#my brain cells need to connect for once

[boacrow]

Another beautiful picture that my pinterest feed gave me. Fully, just like, its absolutely just Crowley and Aziraphale.

[angorwhosebabyisthis]

i found this lore entry recently and have not stopped thinking about it since. it is HYSTERICALLY funny to me that fandaniel's villain origin story was just being a fuckin boomer

One of few great minds in a land that had seen the slow, yet steady numbing of its people's intelligence, Amon long lamented the sorry state of Allag , concentrating his early scientific efforts on developing medicines to increase mental capacity . He soon realized that it was not knowledge that the Allagans lacked. If anything, they had too much. What his people lacked was a leader. With a renewed sense of focus, Amon shifted his studies to the field of vivimancy, and soon was conducting experiments on his own flesh in order to attain his final goal - the resurrection of Xande the First.

— Encylopaedia Eorzea Volume I, p. 25

[peachesofteal]

Simple Math / Part Eighteen

Simple Math masterlist

Ghost/Soap/female reader - AO3 - 3.1K words Tags: 18+ mdni. nurse!reader. Sexual content. Pregnancy and things that come with it. Brief mention of options in relation to termination of pregnancy. PTSD. Heavy emotions. Graphic descriptions of domestic violence and miscarriage, suicidal ideation. This is mostly inner monologue. Feelings of anxiety, despair, fear. This part is a little shorter due to its emotional nature.

There’s no oxygen.

No room for your lungs to expand, nothing for you to suck into your chest and relieve the ache blooming in your bones.

You drift, unmoored, a sailboat with no rudder, no engine to save you in an ocean without a breeze. All you can do is follow the current, the one leading you back to the dozen HCG strips buried in the bottom of a trash can, faint pink lines buried in the membranes and the matter of your brain.

The midwife that squeezed you in confirmed it all with a blood draw.

“You have options.”

“I know.”

There are resources, and education for you…  though I know you’re probably aware.”

“Yup.”

“Depending on your decisions, we’d like to see you in about two weeks for an eight-week ultrasound.” You gulp. The air is tragically thin in this room, and the paper crinkles under your uneasy weight.  

“Okay.”

When Simon appears in the main lobby for the usual trek home, you barely hold back the urge to vomit all over his shoes. Your legs are weak, trembling with each step forward, and you hold his hand so tight, your bones ache.

Sensitive as always, he lingers alongside you in the quiet, biding his time before slicing through your silence. “What is it sweetheart?”

“Huh?” You’re already on the front doorstep, memory of the entire trip evaporated.

“Do you still not feel well?”

“Oh, yeah.” The lie is toxic, sludge stuck in your bloodstream, clogging your capillaries until they burst like fireworks. “It’s my stomach.”

“Pen’s still under the weather too.”

“Poor thing.” The words are numb. Your mind is numb. Your body is a livewire and exhausted, all at once, the push and pull almost knocking you onto the floor. In the kitchen, Johnny wraps an arm around your waist, leaning in for a kiss, but nothing registers.

“Maybe you should get some rest.”

“Yeah.” Autopilot. That’s the gear you’re in. Going through the motions, trying to hold yourself together, keep your head above water.

Is this real?

Is this happening?

What will they say?

What will they think?

“Bunny?” Johnny’s thumb is on your carotid, where your pulse beats. Where your heart pushes blood through your circulatory system, flowing to a presence now fluttering inside you.

One plus one equals two.

“Sorry, yeah. Think I’m gonna go up, take a nap.”

“Yell if ye need anything, aye?” All you can do is nod.

You gravitate towards the guest room before you can stop yourself. It’s as you left it, bed made, sheets crisp, remnants of your things separated into easily sorted piles. In the nest of blankets, it’s easy to pretend. Easy to imagine the bed as a cloud of cotton candy, so high in the sky, above the earth, above this… this thing that is happening.

An embryo. Something two millimeters long, siphoning its existence from yours.

That tiny sliver of hope is nowhere to be found, replaced now with logical, realistic questions.

Can you sustain a pregnancy, after the damage inflicted during the last one?

Can you carry one to viability?

Can you mentally, emotionally, physically handle a pregnancy?

An infant?

And what about them?

What about you?

You think about the times you wanted to die. The moments you sat in the shower, streams of red running to the drain, a clump of cells you never knew draining from your body with each second.

A loss you never knew you’d mourn. Something stolen. Something slipping through your fingers, handfuls of sand blown away by a sea breeze.

The overwhelming feeling of drowning every time you laid on the floor in a broken heap, synapses misfiring, making wrong connections, desperately trying to latch onto anything normal, anything sane. Staring at the ceiling, slow flow of blood dripping down your throat, left wondering if this will be it, this will be the moment it goes too far. Your spine will snap. You’ll take a blow to the head strong enough to render you unconscious, permanently. Your windpipe will be crushed, closing in on itself, starving your brain of oxygen. In those moments, you could only hope.

You’re grateful, at least, that you don’t feel like that now.

In a cocoon on a cusp of hazy sleep, you’re cradled to a chest, jostled lightly until blankets are tucked back up around your shoulders and snuggled between two warm bodies, a gentle hand cupping your cheek.

“Our sweet girl,” Simon murmurs in the dark, “we’re here. Whatever it is, we have you.”

A dream.

You sleepwalk through life. One week turns to two, and then three. Three weeks turn to four, and more, before you know it, you’re twelve weeks pregnant, still going through the motions, robotically making your way through each day. You’re shoving the waterfall of feelings and emotions so deep, so far away, they’re likely to never see the sun again.

You lock them in a box.

You bury it in a grave, six feet under.

At work, you’re grateful you know your job inside and out, because you’re mostly just going through the motions. The only time you show any sign of life is when your boss tries to float you to the NICU. When you dig in your heels, repeatedly denying the request, she finally gives up and moves onto a new unsuspecting victim.

Better them than you.

At home, its worse. You don’t know if you’re imagining the tension or if its truly there, eggshells crumbling beneath your feet, words turned to ash. You’re a marionette, fate pulling the strings, tearing the joints of your limbs in a million directions.

They can tell. They read you too well, but you’re not so easily swayed. Simon tries to coax it gently; Johnny tries to bluntly force it out. Both tactics fail, but they themselves stay steady, and true, holding you in the night, soothing you with touch and whispers, loving you through it all.

During the day, they coddle you. Johnny massages your shoulder, tips your chin back until your skull rests on collarbone, dots kisses all over your skin. He tugs you onto the patio, curls up on the outdoor loveseat with you under a big blanket, your head in his lap, telling you stories about his childhood, his parents. He makes you giggle by reminiscing of all the times he chased Simon around at work, how Kyle fell out of a helicopter, how they had to wear suits for an undercover op one time and Simon's ripped right down the ass.

Simon cooks, all your favorites, things you forgot he pays attention to, and spoons you on the couch, big arm like a safety net stretched across your chest to keep you close. He brings tea to bed, reading until your eyes close, calming your mind enough to lull you to sleep.

Even at night, they treasure you like glass. Johnny lays on his stomach, thumbs rubbing circles into your thighs, parting them, backs of his knuckles tracing over the seam of your pussy, coaxing your arousal, taking his time. He licks your clit so slowly its torture, all the while Simon tugs your knee as wide as he can, hand fisted in the mohawk, kissing you from shoulder to neck, over and over.

You beg them to fuck you hard, harder than you’ve ever asked for it before. Johnny jumps at the idea, but Simon kills it immediately.

“No,” he traces a line over the curve of your ass to the creases of your thighs, “that’s not going to happen, sweetheart. Not until you tell us what’s going on.” You opt to bury your face in his chest instead and ride Johnny’s hand as Simon coaches, telling you how good you are, how lucky they are, how much you mean to them.

If only they knew. Would they still feel the same?

It’s more than you deserve, you think. More than you know how to handle. The guilt piles onto your shoulders. You’re carrying a life, a life you created with them, a life they should know about.

The decisions waiting in the wings haunt you at every turn.

What should you do? What will you do?

You should tell them. They should know.

Why are you keeping this a secret?

The time is passing too fast, and with it, your panic increases, forcing your back to bow, hands clutching at your legs, head hanging heavy to the floor. At work in the closet, at home the moments you’re alone, the agony steals your breath, heart shredding to pieces. It overcomes you, floods your nervous system until the world spins.

In the shower, you fall apart, truly, knees slamming into tile, your shoulders slumped against the wall.

It’s hard to tell you’re crying with water streaming over your face.

You lose your shit the day Penny crawls across the couch to cuddle you.

She pulls herself up onto your belly, her head resting on your chest, chubby hands fisted in your shirt.

“Bunny wead?” She wants a story, a routine the two of you enjoy together, turning the pages of a children’s book and acting out all the voices. She’ll squeal with glee, her laughter full of excitement, and you’ll tickle her sides while pretending to eat her foot.

It makes you both happy, but today, it splits your soul in two.

You burst into tears. She jolts back, looking up into your face, little brow furrowed in confusion, mouth shocked into a circle.

“Bunny.” She pats your cheek, alarmed, and you skim your nose across the top of her head, breathing her deep, anchoring your arm around her back. She’s starting to get upset, too perceptive, too empathetic, already expressing the traits of both her parents. You try to soothe her distress.

“It’s alright.” Your voice cracks on the promise, her nose pressed to your throat. “It’s alright, Penny. I’m sorry. Everything’s okay.” Johnny’s unmistakable gait sounds on the stairs, still slightly off balance, and you hastily wipe your face, forcing your eyes to his as he approaches the couch.

“What’s wrong?” He sees it immediately, and you shake him off with another lie, so many little white ones rotting into blinding despair.

“I had a bad day at work yesterday, that’s all. Just still trying to process it.” His head cocks.

“Ye sure?”

“Yeah, promise. I’ll be fine.”

The tide changes at work.

A man lies in a medically induced coma, barbiturates keeping him in the dark, a suspended state of uncertainty. His wife waits, and waits, fixes her too keen eyes on you every time she sees you, waiting for an update, good news, anything. Anything that could bring her peace.

On the second day of your work week, your steps stutter at the sight of her sitting bedside, a baby in her arms, gentle words floating between them.

“We’ve moved onto ba now, for a bottle, which is just crazy,” she murmurs, a hand under her cheek, wiping away tracks of tears, “and I think he’s too big for me to carry around at this point.” There’s a wet chuckle, and the baby tips forward, smacking his hand on his dad’s. “Is that daddy?” She bounces him, quiet as he babbles and gurgles, his eyes wide at the sights and sounds in a hospital room.

You clear your throat. She startles.

“Oh god, sorry… I didn’t see you there.”

“It’s okay,” Intruding on private moments is not uncommon, though here it feels different. “I just need to check on some things and then I’ll be out of your hair.” She nods, and outside of the baby’s noises, the room is silent until she breaks it with a whisper.

“I know there’s probably no chance he can hear me,” her fingers stroke through his hair, a pained look on her face, “but I like to believe he can.”

“There’s no definitive research that he can’t,” you tell her softly, carefully going about your work to avoid disturbing them.

“I hope he can hear the baby. He’s… he’s missed so much already, you know?” She sniffles, tears freely falling, and your heart clenches. “We’re broken without him; I’m broken without him. He’s my family, my everything. I can’t… we’re not supposed to be apart. This wasn’t supposed to happen.”

You have thick skin. You’ve seen countless people die. Consoled hundreds of family members. Held hands with patients taking their last breath.

This shouldn’t bother you. It shouldn’t affect you in any way, but when you look at your patient, and his partner, and his child-

All you can see is your boys and their unconditional love. Simon sitting vigilant at Johnny’s bedside. Johnny’s tears when he finally woke up. The fear in Simon’s eyes when Johnny seized, the trust he placed in your promise to take care of him. Penny in his arms as soon as he was strong enough to hold her. Their resolve to hold their family together, their dedication to you through it all. The three of them, a family, now yours, spun together with string stronger than steel, connecting the four of you for the rest of your life.

You’ll make it through. You’ll all make it through. You have their love shining down on your face. The love strong enough to hold you tight, rock you through your nightmares, encourage you to grow, to be yourself, to let it all go.

And they have you. Your love. Something you never thought would exist again, fostered and enticed forward, magnified for them. For the first time, you’re able to give to someone, to comfort them, care for them the way they have for you, hold them tight through their pain, their fears. It’s never felt so…

right.

It’s not one plus one. It’s five. Five hearts, making a family.

You know, without a doubt, they’ll love this baby. They won’t leave your side. They’ll take care of you, they’ll nurture you both, they’ll be solid, and supportive, and patient through it all.

You don’t need them to say it, and you don’t need to be scared.

Their light soothing your despair, healing the deep embedded scars, their warmth of the sun-

The little sunbeam growing inside you.

“You’re a few weeks late.” The midwife shakes her head as you settle on the exam table. You showed up in a whirlwind again, convincing her to fit you in between appointments.

“I know, I… I was struggling with it, but I feel better now. I’m… ready.” Your lips quirk at the corners, and she smiles in return.

“Should we take a look then?” You nod with a deep breath.

The jelly is cold, and she purposefully keeps the screen turned away from you, clicking, measuring, assessing in silence. It's standard policy for any employee or medical professional. Though you're not an ultrasound tech, it's not outside the realm of possibility that you could read the image on the screen before she can tell you gently that something is wrong.

Your past haunts you, taunts you, convinces you this has all been for nothing. You’re too damaged for this. Your body is broken. He took too much.

Still, you hope. You cling to a future, a vision, Penny holding the baby with Johnny’s arms supporting her, Simon half asleep with a burp cloth on his shoulder, little one asleep on his chest.

“Alright,” she turns it back for you to see, her expression colored with kindness. “Everything looks great, honey.”

“Everything?”

“Yes. Placenta is in optimal position, and baby is right on track developmentally for twelve weeks.” She twists a knob, the volume, filling the room with sound of galloping hoofbeats.

The heartbeat.

“Oh my god.” Your hand clasps over your mouth and you desperately try to bring air in through your nose, filling your diaphragm, staving off a river of tears unsuccessfully. She hands you a tissue.

“I’ll get you some printouts, okay?” You can’t do anything but choke on a thank you.

You slip away after your appointment, crossing through the halls leading to the out-patient wing where you’ll find Johnny in physical therapy, Simon in a chair scrolling through his phone just outside. The smile stretches across your face naturally, joy bursting at the seams.  

It's a new day, a new moment to turn away from the darkness and step into the sun.

You’re nearly skipping, heart so full, overflowing with hope, with happiness, your hands trembling, pictures of the scan clutched in your fingers. You hold them so tight, close to your chest, afraid they may disappear, be lost.

In hindsight, the crippling agony and fear you’ve been holding in seems so foolish now. It’s easy to curse yourself for the doubt, for the despair, but the path you took to get here, to be present in this moment, moving forward, was worth it.

They love you, and they’ll love little sunbeam. Penny will be the best big sister. You’ll make new memories, together, build the beginning of this life into a forever. Everything will work out; you can feel it now. You’ve shed the dented armor, the walls, the fence topped with barbed wire. The girl in the mirror, gone. It’s all crumbled down. With Johnny. With Simon. Your family.

A family of five.

You round the corner with your hands knitted together, a flimsy effort to still them, elated and barely able to hold your secret in. You won’t be able to do a cute announcement, won’t be patient enough to do something special like get Penny a shirt that says, “best big sister” even though you’d like to.

You’ve kept it from them for long enough. You need them to know.

You look for Simon first, expecting him to be waiting outside the door, but when he's not there, you glance around, and then peek into the observation window to find the physical therapy room empty.

Where are they? Where-

They’re at the end of the hall, talking to someone out of sight. Simon has his arms crossed, his body angled partially in front of Johnny, who shifts his weight onto his good leg. They’re both wearing serious expressions, Simon’s the most severe, and then Johnny’s lips twist into a grim sort of smile.

Whoever they’re talking to steps forward, and your heart burns into ash, falling through the floor to bottomless depths of darkness.

Phillip.

[ladykailitha]

A Love Connection Part 4

Thank you to everyone who reached out to me about the drop in numbers. I appreciate you and will try to be patient as everyone seems to be really going through shit right now. Honestly if I wasn't a SAHM I probably would be one of those people.

In this we have Steve resigning himself to doing the game show, more of the kids, and we get to the actual game show! ka-shonk, I know!

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3

~

“Meow!” Odie cried at the indignity of being shoved in someone’s face.

Steve carefully wrapped his little feet so Odie would feel more supported. He stritched under his chin and Odie began to purr.

Chrissy inched forward until she was close to Steve. “Steve, he’s adorable. Where did you get him?”

“I found him in a cardboard box out by the dumpsters,” he explained, never taking his eyes off the kitten. “It was starting to snow and I just couldn’t leave him there. He was wet, and cold, and alone.”

Robin’s shoulders sagged. “Of course you can keep him, dingus. I wouldn’t have said no even without the Sword of Damocles in the form of the game show hanging over my head. He’s adorable.”

Chrissy tickled his little toes and then looked up at Steve. “Why Odie? For the name?”

Steve blushed, grateful his head was already down so they couldn’t see his blush. “A couple of reasons I guess. To honor Garfield the goldfish, for one. But also because of the coloring the cream body and brown ears is so much like Odie’s.” Just then Odie twisted and tried to leap out his arms. “And there’s the fact he very likely has only one brain cell,” he deadpanned as quickly caught the kitten before he hurt himself.

Robin snorted. “So I see.”

Steve handed him to Chrissy and he allowed himself to be subjected to her neck scratches.

“So are we forgiven?” Robin asked, shyly. “We really didn’t think anything would have come of it. Though we were really building you up, talking about how you really deserved to find love and how your luck had run to catastrophic with those you dated. We made sure be really sweet about you.”

“I think that’s another reason why they picked you, Steve,” Chrissy said, walking over to sofa to cuddle with the new kitten. “You would be a perfect opener if not season finale. All you have to do is fill out the questionnaire and then they’ll tell you when filming is.”

“You’ll need about a week off,” Robin explained on her way to the kitchen to put the beer in the fridge. “It takes two days to film the first half of the episode and a day each for the dates in the second half. Then a whole day filming the choosing ceremony or whatever the hell they call it. They just want you there two days before for interviews and legal stuff.”

Steve sighed and ripped into the bag of gummy worms. “All right, you fill it in while I dictate.”

Chrissy and Robin cheered. Chrissy opened up her phone with the email and started asking the questions.

“Why would they even need to know my measurements?” Steve huffed about half way through. He had migrated to floor where he was using a gummy worm that had fallen to said floor to tease Odie with.

“Probably for costuming,” Robin said sagely. “They just can’t let you wear anything to their show.”

Steve wrinkled his nose, but allowed them to continue. Once it was all filled out most of the bag of gummy bears were gone and he was a little exhausted by it all.

He buried his head in his hands. “Fuck me. What even is my life right now?”

Chrissy and Robin shared a glance and then slid down to the floor where he had Odie curled up on his lap. They wrapped their arms around him and just held him.

He let himself be comforted by their support.

~

New Year’s brought new challenges, especially when he learned he would have to get a sub for his class the last week in March. They couldn’t have waited a week so that he would have it off for Spring Break? Which meant he had to tell Mrs. Byers why he needed the week off. Which meant Will found out. Which of course meant the rest of the little buttheads found out about it, too.

“Do you get to decide the questions?” Mike asked, one day while they were hanging out in the AV room, Mr. Jenner finally having been fired and Steve forced to take over for the rest of the school year.

He had come to class after the winter break, drunk off his ass, stoned out of his mind, and completely trashed his classroom. Thankfully the equipment had been locked up and not subjected to his rampage.

Otherwise the school would have had to have him arrested to recoup their lost.

Mike had actually started to warm up to him after it was revealed he was going on some dating show. Steve wasn’t sure how he felt about that, but he decided to count it as a blessing and move on.

“Some of them,” Steve confirmed. “The first question of what is your ideal date is standard, and is part of the game show setup, but mostly they want me to be able to answer the questions myself, and if I can’t there’s really no point in having the suitors answer them either.”

“Suitors is a stupid name,” Max huffed from the corner. She was forced to join the AV because it was the only after school program that ran on Fridays and her mom started to have to work late on those days.

Steve huffed out a laugh. “Yeah and what would call them?”

She shrugged her shoulders. “Contestants or something.”

“Eh, eh!” he said sounding like a buzzer on an old game show. “Boring!”

She cocked her head to the side. “Yeah, whatever, Mr. Catch.”

“Yeah,” Steve agreed. “I’m not sure what the would replace it with consider a lot of the other options are copyrighted due to other similar shows, but yeah. It sounds like I’m a fox and they’re the hounds.”

“What about Hitch?” Lucas suggested. “It plays on the Love Connection theme.”

Steve shook his head. “There’s an old movie called ‘Hitch’ and he’s a matchmaker. So I’m betting they didn’t go that route for that reason. Especially since this show is on its thirteenth fucking season.”

“Mr. Harrington!” Dustin scandalized. “You aren’t supposed to swear at school.”

“It’s after hours and we’re literally outside the school waiting for your parents,” Steve huffed. “Anyone here gonna rat on me?”

He looked around at the bright faces and knew that not a one of them were snitches.

When no one answered, he said, “Here, I’ll tell you what. Each of you come up with a question for me to ask my suitors and bring them by next week.”

All the kids cheered.

~

After Steve got in his questions from the kids, he sent them into the game show and most of the questions were approved. Some were simple Star Wars or Star Trek, others were fun questions like ‘what is your favorite sports team?’ to in depth questions like ‘do you consider yourself to be a good person?’ That last one was from Max. He loved that girl fiercely and only wanted good things for her.

He packed up his things and made sure that Robin would take good care of Odie. He was going to miss the little furball.

He was flown out to LA where the show was filmed. He was shown to a fancy hotel where he would be spending the week. He was told that the suitors were in other hotels are around the city so that they didn’t meet accidentally before the taping.

Steve’s first day was with legal and how much money he would be making for his appearance on the show. It was roughly three thousand dollars to make up for the fact he had to take time off from work. Other than that it was all about them footing bill for all his meals and lodging during his stay.

He wouldn’t get the money until it aired, which he thought was bullshit, but it was whatever.

Robin had been right about the measurements as they gave him a lot of clothes to chose from. Then whatever he picked would be doubled so that he could look the same on both filming days. Then he would have special date night outfits that would be picked based on where they were going for the date.

All in all not a bad gig. Steve definitely preferred teaching though.

Then they did all the pre-show interview stuff the next day. He got to talk about his school and the kids he taught. He got to talk about Robin and Chrissy and his adorable new kitten Odie. That part wasn’t so bad.

Then it was time for the first day of taping.

He got dressed in a cream colored suit with a light blue button up shirt. The shoes and belt were nice leather, too. He briefly wondered if he got to keep the clothes. He couldn’t imagine they needed to keep them.

He wasn’t told anything about the suitors before hand, but they knew a lot about him. Which felt a little creepy if he was honest.

He sat in the ridiculous little booth he would be in so he couldn’t see the contestants. This was because they didn’t want him to judge their answers based on their looks.

The host was Bob Newby. He was one of the best parts of the show, Steve thought. He was sweet and friendly and everything wanted out a dating game style host. He was in a dark grey suit and white shirt with a red tie. A tie he was currently stroking nervously.

Steve smiled at him and Bob blushed.

“I’ve done over a hundred of these things,” Bob admitted, “and I still get nervous.”

“Well that makes me feel better about throwing up breakfast this morning.”

Bob laughed. “So this is how it will go, we will film more than questions required so we can get a good bunch of questions and answers. We will be filming out of order. The rapid fire questions first. Then half of the questions for round one today to round out filming. Then the second half of the round one questions with all of the round three questions.”

“That’s a little weird,” Steve huffed. “But it’s your show, man.”

“Trust me,” Bob said, “this way is easier to film.”

Steve just shrugged.

“You ready?” Bob asked. When Steve nodded, Bob pointed at the camera and counted down from three with his fingers.

“Hey, everyone!” Bob said. “Welcome to a brand new season of ‘Love Connection’ where we help lonely people make that special connection. This season we will be focusing on getting all those fancy letters LGBTQ+ a chance at love. We have your gays, your lesbians, your non-binary folks, your trans people, and one very special ace lady just looking for love.”

The audience politely clapped.

“I’m your host Bob Newby and today we have one very lucky catch. Steve Harrington from Hawkins, IN. He’s a middle school teacher who recently became a cat dad, to the adorable Odie.” A picture of Odie sleeping on Steve’s chest under his chin is shown on the screen behind them. “He coaches basketball and the swim team. And yes he does look hot in a Speedo!” A picture of Steve in a blue Speedo and wearing a white jacket and his whistle.

Steve decided he was going to murder Robin and/or Chrissy for that photo alone. Especially when the crowd goes wild, complete with wolf whistles.

“He enjoys watching sports, swimming, and reading in his spare time,” Bob continued. “He has tried everything to get a partner in this hellscape we call modern life, apps, bars, clubs and not just the ones with a dance floor and sick beats. So he came to us, so let’s see if we can match him to any of our suitors.”

The audience clapped again.

“Suitor number one,” Bob said, “why don’t you tell us a little bit about yourself.”

“Hi, I’m Billy,” the first voice said, “I’m a professional surfer with a ton of sponsors. I’m the most decorated surfer both nationally and internationally. I like sex, sex, and more sex. Just kidding. I like other things too. I’m a big car guy and a bit of a foodie, too.”

Steve was grateful that they can’t see him because Bob and he shared an exasperated glance.

“Suitor number two,” Bob said. “Tell us about yourself.”

“Hey, I’m Tommy,” the second voice said, “I’m an investment banker at a prestigious company. I like sports, traveling, and deep sea fishing.”

Steve tilted his head and nodded. Not bad. He wasn’t sure about the whole investment banker thing, but the rest sounded good.

“And last but not least, Suitor number three,” Bob said, “tell us about you.”

“Hello!” the third voice said brightly, and Steve could almost picture a dorky little wave to go with it. “I’m Eddie. I’m a music producer with my own studio. I like heavy metal, all things nerdy, and camping.”

Steve smiled fondly. He sounded a lot like Dustin. He could only hope this didn’t have the ego to match.

“All right, everyone!” Bob said with a winning smile. “Let’s begin the Love Connection!”

~

Part 5 Part 6 Part 7 Part 8

Tag List: CLOSED

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7- @counting-dollars-counting-stars @tinyplanet95 @ravenfrog @swimmingbirdrunningrock @lingeringmirth

8- @gutterflower77 @a-lovely-craziness @just-a-tiny-void @w1ll0wtr33 @beelze-the-bubkiss

9- @dreamercec @wheneverfeasible @themoonagainstmers @garden-of-gay @little-birch-boy

[fraugwinska]

Hhggffffffgg… pweasd.. pweasd more Leap of Faith. Part two of them meeting each other in hell. Pretty sure they’d end up in hell since suicide is a sin, iirc?

Uweh wahhhh. Felt it real deep of losing the only meaningful connection, the big sadness taking over. I’m sobbing. My heart—

Your writing is amazing as always. I eat that shit up.

...The people have spoken. I am your humble servant. Please accept this offering...

Heavy themes, religious trauma, mental/physical torture Minors please DNI

❤️🦌❤️🦌❤️🦌❤️🦌❤️🦌❤️🦌❤️🦌❤️🦌❤️🦌❤️🦌❤️

Between the Devil and the Deep Blue Sea

Like a shooting star.

You looked like a shooting star against the purple, starless sky of the pride ring, a glowing gold and teal line trailing behind you like a tail.

Alastor pushed his shadows faster through the streets of the pentagram, not a care who he pushed, sliced or scared out of the way - he had to get to you, had to catch you and not let you crash into unforgiving ground, like it was mundane, like you were any other meaningless, unimportant, goddamned sinner.

He couldn't allow it. Wouldn't allow it.

Faster and faster your form grew shape, and he realized that the big, heavy radio that was still in your arms - still pressed tightly to your chest - acted like an anchor, accelerating your plunge, threatening to shatter you into the hard, stony streets underneath, or worse: Through.

"Let go!", he hissed desperately to himself, pulling and yanking and gnashing and urging his shadows to work to their limit, whipping them into a speed that could break both, him and the damned radio, if need be, if you would just slow down and gain him a few more crucial seconds to get to you. The distance between you and him shrunk until your fall felt close, so close, too close, as though if you'd only be conscious to just reach out and outstretch a hand to him, his eldritch tendrils could grab it.

"Come on." His dark silhouette growled, partly manifesting and elongating himself more to maneuver around the last alley corner. "Almost... THERE!"

As a streak of blinding light, like a lightning bolt, and with the force of a crashing plane, you smashed into his solid, physical demonic form, as Alastor manifested into an extension of flesh and limbs right beneath your descending trajectory, and swallowed you right there in his arms before both of you hit the ground.

***

The void around you was dark. Quiet. Endless and expanding. You couldn't feel anything other than the feeling of nothingness surrounding you, floating but at the same time... not. No ground beneath, no sky above - you didn't even know when you hit the water. Was it even water anymore? Did it matter?

In the blindness, you registered the vanta black around you fading into white, bright and scorching. And that feeling you previously lacked bloomed to the front of your consciousness: Pain. Like a thousand needles poking out from every corner of your skull, making you yelp out and whimper. You shifted your body, or at least tried, only to cry out and curl up into yourself, clutching whatever the big and heavy thing was in your arms, tight as the muscles in your upper body convulsed, twitched and trembled at the burning pain. Where the hell were you?

"𝓦𝓮'𝓿𝓮 𝓵𝓸𝓸𝓴𝓮𝓭 𝓲𝓷𝓽𝓸 𝔂𝓸��𝓻 𝓼𝓸𝓾𝓵, 𝓬𝓱𝓲𝓵𝓭. 𝓣𝓱𝓮𝓻𝓮'𝓼 𝓭𝓪𝓻𝓴𝓷𝓮𝓼𝓼 𝓲𝓷𝓼𝓲𝓭𝓮 𝔂𝓸𝓾𝓻 𝓱𝓮𝓪𝓻𝓽.""

A voice made out of a thousand voices spoke, and it resonated from within you – amplified through every cell of your body, booming and mighty and utterly inhumane. You screamed out the pressure it put on your brain, cried as it felt as though something was pouring into you and flowing out all at once, burning, devouring and replacing every fiber, every strand of DNA. You writhed in agony, wanting to beg for whatever it was to stop, but you were in the hands of an infinite power above you, and so, all you could do was howl and weep.

"𝓘𝓽 𝓱𝓪𝓼 𝓽𝓪𝓴𝓮𝓷 𝓻𝓸𝓸𝓽 𝓲𝓷 𝔂𝓸𝓾, 𝓵𝓲𝓴𝓮 𝓪 𝔀𝓮𝓮𝓭 𝓲𝓷 𝓯𝓮𝓻𝓽𝓲𝓵𝓮 𝓼𝓸𝓲𝓵."

It was men and women and children, high and deep and loud and quiet and screams and whispers and it overwhelmed you to listen to it.

"𝓑𝓾𝓽 𝔀𝓮 𝓪𝓻𝓮 𝓶𝓮𝓻𝓬𝓲𝓯𝓾𝓵. 𝓘𝓯 𝔂𝓸𝓾 𝓱𝓪𝓿𝓮 𝓽𝓱𝓮 𝔀𝓲𝓵𝓵 𝓽𝓸 𝓻𝓮𝓹𝓮𝓷𝓽, 𝓽𝓸 𝓻𝓲𝓭 𝔂𝓸𝓾𝓻𝓼𝓮𝓵𝓯 𝓯𝓻𝓸𝓶 𝓽𝓱𝓮 𝓮𝓿𝓲𝓵 𝓿𝓲𝓷𝓮, 𝔀𝓮 𝔀𝓲𝓵𝓵 𝓻𝓲𝓹 𝓲𝓽 𝓸𝓾𝓽 𝓪𝓷𝓭 𝓰𝓻𝓪𝓷𝓽 𝔂𝓸𝓾 𝓮𝓷𝓽𝓻𝔂 𝓲𝓷𝓽𝓸 𝓗𝓮𝓪𝓿𝓮𝓷."

Your throbbing hands cramped around the object in your arms, nails scratching on the surface. Wood. Soft wood, warm beneath your fingertips.

"Alastor...", you sobbed through clenched teeth, memories slowly pushing through the pain to the front of your mind, clawing their way through the thick haze of the booming voice of the entity. "I want to go to Alastor..."

"𝓜𝔂 𝓬𝓱𝓲𝓵𝓭, 𝓭𝓸 𝓷𝓸𝓽 𝓶𝓪𝓴𝓮 𝓽𝓱𝓲𝓼 𝓬𝓱𝓸𝓲𝓬𝓮 𝓸𝓾𝓽 𝓸𝓯 𝓱𝓪𝓼𝓽𝓮. 𝓓𝓸 𝓷𝓸𝓽 𝓪𝓬𝓬𝓮𝓹𝓽 𝓽𝓱𝓮 𝓽𝓮𝓶𝓹𝓽𝓪𝓽𝓲𝓸𝓷 𝓸𝓯 𝓮𝓿𝓲𝓵."

"He's not..." A low moan spilled past your dry, bitten lips as another wave of excruciating pain crashed down your spine. Tears stained your cheeks as the radio in your arms felt heavier and heavier, dangerously close to slip from your grip.

"𝓣𝓱𝓲𝓼 𝓭𝓮𝓶𝓸𝓷, 𝓽𝓱𝓲𝓼 𝓬𝓸𝓻𝓻𝓾𝓹𝓽𝓮𝓭 𝓼𝓸𝓾𝓵 𝓼𝓱𝓪𝓵𝓵 𝓷𝓸𝓽 𝓱𝓪𝓿𝓮 𝓱𝓲𝓼 𝔀𝓲𝓬𝓴𝓮𝓭 𝓲𝓷𝓯𝓵𝓾𝓮𝓷𝓬𝓮 𝓸𝓷 𝔂𝓸𝓾."

The voice was patient, neutral, not showing any sign of rage or warmth or even condescension. It only held a commanding power, like a pull from gravity, unintentional, elemental, to give in, to accept, to repent. But you couldn't. Couldn't even if you tried. The tears that came to your eyes now weren't out of pain alone, but because you couldn't help the insurmountable longing to leave, to not be held back any longer.

"Alastor isn't evil or wicked...", your cracked voice whispered. "Not to me..."

"𝓓𝔂𝓲𝓷𝓰 𝓯𝓸𝓻 𝓵𝓸𝓿𝓮 𝓲𝓼 𝓪𝓷 𝓪𝓬𝓽 𝓸𝓯 𝓪𝓽𝓸𝓷𝓮𝓶𝓮𝓷𝓽, 𝓸𝓯 𝓻𝓮𝓹𝓮𝓷𝓽𝓪𝓷𝓬𝓮. 𝓑𝓾𝓽 𝓲�� 𝓭𝔂𝓲𝓷𝓰 𝓲𝓼 𝓭𝓸𝓷𝓮 𝔀𝓲𝓽𝓱 𝓽𝓱𝓮 𝓲𝓷𝓽𝓮𝓷𝓽𝓲𝓸𝓷 𝓸𝓯 𝓰𝓸𝓲𝓷𝓰 𝓪𝓼𝓽𝓻𝓪𝔂, 𝓽𝓸𝔀𝓪𝓻𝓭𝓼 𝓪 𝓽𝔀𝓲𝓼𝓽𝓮𝓭 𝓲𝓭𝓮𝓪 𝓸𝓯 𝓪𝓯𝓯𝓮𝓬𝓽𝓲𝓸𝓷, 𝔂𝓸𝓾 𝓪𝓻𝓮 𝓭𝓪𝓶𝓷𝓮𝓭 𝓯𝓸𝓻 𝓮𝓽𝓮𝓻𝓷𝓲𝓽𝔂. 𝓛𝓮𝓽 𝓾𝓼 𝓼𝓱𝓸𝔀 𝔂𝓸𝓾 𝔀𝓱𝓪𝓽 𝓽𝓱𝓪𝓽 𝔀𝓸𝓾𝓵𝓭 𝓶𝓮𝓪𝓷, 𝓒𝓱𝓲𝓵𝓭."

Torture. It felt as though someone was physically digging through you with dull claws, sawing into your very soul, bending, ripping, breaking and rearranging, molding the picture you had of Alastor to a villain, a torturer, a destroyer, a greedy animal without reason, feasting upon human despair and wailing screams, wreaking havoc and taking lives laughing along the way as he rips fangs into flesh that looked like your own.

"That... isn't him.", you mouthed breathlessly, forcing yourself to focus. "You're a liar."

You fought to come back, with the sound of Alastor's smiling voice, molten with static and spoken with feeling. 'And I can most assure you... pretty is a well fitting word to describe you.'.

"Liar... liar... LIAR!"

The illusion the entity conjured around you began to shatter, as did the images it showed you, breaking and tearing away like rotten paper from the ones you wanted to hold on to... The hours and days and nights spent together, the long and entertaining conversations over meals, his teasing comments and your quick-wit responses, the little things that made his voice lift an octave and a tiny huff, which you learned over the weeks was him trying not to chuckle at your banter. The softness in his tune when he realized you were drifting into slumber. The way he called you his dove.

"𝓦𝓮 𝓪𝓻𝓮 𝔂𝓸𝓾𝓻 𝓵𝓪𝓼𝓽 𝓬𝓱𝓪𝓷𝓬𝓮. 𝓛𝓮𝓽 𝓾𝓼 𝓼𝓪𝓿𝓮 𝔂𝓸𝓾, 𝓒𝓱𝓲𝓵𝓭."

the entity said, though their tone had begun to waver, echoing withing the faint sound of breaking glass.

"𝓛𝓮𝓪𝓿𝓮 𝔀𝓲𝓽𝓱 𝔂𝓸𝓾𝓻 𝓲𝓷𝓷𝓸𝓬𝓮𝓷𝓬𝓮 𝓹𝓻𝓮𝓼𝓮𝓻𝓿𝓮𝓭. 𝓛𝓮𝓪𝓿𝓮 𝓽𝓱𝓪𝓽 𝓼𝓽𝓪𝓲𝓷 𝓸𝓷 𝔂𝓸𝓾𝓻 𝓼𝓸𝓾𝓵, 𝓽𝓱𝓪𝓽 𝓭𝓮𝓶𝓸𝓷 𝓫𝓮𝓱𝓲𝓷𝓭, 𝓪𝓬𝓬𝓮𝓹𝓽 𝓸𝓾𝓻 𝓼𝓪𝓵𝓿𝓪𝓽𝓲𝓸𝓷, 𝓸𝓻 𝓫𝓮, 𝓯𝓸𝓻𝓮𝓿𝓮𝓻, 𝓪 𝓵𝓸𝓼𝓽 𝓼𝓸𝓾𝓵 𝓲𝓷 𝓽𝓱𝓮 𝓮𝔂𝓮𝓼 𝓸𝓯 𝓰𝓸𝓭."

You felt heat creeping up your legs, as if your skin was bubbling, burning and it was hard to speak, as the smell of cauterized flesh and blood filled your nose. Bones were shifting, limbs trembling and twisting as if they wanted to turn you inside out, skin color changing and fading into palish white, nails growing into slender blue talons, something rough and rigid sprouting from your back and shoulders. But you only tightened your arms around the radio, eyes pressed close and teeth grit together.

You've had enough.

"Fuck your lies, fuck your salvation and FUCK. YOUR. GOD."

Gravity returned in an instant, like someone cut a hole through space, the air and heat from your lungs gone as it ripped you from the strange white with unexpected violence – malevolence even - body flaying in the sudden wind of the descend.

Purple and red shades swirled before your eyes, wild strands of glittering golden hair fluttered in and out of your vision, barely recognizing them as your own. The heat of the air and the sight of a black pentagram on a red sun, sinking slowly beyond a tumbling horizon were the last things you noticed before unconsciousness reached mercifully out to claim you again.#

***

“Angel! Get Charlie over here, I found 'im!”

Husk stared down the crater, trying to wrap his head around the sight before him. His ears flicked as he heard Angel shouting something unintelligible to the girls, his footsteps quickly nearing the place where he stood.

“She's comin' in a sec, she and Vagina ran ova' to the maneater colony to get Rosie and... what in Satans left ballsack?!”

The spiders' eyes widened when he saw what Husk saw - Down the deep and wide cavity, right in the middle, was a twitching, faintly green glowing mass of tentacles and limbs. A distorted groan rumbled from below, thick and riddled with static feedback as Alastor's corrupted form slowly receded to normalcy – as normal as he was. He was lying on his back, curled around the motionless form of a naked female demon. Her legs were pulled up, a limp hand with short, teal talons pressed against the side of the radio demons wild, madly grinning face, while the other was trapped and hidden in between both bodies.

Both Angel and Husks hairs stood on ends at the sound he made, not daring to move or draw attention to themselves until Alastor had regained full consciousness and, most of all, reason back. The unknown sinner that was pressed against Alastor's chest had gray, crooked looking wings sprouting from her back, various shades of teal staining the ragged tips. Her skin was white, bordering on cream with some spruce and azure specks that traveled over her neck and shoulders. From where they stood they could see blonde locks tangled in Alastor's claws, shimmering in hell's twilight as if they were made out of real gold.

Angel gave his partner a nervous side glance, as if expecting him to say or do something. "Should we... holy mother of shitballs, this is so fucked up... umm... should we get them out of..."

"̷S̷̷ T̷̷ A̷̷ Y̷ ̷W̷̷ H̷̷ E̷̷ R̷̷ E̷ ̷Y̷̷ O̷̷ U̷ ̷A̷̷ R̷̷ E̷."

Husk had only heard Alastor's voice like this on a few occasions and those instances had almost always ended in bloodshed. He shook his head at Angel in a silent warning, gripping one of his wrists when the blackened pits of the radio demon found his, glaring at him with glowing crimson iris'. It sent a shiver down the cat's back, and Angel, feeling the tremble of his partner and sensing that this was a rare occasion where he should keep his usual, lewd remarks to himself, cleared his throat.

"I-Is a'ight Smiles, we're not movin'. Charlies' comin, and she's bringin' Rosie, so just... chill, okay? No one's gonna hurt y-your uh... girlfriend?" Angel forced himself to remain eye contact, swallowing against the growing lump in his throat.

Alastor didn't answer for a good minute or two, eyes shifting over Husks' grim, but wary face and Angels worried one, before looking back down, the flames of anger and fear dying as soon as his gaze fell on the woman cradled in his lap. Her pale, motionless face was partially hidden by her hair, but the features he recognized were much like the ones she had before she did the unthinkable. Her breathing was slow and shallow - but, above all, she was here, right here, next to him, unbroken from the fall, safe in his arms...

He brushed a few stray strands of her golden mane aside, watching closely as her chest barely heaved and fell, transfixed at the movement, the guarantee that she lived. He lifted one his hands to caress her cheek, the motion much more careful and tender than either Angel or Husk thought him capable of, wiping off tiny pieces of debris from the radio she had carried like a lifeline. It had been burst by the impact, splinters of mahogany wood and shards of metal wiring scattered around them both. The top of her left wing had suffered some damage, no doubt the result of the force of his grip as he caught her, little cuts and smears of dried blood covering her sides.

"My dove. My foolish, silly, lonely girl.", his strained voice breathed, his usual filter missing, as he turned her unresponsive face gently with the tip of his claw, hoping to see any indication that the girl that he had driven to the lengths of sheer, reckless stupidity was still here with him.

The sound of steps on the broken concrete made his head turn with a sickening crack. Alastor was now curled completely over you, his arms wrapped tightly around your figure, hiding your vulnerable and exposed body from view. Rosie had arrived alongside the princess and her partner, all of them short of breath and as shocked and confused as the other two demons to find the radio demon and a freshly fallen sinner, locked into an awkward embrace.

He watched her kneeling next to him, her expression was best described as compassionate curiosity. When he didn't move, didn't talk, didn't acknowledge her presence around him, his form only slightly moving to shield your motionless frame away, Rosie, ever the understanding and pragmatic lady she was, carefully reached over to him and set a gloved hand onto his shoulder in reassurance. Her razor sharp smile was soft as she held his blackened gaze for a heartbeat.

"Seems like I will meet your little dove after all, my dearest friend. But now, let's get you both somewhere safe."

***

You opened your eyes to red. All red. Everywhere red. Warm and bright and comforting.

A sensation tickled your head and nose, feathers, brushing the top of them with a barely there touch. You wanted to brush them away, but your arms felt heavy and warped and strange, unable to be lifted. Slow blinks put your eyes into focus, like the lens of a camera that was getting adjusted on it's intended shot.

You were looking at a red painted ceiling, and when you strained your aching head to tilt a little your eyes slowly wandered over luscious, ornate wallpaper in burgundy's and scarlet's, morbid looking horns and skulls mounted on the walls next to slightly askew, empty picture frames. A heavy, dark bookcase on your right was full of tattered tombs, books and magazines, small models of twisted looking skeletons and an old, vintage... radio...

Everything clicked back into place.

Alastor, gone.

The bridge, dark over the water.

The black and the white.

The voice and the pain and the lies and the fall...

Your breath hitched, and your heart started to pound faster and louder, thrumming violently in your ears as you fell into panic, eyes frantically forcing your body to move, to search, until you realized you were stuck underneath the weighted presence of a head that rested upon your sternum, tufts of soft black and red hair draped over your chest, slightly covering a face hidden away in the crook of your neck. A low, quiet hum of white noise came from the person the head belonged to, sitting at your bedside and upper body half-slumped over you... a sound resonating deep within you, stirring up all too familiar feelings.

He was still, but clearly breathing, and he hadn't moved even though your pulse must've skyrocketed. A raspy gasp of relief and astonishment escaped you. It had worked. You really had done it. And Alastor...

You started to sob, loud and violent, your chest burning and heavy, but not out of fear or panic anymore but the impact of a thousand feelings of pure happiness. The sounds woke the creature slumbering on your shoulder, his shoulders twitched, and you could see him lift his head to slowly look up, dark circles under his crimson eyes.

Your name rolled over this demons lips, not a word, no greeting, only a longingly whispered name, spoken with a broken, ragged, familiar voice. It made you finally cry, tears spilling from you uncontrollably, unable to stop, unable to think. You heard him call your name again, saw the widening grin of his mouth through watery eyes, his arm reaching out to brush your tear-stained cheek. He didn't manage to even fully extend his fingers when your shaking hands reached out to grab his lapels, pulling him into you so that you could finally touch him, feel him instead of just hearing him. Finally tangible, finally underneath your fingers as well as your skin.

"It's you... i-it's you right?", you stammered breathlessly, voice wrought with tears of happiness. "A-Alastor. I found you, I'm not dreaming, You're Alastor..."

"At your service, my dear...", Alastor shushed softly, one hand gently caressing your hair as you leaned into the warmth of the touch. His wide smile wavered for a moment, gaze shifting to something sad and mournful as he pulled himself away to look at you.

"But you shouldn't be here, my dove." He sighed, but as he looked back to you and saw the frightened, horrified expression on your face he shook his head, leaning his brow against your own, a gesture of assurance.

"I never intended for you to be here. You didn't deserve this death, and hell doesn't deserve you."

"H-Heaven can take a long walk off a short pier..." You tried to speak with a steady voice, but failed, as your whole body began to shudder in bubbling anger at the mere implication of this cursed entity. The one that claimed to be merciful salvation but had no problem with cruel manipulation. You blinked a couple of tears away, drawing a trembling breath, before meeting his tired eyes.

"I was... in some strange place. I was offered redemption, if I..."

You frowned, sitting up slowly, careful not to make him withdraw more, holding onto the sleeves of his jacket with stiff, aching hands.

"They wanted me to denounce you. If I renounced you they... would've let me enter heaven. When I didn't want to, when I said I wanted to go to you... They showed me things while hurting me. Horrible, disgusting lies."

Your breath quickened and the corners of your vision darkened, and you realized with a shuddering panic that you were close, way too close to breaking down into sobs again. Your claw-like nails dug into the material of his sleeve as you struggled to compose yourself, ripping tiny cuts into it. You took a deep breath, pushing through the memory, reliving it until...

Your shoulders shook. For a moment, you felt him shifting, as if he'd expected you to burst into tears again. Instead, you laughed. You laughed despite your chest hurt, and even harder when you saw his floored, surprised face.

"I basically told god to go fuck himself."

For a heartbeat or two, silence enveloped both of you. Alastor blinked once, then twice, the third time his grin fell slowly. Another beat later he buried his face in the crook of your neck and...

...the boisterous, unmuted laughter, roaring, insane cackling, so deep and resounding, you could feel it in your stomach, erupted from him. Alastor almost toppled over as he tore himself from you, raking a hand trough his hair as his head shook, a manic, wonderfully impish grin tugging on the corners of his mouth.

"You know I don't think you were honest with me about your name, dove. Your initial answer of 'crazy' seems much more fitting."

Alastor was laughing so hard, his whole body was trembling with the effort. You felt yourself giggle, then unrestrained laughing along, but it died in your throat when his lips found yours in a sudden swift moment. It was full of everything. Full of curiosity, of promises and hope, it was the saving grace you sacrificed heaven for. You smiled into it, moved your lips against his, gentle and chaste, before he pulled away too soon and pressed his forehead against yours. You could feel his warm, slow breathing against your cheeks.

"How fortunate for you that I work best with 'crazy'."

Your beaming smile slowly faded, your hands finding his face to make him look at you. There was one more weight you had to lift off.

"I'm sorry.", you whispered, closing your eyes. “I'm sorry for...”

"Don't be, dear. I was at fault, fearing our connection would... weaken me." He sighed. "You might not understand it right now, but I will tell you everything, once you're fully recovered. Can you wait for that?"

You nodded, a small, grateful curl forming on your lips. You opened your eyes to stare into his, crimson, bright and intense, and yet soft and affectionate. Eyes you always tried to envision, although nothing you imagined came close to the real thing.

"Do you... still think it?", you asked, voice shaking slightly.

Alastor hummed a questioning noise, prompting you to continue, which you did, after a second of hesitation. "Me, weakening you. Do you still think it?"

His quiet laughter resounded in your ears, filling you with warmth and making your heart skip a beat.

"My silly, darling dove. With the woman on my side who dared to throw curses at the face of our very creator - What could ever stop me now?"

And, as Alastor's smile grew wide, and your own mirrored it, you were claimed by red claws and a hot, eager mouth once again, kissed again by those soft, sinful lips, the lips of your friend, your savior, your love - the devil himself, whispering the answer to his question unspoken through your skin right into your heart.

Nothing could stop the both of you now.

Nothing at all.

Taglist for the most awsome people that walk the earth: @littledolly2345 @sleepywritersworld @crescentparadise @rapturenyx-blog @phisen @alastorsgirl48 @mullet-mother @sirens-and-moonflowers

[brynn-lear]

Prompt: Yandere!Dottore x Reader... But make it a House MD au. A/n: this idea has been rotting in my brain for such a long time... Yeah no I won't budge, Pantalone is our beloved Wilson lol. Word Count: 600 (this is a throwaway drabble)

You HATE working for Doctor Zandik’s diagnostic team.

No, that’s a lie. Everybody lies. You don’t hate working for him— you’ve grown desensitized.

The doctor’s “methods” are deeply rooted in misanthropy. Yet, his eloquent and annoyingly charming way persuasions act as a get-out-of-jail card for (most) instances of ethical and medical malpractices. Your colleagues, Dr. Sohreh & Dr. Krupp, remain equally tired of being in their positions. However, the Fontainian tragedy to all this is the screwed-up fact that none of you considered resigning. You three need him.

Krupp swallows his anger each time Zandik orders him to break into patients’ homes. As Zandik loves to remind the dean of medicine, there will be no ethics committee dilemma if all his people clean their tracks right. Why Pierro keeps him in his hospital despite being a significant liability to Morepesok Teaching Hospital? Your morals will never understand. Prioritizing genius over following proper procedure didn’t sit right with you. Then again, you were only hired because of your family’s connections, not merit…

Work for Zandik until you hate him; once that threshold is passed, work until you start vomiting out the evil you’ve done for the greater good. That’s the only thing other staff members had for advice. There’s nothing after step 2. Your soul WILL fight with your body. It was only when you started feeling bile rise to your throat on random occasions that you realized there must indeed be something broken in your psyche after years of working under him. You thought the advice was played out in dramatics. It wasn’t.

“(L/n), need a little help here,” Krupp called out as he rummaged through the patient’s trash. “Can you pass the gloves?”

After you did as told, you leaned by the patient’s piano. “Fever, fatigue, and a persistent cough. Standard symptoms for most of our patients, but—”

“This is Zandik.” Sohreh shakes her head, finding this situation wholly amusing. While you and Krupp scavenged through Zandik’s trash and forgotten candy wraps (he is unsurprisingly disorganized), she had her eyes set on his documents. “The patient is our boss. We just broke into our boss’s house like we’re actively pushing his own medicine down his throat.”

Pierro ordered you three in secret to investigate if Zandik has been ill, which opened the gates of let’s-all-break-into-his-house-for-fun for coworker bonding exercise. 

“What if this isn’t anything serious?” Krupp muttered, absolutely disgruntled. “Maybe we’re just overthinking this Zandik Is Sick conspiracy theory.”

“If it’s not serious, it’s boring.” You paused. “And he doesn’t do boring.”

Sohreh breathed in.

“Hey, guys? You might want to check this out.”

Upon hearing Sohreh’s grim tone, you and Krupp immediately grabbed the file she was holding and skimmed through it.

…

“This is his medical history. There’s blood work and imaging tests here… showing elevated white blood cells, and— a biopsy?” Krupp raised an eyebrow.

“Cancer,” Sohreh spoke, letting out the thoughts Krupp was too afraid to say. “He thinks he has cancer.”

“No, no, that’s not it.”

Sohreh and Krupp turned to look at you.

“What do you mean?”

You shifted uncomfortably. “Look at the name.”

“What name?”

“Name of the patient.”

You let go of the file as Sohreh and Krupp eagerly found that they had somehow missed the person.

The two paled.

“(Y/n)—”

“It’s mine.” You sighed. “Those are my tests. I’ve been hiding it from the rest of the staff except Doctor Pantalone from Onco.”

“You have—”

“But why?” You looked down, unsure as to how you felt.

“Why does Zandik have these files?”

[showsandstuff]

Am I the only one who is disappointed with Caitvi in season two? When I watched the first season I had the biggest caitvi brain rot because they actually gave me SUCH a fun dynamic with them. Buddy cop Caitvi was hilarious, I loved that so so much!

And season 2 started of strong imo but then it rushed through everything. I loved the scene in the cell, obviously, but it was misplaced. Your sister is about to kill herself girl what are you doing this is not the time!! And other than romantic and sexual tension there wasn't all that much left of their previous dynamic aside from the brief scene in episode six...

Idk, I think I'm just annoyed. Usually when I see a non canon gay ship get more traction than the Canon lesbian couple, I just assume it's misogyny or lesbophobia, and move on with my life. But I can't even do that here because Caitvi was WAY more popular in season 1 (as they should).

Jayvik isn't getting somewhat more popular in season 2 because people don't like lesbians, but because their arcs are connected so strongly to each other. (Also I'm not saying that Jayvik is now more popular than Caitvi, but it's like a graph where the super high stocks caitvi are still even while Jayvik is skyrocketing rn)

Wanna know why Jayvik wasn't all that popular in season 1? Because (after act 1) their arcs were mostly separate, safe for a couple of moments. Viktor worked on his body and Jayce was doing politics.

Caitlyn and Vis arcs intertwined more, they actually did shit together and it was beautiful, funny, romantic, EVERYTHING!

Also a fun opposites attract buddy cop dynamic is also just more fun than men who do science together (in my personal opinion)

Now let's look at Caitlyn and Vis relationship in season two.

It starts of strong. I momentarily thought that Caitlyn was uncharacteristically mean to Vi when she refused to become an enforcer, but she apologized for it later and I recognized the fact that Caitlyn was grieving. Then once we get to episode two and three I could already feel their relationship being a bit more odd. The kiss (though I cheered) didn't feel right. I felt like something was missing, and that was their chemistry from season one. Also I feel like we glossed over too many decisions that Caitlyn made, and I think Vi should've put a stop to it sooner. But overall I was okay with them in act 1.

Then we had a timeskip and the two were fully separated. Act 2 literally started with Caitlyn in bed with another woman, like we can see they're not together anymore. Caitlyn has obviously changed, there is not much of the sweet cupcake left that we had come to love in season 1, and Vi is boxing and getting drunk.

Then they meet and like... Vi calls Cait cupcake, and Cait switches sides IMMEDIATELY? GIRL WTF?!

I get that Caitlyn wasn't entirely on Ambessas side the entire time, but I had hoped for more drama first. So you're telling me the very next interaction the two have after their heart wrenching falling out is them making up again? Come on.

Then we had act 3 and overall it was better I think but the timing of their hot scene in the cell was just odd, like what about your sister about to kill herself? I was very happy and hyped in the moment but then I realized how rushed this was. Why? Why make em fuck right here? And in the final act, the two weren't together because again, their arcs were not as connected. And that's actually pretty cool to have a couple who do their own things! But it doesn't help their relationship when they, in turn, aren't given enough time to develop as a pair!

I feel like season 1 did this incredible job of setting these characters up, showing us why they work so well together and why they would fall for one another. And season 2 gave us pay off for it but with very little set up, which was needed because of how Cait changed throughout the season. I don't mention Vi here because she did not change. She had her drunk boxing phase, which we got nothing but a montage off, but everything else is basically season 1 Vi aside from very few things here and there. Like her becoming an enforcer wasn't a character change for Vi, her finally letting go of powder and calling her sister Jinx, wasn't a big character moment for Vi, they were pay off for a set up we didn't get enough of.

SO TO GET TO MY POINT:

S2 was rushed. We should've AT LEAST gotten 3 seasons, like minimum, because there was a whole lot of plot and very little moments in between for characterization. Especially for Caitlyn and Vi and their relationship to each other.

I still generally prefer Caitvi to Jayvik, but only because of season 1. Season 2 gave me the two things I wanted most (a sexy scene and a kiss) but forgot to give me the things that made me fall in love with this ship in the first place.

Which was the hilarious buddy cop dynamic of rich girl cop Cait, and broke butch prisoner Vi.

[spider-stark]

A DARK AGE pt.2

previous part -

series summary - it's been nine months since you watched your best friend, Gwen Stacy, plummet to her death; an event that ultimately caused new york's hero to abandon the city entirely. now that he's finally returned you find yourself being forced to confront the ugly truth you've been running from.

chapter summary - desperate to get Harry Osborn out of your head, you find yourself following a lead that sends you straight to Peter Parker.

series warnings - 18+, minors DNI, series will contain depictions of violence, sexual content, dark themes, and more. please read at your own risk.

word count - 12.8k

// a dark tasm!fan fiction // masterlist // send me your thoughts // newspaper headline //

YOU HAD been worried that the ice-cold stare of Harry Osborn would remain stuck in your brain for the entire cab ride back to New York City.  

Fortunately, by the time you’d made it to Yonkers, about thirty minutes out from Ravencroft’s facility, the distressing imagery in your head faded as your ears were suddenly blasted with a series of rushed ding-s from your cell phone.  

You welcomed the noisy distraction, even if it only further agitated the throbbing headache you felt coming on.  

All the messages were from Betty Brant and likely could’ve been summed up in one long message rather than a dozen short ones. And, for the most part, all the texts did were confirm your fears: her search for Peter’s whereabouts had been a fruitless effort.  

Well, almost fruitless.   

You couldn’t quite give Brant credit for the one lead she’d received given the fact that it had essentially just fallen in her lap, but you still typed back a simple—good job, nonetheless.  

While you were off pointlessly torturing yourself behind Ravencroft’s iron gates, a woman had called the Bugle and had the misfortune of being answered by Jameson himself.  

According to Brant, the lady asked for you by name, and when Jameson told her you were busy and she’d need to call back later, she turned frantic. He said she sounded as if she were on the verge of tears, begging him to get a message to you ASAP.  

Please tell her to stop by my house! Tomorrow afternoon! She knows the address already, I promise! Tell her it’s May Parker, okay? M-A-Y P-A-R-K-E-R!  

Of course Jameson knew who the crackpot (his words) was once she said her last name, having spoken to her once or twice during Peter’s limited time at the Bugle.  

What he hadn’t told Brant was that it took everything in him to bite his tongue, to not tell the woman every horrible opinion he held in regard to her nephew. Jameson knew that it would do no good. He also knew that it wasn’t her fault that Peter hadn’t shown up to the hospital that night.   

Still, he couldn’t help but find himself seething with rage, speaking through gritted teeth until he could finally hang up the phone. He had absolutely no interest in finding Peter Parker, even if he was the only one to ever get a clear shot of Spider-Man.  

Good riddance had become his motto when it came to both Peter and Harry. You were one of the few things in this world that mattered more to Jameson than a good lead, which was exactly the reason why he had no interest in Peter’s whereabouts when he first went awol and left the Bugle without notice—he didn’t care. Even if Peter had come back to work, he would’ve just been fired anyway. Jameson had no interest in keeping him around, regardless of the quality of his work. 

But despite his hatred for the boy, he knew you were looking for him. While Jameson was unaware of Peter’s secret identity, he knew for certain that Peter had connections to Spider-Man, given that it was the whole reason he had employed him in the first place. You figured there was likely no one in this world that Jameson wanted to keep you from more than Spider-Man. But in what was surely not an easy choice to make, he begrudgingly passed the message from May along to Brant, messily scrawled onto a Doughnuttery napkin that had been stained with chocolate frosting.   

He refused to withhold a lead from you.  

Of course, when first deciding to track Peter down, you had considered going to his aunt, but she was always meant to be a last-ditch choice. After all, rumor had it that Peter had abandoned her too, moving out shortly after Gwen’s death. You didn’t see a need to add to her grief unless it felt necessary, yet it seemed she wanted you to.  

A part of you hoped that the mystery surrounding why May was so adamant about speaking to you would serve as a distraction for the night. You didn’t want to think any more about Ravencroft, and certainly not about the boy they kept locked behind those iron gates.  

Deep down, though, you knew that wasn’t possible. Try as you might, there was nothing in this world capable of distracting you from the thoughts of Harry Osborn.  

He was a plague, one that you had been fighting off ever since that night; and seeing him in person seemed to have only granted him the opportunity to further sink his claws into you.  

You often found yourself reliving the moment you first saw him—the Green Goblin. A monster composed of distended veins and spindly bones, appearing so completely and utterly inhuman—so unlike the boy you knew that you didn’t even recognize him at first. At first, there had just been fear, a sense of pure unbridled terror.  

But then, once he spoke, you knew. You knew what he had done, recognized him in spite of the monster the serum had transformed him into. Bile instantly stung at your throat, threatening to spill past your lips and onto the asphalt beneath your feet. You couldn’t stop thinking of how much it had burned, swallowing it down over and over again, as many times as it took before your body finally stopped trying.  

You fought so hard against that visceral reaction, the sensible part of you that had seen this new form he’d taken on and screamed at you to run. You wouldn’t let yourself do that. You couldn’t bear the thought of turning your back on your friend, even after seeing what he’d turned himself into.  

But then he grabbed Gwen and once she was in his arms you realized that he wasn’t the same anymore. Then once he’d finally let her go, once you’d watched her take her very last breath, you swore you’d always hate him. Harry Osborn was not your friend; it was a simple fact that you still stood behind.  

But trauma was a peculiar thing.  

Usually when Harry haunted your thoughts, the Green Goblin was always the focal point. Flashes of Gwen’s lifeless body dangling from Spider-Man's web, the sounds of squelching flesh and cracking bones. You would remember the metallic taste that filled your mouth as you looked over at him that last time, just before everything went black.  

Tonight, though, you’d found yourself thinking not of the Goblin, but of your friend. The friend that had once been good as dead to you. Memories that had once been shoved aside in favor of sinking into the tragedy you’d experienced, only to be brought back to light after seeing his face today.  

You tossed and turned in your bed, your head pounding as thoughts of posh charity events, late-night talks, and inside jokes fought to keep you awake. It wasn’t until the next day when you’d finally arrived at Aunt May’s house that you received a much-needed break from him. 

The thick plastic covering on the couch crinkled loudly beneath your weight as you sat down. You used every ounce of effort in your body to try and appear calm as she moved past the coffee table, sitting across from you in a sage green armchair.  

It was new.  

“I’m so glad you came, y/n.” May offered you her sweetest smile, the gesture accentuating the thin lines around her eyes. She looked older somehow, even though it hadn’t even been a year since you last saw her. “I was worried that bitter man at the newspaper wouldn’t tell you I called.”  

You barely stifled your laughter, then immediately wondered if she could tell that even that sliver of emotion was fake. It was second nature to put on an act, especially when it came to work matters. To appear excessively friendly, using it as a tool to quickly build some sort of rapport with someone, hoping it would get them to spill whatever information they might have.  

It didn't seem necessary to put up an act around May, but you found it difficult to turn it off.  

“Jameson can be a little… testy, at times.”  

She immediately snorted at your words, believing them to be a drastic understatement.  

“But I’ve gotta say,” you continued, trying to steer the conversation, “I was a bit surprised when he said you called.”  

Guilt settled over her soft features, dusty pink lips settling into a thin line as she stared down at her lap, watching the steam rise from her cup. “I know. I meant to call sooner, more often, but I just...” she sucked in a breath, lifting the cup to the edge of her lips, “I didn’t want to make a big fuss of things.”  

She was drinking chamomile tea. You knew this because you were offered some as soon as she opened the front door, cheerfully telling you that she’d just boiled a fresh pot of water. While you didn’t consider yourself an expert on May Parker, you couldn’t help but make note of the fact that you’d never seen her enjoy herbal drinks before.  

You leaned forward a touch, your elbows resting just above your knees as you did so. “What would you make a fuss over?”  

This meeting was different than Ravencroft.  

At Ravencroft you were a sheep grazing among lions. Showing weakness would gain you nothing, save for failure and potential death. But in a place like Aunt May’s home, the roles immediately reversed.  

Here, you were the lion. And, to gain the trust of sheep, you needed to come off as if you were entirely transparent. Wear your heart on your sleeve, bare every emotion you had, and express as much concern as possible, fooling them into believing that you were truly on their side.  

But this time was different, you tried to remind yourself, working diligently to ensure your emotions didn’t come off as fake or exaggerated. You could be genuine. You really were on her side, right?  

“Peter’s been...” She hesitated as her wedding ring clinked against the porcelain cup in her hands as she nervously tapped her fingers. She never took it off, even after Ben died. “different.”  

Your chest tightened, elbows digging further into your thighs. “What do you mean?”  

“He changed after what happened to Gwendolyne.” she began to explain, though she remained hesitant. “It started off small. Quitting the newspaper, refusing to finish his college applications. And maybe that’s when I should’ve stepped in, tried to snap him out of it or something. But after what he’d gone through... what he had lost...”  

There was a knowing look in her eyes, a sense of understanding. It was then that it fully clicked for you, realizing that May had been through something similar to what Peter went through. She knew what it was like to have your entire world change in the blink of an eye. “I just hoped that with time it would pass.”  

“And it didn’t, did it?” You guessed, painfully aware of the answer.  

If it had changed, if he had gotten better, then you wouldn’t be sitting here right now.  

May shook her head. “No.” She uttered, her hooded gaze still avoiding yours, remaining fixed on her cup. “It got worse.”  

There was something in the way she spoke, the solemn tone you’d never heard her take before, that sent chills running down your spine.  

“How so?”  

"Little ways, at first.” Her voice broke, clearing her throat before taking another sip of tea. “He started acting out. Getting mean. Rageful.”  

Your heart ached for the woman, fighting the urge to reach out and hug her as you watched her hazel eyes turn glossy.  

“He was almost never home anymore, and then one day he just... didn’t come back.”  

She wiped away the unshed tears, lightly shaking her head and muttering an apology.  

“Where is he?” You asked her, instinctively looking towards the old staircase that led to his bedroom.  

Years had been wasted in there, sitting cross-legged on his worn-out rug and exchanging complaints about Flash Thompson or Miss. Ritter. On good days, the two of you would build Lego sets and eat your fill of junk food. On bad days you’d both tuck yourselves away in his bed, hidden underneath a stack of blankets as old movies played from his laptop.  

It had been a while since you’d let yourself think of those memories, and you hadn’t quite expected it to hurt as much as it did to acknowledge that those days were gone. 

“Columbia.” She spoke.  

Your eyes widened as your head cocked to the side. “University?”  

Warmth spread across your cheeks as embarrassment settled in, feeling a bit silly for speaking the thought aloud. Of course she had meant Columbia University. Still, it shocked you a little when she nodded, confirming your thoughts. Given the way she spoke of Peter’s decline, you hadn’t expected him to be attending college.  

“So, you still talk to him?” You quickly followed up with another question, this one less painstakingly dumb than the last.  

May scoffed, the loose hair framing her face swaying about as she shook her head. “I don’t know if I’d call it talking. But he checks in on occasion, just often enough to keep me from having a heart attack.”  

You glanced down at her cup of tea, willing to reason that maybe Peter had been the reason for her sudden interest in herbal drinks. After all, they were known to reduce stress, and Peter seemed to be causing a great deal of it.  

There was another sound of disapproval, a click of her tongue as her voice went low again. “You raise a boy for over ten years,” she started, the smallest spark of anger burning within her, “only to end up getting a postcard in the mail every month.”  

“A postcard?” You wondered aloud, likely looking as puzzled as you felt. “You don’t have his phone number?”  

She snorted. “I don’t know if he even has a phone anymore.”  

For a moment neither of you spoke, and you found yourself studying her features, looking for any sign that she might be lying. You knew that there was no point in it, that May had no reason to lie to you. There would be nothing for her to gain, plus she had reached out to you for help. Still, it was second nature for you to remain apprehensive.  

It was hard to believe that Peter had all but completely cut ties with his aunt. May had raised him, practically given her entire life just to ensure that he had everything he could ever need, only to up and abandon her out of the blue—just as he had done to you.  

Nothing about it made any sense to you, and the thought alone was enough to fill you with not only rage, but also fear. Was Peter that far gone?  

You didn’t want to think about that right now, instead focusing on the sharp pain sneaking up your left side from sitting hunched over for so long. Forcibly relaxing your muscles, you leaned back against the couch cushions, listening to the way the plastic squelched as you shifted.  

“Is that why you called?” You finally asked, pressing a hand to your ribs and rubbing over the sore area. “To see if I could help Peter?”  

May took another long and thoughtful sip of her tea. Then, once she was finished, she leaned forwards and placed it on the coffee table that stood between you both. “No.” She stated firmly, only for her eyes to narrow and then go back on the declaration, “Not entirely, at least.” 

You frowned at her, confused.  

“I wanted to call because I realized that you needed someone, too.” You froze instantly, suddenly feeling as if the air had been knocked from your lungs. “I’ve been so caught up with Peter and trying to find a way to help him that I nearly forgot he wasn’t the only one who lost someone.”  

May glanced up for perhaps the first time in this whole conversation. You couldn’t help but feel as if the roles had changed, sinking further into the cushion behind you. She took note of everything, your stiff posture, the subtle bouncing of your leg, the timid look in your eye. You had become the sheep, being carefully discerned by the lion.  

“I never got a chance to tell you how sorry I was—still am, for your loss, y/n. You didn’t just lose Gwen that night, you lost all three of them.”  

Her heedful words landed the final blow, feeling like a piercing knife against your throat.  

Suck it up, you kept repeating to yourself, change the subject.  

Scrambling to compose yourself, nearly choking on your own tongue, you tried to ignore the look of concern she gave you. You didn’t need sympathy. “I’m managing.” You told her roughly, only able to conjure a barely believable smile. “It could be worse.”  

“Sure,” May tentatively agreed, “but it could also be better.”  

You decided it was best to not acknowledge her words.  

“You said not entirely.” You reminded her, working hard to ensure that your voice didn’t shake. You weren’t sure why it was shaking in the first place, torn between naming anxiety or anger as the culprit. “When I asked if you wanted me to help Peter, that’s what you said. What makes you think I can help him?” 

May’s face screwed up, staring at you as if it were obvious. “Because no one else can. The three of you—you, Harry, and Gwen—were the only ones that could ever get through to him.” She paused, considering her next words. “And you’re the only one left.”  

There was a weight that settled on your shoulders, shoving you further into the couch. You didn’t like the way that it sounded, for more reasons than one. There was too much responsibility that came with it.   

“Columbia’s campus is big.” You told her, void of any emotion. “Do you know where he’s staying? Anything that might help me find him?”  

This time it was May’s turn to sink back into her seat, shoulders slouching forward as she turned apologetic. “I know he’s living on campus, but I don’t know which building. Whenever he writes he always keeps the details to a minimum.”  

As much as you appreciated any information she offered, it wouldn’t help you much. You had been right in your earlier statement; Columbia was a big school with at least two dozen residence halls. Finding Peter amongst those students was comparable to finding a needle in a haystack.  

You knew that you could enlist Betty Brant’s help, but even then, it could take days before one of you happened to find him.  

Finally, a bit exasperated, you dared to ask. “Anything else?”  

May smiled, weary and filled with regret. “Just be careful, y/n. I’m not sure what Peter had gotten himself into, but I’ve seen the news.” Her hands trembled as she spoke. “I know what they think he did. What Spider-Man might have done.”  

She spoke the vigilante’s name like a forbidden word, as if it were one she had sworn she’d never speak aloud, and your eyes grew wide as you just barely breathed out, “You know?”  

May’s smile remained despite the somber gleam in her eyes as she told you simply, “No one washes the flag.”  

You found the students at Columbia University nauseating.  

Most of them were pretentious assholes that stunk of cigarette smoke, not because they actually smoked them, but instead because letting them lazily hang from their fingers matched their desired aesthetic.  

They were all desperate to give off the same vibe as a fifteen-year-olds dark academia Pinterest board, leaning against a wall with a copy of Allan Ginsberg’s Howl tucked beneath their arm. You wondered if any of them had ever read it, snorting to yourself when you thought of how they’d likely dogeared a few pages to make the book look worn.  

“This place is huge.” Betty Brant marveled from beside you, spinning in a circle as she took in its vastness. When she was done making herself dizzy, she looked at you. “This is gonna be impossible.”  

You smiled at her inept observation, challenging her. “Why?”  

Her brows snapped together, a single hand incredulously waving around the two of you. “Have you looked around?” She quipped. “There are literally thousands of people here! If we find him today, then it’ll just be dumb luck.”  

You didn’t judge her for her innate pessimism. After all, you felt just as overwhelmed as Betty Brant did currently when sitting on Aunt May’s couch, listening as she told you that she had essentially nothing to offer in terms of helping to find Peter. It was easy to assume the worst in a field where you’re so often dealt the shittiest of hands—but Jameson and the other seasoned reporters at the Bugle had taught you well. There was always a way to turn things around.  

“Know your target, Brant.” You lightly chastised, a teasing smile that Brant felt looked out of place on you. While she still didn’t know you well, she’d seen you around the office a lot, and she struggled to remember a time when you didn’t have a permanent grimace etched on your face.  

Your fingers delved into your bag and reached for a few papers that you’d printed off at the Bugle, just moments before you’d snagged Brant up by her arm without warning and forced her to come with you to Columbia University. You held one of the papers out to her, which she swiftly took and began reading.  

"There are only two programs offered at Columbia that Peter would care about: photography or biochemistry.” You explained to her. “I went on their website and got an idea of a mock schedule for both and copied down the names of the buildings they’re in. It’s still not a sure shot-”  

“But it gives us somewhere to start.” Brant finished your sentence, her big eyes flickering back up to yours as she lowered the page you’d given her.  

You grinned. “Exactly.”  

“So, we’re splitting up?”  

She was nervous about that idea, clear by the way she started to tug at the edge of her royal blue cardigan. If it were someone other than Brant you might be concerned, but Brant always came off a little antsy, making it easy to brush it off; although it did leave you wondering why the girl stayed so high strung. One day you’d ask her about it, you thought, but not right now.  

"It’s better that way. We'll cover more ground.” You told her, your pitiless statement doing little to quell her nerves as she gave another sharp tug to her garment, anxiously looking around at the swarm of students passing around you both.  

You did your best to look sympathetic, “Just call me if you need me, alright?” Brant stared back at you, resembling a small child whose mother was dropping them off on their first day of school. It was pitiful, and you nearly groaned as you forced yourself to say, “If you call, I’ll answer. Promise.”  

Brant hesitated for a second before nodding, still uneasy but far more willing now to leave your side. As you turned away from her you reminded yourself to never have children, desperately hoping and praying to any God who might listen that Brant would not call you.  

As you started to meld into the crowd, falling into step with a group of girls around your age, the thoughts of Brant and her child-like anxiety were replaced with something far more juvenile. You had just barely glanced at the girls walking next to you, at first only giving them a quick glance. Soon, though, as you continued towards your destination, you found yourself fixating on them.  

They smelled like cloves and bergamot, probably the scent of some over-priced perfume you’d never even dream of taking off the shelf and their clothes were nicer than anything hanging up in your closet. One had a Tiffany’s necklace dangling around her throat like a collar and another had pin straight platinum hair. In short, they looked expensive. But, at the same time, they looked incredibly beautiful.  

It made you hyper aware of yourself, of how different you looked in comparison. You weren’t wearing any nice jewelry, and your hair was messily tied back, making you feel as if you were the opposite of both the girls that had caught your attention. Realizing this, you looked around at the other girls surrounding you, noticing that all of them looked that way. Posh, put-together, and completely and utterly gorgeous.  

A strange feeling crept up your spine, one you hadn’t felt since you were in high school. Self-loathing.    

There was a time when you prioritized your appearance, or at least more than you do now. You could still remember what it was like to stroll into an Oscorp charity event, dozens of eyes glued to you. Men would watch with bated breath as you passed them, silently dreaming of a day where you’d actually notice them.  

That would never happen, of course.  

You always went to those events with either Harry or Peter, and they often left you with little reason to acknowledge anyone else in attendance. Even so, you remembered the power you held. Remembered what it was like to feel desired by someone, even if it wasn’t by who you wanted.  

After the accident, though, you’d stopped caring about how you looked. It felt so trivial to put any more effort than necessary into your looks, often throwing on the same outfit several days in a row to save time in the mornings. But in this moment, you found yourself feeling differently, insecurity slipping into your mind. Had you let yourself go? Surely not...  

It didn’t matter! You suddenly shouted at yourself, fists balling up at your sides as you tried to silence the thoughts that were fueled by foolish insecurity. Despite believing every word of the statement, it didn’t help to make you feel any less self-conscious.  

Passing by the mirrored windows of the mess hall, you found yourself slowing down, falling behind the group of girls as you hesitantly turned to catch a glimpse of yourself. You cursed yourself for looking, hating that you even cared about this sort of thing right now. But once you looked into the reflection you froze, realizing that it wasn’t yourself that you saw in the reflection. It was Gwen.  

“It’s not that bad!” She would lie to you, her voice jumping several octaves as she did. A hand would reach out, sage green fingernails combing through the frizzy mess that framed your face, trying to flatten it. “It just needs a little...” her head cocked to the side, teeth exposed as she sucked in a breath, “work.”  

Gwen was always a terrible liar. She wasn’t like you; she never had been. She was completely incapable of hiding her hand, always living with her cards exposed for the world to see—for them to take advantage of. It was what you’d always admired most about her, her willingness to trust in everyone, to see the good in anyone. It was also what you despised the most about her, and you tried not to dwell on the complexity of that.  

“You know what? It doesn’t even matter!” Gwen’s shoulders lifted exponentially, a mess of blonde curls violently swaying as she shook her head about. “You still look hotter than half the girls here, alright?” She grinned at you, the same sweet smile that you missed more than anything. “I promise!”  

And she meant it every word of it, but rather than offering you any comfort, the words just filled you with envy. You envied Gwen far more than you liked to admit. You wanted to be like her, even now, to be able to see the good in every situation, to be even half as lovely as she was.  

You tried to swallow your guilt, though it only made your stomach hurt. You had promised yourself that you were done envying Gwen.  

But you weren’t done missing her.  

Still entranced by her doe eyed stare, you felt your phone begin to buzz in your pocket, distracting you enough that you turned your gaze to your bag, instinctively going to dig for the device. By the time you thought to look back up, the vision of her was gone and you were looking at only a reflection of yourself.  

You wasted no time in looking away.  

When you sobered up enough to read the caller ID, you groaned loud enough to turn a few heads of students passing by. Now, in an interesting turn of events, you wished that Brant was the one calling you, staring down at Director Samson’s name flashing across the screen. You silenced it.  

Not today. You started walking again, effectively trading your thoughts of Gwen for ones of Ravencroft and Harry Osborn. Or ever again.  

Dodge Hall was the first stop on your list.  

You were willing to bet that of the two programs you listed to Brant that Peter likely picked photography, which was precisely why you had delegated the biochemistry labs to Brant.  

There was a chance that you were wrong and that he’d decided to major in biochemistry, maybe in some desperate attempt to be like the father he swore he hated, but you held out hope anyway. You wanted to believe that even in whatever odd stage of life Peter was in he was working to forge his own path, rather than following the one he’d once considered his birthright.  

Stopping in front of the building that housed most of the University’s photography classes, you grimaced. It significantly lacked character, offering nothing more than a bunch of lifeless bricks with boring cement pillars on either side. You had yet to see anything about this school that made it seem worth the astronomical tuition students paid to attend.  

“I know that look-” a high-pitched voice filled the air, the grating sound intensifying your already sour expression, “Dodge might not have the most intricate architecture on campus, but for what it lacks in appearance it makes up for in its rich and extraordinary history!” 

You didn't want to turn around, fully recognizing the chirpy she-devil by diction alone. Still, you forced yourself to do it anyway, realizing that there was no possible escape route. “Mary Jane!” The vile taste of her name in your mouth left you feeling queasy, “what’re you doing here?”  

No, seriously, what the fuck was she doing here?  

A perfectly manicured hand flew to her overly plump lips, packed full of filler and overlined with a red lip pencil. An exaggerated gasp somehow managed to slip past them. “Oh my gosh!” The copper-haired beauty squealed, sounding as if she had inhaled at least a few liters of helium. You forgot how much you hated her voice. “y/n! I didn’t even recognize you!”  

“Yeah, it’s been a while.” You droned, likely appearing just as displeased as you sounded. It was difficult for you to sound pleasant around Mary Jane.  

Mary Jane had always been a thorn in your side. For the most part she was entirely harmless, but her ever-so-perky attitude always left a bad taste in both your mouth and Gwen’s. On top of that, she lacked morals, made clear by the last time you’d seen her.  

It was immediately after Gwen’s funeral, and you’d just happened to find Mary Jane and a few other reporters from the Daily Globe swarming the Stacy family, pining for an interview. It was disgusting, and if you’d been in better shape, you swore that you would’ve knocked her square in the face that day.  

Mary Jane reached out and touched your forearm, giving it a firm squeeze. “You look so good!”  

You didn’t even bother thanking her, instead deciding to brace yourself for what might be coming next. You had known her long enough to know that all her compliments were a double-edged sword, an insult waiting just around the corner.  

“After Genna’s funeral you looked so thin and sickly,” her button nose scrunched up as she looked you up and down, “it’s so nice to see you look far more...” a slight tilt of her head, accompanied by a sickeningly sweet smile as she squeezed your arm again, “plump!”  

The smile you gave in return was far less pleasurable than hers, bearing a closer resemblance to a snarl. “Gwen.” You pointedly corrected, choosing to ignore her weak attempt at insulting you. “Her name is Gwen.”  

She only waved her hand, dismissing your correction. The simple act made your blood boil, teeth grinding together as you fought to stay silent. You didn’t have time to start a fight with her.  

“Ugh, silly me! I’m so bad with names!” She pretended to laugh it off, playing it as an innocent slip of the tongue. You could see the malice behind it, though, her emerald eyes glistening with spite. Mary Jane was a journalist, which meant that remembering facts was quite literally her job. Pretending to forget Gwen’s name was just another idle attempt at getting under your skin.  

It worked.  

“Did you check out the Globe yesterday?” She started right back up, trapping you in another conversation and preventing you from finding an excuse to slip into Dodge Hall and start your search for Peter. “Who am I kidding! Of course you did!” Mary Jane twirled a strand of red hair around her finger, her egotism on full display as she beamed. “Dozens of newsstands sold out within the hour! Amazing, right? To sell out physical copies in this digital age!”  

You only hummed in response, aware that she only wanted to hear herself talk. But God, you hated the way she spoke. Her constant need to enunciate every other word, her squeaky voice filled with false sincerity, always searching for validation in every conversation.  

”Bushkin agreed that we only sold out because of my story on the front page! He said my talent for writing could be enough to revive print entirely!” Her chest swelled with pride; hands clasped over her heart as nonsense continued to spew from her.  

Barney Bushkin was the publisher for the Globe, which made him Mary Jane’s boss. He also had a reputation for being a sick old pervert with an affinity for girls that were far too young for him. His opinion meant nothing to you since you knew that he would say absolutely anything if he thought it would increase his odds of getting a quick look up one of Mary Jane’s too-short skirts.  

”I’m not surprised you sold so many copies,” you egged her on, taking immense pleasure in the way her smug smile grew at what she mistook for praise, “fear mongering has always been a useful tactic for sales.”  

For a moment you could’ve sworn you saw her eyes turn as red as her hair, fiery rage coursing through her veins at your comment. But it was gone nearly as soon as it had appeared.  

”Well,” she cleared her throat, smoothing the wrinkles out of her white blouse, “I’d hardly call my article fear mongering. I just presented the facts.”  

You couldn’t deny that Mary Jane was a pro at composing herself, remaining collected even when you knew she wanted to explode. Image was important to her, meaning she couldn’t ever afford to let her nice girl act falter.  

”You called Spider-Man a murderer.”  

You didn’t always share her skillset, willing to let yourself come off as brash and plain-spoken.  

”And last I checked there’s an active warrant for his arrest.” Mary Jane retorted sharply, the only sign she was willing to give that you were annoying her. “So, like I said, I presented the facts.”  

You sucked in a breath, holding back your argument. You wanted to tell her that her facts were skewed, that she was reporting with only one source and effectively trying to demonize a man who had saved the city countless times. But you didn’t. Fighting with her would be a waste of time, and you had better things to do.  

"Yeah, well, I should really get going.” You gave a curt smile, nodding in the direction of Dodge Hall. “Always good to see you, MJ.” You took care to place extra emphasis on the nickname, fully aware of just how much she hated it.  

Still, she barely let it get to her, hiding her own scowl as you started to edge towards the building. You noticed the way her left eye twitched, though, showing that she was nearing a breaking point. If you had more time, you’d likely try and push her over the edge.  

“Why are you here?” Mary Jane suddenly mimicked the question you had first asked her, the one she had never actually gave an answer to.  

You paused, only having made it less than a few feet away from her. “Visiting a friend.”  

If all went to plan, that wouldn’t technically be a lie.  

“Peter?” She blurted his name out in a way that left you feeling strange. There was a hesitant look on her face, almost as if she were afraid that you’d say yes. You didn’t like it.  

“Yeah, actually.” You frowned, watching her face drop at the confirmation. “Why?”  

She refused to meet your stare, staring past your shoulder at the entrance of the Hall. “He’s not in there.”  

In all the years you’d known Mary Jane, you’d never heard her sound so uncharacteristically dispirited. Her perky persona seemed to vanish in thin air, leaving behind someone that was entirely unfamiliar to you.  

It was incredibly uncomfortable.  

“Wait, do you know where he is?” You asked.  

“Of course I do.” She quickly answered, cutting her eyes at you. “But if you’re the one meeting him then shouldn’t you know where he is?”  

Jealousy settled in. Why did she know where Peter was? Mary Jane and Peter had never been particularly close, likely due to the lifelong rivalry that you and Gwen had held with her. The idea of him even interacting with Mary Jane left you feeling unsettled.  

“Well, we were supposed to meet here.” You lied, turning a tad defensive as you shrugged a shoulder in the direction of the building. “But it’s been a busy morning. He might’ve forgot.”  

You paused, debating whether you wanted to continue. There was a good chance that you didn’t want to hear the answer to the question resting on the tip of your tongue, and yet you made yourself ask it anyway. “Were you just with him?”  

Please say no-  

“Yes.” Her answer came quickly. “We had plans to get dinner but-um,” she suddenly became extremely focused on her own feet, awkwardly kicking at the sidewalk, “he had to... cancel. Said he was gonna be too busy developing photos all night.”  

Her too-perfect face screwed up in an unsightly sort of way. You almost thought that you should feel guilty for accidentally making it seem as if Peter had ditched her for you. But you didn’t. Instead, you felt sickly satisfied, taking pleasure in her sorrow. You reveled in it, finding it easier to focus on that than the idea of why she and Peter were going to get dinner together in the first place.  

”Mm, that sucks.” You let out a disinterested hum, taking a page from her book as you continued without waiting for a reply, “Is that what he’s doing now? Developing photos?”  

Mary Jane gave a stiff nod.  

”Great.”  

Despite how painful it had been to sit through what felt like a never-ending conversation with her, Mary Jane had ended up being of vital importance. If Peter was developing images today, then that meant he had to be in the darkrooms. And, thanks to your Google research, you knew exactly where they were—Watson Hall, just a brief walk from where you were now.  

You wasted no time with stepping around Mary Jane, having no intention of even wasting a goodbye on her as you started towards your destination. But, as you moved around her body, she reached for you, her thin fingers once again wrapping around your forearm. She squeezed harder than last time, your head snapping in her direction, eyes narrowing in a threatening stare as she held you there.  

Surprisingly, she gave you a threatening look of her own.  

“Before you go,” you found it eerie the way her voice remained syrupy sweet, a sharp contrast to the menacing expression she wore, “I just wanted to tell you how much I adored that little sympathy piece you wrote for your friend in the looney bin.” 

You pulled your arm from her grip, your body going tense at the mention of the article you’d written to try and sway the public during Harry’s trial. Jameson hadn’t allowed it to go to print, reminding you that your judgment was still clouded by grief. He didn’t understand why you were so desperate to keep Harry out of Ryker’s Island, but he had hoped that by letting you at least post the article on the Bugle’s website that it would offer you some sort of closure.  

It hadn’t. It was shortly after publishing the piece that you had went straight to Harry’s lawyers, giving them all the information they would need to plead insanity.  

Mary Jane stepped closer, ignoring your effort to create distance from her. She was close enough that you could nearly feel the heat radiating off her body. You didn’t like it, but you refused to let yourself back away from her.  

“I can’t say that Peter agreed.” Her lips curled into a cynical smirk. “I mean, honestly, after the reaction he had to it I’m shocked that he can even stand to be in the same room as you!” The sound of her laughter infuriated you. “I suppose it’s true what they say about time, yeah? That it heals all wounds—even a knife in the back.”  

You couldn’t breathe, couldn’t blink, couldn’t think.  

All you could do was stare at the devilish woman in front of you, seething with a type of hatred that you were certain could eat you alive. Your nails sunk into the heel of your palm, an effort to refrain yourself from using them to claw that nasty complacent look right off her face.  

Mary Jane noticed this and decided to take your silence as a sign of her victory.  

“It really was great seeing you, y/n.” She gushed, the false tender statement only fueling your anger. As she turned to walk away, she glanced over her shoulder, winking at you. “Don’t be a stranger.”  

One day, you swore to yourself with a particularly loud huff, spinning on your heel and stomping in the direction of the darkrooms, you would kick Mary Jane’s ass.  

When you posted the article—the one you hoped would sway the public’s opinion of Harry—you knew Peter would see it. More than that, you knew that he would be adamantly against it. 

Unlike you, Harry hadn’t given Peter a reason to care whether he lived or died.  

If anything, he had done nothing but give Peter motive to kill Harry himself. You hated that thought. While you didn’t believe that Peter had murdered Sytsevich, you worried that if given the chance he would have killed Harry that night. You wanted to believe that he wouldn’t have been capable of following through with it, though. Just as you weren’t capable of sitting idly by as Harry was sentenced to Ryker’s Island, knowing that he would be as good as dead in there.  

Maybe you’d been stupid not to consider that the article was one of the reasons why Peter had never bothered to reach out to you, even once things had settled down. Maybe it was your own fault that he’d abandoned you, that the article had been the final nail in the coffin of your friendship.  

Your stomach ached, your mind still reeling as you shoved open the large doors of Watson Hall. A rush of frigid air washed over you, goosebumps erupting against your skin.  

Was it possible that Peter hated you as much as he hated Harry?  

No. It couldn’t be. What Harry had done was beyond abominable, something that could never be forgiven. You hadn’t done anything nearly as bad as him.  

Yet, on the other hand… is the one who comes to a monster's defense just as bad as the monster? You weren’t sure of the answer to that question, though you started to rationalize it to yourself anyway—you weren’t defending him, you just didn’t want to watch him die if there was something you could do to stop it! 

But why not? Gwen wasn’t a monster, yet you still watched her die, standing on the sidelines and doing nothing to try and stop it.  

There was nothing I could’ve done! Your mind screamed in defense of itself as you approached the staircase leading to the second floor, roughly gripping the rail as you started climbing up.  

Why had Peter talked to Mary Jane about the article in the first place? That question was easier to think about than the others, infuriating but still less emotionally taxing, so you let yourself fixate on it. As far as you knew, Peter hadn’t liked Mary Jane any more than you and Gwen did, always keeping his distance from the she-devil.  

When did that change?  

At the top of the stairs, nestled in a corner of the left, there was a single door with a large black sign hanging off of it. The words DARKROOM IN USE were written in bold letters. You stared at it for a moment, your mind finally going blank as you did.  

Peter was behind that door—your best friend, Peter.  

Your palms started to sweat as memories started flooding back. Instantly, you bit your cheek, trying to ignore them. Now wasn’t the time for a trip down memory lane, especially not when you could still recall the bloody way that road ends.  

A knock echoed through the somewhat barren Hall as your first collided with the door, your nerves growing with every passing millisecond. All you could do was focus on the different feelings fighting to consume you, the thudding of your heart, the slickness of your hands, the churning of your stomach.  

“Peter?”  

Saying his name felt wrong, but you said it anyway as you knocked again, a bit harder this time. “It’s y/n,” you told him, as if it were even possible for him to forget the sound of your voice, “can I come in?”  

Once again you were met with silence.  

You considered turning around. Maybe Jameson had been right in thinking that you shouldn’t chase this story. After all, it wasn’t your job to prove Spider-Man's innocence, and if Peter wanted your help, then he knew how to find you. You could call Brant right now and tell her that today was a bust, or even lie and say that Peter didn’t want to help with the story. You could walk away.  

But you didn’t let yourself do that, once again feeling that weight of responsibility that May had unintentionally placed on your shoulders. There was no one left in Peter’s corner, no one that would be willing to dig him out of whatever dark hole he’d landed himself in.  

You had fought to save Harry’s life, and so it only felt right that you tried to do the same for Peter.  

Without bothering to knock again, you reached for the knob and twisted, hastily slipping inside the room, trying to limit the amount of light the leaked in behind you. You didn’t know a lot about developing photos, but you’d never forgotten the way Peter would groan whenever you’d come in unannounced, accidentally letting the light ruin his work.  

The door clicked shut behind you as you looked around. It wasn’t a big room, just large enough for two or three people to comfortably fit inside. Any more than that, though, and they’d likely be bumping elbows the entire time. There was a table in the center of it, lined with tubs holding various chemicals that you’d never learned the names of. A clothesline hung around the perimeter of the room, a few newly developed photos lazily dangling from it. On the far wall there were two desks, various images and tools scattered across them.  

Everything in the room looked sinister, courtesy of the red tinted light that hung overhead.  

”Fucking creepy.” You muttered to yourself, crossing your arms over your chest as a chill inched down your back. This room felt significantly colder than the rest of Watson Hall, only adding to its unsettling vibe.  

The darkroom was empty, despite the sign on the door saying it was in use. The realization nearly made you breathe a sigh of relief, a part of you finding comfort in the thought that you wouldn’t actually have to confront Peter right now. But as you stepped further into the room and towards the twin desks, all your newfound relief dissipated.  

Resting against the leg of the desk was a fluorescent yellow bookbag, decorated with a variety of cheap pins ranging from local bands to images of outdated memes. You remembered the first time you ever saw that bag, lying on the floor of Peter’s bedroom just a week or so before the start of Junior year. He threw a fit when Aunt May had come in, tossing the ugly bag on his bed and raving about how she had gotten it on sale just in time for back-to-school.  

You made fun of him for months, always making note of the way its vibrancy clashed with his darker style. Secretly you had loved that bag, silently appreciative for how easy it made it to find Peter in the crowded halls of Midtown High. He would always beg Aunt May to get a different bag, but she refused, saying that they shouldn’t buy another until he had worn the yellow one out.  

Looking at it now, it seemed that he had finally achieved that goal. The yellow fabric was a touch duller now, though not by much, and there was a noticeable tear in the seam of the front pocket. Kneeling beside it, you traced your finger over a trail of blue thread, having been carefully used to stitch the fabric back together.  

You wondered why he had decided to fix it instead of just replacing it like he had always wanted.  

Straightening back up, you scanned over the rest of the desk. There was a black reusable water bottle perched on the edge, a set of keys attached to a Deftones lanyard lying beside it. A bit of sweat trickled down the edge of the bottle, collecting on the surface of the desk. You reached for it, shifting it just enough to hear ice knocking against the metal walls. It had barely melted, meaning that it hadn’t been long since Peter had gotten here. Still, you had no clue where he was now.  

Closer to the center of the desk was a neat stack of already developed photos. A girl graced the top of the stack—pale skin with bleach blonde hair, neatly pushed back by a black headband. You reached for it without hesitation, a single digit tracing along her grinning face.  

Peter took pictures of a lot of people, you included, but it was undeniable that Gwen had always been his favorite subject. Looking at this photo, you couldn’t help but understand why. She was effortlessly beautiful, capable of taking your breath away without even trying.  

You could never blame Peter for always trying to capture that beauty, fully aware that if you were him, she would’ve been your favorite too.  

Without much thought you decided to slip the image into your bag. Peter had dozens of pictures of Gwen, while you only had a measly few. He could spare one.  

The other images were far more recent than the first, with only one or two others featuring Gwen. There were snapshots of random Columbia students, a few cityscapes, and even one of the devil herself—Mary Jane, posed in front of the same mess hall that had ensnared you earlier. In the reflection you could see Peter, smiling from behind his camera.  

You gritted your teeth and rolled your eyes at the image. Were they really friends? The picture seemed to serve as enough of an answer, but you still couldn’t help but hope that you were wrong. Had Peter truly traded you in for Mary-fucking-Jane?  

You roughly shoved that photo to the back of the stack, doing your best not to think about it as you continued to snoop through the rest of them. None were particularly interesting, save for the last two. Their dark composition offered a stark difference from the rest, while simultaneously making it difficult to tell what Peter was even photographing.  

Taking one in each hand, your eyes darted back and forth between them, squinting as you tried to make out the subject, a task that was made all the more difficult by the rooms dim red lighting. You brought one closer to your face, making out a few trivial details. At the far edge, there seemed to be a street sign's corner, and in the middle a few streaks of dim light reflecting off a rain puddle.  

Moving it away from yourself, you shifted your focus to the other one, thinking it appeared to be just a close-up of the first image. Then, slowly, you realized your mistake. It hadn’t been just a zoomed-in shot, as the reflection in the puddle made it something else entirely—a self-portrait.  

But it wasn’t the warmth of Peter’s familiar brown eyes being reflected in the hazy liquid. Rather there was an outline of the two lifeless white lenses that belonged to his other self, the version of him you sometimes wished to forget.  

The sight made you feel sick, sweat starting to form along your neck as you hastily flipped the photo over, desperate to avoid his sickening stare. However, what you saw on the back of the image was almost as bad as being forced to stare at Spider-Man's reflection. Scrawled in Peter’s barely legible handwriting was the date APRIL 2ND.  

A new panic quickly trickled into your veins, fully replacing the one that had been born from the lifeless gaze of his mask. You read yesterday’s date over and over again, as if it would suddenly change. It never did, and a sizable knot formed in your throat as you slowly began to look up, shifting your focus to the forgotten photos pinned to the clothesline.  

Your jaw fell slack, the photos in your hands following suit and landing on the desk below them. When you first entered the darkroom, you hadn’t paid much mind to the photographs hanging up, assuming they weren’t of much importance. Now, though, you recognized them for what they truly were—the sister images of the ones you’d been holding. Flashes of 102nd Avenue, Aleksei Sytsevich lying lifeless on the ground, milky white shards of bone peeking through his flesh. And there were photos of his mask, and those goddamn white lenses, spattered with Aleksei’s blood.  

Peter hadn’t just been at the crime scene; he had documented it.  

Your palm pressed roughly to your mouth, fingers digging into your cheek as you made yourself swallow the vomit fighting its way up your throat. Your own trauma fought desperately to rear its head as you analyzed the gory images, but you refused to let it take hold, scrambling to keep control as you forced yourself to snap into action.  

After grabbing your phone, you wasted no time snapping pictures of the photographs hanging from the line, of the ones sprawled on the desk, of everything you could find. You didn’t know yet what you would do with them, but you refused to leave this room without collecting every bit of evidence you could find.  

Once you were certain you had gotten it all, you worked to straighten the stack of pictures you’d gone through, adjusting them so they appeared as if they’d never been touched in the first place. Then, with your heart hammering inside your chest, you darted for the door without a second thought, paying absolutely no mind to the strange looks given to you by passing students as you rushed for the stairs.  

You couldn’t stop moving, only slowing your frantic pace once you’d nearly made it to the exit doors. You rounded the corner as you tried to pull up Brant’s contact with shaky hands, wanting nothing more than to call her and get the fuck away from this campus. But, as soon as you went to press her name, your phone went flying from your hand and slid across the linoleum, your body pressing smack against another.  

Sugary notes of vanilla flooded your senses, making your thoughts turn hazy. Your palms were flush against the soft cotton of someone’s shirt, and you could feel their fingers wrapping firmly around your shoulders, trying to steady you enough that you wouldn’t stumble back from the impact.  

”Oh-shit!, sorry! I didn’t even see you-”  

Their voice wasn’t the first thing you recognized, instead you found yourself caught up in the material beneath your hands. They were wearing a black Ramones t-shirt, a barely noticeable tear on the edge of the collar. But you noticed the tear instantly because you were the one who had bought the shirt. You got it at the record store on 6th Avenue—Rough Trade, was the name of it—and the man behind the counter gave it to you for half off all because of that tear.  

You only ever got to wear it once before Peter nabbed it off your bedroom floor, never to return it. 

”y/n?”  

Your body betrayed you, immediately melting as the familiar sound of your name falling from his lips rang through your ears. Your heart had still been pounding in your chest this entire time, yet as your eyes met his for the first time in months, it fell still.  

Peter didn’t fully share in your reaction. Instead of appearing as if he were lost in the same nostalgic haze you were caught in, he looked as if he had seen a ghost. His skin blanched, eyes growing unnaturally wide. For a moment you thought he was going to say something else, his lips parting, yet nothing came out.  

In your lifetime, you had only known of a few things that could render Peter Parker speechless. You had now become one of them.  

”Hi.” You squeaked out, a single hand lifting from his chest and offering an awkward wave that filled you with humility.  

This wasn’t easy.  

You weren’t sure how to act around him, how to behave. For nine months you had envisioned this moment, conjuring up countless things to say to him, all the insults you wanted to hurl his way. But now that it was happening, you found yourself torn between wanting to hug and choke him.  

It seemed best to do neither.  

”Um, hi?” Peter’s grip on your shoulders tightened, just for a second, as if he were trying to prove to himself that you were really standing in front of him. Once he seemed satisfied with your physicality, he stepped back and released his grip on you entirely, subsequently making your other hand fall from his chest.  

”You’re not-I mean-you don’t go here.” He rasped, laughing awkwardly as he ran a hand through his hair, trying to ground himself.  

”You’re right, I don’t go here!” You pointlessly confirmed, voice raising several octaves as anxiety took over. “Very observant.”  

You cringed at the statement. Very observant?-you thought to yourself, biting down on the edge of your tongue as you watched Peter’s brows knit together-could've said anything, and that’s what you picked?  

He didn’t even acknowledge the useless comment, only letting it hang in the air between you as he continued to wait for a true answer.  

“I came to see you.” You choked out an honest answer, starting to shrink beneath his heavy gaze. You tried to step back, instinctively wanting to create distance between the two of you, but all you achieved was pressing yourself against the wall.  

There was no escaping him.  

He was quick to respond, making it clear just how high-strung he was. ”How did you find me?”  

”I’m a reporter.” You reminded him, offering it up as a vague answer to his question. He’d likely expected the response, given the way his eyes narrowed in frustration. “Finding people is part of my job description.”  

Peter always said that getting an answer out of you was like playing a game of charades, one that others very rarely won. You were a pro at dancing around the facts, only ever revealing them when they served to benefit you.

It was one of the many reasons you were so good at your job. 

“Is that why you’re here?” His question carried a sharp edge, his irritation growing stronger now as his jaw tightened. “For the Bugle?”  

Your body became tense, your shoulders squaring off as anxiety once again tried to shove to the surface. As you thought of the images you’d seen, the ones that were hanging just upstairs, your blood ran cold. You did your best not to let it show, instead trying to hide your fear behind a look of confusion. “Why would I be here for the Bugle?”  

At first, he only stared at you, his brows raising in an incredulous manner. You forced yourself to stare back despite the discomfort it brought you. Then, finally, he answered. “You wanna talk about Spider-Man, right?”  

Your heart sank into your stomach, lips turning dry as they parted. There was nothing good about the way the vigilante’s name rolled off his tongue, and you didn’t like it one bit. The semi-hushed tone he’d spoken in, laced with an essence of bitterness that one wouldn’t expect from the person that donned the mask.  

Hesitantly running your tongue along your now chapped lips, you responded in a shaky voice. “Why would I wanna talk about Spider-Man?”  

Harry’s advice rang through your mind—the same advice that had been mirrored by Aunt May, to remain wary of Peter—and you suddenly felt lightheaded. There was no way he could know that you found out about his identity that night, right?  

No, of course not. It was impossible. 

Peter appeared far more relaxed than you, his shoulders lazily lifting into a shrug. He didn’t seem to notice the sweat forming along your brow, making you think that you were doing an alright job at hiding your emotions. “Jameson wants new pictures of him, doesn’t he?” He threw out a guess.  

Your shoulders instantly sagged with relief, your lungs aching as you lightly blew out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding. Given what you’d seen upstairs, you decided it would be best to stick to Harry and May’s advice. Peter didn’t need to know that you were aware of who wore Spider-Man's mask. Not right now, at least.  

“I'm right, aren’t I?” Peter insisted impatiently, interrupting your racing thoughts and snapping you back into reality.  

“Do you have new pictures of him?” You hastily snapped back.  

“No. I don’t.” He lied straight through his teeth, once again running a hand through his already messy hair as he squeezed his eyes shut. It was obvious that he wasn’t planning to share any details of Spidey’s newly developed photoshoot hanging in the darkroom, and it would be against your best interest to press further, so you stayed quiet. When he opened his eyes again, he stared directly into yours. “And I don’t plan on taking any, so if that’s why you’re here then you’re wasting your time.”  

You couldn’t recall ever hearing Peter sound so exhausted before. His recent lack of sleep was made painfully evident by the varying shades of purple painting the skin around his eyes. How long had he looked this way? Has it been since Gwen? In some sick way you hoped that you were right, knowing that grief being the cause was better than the alternative—the idea that his lack of sleep related to his involvement with Aleksei.  

A part of you still refused to consider the images you’d seen as damning evidence that Peter had been the one to kill Aleksei Sytsevich. You couldn’t let yourself think that, refusing to believe that Peter Parker was anything even close to a murderer. It wasn’t possible.  

But, as much as you hated to admit it, they proved that he was in some way involved. An accessory, at least. For some reason, hopefully a good one, he hadn’t stopped Aleksei’s murder from happening.  

That came with its own dangerous implications.  

You clicked your tongue against the roof of your mouth, trying to decide what direction you wanted to steer the conversation in, which angle would serve you best. With a deep breath, you made your choice. “Well, it’s good that that’s not why I’m here then.”  

He looked surprised. “Wait,” he laughed awkwardly, “you’re not writing a piece on him?”  

There was a thin line creasing the space between his brows, a strange expression on his face. His reaction wasn’t entirely unexpected, especially because you were known for your articles on Spider-Man. But this wasn’t a look that showed he was shocked to hear you were passing up on a story, it was a look of pure offense.  

You fought the urge to ask him why he cared so much, curious to find out if he had been expecting you to rush to Spider-Man's defense in the media. The only reason you held yourself back was the fear that maybe you were wrong, that maybe he hadn’t wanted you to defend him at all; perhaps he just wanted more press for his potential crimes.  

”Seems like the Globe has it covered.” You told him, trying to sound disinterested. You hoped that he would buy your act. “No need to waste anymore ink on a story that’s already been told, right?”  

Peter knew you well enough to know that there was more to it than that. Fortunately, he was willing to reason that your potential avoidance of Spider-Man related to that night, the last night all of you were together, and the events that neither of you wanted to talk about. Besides, even if he did want to mention it, he couldn’t do so without exposing his identity to you, an identity he wasn’t aware you already knew about.  

So, as much as he didn’t want to let it go, he had no other choice.  

”O-kay.” He stretched the word out, shaking his head lightly as he worked to regain his bearings in the conversation. As he did so, a few strands of hair fell against his forehead. He was quick to push them back. “Well, if that’s not it, then why are you here?”  

There was only a second of hesitation, air hissing between your teeth as you sucked in a breath, crossing your fingers behind your back. You hoped Gwen would forgive you for the lie you were about to tell.  

”Helen Stacy.”  

The first emotion to wash over Peter was pain. It was obvious, showing in the way his shoulders slumped forwards and his bottom lip trembled, wincing as the surname of his dead lover echoed through his ears. It was the second emotion that was harder to detect, having been more cleverly concealed than the first. Anger.  

You could see it in his eyes, his pupils dilating as he started to see red. Your own gaze flickered to his sides, stopping on his clenched fists, knuckles turning a pale shade of white. It made you feel uncomfortable, especially since you were the one on the receiving end of that look. You nervously cleared your throat, starting to fiddle with the strap of your bag.  

“She called the other day and asked about running a memorial piece for Gwen’s anniversary. Obviously, she thought it would be best if Gwen’s friends put it together—you know, do it how we used to for the school paper. I’ll do the writing; you take care of the pictures.”  

It was hard to sound confident as you elaborated upon the fabricated situation, too busy trying to focus on anything other than his heavy gaze. You focused on the floor, mostly, staring over at where your phone still laid on the ground. Still, even without looking at him, you could feel the weight of his attention. The air around you began to grow thin, every breath turning into a battle. You felt like you were being slowly suffocated by his fury, your lungs burning within your chest.  

“I don’t know if that’s a good idea-”  

“You can’t say no, Pete.” You cut him off, forcibly lowering the walls surrounding your own trauma, using it to manipulate him. You didn’t feel bad about it, either. “We both lost our best friend that night, and that sucked. But Helen lost her kid. This is the least we can do for her.”  

As the last word fell from your mouth, you forcefully pried your gaze off the ground and begrudgingly met his once again. Terror slid into your veins as you did, your body already preparing itself for that seething look of his—but it vanished. There was no trace of anger on his face. All that remained was the slightest glimmer of remorse.  

His fists unclenched, mindlessly cracking his knuckles. Then he sighed, followed by a reluctant nod. “You’re right. She’s been through a lot, and if this will help bring her some sort of... I don’t know-” he waved his hands slightly, looking troubled by his own choice of words, “closure, then I’ll do what I can to help.”  

Your mouth curved into a smile.  

It seemed like a good sign, you figured, that he was willing to help. It reignited whatever hope you had left that despite whatever mess he had gotten into as Spider-Man, that he was still the same selfless Peter Parker you’d always known. He could still be saved. And, fortunately, you had now crafted the excuse you needed to get closer to him and figure out how to save him.  

”Great!” You spoke a little too loud, your excitement coming off a touch too strong. You tried to lessen it, though the uncharacteristic reaction certainly hadn’t gone unnoticed by Peter. “Meet me at Sylvia’s tomorrow at six, okay? We can start going over everything and make a rough outline for the memorial!”  

Peter immediately went still when he heard the name of the restaurant the four of you used to frequent. He hadn’t set foot in Sylvia’s since Gwen’s death, too afraid to face the memories hiding within its walls. He tried to speak, tried to tell you no, but he didn’t have the chance as you interrupted him again.  

“Here,” You pulled a business card from your bag, thrusting it towards him with a pointed look, “in case you forgot my number.”  

You didn’t hide the animosity behind the statement, using it as another tool to play on whatever guilt he might harbor for what he’d done to you. It seemed to work, given the fact that he promptly shut his mouth and chose not to argue. Instead, he cautiously reached out, plucking the cards from your fingers.  

“Try not to ghost me for another nine months.” You playfully added on, the words joined by a smile that resembled something of a threat as you reminded him, “After all, I know where to find you now.”  

Peter just returned the smile, tight lipped and far less ferocious than the one you’d given him. He knew that eventually you’d want an answer as to why he’d been avoiding you, but not right now. Now wasn’t the time for it.  

So, he stuffed the card in his pocket as you skillfully skirted around him, going to grab your phone off the floor. Once you had it in your hand, you started towards the exit, already starting to dial Brant’s number. “I’ll see you tomorrow, y/n.” Peter called after you, watching as you pushed the door open and stepped over the threshold.  

There was an eerie sense of familiarity accompanying his goodbye, one that left your heart swelling as the words sought to soothe any of the still-bleeding wounds that remained from that night. The comforting feeling was almost enough to make you forget about the images you’d seen in the darkroom, the ones that now also lived within the camera roll on your phone.  

Almost—but not quite.  

Brant answered on the first ring, seemingly overjoyed as another lie easily fell from your lips, confirming with her that Peter agreed to help take photos of Spider-Man so you could try and plead his case to the public—the reason she thought the two of you were searching for Peter. She was just as eager as you were to leave Columbia’s posh campus, swiftly agreeing when you asked her to meet you outside of the mess hall so the two of you could head back to the Bugle.  

Now, waiting alone in front of the mirrored windows, you stared silently at the reflection in front of you. A girl with platinum hair, neatly tucked back by a black headband, stared back at you with her familiar bright green eyes. They were filled with enough dismay to make your chest ache, ridding you of any comfort that Peter’s familiarity had given you.  

”You’re gonna have to see him again.” The somber tone she used was unbefitting of someone that you could only think to describe as sunshine personified; everything you ever wished you could be. “You’ll need his help.” Gwen told you. “You know that don’t you?”  

You knew she wasn’t talking about Peter.  

When you didn’t reply, she decided she needed to convince you further, tailoring her approach so it had the best chance of swaying you. She reached a handout, and you knew that if you had closed your eyes, you would be able to feel her fingertips brush against your palm as she squeezed your hand.  

God, you missed that feeling. You missed her.  

And it was because you missed her that you refused to close your eyes. Refused to let your brain mimic something that was no longer real.  

Gwen’s doe eyes turned glossy, her rosy lips puckering into a pout that could make even the most unyielding man fold. ”He’s gonna need your help, too, y/n.” 

You bit your cheek, thinking of the bottle of pills laying in the bottom of your bag, the ones you hadn’t had to take in so long now. You were getting better.  

"You can’t save one without saving the other.” Gwen tried to tell you, although it only served to make you angry at her, unable to figure out why she would feel that way. She shouldn’t want you to save Harry, not when he was the reason she wasn’t here right now!  

If she were here, really here, then maybe you would tell her that. Remind her of how well her altruistic lifestyle had ended.  

But she wasn’t. So, you didn’t.  

Instead, you turned on your heel, forcing yourself to turn away from the reflection. You immediately saw a flash of royal blue in the sea of students as Brant forced her way through the crowd. Fine—you thought to yourself, offering Gwen a silent answer as you started to make your way towards Brant.  

”This place is a goddamn maze!” You heard Brant huff noisily once you were in earshot of each other, her bobbed hair swaying manically. She clearly hadn’t had a good time, but you weren’t really interested in hearing about it, either. Instead, you found yourself distracted by her appearance. Her neatly styled hairstyle, sharp winged liner, and stylish outfit. It made you think of the girls from earlier, the ones who had made you so self-conscious, and it gave you an idea.  

If you were going to do this—follow Gwen’s advice and save both of your boys—then you needed to try and save yourself, too. And, luckily, you and Brant seemed to be about the same size.  

“Do you wanna go shopping?” You asked bluntly, watching as Brant doubled-back, clearly not expecting your question.  

She blinked, thinking it over before hesitantly replying, “Um, sure?”  

Ravencroft could wait until tomorrow morning. 

tag list - @pompeygirl89 @pockyandme

a/n - hi anyone who's bothering to read this! i'm super excited about this chapter for a variety of reasons and i hope that you enjoyed it! feel free to leave any comments or tips, i always appreciate them and can't wait to write more harry & dark!peter content in the next part <3

[nuttytani]

Oh no! My suicidal big tiddies man got isekai'd

fandom: honkai star rail

characters: blade and gender neutral reader

tw: none except- maybe not proof read?

a/n: a silly birthday gift for my lovely friend here @tsubaki3192

It was currently 2 AM and you have been playing video games for hours now. Looking at the time made you instinctively yawn and stretch those stiff arms. You were interrupted by a strange gurgling sound coming from somewhere…. Actually, it was just you and your hungry tummy. Since it was super late to cook anything (and risky because it might wake up the entire house), you quickly sneaked into the kitchen and rummaged through the fridge.

There were no leftovers. Just some sauce bottles, pickles, butter and milk. The fridge was positively empty of any food. There wasn’t even bread. What were you going to do with sauce and pickles? That didn’t sound appetising at all.

“Awe… There’s nothing,” you said while closing the fridge. Then you opened it again and finally grabbed that milk. That was your only hope.

At least it’s good for my bones, calcium and shit yeah?

Your legs and particularly knees have been creaky and making weird popping noises recently. Maybe those bones might be thanking you for the milk. Chuckling to your silly thoughts, you head back to your room, with a cup of milk and proceed to turn your computer off.

A weird green horizontal line appeared on your screen and your wallpaper surrounding that line turned pixelated. The speaker connected to your computer emitted creepy static-y noises like those really old radio. Something was not right and that something would land you in shit because this wasn’t some cheap ol’ computer. You painstakingly saved up for this bad boy after hours of part time jobs here and there while also struggling with your uni life. The model wasn’t anything new but it was good enough for you and it was your baby. That very baby was dying in front of you. You needed to fix it.  You instantly scrambled back into your chair and tried to check for cables. Maybe some cables were loose. Before you could even touch a wire, the entire screen turned green and turned black. The static noises stopped as well.

“Well… Guess I’m doomed.” You slide your hands down your face and slump down like that Shinji in a chair meme. If this was some horror story though this would be the perfect timing for a hacker or weird murderer to send a message like “I see you” or something of the sort. Actually, what if some weirdo dark web hacker was onto you and wanted to kill you for whatever reason?

Okay, that’s it. This was sleep deprivation talking. You need sleep. Like right now. There’s no hacker that wanted to murder you, it’s probably the lack of sleep frying your brain cells. You were a normal college student, trying to survive in this cutthroat dog-eats-dog world. Even if something does happen, it won't happen to you. Well, your computer dying aside…. NPCs such as yourself don’t get “fun privileges”.

That’s what you thought about 5 minutes ago when you didn’t have a razor-sharp blade pointed at your eye and you laid in your bed wondering what wrongs you committed in your past life that was happening to you. Did you steal a priest's robe? Did you offend some god by swearing at them? Fuck you past life self.

The person holding the sword was still hunched over you and didn’t move their sword. Not even a single centimetre. One wrong movement and you could lose your lovely sight once and for all!

“What is this place and who are you?” asked the person. Judging by their deep voice they were probably a man. They sounded really familiar. You squinted your eyes at the person. Hmmm, bluish-black hair, red highlights… He had some… Real nice assets... Meaning nicely shaped tits…. Hmmm.

“W-what are you doing!” the person raised their voice in surprise and took a step back.

Oh, they must have noticed you ogling. Was it that obvious? You keep staring at their assets because who knows when you’ll have the chance next time? And then your attention finally falls on his sword, it was a deep black that slowly turned into red towards the end and the shaft of the sword had golden crack patterns, you assumed it’s kintsugi.

Wait hold up, that sword looked too familiar. You have seen that many times.

“Holy shit! Are you Blade? Like the Stellaron Hunter Blade?” you exclaimed at the person.

“....Yes. Don’t you dare call the IPC. Or you will face my sword.”

“Well, I’ve been facing your sword for 10 minutes now…. Oh my god, I can’t believe I’m talking to THE Blade. One and only Blade. Like actually from Honkai Star Rail? Who is basically lovers to enemies with Dan Heng? Can I touch you? Actually, I always thought your hair was pretty, can I please braid it?”

Blade was speechless and looked like a fish out of water and slowly sheathed his sword.

“Am I dreaming right now or is this what you call a sleep-deprived hallucination… I can’t tell.”

You were met with silence… He didn’t reply.

“I guess it’s a hallucination. ‘Mkay, goodnight, Mr. Dream-slash-hallucination-Blade.”

Just like that you slumped back into your bed, closed your eyes and snoozed.

.

Blade was left terribly confused.

Well, he was a Stellaron Hunter, you should be scared for your life. He kills people for a living. Most people would just have one glimpse of him and go running down the hill while screaming for their lives. But you didn’t? Even when you knew his identity? And his not-widely-known relationship with Dan Heng?

Clearly, you didn’t see him as a threat. He also noticed the way your eyes lingered around his chest.

Silver Wolf did say that he had “some big tiddies” for a man. Whatever that meant. And he’s currently stuck in this room. He had no idea how he ended up here. Just that he was speaking with Kafka about their latest “script” and the details given by Elio. And poof. Some strange glitch happened, and he ended up here. In this tiny room. A huge mess of a room. It was devastating to look at. The desk was covered with stacks of unorganised documents and some random trashy novels. There were also a few strange items that looked nearly identical to him… he tries to recall Silver Wolf’s terminology sessions… Merch? Clothes were all thrown over the office chair like it was some cover.  And the bookshelf was a wreck. An absolute wreck. He could even see how your closet wasn’t even fully closed! How many things were just packed in there?

Looking at the room triggered his migraine. He needed to do something about the state of this room, as soon as possible. Since he basically had nothing to do, he decided to clean stuff up. He organised your shelf– the books were in the order of the genre as well as the titles. He folded and hung your clothes and lined them up according to colour, as well as length. Cleaned up your desk, put away your documents into your drawer, hung up the merch on your cork display, vacuumed and mopped your floors and everything else that he noticed that was out of place.

By the time he was done it was already morning.

.

The birds were shining– no, hold up, that’s wrong, it was supposed to be the sun was shining. Yeah so, the sun was shining! The birds were singing! But why was your favourite game character in the flesh, right in front of you. Were you still dreaming? That’s impossible. You were definitely 100% awake. So you decided to simply stare at the video game character, who was acting like a total malewife cleaning your room. Your mind quickly flashed a Pikachu surprised face at the scene. You were sure that your face was looking like that too.

After what felt like an eternity of staring, you finally spoke, “So you’re real….?”

“Unfortunately, yes,” Blade replied in a deadpan voice and a straight face.

Ok so he was real. That was established. Here’s the issue though. How were you going to keep a used-to-be-a-bunch-of-pixels-but-isn’t-anymore man in your room and your house? How were you going to explain this strange man being present in your room overnight to your family? Although you loved your suicidal big tiddies, man…. He needed to go. All those isekai stories and novels you read never talked about what to do when a fictional man just poofs into your house that you share with your family. How does one handle the situation? Someone better make a novel on this now… How does anyone even expect to cope with something like this? What to do now?

You muttered under your breath while thinking and paced around the room like a manic and started, “Should I hide you under the bed? No, you’re too huge for that. My closet doesn't have enough space for you either…. Oh, maybe you can hide in the bushes? Like jump out of my window and stay in there… for some time till I call for you.”

Blade motioned to you to shut up. Fair enough. You guess you were being too loud. Suicidal man needed some quiet time, you supposed.

“No need, I can simply do this.” Blade snapped his finger and he disappeared into thin air. There was another snapping sound, and he came back.

“This is a high-tech feature made by the Stellaron hunters that helps us to appear as if we’ve become transparent,” Blade explained.

“Cool. You should have just told me that sooner.”

And that is how your daily life with the suicidal big tiddies man started. Well it started-ish. He needed to go back to his universe but he said that the Stellaron Hunting could wait. Blade decided that he was on a paid vacation. Thankfully he could still converse with his colleagues, and they were figuring out how to get him back, although they assured you and Blade both that it wouldn’t be a difficult task except it might take a few months till Blade could reunite with the Stellaron Hunters. In the meantime, however, you were tasked to take care of Blade by Kafka and Silver Wolf. 

You and Blade had lots of fun, or at least you think he did. Every day was like a sleepover. Having facials and putting on face masks on each other while watching movies. Or playing some multiplayer games. Blade sucked at gaming, so you had to teach him a bit. You also read him trashy romance novels and even some funny fanfics to him. One day you two even went out to go shopping for some clothes because your big tiddies man could not wear the same pair of clothes every day. Plus, he needed some variety and those cowboy jeans needed to go. Immediately. He looked funny with them on, and no one wore bell bottom jeans in this era.

Though Blade was very sad to part from his fanservice clothes, he fell in love with hoodies and sweatpants. He said they were soft and comfortable to wear. He also wore his hair in a high ponytail or a low bun to blend in with others. You suggested him to get his hair trimmed but he didn’t like that suggestion at all. Blade even gave you a nasty glare for that.

Meanwhile, your family thought you were getting too lonely because they kept hearing you talk to yourself or “someone”. They tried to gently poke you about it every now and then since they were concerned for your mental health, but you would always brush them off.

Recently they saw you holding hands with thin air. Your family definitely knew something was going on now. They even considered calling an exorcist because that was so weird. They even heard a man’s voice speak.

That’s a whole different story though. Maybe for another time!

Until then, Fin <3.

a/n: yeah this was very crack and not serious lol.

here's my taglist if you ever wanna get notified about my fic/hc posts!

[karmashameleon]

Incoherents.

Incoherents is a P2U google doc template. The appearance is similar to that of an arcade game, or a VHS tape, or both, or neither. You make it work however you want.

Ever wanted to finally write your game dev original character, or the geek, or the game character itself, or maybe some existing character over there? Well, me too, and now we both ran out of excuses! Seriously, stop making excuses. The design is very human, pretty simple and pretty easy to edit as well. Some things to consider about this template are:

- It’s semi-mobile friendly. You might be asking yourself, why not completely mobile friendly or completely not mobile friendly? Because no one stops me from tagging this one as such. 96,817362% of this doc has been scientifically proven to be able to be edited from the comfort of your phone, whereas the -checks notes- 3.182638% has been done with drawings. That is, the quotes. What could be done about them? You can edit, replace or delete them so they don't stand in your way anymore.

- Feel like moving, editing, duplicating or deleting pages? Hey, once it's yours I have been informed that I’m not legally allowed to stop you from doing so yet. So, you go on and do as you please. Just don't claim it as yours or delete the credits because that’d be so mean.

★ What does it contain? 6 pages, that's right. Not 5, not 7; 6 pages:

1. The introduction. You can only put a quote and the name of the character here. Unless you want to add something else, you do you.

2. Profile, or personality. Here you write the basic details about your character plus the personality. Besides, you can add a pretty picture.

3. Profile 2 or appearance. Feel free to add five more pictures and a description of the appearance. Besides, there's a space for abilities, and some free space to add more abilities, spells, species's details, things the character carries around, etc.

4. Backstory. You will never guess what you can write here.

5. Backstory 2. My wild guess is that you can continue writing whatever you were writing before. Delete or multiply as needed.

6. Extra. Here you’ll find a space for five connections and six free spaces for whatever you may be needing. You add more spaces for connections if you need, or merge the cells and make a space to write things such as an introductory scene. Whatever you want.

Wonder where the name and quotes are from? No? Well, I’ll tell you anyway: “Incoherents” by Közi.

The pixel art is of my doing. I tricked myself out of a hiatus from drawing for that, you see, the brain works in mysterious ways.

Have fun!

[anhed-nia]

BLOGTOBER 10/23/2024: POSSESSOR

It has come to my attention that I would like to do a very big project on Brandon Cronenberg. I need him to get his new projects out so I can have some more data points. In no time at all he has developed a really distinctive voice, as they say, and it's not just the body horror thing; he is asking these really probing questions about identity in a way that I think is unique and requires study. More input please.

Recently I got myself locked in this intense study of his debut feature ANTIVIRAL, which may not seem immediately similar to POSSESSOR and INFINITY POOL, but I think it starts a compelling conversation about make makes you "you". Like, to what degree is your body "you"? What percentage of your body can be considered "you", or are "you" only whatever is attached to your living brain? Which then activates questions about brain health, and deceased remains. The answer to what constitutes "you" may differ depending on who is being asked, too; what is their legal relation to you, or their sentimental relationship--or what is their attitude toward bodies and biomatter in general.

As I got deeper into this project, I contracted covid at the film festival I'd been working. I began to have an experience that was somewhat similar to what Brandon Cronenberg said inspired ANTIVIRAL: He was extremely sick with a virus, and he couldn't stop imagining how particles from someone else's body had penetrated his body, and he was being co-mingled with someone else. I started to connect with that, that I had just been at this conclave of the cultists of cinema and at the same time that our brains were syncing up, these particles were threading through our bodies, connecting us. This thought kept running in the background while I was watching ANTIVIRAL end to end to end, and being part of its deluge of blood and mucus and philosophizing about viruses and whether they represent an intimate interpersonal communion, whether your cells are imprinted with the existential, quasi-spiritual thing of your personal identity. And as my husband and I were housebound and chewing our way through all the groceries we had, we discovered that our entire dozen eggs had two yolks each. And it was like something that was coming out of my television in 3D, the proliferating cells of ANTIVIRAL, the clones of INFINITY POOL, the bifurcated people of POSSESSOR who have a body and a soul that are not necessarily monogamous with one another, people who experience bilocation. I got Brandon Cronenbergitis.

POSSESSOR is really a masterpiece, theories and philosophies aside. Gorgeous and engrossing, violent in a way that exposes the essential repulsiveness of violence, and with an inventiveness that returns to us the largely-lost experience of wondering, "How the fuck did they do that?" Living art object Andrea Riseborough plays Vos, an assassin whose modus operandus is to take over the body of someone close to her mark and use them to commit murder-suicide, thus hiding the real commissioner of the crime. Though Vos's usual approach is to make it appear that the possessed individual is having a psychotic break, she is approaching her own mental collapse, as evidenced by the increasing sadism of the executions. Her latest assignment is Colin Tate (Christopher Abbott), future son-in-law of sociopathic CEO John Parse. Once inside and acting out the perfunctory nervous breakdown, Vos begins to lose control, and she is soon locked in a battle of wills with the understandably freaked out Colin.

Colin is an alternative version of INFINITY POOL'S protagonist James (Alexander Skarsgard), a failed novelist acquired by a rich heiress as a means of annoying her monstrous father. Both men are perfect submissives in some sense: They are owned by someone else, and their very identities are ultimately determined by someone else. James, who has a surplus of traditional male ego problems, is easily manipulated by a clique of rich psychopaths who make a game of destroying his sense of self--a process that is escalated by the existence of clones, vat-grown scapegoats for the crimes of the wealthy. The presentation of multiple, disposable Jameses, whose explicit purpose is to be degraded and annihilated, does something extra to the original James's sense of integrity, his brand as it were. When POSSESSOR'S Vos joins Colin in his body, it exacerbates the instability that already characterizes Colin's life; he is a sexual plaything for his fiancee's friends, he is a wage slave at her father's Amazon-like corporation, not even warranting a nepotistic promotion, and when he isn't working he's tuning out on hard drugs. His own poorly-established sense of integrity creates a sort of trap for Vos, who has been losing touch with her own personality as she sinks deeper into the bloody mire of her job.

Cronenberg said POSSESSOR came to him when he was promoting ANTIVIRAL, having to put on a kind of press persona to sell and explain his debut film to the public; he would wake up in the night feeling like he was living someone else's life, like he had lost contact with his core identity. It makes sense that he was beginning to develop INFINITY POOL around the same time, but I would argue that the much-earlier ANTIVIRAL deals with some of the same themes. Syd March (Caleb Landry) doesn't occupy the same rich failson archetype, but he lives in a world where the location of identity is up for debate; it isn't limited to the brain, or the face or whole body, but it has spread out to include the microbial components of disease, which are the new celebrity memorabilia. The belief that the persona is in these cells, and that taking the cells into oneself constitutes a form of intimacy or even unity, suggests the same attitude toward the mutability of the self. Around the time of INFINITY POOL, Cronenberg made a statement that contains a hint of dialog from ANTIVIRAL, and that I think unlocks all three movies:

“The brain creates a feeling of self. It's almost a controlled hallucination. We are each this chorus of ideas and influences. I think much of that comes externally, through ideas we’re infected with through our context, and much of it comes internally through our own biology. … It’s a process of the brain to essentially claim certain aspects of your experience. … But once you start to pick apart what it is to have a self, it’s this entirely neurological sensation rather than something that exists in a tangible, concrete way.”

It seems that Cronenberg will be working on the identity question for a long time. And as long as he is, so will I.

[s10127470]

My X-Men Hot Takes

As I'm sure many of you who have been following me have seen, I'm a pretty big fan of The X-Men.

However, I do have some reservations with them.

And with their ongoing resurgence in mainstream popularity, I've decided to share my hot takes/unpopular opinions I have on the team.

Admittedly, I have some takes that are pretty commonly agreed by a majority of X-Men fans.

But still, I have a lot that would probably piss a lot of them off.

So without further ado, let's get started.

-Mutants have become less interesting/The X-Men have WAY too many characters.

This is basically a two-in-one, but I decided to do them together since they essentially connect with each other.

Mutants have just become a lot less interesting due to the writers keeping them largely huddled together in recent years.

What made mutants so cool was that they were widespread and that not all of them were connected to the X-Men.

Which just made the world feel a lot bigger and fleshed-out.

But over the last few decades, Marvel has developed this mindset that EVERY mutant needs to be connected to the X-Men.

Hell, it was the reason for arguably the worse thing to happen to the team.

This unfortunately has led to the issue of the X-Men just having.....way too many characters.

Like, remember when there were spin-off teams?

X-Factor? The New Mutants? X-Force? Excalibur?

Even though those teams are still around, they have the issue of being too connected to the X-Men now.

And this need to have all mutants to be connected to The X-Men, has lead to another major issue with mutants....

-Retconning mutant heritages.

Over the last decade, Marvel has infamously went out of their way to retcon the mutant heritage of several mutant characters who weren't all that connected to the X-Men.

The most infamous examples being in the case of The Maximoff Twins and Franklin Richards, the latter of which was the most notable example of a mutant that's not connected to the X-Men.

Once again, this makes the world feel somewhat smaller and makes the mutants a lot less interesting.

-For the Love of GOD! Stop with the romance/relationship drama!

Romance/relationship drama is one of the hardest parts of writing.

Largely because it's rarely ever done particularly well and often become incredibly annoying and usually makes the people involved look pretty bad.

Usually since it relies on stuff like cheating, infidelity, unfaithfulness, etc.

Which anyone with more than two brain cells would know isn't a good thing...

It's even worse when they try to make these actions actually come off as good and acceptable.

Which like....

But anyway, since the X-Men are essentially glorified soap operas, you better believe they have romance drama!

It's one of the best/worst examples of this I've seen in media.

They have it all!

Cheating. Unfaithfulness. Infidelity.

And since we're talking about the X-Men, we can't forget about their staple....

Love. Triangles.

Seriously, nobody in the X-Men are all that faithful to each other....

Except for Gambit weirdly enough.

But anyway, please just keep these guys in actual fucking stable relationships.

I cannot take ANOTHER FUCKING love triangle....

-The treatment of Magneto.

I like Magneto, but even I have to admit I cannot stand how he's been treated in recent years.

Over the last few decades, there's been a lot of favoritism towards him.

And I'm not gonna sugarcoat it, it's borderline dick-riding.

Like, if we're had to make a list of the most dick-roded characters in the fiction.

Magneto would be at least in the top 5 alongside Bakugo, Severus Snape and even The Joker.

A lot of this comes from people believing that his mindset and actions were actually justified.

Leading to the infamous phrase that was founded by incel Quinten Quire....

*sigh*

"Magneto was right."

As you could tell, I'm hate this phrase.

For two reasons.

It's been ran into the goddamn ground. Like, I've frequently check out the X-Men subreddit, and I swear, I still seen people saying that Magento was right. Even on Twitter, I see this! Which, after seeing it and hearing it so much and so often, you can't help but just go....

2. It's led to this habit of writers constantly painting Magneto as this savior who's always in the right and that his mindset and methods are truly the way to go for the sake of mutantkind. This also led to the effect of trying to make him seem like he was always secretly a good guy. Even retconning events from the earliest X-Men stories such as him stealing missiles from the base and saying that he was actually doing this so that the X-Men actually had an enemy to fight. Like, prior to all this, Magento was depicted as being a villain. Even when the legendary Chris Claremont took over and gave him more depth and made him a sympathetic villain, he was still depicted as being kind of a terrible person who has done legitimately terrible things. What really made Magneto such as great villain was that he was a tragic one as well. Not just because of his backstory, but because of the fact that he became the very thing he hated: a bigot who wants to subjugate an entire group of people, no matter what. But in a way, I know this is gonna sound insane, Magneto is even worse than the Nazis! They were trying to subjugate a group of people, he's trying to subjugate an entire species! They needed an army and forces to do all that, he doesn't. Magneto is literally a one-man army. Now don't get me wrong, they're both REALLY bad. But remember, Magneto is literally threatening like, half the life on the planet. And although him finally becoming a good guy was the way to go, I'm still not a fan of it. Largely because he never really gets a redemption arc. We never see him actually show any regrets towards his past actions, or realize that he was wrong. Because they did, then he wouldn't be right. And GOD FORBID Magneto could be wrong about anything. I'm sorry man, but you're never gonna be him....

-The mutant metaphor has become a bit of a problem.

Now this gonna be a real controversial one.

The mutant metaphor, while obviously well intentioned, is not exactly good....

99% of X-Men fans reading this:

When you really think about it, it doesn't really make much sense.

For starters, there's the obvious aspect about how most super-powered beings in the Marvel Universe tend to get a pass, but there's just no exceptions with the mutants.

Despite the fact that to the eyes of the average civilian, most of them could qualified as a mutant.

There's also the fact that having the mutants being a stand-in for minorities is kinda awkward given that most of the core members (not all of them mind you) are primarily white....and American.

I do think them being a stand-in for social outcasts does work, but even that's kind of an issue given that many of the core X-Men are incredibly and conveniently attractive.

Like, don't you dare even try to deny it!

I've seen you people simp for these guys!

So have I!

But the reason I say the mutant metaphor is problem is because there seems to be this mindset that this is all the X-Men are good for.

Just being an allegory, and nothing else.

And in all honesty, that's just incredibly restrictive from a writing standpoint.

Heck, if any of you've read my X-Men fanfic series, "X-Men: The Mutation", you'd probably noticed that the mutant metaphor, while there, isn't as present as most other adaptations, or even fanfics of the X-Men.

And that was because I wanted to focus on other aspects of the team and didn't want them to just be a walking allegory.

-The Fox X-Men films are not that good.

While the reception of these films seem to be mixed nowadays, I've never really cared for these films.

Since I'm among the group of people who actually look at adaptations as, well, adaptations, as such, the X-Men films are quite pitiful.

The films never captured the appeal of The X-Men.

That being The X-Men themselves!

Like, The X-Men are literally an afterthought in their own film franchise.

Largely thanks to Fox constantly focusing on one member solely and hardly anyone else.

First it was with Wolverine, and then it was with Mystique.

There's also the fact that they hardly pulled from source material, largely because they were embarrassed by it.

Like, they were not being subtle about that at all.

Do I need to even play that line again?

The only films in that franchise I would consider good would be the Deadpool films.

Because....

They were actually good

They wore the comics on their shelves rather than being embarrassed by it

They were the most disconnected from the X-Men films

Speaking of which, this franchise is infamous for its absolute clustefuck of a continuity.

You know things are not that good when they can't even keep a consistent timeline.

-The characterization of Cyclops.

Just like with Magneto, I really like Cyclops, but I'm not a fan of how he's been written for nearly 20 years.

Yeah, I'm not exactly big on Revolutionary Cyclops.

Apart from the fact that he emerged during the X-Men's roughest era, there's also the fact it's had quite the effect on any discourses surrounding the character.

Fans seem to believe that Cyclops can only be portrayed as a revolutionary in all forms of media.

Literally nothing else.

Hell, it's so bad that people are already begging for '97 Cyclops to become a revolutionary!

Look, I get that Cyclops wasn't too many people's favorite, specifically during the early years.

And the Claremont era didn't exactly do him too many favors since he would be slowly phased out along with the rest of the original X-Men.

But I feel like he really came into his own during the 90s.

Plus, '97 and Evolution Cyclops showed that Cyclops doesn't have to be a revolutionary in order to be a. engaging and interesting character.

There's also a few more issues that's arose from his characterization.

The last near 20 years have really highlighted Cyclops' skills, to show why he's the leader of The X-Men.

I get that you want to show that he is a competent fighter and leader.

However, it's gotten to the point where fans seem to believe that Cyclops can beat anyone in general, no matter how crazy powerful they are, with his ridiculous amount of plans and back-up plans.

Starting to sound familiar?

There's also that fact that fans and even the majority of X-Men writers seem to believe that Cyclops always has to suffer just to be interesting.

Essentially, he suffers the same exact problem as another major Marvel character.

And just like what people have said about him, Cyclops constantly suffering has gotten incredibly repetitive and stale.

You can only do it so much before it starts to become boring and tiring.

And lastly, him being the leader of all mutantkind and the one to unite them all....

I don't like this.

He should be ONE of the leaders, but not THE leader.

Is there literally no one else that could co-lead?

Also, with him being the leader and unifier of mutantkind.....

I wouldn't say it's white saviorism or a Messiah thing, but it does feel somewhat adjacent to that.

I kinda feel like all this was done as a form of compensation for how much of a punk the character has been portrayed as in just about every major X-Men adaptation of the last near quarter century.

Bar a few exceptions....

-COLOSSUS IS NOT A PEDOPHILE!

So over the last few months, some fans have discovered about the infamous age gap between Colossus and Shadowcat during their early years with the X-Men.

Colossus was like 19 at the time, while Kitty was 13 to 14.

Which, for anyone that isn't asking to be on a list, isn't good.

However, people have taken to claim that Colossus is actually a pedophile.

But here's the thing people seem to forget.

He was written by John Bryne.....

For anyone who doesn't know, Bryne is infamous among comics for his habit of pairing underage girls with grown men.

He did this with Mr. Fantastic and The Invisible Woman, revealing the latter met the former when she was 12 years old and he was in college.

He had Superman kiss a 14-year old on the lips.

And perhaps most infamously of all, having Peter Parker lock lips with Mattie Franklin, a 15-year old.

While he himself was not only in his mid-20 around this time, but also still a MARRIED MAN.

(Fun Fact: This was one of the earliest attempts of Marvel trying to get rid of Mary Jane for.....obvious reasons)

(Also, I hate this panel with every fiber of my being. And I typically I don't like to wish death upon people, but I'm making an exception. Bryne needs to get drug out into the street and shot, because I'm starting to think he may possibly be the EDP445 of comic writers. Like, you can not write this shit and not expect people to notice a pattern and raise a few eyebrows)

But besides that, it seems that since the 2000s, they've quietly retconned all this (for obvious reasons) to have Colossus and Shadowcat be much closer in age.

The Summers Family Tree has become a problem.

Just about everyone knows that the Summers family tree is an absolute mess.

Like, there's only so many alternate reality children, alternate future children, and clones that you have before it seems to become old and tiresome.

There's also Mister Sinister's famous obsession with them.

Like dude, I understand that they're powerful.

But like, are just not any other powerful mutants you could be obsessed with.

What about Storm?

Iceman?

Hell, what about Magneto and his kids?

The treatment of Xavier.

This is basically the opposite of how Magneto's been treated.

Whereas Magneto's been depicted as a secret hero, Xavier's been depicted as a secret villain.

I get that Xavier is not perfect, but the dude has been so villainized over the last 20+ years and revealed to have done a lot bad things, he might as well be called Satan.

And frankly, it's become tired.

Like, how many times have they done the "Xavier has done something terrible" shtick now?

The most recent was in The Fall of X.

At this rate, why is he even still here?

Since he's apparently never done anything good for anyone, he should just leave already!

There's also the fact that apparently his dream was always bad and never what mutantkind needed.

And to that I must say.....

While he may have not approached it in the best way, his goal was far more noble and frankly, what mutants really needed.

Showing that humans and mutants can peacefully co-exist with each other.

Maybe not all of them, but still, being able to show that it is possible.

And in general, this would be a future where everyone wins.

Whereas Magneto's, wouldn't.

This would be the most obvious in the case of the humans.

But even for the mutants, there would be a bit of an asterisk for them.

Magneto has proven he's not as accepting towards all mutants as he lets on.

Like remember Toad?

He fucking hated him and treated him like shit!

The X-Men and their relationship with the much greater Marvel Universe needs to change.

To wrap this all up, we'll be talking about a big one.

Ever since the 2010s, the X-Men comics have become infamous how they characterize other major heroes of the Marvel Universe.

That being.....not in a flattering light.

Most of these guys are portrayed incredibly poorly, not acting like themselves at all.

The only exception to this is Spider-Man.

But then again, he gets written with more respect in every other title than his own.

This is obviously done in order to make the X-Men look good.

Plus it's pretty apparent there's a great bias towards them.

But however, I think this has the opposite effect.

All it does it make the X-Men look like egotistical, self-serving assholes who would gladly screw people over (no matter how disastrous) if it meant they got to survive/thrive.

"Yeah! I love seeing my favorite heroes being portrayed as selfish cowards!"

There's also this....

These panels are from the X-Men relaunch, and they've been quite infamous for....obvious reasons.

And apart from that, it just makes the X-Men also look like self-victimizing douches.

Basically saying that they're the only ones suffering, and that nobody else in the entire damn world knows what it means to struggle.

And as you can tell, they'll usually say it to people of color.

You remember that panel from Ultimate Spider-Man when Spidey cursed out the X-Men and called them out on their bullshit?

Yeah, can we get that for these versions?

They really deserve it.

Also, I recently saw a comment that said that X-Men comics are the only place where white writers can fulfill their fantasies of yelling at people of color and then cry about how THEY'RE oppressed.

And after seeing these panels, I wholeheartedly agree.

Well that's all I have for now.

These were some grievances I've been having with the X-Men for a while now, and I wanted to finally get them out.

I really hope that anyone who reads is able to respond to this in a civil manner and possibly not call me a racial slur.

But I guess we'll have to wait and find out.

I have a few more of these, but these were the ones I could only do for now.

And I'm planning do something similar to this for undoubtedly the biggest Marvel character of them all.

But until then, I'll see you guys around.

[fortheloveofwonderland]

Pick up the phone, I know I’m drunk again. And you know my intentions ‘cause it’s 2am - Ancient History by Set It Off

Hello, could you make one of Spencer x reader, please?

Hello love, hope you like it!

Ancient History

Spencer Reid x Fem! Reader

Summary - After you and Spencer break up, you just can’t seem to stay away from each other. But casual sex with the person you love will only do more harm than good, so you have to decide if you have a future together or if your relationship is fated to be ancient history.

CW - mentions of 15x6 Date Night, breakups, mentions of casual sex but no my graphic, drinking, angst, make ups.

WC - 2.6k

Spencer Reid had never been good at separating the intimate from his emotions. 

Maybe it was due to him being well into his twenties the first time he slept with a woman. Or perhaps it was just the fact that his heart was too big for his own good. 

Whatever the reason, he’d never been one for casual sex. He didn’t do hook ups or one night stands. He needed to have some kind of emotional connection with a woman before he could fall into bed with them. 

And it wasn’t exactly as though that had changed, things were just…complicated. 

It had taken months of dating before you and Spencer took your relationship to that level, but once you did it was difficult to keep your hands off of each other. 

Spencer had felt connected to you in ways he’d never felt with anyone else before you’d even slept together for the first time. And after, the link had grown so intrinsic it was likely to never break. 

He felt as though he was just as in tune with you as he was himself, like your souls were entwined on some kind of cosmic level even his impressive brain couldn’t fathom. 

But after you’d had to witness him standing in his doorway kissing a hit woman who had kidnapped his mother and had him locked up, your three year relationship came to an abrupt end. 

He’d tried to reason with you, to explain he’d been doing it to save a family and no other reason. But you’d seen the way he’d kissed her, the way he gripped her so tightly as though he was afraid she may crumble to dust. The way he looked completely dumbfounded afterwards, like Cat’s kiss had erased every single one of his brain cells. 

There was no denying that kind of chemistry, try as he might. You’d tried to let it go but every time you closed your eyes you saw him and Cat together. And so for your own sanity you had to walk away. 

But you never could shake the memories that rain inside. And neither could Spencer.

He missed everything about you but it quickly became clear to him that he desperately yearned for you and your body. 

Spencer had never had a sexual relationship last so long, or in fact any relationship, but he felt as though he was dying without your touch. 

Once the storm had settled the two of you met up for coffee and somehow you’d ended your meeting with a mutual understanding. 

You didn’t trust Spencer the way you used to but you both agreed you missed the intimacy. And so the two of you made an arrangement that meant you still got to keep the physical aspect of your relationship without the strings and commitment. 

And maybe if Spencer wasn’t so in love with you he wouldn’t have agreed to it. But if he could only have one part of you then so be it. It would have to be enough. 

He pretended it was right but deep down he knew how wrong it was. But every time you called he answered. And when he called, you did the same in return. 

Spencer tried to stem his loneliness with alcohol, hoping maybe it would take away some of the desperation he felt just to be near you. But more often than not it didn’t work and he would find himself pacing the street with his phone to his ear. 

Pick up the phone, I know I’m drunk again, but please pick up the phone. 

And of course you always did, and you always knew his tensions at two am. 

Maybe you were under thinking part-time thrills, not focusing on the bigger picture because you would both get swept up in the pleasure. 

It was hard to think logically when Spencer had you pinned to the bed under the weight of his body, yet making you feel lighter than air with his touch. 

He knew how to drive you wild and you knew how to make him smile. Your bodies moved together in such an impossibly perfect rhythm, like a choreographed dance, the moves for which were embedded deep inside your souls. 

It was too hard to quit something that just felt this right. Even if Spencer did inadvertently leave a small fragment of his heart behind in your bed each time. 

A storm was surely advancing, but Spencer ignored it. Instead he would get drunk and call you at two am and end up between your sheets. 

Every time it became more difficult to drag himself away from you. When the haze of pleasure wore off and he had to prize himself out of your bed it often felt like those sheets were holding him captive. 

But he would get dressed and take his leave as you whispered from the bed, see you next time. 

It was all fun and games until inevitably you would both get hurt. You played with fire because you loved the way it burned. But there was no use patching up a sinking ship, sometimes you just had to know when to admit defeat. 

And so Spencer stopped drinking, stopped allowing his lowered inhibitions from picking at the phone again. But then you showed up at his apartment in the middle of the night and his resolve melted. 

It chipped pieces of him away each time one of you had to leave after spending the night together. He started to feel used, like all he was good for was sex and it caused indentations on his heart from where it continuously took beatings. 

Deep down he’d hoped if he kept this up then things would go back to how they used to be, that you’d forgive him, learn to trust him again. 

Perhaps that made him naive, idealistic to believe just because he couldn’t separate the intimate from the emotional that you couldn’t either. 

After a while it all just felt like a vicious, self-destructive cycle and he had to break it. As much as he loved you, as much as he’d thought getting to be with you in any capacity was worth it, it hurt too much. It would end up taking too much from him and he’d never recover.

He would never be able to begin to heal while the two of you were still playing this game. Spencer needed you to be his ancient history. 

But once again you showered up on his doorstep in the middle of the night and he let you in. He didn’t argue when you started to kiss him or when you began removing his clothes. 

He put up no fight when you led him to his bedroom and you both climbed on the bed. He was completely complicit in the activities that followed. 

But once it was over and you almost immediately freed yourself from between his sheets and started dressing, Spencer’s heart took the final blow it could handle. 

He sat up in bed, pulling the sheets over himself to shield his naked body and watched as you got back in your clothes. And the words seemed to come tumbling out of his mouth before he’d realised he was going to vocalise them. 

“This is the last time we do this. This has to be the last time.” He hated the pain in his voice, the way he sounded like a small, frightened child. 

You pulled your t-shirt over your head and slowly turned to face him. 

“What? Why?” You frowned at him. “Why would you say that?” 

Did you really not know? Surely you knew him well enough to see the hurt in his eyes every time you walked away from him. It didn’t take a profiler to see how much agony this caused him. 

“This is breaking me, Y/N.” He shook his head. “Every time we do this it hurts me more than the last. I can’t keep watching you leave when all I want is for you to stay.” 

“Spencer,” you sighed almost as though you were frustrated. “It’s just sex.”

“It can never be just sex with the woman I love, the woman I thought I would spend the rest of my life with.” He swung his legs out of the bed and hurriedly pulled his boxers on before standing up. 

“Spence, come on. It doesn’t need to be complicated.” You rolled your eyes. 

“You know who I really am and it’s not this.” He folded his arms over his bare chest. “I know I hurt you and I’m sorry for that. And maybe there is some sick part of me that enjoyed that kiss with Cat. Maybe there always has been some twisted part of my brain that’s never been able to let her go. She's come so close to outsmarting me time and time again and perhaps I like that in a weird way. But you also know that I love you with every beat of my heart. And you seem to know how to break it so well.” 

“I don’t think I’m ever going to be able to look at you the same.” You confessed. “The second the endorphins wear off and I’m just laying here next to you, it all comes flooding back to me. All I can see when I look at you is that damn kiss.” 

“I think what we’re doing…it’s more damaging than anything. It fools me into believing that we can have more again. And if all we’re ever going to have is sex then I have to end it. It’s not enough for me Y/N. It would hurt less to have nothing from you than only have one small part of you.” His arms fell back to his sides and he turned away from you, feeling the tears burning his eyes. 

For a moment or two the room descended into an all consuming silence. Spencer fought against his tears, not wanting you to see how much pain this was causing him. He didn’t feel like he deserved to be hurt, not after what he’d done to you. 

You knew as well as he did that this was a foolish idea. Truthfully it hurt you just as much every time you had to leave him. Getting to be close to him filled your heart with joy but as soon it was over the pain set in again. 

You wished you could find a way to forgive him for making out with Cat, wished you could foresee a day when you wouldn’t still feel so betrayed by it. 

Logically you knew he’d only done what he did to save a family but you also knew on some level he’d enjoyed the excuse to kiss her. 

And maybe if it had been anyone other than the woman responsible for putting him in prison and kidnapping his mother it could have been easier to reconcile. But the hardest part of it all for you to wrap your head around was how he could do such a thing with a woman who had effectively ruined his life over and over again. 

It said more about his morals than anything. He said he’d done it because he thought it was the only way to get what he needed out of her but you both knew there were other ways. And you were sure you’d never be able to forgive him for it. 

After a while you exhaled heavily, knowing he was right as much as you didn’t want to admit it. In the long run this was only going to hurt more than just letting each other go. 

“I guess I should go then.” Your voice wobbled a little as you spoke. 

“I think it’s for the best.” He agreed without turning to look at you. 

You collected the rest of your things in silence and he didn’t once glance at you as you did so. Even when you left the room and headed to the front door, Spencer forced himself not to look, not to speak. He was this close to begging you to stay. 

But he said nothing. 

And maybe you were destined to be his ancient history. 

Except the thing about history was that it had a habit of repeating itself. 

Several months of radio silence on both your parts followed that night until you’d bumped into each other at a local bookstore. 

The hurt was still there but it had lessened and actually you found seeing one another again was a breath of fresh air. 

You agreed to meet again for coffee the following week. 

Over subsequent meetings a beautiful friendship blossomed between you. You were able to hang out without falling into bed with one another and although there was still some residual pain, being friends worked out nicely for you both. 

But then one day you woke up and all the trust you’d lost in Spencer seemed to have returned; all the feelings you’d had about that kiss with Cat seemingly vanished. 

Maybe all you’d needed was time to process it and move past it. And the more you thought about it the more trivial it all seemed. 

You loved Spencer, even now you loved him just as much if not more than you had. Letting one stupid mistake get in the way of what could be the best thing that ever happened to you now felt so idiotic. 

It had really been second nature when after having lunch together and you walked outside to say your goodbyes, you’d leaned in and kissed him. 

When you pulled back Spencer averted his gaze, shoving his hands in his pockets and taking a step backwards. 

“Y/N…” he whispered your name under his breath. “Don’t…please don’t.” 

“I don’t even know what came over me.” You suddenly felt awash with discomfort. “I’m so sorry.” 

“I love being your friend.” He looked back at you, chewing on his lip. “But it’s still hard sometimes. We can’t fall back into that old pattern, it’s too painful.” 

“I…I…” you stumbled over your words. “Spence?” 

“Yeah?” He swallowed.

“I don’t wanna be your friend.” You shrugged. “And I don’t wanna just sleep with you. I want it all, Spence. I want what we had.” 

His eyes conveyed his sadness and he inhaled sharply through his nose. 

“So do I.” He nodded. “But I hurt you and you can’t forgive me for that, I get it.”

“See that’s the thing,” you stepped closer to him. “I think I have forgiven you.”

His face contorted into confusion as he scrutinised you curiously. He ruminated on your words, you could all but see the cogs turning in his head. 

He didn’t seem to believe you and you didn’t blame him for that. You stepped even closer and removed his hands from his pockets, holding them in your own. 

“Y/N,” his voice and his hands both trembled. “Please don’t say that unless you mean it. I can’t go through the pain of losing you again.” 

“I do mean it, Spencer. I’m not mad anymore, and I know I can trust you with my life.” You gave his hands a soft squeeze. 

“I…I’m so sorry for the thing with Cat. You have no idea how sorry I am.”

“I’ve got a pretty good idea.” You offered him a smile. “I love you, Spence. Some dumb kiss is not a good enough reason for us not to be together.” 

“I love you too. S-so much.” He stuttered, tears misting his vision. 

“Good.” You laughed lightly, leaning in and capturing his lips once again. 

He removed his hands from yours so he could wrap his arms around you, holding you close to him where you belonged. 

He knew he’d never do anything to risk losing you again. You were his present and you were his future; not his ancient history. 

[ruinofchimera]

People forget or are too young to remember that when Order of the Phoenix first came out, everyone thought Lily was exceptional because she was coming to the defence of some random slimy unpopular kid she didn’t know just because it was the right thing to do. Nobody theorized for a second back in 2003 that they were friends, let alone best friends, because they DIDN’T ACT LIKE IT. She pays no attention to him in that scene because she’s so dialled in to James even at his worst. People theorized that Snape had a distant crush. Obviously JKR wrote it that way in Book 5 to conceal the Snily connection because it needed to be a big mystery reveal in book 7, but that means she needed to make Lily’s behavior - the flicker of amusement and the bantering with James while her friend is assaulted - in the Book 5 scene work retrospectively from a characterization standpoint in The Prince’s Tale. And she makes it work by painting a picture of a shaky friendship that had turned toxic long before the Mudblood incident, and not just because of his Slytherin associations and the threat of the war. He doesn’t understand why she cares about her sister, she puts all the blame on him for them stealing Petunia’s letter. He minimizes the harm Mulciber does, she tells him that he’s supposed to show gratitude to his abuser for drawing the line at murder. We’re not meant to read it as this loving, warm, equal relationship that Snape fucked up in this one moment.

I won’t even bother to hide that your writing hooked me right away. I fervently crave insights from the time when the books were just coming out and people didn’t yet see the whole picture. I find red herring to be a rather delicious literary device, so it’s a pity that I can only imagine how the final twists of the series blew the minds of the audience. Unfortunately, I was still a child at the time, so my brain cells could not yet process the subtleties of the material. Therefore, my judgments were formed after multiple re-readings in adulthood, and by that time, I had been shamelessly robbed of the intrigue.

Many fanon trends take on deeper meaning after you lift the veil of how the material was initially perceived (being misled by the narrator until the very end and all). Taking this into account, it becomes clear where the claims of Lily’s heroism may have come from. Someone in a reblog of my previous post mentioned that even Harry, who held a grudge against Snape, didn’t find the display amusing in the slightest. On the contrary, he was terrified. So even if there was no evidence of Lily and Severus’s friendship to speak of at that time, Lily’s glorification is still dubious to me. But for some people that might be enough to plant the roots of her chivalrous nature.

I see it now. You explained incredibly well why people might have overlooked the red flags in Lily as a friend, given that they didn’t perceive her as more than a mere bystander during the incident. Unfortunately, though, I have very little faith that people still base their opinions on what they read many years ago. I mean, I reread the series just last winter, and I had already forgotten a lot of important details (for example, Lily trying to make Severus feel grateful that James had saved him). And some folk intervene in discussions about Harry Potter when the last time they touched the original material was more than a decade ago? Well, if they seriously rely on their—dare I say—ancient reading, it would be so absurd it would almost be funny. Why am I even surprised? Maybe I’m just jealous of their superior memory.

Whatever. Once again, your meta is a revelation to be reckoned with. I hadn't considered it from this angle before, my critical thinking is almost purring with an enjoyment.

[nalyra-dreaming]

Why do you think Claudia never haunts Armand in the books? Is it just because she's a manifestation of Anne's parental guilt and loss & Armand didn't have that relationship with Claudia at all? Do you think if the show does ghost Claudia she'll just stick to messing with Louis and Lestat? Or do you think she'll fuck with other characters connected to Louis, Lestat, like Armand, Sam, Daniel, Lestat's other fledglings?

Oh, good question.

I ... do not know.

I mean... Armand does see ghosts. Spirits. He and a few others can see them, even when they haven't manifested as they have in the last books.

For example:

I fixed my eyes on the tenacious little spirit. "Why do you linger here?" I asked it desperately in a whisper. "Why can I see you?" It moved its little mouth as if it meant to speak, but it only shook its head ever so slightly, piteously eloquent of its confusion. The steps came on. And once again I struggled to catch the scent. But there was nothing, not even the dusty reek of a vampire's robes, only this, the approach of this shuffling sound. And finally there came to the bars the tall shadowy figure of a haggard woman. I knew that she was dead. I knew. I knew she was as dead as the little one who hovered by the wall. "Speak to me, please, oh, please, I beg you, I pray you, speak to me! "I cried out. But neither phantom could look away from the other. The child with a quick soft tread hurried into the woman's arms, and she, turning, with her babe restored, began to fade even as her feet once again made the dry scraping sound on the hard mud floor which had first announced her.

"Look at me!" I begged in a low voice. "Just one glance." She paused. There was almost nothing left of her. But she turned her head and the dim light of her eye fixed on me. Then soundlessly, totally, she vanished. I lay back, and flung out my arm in careless despair and felt the child's corpse, still faintly warm beside me. I did not always see their ghosts. I did not seek to master the means of doing so. They were no friends to me-it was a new curse-these spirits that would now and then collect about the scene of my bloody destruction. I saw no hope in their faces when they did pass through those moments of my wretchedness when the blood was warmest in me. No bright light of hope surrounded them. Was it starvation that had brought about this power? I told no one about them. In that damned cell, that cursed place where my soul was broken week after week without so much as the comfort of an enclosing coffin, I feared them and then grew to hate them. Only the great future would reveal to me that other vampires, in the main, never see them. Was it a mercy? I didn't know. But I get ahead of myself.

I think... Armand killed Claudia because he could not love her.

But in his own mind, in his thinking... he was, at least in the book(!), not trying to be deliberately cruel to her. (Which is not to say that he didn't want to try that experiment, he very much did.)

I mean, he did chop off her head and sewed it onto another's body, and then put her into the sun when it failed.

But, in his way of thinking... he tried to give her what she needed. I think, should the show reveal that Armand did this pre trial as well, tried to give Claudia a new brain (there were hints enough), then this also was in an attempt to solve the dilemma he saw her in.

And... in a (very) strange way? I think Claudia understood that.

I think Claudia knew that the ones responsible for her life - and death - were her parents.

And so she allowed herself to be conjured by/haunted them.

It is never finally said if it was Claudia's spirit btw. In the books I mean. There's always a little element of doubt. I am not sure if the show will follow that, but in any case... I think they'll stay with her mostly haunting Lestat and Louis, and/or being representations of their guilt.

[cosmosnout]

KH OC WEEK 20204

Day 3: connections

This took a bit longer than meant, but with the amount of things I wanted to include, it felt important to take my time.

Shiro’s part focusses a lot more on the relationships between them and the canon characters, while Aiko’s, Merin’s, Viktor's, and Tähti’s parts focus on the relationship they have with each other. (And some additional canon characters.)

Also there’s a lot of text here so sorry about any spelling mistakes haha.

Shiro

Xehanort (young)

Helped Shiro to get out of the realm of darkness and is helping them to recover their memory.

I am a firm believer that despite his cold demeanor, Xehanort has the capability of expressing other emotions outside of being a snarky jerk. He just needs to be around the right kind of people to bring that side of him out, and Eraqus and Shiro are exactly the sorts of people to make his brain cells die. /pos

Xehanort’s interest in becoming Shiro’s friend is due to his dreams as a boy of a mysterious child who he believes to be Shiro. (Some lost childish part of him does genuinely wish to be their friend, but he is also quite interested in Shiro’s connection to the keyblade war.)

They spent a couple years peacefully as friends attempting to recover Shiro’s memories, before Shiro uncovered Xehanort's true plans and the two ended up parting ways to fight on the opposite sides. They’re so divorced LMAO

Shiro feels quite betrayed and thinks their friendship was just a plot to get information out of them, while in reality their friendship was still genuine despite Xehanort's hidden motives.

They have a very bittersweet relationship.

Like when you just have that one person who sees right through you and you could just sit in complete silence for forever and still have a good time.

But oh my god do they also just bring out the worst in each other LMAO.

Xehanort is still a snarky bastard 99% of the time, and Shiro is so ready to throw his snarkiness back at him. It is remarkable if they get through a conversation without one of them trying to piss off the other one.

Anyhow they are so doomed by the narrative.

I’ve had a difficult time defining the relationship between these two, but in recent years since becoming aware of my own feelings as an aroace person, I feel like queerplatonic is a really good way to put it. I think that there can be strong emotions and love held between two people without it necessarily having to be romantic, and that’s just as wonderful as any other relationship.

Aqua

The first person Shiro came across once they emerged in the realm of darkness.

Shiro has a lot of admiration towards her and hopes to meet her again!

Shrio definitely has a little crush on her haha

Roxas and Xion

Shiro’s keyblade apprentices!

adopted little siblings

Shiro fought relentlessly to keep both of them safe but ended up failing as they both returned to Sora.

Losing them was a big wake up call to the organization's true nature and Xehanort's sinister plans.

Namine

Little sister<<3

Shiro took one look at her and was like “yup anything happens to her and I’ll make everyone's life a living nightmare”

Got Namine her crayons and sketchbook

Was very devastated when she had to return to Kairi.

Axel/Lea

Pyromaniac besties

Co-paretning Roxas and Xion (platonic)

They became good friends during their time in the organization, and they made an oath to bring Roxas and Xion back after Axel’s recompletion.

Shiro tutors him and Kairi on keyblade wielding, during their time in The Secret Forest.

Ephemer and Skuld

Childhood Bestfriend

Shiro has foggy dreams and visions of the both of them. (They truly haunt Shiro’s life like it’s a full time job)

Even once called Sora “Ephemer” by mistake. They were both extremely confused.

Shiro is actively trying to find them.

Aiko and Merin

The two start off on a bad foot due to a misunderstanding that led to Aiko and Viktor leaving their homeworld. Aiko thought Merin was the one to invade their world with darkness and ended up chasing after her through a dark corridor. In reality, Merin and Tähti were running away from Ansem (SOD) and happened to pass through their world.

Aiko and Merin ended up becoming separated from Viktor and Tähti and end up begrudgingly teaming up to find their families .

During their time together, they end up eventually becoming friends and even end up getting into a relationship together later on.

Their opposite personalities seemed like an issue when they first met, but they grew to love and learn from those differences and they’ve really helped each other to grow as people.

Viktor and Tähti

Viktor was at first very frustrated to be left to babysit a child, but switched into big brother mode pretty much subconsciously.

They’re a funny little duo since they’re both terrible fighters and are pretty much constantly just running for their lives.

Viktor appreciates Tähti’s quiet personality and knows to be patient with them.

Tähti also didn’t care too much about Viktor at first, but seeing him make an effort to keep them safe reminded them a lot of Merin.

Other friends!

Tähti, Namine and Xion!

Tähti met Namine during one of her visits to Ansem’s lab, and after some encouragement from the others, Tähti manages to strike up a conversation with her.

The two have a shared interest in art and like sharing their work with each other!

Tähti also got introduced to Xion through Namine, and despite Tähti’s antisocial nature, the two ended up quickly becoming good friends. (Nothing is as strong as the bond between two neurodivergent teenagers)

I like to think Kairi hangs out with them occasionally, but also she’s kinda busy trying to find Sora :’)

Viktor and Ienzo

Met post kh3 and became quick friends over their similar personalities and shared interest in tech.

Everyone around them was very excited that they were finally making friends. (Ansem and Aiko wiping a tear out of the corner of their eye)

Merin and Vanitas

Weird little brother creature thingy kinda

They met briefly while Merin and Aiko visited the realm of darkness.

They had a short confrontation where they fought with Merin winning.

Didn’t have the chance to talk much outside of that, but I think they have a secret mutual respect for each other due to being similar beings.

Merin and Isa

Got introduced post kh3 and ended up befriending each other as Viktor was spending more time with the apprentices.

They match each other’s tired energy

They like to just kinda sit back and watch as their friends mingle.

@khoc-week