#i got words and imma say em

[hotchs-big-hands]

What did you call me?

Part 1|Part 2|Part 3|4.9k words

Aaron Hotchner x plus size fem!reader

NSFW Minors dni please

Warning(s): some angst, yearning, details about graphic crime scenes, strip clubs/sex clubs.

When Dom/sub couples begin to show up murdered mid-coital, the BAU team is brought in to solve the case. But as more couples are found and the unsub remains undetected, it becomes an undercover mission. The posing Dom/sub couple in question? Your intimidating, attractive boss and you.

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Hey everyone, welcome to my first fanfic! I used to write and post stuff back in 2018ish but it was a different fandom. I've not written and posted anything tho since then so I'm a bit nervous! But idk I just got back into cm recently and I saw Hotch and my brain was like oh yeah 👁️👁️ (I used to be a Spencer girlie) and I've mostly written stuff for myself but I decided imma start doing stuff on here too! I hope you enjoy and lemme know if you wanna be tagged in future writings 🥰 side note, I'm a fat gal so I will probably centre most of my stuff around plus size readers cuz there's not enough of it for plus size Hotch girlies 😔 but technically anyone can read and enjoy it! This was getting extremely long so I'm splitting it into three parts so here's the first one! Anyway, enjoy 💅

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The feeling of something blunt lightly bounced against your forehead, making you blink a few times and rub the area with your hand.

"Hey... Who did that?" You grumbled, eyes darting from one face of your coworkers to the next. Three of them all pointed towards the culprit and as your eyes drifted back to him you were met with a cheeky grin on the charming, dark-skinned man's face.

"You were spaced out, sugar." Derek Morgan said. "Got a lot on your mind?"

"Got a lot of him on her mind, more like." A voice cut in smugly, flustering you in an instant, your heart beginning to race. Your eyes flicked to Prentiss, the pristine raven haired woman was smirking at you, her eyes glinting. You squeaked and shifted in your office chair nervously.

"No, Em! Just... couldn't sleep last night."

The weak explanation didn't help, it only widened the smirk on Prentiss' face as she leaned forward.

"Oh? Do tell us more."

"There's nothing to say!" You abruptly turned to the casefile that lay open on your slightly messy desk and tried to ignore the movement at the corner of your eye; Emily was shuffling her chair over to you, no doubt still with that annoying smirk on her face.

"Oh it sure sounds like there is though."

Before you had the chance to defend yourself an all too familiar voice demanded everyone's attention and subsequently caused a shiver to trickle down your spine. Your hands gripped onto your chair.

"My team; in the conference room now. We have a case." Your unit chief spoke. All heads turned to the direction of a slightly elevated walkway where a sharply dressed man stood for a mere moment, locking eyes with yours, before he began walking briskly towards the mentioned conference room.

Fuck. Hotch was wearing your favourite suit and tie today and a few stray wisps of his short, dark hair stubbornly lay over his forehead, no matter how often he must have tried to push them up off his face. Everyday was harder than the previous working with that man. The moment you'd attended your interview months ago, sitting in front of the brooding man, you knew you were fucked. Yes, you had been eager to join the famed BAU unit and were grateful for the opportunity that arose but you'd be lying if another reason you eagerly answered all the questions prompted to you in that interview wasn't because you were instantly attracted to Aaron Hotchner. However, that was almost a year ago now and you were struggling with your growing attraction to the man the more you were around him. Your coworkers and friends certainly were no help, given they'd soon caught onto your crush.

A hand waved in front of your face and you blinked.

"Time to go, lovergirl." Prentiss teased and you sighed, quickly joining the others as they made their way to the case briefing. You needed to focus.

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Landing in Chicago a few hours later, the team were thrust into a gnarly investigation involving couples being murdered in their hotel rooms mid-coital. The crime scene photos were hard to look at, to say the least. Setting up a base of operations in the police department didn't take too long and currently you were in the midst of interviewing family members of the deceased along with Hotch at his insistence. It wasn't often that you took part in these interviews, even less often did Hotch ever team you up with him. Quite frankly, it made you feel a little nervous, but there was no way you'd question his decision. And certainly, you did not miss the subtle smug look Emily gave you as you trailed after the man you thought about way too much.

Sitting beside him in the SUV, just the two of you alone made your head feel a little bit floaty as you tried your best to remain as stoic as possible, reminding yourself of the details of the case so far and of the little bits of information from the families you'd spoken to. Even with the effort there was no preventing the permeating scent of his cologne and a hint of his own natural musk from scrambling your brain. He smelled good, too good, and the way his hands gripped the steering wheel from the quick glances you dared peek developed a heat to coil within the depths of your lower abdomen.

"Are you alright?" His voice brought you out of your thoughts. You felt flushed.

"H-huh?" You felt dumbstruck, all because of him. He exhaled through his nose sharply, clearly dissatisfied with your response.

"You're distracted."

Oh. Of course he could pick up on it. You shifted in your seat, subtly rubbing your plump thighs together.

"I'm okay, I guess I've not had enough to drink today though. I'll get some water when we head back to the station." Not a lie, technically. You'd forgotten your bottle of water you normally had ready to fill up to take on cases. Hotch hummed, the sound deep and making you clench between your thighs.

"I did notice you didn't have your water like you usually do. I should have said something." He said. Wait, he noticed? You didn't think he picked up on things about you, he didn't often appear to pay attention to you besides on a strictly professional level. But as you turned your head to him in surprise his brows were furrowed in frustration, as though annoyed with himself for not saying anything.

"Oh no, it's fine. I've been a bit of a scatterbrain as of late." You admitted sheepishly, a little smile on your lips. Hotch glanced at you, eyes flicking down to your lips, then back to your eyes, making your breath hitch.

"Anything I can do to help?"

You bit your lip, your mind flooded with a whole array of thoughts that you knew you shouldn't be having about your boss. He didn't know he was the reason you were so distracted, desperate to feel his lips on yours, on your body and his hands on your skin, his fingers inside you. Fuck. You needed to get it together, for goodness' sake. You quickly glanced back towards the road.

"Ah, no. I'm okay, sir. I'll sort myself out." You murmured, missing the way his knuckles whitened under the pressure of his grip on the wheel.

"Don't hesitate to come to me if you need anything."

You tried not to think of what you wanted him to do to you, instead humming in response.

"Thank you, sir."

You needed to get out of this damn car as soon as possible.

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Immediately upon returning to the station you rushed off to find a vending machine so you could grab a bottle of water. As soon as you had your hands on the cold, plastic bottle you were gulping down the cool liquid, not realising just how flushed you felt.

"Whoa, slow down there, (L/n)!" You heard JJ's voice from behind you and you turned, pulling the bottle from your mouth wide-eyed. The blonde woman looked slightly alarmed. "Are you okay?"

You nodded.

"Yeah, yeah. I just forgot to bring water so I kinda got a bit dehydrated I think." You explain quickly. JJ frowned a little.

"You'd better be careful next time. And don't drink too quickly, you could accidentally choke."

You smiled sheepishly under her scolding and screwed the lid back on.

"Sorry, I'll drink slower."

JJ led you back to the office where you found the familiar sight of Spencer pouring over a map of the area. Pieces of string had been wrapped around pins indicating the last locations victims were seen and the scenes of their murders, no clear pattern in sight as there sometimes was. On one of the tables lay several empty paper coffee cups, a few rings of spilled coffee staining the surface top. He was speaking quietly to another member of the team, David Rossi, and Hotch; of whom stood beside the young Doctor with his arms folded across his chest, inevitably tightening the suit over his physique. You forced yourself to focus on the map.

Not long after your arrival you heard two sets of footsteps trudge into the room.

"No employees or frequent customers that are of note. We have nothing." Derek huffed as he made his way over to one of the chairs and slumped down into it. Emily joined you and JJ, her face appeared neutral but you could tell there was a hint of annoyance behind it. You heaved a deep sigh and felt eyes on you which made you instinctively seek out who it was, only to be startled when your eyes met deep brown ones, almost black in the artificial lighting. Hotch didn't look away, instead holding your gaze until you quickly turned away, feeling embarrassed.

"There has to be something that connects them all." Rossi said. Your eyes drifted across the map, narrowing a little. There had to be a mutual place that all these couples had been to in the final week leading up to their deaths. Somewhere that couples who enjoy sexual relations more than the average couple would go. You pulled your phone out of your pocket and quickly scrolled through your contacts until you found the one you were looking for. As you pressed dial you put the call on loudspeaker it merely rang once before there was an answer.

"Hello, you've reached the hotline for the simply fantabulous Penelope Garcia; how may I assist you?" A bubbly voice filtered through. All eyes were on the phone as you placed it on the table in front of you.

"Hiya, babe, I have a request for you. We're trying to find a link between the couples but so far nothing has cropped up. But I have a theory," you spoke, feeling a little awkward at what you were about to say. "Uhm, do you think you could try search for any strip clubs or even straight up sex clubs in the area? Easily accessible or possibly a more hidden club?"

You could feel his eyes on you again but you tried hard to stare at the phone. Garcia gasped from the other end of the line, but the sound of nails on a keyboard reassured you she was already on the case. Beside you, you felt Emily poke you and you lightly shoved her with your wide hip.

"Oh wow, I did not think I would be looking at this sort of thing today. But lucky you, I have a whole list of places! I-" there was clicking, followed by another gasp. "Oh my! That is certainly a homepage! You have no idea about the things I'm seeing right now, well, I mean I'll be sending these to you anyway but gosh! I'm going to do a thorough clean of my history once this case-"

"-Garcia, focus." Hotch said firmly and you heard a quick apology from the other end of the line. He moved to lean over the table, propping himself up with his hands as he took charge of the phone call. "We need security footage from these locations. Whatever you can give us, we'll take it."

More clacking of nails, you tried not to stare at your boss as he leered over your phone, forcing yourself to look away from his straining suit, the dangling tie, his large hands. Horrifically, you instead met eyes with the oldest of the group, Rossi, who had clearly caught you ogling Hotch from the glint in his experienced eyes and the twitch at the corner of his mouth. Shit. You could only hope no one else had witnessed your blatancy. Thankfully, Garcia's voice came through again.

"I'm sending over whatever footage I can find as well as the addresses to the establishments now."

You reached across the table, hyper aware of how close you were to Hotch as you took hold of your phone. He studied you carefully when you hurried backwards, swallowing thickly. You cleared your throat.

"Thanks, babe, you're a star." You said.

"Well of course, I'm your star." Garcia responded cheerily and the line went dead. Hotch straightened up and pulled his suit back into place, turning to address everyone.

"We need to review the footage and find out which location all the victims visited at some point within the last few weeks, then we can make a plan of action." He was stern as he spoke, hands in his pockets and his shoulders squared. There was a mutual noise of agreement from everyone and you all split into smaller groups around the monitors in the room. Hotch disappeared off to find the chief of police and you couldn't help but let your eyes follow him as he rushed out of the room, eyes transfixed on the tight fabric of his dress pants.

"Girl, you aren't even hiding it." You heard Derek say and you huffed, walking over to Spencer and sitting down next to him. He offered you an awkward smile and shuffled his chair to the side so you could get closer to the computer he was working on.

"Shut up, Derek." You muttered and he chuckled.

"I'm just saying, you should probably talk to him."

Your eyes widened in horror.

"Excuse me?"

Spencer cleared his throat.

"I agree, It's a bit obvious that he's interested in you too." He said softly and you huffed, shuffling your chair closer to the table and leaning towards the computer screen.

"Stop saying ridiculous things like that, both of you. We have work to do anyway."

Derek stepped back with his hands raised in surrender before retreating back to the computer he was situated at whilst Spencer simply watched you carefully, frowning a little.

It was dangerous for you to even dare think of such things. There were so many reasons why you couldn't let your mind go there. If not for the ethical reason due to his and your job statuses, then maybe because he was much older than you with a son. But also you'd seen photos of his ex-wife and ex-girlfriend and you certainly didn't look like his type. Not slender, not sleek like they were. You didn't think he was a shallow man but you'd also dealt with disappointment after disappointment with how others had treated you based on your appearance. You had to keep yourself safe, so your attraction for your boss would remain nothing more than a secret from him. You sighed softly as the young man beside you clicked on the first video footage from one of the private sex clubs. There was no more time to waste.

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The following few hours were downright miserable, viewing video, after video of footage from various clubs until you felt as though your eyes and your brain would melt out of your head. Finally, however, Emily made a noise of alarm, mouth full of cheap coffee, and alerted everyone to her computer. Swallowing the burning, bitter liquid, she retracted the footage a little and replayed it.

"Look, It's the Smiths! The first couple to be murdered. They came in to this very exclusive private sex club at the end of last month." She said hurriedly. In the slightly fuzzy camera quality indeed the couple waltzed into the lobby of the facility and approached the reception desk.

"Fast forward the feed." You heard Hotch say, causing goosebumps to bristle across your skin. You knew he had returned at some point but didn't expect him to stand right beside you. Someone made a call to Garcia and she confirmed with her database that it was indeed the couple. Further analysis of the footage from days afterwards showed that every single of the other couples had also been to this sex club too shortly before they were murdered. And yet they had no indication still of who was the murderer.

The day was drawing in at this point but as a final task before anyone would return to the hotel, Hotch sent out Morgan and Prentiss to the club to ask some questions, something that you couldn't help but chuckle at. The raven haired woman narrowed her eyes slightly at you.

"Laugh all you want but I'd be careful if I were you." She warned but you simply smirked.

"Don't have too much fun now, you two." You said cheerily, Morgan raised a brow at you and then the two were off begrudgingly. You felt JJ sidle up beside you.

"You know she will get you back." She murmured and you shrugged.

"She doesn't scare me."

"She scares me a little." Spencer said aloud, causing the two of you to turn your heads in his direction. He flushed, ducking his head slightly. "I- uh, well you know how she is."

"I wouldn't think you were intimidated by her, Spence, I mean you're the one who won the prank war with Morgan." JJ said, chuckling. A small smile tugged at his mouth.

"I wouldn't cross Emily, though."

You hummed and pushed up out of your chair.

"Well anyway, either of you want a hot drink?" You offered. JJ smiled.

"Oh no, thank you." As Spencer opened his mouth to respond she lifted a finger up at him. "Ah- you definitely don't need anymore coffee at this time of day."

A quiet giggle passed your lips and you turned to head to the kitchenette of the station.

"I'm not getting involved."

Walking out of the office you crossed the police department, avoiding any officers who still remained within the building, and came to a pause in the entryway of the kitchen, dipping away from the doorway out of sight. The two oldest members of the team were in a deep conversation, Hotch with his back to the door and Rossi facing the direction you were in. They spoke quietly, you knew you shouldn't listen in and yet you couldn't help it.

"Stop being absurd. What makes you think I'd even consider doing that?" Hotch hissed, his voice barely audible from where you were.

"Come on, Aaron, you can't keep this going forever. You know that." Rossi countered. There were more words said but were too quiet for you to decipher. That was until Hotch spoke a little louder again, sounding more frustrated.

"I am not currently wishing to be involved with anyone like that, Dave. I just can't."

In an instant you felt your heart in your throat, your eyes stinging.

Oh.

You felt stupid. Of course he wasn't interested in dating anyone. Even despite closely guarding your feelings for Hotch to be nothing further than a personal crush that he would never find out about it still hurt knowing you never had a chance to begin with.

Walking a few steps away from the kitchen, you made a point of entering the kitchen area, feigning surprise as your eyes landed on the two men in the room. Clearly, your entrance startled them, particularly him, who looked a little guilty before the slight expression glossed over with stern stoicism. Hotch glanced away, turning to Rossi.

"I'll see you at the hotel." He muttered and then he was brushing past you, his hand grazing your arm slightly and his scent consuming your senses. And then he was gone, all that remained was the slight coolness of his absence. You swallowed thickly but tried to mask your emotions from the seasoned agent still remaining.

"Coffee? There's some left still, maybe enough for one last cup." Rossi said softly. You smiled slightly as you approached him but shook your head.

"Ah no, thank you. I'm going to have tea. It's way too late for coffee, don't you think?"

The man hummed, watching you carefully. You suspected he had seen you earlier, that you'd heard the conversation but you didn't feel like talking about it.

"I hope you know that if you ever need someone to lend an ear that I'm always willing to listen."

Your hands faltered slightly during sorting out putting a tea bag in a clean mug. Your eyes flicked to the side at Rossi briefly.

"I know that."

"I know you heard what you think you heard but-"

"-Let's not- We aren't talking about this." You cut him off shakily, stopping yourself before you poured the hot water into the mug. "There's nothing to say about it."

You turned away from the kitchen counter to lean against it, rubbing your tired eyes with your palms. Rossi sighed quietly.

"You didn't catch the whole conversation." He tried after a moment. You scoffed.

"It wasn't for me to hear. I only did so by accident. I'm not going to read into it because the only people who were meant to hear what was discussed was you and-" Your throat felt tighter still, an unseen coil constricting you, just as the man you longed for constricted your heart and soul. You didn't say his name, couldn't. Mercifully, the man before you understood.

"I know."

You nodded. The mug of tea wasn't appealing anymore; the quiet promise of solitude in a hotel room called to you more than all else.

"I.... I think I need to call it a night. I don't feel well."

Rossi placed a hand on your upper arm and squeezed lightly.

"I'll inform the others and grab your stuff then I'll drive you to the hotel we're staying in," he fished out the keys to one of the SUVs and handed them to you, the metal clinking together. "Go, wait in the car for me." He said. The corners of your mouth tilted upwards in appreciation and you hurried out, eager to have even a moment to yourself.

The moment you pushed the doors of the building open and stepped outside you exhaled, grimacing slightly at the still, warm air of the night. You'd hoped it would have cooled down more, now that the sun had long since settled behind the horizon, but you felt stifled, the heat doing nothing to soothe the tightness in your throat and chest. Breathing shakily, you unlocked the car and climbed into the passenger seat, laying your head back against the head rest.

There was no reason for you to feel so upset about this. It wasn't as though you intended on ever approaching your boss about your ever growing feelings for him, you wouldn't dare do that. And yet you felt almost physically sick from heartbreak and the worst part was he didn't even know the pain you were in. Hell, you didn't even know where he was right now after he rushed out of the kitchen.

You knew the moment Rossi obviously had retrieved your belongings judging the way your phone had begun to vibrate from text notifications, no doubt from your coworkers. You'd answer them when you made it to the hotel, you decided. A few minutes later you spotted the older man exit the station and approach the car you were in, your bag and coat in hand. The sight made you smile even the tiniest bit, something that he noticed. You felt the car jolt a little as he opened the trunk so he could put your belongings down and jolt again when he slammed it lightly. A second later he was climbing in on the driver's side where you held out the car keys to him.

"Thanks." He took the keys and inserted them into the ignition, the engine roaring to life and you slipped your seatbelt on. Rossi glanced at you. "Let's get you to the hotel. Best thing about this is if there aren't enough rooms for one each you can have first pick on if you want the single or not." He said as you pulled out the station parking lot. You scoffed.

"Oh you know I'm absolutely taking the single this time." You retorted. In any other scenario you would have risked sharing a room, risk being paired with him. Now the thought made you want to cry. Your little smile faded and you turned your head to the window, resting on the cool glass. Sensing you were finished talking, Rossi didn't say anything else for the remainder of the drive.

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A little groan escaped your lips when you collapsed backwards on the single bed in your hotel room, exhaustion overrunning your very being from the long day. For a moment you simply lay there silently, staring at the dulled white ceiling whilst your mind raced. You knew this wasn't ideal, you couldn't let yourself be distracted from the case.

Huffing, you remembered that you needed to respond to messages to let the others know you would be alright by the morning. After pulling your phone out of your pocket, the screen lit up and your eyes flicked across the notifications on the lock screen. Lots of messages from your worried coworkers. You unlocked the phone and set about answering them one-by-one. JJ and Emily offered to stop by your hotel room to check in on you, not knowing you'd been feeling unwell up until this point, but you reassured them you would be okay.

Just as you finished your nightly routine and pulled the covers back, there was a knock on your door. Your brows furrowed slightly. Who would be knocking at this time? Sighing, you approached the door and leaned close to the peephole, expecting to see one of the ladies or maybe even Rossi.

Standing tensely with his shoulders squared was Aaron Hotchner. A quiet gasp escaped you and you jolted backwards from the door. What the fuck was he doing here?! With shaky hands, you pulled the door open and slightly covered yourself with it, hyper aware of your clothing situation. Hotch perked up and stared down at you.

"Rossi informed me that you weren't feeling well and had to retire early." He murmured gently, his face stern. You swallowed and silently invited him into your room by stepping back, pulling the door with you. He cautiously walked into your hotel room and you closed the door behind him, wrapping your arms around yourself in a feeble attempt to cover your body up. Why, oh why did you have to wear shorts that barely covered your ass and an old tee that wasn't as baggy anymore from being washed one too many times?

You cleared your throat and avoided looking in Hotch's direction.

"He's right. But I'm sure I'll feel better by tomorrow though."

You offered a little smile, eyes flicking to his face and realised he was staring. Except he wasn't staring at your face, no, his eyes were focused lower down at your chest. Christ. You quickly looked away again before he realised you'd caught him out and he hummed, the sound making you clench.

"What's wrong?"

Oh no. You couldn't answer that. Your eyes met his and you opened your mouth, hesitating with no response to give.

"I.... Just felt sick, that's all. I'll be okay though."

You never were good at hiding how you were really feeling, the deepening frown on the man's face before you merely evident of this.

"Are you certain? You can tell me anything, you know that." He said softly as he stepped closer to you. You nodded and tried smiling again at him.

"I know, sir. I promise I'm alright though." You tightened your arms around yourself until your flesh dipped under the pressure of your fingertips. Hotch's eyes trailed over you from head to toe, clearly unsatisfied with your reluctance to tell him the truth, but didn't push the matter further. You inhaled as he stepped closer still, his scent once more overwhelming you. His fingers flexed at his side as though he was conflicted and you wished he would reach out and touch you. Eventually, he sighed quietly and retreated a step.

"Alright. But I will be keeping an eye on you now."

Not good. You nodded though, then yawned and your cheeks flushed with warmth. Despite the tension, a small smile tugged at Hotch's mouth.

"You should get some rest." He said. You chuckled.

"Yeah, you as well though. I know what you're like."

He raised a brow at you.

"Really now?"

Your eyes widened and you stuttered.

"W-well I'm just saying, you do leave the office last, you're up earlier than everyone else too-" you cut yourself off, not wanting to dig your hole any deeper. You dared a quick glance his way and he was still slightly smirking.

"Get some rest, your boss is going to be up early again tomorrow to call everyone in."

A little chuckle escaped you and you followed Hotch to the door, grabbing the door as he opened it and hiding behind it again as you watched him make his way out into the corridor. He turned back to you and gazed down at you again.

"Good night, (L/n)." He murmured. Your eyes met and you gripped onto the door.

"Good night, sir."

He shifted, as though debating something in his head, then he turned and stalked down the corridor. You didn't close your door until he disappeared from sight. When you returned to your bed you collapsed down onto it whilst your mind raced. That night your dreams were filled with forbidden touches and kisses from the man you loved.

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And that's part one for now pls lemme know what you think and if anyone wants to be tagged in future works! Thank you for reading 💖💖

#a writes #a's writing #aaron hotchner #aaron hotchner x reader #aaron hotch x reader #aaron hotchner imagine #aaron hotch fanfiction #aaron hotch x you #aaron hotch fic #aaron hotchner x reader fanfiction #aaron hotchner x fem!reader #aaron hotchner x female reader #aaron hotchner x you #aaron hotchner x plus size reader #plus size reader #plus size!reader

[orionremastered]

Are there another part for shapeshifter golden tiger reader :D i appreciate your writing so much! 💕

I've gotten another ask regarding a shifter!reader, so Imma just pile em up into one big AU. Send more shifter requests to have them added to the list! Even outside of gotham with other dc heroes would be cool. Like they've all got connections with other shifters online or sumin

shifter gang

?

Masterlist

Part One

Golden Pt. 2

It's been a few days since you last saw the pair, and maybe you're okay with that. Nights have been quiet yet cold, and you're getting excited about the temperature change that comes with spring.

Night patrols have been close to uneventful; save a kid or two there, maul a criminal of two here- the usual, in other words.

You're expecting the usual again tonight, just quiet patrolling and nothing extreme-

Look, you haven't been here for long, okay? Optimism, got it?

You're on the prowl for a missing girl, one that the bats no doubt have on their radar too, but you never know- you might get to her first. You went to the apartment where she lives and are confident that you could pinpoint her on her scent alone.

It's been an hour or two since you started looking and finally, you catch a whiff of the little girl's scent. You draw closer to an abandoned building, sneaking through structures to hide from the unforgiving street lights that flicker, forgotten by the city.

You jump onto a dumpster and into a broken window above it, landing quietly on the dusty floorboards. You can hear crying and the little girl's scent gets stronger.

Someone snaps at her as you draw closer, creeping up the stairs to the second floor. Thankful that the floor doesn't creak, you continue through the corridor of apartments, the number of each room fading from their painted places upon doors.

The screaming gets louder until you stop at a door, slightly ajar. You nudge it open with your nose and- you've luck- it's silent too.

"Shut the fuck up, dammit, you'll-"

The man doesn't get much more out of his mouth before you pounce, toppling both of you to the floor. Your fangs lock around his wrist, making him cry out in pain as you reach for the gun in his hand and throw it to the farthest corner of the room.

"Get-"

You snarl, pushing a set of sharp claws into the top of his spine. He yells curses that one should not around a child.

The window shatters beside you and two figures gracefully land in the room, one larger and one smaller by the sound of the thuds. You turn your head to glare, teeth bared and gleaming before you realise it's Robin and Batman- the duo one only fears if they're a criminal in the light of justice.

The man continues screaming, but not after giving one threatening snarl, deeper than any other you ever have.

"Leave the rest of this to us," Robin says calmly, and you're certain you like him more than the brooding knight in the corner near the gun.

He's allergic to those things anyway, so it's not like you're worried.

You step off the man's back and slowly approach the girl. She scrambles back and you remember you have blood still on your fangs. Still, you lower your head and attempt to look as harmless as a big cat can.

You can't grin when she reaches out to pet your head in case she sees your bloodied teeth. Once she realises you won't do her any harm, she scratches your neck and ears. Purring, you nudge her gently and lower yourself to the floor.

She's small enough to climb onto your back without it being too much of a struggle to stand and walk- she must be only five. She giggles, eyes red with tears, but she finds comfort in the warmth of your fur.

"GCPD has been called," the Bat says, glaring down at the criminal. You and Robin do the same. "Would you like us to take the girl to a hospital?"

You raise your head to look at him and flash your fangs, a solid 'no'.

"Whatever you think is best," Robin says, the Bat looking at him with a stare only a father could give to his son. "But wait, before you go-"

Robin smooths the short furs of your head and scratches underneath your ear. It takes you by surprise at first, but you don't snarl or bare your fangs at him, so he continues until he feels as though his father's glare has gone on long enough. "I told my siblings I'd pat you first. It's a bet, the only one I have participated in so far-" Batman snorts- "And I have won. As expected, I have succeeded."

You make a sound of amusement.

"Perhaps we shall work together again," the older of the two says. You huff, knowing you did all of this yourself, but nod anyway.

Perhaps it's time to make some friends -ones that aren't drowning in coffee and assignments, anyway.

Taglist: @veunho, @chevysstuffs, @carewerff, @xxrougefangxx, @yorkeylover

#batfam #batfamily x reader #damian wayne x reader #batfamily #jason todd x reader #dick grayson x reader #tim drake x reader

[vqnillasturns]

face riding (curvy/plus reader).

chris sturniolo

summary- the thought of face riding drives chris insane so he finally decided to act up on it.

warnings - sexual content, oral (female receiving) , switch chris , face riding, begging chris.

f!reader x chris sturniolo

a/n - give me suggestions please 🙏 also for my thick girlys out there

….

chris got straight to the point when i went to his he told me these words

“i want you to ride my face till i cant breath baby”

obviously im aching to do things like that but im a big girl with thick thighs and chub and no offence to chris but hes tiny compared to me i will crush his face

so here i am, chris watching me begging for an answer

“i dont know chris“ i state

“come on baby i know what you’re thinking but i dont care you’re a big girl so what, ive copped me a baddie and if any opportunity comes up for her to sit on me or my face im taking em” he says truthfully

“chris ill literally kill you” i laugh at his eagerness

“like i fucking care , god, crush my face in your thighs if thats what it takes for you to ride my face gorgeous “

“ok” i say nodding

“i swear you wont hur- wait yes?” he reply’s excited

“mhm yes chris”

“god ma imma make you feel so good” he says squeezing my thigh

i get up and chris slaps my ass

“your ass is so fat and juicy ma i love it” he says

i feel like my legs are gonna snap beneath me when he calls me ma

“you like that huh”

“w-what”

“you like being called ma you dirty slut” he laughs

he lays on the bed and immediately calls me over to sit on him

“before we do this i want to let you know if its too much we can stop” he smiles leaning for a kiss

before i know it im slowly getting glided to chris’s face

“lets take these off shall we” he says before ripping my panties off and throwing them

“you’re soaking ma” he says

“cant wait to taste you”

i let out a breathy moan

“sit on me now” he says demandingly

and i do as he says but not putting my full weight on him, i feel him start to kiss my pussy and lick strips down from my hole upwards, i let out a loud moan

he then does what i feared the most, puts all my weight on him i want to stop in fear of hurting him but i cant it feels too good

he grips my thighs tightly as he helps me move on his face basically face fucking him

“f-f- FUCK MHM CHRIS” i moan my orgasm getting closer

i feel his nose brush against me with every movement, his tongue going in and out of my now sensitive hole

“CHRIS IM GONNA FUCKK CUM” i cry

i feel chris move faster as he lets me ride out my high slowly our movements stop and i sit on his chest

“wanna taste yourself ma ?” he questions

i nodd and we make out before he says

“we need to do that again baby that was so fucking hot” he smirks

“i think i ran our of breath for a sec but i was to caught up eating you like slut i didnt notice” he says still out of breath

i laugh and lay my head on his neck

#Spotify #sturniolo triplets #matt sturniolo #sturniolo imagine #sturniolo smut #sturniolo x reader #nicolas sturniolo #sturniolo fanfic #christopher sturniolo #nick sturniolo #chris sturniolo x reader #chris sturniolo smut #chris sturniolo #matt sturniolo x you #matt sturniolo x reader #chris sturniolo x you

[megamindsecretlair]

First of all Happy New Years and how’re you doin?? I really hope you’re doin well and thriving and your loved ones are doin the same❤️

Second of all I had a thought while high that I needa get out:

Imma mess for domestic Taine. Just takin care of his woman an shit. He likes takin care of her mental load and just truly makin her feel relaxed an shit. Which brings me to his hands….he’s so beefy wit protective ass arms and he’s just ugh🤌 like imagine you had a trash ass day (school, work, family, etc) an he just caresses and massages you, tryna soften you up so youn gotta gts upset or stressed. Lights candles, brings out ya favorite oils/lotions, he even rolls a blunt for you both. He’s givin you deep tissue booty/thigh rubs and ik for a fact his strength channeled through his fingers would make me all mushy an shit….

Along that thought, he can’t help (an youn stop him) but spread ya cheeks a bit, just ta peek at ya folds, only ta see em all gushy an shit. That was a mistake because now he reeeally can’t help himself. You’re all pliable under him and he dips his fingers into ya folds “just ta taste” he tells himself. But he’s dippin into you again…and again…and again till he just says fuck it and devours you from the back. I’m talkin the messy, droolin, beard shiny a shit typa pussy eatin. You just cease to exist cuz he feels too too good. Taine is just maneuvering/manhandling your body any which way and you’re loving it, you’re loving your man. And What were you upset bout again? It’s out the window now.

Phew, glad I got that outta my system🤭

Happy New Year! Many blessings to you and ya fam! I'm getting over Covid. That is the literal devil and I'm glad to be on the other side!

And secondly...why you aint on here writing with the rest of us? Tuh. This was hot and complete all by its lonesome, you don't need me for this one, lordt!

Re-reading and re-reading all night because I, too, want that gorgeous man's big mitts on me.

If You Please

Word Count: 691

A/N: Finally a little drabble! I still write a lot but ya'll caught me on a feral night. There's no big warnings besides oral (fem receiving) and Fontaine being a horny mess. This ask was everything. Not sure if you wanted me to add to it, but couldn't help myself! Excuse me while I go re-read and re-read and re-read.

Taglist: @planetblaque @dayjlovesromance @sevikasblackgf @melaninpov @amyhennessyhouse @henneseyhoe @honeyoriginalz @justheretostan @black-fairy3 @superhoeva @jarfulloftears @hereformiles @montysstuffs @westside-rot @blackerthings @blowmymbackout @euphoric05 @miyuhpapayuh @nicolexnight @8ttached @judymfmoody @notapradagurl7 @wakandas-vibranium @soft-persephone @justabovewater20 @mcotton0928 @soapjay @heyauntieeee @theyscreamsannii @mybonafidefeelings @eggnox @honeytoffee @thadelightfulone @tranquilfandomer @kindofaintrovert @l-auteuse @browngirldominion @sunkissedebony97 @lovedlover @issahyland @nerdieforpedro @longpause-awkwardsmile @insburner @slippinninque @thecookiebratz @we-outsiiiide

And Fontaine is the type to take his time because HE wants to take his time. Because HE can't keep his hands off of you. If you had a bad day? That's okay, he'll work that shit out. Had a good day? He wants to pick you up and taste the happiness from your lips.

But a particularly bad day? Oh, he already had the bath running and candles lit while you talked to him on the way home. How you wanted him to show up with a helicopter and transport you home because you were dog tired. Tiredt!

And after your bath, he does all the work. He dries you off and lays kisses all over your face and body while he towels you down. Leads you to the bed where he lays out a fresh warm towel from the dryer. Makes you lay on your back first so he can rub lotion and smell good into your deep brown skin.

Take his time to work the body cream onto your arms, shoulders, stomach. Smooth it around your breasts because he just can't resist touching you. He rubs the top of your legs, really working his thick fingers into your thighs and finding all these tension knots you didn't know were there.

Then he asks you to flip over and you are putty in his hands. Free to mold you in his arms. To play with your hips and valleys and treasure the canvas God gave him. He rubs your back and your legs. But your ass.

Fontaine is an ass man. Nothin' sweeter than seeing those two big ol' cheeks begging to be claimed by those hands of his. It's so much he can't hold it all. But he loves trying. He loves trying to cup each cheek to see how much he can hold before your ass spills over. He loves to massage your ass.

He loves to watch the grooves and dimples he makes in your ass. The little glimpses of your pussy when he spreads your cheeks are a torture all their own. Got him bricked up and mouth droolin' just from that alone. His tongue glides over his golden grills as he can remember the last time he ate you out, just last night. How pliable and verbal you were.

One little taste won't hurt right? It's your body, he wants you to feel good all over. What better stress relief, right? He wipes his hands on the towel. He can't resist digging his fingers in and suppressing a groan at finding you wet as hell. He knew his hands on you turned you on, but not like this!

Now he really can't resist bringing your sweet essence to his lips and licking his fingers. He can't stop at one taste. Once he tasted you, he had to keep diving in for more. And more until you were sighing and moaning just the way he liked.

"Too tired," you mumbled.

"Too tired to lay there, mama?" He asked.

You couldn't argue with that logic. He didn't need anything back. He just wanted to make you feel good. Making you feel good, made him feel good. And he already got his reward. He was lifting your hips, spreading you wide, and placing his mouth against your pussy and suckling like a starving man to nectar.

He couldn't help groaning and rocking his own hips into the bed, wishing he could flip you over and fuck you. But he wasn't going to be that greedy. He could give. He could give and give until you were a shaking, trembling mess beneath his tongue. Hands splayed on your ass, spreading you open and wide for him.

His nasty little slurps filled the air. His desperate pulls for air blowing against your dripping pussy. Your weak arms grasping the pillow and pulling it close while you came in his mouth. Gushing and dripping all that succulent arousal.

Well, you weren't that tired anymore. As much as you left your job bone tired and weary, unsure how you could possibly go another day, you always found solace in 'Taine's arms.

The Secret Tyrone Files - there's always more!

#Megaminds Secret Files #The Secret Tyrone Files #Fontaine x Black!reader #Fontaine x Black reader #x Black reader #Fontaine x Fem!reader #Fontaine x Fem reader #Fontaine x plus size reader #Fontaine x you #Fontaine imagine #They Cloned Tyrone smut #They Cloned Tyrone fanfic #They Cloned Tyrone fanfiction #They Cloned Tyrone fan fic #They Cloned Tyrone fan fiction

[itsgrimeytime]

drunk on you (part four) || Rick Grimes (TWD) × gn!reader (no apocalypse!AU)

rick grimes taglist: @golden-hoax @mgparker

series taglist: @ryoujoking

Part 1, 2, 3

AVAILABLE ON AO3

Summary: You'd known Rick forever, as far back as freshman year. He was a guy you (if you were honest) had a crush on; there was just something in his stance and the low drawl of his voice. You'd say that feeling only got worse from there. Before you could blink, he was married and had a kid; and suddenly, despite your best efforts, you felt very out of place. You faded out of his life, and he yours. So when Rick shows up at your door (drunk out of his mind) about 5 years after the last time you spoke to him, you have a lot of questions.

TWs: exes, mention of cheating (not Rick don't worry babes), talk of marriage, vague allusion to sex, and a teeny bit of jealousy.

[[A/N: This is just some domestic fluff. Okay but like what if 5 is just an epilogue? Many thoughts to be thunk. Also, can you tell I'm a child of divorce🧍‍♀️. Enjoy :))]]

It was early morning, and you were tight to Rick's side -probably so much that he couldn't even move. But that wasn't your problem, and he never said anything about it. So, you kept doing it.

He must've felt you shift, because he spoke then.

"Ya awake?" He asked -voice gruff and slurred. It still sent a shiver down your spine, his accent much stronger -tone so low and scratchy. There was just something about his voice in the mornings (or in general, really).

You mumbled into his skin, shifting your head further onto his chest, "No."

He laughed, arm wrapped around your back -squeezing you closer. You hummed at the contact.

"Baby," he urged -still smiling, you could tell in his voice, "-I can't feel my legs, we gotta get up."

You frowned, with ease sliding your right leg in between his -interlocking them, "Not anymore."

"Hate to break it to ya," he hummed, brushing his fingers up and down your spine -if he wanted you up, he should stop being so soothing, "-but I still can't feel 'em."

You sighed out, big and long -pressing a kiss to his chest (right over his heart) and sitting up. Rubbing at your eyes and fixing your shirt, you leaned against the bed frame.

Rick looked at you for a moment, before smiling, "You're so cute, ya know 'at?"

You yawned, stretching out your arms, stating -frankly, "You tell me a lot."

"Yeah, well," he pursed his lips, "-Imma keep doin' it."

"I know," you responded -leaning over and kissing him solidly.

You'd initially just wanted one, but Rick held you there a moment -hands cupping your face. Lips darting forward a few times, he chased them. It was routine for him -almost like brushing your teeth. You realized he really liked to kiss you, and probably, realistically, had a quota -the thought nearly made you laugh.

"You keep doing that and we won't make it out of the bed," you teased -landing one more on his lips.

Rick laughed, you loved that sound.

Flicking to your phone, you scanned the date and time -frowning. It was a workday.

"Ugh," you groaned, throwing yourself back into the bed, "-I work today. Save me, Grimes."

He was on his side now, looking down at you - that gaze you knew very well. He had so many stares that said the same thing -it was nice; he didn't have to say a word but he still did. All the time.

Complimented you like he couldn't help it, like it was always on his tongue.

He offered, half-serious you could tell, "What if ya quit, and I got a job again? Took care of you and Carl."

"Rick, as much as that sounds like heaven, and it does-" you hummed, hands moving up to cup his face -thumbs saying back and forth over his cheekbones, "-I love my job, I'm not quitting."

He turned to kiss your palm, gently.

"Plus," you added on, "-you make a great housewife."

Rick rolled his eyes, the smile spread across his lips much more telling, "Ya are too much, sometimes, you know 'at?"

"I think," you smiled, sitting up and rubbing your hands over his shoulders, "-I'm just right."

"For me," he added, "-Just right for me."

You smiled, holding his face in your hands and leaning forward to kiss his forehead. You almost couldn't stop yourself with him, you wanted to hold him or kiss him nearly everywhere. Maybe because you spent all those years not and wanted to make up for lost time, but you didn't really know for sure.

"Sap," you hummed, patting his cheek -a little patronizingly.

And then, Rick laughed again.

Before you could do much else, you heard some shuffling in the living room -footsteps pattering along the floor. Straight to your room. You moved in preparation, as you did every morning.

Just on cue, Carl barreled through the doorway -jumping his Dad into a tackle.

"'Ere's my guy," Rick laughed out -breathless (you imagined the hit made him a little breathless), squeezing his son against his chest.

When Carl finally let go, you brushed some of his hair down -it was far too mussed for it to do anything but you just wanted to, "Did you sleep good, Carl?"

"Great," he smiled -big and toothy, "-I had a dream about evil dinosaurs taking over, I saved the world-"

"Betcha did, buddy," Rick commented, shifting his son further down the bed, "-let's go get some breakfast."

"Get?" You questioned.

"Yeah," Rick hummed, "-'ere's a place a friend recommended a few weeks ago, been meaning to try it. If ya want to."

"A friend?" You questioned now fully facing him, "-tell me more."

"Yeah, Dad," Carl affirmed, "-since when do you have friends?"

You snorted at that.

Rick huffed out, a little in defense, but answered anyway, "'Went when ya were workin' and you were at your Mom's to some local park. Guy had a dog, thin' tackled me to the ground."

"And you became friends with him?" Carl asked, confused.

"Adults are weird like that, sweetie," you patted his shoulder, "-we take what friends we can get. And you-"

You turned toward Rick, pecking him on his cheek, "-I'm very proud."

He smiled that twinkly one again, eyes so blue and so... in love. You were sure that you looked about the same.

"You guys are gross," Carl stuck his tongue out in disgust, running out of the room without another breath. Kids.

"No, but seriously," you turned to him -one last time, "-I'm really proud of you."

He smiled, a softer one then, like the praise meant the world to him -and you wondered briefly if it did, "I know."

It was a few days after that now -the weekend, where you found yourself, and Rick, shopping. It wasn't like you dragged him everywhere you went, he just always wanted to follow you around.

Bonnie said it was like he was a 'lil' lovesick puppy' and you were really starting to agree with her.

He was looking at you now, eyes twinkling as he pushed the cart -slow and sure steps following each one you took.

"What kind does Carl like again?" You asked absent-mindedly, hands darting between a few packages, "-I could've sworn it was blueberry, but these don't-"

"'S blueberry," he hummed, and you spun to him -eyes flickered over his (he was looking at you way too in love to be at a grocery store).

"Are you sure-" you asked, motioning to the box, "-is this just new packaging, or-"

"Baby," he laughed, walking away from the front of the cart and taking the box into his hands, "-stop stressin' yourself out, 's the right one-"

He paused for a minute, looking it over.

"Yeah," you snatched the box out of his hands -with a teasing smile, "-What were you saying exactly?"

Rick laughed, leaning forward to kiss you -quickly, "'M sorry, you were right. Doesn't look right. Is 'ere any with blueberry in-"

"Y/N," a voice rang out, "-is that you?"

You stalled in place, you knew that voice from forever ago. Was that-

You turned around, your ex-boyfriend from your senior year. It really was. He was older now, obviously, taller, his hair still cut the same way and his fashion sense somehow worse. Which you didn't know how that could happen, because he was a teenager. How did it get worse?

"Hey," you offered -awkwardly, "-crazy seeing you here."

Rick spun around at your tone, eyes settling very quickly on the guy -he knew him too. The smile on his face flattened.

Your breakup hadn't been the best, he'd cheated on you and asked the person to prom instead of you. Shane and Rick ended up taking you, but it hurt all the same. He'd never even formally broken up with you, now that you think about it-

"Rick!" He exclaimed, but you could tell it was a little for show, "-What are the chances? It's like we're holding our own little reunion here."

Rick was silent, he did hold grudges for pretty long, so you wouldn't be surprised if he still had one. You peeked over at him, and saw an unfamiliar face -straight lined mouth, and blue eyes steely.

"What are you," you started -politely, "-doing here?"

"I work around here," he clarified, and you relaxed slightly -normal, "-I'd heard you were in the area though and wanted to catch up!"

There it was.

"I didn't-" he started, "-I wasn't looking in grocery stores, I was going to try and talk to you through socials-"

His eyes landed on Rick for a moment, and he seemed to think for a moment, "Didn't expect you here though, buddy! Last I heard you were still in town. Are you visiting or something-"

Rick was deathly quiet.

"Actually," you laughed, sort of awkwardly, "-we live together."

"Oh, cool!" The guy hummed, "-That's always-"

"I'm 'eir boyfriend," Rick interrupted, hand shooting out to find yours -which he did fairly quickly. His tone was low, his accent strong, and your ex seemed to notice it -eyes darting to your connected hands.

Something fluttered along your mind -boyfriend. Have you said that yet? Was that the first time?

"Oh, shit," he stressed out -genuine surprise in his tone, "-You finally got the memo, Grimes?"

Rick's jaw tightened, and you squeezed your connected hands once. Trying to calm him down, you'd forgotten how protective he was -even when you were friends.

You remember him physically shielding you from exes, showing up to your house when you called and said they wouldn't leave you alone. Shane was always more physical, offering to punch them in the face or even doing it without warning -Rick was more of a presence. Something commanding in how he held himself.

"Yeah," he answered, shortly, "-got together aboutta year an' a half ago."

You hadn't even realized it had been that long, Rick was so ingrained into your day. It was like you couldn't picture life before him, even though you knew it was happy. It just shied in comparison to what you lived now.

"Wow, that's incredible," he smiled -somewhat genuinely, "-I know you've had a thing for him for a while, so I'm happy for you. Glad you guys could figure it out."

You shifted, uncomfortably -had he known when you were dating too?

"Thanks," you offered -simply. The grudge that had been instilled in you long ago was long gone, labeled as 'high school stuff'. Felt like the end of the world then, but in the grand scheme of things, was inconsequential.

Your relationship with him was special though, helped distract you and you even thought maybe your feelings for Rick had shifted. Later, you knew they hadn't but the heartbreak of what you did have with your ex didn't help any either.

"And, just to get it off my chest," he added -a little more serious, "-I'm sorry for how we ended things, wasn't fair to you."

Huh, you thought.

"No need," you assured, "-it was high school, we were young, didn't know any better."

He smiled then, seemingly happy with the exchange, "Well, I've gotta go, but I wish you guys the best, really. Remember me when the wedding comes, yeah?"

You stilled.

Rick laughed though, something in him lightening up, "I'll try."

"All I can ask for."

After that, Rick continued sorting through the snacks -trying to find the right one. ("Maybe 'ey just don't 'ave it, baby, we can try the next store if ya want.") You'd said something about it not being worth it, you could ask him later next week -see exactly which one he liked.

You were there, physically, for the rest of the trip, but something in your mind was running at 100 miles an hour.

Rick had thought about marriage? With you?

It didn't come up until you got home, you and Rick carrying bags in and sorting through them in the kitchen. As a pair, you were a well-oiled machine, and something in your chest warmed at seeing him so comfortable. He was so used to it now.

It was his home too, after all. You just still couldn't wrap your head around that.

"Baby?" He interrupted your train of thought, shaking a box of macaroni in front of your face -asking where to put it, you realized.

"Far cabinet on the right," you answered, but his eyes didn't move from you -he could tell something was off. Always could.

He set the box on the counter, pulling you from the bag you were working on -tilting your head to face him. You followed without hesitation, somewhat on instinct.

"Ya alright?" He echoed -concerned, you could tell by the pull of his brow, "-'ve been so spacy since the grocery store."

"What, yeah," you hummed, blinking away the thought process -or trying to, anyway.

Rick raised an eyebrow. He could always see right through you. You didn't know how he did that-

"You," you bit your lip -eyes darting to the bags on the floor, noting how much you had left, "-Have you really thought about marrying me?"

He laughed a little then, pulling you forward and kissing you solidly -you let him, "Ya had me worried 'ere, baby."

"Rick," you said -pointedly.

"I know, I know," he hummed, smoothing his thumb along your cheek, "'s just an easy answer."

You paused, heart on your tongue -maybe even a little pathetically, "Really?"

"'Course," he stressed -grin spread across his lips, "-I love ya, don't I? Why wouldn't I think 'bout our future?"

"Well, our future is one thing," you echoed, "-but marriage... You've thought about it. That's... That's a big deal."

"Is it?" He teased.

"Rick."

"Okay, yeah," he exhaled, getting serious, hands staying cupped on your cheeks, "-I've thought 'bout it. A lot. I got this picture of a white house with a big ol' yard and a garden. Two rockin' chairs on the front porch, the works."

"Really?" Your heart felt like it was in your throat, and it was the only word you could come up with.

"Yeah," he smiled, warm, something softer in his eyes now -affectionate, "-'s just a dream though, gotta work out some kinks."

"Like what?"

"Well, for one," he hummed, "-your job. Ya love it 'ere, I don't wanna take 'at away from ya. Two, location, 'M not too sure 'ey got any white houses for sale out 'ere-"

It slipped out before you could think about it, "'Could always build one."

Rick paused, smiling at you in a certain type of way, before deciding, "I'd build ya a house."

You laughed.

"Ya want one?" He asked -somewhat genuinely, "-I'll build you a house, if ya want one, baby."

"Rick," you laughed, "-be serious."

"I am," he spoke -voice certain, serious, "-I'll give ya anythin' you want."

"Rick, come on, that's-"

You looked at him, really looked at him. His blue eyes said all they needed to.

"Come on," you echoed out -in disbelief, "-you cannot just build a house for me. Do you even know how to do that?"

"Sure I do," he clarified, "-my Dad taught me a lot."

"Not about building houses," you laughed -a bit in shock.

He seemed so serious. you'd been in committed relationships before, but a house? Someone building you a house?

He really couldn't be serious.

"Taught me about buildin'," he offered -tone so stable, unshakeable, "-and whose to say I can't get any help?"

"You are not building me a house, Rick," you laughed out -still reeling, "-we're not even engaged-"

Rick looked at you, solidly, all of his attention -it made the laughter cut short from your lips. There was intention there, in his eyes -something so vulnerable, so open. It was like he was saying everything at once and nothing at all.

You don't know what about it told you, but something did.

He had a ring.

"You... You don't-" you spoke -disbelief coating your words. It felt like nothing was coming to your lips, or everything was. You couldn't decide, "-Rick."

"'Was just instinct," he replied honestly, "-saw it and it just... it was yours."

"Rick," you stressed again but it was weak -something bubbling up your throat, "-we've... we've only been dating a year and a half."

"'Ve known each other a lot longer," he reasoned, "-'supposed to really know someone ya marry. And I really know you."

You fell silent.

"And, as much as I hate it sometimes," he let out a long breath, "-you really know me too."

"Rick," you muttered out -it was all you could say.

"If ya want more time, I get it," he quickly said, making sure you were looking at him -tilting your chin up with his hand, "-I can wait. But I'm ready, 'ave been."

Your eyes were teary now, as you stared at him. Taking him in. Not only had he thought about marrying you, but he had a ring and a plan and a dream with you in it.

You just said all you could think of.

"You better not be proposing to me over grocery bags in our kitchen right now."

Rick laughed then, a rumble through his chest, "Don't 'ave to be. Unless you want it."

You tried to wipe at your eyes, but his thumbs swiped the tears away instead, "What the hell are we supposed to tell people? 'He just offered to build me a house in our kitchen'?"

"You 'aven't even seen the ring yet," he laughed, but something in him different -excited, happy, beyond happy.

"God," you suddenly startled, somewhat ignoring his words, "-what are we going to tell Bonnie?"

Rick stared at you again -telling.

"She knows?"

"Told her when I found it," he hummed -pulling your face forward to kiss your forehead, "-asked her 'at I should do. 'If it feels right, it feels right.'"

"You are such a momma's boy, Grimes."

"'Ey," he spoke -defensive, with no bite. He was smiling too big for you to take him seriously.

"You know I'm right," you gloated, before settling into another thought, "-Shane's going to be so pissed he wasn't involved."

"In what?"

"The proposal," you answered -as if it was obvious.

"So, this is the proposal?" He asked, smiling biting through his lips, "-Ya want me to be proposin'?"

You pursed your lips, trying to hold back the creeping smile, "I haven't even seen the ring yet."

"I said 'at," he laughed -just so very delighted, "-you weren't listenin' to me."

"Show it to me," you grinned, bouncing on your toes, "-I wanna see."

"I don't 'ave it on me," he laughed at your insistence, "-I hid it away."

"So?" You asked, something in your stomach swirling, "-Go get it then."

"Bossy," he hummed, throwing up his hands in surrender -roaming down past the living room. It was the opposite way of your bedroom.

Where did he-

He abruptly turned into a doorway.

Carl's room.

It was smart, you never would have looked there. Not that you'd be looking anyway, a few minutes ago you didn't even know he'd thought about marrying you-

A lot was happening, but you somehow weren't scared. Not really. You knew Rick, like the back of your hand, and living with him had been so natural, so easy. So much so, that he almost didn't even have to ask to move in. It felt right, even when you argued, you knew it was for a purpose -never letting it further than it needed to be. You had both learned what a mature solution was and knew how to handle it all. He'd never stormed out angry and neither had you. Ever.

You'd thought before that maybe if you had been together when you were younger, it might not have worked. You might have broken up, but the time and the experience, you got it right. With Rick, this was... right.

You'd never felt more stable with somebody. And you weren't sure what your life would be like without him in it. Wasn't that what marriage was about? Adapting, learning, knowing, loving.

Your relationship with Rick was the most serious you'd ever been in, even before the marriage topic. You'd just known, if this went anywhere it would go far.

And maybe you hadn't hoped as far as marriage, but you had pictured years at least.

You heard his footsteps before you saw him, the slow drag of his feet -you knew it well, could recognize him by his footsteps. ("You really know me too.")

And there was a pounding in your chest then, but you weren't scared. It was anticipation, excitement.

Rick wandered up to you, the little box held tightly in his hand -something in him nervous, you could tell. It made your head spin, you couldn't stand still. It felt like your heart was running at 100 miles an hour, as you stared at his hand.

It was a tiny wooden box, nothing too special. But still, your heart clamored into your throat -darting between him and the box, back and forth, back and forth-

"Ya want me on one knee?" He asked -playfully, but something was biting at him. Nerves.

You laughed, fidgeting with your hands, "Yeah, of course. Aren't you going to do it properly? Aren't you a gentleman?"

"'S 'at mean you want this? Now?"

You pursed your lips, hiding a smile, "Isn't that the whole point of asking?"

Rick shook his head -smiling, and as promised -got on one knee.

It was suddenly very real. You'd always imagined this moment, in a fairytale sort of way. Where the music swells, and maybe you're in front of a national monument, or maybe he had just saved your life, or maybe he'd just given you this big speech about how he can't live without you-

But this, this was very simple.

It was just Rick, still in his pajama pants and with a little bit of a bedhead, knelt down in-between plastic grocery bags. There was no lavish dinners, no beautiful sunset. You hadn't even actually eaten breakfast yet-

But even still, your heart leap in your throat and your eyes got all misty.

"Shit," you mumbled out, tears ready to pour, "-you were... this is real."

Rick laughed, something so affectionate in his eyes, "I 'aven't even opened the box yet, baby, and you're already cryin'."

"Shut up, Grimes," you groaned out -laughing, even if it sounded a little like sobs.

"Ain't I supposed to be talkin'?"

"You know what I mean," you rolled your eyes, sniffling.

Rick smiled again, and it was bright and bubbly -your whole chest felt like it was about to explode. You never could imagine how this felt, how your life would lead to this -the person you love, offering themselves up forever. Forever.

"I love you," he started, and you could feel the waterworks, "-even tho' I'm a little late, I love ya so fully 'at I think I can't move forward anymore without you. You're not in my life, you're a piece of me. A piece of me 'at I can't lose, ever, and I don't want to."

Your took a shaky breath in.

"I want ya forever," he continued, and you could see the shine of tears in his eyes, "-I want all of this forever. I want you wakin' up beside me in the mornin' and the last face I see at night until we're old and gray. I'll build ya a fuckin' house, and we'll rock on the front porch together until the sun goes down-"

You laughed, a little wet and teary but a laugh all the same.

Rick was slower now, tone heavy with intent, "And I never imagined me and you like this all those years ago, but I... I can't think of anythin' more perfect now."

"Rick," you whispered out, the breaths in your chest hollow.

"Marry me," he echoed out, almost pleading, "-We were a few years too late, and I don't want ya waitin' on me anymore. So, marry me."

"Yes," you nearly spilled out before he could finish, "-holy shit, yes. I'll marry you."

Rick grinned, big and wide.

"Even if you just proposed to me over some grocery bags-"

"Oh, shut up," he laughed, standing up and pulling the ring from its box.

Your laughter was cut short, in all this commotion, you hadn't even noticed the ring. All you could look at was Rick, and you just loved him so much your eyes wouldn't move.

And now it was pinched between his fingers -shiny, beautiful. Nothing too big, something simple.

You hadn't thought about a ring, but it was somehow everything you wanted.

"You like it?"

His blue eyes were trained on you -just looking. Hopeful, nervous, maybe? Like he'd really wanted you to like it. Something in you warmed.

"Yeah," you whispered -eyes still a little misty.

He smiled, big and bright -so very happy, "Yeah?"

"You did a good job, Grimes," you wiped at your eyes -extending your hand out.

Rick smiled, you don't know if he ever stopped, carefully taking your hand and pushing the ring onto your finger. His calloused fingertips held you so gently that it made your head spin -always did.

"You just called yourself my boyfriend for the first time," you mumbled out -gently.

"Hmm, baby?" Rick asked, eyes looking at your hand -the ring, "-Didn't hear ya."

"At the grocery store," you hummed, sniffling, "-you said you were my boyfriend for the first time."

Rick paused a moment, before laughing, gently moving his hands to cradle your face, "'At's cute."

"What?" You offered, "-I'm serious, Rick."

"Baby, I tell everyone," he contradicted, rubbing his thumbs over your skin, "-it'd be the first thin' out my mouth if I wasn't introducin' myself."

"When?" You asked -genuinely, "-Because you never-"

"All the time," he reiterated, "-called my Momma the day I moved in, told 'er. Some guy starts approachin' ya? Boyfriend. An old friend from high school? Oh, we're together now. 'At-"

He cupped your face, gently -like he thought you were the cutest thing in the world, "-must've been the first time you were listenin'."

"Well," you hummed, hands coming up to intertwine behind his neck -fingers twisting into his curls, "-you were about to jump the guy, so I was pretty hyperaware-"

"I was not aboutta jump 'im," Rick laughed, moving his hands to your waist in response -instinctively.

"You were," you echoed, twirling his hair in between your fingers, "-I know you. When he said you 'got the memo'? You were going to kick his ass, right there in the grocery store."

"'Was kinda fucked up for 'im to say," he conceded -barely muttering it.

You rolled your eyes, just looking at him -smiling big and wide, "What am I going to do with you, Grimes?"

"Marry me," he answered, smiling big like he won some sort of prize, "-You're gonna marry me."

"You're such a sap, Grimes," you swatted his shoulders, playfully.

"Can't keep callin' me 'at," he hummed, eyes a little hooded -you knew the look.

"Why?"

"You're gonna be a Grimes," he explained -a simple little smile smoothed across his mouth, "-What are ya goin' to do then?"

"First off," you started, "-whose to say you're not taking my name-"

Rick hummed, a grin bright on his face like you talking about it made him deliriously happy. And the way he was looking at you right now, you would bet he was.

"Secondly, doesn't mean I can't still call you Grimes. You're still the original one."

"I'd take your name," he said -absentmindedly, fingers gently pressed into the skin of your waist -making you sway, "-ya want me to take your name?"

"Rick," you laughed, "-we can't do that to Bonnie."

"Just sayin'."

"And," you interrupted, flicking your eyes down to your hands -a little embarrassed, "-I've been doodling 'Y/N Grimes' into notebook margins since I was 16 so-"

Rick grinned, bright -something in him nearly giddy, "Really? 'S 'at why I could never use your notes?"

You frowned -embarrassed, "No."

"Oh my god," he gushed, all smiley and so excited, "-do ya still 'ave some of 'em? Please tell me ya do-"

"Rick, seriously? You want me to dig up old notebooks-"

"'S just so cute, baby," he teased, genuine, "-I gotta see it."

You huffed out a breath like you didn't know exactly where they were. Or like you didn't know you'd kept them in the closet, just to hopefully laugh at someday when you did move on-

Or maybe like you didn't keep them to read when you missed him.

"Did ya doodle lil' hearts too?"

"You're not funny, Grimes," you shot back but there was no bite.

"Not jokin'," he drawled, eyes so intently on yours, "-I wanna see 'em in my head. Maybe I'll get one tattooed on my heart-"

"Rick-" you shoved him but not far enough for you to completely let go.

Your steps fumbled forward, and the crinkle of the bags -brought your attention back to the floor. Right, you had just gone grocery shopping.

"Shit," you huffed, "-we need to put this stuff up, can't let anything thaw-"

"'S not gonna thaw," Rick countered.

"I'm being serious," you stressed, "-we can't just leave this all here."

"We could," he neatly replied.

"Rick-" and then you looked at him. He was looking at you in a certain type of way, you knew exactly the type of way.

"We should celebrate," he hummed, eyes low to match your lips, "-just got engaged."

"Rick," you chided, "-seriously."

"I'm perfectly serious, baby," he said it the way he always did. The way he did the first time, and even still you felt a jump in your pulse.

You weren't faltering, not this time. If he wanted to play dirty, so would you.

You stood ever-so-slightly on your tippy-toes -holding his eyes, you trailed your fingers along his shoulders. His eyes held onto you like he was lost at shore and you were the lighthouse -like you held everything in your hands. Maybe a little like you were the everything.

You stood a breath away from him, a smooth sort of smirk ran across your lips -his breaths were hollow in his chest. Payback.

"What's a few more minutes, baby?"

You saw his eyes flicker with a few different things then, and with a breath, you abruptly pulled back.

Rick blinked, the hazy out of his eyes -watching you start gathering up the bags, "Really? Usin' my own words against me?"

"Hey," you shoved his shoulder, teasing, "-at least you know how I felt, baby."

He grinned too big to be mad, hands coming up to cup your face. You knew exactly where that was going-

You sidestepped out of his grip, "Help me with the bags, Grimes."

He frowned, leaning against the counter -time for a different tactic.

"Okay, fine-" you huffed out, putting your hands on your hips, "-if we can at least get the frozen things put-"

Rick scooped the bags (with the frozen foods) up with a grace unknown to you, and a speed you could hardly follow. Carelessly tossing them into the freezer, still in the bags, he slammed the top shut with the flick of a wrist.

He looked back up at you -blue, blue eyes.

"-up," you finished a little breathlessly -a bit in amazement, "-How did you do that?"

"'S a powerful motivator," he offered up -accent low.

Without so much as a breath, he beelined toward you. And before you could even blink, he had gathered you up in his arms -carrying you toward your room.

"Rick-" you laughed.

He kissed the rest of your words out of your mouth.

Eh, they weren't that important anyway.

#drunk on you #its griming time #rick grimes #stuff n' thangs #rick grimes x reader #rick grimes x y/n #rick grimes x you #rick grimes x y/n fanfiction #rick grimes oneshot

[sevenpoyo]

some brooklyn slang ik for all the ppl who wanna write for miles and kilometers‼️

feel free to add more idk everything but i i am originally from there and visit a lot this stuff i hear a lot and if you wanna add slang to ur writing this is a good place to start, not all of these brooklyn or ny exclusive but that’s where a lot of american slang starts and u prolly heard some of it b4. imma list it ne ways

don’t use like 8 of these in one sentence bc it will sound weird and i can’t really cover ny puerto rican slang or any puerto rican slang really bc my grandad is a bum so if you know some add it

the city is manhattan, not the other 4 burroughs, just manhattan, cus that’s where everything’s at

to cut ass is to roast tf out of someone , to get your ass cut is get tf roasted out of you

wyling/wilding is being outta pocket, something being absurd or crazy

yeah nah means no and nah yeah means yeah idk why they gotta make it complicated just look at the second word

good looks is like good looking out

it’s bout to be winter and i’m bout to see mad christmas fics and shit but do y’all know the proper way to describe cold ny winters?

if it’s cold as hell, it’s brick outside, not regular cold, ny winter is like nipples so hard i see em thru the bra cold

ex; “how it’s so brick outside i walk to the store wit my hair wet and it deadass got icicles in it” “yeah it’s fr brick outside today” “i’m not walkin wit u in this brick ass weather for a bacon egg and cheese?” (actual convo between my sister and me last winter break)

fronting seem kinda easy to me but is like acting or pretending i can’t explain it with out an example

“why you fronting like you wouldn’t die if they text you asking u to go out with them” “you can stop fronting like you like cars it cool if you don’t” “don’t sit there fronting like u don’t wanna dance wit me”

being tight over something is just being upset or annoyed

rj is so smart they said “We say tight bc you kinda huddle close to yourself when you tense/stressed or angry” i had no idea i just be saying it i aint know it had a reason💀 it make sm sense now.

“who got you tight like that this early in the morning?” “my momma came home tight yesterday for no reason, she threw a boot at me!” “i’m so tight this damn shift change has me working all closers this week”

jack is like claiming someone or something

i talk old as hell idk what the youths be jacking nowadays

cop is basically to get, used to be mostly 4 drugs back in the day my dad said (he don’t know why im asking him this)

“just copped me some retro 3’s” “bout to cop me a few percs in a minute”

speaking of a minute, mostly for my non americans bc that’s who get confused the most when i say this one. depending on the context this can mean a actual minute, a short time or a real long

“i’ll be back in a minute” is short “i ain’t seen y’all in a minute” is long. idk how to explain the difference besides context

bop is a good song, pretty easy but i see ppl on tiktok use it wrong

bangs/banger goes hard is kinda like bob for music but i be using it for anything fr

“this push pop is banging yo”

mad can be used normal like angry but it also means a lot or really kinda like hella ig? i usually uses hella when i would say mad so ppl can understand me easier up here

dumb also mean very in the same way

ex; “my english teacher give out mad homework for no reason.” “she be giving me mad shit over the smallest stuff” “i just had some mad good wings so i’m cooling rn” “this shit is mad spicy u sure you want some?” ''This shit got me dumb tight'' “you don’t need no jacket it’s dumb hot out here”

smacked is like high as fuck idk how to elaborate ur just high

lit is drunk

“Yuuuur!'' A signal, a greeting usually used to catch the attention of someone or something very fun greeting and very hated by schools, it’s weird anywhere outside of ny kinda at least to me.

being hollywood means u get a little fame and think ur all that or just that u got a little fame and they’re jokingly hating

ex; “i saw u on the news the other day, “the prowlers return” u must be real proud of yourself huh hollywood?” “and here comes hollywood wit his trending tiktoks”

real talk is when ur about confess something or say something serious in a not real serious setting or convo

“real talk we play a lot but i love you, my life would be boring with out you around” “real talk i’d never do that to you foreal”

go together is like go out kinda, y��all kinda match behavior cus y’all a couple, this one need a sentence 2 i think. (THIS ONE IS OLD AS HELL ONLY USE IT IF UR TRYING TO RIZZ MOMMA RIO)

“he want ur number? he don’t know we we go together or sum?” “why she wanna act like we go together, ion even know her?” “don’t we go together?”

i can’t even explain it with a sentence y’all just gotta figure this one out 💀

A bodega/deli is a convenience store ik most know this from the movie but some ppl think it’s all stores or all spanish stores when it’s just a corner store

the owners of the deli closest to my granddad house is muslim. and so we keep track of all muslim holidays when he’s closed

an ock is the bodega man, miles knows the man’s name at the deli we see him visit, but at any other store he’d call the guy ock

dipping on someone is changing ur mind last minute, usually canceling plans

ex “we was supposed to go get outfits together but they dipped on me last minute”

staticky is like wanting to fight or still being pissed after a fight

static is beef or on sight energy

you good can really be anything but imma list ones i can think of

it can mean like are you ok? or don’t worry about it, or how are you, or stop, or do you got a issue? or do you want an issue? it’s all in the tone of how it’s said fr

'Word of my moms/dads I saw/ did/did not *insert topic*'' Honest term, no lying present in statement i feel like (my cousins be putting anything on they momma fr risking shit on her for no reason)

'hold it down'' handle buisness / take care of someone or something. can also be in refrence to criminal who handles ''buisness''

NOW EVERYONE SAY THANK YOU TO @rashadisback BC HE CARRIED ME ON THIS‼️

i hope this helps any writers that don’t live here!

#42 miles morales x reader #miles morales x reader #atsv x reader #across the spiderverse #atsv

[ayeyolooo]

Jealous girl

PLEASE READ THE WARNING BEFORE INTERACTING WITH THE POST

Part 1 |part 2

Warning; the character is black! She’s a thick girl,with thick thighs, cellulite, lower belly fat allat. There may be some uses of the ‘n’ word. It’s a little long. Gwen,pavitr,hobie,Margo and Miguel will all be mentioned.

Oh! And please excuse my grammatical errors! <3

Summary: Gwen brings a new spiderman to the building and he instantly clicks with you, Gwen on the other hand isn’t liking the clicking between the both of you.

“Mmhm girl like I was saying he ain’t a damn thing.” You said leaning over Margo’s desk as the two of you had your daily conversation gossiping . “Girl you know he not gone do that, Miguel knew you longer than he knew Gwen.” Margo shrugged.

“In fact he treats you like you’re his own daughter .” You just sighed and nodded agreeing with her as you pulled your mask up and over your mouth revealing your nose and your lips. You bit into your Jamaican patty and dusted your hands off. “Listen all I’m saying is ever since she got here things been off. plus ion think that she likes me very much.” You said taking another bite.

“Girl she don’t like me neither.” You and Margo just looked at eachother and busted out laughing. “Ouuu lemme see yo hair.” She said now noticing your long locs that you got done yesterday. You removed your mask revealing your beautiful brown eyes. Your nose piercing shimmered in the dim light as she ran her hands through your neat locs. You winced some as she apologized for being a little harsh.

“Girlll you look so cuteeee!!” She said hyping you up. You just smiled real hard while covering your face. “Thank youuu.” You said giggling and giving her a 360. “GYATTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTT.” She said slapping your butt a few times. You and her just laughed and joked around. The doors opened having you and Margo look at the entrance. You seen hobie, Pavitr, gwen. And who is that?

He stood tall like about 6’0, he had curly hair and he had a sleeper build. He followed behind gwen as he and hobie talked with one another. You turned to Margo with wide eyes as she smiled at you and began to wiggle her eyebrows.

“You better go get him before ms. Winter tries to.” You just laughed as you bit into another piece of your patty. “Here you want the rest, imma go wash my hands and change out of my suit.” Margo nodded as she did a happy dance. She opened a portal to her room and walked through it to get the patty before closing it and munching down on the patty.

As you walked past you bumped into someone. “My bad.” A voice that you didn’t recognize spoke as he looked up and seen you the both of your senses went off as you took a shaky breath. What is that weird feelin? “It’s okkk.” You said with a smile. “I’m spiderman..” he said looking at you mesmerized. “Oh em geee meee tooo!” You said with a sarcastic expression as he laughed and shook his head. “Hey y/n.” Hobie said walking over to you and wrapping his arm around your neck. “Hiii hobieeee.” You said wrapping your arms around his thin waist. “Okay imma be right back I need to change my clothes outta this suit.” You said, as the two boys watched.

As you walked away hobie looked at miles and smirked. “Eyes up here mate.” Hobie laughed at miles shaking his head and licking his lips before letting out a chuckle. “Umm who is that?” Miles whispered as you talked and hugged all of the other Spider-Man’s. “Shes spider girl duhhh.” Hobie said laughing.

“Gimme 3 and a half minutes maybe even fo’ .” Miles said looking at you walk to your room. “ to do wha’?” Hobie asked as he looked at miles. “Nothing of courses.” Miles said with a sarcastic smile. “Guys Miguel wants us.” Gwen said with a little attitude behind her tone. “What’s wrong witchu?” Miles jerked his head back. “Nothings wrong.” She simply smiled before walking with another spiderman.

“Mm, she’s a jealous girl innit.” Hobie said shaking his head laughing. “What do you mean she’s jealous? We ain’t together? Plus ion see her like that no more.” Miles said shrugging. Gwen’s heart dropped ouch.

“Okay so I see that we have a new recruit. Where’s y/n?” Miguel said looking for you. “I think that she’s in her room.” Gwen said with a sour look on her face. “Well we need her for this task.” Miguel said.

“Can I lead this time? Ya know cause I never had a chance to.” Gwen spoke up. “No.” Miguel simply said in a cold tone having Margo make a ‘yikes.’ Face and having Gwen shrink down in her seat.

The doors opened and there you stood with a yellow sundress on, that brought out your dark skin complexion. “Nice to have you here y/n.” Miguel said with his back facing you all.

“Now we’re going to get into how this mission is going to go.” Miguel said.

•••

Once the meeting was over you yawned before walking to your room,that Miguel provided for you. As you were on the way you heard someone behind you call your name. You turned around with furrowed eyebrows and seen who called you.

It was the new boy. And boyyy wasn’t he bout finer than a tall glass of wine. Girllll dinnerrrrrr

You thought to yourself. “So I was wondering if I could get your number so that we could get to know eachother.” You looked at him up and down then began to tap your cheek. “Hm I dunno.” He just ran his hand down his face and did that lil smile then lick the lip combo thing and boy did your knees get weak.

“Lemme stop here you go.” You said holding your hand out for his phone. He placed his phone in your hand as he gently took your phone. The both of you swapped numbers and gave eachother your phones back. The two of you walked around the facility getting to know eachother. You two instantly clicked, you were so going to tell Margo and hobie once you got home. “It was nice meeting you miles.” You said with a smile ,and gave him a short hug before walking into your room.

As miles walked to hobies room, Gwen stopped him. “You know that she’s not going to take you serious right?” Miles jerked his head back. “Huh?” He jerked his head back. “Y/n she’s not going to take you serious. Like if you were looking to date her.” Gwen said miles just made a stank face to her.

“Get out my face Gwen. Because you had me,but you lost me. I found somebody else and now you tryna stop me?” Miles asked her. “N-no it’s not that it’s just.” Miles adam apple bobbed as he waited for her answer. “You jealous ain’t you?” He bent down so that he could hear her. “Of y/n? Of course not. I just don’t like her.” She snorted. “Girl bye.” He said walking past her. Sassy man apocalypse.

To be continued…

Hiiii my babiesssss :) I’m sorry that I haven’t posted in a while💔. I’ve been busy, buttttt did you like itttt!!?🤭 if you did I’m so happy that you did! And I’m thinking about doing a part two, what do y’all think? Until next time byeeeee :)

You will be hated by everyone because of me,but the only one who stands firm to the end will be saved.

Matthew 10:22!

#miles morales x black!reader #miles morales #spiderman miles morales #black reader #black y/n #chubby reader #ayeyolooo

[melonmilkshake]

Fluff req!! Ft puppy Randal a kitty reader

Pretty short req tbh but basically reader js enters his room without a word and just loafs on his stomach like nothing, I think I’d be cute hehe ( ^ω^ )

(Also lil note js letting yk u can’t add pics to reqs so maybe the setting is turned off? Js saying!)

-🧛🏽‍♀️

Randal Ivory x reader

Fluff

Its pretty short tbh

They/Them | gender neutral

(We needed some fluff lmaooo)

TW: none

You get tired and decide to hangout with your lovely boyfriend.

(I have a few requests that imma do soon I'm not feeling well right now but ill get em done as soon as I can.. please please please be descriptive with what you're requesting.)

Also I'm pretty sure you can post images now ^_^

Randal boredly played on his Nintendo switch gently rubbing his eyes from time to time. His ears went up and down through every win and lose of his game.

It was the afternoon even though you could barely see the outside you could tell by the clocks it was.

Your sleepy body wanted to take a cat nap maybe even longer especially after Nyen threatened to attack you on multiple random instances. Your body was about to collapse any moment now...

You thought to yourself. What was the closest comfortable thing to you that wasn't the floor that you sometimes rested on? Your boyfriend.

You stared at the door to your left and quickly walked to it. Without a second thought you barged open not speaking a word. Randal barked from the sudden burst of the door and his heart pounded.

You calmly got between his open legs and hugged his waist while resting your head on his stomach. He chuckled nervously still shooken up from the door being slammed open.

"Scaredy cat." You mumbled while your tail swayed back and forth in the air. Randal placed his switch down and gently rubbed the tip of your cat ears.

A small purr came out of your lips and Randal blushed. He pulled you up closer to him so you were resting your head on his chest.

He played with your hair and placed slight kisses on the top of your head while you fell asleep on his chest.

#ranfren oneshots #ranfren x reader #oneshots #ranfren #ranfren x yn #randal ivory x reader #randal ivory x you #randal ivory oneshot #randal ivory x yn #oneshot #character x reader #character x you

[thatztyv]

Pretty Girl

Description:

- I don’t know🤷🏾‍♀️.. Urban hopped on Ki’Asia’s IG Live

Word Count:

- 877

Ki'Asia Moore

(kie- a-she-uh  more)

kiasia

Liked by urbanwyatt and 36,729 others

kiasia friend? bitch I said you bad

View all 750 comments

sarah56 Druski said it best

simp4brent be my girlfriend😩

urbanwyatt 😍😍 ♡

bankroll3k so pretty🥹

kelseiqueen 😩😍 ♡

.☆.

"Wassup y'all", I said as I set my phone up on my vanity.

tinytee hey Asia🙂

simp4brent Hey Asia boo

yolodolo yuurrr

"How was y'all day?", I asked as I combed through my hair.

freek3 Good

2litlaii Amazing, what about you?

kiyaforpres It was ok

greatdain Great

"Lai why was your day so amazing?", I chuckled as I stopped to read the comments.

"Kiya, I hope you have a better day tomorrow. Keep your head up boo, I love you", I said before combing my hair again.

2litlaii Cause I got to see my man 🤭

kiyaforpres thank you 😊

youngin23 you're so sweet 🥹

"Girl you and this man of yours", I said playfully rolling my eyes. "I'm a lover girl with no lover.. I hope y'all happy though."

delulu4you Girl same

seedy.me Man what

danitrips Everyday all you hear from me is "lord...it's me again"

"Dani that be me twenty four seven", I chuckled. "Anyways y'all like my hair. I did it myself."

bigbossvette It's cute😍

wantedho Come do mine 🧍🏾‍♀️

hypemantee4 Ok volume come through

herbsnish You would look so good in a blonde wig

"I'm scared to try blonde cause what if I look crazy", I said as I looked in the mirror and started to put my hair in two braids.

bigbossvette If you try blonde I'll do it with you

yougin23 We need a wig install tutorial cause it's giving scalp 😛

urbanwyatt your voice is perfect ⭐️

"Bet cousin I'll order em tomorrow... that's actually my next video, then imma stop posting for another six months", I chuckled as I started on the last braid.

I scanned over the comments before smiling.

urbanwyatt can I take you on a date?

"Depends on where you taking me sir", I said as I tied a scarf on my head.

simp4you I knew I wasn't tripping what Urban doing over here

danitrips Not Urban asking somebody on a date

sammydee URBAN ?!?

"On a side note, what y'all had or having for dinner? ", I said as I put my bonnet on.

danitrips Tea cause what you and Urban got going that you ain't telling us bout ☕️🫖

sammydee Tacos

wally.t Shrimp scampi 🍤

urbanwyatt is requesting to join live.

Accept or Decline

"Dani we ain't got nothing going", I said as I pressed accept to Urban's request.

"Hey pretty girl", Urban said once it connected. "Wassup live."

"Hi Urban", I said and smiled a little.

kentuckyboys URBAN JOINED THE LIVE, two of my worlds are colliding 😱

youngin23 Yuurrrr

2litlaii I know this finna be good.. just might chromecast my phone to the tv

bigbossvette 👀

"I'm nosey, where you at?", I asked as I arched a brow at him.

"On the tour bus", he said as he propped his phone up.

"Mm", I hummed as I leaned closer to my phone. "What town you in?"

"Frankfort."

"Oh you in my city. I would've had you pull up if I would have known earlier."

"I still can, it's never too late", he said before rubbing his beard.

"I'm ready for bed now. It's definitely too late boo."

simp4you 👀

kelseiqueen I'm just enjoying the show rn 🍿

"You know you got some sexy lips."

He smirked before licking his lips.

kentuckyboys Don't steal my man 😖

harlowslut Urban where is Jackman

2sexy.dee them lips real sexy 😩

"You know I could- nevermind", he started but cut himself off.

"No say what you were about to say", I said with a slight smile.

"It's too many people watching. I can't say all that", he chuckled.

"I understand."

simp4brent Fuck all that, say it Urban 😖

sarah56 nooo we wanna know

lostinthewind Don't leave us hanging like that

We got quiet, just looking at each other.

2litlaii Not y'all eye fucking in front of us

bigbossvette I feel like I'm interrupting 😭

kelseiqueen On this day, Ki'Asia and Urban fell in love 😩

"Anyways where you taking me to eat at?"

"McDonalds", he said nonchalantly.

"Blocked", I said reaching for my phone.

"I'm playing, I'm playing", he said laughing as he grabbed his phone.

bigbossvette 🤣🤣

simp4you McDonald's is OUTRAGEOUS 😭

freek3 ngl I would've kicked him off and blocked him so fast 😭😭😭

2litlaii Screaming 🤣

"Urban, you gone fool around and get blocked", I said as I picked my phone up.

"Ki'Asia you would never block me."

"Yes I would. You wanna see?"

"Don't block me", he chuckled. "I'll take you anywhere you wanna go."

wantedho ooh- girl I'd be cutting up, you heard how he just said your name effortlessly 😩

herbsnish don't play with her Urban

lanixworld Y'all!! What if they been going together this whole time and we just clueless 😱

"Nah Lani this is me and Urban first ever interaction outside of liking each others post", I chuckled. "No secret relationship."

"It could be though."

"Mmm."

freek3 So back to what I saying...This could be us but you playing !😩

kelseiqueen 👀

"Y'all I'm finna end this. I want to have a private conversation with Mr Urban", I said with a slight smirk.

"Private conversation? Mmm this might be interesting", he hummed.

herbsnish Urban don't fumble the bag bro 😐

jackharlow 👀

bigbossvette You better text me Asia I wanna know what y'all talk about

kelseiqueen You better update us bookie

kentuckyboys where tf Jack come from

"Bye y'all", I said before ending the live.

#Spotify #wattpad #jack harlow #jackman thomas harlow #jack harlow x black reader #urban wyatt #urban henry wyatt #urban wyatt x black reader #urban wyatt x reader #urban wyatt smut

[estrellami-1]

Okay my love I’m sending you a sad and pathetic prompt and then a cutesy fluff prompt (I thought about just sending you the cute one, I feel like all I’m doing these last few days is feeling awful and not being very productive or fun to be around and I think I was just wallowing when I wrote that comment so absolutely feel free disregard this one if you want) this is the sad one, I was thinking more hurt/comfort vibes:

This is just basically self insert except it’s not me I’m inserting it’s my situation lol, one of their relatives passes away (not Wayne) and on top of that they have to find homes for their loved ones pets that they loved the most of anything in the world when everyone is just telling them to euthanize or that everywhere is full and they’re four states and 16 hours away from the pets so it’s not like they can go pick them up easily if at all, which causes them to get sick/throw up a ton from the sadness and anxiety about the situation - enter the other who takes care of them to make sure they don’t worry themselves to death (if anyone wants to come take care of me and maybe just give me about 3000 hugs a day we could make this a live action roleplay situation lol🥺)

(Sorry this is just me complaining pretty much, the other prompt will be cuter)

Oh my love, you’re allowed to feel bad and wallow. I’m so sorry this happened/is happening!! I can’t give you any real hugs but I’ll give you ALL the virtual hugs I can ❤️

When the World Ends - Part 1

Steve’s voice is trembling when he finally makes the call to Eddie. “Hey,” he manages, letting out a pathetic, airy laugh at how badly his voice shakes on that one word. “Um. Can. Can you come over?”

Eddie’s amazing, so he says, “I’ll be there in ten,” and he is. As soon as Steve opens the door, he murmurs, “What’s wrong?”

Steve bites his lip, invites Eddie in. “Y’know how I never mention my parents?” Eddie hums. “But I always leave in the spring for a couple weeks?”

Eddie nods. “Your grandparents, right?”

Steve nods. Bites his lip again, looks up at the ceiling, trying not to cry. “Um.” He sniffs. “My grandpa passed today.”

“Oh, Stevie,” Eddie murmurs, reaching for him until Steve shakes his head sharply. “What can I do?”

Steve huffs. “What can anyone do?” He wipes his face and begins to pace. “My grandma’s too old to stay on her own now, let alone with all the animals they’ve got, and of course it’s not like her own son would help, not when he could be in Cabo instead, finding new ways to cheat on my mom with his secretary or assistant or her secretary or who the fuck knows. And I want to help but I can’t leave Hawkins, not when everyone else is still here, and there’s still a chance, but it feels so selfish not to go when she needs me-”

“Steve,” Eddie interrupts softly, hands up between them. “Take a breath, man, it’ll be okay. I know you love your grandparents but this isn’t all on you, okay?”

Steve slumps back into the couch like a puppet whose strings have been cut. Says, barely above a whisper, “I’ve got animals out there.”

Eddie hums softly. “What did you say?”

“Animals. Pets. I can’t have them here so my grandparents have ‘em. I’ve got a dog and chickens and a horse and what ‘m I gonna do with them?”

“We’ll figure it out,” Eddie promises him.

Steve groans and stands up again, beginning to pace again. “They’re four states away, Eddie! I don’t have a horse trailer, I dunno anyone in Hawkins who has chickens so I dunno if that’s even allowed, and I can’t bring my dog here!” He runs a hand through his hair, grimacing. “I guess the horse could go back to the neighbor, but they gave her to me for a reason, and I dunno what’s gonna happen to the chickens, and imma have to give the dog away, too, and get my grandma somewhere she can be taken care of, and fuck, there’s still the house-” he chokes on an inhale and a sob, standing still for a moment before he dashes through the house.

Eddie watches, wide-eyed, and follows when the sound of retching reaches his ears. “Oh, Stevie,” he murmurs, dropping to his knees beside him, hand hovering over his back. “Can I touch you? Rub your back?” Between gasping breaths, Steve nods, so Eddie puts a gentle hand on his back, rubbing up and down. “You’re gonna be okay,” he murmurs. “I know how scary this all seems right now, but you’re the strongest person I know, ‘sides Wayne, and you’ve got people who care about you and who’re gonna be here for you very step of the way, okay?”

The puppeteer cuts the strings once again, and Steve sags sideways into Eddie, trying to regulate his breathing, still quietly choking on his sobs. “Want me to call Birdie?” Eddie asks quietly, moving his hand to wrap his arm around Steve’s shoulders.

Steve shakes his head. Says, between breaths, “She’d panic.”

Eddie hums. “And you wanna be okay for her when she panics.” Steve nods. “Okay, I get that. I’m glad you called me.”

Steve sniffles. Eddie hands him some toilet paper. Says, after he’s blown his nose, “Feels like the world’s ending.”

Eddie thrown back into a memory from months ago. “If the world ends again, you know where I am,” he’d said. He hadn’t been sure, at the time, if Steve would call him. But they stayed friends, to the point where Steve calling him wasn’t quite the rarity it used to be, and Eddie doesn’t think he’s ever felt so honored.

“And you called me,” he murmurs, back in the present day, knees sore from the bathroom tile. He knows they’re going to pop like an old man’s when he stands. He decides not to worry about that right now.

Steve nods. “Knew you’d come.”

“And I did,” Eddie nods. Rubs his hand up and down Steve’s arm. “How’re you feeling?”

Steve sniffs again. “Like shit.”

Eddie lets out a soft chuckle. “I probably should’ve guessed. Ready to get up? Or wanna stay here for a minute?”

“Wanna stay here forever,” he says, but shifts to get up.

He stumbles a little when he stands, hissing. Eddie steadies him. “Legs’re asleep.”

“That’s okay, Stevie, I’ve gotcha. Come rinse your mouth out, m’kay? We’re going back to bed. I’m gonna make a few calls, okay?”

Steve won’t look at him in the mirror. “Gonna leave?”

“Not unless you want me to,” Eddie swears. Steve meets his eyes for a brief second. Shakes his head. “Then I’ll stay until you get sick of me.”

Steve manages a shaky smile. “Not possible.”

Eddie sighs contentedly. “Rinse your mouth out,” he gently reminds him. “Let’s get you up to bed.”

When Steve’s in bed, Eddie turns to leave, then turns back just as quickly when Steve grabs his hand. “You’re not leaving?”

Eddie squeezes his hand. “Not leaving. Just gonna make a quick call.”

“Okay,” Steve whispers, but his breathing picks up again, and Eddie changes his mind.

He bullies his way under the covers next to Steve, pulling him in until his face is tucked into Eddie’s neck and Eddie can rub his back. The call can wait until Steve’s asleep, so he can get back before Steve wakes up.

Steve’s world is ending. That’s every bit as important as the world itself ending. So Eddie resigns himself to stand guard over Steve’s dreams, keeping them happy as best he can.

I hope y’all liked this! The fic tag is the name (“#whentheworldends”) and my writing tag is “#starambles”. Remember I’m NOT doing a taglist for these, so subscribe to either to see where this goes next! Send me an ask with the next thing you want to happen in this fic!

#stranger things #steve harrington #eddie munson #eventual steddie #asks #whentheworldends #starambles #Steve has bad parents #Steve has good grandparents #cw: vomit #tw: vomit #just in case #what’s the difference between a cw and a tw?

[thesimulacrasimp]

OMG THOSE EPS--- I HAVE SO MANY EMOTIONS I CANT---

HAZBIN HOTEL EP 7-8 SPOILERS WARNING‼️

Okay so Charlie actually didnt forget Vaggie for lying for that long, which is understandable, really.

So Charlie ACTUALLY MADE A DEAL WITH ALASTOR NO MATTER HOW MUCH TIMES VAGGIE TOLD HER NOT TO.

Rosie is really sweet lady, but im not really vibing her voice

But i really DO vibe the cannibals. They all have this cool aesthetic n i really love that!

Carmillas n Vaggies song was also really good!

Also when Vaggies wings SUDDENLY N OUT OF NOWHERE came out i was like: OKAAAAAYY... IM NOT SURE WHY BUT GO OFF IG!!

ALSO OMG THIS SONG WHERE CHARLIE IS TRYING TO BRING CANNIBALS ON HER SIDE WAS SO COOL, ESPECIALLY THE END PART THAT WAS IN DA TRAILER, ITS SO COOL JSHSBSJSJ

Also they so cute n silly, I love em

AND AWWW THEY ALL GOT ALONG N BECOME FRIENDS 😭😭😭😭 I JUST KNOW WHAT WILL HAPPEN IN THE NEXT EP N THIS MAKES IT LOOK SO SAD 😭😭😭😭😭😭

the 8th ep...

OMG VOX IS BACK HIIIIIII!!!!!!! I MISSED U SO MUCHHH

AWWW NIFTY DID THIS LIL THINGY FOR ALASTOR ITS SO CUTE

Also can we talk bout how Charlie n Vaggie FINALLY KISSED??? I CANT IMMA JUST----

Im really so glad that Alastor is actually protecting the hotel and all people in it, hes probably doing it just because he have no choice, but i really hope that he do care about Charlie n everyone else. Also their fighting outfits is really cool. AND THE ANIMATIONS WHEN HE TOOK HIS DEMON FORM WAS SOOOO COOL, IT WAS LIKE IN 3D (maybe it actually was in 3d idk-)

Okay yknow.. When Adam blasted (idk if thats a correct word for that) at Alastor n broke his michrophone and Als voice became so clear, like, without any radio effects, I actually thought that he lost all his abilities, cuz Adam is clearly stronger than Al, and i got so scared becuz that would mean that he wont be able to protect the hotel anymore and maybe even die... But it didnt happen so its all good!!

Also Vox watching this whole fight being so exited for Als death was kinda funny to watch.

Okay.... I dont wanna cry again so can i not talk about sir Pentious? Thank you. All i gotta say, I really happy he managed to confess his feelings to Cherri before he... yknow...

Also Charlie FINALLY TOOK HER FULL DEMON FORM. N I ACTUALLY WAS NOT EXPECTIN RAZZLE N DAZZLE TO BE A GIANT DRAGONS THAT WAS SO COOL without thinking that one of them died...

Also i immediatly thought that sparing Lute was a mistake. Guess what? IT WAS!! :DDDDDD

ALSO I THROUGH THIS WHOLE FIGHT WAS REALLY HOPING THAT LUCI WILL COME OUT N SLAUGHT ALL THOSE BITHES FOR GOOD. N HE DID!!! I LITERALLY, ALL IN TEARS AFTER SR PENTIOUS' DEATH, WAS SO HAPPY I WAS LIKE: FUCKING FUCK YESSS!!! KILL THOSE MOTHERFUCKERS!!! '!!'! '! ₽!! 3!&!& ALSO I ADORE THE FACT THAT EVEN IN A FIGHT HES SUCH A SILLY CUTIE PATOOTIE.

And we saw his demon form n its really cool!

ALSO I WAS SO ANGRY WHEN CHARLIE MADE LUCI SPARE ADAM LIKE-- PLS LUCI KILL HIM N LUTE, THEY CLEARLY DONT DESERVE TO LIVE. Also we saw Adams real face which is kinda cool.

ADN MY GIRL NIFFTY DID ALL THE JOB HERSELF, LIKE GOOD JOB GURL! I KHEW WE CAN COUNT ON U.

Okay, at 1st ep i was not sure bout Katies new voice, cuz it clearly was hearable that its a mans voice, but in this ep its actually working! I absolutely loved this: «Nobody gives a shit about you, Tom!» xd

Ok so.... Ill try not to scream... khem- THEYRE CANNON!!!! THEYRE!!! FUCKING!!! CANNON!!!!! IM SO HAPPY U CANT EVEN UNDERSTAND!!!!!!! I FUCKING KHEW THAT THEYLL BE CANNON, IM A FUCKING GENIUS IDC. IK THERE WILL BE SOME PPL THAT WILL BE LIKE: "nOoO tHeY rE nOt cAnNoN iTs pRoBaBlY mIsAnDerStOoDinG....." YOU KNOW WHAT? FUCK YOU. THEY ARE CANNON, I DONT GIVE A SHIT!!!! FUCK U IF U THINK THEYRE NOT TOGETHER

JUST LOOK AT THEM THEYRE SO CUTE AAAAAA

Also this last part of the song with Alastor was so strange. Yk english is not my first language so i probably missed alot what he said in that, but i clearly remember that he said something bout his wings n i was like WHAAAAT????? I know i probably just heard it wrong, cuz HE JUST CANT BE AN ANGEL RIGHT?... RIGHT??? He also said smt bout his freedom, so yeah, I think the wings was just a metaphor. But overall he looked really scared for some reason, which is actually so weird. Its so weird to see Alastor actually being scared..

ALSO WE FINALLY SAW LILITH, but sadly didnt hear her voice. N what is weird, it looked like she was on sorta vacathion, and Lute talked with her bout Adam being Killed AND THATS SO WEIRD AHHH I CANT WAIT TO FIND OUT WHAT IS HER ROLE IN ALL HERE!!

ALSO CAN WE TALK ABOUT THAT CHARLIE WAS RIGHT?? SINNERS CAN BE REDEEMED. CUZ PENTIOUS APPEARED IN HEAVEN AFTER HIS DEATH (n im really-really happy for him actually, im so glad that he didnt dissapear from the show, cuz he actually was my fav character in the pilot)

aoisjdjdjndndnns i cant wait for season 2!!!! Ig that the main antogonists in this season will finally be VEES?? OHHH IM SO EXITEDDDD

My review/thoughts on eps 1-2

My review/thoughts on eps 3-4

My review/thoughts on eps 5-6

#hazbin hotel #hazbin husk #hazbin angel dust #hazbin charlie #hazbin alastor #lucifer #my post

[dixonlvr-online-backup]

REPOST from @dixonlvr-online (my main account). I’ve been having this problem for months where none of my posts show up anywhere, neither does my account. I don’t know what to do about it, so I’m reposting some of my fics here. If you enjoy the fic, please check out more at my main account :)

UPDATE: My account has been fixed so I’m moving everything back over there. The full fic is linked below, so this is just a preview. Enjoy :)

Full fic here!

Do whatever you need to get your heads on straight. This is gonna be the fight of our lives.

Earl’s words rang through your ears as you loaded your quiver with arrows. It was still light out; sun beating down on your skin and making the vertigo worse. You’d been in this situation before, many times in fact, but it never got easier. Knowing that tonight you might die because someone wanted to get their knuckles bloody. The fear that someone you cared about might die instead.

You swallowed hard, lifting your head to watch the people around you. It was quiet, an uneasy contrast to the hurried movements. No one had the words for this, this limbo period where you all awaited trial. Tonight the Whisperers would attack, and Hilltop would fall. You all knew it. There weren’t enough fighters to hold it together. Now it was just a question of who would fall with it.

From the corner of your vision, you saw him. You held in a breath, heart skipping a beat. Of course, the end of the world had come and gone for you many times, but you’d never been alone. He had always been beside you, from start to finish. Through good and bad. Until bad had gotten so bad he’d left, and the good had gotten so good he’d been too afraid to return.

Daryl met your gaze then, walking over to you as you straightened up to greet him.

“Hey. You ready for this?”

He nodded, though you saw the tension in his shoulders. It was the same posture he’d had at the prison when the Governor attacked, and Alexandria when Negan rolled up to the gates.

“Gotta make sure the kids are alright. Imma ask Ezekiel for help with that, but can ya also watch out for ‘em? In case I don’t…”

You nodded, grasping his meaning. He didn’t think he was going to survive tonight. This man, who appeared so fearless to everyone else, so confident in his abilities, was preparing to die. You’d only seen him like this once before, and the memory fought its way to the surface. You pushed it down, focusing on the man in front of you now versus that man you used to know.

“Yeah. I can do that.”

You didn’t know what else to say. If you die, how could anyone else hope to live? What happens if I die, too? We both know we’re willing to. But this was Daryl, who knew you better than anyone. He knew exactly what you were thinking.

“Hey, s’gonna be alrigh’.”

Your tight-lipped smile said everything. He wasn’t fooling anyone, especially not you. He scratched at the back of his neck, looking around at the others. You followed his gaze. They all had their heads down, building and sharpening weapons, treating old injuries, whatever they could do to keep their minds busy. God, how you wanted to hand them all a drink and say, Here, take the load off. The thought sparked an idea.

“Do you want to have a drink with me?”

Full fic here!

#daryl dixon imagine #daryl dixon x reader #daryl dixon #the walking dead

[privateanxieties]

The Golden Age of New York City

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

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

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

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

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

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

Peter doesn't listen to the chatter anymore.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Yeah? What's it say?"

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

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

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

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

"Fuck you, Jimmy!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Up.

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

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

The door cracks when he slams it closed.

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

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

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

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

He's outworn and past his prime.

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

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

.

.

.

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

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

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

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

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

Stay tuned for more details on the developing situation."

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

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

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

A photographer.

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

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

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

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

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

She keeps trying.

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

.

.

.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Thirty-one thousand new readers.

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

Was this in any way monetizable? Yes, probably.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Photography.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The door barely clings to its hinges.

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

.

.

.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

College could wait, because Peter Par -

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

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

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

.

.

.

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

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

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

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

Peter makes a lot of assumptions these days.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

240-242. 10-45C.

Assault and battery. Condition of patient is critical.

He should've gone.

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

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

.

.

.

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

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

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

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

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

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

This is it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It isn't rage. He knows rage.

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

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

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

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

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

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

He disappears before they step foot inside.

.

.

.

5:41 a.m.

 There are cracks in the night sky.

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

In the stillness of the room, Peter Parker reads.

                                                           ----

We have never seen a time such as this.

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

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

We all have to start somewhere.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It's been getting harder lately.

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

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

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

Time passes unsparingly.

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

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

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

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

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

Is it pain, or age, or illness?

Is it bitterness, or hopelessness?

Is it grief?

And do we dare judge?

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

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

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

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

Not many people try anymore.

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

So what exactly does the working class hero see?

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

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

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

Is the ground as familiar to him as the sky?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Some were not entirely wrong to feel that way.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

                                                         ---

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

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

.

.

.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

.

.

.

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

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

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

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

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

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

.

.

.

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

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

Would he have gotten there in time?

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

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

A thought strikes that hasn't in aeons.

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

He takes the advice along with a bouquet of daisies.

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

.

.

.

By Monday, a routine has been established.

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

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

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

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

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

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.

.

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

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

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

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

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.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He's grown since then.

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

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

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

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

Gentle.

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

She's so young.

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

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

He wishes she'd open them.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Despite his lack of confirmation, she continues.

"Why do you come?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"How is she?"

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

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

Laws. Responsibility.

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

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

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

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

"Please…"

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

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

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

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

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

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

He doesn't have time.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.

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

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

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

Everyone thinks only about themselves these days.

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

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

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

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

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

His airways clear.

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

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

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

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

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

"Your men - who are they?"

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

"I got many men," he answers.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Were you there?"

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

"Are they here?"

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

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

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

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

"Here?"

He nods.

"Where?"

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

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

He's alone.

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

He's been retching since he got here.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Murderers, was the message requiring delivery.

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

The hero may never come back from it.

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.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"You're safe now," he rasps.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.

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

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

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

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.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hold on to hope.

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

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

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

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

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

"I thought you'd never come back."

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

"I've been here every day."

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

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

"Maybe you shouldn't be."

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

"Why?"

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

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

"I'm here to help."

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

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

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

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

"Will she recover if I don't?"

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

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

"Fine."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"You'll be okay, I promise."

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

Silence.

.

.

.

It happens at midnight.

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

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

.

.

.

It's raining.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I'm so… I'm so sorry."

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

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

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

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

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

Heal.

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

Her dreams are never this detailed.

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

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

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

.

.

.

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

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

Stay with me.

He's not left her side in two days.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"You can come in… um, if you want."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Yes, you do."

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

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

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

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

"I'm… I'm Peter."

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

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

.

.

.

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

She's only getting discharged, Parker. Relax.

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

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

"Peter?"

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

"May."

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

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

"Aunt May, I need your help."

.

.

.

.

.

.

Epilogue

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

I'm uh… going to stay for a while.

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

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

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

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

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

"Oh, sweetheart!"

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

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

"Hello," May greets kindly.

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

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

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

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

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

We both need some time to get better.

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

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

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

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

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

Benjamin. That suits you.

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

- fin -

.

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

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

[type1diabetesinfandom]

In a different, yet just as important, viewpoint jumping off of my last post:

@ people with diabetes or diabetes advocates

When you see someone say or post the ignorant 'this iz so sweet imma get diabeetus' idiocy

Do NOT respond with wishing harm on them!

Seriously, what?

I know a lot of diabetics overreact when someone says the thing, and i've been there done that got the crappy shirt etc

It's frustrating, SO frustrating, to see this disease taken so lightly and ignorantly almost everywhere, especially if you're having a bad time or feeling burnt out. But if you really feel the need to respond, whether specifically to the person OR just in general

DO NOT RESPOND BY WISHING HARM ON THEM!

First off, it's a horrible, genuinely morally reprehensible thing to do. Step back, give yourself space, and cool off. Vent in private if you feel the need to. That's what friends and DMs are for! :D

Second, when your behavior is worse than that of the person you're upset with, YOU ARE NO LONGER IN THE RIGHT. You are no longer a victim—you're a jerk. I don't care how upset or hurt you are. Act like a normal fucking human.

Also

TELLING SOMEONE YOU HOPE THEY DEVELOP T1D IS WISHING HARM ON THEM

If you see a joke or, in this case, something that's unfortunately become a common phrase, that makes light of diabetes or is based on ignorance and stereotypes or otherwise upset you, here's what you do:

1. Step away.

Yes, I'm serious. Breathe. It's a stupid phrase—do not let words, especially some random stranger's words, hurt you! Do not give people that kind of power over you.

2. Decide if you're up to getting (civilly!) involved.

2a. If you decide you're calm enough to talk to them about it and why that little thoughtless thing they said and then totally forgot about was upsetting to you, take this as an opportunity to educate. Especially when here on tumblr, because you're not talking to just that person! (Unless ofc it's in DMs). You're talking to everyone who will see that post!

Take the opportunity and use it wisely!

2b. Block 'em.

Again, perfectly serious here. Never be guilty about blocking someone, even if it's for as simple a reason as they popped up on your screen and were annoying.

I block people who say diabetes jokes, all the time! Especially when I'm browsing a tag and that kind of content is cluttering it. The button is right there: use it!

Tldr: be nice to each other

#t1d #type 1 diabetes #t1diabetes #type one diabetes #actuallyt1d #diabetes awareness #type 1 diabetes in fandom #not fandom

[iregreteverythingpleasehelpme]

I mentioned something about gay people in front of this guy who goes to my school and he looked me straight in the eyes and unironically said,

"Ugh I hate those lgtbq's like when I meet their leader I swear to god imma throw hands yuknow, like, imma be allover em imma jump them ngl like dead ass"

Leader??

So out of the shock I got from that ridiculous statement, the only words I could muster were,

"Wha- What's your... 'beef' with gay people...??"

THEN

This guy sitting next to him leaned in towards me and said,

"Rose, when we say LGBTQ, we don't just mean gay people..."

Then the teacher interrupted them but I swear to god I was so dazed, does this guy even know what LGBTQ means?? Does he really think the entire LGBTQ community is a huge cult with a leader?? That was actually fucken hilarious the way he said it because I swear,

he is the most pathetic(not in a hot way) guy in our class, I literally could beat him in a fight if I had to he is such I pussycat.

Anyway, the point of this post is that we need to vote for our leader, all LGBTQIA+ members please join me in the determining of our leader.

First off let's vote on which fandom you think the LGBTQIA+ leader is from.

Please reblog if you can this is *very important

*not

#rose isn't my real name btw its just what I use online #lgbtq #lgbtqia #trans #gay #homophobic #THis is all a joke #poll #polls

[gaiaexploreslife]

hogwarts x eternals dr!! —☆

song to play while reading! —> ☆

name: Gaia Nymphaea

nicknames: M (“em”)

house: slytherin

height: 161.3 cm / 5’3.5 ft

best subject/worst subject: unknown as of now because I’m a transfer student.

but over the summer before the year started, I was taught basics of stuff I need to know

knowing me, I’ll probably be naturally good at anything that relies on intuition. As for precision… uh good luck to anyone next to me

ethnicity: white british and a little lebanese

(I have american accent tho cause I’m not actually british irl LMAO)

extra abilities: healing (ajak’s powers, though I got them very recently so I’m still figuring out how to use them)(more on that later), occlumency, and I sometimes get prophetic dreams (or dreams that give advice/wisdom/show me things I need to be aware of BUT ONLY VERY RARELY)

friends: @cosmicswan !!<33 the rest I’ll leave up to fate! (I kinda wanna be friends with the Weasley twins but they kinda scare me BWHAKSH)

family history: ~unknown~ for the most part MWEHEH

I think Imma make it so that I have wizard ancestors that were somewhat among the more prominent lines in the wizarding world, but somehow they ended up moving to America and they hid the wizarding world from their children (so they grew up as “muggles” without knowing of the wizarding world)

my backstory: ~unknown~ tehehe

basically I lost most of my memory after I almost got the life sucked outta me by a deviant one day when I was like 16

Ajak was there and healed me and kinda nursed me back to being okay. since I have wizarding blood and my magic was suppressed, when Ajak used her powers on the open wound from the deviant, my body absorbed/duplicated them. so yeah now I have healing powers too :3

since that I’ve just been vibing thru life having fun cause the eternals kinda adopted me since that

cause like I was left alone and without memory cause of that so I mean they felt bad just leaving me I guess 💀

(cause my bio family and anyone who knew me previously somehow had their memories wiped of me)

I mean I say adopted but basically maybe it’s like they take turns looking after me and teaching me things (like every few months I move to wherever a different eternal lives and they look after me for a few months then on to the next) (tho I’ve stayed with Sersi and Sprite in London the most)

OKAY THEN after like 2 years of that

they were like aye u should go to Hogwarts cause u got some magical skills SOOO I get to be a 4th year transfer student!

genetically inherited characteristics: uh no magic ones I can think of besides wizarding blood.

but for the characteristics from my CR I’ll keep: Tourette syndrome (I also have depression but I’m scripting that out cause :D)

- <3 -

— okie u can skip this next section if u want —

- ☕️ -

few of my characteristics: (more like a LOT of them actually 💀)

(this applies to my CR too so I guess this is also a get-to-know-me :3)

- very shy and quiet, tho when I’m sleepy or comfortable around someone I can be pretty talkative/bubbly and I’m VERY observant

- my love language is quality time (the second one would be words of affirmation)

- Im very positive + I see silver lining even in the WORST of times. I rarely get upset and I love spontaneity. I giggle and smile a lot, I’ve been told my eyes are super expressive

- I LOVE FOOD and sweets (chocolate specifically), I’m a very fast eater (but I’m allergic to peanuts/tree nuts. and bananas for some reason)

-I don’t cry easily, instead when I’m sad or stressed I get INSANELY sleepy and tend to go off on my own and nap

- I’ve been described by people as soft spoken.

- tho if someone’s a shitty person I get very cold cause >:) I’m not about that

- I mind my own business, even with friends. I dislike and stay away from shallow minded people. I’m literally just vibing and like to do my own thing. I hate when people are judgey towards others

- AND I HATE gossip. if I hear someone being judgey for no good reason BOOM they’re on my “stay away from” list >:D

- I’m usually off in my own world

- I also love dressing however I want/making cute outfits! I love my jewelry that I’ve collected over the years. they all have personal meanings <3

that’s all for now ^o^ sorry this was a LONG post

#shiftingrealities #reality shifter #shifting realities #reality shifting #shifting #shiftblr #shifting to hogwarts #hogwarts shifting #eternals shifting