#Moroccan normalization

[sissa-arrows]

An activist in Morocco was condemned to 5 years in jail because he condemned the normalization of Arab countries with Israel and the complicity of those Arab leaders who normalized.

He condemned Morocco in the process. He was arrested for « insulting the king » and is condemned to 5 years in jail.

There something fascinating about articles from French, Moroccan and Israeli medias. They all call him an “Islamist” adding the group from which he is a member. I didn’t know that group so I googled them and… they are in favor of making Morocco a civil state instead of a religious one and reconciles technological and social changes with Islam. They are also firmly against the Moroccan king calling himself the “Believers commander” and claiming he is a descendant of the prophet or that he was chosen by God.

All the articles calling him an “Islamist” as an attempt the make the decision to put him in jail look legitimate and good, they reminded me the ask @fairuzfan received about the use of the term and her answer mentioning it weaponization.

But it also shows how all the supports to Palestine are criminalized and if they dare be Muslims they are criminalized as extremists.

Edit: I forgot the link to one of the sources. The article is in English here and in french here

[supercantaloupe]

just sent an email with the subject line "suspicious shakshuka"

[iphijaania]

there is honest to god screaming and crying on my road

[runawaycarouselhorse]

Trying to explain that Moroccans both bathe once a week, but it's because when they do, it's like a spa day and you use traditional oil-based Moroccan soap all over first (you use regular soaps later--using regular soap before, even a day or two before this, will ruin things and make the Moroccan soap unable to do its job--hence the days-long gaps in baths!), sit in a sauna for AT LEAST an hour, and then scrub dead skin off the entire body with a rough-textured mit (it doesn't feel so rough when you're used to it and sufficiently warm and moist), so then, you're super fresh and can bathe normally, washing your hair with shampoo and conditioner (conditioners and other oil-based things are also a no-no before a Moroccan bath, it'll spill on your body and make the Moroccan soap not work) and using a moisturizing soap or whatever else you like.

[artemisiafem]

having a tummy bug is such an experience bc its 2am i havent eaten in over 24 hrs and all of a sudden im like oh my god i need plain rice (but i cant make it rn bc im too sick)

[did-we-imagine]

Moroccan homie here, they were these fancy schmancy animals we saw in european/american cartoons. I never even thought wd had these in Morocco, until one day, I saw one on my doorstep as I came back home from high school.

My mom was like "what is this weird thing lying all dead here?" (Very normal reaction considering we never ever saw one in real life).

I took one look at it and told her "welp, it's a bat."

It was oddly colored with purple wings and yellow fur. An absolutely strange little thing. Thank god it was lying unconscious, had it flown, we would have freaked out (me, my little sibling who also was there, and my mom). I think last thing she did was to call our neighborhood's security agent (idk how to explain, but here in neighborhoods, we have people we pay to watch out for trouble makers/thieves to be safe). He took it away and said they were apparently common in the village where he grew up. They call it "Jliddan" there (it's in moroccan arabic dialect I believe).

It was kinda freaky, but I guess at least now I know we do have bats in Morocco.

Do reblog if you answer, I need a large test group. 

[luveline]

𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰𝐧 𝐨𝐫 𝐬𝐞𝐞𝐧

Things between you and Peter change with the seasons. [17k] 

c: friends-to-lovers, hurt/comfort, loneliness, peter parker isn’t good at hiding his alter ego, fluff, first kisses, mutual pining, loved-up epilogue, mention of self-harm with no graphic imagery

｡𖦹°‧⭑.ᐟ

Fall 

Peter Parker is a resting place for overworked eyes, like warm topaz nestled against a blue-cold city. He waits on you with his eyes to the screen of his phone, clicking the power button repetitively. A nervous tic. 

You close the heavy door of your apartment building. His head stays still, yet he’s heard the sound of it settling, evidence in his calmed hand. 

“Good morning!” You pull your coat on quickly. “Sorry.” 

“Good morning,” he says, offering a sleep-logged smile. “Should we go?” 

You follow Peter out of the cul-de-sac and into the street as he drops his phone into a deep pocket. To his credit, he doesn’t check it while you walk, and only glances at it when you’re taking your coat off in the heat of your favourite cafe: The Moroccan Mode glows around you, fog kissing the windows, condensation running down the inner lengths of it in beads. You murmur something to do with the odd fog and Peter tells you about water vapour. When it rains tonight, he says it’ll be warm water that falls. 

He spreads his textbook, notebook, and rinky-dink laptop out across the table while you order drinks. Peter has the same thing every visit, a decaf americano, in a wide brim mug with the pink-petal saucer. You put it down on his textbook only because that’s where he would put it himself, and you both get to work. 

As Peter helps you study, you note the simplicity of another normal day, and can’t help wondering what it is that’s missing. Something is, something Peter won’t tell you, the absence of a truth hanging over your heads. You ask him if he wants to get dinner and he says no, he’s busy. You ask him to see a movie on Friday night and he wishes he could. 

Peter misses you. When he tells you, you believe him. “I wish I had more time,” he says. 

“It’s fine,” you say, “you can’t help it.”

“We’ll do something next weekend,” he says. The lie slips out easily. 

To Peter it isn’t a lie. In his head, he’ll find the time for you again, and you’ll be friends like you used to be. 

You press the end of your pencil into your cheek, the dark roast, white paper and condensation like grey noise. This time last year, the air had been thick for days with fog you could cut. He took you on a trip to Manhattan, less than an hour from your red-brick neighbourhood, and you spent the day in a hotel pool throwing great cupfuls of water at each other. The fog was gone just fifteen miles away from home but the warm air stayed. When it rained it was sudden, strange, spit-warm splashes of it hammering the tops of your heads, your cheeks as you tipped your faces back to spy the dark clouds. 

Peter had swam the short distance to you and held your shoulders. You remember feeling like your whole life was there, somewhere you’d never been before, the sharp edges of cracked pool tile just under your feet. 

You peek over the top of your laptop screen and wonder if Peter ever thinks of that trip. 

He feels you watching and meets your eyes. “I have to tell you something,” he says, smiling shyly. 

“Sure.” 

“I signed us up for that club.” 

“Epigenetics?” 

“Molecular medicine,” he says. 

The nice thing about fog is that it gives a feeling of lateness. It’s still morning, barely ten, but it feels like the early evening. It’s gentle on the eyes, colouring the whole room with a sconced shine. You reach for Peter’s bag and sort through his jumble of possessions —stick deodorant, loose-leaf paper, a bodega’s worth of protein bars— and grab his camera. 

“What are you doing?” 

“I’m cataloguing the moment you ruined our lives,” you say, aiming the camera at his chin, squinting through the viewfinder. 

“Technically, I signed us up a few days ago,” he says. 

You snap his photo as his mouth closes around ‘ago’, keeping his half-laugh stuck on his lips. “Semantics,” you murmur. “And molecular medicine club, this has nothing to do with the estranged Gwen Stacy?”

“It has nothing to do with her. And you like molecular medicine.”

“I like oncology,” you correct, which is a sub-genre at best, “and I have enough work without joining another club. Go by yourself.” 

“I can’t go without you,” he says. Simple as that. 

He knew you’d say yes when he signed you up. It’s why he didn’t ask. You’re already forgiven him for the slight of assumption. 

“When is it?” you ask, smiling. 

—

Molecular medicine club is fun. You and a handful of ESU nerds gather around a big table in a private study room for a few hours and read about the newer discoveries and top research, like regenerative science and now taboo Oscorp research. It’s boring, sometimes, but then Peter will lean into your side and make a joke to keep you going. 

He looks at Gwen Stacy a lot. Slender, pale and freckled, with blonde hair framing a sweet face. Only when he thinks you’re not looking. Only when she isn’t either. 

—

“Good morning,” you say. 

Peter holds an umbrella over his head that he’s quick to share with you, and together you walk with heads craned down, the umbrella angled forward to fight the wind. Your outermost shoulder is wet when you reach the café, your other warm from being pressed against him. You shake the umbrella off outside the door and step onto a cushy, amber doormat to dry your sneakers. Peter stalks ahead and order the drinks, eager to get warm, so you look for a table. Your usual is full of businessmen drinking flat whites with briefcases at their legs. They laugh. You try to picture Peter in a suit: you’re still laughing when he finds you in the booth at the back. 

“Tell the joke,” he says, slamming his coffee down. He’s careful with yours. He’s given you the pink petal saucer from the side next to the straws and wooden stirrers. 

“I was thinking about you as a businessman.” 

“And that’s funny?” 

“When was the last time you wore a suit?” 

Peter shakes his head. Claims he doesn’t know. Later, you’ll remember his Uncle Ben’s funeral and feel queasy with guilt, but you don’t remember yet. “When was the last time you wore one?” he asks. “I don’t laugh at you.” 

“You’re always laughing at me, Parker.” 

The cafe isn’t as warm today. It’s wet, grimy water footsteps tracking across the terracotta tile, streaks of grey water especially heavy near the counter, around it to the bathroom. There’s no fog but a sad rattle of rain, not enough to make noise against the windows, but enough to watch as it falls in lazy rivulets down the lengths of them.

Your face is chapped with the cold, cheeks quickly come to heat as your fingers curl around your mug. They tingle with newfound warmth. When you raise your mug to your lips, your hand hardly shakes.

“You okay?” Peter asks. 

“Fine. Are you gonna help me with the math today?” 

“Don’t think so. Did you ask nicely?” 

“I did.” You’d called him last night. You would’ve just as happily submitted your homework poorly solved with the grade to prove it —you don’t want Peter’s help, you just wanted to see him. 

Looking at him now, you remember why his distance had felt a little easier. The rain tangles in his hair, damp strands curling across his forehead, his eyes dark and outfitted by darker eyelashes. Peter has the looks of someone you’ve seen before, a classical set to his nose and eyes reminiscent of that fallen angel weeping behind his arm, his russet hair in fiery disarray. There was an anger to Peter after Ben died that you didn’t recognise, until it was Peter, changed forever and for the worse and it didn’t matter —he was grieving, he was terrified, who were you to tell him to be nice again— until it started to get better. You see less of your fallen, angry angel, no harsh brush strokes, no tears. 

His eyes are still dark. Bruised often underneath, like he’s up late. If he is, it isn’t to talk to you. 

You spend an afternoon working through your equations, pretending to understand until Peter explains them to death. His earphones fall out of his pocket and he says, “Here, I’ll show you a song.” 

He walks you home. The song is dreary and sad. The man who sings is good. Lover, You Should’ve Come Over. It feels like Peter’s trying to tell you something —he isn’t, but it feels like wishing he would. 

“You okay?” you ask before you can get to your street. A minute away, less. 

“I’m fine, why?” 

You let the uncomfortable shape of his earbud fall out of your ear, the climax of the song a rattle on his chest. “You look tired, that’s all. Are you sleeping?” 

“I have too much to do.” 

You just don’t get it. “Make sure you’re eating properly. Okay?” 

His smile squeezes your heart. Soft, the closest you’ll ever get. “You know May,” he says, wrapping his arm around your shoulders to give you a short hug, “she wouldn’t let me go hungry. Don’t worry about me.” 

—

The dip into depression you take is predictable. You can’t help it. Peter being gone makes it worse. 

You listen to love songs and take long walks through the city, even when it’s dark and you know it’s a bad idea. If anything bad happens Spider-Man could probably save me, you think. New York’s not-so-new vigilante keeps a close eye on things, especially the women. You can’t count how many times you’ve heard the same story. A man followed me home, saw me across the street, tried to get into my apartment, but Spider-Man saved me. 

You’re not naive, you realise the danger of walking around without protection assuming some stranger in a mask will save you, but you need to get out of the house. It goes on for weeks. 

You walk under streetlights and past stores with CCTV, but honestly you don’t really care. You’re not thinking. You feel sick and heavy and it’s fine, really, it’s okay, everything works out eventually. It’s not like it’s all because you miss Peter, it’s just a feeling. It’ll go away. 

“You’re in deep thought,” a voice says, garnering a huge flinch from the depths of your stomach.

You turn around, turn back, and flinch again at the sight of a man a few paces ahead. Red shoulders and legs, black shining in a webbed lattice across his chest. “Oh,” you say, your heartbeat an uncomfortable plodding under your hand, “sorry.” 

“Why are you sorry? I scared you.”

“I didn’t realise you were there.” 

Spider-Man doesn’t come any closer. You take a few steps in his direction. You’ve never met before but you’d like to see him up close, and you aren’t scared. Not beyond the shock of his arrival. 

“Can I walk you to where you’re going?” Spider-Man asks you. He’s humming energy, fidgeting and shifting from foot to foot. 

“How do I know you’re the real Spider-Man?” 

After all, there are high definition videos of his suit on the news sometimes. You wouldn’t want to find out someone was capable of making a replica in the worst way possible. 

You can’t be sure, but you think he might be smiling behind the mask, his arms moving back as though impressed at your questioning. “What do you need me to do to prove it?” he asks. 

He speaks hushed. Rough and deep. “I don’t know. What’s Spider-Man exclusive?” 

“I can show you the webs?” 

You pull your handbag further up your arm. “Okay, sure. Shoot something.” 

Spider-Man aims his hand at the streetlight across the way and shoots it. He makes a severing motion with his wrist to stop from getting pulled along by it, letting the web fall like an alien tendril from the bulb. The light it produces dims slightly. A chill rides your spine. 

“Can I walk you now?” he asks. 

“You don’t have more important things to do?” If the bitterness you’re feeling creeps into your tone unbidden, he doesn’t react. 

“Nothing more important than you.” 

You laugh despite yourself. “I’m going to Trader Joe’s.” 

“Yellowstone Boulevard?” 

“That’s the one…” 

You fall into step beside him, and, awkwardly, begin to walk again. It’s a short walk. Trader Joe’s will still be open for hours despite the dark sky, and you’re in no hurry. “My friend, he likes the rolled tortilla chips they do, the chilli ones.” 

“And you’re going just for him?” Spider-Man asks. 

“Not really. I mean, yeah, but I was already going on a walk.” 

“Do you always walk around by yourself? It’s late. It’s dangerous, you know, a beautiful girl like you,” he says, descending into an odd mixture of seriousness and teasing. His voice jumps and swoons to match. 

“I like walking,” you say. 

Spider-Man walking is a weird thing to see. On the news, he’s running, swinging, or flying through the air untethered. You’re having trouble acquainting the media image of him with the quiet man you’re walking beside now.

”Is everything okay?” he asks. “You seem sad.” 

“Do I?” 

“Yeah, you do.” 

“Maybe I am sad,” you confess, looking forward, the bright sign of Trader Joe’s already in view. It really is a short walk. “Do you ever–” You swallow against a surprising tightness in your throat and try again, “Do you ever feel like you’re alone?” 

“I’m not alone,” he says carefully.

“Me neither, but sometimes I feel like I am.” 

He laughs quietly. You bristle thinking you’re being made fun of, but the laugh tapers into a sad one. “Sometimes I feel like I’m the only person in the world,” he says. “Even here. I forget that it’s not something I invented.” 

“Well, I guess being a hero would feel really lonely. Who else do we have like you?” You smile sympathetically. “It must be hard.” 

“Yeah.” His head tips to the side, and a crash of glass rings in the distance, crunching, and then there’s a squeal. It sounds like a car accident. Spider-Man goes tense. “I’ll come back,” he says. 

“That’s okay, Spider-Man, I can get home by myself. Thank you for the protection detail.” 

He sprints away. In half a second he’s up onto a short roof, then between buildings. It looks natural. It takes your breath away. 

You buy Peter’s chips at Trader Joe’s and wait for a few minutes at the door, but Spider-Man doesn’t come back. 

—

I don’t want to study today, Peter’s text says the next day. Come over and watch movies? 

The last handholds of your fugue are washed away in the shower. You dab moisturiser onto your face and neck and stand by the open window to help it dry faster, taking in the light drizzle of rain, the smell of it filling your room and your lungs in cold gales. You dress in sweatpants and a hoodie, throw on your coat, and stuff the rolled tortilla chips into a backpack to ferry across the neighbourhood. 

Peter still lives at home with his Aunt May. You’d been in awe of it when you were younger, Peter and his Aunt and Uncle, their home-cooked family dinners, nights spent on the roof trying to find constellations through light pollution, stretched out together while it was warm enough to soak in your small rebellion. Ben would call you both down eventually. When you’re older! he’d always promise. 

Peter’s waiting in the open door for you. He ushers you inside excitedly, stripping you out of your coat and forgetting your wet shoes as he drags you to the kitchen. “Look what I got,” he says. 

The Parker kitchen is a big, bright space with a chopping block island. The counters are crowded by pots, pans, spices, jams, coffee grounds, the impossible drying rack. There’s a cross-stitch about the home on the microwave Ben did to prove to May he could still see the holes in the aida. 

You follow Peter to the stove where he points at a ceramic Dutch oven you’ve eaten from a hundred times. “There,” he says. 

“Did you cook?” you ask. 

“Of course I didn’t cook, even if the way you said that is offensive. I could cook. I’m an excellent chef.” 

“The only thing May’s ever taught you is spaghetti and meatballs.” 

“Hope you like marinara,” he says, nudging you toward the stove. 

You take the lid off of the Dutch oven to unveil a huge cake. Dripping with frosting, only slightly squashed by the lid, obviously homemade. He’s dotted the top with swirls of frosting and deep red strawberries. 

“It’s for you,” he says casually. 

“It’s not my birthday.” 

“I know. You like cake though, don’t you?” 

You’d tell Peter you liked chunks of glass if that was what he unveiled. “Why’d you make me a cake?” 

“I felt like you deserved a cake. You don’t want it?” 

“No, I want it! I want the cake, let’s have cake, we can go to 91st and get some ice cream, it’ll be amazing.” You don’t bother trying to hide your beaming smile now, twisting on the spot to see him properly, your hands falling behind your back. “Thank you, Peter. It’s awesome. I had no idea you could even– that you’d even–” You press forward, smushing your face against his chest. “Wow.” 

“Wow,” he says, wrapping his arms around you. He angles his head to nose at your temple. “You’re welcome. I would’ve made you a cake years ago if I knew it was gonna make you this happy.” 

“It must’ve taken hours.” 

“May helped.” 

“That makes much more sense.” 

“Don’t be insolent.” Peter squeezes you tightly. He doesn’t let go for a really long time. 

He extracts the cake from the depths of the Dutch oven and cuts you both a slice. He already has ice cream, a Neapolitan box that he cuts into with a serrated knife so you can each have a slice of all three flavours. It’s good ice cream, fresh for what it is and melting in big drops of cream as he gets the couch ready.

“Sit down,” he says, shoving the plates with his strangely great balance onto the coffee table. “Remote’s by you. I’m gonna get drinks.” 

You take your plate, carving into the cake with the end of a warped spoon, its handle stamped PETE and burnished in your grasp. The crumb is soft but dense in the best way. The ganache between layers is loose, cake wet with it, and the frosting is perfect, just messy. You take another satisfied bite. You’re halfway through your slice before Peter makes it back. 

“I brought you something too, but it’s garbage compared to this,” you say through a mouthful, hand barely covering your mouth. 

Peter laughs at you. “Yeah, well, say it, don’t spray it.” 

“I guess I’ll keep it.” 

“Keep it, bub, I don’t need anything from you.” 

He doesn’t say it the way you’re expecting. “No,” you say, pleased when he sits knee to knee, “you can have it. S’just a bag of chips from Trader–”

“The rolled tortilla chips?” he asks. You nod, and his eyes light up. “You really are the best friend ever.” 

“Better than Harry?” 

“Harry’s rich,” Peter says, “so no. I’m kidding! Joking, come here, let me try some of that.” 

“Eat your own.” 

Peter plays a great host, letting you choose the movies, making lunch, ordering takeout in the evening and refusing to let you pay for it. This isn’t that out of character for Peter, but what shocks you is his complete unfiltered attention. He doesn’t check his phone, the tension you couldn’t name from these last few weeks nowhere to be felt. You’re flummoxed by the sudden change, but you missed him. You won’t look a gift horse in the mouth; you won’t question what it is that had Peter keeping you at arm’s length now it’s gone.

To your annoyance, you can’t stop thinking about Spider-Man. You keep opening your mouth to tell Peter you talked to him but biting your tongue. Why am I keeping it a secret? you wonder. 

“Have something to tell you.” 

“You do?” you ask, reluctant to sit properly, your feet tucked under his thigh and your body completely lax with the weight of the Parker throw. 

“Is that surprising?” 

“Is that a trick question?” 

“No. Just. I’ve been not telling you something.” 

“Okay, so tell me.” 

Peter goes pink, and stiff, a fake smile plastered over his lips. “Me and Gwen, we’re really done.” 

“I know, Pete. She broke up with you for reasons nobody felt I should be enlightened right after graduation.” Your stomach pangs painfully. “Unless you…”

“She’s going to England.” 

“She is?” 

“Oxford.” 

You struggle to sit up. “That sucks, Peter. I’m sorry.” 

“But?” 

You find your words carefully. “You and Gwen really liked each other, but I think that–” You grow in confidence, meeting his eyes firmly. “That there’s always been some part of you that couldn’t actually commit to her. So. I don’t know, maybe some distance will give you clarity. And maybe it’ll break your heart, but at least then you’ll know how you really feel, and you can move forward.” You avoid telling him to move on. 

“It wasn’t Gwen,” he says, which has a completely different meaning to the both of you. 

“Obviously, she’s the smartest girl I’ve ever met. She’s beautiful. Of course it’s not her fault,” you say, teasing.

“Really, that you ever met?” Peter asks. 

“She’s the best girl you were ever gonna land.“ 

He rolls his eyes. “Yeah, I guess so.” After a few more minutes of quiet, he says, “I think we were done before. I just hadn’t figured it out yet. Something wasn’t right.” 

“You were so back and forth. You’re not mean, there must’ve been something stopping you from going steady,” you agree. “You were breaking up every other week.”

“I know,” he whispers, tipping his head against the back couch. 

“Which, it’s fine, you don’t–” You grimace. “I can’t talk today. Sorry. I just mean that it’s alright that you never made it work.” You worry that sounds plainly obvious and amend, “Doesn’t make you a bad person. You’re never a bad person, Peter.” 

“I know. Thank you.” 

“You’re welcome. You don’t need me to tell you.” 

“It’s nice, though. I like when you tell me stuff. I want all of your secrets.” 

You should say Good, because I have something unbelievable to tell you, and I should’ve said it the moment I got home. 

Good, because last night I met the bravest man in New York City, and he walked me to the store for your chips. 

Good, because I have so much I’m keeping to myself.

You ruffle his hair. Spider-Man goes unmentioned. 

— 

He visits with a whoop. You don’t flinch when he lands —you’d heard the strange whip and splat of his webs landing nearby. 

“Spider-Man,” you say. 

“What’s that about?” 

“What?” 

“The way you said that. You laughed.” Spider-Man stands in spandexed glory before you, mask in place. He’s got a brown stain up the side of his thigh that looks more like mud than blood, but it’s not as though each of his fights are bloodless. They’re infamously gory on occasion.

“Did you get hurt?” you ask. You’re worried. You could help him, if he needs it. 

“Aw, this? That’s a scratch. That’s nothing, don’t worry about it. I’ve had worse from that stray cat living outside of 91st.” 

You look at him sharply. 91st is shorthand for 91st Bodega, and it’s not like you and Peter made it up, but suddenly, the man in front of you is Peter. The way he says it, that unique rhythm. 

Peter’s not so rough-voiced, you argue with yourself. Your Peter speaks in a higher register, dulcet often, only occasionally sarcastic. Spider-Man is rough, and cawing, and loud. Spider-Man acts as though the ground is a suggestion. Peter can’t jump off the second diving board at the pool. Spider-Man rolls his shoulders back in front of you with a confidence Peter rarely has. 

“What?” he asks. 

“Sorry. You just reminded me of someone.” 

His voice falls deeper still. “Someone handsome, I hope.” 

You take a small step around him, hoping it invites him to walk along while communicating how sorely you want to leave the subject behind. When he doesn’t follow, you add, “Yes, he’s handsome.” 

“I knew it.”

“What do you look like under the mask?”

Spider-Man laughs boisterously. “I can’t just tell you that.” 

“No? Do I have to earn it?” 

“It’s not like that. I just don’t tell anyone, ever.” 

“Nobody in the whole world?” you ask. 

The rain is spitting. New York lately is cold cold cold, little in the way of sunshine and no end in sight. Perhaps that’s all November’s are destined to be. You and Spider-Man stick to the inside of the sidewalk. Occasionally, a passerby stares at him, or calls out in Hello, and Spider-Man waves but doesn’t part from you. 

“Tell me something about you and I’ll tell you something about me,” Spider-Man says. “I’ll tell you who knows my identity.” 

“What do you want to know about me?” you ask, surprised. 

“A secret. That’s fair.” 

“Hold on, how’s that fair?” You tighten your scarf against a bitter breeze. “What use do I have for the people who know who you are? That doesn’t bring me any closer to the truth.” 

“It’s not about who knows, it’s about why I told them.” Spider-Man slips around you, forcing you to walk on the inside of the sidewalk as a car pulls past you all too quickly and sends a sheet of dirty rainwater up Spider-Man’s side. He shakes himself off. “Jerk!” he shouts after the car. 

“My secrets aren’t worth anything.”

“I doubt that, but if that’s true, that makes it a fair trade, doesn’t it?” 

He sounds peppy considering the pool of runoff collecting at his feet. You pick up your pace again and say, “Alright, useless secret for a useless secret.” 

You think about all your secrets. Some are odd, some gross. Some might make the people around you think less of you, while others would surely paint you in a nice light. A topaz sort of technicolor. But they aren’t useless, then, so you move on. 

“Oh, I know. I hate my major.” You grin at Spider-Man. “That’s a good one, right? No one else knows about that.” 

“You do?” Spider-Man asks. His voice is familiar, then, for its sympathy. 

“I like science, I just hate math. It’s harder than I thought it would be, and I need so much help it makes me hate the whole thing.” 

Spider-Man doesn’t drag the knife. “Okay. Only three people know who I am under the mask. It was four, briefly.” He clears his throat. “I told one person because I was being selfish and the others out of necessity. I’m trying really hard not to tell anybody else.”

“How come?” 

“It just hurts people.” 

You linger in a gap of silence, not sure what to say. A handful of cars pass you on the road. 

“Tell me another one,” he says. 

“What for?” 

“I don’t know, just tell me one.” 

“How do I know you aren’t extorting me for something?” You grin as you say it, a hint of flirtation. “You’ll know my face and my secrets and even if you tell me a really gory juicy one, I have no one to tell and no name to pair it with.” 

“I’m not showing you anything,” he warns, teasing, sounding so awfully like Peter that your heart trips again, an uneven capering that has you faltering in the street. 

Peter’s shorter, you decide, sizing him up. His voice sounds similar and familiar but Peter doesn’t ask for secrets. He doesn’t have to. (Or, he didn’t have to, once upon a time.) 

“Where are you going?” Spider-Man asks. 

“Oh, nowhere.” 

“Seriously, you’re out here walking again for no reason?” 

“I like to walk. It’s not like it’s dark out yet.” You’re not far at all from Queensboro Hill here. Walking in any direction would lead you to a garden —Flushing Meadows, Kew Gardens, Kissena Park. “Walk me to Kissena?” you ask. 

“Sure, for that secret.” 

You laugh as Spider-Man takes the lead, keeping time with him, a natural match of pace. It’s exciting that Spider-Man of all people wants to know one of your useless secrets enough to ask you twice. The attention of it makes searching for one a matter of how fast you can find one rather than a question of why you’d want to. It slips out before you can think better of it. 

“I burned my wrist a few days ago on a frying pan,” you confess, the phantom pain of the injury an itch. “It blistered and I cried when I did it, but I haven’t told anyone about it.” 

“Why not?” he asks. 

He shouldn’t use that tone with you, like he’s so so sorry. It makes you want to really tell him everything. How insecure you feel, how telling things feels like asking for someone to care, and half the time they don’t, and half the time you’re embarrassed. 

You walk past the bakery that demarcates the beginning of Kissena Park grounds across the way. “I didn’t think about it at first. I’m used to keeping things to myself. And then I didn’t tell anyone for so long that mentioning it now wouldn’t make sense. Like, bringing it up when it’s a scar won’t do much.” It’s a weak lie. It comes out like a spigot to a drying up tree. Glugs, fat beads of sound and the pull to find another thing to say.

“It was only a few days ago, right? It must still hurt. People want to know that stuff.” 

“Maybe I’ll tell someone tomorrow,” you say, though you won’t. 

“Thanks for telling me.”

The humour in spilling a secret like that to a superhero stops you from feeling sorry for yourself. You hide your cold fingers in your coat, rubbing the stiff skin of your knuckles into the lining for friction-heat. The rain has let up, wind whipping empty but brisk against your cheeks. Your lips will be chapped when you get home, whenever that turns out to be. 

“This is pretty far from Trader Joe’s,” he comments, like he’s read your mind. 

“Just an hour.” 

“Are you kidding? It’s an hour for me.” 

“That’s not true, Spider-Man, I’ve seen those webs in action. I still remember watching you on the News that night, the cranes. I remember,” —you try to meet his eyes despite the mask— “my heart in my throat. Weren’t you scared?”

“Is that the secret you want?” he asks. 

“I get to choose?” 

Spider-Man throws his gaze around, his hand behind his head like he might play with his hair. You come to a natural stop across the street from Kissena Park’s playground. Teenagers crowd the soft-landing floor, smaller children playing on the wet rungs of the climbing frame. 

“If you want to,” he says. 

“Then yeah, I want to know if you were scared.” 

“I didn’t haveI time to be scared. Connors was already there, you know?” He shifts from one foot to the other. “I don’t think I’ve ever thought about it before. I wasn’t scared of the height, if that’s what you mean. I already had practice by then, and I knew I had to do it. Like, I didn’t have a choice, so I just did it. I had to save the day, so I did.” 

“When they lined up the cranes–”

“It felt like flying,” Spider-Man interrupts. 

“Like flying.”

You picture the weightlessness, the adrenaline, the catch of your weight so high up and the pressure of being flung between the next point. The idea that you have to just do something, so you do. 

“That’s a good secret.” You offer a grateful smile. “It doesn’t feel equal. I burned myself and you saved the city.” 

“So tell me another one,” he says. 

—

Maybe you started to fall for Peter after his Uncle Ben passed away. Not the days where you’d text him and he’d ignore you, or the days spent camping outside of his house waiting for him to get home. It wasn’t that you couldn’t like him, angry as he was; there’s always been something about his eyes when he’s upset that sticks around. You loathe to see him sad but he really is pretty, and when his eyelashes are wet and his mouth is turned down, formidable, it’s an ache. A Cabanel painting, dramatic and dark and other. 

It was after. When he started sending Gwen weird smiles and showing up to the movies exhilarated, out of breath, unwilling to tell you where he’d been. Skating, he’d always say. Most of the time he didn’t have his skateboard. 

You’d only seen them kiss once, his hand on her shoulder curling her in, a pang of heat. You were curdled by jealousy but it was more than that. Peter was tipping her head back, was kissing her soundly, a fierceness from him that made you sick to think about. You spent weeks afterwards up at night, tossing, turning, wishing he’d kiss you like that, just once, so you could feel how it felt to be completely wrapped up in another person. 

You’d always held out for Peter, in a way. It was more important to you that he be your friend. You were young, and love had been a far off thing, and then one day you suddenly wanted it. You learned just how aching an unrequited love could be, like a bruise, where every time you saw Peter —whether it be alone or with Gwen, with anyone— it was like he knew exactly where to poke the bruise. Press the heel of his hand and push. The worst is when he found himself affectionate with you, a quick clasp of your cheek in his palm as he said goodbye. Nights spent in his twin bed, of course you’ll fit, of course you couldn’t go home, not this late, May won’t care if we keep the door open —the suggestion that the door being closed might’ve meant something. His sleeping arm furled around you. 

Now you’re nearing the end of your second semester at ESU, Gwen is going to England at the end of the year, and Peter hasn’t tried to stop her, but he’s still busy. 

“Whatever,“ you say, taking a deep breath. You’re not mad at Peter, you just miss him. Thinking about him all the time won’t change a thing. “It’s fine.” 

“I’d hope so.” 

You swing around. “Don’t do that!”

Spider-Man looks vaguely chastened, taking a step back. “I called out.” 

“You did?” 

“I did. Hey, miss, over there! The one who doesn’t know how to get a goddamn taxi!” 

“I like to walk,” you say. 

“Yeah, so you’ve said. Have you considered that all this walking is bad for you? It’s freezing out, Miss Bennett!” 

“It’s not that bad.” You have your coat, a scarf, your thermal leggings underneath your jeans. “I’m fine.” 

“What’s wrong with staying at home?” 

“That’s not good for you. And you’re one to talk, Spider-Man, aren’t you out on the streets every night? You should take a day off.” 

“I don’t do this every night.” 

“Don’t you get tired?”

Spider-Man’s eyelets seem to squint, his mock-anger effusive as he crosses his arms across his chest. “No, of course not. Do I look like I get tired?” 

“I don’t know. You’re in a full suit, I can’t tell. I guess you don’t… seem tired. You know, with all the backflips.” 

“Want me to do one?” 

“On command?” You laugh. “No, that’s okay. Save your strength, Spider-Man.” 

“So where are you heading today?” he asks. 

There’s a slip of skin peeking out against his neck. You’re surprised he can’t feel the cold there, stepping toward him to point. “I can see your stubble.” 

He yanks his mask down. “Hasty getaway.” 

“A getaway, undressed? Spider-Man, that’s not very gentlemanly.” 

You start to walk toward the Cinemart. Spider-Man, to your strange pleasure, follows. He walks with considerable casualness down the sidewalk by your left, occasionally letting his head turn to chase a distant sound where it echoes from between high-rises and along the busy street. It’s cold and dark, but New York is hectic no matter what, even the residential areas. (Is there such a thing? The neighbourhoods burst with small businesses and backstreet sales, no matter the time.)

“Luckily for you, crime is slow tonight,” he says. 

“Lucky me?” You wonder if your acquainted vigilante flirts with every girl he stalks. “You realise I’ve managed to get everywhere I’m going for the last two decades without help?” 

“I assume there was more than a little help during that first decade.” 

“That’s what you think. I was a super independent toddler.” 

Spider-Man tips his head back and laughs, but that laugh is quickly squashed with a cough. “Sure you were.” 

“Is there a reason you’re escorting me, Spider-Man?” you ask. 

“No. I– I recognised you, I thought I’d say hi.” 

“Hi, Spider-Man.” 

“Hi.” 

“Can I ask you something? Do you work?” 

Spider-Man stammers again, “I– yeah. I work. Freelance, mostly.” 

“I was wondering how you fit all the crime fighting into your life, is all. University is tough enough.” You let the wind bat your scarf off of your shoulder. “I couldn’t do what you do.” 

“Yeah, you could.” 

He sounds sure. 

“How would you know?” you ask. “Maybe I’m awful when you’re not walking me around. I hate New York. I hate people.” 

“No, you don’t. You’re not awful. Don’t ask me how I know, ‘cos I just know.” 

You try not to look at him. If you look at him, you’re gonna smile at him like he hung the moon. “Well, tonight I’m going to be dreadfully selfish. My friend said he’d buy my movie ticket and take me out for dinner, a real dinner, the mac and cheese with imitation lobster at Benny’s. Have you tried that?” 

Spider-Man takes a big step. “Tonight?” he asks. 

“Yep, tonight. That’s where I’m going, the Cinemart.” You frown at his hand pressing into his stomach. “Are you okay? You look like you’re gonna throw up.” 

“I can hear– something. Someone’s crying. I gotta go, okay? Have fun at the movies, okay?” He throws his arm up, a silken web shooting from his wrist to the third floor of an apartment complex. “Bye!” he shouts, taking a running jump to the apartment, using his web as an anchor. He flings himself over the roof. 

Woah, you think, warmth filling your cold cheeks, the tip of your nose. He’s lithe.  

Peter arrives ten minutes late for the movie, which is half an hour later than you’d agreed to meet. 

“Sorry!” he shouts, breathless as he grabs your hands. “God, I’m sorry! I’m so sorry. You should beat me up. I’m sorry.” 

“What the fuck happened?” you ask, not particularly angry, only relieved to see him with enough time to still catch the movie. “You’re sweating like crazy, your hair’s wet.” 

“I ran all the way here, Jesus, do I smell bad? Don’t answer that. Fuck, do we have time?” 

You usher Peter inside. He pays for the tickets with hands shaking and you attempt to wipe the sweat from his forehead with your sleeve. “You could’ve called me,” you say, content to let him grab you by the arm and race you to the screen doors, “we could’ve caught the next one. Why were you so late, anyways? Did you forget?” 

“Forget about my favourite girl? How could I?” He elbows open the doors to let you enter first. “Now shh,” he whispers, “find the seats, don’t miss the trailers. You love them.” 

“You love them–”

“I’ll get popcorn,” he promises, letting the door close between you. 

You’re tempted to follow, fingers an inch from the handle. 

You turn away and rush to find your seats. Hopefully, the popcorn line is ten blocks long, and he spends the night punished for his wrongdoing. My favourite girl. You laugh nervously into your hand. 

—

Winter 

Spider-Man finds you at least once a week for the next few weeks. He even brings you an umbrella one time, stars on the handle, asking you rather politely to go home. He offers to buy you a hot dog as you’re walking past the stand, takes you on a shortcut to the convenience store, and helps you get a piece of gum off of your shoe with a leaf and a scared scream. He’s friendly, and you’re getting used to his company. 

One night, you’re almost home from Trader Joe’s, racing in the pouring rain when a familiar voice calls out, “Hey! Running girl! Wait a second!” 

Him, you think, as ridiculous as it sounds. You don’t know his name, but Spider-Man’s a sunny surprise in a shitty, wet winter, and you turn to the sound with a grin.

He jogs toward you. 

You feel the world pause, right in the centre of your throat. All the air gets sucked out of you. 

“Hey, what are you doing out here? Did you get my texts?” 

You blink as fat rain lands on your face. 

“You okay?” Peter asks, Peter, in a navy hoodie turning black in the rain and a brown corduroy jacket. It’s sodden, hanging heavily around his shoulders. “Come on, let’s go,” —he takes your hand and pulls until you begin to speed walk beside him— “it’s freezing!” 

“Peter–”

“Jesus Christ!” 

“Peter, what are you doing here?” you ask, your voice an echo as he drags you into the foyer of your apartment building. 

Rain hammers the door as he closes it, the windows, the foyer too dark to see properly. 

“I wanted to see you. Is that allowed?” 

“No.” 

Peter takes your hand. You look down at it, and he looks down in tandem, and it is decidedly a non-platonic move. “No?” he asks, a hair’s width from murmuring. 

“Shit, my groceries are soaked.” 

“It’s all snacks, it’s fine,” he says, pulling you to the stairs. 

You rush up the steps together to your floor. Peter takes your key when you offer it, your own fingers too stiff to manage it by yourself, and he holds the door open for you again to let you in. 

Your apartment is a ragtag assortment to match the one next door, old wooden furniture wheeled from the street corners they were left on, thrifted homeward and heavy blankets everywhere you look. You almost slip getting out of your shoes. Peter steadies you with a firm hand. He shrugs out of his coat and hangs it on the hook, prying the damp hoodie over his head and exposing a solid length of back that trips your heart as you do the same. 

“Sorry I didn’t ask,” Peter says. 

“What, to come over? It’s fine. I like you being here, you know that.” 

All your favourite days were spent here or at Peter’s house, in beds, on sofas, his hair tickling your neck as credits run down the TV and his breath evens to a light snore. You try to settle down with him, changing into dry clothes, his spare stuff left at the bottom of your wardrobe for his next inevitable impromptu visit. You turn on the TV, letting him gather you into his side with more familiarity than ever. Rain lays its fingertips on your window and draws lazy lines behind half-turned blinds. You rest on the arm and watch Peter watch the movie, answering his occasional, “You okay?” with a meagre nod. 

“What’s wrong?” he asks eventually. “You’re so quiet.” 

Your hand over your mouth, you part your marriage and pinky finger, marriage at the corner, pinky pressed to your bottom lip, the flesh chapped by a season of frigid winds and long walks. “‘M thinking,” you say. 

“About?” 

About the first night in your new apartment. You got the apartment a couple of weeks before the start of ESU. Not particularly close to the university but close to Peter, your best, nicest friend. You met in your second year of High School, before Peter got contacts, ‘cos he was good at taking photographs and you were in charge of the school newspapers media sourcing. You used to wait for Peter to show up ten minutes late like clockwork, every week. And every week he’d barge into the club room and say, “Fuck, I’m sorry, my last class is on the other side of the building,” until it turned into its own joke. 

Three years later, you got your apartment, and Peter insisted you throw a housewarming party even if he was the only person invited. 

“Fuck,” he’d said, ten minutes late, a cake in one hand and a whicker basket the other, “sorry. My last class is on–”

But he didn’t finish. You’d laughed so hard with relief at the reference that he never got the chance. Peter remembered your very first inside joke, because Peter wasn’t about to go off to ESU and meet new friends and forget you. 

But Peter’s been distant for a while now, because Peter’s Spider-Man. 

“Do you remember,” you say, not willing to share the whole truth, “when you joined the school newspaper to be the official photographer, and you taught me the rule of thirds?” 

“So you didn’t need me,” he says. 

“I was just thinking about it. We ran that newspaper like the Navy.” 

Peter holds your gaze. “Is that really what you were thinking about?” 

“Just funny,” you murmur, dropping your hand in your lap and breaking his stare. “So much has changed.” 

“Not that much.” 

“Not for me, no.” 

Peter gets a look in his eyes you know well. He’s found a crack in you and he’s gonna smooth it over until you feel better. You’re expecting his soft tone, his loving smile, but you’re not expecting the way he pulls you in —you’d slipped away from him as the evening went on, but Peter erases every millimetre of space as he slides his arm under your lower back and ushers you into his side. You hold your breath as he hugs you, as he looks down at you. It’s really like he loves you, the line between platonic and romantic a blur. He’s never looked at you like this before.

“I don’t want you to change,” he whispers. 

“I want to catch up with you,” you whisper back. 

“Catch up with me? We’re in the exact same place, aren’t we?”

“I don’t know, are we?” 

Peter hugs you closer, squishing your head down against his jaw as he rubs your shoulder. “Of course we are.” 

Peter… What is he doing? 

You let yourself relax against him. 

“You do change,” he whispers, an utterance of sound to calm that awful bruise he gave you all those months ago, “you change every day, but you don’t need to try.” 

“I just… feel like everyone around me is…” You shake your head. “Everyone’s so smart, and they know what they’re doing, or they’re– they’re special. I don’t know anything. So I guess lately I’ve been thinking about that, and then you–”

“What?” 

You can say it out loud. You could. 

“Peter, you’re…” 

“I’m what?” he asks. 

His fingers glide down the length of your arm and up again. 

If you're wrong, he’ll laugh. And if you’re right, he might– might stop touching you. Your head feels so heavy, and his touch feels like it’s gonna put you to sleep. 

He’s Spider-Man. 

It makes sense. Who else could have a good enough heart to do that? Of course it’s Peter. It explains so much about him, about Peter and Spider-Man both. Why Peter is suddenly firmer, lighter on his feet, why he can help you move a wardrobe up two flights of stairs without complaint; why Spider-Man is so kind to you, why he knows where to find you, why he rolls his words around just like Pete. 

Spider-Man said there are reasons he wears his mask. And Peter doesn’t tell you much, but you trust him. 

You won’t make him say anything, you decide. Not now. 

You curl your arm over his stomach hesitantly, smiling into his shirt as he hugs you tighter. 

“I was thinking about you,” he says. 

“Yeah?” 

“You’re quieter lately. I know you’re having a hard time right now, okay? You don’t have to tell me. I’m here for you whenever you need me.” 

“Yeah?” you ask.

“You used to sit on my porch when you knew May wouldn’t be home to make sure I wasn’t alone.” Peter’s breath is warm on your forehead. “I don’t know what you’re worried about being, but I’m with you,” he says, “‘n nothing is gonna change that.” 

Peter isn’t as far away as you thought. 

“Thank you,” you say. 

He kisses your forehead softly. Your whole world goes amber. He brings his hand to your cheek, the thought of him tipping your head back sudden and heart-racing, but Peter only holds you. You lose count of how many minutes you spend cupped in his hand. 

“Can I stay over tonight?” he utters, barely audible under the sound of the battering rain. 

“Yeah, please.” 

His thumb strokes your cheek. 

—

Two switches flip at once, that night. Peter is suddenly as tactile as you’ve craved, and Spider-Man disappears. 

He’s alive and well, as evidenced by Peter’s continued survival and presence in your life, but Spider-Man doesn’t drop in on your nightly walks. 

You take less of them lately, feeling better in yourself. Your spirits are certainly lifted by Peter’s increasing affection, but now that you know he’s Spider-Man you were waiting to see him in spandex to mess with his head. Nothing mean, but you would’ve liked to pick at his secret identity, toy with him like you know he’d do to you. After all, he’s been trailing you for weeks and getting to know you. Peter already knows you. Plus, you told Spider-Man secrets not meant for Peter Parker’s ears. 

You find it hard to be angry with him. A thread of it remains whenever you remember his deception, but mostly you worry about him. Peter’s out every night until who knows what hour fighting crime. There are guns. He could get shot, and he doesn’t seem scared. You end up watching videos on the internet of the night he ran to Oscorp, when he fought Connors’ and got that huge gash in his leg. His leg is soiled deep red with blood but banded in white webbing. He limps as he races across a rooftop, the recording shaky yet high definition. 

It’s not nice to see Peter in pain. You cling to what he’d said, how he wasn’t scared, but not being scared doesn’t mean he wasn’t hurting. 

You chew the tip of a finger and click on a different video. Your computer monitor bears heat, the tower whirring by your thigh. Your eyes burn, another hour sitting in the same seat, sick with worry. You don’t mind when Peter doesn’t answer your texts anymore. You didn’t mind so much before, just terrified of becoming an irrelevance in his life and lonely, too, maybe a little hurt, but never worried for his safety. Now when Peter doesn’t text you back you convince yourself that he’s been hurt, or that he’s swinging across New York City about to risk his life.

It’s not a good way to live. You can’t stop giving into it, is all. 

In the next video, Spider-Man sits on a billboard with a can of coke in hand. He doesn’t lift his mask, seemingly aware of his watcher. You laugh as he angles his head down, suspicion in his tight shoulders. He relaxes when he sees whoever it is recording. 

“Hey,” he says, “you all right?” 

“Should you be up there?” the person recording shouts. 

“I’m fine up here!” 

“Are you really Spider-Man?” 

“Sure am.” 

“Are you single?” 

Peter laughs like crazy. How you didn’t know it was him before is a mystery —it couldn’t sound more like him. “I’ve got my eye on someone!” he says, sounding younger for it, the character voice he enacts when he’s Spider-Man lost to a good mood.  

Your phone rings in the back pocket of your jeans. You wriggle it out, nonplussed to find Peter himself on your screen. You click the green answer button. 

“Hello?” Peter asks. 

You bring the phone snug to your ear. “Hey, Peter.” 

“Hi, are you busy?” 

“Not really.” 

“Do you wanna come over? I know it’s late. Come stay the night and tomorrow we’ll go out for breakfast.” 

“Is Aunt May okay with that?” 

“She’s staring at me right now shaking her head, but I’m in trouble for something. May, can she come over, is that allowed?” 

“She’s always allowed as long as you keep the door open.”

You laugh under your breath at May’s begrudging answer. “Are you sure she’s alright with it?” you ask softly. “I don’t want to be a burden.” 

“You never, ever could be. I’m coming to your place and we’ll walk over together. Did you eat dinner?” 

“Not yet, but–”

“Okay, I’ll make you something when you get here. I’ll meet you at the door. Twenty minutes?” 

“I have to shower first.” 

“Twenty five?” 

You choke on a laugh, a weird bubbly thing you’re not used to. Peter laughs on the other side of the phone. “How about I’ll see you at seven?” 

“It’s a date,” he says. 

“Mm, put it in your calendar, Parker.” 

—

Peter waits for you at the door like he promised. He frowns at your still-wet face as he slips your backpack from your shoulder, throwing it over his own. “You’re gonna get sick.” 

“I‘ll dry fast,” you say. “I took too long finding my pyjamas.” 

“I have stuff you can wear. Probably have your sweatpants somewhere, the grey ones.” Peter pulls you forward and wipes your tacky face. “I would’ve waited,” he says. 

“It’s fine.“

“It’s not fine. Are you cold?” 

“Pete, it’s fine.” 

“You always remind me of my Uncle Ben when you call me Pete,” he laughs, “super stern.” 

“I’m not stern. Look, take me home, please, I’m cold.” 

“You said it wasn’t cold!” 

“It’s not, I’m just damp–” Peter cuts you off as he grabs you, sudden and tight, arms around you and rubbing the lengths of your back through your coat. “Handsy!”

“You like it,” he jokes back, his playful warming turning into a hug. You smile, hiding your face in his neck for a few moments. 

“I don’t like it,” you lie. 

“Okay, you don’t like it, and I’m sorry.” Peter gives you a last hug and pulls away. “Now let’s go. I gotta feed you before midnight.” 

“That’s not funny.” 

“Apparently, nothing is.” 

Peter links your arms together. By the time you get to his house, you’ve fallen away from each other naturally. May is in the hallway when you climb through the door, an empty laundry basket in her hands. 

“I see Peter hasn’t won this argument yet,” you say in way of greeting. Peter’s desperate to do his own laundry now he’s getting older. May won’t let him. 

“No, he hasn’t.” She looks you up and down. “It’s nice to see you, honey. And in one piece! Peter tells me you’ve been walking a lot, and I mean, in this city? Can’t you buy a treadmill?” she asks. 

“May!” Peter says, startled. 

“I like walking, I like the air,” you say.

“Can’t exactly call it fresh,” May says. 

“No, but it’s alright. It helps me think.” 

“Is everything okay?” May asks, putting her hand on her hip. 

“Of course.” You smile at her genuinely. “I think starting college was too much for me? It was hard. But things are settling now, I don’t know what Peter told you, but I’m not walking a lot anymore. You know, not more than necessary.”

She softens her disapproving. “Good, honey. That’s good. Peter’s gonna make you some dinner now, right?” 

“Yeah, Aunt May, I’m gonna make dinner,” Peter sighs, pulling a leg up to take off his shoes. 

Peter shouldn’t really know that you’ve been walking. He might see you coming back from Trader Joe’s or the bodega on his way to your apartment, but you haven’t mentioned any of your longer excursions, and everybody in Queens has to walk. That’s information he wouldn’t know without Spider-Man. 

He seems to be hoping you won’t realise, changing the subject to the frankly killer grilled cheese and tomato soup that he’s about to make you, and pushing you into a chair at the table. “Warm up,” he says near the back of your head, forcing a wave of shivers down your arms.

He makes soup in one pan, grilled cheese in the other, two for him and two for you. Peter’s a good eater, and he encourages the same from you, setting a big bowl of tomato soup (from the can, splash of fresh cream) down in front of you with the grilled cheese on a plate between you. You eat it in too-hot bites and try not to get caught looking at him. He does the same, but when he catches you, or when you catch him, he holds your eye and smiles. 

“I can do the dishes,” you say. You might need a breather. 

“Are you kidding? I’m gonna rinse them, put them in the dishwasher.” Peter stands and feels your forehead with his hand. “Warmer. Good job.” 

You shrug away from his hand. “Loser.” 

“Concerned friend.” 

“Handsy loser.” 

”Shut up,” he mumbles. 

As flustered as you’ve ever seen, Peter takes your empty dishes to the kitchen. When he’s done rinsing them off you follow him upstairs to his bedroom and tuck your backpack under his bed. 

You look down at your socks. Peter’s room is on the smaller side, but it’s never been as startlingly small as it is when Peter’s socked feet align with yours, toe to toe. Quick recovery time, this boy. 

“There’s chips and stuff on my desk. Or I could run to 91st for some ice cream sandwiches if you want something sweet,” he says. 

You lift your eyes, tilt your head up just a touch, not wanting him to think you’re in his space no matter how strange that might be, considering he chose to stand there. “I’m all right. Did you want ice cream? We can go if you want to, but if you want to go ’cos you think I do then I’m fine.” 

“That’s such a long answer,” he says, draping an arm over your shoulder. “You don’t have to say all of that, just tell me no.” 

“I don’t want ice cream.” 

“Wasn’t that easy?” he asks. 

“Well, no, it wasn’t. Saying no to you is like saying no to a puppy.” 

“Because I’m adorable?” 

“Persistent.” 

“Yeah, I guess I am.” He drapes the other arm over you. The soap he used at the kitchen sink lingers on his hands. 

“Peter…?” you murmur. 

“What?” he murmurs back. 

You touch a knuckle to his chest. “This– You…” Every quelled thought rushes to the surface at once —Peter doesn’t like you as you desire, how could he, you aren’t beautiful like he is, aren’t smart, aren’t brave, no exceptional kindness or goodness to mark you enough for him. It’s why his being with Gwen didn’t hurt; she made sense. And for months now you’ve wondered what it is that made him struggle to be with her. And sometimes, foolishly, you wondered if it was you. But it’s not you, it’s never you, and whatever Peter’s trying to do now–

“Hey, you okay?” he asks, taking your face into his hand. 

“What are you doing?” 

“What?” He pushes his hand back to hold your nape, thumb under your ear. “I can’t hear you.”  

You raise your voice. “Why did you invite me over tonight?” 

“‘Cos I missed you?” 

“I used to think you didn’t miss me at all.” 

Peter winces, hurt. “How could you think that? Of course I miss you. What you said to May, about college being hard? It’s like that for me too, okay? I miss you all the time.” 

You bite the inside of your bottom lip. “…College isn’t hard for you.” 

“It’s not easy.” He frowns, the fallen angel, his lips an unsure brushstroke. “What’s wrong? Did I say the wrong thing?” 

You’re being wretched, you know, saying it isn’t hard for him. “You didn’t. Really, you didn’t.” 

“But why are you upset?” he implores, dark eyes darker as his eyebrows tug together.

“I’m not–”

“You are. It’s okay, you can be upset. I just want you to feel better, you know that?” He settles his hands at the tops of your arms. Less intimate, but something warm remains. “Even if it takes a long time.” 

“I’m fine.” 

“You’re not fine.”

“How would you know?” you finally ask. 

Peter stares at you. 

“I know you,” he says carefully, “and I know you aren’t struggling like you were, but that doesn’t mean it didn’t happen or that you have to be a hundred percent better now.” 

“I didn’t realise that I was,” you say, licking your lips, “‘til now. I didn’t get that it was on the surface.”

Peter pulls you in for a gentle hug. “I’m here for you forever, and I’ll make it up to you for not noticing sooner,” he says, scrunching your shirt in his hand.

After the hug, he tells you to change and make yourself comfortable while he showers. So you put on your pyjamas and climb into Peter’s bed, head pounding as though all your energy was stolen in a fell swoop. You press your nose to his pillow and arm wrapped around his comforter, gathering it into a Peter sized lump. The shower pump whines against the shared wall. 

Things aren’t meant to be like this. You thought Peter touching you —holding you— was the deepest of your desires, but you feel now exactly as you had before he started blurring the line, needing Peter to kiss you so badly it becomes its own kind of nausea. Why are you still acting like it’s an impossibility?

When he comes back, you’ll apologise. He hasn’t done anything wrong. He does keep a secret, but don’t you keep one too? He’s Spider-Man. You’ve had deep, complicated feelings for him for months. They are secrets of equal magnitude, and are, more apparently, badly kept. 

You wish you could fall asleep. Your heart ticks in agitation.

Peter returns as perturbed as earlier. 

“Are you sure there’s nothing wrong?” he asks, raking a hand through his hair. A towel hangs around his neck. 

“I’m sorry for being weird.” 

“You’re not weird,” Peter says, bringing the towel to his hair to scrub ruthlessly. 

“It’s just ‘cos things have been different between us.” And, you try to say, that scares me no matter how bad I wanted it. because you’re not just Peter anymore, you’re Spider-Man. I’m only me, and I can’t do anything to protect you.

Peter gives his hair a long scrub before draping the towel on his desk chair. He rakes it messily into place and sits himself at the end of the bed. You sit up. 

“Yeah, they have been. Good different?” he asks hesitantly. 

“I think so,” you say, quiet again. 

“That’s what I thought.” 

“I don’t want you to feel like I don’t want to be here. I just worry about you.” 

Peter uses his hands to get higher up the bed. “Don’t worry about me,” he says, “Jesus, please don’t. That’s the last thing I want from you, I hate when people worry about me.” 

You curl into the lump of comforter you’d made. Peter lets himself rest beside you, his back to the bedroom wall, tens of Polaroids above him shining with the light of the hallway and his orange-bulbed lamp. His skin is glowing like it’s golden hour, dashes of topaz in his eyes, his Cupid’s bow deep. How would it feel to lean forward and kiss him? To catch his Cupid's bow under your lips?

You brush a damp curl tangled in another onto his forehead. 

You lay there for a little while without talking, listening to the sound of the washing machine as it cycles downstairs. 

“Am I going too fast?” Peter murmurs. 

You press your lips together, shaking your head minutely. 

“Is it something else?” 

You don’t move. 

“Do you want me to stop?” he asks. 

“No.”

Peter rewards you with a smile, his hand on your arm. “Alright. Let me get this blanket on you the right way. You’re still cold.” 

You resent the loss of a shape to hold when Peter slips down beside you and wrangles the comforter flat again, spreading it out over you both, his hand under the blankets. His knuckles brush your thigh. 

He takes a deep breath before turning and wrapping his arm over your stomach, asking softly, “Is this alright?” 

“Yeah.” 

He gives you a look and then lifts his head to slot his nose against your temple. “Please don’t take this in a way that I don’t mean it, but sometimes you think about things so much I worry you’re gonna get stuck in your head forever.” 

“I like thinking.” 

“I hate it,” he says quickly, a fervent, flirting cadence to his otherwise dulcet tone, “we should never do it ever again.” 

“I’ll try not to.” 

“Would you? For me?” 

You laugh into his shirt, feeling the warmth of your breath on your own nose. “I’ll do my best.” 

“Good. I’d miss you too much if you got lost in that nice head of yours.” 

You relax under his arm. You aren’t sure what all the fuss was about now that he's hugging you. “I’d miss you too.”

May comes up the stairs about an hour later. To her credit, she doesn’t flinch when she finds you and Peter smushed together watching a DVD on his old TV. He’s holding your arm, and you’re snoozing on his shoulder, half-aware of the world, fully aware of his nice smells and the shapes of his arms. 

“Door open,” she says. 

“Not that either of us want it closed, May, but we’re adults.” 

“Not while I’m still washing your clothes, you’re not.” 

He snorts. “Goodnight, Aunt May. The door isn’t gonna close, I promise.” 

“I know that,” she says, scornful in her pride. “You’re a good boy.” She lightens. “Things are going okay?” 

Peter covers your ear. “Goodnight, Aunt May.” 

”I have half a mind to never listen to you again. You talk my ear off and I can’t ask a simple question?” 

“I love you,” Peter sing-songs. 

“I love you, Peter,” she says. “Don’t smother the girl.” 

“I won’t smother her. It’s in my best interest that she survives the night. She’s buying my breakfast tomorrow.” 

“Peter Parker.” 

“I’m kidding,” he whispers, petting your cheek absentmindedly. “Just messing with you, May.” 

You smile and curl further into his arms. His voice is like the sun, even when he whispers.  

—

To your surprise, Spider-Man comes to find you after class one evening. A guest lecturer had talked to your oncology class about click chemistry and other molecular therapies against cancer, and the zine book she’d given you is burning a hole in your pocket. Peter is going to love it. 

You pull it out and pause beside a bench and a silver trash can, the day grey but thankfully without rain. The pages of your little book whip forcefully in the wind. It’s chemistry, sure, but it’s biology too, wrapping your and Peter’s interests up neatly. If it weren’t for Peter you doubt you’d love science as much as you do. He’s always been good at it, but since you started college he's been a genius. Watching him grow has encouraged you to work harder, and understanding the material is satisfying, if draining. You take a photo of the middle most pages and tuck the book away, writing a quick text to Peter to send with it. 

Look! it says, LEGO cancer treatment!! 

The moment you press send a beep chimes from somewhere close behind you, all too familiar. You turn to the source but find nobody you know waiting. Coincidence, you think, shaking yourself and beginning the trek to the subway. 

But then you hear the tell tale splat and thwick of Spider-Man’s webbing. 

You wait until you’re at the alleyway between Porto’s Bakery and the key cutting shop and turn down to stop by one of the dumpsters. 

“Spider-Man?” you ask, shoulders tensed in case it’s not who you think. 

“What are you doing?” he asks.

You gasp as he hops down in front of you, his suit shiny with its dark web-pattern caught by the grey sunshine passing through the clouds overhead. “Shit, don’t break your ankles.” 

“My ankles?” He laughs. He sounds so much like Peter that you can only laugh with him. What an idiot he is for thinking you don’t know; what a fool you’d been for falling for his put upon tenor. “They’re fine. What would be wrong with my ankles?” 

“You just dropped down twenty feet!” 

“It’s more like thirty, and I’m fine. You understand the super part of superhero, don’t you?” 

“Who said you’re a superhero?” 

“Nice. What are you doing down here?” 

“I was testing my theory. You’re following me.” 

“No, I’m visiting you, it’s very different,” he says confidently. 

“You haven’t come to see me for weeks.” 

“Yes, well, I–” Spider-Peter crosses his arms across his chest. “Hey, you’re the one who told me to take a day off.” 

“I did tell you to take a day off. It’s not nice thinking about you trying to save the world every single night. That’s a lot of responsibility for one person to have.” 

“But it’s my responsibility,” he says easily. “No point in a beautiful girl like you wasting her time worrying about it. I have to do it, and I don’t mind it.” 

“Do you flirt with every girl you meet out here in the city?” you ask, cheeks hot. 

“No,” he says, fondness evident even through the mask, “just you.” 

“Do you wanna walk me home? I was gonna take the subway, but it’s not that far.” 

Spider-Man nods. “Yeah, I’ll walk you back.” 

He doesn’t hide that he knows the way very well. He takes preemptive turns, crosses roads without you telling him to go forward. You can’t believe him. Smartest guy at Midtown High and he can’t pretend to save his life. 

“Are you having a good semester?” he asks. 

“It’s getting better. I’m glad I stuck with it. I love biology, it’s so fucking hard. I used to think that was a bad thing, but it makes it cooler now. Like, it’s not something everyone understands.” You give him a look, and you give into temptation. “My best friend got me into all this stuff. I used to think math was hopeless and science was for dorks.” 

“It’s definitely for dorks.” 

“Right, but I love being one.” You offer a useless secret. “I like to think that it’s why we’re such great friends.” 

“Me and you?” Spider-Man asks hoarsely. 

“Me and Peter.” You elbow him without force. “Why, do you like science?” 

“I love it…” 

“You know, I really like you, Spider-Man. I feel like we’ve been friends for a long time.” You’re teasing poor Peter. 

He doesn’t speak for a while. He stops walking, but you take a few steps without him. When you realise he’s stopped, you turn back to see him. 

Peter’s gone so tense you could strike him with a flint and catch a spark. It’s the same way Peter looked at you when he told you about his Uncle, a truth he didn’t want to be true. Seeing it throws a spanner in the works of all your teasing: you’d meant to wind him up, not make him panic. 

“What’s wrong?” you ask. “Can you hear something?” 

“No, it’s not that…” He’s masked, but you know him well enough to understand why he’s stopped. 

“It’s okay,” you say. 

“It’s not, actually.” 

“Spider-Man.” You take a step toward him. “It’s fine.”

He presses his hands to his stomach. The sun is setting early, and in an hour, the dark will eat up New York and leave it in a blistering cold. “Do you remember when we first met, the second time, we swapped secrets?” 

“Yeah, I remember. Useless secret for another. I told you I hated my major. It’s not true anymore, obviously. I was having a bad time.” 

“I know you were,” he says, emphasis on know, like it’s a different word entirely. 

“But meeting you really helped. If it weren’t for you, for Peter,” —you give him a searching look— “I wouldn’t feel better at all.” 

“It wasn’t his fault?” he asks. “He was your friend, and you were lonely.” 

“No–”

“He didn’t know what was going on with you, he didn’t have a clue. You hurt yourself and you felt like you couldn’t tell anybody, and I know it wasn’t an accident, so what was his excuse?” His voice burns with anger. “It’s his fault.” 

“Of course it wasn’t your fault. Is that what you think?” You shake your head, panicked by the bone-deep self loathing in his voice, his shameful dropped head. “Yes, I was lonely, I am lonely, I don’t know many people and I– I– I hurt myself, and it wasn’t as accidental as I thought it was, but why would that be your fault?” 

“Peter’s fault,” he says, though his head is lifted now, and he doesn’t bother enthusing it with much gusto. 

“Peter, none of it was your fault.” You cringe in your embarrassment, thinking Fuck, don’t let me ruin this. “I was in a weird way, and yes, I was lonely, and I really liked you more than I should have. You didn't want me and that wasn’t your fault, that’s just how it was, I tried not to let it get to me, just there were a lot of things weighing on me at once, but it really wasn’t as bad as you think it was and it wasn’t your fault.” 

“I wasn’t there for you,” he says. “And I’ve been lying to you for a long time.” 

“You couldn’t tell me, right? Spider-Man is your secret for a reason.” 

“…I didn’t even know you were lonely until you told him. He was a stranger.” 

You hold your hands behind your back. “Well, he was a familiar one.” 

Peter reaches out as though wanting to touch you, but your arms aren’t in his reach. “It’s not because I didn’t want you.” 

“Peter,” you say, squirming. 

He steps back. 

“I have to go,” he says. 

“What?” 

“I have to– I don’t want to go,” he says earnestly, “sweetheart, I can hear someone calling out, I have to go. But I’ll come back, I’ll– I’ll come back,” he promises. 

And with a sudden lift of his arm, Peter pulls himself up the side of a building and disappears, leaving you whiplashed on the sidewalk, the sun setting just out of view.

—

You fall asleep that night waiting for Peter. When you wake up, 5AM, eyes aching, he isn’t there. You check your phone but he hasn’t texted. You check the Bugle and Spider-Man hasn’t been seen. 

You aren’t sure what to think. He sounded sincere to the fullest extent when he said he’d come back, but he didn’t, not ten minutes later, not twenty. You made excuses and you went home before it got too dark to see the street, sat on the couch rehearsing what you’d say. How could Peter think your unhappiness was his fault? Why does he always put the entire world on his shoulders?

Selfishly, you worried what it all meant for his lazy touches. Would he want to curl up into bed with you again now he knows what it means to you? It’s different for him. It isn’t like he’s in love with you… you’d just thought maybe he could be. That this was falling in love, real love, not the unrequited ache you’d suffered before. 

But maybe you got everything wrong. All of it. It wouldn't be the first time. 

—

You and Peter found The Moroccan Mode in your senior year at Midtown. The school library was small and you were sick of being underfoot at home. When you started at ESU, you explored the on campus coffeehouse, the Coffee Bean, but it was crowded, and you’d found yourself attached to the Mode’s beautiful tiling, blues and topaz and platinum golds, its heavy, oiled wooden furniture, stained glass lampshades and the case full of lemony treats. The coffee here is better than anywhere else, but the best part out of everything is that it’s your secret. Barely anybody comes to the Mode on purpose. 

You hide in a far corner with a book and an empty cup of decaf coffee, a slice of meskouta on the table untouched. Decaf because caffeine felt a terrible idea, meskouta untouched because you can’t stomach the smell. You push it to the opposite end of the table, considering another cup of coffee instead. It’s served slightly too hot, and will still be warm when it gets to your chest. 

The sunshine is creeping in slowly. It feels like the first time you’ve seen it in months, warming rays kissing your fingers and lining the walls. You turn a page, turn your wrist, let the sun warm the scar you gave yourself those few months ago, when everything felt too big for you. 

Looking back, it was too big. Maybe soon you’ll be ready to talk about it.  

The author in your book is talking about bees. They can fly up to 15 miles per hour. They make short, fast motions from front to back, a rocking motion. Asian giant hornets can go even faster despite their increased mass. They consider humans running provocation. If you see a giant hornet, you’re supposed to lay down to avoid being stung. 

You put your face in your hand. Next year, you’ll avoid the insect-based electives. 

Across the cafe, the bell at the top of the door rings. Laughter falls through it, a couple passing by. The register clashes open. A minute later it closes. 

You don’t raise your head when footsteps draw near. A plate is placed on the table, pushed across to you, stopping just shy of your coffee. 

“Did you eat breakfast?” Peter asks quietly. 

His voice is gentle, but hoarse. 

You tense. 

“Are you okay?” he asks, not waiting for your answer to either question. “You don’t look like yourself. Your eyes are red.” 

You lift your head. Wet with the beginnings of tears, you see Peter through an astigmatic blur. 

“What are you reading?” He frowns at you. “Please don’t cry.” 

You shake your head. Your smile is all odd, nothing like his, no inherent warmth despite your best effort. “I’m okay.” 

He nudges you across the booth seat and sits beside you. His arm settles behind your shoulders. He smells like smoke and soap, an acrid scent barely hidden. “Can you tell me you didn’t wait long for me?” 

“Ten minutes,” you lie. 

“Okay. I’m sorry. There was a fire.” He rubs your arm where he’s holding you. “I’m sorry.” 

“Will you go half?” you ask, nodding to the sandwich he’s brought you. It’s tough sourdough bread, brown with white flour on the crusts and leafy greens poking between the slices. You and Peter complain about the price. You’ve never had one. He passes you the bigger half, holding the other in his hand without eating. 

“I know you’re hungry,” you say, tapping his elbow, “just eat.” 

You eat your sandwiches. Now that Peter’s here, you don’t feel so sick —he’s not upset with you. The dull pang of an empty stomach won’t be ignored. 

Peter puts his sandwich down, which is crazy, and wipes his fingers on the plates napkin. You’ve never seen him stop before he’s done.

“It was in the apartments on Vernon. I– I think I almost died, the smoke was everywhere.” 

You choke around a crust, thrusting the rest of your half onto the plate. “Are you hurt?” you ask, coughing. 

He moves his head from side to side, not a shake, but a slow no. “How long have you known it was me?” he asks, curling his hand behind your back again, fingers spread over your shoulder blade, a fingertip on your neck. 

You savour his touch, but you give in to your apprehension and stare at his chest. “The night you caught me outside in the rain in November. You called me ‘running girl’. The way you said it, you sounded exactly like him. I turned around expecting,” —you whisper, weary of the quiet cafe— “Spider-Man, and I realised it’s him that sounds like you. That he is you.” 

“Was that disappointing?” 

“Peter, you’re, like, my favourite person in the world,” you whisper fervently, your smile making it light. You laugh. “Why would that be disappointing?” 

“I thought maybe you think he’s cooler than me.” 

“He is cooler than you, Peter.” You laugh again, pleased when he scoffs and draws you nearer. “I guess you’re the same person, right? So he’s just as cool as you are. But why would being cool matter to me? You know I like you.” 

“You flirted pretty heavily with Spider-Man.”

“Well, he flirted with me first.” 

You chance a look at his face. From that moment you can’t look away, not from Peter. You like when he wears that darkness in his eyes, the hint of his rarer side so uncommonly seen, but you love this most of all, Peter like your best memory, the way he’s looking at you now a picture perfect copy of that moment in a swimming pool in Manhattan with cracked tile under your feet. His arms heavy on your shoulders. You didn’t get it then, but you’re starting to understand now.

“I’ve made a mess of everything,” he says softly, the trail his hand makes to the small of your back leaving a wake of goosebumps. “I haven’t been honest with you.” 

“I haven’t, either.” 

“I want to ask you for something,” Peter says, a fingertip trailing back up. He smiles when you shiver, not teasing, just loving. “You can say no.” 

“You’re hard to say no to.” 

“I need you to talk to me more,” —and here he goes, Peter Parker, flirting and sweet-talking like his life depends on it, his face inching down into your space— “not just because I love your voice, or because you think so much I’m scared you’ll get lost, but I need you to talk to me. We need to talk about real things.”

We do, you think morosely. 

“It’s not your fault,” he adds, the hand that isn’t holding your back coming up to cup your cheek, “it’s mine. I was scared of telling you for stupid reasons, but I shouldn’t have let it be a secret for so long.” 

“No, I doubt they’re stupid,” you murmur, following his hand as he attempts to move it to your ear. “It’s not easy to tell someone you’re a hero.”

His palm smells like smoke. 

“That’s not the secret I meant,” he says. 

You take his hand from your face. Peter looks down and begins pressing his fingers between yours, squeezing them together as his thumb runs over the back of your hand.

“So tell me.”

The sunshine bleeds onto his cheek. Dappled orange light turning slowly white as time stretches and the sun moves up through a murky sky. “You want to trade secrets again?” he asks. 

“Please.” 

“Okay. Okay, but I don’t have as many as you do,” he warns. 

“I find that hard to believe.” 

“I don’t. It’s not a real secret, is it? I’ve been trying to show you for weeks, we…”

He tilts his head invitingly. 

All those hand-holds and nights curled up in bed together. Am I going too fast? You know exactly what he means; it really isn’t a secret.

“I’ll go first,” he says, lowering his face to yours. You try not to close your eyes. “I’ve wanted to kiss you for weeks.” He closes his eyes so you follow, your breath not your own suddenly. You hold it. Let it go hastily. “What’s your secret?” 

“Sometime I want you to kiss me so badly I can’t sleep. It makes me feel sick–”

“Sick?” he asks worriedly. 

You touch the tip of your nose to his. “It’s like– like jealousy, but…” 

“You have no one to be jealous of,” he says surely. He cups your cheek, and he asks, “Please, can I kiss you?” 

You say, “Yes,” very, very quietly, but he hears it, and his smile couldn’t be more obvious as he closes the last of the distance between you to kiss you.

It isn’t the sort of kiss that kept you up at night. Peter doesn’t hook you in or tip your head back, he kisses gently, his hand coming to live on your cheek, where it cradles. It’s so warm you don’t know what to make of him beyond kissing him back —kissing his smile, though it’s catching. Kissing the line of his Cupid’s bow as he leans down. 

“I’m sorry about everything,” he mumbles, nose flattened against yours. 

You feel sunlight on your cheek. Squinting, you turn into his hand to peer outside at the sudden abundance of it. It’s still cold outside, but the Mode is warm, Peter’s hand warmer, and the sunshine is a welcome guest. 

Peter drops his hand. “Oh, wow. December sun. Good thing it didn’t snow, we’d be blind.”

“I can’t be cold much longer,” you confess. “I’m sick of the shitty weather.” 

“I can keep you warm.” 

He smiles at you. His eyelashes tangle in the corners of his eyes, long and brown. 

“Did you want my meskouta?” you ask. 

Peter plants a fat kiss against your brow. 

You let the sunshine warm your face. Two unfinished sandwich halves, a mouthful of coffee, and a round slice of meskouta, its flaky crumb and lemon drizzle shining on the table. You would ask Peter for his camera if you’d thought he brought it with him, to take a picture of your breakfast and the carved table underneath. You could turn it on Peter, say something cheesy. This is the moment you ruined our lives, you’d tease.

“You never told me you met Spider-Man, you know.” 

You watch Peter lick the tip of his finger without shame. “They could make a novella of things I haven’t told you about,” you murmur wryly. 

Peter takes a bite of meskouta, reaching for your knee under the table. He shakes your leg a little, as if to say, Well, we’ll work on that. 

—

Spring

“Sorry!”

“No, it’s–”

“Sorry, sorry, I’m– shit!”

“–okay! All legs inside the ride?”

“I couldn’t find my purse–”

“You don’t need it!” Peter leans over the console to kiss your cheek. “You don’t have to rush.” 

“Are you sure you can drive this thing?” 

“Harry doesn’t mind.” 

“I don’t mean the car, I mean, are you sure you can drive?” 

“That’s not funny.” 

You grin and dart across to kiss his cheek, too. “Nothing ever is with us.” 

Peter grabs you behind the neck —which might sound rough, if he were capable of such a thing— and pulls you forward for a kiss you don’t have time for. “If we don’t check in,” —you begin, swiftly smothered by another press of his lips, his tongue a heat flirting with the seam of your lips— “by three, they said they won’t keep the room–” He clasps the back of your neck and smiles when your breath stutters. You squeeze your eyes closed, kiss him fiercely, and pull away, hand on his chest to restrain him. “And then we’ll have to drive home like losers.” 

Peter sits back in the driver's seat unbothered. He fixes his hair, and he wipes his bottom lip with his knuckle. You’re rolling your eyes when he finally returns your gaze. “Sorry, am I the one who lost her purse?” 

“Peter!” 

“I can’t make us un-late,” he says, turning the key slowly, hands on the wheel but his eyes still flitting between your eyes and your lips. 

“Alright,” you warn. 

He reaches for your knee. “It’s a forty minute drive. You’re panicking over nothing.” 

“It’s an hour.” 

Your drive from Queens to Manhattan is entirely uneventful. You keep Peter’s hand hostage on your knee, your palm atop it, the other hand wrapped around his wrist, your conversation a juxtaposition, almost lackadaisical. Peter doesn’t question your clinging nor your lazy murmurings, rubbing a circle into your knee with his thumb from Forest Hill to Lenox Hill. There’s so much to do around Manhattan; you could visit MoMA, Central Park, The Empire State Building or Times Square, but you and Peter give it all a miss for the little known Manhattan Super 8. 

It’s been a long time since you and Peter first visited. You took the bus out to Lenox Hill for a med-student tour neither of you particularly enjoyed, feeling out future careers. It’s not that Lenox Hill isn’t one of the most impressive medical facilities in New York (if not the northeastern USA), it’s that all the blood made him queasy, and you were panicking too much about the future to think it through. He got over his aversion to blood but chose the less hands-on science in the end, and you worked things through. You’re a little less scared of the future everyday. 

You and Peter were supposed to get the bus straight back home for a sleepover, but one got cancelled, another delayed, and night closed in like two hands on your neck. Peter sensed your fear and emptied his wallet for a night in the Super 8. 

The next morning it was beautifully sunny. The first day of summer that year, warm and golden. The pool wasn’t anything special but it was invitingly cool, blue and white tiles patterned like fish below; you clambered into the water in shorts and a tank top and Peter his boxers before a worker could see and stop you. 

It was one of the best days of your life. When you told Peter about it last week, he’d looked at you peculiarly, said, Bub, you’re cute, and let you waste the afternoon recounting one of your more embarrassing pangs of longing. A few days later he told you to clear your calendar for the weekend, only spilling the beans on what he’d done when you’d curled over his lap, a hand threaded into the hair at the nape of his neck, murmuring, Tell me, tell me, tell me. 

He’d hung his head over you and scrunched up his eyes. Cheater.

The best thing about having a boyfriend is that he always wants to listen to you. Peter was a good listener as a best friend, but now he has his act together and the secrets between you are never anything more than eating the last of the milk duds or not wanting to pee in front of him, he’s a treasure. There’s no feeling like having Peter pull you into his lap so he can ask about your day with his face buried in your neck, sniffing. Sometimes, when you text one another to meet up the next day, you’ll accidentally will the hours away babbling about school and life and things without reason. Peter has a list on his phone of your silliest tangents; blood oranges to the super moon, fries dipped in ice cream to the world record for kick flips done in five minutes. It’s like when you talk to one another, you can’t stop. 

There are quiet moments. You wake up some mornings to find him awake already, an arm behind you, rubbing at your soft upper arm, fingertip displacing the fine hairs there and trailing circles as he reads. He bends the pages back and holds whatever novel he’s reading at the bottom of his stomach, as though making sure you can see the words clearly, even when you’re sleeping. 

There are hectic, aching moments —vigilante boyfriends become blasé with their lives and precious faces. You’ve teetered on the edge of anxiety attacks trying to pick glass from his cheek with a tweezers, lamented over bruises that heal the next day. It’s easier when Peter’s careful, but Spider-Man isn’t careful. You ask him to take care of himself and he’s gentle with himself for a few days, but then someone needs saving from an armed burglar or a car swerves dangerously onto the sidewalk and he forgets. 

He hadn’t patrolled last night in preparation for today. 

“Did you know,” he says, pulling Harry’s borrowed car into a parking spot just in front of the Super 8 reception, “that today’s the last day of spring?” 

“Already?” 

“Tonight’s the June equinox.” 

“Who told you that?” 

“Aunt May. She said it’s time to get a summer job.” 

You laugh loudly. “Our federal loans won’t last forever.” 

“Harry’s gonna get me something, I think. Do you want to work with me? It could be fun.” 

You nod emphatically. It’s barely a thought. “Obviously I want to. Does Oscorp pay well, do you think?” 

Peter lets the engine go. The car turns off, engine ticking its last breath in the dash. “Better than the Bugle.” 

You get your key from the reception and find your room upstairs, second floor. It’s not dirty nor exceptionally clean, no mould or damp but a strange smell in the bathroom. There’s a microwave with two mugs and a few sachets of instant coffee. Peter deems it the nicest motel he’s ever stayed in, laughing, crossing the room to its only window and pulling aside the curtain. 

“There it is, sweetheart,” he says, wrapping his arm around you as you join him, “that’s what dreams are made of.” 

The blue and white tiled pool. It hasn’t changed. 

It’s about as hot as it’s going to get in June today, and, not knowing if it’ll rain tomorrow, you and Peter change into your swim suits and gather your towels. You wear flip flops and tangle your fingers, clanking and thumping down the rickety metal stairs to the pool. There’s nobody there, no lifeguard, no quests, and the pool is clean and cold when you dip your toes. 

Peter eases in first. Towels in a heap at the end of a sun lounger, his shirt tumbling to the floor, Peter splashes in frontward and turns to face you as the water laps his ribs. “It’s cold,” he says, wading for your legs, which he hugs. 

“I can feel it,” you say, the cool waters to your calves where you sit on the edge. 

“You won’t come in and warm me up?” he asks. 

You stroke a tendril of hair from his eyes. He attempts to kiss your fingers. 

“I’m trying to prepare myself.” 

“Mm, you have to get used to it.” He puts wet hands on your thighs, looking up imploringly until you lean down for a kiss. The fact that he’d want one still makes you dizzy. “Thank you,” he says. 

“You’ll have to move.” 

Peter steps back, a ripple of water ringing behind him, his hands raised. He slips them with ease under your arms and helps you down into the water, laughing at your shocked giggling —he’s so strong, the water so cold. 

Peter doesn’t often show his strength. Never to intimidate, he prefers startling you helpfully. He’ll lift you when you want to reach something too tall, or raise the bed when you’re on his side to force you sideways. 

“Oh, this is the perfect place to try the lift!” he says. 

“How will I run?” you ask, letting your knees buckle, water rushing up to your neck. 

Peter pulls you up. He touches you easily, and yet you get the sense that he’s precious with you, too. There’s devotion to be found in his hands and the specific way they cradle your back, drawing your chest to his. “I don’t need you to do a running start, sweetheart,” he says, tilting his head to the side, “I’ll just lift you.” 

“Last time I laughed so much you dropped me.” 

“Exactly, you laughed, and this is serious.” 

The world isn’t mild here. Car horns beep and tyres crunch asphalt. You can hear children, and singing, and a walkie talkie somewhere in the Super 8’s parking lot. The pool pumps gargle and Peter’s breath is half laughter as he pulls you further from the sidelines, ceramic tiles slippery under your feet. In the distance, you swear you can hear one of those songs he likes from that poor singer who died in the Wolf River. 

He’s a beholden thing in the sun; you can’t not look at him, all of him, his sculpted chest wet and glinting in the sun, his eyes like browning honey, his smile curling up, and up. 

“You’re beautiful,” he says. 

You rest an arm behind his head. “The rash guard is a good look?” 

“Sweetheart, you couldn’t look cuter,” he says, hands on your waist, pinky on your hip. “I wish you’d mentioned these shorts a few days ago. I would’ve prepared to be a more decent man.” 

“You’re decent enough, Parker.” 

“Maybe now.” 

“Well, if things get too hot, you can always take a quick dip,” you say. 

You’re teasing, but Peter’s eyes light up with mischief as he calls, “Oh, great idea!” and lets himself drop backwards into the water. You pull your arm back rather than go with him. You can’t avoid the great burst of water as he surges to the surface. 

He shakes himself off like a dog. 

“Pete!” you cry through laughs, wiping the water from your face before the chlorine gets in your eyes. 

“It just didn’t help,” he says, pulling you back into his arms, “you know, the water is cold, but you’re so hot, and I actually got a pretty good look at them when I was under, and you’re just as pretty as I remembered you being ten seconds ago–”

“Peter,” you say, tempted to roll your eyes. 

Water runs down his face in great rivers, but with the dopey smile he’s sporting, they look like anything but tears. “Tell me a secret?” he asks, dripping in sunshine, an endless summer at his back. 

A soft smile takes your lips. “No,” you say, tipping up your chin, “you tell me one first.”

“What kind of secret?” 

“A real one,” you insist. 

“Oh…” He leans away from you, though his arms stay crossed behind you. “Okay, I have one. Ask me again.” 

You raise a single brow. “Tell me a secret, Peter.” 

He pulls your face in for a kiss. His hand is wet on your cheek, but no less welcome. “I love you,” he says, kissing the skin just shy of your nose. 

You’re lucky he’s already holding you. “I love you too,” you say, gathering him to you for a hug, digging your nose into the slope of his neck as his admission blows your mind. “I love you.” 

Peter wraps his arms around your shoulders, closing his eyes against the side of your head. You can’t know what he’s thinking, but you can feel it. His hands can’t seem to stay still on your skin. 

The sun warms your back for a time. 

Peter lets out a deep breath of relief. You lean away to look at him, your hand slipping down into the water, where he finds it, his fingers circling your wrist. 

“That’s another one to let go of,” he suggests. 

He peppers a row of gentle kisses along your lips and the soft skin below your eye. 

You and Peter swim until your fingers are pruned and the sun has been blanketed by clouds. You let him wrap you in a towel, and kiss your wet ears, and take you back to the room, where he holds your face. 

“I’ll start the shower for you,” he says, rubbing your cheeks with his thumbs, each stroke of them encouraging your face from one side to the other, just a touch, ever so slightly moved in the palms of his hands. 

“Don’t fall asleep standing up,” he murmurs. 

Your eyes close unbidden to you both. “I won’t.” 

He holds you still, leaning in slowly to kiss you with the barest of pressure. Every thought in your head fades, leaving only you and Peter, and the dizziness of his touch as he lays you down at the end of the bed. 

｡𖦹°‧⭑.ᐟ

please like, comment or reblog if you enjoyed, i love comments and seeing what anyone reading liked about the fic is a treat —thank you for reading❤︎

[pratsmusings]

Best face oils in India in 2022

Best face oils in India in 2022

With the winter setting in, my skin needs that extra nourishment, and this season is when I make that switch to face oils. Face oils are extremely hydrating by nature and provide a long-lasting nourishment to your skin. Since face oils are a blend of oils, you will not really need anything else to layer on your skin. The good news is that there are some best face oils in India that you must give…

[stardust-swan]

Secrets to the Arabian Princess Scent 💐🧴🪷

So with Arab perfumes becoming popular in the West due to their strong projection and beautiful smell, and the Arab world becoming known for our knowledge on how to smell good af, I (a half Moroccan) am going to reveal some other ways we ensure we smell amazing to the girlies on Tumblr who are interested in Arab perfumes or just in generally smelling amazing 😍 Most tips are Moroccan but many apply to the Arab world in general (under the cut because this turned into a long post) ✨💞💐

1) Good Eating Habits: When my mother moved here to Europe, she was immediately struck by how the people seemed to smell like "pig." And that's no coincidence. You are what you eat, so coming from a country where nobody eats pig to one where everyone eats it, of course you're going to be struck by people smelling like it from the inside out. Not just that, but in the Arab world, it's also way less common for people to eat takeout and drink alcohol, whereas in many parts of the West, these things are a normal part of many people's diets and affects their natural scent. A lot of Arabs have also talked about how Westerners smell like "milk," and this is because Westerners tend to consume more dairy products than people in the East do. It's also common for Arabs to eat fruit as dessert instead of having cakes or cookies all the time (although speaking of cookies and cakes, the scents of rosewater, orange blossom water, almonds, honey, vanilla, oranges and lemons commonly used in Arab baking fill up the house with a wonderful smell while they're baking). Teas made from various herbal infusions are popular throughout the Arab world. Spearmint, peppermint, sage, cardamom, cinnamon, hibiscus, chamomile, anise, and thyme are commonly used to flavor tea in MENA. Dried lime tea is drunk in the Arabian Peninsula. Coffee flavoured with cardamom is also common. I especially like Turkish coffee. Spices like cinnamon, cardamom, and cloves are commonly used in cooking, and the scent of them can cling to your clothes and hair. Herbs like mint and parsley, which have natural deodorising properties, are often used in meals.

I'm not saying that you need to cut any foods out in order to smell good, but you should consider reducing the amounts of unhealthy foods and red meats you eat, and make sure to drink plenty of water and eat veggies and fruit daily.

2) Keeping a Clean House: Here in Ireland, a lot of people don't clean their houses every day. I know multiple people that only clean their floor once a week, and have a couple of neighbours who don't do much cleaning themselves and just have a housekeeper visit to clean once a week. But in Morocco, people clean daily. The home is also deep cleaned once a week, we even wash the walls. We don't wear shoes inside, and not just that, but we also have different slippers specifically for wearing inside the bathroom. Living in a clean space is important for smelling good, because no matter what you do, you'll always end up smelling like wherever you live due to spending so much time there. The scent will cling to your clothes and hair. Which means if your house smells dirty, you will also smell dirty.

As well as making sure the house is clean, Arabs also make it smell pretty with extras. For example, in Morocco it's common to burn incense or bakhour (perfumed wood chips), and the scent permeates your clothes. People also keep pieces of musk in their wardrobes (wrapped in a handkerchief). It come in scents like orange blossom, jasmine, amber, sandalwood, chamomile and lavender. An unused bar of soap or a sachet of potpourri in your wardrobe will do the same job though if you can't or don't want to buy musk. The musk can also be used as a scented wax melt, a home scent (you just leave it in a bowl), a body perfume (rub it on your skin), a hair perfume (rub on your palms and run through the hair), or to scent bathwater. Solid perfume made from natural ingredients has the same effect. I like Lush Rose Jam solid perfume, as it smells like sweet roses and Turkish delight, and a little goes a long way.

Specific to Marrakech, you can buy jasmine balls which you just leave around the house (if you're not in Marrakech, you can just leave potpourri or dried flowers and herbs in sachets on your desk, bedside table, etc). The Marrakech herbal shops also sell sandalwood bark which you burn. Oud and amber are also burned. Herbs like lavender are sprinkled under carpets and rugs so the scent rises as they're stepped on. Room sprays from brands like Nabeel are used, which come in a range of lovely scents (like the warm vanilla and oud Kanz or the rich floral Raunaq).

3) Personal Hygiene: In the Arab world, people shower daily. In Morocco, we also go to the hammam (public bath) once a week, and we sit in the sauna room, and then rub our bodies with sabon beldi (black soap), a natural soap made from olive oil and black olives, leaving it on for a few minutes before rinsing it off. Then we scrub our skin with a kessa glove after it's marinated. Exfoliating dead skin regularly makes perfume cling to you better (if you order Korean bath towels from Amazon, they're very similar to Moroccan kessa gloves and you use them in a similar way). Then after washing our hair, we use a ghassoul clay mask (some people also rub henna into their skin). After washing the clay off, many people rub rosewater or argan oil into their skin before heading to the relaxation area to enjoy refreshments. As well as helping us smell good, it also makes our skin incomparably soft. When my parents were newlyweds, my father remarked on how he'd never felt a woman with such soft skin in his life before. My mother attributes it to regularly using the hammams before moving here.

Obviously not everyone has access to a hammam, but you can create a similar experience at home. Just sit in a steamy hot shower for 10-15 minutes, wash your skin with a natural soap and leave it on for a few minutes before rinsing off and exfoliating with a glove. Then tone with rosewater and apply oil to your body.

Dukhan treatments (smoke baths) are practiced in Sudan. Married women and brides anoint themselves with oil, before sitting over a chair with a hole in the centre. Under the seat, there is a pit, in which acacia wood, frankincense, or other aromatic woods and resins are burned in a clay vessel.

As well as showering daily (and using the hammam regularly if you're Maghrebi), many people in the Arab world also perform wudu (ritual cleansing) five times a day before praying.

Women commonly apply Musk Al Tahara (white musk), an attar that smells like vanilla, flowers and soft musk on the external parts of their vulva after periods.

Alum was commonly used as a natural deodorant in the Arab world in the past, and some still use it today.

Bidets are also common in the Arab world. In the Anglosphere they're uncommon, but it's easy to get a portable bidet (a small squeezable bottle with a nozzle) online.

We also wash our hands before meals, with a pitcher of water which is passed around the room. In Turkey, they use kolonya, made from fig blossoms, jasmine, rose, or citrus to disinfect their hands. In Morocco, it's common for women to scent their hands with rosewater or orange blossom water after meals.

4) Fragrances, Lotions and Potions: In the Arab world, perfumes are incredible. They're oil-based, so they have excellent projection and longevity. The olfactory notes commonly used in them are beautiful too: delicate rosewater and orange blossom water, exotic oud, sweet amber, vibrant roses and jasmine. In Morocco, gardenia scents are popular, even among men.

Emirati perfumes are the most well known in the West and are super good. Some personal favourites of mine include Oud Mood by Lattafa (Caramel, rose, saffron, and oud), Fatima Pink by Zimaya (Sweet rose that smells like a bit like Turkish delight. it's a dupe of the French Parfums De Marly Delina, however, the actual Delina smells very similar to generic rose oil perfumes you can get in the Arab world to begin with so Zimaya was basically able to dupe it to a T. Their version lasts really long too), Ameerat Al Arab by Lattafa (jasmine, a hint of oud, slightly citrusy. Also the name means "Arabian Princess" in English), Fakhar Rose by Lattafa (sweet, fruity, and very floral) and Yara by Lattafa (floral, amber, vanilla and strawberry). I buy my perfumes from Dubai Perfume Shop in Dublin, but they can be easily found online. Some well-known Arab perfume houses include Lattafa, Al Rehab, Zimaya, Al Qurashi, Amouage, Afnan, Ajmal, Asdaaf, Al Haramain, Armaf, Kayali, Maison Alhambra, and Swiss Arabian, but there are hundreds more.

As well as sprayable perfume, perfume oil is also used. It usually comes in rollerballs or small containers, is inexpensive, and lasts for ages. Like spray perfume, it comes in a huge variety of scents. You can also put it in diffusers or add some to cotton balls and leave in your wardrobe to scent clothes and linens.

Arabs know when to wear perfumes. For example, a rich, sweet, strong oud and vanilla scent will be beautiful in colder weather. But in warm weather, it will become cloying and sickly. Musk, amber and saffron are popular in winter, while rose, orange blossom and jasmine are popular in summer.

In the Arab world, many stalls in the Medina sell gorgeous oils, fragrances and soaps that are inexpensive. For example, the musk I mentioned above. As well as making your home smell incredible, you can also rub it on your body and you'll smell good for days.

Rosewater is commonly used as a toner and to remove makeup. In the town of Skoura, where my great grandparents were from, men even use it to shave with! Orange blossom water is also used in Arab beauty routines in a similar way to rosewater. You can apply either to a bath for extra luxury.

Argan oil is commonly used in Morocco on both skin and hair, as well as the less well-known but just as good prickly pear oil (which is very high in vitamin E). Pure argan oil actually smells mild and not fragrant (similar to olive oil), but for beauty, things like rose oil and menthol are commonly added, so it smells pretty good. Throughout the Middle East and North Africa, jasmine hair oil, castor oil and sweet almond oil (I like putting it in my baths and on my body) are easy to find. Usually Middle Eastern and South Asian shops in the West sell them too.

Honey and almond masks have been used since ancient times, and to this day are still popular. You can buy them basically anywhere. Homemade face masks made from honey and yoghurt or crushed figs and yoghurt are also used.

Aloe Vera is used to treat dry skin, acne, and sunburns. It has a cool and refreshing scent, perfect for the hot climate in many parts of the Arabian world. I like applying it after shaving as it's soothing, natural, and absorbs easily.

Frankincense, a resin used in the Middle East and North Africa for thousands of years, was traditionally used as a natural perfume. It's commonly used in incense. Frankincense oil is also good for the skin.

There are many beautiful scented soaps available in the Arab world. If you go to Turkish or Arab supermarkets, a lot of them will have a section where they sell hygiene products, including soaps with ingredients like argan, rose and oud, and olive oil. I've even found Syrian Aleppo soap before. You can just buy soaps from regular stores in scents like rose, jasmine, honey and almond, orange blossom and sandalwood for achieving that exotic scent though.

As well as using various oils, perfumes, and fragrant beauty treatments, Arab women also know how to layer these different scents to add dimension to them and avoid clashing. For example, a rose perfume over a vanilla lotion will always smell good. Other combinations that are good include almond and vanilla, rose and oud, rose and jasmine, lavender and lemon, rose and orange blossom, and orange blossom and vanilla. But there are many different combinations you can use to achieve a delicious scent that's unique to you.

I hope this was helpful, stay pretty ✨

[sissa-arrows]

The Dean of the university of science of Casablanca, Ain Chock, refused to give her prize to one of the students because she was wearing a Kuffiya…

It shouldn’t be surprising from a university with the name Hassan II aka the king who betrayed Palestinians during the Six-Day war but this shit is the result of normalization.

For the record it’s not just about Palestine. Morocco has resorts where women cannot wear modest swimsuits because they want white tourists (mostly French) to feel comfortable. They also have neighborhoods where there’s only retired white people (mostly French) who decided to emigrate to Morocco but refuse to mix with indigenous people and create their own neighborhoods. A lot of the French white supremacists who said they would leave France if the leftist alliance won said they would go to Morocco. At some point people will have to wonder why French pieces of shit feel so comfortable in Morocco and why the Moroccan government enables them so much.

[mylight-png]

The Words We Use

Jumblr, we really need to reevaluate the words we use to talk about Judaism and Jews and such. Far too long we've been rather lax about these things.

Earlier today I was talking to a friend and she used the term "Jewish Russians" which immediately rubbed me the wrong way. (She's super chill and I've known her most of my life, she meant no harm by it.) I thought about it, and what I realized is that this specific wording, though listing it first, puts the Jewish identity as secondary. By saying "Jewish Russians" the "Jewish" is used as a subcategory of Russains. In reality, this term refers to Jews whose diaspora experience was in Russia. Too long, people have used our diaspora experiences as our central identifiers, and tack on "Jewish" as a classifier within that category.

This is not accurate, not historically, scientifically, or socially.

Socially and historically, Jews were always treated as a category of our own, regardless of where in the diaspora we were located. My parents in the Soviet Union did not have "Russian" or "Moldovan" written in their passports. They had "Jew" written there. I have heard countless tales of hostility and discrimination due to them being Jewish. In Spain, during the Inquisition, Jews who converted were called "conversos", a category of their own despite the forced assimilation. In the Middle East, Jews were treated as second class citizens due to being Jewish, even if they converted. ("Yahood" or "Jew" in Arabic is still commonly used as an insult in ME communities.)

We were never Jewish Russians, Jewish Spaniards, Jewish Moroccans, etc. We were Jews in Russia, Jews in Spain, Jews in Morocco. Even the term itself, "diaspora", (according to Oxford languages: "the dispersion or spread of a people from their original homeland") indicates a separate origin.

Genetic studies confirm this, showing that Jews in whatever region they spent exile in would still be more genetically similar to Jews in other regions than goyim in the regions they lived in.

My parents are not Jews from Eastern Europe. They are Jews whose diaspora experience was in Eastern Europe. Even saying we're "from" there, gives people the wrong idea.

Next up, more commonly discussed, is calling some Jews "white". No Jew is "white" in any sense of that word. White-passing, yes. White, no. In society, being white is more social than physical. It's based on how you're treated, what your status in society is, based on ethnicity/race.

"Jewish" is an ethnicity, and has been considered a race historically. No Jew is white. Many have features commonly associated with being Jewish, and their treatment will of course vary from the experiences of more white-passing Jews. But even the most white-passing Jew will have to deal with antisemitism in some way.

We need to stop saying "white Jews" and replace it with "white-passing". Denormalize language that positions Jewishness as only religion.

To combine the previous concepts:

Replace "Jewish *blank*" with "*blank* Jews" when talking about countries of recent origin.

Instead of "Jews from *blank*" use something along the lines of "Jews with diaspora experiences in *blank*".

Instead of "white Jews" use "white-passing Jews".

It is so incredibly important that we use language that accurately reflects our identity as Jews, instead of settling on commonly used language that is inaccurate.

And finally, could we please normalize using "Judeans" instead of "Jews"? It's not as important as the other switches but it is so important to highlight our origins in Judea, and it could be a useful way to bring that fact into the spotlight.

Fellow Jews/Judeans, feel absolutely free to reblog with other language switches you'd want to see in our communities, whether in the same theme or not.

Goyim, please refrain from speaking over us on this, but I'd appreciate you amplifying this if you'd like to!

[tinydefector]

I LIVE FOR HUMAN EFFECTS IT GENUINELY JUST FEELS LIKE A SITCOM HAHA

humble request to have rung in human effects 🙏 i love rung 🙏

Mental strain - Human effects

Word count: 2.1k

Warnings: none, mention of the Ambassador being desirable

Masterlist

Prev

Next

______________

Rung's office is quite a pretty place, decorated with model ships and collective little models. But the vibe of the place for some reason felt as if sitting under an old willow tree, it was familiar and soothing, soft scented oils burn in the background as the Therapist pads down notes from his human patient.

The ambassador lays across the large couch with an arm over their face, head pressed back into a soft pillow as they breathe in the scent of the room. “I just don't know what to do about this, normally Whirl doesn't cause me issues but my God, that mech and Nadia are conspiring with each other I can just feel it” they huff out. Normally the ambassador wouldn't be put off much, but both Nadia and Whirl were hunting for personal information, and seemingly have in their head the they were involved with either, Rodimus, Megatron or Luna Whistler, and it was starting to frustrate them.

‘ “So…. Boss, you and the captain?” Nadia coos as she walks with the Ambassador. It earns the Moroccan woman a glance. “What about the captains?” They asked with a raised eyebrow. “You've been spending an awful amount of time with them” she teases, which Gets a shake of the liaison's head. “Nadia I don't know what gossip you're hunting for” they hum while continuing to walk with her.

“Hey fleshy getting quite up close and personal with the new seeker huh” Whirl chirped, almost making the ambassador prickle with goose bumps from the fight or flight response to the helimech. “Whirl, I don't think I have to remind You about your probation and not causing issues with crewmates?” They shoot back at the mech. The singular optic seems to focus on the ambassador. “Hmmm, touchy, didn't take you as a Xeno” the heli stated before disappearing into thin air.’

Rung listens thoughtfully as the ambassador vents their frustrations, optics crinkling kindly behind spectacles. After long vorns counselling troubled mechs, he had learned humans seemed to have just as much trauma and issues as most mechs did, but he did enjoy these sessions where the ambassador mainly vented about issues, crew gossip or plans.

"Perhaps Whirl and Nadia have struck up an unlikely friendship, though the results tend toward...chaos, but so far it seems rather harmless, especially for Whirl." he hums with a soft smile his face plate leans against his knuckles as his other servo types away, noting things.

"Rung you don't get it, it feels like Nadia thinks I'm sleeping with Megatron or Rodimus and Whirl, I swear Whirl just pops up out of nowhere makes a snarky comment about Luna whistler." They sigh while their head presses back into the pillow. "Rodimus has been grumpy, avoiding me when I'm trying to help him with his work, it seems like the moment we had Luna Whistler join, the crew has become a little standoffish, God I just want a vacation" they mumble.

His optical ridges lift inquiringly. "Oh my, that is quite a predicament." He chuckles while laying his pad down to look them over. His optics flicker away from them before back to his pad. “I had heard rumours of some of the crew being rather interested but I didn't Think it would escalate to this” he hums which earns him a look from the Ambassador.

They raise an eyebrow at the Therapist. “What rumours?” the ask rather worried over the situation. He removes his spectacles, optics crinkling in shared wistfulness.

"My dear it seems you are rather desirable amongst the crew, quite a few are interested in courting you. and it would not surprise me if quite a few have become slightly bitter over a new mech joining and having your attention on him" Rung explains, he wasn't a daft mech, he had been around a very, very long time. And he knew the face of a smitten young mech.

Their eyes go wide, mouth wide open In shock. “But.. but I'm a human!” They state sitting up in utter shock hearing this revelation. Rung's optics soften as he looks at their stunned form. “Oh I'm aware, quite a few of them have been rather vocal over wanting to know how to properly Court a human, quite a few Web forums and sites have come up since the Cybertron and earth alliance.” He informs, not giving away details of who, or what mechs had confided in him about their interest.

His smile takes on a gently mischievous quirk. "As for Nadia and Whirl's meddling, I'm very sure they have become rather invested in figuring out who the lucky mech is, even though it's very clear there isn't one” he chuckles again watching the way their eyes bulge.

They are speechless, stunned. Not knowing how everyone apparently thought they were involved with multiple mechs. “Oh my fucking god” they groan out loudly while slamming their face into the pillow and letting out a noise. After a moment they sit up " I just want everyone would cut Luna a break, mechs trying to become friends with others and fuck he's a nervous one outside of work, he's a sweet mech just wish everyone would stop giving him the stink eye, and now apparently I'm the reason hes getting the stink eye" they press their head into their hands.

The Ambassador looked tired and stressed. "Plus I'm pretty sure he's very smitten with Traxies" Rung lets out a soft vent as he stands walking towards one of the shelves with the model ships, reaching up he withdraws a small bottle from his cabinets, sympathy visible on his features as he walks towards the liaison. "Here, I believe you may be desperately in need of one of these." He slowly hands a slightly larger glass to the human.

Their eyes widen slightly as Rung hands them the glass, "where did you get Vintage Earth Whiskey!" They ask almost in shock as they look over the bottle. Rung's optics gleam behind spectacles as the ambassador regards their unexpected gift.

"I may have a bit of a collection of human and cybertronian liquor. Ships aren't the only thing I collect” he hums lightly before the Ambassador shoots him a look. “Swerve tends to let me know when he gets his servos on collections” he chuckles as he pours himself a glass, “ human Alcohol is fortunate something I happen to indulge in on occasions”

"I should have known Swerve was bootlegging booze" they state with a shake of their head as they take a sip of the whiskey. They both sit there quietly before Rung finally speaks up again.

"In matters of the sparks, a lot of cybertronians are rather taken by you, most likely the easiest way to go about it is to state your not interested in interspecies relationships, let them down easy. It won't be easy but it would most likely be the easiest way to get the rumours and your admirers to back off." His optics glint roguishly behind spectacles.

"Thing is Rung, it never even occurred to me outside of Nadia making jokes of getting it on with a mech" they hum while leaning back into the chair and sipping their drink. “In truth, now I'm just questioning every nice thing the crew does for me, oh God, is Gift giving a thing that indicates Courting!?” They are worried only for Rung to snort and chuckle.

“in some cases but most times it's only after a Conjunxing request has been accepted, im sure who ever you gave something to hasn't seen it as you showing interest, tho there are a few things which count, such as custom paint jobs, upgrades, or weapons” he states, it soothes their worry over the sweets they had gotten for Megatron.

“OK, ok, so hypothetically, If I was interested in a bot, how would I go about asking them if they were interested” they mumble only for Rung's optics to soften as he watches how they stare into their drink. “ Hmm well it very much depends on the Mech you're interested in, and not just personally wise, different frames have different Courting methods. Tanks and Seekers are very different in their approaches, as are Speedster and Haulers.” He takes a sip of his drink before continuing.

“ seekers tend to do Flight dances with one they are interested in, others can become slightly hostile, it really depends on the mech. Tankers are also collectors, most likely if one gives you something they hold very dearly it means they are trying to initiate an interest, most times it will be ammunition. Haulers are a bit of a strange one because it depends on what kinda hauler, because some will take you to a place which you have never seen before because it reminds them of you” he finishes. It makes the Ambassador fidget lightly.

“There are many more I could go on about but sadly I'm not as well versed in all the different frame types conjunxing rituals” he smiles at them before finishing his drink and placing the cup over on his bench, fixing his optics on the human again.

"You know, you're not what I had expected as a therapist, um, thank you, sorry you had to deal with my breakdown and well this” they make hand movements towards themself which makes Rung laugh in amusement. "We all struggle, in our ways. My role is easing that burden, however it works best." A gentle pulse of reassurance.

"Your well-being matters greatly to this crew. It is a privilege to offer aid, whether counsel or distracting company." He stands from his seat walking over to grab their nose empty cup. “ Ah I don't think I'm ready to head back out, how much longer can I stay?” They inquire.

Rung runs a few calculations over time, a light rumble echoes from his chassis. “ I fortunately don't seem to have another patient for the cycle unless Whirl decides to make a visit for themself” he gives them a soft smile.

“Care for another drink?” He offers which earns him a nod from the Ambassador. “Well outside of this small problem you're having with suitors, have you had a chance to enjoy that hobby of yours you were telling Me about last time?”

“Sadly not yet, having been helping Megatron and Ultra Magnus with Rodimus, turns out that speedster isn't the best with writing. I think he has Dyslexia and most likely ADHD, they tend to go hand in hand a lot. Been trying to find ways to help him focus on work” they take the glass and begin sipping it, relaxing back into the chair and pillow. “Just wish Rodimus would stop with the cold shoulder, well I now know why he's giving me a cold shoulder but it makes it easier to work with him when he's not huffy and pouting” they explain.

Rung shakes his helm in amusement. “He will settle, that or I'll have a word with him during his session about workplace duties, have you brought it up with Megatron or Ultra Magnus?” Rung asked next, which earned him a shake of their head.

“no, he's been good with them, really good actually, Megatron's been really good with helping him with reading, and Magnus is a godsend with fixing any errors. I know it's driving him crazy having to redo it but I think he understands the importance of having Rodimus learning” in truth they had been very helpful and supportive with helping Rodimus learning and finding ways to help with the things he found difficult.

“Well I'm glad to hear that they are helping, that reminds me I have to schedule an appointment with Megatron, his spark forbids him ever coming to see me willingly” he grumbles the last part which earns a laugh from the human. They continue chatting with each other for a while. It's only after they both finish a third glass do they say their goodbyes.

“Thank you again Rung, I'll try and see you for my next session in two Luna cycles but don't hold me to that” they joke, Rungs rolls his optics in amusement before putting away the bottle and placing his pad down on his desk. “Anytime my dear, try not to get yourself too worried over everyone, they will settle down eventually, hot oiled mechs are always a little over the top” he chuckles before sending them off with a wave.

Rung slowly sinks back into his seat and he sighs. It looked like a lot more mechs were interested in the ambassador than he had originally anticipated, and after the holoweb forums he had seen he wasn't surprised he just hoped the crew would settle down soon.

_____________

Let me know if you would like to be added to tag list (tagged for every fic)

Taglist

@angelxcvxc

@saturnhas82moons

@kgonbeiden

@murkyponds

@autobot79

@buddee

@bubblyjoonjoon

@chaihena

@pyreemo

@lovenotcomputed

@mskenway97

@delectableworm

@cheesecaketyrant

@ladyofnegativity

@desertrosesmetaldune

@stellasfallow

@coffee-or-hot-cocoa

@shinseiokami

@tea-loving-frog

@aquaioart

@daniel-meyer-03

@pupap123

@dannyaleksis

@averysillylittlefellow

[sanzaibian]

Index

Here is an index of all my stories, easy(er) to search !

Since all my stories are quite unique, I will list them in chronological order (newest on top), with main genres specified.

Enjoy !

================================================

Original stories

That Day No One Cared (Mental Change/Corruption) - as part of @occamstfs' Viral Transformation Stories.

A Willing Puppet (Preppy tf/Identity Change) - for @fafnir19 as part of the Secret TF Writers Swap

Reiwa Rīzento (Greaser tf/Mental Change)

Conversion Powder by Eamora Co. (Gay to Straight/Straight to Gay)

Do Not Forget Who You Are (Muscle Growth/Muscle Loss/Queer Romance)

The Beatty Files (Twink tf/Muscle Loss)

How Can One Move On ? (Body Swap/Nerd to Jock)

Allahu Akbar (Muslim tf/Beard Growth/Mental Change)

A Proper Discussion (Multiple tfs/Satirical) - for April Fool's 2024

Curing the Neighborhood (Hairstyle tf/Himbo tf/Infection tf)

Consultation at Dr. Davod's : Part 1 (Hairstyle tf/Fuckboy tf), Part 2 (Hairstyle tf/Himbo tf/Reality Change) - 200 followers special

The Chechen Mod (Chechen tf/Jock tf/Queer Romance)

Investing in China (Chinese tf/Twink tf/Reality Change)

The Party at Delta Omega Gamma (Frat Bro tf/Himbo tf)

The Good Side of Life is One Good Action Away (Fuckboy tf/Non-binary tf)

Identity in Language and Thought (Tiktok tf/Mass tf)

The True Self (Douchebag tf/Corruption/Straight to Bi)

The Berkley Hills' Abandonned Frat House (Jock tf/Frat Bro tf)

The Business School's Poster-Boy (Twink to Jock/Jock to Twink)

I Am Chris Albanese (Age Reduction/Jock tf/Straight to Gay)

Unfair Competition (Nerd to Jock)

Collaborations/Reblog chains

Anyone feel like transforming me ? (Khmer tf/Bokator tf ~ Boxer tf) - from @transform4u

Your last like is your new body (Moroccan tf/Beard Growth) - from @newchangestf

Asks

The Normal Barbershop (Hairstyle tf) : Mohawk (Punk tf), Curly Undercut (Fuckboy tf), Perm (Footballer tf, Hairy tf), Pompadour (Twink tf, Rubber tf), Wolf cut (Himbo tf, Model tf) - 1000 subscribers special

Heureux Soit Celui qui Demande Sans Donner (Jock tf/Nationality Change)

DBPWH (Hairstyle tf/Jock tf/Dumbing Down) - from @alphajocklover

Immersing Myself in the Culture (Nahua tf/Twink tf) - from @peepshow321

Of Hairy Arab Men (Arab tf/Hair Growth)

Other

My recommended writers

My stance on Gay to Straight : Part 1, Part 2

Subscriber milestones : 100, 200, 400, 1000 - Thank you so much for your support !

================================================

If you're curious about what I like, don't hesitate to check my "main blog", @ykrui73 ! (If I contact you or send you an ask, chances are it's from this account ^^)

[shadow4-1]

Got You! - Ghost x Reader Oneshot (NSFW)

please mind the tags on this one! this one is especially dark! tags: heavy noncon, slight dubcon, some torture, predator/prey dynamics

Summary: Being on the frontline as a Kortac hacker is just another job for you. But after a mission goes sideways, you find yourself in the clutches of a broken yet monstrous man they call Ghost.

You typed quickly and quietly on your tablet. A thick cord wormed its way from a port in its back all the way into a wall of servo units. The wall blinked and hummed, some lights flickering as you did your job and did it well.

"I can't believe they're paying so much for such little data." You murmured to yourself, eyeing the storage left on your removable drives. It was less than a couple gigabytes of intel. Off in the distance, you heard a few pops of gunfire, your fellow Kortac members keeping the area secure for you in particular.

"What a weird place to put this shit." You murmured again, glancing around at the room.

You couldn't remember where, in what country you were exactly. This was your third intel op for the week, it was all beginning to blend together. First time had been Russia, and then Spain, and then...Morroco? You were in Morroco, right? Based on the soft rug beneath your knees, the cotton drapes, and the casual color scheme, you supposed so.

All that mattered was getting the hell out of dodge. You half glanced back down at your tablet, another five minutes to completion. Most of the lights on the racks of servers had turned red, a sure sign you were doing your job correctly. Although, the more you looked around the stranger it all felt. Yes, you were a talented hacker. You'd worked hard to get where you were, but your instincts had never let you down either. Something about a server room being in the living room of a Moroccan household didn't seem right.

You heard some more insistent pops of gunfire. They weren't as far away as before. Your heart began to thump with the beginnings of anxiety. Leo, your main escort, was sure to be just outside of the cinderblock house. A part of you wanted to run to him, but you had to stop yourself. Three minutes, and you'd be able to get the hell out of there.

The pops of gunfire quickly became sprays. You heard something shatter across the street. Fuck.

"Leo!" You hissed out, grabbing your tablet, readying to rip the cord out of the back. "I almost got it!"

Thirty seconds. Come on. Come on!

Leo burst through the door, slamming it behind him. He huffed with adrenaline, forcing the door to lock and slamming a nearby bookcase against it. The gunfire was outside. You heard some yelling and returning fire. A man cried out in pain, you guessed one of yours. The glass of the living room window exploded.

Luckily for you, the servo units blocked your body from the main impact. Unluckily for your tablet, it was knocked from your grip. It skidded across the floor, screen shattered with a hole in the center.

A sniper.

You tried to reach out for your trusty tablet, but Leo had other ideas. With one of his large, tan arms, he hooked it around your center and yanked you upwards. Before you could even question him, he began to pull you towards the direction of the back of the house. Sprigs of his usually neat, slicked back hair fell across his forehead. He looked worried, an expression you were not used to seeing on the normally jubilant man.

"Leo, wha-"

You were cut off by the sound of the front door and bookcase splintering inwards. Daylight streamed into the dark house, making it harder to see. Leo practically picked you up and carried you as he ran. There was a long hallway with multiple doors that he locked behind you until finally, your path ended in a bedroom. The layout of this house was strange, but you hoped that it would help throw off your pursuers for just long enough that you could escape. It seemed Leo was thinking the same thing.

"Come on, girlie! The window, quick!" He huffed out through his thick, Australian accent. You happily obeyed, trying desperately to lift up the sill of the nearest window.

"It won't move!" You cried, throwing your entire shoulder against the small ledge. You yelped out in pain, multiple nails had pricked your palm. "It's nailed shut!"

There was a sickening crash from somewhere on the other side of the door. Leo stood tall, his rifle in hand, ready to blast a hole through whoever was planning on coming through. He looked over his shoulder, his brows furrowed in determination. Somehow, his energy was what you needed to keep from falling into a pure panic.

"Try the other one, girl! Kick it out 'f ya 'ave to!" He commanded, his low voice like a spell.

You climbed up onto the bed in the corner of the room. Sure enough, there was a skylight within reaching distance. You threw your body up the wall, the metal bed frame squeaking and shaking beneath you. You clawed and scratched, your fingertips barely making it to the ledge.

"I can't reach!" You cried. "M' too short!"

Leo made an aggravated noise in his throat, but it wasn't directed towards you. Out in the hall, there was the unmistakable sound of a door being kicked open. You glanced down at Leo, tears pricking in the corner of your eyes.

So this was it, huh?

Fucking weeks, months, of being stationed with this random man, and this was how both of you were to die. Cornered and helpless in a foreign country. A part of you supposed that maybe it was meant to be. Leo had always been kind of sweet to you in comparison to the rest of the men you worked with. Hopefully, your shared end would be quick.

Leo's eyes quickly swapped between you, the skylight, and the door. He blinked and then jumped up onto the bed with one stride. You squeaked as he pushed you to the wall, lifted the butt of his rifle, and knocked the glass out with a singular, smooth motion.

"Leo wai-"

He didn't wait. He dropped his rifle on the bed, hooked his hands underneath your thighs, and lifted you easily. Despite his help, you only managed to be tall enough to get your arms through the windowsill, but it was enough.

The door to the bedroom was thrown open with so much force that it caused the plaster of the wall to crack. Leo turned his back to the wall, letting your legs kick off his shoulders.

"It was a pleasure!" He called up to you, voice cracking.

"LEO!" You cried.

A folley of shots flashed from a muzzle in the doorway. Leo let out a garbled growl, reaching for his knife in its holster. He surged forward with his weapon, blood spots leaking into the back of his canvas vest. Leo was dying, and yet he kept fighting.

Fighting for you.

You refused to let his sacrifice be in vain. You turned your attention back to the roof beneath your fingers. The skylight was part of the floor of the flat roof of the house. If you managed to get your body through the sill, you could potentially be able to run from rooftop to rooftop to safety.

You used what little leverage you had in your arms and legs to push yourself up. It hurt, the glass dug into your fatigues and was no doubt embedding itself into your skin, but you hardly felt it.

Leo called out your name in a gritted scream.

You had to keep going.

Tears pricked in your eyes. You kept squirming and clawing your way up, pulling your right knee through the window. That was the final amount of leverage you needed. With a hard kick, you threw yourself a couple feet away from the skylight. You sucked in a well needed breath and turned over to fall on your knees.

You'd made it.

All you had to do was stand up and make a running jump to the next banister. You presumed it couldn't have been more than five feet away. Totally doable, even for your smaller stature. You got your right foot underneath you, using your hands to push up from the floor.

Something wrapped around your right ankle, squeezing so impossibly tight you felt the joints squeak. You cried out in pain, trying to right yourself, but falling onto your left side. You looked down at your legs to see what had ahold of you.

Fear froze you in place.

Through the darkened hole of the skylight, surrounded by broken glass, was the dark figure of a man's head. He was covered in all black, save for the bleached white skull he stared at you through. His eyes were so dark and smothered in kohl that only the whites of his eyes were truly visible.

He looked alien.

And he had a terrifyingly casual hold of your ankle with only one hand.

"Got you..." He hummed, his voice deep and dark and dangerous.

The panic finally kicked in, in full force. You screamed and threw your entire body weight away from the strange monster of a man. It seemed he anticipated your move because he tugged back at the same time you tried to surge forward. You gained absolutely no ground.

Tears began to blind your vision and you clawed and kicked with your free foot. You miscalculated. The extra foot was his next target. With his other hand, he snatched your free ankle into his grip.

You fell to the ground, kicking and screaming. Your leg muscles burned, your heart felt like it was about to explode with panic. You tried so desperately to use what was last of your strength to wiggle free, but it was no use.

With one very hard yank, he pulled you backward. In what felt like slow motion you watched as you were torn away from the sunny afternoon, the terracotta bricks and laundry clotheslines of freedom. You fell down and down and down into the darkness of the bedroom prison that was sure to be your tomb. Your nails caught on the texture of the wall as you belly flopped onto the bed below.

All of the air was forced out of your lungs. The fall had only been a few feet, but the impact of hitting your ribcage on the metal bedsprings of the mattress was enough to wind you. You sputtered and coughed, subconsciously curling up on yourself. The blankets tangled into the soles of your boots as you tried to put distance between yourself and your attacker.

A beat passed, and you gasped out, finally getting a lung full of air. You panted hard, putting your arms over your face, expecting a flurry of blows or a knife in your ribs.

"Who do you work for?" The man asked as he slowly stepped off the bed with heavy, measured footsteps.

Hysterically, you sobbed, refusing to look at his masked face. Despite your fear, you felt him come around the side of the bed to lean over your face. In a complete panic move, you kicked yourself backward, only serving to push yourself deeper into the corner of the bed against the wall.

It seemed the masked man's patience was dwindling. He roughly grabbed you by the shoulder and shook you with enough force to slam the back of your head against the wall. The pain, luckily, did clear your head enough to actually answer the question he asked.

"K-KORTAC!" You stammered out. "I-I work for K-Kortac! C-cyber tech o-operator!"

The man looked down at you with an odd sort of interest. He looked down at your legs, seemingly off in thought. The light that filtered down from the broken window cast him half in shadow and half in light. Behind him, on the floor, lay a body in a growing pool of blood.

"Leo..." You hiccuped out in recognition, feeling an intense pull of hysteria.

The man didn't even glance back at your fallen comrade. Instead, slowly, his eyes panned up your body until his gaze landed right on the Kortac chest insigna of your kit. Tears plinked down your lashes and into the canvas material.

The mystery man clicked a button on a comm unit tacked to the front of his vest. A man on the other end yelled out a callsign through static.

"Ghost! Ghost! How copy?" The voice had an accent you couldn't make out in your addled state.

"Copy, Soap." The masked man (Ghost, you presumed) spoke back. "Get to exfil now. Don't wait for me."

"But Ghost-"

"I said don't wait for me, sergeant." Ghost nearly yelled in annoyance. "Exfil in 40, out."

He stopped pressing the button on his comm unit and looked down at you once more. His expression was unreadable. You tried to make yourself seem as small as possible before him.

Ghost slowly glanced over his shoulder with only his eyes. He seemed to give Leo's dead body a short once over before he focused his attention on you again.

"You shag 'im?" He asked.

"Wh-...what?"

"You shag 'im?" He asked again, this time using your name to make the question somehow even more personal.

You looked up at him in a mix of horror and revulsion. What kind of question was that? This man had pursued you like an animal, murdered one of the few men you respected in cold blood, and now wanted to know if you'd been fucking that man while his dead body was still warm?

"F-fuck you." You choked out. Despite feeling drained off all your physical strength, you still had some mental fortitude left.

Ghost let out a soft huff. Whether or not it was a noise of amusement or annoyance, you couldn't tell.

You screeched as he grabbed the front of your kit with one hand. He lifted you out of the corner and slammed you back down in the center of the bed. The metal base squeaked and groaned but held up beneath the impact of your body again. You yelped out as he took his other hand and pulled out a wicked looking knife from his belt. The edges glinted with red, drying blood.

You tried to bat away his hand but he was significantly stronger than you. Even with all your might, he didn't budge. Running on pure fear and self-preservation, you dipped your head down towards his wrist. You clamped your teeth down hard against his gloves. He brought the knife up to your kit but stopped.

He made that noise again. And this time, it seemed to border on amusement.

The world turned black for a second.

When you came to, you could taste copper in your mouth. It ran hot down your nose and out the corners of your lips like drool. You groaned out pitifully, your body giving up any and all fight.

The bastard had knocked your lights out.

Despite all of your senses swimming in pain, you could feel your body physically lightening up in weight. With a bloody gurgle, you glanced down. Your kit and utility belt had been cut away, leaving you in just your fatigues.

"There we go. Good girl." He grumbled, putting his knife away. Something about the tenderness of his voice did not match up with his actions.

You whined out a cry, and he let you. He made no move to deck you again. Instead, unzipped your pants, hooked his fingers into the waistband, and yanked down.

You tried to pull your legs up and away but barely managed to twitch them. Your pants grew tangled around your still boot clad ankles. Ghost took absolutely no time in ripping it all off your body, making you sob as he twisted your already sore ankles.

"Stop..." You hiccuped weakly. "Please."

Roughly, he pushed the hem of your longsleeve up and over your breasts. He jerked it up over your shoulders so hard the fabric snapped and ripped. He threw the ruined garment to the side, seemingly too enraptured by the sight of your near naked body.

Weakly, you put a hand up to his chest as he put his knee up on the bed. There was no strength behind your push, and it seemed to amuse him. He let out a cruel chuckle and pinned your hand over your head as he positioned his entire body between your thighs.

Tears spilled so freely down your cheeks and neck that they soaked the bedsheets beneath your head. This was wrong. He had to know this was wrong. He couldn't do this. Could he?

"Please...no..." You whispered.

He didn't say anything, just breathed in slowly and steadily, eyes roaming over your entire body. He didn't move to touch you, or rip off your panties, or do anything else as monstrous as he'd done before. He just stared at you with an odd sort of fondness.

With his gloved hand he cupped at your face. You whimpered and cowered in his touch, but it was sweet, almost lover like. He wiped as much tears and blood from your face as he could, even taking the corner of a blanket to dab the excess body fluids away.

You were so confused and scared. What the hell was wrong with this guy? If he wasn't going to kill or rape you what did he want?

The hysteria finally set in.

How fucking funny was this? You couldn't find a decent man for years. Leo was the only one to come close, and even then, he was dead. And the two of you had barely been considered acquaintances. This big, fucking hulk of a monster knocked you out, ripped off your clothes, and now wanted to be tender with you all of a sudden?

You giggled once. Then that giggle turned into a chuckle. Soon enough, you were laughing softly against the hand cupping your face.

"I...what do you want?" You managed out between hysterical pants.

He didn't answer, just leaned his body down low over you. The bed protested hard beneath you both but stayed together. Slowly, he began to put his entire weight down on you.

At first, you wheezed, your beaten body unable to handle the load on top of it. Eventually, after enough time, you began to melt beneath him. Despite the discomfort of everything, his body felt warm and solid... and almost safe in a fucked up way you couldn't explain.

Ghost slid his other hand between you, cracking your legs apart. His still clothed core pressed up against yours. You knew that the too hard lump straining against the fabric was definitely not a gun.

"Why?" You asked meekly. "Why are you doing this?"

The man buried his mask clad face into the crook of your neck. He inhaled sharply before slowly breathing out.

"Mine." He admitted, giving your body an experimental thrust.

He groaned low in his throat. Again and again he thrust hard against your center, his cock grinding into your panty clad entrance.

What did he mean he "mine"? He was trying to fuck your forcefully pliant body. This man was a fucking lunatic. What in the godforsaken world di-

The head of his cock brushed up against the mound of your cunt. Despite the layers of clothes between them the head found its way just deep enough between your lips that he brushed up against your clit. Tears pricked in your eyes. Again and again and again, he pleasured you with each cant of his hips. You cried at the feeling. He wiped the tears away sweetly.

Why didn't he just rape you hard? Why did he have to drag this out, make it sweet? If he wanted your body so bad why didn't he just take it? He obviously had no qualms about using force.

"Thas' it, love." He murmured softly. "Just like that."

Was this some kind of sick fantasy? Did he truly believe you were into this? Or was he just pretending you were to fulfill some kind of fucked up need for human closeness?

He kept rutting against you, mumbling quietly against your neck. Most of it was filthy name calling, the rest was too damn sweet for the act he was committing.

"Fuckin' pretty thing you are. Not getting away from me." He muttered, seemingly half out of his mind. "Never getting away from me. Ever again."

You were so confused. Since when had you ever met this man before? You were certain you would've remembered him and all of his monstrous qualities. You tried hard to squirm away from his touch, but he kept you right where he wanted you to be.

"Never again, love. Not letting you slip through m' fingertips again." With his free hand, he pulled the front of your sports bra down. One of your breasts popped free of its confines and into his view.

"No please..." You begged.

"Should've thought of that before you ran off." He growled.

Words relaying your confusion immediately died in your throat. Ghost tugged the bottom portion of his mask up and then proceeded to pull your nipple into his mouth. He bit you hard, making you scream before letting up. He lapped at the aching bud, forcing it to harden into a throbbing peak. As if just to spite you, he traced your areola with his tongue, making your entire body shake with whiplash from the pleasure.

"Stop please!" You begged. "You're hurting me."

Ghost made that huffing noise again, his breath cooling the saliva against your nipple. He pulled your other breast out and pressed the two together. He swiped the flat of his tongue over both buds. You squeaked and tossed your head back.

"Thought you could hide behind your lil' computer, love?" He growled out, his drool leaking between your tits. "Thought I'd never find you?"

"Wha-?"

"Thought you could just drop off the face of th' Earth n' I'd never find you again?" He nearly yelled. "Should've known a slag like you was just in it for a paycheck."

"I don't...what?" You tried. "What do you mean?"

Ghost sat up to glower over your face. His jaw was set hard. You could see the veins in his neck since he'd pulled his mask up to his nose. You blinked tears out of your eyes. What you thought was the shadow of his jugular turned out to be the corner of a neck tattoo. One you immediately recognized.

"S-Simon?"

Despite his obviously bad mood he still managed to crack a smile. It was genuine and yet still so full of malice. His grin was still as beautiful as the night you'd met him. And the night you'd chosen to run away.

"I was scared!" You cried out in admittance.

"You were scared?" He chuckled. "When every night you were in my bed n' cummin' on me?"

It had been years since you'd seen him. You'd been mere weeks out of university, adrift and broke, but with a shiny new certificate in computer science. Just to get a free meal here and there, you'd found yourself going out on dates with random men. You'd never had much luck with men, and so it was easy to forget their many faces.

But Simon's you could never forget.

He'd been quiet, almost too quiet. He'd exclusively asked you questions about yourself in a much meeker voice. Come to think of it, he'd sounded like a different person the whole time. Did he do it on purpose so as not to intimidate you? Or was it a side effect of the pills he was taking while he'd been on medical leave?

He'd made it clear the two of you weren't going to be long term. And you were okay with that. It wasn't until you got a job at a programming firm that he started getting leery. When you made it clear your fling of a relationship wasn't going to work he'd retreated. And then he came back...lurking in the shadows.

"I-you were stalking me!"

"You still have no idea what I've done for you."

For a moment the two of you looked at each other. The pure terror of a moment ago was starting to wash away. This man was no longer a complete, deranged stranger willing to murder you in cold blood. He was still unhinged and dangerous, but he'd shown he wasn't going to kill you immediately. Your chances of getting out of this situation were much more likely. You appreciated those odds.

"What did you-"

"Y' think i' was a coincidence?" He hummed, cocking his head slightly. "Getting that job. N' endin' up here?"

"Simon-"

"You were meant for me." Ghost said with pure conviction. "You were meant to be next to me...under me."

The egoistical side of you wanted to fight, to scream, to make it clear you'd never want him ever again. The other side was absolutely certain that to live through this encounter was to appeal to him. You'd done it before and it'd worked. It was partially why you'd slept with him so much back then. And why you'd forced yourself to cuddle into his iron grip afterwards.

"On your back. On your knees..." He kept trailed off, eyes drooping in arousal. You felt a hard twitch between your legs.

Your stomach lurched at the thought of your dead, fucked out body being haphazardly tossed on top of Leo's. You needed to live. You'd do whatever you had too. And you knew what'd it take.

"S-Simon...I-look I'm sorry." You swallowed hard, tasting nothing but copper. "You scare me sometimes, but I-I still really care about you."

"Don't lie to me, lovie." He scoffed. The usage of his old nickname made you shudder.

"Simon...I've never stopped thinking about y-you." You sighed out, feeling your skin flush with embarrassment for admitting such a thing. It was marginally a lie since you mostly thought about him with fear in your heart. But there was a part of you who missed his body, his hands, and how'd he'd fuck you apart night after night.

"Please....I-" You slowly moved to sit up on your elbows. As you did your core inadvertently brushed against him. A warm jolt of pleasure shot up through your spine and you couldn't help but bite your lip.

There was a new tension in the air.

"Always such a fuckin' minx." Ghost growled.

"J-just for you." You admitted, forcing your gaze away from Leo's body. "I swear..."

"I know." Ghost hummed, cupping your face in his palm. The sweet gesture made your lashes flutter.

"You're a good girl." He said, as if off in thought. "Just needed a break. N' now you're back, back w' me."

"I..." You blinked, feeling tears well in your eyes. You were playing right into his hand. You knew it, and yet...a part of you didn't care.

He'd pulled strings, murdered and God knows what else just to give you a life outside of him. It'd all been one big, nasty lie just to make you feel good. Just so your inevitable fall back into his arms would feel earned. Because you didn't earn anything. Your entire life trajectory had been an unearned lie. But somehow, someway, you'd earned his affections. And that was all that seemingly mattered in your life.

"Mm...missed you, love." He sighed.

With that he kissed you softly. He was too sweet, too loving. It made your heart ache. You couldn't stop the few sobs that escaped. He didn't seem to care as he licked over your blood tinged tongue. He tasted like he'd always had. Like fresh cigarettes and bitter pine. Your head swam.

"Fuck. M' missed the way you taste." Ghost sighed, licking his lips.

He roughly tugged your panties, making the stitching pop, forcing the elastic to dig into your flushed skin.

"W-wait I-" You squeaked.

It didn't matter. With an easy flick of his wrist the entire garment came off with a rip. The amount of strength and tension used on the cotton practically burned your skin as it was forced off of you. You cried out in discomfort, trying desperately to close your legs, but it was of no use.

Without another second to lose, Ghost hooked his arms up beneath your legs and forced them up. He pushed them back so hard and so quickly he forced the air out of your lungs. You gasped, trying to right yourself.

"There w' go." He growled, staring at your now bare cunt, your knees up to your ears. He kissed your mound, nuzzling his nose into the dusting of hair, breathing you in.

A part of you felt disgusted. You'd been sweating out in the desert, sweating in fear of him, and it seemed he was drinking it all in. Truly a beast he was.

"See you haven't shaved." He hummed, giving a few broad laps to your folds. With each lick, a bit of his thick saliva grew matted into the light dusting of hair. You whimpered.

"Good." He chuckled.

You yelped when he slipped his tongue into you. It was thick and wide and he'd never had any issues getting you open this way. He much preferred to lick your cunt lips apart to accommodate him than sully his fingers. You hated this despite how good it felt. His fingers were always a bit less personal. This way? You had no choice but to watch as he devoured you like a starving man.

You supposed he was.

He'd made it clear you were his and his alone. And if that was the case, then he was only yours too. At least, you'd hoped so. You hoped no other woman would ever be subjected to this torment.

You cried out, legs shaking from the stress but also the pleasure. You tried so hard not to watch him drill his fat tongue right between your lips. He was drooling, his saliva spilling down and down over your neglected clit and onto your squashed tits. He wiggled his tongue in a way that brushed over that rough spot he liked torment. He bullied the tip of his tongue as deep as he could, letting it point right between the gummy ridges of your g-spot. You couldn't help yourself.

It'd been years.

Every man you'd ever talked to had scorned you or disgusted you. You'd never wanted to touch one until Leo had come into your life. And even then, he was untouchable. You'd been too nervous to flirt. At the time you didn't know why, but now, you'd subconsciously known you'd had a skull on your back. Perhaps you were getting a slight kindness for staying untouched all this time.

You cried as you came. Your hips bucked and writhed. Your spine protested, your head swam from the lack of blood flow. Everything floated away for a gorgeous second before your soul slammed back into your addled body.

"Fuckin' 'ell..." Ghost purred. As he talked a wetness spilled out of his mouth. For a brief second you wondered if he was really drooling that much. "C'mon, lovie. Give it to me."

"Wha-"

Ghost latched onto your clit and sucked so hard you screamed. You felt two of his fingers slip inside you with no resistance. They bullied that spot again while he forced pleasure out of your nub. The first orgasm didn't have a chance to fade into an afterglow. The second orgasm came quickly. It burned. Your belly muscles didn't even have a chance to relax.

"Simon!" You mewled, absolutely lost.

He wouldn't stop. He kept taking and taking and taking. He let his teeth graze at the sensitive flesh of your clit. You saw stars again. This time, the orgasm was so violent you screamed. Every bone in your body shook. Your eyes rolled up into the back of your head.

You came to with the warm splashes of wetness against your breasts. A familiar and yet foreign pressure in your belly was being released. More warm wetness dripped quickly onto your neck and chin. You let out a weak cry.

When you finally managed to open your bleary eyes you realized what'd happened. The entire bottom half of Ghost's face was shiny with slick. He huffed against you with pure excitement in his eyes. Your cum coated the inside of his mouth with the telltale sheen of cream.

"Knew you were a squirter." He grinned at you.

It was as if your orgasm was a feast for him. He hungrily lapped every ounce of your relief off of your body. To get to your cummy chest he released your legs. They fell apart, and you groaned in relief. Fresh blood finally flowed to your head, and you grew dizzy.

"Ah ah, no goin' soft in th' head on me now, lovie." Simon hummed as he laved his big tongue over your wet breasts. He slapped your cheek. Not enough to really hurt you, but certainly enough to clear up the stars in your eyes.

"Simon..." You hiccuped.

"Only got a few minutes left." He mused, eyes scouring over your entirely bare body.

Despite wanting to fight him, your extremities felt like jelly. You couldn't even catch your breath. All you could do was lay there in complete submission.

Without a warning, Ghost used his strength to flip you completely over. He forced you up onto your knees and pressed your face into the now tainted sheets.

You wanted to cry, you wanted to scream, but there wasn't much of a point anymore. No one was coming to help, and even if they did they'd be dead before they could process what was even happening to you. Ghost was going to take you. And you'd asked for it.

It beat death, right?

He entered you roughly from behind. Luckily, he'd prepped you well, so there wasn't any pain. Just the warm, muted burn of him stretching you open for the first time in years. You'd forgotten what the feeling of sex was like. You couldn't help the low groan that escaped your lungs.

Ghost was right there with you. He hissed loudly, gritting his teeth as he sunk right into you. His big, gloved hands palmed roughly at your ass. He forced your cheeks apart to no doubt give him an excellent view of where you joined together. You squeaked when you felt a couple of his thick fingers spread your lips apart even further.

"Fuckin' 'ell." He groaned. "Missed this tight lil' cunt o' yours."

You whimpered.

"Next time I'll make sure you get the fuck you deserve, lovie." He growled. "But m' runnin' short on time."

"Si-."

A hand roughly grabbed your throat and squeezed. You opened your mouth in shock but nothing came out. No words, no air, just a silent shock.

Ghost began to move, fucking you roughly. He wasted no time in forcing his fat cock back into those parts of yourself you didn't know existed. He kept his grip tight. You couldn't breathe in or out. Tears and panic began to well in your chest.

With the smallest amount of energy you had left, you tried to claw his hands away, but he just choked you tighter. The mix of fear, lack of oxygen, and pleasure was too much for your brain. Black spots began to form in your vision.

"There we...ngh-go." He huffed. Every thrust was punishing. You could feel his sharp hipbones and hefty balls slap into your core. Your only saving grace from the stinging contact was the cushion of your innate softness.

You began to choke. The pressure building in your chest and behind your eyes was immense. The entire room was spinning. Drool spilled past your open, air hungry lips. The black spots began to completely fill your vision. Everything started to float away into that dark, sleepy place.

"Fuck." Ghost panted, his thrusts becoming uneven. "Fuck!"

The moment he came, he let up on your airway.

Everything had turned black for you. When you finally came to, completely out of it, the entire act was over. It hurt to much to move, but you could feel the wet cream between your legs. It had been awhile but you could never forget the feeling of being stuffed with Simon's seed.

His comm unit made a static-y noise and he answered it.

"M' on m' way. Five minutes to exfil." He hummed. "N' I managed to catch a lil' bird."

Ghost didn't wait for his teammate to respond, instead he lazily got off the bed. He eyed your body, smirked, then pulled his mask back down.

"I hope you learned your lesson, lovie." He said, lovingly rubbing your cheek. "Time t' come home."

You couldn't make any noise, your voice stolen from you. You couldn't even swallow. All you could do was lay there and look at him as he took to work getting you dressed again. He was haphazard and rough. Anything he couldn't put back on you, he didn't. The last thing he adorned you with were ziptie handcuffs to your hands and feet.

Ghost then threw you over his shoulder and headed back out the way he came. He didn't even bother to walk over Leo's corpse. Instead, he opted to step directly onto the dead man's head. You closed your eyes and desperately tried to block out the sickening, wet sound.

The sunlight burned but its blinding, white rays were welcoming. You'd never thought you'd see the light of day again, and so the blistering heat of it was welcome. Something told you to relish in it, as it might be awhile before you'd get to see it again.

The position over Ghost's shoulder made it impossible to look up. The only thing you could see were the back of his legs and feet. However, you could hear the sound of men yelling and running around. They began to get washed out by a helicopter whirring, it's blades cutting the air and cooling the sweat on your skin.

Ghost stepped onto the helicopter and unceremoniously dropped you to the metal plated floor. You couldn't even groan in pain as your leg took the brunt of the fall. All you could do was lay there, restrained and in so many different versions of pain.

The small grouping of men in tactical gear hungrily eyed your body. Each one was more distinctive than the last. One of them slow whistled and when he spoke you recognized him as the man over the comm unit.

All of the men, including Ghost, stood around you. They discussed your fate, each one getting more and more creative as they went on. The one in charge, the one with the beard smiled sweetly down at you. He wiped a stray tear away from your face with the back of his curled index finger.

"Oh, don't worry about it, Simon. We'll get 'er to sing for us."

In that moment, you realized you should've asked Leo to shoot you when you had the chance.

[zerokurokawa]

Hii

i want to request kakucho x foreign!reader. She takes him with her on trips to her homeland (morocco in this case🤭) and her family embraces him as he’s one of theirs. All of this makes him want to put a ring on that finger even faster..

Thank you for your time and effort btw!

Meeting The Family | Kakucho x Foreign Reader <3

Being from Morocco and living in Japan was quite different than what you had expected. You expected to outcasted and to not have many friends - or even a boyfriend at that. But things turned out in your favor when you met Kakucho, who was as sweet as he could possibly be when it came to you. 

You two had been together for about a year before you decided to take a trip back home to see your family who had been begging to meet Kakucho and learn about your new life. Since you had been attending school, Kakucho was the one who mostly took care of everything when it came to cooking, cleaning, and even running all of the errands after he was done with work. Although you had a part time job as well, he insisted that you focus on your studies first. 

"I'm taking a trip back home to see my family." You said one night while you two were resting on the couch of your now shared apartment since you moved in with him.

"That's great! I'm sure they'll be excited to see you!" He nearly jumped up, thinking this would be the perfect opportunity for you to take a break from work and classes and enjoy yourself. You had been missing your family and he took note of that. 

"...And I want you to come with me!" You exclaimed, pulling out two plane tickets and plopping them in front of him. His face lit up with excitement as he was ecstatic and over the moon to be traveling with you. He had never been out of Japan and was ready to see the world. 

"Really? You want me to meet your family?" He asked, an excited but nervous tone in his voice. 

"Absolutely. They'll love you just as much as I do." You said, leaning in and placing a kiss on his cheek. 

_______________________________________________________________

Two weeks from then, you were both boarding the plane to your homeland. Kakucho was visibly nervous, but you quickly shut it down with reassurance that he would be completely fine. The plane landed and you both were greeted at the airport by your mother, father, and siblings. They all ran up to you, engulfing you in hugs and giving you flowers as a welcome home present. Kakucho stood there nervously, as he didn't know what to say or how to act. 

Your mother walked up to him, "So you're the man who's been taking care of my beautiful, wonderful daughter!" She said, with her arms wide open to give him a huge hug. Kakucho nodded his head and smiled, hugging your mother back as your father then shook his hand, greeting him as men normally do for their daughters. 

Once you arrived at your family's house, your mother started to prepare what seemed like a feast for you all. Kakucho nervously asked if he could help and stated that he loved to cook and would love to learn how to cook traditional Moroccan food so that he could cook it at home for you. 

Your mother smiled, "Of course, dear, I'd love to teach you." 

You stood by in the kitchen, watching your mother and Kakucho bond as the rest of the family gathered around, asking him all sorts of questions about his heritage. They had welcomed him with open arms and his nervousness slowly faded away as he was having an amazing time with your family. 

Later that night, while the rest of the family was outside celebrating and talking about your return, Kakucho stepped to the side with you. 

"I just wanted to tell you how much of an amazing time I'm having and that I'm glad you brought me along to meet your family. They are wonderful people." He said, taking a sip of his water. 

"I'm glad they love you, and I'm glad that you love them." A warm smile played across your face as you took the water bottle from him and began to drink. You couldn't help but to be thirsty. 

Kakucho just stared at you in the moonlight as you and your siblings began to joke around and play. He couldn't help but to think about how much he loved you and how he wanted to have many more trips to Morocco with you. Then, his mind wandered to the thought of marrying you. Of course, he would have to make things special for you once you both got back home, but he was secretly planning on buying the ring as soon as you both got settled and surprising you with it. 

It was then, that Kakucho sat and thought, "I'm going to marry this girl." 

[sosuigeneris]

Socialite Series: Cherry’s Master Post

Things that have helped me, that could help you. Here is a master list of my softmaxxing journey!

Body:

J*hn Bent*n’s workouts: Yes he’s an asshole but his workouts really do work. He used to train models and his workouts are life changing.

2. B-12 Lipo salines: These you can consume in a shot (like an injection) or in a saline (go to a GOOD DOCTOR for this). I prefer the saline, and my doctor recommended the 6 week course for me (one saline every week). It burns subQ fat and that was the main reason why I began using those. There is zero side effect to these, acc to my doc.  edit: don’t really recommend these anymore. I’ll update this list when I finish my Emsculpt.

3. Diet: More protein, more vegetables, more water and lesser intake of carbs. Carbs are important but i used to over-consume them. Cutting down has helped me a lot. I also did a gut bacteria test (you basically sent a piece of your shit to a lab and they analyse it) to understand what foods worked for me and what didnt. 

4. Probiotics for metabolism management 

5. Measuring: I stopped tracking weight and began tracking body fat % instead. I feel that this works better for me. 

6. Wood therapy: I KNOW. You lot will think its bogus but it helped me and im sticking to it, so there. There’s no wood therapy spa near me, so i ordered the wood therapy tools from amazon, plastic wrap, a waist trainer, almond oil. I looked up videos on wood therapy and lymphatic drainage, and i do it for about 5 mins on my tummy and thighs before my work outs, wrap my torso with plastic wrap, throw the waist trainer on top. 

✨

Skin:

Accutane: this helped me tremendously with my acne and my skin is 95% blemish free now. If you are taking this, remember to be disciplined and regular. 

Zero alcohol: I stopped drinking completely and its done my skin and health wonders.

Products: Sunscreen + Vitamin C combo in the AM. Retinol + moisturiser at night. Recommended by my dermat. 

Hair removal: I refuse to shave because its so uncomfortable so i prefer to wax once in 2 months. Personally, when I began exfoliating my body twice a week - I use a scrub by the Body Shop - I noticed that the hair was growing back slower than it used to. I use a loofah for everyday too. I don’t believe in laser because it’s never just 6 sessions; you do have to have “maintenance” sessions as well post the 6.

Face sculpting: Gua sha on alternative nights. I dont know if this works or is placebo, but I felt like it did. 

Body lotion every day. Twice a day sometimes. I swear, it makes you smell good and feel so soft. 

Expensive make up: specially, foundation. I’m sorry, i know this could be controversial. But idk what cow semen Charlotte Tilbury puts in her make up, it seriously makes me glow. I’m yet to find a good drug store alternative. A while back, I stopped wearing concealer, and I began using a lighter shade of CT’s foundation as concealer over my normal shade. I feel that because the products are chemically the same, they blend better and don’t react and “peel.” Highly recommend that too. For the rest of my face like powder, blush, eyeliner, I do use normal drug store make up.  

✨

Oral hygiene:

I used to have braces. After taking them off, I noticed a difference in my jaw.

Brush, floss, Listrine, tongue cleaner

Mild whitening. I think Hollywood level teeth whitening looks crazy and I want to look as “naturally” beautiful as possible.

✨

Hair care:

For hair growth: as recommended by my doc: minoxidil hair foam 5% w/w Tugain Foam.

High frequency wand before wash days on my scalp. 

Moroccan hair oil. I use a tiny amount everyday on my ends after I finish my make up for the day and I swear it makes my hair shine like crazy.

I also got hair Botox done because i used to have curly but absolutely unmanageable hair. I tried to make it work for years but i gave up and caved in to having permanent straight hair and I love it. 

I only shampoo twice a day so on days when i workout but don’t shampoo, i use hair perfume. I spray some of it on my brush and run it through my hair. I swear it works. 

✨

Overall:

The colour palette theory seriously works. I didn’t realise that wearing the right colours can impact you so much.

Confidence is absolutely key. I seriously recommend going to a group class of some sort if you have the time and just mingling with random people. Social situations are important to gauge your “standing.”

Random but if you have a big nose: grow out your eyebrows / fill them in slightly thicker. I noticed that when I had thin eyebrows, my nose would stand out more but when I made them thicker, it balanced my face out better. 

Steam iron your clothes before you wear them. You will look 100% put together. 

*IF* you’re aesthetically challenged when it comes to picking clothes, use my rule of thumb: never wear any more than 3 colours at once  (remember: IF you can’t put outfits together).