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privateanxieties · 2 years ago

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The Golden Age of New York City

Summary: “I lost Gwen. I couldn’t save her. I’m never going to be able to forgive myself for that. But I carried on, tried to um, tried to keep going. Tried to keep being the - that friendly neighborhood Spider-Man, ‘cause I know that’s what she would’ve wanted but... at some point, I just... I stopped pulling my punches. I got rageful. I got bitter.”

The story of a rageful Spider-Man, and the one who brings him back from the ledge.

Warnings/Spoilers: violence, crime, assault, addiction - generally adult themes. Please read only if you are at least 17.

Characters: tasm!Peter Parker, unnamed original character (she/her), May Parker, miscellaneous characters and perspectives.

Words: 18.1K. Honestly? My best work thus far.

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Peter doesn't listen to the chatter anymore.

Whereas most people have a beginning and an ending to their day, time is blurred together in the young man's mind. As he walks to work, the battered watch on his wrist announces the sunrise, but he wouldn't know it for the bruises around his eyes. In and around crowds he maneuvers, unwilling to look up as he lets his senses lead the way. When the coffee cup burns his palm, his grip tightens, and for a moment he sees color.

He goes through the motions, asleep to the world around him.

The construction site is quiet when he gets there, his supervisor the only person on the premises. He's often caught Peter working before his shift even began, and for this Mr. Daniels sometimes regards him with the fatherly concern of a good man. Though he tries, Peter can't find it in himself to appreciate that.

He does, however, appreciate the opportunity to begin his day in peace and skip the talk with the other guys. After months of keeping strictly to himself, the conversation around him has long shifted from good will to acrimony. Despite the looks they exchange and the whispers carried by the echo of empty walls, he doesn't react, and his supervisor never berates him. He remains the only employee whose work isn't under scrutiny at the end of each week, and even when he sees Peter lift more than he should reasonably be able to, Mr. Daniels looks the other way.

The day is long and the work is intense, but it's the only thing he can do anymore. He prefers it, in fact - pushing his body and keeping his mind running minimally. He does plenty of thinking between the hours of 3 and 6 a.m., when he waits for sleep to crash over him.

Clocking out takes longer than usual, because it's payday and everyone is already lined up before him. He'd go back to fiddle with some equipment, but he knows he'll get distracted and he doesn't want to keep Mr. Daniels there for longer than he has to be. The man is nearing his sixties, and from what he gathers, a new grandfather twice over. At least someone should get to go home to their family.

As he waits in line outside the small trailer office, his consciousness invades again, as it usually does in the absence of physical stimulation. The chatter he makes a habit of ignoring reaches his ears involuntarily. Two guys from crew B are talking too loudly at the front of the line.

"Yeah, she bugs me about that too. Shoves her phone in my face before I even make it through the door."

"What's so special about that one? Every two-bit reporter in this town wrote about the guy, everyone tryna make money off him."

"Well guess what, I looked this morning - not like I had a choice. She showed me again before she went to school. And you know what, it ain't half bad. Kinda makes you feel sorry for him."

"Yeah? What's it say?"

"I'm not doin' a book report for ya. You wanna read it, ask your daughter. Just make sure you tell 'er not to go looking for him like that crazy woman did, crawling over skyscrapers and shit."

The more he hears, the deeper the frown carves its way into his skin.

"You know girls these days, man. You tell 'em not to do something now, they'll do it when they're old enough just to spite you. I think imma let Salma handle this one."

"Salma? Wasn't she in love with Spider-Man? You think she's gonna tell your daughter not to go looking for him? She'd go herself if she could!"

"Fuck you, Jimmy!"

They laugh and shove each other like they're twenty years lighter, but Peter doesn't hear the rest. He doesn't want to, because it's nothing new.

It's true that every reporter in town has written a piece on Spider-Man, as if it were some rite of passage of journalism. He hasn't read an article in more than two years, and he certainly hasn't been tempted to lately.

When Mr. Daniels hands him his envelope with a kind smile, Peter's own feels unsynchronized and false. He stops by the drugstore on 19th St. where he knows he can pick up ketamine without so much as a raised brow, no matter how many trips a month he might make.

'Wrong', screams his conscience, because he isn't the only one procuring the substance. Other people don't have his resistance or his metabolism. They don't heal from this abuse. However, he doesn't know an alternative to getting through the nights yet; nothing else makes the pounding headache go away, and the buzz that hits a couple of hours in isn't unwelcome either.

He eats when he gets home and forgets that he did an hour later, so he gets pizza from the corner stand. The taste doesn't matter, because it's nourishment he'll need for later.

Head down, hoodie up, headphones in with no music playing - this is how he moves about the city when the mask isn't on.

It's only 8 p.m., and midsummer isn't kind with its extension of daylight. It means hours more to kill before he can finally move, finally breathe. It's why he crushes a pill before he leaves the apartment, and it burns his nostrils when he inexpertly tries to inhale the powder. It's the first time he's done it this way, but he needed a quick fix that would last less before he ingests a proper dose later.

Peter Parker doesn't need anyone feeling sorry for him. Whoever this reporter is, the desperation makes his blood boil. He's used to people following him, trying to ask him questions, trying to take glamor shots of him in a fight.

This, by contrast, is insidious - the nerve to go looking for him in the only place that is his own anymore.

Up.

He looks up in a rare moment, but it's with unbridled anger.

She's been up there, probably on observation decks, thinking she'd… what? See him and get him to sit down for an interview? Wring an anecdote or two out of him? Pester him for metaphors?

The door cracks when he slams it closed.

He's been losing track of time even when he intends to keep it. He knows it's a side effect, but can't bring himself to care, much less worry. Words like addiction flutter about his mind, but they never stay for long, a sign that he's traversing into the deeper end of such struggles.

The alarm he sets for 11 p.m. never rings, because he turns it off half an hour before it even has the chance to do so. He's out the window with a grunt, shooting a web at the last second of the drop.

He lets momentum bring back some of the feelings that make up a person, with tugs and pulls and somersaults that knock him about and rattle his brain around his cranium like sorbet in a cup.

He isn't headed for Park Avenue tonight. Fisk has surrounded himself with state-of-the-art security systems in every single one of his weasel holes, and last time he almost returned home with a hole through his sternum. It makes him bristle, this impotence; this overwhelming knowledge that all his brute strength can't take on endless resources.

He's outworn and past his prime.

The world turns and will keep turning, whether he wins or not. Whatever he does, the world is indifferent and proceeds with abandon.

And Peter matches its disregard as he moves further into the night.

He wakes to news playing on a nearby billboard. It's one of the only ways for him to recall what he even does anymore on the nights that he goes out raging. He listens with one ear while the other lays flat against the roof he passed out on. He doesn't know where he is, but he can guess that it's too central of a location to still be in once the sun has risen.

"…at this time. The NYPD has provided sparse details of the scene, a fact that leaves many speculating whether the police are protecting the public from the knowledge that a once-cherished hero has turned into what we all fear. Is it safe for the city that Spider-Man is out there, imparting the kind of punishment we know him to be choosing? Has New York reached its limit for patience? We'll be addressing all these concerns and more in our special broadcast tonight at 8 p.m. EST."

He lies there, unmoving. If the thoughts in his head could escape and take form, they'd bruise his entire body with their weight.

The public's patience… his own patience is running thin. With himself, with the world - Peter has been over this entire thing for what feels like an unending amount of time. He doesn't remember when, if ever, this brought him joy or satisfaction. The suit is inextricable from him now; he can't imagine himself without it. Whatever awaits him, he'll face it as Spider-Man.

"Coming to you with breaking news: Editor-in-chief and Founder of the Daily Bugle newspaper, J.J. Jameson has just announced he's looking into opening a lawsuit against the former NY Times photographer whose independent work has made waves on social media this week. Jameson sustains that her allegations are quote: 'Nothing more than the musings of an infatuated young lady, perhaps dreaming of being rescued from one of the many life-threatening situations she's put herself in just to talk to a man who breaks the law every night and puts our great city in danger. Parents would do well to not entertain or tolerate admiration for the kind of mind who wrote those words.'

Stay tuned for more details on the developing situation."

A sardonic half-smile turns the corner of Peter's lip.

No one has gotten under Jameson's skin so thoroughly since he started putting on the mask, and for once, curiosity rises within him.

It's more of a fleeting interest in whatever remark she made that riled the old badger up.

A photographer.

Something Peter might've imagined himself to be in another life, had he taken a different path. He doesn't know when he last picked up a camera. He hasn't sold Jameson a photo this year, or the year before.

His worst impulses beckon a little bit of smugness, too. The anger from yesterday, which lingers still, feels soothed. Maybe a lawsuit would dissuade future adventurers from seeking him out in his only refuge. It's a good way to learn a lesson.

When he makes it back to his apartment, he's sweating bullets from the unforgiving summer heat, but his attempt to shower is interrupted by a ringing phone. He doesn't have to look, because it's aunt May.

The ringtone he picked for her years ago is still set, and when it once warmed him up to hear, it now serves as a warning.

He doesn't answer. He hasn't for months.

She keeps trying.

He takes a bath instead, keeping his head underwater until his lungs scorch and his heart pounds in his ears, drowning out the gentle tune from the phone.

The cease and desist letter sits innocently on the glass coffee table, a pair of eyes tracing its contours with amusement.

Jameson reveals himself as the kind of person who thinks he can scare anyone under thirty with an official-seeming document. Since most youths are focused on getting good jobs or pursuing big dreams, it stands to reason none of them have high-powered lawyers at their disposal. He forgets the internet exists, as one is wont to do when one lives in the spring of 1947 - the good old days, when people were fed lies and had few ways of fact-checking.

It didn't take long to figure out the letter is fake, and it comes as no surprise that any serious attorney would refuse signing such a thing. He sent her a cease and desist for a blog post, for crying out loud. The man is clearly not into freedom of speech when that speech hits a little too close to home.

She'll plan what to write about this debacle later, and maybe, over coffee, decide whether she wants to pursue this legally. There might be avenues into a courtroom where Jameson would have to explain to a judge what he thinks intimidation is.

Having seen his published statement in the Bugle this morning, maybe she can tack defamation charges onto the steaming pile of recalcitration that is J. Jonah Jameson.

"An infatuated young lady dreaming of being rescued… maybe I should start signing that at the top of every article," she mutters.

Grabbing the laptop from the armrest of the couch, she settles in for light research and an email answering session. She ignores the ones that are clearly job application rejections. Looks like her next gigs would still be dog weddings for wealthy Brooklynites and vanity projects for Upper East Side widows.

She tries resisting the urge to check the post again, but it's difficult when it's the most success she's had in the last couple of years.

Thirty-one thousand new readers.

1.4 million views since posting date, which was almost nine days ago. Thousands of comments of every shade under the sun.

Was this in any way monetizable? Yes, probably.

Does her skin crawl just at the thought of making money off of words she wrote earnestly and with no ulterior motive? Too much. Enough that the thought is banished soon after it arrives.

Though maybe, if she's honest, it's not so much the words as it is who they are about.

He's been exploited by enough people for enough reasons.

Yes, principles don't really put food on the table anymore these days, but she'd rather her stomach ache sometimes than her mind screech all the time.

With no more to do on another day of being unemployed, she decides on an afternoon walk that will likely end up just as fruitful as the others. Zero progress.

New York seems slow for a Tuesday. It's that special time of day, right before corporate employees revive and amble home as if in a trance, heads and eyes still in the grip of their managers. No one stops working at 6 p.m., not even those with fixed hours.

She makes the trek all the way down to 63rd St. and wonders if another stroll through Central Park would be too indulgent, because these are the worries of the under occupied. Any break feels like too much leniency, and any time spent not producing something is time you are lost to the world.

The oak tree she stops under shields her from the unrelenting sun and in an equal measure invites longing. Existing in place, changing without moving, being useful without doing damage - what a thing. A thing she can't seem to find out how to do.

Photography.

Little did she know when she was barely a teenager that the real obstacle to achieving greatness in art wouldn't be time or money invested in equipment and training.

Finding anyone to care that you have something to say… that was the real trouble.

Earning a living in this profession entails mostly hurting oneself or hurting others.

So far, she's been hurting herself and her hopes with every silly gig she could find around town - the sort of photography that means nothing, even to the people who pay for it.

The other thing that makes money requires a change of scruples: selling a couple shots of some celebrity or other, preferably in compromising positions or locations, would bring a good dinner every time, if she could keep it down.

In the absence of nepotism or wealth, the good jobs and opportunities in this field are close to none, and time… time moves along. It barrels forward, with or without participation.

She wonders, on the way to her favorite spot, what his relationship to time might be. How does he process doing what he does across the increasing compression of the years? Do the months disappear from under his feet too, or can he fit a century's worth of deeds inside an afternoon?

As she walks along the concrete, she feels it burning through the too-thin soles of her yellow ballet flats.

It's a serious thing, this tension. It impresses upon her the gravity of the situation: in her unwillingness to relinquish ambition and purpose, she feels she's losing any usefulness she might have. She isn't gaining any skills she doesn't already have, and nobody is looking to apply her experience in anything she finds worth doing.

There's no pursuit left, it seems - only soulless occupation.

She's old enough to recognize a great deal of immaturity in her stubbornness, but with only one life to live, she'd rather it be short and meaningful than long and complacent.

Perhaps a therapist would untangle all of this and set her straight, but to get money for one, she'd have to do the very thing she finds difficult.

For a while, the New York Times job was a dream come true that she never even dared to have, especially so soon in her career. She was there for eight months before she screwed up. Maybe she wanted too much, pushed too much and too early. Maybe she didn't understand how things were supposed to be done, and the differences of principles between her and her bosses were irreconcilable.

She isn't sure why she expected they'd send her out on investigations that could get them sued every other Thursday. In the end, she turned in one too many folders with photographs that belonged more in an F.B.I. file than a publisher's office, so they let her go. She hasn't done anything meaningful since, and yet the sun keeps shining.

In the intimacy of the nook forged by overgrown roots, she waits for the gleaming orb to take refuge behind the buildings, and she waits for the moon to replace it for good measure. A walk in the tranquil breeze caressing the night always does good. Shoulders exposed, camera strap covering the daisy details along the neckline of her dress, she releases one last sigh before heading back inside her apartment building.

It's nearly midnight, and this has been another day.

The calm fizzles out the closer she gets to her door, thoughts of repeating the cycle tomorrow starting to take hold, but they don't get far.

The door barely clings to its hinges.

She backs away, reaching for her phone, but isn't fast enough.

Peter is still trying to get water out of his ears. He uses his one day off a week to look after his living space somewhat, the only thing he still does that is a remnant of what May taught him.

For the past innumerable hours, he's been scrubbing at the mountain of dishes, gagging at the dead roach he finds in the odd glass, and getting blood stains out of the wooden floors and carpet. A voice at the back of his mind still drones on about how far gone he is, but it's such a mousy one that it's easily drowned out.

The 8 p.m. special broadcast comes and goes, but he couldn't care less. If getting blood out of the carpet is hard, getting dried cement off of clothes is even harder. Miscellaneous stains litter most of the street clothes he owns, with the exception of some that he received as a present for his 19th birthday, the last one he celebrated.

He fiddles with the web shooters the hour before he leaves again, and they're in bad enough shape that they need replacement. Tomorrow. Building new ones right now would cut two hours out of his time, and his skin has been prickling for long enough.

He can, at least, switch the battery with a new one, but when he opens the fake compartment in his work desk, he finds he's all out of those. With a curse on the tip of his tongue, he finds a suitable replacement he can charge after half an hour, and it's inside his old police radio.

He hasn't listened to that thing in who knows how long.

Whether it's sentimentality or an impulse to torture himself, he isn't sure, but he flicks it on still. There's only crackles and coil whines, and he almost has to fill in the gaps himself with memories of ATM robberies, muggings and burning buildings. That used to be his job, but he's since graduated to organized crime.

College could wait, because Peter Par -

"…come in, units north of 117th St., I have a 240-242 reported. Suspects could still be in the area. We have two officers on the scene, a 10-45C. Waiting on EMS. Please set up a perimetre at 416 East 117th Street. Media-sensitive case in progress. Over."

Despite not having heard report codes in a while, Peter knows them by heart. He wonders what happened, but there isn't anything he can do about it. He's more than sixty blocks away. If he goes, he'll go just to come back to Midtown. Waste of time.

He installs the battery, and once his web shooters whirr to life, out into the night he goes.

It's as though criminals also took the day off mid-week, and it would be cause for surprise, if Peter didn't know that many of them actually have families. He scowls beneath the mask, lights from the million billboards in Times Square hurting his eyes as usual. He stops here whenever he hits a snag in the road, and tonight certainly qualifies.

On the one hand, regular petty criminals being afraid to go out at night was something to be proud of. On the other, you can't bust a large drug-smuggling operation every Wednesday at 2 a.m. He's left little to do, whether for the police or the F.B.I., and it irks him more than it reassures.

The real important things, the important players - they were up in their silver towers, and the police wouldn't help take down the people they helped put there. He's once again having to confront ineptitude, and it makes pain bloom right at his brow.

There's no one meandering about Times Square at this hour with the exception of shift workers heading home, maybe the odd teenager or two whose parents don't care where they are.

Peter makes a lot of assumptions these days.

He sees people, but he rarely observes them or tries to picture the breadth of their lives, whether right or wrong. He used to do that for fun - people watching. It used to be a way of feeling close to the city he protected, imagining a connection between himself and the beings he called neighbors and fellow citizens.

He's ceased imagining himself a part of New York, but a guard dog will remain loyal even without its owner's love.

As he stays poised on the ledge of one building, he debates what to do.

He'd go swinging if he weren't running on defective shooters, and he hardly fancies a fall from twenty stories up. It's degrading, somehow, the thought of going in search of crooks. If it isn't making enough noise to grab his attention, Spider-Man no longer cares.

The largest screen in the square that, until a moment ago was displaying a Coke ad quietly, startles him with its sudden volume. He mutters a snide comment about marketing, but is interrupted mid-sentence when CNN comes on.

"Breaking News: We've just received exclusive reports from one of our sources at the scene that tragedy has struck tonight at the home of a former NY Times photographer and freelancer, whose work has captured the attention of over a million people as of today. She was a guest on our show only two days ago, when she tried making a case very few people dare to anymore: that Spider-Man deserves our understanding and requires our help in confronting the forces that bend New York City to their will.

A plea that may not have been well received by many, as we bring you news of an apparent assault at her residence. The police have established a no-entry zone and are currently not taking any questions, but eyewitnesses report paramedics at the scene attempted to resuscitate someone fitting the profile of the young woman. We are uncertain, at this time, if they succeeded. Our thoughts and prayers are with her as we await news of her condition.

Stay with us for more information as we go live to NYPD Chief E.L. Russell at 2:45 a.m. EST…"

A released breath is all he musters, and the air on the way back in almost hurts. The throbbing beneath his brow has expanded to his entire forehead, but he bites it back as he moves off the ledge and onto the roof.

240-242. 10-45C.

Assault and battery. Condition of patient is critical.

He should've gone.

His mind plays the words on repeat as he removes his phone from a concealed pocket in the suit. Her name is plastered over every title on every website he can find that has gotten a hold of the story. Many link directly to the article she wrote.

Peter doesn't hover over any of them, but leaves directly for Mount Sinai, the closest hospital he knows to East 117th Street, a photo he glimpsed of her smiling face imprinted behind his eyes.

It's disconcertingly quiet as he stops to listen over every window, trying to gauge some clue, some indication that he's where he's supposed to be.

The rustling leaves from Central Park provide the equivalent of white noise, and it stresses him out like a ticking grandfather clock.

Who puts a hospital across the street from a park? It's like saying to patients and pedestrians alike that they are never too far removed from a life-changing event. Infrastructure planning in this city is so shit that nobody wins.

He stops to shake his head, as though that will clear his mind of all hazardous thoughts and gnawing anxiety. He's been crawling over every wing of the hospital for the better part of an hour, and so far nothing has been learned.

But he isn't anything if not relentless. So he continues, keeping to the shadows and listening, breathing deeply to stave the blood rush and adrenaline. It's nearing 4 a.m. when the crackle of a police radio is picked up by his sensitive hearing, and it's coming from a few windows over. He stays put as he focuses, and soon enough he knows it's what he's been looking for.

The information relayed on the radio is of no interest to him, but its presence is important. It means there are police officers standing guard in the hallway, and a closer listen to their soft spoken conversation confirms his assumption.

This is it.

As he approaches the window, his breath has trouble staying tranquil. He removes the exterior lock on the frame with ease, and it barely makes a sound. Some security. Though he noticed not all windows sported a lock on the outside, this one provided as much safety as all the ones without. He lifts the frame with care he hasn't exercised in ages, and dreadful sounds hit his ears soon after.

It makes him almost stop and turn back, but something within won't allow it. He has to look.

The bed isn't far, but he takes in the room first. He stalls.

Whenever he moves this stealthily, it's with the intent to harm, and it ties a knot in his throat knowing that he's here to do the opposite.

The officers outside the door are unaware of his presence, and a snarl almost makes its way past his lips.

If someone were here to harm, they'd encounter no resistance.

Try as he might, the chair in the corner and the painting on the wall can no longer distract him from the chest moving up and down in his peripheral vision.

He drags his eyes over the bed, but he's delayed as much as he could.

He stutters on a breath, choking it out - in? He doesn't know. It rattles through him, this unfamiliar grip of something.

It isn't rage. He knows rage.

The longer his gaze holds over every contusion and bruise, and the higher the number gets as he counts them against his will, the more a full-body shiver usurps his control.

The machine breathing for her makes a noise he isn't likely to forget as long as he lives.

Against his better judgment, he grasps the patient chart at the foot of the bed in both hands, and he reads and reads and reads, hoping for hope.

He gathers that her condition is stable, or was at the time of entry, but the knowledge does nothing. It isn't enough.

What he's looking at is debilitating injury. The kind he's - the kind he's -

The flipchart clatters to the floor, and that finally attracts the attention of the officers.

He disappears before they step foot inside.

5:41 a.m.

There are cracks in the night sky.

There's sharpness over every surface, as if the suit is made of thistle and pumice.

In the stillness of the room, Peter Parker reads.

----

We have never seen a time such as this.

The city enjoys a great deal of jubilation for small and big things alike, and it has for as long as it has been here. Throughout all its tender history, our dwelling of permanent enthusiasm and tangible ambition has seen figures rise to its aid in the face of senseless destruction, none more unending in their devotion than the one whose name we've all spoken.

It began with seemingly inconsequential acts of vigilantism, as the authorities deigned to call it at the time. The city had yet to see the terror that extreme abilities can bring when wielded by unstable or ill-meaning individuals, but in its midst, a protector was already taking shape.

We all have to start somewhere.

Small-time crooks and thieves, then violent criminals. Then, criminals no one would hazard calling violent because they attend banquets and fund the campaigns of mayoral and presidential hopefuls, even today.

Somewhere in the timeline of his service, the city took on a whole new quality. We've always stood up for each other, that much is certain; but the people have never rallied behind one person the way they did for him.

A fair share of tourists, co-nationals or not, have learned it unwise to bad-mouth the local hero. The city channeled its legendary zeal for unity into never-before-seen protectiveness. Plain old devotion, staggering in its sincerity.

We have, after all, a great debt to pay - yet it feels like a duty one does with an easy heart.

How simple it was, pretending not to look whenever he staggered home on foot, presumably having consumed the webbing that decorates our streets every day. How innocent - though for parents irritating, I'm sure - the desire of children to sneak to the fire escape in the hours of the morning, hoping to catch a glimpse of red and blue.

How heartwarming, whenever word went around, of delis and pizzerias competing to certify themselves as a favorite of his, and leaving innovative creations in strategic pick-up places.

Easy hearts, easy smiles - it was the Golden Age of our fine city.

It's been getting harder lately.

Of the myriad classes of criminal, only the full-timers remain; those who have seen and done everything there is to see and do. And of those, only the ones with friends in high places are still in business.

You peruse one article or another just to get to the description of the crime scene: blood and teeth and webbed-up zombies, more dead than alive.

Arrests don't happen on the spot anymore, because medical care is needed.

Time passes unsparingly.

And in the torrid summer, under scaffolding and awnings, between fences and billboards, New York begins to whisper.

Tales of a breaking point and a rageful Spider-Man.

The locals speculate. In the absence of concrete proof, you can hardly blame the minds attempting to soothe themselves with hollow myths: perhaps this happened, and then the other thing; perhaps he's done too much, received too little in return.

For the past five years, we've all confounded our journey with his. New York believes in shared failures and triumphs, so the atmosphere turns dour when it senses powerlessness.

We believe whatever touched him, has the potential to wreck us all. Whatever changed him, means a force that won't spare us.

Is it pain, or age, or illness?

Is it bitterness, or hopelessness?

Is it grief?

And do we dare judge?

There are some among us who dare go even further, and who have attempted career-building out of a spiteful penchant for persecution. A publication that has, for as long as this author remembers, been denigrated and ignored, now returns with renewed vigor. Its editor-in-chief would love nothing more than a redemption story - his own, of course. For nearly half a decade, J. Jonah Jameson has professed his hatred of Spider-Man to the fullest of his editorial capability, which is to say, in mediocre fashion. Whatever vindication he now feels will surely fuel more of the fables we've grown tired of.

The city has a mind of its own, a personality of its own; it doesn't need to be told what to believe, especially not by those afflicted with grudges.

Perhaps I should've begun this by stating it is not an opinion piece. It isn't much of an objective evaluation of the facts, either. The only purpose for its existence is remembrance.

Trying to understand Spider-Man is not a task one knows how to begin approaching. He is, at this point, part of both daily life and folklore. You may see him, but you don't talk to him.

Not many people try anymore.

It would have done no good trying to find him, as every journalist in town has already learned. Nobody has been able to claim him as an interviewee. Journalism is not my occupation, but I do wonder as to his. We all have to do something to survive, and Spider-Man does not fit the typology of a spoiled trust fund recipient.

So what exactly does the working class hero see?

Is it people looking down, their nose in a phone or a book on the subway during morning commute?

Is it a bustling crowd, pushing and shoving its way to an unforgiving cubicle and disgruntled customers?

Does Spider-Man look up at a building as frequently as he looks down from one?

Is the ground as familiar to him as the sky?

For this to work, both perspectives should be offered, and here is where I have to confess to a not easily subdued fear of heights, one I had to confront on several occasions.

A silly thing to wonder is what might Spider-Man's favorite sight be. In a city of buildings that touch the clouds, does he hold a preference? And is it the clichéd Empire State?

Full honesty also entails confessing that while I was confronting my fear, I was actively dodging concerns about the legality of what I was doing. One can't help wondering if that's a thought he might've had way back when, in the beginning.

Had I been more alert and not completely focused on maintaining balance and a grip on the camera, I might have realized my approach was all skewed.

Only when I was crawling, quaking knees and gasping breath, over the south eagle adornment on the 61st floor of the Chrysler Building, did I realize that the view was not really the point.

You can't see what Spider-Man sees, unless you are determined enough to steal his eyes straight out of their sockets. I presume many have tried.

The only possibility of getting close to him is through the thrill of feeling what he might feel.

In the absence of superpowers or webbing to prevent a meeting with the ground, you can imagine the thrill verged on paralyzing fear.

New York's skyscrapers are not made for visiting from the outside, making the ease with which he glides between them daily all the more impressive. You see, it's not about the superhuman abilities. We all like to think we'd do the same, were we endowed with them.

But we have proof that he is special, and that what he does must be recognized as amazing once more.

New York has known many who've fallen by the wayside in their pursuit of mastering abilities they either searched for or happened upon. Unfailingly, sooner or later, those people turned towards us with anger and retribution.

Some were not entirely wrong to feel that way.

For all our unity, New York is still a cold city made even colder by all it has endured. It no longer flinches at destruction the way it used to, and some mistake it for resilience.

The truth is that we've been desensitized: to violence, to greed, to the ambitions of powerful men with ill intentions.

We've been happy to let Spider-Man bear the brunt of our ugliest demons.

Can we really be surprised when that inheritance claws away at the symbol we now identify with, the symbol etched onto his back?

Every morning when the sun rises, we leave the shadows of the night behind, knowing there is someone to keep them settled. We never imagine that the only way to hold back the darkness is to take it onto yourself, to keep it trapped inside your chest until it demands to be let out again.

So tomorrow, when the sun rises over a tired Spider-Man, I urge you to remember this:

If he falters, it is because he's doing the job we all ought to be doing, and he's done it for too long already without our participation. We need to help him in a way that matters, and maybe we can start by making the darkness a little easier to bear.

Spider-Man has made the city safer for us, and it's time we return the favor, so he can come back home… to the golden age of New York City.

---

The nausea gives way, and he succumbs to the shivers.

If the neighbors hear him scream, they don't make it known.

The photographs from the article dance behind his eyelids right up until he wakes, passed out on the roof of Mount Sinai Hospital. It's noon, and he should've been at work five hours ago. He isn't going.

The hole he tore in his throat seems to have healed enough that swallowing no longer sears, but his knuckles are still torn raw.

As he leans on his right elbow, awareness of the faint rumble in the sky brings some relief, though not much. At least he didn't scorch in the sun, because he isn't sure he would've felt it.

He lies there for two more hours, until the gnawing in his stomach and the weakness in his limbs become unbearable.

He checks on her before he leaves, and the daylight is unforgiving in its honesty. He departs as the first drops of rain hit.

Though he isn't hungry anymore, he forces down a meal only to return with some strength in his fist. It's on the roof that he makes new web shooters once the downpour lets up, and it's there that he puts another battery into his old police radio.

Trained as he is on any sounds emerging from her room two floors below, he jumps periodically when a nurse comes in to do their job. It always seems to be the same one, and soon enough he learns the cadence and the weight of her footsteps.

The fact that she comes in so often engraves a near-permanent frown into his face. It's not just once that he nearly goes over while she's there to ask for information on her state, but every time his legs won't move.

That night, when the officers leave their post, Peter's anger comes back in full force. Is that all they were affording her?

Twenty-four hours of protection, almost on the dot, after her life was nearly ended with brutality?

He wants to follow after them, but he ultimately doesn't.

Somewhere in his mind, he knows that even that little crumb they gave her was a move made out of pity. Ordinary citizens don't get police guards by their hospital room, unless they hold something of interest - influence, technology or a degree of relation to some actually important person.

She holds none of those things, as far as he's aware.

And in New York City, if you aren't graced with prominence, you get crushed by those whose ire you provoke.

He'll see to it that Fisk atones. Not tonight, or tomorrow - but his last day on this Earth won't come until the balance is corrected and the debt is restored.

They announce her survival on the news the next morning, and Peter knows that once they've done that, he can't leave. Not that he would have. He follows the broadcast on his phone and peruses articles here and there, and he finds that for once, Jameson has no criticism to offer.

No remark, no observation. Just an apology and a prayer.

He scoffs and grits his teeth, putting away his phone when the speculative articles start pouring in. The who and the why, he already knows. The 'what now' is solely his mission.

It's been over thirty hours since she was hospitalized, and if they were going to come back to finish the job, they would do it in the first forty-eight. It makes the most sense, as her condition would be the most sensitive. No one would suspect foul play, at least not twice over.

So Peter stays glued to the side of her window whenever possible, and keeps hidden when necessary.

She does not stir, and he pretends not to hear the nurse's sigh when she comes in to check on her one last time before shift change.

Nothing happens, and it's almost too quiet as they come up on fifty-one hours, but at 5 a.m. on Friday he taps out unwillingly.

His pounding heart is what wakes him at 3 p.m. inside the alcove on the roof. Although his eyes have been taking in her figure for almost two minutes, he struggles to resist the fear and calm down. Anything could've happened, and would he have heard it?

Would he have gotten there in time?

It was the presence of an unknown gait that made ripples in his senses and roused his consciousness, but a doctor is not a threat. He remarks with befuddlement how little time it took to anchor himself to this room and to that bed. He's learned the sound and all its patterns, knows all the visitors and their schedules - because they all have one.

No one has been at her bedside. No one but medical staff.

A thought strikes that hasn't in aeons.

He returns two hours later, having showered and eaten and called in sick to work. Maybe it's his voice that gives it away, or maybe the old man has been waiting for this, but Mr. Daniels hears only a line or two before he tells Peter to take care of himself and not show up until he's better.

He takes the advice along with a bouquet of daisies.

The nurses whisper among themselves during another shift change, but they keep the water fresh every day.

By Monday, a routine has been established.

Peter keeps watch at night and tinkers with devices during the day. Old junk that hasn't seen the light in years suddenly holds great interest, including a tracker that never made it past the design stage.

He remembers that he felt too much like Inspector Gadget when he was drawing up the sketches for the thing, and it immediately put him off further exploration.

Admittedly, it's not an award-winning invention. The idea was only to have something at his disposal that he could track over long distances when his powers failed him. Years ago he couldn't put together a small enough device that it'd be undetectable and easy to place, but technology has advanced even as he's stood still.

It doesn't take long to find what he needs and for cheap. In an afternoon, he's made four trackers, with nanosensors the size and weight of a fingernail, and in a bizarre way, he feels the need to share the small triumph with someone.

He's shaky and uncertain as he crawls to her window that night, and over the soft beeping of the machines by the side of the bed, Peter whispers the first promise made to another person in a long time.

On Tuesday night, as the one week mark approaches, commotion pulls his attention tightly, stretching every sense into a frenzy.

It's a miracle he doesn't burst through the glass when the nurse is just a little too slow to show up for his comfort, but soon he finds out the news. The triumph he experienced yesterday pales in comparison to the one she has today.

Breathing on her own is a monumental step, one Peter chooses to commemorate with deeply pink roses. The florist only asks him one question, and it's what he wants the blooms to say.

"Just that I… that I'm grateful," is all he manages.

Despite the breakthrough on Tuesday, nothing else happens for the rest of the week, plunging his mood into the subterranean. He'd thought recovery was on the way, but the nurses stop by at greater and greater intervals by the time Sunday rolls around. He wants to demand an explanation, something to justify this delay, but keeps himself in check for her safety. If word got out that he's inquiring into her condition personally, it might stir the calm.

He doesn't want calm, but it's what she needs, so he stays put.

In the meantime, he keeps tabs on the press and what details have been released to the public. An investigation of his own unfolds over the course of Sunday morning, and it hardly impresses him - the ardent desire of every newspaper to take apart her entire past and present. It's exceptionally deplorable how some don't stray from speculating about her future.

If they want to know, they should come ask him. He wants them to.

Peter notices how none of the publications he's looked at thus far have even attempted to make the connection between her words and their consequences. They all know it. They do. They all know who she pissed off, because it's right there in black and white.

All it took was a mention of campaign money and criminality, because the egos possessing New York's overlords are boundless and fearsome.

The police are hardly trying, he knows that too. They've been relegated to babysitters for those they're supposed to catch, but maybe they were never meant to do that in the first place. Maybe that's just what people are comfortable thinking, and Peter used to be one of them.

When he was younger, he wanted to believe in the sanctity of their mission, as nothing else seemed more important. His dream was to change the world with his intellect, but changing the world through progress takes time, and you need to be and feel safe while you're doing it. He used to believe nothing happens if the police don't do their job.

He's grown since then.

He understands hierarchy now, and the place from which crime springs forth is untouched still. Cleaning up the streets is a temporary solution, and the people he used to leave for the cops to arrest got less and less difficult to empathize with over time. He knows stories - has got nothing but stories. Desperate people stealing to feed their children, threatening pharmacists with empty guns to get their prescriptions because their insurance expired… the numbers grow, and it isn't because people are getting worse. They're not losing their principles, or their decency.

Someone else is taking their lives from them, one yard at a time.

It's something she knows as well, but speaking it publicly attracts penalties. He's looking at the result of defiance right now, watching through the window as the setting sun leaves a gentle glow over her figure.

Not a journalist, she said. The more he looks, the more he believes her. As the cuts and bruises subside with time, natural features reclaim their place and her face as he remembers it is revealed. Granted, he has only photos to compare to, but it changes nothing about his impression.

Gentle.

She seems like a gentle person, is all Peter can think. If he knew nothing about her, he'd assume kindness; yet he does know something - knows too much now. He knows too much to hold back the fierce protectiveness rupturing the confines of his chest.

She's so young.

They're the same age, but somehow she looks younger to him. Maybe it's the delicate skin around her eyes, having gone down in swelling enough that he can see their shape. Maybe it's the neck brace, making her look vulnerable and small. Maybe it's what little he can see of her fingers where the cast ends on her left arm.

Peter doesn't know if a photographer is supposed to look like anything, but he encounters no trouble in imagining a camera around her neck and grasped between her fingers. He wonders how the red light from a darkroom might reflect in her eyes.

He wishes she'd open them.

He wishes she'd open them, so his own wouldn't burn so terribly.

It's been years since he's watched someone in earnest, trying to picture their life, or personality, or struggles. It's been years since he's felt closeness or devotion to a cause, much less to a person. Spider-Man ended up being needed more by him than by the people, so he readily took the symbol for himself, to stall and mute the desperation.

Desperation that returns in a different form when the door to her room opens and a doctor comes through, spotting him behind the window before he can move.

The woman freezes, but her face remains composed as she shuts the door without looking away from him. Peter is also frozen in place, and his predicament is unknown as she steps closer and closer, until she comes to a standstill in front of him. He cannot decipher her expression, but he figures that if she wanted to, she would have called security already. The realization does nothing to relax his muscles.

She taps on the glass with an index finger twice, and to his surprise, lifts the frame all the way up.

Hesitating at first is reflexive when dealing with strangers, but this doesn't seem like a trap and she is a healthcare professional. They're usually decent.

Peter goes in legs first, the motion airy and quiet. In a moment that is eerily reminiscent of boyhood, the woman, mid-fifties, regards him stringently.

"You've been here before," she states, a sentence too simplistic to put his mind at ease. He can't see where she might take it next.

Despite his lack of confirmation, she continues.

"Why do you come?"

Peter almost backs away from the bluntness of the question; if it weren't for the soles of his feet sticking to the floor, he might've stumbled on nothing. It isn't an inquiry he can grace with truthfulness, but he has years of falsehoods under his belt. He knows how to lie.

"To make sure nothing happens..." he murmurs into the stillness of the room.

"You can speak normally. She can't hear us."

Recoiling happens automatically, and the window sill is at his fingertips. He could leave any moment. Yet, the look she's fixing him with keeps him suspended in time and space. He can hear his own breaths against the inside of the mask. The world is smaller.

"You're here to make sure nothing happens? Something has already happened. Where were you?"

This is how the walls close in and the temperature reaches a boil. He's spent months avoiding questions of any sort, and the first ones he hears unravel entire illusions he maintained with an iron grip.

"I have a daughter her age, studying the same thing she studied. She believes in you too. Will she end up like this?"

His heart touches a crescendo, and then nothing. To avoid thinking about himself, he focuses every ounce of strength into a question of his own.

"How is she?"

His voice is rough with disuse when he isn't whispering. He sounds much older than he is, but the woman is older still, and she has seen many more things than either Spider-Man or Peter Parker have. A suit cannot hide shame from the keen eyes of experience.

"I couldn't tell you even if I wanted to. I have a responsibility. There are laws."

Laws. Responsibility.

This did end up being a trap, of the sort he never expected. He's tumbling through a loop of his spectacular history, but nothing he finds grants solace. The guilt is blistering the surface of his skin.

"It makes no difference if you know or not. It won't change anything. Nothing I say will make her wake up."

Maybe it's something only mothers are able to induce, this peculiar dread. Of the multitudes roaming the earth, it seems only the best ones hold this power. There is immeasurable love in their eyes at all times, and when it flickers, so does the heart. Nobody wants to look, only to see disappointment - least of all, confidence lost.

There is a mother standing in front of Peter Parker, laying out all his faults with no cruelty. She doesn't look like herself anymore, but like his own mother, of brown hair and the kindest eyes he's ever known.

"Please…"

He doesn't know what he's asking. There isn't anything for which she could use his plea. It shows in her face.

"Her body is healing what it can. She needs time and freedom to recover. That's all that I -"

The doctor is left staring at the space where he once was, and in a moment of doubt, her eyes cast downward.

Spiders are not particularly effective trackers. Their strengths lie in attributes that allow for little expense of energy when setting traps. Great threads are woven in tantalizingly intricate patterns, seducing prey big and small and beckoning it forward. It need only wander in.

There are times, however, when spiders will choose to hunt.

Peter Parker is a sight to behold as he sinks further and further down the spiral from human to predator. Each sense is sharpened to perfection, and in New York City, that means it won't be long before his mind gives way from oversensitivity.

He doesn't have time.

416 East 117 St. is still delineated by yellow police tape. Inside, the door of apartment 5-b has been sealed off, but the impact marks around the hinges remain - a preview for what it might reveal.

Now that he knows which unit, finding the window is no effort.

The surroundings are quiet, even for a Sunday night. There isn't much chatter throughout the neighboring units, revealing perhaps an abundance of uninhabited apartments or - more likely - a frightened lot, as barely two weeks have passed.

He enters through the living room window situated on the west side.

The air is stale and impregnated with scents he is more familiar with than anyone should reasonably be. Acute as his senses are at the moment, the smell of blood is ferociously intense; knowing whose it is tips the edge towards unbearable.

As his eyes absorb the scene, his mind makes immediate judgments that have become second nature in the past five years.

The front door, which he can see from the edge of the room, was not kicked in, but rather out. He deduces they must've entered quietly, expecting her to be home. The door could not have been destroyed after the fact, only before. Did they do it to frighten her, give her pause? Make her wonder what could've happened to it before they grabbed her?

He knows Fisk likes playing mind games with whoever wrongs him. This is his signature, and the ravaged furniture reinforces his belief. It isn't indicative of struggle - it was just smashed up for fun, and perhaps as a false lead for the police to rule the incident as random thievery.

Yet a laptop is lying in pieces, underneath the crushed coffee table. Little fragments of it are tinged dark red among the shards of glass, and the images his mind conjures are expelled before they can seize too much emotion.

No thief would use valuables to inflict harm, least of all in the name of perceived symbolism, but Wilson Fisk is not a thief. He envisions himself a poetic emperor, delivering justice with awe-inspiring significance. At his disposal are considerable resources, many of them material, but a non-negligible part made of flesh and bone.

What the scene before him reveals above all else is just how entwined law-enforcement and the despots of New York have become.

Nobody has touched this place. No forensic experts have analyzed the scene or extracted evidence for an investigation, because none is supposed to occur.

Despite the expanse of blood soaked up by the carpet, despite the scratches on the hardwood nearby… nobody is looking.

Nobody wants justice. They want peace and safety for themselves.

There is an empty apartment at 416 East 117th that might remain empty. There are clashing echoes of words that might never leave. They will make a home of his agitated mind and tear it asunder, ceasing only when he is no more.

He holds off until he can't - and it's the snapping thread.

Vincent likes his job. After all, he gets Mondays and Tuesdays off, and there's nothing better than starting the work week in the middle. Everyone's already miserable by then, and it makes things easier for him.

He does, however, hate the paperwork of Sunday night, and it's just too bad his boss trusts no one else to get it done.

He sits at his desk, yawning and putting numbers together until the lines are blurred. There hasn't been any improvement in shipping costs, but the ease of operations could have a novice doing this on his first day. Or it would, were there any volunteers left. He had to provide many concessions for Bennie to take a job here, despite being cousins.

Everyone thinks only about themselves these days.

Vincent thinks of the comfort of home: the lush armchair he bought a few days ago, nestled in the warmest corner of the library that he's just finished renovating with wood from Japan; the Titanic model he promised his son they'd build together; the dinner they're all going to gather for tomorrow.

He thinks of all those things so ardently, that he has no chance to see it coming.

He's heard the guys describe it before - those that got away at least. The webs bind tightly. So tightly, in fact, that his lungs feel compressed against his back, and his arms and legs are getting colder by the second.

"Bah! You - you fu - you fuck - mmpf!"

His body collides with the wall, and there it stays. He can't breathe. He can't -

His airways clear.

Vincent gasps for breath, but there's barely any room for it in his chest. Despite what he expects, the spider doesn't bother with him immediately. No, he doesn't even spare Vincent a glance as he reduces the room to rubble. The computer he leaves untouched, and Vincent can guess his intentions. He'd been tallying up before this happened, getting ready to report a bottom line for the end of the month.

He likely won't come to know what it is, but even if he did, he won't be able to communicate it.

As he watches on, he can only await his turn, and it comes soon enough.

If the spider expects him to flinch, he's in for a rude awakening. Nothing Vincent can see coming has the ability to scare him - the only thing he fears is the unknown.

"I only want one thing," is what he says, but Vincent isn't impressed. This is a boy - he knows it is, however the stories portray him. The suit he's wearing is a sign of his inhumanity to some; they look like tights to Vincent.

"Your men - who are they?"

Vincent scoffs as best he can, and his lip curls into a scowl.

"I got many men," he answers.

The spider approaches him, steps light and careful. It's too quick for Vincent to make out, but the hand he feels at his throat cuts off the air supply completely this time. His heart has started the clock.

"The men who crushed her hands… who shattered her ribs… your men."

Head swimming and vision spotting, he can't make out an answer, but neither does he want to. Vincent won't protect his men because of loyalty, but because the spider doesn't kill. It's been his one weakness, and many have exploited it successfully. Vincent won't give an inch. He has principles.

When his neck is released once more, he chokes and heaves but welcomes the air all the same, even if it burns on the way both in and out. Only, without an answer, he isn't privy to oxygen for long.

Something is different about his grip this time. It's different, he thinks, because he can't see anymore. Noise would leave him, but he can't produce any. He has little feeling left in his hands.

On the edge of unconsciousness, there's almost relief, but it doesn't come. He thinks maybe he's dropped to the floor, or maybe he's been hit, yet can't make out which. He can hear his blood pounding in his ears, and all he has left for function in his throat is desperately trying to quell the burning of his lungs.

Gasping for breath on a Sunday night is not how he wants to go out, but now he can't talk. His tongue feels numb.

Though his lips mouth the names the spider wants, nothing comes out.

Just as feeling comes back into his hands, he wishes it hadn't, because he can't do anything to release the pain of bones breaking. He can't even scream.

"That's how it feels. That's what she felt."

His right hand follows, and for a moment it feels like his heart has stopped, but it doesn't last. It keeps going, and so does the agony.

"She couldn't scream either. They crushed her throat."

There are other noises he can't make out, and his eyes aren't focusing. There's color, but no shape. He doesn't know how much time passes, but for once, when he hears the spider talk again, he isn't certain of his future.

"You can't write. You can't talk. You can't see. I know you can't see, so you can't even point them out. But I'll ask again: the men - who are they?"

Even through his pain, it strikes Vincent that the spider isn't really looking for an answer. If he knows he can't provide it, then he's asking just to ask. He's asking as an excuse. He's seen men lost to rage before; they look for reasons to do what they were always going to do.

And as he tries holding himself upright on his elbows, he's got half a mind to crawl away. This isn't worth it. He's got to -

A weight on his back pushes him down bluntly, and his chin connects with the floor. Maybe some teeth break or maybe they don't, but he can taste metal now, and it makes it even harder to breathe.

"Were you there?"

Vincent finds himself shaking his head without even making the decision to do so, noises escaping that resemble only in vibration what he might've said with a usable larynx.

"Are they here?"

They are. They are, but so are seven others, and he can't point them out. Bennie's here tonight, but Bennie wasn't there. He had no part in it. He can't sell him out.

"Do you want to see what else they did?"

Vincent shakes his head again. He remembers some details, but overall he knows what he sent them there to do. It was only by happenstance that the woman survived, so no. Vincent doesn't want to see.

"…'ere… 'ehre'…" he rasps, blood dribbling down his chin.

"Here?"

He nods.

"Where?"

He can't think anymore. To be quite honest, he wishes he were unconscious instead of gasping and wheezing for air. Whatever the spider wants to do now, he should just do it instead of stalling.

But nothing happens for what feels like the longest time when one has only their ears to anticipate an event. Vincent waits, and waits and continues wondering, but no more words disturb the peace.

He's alone.

The months that former cadet Jimmy Larson spent imagining his first crime scene appear to have been for nothing. All the time dedicated to fortifying his mind in anticipation of what he considered true police work would have been more useful in the search of a different career path.

He's been retching since he got here.

How do the ambulances have anything to do? Who in that warehouse would want to live?

He understands it's their job, but were Jimmy on the other side of this intervention, he would have quit on the spot. As it is, he thinks it would be disrespectful to everyone else doing their best to manage. Manage the revulsion, the renewed disappointment.

It won't be long before the hunt for Spider-Man resumes with vigor. After tonight, even Jimmy isn't sure he'll have any more reservations with regard to the wall crawler.

Many of his colleagues hold a personal grudge against him for repeatedly busting friends involved in racketeering and extortion, just by virtue of them hanging out in criminal hotspots. It's not inconceivable that whatever public opinion might look like, the police will never really accept him, much less view him favorably. Though they are not a monolith, they're more of a monolith than most organizations. There are codes, and there are incentives to adhere to them.

Now an officer, Jimmy knows what happens to those within the group who don't follow the dogma. He can feel eyes on his back, casting a wave of disdain he tries to let roll off without absorbing it. Defending Spider-Man cannot be done this time, he understands that. But his colleagues haven't forgotten the times he did, and seeing the distress on the rookie officer's face must bring them great satisfaction.

Jimmy isn't torn up about the mangled bodies, however disturbing. It's the loss of hope that makes swallowing difficult and standing tall an unreachable prerogative.

Nothing is left of the man he used to look up to. In just a few years, what has become of New York's symbol should scare even the most determined idealists. Jimmy has been slowly leaving their ranks in the last few months, but tonight sees the door slammed in his face. He can't defend the indefensible.

Of the eight people recovered by EMS, three were on the brink of death, dangling from the ceiling like an art installation conceived in a sadist's mind and spelling a bloody epitaph on the skin of their faces.

Murderers, was the message requiring delivery.

This affectation of justice seems much too personal to be in any way comparable to his previous crimes. Whatever happened tonight, whatever they did… Jimmy knows.

The hero may never come back from it.

He's almost sure he's clean. The scalding water was serviceable enough to melt flesh, nevermind blood that had seeped into the lycra of the suit. In any case, he wouldn't dream of trailing any part of them into this room.

It's quiet. Peaceful. Void of darkness now that he's banished it.

The air feels different against his skin, against his clothes. It's been years since he was anywhere he wasn't supposed to be dressed like Peter Parker, and the cloth mask covering his face had to be dug out of an old suitcase he hasn't touched since leaving home.

He's breathing more heavily than she is, or at least it seems that way the closer he gets to the bed. Eyes catching on the wilting pink of the roses he brought six days ago, he pauses momentarily to remove them from her bedside. It feels wrong to leave them.

As he throws them in the trash, he notices for the first time the pattern of the vinyl flooring. There is nothing interesting about the beige and gray stains, but they're easier to look at while he gathers his thoughts. It's only her and the wind outside that he can hear the longer he remains unmoving.

One syllable harshly scrapes against his throat before he chokes it back. Time contracts and dilates irrespective of his wishes, awarding no relief. He tries again whenever his body allows.

"You're safe now," he rasps.

His eyes trail over the length of her forearm; the one closest to him isn't encased in plaster, but the jagged tear that starts at her shoulder and ends above her wrist is more striking. He can see the cruelty more plainly displayed than in a shattered bone.

"They're gone. Can't hurt you anymore."

It's a mistake he doesn't have control over, but his hand is now on the edge of the bed and he cannot retract it. His fingertips are only an inch away from hers, and if he focused hard enough, he could feel the warmth they give off. He doesn't know if he deserves to.

"I kept my… kept my promise. And you… you can wake up now."

If he dares look up, it's only once, and yet once is enough for his eyes to lock into place. His body reacts by tearing apart nerves that were barely holding on, and his left hand comes up to remove the mask before air runs out. Nothing happens despite his plea. Her eyes don't open like his mind said they would if he did the right thing. The doctor said she needed time and freedom to recover. He removed any obstacles that might keep her in this bed.

Whispered supplications leave his mouth dry and his eyes the inverse, but with each one he keeps hoping. A million ways to beg for redemption and he will go through them all, forwards and backwards. He just wants. He wants.

Peter startles himself into a sob. A tear slipped from his eye and onto her hand, splashing a dainty drop onto his own. When did he touch her? When did his fingers hover over hers? He stumbles backwards on legs not fully in his control, feeling weak for the shortest time.

It could level a city, this rage. It's tried. Peter is always the one devoured, yet so far he hasn't known it. A layer of isolation stood between him and the truth, and years spent avoiding his humanity dissolve as if soaked in acid. It stings. It burns.

He was begging to see her eyes, when until this moment he's put forth supernatural effort to avert his own. He didn't think anyone should look at him.

He doesn't want anything more. He doesn't want anything else.

It isn't a surprise that they have everything required. A local watering hole for addicts like himself would abound in illicit supplies, priced at whatever the highest bidder is willing to pay. Peter's last reserves are depleted for a handful of items, and he hasn't been at work for long enough that the only thing keeping him employed is the kindness he's yet to reciprocate. Perhaps he should've kept thirty dollars and gotten Mr. Daniels an arrangement. Alas, he's now broke.

He wouldn't be, if he allowed himself to use common sense. Why pay for something with money that's going to be seized in less than ten minutes? He tells himself he doesn't know, but it's been harder and harder to lie recently, even in the privacy of his own mind.

He knows why. Watching the red and blue lights flashing in the pharmacy entryway from across the street is only the beginning, and as pain snaps a band around his head, the road before him has never seemed longer.

The two remaining weeks of summer are devoured in a blink, and September continues stealing rest from Peter Parker. He doesn't mind, because there is an end to his obsession now, and he can almost taste it.

He's been staring at the purple substance long enough for his leg to fall asleep. There is nothing more to ponder, but something holds him back from accepting reality. He's succeeded, but his chest doesn't fill with pride like it once did. No rush arrives to carry him further down the planes of ambition, no wild aspirations take shape behind his eyes when he sleeps.

This victory is bitter. Whenever his mind wanders, it always falls to time. There is no changing the past, but the vial in his hands is definitive proof: things didn't need to be that way. None of the horrors that destroyed his youth had to happen. If only, if only.

He almost wishes it would fail, just to spare himself the pain he knows is coming. He almost wants to believe that living is meant to be a rigid thing, not subjected to his or anyone else's manipulation. But the truth reveals itself every hour he goes without the medication he's been dependent on. There are things that are true, and there are fantasies he's been suffocated by for years.

That he couldn't have helped Harry is a fantasy he's embraced in a frenzy. There was a way - it's peeking at him now from between bruised fingers, flowing peacefully inside the glass vial with every tremor of his hands.

The devastation caused by fear and guilt was never inevitable. It was Peter's selfishness that denied his former friend a chance to live normally, because he didn't want to create another Curt Conners. He didn't want the responsibility of dealing with those consequences, and consequences found him anyway. He's despised Harry for a long time. It was his face that he was seeing when delivering callous blows that more than once almost made him a murderer. Nothing's come as close as last month's events. No one has burrowed under his skin and made him feel deranged in the same way, but no one could have. He hasn't had anything of his to protect in a decade.

Gwen… Gwen used to be his hope. She used to be able to reset him whenever he malfunctioned, to reorient his moral compass whenever it strayed. She knew the right thing to do, and was more willing than him to do it if personal cost was involved. These days he won't even dare look at a picture of her. What he still remembers of her face is shadowed, and her eyes are never open. She isn't looking at him, and in his heart, embittered as it is, he knows that if she could, she'd look away. For her to see him like this would be the greatest shame.

Hold on to hope.

He denied Gwen her last wish, like he denied her father's.

Two weeks ago, he thought another promise would be reneged on through a sheer twist of fate. After all, how could he turn back time for her when he couldn't do it for the love of his life? It occurred to him on the night of his rampage, after shedding tears at her bedside - this wasn't about molding time so terrible things never come to pass. She doesn't need time, like the doctor said. Time can't provide solutions for tragedies. Only people can help by bearing the cost and sharing in the grief.

He'd take it all onto himself just so he doesn't have to walk in there with shaking hands and unsteady feet, but he's learning. He can't do everything all on his own.

This time, when the doctor is in her room, he's the one who taps at the window. He's caught her just after shift change, with sundown on his heels. It was the longest he could wait.

The woman proves difficult to surprise once again, but Peter's hesitation to meet her eyes has gone. He invites himself into the room, fully prepared to announce his intentions, but the doctor interjects.

"I thought you'd never come back."

It's a strange thing to hear, and he goes with the first instinct he has. He feels defensive every time he's in this space.

"I've been here every day."

Speaking truthfully is new to him, as is the way he tries watching her without suspicion. She's not that far away, but the room isn't that large to begin with. They are separated by the bed, with the doctor on the left side, doing what seems to Peter like nothing at all. What is she doing here? It's always the nurses doing the nightly rounds, and she doesn't appear to have a task at hand.

His body draws closer subtly, and he spots the name tag on her lapel. She didn't have one last time. Dr. Arnaud.

"Maybe you shouldn't be."

A familiar tension prickles at his jaw, and he does his best to force down the anger and let reality through. He doesn't truly care what she thinks. He only needs her help, and if she won't provide it, he'll figure it out. But, curiosity does invite him to ask.

"Why?"

"You've done enough. Don't you think?"

He knows what she's referring to. It's all anyone's been talking about since mid-August, and with the mayor's bid for re-election came a slew of vicious attacks by the campaign. The moratorium on his arrest at the beginning of Oswald's term was nothing more than a short-lived stint to appease a New York that still liked Spider-Man. He'd be lucky if regular people don't start hunting him along with police.

"I'm here to help."

The woman's furrowed brow and tough gaze are not assuaged by him producing the vial from a concealed pocket, nor is her presence less confrontational the longer he explains. He shouldn't be disappointed. She is a doctor, and injecting patients with foreign substances of dubious origins is at the very foundation of the oath she took. She will not help him, and it would've been a problem, had her assistance been beneficial to anyone but him.

The only thing he wanted her to do was be the one to press the needle into her arm. He doesn't think he can touch her again after the night when his fingers accidentally brushed hers.

"You can't just come in here and use my patient for an experiment you th-"

Peter interrupts her objections with a curt and near-hostile question.

"Will she recover if I don't?"

Dr. Arnaud's glare has little bite behind it this time. Despite her trying to uphold confidentiality, Peter knows that she knows - they're on the same page when it comes to understanding reality. There is no healing from this, not with medicine and not with time. This is her last hope.

"I won't have any part of this," she says harshly, but Peter reads the defeat in her voice before anything else.

"Fine."

"If this fails, and you make it worse, I -"

"You don't need to threaten me. If that happens, you won't ever see me again," he replies calmly.

Perhaps he was too nonchalant about this situation, but there was no other way to speak the truth. If the worst does come to pass, she won't see him again. Nobody will. This night may be the last one he has under the mask that ruined his life. This is Peter Parker's last hope too.

The doctor lingers for a few more moments that do nothing to steady his nerves. When the door finally closes, and he is alone with his fate, all at once a calm washes over his entire being. Time means nothing again.

Her face has healed of all swelling, he remarks with mild glee. It's only a superficial change, because the real trauma lies under the skin. The injuries she sustained have sunk too deep for modern medicine to reach, and even the treatments available for wealthy citizens can't heal this type of damage.

That she survived is remarkable all on its own. He'll meet the effort halfway and bring her back.

As he approaches the bed, he tries to imagine what she might've dreamed of this past month, despite knowing the state of her cerebral activity. If there is anything taking shape behind her eyelids, he hopes it's only good things.

Peter's breaths are heavier now that he's close, and his nose fills up with the scent of fresh shampoo. She's been here long enough that she had to be given a bath, but he doesn't like that her scent has washed away and been replaced by antiseptic. Nothing about these surroundings is welcoming, and her face in that bed simply doesn't belong. She can't remain here.

"You'll be okay," he whispers, a tremor in his voice that willed itself to the surface.

A rush of air escapes his lips as he touches her arm with gloved fingers. Even through the material, a live wire sizzles his nerve endings and rewires his brain to produce an involuntary smile. He's forgotten he can be gentle. He's forgotten that hands can do more than wreck and demolish. He's worked in construction for four years, and yet it takes a moment's touch to remind him life is an infinitude of perspectives.

"You'll be okay, I promise."

His words feel so small, resembling a prayer he hasn't uttered in years and wouldn't dare utter now that he's strayed so far from the right path. The needle finds the vein, just as his heart finds a way to drum an ever worse tempo. Seconds go by in a snap, and he retracts the syringe with care meant for things of high fragility. The room gets quieter over the next few minutes as his blood pressure stabilizes and no longer drowns his ears in anxious terror.

Silence.

It happens at midnight.

Three hours of careful vigilance dissolve like sugar in ice water, but midnight arrives with a quietude interrupted. A feeble note at once gets louder. If he hadn't been listening with unyielding focus, it would have escaped him.

Her heartbeat has changed. Not in rhythm, but in strength. A minute, then two, then ten - they all pass without latency, without illusions. What he heard at first, he continues to hear. No change is registered by the machines she's connected to, but he trusts those less than his own ears. He knows what he's hearing, because he hasn't ever heard it before in another person. No one's heart beats that strongly in repose, except his own. They've reached the point of no return.

It's raining.

Someone left the window open, and hefty drops grace the scorching pavement with relief it seldom finds. Summer rains never last enough to cool things down. If it's this frigid, it must be one of those rare July thunderstorms.

That particular smudge of paint was not there before. It only invites more determination to finally go through with the renovation project meant to be completed last year. Every inch of the popcorn ceiling must be scraped, lest she never forget the faces her mind conjures every night before bed. There are no faces yet, but it's likely because she isn't tired enough. It's also a lot brighter at this hour than usual, and sinister things don't have a chance to take hold in lit rooms.

A breath, then - several things happen with devastating overlap.

She sits up at once. The room isn't her own, and she doesn't know whose it is. There is no light source anywhere, but one is not necessary. Her neck is tilted at an unnatural angle, a definitive ache all around her throat. Her left arm is heavy, immobile.

It isn't raining. It isn't, but her ears won't stop telling her otherwise.

Something is wrong with the world. The panic in her chest flows beyond skin to infect the air, and it's in this state that reality finds her, splattering flashes of clarity over unfocused eyes. The arrival of her memories summons a buzz of rapacious intensity, consuming every effort to remain anchored in the present. Everything is too loud and bright to be subdued, smell and sound and rasping breath merging into discordant nonsense.

The neck brace comes off with a yowl. She hurt herself, but the relief is instantaneous as her mind stops playing a reel of disturbing apparitions. No sooner she starts to gather her bearings than a distinct sound draws her attention to the window.

Her first impression is soothing - this is a dream. It more than suffices as an explanation for the terrible ache in her arms and chest, and it also places the origin of the violent imagery firmly in her subconscious. It isn't real. She just had a long day in the sun, and as she'd been occupied with thoughts of him, it makes sense that he's now outside her window.

She should be careful. Every time she's had a dream where he appeared, she always woke herself up too soon. Nerves or excitement, the result was always the same: she gets close enough to make out the details on the fabric of his suit, but can never stop him escaping through her fingers. It's nice that he hasn't fled yet.

Now more calm, she removes herself from the bed despite the considerable pain of detaching the wire embedded in her right arm. The floor is too cold for bare feet, but the sensation of walking on needles is more curious than worrisome. Her calves are sore from rigid nodes that flare up and protest with each step.

She walks to the window in a breathless stupor. He is still there, unmoving and deathly silent. If she reached out, she could touch him - it's tempting, as dreams like this are hard to come by. She decides, instead, to say hello. She'd be speaking to herself, but it's no less interesting to see what may be heard back. Only, when her mouth opens and lips come together to form the words she intends to say, nothing resembling her voice comes out. She panics for only a moment, but remembers that things like this always happen when in the snare of such profoundly realistic dreams. They're all about nonsensical occurrences, and so far every requirement has been fulfilled: strange memories that are just a figment of her subconscious being most active, aches and pains that don't make sense, and a figure she's been wanting to see manifesting outside the window. Of course her voice is broken and unusable. Much like the desire to run away from danger in a dream is always met with numb legs, her voice has sizzled out into a whispered croak.

She wants nothing more than to speak to him, so why would it work?

As if ripped from the deepest confines of a mangled throat, a noise emerges that sounds enough like a greeting to relieve the fear of another dream ending without progress. At least this time, she has said hello.

The response is strange. Of all the things she expects him to do, getting closer is not one of them, and when he enters the room with languid movements, she watches in barely restrained awe. But then, he speaks - and it's like the oxygen leaves the same way he came in.

"I'm so… I'm so sorry."

Heart-wrenchingly young. No surprise that that's how she would picture him. But why is he apologizing? Why does her mind think he should apologize? If anything, she should be the one to feel weird, knowing that in front of her stands a figure she wrote about. At the time, she didn't consider that his eyes might flit across the text just like those of other New Yorkers. If this was real, it would be hard for her gaze to lock on so firmly.

He looks interesting up close. Taller than her, lanky and deathly still, her first impression is that he must be more solid than he appears. If she crashed into him right now, as the pain in her back implores her to do, would that be so bad? Somewhere in this dilation of time, she must have already decided - when else is she going to get this chance?

She steps into him with her eyes open, fearful of closing them when her heart begins a gallop. If she wakes up, it won't be before she's got her arms around him - a feat easier to brag about than to accomplish, as her left arm is still encased in plaster and her right won't obey commands as well as she'd like. Nevertheless, she's nothing if not persistent, and though awkwardly, the task is accomplished.

He really is more sturdy than he looks, but the speed with which his heart is beating makes worry flare up in her chest. How silly is she, that her feelings in the waking world translate so well even within the recesses of her mind? Of all things to be consistent about, caring for a stranger ought to be the least helpful.

"You should rest. There's still… there's a lot… you still have to heal," he says. His small voice is a booming echo up close, sending a shiver down her spine that makes goosebumps surge. Something akin to electricity buzzes in her ear.

Heal.

Her mind turns the word this way and that, trying to figure out its own riddle. Once more, the flashes from earlier return and she heaves a sigh against his chest. How horrible. She's never seen anything like it before, even in her most violent night terrors. One continuous narrative keeps playing in abundant detail, not stopping for any of the usual events that returned her to a wakeful state. All dreams, even the worst ones, have to trip and unfurl over something. Extreme fright is what usually does it. She wakes with a jolt, or a gasp, or some remnant of a yelp dying on her lips. In these images, though, nothing makes the violence stop - no plea, no pain and no amount of fear interrupts the brutality. Lying on her front, gasping for breath around the knife in her side and trying to crawl away on an arm that had been carved into with a different knife - she doesn't know why this sequence of events plays so vividly in her head.

Her dreams are never this detailed.

She can feel her cheek press harder into the intricately ribbed latex of his suit, leaving an indentation that stretches from chin to temple and making her warm all over. No. No, it's absurd.

This isn't real. The icy breeze that makes whatever she's wearing flutter against sensitive skin is not real sensation. The way she can feel her lungs expanding with each breath, the hypnotic scenery of dawn break in a strange room, in a stranger's embrace - none of these things can be real.

"Wake me up," she rasps, forcing her eyes to stay open and keep away the blunt vision of hands reaching for her neck. It isn't enough to feel a pair of far more gentle ones slowly caress her back. She repeats the coarse prayer with uncloaked misery, and each time it is met by ever-soaring desperation.

In matters of assuagement, Peter Parker is a few years out of practice. He hasn't comforted anyone in recent memory, and recent memory spans long enough to render his efforts frustrating. Despair is one more thing he cannot overpower by sheer force of will or wit, but knowing what is required of him on paper does not make providing it any easier. He needs help; this is too much, too soon and both parts of him are overwhelmed to the point of malfunction. She deserves better than his hushed apologies and reassurances. What good is promising she'll never come to harm again when knowledge of harm done is already consuming everything?

She thought she was dreaming, and for a moment after she touched him, so did he. Afraid to return any more than a fleeting gesture, he stood frozen for the longest moment of his life. Something important was happening without him. Or it had been, until, among whispered pleas and tears, three words plunged him into a barely faded nightmare.

Stay with me.

He's not left her side in two days.

Seeing her like this, Peter wonders if he did the right thing. It's not that he expected his blood would change anything about her mental recovery, but this is nowhere near a good start. Her body and her mind seem to have gone down different paths during the last forty-eight hours, and with the removal of the cast from her left arm this morning, she's fallen into an unnerving seclusion. It doesn't feel like she's there with him unless he's talking. He's been doing more of that than he's comfortable with these two days, but nothing brings her out from the confines of her thoughts. All things considered, she's done better than anyone could be expected to, at least according to dr. Arnaud, who elected to skirt around the details of her previous state and how it came to improve.

'This is your responsibility. You have to tell her.', she said to him. He failed to pick up on any vitriol from her words or her tone, and in the end, he was in agreement. He will tell her, in due time. Revelations of that magnitude would only serve to overwhelm her completely, and things are bad enough. The only saving grace has been the absence of a particular type of symptom, which he's been vigilantly looking out for whenever he wasn't thinking of what to do. She hasn't eaten much, and he can see in her thinning frame the results of an increased metabolism. She must be starving, but can't muster the strength to eat. It only reinforces the conclusion that he needs help; he can't do this alone. He can't. He couldn't do it for himself.

In any case, whether it be brief or extensive, recovery won't happen here. Last night, Arnaud warned him in hushed whispers that staff familiar with her case are beginning to wonder, and their theories don't stray too far from the truth. She can't stay here much longer, especially as there is now nothing left to treat but scars that can't be seen. As for the ones that can, Peter has seen worse, mostly on himself. However, he knows she likely hasn't, and once or twice he's caught her stealing glances at the mark that looks worst - the one spanning her entire right arm. The hospital gown covers only a small part, and despite the room being quite warm, she's spent the entire day with a blanket around her shoulders.

The thought sparks an idea. He excuses himself for one hour, and to keep it a surprise, he invokes personal reasons for departure. She doesn't protest, but she hasn't at any point, even if he can see her tense when he takes his leave. Her apartment is the same as the last time he was here, and he tries his best at the task he gave himself. It's hard not to feel invasive, rummaging through someone's belongings to hopefully pick out the things they need. Maybe, he hopes, the things that might cheer them up. He packs blouses and sweaters and a thousand different pairs of pants into a duffel bag he finds in the back of the closet, but though he understands those are not all the necessities, his hands don't dare venture into any drawers. These are big steps for him too.

Exactly an hour later, he returns with some renewed faith to find that perhaps he shouldn't have left in the first place. Alarmed to see the empty room, he drops the bag by the window and the toiletries he shoved inside unceremoniously clang together. Maybe he shouldn't have put perfume in there. The sound draws a response from the adjacent bathroom, and he relaxes upon realizing she hasn't gone far, only to tense back up when hearing the subsequent sniffle. A disaster. He isn't equipped to deal with this.

Peter knocks on the door with an almost feeble tempo, unsure whether he's trying not to startle himself or her. He fails at the latter.

"Are you alright?" he asks, and the words feel like he hasn't uttered them a million times before.

No answer comes, and the longer the silence stretches, the more his mind conjures ridiculous scenarios. What if the thing he feared has happened? What if he was right all along? He can't bear not knowing. Calling out again, he listens with care for any sound of abnormal distress. On his third inquiry, a few words finally loosen the tension in his neck.

"You can come in… um, if you want."

He opens the door with light hesitation, stepping inside tentatively when he sees that everything looks fine. She hasn't grown scales. Everything is fine. She sniffles again, wiping at her cheeks and straightening her posture before glancing at him in the doorway.

"They said I can leave today," she announces quietly, eyes meeting his only once.

The most she's looked at him directly was when she stood in front of the window, convinced she was in a dream and he was nothing but a figment of her imagination. Peter figures his own impression can't have been largely different. Seeing her walk was enough of a shock to the system. Her eyes boring into his soul for those precious moments where she was unaware of the truth made it all worth it. He doesn't like that she won't look at him the same now that she knows he's real.

"That's uh… that's good. You don't have to stay here anymore, right? No one likes the hospital. You can go home," he forwards timidly, still looking her over in case he missed something and the source of her distress is elsewhere. His attention is not rewarded, because immediately he picks up on a cue he dreads. She curls in on herself before the sink, chest heaving painful breaths.

"I have nowhere to go. I can't go back there. I can't," she gasps out between attempts to calm herself.

She's trying so hard, and he's the world's most colossal idiot. When did he intend to tell her? Each time he's seen her on the verge of panic in the last two days, he's also seen her shove it down forcefully, undoubtedly for his benefit. And each time, he got just a little closer to being as brave as he imagined himself to be.

Be brave now, his mind says, immediately followed up by a reminder to also be normal. Show a regular amount of concern.

"No, no, no, no - no, you don't have to go. You never have to go back there if you don't want to," he says in a soft tone, carefully stepping closer. The bathroom is small. The distance he has to traverse feels longer than it should.

"There is - there is nowhere else. There's nothing. I can't - I don't… I don't have anyone," she sobs.

His hand comes to rest over hers on the edge of the sink, and the touch is a momentary shock that lifts her eyes to his.

"Yes, you do."

With care not exercised in years, he turns her hand palm up, delicately lifting it higher and higher, watching the tears in her eyes slowly retreat. Only once he's brought their joined hands to the invisible seam at his clavicles does he feel true fear.

"You do," he says again for them both.

Nothing of what follows is in his control, but it couldn't happen any other way. It shouldn't happen any other way. So many times the fates of others have been in his hands, mortal peril beckoning closer, and so many times he's succeeded in steering it away that he's forgotten a quintessential truth: people are afraid because they want to live. They close their eyes, like he does now, and like Gwen did, because the bridge into the great unknown can only be crossed blind.

His face is cold on one side and burning on the other. Shallow breaths mark the passage of time almost to the second, until another shock pries open his eyelids. She's holding his face in both of her hands. The cold has gone completely.

"I'm… I'm Peter."

It's what he imagines the voice of someone who's never hurt anyone would sound like, but it came from him. It's with hands that have done so much that he's now reaching out to her, and the knowledge of it all doesn't spoil reciprocation. Somehow, she goes into him like he's someone from whom comfort is worth receiving.

"Hi, Peter," she mumbles into his neck, arms tightening around his middle. The gesture elicits an involuntary whimper that he muffles into her hair, and when his own arms have caged her in, something within him finally ruptures.

Hospital smells, especially when not dulled by the mask, have always left him queasy. For Peter, although no strong association exists between the institution and horrible life moments, he still bristles in the waiting area as though someone dear to him is undergoing surgery.

She's only getting discharged, Parker. Relax.

It's been eight hours since he last saw her. He showered, changed and scrubbed every inch of his apartment clean before realizing how all this could backfire in an instant and become the biggest mistake of his life. How did he ever think he could guarantee her safety in a place that might get blown sky high any one of these days? He's been far from careful in his pursuits, seldom watching his own back when returning home - or whenever. He hasn't had a reason to until now. His apartment is off the table until he can make sure it's not a target.

Still, he made a promise, and the clock flashes in warning that he has only minutes to ensure he keeps it. His thumb hovers over the screen until it starts shaking; no initiative without remorse appears to be the rule for this new self. He's aware of every sound echoing around the mostly empty place as the call goes through.

"Peter?"

He has to move the phone away from his ear at first. He doesn't want to believe he's almost forgotten what her voice sounds like. Sweet. Comforting. The voice he clinged to, the voice that chased away nightmares until he was old enough to be embarrassed about it. He's not heard it in months, this treasured blessing he failed to honor. He still has family. He has people who care, and a life to live. He need only reach out.

"May."

"Oh, Peter. Sweetheart, I'm so happy you called me."

May Parker is a saint. Every part of her is too good for words, and Peter hasn't any to express what he's feeling, but his eyes sting and his voice trembles as he takes another step.

"Aunt May, I need your help."

Epilogue

For May Parker, this September morning is at once too short and too long. She's toiling away in the kitchen, her shift at work be damned. The entire world could be on fire, and she would still be where she is, because her house is about to feel like home again for the first time in years. She's chopped all manner of vegetables in a frenzy, unsure what to do with them now that she has an entire counter littered with ingredients. Which of her nephew's favorites should she make? There's no time for all of them. He's going to be here by twelve. The wait is too long to just sit around dilly-dallying, and too short for everything she feels she has to do.

I'm uh… going to stay for a while.

At least everything is clean. She can't imagine welcoming Peter home to a place that looks uncared for, especially knowing he won't be arriving alone. Utterly befuddled - she was and still is to learn that not only is her nephew alright, but he has a friend. Of course, the extent of this knowledge is frustratingly limited. Narrow insights spawn endless vexation, a colleague and fellow nurse elegantly told her before retirement a few months ago, along with a warning that she can't save every patient. May always takes advice with a grain of salt.

Goodness, she forgot to salt any of the food. Rushing to the table, she picks up the small container and almost makes it back to the stove before the doorbell rings.

"What?! It's only nine thirty!" she exclaims to herself.

It can't be him. Peeking her head out the kitchen door, she looks to the entrance, startled to find that it is actually him. Oh, this boy. He's going to make a fool of her and he hasn't even stepped foot inside yet. Her hair is sticking up every which way, and her clothes aren't as nice as when she put them on, but at least she has the wherewithal to remove the dirty apron. The distance to the door is so short. She can see their outline through the frosted glass.

Her eyes get misty without delay once the door is opened, and her arms work by themselves to gather her boy and hold him close. He looks so different. His eyes frighten her for all the things they must've seen.

"Oh, sweetheart!"

"Hey, May," he says softly, and it's all she's wanted to hear after an entire spring and summer of hopeless heartbreak.

Pulling away so soon is something she only does because they aren't alone, and her manners have always overtaken her needs. To Peter's right stands a young woman an inch or two taller than May herself, with hair pulled back and a hood pulled forward that she reaches up to remove somewhat awkwardly. May has been trying to break the habit of looking at people until they become self-conscious, to moderate success. Her curiosity just gets the better of her sometimes. She could swear the girl looks familiar.

"Hello," May greets kindly.

"Hi, Mrs. Parker. Pleasure to meet you," the woman says in return, voice a little raspy and deeper than May would have imagined it.

"Please, call me May. What's your name, love?"

"Um - I'm…" she pauses to look to Peter in a wordless prompt. Whatever they're communicating to one another, May isn't privy to it.

"We should go inside. Got a lot to talk about. You remember what I told you on the phone?"

She does. She's been pondering the words since the call ended.

We both need some time to get better.

"Well, come on in, then. I have meatballs on the stove."

Peter pulls a face that for a short moment makes him look as young as May knows him to be. They both look much older than they ought to.

"May, it's not even ten a.m."

"Peter Benjamin Parker, you told me you'd be here at noon, so don't go blaming me for your change in plans."

A soft laugh breaks their little stand-off, Peter turning to the young woman with surprise. May's eyes catch the fondness on her nephew's face, memories surfacing of a time when showing affection used to come easily to him. Perhaps it's time for that again, she thinks. Seeing how careful he is with her as he guides her inside, May imagines the days ahead might be the most important in a while. Maybe, they might even be less dour than she anticipates them being, as she overhears an amused whisper intended for her nephew.

Benjamin. That suits you.

Yes, May thinks - that's always been true. And now, he's home.

- fin -

A/N: Thank you for reading. Your thoughts are always appreciated, and I hope you are all doing well.

#peter parker x you #peter parker x reader #tasm fanfiction #tasm imagine #tasm!peter x reader #tasm!peter x you #tasm!spiderman x you #andrew!peter x reader #andrew garfield!peter parker x reader #andrew garfield!spiderman x reader #fanfiction #imagine #peter parker imagine #peter parker angst

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upsideoffalling · 3 years ago

Text

vulnerable - ellie williams

summary: you and ellie are best friends, but there’s something more there. you figure out what that ‘something’ is together.

warnings: language, bit of mwah and sexual tension i guess. i only proofread this once, because if i do it more than once my autism and anxiety tells me its fucking horrible and to never ever post anything ever again and delete my tumblr account and move to mexico so im sorry if there are mistakes.

notes: the last of us ii ellie x fem reader. Fluff and i think a little bit of angst as well (if i did it well) also a bit of spice (nothing too spicy though) both characters are 19.

word count: 2.6k tehe

a/n: my first ellie fic, hope you guys like it. It’s literally been 3 months since ive posted anything and here i am, not dead!! (only on the inside) okay, i am putting the authors note here because i know a lot of you might not make it to the bottom, or might not read the bottom, but let me say this: if you’re one of my peter parker stans, i promise you, something is coming. I’m just exploring my horizons a bit and that being said, i am writing and accepting requests for peter parker and ellie williams. so please don't hesitate to msg me.

*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧ *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

Being born in an apocalyptic world full of devastation and death only promised one thing: loss. So, finding people, survivors to call your family was not something to take for granted.

Ellie was your best friend in the entire world (or whatever was left of it). You didn’t really know what friendship looked like before the world turned on itself, but you could imagine it looked something like your friendship with the girl.

You don’t even remember how the two of you started talking when you first arrived in Jackson. The both of you were shy and awkward and didn’t really go out of your way to make conversations with people, so it was baffling enough you had somehow managed to forge a friendship that didn’t only consist of stutters and awkward waves.

Everybody around you knew you were completely infatuated with each other, but they also knew it was a little more than just two best friends. Whenever you felt the tingles in your arm when hers brushed with yours, or the way your stomach flipped when she walked into a room, you told yourself it was because you idolised her. Because she was Ellie. How could you not? Despite this, you knew deep-down your feelings for the girl weren’t only friendly.

And there she was, laying right next to you in your bed, reading a comic she found while out on patrol in the voices she thought the characters had. Of course, she just ended up sounding like an absolute dork, but it was one of the things you loved about her. You were rolled on your side and facing her, while she was flat on her back, comic caressed between her long fingers.

“Wait, wait, wait. This one here,” she pauses to take a deep breath, switching herself into character but not being able to push past all the giggles escaping her mouth. You can’t help but laugh into her shoulder as well. Her happiness was contagious.

“Spinner-moth! I have come to avenge- “ she laughs through the most ridiculous voice, and you instantly explode with laughter, slapping the comic book out of her hands while you both shake until you have tears coming down your faces. You can’t help but watch her. Jaw tilted up to the ceiling, mouth open with laughter, nose scrunched and eyes clenched shut as tears escaped them.

For everybody else, it was rare to see moments like these; where Ellie was exclusively herself, giggling so hard her cheeks started hurting. But for you, you were lucky enough to see it fairly often. Ellie really did feel like she could be her weird, talkative, crazy self around you that she had suppressed around everyone else. This kind of comfort was a little frightening for her, she just had to hope and pray she didn’t come to regret it.

“You are such an idiot!” You swipe at the tears on your face and the two of you slowly calm down, the remainder of one last giggle lingering in the air before it's silent again.

There were many moments like these throughout your bond. Too many to count. You did remember the first time you ever saw the girl laugh. You’d just fallen off your horse after trying to mount it, landing straight in a puddle of mud. You almost hated her for laughing at you, but a few minutes later you joined her, and then she taught you how to properly get on a horse.

“Damn, my ribs are fucking aching.” Ellie snickers, rubbing at the bones of her ribs, lifting her shirt ever-so-slightly to expose her stomach beneath it. You fight to keep your eyes on her face, but that doesn’t last long before she disappears under the sheets. With a fond smile, you join her, both of you then lying on your side to look at each other.

You let your eyes flicker across her face. From the green eyes staring right back at you, to the auburn hair that was splayed across her face. You wanted to lay next to her forever and trace the freckles on her face. Your eyes fall to her lips that were lifted in a shit-eating grin.

“You good?” She asks you in a teasing tone, eyebrows scrunched together and raised.

Under the sheets, it really did feel like a riff to another world. Like the thin piece of fabric that was enfolding the two of your bodies somehow dragged you away from reality and humanity. It was somewhere you could be vulnerable and honest without facing the repercussions later. At least, that’s how it felt. And maybe that’s why you decided to blurt the first thing that came to your mind.

“Has anyone ever told you how pretty you are?” You reach out to brush some of her hair behind her ear, skimming the soft skin of her cheeks gently. Pretty was putting it lightly. Right then, under the blankets with only the dim lamp on in the otherwise dark night, beaming in just enough to see her face, she was perfect.

You can’t help but smirk cheekily when Ellie’s cheeks turn a shade of pink, and once she understands your expression, she grabs the collar of her shirt and lifts it up to cover her face, exposing the skin just above the belt of her jeans.

“You’re an asshole!” She scolds, but you can practically hear her smile.

“Hey! I’m serious.” You laugh, grabbing her wrists and pulling them away from her face until you can see her again. “You’re hot. And you know it too.”

Ellie snorts. “Oh, me? Yeah. I am so hot. I have a line at my door of people just trying to catch a glimpse of me.” You could tell Ellie wanted to divert the conversation. She didn’t like talking about herself much, or when the attention was on her, or compliments, or anything of the sorts.

“Okay, okay. I’ll drop it. But, just to clarify, I really do think you’re beautiful.” You bite your lip, feeling a wave of emotion wash over you at the girl’s pink cheeks and shy smile. It was like you were looking at her with newfound vision.

“Well, so are you.” Ellie makes an awkward face and does her best to avoid your eyes while she reaches out to you, fingers dancing delicately across the faded stretch marks below your hip that were exposed when your shorts had ridden up.

You watch her expression soften, eyes intently focused on the pattern her fingers were drawing against your skin.

“What are you thinking about?” You ask her, and your heart swells at the immediate smile that lights up her face. You resist the urge to brush your fingers against her cheek again. Instead, you rub your thumb over the scar on Ellie’s outstretched arm that was barely covered by her tattoo.

“You know,” she starts, a breathy laugh leaving her lips as she shakes her head at herself. “Joel told me a couple of days ago that he thinks you like me. Like, like me, like me,” Ellie only pauses for a moment, but in that moment, you feel your heart drop so hard you’re surprised it doesn’t shoot out and hit the wall behind you. “And I said, ‘well that’s not possible, Y/N doesn’t even like girls, so-“

“First of all, where is Joel? I’d like to personally deliver, this-” you stick your middle finger up at Ellie, “- to him,” there’s a playful grin on your face to compliment the amused one on hers. “And, second of all, who said I don’t like girls?” You raise an eyebrow at her, not missing the way her eyes light up in the slightest. She was sure you could hear her heart thumping in her chest.

Ellie splutters and trips over her words. “I didn’t- well, I just thought-“ she cuts herself short, lips falling in a straight line and making a face that says ‘shit, you got me.’

“Okay, that’s my bad. I shouldn’t have assumed,” a breathy huff escapes her lips and she covers her face with both of her hands, groaning into them.

You giggle at her reaction, still feeling the slightest bit giddy as well. Jesus, was your crush that obvious to everyone around you, but you?

“And thirdly, what if I do have a crush on you?” Your voice is a little higher than usual, probably because your hands were beginning to sweat and your throat was tightening up, the telltale signs you were nervous as fuck. You try to keep a neutral expression.

Ellie moves her hands away from her face, eyes flickering around your own, searching for a sign, any sign to tell her if you were joking. A few moments go by and she shakes her head, plastering a smile on her face with a roll of her eyes. “You don’t.”

“What if I do?” There’s no hesitation.

Her face falls back to a curious expression. This was everything she’d been waiting to hear.

This kind of comfort was a little frightening for her, she just had to hope and pray she didn’t come to regret it.

Her walls shoot up. Her cheeks turn pink. Her heart is pounding anxiously in her chest, looking for a way out. It also wants to shield itself from you. You, who could break it in seconds with two words; ‘I don’t.’

She bites her lip, a flash of a hurt expression lasting for a split second, before she’s throwing the sheets off her and climbing out of your bed. Your bed, where you comforted her whenever she fought with Joel, when she broke up with Cat, when she had a rough day patrolling. Where you kissed her forehead and stroked her hair until she fell asleep. The bed she slept in more nights than her own.

Maybe you were telling the truth. Maybe one day she’d believe you. But from the moment she met you, she spent everyday convincing herself she could never be with you, that she didn’t deserve you. She would only be your best friend, nothing more. It was too late.

“Ellie, what’s wrong?” You call out, jumping out of your bed after her and following her into the living room. Her hand was on the door-knob, ready to leave, but you grabbed her wrist to stop her. “Look at me.”

She freezes, lip between her teeth, eyebrows furrowed as she tries to compose herself enough to face you. What feels like hours later, she turns around, eyes immediately meeting with yours, and your heart aches at the tormented expression on her face.

“Ellie?” You had no idea what went so wrong, so quickly. You don’t release her wrist, scared that she would leave the second you did, but you move your other hand to her cheek, only for her to turn her face away. Your heart drops, you feel the tears spring to your eyes as she stares back at you like you’re not really there. “Can you just tell me what’s wrong?”

“You’re lying. I get it’s a joke, and it’s funny, but at what cost? My feelings?” She raises an eyebrow at you, she hoped you couldn’t see how hard it was to keep a straight face.

You just shake your head, mouth open in shock as you stare straight back at her. “Ellie, what if I do?” You push, eyes unwavering to show how serious you were.

“What are you doing, Y/N? Seriously.”

“I want you to tell me, what if I do? What if I do, and I’m scared to tell you, because I know you’ll freak out? Like you are right now.” You release your hold on her wrist, swatting frustratedly at the single tear that falls from your eye. “What if I do, but I’m scared you won’t want me back?” Your voice cracks as it falls just above a whisper and you turn away from her, holding your hands over your eyes and willing yourself to keep it together.

Ellie takes a deep breath in, feeling a little less vulnerable when you’re turned away from her. She wrings the ring and pinkie finger on her left hand, staring down at them as she fumbles over the words to say. She hated seeing you cry. She could count only on one hand how many times she’d been the cause of your tears.

“You know what my biggest fear is?” She looks back up and at your back, seeing your shoulders visibly stiffen at her words.

“Spiders.” You sniffle after a few moments, not daring to turn around.

Ellie looks down again, a small smile on her face at the fact you remembered. “That’s kind of my, bullshit-superficial answer I give people,” she fidgets with her hands again, tongue toying with the inside of her cheek as she ponders whether or not to tell you. “My biggest fear is… Losing people - you know, ending up alone and stuff.” She wipes her hand across her nose, not looking up as she sees you turn around out of her peripheral vision. It was easier to talk to you when it seemed like you weren’t there.

“So, when I realised I liked you, I convinced myself that nothing could happen between us, that you’d never like me back, because liking you and thinking you didn’t feel the same seemed a lot better than liking you and trying to, you know, be more than friends, and then losing you because of it.” She admits, only looking up when your feet move towards her, just in time for your hands to cup her cheeks and pull her into a kiss.

Ellie’s eyes are open in shock, but once she recovers, she’s kissing you just as hard, just as passionately with a level of delicacy at the same time. She kisses you like she’d been dreaming of this moment since forever. She’d never tell you that she had.

Her hands grab onto your wrists, then they’re on your cheeks, then they’re resting on your sides, right where your ribs are. She doesn’t know where to hold you, she can’t get enough.

Your tongues lock in something of a frenzy. Lines are blurred, friendships are ruined, but something else, something better is sizzling in its place. Something Ellie is already terrified to lose.

“I don’t wanna lose you,” Ellie slightly pulls away, breath tickling your lips and words falling out in pants. Eyes glued shut, forehead tilted down to yours, she doesn’t see the look of pure love in your eyes as you stare up at her.

“Then don’t.” You whisper, stroking your thumbs over the freckles on her face.

Minutes pass like this. Your hands on her cheeks, hers on your side, foreheads touching and eyes closed.

“Everything has changed.” Ellie mumbles after some time, her voice hoarse and crackly.

“Change isn’t always bad, El.”

She opens her eyes at this, just as you do, and she smiles.

A small, simple smile that told you she trusts you. That she’d try with you.

You bite your lip, trying to stop your own smile from being so gigantic that you look like an idiot.

“You know, I’m still going after Joel.” You remind her, butterflies swarming in your stomach when her eyes meet with yours, a cheeky glint in them.

“Be my guest.”

Ellie was right, everything did change in that moment. Your safe, happy and healthy friendship morphed into something a little more dangerous. You both knew it was something you had to work hard at. Being in a relationship was hard enough, throwing an apocalypse in to the mix added a certain feeling of doom to it.

Between the two of you, there was a silent agreement. You’d have her and she’d have you. No matter what. Two best friends who loved each other, kissed each other, told each other things only lovers do.

She’d give her life for you, you’d do the same for her.

#thelastofus #tlou #tlou 2 #ellie williams #ellie williams imagines #ellie williams x reader #tlou2 ellie x reader #joel miller #ellie williams fanfic #ellie williams x y/n #ellie williams x f reader #tlou fic #ellie williams fanfiction

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quackitysdrugdealer · 2 years ago

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As some people may know i'm going to start writing one shots so i made a list of promts feel free to use these i can do other promts and things this is just ideas but there are some things i won't do like smut i will let you know if i'm uncomfortable with your request and explain that i'm uncomfortable with that and if you send in a request i'm a small account so i can pretty much guarantee that i'll get your request done within 27 hours lol but for now enjoy my promts!

1 "Aw, look at you!"

"Stop touching me."

"I'm sorry, I wasn't trying to annoy you; you're just so cute."

2 "Do you even realize how cute you are?"

"Oh yes, I'm adorable. I'm a fucking delight."

3 "I just can't get over the fact that you said yes."

(while gazing at their ring) "Believe it, baby. I said yes over a year ago."

"I know... but still."

4"I've never met anyone that makes me feel the way you do."

"Crazy?"

"Yes but in the best possible way."

5"Stop touching me."

"But I wanna cuddle!"

"Oh, well then why didn't you just say so. C'mere."

6"Do you know who's the best person in the world?"

"Me?"

"No, me but only because you make me the best person."

7"I want to be better for you."

8 "I want to deserve you and I never will unless I become a better person."

9 "I still can't believe you love me."

"Better believe it, baby."

10 "I'm crazy about you."

"Yeah, you're crazy alright."

11"Kiss me!"

"Never."

(pouting)

"Oh, I was kidding! Stop pouting like that."

12 "You're my favorite!"

"You married me, so I really hope I'm your favorite."

13 "Have you ever thought about leaving me?"

"I'd be a fool to ever want to leave you."

14 "You are the best."

"Not nearly as best as you!"

"That made no sense."

"Only because you don't understand how incredible you are."

"No, that just grammatically didn't make sense."

15 "Quit being a grammar junkie!"

"Why don't you come over here and make me?" (😘😉)

16 #11 “I’m tired” “I can see that babe” “Sleep with me?” “mhm”

17 “Kiss me?”

18 “You are my home, you have been since we met”

19 “Hi sweetheart” “Hi babe” “Is that my shirt?” “No”

20“Die” “Bet” “wait- babe no stop”

21“Hello lovely” “Hi <character name>”

22 “I've to go” “Noooo please” “Sorry love”

23“God I love you”

24 “Happy Birthday”

25: "i'm pregnant"

26: " you know i only let you touch me"

27: " there's no other person for me i swear"

28: dancing in the rain

29 "dance with me?"

30: person a shares persons Bs secrets with the there friends and they break up

31 They're drunk and you're carrying them to their room, when they unexpectedly say how much they love you, causing you to drop them on the floor

32 They end the phone call with an accidental ''love you'', leaving you flustered

33 Confessing before being separated for an uncertain period of time

34 Asking them how your name + their surname would sound like (or/and vice versa)

35 Accidentally confessing while laughing over something

36 Saying "I love you" while they're sleeping/unconscious/in coma. You know well that they can't hear you, but a small part of you hopes they did

37 Always giving each other yellow roses for valentine's day, when one day you see that you've got red roses instead

38 Tears drench your cheeks as you confess. The last thing you hear before dying is them screaming your name

39 Confessing at the same place where they first met

40 Scolding them for doing something stupid, wondering "why did I have to fall for you" and not realising that you just said that out loud

41:“You saved me, let me save you”

42: “You can’t save me and then walk out”

43: “ Focus on me please”

44: “You deserve better” “And you need more”

45: “Babe it’s not what it looks like” “Yeah? then what is it?”

46: “How are you in the wrong if you’re the only one putting in the effort to make it work?”

47: “Sometimes giving up is easier my love”

48: “How many times do we have to hurt each other before realising we’re no good at this”

49: “So what that’s it?” “Yeah it is, this relationship is one sided and I’m tired okay”

50: “Can you hold me while I go?”

51:hot chocolate and cuddles

52: person b gets hypothermia

53: breakfast in bed

54: holding there child for the first time

55: walking in on person a cuddling there baby

56: person a and b break up and 3 year's later person a finds person b with a child there child

57: Braiding eachothers hair

58: dieing before you can admit there feelings

59:dancing in the light of the fridge

60: dyeing eachothers hair

61: person a has autism

62: doing face masks together

63: one of them getting shot and almost dieing

64: person b has adhd and person a notices that there fidgety so the grab there hand

65: person a being a Assassin and is supposed to kill person b but they can't and make it there lifes mission to protect person b

66: movie night!!

67: (requester chose's a song for the oneshot to be based off of)

68: person a thinks there house is haunted but it's just person b being annoying

69: meeting the parents for the first time

70: person a finding out they need glasses and realizing how long there visions been so blurry and they thought it was normal and freaking out beacuse they can finally see person b clearly and thinking there beautiful

71: photographer meets artists

72: " we've GOT to stop meeting like this"

"You kidnapped me idiot"

" but your not a kid?"

" oh my gosh you are a idiot"

73 " murder wasn't on today's agenda"

"It's not on anyones"

" no it's on mine, just not untill next Thursday"

74: " did you have to hit me with a corpses leg? Was that really necessary?"

"Necessary. No. Hilarious, yes"

Royalty!au

Bodyguard!au

Brother's best friend!au

enemies to lovers!au

Friends to lovers!au

Love letters!au

Famous!au

Streamer!au

Assassin!au

Famous brother!au

Time travel!au

Ghost and human!au

Suicidal x therapist!au(not romancing being Suicidal please if you feel this way talk to someone even if it's just a little or about your day it will help and dms always open)

Student x teacher!au(both of age)

Demigod x mortal!au

Beast friends brother!au

Transfer student!au

Dark academy!au

Different sides in a war!au

Polor opposites!au

I hate everyone in the world but you!au

Fake dating!au

Grumpy x sunshine!au

Cowarker romance!au

And again these are just ideas you can thinknof your own if you want to

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offbrandhange · 4 years ago

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Wedding Day ! | 𝕳𝖊𝖆𝖉𝖈𝖆𝖓𝖓𝖔𝖓𝖘

Fluff & NSFW headcanons on your wedding day/night with some of the AOT boys!

! Slight NSFW !

Warnings: Alcohol, mentions of sex, pregnancy. Fem ! reader.

Majority of this is fluff, but there are mentions of !BEEP! sooo yeah.

Characters: Armin, Eren, Erwin, Jean, Levi

a/n: I have to take my SAT tomorrow, please wish your girl good luck for those sweet, sweet good grades....

𝕬𝖗𝖒𝖎𝖓 𝕬𝖗𝖑𝖊𝖗𝖙 ~

Helps you plan the wedding and possibly loves it even more than you do. He’s a sucker for quality time.

Armin would prefer a small or medium-sized wedding. If you want a large wedding though, there’s no way he’s holding you back from having it.

100% a beach wedding. No doubt.

The venue is BEAUTIFUL. Spent countless nights researching and visiting places to make sure you got the best.

Eren is chosen as the best man, although Armin feels guilty for having to pick only one out of all his friends.

On the day of the wedding, Armin is a panicking mess. Eren and Jean literally have to give him a pep talk before he goes to stand at the alter.

Practiced deep breathing techniques before the wedding. Unfortunately, they aren’t working.

When you finally walk down the isle, Armin starts crying softly. Eren put his hand on his shoulder to comfort him......which just made him sob harder. He cried multiple times during the wedding.

Your wedding rings are the set his grandfather and grandmother shared :’)

Specifically told the bartender not to serve Connie and Sasha more than 3 drinks. He doesn’t trust them making their own alcohol-related decisions at his wedding.

Armin isn’t a dancer but....he practiced how to slow dance just for you.

Shy at first when it comes to the more fast-paced dancing, but Jean coaxes him into it, and he ends up having a lot of fun.

The speeches are so nice!!! But mostly because Armin asked Mikasa to read them over before hand to make sure they were okay.

After the wedding ends and everyone has left, you and Armin sit and watch the waves at night.

NSFW below !

The beach was reserved...meaning it is now completely deserted. I am now politely reminding you, Armin is not a saint. Honeymoon sex on the beach, anybody?

The sex is slow and sweet; he takes his time with you and kisses you all over. It’s 100% the definition of, “making love.”

If you’re down for a kid right now, Armin’s down for a kid right now. He WILL try for a baby with you if it’s what you want.

After you made a mess of yourselves in the sand...Armin would probably let you sleep for a little bit as he watched the waves. He doesn’t want it to end yet.

When he’s finally content, he would carry you back to the hotel, trying not to wake you.

Super considerate dusting the sand off you, and then tucking you in bed. He’s totally cuddling you to sleep, too.

𝕰𝖗𝖊𝖓 𝕵𝖆𝖊𝖌𝖊𝖗 ~

Pretty much gives you full control of the wedding planning; he only has a few requests.

Eren would be the type of dude to invite friends, friends of friends, and friends of friends of friends. Your wedding is gonna be packed.

Has no idea what kind of wedding he prefers.

Please, god, don’t let him pick the venue. He will go to the first one, look around, and go, “Yeah, this is pretty nice.” That’s how you’ll end up getting married at an AirBNB with a nice backyard hidden behind the local Walmart.

Doesn’t know if he should make Armin or Zeke the best man, so he flips a coin to decide. It landed on Armin, and from that day on, Zeke was super salty.

Tries to convince you to try on the wedding dress/suit the day before. He can’t sleep that night because he’s so keyed up thinking about how pretty you’ll look.

On the day of the wedding, he’s super fucking ecstatic and practically bouncing all over the place.

Eren would get kind of impatient when waiting at the isle, to the point it would annoy the groomsmen. Jean came so close to saying something but was thankfully stopped by Armin.

When you finally walk down the isle, he’s BEAMING. He tears up a little bit out of happiness, but nothing too extreme.

Armin had to help him pick out the wedding rings otherwise you would’ve ended up with one of those plastic spider rings you win at Chuck e. Cheese’s.

Eren gets so fucking drunk you’re worried you might have to carry him back to the room by the end of the night.

Jean literally nit-picks everything Eren does the whole night....which almost ends up resulting in a drunken bar fight...at your wedding. It ends up fine, though, because Levi and Mikasa step in as bodyguards.

You SWEAR Mikasa is giving you dirty looks. Likewise, Eren SWEARS he’s getting dirty looks from Levi.

He does alright slow-dancing, but is so tipsy and distracted by how attractive you are to him, he’s kinda just....trying his best.

Absolutely OBLITERATES the dance floor when the fast-paced songs come on...

WILD assortment of speeches. Mikasa is crying, Armin’s reading a poem, Floch’s trying to get you to join his cult, Zeke is crying......and Eren is sitting there like, “Is this almost over.” You’d think it was America’s got talent, or something.

When the wedding ends, he 100% drags you to your favorite fast-food restaurant. Still in your wedding attire. Seriously, this dude is crazy, but he’s fun.

NSFW below !

When you get back to the hotel, he lets you eat your food--and then he fucks the shit out of you.

Way, way, way more rough than usual; super passionate sex. Multiple rounds, too. You don’t even KNOW how he has this much stamina by the end of the night.

Not even TRYING to get you pregnant, but his dumbass probably accidentally would.

Good luck trying to walk tomorrow!!!

When he’s finally tired, he is GONE. Like, you could scream bloody-murder and he still wouldn’t wake up.

𝕰𝖗𝖜𝖎𝖓 𝕾𝖒𝖎𝖙𝖍 ~

You can TRY and take that wedding planner from Erwin--the only way he’d give it to you is if you pried it from his cold, dead hand(s).

Tells people he’s married MONTHS before the wedding.

Everyone.....and I mean EVERYONE.....knows you’re getting married. he will walk up to strangers and brag about you.

Erwin invites everyone he sees. Elderly woman crossing the street? Invited. Barista at the coffee shop? Invited. Guy on the bus who offered him a seat? Invited.

All those people attend the wedding, too. Why? Everyone knows and loves Erwin. So when your wedding is literally PACKED with people you have never seen before--you’re only slightly surprised.

You know those reality shows where they have HUGE, expensive weddings? Your wedding would put theirs to shame. Erwin goes ALL OUT.

The venue? A literal castle. How did he manage to book and afford a castle? Don’t question it.

Your wedding dress doesn’t have a budget. Seriously, your wedding is crazy expensive--and straight out of a fairy tale.

You’re pretty sure Levi made himself the best man--and Erwin was fine with it.

Is super excited on the day of the wedding. He knows it’s going to be perfect; he got his eyebrows done just for the occasion.

When you walk down that isle his smile is SO BRIGHT. he is SHINING.

Yeah, those wedding rings? Imported from Italy, plastered with giant, real, diamonds. You will never be able to say Erwin doesn’t spoil you.

Pretty chill wedding, nothing’s too rowdy and everyone’s still having a good time.

Whispers sweet nothings and tells you how happy he is the whole night. He can’t go five minutes without saying, “I love you.”

Just TRY to get him to stop holding your hand; he won’t.

Erwin is so good at slow-dancing??? And he’s so careful with you, too. 100% the one in the lead, but he’s spinning and dipping you so sweetly. Not to mention the way he’s looking at you...

He’s a serious guy a lot of the time, but I honest to god believe in the sweetest way possible, you would genuinely have a really fun time fast-pace dancing with him. You would both be laughing at each other’s moves.

Majority of the speeches are super nice. Hange tried to get Levi to say something, brought him up to the stage and....he starred at the crowd for a couple awkward seconds, then walked off. He conveyed his message through his eyes, I guess?

The wedding is so long you weren’t sure it was ever going to end...

Hotel? Nah he booked that castle, that’s where you’re spending the night...

NSFW below !

You’re fucking in the king bed tonight baby, literally.

Pays attention to your needs/wants the WHOLE NIGHT. Seriously, he’s a soft dom, and makes sure you’re more than satisfied.

Tons of body worship?? He’s so sweet and careful with you.

Erwin secretly really, really wants to give you his babies and start a family with you on the honeymoon. If you’re willing, he will make sure he gets you pregnant; you’re getting no sleep.

After you’re done, he will run you two a bath and clean you off. He adds in a little bonus massage, too.

When you get in bed, he pets your head, cuddling you until you fall asleep. You could’ve sworn you saw him smiling before you drifted off to sleep.

𝕵𝖊𝖆𝖓 𝕶𝖎𝖗𝖘𝖈𝖍𝖙𝖊𝖎𝖓 ~

Jean would definitely help you plan the wedding--he values romance a lot, so having the perfect wedding for him and you, is important. He also doesn’t want to put all the weight on you.

Brags to his friends that he’s getting married--they all get tired of hearing about it.

Normal sized wedding--not too many, but not small, either. Lots of family and friends.

The venue is at a barn. Yes, he picked a barn. it’s a nice venue, too; the only problem is that he’s not going to be able to escape those horse jokes.

Marco is chosen as the best man--and when Connie hears about it, he sulks for a few days. He gets over it eventually, though.

He’s kind of nervous the day of--but Marco reassures him and teaches his some deep-breathing techniques.

Keeps his cool until he goes to stand at the alter--and then he’s in full-blown panic mode. “What if I can’t make her happy?” “What if she runs away with Eren?” meanwhile, Eren is standing right there with the other groomsmen, like “wtf?”

When you walk down the isle--he’s super overwhelmed. He feels a huge sense of relief you didn’t ditch him and run away, but also metaphorically hit by a semi-truck of emotions since he realized he’s ACTUALLY getting married. There’s a little bit of happy crying.

His mom picked out your wedding rings; you only find out when she brags about it--and Jean yells at her for telling you.

His wedding gift to you is a giant portrait he drew of you--and on the back, there’s a message in French. He won’t tell you what it says, but you’re pretty sure it’s an oath to love and protect you ‘till the day he dies.

He does pretty well slow-dancing. His mom also mentions he begged her to practice with him so he didn’t mess up.

He’s a little worried about making himself look like a fool dancing in front of you--but for you, he does it anyways; You both laugh your asses off and have a lot of fun.

The speeches make Jean look like he wants to drop dead from embarrassment. He’s not sure what’s worse--Connie and Sasha doing karaoke, Eren making horse jokes, or his mom telling all of his embarrassing baby stories.

After everyone leaves, Jean takes you to look at the animals before you leave, too.

NSFW below !

As for honeymoon sex; you better not make a horse joke, otherwise you’re getting laid in that fucking barn. Maybe. He threatens that, but you know he wouldn’t want to have sex there on your wedding night. He’s 100% down for another time, though.

A mix of rough and sweet at the same time--he does the right things at the right times.

Is a lot more passionate and soft than usual--very careful with your body, and makes sure to really take everything in; He wants to remember the night for as long as he lives.

Immaculate aftercare; and on top of that, he lets you fall asleep in his arms, occasionally kissing your forehead.

Bonus: he sings you to sleep.

𝕷𝖊𝖛𝖎 𝕬𝖈𝖐𝖊𝖗𝖒𝖆𝖓 ~

Lets you plan the wedding, but looks it over and makes sure there’s nothing too crazy happening. He, somehow, is worried you’re going to plan a circus or something else ridiculous to show up.

No one knows you’re getting married until the envelopes are mailed to family and friends. In fact, some people didn’t even know you were together.

Pretty small wedding, it’s mostly people who are very close to you two. It has a very homey-feel.

The venue HAS to be indoors. Levi thinks an outdoor wedding is unsanitary--so you end up getting married in a banquet hall.

Erwin is 1000% the best man. You don’t even have to ask, you already know it’s going to be Erwin.

Is literally shaking and sweating his ass off he’s so nervous the day of the wedding--if anyone asks, though, he swears he is fine. Has no idea it’s completely obvious he’s on the verge of absolutely freaking out.

Erwin and Hange try to get him to relax--but he continues to deny that he is in fact, NOT calm.

When you walk down the isle and he makes eye contact with you--his brain short-circuits. His mind literally stops working and is constantly repeating, “p...p...pre....pretty..” the whole damn time.

Mentally saves the image of you in your dress/suit to use as his motivation to always come home to you.

Tries to remain expressionless, but is literally tomato-red and on the verge of crying; he never thought he’d be able to find happiness--it feels like everything is finally going to be okay. Erwin is smiling like a proud dad, and Hange is trying to suppress their amazement that the dude’s showing emotion.

Your wedding rings are fairly plain--but on the inside of the bands, both of your names are etched.

He won’t read the vows out loud, he simply hands you a letter and tells you to read it another time.

When the time comes to kiss--Levi literally hides behind you and shyly pulls you in. The view the audience gets is your back--and they aren’t sure whether to clap or not.

Your wedding gift to him was a giant assortment of different teas--and he genuinely seemed really excited to try them. He didn’t realize it, but when he mentioned tasting them, he said, “with you” at the end.

Has no idea how to slow dance. Erwin tried to help him, but it didn’t do much, so you teach him on the spot. Your first dance, he concentrates really hard on not messing up, eyebrows furrowed and all.

Doesn’t know how to dance fast-pace either, in fact, he’s pretty confused. You have to grab the man and force him out of his comfort zone, spinning him and all. Hange and the Survey Corp members are laughing their ass off at his bewildered face.

The speeches went pretty well--except for when Hange didn’t stop talking; Levi threatened to force them off the stage, and you don’t think he was joking.

The wedding was fairly short--but only because Levi rushed everyone home; he just wanted to drag you off and keep you to himself for the rest of the day.

After the wedding, he takes you to a spot nearby to watch the sunset. He has a soft smile, and you can tell he’s genuinely happy.

You take HIM back to the hotel--he would’ve been fine staying there just a little longer, in the peace of it all.

NSFW below !

You’re literally taking his virginity. He saved himself for marriage; he wanted to make sure he gave himself to the right person.

Very nervous--and kind of insecure, too. He isn’t sure what you’ll think of him, and he’s worried about you seeing his scars. He STILL isn’t completely convinced you really want him.

Lots of body worship and reassuring him; he melts at your touch.

Once he gets comfortable and into it, he repeats “I love you” a lot.

He doesn’t last very long...but keeps going until you get off, too. He’s still a little confused by everything, so you have to teach him.

He’s half asleep after cumming--but still insists the two of you need to get in the shower.

Was too tired to stand, so you took a bath together instead. He falls asleep, leaning on you, when you massage his head.

You end up being unable to wake him up--the man is dead tired from not only sleep deprivation, the long day, but also his first time.

You can’t get him out of the bathtub, either--he’s too bulky to lift. You expected him to be much lighter due to his height, but his muscle makes him a lot more heavy.

Hange and Erwin have to be called to haul his ass--naked--out of the tub and into the bed. Hange is of no help since they’re laughing so hard--and Erwin is helping, but trying so hard not to break face and laugh too.

After they leave, you cover him up and cuddle into his frame; you could swear you heard a quiet, “thank you.”

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juniormint1125 · 2 years ago

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It's All For the Best - Part 3

It’s All For the Best - Part 3

Kim Hongjoong x Reader

Summary: Reader and Hongjoong are in an established relationship when something unexpected tests the strength of their bond.

Word Count: Part 1 - 1,628 / Part 2 - 3,894 / Part 3 - 3,495

Genre: fluff, angst

Warnings/Contains:

Part 1 –allusions to sex

Part 2 - unplanned pregnancy, mention of abortion

Part 3

You wake in the morning and find Hongjoong sitting up in bed beside you. He’s staring out he window, your phone in his hand. He hears you stirring and turns to face you.

“Why do you have so many messages from Seonghwa, Y/N?”

You sit up. His tone is stern and there’s no humor in his expression. You feel like a child being scolded by her father. But you’ve done nothing wrong.

“He just wanted to talk. I already told him it would have to wait until some other time.”

“What does he want to talk about?”

“I don’t know,” you lie. You can’t tell him what Seonghwa actually wants. Hongjoong turns on you. He’s becoming exasperated with your vague answers.

“What do you mean you don’t know? I think you’re lying, Y/N. Something is going on here, I know it. What are you hiding from me?”

You thought you’d been a good liar, but he knows you too well. You try to compose yourself, but you stumble over your words. It only makes him more suspicious.

“I…I’m not hiding anything from you.”

“Damn it, Y/N.” He’s yelling, which is completely out of character. “Are you…are you seeing him behind my back? Is that why you didn’t want to…”

He stops. His face is clouded with hurt and dismay.

You’re baffled by Hongjoong’s response. You’ve never seen Seonghwa as anything more than a friend. And you would never cheat on Hongjoong. He’s the man of your dreams, virtually perfect in every way. Where he would have gotten such a ridiculous idea. And you tell him so.

“That’s insane.”

He jumps up from the bed, pacing beside it. You’ve never seen him as frantic as he looks standing before you now.

“I’m not crazy! I saw the two of you yesterday. The way he looked at you and the way…the way he touched you.” His face flushes crimson and he looks away.

“It was nothing, Joongie. I swear to you.”

His anger has turned to anguish. “If it’s really nothing, then why won’t you tell me? You’re keeping something from me Y/N!”

You are lying to him, but it’s not about Seonghwa. And you can’t tell him the truth because you’ll lose him. If you lose him, you’ll fall apart.

“There’s nothing going on between Seonghwa and me. Please, Joongie. I promise.”

“That’s bull shit!” he curses again. “I’ll just ask him myself. Since you won’t tell me the truth.”

“No!”

You panic and grab his arm desperately. If he asks Seonghwa, he’ll tell him the truth. He won’t be able to lie to Hongjoong and you can’t let that happen. He jerks away from you.

“Why not? Are you afraid he’ll tell me the truth? Are you afraid I’ll find out what’s really going on?”

“There’s nothing going on between us! Don’t you trust me?” You’re yelling now too. And frustrated that you can’t make him believe you. You’re lying, so you really have no right to expect him to trust you. You’re disgusted with yourself.

“Trust goes both ways, Y/N,” he replies bitterly. “If there’s nothing suspicious going on, you should trust me enough to tell me the truth.”

He’s dampening your resolve. You want to tell him the truth to keep him from calling you a liar and to keep him from thinking you’re a cheater. But you can’t let your secret out. You have to keep the truth hidden. He cannot find out that you’re pregnant.

You’re utterly defeated. “I do trust you, Hongjoong.”

“Then prove it,” he challenges you. “What does Seonghwa want to talk to you about?”

You hang your head and sigh. What if there could be a chance that you’re wrong? What if Hongjoong really would stay with you despite a baby he didn’t want? You start to speak, but the words are stuck in your throat.

“I guess that’s all the proof I need, Y/N.”

He throws on his clothes. You try to call to him, to stop him. You try to get up and run to him before he can walk out. But your fear of him finding out is too overwhelming and keeps you rooted in your place.

“Where are you going?” you finally manage to squeak out.

He turns to look at you before opening the door. “I need some space.”

When the door slams behind him, you burst into tears. The worst-case scenario has become reality and Hongjoong doesn’t even know about the baby yet. Nothing can make the situation better. There’s nothing that can stop his life from being ruined. Nothing except you leaving.

You wipe your tears with the back of your hand and muster all your courage to get out of bed. You spend the morning packing your things. You’re going back to Korea. You can disappear and everything will be fine. Hongjoong will get over you. He’ll never know about the baby. This is all for the best.

When you’re walking out of the hotel room, you call Seonghwa. He’s been calling you for the last two hours and you can’t avoid him any longer.

The phone rings and he immediately answers. “Where have you been Y/N? I’ve been trying to call you. What the hell is going on?”

“What do you mean?” you ask.

“Hongjoong. He came to my room enraged and yelling at me to tell him what’s going on between us. I didn’t know what he was talking about. He was furious and wouldn’t listen to anything I said. Thankfully Jongho was here. He talked him down and got him out of my room. What happened to him?”

“I’m so sorry, Hwa. I had no idea he would really do that.”

“You knew he was coming here?”

“He saw us talking yesterday. He thinks there’s something going on between us. I couldn’t tell him what we were really talking about. He threatened to confront you, but I didn’t know he would really go there when he stormed out.”

“He’s a complete mess, Y/N. You have to tell him the truth.”

“I can’t. And that’s why I’m leaving. I’ve already left the hotel. I’m on my way to the airport.”

“Where are you going?” he asks.

“I’m going home. When I get there, I’m moving out of our apartment. I can’t stay with Hongjoong. I’m ruining his life. He can’t do his job like he’s supposed to because of me. To make his life better, I’m taking myself out of the equation.”

“You’re just going to leave without telling him?

“I’ve already left. And anyway, what choice do I have? He can’t find out. Please, Hwa, don’t tell him that I’m pregnant. I need time to figure things out.”

He reluctantly agrees. “But you have to tell me where you’re going. You might be breaking up with Hongjoong, but you’re not breaking up with me.”

You hang up and ask the taxi driver to take you to the airport. Then you bury your head in your hands and cry all the way home.

Back in Korea, you cut ties with the entirety of your previous life. You decline Hongjoong’s calls and delete his text messages without reading them. It’s the hardest thing you’ve ever done. You finally change your phone number because you can no longer face seeing his name come across your phone.

As requested, you let Seonghwa know when you’ve finalized your move. He calls you every night after their concerts to check on you. And to tell you how miserable Hongjoong is.

Weeks later, it’s the last night of the tour, and you’re about to hang up when he turns serious.

“Y/N. You have to talk to Hongjoong. He’s in shambles. I don’t know how much more he can take. He’s going to break.”

“What can I say to make anything better? Anything he hears from me would be more lies.”

“Please, just tell him the truth. He still doesn’t even know you’re pregnant.”

“That most definitely wouldn’t help anything,” you reply sarcastically.

“Y/N, he loves you so much. He was devastated when you left. He hasn’t been eating or sleeping. He’s desperate to talk to you.”

“I just don’t think it’s for the best.” You hang up before you start crying. You’re bound to cry yourself to sleep later, so you try to hold back the tears for now.

Before going to bed, you get a message from Seonghwa.

“If you don’t tell Hongjoong by the end of the month, then I will. I care about both of you, and I can’t stand to see either of you like this. If you’re keeping the baby, then you have to be healthy. And I need Hongjoong to be able to do his job.”

Seonghwa’s words resonate in your mind. If you’re keeping the baby. In the weeks since you returned to Korea, you’ve come to the decision that you want to keep the baby. It’s the only way you can still have Hongjoong in your life. This baby is a piece of him and will always be a reminder of the love you two shared. You’ll treasure it, like you would have treasured Hongjoong if you’d had the chance.

Since you told Seonghwa your decision, he’s been bossier than Hongjoong. He constantly nags you about your health and he’s insisted on going to your doctor’s appointments with you when he gets back. He really is the best friend you could ever ask for.

You climb into bed and wonder if you should let Seonghwa tell Hongjoong the truth. He repeatedly reminds you how hard this has been on Hongjoong. It kills you to hear it. But you know it’s because Seonghwa wants you to decide on your own to tell. He knows you love Hongjoong and that you’re miserable without him too.

You toss and turn under the covers, eventually settling into a barely comfortable position. You’re sleeping is back to trash since you broke up with Hongjoong, and it takes a ridiculously long amount of time for you to fall asleep each night. There hasn’t been a single night that you haven’t cried yourself to sleep missing him.

When Seonghwa calls you the next day, he tells you that they’ll be landing in Korea at the end of the week. He wants to come see you once they’re settled in. Reluctantly, you agree. You know that it will be a painful reminder of your separation from Hongjoong.

Days later, when Seonghwa texts you he’s on his way to your apartment, you’re anxious about seeing him. He’s your last connection to Hongjoong, who you miss enormously. You never wanted to leave Hongjoong, but you did what you thought was best. You were certain you’d be able to live with your decision because you were looking out for Hongjoong’s best interests, but each day’s been harder than the last. You pray it doesn’t get any worse seeing his best friend.

Seonghwa smiles when you open the door. “Y/N!” he gushes. “I’ve missed you. Look at you! Your little bump is so cute!”

It feels strange to have Seonghwa gushing over you. There hasn’t been much cause for joy so far in your pregnancy, so his happiness strikes you as odd.

“Have you been doing well? Are you taking your vitamins? Have you prepared for your appointment? What time should I pick you up?” You laugh at all of his questions. “I’m sorry. It’s just that Hongjoong would want to make sure you’re taking care of yourself so…”

He stops when he sees your frown. You could only hope that Hongjoong would care that much about your pregnancy, but you don’t think that would be the case.

“Speaking of Hongjoong,” Seonghwa continues. “Have you thought anymore about telling him the truth. Now that we’re back from tour, it’s going to be harder for you to avoid him.”

“You’re the only one who knows where I am. Seoul is a big city. I’m not likely to bump into him on the street. I won’t be taking anymore translating jobs for the company, so there’s not much chance of us seeing each other. This is best for everyone.”

“I’m sorry, Y/N, but I don’t agree. He deserves to know the truth. You don’t know how he will react, he might…”

“No,” you interrupt.

Seonghwa sighs and drops the issue. But you know how strongly he feels about it, so the conversation isn’t really over. He makes plans to pick you up the next day for your appointment and you talk a while longer before he has to leave for a schedule. You hug him goodbye, then he turns to face you.

“It’s almost the end of the month, Y/N. One of us will have to tell him.”

You close the door and burst into tears.

The next morning, Seonghwa picks you up early.

“I thought you could use a snack before your appointment,” he smiles when you answer the door. The smell of fresh pastries and coffee fills your nostrils.

“You read my mind. I’m starving.”

He doesn’t talk much over breakfast. You know that he’s thinking of Hongjoong because you are too. You want more than anything for him to be the one with you, but you know that isn’t possible. You’re going to have to do this alone, so you push your thoughts of him away. It won’t do any good to wish for things that will never happen.

You’re nervous going into the appointment, but Seonghwa stays by your side to comfort you. You’re glad he’s there. His genuine friendship and kindness make the difficult situation bearable. After mounds of paperwork, you’re escorted down the hall for an ultrasound.

You’re caught off guard when the technician asks, “Are you ready to hear the heartbeat, dad?”

Tears threaten to overwhelm you. You look to Seonghwa, your eyes pleading for help. He quickly responds to the technician. Squeezing your hand tightly, he says, “Everyone can’t wait.”

For the first time since you found out you were pregnant, you feel something other than fear and dread. To this point, you’ve only thought of the baby as unplanned and unwanted. You’ve never really stopped to think about how you actually feel. It’s definitely not what you planned, but is it such a bad thing? It will be hard raising a child by yourself but you’re strong. And with his child, you can keep a piece of Hongjoong with you forever even though he’s no longer yours.

You squeeze Seonghwa’s hand back, finally confident in the decisions you’ve made. You’re going to be okay. You and your baby are going to be okay.

After the appointment, Seonghwa brings you home. You’re walking up the stairs to your apartment when he says there’s something he needs to tell you.

His voice is unsteady. “I’m sorry, Y/N. I sort of broke my promise. But…”

His voice trails off as you reach the top of the stairs. You lift your head to see someone standing in front of your door. It takes you a second to realize the thin, disheveled man pacing with his hands in his pockets is Hongjoong. You turn on Seonghwa in disbelief. He’s backing down the stairs as he whispers, “He found the test. I had to tell him.”

You suddenly remember the suitcase of dirty laundry with the positive pregnancy test stuffed in the bottom. In your haste to leave, you’d forgotten about hiding it there and it hadn’t crossed your mind since. A small gasp escapes your lips causing Hongjoong’s head to snap in your direction. There’s no escape now so you gather all the courage you have and walk toward him.

He looks exhausted, dark circles prominent below his bloodshot eyes. He’s lost weight, the gentle line of his jaw is too sharp, and his cheeks are too bony. Your heart pounds in your throat; you can’t stand to see him like that. You look away and walk past him, fumbling with your keys in the door.

You manage to get it open as he steps closer to you. The familiar scent of citrus and amber fills your nostrils. You grip the doorknob to steady yourself, your knees nearly buckling beneath you. Your eyes flutter shut when he whispers your name, and you nearly come undone when his hand touches the small of your back.

You try to make your voice hard. “What are you doing here Hongjoong?”

“Please let me come in.”

“That’s not a good idea,” you reply. You try to step away from him and close the door, but he grabs the handle and stops you. All your resistance melts away and you look into his eyes.

“Please,” he whispers again.

You step through the door, leaving it open behind you. He walks inside and after an eternity of silence, he speaks.

“Y/N, is it true? Are you really…”

You’re on the verge of breaking down. “Yes.”

“Then, why did you say…”

You’re shaking inside but you can’t let Hongjoong know that. You grip the chair beside you to steady yourself.

“Don’t worry. No one will find out. Seonghwa is the only one who knows where I am. And no one else knows about the baby. I won’t tell anyone it’s yours. And I don’t need anything from you. You don’t have to worry about this damaging your career. I promise, no one will find out. “

“Is that what you really think?” he asks in disbelief. His voice cracks. “Is that why you left me?”

“I’m not going to ruin your career,” you continue. “I know how much music means to you and I would never take that away from you. I’ll leave Seoul and I’ll leave Korea if you want me to. I promise I won’t…”

“Y/N, I’m so sorry.”

You’re puzzled by his apology. “Why are you sorry?”

“I’m sorry that I ever made you feel like my music was more important than you.” He reaches out to take your hand. “Nothing in this world matters to me more than you. And now you’ve given me this gift, and I’ve left you to go through all of this alone…” Tears slip from his eyes.

“What do you mean a gift?” you ask.

“The baby, Y/N.”

“But, I thought you didn’t…”

“I’d never thought about having kids before. But when Wooyoung said that I realized that I do want a family. And I want it with you.”

You can barely speak. “You do?”

“I do. When you told me you weren’t pregnant, I was crushed. But I didn’t say anything because I thought you were happy. Then I saw you with Seonghwa…I was so jealous. I know you never liked him, and I know it’s crazy, but I just thought that…”

“You thought what?”

“I just thought that maybe he was the reason you were glad you weren’t pregnant. Because you didn’t want a family with me. I thought you wanted…I thought you wanted Seonghwa to be the father.”

For the first time in a long time, you laugh. “Kim Hongjoong, that is the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard in my life.”

He blushes and hangs his head. “You know I get jealous sometimes, Y/N.”

“Kim Hongjoong. There is no one else in this world that I would want as the father of my child. I only love you. I’ll only ever love you.”

“Really?” He looks up. Tears are still shining in his eyes, but you’re certain they’re happy tears now.

“Really. I’m sorry I lied to you. I was wrong to hide it. I thought that if you knew I was pregnant, it would ruin your career. And then you’d blame me, because it’s my fault.”

“It’s my baby too, Y/N. We made it together.”

“But if this gets out, you know how people will react…”

“I don’t care what anyone says, Y/N. You and our baby are the only thing that are important to me. If I can’t have you in my life, nothing else matters.”

By the time he’s finished, both of you are in tears. He takes a step closer and motions toward your stomach. “Can I?” he asks quietly.

You nod and he places his hand gently on your tiny bump. He chuckles softly then looks at you. “Can you believe it, Y/N? We made this. We made life.”

You giggle. The amazement evident in his voice melts your heart. Hongjoong is everything perfect and more. You don’t know why you ever thought you had to lie to him or hide from him. You don’t know why you ever doubted him.

That night, as you lay in bed with Hongjoong, looking at the picture from your ultrasound, you’re content. Everything has finally fallen into place. After he turns out the light, you feel his lips press against your tummy.

“Daddy loves you so much,” he whispers.

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absolutebl · 3 years ago

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This Week In BL - Japan is BRINGING IT

June 2022 Wk 2

Being a highly subjective assessment of one tiny corner of the interwebs. Organized by which ones (in each category) I’m enjoying the most.

Ongoing Series - Thai

Triage (AISplay Mon) Ep 7- This ep was mostly to give movement to the romance plot and since (oddly for me) that’s the bit I find the least engaging I wasn’t as wild about this installment. Next week looks VERY dramatic tho.

Check Out (IQIYI Sat) Ep 1 - This season’s messy gays be messy series! I gotta say I love the intro credits on this one: character + actor names. I need that in all my BL. Our leads are Nine (Chahub) and Daonuea (Best). (My boy Plustor is coming too!) So Daonuea is pining for the boy who ghosted him after a hot fling AND a boss/ex/cheater that wants to date him again. Of course boss & fling turn out to know each other. Best is GOOD. I like an office setting but I’m not wild about the execution here. But the messy exes drama is relatable and fun/different. Captions are quite poor.

KinnPorsche (iQIYI Sat) Ep 10 - Well KimChay moved fast. Meanwhile Kinn’s bodyguards are all pretty naff, letting Tawan get away. The traitor(s) = no particular surprise. Oo death! Also dumb crazy drama gay, but whatevs. I’m mad that everyone looked for Porsche but no one looks for Pete? I guess it’s good to be the boss’s f-toy. Oh, I’m salty abotu this show. Sigh. At least it was an exciting ep?

Sky in Your Heart (Fri YouTube) Ep 2 - It’s perfectly serviceable. I’m not wowed by the chemistry but it’s fine.

My Secret Love (YouTube Sat) Ep 3 - Fake relationship is a go and watching them lampoon BL tropes is kind of fun. No screen caps because, you know, fakel but they covered (deep breath): head in lap, picnic, feeding, back hug, movie date, sharing earbuds, and library assignation. Just because I am having a really hard time keeping this straight (pun intended) here is the character breakdown (aside from the leads): campus star = P’Tim (he comes with portable adorable bestie); pair in the 7 year relationship = P’Park & Lee (who switched departments) - they use rao/ter with each other (cutesy). Everyone else = unimportant.

Ongoing Series - Not Thai

To My Star (Korea Viki) Ep 1-2 - YES FINE I’m watching it. I said I was gonna wait but... I CAN’T. OMG I’m so scared. The doorway being used for transition shots between past| |present was very clever. Also my goodness I almost forgot what really good acting looked like in BL! The year separation after a break up is a classic Korean drama plot point that usually comes at the end of a show, not the beginning. It’s going to be interesting and bumpy to watch them deal with this reverse plotting. They better come up with a really good justification for Ji Woo leaving and being that cruel or heads will ROLL. Also, that better be his sister and not an ex girlfriend, I have it up the here with faen fatales. Please don’t betray our trust Hwang Da Seul.

Love in Spring (Korea grey) Ep 5-8 - I love to see a brushing hair trope (in a way I don’t love the usual hair dry trope we get in BL). I have no idea why. Also we had an example of the boy protecting “the girl’s” reputation with fisticuffs. This story reminds me a little of those girl disguised as a boy host club shows we got from Japan for a while – same kind of comedy that is a little beyond my ken and slightly jarring. At ep 7 it finally got good as the leads develop a genuine friendship. The snake thing was odd though. To be fair there’s a lot of odd in the show. I’m enjoying the tension and liking it more each ep.

Plus & Minus (Taiwan Viki *rec* & GaGa Fri) Ep 10 - The dreaded unnecessary break up. At least we understand the bar owner’s motivations. I don’t know where I am with this show now, but I do like that its general assumption is that everyone is at least a little bit bi, and since I too like to give everyone the benefit of the doubt, I’m not opposed to seeing it on screen.

Want to See You (Vietnam YouTube) Ep 1 - Boy likes his baths, that’s for certain. Standard psycho female character and a basic but uncommon servant/master set up. I’m getting Jane Eyre or something. Nice kisses already but this is no Mr. Cinderella. (The bar has been set, VBL, now I know what you can do.)

Getaway (Singapore Mon YouTube) Ep 2-3 - Look, I’m the first to admit that there’s a lot of bad and awkward acting in this genre, but for some reason… it feels a lot worse in English. I like how unabashedly gay this show is but (how do I put this nicely?) if I’m gonna watch English language gay-vacay shizz – I’d rather watch Fire Island. Still, as one might expect, the heat execution is good (Taiwan still holds the crown, tho).

BLs That Finished this week!

Dear Doctor, I'm Coming for Soul (iQIYI Weds) Ep 12fin - I was mixed over the sides, but in the end, they were a cute couple (weird kisses thing notwithstanding). This show had a very Korean style unnecessary-separation in the last ep. But I guess I’m used to that now. Are KarnNat the best Thai origin couple at domesticity? Seems like. The show’s ending reminded me A LOT of Love: Life on the Line (Director’s Cut) so if you like that you’ll like this one, but it’s not strictly HEA. I thought it suited the narrative so I’m not mad. But I’m not sure I’ll ever rewatch it either. Like Peach of Time, everything was set up for us, so the end wasn’t surprising and it managed to be substantially happier than Peach or Grey Rainbow (shudder). So maybe I rate it higher because it could have been a lot worse? ARGH. Decisions. 7/10 RECOMMENDED WITH RESERVATIONS Full review here.

Close Friend 2 (Viki Thur) Ep 6fin - I liked the dealing with celebrityhood and fandom storyline, although I thought it was too generous to those fans. But in the end this is, like the first installment, fine but forgettable. I did like the breaking the fourth wall and mentioning each other‘s projects at the end. That was fun insider trading. (I guess we get a season 3 featuring DunBas, not my favorite. Shrug.) Anygay, both pairs did well but in terms of content and story, I wasn’t wowed. 6/10 WORTH WATCHING BUT FLAWED

Fukou-kun wa Kiss Suru Shikanai! AKA Mr Unlucky Has No Choice But to Kiss! (Japan GaGa *rec* & Viki Fri) Ep 8fin - since this is in the My Love Mix-Up vein of JBL, I was not expecting a final kiss. I consider us lucky that we got the launch kiss, quite frankly. That didn’t stop me from being a touch disappointed, but the final boyfriends cuteness wrestling in bed (VERY Cherry Magic of them) was perfectly serviceable. A solid little JBL. 8/10 RECOMMENDED

Gossip

I still can’t believe they’re allowing it but it really does seem like Korea is bringing us A Shoulder To Cry On starring Jaehan (oldest) & Yechan (maknae) BOTH from Kpop group OMEGA X. Enemies to lovers, school set, 12 eps, due out in the fall.

Also in Korea announced adaptation of Lily's comic Heesu in Class 2 . About a shy unpopular boy with a secret crush on best friend. Looks pretty pat but I’m always open to KBL school-set stuff.

Japan announced BL adaptation of Minamoto Kazuki's comic: Kabesaa Doujin Sakka no Neko Yashiki-kun wa Shounin Yokkyuu wo Kojirasete iru starring Matsuoka Koudai (I know him from Five) and Nakao Masaki (Kakafukaka, Bow Then Kiss - he’s a BIG DEAL ya’ll) slated to be released in October. (source) The description from Crunchyroll is up on MDL but it’s incomprehensible.

Cambodia released a trailer of upcoming Khmer BL មើលបានហាមសម្លឹង AKA Eye Contact. We are in “don’t bet on it happening (or finishing)” territory.

New Thai drama My Coach seems to have a BL side plot.

Art Adore En got a trailer. Country boy studying at a university in Bangkok catches the eye of his senior.

2 Moons 3: The Ambassador announced a cast. That came out of nowhere.

PRIDE!

This is one of those times that I really wish I read Thai and could confirm it, but Thai BL actor Copter Panuwat seems to have come out as non-binary. Copter has always been super supportive since the 2 Moons days. Someone at MDL is ON IT and has updated Copter’s profile to they/them in the bio section, even if the MDL system doesn’t offer it as an option (someone oughta change the back end code on that).

No matter what, happy pride!

In Case You Missed It

Korean BL Blueming is getting a movie version. Since this aired on iQIYI not Viki, not sure if inter fans will get to see it.

iQIYI has picked up SantaEarth’s friends-to-lovers (possibly sad) BL My Only 12% from Wabi Sabi, coming late summer.

Japan is airing a BL comedy-drama adaptation of Naruko's Fudanshi Bartender no Tashinami AKA Accomplishment of Fudanshi Bartender streaming on FOD. About a fancy pants bartender who is secretly a nerdy BL fan.

3 BLs have been submitted for consideration to the Seoul International Drama Awards 2022: Semantic Error (Korea), I Promised You The Moon (Thailand), and My Beautiful Man (Japan).

The boys from Kissable Lips are pair branding. (They are rumored to have a new series The Circumstances Of Pungdeok Villa Room 304.) I mention this because it’s my first time seeing a Korean pair consciously use Thai techniques on their social media.

Next Week Looks Like This:

We’re hitting the Thai summer slow down season, thank heavens. There was too much for even me to keep up with for a while there. I could used some down time, except Japan won’t let me!

Monday: Japanese BL Old Fashion Cupcake adapted from the manga of the same name by by Sagan Sagan (trailer on FB). Seems to be a hyung romance: office set, employee/boss, age gap. About a subordinate with a crush on his boss - seems a bit Cherry Magic light? Only 5 episodes, coming to Viki!

Thursday: Kimi no Koto Dake Mite Itai AKA I Only Want To See You only 4 eps, starts June 16, Hulu JP. Not sure on inter.

Friday: Senpai, Danjite Koidewa! AKA Senpai, This Can’t be Love! is taking over Mr Unlucky’s time slot on Fridays, reported as picked up by GaGa for international although I’m showing it listed for Viki.

Oh yeah and then also: Love Mechanics disaster muffins start Saturday on WeTV.

This week’s best moments?

I didn’t pull any. Sheesh, I guess I was disappointed this week.

(last week)

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yakumtsaki · 2 years ago

Photo

It’s a new day after Joe Carr almost destroyed the universe, and we’ve invited Ginger Shea Johnston over so Cyneswith can fall in love with him (he’s already in love with her of course, oh Cyn). GSJ is kind enough to bring this elderly gentleman along who’s clearly gonna be Cyn’s next lover, thanks so much bro! As you may recall, ever since Cyn was a teen I’ve had the theory that for all her huhuing she’s actually an evil genius..

..and Cyn proves me right yet again by rejecting GSJ’s harmless ‘serenade’ action because iVan is present and she doesn’t feel like being caught cheating for the millionth time.

-Are you crazy, GSJ? Just because we made out in a community lot hot tub you think you can flirt with me?!🌸

Once iVan has fucked off tho..

-Alright everyone, just like we practiced. -GIVE US YOUR LUNCHBOX, GINGER SHEA JOHNSTON -YA, COUGH UP THE GOODS, MOTHERFUCKER -I don’t think he can hear you guys. -Shut it, Moody! I can’t believe I had kids with you.

NICE, another one down. See you never, GSJ!

Ugh, YOU.

-Leave me alone, I’m in a terrible mood!!

When aren’t you, Sugar. The fuck’s your problem now?

-I got my report card.

Ya, say no more. Thankfully for every Sugar around here-

-there’s a Sophie, WHO EARNS 50K, TOPS THE LAW CAREER, AND BECOMES THE FIRST SIM IN THE MAIN HOUSE TO COMPLETE 2 LTWS (one of them being the pet career one!!!)

QUEEN.

SOPHJAR LIVES❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️ They’re out of the woods after the last rough 20 years, they always run out to greet each other when one returns from work, it’s so fucking cute.

Less cute: Cyneswith’s night of knocking out lovers. So I went to count Cyn’s existing lovers (that’s how I discovered the Joe Carr bs so thank God for hoeing), so normally counting Joe Carr, Neon Vest Downtownie would be #18, but since Joe’s character file is no longer with us, this #17. Either way we’re so close!!!

We wait for nightfall and invite over Count Phoenix since he seemed really into Cyn last time-

-and sure enough, he succumbs right away. Wow, so it was just with Victoria you were playing hard to get? RUDE

-DISGUSTING. WHY DO I HAVE TO SEE THIS??

I don’t know Sugar, maybe you could stop always returning from school and work during your mother’s hoeing time?? Some people istg.

YAS. TWO MORE TO GO!!!!

The power of Sugar’s chemistry panel is starting to reveal itself as blondie here is straight up APPALING to him.

-Ughh she’s ripped but has athletic skill points??? GROSS

Zen Don: Same shit, different day.

We waste no time inviting GTGSJBWH (Geezer That Ginger Shea Johnston Brought With Him) over, but apparently Count Phoenix is ready to die to deliver Cyn’s dream date bouquet! Cyn seriously, wtf do you do to these guys??

-OH CYNESWITH, I’VE LIVED THROUGH EVERY WAR FROM THE MONGOL INVASION AFTERWARDS BUT YOU MIGHT BE THE THING THAT DOES ME IN🧛 -Awww that’s so sweet, County, huhu! Now back to the bat sanctuary you go, I’m on a date🌸

So things are going great with GTGSJBWH aka Leo..

..especially after a little help from our friend, huhu! iVan would you please go inside, this isn’t meant for your eye(s).

I’m like YAS ONE MORE LEFT ONE MORE LEFT-

-and then fucking Don returns from work while Leo is delivering his bouquet.

-OH GOD CYNESWITH, HOW COULD YOU BETRAY OUR 3-HOUR-OLD LOVE BY DANCING WITH YOUR HUSBAND OF 40 YEARS??

FML, thanks a lot Don. Moving on, we’ve once again arrived at a sequence of events that happened within 5 minutes and on which I have no comment so I’m just gonna present them factually again:

1) Cyneswith is caught cheating with iVan by Don and Remington.

2) While Cyn is getting slapped, Dobronega attacks Kitana aka her own daughter in the background.

3) Cyneswith offers the rose of amnesia to Don while the fight rages on.

4) Dobronega loses, becomes one-sided enemies with daughter, and runs away.

5) Cyneswith offers the rose of amnesia to Remington but is caught by Don and iVan.

6) Cyneswith offers the rose of amnesia to iVan to make up for being caught offering the rose amnesia to Remington to make up for being caught cheating with iVan.

7) Dobronega is returned by the Good Witch NPC literally 1 minute after running away.

8) Ferra passes💔💔💔💔

9) While everyone is mourning Ferra, Shajar decides this is the ideal time to age into an elder.

-I didn’t ‘decide’ anything, you forgot my birthday!!!

Well I’m sorry Shajar but in case you haven’t noticed things are kinda falling apart around here!!1

I am once again sick of these people so Cyneswith accepts Leo’s invite to go Downtown with a bunch of townies. He still hates her for ‘cheating’ with Don so I don’t get the move here but I’m like ok nice chance to offer him the rose!

Awww, a Wyatt face-template townie💔 I miss him💔

While I’m reminiscing about Wyatt fucking Ginger Shea Johnston shows up, NO, GET OUT

FUCK

-REALLY CYN, WITH THE GEEZER I INTRODUCED YOU TO?! -Well you should have known better than to introduce me to someone with grey hair, huhu!💗

UGHHHHH bro we are CURSED, we’re never gonna reach 20 lovers! We flew too close to the sun and keep getting caught at every turn :(

We hastily offer the rose to GSJ which he mercifully accepts-

-while Leo is inside, stewing about Don. GET A GRIP

Just when I think this night can’t get worse, Cockblocking Evil Witch shows up to lag the lot and apparently this is a targeted hit! Wtf is your problem bitch??

-Cyneswith has been spreading too much joy to the elderly, this stops now!!

Let’s gtfo before you get electrocuted a second time, Cyn.

-But I don’t wanna go home, huhu! That’s where all the slapping is!🌸

We’re not going home, we’re going to the Lost in Love Hedge Maze in search of greener geezers!

BINGO

Wow this guy must be a prime specimen if you’re into geriatrics. The 70′s glasses, the bowling shirt, the high waisted shorts, he’s probably what Cyn considers a stone cold 10!

-He is, he is!!!💗

Go for it, Cyn!

Green Swimsuit: Where is Crumplebottom when you need her??

Stone Cold 10 Geezer is very receptive (who isn’t with Cyn’s insane chemistry bonus) but I’m not risking another lover showing up again, so we bust out Sugar The Voodoo Doll asap-

-it’s super effective! The only effective Sugar there is around here.

OH MY GOD. I was clearly right about this guy being Cyn’s dream man, this is the first time EVER she falls in love with someone first?? It’s always them falling in love and her being a picky queen that’s why I always have to invite them over so she can fall in love??? WOW

We literally had to go over and make out with him to make him fall in love?? I hate him??? But whatever, we’re officially one lover away from being done!!!

We return home and invite Leo so we can reclaim his love, he does this hand kissing shit when he shows up so I’m like great, great-

-and then he rejects Cyn’s make out aka our first rejection EVER. I’m so pissed it’s unreal, we offer up the rose of amnesia but even that isn’t enough, like he just stop being furious but he’s still not into us??? LEO FUCK OFF????

-Gladly!

UGH

At least I have Sophie and Shajar around here to cheer me up❤️

-*I* love you more! -No, *I* love you more! -I said *I* love you more you stupid cuck! -Fuck you Sophie, I’m not a cuck anymore! *I* love you more!

TORR NO

-I’M NOT EVEN DONE YET💀

VAL NO. GRIM FFS CAN’T YOU SPACE THAT SHIT OUT A BIT??? DICK.

RIP Torr and Valentina💔 Torr, you were such a good boy. Val, you were the most insane digital dog that has ever existed. I will miss you both💔

I am bummed OUT and Sugar’s HORRIBLE grades aren’t helping my situation. Bitch are you straight up glitched? How the fuck are you doing this badly, I never let you never miss your homework!

-Yes, it is definitely homework I’m writing in there and not hateful poems about my mother.

Man, those college years are just gonna fly by with you.

Sugar is back from school which can only mean one thing: time for Cyn to cheat on his father. We invite goddamn Leo over again and it looks like his madness has finally subsided??

-Oh Cyneswith, if you keep talking like that I think in a couple months I could see myself thinking about potentially forgiving you.. -Aww, I’m sorry Leoie..

-..but ain’t nobody got time for that, huhu!🌸 -DON’T DO IT CYN, DON’T OVERRIDE MY FREE WILL -THAT’S WHAT YOU GET FOR REJECTING MY MAKE OUT, YOU STUPID ASSHOLE. YOU RUINED MY PERFECT 0 REJECTION RUN AND ONCE I COMPLETE MY LTW I WILL DESTROY YOU. HU.HU MOTHERFUCKER

Um, Cyn?

-WHAT.

Nothing, nothing! Carry on, I’m not at all suddenly afraid of you.

-AND I LIVED HAPPILY EVER AFTER💗

Huhu?

#gen 3 #ts2

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metalandmagi · 4 years ago

Text

Winter 2021 Anime Worth Watching!

Since 2020 basically sacrificed itself to give us the most stacked anime season of all time, I’m currently buried under the weight of almost 20 shows airing per week. So for anyone who’s looking for some anime to watch this winter, here’s some first impressions! I’m speed running my list this time by only talking about the new shows...because otherwise this would be my great American novel.

If anyone’s interested, I have master lists for both 2020 anime and 2019 anime, because there’s no shortage of fun things to find.

New Shows!

And before anyone asks, So I’m A Spider, So What? isn’t on here, because CG spiders freak me out.

Cells At Work Code Black: This...less comedic spin off of Cells At Work (made by a different studio) takes the wholesome concept of Osmosis Jones meets cute anime girls and turns it on its head. In this much more depressing version, we follow a rookie red blood cell who works in the body of an overly stressed, alcoholic smoker who puts every strain on the body imaginable. I love Red Blood Cell AA2153 and his co-workers, but man am I glad we get the regular Cells At Work airing this season too, because I need something fun and uplifting after seeing my sweet son go through hell every episode.

*Heaven’s Design Team: Have you ever wondered how God came up with some of the weird ass animals that live on this planet? Like, what’s the deal with giraffes? And why can’t we have dragons and flying horses? Well this is a comedy about the engineers and designers in heaven creating the new animals that are going to inhabit the Earth. That’s it, that’s the show. It’s kind of in the same vein as Cells At Work, having comedy blend with a surprising amount of educational information. If you want something light and funny, this is the show for you (though I don’t think it needs to have full length episodes). I’m just hoping there’s an episode about how the hell the platypus was created. Also it’s the only new one available on Crunchyroll.

Horimiya: A romantic comedy about a girl named Hori who fits the image of a perfect queen bee and a quiet bespectacled boy named Miyamura who never makes an impression at school. When the two meet by chance outside of the classroom, we see that Hori is practically raising a younger brother by herself, and Miyamura is actually a sweet guy who happens to be covered in tattoos and piercings. This show is an exercise in breaking down the images people have of others in their minds, and it’s a concept that really hits home in a fun and meaningful way. Honestly, this has become one of my immediate favorites. The characters have great chemistry, and I can’t wait to see more of them!

Monster Incidents (Kemono Jihen): When big shot Tokyo detective Inugami is called to a rural town to investigate a series of strange animal deaths, he finds a mysterious boy with the nickname Dorotabo who has been shunned by the other children in town. As the detective gets closer to Dorotabo, he discovers that there may be more...inhuman secrets to the boy than he realizes...and Dorotabo discovers that Inugami has some secrets of his own. This is a hard show to sell without spoiling the first episode, but it had twists and turns that kept me engaged from start to finish. I’m really interested to see where the plot goes, because I thought this was going to be something totally different just from the PV and series summary. If it plays its cards right, this could be a great paranormal detective show!

Wonder Egg Priority: A psychological drama about a girl named Ai who starts having dreams about a mysterious egg that promises to give her what she wants most in the world...a true friend. Before long, she begins to see how the dream world and reality are tied together, and trippy antics ensue. It’s hard to say more without spoiling anything, but I had to go back and add this one in because I made the mistake of thinking it was an OVA when it’s actually a full series. And what a series it’s starting out to be. This anime has all the psychological discomfort of a Satoshi Kon product with the beauty and style of something from Kyoani (even though it’s made by Clover Works). It’s really one of those anime you just have to see to understand.

Sk8-∞ (Skate the infinity): An original skateboarding anime from Bones, featuring a typical sports anime protagonist who takes a new transfer student who has never skateboarded in his life under his wing. Together they compete in dangerous races and take the skating community by storm. The character designs rival Appare Ranman’s in outlandish creativity, and I can smell the main characters’ ship dynamic a mile away (considering they’re exactly the same as the protagonists from Robihachi). If you’re looking for some wild and crazy fun with top notch skateboarding animation, don’t skip this!

2.43: Seiin Koukou Danshi Volley-bu (Seiin High School Boys Volleyball Club): Yes, it’s another volleyball anime. And no, it’s not just a clone of Haikyu. This story follows Yuni Kuroba, a physically built but emotionally weak teenager who finds out his childhood friend Hajime is moving back to their hometown for high school. Yuni discovers Hajime has become an exceptional volleyball player and they join their school’s volleyball club hoping to turn the unknown team into a rising star. If anything, this anime is much more like Stars Align or Free, where the sport is a backdrop for letting the characters explore their personal problems. Or at least it seems that way after the first episode. I went into this show ready to throw it in the trash because how could anything compete against my beloved Haikyu, but I found myself really enjoying the dynamics of the main duo and I’m curious to see what the rest of the team is like.

And speaking of sports anime rip-offs…..I can’t believe I’m including this but…

Skate Leading Stars: The show where the animators clearly wanted to design another throw away idol anime but saw how popular Yuri On Ice was so they decided to make whatever the hell this show is instead. It revolves around a fictional team sport called skate leading, and we follow the world’s most insufferable main character, a former figure skater named Kensei who wants to return to the ice and join his school’s skate leading team after he finds out his childhood rival is going to compete in the sport. Look, this show is just trashy enough to get a certain type of audience hooked, and it mainly has to do with the best boy of the winter season, Hayato Sasugai, the aspiring team “coach” who pulled most of us into watching this show with his punk appearance, snide comments and smug personality. He’s basically the lovechild of Izaya Orihara and Shizuo Heiwajima in a high school sports anime setting. The show treats itself with the perfect amount of sincerity to get away with being absolutely ridiculous most of the time without making you feel like you’re watching it from a dumpster...like Try Knights. You will know after one episode whether this show is for you. All I can say is, Hayato is worth the watch, and I haven’t seen any 3D animation used for the skating scenes (yet) so that’s a win for me.

Honorable mention:

Jobless Reincarnation ( Mushoku Tensei): Yet another isekai where the main character is hit by a car (big surprise) and gets reincarnated into a fantasy world...but he happens to remember his previous life and narrates himself growing up as a jaded adult. I’m only including this because it looked amazing animation wise, and I love the opening where getting hit by a car and dying is actually traumatic. And I love the protagonist’s parents (who are retired adventurers who just want to bang all the time). But honestly...the main character is the fucking worst, and I don’t know if I want to keep watching it because of how creepy and weird he is. Like...he’s the hit on your fantasy mom as a baby kind of creepy and weird. But for anyone who wants a cool looking isekai that had an amazing PV, it’s worth checking out.

Continuing Series!

Because the real gold of the season is in all the established anime getting their next seasons, I’m just going to list some of the things that are also amazing and definitely worth checking out if you haven’t already (because I’ve already talked about most of them at some point and don’t know what else to say).

Attack On Titan season 4

The Promised Neverland season 2

Beastars season 2

Log Horizon season 3

That Time I Got Reincarnated as a Slime season 2

Re: Zero season 2 (second cour)

Dr. Stone season 2

Cells at Work season 2

Osomatsu-san season 3 (second cour)

Higurashi New (second cour)

Jujutsu Kaisen (second cour)

Not to mention all the shows I don’t watch that everyone else loves...like World Trigger (which I have seen quite a bit of, but long shounen shows are too much for me now) Quintessential Quintuplets, and Non Non Biyori.

So there’s just some of all the anime airing this season. Hopefully, someone can find something they like. Here’s to a great year...well, of anime at least...

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slasherscream · 3 years ago

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OMG wait i got new pjs and was literally thinking of my fave characters seeing me in them too -- and now u got me EXTRA SIMPING. mine are black silk with a long sleeve button up and cute shorts :3 what are yours like!! and what kinda reactions are u thinking abt specifically if u dont mind my asking 👀 (love ur blog btw!!)

A/N: took me so long to answer this but omg yours sound so cute! mine is a long blue, silk floral nightgown with a matching robe, and it’s gorgeous. i feel like blanche devereaux in it.

CRAZY ASS BOYS GANG + reacting to seeing fem!reader in cute pajamas

billy loomis: Thinks you look delicate and kinda like a princess. Low-key wants to blush. He’s seen you dressed cute before, of course. But like... that was during the day. Everyone is trying to look presentable in daylight hours. He thinks it’s cute that you basically dressed up just to go to sleep. Won’t say anything besides a casual, “Cute little outfit you got there.” but he treats you a little extra sweet for awhile.

josh washington: Isn’t as caught off guard because he’s seen his mom and sisters wearing stuff like it. He still thinks your very cute though. “Did you put this on just for me?” to tease you. Hit him with that not everything is about you and watch him laugh. Now that he knows you like cute pajamas he buys you them randomly just to see you smile.

stu macher: Literally is not trying to be cool about this at all. He’s had girlfriends that wore similar stuff but you’re so much cuter than them in it! Also, he’s actually... attached to you emotionally. Which makes everything you do have a wow factor for him. Tells you that you look like a princess and is gonna jokingly do “M’lady” bullshit for the rest of the week. Is also gonna buy you more stuff. (Will throw in lingerie because he can’t help himself.)

jason dean/jd: Thinks it’s cute. Is gonna tease you a little but not much. “Hope you were expecting me and not someone else, darling.” but he knows people can wear things just for themselves. Can’t stop looking at you and is personally a little surprised at that. Is actually more turned on by cute pajamas that aren’t inherently sexual (even if they are risque) than he is lingerie.

kevin khatchadourian: If it was anyone else he’d roll his eyes. There’s a list of judgments he would pass upon them. You’re different though, even if you aren’t like him. He simplifies you in the way he simplifies himself. You’re doing it because you want to, and that’s that. It does make you look delicate, which he can appreciate. It also makes him want to lock you away for safekeeping, as if you’re an antique porcelain ballerina. You look rather breakable.

nathan prescott: With Victoria as his best friend he’s definitely seen pajamas like this before. Hasn’t seen anything like it on a girl he’s dating though so it kinda flustered him. Isn’t good at flirting so he’s definitely not gonna be able to say something sly. Actually blushes, which is cute. He barged into your room but even though you’re dating him when he saw what you were wearing, even if it’s not revealing he had to fight the urge to turn around, like he was seeing something he shouldn’t have. Do not laugh at him he’ll get mad.

sebastian valmont: This is absolutely normal to him. The only thing that catches him off guard is that he actually gives a damn this time around. He’s been with literal models, but you looking cozy and cute just to go to sleep puts a smile on his face. Will buy you so many new sets you won’t know what to do with them. Has the most taste of anyone so he doesn’t even need to ask to know what you’ll like (also, he went through your closet to get a better idea of what you like. When you’re really smart you use all available intel.)

#castieltrash1 #billy loomis x reader #stu macher x reader #jd x reader #nathan prescott x reader #josh washington x reader #kevin khatchadourian x reader #sebastian valmont x reader #did not proof read this hopes and prayers adjkl #crazy ass boys gang

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donteattheappleshook · 2 years ago

Text

Not Broken At All Chapter 11/?

Summary:

A season 1 Neverland AU. Emma is still trying to adjust to her new life as Sheriff of Storybrooke and mom to Henry, who still believes everyone in town is a fairytale creature. When she finds a badly beaten, one handed man while patrolling, she’s convinced he’s crazy. He is, after all, rambling about fairies and shadows and crocodiles. But when Henry is suddenly taken out the window of a house everyone believes is haunted, the madman in the hospital might be her only hope of getting her son back. Whether he likes it or not.

Rated M

Catch up on Ao3 (where my italics work) or on Tumblr 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10

I'm so sorry for how long this chapter took! It was going to be a certain chapter, then got switched to another, then got switched back and cut in two because it was too damn long... Even the person in the room changed

So anyway, here it is, the first half of the chapter that has affectionately been nicknamed "the one with the fairy orgy"... I'm so sorry.

Thank you thank you thank you thank you always @the-darkdragonfly and @elizabeethan for your help with this feral fic 😘

And thank you everyone for the reblogs, comments and replies that give me so much dopamine ❤️

*****

Part 11

Emma stands tense outside the room she’s just been locked out of, holding her breath as the unfamiliar voice carries over through the door, confused and on edge about what possible threat could have been waiting for Killian inside. There’s a moment before he speaks.

“Tink.” The word leaves him with a sigh of relief and it takes her a moment to place the name. “It’s been a while.”

The fairy scoffs, her voice betraying bitter grudges when she answers. “You could say that.”

“I didn’t mean to -”

“Save it,” Tink interrupts him. “I’m not here to talk about that. I don’t care that you’re back or whether you’re planning to stay.”

Lie, Emma thinks. She knows that tone all too well, defences up, hiding pain with indifference - they can’t hurt you if you don’t care - and realises that this is yet another person Killian left behind, intentionally or not. For a moment she wonders if Tinkerbelle is just another scorned lover, if that’s why he’d locked her out of the room. But Emma heard her carefully constructed detachment. It’s more than that.

“I’m just delivering a message,” she finishes.

“From who?”

“Mab.” A long silence follows the name and Killian’s answer is quiet when it finally comes.

“Wendy said you went back.”

She scoffs again. “Not like I had much of a choice, did I?”

“You could have stayed on the ship -”

“What turned to piracy? Pretended to be an overgrown lost boy all dressed up in leather?” The thinly-veiled insult sounds personal and when Killian doesn’t take the bait she continues harshly. “We both know Pan only likes us side-characters when we’ve got our hero to play sidekick to. A fairy with no magic on her own in the woods? I became target practice real quick.”

“Tink…”

The emotion in her voice hardens. “Like I said, I’m just here on behalf of the Queen.”

“You’re her messenger now?” Emma can tell there’s no malice behind the question, shock maybe, but no mocking. Tink takes it that way regardless.

“They’re my people, Hook,” she spits. “I should never have left them in the first place. They told me you’d get bored - just like Pan did.”

“I didn’t -”

“You’re expected at dawn. Don’t be late - you know she doesn’t like to be kept waiting.”

“Aye.”

“I’m assuming your request has something to do with the blonde in the hall?” Emma freezes, worried that her cover is blown. Clearly Killian hadn’t been as quick as he thought. But Wendy had said they would see through her disguise. He doesn’t answer. “What the hell are you getting us involved in, Hook?”

After a pause he answers carefully. “A change.”

Tink laughs bitterly. “Nothing changes in Neverland. You of all people should know that by now. Two hundred years you tried to get away? And now here you are, back where you started, playing his game.”

“I’m not playing his game,” he bites out. “I’m ending it. Once and for all.”

She snorts in disbelief. “All you’re going to end is your life - and you’ll drag anyone stupid enough to take your side right down along with you. But you don’t really care about that, do you? Not so long as you get your revenge. Same story, different crocodile, isn’t it?”

“I’m sorry I hurt you, Tink,” he says, somehow managing to hold his composure despite the accusations she throws at him. “But it’s different this time.”

“You didn’t hurt me,” she snaps in disgust, offended at the suggestion. “I just know a stupid idea when I hear it. And so does the Queen. She’ll never agree.”

“I guess we’ll find out tomorrow.”

Emma doesn’t hear anything else from inside the cabin, the silence drawing out until the sound of the lock sliding free snaps sharply against her ear that’s practically pressed to the wood. The door remains shut, shuffling footsteps, a drawer being opened and the clink of heavy glass coming from the other side. When she pushes it open and steps carefully inside, Killian’s sat back in the armchair, a tumbler in his hand, the bottle left open on his desk.

He looks up when she enters, flashing her a grimacing imitation of a smile and tilting his glass. “Rum?”

She wonders for a moment if she should leave him alone; clearly, he's in need of some wallowing. But he looks particularly self-destructive as he brings his drink to his lips, staring off at the window where she imagines the fairy came and went through, and she thinks better of it. He did promise her a nightcap after all.

There’s no second glass, so Emma picks up the bottle, drinking from it as she hops up and takes its place on the table. The little smirk that tugs at the corner of his lips is more believable this time.

“So that was Tinkerbell, huh?” she asks, taking another sip - because it’s really good rum.

“Aye. Different from your stories, I take it?”

She thinks for a second about the cranky little fairy with a take no prisoners attitude from the movie and shrugs. “Actually they got her pretty spot on I think. Only in the movie she was really tiny, and definitely dressed by a man.” Emma hadn’t seen the stranger the voice belonged to but she somehow assumes those two were artistic liberties.

Killian hums. “Fairies are only tiny when they want to be. Makes them particularly good at sneaking into all sorts of places they have no business being.”

“From what you’ve told me, I don’t know if you can really call your bedroom somewhere she has no business being.” She’s pretty sure he just rolled his eyes at her and it makes her snort. Or maybe that’s the fourth sip of rum she’s now taking. “Is she right?” Emma wonders aloud somberly as she drinks again. “Are we fucked?”

“I’m going to assume that’s some lovely colloquial way of asking if we’re going to fail in your land,” he says, raising a brow. “Because if you’re asking literally I -”

“It is.” She’s the one rolling her eyes now.

“She’s angry with me,” he sighs. “An all too common affliction around here.” Emma doesn’t bother offering any insincere comfort. He messed up and he knows it. He left people behind and now he has to face up to it. “It’s clouding her judgement. Queen Mab hates Pan as much as everyone else on this island. They have the least to lose in trying to defeat him.” She’s not sure she likes the fact that he sounds like he’s trying to convince himself.

“Why’s that?”

“Pan’s afraid of them. He has control over the whole island but their magic is ancient and powerful.”

“So then why don’t they just kill him?”

“I’ve asked myself that same question for centuries.”

“Did you think of asking them?”

He turns to her, narrowing his eyes. “The creatures of Neverland aren’t very forthcoming with their secrets.”

“That’s a pretty evasive way of saying everyone else is evasive.” She smirks at his annoyed glare, taking another swig from the bottle.

“I think perhaps you’ve had enough rum,” Killian suggests, reaching for the bottle as though she’ll hand it over. She only scoffs, helping herself to another drink and he sighs. “Well at least share if you’re planning on finishing the bottle,” he insists, nudging his glass towards her.

She pours him a generous serving and they drink in silence for a while, both reflecting on the day to come tomorrow. Fairies. As weird as the mermaids were, she somehow knows the fairies will be even weirder. And she’s supposed to be some sort of enticement to get them on their side which is still so confusing to her. What exactly about her is considered the enticement?

“What am I supposed to do tomorrow?” He raises a brow, drawn from his thoughts. “I’m bait right? Or like some strange way of sweetening the deal? What am I supposed to do?”

“Nothing. Stay close to me and Wendy. You’ll be more of a distraction, a way to get their guard down, make them more open to listening.”

“That’s really weird. And kind of creepy.”

“You’ve never used your beauty or your wiles to help you get what you want?” he challenges and she recalls all the honey traps she’d set to catch dirtbag skips.

She helps herself to more rum, the dark liquor making her feel warm and relaxed for the first time in days. “So just sit there, shut up, and look pretty?”

He smirks. “Somehow I don’t believe the ability to sit there or shut up are skills that you possess, Swan.” Emma makes a snarky face at him and he chuckles, sliding his now empty glass back towards her. “You're a rarity in this land, love. The Fae are a vain people and they’re desperate to possess the most exquisite and remarkable of everything.” She moves to refill his drink, spilling when he adds. “And you’re certainly that.”

“Shit,” she mutters, wiping at the little puddle of rum.

“If not wholly uncoordinated,” Killian smirks as she hops off the desk to go retrieve the cloth next to his washbasin. Turning back though, all thoughts of the spill are discarded because he’s sitting there, lounging in his chair with his shirt half unbuttoned, looking like he just sauntered off the pages of a pirate romance novel; and she can blame the rum for it later, or just the fact that it’s been a while, or how good it felt to kiss him in the hallway, but she decides to just fuck everything else. She deserves something good after the hellish few days she’s been through.

His smirk fades when she crosses the room back to him, discarding the cloth on the desk and stopping in front of his chair. She only hesitates for a second before climbing into his lap, settling a knee on either side of his hips, fingers curling around the fabric of his shirt. Killian’s breath is hot against her lips when he asks, “What are you doing, Swan?” as though he could really be misreading anything she’s doing.

“Using my wiles to get what I want?” she shrugs in answer. “Unless you really did just mean a drink when you offered that nightcap-” His hand is at the back of her neck before she can finish, weaving through her hair and dragging her mouth down to his.

Emma can taste the rum on him, heady and spiced as he draws her into a kiss that’s more intoxicating than the drink, wasting no time in picking up where they left off outside his room. She chalks it up to some inexplicable Neverland magic, the way she reacts to him, the heat that burns through her, the all consuming desire for him, to somehow get closer than the way they’re already pressed together, to taste more of him, her tongue sliding past his lips, fingers reaching for the few buttons he’d bothered to fasten.

Her legs wrap around his hips as his brace slides across her back, standing suddenly from his chair and lifting her onto his desk, knocking the almost empty bottle off and sending it crashing to the floor. He doesn’t seem to care, thumb tracing her jaw as he tilts her head to deepen the kiss, hook drawing along the length of her thigh to her knee.

When she drags her mouth away to try catch her breath, his lips find the line of her neck, his tongue dragging across her skin, the scratch of his stubble making her shiver. She tilts her head back to give him more access, biting back a moan, fully aware of how well sound carries through these walls. His mouth is just beginning its exploration of the low neckline of her shirt when, as if she’d cursed herself just by thinking it, she vaguely hears the door unlatching.

“Hook? Is everything - Oh shit!” Killian pulls himself away - not nearly as quickly as he should really - at the sound of Wendy’s panicked voice. Emma sits frozen, mortified. “I’m sorry. Um, I heard glass break and I just came to see if - I thought maybe Pan - Well, clearly you’re fine so I’ll just… Carry on.”

As if. Face burning, Emma shoves at Killian’s chest until he steps back from her, jumping off the desk and turning, unable to meet the other woman’s eye. “It’s fine. I was just - we were just… I’m going to bed now,” she says, unable to come up with a decent explanation that Wendy would buy. She’s not an idiot. “We’ve got an early morning after all,” she adds, heading out of the room.

“We do?” the girl asks, and Emma only casts a glance back at Killian, who looks more annoyed at being interrupted than anything.

“He can explain,” she answers, hurrying past her. She’s only just shut the door behind her when she hears Wendy’s voice carrying over through it. Clearly all the flustered apologies had been for her benefit, not Killian’s.

“You didn’t waste any time did you?”

“Didn’t we have a conversation about knocking?”

Shutting her eyes and heaving a sigh, feeling like an idiot, she makes her way down the hall to her room, hoping she can wake up having dreamed the whole embarrassing incident.

***

Emma wakes to a knock on her door, a soft “Swan,” called through it and she groans, rolling over and hiding her face under the blanket. She’s pretty sure she just fell asleep and now someone has the nerve to rob her of the few hours she was hoping to get tonight. Her head hurts. Probably from the rum, she scolds herself, and then her stomach tightens in embarrassment and something else as she’s flooded with memories of liquor on her tongue and on Killian’s, of bodies pressed together and fingers tangled in her hair, rings catching and tugging at the strands.

He knocks again. “Swan?”

“Go away,” she grumbles, not ready to face him after she threw herself at him last night… twice. She thinks it almost would have been better if they had slept together. That way at least she could have gotten it out of her system and she wouldn’t have to deal with the awkwardness of unresolved tension and the humiliation of getting caught.

Killian laughs softly. “We have to go. It’ll be dawn soon and there’s a ways to go to the Fae lands.” She groans again. Of course there is. Because every single group on this island apparently decided to set up camp as far away from one another as they could. She cracks an eye open, the room still pitch black. Who demands their guests show up before dawn? Right, fairy queens, that’s who. She hates fairy queens.

Dragging herself out of bed, she shuffles blindly into her boots and across the room, finding the doorknob and cracking it open, squinting against the dim light of the hall. “I’m up,” she sighs, glaring as best she can between her hangover and the light at the amused look on Killian’s face. “Let’s go,” she urges, gesturing for him to lead the way and following groggily behind him.

To his credit, he doesn’t say anything, no comment on her current state or on the events of last night. She’d have expected him to be smug - moreso than usual anyway - or embarrassed - does he get embarrassed? But instead he’s silent as they walk through the hall, not even turning back to throw an innuendo over his shoulder.

For a second she wonders if she did dream up their encounter last night. But the faded redness she can feel still hot on her neck and the slight hangover still stubbornly rattling around in her head and in her stomach tell her it hadn’t been a dream. Either he was over it, or he’d just decided not to be a self-satisfied jerk about it. Or, she thinks - and the thought bothers her more than it should - he just wasn’t as affected by it as she was. Maybe random hookups with quazi-friends aren’t so out of the ordinary for him. He does get his fair share of tail around here. She’s too bothered by the fact that the idea bothers her to even snort at her own pun.

When they reach the deck and find Wendy and Will waiting for them, Emma can’t meet her eyes. Will looks between the three of them with a confused frown, clearly sensing something off. Emma’s just happy that Wendy didn’t tell him. It gives her the courage to glance up at the other woman and she receives a small, tentative smile in return.

“Whatever happens,” Killian tells them all, reassuming his role as Captain, “stick together. Nobody wanders off on their own.”

“Why’re you looking at me, mate?” Will scowls. Emma was wondering the same thing, noting his pointed glance at her.

“Wendy and I haven’t aged in centuries,” he reminds them. “We’re hardly human by their standards anymore. You two on the other hand...”

The younger pirate rolls his eyes. “I’m nearly eighty years old, ain’t I? And it’s not my first time at the Fae court.”

“Just don’t do anything stupid.”

“Oy!”

Killian’s headed off towards the dinghy before the younger pirate can say anymore. Passing by him, Emma shoots Will a playful smirk. “You look pretty good for your age,” she tells him before following the Captain over the side of the ship. Will beams.

They’re deep in the jungle when her guides finally slow their pace. The foliage here is as dense and dark as it was by the mermaids’ caves and the Constant’s walls, and Emma wonders if all the creatures came to some consensus that anyone who wanted to visit would have to find their way blind to their territory, or if it’s just an annoying coincidence.

“We’re here,” Killian tells her. “Remember what I said; stay close and don’t eat or drink anything unless we tell you it’s safe.”

She nods. It’s not like she has much of an appetite anyway, between her nerves and the old rum still sloshing around in her stomach. And she has no intention of finding herself alone in a place where any of the inhabitants would apparently be thrilled to steal a hundred years of her life for fun. “Got it, no drinking the Kool-aid.”

Wendy and Will are pulling apart branches that have formed a dense covering in front of them, light poking through the dark as they do, and Emma cranes her neck to see where it’s coming from. There’s a sound of running water as the light takes on a golden hue as what she assumes is the entrance is revealed. But it’s not frightening like it had been at the lorelei’s cave, no strange echo and singing, only the soft, almost soothing rush of a river nearby. She can already feel herself drawn to it, and it’s not until Killian reaches an arm out across her waist that she realizes she’d begun walking unwittingly towards the entrance.

“Keep your wits about you,” he warns her. “Everything in the Fae Court is designed to make you want to stay; everything is a calculated temptation. Remember that, and don’t give in.”

“Right,” she swallows. Shutting her eyes in an attempt to get herself back under control, she takes a few deep breaths as Will and Wendy clear the rest of the foliage from their path. When she opens her eyes again there’s a gate in front of them, solid gold and decorated with intricate carvings of flowers and animals, and fairies in various states of undress. It’s beautiful, the soft glow that she’d seen before now revealed to be hundreds - thousands - of lanterns beyond the gate, lit against the dark of the predawn hour. She’s never seen anything like it.

“Fuck,” Wendy breathes, breaking her from her enchantement (which may or may not have been an actual enchantement). “It’s Solstice.”

“Solstice?” Emma asks as Killian curses under his breath, walking over to look at the lanterns through the gate. Will looks absolutely thrilled. “What’s Solstice?” she presses.

“A celebration of the shortest night of the year and the return of the sun,” Wendy explains.

“It’s the Fae’s most sacred festival,” Killian adds, rubbing at his temples with thumb and forefinger before pinching the bridge of his nose in frustration. “How did we not realize it was Solstice?” he asks the others.

“So it’s kind of like Christmas?”

A slow, knowing smile creeps across Will’s face and she doesn’t trust the amused look in his eyes. “Something like that, aye.”

“We have to go, come back another time,” Killian decides but his second frowns at him in disbelief.

“And spurn the Queen’s invitation? To Solstice? If you’re looking to make an enemy, Hook, I know some less terrifying people you could offend.”

“Do you have a better idea?”

“Yes. We go in there before the sun starts to rise, participate in the celebration like grateful guests, and gain favour with Her Majesty before we ask her to risk her entire queendom with us.”

“You don’t understand… the ceremony it’s… complicated and-”

“It’s not my first Solstice,” she interrupts and his eyes go wide.

“It’s what?”

“The summer one is better,” Will pipes in, Wendy nodding in agreement with a fond smile. Killian looks horrified and someone had better tell her what the hell this ceremony is that she might be getting involved in.

“We need her help,” Emma reminds him. “Tiger Lily said they wouldn’t help unless we have the fairies on our side. So unless you think we can save Henry and take down Pan with only the lorelei I think we just have to go to the party.” A party shouldn’t hold so much weight, she thinks, wondering when Neverland became high school.

“I agree,” Wendy backs her up and Killian shoots her a disapproving look.

“I’ll go,” he declares. “I’ll speak to the Queen privately and the three of you can stay out of it.”

“What and leave you to have all the fun?” Will argues, sounding very put out. “Not likely.”

“Tink probably already told her about Emma, and we haven’t missed a Solstice in nearly a decade.” Wendy points out. “We can’t risk her thinking she’s been stood up or that we’re hiding something from her - especially something she wants. We all have to go.”

“How bad can it be?” Emma adds, going for encouraging, and wishes she hadn’t when she sees the frown that crosses his face.

“It’s not that bad at all,” Wendy assures her. “It’s actually really fun so long as you’re careful and don’t eat seven walnuts and decide to jump in the river because you think you’re a frog.”

“That was one time!” Will sighs defensively.

“I’m surprised they invited us back.”

“How many times have you gone?”

Will looks like he’s counting while Wendy only quips back “How many times have you?”

“Guys, I can’t see the stars anymore. We’ve got to decide soon,” she urges them.

Killian’s sigh is long-suffering and reluctant. “Fine. But if anything happens to her-” he begins to warn the other captain, but stops himself.

Her frustrated expression softens. “It won’t. We’ll be careful.”

“That doesn’t mean we can’t have fun though, right?” Will ventures. “We were invited to the celebration…”

“Is someone gonna explain this celebration to me, or are you all just gonna keep talking about me like I’m some helpless damsel you all need to watch over?”

With a proud smirk, Wendy reaches for the gate and runs her hand over the seam which trails a golden light in its wake. Emma jumps when two of the little carved fairies on either side suddenly come to life and look at the pirate. “We have an audience with the Queen,” she tells the living gold fairies. “Captain Hook and his crew.” After a moment, the figures each take hold of their side of the gate and, wings fluttering furiously, they pull the doors open.

“I’m going to regret this,” Killian breathes before leading the way through the threshold.

Wendy loops her arm through Emma’s. “The whole day is a really big party. Food and drinks and music and dancing from sunup to sundown. That’s why the summer is better - the days are longer.”

That doesn’t sound so bad minus the frog walnuts, she thinks as they follow the path through the ancient, winding trees. These don’t look like the rest of Neverland’s dense jungle with crowded trees and dark, waxy leaves. No, these are ancient. Willows and oaks with moss covered trunks and branches, leaves pale green and hanging down along the path reflect the soft light from the lanterns that float magically all around them. The whole thing looks like… well, a fairytale.

“Beautiful isn’t it?”

Emma nods, remembering Killian’s warning that everything here was designed to make people want to stay. She can hear music not far off, soft and melodic. “So then what’s the big deal?” she asks.

“Um, well,” Wendy starts as they draw closer to what she imagines is the court, outlines of figures in the dim light, laughter floating over in tune with the strings being played. All dressed in the same, loose fitting tunics and pants or dresses made of gauzy material and ornately patterned fabrics. She can see the gold gleaming off of the stitching from yards away. Disney’s Tinkerbelle was definitely drawn by a dude. “The Fae have a different way of celebrating than most humans.”

Emma frowns, wondering what she means by the vague explanation as she watches the graceful partygoers mingle, drinking from crystal and golden flutes, picking food from trays being carried by more modestly dressed fairies.

A group of couples are dancing over by the musicians, others sat around watching or talking over the melody. It seems like a pretty standard party apart from the fact that they’ve all got wings, fine and delicate looking, that extend the entire length of their person. One fairy’s wings flutter as her partner swings her around, her feet leaving the grass as she spins in mid air.

Another couple have retreated into one another, locked in an embrace that feels a little intimate for the middle of a dance floor, but Emma’s been to clubs before, she’s no stranger to people getting a little carried away in public. What she’s not used to, is the way one of the other fairies, a tall, handsome redhead who’d been watching the pairs dance, sets his drink down, standing to cross the field and join them. She blinks in disbelief as he wraps his arms around the woman and reaches to cup her partner’s cheek so he can kiss him. Emma looks away, face red as the woman trails her lips along the length of the first man’s neck, all three sets of hands wandering, reaching for whatever inch of skin they can touch in the sudden menage-a-trois that seems to have formed.

“Looks like some are getting started early,” Wendy says, as though a random three-way in the middle of the party is nothing out of the ordinary.

“Early?” she gapes, the words registering as she watches another couple flirting boldly by a table covered in cakes and pastries, a touch starting innocently and then quickly growing bolder. “Oh my god.” She stares at Wendy as they approach the crowd. “Is this a sex party?” Suddenly, Killian’s distress over his near-daughter having attended several of these celebrations starts to make more sense.

“It’s not a sex party,” she defends. “It’s a celebration of love and new beginnings, of life and the vitality that fuels their magic.” Emma stares blankly at her. “Okay fine, it’s not just a sex party.”

“That’s exactly what it is,” Killian argues and Emma turns to look at him, her attention having been fixed on the dancers ahead as they walked. She can see more people now, coming from the forest to join the party. All beautiful in their rich clothing and dazzling, excited smiles.

Oh my god, she’s at a fucking fairy orgy. She’d laugh if she wasn’t still so stunned.

“And you guys have all been here before?” For a place that was supposed to be for kids, everyone else in Neverland seems to really get around.

“A handful of times,” he answers shortly and Wendy scoffs under her breath.

“It’s considered quite an honour in their realm to be invited,” Will tells her. Emma doesn’t really have a reply to that.

“So everyone just… all day?”

He snorts. “Basically.”

“There are other things too,” Wendy promises. “Food and drink and dancing. There’s a whole ceremonial aspect to it as well, you know.” Killian rolls his eyes. She thinks maybe there wasn’t much more to it for him. “Their magic comes from dedication, to all things, from worshipping the power in everything around them, the earth, the sky, the food, and the people.”

“Hence all the…” Emma gestures vaguely at the couples, “worshipping.” She doesn’t really understand, but this isn’t her world and people throw these kinds of parties for way less where she’s from.

“It feeds their magic.”

“And is everyone expected to… participate?” she asks warily, trying to sound as casual as possible.

Wendy’s casual ‘yes’ and Killian’s emphatic ‘no’ and spoken at the same time. Killian glares at Wendy before turning to Emma. “In the celebration, yes. But one can celebrate however they like.” She holds back a snarky question about how he’s chosen to celebrate in the past as a fairy notices them. She’s gorgeous - of course she is, Emma wants to roll her eyes - tanned skin and short black hair, wings fluttering demurely as she hops up and glides across the field to land in front of them.

“Hook,” she greets with a coy smile. Killian’s face looks torn between the natural urge to smoulder and a determination to keep his sombre mood.

“Thistle.”

“Where have you been?” she accuses, pouting prettily. “We’ve missed you,” she tells him, hand tracing delicately along the chain at his neck before wrapping around the charms.

We? Emma wants to ask, but before she can, two more fairies saunter over, a tall, curvy blonde and an equally stunning redhead. The whole trifecta, she rolls her eyes. The two Fae women join the first, draping themselves shamelessly around his arms, fingers playing at his hair, the lapels of his coat, the curve of his ears which Emma notes are bright red. Wendy looks like she’s going to be sick. It’s a bit much, really. She gets it, he’s fucked a lot of fairies.

“Solstice hasn’t been the same without you, you know,” The blonde tells him, catching her suggestive smirk between her teeth. “Why didn’t you come back?”

“I… had some business to attend to in the Land Without Magic.”

“For ten years?” the little brunette demands. But before he can answer, defend the fact that time continued here without him, the redhead traces a bejewelled finger along the dimple in his chin, smiling wickedly.

“It’s alright, Thistle. He can make it up to us this year,” she assures them before her lips find the underside of his jaw.

“Oh for fucks sake,” Wendy curses under her breath. “I don’t know if I can handle a Solstice with him,” she tells Will.

Killian clears his throat, eyes casting quickly and uncomfortably to Emma’s as he extracts both his arms from the fairies’ grips. “I - uh, that is I…” She doesn't think she’s ever seen him speechless before. Though that may have something to do with the blonde’s hand wandering dangerously close to his belt. Emma turns away, not in the mood to watch him get it on with Charlie’s Angels, when a voice calls his name from the center of the party.

“Killian Jones,” the woman declares, walking over with arms spread wide. The fairies who’d been fawning a moment ago quickly detach themselves from him, pulling back to stand behind Killian, bowing low. The imposing woman beams at him, stunning, dark skinned with black hair curling tightly down to her waist, flowers and golden beads woven intricately throughout. “The infamous Captain Hook returns.” The fairy takes his face in her hands, pressing a kiss to each of his cheeks. “It’s been too long.”

Killian offers a small bow, seemingly unable to fight his smile. “Your Majesty.”

*******

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athletickat · 4 years ago

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