#also the number of middle aged men facing the horrors seems like it would appeal to u specifically

[birdiesbirdies]

:3c do you have any book refs for the new year???

Do I!!

So there’s this book by Mark Z. Danielewski with a companion album (Haunted) written by his sister (Poe) about an essay written by a weird blind old man (Zampanò) (deceased under mysterious circumstances) on the visual stylings and storytelling techniques of a documentary that doesn’t exist (The Navidson Record)about a fucked up house that was found by the world’s most mentally ill guy (ily Johnny Truant…) and ull never guess what happens to him next…

[forasecondtherewedwon]

The Stripping Point

Pairing: Peter Parker x Michelle Jones (Spideychelle) Rating: E (explicit sexual content) Word count: 6387

Happy Birthday, @spiderman-homecomeme​!

Summary: Peter's ready to turn his new hobby into a profitable sideline. Unfortunately, he writes down his very first client's address incorrectly and shows up at the wrong house.

MJ opens the door to find some guy dressed as Spider-Man and decides the best way to mess with him is to let him stay. Almost immediately, she loses the upper hand.

Quarantine puts people out of work. A lotta people at first, then less, but never Peter. He keeps shooting for the Bugle, lugging his camera all over the city (instead of squeezing onto buses and subway cars that never really get that much less crowded) while he breathes heavily through his mask. He only takes pictures at outdoor spaces to try to avoid both crowds and loners who hassle him for taking preventative measures during the pandemic. They’re stressed, he gets that, but Peter doesn’t wanna be anywhere near conflict. Spider-Man, on the other hand… Well, when he puts on that mask, it’s pretty much business as usual. He appreciates his face covering more than ever and, hey, it’s cool to do a job with social distancing built in.

His gratitude for the web-slinging side-gig only increases as the weeks of pandemic life stretch into months and Jameson starts ordering him back into situations that are just plain stupid from a health perspective. Never mind that he got kinda accidentally stabbed the other week. It’s a totally different set of dangers. Peter resists the new assignments and because Jameson’ll be in deep shit if his number one Spider-Man photographer makes a fuss about working conditions (and because people are getting so desperate for employment that he can pay a new hire even less than Peter’s paltry freelancing rate), the Bugle shells out for another photographer to cover the work Peter won’t do. Good for Peter’s health, bad for Peter’s bank account―which is already whimpering with hunger pangs from sitting near-empty after paying rent. This gets him thinking. It might be time to turn his early-quarantine hobby into his mid-to-late-quarantine money-maker.

Yeah, pandemic hobbies! By April, it seemed to him like everybody was picking something up. Bread-making, yoga, sewing masks for healthcare workers left criminally under-equipped. The hobby Peter picked up, well… it’s a little different. He began practicing it indoors (obviously), by himself, and with skills gained from reading and watching material on the internet. In those ways, it’s a lot like other people’s hobbies. In some other ways, it’s very, very different. Like, instead of putting on specialized clothing like an apron or yoga pants, Peter’s hobby requires taking clothes off. It’s stripping. Peter’s hobby is stripping.

A few things led to him picking that over sourdough or Sun Salutations. Peter loves not only old movies but also old music. Old movies with iconic dance scenes? That’s, like, the perfect combo. He spends a lot of his downtime playing music in his apartment and, when he’s not wiped or injured, dancing along. He figures it’s good for his mood as well as his fitness. Seriously, he can only do so many chin-ups on the metal bar braced in his bathroom doorframe (which is starting to crack). Patrick Swayze’s solo routine from the end of Dirty Dancing is way more fun, even if Peter did tear the knees on a couple pairs of sweatpants because of it. The more music he listened to, the more he started freestyling his own moves in between those of leading men. It was that―trying to create something good of his own―that helped him understand the routines he watched. He figured out the balance between precision and sex appeal and somewhere in there, he realized he was performing for an audience in his head. And what this imaginary audience wanted wasn’t always the goofiness of acting out Risky Business and sliding across the short strip of bare floor between his kitchen and living room in socks, underwear, and a white shirt. Sometimes, the audience wanted him to lose the shirt.

At that point, Peter was once again wandering out of what he knew. He was comfortable with movie dances, had a little of his own repertoire, but he lacked this extra element of storytelling; it was the one that took him from fully dressed down to boxers and socks without tripping and struggling and falling into his meager possessions. That was when he turned to the internet and confronted the fact that he wanted to learn how to strip. If he happened to stumble into related tutorials on how to give a lap dance, who would know? Who was there to judge Peter as he performed for an empty kitchen chair, dragging his hand along the back and body-rolling to buck his hips towards where someone’s face would be? Yeah, it was kinda embarrassing while he was learning, but he had the endurance to try a move over and over until he nailed it, the strength to draw out isolated movements like twitching his hips to keep his butt drawing circles on the lap of his invisible patron, and the overall coordination of, well, Spider-Man. Which ends up being the most important piece of all because, when Peter decides to take his show on the road (or at least out of his tiny apartment), his ‘stage’ name requires about a second of thought. Spider-Man. He’ll go by Spider-Man. He laughs his ass off when he thinks of it. It’s fucking genius! Spider-Man stripping as himself is the last thing anyone would ever suspect!

Naturally, Peter can’t use any of his actual Spidey suits. Those would probably give him away. Also, he’d feel weird about having Karen’s voice in his ear while he flexed his abs next to somebody’s head. Fortunately, after a little digging―which turns into a lot of digging and leaves his room a mess of comingled clean and dirty clothes―he finds his original suit. The zip-up hoodie plus sweatpants one. Yeah, its technological capabilities are basically zero, it’s a little grimy, and too tight, but he doesn’t need it to do anything besides come off. The wear-and-tear will lend genuine-fake authenticity to his character and the snugness around his more developed muscles (it’s been a decade since he wore it last) will make it… sexier? He guesses? The most important thing is the mask, which is the only part of his costume he won’t strip off. Apart from his underwear, obviously. He’s not that wild.

He gets to work cutting a vertical line up each leg of his sweatpants, then sews in snaps. Boom, tearaways. They look kinda shitty, but if he’s any good at all, whoever he dances for shouldn’t be staring at loose threads.

So Peter has his moves, his costume, a few songs in mind, and no engagements. Oh, he thinks he can figure out how to get jobs, it’s just that he somehow keeps coming home, sitting down to compose his ad, and then doing something completely different instead. He’s truly scared witless. Nobody’ll see your face, he chants in his mind to psych himself up every time he’s heading home to his apartment. Still, he freezes at his laptop. There’s nothing about his body that he’s ashamed of―he uses it every single day to help people as Spider-Man. Maybe it’s that, this time, he’d be using it to help himself. Is he a monster for making a buck off his superhero persona? Peter holds onto that question for about a week until the date to pay rent is approaching and his bank account shudders in horror. Ok, money’s tight and he hasn’t been hit by a car lately, so he won’t freak anybody out with road rash or bruising or more of his hand-sewing to close gashes. With a little self-pedicure here and hair-removal there, Peter looks at himself in his bathroom mirror and decides this is as good a time as any.

He advertises online and his hands are still trembling when he gets a call from an unfamiliar number ten minutes after his ad goes live. The ringing phone actually makes him jump. It’s probably a telemarketer, or a wrong number. Nobody would call him with a job this fast. He was counting on having at least a day to sit with the choice he made. Peter fumbles for the phone and answers. For the next minute and a half, he struggles to hear the woman’s voice over the blood rushing in his ears. She thinks he’s the Spider-Man Stripper. He is the Spider-Man Stripper. This is hilarious and terrifying and oddly similar to the brief moment of freefall between slinging one web and the next as he darts around Midtown. Her friend’s birthday party, she tells him, two days from now. Something else she planned (Peter’s adjusting his sweaty, slipping grip on his phone and misses the details) fell through and if he can be the entertainment for a half-hour or so it would save both the party and her friendship. Not to add extra pressure, she jokes, laughing. The sound Peter makes is a weak echo. So can he be there? Is there space in his schedule? He pretends to check that ‘schedule’ so she doesn’t think he’s a total amateur. Yep, yep, he has an opening for her. She has an opening for him, she flirts back, making his eyes go wide as he clutches the phone. God, why couldn’t his first gig have been for some 22-year-old’s bachelorette instead of this middle-aged-sounding woman who possibly wants to eat him alive? By the time she’s telling him her address, Peter’s hands are shaking worse than ever, he can’t immediately find a pen, and she reels it off to him way too quickly. He’s scrawling the address on his arm and right as he opens his mouth to ask her to repeat it, she hangs up. He peers at his arm doubtfully. Should he call her back for confirmation? No, he doesn’t have the guts. Anyway, he can figure this out. The street name was Woodman, right? Or was it Woodlawn? And the number was 712. Or 271. There was definitely a 7 in there somewhere. And his client’s name was… Lisa? Lana. Maybe Linda?

Peter cradles his face in his hands and groans. When his phone starts ringing again―different number―he frantically declines the call, then deletes his ad. One job at a time. Even that, he now thinks, seems ambitious.

―

MJ’s glad she’s not the one throwing this party together. As Liz’s best friend, it’s Betty who took the reins, organizing and then scrapping everything more than once as New York moved from phase to phase during this pandemic. The end result is still less than what MJ knows Betty wants; ideally, there would be more than a handful of guests and things like shiny helium balloons and fancy desserts would be hand-delivered to Liz’s front door on the day of the party. Instead, MJ sits on the arm of Liz’s couch as she inflates yet another latex balloon the good old-fashioned way: blowing it up by mouth until she’s dizzy.

Cindy stomps over and plops down next to her, snatching a balloon from the party pack of 50 (and Betty insists they need them all). She’s been banished from cupcake decorating. MJ would offer a word or two of sympathy, but balloon duty has the prior claim on how she spends her breaths. All she can do is toss Cindy a plastic tiara (Betty bought one―just one!―reading ‘Mom-to-Be’ for Liz, but the online shop screwed up her order and sent two dozen ‘Birthday Girl’ tiaras in its place) after tying off her finished balloon. MJ’s already wearing one. Meanwhile, the tiara-less Mom-to-Be is being driven around the block a million times by her cousin because they’re having the party at Liz’s place and Betty wants the decorations to be a surprise. Liz’s husband, more simply, was banished for the entire day. MJ originally thought they could’ve put him to work, since it’s pretty hectic, but she’s too oxygen-deprived to worry anymore.

Finally, Betty declares from the kitchen that she’s frosted her final cupcake. MJ begs for a reprieve from balloon-inflating and Betty, feeling accomplished and generous, agrees they probably have enough balloons now. Cindy casts her half-inflated one away in disgust before going to help Betty clean up baking ingredients and do dishes. MJ does her best to shoo the balloons to one side of the living room, then carries spare chairs in because their couch won’t fit everyone. Fortunately, they’ve all been recently tested for illness and been vigilant hand-washers and mask-wearers since then, so at least she doesn’t have to find a way to keep every seat six feet apart. She’s just positioning a final chair, still a little out of breath from the balloons, when the doorbell rings. In the kitchen, Betty screams.

“IT’S STILL A MESS IN HERE! STALL HER!”

“’K!” MJ agrees.

She kicks a couple stray balloons out of her path and goes to get the door. They weren’t supposed to come back to the house until Betty texted, but maybe they got tired of driving around, or Liz started feeling carsick. MJ knows she’s been pretty delicate her entire pregnancy with twins floating around in her uterus like a pair of nausea-inducing astronauts.

As she opens the door wide, she sucks in a deep breath to call out a sarcastic ‘Surprise!’ But it’s not Liz and her cousin. It’s… a guy? In a red and blue costume. She thinks it’s a guy. She can’t even see the person’s face, but when MJ reaches up to self-consciously adjust her ‘Birthday Girl’ tiara, they tilt their head and seem to follow her movement.

“Oh! I’m here for you! You’re… not what I was expecting.” It’s a masculine laugh. Young. Nervous.

She crosses her arms suspiciously.

“You’re not what I was expecting either,” she accuses.

“Shit,” he mumbles. “I guess it was supposed to be a surprise.”

What? Betty might have planned a few surprises for today, but MJ does not recall a dude in a mismatched sweatsuit being one of them.

“Guess so,” she says slowly.

“Sorry, I’m, uh, Spider-Man.” He gestures to the costume. Well, she can kinda see the very distant resemblance to what the real Spider-Man wears; there is a crudely-drawn spider on the chest.

“Uh huh.”

MJ’s suspicion is shifting into amusement―this guy really seems to think he has an invitation―when Cindy comes up behind her. MJ darts a look at her friend and is glad Cindy’s no longer sporting her own tiara. No need to confuse this poor… Spider-Man impersonator.

“What’s up?” Cindy asks, poking her chin over MJ’s shoulder, happier now that she’s fled the tasks Betty continually assigns.

“Hey,” says ‘Spider-Man’. “I, uh, I was hired to, uh, dance for the, um…” He gestures at MJ’s tiara. “…birthday girl.”

At ‘dance,’ MJ’s eyebrows shoot up. She looks quickly at Cindy and realizes she’s going to say something. Cindy will handle this how she handles any inconvenience or anomaly: with forthrightness and concision. She’ll have this faux-venger hitting the road before MJ can blink. With a short, friendly laugh towards Spider-Man, MJ angles herself to block Cindy from view and locks eyes with her friend. Cindy’s face says, What are you doing? We don’t know this guy. MJ’s counters with, Let’s see how this plays out. Cindy rolls her eyes, but nods, so MJ steps away from her again.

“As long as you haven’t traveled outside the country in the last fourteen days or experienced symptoms of fever, etcetera etcetera, come on in,” Cindy invites, gesturing Spider-Man through the doorway. “I’m so sorry, but we were running a little behind with the food, so I have to disappear back to the kitchen. But why don’t you get started for her?”

“Cindy,” MJ hisses as she closes the door. “You have to stay.”

“I believe the man said he was here for the birthday girl.”

Cindy smirks and they both glance over to see that Spider-Man has found the speaker and connected his phone. Something catches MJ’s eye and her gaze skims down his leg. What’s up with the side of his pants?

“I’m not the birthday girl,” she reminds Cindy in a panicked whisper. “There is no birthday girl.”

“Well, in her absence, it looks like you’re the one getting her presents. Careful with that one.”

“Because it seems fragile?”

“Because I feel like it’s the kind that comes with a big package.”

Cindy pokes MJ hard in the side and flees when she squirms away. MJ glares after her. Yes, she’s curious about what the hell this impersonator’s doing here in that crappy costume, but it’s so much easier to be curious when she can observe something unfolding without actively having to participate. What she was thinking was that he’d come in and the three of them―Betty, Cindy, and herself―would see how far this went before something either gave them away as not being the people who ‘hired’ him (so he claims), or the guy crumbled under the quavering weight of his own anxiety. Nothing about his look or his manner announces experience. Now, MJ’s on her own as she takes a seat in one of the chairs she brought in. She crosses her legs, bobs her foot, and hopes to hell that Spider-Man’s a breakdancer.

“Listen…” she begins to say, leaning forward to address him, but as she speaks, he turns up the volume and her uncertain voice is drowned out by chimes tinkling above throbbing bass. Oh no.

It’s the tempo that scares MJ. She thinks she could deal with a rabbiting drum intro or the bright squeal of quick fingers on an electric guitar. This song is tauntingly slow and it’s obvious, by how Spider-Man turns in her direction and walks to her with measured steps, that what she’s about to experience will look nothing like handstands or the worm, nothing youthfully, recklessly acrobatic. It’s also clear that she’s in this alone now because the guy putting his back to her and swirling his hips with agonizing slowness as the gravelly vocals come in is in some kind of zone she can’t follow him into.

When I look in your eyes… the song goes. …I can feel the fire.

Nope, MJ’s outside of this, in the real world, where she hears him lower the zipper on his sweatshirt. When he rotates to face her, taking his time, she finds her hands are gripping the seat on either side of her thighs.

A see-through disguise can’t conceal desire.

Spider-Man’s disguise is hardly see-through―seriously, he must’ve been sweltering in those sweats on his way here―but it’s open now, from his clavicle down to where the band of his pants grips his taut abdomen. He probably can’t hear the groan that pushes out of her mouth when she’s just trying to exhale. God, please let the music cover it, MJ thinks. His hood’s still up as he steps even closer to her chair, subtly twitching his hips in her direction, and the ends of his sweatshirt dangle, flashing glimpses of more chest, more abs. MJ swallows and reminds herself that this is all kind of a joke. That she’s the one indulging him and they’ll laugh when this is over. She’ll apologize for the mix-up and he’ll shrug it off as he accepts monetary compensation for his time.

I’ve been readin’ your lips… the singer announces in a louder growl. Spider-Man abruptly strips the blue sleeves from his costume, leaving his torso bare beneath what’s now just a hooded red vest. He’s a fake superhero, but those arms are the real deal. Wow. …they don’t need no translation.

He widens his stance, drawing her eye down to his solid-looking thigh, then slides his hand across her shoulder to grip the back of her chair. His hips roll forward and she instinctively uncrosses her legs. With the extra room, Spider-Man briefly presses his thigh to hers. It scrunches the hem of her dress up before dragging it back down as he retreats. It’s reasonably innocent, likely not even intentional, but heat flares up MJ’s face like one of the candles she might blow out if this were actually her birthday. Honestly, she keeps forgetting it’s not.

They want more than a kiss, I come to make my donation.

Ok, she feels more than just thigh when he glides higher on her lap. MJ automatically flicks her gaze lower, because he’s a stranger and right in her space, and it lands on his groin. Spider-Man bucks suggestively and MJ immediately raises her eyes from the bump in the front of his close-fitting sweatpants. Jesus, is it warm in here? Somebody should do something about that before Liz gets home, fiddle with the thermostat or, or something…

So turn out the lights! the singer’s voice rockets up and goosebumps ripple up MJ’s arms as Spider-Man’s hands smooth down them in his fingerless gloves. He bounces low into a crouch and can’t be more than an inch away from the fabric of her dress as he rolls up her body, face in her lap for, I’m goin’ down slowly. Her pounding heart and rapid breathing almost push her boobs into his forehead when he reaches her chest.

Don’t tell me what’s right, just tell me you want me.

When their heads are level, Spider-Man surprises her by sitting lightly on her lap, nearly chest-to-chest. He takes her hands in his―MJ’s sufficiently stunned to allow him to break her grip on the seat―and guides them to his head, making her push his hood off. It’s strange to feel the mask under her palms. Wondering what his hair looks like really shouldn’t be a main concern right now.

Oh, tell me you want me. Just tell me you want me, want me, want me!

The more insistent the song becomes, the more persuasively Spider-Man gyrates in her lap. Sliding a hand over his head shouldn’t be this seductive without visible hair to push his fingers through, but the way his arm bulges with the motion makes up for it, in her opinion. MJ doesn’t know what to do with her hands. They hover in the air between their bodies.

Let’s make it, baby! the song explodes as he thrusts forward powerfully, throwing his head back.

Well, let’s make it, baby!

His hands go to his shoulders.

Well, let’s make it, baby!

He works his vest off, revealing the rest of his chest.

Let’s make it, baby!

He flings the vest toward the sofa. MJ doesn’t know whether or not it lands there. She doesn’t turn to look. This is… more muscle than she’s ever seen in person on a single human body. Once more, he takes hold of the back of her chair, but it’s with both hands now and his forearms squeeze her in, compelling her to lean forward as he grinds across her lap, forward and back, to, Come, come, come a little bit closer. His face angles into her neck; she feels his nose brush her skin through the mask. She can hear him breathing and it electrifies her. The only reason she clamps her thighs together like she does is to give him more room to straddle her. Really, it’s for his comfort, as a professional. Because this is all just… very professional.

She hasn’t determined where to lay her hands, which is fine because he has another use for them.

I wanna play doctor, the singer drawls while Spider-Man brings her hands to his pecs. Is his heart beating as hard under there as hers is right now or is she imagining it? He effortlessly takes gentle hold of her wrists and encourages her hands down his body. She doesn’t even notice when he lets her go to peel the gloves from his hands and push his sneakers off, leaving MJ to trace the thick, defined ridges of his abdomen.

It keeps gettin’ harder, harder, harder to keep it away!

With the end of the line, Spider-Man rips the sweatpants off―a series of metallic popping sounds too close together to count. Not that counting’s on her mind. Eyeing the cherry-red boxer-briefs that are even tighter than the sweats, she swallows. She can’t remember how to exist on the outside of this. She can’t find the door. Believing that this guy―who’s not really Spider-Man, just like she’s not really a birthday girl―understands, that they’re sharing the scorching intimacy she suddenly feels, is naïve. MJ is not naïve. She just can’t exactly explain why what should be an obvious (skillful, but obvious) pantomime of sex is working on her like real foreplay.

I wanna taste the sweat…

She swears he’s breathing harder than the dancing alone can explain when he palms her knees and pries them apart. Her legs are slack and willing. She is sweating.

…that’s runnin’ over your body.

Tucking his fingers into the backs of her knees, Spider-Man jerks her forward on her seat. It raises her hem to mid-thigh and her pulse to low orbit. He hikes her legs around his hips and she crosses her wrists behind his neck without guidance as he stays in what has to be a strenuous squat to body-roll. Everything comes forward in a delicious wave, from his shoulders to his crotch. From lots of angles, it probably looks like he’s fucking her into Liz’s kitchen chair.

In actuality, there’s no contact between them―not anyplace interesting―until…

Get the sheets all wet!

MJ doesn’t know if his hips nudge between her legs accidentally or intentionally on an overzealous roll. She’s never been given a lap dance before! Is this right? Is this permitted? He seems ready to run with it, repeating the action with greater certainty.

Yeah, I wanna make ya feel nau-nau-nau-nau-nau-nau-nau-naughty!

When the singer quits stuttering out the word, Spider-Man lifts MJ right off the chair into his arms. She inhales hard, desperate for air as the song returns to, Let’s make it, baby! And let’s make it, baby! Well, let’s make it, baby! And let’s make it, baby, baby! He has one hand grasping the underside of her thigh, the other clutching the middle of her back. He thrusts toward her through the chorus, shy of nudging the way he did before. The motion sways MJ fairly gently, thanks to his sure grip and ability to carry her weight with ease, but she might as well be tumbling around inside a washing machine for all she currently knows of up and down.

The animal urgency of the chorus drops down to the slow lull of instrumentals and Spider-Man sets MJ on her feet. She just about rolls her ankle and plans to never admit this made her weak in the knees. As irregular drumbeats keep her on edge, he sneaks around behind her and takes her wrists, raising her arms over her head as she fights the instinct to turn and stare at this guy’s mostly-naked body. She hasn’t dated anyone since before the pandemic, but it’s more than that. While she holds her arms up there, Spider-Man rocks against her from behind, the inside of his thigh rubbing the outside of hers, messing up her skirt, confusing her heartbeat. His hands clamp down on her hips and work them in a circular motion with her ass pressed directly against him.

Wait.

―

Peter’s hard. Of all the things that have definitely gone wrong (having to make up a routine from scratch after blanking in the face of a woman 20 years younger and 500 times more beautiful than who he expected to find) and probably gone wrong (he hasn’t shaken the exhilarating feeling that he’s almost certainly at the wrong house), this is the most serious. He’s in so, so far over his head and sinking deeper, metaphorically, as the woman he’s wrapped around cautiously returns the pressure, pressing his erection.

He was so nervous after meeting her that he went straight to setting up his music and forgot to ask for her name. It’s not like he can casually ask now. It feels like things have gone too far for that. Wasn’t he supposed to feel some layer of detachment, doing this? Stripping’s supposed to be a part-time job, like taking pictures for the Bugle. Maybe he’s too used to caring about people to set himself apart from this. Maybe it’s the shock of her youth and the feeling of touching a real-live person after practicing with an empty chair over months of physical distancing.

Maybe he’s just horny.

The instrumental section goes on and on and Peter yearns. This is a job, he thinks, running his hands up to her waist and back to her hips. As the musical intermission’s finally drawing to a close, he improvises again, scooping the woman up into his arms in a bridal carry just to eliminate the sweet friction against his dick. Where does he go from here? He knows what the tutorials told him, what really gets the target of a lap dance/strip show going. Could go with the couch and push his red vest aside, but the soft rug underfoot beckons.

Now turn out the lights! Bon Jovi rasps as Peter moves gradually to his knees and nuzzles his masked face into the woman’s chest because, at this point, why the hell not? She smells so good. He hears her gasp, then her fingers dig fleetingly into the back of his neck like she wants to hold him there. But she lets go and he lays her on her back in the valley created by leisurely-migrating silver balloons. The light refracted on the woman’s face is crisp and ethereal.

Don’t tell me you love, love me, no… Just, just tell me you want me.

Peter springs on top of her, arms braced and locked, and performs an exaggerated horizontal roll, his hips close above hers. This is the million-dollar (or, like, twenty-dollar) move. The one that unambiguously mimics sex. Though it’s so overstated, so dramatic, the tutorials claimed that, by this stage, the person being performed for would be so wound up, so aroused, that they’d just about believe it was the real thing. He watches the woman’s shaky breathing and flushed cheeks, feels her hands caress his abs, and thinks he’s doing pretty damn good. Too bad he can’t count this as a performance. The desire he feels when he lowers himself closer to her is not an act.

Don’t tell me you love me.

The skin-tight front of his underwear skims her dress. And, though she should really keep her legs out straight to do her part in preserving the distance between them (because he’s fucking failing), she slides her foot along the floor, raising her knee. Peter snatches hold of that knee with the feeling that they just signed some kind of contract and grinds himself against the fold of skirt between her legs. The woman’s chest heaves as she pants. His balls ache for him to stop playing.

Oh, tell me you want me, want me, want me, want me, want me, want me, want me! Bon Jovi and Peter’s sex drive demand, from a rumble up to a scream. Let’s make it, baby!

The woman beneath him tosses her head and bats away a balloon that clings to her hair. Her birthday crown’s askew.

Well, let’s make it, baby!

Peter’s hand is on her ribcage, too near her breast.

Well, let’s make it, baby!

He huffs, loud inside his mask, as he thrusts against her like she’s not some accident, like she asked him to meet her here. For this.

And let’s make it, baby!

Distinct lyrics burst into a high, expressive shriek of noise that sounds enough like a woman being pleasured to send a tingle up Peter’s spine. He grinds down hard, gripping the woman’s hip. By the second shriek, her back’s bowing, her hands commandingly squeezing his arms. By the third, she’s moaning as she rocks against him, tearing an appreciative grunt from him in response. The fourth shriek finishes her right before the song. Peter’s breathing hard on top of her, on the jaw-clenching edge of climax himself, feeling her writhe as the music fades out. It just leaves the two of them here, damningly entangled.

After a long silence, his playlist moves on. Peter stares down at her another few seconds as she strokes her fingers across her mouth, then her eyes snap to where she can’t see his through the goggles.

“Oh shit,” he mutters.

The woman laughs awkwardly like those two words are an understatement for the degree to which this has not gone as planned. She didn’t even know the plan, but anyone would know this was not the intended conclusion―a stripper dressed up in a novelty Spider-Man costume should excite, entertain, inspire lust. But he should stop short of dry-humping his client to completion. Yeah, that has to be an unwritten rule someplace. Peter really shouldn’t have needed to read it to know better though. This has just gotten incredibly out of hand and he has no idea what to say or do.

“LIZ IS ON HER WAY!” a female voice yells from the back of the house, maybe the kitchen that the other woman vanished into earlier.

Peter jerks to his feet, still rigid in the front of his underwear. He thinks the woman he just, uh, danced for is requesting help up, but she’s actually pointing. He looks and sees the bathroom just off the stairs.

“I’m good,” she says. “Go before Cindy sees you.”

Snagging his pants from the floor and the vest portion of his sweatshirt from the couch, Peter bolts for the bathroom as the woman sits up from the rug. Inside, his hands quake with adrenaline as he zips his sweatshirt and refastens all the snaps on his pants. He does his best to adjust things so his waning erection’s not too obvious. For a minute, he yanks the mask from his head and stares at himself in the mirror as he breathes. This is not the side-hustle for him. This was his first and last gig as the Spider-Man Stripper.

Mask back on, he returns to the front room to find the woman he was grinding all over standing with her arms crossed protectively as her friend appears to grill her under her breath. They both look at him as he stuffs his feet back into his shoes and grabs his gloves and the blue sleeves of his sweatshirt. He’ll just carry them. If he stood here and began redoing them, he’d probably die from mortification before he got the last snap snapped. He collects his phone, stopping the music mid-song. He doesn’t know what’s playing. Could be his favourite song in the world and he wouldn’t be able to hear it right now over the volume of the look his ‘birthday girl’ is giving him.

“I’ll just, um, show you out,” she offers, shepherding him away from the woman he takes to be Cindy. She doesn’t volunteer anything about the other person, Liz, who they seem to be expecting.

“Great.”

He’s thankful that Cindy gives them a little space and doesn’t follow. They pause in the entranceway. The woman presses two fifties into his hand, avoiding eye contact. Peter clears his dry throat and nods, closing his fingers over the money because he’s more uncomfortable about the idea of prolonging this with a back-and-forth over him saying it’s too much while she insists than he is about the idea that she’s kinda paying him for sex, even if thinks she doesn’t mean to.

She pulls the door open and Peter jumps aside for two women, one very pregnant. There’s a flurry of voices all of a sudden and when he slips outside onto the step before someone can ask who he is and what he’s doing here, he doesn’t expect the birthday girl to come after him.

“MJ,” she blurts out.

He grins under the mask.

“Peter.”

He never gets to tell people that when he’s in disguise, but she doesn’t know he really is Spider-Man. The honesty feels good.

“So, that was…”

“This wasn’t supposed to be… Um,” he starts again, swinging his arms slightly. “That was my first time. Doing this. I’ve never done a routine for anybody before, so I want you to know I haven’t, like, done that with a bunch of people. I’ve never done this. And I think, uh, based on what happened in there, that I probably shouldn’t.” Peter’s laugh is strained. “I really don’t―”

“Do you want my number?”

He chokes.

“What?”

“I… thought I might as well ask,” she says, clearly self-conscious, looking prepared for rejection.

“No, of course I do,” Peter tells her quickly, holding out his phone. “Please.”

“Ok.” MJ gives him a quick smile, then looks at his screen as she adds herself as a contact. He’s grateful she’s the one putting the numbers in. He really can’t be trusted with that. Peter’s not nervous now, just excited as he thinks about using the money she gave him to buy her dinner.

Though he’s pretty sure he knows the answer, he says, “This isn’t the right house, is it?” as she hands his phone back. She laughs.

“No.”

“Yeah, I… kinda had a feeling.”

“Hey, whoever she was, her loss was my gain,” MJ says bluntly, then blushes hard. Peter chuckles to himself, looking down.

“Ummm…”

“Well, I should get in there. Baby shower.”

“Right, yeah, sure, you gotta.”

“But call me.”

“I will. I definitely will.”

“Maybe you can even show me what you look like without the mask,” she says.

Peter nods, body nothing but a cage for a butterfly swarm, then turns. Behind him, he hears Cindy’s voice as MJ steps back inside.

“Did you just give him a hundred bucks?”

“Yeah.”

“That’s what you owe me for going in on the stroller!”

“I’ll go to the bank and take out another hundred right after the party if you want,” MJ offers, sounding unconcerned.

“But a hundred bucks? MJ, he was here for ten minutes!”

“Trust me, Peter earned it.”

“Peter?! That’s Spider-Man’s name?”

“Cindy, come on, he’s not actually Spider-Man.”

The door shuts. Of course he’s not. Peter could no more be Spider-Man than he could fall half in love with a woman simply because of the way she smelled and the fact that she wouldn’t let him off the hook for a lap dance. He starts down the sidewalk with a skip, smiling wide beneath his mask.

[star-nova]

The Lives of the RiffRaff:  Sophia Bolshevik-Elsie’s Boyfriend

Previous: 

We Are the RiffRaff Rickie Johnson-The Art of War Vera Sherwood-Little Sister Kali Muburu-Hair Tracy Kwan-Vergil Franz Fawke-Hecklers James Weaver-The Preacher Mamoru Hayagawa-Three Weddings Charmain Dekker-Frankfort Talia Santiago-Queen of the City

(WARNING: Depictions of rape/sexual assault) 

In a town like Tanager, your business is everyone else's business. It's because there aren't enough people, and therefore not enough businesses, to mind only your own. The only way to keep your neighbors' watchful eyes away from you was to do everything by their specific codes; follow the pack, never take the road less traveled, and never do anything that may be considered “against the grain.” Small-towners are so starved for difference because it's so rare, yet at the same time, they're afraid of it. If you stood out at all, you were the subject of both fascination and horror, and therefore you were labeled a troublemaker.

In Tanager, I stood out because I tried too hard not to stand out. I've always been quiet, preferring not to speak or have others speak to me, and if somebody did speak to me, I tended to lock up because I had no idea what to say. To not know what to say was considered a crime in Tanager, where everyone always had something to say. Not only that, but they thought I was childish. At twenty-three, I still played with dolls and chased butterflies and jumped rope in the park with my sister and Ellia. I didn't understand why you were expected to stop having fun for fun's sake once you reached the age of adulthood. If anything, your sense of wonder should increase as you're more and more able to see the world for what it is.

In Frankfort, we could jump rope in the park and watch the people pass by without so much as a glance in our direction. We could start up games of tag and hop along the stepping stones in the brook, and no one asked why we were darting around “like we ain't got nowhere to go,” as our neighbors would put it. I could catch all of the butterflies I wanted and no one paid me any mind. In such a big city with so many businesses blended together, you don't have the time or energy to mind anybody's but your own.

Frankfort was a magical place, where the unwritten rules and regulations of Tanager did not apply. In Tanager, I was often side-eyed and whispered about because of my quiet nature and my childishness. I once overheard a neighbor say, “Sophia's like a six-year-old. She just goes along with whatever you say and doesn't have anything to say for herself.” My appearance didn't help matters; though I'm three years older than Elsie, I'm also several inches shorter. A cherub-like face with apple cheeks isn't cute anymore when you're twenty-three. Elsie and I were both born with the typical blonde heads of Appalachia, but mine had darkened to brown by the time I was fifteen. Elsie's would have stayed blonde if she hadn't dyed it dark red. The Hecklers went around calling her Ronald McDonald. I think she looks more like Angela Chase.

Our appearances don't matter in Frankfort either, except when they do. The guys at the bar at Clarke's Tavern make eyes at us, and on our second night in the city, we went to a club where men wanted to dance with us and told us we were “a couple of real beauties.” Elsie and I had never in our lives been called beauties. Charmain Dekker's nose and harelip, the subjects of real contention in Tanager, were entirely ignored in Frankfort in favor of her curly dark hair and her soft hazel eyes—uncommon in Tanager. Nobody called Ellia “lanky,” and her hair was compared to sunshine rather than straw. And in the magical city of Frankfort, my sister, largely ignored by the male population of our hometown, had managed to attract a boyfriend.

Elsie and I slept in the same room in the rental house in Frankfort; we didn't mind, as we had shared a bedroom until I entered high school. As we were on our way to sleep one night, Elsie told me that she'd met somebody when we went out to the arcade the other day, and she was planning to see him again.

“Met somebody?” I asked, just for clarification. “As in...somebody somebody?”

“He's pretty cute,” Elsie said. “His name's Kyle.”

“How'd you meet?” I asked her. I was tired from a day spent shopping and streetcar-touring, but this new development was far too interesting to sleep on.

“I was waiting for the NeoGeo machine,” Elsie told me, “and he was on it. I was watching him play for a while. We started talking about the games, then we started talking about other games, then we started talking about other stuff. Then he said I was pretty cute, and he asked me for my number. I gave it to him, and, well, the rest is history.”

“Well,” I said through a yawn, “good for you.” I was too tired to say much else. Elsie gave me a mischevious little smile and turned out her light. Truly, we were in a different world if my sister, ignored by guys for most of her life, was able to find somebody. A part of me envied her, which wasn't anything new. It was just another thing she had an advantage over me in: she was taller, she was prettier, she was much more confident, and even her name—Elissandra--was longer than mine. Now she had a date before I did. There were guys in the city who talked  to me and asked me for my number, but they never followed up. Oh well, I looked forward to meeting him either way.

Kyle was tall and thin as a rail. He was clean shaven, with blonde hair that went everywhere, and he wore glasses that made him look sort of like a young Bill Gates. My first thought was that he looked like a noodle, or like Napoleon Dynamite. I shouldn't have been judging him on his appearance, since I had my own appearance judged more times than I could count. But the truth was that there wasn't much else about this guy besides the fact that he did look like Napoleon Dynamite. He didn't say anything when Elsie told him, “This is my big sister, Sophia.” When I said hi to him, he said “Hey” back, but his voice was dry and uninterested. When Charmain offered him some of the tea she'd bought in a shop down the street, he just shook his head and sat himself down on the couch, his legs spread wide apart. “He's a shy boy,” Elsie said, patting his shoulder. “He was probably in the middle of a game when I called him up.”

“I wasn't,” Kyle told her.

“Ray lets us use his PS4,” Elsie said. “We'll play a few games. Sounds good?”

“Sure it does,” Kyle said. He was looking at the wall, not at her.

Elsie left to go and fetch the games. Charmain, who always preferred outdoors games to videogames, left us alone. Talia was out in the city, surely causing trouble, and I figured Ellia was in her room watching Netflix. I went to work setting up the PS4. I had nothing to say to Kyle, and he had nothing to say to me. I felt bad that he seemed so uneasy around us. I fumbled in my head for a conversation-starter, but I knew how hopeless it would be. It would come out as nothing but stutter and babble, and he would feel even more uncomfortable than he already was.

It was only after I had connected the last of the cables that I noticed Kyle was staring at me.

“H...hi,” I managed to stammer. I tried to smile. I wasn't sure if I'd succeeded, until I saw him smile back at me. When he smiled, I finally knew what Elsie saw in him.

“Hey, Sophia,” he said, his voice still flat and dry, “c'mere, will ya?”

“You...you need something?” His eyes followed me as I made my way across the room and sat down on the arm of the couch. He started to scoot in closer to me, and I stood up. “I...what do you...what do you n-n-need?” I asked. Suddenly, I longed for Elsie or Charmain. I would have even felt okay with Talia walking in right at that moment.

“Nevermind,” he told me suddenly. “It's nothing.” Elsie had returned with a stack of games and a bag of Fritos, and I realized I'd been holding my breath.

Kyle was just as boring the next time he came around, and I was starting to wonder just what was the appeal of dating a human two-by-four, even if he had a pretty smile. But Elsie seemed happy with him, so it wasn't my place to judge. She brought him around to watch Guardians of the Galaxy with us, and he continued to be the most uninteresting person I had ever met in my life.

Charmain and Talia had gone out to see Talia's aunt, “Baroness” Maven, and Elsie and Ellia were going to go pick up the pizza. I wasn't too thrilled to be left alone with Kyle, but if I had objected, I would've had to tell Elsie what happened the other day. I couldn't think of any positives that would result from that. Besides, it was probably nothing at all and I was just overthinking; I had a tendency to see things that weren't really there. When the girls walked out the door, I got up from the couch and told Kyle that I had to get something out of my room.

“Whatcha gotta get?” he asked me in monotone.

“My phone,” I told him. It was charging in the socket next to Elsie's bed.

“I'll go get it for you,” Kyle said. “Where's your room at?”

I didn't like him asking that question. “N-no,” I stuttered. “I'll...I'll get it, it's fine.” I fled to  my room before he could say anything else. I unhooked my phone from the charger and sat down on my bed to browse the web for a while. I figured Kyle wouldn't care if I stayed here until the girls came back.

I heard the room door open and close. I looked up to find Kyle standing there. He was smiling again, and I hated how much I liked it.

I got up from the bed, slipping the phone into my pocket. “What...what do you w-w-want?” I asked.

“Just checkin' up on you,” Kyle said. He sat down on Elsie's bed and pretended to be very interested in the generic lavender-colored sheets.

“I'm fine,” I told him, “just checking Facebook.” I headed for the door, but then he grabbed my arm and pulled me down onto the bed beside him. I found myself looking right into his big Bill Gates glasses. He smelled like Old Spice.

I tried to move off of the bed, but he put his hand between my legs and made his way up my shorts. I jumped up and hit him as hard as I could. He recoiled, placing his hand—the one he'd just touched me with—on the spot where I'd hit. I ran for the door, and he sprung off the bed and grabbed me by my hair. “Don't be so difficult, Sophia,” he said. “You don't seem like a difficult girl. And if you get difficult with me then I might have to get difficult with you, and neither one of us wants that, do we, Sophia?”

I went to hit him again. He dodged it. I turned to flee, and he grabbed me again. His hand was right at my waistline. I never wanted to smell Old Spice again.

“Sophia,” he said, “ you care about Elsie, right?”

I knew that if I spoke, it would come out as nothing but blather. I might even cry, and there was no way I was letting him see that.

“I care a lot abut Elsie,” Kyle assured me. “She's a real great girl. You think your sister's a great girl, Sophia?” I was going to throw up. When I did, I'd make sure it was in his mouth.

“I wouldn't want anything to happen to her,” Kyle went on. “But if you tell anyone what went down today, I just might have to do something to Elsie. I wouldn't want that. I know you wouldn't want that either.”

He wasn't a man. He was a beast, a creature, the most vile thing that had ever crawled up out of the ninth level of hell to curse us with his evil presence. I finally managed to break free of the spell he had me under and I elbowed him in the gut. I ran, without really knowing where I was going or what I was doing. Elsie and Ellia are back now, I told myself. It was only wishful thinking; I was alone in the house with this demon. He slithered his way into the den and pinned me against the door with his gaze. He was a basilisk. Don't look into his eyes or you'll die in seven days...

It was like a nightmare where I couldn't move. He was coming closer to me. “Sophiaaa,” he sang, like he was playing a game with a child. “Think of your sister now, Sophia.” I backed away. I wondered where Talia kept all her knives. “I don't wanna see Elsie get hurt.” He was two inches away from me now and his hand was going down my shorts. Now I kicked and got him right in his erect dick. Now he was angry.

“If you do that to me again,” he said with his hot breath that smelled like A&W, “we'll both see what happens to Elsie.” He pinned me to the floor with his knee. His basilisk eyes bored into me and I was done...

I have no idea what happened. I must have fainted from the pain. My god, it hurt like hell, and even now it was hardly any better.

I was lying on my bed. I tried to move, and I felt something burn. I screamed. Someone put their hand on the back of my head and I slapped them.

“It's me, honey,” Charmain said. I felt her pull my blanket up to my chin. I tried to roll over, but I was burning. Rolling over meant rolling into an open flame. Charmain sat down on Elsie's bed, and Talia came round and stood beside her. I had never in my life been comforted by the sight of Talia Santiago until now.

Charmain reached out to touch my shoulder, hesitating for a moment as if she had to be careful not to break me. “Are you all right?”

I wasn't all right and I'd never be all right again. If you tell anyone what went down today, I just might have to do something to Elsie. If I opened my mouth at all, I would sign my sister's death warrant. I remained silent, and my whole body started to shudder.

“Should we go to the hospital?” Charmain asked. Did she know? How had she found out? I screamed at the top of my lungs for Elsie. Some horrible thing told me she was dead, that between now and the moment I had passed out, they had found her body tossed in some back alley somewhere. “Elsieeeeeeee! Elsieeeeeeee!” Talia raised a hand to slap me, but Charmain said, “Don't you dare!” and grabbed her wrist. She held me as I fell apart.

But then there was Elsie in the doorway, and it was all right, everything could be all right again. I made a move to fling myself out of the bed and go running for her, but the fire in my body quickly called me back to reality. I screamed, and in a moment Elsie was at my side. I held on to her. I'd never let her go, not ever.

“Oh, Sophia...” Elsie patted my head, which she did quite a lot even though she was the little sister. I could see Ellia standing in the hallway, listening.

“Where's Kyle?” I asked. Just the mention of his name made me feel cold.

“He left when you got sick,” Elsie said.

“Sick?”

“Yeah, sick,” Elsie said, patting me again. “Do you remember anything, Soph?”

Did I remember anything? I remembered that my mouth now had the power to end my sister's life, and it was all that monster's fault. He'd laid a curse on me. I started to cry.

Elsie kissed my head and turned me on the pillow. The pain was still there, but it wasn't quite so bad in the face of her gentle attentions. “Kyle said you threw up and pissed all over yourself. You couldn't even move to go to the bathroom.” She shook her head and regarded me with genuine sympathy. “What in the world did you catch, Sophia? You poor kid.” Usually I  hated when she called me “kid,” but in the face of everything else, it wasn't a problem. The sticky wet feeling in my shorts was nothing at all like piss.

“How...how did I...how did I get in h-here?” I asked Elsie, but I felt like I already knew the answer. My body tensed up.

“Kyle took you to bed,” Elsie said. “Ellia and I came in with the pizza maybe five minutes after, and he told us you'd gotten really sick and he had to go. He told us everything.”

Kyle took you to bed. He told us everything. An electric jolt went through my body. My head spun around like it had the day Ellia and I went on the swing ride at the county fair. I willed myself not to think about it, but my will wasn't strong enough. I threw up.

“Ew!” Talia moved a full two feet away from my bed. Charmain said, “Poor thing” and shook her head. Elsie went to pull the blankets away. Without a thought, I slapped her.

“Yikes!” Elsie took a few steps back. “Sophia, what was that for?” Her eyes were wide with disbelief, as if perhaps I was an impostor in place of the real Sophia. Maybe I was. Maybe that creature had the real Sophia with him. Still, if she pulled the blankets back she would see everything and know everything. That vomit-covered blanket was my only shield. I held it close to me with a Herculean grip.

Ellia said, “We gotta get her to the hospital.” Charmain knelt down on the edge of the bed, reached for my blanket—my shield—and said, “Come on, let's get this nasty thing cleaned up.”

I screamed. I screamed so loud that I was sure I could be heard all over the world. Charmain jumped up off the bed. Ellia cried, “Sophia! Sophia!” She said something else, but I couldn't hear it. All I could hear were my own screams, which must have rested dormant inside of me for my whole life, waiting to escape. I couldn't turn them off. I couldn't make them stop. Elsie had her arms around me and my head was pressed into her shoulder. Talia ripped the blanket away and tossed it to the floor. I couldn't stop her.

My bloody, stained shorts were right there in front of everybody.

[askthedespairkids]

3rd Year Anniversary Bonus 79-C Report Cards

//I do have more stuff planned for this year’s anniversary but it’s gonna take more time to finish so I figured I would make this post in place just for fun. It’s nice to have these sort of things, I think since there are just so many OCs on the blog

//It will get updated as new OCs join or important information is uncovered.

Amaterasu Hokama - Ultimate Thief

Gender: Female

Height: 5′ 11″

Birthday: April 20th

Likes: Shiny Things

Dislikes: Security Guards

Current Status: Alive

Amaterasu’s family was evicted from their home when she was young, her parents “homeschooling” her in order for her to avoid bullying. When her family were struggling for food, she would steal from stores in order for them to keep surviving. As she grew up, she found her love for the thrill of a heist growing. She would go on larger heists in rich homes and museums, but rather than keeping anything for herself, she would return it the next day. Like it was a simple game for her. Eventually, word got out about a girl that could potentially steal from anywhere she wanted to. An underground team of thieves then decided to recruit her in order to get help for their heists. At first she helped out to get some money for her family, but once they had enough money to get a home and had a stable income, Amaterasu reported all of the people in that team to the authorities. She was also sent to a juvenile center but managed to escape after a week. Though she is rarely ever seen, there are always reports of “an girl that acts like a wolf wandering around the city”.

Doi Kurohiko - Ultimate Romance Expert

Gender: Male

Height: 5′10″

Birthday: November 14th

Likes: Roses

Dislikes: Creepy People

Current Status: Alive

With a handsome face, and a talent like his, Doi is often mistaken as a player at first glance, however his actual personality is the complete opposite. He has awful luck when talking to women, which he calls “his heart’s curse” which causes unfortunate events to happen such as falling down stairs, ripping his pants, and many other occurrences. Despite his failures, he tries to remain optimistic even if he isn’t the most strong willed. His talent isn’t for show either- if you want to fix your relationship, Doi is the one to ask. With a tendency to go off on rants when nervous and a weakness for women, Doi is the walking Ultimate Contradiction.

Junpei Yokozawa - Ultimate Blogger

Gender: Male

Height: 5′2″

Birthday: April 16th

Likes: Co-op Games

Dislikes: Horror Movies

Current Status: Alive

The blogger of several semi-popular blogs that cover a variety of topics such as fandoms, political views, and even gossip, Junpei Yokozawa may be a blogger, but he’s a damn good one. Overshadowed by the rest of family having flashy talents, he’s never seen himself as being worth much in the world of Ultimates. However, his ability to manipulate internet culture is second-to-none despite his lack of presence in real life.

Karma Graves - Ultimate Secret Agent

Gender: Was thought to be intersex by certain staff, and female by peers and other staff. It has come to attention that Karma Graves is a parasitic twin with both male and female organs. Karma Graves says they identify simply as "Karma", and used they/them pronouns. 

Height: 5'3"

Birthday: January 18th

Likes: Ukulele

Dislikes: The dark

Current Status: Alive

For the first 13 years of their life, Karma Graves was kept locked in a small basement by their biological father and were heavily abused. This caused some damage to their overall mental health and stability. Their only source of knowledge on the outside world was through movies from the 90s, resulting in Karma preferring to dress as colourful as possible, use the occasional 90's slang, and develop nostalgia for a generation they were never a part of. Karma was eventually rescued by a secret, organized agency which took them under their wing and trained them as one of their own. Though not being in training for very long, they showed natural skill and talent. They trained at the Canadian branch, but had short training sessions in Japan. The agency wasn't always the most moralistic and good, yet Karma dedicated their life to it. Karma had been invited to Hope's Peak Academy, but their superiors said they wold not be attending. This changed and Karma was sent to Hope's Peak after helping a prisoner of the agency, who they allegedly had a relationship with, escape.  The prisoner was killed on sight. Karma tends to have violent tendencies and manic episodes, but their loyalty and love for their friends is overpowering.

Kobo Okanaya - Ultimate Tour Guide

Gender: Male

Height: 6′2″

Birthday: June 14th

Likes: Boxing

Dislikes: Fish

Other Affiliations: Starlight Tour Company

Current Status: Alive

Kobo became a tour guide while he was growing up in a deprived area of a port town. He was saved by the manager of a tour guide company during a street fight and to return the favour, he learned the craft of being a tour guide. At first, his rough personality made it hard for him to interact with tourists though over time, through teaching he adapted a “Work Personality” which utilises his non-rough appearance, even changing his mannerisms to seem like a more appealing tour guide. His knowledge of Japan’s streets and landmarks were noticed by Hope’s Peak after their scout had caught wind of a teen tour guide being able to put others to shame. Though despite his work personality, Kobo is always ready to get into a fight.

Maemi Watanabe - Ultimate Harem Mangaka

Gender: Female

Height: 5′6″

Birthday: July 8th

Likes: Cherry Blossoms

Dislikes: Being called a Fujoshi

Other Affiliations: HeartBeat Publishing

Current Status: Alive

Calm and level-headed, Maemi does not seem like the type to produce such critically acclaimed harem series. Always wishing to be a writer, but being unable to write long stories with one single couple, Maemi began writing harem manga as a way to let her creative muse run wild. She is the leader type and has a strong attitude which helps her keep control of situations where people may succumb to stress which helped her during ...-Missing Data-...She can also feel out of place in her class since she feels her backstory is not as tragic as the other members of her class. Her only true struggle being her bad luck with men. Suppressing tropes, and wishing to make harem manga more beloved by the public, her headstrong attitude is admired by all mangaka across all genres.

Mami Asano - Ultimate Living Doll

Gender: Female

Height: 5′6″

Birthday May 6th

Likes: Bugs

Dislikes: Chaos

Current Status: Alive

Mami Asano was a regular child, albeit living in luxury, up until the age of 6. It was then that her parents began having her undergo multitudes of surgeries done by underground doctors who would be willing to operate such procedures that would be traumatizing and illegal to do to a child. Mami's surgeries continued until her parents had felt she reached the epitome of artificial beauty: a living doll. Mami was trained to be obedient, submissive, and docile - never questioning her parents or making a decision for herself. She was homeschooled and taught things such as classical literature and music, dance, a number of instruments, high class manners, and other things. She is graceful and elegant. Mami was given severe restrictions on what she could eat, say, and do. She attended frequent public and private events - appearing at art shows or attending formal dances and galas. If she wasn't participating in the event like a regular attendant, she was on display either sitting or standing in a glass case perfectly still, or behind a rope in a large faux "dollhouse", going about and interacting with the environment while others watched, and even gave commands so as to "play" with her. Mami was invited to Hope's Peak and was reluctantly given permission to attend by her parents who believed that her attendance was one of the highest honours

Rina Kirishima - Ultimate Taxidermist 

Gender: Female 

Height: 5′1″ 

Birthday: August 1st 

Likes: All kinds of tea 

Dislikes: Her loved ones in distress 

Current Status: Alive

Introduced to the craft of taxidermy by her grandmother, Rina demonstrated a real talent for it. Unfortunately, her talent and meek demeanour caused her to be bullied in middle school and this shattered her self-worth. Believing she was unworthy to be called by her real name, Rina began referring to herself with the acronym “RAM”, standing for “Rina’s Another Mistake” - “Another Mistake” being the nickname given to her by her bullies. With the help of Sakura Oogami at Hope’s Peak Academy, Rina was finally able to grow a love for herself. Not nearly as shy as she was, Rina consistently does her best to spread kindness to everyone she meets. Her loving heart is always open, and she’s not afraid to give out hugs and the occasional nose kiss. She shows a strong will when confronted with a problem, but will try to solve it with as much thoughtfulness as possible. Hardly will she get extremely angry, but a surefire way to make her mad is to threaten the wellbeing of her loved ones. She also takes her pinky-promises rather seriously, and would appreciate them not be broken.

Ryuu Nagata - Ultimate Lucky Student

Gender: Male

Height: 5′8″

Birthday: February 14th

Likes: Katsudon

Dislikes: Grapes

Current Status: Alive

The twin of Sora Nagata and the 79th class’ Ultimate Lucky student. Unlike other lucky students, Ryuu’s luck doesn’t affect him, but rather the people around him. The earliest sign of this was after he was born, his parents had won the lottery which took place the same week, though at the time they had no idea Ryuu was responsible. Originally a meek and shy boy, Ryuu has grown to become the leader of Future Foundation’s 2nd base, albeit not being confident in his abilities as the leader quite yet. 

Sadao Irunami - Ultimate Hypnotist

Gender: Male

Height: 5′6″

Birthday: May 23rd

Likes: Pendulums

Dislikes: Blackouts

Other Affiliations: The Irunami Circus

Current Status: Resurrected

A playful prankster who was a former member of a travelling circus, Sadao learned all he knew from the ringmaster of the circus, his grandfather. He has an impulsive and child-like nature which many can find troublesome though he manages to have his moments of showing off his calculating and selfless side when he wishes to help his friends. When he was young, he no longer wished to be part of the circus and he ran away and became a street performer in Tokyo until Hope’s Peak Academy took notice and asked him to join 79-C.

Saori Kibe - Ultimate Paranormal Investigator

Gender: Female

Height: 5′ 11″

Birthday: June 13

Likes: Conspiracies, the paranormal, and scene aesthetic

Dislikes: Non-believers

Current Status: Alive

Saori genuinely believes she was abducted by aliens and tested on as a toddler. Whether or not this actually happened is unknown. She believes this is why she’s able to interact with the paranormal how she does - and has since been seeking out all the paranormal things she can, helping people with their paranormal problems along the way. She would even travel to different countries and continents. Saori was let into Hope’s Peak as the Ultimate Paranormal Investigator. Saori is a trans girl preferring she/her pronouns, despite her school records saying her dead name and pronouns.

Sly ??? - Ultimate Assassin

Gender: Male

Height: 6’1”

Birthday: July 9th

Likes: Pancakes, Training, Naps

Dislikes: People questioning his abilities

Other Affiliations: ??? Assassin Agency

Current Status: Alive

Having lost both his father and mother, Sly has become the leader of the worlds biggest assassin agency at the age of 18. He has been killing since the young age of 4, making him an extremely experienced fighter. After losing his mother he threw himself into the family business quickly becoming one the top assassins in the business. He wears her dog tag around his neck at all times, which was given to him as a gift from his childhood friend and partner Maki Harukawa. It’s said that his eyes turn from their natural grey to a deep black when filled with rage earning him the name “The Demon Killer” across the Underworld.

Tomoe Hachi - Ultimate Illustionist

Gender: ??? (Goes by They/Them pronouns) 

Height: 5’8” 

Birthday: September 1st 

Likes: Konpeito 

Dislikes: Coffee 

Current Status: Alive 

Tomoe keeps their personal life a mystery. However, they have told people that they’ve simply practiced magic tricks and illusions since they were 4, and may have forgone eating or sleeping for it. They like to keep their mask and magician attire on to hide their physical appearance, except for their hair, which is black, curly and messy. They say that the mysterious aura helps them with their illusions.

Toson Shinko - Ultimate Horror Movie Director

Gender: Male

Height: 6′0″

Birthday: August 30th

Likes: Suspense

Dislikes: Unnecessary Gore

Other Affiliations: Shinko Movie Productions

Current Status: Deceased (As of The Big Bang Arc)

An award winning and genre changing director with a surplus of modern classics, Toson is the most influential director of modern times, even though his reasoning for becoming a director was not in any way inspirational. His father, Shouji Shinko, was a failed horror movie director, and not wishing to be associated with his failures, Toson decided he would create his own horror movies and make a name for himself, separate from his father. Arrogant about his achievements, Toson can be off-putting to people who aren’t used to his blunt words and rude mannerisms, however deep down he can’t stand being around conventionally attractive people as he falls in love easily, nor can he sit by when his friends are hurting.

Tsukiko Ishikawa - Ultimate Thanatologist

Gender: Female

Height: 5′4″

Birthday: August 15th

Likes: Body Farms

Dislikes: Processed Cheese

Current Status: Alive (Thinks of herself as undead)

As a thanatologist, Tsukiko is an expert in all things death: decomposition, rituals, funerals, etc. Similarly, she dresses appropriately in dark clothing. However, in sharp contrast, she's easily one of the most upbeat, cheerful one could meet. While she can come across as weird and creepy, she's really a nice girl. However, her most eccentric quality may be the fact that she believes she's already dead: she suffers from Cotard's Delusion, believing herself to be a walking corpse, even when others point out the inconsistencies in that fact.

Yuuki Kurosaki - Ultimate ??? (Claims of Ultimate Explorer and Ultimate Theorist)

Gender: Male

Height: 6′0″

Birthday: July 1st

Likes: Scrapbooks

Dislikes: Arrows

Current Status: Alive

Travelling from continent to continent, Yuuki Kurosaki is always searching for his next adventure. With credits for discovering hidden temples across the globe and recovering treasure, Yuuki is known among treasure hunters and explorers alike. He loves and values family over everything else, especially admiring his brother Taro. Though he also fears creating bonds with people after...-Data Missing-...occurred, though after he,...-Data Missing-... and two others...-Data Missing-... His personality became more unpredictable.