#like one the alcoholism is classic web

[symbiotic-slime]

would you guys be interested in venom/the magnus archives crossover fan art

[silkscream]

angel unaware

ꨄ︎ pairing: peter parker x silk!reader

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

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

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

ꨄ︎ wc: 13.8k

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

ꨄ︎ listen to the playlist!

The spider bit you first.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"You. You just–"

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What do you mean?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Comes from my fingertips."

"No fucking way. You gotta show me."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

____

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

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

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

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

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

"And yet you’re here."

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Am I a good patient?"

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

"What, I don’t get a treat?"

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

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

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

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

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

"Rabbit."

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

"What, Pete?"

"Why don’t you patrol with me?"

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

"It’s better when you’re around."

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

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

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

"I think she’s right, though."

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

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

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

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

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

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

____

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Still as indecisive as ever."

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

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

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

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

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

"And you love it."

More than you’d ever know.

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

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

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

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

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

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

____

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

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

No, that feels too selfish to say.

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

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

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

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

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

____

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Fucking Christ," he curses under his breath.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Hey!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

____

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

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

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

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

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

"Yeah, sorry."

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

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

"Drink up, Parker!" Harry cheers.

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

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

"Hey, you."

"Hey."

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

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

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

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

"Of course," she nods incessantly.

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

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

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

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

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

"Since when do you drink so much?"

"It’s a party," he shrugs.

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

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

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

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

"He is obsessed with you," she sneers.

"What do you mean?"

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

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

"Seriously?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

____

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

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

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

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

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

"Dude!"

"What? I’m turned around!"

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

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

"Idiot."

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

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

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

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

"‘m fine. You go home."

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

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

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

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

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

"Peter? Are you okay?" you ask.

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

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

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

"Yeah, I’ll take him home."

____

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

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

"Not if you were with me."

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

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

You sigh. "No, he’s not."

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

"What is that supposed to mean?"

"Nothing."

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

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

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

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

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

"‘m not gonna puke."

"I think you might, Peter."

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

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

"What?"

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

You sigh.

"I should get going–"

"Can you stay for a little?"

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

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

"You didn’t."

"You were gonna go home with Cam."

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

"Like a chore."

"Not like a chore."

"Yeah, okay."

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

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

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

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

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

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

You close your eyes.

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

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

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

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

"What?"

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

"What am I doing?"

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

"You’re with MJ."

"I… I know."

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

"Please don’t leave," Peter whispers.

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

"Goodnight.” You don’t respond.

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

____

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Huh? Nothing’s up," Peter shrugs.

"No, I know you. Something’s wrong."

"I’m fine, Em." A lie.

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

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

____

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

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

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

He starts taking that Ambien you gave him years ago.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Peter. You’re hurt."

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

"You’re fucking limping."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"C’mere."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"For what?"

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

"‘m not all that good, Peter."

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

"I’m sorry for not being around."

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

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

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

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

"I’m okay, Rabbit. We’re okay."

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

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

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

____

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Less overwhelming?"

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

I missed you.

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

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

"You get what?"

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

We. We. We.

"There are cows upstate," you snort.

"You know what I mean."

"We can do a road trip."

"You can’t drive."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You mock him, of course.

"English, yeah?"

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

"We broke up."

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

"Shit. You really fumbled, then."

"Shut up," he laughs.

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

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

"Classic MJ."

"Yeah."

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

"I’m not a piece of meat."’

You click your tongue.

"Oh, right, you’re an insect."

"Hey, so are you!"

____

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

Or maybe it’s the wine talking.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"You're already in my room."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

His brow cinches in confusion when you pull away.

"Wha--"

"Fuck."

"What is it?" He frowns.

"I owe Ned twenty bucks."

"What?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You are.”

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

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

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

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

“Please,” you beg.

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

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

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

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

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

“Gonna cum, Pete. Fuck.”

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

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

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

“What do you wanna do?”

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

“Tell me about it, Spidey.”

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

“And how exactly will you do that?”

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

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

“You want it that bad, huh?”

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

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

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

“You want me to go slow?”

“Of course not.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You okay?” he asks, chest heaving.

“Yes, keep going. Keep going.”

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

“Pete.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

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

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

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

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

“Peter,” you whisper, your gaze languishing.

“Yes, angel?”

“I think I owe Ned fifty bucks now.”

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

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

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

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

He laughs and it sounds like heaven.

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

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

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

“I love you, too.”

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

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

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

“You’re cute.”

“Hey.”

“Hi.”

“How come you call me angel now?”

Peter shrugs. He rubs his hands on your calves.

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

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

“I have a proposition.”

“Jesus Christ.”

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

“Okay. What is it?”

“We should use our webs next time.”

He blinks, smirking, indulging you for a second.

“Deal.”

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

[anythingforjtk]

Scream for Me

Pairing: Jake Kiszka x reader

Word count: ~2,500

Warnings: alcohol, cursing, unprotected sex (p in v) (wrap it up!), light choking, fingering, mentions of murder (not seriously), minors DNI!!!

a/n: I wanted to pick a halloween fic topic based off of the list @hearts-hunger created! I picked topic 17 (halloween party) It’s different from the other fic I recently wrote but it was fun to make! enjoy the halloween jake smut 👻

“y/n would you hurry up! The uber will be here in two minutes!” Shouts your best friend Cam from the bottom of the staircase.

The two of you are about to leave for a Halloween party. You decided to go with a classic yet sexy costume, a pirate. You’re wearing an off the shoulder long white dress with a corset around your waist. You are covered in silver jewelry: necklaces, bracelets and earrings. You opted for a dark smokey eye and eyeliner in your waterline. Your finishing touches include fishnet stockings, black boots and a red bandanna over your hair.

“I’m coming Cam!” You reply before throwing your phone and keys into your purse and running down the stairs to meet her at the front door.

“You may have taken forever but I can see it was worth the wait, you look sexy girl. Now let’s go!” Cam pulls your arm and drags you through the front door, guiding you towards to uber.

Once you get inside of the car you finally have time to take in and appreciate her costume.

Not only is she dressed as Pennywise from the movie IT, but she is the sexy version. She’s wearing a white corset top, embellished with red pom-poms, small white shorts, clown makeup and a pretty orange wig.

“I admire your ability to be scary, funny and sexy all at once. You truly have a talent,” you giggle to her.

“Oh what can I say my dear? I’m multifaceted,” Cam says as she jokingly flicks her orange wig behind her shoulder.

The ride to the party is fast, only lasting about fifteen minutes. You both hop out of the car when you arrive and hook arms, walking to the front door together.

The party is hosted by Cams new boyfriend Daniel. You have only met him two times but he seems like a sweet guy.

Cam opens the front door without knocking and you’re immediately transported into a Halloween wonderland. You didn’t expect so many decorations.

The lighting in the house is dim. There are string lights and cob webs hanging from every inch of the ceiling. You see black and red streamers hanging from the walls and candles lit on every table. The kitchen island was filled with spooky treats and alcoholic punch. It is very impressive for a twenty-something year old guy.

“Wow Cam,” you shout over the loud and eerie music. “Daniel really goes all out. This is amazing.” You try to keep your jaw from hitting the floor.

“Isn’t it?!” She doesn’t seem shocked by his effort, only proud.

There are a good amount of people in the house. Not too many but not too little. Just enough for a comfortable party.

“Im going to search for Danny,” Cam shouts over the music into your ear. “Go get some punch and i’ll meet up with you when I find him.”

She runs off and you’re now left to fend for yourself.

You take her suggestion and walk over to the kitchen island to get a drink. You are completely sober currently and in need of something to lighten your anxiety.

Your pour yourself a class of the punch and it’s delicious. It’s strong, but really good. It is the perfect drink to get you drunk fast without feeling the burn of consuming alcohol.

You lean against the counter while sipping your drink and begin to people watch. You love taking in everyone’s costume choices. Some people are opting for a scary approach, some look beautiful and some look funny. It is interesting to see what people choose. As you’re looking at the crowd, you feel a presence beside you.

You look over to see a man wearing black from head to toe. He’s wearing black skinny jeans, black chelsea boots and a black shirt that is holding on by one button.

You think the outfit is rather sexy but you can’t see his face. That is because he’s wearing a Ghostface mask.

He speaks, breaking you from your thoughts. “Hey I haven’t seen you at one of Danny’s parties before. What are you doing standing over here alone?”

His voice is kind and boyish but raspy. It’s very attractive.

“Oh my friend just recently started dating him so this is my first time here. I don’t really know anyone but her and she’s looking for Daniel,” you reply.

He extends his hand out to you, “Well my name is Jake. Now you know someone else.” You can’t see his face but you can almost hear it in his voice that he’s smiling.

You reach out in return, shaking his hand. “It’s nice to meet you Jake. I’m y/n.”

“Well y/n, I must tell you that I was intrigued to come over here and talk to you because you’re dressed as a pirate and if there’s one thing about me, I find pirates to be very intriguing.”

A blush comes across your face. You hope he can’t really see it through the mask he’s wearing.

“I hate to disappoint you Jacob but,” you lean in closer and whisper towards his ear, “I’m not a real pirate. Don’t tell anyone tho.” You shush him by putting your finger over your lips.

He giggles genuinely at your attempt at a lame joke.

Jake speaks up from behind the mask, “Well then you should know that i’m not a real cereal killer.”

“Oh damnit. I was kind of hoping you were,” you reply. Although you weren’t actually hoping that, the idea of a sexy and dangerous man in a mask turned you on.

“I mean, I can be anything you want me to be tonight darling,” Jake says with sex dripping in his voice.

You didn’t know if it was the alcohol, the halloween party or the masked man in front of you but you wanted Jake to take you away from this party immediately.

“If you take me somewhere quiet i’ll show you exactly what I want from you mr. Ghostface. Just as long as you don’t kill me of course.”

Jake grips your wrist firmly and guides you up the stairs and away from the party noise at a fairly quickly pace.

He throws your body into what looks like a guest room, slams the door shut, locks it and pushes your body against the wall.

The room is dark, only lit by the moon in the night sky.

Jake begins to grab the bottom of his mask, getting ready to reveal his face to you but you quickly grab his hands to stop him.

“Keep it on.”

His strong hand then snaps around your neck. You can’t quit see his eyes but you know he’s staring at you like you’re his next meal. He slowly moves his head so his mouth is hovering over your ear.

“I like you sweetheart.”

You slowly begin to smirk, knowing he’s willing to keep it on.

His hand leaves your neck and slowly travels down your body. He lifts your skirt up, revealing your black thong covered in your fishnet tights.

“Is this okay?” he asks.

You nod your head quickly in reply.

His hand shoots back around your neck. “Words baby.”

“Y- yes. Yes it’s okay.” You struggle to say through your heavy breathing.

“Good girl,” he says while lowering his hand beneath the band of your thong. His fingers reached your heat and he begins swirling his middle and ring finger in your wetness.

Without much warning he shoves both of his fingers inside of you. You gasp at the sudden contact and grab at his strong forearm to ground yourself.

“How fast do you want it baby?” He questions, wanting to know the proper way to please you.

“Fast and hard,” you moan out to him while leaning your head back against the wall behind you to prepare yourself.

His fingers start plunging in and out of you at a painfully delicious speed. He curls his fingers at just the right angel to hit a spot that makes you nearly scream.

You feel sweat beading on your forehead as he drives his fingers into you. You squeeze around him as you feel yourself starting to unwind.

“Come on pretty girl. You’re about to cum, I can feel it. Be so good for me and cum on my fingers.” he demands.

Hearing his silky voice speak those words to you were enough to have you unraveling on his hand.

“fuuuckkkkkk,” you scream out at a volume too loud considering there are other people in the house.

When you come down from your orgasm he gently pulls his hand away from your core.

“Open up,” he requests.

You follow his order. He places his two fingers onto your tongue. With his other hand he guides your chin to close around his fingers and he slowly pulls them from your mouth as you suck them clean.

You look down at his pants and see how painfully hard he is. You softly trace your fingers over his bulge and he sucks in his breath sharply as if you were hurting him.

“I want all of you. I want to feel you,” you say to him.

He picks you up from under your ass, carries you over to the bed, and slams you down.

While hovering over you with his hands on both sides of your head Jake says, “You don’t have to tell me twice.”

He removes his jeans and boxers while you remove your corset and dress.

He’s left in nothing but his low buttoned shirt and his mask, while you’re in just your tights and a thong.

You make eye contact with his dick and notice how thick it is. It excites you so much that you notice your wetness pooling beneath you.

“You don’t have to stare honey, it’s all yours tonight,” Jake giggles to you, noticing where your eyes have been lingering.

“Then what are you waiting for Jacob? Give it to me,” you demand from him as if you’ve grown impatient.

He wastes no time and crawls on top on you on the bed and you both move up until you hit the headboard.

He reaches down to your core with one hand and rips your fishnet tights to create a hole.

You feely annoyed that he ripped your clothing for one minute until you realize you were never going to wear them again anyway.

His hands begin to explore your body. He grabs at your breasts, massaging them firmly. He rolls your nipples between his thumb and pointer finger as you let out a heavy breath of ecstasy.

“You’re fucking beautiful,” he compliments you.

“I’d say the same for you mystery man but I haven’t seen your face yet,” you wink back at him.

He chuckles in response to you and continues working his hands over your body.

“Please Jake I need you now,” you practically beg him.

“You need me to what darling?” He mockingly asks you, wanting to hear you plead for it.

“I need you to fuck me.”

“You want me to fuck you baby? Is that what you need?”

“Yes. Yes. Please,” you almost sound like you’re crying.

“Oh baby… I’ll fuck you so hard someone will think you are getting murdered in here.”

He pushes your thong to the side and lines himself up with your core. He snaps his hips against yours in one quick motion, causing you to shriek. He begins rapidly pounding into you.

He quickly grabs and pillow and puts it under your hips, making the pleasure triple. You grab at his back and dig your nails into him, slowly running them down his back, hoping to leave him with a memory of tonight.

“Fuck- you feel so fucking good around my cock,” he says through his staggered breathing. “Does that feel good baby?”

“Yes Jake you feel so good inside of me I never want you to fucking leave,” you shout back to him.

Your response to him causes him to moan deeply in chest, so much so that it sounds like a growl.

He grabs one of your legs and wrap it around his waist so he can reach a new angel. Between the pillow placement, your position, and his rapid thrusts, your body is experiencing a feeling it never has before.

You can feel his dick brushing past your g-spot causing you to yell out his name and a string of curses.

You start to squeeze around his cock, getting close to your release. You can tell he’s almost there too as you feel him twitch inside of you.

“Cum with me y/n. I want you to soak my dick as I finish inside of you. Come on baby you’re almost there. Be good for me.”

His final praises bring you to the finish line as your body shakes through a mind bending orgasm. You let out a chorus of yeses and grab at his arms with all of your might. As you’re finishing you feel him twitch inside of you.

You both come down and catch your breath before he pulls out of you and falls onto his back on the bed beside you.

You turn your head to look over at him, still wearing the Ghostface mask, “That was fucking amazing.”

“Holy shit, yea it was,” he responds. “Can I take this fucking thing off now,” he laughs referring to the mask on his face.

“Oh please do,” you reply.

You feel nervous watching him begging to situate the mask to lift over his head. You have no idea what he looks like yet but you had been extremely attracted to everything he’s offered so far and there was no denying he is the best sex you’ve ever had.

The mask gets fully yanked off of him to reveal one of the most beautiful men you’ve ever seen.

You gasp out loud.

His hair is shoulder legnth and chestnut brown. His eyes are dark and filled with honey. His thick eyebrows and long eyelashes compliment his deep eyes so well. He has a strong and sharp nose and plump pink lips. He smirks slightly at you, revealing his perfectly straight teeth.

“What? Did my face scare you sweetheart?” He asks as a joke.

You press your body into his and brush the sweaty hair sticking to his face behind his ears.

“The only thing that scares me is how attracted I am to you,” you say in full seriousness.

“You’re in luck because I feel the same way about you.” He gives a quick peck to your nose. “Give me your phone. Let me put my number in it.”

You reach down to the floor where your purse was thrown and grab your phone from it.

You hand it over to him and let him type in his contact himself.

When he hands the phone back you look down to see the information he filled out and giggle at the screen.

His number was put in its rightful place and his contact name was labeled as “Ghostface🔪”

[sissylittlefeather]

How the Web Was Woven: Chapter 5

A/N: This is the time travel/soulmate AU with Elvis and a fem!reader. We pick up with Elvis having traveled from 1960 to 2010 and then refusing to leave. Make sure you come back for Chapter 6 soon!

Special shout outs to @ccab and @elvisfatass for listening to me go round and round about this fic constantly! I love y'all so much!

Need to catch up? Here's my Masterlist.

Warnings: 18+ minors DNI!, kissing, cussing, fingering, oral sex (both receiving), p in v penetrative sex, unprotected sex, creampie. Also, drinking and possible alcoholism.

Word count: ~2.8k

"Oh my God, Elvis. What have you done?!"

******

You look at him with your eyes wide and he takes a deep breath.

"I made a decision. And I'm happy with it." You shake your head and feel the tears forming in your eyes.

"No no no! This can't be the way it is! You have to go back!"

"It's too late now. Are you saying you don't want me?" A moment of panic flashes across his face at that thought. You grab his face with both hands and look into his eyes.

"That's not what I'm saying at all. You know I love you more than anything. I'd give anything to have you here with me forever."

"I am here!"

"But I know your future. This is wrong."

"Maybe my future is different now."

"No. That's not possible."

"Y/n, what's done is done. Can we just enjoy the fact that we're together and stop worryin' so much about how it might change things?"

You know you can't, but for his sake, you'll at least stop arguing about it. You'll figure out a way to get him home. Somehow.

"Yes. I am glad that you're still here."

"There. Now that's better." He wraps you in a hug and kisses your forehead. You realize that you're both still sitting there with nothing on and reach for your sweatshirt.

"No, come here." He pulls you to him until you're settled in the crook of his arm. "We never get to do this. One of us always leaves. I just want to hold you like this for a while."

When you realize he's right, you revel in the closeness of just laying there naked together. He plays with your fingers, kissing the tips of them periodically as you talk. He starts by telling you about the army, but that moves into a conversation that's deeper than anything you've had so far. You talk about faith, what it means to be alive, and what you both want to do and be before your time is up. There's a deep intimacy in this moment with him and you love him more by the second. You've never had a connection like this with any other person before. It feels like he's a part of you and the longer you're together, the stronger that feeling gets.

After a couple of hours, you get to a small lull in the conversation and you hear his stomach growl. You roll onto him and put your chin on your hands.

"Should we go get some food?"

"Food would be good." He smiles. "You got a diner in this town? I need a burger and shake."

You laugh at the thought of trying to find a classic style diner for him. There's one place in town he'd probably love, but they have a whole wall dedicated to pictures and memorabilia of him. So that's out of the question.

"Not a diner, but we'll find somewhere that has what you want."

"Not a diner?"

"They're kind of out of style."

"Oh." He laughs and remembers that he's not in 1960 anymore. "Speaking of out of style, I can't wear this uniform around."

"Yeah we need to go shopping. We'll just go to Target real quick and then get some food."

"Target?"

"Yeah it's kind of a superstore. Like Walmart but better."

"Walmart?"

"God sometimes talking to you is like talking to an alien. Just get dressed and we'll go." You stand up and throw his pants at him laughing. He gets a serious look on his face.

"Wait. Are there real aliens now? Have you been to space?" You try to match his serious tone.

"Yes. I went to Mars for vacation last year."

"What? Really?" His eyes are huge. You can't stand it anymore and the laughter comes pouring out of you.

"No! You goofball. No, I've never been to space. And if there's aliens, we haven't met them yet."

"Well, I don't know! 50 years is a long time for things to change!" As if on cue, your phone rings on your nightstand, playing a pop song. You grab it and see that it's your mom calling.

"Ugh." You toss the phone on the bed and he stares at it.

"What is that?"

"Oh lord." You shake your head and pull on some underwear and a bra. "How do I explain this? It's a phone."

"That's a phone?! Where is the cord?"

"It doesn't have a cord. Unless it's charging. It has a battery."

"And it plays music?"

"Yeah, that's my ringtone." He glances at it again.

"Wow. Can I see it?" When it finally stops ringing, you unlock the screen and hand it to him. He holds it like it might bite him. His response to technology is unbelievably endearing. He loves the idea of it, but he's also wary of it. You finish getting dressed while he experiments with the touch screen, accidentally opening apps and asking you to fix it. He's amazed when he finds the weather app. You show him that it's not just a phone, but a calendar, clock, calculator, and camera too.

"It does all kinds of things. It even has the internet."

"Internet?"

"Yeah, it basically has access to all of the information in the world. People put stuff on the internet and we can see it. Like, here." You take the phone and open a webpage to Google. "Ask a question."

"What kind of question?"

"Anything you want."

"Are aliens real?" You smile and type that into the search bar. You walk him through how to click on the websites to find the answer, even though his question can't really be answered.

"You can ask it pretty much anything." He looks at you with his eyes wide and you realize he's still standing there in just his underwear.

"Can I have one of these?"

"Maybe. Depends on how long you're here. But right now you need to get dressed." You take the phone from him and hand him his shirt. He throws it around his shoulders and buttons it and you hear him mumble under his breath.

"That's goddamn incredible."

******

After you shop and eat, you head back to your house to hang out for a while before you get ready to go out that night. You have plans to go with your friends to your favorite local bar that does karaoke on Sunday nights.

You make some spaghetti for dinner and eat it together in your living room. He compliments your cooking, even though you know it's very basic. Still, he eats two whole bowls, so he must like it a little bit. After you eat, you go to get in the shower to get ready to go out.

"Can I come?" He asks with a devilish grin. You know where this is headed, but you're not exactly complaining.

"I don't know, can you?" You respond slyly.

"Oh, I think I can." He laughs and slaps your ass. You both strip naked and tumble into the shower together. You get mostly clean and then his lips crash into yours in a fury of passion. You press your naked body against his and he turns the shower off. He wraps you in a towel and gets one for himself before walking you backwards into your bedroom. After you're dry, you both drop your towels to the ground. He grabs the back of your thighs and you jump so that your legs are around his waist, your mouths still pressed together in a passionate kiss. When you make it to the bed, he lays you on it and kisses down your neck to your chest, not stopping until he gets to your core. It's clear he's practiced since the last time you were together, since he moves his tongue on you with no hesitation.

"Oh my God, Elvis." You moan. He really knows what he's doing now. His tongue moves over and around your clit skillfully and he slides two fingers inside you to tickle the spot that makes you crazy. You feel the coil of your orgasm tighten and you grip the sheets with both hands. When you look down, he's looking up at you, face buried in your pussy as he watches you revel in the pleasure of his mouth on you. He stops just long enough to whisper into you.

"Come for me, baby." He continues to pump his fingers in and out of you while his tongue makes a point and licks directly over your sensitive bud. You cry out as your climax slams into you, pushing electricity out to your fingertips and back again. Wetness spills out of you onto his hand and he pulls back, smiling. He slides his fingers out and wipes his face with his other hand. He goes to line himself up with you, but you push him onto his back and situate yourself between his legs. You've learned a few things too.

You pump his cock with your hand for a bit, sliding his foreskin back, and then lean forward and lick a slow circle around the sensitive head.

"Oh, fuck, baby." You open your throat and push him as deep as he'll go into your mouth, pressing your nose into the soft patch of hair at the base of him. He leans his head back and opens his mouth. You continue to bounce on him quickly and he grabs your hair to hold it while you move. You slide your tongue up and down the bottom of his shaft and then swirl it around the tip again. He pulls your hair gently and thrusts slowly into your mouth. When you can tell he's getting close, you suck off the tip with a small pop and then look up at him. You kiss back up his body and he flips you over onto your back with him on top of you and pushes into you passionately.

"Sorry, honey, I couldn't wait any longer." He pants as he drives into you over and over again. You whimper in response, obviously not complaining about his pace. Your breasts bounce as he pounds into you and he watches them match his movements. You wrap your legs around him and he groans with the change in sensation.

"You like this, baby, when I give it to you hard like this?" He whispers in your ear as he fucks you with all his power.

"Yes, yes! I love it!" You respond, nibbling on his earlobe.

"Good. That's my good girl." He continues to slam his hips into yours until neither of you can stand it anymore and you come undone together, your orgasms hitting you at the same time. He shudders and groans and you cuss and flutter around him. Finally, he rolls off you and you both lay there breathing heavily. He leans over and kisses your shoulder gently.

And then you hear it. The buzzing sound. You sit up frantically, but a lightbulb goes off for him.

"Y/n! The portals!"

"What about them?"

"They open when we have sex!" He looks at you excitedly.

"Yeah, and?! You need to go!"

"No. I don't."

"Elvis, I'm not having this fight with you again."

"No, honey, I just mean I don't have to go right now. If this one goes away, we'll just make another one." You look at him with your eyes wide. He's right. Every time you've had sex, a portal has opened. It's like the connection between you is what's causing them to exist in the first place, so this ultimate expression of your connection forces them to open.

"You're right!" You laugh and he grabs you and pulls you close to him.

"I'm not going anywhere. Not right now." Not ever, he thinks to himself, but he'll break that part to you slowly.

The portal disappears with a pop and you stay there in his arms. But how many portals is he planning to ignore?

******

Later that night, a few of your friends come over to pre-party for the bar. Several of them recognize "John" from the last time he was around and he greets them happily.

One of your friends busts out a bottle of Fireball and starts pouring shots. You take one and drink it and Elvis holds one to his nose cautiously.

"Aw, come on, John. I know you like girly drinks. This is basically candy." Katie teases him, remembering his love for Malibu and pineapple.

"Haha." He mock-laughs teasingly in return. Then he closes his eyes and tosses back the shot. He winces a bit and then opens his eyes.

"Damn, alright, that's not bad." Everyone laughs and they pour another round of shots. He only does one more, but you do three. He looks at you with mild concern, but doesn't want to be the guy to tell you not to have fun.

Either way, you're feeling very relaxed by the time you get to the bar. You settle at a long table with your friends and lean over into his shoulder. He wraps his arm around you, half because he wants to touch you and half because he's holding you upright. You're the first one of your group to volunteer to sing and despite the amount of alcohol you've had, he's amazed at how you sound. Your voice is soulful and strong and it makes him love you even more. When you get back to the table, they're pestering him to sing.

"Sing an Elvis Presley song. We know you know them." You make eye contact with him nervously, but he shrugs. There's no way they would ever know who he is, even if he sings. He goes up and talks to the DJ and then settles behind the mic. The first few bars of Jailhouse Rock come through the speakers and he starts to sing.

You've never seen him sing on stage before. He's just as electric as they said he is and you're spellbound. All your friends clap and cheer, but you sit there in silent amazement. He does a few dance moves as he sings and you understand why girls threw their underwear at him. You'd drag him off the stage to the bathroom right now, if you could. You half consider it for a second, but he finishes the song and takes a bow. When he walks back over to the table everyone gushes over how much he actually sounds like Elvis. He laughs and thanks them and then you grab him and pull him into a deep kiss right in the middle of the bar. He pulls back after a few seconds.

"Honey, there are people everywhere."

"I don't care." Your words are getting a little fuzzy, since you've had two more drinks at the bar.

The rest of the evening passes and you continue to drink while he continues to watch you worriedly. You both sing a couple more songs and finish with Love Me Tender as a duet. You never lose your ability to sing, but when you stumble and he has to catch you on your way back from the stage, he decides it's time for you to go home. Katie agrees and volunteers to drive you both home. You try to argue, but your words are so slurred at this point that it's a lost cause. On the way to the car, he actually goes ahead and picks you up to carry you.

In the car, you go on and on about how much you love him and how much you love watching him sing. You actually even call him "Elvis" a few times and Katie raises her eyebrows.

"She's so drunk. She must think I'm the real thing." He laughs nervously. "Does she do this a lot?" Katie shrugs.

"Yeah. It started a couple years ago. She went to Memphis and came back different. I'm not sure if something happened to her or what."

He looks at you where you've fallen asleep in his lap. Leaving him in 1958 must've been harder on you than he thought.

When you get back to the house, he has to carry you inside. Katie offers to take care of you, she's done it a lot recently, but he says no.

"I've got 'er. Thanks for the ride." She nods and he takes you into the bedroom. He takes off your shoes and your jeans and is trying to sort out your bra clasp when you sit up in the bed.

"Oh no."

"What?" He gets his answer when you run to the bathroom and puke. He sighs deeply and then goes to help you. Luckily, his time in the military taught him a few things, so he brings you some water from the kitchen. Then, he holds your hair and rubs your back while you're sick. Eventually, your stomach is empty, so he gets you to drink some water and get back in the bed. There, he holds you to him and kisses your forehead. You mumble into his chest.

"I love you, Elvis."

"I love you too, honey." He settles in to sleep, worried about how you truly were while you were apart. He never even thought to ask if you were okay. In his mind, it's his fault that you're like this. There's no way he's leaving you now. Not like this.

******

Until Chapter 6!

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Taglist:

@ccab @elvisfatass @elvisalltheway101 @aliypop @18lkpeters @dkayfixates @your-nanas-house @deniseinmn @joshuntildawn13 @lookingforrainbows @60svintage @littlehoneyposts @epthedream69 @that-hotdog @eddiesgirlforever @helen06dreamer @rjmartin11

[apteryxparvus]

hiii congrats on 100 followers! may i rq kaeya x reader angst. something like reader getting jealous of kaeya and rosaria drinking til late together

Thank you! Here's the request, hope you like it! 😊

Part of my ✨ 100 followers milestone event ✨ running from September 2nd to September 9th.

Pairing — Kaeya Alberich / Reader

Word count — 1,225

Content warning — angst • drinking • unrequited loved • mentions of smoking cigarettes

You can't help but feel a pang of jealousy, even thought you know it's wrong. After all, you are just his friend, his loyal confidant. You're merely the person he'd turn to for advice on wooing yet another Tinder date, and the one he'd dial up in the middle of the night whenever heartbreak soon follows.

And still, that persistent feeling lingers deep within you.

You're perched at a table inside Angel's Share, sipping a cocktail tasting of harsh alcohol and unresolved bitterness. Jean rests her head on your shoulder, letting out a tired yawn as she absentmindedly plays with her empty glass.

Lisa's voice, sultry and slightly tipsy, breaks the silence. "Another round on me," she purrs, swaying as she rises from her seat. She makes her way towards the bar, where Charles meticulously polishes glasses, weariness evident on his face. "And perhaps some shots," she adds playfully, her giggles trailing behind her as she approaches the counter.

"She sure has a penchant for drinking," Rosaria comments, her raised eyebrow conveying her amusement. She's siting beside Kaeya, directly across from you. She runs a hand through her choppy wine-colored hair, ruffling it. Despite having consumed twice as much alcohol as you, she remains composed, her sharp magenta eyes retaining their intimidating gaze.

You remain silent, an uncomfortable know forming in your stomach as you watch Kaeya and Rosaria lean in closer to each other. Their conversation is hushes, effortless. It upsets you, how natural they seem together.

Your feelings for Kaeya have been brewing ever since that rainy and windy evening four years ago. He had spotted you struggling with your broken umbrella as you exited the Favonius University library after a late-night study session. He offered to walk you to your metro stop, insisting it was his duty as a gentleman.

Of course, you were initially hesitant accepting help from a completely stranger, but you soon discovered you shared a web of mutual friends. Like Lisa, from your classical literature class, and Albedo, your shy roommate's biochemistry lab advisor.

From that point, your friendship blossomed — you'd go on barhopping adventures and various parties across the city, indulge in movie marathons (sometimes just the two of you, other times with his friend group, who quickly became your friends too).

Back in those university days, he would always share his lunch with you, despite his campus being quite a distance away from yours. It was a simple gesture, but to you, it spoke volumes about his thoughtfulness, and perhaps even, the bond you two shared.

And there would be moments when you couldn't help but believe your feelings were reciprocated. Like those nights when he'd snuggle in closer to you after a tiring day at work, claiming your place is conveniently closer to his job, and he didn't want to bother with the inconsistent late-night public transport. Or those times when, amidst the pulsing music and the swirling crowd inside the club, his gaze would always find yours, a playful smirk gracing his lips.

You often found yourself soaring in your imagination, your hopes like wings made of paper and dreams soon to be crushed. You'd believe you could almost reach out and touch the deepest part of his soul, but just like Icarus, you'd inevitably get burned by the reality.

A sudden snort and the clattering of glasses shatter your little daydream, snapping your attention back to the scene around you. Lisa playfully nudges a shot and a cocktail in your direction as she settles back besides Jean.

Kaeya and Rosaria each take a shot glass, clinking them, waiting for the rest of the table to join in.

You bite down the inside of your cheek, but silently grasp the glass and raise it. The little glasses clink in unison and the table cheers, but you remain quiet, unable to shake off the unspoked emotions that linger deep within you.

You down the shot, barely suppressing a grimace at the the strong juniper-flavored liquor.

"I'm going out for a quick smoke," you announce, rising from the table. Kaeya shoots you a concerned glance, but you respond with a polite smile.

Outside the dimly lit bar, you fumble with trembling hands to light up a cigarette. You inhale deeply, and savor the light head rush that accompanies the exhale. The wisps of smoke dance under the glow of the soft yellow lamps.

"Smoking is bad for your health," a gruff voice interrupts your solitude. You glance up, met with deep red eyes and fiery red hair tired in a high ponytal.

"Diluc," you greet the man. "I thought you weren't working tonight."

"I'm merely checking up on my establishment."

You nod, and the two of you fall into silence as you finish your cigarette.

"Is Kaeya inside?" Diluc asks as you extinguish the glowing end of your cigarette on the nearby trashcan.

You nod. "Yeah, he's in there, having drinks with Rosaria, Jean, and Lisa." Your voice quivers slightly when you mention Rosaria's name, and you hope Diluc doesn't catch your subtle slip. If he does, he doesn't acknowledge it.

"And you're not joining in on their antics tonight?"

"I am," you reply, "but I just felt like I needed to clear my head for a bit."

A silent understanding flickers in Diluc's eyes.

"Listen," he begins, "I know you have deep feelings for my brother. You must realize that he can be quite oblivious at times, and he might need a little nudge in the right direction."

You let out a dry laugh. "I have no idea what you're talking about."

Diluc doesn't press further. Instead, he heads toward the bar's entrance, waiting patiently for you to follow. With a grateful nod, you join him.

Your friends have finished their drinks during the time you spent outside smoking, and Kaeya and Rosaria are nursing another round of alcoholic beverages. Rosaria seems unfazed as she downs her Death After Noon, while Kaeya squints at his remaning drink.

Lisa and Jean wave you over, and you notice they've already packed their belongings. It's clear they're ready to call it a night.

You have yet to finish your cocktail, so you insist that your two friends head home, promising them you'll text the moment you arrive home safely.

However, the drink refuses to go down, and becomes an uncomfortable lump in your throat, as you watch the friendly banter between Kaeya and Rosaria.

A surge of bitterness and jealousy rises within you as you watch Kaeya tenderly move a strand of hair from Rosaria's face. To mask the feeling, you down the remainder of your drink, trying to ignore the unpleasant taste of the beverage. You slam the empty glass on the table and stand you, swaying slightly.

"I think I'll head out. Goodnight. Enjoy the rest of your night," you mumble, voice strained.

Barely a few steps away from the bar, you feel the tears stream down your face. In an attempt to stifle your sobs, you retrieve another cigarette and light it up.

Walking down the cobbled street, a lone raindrop lands on your nose, and the wind begins to pick up. You hadn't brought an umbrella with you.

That night, you allow the heavy rainfall to drench you, letting it numb your other senses, providing a temporary solace from the turmoil in your heart.

Author's note: not exactly proofread, sorry 😋 will probably do that sometime over the week

Smoking is bad kids, I say as I discard yet another empty pack of cigarettes 🤡🤡

[dramioneasks]

hello! can you recommend any good healer!hermione x auror!draco? thank you!!!

Random recs:

The Lies We Tell Ourselves - Asilynn - E, 41 chapters, Words: 247,518 - 8 years after the war, Hermione is a single parent working as a healer for St. Mungo’s. When tragedy strikes the hospital and former Death Eaters and their families are being hunted, Hermione is thrown into a mystery like none before. When a web of lies are exposed, Hermione finds herself putting her trust in none other than single father and Auror, Draco Malfoy. Hermione and Draco have to learn to trust one another despite their rocky shared history. As more secrets are uncovered, Hermione and Draco work together and along the way find family, friendship, and a spark of magic.

Growing Sideways - CatchCathWriting - E, 21 chapters - After escaping to France after the Wizarding War, Hermione Granger finds herself back on British soil with no direction in life. As she finds her way, old dramas haunt her and Hermione Granger soldiers on as she has always done, until she breaks down. As she rebuilds herself, she finds support from the most unlikely of people. And she can’t keep her eyes off of Draco Malfoy as they work together to try and close his Auror case that has been open for too long.

Tentacular - Kayka - E, 8 chapters - Auror Draco Malfoy suffers a mishap that renders him alarmingly altered. Lead Healer Hermione Granger has never been one to step down from a challenge, though this tentacle-y little problem may be the first to actually get the best of her.

My Best Friends’ Best Friend Draco Malfoy - GreenInk_RedLetters - M, 19 chapters - "Look, we obviously don’t get along.“ Malfoy rose a brow. "But Harry is my best friend and for some miraculous reason he’s decided to trust you so I’m proposing a truce." Malfoy crossed his arms. "A…truce?" ”Yes. No insulting my hair or my clothes OR my work habits.“ He looked like he wanted to interrupt her. "And I won’t intentionally insult your necessity for a house elf or your slimy personality." "In the same breath you’ve managed to propose a truce AND insult me.” He paused. “Very Slytherin of you.” Hermione ignored him. "Truce? For the sake of our friends?“ He smirked. "Alright.” Her eyes narrowed. She hadn’t expected it to be that easy. A true enemies-to-lovers Dramione story, with an added twist of the rest of Hermione’s friends having already adopted Draco into their group. But when the pair form a timid truce to work together to assist in Harry’s proposal to Ginny…maybe seeds of friendship (or something more) will start to bloom. Features classic Draco snark, humor, alcohol-induced decision making, and perhaps someone not hating the other *quite* as much as they’d previously alluded to.

It Never Really Ended - Snd0327 - E, 38 chapters, Words: 132,130  - When Hermione decided to be a Healer, she never would have expected that seven years later she’d be helping hunt down Death Eaters (and maybe even a Dark Lord) with Draco Malfoy. This is a work in progress, and the tags are updated as the story evolves. If you’re reading while I’m writing, please make sure you check the tags before starting on a new chapter. New Chapters will post on Sunday or Mondays depending on when it manages to come together and my lone beta has a chance to read it.

Shades of Grey by EmilieJane - M, 19 chapters - Hermione Granger had a few ethical dilemmas in her lifetime. Informally being Draco Malfoy’s Mind Healer just happened to be one of those.**I do not condone relationships between a therapist and their clients - this is just for fictional giggles and shameless dramione**

-Lisa

[timeagainreviews]

Dance, Magic Dance: The Church on Ruby Road

With the return of Russell T Davies we were given a “new” Doctor Who logo with their revamped take on the classic diamond logo. The diamond logo is everywhere now. Books, web content, episodes, and more are stamped with it. Everything except for the “Doctor Who: The Collection,” blu-rays which continue to display the Jodie Whittaker era logo. The reason for this is simple- spines. Most people display books and physical media with their spines facing outward. If you were to change the font on those spines, they lose their uniformity. For some people, that shit is infuriating. It’s not just Doctor Who fans either. The infamous plastic Homer head box for The Simpsons’ sixth season DVD is still controversial. If Doctor Who fans can get upset about a blu-ray spine, then imagine how they might react if you were to change the Saturday time slot to a Sunday. Or even more brazenly, imagine changing the Christmas episode to a New Year's Eve episode. Should be super easy, barely an inconvenience. Right?

It had been six years since Doctor Who last aired a Christmas special. While I have come to appreciate the importance of a Christmas episode within the fandom, I argued in favour of the change at the time as I am not the biggest fan of Christmas. I have history with the holiday, like many of us do. New Year’s Eve also pertains to time, so it made some sense. And for as cheerful as they tend to be, Doctor Who Christmas specials were becoming a graveyard of regenerating Doctors. I get that Christmas is about renewal, but watching the Doctor die on Christmas isn’t my jam, especially if they’re surrounded by a bunch of tacky Christmas decor. Only one other time do we see a freshly regenerated Doctor at the beginning of a Christmas episode and that was David Tennant in  “The Christmas Invasion.” It also consistently ranks as the best of the RTD Christmas specials. Though I believe “The Church on Ruby Road,” may soon challenge that.

Before I get into it, I want to preface this by saying I was on my third flute of Buck’s Fizz by the time the episode started. I don’t usually drink alcohol when I’m about to watch a film or TV show. I once went to see Terry Gilliam’s “The Brothers Grimm,” while drunk and it was a bad time on two fronts. But this was Christmas, I was feeling a bit jolly. I only mention this because I may be a bit fuzzy on the details. It’s funny then that the details are another reason I’m feeling a bit fuzzy. Last night, when I should have been asleep, I was researching runes, glyphs, and symbols in an attempt to identify the symbols drawn on the Doctor’s fingernails. That’s how intriguing this new era of Doctor Who is- it’s got me doing research into the early hours of the morning.

Where I first noticed the symbols drawn on Ncuti��s fingernails was in the below promotional image. They looked like some fan had put them there, but when I saw that it was official, I felt a stir inside. Part of me mourned for the kids who have parents like my mom who would see those symbols, call them Satanic and forbid them from watching Doctor Who. The other part of me questioned their function. I know Ncuti Gatwa is an avid follower of the zodiac, so I was braced for it to be that simple, but I had hoped it was something more. In my research, I had trouble finding an exact match for the two clearest runes in the picture. The character on his ring finger looks a bit like the number three in Psalter Pahlavi or like something from Linear A. While the crescent shape on his middle finger looked a bit like the alchemical symbol for platinum or the zodiac symbols for the Sun and Moon. When you’re a time and space travelling alien, your zodiac and table of elements must reach beyond our solar system. They could be alchemical symbols for Dalekanium or the zodiac symbol for Gallifrey. Maybe with this new magical Whoniverse, the Doctor now writes talismans on his fingers for protection.

It’s an enchanting prospect that we get to discover this new magic through the eyes of a new Doctor and companion. There’s a sort of levelling of the playing field for us as fans to come into this new chapter of Doctor Who slightly off our bearings. Who better to lead us through the chaos of magic than the Doctor himself? If his fingernails are a sign of this change, then he’s already got a leg-up on us, which is an exciting place to be as an audience. It’s so easy to be a pedantic know-it-all when the answer is always “Aliens,” but what about all those times a wizard did it, or in this case, the Toymaker?

Our introduction to Ruby Sunday was a bit surprising. Leaving her on a church doorstep felt like a page out of the Steven Moffat playbook of fairy tale magic. But also grounded in the character development we got with Rose, Martha, and Donna. Ruby’s backstory is a mystery, but her agency is not. Ruby has friends, a band, and a family. We’ve known her for 55 minutes and I already have a decent grasp on who she is as a person. She has a compassion for Lulubelle which goes beyond being kidnapped by Goblins. You can see she feels a kinship as a fellow foundling. She knows how it feels to feel disconnected from her history. Similarly, the Doctor can look at both Ruby and Lulubelle and see himself on their faces. He too was adopted after being left behind. 

I enjoyed this aspect of the story as my own family is touched by adoption. My mother found out she was adopted after her adoptive parents died. Coincidentally, she had already adopted a little girl from China a year or so prior. I now have three adopted siblings and I love them all. It means a lot to me to see them portraying Ruby’s family as a realistic depiction of an adopted family. Her adoptive mother, Carla, is as good a mother as one could hope for. When she admits she was nervous about Ruby finding her biological mother, it’s understandable. She doesn’t want to ruin the beautiful family that started when Ruby came into her and her mother Cherry’s lives.

The Davina McCall scene may be the weakest part of the episode. Aside from the prologue, it’s basically the first scene, and much like the other opening scenes in the RTD2 era, it’s a bit wonky. The dialogue lends itself to Ruby’s nervousness being interviewed, but “foundled,” is a bit too close to fondled for my tastes. It’s VOR all over again. The main takeaway from the interview is that Ruby was the baby left at the church (no surprises there) and that Davina’s people are going to try to find her birth parents. Sadly, as we come to find out, Ruby’s parents prove to be untraceable. The interview is cut short when the mics begin picking up the sound of Goblins. I feel like the only reason they were Goblins is because pointy-eared mischief makers called Gremlins ruining Christmas was a bit too close to a certain ‘80s movie. Better to go for a story with musical numbers about Goblins who steal babies for the Goblin King. No ‘80s movies infringed there… wait a minute. I kid of course, there’s nothing wrong with paying homage to the classics.

Before we get too far from the interview scene, I want to talk about Denzel. No, I don’t mean America’s sweetheart, Denzel Washington, I mean the sound guy. Was I drunk, or did Ruby mention he asked her out? I’d heard rumours she was going to have a bit of a love triangle with her boyfriend and the Doctor. I wonder if it’s not him. It would be weird to have a sound guy with a unique name who gets mentioned again if it’s not going to come back into play. I think this might enter the territory of the controversial aspects of the season that Millie Gibson alluded to recently. It’s funny then that the part of me that finds any of that controversial is the part of me that hates the idea of the Doctor being romantic with companions. I’ve never enjoyed it. Rose and Ten? Blech. Yaz and Thirteen? Snore. Representation matters, sure, but what about asexual and aromantic representation? I get that people might fancy the Doctor, especially when they look like Ncuti Gatwa, but I hope the Doctor continues to ward off any advances.

Speaking of representation, I would like to take a smidgen of a moment to talk about Trudy. As a trans woman, it was nice to see her living her best life. Simply letting trans characters exist is better representation than what we got in “The Star Beast.” They didn’t even pat themselves on the backs about it in “Doctor Who Unleashed,” as I worried they might. Regardless, some cis people think that any trans representation is shoving it down their throats. They reject the reality that for many people, trans people are a part of their daily lives. If your average person took the time to learn people’s pronouns, they’d see we’re everywhere. We’re not trying to shove anything in your face. Trust me. You’re not our type.

As I said above, it’s nice to see Ruby’s life play out over this montage. You learn a bit about her life and what she gets up to. Though when I heard she had a band, I was hoping for something more punk than Christmas standards. Ncuti dancing on the dancefloor was joyous, a word which I find myself using about him a lot lately. I love the embracing of his Scottish upbringing with his kilt. When I read RTD’s Doctor Who Magazine article talking about the Doctor dancing, I worried a little bit. Sure, the Ninth Doctor proved the Doctor dances, but I worried the scene would make the Doctor feel too sexy or too human. The Eleventh Doctor’s terrible dancing garnered the name “The Giraffe,” because it was so unflattering. But the Fifteenth Doctor pulls it off in a way few others could. However, I do still take issue with one aspect of that scene and that’s Ruby leaving her drink unattended in a busy club. There are worse people than Goblins mucking about with drinks, Russell. Let’s make a good example for the young members of the audience.

The montage of the Doctor watching Ruby from afar was actually a note from Disney. Test audiences wanted to see the Doctor earlier, and I don’t disagree. In the words of Werner Herzog’s Mandalorian character- “I want to see the baby.” It also explains why we recently saw footage of Ncuti punching through a snowman head when principal photography had ended months ago. This, of course, was due to further meddling from the Goblins, who appear to be everywhere now. They’re like bedbugs who pass from person to person. I loved the line “A pram at midnight. Really?” Such a cheeky Doctor already. Gatwa gives vibes of previous Doctors throughout the entire episode, but the snowman head scene gave us one I didn’t expect. The Doctor telling the policeman to ask his girlfriend to marry him reminded me of the Eighth Doctor’s penchant for fortunetelling. Only this time, he’s not weirdly omniscient, but rather making a wild assumption after his sonic pinged a diamond ring, which is a thing it does now, evidently.

The Doctor’s new sonic screwdriver has been a bit controversial, because what isn’t in this fucking fandom lately? I get the argument that it’s just not to your liking, that’s fair. But I’ve seen some monumentally dumb takes on the subject. I saw someone complain that it wasn’t shaped like a screwdriver. I hate to break it to you, but none of them have been shaped like a screwdriver. Show me on the Third Doctor’s where you fit the Phillips head. I’ve also seen people complain that it looked like tech from the early 2000s. So their biggest complaints are that it looks weird and out of time. How inappropriate for an alien time traveller. Regardless, I loved seeing Fifteen using his assorted gadgets. His intelligent gloves feel like a natural fit amongst his classic instruments and I can see them coming in handy further down the line. There’s also something about seeing the Doctor pull out the psychic paper that brings it home for me. It’s like seeing the Doctor square off with their first Dalek. It makes them feel complete. I know RTD said they’re giving the Daleks a rest for a bit, but I hope we do get to see Ncuti officially call one a “detty pig,” before he bows out.

The Goblin ship was a great way to introduce us to the new magical aspect of the Whoniverse. Not just because it’s fantastical, but also because the Doctor wasn’t able to use his shiny new screwdriver on it. Had it been a normal spaceship with metal and wires, he would only need to point and click. But this ship is all wood and rope, rendering the sonic mostly useless. The Goblins force the Doctor to learn the science of luck, but the ship causes him to learn the language of rope. I adored watching Ruby and the Doctor bicker while he was busy learning about the ship. They’ve not been together five minutes and they’re already getting tied up by baddies. They have an instant Doctor/companion relationship and it’s obvious why they were paired together. Furthermore, Ncuti’s detachment from the danger of the situation, coupled with an admiration for the Goblins’ tech was pure Doctory goodness. I could easily see Tom Baker fiddling with rope while Sarah Jane complained that he was goofing off.

Because of the charity release of “The Goblin Song,” many of us had become intimately familiar with it before the episode. What I doubt many of us were expecting was for Ncuti and Millie to join in on the singing. While I’ve not heard anyone complain about this, I’m sure someone has. To me, it worked. For starters, it’s a Christmas episode. Secondly, the Goblins have a band. It makes sense that the Doctor would try to win them over by speaking their language. It seems to work as the Goblins dance along with the Doctor and Ruby. Much of their logic seems dictated by whimsy. They sing and dance. They cause mischief. And they are attracted to coincidence. It’s not just that Lulubelle is a baby, it’s that she’s flavoured by happenstance. Both she and Ruby are foundlings left on Christmas Eve. It’s like the sound of a dinner bell for these little munchers. While the singing and dancing worked for both the scene and the Goblins, I hope RTD continues to use it sparingly. While I expect to see it return with the Beatles episode, I don’t want the concept to wear out its welcome. Doctor Who can afford the odd musical episode, but let’s not go crazy.

With Lulubelle saved, the Doctor and Ruby get her back home before Carla or Cherry ever notice she’s gone. This gives the family a chance to meet the Doctor, starting with Cherry. Cherry’s reaction to the Fifteenth Doctor was an understandably thirsty one. RTD kind of wrote himself into a corner by casting Gatwa. It must be exhausting to begin every scene with “The Doctor enters the room and people are immediately enamoured.”  He exudes charisma in a way that makes you stop looking at David Tennant. Remember the bi-generation scene? Little known fact, but Tennant was also in that scene. Another enjoyable aspect of the Cherry scene was seeing the Doctor flirt back. I know I said I dislike a romantic Doctor, but it was nice to see it with someone more age-appropriate. I kid, but what I did like about the scene was that he spoke to her as if she were a young woman. Because for him, she is. And even further, it didn’t feel like that cutesy old people flirting like “If I were younger,” bullshit. It makes sense that a time traveller would find whoever a person is in the present the most important. You can travel to the past or the future, but it all pivots along you in the present. We stand outside past and future versions of ourselves. To me, this is why the Doctor is compassionate, he sees the pivot people are capable of making. Can you now pivot beyond a dark past into a bright future?

The meeting between Carla and the Doctor was less flirtatious. Carla seemed open to this eccentric Doctor while keeping a concerned mother’s distance. The ironic thing is that not only is the Doctor like Ruby and Lulubelle, but he’s also a lot like Carla. Both of them know the weight that comes with what the Twelfth Doctor would call “duty of care.” Like the Doctor’s long list of previous companions, the photos on Carla’s fridge tell a story of lives touched. This is why when things go bad and Ruby disappears, the missing photos on the fridge cut us to our core. Michelle Greenidge floored me with her performance here. Seeing her claim her life is great because she has no responsibility was harrowing. We’ve seen her real truth. She’s a centre point of light illuminating the lives of many, not this selfish woman in it for the paycheck. Even Cherry now feels forgotten in the other room, waiting out the clock. This is a reality the Doctor cannot tolerate.

Not only are the Goblins little baby-stealing monsters, but they’re also time-hoppers, whatever the hell that means. How it differs from time travel probably has more to do with a Time Lord’s concept of elegance than anything else. But like the Daleks, I doubt Goblins have much of a concept of elegance. If anything it’s a warped admiration for coincidence. And if a baby Lulubelle isn’t a viable meal option, then the other side of that coincidental coin, baby Ruby, would have to suffice. After all, I’m fairly certain if they don’t feed the Goblin King soon, he’s going to start wooing Jennifer Connelly at a masked ball. The Doctor travels back to that church on Ruby Road. Tears still running down his face, we see the mysterious woman leaving Ruby behind. Is it her mother? Is it a younger version of the mysterious Mrs Flood? Is it Ruby herself? The Doctor doesn’t have the time to go chasing after her. He has Gobbos to stop.

Floating above the church steeple like Bowser’s airship, the Goblins begin hauling Ruby onboard. The Doctor climbs to the church roof where he puts the last spark of power in his intelligent gloves to the test. Instead of climbing up to the ship, the Doctor begins pulling the ship back down to earth by its rope ladder. However, the ladder is more likely to give out before his gloves do. So in a last-ditch effort, the Doctor brings all of his weight down using the gloves’ ability to increase mavity (I know) on the ladder. The ship plunges onto the church steeple which stabs up through the hull and into the belly of the Goblin King. With his influence and magic now dispersed, the ship and all of its Goblins disappear with it, leaving baby Ruby in a freefall. No pressure. The Doctor of course catches her using the gloves to cushion her fall. It was all a pretty lucky gamble considering the steeple could have just as easily hit Ruby, but luck is now a tangible thing, so maybe it was lucky. You could say “The Doctor killed a guy,” but you could also say this was the Goblin King’s second chance, and as you remember- “No second chances.” It would appear that the Doctor is still that sort of man.

With the Goblins gone, neither Ruby nor Davina McCall will be plagued with bad luck. Davina even gets so lucky as to have the Doctor appear just in time to prevent her from being brained by a Christmas tree star. The pictures on the fridge are back, and so is the giant crack the Goblins left when they attempted to kidnap Ruby. It makes you wonder just how Carla and Cherry will fair with squirrels getting in through the roof while Ruby is off exploring all of time and space. Does insurance cover acts of Goblin? Who knows, maybe Kate Stewart will stop by with a restoration team. All the Doctor would need to do is make a call. Mrs Flood returns to commend the Doctor for a better parking job. Is it just me or was that a subtle hint of disability representation? A subtle reminder not to block the pavement for the elderly and disabled.

I liked that the TARDIS appeared to invite Ruby inside by opening her doors to her. You could say the Doctor flipped a switch, but he was busy doing his fourth costume change. I like to think she was giving her seal of approval. I never quite understood why the TARDIS didn’t like Clara. It seemed to come out of nowhere. The TARDIS was like, “I dunno why, but I don’t like this bitch.” I guess you could say the whole Impossible Girl thing made her competition, but now it’s just starting to sound like Moffat writing women. But the TARDIS and Ruby? Just gals being pals. Sisters before misters. Empowered women empower women. Yas queen.

In the end, we’re left with Mrs Flood comforting her neighbour Abdul after he sees the TARDIS dematerialise. She gives the camera a devious smile as she says “Never seen a TARDIS before?” This of course is the classic Davies Easter Egg. He knew the fandom would blow up. And dammit, after almost twenty years of saying it, it had better be the Rani. Some people have said Romana or Susan, but she feels a bit more sinister. Besides, if it’s Susan, I’m going to be disappointed because Carol Anne Ford is still alive. If it was Susan, we’re owed a flashback to her regeneration. The reason she feels slightly sinister is the way she gaslights Abdul about the TARDIS. She yells at the poor man like he parked the thing in front of her house even though she apparently knows what it is. Conversely, she could be nobody we’ve seen before. Perhaps she’s an Eternal or “the Boss.” Either way, I’m intrigued.

Ncuti Gatwa is finally the Doctor. It almost feels unreal to be able to say that. Not only have we waited a long time to say it, but what an exciting Doctor he is already. He brings an invigorated energy to the performance. He's full of charm and I can't picture many Doctors pulling off a curtsy as well as he did. I’m still waiting for him to get a bit scary, but his amazed reaction to seeing Goblins about to eat a baby shows me he’s capable of it. I would like to see them show his age a little, but there’s still loads of time. His conversation with Cherry gave us a glimpse at the ancient being behind his eyes, but I would like to see more. While the Doctor may still have hang-ups about his past, it would appear his time with Donna was a time of emotional healing. The Doctor isn’t afraid of his emotions and it’s been a bit of a revelation just how much I like that. This Doctor wears his hearts on his sleeves and it’s surprisingly refreshing. It’s a far cry from “I'm still quite socially awkward,” and I couldn’t be any happier about that. We have a new Doctor. A new companion. New rules. Is anyone else excited for May?

[morning-softness]

Story Title: Listen to the Voice that Told Me

Fandom: The Magnus Archives podcast

Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/47329336/chapters/119258467#workskin

Summary:

In this world of monsters and fear, where every day Jon is forced to read another description of the horrible fate that could befall someone—anyone—unlucky enough to encounter it, there are those—human and no longer human—who have singled out the Archivist as their target. And since pretending ignorance is obviously no protection, Jon’s determined to find out as much as possible about the threats he’s up against. After Prentiss's attack on the Institute and the discovery of his predecessor's corpse in the tunnels beneath it, Jon knows two things: 1. accepting the Head Archivist position put a target on his back and 2. he can't trust anyone, especially his assistants. As if he weren't already vulnerable enough, Jon discovers he's been cursed by a Web artefact to obey any order he's given. Can Jon find a way to break the curse before anyone else finds out?

Warnings: canon-typical worms, spiders, the Not Them, the Distortion, Jon's canon-typical Season 2 paranoia, canon-typical breaking and entering, nightmares, smoking, panic attack, stalking and invasion of privacy, strained relationships, arguments, power imbalance, manipulation, mind control, threats, abuse of power, Elias being a creep, burns, self-harm? (canon-typical Jon intentionally puts himself in danger because he thinks it’s worth it), thoughts of death and suicide, blood and murder (discussed), cursing, mentions of food and unconventional eating habits, alcohol, mention of drug use, roller coaster mention 

Characters: Jonathan Sims, Martin Blackwood, Tim Stoker, Sasha James, Elias Bouchard, Michael Distortion

Pairings: General (no romantic or sexual relationships)

Chapters: 11/11

Words: 54,751 (Making this the longest fic I've ever completed!)

When I Started: February 2023

I'm putting the rest of this under a readmore, because it got a bit long and rambley, but TLDR: Thank you so, so very much to @bunnies-in-the-archives for getting me started, to @wipbigbang, @nyctolovian, @prairiedawn, @liminalspacedout, and all of the wonderful people who commented on my fic for helping me finish.  Even if you've already read it, please check out Chapter 2 to see the awesome art that @liminalspacedout did for this fic.

How I Lost My Shit: This fic really got away from me in terms of length.  The classic problem of "the more I write, the further I am from finishing."  In my original outline, I planned for 8 chapters and estimated that it would be somewhere between 15,000 and 25,000 words.  Instead, the final version ended up being 11 chapters and 54,751 words!  At about the halfway point towards the original ending, I also realized that the ending I'd planned for wouldn't work because 1. it involved Jon knowing information that he wouldn't find out until Season 3, and 2. it actually didn't resolve one of the problems introduced at the beginning of the fic.  The ending I finally settled on is something like the third or forth version.

In addition to the fic itself fighting me, life also kept getting in the way.  I got a new pet and promptly discovered I was allergic to it.  I moved to a new apartment.  My pet got sick and I took on a lot of overtime to cover vet bills.  I took on additional tasks (essentially doing unpaid overtime) in pursuit of a promotion that I was turned down for.  I went through a few rough periods mentally, and hit a couple different stretches of writers' block that lasted for months.  I took on yet more additional tasks (working essentially 6-7 days a week) and actually got promoted this time.

How I Finished My Shit: A few major things helped me get back into writing this fic and eventually reaching the finish line. 

1. I joined @wipbigbang.  Just the excitement of that alone helped me push out about 1,500 words on the first day, although the initial enthusiasm didn't last very long before I got bogged down in the details again.

2. I was paired with an artist, and from the very first thumbnail sketches that @liminalspacedout shared with me, I was over the moon at how clearly they'd captured my vision of the main character.  I knew I had to finish so that everyone else could also see their artwork for this fic.  I think this carried me through a solid 2 more chapters before I stalled again. 

3. A friend in a writers' discord group that I was part of recommended the website 4thewords.com as being a fun way to kind of gameify the writing process and to break a large task down into smaller and more manageable parts.  I'd heard of it before, but I didn't realize there was a free version.  Using that has been a lifesaver for me in terms of completing not just this fic but honestly anything involving writing these past few months. 

4. The incredible @nyctolovian who had been my beta when I first started writing the fic was willing to come back and beta read the rest of the chapters after I started it again, and gave me some really good feedback on what worked and what didn't in terms of plot and characterization. 

5. Several people in the @themagnuswriters Discord helped me brainstorm ideas for the ending of this fic, which was the part I was stuck on the hardest and longest.

6. The wonderful @prairiedawn beta read the last two chapters in a single day and helped me get over the last hurdle to finally reach the finish line. 

7. Several people commented on the fic, and a few of them commented on multiple chapters, highlighting their favorite parts or speculating about what might happen next.  It really made me feel like this fic was worth writing, that there were people who appreciated it and wanted to see more of it, in spite of all its imperfections. 

[malarkgirlypop]

Easy Men Pranksters

How easy company men prank

Richard Winters:

I feel like he would do the most unnoticeable prank, like move an item one inch to the side. I'm sure he would think it was funny, he would've seen someone do it on facebook reels lmao. He tries it on Nix, who does not notice. But every time Nix walks into the room, Dick has a good chuckle to himself, knowing what he did.

Lewis Nixon:

He would throw a party and say he put out spiked punch. Turns out is wasn't spiked punch, just normal juice and fruit. He just wanted to weed out the fake bitches who pretend to get drunk. But that's not the true reason he did the prank. No way is he sharing his collection of alcohol, if you want to get drunk BYO.

Harry Welsh:

I think he would try to prank Lew and Dick. When they are hanging out without him, he calls the house and asks if the fridge is running. But jokes on him, he didn't turn off caller ID. "Harry, please stop calling the house. If you want to come over, just come over." Tries to pretend it wasn't him that called. He tried to convince Kitty to prank call the house so he doesn't look suspicious, but again forgot to turn off caller ID and it's his phone she has.

Ronald Speirs:

Leaves a horse head in the persons bed. Doesn't know the difference between a death threat and a prank.

"You should've seen his face."

"Speirs he had a heart attack."

"Yeah, ahaha, classic."

Please don't let this man prank.

Carwood Lipton:

The most harmless prankster. Like you don't get the prank. He has to explain it.

"Come over to the window and look at all these deer!"

"Where?"

"Got you!!"

"What?"

"You've been punked son!"

"I'm confused."

"There were never deer!!"

Oh Lip no. That's so bad. BOOOOO ahahah.

George Luz:

Loves getting pranked more than pranking. But he always is trying to get people to prank him, so he never get tricked. 100% would sneak into your house and replace all of your family photos with just pictures of himself. He has especially gone to JCpenney to get those hilarious awkward family photos, but it's all just him duplicated. It's a family of Luz's!

Joe Toye:

He's a mean prankster. One of those guys who has fake bugs and insects and tricks you into looking at what's in his hands. Also will hide around the house in the dark just to scare you. You're so used to it, that when you come home you have to scope out each room, only to find he actually went out for a drink and you're home alone. You call him and tell him what you have just done for the past hour and he thinks it's the funniest thing he has ever heard. Will definitely brag about it to the boys.

Bill Guarnere:

Classic prankster. Cling wrap on the toilet, cling wrap in the door way, putting everything in jello, wrapping the room in tinfoil. Causes the most mayhem and the biggest clean ups. He spends more time on the prank than the reaction is worth. Spent a whole night putting post it notes on your car, only to find out it was the neighbours and now they are pissed.

Joe Liebgott:

100% buy you those fake lotto tickets and let you believe it for the longest time. He would get Web countless times with it. Every time the man falls for it and Lieb just finds it so funny. He let's Web call all of his family members every time he "wins". It happens so often that the family members on the phone know it's a prank and try to explain it to him.

David Webster:

None of his pranks have ever been successful. OR when he does pull pranks he accidentally gets himself. He does the cling wrap on the toilet, forgets about it, pees all over the ground. Fills a room with water cups, forgets about it and walks into said room and tips over all of the cups. Like this man just can't win. Poor guy.

Buck Compton:

The only prank he does in the warm bucket prank. He is convinced it will work every time. It never does. He literally does tests, he's so invested on getting it to work. It's basically become an experiment for him. He tries out different water temps, different vessels he puts the water in, how deep he puts the hand in the water. He has a little notebooks of each time he has tried the prank and the method he used.

Eugene Roe:

He's a cute prankster. He opens two boxes of cereal and switches the bags. So you think you are getting lucky charms, but instead you get frosted flakes. Gene thinks it is the funniest thing seeing sleepy Babe questioning every thing in existence as frosted flakes appear out of the lucky charms box. Babe still being half asleep just shrugs and tucks into his breakfast. Gene has to explain the prank to him later.

Babe Heffron:

Does the, "oh yeah I put premium air into the tires." To Gene. Gene is losing his mind, thinking babe paid $100 for air. Also has a bunch of fake items, like vomit and dog poo that he gets Gene with all the time. "Gene the cats puked all over the lap top!!" Poor Gene is stressed to the max with Babe lmao.

Don, Skip and Penk:

The trio is trioing. If there is one group that is forever pranking, it's these lot. Whether it's each other or their friends, they are always down for a cheeky prank. Fill a room with ball pit balls, foam, balloons. Breaks into your house and turn it into a full out haunted house. These boys are hard out, it's go big or go home. Nothing is off the table, they will invest life savings into a good prank. Watch your backs they are after you, they will punk you. They seriously talk about starting and producing their own punked series. 100% has a prank youtube channel that blows up.

[rebirth-eliphas]

All About Baby Doll

Baby Doll was formed in 1999, by Mirano Midorikawa. (I am absolutely obessed with this woman. She’s insane.)  Baby Doll had a store in harajuku that was popular with punk people! The brand’s style is very glamorous, sexy and rebellious. It’s common to see Baby Doll’s pieces in street snaps.

Baby Doll’s website

All of the information I have on this brand comes from their website, so here is Baby Doll’s concept according to their website, “based on the concept of "avant-garde classical/opera that can be enjoyed casually and formally," we have created a fusion of "formal fashion" that makes women shine at their most beautiful and beautiful "opera/classical" that touches the heart in a luxurious space. , so that you can enjoy the intermission time, bewitching hostesses will be placed at the seats, and you can enjoy conversation with them while drinking alcohol.”

Baby Doll’s site also includes a biography of the owner and one for her apprentice. Here is the bio of Mirano Midorikawa, the owner, designer and founder of Baby Doll,

“Born on January 15th, Born on the same planet as Joan of Arc, Martin Luther King Jr., and the mysterious great revolutionary. With the birth of Baby Doll, she appeared like a comet and now provides advice on Japan's first unique corsets and counseling on gothic, fetish, and gorgeous fashion.

Her popular corset shows are held on a guerrilla basis at events such as Kawasaki Club Citta and Gothic Lolita Bible. Her bewitching and oriental BLK beauty visuals are sure to please! Excellent!” 

Here is the biography of Midorikawa’s apprentice, her name is Asami Miyazawa.

　”Born on October 10, After graduating from lolita fashion, she discovered a fashion style that was more her own, radical, and more typical of Asami.

A good advisor for Bith, Lolita mix style, and Goth mix style. She also has a dark side, and sometimes DJs at goth events in Tokyo depending on her mood.”

Photo from Baby Doll’s website

The brand collaborated with the illustrator Trevor Brown and cartoonist Dame Darcy in the early 2000s. There are photos from the Dame Darcy collaboration but, sadly, the photos from the collaboration with Trevor Brown are lost.

Baby Doll x Dame Darcy

That’s all the information I have on this brand! My new dream job is to work for Mirano Midorikawa, I love her. If I got anything wrong please tell me!  Like I said before I got all my info on this brand from their site which you can find here, https://web.archive.org/web/20041213010104/http://earth.endless.ne.jp/users/idea/babydoll/bd-menu.html 

[thatpodcastkid]

Magnus Archives Relisten 3, MAG 3 Across The Street

Part 3 of my Magnus Archives Relisten, featuring the world's worst dining room table and creepiest next door neighbor! Spoilers ahead

When I said creepiest neighbor, did you think of Amy or Graham?

Facts: Statement of Amy Patel, regarding the "alleged" disappearance of Graham Folger. Statement given July 1, 2007.

Statement Notes: First thing I noticed was how Amy and Graham are not actually "college age." I see a lot of art and people portray them as 20-somethings, but Amy's at least 30 and Graham is ten years older than her. Just kind of interesting how that happens sometimes with characters we can't see.

I also forgot from my first listen that Amy wasn't the one who revealed "keep watching," but Jon. Given that Amy never sees it and Graham fully denies writing in notebooks at all (and doesn't seem conscious of the fact that he eats one at least once), I've started theorizing that he doesn't actually know he's writing. It's a compulsion inspired by whatever entity or force is plaguing him.

Three episodes in the row, substance use is emphasized. Amy says her choices were to take night classes or become an alcoholic, and Graham does essentially nothing but chain smoke all day. I don't really know how this ties to the broader ideas of the show except for the fact that Annabelle Cane/ The Web have been manipulating things from the start, and they historically use chemical dependency to encourage that.

Character Notes: I keep wondering how Sasha found Graham's notebook. Was it in Artifact Storage? Did she go dumpster diving? Were she and Martin trekking through the local dump?

I also never realized that Jon was the first person to use the term "Not!Graham." I always thought it was a fan made term for Not!Sasha, but it's pretty cool how Jonny could think of such an effective term.

Entity Alignment: Such an incredible balance between the Eye and Stranger in this ep. Amy's "people watching hobby" definitely makes her Eye aligned, and I wouldn't be surprised if she became an Eye entity during the apocalypse. But what's really interesting is Graham's paranoia. It's such classic Eye manipulation. He's terrified, he can't stop looking out windows and locking doors and checking around corners because he has the irrational fear that he's being watched. But the tragedy is, even if his fear is irrational, he's right. Something and someone are watching him, something is trying to hurt him. There's such a season two Jon parallel; his fear is irrational and harmful, even though he technically has every reason to be afraid.

Jonny also really works in the uncanny valley vein of the Stranger here. Amy can't tell what part of the thing she sees is the hand, in terms of color she can only say that it's some kind of gray, unsure what parts are the thing and what are the piping. Classic horror stuff, but very difficult to pull off using description only.

The truly genius thing the Stranger does is, when allowing someone to know they've replaced a victim, they only ever choose acquaintances. Not friends, not strangers, just acquaintances. This is because, if the chose a friend, it would be obvious every time they see the replacement that they were freaking out. If they chose a stranger, they might just confuse the person. By choosing an acquaintance, like Amy or Melanie, they make it so they can know something's wrong, but other people can brush them off as misremembering. There's a bit of Spiral in that, making someone doubt their reality, which is why the Table comes in to play in this episode.

[artbychelcie]

Murder on the Dancefloor: The Chokehold of Oliver Quick

'Saltburn' has catapulted leading actor Barry Keoghan into our daydreams, revitalised music careers stagnant since 2007, and ensured we never look at a bathtub the same way ever again. It's delicious darkness has amassed a huge audience, some revelling in its lurid glory and others questioning what the f*** they just watched. There’s so much to say about this film, so many parallels and Easter eggs that tickle the brain notice - for today, I’m focusing on why Oliver Quick intrigued me the most.

As a devoted horror fan, some of the more controversial scenes served to stimulate rather than disturb… The vampire scene? That's just an average Tuesday night for some. The grave scene? Nothing compared to the visual impact Patrick Bateman’s hobbies. But what did succeed to unnerve me was the turning point of the film, when Felix suprised Oliver with a trip home for his birthday. You watch with stunned panic as she says his dad has been pacing all day waiting for him - in real time the web was unravelled and Oliver's traumatic background was quickly proven to be a façade. For me this scene positioned the 'real' Oliver to the audience, realising the person we thought we knew isn’t real at the same time his friend does. And this is where my interest peaked. For me, this film suddenly turned from a critique of the upper class, to a mythological study of a sociopath, and the subsequent events demonstrate how someone with an apathetic disposition could easily infiltrate and dominate a household of such wealth and status.

On a second watch, I couldn't help but laugh at Felix's naiveity as he pulled into the driveway of this enormous house, and noted that it looked as though his mother 'had really turned things around'. Anyone watching this would immediately question how someone allegedly suffering with severe mental illness and drug abuse issues manages to, in the space of less than 6 months, become the owner of a property of that scale. This small observation highlights just how out of touch Felix is anyone outside of his social class, and how Felix's pity towards Oliver, be it through kindness or ego or a convenient blend of the two, blinded him to the manipulation.

Another incredibly successful aspect of the film is the iconic soundtrack. It has brought some early 2000 musical classics back into the spotlight (we all know the best one) and I can admit I have listened to 'Loneliness' more times in the past two weeks than ever in my 26 years of life. The soubdtrack embodies the nostalgic and romanticised qualities of the film, set in 2006 before smartphones dictated every aspect of daily life, especially as a fresher. I may have been only 10 when Oliver Quick started university, it still made me long for the simplicity of this era of my life, when getting to know another person was fundamentally down to face to face interaction.

The choice to turn back time to the mid 2000s contributes to maintaining the mystery of Oliver's identity, depriving the characters of the ability stalk his social media profiles and forcing them to take his personality at face value. His manipulation, and eventual dismantling of the Catton family, was arguably possible through his ability to present himself without the hinderance of a digital footprint. There was no evidence available to anyone in Oliver's immediate circle of the sisters we found out he had, of the father that had infact not died, nor been an alcoholic drug dealer. So why did he lie?

In analysis I've seen online, many people contribute his deception to a need to be noticed by Felix, or in Oliver's own words, to 'perform' for his attention and friendship.

Revisiting the film, I picked up on certain phrases Oliver used to describe his home life, describing it as 'dirty' and proclaiming he could 'never go back'. To us, this sounds like the way you would describe his chaotic home life he described. But when the reveal comes, you can’t help but question why he’s adamant to distance himself from a seemingly stable, and privileged background.

During the scene, his parents also mention how he is the top scholar at Oxford, a member of the rowing team, participating in the school play... his chronic deception extends beyond the Catton family to his own. They also share with Felix that he was 'such a loner' and was 'so clever' that he struggled to make friends, both earmark characteristics of someone with sociopathic tendencies. This illustrates an individual who has never been satisfied, who always saw himself as superior, and who's fixation with Felix was just a desire to climb up and out of all the menial and average and into a position of absolute control.

The grandiose and self-absorbed lifestyle of the Saltburn estate allowed for someone like Oliver, whatever his original or developed intentions, to blend in without being truly seen until, both before and after death came knocking. The need to stifle emotional expression (We don't want to hear your American feelings, Farleigh!) and the uncomfortable obligation to uphold the British sentiment to 'Keep Calm and Carry On' gave him an invisibility cloak, blending in with his surroundings. It reframed Oliver's awkward disposition as one of politeness, and his manipulative sexual deviancy was guarded by members of the household behind a wall of upper class social etiquette.

I can safely say I have fallen into the deliciously depraved world of Saltburn, so much so I’ve felt like I had to write this. I love experiencing and analysing media, but this one really had me captivated. This is a maze will happily lose myself for weeks to come, especially when it comes to the complex and captivating portrayal of Oliver Quick - I would definetly sign my estate over to that beautiful crazy bastard.

[prpfz]

🚬 21 y/o Queer mun seeking 18+ Fandomless Dead Dove Oc x Oc Rp! M x M or Masc x Masc! Very trans friendly as my character is trans himself! Looking to include maybe some power dynamics, mutual toxicity or abuse, drugging, non con or dub con, age gaps, incest, violence/crime/murder, 🍪 is a big theme but not necessarily looking to write that it’s just a big part of the background for my oc and in general the plot ideas. All in all looking for heavy dark themes! Open to doing stuff with Omegaverse or Hybrids or even Monsters if you’d like! Really looking for something good and twisted and dark ( think like Boyfriend to Death or The Price Of Flesh kind of dark with the gore and non/dub con elements ) and if it fits our characters dynamics, maybe some nice hurt/comfort too. If you’d like to use multiple characters I’m all game, I can even throw in one or two of my other characters that go with my guy for the plot as well!

My writing ranges from lazy lit to novella — anywhere from 600 to 1,200+ words; possibly slow replies at times but I can absolutely be fast paced too. I’m down for any smut to plot ratio, but I would definitely like to include smut at least a little bit. And even if we do a smut heavy rp I want it to have a lot of plot based lore to it. I’m open to all ideas you may have for plot, just ask! I only write on discord but I prefer to see if we match in DMs. I’m CST timezone wise. I have face claims but I also have some ( not that great ) art I’ve drawn of my character! Neither is required on your end though!

My character is a victim of 🍪 trafficking and abuse, big dark web themes, one final straw later and he ☠️ed someone, he ended up in debt because of it and was forced into some violent whump or be whumped scenarios in order to get out of it. After he repaid his debt in his early adulthood, he turned to hit man jobs. Never suspect the unexpected right? Still he’s very much controlled by his main abuser. He’s picked up a lot of nasty behaviors because of his past. He acts out often, but on the contrary he’s very careful with his work. He’s transmasc, default 21 y/o, classic stereotypical angry spitfire but short, at 5’0” he’s petite from struggling with an ed.

Smut wise my character is a bottom leaning vers, he might not use a strap but he’s good with his fingers what can I say? I can write him as a cocky top eager to please, an asshole brat, or obedient like a dog; it all depends on what we’re going for.

Looking for characters who could possibly be involved in his past, maybe past victims themselves or abusers. Would love characters who are sketchy dudes, freaks, bullies, guys full of anger issues like mine, dudes with bad behaviors, scumbags, toxic to the core, guys with bad pasts like him, your classic alcoholics or addicts, sex workers, complicated personalities, guys who can’t commit, players, guys involved in crime, guys with daddy or mommy issues; maybe both, etc. On the contrary I’d also be open to characters who have turned their lives around from a bad past. ( I love the drama what can I say? ) Also open to hurt/comfort plots as well!

If any of that sounds up your alley or still has your attention, please leave a like and I’ll get back to you asap!

Leave a like, and anon will get back to you!

[marvel-and-mischief]

❄️ December Writing Challenge ❄️

Day 26. Bookstore Date

Pairing: Ezra x GN!Reader Words: 1118 Warnings: none

December Writing Challenge masterlist

The bookstore is enormous. Spanning fifteen floors, nine cafes, a rooftop terrace with an alcohol-free bar, and a creche on the first floor, you’re beginning to think meeting a stranger (that you’d been exchanging messages with on the inter-planetary web) here is a terrible idea. But you’d chosen it because it’s public and easily accessible from your pods charging station, plus when you mentioned books to him your conversation came to life. It buzzed with talk of childhood favourites and guilty pleasures; which ones were for reading in bed and which you preferred on the go. So the bookstore is the perfect place, but you worry you’ll never find him.

His name is Ezra, he’s a little older than you and he’s spent most of his life mining for gems on forest moons but he’s looking for stability now, and a friend to keep him company. You wanted a similar life, maybe settle on a university planet like this one, study for a few years and find steady work that had you hanging up your landing pod for good. 

You’re standing in the fantasy section on the second floor, browsing the spines for your favourite book when you hear a beeping coming from your comms device. Pulling it out of your jacket pocket you squint at the thin line of screen that slowly reveals Ezra’s message.

-I have retrieved my 

-book. Will meet in 

-blue room on sixth 

-floor

You pick out the book you’ve chosen and rush to the elevator before the doors close. Pressing the button for floor six you thumb the pages of your book nervously. He seemed like a great guy over texts; he was conversational but never talked over you, he asked questions and was open about himself too. And because he couldn’t send a picture he described himself; scar on cheek, missing his right arm from a work incident, streak of blonde in his hair. He shouldn’t be difficult to spot. 

Stepping onto the sixth floor looks like every other floor of the bookstore. You seem to be in the classics section, and along the lefthand side are different coloured doors that lead into various quiet rooms for people to read in. The third door along is blue, so that’s where Ezra must be. You feel your stomach flutter but you hurry across the floor regardless. 

You knock once, then twice, then a third just incase he hasn’t heard it. The door swings open to reveal Ezra, exactly how he described himself, wearing black corduroy trousers and a knitted jumper. He looks cosy, sophisticated, blending into his bookish surroundings. He calls your name as a welcome and to ensure the right person has come knocking. He has a deep voice that, along with his appearance, has you weak at the knees. You can only nod in response.

“Come on in. I have left you the armchair nearest to the window. It has a fine view of the park and children playing ball games. I find it too much of a distraction if I am to converse with a companion.”

You saw a smidge of his wide vocabulary in his texts but the way he speaks has you hypnotised into wanting to hear him speak more. You take the seat near the window, unwind your scarf and pop the buttons on your coat to relax into the cracked, leather chair. Ezra sits next to you on a loveseat, side on, legs crossed next to a book whose cover you recognise.

“You chose Wilde?” you ask, resting your own book on your lap. Ezra hums, tracing a finger along the gold lines of a picture frame, a haunting image of a skull resting at the top.

“The Picture of Dorian Gray. A classic. And one of my all-time favourites.”

You think it an interesting choice of book for meeting someone for the first time. It speaks to his character: he could have chosen to impress you with non-fiction, or go for something lighthearted, but no, it’s an honest choice and you’re grateful for that. You talk about the exploration of themes, about youth and beauty and the absence of both the older you get. It’s a deep conversation that lasts most of the hour until Ezra has to bribe one of the bookstore staff to let you have the blue room for another couple of hours. Time is passing quickly, just as it does in Ezra’s book, until the children outside have long left the park to go home.

“And what about you? Which book did you choose?”

You’d completely forgotten about your own choice of book, so much so you had to dig it out from where it had slid between the cushion and the side of the chair. You describe the plot of your favourite book, one Ezra hadn’t heard of. It gives you a chance to speak of your own moral beliefs, Ezra chiming in where he agrees or disagrees which always leads down pathways of discussion that fly far from your original topic. Ezra is a fascinating, clever, funny, understanding man who you can see yourself spending eternity with, if only to hear more of what goes on in that head of his. 

It’s late before long, and you and Ezra are asked to leave so the store can close for the night. You stand outside, bundled up in your Winter clothes, leaning against each other for extra warmth, not really wanting to leave but knowing you can’t stay on the sidewalk until the store opens in the morning. 

“Well I hope you don’t mind me saying, it has been an extraordinary evening. One that has far exceeded my expectations.”

“I’ve surprised you?” You ask, a cheeky smile gracing your lips. Ezra chuckles deeply. 

“Yes, but don’t take that personally. It is rare to find such a like minded individual, especially when I am looking for someone like me.” His tone is self-deprecating and gives you pause. You don’t want to leave Ezra tonight, so you curl your arm around his and don’t let go.

“There must be a late night hub, or an all-night bar we can find in this town. Let’s not part ways just yet.” You stare hopefully into his large, brown eyes and see the moment where his sadness for the night ending turns to relief when he processes your words. 

“I would be happy to walk these roads until dawn if you asked me to,” Ezra admits, stepping off the curb and pulling you alongside him. 

You’ve found something in Ezra that you see in yourself. Maybe it’s loneliness, perhaps it’s a passion for books. Whichever it is, you’ll be holding onto him for good. 

[justsomerandomfanfic]

Hello lovely! I was wondering if I could maybe get a Kingsman, Batman, and x-files romantic matchup? I’m 20 and use she/her pronouns. I’m bi so any gender is fine. For personality I’m creative, introverted, and individualistic. Though I’m introverted, around my friends/when I’m comfortable I can be quite talkative and humorous. However, I definitely treasure my alone time the most. Im a very big homebody and can be very hermit introvert sometimes. As for bad traits, I am sometimes the worst pessimist when it comes to myself. I’ll be fine motivating others but then when it comes to me I live by the “be ready for the worst and you wont be disappointed” As for hobbies escaping to new worlds while reading books/comics, watching movies, and playing rpg video games. My favorite genres are fantasy and sci-fi, though I do love a good classic from time to time. Apart from that, I love working out. My interests on the other hand are art focused. I’m currently in art school working with mostly digital mediums, though I sometimes work with traditional. I love my practice and everything including, game, web and interaction design, video art and visual effects, 3D modeling and character design, and digital illustration. Sometimes I whip out graphite and ink.

A list of random likes: coffee, chai tea, dark chocolate, rock/blues/jazz/80s pop/soundtrack music, statement jewelry and accessories, cafe art shows, arcades, comic book stores, purple, thai/Indian/Chinese food, roller blading to classic rock, quality alone time.

A random list of dislikes: people i am unfamiliar (I have trust issues oops) with and have to make small talk with, the biting cold, rain, non fiction, staying too close to reality and not being allowed to daydream/imagine/roam freely in my thoughts, physical touch, overly crowded areas. I think that’s it thank you!

Heyy! Thank you so much for requesting!! I hope you enjoy your matchups!!!

Batman:

Bruce Wayne (Christian Bale);

🦇 You first met Bruce when you were at an Indiana restaurant with a close friend, almost bumping into him as you were both heading to the restroom; you were embarrassed and for Bruce... It was love at first sight (and let's just put it out there that your friend was pretty hyped that you encountered the playboy billionaire)

🦇 You didn't 'run into' Bruce until a couple of weeks later, your friend invited you as their plus one to one of the said Billionaire's parties, you didn't really want to go, but your friend insisted that you'd have a good time ("No hiding, time to have fun!")

🦇 You, dressed up to the nines, hated how crowded the place was, yet it was less intense than Free Comic Book day, but that didn't stop you from staying by your friend's side; wishing you brought a book or something, you couldn't even have a drink of champagne and you doubted the bar served chai tea, which you were craving

🦇 But, against your better instincts, you decided to try and see anyway, going up to the bar and asking for anything non-alcoholic, only to get a shrug from the bartender and a new presence beside you

🦇 Turning, you were instantly greeted by Bruce Wayne himself as he turned to the bartender and asked for water for you, surprising you completely

🦇 With a soft 'thank you' to the man before you as you grabbed your water, Bruce gave you his charming smile, "I'd like to apologize, my staff are usually better at their job." Only for you to rapidly shake your head, "Oh, no it's fine!"

🦇 Bruce only shook his head back before speaking, "Still, I feel terrible. Let me treat you to breakfast tomorrow, here's my card. I'll have Alfred pick you up. Now, you two enjoy the party." And with that, he left

🦇 You, shocked and with your jaw slightly dropped, you turned to your friend with Bruce's card in your hands, your friend was basically jumping for joy as they exclaimed, "I think you just got a date with the Bruce Wayne!"

🦇 The next morning, at nine sharp, a nice polished car pulled up along your apartment, and off you went to your date with Bruce; which surprisingly enough... Was at a cafe

🦇 Bruce, standing when noticing you, was a complete gentleman, pulling out your chair, and offering a smile; the breakfast though a bit nerve-racking, was actually a lot of fun, and the both of you wanted to go out together again... You even got your chai tea

--

Kingsman:

Roxanne "Roxy" Morton;

🐩 You met Roxy when being recruited for Kingsman, alongside her and Eggsy; though it took some time, you and she bonded quite well

🐩 You started off as friends at first, motivating each other up during training and reading together during free time; drinking tea in the peace and quiet

🐩 You were also usually teamed up together for missions, which worked out perfectly each and every time, Eggsy was always jealous of how smoothly your missions went

🐩 When you weren't working, besides reading and drinking tea, you and Roxy would watch movies together such as fantasy movies and even some sci-fi; on occasion the both of you would watch a classic movie, dating back to the 40s or 50s

🐩 Having the best tech in the UK, you often used your work tablet for your art, digitally drawing and sketching things you enjoyed like coffee, your favorite fictional characters, and even Roxy, (but you won't ever tell her that)

🐩 In your free time, you had also found out that Roxy didn't know how to roller skate, so you decided to teach her; using the Kingsman Mansion ballroom as a practice rink, you helped Roxy skate, fall the right way, and even a few tricks; by the end of the week, she's a natural and the two of you skate to your favorite pop and 80s music

🐩 You also love your alone time, and Roxy respects that, she also loves her alone time; so you always make sure to make time for your own personal alone time

🐩 Roxy would also plan the cutest dates for the two of you, and every time she "picked you up" from your dorm bedroom in the Mansion, she always had a small bouquet of purple Verbenas ready for you

🐩 Roxy would also go to comic book stores with you, even though she didn't really care for comics that much, she knew they made you happy and that's all she could ever ask for; though if you go to a regular book store, be sure to be prepared for all the books she is going to purchase

🐩 On anniversaries, the two of you go to a Chinese restaurant, but most of the time you just get Chinese takeout and enjoy each other's company while watching movies together, falling deep into the fantasy or sci-fi world that played on the screen before you

--

X-Files:

Fox Mulder;

👽 You met Mulder when you were hired as a secretary for the extraterrestrial believer, and he quickly asked if you believed, you were too shocked by the abrupt question to answer properly

👽 Though you and Mulder had that awkward and rocky interaction, Mulder was quite nice when asking you to do anything for him, always saying please and thank you, while even sometimes letting you go home early some days

👽 As time went on, you noticed how awkward (and adorable) Mulder was acting, sometimes fumbling over his words or even walking into a closed door once after talking to you

👽 You grew closer to the man, to the point you knew exactly how he liked his coffee and you even got to the point where you could call him Fox, but only when no one was around

👽 Fox even surprised you one time, after having a rough day at work, he showed up at your desk with some chai tea, which made your heart warm and stomach flutter happily; it even started to become a habit for him to get you coffee or tea in the afternoon

👽 At this point, Fox knew you enjoyed fantasy and sci-fi movies, and he'd occasionally invite you to his place for an alien movie night; which also turned into a weekly event the two of you would do together, even Scully would join sometimes

👽 When you had nothing to do, no errands to run, or papers to file, you'd sketch in your notebook, sometimes unintentionally (intentionally), sketching Fox... And some aliens; that had become a habit for you at this point

👽 One time, when Scully had been out sick, Skinner had asked you to be a temporary agent/partner with Fox on a small X-File, nothing too big, he thought it was a hoax... But Fox knew there was something... Fishy going on ("Something fishy is going on." He's say)

👽 Turns out there was something fishy going on, someone or... Something had been mutating the local fish in Springfield Oregon; making the fish have three eyes, now you had never seen anything like that before, and it was an X-File mission success to put it simply in the end

👽 And, after a long work day, you and Fox would spend the time together watching movies or even just discussing the great unknown of space and aliens in general; you always loved those times, seeing how excited and interested Fox was about the subject, and Fox felt the same as you would sketch aliens beside him as he spoke

--

(Thank you again so much for requesting this matchup! It was fun to create <3 :) I hope you enjoy it!!!!)

[kokorolinkrun]

Blewis N. Clark: More than just a cynical nerd [Character Analysis… I guess?]

Am I seriously about to write a whole character analysis about a character from an early 2010s web show about stick figures that isn't supposed to be over-analysed like this? Yes, yes I am.

Anyways…

INTRODUCTION

Ah, favourite characters - Everyone has them, and fans of Dick Figures are no different. With this series specifically, the main trio of favourite characters is Red, Blue and Lord Tourettes. These can be for different reasons: Because they're hilarious, because they're the specific person's favourite colour, or because they just relate to the character.

When it comes to Blue (who's my favourite character, in case you couldn't tell), specifically, I've seen at least a few people say they relate to him as a character.

Why is that?

Well, I remembered reading a small snippet on Google of a review of the movie which said that aside from Blue and Pink, all the characters were rather one-dimensional, and that's when it finally hit me as to why Blue is so related to and loved by the fans (myself included):

It's because he actually has depth to him.

While the others can be put into their own character archetypes (Red's the crazy sex-obsessed alcoholic jerk who just barely learns from his actions and becomes a better person by the end of it all, Lord Tourettes is the bright and cheerful fairy tale-esque character who actually isn't all that innocent after all, Broseph's the douchebag who always shows off, ect.), Blue…isn't like that. He's like that at the start, sure, but over time we learn more about him and start to relate to him by chance.

And don't get me wrong: While I know in-depth characters aren't really needed for a show like this, I feel like that only helps Blue stand out amongst the rest, which is want I go over today.

Strap in, this is gonna be a long one.

IN THE SERIES

When we first meet him, he comes off as the typical serious one of the duo: He's mature, level-headed, a bit cynical and is 100% fed up with Red. Not really a lot to write home about.

However, by the end of the first season, we've come to learn a bit more about him: He's actually rather panicky when it comes to certain situations, which gives him a bit more character than him just being the usual stoic cynic he seemed like at the start. One thing we also learn by the end of the first season is that he's also a nerd, perfectly complimenting this more panicky nature and helps him become a lot more relatable and lovable.

As the series continues, we also subtly learn little by little about his desire to just get a girlfriend and finally live a normal life. He keeps trying to advance his relationship with Pink, seemed pretty upset when Stacy broke up with him in "Robot Frog", and was also trying to get a job in "Brain Switch" (which was, unfortunately, ruined by Red).

Alongside all of this, he also appears to enjoy the finer things in life. This is not only shown in "Traffic Jams" when he's listening to classic music in his car, but also "Brain Switch" where he (in Red's body) is shown not only reading at the library, but is also shown simply taking a moment to admire a rose in a garden (the latter one honestly still being one of my favourite parts of the episode to this day).

However, he doesn't actually seem to 100% be annoyed by Red, after all - even enjoying himself at times, as evident in both "We're Cops!" and "Planet Asshole". He also seems to somewhat envy him, as shown in "Butt Genie" when he states Red's idea for his wish sounds pretty cool. Alongside that, he seems happy to wish Red a happy birthday at the start of "Panda Hat" just before he realises Red's drunk again. All of these just go to show that even if he says he hates Red, he still cares about him to an extent.

And all of this is only what we learn about him in the series. The movie, on the other hand, is where his personality truly shines.

IN THE MOVIE

At the start of the movie, we learn that he was lonely during his childhood, often bullied and laughed at. This finally explains why he still sticks with Red even after all the things he put him through: Blue promised to always be Red's friend after the latter unintentionally saved him from bullies back in Elementary School. Before meeting him, he had absolutely zero friends (aside from Lord Tourettes, sort of), so Red was his one of his earliest ventures into friendship. If he lost Red, he'd have nobody else left to go to.

As the movie continues, however, he finally hits his boiling point with Red, leading to the boat scene (which is already rather powerful in of itself, with the boat breaking in half representing the "end" of their friendship) where he finally learns Red never meant to save him in Elementary - it was all to impress the girls watching.

Upon this discovery, Blue completely flips upon learning his "friend" never truly cared about him, and finally breaks his childhood promise to Red by calling off their non-existent friendship after a small fight with him, unable to believe why he trusted Red, his only friend just about his whole life up until now in the first place.

Despite their shattered bond, however, Blue still doesn't give up in his quest, even when he's still forced to stick with Red (and slowly patches things up during the Paris scene, kinda). Why, you may ask? Because he finally has somebody he can return to and truly count on: Pink.

Speaking of her, this leads me to my next point… If it's for those he cares about, he'll refuse to back down from his goal no matter how long it takes.

This is most evident towards the end of the movie, after Red bails on Blue when they finally return to their hometown. Even though he needs to do it all on his own, he still refuses to give up, as shown in the montage scene and all his countless attempts to climb the mountain. He's already come this far, so it's pointless for him to turn back now. If it was for Pink, he was anything but ready to give up - And that unbelievably strong will, that certainty is what helps him truly shine in this scene.

CONCLUSION

At the end of the day, Blue is more than just the stereotypical cynical nerd archetype we've come to know him as: He's skittish and cynical, yes, but that's not all of him. He tries his best to keep his promises, tries his best to live his life to the fullest even with Red driving him nuts 24/7, and when he knows he has everything to lose, he'll stop at nothing to reach his goal, no matter how many times it takes. He holds severe gratitude to those who help him out, and tries to repay them the best way he can (such as his promise to Red).

With all of this in mind, I suppose that's part of why we all love him as much as we do: Underneath the static cynical nature he's introduced with is a character who's not so different from you or me, after all - someone who's just trying to live his life even despite everything going on around him. He's cynical, he's skittish, he's a nerd, he's determined… He's Blewis N. Clark, and that's why we love him.

And that concludes my needlessly in-depth analysis on Blue's character! Thank you all for listening.