#that doesn’t make sense either. I do not understand

[stevie-petey]

i lied

The air is sweet between you, tender, though there’s a homesickness to it that neither of you can shake.  “Do you think we were doomed from the start?” You ask Peter as you continue to look up at the stars. You can’t take your eyes off of them. They’ve finally decided to spare you their beauty, their final dance just for you and Peter.  You feel him shrug. You’re both drunk and open and vulnerable. 

Summary: you and peter were drunk when you first fell in love at the edge of a rooftop. it was always going to end this way.

Rating: mature, slight cursing, suggestive themes but no real smut

Warnings: fem!reader, use of y/n, underaged drinking, mentions of burns and scars, reader has boobs

Words: 14k

Before you swing in: who wouldve thought that itd take me over a year to write my first peter fic ?? me ! anyways, here she is and she was inspired by an absolutely evil playlist that my beloved val (@southelroy) made for me specifically to write to. the songs are very sad so pls blame her ! please enjoy, this one is long n bittersweet <3

-

Sticky July air clings to Peter’s skin. The dampness of it leaves everyone else’s skin slick with sweat as their bodies knock against his. Music reverberates the apartment walls and Peter’s senses are going haywire.

He never attends parties for this very reason. They’re an overstimulating nightmare full of people who make him want to scream. 

Peter’s skin vibrates uncomfortably as he’s surrounded by a haze of drunken teenagers and sloppy movements. His eardrums sting when a girl next to him screeches something about needing another drink. The back of his fingers burn when said girl drops her new drink and he finds himself catching it before it can spill. 

“Woah,” the girl giggles, breath reeking of alcohol as she presses against Peter and paws at the drink he’s saved. “My hero.”

All Peter offers her is a tight lipped smile. The flashing of the lights are making him nauseous and he really doesn’t understand why he allowed Ned to drag him here tonight. He hands the girl her drink and shoves his way through the crowd, anxious to find his friend before he has a complete meltdown.

In the time it takes to find Ned, the guy is already incredibly drunk, and Peter has to take several deep breaths to calm himself down. 

“I thought you said you wouldn’t drink tonight,” is all he says to Ned, ducking his head down so that he can be heard over the music. 

Ned’s head almost knocks into Peter’s and he gives him a wide, messy smile that matches his glassy eyes and slurred speech. “Peter! What’re you doin’ here?”

“You dragged me here, remember?”

“No way!” Ned laughs gleefully, as if this is all some silly instance that warrants amusement. “That’s-that’s crazy, man. You’re like. Super strong! How’d I drag you?”

Peter runs a frustrated hand through his hair. “By guilt tripping me with us going to different schools soon, Ned. You made a whole deal about it.”

“Wait,” Ned’s eyes widen. “We’re goin’ to different schools?” 

“Alright, that’s it.” Peter grabs the teen’s shoulders and forces him to look in his eyes. He knows that whatever he’s going to say to Ned will be long forgotten tomorrow, but he doesn’t care. “We’re going home. This is stupid–”

“Peter!” Ned groans his name, long and child-like. He would stomp his foot if he could, but in his drunken state all he can manage is a slight wobbly step and pout. “We jus’ got here. Loosen up! Someone brought this yummy pink flavored drink and it’s–” he hiccups, startling himself, before continuing with his ramble. “It’s really good.”

“I don’t want to drink anything that’s ‘pink’ flavored.” Peter tries to push Ned through the crowd and out the front door, but the tiny apartment is overflowing with people and it’s damn near impossible to even take a step. 

Cursing under his breath, Peter looks around wearily. “This is definitely a fire hazard.”

“The obscene amount of alcohol or the sheer volume of people?” A voice from behind him says. “Either way, this apartment is definitely a fire hazard.”

Peter spins around, heart beating in his chest. For years now he’s relied on his senses to tell him where everyone is around him, but now, as he stands in front of a girl he’s never seen before, he’s disarmed. 

“Then again, it seems unfair to disqualify the fact that this building is in no way up to the city’s fire code. I mean, did you see the broken sprinkler system in the hallway?” In your hand is a bright blue solo cup, its color vibrant against the dark. You bring it to your lips, eyes never leaving Peter’s, and smile from above the brim as you drink. 

You’re waiting for him to say something, Peter realizes. 

“I, uh. Didn’t.” He breathes out, overwhelmed already with your presence. You’re standing really close to him now, almost as if you recognize him by the way you’re so familiar with his space, yet Peter is sure he would remember a face like yours in every lifetime he came across it.

“Not a man of words, are you?” You say, stepping even closer to him. 

Peter swallows heavily. His heart is racing and he forgets that he’s supposed to be taking Ned home. Distantly he wonders where his friend has slipped away to, but for now, with you in front of him, all Peter can think about is how strongly the scent of your perfume invades his senses in a dizzying manner. 

“I–” He can’t breathe. You’re so close and there are bodies everywhere and Peter is convinced that this is some type of purgatory because he’s in hell where your face resembles an angel that the gospels wail over. 

“It’s okay,” you step even closer to Peter, and now he can smell the woody undertones of your perfume. He has to stop himself from inhaling too deeply. “I can do all the talking for us. I’m Y/N, and no, I don’t come here often. This is my first time, actually.”

“I-I’m Peter,” he manages to laugh, small and amused as he unravels before you. “Do people really use that line on you?”

“Hello, Peter.” You smile even wider saying his name. “And you’d be surprised. It’s awful, so I figured I’d spare you the embarrassment.”

“Seems you’ve saved me, then.” Peter isn’t sure where this comes from or why talking to you puts him at ease. Your voice almost seems to dull the roar in his head. 

He can’t get enough of it. 

“Why don’t you repay me by getting me another drink?” This close, Peter can see flecks of glitter that line your eyelids. The movement of light behind you rains incandescent blues and reds across them. 

“Well?” You tilt your head at him, expecting an answer, and he knows he’s already lost. 

Peter’s hand lands on your waist. The flesh there is exposed, your shirt having ridden up slightly during your conversation. You’re warm, soft. Peter can’t help but squeeze the skin beneath his fingers and when you shiver, his heartbeat finally settles. 

“Let’s get you that drink.”

– 

Peter has spent a lot of time on rooftops. It’s a part of the job description, hanging around the tops of deserted buildings as he patrols. Senses on high alert. Waiting for a scream or a lonely passerby to trail home and ensure they remain safe. 

On every rooftop Peter has been on, he’s always felt a sense of unease. Even with his webbing and ability to stick to surfaces, he’s never been able to get past the feeling that one day he will slip and there won’t be anything to catch him. He would simply fall; there wouldn’t be anything he could do to save himself. 

Yet tonight, drunk and infatuated with you, Peter is on a rooftop dangling over the edge with a security he’s never felt before. 

“God, I hate rich people.” 

Peter’s head turns to you, his movements slow and messy. He’s lost count of how many drinks you’ve both had. “Why’s that?”

Your hands motion towards the sky, your movements also uncontrolled and childish. “The stars, dude. They’re all gone and it’s all their fault.”

Peter laughs, looking up as he lays on the ground with you next to him. Originally the plan had been to sneak up onto the rooftop and lay down together and stargaze. In your drunken states, it had seemed like a brilliant idea at the time. Romantic, even.

Both of you forgot that you live in New York and that the stars always remain hidden behind clouds and smoke. 

“I don’t think they deserve all the credit,” Peter lazily responds. The July heat makes the night air thick and warm, but the alcohol in his system makes everything more tolerable. Especially with you next to him. “I mean, didn’t society doom the stars from the start?”

“That sounds very philosophical,” your head lands on his chest, and he curls into you. “And normally I love philosophical-ness, but I’m drunk and you smell good and it’s making my head all fuzzy.”

“Fuzzy?”

“Fuzzy.” You’re giggling now and Peter finds himself giggling with you. 

One of your hands rests against your chest and Peter reaches for it, the itch of being closer to you driving him insane. His fingers interlock through yours and your palm is flush against his and Peter thinks his hands were made to hold yours.

You hum at the contact, moving your body against his. You link one of your legs over Peter’s and angle your body so that you’re practically laying on him and his heart thumps every time you move. 

“‘Doomed from the start’,” you murmur Peter’s earlier words, lips dragging across his t-shirt. “Think everythin’ is like that?”

The numbness of the alcohol suddenly wears off. Peter stiffens slightly at your question and every cell in his body constricts. The reaction far exceeds the question, he knows this, but he’s reminded of everything he was trying to forget tonight. 

In a lot of ways, Peter does think his life was doomed from the start. The loss he’s experienced, responsibility he never asked for, an entire city to look after. All before the age of fifteen. 

“Peter?” 

He doesn’t look at you, and you think he hasn’t even heard your soft questioning. When you first saw him lost in the crowd, it had been his naivety that drew you to him in the first place. How delicate Peter’s face was, the way his eyes seemed to hold lifetimes unbeknownst to anyone.

Now, staring up at him after his body has gone cold from your mindless question, all that you see is a hardness in Peter’s face. Stone-like and secluded. A hurt and loneliness that sculptors yearn to replicate. 

“Is everythin’ okay?” Your hand comes up to his face, gently coaxing him to look at you. “Did I lose you over there?”

The tender way you hold his face rattles Peter’s ribcage. He exhales shakily, shyly, and to ease the worry that’s creased your brows, he places a kiss on your palm. “I’m fine… Still here.”

It isn’t enough for you, though. “Did my question offend you?”

“No,” he’s quick to reassure you, kissing your palm once again. “No, ‘course not. Just… caught me by surprise. That's all.”

“Too philosophical?” 

The adorable way your eyebrows scrunch in concentration lessens the remaining sting in Peter’s chest. He draws you in, wraps you around him so that he can feel all of you. “Not at all. I don’t think everythin’ is doomed from the start. Do you?”

Your head falls back against his chest. He feels you exhale deeply, yawn, before wrapping your arms tighter around him. “No,” you say sleepily. “I like to think this isn’t doomed.”

Peter pokes your nose. “What isn’t doomed?”

Your smile melts into his bones. It’s mischievous and teasing, holding the vague words to your chest, and you don’t let him in on your secret. Instead, you admire how pretty Peter looks under the moonlight. 

“What’re you starin’ at?” He asks you, voice hoarse and quiet. 

Your eyes roam the length of his neck, down the angle of his nose, across the moles that line his face and the eyelashes that fan his eyes. They’re a warm, deep brown. Almost black in the dim lighting. Youthful, trusting, yet guarded. 

Alcohol blurs your vision and yet you know that Peter is the prettiest boy you’ve ever seen. 

“I kinda like your face,” you breathe out, hands coming up to cup his cheek. 

Peter leans into the touch with an almost embarrassing air of vulnerability. You’re warm. He forgets what the two of you were even talking about in the first place. “You like my face?”

You hum. “It’s charming. You’re charming.”

His face burns from your words. Something within him screams at him to run, to make up an excuse and leave you and the blurred lines alone. But he can’t. He finds that he doesn’t want to ever leave you alone. 

“Handsome,” your breath fans his face now, lips ghosting over the edges of his cheek. “Really handsome.” 

Peter doesn’t breathe. He’s worried that if he does, he’ll scare you away.

“I like your face,” your entire body rests on top of his. Your shirt rides up again and Peter has to bite his lip at the urge to grab the exposed skin. You notice this and you press your face against the base of his neck. “It’s a good face.”

“Yeah?” He’s overwhelmed with the possibility of you.

“Can I kiss it?” You ask him sweetly, honeyed and warm. You’ve never kissed anyone before. No one has ever left you wondering how their lips would feel against yours until tonight. 

Peter swallows hard. His ribcage threatens to crack open. He’s never kissed anyone either, but he really, really wants to try with you. You’re staring up at him with open and wide eyes and it’s over before it’s even really begun. 

He grips the back of your neck and you taste like the sweet strawberry daiquiri he’s poured for you all night. The taste of it emboldens Peter, craving more of it, and his hesitancy morphs into something deeper, darker. He holds your face between his hands and drinks from your lips as you take everything from him. 

The kiss is a combination of every contrasting conjunction Peter can think of. Rushed and slow. Soft and hard. The kiss is perfect in a way that only something messy and needy can create. 

Your hands find their way under Peter’s shirt, nails scratching the sensitive skin kept hidden. He shivers, kisses you harder, swallowing the laughter that pours from you. The sound of it makes Peter’s head spin. He squeezes your ass, creating a dizzying pressure against his jeans, and soon your teasing laughter turns a breathy moan.

“There you are,” he sighs against your open mouth. He rolls his hips up, hisses when you land right where he needs you. “Stay right there for me, sweetheart.”

You muffle a moan against Peter’s neck, biting at any skin you can reach. “I’ll stay,” you whisper over and over again; a promise that won’t be recognized until it’s broken.

The rest of the night is spent exploring each other’s skin and drawing sweet sounds from parted mouths. In the early morning sunlight, something sacred is formed. When your head lands against Peter’s chest for the final time that night, the finality of it is lighter than the weight of everything else that sits within it. 

Neither of you knows who ends up falling asleep first. Peter thinks it was you, he remembers playing with the strands of your hair for a while before his eyelids became too heavy. You swear that it was him, remembering the steady heartbeat beneath you slowing to a quiet rhythm. 

Regardless, when the two of you do wake up the next morning, you greet the other with laughter and teasing. There is no awkwardness from the night before; only something delicate. 

“Thank you for sacrificing your back for me,” your arms stretch above your head, the muscles pulling taut. Peter can hear something crack and you wince under your breath. “I obviously already have enough back problems as it is.”

“Who said I willingly served as your pillow last night?” Peter tries to fix his hair, though he knows it’s no use. “You could’ve tricked me into it.”

“I’m trying to praise you here, Peter.”

“Horrible mistake on your part.” 

You laugh, and the way you do so is still as open and carefree as Peter remembers it being from the night before. His chest warms, everything is so easy with you. Gentle and lovely. 

Before he can convince himself not to, Peter grabs your hand and kisses the back of it, and in doing so, he laces his fingers through yours. In the daylight, he sees how pink your cheeks get when you blush. 

“C’mon,” he stands up, arms instinctively wrapping around you to help you stand. “I’m sure whoever owns this rooftop will kill us if we stay up here any longer.”

You roll your eyes, though you accept Peter’s help and allow him to guide you back downstairs. “As if Veronica’s landlord even remembers that he owns this building.”

“Veronica?”

You frown at Peter. “Veronica Haynes?” When he shrugs helplessly at you, your frown deepens. “The girl who threw the party? The one we literally attended last night?”

“No idea who she is.” He’s sheepish, desperately hoping that he isn’t insulting a girl who might be your friend. “I-I’m sorry.”

“No need to be sorry, buddy.” You pat Peter’s shoulder sarcastically. “I’m just really confused as to how you even got into the party if you don’t know the host.”

He opens the building’s door, revealing the summer morning heat as the two of you start walking down the block. “My friend Ned invited me. Said he knew a girl who attended Rockefeller High through his AV club who was throwing a party. Guess that was Veronica?”

“AV club,” you snort. “Bringing people together since the dawn of nerds.”

“Hey, I used to be in the AV club.”

“And my point still stands.”

Peter shoves you lightly, causing you to stumble into him, and he laughs when you shriek in terror. You whip around to face him, eyes alight, before he holds his hands up in surrender. “Easy, now. I was just defending my honor.”

“You’re lucky you’re cute,” you knock your shoulder against his. “Otherwise we’d have some serious problems.”

Peter sticks his tongue out at you, throwing an arm over your shoulders and pulling you close. He’s sure May is expecting him home soon, but he doesn’t want to say goodbye to you. 

“So,” Peter says, kissing the top of your head. “Where am I taking you?”

“Ideally? France. Realistically? Home.”

“Home I can do,” he sways your bodies side to side, zigzagging across the sidewalk playfully. He tries to ignore the disappointment of walking you home. “I’ll need an address though, sweetheart.”

Even though Peter is a stranger with a last name that is unknown to you, you tell him where you live. He walks with you the entire eight blocks. Not once are either of you quiet. Reminiscent of the night before, you talk about everything and nothing as his arms remain around you. 

Peter asks about where you went to school, how Rockefeller compared to Midtown. You ask him what his favorite word is, if he’s ever regretted a haircut that he couldn’t hide. The two of you gossip about shared classmates and the colleges they’ve chosen, and inevitably you realize that come fall, you’ll both be attending Empire State University. 

“Guess we’ll be seeing a lot more of each other, then.” You’re at your apartment building now, though you linger, not wanting to let go of Peter just yet.

“You say that like it’s a bad thing.” He raises an eyebrow at you, not wanting to let go of you, either. 

“Never said it was.”

Peter smirks at you. “Then I’ll see you tomorrow?”

Your nose brushes his before you kiss him. Unlike last night, this time he tastes slightly salty, earthy. His lips are chapped, rough around the edges, and you can’t get enough of it. But you have to leave, soon your mom will be wondering where you are.

You finally pull away, lips tingling. “I’ll be waiting.”

Peter smiles wide, and unable to help it, you kiss him one more time, then two more, then three, before you’re lost in it all over again. 

“Just…” Pulling away again, you look at Peter and find the hesitancy in his eyes has returned. “Don’t make me wait too long, okay?

But almost as if you’ve imagined it, the hesitancy is gone. Instead, Peter smiles wide at you. “I wouldn’t dream of it.”

– 

When Peter first revealed to May that he’d been accepted to every college he applied to, she hugged him tightly and rambled about how proud she was for five straight minutes. 

Then, when he told her that he’d be choosing Empire State over MIT in order to continue being Spider-Man, May hit the back of his head. 

“Patrolling every night while balancing chem labs and papers?” She had laughed right in Peter’s face. “You’ll be wishing you were dead before the first semester even ends.”

Unfortunately, as usual, May had been right. 

“Drink up,” a steaming mug gets placed in front of Peter. Its warmth seeps into the air and tickles his face, lazily coaxing his exhausted eyes to open. 

You wink playfully at him when you see that he’s finally opened his eyes. Setting down your own mug, you join Peter at the kitchen table. “Good morning, sleeping beauty.”

“Guessing I fell asleep at the table again?” Peter rubs his eyes, yawning. He isn’t surprised that you’ve let yourself into his dorm. He gave you a key the same day you gave him his. 

After spending the night on the rooftop in July, the two of you became inseparable. Dinner excursions, museum hopping, movie nights at your apartment, anything to stay together in the wonderfully intoxicating world you built together. 

Nothing changed when school began. If anything, the close proximity to one another and shared classes only made the two of you more unbearable. You joined the same clubs, befriended the same classmates, and now spend every waking second with the other. 

“Found you face down when I walked in, so.” You laugh at him, flicking his ear. “We’ve been in school for a month and you’re already falling apart.”

“Don’t remind me.” Peter drops his head back down onto the table. Peter’s roommate, Jude, is out of town for fall break, so at least he was spared the embarrassment of anyone else seeing him like this. “I just wanted to finish my lab report.”

“And did you?”

“No.” 

Though he really did mean to get work done last night. Peter had gotten back from patrol early specifically so he could at least format the report. Instead, his exhaustion won in the end. Again. For the fifth time this week.

Peter should really start listening to May. 

Your fingers tangle in his hair. “Poor baby,” scratching his scalp, you slowly begin to massage the tense skin. “If only you came to my dorm instead like I so graciously offered.”

“Y/N.” Peter tries to sound stern, but he finds himself sighing into your touch. Your words leak into his bones. He doesn’t want to give them a response, knowing that if he does, then he’ll spend the rest of the morning in bed with you. 

“All I’m saying Peter is that you could’ve spent a sleepless night with me instead of orgo.”

“I told you I couldn’t,” he winces, turning his head to look at you. “I’m convinced my professor is trying to kill me with this report.”

Which isn’t a total lie. He really does think he’s going to die at the hands of organic chemistry one way or another, but truthfully the reason Peter turned you down was because he had to patrol. 

You hum, stroking his cheek. “I’d admire your devotion to academia if it wasn’t so pathetic.”

“Finding me passed out on the kitchen table is a turn off?”

“Utterly so, lovely.”

Peter’s cheeks burn deeply at the pet name. You started using it the second week of sleeping together, whispering it against his ear so softly that he wasn’t sure he had heard you at first. As if he wouldn't be able to hear you over everything. 

You aren’t together. At least, not really. Sure, Peter spends most nights with you on his tongue, but he doesn’t stay. The moment he’s done, the moment you pull apart, he kisses your forehead goodbye and is patrolling thirty minutes later. He doesn’t tell you where he goes, and you don’t ask. 

The space Peter places between you in his life and Spider-Man is deliberate. It’s how it has to be. Even if neither of you are willing to talk about it.

“I’ll make it up to you later,” he grabs your hand and kisses it, silently apologizing for the lies you’re unaware of. “Scout’s honor.”

“Please don’t reference the Boy Scouts while flirting with me.”

Peter laughs and it’s the first time he’s done so since leaving your dorm yesterday afternoon. He tries not to think about how he only ever seems to smile these days because of you. Everything is easier, lighter, with you. 

After finishing your coffee, Peter helps you make breakfast. There isn’t much in his fridge, always inexplicably empty, but it’s become a sort of tradition between you. Quiet mornings at Peter’s dorm, using Jude’s coffee machine and toaster to make misshapen eggs and toast. The two of you work smoothly around the other, working together without saying anything. Synched and harmonious in a way only old habits can create.

“Gwen asked about you again yesterday,” you say, cracking an egg onto the pan Peter has already warmed up. “Says she expects you to be at her party tonight.”

“Is that so?” Peter hums, not really paying attention as he grabs his own egg to crack. 

“Yup.” Hot oil bubbles and move your hand quickly away. “I think she has a small crush on you.”

Peter looks at you, unsure how to gauge what you’ve just said. He finds that you aren’t even looking at him as you say this. Instead your gaze is focused on the eggs, watching to make sure they don’t burn. Your expression is cool, body relaxed. 

“Oh.” He stupidly says. It’s all he can come up with.

It’s not like Peter didn’t suspect Gwen’s feelings for him. He met her through his physics lecture and thought she was interesting enough. Similar to you with cunning eyes and a quick mouth. He had invited her out to coffee with you after class, figuring the two of you would get along, but the tension that followed told Peter that he had made a grave mistake. 

“You sound like I’m holding you at gunpoint, Peter.” You hit your hip against his, laughing. “Relax. I think it’s cute that she thinks has a chance.”

Peter nearly drops the egg he’s holding, making a pathetic squeaking sound when he scrambles to save it. You watch his reaction with interest in your eyes, lips turn upwards in amusement. 

He coughs, hitting his chest to try and dispel everything unspoken that gets stuck in his sternum. “She-uh. She doesn’t?”

You brush your hair over your shoulder, perfume invading Peter’s senses. Neck exposed, you tilt your head to the side and stare up at him. Eyes dark and wanting, Peter’s body draws to you without being commanded to.

When you have him right where you want him, head dangling down to try and kiss you, you whisper. “She doesn’t stand a chance, Peter Parker. Want to know how I know?”

He shivers. “Yes.” Voice weak and wanting. 

You lean in close, lips poised to his ear as if about to tell him a secret, before suddenly the warmth of you is gone. Peter is left grasping at air, and you’re across from him once again, giggling at what you’ve done. Cheeks flushed, pleased with yourself, you go turn the stove’s burner off and grab a plate for you and him to share. 

“That wasn’t funny, sweetheart.” Peter complains, helping you set the table. 

“You’re right.” Setting down the plate, you hand him a fork and sit. “It wasn’t funny. It was hilarious.”

Peter throws a napkin at you and you erupt into giggles again. He sits down next to you and nudges his fork against yours. You retaliate, stealing the piece of egg he’d been trying to get. It goes on like this for a while, eating together and sharing the small plate that has become a battle ground. 

“Do you really think Gwen doesn’t stand a chance?” Peter asks you, shoving the final bite of food towards you. He isn’t sure why he’s brought the conversation back up, or if he even wants to know your answer.

Yet, as you always do, you answer him with a quick thought and clever smile. All you ever seem to do is leave Peter standing at the edge of a cliff, holding his breath, anticipating a fall. 

“Lovely, orgo is going to kill you before she can ever sink her claws into you.”

It isn’t the answer Peter is expecting. There’s a slight sense of disappointment, but it gets masked behind his amusement as he snorts at what you’ve said. 

“Don’t jinx it, please.” Peter kisses your forehead, getting up from the table to start the dishes. “I’ve grown rather fond of annoying you.” 

“I think you’ve just grown fond of me.” You murmur, catching his hand before he can walk away. Your touch burns his skin, the hidden meaning behind your words chokes him. 

You understand Peter in a way that seeps terror into his bones. There are things you don’t know, that you can’t know about him, and yet you seem to always welcome the secrets with a warm embrace. Never questioning them. Never leaving.

It’s this warm embrace that first drew Peter to you. The solace in case he falls. Sometimes he wonders if this acceptance and way of seeing under his skin will hurt you in the end. 

“I’ll wash, you dry?” You spare Peter the trouble of admitting anything to you, grabbing the plate from him and turning the faucet on. 

Your face is neutral, content. As if you haven’t just toed the line. Hands under soapy water, you hum to yourself, the acknowledgement of Peter’s presence gone. 

– 

That night the two of you do end up attending Gwen’s party. Peter finishes his lab report earlier than expected and you end up outlining an essay a week ahead of schedule. 

Gwen’s apartment is huge, a penthouse in Chelsea that is almost impractical for her to have all to herself. All your friends will be there, alcohol is always provided, and the music is bearable. In all honesty, the only downside of attending would be the host herself.

“It’ll be fun.” You straighten Peter’s shirt, delaying the inevitable of ringing the doorbell and seeing Gwen’s delicate face. 

“Famous last words.”

You hit his chest and he clutches his heart, feigning pain. Rolling your eyes at him, you breathe through your nose and finally ring the doorbell. Music can be heard through the thick walls already and you think you can hear someone shriek in excitement when the bell rings. 

“Y/N!” Lily screeches when she opens the door. Suddenly she throws her body around you and Peter has to grab your hips to prevent you and the girl from tumbling over. “We missed you!”

“Hi, Lily.” You wheeze out with a laugh, touched by her sincerity. “How many drinks have you had already?”

“Only two.” She rolls her eyes. “I’m just excited to see you!”

“I’m here too, you know.” Peter playfully glares at the girl. “Not that you seem to care.” 

“Oh, I couldn’t care less,” Lily looks at him, smug. “But you know who might care a bit too much?”

“Is that Peter?” Gwen’s shrill voice cuts through the conversation. The music immediately gets turned down and the click of her heels announces that she’s already on her way over.

Lily sighs. “She’s found you.”

Peter gulps and you laugh at his misery. Looping your arm through Lily’s, you spin her around and leave him to fend for himself. You flee the scene just as Gwen arrives, perfume heavy as she clutches at Peter’s shirt. 

“What took you so long?” She purrs, ignoring you entirely as you leave.

Peter cranes his neck, nervous to let you out of his sight. He only came here tonight because you asked him to, and now you’ve abandoned him to deal with Gwen all alone. 

He should’ve seen it coming, honestly. 

“Y/N and I had some work to finish up.” Explains Peter, forcing a smile on his face. “Actually, she’s the only reason I’m here right now.”

Gwen’s seductive smile drops, quickly replaced with a scowl. With a huff, she turns around, not even bothering to say anything else to him. She leaves just as suddenly as she came, and Peter is left exhaling deeply, longing for you once more. 

He finds you with Lily and Harry, head thrown back mid-laugh as rum spills down your hand. Lily is saying something and Harry is looking at you with fondness in his eyes that makes Peter’s stomach twist. 

“Harry, back me up here.” Lily begs him, forcing him to look away from you. “You agree that Y/N should email her hot TA, right?”

“Sounds pretty unethical to me.” He knocks his drink with yours. “Isn’t he like, twenty-five?”

“Which would mean he has money, Harry.”

“You do realize my last name is Osborn, right? If you’re looking for money–”

Peter rushes to break up the conversation. “Okay!” He wraps a protective arm around you, exchanging a silent glance with Harry. “What are we talking about?”

Lily stifles her knowing laughter with her drink, but you don’t bother to hide your amusement over Peter’s poorly hidden motives. Sending Harry an apologetic smile, you lean against Peter’s body and offer him your drink. 

“According to Lily, I should ask out the TA I was telling you about,” then you point your drink at Harry. “And this one over here is yet again bragging about his rich father.”

He shrugs. “Isn’t that the whole point of generational wealth? Being able to brag about it?”

“Some would say it’s donating money to those who need it.” 

You elbow Peter’s side. “Ignore him. He’s just upset that I’m not giving him enough attention tonight.”

Harry snorts seeing the blood drain from Peter’s face and Lily cackles into her drink. You raise your drink towards them, laughing as well, and all Peter can do is shake his head at you fondly and tug at your side. 

“C’mon, you little menace.” 

“Where’re you taking me?” You try to resist, wanting to spend more time with your friends, but Peter’s hands are warm and his cologne is addicting. You leave without really meaning to, missing the pointed looks Harry and Lily share. 

Peter grabs your hand. “To the rooftop. Apparently you haven’t given me enough attention tonight?”

Your breath catches, stomach alight with desire, and you nearly stumble in your haste to follow after him. Rooftops have become something only for you and him. Whether it be at a party, inside the university’s library, or bored in your dorms, you always end up on a rooftop together. An homage to the night that started it all. 

The second the October air kisses your face, Peter is already kissing yours. 

He inhales you, lips aching and fast against your wanting ones. He doesn’t waste any time having you all to himself. His hands are everywhere, gripping your waist, squeezing your thighs, cupping your breast. Anywhere he can touch, anywhere that elicits soft moans from you that he adores. 

You let Peter do whatever to you. Allowing him to set the pace, to swallow the sounds he draws from your lips, to hold your hips against his and grind. When his hair gets caught in your fingers, every tug causes him to push harder against you. 

Peter uses his senses to find the nearest wall, desperate for more friction. He’s needy, he can’t get enough of you, and the moment your body lands on the wall Peter is moaning against your mouth. 

“That’s it, sweetheart,” he sighs into your neck, your entire body moving with his. He rolls his hips, feels the sweet heat between your thighs that he craves. “Fuck.”

Teeth graze your neck as Peter places his knee where you need it most. You throw your head back, moving even faster against him. He pinches your nipple through the fabric that traps it, sucking your lip with every gasp. 

“Stars,” you tug Peter’s hair harder, forcing him away. “The-the stars.”  

He makes an offended noise. “What?”

“There are stars.” Your heartbeat hasn’t slowed down yet. 

“Okay…?” Peter looks up, confused as to why you’re focusing on the stars when he has you throbbing underneath him. 

But then he sees it. Everywhere, across the entire sky, there are stars. Millions of them, more than he’s ever seen in his entire life. More than New York has ever had enough room for in its smoke infested skies. They glow bright. Winking down at Peter as if to say, about time, right?

“Oh, my God,” Peter can’t believe it. He’s spent endless nights patrolling under a dark sky. “Where’d they come from?”

“This might sound crazy, but I think stars are from space.” Peter pinches your waist in retaliation. You twist your body away, trying to avoid his attack. “Hey!”

“You know what I meant.”

You don’t respond, choosing to rest your arms around Peter’s neck and play with his hair; your eyes trace the sky. “We never did get to stargaze that night.”

The night you met. 

Peter draws you into him. Your head is against his chest. He kisses your forehead, staring up at the sky above as well. “Maybe the stars aren’t so doomed after all.”

He feels your laugh more than he hears it. The earlier desperation is gone. Your touch doesn’t burn Peter’s skin anymore and his lips don’t tempt you to open them. Instead, the two of you relish in the quiet together. A moment alone with only the stars as a witness. 

After the cold has set in and you ask to go inside, Peter finds that he no longer fears the rooftop’s edge. 

– 

Your parents announce that they’re spending Thanksgiving in Hawaii the day you’re supposed to go home for break. 

The announcement doesn’t necessarily surprise you, nor their lack of remorse for leaving you alone during the holiday. What surprises you in the end is the fact that they actually inform you before deserting you. 

Seems there’s a first time for everything. 

“Have you packed yet?” Peter asks you while he digs through his closet for clothes to bring home. “You leave in like an hour.”

You sit on his bed. “Nope.”

“Don’t you think you’re cutting it a little close?”

“Not really.”

“So you’re just going to pack when your parents get here?”

“They aren’t coming here.”

Peter pauses. He pokes his head out the closet and looks at you. “Are you taking the train home, then?”

“No.”

Your shoulders are drawn in. You avoid Peter’s concerned eyes, but he joins you on the bed anyways. You’ve never really talked about your parents, but beneath the indifference you’ve always presented, Peter has pieced together the hurt that keeps it in place.

“You’re not going home for Thanksgiving.” He doesn’t say it with any pity or accusation. 

You let out a bitter laugh. “Thanksgiving in Hawaii. Who knew that was a thing?”

“I’m sorry, Y/N.” Peter’s parents died a long time ago, but he can’t imagine the pain of losing parents you never really had in the first place.

“It’s fine.” Your voice doesn’t hold its usual confident cadence. “I mean. Guess now I have time to start prepping for finals. We have to present a case study for physics, remember?”

Peter can’t believe that you’re trying to spin this into some academic advantage. “There’s no way I’m letting you spend Thanksgiving break alone.”

“Not really much of a choice, buddy.”

He laughs at you. When you try to ask him what’s so funny, Peter shushes you and pulls out his phone. “Watch this.”

“What–”

“Hey, May!” 

You don’t move from the bed, terrified of the scene before you. Peter paces the room, chats with his aunt about his packing progress and when to expect him, before he turns to you with an evil grin. “By the way, May. My friend doesn’t have anyone to spend Thanksgiving with. What are your thoughts on that?”

Twenty minutes later you’re in a taxi heading to Queens with Peter’s smug grin bearing down at you. 

“Stop looking so amused.”

He flicks your forehead. As if he was going to let you win. “You’re so naive. It’s cute.”

May Parker is what you can only imagine the word “warmth” would be if it were a person. She’s soft, maternal and lovely, but there’s also a bite to her that cautions you to do as she says without argument. 

You fall in love with her the moment she shoves past Peter to hug you first.

“It’s so good to finally meet you!” May squeals, still holding you in one arm while she snaps her fingers at her nephew. “Peter, get her bags. Don’t just stand there.”

“Yeah, Peter. Get my bags.”

You stick your tongue out at him, pleased, and he rolls his eyes. Peter isn’t upset, though. If anything, he’s missed being commanded by May. He enjoys it even more now that she has you to help her order him around. 

“Yes, dears.” He says dryly, leaving you and May to talk as he gets the rest of your things and his. 

“You raised him so well, May.”

“Oh, he’s only being nice to me because you’re here.”

Peter sighs. He’s already resolved himself to a long week. He takes your things to his room, figuring that’s where May has planned for you to go anyways. There isn’t a guest room in their small apartment, and she knows that you’re special to him. While he hasn’t told his aunt the specific details, she understands that Peter really likes you.

“Peter Parker, don’t you dare unpack your things in your room.” May’s stern command causes Peter to jump. She stands in the doorway, arms crossed over her chest with you next to her. “You’re not sleeping here.”

He blinks slowly. “I’m… not?” 

“No. Y/N, honey, you can take his bed.” May turns to Peter. “As for you, you’ll be sleeping on the couch.”

Peter looks at her as if she’s crazy. “May!”

“I can take the couch, Mrs. Parker–” You also jump in, struck by a sense of intruding. You feel bad enough for barging into their home, but kicking Peter out of his bed feels extreme.

“I don’t want to hear it.” May holds her hands up at the two of you. “Like you said, I raised my nephew right. He’ll sleep on the couch, you’ll sleep in the room. There will be no sharing of beds so long as you’re under my roof.”

You cover your mouth, terrified of her implications. Peter’s face is on fire and he coughs awkwardly.  “Mrs. Parker, Peter and I aren’t–”

“This conversation is done.” May claps her hands together. “Now, who wants to help me bake some cookies?”

–

Unknown to you, the Parker apartment regularly hosts a Thanksgiving feast for all of Peter’s friends. It’s tradition, and there’s a warm tug in your stomach at the idea that you’re now a part of it. 

You meet Ned first. He’s a sweet guy, a bit shy, and he spends the entire time talking to Peter about the latest Star Wars installment and stories from MIT. His girlfriend Betty is a sweetheart who asks you nonstop questions about who you are and what you do. Flash is loud and obnoxious and you have to throw a roll of bread at him to get him to shut up, but eventually he grows on you and you offer him some advice regarding his girlfriend back home. MJ is quiet, but interesting, and towards the end of the night you end up sharing analyses regarding your favorite poets together.

As for Peter, his eyes don’t leave you the entire night. 

He watches how easily you get along with the people he loves the most. How you’re patient with Ned’s stammering shyness, how you entertain Betty’s journalistic interests, that you manage to defend yourself against Flash, and how MJ opens up to you within minutes. 

Peter has never let anyone see into this part of his life so intimately. Without fear and unease. Everyone falls in love with you that night, and, one night years from now, Peter will realize that this is the night he fell in love with you, too. 

“She’s great,” May hands him a plate to wash, looking over her shoulder to admire you as you talk to everyone in the living room. 

“She is.” Peter smiles down at his hands, shy. 

May grabs another plate, clearing any leftover food on it before handing it to her nephew. “Are you going to patrol tonight?”

“I have to,” he sighs. “It’s a holiday. You know how people can get.”

May doesn’t give him a response. She only hands him more dishes to wash so that she can store leftovers for tomorrow. They work quietly together side by side, neither disrupting the silence. Peter knows that May is still uncomfortable with Spider-Man, and she knows that he will never give it up.

“Does Y/N know?” 

Peter’s body freezes. He doesn’t look up at May, afraid that if he does, he’ll collapse. 

“No.” He coughs slightly. “She doesn’t.”

“She’s smart, Peter. You have to know that she’ll figure it out eventually.” She isn’t disappointed in him. Not really. May understands that there are aspects of being Spider-Man that she will never agree with.

Peter drops his head. “I know.”

“Then why haven’t you told her?”

He doesn’t know how to answer his aunt. How can he explain to her that the reason Peter kissed you that July is because you quelled the roar in his head? That being with you is easy and nothing in his life has ever been easy. That when he’s with you, Peter can pretend that he’s normal. That death doesn’t hang over his head every day. 

There’s a quiet that comes with being with you, and all Peter’s life there has only been excessive noise and thunder. 

If Peter tells you who he is, he’s terrified that the quiet will fade and all that will be left is blinding sound.

“It’s too dangerous for Y/N to know.” And it isn’t a lie. The more people who know his identity, the more people Peter is putting in danger. 

His aunt pinches the bridge of her nose. “And what about me? Ned and MJ? Why do they get to know, but not Y/N?”

“That’s different.” It isn’t. Not anymore. But his hands are shaking and Peter has to remind himself to breathe. 

May sees his loss of composure and she finally backs down, placing a comforting hand on her nephew’s arm. She rubs small circles, rhythmic and soothing, just like she used to do when he was a little kid.

“I only want what’s best for you, Peter.” She kisses his hair, though he’s grown since she’s last seen him and it isn’t as easy to do anymore. “There’s a spark in Y/N that I admire, but she also seems very prideful. I’m worried that hiding who you are will only jeopardize your relationship and hurt you both in the end.”

“We aren’t in a relationship, May.” The words are bitter on Peter’s tongue. “She’s just a friend.”

May finally looks at him, pauses slightly as she takes in the boy she raised. For the first time tonight she sees the exhaustion in his eyes. Bruises that line his knuckles, the scar on his eyebrow. The slouch of his shoulders from the weight he always seems to carry. 

“That’s why you haven’t told Y/N.” She whispers, eyes softening in understanding. Peter wants to ask her what she means, but when her gentle hand touches his face, all he can do is lean against it and rest his tired eyes. 

“I hope one day you allow yourself to have everything you’ve ever wanted, Peter.”

Someone calls May’s name, forcing her hand to fall from his face. She leaves Peter standing alone in the kitchen with nothing but her words to bear witness to his self destruction. 

He thinks of slow mornings spent with you. The curve of your neck. Coffee stained mugs. Your cold fingers through his underneath the covers. Late night study dates. Chasing one another through empty alleys. Rooftops and the buzz of something deeper than lust. 

Peter already has everything he’s ever wanted. Even if it isn’t really his.

– 

As long as the bullet doesn’t hit any major organs, Peter can heal from a gunshot wound in roughly eight hours. Sure, he’s sore for a while and it leaves a faded, silk-like scar, but he still thinks it’s pretty cool. 

If he’s stabbed? Peter is up and running again in less than six hours. Unless he needs stitches. Then it gets a bit trickier. Overall though, he can’t complain.

But a fire that takes out six entire blocks in the east village that the mayor is calling the worst incident New York City has seen since 1990? Currently, Peter is on day two of laying in soaked t-shirts and aloe oil. 

“Have you changed your wraps yet?” May asks him over the phone. She’d seen the fire on the news and wasn’t surprised when Spider-Man appeared. 

She also wasn’t surprised when the newsreel catches him crashing into a wall of fire five seconds after saving a little girl. 

Peter shifts in his bed, wincing when the fabric rubs against his raw and burned skin. “Changed them an hour ago, May.”

“And you’ve been icing?”

“If you count a bag of frozen peas as ice, then yeah. I’ve been icing the burns.”

“Peter.”

“It’s a little funny, May. C’mon.” Peter hears her sigh. He closes his eyes and softens his voice. “Look, I’m fine. No need to worry about me, okay? I’m just… a little warm, right now.”

May doesn’t dignify what he’s said with a response. Instead, she reminds him to apply a fresh coat of aloe before hanging with an exasperated goodbye. 

Peter tosses his phone down, ready to go back to staring at the ceiling because that’s all he can physically bring himself to do right now, but then a message appears on its screen. 

earth to peter?

Suddenly his entire body is cold. Your name accompanies the text and your face greets him. Peter hasn’t seen you since the night of the fire. He hasn’t spoken to you, either. 

Half of his body is burned to shit and he inhaled so much smoke trying to get everyone out that it sounds like he’s smoked twenty packs a day for five years. How the fuck is Peter supposed to explain any of that to you without revealing everything he’s worked so hard to mask?

peter? 

anyone there?

The influx of messages only further constricts Peter’s chest and doesn’t know what to do. 

it’s been almost two days, dude. answer me or die.

unless you’re dead. in that case: please come back to life. i miss you :( 

Cursing under his breath, Peter carefully picks the phone up and types what he hopes is enough to satiate you. 

I’m alive! Just sick right now. Bleh. 

But, predictably, this only makes everything worse because you immediately call him. Peter tries to hit decline, but with burned fingers and sore bones, he answers, and he really wishes the fire had knocked him into a coma instead of singeing his eyebrows. 

“Peter?”

He holds his breath. 

“Peter, I can hear you holding your breath.”

“Can you?” He cringes at how broken his voice sounds. He clears his throat, ignoring the sting of smoke still lingering. “I-I mean. Hi.”

“Jesus.” On the other end of the line, you sit up in bed, worried. “You sound horrible.”

Peter fake coughs, though it then turns into a very real, very painful cough. “Sick.”

“I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”

“Wait–”

“I think I have all the ingredients for chicken noodle soup, and I remember seeing celery in your fridge a few days ago. Is it Jude’s? Actually, he’ll probably let me borrow some if I offer to make him some soup as well–”

Peter manages to raise his voice slightly, desperate to get your attention. “Y/N. You can’t come over.”

You’re silent for several long moments. This is the first time he’s ever denied you. “And why not?”

“I’m… sick?”

“And?”

“I’m contagious?”

You laugh, short and slightly endearing. “Lovely, are you forgetting that we literally swapped spit at the New Years party? I’m probably already contaminated. It’s fine.”

Peter really, really hates how stubborn you are sometimes. “But why risk it?” He coughs again into the phone, emphasizing how rough and disgusting the fake illness is. “Hear that? You really want to see the consequences?”

“I really want to see you, Peter.” You pause again. “Why are you being so weird about this?”

She’s smart. You have to know that she’ll figure it out eventually, May’s voice echoes in his head. He really needs to start listening to her. 

“I take respiratory health very seriously, Y/N.”

Both you and Peter know that he doesn’t, but you’ve been spiraling over his silence these last two days and at the very least, you know he’s okay. Taking whatever you can get, you give in. “Fine. But can I at least drop the soup off on your doorstep?”

The sincerity in your voice, the willingness to still take care of Peter despite his insistence not to, is what makes him give in, too. “Of course, sweetheart.”

He hears you smile, a sound he loves, even if he doesn’t know the name for it yet. 

“Hey, Jude!” Peter calls through the wall after you’ve hung up the phone. 

A thud. “Yeah?”

“Y/N is bringing me some soup and leaving it on the doorstep. Do you think you could bring it in?”

“Depends,” Jude has long become familiar with your presence in the dorm. “Can I have some?”

Peter rolls his eyes at his roommate, though he isn’t surprised. Jude adores everything you make for him and Peter. He’s even made it a rule for you to not make lasagna without him. 

“Yeah, whatever.”

“Wait, is it tomato soup? I don’t like tomatoes, they taste too red.”

Peter drops his head in his hands. He doesn’t have the energy to respond. Instead, he shifts in bed and carefully re-wraps the bandages that litter his body. When he crashed into the literal wall of fire, his suit luckily took most of the damage, but not without Peter’s skin searing and losing all body hair. 

Not that he had a lot of body hair to begin with, but still. Tough loss. 

Peter is about to call May to ask her if he should take an ice bath when his phone rings. He looks down at it, confused, and his confusion grows more when he sees your name flashing once again. 

“Y/N? Did you finish already–”

“Cut the shit, Parker.” 

His blood drains at the ice in your vocal chords. “I-I’m sorry?”

“You’re sick, correct?” You sneer at him. This is the most venom Peter has ever heard drip out of your plush mouth. 

Even without his spidey-sense, Peter would know that he’s on the precipice of a trap. “...Yes?”

“Funny. When I called your aunt to see if I should bring you anything else, she was touched that I was helping you take care of your sprained ankle.”

He’s so unbelievably fucked. 

“I, uh. Forgot about that!” Peter laughs nervously. “Sprained my ankle real good. And got sick. At the same time.”

“And how did you sprain it?” You don’t miss a beat. 

Another trap. Peter wracks his mind, tries to think of what May could’ve possibly told you, but he’s in the palm of your hand, ready and wilting. 

“Riding a bike?”

“Go to hell, Peter.”  

His heart jumps in his throat. “Y/N, let me explain–”

“You know, if you didn’t want to see me, you could’ve just told me.” The anger in your voice dissipates, slowly replaced with something akin to hurt. Peter can hear the slight tremor as you speak. “But lying to me is fucking pathetic.”

“I do want to see you,” Peter rushes out, practically begging. He hasn’t felt your touch in days and his skin misses yours. “God. Of course I want to see you, sweetheart.”

You want to believe him. Silence stretches over the phone, hesitancy that longs for solace. With every breath you take, every second that passes between you and Peter, he can feel you trying to hold onto the idea that he’s yours and good and whole. 

“Then why did you lie?” Whispered and raw. Everything that there’s left to give Peter.

“Y/N…” But he’s a coward. 

You take his silence as absolute. “Goodbye, Peter.”

The line goes dead. 

– 

Peter doesn’t hear from you for the rest of the day. 

The next morning, he checks his phone before his eyes have even opened, but there’s nothing. By the afternoon, Peter starts to lose his mind. His skin itches at the loss of your voice, he can’t sleep, his stomach is in knots, and all he wants to do is whisper apologies down your spine as he traces your back with his lips.

I’m sorry.

Peter’s thumb hovers over send. He rereads the message over and over again, convinced somehow that the words are blurring together. 

He deletes it, types something else. 

Can we talk?

You hate it when he grovels. 

Just call.

Too demanding. 

I miss you too.

Too vulnerable. 

Peter has never been good with words. He’s never had to be when it comes to you. You’ve always been able to read him, handing him water before his body can even recognize the thirst. In the six months he’s known you, you’ve become intertwined in the webs that surround him. 

It’s this worry for you and intertwinement that leads Spider-Man to your windowsill. 

This isn’t Peter’s proudest moment, he’ll admit. Using his masked identity to crouch in front of your window, hidden in the dark of the night, aching to catch a glimpse of you. He tells himself that he’s only doing this because he cares about you and that the burns that still mar his body aren’t healed enough for you to see him yet. 

But really Peter knows there’s something else behind why he’s doing this; he just isn’t ready to face it yet.

You’re in your small, cramped kitchen. The university dorms are hardly big enough for one person, let alone two, but your roommate Emma is gone for winter break and it’s only you home tonight. 

Peter’s heart lodges in his throat when he realizes that you’re wearing one of his old Midtown High hoodies. You stole it months ago, claiming it was vindicating to rep a school that your soccer team won against when you were sixteen, but Peter catches your nose buried in the collar when you think he isn’t looking. 

A dog barks and the screech of car tires force Peter’s attention elsewhere. He narrows his eyes, ears ringing trying to locate the source of the sound, but the night falls quiet again. He sighs, turns back around, only to find your window open, staring directly at him. 

Peter yelps in surprise, nearly slipping on the lamppost he’s on. 

“You’re smaller than I imagined,” you watch him trip over his feet in a desperate attempt not to fall. “I figured you’d be broader.”

Peter catches his breath, unsure what to do in this situation. You’re leaning out the window, hair falling over your shoulders, and the moonlight illuminates the apples of your cheeks. Your eyes don’t leave him, curious, amused, but tired.

Your eyes are tired. 

“What, are you just gonna let me imply that you’re scrawny?” You laugh at your own joke. “Thought you were known for your quips.”

“It’s ‘thwips’, actually, ma’am.” Instinctively Peter deepens his voice as he speaks, but the fact that he’s even responded at all, on top of his horrible joke, makes him want to slam his head into the lamppost. 

Your eyebrows scrunch together, though they do so as you smile. “‘Thwips?’”

“My webs, they make this…” Peter shrugs helplessly, thankful his mask hides the embarrassment. “Thwip sound? And I’m known for–well. My webs, I guess?”

“You didn’t plan this joke out very well, did you?”

“Not at all.”

The admission is quick, he doesn’t hesitate to confess to you that he doesn’t know what he’s doing, and the stark difference between Spider-Man’s response and Peter’s is a harsh reminder of everything you still don’t understand about him.

“Well, at least you’re honest.” You laugh, the edges of the sound tinged with bitterness. Nails picking at the window’s frame, you swallow hard. There’s always a lump stuck in your throat these days. “How heroic.” 

Peter closes his eyes. The words are aimed at him, and yet you have no idea who you’ve revealed this to. 

He swallows hard as well, reflects your own uncertainty. “Do you, uh. Want to talk about whatever is on your mind, ma’am?”

You tilt your head. “I didn’t know Spider-Man had an emotional touch to him.”

“Oh, trust me. Everything about me is emotional. I cried the other day saving a mouse from a glue trap.” Peter risks jumping onto the ledge of your window, landing softly with your body now inches from him. You gasp, surprised, and he smirks down at you. “I can be very cathartic to talk to.”

You don’t move away, the hum of his body next to yours is familiar, as if the skin underneath the suit remembers you, but in the years you’ve spent living in New York you’ve never encountered Spider-Man before. His skin has never met yours. 

“Was the mouse okay?”

Peter knew you’d ask him this. “He was fine. Bit my hand, but I like to think he did it with love.” You laugh, and he scratches the back of his head, not wanting to ruin this just yet, but he knows he has to. “But, um. Are you okay?”

The laughter dies and the smile lines on your face fade. You look away from Peter, nails picking at the window once again. “I met a guy at a party this summer.”

“Do we like this guy?”

“He’s my best friend.” You confess, a slight tremble in your bravado. “He’s-he’s more than that, even. I think he’s nestled himself between my fifth and sixth ribs, but to him I’m just…”

Unable to finish, your voice trails off. You can’t bring yourself to look at Peter, and he can’t bring himself to look at you. 

“There’s this hurt in him that he won’t let me see; he doesn’t trust me to see. Burdens he has to carry, that he thinks I don’t know are there.” Peter watches as your eyes harden, though there’s still a fondness for the boy you’re talking about that he knows is in his own eyes for you. “But I know him. I know Peter. Even if he doesn’t want me to.”

“He’s only been in my life for six months.” You inhale, close your eyes, and open them upon release. Your eyes find Peter’s and you hold his gaze, long and steady. “But I’ve memorized the dip of his back, the freckles around his thighs. He lets me touch him so softly, but he still thinks I don’t know who he is.”

Peter hangs his head, breaking his eyes from yours. His skin crawls. You know too much, and yet you know nothing at all. 

“I think knowing someone can be stifling,” he says, crouching down to face you. This close, he can see the flecks of remorse that line your eyes. Your breath ghosts his face. “Maybe Peter is still learning to breathe you in how you want him to.”

Give me time, he pleads silently. You fill my lungs every time you whisper my name, but everyday I choke on what I can’t tell you.

“Real poetic, Spidey.” You cup his cheek, the fabric of his suit softer than you expect it to be. Your gaze is sad. Lips downturned, bittersweet with melancholy. “I hope someday someone allows themself to breathe me in.”

The last of Peter’s resolve crumbles. He’s never seen this side of you, vulnerability lacing your weathered insecurity. The insecurity that he put there. All because he thinks this is what’s best for you. Holding you at a distance, the separation marring your bodies with longing. 

You’ve bled yourself dry for Peter, and the realization leaves a bitter taste in his mouth. 

I hope one day you allow yourself to have everything you’ve ever wanted, Peter.

This isn’t what he wanted. You fell into Peter’s fragile hands and he hadn’t caught you. What he wants, what he has to allow himself to do, is catch you before the fall kills you both.  

“I’m sure Peter will be ready one day.” To you, the words are merely reassurance. To Peter, they’re a promise. He’s tired of hiding. Of suffocating you both with secrets only meant to be his demise. 

“Goodbye, Spider-Man.” Your hand drops. He misses your touch the moment it’s gone. You move away from the window, he thinks he sees tears in your eyes, but then you’re gone, and it’s only Peter and a lonesome dog beneath him. 

The next day, the rest of the burn scars fade away. Peter’s skin is left baby-pink, new and sensitive. His hands still ache when he flexes them but his body aches even more being apart from you any longer.

Peter knocks on your door with flowers in his hand. He’s going to be better for you. He’s going to finally try, breathe life back in what’s gone stale between you. When you answer, you hold onto Peter so tightly that for a second he’s afraid you know everything he’s hidden from you. 

“You came,” your tears wet his chest, but neither of you pull away. 

Peter’s hands cradle you, holding you with the delicacy that he should’ve from the start. “I always will.”

And you know he means it, you know that the flowers Peter has brought you symbolize more than just an apology, and it’s almost enough.

–

The distance grows. Everything is cold where it used to be hot. A harsh winter wilts the flowers from Peter, its petals dead upon your desk. 

Everyone has secrets, trust comes with fallacies of vulnerability, but Peter’s soak through your stained hands and he slips through your fingers. 

You stop calling. Plans go unmade. Early morning breakfasts together become lonely. Some nights Peter is still yours, he kisses your breast and hovers over your heart, but as the days pass the pleasure turns into a hurt and slowly it all comes to an end. 

It isn’t Peter’s fault. None of this is, really. You’ve come to love him in a way that terrifies you and yet this was never something he wanted. It isn’t his fault that he can’t be honest with you, not when he never asked you to hold him accountable. 

“Still haven’t called Peter?” 

Spider-Man has become your new friend in the wake of losing your dearest one. He comes to your window most nights and his humor and mannerisms remind you so much of Peter that you can’t bring yourself to turn him away. 

“You’re oddly invested in my pathetic love life for someone who wears spandex every day.”

Peter snorts. “Sue a guy for needing breathable material to save civilians.” 

“But did you really need to wear a bodysuit?”

“I’m confident in my body, thank you,” He stands tall, long ago having been invited to sit in your kitchen for your late night talks. Gesturing to his chest and down, he stands proud and tall. “Can’t hide all of this from New York.”

You shove him, ignoring how strong the man’s chest is under your palm. “I thought heroes were supposed to be humble?”

“I’m the most humble person I know, Y/N.”

Peter’s response makes you laugh, and it feels so good to be able to do that again. Winter has taken its toll on you, paling your skin and sallowing your eyes. March is slowly creeping upon you with its fresh rosebuds and blue skies, and for that you’re thankful. 

“So,” Peter sits back down, kicking his feet up on your window. “Any exciting plans for spring break now that Peter is dead to you?”

“He isn’t dead to me.” You shove his feet down, hurt simmering under your ribcage. “I miss Peter, and I still care about him deeply, but until he figures out how to be honest with me and let me in, I’m done picking at an open wound.”

Peter holds his hands up in surrender. “Okay, I get it. The guy has problems, but who’s to say he isn’t working on them?”

“We sleep together every time we’re alone in a room. Can’t exactly get over any problems when you’re under them.”

“Not really understanding how Peter being unable to keep his hands off you is a bad thing.” He says, looking at you smugly. “I mean, you’re hot. I don’t blame him.”

You blush at Peter’s bold words, but the irony isn’t lost upon you. “Lust and love aren’t the same thing, Spidey.” 

“And if he does love you?” Peter leans across the table, his suit stretching the length of his body and accentuating the lean lines of his muscles that you force yourself to look away from. “Then what? Still going to give him radio silence over spring break?”

Have I lost you? He wants to ask, but you haven’t called Peter in a month and if this is all he’ll ever get from you again, talking with you while disguised as someone else, then he isn’t ready to let go of you just yet.

You roll your eyes. “He doesn’t love me, and as for spring break, I plan on getting incredibly drunk with my friends and pretending that for once in my life I can get what I want.”

And you do. 

The following week Lily invites you to some club with her and Harry, and before it’s even midnight you’re already drunk. Harry pays for everyone’s drinks, Lily spins you around as you dance together, and for a brief, addicting few hours, you forget. 

Bodies press against yours. Lily grips your hands while Harry finds your waist. The music in the small but packed room is nearly deafening. You’re sweaty and your hair clings to your neck but you don’t care. Harry’s hands feel good against your skin. The heat of his palms, the scratch of his nails. 

“Gwen’s here,” Lily shouts, pulling your attention from Harry. “I’m gonna go get her. Are you good with Harry?”

You look at him, finding him already looking down at you with interest, and you squeeze Lily’s hand. “Go, I’ll be fine!”

She smiles coyly at you, sending Harry a knowing wink, before leaving. “Have fun, lovebirds.”

Harry laughs, pulling you even closer, and his hands slide down to the curve of your ass and the weight of his touch feels different from Peter’s. His is softer than Harry’s. More protective than possessive, but alcohol burns your tongue and the grief of a love you once had clouds your mind. 

“This alright?” Harry asks you, lips skimming your ear. You nod, shivering at the sensation. With your permission, Harry draws his lips down your neck. 

Your head moves to the side, allowing him more access, and Harry murmurs something into your skin, but you don’t bother to ask him what he’s said. All you want is for him to keep kissing you, to trace over the path Peter once carved himself, to erase any excess of him that you’ve missed. 

Harry’s hands squeeze your ass and he pushes his hips into you. His hard on digs into you, he nips at your collarbone, and it’s all too much. None of it feels right. Peter never bites into bone, he doesn’t shove against you without satiating you first. 

Your stomach lurches, all the vodka from tonight threatening to return, and you pry yourself away from Harry. He says something, but you can’t hear him over the ringing in your head. Your legs manage to find an exit and you collapse onto the filthy sidewalk outside the club.

Hot tears run down your face. You’re a child, lost and alone. 

Numb fingers fumble for your phone. The screen is bright and you’re crying so hard that your entire body shakes. You try to type his name into your phone, to call the only person you can think of, but your fingers keep missing the “P” and you can’t breathe.

“Hey, miss? Are you alright?” A body lands next to yours. Their hand gently touches your shoulder and when you look up, all the air escapes him. “Y/N?”

Spider-Man kneels before you, arms encasing you as you tremble against the night’s cold. Phone forgotten, you cry into his chest, finally allowing every ache, every hour spent mourning, to fall down your cheeks. 

“What happened, sweetheart?” He whispers against your ear, hand running through your hair. The term of endearment only makes you cry harder, and all Peter can do is hold you through it. He doesn’t see any injuries on you. The smell of alcohol strong, your hair matted. 

“I wan’ to go home,” you slur out, breath hitching with fresh tears. “Please.”

Peter helps you stand up and gently instructs you to wrap your arms around his neck. You comply, and when he’s sure you’re secure, he grips your legs and wraps them around his body. He hasn’t held you like this in what’s felt like years. To have your hips around him again, to hold the weight of your body in his arms, it’s almost too much for Peter. 

But then you cry again, your head tucked against his neck, and he knows that he would bear the pain of relearning your touch over and over again if it meant your nose always remained pressed against his skin. 

Thankfully the club Peter finds you at isn’t far from your dorm. He swings as slowly as he can, weary of how many drinks you’ve had tonight. You don’t react in his arms. The view of the city below you goes unnoticed as the wind drowns out your cries. 

Emma is asleep when Peter carefully sets you down through the window. You’re shaky on your feet, body still pale and weak. He crawls in after you and rests his hand on the small of your back.

“Let’s get you to bed, okay?” 

You don’t say anything. Peter guides you to your room and in your drunken state you don’t think to question how Spider-Man knows which room is yours. He pulls the bedding off your bed, helps you lay down, before he brings the blanket just under your chin. 

When Peter goes to get you a glass of water and some tylenol, your hand stops him. 

“Stay,” you whisper, looking so small in your twin sized bed.

He bites his lip. “You need to drink some water, get some electrolytes in you–”

“Please,” begging, pleading. Liquid honey and nostalgia that is like sap in Peter’s blood. 

Weak for you, drawn to you as he always is, Peter crawls into your bed and you welcome him home. You place your head on his chest, splay your hands around his waist, wrap your body around him as you’ve always done. 

Peter’s heart pounds in his chest; you still remember your way around his body. You still smell like peonies and copper. You still press your nose to his neck as if it were made to fit where his collarbones rise. 

“Doomed from the start.”

He almost doesn’t hear you. He almost doesn’t ask you what you mean, he doesn’t want to bring it to light. “What’s doomed, Y/N?”

And, like the very first time you whispered the vague words to him, you hold them close to your chest. Only this time you don’t smile up at Peter, you don’t etch your name into his skin with lazy kisses. All that’s left within your words is despair. 

“I fell in love with a ghost,” you murmur, eyes tracing Peter’s masked face, as if you can see past the material. As if you know who lays underneath it, the freckles you’ve kissed before. “He won’t leave.”

“Y/N…”

Your eyes close. “I miss you.”

Peter tightens his arms, relishing in the proximity and admission of grief, even though you’ve mistaken Spider-Man’s body for someone else. Your breathing becomes steady, and he knows that he’s lost you again

That night, Peter doesn’t sleep. He spends the hours tracing his fingers over your skin, memorizing the lines of your skin, the scars and freckles that make you whole. Once, this body was his to worship. 

Morning comes and sunlight floods the room. You don’t stir, body exhausted still from the events of the night before. Your phone buzzes to life and Peter finds himself looking down to read the messages. 

Most are from Lily.

Babe, where did you go?

Harry said you got upset?? Did you go home??? Please call ASAP.

I called Emma. She said she heard you come in late last night. Call me when you wake up, ok? I love you!! If I need to kill Harry, I will <3

The final message is from Harry himself. 

I’m sorry about last night. I know you and Pete aren’t talking right now and I shouldn’t have acted on my feelings so soon. Whenever, or if ever, you want to talk, I’m happy to take you to coffee in a strictly platonic way. 

Peter wants to be angry at Harry, his fingers itching to flex into a fist on instinct, but when he looks down at your sleeping body, he knows he can’t. You were never his. Harry respected him enough to keep his distance while Peter kept you at arm’s length.

All he ever did was keep you at a distance, and now he’s learning how painful it is to be displaced. 

Peter sneaks out the window before you wake up. He almost leaves a note, asking you to call him, but then he remembers that it was Spider-Man who came running when you called, not Peter Parker. 

Both will always find their way to you, but last night it hadn’t been the one you needed.

– 

Months pass. Spring turns to summer and freshman year ends in a hazy and slow manner that Peter can’t quite remember. He doesn’t see you on campus. You stop going to all your usual places. 

Lily stops sitting next to him in bio, Gwen gets a boyfriend, and Harry stops greeting Peter whenever he sees him.

Summer break comes and Peter moves home.

“Will Y/N be visiting?” May asks him, prodding for an answer as to why you’ve stopped calling her. 

Peter shakes his head, silent, and it’s all his aunt needs to know that you’re gone. The smile she gives him is sad, understanding, and Peter misses the smile she’d give him when you called and teased him alongside her. 

He still patrols the city as he’s always done. A local pizza shop posts an ad for a delivery boy and Peter figures that the work will be a welcome distraction from everything that reminds him of you. It’s grueling and exhausting running around Manhattan, but the pain is enough for him to forget how you looked naked and on top of him. 

Ned stops by every day. He never asks Peter what happened and where you went, but he’s full of new stories from MIT to fill the silence you’ve left behind, and Betty sometimes tags along. Flash asks if he can still call you for girl advice and Peter doesn’t bother to answer him.

MJ isn’t as delicate and she punches his arm the moment she sees him. It hurts and leaves a bruise, but Peter doesn’t mind. He knows it’s what you would’ve wanted, and he misses knowing your wants and needs.

June seeps into July and there’s a party that Ned insists on attending. 

Peter knows he shouldn’t go. He worked all day and can’t afford to skip a night of patrol, but Ned doesn’t feed into his excuses and suddenly they’re in the same fire hazard apartment building from last year. 

He doesn’t know when he starts drinking or when Ned leaves, but he does know that when he sees you again after months of depravity, Peter’s heart stops. 

You’re dressed in red. The dress is short, it glimmers in the light, and your hair is pinned back and loose and your makeup is smudged and you smile wickedly when you notice him staring. 

“You come here often?” You’re around Peter now, the music is loud and you’re so beautiful. 

He laughs at you, remembering the way you warned him to never say that pickup line to you when you first met. His hands run up and down your waist, eager to relearn every inch of you, and Peter is drunk and so in love that it hurts. 

“I was here once last year,” he shouts over the music. He plays along. “There’s a rooftop I think you might like.”

And then you’re running through the crowd of people, giggling like little kids together, racing to the rooftop of where everything began. Peter opens the door. The July air greets him kindly, welcomes him back after being apart for so long. 

You sit on the concrete and Peter joins you. Your head rests on his shoulder and his arm hangs loosely around you. Up above you there are stars, bright and alive despite the city that tries to choke them. 

The air is sweet between you, tender, though there’s a homesickness to it that neither of you can shake. 

“Do you think we were doomed from the start?” You ask Peter as you continue to look up at the stars. You can’t take your eyes off of them. They’ve finally decided to spare you their beauty, their final dance just for you and Peter. 

You feel him shrug. You’re both drunk and open and vulnerable. 

“I was an idiot,” he mumbles. “I still am.”

“You were,” you agree softly. 

“I tried so hard to be what you needed.” The regret in his voice pulls you to look at him, and Peter is still as devastatingly handsome as the night you met. 

“I know.”

“I’m…” He hesitates, at the palm of your hand, before he accepts that this is how it will always be when it comes to love. Peter holds his breath, his fifth and sixth ribs tremble, and he reveals everything to you. “I’m sorry for the ghost that never leaves.”

The echo of the words that fell from your drunk lips in the spring meant only for Spider-Man to hear. 

“I know, Peter.” You tell him, undoing the weight of a secret that crippled Peter almost his entire life. “I always knew you were Spider-Man. I knew. I was just waiting for you to trust me to help you carry the weight of it all.”

But he never did. The shame of it burns Peter’s face, deteriorates his muscles. How naive he had been to think that it was easier to keep you in the dark than to have shared the light with you. 

Dread fills his chest, accompanied by the longing of what could’ve been, and all Peter can do now, all that’s left to do now, is hold you beneath the stars, stargazing together like you used to. 

“I loved you, you know.” Cards on the table. Peter shows you his hand. He hopes that the cards you dealt to him a year ago are still the same as the ones tonight. 

“I know.” And that’s all you have left to say.

-

⌑ writing masterlist

⌑ if youd like to buy me a coffee ☕︎

⌑ please feel free to like, reblog, and comment. i adore hearing from you guys :)

[iaminlovewithagingermilf]

The Marauders: A One Act Play

PROFESSOR MCGONAGAL: Professor Slughorn tells me that you were behaving inappropriately. What exactly is your side of the story before I fill the blanks in myself? 

JAMES: [James sits up straighter.] Inappropriate? Oh come on we only- [Sirius cuts him off by pushing him by his face back onto the chair.] 

SIRIUS: What exactly was his side of the story? Because we have no idea what you're talking about. [James rubs his nose dejectedly.]

PROFESSOR MCGONAGAL: Really you have no idea? [She looks at them like she doesn’t believe a word out of their mouths.]

SIRIUS: Nope.

REMUS: Nuh-uh.

JAMES: Not a clue.

PETER: Absolutely zero ideas.

PROFESSOR MCGONAGAL: That’s funny, you’d think that you guys would remember filling your teacher’s classroom with fifty chickens! [They all pause for a moment to watch her face turn red.]

REMUS: [Remus taps his finger on his lips, looking thoughtful.] Hmmmm you would think we’d remember doing something like that.

PETER: [Peter mimics his thoughtfulness.] Unless we didn’t do it, in which case there would be no memory to remember.

JAMES: [James points at Mcgonagal importantly.] Oh my God we didn't do it! Honestly I wasn’t expecting that. [He sits back looking very relieved.]

PROFESSOR MCGONAGAL: [Mcgonagal angrily waves her hands around.] He literally saw you do it! He saw you running away, you left a trail of chicken feathers! Peter you have a feather in your hair right now! 

PETER: [Peter plucks the feather out of his hair with a look of new understanding.] Ohhhh you meant that time we filled our teachers classroom with forty nine chickens.

PROFESSOR MCGONAGAL: What do you mean “that time” of course that time! How many other times have you filled up your teachers' class room with fifty chickens!

SIRIUS: Never. We’ve never filled up our teacher's room with fifty chickens. [They all blink in unison.]

PROFESSOR MCGONAGAL: You guys just admitted it, like literally two seconds ago. The professor walked in his class room and found 50 chickens labeled with a number. [She reaches up and rubs her temples looking on the verge of tears.] They still can’t find number 13. 

REMUS: Oh how strange. 

JAMES: Strange indeed. [James stifles a smile, looking away from Remus so he won't laugh.]

PROFESSOR MCGONAGAL: [Mcgonagal signs with an air of resignation.] What on earth possessed you guys to do this?

PETER: The pigs were expensive.

PROFESSOR MCGONAGAL: [Mcgonagal tugs on her hair.] Right of course, I always put chickens in my teacher’s classroom because the pigs are expensive. 

REMUS: I don't see why you are so upset, it’s not like there’s a rule against putting forty nine chickens in your professor’s classroom. We checked.

PROFESSOR MCGONAGAL: You checked to make sure there wasn't a rule against putting fifty chickens in your teacher's classroom.

REMUS: [Remus smiles brightly.] No, but that’s not a rule either.

PROFESSOR MCGONAGAL: what? I- It’s not a rule because we assume our students have common sense! 

SIRIUS: [Sirius waves his hand in a dismissing movement.] Ah well you know what they say about assumptions. 

JAMES: No, what do they say about assumptions?

SIRIUS: [Sirius thinks about it for a second before he shrugs.] I don’t know, they probably cause cancer or something. [James nods like that makes sense.]

PROFESSOR MCGONAGAL: They do not cause canc- He was yelling after you! He told you to stop!

REMUS: Ohhhh that's what he was saying! I thought he was practicing.

PROFESSOR MCGONAGAL: Practicing?!

REMUS: For the opera.

PETER: [Peter nods encouragingly.] He does have a lovely singing voice.

[joicecubes]

HEY!!!!! HEY YOU!! (sits you down to listen to me yap about my queer headcanons for gravity falls characters)

mabel - okay lets get her out of the way. this girl is queer as fuck. she may not realize it yet, but in her teenage years i know she’s experimented with every single label and microlabel in existence. she’d try out hundreds of neopronouns. she realizes her obsession with boys as a kid was a result of comphet. i don’t have a specific label for her because i think in the end she’d discover she can’t make herself identify with any one label. because she’s just mabel! unlabeled and proud.

dipper - do i even have to say it… he’s trans. i think every queer person in this fandom headcanons him to be trans. moving on

stanley - he’s kinda unlabeled too, but for a reason opposite to mabel’s. ladies, gentlemen, doesn’t matter to him! i think its fair to assume he grew up believing that being gay was wrong, it was the 60s and 70s and his dad’s a piece of shit, but as he traveled the country and met so many different people and then witnessed the times changing around him… he’d just. grow into his attraction for men. like, yeah i like men? so what? he doesn’t care for labels. “bisexual, mabel? pansexual? quit making up words!”

(more starting with stanford under the cut this is gonna be sorta long)

stanford - hehehheee okay this is my favorite. i’ve thought about his sexuality a lot. he’s definitely gay to me, and i don’t have much reasoning for that other than like… my heart is telling me that’s the right answer. but he’s also definitely on the aroace spectrum. i personally think he’s demi or grayromantic, he feels romantic attraction VERY rarely and its part of the reason why he felt so helpless in the dating department as a teenager, and also why as an adult later on he tells fiddleford he doesn’t understand romance. he’s hardly ever experienced it! and he wouldn’t really KNOW he identifies with those labels until he’s back in his dimension and mabel is in her obsessed-with-queer-microlabels phase. he hears mabel say “demiromantic” and, being the nerd he is, immediately wants to know what this new word means and why he’s never heard of it before. so mabel rolls a big-ass whiteboard in and starts Mabel’s Guide to the Aromantic Spectrum! ford learns something about himself that day.

fiddleford - HE’S GAY. he’s gay. he’s so gay. i know he canonically has a wife but he literally leaves emma may to work on this mysterious project with his best and only MALE friend from college like… BE so fr. he made ford TWO christmas gifts and forgot to get anything for his wife!! i imagine his marriage to emma may was more of a way for him to deny his sexuality and live what he believes to be a “normal” life. and that obviously doesnt excuse the neglect to his family (because what the fuck fiddleford) but its how i personally make sense of his behavior.

bill cipher - bill transcends human comprehension of gender and sexuality. bill is just bill. but in human terms he’s a lover of all genders. as long as he can manipulate them, they’re fair game! (sorry ford)

wendy - okayyy yesss i know i used the comphet excuse once with mabel but i’m using it again god dammit. with the way wendy talks about her past boyfriends and how we see her be so vaguely invested in her relationship with robbie, it makes me think she’s either a lesbian or somewhere on the aromantic spectrum. she’s just not super interested! but she gives guys chances because why the hell not and is never super into any of it, eventually they break up, and she moves on with her life. i imagine sometime after high school is when she reflects on that and thinks… huh. was i ever attracted to men at all?

soos - saving the most anticlimactic for last… soos is straight to me. but he’s an ENTHUSIASTIC ally :)

thanks for reading i really like overthinking the theoretical queer identities of my favorite characters have a nice day (and let me know if you’re headcanons differ i would love to hear what people think!!)

[schmergo]

My controversial opinions about the current trend of highly minimalist Shakespeare:

I like a minimalist approach to the Bard, but I think it has to be done within certain parameters.

Too many theatres seem to think that either everybody already knows the play and they don’t need to worry about the audience understanding everything OR they assume that nobody cares about Shakespeare and massively cut down everything except the celebrity leading actors’ lines. But if you play your cards right, audiences might actually enjoy other aspects of the play besides the stars!

1. A smaller cast is fine, great even. I’ve heard the estimate that Shakespeare’s plays might have been originally performed by about 15 people. A cast of 11-15 tends to work well in most spaces.

You can do an enjoyable Shakespeare play with 8-10 people (with significant cuts and doubling), but it doesn’t do anything to IMPROVE the theatergoing experience. And under 8 actors? It better be done for comedic effect or highly avant- garde, or it will be incomprehensible to most.

2. If you’re using a lot of doubling/tripling/quadrupling, you need to differentiate characters with costumes. Having everyone wear plain black minimalistic outfits or military uniforms only works if half the actors aren’t playing 5 different people.

As originally staged, Shakespeare’s plays didn’t have much in the way of sets, but costumes did a lot of storytelling. Even if yours are simple and modern, they should tell us something about the characters. The humble Friar Lawrence and the powerful Prince Escalus probably wouldn’t dress the same.

3. Similarly, if you’re doubling, tripling, etc. and significantly abridging the script, do not cut dialogue like “I have disguised myself as a monk!” or “They will never know that I’m secretly Bob!” Otherwise, they might think this is a whole new character they need to keep track of if clothes/accessories are the only signifier for that!

4. Also, try not to cut too many lines that establish a sense of place if you don’t have actual sets. Lines like, “Here we are in the forest” or “We’ve finally reached France!” are Shakespeare’s audience lifelines!

5. If you’re combining small roles to create composite characters, pay attention to those characters’ arcs. For instance, if combining all the minor lords in Macbeth into Ross and Lennox, maybe one starts more naive and the other more jaded, maybe one turns against MacB long before the other.

Don’t assign them lines that don’t make sense for their role, like if Lennox teleports between Scotland and England from scene to scene or if someone reacts with shock to news they already witnessed firsthand in an earlier scene. In general, treat your supporting characters like characters, not just vehicles to move the plot forward for the lead actor’s star turn, even if the lead is played by a celebrity!

6. Relying on voice and facial expressions only to tell the story, absent of sets, costumes, props, ensemble characters, or action scenes only works in a suitably intimate space. I don’t want to sit in the nosebleed seats in a 2,000 seat theatre and see a huge bare stage with only 9 people sitting or standing, emoting to only the first few rows.

Sitting through a play without following the story at all will make lots of people hate Shakespeare who may have otherwise fallen in love with his work after attending your play. “Stripping Shakespeare down to its bare essentials” can be raw and invigorating, just be careful not to remove binding ingredients or the whole recipe falls apart. The text can be tricky enough to comprehend, let alone with next to no visual signifiers to guide them. Work with the text, not against it! So many helpful tools are built into it!

[my-secret-shame-but-fanfiction]

Trine [13]

Anselm Vogelweide x Blue Jones x afab!Reader • Rating: 18+ pals Masterlist• ao3• want to be tagged? | request info • Trine Masterlist • ko-fi •

Summary: Blue doesn't approve of Anselm's choice of pet names.

A/N: Special shout out to the lovely @midgardian-witch 💚🫂 who encouraged me to post this (it has taken 100 years).

Warnings: sexy times mentions, Blue being a brat, german (Blue doesn't speak it), typos, not beta read, please let me know if I have missed a warning!

Word Count: 914

“Well, I hate it.” Blue says, a little too dramatically as he puts the chocolate covered pistachio in his mouth and chews. “It’s awful.” 

Anselm can’t help but smile, however he does manage to suppress his chuckle. “And why is that, mein lieber?” He squeezes Blue’s thigh a little as he talks, making him squirm. 

Blue is sat on Anselm’s lap, in Anselm’s private office. 

He had forgone getting fully dressed today, swanning around in his baby pink silk, short, dressing gown and slippers. Grumpy and inconsolable. 

You were busy today, an important meeting followed by seeing some old friends. (The phrase 'old friends’ had been enough to get Blue scowling.) And you wouldn’t be back until late. 

Even Anselm’s best tricks weren’t breaking his foul mood, and even though he did love Blue’s petulant little pout, he was very aware that he had not smiled once since you’d kissed them just before you left this morning. 

“It just is.” Blue huffs, leaning back a little against Anselm’s chest and staring daggers at the laptop screen.

Anselm presses a light kiss to Blue’s shoulder blade, “What about the cut of this one?” He moves the mouse and clicks on a different suit. Usually shopping cheered Blue up no end, whether it was in person or online. (Anselm had opted for the latter today, as Blue did not want to leave the house.)

“Ugly.” 

Anselm laughs this time and he can feel Blue preen a little, pleased that he has amused him. 

“The colour is disgusting as well.” 

“I like it, mein lieber.” 

“Well, you have no taste.” Blue folds his arms. 

“Is that true?” Anselm lightly kisses his neck and Blue nods.

“Absolutely.” He juts his chin towards the screen, “And neither does this designer. I know you’d get it handmade but this prototype is just ghastly.” 

“Just ghastly?” He repeats with glee, thoroughly enjoying how worked up Blue was becoming. Anselm takes a pistachio from the bowl on his desk and presses it lightly to Blue’s lips. 

“There’s no sense of style.” He huffs before he opens his mouth and licks the minuscule amount of melted chocolate from Anselm’s fingers liberally. “I would dress you better than this hack, or yourself.” 

Anselm can see the little frown deepening on Blue’s face, “I thought you liked them, mein lieber? You have three suits from them, and two-”

“Why are you calling me that?” Blue snaps. Despite the bluntness of his words his tone, surprisingly, doesn’t come across as rude. More… distressed and trying to cover it. 

“Mein lieber?” 

“Hmm.” Blue purposely stares at the computer.

Anselm slowly drags his left hand up to Blue’s face, lightly stroking his jaw and gently coaxing him to turn. Blue huffs again, rolling his eyes, but turns his head. 

“Are you not my dear? My love? My spoilt little brat?” Anselm squeezes Blue’s waist a little, making him yelp and Blue scowls harder. 

“Meine liebe,” Blue says disgruntledly. “You’re saying mein lieber.” 

Anselm chuckles again, understanding. He called you ‘meine liebe’. “My sweet, you will have to forgive german and its old fashioned formalities. Meine liebe is the feminine, mein lieber is masculine.” 

“Oh,” Blue paused, the thoughts turning in his mind for a moment. “Well, I don’t like that either.” 

“Do you not, my love?” 

“No, I don’t want ‘mein’ that just sounds… wrong, horrible. Meine is sweet and nice and,” reminded him of you. He wanted to be called the same sweet words, held in the same regard. 

Anselm smiles, nuzzling his beard into Blue’s cheek for a second. “Meine liebe it is.” He mutters in Blue’s ear, making him shudder and press closer. 

Blue swallows, wrapping his arms around Anselm’s neck. “I like that.” He whispers. 

“Well, thank the old gods, because at last, it seems like my beloved is satisfied with something.” Anselm pinches Blue’s thigh lightly, making him yelp and squirm, Anselm’s tight grip on his waist stopping him from completely escaping. 

“I was satisfied with the chocolates.” Blue mutters but Anselm ignores him.

“All day I’ve been more than accommodating with your bratty behaviour, and after I promised our wife I would cut you some slack and not be too harsh on you.” 

Blue leans back, pouting a little but it’s not enough to cover his smile. “She asked you to be kind to me?” He teases lightly, obviously thrilled that you and Anselm had had a conversation about him. 

“She demanded it.” Anselm strokes Blue’s cheek softly, before sliding his fingers around to the back of his neck and squeezing firmly. “And, I will be. For the whole of today.”

Blue grins wickedly.

“But don’t think you’re going to get away with this behaviour, oh no.” He tuts.

“Oh no? Are you going to wait until later to punish me? I better make the most of it then.” He grins, showing off his canines. Thoroughly looking forward to the idea of riling up Anselm even more and facing his delicious wrath later on. 

But instead of a stern word, Anselm gives him an equally dangerous smile. “Quite the contrary. Our liebe told me before she left, that she will be punishing you for any and all your transgressions today.” 

Blue pauses for a moment, his eyes wide and then swallows audibly, a shiver of delight running through him. 

“Ah, much better,” Anselm kisses his cheek and rubs his nose against his. “I much prefer seeing joy in your eyes over sorrow.” 

Thank you for reading!

@pleasurebuttonwrites @raven-rk @campingwiththecharmings @alexxavicry @whatthefishh

@romanarose @strangerhands @saturn-rings-writes @steven-grants-world  @eyelessfaces

 @angel-of-the-moons @minigirl87 @lunar-ghoulie @silvernight-m @autismsupermusicalassassin

@reallyrallyauthor @basicalyrandom @alwaysmicado @mangoslushcrush @marc-spectorr 

@spxctorsslxt @novarosewood @pygmi-cygni @hammerhead96 @emma23 

@sub-aro @killerdollz @maplemind  @mwltwo @loonymagizoologist 

@dameronshandholder @queerly-anxious @homuraak3mi @swiftiegirliepop 

@oscarssimp @milkypompon @eternallyvenus @lounilu @avengersinitiative2012 

@pigeonmama @marcsb1tch @iolaussharpe-24 @chaithetics @DowBaStan

 @faretheeoscar @lonelyisamyw-0love  @queerponcho @twwcs @Spnwhore2430 

@ominoose @ierofrnkk @have-you-seen-my-sanity @to-be-a-sunshine @blushingrn 

@missdictatorme @musicalnacho @ingoldthewizard @buckyssugarchick

@soft-girl-musings @krakenkitty  @purple-amaranthe @marcsb1tch 

@howellatme @mystic-writings @f0url3af @sapphossongbird @wilder-fangirl

@lemonzestinmydrink @sonotpractical

If you'd like to be taken off the tag list please let me know here

[victoriadallonfan]

I recently binged Janus - phenomenal fic, by the way - and it got me wondering; how well do you think the other members of Breakthrough would do if they got stuck lending Taylor advice and powers instead of Victoria? Any particular power interactions that jump out at you?

First off: thank you very much! Always glad to meet someone who enjoys my writing!

Secondly: uhh, they would not do well I think… barring Ashley and Rain.

The big thing about Victoria in Taylor’s head (and switching places with her at night) is that Vic has her head in the game to speak. She adapted to the horrific circumstances, analyzed the aspects of timeline fuckery, and took her time to adjust to Taylor and take the back seat to gain her bearings.

Sveta, Capricorn bros, Kenzie, and Chris would be lashing out. In different ways, obviously, but they don’t have the same mind set that Victoria has and in Capricorn case, this is another layered bit of trauma they’d have.

And none of them have that same intuitive understanding of Shardspace as Victoria. They’d really make Taylor panicked a lot more and possibly expose her. Especially when they take control of the body.

Ashley and Rain are different at least. Ashley (Swansong) has an understanding that rivals or surpasses Vic due to already being dead and Rain has experience using his tinker senses in Shardspace to an extent. Rain would be more passive and might not even choose to reveal himself to Taylor… until the dream room occurs and they meet, whoops.

Ashley would be unraveling the mystery of her situation much faster because she is connected and making sure Taylor has better control of her version of the power. She’s not a bad person to tutor Taylor either, though it’s more about Taylor putting her foot down compared to wide variety Vic teaches her.

The only real danger is that, while in the real world, Ashley doesn’t have access to her bi-polar disorder medications.

I think Taylor dealing with Rain’s power would be most fun, because the drama of the dream room might put her at odds and see him as an enemy

[lullabyes22-blog]

In your melco married au, I was wondering if ambessa would be inclined to meet melike purely out of a grandmothers desire, or if she doesn’t want anything to do with her if it means that Mel won’t return to Noxus either way? Hope you’re doing well ✨

She'd absolutely drop in - complete with manufactured excuses "My generals are interested in the medicinal Shimmer your husband is bankrolling," - "I had business in Greater Shurima and thought your Hexgates would cut the journey in half," - "My ships need refueling and Zaun's diesel is cheaper."

She'd 100% barge into Mel and Silco's estate and make herself right at home, because what are boundaries? What is permission? This is her daughter, and her daughter's daughter, and Ambessa is the fount from whence this greatness sprung. They should be thrilled she's taking time off from conquest and terror campaigns to darken their doorstep.

Each time, Mel ends up wildly stressed, Silco vaguely irritated, and their staff on tenterhooks because having a Noxian general as a houseguest comes with tons of demands: fresh meat for dinner, entertainment and lodgings for Ambessa's huge entourage, plenty of space for Ambessa's hounds to roam free and a whole private berch for her ships etc.

Not to mention Silco's network have to make sure they slip no spies into Zaunite territory.

Deep down, though, Ambessa does want to see how her granddaughter is progressing, and that she's picking up no nasty Trencher habits like self-determinism, backtalk and making friends with the hoi polloi.

She'll inflict Mel with a barrage of unsolicited advice, and criticize every aspect of Mel's softhearted approach to mothering:

"You let the infant sleep in yours and your husband's bed?"

"What, no wet-nurse? You'll ruin your figure."

"Why does she cry all the time? Is she ill?"

"She cannot speak yet? That's what you get for raising her around mongrels."

"She's so skinny. You aren't feeding her enough."

"Are you sure you didn't bed the valet? She looks nothing like her father."

Mel will grit her teeth and say as little as possible, and Silco will sit beside her with an expression of half-lidded neutrality while inside he considers a hundred creative ways to commit matricide-in-law.

(Jinx, in the rafters, has already retrofitted sludge-bombs to explode on impact the moment Ambessa's warship is at high sea. She'll be listening to the newsreel after Ambessa departs with the eagerness of a child anticipating fireworks.)

To Silco's credit, he's a skilled, if frosty, host, and Ambessa's ego is quite gratified by all the trouble that uppity Trencher is taking to impress her. (She doesn't realize that he's doing this to put Mel's mind at ease. The less ammunition Ambessa has re: Zaun's unsuitability as a "backwater", and the less barbs she has to sling re: Silco's suitability as a consort, the better. She also doesn't realize that it's Mel's impeccable tastes and ease with managing a city that's making her visit so pleasant: every amenity already anticipated, the servants respectful but not clingy, the wine cellar stocked with excellent vintages and a dinner menu that's as sophisticated as it is varied.)

In the evenings, he'll take Ambessa's entourage to the Deadlands to hunt Sump-boar, and Ambessa's guards will marvel that such an ugly, wretched place has so much hidden splendor, and Ambessa's officers will take in the eerie landscape and Silco's ease with navigating the tunnels and wonder if maybe the rumors about the Eye being a secret blood-sorcerer are true.

Ambessa will never say she's enjoying herself, but she will say she could've done worse for a son-in-law, that Silco has a sense of ruthless finesse and an ironclad understanding of fatherly duty, and that the baby is "coming along nicely, even if she's still too puny to handle a broadsword."

(She has no idea that by the time Melike's seven, he'll have taught her how to sever arteries six different ways with a butterfly knife.)

(She also has no clue Melike can, in fact, speak. She just doesn't speak in front of Ambessa. A blessing, given her favorite words are "Piss off!", "Boom!" and "Papa<3!")

(The girl will continue practicing selective mutism in front of the Medarda Matriarch until she's at least five years old).

On the whole, though, Ambessa tends to end these drop-ins the tiniest bit more favorably disposed toward her daughter's choice of husband. Not that she'd ever say it to either's face. Instead she'll drop pointed remarks to Mel, like "He's a clever enough businessman, but beware: he has no love for the Imperium, and you are Imperium through and through," or "He's a passable enough husband, but do not let that slippery tongue fool you: a shark's teeth stay hidden till it's too late," or "His city's an industrious one, but the darkness and fumes are bad for a woman's looks, and he is a man who fixates on beauty."

And she'll depart with a final, ominous, "You'd have been better off in Noxus. Your place is at the heart of the empire. He cannot give you that."

Then she'll roll out with her warships and her bloodthirsty entourage, leaving behind the faint whiff of blood and iron and the lingering sense that her presence has stirred the pot of Mel's marriage to Silco in ways none of them will enjoy.

Mel will spend the next week or two on edge, jittery and disgruntled, and Silco will start thinking about how he can fortify Zaun's borders against foreign invasion. They'll have an argument by the month's end over whether Silco's dreams of Zaun take precedence over their dreams for their family, and whether Mel secretly plans to betray him once his back is turned and abscond with Melike to the Motherland, and their household will be in disarray and the atmosphere will be fraught- until they realize, oh, they have the place all to themselves again.

Then it's off to bed, and mending whatever rift Ambessa's visit has torn between them with lots and lots of makeup sex and plenty of renewed vows of devotion in the afterglow.

Little Melike grows up watching the dance between her father and her mother and her grandmother, and decides, y'know, her folks have a relationship that hinges on compromise, even if they both veer towards extremes. Her grandmother, however, is an example of a woman who doesn't compromise, doesn't negotiate, doesn't budge: an icon, a figurehead, a titan.

A woman who has carved out her own path, and expects the same of her kin.

And Melike goes: y'know?

I think I'll be a titan, too.

And by twenty, she's taken control of the Shimmer trade routes. By twenty-five, she's got her own mercantile empire. By thirty, she's taken over a small province in Shurima and brought it under Zaun's jurisdiction as a client state, and she's done it, not with cutthroat business deals like Papa, or sly political maneuvering like Mama, but with sheer, uncompromising will and a ruthless streak that, once awakened, she never puts to sleep.

She goes on to be a charismatic, brilliant leader and an unstoppable force: ready to spread word of self-determination across the continents, and willing to take on any empire that stands in her way.

Ambessa's last days will be spent hearing about her granddaughter's meteoric rise, and thinking: shit.

The Medarda bloodline might actually last the distance.

And if Mel and Silco's union is what birthed this perfect storm of intellect and will, both Wolf and Fox wrapped in a mermaid's pretty fins, then well…

Maybe there's something to be said about strength in compromise, after all.

<3

[sandyca5tle]

Slimeshifter HRT - Month 3(/28)

Well, hello again, I’m back after what feels like ages (even if it’s only been a couple months), but instead of Slime HRT I’m bringing you Shapeshifter/Polymorph HRT (not sure which I’m going with, Shapeshifter’s what I default to, but Polymorph is a more technical name (also seen ‘Omnimorph’ thrown around, but not really a fan of that myself) we’ll see how it shakes out). 

Before I get into my new changes tho, I’ve actually got some life updates: We got a job! In Hyper City of all places. It’s not very glamorous or anything, it’s just cleaning/washing up glasses and stuff, but it pays the bills - turns out that, with the control I’ve learnt over my acidity, I can actually clean things like that very well, just kinda melt all of the dirt and grime off, and eat it up. It can take a little while to do it, since I have to be careful not to damage the glasses, but I’ve gotten really good at it, and it’s helped my acid control too, so win-win there, not to mention with additional limbs I can then polish multiple of the glasses at once (although only like, two at a time, otherwise it’s hard to quality control)

On top of the new job, I also got a place to live in Hyper City too, just a simple apartment for myself. It doesn’t make the commute that much different, but it lets me deal with a few less weird looks from people, and I can be nosy at all the cool things here, not to mention it makes attending appointments just that bit easier too. Not to mention I can meet my friends and partner easier here too - it being only like a twenty minute trip from anywhere on Earth makes it an amazing meet up point.

Anyways, on with the transition update!

Unfortunately there’s really not much to say at this point, it being early on and stuff, much like with the start of my Slime HRT, but I have been paying very close attention and trying to spot anything that seems off, so I have a few things to talk about.

First thing, and honestly I’m not sure if this is the tail end of Slime HRT or the beginning of Shapeshifter HRT, but I feel very connected to my whole body. Now, I say I’m not exactly sure which transition this is exactly, because Slime HRT definitely kinda removed the distinction between body parts, at least as humans understand it as I only really have two now - my core, and my slime - so everything I make with my slime is just part of that, which definitely led to a greater sense of wholeness and connection to my body (also y’know, the whole feeling more comfortable in my goo helps). But this is new, it’s like I almost kinda know what each part of my body is doing - which I know sounds weird to say, like ofc I know what my body’s doing, it’s my body - but to use a human analogy, humans don’t know what their organs are up to 98% of the time, other than hoping they’re doing their job, so it’s kinda like if a human knew that for certain? The line’s a lot blurrier with slime biology, but idk, it feels more like my mind properly extends all throughout my body, rather than just being in a centralised location, even if (I think) I know  it’s all stored in my core. 

This change has both improved my dexterity - being able to more keenly feel any limb or extension I make makes it a lot easier to have fine motor control - and also improved my ability to alter my shape, hence why I think it might be a part of the Shapeshifter HRT, but either way, being able to feel every inch of my body has certainly helped with perfecting shapes - I can actually make my slime kinda sharp now! Although it’s still made of goo, so it isn't great at cutting things, but it’s a bit sharper than my previous attempts, so progress!

The other thing that’s helped with shapeshifting, and that I’m fairly certain is the Shapeshifting HRT, is that I’ve noticed my body has gotten, well, less viscous, more fluid. It’s been a little awkward, as I’ve gotten used to a certain level of solidity, and while I can change it back to normal if I focus, at the moment I’m stuck being a little less cohesive than I’ve gotten used to, which has led to a couple instances where I’ve suddenly ended up a bit, or a lot, more puddley than normal, which is both inconvenient and embarrassing. Fortunately I’m very adept at reforming myself, so it’s no worse than tripping over your feet and ending up on the floor, but it still sucks that I’m having to deal with it again. But hey, the benefit is that it makes it much easier to alter my shape, and I’ve been loving the increased fluidity, even if it has made shapes harder to hold… have had to be careful with my wings, since there’s less structure to hold them up and in shape, which sucks a little, especially as I’ve had to forgo them once or twice. 

As another annoyance to this is that it also makes me occasionally leave slime behind me when I walk, or otherwise move, which both sucks from a cleanliness perspective and a mass retention one, although the former is much more of an issue than the latter, particularly in the new apartment.

The other main thing I’ve noticed since starting is that…. argh it’s hard to describe, it’s like a new understanding of… things? Like when I look at something I’m automatically picking out more little details about their shape, and the same when I pick something up. I’ve found myself idly staring at things, or rolling them around in my hand, or engulfing them in my slime (mostly without dissolving anything), and just picking out all the details in them, sometimes mimicking cool shapes I notice either at the time or later. It’s kinda weird, it’s like a whole extra bit of information on top of the normal sense. It’s actually helped a lot with my job, since i can feel any imperfections be they dirt or scratches in the glass much more easily that i might have otherwise

Between that and the greater connectivity to my body, I’ve been dealing with a lot more sensory information, primarily with touch, but a little with the other senses too. This has all led to some bouts of sensory overload, which have been…. unpleasant to say the least (it’s an overload for a reason), and it’s particularly hard to block it out when it’s touch - ever tried not touching anything? Fortunately if I limit how much I do touch when it happens, as well as other stimuli, I can recover, but it is distinctly unfun…

But asides from those issues it’s been overall chill with these early changes, and frankly the improved altering of my shapes has been a great change.

As a quick note, separate from my latest transition, I’m very curious about how I’m storing all the mass I have - I mean, I can eat and eat, and I don’t gain any size unless I want to (and I know that sounds like boasting - and I guess it is a little, but not like that), but like, I have eaten some really big things when i’ve had the chance, and there’s been no change - I don’t even weigh more, or at least, nowhere near as much as I should for what I’m eating. I can go from my 4’4” self to the size of my apartment block, maybe even taller now, and I don’t become some kind of super dense slime when I’m small.  I’ve hypothesized before that I think it’s stored in my core, since I really started noticing this once that had formed, but there’s too much to just be stored in there, and again, the density would be an issue too, I should have started making some kind of way towards becoming a black hole or something. I’ll send an actual message to the company that supplies my medication to ask about this, see if they know anything about it, because honestly, I’d like to know what’s going on and also, if it’s some kind of weird timelord bigger-on-the-inside deal, that’d be really interesting - not to mention it could be really useful if it’s something we could learn to replicate with technology or something. So yeah, hopefully we can find out more about that if only to satiate our curiosity.

So yeah, that’s the first update for Shapeshifter HRT! Hopefully I’ll actually get to do some proper shapeshifting by the next time I post but until then: See ya!

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Well, here we go, Slimeshifter HRT, and I've got some plans for this next 'season' of this story hehehe, so hope you'll look forward to that hehe. Also wanna add a little something here about @ayviedoesthings 's Dragon HRT and @welldrawnfish 's Fish HRT having ended soon, given that they were some of the first to start writing their stories, and inspired so many of the rest of us to start our own, which has led to a wonderful community where we've made a bunch of wonderful new friends. So sad to see their series each wrapping up, but thankful to them both (and the others who started all this of course) for bringing us all together by lighting the spark that created this awesome community. And on a more individual note, this all also encouraged me to actually start posting my writing, something I'd never done before, let alone maintained a project this long, so I'm really glad to have had this inspiration to actually do this, which has also lead me to putting other (shorter) pieces up as well, and all in all that's been wonderful too, so yeah, really happy for all of that. So yeah, thanks to everyone who started this, and to all the new friends who are a part of this community and who've helped me in writing all this hehe. First - Prev - Next Previous Side Story - Two of One

Tags List under cut (Let us know if ya wanna be added)

@calliecwrites, @friedsputnik, @now-entering-the-goop-zone, @scrubbinn, @lilacinthefog,

@mint-and-authoress, @losttodreams, @redroversendjayover, @ariathelamia, @kanithecatdemon

[urauntiefaye]

Maki+Daddy Kink🔞🌸

WC: 710 

TW: Hard thoughts at bottom, Daddy kink, talk of mental disorders, I switch between she/her and they/them honestly. That should honestly be it, if you're uncomfortable with Maki content that's okay, you don't have to read it just don't send hate. let me know I forgot anything!

A/N: SFW portion is a lot longer than NSFW portion btws guys. This is kind of sorta in correlation to my Maki with a Hyper Feminine GF, I realized I didn’t go too much into the daddy kink aspect to it, so I decided to elaborate a little bit more here!

*SFW* Outside of The Bed: Maki with a daddy kink is interesting to me, because it doesn’t only apply in the bedroom. Maki gives off vibes of wanting to take care of his girlfriend all the time, not only because he’s the maknae and everyone is always babying him. But more just because Maki honestly just gives off the vibes of being a caregiver, not like in a kinky or little space sense. I just noticed he really likes taking care of the other members, either if it’s cooking for them, or supporting them. It’s really heavy with Harua that I’ve noticed, and it could just be me. But Maki seems to not only just be a person who genuinely likes taking care of others, but especially others who have more of a submissive personality type(not in a sexual sense/can be but not what I meant in this context). 

He definitely gives off the type of boyfriend vibes who would order for you if you have social anxiety. The type who holds your hand in large crowds, the type to easily pick up if you’re getting anxious or over stimulated and asks you what’s wrong. I feel like Maki would be the perfect boyfriend for someone who is neurodivergent(ADHD, Autism, AuDHD, OCD ect). Or just someone who has mental health issues like anxiety, depression, bipolar, BPD ect. Because he just seems very patient and understanding, the type to take charge if you need him too. The type that can just easily read you, and helps you through whatever the issue is. 

Now I also just see him lowkey loving it that his girlfriend needs him, not like unhealthily dependent on him. But just look to him for help, and let him lead and take control. It’s not really that he needs to have control, more so just that it makes him feel good and happy knowing his significant other trusts him enough to let him take care of them and that they feel comfortable enough to let their guard down enough. Mostly because people who have those disorders like ADHD and Autism, and hell any of the ones I mentioned tend to mask a lot trying to fit into society so they don’t ‘slip’ up. And it can get really fucking exhausting, to the point to were they’re brain feels so full and just want to shut it off. Which helps when you have someone to lead you in a sense and just let you relax and not have to worry about anything (this is from personal experience and what I heard from friends). And Maki would take pride knowing his partner feels comfortable enough to not mask around him and just be themself. 

*NSFW* Inside of The Bed: Maki loves having you call him daddy. But not just that, he loves taking the lead and being the dominant one in the bedroom. Seeing how you trust him enough to do so is such a turn on for him, and he follows through 100%. Loves when you dress up in cute girly frilly clothes so much too, he just devours so much. Doesn’t matter if it’s soft sweet loving sex, or kinky rough sex. He wants you to call him daddy, maybe even has you wear a necklace with his name on it too just so people know who you belong to. Loves looking at the necklace while he fucks you, adjusts it when it falls past your neck. If you want something you have to address him as daddy and say please, if he’s not satisfied with the way you make your request he will have you repeat it until you get it right too. Can’t get enough how your eyes tear up and you’re whimpering out to him because it feels too good. Wipes your tears away while calling you cute too. Always makes you send photos of yourself in your outfits to him, if you get a new outfit? Send a photo, a new lingerie set? Send a photo AND a video. Just wants to fuck you so much that you forget all of your problems too. If you’re having a bad day, don’t worry cuz he’s here to fuck it out of you. 

[yuseirra]

So what was that whole idea about Kamiki's true nature?

Since I tend to like children quite a bit, there’s one point(out of many)in this manga that really bothers me. Around volume 14, there have been several mentions of Kamiki’s “true nature” and whatnot. For instance, in Aqua’s script, it’s mentioned that Ai broke up with him after realizing his true nature, and so on(it wasn't the case in reality).

But when I think about how the authors wrote this character, it doesn’t seem like he had an inherently bad nature. As the creators of the story and characters, they would know this better than anyone else. If anything, given his circumstances, he seems like someone with a remarkably good temperament. That’s why I couldn’t stop thinking about it when the manga was still ongoing—what exactly led to him being associated with such accusations? I was curious, it’s confusing. He was kind. And it doesn’t seem like he fits into the “kind people turning scary when they snap” category either, because even in those cases, there’s usually a limit to how far the outburst goes. It’s just really strange. How could someone like him lash out at Ai? He couldn’t even get angry in the first place. He missed the moments when he should’ve gotten angry, and even when he had reasons to, he didn’t. They built his character like that, I've been paying attention to how they did and I wouldn't be confused if things were different!

When I look at it, it doesn’t seem like the authors were trying to write him as fundamentally “evil.” If anything, they seemed to be portraying him as “empty,” and they might have been trying to explore that theme.

It’s true that the emptiness and lack of affection experienced by people who weren’t sufficiently loved during the early stages of their lives can be deeply painful and significantly influence their hearts. But if the story is saying that this emptiness and pain were the cause of him turning into a monster or leading to his downfall, then I find it incredibly disrespectful to people who endure such suffering. I don't think that was what the authors were going for, either. In my opinion, those factors alone don’t seem like sufficient reasons for someone with his personality and pain to commit such extreme acts. He wasn’t just an ordinarily “nice” person even; he seemed extraordinarily gentle by nature, at least from what I can tell.

If something external had happened to push him over the edge, then maybe it would make sense. That’s why I think he only changed after Ai’s death.

But in the story, aside from Ai, it feels like no one treats him as a human being. Was he really that terrible? From when? Why is he treated this way?

If this is meant to convey some kind of message, maybe I could understand it.

For instance: “Both deities of the entertainment industry were warped in their own ways because they weren’t treated as human—one was revered as a god, and the other was treated as a monster.” If that’s the point, I might get it. But was that really conveyed properly?

What frustrates me immensely is that Kamiki was consistently abused from at least the age of 10 or 11, throughout his adolescence, and yet none of the adults around him did anything to help—they just left him to suffer. Then, near the end, they react so half-heartedly towards him when he goes to meet some of them, while acting all meaningful and apologetic, as if they’re atoning for their sins toward Ai. But what about him? It seems like no one—not a single person—ever did anything for him except for Ai, no wonder he's so desperate about her, huh?

And really, what did he even actually do? How far did his crimes go? When he says at the end, “I didn’t do anything,” (they actually had him say that) I think that’s half true and half false. From my perspective, it seems like he awakened after Ai’s death and started using his divine powers, determined he would bring her back. If he were a deity, it would make sense for him to be able to guide people’s futures, twist their fates, and decide whether they live or die. That's something he's actually capable of doing, if he's that specific god of light who governs over the industry!! If he committed sins, he should face the consequences. But—

If the story had depicted this situation in a clearer sense, like what is actually going about him in the first place, then they could’ve drawn out discussions about how to respond to this character in a more engaging way.

However, this work portrays the character as inherently problematic, yet when you break it down, it leaves you scratching your head. Everything is ambiguous. So, was he always problematic to begin with, or what? The story also includes parts where the protagonists like Akane or Aqua outright suggest that he’s an issue. Is it just because they need to kill him?

If the story were portraying him as if he had that kind of disposition from the beginning, I wouldn’t have anything to say… I can make that out!! I studied psychology for goodness sake!! As I’ve kept mentioned before, however, this character’s transformation is closer to complete corruption or a total reversal of temperament. People don’t change this drastically on a normal level. It’s just too strange. If this were explored more thoroughly, it might be more convincing. No matter how much I think about it, the only explanation for why this character was written this way seems to be this, that he is really some god, and I think it’s likely correct.

I mean, he was abused since he was a child, but not a single adult at the time properly addressed it. And I don’t even think that alone would have turned him into a criminal. That’s not what caused it— he was holding up for so long, and then, after Ai died, the only person who treated him well was gone. From what I figure, that's like what's the only thing enough to break him THAT BAD. I think he ended up living a miserable existence just to try and do something for her, to dedicate himself to her.

But none of this is clear, and the story just keeps pushing the narrative that “he’s the problem,” “he’s a monster,” and “killing him will solve everything.” Somewhere along the way, this approach starts to feel unnecessarily cruel and upsetting. Am I reading this wrong? But that’s how it seems to be written.

Is it really okay to handle this sort of subject this way? It’s too harsh, both internally and externally. It feels like the character has never been properly addressed or explored.

Sure, he’s an adult now, he needs to take responsibilities. But he was just a kid when he suffered. So young at that. Is it really appropriate to discuss things like a teenager’s “true nature” or whatever? Sometimes you do see kids with genuinely dangerous and cruel tendencies, but he used to be the exact opposite of such a case. He did not display any aggression. Why frame things this way? The way this story handles this is just mean. For someone who endured abuse and kept smiling to get through it, that’s an extraordinary level of strength and character. For his case, it isn’t about “true nature”—it’s a product of his environment. And yet they don’t explore that? They should. The way the narrative directs readers is deeply unsettling. What were the adults even doing? That’s the real issue! That’s where the problem lies! Not addressing that and just concluding with his death feels so infuriating. What is this story even trying to do?!

And to add to that, while we talk about him at 10 or 11 years old, I don’t think he ever received proper love even before that.

That’s why it’s so astonishing that when he met Ai, she said she wanted to live with him forever. It shows how much she genuinely liked him! Despite everything he had been through, he still managed to be that lovable to her. Both of them were so genuine toward each other. For that to happen, she must have been truly happy around him—she must have felt cared for. It's really hard for someone like that to endorse those kinds of feelings towards someone, she really loved that guy and he probably really deserved it at that point.

Looking at this character, even considering what he’s been through, his outward demeanor is still incredibly kind. It’s so rare for someone to stay that way despite everything.

The idea of this guy having a “noble soul” or “pure spirit”, "nobility" might connect to the Sarutahiko reference (since that god is described that way), but beyond that, this character’s natural disposition seems to have been one of the kindest in the entire story. He’s just been twisted by his experiences. I can believe he really was like that. Even Ai had a dark personality, yet he somehow endured without letting that show at least outwardly—even when he was just a kid, even younger than her!

He was genuinely a good person. For someone like that to end up this way? It’s because he lost Ai and couldn’t handle it. He had given all his affection to her. Maybe if there had been someone else in his life to help him, things could’ve been different, but no one besides Ai treated him well. The way the character was written really does suggest that’s the case.

The problem isn’t so much the framework or the plot but the way it’s executed. It’s so lacking in consideration. This kind of material is too heavy to leave in the realm of mystery-solving. Even so, if they wanted to depict his personality or actions as the problem, they should’ve written his personality differently and laid the groundwork with different foreshadowing.

They wanted to add mystery elements while still portraying him as kind, so there’s this constant mismatch. The result is that his character remains unclear. And they can’t fully commit to making him a villain because the character is tied to mythology—he’s clearly based on a god from myth, and that god was incredibly benevolent. Oh my gosh..why do this to a god known for being a loving husband?

Also—again—talking about the “true nature” of a 14–15-year-old? Sure, it’s not entirely out of the question, but isn’t still that going too far? No one talks about Airi’s true nature, so why his? What even is his “true nature”? Blaming a kid for this? For feeling hollow from having been neglected and unloved? Seriously… when adults start telling a child they’re “hopelessly empty” or whatever, I’m just sitting here clutching my head in frustration. He was just a middle schooler! What are you doing? And the adult doing the gaslighting? They’re not even a proper human being! Sure, adults like that exist in real life, but still!

The problem is that the story doesn’t dismiss it as nonsense—it actually builds that trait into his character. It doesn’t outright contradict it. I guess it’s not entirely wrong of them to point it out, but still… it’s so frustrating. These elements function as part of the plot and keep things intriguing, but it feels careless. The story doesn’t address the core issue, the problem of the adults having hurt a kid, and that makes it harmful. Anyway… Kamiki’s life was just awful. He could’ve turned out so much better. That’s what’s heartbreaking about him. And it’s not even entirely clear whether he didn’t turn out okay. His responsibility on this all is so ambiguous. What if he really didn't want to hurt anyone like he's said, but things turned out that way anyway—what are we supposed to do with that?

Well, considering what he thought about Ruby, I guess that’s not entirely the case(omg) but I think the whole "feeling Ai" might have actually had some sort of base from his standpoint. What if he knew doing that would work for certain but held back but didn’t kill her because she was his and Ai's child (he says that she's theirs) then felt “I should’ve tried something when I had the chance” in his dying breaths huh? Wouldn’t that be tragic? Messed up but I think that's what could have been what's going on! I could see that being possible. But still, what kind of nerve does he have… ugh… the audacity… How could he do that to his own daughter lol. At this point I think that's the writer's fault, not the character because it's so ridiculous. What even is this manga? I’m at a loss for words.

Honestly, I wish they hadn’t used such heavy themes. The manga can be entertaining but it’s too emotionally taxing. The author handles these serious topics in such a strange way, and it’s exhausting. I'd go as far to say it feels a bit irresponsible at times.

[mezmer]

Idk this is really crazy and I should just find a way to share my story of my addiction because it is a God given miracle that I am alive today lol. Where would I even share that? My dad has had a few books published and he knows publishers. I’ve discussed writing a joint book of prose with him and releasing it just as something special for our families and friends, something special for us too. Perhaps I could make it part bio part prose and just write about it…. I need that story to be put out there, it would blow someone’s mind, and I would love to inspire somebody. Gosh if I could drive and had time I would be out there helping addicts in a second. Imagine saving an addicts life and she goes back to raise her children… i met so many mothers in rehab who didn’t have it in them to quit. Imagine being that person that plants the seed! Im so passionate and if only I had the chance!

[bleue-flora]

Why I think c!Dream is Autistic - Part 2

[Part 1] - [Part 2] - [Part 3]

If you haven’t read part 1 (eventhough I did try and write these as like separate things) I do recommend you go do that...

Did you do it? Hi hello, welcome back. :) Okay, now having gone over general traits, let’s talk more about the second part of my original statement [post]: “c!Dream is autistic and the consequential misunderstanding and miscommunication is a root of all the problems and conflicts” which I have covered a bit already [here].

So, because we think differently, communication and social interaction is often at the heart of a lot of our struggles (after my diagnosis at 20 I realized just how many of the conflicts in my past came down to this). Me and my therapist like to make the comparison that because autistic people’s brains are structured differently it is as if we are speaking a different language and as a result it ends with things being misinterpreted. Because as we all can recognize, when a language isn’t someone’s first, there are times when things don’t come across properly. Both because of perhaps a lack of words, different slang, tone, culture… etc. When you don’t take translation into consideration, it leads to miscommunication and misunderstanding as a lot of poor assumptions are made and conflict is often the result, especially because our inclination is to think the worst of people. [funnily enough here’s a great example between some anons about translation and communication 1 -> 2 -> 3]

As such, while autistic people have issues communicating with neurotypicals, we often don’t have issues communicating with each other - we speak the same language. So, it isn’t that we are any worse at communication in general than everyone else (in other words Dream is not the sole one to blame here), it’s that we are struggle to communicate with the neurotypical like we are speaking two different languages without even realizing it, so of course we struggle to understand each other. 

I think (hopefully lol) we can all agree that the root of the dsmp conflict is miscommunication and not understanding each other. But the thing is, miscommunication in the standard sense, in our day to day life or in the climax of a romantic comedy is about the absence of communicating, like Quackity not talking to his fiances. It is to have information, an opinion, view or assumption that goes unsaid and then leads to struggle just because it was never talked out. However, in Dream’s case it isn’t that he doesn’t talk it out or not share his side of the story, because he does. He does a lot, he does communicate, how else could Dream apologists understand him even before the finale without his own pov detailing his thoughts. 

He does talk about it but his autistic mind is using logic and facts against an emotional response leading to him being unheard. At the end of the day, it doesn’t matter whether tyrant is the right word, they are just expressing their feelings of being controlled by a larger power, but Dream is too focused on pulling out the literal definition and the facts to see the real issue at hand - that they feel controlled and overshadowed by him. So they think Dream doesn’t care, and Dream thinks their points don't matter because their facts were wrong and no understanding is reached. Dream can use logic all day - Why would someone not want to escape a prison they were being tortured in? Why would someone make a prison and then plan on putting someone in an unfortified 1x1 hole in the wall? How can I be the tyrant when Eret is literally the king? How can I steal the discs if they were literally given to me after a fair duel? - but against people just spewing words out of anger, hurt, feelings of abandonment it isn’t going to make a difference.

Perhaps one of the most notable and tragic examples of this is George’s dethronement, in the aftermath of Techno’s attack and the Spirit speech, where Dream meets Sapnap’s and George’s emotions with logic and facts.  (See [here] for full transcript, the following is trimmed down from two different vids)

[18:54] George: “Why—why do you think- why do you think I shouldn’t be king anymore?” Dream: “I think that… you would be safer if you were not, right?”

[23:56] Dream: “You’ll just be targeted if you’re the king, and you wanna be able to like, get revenge on Tommy and stuff, right? So, we can like work to—We can work together. Me and you.” George: “Hm. Sounds like you’re sugar-coating it.” Dream: “No, nono—I mean, it’s a little bit sugar-coated, but it’s also like… it’s just better because you don’t get attacked by everyone, and you can do whatever you want without having to worry...”

[25:37] Sapnap: “George, Dream said he didn’t care about anything on this SMP which… That just means he doesn’t care about us.” Dream: “Okay, I’ll have you say, I was—Okay, I wasn’t—I wasn’t—I didn’t actually mean I don’t care about anything.” George: “Why did you say it then?” Sapnap: “Yeah?” Dream: “Listen, listen! The reason I’m even saying George should step down as king is because I care about him. Because I—He’s been getting attacked, and I care about him, and I don’t want him to get attacked.”

[27:28] Dream: “What did you do as king? Like you didn’t do anything as king like decree or anything...” George: “I’ve been the best king this server has ever had!” Dream: “Yeah, I agree. I agree. But you’ve also been the least safe king because you just get attacked all the time because people don’t like me. And therefore, they don’t like you because you’re behind me, and you’re my friend.” Eret: “By association.” Dream: “Yeah. By association. So, like that’s the same reason, like, Sapnap’s got into some, you know, drama and stuff too, but…”—“Sap, stop pointing the damn bow at me.” George: “Just say—Just say you hate me.” Sapnap: “Yeah, just say it.” Dream: “George! *laughs in disbelief* George, I don’t—Listen to me. I care about you. That’s the reason I don’t want you to be the king.” Sapnap: “First—first—Listen to this. First, he says he doesn’t care about us, and now he’s demoting you as king.”

In this conversation over and over he reiterates how he cares and is trying to keep them safe from being targeted and attacked and yet after everything is said and done, his friends somehow leave that conversation thinking he doesn’t care about them. Why? Because what Sapnap really needed was validation for him feeling hurt, but instead Dream kept reasoning with his emotions with the concrete actions, details and facts, essentially saying that what he feels doesn’t matter because it’s not truth, which was never going to get through to them. They are listening but they aren’t hearing eachother, both think they have made their point and the other side has poor intentions for not reacting appropriately. 

It took Tommy to literally experience Dream’s point of view to understand him and realize his intentions weren’t inherently malicious. Because only then could he shatter his assumptions and misconceptions about intention and motivation. Only then did he know which questions to ask Dream for him to get Dream to answer in a way that made sense to him. Before Tommy experiences Dream’s pov in limbo and after, Dream’s arguments and his answers for why don’t really change, he talks about peace and family so many different times, but it’s only after Tommy goes into his head that he’s able to actually translate what Dream was saying so he can hear him, understand him, see him.

It’s the assumption that the way you understand someone is what they meant to say that causes these issues in communication. Me missing social queues or body language that’s sending me a message and you assuming I don’t care or have a certain opinion on the matter because of my response or lack of response when in fact, no I just did not get the message after all. And as such as an autistic person it often feels like neurotypicals expect us to read their minds because they are sending messages, communicating how they feel just not in a way, not in a language we understand.

So, why do they ask that for the snake and not for people? - because people don’t speak snake, but surely people do speak people, so they assumed they don’t need to ask because they assumed that they can follow the train of thought because it's just like theirs. They assumed they understood each other but it’s like an American and a Brit arguing about jumpers without realizing they are two completely different clothing items.

[blue-eli]

Ink October day 24: Discriminative

Drawing distinctions.

Marked by or showing prejudice.

[edgelordtozier]

sorry but alicent hightower isn’t “ruined” this season. you people just never understood her in the first place and think of her as something she’s not lmao.

of course she’s a hypocrite, she has been the whole time. her holier than thou persona is a facade. she wants freedom of choice and, with that, sexual liberation. she gets that now with criston at the price of her own shame and guilt tied to her faith, which is real (criston’s faith, at least in the seven, is NOT, but yknow. for another time). her going for what rhaenyra got and what rhaenyra had the freedom to partake in is not character assassination lmao. It’s what’s been set up this whole time. she’s not this saint that she and her stans claim her to be. she’s variably flawed CLEARLY (which is what makes her a good character) but isn’t going to stray away from the exact thing she claims to hate.

“duty and sacrifice” and “honor and decency will prevail” are shown to the viewer to be hypocritical statements. fucking obviously. why did anyone take that at face value LMAO. All those things are what alicent herself has been forced to align with since she was a child made to marry viserys. she wants rhaenyra to ALSO fit that mould and to feel that misery that she’s felt, just as she wishes she had the freedom rhaenyra has. that doesn’t mean she believes in these ideas. she clearly goes against them; that’s her character. she believes that she believes them, but her desire to leave the mould outweighs that time and time again.

to say that she’s an outlandishly different character in s2 after seeing one singular episode is insane. she’s the same. she and criston is not a left field decision, nor is it a particularly bad one, even if it did feel abrupt (which is more a pacing issue). alicent and criston’s joint hypocrisy has been pointed out the entire time. to further highlight it is not bad writing or character ruination. you just didn’t understand them in the first place. Alicent isn’t a blushing nun. she’s a woman whose old decrepit husband is finally dead and now has the freedom she didn’t get at 17.

[quietwingsinthesky]

there’s a progression in there, somewhere, of even going from ‘the master might kill me any day now :(‘ to ‘the master is going to kill me :) she’s not going to let someone else do it after all this time’

[prettybbychim]

where’s that post that’s smth like “when u see people fawning over a new character oh he’s so hot oh he’s everything they really cooked this time. and u look him up and he’s just a guy”

the most guy of all time. yeah