs to end this fast before he becomes burnt toast.

Riki doesn’t often rely on instinct to carry him, but he can tell that the villain he’s facing isn’t just a criminal. 

“Land another hit, would you?” he tries to say, his voice strained from the pain in his arm and leg. It doesn’t do much to deter the man in front of him as the arm continues to destroy and bend the metal on the way up. “What are you going to do now, Sparky?”

The man says nothing, charging energy into his metal glove again before aiming and focusing on the target: him. 

Riki jumps off, not able to properly land his web in the right spot as he goes from one section of the bridge to the other. The man behind him looks enraged at the boy’s attempt to escape—so much so that he reaches out with his normal hand to try to grasp the suit when Spider-Man swings past him. Instead of the feeling of fabric, the villain feels sticky spider fluid on his fingers. Riki shoots out a web, one that curls around the villain’s wrist and drags him off the tower. Instead of being able to launch him into the surrounding waters, the man slips from the poorly shot-out webs and falls from mid air into the sea of frantic cars, including one semi truck that collides directly with his arm. In the air, the boy winces when he hears honks and shouts from the impact, hoping it’s the last time he’ll have to witness it.

With his gaze trained on the falling figure, the weakly attached web breaks, and Riki all of a sudden starts falling down as well. He curls up defensively before bracing for impact, curling into himself when he feels the metal dent and the truck driver scream from outside of the parked vehicle, the body of the villain right in front of it. 

Riki staggers, holding onto his arm and thigh the best he can before getting up. With wobbly steps and a small jump, he lands near the unconscious man, whose metal arm is cracked and fizzling—something that Riki knows is bound to leave more scars. 

“Call the police. I’ll get rid of the pieces.” Although Riki wants to figure out who the criminal is and make sure he’s properly apprehended, the gashes in the boy's limbs leave him winded and exhausted. With hot metal scraps bound together by webbing in his hands, Riki swings out and dumps it somewhere rural, trying his best to cover the pieces with the pounding headache that 

Riki revisits the secluded spot under the bridge, looking for clues to the man’s identity, and his expression falls when he notices a lanyard dangling near a trash can. 

His name, his position, and the company. FLiGHT Corp. The company name caught the boy’s eye, and he pockets the item before leaving. 

It seemed like he was a normal research scientist, but Riki’s recollection of the scars and tattered skin leaves him retracting his last thought. He heard something about the failure of a time travel machine at FLiGHT, and if the mass of the incident was anything to go by, he was in the center of it. 

No matter how many times Riki tries to get it out of his head, on the way home, all he can think about is the inexperience he displayed and the lack of response he gave Riki during the whole time. But Riki can’t bring himself to really take away someone’s life—and maybe for that, he’s a horrible superhero. 

He knows he should stop the man before it's too late, and especially with how many self-proclaimed villains there have been, it's not easy to see so many innocent people ruin their lives chasing a power that inevitably consumes them. He knows it’ll only get worse if he lets them run free.

And while the superhero has never been fully honest with himself, there are many times where Riki hates his role as Spider-Man, and wishes that he was just some teenage boy who didn't have the lives of others in his palm. He wishes he didn't have to sacrifice so much to stay behind a mask—and he wonders deep down if there’s anyone else who felt the same. 

His swings lead him across the city above hundreds of lives he has to protect, and he tries to find some semblance of peace. He thinks about how he has his homework due despite having just risked his life, he thinks about how your project is going—and about you. 

In the night under the stars, Nishimura Riki wishes for something just a bit normal. He wishes a good night for himself, but also for you, wherever you could be.

NISHIMURA RIKI MIGHT DIE FROM TRYING TO READ THIS BOOK IN ONE NIGHT.

The Great Gatsby is exactly like how you described it; a little hard to get through but fun with the plot’s eccentric characters. He’s pretty sure he could’ve just used a detailed SparkNotes explanation for the book, but having a crush can make someone do weird things. And in Nishimura Riki’s case, his infatuation has got him reading a novel about morally-skewed characters and rich society to impress you. 

When you come into class barely on time, Riki gives you a confused look when you sit down, but doesn’t comment on it any further. Instead, he takes out his book and tries to act like his eyes weren’t closing shut from exhaustion by the time Daisy was finally confessing how she loved Gatsby. 

The moment Mr. Yoo stops talking, however, Riki isn’t asleep—much to your surprise. He has his book out, pages filled with sticky notes and a whole section of his notebook dedicated to characters (written in bright red to keep him awake) and their traits. 

“I got it.” It’s the first thing he says when you two are left to do in-class work. It’s ominous, and maybe a little too enthusiastic in a high school literature class for a boy who doesn’t even care that much for school, but you’ll accept it with open arms if it means you get a helping hand on your project. 

“Continue,” you tell him slowly, leaning back in your chair to listen to him. And you don’t know why, but a small part of you thinks that the boy who sleeps every period the book was discussed wouldn’t have much to say or contribute to such an open-ended prompt, but life is full of surprises. 

What you fail to notice is how Riki is nervous and his stomach does at least twenty flips before he swallows dryly and starts rambling in hopes to impress you and redeem himself from his embarrassing slumber a few days ago. 

“So you know how our prompt is based on one character and basically all their actions?” he asks, and you nod, absentmindedly thumbing a sheet in your journal. “I’m thinking we should talk about Jay Gatsby because so much is revealed to us about him that we might as well use it to our advantage. Y’know, talking about how the theme of exploitation and secrets is veiled under Gatsby’s desire for Daisy.”

“You don’t think Gatsby’s a good character?” Riki wants to tell you that Gatsby is more relatable than good or bad, but he shakes his head. 

“I mean, not really.” He feels like with those four words, he’s completely changed the trajectory of his relationship with you from a positive slope to completely downhill—and a wave of panic washes over him. “Should I? I mean, I could see him as more redeemable if you gave me examp-“

You wave your hand to quell his worries. “To be honest, I don’t like him either. But he’s an interesting main character to write about, so I think we should go with your idea.” 

To win your approval feels like he’s won at least three fights against a villain in a row without getting any bad injuries—it feels good. And for the rest of the period, you are able to finish a detailed outline of your work for the next few weeks, mapping out sections for each other, and he even gets to see a part of prom planning on a word document you had open. He considers your shared productivity a win when he packs up and bids you goodbye before leaving for lunch. 

One wave doesn’t catch Riki’s attention from across the room. Not even two, or three calls of his name could get Nishimura Riki out of his thoughts, and Jake frowns before moving up in the lunch line. 

“Something’s caught your eye again.” Jake feigns innocence and sighs dramatically as he places the food down next to Riki’s plate. “Could it possibly be our school treasurer?” Jake laughs, leaning over to catch a glimpse of what’s got his friend so entranced and non-responsive.

Riki scrunches his nose, annoyed, but never breaking his gaze from where you’re sitting. “We talked in class–like, a lot,” is all he says, paying his friend no mind. “She’s genuinely so understanding.”

“God, I don’t think you can be any more down bad for her than you are right now.” Jake picks at his food, and despite his concentration directed towards the olives on his pizza, he’s able to dodge the flying loaded nacho that goes his way, even if he wasn’t the one with superpowers.

“Can you shut up?” Riki grumbles, laying his head on his arms as he notices you smile and point to something. “I just got pummeled into a semi truck last week. Let me have this before I die tomorrow.” 

“Very grim,” his friend notes, ruffling the younger’s hair, “I think this is exactly what all of those mental health assemblies that we get are for.” And Riki basically tunes him out, too tired to fight and too used to the teasing remarks to come up with anything useful in response. 

Riki sits up a bit, letting his head rest on his propped elbow as he looks at the school food and touches another nacho gingerly. “Y’know, I read the book for English so she wouldn’t think I’m an idiot.” 

His friend snickers, successfully pulling out yet another sliced olive from the cheese, much to the disgust of Riki. “She probably already thinks you’re an idiot.” 

The superhero debates throwing another cheesy nacho in Jake's face, before deciding to eat it instead. “Don’t say that asshole! You make it seem like I have no chance with her.” 

Jake shoots him an exasperated look that makes Riki break eye contact. “That’s because you don’t.” 

“I’ll prove to her that I’m worth her time.” Riki says somewhat wistfully, still stealing glances from a few tables away. “Maybe I’ll ask her out to prom, show up in my suit. Do that cheesy upside down kiss shit people say Spiderman does.” When his friend raises an eyebrow at him, Riki shrugs. “I will! Well-maybe not the Spider-Man thing, but prom definitely.” 

Jake continues to look at him unconvinced as he takes a bite out of a slice of pizza with mangled cheese. “You barely talk to her in class and you think you can ask her out to prom as Nishimura Riki?” And the younger grins, eyes still stuck on how your eyes crinkle and how your shoulders shake with laughter. 

“Yup.” And his fate is sealed, just like that.

“What’s your project about, anyways? Didn’t you tell me last night that she gave you her number? Must be pretty serious if she wants to text you.” Riki furrows his eyebrows and shakes his head. 

“It’s just tying the theme of the book to one character and writing about how they show it. So we did the theme of money and Gatsby, because it’s easy and mentioned so many times.” 

Jake gawks. “You must really like her,”

“I was planning to read it regardless of who I was partnered with.” 

“Okay- that’s debatable.” There goes another one of Riki’s nachos.

“Gross.” 

He thinks things are going pretty well for you two. The report is being written and your quotes are basically finding themselves, so Riki should give himself a pat on the back for pitching the initial idea for how to go about your assignment. Maybe reading the whole book offered him a few useful pointers, and he goes to sleep that night satisfied with your progress. Maybe Heeseung and Jake were right—maybe he could finally ask you out by prom. 

NISHIMURA RIKI MIGHT DIE TRYING TO SAVE THE CITY FROM YET ANOTHER MONSTER TERRORIZING THE STREETS.

He wakes up the next morning, not expecting his alarm to alert his senses to danger. It rings in his head and makes him feel delirious, trying to shake sleep off as he looks out the window for any visible sign of what's wrong. If he could hear the danger in his head then that meant someone could be hurt, and he could go to school without a few hours of sleep if he worked fast enough, right? 

Riki slips into his suit without much thought and goes to crack his window open, only to look back at his clock and read the horrific time of 6:23AM. 

Who the hell picks a fight with a teenager at this ungodly time? 

Then, he shoots from his wrists, once, twice, and suddenly, he's off, covering more ground through the air in just three seconds than he ever could while walking or running for minutes on end.

The source of his tingling spidey-sense is some large metal centipede creature that was setting off car alarms in a neighborhood near the market. Thankfully, no one was really awake to be caught in the crossfire, but he has to figure out how the hell he's going to catch that thing in...he checks his watch…twenty minutes? 

Hopefully, his instinct will help him win this time—again. 

The web he shoots out does nothing to stop the monster, and considering how it connected them both, the threads only drag the superhero to the edge of the building he was initially watching from. With some yelling and pulling, he finally detaches, and realizes that the odd sizzling feeling in his bonds must be from the same source as a few days ago; Spark. 

He had this gut feeling that a villain as strong as him wouldn’t have been destroyed so easily, but his wounds were so deep and the blood loss so bad from a few nights ago that he couldn’t have truly dumped him in the ocean without fainting or suffering something permanent, and although Riki hoped things in the universe would work itself out, the presence of the giant fifty foot insect alone is proof that things were not in his favor. 

He jumps off the building onto another, working quickly as he strings up a few webs between the houses as a wall for the monster, watching it slide and knock over cars in its wild pursuit. The monster spends a few seconds breaking down the wall of webbing and climbing over it, the many legs easily breaking through. As the superhero jumps across buildings and keeps track of the centipede’s movement, he has no idea why it isn’t going for him, and that makes his job much harder without the attention of the monster. One glance at the direction the centipede is headed in sets off another ding in Riki’s head—but this time, it finally clicks why the centipede is headed away from the boy. 

It’s attracted to the power plant. 

Riki immediately jumps and swings off of a lamp post, using the momentum of gravity and the force of his swing to propel him faster than the slithering creature. Squinting, he holds out his fist and points his pointer and pinky out, following the movement of the centipede as he aims. 

Bam. 

He sends clusters of silky white threads down precisely at the first pair of legs to pin it down. The webs stop the creature momentarily, and Riki doesn’t have time to watch how the body shrinks up and fizzes out with blue shocks as it tries to wiggle loose and malfunctions. This fight would be over soon, and the boy smiles when he jumps down to shoot more webs to apprehend the centipede. It wiggles and sends electricity out through parts of its body, trying to pry itself out. He expects it to simply be a robot of sorts following a mission considering its avoidant behavior, but as he approaches the tail, the monster suddenly swings at Riki, and its mass and speed is incomparable to the boy’s reaction speed. 

Riki lands into a tree and someone’s garage, feeling the crumbling wall falling all over him and the sudden pain blooming in his lower back. 

This fight will, in fact, not be over soon. 

With his superhuman abilities, Riki grabs onto the metal of the car beside him to hoist himself up, coughing from the dust, and jumping over the rubble to see how quickly the centipede creature can get out, without regard for his current state. The sound and rumble of the giant monster is all he needs to know that the traps are effective, but not at the previous capacity. 

The plan is simple: apprehend the legs and crush the head, where Riki assumes the decision-making and programming is taking place. But the monster’s angry and erratic actions throw a wrench in his plan. Its legs move faster, digging into the cement and leaving ruin in its wake as it continues down the road. While both the villain and superhero are fast, the distance between the power plant is finite—and only grows smaller and smaller.  

Although Riki can feel the bruises coming, he runs and swings, hearing the wind in his ears as he catches up to the centipede in no time. He tries the same tactics again–aim, shoot, stick, all the while keeping his distance. Although the monster’s body spans incredibly long, and should carry an immense amount of weight, the way it snaps at Riki’s flying body and sends shockwaves through his core leaves him shivering as his body slams into the ground, coughing. It hurts all over, and it feels like there’s weight on his eyes when he tries to open them and get up. His head is spinning as he staggers onto his knees, clutching his chest as he watches the centipede shrivel and crackle. 

It seems like the voltage produced is a double-ended sword, one that burns up the centipede body as much as it deals damage, and with the way the mutant creeps towards the electricity of the plant, Riki gets the feeling there’s a magnetic pull that forces the mutant to continue to crawl even against its instinct to stop. 

Despite his waning strength, however, Riki knows better than to half finish the job like last time. He creates a net from experience, weaving together the thickest and most durable threads to trap the entirety of the slowly approaching creature. It seems to crawl slowly up the makeshift barrier, knocking its head against the white and spreading the bright blue waves of its energy throughout. The boy watches as the thin white mass absorbs all of it and clings to the creature. It works, finally, after his attempts to nullify its movements, and he knows that despite the ache in his every step, the almost mummified centipede that hangs between several roofs for all the neighbors to gawk at is his sure sign of victory. 

All he remembers is hearing a familiar call of his hero name before his legs give out and his head hits Jake’s chest. 

Holy fucking shit is the first thing Riki thinks when he wakes up. 

He’s not out of his tattered suit and he feels grimy all over, but his body has done wonders in reducing the otherwise fatal injuries he got. No human body should be able to withstand two energy-filled blasts, but his suit and superhuman healing are of greater help than ever in alleviating the damage from his wounds. 

He knows why he’s in his bed with bandages thrown over his open wounds. He knows that every time something like this happens, it’s Jake who shoos away the concerned civilians, telling them he’s a medic. Jake is not a medic—rather, he’s a seventeen year-old boy who knows about his friend’s double life and with all the times he’s saved Riki, someone might as well dub him the greatest medic of all time. 

The clock on his bedside table has only served as a bearer of bad news. He looks over to see how it’s practically midday, and he’s missed yet another day of school from fighting crime. He’s in no condition to get up or get his bag, seeing how his hair is frizzy and his cheek has a cut that would warrant questioning. It seems only fair that he stays absent, and before he falls back asleep, he only prays you aren’t too mad at him for leaving the seat next to you empty.

But you aren’t mad, just worried. The soreness in his muscles doesn’t go away though, and he groans when he sits up in his bed, with bandages around his arms and an ice pack discarded next to him. 

He’s most definitely not coming to school like this. 

While you bore holes into the clock hanging off the wall, that doesn’t speed up the time. Two minutes pass, then another minute. As your classmates find their partners and begin discussing, you notice how the room gets louder with the due date looming near. It’s the first time you’re alone without the familiar boy beside you, and something hangs low in your chest when you put in a pair of earphones and open your laptop. 

Riki’s absence should have no effect on you. After all, you’re both just high school students who’ve talked once or twice, and yet you still look over at the empty chair. Staring doesn’t make Riki appear, though, and you return to your edits. It feels empty without his insight, or without him asking you to help him with a passage. Riki was your solution to all things boring. If he wasn’t doing his work, then you two were laughing at something on his phone. And if you agreed to both do something other than the report, then you could ask for an extra opinion when deciding prom details. There was something freeing about working with him that attracted you. Riki knew how to lighten the mood on days that weren’t so good for you, but he also worked hard and let loose at the same time. There was a perfect balance in Riki’s life that you aspired to have; it was a good mix of playful, dedicated, and fun all in the same vein. 

The words blend together on your screen. Jay Gatsby this, Tom Buchanan that, it all looks monotonous the more you keep trying to read and comprehend what exactly you’re talking about. 

Before class is dismissed, Mr. Yoo steps to the front of the classroom to gather everyone’s attention. He introduces your new novel for the next month, explaining yet another large assignment associated with the text. 

Truth be told, you don’t pay attention to any of it. 

The only thing you remember to do is to grab extra copies of the printed graphic organizers, as you get out of your seat and rush out when class ends in pursuit of one specific boy. 

“Sim Jaeyun!” The call of his name diverts Jake’s attention from his phone to your waving arm as you weave through the students and finally reach him. 

“You can just call me Jake,” he explains, “what’s up?” 

You begin to reach into your backpack, trying to feel for your folder, and pull out a few sheets. “These are for Riki.” 

Jake cheers internally for his friend who’s busy recovering at home. “What, you got a crush on him or something?” 

He tries to play it cool by teasing you, but the smile you bite back leaves the boy questioning if there really is anything going on. Jake knows better than to tell you anything about Riki’s feelings, and opts to instead grab the papers and to thank you for looking out for his friend. 

“Is Riki okay?” You have to know, just to make sure he’ll be here tomorrow to cure your boredom. 

What Jake says is much different than the nonchalant wave and half grin he gives you. “He’s just bedridden.” 

“That’s pretty serious! Did he come down with anything?” He seemed fine yesterday, so what’s the catch?

He blurts, “He just got badly hurt.” 

Immediately, Jake knows he’s fucked up. 

Your confusion and silence answers him far more than words ever could–he basically hears the gears turning slowly in your head.

Jake weakly defends, “His parents had a fight with him because he hit his head or something. He’ll be fine by tomorrow. Just bedridden from sadness, y’know?” 

The look you give him is unconvinced, but when Heeseung pats him on the shoulder and waves to you, the boy realizes that maybe staying quiet would’ve been the better decision. 

“I’ll see you later, ____.” And he’s off, waving half-heartedly and dragging a very confused Heeseung out of the cafeteria. 

NISHIMURA RIKI MIGHT DIE TRYING TO WAKE YOU UP AS GENTLY AS HE CAN.

Ever since March started and flowers began to bloom, your energy seemed to do the opposite, dwindling until Riki catches you mirroring his frequent in-class action: sleeping. And it worries him beyond belief, because you’re not the type to fall asleep like… ever. However, Riki does not have the heart to wake you up, even if it’s with a little nudge that you probably barely feel with how light he taps. It breaks his heart to have to ask you to review what he has done, because the bell is about to ring and the teacher might just send you to detention if he catches you off-task. 

The allergies always make Mr. Yoo irritable, and Riki knows not to get on his nerves. 

Your eyes flutter open to the pokes and prodding from none other than Nishimura Riki, who gazes at you softly when you adjust to the bright classroom setting once more. 

Panic settles in. “Wait- how long was I sleeping for?” 

He shrugs and scrunches his nose, not giving you an answer as he finishes scribbling something in his notebook. 

“Oh my god, I’m so sorry.” Your hand squeezes into a fist at the frustration that you’ve let your partner down. 

And yet, Riki seems to be unfazed, frowning when he sees you stressing out. “Don’t ever sweat the little things, yeah? If there’s anything you ever need to talk about–trust me, I know what it’s like to have a lot of pressure on your shoulders.”

Smiling at him, you respond with, “Thank you, really.” 

Being treasurer is daunting in the spring. It’s full of requests, forms, and small tasks that leave you spent by the end of the day. “But,” you glance at the clock to see just how much time is left, “how’d you know?” 

He motions to your open computer with a now dark screen. “I saw your document pulled up. ____’s tasks or else she will be kicked out of student government,” he taunts, snickering when your eyes grow wide with embarrassment and you lightly nudge his shin with your foot in warning. 

“It’s not polite to snoop,” and although you say that, you catch something in your peripheral vision. It’s a few drawings of a figure and gadget drawn, shaded from rigid shapes with small descriptions pointing to different places. You weren’t sure what was more surprising; how good the drawings were, or the subject of his imagination. 

Weird. Inherently, there was nothing wrong with Riki drawing a villain, and you chalked it up to him being creative. Nothing more, nothing less. 

He puts his hands up in surrender at your last comment, his grin showing anything but. Just one look at the boy makes you realize that everything you’ve just thought about is foolish. 

There’s no way he’d have time to be a villain and a student. With one final thought, you let your raging thoughts rest and focus on the present; him. You’ve seen his hair messy, especially after his naps, but when Riki tries to style it like how he did today, you pay more attention to the streaks of blonde and how he often hides behind his bangs and scrunches his nose. It’s cute. He’s cute.

The truth is, you enjoy being around him like this, joking around and never worrying too much about your responsibilities and expectations. It’s refreshing. Being around Riki gives you the feeling that things will be okay in the end. 

You snap out of your thoughts to see that his desk is empty, while your’s hasn’t changed one bit.

“You’re going to sell prom tickets now, right?” He makes small talk before leaving for lunch, closing the notebook you were suspiciously eying before slipping it into his bag. 

“Yup,” you answer, popping the ‘p,’ “I’ll see you later,” and you two part ways.

All the long lines and constant distribution of change doesn’t allow much wiggle room for you to daydream. As time goes on, the ticket-selling line grows smaller and smaller, but the only thing you truly care about is eating the lunch your parents packed you. Your sandwich is probably sad and soggy now that there are only a few minutes of lunch left. When you finally sign off one last time after triple checking the forms are all correct, you let out a sigh, leaning back and finally getting a break. 

Then, it hits you that you’re not even sure if the boy you’re fawning over is attending the biggest event of the year, and you feel stupid for forgetting to ask. 

-

Yesterday was a rookie’s mistake–today, you’d make sure you get an answer from him.

“Are you going to prom, Riki?” is the first thing you ask when he sits down, grabbing his book and laptop with a little too much enthusiasm. 

“I’m thinking about it.” Yeah, whatever confidence he had when convincing himself he’d ask you out isn’t serving him well at this moment. Quite frankly, Riki feels lame as ever trying to be nonchalant around you. “You?” 

“I’d have to set up, so I would be there, yes. But whether or not I have a date is another story.” You smile to lighten the mood, but Riki watches you and nods, focusing back on signing into his laptop and getting his notes for the new book you’re reading. 

“Well, you’re not the only single one here.” And he wants to reprimand himself for saying something without thinking. “If someone asked, would you say yes?”

You think about it carefully, really because you don’t have anyone in mind when it comes to prom if Riki’s not planning on going. “It’d have to be someone I know—someone I talk to somewhat regularly. I’d be nice to be with someone who doesn’t make it awkward.”

Nishimura Riki might die from over-thinking if he keeps on wondering whether or not he fits that description to a tee.

RIKI'S TO-DO LIST BEFORE PROM

☐  talk to ____ regularly 

☐  don't make it awkward 

☐  be..cute? 

The boy decides that his superhuman responsibilities might be easier to complete than any of those three things. 

He switches the subject to stop his head from hurting too much. “Did you finish the report?” 

You still, and Riki’s question reminds you of the report looming over your head. In your defense, you two hadn’t brought it up much in the past week, and he didn’t seem to worry over how much of your time was spent emailing teachers or making spreadsheets. Although caught off guard, you’re quick to respond with, “What did we have to finish? I thought we were done since last week, but if there’s anything else-” 

“Sorry,” he rushes out, biting his lip, “I meant, if you finished reading it.” And the answer is no, you haven’t read it since your last edit on it three days ago. 

Within a few clicks, you find the document and scroll to the bottom, seeing the small note that Riki left that said ‘let me know how it looks.’ It’s sweet to know he thought about your input as much as you did his. 

“While some can agree that Gatsby’s rise into high society was sketchy, Gatsby still retains the same reserved character from years ago, and doesn’t manipulate others into success or use his money for nefarious purposes. It’s not like he changed after his wealth, and it could be argued Gatsby loved Daisy until his last breath and was willing to die as long as she was happy, emphasizing the theme of sacrifice. 

So, is Jay Gatsby a good person? The question targets the morality of a character who many can empathize with. Those who are charmed by his overwhelming love for Daisy would say that he’s committed textbook crimes, but focus more on the intent behind it. To pine after someone from a distance isn’t easy, but to pursue her after years of separation is even harder. It’s universally agreed, however, that love as a driving force doesn’t nullify what he’s done to others and the dirty schemes he’s enacted to gain the power he has. Therefore, Gatsby makes for an interesting main character, and highlights just how twisted a system around money can be.” 

The last page is–for the most part–his writing, and your admiration for him grows when you finish reading and scroll to hit your Works Cited page.

“It’s good,” you tell him wholeheartedly, “Didn’t think you had it in you.” 

Riki cracks a smile at your light teasing, soaking up your praise. 

“Now you know.” He shrugs. And he can only hope that you like him as much as you like his literary skills. 

NISHIMURA RIKI MIGHT DIE WHEN HE COMES TO THE REALIZATION THAT HE IS EXACTLY LIKE JAY GATSBY,JUST WITHOUT THE MONEY—DESPERATE FOR THE GIRL OF HIS DREAMS, DYING YOUNG, AND A FRAUD HIDING BEHIND SECRETS.

Nevermind the last one, he has to hide when he has an identity to protect as the city’s only superhero, but Riki feels his heart sink to his heels when he read a few weeks ago how much Gatsby simply adores Daisy. When Gatsby died, he scoffed, closing the book with a sudden disinterest. If he were the male lead, he wouldn’t have been laying in a pool for target practice. Maybe being a superhero teaches you how to avoid being easy bait for all your enemies, or maybe Gatsby was too carried away with love to think straight. 

Fighting crime gives you insurmountable experience with sneaking around, but it wasn’t something he could just teach to anyone. When he gets this horrible gut feeling that something’s happened to you, he just knew something was wrong. He might not be easy to catch, but for anyone else? Definitely.  

For everyone else, prom was a month away, but for you, it was three weeks of talking to your advisor and president, arguing with your other board members, and sitting behind that damn money box for another five days to sell tickets. For you, it was realizing that you were supposed to buy streamers and balloons yesterday on your way home from school. It was the thinly veiled disappointment in your board member’s texts when they told you they were at a loss for words. ‘I’m sorry, and I know you’re busy, but how could you forget? Prom is so important for all of us. What if they don’t have what you need anymore?’ It all repeated in your head as you bit your lip in frustration and slipped on the first pair of shoes you could find. Although it was dark and dangerous, you could care less if it meant avoiding the passive aggressive comments you’d get tomorrow during your meeting.

There it is again: that little tendency to not pay attention to your surroundings. 

You yelp when you feel someone grabbing your wrist and pulling you in, muffling your screams as he pulls you along. To see him on the news was worrying, but to see Spark in person with your life on the line is even worse. 

Tears spring to your eyes as you struggle against the metal to no avail, and you curse every previous moment you spent worrying about balloons rather than your safety.

Spark suddenly stops, shoving you against the wall before his hand grabs a brick with his metal arm, beginning to climb. “Don’t let go.” And you don’t think twice before holding on.

The city view would be beautiful if you weren’t hearing your heartbeat in your ears or if you weren’t dangling from the railing of some company building, trying to wiggle yourself free of the rope around your wrists. 

Spark speaks up, drumming his fingers on the railing next to you. “You wouldn’t happen to know where your friendly neighborhood Spider-Man is, would you?” And you furrow your eyebrows, genuinely questioning for a moment if he really knew how the superhero operated. 

A voice from across the street puts a temporary hold on your thoughts, and you glance up to see a flash of blue and red soaring through the air, followed by a groan and a beam of light next to you. Seeing Spark’s powers right in front of you spurs you into action, yanking at the rope and trying to take tiny steps away from where they were fighting.

“From what I’m seeing, you wanted to hold someone hostage because you’re not feeling too good, huh?” Spider-Man shouts as he shoots out webs and blocks hits. You shake your head in partial disbelief of how unserious he is, but also how unbelievable all of this seems. “You tried to take a potion or something? I’m going to tell you this now, but these usually don’t work.” 

Riki’s assumption is right, and considering how Spark now has a leg and arm from metal instead of just the arm, the procedure for the additional limb couldn’t have been easy. The superhero still proceeds with caution, making sure to pay attention to anything new as he dodges and fights back. 

The villain immediately gets back up, stumbling for a moment before he regains his stance and runs towards the boy. You hear the clanging of fist hitting metal from their fight, and considering the difference in height and build, you’d expect Spider-Man to be easily flung to the side, but he holds his weight in battle. 

Riki aims for around the left shoulder, where an abundance of stitches cover the skin and fuse the metal into muscle. He lands a hit, and almost another one, before a punch to the side knocks him from his momentum. The boy wheezes when his back makes instant contact with the ground, rolling and getting up before Spark has time to shoot. 

He notices how quickly the gadget generates electricity now. Before, the beams took longer, and were easily predictable, but now, it glows bright for a moment before it fires directly in Riki’s path. The boy dodges the first, but the second one almost hits the top of his head before he ducks and creates distance. 

From the roof-top, Riki scans his surroundings before making the split-second decision to jump. 

He swings to the other side of the building, keeping you in his peripheral vision as he works on apprehending the villain in front of him. They spring into yet another fist fight, with Riki’s agility easily letting him avoid punches and land precise hits to make the previous injuries even worse. 

You think Spider-Man has the upper hand in this, seeing as how none of Spark’s punches seem to slow down the superhero, but you hear something loud before you can register it. 

You figure out what happened after Riki stumbles and suffers a blow to the stomach, sending him tumbling to the edge of the building. Spark knew that Spider-Man was avoiding his left arm—he knew that one wrong move paired with the tungsten material would have a lasting effect on the superhero’s fist. 

Riki coughs from the impact before his spidey-sense rings, pulling him back into battle as he runs as fast as his body can take him. 

You. He still needs to save you. 

With renewed vigor, he continues to avoid the flying sparks as he ducks between structures and uses the terrain to his advantage. He can tell, though, that the villain is slowing down. The shots are less accurate–a telltale sign that the enhancer Spark tried is working against him. 

Between all of the chaos, Riki finally lands a proper web, yanking as hard as he can to pull Spark to the ground. He stumbles, grasping at thin silk before Riki lets go on his side. The villain’s balance is off, giving the boy an advantage as he closes the distance, hopping over a thrown slab of metal and landing a solid kick into Spark’s ribcage. As he stays down, Riki continues to aim for muscle and flesh, his head spinning as he packs punch after punch to keep the villain apprehended. 

Spark’s body–curled into itself to absorb the hits the best that he can– hides the growing blue flash that he’s slowly charging up with his remaining power. The moment it escapes from under his abdomen, Riki directs his efforts towards avoiding the electric glimmer. The villain rolls over, his body tattered from the consistent injuries, and he fires what seems like an intense bullet of energy. It zips by the boy’s cheek, cutting the mask and leaving blood to run down in its wake. Time slows down as the superhero tries to process the unlocked speed of the burst, and Spark loses focus marveling at his new abilities. Never before had either of them seen power so concentrated, and it inflicts both fear and excitement. 

He lifts his arm, the other holding it up for support, and Spider-Man notices the fizzle of bright blue. Riki’s about to jump out of the way, preparing for yet another high-speed bullet, but before Spark fires, something clicks. The arm doesn’t directly point to Riki–but it skews off to the right.

Except, he’s no longer aiming for Riki in the split second that the boy blinks. He’s suddenly aiming at you, where your hands are tied to the railing and your feet are dangling from the bent metal that holds you precariously over the edge, leaving a fifty foot drop in its wake. When you see the blue energy in the villain’s palm growing slowly bigger, you pull at the rope desperately with zero regard to the tender rawness of your wrists. 

In your attempt to somehow break the rope, your cry of fear snaps Spider-Man into action. 

Riki pushes his sore body to jump as quick as he can, leaping across the rooftop to the building over. He easily avoids the metal railing, grabbing onto your arm as he yanks hard on the rope, the force of it separating a piece of metal from the railing. He immediately jumps, sending out a web to swing him back up. It all happens in a flash–first, you were bound to the edge about to fall to your death, and all of a sudden, you’re tightly pressed against Spider-Man’s chest with your bound wrists still attached to the metal. Shutting your eyes, you trust Spider-Man entirely, closing your eyes to avoid seeing just how far up you were. Wind rushes in your ears and leaves your stomach fluttering with butterflies until the superhero sets you down on a secluded rooftop. 

“Please,” he begs, “don’t leave. I’ll be right back.” 

You’d be a fool to do anything but wait. 

Riki checks on you one last time before diving down, springing himself back up with another web. The damage from the blasts is recognizable even from far away, and yet, he notices the reflective shine of a metal arm on the edge of the building before Spark lets go. 

To Riki, Spark is dead after dropping from a fall having taken that much damage, but he hears no impact. Making haste, the boy fails to find any figure no matter how hard he looks, but Spark’s laboratory has to be here somewhere. The badge from a week ago was stuck on Riki’s mind, and he could only imagine the reasons why he pursued this life. Was he recreating something? If he needs to power some sort of machine, then the heart of the city is a perfect place to harness the electricity for any large scale project. As much as he wants to dedicate the rest of the night to searching the city for some sort of clue, the fact that you’re still stranded on that rooftop after having just experienced a life-changing event blares like an alarm in his mind. 

He quickly leaves, returning to where you’re seated.

Without the fear of falling to your death from earlier, you were able to focus on undoing the knots from the rope. Red scratch marks and irritation bloom on your wrist, and the reality of it all happening still hasn’t settled in. Despite not being harmed once, the fear and incessant pounding of your heart overwhelms your senses, and it leaves you heaving with confusion. 

A pair of footsteps only become apparent as Riki walks closer, taking a seat beside you and letting out a large sigh. He stares at the stars silently as if he doesn’t have a cut on his cheek and bruises waiting to paint his skin purple–as if he isn’t hiding his true self under a facade. 

“You’re not hurt, are you?” You shake your head, grateful that Spider-Man was the reason you got away without a real injury.

“Thank you, really, for saving me. I don’t know how you manage to do it.” 

Riki chuckles under the mask. “Eh, you get used to it,” you hear Spider-Man say. “You fight a couple bad guys, get over a fear of heights and eventually you get the hang of things.” 

Scoffing, you gently rub at your wrists to ease the redness. “Easy for you to say. I haven’t been taught a crash course on how to avoid being supervillain bait just yet.” 

“Maybe you should learn it sometime,” Riki responds absentmindedly, “someone like you shouldn’t have been out so late doing whatever it could’ve been.” 

Sighing, your mind drifts off to think about the balloons and streamers that are not in your hand. “I had stuff for my upcoming events.” 

He knew about all of it when you’d explain your cryptic reminders and notes on your computer, but he still feigns curiosity. “What upcoming events?” 

“Just prom,” and he hears just how strained it makes you. 

Riki tilts his head in faux confusion. “What do you have to do for prom?” 

He notices how you immediately slump, as if the mere mention of prom deflates your happiness. “It’s only a few weeks away, and I was supposed to get decorations for our venue yesterday. I just wanted to slip out before my parents noticed.” 

Despite the fabric over his eyes, Riki’s expression shifts from surprise to pity when he understands your stakes. “You still need to be careful. Is your student council strict?” 

“Not strict necessarily, but judgemental–I ran for the position because I thought I could help my school raise funds and find more opportunities, but it just feels like no one truly wants to try anything new.” You wave it off as if it’s not that important, as if it isn’t the reason why you find yourself stressed so often. “I just don’t want to disappoint or give people something to talk about.” 

Despite not being involved with school the same way you are, the boy next to you resonates with the fear you currently face. The fear of letting people down was a large part of why Riki continued to put on that mask and step into the most dangerous situation of his life; he never wanted to sit down to hear the news that Spider-Man quit. 

So he keeps doing his job, even if some days are harder and some fights aren’t worth winning–just like what you do. 

“Yeah, I get that,” he tries to console, “You must be doing a lot for everyone around you, and I’m sure a lot of people appreciate what you’ve done. Don’t beat yourself up too much, yeah? You’ll always have me.” He smiles, but he knows you don’t see it. You’re looking at the stars, trying to calm your mind and return to your life before everything happened. 

You glance over at Spider-Man, wondering if he’ll truly be around for you when you need it. “If I need to talk to you, should I step out of my house past 8PM again?” 

Riki chuckles, watching clouds slowly dim the moon’s glow in their path. “If I’m not fighting crime, I’ll show up at a moment’s notice.” 

There’s no way he means it, but you grin, feeling a lot of the pressure and stress of earlier slowly wash away. After all, nothing happened to you–Spider-Man made sure of it. Maybe things really were going to be okay. 

“Let’s get you home, yeah? Don’t you have stuff to do anyways?” 

You shrug, nothing really coming to mind. As you get up, you remember having to run a plagiarism check on your work, and how Riki told you to text him when you got home after your student government meeting. 

Riki. Spark. Spider-Man. 

“Wait,” you tell Spider-Man, sitting back down on the cement, “I need to talk to you about something else, too.” 

“It’s not like my dinner’s getting cold,” the superhero mumbles quiet enough that you can’t hear. 

“There’s this guy,” you start, paying no mind to how dirty your clothes are getting when you cross your legs. 

Spider-Man scoffs, looking off into the distance, and it makes you believe he has to be your age or older. “You have a crush on him, or something?” And a whole tidal wave of deja vu hits you in the chest. 

‘He must be badly hurt’ isn’t just something people say. People don’t just draw insanely detailed drawings of Spark’s arm and machines without notes to follow unless they knew. People wouldn't just randomly miss school without any impending signs. You’re sure of it–the tired naps in class, the random drawings of superheroes and superhumans alike, or how awkward he could act–it all makes sense.

Your classmate, aka Nishimura Riki, aka the guy who you’ve questioned if you had a crush on for the past few days, might be a villain. 

The swirling feeling of trepidation in your stomach leaves three words running around your head. 

What. The. Fuck. 

Although you tried so hard to stop thinking about it, Jake’s comment from before rubbed you the wrong way. It was sometime last week where you couldn't get your mind off of the implications of his words, but that feeling was brushed underneath your responsibilities. 

Until now. 

“Yeah, there’s this guy,” you breathe, feeling your chest constrict, “Nishimura Riki. I think he’s Spark.” 

His blood runs cold. 

“You think this…why?” 

You take a deep breath, trying to organize all your thoughts. “Well, first, it was his friend, Jake. He said that Riki was badly hurt, and I was really confused at first, but tried to let it go.” 

Riki was going to strangle his best friend. 

“And then, I was looking at him in class, right? And keep in mind, he’s pretty cute, and we sit next to each other, so I just noticed how good his hair looked that day, but his notebook was out, and I saw all these drawings of Spark. Like, the arms, the metal things, even the projectiles! Who would know the ins and outs of that thing if it wasn’t Spark himself?”

He didn’t know what to think about first; the fact that you gushed about him for the first time, or if he should even tell you that Spider-Man would know those things, too. 

“And sometimes, I notice he’s a little awkward around me. I can’t explain it. It’s like he’s paying attention to me. That must’ve been why he captured me.” He wants to laugh at how damn close you are to figuring it out, but in reality, nothing is funny about the situation. 

Nishimura Riki is actually listening to this, right now, as Spider-Man–not Spark. The awkwardness, though? It was his crush on you, and was not superhuman related in the slightest.  

“I don’t know,” he attempts to divert, pretending to focus, “I saw a badge for FLiGHT. You know the company that’s been making time traveling machines? I saw a glimpse of his name and face. It’s not that guy you mentioned.” 

You raise an eyebrow. “And you haven’t gotten him caught?” 

“Villains aren’t easy to find, y’know. It’s not like playground hide and seek,” Riki defends, crossing his arms. 

You shrink in your spot, feeling sheepish for questioning a superhero so bluntly. 

“Plus,” he continues, “Spark has never had a hostage. Wouldn’t it be pretty mean of that friend of yours to kidnap a girl from his class?” 

“Yeah—that makes sense. Thank god,” you breathe, closing your eyes momentarily. “Then what do you suspect all that evidence leads to? Maybe he’s a secret agent?” 

“I think,” Riki continues to keep up his clueless facade, “Your friend might just be clumsy. Or creative. I mean, maybe he went through a break-up?” Nice one, Riki. 

You shake your head. “No, there’s no way he has a girlfriend. You’d think I like guys who are taken?” Scoffing lightly, you then remembered that Spider-Man really would have no idea who any of you are. 

He shrugs and stands up stretching before motioning for you to follow him. “I have no idea what you high school kids do. Come on, let’s get you home.” 

As you hug him tight, the cold air whips around your body and leaves goosebumps in their wake. You barely open your eyes from the fear of seeing yourself inches from hitting a building or up in the air. Spider-Man only yells his confirmation after asking how to get you home, finally placing you on the ground outside of your large gate. 

“Thank you for saving me tonight.”

“Anytime. Figure things out with that friend of yours, and don’t go out late, okay?” You nod and take his words to heart. 

“Goodnight, Spiderman.” 

—-

Nishimura might die. One, because he has this horrible guilty feeling in his stomach, and two, because of a villain. 

Yesterday, he ignored the salmon and rice bowl that waited for him back at home, choosing to follow the coordinates he saved on his phone after he took you home. It led him to a seemingly harmless auto-shop, with an arrow on his GPS pointing to a garage that was shut down completely with nails and blocked with boxes. The exterior pointed to it being abandoned, but Riki suddenly saw some light coming from a makeshift above.

The boy scaled the wall as quietly as possible, glancing into the source of the whirring. He caught small glimpses of something–metal, glowing, blue. 

Or at least, for a few seconds it was on until the power went out. 

The voice that complained from inside the room sounded identical to the man Riki fought. Spark grumbled, turning on a flashlight and quickly waving it around. Riki ducked from the window and held his breath, waiting for the man to suspect something. 

Nothing. 

One lightbulb slowly flickered back on, and then the other dingy light followed. The space was cramped with the metal equipment in the middle, resembling what Riki had seen in the news. 

He was right–it was the same time travel portal that was ruined from a few months ago. 

Spider-Man continued to observe the man as he worked and drilled, plugging certain wires or pausing momentarily to read from a journal. To anyone, it’d seem peaceful, like some sort of renovation project. But in reality, it was so much more than that. 

Riki searched for any sort of information about the machine, trying to see what exactly was left to do until his gaze landed on something. 

There was some sort of date on a bright pink sticky-note, and Riki’s eyes widened when he finally comprehends it. 

The machine was scheduled to be completed tomorrow. 

-

A street lamp next to Riki dies out—which was a clear sign that something was powering up. From the dark, he hears the metal from the same place as last night moving again, and he knows that Spark has left. His presence sends anyone down the street and immediately running, leaving the area for only them two. 

Riki finally sees the completed metal build. Half of his body is wrapped in or replaced with metal parts as he sets down the metal portal, beginning to push it in the direction of the power plant. 

A truck or car would make things much easier, but whatever.

Riki wants to cry from fear and run away. He wants to leave and pretend he never saw anything from last night. 

He’s going to die fighting Spark and he will quite literally a) never finish highschool and get that stupid diploma, b) finish explaining how Gatsby is not a good person and is naturally selfish, and c) he’s never going to tell you how he’s had a small crush on you ever since he saw your cute campaign video as to why you should vote y/n l/n for student body treasurer last spring. 

“You sure that thing works?” Riki asks, jumping into action as he sends webs to immobilize the machine. 

“You’re annoying, you know that?” Spark sends a projectile in the superhero’s direction, hitting the wall behind him instead as Riki jumps out of the way.

With another duck mid-air and the roof of a flying car dangerously close to his nose, Riki thanks the dance practice he does for his flexibility as he shoots another web and swings away. 

Spark is uncontrollable by now, sucking the light from street lamps and fizzing wires in his wake. He has no idea how he’s supposed to get in contact with the villain like before. The body of his suit fizzes with bright electricity that sizzles and pops. It illuminates Spark’s figure, making him easy to spot, but not so easy to defeat. It’s an overload of power, causing the voltage to escape between the joints and gaps of the metal pieces in his suit. And Riki can feel it; the air is heightened and so are the stakes of this fight—and with how the man that stands in front of him looks upgraded and menacing, he knows only one person can make it out of this fight alive. 

“You injected the city’s ‘Gas and Electric’ into your system or what?” Riki calls out, making light of the situation. If he’s being honest with himself, he’s scared out of his wits seeing the six foot figure with blue and white shooting from every crack, looking like a nightmare to touch.

Riki avoids a few more angrily thrown objects, using the momentum of his jump from the side of the building to zip from the top of a yellow fire hydrant to go from one side of the street to the other. “You’re slow!” He taunts, tucking in his legs to avoid a shot of electricity directed at him. 

The screech of metal from the nearby hydrant can be heard as the top flings off, making Riki lose his anchor/ Before he can process it, instead of smoothly landing on the building, he crashes into it faster than expected, groaning when his back makes contact with the glass and he tumbles into the living room of someone’s apartment. 

“Fuck,” he curses, fighting his aching limbs to get up once more. 

And the solution hits him. Literally. 

When he steps out and quickly attaches a web to the top of the building, he’s met on the way up with a splash of water from the hydrant to his face, and Riki splutters as he wipes his mask, regaining focus as he lands on the concrete and hides behind the ledge. 

Water. If he can get it in contact with Spark and pour enough water on the right spot, the excess of electricity blazing from his mechanical body should work against him. 

“Too scared? You should know better than to run away.” The superhero rolls his eyes, crawling away silently to avoid being seen by Spark. Riki does his best to look around for something, and finds a black flower pot in the corner, using a web to grab it before he scales the side of the building and runs away while Spark is distracted as the villain also climbs the wall to face him there. But when Spark climbs the ledge and scans the premise, Riki is nowhere to be seen. 

Instead, Riki swings across the street and fills the pot with water, heaving the extra weight as he shouts out from the sudden pain in his side. He stumbles on the pavement, crying out from the injury as the pot falls with his whole plan. 

Maybe this is where Spider-Man dies. 

He sucks in a deep breath before rolling from his back onto his knees, ignoring the wound to pick up the flower pot. The hydrant still shoots out water, and the superhero rushes towards it, causing Spark to follow. He narrowly avoids another shot from behind him, reaching the yellow hydrant before dropping the pot on the ground. Spark is th 

While Spark has always been intelligent, Riki could tell that the man didn’t fear the water, believing he’d be invincible to the elements now that his suit was perfected. There was something off, Riki could tell, and he would make sure to use it to his advantage. Spark was uncontrolled, and his powers drastically decreased the more he used them. There’s no way his body isn’t in overdrive with how recklessly he’s been letting himself get hurt. 

Riki uses a web to get himself on higher ground instead of fighting, waiting for the supervillain to follow. If he could get Spark off the edge and fall into the growing puddle of water, it should slow him down. 

Spark scoffs. “Run away, then. Like you always have.” Riki hears the wall crumbling under the villain as he climbs within seconds, immediately preparing to fight when he makes it onto the rooftop. But Spider-Man was also prepared, jumping from his crouched hiding position and attempting to catch Spark off guard. 

All he can focus on now is pushing him off. There’s no way it’d be easy, considering he had to focus on his touching any of the electricity off of his suit. Riki delivers a kick to Spark in the ribcage near his heart, where he’s fused metal into flesh. The villain coughs before taking a step back, his metal arm reaching for Riki’s outstretched leg. He grabs it, twisting with anger before the boy meets the ground in a violent throw. Not only is the slam greater because of the enhanced strength, but the power seeps into Riki’s skin, leaving it hot from the energy radiating off of his palm. 

The boy groans, flipping to his side to avoid a fatal hit to the chest. He reaches for Spark’s normal arm, swinging the villain’s body away with as force as he could to create distance between them. 

Riki has been in enough fights to simply know when to run, even if he doesn’t know what’s coming. He could feel the tingle of the charge as it powered up, and with its energy so unrestrained and its user so unstable, the large attempt to hit Riki sends the villain stumbling back from the force. The more Spark uses his powers, the more likely he’s going to end up dead. 

“Your skin can handle that anymore!” he shouts, getting ready to swing himself closer as a plan manifests itself in his head. “You’ll die like this!” 

Spark seems to know that too as he wipes his mouth and recovers from Riki’s attacks. 

“You think I care?” He shouts, desperately pressing his wounds to stop the bleeding. “You think I have anything else for myself?” The vulnerability of his character shines through as he clutches his bleeding wound without regenerative powers to help. “You think I didn’t know that when I did it to myself--what they did to me?” 

Riki doesn’t respond, grimacing as he continues hand-to-hand combat. Although he takes a solid punch to his jaw that’s forming a deep purple bruise, he manages to trip Spark onto the ground.

The man stumbles back from the head injury, the pounding from earlier not letting him to think straight. Riki doesn’t try to injure him anymore, but he instead blocks an incoming punch and tries to force Spark towards the edge. 

The villain barely notices how much space there is left, and the boy lunges with full force. They tackle each other into the ground, and Riki gets off after apprehending him once more. 

The city's a mess, and Spider-Man’s eyes want to shut down so badly, but he takes a few steps in Spark’s direction, pushing him off the side of the building as quickly as he can. Riki hears the thud before he peeks over the edge, seeing the water erode all of the engineering from the machinery. He slowly descends from the rooftop. 

“You were in the accident, huh?” Riki shouts on top of the plethora of sounds. Pain, buzzing electricity, splashes of water as he lands next to Spark; it all echoes in his ears as he pours the water from the pot on Spark’s body. “Why did you try it? Why did you want to go back so bad?”

“If I could go back,” Spark coughs, trying to get away from the large pool of water, “I could’ve prevented the accident from taking the lives of the people around me. I could’ve saved them.” 

Spider-Man understands loss, and he understands the regret that comes with failure. He understands how the man in front of him feels after having everything taken away from him, but his emotions could never justify his actions. 

“You know you can’t change things,” Riki responds, “You tried your best, Spark.” It’s the last thing Riki tells the villain before his body slumps and police sirens grow louder and louder. It’s the last thing that he continues to think about, even if the medic quickly assesses the severity of his wounds. 

“I’m fine- really,” he pushes away the hands of a concerned woman as she holds a roll of bandages. “There’s something else I need to do.” 

Riki knew he had to tell you about this–he couldn’t just let you confide in him about..well, him, without your knowledge. And Riki wasn’t morally perfect, but he knew an explanation would be the only way to fix things.

Your house looks different when jumping over the fence instead of standing in front of it. When he realizes he has no idea what room belongs to you, he racks his brain, suddenly remembering how yours was the only one with a gray balcony over the pool. And so he climbs, slipping from the exhaustion creeping into his body. 

You’ll understand after he explains everything, right? 

“____, a little help?” And what the fuck is Nishmura Riki doing outside of your door? You go to investigate the muffled sound, inching towards the curtains and pulling them back to expect him there. When you hear a half yelp and a hissing sound that follows right after, without a person anywhere in sight, your heart drops to its stomach. 

Do not say it’s true. 

“Riki, where the fuck are you?” you ask, traversing out when you don’t see him anywhere across the glass. 

“Down here.” You run in the direction of the voice, and your eyes grow comically large and you gasp, staring down at the sight before you. 

“Holy shit.” 

There Nishimura Riki is, with his mask half burned off his face and his blonde and black hair messy and matted to his forehead with sweat. The suit is ripped in multiple locations with gashes and purple replacing the healthy skin underneath. His face is in more of a grimace, as he holds onto the web with both hands and one foot planted on the stone of your balcony—read; the bottom of your balcony. 

“A little help?” And you see his sheepish emotion through the tattered fabric, embarrassed after you had to find him in such a compromising situation. “I’m a little worn out and I think my webs are getting weaker.”

You’re a little frustrated with him for being out so publicly, but more scared and worried for his condition. Your gaze narrows on the mask, tattered and covered with scratches, but clearly visible. It was Spider-Man’s mask. The material gives way to a familiar face, and your mind almost blocks you from putting the pieces together. It’s impossible, almost horrifying to think of the implications of what it means to wear the blue and red suit. 

Instead of being the villain, Riki is, in fact, the savior.

The harsh truth is that your classmate, who you spent the last month working on a project with and suspected was a villain, is the same superhero that went out and risked his life every night fighting crime. It’s jarring to see him like this, breathing heavy and straining against the stone of the balcony, and his cough snaps you out of it. “What the fuck do I do?” 

Riki tries to put his hand up in surrender and shuts his eyes at your harsh tone. “Okay, okay, I get-“ and he cuts himself off with a yelp as his footing slips. 

He holds out his hand, and you immediately bend over the smooth railing to grab it, leaning back on the heels of your feet to help him up the most that you can. You’re filled with confusion when the boy hobbles over the cool surface of the balcony and lets his head rest on the stone, not saying much as he catches his breath. You watch the rise and fall of his chest and how his right arm goes to nurse the left side of his ribcage, wincing and sucking in a pained breath as he assesses the smear of red on his fingers. 

Sitting there with your mouth agape, you’re not really sure what to think about first; to check if RIki’s alright, to think about how your city’s greatest superhero is your English project partner, to yell at him for going to your house instead of his house to fix himself up, or to think about how good his side profile looks in the moonlight. Maybe you should’ve just been relieved that the boy you started to like wasn’t a fear-inducing villain.

“Okay, first of all, we need to have a huge talk. But I’m not a medic Riki- I’m going into accounting for fuck’s sake.” He hears the amount of curses flying from your lips as you ramble, and sees how stressed you look watching him sit against your railing. 

“I don’t know how to help you. And also,” you lower your voice and scoot closer, looking around at the large property to really make sure no one’s listening. “you’re Spider-Man?” 

The information all hitting you at once is worse than when your history teacher told you your essay was horrible. At least then, in her office, you could process everything. But here? You’re about to faint. 

“I’m pretty cool, huh?” And of course Nishimura Riki says such a thing, taking deep breaths as he shallowly presses on the blossoming bruises on his skin and wipes the sweat from his brow. 

“Pretty fucking stupid is what it is, Riki.” You cross your arms and try to take a look at where he’s been hurt, hoping that at least he has some sort of regeneration ability that helps him heal much quicker—because there’s no way he could deal with all of this on top of school. 

“I have my reasons,” he says, his voice quiet. 

You pause. “For being Spider-Man?” 

“No,” he shakes his head. “For coming here.”

“What could possibly make you want to come over to my house instead of the nearest hospital? What’s that important to you?”

“I really want to ask you to prom.” 

You simply stare at him, surprised. 

“You came to my house, even though you’re like, a punch away from passing out, to ask me out? And you couldn’t have, I don’t know, asked me anytime during the classes we have together?”

Riki somehow finds it in himself to frown and shrink from your angry piercing gaze. “I can’t because talking to you makes me nervous–so yeah, I’m sorry I’m half conscious on your balcony in my suit instead of at your door with a poster.” 

You’re conflicted, your mind still reeling from the recent discovery and your flood of emotions. Ever since you questioned his identity on top of your feelings for him, you had a hard time really knowing if you could like Riki if he turned out to be a villain, so to know that he proved both of your theories wrong leaves you quiet as you think. If possible, the color in the boy’s face drains even more when you go back inside, but the door stays open, and he thinks he hasn’t ruined things after all. You emerge with a bottle of isopropyl alcohol, a bowl of warm water, and a pristine white towel. 

“I’m not mad about that, you idiot,” you reprimand him, setting everything down as you examine the cuts on his face. You squeeze the towel and start to dab at his skin, avoiding the cuts as you clean it. “Who does this for you if not me?” 

“Jake.” 

“Seems like a pretty good friend.” Riki nods in response. 

 “I’m sorry,” he sighs, sitting up to properly address you, even if you weren’t able to meet his gaze. 

“For what?”

“For putting this on you–all of it. Not just the whole Spider-Man thing.” He knew he’d have to tell you at some point, or else it’d eat him up inside to know he kept all of it from you. 

“Look at you, saving me mid-air and talking to me as if you didn’t know who I was.”

You notice a flash of regret through his wince as you clean up a cut with antiseptic. “I meant it when I told you I knew what it was like to have a lot of pressure.”

“Guess I wasn’t so far off, then. If we never talked, would you have told me?” Riki shakes his head, and the simple motion leaves you somehow disappointed. 

“How do you ever tell anyone you’re…y’know, Spider-Man?” Even if it’s a hypothetical, you shrug, not being able to answer.

“How’d Jake find out?” 

Riki chuckles and hisses at the same time before trying to remember. “I think I just kicked his window in after a nasty poison got hold of me. He was a little too excited to have Spider-Man on his bedroom floor, and less excited to know it was me. I’m not really supposed to tell anyone, though.”

“Then why’d you tell me? You could’ve just gone back to your friends.” 

“I felt guilty–I know, I know, it sounds stupid. I’d definitely get my identity revealed at this rate.” You shake your head. 

“Not stupid. Keep going.” 

“I didn’t care that you suspected me, or if anyone else did, because I knew it was never true. But I felt so bad knowing you were sharing to me how you felt without even knowing it was me who was listening–like I was holding something from you.” 

You admire his honesty, and when you look at his furrowed brows and his lip that he’s been gnawing from worry, you can’t even imagine what he’s had to hide and do for this. In a way, you look up to him more, for trying his best even if he’s gotten all odds stacked against him. Riki’s commendable in your eyes–he always had been, ever since you woke him up in class. 

“I like those things about you, Riki. That you’re honest with yourself and the people around you as much as you can be, and you try to help others when you can. I’m glad we got to know each other more this past month.” Talking to him feels different than talking to Spider-Man from a few days ago; it feels raw, like you’re not just confessing something to a brick wall anymore. If none of this ever happened, you doubt you’d get the chance to tell Riki any of this properly. 

The boy stays silent, taking deep breaths while processing what you’ve told him. “I’m glad I could help you out.” 

You furrow your eyebrows. “I hope you know I don’t like you because you help me out. I like you because you’re attractive, and because you’re genuine,” you blurt. 

Riki laughs despite his ribcage hurting everytime he does so. Riki nods and mumbles a ‘thank you,’ also glad to truly get to know you. While his crush was more of an infatuation with your hard work and amiability, the past few weeks really opened his eyes to who you were. You never wanted to disappoint, and even if your recklessness left you in some dire situations, Riki could see how much effort you really put into things. 

There wasn’t anything else he needed to tell you–you were smart enough to see how much he cared about you.    

You’re so close, your lips glossy with lip balm as you watch him carefully. You hear and see it all; the heavy, labored breathing from his body healing itself rapidly, and the way his hand is full of rough cuts and calluses as his fingers intertwine with yours. But your eyes catch a glimpse of his mask tossed to the side, the blue shining in the corner of your eyes as you’re reminded of who he is right now, and what role you play. You are still ____ ____, but he’s a superhero.

It makes you momentarily forget whose suit you're peeling away, whose skin you're cleaning. It reminds you that he’s just the boy in your English class that you fell for. “What does that make us?”

“Prom-goers,” he answers with a slight nod. 

You smile, wiping a cut before placing the towel back into the bowl for the last time and getting up. “We can be prom-goers, yeah.” 

You’re not sure if you’re ready for anything, and you’re thankful that he understands that, too. As much as it warmed your heart to see him again and hear his confessions, the blaring truth still hangs over your head. You grab his mask, finally looking at him before handing it back and grabbing your things. His secret identity wasn’t something you could just ignore. 

“Go home, Spider-Man,” you turn your back on him, and time slows when you falter before sparing him one more look. “I want you as Riki, not like this.” 

MAYBE NISHIMURA RIKI DOESN'T NEED TO DIE–OR ALMOST DIE–ANYMORE. 

He went home that night with his scars somewhat cleaned and his bruises miraculous healing on their own, and even if slipping through the window left him clutching his side in pain, Riki silently jumped up to celebrate his multiple victories before slipping out of his suit and finally getting some rest. 

Riki’s scared of how he’s affected your relationship. He’s worried you’ll avoid him in the halls, and he’s worried you’d never want to see him again after putting you through all of it. As much as he'd understand how upset you'd be towards him, he hopes he did the right thing by telling you.

But you see him on your way to English, and you call his name. His eyes search for yours in the crowds, and you two see each other before you crush him in a hug. 

Riki isn’t sure how to feel at first, but eventually wraps his arms around you as relief settles in his stomach. 

“Thank you for saving me, Spider-Man,” you whisper, loud enough for only him to hear. 

He smiles at you, ruffling your hair as you go to English together. “Anytime, ____.” 

NEVERMIND, NISHIMURA RIKI MIGHT DIE WHEN HE SEES YOU IN YOUR RED PROM DRESS.

But first, he has to try something out. 

He curses to himself when silently zipping from a tree outside your family property to the top of your house, staring past the ledge two and luxurious stories to your well decorated porch light and door. He just prays that Google Maps is  right about how secluded the area is, so no one can see him pacing around your rooftop, with flowers elegantly wrapped in his hand (courtesy of your mother’s sleek envelope from a few days ago). 

“Fuck it,” he says to himself, shooting a web and dangling himself down. Riki’s upside down figure watches swirled window frames and meticulously designed accents as he descends, and he wonders what kind of shady business your parents could’ve done to afford something so grand. 

He faces your door—hanging down instead of rightside up, but he’s still here on time like he promised. 

The door opens at 6:00PM like he instructed you to, but what he didn’t tell you what to do was shriek and slam the door. On his nose. With a loud yelp, Riki clutches his nose, rubbing the spot you hit and trying to apply pressure to alleviate the pain. 

When the door slowly creaks open again, you face with the image of Nishimura Riki, aka your boyfriend, aka your English partner, aka Spider-Man, curled upside down in the fetal position as he cradles the sore spot on his face and swings slightly from the breeze. 

“You scared me, dumbass! How was I supposed to know it was you? It was so hard to see!” 

Although muffled, Riki’s able to mumble, “You have a porch light for this reason, _____,” and a jab at his stomach from you follows his sarcastic remark. Finally, his nose feels better, and he straightens out to finally look at you. 

Pretty, pretty, pretty, and the boy wonders how you look even more stunning with a glittering red dress and perfectly done make-up. “I like the red,” he says, trying not to freak out over your beauty. “Reminds me of a certain neighborhood superhero.” 

“I have some blue spider earrings to match.” With a beautiful smile, you turn to show him the little accent, and it melts his heart. “Are you okay, though?”

“I’m fine. I should’ve probably put more thought into that.” 

You snicker, sliding into your heels and closing the door behind you. 

“One of us is better at romantic gestures, it seems.” It warrants a scoff, and Riki brings a gloved hand to poke at your forehead teasingly.

“Let me have a do-over, then?” And the way your lips curl up into a bright smile leaves him quiet and in awe. 

“What, were you going to kiss me? Very original, Spider-Man.” With the way the fabric shifts over his features, you can tell he’s pouting. 

“I thought girls liked this.” 

You shrug, pretending you aren’t swept off his feet by the effort he’s put in. Taking a step in his direction, your hands reach up to gently pull the mask over his chin, ears, and then his nose. 

Whispering quietly, you ask, “You’ve kissed other girls upside down?” 

Riki’s quick to shake his head. “You’re the only girl I’d withstand a head rush for.” And god, you just can’t stop yourself from grinning at his sweet, genuine words.

You lean in, placing a small kiss on his nose as a silent apology. Then, you close your eyes and lean into him once more, feeling his hands carefully holding the side of your head and his lips on yours. Your kiss with Riki is saccharine and slow, making you pull away when the urge to beam at him is too much. Your cheeks definitely hurt by how romantic he’s being, and you can’t resist kissing him once more.

“I’m not gonna lie,” he starts, finally letting himself down, “It feels weird.” 

“You ruined the moment.” And he really didn’t, but you enjoy his subtle reactions to your light digs at him. 

“Whatever.” Riki laughs. “Stay here, I’ll be right back.” 

You nod, sitting down on the porch and dragging a manicured nail over your lips with the ghost of his affections, thinking about how you literally just kissed Spider-Man. 

Riki comes back, dusting off his suit and smoothing out the wrinkles, with a large bouquet of red roses and one blue one snuck in there. Your lips stretch into a grin and you accept the bouquet, keeping a mental note to read the card in there.

“You never cease to amaze me, Riki.” It’s the last thing you mutter to the air before you loop your arms around his neck, urging him to lean down as you kiss him once more—this time rightside up, but still as sickly saccharine as the one before it. Your heart is fuzzy with fondness and your eyes glitter with adoration. 

“So, which kiss was better?” he asks when you pull away, a little breathless and dizzy.

You swat his arm and walk past the gates, seeing the sleek limo waiting by the curb. “I don’t know, Spider-Man. Maybe show up in your suit and we’ll try it again.” 

REBLOGS AND FEEDBACK ARE ALWAYS APPRECIATED AND ALWAYS READ!

RIKI FIC DONE!!!! ngl y/n u were right there how did u not know riki was spiderman but whatever idc she's a hard worker not smart LMFOAOAO. my first ever action fic so i hope you enjoy! also i hate the ‘oh he pined after her for 4 years she liked him for 2 months’ bs because I WAS IN IT. and it sucks so i tried to deviate from it :)

꣑ৎ permanent fic taglist (TAGGED IN TEASERS, FICS, HEADCANNONS, DRABBLES, ETC.): @dimplewonie @minleeeknow @heeheesang @mintpjzroll @llvrhee @firstclassjaylee @in-somnias-world @rairaiblog @suneng @mavlogist @sensitively-taken @sumzysworld @simpjay @moons-v @riksaes @txtari @jungwonscatcus @tya0 @sasfransisco @woorcve @shypen @pinkriki @rikisluv @saranghaohoshi @lilifiedeans @wonmyheart @k1ttyluvr @nikisgfff @ramenoil @laurradoesloveu @lvcky-g1rl-syndr0me @ikeulims @missychiefs1404 @qwonyoung23 @yangjungwonnie @onementally-unstabel-kid @microwvdstrawb3rri3s @blooqz @anormieee hi permies hope u enjoy! kith

[julietsbody]

romeo meets juliet — luke castellan x reader : chess can be played in many different situations. 

tags : 18+!! loser!luke (hes actually such a loser im sorry), college setting, brothers best friend!luke, mutual pining, religious imagery(?), classic literature references, body worship, smut, luke is pathetically in love 

a/n : save me nerdy boy with sad eyes save me

luke didn’t acknowledge your existence at first, he stuck to himself, from his classes, to his dorm, maybe even the lunchroom if his roomate, your brother, convinced him to come rather than just making all of his meals in the dorm. luke and your brother were complete opposites, luke was studying literature, mostly classic,  he didn’t speak to many people unless forced to— and your brother was studying engineering, which also basically required him to join a frat, and he spoke to nearly everyone with cockiness prominent in his tone. 

one thing they did have in common, though, was chess. 

now, your brother could never tell anyone, especially not his frat brothers, that he played chess, let alone was in the university’s chess club— but he felt pity for luke, most of the time luke played by himself, which was somehow equally as frustrating as having to play against someone else. 

the only people that knew about your brother playing chess was luke, the chess club, and you. 

luke remembers the first time you came trotting in to the dorm, complaining to your brother about some argument you had with your parents about how your friends are distracting you from your studies. your brother only rolls his eyes, barely listening to your non - stop whining about how it’s ridiculous, “i mean— you’re the one in a frat! why aren’t they mad at you?” 

“because i actually do my work,” he mumbles, and luke breathes out in a silent laugh, moving a piece on his chess board. 

“you’re in engineering, you don’t even have any actual work,” you frown, and albeit the fact that you’re wrong, you’re still confident in what you said. 

“are you stu— whatever,” your brother waves you off, deciding to change the subject when he motions to luke, the boy in a nirvana t-shirt, currently moving to a different side of the chess board as he plays against himself, “this is luke, my roommate, obviously.” 

luke immediately freezes, fingers curling around the chess piece he was adjusting to move— his eyes are wide, and they’re moving to look at you, only to immediately flicker to some other part of the room when they meet your expectant gaze. since he won’t speak first, you pick up the slack, “hey, luke.” 

your brother notices how luke looks like a scared, lost puppy even by the slightest implication of having to speak to a woman, let alone be perceived by one, so he moves to whisper in your ear, “he’s like, deathly afraid of women, i’ve never seen him speak to one, ever.” 

and you from that you don’t expect a response from luke, until he mumbles a short, “hi.” 

that’s when your head tilts, noticing the way his curls fall over his brows messily, like he doesn’t pay attention to styling it, or maybe it’s on purpose, maybe he pays too much attention to styling it. the way he wore something so simple, yet so telling about himself, the way he awkwardly places the chess piece back on the board on the spot he wanted to. he assumes the conversation is over, so he moves to the opposite side of the board to make a move against his own. 

“are you in the chess club?” you take a step closer, and he perks up, hand ghosting over the piece once more. 

luke doesn’t say anything, his lips twitch around words that don’t come out. your brother speaks in his place, “he’s the president, he’s a fucking grandmaster.”

luke just awkwardly laughs, moving his hand to scratch at the back of his neck, eyes moving from the board to you, then to your brother, “i’m not like— actually the president,” another awkward, short chuckle, “i just— like.. um.. play a lot, i guess.” 

“you are the president, dude,” your brother corrects, being insufferable as he always is. 

but luke puts up with it, then you ask another question, “what do you major in?” 

“literature,” luke responds for himself this time, finally able to move his hand to make a proper move on the chess board, before mumbling, “mostly classic.” 

“you’re kidding, i am too, how have i not seen you before?” 

luke’s eyes finally meet yours, now, pausing on your eyes, then resuming down the shape of your face, memorizing each feature, the curve of your lashes, the shape of your lips— he swallows thickly. 

“i just— sit in the back.. and go to my dorm— as soon as class ends,” there’s that awkward, short chuckle again. 

“have you finished the paper?” 

luke nods, and that’s when your brother finally gets a bright idea. 

“you should help her, luke, with the work.” 

⋆𐙚₊˚⊹♡

that’s how it all started, with a simple suggestion, that’s when you came to the dorm more often, when he began to notice that you were actually in his classes, and when you realized he had an awful staring problem. he thought he was slick with it too, letting his eyes move around the room for a mere.. twenty seconds before they finally snap to you, and from there, they stay, until you finally return the gaze and he’s immediately nervously looking away. 

he hardly speaks to you, unless your brother urges him to, and he’s always avoiding looking at you when he speaks, stumbling over words, pausing in sentences to catch his losing breath. he was a complete and utter loser, terrible when it came to socializing, even worse when it’s with girls. with you, it somehow seemed to worsen. 

“am i the first girl you’ve ever talked to?” you ask once, far too blunt for your own liking, you didn’t mean to really say it, it kind of just came out when seeing how much his leg bounced under the table with nervousness, nearly sweating himself to death under your gaze. 

sweat beads down his temple when his eyes flutter up to meet yours, moving from the romeo and juliet book in his hands. isn’t it so ironic that he had just gotten done reading the scene in which romeo says, “did my heart love till now? forswear it, sight! for i ne'er saw true beauty till this night,” when seeing juliet for the first time? truly, it isn’t the first time he saw you, but it’s night, and you are beautiful. truly, utterly, “beautiful.” 

“what?” 

oh, oh my god. saliva bubbles in his mouth, sour saliva, and he gulps it down, hoping it would somehow be a form of poison that would wake him from this nightmare. does he say what he meant? that he was thinking out loud? that he thinks you’re beautiful? or should he deny it? deny. he bursts into awkward laughs, “what— what do you mean— i.. i didn’t even say anything.. ha, haha.” 

“why are you acting like that?” your brows furrow. 

“like what?” 

“like you’re hiding something.” 

his breathing only shakes anymore, “i’m not hiding anything.. that’s like— a wild accusation.” 

“it’s not an accusation, i’m just saying,” you frown at him. 

his adam’s apple bobs with another swallow, “okay but like—“ 

“why are you harassing him?” your brother sighs, tired how much you press luke. 

“i’m not— whatever, i was asking you— am i the first girl you’ve ever spoken to?” 

your brother barks out a laugh, and luke’s eyes fall back down to the book in his hands. did not having proper conversations with women make him any less? romeo grabbed juliet’s hand once, and the first words he uttered to her was a promise to redeem himself if his hand was too unworthy to be touching her holy one. parallels sear in his mind, and he just mumbles a, “not really.” 

he has spoken to women before, sure, small greetings, maybe even the slightest indulgence of conversation— but luke keeps to himself, and to be honest, he was a man used to running from women, as he did from his mother. he grew up being afraid of women, well, afraid isn’t the proper word, intimidated is better, and he just decided to avoid them as much as possible. 

though, no matter how much he tries to avoid you, you’re always there, in his sight, in his mind. maybe it’s a disgrace, like romeo holding juliet’s hand, for him to even be thinking of you, looking at you— you were a goddess that offered a man on his knees the slightest bit of your grace, and now he was hooked. 

it was pathetic, really, how he anticipated every time he suspected you would be over, how his eyes always found their way to you in class, how he made sure to purposefully walk past you in the lunchroom on the days he went, which was oddly more now. 

a man who is still a virgin to adore a girl far too good for him, he is hopeless. 

“it’s okay if i am,” you adjust, okay, there might be a little hope, “anyway, how do you like romeo and juliet?” 

“it’s pretty nice—“ he notices the way your face perks up in shock, “kind of, i don’t know.” 

“i think it’s a bore, i’m sure the movie is much better.” 

“we should watch the movie— um.. together, sometime.” 

⋆𐙚₊˚⊹♡

if luke was being completely honest with himself, he didn’t entirely mean to say it, and as soon as you left the dorm, he nearly doubled over with shock at his own words, and even more shock at the fact that you agreed. not only did you agree, you actually came, and it was just you and him. your brother was off at some frat party, again, and he had left luke completely alone with you, even when luke begged him not to. 

“you’re kidding, dude, i’m like— horrified of her,” luke frowns at your brother. 

“you need exposure therapy, or some shit, call me your therapist.” 

“you’re a shit therapist,” luke sighs, rubbing his temples. 

“and you need to grow some balls.” 

so, your brother left him, and now luke’s awkwardly standing with you at his door - step, staring at him expectantly, his lips twitch around so many possible words, possible sentences, and all that comes out is, “hey.” 

he’s been staring for you for at least a minute, and all he can say is hey. your lips curve to an amused smile, “hi, luke.” 

“um— you can come in, if you.. want, ‘course.” he moves out the way to let you in, watching you step past him so he can close the door. 

“i wouldn’t be here if i didn’t want to,” you remark as if it’s the obvious, mostly because it is. 

when romeo stood underneath juliet’s balcony, he praised how captivating she was, considers her as glorious as an angel, a winged messenger above his head. in his own words : 

“one who makes mortals fall onto their backs to gaze up in awe as the angel strides across the clouds and sails through the air.”

consider luke on his back now, staring up at the stars in your eyes, the halo that shines above your head, the wings that flap with every stride you make— a goddess, an angel, venus incarnate, right before his eyes, staring at him like he had something deeply wrong with him. wait. he blinks a few times, and his eyes refocus onto your confused face. 

“are you okay, luke?” 

he quickly clears his throat, “yeah, yeah— duh, ‘course i am, uh.. we should,” he moves to the table in which his laptop was on, “watch the movie, yeah? ‘ts on my.. laptop, if you don’t mind.” 

“i don’t, at all,” you move to sit next to him on the couch in front of the table, watching the veins in his hands pulse, palms sweaty when he moves to open his laptop, shifting a few tabs and pressing a few keys until he mumbles a small okay and presses the space button. 

moaning. that’s all you hear, the sound of skin slapping, ah ah— oh fuck mmph you’re so b— luke slams the laptop shut. 

dear god, save him now. 

he can’t even bring himself to look at you, the sweat on his palms only worsens and spreads onto the top of the laptop as he smoothes his hands across it, replaying the scene a million times in his mind. to his surprise, you giggle, “you watch porn?” 

he’s quick to awkwardly scoff out a short laugh, “yeah— i mean, everyone does.. but like.. i don’t watch it— that much.” 

your finger moves to run along the vein on his arm, feeling him shudder under your touch, yet he doesn’t want you to stop, even the slightest touch makes his dick twitch in his pants, “are you a virgin, luke?” 

he inhales sharply, “y-yeah..” 

“do you want to have sex?” you lean the tiniest bit closer. 

he pauses, “yes.. of course—“ 

“with me?” 

“yes.” he responds quick, too fucking quick, it must’ve been at most a second after you said it for him to respond. the truth stings his tongue, to finally be able to say it out loud, how much he had fantasized about you in the late of night, even sneaking off to the bathrooms so his hand can dip underneath his waistband when he thinks about the times you’ve worn a tight shirt that frames your tits far too well. 

but it was wrong, wasn’t it? you were a goddess, on a pedestal, and he was merely just a man, staring up at your statue in the hopes that you would notice him one day. forbidden, possibly, but all those thoughts leave his mind when his eyes move from the finger tracing up his bicep to your neck, then your lips, then your eyes. 

“please tell me you’ve kissed before.” 

“yeah.. yeah— i have,” a playground kiss counts, right?

it seems to when your lips fall against his own, the kiss was so gentle, until he dared to kiss you back, then it got hungry, mostly on his end. he kissed you like a starving man, nearly devouring you but at the same time, being horrified to. your tongue finds it’s way into his mouth, and to your surprise, he whimpers against your lips.

his hands are hesitant, unsure of where to go, does he touch your arm? your shoulder? your waist? he doesn’t want to push anything, so the waist seems far too much, his hands awkwardly place themselves on your arm, in a very weird position. 

“have you touched a girl before?” 

his lips are flushed from the kiss, eyes glazing over the position of his hands, and he quickly moves them off, “sorry— well, i just.. um.. didn’t want to push anything.” 

“you can,” you reassure, but his hands still hesitate, the flesh of a goddess, to be touched by someone so inexperienced. was he really worth it? any of it? to even be in your presence was a blessing, and it was still taking him forever to register the fact that you had actually kissed him, prayers passed through your lips into his. 

“are you sure?” 

“‘course i am.” 

it still took luke some getting used to, having you straddle his lap, you knew so much, it felt like more than just an honor to have you so close to him. his eyes flicked from your own to your lips, then to your tits, the low v - cut showing off your cleavage perfectly. and he looked like a complete deer in headlights, staring at the flesh pushed together between the window of clothing. you smile at his lack of self control, feeling the way his dick throbs underneath his pants, right against your ass, “you can touch them.” 

“wha— nono, ‘ts okay— i just..” he trails off, sweaty palms moving past you to slide across his knees. 

“really, luke, you can— why don’t i just..” you move to take off your shirt, his eyes immediately catching on to the lace of your bra, the way your tits are practically spilling out of it, all until you take off your bra as well and they immediately fall out. 

his hand twitches around nothing, desperately wondering what it must feel like to have your flesh underneath his palm, fingers curling around the plush of it. it seems you must’ve heard his prayers when you move to take his hands, pulling them back to press against your tits. 

soft, that’s his first thought, sweat sticks to your skin when his fingers curve around the flesh, gripping it ever so gently. praises spill from his lips almost immediately, thoughts he had since the day he saw you, finally being spoken, “y’re beautiful— fuck, i’ve always.. always wanted to— do this..” 

you smile so sweet at him, nectar nearly drips off your teeth, “can i ride you, luke?” 

his eyes finally meet yours, brows furrowing for a mere second, “huh— oh, oh.. yeah, ‘course you can.” 

you didn’t expect him to have a big, no matter how cruel that sounds, you had heard rumors of nerds with big dicks, but sought to never believe it until you saw it, and good fucking lord you saw it. as soon as his dick springs out from the pants and boxers you were tugging down, luke’s hands mindlessly moved to your waist, your eyes widen. 

no fucking way. he has to be.. six? seven inches, at least. slightly girthy too, he wasn’t all just length, and precum was beading from his red tip. he immediately inhales sharply when your fingers graze his dick, nervous under your gaze, “is it too small— i.. i’m sorry—“ 

“too small?” you scoff playfully at his scared expression, worried of what you think, “this might be the biggest dick i’ve ever seen, luke.” 

“that’s— a good thing.. right?” 

“obviously, god, it better fit,” this is the first time you’ve ever been concerned about whether or not a dick will fit, luke stiffens when you spit on your palm, pressing it to his dick and wettening it as you jerk him off, his response is immediate, carefully gripping at your skin and pressing his lips together to muffle his whimpers. 

luke had jerked of many, many times, but it never felt as good as this. 

“fuck—“ he grunts out, already far too close from just a simple hand movements. 

you immediately stop, picking up on his nearing orgasm from the way his hips kept bucking up into your hands, pathetic whines slipping past his lips, but it was just so cute. the cutest thing, though, was his face when he got the first look at your vagina, he looked like a man staring at a piece of art he had admired. and this was art, sex was, you were, everything about you, it felt so sacred. 

his lashes flutter when you take his hand, guiding it to your sopping cunt, allowing him to feel the wetness that was nearly pouring from you. like nectar from a fountain, it coated his fingertips when he touched you, his eyes focused onto your face, making sure that he was doing it right. he notices the way you gasp when his fingertips brush against your clit, so he presses against it again, and again. 

he follows everything he has seen in pornos, spreading your folds, fingers grazing past your entrance, rubbing your clit— but he’s lost when you wave him off before he can finger you to prep you for his dick, wasn’t that something people did? “but don’t you��” 

“it’ll fit,” you mumble back, relying on how wet you are to make it easier. 

he watches the way your jaw falls when you move to press his tip against your entrance, allowing the tip to push into you and it’s already too big. his eyes widen at the feeling of your walls clenching around his tip, unable to hold back the noises that slip from his own lips. 

“you’re like— the.. the girl of my dr— fuck— dreams,” luke hushed out between his mess of moans and grunts, he wondered if romeo ever felt this way when he kissed juliet for the first time, the sort of electric rush that riddled his bones, it felt unreal. you were a dream incarnate, one luke was always haunted with, the woman that would show up when his eyes would close at night, and now you were on his lap, sinking down on his dick. 

“am i? really?” you question, inhaling sharply when you finally reach the base of his cock. for some odd reason, you didn’t believe you were all he was putting you up to be, and that made him sick— how could you think of yourself as any less? you were perfect, a vision, to be fair, luke would adore you even if you were an enemy, just like romeo and juliet. 

he would stand at your balcony, stare at you from across the ballroom, kiss your knuckles, kiss you— he would do it all. he might even drink poison just to spend eternity with you. 

“yes, yes— are you.. kidding? mmph.. fuck— you’re like.. a fuckin’ goddess,” it comes out like a prayer, as if he was on his knees at your altar, kissing your legs, and whispering worshipping words. 

to nobody’s surprise, luke doesn’t last long at all when you’re bouncing on his cock, no matter how much he tried to distract himself from his throbbing cock by pawing at your tits, or moving to kiss you, his orgasm was just too close. “‘m g’na.. please.. g’na cum.. mmphh.. fuck!” 

when he does cum, you had pulled off him, jerking him off, and he’s practically writhing, a whimpering and damn near crying mess. and once he’s helped you to your orgasm as well, you’re falling into his arms, finding a safe - haven in how he smells like old books, mint, and cheap cologne. 

two star crossed lovers, one capulet, one montague. 

“these violent delights have violent ends and in their triumph die, like fire and powder. which, as they kiss, consume.” — romeo and juliet, act two, scene six.

[cheriecelestial]

Jacob Black's Self Saving System Pt.1

disclaimer *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧ crack.swearing.not proofread

synopsis *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧ Jason, a self-proclaimed no. 1 Stephenie Meyer hater, finds himself unexpectedly transmigrated into the very novel he disdained. Following this ironic twist of fate, he is now tasked with the challenge of creating a better version of the story himself.

a/n *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧ Inspired from @duckysprouts ’s series. It’s so good ⁉️‼️. If you haven’t seen it already, PLEASE GO CHECK IT OUT. Like finally svsss content that isn’t shizun sphinx cats or binghe skin creature abomination. Art and concept so fresh it made my heart cry with joy and pulled me out of my three-month long writing slump. So, I humbly present this as an offering to our lord and savior, Ducky. Comment, Reblog and Like (∩˃o˂∩)♡

Twilight by Stephanie Meyer was a modern classic in its renaissance era with a large cult that loved to hate it. Set in a place with relentless rain, mist shrouded forest and an ethereal light piercing the gloom — the light being the one of only Edward Cullen. Though the statement is subject to fan bias — he was a man, rather sparkly vampire, who somehow managed to be both irresistible and perpetually constipated. 

Nonetheless, his charms never overshadowed the stellar performance of our female lead, Isabella Marie Swan— better known as Bella — a teenager who gained worldwide fame for having a personality less vibrant than a wet cabbage. Together, they navigated the perilous world of teenage angst, vampire baseball, millenia old racist italian politicians and werewolves with a curious t-shirt allergy, all in an impressively monotone palette.

It was a heartwarming tale that began with awkward stares, cryptic yet nauseatingly clichéd conversations and Bella’s inexplicable attraction to danger, making the romance as thrilling as it was perplexing. Meanwhile, the supporting cast of her high school friends, each with their own irrelevant quirks and subplots, served as convenient plot devices — appearing and disappearing at the whim of the author.

And as if her love life wasn’t tumultuous enough, Bella befriended Jacob Black. A werewolf who, unsurprisingly, hated all things vampire and Edward Cullen in particular. Between Edward’s brooding, Jacob’s abs and Bella’s classic damsel-in-distress antics that made poor Elena Gilbert seem unremarkable by comparison — the story unfolded with the subtlety of a glitter bomb and reached unprecedented heights of melodrama. Something that helped the tale become a global phenomenon, demonstrating that improbable love stories can indeed shine in their own sparkly “skin-of-a-killer” fashion.

“This has to be the worst piece of literature I’ve ever read in my life.” Those were strong words from a man who spent years and at least six hundred dollars collecting softbacks and hardbacks in every special and limited edition the series offered. Jason Black was an anti-fan who lived to scoff at the literary mediocrities of authors who, after taking one look at their drafts, believed they deserved to be released into the world as actual literature. Such people, often inspired by similar works, spawned their own deranged narratives, subsequently contaminating the sanctity of literature. 

In layman’s terms, Jason was a fervent hater of the highest order. He had a long list of things he despised about the series, yet curiously, re-watching the movies and re-reading the books always found its way to the top of his to-do list every other weekend. But do not get him wrong, not once did he say anything in favour of the series. Jason simply considered it one of those brain-rotting pieces that needed to be experienced to truly appreciate the beauty of classics like Emily Brontë and Jane Austen.

_username_1 : Bruh stfu. You’re probably an unemployed loner with nothing better to do in life than to be a keyboard warrior.  

_username_2 : then idk buddy don’t read it ? It’s not that hard. 

Jason huffed at the screen crossily, his fingers dancing over the keyboard unsure of what to type next. With a sigh, he stretched his arms as if preparing for battle. And a battle it was — being an anti-fan required more dedication, practice and patience than being a regular fan. What he didn’t realize was that he had knocked a water bottle off the table onto the frayed cord of his PC.

He couldn't fathom why people defended it as if their lives depended on it. If he ever met Stephenie Meyer, Jason would have a long talk with her about the plot—or rather, the lack thereof. With the number of plot holes in the books, they could qualify as swiss cheese. The inconsistencies were glaring: if sunlight made them sparkle, wouldn't they still sparkle during the day, just less brilliantly ? How did Jasper and Alice not overhear the phone call despite having super-hearing ? Why did Jasper go ballistic over a papercut when he attended a school where students would get paper cuts and scrapes all the time ? Why were vampires and werewolves the only species to exist ? And why was Bella, or more specifically her blood, so exceptional ? Did she perhaps descend from a line of flavourful blood havers or was it due to her mother's partial albinism ?

Was she special because she was the female lead, or was she the female lead because she was special ? There were so many unanswered questions and half-assed excuses for the events in the story that most explanations came from clever fans trying to make sense of things the author clearly put no effort into planning or thinking through. These questions had plagued him since he first read the series, and the lack of satisfying answers only fueled his irritation. So much so that Jason was embarrassed for the author. Regardless, he didn’t like the direction this conversation was going so he did what any intelligent person would do, i.e., spew hate comments and log off. 

edward_my_bbg : Dumbfuck novel, Dumbfuck author 

And as if on cue, a new notification popped up, dragging him back into the fray. It was another comment, this time mocking his apparent obsession with the series he claimed to hate. Jason’s face flushed with irritation as he furiously typed a retort, but before he could hit send, his screen flickered and went black. 

He looked down and realized the water bottle he had knocked over had short-circuited his PC. With a groan, Jason leaned back in his chair, staring at the dark screen. It seemed the universe had decided to give him a break from his self-imposed battle. His hand fumbled in the dark for the plug only to feel water on the surface. The sharp pain and crackle of electricity were the last things he knew before he plunged headfirst into endless darkness.

[Activation Code:「Dumbfuck Author, Dumbfuck Novel」 ]

[System activated] 

[Pairing command successful]

“What system ?” Jason asked out loud into the void even though he knew that it was most likely a figment of his imagination. He hadn’t expected to receive a reply however he did receive one much to his surprise. 

[Welcome to the system. During the opening of the 「you can you up」system currently in its development phase, we wish to provide you with the best experience. It is our sincere hope that during the process, you will achieve what you have stated: to transform a piece of stupid writing in accordance with your wishes into a high-end, expansive, and classic work. We wish you happiness.]

Jason blinked, trying to make sense of the message. He glanced around the dim room, half-expecting to see some kind of holographic interface or futuristic display but there was nothing. Just the voice in his head and the darkness. “What the hell is this ?” he muttered, feeling a mix of confusion and curiosity.

[You have been selected to participate in the beta phase of the 「you can you up」 system. Your task is to improve the story you despise, turning it into a masterpiece. All resources and guidance will be provided to you. Do you accept this challenge ?]

Jason hesitated, the situation seemed absurd, yet a part of him was intrigued. As he sat in silence, a thought occurred to him—what if he could actually fix all the plot holes that drove him up a wall ? Maybe this was his chance to prove he could do better. But then, the possibility of all of this being real seemed too slim. How did he get here ? What happened to him after the electric shock? Was he dying, or was he already dead ? "And if I don't accept ?" he asked, uncertainty and fear bleeding into his voice despite his attempt at maintaining his composure. The system responded quickly in the same mechanical tone as before.

[Your connection between your former body and soul was severed before the initiation of the program. If you choose not to accept, you will be returned to your previous reality with no changes made. This opportunity is unique and will not be offered again.]

“Severed from my body ? Wait— doesn’t that mean I’ll die if I don’t accept ?” Jason's question hung in the air, met with nothing but silence from the system. The lack of response only confirmed his fear.

The system's silence was deafening, seemingly pressing him to make a decision. Realizing he had little choice, Jason took a deep breath. “Fine, I accept,” he said, trying to sound more confident than he felt. How bad could it possibly be ? 

[Command acknowledged. Initializing story rewrite mode.]

The void around him began to shift and wrap. Till now he felt as though he was floating with no sensation except the system’s sound. His reality dissolved into swirling colours and Jason felt himself being pulled into a vortex. When the chaos settled, he heard a man’s voice call out to him. Unlike the clinical tone of system, this voice felt comforting and personal. He could feel tender warmth run through him however he couldn’t quite figure out what the voice was saying. 

“Son ? Can you hear me ?” 

“Dad ?” Jason murmured involuntarily, his voice hoarse as if he had just woken up from a long sleep. The gravel in the voice reminded him of the joys of his childhood when his dad was still — wait a second. Who the hell is that ?

His eyes struggled to focus as his eyelids fluttered a few times. Eventually, he was able to make out his surroundings. The first thing he noticed was the ceiling. Unlike the damp ceiling of his old apartment with its peeling plaster and harsh lighting, this one had old glow-in-the-dark moon and star stickers. It wasn’t familiar, but it seemed oddly comforting, like he had known it all his life. He slowly turned his head and saw a middle-aged man sitting on a wheelchair beside him with concern clouding his face. The man's russet complexion was lined with wrinkles yet his hair was long and lustrous.

“Where am I ?” 

“You’re at home. You’ve been asleep for so long, it’s alright if you’re confused. Take your time son.” The man he called ‘dad’ answered sincerely.

Jason’s mind raced as he tried to piece together what had happened. The familiarity of the room and the comforting presence of the man didn’t align with the reality he remembered. In that moment, everything came back to him—his death, the void, the system, everything. Jason went into what could only be described as psychological shock. His brain went on autopilot.

The man reached out to grab Jason’s hand, but Jason flinched and pulled away. Slivers of hurt flashed in the old man’s eyes as he slowly withdrew his hand. Jason hadn’t meant to react so harshly, but the information dump combined with the influx of sensory input, he was simply too overwhelmed to cope.

“I-I think i need some space. Do you mind ?” Jason spoke each word carefully, then added, “...dad,” feeling strangely guilty for hurting his feelings. The old man nodded slowly and wheeled himself out of the room. As soon as he was gone, Jason jumped out of bed and ran to the mirror. "Who the FUCK is this?"

Staring back at him was a boy, fifteen or sixteen, with the same russet skin as the old man and glossy black hair that looked like it belonged in a shampoo commercial. Recognizing the features, Jason knew this could only be one person.

 [System activation successful ! Binding your role as : Jacob Black]

[System : Booting Up]

Jason, now Jacob Black, stared at his reflection in disbelief. The reality of his situation hit him like a shit ton of bricks. He brought his fist to his mouth and sobbed into it, and here he thought college was devastating. “But I’m Team Edward,” he choked out between sobs. “That’s so fucked up.”

[Thank you for initiating the execution of the system. You are not bound with the account ‘Jacob Black’. All resources and guidance will be provided to you in due time. Initial B points : 100]

Jason—Jacob—felt a rush of confusion and frustration. “Now what the hell are B points ?!” he yelled, his voice reverberating off the walls of the unfamiliar room. The loudness of his own voice startled him, making him realize just how different everything felt in this new body.

[As the plot progresses, a number of opportunities to gain more points will be available. Please make sure your B points are not lower than 0. Otherwise, the system will automatically impose penalties.]

He stumbled back from the mirror, running a hand through his hair, which was definitely longer and thicker than he remembered. He could feel the strength in his limbs, the vitality of youth coursing through him. Yet, despite the physical vigor, his mind was in turmoil. He had transmigrated into the very novel he hated; the universe always seemed to have a field day when it came to ruining his life. Jacob looked around the room that was littered with the relics of a life he had to now live — a cozy bed with rumpled sheets, a desk cluttered with schoolbooks and posters of motorcycles, bands and scenic landscapes on the walls.

“Um, so is Bella here ?” Jacob asked, scarfing down the bacon his dad made for him. Despite stressing over the role he was supposed to play in the story, he quickly adapted to his new life. He had a family, a house to live in, no worries about finding employment, no bills or taxes, a social life—or at least he assumed he had one—and, most importantly, no backaches. In hindsight, this might not be all that bad.

“Oh, you remember that ? Charlie said she’s arriving in a couple of days,” his dad, Billy, replied. Jacob felt a strange mix of anticipation and relief. Unlike most unfortunate transmigratees, he had no death flags to worry about, so he could sit back and watch Bella and Edward fall in love without “Jacob” interrupting them. Maybe he could even make things easier for Bella by acting like the perfect wingman. Who cared about making a better story anyway ? And once he had seen his OTP together, he could take his ticket out of town after the wedding and never return so that he could avoid the whole Renesmee business because some fates are worse than death.

[WARNING: Your plan is extremely dangerous and constitutes a violation. Please do not attempt it, or the system will impose strict penalties.]

Jacob choked on his water as the sudden warning window popped up in front of him. For a moment, he was so immersed in the domestic comfort of his new life that he almost forgot about the cursed system. His father looked at him with concern.

“Water went down the wrong pipe, that’s all. Nothing to worry about,” Jacob said awkwardly, trying to reassure his father. So you can read minds now ? He internally taunted the system.

[It is a feature designed to ensure maximum support for the user.]

“That’s bullshit. Also, what do you mean by violation ?” Jacob asked. Does this system really have no respect for privacy ? If he didn’t know better, he’d think it was some kind of Zuckerberg’s meta gimmick.

[You are currently at the beginning stage. OOC function freeze is activated. You must complete the beginning stage before any functions can be unlocked. If you perform any actions against the original ‘Jacob Black’ role before the functions are unfrozen, a certain number of B points will be deducted.]

Given his extensive time spent on the internet, Jacob was well aware of what OOC meant, and he knew it wasn’t a good sign. OOC stood for Out Of Character, referring to actions taken by a role that deviated from how the character was originally written.

“FUCK OFF. I’m an adult. I already finished my degree and Bella is like, a baby. And you can forget the whole Renesmee shit too. Bella belongs with Edward and and I have no intention of pursuing either her or her future daughter. So back off, you creep of a system.”

[WARNING: The system is issuing another alert. If your B points fall below 0, you will incur a penalty, which involves being automatically transported back to your original world.]

“You know, threatening me with death is really getting old,” Jacob stared at the warning message with his anger mounting. It felt like the system was encroaching on every aspect of his new life, imposing rules and restrictions without offering any clarity or real support.

He took a deep breath, trying to push past his irritation. There was no point in arguing with an automated system, especially one that clearly had its own agenda. Jacob decided to focus on what he could control. He needed to immerse himself in his role as Jacob Black and complete the introductory stage without attracting undue attention. The system’s warnings might be annoying, but he couldn’t let them derail his efforts to adapt to his new life.

As he finished his breakfast, Jacob glanced around the house. It was warm and welcoming, albeit a little messy, which was understandable. He and his dad were the only ones living there and according to his dad, he had been inexplicably unconscious for almost a week. Keeping the house tidy wasn't exactly a priority for a man worried sick about his son.

“Thanks for breakfast… Dad,” Jacob said, still not used to the idea of having a father again. There was the whole issue of stealing the real “Jacob” ’s life, dealing with imposter syndrome, and the guilt of replacing the memory of his own father by calling this old man his dad. But that was an existential crisis he chose not to mull over at the moment, especially on the precipice of the story's start. Call him selfish, but he preferred to focus on his blessings.

“I’ll go take a walk. I’ve been asleep for a while, so I need to… uh, stretch my legs,” Jacob said awkwardly, hoping Billy wouldn’t notice anything strange about his behavior.

“Sure thing, son. Also grab some red meat from the store for dinner. A growing kid like you needs that protein. And buy yourself something nice with the leftover money,” Billy replied, taking out his wallet and handing him some cash.

Jacob stared at the man in awe. As a kid who had bounced around the foster system after his dad died, he was used to being scorned and neglected. This might be part of the reason why he had become a social recluse, spending his time bashing bad literature and authors online. To him, Billy Black was the closest thing he had ever seen to an angel.

Jacob took the money, still feeling a bit dazed. “Thanks, Dad,” he managed to say, pocketing the cash. The air filling his lungs was much fresher than the pollution-riddled air of the city he used to live in. Nature seemed a lot nicer than he remembered. So, here's a lesson for the kids—don’t wait until you die and get transmigrated into a novel you hate to understand the importance of getting outside and appreciating nature. In short, go touch some fucking grass before it’s too late.

Almost as if by instinct he found himself at La Push beach. He wandered through the familiar yet new surroundings, trying to piece together his plan. If he was going to be stuck in this world, he might as well make the best of it. He thought about the story and mentally reviewed his plan. He would stay under the radar, be friendly but unobtrusive and focus on blending in with the locals. If he played his cards right, he might just manage to navigate this strange new life without getting points deducted by the system’s restrictions.

After strolling along the shore for a while, Jacob found a rock to sit on and watch the ocean. It was a stark contrast to the urban jungle he was accustomed to, this place was serene and almost idyllic.

“Ayo, is that Jacob ? Hey, Jake !” he heard someone call out. A moment later, a boy close to his age ran up to him, followed by one more. “Um, hey guys. How’s it... going ?” Socializing wasn’t one of Jacob’s strong suits; in fact, it was the exact opposite of the skill he had meticulously avoided developing over the years.

“Man, the whole crew was freaking out about you. You were out cold for a week and for no reason !” One thing Jacob appreciated about the system was the introduction tags above each character’s head. The boy speaking was named Quil, his cousin from the Quileute tribe. He knew these interactions were unavoidable, given their significance to his new role in the plot.

“Well, I got better ?” Jacob attempted a witty quip but cringed at how poorly it landed. To his surprise, the two boys just laughed. “I’m just glad you’re okay. Stop by Sam’s sometime; he’s been asking about you,” Embry said, giving Jacob a friendly slap on the shoulder.

“Wait Sam ? Right of course. Duh. Sam’s place. Got it.” Jacob replied, blinking in confusion for a moment. Sam Uley was the Alpha—or at least the to-be Alpha—of the pack Jacob was supposed to join during New Moon.

[Mild OOC warning]

“Ay man, you feeling okay ?” Embry asked again, noticing Jacob’s hesitation. Jacob froze, Embry Call was the real Jacob’s best friend and if he figured out that Jason wasn’t really Jacob, it would spell massive trouble for him.

Jacob forced a smile. “Uh, yeah. I just—” He quickly tried to think of something. What would Jacob Black say in this situation ? What does he do to feel better ? He racked his brain for answers, knowing he needed to play the part convincingly, at least till he found a way to unfreeze the OOC function.

Go bother Bella ? a small voice suggested. Bella’s not here yet dumbass, another voice countered sharply. After years of social isolation, Jason’s inner dialogue had evolved to the point where he could have entire discussions with himself. No, he wasn’t schizophrenic.

“—I was just going to grab some red meat to chow on and uh y’know, work on my bike,” he finished, hoping his voice didn’t betray his nerves.

Embry and Quil exchanged a knowing look, which made Jacob's anxiety spike only to burst into laughter. “Classic Jake. At this rate, you might end up marrying your bike,” Quil teased and Jacob laughed along, though he desperately wanted to crawl into a hole and never come out again.

“Just take it easy, yeah ? We don’t want you passing out on us again. By the way, there's a sale at the store on the other side of town,” Embry squeezed Jacob’s shoulder reassuringly again. The familiarity they seemed to share with him was comforting, even if he felt like an imposter. He knew he had to get up to speed quickly if he wanted to maintain this facade. They soon parted ways and Jacob headed towards the store.

The store lady was overly enthusiastic upon seeing Jacob. He couldn’t tell if it was because of his face or the fact that he was a regular. As Jason, he had always been below average in looks and physique. Whereas, by the virtue of being the second male lead of a popular teenage romance novel, Jacob Black was undeniably attractive. With his deep-set dark eyes, prominent cheekbones, and beautiful long hair, he looked like someone Jason would have envied. Maybe he could try his hand at modeling once the story ended, because there was no way he was putting himself through college again.

And as unpredictable as the weather of Forks was, it began to rain. Normally, Jason would wait it out and then go but now that he as in Jacob’s body, he thought to test his body’s limits. Like c’mon a little drizzle isn’t going to hurt a big strong werewolf alpha-to-be. He stepped out into the rain, feeling the cool droplets on his skin. It was refreshing, almost invigorating. Jacob’s body seemed to handle the cold and wet far better than Jason’s ever did. As he made his way back the store, he noticed people giving him friendly nods and waves. It felt strange to be acknowledged so warmly, a stark contrast to the anonymity he was used to.

At the red light he stopped, waiting for it to turn green. Sure, there were no cars around and he could have just walked, but road rules were no joke. He liked this life too much to risk having it taken away by truck-kun. “Hey system, is double isekai a thing?” he asked. The system didn’t reply, so that was probably a no.

Jacob glanced to his side and saw a person standing under a large black umbrella. A strong sweet scent pricked his nose. How strong does this guy’s cologne have to be to reach me even with the rain ? There was a name tag hovering above the person’s head, but it was obscured by the umbrella, as was his face. One thing he had learned was that only people relevant to the story had name tags over their heads, which meant this person was a character in the story. He looked down at the stranger’s hand—it looked like porcelain.

Jacob felt a sense of foreboding, creeping up his veins. His instincts were on high alert, telling him that this stranger was no ordinary person. The rain began to pour harder, each drop bouncing off the asphalt with increasing intensity.

The person probably noticed Jacob staring and as he did, the umbrella tilted slightly, revealing a glimpse of a pale, almost ethereal face with piercing golden eyes. The moment their gazes met, Jacob was momentarily blinded by a brilliant golden aura radiating from the name tag above the person’s head.

[Edward Cullen]

Jacob’s heart skipped a beat. Of course, it had to be Edward. What were the odds of encountering your favorite character on the very first day of your new life ? He felt his knees weaken. Despite the dim lighting and gloomy setting, Edward was undeniably striking. The rain seemed to fall more slowly around him, as if even the weather was reluctant to mar his flawlessness . His tousled bronze hair framed his face perfectly and Jacob felt an inexplicable urge to reach out and touch it. Despite all his criticisms of the novel, Edward had always held a special place in his heart for reasons Jacob couldn’t quite explain.

Damn, this mf looks anemic as hell. Maybe I should feed him. It was a half-serious thought, borne from both concern and his internal struggle to reconcile his feelings towards the character with the reality of his situation.

[OOC WARNING! OOC WARNING!]

[Edward Cullen is your enemy.]

“Fuck off, he’s my babygirl,”Jacob shot a mental retort at the system in exasperation and a streak of protectiveness. The system’s declaration that Edward was an enemy wasn’t misplaced given Jacob’s role in the novel but that didn’t mean it wasn’t at odds with his feelings.

Edward had always been his favorite character, a source of fascination and admiration. This was supposed to be his chance to explore and perhaps even improve upon the narrative, not to be embroiled in conflict with a character he held dear.

Jacob didn't even notice when the light turned green and Edward started walking away, his steps soundless on the wet pavement. Acting on impulse or perhaps some hidden desire, Jacob found himself walking towards Edward and grabbing his elbow, accidentally knocking his umbrella aside. Edward stopped and turned to him as the rain continued to soak them both. His gaze was like a sharp, unyielding beam of light, cutting through the rain. His eyes, an unusual shade of golden amber, held a depth that seemed to pierce directly into Jacob's soul, scrutinizing every hidden corner of his being.

[OOC! OOC! OOC! OOC! OOC! OOC! OOC! OOC! OOC! OOC! OOC! OOC! OOC! OOC! OOC! OOC! OOC! OOC!]

[EDWARD CULLEN IS YOUR ENEMY]

I’m so stupid — I forgot completely. Jacob and Edward haven’t met yet. Maybe… maybe I can salvage this ? Be a dick and still be nice ? He definitely didn’t want to end up on Edward’s bad side, nor did he want to break the system’s rules. Annoying as it was, the system was what kept him alive. Though he’d never say it out loud, he was terrified at the thought of dying, again. The system’s constant reminders of their supposed enmity were starting to grate on him, but he couldn’t afford to make more mistakes. What was a man to do when every choice seemed fraught with peril ?

Ack — he’s staring. Can he hear my thoughts ? I hope not. He and Bella meet soon, if I remember correctly so— Jacob’s anxiety skyrocketed under the weight of that gaze. His heart pounded in his chest, each beat drumming in his ears. A tight knot of dread twisted in his stomach and whether it was the rain or not, he could feel cold sweat forming on his palms. He needed to say something—anything—that wouldn’t completely derail the plot but also wouldn’t make Edward hate him from the start, even if it was inevitable.

“Oh uh — my bad, dude. I just thought you looked kinda sick so I thought — I mean,” Jacob scrambled for an explanation, forcing a nonchalant tone as he released Edward’s elbow. He felt like a small animal trapped in the headlights of an oncoming car, desperately searching for a way to escape unscathed.

“—Uh, here.” He shoved the raw steak he had just bought into Edward’s arms. The system fell silent for a moment, as stunned by his actions as Jacob was. The sound of the rain was almost deafening as awkward silence stretched between them. Edward looked down at the raw steak in his hands, confusion and surprise painting his features.

Without waiting for a reply, Jacob quickly turned on his heel and hurried away, his footsteps splashing through the rain-soaked pavement. “Later ! Get that iron up and be the lady killer you were born to be !” he called over his shoulder. After walking a few metres, he paused briefly and added,“ And seriously lay off the sauvage man !”

As he put more distance between them, Jacob’s thoughts began to spiral. What had he just done ? Did Edward think he was completely nuts ? Or worse, could Edward have read his thoughts and seen through his facade ? Jacob shuddered at the possibility.

[Why did you do that ?]

“I don’t know okay !? I thought it’d help with looking y’know less dead when he meets Bella.” He shrugged. Explaining himself to the system felt pointless considering it was neither his parent nor his babysitter. The system remained silent, as if considering his response, Jacob rolled his eyes.

[OOC ! -20 B points ↓ ↓ ↓]

“Oh come on !”

“Still staring at that bag of steak, Ed ?” The pixie-haired woman leaned over her brother’s shoulder, teasing him.

“Go away, Alice,” Edward muttered, his gaze still locked on the steak as if it held some profound answers of the universe. His fingers occasionally running over the plastic, making the blood inside to squelch against the surface.

“Seriously what’s up with you ?” Alice frowned, dropping the banter. Ever since Edward had returned, he’d been fixated on this bag of steak that suspiciously smelled like wet dog. What was even more peculiar was the fact that she hadn’t had any visions of this event. Normally, Alice caught glimpses of all the interesting things happening with her family throughout the day but she had no clue how Edward had ended up with that steak. And from the look on his face, Edward didn’t look like he was divulging anything either.

“Nothing just… trying to figure someone out.” Edward sighed. Alice was his favorite family member, and he seldom told her off but this was something he couldn’t even make sense of himself. If he told Alice, she’d likely blow the whole thing out of proportion. But despite everything, one question kept lingering in his mind.

Who was that man ?

A.n - should I make this into a series ? If yes please lemme know if you want to be added to the taglist.

[goalieflashflight]

This paragraph killed me, and this is full of spoilers. I could write tomes of literature about this paragraph. This is from 'Monstrous Regiment' by Sir Terry Pratchett. Polly is a soldier pretending to be a man. Their god declares things sinful as abominations. The abominations were reasonable, then tolerable, and then wholly insane and even life-threatening. The country's citizens do what they can and guiltily ignore what they can't. Polly's mother was highly religious and found solace in their fading god.

Polly's brother is only described as having learning difficulties, but his hyperfixation is birds. He can name them, recognize their sounds, and mimic them. If he is not told what to do, he will stand outside and observe for hours. Polly, who was responsible for Paul, saved and worked to buy a paint set for him. Paul excitedly paints a bird that could fly off the page. Polly's mother is enraged by this, as painting living things is an abomination, and throws the paint and picture into the fire. Even though almost every room has a drawn picture of the Duchess, whom everyone prays to to talk to their god!

Her mother burned the picture. Her mother who Polly speaks about in only certain terms follows like a ghost in the story. She is another deity that has let Polly down. Something else she can't believe in.

I AM FERAL!

She lost everything she ever believed in that moment. Her mother, her country's god and the Duchess.

We all have that moment in childhood where we realize our parents aren't perfect, they aren't invincable. Polly's mom first did this by burning the picture then sealed it when she got sick and died. Which parelles how the country's god has died and all that is left is echoes. Echoes like that we see of Polly's relationship with her mother. Like how the Duches echoes the voice of another character when possessing her.

This story oh god this story. I will end it here, but there is still so much to say.

[brie-annwyl]

Bruce Wayne ideas because I can!

Bruce’s biggest fear is his children being hurt or dying of something he has no control over. Like no matter how much money he drains from his accounts, he cannot save them. This would be if his kids were diagnosed with a chronic illness that would eventually kill them or how Jason was originally supposed to die in the 80’s (AIDS).

Bruce is desperately touch starved but doesn’t know how to ask for affection, and obviously none of his kids (except for Cass) can read him well enough to know what he wants.

Bruce can only communicate when he’s being drugged by truth serum or fear toxin, it’s during a trip on truth serum that Bruce openly admits to Dick that he has adoption forms already signed in his office but he didn’t want to overstep. (If Bruce let out a few tears when he saw forms signed by Dick on his bedside table, no one would know)

Bruce has gotten Alfred a Father’s Day gift every year since he was 7 but hasn’t started giving them to him until Dick gave him one. Alfred definitely found the room Bruce put all of the unused presents, he may or may not have cried too.

Bruce gets his kids gifts on Father’s Day because “I wouldn’t be celebrating today if it wasn’t for you.”

Bruce CAN actually cook okay but purposely does it shitty so Alfred feels he still has a purpose in the manor.

Bruce doesn’t know how to properly apologize to his kids so he does the rich parent thing and uses his money. For Dick he will make donations to elephant charities and orphanages. For Jason he will give Crime Alley children scholarships to go to school and will donate 1st edition classic literature to the library Jason frequents. For Tim he invests in the Photography program and technology programs at his school. For Damian he will rent out art museums in Gotham and Manhattan for the day and will take him there for the day (a new animal will show up in the manor as well). For Steph (yes Steph is his child to me, deal with it.) he will make accessories (batarangs, etc) purple. Once he went out in a purple Batman suit whilst on patrol with spoiler. Cass got a ballet studio in the manor, like mans DEADASS got Clark’s kyptonian(?) ass to come help him too. Duke gets upgrades to his suits, random little gifts left in his room (could be something simple like chocolate or one time Bruce bought him an entire gaming set up.)

[cherrrydragon]

➤ reading between the lines

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SUMMARY ↳ Jason Todd loves nothing more than the sight of you with a book. The book's tension builds, your fingers gripping the pages a little tighter as the protagonist faces a crucial moment. You barely register the sound of the water shutting off or Jason stepping out of the bathroom. He stands in the doorway, towel slung low around his waist, shaking his head with an amused smirk. He slowly takes steps toward you, right up until his knees hit the mattress. He leans down, his arms coming to cage you. Finally, you really take notice of him. “Hi, Jay.” pairing: jason todd x fem!reader warnings: smut tags/notes: oral sex (fem receiving), domestic fluff, jason might be ooc sorry, lets just pretend its a less traumatized version of him wc: 2k

You think Jason has a thing for you and books.

You mean together, of course. Jason Todd’s affinity for literature is well known, and so is his affection for you. But you can see the way his lips curl up when he sees you curled up on the couch reading, wrapped in his favorite blanket.

The soft glow of the lamp casts a warm light over the room, highlighting the way Jason leans against the doorframe, his arms crossed, a smirk playing on his lips. He’s always been drawn to those quiet moments, watching you lose yourself in a world of words.

“Is that another tragic romance?” he teases, stepping further into the room. You glance up, catching his playful gaze.

“Not as tragic as your face.”

“Ouch,” he groans dramatically, clutching his chest. He falls onto you, plopping his full body weight and nearly crushing you. He buries his face in your neck and presses a chaste kiss there.

You huff and half-heartedly shove him away. “You’ll make me lose my place!”

“That’s why you should use those bookmarks I got you, honey.” He lifts his head, eyes sparkling with mischief. “

You roll your eyes but can’t help the smile tugging at your lips. “Bookmarks are for amateurs, Jay.” You gesture to the stack of books on the coffee table, a mixture of dog-eared pages and hastily folded corners.

He grimaces at the sight. “I should break up with you.”

“Who would read to you, then?”

He narrows his eyes at you. “Touché.” He presses a quick kiss to your lips and shifts so as to pull you into leaning on him. He wraps the blanket around both of you, plucking the book out of your hands in spite of your protests. “Can’t let you ruin this anymore. Lemme read to you, hm?”

You rest your head on his shoulder. “You can’t do it justice.”

“I’ve got the voice of a poet,” he retorts, arm wrapping around you. His voice is low, intimate and for your ears only. You move to rest on his chest so you can feel the way his chest rumbles as he speaks.

As he reads, you let your eyes drift shut, the sound of his voice becoming a soothing backdrop. Jason leans his down, pressing a light kiss on your head and effectively muffling his voice. Each word he reads intertwines with his heartbeat, spinning a cocoon of intimacy that cradles the both of you.

You notice the way he plops a bookmark on the page you were on just before you fall asleep.

“You’re killing me, honey,” Jason groans over the phone.

The smell of a home-cooked meal fills your apartment as you shoulder your phone. “Come home, then,” you chuckle.

“I swear I can smell it through the phone. Why’re you always cooking something good when I’m away, huh?”

You move to grab a pan. “Well, maybe you shouldn’t be away so much.”

“Gotta do my job, honey,” he sighs. “To keep my beautiful girlfriend safe so she can continue to spoil me with her delicious cooking.”

You laugh, stirring the simmering sauce. “It’s just pasta, Jay.”

“Yeah, but it’s your pasta. That makes it gourmet.”

You can’t help but smile at his praise. “Dork. I’ll save you a plate. Just don’t take too long, or I might eat it all.”

“Don’t you dare!” His voice rises in mock horror. “I’ll be home soon, I promise. Just a couple more things to wrap up. You got dessert for me?”

You scoff playfully. “Pick it up yourself. I’ve got a book to finish.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he drawls, then his tone softens. “I’ll get you your favorite. Only the best for my girl.”

You exchange sweet goodbyes before hanging up, the warmth of Jason’s words lingers in the air, wrapping around you like the blanket he often claims. You focus on the pasta simmering on the stove, the fragrant aroma filling the kitchen. Your mind drifts to Jason, as it does a lot, and you can’t keep the stupid grin of your face as you finish cooking.

After plating the pasta, you set the table, stealing glances at the clock as you wait for him to come home. You flip through the book, and allow yourself to get lost in the words. The minutes stretch, the kitchen filled with nothing but your muttered words as you read. You’re just about to take a distracted bite of your food when there’s knocks on the door, the specific pattern Jason went over with you.

Jason steps in, Red Hood helmets already off and perched under his arm, a bag carried by his other. You perk up, unable to suppress the smile that spreads across your face. He steps in, shaking off the remnants of his day, and his eyes light up at the sight of the table set for two. “You’re making me fall in love with you all over again, you know that?”

You laugh, stepping forward to meet him in a kiss. “Hi.”

“Hi,” he greets back one you separate. He places the bag on the table, the logo of your favorite sweets brand greeting you. “As promised.”

“You spoil me,” you hum happily, parroting his earlier words. “Everything go okay?”

Jason nods, pulling out your chair for you before taking his own seat. He grabs his fork with an eager shine in his eye that makes you snort. If there’s one thing you’ve learned about Jason, it’s that he loves to eat.

“Usual stuff.” He keeps it brief, for your sake. He doesn’t like you to hear about the stuff he deals with on patrol, once said, “pretty things like you shouldn’t worry about things like that.” Flattering, but it’s whatever.

“Dickhead mentioned this new bakery that opened up, though you might like it,” he mumbles, voice obscured by his chewing.

You smile. “Sure, let's make it a date.”

Jason goes on to mention little things about his day, and you do listen… at first. You love hearing Jason talk, and you love hearing about his day but… you also really wanna finish this book. It starts as subtle glances to the open pages. Then, it goes to skim reading while nodding along to his words. Now, you’re full on reading and have tuned him out. Whoops.

Jason pauses mid-sentence, a playful glint in his eye as he watches you. “Baby.”

“Hm?”

“Are you even listening to me?” he asks, smirking.

You look up, feigning innocence. “Of course. You just mentioned the arcade you went to with Roy.”

He raises a brow and you know he doesn’t believe you. Damn detective skills. If he feels any type of way because of it he lets it go and continues talking. This time you do better to try and pay attention, but when he leaves to go to the bathroom your eyes wander right back onto the pages.

“You’re killing me again, honey.” Shit, he came back fast. To his credit he doesn’t look annoyed, just fond. Still, you feel guilty.

“I’m sorry! I’m sorry,” you groan, shutting the book and throwing it across the room. Miraculously, it lands on the couch.

Jason raises a brow. “Nice throw.”

“Jay,” you whine. He snorts and comes around you, laying a hand comfortingly on your shoulder. “It’s so good. You’ll love it when I finish.”

“I’m not mad, honey.” He leans down and presses a kiss against your forehead, whispering, “Besides, I think it’s hot.”

You blink, watching him sit back down as if he said nothing at all. Well, that’s probably all you’re going to get out of him about it.

You are one of the many people guilty of not knowing when to put down a good read.

In your defense, however, it’s not bedtime yet. Bedtime is whenever you and Jason are in bed, and he still has to shower. Until then, you’re content to let him take his time, as you’re completely taken by your book. The gentle hum of the water running in the background almost becomes white noise to the whirlwind of words in your head.

The book's tension builds, your fingers gripping the pages a little tighter as the protagonist faces a crucial moment. You barely register the sound of the water shutting off or Jason stepping out of the bathroom. He stands in the doorway, towel slung low around his waist, shaking his head with an amused smirk.

He slowly takes steps toward you, right up until his knees hit the mattress. He leans down, his arms coming to cage you. Finally, you really take notice of him. “Hi, Jay.”

“Hi, honey.” His eyes sparkle with amusement as he takes you in. He smooches your cheek before his hands come to grasp at your hips, pulling you to sit at the edge of the bed. You don’t break your focus from your book (if we’re being honest, you’re kind of used to it…)

He knees at your shared bed and spreads your legs. You don’t pay too much mind, even when the feeling of your underwear sliding down your legs sends a familiar shiver down your spine. It is only when a hot wet feel slides against your core that you’re snapped back into reality.

Your body reacts instinctively, squeezing your thighs around Jason’s head. “Jay!” you yelp.

He responds with a hum that sends a buzz through your body. His hands massage your skin as he kisses around your thighs. Your heartbeat picks up and your chest starts to heave. Your fingers tremble around the pages.

A hand leaves your pressure book to grip Jason’s hair. Your hips begin to rock against his face. Your breathing becomes more labored. His thumb begins to swirl your clit, stimulating you to your very core. The room around you fades away, leaving only the rising tension in your body. 

Jason's hands move up your thighs, his fingers digging gently into your skin as he holds you in place. His tongue darts in and out, teasing you with gentle licks and soft kisses. You moan, your head falling back against the bed as you give in to the pleasure.

Suddenly, the book slips from your fingers, falling to the floor with a soft thud. You don't even notice, too caught up in the sensations coursing through your body. Jason’s hands pull you impossibly closer, caught up in your pleasure.

"Jason," you moan, voice laced with desire.

It seems that your voice sets him off, because his tongue starts moving faster along with his fingers to bring you to your peak. Your body trembles, and your hips rock against his face, seeking more of the pleasure he's giving you. Your toes curl, back arching against the bed as your moans get louder and louder.

White fills your vision, mouth falling open as a final whine leaves your lips. You take deep breaths as you come down from your high, thighs twitching. Jason’s eyes meet yours, slowly rising from his knees to meet you. His lips brush against yours in a gentle manner. You feel yourself melt once again, your body aligning itself with him.

“Good?” he mumbles against your lips.

“Good,” you affirm, breathing him in.

“Good,” he nods, breaking away from the kiss, before meeting you back for more. You smile against him as the two of you exchange chaste kisses. Your legs fall open to welcome him closer. You whimper at the feel of his bulge against you.

“Jay,” you moan, grinding against him.

You feel his smirk. “Yeah?”

“Please…” He’s only wearing a towel, all you have to do is hook a finger around it and pull…

You’ve never felt such disappointment like when he pulls away from you, tightening the towel. He bends down, picking up your forgotten book, and strolling out of the room.

“Wh- Jay!”

“You said I’d like it, might as well start now. Who knows when you’ll put this thing down again,” he calls from the hallway.

“Jason!”

“This is payback!”

notes: kinda hate this but what can ya do 🔥

[trupowieszcz-moved]

fun facts about (polish) vampire folklore because i'm too autism

(disclaimer: my source for all of this is the book "Upiór. Historia naturalna" by Łukasz Kozak i'm not pulling this out of my ass)

The word "vampire" came from a mistranscribed Serbian word, written down by Austrian officials informing about a panic among the locals, who claimed that during a plague their dead were rising and biting them and spreading the plague further

In Poland, the words used to describe what later transformed into a "vampire" in literature were: upiór (and variations thereof - the word came from Ukrainian, and the Ukrainians got it from Turkish "ubyr"), strzyga (f)/strzygoń (m) and wieszczy (m)/wieszczyca (f). "Upiór" was used in the southeast, "strzyga" around the central regions, "strzygoń" (as well as strzyga) specifically in Lesser Poland (Małopolska) and "wieszczy" in Greater Poland (Wielkopolska) and in Kashubia. "Wąpierz" was not a word until some writer in the 19th century made it up!

The upiór actually very rarely drank blood. It happened, sure, but a much more bloodthirsty creature was zmora/mara. However, upiory often drank milk, stealing it from cows and horses. Both are life-giving bodily fluids, after all.

The above might make you think about witches, who were often blamed with stealing or spoiling milk, and you wouldn't be far off. You see, you had to be born as an upiór (these ones weren't contagiously biting!), and while you were alive, it would give you various magical powers, like clairvoyance and detecting the dead upiory, and so the upiór was practically a synonym of a sorcerer or witch. Of course, the sources vary, but depending on who you asked, they could control weather bringing heavy rains or droughts, see the future, know literally everything and so on. Those so-called "living vampires" knew who they were since birth and were often helpful, until they died.

After an upiór died, that's when the bad things happened. They disappeared from their graves, destroyed churches, broke candles, brought plague upon the people, scared their neighbors, and if one puffed in your face, you would soon die. They were said to be able to walk around with their decapitated head, so anti-vampiric burials often had to be very thorough and decapitation wasn't enough.

The signs that were supposedly telling of a living vampire were, among others: being born with teeth, being born in a caul, not having armpit or pubic hair BUT having a hairy chest, not having undergone confirmation (i'll come back to that in a moment), having a very red face and easily and often blushing (not being pale!), or being born with a deformed foot.

Not having participated in the confirmation sacrament was especially damning, because it was believed that upiory had two souls (and two hearts). When they were baptized, only one soul was being saved, and the confirmation sacrament was supposed to protect the second soul. This, of course, was extremely against the catechism, so the first "official", church-related sources recording those beliefs had to invent another "backstory" for upiory, and they claim that an upiór is a dead person specifically, who was given to the devil at birth, the baptism saving their soul, but their body still belonging to the dark forces, which was why they rose from their graves - the devil basically hijacked their corpses.

I won't make this post much longer but I will GLADLY answer any questions because this is my special interest and I just came back from an exhibition where the author of the aforementioned book talked about all of that so. me right now ⬇️ (readmore so you dont get continuously blased with the gif under it)

[heavenlymorals]

Biblical References in Both RDR games.

I love biblical references so much. When it comes to literature, it's probably my favorite type of symbolism. Like I genuinely get so happy when I connect things to the Bible which is what I'm going to do right now 😊😊 I also like the way that religion is incorporated into RDR as a whole, including the main characters' reaction to it.

So yup, here are just a few references or connections that I was able to make in no particular order.

Also, some of these are complete reaches and I'm aware of that, but fuck it, it's my blog and I do what I want 💪🏼

- The character and tragedy of Issac. In the Bible, Issac is the child of Abraham who is asked to be sacrificed by God by his father as a test of faith. God eventually intervenes to save Issac because he only wanted to test Abraham's faith. Dutch is shown as a God-like figure to the gang, as their devotion is to him. Arthur, indirectly, sacrifices Issac by not being there and by following what Dutch wanted. Arthur, Issac, and Dutch are parallels to Abraham, Issac, and God.

- Leviticus is the book that comes after the book of Exodus. After the gang's escape or exodus from Blackwater after the Blackwater massacre, they are met by Leviticus Cornwall, who becomes the next obstacle for the gang. After the gang's exodus, they get in trouble with Leviticus.

- The image of the deer and a mountain. Psalm 18:32-34 in the Bible says, "It is God who arms me with strength, and makes my way blameless? He makes my feet like deers' feet, and sets me upon my high places." In Arthur's condemnation of Dutch, Micah, and their evil, he becomes steady in his identity and beliefs, like a deer's feet on a mountain, which is where he dies in the end. W symbolism.

- The mission "Sodom? Back to Gomorrah." In the Bible, Sodom and Gomorrah were two cities that were so morally depraved and evil that God decided to destroy the both of them, saying that if there was even one good person in those cities, he'd spare them, but there weren't. In those missions, you also do two evil acts, going from one and then BACK to the other. You rob the bank and then go BACK to collect the debt from Edith Downes. So you finish one evil deed and to straight to the next. This can also show how morally bankrupt Arthur's apathy made him at this point in the game.

- Micah's guns say "Vengeance is hereby mine." This could be a reference to Roman's 12:19 "vengeance is mine sayeth the Lord." Micah's violent nature makes him take his anger out on the world.

- "Your father is seduced by him with the forked tongue. It's no use hoping." The blind prophet to Arthur. Pretty straight forward symbolism, it's a nod to the snake that seduced Eve, just like how Micah manipulates Dutch.

- Dutch walking away from Arthur when he dies and though he realizes his wrong doing and feels shame, his pride forbids him from apologizing or saying he was wrong. This can be a parallel to how Adam and Eve run away from God when they feel shame over believing in the snake, but their pride won't allow them to apologize to God, hence damning them like how Micah damned Dutch.

- There were twelve ACTIVE gang members before the Blackwater massacre. When I mean active, I mean gang members who are canonically consistent (so not uncle, Swanson, Strauss, or the girls) on going on jobs for the gang. Micah, Bill, Javier, John, Hosea, Arthur, Charles, Sean, Lenny, Josiah, Mac and Davey Callender. Christ had 12 disciples and Dutch is portrayed as a savior to the gang, or a Christ like figure. And would you look at that, there is a traitor in both groups of twelve (Micah and Judas).

- Both John and Arthur's graves have scripture from Jesus's sermon on the mountain (Matthew 5:1-12). John's is blessed are the peacemakers and Arthur's is blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness.

- The go back for the money ending. If you go back for the money and have low honor, you'll see that the camp is engulfed in flames as you try to get the money. The fight with Micah is brutal and you die faced down in the dark. This death is an allegory for going to either hell and purgatory as you choose a final evil act of leaving your brother to possibly die just so you can get money as an act of revenge. If you have high honor, you are still surrounded by flames, but you still have a chance at heaven given that you die facing up seeing the light one final time.

- The help John ending has similar connotations. If you have low honor, you die by gunshot and are shrouded in darkness, which can symbolize the absence of God's light and how Arthur's final act couldn't absolve the lack of guilt he feels for the rest of the actions that he KNOWS are evil (click here for a my interpretation of Arthur's morality). In high honor, though, you get to crawl to the mountain side and see the rising sun, symbolizing heaven, warmth, and a new purity.

- In low honor, the coyote goes down to a dark cave, representing damnation and the rejection of holy light. In high honor, the deer steps into a heavenly field of light. Love that so much to be honest.

- Just the very Catholic vibe of Arthur's redemption. Doing good deeds, feeling guilt, all that.

- John's new life is basically this: "Let him who stole steal no longer, but rather let him labor, working with his hands what is good, that he may have something to give him who has need." -Ephesians 4:28. John gives up his old life to be an honest laborer, a rancher, and a proper man.

- The Strange Man in RDR rides on a donkey, which is pretty interesting because Jesus Christ also made his grand entry on a donkey.

- Just the Strange Man in general to be honest. Some say he's God, others say he's the Devil, and others say he's Cain from the Bible, which is my personal favorite theory but whatever.

- Dutch's horse could be a reference to Revelations 6:8- "And I looked, and behold, a pale horse! And its rider's name was Death, and Hades followed him." Dutch's rash actions caused the death of the gang and RDR's incarnate of Hades or Hell was Micah, following him. Dutch is the only one, canonically, to have a pale horse.

- "Am I prepared for eternal damnation? Am I passed any kind of saving? Or is that just fairy tales?" Arthur in his journal. I love this line so much because of its very agnostic nature whilst still showing the Christian mindset of 1899 America. This line also shows that Arthur is canonically agnostic which is a yippee from me because it's like the only thing me and this man have in common lmao 😭

- "Bad news awaits you, sir. Sadly, sooner than you think. But beyond the news, paradise awaits. Paradise.." Blind Man Cassidy to Arthur. Sorry but I just love that. High honor Arthur lived such an awful life but he still has a chance at paradise and heaven? Love that so much.

- God (pun intended), I love biblical symbolism. Couldn't you tell?

[mammonscheeks]

obey me brothers playing dress to impress

✎ a/n: for anyone who doesn't know, dress to impress is a fashion competition game on roblox.. just search it up on tiktok if you don't know!

LUCIFER thinks the whole game is stupid, but plays it once in a while to bond with his brothers. he sticks on theme, but adds his own personal 'goth/dark academia' flare to every outfit. he usually gets on the podium because most of his brothers vote him 5 stars (save for Satan and Belphegor), but he only gives them what he thinks they deserve.

MAMMON stays on theme, but doesn't care about dressing too great. he's just farming for money. usually doesn't end up on the podium. sometimes he just runs around collecting the money instead of working on his outfit. if the theme is something he likes, like 'street style' he goes all out.

LEVIATHAN actually takes the game seriously. he dresses the best he can, adheres to every theme perfectly, etc. his favorite theme is cosplay. if people vote unfairly or he doesn't get on the podium, he gets confrontational over chat.

SATAN puts his best effort into the outfits and LOVES the dark academia theme. he likes making references to pop culture, literature, etc. like for example, dressing up as a harry potter character. if he doesn't get on the podium but people with worse outfits do, he bullies them... he knows they're little kids, but he doesn't care.

ASMODEUS slays at every single outfit, because he's been alive for so long he knows everything about human fashion trends, subcultures, etc. he does try and add his own favorite style to every outfit, which is probably something like "coquette" into his outfits. When other people are on the runway, he's very verbal. He types things like "so cute!" and "ew" depending on the person's outfit. Votes honestly.

BEELZEBUB doesn't really care too much about the game. when he plays with his brothers, he just votes them all 5 stars out of kindness, even if their outfits are shit. beel's outfits are mid, he usually doesn't get on the podium, but places in the mid-range area. he wishes there were more food props his character could hold.

BELPHEGOR does not put any effort into his outfits. he votes all of his brothers 1 star because he thinks watching the whole fashion show is boring and tiring. the only theme he slays at is the slumber party theme because he has opinions on what pajamas look cute and what pajamas look ugly.

[almondmilktargaryen]

The Girl Who's Got Agoraphobia (Part One)

*pictures not mine. layout made via canva

Summary: You're the girl with agoraphobia Michael told Oliver about. You're known for not leaving your room much (obviously). But that doesn't stop Michael from checking on you.

Couple: Fem!Reader/Michael Gavey

Category: Flangst, friends to lovers

Content warnings: Agoraphobia stuff, pretentious dark academia vibes with English literature (no, I’m not sorry)

Word count: 1.4k

A/N: as someone with agoraphobia, I saw an opportunity to make something cute, so I pounced. Enjoy :)

Also on my Ao3

Part one | Part two | Part three | Part four

Class of 2006

From your window, you see your classmates disperse across campus. They stumble together, arms around necks and howling to the sky so loud, like wannabe werewolves. You can hear them from your window. Most of them seem to stumble toward the Botanic Gardens (which are closed) or to the Christ Church Meadow to gawk at cows and pass out in the grass before sunrise.

And all you can think is, thank God.

Thank God that you chose not to go to that dinner. You saw the setup whenever you passed the dining hall between classes. The tables looked narrow and the chairs were so close together, that there was no way you were going to snag a seat at the end. All those chairs in one room. It was enough to make you panic at the idea of being there. You would have definitely needed an escape plan before the first course was even served.

No, instead you preferred watching your classmates from your big chair, surrounded in the comfort of night, your things, and solitude while they clattered atop one another like drones in a hive. It only confirms that you made the right choice.

The knock on your door, however, briefly makes you question otherwise, but only for a moment. The adrenaline taking course from your heart to your limbs nearly made your knees buckle and force you back down to your seat. It obviously wasn’t your roommate, Venitia. She moved out two weeks into the semester because you never left the room (her words). You did leave your room, though. Just when it was essential: class, studying, and eating. Optional dinners to celebrate the class of 2006 were simply nonessential. So the word of you being the girl with agoraphobia spread quickly. You heard about it when you left your room, of course.

But when the adrenaline finally kicked it down a notch and you could step forward, you did so carefully with arched feet and great hesitancy. The doors are so thick and old, that it’s difficult to hear the old floors creak with weight shifts. Your eye follows the light from your peephole. Its faintness matches the atmosphere of your candles, except you can see the dust particles ebbing and flowing in the tiny beam. Your hand was already on the knob, though, because you knew who it was. You just had to make sure. You swallowed as you opened the door, your heart still pumping.

“Michael, hi.” You try to sound put together and keep your legs straight and unmoving as you lean on the door.

Michael Gavey, an actual genius and basically your only friend at this pretentious place, grins as you stand in the doorway. His Cheshire Cat lips curl as he says hello. He was one of the kindest people here, as evidenced by the plate in his hands, wrapped in clingfilm. The condensation was prevalent from the steam. “I brought you some dinner.” He holds it out for you to take.

And of course, you took it (while trying not to smile too widely). He was a good friend. “Thank you,” you eventually say. The plate was weighty with a hefty portion of quiche and lamb chops. You cock your head to the side, encouraging Michael to come in. “You didn’t have to do this for me.”

“It wasn’t a problem,” Michael said. He drops his satchel by the door as per usual. “I asked the staff to save a plate for you since you said you weren’t coming.”

You shut the door behind him. He takes his spot on the floor, next to your bookshelf. Most of his classes this semester involved maths (which was something you also bonded over. You both don’t like maths). He doesn’t get to indulge in the classics as much as he would want, so he takes the time to steal a novel from you when the two of you hang out in your room (often). He’s a horrible thief because he ends up giving them back. And if he’s feeling extra generous, he’ll slide it back exactly where he found it in the bookcase. You rarely remember where they originally were, but Michael manages to recall every time. Then you’ll discuss what he read. He loves literary analysis. You can see the way his eyes light up.

It was surprisingly easy to be natural with one another, considering he was bloody awkward when you met at orientation this past summer. You grew close quickly when discussing The Picture of Dorian Gray after discovering a statue of Oscar Wilde near the Pitt Rivers Museum. While you focused on the symbolism of vanity, Michael spoke about how corruption destroys everyone in the end. You also talked about Oscar Wilde and how certain (non-straight) elements of his life bled into his works. So it was surprising to find out that Michael’s major focused on mathematics and science.

You grab a fork from one of the kitchenette drawers before sitting across from Michael. You unwrap the plate and immediately go for a lamb chop. Meaty, with actual flavor. You chew and cover your mouth with your hand. “So how was it?” You asked him.

Michael shrugs. “Unremarkable, mostly. Nothing too surprising.”

You swallow. “Hm.”

“Hm, what?”

“You usually have more complaints over events like these. So something positive must have happened.” You didn’t want to ask further, out of fear you might learn something you’d rather not. “Did you meet someone?”

“Oh, I did.”

You inhale. “Who?”

“Another new student. Name’s Oliver Quick.”

You exhale. And you feel better.

“Quiet. Mostly odd, but,” he shrugs, “I’m not one to talk.” He snickers as he looks at you. It’s the classic dorky snicker that nerds in TV shows and movies always get assigned. To you, it’s sweet, because he doesn’t show it often.

You pick up some quiche. “Do you think he’ll like it here?”

“He’s not one for conversation, really. I had to pull words out of him most of the night. He wouldn’t even ask me a sum when I told him how good I am at maths. I served the topic on a silver platter.”

A pun was there as you swallowed, looking down at your own silver platter. But you know Michael is cross enough when he can’t see the joke in front of him. So you took another bite.

“So, he seems as hopeless at making friends as we are. I guess we’ll find out.”

“Where’d he go after?”

“Dunno,” he said. “I came straight here.”

That forces you to smile. The candles burn around you, hot like your cheeks. The heat prickles and you hope it’s not too obvious in the light.

Michael continues to smile at you, unchanging, so it seems you’re in the clear. And it’s not long until he leans back to gaze at your bookshelf. He points to the empty space in the middle. “What did you read today?”

“Virginia Woolf,” you reply.

“Oh, which one?”

“A Room of One’s Own. A memoir.”

“Ugh.” He scrunches his nose. He hates memoirs. He’s often informed you about how he thinks too many people write memoirs. But he habitually picked the Kate Chopin works from your shelf, so his opinion instantly becomes a moot point. Luckily, he finds them interesting enough to read on his own, so you’re spared from explaining why the main character ultimately hates being married. He picks out The Awakening. And then he looks at you after scanning the synopsis. “What?”

“Ugh.” You copy his tone.

“Don’t be cross with me because you enrolled late. Would you really have rather taken the one about Fitzgerald?”

“At least he and Zelda are more interesting behind the scenes.”

“Ouch.” Michael puts his hand over his chest, a pained expression on his face. “A burning statement from someone who calls themselves a feminist.”

“If I wanted stories about women who hated being married, I’d be at home with my mum and aunts.”

Michael hesitates to snicker again. “Okay, fair point.”

“You can keep that for a few days if you want. I won’t need that until December.”

“You’re not eager to read about…” he squinted at the back of the book. “Edna Potellier?”

“And the sexual awakening that makes her realize she doesn’t want to be a wife and mother anymore? Again? Not until I have to.”

“Wow. Antifeminist and serving spoilers. Your cruelty is limitless.”

You try to kick him. Then again, ‘try’ is a strong word. He dodges anyway before finding the first page.

[theodysseyofhomer]

if odysseus wanted have a good time sleeping around (or rather, if that's what the poet(s) wanted), he could simply do that. it's not like a male epic hero needed an excuse. what's unusual in the calypso situation is not that odysseus is sleeping with someone other than his wife; it's that the narrator affirms his unwillingness and misery.

and on the one hand, calypso is a misogynistic fantasy/nightmare in that she is a woman who can own a man in sexual slavery, which men in the world of the odyssey and of its composition do to women as a matter of course. on the other hand, she isn't a very common fantasy, is she? how often do you see a man held captive and raped in ancient literature?

or in contemporary literature, for that matter. i've had the 2013 article "the rape of james bond" saved to read for awhile (like... for a few months. not since 2013), which addresses more than the scope of this tumblr.edu post. but the author jumps off from the claim that constant sexual violence in fiction is needed for realism. she questions whether that is true in the way that it is often meant — e.g., whether the prevalence of rape in game of thrones is "realistic" to the middle ages — but she does argue that "sometimes, failing to acknowledge the risk of rape in circumstances where it would be particularly likely to be present can diminish the authenticity of a text."

[I]n so called Genre fiction, we love to strip away protection from our characters to give them an interesting job of coping on their own; parents are dead or absent or abusive, homesteads are burned down, authority figures are blinkered or oppressive; you can trust no one, for no one can hear you scream… And all these things will, in the real world, heighten a person’s vulnerability to all forms of violence, including sexual violence. So yes, realism does sometimes mean dealing with that vulnerability somehow or other. But that heightened vulnerability to sexual violence applies to men too. So where are they, all the raped male characters? People say, it would be unrealistic if she wasn’t raped, but take it for granted that of course he wasn’t. Why is that?

and yet here's the odyssey, one of the oldest extant pieces of literature, and we can't take it for granted, actually, that the pervasive threat of sexual violence in odysseus' world will never touch him.

the homeric epics include many, many enslaved people (of all genders) subject to implied rape (usually of women), and i won't pretend that's treated with the gravity it deserves. but the way calypso and odysseus are often dismissed makes me wonder if we're still not prepared for a specific kind of discomfort, rooted in the messaging we often get from fiction and society — though it does not reflect the reality of the lived experience of many people — that rape is always and only realistic when women go through it, because rape is what women and women uniquely are for.

[flightyquinn]

thinking about how cursed objects work in most fantasy RPGs.

typically, they wind up just kind of being a big middle finger from the game master - a kind of "whelp, you should have been more paranoid, so now you get hosed" sort of deal. which includes the somewhat game-y trope of objects that you can't get rid of. it's kind of an un-fun mechanic, when you think about it, which is why in most games I've been a part of cursed items often don't see much play, unless it's as a "punishment", or part of a story arc.

...which naturally leads me to think about how to do it better. in the past, I've tried using a curse as a kind of limiter. restrictions or drawbacks to a mostly functional item that is still worth using despite being "cursed". that's good, but it doesn't let you draw on truly nasty curses, because the item needs to be worth using, but also still needs to be balanced.

so, I'm drawing from a lot of sources here, like the cursed shield in Final Fantasy VI, and especially the comics by @foldingfittedsheets, where curses exist to (literally) teach the recipient a lesson

MEAT OF THE POST STARTS HERE:

what about cursed items that have a way to overcome their curse?

it's actually a fairly common trope in classical literature / fairy tales. every curse has a way to be broken. yet in D&D and Pathfinder, most often the only way to break a curse is to find someone with the specific curse-breaking spell.

so, give each cursed item a condition. perhaps a weapon that fuels a person's anger and causes them to fly into a blind rage in battle waits for them to sincerely forgive a hated enemy. perhaps boots that slow the wearer are actually making them heavy with the weight of past transgressions and a sufficient act of atonement will free them. maybe the perpetually bloody doll that gives its bearer horrible nightmares simply waits for someone to be motivated to action by them, either to right some past wrong, or generally bring a certain number of murderers to proper justice.

...maybe a Bag of Devouring. which is technically actually a creature, not a cursed item (but usually classified with them), can be befriended by figuring out a treat it likes, and will not only carry things for the player if fed and cared for, but even cough up a few things that previous bearers had stuffed inside.

the specifics aren't too important, but the idea is that any item with a curse on it has a reason for that curse, and a way to break it. the players can drop the item at any time, sell it off, give it to someone they hate, whatever, but if they put in the time and energy to actually breaking the curse, it becomes better than it was before, sometimes simply losing a drawback, or sometimes gaining new powers.

for an example, let's look at how that doll idea from earlier could work in D&D 5e;

while the party has the doll in their possession, they will all be afflicted by horrible nightmares, seeing themselves as children being attacked by a group of eight bandits with indistinct features. the details of the dreams change each night, and the players awaken before learning their ultimate fate, but the general gist is always that they are completely helpless, and subjected to harm.

after a long rest, have them roll a Wisdom or Charisma save (challenging DC, but not too difficult), or take a small amount of psychic damage.

if the players bring murderers to justice - meaning deliver them to the proper authorities and see them punished for their crimes - the content of the dreams starts to change. one bandit gets caught or killed by the end of the dream for each real world criminal successfully punished, possibly hinting to the players what they need to do. once eight murderers in total have had their sentences enacted, the next morning the doll will be in pristine condition with a serene expression, emitting a faint glow. thereafter, any player may attune to the doll to gain the ability to cast the Guidance cantrip without components (as thought the doll's ability to project what it wants the players to do into their mind was turned to their benefit.

[neil-gaiman]

Hi! Hope you're doing well! Does Aziraphale (as a literature enthusiast so English it almost eclipses being a different species) have any particular opinion of Kipling's poetry? Because the racist tones of some of his works are decidedly not fun, but The Roman Centurion's Song gave me strong parallels to Aziraphale and Crowley going native, and especially seemed to cover a lot of the same things Aziraphale might have said if he'd been able to argue his case for saving the Earth directly to the Almighty. So I'm wondering how he might feel about it, since it's very unlikely he's unfamiliar with the material. Thank you

I like to think that Aziraphale forgives the worst parts of us and applauds the best. Or likes to think he does. So he would have loved that poem, but probably only Crowley would have seen the correspondences.

[thesummerpetrichor]

𝓞𝓫𝓵𝓲𝓿𝓲𝓸𝓷

SoftDark!Joel Miller x afab!fem!reader

Summary: Explicit pictures of you taken by a man you cheated with find their way to your boyfriend's father's desk. He isn't too impressed with the artistry. Good thing he can make it right. He’s a photographer after all.

Warnings: 18+ only minors DNI you will be blocked. No outbreak, NONCON, DUBCON, coercion, blackmail, manipulation, power imbalance, implications of revenge porn [not by Joel], infidelity, girthy age gap [reader is in her early 20s, Joel is in his early 50s], explicit photographs and photography, petnames, praise kink, daddy kink, minor size kink, soft dom!Joel, sub!reader, fingering, edging, just the tip action, creampie, cumplay?, unprotected P in V [be better!!]. Let me know if I missed anything 🫶

Word Count: 5.9K

A/N: Surprise Joel Miller smut because why not. This is my first time writing for Joel, so please be gentle. Going for the subtle horror meets porn vibes. Hope you nasties enjoy. mwah 💗

Masterlist

I never walk about after dark

It's my point of view

'Cause someone could break your neck

Coming up behind you

Always coming and you'd never have a clue

I never look behind all the time

I will wait forever

Always looking straight

Thinking, counting all the hours you wait

“S’ just a hobby.” Kind, gentle mister Miller had scratched the back of his neck modestly, towering over you as you inspected the black and white photo negatives freshly hung on his walls. He just seemed happy that someone appeared to be taking up an interest in his retirement activities. It was an interesting choice, you thought, to hang up the negatives. 

That was your first time visiting the Miller household, and had you known your boyfriend’s father was as unassuming and sympathetic as he turned out to be, you wouldn’t have been as worried about meeting him as you were. You surely wouldn't have been able to guess looking at his pictures. But his scowl melted away into a soft, subtle smile the moment you walked through his door, and so did your reservations. 

You learnt a lot from him that evening– about cameras and such. He indulged you in conversations about your life and interests– you had many in common. There were quite a few people at the Miller’s Christmas party, and he made sure you weren’t too lost in the crowd. It was nice to have a listening ear.

Humble as he was, it was only months later you discovered his pretty pictures in a photography magazine. At the hotel you were staying in while on vacation with his son. It was the last vacation you ended up taking together. Switzerland. 

Since that Christmas you visited him every once in a while, occupying the couch in his office to help him sort through his prints, tidy up his gear, and chart out subjects he wanted to capture. His son didn’t really like making the twenty minute commute back home, so you brought his well wishes with you. Mister Miller liked the strawberry puff pastries you baked, so you brought them along as well. 

He was a quiet guy, and after all these years alone seemed to enjoy the company of someone in the house. His face lit up just that little bit whenever you came over. Enough to let you know you were welcome back anytime. 

His office was cozy. With a large Persian rug at its center, and tufted, walnut brown, leather furniture. He had an expansive library of literature beside his desk, one that he’d fitted to the wall himself. Reading- another one of his retirement hobbies. 

His desk was tidy, almost completely empty save for a picture of him and his brother Tommy, sitting on a ledge with their arms slung around each other, an in-progress construction site for background. Judging from the lack of gray hair on his head, and the absence of the little crinkles beside his eyes, the photograph was at least twenty years old. It looked like it belonged to an alternate universe. 

Mister miller looked a far cry from the sophisticated, whiskey drinking, cigar smoking, middle aged man you knew. A regular ol’ Joe, or Joel, rather. He had this rugged boyish charm about him. He was smiling wide, he looked happy. There was a jarring absence of that tired look in his eyes. Whether he looked more handsome back then, or now– you couldn’t decide. 

It was late July. You watched the menacing, dark gray clouds drift lazily towards you from your living room window. It was 4pm, but you had the lights on, and the oven going in your kitchen. The younger Miller was not yet back from work, even though he was supposed to be off by 2:30. At times like that one you hardly regretted your unfaithfulness. 

You had your little dinner date with Mister Miller that evening, but from the looks of it you might have had to reschedule. A crack of thunder reverberated along the walls of your two bedroom, and had you reaching for the kitchen timer you’d abandoned on your center table– the dial dangerously close to hitting ‘0’.

It felt more wrong than it should, calling it a date, considering the circumstances. You couldn’t say you didn't feel guilty still meeting his father, telling him that things were going great when they really weren’t. You wondered what Joel would think of you if he ever found out about your little secret. 

It was difficult not to wonder how two people could be so similar and different at the same time. Why, save for some of his good looks, Mr. Miller’s best qualities did not seem to pass down to his son. Admittedly, you thought about it a lot. You thought about it when you found a shade of lipstick that surely didn’t belong to you stain the collar of his cream sweater. 

Things had spiraled far out of your control since that moment. Into your secret paradise of hotel rooms and weekend getaways. Worst of all, you knew your partner was living a parallel life to yours. You could have ended your relationship, but things were just never that easy. Especially when consciously, or subconsciously mister Miller was part of the mix. 

You reached in the oven and pulled out the pastries. Looking between the custard you’d put into your piping bag, and the strawberries you’d cut lengthways laying beside the powdered sugar. The clouds were closer than they were five minutes ago. Your backyard was no longer the lush Eden of green and purple it was in the morning. You thought of Mister Miller– spending the night alone at home, sitting at his desk, with no dessert to enjoy after dinner. 

You reached for the piping bag and sighed, beginning to assemble the sweet treats and lay them in the pink paper box you’d picked out for him from your kitchen cabinet. 

—

By the time you got to his house thick droplets of rain were already coming down from the sky. It was about three shades darker than it was when you left home, and the minacous clouds had caught up with you. You glanced at your phone. 

7:00 pm 

You felt a drop trickle down the side of your cheek as you ran up the front staircase leading to the main door. You rang the bell. It sounded full, and new. He must have fixed it recently. 

Mister Miller opened the door. He always wore some variation of the same flannel shirt and dark jeans. Like a cartoon character. It was quite charming. You liked it. It was soft, and smelt like his perfume. Tobacco, Sandalwood. He rubbed your back soothingly when you hugged him. 

You handed him the pink box. It had a darker pink ribbon wrapped around it, folded at the top into a big bow, with a small card wedged in between the loops. 

“To Joel Miller :) ” 

He chuckled, then smiled. “Thank you, sweetie.” You didn’t need his gratitude, he was nice enough to you as is, but you did appreciate it. In the past months he had become your only real excuse to bake. 

He welcomed you inside, and soon enough you were settled in the dining room. He’d hung up a new painting since you’d last visited, and changed the light switches on the wall. Every time you were over there was a new addition to the home. You figured he liked having something to do. 

By the looks of it he’d lit the candles there a while ago, and laid the table. He’d butterflied napkins in their napkin rings, and set out glasses for red, white, and dessert wine. You felt a lot better about not canceling. You noticed the brand new table runner against the table’s wood. He told you he bought it that morning. He sounded excited. 

You helped him bring in the pot of stew from the kitchen, as well as a plate of cheese and a loaf of warm bread set on a wooden board. He served you some stew, then cut a few slices of the bread he’d baked and placed them on your side plate. It was surprising that he’d taken up an interest in baking. He always said he preferred to cook on the stove. He did it well. 

“Taking after you.” he’d said, reaching for the wine decanter. 

You wondered if he ever taught his son to cook, and if he did why the latter never liked to do so. You recognised the cheese on the platter. It was from the shop beside your house. You’d served it when he came home in February, with berry jam, marmalade and grapes. He hadn’t been back since then. 

He was mostly quiet during dinner, as always. He listened to you ramble about the show you were watching, and how you found your grandmother’s recipe book in your attic. You assured him you’d be trying every recipe in that book. He said he hoped so. Other than that it was quiet. A comfortable quiet. And you watched wax dribble away from the candle wic, and pool at the base of the candelabra. 

He cleared up while you brewed some tea and placed your pastries on the hand painted porcelain tray you’d gifted him for Christmas. You padded across the hardwood floors to his office, and it was only then you noticed how heavily it had been pouring outside. 

You peeled back the white lace curtains to find a sheet of rain clouding your vision. You made out the dim, golden lights coming off the neighbor’s porch, and the street lamps flickering gently. You were glad you came. It was all quite welcoming, and warm and golden in the Miller household– far more than you would be if you decided to stay back home. 

The door clicked open, and you felt him walking up behind you as you stood at his bookshelf. You pointed to the clock on the wall above it. “It stopped.” He exhaled heavily, with his hands on his hips, and looked up to the pathetically stuttering hours hand. It looked like it was fighting for its life within the confines of the glass– spluttering, struggling. 

“Fixed it two days ago.”

You peeled your eyes away. 

He eased himself into his leather office chair, reaching below the mahogany table to lift a large cardboard box filled to the brim with film. Used, unused, polaroids, disposables. It had red electrical tape around its edges, and the words ‘32, spiral cord and wire’ scribbled in black sharpie. 

“Gotta sort these.” He looked at you apologetically, but you reassured him with a smile, and poured him a cup of tea while he inspected the box. Your eyes wandered to the wooden clock, the hand still pleading for help. You heard it's garbled tic. The contents of the box clattered to the desk, rhythmically with a crack of thunder outside. 

You placed a plate and cup in front of him, then took your seat on folded legs across the table. The white curtains momentarily set ablaze, followed by another hard, violent thrum. You foredged through the pile, lightly covered with residual dust. The rings on your fingers sparkled when they caught the light of his table lamp. 

Amongst the many treasures were some polaroids of the lake mister Miller liked to fish in, the cabin he built upstate, and the back end of Tommy's Miller’s orchard. They looked like test films to you. Not as fixed on composition as Joel was. The settings on the camera all over the place. 

In the pile, under an oversaturated photograph of an apple tree, two familiar eyes peered up at you– much of the face covered and lost to the clutter. You reached for it. Bound together with a thin, blue paperclip were three separate photographs flimsily hanging on to one another. 

You felt sick to your stomach.

The eyes were familiar, because they were yours. 

A mangled torso, waxy, glossy legs, a chest glazed with the sheen of sweat. You looked more like a deserted mannequin than you did yourself. The dark gray “lighting” rendered your body and its surroundings lifeless– ironically, you remember quite enjoying it in the moment. But the polaroids were far more reflective of what you felt of them at present– plagued with regret and shame, and lifelessness. 

How long had he known? Importantly, How did he find them? It hurt you to even think about it. The sound of the stuttering clock was deafening in your ears, ringing like an ominous, cruel joke. 

You distinctly remember taking those pictures. Worse, you remember thinking of mister Miller as your partner had clicked them. You thought of what he’d think if he ever saw them. You could have never guessed you would actually find out. 

“How long, sweetheart?” You forced yourself to look up, finding his eyes already boring you. He was upset, and angry, and there was something brewing behind his eyes. But worst of all he was disappointed in you. And out of all the possibilities, somehow that was the worst. You’d rather him be yelling, because there was something about that soft, gentle voice of his that unnerved you. 

“Why didn’t’ ya say somethin’?” It was like a car crash, you just couldn’t look away from the polaroids in your hands. Your spread legs, bare breasts, panties thrown to the side. You opened your mouth to say something, but you just couldn’t manage it. 

“Really shouldn’t let just anyone take those kinds of pictures.” Your eyes welled with hot tears as he reprimanded you. The whole ordeal had you feeling like you’d been sent to the principal's office, sitting across from him at his desk, both his forearms leaned on the table as he threatened you with consequences. He continued to speak, despite being met with your silence. 

“You’re lucky these ended up here, would be a shame if he found out about it before you did.” While your little affair hadn’t ended well, you surely hadn’t expected whatever this was from your ex partner. He must have still thought your boyfriend lived at his childhood address. Boy did he make a miscalculation. You didn’t know which outcome you preferred. 

You wanted to explain yourself, wanted to assure him you weren’t some cheating, lying piece of shit. That you and his son were just not working anymore, that you felt guilty, and never did it again, that the man who took those pictures was the last one you slept with. That you couldn’t just end things with his son because you didn’t want to lose him. “Mister Miller- I-” 

He cut you off, snatching the images from between your fingers. You watched with burning eyes and your heart hammering in your chest as he inspected them. The man would never look at you the same. He sighed, his downturned, disappointed eyes catching yours. That look, it broke your heart. 

“I mean, look at these babygirl. Ya’ look dead.” 

With your palms cold and sweaty, and cheeks set ablaze, you sure felt like it. The burning in your chest and neck had become almost unbearable. 

“Such a cute lil’ body ya’ got there. And this-” he shook his head, his unblinking gaze forcing your eyes to his. “This boy fuckin’ ruined ya.” He tossed the polaroids on his desk, and leaned forward. 

It took you about ten seconds to realize that mister Miller’s real quam with the pictures was, for better or for worse, not the fact that they existed, or worse, weren't taken by his son, but that they were bad. Not morally, or ethically, especially considering how they’d landed in his possession, but artistically, formally. 

“Would be a shame if my son were to say, find em, layin’ ‘round.” The room began to spin in slow circles. In a second a flash of lighting struck through the curtains in the window behind Joel, his frame completely backlit by the blinding light momentarily. You winced as another harsh crack of thunder descended upon the quiet office. 

“No, mi- Please-”

“‘Specially to see ya like this, catch ya like this. In these god awful pictures.” He took your chin between his fingers, eyes filled with faux concern, brows furrowed. But behind the obvious facade there was something sinister and cruel. Something you wished you had seen before. Because you were sure it had always been there. 

“How ‘bout we fix ‘em, huh babygirl?” your eyes widened at the realization, at the weight of his implication. His grip on your chin was unrelenting, a warning, a little taste of what was to come. Had he forgotten somehow that you were in fact his son’s girlfriend and not his? A girl who was to him, until about ten minutes before, his future daughter in law? 

“You gonna help daddy fix ‘em for ya?” Time seemed to lose its cadence, every moment  stretched endlessly as you remained trapped under his dead eyed, unwavering gaze. His words sent a jolt between your legs, that name sent a jolt between your legs, and had you squeezing them together shamefully as you struggled to blubber out a response. 

He raised his brows in question, once again offering you the artificial choice before you were sure he would take what he wanted himself. You swallowed thickly, and nodded. It was a lot less difficult than you let yourself believe. What were you going to do? 

“Hmm good girl. Get on ya knees sweetie.” Still gripping your chin he reached for the camera on his desk. A polaroid SX 70– the one he used to click a picture of you blowing out your candles on your birthday. In that same office, where he sang to you alone, because his son was on a work trip. 

He pinched your cheek, and got up to round the table. You knew better than to talk back. You were reminded when you saw how his frame towered over you, like that first night you’d met him. Except this time his broad shoulders and muscular arms were threatening, intimidating, and undeniably making you weak in the knees. 

Pushing your chair back you got on your knees on that once thick, soft Persian carpet. It’s weave like a thousand needles piercing your skin, and no longer the cloud on which you liked to sit. 

“Would’ve expected more from a smart cookie like you. Didn’t I teach ya better sweetie?” It was sick. You knew he was talking of not only your carelessness, but those pictures. You should have known to come to him. He would have helped you figure it out. Your relationship troubles, and how to take those photographs. He squatted down to your level, eyes raking over your body like you were already on display for him. 

“Lemme see ya sweetie.” You wished he would just rip off the bandaid and do it himself. It would feel less humiliating. Reaching for the buttons of your sweater you undid them one by one. He watched your every movement, eyes trained on your chest as you exposed the swell of your breasts. 

He reached forward, and brushed his thumb over your skin, hushing you soothingly when you shivered. Your hot skin burned further under his feather light touch. It was like you’d always imagined– gruff and rugged, but skillful. Just like him. His fingers were rough, and reminded you of the photograph of him and Tommy on his desk. He suddenly looked a lot more like the man in that picture.   

It was like he was eating you up with his eyes with each bit of clothing you discarded on his floor. He hummed when you got to your white, daisy print ankle socks, and caught your wrist when you reached to pull them off. 

“Keep em’ on.”

Once brimming with vitality, his brown eyes turned lifeless, devoid of any flicker of emotion or human connection. You found yourself questioning whether you ever really knew him– the gentle, unassuming man you adored. If he even existed in the first place.

Left in nothing but your bra and panties you sat on your knees in front of him, unable to meet his eyes. Pink lace. You’d worn them on purpose, because your little dates were always a special occasion. You weren't planning on him seeing them. 

By the looks of it he seemed quite pleased with your choice. 

“All f’ me, babygirl?” His voice had dropped three octaves, almost slurred thanks to his smooth southern drawl. You swallowed thickly, and nodded your head. As much as you hated to admit it, he was, in some convoluted way, one hundred percent correct. 

Excitement defiantly swirled in your tummy as he let his hands roam your mostly bare body for a few seconds. Like he was examining and inspecting you. He lifted your limp arm to get a better look at your bare waist, then let it fall by your side and reached for the straps of your bra– loosening them to the point they were barely hanging on to your shoulders. 

The room began to spin a little faster when he gently pushed you back against the carpet, one palm planted firmly on your stomach to hold you there, the other hand folding your knees and planting your heels on the ground. The cup of your bra slipped off your chest, your breast now bare to the cool air. You felt exposed, for reasons less obvious than they really were. 

You heard the violent swish of the wind outside. It felt far and distant, and like it was right in that room, all at the same time. 

He began inspecting you again. It was odd, surely he liked the sight of your body, you could tell when you eyed the obvious bulge in his pants, but he was looking at you like you were some prop– like a little sex doll for his little photoshoot. He was moving you around as he pleased, positioning your limbs and tilting your head like an inanimate object. You didn’t fight back, let him take control of your body. It made your stomach churn, your core tingle. 

He nudged and then kneeled between your legs, fully clothed, looking at you methodically. You felt the cool air brush the wet spot that had formed on your panties as you gazed up at the ceiling, far too ashamed to meet his gaze. 

You watched him reach upwards towards his desk, and shift the lamp there till it was barely hanging on to the edge. The light hit you in the face, and forced your eyes shut till he turned it away and towards your chest. You tilted your chin to get a look at him, despite your better judgment. 

He hummed, swiping your dripping seam with his thumb, only stopping to eye you in warning when your body understandably jerked at the contact. The dark look in his eyes reminded you you weren’t really there for your own enjoyment, and more for his. It was like your natural movement was some sort of inconvenience to him, something that was hindering and interfering with his creative process. 

It was nauseating. But despite the fear that bubbled in your chest, you couldn’t deny the thrum of excitement that ran through your system when he began adjusting the settings on his camera. A part of you, a much bigger part of you than you'd like to admit, was enjoying the entire experience. 

“Look at that.” He chuckled, presumably at the way the fabric of your panties clung messily to your wetness in spite of your seemingly unwilling demeanor.  You felt a drop of sweat roll down between your breasts in anticipation. 

He teased your clit over your panties, switching between watching your face intently and finding the best angle. Leaning backwards and forwards. You knew better than to move around this time. “That boy doesn't know a thing about angles does he?” He was mumbling, excessively concentrated on properly composing his shot. 

“‘S’ okay sweetheart, we’ll fix it.” Hooking two fingers under the seam of your panties he pulled them aside, exposing your bare cunt to the chilly air. “Daddy’ll fix it.” He watched himself run his fingers through your wetness, and you watched him swallow thickly at the view. You chewed on your bottom lip, summoning all your restraint not to wiggle your hips in his direction. 

“Thought ‘bout this cute lil cunt all fuckin week.” 

Your disobedient mind encouraged the desire that pooled in your core, and you turned your head side to side to rid yourself of the disturbing thought. 

He must have noticed your strained expression, the way you were so clearly begging to be touched, but refused to admit it. Your creased brow was not one of intense pleasure, but anxiety, uncertainty and perpetual frustration. His shoulders dropped defeatedly, and he looked at you like he was about to unleash on you another set of debased instructions. 

“Gotta look like you’re enjoyin’ yourself more than that babygirl.” 

Caught slightly off guard, but admittedly thankful nonetheless, a breathy sigh escaped your lips as he began drawing soft circles on your aching clit. “That’s it babygirl” His praise licked between your legs, going straight to your core. Fingers wet with your slick he rubbed your throbbing pussy, and you let your head fall back against the carpet. 

“So fuckin’ wet f’ daddy.” 

Increasing his pace ever so slightly his fingers moved to tease your aching hole, just barely pushing in. You felt a moan bubble in your throat, forcing its way out of your mouth. It was more than embarrassing to admit you were enjoying his attention. 

“Let go babygirl. Daddy’s gonna make ya’ look so pretty in his pictures- like ya’ really are, like ya' deserve.”

He bit his lip to keep from smiling when he heard the soft moan slip past your lips. “That's better.” You didn’t know if he was more pleased with your pleasure, or the fact that you’d look better in the photographs.  

As your chest rose and fell with his movements you were more and more convinced. It was undoubtedly better to play along and give in. There was little point resisting by the time the thought even occurred to you. Admittedly, embarrassingly late. At least that's what you told yourself when you moaned and sighed below him. 

“Shit sweetheart. Wish you could see what ‘m seein’.” You imagined what Joel could see through the lens. It felt dirty, and contrite, but also exhilarating, and warm and right. 

You felt the tension build in your hips, between your legs. He had been resisting fucking you with his fingers, and your need to be filled was only increasing with each touch to your sensitive clit– your aching hole clenching around nothing. Your mind wandered to the way you’d undoubtedly seen his cock twitch in his jeans at the sight of you. How you’d been wishing secretly for him to fill you up. 

The coil in your belly tightened, and tightened, and you felt yourself reach the edge, the very peak of your pleasure. You made out a beam of white lightning through your half closed, lust clouded eyes. 

He brushed his thumb over your clit, ever so slightly. You were so so close, feeling the tension reach its highest point in a split second and then dissolve entirely. You gasped, back arching off the ground. 

In the deafening silence you heard the shutter and click of the camera. The sound was menacing. And it made your tummy flutter.  

“That's it baby, good girl” 

Your slick pooled at your entrance, running down your thighs and making you shift uncomfortably. You felt numb in your toes, something in you prompting you to kick your feet just a little. At the lost pleasure. The word was leaving your mouth before you could even register it. 

“Daddy” 

“I know, I know-” Fuck. He sounded so gentle. Like the Joel you knew. The Joel you loved.  “just a little longer sweetheart, you can take it.” He rubbed the inside of your thigh. 

He rested his camera on his knees and reached forward to cup your cheek, stroking your warm skin with his thumb. His fingertips were ice cold, and made you wince. “Just think of how pretty they're gonna turn out-” The look in his eyes was pleading, like you even had a choice in the matter. You wondered if he thought you did. Either way it seemed to work on you. “How pretty you’re gonna look.” 

“C’mon be a good girl f’ daddy.” His words made you mewl. Joel pinched your hip in warning, but kept his voice steady. 

“C’mere” Hitching both your legs on his shoulders and on either side of his head he scooted forward on his knees. Your skin tingled in anticipation, and you wondered what it would be like to have his head between your thighs. 

Admiring your white ankle socks he ran his thumb along the base of your foot, making your squirm in his hold. He engulfed its arch in his large palm, placing a kiss to your soul and then your ankle, moving forward to nuzzle your calf with his nose. 

“Goddamn, such a cute lil thing.” 

You watched him palm his bulge through his jeans, then undo his belt with his eyes still trained on your messy, wet pussy. As if he’d caught you staring he reached forward and tilted your chin back up towards the ceiling. Surely, you straining your neck to get a good look at him was doing nothing for his shot composition. 

You felt him let go of your shin in favor of guiding his cock along your throbbing seam. His tip bumped your clit, making you mewl and inadvertently lift your hips in his direction. You wished you could see him, on his knees in front of you, his cock teasing your dripping cunt. 

“Poor thing, can feel how bad ya’ need it.” Exhaling heavily he continued to rub his cock against your wet folds, eyes fixated below him. He cursed lowly under his breath, and lined himself up with your entrance, pushing in just a little. 

Your mouth fell open in a wordless cry at the slow stretch of him, and you attempted to grab fistfulls of the carpet beneath you. He’d barely put it in , but it was enough to send your eyes fluttering shut. 

“Cute lil pussy can barely take my cock, baby.” 

He fucked you, giving you just the tip, over and over and over, unwilling to burry himself in you to the hilt. You felt him twitch inside you, the slow pace and minimal contact enough to keep you both on edge, and not enough to provide any semblance of relief. 

You whined in protest. 

“Shh babygirl, I know.” He fucked you in slow shallow strokes, hips barely moving. You felt his eyes glued to your face, as if he was waiting for the perfect moment to snap his shot.

He thumbed your clit, his own breath quickening when your walls clamped around his cock. 

You’d never reach your peak this way, and it looked like he noticed. It seemed to be quite a large part of his artistic vision, and you were more than glad. 

He groaned and thrust himself to the hilt in a single slow push, picking up his pace just enough to where you could feel him hit that sensitive spot inside you. His cock throbbed against your aching walls, the drag of him sending your eyes rolling back into your head. His hands gripped your thighs, lips dragging across your calves every now and then as he fucked your warm, wet pussy– slow and deep. 

You felt full, unlike you ever had before. With the way he was making you feel it was difficult to think of who he was, and how he’d got you into this position. Neither your boyfriend’s existence, nor the reality of his intimidation took away from the soaring pleasure that made your body sing. 

It was all too much to bear, and you could feel your orgasm building in your core once again. 

The ominous sound of the wooden clocks garbled tic found its way back to your ears, this time in rhythm with your pounding heart. It sounded oddly comforting, like it was pushing you closer to the edge. 

“Daddy-” you reached for his hand, bringing his large palm to squeeze your breast. He obliged, his free hand moving from there to tug and pinch at any part of you exposed to him. 

“Daddy, gonna cum-” Joel sat back just a bit, still fucking into your soft cunt. “Cum ‘f daddy babygirl, fuck, that’s it.” It was all you needed, the tension that had been building in your core for what seemed like forever finally snapping. Your body went rigid, eyes screwing shut and back arching off the ground once again, legs tingling. Your walls fluttered around his cock as he slowed his pace, coaxing you through it. He hit that sweet spot inside you over and over, seemingly enjoying the many waves of your orgasm just as much as you. 

Between the ticking and Joel's labored breaths, and ringing in your ears you barely heard the click of the camera, but the soft sound sent a jolt through your body, like an electric aftershock. 

You took more than a moment to catch your breath, face tingling and head buzzing. 

When your eyes fluttered open you noticed Joel had abandoned his camera on the ground beside him in favor of grabbing your thighs. Still sensitive you shivered as he fucked into your pussy, fast and hard. You looked up at his face, twisted in pleasure, the little wrinkles on his skin accentuated thanks to his frown and furrowed brow. 

“So fuckin tight babygirl” You felt him pulse and throb inside you, emptying himself in a few final, sloppy thrusts. 

He looked so handsome, with his hair just slightly out of place, and flannel wrinkled and messy. The thought of being filled up by him had your tummy erupting with butterflies. 

Still catching his breath he reached for his camera, pulling out ever so slowly. With your legs still on his shoulders he tucked himself back into his jeans and fixed his belt, slowly easing himself on his stomach in front of you, and dropping your legs on either side of his head. 

You couldn’t see him, but you felt him chuckle against your bare thigh, his breath tickling your skin. “Show me how full ya’ are of me babygirl– how messy ya’ are f’ daddy”. You bit your lip as you pushed, and heard yet another click of the camera echo across the room. 

“Fuck. look so fuckin’ pretty, full’ve my cum” His spend leaked out of your fluttering entrance, and you felt him swipe his finger against the cut of your pussy and push anything that escaped right back in. He shifted your panties back in place, the material already dampening once again, this time with both your and his juices.

He sat up with his legs stretched out in front of him, back resting against the legs of his couch beside you. He pulled you to rest your head on his lap. You watched him intently as he reached beside him for the photographs. They must really be something, because mister Miller sure looked impressed with himself. 

When he turned to you you were probably met with his most wide and genuine smile yet, the three fresh new polaroids pinched between his thumb and index. You watched as the white light from outside invaded the room, and struck his face, illuminating it for a split second. The garbled tic of the wooden clock had subsided into the white noise of the background, along with the steady hum of the rain. You relaxed into his embrace. 

“Make the prettiest little model, don’t ya think sweetheart? Daddy’s gonna have to use ya’ more often” 

And no, I'm not a jerk

I would ask if you could help me out

It's hard to understand

'Cause when you're running by yourself

It's hard to find someone to hold your hand

You know it's good to be tough like me

But I will wait forever

I need someone else

To look into my eyes and tell me

"Girl, you know you've got to watch your health"

See you on a dark night

See you on a dark night

See you on a dark night

Going to hell for this one. Please let me know what you think. Comments and reblogs keep me writing. I also want to re iterate please be careful about who you send or let take explicit pictures of yourself. Never show your face and stay safe. Dividers by @ saradika and @cafekitsune 💗🐝🫶