#also sorry to anybody who’s submitted something I haven’t responded to yet

[daily-dose-of-danno]

Aside from Vlad do you have a favorite ghost villain?

And aside from Danny who is your favorite good ghost?

For villain, definitely Skulker! I guess it’s his overall vibe? But I think he’s really neat. Plus he’s like. Iconic.

Season 1, Episode 3 - One of a Kind

Season 1, Episode 7 - Bitter Reunions

And for good ghost! Absolutely Frostbite. I love Pandora, but Frostbite had so much potential and really took on a sort of big role towards the end of the show when it came to understanding Danny’s core and his powers. I wish we had gotten to see more of him before the show got cancelled.

Season 3, Episode 2 - Infinite Realms

Season 3, Episode 6 - Urban Jungle

[darker-soft-starker]

Starker High School AU, Pt. 2 (Pt. 1, Pt. 3, Pt. 4, Pt. 5)

-----

Peter will admit that during he took an extended moment during his journey home to grieve the loss of his free afternoon, and indeed the impending headaches.

And the rest of his future, if he was honest.

Not that Peter was prone to melancholy by any means, but with this assignment his fate was officially sealed, there was no misunderstanding. He was going to fail this assignment. He was going to, for the first time in his academic career, be forced to submit garbage of a caliber worthy of Tony Stark. It will forever be a black mark on his academic record.

No respectable college is going to accept him after this. In fact, he might as well drop out of school now and hit up Mr Delmar for a job. All of his prep for his MIT application is as good as useless after this. Extracurriculars? Goodbye.

Because it’s confirmed.

He’s doomed.

Swaying with the motions of the train, Peter types a text to Ned, the only person who might provide him with some much needed sympathy.

>  I’m doomed >  paired w/stark for an assignment lollllllllll.  >  help

Maybe Peter could trade with Ned. Maybe he could plead with their teacher, for honest fear of his life and scholastic integrity. He wasn’t even exaggerating. In no known iteration of this universe could Peter amicably work with Tony Stark. It would be like Harry Potter sitting down for tea with Voldemort, or Frodo and Sauron chilling with a pint and a pipe in Bag End. 

It was unthinkable. Implausible. Laughable.

And Peter would laugh, were it anyone but him in this situation.

The feeling is unusual. Never had he found reason in his life to truly dislike anybody before, everyone could be redeemed or given the opportunity for penance. Natasha has said more than once that Peter would offer the devil himself a sandwich if he appeared. 

Tony Stark on the other hand? No sandwich for him.

Well, maybe a slice of bread. A stale one.

While he waits for Ned to responds he catches sight of his injured reflection in the train window, which is admittedly pretty gnarly. Even with his hood drawn up, there was a noticeable berth allocated to him in the busy carriage between himself and the other passengers.

< sux. can I have ur lego hogwarts if u die?

> dude :( pity me.

< lol. so, can i?

Peter sighs.

> sure. Look after May for me, bro. delete my internet history.

< deal. godspeed

Pocketing his phone, Peter wonders if it’s too late to take up praying.

---

By the time he’s back in his apartment his mood has managed to swing back up.

Tony Stark is not going to be the arbiter of Peter’s fate. Hell no. He’s smart, he’s creative and hardworking - it isn’t up to anybody but Peter to determine his outcomes. If he has to do the assignment with Stark then he will. And he will work his hardest. 

If he has to do it sharing the credit with Stark, well, Peter knows a concession when he sees one.

No matter how reluctant he is.

But he powers through it, like ripping off a bandaid. It’s fine! He’s a Parker and he’s come this far in life already against ill, Parker-like odds. What was being paired for one assignment with someone who escaped the nearest hellmouth? 

It’ll be fine. 

Probably.

Not letting himself linger on his fears, Peter clears out his previous plans of going on a YouTube spiral and eating sour gummies until his teeth stick, instead utilising the time to get his foot in and and begins prepping for the assignment. Cursory, preliminary research at first, before the inevitable deep dive begins.

Neanderthal, Peter scoffs, mad all over again. Who is Stark to call Peter a neanderthal? He’s second in his class. He’s a straight A student. He likes school.

And as much as he is moderately skilled in, and enjoys JV, it’s not like he received his scholarship to study at Midtown based on his physical prowess.

The graze on his cheek that stings every time he yawns is proof of that.

Stark can eat his entire ass and choke on it, he thinks darkly, as he continues his research. He doesn’t know the first thing about Peter.

The data is sobering as he delves into job listings and statistics of his projected salary in a three year margin. This is really what his teachers earn? Wow. Depressing.

The contrast of expected salary versus the forecast of steep student loans is disheartening further still.

Teaching quietly slips from second to third on his list of ideal occupations.

Turning on a playlist on his phone, Peter continues to compile notes, amassing a truly gargantuan amount of tabs on his browser. His computer, old enough to be on its’ last teeth, whirrs loudly in protest.

It’s not until his room goes dark that he thinks to check the time.

Ah, shit. It’s nearly six.

Peter pauses. Should he tidy up the apartment?

...Nah, no point in breaking a sweat for Stark.

He continues typing. Then he hesitates, fingers suspended in mid-air. 

But what if Stark sees his unfolded laundry out on the dining table and publicly shames him for his old-but-comfortable Bulbasaur themed boxer shorts?

Goddamnit.

---

A quick, cursory clean ensues and leaves a relatively orderly Parker apartment. No freshly laundered underwear is in sight.

Peter wraps up just a few minutes before six. Right on time.

Taking a seat at the now clear dining table Peter drums his fingers on the surface and waits.

And waits.

And waits.

---

He knows when Tony finally arrives when he hears the sound of a car pulling up outside his apartment block. The riffs of a Roxette remix can be heard playing loudly  from the ground to the seventh floor of his apartment, the bass so thunderous it reverberates the windows all the way up to his floor.

Drumming his fingers on the kitchen table, Peter checks the wall clock again. It’s nearly seven.

Tony’s late.

Not that Peter is particularly affected with surprise that Tony is incapable of following basic instructions, but still. Really? Really?

By the time there is a knock on his door, Peter is already before it, his arms crossed over his chest and a scowl on his face. Every second between Tony pulling up and his ascent to Peter’s floor has him positively fuming. He can’t believe how this day played out. It started with such promise. He had such innocuous, but high hopes.

Clearly, he miscalculated.

Feeling a touch petty, he waits to answer, listening to Stark knock a second and then a third, more insistent time before he rouses enough calm to open the door.

He instantly regrets it when he does. 

Tony’s expression is curious one as he breezes right passed Peter without waiting for further invitation. There’s a smudge of something dark on his brow, his otherwise white undershirt smeared in dark stains.

Peter watches incredulously as the other boy drops his backpack by the door with a thump.

“You’re late.”

He closes the door behind Tony and scowls at the other boys easy posture, hands shoved into his pockets, eyes taking in the apartment.

“I didn’t realise you lived all the way out in fucking Queens. Do you have any idea how bad traffic is at this time of day? Also, your elevator doesn’t work. I just climbed seven flights of stairs, where’s the hospitality?”

“Try earning it.”

The other boy rolls his eyes. “Like it’s worth my time.” He breezes past Peter and slides his leather jacket off his arms, tossing it atop of his backpack in the corner. “Look, I’m here now. Okay? You can unclench now. So, do I get a tour or what?”

“Or what. This wouldn’t have been an issue if we had just started straight after class like I said.”

“Oh I’m sorry,” Tony clutches his hands to his heart before gesturing to the room. “I didn’t realise I was interrupting your busy Friday night, Parker. You got a keg and the rest of the meatheads stashed away somewhere?”

Without waiting for a response, Tony wanders around the living room like a curious child in a new play room. His gaze inspects everything all at once, from peering at up close at the wall mounted photos and hovering his grubby hands over the oddments and knick-knacks speckled throughout the space.

Apprehensive, Peter can’t help but shadow him, afraid he just let loose a hurricane in a china shop.

Without asking, Tony picks up May’s old Magic 8-Ball and gives it a good shake. Peter’s fingers itch to reach over and stop him, but stops himself because then that would require actually making direct skin contact the other boy.

Not worth it.

“Cannot predict now. Huh,” Tony says to himself before placing the ball back in the wrong spot. 

They both watch silently as it rolls precariously close to the edge. 

“Anyways,” Tony helps himself to an armchair, lounging back and spreading his legs wide. “I know your long-term memory is probably as defective as the rest of you, so don’t strain yourself recalling that I had other priorities.”

“Like what?”

“Like literally anything that isn’t being around you,” the other boy grins. “Now, are we doing this thing, or did you invite me over so you could bitch at me?”

“I didn’t invite you,” Peter grumbles, swiping his notebook from the dining table before sitting on the sofa, as far away from Stark as possible. Shifting, he takes his phone from his pocket and opens the notes he’d taken earlier.

“So, I cross referenced some websites and current job listings,” Peter scrolls through his research, adjusting his glasses as they slip down his nose. “Assuming you have no savings, we’re looking at an average of sixty-thousand per annum based on my salary alone. The average rent in --”

“-- Uh, why are we assuming I have no savings?”

"Because... we’re being realistic?”

Tony springs to his feet and paces across the living room.

“Well,” he says, gesturing to Peter, “if we’re being realistic, does having no savings also that mean I have no debt -- or are you paying off two student loans on your salary?”

“I don’t --”

“Do we have car loans? Health insurance?”

“Wait, slow your roll, Stark. I haven’t yet --”

“-- Of course you haven’t. I mean really, Parker, do you ever think ahead? You should try it, we do have a baby on the way, you know.” Tony clicks his fingers and points at Peter. “Oh, names! I want to call it Molly.”

“As in the drug?” 

“No, as in Ringwald. Anyhoo, seeing as only one of us has the intellectual capacity to construct a budget,” Tony gestures to himself, “that would be me, consider maybe that I spent my savings paying off my student loans and bought a car for me and Miss Molly, leaving you with just your own stagnant debt. Happy?”

“Thrilled,” he says through clenched teeth, feeling utterly steamrolled. “But we’re not calling the baby Molly.”

“Yes, we are. Think of all the great nicknames. Hey wait,” Tony pauses in his pacing, “are your parents going to be home soon?”

It was in that moment Peters world narrows down to one, botched cosmic joke.

Turning his gaze heavenwards, Peter prays silently for mercy. What did he do to deserve this. This is all his bad karma come at once. This is the bad place.

“Ah, no,” he replies, eyes widening. “No, my parents are not going to be home soon.”

“Cool. Lucky you.”

Oblivious to Peter’s existential turmoil, Tony resumes his patrol through the living room, picking up a frame on the mantle. It houses an old photo of Ben, May and a young, bespectacled Peter. 

It is one of the more embarrassing immortalisations of his younger self, eleven-years old and grinning widely, bearing his silver braces to the camera as he holds up a science fair trophy, curls wild and untamed.

Oh god. That was exactly what Peter needed on this unholy day - Tony Stark in his living room, witnessing Peter in his prepubescent glory. 

Quick, create a diversion.

“So, as I was saying,” he says loudly, “rent is reasonably affordable with a sixty-thousand budget in --”

“Who’s the babe?” Tony points to a younger Aunt May in the photo.

Peter gets to his feet and removes the frame from Tony’s grasp. He glowers as he places it back on the mantle. 

“No one you would have a chance with. Can you stay focused? Like, are you physically capable of it?”

“Okay, calm down,” Tony holds his hands up in surrender. “You’ve got a lot of anger for someone so vertically challenged, you know that, shortstack?” 

“Focus, dumbass.”

“I’m focused! Let’s see, we’ve established that I am excellent at managing my money. You have a shitty job and a shitty salary, and apparently my imaginary future self has terrible taste in men. So. Have I got that right? Where are we living?”

“Queens. LIC has some one bed, one baths that could be affordable.”

“Uh, rewind. Going to have to eighty-six that - I am not living in Queens.”

Peter stares at him.

Tony rubs his hands over his face and sighs. “Fine, whatever. But I want a Pontiac Firebird in this imaginary life if I have to deal with you.”

“For someone so keen on getting away you’re doing your best to prolong this experience. It’s literally painful.”

“Well, I just like to see you get all riled up, Princess,” Tony grins, leaning back against the mantle and folding his arms over his chest. “You have this vein that bulges on your forehead when you’re mad. Makes you look like a pitbull.”

Peter swallows the particularly acidic retort sitting on his tongue and tries not to let Tony’s words sting. Be the bigger man, Ben used to say. As difficult as it is to channel even a modicum of the mans’ eternal patience, Peter takes a deep breath and reminds himself to stay focused. The less he gets sidetracked by Tony’s fuckery, the sooner it’s over.

He mentions the next part with unease. 

“...Miss Ahn said that we need references and should do field research. Speak to realtors. Ask people who have a similar lifestyle and budget.”

The look that comes over the other boys face is one of unequivocal revulsion. Peter can relate. The thought of having to spend more time with this guy makes his stomach turn.

“Well, Parker, any bright ideas who we can ask?”

The hinges of the front door squeaks before Peter can respond.

Moments after, Aunt May walks into the living room, placing her bag down on the dining table. She looks between the two boys curiously.

“Hey, Pete,” she comes to his side to squeezes his shoulder. “Who do we have here?”

Tony rushes over with his hand outstretched, an eager grin on his face. 

“Tony Stark, ma’am. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

“Oh, ah, okay, well,” May laughs as he enthusiastically shakes her hand. Her eyes are soft as Tony smiles brightly at her. “Nice to meet you too, Tony. I’m May, Peter’s aunt. Are you... friends with Peter?”

Peter snorts. 

“Definitely not. We just have an assignment --”

“-- Great friends, actually,” Tony talks over him, taking a seat beside Peter on the sofa. To Peter’s utter disgust, the other boy puts an arm around his shoulders, squeezing his bicep encouragingly. “Aren’t we, Pete? Hmm? Best buds. We go way back.”

Peter freezes, feeling the line of heat from Tony’s against his side, the weight of his arm on his body. 

Eyes widening, he feels his skin crawl. 

“That’s sweet,” May smiles, putting her hair up in a loose, messy bun. “Well, I don’t know about you boys, but I’m starving. I’m ordering pizza, Friday special. You should stay for dinner, Tony.”

Tony places his free hand on his chest.

“I would be honoured.”

May looks at Tony strangely before retreating to the kitchen to retrieve the menus.

As soon as she’s out of sight Tony takes his arm off Peter and quickly shifts away from him like he’s been burned. 

“Dude,” Peter whispers, bewildered. “What the fuck?”

“Oh my god,” Tony whispers, shuddering as his face scrunches up in disgust. “I’m going to have to pour scalding hot water on all the places your skin just touched me. Ugh, I feel like I just touched toe fungus.”

Peter slaps his arm.

“What is wrong with you?”

Tony backhands Peter’s arm in retaliation and then shudders all over again.

“Your aunt is crazy hot, okay, I couldn’t help myself. It was an instinctual reaction. Is she taken? C’mon. Vindicate me.” 

“I’ll eviscerate you --”

“-- I mean, clearly she married into the family, she doesn’t share your unfortunate phenotype, but I didn’t see a ring on her finger. So? Yes or no?”

“You’re unbelievable,” Peter hisses as his aunt comes back in. “She’s not available to you. Not now, not ever.”

“But she is available?”

“Don’t even, Stark. You’re like, sixteen. Don’t you have any shame?”

Tony smiles, as she nears. “Not a shred.”

“So,” May waves a menu at them. “You boys happy with pepperoni?”

Closing his eyes, Peter wishes for death.

As fate would have it, he gets pepperoni instead.

-----

If you had ever told Peter that he would be sitting down for dinner with his Aunt and a dirt-streaked Tony Stark, he would have laughed.

And if Peter were outside himself he would probably find the sharing of pizza and soda over their plastic, chequered table-cloth comical -- in that uncanny, Dogs Playing Poker kind of way. But in reality there was nothing funny about the discomfort of having Tony in his personal space or the heavy, suffocating tension that has removed the air from the room. 

The entire time Tony has been hamming it up, cracking jokes with his aunt, complimenting her on the decor, asking what she does for work. Peter doesn’t know if he’s being sweet to May for the purpose of buttering her up, or, given the wealth of his family in contrast to the Parkers, if he’s being cruelly facetious. 

Nonetheless, Peter has felt on edge. It’s disconcerting, is what it is. Every single movement Tony makes, every time he opens his mouth -- frequently to sweet-talk his aunt -- has Peter’s anxiety standing at attention, hyperaware of everything the other boy does.

He’s beginning to feel like a meerkat whose den has been invaded by a lion.

Through the course of a single meal Peter’s attention moves from the sky to the floor. There is no grace or higher power that is coming to save him from this profound, unusual torture. 

So he focuses his hopes to the south, seeing through their tiny, cramped, dinner table, past bargaining. He’s willing to trade his soul to end it all. Surely some wayward being from hell would come to his rescue. 

May has Peter’s chin between her fingers. She turns it this way and that, inspecting his injuries.

“What happened this time, bubby?” She frowns, brow furrowing. “You look like you got beat up.”

Peter, very aware of Tony’s amused gaze on them, gently pulls away from her grasp. He smiles placatingly and picks at his pizza slice. God he’s never going to live this down.

“Training accident. It’s okay, I feel fine. ‘Tis but a scratch,” he brings himself to joke.

“You sure?”

“Yep.”

She leans in to kiss his cheek, carefully avoiding the fresh scabs and injured flesh. “God, you bruise like a peach. Be careful, baby, you’re our money maker,” she laughs. “What about you Tony, do you play football?”

Tony, who is mid way through chewing on a mouthful of pizza, momentarily chokes, beating his chest with his fist to swallow down the obstruction.

“Uh, no,” Tony gulps, wiping his mouth with a napkin. “Nope. No recreational sports for me. Can’t.” He gestures to his chest and sighs heavily. “Asthma.”

Peter sips his coke and rolls his eyes, knowing full well there’s a half-empty pack of Marlboro Light’s in the pocket of Tony’s jeans. Asthma. What a schmuck.

“That’s a shame. Do you boys have classes together?”

Unfortunately, Peter thinks.

The other boy seems to have the same thought, as he glares at Peter from over the table. When he picks up his can of coke, he gives Peter the finger outside of May’s eye-line.

“That’s why Tony’s here,” Peter twists his napkin in his grip. “We have an econ assignment together on microeconomics. Teach says Tony’s destined to be on welfare.”

Tony leans in, chin rested on his hand. He addresses May but his stare, dark and odious, rests on Peter.

“Not accurate. Stay-at-home parent, actually. One might say that is the most important job of all. Wouldn’t you agree, May?”

She raises her Coke.

“Hear, hear.”

Tony grins roguishly, the same grin he gave the girls at the lockers earlier. “Petey here was just saying that we should ask you about your experience running a household on a single salary. We’d love to have you as a reference.”

“Was I saying that?” Peter narrows his eyes. “I can’t remember.”

Tony kicks him under the table. The hit lands right in his knee cap.

Wincing, Peter kicks back, satisfied when the other boy bites his lip to hold back a pained groan.

“Yeah, well, not surprising,” Tony says airily, waving his hand. “Hit your head today, didn’t you? Maybe you should get all that damage looked into.”

The napkin rips in Peter’s grasp.

“Maybe you should go f--”

“I’d be more than happy to help with your assignment, boys,” May cuts in.

Whatever snide reply he has in his mouth instantly wilts when he looks over to his Aunt. She looks...pleased. Delighted, almost. Her eyes under the dull, yellow kitchen light seem to get warmer, and her smile is small but softens around the edges.

Instantly, Peter feels like the worst person in the world. Of course May would be the best person to ask. She does so much for him, the least he can do is set his pride aside for one moment to make her feel good about how hard she works for their life.

He reaches over to squeeze her hand, smiling as gratitude swells unexpectedly in his chest.

“Thanks, May. That would be great.”

Across the table, a smug Tony looks like the cat who got the cream. 

Without warning, Peter’s chest goes hot with contempt, his fingernails dig into his palm. He’s not sure he’s ever met anyone he couldn’t like, until now.

I hate you, Peter mouths while May busies herself with rounding up the pizza boxes.

Kiss my ass, Tony mouths back. 

In an instant his expression flips from contemptuous to angelic when he stands and offers to help May clean up.

Peter stands too, sparing a disdainful glance to the floor. Turns out not even the devil was willing to give him a hand.

Natasha was right. It’s going to end in murder.

---

Peter walks Tony to the door after dinner to say goodbye to his ‘friend’. Following him into the hall, Peter closes the door behind them.

“What do you want, Parker?” Tony asks wearily, retrieving a cigarette from his pocket. “I’m trying to make a getaway here.”

Peter crosses his arms over his chest. “Don’t do that with my aunt. I’m not joking, asshole. It’s not cool.”

“Relax, princess,” Tony rolls his eyes, fishing for his lighter in his backpack. “I’m not actually interested. Just trying to get under your skin. Worked, see? You’re easy like that. Hey, why do you live with your aunt anyways?”

“None of your business,” he frowns as Tony holds one hand up in surrender and lights his cigarette with the other. “Dude, you can’t smoke in here.”

“Can’t, shouldn’t, gonna. By the way, you’ve got sauce on your chin, it’s very distracting.”

Peter wipes at it without thinking. When he pulls it away there is indeed a smear of red sauce on his hand.

Tony walks backwards down the hall and exhales a cloud of smoke, waving in a sardonic imitation of a farewell.

“See you Monday, bubby.”

Peter doesn’t bother with a response, too tired from the week, exhausted by this whole darn day, and it’s not like the other boy cares what he has to say anyway. He takes a moment to swallow his anger before he heads back inside, sighing. 

Well, at least he has an entire weekend free of Stark to look forward to.

May looks at him curiously when he reemerges, but says nothing. He considers for a moment about heading to his bedroom and playing a video game to disassociate - but then, suddenly, remembers her smile earlier, and how alone she looks now. A surge of affection hits him right beneath his breastbone.

He checks his watch and then catches her eye.  Tilting his head towards the living room, he says, “Hey. You wanna eat some ice cream and watch some Colbert before bed?”

She smiles just like she did earlier and kisses his cheek. “Sounds nice, Pete.”

Maybe the whole day wasn’t lost.

As May heads to the sofa and switches the TV on, Peter catches sight of the Magic 8-Ball from the corner of his eye. He walks over and gives it a shake.

Outlook good.

*

*

----

tagging: @bylerboyfriends @ravens-starker-stuff, @starker-rays, @ironspiderstarker, @notfor-temporaryuse, @tabbycat1220, @sugarfreecult, @rebel13lion39, @muse-of-gods

[forasecondtherewedwon]

Peter and MJ, coworkers who barely know each other's names, but could draw each other's faces from memory, get stuck in the elevator together at the end of a work day

Thanks for the prompt, Anon! I started writing the fic for this so fast haha

Overheard at the Bugle

Pairing: Peter Parker x Michelle Jones (Spideychelle) Rating: M Word count: 5394

Summary:

Peter's having a late night at the office and finds out he's not the only one working overtime right before he and the new reporter, Michelle Jones, get trapped in the Bugle's unreliable elevator. He just needs to handle this situation calmly and not do anything to give away his secret identity. It'd be easier to focus on the task at hand if his enhanced hearing wasn't picking up something very unusual coming from the voice recorder in Michelle's bag.

Peter tries to keep a low profile at the Bugle―he doesn’t need anyone giving a second thought to the guy who turns in crisp closeups of Spider-Man week after week―but he didn’t realize he’s invisible. He’s gotta be for the custodial staff to start shutting the lights off on his floor as he’s still sifting blearily through the emails that arrive every five minutes; they’re all stamped with Sent from J. Jonah Jameson’s iPhone. Almost in the dark, Peter snaps his laptop shut, shoves it into his messenger bag, and sprints for the elevators. He’s not scared of the dark (what kinda hero would that make him?), but after lights-out comes locking the doors and he’s not keen on spending the night here. Though his apartment might not be much, it’s his escape from work.

He skids around the corner to find the glow of an elevator that’s just closing.

“Hold it!” Peter shouts, shooting his hand out to part the doors as a frantic tapping comes from inside.

“I was pushing the button…” a woman explains as he steps in.

She turns her head and a spill of wavy brown hair is pushed aside to reveal the face of Michelle Jones. Peter swallows. His gaze goes from her startled brown eyes to her finger, now slipping off the Doors Open button.

“Yeah,” he says, adjusting the strap of his bag on his shoulder, “this thing can be temperamental sometimes.”

“Right. Ground floor, I assume?”

“Yep.”

He moves off to a respectful distance as she presses the button to take them down and the doors close. His heart’s hammering. Though he’s heard the confident tone of her voice plenty, she’s never specifically spoken to him. Nor he to her. Luckily, the walls of the elevator have an intentional burnish with the scuff of wear on top, so there’s no chance of her catching sight of his stare in their reflections. Peter doesn’t mean to, it’s just that she took her hair down. She mostly wears it twisted and pinned at the nape of her neck and probably just shook it out when she got into the elevator, heading home. He gets it. He has his tie jammed into his bag, collar unbuttoned, and sleeves cuffed up to his elbows. Nobody gives a shit about dress code after the boss is gone, especially if they’re working late with no guarantee of overtime pay. Quit looking at her, he thinks, and snaps his gaze down to the floor. He can still smell her shampoo, courtesy of the enhanced senses.

“Sorry about the lights,” Michelle offers, turning her head enough to address him, but not enough to meet his eye because he’s standing beside and slightly behind her. “I let one of the custodians know I was on my way out a few minutes ago. Thought I was the last one left.”

Peter frowns. That’s weird. Not what she says, but that, when she speaks, he thinks he hears an echo. My one-on-one exclusive with Spider-Man, it says, in the voice of the reporter currently sharing the elevator with him. He opens his mouth to ask Michelle if she hears it too and catches himself. That’s a habit he broke years ago, when he realized there are way more things other people can’t hear and it only risks freaking them out and exposing himself to reveal that his senses are more animal than human.

“Don’t worry about it,” he responds distractedly.

The first thing to know about Spider-Man is that he’s not a nine-to-five kinda guy. Without regular business hours, he joins me for this interview in my Brooklyn apartment on a Friday evening. The red suit is predictable; the rap he gives my living room window to announce his arrival smacks more of cheeky showmanship. This reporter has to wonder whether, for him, finally submitting to such an in-depth, sit-down conversation is a type of performance. Surely the man behind the mask knows his audience is rapt for any details on the life of a figure who, despite his status as a trusted friend to all, is so much a mystery to this city’s inhabitants.

Ok, what? Peter’s brain is spinning like a frisbee. He’s never given the kind of interview Michelle’s disembodied voice is describing, and definitely never given it to her. He’s never been to her apartment, doesn’t even know where she lives, and certainly isn’t eager to invite questions in some sort of exposé. Maybe what he’s hearing are just the notes she’s preparing for a future interview. Did Jameson assign this? He’s certainly nosy about Peter’s alter ego, but the tone of the piece is more curious than their boss’s usual style―scathing, obstinate, malicious. She sounds intrigued by Spider-Man, not like she’s luring him into a trap.

The elevator jolts. It grinds. It halts. Michelle makes a sound of distress and taps Doors Open. She looks at him over her shoulder, face worried but also… flushed? Maybe she gets anxiety attacks.

“It’s alright,” Peter tells her, one foot in Spider-Man’s De-escalation Mode. He raises his hands in hopefully a calming gesture and her eyes dart to them, gliding over his bare forearms. Crap, does he seem threatening? He lowers his hands.

“I know it’s alright,” she assures him. “I just… who wants to be stuck at work?”

Michelle gives him a slight smile to accompany her joke and he returns it.

“Got a story to work on?” Peter asks.

His motive is partly to understand the narration he heard (which is still going on, a murmur beneath their much louder voices), but also to focus her on something besides the fact that the elevator is not moving.

“Just filed one actually, so, you know, theoretically free for the weekend.” She makes a phonily excited face that emphasizes how very not-free they are.

The continued jokes are a good sign that she isn’t overly alarmed. He’s still stumped about the story though. As she pulls her cell phone from the large leather bag over her arm, Peter tunes into the background noise. With the elevator silent, that’s just the recording of Michelle’s voice.

‘…later than I thought you would be,’ I inform him. He makes his excuses and where I would normally be annoyed by a failure to be punctual, I find myself charmed by New York’s man in red. I wonder where his adventures have taken him tonight, if his actions have prevented violence, saved lives. If his mere presence has inspired onlookers and comforted those who have lost faith in our traditional systems of stagnant courts and killer cops…

There’s no way Jameson can be aware of the spin she’s putting on this. Spider-Man’s no hero in the eyes of the editor-in-chief, just a menace, a pest, a cockroach climbing up the pantleg of the people who are supposed to enforce justice. That’s not the only thing that’s confusing. Peter’s fairly hung up on the fact that she’s conducting this interview like he’s there. Could just be her process. Playing the whole thing out to get a feel for however long it might be, where small talk might hypothetically cut into her list of prepared questions.

“No service,” Michelle huffs, tucking her phone away again. “You?”

Peter, startled, gets his phone out to check, though he already knows this elevator is a dead zone. He shakes his head. Frustrated, she moves her hand to jab the Help button. The one meant to connect the rider with 911.

“Don’t bother,” he coaches when she pushes it a second time after nothing happens. “I think that thing’s just for show.”

“Oh yeah?”

She’s arch, irritated. Peter stays calm, knowing it’s not really meant for him. People can get testy in stressful situations. Being trapped in an elevator is one of those. Not for him. For him, a stressful situation is a bullet graze or leaping from one office tower to the next and realizing in midair that he’s out of webs. Trapped in an elevator is a relaxing start to his weekend in comparison.

“Jameson never lets anybody inspect it. He’s a control freak, scared of spies. He thinks somebody’s gonna bug the elevator,” he clarifies to Michelle’s raised eyebrows.

“That’s ridiculous.”

“Yeah, well, have you met him?”

She exhales a laugh at that.

…invite him to get comfortable, I’m surprised at him choosing a seat at the opposite end of the couch I’ve just sat down on. I’d intended the chair across from me and think that should be obvious to him. Perhaps it is. The mask doesn’t make him the easiest man to read.

“So we’re just fucking stuck because Jameson’s scared of, who? Reporters from other papers? The CIA? Edward Snowden?”

A tingle goes down Peter’s spine when she swears. She’s commanding. Does she know that or is working under Jameson putting her qualities in the shadow of his, wielded for domination and intimidation?

“I haven’t figured that out yet,” he says.

“This button’s never worked?” Michelle checks, leaning her knuckle into it to keep it depressed. “This is a major safety issue. Imagine there was a fire right now.”

“You should call somebody and report him.”

He can’t help being playfully sarcastic and thinks, for a second, that she’s going to bite his head off for it by the way her eyes flash. Then he thinks he might not mind. Then she laughs and he tries to take a normal breath.

“What do we do?” she wants to know.

What do they do? What do Peter and the woman he’s eyed across the office since she arrived at the Bugle two months ago do? Forced together by unhealthy work hours and a broken elevator? He shifts from one foot to the other.

“Hope the custodian decides to watch for you to leave the building and comes looking when you don’t.”

“I hate that plan,” Michelle informs him.

“Go ahead and come up with another one,” he invites earnestly.

She turns so she’s facing him and lets her back slump against the wall of the elevator. She shrugs to ease her bag off her shoulder. The strap tugs a little at her emerald-green blouse before it slides down her arm. She sets it on the ground by her feet. It looks like she’s doing what he suggested. Now it’s just Peter and her quiet voice, which he can tell is coming from the bag. Michelle must have a recorder in there. Probably thinks she shut it off, but the volume’s just really low.

‘…when you’re out there?’ I have to inquire of him. At his easy laugh, I shelter behind my coffee cup, taking a slow sip. ‘Lonely?’ Spider-Man repeats. ‘In a city this size?’ He’s being coy now. I’m certain he knows what I want and it’s the dare implicit in this exchange that prompts me to press him. ‘Not lonely for just anybody,’ I begin…

Crossing his arms, Peter rests against the back of the elevator, trying to be subtle as he tips his head to the side to hear more. He’s getting into this story now, even if it’s not real. For the first time, he’s starting to see how Spider-Man might be a pretty compelling guy. He likes this person she seems to think he is; he’s more interesting coming from her lips. Of course, not as interesting as she is, with her leading questions and the agenda she’s voicing for her recorder if not for the man she’s interviewing.

“Have you worked at the Bugle long?”

His gaze twitches over to Michelle’s face when she speaks.

“Since right outta college. Why?”

“Just wondered if this had happened to you before,” she explains, waving her hand at the elevator’s useless panel of buttons. “And I knew you were here before me.”

“You did?”

He shouldn’t sound so breathlessly hopeful. Obviously, she knew he was here first. Michelle could’ve noticed him one time in the past two months and seen him do anything to indicate that he’d been here longer―escape Jameson’s office just before he could get roared at, jiggle the plug to make the coffee machine in the breakroom work. But Peter does sound that way because of her tone. She says it like an admission and she breaks eye contact.

‘…you don’t want one?’ He declined my offer of coffee once, but I think he may change his mind now that we’ve warmed up to each other a little. Spider-Man twists and I can feel him regarding me from behind those large white eyes. ‘I’d have to take the mask off to drink it,’ he points out. I promise that I’m not trying to blow his cover, just be hospitable. Besides, I counter, he doesn’t need to expose his whole face. The mouth will do.

“So, has it?” she counters, ignoring his question.

“Has what?”

“Has it happened to you? The elevator shutting down?”

“Oh, uh, once or twice, but it was always in the middle of the day and there were a bunch of other people in the elevator with me, so it didn’t go unnoticed long. Jameson hassled me for missing meetings while I was trapped though.”

“It’s not like you could help it,” Michelle says.

“True, but…” Peter shrugs. “I learned to take the stairs.”

“Bet you’re wishing you took them tonight.”

He laughs.

“Not really. I mean, uhhh…” The sound drags out embarrassingly as he can’t manage to pull his gaze away from her surprised face.

“I’m glad you’re here,” she says, saving him. “I think you’re keeping me saner than I would be alone.”

Right. That’s all. Which is enough, really. He’s glad to be of service, especially if that service is helping her not totally lose it.

“No problem.”

‘…because I can do more good if I’m an anonymous symbol,’ Spider-Man tells me. His body language has changed, shifting forward with the urgency of his words. ‘But some people must know,’ I say. ‘Your real identity can’t be a secret from everyone.’ ‘No Spider-Man is an island?’ is his clever rejoinder. I agree with absolute sincerity. ‘Even the strongest person needs to let others get close to them,’ I insist. Where he’s tugged his mask up, his mouth shifts from a wry grin to thoughtful softness. I find my gaze lingering there.

“Any ideas?” Peter asks, feeling hot.

The temperature inside the elevator is moderate, but Michelle’s words, as she draws him deeper into her story, are making him surreptitiously flap his collar to encourage air down his shirt. He’s starting to feel like this is something he’s not supposed to hear. Alright, it’s likely that nobody was supposed to hear it if these are just her rough notes before composing an article. Whatever. What Peter’s realizing is that maybe nobody’s supposed to hear this interview ever. The questions are too personal, too human-interest for the kind of paper they work at, and the way she depicts her responses is… intimate. Full of sensory details. It’s as though he’s in this apartment with her, sipping at her coffee, staring at her down the length of the couch. A Friday night, her voice said, and tonight’s one of those. How would Michelle Jones feel if she knew she was spending an evening with Spider-Man right now?

“I think the custodians would’ve made some noise by now if they knew anybody was in here and if they haven’t realized we’re missing, then I’m not sure anyone else will. I don’t know about you, but I live alone. I probably won’t be missed tonight because my friends will just assume I’m working and turned my phone off. I’ve been considering,” she goes on, “that we’ll either have to climb out the top and hope we’re close to the doors aligning with one of the floors or get these doors open. Either way, we need something to open the doors. Personally, I didn’t pack my crowbar.”

Peter stares at her in awe for a minute. She really did come up with a plan. Several plans. He knows he can help―he doesn’t need a crowbar to part the metal doors―but he can’t just wrench the doors open with his bare hands and act like it’s no big deal. He’ll need an explanation, which can’t be the truth. Revealing himself at the Bugle? To a Bugle reporter? Seems like the worst possible scenario. He doesn’t think Michelle is anything like Jameson in her motivations or basic moral compass (fine, he doesn’t know her, but that’s the sense he gets), and yet, she works for him. It’s her job to give him something fresh, something captivating, and he’s just not sure that her fascination with Spider-Man would be enough to make her want to spare Peter Parker the nightmare of his identity being splashed across Monday’s front page.

“Me neither.”

“This isn’t sustainable,” she mutters. He looks at her with concern. Louder, she adds, “If I get restless enough to climb through the ceiling, promise you won’t look up my skirt when I ask you to give me a boost.”

“Promise.”

Michelle assesses his face and he tries to appear his most transparent and trustworthy. Gradually, her eyes move away from his, but he’s still watching her and sees her stare at his throat, then his chest, and down. Whoa, Peter tells himself. Not a good idea. This woman might be a little hung up on Spider-Man, maybe even has a crush, but you and him are two different people.

Meanwhile, on the recording: …switch it off for him, holding the voice recorder up so he can clearly see that I’ve done it. ‘There,’ I say, ‘no one’s listening now. It’s just you and I.’ ‘So I’m supposed to feel closer to you without it?’ Spider-Man asks. ‘Don’t you?’ is what I want to know.

“Screw it,” Michelle decides a minute later, standing up straight. “I’m getting us out of here. Can you pick me up?”

Peter drops his messenger bag in an instant.

“Yep.”

He watches while she kicks off her black patent high heels (maybe picturing her pressing one of those bad boys into his chest), then they both tip their heads back and examine the ceiling panels.

“Front corner, maybe?” she suggests. “Just so I’m as close as possible to where the doors will hopefully be and I don’t have to wobble around up there in the elevator shaft.”

“Sure,” Peter agrees.

They cross to the appropriate corner and he bends his knees, locking his fingers to offer her a step. She grabs his shoulder for balance and lifts her foot, about to place it in his braced hands, then pauses.

“I’m Michelle, by the way.”

“Peter.”

“I know.”

He’s baffled and flushed as they shake hands, but he can’t dwell on it because her fingers are digging into his shoulder right before she presses her foot into his swiftly repositioned hands and hops up. She gives a small shriek as her body wavers before steadying herself with her palms against the ceiling. Peter drops his gaze. He can tell by her knees that she’s crouching slightly and he’s not glancing any higher than that. Her skirt falls to just below her knees and, as they lean into each other to keep her up, he ends up with her thigh pressed against the side of his face, the black fabric of that skirt under his cheek.

“You got me, right?”

“Right,” he says, careful not to ramble and divulge how little effort bearing her weight requires.

“Ok, I’m going to try to get a grip on this panel and slide it open.”

“Sounds good.”

Peter is looking straight across at the wall. He is not looking higher than her knees. He has no thoughts about the scent of her skirt and no theories on whether the lavender comes from her fabric softener or lotion that he’s also not imagining her rubbing into her skin before she got dressed for work this morning. She sways in his grip and he braces his arms more firmly, unable to do anything about her leg against his face. Michelle grunts and her body heaves as he hears her shift the ceiling panel. Her toes curl around his fingers. He exhales in relief; if she can figure this out without him needing to call on his super-strength, awesome. She goes home with a sense of accomplishment and he goes home maintaining his secret identity.

“Ok,” she calls down. “It’s open. Lift me higher.”

“Higher,” Peter mumbles to himself. Then, to her, “Uh, I might have to, um, hold your legs. But I won’t look at anything, I swear.”

“I’ve trusted you this far.”

Her voice is wry and he chuckles.

“Ready?”

“As I’ll ever be,” Michelle says.

With a bounce of his shoulders, he hoists her up. For a minute, he keeps hold of her foot, but then one of his hands clutches the back of her calf while the other cups her heel. Her weight pulls away from him as she hauls herself up through the ceiling.

“Is there a door?” he asks.

“It’s dark… Can you get my phone? It’s right inside my bag.”

“Ok, hang on. Literally,” Peter adds.

“Ha ha,” Michelle responds dryly, but when he gently releases his grip on her, he finds that she’s able to hold herself in place with her elbows. Her legs dangle and he hurries.

Their conversation and the rush of the action they just took concentrated his senses. Unfortunately, he’s now holding her work bag open and the sounds from her voice recorder are pouring out louder than ever. Still too quiet for her though, at this distance.

‘…didn’t think a suit that tight could hide much, but I’m still pleasantly surprised.’ ‘What, this?’ Spider-Man teases. I abandon my coffee cup and push my reading glasses up into my hair as I set my notes aside to lean in. He might as well have a web stuck to my chest. His awareness of his own physicality is evidently as precise afterhours as it is while he’s on duty because he skims a hand down his abdomen, appearing to almost accidentally hook his thumb in the band of his boxers. ‘You want the real scoop?’ he asks me, prying the elastic away from his skin provocatively. The taste of coffee is still thick and rich in my mouth when I encourage him: ‘Go on, Spidey. Don’t stop there…’

Peter almost drops the bag.

“Did you find it?”

“Yeah! Yes. Mhmm, I’ve got it.”

He returns to Michelle and wraps one arm around her legs. With his other hand, he lifts the phone towards her. Her fingers clasp his, then locate the phone and take it from his grip. He holds still while she turns on her flashlight and has a look around. So, Michelle doesn’t have a little crush on Spider-Man. She’s hot for Spider-Man. Which means she’s hot for Peter, in a way. Except not, he reminds himself, because you’re just her silent co-worker. You’re never going to―

“FUCK!”

“What? No. What? What is it?”

“The next door’s way too high,” she says. “We must be almost lined up with one.” She taps him on the head with her phone and he slips it into his pocket for safekeeping as he prepares to help her down.

“We’ll find another way.” Will you? he asks himself.

“Quick question.”

“Uh huh?”

“How do I do this?”

He’s holding most of her weight now and, pressing a hand to flatten her skirt against her leg, chances a peek up at Michelle. Her head’s still through the ceiling, arms still braced over the open panel. What would definitely work would be her just letting go and him catching her in his arms, but maybe that’s too much faith for her to put in a random guy from work. Although he’s capable of lifting her, catching her falling body is a completely different thing. As with their escape in general, they don’t have a ton of options.

“Just let go slowly,” Peter coaches. “I’ll adjust how I’m holding you and you can sort of slide down my body.” The awkwardness in his tone garbles the last part.

“I can what?”

Dammit. She’s waiting to come down. He clears his throat.

“Uh, slide down my body?”

Her anxious laugh disappears into the elevator shaft.

“What the hell have you gotten yourself into?” he hears her hiss to herself. To him, “Yeah, ok. I’m coming down now.”

“I have you.”

Peter’s counting on the giddiness of being returned to the ground from a height to distract her from the too-skillful way he maneuvers his hands on her. Making sure her skirt never gets rucked up, not placing his hands anywhere truly unforgiveable. He holds her hips, not her ass, and turns his head so his face doesn’t wind up in her crotch. He’s really gentleman-ing his butt off when the recording in her bag calls out, ‘Harder, Spider-Man!’

His hands slip. A second ago, his head was level with her stomach and now his face is buried in her chest, the cup of her bra pressing back against his temple. Immediately, Peter tilts back from his shoulders.

“Sorry, I’m so sorry―”

“I’m ok, I’m good,” Michelle protests as they wriggle together to set her down. He forces her phone back into her hand.

“Your skirt was slippery…”

“I know. You did great, Peter, seriously.”

“…and I heard…”

He shuts his mouth fast, but her flustered expression dissipates as her probing gaze finds his eyes.

“What did you hear?”

Peter pushes at his sleeves and refuses to answer. Her powers of deduction don’t rely on him at all. She whirls to her bag, crouching and dropping her phone in to extract the voice recorder instead. Holding it to her ear in investigation, Michelle probably hears the words By the time he has me on all fours, I can tell that Spider-Man’s on board with my remark on the importance of letting someone be close to him at the same volume he does standing three feet away. He’s basically plastered himself to the opposite wall. She looks about as mortified as he figures he’d feel if he made a recording of a very personal fantasy and someone listened to it. Man, should he have just told her at the beginning? There didn’t seem to be a way to handle it well.

Michelle stops the playback and puts the recorder away. The elevator is abruptly quiet without the whisper of her voice. All the while, Peter’s staring at her, seeing what she’ll do. The most probable conclusion for her to come to is that he heard a single sound, a blip, and has no clue what the recording contained. The way she stands, leaving her bag on the floor, seems to confirm this. But she doesn’t look over at him.

With a sigh, he decides to do what Spider-Man would do and put the person in need first. What Michelle Jones needs from him is a way out of this embarrassment, and this elevator. Peter walks to the doors and stamps his hands to the metal. First, a little compression to get a good grip and then… Scrunching his face with the effort, he puts his back into it, forcing the doors apart. Next, he does the same thing to the outer doors, separating them to reveal a darkened hallway. The floor’s about three feet higher than where he’s standing inside the elevator, but that’s nothing for someone to scramble through and head for the stairs.

He steps away to let her go first. She doesn’t move.

“Should we talk about that?” Michelle asks, pointing at the doors, after what has to be a full minute of her studying him.

“I… work out? A lot. I work out a lot,” Peter says with more conviction on every try.

“And about this?” She grabs her recorder and waves it at him.

“You… use that to, uh, keep track of your ideas.”

She steps up to him and, without dropping her gaze from his face, reaches out to touch his wrist. Her fingers move from tracing his skin to ringing his web-shooter. He wears them to work pretty often, but always covers them with the cuffs of his shirt. Which he rolled up. Because he thought he was alone. There’s no reason for her to know what they’re for though, right? They could be medical alert bracelets, or just jewellery. It’s not like they’re branded with ‘Spider-Man’s Web-Shooter, 1 of 2.’

“You wanna talk about these?”

Peter opts out of replying.

“I know what they are,” she says. “What they’re for. I’ve researched you, looked at a lot of video footage and photographs, many of which I think you took, which seems equal parts fucked-up and brilliant. I noticed them right after we got stuck.”

“I have… a severe peanut butter allergy,” he says unconvincingly.

“Bummer,” Michelle shoots back, unsympathetic. Yeah, it was a terrible lie, but he’s gotta at least be able to say he tried to deny her accusations.

“It is, it is a bummer,” Peter agrees, nodding. He licks his dry lips to wet them. “Sometimes, I have such a craving for a PB and J and I can’t―”

She leans in and gives him a quick kiss.

“I’m… confused,” he admits.

“I know who you are,” she begins. “You don’t have to say it out loud, on the off chance somebody really has bugged this piece of shit elevator, but your severe peanut butter allergy bracelets, in combination with how you opened those doors, are pretty good evidence when compared with my research. So, if I take my supposition as fact―”

“Peanut butter…”

“Save it. If you are who I strongly believe you to be, then you were able to hear god knows what on that recording. Which I am an idiot for forgetting to erase or record over. Meant to do it last night… ugh, anyway. The important thing is that you heard it and you didn’t bolt through those doors the second you got them open. Why.”

When Michelle’s on a roll, he learns, her questions come out as demands. He quits trying to sneakily unfold his cuffs in a way-too-last-ditch attempt at concealing the truth.

“Ladies first?” he tries.

“I’m not going to use what I know. I promise you that. You’re a good person and as far as I’m concerned, your secret’s your secret. You do a hell of a lot more for this city than Jameson does with the trash he prints, my own contributions obviously excluded. Now I’m the only one held over a barrel here, Peter. You heard what you heard. Tell me why you stayed.”

“You needed me.”

“After you got the doors open.”

Peter thinks. Not just about whether or not to speak, but if he’s ready to say what he’s about to say.

“I needed you. It’s like what you said in the story―I mean, the recording. I don’t let many people get close to me.”

“Why would you let me be one of those people? It took being stuck together before we even had our first conversation.”

“A good feeling, I guess,” he explains. “Plus, you’re kinda my dream girl and I just found out that, at least on the physical side of things, you’re really into me. Like, really into me.”

“You can shut up about that now,” Michelle says.

“Why? You didn’t. You had so much to say.”

“Hmm, maybe I like Spi- I mean, that guy better when I’m speaking for him. Fortunately for you,” she says smugly, “I’ve thought Peter Parker the photographer was cute since the day I started working here.”

“That is news to me.”

Michelle wraps her arms around his neck, smirking as she leans her body against his.

“I was getting around to telling you. Are you surprised?”

“It’s a real scoop,” Peter acknowledges as his hands feel out the lithe shape of her back through her blouse.

“Oh my god, you heard that part? That part? How could―”

He more or less molds his mouth to hers. She more or less gives him a tour of her Brooklyn apartment before they spend the night in bed together and rise to a hot cup of coffee.

more clichéd tropes and prompts

[writeforcarat]

Home [Part 1]

—Cat Shelter Volunteer!Wonwoo × Reader

—Fluff

A light drizzle specked the hot grey pavement before turning into a summer downpour.

It was almost noon on a Monday and you hit the brakes of your bicycle near a subway exit, where a sea of commuters had started emerging, pulling out their umbrellas, cursing at how the rain had just put a damper on their already busy day.

You, too, had a packed schedule ahead. It was your second week working as a part-time English teacher at an academy. And while tutorial classes were held in the afternoon, instructors were expected to arrive before lunchtime—an unwritten rule you had managed to comply with up until now.  

In a hurry, you slipped into a raincoat (thank goodness, you packed one), and checked the time. You had about 20 minutes to get to the school, which wasn’t that bad. If you could just speed up a bit, you’d make it on time.

You hadn’t gone that far yet when you heard it—an excruciating yowl that only got louder as you approached the end of the street. Curious and a bit alarmed, you came to a stop, got off your bike, and brought your ears closer towards a patch of bushes, where the sound seemed to be coming from.

Another cry pierced through the humid air, and you instinctively took a step back.

Taking a peek through the bushes, you found a spotted white and grey cat—drenched, soiled, and cold—your gaze meeting its feline eyes that were veiled with agony. The poor creature tried to stand up, only to fall back down on the wet ground. That was when you noticed that it had a limp and wounded leg.

You felt a pang in your heart. You had always had a soft spot for animals, especially cats, and this was a situation you couldn’t simply ignore. A cat needs help. Your help… but you were also running late. Sighing in resignation, you shrugged off the thoughts about work (maybe, they’d understand) and scooped the cat into your arms.

“You will be fine,” you whispered to it. “I’m here.”

Somewhat comforted, the cat purred in response, and you repeated reassuringly, “I’m here.”

Shifting its weight to your left arm, you tugged your bike with your free hand and walked towards the shed of a bus stop nearby. Thankfully, the sky was starting to clear up again and the rain was nothing more than a light shower. You sat down on the cold steel seat so you could let the cat rest on your lap.

Think. You said to yourself before resolving to text your supervisor to inform her about your “emergency.” You didn’t go far into detail, really. That you would explain only if worse comes to worst later. You then started searching for cat shelters nearby. Multiple results returned, with the closest one about eleven blocks away.

Chimes pleasantly rang, as you opened the door of Happy Cat Shelter and Veterinary Clinic. The cold air from the AC sent a chill that crawled on your skin, which the cat probably felt, too, since it snuggled closer to your chest.

“H-hello?” You called out, a tremble caught in your throat.

“Welcome to Happy Cat!” You heard someone respond from the inside; his voice deep yet friendly. A crashing sound reverberated through the walls of the office. “Be there in a sec!”

The shelter was not exactly big, but it wasn’t small either. From where you were standing at the receiving area, you could see cats crawling and prancing about in their playroom, and to your right, you eyed the door of the clinic with a sign that said the doctor was out, making worry flood through you. The next closest shelter with a vet was much farther away, and you couldn’t afford to take another side trip.

You glanced down at the cat. It was so exhausted; its sleepy eyes had fluttered shut.

A door swung open, and you looked up with a start. A lanky bespectacled boy clad in a black shirt came walking towards you, wiping his hands on his jeans. “I’m sorry about that,” he apologised before letting out a gasp, as you and the cat became clearer to his sight. “Oh my God.”

You realised that you were still dripping wet, a puddle surrounding your feet, locks of your wet hair matted on the sides of your face. Of course, your makeup was messed up, too. Shit. You were not a pretty sight, nor was the injured cat in your arms. You lowered your head in embarrassment.

“Please, don’t move. You might slip,” the boy said concernedly before you could even utter a word, his hand gesturing for you to stay put. “I’ll go get towels.”

Wonwoo wasn’t having an easy Monday. He wasn’t supposed to be working, but two of his co-volunteers called in sick, and the shelter’s manager, who was on vacation, begged him to cover for their shifts.

Not that he didn’t want to come in for duty, it was just that he had previously asked for a few days’ off, as he had to work on an important project before the summer break began. It didn’t help that the cats were also being extra temperamental and extra energetic, thrashing about the place with much vigour.

So when he saw you standing at the door—drenched and in distress—he knew that his day wasn’t about to get easier. Nevertheless, it had always been in him give help to anybody who needed it—be it a person or a cat. In this case, both.

The bespectacled boy returned shortly with a rag, which he dropped to the floor to absorb the small pool of water around your feet, and, as promised, soft and clean towels. He handed out one to you, and as you accepted it with a “thanks,” he carefully took the cat into his arms with another towel, whispering soothing words to it.

“I saw her on the street,” you said, wiping yourself dry with the towel. “I was actually on my way to work, but I couldn’t leave her. She’s wounded and injured.”

“I can see that,” he said, intently examining the cat in his arms. “Thank you for bringing her here,” he glanced up at you.

Now that he was standing closer, you finally had a better view of his face, and, God, he’s handsome. With his dark fringes falling just below his eyebrows, you instantly noticed his stunning eyes that showed both sincerity and softness as he looked at you.

You’d be lying if you said that the sight of him carrying the poor cat you’d just rescued didn’t make your heart melt a little.  

A bit flustered, you turned towards the direction of the clinic and said, “I’m not sure to what extent you can help, but, please, keep her safe until the vet arrives.”

“Of course,” he said almost instantly. “The vet won’t be here until after lunch, but I will give him a call, since this kitty needs to be treated.”

“Thanks,”

An awkward pause engulfed the room, and you realised that you hadn’t even introduced yourselves to each other yet.

“I’m Y/N,” you said just about the same time he told you that his name was Wonwoo. Both of you let out a sheepish laugh.

“Nice to meet you, Y/N,” he said, diffusing the tension. “Let me bring her inside first. I’ll be right back,”

“Erm, I should get going,” you said matter-of-factly, motioning towards the door.

“Hang on,” Wonwoo snapped, “I know you’re in a hurry, but we have protocols here. There’s some paperwork to be dealt with before we officially take in any cat.”

“Right,” you bit your lower lip, starting to worry more about work at that point. “I understand, but I am running really late right now.”

Having thought of a quick solution, Wonwoo shifted the cat’s weight to one arm, then swiped a clipboard and a sheet of paper from the reception desk with his other hand and suggested, “Perhaps, you could, at least, give us your contact details and bring this drop-off form to fill out and submit later. We don’t usually do this, but I’ll try to explain the situation to my boss. I’ll call or text you if anything turns up. Would that be alright?”

“Yeah, sure,” you nodded, taking the clipboard and form, grateful that he was being considerate enough. You quickly wrote down your name, mobile number, and email address on the contact list on the clipboard, and handed it back to Wonwoo. “Here you go.”

“Thank you, Y/N,” he said, and reminded you to come back with the drop-off form filled out before you left.

A wave of relief washed over you, seeing how your co-workers didn’t seem to notice your absence earlier when you arrived at the academy about 30 minutes later. They said hello like they usually did, as you walked into the teachers’ office; some were even offering you lunch food. Your supervisor was also nice enough to ask if you were okay and give you a clean shirt to change into.

Your classes ran smoothly that afternoon. The gradeschoolers enjoyed the vocabulary exercises you had prepared for them. They surprisingly expressed much excitement about their pop quiz, too, when you said that top scorers will get a choco pie each.

As you were packing your things, looking forward to calling it a day, your phone buzzed, an SMS popping up on the screen. Although it came from an unknown number, you already knew who it was from. You tapped on the notification to read the entire message.

“Hi, Y/N! Kitty’s okay now. No need to worry anymore. Just don’t forget to sign the form and bring it to the shelter. You can drop by tomorrow. We’ve also got some good news.  -Wonwoo”

The message tugged the corners of your lips upwards into a smile. For some reason, receiving that text made you feel so much better after a long day.

“Hey, look at that beautiful smile,” your co-instructor quipped, as she walked by.

You looked up from your phone, still beaming. “What?”

“Did your boyfriend text you? I haven’t seen you smile like that before.”

Your eyes widened and your lips parted, as though to say something, but not a word came out. Your co-instructor chuckled at your expression. “You’re adorable. See you tomorrow!”

“See you,” you said, happily thinking about what tomorrow will actually bring. [PART 2]

Thanks for reading until here! I didn’t actually intend for this story to get this long, but I guess I got too carried away with writing it. Anyhow, if you enjoyed this scenario, hit like or reblog and please do look forward to the continuation of the story.

My Q&A is also open to requests. Don’t hesitate to drop some prompts or suggestions, and I’ll see what I can do!

[supernaturalfreewill]

Your name: submit What is this?

Words: 3,557 Demon!Dean x Reader Warnings: swearing? always. A/N: THAT'S RIGHT IT'S FINALLY HEEEERE! This is the third part of a mini-series! Read Part 1 and 2 first!

Dean was leaning his elbows on the worn and scratched bar, a double of something in a glass with melting ice, yet untouched, sitting in front of him. Vastly unlike his usual bouts of karaoke and boisterous laughter, he was silent and brooding. His face was covered by a shadow that had nothing to do with the dim, recessed lighting.

After Crowley had made himself scarce, Dean had rushed to get as far away from that shell of you as he could. He wondered now if he should have stayed. What would Crowley have his minions do with (he hesitated on the next word) you? Would they burn you? Surely not… They would want every chance to bring you back if they could—if Crowley could still use you as a pawn he would. Dean wouldn’t put it past Crowley to try to have some other demon use your body as a meatsuit, maybe even pretend to be you. The idea sickened and infuriated him. Or, Dean wasn’t sure if this was worse, the thought of you rotting in a hole somewhere. Or in some makeshift morgue in hell… frozen like just anybody on a steel slab.

He slammed down his drink and raised a finger to the bartender to ask for another. Why was he tied up in knots about this? He was a fucking demon! He nearly shook his his head, as if that would shake out the thoughts of you… but what was this thick, heavy brick in his chest?

Just as his glass was being refilled, two demons he didn’t know sidled in through the door. Dean was immediately aware of them, like a sixth sense, but they didn’t seem to take any note of him sitting like a loner at the empty bar counter as they made their way to a nearby table.

This bar was home for many misfits and representatives of the seedier side of Chicago’s underbelly—human and non-human, both an underworld meeting place and parting of ways. It wasn’t uncommon for other demons to spend time there, which is part of the reason Dean had chosen it, and it looked like he was in luck. He was hoping to overhear news without having to lower himself to contacting Crowley—or worse… Sam and Cas.

Relieved that they hadn’t yet detected him, Dean hung his head. He realized that any one who was on the lookout for him probably was used to him announcing himself with drunken antics and Jimmy Buffet karaoke. No one was looking for him as the solemn nobody at the bar, keeping a hangover at bay with more than a little hair of the dog, quietly and solitarily.

Fortunately, the two demons took a couple of stools at the end of the bar. They were close enough that Dean would be able to overhear, but not close enough that he needed to be worried about being discovered. Still, he turned his shirt collar up and hung his head lower, blocking the bottom half of his face with his glass.

”It’s not as if it’s our fault,” began minion #1. He was clearly worked up and had a twitchy kind of nervous energy, apparently as a result of some distress. “We aren’t the ones that—you know… Somehow it always falls down on us little guys! We’re just average joes! We just follow orders!”

The second demon was much calmer and ordered two drinks before responding. “That isn’t the point. It’s not about it being our fault… Anyway, it doesn’t matter. If what I’ve been hearing is true, none of our allegiance to the King or anyone or anything else will matter. I’ve been in contact with some of my old, old allies. They’ve been hearing some whispering over the deep waves that Crowley may have made a miscalculation.”

The first demon stopped dead in the middle of a sip. “What do you mean? Miscalculation?” He glanced around the bar, apparently nervous, and Dean took that moment to take a deep drink. “…about Winchester?” the demon whispered.

Now Dean was on high alert.

”Mmm,” the second demon shook her head through a sip. “No. About the one he tried to turn.”

The first demon leaned in ever closer. “So… so what? It worked? She’s a demon now?”

The woman demon laughed. “Maybe.”

”Well, what?” The first demon’s voice was somewhat demanding now, clearly sick of his friend playing coy with her information.

”You know how we collect souls? Well, the whole reason behind it is the amount of concentrated power contained in just one human soul...” She gave her a friend a conspiratorial look, seemingly waiting for him to work out the rest of what she was saying. When he didn’t seem to understand, and only stared intensely, she scoffed and finally continued. “Think about it. Y/N still had an entirely human soul in her body when Crowley tried to turn her. If it did work, and I have reasons to believe that it did, there is going to be a demon powered by a supercharged nuclear reactor walking around.”

”Holy shit,” remarked the first demon. His friend scoffed and rolled her eyes.

”Y/N could be the next big thing. Bigger than Crowley, bigger than the Knights of Hell, bigger than Lucifer.”

Eyes wide, there was only one final question asked. “Well, what does that mean… for all of us?”

”Hell if I know. Nobody knows which way this is gonna swing. But me? I’m getting the hell out of here. If you’re smart, you will too.”

When next the two of them glanced around, all that was left of the loner sharing the bar with them was an empty glass the door swinging closed behind him.

_ _ _ _ _ _

”We should stop,” Cas said. He kept his eyes straight ahead, staring through the windshield.

”Why?” Sam asked, doing the same.

”You haven’t eaten today,” Cas replied.

”I’m not hungry.”

”Humans need food, Sam. You need to eat.” He finally turned his piercingly blue eyes over to Sam behind the wheel. “You also haven’t slept in two days.”

”So what?” Sam said. “We’ve got bigger things happening here.”

”Sam…” Cas’s tone was stern and elicited a sigh from Sam.

”Every time we stop, we just waste time and fall farther behind.”

”We won’t be any use to Y/N or Dean with you in a weakened, sleep-deprived, starved condition. Besides,” he said, smoothing his hands down his coat, “we have little to go on right now.”

”Little isn’t nothing,” Sam contradicted, but he put on his turn signal before the next exit and followed the curve off the main highway.

Cas said nothing as Sam brought the car to rest in a parking space by the motel office. “I’ll get a room, order a pizza, and sleep for a few hours. Then we hit the road again, okay?” Cas nodded.

Sam threw his duffle bag down on one of the beds. “What are you going to do?” he asked Cas. “You know I can’t sleep if you’re just going to be sitting in here.” There was exhaustion in Sam’s voice, and Cas was relieved he had managed to convince him to take some food and sleep.

”I have some places I could go to try and find some information. Nothing dangerous,” he added in response to the look on Sam’s face.

”Alright… well, don’t let me sleep past six am.” Cas only nodded.

When Sam turned around after placing his order for a pizza over the phone the angel was gone. He placed his pistol and demon knife on the nightstand and salted all the windows. The door would have to wait until his food arrived.

Later that night, Sam fell asleep in a slumped pile against the headboard, sleeping with the hilt of the demon knife in his hands.

He was startled awake by the once familiar sound of his cell phone ringing… It had been so long since he had even ventured out of the bunker that it now sounded foreign and unexpected. Nobody called him anymore… Not since—Sam shook himself awake and dove into his bag to dig it out. He was hoping that your name would be flashing on the screen, but he was disappointed.

”Hello?”

”Sam?”

Sam rubbed a hand over his face. “Yeah. Yeah, who is this?”

”It’s Everett.”

Everett Hanson was a hunter from Washington state that Sam and Dean used to keep in touch with on a regular basis. They’d helped him with some jobs, and he had returned the favor. He was a good man and a good hunter, but the call was perplexing. Everyone in the hunting community knew about Dean… and everyone had left Sam well alone after their initial calls trying to get through to him, trying to offer help, went unanswered for months. Eventually the phone had just stopped ringing. They’d all started to just call Y/N on occasion instead. “Hey—yeah, hey. Sorry. Didn’t recognize your voice at first,” Sam said.

”Well, it’s been a while…” he replied. There was a stretch of thick silence and Sam felt that familiar sickening sensation rising in his stomach.

”Yeah… yeah. Sorry. I just woke up so I’m a little out of it. Umm, what’s up?” Sam asked.

”I was sorta hoping that you could tell me that,” Everett said with a laugh. “You haven’t been hunting up my way lately, have you?”

”No. No, I’m, uhh, about twenty-five hundred miles away actually,” he said with a dry laugh. “Why?”

There was a sigh on the other end of the phone. “It’s the damndest thing. I’ve been tracking a few things around here. I’ve had a werewolf in the works for about a month and a suspected nest of vamps I’ve been keeping an eye on. All of the sudden, gone.”

Sam stopped in the middle of his pacing toward the table where he had a notebook laying out. “What do you mean ‘gone’?”

”I mean gone. I found the werewolf dead in the national forest, body full of silver. I went to do some more surveillance on the vampires and after a whole night of no activity I went up to the house, peaked in through the window. Blood and decapitated vamps everywhere. I’m telling you, Sam. I walked through that whole house… I have no idea what went down in there, but a couple spots looked like something had been vaporized.”

”Vaporized?”

”Just solid uniform blood spray on every damn wall, like a red mist. Maybe it was a hunter, but I don’t know anything about anything that can vaporize vampires. Does that mean anything to you?”

Sam was scribbling notes in his notebook as fast as he could. “Not off the top of my head. Maybe another rival group came in, nest on nest action?” Sam offered.

”I’ve seen that before. Those scenes are usually a total mess,” Everett said. “Nothing but chaos when you have two groups of vamps fighting. There was blood everywhere, but somehow this was clean, methodical. And I didn’t see any bodies I didn’t recognize. All those dead vamps, at least that I found in that house in identifiable pieces, were the same ones I’ve been watching.”

”Right,” Sam said, rubbing another hand over his face.

”And what about the werewolf?” Everett asked. “I’ve been in this job long enough… I don’t believe in coincidences. And there’s one more thing…” Sam waited for him to continue. “We’ve had a couple homicides in Seattle lately that have raised an eyebrow or two.”

”How so?”

”No sign of forced entry, everything locked up from the inside. Every one of the victims was a suspect in some real nasty crimes—murder, rape, kidnapping, that type of thing.”

”Huh. Sounds like you’ve got a vigilante running around in Seattle,” Sam said.

”That’s not the weirdest part… every one of them was killed in the way their suspected victims were tortured or killed. And for a few of those cases, that information wasn’t even public knowledge.”

Sam’s head was spinning. “So--so, you’ve got someone murdering suspected bad guys and someone taking out our kind of bad…”

”Yeah… I thought I’d call you because, uhh, you know. It could be a hunter or somethin’ and you and—you’re the best out there.” Sam knew he had stopped himself from mentioning Dean.

Sam said it for him. “Or Dean.”

There was a pause on the other end. “Yeah, I thought of—I thought of that. What do you think?”

Sam sighed into the phone. “I don’t know. Maybe. But from the little bit I’ve heard he doesn’t seem to be much concerned with anything as a demon, let alone hunting down humans for justice killings…”

”Hmm. Well, keep it on your radar. I think something funny is going on here.”

”Yeah. Will do. Hey, thanks for the call,” Sam said.

”I’ll keep you updated if I figure anything out,” Everett said. “You take care of yourself, Sam.” Sam could hear the concern and pity in his voice, and he tried to ignore it.

”You too. And hey, Everett?”

”Yeah?”

”It was good to hear from you. Stay safe out there.”

”You too.”

Just as Sam ended the call, he heard the rustling of Cas’s wings behind him. “Cas? Where have you been? It’s 10 o’clock.”

”I know,” Cas said.

”You were supposed to wake me up at six,” Sam said.

”I know,” Cas repeated, clearly unconcerned. “But you needed to rest.” He looked at the cell phone in Sam’s hand and his eyes narrowed. “You had a call?”

”Huh? Oh. Yeah. Everett Hanson, out in Washington. He’s had some weird stuff happening out by him. Wanted to know if I had any ideas.”

”What exactly has been going on?” Cas’s expression was now intense, and Sam thought he could read more meaning behind it than the simple question. He quickly explained the monsters, both human and non-human, disappearing and the more he talked the darker the shadow on Cas’s face became. “So, what do you think?”

Cas paced the length of the room away from Sam, hands in the pockets of his trench coat. When he turned back to face Sam, his face was even darker.

”Cas?” Sam prodded.

”You remember when I said something it felt as though something had shifted, that there was some sort of change in energy or power?” Sam nodded at the angel. “A suspicion has been growing in my mind and while you slept I did what I could to gather information from some secure and friendly sources.” Cas hesitated. He seemed concerned about how Sam was going to react.

”And?” Sam urged, taking a few steps toward the angel. “Is it Dean?”

Cas shook his head. “No… I believe it’s Y/N.”

_ _ _ _ _ _

Dean was seated on the end of the bed, sinking into the fluffy down comforter, kicking his boots off and eyeing the room service menu. A rhythmic buzzing distracted him from his debate about whether he should order two or three bottles of Blue Label and he caught sight of his phone buzzing on the nightstand, the glowing blue screen casting a faint glow in the dim room.

Perplexed, Dean grabbed it and eagerly looked at the incoming number: blocked. Strange. This was a brand new and completely clean phone. He’d stolen it on his way out of Chicago simply to have in case he decided he needed to make a call out. He hadn’t expected anyone to be calling in. Curiosity got the best of him, though he figured he would probably just be annoyed to hear Crowley’s douche-y accent on the other end of the line, and he answered.

”Hello?”

He was met with only silence, but he let it stretch, straining to hear anything on the other end.

Finally, at length, he broke it. “Hello?” This time he spoke a little more demandingly.

Still complete silence. Nothing. He could hear nothing but his own breathing. But Dean could feel that someone was on the other end. And he could also feel that he was being toyed with.

”Crowley?!” Dean roared, but he was still met with nothing more than a little hushed white noise. “How did you get this number?” He didn’t like feeling challenged, or played with. He was a fucking demon! “Answer me!” Dean roared.

Click. The call had disconnected. Dean looked angrily down at the phone in his hand, completely perplexed. Stomping across the room he considered the locked screen for only a few seconds before he snapped the phone in half.

Fuming, but also unsure of why he was so angry about just a stupid, probably spam, phone call, Dean wrenched open the fridge and pulled everything out of the mini-bar. Just as he was dumping the contents of the first little bottle in his mouth, the hotel room phone range loud enough he nearly jumped.

He stared hard at the little red light on the phone, burning with every ring. He knew he could just not answer. He could just ignore it.

So he did.

Four rings.

Five rings.

Six rings…

And finally silence.

Dean continued to stare at the phone, waiting with baited breath to see if the light would blink to indicate a message had been left.

There was nothing.

Why was he so on edge? He knew the answer. Of course he did. But he kept reminding himself that he was a fucking demon! Why was it nagging him so much? He couldn’t get that image of you on that slab out of his head.

Dean let out a frustrated yell and smashed his fist down on the little table, sending a splintered crack across the top. And just as he grabbing his next little bottle of liquor and making his way back to the room service menu—that goddamn phone rang again.

This time Dean rushed to the receiver and pressed it to his ear—but he said nothing. And at first there was only silence again. And he waited.

He knew there was someone on the other end. He could feel it. And his heart was racing in his chest.

And finally--

”Hello, Dean.”

Dean was stunned—frozen where he stood—but there was no mistaking it for anyone else. It was your voice on the other end of the line. And still he asked, “Who is this?” His voice deep and quiet, almost a whisper.

There was a light laugh, almost just an exhale. “Don’t kid yourself. You know it’s me.”

And he did. It was undeniably you. He didn’t know what to say. He didn’t what version of you this was. But he had a feeling--“I saw you. You were—“

”Dead?” you interrupted. “I guess not.”

Dean didn’t know where to go next. He felt unbalance. It was obvious that you were the one in control in this situation, and he hated it. ”So, what are you now? You’re a demon?” His voice was almost demanding and you smiled, knowing that you had managed to shake Dean Winchester, not something many could say.

”What do you think?” you countered.

Dean gulped at the tightness that was inexplicably forming in his throat. “I don’t what this is—or if this is even really—“ he hesitated to say your name, “But I’m not playing your games. I have plenty of better things to be doing,” he said.

”That’s too bad,” you said.

Dean hesitated. There was a twinge near the base of his skull, something that just felt… odd. And still he couldn’t just hang up the phone. It was almost out of his control. He needed to hear the next word. And the next. “Why?” he finally asked.

”It’s just a shame. I was just thinking of you. In fact, I’ve been thinking of you since I woke up again.” You waited to see if Dean would say anything more, but he wasn’t sure how to interpret your response. “You don’t want to see me?”

Utter confusion was all consuming now and he actually sighed into the phone. “What the hell is this?” he asked in frustration.

Your tone of voice changed completely when next you spoke. Now it was hard and cold. “Don’t you want to replace that limp, pale, dead version of me you have been carrying around in your head?” you asked.

Dean felt a lurch somewhere between his lungs. “…How did—“ he cleared his throat, angry to find that his voice had betrayed some of his unbalance, “How’d you know that?”

There was that light laugh again, really just your breath in his ear. It made Dean feel like you were standing right behind him, sending the hairs on the back of his neck rising like there was a wave of static electricity behind him. “Because I put it there.”

[automatismoateo]

I Am So Sick of My Christian Family - Need Advice via /r/atheism

Submitted July 24, 2019 at 03:50PM by MemoryMaven91 (Via reddit https://ift.tt/2ZjMXNa) I Am So Sick of My Christian Family - Need Advice

So, I posted this in the wee hours of the morning this morning on r/exchristian, and a friend of mine highly suggested I post this here as well. Any advice is welcomed.

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Today went from being one of the best days I've had in a while to being absolute shit.

Sorry if this is an extremely long post, but right now, this is the only place I feel comfortable getting it all out. TL;DR at the very bottom.

For some background, two years ago, I began dating my now fiancee. He was an atheist, and at the time, I was still a Christian. Now, I decided to keep this a secret from my extremely Christian family because I was going to be moving out in a month, and didn't want to deal with the backlash while living under their roof. They found out, and my brother ended up trapping me at a restaurant an hour away and interrogated me. This is my YOUNGER brother, mind you. After I moved out, I kept a big distance from my family. Over time, he moved in with me (which we kept secret), and through doing our own version of a Bible study, I am now an atheist. Since that time, my mother has tried to trap me and make me feel like shit, and I hardly visit my family.

Now, my sister is getting married in a month (ironically to my fiancee's childhood best friend) and she chose me as her maid of honor. Due to circumstances, I haven't gotten a dress yet, and we had planned to go lingerie shopping for her, so we went today. During the trip, I felt the most confident I've felt in a while (I deal with lots of anxiety that stems from religion). I tried to make her feel comfortable, to let her know that if she has any questions about sex or anything that she can ask me, and just.....tried to be myself. I wanted her to know that she can trust me and talk to me about anything. I felt that the trip had gone well. She didn't say she didn't feel comfortable or give any notion that she wasn't happy with me.....until I got this message about an hour ago. Names have, of course, been changed.

"I just wanted to let you know that I had a nice time together today. <3 Having somebody to shop with for a cute bra and panties was relieving and helpful. It was also a great pleasure to get to help you choose your dress. I do want to be truthful about some things though, there were moments where you'd say things that made me feel a bit...uncomfortable. Things that you'd say that I've never heard you say in my whole life until now. I can't really name specific things (and would kinda rather not to anyway) but like...I just want to remind you of the person I am and have always been. I've remained the same my whole life pretty much. I just can't help but feel that with certain subject matters, you tend to beat around the bush about things. When you ask me certain things and make certain comments, it kinda gives me reason to believe that you're avoiding bringing out particular truths about your way of living (if that makes sense). I want to come and say it though (and you have every right to not say a word or respond) but it's kinda obvious that [fiancee's name] and you live together. That's....really a given. Also....And this is the brutally honest part of me based on things I've heard before today as well as today, but if you and [fiancee's name] have had sex already you should just say so about that as well. [MemoryMaven91], I'm not going to be hurtful to you or be super judgemental towards you about how you live. I have tons upon tons of friends who live the same way who I consider close friends. You and I will always be close. Maybe not in the same kind of way we used to be, but we are sisters and we don't typically hide things from one another. I'm not saying you have to share every single detail with me and you're not required to, it's your life. But I will say that if you're going to talk about certain things around me or our family while trying to not let certain things slip out, you'll want to be much more careful about what you say if you don't want us to suspect things that you might be doing that would cause concern to us or something you for some reason believe we'd be hateful towards you for (which wouldn't be the truth about us). I will say that the reason anybody tends to hide things like that would be because of shame/conviction they feel. I know cause I've done the same in my life. Growing up in the Truth, we both know that it's wrong but we don't want to always face conviction head on. And you tend to be non-confrontational about these things. I bring these things to the table because 1.) I love you and care about you deeply. 2.) You've made these things suspectable on your own, not being careful enough in choosing your words. 3.) I'm not as oblivious to things as I may seem and it's the same for the rest of our family. 4.) I'm not afraid to be honest with you. I will call you out because I love you and because I can see you have become more and more like [fiancee's name] since you've been with him. You sound and act more like him every time I see you. He's become an idol in your life and that's not healthy."

.......I cried. I cried so hard. I haven't tried to hide things for a while now. But I also haven't just come right out and said it either, because that would just make things even more tense. I've tried to normalize my life with how I speak, so hopefully, they'd just get used to it. Non-confrontational? I spent six hours with her today, and she didn't say a single bit of any of this to me in person. And this isn't the first time she's sent me a message like this after spending time with her.

I'm so hurt, and don't know what to do anymore. I don't want to hate my family. My family was all I had growing up as a pastor's kid, and the thought of losing my family hurts so much. But every time something like this happens, my anxiety spikes, I feel completely shitty about myself, and I'm at a loss for words. I know I should message her back......but what good would it do? She'd just see it as a confession of "guilt" or "conviction", but it's not any of those things. I'm hurt that she uses words like "I won't judge you" but at the same time treats me like I'm the worst human being to exist because I'm living my life in a way that makes me happy. Having a healthy relationship with my fiancee in all aspects, living together, and experiencing the one life we have on this earth together. She preaches acceptance of people but not actions. She speaks of not judging while judging.

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TL;DR: My family makes me feel like shit for just being myself, and preaches acceptance while judging me constantly.