#Bodega Thirteen

[amhrosina]

Hiii

I LOVE your work, and I was wonderful if you could write something with hurt/comfort with Matt Murdock?

Like you were coming home late and someone was following you home, and Matt hears you heart beat and comes to find you juste before the creepy person makes a move on you? And the reader is like “I’m fine, I’m okay” even tho she crying very hard and can’t breathe and Matt is like “no you’re not, but it’s okay I’ll take care of you” and then he takes care of reader and it’s fluff and comfort?

Thank youuuuu

Savior (Matt Murdock x Reader)

A/N: Hiiii! Thank you for reading! It's a short ficlet, but I ended up really liking how it turned out! Also, Charlie Cox is so, so PRETTY. A special thank you to my beta reader @wheredidiputmyfish for being so great! <3 (Word Count: 1.0k)

MASTERLIST // JOIN MY TAGLIST

You didn’t fully comprehend the predicament you were in until it changed from sketchy to dangerous. Hell’s Kitchen was especially quiet that night, though the argument could be made that it never fully went to sleep. Bodegas, laundromats, and diners stayed open late into the night, and it was the light spilling from their fogged windows that lit your route home.  

You knew Matt wouldn’t be happy with your decision to walk home alone. He’d warned you time and time again to wait for him, or get a taxi if he wasn’t around, but taxis were expensive, and he hadn’t answered your call earlier. Now, you cursed yourself for not waiting. 

The man behind you had been following you for thirteen blocks – you'd counted in nervous breaths – and he was gaining on you. You walked at an increasingly rapid pace, heart thundering as you blindly dug through your bag for the pepper spray Foggy had gifted you when you’d moved to the city. It was big and a stark blue, with the words “I Heart NY” stamped around it, but your hands were shaking so badly that even if you could find it in the black hole that was your tote bag, you weren’t sure you’d be able to use it.

You turned the corner, nervously glancing at the stranger out of the corner of your eye, and almost yelped at the proximity he had gained. He was within ten feet of you, and you didn’t give yourself a chance to hesitate before you took off running. 

“Hey!” He called. 

You ignored him, pushing your legs to move faster. You could see the entrance to your building, a tiny speck in the distance, and you prayed Matt was close enough to hear your racing heart. The man’s feet pounded on the concrete behind you, and you let out a wild shriek that you hoped would alert someone nearby. If it was heard by anyone, they didn’t make it known. You were alone, and the man was so close to you now that you knew you’d be grabbed by him before you could make it to the safety of your building.  

Arms wrapped around your middle, hauling you into an alley. You began shrieking at the top of your lungs, if only to make it harder for your attacker to get away with whatever he planned to do. 

“Leave me alone! Stop!” You fought with all your might, swinging and kicking wildly in front of you in a last-ditch effort to get away. “Get off me, you fucking creep!”  

Hands cradled your face. 

“It’s me. It’s me, sweetheart.” Matt’s smooth voice coaxed your eyes open. You hadn’t even realized they were closed. “You’re safe, sweetheart. I’ve got you.” 

You blinked up at him in relief. Your heart thundered in your chest, making it hard to breathe. He wasn’t in his Daredevil suit, but the way he clenched his jaw told you that the Devil was itching to come out and play.  

“There was a man,” you started, voice scratchy from the screams you’d let out, “He was following me. I-I know I should’ve waited for you to come get me, but I didn’t want to bother you and then this guy showed up and I was trying to find the pepper spray but-” You were rambling now, gulping in air and waving your arms around as you explained.  

“Are you okay?” Matt asked, softly caressing the curve of your cheekbone.  

“Yeah.” You nodded. The lie tasted ashy on your tongue.  

“You’re crying, sweetheart.”  

“I-I’m fine.” You stuttered, attempting to blink the tears away. “I’m fine.” You tried again, but your voice wobbled as the words left your lips. You couldn’t tell if you were trying to convince him or yourself at that point. Matt nodded along with you, kissing your temple.  

“Let’s get you home, okay? You’re safe now. No one will ever hurt you again, okay? I’ve got you.” He led you to the apartment you shared with him, only letting go when you sunk into the cushions of the couch. “I’m going to make you some tea, okay?” 

“Okay.” Your voice was wispy, barely audible to anyone besides Matt, who had tuned himself to you so thoroughly that you sometimes felt like he could read your thoughts. Like right then, as the thought entered your brain, and he responded before you could even finish the thought. Some Chamomile tea would be grea- 

“Is Chamomile alright?” He called, clinking the mug against the counter. 

“Yeah, Matty. Thank you.” You breathed through your anxiety and wondered what happened to the man who’d been following you. 

- 

Later that evening, after he’d drawn you a bath and tucked you into bed, the Devil finally got what he wanted. Matt hadn’t mentioned it to you, but he’d been diligently tracking the stranger’s heartbeat since he’d intervened earlier that evening, and as soon as your heartbeat evened out, suggesting your deep slumber, Matt was jumping across rooftops towards the irregular heartbeat he’d been listening to all evening.  

He wasn’t sure what he was going to do once he got his hands on the guy who had followed you earlier. The blood curdling scream you’d let out was indication enough of your fear, and it echoed in Matt’s ears as he got closer to his target. 

He wouldn’t kill the man. That wasn’t a line Matt was willing to cross, but the thought certainly crossed his mind. If he’d put his hands on you, touched you with his filthy awfulness, Matt might’ve been angry enough to do it, though, and that terrified him. He’d never been so close to murder before, besides maybe with Fisk, but no one fucked with you and got away with it. He wouldn’t kill the guy, but he’d hurt him. Badly.  

Matt took a deep breath and let the Devil creep out. May God have mercy on the stranger’s soul, because the Devil surely wouldn’t.

Tag List:

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[aces-and-angels]

Title: The MCAT

A/N: saw this beautiful piece of art by @oh-so-youre-a-nerd and had to stop what i was doing to write this

Character(s): OC: Enid Mendoza (she/her)

Summary: Before Enid became a lawyer, she was a lost pre-med student. @choicesficwriterscreations

Word Count: 484

---

MCAT Testing Center; Brooklyn, New York; several years ago...

Numb. That's all Enid was. It'd been that way for much longer than she cared to admit. So she didn't. Indifference was masked with high marks and shallow nods. No one batted an eye at a nearly perfect GPA. Or a 520 on the practice MCAT. Instead, they cheered. Surprised her with an engraved stethoscope, pride shining in their eyes. What was left for her to do but smile back and take it? 

The days felt like centuries and seconds all at once until the time finally came. Bright, fluorescent lights flickered from above- the air stale and dry. Around her was a sea of nerves- a girl obsessively toying with the same strand of blonde hair, a boy who couldn't keep his leg from bouncing, and her staring blankly at the small ticket clutched between her fingers.

#14.

Thirteen others stood between her and that test. Thirteen monotonous exchanges between strangers until it was her turn. The seats gradually emptied out, leaving more room for the harsh pounding in her chest. There was a familiar heaviness there- one she usually swallowed down and buried. But today the lump was bigger. Tougher. Begged to burst through-

"Number 14?" 

A tired, deep voice knocked Enid back into reality. She glanced up and saw a man no older than thirty staring at her. From the look on his face, it wasn't the first time he'd called her number. Those still stuck in the waiting room turned to each other, confused. Then, one by one, their eyes pointed at her. 

"Number 14? You can come up now," the man repeated. 

"Um-" Enid slowly rose from her chair, a crumpled ticket in hand. But that thing inside her, whatever it was, wasn't going away. It rooted her feet to the floor, filled her limbs with lead. 

"Miss, we can't start the exam until everyone is checked in." A thousand thoughts ran through her mind- everything she'd suppressed for years finally bubbling up to the surface. She didn't want this. Any of it. The life mapped out for her instead of by her. It wasn't hers. It wasn't her. "Miss-" 

Enid ran before she could hear what he had to say. Through the doors, out the building, and into the congested city streets. Smoke billowed from the cars’ exhaust, its tendrils blown every which way by a cool breeze that nipped at her exposed flesh. There was no map laid out- no directions to follow. She went wherever her legs carried her. Past the apartment buildings, small cafés, and bodegas. She walked until the street signs were unrecognizable. Until her feet were sore. Until her frostbitten hands turned red and she finally registered the dampness on her cheeks as tears. 

No one batted an eye at the girl falling apart. They just kept walking. And so did she.  

[dragon-creates]

Just How Fast The Night Changes (Does it Ever Drive You Crazy?)

Chapter 1/Chapter 2/Chapter 3

Read on AO3

Luigi knows he’s pathetic, he knows that he’s a coward that gets spooked by his own shadow, he knows that he’s not as strong and tough as his brother. He’s heard it all; from his peers to his uncle to even the janitor from the bodega down the street, he’s made his peace with it, miserable and humiliating peace. But when a seemingly magical pipe transports him to the Dark Lands, ruled by the Koopa King Bowser, what appeared to be another cruel twist of fate could be what actually opens his eyes to the parts of himself that he learned to loath. How could he, Luigi, in such a dark and frighting place with the enemy of all people, finally recognize that he worth more than what he’s been told? Well, here’s how he finds out.

I wrote and posted this on ao3 before the Mario Movie came out so please keep that in mind while reading this.

Trigger warning this chapter does go into descriptions of abuse so please feel free to skip this fic if this is sensitive for you.

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Past

Eight Years Old

Luigi didn’t used to feel bad about himself. He was self-conscious sure, but it wasn’t as drastic as how he felt as an adult. There was a time when he would have a bad day at school - whether it was an impatient teacher or one of his peers laughing at him after scaring him from behind – his mother would be waiting by the car outside the school gates to pick him up and he would run into her arms, with her scooping him up and whispering soothing words into his ear to help him calm down as he cried.

After they would get home, he would run in to find Mario and his thirteen year old brother would give him his own bone crushing hug while their father would prepare hot chocolate for the two of them while Luigi would talk about his day. They might’ve not been the richest people in the world, their house might be small and there would be times when they weren’t sure if they would get their next meal. But despite that, there was one thing he was sure of, he had the best family that he could ever ask for.

However, there was one night that Luigi would remember for the rest of his life. It was another bad day, his family had comforted him and made him his hot drink and had mindlessly watched an old Disney film they had on a VHS tape while the whistle of wind and the rain pattered in the background. Luigi jumped as he heard thunder rumble, clinging to his older brother. “It’s okay sweetie,” his mother cooed as Mario rubbed his back “There’s nothing to be afraid off, it’ll be over by the morning.”

Luigi smiled at her, relaxing just a little bit as he watched the rest of the film. After the film was soon, their parents bundled up their children into their arms after falling asleep watching the movie, before going down the hall and tucking into their separate beds in the room that the two brothers shared before retiring themselves.

A few more hours into the night, the storm only seemed to grow and grow while the family slept. It wasn’t until a crack of lightning awoke Luigi from his sleep, panting from the rude awakening until another crack had shattered his window, making him cover his head.

Crack

He heard another loud noise coming from the kitchen, like bricks falling.

Crack

He felt Mario pick him up as Luigi began to sob heavily into the older brother’s night shirt.

Crack

He heard another shatter of glass and a women’s scream. “Mama?”

Crack

He heard the brick noise again, this time a man was screaming as well. Mario put him down as he ran out the room shouting “Papa! Mama!”

Crack

The screaming stopped.

Crack

Luigi didn’t get another chance to react when the ceiling collapsed, bricks toppling on top of him, suffocating him, trapping him. He tried to scream, cry, speak, anything!

But nothing came out.

He couldn’t move.

It was too quiet.

All he could do was feel the wetness of his tears with the agony he felt in his bones.

After what felt like hours, did the pained tears turn to relief as he heard the wailing of sirens. Soon, the bricks were moved and he was lifted onto a stretcher, he could hear Mario speaking but it was going in one ear and out the other. Mario was bleeding from his head and he his cheeks were stained with dried tears. All he saw was a medic trying to speak to his older brother before blacking out.

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.

.

He learnt that both his parents were crushed to death once he was reached to the hospital. He and Mario cried each other to sleep that night.

.........

Thirteen Years Old

After their parents had died the boys were taken in by their uncle Spike…Luigi didn’t like uncle Spike.

He didn’t care that Luigi was picked on by his peers, whenever one of the boys had nightmares of that night he would scream at them to be quiet so he could sleep, he only filled his own plate as he told the boys that they had to earn the food that he paid for and if you got on his really bad side then there was often a chance that boys would be sporting a few bruises.

As the years went on, the boys learnt to cope with the lifestyle that they had been given. When they moved in with their uncle, Spike had immediately forced Mario to work with him with his failing plumbing business, Luigi was convinced that Mario was the reason why it was still going.

For some reason however, while Spike was awful to both the boys, Luigi was fully convinced that Spike hated him the most out of the two.

If either of the boys brought up their interests (Mario’s being sports and Luigi’s being baking) Spike would ignore Mario yet made sure to tell Luigi, “Don’t waste your time on something stupid kid, you’re already bad at everything anyway.”

And when the boy’s had nightmares, though Spike gave Mario an ear bleed with his complaints, Luigi got a silent threat of “Next time that happens, I’m using my fist to put you to sleep.”

And he could remember one time when Spike got so mad that the next thing Luigi knew he was waking up in the ER with Spike telling the doctor “My nephew’s always pretty clumsy, not surprised he ended up here.”

Luigi had always made it his mission to stay on his uncle’s good side. He could give up baking, no one really ate his stuff anyway. He does need to get a grip on his nightmares, it wasn’t worth his uncle losing sleep. And he was pretty clumsy anyway, after all, that’s was why his uncle got so upset with him in the first place. He could handle it, it didn’t matter that Mario tried to reassure him it wasn’t his fault, Luigi’s aware that his brother would say anything to make him smile…even the things that are wrong.

When Luigi came of age, Spike had ‘suggested’ that Luigi come work with him and Mario. It was actually not that bad, some of the customers were nice, he got to spend time with Mario and he liked learning about plumbing as well.

One day, the three of them got called up for another job, a family’s toilet was overflowing and needed help instantly. They arrived as the family showed them the problem, Luigi reassuring them that it would be fixed up in no time as he gave them a kind smile. He tried to not let it falter as the young children and parents reminded him of a time when he used to be happy like that. It’s been five years Luigi, pull it together!

As soon as they family left to let the plumbers do their job, Spike had used that as an opportunity to head out as well. “Gotta make sure my favourite taco place is still open!” he told the boys, “After all, you guys do want lunch right?”

“How about you do the job like those kind people expected you to do?!” Mario bit out.

Luigi put his hand on his brother’s shoulder. “N-no, it’s f-fine,” he stuttered, something that happened when he was nervous, “A-after all we d-do need-d m-more exp-p-perience M-M-Mario.”

“Be careful Mario,” Spike sneered, “Pigs are gonna start flying whenever your dumb little brother is right!” He let out a boisterous laugh as he slammed the door behind him.

Mario growled. “You know he can’t keep doing this weegee!” he turned to his brother, “Especially with what he says to you!”

“M-Mario please,” Luigi started to shake, “I-I don’t want t-to m-make this any m-more w-worse.” 

Mario sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. “You’re right weeg,” he picked up his tools “I just wanna protect you that’s all.”

“I-I know b-bro,” Luigi picked up his own tools “Let’s just t-try and g-get this d-done.”

Soon the brothers had gotten to work, they were impressed with how much they had gotten done until Spike came back from lunch. While the tacos were fine, Spike only did five minutes of work before saying he had to run back out again.

“W-why?” Luigi had asked, immediately regretting it when Spike turned back to him, face red.

“NONE OF YOUR FUCKING BUSINESS!” He pushed Luigi, the younger brother nearly falling as Spike stomped out of the apartment in a huff.

He managed to get Mario to calm down enough as the two of them got back to work. Luigi grinned as he managed to finish the last of the job by himself, Mario cheering him on as the family came back into the house, showering Luigi with praise as the young boy blushed from all the sudden attention.

His heart dropped when he saw Spike glaring at him from the front door.

“Here,” The mother of the family pressed some cash into his hand, “As an extra tip for your hard work, your brother told me that you found and finished the problem by yourself!”

“O-oh no!” Luigi stammered, looking between her and Spike “R-really -t-there’s n-no n-need!”

“I insist you take it!” The woman grinned, “You earned it after all your troubles.”

Luigi gulped and gave her a nervous grin as he placed the cash into his pocket. He shared a nervous glance with Mario, the older brother also being afraid of what might happen, not thinking that the woman would respond his way.

Spike was quiet as the boys climbed into the van and as they drove back to their own apartment. Luigi could feel his anxiety rise, Mario covered his brother’s hand with his own larger one to try and comfort him, but nothing could sooth Luigi’s fear of just how Spike was going to react.

As soon as they entered the apartment and shut the door, Spike immediately pushed Luigi into the wall. “Give it to me!” he demanded.

“W-what?” Luigi said, slightly dazed.

“THE MONEY YOU IDIOT!” Spike screamed, as he gripped Luigi’s shoulder, “GIVE IT TO ME!”

“Hey, Luigi earned that!” Mario yelled back, shoving Spike away, “You’re lucky that they paid you considering you didn’t do jack shit!”

Spike gripped Mario by his shirt collar.

“AS LONG AS YOU WORK FOR ME THEN THE MONEY GOES TO ME TOO! I’M THE REASON YOU TWO HAVE A JOB, NO ONE ELSE WOULD A MOUTHY BRAT AND HIS BRAIN-DEAD BROTHER!” Spike threw Mario to the ground and turned back to Luigi.

“B-but h-he’s r-r-right,” Luigi lips moved on their own, “I-I d-did e-earn t-this.”

Spike’s eyes darkened. His fist collided with Luigi’s cheek as the boy fell to the ground, crying out as Spike repeatedly kicked him in the stomach.

“Let him go!” Mario grabbed onto Spike’s arm, but the older man was stronger and pried off Mario’s grip with ease as he punched the older boy in the eye.

“Mario!” Luigi wept before Spike kicked him one more time in the nose.

Luigi bawled as Spike bent down and snatched the money out Luigi’s pocket. “Get yourselves cleaned up and get to your rooms,” Spike spat at them as he counted the notes in his hand “I don’t care if you complain about not having any dinner, you should’ve thought about disrespecting me.”

Once the brothers heard Spike’s footsteps disappear once his bedroom door closed, Mario immediately rushed to Luigi’s side. “Weegee, oh my god!” Mario gasped as he gathered Luigi into his arms and cradled him in his lap.

“M-Mario, y-our e-eye,” Luigi whimpered.

“Don’t worry about me, your nose is bleeding!” tears spilled down Mario’s cheeks, “It might be broken.”

“I-I’m s-sorry M-Mario,” Luigi sobbed, “I-I s-shouldn’t h-have -t-taken t-the m-money, t-then h-he w-wouldn’t h-have-ve g-gotten mad-d-d-d a-and y-you w-would n-never g-got-t-t -h-h-hurt!”

“No little bro, this isn’t your fault!” Mario reassured him “This is never you’re fault!”

Luigi knew the truth though. Everything he did was enough for Spike to get angry, from eating to speaking to breathing, all Luigi did was make everyone’s lives worse…this was all his fault.

.........

Seventeen Years Old

Luigi’s lungs burned as he kept running, he could still hear those two behind him. “There’s no use running Luigi!” he heard one of them yell.

Wario and Waluigi had always picked on Luigi ever since he was a kid all the way up to high school. It was what they did best, they knew that Luigi was a vulnerable coward who couldn’t stand up for himself without his brother around, a golden opportunity for the heartless duo.

Eventually Luigi tripped, falling face first onto the ground. He tried to get up to leave back he felt someone grab him by his backpack and throw him into an alleyway. His eyes widened in terror and he crawled away from the two brothers, both sharing menacing glares on their faces. “C’mon guys just leave me alone today!” His stutter was mostly gone by now but there were times when it would return. He was just glad today wasn’t one of those times, it would give Wario and Waluigi something else to tear into.

“And why would we go that?” Wario cackled “After all, someone like you was born to take a beating.”

“Look at his arms!” Waluigi grinned “How can he manage to lift a paperclip!”

“That’s why it was so easy to drag him in here!” Wario exclaimed “He’s just a weak little bitch!”

“Stop,” Luigi whispered.

“What was that?!” Wario cupped his ear with his hand, pretending to try and listen to Luigi’s quiet voice “Go on, speak up!”

Luigi reminded quiet. “That’s what I thought!” Wario punched him, Luigi clutched the side of his head.

“Look at how pathetic he is!” Waluigi smirked “He can’t even stand.”

“That’s because he knows how worthless he is.” Wario sneered and punched him again, this time the rest of Luigi’s body fell to the ground. “He knows that he’s worth nothing!”

Punch

“He knows that he’s just an unlovable bastard!”

Kick

“He knows that he deserves it!”

Punch

“It’s a good thing his parents are dead, who would want a miserable sack of shit like this!”

Luigi covered his head, preparing for another blow before he heard the two brothers cry out in pain. He uncovered himself and looked up to see Mario knocking the duo to the ground. “I suggest leaving, unless you want me to show you the same mercy you showed my brother.”

The brothers immediately got up and ran away, it was known around this area not to mess with Mario, somehow it didn’t sink it with those two yet.

As if a switched had flipped, Mario rage had disappeared, replacing it with gentleness as he helped his little brother up, mindful of his injuries. “I don’t what I did this time!” Luigi tried to explain, “They just started chasing me when the bell rang, and I tried to get away I really did but-”

“Hey, hey, hey,” Mario whispered to him, “This isn’t your fault, they shouldn’t be bothering you in the first place. Let’s get you home and cleaned up.”

“What are you doing here anyway?” Luigi asked, clarity starting to clear his foggy mind.

“I was speaking to a friend about staying at their place for a while,” Mario explained, carefully leading Luigi back to Spike apartment, “We’re getting out of that place Luigi, we’re not gonna work for him anymore.”

“But what about money, how will we-?”

“We’re gonna start out own plumbling business, we already do Spike job for him,” said Mario “And we’re gonna stay with my friend Pauline till we have enough cash to get our own place, you remember Pauline, right?”

“Yeah,” Luigi slowly nodded. Pauline was Mario’s high school sweetheart and though romance didn’t seem to be fated for them, they still remained friends. Pauline as always kind to Luigi and always had her door open for the two of them if they ever needed it. It seemed today would be that day.

“We’re gonna get you cleaned up and pack our stuff, okay?” said Mario, “Pauline said that she’ll get us at three and Spike won’t be back till four so we’ll have enough time to get away.”

“Wait, he’s not at the apartment?” Luigi asked.

“No, he said he was going out and won’t be back till four,” Mario told him “He didn’t tell me what for…we’re gonna get out of here weegee.”

“But what if Spike-?”

“He won’t do anything,” Mario stated, “He’s never laying a hand on you again.”

Luigi slowly nodded, for once, finally feeling hopeful about things.

“Okay,” Mario smiled softly at him.

As soon as the two made it to the apartment, they immediately filled their bags with everything they needed like clothes, personally belongings and the plumbing gear for when they would start their own business. Now all they had to do was wait for Pauline to arrive.

Luigi looked to the clock ten minutes until Pauline gets here.

Keys jingled in the door handle and the brother’s faces paled.

Spike walked through the door, freezing when he saw the two boys with the bags full. “What the fuck are you two planning?” he growled.

“We’re leaving,” Mario said, plain and simple, “We’re done with your bullshit.”

“You two aren’t going anywhere,” Spike slammed the door and locked it, freedom fleeting away as he put the key back in his pocket. “You boys have been a pain in my ass. Mario was barely tolerable at best, but you Luigi, every second of your existence made my life a fucking hell!”

“Don’t talk about my brother that way!” Mario shouted.

“I’ll say whatever the fuck I want!” Spike retorted with the same venom, “Now you two better drop those bags before I make you!”

“N-no,” Luigi spoke up, cursing his stutter for returning.

Mario and Spike turned to Luigi, the former’s eyes widening while the latter’s filled with absolute hatred. “What did you say to me you little shit!?”

“I said no!” Luigi tried desperately to keep his body from trembling but he knew that it was no use, “I don’t know what I did to make you hate me but all I ever wanted from you was to respect me! I know that I’m worthless, I know I’m unlovable, I know that I’m just a spineless idiot, but you’re my uncle, your only job was to tell me otherwise!”

“And lie to you like Mario did!” Spike snarled, “At least I was honest with you! Every time I look at you, all I see is my fucking sister, she didn’t deserve to die that night! It should’ve been you! Why wasn’t it you?!”

.

.

.

Silence filled the apartment. One, two, three seconds went by, it was so quiet that you could hear a pin drop.

A tear slid down Luigi’s cheek, “I’m sorry.”

Spike screamed as his nails scratched across Luigi’s face. The teen cried out in pain as Mario let out an animalistic sound as he shoved Spike to the ground, his fist colliding with the older man’s face. “NEVER. SPEAK. TO. MY. BROTHER. LIKE. THAT. AGAIN!”

There was blood all over Spike face, the man fading into unconsciousness. Mario grabbed the keys out of the man’s pocket and ran over to Luigi, who was still clutching his face. “S-Spike,” Luigi breathed as he watched the man wheeze on the ground.

“Luigi I….I’m sorry you had to see that,” Mario cradled his brother’s cheeks “We have to go, Pauline’s here, we need to go while we can.”

Luigi nodded mindlessly as Mario led him out of the apartment and down to Pauline’s car. The woman gasped at the state of the brothers, saying how she’ll patch them up back at her place as she started the engine and drove away, but the boys said nothing.

Luigi should’ve kept his mouth shut, he should never have agreed to this, it was selfish to begin with, he should never had said that to Spike. After all, he agreed with him, his mother should’ve been the one to survive, she had plans and dreams of her own. Now because of him, Mario was forced to be miserable when he could’ve still had his mother. Luigi had nothing to offer, he was a coward, he was untalented, he was pathetic and stupid and worthless…Luigi was nothing.

[nowisthewinter]

I swear, seeing how tumblr is doing all of these changes to court the influx of ex-twitter users at the expense of older tumblr users who have been for years and years reminds me of the time when I lived in an old, run down hipster neighborhood way back when. The original hipsters were the broken kids who would pile into apartments that were meant for only one person in order to share the rent. 

It was these hipsters that made the neighborhood this lively artsy place that had its own unique cool little flavor.

That was until it caught the attention of the trust fund kids. 

The kids that looked like hipsters but weren’t. They didn’t follow the rules of the neighborhood. They liked the “cool factor” but didn’t like it was “poor” and “confusing.” So, with their parents’ money, they snatched up all of the living spaces and made it out of reach for the original lower class hipsters. Gone went the mom and pop places. Replaced by ridiculously expensive boutiques, eateries and grocery stores. That bodega that you used to grab an egg sandwich for less than three bucks back in the day? It was replaced by a posh “concept” restaurant started by a pair of Ivy League rich kids who now sells thirteen dollar avocado toast in its place. 

This is what tumblr is starting to feel within the last couple of weeks. 

I feel like so many of us, older users, are now those old hipsters being pushed out to make room for the trust fund kids. 

And, no, sir, I don’t like it. 

[theashemarie]

When I saw you mention updating Very Thoughtful I almost went feral what the heck that fic means everything to me!! what is donnie up to this time

omg haha thank you! I'm excited to get back to it!

Donnie is leaving the lair this time wrow. Here's a little sneakity peek since I'm actually decently far into this chapter already.

--

Donnie was thirteen when he went up to the surface alone for the first time.

Alone for the first time was a bit a misnomer. He was with Leo, for one, but it wasn’t often that either one of them did anything alone, so Donnie was counting this as the first time. No Raph, no Splinter, no Mikey—just Donnie and Leo, a set of two impulsive, stubborn, flashy barely-pubescent mutants, crouching together on the top of the ladder, peering over the edge of the manhole with their hands gripping the sidewalk.

“I can’t believe you got me into this,” Donnie grumbled as they waited for an opening to dart across the street. The bodega there was their best bet for a hit and run—though both Raph and Splinter had forced money into their hands before they left, the former with an impatience borne from having to listen to Mikey bellyache about his gourmet popcorn stash, and the latter with a worry that wasn’t exactly unusual but was getting rarer as they aged. It was past midnight though, a fact that usually soothed Splinter’s nerves, and the streets weren’t exactly deserted, but they could cross and slip inside without anyone seeing, especially if they kept their hoods up.

“Shut up. It’s clear. Let’s go.” Leo yanked Donnie’s hood down over his eyes as he clambered out of the manhole, stealing across the street with barely a glance back. The walk signal was decidedly red, but traffic was clear for just long enough for Donnie to slump his way across, head bowed. The last three months had seen him undergo a growth spurt that left him gangly and uncomfortable in his body, and this hoodie was new enough that Donnie had only just used Raph’s seam ripper to free the jacket from the most evil of tags known to mankind. He still didn’t recognize his own shadow sometimes, but Leo had sprung up right alongside him, so at least he still had the same shoulder at the same height to lean on when things got too weird.

Not that that mattered if Leo abandoned him.

The bodega was situated on the corner, with a colorful awning and enough signs in the windows to give him a headache. They advertised everything from lottery tickets, an ATM, cigarettes, coffee, candy, cold beer and soda, to phone cards and cheap photocopying, and even had a small, coin-operated, electronic horse for small children in front. Donnie shoved his hands into his pockets as he approached and grumbled his way inside as Leo held the door open for him, gesturing for Donnie to pick it up.

“You get popcorn,” Leo ordered, splitting toward the candy section, and Donnie did as he was bid, keeping his eyes on the floor to avoid the bright lights. A radio at the counter buzzed uncomfortably against his skull, the whole place smelled vaguely of cigarette smoke and coffee, with a tinge of floral undertones from the fridge stuffed with wilting bouquets, and he counted the tiles as he walked, trying to focus to keep himself on task. He glanced up just enough to locate the popcorn, grabbed about ten bags of the most expensive stuff he could see as an apology to his snobbish little brother, and sagged back toward Leo, counting backwards to find his way back to the front.

[nickjosephphoto]

[bodegathirteen]

(tianareid)

[dreamwritesimagines]

Alex buying his groceries and Becca going along with him because:

1- She's on a mission to figure out what he is like

2- She likes to annoy people

3- She's never done groceries. Like ever.

So they'd be strolling down the aisle like, "yeah then dad started training Bucky at like thirteen I think? Anyways, why did you major in Education- Is this supposed to be expensive?"

"Er, yes, it is."

"Huh. Why so many brownie mixes?"

"I- bake when I'm restless. What was that again about Bucky being thirteen?"

"I do that too! Are you any good?"

"Not particularly. Are you?"

"No, but Y/N taught me when I was a kid and I think I make pretty acceptable croissants, my friends have never complained. Here, you said you needed sugar."

"Yeah no, I buy that on the Bodega around my place. This one's too expensive."

"....are you sure?"

"Mmh, positive."

"Fascinating."

Or when they get closer and Becca moans about wanting to do something with her free time and Alex volunteers her to work with the kids at school as payback for always waking him up at six after she's done partying on the weekends. They all like her because they think she's hilarous but privately she only really likes Emma and thinks the nurturing gene skipped her and only Bucky and Alex got it.

But she'd be so down to gossip with the teachers. She'd literally knock on Alex's office, not wait for an answer and plop down on his seat like, "So a little birdie told me, a certain Ms. Johnson is always asking for you even though her kid isn't even on your class. The birdie in question is a Miss Riley who said it with the most hateful tone of voice I've heard since Bucky was seventeen and his crush got asked out right in front of him."

"I thought you were here to bond with the kids and learn new things."

"I've learned that I don't really like kids and that you're shit at avoiding the subject."

OOOH MY GOD I AM SCREAMING-

Darling this is amazing?! 😍😱 Like I want to read the adventures of Becca and her older exasperated bro Alex, it's absolutely hilarious! 😂😍❤

Going grocery shopping together? YES PLEASE😂

Btw Becca thinking nurturing gene skipped her but not her brothers? 😱❤

Oh she would grill him 😂 She'd be like,

"So I take it you don't want to rail Riley then?"

"Becca!"

"She looks like she wants you to."

"I'm not talking about this with you and it’s not professional-"

"Oh well I’m not professional, and I'm pretty sure you guys have like a utility room or something here. Maybe she wants to see there with you."

[i-lovethatforme]

Identity shenanigans for prompt mas?

day thirteen: i'm in love with all of your danger

MJ leans back, her hair fanning against his balled up jumper. She has a faint smile on her face, her eyes closed against the bright sky and he hasn't seen her this carefree in months. He can't remember the last time he heard her laugh. Well, as Peter anyway. It's almost spring time so he doesn't mind the slight chill against his arms if it means she's comfy. Besides, then it'll smell like her when he goes home.

Coming to the park while MJ is on her lunch break is one of the only good things about Peter's week. He has managed to keep his job at the Bugle for longer than 72 hours this week and after he'd caught up on his bills he had enough to buy a hot sandwich at the bodega. 

But spending time with MJ is still the best. They're friends now. Not in the way they once were and maybe they'll never be that again. She doesn't appear to remember anything about him at all - even though they've been hanging out almost daily for months - but she has enough to deal with after the death of her mum. 

So he'll shove his pain aside to be there for her in the way she would have been there for him with May - if he let her. But this is enough. Being with her is enough. Plus, she brings him coffee and treats and he can pretend she's thinking about him when he catches her sketching. 

Also, he may have a sneaky plan he's hoping doesn't backfire.

"Seen Spidey lately?" he asks, knocking her thigh with his foot. She groans, slapping his ankle. Her fingers brush against his skin where his jeans had bunched up and he just knows he's blushing. 

"I should see them tonight," she sighs.

"Trouble in paradise?" he asks, trying to keep his tone even. He's actively avoiding thinking about her falling for Spider-Man when she seems to hell bent on not falling for Peter. 

Sometimes Peter catches her looking at his lips and sometimes he hears her heart beating too quickly when he turns up - but she avoids his hands and she never lets him get too close. Sometimes he thinks maybe he's tricking her and he should be honest but he's terrified to lose her either way. 

"No," she frowns, then, "I think they really like me."

That's an understatement he wants to say but won't. 

"But I need to be sure before -"

"Before?" he asks when she stops talking. His heart is too broken to take a beating but he asks anyway. Peter can never tell if MJ doesn't talk about Spider-Man with him because she can tell how in love her he is. Or maybe she's just keeping his secrets.

Either way, nothing prepares him for what she says next. The same vacant expression she gets when she's thinking about her mum or what could have been.

"Before I kill them."

[suckerforsmylex]

Ride Till I Die - Pt. 1

I was born Matilde Jazmin Sofia Torrero, but everybody calls me Tilly. Thank God for that, right? First of all, somebody should have explained to Mami that nobody wants to call you something that takes five minutes to get out of their mouth.  Anyway, I guess it’s appropriate.  I ride till’ the wheels fall off.  I ride till’ I die, and my reputation precedes me.  Everybody knows me from the old hood and they don’t forget what happened there either.  I grew up in the heart of The Narrows, where it was just us, the roaches and the fucking crazies at Arkham Asylum.  This was back when I was so broke that my pockets stuck out like rabbit ears on most days.  Living in that part of Gotham was like living in the seventh circle of hell.  It was me, Mami, and my sister Jilliana and we didn’t have a pot to piss in.  

My sister is only three years younger than me, but that didn’t stop Mami from making me take her everywhere. We didn’t have any money for a real babysitter and Mami didn’t trust anyone anyway after the Vargas girl found out that the woman down in 4D who ran the makeshift daycare, was taking the formula and baby wipes she sent with the baby, Junito, and using them for the other ten kids she had in there.  Those poor kids were always crammed up in that tight, living room, spilling grape drink everywhere and watching cartoons all day and Mami wasn’t having it.  I was angry about this.  I had just turned sixteen and my hormones were making me crazy.  It was always hot and sticky and there was always something to get into.  I wanted to kick it with the corner boys and smoke loosies and steal lemon heads from the bodega, but here we were, “Tilly and Jilly,” always stuck together como pegao de arroz.

I begged to leave her anywhere but with me on the day of the big block party, but Mami just stood there and shook her head with her arms crossed while I whined. “Please ma, it’s only going to be for a couple of hours.  She has a bunch of homework to do anyway!” Jilliana glared at me and pounded her fist into the table. “She’s lying, Mami! She just wants to get all dressed up, como la puerca de Juan Bobo, so she can impress those nasty ass boys who don’t do nothin’ but sling all day. I don’t even have any homework due. It’s only a couple of days till’ we’re out for the summer and the teacher just has us watching movies and shit.” It wasn’t often that she blew up, but Mami didn’t tolerate cussing and on that day we both got a smack in the face from her and I left the house in tears, my heavily lined eyes streaking onto my stinging face.  

It was a good thing that I was already dressed, and I had my makeup packed into my little purse.  I caught myself in the reflection of a car and smiled even though my nose was cherry red from crying. I was wearing black shorts and white t-shirt, with my hair barely held in the pony tail I wore.  My aunt always said that I had hair enough for two kids, so thick and curly that you could lose a hand in it as you were wrangling it into a hairband.  Jilly needed work.  I was planning on kicking it with The Joy Boys tonight and I couldn’t be seen with her looking like the thirteen-year-old kid that she was.  I squinted at her and cocked my head to the side. She stared back and shrugged at me. “What are you looking at, stupida? Am I growing horns or something?” She raised her hands and made horns with her fingers and I yanked her into the alley and commenced fussing with her outfit, trying to make it less babyish.  

I gathered the pink fabric of her t-shirt and tied it into a knot at the back, making it a crop top and then fluffed her hair out to make it crazy big and wild.  “What are you doing, Tilly? Get off!”  Jilliana fought me, kicking at my shins and I grinned until she caught me good and I nearly toppled over.  I lunged forward and pinned her to the wall by her neck. “Listen, you little jerk, I’m going to hang out with some new guys on the block tonight and that means you’re coming.  If you embarrass me, I’ll break the heads off all the Barbies you said you stopped playing with, but I know you still mess with. Got it?  Now stay still.”  She stopped fussing and let me start to apply the makeup.  I used the same dark, red lipstick that I was wearing on her, but I blotted it with the back of my hand until it looked like she had just eaten a popsicle, and then I lined her eyes in black, winging out the ends into a cats-eye. “There. If anyone asks, you’re fifteen, about to turn sixteen and I’m eighteen.  Entiendes?”

And that’s how we became Joyettes.  The Joy Boys knew we were underage, but they flattered us and let us chill out with them afterschool and on the weekends, playing playstation, drinking forties and smoking blunts.  Mami was happy because we were always out of the house, instead of cooped up inside and fighting. Having us out of her hair meant that she could work more hours at the carniceria so she wasn’t asking many questions beyond the usual “Are you staying out of trouble?”.  We went from drinking malta and setting little fires in the poor, viejito’s bushes after school, to holding weight and pushing a new drug into the veins of the addicts in The Narrows.  If you thought crack was a game changer, “bufon” was a full-on pandemic.  We were the perfect mules, easily carrying packages throughout the city and pilfering trap houses as we went. We finally had real money.  Jilly and I had so much cash that we didn’t know what to do with it.  We stuffed rolls of it into our shoe boxes and pushed them deep into the closet along with our hidden gold jewelry and clown masks.

We were on our third big transaction when they finally told me who we were all working for.  There was a big break out at Arkham and the looney tunes were on the loose, including our fearless leader.  They sat me down and spoke about him, the leader of their little cult whose sole goal was to kill The Batman and cause chaos and anarchy throughout Gotham City, all while putting a smile on the face of his victims.  I laughed so hard I nearly pissed myself.  “The Joker.  THE JOKER?! We’re working for a psychotic clown who looks like he wears lipstick?” Jilly and I were in full on hysterics, rolling around the floor of the stash house having an extremely loud giggle fit when he walked into the room. I say that he walked in, but it was more like he was gliding.  I’ve seen my fair share of pimps in my day and narrowly escaped being recruited by a few smooth ones, but I’ve never been as captivated as I was on that day.  His cane slammed down directly next to my head and he leaned in to get a better look at us, stopping to glare at me and bare his metal teeth.  We stopped laughing and he ran his hands through that pretty, green hair of his. And that’s when he started to cackle.

[idiopath-fic-smile]

hey hi I've been trying to write something, anything, and what came out is like 3k of an extremely stupid supervillain/superhero story that I’d been kicking around in some form like over ten years ago. it doesn’t map onto any kind of an AU so I guess it’s original fiction? enjoy?

Cityton Chronicles, part 1

The problem with carrying out an evil scheme, thought Edmund, was the scheme part.

Anyone could nurse a sinister thought or two; it wasn't that hard to shake one's fist at the sky and murmur, “You'll pay for this. With God as my witness, oh, you will pay” and then maybe cackle a little. That much was child's play. (Literal child's play; he had witnessed more than a few dire pronouncements from his classmates at Hawthorne Grimmsbury's Academy for Ominous Boys, especially when recess was threatened.)

Actually going through with a plan was a whole different story. There were logistics to manage. There were people to manipulate, details to babysit, hypotheticals to anticipate. The nitty-gritty, as it were.

Edmund was not destined for the nitty-gritty.

Although, wasn't that what useless people always said? “I'm more of a big-picture person.” Maybe he was useless. Maybe that was the issue. Maybe Edmund Malarkey, heir to Malarkey Industries, was simply not cut out for masterminding.

Case in point, he had a terrible feeling he was about to make a complete hash of the Ritual.

The parameters were clear enough: full moon—check. Chalk for pentagrams—check. One hundred lit candles—check. (Some were scented; the store hadn't had enough plain tapers in stock, but the text of the Ritual had been written well before the notion of pumpkin spice was a cozy twinkle in some godless marketer's eye, and so Edmund figured this would probably not disqualify him.) Thirteen hooded figures, all in black...

This was where things got dicey.

The first sign of the trouble to come was when Carl showed up in navy fucking blue.

Edmund pinched at the bridge of his nose and sighed loudly, breath crystalline in the late November air. The invitations had been so specific.

“It looked pretty dark online,” Carl offered as the wind whipped at them atop the roof of the Cityton Natural History Museum.

“Pretty dark? Pretty dark? Did it look like the blackest black?” said Edmund. “Did it look like Anish Kapur's most haunting nightmare? Did it look like a raven's wing in shadow at the stroke of midnight, Carl?” Carl stuck out his chin. “It's almost black.”

“Yes, and bananas and humans share about sixty percent of their DNA, we're almost cousins,” Edmund told him, dangerously quiet, “but fortunately for you, I'm not going to peel you and eat you in a fruit salad, you buffoonish optimist.”

Edmund should never have relied upon his father's former henchpeople. They were loyal to his father; they looked upon him with bemused tolerance. He should've just gone ahead and recruited all of the necessary twelve people from Craigslist. He'd held off due to a suspicion that anyone he found on the internet would assume the Ritual was fundamentally a weird sex thing, but at least a bunch of kinksters would have probably taken the rules seriously.

He sighed. “Carl, there's a bodega down on the corner. Go buy two black trash bags and make yourself a garbage-robe.” Carl frowned. “Is there time?”

Edmund checked his phone. Eleven fifty-three. “Hurry. And save the receipt.”

Another gust of wind kicked up. Edmund shivered. He'd been smart enough to request a fabric swatch ahead of time from the Etsy store where he'd custom-ordered his own set of hooded black robes. He hadn't stopped to consider how warm—or not—a single layer of said fabric would feel well into autumn, completely unshielded by the elements. Theoretically, he could've crammed a coat under the robes, like a child wearing a Halloween costume in an unseasonably cold October, but no, he hadn't wanted to look bulky.

He checked the candles again, for want of anything better to do.

“Boss,” said a hesitant voice behind him.

“What is it, Stephanie,” said Edmund.

Stephanie had clearly repurposed her teenager's old Hermione costume as her robes, but she had bothered to remove the Hogwarts branding, which was something, at least. Beyond the fact that Edmund didn't feel like giving a repellent transphobe any extra attention, there might have been copyright issues.

“Is that thing about bananas really true?”

“Yeah,” said Edmund. He had read it many years ago, in a book titled 2002 MORE WACKY FACTS TO BLOW YOUR MIND AND AMAZE YOUR FRIENDS, which didn't seem especially pertinent. He did a quick headcount. Even without Carl, they only numbered eleven. “Where's Donna?”

“You should call her,” said Stephanie. “Donna never answers her texts.”

Edmund had been halfway through tapping out a text. Ugh, Boomers. Calling was for emergencies only; everyone knew that. Unfortunately, this qualified. He gritted his teeth and dialed.

Donna answered on the fourth ring. “What?” She sounded groggy.

“Did you,” said Edmund, still through gritted teeth, “forget what night the Ritual was?”

“Oh shit,” mumbled Donna. “Are you sure? I thought it was at noon tomorrow. Carl told me twelve o'clock.”

“At night,” said Edmund. “Twelve o'clock at night, this is a dark incantation to a primordial god, it does not overlap with daytime television.”

Just then, Edmund's phone beeped with another call. “Can you hold, Donna,” he hissed.

“Hey boss,” said Carl, “the bodega only has white or green trash bags, what's my next step?”

“HOLD,” Edmund shouted, switching calls again. “Donna, can you grab an extremely dark-colored robe and be here immediately?”

“Like a bathrobe?” said Donna, sounding lost.

Of course Carl had not bothered to relay the dress code. Of course he hadn't even managed to hand her the painstakingly crafted invitation. Edmund had used the nicest card stock available to him, not that it mattered.

“Uh, boss?” Leroy called over the roar of the wind. Edmund flexed his stiffening fingers.

“One second, Donna,” said Edmund.

“How much longer is this gonna be?” said Leroy. “Because I was gonna catch the late show tonight—”

“Watch it on YouTube the next day like a normal person!” Edmund snapped. “Donna—”

“I can be there by 12:40,” said Donna through the tinny phone speaker. “There's some errands I wanna run first.”

“It's the middle of the night, what errands!” said Edmund. “Donna, hold—” He switched back to Carl. “Listen, are you sure there aren't any black trash bags?”

“White or green only,” Carl affirmed. “Some of them are scented, do you think that would make a difference?”

“Boss,” said Frank from the other side of the roof, “we lost the chalk?”

“Hold on, Carl,” said Edmund. “What?”

“It was here a second ago!” “Did you secure the chalk against the wind?”

“What?” said Frank.

“The chalk, it's cylindrical!” Edmund managed to shout. “Did you do anything so it wouldn't just roll straight off the roof?”

Somewhere above the din of wind came the sound of a half dozen pieces of sidewalk chalk landing on the street five stories below and shattering.

Edmund buried his (cold) face in his (frozen) hands.

“Uh boss,” said Stephanie. “It's 12:01.”

Edmund sighed. The primordial god K'h'gg'ragel might have allowed for some creative interpretations on Ritual-adjacent matters, but everyone knew K'h'gg'ragel was a stickler for punctuality.

“Alright,” said Edmund, pitching his voice to carry. “Pack it in, we'll try again next full moon.”

“Phew,” said Leroy, who was wearing a thick downy jacket over his robes, and a hat with earflaps, and mittens. “It's cold out.”

“I FOUND A BLUE ONE!” Carl shouted from the speaker. “IS THAT ANY BETTER?”

Edmund turned his phone off.

Lighting and strategically placing one hundred candles had been something of an undertaking. Blowing them all out alone and stuffing them back into a series of duffel bags was somehow worse. Edmund was about half-done when he heard a distinct whirring buzz. He looked up.

It was Dragonfly. Of course it was Dragonfly, heading right for him.

Great. Edmund's first-ever showdown was going to be a one-on-one against a superhero armed with a jetpack, one hell of a punch, and electrified darts. Edmund was going to get flattened, and all before he even got the chance to point out that the darts and for that matter the punching didn't fit with the overall insect theme. 

“Hey man,” said Dragonfly, dropping effortlessly down to the roof of the museum. “I saw the lights from the sky, thought I'd investigate.”

They weren't fighting yet. Why weren't they fighting? Edmund's whole body fizzed with adrenaline. Also, cold. Either way, he was shaking a little, and bouncing on the balls of his feet.

“And what, strike another heroic blow against the terror that is a bunch of sweater-themed Yankee Candles?” said Edmund.

Dragonfly shrugged. His costume included a bottle-green moto jacket and gloves. It looked warm, in a way that made Edmund feel even colder. “Sweater candles? What, like burning wool?” he said.

Privately, Edmund had wondered about that too. This, he decided obscurely, was another strike against Dragonfly.

“Maybe burning wool smells phenomenal,” said Edmund instead, rocking forward. “There's no way you could possibly know, unless you're here to tell me you've lit a sheep on fire, which seems well outside your whole—” he waved his hands vaguely “—moral compass.”

“Word travels fast,” said Dragonfly gravely. “I am foursquare against sheep-burning. Always have been.”

Edmund squared his shoulders. “So, are we doing this, or what?”

From behind his signature oversized goggles, Dragonfly's brow seemed to furrow slightly. “Doing what?”

“Fighting,” said Edmund. He had to grind his teeth together to keep them from chattering.

“Ah,” said Dragonfly after a pause. “Oh. Um. Okay. Here's the thing?” He steepled his fingers. “You seem unarmed. You're not hurting anyone. You're also not committing any crimes.” Edmund opened his mouth to protest, and Dragonfly continued, “Or, okay, you're trespassing on the museum, I guess, technically, but it's not like you're even trying to sneak into an exhibit without paying.”

“I am here,” said Edmund firmly, “to perform a terrible and arcane Ritual which will summon—”

“Yeah?” said Dragonfly. “Where's your followers? Where's your summoning chalk? It's well past midnight and the only sign of any occult activity I can see is the candles, but for all I know, you were just up here trying to have a little me-time, which, like, on some level I get, you know?”

“So,” said Edmund blankly, “what now?” He had given up on trying to tense his jaw. His upper and lower teeth clacked rhythmically against each other.

“I give you a stern verbal warning about what's probably a minor fire hazard and recommend that you enjoy the museum from the inside, during business hours, with a ticket,” said Dragonfly. “I hear they have a great exhibit on prehistoric mammals. In the meantime, get somewhere warm, okay? Your lips are turning blue.” “Fuck off,” Edmund more or less managed to say through his shivers.

Dragonfly spread his hands, placating. “Fair enough.” He began to walk away. At the edge of the roof, he hesitated. “Uh, do you have a way down?”

“Obviously,” said Edmund.

“Yeah,” said Dragonfly. “Uh, okay.” They regarded each other. “What is it?” said Dragonfly after a few seconds.

Edmund froze. Or well, he was already half-frozen. Edmund stopped moving, was the point.

Apparently interpreting Edmund's silence as helplessness, Dragonfly offered dubiously, “I could carry you down?”

“How,” said Edmund, flat. It was the wrong thing to say, in that it wasn't 'No,' or 'Fuck off' again, something sensible like that, but damn it, he was freezing, and if he gave up the way he'd gotten everyone onto the roof, then this whole fucking evening was going to be a wash. He had tried so hard. It wasn't fair.

Dragonfly took a step closer. “Fireman or bridal?”

Edmund tried and failed to parse this three separate times in his cold-fuzzed brain. “Is that a meme?” he settled on finally.

“Do you,” said Dragonfly, “have a preference on how I carry you.”

“We haven't even established that you're going to,” Edmund said. Clackity clackity clack went his traitorous teeth.

Dragonfly sighed. “I can't leave you up here,” he said. “One, if I let you keep hanging out on the roof of the history museum, then technically I'm kinda aiding and abetting your whole trespassing situation. Two, it is really fucking chilly up here, and if you freeze to death, then that's on me. Which is also not, like, great for my conscience.”

“So I don't have a choice,” Edmund spat.

“You totally have a choice,” said Dragonfly. He tilted his head to the side. “Hell, you could do me a solid and just exit using whatever secret method you entered with, but I have a feeling mum's the word on that particular angle.”

This Dragonfly character was smarter than he looked. Of course, he was a grown man who fought crime dressed as a giant insect. The bar was not particularly high.

“Mum's the word?” Edmund echoed. “What are you, ninety?”

“I'm an old fucking soul, dude,” said Dragonfly. “Point being, you don't trust me not to watch you leave the roof. Which is hurtful, frankly. I'm not sure I trust you not to stay up here out of pure stubbornness. If I give you a quick boost down, then it's problem solved and we can both go about our nights. Crime-fighting for me, and for you hopefully a pile of blankets and whatever warm food rich people eat. Mashed potatoes? With...caviar?”

This clearly did not merit a response. Dragonfly knew who Edmund was, apparently. Most people did.

“What if you drop me?” said Edmund.

Dragonfly laughed. He had a nice laugh. It was yet another point against him, somehow. “Don't you think that might go against my whole—” he gestured with both hands “moral compass?”

Edmund recognized his own words being used against him. On the other hand, the thought of a hot meal and, moreover, central heating beckoned.

“I don't care,” Edmund said at last.

“What?” said Dragonfly.

“Bridal or fireman's carry,” said Edmund. “I don't care.”

Dragonfly nodded sagely. “Let's get this over with, then,” he said. “Hey, d’you want help with your candles?”

Did he? He didn't want to want help with his candles, but that was another question. On the other hand, if Edmund accepted Dragonfly's aid, it would shave off valuable minutes of this excruciating headache. The backs of Edmund's knees were cold. It was absurd.

“Fine,” said Edmund.

“Huh,” said Dragonfly several minutes later. “This one's rain-scented, and this one's Ocean Spray, and yet they smell nothing alike.”

Dragonfly had without fail commented on every single scented candle in the bunch. Edmund looked up from his umpteenth taper candle, momentarily distracted from the knifelike chill.

“Rain and ocean are two completely different things,” said Edmund. “The surrounding environment, the vibe, the salt content.”

“The vibe, I grant you,” said Dragonfly. “But salt, really? Have you ever smelled salt before?”

“The ocean has a smell,” Edmund insisted. His family had summered on the coast every year before—well. Before last year. He mostly remembered the sea as having a whiff of fish about it, which didn't sound promising for a candle, but it was the principle of the thing.

Dragonfly shrugged. “You've got me there,” he said. “Never been.” Cityton was only about an hour's drive from the beach. Edmund wasn't sure he knew anyone who had never visited at least once, for a long weekend at least. Of course, it wasn't like Edmund knew Dragonfly. He didn't even know what Dragonfly's eyes looked like.

Edmund blew out another few tapers.

“This one's just called Singing Carols,” Dragonfly announced. “Guess what it smells like, I dare you.”

And so on.

In the end, Dragonfly carried Edmund off the roof of the Natural History Museum scooped under the armpits, the way you might hold a cat if you were engaging in some light cat-related horseplay. The mechanical dragonfly wings were well-made, Edmund could admit that much; Dragonfly didn't seem to have any issue bearing Edmund's weight or the combined weight of the candles, and their feet gently touched the ground after only a few seconds. It was already slightly warmer—or at least slightly less freezing—on street-level.

Dragonfly let go and stepped back immediately. This close, Edmund could see that his lips were pretty badly chapped. It made sense that someone who donated all their time to—again—flitting around town trying to right every minuscule so-called wrong while dressed like a bug wouldn't be experienced enough with self-care to be acquainted with a good lip balm, but the thought made Edmund weirdly a little sad.

His sense of deeply ingrained politeness warred against the equally powerful urge to be a real bastard about the whole thing. In the end, politeness won out, by the very skin of its mannerly little teeth.

“Thank you for not dropping me to my almost certain death,” Edmund gritted out with extreme reluctance. He stared over Dragonfly's shoulder as he said it.

Nevertheless, for some awful reason, for just that moment, it felt a little like the end of a date.

“Right,” said Dragonfly. “Right. Well then. Happy trails.” He seemed to consider this. “Or you know, if doing crimes is what makes you happy, then for the sake of Cityton, let's say, mediocre trails. Do you wanna borrow my gloves?”

“Why,” said Edmund flatly.

Even though the goggles completely obscured much of the upper half of Dragonfly's face, Edmund had the distinct sense that a disbelieving stare was being leveled at him.

“For your hands? You know, the traditional office of gloves?”

As the scion of Malarkey Industries, Edmund was long accustomed to being hated for who he was. Hated, feared, not-too-secretly envied. And lately: mocked, dismissed, his family name transmuted into a juicy, low-hanging punchline for lazy late night writers.

He wasn't sure he'd ever been pitied before. It did not sit well.

“I'll warm my hands on the fires of hell while I plot your demise, you miserable fool,” growled Edmund.

“Yikes,” said Dragonfly easily. “Well, I'm off.” And with that, he took to the sky.

Edmund curled his fingers into the sleeves of his stupid, summer-weight summoner's robes and started back towards what remained of his home.

[yeojaa]

up all night.

inspiration:  “i'm sorry I keep staring, but you're really the hottest thing i've ever seen in my entire life and i don't know what to do about it.”

i’ve never written for joon before so please don’t burn me at the stake! 🥺 this is dedicated to @sahmfanficbts and ty mucho to @salvejoon​ and @moonmintrails​ for reading through this for me 💖 part two will be forthcoming!  

pairing.  knj x f!reader.  rating.  general.  tags.  mc is a recreational drug user (nothing hard!  just gummies!) and there’s mentions of like, boning and booze.  but generally, just a warm n soft fluff piece.  wc.  1.1k.

The neighbourhood bodega is your happy place.  

It’s where you go when you’ve had a long day at the office and want to drown yourself in six different types of Ben & Jerry’s, the likes of which it always has in stock and in all the flavours you want (Cherry Garcia, Half Baked, Peanut Butter Cup).  It’s where you go when you’re too lazy to make dinner and want to inhale a perfectly made, smooshed down deli sandwich piled high with all your favourite accoutrements.  It’s where you’ve cried quietly, standing in the snack section after a terrible breakup.  It’s also where you’ve, perhaps, spent too much money on beer after an impromptu decision to wake up with a pounding headache.

It’s somewhere that’s seen you grow up, from your shitty pre-teen days - when you’d had that godawful fringe and those ugly sneakers your parents had bought from the Super A Mart in Chinatown - all the way to now, with your slightly cuter shoes and significantly better hair.  It’s watched you grow as much as your family has, a figurative presence in your life that’s shaped you through the years.

It knew when your time of the month was and how much chocolate you ate when it came around.  It knew the sheepish way you’d scuff your toes when you were buying things you shouldn’t:  beer using a remarkably bad fake ID when you were fifteen, cigarettes during a brief stint during your first year of university, and condoms when all of your friends had started fucking like rabbits and you didn’t want to be left out.

All of that to say, your neighbourhood bodega knows you well and with that comes the uneasy acceptance that someone else - someone with a heartbeat and a brain and big imposing shoulders - knows you just as well, if not better.

Kim Namjoon.  Son of Mr. and Mrs. Kim, card-carrying pantydropper, and the guy you’d harboured a crush on for the better half of your adolescent years.

You weren’t really sure when it’d happened - just that it’d followed you from the tender age of thirteen when you’d first gotten flustered over his big dimpled cheeks and slow, tight-lipped smile.  It didn’t matter that he was four years older than you - now an astounding twenty-eight - or that he’d witnessed you embarrass yourself since you were old enough to stick your own foot in your mouth.  You simply couldn’t help it.

He was cute in a way that snuck up on you, that you didn’t need reminding of but that presented itself at the strangest times.  

Like when you’d be half-baked and stocking up on munchies, dressed in running shorts and an oversized tee shirt because you were too lazy to change into anything else.  He’d flash that goddamn smile of his as he rang you up, biting back laughter when he’d scan the fifth bag of Goldfish.

Or when he’d catch you huffing and puffing at absurd times, lungs heaving from having jogged all the way from Crown Heights station.  He never had to ask what you needed - would only silently pop the locked door back open and let you in to get whatever you seemed so desperate for.

You knew they weren’t the best impressions - little facets of your wayward personality presented like a whirling dervish - so you’d never thought more of it.  

After all, he was Kim Namjoon and you’d heard about all the ways he broke hearts.  Never on purpose, fortunately, but with increasing frequency since you’d started running in the (surprisingly) same circles.  He was as unattainable as the specialty imported chocolate on the top shelf of his parents’ bodega - always enticing but terribly out of reach.

Which is why you’re gaping at him now, a not-very attractive fish out of water.  

“What?”  You’re not sure whether it’s the fact that you’ve got one AirPod lodged in your ear, but you don’t trust what you’ve just heard.  It makes zero sense, like 400-level mathematical equations.  You were a political science major, for crying out loud.

When Namjoon responds - in that confident, measured way of his - you have to focus hard on the words.  “I asked if you wanted to get drinks with me.”  

Drinks.  With him.  With Kim Namjoon.  The Kim Namjoon.

You feel like your brain’s short circuiting and not just because of the THC gummy you’d taken right after work.

“You… want to get drinks?  With me?”  You know you must sound a little stupid - though you swear you’re not and you think, despite all signs pointing to it, Namjoon doesn’t believe so either.

He laughs as he bags up your purchases:  candied almonds, a bag of sour Skittles, chocolate milk, and three things of chips.  The sound keeps you occupied, wholly focused on the way it echoes out of that big cavernous chest of his and battles the lofi that’s playing in your ear.  You wonder how someone can be so effortlessly charming.  

It probably has something to do with your crush.

“Is that so hard to believe?”  He spares you the sympathy, instead offering a playfulness you’ve never seen up close and personal.  It feels nice - sun-warm and organic, like spending a day at the park.  

You decide in that moment - in your oversized boyfriend jeans and big sunglasses pushed up in your hair, with your absurd amount of goodies resting on the counter between you - that you want more of it.  You want more of Kim Namjoon, even if you’re unravelling his mysteries as you go.

“I guess not.”  

“So, drinks tonight then.  10 PM.  I’ll meet you at your place.”  There are no further questions - just statements that pop off his tongue and sink comfortably beneath your skin.  It feels good, if not a little strange.  You’re still trying to wrap your mind around the fact that this is happening.

Your lips move before you have a chance to stop them, words tumbling out in a haste you attribute to your high but that seem more like nerves.  You hate that it makes you sound so uncertain because you know you’re funny and you sure as hell know you’re cute, but it feels like you’re a little leaguer facing off against Jose Canseco.  “Can I ask why?”

He shrugs - an impressive roll of his shoulders beneath the plain white cotton that hugs him in all the right places and makes his skin glow honey gold against it.  “You're really just the hottest thing I've ever seen in my entire life and I know I’ll hate myself if I don’t do something about it.”

You thank your lucky stars for the Kim’s bodega then.  You promise you’ll never visit another one for the rest of your life.

[writingbakery]

“tapewebs”; a series 🕸

hanta sero is just your regular everyday japanese-american immigrant college student, living in the heart of brooklyn. when miles morales collapses on the windowsill of his shitty one bedroom apartment, life gets.... a hell of a lot more interesting 🕷

[a spiderman! sero au one shot series, featuring class 1-A, hanta sero, miles morales, an assortment of marvel villains, & you, dear reader - the object of one tapespider’s affections ✨]

[pairing; sero x gender neutral reader 🕸]

[warnings; fluff, violence, action, angst, romance, & a lot of tape/spider puns 🕸]

“Sticky Note Origins”

───── ⋆🕸⋆ ─────

the city is prettier up high, sero realizes. granted, he wishes he’d come to that conclusion on solid ground, without his feet nervously planted on a skyscraper ledge, but still.

every whip of wind threatens to topple him over, send him careening down into a frenzied spiral of buildings and colors until he meets concrete at the bottom - and he’s supposed to willingly jump.

he wonders if he’ll pass out before his bones meet solid mass, cracking in so many different ways the coroner’ll have to play connect the fragments until he’s a person again.

behind him, an impatient cough sounds, bringing him back to the task at hand. fuck.

you’re probably wondering how he got here. let’s rewind a week.

one week earlier

at ten pm on a friday, the city is in its prime, bustling crowds of people laughing and stumbling through the brightly colorful streets. hanta’s just trying to protect his pad thai & dumplings, hugging the greasy paper bag to his chest as he weaves in and out of the chaos.

a day full of long classes & a quiet shift at the cafe-slash-bookstore halfway between campus and his crap one bedroom apartment leaves him exhausted, shoulders hunched as he makes his way home. nobody ever sees him regardless - the city’s too big for one lanky, always tired beanpole to be much notice.

despite living in brooklyn since he was four, he’s never felt a hundred percent comfortable here - he had an accent right up until he was thirteen, still trips over certain words and customs that don’t exist back home in japan. he’s awkwardly tall, not enough to be a phenomenon but towering over all his family. he just doesn’t quite fit anywhere - too smart and plain to be popular, too boring to be with the jokesters, too awkward for the nerds. he’s been a loner all his life, and while he doesn’t mind too much, he just wishes it was a little easier to belong.

a text rolls across his phone screen as he’s shuffling songs, skipping some j-pop rock song to settle on kendrick lamar as he smiles. you. he couldn’t lie and say he was completely alone, not when he had you in his life.

you were a year younger than him but twice as smart, skipping a year ahead and landing yourself in hanta’s high school freshman english class. the pair of you had just... clicked, from the very first moment he pointed to shakespeare’s likeness on the cover and mocked “what, you egg?!”

your laughter had left him on cloud nine the entire day, and he made it his personal mission to hear that beautiful little giggle at least once a day for the rest of his life.

a lovely friendship had bloomed from there, the two of you joined at the hip - if you were somewhere, hanta was bound to follow & vice versa.

you’d even gotten into the same college, albeit for drastically different majors - he was a biochem/engineering double major, while you were an english/history double major. you were opposite but similar in so many ways, and the way you both completed each other didnt go unnoticed by sero.

you were his puzzle piece, the bits of him he’d never been able to fill easily made whole by your presence.

he could never tell you, however; your friendship was too precious to risk, especially over his dumb, emotional heart.

sending a string of laughing emojis towards the meme you sent, he jogs up the seven flights of dimly lit stairs to his tiny, one bedroom apartment - living in the city wasn’t cheap, & while the elevator was always busted at least he had a doorman, and heat that worked on occasion.

stepping into his apartment, however, he can immediately sense something is wrong; the hairs on the back of his neck stand up, a heavy silence coating the darkness. the air feels wrong, tipsy turvy like the whole place is holding its breath - like something’s on the verge of exploding, catapulting him into chaos and danger.

quietly stepping through the living room, he peeks into the kitchen and bathroom, holding his backpack out like a makeshift weapon - his $200 biology textbook finally going to good use. finding nothing in either dark room, he slowly advances towards his bedroom, carefully measuring every step. at first, the room seems perfectly normal - nothing’s been moved, and it’s just as empty as the rest of his apartment.

and then he sees the blood.

dotting his windowsill in bright, red streaks, the window itself pushed halfway open - but that’s not what stops him in his tracks, eyes so wide it hurts.

spiderman is leaning against his windowsill, covered in blood and panting heavily, one hand held up in an effort to stop hanta in his tracks.

“i need...... help,” he whispers, voice rough and low; hanta’s amazed he can still speak.

he opens his mouth to react, somehow, even steps forward to catch him before screaming like a ten year old girl at a morgue, panic setting in like cold water.

never a dull night in brooklyn.

───── ⋆🕸⋆ ─────

once he’s made sure that spiderman - miles, as the young man bleeding all over his $12 walmart carpet supplies - isn’t going to die anytime soon, hanta’s quick to recover from his shock. bustling around his tiny kitchen to make cheap ramen and digging around in his closet to find his mini first aid kit, he’s in full fanboy mode - he’s got posters plastered wall to wall of miles morales on his bedroom walls, for gods sakes. not that he knew it was miles morales, but still.

miles morales is curled up in the fleece blanket hanta’s mom had sent him his second week at college, and he’s totally not freaking out.

he’d had to cancel his nightly facetime call with you, lying about a stomach bug - he hates keeping things from you, but this is just too big and messy and dangerous. he’ll tell you in due time, he promises himself, trying to ease the coil of guilt in his stomach.

“how did you end up on my windowsill, again?” hanta asks, gently pushing the bowl of noodles towards the injured man. he’s got his own pad thai long forgotten in the microwave, more focused on the superhero who’d gotten his ass whooped on his doorstep, so to speak.

“i told you. i’d been watching you for a while - you’re the most promising candidate i have.” miles’ voice is slick with humor, a sort of teasing confidence that’s clear even through the pain.

“which i’m still not understanding - candidate for what? blood services? biology questions? how to make $20 last two weeks??” he knows he’s being childish, too joking for the severity of the situation, but he can’t help it. the neighborhood’s - and his own - hero is sitting in front of him, eating shitty 33¢ ramen from the bodega around the corner, telling him he’s a prime candidate.

“to take the mantle.” all traces of laughter are gone now, miles leaning forward on the table to emphasize his words. “i’ve been doing this long enough to know when to quit. my body’s giving out on me - i got slammed into a wall last week and couldn’t shake the pain till yesterday. before, i’d be fine within an hour. the city needs someone new, young, willing to take the risks.”

hanta’s ears stopped listening the moment he heard quit. “me? are you fuckin’ joking?” he wheezes, coughing his way past the shock. “i get winded walking up to my apartment! an old lady beat me to the c train yesterday! a strong wind could kick my ass!”

miles is either willfully ignoring him or just can’t hear, plowing ahead with his explanation. “you’ve got the perfect build for webswinging, and you’ve got a good heart - you know when to do the right thing and when to step away. leave the rest up to me, and trust me - i know what i’m doing.”

hanta can’t believe his ears, pushing away from the table to pace around his kitchen in panic. “i don’t till you understand, you’ve got the wrong guy - there’s no way i could be spiderman!” his words are falling on deaf ears - miles is standing too, and he doesn’t seem to care about hanta’s impending panic.

“you’ve got to trust me on this, alright? meet me tomorrow, at this address - 12 pm sharp. the city needs you, hanta - hell, i need you. just have a little faith.”

hanta scoffs at that, throwing his hands in the air. “faith?! i met you an hour ago, bleeding all over my windowsill! that’s not exactly the most- hey! where the hell...” there’s nothing but a blanket, a hastily scrawled address, and an empty bowl where miles had sat, leaving hanta alone with his thoughts.

damnit.

───── ⋆🕸⋆ ─────

hanta pushes through the crowds of people at eleven am the next morning, half asleep but wired enough to power the whole city - hell, the whole goddamned country. he’s running on no sleep, adrenaline, two redbulls & the guilt of lying to you again, his “stomach bug” keeping him from class. he’d told you he was going to visit his parents for the weekend to recover; your sweet messages in response only made him feel worse.

he’s tossed and turned over this decision a million times & yet, he’s still not sure where he stands - it’s so little information, so much responsibility in so little time. he’s still half convinced he’s being punked, if he’s honest.

and yet, somethings drawing him to the address miles had left him, something deep in his gut that tells him he needs to be there. clearly, miles had seen something he himself is woefully oblivious to, and it couldn’t hurt to find out more.

apple maps leads him to a tiny shed somewhere behind a deli & a nail salon, not too far from his apartment, and he’s completely confused. “stupid gps, probably got me lost,” he whines, leaning against the door of the shed to zoom in on his location.

the pigeons in the alley are the only ones to hear his panicked yelling as he phases right through it, tumbling all the way down a metal chute into the dark unknown.

at least, for ten seconds. he lands on a remarkably soft pad of foam, a glass panel separating him from a brightly lit, fancy looking room lined wall to wall with computers, parts and half made suits, spiderman suits. he doesn’t know where to look first.

a robotic, feminine voice brings him out of his shock, the glass panel lighting up with code and writing.

“please enter your name.” hanta is floored.

“uh.. hanta sero?” the voice trills lightly, before a red grid-like laser scans him head to toe. he’s proud to admit he only squealed in terror once.

“identity confirmed. welcome, hanta.” the panel slides away to allow him access, his careful steps alerting the rest of the room’s computers to light up at his arrival.

“you came. i knew i chose wisely.” miles comes into view slowly, limping heavily as he smiles. it’s almost familiar, like he & hanta have been friends for years; he finds it comforting.

“well, not everyday you get to be spiderman,” hanta jokes, fidgeting a little where he stands. “you gonna fit me for a suit or something?” miles just laughs, shaking his head.

“that comes later. first, we’ve got to get you bitten.”

bitten?

───── ⋆🕸⋆ ─────

for the third time in 24 hours, hanta’s screaming like a man who’s just been told he has two days to live.

“you want me to let that thing bite me?! have you lost your mind?!”

miles sighs patiently, holding up the little glass vial to the light; inside, the spider races up and down the glass, an odd orange color to its patterning.

“it’s the only way. no offense, but i saw that lady beat you to the c train. she was like, 85.” hanta’s pouting now, crossing his arms.

“she had a cane and she was agile- hey hey! you keep that thing away from me, so help me god-“

“you’re being dramatic, it’s the size of a pea-“

“that’s a fat ass fuckin’ pea-“

“stay still-“

“i will not- ow! jesus fuck, that thing has tarantula jaws!”

miles carefully shepherds the spider back into the glass, chuckling a little. “it’ll take a moment to cause effect. the original spider was cross-bred with a more agile, lanky species - perfect for your body type. i’m hoping it’ll be most effective in your transition.”

“hoping?” hanta squeaks, staring at the red welt forming on his hand - his visions already starting to blur out, a throbbing pain traveling up his arm.

“well, it’s the first time i’m experimenting with this-“

“you used me as a guinea pig?!”

“it’s perfectly safe! my mentor-“ but hanta’s not listening anymore, the world swimming in front of his eyes before the ground rushes up rapidly to kiss his face.

god. damnit.

when he comes to, he’s wrapped in about half the blankets in brooklyn, a cold compress against his sweaty forehead. he’s burning up, and his elbows hurt for some reason - his skins gone all itchy, and he’d probably kick a pigeon for a glass of water.

sitting up alerts miles to his newly conscious state, the man quickly scanning his vitals with a smaller version of the glass panel hanta’d been fascinated with earlier. “thought you were gonna croak on me. how do you feel?”

“itchy. and my arms hurt.” hanta’s pushing off the blankets as he speaks, attempting to get comfortable - his body feels weird, like he’ll burst out of his skin at any second.

“alright, don’t panic. i need to see how it’s mutated your body. stay still.” miles’ fingers delicately press against his neck, shoulders, before jabbing at his ribs without warning. hanta’s arms shoot up on impulse, a trail of sticky, precise webbing escaping him from his...... elbows?!

“what the fuck, dude what the fuck look at my elbows, they’re all puffy and red i’m gonna die, and the coroner is gonna leak my story to the press and my moms gonna see me in the paper with fucked up elbows-“ hanta may or may not be panicking, poking at the tender, slightly swollen skin around the bends of his arms. miles just rolls his eyes, clearly amused by his antics.

“you’re not going to die. japanese tape spiders shoot webbing from the bends of their eight arms; its a thicker & stronger strain of web. clearly, your elbows are how your body has adjusted.”

“that doesn’t make it better.” hanta’s too busy staring at himself to notice the other changes at first, but slowly, they’re trickling in. heightened eyesight and hearing, an odd balance to his feet he hadn’t had a day ago, even itchier fingertips - making it easier for him to grip flat surfaces, or at least as miles says.

“come on. let’s get you a suit.”

───── ⋆🕸⋆ ─────

a week’s worth of planning & adjusting has led him right here to this rooftop, suited feet firmly balanced on the ledge. he likes his suit, thinks it’s unique - he’d modeled it after the spider who’d blessed him with these powers, orange and black and white [miles sort of thinks it’s ugly, but who cares.] he’d been in & out of the fondly nicknamed “spider-lounge”, getting fitted for his suit & honing his new abilities; he’d also been avoiding you whenever possible.

he couldn’t suck you into this world, not when he was barely comfortable in it himself; he kept promising himself he’d come clean, but the guilt’s eating him alive with every sad look & evening alone you spend.

another impatient cough brings him back to the present, miles sitting in the middle of the roof & watching hanta’s nervous stalling. “you’re going to have to jump eventually, you know,” he calls, and it takes everything in him not to turn tail and run.

he has a duty, a responsibility now, and he doesn’t take that lightly. he thinks of you, sitting in your ratty little apartment off campus and remembers that your safety is all but in his hands now; he’s got to protect the city, for your sake at least.

“i absolutely will not hesitate to kick you off this rooftop,” miles threatens, but its empty - they both know hanta needs to do this himself.

one step back, then two, the nerves racing up his spine as he prepares himself to meet cold concrete [a dramatic thought, miles would catch him far before he reaches ground. a bad knee wouldn’t stop him from that.] he says a silent prayer to every god he’s ever heard of and closes his eyes, taking a step forward into the air-

and trips over the ledge, falling ass over heels into the air. nice.

the rushing wind only heightens his panic for a moment, before one arm snaps up to blindly shoot into the air; his spider sense kicks in from there, aiming without even realizing and latching onto a nearby ledge. he swings aimlessly for a moment before finding a new ledge, then a railing; slowly, he finds a rhythm.

he’s soaring through the city before he realizes, laughing at the sharp roar of the wind in his ears - he feels like he’s flying, weightless as a bird. the only thing he can think of is you, how much you’d love this.

one day, he’ll take you webswinging. one day.

for now, he relishes in the fact that he’s one step closer to being brooklyn’s - & new york’s - new spiderman, fresh faced & determined to bring peace to the city.

he’s going to do it for you, even if it kills him.

[skeeter-110]

 Don’t Worry Darling (I’m Right Here)

Chapter One: Home’s Where You Go When You Run Out of Homes

By: Skeeter_110 for @joyful-soul-collector

@friendly-neighborhood-exchange

Rating: General Audiences

Relationships: Peter Parker & Tony Stark

Characters: Peter Parker, Tony Stark, Ned Leeds

Summary: It’s been a year since the Vulture incident, and Peter and Tony have thankfully gotten closer since then. Because of this, Tony’s noticed for the past month that Peter has been acting weird and decides to get to the bottom of it. 

Tony knew that this was a bad idea. A terrible idea; one filled with multiple accounts of invaded privacy and possible stalking. But, Tony didn’t know what else to do.

For the past month, Tony has noticed that Peter has been acting strange. Tony hasn’t been getting voicemails lately from Peter and - when he checked the suit logs - has noticed that Peter hasn’t gone out as Spider-Man. 

The teen also has been a lot more withdrawn during their internship days. Tony just brushed it off as Peter being exhausted from school - lord knows just the memories of high school was enough to exhaust Tony - but eventually Peter began calling and cancelling lab days. Which turned into him just plain not showing up a few weeks ago. 

Tony knew he was risking nothing short of getting the cops called on him from sitting in front of a high school filled with kids, waiting for said kids to come out, but he didn’t know what else to do. He had to see Peter and make sure the kid was okay. 

Tony waited with a baited breath once the bell rang, instantly searching for Peter through the sea of kids that were running out of the building. 

“FRIDAY, look alive, Baby Girl.” Tony says after a few minutes when he realizes that Peter wasn’t coming out of the school. “I need you to help me get into the school’s systems. Check Peter Parker’s attendance record for the past couple of weeks and see what we got.” Tony commands, typing away for a bit on his phone before letting FRIDAY do the rest. 

‘It appears that Peter Parker has no attendance record for the past thirteen days.’ FRIDAY informs, confirming what Tony was afraid of to be true. 

He honestly didn’t know where to go from there. It wasn’t like Peter was going out as Spider-Man, so Tony couldn’t track his suit to see where he was, the Parker’s apartment was empty when he knocked on the door, and Peter hasn’t been in school for weeks. 

Peter wouldn’t move away without letting him know, right? Even if the teen didn’t know how to tell him, May at least would have been able to; but she’s not answering her phone either. 

Tony had a really bad feeling stuck like a pit in his stomach about this whole situation, and for once, he had no idea where to go from here.

Or, well, he didn’t, until he saw a familiar friend of Peter’s walking out of the school.

“Hey!″ Tony shouts, quickly scrambling out of his car, not quite caring that he seemed a little too desperate to want to talk to a high school student. “Ed, or Ned, or whatever the hell your name is, wait!” Tony says as he runs up to Ned, gaining the teen’s attention. 

"Uh, M-Mister Stark. What - uh - What are you doing here?" Ned asks, looking around a bit with shock and a little nervousness.

"Well, I was looking for Peter, but apparently - not only has he not shown up to his internship - he hasn't even been in school for the past couple of weeks. Do you know where he is?" Tony explains.

"O-Oh, he hasn't told you." Ned murmurs, making Tony's eyebrows furrow.

"Hasn't told me... what? Did the Parkers move or something, because their apartment was empty when I stopped by." Tony continues to pry, knowing that he was going to hate the answer by the way Ned was shifting on his feet.

"May died a little over a month ago. Car accident." Ned quietly informs, making that pit in Tony's stomach tighten even more.

"Where's Peter?" Tony hesitantly asks, selfishly praying to any higher being out there that Peter wasn't in the accident with her.

"I'm not sure." Ned tells him, not helping quell the man's worry.

"What do you mean 'you're not sure'?"

"I mean after the funeral someone from social services came and took him to a foster home. Apparently the guy who ran the home was abusive - I don't know, Peter didn't give me many details. The last thing I knew, he got a job at Delmar's and found a new place to stay. At least, that's what he's told me, I haven't really seen him either."  Ned rambles.

"Alright. Good talk, thank you for this." Tony says, beginning to walk away now that he has the information he needed to find Peter.

"Uh- M-Mister Stark!" Ned calls out before Tony could go too far. "You- Can you keep me updated? Please?" Ned requests, Tony softening at the clear concern Ned had for his friend.

"Of course."

*   *   *

Well, it's official. Two extremely creepy things relating a minor in one day; it was a new record. Not that Tony was actively trying to break that record. But seeing how his day has been going so far, who even knew at this point. Currently he was staking out the bodega that Ned had told him Peter was working at.

Tony couldn't stop his spiraling thoughts as he waited for any sign of Peter to show up. He couldn't help but wonder if the boy had actually managed to find somewhere warm and safe within that short period of time. He couldn't help but wonder if the man that ran the foster home had hurt Peter. He couldn't help but wonder about Peter.

Apparently all of those crazy scenarios his brain was making up passed enough time for all of the lights be turned off in the bodega. Tony waited for a bit, but the only people that walked out of there was two other men with no sign of Peter around.

Tony just sighed, leaning back in his seat and waiting for a few minutes just in case Peter came out also. When it was clear the teen wasn't there, Tony pulled his phone back out again.

"FRIDAY, is there any way you can get in touch with Karen and pinpoint her location?" Tony asks, silence filling the car once again before the A.I'S voice echoed through.

'I've managed to locate Karen's location. I've taken the liberty of putting the address in your GPS.' FRIDAY tells him. Tony just let out a long breath, berating himself a bit for not doing this in the first place and sending himself on some wild goose chase.

It only took twenty minutes for Tony to wind up parked in front of some abandoned warehouse. Tony just sat there and stared for a while, trying to choke down the lump that formed in his throat.

Peter could be in there. This is where Peter's been staying for the past month. No doubt hungry, cold, scared, and alone the entire time; and Tony had no idea. That fact alone was enough to make Tony feel sick.

Steeling himself, he slowly got out of the car for - hopefully - the last time that night and began making his way into the building.

Once he got inside he could hear shuffling coming from the upstairs so Tony quickly found the stairs and hoped that it was Peter and not some crack-head who manage to find Peter's suit and was planning on how to sell it for crack.

What Tony didn't take in account for, was the fact that this building looked to be abandoned for about ten years and no doubt would be falling apart. It wasn't until his foot fell through one of the steps that it actually crossed his mind.

The loud noise echoed throughout the whole building, making Tony cringe as footsteps rapidly came running towards him. All he could do was pray that it was Peter not actually someone on drugs.

Sure enough, the teen was soon standing at the top of the stairs, staring down at Tony in complete shock.

Tony took this opportunity to look Peter up and down, taking him all in and taking a mental log of his physical damage. Other than looking beyond ran down and exhausted it was clear that Peter had lost weight within the month.

His cheek bones looked a lot more prominent and his eyes looked sunken in. the kid also was filthy; Tony was barely able to pick out some scrapes and cuts Peter had through all of the dirt and grime. Which was another thing. The kid clearly wasn’t getting nearly enough nutrients if his super-healing wasn’t able to super-heal. 

“Hey, Kid.” Tony whispers when it became clear that no one was going to say anything. Peter just continued to stare at Tony in shock, his skin pale like he was looking at a ghost. 

"So, uh, I went to your school today - to look for you - and I ran into your friend Ted. He explained everything to me when I told him I hadn't heard from you in a while. Peter, I am so sorry. I wish I had known, I would have done something sooner." Tony continues. Peter just kept right on staring at him, which definitely got real uncomfortable real fast. Especially considering his foot was still stuck in the step.

"Do you think you could help me get my foot back so we can go somewhere and talk?" Tony asks, Peter blinking a couple of time before seemingly snapping back into his body.

Peter quickly ran down the steps, avoiding the ones that would assumingly break also, helping Tony free his foot out of the one it was trapped in. Once Tony was finally able to move freely, he didn't hesitate to pull the teen into his arms.

He couldn't help but cringe at how bony the kid was now, and how freezing his skin was to the touch. It was getting a little too close to the beginning of winter for the kid to only be wearing only a short sleeve, and with Peter's thermoregulation issues, Tony's just thanking whatever deity out there that kept his boy alive until he was able to find him.

"Come on, Kid. We can talk in the car where we can blast the heat and get you warmed up." Tony says, rubbing his hand up and down Peter's arm before releasing him.

"Do you have stuff you need to grab?" Tony asks, getting a nod in response. "Alright, you go and get everything all gathered and come meet me out in the car." Tony tells him, leaving him to do so.

Tony allowed himself promptly two seconds once he got back in the car to freak out and process everything. He didn't quite know where to go from here, but he knew that he couldn't bring himself to send the kid back on his way. Every instinct inside him was screaming to take Peter home and let him live there.

Tony quickly pulled it back together again when the passenger side door opened, placing a small smile on his face as the teen climbed in the car. The smile slowly slipped off when he realized that Peter only had a tiny backpack and that all of his belongings managed to fit.

Deep silence filled the car, both of them trying to figure out where to go from here. Peter - thankfully because Tony still didn't have all of his thoughts together - was the first to speak up.

"How did you find me?" Peter asks, his voice sounding a bit worse for wear.

"I had FRIDAY track Karen's location. Even if you're not in the suit FRIDAY can get in contact with your A.I." Tony explains, allowing another short silence fall on them before speaking again. "Pete, why didn't you tell me? I could have helped you."

"Because if you had found out, you would have called my social worker and she would have sent me back to the foster home and - I can't! I can't go back there, I just can't." Peter tells him, his tone getting a bit hysterical at the end.

"Why can't you go back there? What happened?" Tony questions, already feeling sick at whatever the answer could be.

"The man that ran the house - Steven Wescott - He touches the kids there." Peter whispers, refusing to look up at Tony.

"Did he touch you?" Tony lowly asks, bile and rage rising up his throat at the mere thought of someone doing that to Peter.

"No. He tried, but I fought him off and ran before he could do anything." Peter quietly says, still looking down at his hands.

Tony just nodded his head, allowing himself to take everything in and figure out the game plan from here.

"Okay, so here's what I would like to do; you can accept or deny afterwards, just hear me out right now. We're going to go to my place, we're going to get some nice food in you, get you a nice hot shower, and then we're going to call your social worker-" Tony begins to list out, hold a hand up when Peter began to protest.

"Just hear me out for a second. We're going to tell her about this Wescott guy, report everything he's doing and make sure all of those kids there get put into different homes and that he'll never be able to foster anyone again. Then I'm going to talk to her and see what needs to be done in order to get you to stay with me." Tony finishes.

Peter just blinked at Tony for a bit before what he said actually clicked. "You want to adopt me?"

"Well, if it's okay with you and if your social worker says that adoption is on the table. If not I could become like a temporary guardian, or a foster parent, or something else that allows me to-" Tony rambles before getting cut off by Peter slamming his body into Tony's.

Once the shock wore off and he could breathe again, Tony wrapped his arms around Peter also, hugging the kid tight to him when he felt the teen's shoulders begin to shake.

They sat there for a while, just simply holding each other. Tony held Peter close to him, allowing the teen to get all of his pent up emotions out.

"Can I please stay with you?" Peter cries, taking stuttering breaths afterwards to try and stop the flow of tears.

"Of course you can, Buddy. Of course you can." Tony comforts, rubbing Peter's back while he tries to regain his composure.

"Why don't we go pick something up to eat and then go home." Tony offers once Peter pulls away. The teen gave a nod accompanied by a shaky smile. Tony gave a small smile in return, wiping away the tears under Peter's eyes with his thumb before giving the boy's hair a ruffle.

"Thank you, Mister Stark." Peter whispers as Tony turns the key in the ignition.

"Of course, Underoos. We'll figure everything out, it'll be okay." Tony reassures, pulling away from the warehouse.

"Now, lets go home."

[xxgoblin-dumplingxx]

Just Say the Word: Thirteen

“Bucky, Oh god!”

“Shh,” he chuckled, kissing a line down your throat, “You’re gonna get us caught, babydoll.” He pins you gently against the tree behind you and smiles against your skin. “This is gonna be good for you,” he promised.

You whimper and hide your face in his shoulder making him shift your weight to hold you closer. “Hey,” he rumbles, “Baby. What’s wrong?”

He isn’t sure what the sudden shift is. But that’s not a “please,” whimper. That’s a scared whimper. The whimper he heard when you woke up from a nightmare. The sound you made when you found knives in places they shouldn’t be. 

“I can’t- I can’t I can’t-” you start to stammer and swallow hard, blinking fast to try not to cry. 

“No no no,” he says quickly, wrapping his arms around you, “You’re okay, baby. Was that too much? I’m sorry. We can stop. It’s okay. Shhh.”

For a few minutes, as he struggles to just hold you and not grind on you, he focuses on the smell of your hair. Vanilla and coconut and cigarette smoke. You smell good. Familiar. And it helps. 

“Shhh,” he soothes again, “You okay?”

“I’m sorry I just-” you don’t know how to explain it. It all felt really good. Bucky felt good. You knew he’d never heart you. Not on purpose. And you like the feel of his skin under your hands and his lips pressed against yours. He knew just where to press and it was great. It made you feel like you were in one of the novels you stole from your grandma’s house. To read in the tree house behind her trailer. 

“Hey,” he said, kissing you softly, “It’s fine... Probably a good thing if we don’t do it now. Pretty sure I’d nut in like a second.” He gives you his trademark crooked smile and you giggle in spite of yourself. 

“Bucky,” you huff, laying your head on his shoulder.

“What? I been starin’ at you in that little sundress all day. I’m only human.”

And you don’t have anything you can say to that. It feels good being held. Being understood. And in the light from the fireworks flashing across his face makes this whole thing feel like some magical moment as the smell of gunpowder and cut grass hang in the air. A heavy, heady perfume that mixes and mingles with the smell of grape bubble gum, shoplifted from the bodega and the smell of oil and gasoline that clings to Bucky no matter the season. It feels like you’re flying as he tickles your side, making you squirm to be put down.

And he does. Laughing and giving you a head start as you scoop up your shoes and sprint barefoot over the grass. racing between blankets and families. Giggling. And you’re 14 again. A kid. Playing. The loss of your virginity and the taste of Bucky’s tongue in your mouth forgotten as you try and dodge his grasping hands. And it isn’t until you pause. Just for a moment, to watch the sparks above your head, that you realize something important. Nothing is ever going to burn as bright as this moment. And like a firework, it’s gone too soon.

________

You pick up the pack of grape bubble gum and smile a little. You don’t even need to taste it to know what it tastes like. Or to remember what it makes you remember. But you shake your head and put it back. 

“Get a grip,” you tell yourself quietly, turning to start putting your stuff on the conveyor belt. Things for Sangria. And a homemade pizza. The perfect way to spend a day lounging by the pool, you figured. 

A way for you and Nat to get drunk WITHOUT going to the bar while Colin was away at a conference. Something about vascular resections and mesh. Or something. Things so far out of your depth you could practically feel your eyes glaze over. 

“Y/N?”

Your head snaps up and you look around, taking a moment to scan the sea of faces looking for someone who had said your name. And your chest hurts. “Hey, Winnie,” you cheeks heat and you want to run away. 

“It is you,” she said, stepping closer to talk with you, “You look good, baby girl. life treating you okay?”

“Yeah I- how are you?”

What do you say to your almost mother in law? The woman who fed you dinner more times than you remember. The woman who got so mad at you once when you said you were too stupid for college that she smacked you in the mouth and swore that if she ever heard you say that again she’d lay you out. The same woman who might have been more excited for you to marry her son than she’d been when her son was born.

“I’m good, baby,” she said smiling, reaching up to brush hair out of your eyes. 

“I- I- I-” you stand there stammering and swallow hard, not sure what to do. Or say.

“Don’t be a stranger,” she said, chucking you under the chin, “You hear?”

You nod, blinking back tears and she pulls you into a hug, “You did what you had to do,” she whispered, “And I’m glad you’re home. It’s been too quiet around here for way too long.” She lets you go gently and grins, “Fucking accident looking for a place to happen... But there’s a Dr. Pepper and a kitkat in my fridge for you whenever you want it, okay?”

“Okay,” you whimper, wiping away tears. 

She nods, “The number for the house is still the same,” she tells you, “Give me a call? My kitchen needs touched up.”

You smile a little and wipe your eyes on the backs of your hands, “What’s Bucky gonna say?”

“Bucky can eat a dick,” she said sternly, “I wanna know who the fuck he’d think he is tellin’ me I can’t catch up with my favorite daughter.”

“Winnie,” you start

“I’m serious,” she said gently, “I ain’t keep you alive for 12 years to just cut you loose because of his stupid ass. Because darlin’ he’s my son. And I love him. But the stupidest thing he ever did was chase you off. And I don’t think I’ll ever let him live it down.”

[octothorpetopus]

Afterglow

Richie refuses to cancel his shows. Partially because he does still need to get paid, but mostly because if he changes his life, if he lets the depression take him and pull him into the abyss... that means it's real. That means that Eddie's really gone and he's really not coming back.

He also refuses to cancel his TV appearances, which includes hosting the most popular late-night sketch comedy show in American history, and the one he got his start on as a cast member. Before he went to Derry, he had been excited for it. Before he went to Derry, he had been excited for a lot of things. Now, he couldn't even remember the sensation of excitement. He couldn't remember running ahead of the crowd to get to what he wanted. Now, there was only getting through it, and if he could do that, he'd survive.

The days seem to float by leading up to that Saturday night. He has meetings and rehearsals and publicity stunts and none of it matters. Not one bit. None of the other Losers call, but he didn't think they would. They're giving him space, and besides, they've all got their own things to figure out.

Saturday night comes, and Richie isn't nervous. He finds that since defeating It, nothing else can make him nervous. He stands backstage at the studio, hearing the familiar theme play and the cacophonous cheers of the audience. He's a little excited now. Not enough, but a little. He takes one last look in his dressing room mirror. His expression is tired, but when he plasters on a smile, he almost looks just like he used to. He has gotten a haircut, and he looks older. Less like a kid. He feels less like a kid. But that's not his job. His job is to make other people feel like kids.

"...along with your host, Richie Tozier!" The voiceover finishes just as Richie shakes himself from his stupor and pushes open the door of his dressing room, almost sprinting past producers and studio execs, taking a moment to compose himself before he walks onstage. There is a deafening roar and a flash of blinding light as he walks out, and it takes everything in him not to raise a hand to shield his eyes. He raises it to wave instead, flaunting a brilliant grin beneath his new glasses. He stops in the box on the middle of the stage and waits, breathing shakily, for the noise to stop. Eventually it does, and he smiles again.

"Hello, everyone. I'm so happy to be back here, and this time I'm hosting!" He whoops, letting the lights wash over him, wiping the slate clean. "No, really, it is great to be back. You know, since I left the show, I've gotten a lot of attention, which is great, and almost all of it's good, so..." He pumps his fist, timing it just right. He was not always so good at timing. "But even though I worked here for a long-ass time both in the cast and as a writer, people still tell me I'm just, like... not funny? Like, they'll come up to me after a show and just say, 'Hey, I didn't laugh at any of that. Can I still get a picture, though?' And a lot of my friends tell me that, too. I've got this one friend, and he..." Richie trails off, his eyes traveling up past the crowd and into the lights. They look just like the Deadlights, he notices. How did he not notice that earlier? In his near-excitement, he forgot all about his brief time in the Deadlights, and... and Eddie. He had been just about to mention Eddie. He snaps his eyes back out of the lights, blinking blurry purple circles away. He has to get back to the show. He can't break. He can't.

"Sorry, I was just thinking about my friend. He, um, literally never laughed at one of my jokes. We knew each other since we were eleven, and he didn't laugh at a single one." Richie has a memory of an eleven-year-old Eddie with a popsicle melting in his hand, offering one to Richie. "All my friends got kinda sick of my jokes back then. I wasn't nearly as funny then as I am now." He laughs self-indulgently, and then he is back in the lights, slipping away. He sees Eddie at eleven, at thirteen, at sixteen, at eighteen, at forty. He sees Eddie a hundred times, flashing before his eyes. He can't feel his mouth move, but it does, and he doesn't realize what he's done until he hears himself say, "And I loved him for it." That is all it takes to bring him back. He stumbles back, suddenly feeling the eyes of everyone watching close in around him. He does not know what to do. He does not know what to say. And then, all at once, he does. And he says it.

"There's something I've needed to say for a very, very long time." Nobody speaks. Nobody moves. Richie straightens, closes his eyes, and takes a long, slow breath. When he speaks again, his voice is steady and even, and not quite his own. "And this wasn't planned, but I think this is maybe the best place to do it." His eyes open, and they are glowing gunmetal silver under the lights. "I'm gay." He is unsmiling, a word almost never used to describe him before Derry. The audience is utterly silent. They could be replaced by mannequins for all Richie knows. And then, there comes a burst of nervous laughter from somewhere to his left, someone who thinks maybe this is just a very odd set-up to a joke. But it wasn't. "I'm gay, and my best friend in the whole world, the one who never laughed at my jokes... he died. Last week. I was in love with him, and I never told him. That I loved him, or that I was even gay. And... when I say love, I don't mean I had a crush on him when we were kids and something got rekindled when we were adults. I mean I loved him. Really, truly loved him, in the way most people never even get, when we grew up together, now, and almost thirty years in between." Whispers begin to rise now, floating to Richie's ears, but he shuts them out. He is going now, snowballing, getting bigger and bigger and bigger. "I think that's why I'm telling you all now. Because he never got to hear it, and now, I owe it to him to tell someone. I loved him despite the fact that he never laughed at my jokes. I loved him because he never laughed at my jokes. I will always regret never saying anything." He looks down at the people in front of him now. Some are grumbling. Some are stunned. One or two, he notes, are even crying. He reaches up to adjust his glasses and realizes that he is too.

"I'm sorry, everyone," he says. "You didn't come here tonight to see a forty-year-old man cry over his first love. And you won't have to for much longer. I want to leave you with one piece of advice, something a very wise friend said to me. Be who you want to be. Be proud." He smiles, though he feels more like crying than ever, and walks off the stage the way he came to a totally stunned silence. He passes the same producers, the same studio execs, and ignores their cries of protest. He has said his piece. And perhaps his career as a comedian is over in this one blip. Would that really be the end of the world?

He exits out the back doors of the studio and ducks his head, his hands shoved deep in his pockets. He passes a long line of people waiting to meet him, praying that they don't see him, and by some miracle, they don't. He thinks about hailing a cab, and then doesn't. It's a cool night, and he wants to walk.

This is Eddie's city, he realizes. No wonder he's been having visions and dreams of him ever since he arrived. How many times did Eddie walk these same sidewalks, bobbing and weaving to avoid accidental contact? How many times did he roll his eyes at the tourists, or hesitate before ordering bodega coffee, or step over a passed-out drunk on his way into his apartment?

He hardly makes it inside the doors of his hotel when he gets the first call. It is the first of many calls he will receive tonight, and the only one he will pick up. It's Bev. He settles into a leather armchair by the lobby fireplace and answers the phone.

"Hi, Bev-"

"Richie?" He can see her face just from her tone of voice and has to stifle a laugh at her wide eyes and open mouth. "Richie, I just saw the show-"

"Bev, slow down-"

"Why didn't you tell me? You could have told me-"

"Bev, please, go easy on him." This is Ben, muffled on the other line. Richie hears Beverly exhale, and when she speaks again, it's slower. Less frantic.

"Richie, that was... very brave of you."

"Thanks. It wasn't too disastrous?"

"No, we thought it was very... very you. And Richie?"

"Yeah?"

"I'm proud of you." He blushes and feels another tear slide down his face.

"Thank you, Beverly. Do you think-"

"I think Eddie would be too. And, Rich, can I tell you something?"

"Shoot."

"...I don't know what it's worth, but I think Eddie loved you too." Richie chokes on his own breath and has to take a moment, coughing and pounding his chest. He has a vision of using a gray plastic HydrOx inhaler.

"It's worth everything, Bev. Look, I gotta go, but-"

"No worries, Richie. Call me if you need to talk."

"Bye, Rich."

"Bye, Haystack." The line clicks off. Richie leans back in his seat and looks around the lobby. It will not be long before the news of his dramatic exit becomes widespread. He doesn't dread the flood, though. He awaits it with open arms. "If Eds could see me now," he murmurs, warm relief settling in the pit of his stomach. And then, even quieter, with a genuine, melancholy smile: "Beep-beep, Richie."