#Prestige Cat Trees

[ojcommerce-blog]

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[coralinnii]

"Eyes are Windows to the Soul"

↳ Admiring your Dark Brown eyes

feat: Idia ❋ Sebek ❋ Kalim ❋ Trey genre: fluff note: no pronouns were used for reader, set before Book 7 (mostly because I haven’t finished it yet),

Idia grew up sheltered in a sterile world, filled with LED lights and sleek metal walls. Shades of brown were not common in his daily routine, so he didn’t have a lot of opinions on it. 

In a world of neon blue and cold silver, your brown eyes ironically stood out in Idia’s world. 

Your eyes remind him of fluffy brown kittens, filled with warmth and mischief. You remind him of those adorable teddy bear prizes in claw machines that everyone covets. You were everything he dreams of holding, but often out of reach.

That is until the two of you grew closer, then he sees your eyes in the ice-cold colas he’s chugging during long grinding sessions with you. He feels a tingling sensation when he sees your eyes in the dry autumn leaves crunching beneath his feet whenever you drag him out to “touch some grass” 

Your brown eyes remind him of everything fluffy and warm, of fuzzy feelings and snugness. 

Your eyes give off energy, but it’s not scary or overwhelming at all. Rather, it’s soft and enjoyable like a refreshing drink on a hot day.

You seem so out of place in his old world, but Idia couldn’t imagine a life without you anymore.

”Uggh, that cat is just too cute, what a sensory overload! Huh, when did brown cats become my fav? I-I guess kinda recently?”

Sebek holds himself with prestige and integrity, a well-kept man with honor to uphold. 

But his experience is filled with the great wilderness, with the natural and unbending beauty of the forest. He proudly recalls his childhood living close to the world of fae and nature. 

You were a human. Your upbringing was nothing like his own, a pair of opposites with nothing in common

But, when you look at him with your sweet brown eyes, Sebek sometimes feels lost in nostalgia. In your eyes, he sees the beautiful trees of his homeland, he sees his beloved worn-out books in his bookshelves passed down by his grandfather. 

Not only his childhood memories, Sebek feels the same feeling of familiarity in his current lifestyle. He’s reminded of the joy and excitement he feels when he trusts his whole self to the majestic brown horses in the campus wooden stables. 

Is it because just like his trusted steed, your warm brown eyes effortlessly shine with so much strength?

Lost in your eyes, he recalls feelings of comfort and home, a connection to what makes Sebek…himself. Though he may not admit it, the stubborn young man finds solace just by staring into your eyes.

"Do I ever feel homesick? Of course I do! I simply… haven’t been feeling all that distant from my homeland as of late”

Kalim is not only surrounded by shades of brown, but also reds, yellows, greens, and everything else in the large spectrum of color. His world is bright and vibrant, never a dull moment for the boisterous heir. 

You fit right into his life, adding more happiness to his routine. Your existence gave off a sense of wholesome, sweet fun. You join him in his highs yet keep him grounded when he flies too close to the Sun

To anyone else, Kalim lacks nothing in terms of riches. He is financially blessed for generations to come, and Kalim is not ignorant enough to deny otherwise. 

But lately, whenever he watches you, he ponders on what the word “rich” truly meant to him. 

Some would call your brown eyes pretty but rather plain, but regardless Kalim would catch himself swimming in the hue of your irises. 

In your eyes, he sees the deep color of expensive cognac that many would gift his parents, he sees the color of flawless leather prized by countless merchants, and he sees the color of fertile soil that nurtures and feeds his country. 

If someone were to ask his opinion, Kalim would say that richness and pricelessness could be defined by your eyes. Kalim may have an abundance of gold and silver but there is no price that could compare to the look of pure love in your exquisite eyes.

"Have you ever seen a chocolate diamond before? They’re really pretty with a wonderful shine. I really like them, I’ll show you one someday!”

While he isn’t against dabbling in certain subjects and interests, Trey has a pretty solid idea of his future, to become a patissier and to either inherit his family's bakery or start his own business. 

Trey doesn’t see himself as anyone extravagant nor does he really want to be. Sure, he may be in a prestigious school, and he may hold an enviable position as a vice-Housewarden, but the green-haired senior holds himself more modestly. 

You knew well of his humble dream, and he appreciated the way you would support him however you can, be it a taste tester for new recipes or assisting him in the kitchen before a busy unbirthday party. 

In this close proximity, Trey is allowed more chances to glance your way, especially your eyes. 

He sees the resemblance in your eyes the color of the chestnuts you collected with the mischievous freshmen, the first day he noticed how cute you were. He’s reminded of warm brownies and cookies he would bake in secret just for you, all to see those very eyes sparkle. He imagines a brick house in the same shade as your eyes, where he’ll live out his peaceful life with you.

In your warm brown eyes, he feels reassurance and security. Trey doesn’t need a lavish lifestyle or a grand plan. All he could wish for is a life where he could bake cakes and pay taxes with you.

“I’m not exactly the most romantic with words, but I do like your eyes. They remind me of…my oven. Ah, that sounded a bit…” 

[silkscream]

angel unaware

ꨄ︎ pairing: peter parker x silk!reader

ꨄ︎ synopsis: you’ve known peter since you were fifteen, shortly after you were both bitten by the same spider. it was too obvious that you’d end up loving him. as you drift apart during your first year of college, you’re not sure how much longer you can keep dancing in circles with him.

ꨄ︎ genres: best friends to lovers, angst, idiots in love, slowburn, mutual pining, hurt/comfort

ꨄ︎ tags: rated explicit/18+ (smut), alcohol usage, mention of drug usage, unprotected sex, oral sex (f receiving), characters are 19, mild violence, gun violence (there is a school shooting in the beginning but there aren't too many details)

ꨄ︎ wc: 13.8k

ꨄ︎ notes: omg. happy valentine’s day y’all. i’ve been working on this Big Bertha for literal MONTHS and i’m so happy to finish it and share it with you. thank you for being around even though i haven’t been the most active; this is a gift to you <3

ꨄ︎ listen to the playlist!

The spider bit you first.

It isn’t until you’re fifteen that someone else finds out about it.

In many ways, you should’ve known. The symptoms, the hypervigilance, the strange, gradual transition of filling out your body. You blame puberty first, but this feels more than abnormal. It's almost as if it's bursting through your skin. The only other person who seems to mirror your coming of age is Peter Parker, whose twitchy nature exacerbates the longer high school goes on.

You keep your head low because there’s no reason for you to tell anyone about your powers. Not even the boy about whom you’re positive shares the same curse as you.

But then the videos come out. Red and blue lycra flying through buildings, a blurred figure saving cats from trees, webs shooting and swaying as onlookers stare like it’s a circus act. He calls himself Spider-man and you think it’s awfully corny.

You’d be a fool to think that you were safe from the antics of Avengers propaganda, rubble, and ash blocking your way to school on more days than not. You’d be a fool to think that you could evade the classic tropes of American violence that force the president to lament about "unthinkable tragedies" multiple times a year. At this moment, you’re a fool for getting yourself locked in a janitor’s closet while there’s an active shooter at Midtown High.

Your breath hitches when the doorknob jangles in front of you. On instinct, you stick yourself to the ceiling, far in the corner with your senses on fire. You’ve never actually had to attack anyone before. You aren’t entirely sure how this would play out with a gun involved.

Peter Parker’s labored breaths fill your eardrums, and without thinking, you shoot your webs directly at him. He stumbles, clumsily tripping over an empty mop bucket. He looks up at you in confusion. He’s wearing half of his suit.

"You. You just–"

"Shut the fuck up," you hiss, covering his mouth with your palm. In the darkness, your eyes widen. Someone is near.

It’s a stupid ordeal. The crime happening, this meet-cute, the way your senses feel haywire being this close to him. Both of you are holding your breath, your heart is pounding erratically in your chest, and blood is rushing through your ears.

The day ends with you and Peter making it out of the closet through a vent and the shooter getting subdued by the police. A troubled sophomore who barely knew how to use the gun in the first place made it easy for Spider-man to intercept the weapon the moment the kid raised his arms.

Peter follows you home that afternoon like a stray cat, babbling over a game of twenty questions that you aren’t in the mood to entertain. Somehow, his presence leaves your chest feeling warm and light, and you realize that you don’t mind the company. Twenty questions become routine.

He’s the only one who gets it, of course.

He tells you about the Avengers, ignoring the way you scoff under your breath. Secretly, you’re only a little jealous. Not because you want that kind of prestige or even a fancy suit, but because at least there’s a group of freaks out there who know.  "How come you didn’t tell me?" Peter asks you. He looks small on your couch despite his sixteen-year-old sleeper build and the fact that he’s taking up more than half of your space.

"What do you mean?"

"If you knew about Spider-Man this whole time… why didn’t you say something?"

"What, like I was supposed to seek you out on the street with a mask on?"

He gives you a pointed look. "You had a feeling about me. In school. Didn’t you?"

You don’t answer, which, to Peter, is an answer in itself.

"I didn’t want to be any trouble. It’s my burden to deal with," you say slowly, blinking up at him.

Burden. Peter smooths the word over in his mind and watches the way your nimble fingers pick at the threads of your sweater. He suddenly feels guilty for pestering you with questions, especially after the trauma of today.

"It’s not a burden," he says carefully. You don’t protest, but he knows there’s a certain level of repression inside you that won't let you give this part of yourself up. As if his knowing about your powers would only be that — knowing. He keeps staring at your fingers.

"You don’t have web shooters?" He gestures to your hands.

"Comes from my fingertips."

"No fucking way. You gotta show me."

"You saw it today," you chuckle as you take a breath.

"Not really," he pouts. The amber-brown of his eyes is annoyingly irresistible, and you know it because of how hot the back of your neck suddenly feels. There’s a hint of a taunting smile on his face, as if he knows.

You take him to the fire escape outside your bedroom window. It’s barely past five and it’s already gotten dark. Luckily, your bedroom faces an empty alley.

"I’m not some circus act, just so you know," you warn him.

"Please," he tuts. "If anything, we both are. Two arachno-freaks."

"You should rebrand as that," you say with a grin.

You shoot a web to the fire escape railing above you, holding yourself up and swinging like you're in P.E. climbing a rope. You feel ridiculous, to say the least. You quickly shoot more webs after a quick scan of your surroundings to swaddle yourself in something resembling a cocoon. It hangs like a playground swing from the metal above.

"Holy shit! Does it ever… run out? Do you get web blocks? Does it come out of anywhere else–"

"I’m not answering that." Your cheeks heat up at the insinuation.

"Sorry, just curious." He holds his palms up in defense, then reaches to touch a fingertip to the silk holding you together. It feels soft like cotton candy and is much less sticky than what came out of his web shooters.

He asks you to swing with him, and for some reason, you say yes. You don’t like to swing very much, and if you do, you try to look for construction sites or abandoned scaffolding to evade attention. Tonight, however, the New York City lights look warm against the velvety backdrop of the sky, and you decide that flying through the air with someone else feels better than doing it alone.

____

He doesn’t understand your desire to stay under the radar. Whenever he brings it up, you take the opportunity to bring up the New York City disasters that have gone underway before the two of you even graduate. If anything, you’ve been a decent backup, but you refuse to be in the public eye. You don’t want to be Spider-girl.

But you don’t mind swinging around the city in your handmade suit, spun and woven together with the silk that flows straight from your fingertips. It’s one thing that Peter’s jealous of, but it helps him when he needs to patch up a wound when he’s on the go with you.

Peter comes through your window with a red gash on his thigh. You can smell him before you see him.

"Ugh, you broke the streak. Five days without a scratch. That’s a record for you, Parker," you sigh, already rummaging through your drawers for the usual first-aid kit.

"I’m fine." He winces as he crouches down carefully on the floor. You’ve gotten good at minding your business and not asking about his wounds, at least not ones that aren’t too deep into the flesh. He knows it would only hurt you if you knew.

"And yet you’re here."

"I wanted to see you. You know I always want to see you."

You open your mouth to respond, but nothing comes out. You kneel before him, pouring hydrogen peroxide onto the gash as you dab gently with a hand towel. He hisses and grabs your forearm with more force than he intends to.

"You’ll be fine," you reassure him gently.

"Yeah. I could've done it, you know," he says as he carefully holds your gaze.

"‘S’fun sometimes," you reply without looking at him. Carefully, you wrap gauze around his leg. "When I was little, my neighbor and I used to play House, but it always turned into, like… Hospital. And I’d pretend to be a nurse and take care of her, I’d tuck her into bed, and I’d give her lollipops from my Halloween stash for being a good patient."

Peter chuckles. He wobbles slightly as he stands up with your help.

"Am I a good patient?"

"Mm. A very brave boy," you say as you pat his cheek.

"What, I don’t get a treat?"

"Your treat is staying alive." You take him by the wrist towards your living room couch.

He doesn’t know what he’d do without you. It’s not right for him to think of you as an extension of himself, but he often yearns for your presence like a phantom limb whenever you aren’t on patrol with him. He realizes you're the yin to his yang.

It excites him, the images of you two that end up on the Internet. How good you look together. You, on the other hand, dread any semblance of perception by the world.

"People are catching on, you know. Ned found a subreddit on you the other day," Peter murmurs into your lap.

You snort, rolling your eyes the way you always do. You fiddle with the soft strands of his hair. It’s second nature to you. "Ned needs to reduce his screen time tenfold."

"Rabbit."

You sigh dramatically at the nickname. He’d adopted it after the many jumpscares he’d give you when he’d sneak into your room at night. You’d become so accustomed to him that your spider-sense would dull when it came to Peter. He was your source of comfort.

"What, Pete?"

"Why don’t you patrol with me?"

"You know why." It’s too stressful. Too public. Too many run-ins with death that you can anticipate.

"It’s better when you’re around."

"You’re a big boy, Peter," you murmur. Your hand slides across his scalp again, this time with your fingertips settling in the space behind his ears. You aren’t looking at him; instead, you are watching the documentary on the television at a low volume. He crumples at your touch.

"May says you’re my guardian angel. Every time something really bad has happened, it always worked out because you were there."

"I mean, it probably helps when you have another Spider-person as a backup."

"I think she’s right, though."

You don’t say anything. You’re tempted to reply with something sardonic or self-deprecating. You put too much faith in me. But you can’t – he’s looking at you with something that you can’t fathom. Something earnest and entirely too fragile. You have to look away.

He hums, sighing into a tattered copy of Hamlet. "I can’t deal with any more Shakespeare."

"You’re such a slow reader despite being a goddamn genius."

"Did you just say something nice about me?" Peter raises a brow.

"Oh my God, relax, Big Bang Theory."

He scoffs and swallows down a smart-ass remark. A grin lingers in his mouth as he settles back into the book.

____

You’re apart from Peter for the first time since age sixteen. You don’t tell him – you don’t tell anyone – but you decide on an out-of-state university because you don’t want to feel tethered to him. Your friends consider you and Peter a package deal, and yes, he’s probably the first real best friend you’ve ever had, but the gnawing inside of you telling you that distance is needed doesn’t stop.

You, the black sheep, are the antithesis of your hero of a best friend, despite being bitten by the same spider. You’ve always wondered if your story was supposed to play out like some sort of Shakespearean tragedy because of your bond with Peter, so you decide to take your mind off of it. At least it won’t be as painful as severing it completely.

It feels free to be away from all the chaos. In Rhode Island, you can focus on your art and fold your feelings away in a neat little envelope. You’d rather die than let any of that out, especially when Peter insists on such frequent FaceTime calls.

Sometimes, you fall asleep to the sound of his voice. He tells you about taking a train down to Providence in the middle of September to visit you like some kind of long distance boyfriend. The thought makes something in your stomach bloom and stagger in the same way. He doesn’t keep his promise – chem labs are already kicking his ass halfway to Thanksgiving break, not to mention the crime rate in New York City rockets beyond normal.

Thanksgiving comes, and both of you are the same. Peter is exactly as boyish as you left him three months ago, though his brown hair has grown longer and he wears blue-light readers to help with the mild headaches he gets from staring at screens.

He isn't attached to your hip like you expected. Your week off is filled with missed texts and a marathon of TV shows about broken women—the kind with dark humor and falling in love with priests.

The next time you see him, your roommate is out of town. It's not an unusual occurrence given how little she spends time in the dorm, always elsewhere with her new boyfriend.

Peter takes up so much space in your bed that you almost offer to push the two twin beds together, but the feeling of his warmth is too comforting. Propped against the wall, you’re hip-to-hip with him as you scroll through Netflix on your laptop.

You can feel him staring. It becomes routine, or maybe it’s your senses, but you can always tell when he’s merely observing you, watching you carefully like ripples on a pond. You've never really chastised him about it, but it doesn't help that you know he can tell when you're nervous. He has you memorized.

He likes the way you look when you concentrate. Sometimes, when you’re deep in thought, he likes to take his thumb and smooth out the ridges of your furrowed brows even though you end up swatting him away. When he does this now, you look up at him with wide, doe eyes.

"Still as indecisive as ever."

"I have to be, otherwise you’ll just put on Gilmore Girls," you scoff.

"You’re the one who showed me that!" Peter protests.

"And then it was the only thing you wanted to watch to the point where I genuinely considered locking you out of my Netflix account!"

He doesn’t bother to argue, instead resorting to poking you in the side. You squirm immediately, yelping as he continues. He flashes you a leering grin as you whine in dissent, flinching from the feather-like touch of his fingertips dancing across your skin.

"You’re so annoying," you huff, curling your body toward the wall.

"And you love it."

More than you’d ever know.

You pause, rolling your eyes at him. You contemplate kicking him again just to get a rise out of him, anything other than the short silence between you that feels more present than it should be. Your stomach feels warm at his proximity, but then again, Peter’s built like a human furnace anyway.

When you attempt to playfully shove him, he catches your wrist with quick reflexes until the two of you are tangled together. It’s easy to fight with him when you’re both running off the same biological fuel. When he ends up on top of you, you forget how to breathe.

The two of you stare at each other like this, as if frozen in time. It’s you who looks away first, then back to his big brown eyes, settling a palm to his cheek. You can feel how hard he is. You wonder if he knows.

It’s something you’ve only thought about in your subconscious, in dreams, or in moments when you’re bandaging his wounds. How would it feel to have his skin all over yours? It’s a selfish thought, but it rings in your brain without warning at times like these, times of such closeness. The spider bit the two of you for a reason. Whatever our souls are made of, his and mine are the same.

It’s a curious thing for sure, but there are doors you don’t want to open yet.  

"One episode and then I pick a movie," you mumble.

____

You don’t tell him about transferring when you come back for Christmas break. It feels embarrassing, despite knowing that he’d be ecstatic about the news. RISD proved to be too difficult for your one-track mind as you found yourself sleeping in more and more, flaking on the most rigorous of classes due to your mood. You’d successfully gotten into Pratt for the next semester and were fully moved out, thankfully. But when you see Peter in the arms of another, you wish you hadn't left.

You should’ve expected it, maybe. Peter had always had a thing for Michelle Jones but could never quite get past the friend zone. It seems as though your absence has nudged him further.

No, that feels too selfish to say.

But it’s still too difficult to bear in the loneliness of December, knowing that when the New Year’s parties hit, you’re still the black sheep. Even in a shiny little dress.

You don’t see him much over winter break, but he gets you a silver necklace for Christmas with a spider pendant hanging on it. It’s more sentimental than you expect, and it’s the nicest gift you’ve ever received. It certainly beats the Lego set you’d gotten for him.

Now, in your black cocktail dress, you smile dopily at Ned Leeds as the rest of the room counts down at the television, waiting for the ball to drop. It’s bittersweet when you remember last year’s countdown, in which Peter insisted the two of you swung out to Manhattan to watch the ball drop in person. You remember how much you wanted to kiss him then, but you didn’t. Thank God for his hero's anonymity and the impediment of his suit.

"Five, four, three, two, one – Happy New Year!"

Makeshift confetti falls to the ground as you watch him and MJ kiss. There’s enough champagne in your system for your heart to grow warm at the sight of it.  

____

January is cold. Desolate. Even if you have your friends around you in New York, the place that feels most like home, you’ve come to realize. But there’s still something missing, something lacking. Like you’re inside a familiar place inside a dream.

You ignore the itch, learning to numb it with champagne. It worked on New Year’s, and now it’s been working for several weeks. You don’t leave your apartment.

Even though Peter Parker is a text or phone call away, you fade into the background of his life, watching him through newsreels and YouTube videos. You’re on his mind more than you’d expect. He doesn’t know why, though he does realize that your absence bothers him in small ways.

Sometimes, when he’s on patrol, he’s frustrated by his loneliness, especially in the dead of winter. You were never one to play the hero – he knew that – but it was still comforting to have someone to patch up his wounds or soften his fall. The webs that flow from your fingertips have always been strong, enough to form hammocks in between the corners of his bedroom or a makeshift suit.

And then there are the dreams. They feel real, vivid, and much too physical for something that his mind could conjure in his unconscious. You had only kissed him once before (in real life, that is), at a stupid basement party in the ninth grade, before the two of you were friends, but shortly after the initial spider bite. Although it’s something that’s only been brought up as a joke these past few years, Peter remembers vividly how hard his heart was pounding when the glass bottle landed on you after what felt like an excruciatingly long spin. He could never forget the feeling. He wonders if you feel the same.

It’s not something he should be thinking about right now. Especially when you’re not his girlfriend. He’d rather die a thousand deaths than have you know what you do to him in his dreams when you’re nothing but a reverie of your own silk-spun webs and soft, bare skin. You treat him like prey. He loves it.

Peter can nearly smell you, that sandalwood-citrus shampoo of yours, and your warm breath over his face. Your little whispers of praise, your tiny whimpers. The image of your eyes struggling to stay open while you’re underneath him is burned into his brain.

"I missed you," you say breathlessly. "Missed you so much."

God, how is this a dream? He can feel you so clearly. Until he doesn't, and he wakes up with a groan, an exhale, and an excess of sweat on his brow. Not to mention a dampness below him.

"Fucking Christ," he curses under his breath.

The ghost of you is on his bedroom ceiling, in the corner of his room. Something nearby smells like you, even though you haven’t been in his room in ages. This makes something in his chest hurt until he decides to get out of bed.

He wants to see you, but he feels guilty knowing what he's just dreamt about. He can’t help that the person that makes him feel the most human is the only other one who shares the venom in his blood.

Sometimes he follows you. It feels almost meditative for him to sit on a rooftop and watch you from the window of your favorite cafe, reading and writing and breathing. The brightness of his phone screen illuminates his face as his eyes scan over your contact. Your face smiles back at him, but there’s a distance considering the lack of texts between the two of you over the past month. He sighs as he zooms in on your location – the two of you had shared each others’ years ago and only found it convenient to keep.

Peter doesn’t know why he’s feeling all this yearning all of a sudden – sometimes he recognizes the feeling in his body and he thinks of you and he thinks of safety. Other times, like now, he knows that it only breeds guilt.

But he misses being quiet with you, misses the mundane intimacies of him poking you and you fixing his hair. All the small expressions you make with your face that only he notices. There’s something empty in the space he usually holds for you in his heart, and he doesn’t know why.

He has to see you. Maybe then, something in his brain will click, or he’ll see you as the old friend you’ve always been, and he can blame the heat in his body on his subconscious.

You’re predictable with your routine, because this afternoon, he finds you in your usual spot by the window at your favorite cafe again. You’re writing in your journal with your noise-canceling headphones on, so Peter’s presence is completely unknown to you. After he gets his coffee, he watches you from afar, just for a little bit.

As if on cue, you already know. The moment you skip a song and a millisecond of silence fills the space in your head, you feel him immediately. You always know when he’s around.

"Peter," you murmur without thinking. Your gaze is soft but carries the surprise of a deer caught in headlights.

"Hey," he smiles. "Mind if I sit here?"

He gestures to the armchair across from you, and you nod.

Peter knows how to coax your warmth from you, because within minutes, he has you talking about school, what’s on your mind, and why it feels better to be holed up in a cafe than sit miserably at home. You do the same for him, though you notice he’s more reserved for some reason – he’s tight-lipped about MJ, and doesn’t delve into the details of his hero work. He prefers to bombard you with questions instead, listening intently to your most recent fixations or the newest movie you saw alone in theaters.

"You replaced me yet, Rabbit?" he teases you.

"Never," you scoff, tipping your coffee cup to hide any embarrassment on your face. You haven’t heard him call you that in so long. "You know me. I’m a lone wolf."

"Pratt seems like your crowd though, no? No one at Midtown High was a match for you. You were way too cool."

"Mmm, true, yet you’re my best friend."

"Hey!"

Your laugh is like a song to him; he can’t help but smile ear to ear when he hears it.

"The only person who talks to me at school is this guy Cam from my ceramics class. He’s actually from Brooklyn so we took the train together to get home and he’s around for break, which is cool."

Peter’s face nearly goes cold at the sound of someone else’s name, though he stays composed.

"Fun. Are you two…" He gestures vaguely.

"We hooked up like, once, but I don’t really know where it’s going." You say it so nonchalantly like it’s an afterthought. You’re not even looking at Peter.

"If he fucks anything up, you know where to find me."

You smile, rolling your eyes in that bashful way you do when you shrug things off, and it’s more apparent to Peter now how much he adores all your little quirks and mannerisms. He realizes that he might have them all memorized.

"We’re actually going to a party tonight if you want to come. A friend of a friend’s birthday party in Manhattan, I think? I think her name was Anna?"

"Oh, my friend Gwen knows her and invited me!"

"Small world." You swallow down the image of Peter at the party with an ESU girl for a second, and it feels rough in your throat. But you’ll manage. You always do. "Is MJ coming?"

Peter shakes his head. "Ah, she’s in Philly visiting family. I’ll probably go with Gwen and her boyfriend Harry, though."

You feel shame in your relief. It’s sickening how much you have to bury your desire and your tenderness because you know better. You know that even though the two of you were bitten by the same spider, it doesn’t mean you’re necessarily compatible. Sometimes you think your attraction to Peter is some biological fluke determined by the cells in both of your bodies. And then you think, God, how can anyone look into his brown eyes and not feel a thing?

You're both warm in your chests as you part ways, waiting for your next meeting.

____

The night of the party, Peter revels in the sight of you wearing your spider necklace, which sparkles under the flashing lights of the penthouse apartment you’re both in. His mood dampens when he notices the tall boy attached to your hip like a guard dog.

It’s a stupid game and he knows it. The way he pretends not to see you or acknowledge your presence is cruel, but it feels safe for now. He doesn’t feel ready. He’s high off some gummy that Harry had given him an hour earlier, and it’s still fogging his senses, and even though he can be cloudy and nonchalant at this party, his paranoia precedes him. It feels like you’re everywhere.

He shouldn’t feel this way. Why does he feel this way? You’re his best friend and you have your own life that’s separate from his – he knew this would happen the moment he found out you were going to different colleges. Despite that, there’s a piece of you tethered to him that he can’t bear to cut off. It makes him feel sane, the parts of you that you’ve given him.

But now, he sees you laughing and swaying your hips with someone else’s hands resting on your waist and it makes his face burn.

"Dude," Gwen snaps her fingers in front of his face. Peter blinks back at her. "Are you good?"

"Yeah, sorry."

"Harry wanted to do a shot, you want to join?"

Peter nods numbly, following the blonde to the kitchen. He watches everyone else in the kitchen pour shots and drinks like they are rehearsed marionettes. Harry snaps him out of his daze once he slams down a shot glass full of vodka in front of him.

"Drink up, Parker!" Harry cheers.

The alcohol burns Peter’s throat, but he feels the head rush and the warmth. It feels good, makes him feel looser. Malleable. Invincible, maybe, if he took two or three more. But he knows he has to pace himself. He hates that his default setting is to look for you no matter where he is. But when he scans the room this time, you’re downing a glass of champagne alone.

Your body feels heavy at the moment, so you don’t register him plopping down on the couch next to you. You wake up to the sound of his voice as you always do.

"Hey, you."

"Hey."

Your glass of champagne is empty, so you take the beer bottle out of Peter’s hand without saying a word, and he lets you. He watches you gulp a bit of it down. Maybe you’re a little too drunk. Maybe you’re imagining the way his eyes scan your body.

You’re drunk enough to feel social, but truthfully, you’re deathly afraid of being alone with anyone right now. Being alone with someone would make you feel much too raw and vulnerable, so you convince Peter to introduce you to his friends that you’ve never met, and you try to cope with the fact that they look like they were cut straight out of a magazine.

"Peter talks about you all the time," Gwen gushes, sipping from her champagne flute.

"He does?" you ask, raising an eyebrow.

"Of course," she nods incessantly.

"Only incredible reviews all around," Harry nods, drunkenly slinging an arm around Peter’s shoulders. The brunette smiles sheepishly, bashfully. You raise an eyebrow at him along with a coy smile.

"Should hope so," you tease. "He wouldn’t have gotten through high school without me."

It’s mostly a lie considering Peter was the star student and you were barely second to him. Maybe fifth or sixth. In a way, your words are true, because Peter’s agreeing with you.

You zone out as he starts a story from junior year and you have half the mind to chime in when needed. Harry suddenly puts a whisky coke in your hand and you don’t want to refuse out of politeness, but you know the mix of different alcohol will have your head banging in the morning. Peter downs half of his within a millisecond.

"What?" he asks when he notices you making a face.

"Since when do you drink so much?"

"It’s a party," he shrugs.

"Peter, when I brought you to your first party, you refused to drink anything that wasn’t a fruity canned cocktail. You won’t go near wine let alone whiskey."

"A semester at ESU changes you," Harry interjects. "He’s still a little fruity, though."

Peter chastises him as you and Gwen laugh. As the boys bicker, Gwen gets your attention. She asks you mundane questions, like your major, your zodiac sign, and what you thought of the season finale of White Lotus. You’re grateful when she beckons you to follow her to the kitchen to make another whiskey coke.

Her glossed lips twist to the side, eyes bright with a teasing glance. She has the ability to make you feel calm, almost excited to be there.

"He is obsessed with you," she sneers.

"What do you mean?"

"He just talked about you so much when we met him that I had to stalk your Insta, and I was like Jesus Christ, that makes so much sense. If I wasn’t with Harry I’d snatch you up myself. And then when I met his girlfriend and I was confused that it wasn’t you. Unless you’re doing that, like, exes-that-are-still-best-friends thing."

You blush and nearly choke on your drink. "Peter and I never dated."

"Seriously?"

You say nothing, only forcing an amused smile. You don’t know where to put her assumptions, but you sure as hell can’t keep them.

"I’m actually, uh, here with someone," you mutter, pretending to look around. Briefly, you lock eyes with Peter on the couch, who’s pretending to listen to Harry's rambling. Your eyes flit away quickly. "I think I might step outside for a smoke and look for him."

You don’t have to turn around to know that Peter’s eyes are following you. Or maybe you’re just drunk and projecting. Gwen’s bubbly nature makes her seem like the type to gossip, and just because your best friend happened to talk about you doesn’t mean that there was anything under the surface. But then you notice his slightly nervous energy tonight, the silver necklace around your neck, and the last time he visited you months before, when his body was so close to yours.

A pair of hands situate themselves on your waist and it makes you jump. The warmth feels different, as does the sudden smell of sharp cologne, and then you feel your heart drop the slightest bit when you hear his voice.

"Was looking for you," Cam slurs. You can smell the beer breath as he exhales on your neck, making you shiver.

"You sure? Because you’ve been MIA for like forty-five minutes."

You try to keep your voice even, sighing when he plants a kiss on your neck. Any animosity in your tone is completely ignored.

"I was catching up with some people that I wanted to introduce you to," he says, tugging you along by the wrist like a child. You pull up a chair to a firepit surrounded by a group of strangers, and the charade of icebreakers returns. There’s no point in remembering anyone’s name.

You think about returning inside to look for Peter or maybe Gwen and Harry, but being on Cam’s lap is distracting you. At some point, a joint a passed around, and the feeling of the boy’s arms around you makes it easy to melt into nothing.

____

You’re right. You always are. Peter Parker doesn’t drink, and he’s never drunk this much in his entire life. He’s been sitting in the bathtub for… how long? He doesn’t know. All he knows is that his senses were dulled to the point of detachment and he needed to get alone to ground himself.

He’s so out of it that he doesn’t realize someone’s knocking on the door of the bathroom, and his reaction time is too slow before Harry barges in.

"Are you hiding in the bathtub?" Harry squints.

"No, I’m just… hangin’ out," Peter stammers.

Harry snaps out of the facade of a confused daze and shrugs, unbuckling his belt with nonchalance in front of the toilet.

"Dude!"

"What? I’m turned around!"

Sighing, Peter looks around his surroundings. Generic brand shampoo and conditioner. A deformed bar of soap. A red solo cup with clear liquid. He remembers suddenly – he’d filled an empty cup he found with sink water before getting in the tub.

His brain swims with dizziness and mild nausea that mix up his stomach. Gulping down the water, his throat burns immediately, only to realize that it isn’t water at all. It’s fucking vodka and seltzer. Harry’s turned around again, cackling before washing his hands.

"Idiot."

"Fuckingshitjesusfuckingchrist," Peter groans, pinching the bridge of his nose. "You should just drink straight vodka at this point, man."

"Oh, I do," Harry agrees. He crouches down, squatting to meet Peter at eye level. A warm palm taps Peter’s cheek. "You good, bro?"

"Mmm," Peter nods. His breathing turns shallow as he hunches over, pulling his knees into his chest.

"Jesus, you need to get home, don’t you?"

"‘m fine. You go home."

"Gwen’s been nagging me to for the past ten minutes, so I might. I’d let you crash on the couch, but we’re getting up early to go upstate. How are you getting home, bro?"

Harry frowns when he realizes Peter is barely listening. "Pete!"

He grimaces at Harry’s constant fidgeting. With an annoyed sigh, he shoos the other boy away with flailing arms.

"Heard you," he slurs. "I’ll– I’ll share an Uber with Y/N."

Harry sighs with exasperation, pulling Peter’s arm forcefully to get him out of the tub and down to the living room of the house. Peter is dizzy in his vision, clumsy in his movements, but finds clarity when he glances towards the couch and sees you sitting there with furrowed brows.

"Peter? Are you okay?" you ask.

"Yeah, absolutely not," Harry says. "Gwen and I gotta head home and we’re leaving early tomorrow so he can’t crash. You guys are like, neighbors, right?"

You swallow a lump in your throat, briefly turning your head to glance back at Cam, then back at Peter. He looks at you with a guilty cadence, though his eyes lull with a tiredness that is unusual for him. He’s corpse-like, still hanging onto Harry’s shoulder like a lifeline. It makes the pit of your stomach stir.

It’s unlike him, to be this drunk. The only other time Peter has been this drunk was once in high school, when he was slurring his words all night and determined to clutch you like a teddy bear in his twin-sized bed. You recall his warmth and how his post-puberty figure appeared gargantuan to your body. Foreign, but warm. Comforting. When you think about taking Peter home tonight, you feel like you aren’t allowed to lay next to a body that doesn’t belong to you.

"Yeah, I’ll take him home."

____

"Coulda swung home myself," the boy mumbles. You hit him on the arm and give him a chastising look. Thankfully, your current Uber driver speaks a limited amount of English, not to mention the radio is on blast.

"You couldn’t have. You’re so fucking drunk, you’d kill yourself," you hiss in a low tone.

"Not if you were with me."

"Well, I wouldn’t be. I wasn’t even gonna go home tonight."

"Ah. Of course. Cam,” he exasperates. “Is he your boyfriend?"

You sigh. "No, he’s not."

"Right, you don’t… you don’t do boyfriends," Peter murmurs, rubbing his face with the palm of his hand.

"What is that supposed to mean?"

"Nothing."

The car stops in front of Peter’s apartment building.

"Thank you," you say stiffly to the Uber driver as you drag Peter out of the car. The elevator ride is awkward and quiet, as is the fumbling of keys when Peter tries to unlock the door.

He leans on your body as you coerce him into his bedroom, with him thumping onto his bottom bunk.

"Jesus. I feel like if Richie Rich called you an Uber himself you could’ve easily made it up the elevator by yourself. Right, Pete?"

"Mhmm. He’s such. A worry wart. For some rea–" Peter makes a gulping sound that makes your face pale. Immediately, you grab his trash bin and place it between his feet.

"‘m not gonna puke."

"I think you might, Peter."

He pauses and examines you as you kneel in front of him. He’s so drunk, so awfully drunk, but he has enough sense in him to take the caution that the anxious voice in the back of his head commands. But fuck, you look so pretty. He doesn’t know what to do about it.

Peter takes a strand of your hair in his hands and curls it around his finger. His shallow breaths feel louder than they should be. Or maybe they’re yours. He can’t really tell.

"What?"

"Nothing," he shrugs. "I won’t vomit. I promise."

You sigh.

"I should get going–"

"Can you stay for a little?"

Swallowing, you nod. You get into bed with him, because, quite frankly, you’ve had your fair share of alcohol tonight, and laying down in Peter’s warm bed makes you want to melt off the bone.

"I'm sorry for fucking up your night." Peter turns to lie on his side and drapes an arm carefully around you. His hand is feather-bare on your hip.

"You didn’t."

"You were gonna go home with Cam."

"It’s fine, Peter. I wanted to make sure you were safe."

"Like a chore."

"Not like a chore."

"Yeah, okay."

He does that thing again – holds a strand of your hair in his hands. He runs his fingertips nimbly across your scalp as if he’s handling an injured bird. As if he’s afraid you’d bite.

Your eyes are huge, like flying saucers. He used to say that all the time, especially whenever you came to his apartment after experimenting with any new drugs. You only felt safe with him – you had told him that – and he took care of you and your big eyes and your tendencies toward erratic behavior. He always knew how to calm you down. And now, in your adult lives, you were doing it for him.

You let him keep his hands in your hair and he doesn’t know why. There’s a theory he wants to test – one that he dreams about even when he knows he shouldn’t. He thinks about it in vulnerable moments. He considers that maybe this is a vulnerable moment.

His fingertips trace your face between the edge of your eyebrow and the baby hairs on your hairline. He taps along your temple gently, smoothing across the softness of your skin until he sculpts down your cheek and jaw. He blinks once, then twice. And then he rests the pad of his thumb on the corner of your mouth.

Almost automatically, you part your lips. Your mouth is pink, dusted with a purplish-red in the center from the merlot you’d drank hours before, and he wants to lick it off you.

He feels your heart beating, too, and you can hear his. It's a loud bang that resonates in between your eardrums. It’s that shared venom that makes your bodies so acquainted with one another. You briefly consider whether a human body can overheat and burn away simply by being touched by another. You wonder how human the two of you can really be.

You close your eyes.

"What are you doing?" you whisper. Your voice is gossamer-thin, barely there, but you’re so close to him that he hears it so clearly.

"Whatever you want." His voice is dripping honey.

You shake your head, still with your eyes closed. Peter’s hand descends to your jaw, thumb on your bone, with the rest of his fingers warming up your neck. You feel like you might just choke on the feeling of it.

"No, that’s not fair. That’s not… okay."

"What?"

"You’re drunk, Peter. Don’t do that to me. Please."

"What am I doing?"

Your face scrunches up as your eyes open to look at him with a pained expression. You have to close them again. You don’t want to look at him. You want his hands off of you, so you push them away.

"You’re with MJ."

"I… I know."

Your face is crumpled as you inch out of his bed. You’re back to kneeling on the floor in front of him.

"Please don’t leave," Peter whispers.

"I’m tired. I’ll sleep on the top bunk," you mumble. You try not to let him catch you sniffling.

"Goodnight.” You don’t respond.

He falls asleep shortly after and smells your perfume even in his dreams. When he wakes up, he smells you. But you’re nowhere to be found. There’s only the cold air coming from a crack of his window left slightly open.

____

It’s not your fault, but you’ve broken his heart a million times. The night of the party was the most recent one. To be fair, he had also broken your heart. He was just too fucking drunk to remember most of it.

You’ve become a ghost, barely texting Peter back, and when you do, your responses are short and clipped. You don’t have much time to hang out, and he realizes he doesn’t either, not when he has MJ to spend time with along with his Spider-Man duties.

But he would make time for you if you wanted it. He wonders if you know that. He feels too ashamed to tell you that himself.

It’s been like this before, and he’s been able to cope. The way you’re on his brain and won’t leave —stuck on him like a parasite. It’s his fault, he decides, not yours. He knows he’s not being fair. Not to you, not to MJ, not to himself. But he keeps it all in and hopes it doesn’t boil over.

Truthfully, Peter wants to avoid everyone. He understands now why you abhor winter to the degree that you always have. The desolation is too much to bear when there’s not much sunlight in January to activate dopamine receptors, so Peter sleeps in longer than he should. Late enough for Aunt May to get on his case about it.

"Something’s up with you," MJ accuses him on a Thursday evening. It’s one of their ritual movie nights with pizza and wine.

"Huh? Nothing’s up," Peter shrugs.

"No, I know you. Something’s wrong."

"I’m fine, Em." A lie.

It’s a miracle that Michelle Jones sees through Peter’s bullshit because it means that she has the incentive to protect herself from any future bullshit that may break her later on. Peter is too numb to process any of it. There was the refusal of admission, the attempt to keep up the wall of his emotions, which crashed down soon enough by the time MJ was out of the door.

He thinks he should call you, but he doesn’t.

____

Peter is used to scrapes and bruises. He’s seen more than enough charred flesh than a nineteen-year-old should. You had never asked to be his caretaker, but over the course of years, that was what you became. His guardian angel.

He used to make excuses to come over after patrol, trying to coax you out of your nest of a room for just an evening. He'd always known you were far more talented than you gave yourself credit for when it came to spider abilities, but it felt more like a curse than a gift for you to bear.

Some nights, he dreams of you falling stories beneath him. Your face is covered in rubble and ash, and although his nightmares often start with this, he knows that somehow, it’s his fault. It feels visceral, the burning in his calloused hands. Torn lycra to show the dirt underneath his fingernails. Hot tears dripping.

He starts taking that Ambien you gave him years ago.

After that, each day passes like he’s trapped in a nightmarish purgatory. No, that’s an exaggeration. He’s just a victim of a New York winter, and he misses you more than he wants to admit to himself or anyone else.

"I can take care of myself." And with that, the image of you disappears.

"I know," he murmurs softly. He’s always known. It is insignificant in comparison to how badly he wants to take care of you if you let him. Your voice echoes in the cavern of his room. You get farther away by the second until you disappear completely, and he evidently wakes up.

Even in your worst state, he’s obsessed with your honeyed skin. It doesn’t matter the number of bruises or cuts – he caresses them all with his nimble fingertips, and he’s ready to kiss them until they heal. He thinks about this sometimes, how much he cares for you and your body. What he'd do if you just let him in, let him devour you however he pleases, and it disgusts him.

In his dreams where you’re hurt, he’s willing to sacrifice whatever he can so that you can revert to your clean, unbothered state. I’d never let anyone break you. It’s a prayer for him. One that he whispers in your ear whenever he can, at least in these dreams. In reality, he knows that he has to let you go because he knows you. Knows how much you want to be free and alone. How you can take care of yourself. You’re not a damsel in distress – you never have been. But Peter feels like he was made to care for you. It would gut him all the same regardless of whether you loved him or not, and he was willing.

When it’s real, he doesn’t know what to do. He didn’t ever think the two of you would be in this position.

He’s been in enough battles to know how these things end. Mr. Stark had walked him through it all and been by his side while the rest of the Avengers repaired the other broken bits of the universe.

Right now is one of those unique times, the quiet and wretched ones, where Peter is contemplating breath after breath before imagining the full picture. Shambles of the street he’s in. The ache of his bruised body and the blood that he sees from yours, that he shouldn’t have seen, because you said it yourself. You’re not a fucking hero. So why is your blood streaked on the palm of his hands?

The distance between you and Peter doesn’t matter – it never does. The moment you’d felt a dread stirring in your stomach, there was a sharp pain in your head that refused to leave unless the working adrenaline in your body was satiated. It wasn’t the same adrenaline that circulated within you from a night of debauchery – instead, it felt like poison. A compulsory kind of pain, a sharp jolt to your senses. Tonight, you’d felt Peter in danger, and it would’ve killed you if you couldn’t get to him. He'd been the destination you'd been dead set on by the end of the night because of your spider instincts.

The police broadcast was too muffled for you to understand much of it, but you picked out the parts where Spider-Man was mentioned and followed through on them. Although you didn’t fall into the shadow of his hero work, you still kept enough tabs on Peter to know where he would usually be on patrol. It wasn’t like he knew, or that you’d ever told him, but when he was starting out as another guard dog for the Avengers in high school, you needed to at least know his approximate location in the event that something went terribly wrong.

An explosion blasts in the center of a park, where the two of you would meet in the middle between Queens and Stark Tower. This is where you lay your courage down. This is where you find Spider-Man’s mangled body before anyone else does.

"Peter," you huff. "S’gonna be okay. You with me? I’m gonna make sure you’re okay."

He’s just less than conscious, the stretch of his animated eyes limited by his weakness. When he sees your face, however, his face glows – not that you can see it through his mask.

He says your name with a fervor that surprises you. His voice is raspy.

"‘m fine. I have to stay," he grunts, his pain palpable. You know that he’s telling the truth, but you don’t want to leave him alone in his misery.

"Peter. You’re hurt."

"You go home. I’ll come find you later. Just let me–"

"You’re fucking limping."

You had always carried yourself like a feather-like, lithe ghost. Quiet, whereas Peter was bold, despite the fact that his anxious nature had rendered him a boyish thing all these years. This is why he’s surprised that you carry him easily with your supernatural strength. He forgets that you have the same abilities as him. If anything, he’d think you were stronger than him in every way.

Even with his thick skin, he melts into something malleable, comfortable. The solace of your arms makes him feel better already.

A pang of small guilt rots away within him, knowing the circumstances of your last meeting. You’re too good. He didn’t deserve to be saved by you, to be patched up with your nimble fingers like he had been treated when he was younger and more naive.

"I can make it to my place, it’s okay," he rasps gently.

You don’t have to say anything, because bullshit radiates through the stern expression of your eyes, your mouth in a grimace. You had always been stubborn and today isn’t an exception. With your webs, you crochet a path for him toward your home, lifting and catching the boy effortlessly as you swing.

A gentle sigh escapes his mouth when the two of you crawl into the safety of your fire escape. The night is quiet behind you. When he looks at you, you have to look away, fixing your hair nervously or occupying your gaze anywhere but in his direction. His eyes are poignant in their longing, though you’re unsure of what he could be thinking. If he’s sorry about before. If he’s ashamed.

Your wispy webs wrap around the parts of him that hurt, but you wince when you check on him to see that the white fibers are slowly saturated with the dark crimson of his open wounds.

"Peter, you have to wash up," you whisper. "Shit’s gonna get infected. I can put some gauze on you after you shower."

He nods wordlessly when you ask him if he can manage the shower on his own. He feels vulnerable, and although your presence is always desired by him, he finds relief in the hot steam of your shower, alone with his thoughts. He’s still shaken from the explosion. Not completely catatonic, but tense. As if he isn’t in his body at all.

When Peter emerges from the bathroom, he looks like a stranger. Scars adorn his sides. Your face crumples at the sight of his fresh wounds.

"C’mere."

It doesn’t take you long to fix him up, cleaning his cuts and wrapping gauze around his stomach and chest. His quiet grunts startle you, as if he's a wild animal. Eyes screwed shut, brows cinched in pain. A heavy exhale and a mumbled apology followed.

You forgive him with a soft touch and a hushed whisper. He wishes the ache would stop. He wishes he could lie on your bed and have you whisper in his ear all night until the sound of your voice lulls him to sleep.

There aren’t many words exchanged, and you want to ask him why. If you did something. But then you think about the images on the news and his withered face, and you decide not to probe the sphere of trauma surrounding him. Peter has probably gone through more in the last twelve hours than you have in a week.

You stop him before he tries to make it out of your bedroom door and towards the living room.

"I don’t mind sleeping on the couch, I’ve done it before."

"It’s like sleeping on a rock, Parker. You just gone through God knows what," you chide. "Just… get in here."

As he breathes in and out, he nestles in your shoulder, his clean hair tickling your bare skin. There’s a nasty guilt that lurches from your sternum. As if you were the reason for his pain. For the state of his body. And you think back to the desperate look in Peter’s eyes the night you took him home from the party. Were you too cruel, then?

It’s like he steals the words from your mouth. He beats you to it.

"I’m sorry," Peter murmurs. His amber eyes blink up at you, unfathomable. You flash him a downturned grin.

"For what?"

"I feel like… there’s been a distance between us lately. And I don’t want that, because you’re my best friend. And now you’re taking care of me when you don’t have to. I just wanted you to know that I really appreciate it. That I, um, lo–," he stammers. He chews on his bottom lip. "You’re really good."

"‘m not all that good, Peter."

But of course, you are, he protests in his head. You are the moon and the stars and everything in between.

"I’m sorry for not being around."

"Not just your fault," you shrug. "Phone works both ways."

He knows you better than you think because, within seconds, his palm rests softly on your cheek, where he feels a hot tear.

"What’s up, Spidey?" he asks you. It makes you laugh.

"Shut up." You shake your head, trying to hide your face. The feeling of his thumb rubbing your cheek makes the tears flow even more. "I wouldn’t know what I’d do if something bad happened to you. If I couldn’t get to you. Or if you – if you were gone."

"I’m okay, Rabbit. We’re okay."

"Yeah," you chuckle, trying to hide your tears.

"Couldn’t get rid of me if you tried."

You feel warmer in his grasp. His small breaths fall on your arm as his body curls up next to you. He’s bigger than he’d been before back when you were teenagers. The jaw is chiseled and sharp. Not as soft and boyish as you once knew. With your senses, you can discern the steadiness of his heartbeat as his chest rises and falls into slumber. You fall asleep soon after, dreamless but full of warmth.

____

Waking up next to him is nothing new, but it’s been years. You never thought anything of it when the two of you were sixteen, staying up all night reading creepypastas and watching movies until you’d fall asleep on top of each other by four in the morning.

After a night’s sleep, Peter's sullen face is a bit brighter despite his dark circles. His limbs are entangled in yours, bodies fused together. Yin and yang. You can only assume that this is how it will always be.

You keep mental notes of him like trinkets. The uneven slant in his left eyebrow. The faint freckles dotted along his nose, the one near the corner of his mouth. The faint shadow of hollowed-out cheeks. Peter is still half-boy to you, and half-man, but you didn’t want to come to terms with it. Maybe he was something else. Half-ghost. Half-angel.

Slowly, over the course of a few weeks, he comes back to you again. Sitting together and reading at a cafe. The occasional 3 am swing. Walking around high at the 7-11.

"Did you like Rhode Island?" he asks over a joint one night.

You hum for a second, trying to come up with an acceptable answer. It wasn’t that you hated being in Rhode Island. It was that you hated being away from him.

So instead, you shrug. "It was nice to get away from everything. Providence is still a city, but it isn't as large as all this–”

You trail off, making a vague gesture with your hands. Chaos, Peter presumes.

"Less overwhelming?"

"Sure," you say, nodding. "I missed being home, though."

I missed you.

Peter passes you the joint. His brain feels fuzzy. Warm. He doesn’t know what to do with his hands. He massages your ankle absentmindedly.

"I get it," he says, breaking the silence.

"You get what?"

"Wanting to leave. I've been thinking about it," Peter shrugs, his eyes squinting in the late afternoon sun. "Sometimes I wish we could pack our bags and go to the countryside. See some cows and shit."

We. We. We.

"There are cows upstate," you snort.

"You know what I mean."

"We can do a road trip."

"You can’t drive."

"I am aware and perfectly fine with being a passenger princess. In fact, I’m looking forward to it," you grin.

He yanks your ankle this time, causing you to slip from where you’re sitting on the pavement. Giggling, you swat away his hands, but he’s too quick, untying your shoelaces as you kick and thrash.

"Honestly, it’s probably better for society if you never get behind the wheel," Peter teases. He dodges you when you try to kick him in the shin.

"Oh, but you can be? You get so distracted so easily! Whenever you’d practice driving, you’d miss so many exits or be too anxious to merge on the highway."

"Okay, well, you’re just a force of distraction," he shrugs, throwing his hands up in defeat. "You have that effect on people."

You look at him quizzically, your eyes narrowing. If there’s anything behind his statement, he doesn’t show it on his face. Peter knows his cheeks are burning, however.

There are more moments like these. Ever since you’d rescued Peter that night, he’s grown accustomed to spending hours of his day idly looking for you, learning your class schedule, and following you home like a pet when it’s time to unwind. He stays for hours like he used to when you were kids, and although he always thinks he’s overstaying his welcome, you don’t seem affected.

You curl into him more these days, like a sunflower stretching toward the morning glow. There are more lingering touches, here and there. You have to remind yourself not to get too comfortable, but God, he makes it so easy.

So the burning question pops out during a marathon of Chainsaw Man.

"Does MJ care that we hang out so much?" you blurt out. He looks at you like you have three heads. Also, his mouth is full.

"Um, webrobrup," he mumbles. He frowns as he looks down. Hot Cheeto fingers.

You mock him, of course.

"English, yeah?"

He chuckles as he finishes scarfing it all down. He shyly licks his fingertips, and you have to stop yourself from staring at the way his fingers enter his mouth. Ugh, gross. This is hardly supposed to be hot.

"We broke up."

You keep a straight face. It’s not like you’re excited or anything. You realize you shouldn’t be surprised because… why else would he be so available to you lately?

"Shit. You really fumbled, then."

"Shut up," he laughs.

"Seriously. Who else is gonna wanna put up with you?" You both know the answer to that.

"It was mutual," he says, shrugging. "I’ve got all my Spider-man shit, she’s getting into a bunch of extracurriculars and even a research internship even though we’re literally first years."

"Classic MJ."

"Yeah."

"We’ll get you back on the market, buddy," you tease, patting his head like a dog. A coy smile lights up your features. It makes something inside him melt.

"I’m not a piece of meat."’

You click your tongue.

"Oh, right, you’re an insect."

"Hey, so are you!"

____

You used to think it was a kind of twin telepathy, the magnetism to Peter that you felt. Bitten by the same spider and entangled in the same web. You realize as you grow older that it’s more than a platonic bond. It feels like wanting to share the same skin.

Or maybe it’s the wine talking.

It’s not your job to keep Peter afloat at the party right now, but both of you remember too well how the last party went. He continually sips water in between gulps of whiskey like a paranoid freak, which you tease him about. Maybe it’s just the darkness of his eyes under this light, but his pupils look wide and dilated.

It’s almost March. You’d both endured a proper New York winter, which usually extends until April if you’re lucky, but global warming has other plans. It's warm enough for you to pair one of your favorite dresses with an oversized Carhartt jacket that used to belong to Peter before the bite bulked him up significantly. You fiddle with the black velvet wrapped around your body as you pretend to listen to banal conversations, leaning your head into Peter’s bicep.

You keep picking at loose threads obsessively. You think about your fingertips and their webs. You think that maybe you should take up crocheting to distract your hands from their restlessness.

Peter grabs your hand away from you, squeezing it slightly, not even looking at you. His flushed palm rests against yours. Gently rubbing your thumb between your finger divots

If you were a cat, Peter would imagine you purring right about now. He wants to take you into his lap, stroke your hair while the alcohol subsides in both of your systems. The thought of you on top of him causes his cock to twitch slightly. His rose-colored cheeks are from the whiskey, he reassures himself. An affirmation. He lets go of your hand.

He knows that this isn't the time or place for such thoughts, so he makes an effort to push the desires down. He knows they'll come up again when the whiskey leaves his veins, but at least he'll be of sober mind.

Christ, he feels like he's at a middle school dance. Especially when you run off with a spring in your step to socialize with some girls you recognize from school. The smell of your hair lingers next to him. It's sweet and slightly floral, a scent that makes him think of when you were kids.

His ears perk up like a dog's when you call his name, reaching out to him so that you can introduce your best friend. He has the right mind to be polite, even funny at times, but he knows he pales in comparison to your current charisma, which contrasts with your usual wallflower nature.

Peter likes watching you talk, and you like that he watches you so intently. When you know he's watching, it's easy to deadpan some drunken jokes and elaborate superfluous tall tales from your high school days. His eyes are bright, and his bottom lip is chewed in between his teeth.

Suddenly, he gets to be alone with you in the kitchen. Your scent permeates the air. He could drown in it.

“Rabbit," you whine petulantly. "Swing me home."

"How drunk are you?" he chuckles with adoration.

"Not very. Just tired, s'all," you respond with a yawn. You scrunch your nose. "Can I sleep at yours?"

Peter looks at you with a soft gaze. "Of course, angel."

Angel. He's never called you that before. You decide that you like the sound of it.

By the time midnight comes around, you're barefoot in his bedroom, black velvet spinning loosely around your figure. In Peter's blurred vision, you look like a friendly apparition, one that particularly favors "Champagne Coast" by Blood Orange.

"Come into my bedroom, come into my bedroom," you quietly sing along as you sway your hips.

"You're already in my room."

Your smile beams at him, huge and illuminating, and impossible to look away from. Peter wishes that he could bottle up this moment to revisit it, or maybe live in it for the rest of his life. The sweetest way to exist.

Your body sinks to his level -- no, collapses -- as you roll over his heavy frame and rest yourself on your back. Your hair fans out like you're underwater. Your lips are red and wine-colored, freshly bitten. When you turn your head toward Peter, his hand plays with the exposed nape of your neck, fingertips grazing the creases of your skin.

"You used to be so gangly, you know," you murmur. Your voice is lower than usual.

"Okay, well, I'm not anymore."

"I could totally still take you in a fight." Still refers to the times when the two of you would attempt something along the lines of combat training, if combat training was just you unleashing your hotheadedness with your mutant powers instead of with your fists. If you weren't so agile, maybe Peter would've had a chance of winning.

"I'd like to see you try, angel."

It's decided -- you are on top of him, knees bent around his waist as you wrestle. The fabric of your dress pools around your waist in a way that feels sacrilegious. Peter has his hand on your thighs, and his touch feels white-hot to both of you, so he closes his eyes, tries to focus on swatting you away like a bat instead. When he opens his eyes, he meets your devilish ones, gleeful that you've managed to pin his arms above his head.

It would take two inches to break this spell of separation. He keeps trying to keep this bubble intact because the last time he tried to pop it, the look on your face made him want to dig a hole and lay in it forever.

Peter feels sorry for many things. He feels sorry for the times he's intruded, when he's made Mr. Stark angry, for the times he couldn't be there for you. He feels sorry that you had to take care of him when he wanted to do that for you.

Right now, however, Peter doesn't feel sorry at all. The slight twitch of your pulse, the way you smell, the curve of your bare shoulders -- it's all too tempting for him to feel sorry for. So he kisses you.

He's surprised when you nearly bite him back. You inhale sharply, pressing your body against him as you let go of his wrists and rest your palms on his jaw instead. Your kiss is fervent, desperate.

His brow cinches in confusion when you pull away.

"Wha--"

"Fuck."

"What is it?" He frowns.

"I owe Ned twenty bucks."

"What?"

"I just remembered. At graduation, he was like, teasing me that we were gonna get together, and we bet on who would make the first move. I was just entertaining him, but you know how that kid gets about twenty dollars."

"So you thought you were going to make the first move, then?”

“I mean, yeah. How was I supposed to know that MJ was going to cuff you before I did?”

“You snooze, you lose, I guess,” he deadpans.

“You don’t even fucking deserve me, you little freak,” you taunt, tickling his exposed midriff.

“God, I know. I’ve known that for a while. Too bad I want you regardless.”

He smiles as he captures your lips again, tasting sweet and smoky at the same time. He coaxes you onto your back and you revel in his body heat and the way his large hands grab the plush of your thighs, pushing and pulling your skin taut. It’s so erotic that it almost feels dirty.

You kiss him back like he’s your last meal while you roam your hands under his shirt, then to his protruding collarbones, then experimentally, to the tufts of his chestnut hair. You pull a bit too hard due to your eagerness and he lets out a mewl that you never could’ve imagined to come out of him.

“You like that, don’t you?” you taunt darkly. “Is that why you always want me to scratch your head when we watch movies?”

“I don’t care what you do as long as you’re touching me,” he breathes out, like a confession. “Don’t care how you touch me, s’long as it’s you.”

A tepid blush soaks your face. You shut him up with another kiss. He licks at your bottom lip, groaning softly at the feeling of your soft body against his.

“You’re so pretty, Peter,” you whisper.

“You are.”

Before you can react, you hitch a breath in surprise when you find that his hands have fully reached above the hem of your dress and onto the bare skin of your hip, toying with the elastic of your underwear. You part your legs, bending your knees so that you can pull the fabric off.

He sighs as his fingers tease the slot of your cunt, which grows wetter and wetter with every touch. Your sensitivity makes you squirm a little. He can tell so easily that you’re falling apart for him. He loves it.

You nearly whine when he takes away his fingers from you. Instead, he towers over your body, pulling your legs toward him as he pulls up the hem of your velvet dress and cascades kisses on your knees. He slowly works his way up to your thighs, biting gently, then hard. Meanwhile, his hands roam the perimeter of your chest and your ribs, all soft and pliable for him. You’ll be delighted when you wake up to a bruise on your thigh stuck in the shape of Peter Parker’s mouth.

A shiver lacerates your lower body all the way up to your neck – you feel it, viscerally. All from his mouth. He slots his tongue onto the bud of your clit going slowly just to watch you squirm.

“Please,” you beg.

“Please what?” His eyes are as dark as the sky. As dark as your dress.

“Your– your mouth. I need it. Please. More.”

Peter’s grip on your thighs tightens as his face moves closer to your center, licking incessantly as you cry out. You attempt to muffle your sounds with your hand covering your mouth, biting the skin on your palm. Your blood is hot, pumping hard, all the way down to your swollen clit, and he treats you like a man starved.

“Oh my God,” you gasp. “More, please. Pleasepleaseplease.”

He listens to you, forcing his ring and middle finger into your cunt and curling upward. Your legs shake involuntarily when he does this and it takes everything in him to not stop just so he can see the look on your face head-on. You look so beautiful right now.

“Gonna cum, Pete. Fuck.”

He closes his eyes as he savors your sweet taste. He feels it when you cum as if it’s happening in his body, too. A jolt to the sense. A vivacious rumble. Your mouth is slack, jaw falling open with your eyes screwed shut as you finish, and Peter towers over you to watch. He’s never seen you like this. He wants to keep the image of it forever.

You thank him with a messy kiss, not caring about the remnants of your lipstick. Your hands attack him, teeth nipping at his earlobe as you help him undress. Soon enough, the two of you are naked together, limbs entangled and kissing without paying any mind to oxygen.

You take his jaw in your hand as if he’s a delicate thing. Easy to break. It’s your turn to tease, now.

“What do you wanna do?”

“You’re such a little shit,” he mumbles, but he can’t help but grin.

“Tell me about it, Spidey.”

“Want you, Rabbit, want to make you feel good.”

“And how exactly will you do that?”

“Gonna fuck you. I’ll make you cry if you keep being a little shit like this, too.”

There’s no time for a reaction. He’s on top of you, pinning you down, and he licks your collarbone up to your jaw as you whine like a newborn kitten. He spanks your ass and you have to your bottom lip to keep from being too loud.

“You want it that bad, huh?”

“Yeah,” you respond breathlessly. He melts at the sound of your voice, cooing softly as he playfully bites the skin of your cheek.

You love him like this, a burst of passionate energy focused on you and you only. His little angel. You remember your rabbit heart caged in your sternum fragile and thumping like an earthquake for him.

He pauses to give you another kiss, this time sweet as he licks up the bottom of your lip. You can feel him at the crux of your legs and you can feel the want pumping in your veins. Patience. Patience. Patience.

“You want me to go slow?”

“Of course not.”

You’re so relaxed in his grasp. Gooey with your desire that it might disgust you if you weren’t so enamored. You keep your eyes on him when he enters you – you want to see the look in his eyes.

Peter feels selfish wanting to tease you like this. He’s slow when he enters you, listening to your sweet exhales.

“Easy,” he warns. “‘m gonna take care of you, don’t worry."

Please floods your entire body like a heat stroke. You bend your knees upward and rake the smooth terrain of his back, lifting your hips up at the same time. He thrusts once, then twice, and already, he feels like he’s ready to unfurl completely.

“Fuck,” he groans. You’re so goddamn wet. Soft. Velvety.

“Don’t be shy, Peter,” you murmur. “C’mere.”

You keen into the way he buries his nose into your shoulder, shallow breaths uneven and erratic as he continues, losing control bit by bit as he goes on. His pleasure is the knife you twist inside yourself.

You gasp at the way he can carve you out, the way he knows exactly where to put his hands as he grasps for your body, like he’d molding you from clay. He drinks down your moans with his mouth, eyes fluttering at the impact of your cunt clenching him.

Peter props himself up now, moving his body backward so he’s perpendicular to your core. He holds you by your hips a little too hard, but you’d always liked it rough. You liked it when he would cuddle you or play with you or put his entire body weight on you. To smother was to be encased in something akin to love.

“Fuck,” he hisses, getting the hang of a constant rhythm. His hips slot with yours as his cock thrusts deeper into you, until he can feel the slight tremble of your thighs.

“You okay?” he asks, chest heaving.

“Yes, keep going. Keep going.”

You underestimate how fragile you are. A rough thrust almost has you there, until he pulls out of you like a stolen breath, and it leaves you whining.

“Pete.”

“Shh, I’m just trying to pace myself,” he breathes, jaw slack and glistening with sweat. “You feel too fucking good.”

“Come back or I’ll break your wrists.”

He chuckles, but you’re dead serious. You lift your body to him so you can pull his down, kissing him with a ragged hunger that’s all teeth and lust. He’s quick to match your vigor but with more tenderness than desperation. It makes you melt, how natural it is, how this is how it might’ve felt in a past life. Your bodies entwined in a way that’s proverbial.

He listens to you. Fucks you much rougher than before, giving in to what he wants, because he’s not sorry about how much he wants you. Your broken moans curl out of your throat and into his mouth and the feeling of him deep in you makes you feel like a balloon ready to burst from the pressure.

It’s like Peter reads your mind, because suddenly, his hand is around your throat. You’ve never looked more angelic to him than you do now, eyes half-lidded and your reddish mouth all lax.

“So fucking beautiful, I love you,” he mumbles against his mouth.

I love you. I love you. I love you.

All of Peter’s muscles are tense from holding back. Fuck, he doesn’t want to cum until you do.

Luckily, the way his cock stretches you out has you nearly drooling underneath him. He touches the deepest parts of your insides like he belongs there, like he was meant to be there, as if the way he turns his hips toward you is a vow in itself. You whimper at the feeling of it all and he nearly loses it.

“I’m so close,” you pants. Thank fucking God.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Cum for me,” he coos. “You’re doing so good. Fuck.”

Your gaze lingers on the shape of his mouth. You think about how his voice sounds when he calls you angel.

Your orgasm comes like a flower blooming, like a beam of light in the darkness. He feels it, too, so vividly like he shares your body. It feels strange how much he feels that he hasn’t felt before, and it makes him come undone right after you.

He pulls out of you and spills onto your stomach unceremoniously with something in between a grunt and a whimper. He’s all over you. You want to bury your body into his.

“Peter,” you whisper, your gaze languishing.

“Yes, angel?”

“I think I owe Ned fifty bucks now.”

He looks at you incredulously but you can’t keep the facade, bursting into laughter as he groans in annoyance and flops his body on top of yours.

“Ew, clean me up, at least,” you complain.

“Right,” he says, nodding. And he does, with a spare t-shirt from his floor absentmindedly while he shares a grin with you. “You serious, though?”

“Of course not,” you scoff. “Ned Leeds will never get anything over twenty bucks from me.”

He laughs and it sounds like heaven.

“You said you loved me,” you tell him.

“I do love you. I’ve always loved you.”

You could cry right now. Surely the influx of endorphins in your body is breaking the rest of your brain.

“I love you, too.”

You kiss him again, open-mouthed, teeth sucking slightly as his lips. He takes a fistful of your hair while his other hand caresses your jaw. It excites you when he breaks the kiss by pulling your hair. His cheeks dimple the slightest bit when he smiles at you.

“Don’t do that, you’re gonna get me hard again.”

“You have the stamina,” you shrug, hugging one of his oversized pillows to your chest.

“You’re cute.”

“Hey.”

“Hi.”

“How come you call me angel now?”

Peter shrugs. He rubs his hands on your calves.

“You’re my guardian angel. Always have been. And you’re not allowed to complain about it being corny because it’s true.”

Peter is shy all of sudden as if he hadn’t just fucked you. His brown hair is tousled to bedhead perfection, messy and slightly frizzy, and the warmth of his skin radiates from the way his whole body seems to blush in front of you.

“I have a proposition.”

“Jesus Christ.”

“Come on!” You nudge him, kicking him with your feet. You get off of his bed to rummage through his dresser drawers for an oversized t-shirt, just dodging his attempts to grab you by the waist.

“Okay. What is it?”

“We should use our webs next time.”

He blinks, smirking, indulging you for a second.

“Deal.”

tagging mutuals: @meliapis​ @cutetomholland​ @userholland​ @sparklingsin​ @tomdutch​ @userholland​ @vendettaparker​ @selfcarecap @simplykenni​ @uhlxis​ @cordiformity​ @sapphicsoie​ @seolaseoul​ @honeyspidey​ @logangarfield​ @justapurrcat​ @arachine​ @cocoamoonmalfoy​ @ohcaptains​ @aniqua

[orteil42]

Hello there! I was wondering, what media inspired cookie clicker to be what it is today? I was thinking of plague inc's "newsboard" which really got me thinking. What sort of games or media do you take inspiration from? Thanks!

Cookie Clicker was initially made for laughs, the whole gameplay loop mostly expanding on the lollipop farm feature in Candy Box:

(as a sidenote, the reason i've promised a dungeons minigame for about 10 years now is entirely because Candy Box had them)

the game's current presentation and design logic stem from the years i spent as a kid playing old macintosh shareware as well as my interest in skeuomorphic UI. if you browse through Macintosh Garden long enough you're bound to find some of the stuff i obsessed over between 7 and 17 and i'm sure a lot of it has subconsciously found its way into the way i make my games.

some of Cookie Clicker's major features originate from early player suggestions and from reading discussions about the budding idle game genre, ie. the prestige/ascend system was added after i read people discussing a flash game named Kaguya Table (which involves a feature called "mastery"):

the ascend screen itself takes after Path of Exile's passive skill tree:

i've been asked before where the creepy grandmapocalypse body horror idea comes from and for the most part the answer is i'm just kind of a little freak like that. Cookie Clicker's initial "made-in-4-hours" version ended with the grandma building going bonkers and replacing the whole background. i'd been into Junji Ito and similar things for some time at that point so turning it into a whole thing for the "i'm making this game seriously actually" version felt like a logical step. pretend the Junji Ito image i'm including is from his gorier stuff

finally, the kitten upgrades and possibly the whole "achievements grant milk" thing were added at the insistent request of a tumblr user who really really wanted me to add cats to the game somehow.

if you were specifically curious about the news ticker at the top of the game, i more or less directly lifted that from the one in SimCity!

[leeminuwu]

MY HAPPY MARRIAGE | Gojo Satoru (2)

—In which the disgraced older daughter of a small clan gets an offer from the strongest sorcerer in the world, an offer she can't refuse, an unusual prospect of marriage.

TW : domestic violence, physical abuse, suicidal ideation, suicide, self harm, 18+ themes | minors dni

Pairing : Gojo Satoru X OC, slight! Geto suguru x oc, slight! Sukuna X OC

Part One

TWENTY YEARS AGO

THE FIRST TIME a young Gojo Satoru arrived at the Furukawa household, he was eight years old. A god amongst men. A prodigy of his clan. That is what he knew and it was also the truth. To be born with both six eyes and limitless at his disposal, he was a young god amongst Jujutsu Sorcerers. Hence, warm hospitality was something he didn't particularly worry about. He knew that everyone cowered at his feet to please him, especially if it was a family trying to climb the prestige ladder in the Jujutsu World. Much like the Furukawa clan. Yet, he found himself exasperated and frankly bored listening to the full discussions of the elders.

Despite all his powers, Gojo Satoru was still a child. He wished to play, and the gardens looked especially tempting. But a problem arose, who can I play with?. The youngest son of the house was a mere child of five, who seemed quite stupid for his own good.

If there were no chances of frolic, he decided to walk the gardens by himself. A decision, that earned him a sigh from his father and grandfather. I'll never be a bore like them when I grow up. He grumbled to himself, and skipped into the lush gardens that had bloomed under the spring's grace.

The gardens were certainly not as big as his clan's. The Furukawa household reeked of new money, and their pretentiousness of trying to come off as elegant sorcerers made Gojo Satoru bite back laugh. Yet the small garden helped him calm down quite a lot. The boy walked a far as he could from the house. A lot less people, a lot less cursed energy. He thought to himself. His eyes could detect the smallest amounts to cursed energy, and that day he had seen more than his fair share emitting from the house.

While he was grateful for his abilities. He often wondered, how the world looked like without all the curses in the air.

Lost in his introspections, the boy who could sense even the smallest movements around him, was startled by a loud thud.

"What the —" Gojo looked around him, only to find a girl positioned like a cat on her forelimbs, her yukata covered in mud.

Why didn't I sense her?

The young boy was irked by the girl's lack of presence and had decided to approach her. She'd clearly fallen off the tree, yet she'd not made a sound of pain and she'd continued to pick up persimmons off the ground.

"Oi, girl!" He'd called out to her, his cheeks puffing in annoyance. How did she not emit any cursed energy?

But the girl chose not to respond, as she continued to pick up the countless persimmons in her tiny arms.

"Hey, you—" he asked a little louder, the girl's ears perked up like a rabbit as she finally heard Gojo. His footsteps towards her had gotten louder.

"Are you talking to me?" The girl asked, as her eyes widened like a doe in the headlights.

"What is your name?"

"Furukawa Chihaya" The young Furukawa girl was still confused, the boy looked like a foreigner, with his white hair and and blue eyes and couldn't understand why a foreigner would speak to her in fluent japanese.

"But why do you—" before she could finish, the realisation dawned on her, making her eyes widened in surprise. The boy infront of her was no foreigner, it was the the prodigy, she'd heard about. He is like a god. She remembered her mother saying, as she wrapped her yukata that morn. "Kami Sama!" The girl exclaimed, bowing down abruptly as the orange fruits in her arms scattered on the ground once again, startling Gojo as well.

"Ha??" Gojo lifted his brow in confusion, "What are you doing? I am not a god, geez what a pain!" The boy spoke, running his hand through his hair.

The girl lifted up her head, only to restart picking up the fruits that had fallen down, "Mother told me to treat you like a one, because she says you are the blessed one" she said, while grabbing hold of the last stray fruit.

She turned to him and gave him a warm smile.

Gojo scoffed, "Yeah, whatever I don't really care" he cleared his throat and continued "Hey Chiyo, tell me something—"

"It's Chihaya actually—"

"Chiyo" He smirked, "Why don't you emit cursed energy, huh? Is this some sort of new trick that I don't know about?"

Chihaya tilted her head in sheer confusion. "I don't have cursed energy, Gojo sama" she stated in a matter of fact way.

"I don't believe you. That's not possible. Every human being emits cursed energy" More so, non curse users like her.

Chihaya smiled yet again, however this time her smile was melancholy. "I wish I had cursed energy, my father says my cursed energy is so less that he worries if I am even human" she chuckled.

Less? No. She didn't have any. He was certain of it. The girl was an anomaly.

"Does your cursed technique suppress your cursed energy then?" He asked again, just to be clear of the freak of nature that had taken a form of a young girl with chubby plush cheeks.

She tiled her head again, a confused look in her brown doe eyes, "I don't know what you mean"

Gojo felt like nature was playing a sick joke on him, making him come across someone who could evade six eyes with their lack of cursed energy. His anger diminished to amusement. What a strange girl. He took another look at her, her arms full of ripe persimmons as she looked around awkwardly.

"Do you want something?" She asked again, those same clueless eyes. Making the young boy realise, perhaps—that odd girl had been no threat at all. Perhaps his suspicions of her had been misplaced.

"You're so weird" Gojo cracked into a hearty laughter, "I never thought weaklings could be this entertaining!"

"How mean!" The girl lifted her cheeks in annoyance, and Gojo swore she looked as round as the persimmons she held. He pinched her cheeks, making her let out a small "ouch"

"I'll be taking some" the boy swiftly picked up two of the fruits the girl and gathered, and started to run away laughing about the whole ordeal. What a stupid, weird girl.

"Hey, give them back! I found them first!"

Chihaya ran behind him as much as her damned yukata allowed her to, dropping her collected fruits in the floor. The persimmons rolled scattered under the tree, once again.

_______________

PRESENT DAY

Years later, when Gojo Satoru returned to those shabby walls of the old Furukawa mansion, he had a characteristic smile on his face as he stood under the scrutinizing gazes the higher ups as head of his clan. Their faces veiled under the dimly lit room. It had been a while since as meeting of higher ups had occurred at the Furukawa household. It was an uncharacteristic destination, however it suited the main topic of contention for the day. The fate of Chihaya Furukawa.

In the dim room, Gojo could only make out the silhouette of Utahime. Whilst he felt Yaga's presence and stern gaze on him. Gojo was aware that his actions of transporting Chihaya to the Jujutsu High was a controversial one, however that day he was ready to face the music. He was ready to unveil what had occurred at the Chiba Montessori Academy, three days ago. After all, he never undertook actions were never without a reason.

"Are you aware about the number of casualties?"

"Of course" He replied, "I was the one who got her out of that fire after all" he continued with a finger to his chin "However, I believe the firefighters had already doused most of the fire that day"

"—20 children were injured and around of 2 staff were blazed" another added, prohibiting Gojo from digressing from the issue.

A small smirk formed on Satoru's face.

"But you probably don't care about that do you?" He questioned with a taunt in his voice. Earning a tsk from Utahime, who'd been escorting Gagkuganji at the council that day, out of sheer worry for her old friend.

Naobito Zenin appeared from the shadows, his disposition solemn as the Buddha, he was accompanied by Haruto Furukawa, his eyes devoid of any apparent emotion. Of course the head of the Zenin clan had to make his point. Especially since, he shared a cordial relationship with the leech of a man beside him. Haruto Furukawa carried a small diary with him, a decrepit object of old, as the man laid it forth on the small table that was kept at the centre of the dark room.

"This is my late wife's record" Haruto began, "She kept this diary to note down the various happenings of her daily life, this is but one of those several journals" He continued, as he stood under the dim light source that illuminated the room. Solidifying his position in the room full of esteemed sorcerer, his features from as a stern old judge, "As Yuki's husband, I believe I must atone for her crime against the Jujutsu council, for she and her esteemed family had hidden crucial details about their bloodline that could cause potential harm to the world at large" the man said, his voice strong as a horse, as his head bowed in shame.

It was the head of the Zenin clan who spoke up next, making the ashamed man, lift his head in surprise at the former's words.

Gojo smile grew. How unusual.

"Let me be clear as crystal" the man sighed, not a single emotion betraying his obdurate voice, "Chihaya Furukawa's body bears the mark of the unfortunate Machi curse sorcerers have been investigating for a while, her body is a bomb waiting to go off on the entire Jujutsu World" he continued, his dark eyes burrowing holes into Gojo's form, however the whole ordeal was merely amusing to him. "We are of the knowledge that Suguru Geto is trying to get through to her as well—hence, taking her in, would be a fallacy on your part"

"I am well aware of the risks" Gojo remarked.

"Are you?" It was now the head of the Furukawa clan who spoke, his voice bellowing with caution, "she is a vessel to a powerful sorceress Lady Akane, and we saw how she burnt the entire school. You are but playing with fire Gojo kun"

"See this is where you're wrong Furukawa san, Chihaya is not merely a vessel is she?" Gojo turned his eyes to Utahime who shifted uncomfortably. "I am sure there are those who are aware of the true nature of her power"

"She—" the woman sighed, insufferable brat. All the eyes had turned to her. "According to the brief research we conducted post the incident, we have suspicions and assume that she is not merely a vessel. If we are to look into the records of the Machi clan then, she is Akane herself. We can say that there was some reincarnation ritual involved before her death that bound her to the Machi bloodline. It is just that, her body hasn't been awakened yet, however, the incident at Chiba was a grave sign that her body may have finally started to awaken"

"Is there any confirmation regarding the nature of her power?" An elder asked from the shadows, his voice heavy with contempt. "Lady Akane was a sorceress of malice. While her vessel might be a much easier to eradicate. Reincarnation rituals are troublesome things"

Before Utahime could answer the elder's queries, a rather proactive Gojo Satoru, turned all eyes to his form with a chuckle and his rather animated style of walking and hovering hands to explain the ordeal. "It's difficult to break the cycle of birth and death, if she has bound herself to the bloodline. Killing her would risk a rebirth in the future in the same bloodline, perhaps a more distant relative who'd be much harder to track" Gojo stated in a matter of fact manner. His dark shades, sliding down his nose to reveal a mysterious glint in his eyes.

"We are still looking into the probably of the reincarnation ritual, there is hardly any proof for that. She might just be a vessel" Haruto Furukawa remarked, "I have sent Makoto and his cousins to seek out the records from the Machi household"

"Quite an elaborate way to say that you've sent out your son to kill your late wife's family" His playful eyes darkened as his lips upturned into a wicked smile, Gojo's hands were tucked behind his back as his six eyes burrowed holes into old Haruto's tainted soul.

The air in the roomed seem to thicken with the young sorcerer's accusation. Silence spoke the truth.

The tension was evaded as soon as Naobito Zenin cleared his throat.

"Vessel or a reincarnated sorceress, it would be dangerous to let her free nonetheless. However, the council is also well aware that killing her would only transfer the curse to some distant blood relative of the Machi clan" he continued, his eyes on Gojo as he spoke "keeping her in this compound of Furukawa estate itself is a good decision. As long as the transformation isn't complete"

Utahime's hands balled into fists. She couldn't believe that the higher ups would choose to keep her locked up with her scum of a father, rather than find a solution for her issue. Gojo could sense the woman's frustration, however he chose to wait before delivering his proposition.

"She is a walking hazard. Staying at home would keep her bounded" Haruto added curtly.

The head of the Gojo clan bursts into a laugh, holding onto his stomach, earning a glare from his old teacher, "You're funny old man, I thought you didn't have any sense of humour to you!"

"Excuse me?" Haruto Furukawa rolled his eyes in exasperation.

As Gojo compose himself, he grinned widely, his shit eating grin making most of the attendees groan internally, "Say, Chihaya—who is barely a grade 4 sorcer now, would atleast triple in her cursed energy output as Akane is awakened. Let's say she even ends up being a special grade 1 by the end of it. I doubt you or your son are even strong enough to handle her" he continued, as he walked towards the older man, his voice lowering in a sinister tone, "and what if Geto were to find? Would you be able to stop him?"

"We are willing to give our lives to end the witch who has bought immense shame to our name" Haruto bellowe with an unyielding resolve.

Gojo's eye twitched in annoyance. Bastards.

"And if situation calls for Geto Suguru to seek Chihaya out, we will not hesitate to end her life. Even if her awaking is not complete"

"Admirable" Gojo said with a tight smile. "but foolish"

This is not the time for me to be angry.

The voice of an older man resounded with reason, Gagkuganji, a man who remained a staunch follower of the higher-ups seemed to aid Gojo's cause, even if he was not aware of it, "Do you have a better alternative?" He continued, "Is it not better for a family to deal with the misgivings of their own blood rather than involving outsiders?"

"Precisely!" Gojo exclaimed, his swift change on time, startled Haruto Furukawa, much like the others present in the room.

"Matters of old curses should be solved within families" Gojo grinned turning to Haruto, the abhorrent grin resuming onto his features "Hence I present you with a prospect"

"A prospect?" The older man inquired, almost fearful of the next set of words that would spill out of Gojo Satoru's lips.

"I will marry your daughter!" Gojo exclaimed, pointing his slender finger at the older man, as his crystalline blue eyes peaked from the back of his glasses that had slid down his now slightly. His mouth was wide with a toothy grin and Haruto Furukawa swore he could hear his wife mocking him with a laugh from her grave.

The council erupted into murmurs.

Gojo Satoru had expected shock, but not such a lukewarm response to his proposition. Little did he know his sole, supposed, ally in that council, Utahime was seething at the young sorcerer from across the room.

"Nonsense" Haruto continued, after refusing simply as he waved his hand. "This is not the time for your frivolous propositions"

Gojo let out a hearty laugh, worsening the air of sheer gall that stopped the murmurs of the Jujutsu council

"Yet it is perfect opportunity" he said after composing himself, as he turned to the council, "I wish to take responsibility of Chihaya's life. I will wed her at the earliest date and then she will be under my care" walks around the room "If Akane chooses to evolve through Chihaya, I will make sure to end her life after the awakening and break the curse, so that it is no longer transferred to another faultless child"

Haruto gasped. Throughout his years in the Jujutsu World, the last thing he'd want to do was welcome a conceited Gojo into his family. His eyes shifted to Naobito Zenin, who stood with a poker face, contemplating on the whole ordeal.

"Why is it that the great Gojo Satoru chooses to take upon himself the matters of the Furukawa household?" The Zenin headman asks, with a hint of venom in his voice.

"Because I am the strongest" he stated with a smirk as he turned to meet Yaga's gazs, his voice lower than before "Only I can keep her out of Geto's reach"

Whilst his words were firm declaration to the entire council. Yaga could almost sense a hint of sincerity in his old student's voice.

________

GOJO SATORU HAD received an earful from Yaga post the council meeting. However his perils were far from being dismissed. As he teleported back to the Tokyo Metropolitan Jujutsu High, he felt a rage filled surge of cursed energy almost smacking him at the back of his head. An attempt, that had been promptly blocked by the likes of his infinity once again.

"GOJO SATORU, YOU PIG!" Utahime screamed as she almost pounced on the younger man with her cursed energy. "I'm not going to let you honey trap my bestfriend"

Gojo let out a laugh, turning to meet the livid eyes of his senior.

"That's a lot of concern for someone who abandoned you and Shoko on a breezy August morning" he chimed in, clearly grinding the woman's gears.

She let out a tsk in annoyance to his words. Why did he have to bring that up. She wondered.

"She was going through a lot back then. I could never be mad at her for leaving us out of the blue. Especially with her father and her engagement—"

"Yeah, yeah save the sob stories for the reunion" Gojo faked a yawn, irking the woman yet again. This brat.

"For the record, I am not honey trapping her" he smirked as he continued, with his hands tucked behind him, "I am just keeping her away from Geto"

"It's rich of you to think that she would just go with him if he called for her" Utahime scoffed. As the evening breeze around them seemed to become chilly. Gojo's eyes turned to see the light clouds that formed a haze in the sky.

"It's hard to let go of one's first love" he said with a small smile on his lips.

Utahime could only stare at him in disbelief.

"I don't think she's particularly hung up on him after all these years"

Gojo chuckled. "You'd be surprised by how one continues to cherish their youth"

The older woman groaned. Gojo Satoru was making no sense, let alone, speaking like his usual self. She knew Geto Suguru was a sensitive topic for him but who knew he could speak in riddles for his sake. She rubbed her temple furiously in confusion. "What is the point? You plan to kill her anyway don't you? I never thought you'd make it easier for Jujitsu council to carry out sentences for once"

"She won't have to die" he said with a confident smile.

Utahime was dumbstruck. Gojo Satoru seemed to have lost the last bit of normalcy.

"You're telling me you'll break that thousand year long curse?!" She exclaimed in disbelief, her eyes widening in surprise.

"Ding ding ding, Correct answer! You bet I will find a way!" Gojo grinned ear to ear.

Under the soft moonlight, Gojo's words seemed the most unrealistic promise shed heard all her life. A plea of making the impossible come true. She wanted to punch the man for playing with her friend's dimming life, yet, that night, much to the woman's dismay, Utahime was presented with a flicker of hope, which she would nurture for a while.

Thank you for reading. Let me know if you want to be added to the taglist :)

[sarcasticdolphin]

Todolf Cultverse "Pilgrimage"

A follow up to my last cultverse drabble for @oranginacultist

This one isn't as overtly dark as the last one but in context the subtext is very much there. As usual, cultverse is its own warning.

As much as Henry might think otherwise, it was a pilgrimage he went on, if a rather odd one. All such trips were, no matter his intended goal. The forest was thick with greenery and not so foreboding as one might think in spite of his destination. If anything it just seemed more and endless wall of green, the trees barely visible through the leafy vines.

Henry’s thoughts went to Liam. His brother had gone to serve at the temple five years ago, mostly for the pay. As much as their parents hadn’t fully approved, Liam’s eye had been set on the baker’s eldest daughter, and a penniless younger son wouldn’t have much of a chance of convincing her father that he could provide. And so he’d gone to the temple. For the money, but also for the prestige of having served a god.

Henry remembers the jests of the night Liam had left well. The god of death was an odd choice to serve, and in all honesty he’d thought it was because there was no prophet in residence then though a prince had been marked as one. They’d all thought the rumors mostly rubbish until the princely prophet had arrived with his retinue, but Liam almost seemed happy to have an actual prophet to serve if his letters had been anything to go by. 

And it makes sense - as much as it seemed to Henry that Liam enjoyed gardening, it had to get boring especially at what was frankly a small temple in the middle of nowhere. 

Henry snorts. The middle of nowhere seems a proper name for his current destination.

Liam’s last letter had been so excited, though. He’d seemed so eager to be discharged from service, and so looking forward to finding a job tending the gardens of one of the lords then marrying his beloved. 

But a day passed after he was supposed to return, then two. He’d been so specific, his plan already perfectly in order. He would bid his formal farewell to the princeling-prophet, be formally discharged, and then be home in time for a breakfast of eggs and ham the next day. The images seemed so clear in his letter.

Yet he hadn’t come, and so Henry made his pilgrimage. Had the prophet required him to stay? It wasn’t unheard of, but still so rarely done. 

The low roofs of the temple complex emerge, a patch of dull reds and blacks amidst the endless green. Henry fumbles with his cap and coins, wishing dearly that it will be Liam who greets him with some silly story of his replacement being utterly incompetent. 

But the servants that greet him are grim as statues, dressed in black.

---

Henry had questions, so many questions, but instead of answering any of them the old man simply guides him through the temple to a small glenn. 

The young man lounging under a great white-barked tree can only be the prophet, but the image is still so incongruous in Henry’s mind. He’d known the prophet was quite young. Liam had called him a sullen child on more than one occasion, but the prophets in the books were always old men. Priests who had served gods for a lifetime before becoming their voice for a year, perhaps two. Indeed if he didn’t know better the old man that strides across the meadow to whisper something into the prophet’s ear would seem a more proper prophet.

Henry chances a brief glance around, half starting as he does. There is a large black cat that can only be a panther sprawled rather close to Rudolf, a bone in her maw and a small cub playing with her tail. 

It’s a sight he’d never thought to see despite living close to these woods all his life. The god of death’s sacred creatures were silent as shadows and so very shy, especially females with cubs. 

The old servant stands, bowing to the prophet and retreating. It’s only then that Henry notices the second cub, tucked in the prophet’s arms and peacefully sleeping. 

“You seek your brother, yes?” The prophet has an unmistakable lordling’s accent, and his tone certainly speaks that he is used to being obeyed without question.

“Yes, Eminence.” Henry gives a stiff bow. There is something about the prophet that seems odd, but he can’t quite place it. The boy - for seeing the young prophet now he looks more like a teen boy than a man - is dressed richly, all in black save for a few hints of gold trim. He looks more like a spoiled prince than a proper prophet.

“I discharged him from my service several days ago.” The prophet sounds disinterested, and he’s rocking the little cub in his arms almost like one would a small child.

“He hasn’t returned home, Eminence.” Henry chances another glance at the panther. She’s paying a sort of lazy attention now, the bone still between her paws. A shiver runs down Henry’s back. Her claws are out to grasp the bone and they are gigantic. For all she almost looked like an overgrown housecat at first, the part of him that wants to flee is growing larger by the moment and that same part of him whispers in his ear. He’d thought the bone was that of a deer, but it seemed perhaps a bit too long. 

“Ah.” The prophet gave a sort of smile that made Henry want to simultaneously flee and strangle him. “You must know that once I have dismissed him from my service I have no sway over what road he takes.”

Henry’s hands ball into fists. Of course he knows that. Everyone knows that. But Liam wouldn’t write him letters, week in and week out, only to disappear to start a new life at the end of his service to the temple.

“My brother-” he snarls, temper flaring.

The panther growls, baring long white teeth that must be sharp as knives.

“Aemilia.” The prophet’s voice is amused, and Henry hates him more than he’s ever hated anything else before.

The panther settles slightly, but there is nothing of the vague disinterest from earlier in her eyes. Henry looks into them and sees his own hate and fury reflected back at him.

The moment is broken a moment later as the panther whirls, picking up the cub that had been playing with her tail, and crosses the distance to the prophet in a single bound, depositing the cub with him before turning and glaring at Henry once more, her muscles tense and ready to pounce, the bone forgotten and alone, barely visible in the long grasses.

“James.” The prophet raises his voice, and the old man is there again. “This pilgrim has become overcome.”

Henry is being escorted out again a moment later, his mind reeling. Liam had a life waiting for him. He wouldn’t just leave, would he? People could change in five years, Henry knew that, but the Liam in the letters always seemed like the brother he’d grown up with.

[mishimamiravenecia]

Hospital SS Juan y Pablo / SS John and Paul Hospital.

La entrada triunfal del Hospital SS Juan y Pablo.(Scuola Grande di San Marco).

The triumphal entry of SS John and Paul Hospital. (Scuola Grande di San Marco).

(Español / English)

The Civil Hospital of St. John and Paul is a Renaissance building, once known as the Grand School of St. Mark, in the sestiere (district) of Castello. The Scuola is an ancient secular institution that chose a patron saint and to which middle-class citizens belonged, while the Scuole Grandi were joined by patricians. The Scuole Grandi were devoted to charitable works and public assistance and, thanks to their importance and generous donations, had a lot of liquid money, which they used to decorate their premises with works of art by famous artists, or were invested in real estate and loans. The prestige of the Scuole Grandi was such that, in certain moments of crisis, the Serenissima called on their help to raise the necessary funds to finance the wars in progress.

Over time, the Scuola Grande di San Marco had become so important that it took the name of the city's patron saint and built the most impressive of the Schools on Venetian soil.

In 1437, the Dominicans of the adjacent Basilica of Saints John and Paul granted a nearby area for the construction of the new building, which was devastated by a large fire on 31 March 1485, due to a candle left burning. Within twenty years the Scuola was rebuilt, under the direction of architect Pietro Lombardo, and the marble façade is a perfect example of the Renaissance style.

On the right side of the façade, two bas-reliefs by Tullio Lombardo (son of Pietro) adorn the entrance to the Chapel of Peace, where a Byzantine image arrived from Constantinople in 1349, believed to be capable of performing miracles. In the interior, the Sala dell'Albergo became one of the most spectacular examples of the Venetian Renaissance, thanks to works by Gentile and Giovanni Bellini among others.On the right side of the façade, two bas-reliefs by Tullio Lombardo adorn the entrance to the Chapel of Peace, where a Byzantine image arrived from Constantinople in 1349, believed to be capable of performing miracles. In the interior, the Sala dell'Albergo became one of the most spectacular examples of the Venetian Renaissance, thanks to works by Gentile and Giovanni Bellini among others.

Following the fall of the Republic in 1797, and the subsequent sacking by Napoleon, many of the works in the School were lost. In 1807 the confraternity was suppressed under Napoleon's rule, and the building became first an Austrian military hospital and later a civil hospital. Today it is known as the Civil Hospital, where Venetians and tourists visiting the city go for treatment, passing through the solemn atrium, with its series of columns and alternating tree-lined cloisters and new modern wings. Overlooking, visible especially at night, are the numerous cats that live there in peace and protection, in the heart of the city that has always loved them so much.Following the fall of the Republic in 1797, and the subsequent sacking by Napoleon, many of the works in the School were lost. In 1807 the confraternity was suppressed under Napoleon's rule, and the building became first an Austrian military hospital and later a civil hospital. Today it is known as the Civil Hospital, where Venetians and tourists visiting the city go for treatment, passing through the solemn atrium, with its series of columns and alternating tree-lined cloisters and new modern wings. Overlooking, visible especially at night, are the numerous cats that live there in peace and protection, in the heart of the city that has always loved them so much.

***

El Hospital Civil de San Juan y San Pablo es un edificio renacentista, antiguamente conocido como Escuela Grande de San Marcos, en el sestiere (barrio) de Castello. La Scuola es una antigua institución laica que elegía un santo patrón y a la que pertenecían los ciudadanos de clase media, mientras que a las Scuole Grandi se unían los patricios. Las Scuole Grandi se dedicaban a obras de caridad y asistencia pública y, gracias a su importancia y a sus generosas donaciones, disponían de mucho dinero líquido, que utilizaban para decorar sus locales con obras de arte de artistas famosos, o invertían en inmuebles y préstamos. El prestigio de las Scuole Grandi era tal que, en ciertos momentos de crisis, la Serenissima recurría a su ayuda para recaudar los fondos necesarios para financiar las guerras en curso.

Con el tiempo, la Scuola Grande di San Marco adquirió tal importancia que tomó el nombre del patrón de la ciudad y construyó la más impresionante de las Escuelas en suelo veneciano.

En 1437, los dominicos de la adyacente Basílica de los Santos Juan y Pablo cedieron un terreno cercano para la construcción del nuevo edificio, que fue devastado por un gran incendio el 31 de marzo de 1485, debido a una vela que se dejó encendida. En veinte años se reconstruyó la Scuola, bajo la dirección del arquitecto Pietro Lombardo, y la fachada de mármol es un ejemplo perfecto del estilo renacentista.

En el lado derecho de la fachada, dos bajorrelieves de Tullio Lombardo (hijo de Pietro) adornan la entrada a la Capilla de la Paz, donde se encuentra una imagen bizantina llegada de Constantinopla en 1349, a la que se creía capaz de realizar milagros. En el interior, la Sala dell'Albergo se convirtió en uno de los ejemplos más espectaculares del Renacimiento veneciano, gracias a obras de Gentile y Giovanni Bellini, entre otros.

Tras la caída de la República en 1797, y el posterior saqueo napoleónico, muchas de las obras de la Scuola se perdieron. En 1807 la cofradía fue suprimida bajo el dominio de Napoleón, y el edificio se convirtió primero en hospital militar austriaco y más tarde en hospital civil. Hoy en día se conoce como Hospital Civil, donde los venecianos y los turistas que visitan la ciudad acuden para recibir tratamiento, pasando por el solemne atrio con su serie de columnas y alternando claustros arbolados y nuevas alas modernas. Encima, visibles sobre todo por la noche, están los numerosos gatos que viven allí en paz y protección, en el corazón de la ciudad que siempre los ha querido tanto.

Fuente: plumplumcreation.com

[landofzero-archive]

Absolute - To Abhor the Impure World 8

(Location: Gatekeeper’s Office)

(Ten minutes later. Gatekeeper’s office in the slum area of the WNW district.)

Ibara: —What’s the situation? What’s going on!?

Gatekeeper: Oyoy…… Take a deep breath, kid, let the oxygen back into yer brain.

Well, a dear friend is missing so I can understand why yer unable to keep a cool head.

Ibara: We’re not friends. His Excellency is the best pawn that I absolutely need to fulfill my ambitions—

Gatekeeper: Haha. Whatever yer say. Yer young, it’s the springtime of life, y’know.

But first, let me say that the child of god—”Nagisa-sama” is important to me, but for other people, his priority is not that high.

All that matters to everyone is Shaka.

Don’t take it the wrong way. If yer can’t read the atmosphere, yer can’t mobilize a group, and if yer don’t understand the overarching trends, yer can’t change them.

Going digging in the wrong places will only get yer garbage.

If yer going to strike gold, you’ll have to understand the worker’s feelings and arm them with the right tools, Little Ibara.

Ibara: ……Aye aye, teacher.

Gatekeeper: I don’t remember ever becoming yer private tutor.

Well, I’m invested in you and have high hopes for you— gain some experience, learn, and grow, Little Ibara.

And someday, you’ll become a great man like the Boss. If yer do that, I will bend my knee before you and serve you faithfully.

Ibara: I have no intention of becoming like god.

Gatekeeper: Is that so? It doesn’t look like that to me though, kukuku♪

Oh well. Let’s sort out the situation first. We’re the mafia, not the police, and it’s good for outsiders to investigate cases like this.

But now, as the saying goes in yer country, it’s a ‘cat’s paws’ and so on situation.(1)  I’m counting on you, “Ibanyan”♪

Ibara: You watched that program, huh. Thank you.

…… I’m the kind of person who often does that to make the other person angry, disturb their mind, and take control.

I mean, playing with what’s on-hand and enjoying it, that’s just like a cat isn’t it, “Gepanyan”?

Gatekeeper: Haha. I haven’t had a nickname since I was a kid, so I’m glad.

Ibara: “Gatekeeper” is also a nickname isn’t it, though I don’t really know about deriving a nickname out of a nickname. 

Gatekeeper: —This is just my speculation and I have no proof, but there’s no real human being like Shaka to begin with.

Ibara: You abruptly ended the conversation. Not real, you say?

Gatekeeper: The world’s greatest idol festival, Absolute, is a grand mine that generates huge profits.

In order to acquire and control the benefits there, my nemesis— “Priest” created pawns that could be moved around at his convenience.

That’s Shaka. He was probably some unidentified homeless person or something who was completely “remodeled” and turned into the world’s number one idol.

That bastard Priest has such skills. He pretends to be God and creates humans that didn’t previously exist in the world.

No, in this case it’s a monster or a demon. Those kinds of evil beings are also an existence created by an all-knowing and all-powerful god to test humanity’s faith.

To create such a monster, Shaka, and cast him into the pit called Absolute.

Essentially– Priest was snatching away the profits and prestige that belonged to others.(2)

I had presumed that, but Shaka was already a superstar who was loved by many people, especially locals.

It would be too risky to remove him through assassination.

That’s why I opened a gambling den for Absolute, which had become Priest’s domain.

Squeezing the money outta people who didn’t know a thing by making them bet— I could only do so much.

Ibara: And so, you were sipping the sap from the money tree Priest had grown.

Gatekeeper: That’s right. In a way, through Absolute, Priest and I were able to coexist. It was a win-win relationship.

Of course, I would’ve been an eyesore to Priest, who was stealing all the money, as I was also plotting to somehow steal all the profits as well.

For both Priest and I, we wanted to avoid letting the giant money tree known as Absolute wither— it was our common understanding.

And so there was a tacit agreement between us that we would maintain a cold war in this area and not launch any full-fledged attacks.

If we maintain the status quo, you can make endless profit. There’s no point in destroying such an attractive hunting ground and murdering each other.

TL Notes:

Gatekeeper is referring to the proverb “猫の手も借りたい,” which refers to having so much work to be done that you would even ask for a cat’s help. Ibara actually uses this phrase himself in the mini-talk "A Very Busy Night 1,” which was translated as “I’m at the end of my rope.” I decided to write it out literally here since it makes Gatekeeper calling Ibara “Ibanyan” make more sense.

Gatekeeper uses a word here, “利益,” (rieki) that can mean both profits/benefits/advantages and the grace of God/Buddha etc. or blessings/miracles.

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[noloveforned]

we're back on wlur tonight at 8pm after an unexpected week off due to illness (i'll spare you the details but let's just say it wasn't pretty). the last show (see below) has also been posted on mixcloud for your streaming convenience!

no love for ned on wlur – july 7th, 2023 from 8-10pm

artist // track // album // label cool blue halo // too much kathleen // kangaroo // no fort not // tell me nothing // depressed for success // meritorio eaves wilder // better together // better together digital single // secretly canadian pardoner // my wagon // peace loving people // bar/none grandaddy // summer here kids (early demo) // under the western freeway (deluxe edition) // friendship fever upset // she's gone // she's gone // don giovanni soft on crime // i won't try // in the terrarium cassette // eats it it thing // p.c.h // constant state 7" // feel it lysol // clean living // on the corner // deranged mesh // potato head // benefit for prevention point split 7" // strange mono lifeguard // ten canisters (ofb) // dressed in trenches ep // matador cia debutante // a dove // down, willow // siltbreeze loopsel // öga for öga // öga for öga // dfa graciehorse // run ricky run // l.a. shit // wharf cat workhorse // desert // desert digital single // dinosaur city amelia meath and blake mills // neon blue // neon blue 7" (split w/ sam gendel) // psychic hotline chuck johnson // night of the disappearance // music from burden of proof // all saints dorothy ashby with frank wess // there's a small hotel // hip harp // prestige andreas røysum ensemble // lalibela // fredsfanatisme // motvind muriel grossmann // go ahead john // muriel grossmann plays miles 7" ep // third man chester watson // fish don't climb trees // fish don't climb trees // pow clbrks and yungmorpheus // officer dibble // a place i got lost in // tuff kong lord jah-monte ogbon // third times a charm // i’ve really never been better // copenhagen crates georgia anne muldrow // husfriend // seeds // someothaship fatlip and blu featuring mc eiht // street life // live from the end of the world (deluxe edition) // nature sounds martha and the muffins // i start to stop // mystery walk // current mega bog // love is // end of everything // mexican summer laura branigan // self control // self control // atlantic the dentists // both sides now // janice long session on april 2nd, 1987 10" // precious jeanines // tilt in your eye // each day 7" // slumberland entrez vous // beach boys (don't live in vermont) // entrez vous! // (self-released)

[firestardoesntlikewafflestar]

Warrior cats au where they have music and instruments, each clan has different kinds

Thunderclan-

String instruments made from the sinews of prey wrapped tight around tree branches. Songs are about mythology and ballads of cats who lived interesting lives, played during ceremonies or around meal times. Thunderclan epics detail noble deeds and heroic battles, and they can go on for AGES. It's cat power metal. The Thunderclan elders are the keepers of the notorious Legend of Lionclan, which goes on for THREE ENTIRE DAYS. And over the generations some playfully devious long winded old cats have even made it longer, just to torture their clanmates. "You have to sit through it. You don't have a choice. You respect your elders, don't you?" -Yellowfang

Riverclan-

River rocks carefully arranged and/or carved over generations so that they resonate when water flows through them, like wind chimes but in water. This makes riverclan's camp the only one to always have music playing. Visitors find it noisy, while riverclan cats staying in other clans find the silence uncomfortable. They make whistles out of reeds, and sing what are basically cat versions of jimmy buffet margaritaville, usually during the hottest part of the day while they nap and sun themselves. Popular lyrical themes include: I Sure Do Love Eating, I Sure Do Love Napping, I Sure Do Love Fishing, and I Swear I Sure DON'T Love That Thunderclan Cat

Shadowclan-

Woodwind instruments made by carefully rotting the centers of branches and logs in the marshes to hollow them out. There's what's basically a cat equivalent to a huge vampire castle organ in the camp, and knowledge of how to play it is passed from leader to deputy. Prey bones are used as xylophones, so it's no surprise shadowclan kits are known for playing with their food. Very few songs have lyrics, shadowclan values quiet and secrecy, so vocals mostly consist of humming. They also use mushrooms for cool bouncy sound effects

Windclan-

They sometimes use rocks for percussion, but there's not a ton of materials out on the moor. Instead, they've perfected their vocals. Windclan's legendary moon chorus sings starclan hymns to send their healers off to the moonstone/moonpool on half moons. They also put on plays. Unfortunately the prestige of a spot in the moon chorus has resulted in the cat version of overly competitive theater kids. Breezepelt is absolutely one of them

Skyclan-

They shake branches full of leaves and make drums and banjos out of fallen logs. They sing about ghost stories and strange creatures in the woods. Mentors pass songs down to apprentices while out on patrol, it's tradition for first time mentors to make up their own patrol song and insist it's the best song any cat ever sang while deliberately singing it horribly and with enough drama to give secondhand embarrassment to cats all the way on the other side of the forest

[brooklynislandgirl]

@prettytm  {{xx}}

Sometimes when there is multiple people in a single shared space ~8000 square feet can feel like 10 when the others in it are so large in the scope of the mythology you build around them~ occasionally, accidents happen. Like when you haven’t even left your own room in weeks, and think you’re finally alone, only to overhear something that was never meant for your ears. Maybe this is his way of assuaging doubt when no amount of shrouded looks are noticed, no amount of conversation can penetrate walls built so thick around her, the frame of which had absolutely nothing to do with him. It isn’t his fault that the Admiral broke her heart before she ever learned what it was for, always so proud of her brother, so full of love for him that it eclipsed the child conceived on the wrong side of his sheets, the blow by of his hired help, or so he’s called her to her face. It wasn’t the threat of his fists, the harsh words that crushed her to nearly nothing before she ever saw Billy’s island, much less Billy himself. It isn’t his fault that Andy made her promises in the dark as they lay huddled together. That he loved her first and best of all, that he’d never leave her. Until she got accepted to university. He signed enlistment papers before her commitment to Columbia was even dry. And then he chose a bride, a woman who could have his children but could never do all the things for him that she could. And in some ways, he died to get out of those promises because he couldn’t figure out how to break them. Billy didn’t want the world she could easily give, just like the accusation mentioned. The money, the prestige, the hoops to jump through, the chains that keep her in her place. He wasn’t the dozens she lost count of who befriended in the hopes of being around Andy, to attract his eye. 

He isn’t the idol that shattered her heart because he had a good heart buried deep in his chest, hands that might have literally been a gift from a God she isn’t sure she still believes in, even though she prays three times a week. The very same idol she felt she had no choice but to leave to preserve his reputation because the scandal would have hurt him far worse than she could hurt herself. He isn’t Frank, one of the first people who noticed the glimmer of light underneath the dust and decay that have settled around her over the years. He took her by surprise with his honesty. By allowing her to try and reach out and put as many of his pieces as she could back together. She doesn’t call that love, but then...Beth never uses that word, does she? Even her brother can’t remember the last time it fell out of her mouth in regards to a person, rather than her plants or her cat. Billy, for good or ill, is himself. The man that brought her brother back to her. The man who is the other half of Frank’s soul. Billy is a lot like her, if she had an iota of belief in herself, in her carefully constructed convictions. Billy is beautiful, says so himself, and maybe she is the only one who can see that flinch in his soul when he does. He’s what happens when you don’t have an Andy, and that’s not Frank’s fault that he was a little late. Proof that timing is everything. Billy is unapologetically authentic. 

Billy is...

Billy. Unique and wonderful all on his own, apart from everything and everyone else. And if anyone is the useless gift, it’s her.  She thinks about telling him all of this. Of writing it down, and letting the ink speak more eloquently than she can. But she doesn’t. Instead she cleans up after he’s made a work of art. Feeds it to her Tree, its roots already deeply stained red. Trails the backs of her fingers against his cheek afterwards. “...s’not true, ya know,” she says as she pours them coffee, though his is mostly that thirty-year old Macallen Andy doesn’t think she can reach. “I don’...I don’ see you li’dat. I t’ink you’re special, an’ you’re...I jus’ wan ya be happy. Be at peace.  An’ I... I’m sorry.”

[ojcommerce-blog]

Prestige Cat Trees Maine Coon Deluxe Perch

Prestige Cat Trees Maine Coon Deluxe Cat Perch is a purrfect choice if you are looking for a super-sized, sturdy, stable and spacious cat perch for your Extra large cats or multiple cats to play, climb, sleep, scratch and relax the day away.

This cat perch features easy to access and large spacious places to lay that are also surrounded by an edge to keep them safe and secure as they are lounging.

Every cat needs a place of their own, and this perch is built with quality materials in the USA and will be ready to use in about 2 minutes after opening the box.

[cyberkevvideo]

5e Monster to PC Race Conversion - Dryad

EDIT: Added a feat, which was also supposed to be part of the competition.

Last month, I did a post about how there was an experimental challenge where people took monsters from 5e and converted them to be a race/species for players. To compensate for the lack of its overall power compared to their monsters versions, you were to make feats to add in some of the missing powers (spellcasting "levels" didn't count and had to be taken with actual class levels). The timing of people doing it more now than when it first started a few years ago, appeared to be because of Roll for Combat's BattleZoo Ancestries: Titans Kickstarter that has about a day left at the time of me writing this.

At the time, I was going to share what I already had done, but doing the research, and looking into what people actually wanted to see converted, both on BZA: Titans and WotC officially releasing a book on playable monsters for players, I was both surprised and not surprised at what people wanted to see. Gnolls were easily the highest on the list, but mostly people just want to see a playable dog (my favourite argument was we have two playable cat races and three bird-like races, but no dogs). The lupin was a playable hound race back in AD&D and 3rd, but we've never seen it adapted beyond that. And in AD&D, you even had "subraces" that were different dog breeds. Gnolls I'm not surprised by at all, but Kobold Press has that handled quite readily, as does Keith Baker with his own Eberron books found on DM's Guild.

Other monsters to playable races that I saw were mindflayers/illithids (not surprising given how popular Baldur's Gate III is), dryads (that surprised me, but I had also forgotten that their distance limitation to their tree had been removed), beholders, treants or any other kind of plant creature like a myconid, undead (ghost was at the top of the list), kua-toa, ratfolk, ogres and half-ogres, gargoyle, succubus/incubus/cambion, bullywug, rakshasa, trolls, hags (beyond the hexblood, and have the different hags be different subraces), medusa (Purple Duck Games has PF1e version of that and a half-medusa that maybe I'll convert some day), oni, ettins, aboleths (which, wouldn't really work considering they need water for their abilities to be effective), and dinosaurs (which the saurial would cover if they were converted over).

There were others, but people quite quickly pointed out that if you reflavoured what we already had, you could easily say you were X when you were actually playing Y. The aarakocra being reflavoured into a harpy would be really easy. Just change the appearance description and say you're using claws instead of talons. After that, if you could get the DM's permission, create a homebrew feat for the Luring Song.

There were even a few suggestions that, while it likely wouldn't work for a playable race, a few could work pretty well with the new lineage system from Van Richten's, and the one the majority of people agreed on was mindflayer/illithid. Have it be an incomplete ceremorphosis, and leave it at that. One person took that and homebrewed the Failing, with different subraces like elf, while others said to use the 3.5 flayerspawn psychic prestige class, and take inspiration from that.

Today, however, I'm going to go with the dryad, which was incredibly high up on the list.

As always, if you like what I do, whether it’s monster conversions, adventure path add-ons, or race builds, I have a Ko-Fi page (linked) for those who would like to support me monetarily. There is no pressure or obligation to do so. A like and/or a share would also be appreciated just as much. It lets people know I exist out there.

I hope everyone is staying safe and healthy.

Now, let’s talk stats.

As before with my entries, there’s no real “official” way to judge how powerful a creature is. There are definitely a lot of 3PP supplements and homebrew out there, which I tend to have to use as a guide. For this, I used the updated Detect Balance Plus, which did both 5e and 5.24 breakdowns on the same spreadsheet. This worked out to be around 38-39 points, which is around where the aasimar, eladrin, gem dragonborn, reborn lineage, autognome, thri-kreen, and revised yuan-ti sit. I'll preface that it seems powerful, but it's a matter of what you get out of the deal. The dryad's spells aren't going to break the game in any way, and are strictly utility.

Dryad Species/Race 5e As a dryad, you gain the following traits. Ability Score Increase. Your Charisma score increases by 2, and your Wisdom score increases by 1. Age. Dryads reach physical maturity at about the same age as humans, and reach adulthood around the age of 35. They can often live to be 750 years old. Alignment. Typically good aligned, but like most fey, dryads enjoy the chaotic side of things. Creature Type. You are a Fey. Size. Your size is Medium. Speed. Your base walking speed is 30 feet. Darkvision. You can see in dim light within 60 feet of you as if it were bright light, and in darkness as if it were dim light. You can't discern color in darkness, only shades of gray. Magic Resistance. You have advantage on saving throws against spells. Woodland Blessing. You know the druidcraft cantrip. Starting at 3rd level, you can cast the speak with animals spell with this trait. Starting at 5th level, you can also cast the speak with plants spell with it. Once you cast either of these spells with this trait, you can't cast that spell with it again until you finish a long rest. You can also cast these using spell slots you have of the appropriate level. Intelligence, Wisdom, or Charisma is your spellcasting ability for these spells when you cast them with this trait (choose when you select this race). Languages. You can speak, read, and write Common, Elven, and Sylvan.

Dryad Racial Feat

Charms of the Dryad Prerequisite: Dryad Your innate charms flourish. You gain the following benefits:

Increase your Intelligence, Wisdom, or Charisma by 1, to a maximum of 20.

You learn the animal friendship spell and charm person spell. You can cast each of these spells without requiring a material component, and without expending a spell slot. Once you cast either of these spells in this way, you can't cast that spell in this way again until you finish a long rest. You can also cast these spells using spell slots you have of the appropriate level. The spells' spellcasting ability is the ability increased by this feat.

When you cast the charm person spell, you can choose to extend the spell's duration to 2 hours. You can use this feature three times, and you regain all expended uses of it when you finish a long rest.

[vaccerelli]

Tal returns to the moon caves. the shaman is outside in his facepaint, praising the light of the dark. Tal Osh's father, Osh Mi Tol, the tribe's eldest, watches him closely.

I'm going to look into cousin's death. the Wekka just found him like that.

I didn't know you spoke shorthand, Mi Tol says, gesturing obscenely and grinning. he is tall, and his gray hair speaks to his immense prestige. to live to be his age is tribute enough to the gods of dirt and sky. to still manage a tribe? the Osh have been very lucky, for many seasons.

Cousin was killed by a spear in the eye casing, Tal says, pointing to his own forehead. they hit him hard, and fast. no cuts on the hands. no slices to the arms. he knew them.

he didn't think they would hurt him.

Mi Tol snorts. his wayward son, the snoop, the curious one. when his oldwife and his youngwife told him his new son would be born in the sign of the bear, he thought he would have a strong, obedient son to do many chores and hunt bigger game. shows what he knew. Mi Tol knew the gods loved making mischief of plans.

find out what you can. if you find a killer in the wrong, we'll hang him from the vulture tree.

Tal shakes his head. this killer knows he was in the wrong. that's why he didn't claim cousin's property. they're hiding. he looks up to the reflections of the moon from the silvery pool outside the caves. has that ever happened before? has anyone been ashamed of their kill?

shrugging, Mi Tol gestures at the moon. they say first man, he had two sons. they killed each other for meat and bread. first man had only daughters after that?

who did they couple with? Tal asks. if he only had daughters, who was the elder to gift them with life?

it's a story, Tal. to remind us not to anger so quickly when it is family. something I remind myself of whenever you ask too many questions. Mi Tol grins disarmingly. he loves his strange son, even if he has no idea what to do with him. Tal's older brothers are out working, repairing, or praising the moon, like they should. Tal is looking at the dead and consorting with foreigners. maybe they should have drowned him like the oldwife has suggested. Mi Tol's grin grows bigger.

where is your cat?

Scratch? Tal asks. he hunts.

[hauntedheroines]

The Juror - What if?

What if instead of coming back to the U.S after dropping Oliver in Quatemala, Annie stays in order to escape the Teacher only to be surprised to learn that he has tracked her down?

In the heart of Antigua's vibrant market, amidst the cacophony of haggling vendors and tourists, Annie's heart skips a beat as she spots the Teacher. Frozen, her mind races with panic and disbelief. He moves towards her, a predator cloaked in nonchalance, his eyes briefly meeting hers before he pretends to admire a nearby stall's offerings. "Beautiful, isn't it?" he begins, gesturing towards the colorful textiles, his voice eerily calm. "The craftsmanship here... It's almost as intricate as the webs we weave, Annie." Annie, struggling to maintain composure, replies tersely, "What do you want?" He smiles, a dangerous glint in his eyes. "Just to remind you, there's nowhere you can go that I won't find you. But don't worry, I'm not here for unpleasantness. Consider it... a courtesy visit." His words hang heavy in the air, a veiled threat wrapped in civility, marking the beginning of a new, terrifying game of cat and mouse.

Annie can't decide how to proceed now that she is sure Vincent will find her anywhere. Vincent will stay in Quatemala as long as it takes to convince her of what he already knows: that they are inevitable. Vincent’s approaches her in public places always startling Annie with his casualty. He has this misplaced feeling of betrayal because she was able to leave the USA and also frustrated that she let her fear dominate her - that she didn’t stay and faced the situation straight forward- when all he has been teaching him so far is to see beyond fear.

An encounter in which he quickly passes by her murmuring the time and place he wants to meet and she is afraid to do anything else but comply.

Annie weaves through the bustling streets of the local market, her senses heightened, always on the lookout. Without warning, Vincent appears beside her, his presence chilling yet oddly comforting. He leans in, his voice a mere whisper against the clamor of the crowd, "Tonight, the old forest clearing, at the stroke of midnight." Before she can protest or inquire further, he's gone, dissolving into the sea of people as if he were never there.

A private beautiful place in the forest. For Vincent is like a husband whose wife left him having a heart to heart as to why she decided to do that. Annie knows that it’s insane to think of them as such, but another part of her agrees with him: she should have stayed and fought, that she never thought of herself as a coward. The scene would play out like this:

Under the cloak of night, Annie finds herself drawn to the forest clearing, each step weighed down by a mixture of dread and an inexplicable longing. The moon casts a silver glow over the clearing, where Vincent awaits, his figure a solitary shadow against the backdrop of ancient trees. Vincent, seeing Annie approach, reveals a hint of vulnerability, a side of him she's seldom seen. "I knew you'd come," he says, his voice softer, tinged with something akin to hope. Vincent: "This place... it's peaceful, isn't it? A stark contrast to the chaos we find ourselves in." Annie: "Chaos seems to follow wherever we go." Vincent, softly: "Perhaps. But you chose to leave... to run to a place where I hoped you'd find peace. Did you?" Annie looks away, the silence speaking volumes. Vincent, more to himself: "I never wanted fear for you. Only clarity. Only truth." Annie, her resolve hardened, confronts him. "I did everything you told me to. Louis Boffano is a free man, and whatever prestige you could gain from him, you've got it. So what else do you want from me, Teacher? I've nothing left to give." Vincent's response is laced with complexity, touching on his feelings of betrayal and his misguided belief in their inevitable bond. "I wanted you to see... to understand the depth of what you're running from. It's not just me, Annie." As they stand in the moonlit clearing, the air thick with tension and unspoken emotions.

I'd love to see an angry Annie lashing out on Vincent despise her fear. And Vincent is unbothered by her tone because she looks fierce and beautiful when she is like this. She is so powerful, his Annie. All that power she didn’t even knew she had.

Annie, her voice trembling with a mix of rage and sorrow, "You took her from me," she starts, her eyes ablaze, "Juliet... my best friend. Because of what? Your twisted sense of control?" Vincent watches her, unflinching, a hint of admiration in his gaze. "Annie, she was a threat to our... situation. You must see that. Annie steps closer, her anger undiminished. "She was innocent. And you... you're a monster." Vincent, unfazed, simply responds, "And yet, here we are. You, standing before me, more alive and fierce than ever."

Annie finds out Vincent has rented a place just a few blocks away from her own. Pretending normalcy as if he is just the new friendly neighborhood. Annie tells him to stay out of their lives her first thoughts is that his goal is to drive her mad, but she realizes during confrontation that in his deluded mind this is their fresh start.

He believes that, over time, he can demonstrate his ability to offer her a normal life filled with safety and love. This revelation stuns Annie.

Vincent, under the guise of a friendly stranger, approaches Turtle who is enjoying a quiet moment alone at a local café. Feigning interest in Turtle's insights about local attractions and safety for expats, he subtly shifts the conversation towards more personal topics.

Vincent comments on the importance of close relationships when living abroad, cleverly probing for details on Turtle's connection with Annie and Oliver. Turtle, proud and protective, speaks of their bond as a family unit without blood ties, emphasizing the support and safety they provide each other. Vincent listens intently, masking his jealousy and gathering valuable information on the nature of their relationship and Annie's current state of mind.

Vincent: "It's the sense of community that really makes a place feel like home, doesn't it? Must be nice, having people close by who care."

In his next encounter with Annie, Vincent hints a little on the jealous he feels towards Turtle. Annie catches up on it and first is angered by the audacity of feeling entitled to jealousy. But next she realizes Vincent could might as well hurt the only friend she has left out of spite.

Vincent: "It's curious, the company we keep for comfort. Some offer more solace than security, wouldn't you agree?" Annie, catching the underlying jealousy, is taken aback by his presumption. Annie: "The only threat to my security is standing right in front of me." Vincent, unfazed, continues to probe, hinting at his jealousy without making it explicit, setting the stage for Annie's realization of the danger Turtle faces. Annie, her voice laced with fear and realization: "You wouldn't..." Vincent stares quietly.

Now imagine a scenario in which Vincent protected her from the rest of the mob and they have just escaped an adrenaline filled life or death situation. Every time it feels right to do so Vincent takes the opportunity to kiss her. The few times he did it, her heart beat too loud on her own ears. It was always softly an invitation to open up to whatever effect he had on her if only physical for now. But the kisses lasted seconds and she was always the one to break it. Now? Now Annie is channeling her feelings of impotence into that kiss. This time her adrenaline fulled body responds to the kiss and dominates Vincent and reclaims some sense of control against the man who took it away. Vincent would rather it would be out of love - he already loves her so very much. And one day, it would be. But for now let Annie takes what she needs. Let her unload her anger on him

[r1-jw-lover]

Chinese Transliteration of Rogue One 《侠盗一号》 Main Character Names and their meanings

Source taken from the Simplified Chinese subs from the DVD that my dad bought 4-5 years ago.

If this post fares well, maybe I might continue to do this kind of posts going forward.

#1

Name in English:

Jyn Erso

Chinese Transliteration:

琴 • 厄索

Meanings:

琴 (qín) = any stringed instrument in the likes of piano, violin, harp, zither, etc. (Probably named after her mother Lyra???)

厄 (è) = a disaster; to err; an adversity/hardship; a strategic point; to be stranded/in distress

索 (suǒ) = to search/ask; to demand/exact; to sow; a large rope; isolated

#2

Name in English:

Galen Erso

Chinese Transliteration:

盖伦 • 厄索

Meanings:

盖 (gài) = to cover (with a lid/top); to build (a house); a canopy/casing; an annex

伦 (lún) = a relationship/kinship; logic; order; to peer/match

#3

Name in English:

Cassian Andor

Chinese Transliteration:

卡西安 • 安多

Meanings:

卡 (kǎ) = a card; a cheque; a checkpoint/customs house; to clip/fasten/wedge; to stop; to be choked

西 (xī) = the West direction

安 (ān) = being safe/secure; being quiet/still/calm; to install/fit/fix; to pacify; peace

多 (duō) = many/much/numerous

#4

Name in English:

Bodhi Rook

Chinese Transliteration:

菩提 • 鲁克

Meanings:

菩 (pú) = in relation to Bodhisattva or Buddha

提 (tí) = to carry/lift/raise; to mention/extract/bring up/put forward/refer to (a point of conversation); to promote; to draw out/take out

菩提 (pú tí) = reference to the Bodhi tree (the tree of awakening)

鲁 (lǔ) = reckless/rash; rude/crass/rough; stupid/foolish

克 (kè) = a gram; to overcome; to digest; to restrain/subdue/capture; an auxiliary verb "can"

#5

Name in English:

Saw Gerrera

Chinese Transliteration:

索 • 格雷拉

Meanings:

索 (suǒ) = to search/ask; to demand/exact; to sow; a large rope; isolated

格 (gé) = a grid/lattice; a case; division; style/standard/pattern

雷 (léi) = thunder; a mine

拉 (lā) = to pull; to drag/draw/haul; to lug; to pluck; an extension/outstretch

#6

Name in English:

Chirrut Îmwe

Chinese Transliteration:

奇鲁 • 英威

Meanings:

奇 (qí) = wonder/surprise; odd/strange/weird; rare

鲁 (lǔ) = reckless/rash; rude/crass/rough; stupid/foolish

英 (yīng) = brave/outstanding; a hero

威 (wēi) = power, might, prestige

#7

Name in English:

Baze Malbus

Chinese Transliteration:

贝兹 • 马彪斯

Meanings:

贝 (bèi) = shells/cowrie; valuables/treasures

兹 (zī) = hereby/herewith

马 (mǎ) = horse; frequently paired with other characters to make words with different meanings, e.g. 马上 for "immediately", 马路 for "road", 马桶 for "toilet", etc.

彪 (biāo) = stripes/streaks (on a body); a tiger cat; veins

斯 (sī) = given, present; whereas, while; such, this