#bread bag alignment

[kedreeva]

Last night I dreamed I baked banana bread.

But not just any banana bread.

I dreamed that I made the banana bread like normal. But then!

Then I thinned some peanut butter with milk (????) and melted some chocolate and thinned that with milk, too, and then put them into separate baggies, and put those baggies into a third baggie so their corners were all aligned. I cut the overlapping corner to make a squeezy bag like for frosting where they would both come out together but not mixed, and then I dipped the tip of it into the banana bread batter and swirled peanut butter and chocolate into it.

THEN I baked it.

I explained my dream to my neighbor and she gave me bananas and told me to make my dreams come true. So. I'm gonna try it tomorrow.

[mariasont]

CINNAMON BREAD

aaron hotchner meets his new, younger neighbor

pairings: aaron hotchner x intern!reader warnings: fem!reader, neighbors to lovers (eventually), meet cute!, age gap, reader is not an intern (yet!!!! i have a plan maybe kinda), slow-burn romance set up (my go-to), reader loves to info dump wc: 1.2k

Hotch rarely spares a thought for the empty house next door. It’s more scenery than structure, slowly deteriorating with neglect, gutters strangled with fallen leaves and ivy clawing up weathered brick. He keeps the lawn presentable enough to ward off complaints from the neighborhood association, but beyond that, it might as well be a ghost, out of sight, out of mind, pushed aside in favor of more immediate demands.

The house’s former occupant, a mild-mannered elderly woman, had been perfectly agreeable company, never intrusive, always amiable enough to warrant polite nods or the occasional commiseration over Jim’s habitual disregard for modesty behind open blinds across the street. Their relationship, if one could call it that, remained comfortably superficial, never straying into genuine familiarity. And that arrangement suited Hotch entirely, aligning neatly with his preference for clear, intentional boundaries around his personal life.

At the mailbox, Hotch absently flips through the day’s standard collection of bills, takeout menus and coupon sheets that never make it past his front door. His routine is punctuated by the sharp report of a closing car door, redirecting his gaze to the adjacent driveway, now conspicuously filled by a moving truck.

Someone steps out, silhouetted by the syrupy, waning daylight. Hotch’s gaze stays fixed for longer than socially acceptable, he knows better, really, but something holds him in place, knuckles gradually paling around the paper as courtesy battles, and loses, to curiosity.

It’s a girl — no Hotch corrects himself quickly, clearly a young woman — overburdened by two enormous tote bags slung haphazardly over your shoulders and a precarious cardboard box balanced in your arms. You’re muttering hurriedly into a phone tucked awkwardly between your ear and your shoulder, finger fumbling unsuccessfully at the unfamiliar lock.

Your cardigan slips thoughtlessly aside, revealing a smooth sweep of skin at your spine. His eyes dip lower before decency yanks it forcibly upward again, self-reproach prickling beneath his collar.

Young. Far too young, he reminds himself with sober conviction. Possibly still in college. Off-limits in every interpretation of the word.

The door swings inward with sudden force, pitching you forward into a graceless stumble punctuated by a small, startled squeak. His muscles coil, one foot already primed forward in an unnecessary rescue. You regain your balance quickly, arms righting the load without assistance.

Just as he’s about to discreetly look away, your head turns, perhaps intuitively sensing his scrutiny. Perhaps by sheer coincidence, though Hotch doubts it. 

Either way, when your eyes find his, he stills.

You’re unexpectedly — no, almost unreasonably —- beautiful. But even that qualifier feels off, because unexpectedly implies he envisioned this scenario and simply miscalculated. It implies he came to this moment with assumptions. He didn’t. He didn’t even realize he was getting a new neighbor. What he’s feeling now isn’t the failure of prediction. It’s the failure of preparation. And Aaron Hotchner, of all people, does not appreciate feeling unprepared.

Your eyes are a mosaic of shades, elusive and difficult to pinpoint with just one look. He catches himself wanting to pause everything, just to study them long enough to trace every hue until he could paint them from memory. Completely absurd, he thinks, even as golden light brushes in them, revealing more flecks of color, reflections that seem to catch with every movement. That same light skims across your skin now, illuminating every slope and hollow of face that’s uniquely, almost achingly lovely.

“Oh! Hi!” Your face instantly radiates warmth, all traces of momentary confusion rapidly dissolving into sincere, unabashed friendliness. In your hurry to greet him, you quickly set down your belongings, completely oblivious to the thick books tumbling from the box and sprawling across the porch. You rush toward him with enthusiastic, apologetic steps. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t even notice you standing there! I was a little distracted by — well, all that,” you gesture behind you with a laugh. “But anyway, hi!”

“Hi,” Hotch replies slowly, inclining his head toward the house. “I suppose you’re moving in next door?”

“Yes!” you say, immediately extending your hand as you offer your name. “My grandma actually left it to me. Honestly, I’m still processing how much space there is, I mean, it’s just me. But isn’t it beautiful? It’s a Craftsman bungalow, built around 1915. They were actually part of the Arts and Crafts movement, celebrating handmade work instead of mass production. See how they used wood and stone to blend in? And the open floor plans were supposed to encourage family interaction, which…” You pause, glancing at the porch, smiling sheepishly. “Well, saying that aloud does make the size a bit ironically excessive for one person, doesn’t it?”

His brows raise as he takes your hand, the sheer velocity of your speech catching him off guard. He doesn’t interrupt, just listens, half-curious if you’ll come up for air. He’s not sure you notice how fast you’re going.

The gentleness of your hand startles him. Warm and smooth, untouched by the rugged imperfections he has come to view as unavoidable companions of experience. No scar tissue, no marks, no wounds.

His hand, by comparison, is rough-hewn, textured from relentless repetition, the practiced grip of a Glock 17, calluses hardened on a firing range. There’s a white scar slicing across the space between thumb and forefinger, evidence of a blade and a bad angle, just one of many, others tucked beneath shirtsleeves or hidden by the waistband of his trousers. 

He’s never minded it until now, never even considered it worth nothing, but now, with your hand is his, he’s aware of just how easily his grip could bruise and mar your unblemished perfection.

“Aaron Hotchner.”

“Oh! You’re that Mr. Hotchner! My grandma always mentioned you, she said you were her very serious, very polite neighbor with suits straight out of a fashion magazine.” You pause. “I hope that wasn’t weird to say out loud.”

“No, not weird at all.” He huffs a small laugh. “Though, I’m not sure I’ve ever thought of my suits as fashion magazine material. Your grandma was being very generous.”

That response prompts an instant smile, one that seems to flood your face with such beauty he can hardly bear to look directly at it. He really needs to go inside.

“She was generous, but also pretty accurate,” you say, redirecting your attention toward the tidy row of houses along the street. “I hope everyone else around here is as nice as she made you sound. Any neighborhood secrets I should know?”

“I can’t say there are many secrets,” he admits, “but I’d suggest being careful if you value privacy, news travels fast here, especially if you accidentally leave your recycling bin out a day too long.”

“Oh no, that’s exactly the kind of secret I needed to know,” you laugh, placing a hand over your heart. “My recycling bin and I have a very complicated relationship. I’ll try not to scandalize everyone my first week.” You glance quickly at the boxes behind you. “I won’t keep you any longer, though. It was lovely meeting you, Mr. Hotchner. Hopefully I’ll see you around, preferably not on recycling day.”

Hotch watches as you step away, already immersing yourself in the scattered array of boxes awaiting your attention. 

The stretch between your front door and his is hardly more than ten paces, yet the distance suddenly feels different — lengthened somehow, or perhaps strangely diminished. He isn’t quite sure which it is. 

Closing the door behind him, he releases a breath. For the first time in recent memory, the quiet solitude of his home feels insufficient, as though he’s listening without fully meaning to, for the sound of another presence just beyond his walls.

[deerdoegone]

LOVE INTEREST TYPOLOGY, TWO.

I JUST THREW OUT THE LOVE OF MY DREAMS looking for inspiration for your love interest? maybe you have a fandom-based significant other you want to fit your dr better, or maybe you want to start from scratch and create your own significant other? feel free to use this for yourself or even friends, but this held romantic intentions and was requested.

these are all best for whatever you would like but i see them more commonly in small towns, romcoms, and high school / college realities. geeky articulation with a shy, low, or demotivated social aspect, quirky and humorous when they finally open up. keeper of messenger bags and rectangular glasses, brown converse and silly socks. are you copper and tellurium? because you're cute! get it? no? tough crowd... these things make me think of the following tropes and character labels. THE NERD. THE ACADEMIC ATHLETE. GUY NEXT DOOR. THE CLOSET GEEK.

FACE CLAIMS. marcus scribner. algee smith. justice smith. xu minghao. jordan gonzalez. aramis knight. anirudh pisharody. j.q. quintel. dane dehaan. sam marin. jordan fisher. elliot fletcher. 2000s matthew lilard. 2000s jared padalecki. matthew gray gubler. chidi anagonye. danny pudi. paul dano. cory michael smith. matt bennett.devon bostick, as always. dev patel. freddy carter. tyler james williams. mark eydelshteyn.ivan mok. frank waln. bayardo de murguia. tokala black elk. dakota beavers. phillip bread. tom holland. josh o'connor. lakeith stanfield. daniel kaluuya. lil rel howery. alfred enoch. literally any man who has played spiderman. asia jackson. halle bailey. lola tung. storm reid. emily alabi. kylee russell. minnie mills. maitreyi ramakrishnan. lee joo-won / jooe. reina triendl. tomoko kawase. jazz jennings. amita suman. won minji. amber midthunder. anya taylor joy. ayo edibiri. ayesha madon. ashley argota. billie lourd. benedetta gargari. belissa escobedo. zion moreno. zhou dongyu. margaret qualley. nicole kidman. katheryn winnick. grace van dien. birgundi baker. bailey bass. lee jinsook. tiffany meia. thaddea graham. rio uchida. sheena lim. ramona young. 2000s america ferrera. park so dam. neelam gil. cierra ramirez. haskiri velazquez. doechii. eva noblezada. isabella lovestory is perfect for the closet geek.

PERSONALITY TRAITS. witty. clever. intelligent. incentive. original. aloof. responsible. patient. ambitious. resourceful. loyal. genuine. honest. open-minded. introverted. determined. esthetic. humorous. optimistic. idealistic. committed. carefree. daring. friendly. quiet. shy. strong individualism. thoughtful. well-mannered. unafraid to state their own ideas and opinions. sweet. good-natured. maybe even confident or brave. cutely awkward. analytic. empathetic. driven to do what's right. traits i think align more with the closet geek instead of all tropes are charming. bold. admirable. lively. romantic. leader. debonair. daring. friendly. fun-loving. hedonistic. suave. optimistic. self-reliant. fierce. sociable. idolized. center of attention.

HOBBIES AND HABITS. collecting, maybe comic books or action figures. coding. programming. cinephilia. hacking. reading. board games. cosplay. some form of art, such as drawing or ceramics. video games. photography. studying/researching. puzzles. lego building. something with science or math. blogging. fashion or robotics design. playing some sort of instrument, like the piano. table tennis. scrapbooking. repairing or building electronics. speedsolving.

LOVE LANGUAGES. words of affirmation. resting their lips against your lip, not necessarily kissing. hand holding under desks. puppy dog eyes when they really want to hang out with you. telling you all about their interests and teaching you the rules to their favorite board games. weird, but reading wiki articles together—trust me. melting every time you kiss them. quality time. the whole smiling and giddy attitude when you get mentioned or they get to see you soon. prank wars, but not the obnoxious ones youtubers do nowadays.

POSSIBLE AESTHETICS. for the closet geek, i think of baddie. 2000s party girl. indie sleaze. bloghouse. britpop. mcbling. succubus chic. agejo. kurogal. shoe diva. in general, i think of nerd/geek. prep. office siren. all forms of academia. supernatural (tv show) is an aesthetic if you believe in it hard enough. balletcore. amekaji. twee. kogal. scene. indie. tweemo. related pinboard.

[soleauclub]

It-Girl Glow-Up Series: Feminine Hygiene Tips That Your Big Sis in 2007 Would Give You

by Soleau Club / www.soleauclub.com

It’s 2007. Your older sister is blasting Cassie’s “Me & U” while flat-ironing her side bangs, chewing bubblegum, and giving you the ultimate big sis advice on staying fresh, cute, and confident. This guide is that, but better organized for your inner checklist queen. Because hot girls stay clean, soft, and glowing from head to toe (and yes, down there too).

Your Prettiest Feminine Hygiene Checklist

Daily Routine

☐ Shower daily: always with warm water, not scorching hot

☐ Use an unscented feminine wash or just warm water for your lady parts (the vagina is self-cleaning, but the vulva needs love)

☐ Gently pat dry with a clean towel, never rub

☐ Apply a light, alcohol-free body lotion after showering

☐ Change into clean, breathable undies every day (cotton is queen)

☐ Wash your face morning and night. No skipping!

☐ Use a tongue scraper + brush twice daily (your breath should whisper vanilla, not garlic bread)

☐ Reapply deodorant if you’re running around all day

Period Prep

☐ Keep a cute little pouch with pads/tampons/panty liners in your bag

☐ Change your pad or tampon every 4 to 6 hours max

☐ Wipe front to back, always

☐ Use a fragrance-free feminine wipe if you want to freshen up

☐ Don’t push through cramps. Heating pads, herbal teas, and naps are self-care

☐ Track your cycle. Knowing your body = power

Smelling Sweet Without Doing Too Much

☐ Use a mild, sweet-scented body wash (nothing too strong or synthetic)

☐ Dab perfume on pulse points: behind ears, wrists, inner elbows, behind knees

☐ Clean behind your ears, under your boobs, between toes

☐ Wash your hair regularly (oily scalp = greasy smell)

☐ Refresh shoes with baby powder or a quick spritz of spray

☐ Carry travel-size body mist + breath spray in your purse

Laundry & Pajama Girl Tips

☐ Change your sheets and pillowcases every week

☐ Sleep in soft, clean pajamas (no outside clothes in bed!)

☐ Wash your towels and washcloths every 2 to 3 uses

☐ Air dry your bras or use a delicates bag. Stretched out bras = no support

Your Big Sis’s Glow-Up Advice

She would say this while putting on lip gloss:

✨ “You’re not high-maintenance, you’re well-maintained.”

✨ “Don’t wait until you stink lol prevention is the move.”

✨ “Carry gum, wipes, deodorant, and confidence. Always.”

✨ “If you’re clean and comfy, your energy is unstoppable.”

✨ “Good hygiene isn’t just hot, it’s respectful to yourself.”

Your It-Girl Hygiene Kit (aka what to toss in your Target cart)

✔️ Unscented feminine wash

✔️ Cucumber or vanilla body mist

✔️ Sensitive skin baby wipes

✔️ Disposable or washable panty liners

✔️ A cute pink tongue scraper

✔️ Travel-size deodorant

✔️ Satin shower cap

✔️ Body lotion (bonus points if it smells like cupcakes)

✔️ Period pouch with your faves

✔️ A mini perfume rollerball

Your 3-Month Summer Rebrand Project is a full-on glow-up journey designed to help you completely reinvent yourself: mind, body, energy, and lifestyle.

Inside, you’ll get:

✨ 84 daily lessons to guide your transformation step-by-step

📝 Journal prompts every day to help you reflect, heal, and realign

💅 Daily hot girl activities that align with each lesson — so you’re actually living your rebrand, not just thinking about it

📓 A 40+ page printable or iPad-friendly workbook packed with:

• Lifestyle trackers

• Glow-up planning pages

• Goal-setting templates

• Customizable tools to support your level-up

💻 A fully interactive xTiles digital template (think: a more aesthetic, user-friendly version of Notion), designed to help you:

• Customize your digital space with your own colors + style

• Organize your rebrand process in the chicest way possible

• Track your progress and build your dream routines

Best part?

✨ Both the workbook + xTiles template are yours to keep forever.

So even after the 3 months are over, you’ll still have the tools to keep evolving and reinventing yourself on your terms.

You’re not just becoming a new version of you.

You’re becoming the real you.

Join before 6/1 and get it for only 66 cents a day. That’s less than your daily iced matcha. Link here.

[mariacallous]

Every morning, a line forms at about six outside the Church of St. Francis of Assisi, on West Thirty-first Street, near Penn Station, as it has done (with a few exceptions) since 1930; on average, there are two hundred and fifty people, mostly men in various states of need. At seven, a bell is rung and meal bags—people can choose from oatmeal, fruit, a sandwich, nuts, juice, and coffee—are distributed by half a dozen volunteers standing at folding tables set up on the sidewalk. The food is provided by a group called Franciscan Bread for the Poor, which is aligned with the church but operates independently and is funded entirely by private donations. It’s the sort of face-to-face “work of mercy” that Pope Francis has advocated throughout his pontificate, inspired by the example of the medieval saint whom he chose as his namesake.

I was there earlier this month, invited by a friend who volunteers one morning a week, between his arrival at Penn Station, on New Jersey Transit, and the beginning of his workday in the Flatiron District. Not long after, he sent me a cellphone video, posted by the Italian daily Corriere della Sera, which showed Francis paying a surprise visit to St. Peter’s Basilica, two and a half weeks after his release from the hospital. The Pope was in a wheelchair, as he generally has been during the past year, but he was wearing black pants and a white shirt rather than his white papal vestments, and he had a striped blanket over his shoulders to ward off the spring chill. “Feels like an end,” my friend commented. Those two scenes—of an ailing Pope, and of the long-standing Catholic commitment to helping the vulnerable—point to the two dominant stories of Catholicism in the United States, which have converged in the weeks leading up to Easter.

The more obvious story is that of the Pope’s health. Francis, who is eighty-eight, was rushed from the Vatican to Gemelli Hospital, on February 14th, with bronchitis in both lungs. Cardinal Timothy Dolan, the Archbishop of New York, said that the Pope was “probably close to death.” But crowds of the devout held nightly recitations of the Rosary in St. Peter’s Square, and he was finally discharged on Sunday, March 23rd, after thirty-eight days. He gave a thumbs-up to a waiting crowd and was taken to the Casa Santa Marta, the guesthouse where he lives. Two weeks later, he appeared unexpectedly in St. Peter’s Square (using a breathing apparatus), and the following Wednesday he received King Charles and Queen Camilla. On Palm Sunday, the Vatican released a video of Francis praying and greeting a few well-wishers at St. Peter’s. He looked better than he had in the video my friend had sent three days earlier. Still, the relief over Francis’s survival hasn’t dispelled questions of whether he is able to lead the Church at a critical moment—or whether he should follow the precedent set by his predecessor, Benedict XVI, and resign the papacy, making way for a healthier man.

The other story is that of the abrupt cessation of the U.S. Conference of Catholic Bishops’ program for the resettlement of migrants and refugees, announced in a Washington Post opinion piece this past Monday, by Archbishop Timothy Broglio, the current president of the conference. The bishops have run the operation with government funding since 1980, building on more than half a century of similar efforts funded by other means. The closure is a recent development in a conflict involving the Church’s efforts to aid people in need and the funding of those efforts by the federal government, which has played out since Inauguration Day. In an interview on CBS’s “Face the Nation,” on January 26th, Vice-President J. D. Vance, a Catholic convert, accused the bishops of operating their refugee-resettlement programs, supported in part by federal funding, in order to make money. Over the next two weeks, the Trump Administration began gutting U.S.A.I.D., a principal funder of Catholic Relief Services’ efforts to help migrants and refugees, prompting C.R.S.’s president to announce impending layoffs and a reduction in services. Vance, speaking with Sean Hannity on Fox, sought to justify the Administration’s actions in Catholic terms. On February 10th, in a rare public letter to the bishops, which included an implicit rebuke of Vance, Pope Francis urged them to continue their work with refugees. When he took ill, four days later, public attention shifted away, but the conflict remained unresolved. The bishops sued the government, challenging its “suspension of funding for the refugee assistance programs we have run for decades.” A federal judge ruled against them, maintaining that a contractual dispute was beyond his court’s purview, and the bishops have appealed.

The situation suggests the precarity of a Church led by an ailing pontiff and put under pressure to accommodate itself to a government’s way of doing things. In January, Cardinal Dolan gave an opening prayer at President Trump’s Inauguration, as he’d done eight years earlier. On February 19th—the day after the bishops filed their lawsuit—I attended a press event organized to highlight the New York archdiocese’s work with migrants and refugees through its social-services organization, Catholic Charities. I asked Dolan if he had spoken with the President about the matter of migrants and refugees. He said that he had: “I like to reassure him that, if he’s looking for an organization and for a community of people who would want true immigration reform, who would want secure borders, and would want dangerous people in our country not to be here anymore, he’s going to find allies. And I’ve also mentioned that if you want to kind of dramatically and radically alter the magnificent history of the benevolent approach that this great country has had to offering hospitality to the immigrant—that, to us, is not only against our religion, it’s against our patriotism and our sense of what America is all about.”

When I asked Dolan if he had spoken with Trump about the issue lately, he replied, “He’s got my number; I don’t have his,” drawing laughs. But, if given the chance, “I’d say, ‘Thanks for the good work that you’re doing, there’s some things we’re concerned about,’ ” he said. “We do worry about a caricature of all immigrants as ruthless and dangerous and bad for the United States, where the overwhelming majority of immigrants have been a positive boost to this nation. He knows that: our First Lady is an immigrant—our beautiful First Lady was a refugee, from Slovenia.” Melania Trump actually came to the U.S. to pursue her modelling career, but this was vintage Dolan, using jokey self-deprecation to disavow his proximity to state power and to scant the authority vested in him as archbishop. Surely the man who heads the Catholic Church in the largest city in the nation (where nearly forty per cent of the population is foreign-born), and who maintains a cordial relationship with the President, might be expected to press the case harder.

Dolan’s timidity in February presaged the decision of the bishops’ conference to wind down the refugee program in April, apparently without any attempt to sustain it independently. In the Washington Post piece, Archbishop Broglio framed the program’s demise as a fait accompli. “The federal government’s suspension of refugee resettlement programs,” he wrote, “has made it too difficult for the bishops’ conference to continue operating our resettlement agency. In the past, when government funds did not cover the full cost of these and other care programs, they were generously supported by the faithful. However, the work simply cannot be sustained at current levels or in its current form with only the church’s resources.” He did not explain why this meant that the program had to be shut down altogether, but added that he was “praying for the impacted refugees,” and vowed that the Church would “find new means” to help people in need.

Michael Sean Winters, writing in the National Catholic Reporter, posed the questions that the archbishop left unanswered: “Was there no thought given to meeting with Catholic philanthropists to keep at least some of the work going? Was there any discussion about having an emergency second collection as we do when some disaster strikes? Were bishops scheduled for the Sunday talk shows to make the case for maintaining government contracts with religious groups to help these desperate people?” (Asked to address those questions, Chieko Noguchi, the spokesperson for the bishops’ conference, noted that there is “a special collection that aids in the various projects and efforts supported by the USCCB, including our office of Migration & Refugee Services.”) Broglio’s vagueness invited some suspicion that the bishops had acted as they did to avoid conflict with the federal government while they are in litigation with it; to stay in its good graces as the Supreme Court considers a case involving government funding for a Catholic charter school in Oklahoma, which could radically redraw the lines between religion and public education; or just to avoid the vexed work of opposing a vengeful and capricious chief executive. The vagueness was underscored in the Catholic Standard, the newspaper of the Archdiocese of Washington, where the auxiliary bishop Evelio Menjivar, a native of El Salvador, invoking the example of Saint Óscar Romero, urged readers to abandon their “silence . . . or even approval” of the federal government’s policies and instead “demand that the government respect human dignity.”

Under the circumstances, the morning meal service outside St. Francis of Assisi—with its volunteers, private donors, and formal independence—serves as a reminder that there is another way to give aid to people in need. The Breadline, as it’s called, predates F.D.R.’s New Deal, which set the template for many government-administered social services. Dorothy Day, who, with Peter Maurin, founded the Catholic Worker Movement, in Manhattan, in 1933—a movement that eventually consisted of newspapers, soup kitchens, houses of hospitality, and centers of nonviolent resistance—was wary of the New Deal on the ground that it assigned to the government works that ought to be performed as “a personal sacrifice,” and she rejected nonprofit, tax-exempt status for the Catholic Worker, lest it inhibit the movement’s ability to oppose wars and state-sponsored injustice. Certainly, countless people have benefitted from the vast social-service efforts that the Catholic Church has carried out with government funds. But we are now seeing, in the U.S. bishops’ capitulation, the wisdom of Day’s position and the limits of their leadership at a time when the Pope is unable to step in and affirm the Church’s commitments in strong terms—that is, to lead.

That may be the situation of the Church as a whole. The Vatican press office has confirmed that Francis is continuing to work during his recuperation, which is due to last two months. But the question remains: Is Francis healthy enough to lead the Church? The Italian historian Alberto Melloni suggested that the very question of resignation is an impertinence: “Those who say that he will not resign cannot know; those who say that he should resign talk about things that are not within their competence.” A doctor who treated the Pope at Gemelli predicted that he would recover “if not to 100%” then to “90% of where he was before.” Most close observers of the Church whom I’ve spoken with say that Francis shouldn’t resign the papacy as long as he is of sound mind. Their reasons vary. “He still has work to do.” “He will know when the time is right.” “The right wing wants him dead”—and a resignation would invite the Catholic right to seize the authoritarian moment and press for the election of a neo-traditionalist Pope who could join Viktor Orbán, Giorgia Meloni, and Donald Trump in championing an emergent Christian nationalism in the West.

That all may be true, but it’s also possible to foresee a scenario in which Francis, reaching a limit in his recuperation, initiates a tactful and elegant transition. At this point, he has appointed nearly four-fifths of the cardinals who will elect his successor, and, in the past two Octobers, the Synod on Synodality has enabled many of them to get to know one another better prior to an eventual conclave. This fall will also be the sixtieth anniversary of the conclusion of the Second Vatican Council, which shaped the Church as it exists today. In this scenario, Francis would serve through the summer and resign on October 4th, the day of the feast of St. Francis of Assisi. The cardinals would then come to Rome for a series of meetings, then enter the conclave to elect a successor to Francis—probably within a few days, if recent conclaves are any indication. The next Pope would be installed in time for the new liturgical year, which will begin with Advent, on Sunday, November 30th, and carry the Jubilee celebrations through to next January. Francis, for his part, would look on from the Casa Santa Marta, having shown confidence in the Church as a whole through his willingness to cede power to a colleague more fully able to exercise it.

[xuchiya]

tug in the heart || jung wooyoung || one-shot

| genre: fluff. slice of life. enemies-to-lovers- kind of trope. office kind of trope. | mentions: wooyoung being a tease. teasing.

this is wooyoung's version of yeosang's one-shot.

Monday has passed, and now it’s 4:30 in the afternoon—every employee is clocking out, and so are you. The office hums with quiet chatter, the rhythmic tapping of keyboards filling the air as the late sun filters through the blinds. You stretch in your chair, glancing at the clock. Almost there.

Grabbing your bag, you leave your laptop and charger on your desk, planning to squeeze in another hour of work before heading home. You move around your cubicle when—

"Yah, are you really gonna leave like that?"

A familiar, mischievous voice cuts through your thoughts. Your eyelids flutter shut for a brief moment as you inhale deeply, already bracing yourself. You don’t even have to turn around to know who it is.

Jung Wooyoung. The walking chaos of your intern group. Ever since you joined the company as a UI/UX Designer intern, he’s made it his mission to get on your nerves. He takes the smallest opportunity to nitpick your designs—“That’s not aligned,” “The shade is slightly off,” “Are you colorblind?”—all just to push your buttons.

And, of course, you don’t let him win. If he’s annoying, then you’re his worst nightmare. You still take pride in the time you designed an interface so "user-friendly" that even he, a software developer, admitted it was complicated.

Let’s just say, the war never ends.

You roll your eyes and finally turn to face him. “Like what?”

Wooyoung leans against your desk, arms crossed, that signature smirk playing on his lips. The one that says he’s up to something. “With that tail of yours, of course.”

You blink, confused—until you feel a slight tug at your ID lace. It had become your habit to always leave your ID hanging on the back of your pocket jeans. Your breath hitches not because you were caught but because he’s holding it between his fingers, twirling the end like it’s the most amusing thing in the world.

“Seriously?” you deadpan, reaching to snatch it back. But he’s faster—of course he is. With a playful flick of his wrist, he yanks it just enough to make you stumble forward—straight into him.

Your hands instinctively press against his chest, the warmth beneath his shirt making your heart stutter. For a moment, the world stops.

Wooyoung tilts his head, clearly enjoying your flustered state. “Woah there, no need to fall for me so fast.”

Your face burns. You shove at his shoulder, scowling. “You’re insufferable.”

“But entertaining.” He wiggles his brows. “And you love it.”

“You wish.”

“Same thing.”

The bickering doesn’t stop as you both step out of the office, the cool evening air welcoming you. The food park a few steps away is already alive with customers, the scent of sizzling meat and freshly baked bread lingering in the air.

You pull out your phone, typing a quick message in the group chat: Stepping out to grab dinner with Wooyoung. Pray for my patience.

The moment you glance up, Wooyoung tugs at your ID lace again.

“Would you—” Before you can finish, he pulls just hard enough to throw off your balance. You stumble forward—

—straight into the path of a passing server.

Your eyes widen as the tray tilts, drinks wobbling precariously. Your body tenses, bracing for the inevitable disaster—

But it never comes.

Wooyoung is faster. His arm shoots out, steadying the tray just in time before it spills. The server exhales in relief, muttering a quick “Thanks,” before rushing off.

You, on the other hand, whirl on Wooyoung, heart still racing from the near disaster. “Are you serious?! Were you actually trying to embarrass me?” Your face heats up, a mix of frustration and lingering shame bubbling up. “Is this your way of taking things to the next level?!”

At first, he laughs—because to him, it had just been a joke. A harmless, stupid joke. But the second he sees the look on your face, the way your shoulders are stiff, your eyes glaring but also a little unsure—his laughter fades.

His expression softens, and before you can react, he tugs at your ID lace with a light flick, shaking his head. “Didn’t think you’d get that worked up,” he murmurs, almost to himself. Then, with a crooked smile, “Hey, you didn’t actually fall, right? ‘Cause I got you.”

Something in his voice—something quieter, almost careful—makes your breath catch. His teasing is still there, but it’s gentler now, laced with something else.

And then, just like that, he’s back to being Wooyoung. He lets go of your ID lace with a smirk and stuffs his hands into his pockets. “Seriously though,” he muses, “That guy is rushing and you weren't paying attention. Be careful. Can’t have you getting dragged away by your own ID.”

The ridiculousness of it should make you roll your eyes, but instead, your heart does an embarrassing little flip.

Before you can think of something witty to fire back, Wooyoung moves closer—closer than necessary. With zero hesitation, he slings an arm over your shoulders, his warmth seeping through your sleeve as he steers you toward the food stalls.

“Alright, alright,” he drawls, voice dipping into something undeniably sweet. “I was a little mean, so let me make it up to you. My treat. Anything you want.”

You narrow your eyes at him, suspicious. “Anything?”

He grins, tilting his head. “Anything,” he repeats, gaze warm, teasing—just softer now.

Jung Wooyoung was still trouble. Just… a different kind of trouble.

[alwritey-aphrodite]

2. Fresh Fruit with Sirius Black

2025 Summer Blurbs

Every time Sirius thinks he can’t possibly fall more in love with you, he’s been proven wrong. This is no small feat, given that he already loves you an absurd amount, but you manage to pull it off almost every single day at least twice.

Today, it’s because of fruit.

For the past few weeks, all you’ve been wanting to do is go to the farmer’s market to pick up some fresh produce and maybe some nicer bread than what you typically get while grocery shopping. Your schedules didn’t align with the hours of the market until this morning, and you were practically vibrating with excitement the entire time the two of you were walking around.

Stopping at almost every stall, you’d bought way more fruit than you ever have before, and part of Sirius wants to remind you that there’s only two of you and an impossible amount of fruit, but you’re simply too happy. You glow with it, and what kind of person would he be to crush your spirit with logic.

Arms aching from the heavy bags by the time you finally plop them down in the kitchen, you immediately set about prepping the fruit, washing and drying and cutting it just right to make it last as long as possible.

“We might have gotten a bit too much,” you confess sheepishly as you pull out yet another container of blueberries. But, in your defense, you hadn’t bought blueberries in such a long time because the ones in the grocery store had all looked a little gross for the past few weeks, and you know they’re Sirius’ favorite.

“Well, we can always find some recipes to use them up if we think we can’t eat them all,” Sirius offers, and his heart rate ticks up when you pause in your washing to look over and smile at him. You look at him like that at least a hundred times a day, and every time he feels like he’s going to explode with affection, you’re just so perfect.

Sitting at the kitchen table, Sirius watches you work, careful and gentle and sure with your movements. He’d help, he’d jump at the chance to help you, but you like doing this alone, like settling into the monotony and letting the minutes float by.

He watches as you prep all the blueberries, and then the strawberries, which are admittedly some of the most perfect looking berries he’s seen in his entire life. Cherries and peaches come next, and then you’re dumping out what appears to be a mountain of blackberries.

“Blackberries?” He asks, as if he’s not sitting and watching you work like a complete creep.

“Mhm,” you just hum in response as you start your process.

“But you don’t like blackberries?” His statement comes out more like a question, his brain all fogged and fuzzed and not quite working properly.

“But you do,” you counter, not bothering to look over at what you’re sure is Sirius’ brain exploding. No matter how long you’ve been together, you going out of your way to do nice things for him always threatens to blow his mind, he just can’t quite wrap his head around someone so lovely and perfect and sweet doing something just for him.

And as you wash and dry and put away the blackberries with the rest of your haul, Sirius just watches, still unable to say anything as his brain tries to make sense of your seemingly unending sweetness. This is when he falls a little more in love, something he never thought possible, as you struggle to fit all the fruit in the fridge.

[ohhevans]

the structural integrity of a courtyard

another ficlet based on a parlie collab added to marginalia in a well-loved manuscript

Lily loves the courtyard but she loves it most when it is quiet, and that is a rare thing because everyone loves the courtyard and that means that it is never quiet. It is especially unlikely to be quiet at times like these: May days and April afternoons, early mid-mornings in early June, times when cloud-breaks align with class-breaks and the sun makes a real effort at warming stone and kissing skin. It is almost never quiet when Lily wishes it were quiet the most, except today the universe has granted her a little gift in the form of an empty and quiet courtyard. It’s not warm but it’s also not cold; it’s pleasant enough in the sun that Lily lets her robes fall open and rolls her stockings to her ankles so the dappled sunlight can leave dappled kisses on her legs. The stone of the archway where she’s sitting has been baking all morning long and so it’s warm against her back, and there’s no breeze to disrupt the stillness and the quiet.

In May, the flowers are starting to bloom and the shrubs that line the walls are looking greener than they have in months and summer feels like a possibility again. As she sits and reads her book—One Hundred Years of Solitude, which she found in the Muggle bookstore in Hogsmeade, of all places—the ivy that is climbing the column behind her reaches out to tickle her cheek.

“Hello again,” Lily murmurs, glancing in its direction without moving her head. “It’s nice to see you, too.”

It tugs on her hair in response and then twines down her arm and to her wrist, turns the page just as she finishes the last word and then takes up residence on the corner of the page as a paperweight; Lily lightly touches a leaf in thanks, hums softly and returns to her paragraph. It is quiet and it stays that way for some time yet, the tendril of ivy turning the page when Lily is ready for the next and Lily turning her face just slightly to the right to catch the sun as it moves across the sky.

“Hey sweet thang—fuck!”  

“Jesus!”

Lily yelps and snaps her book shut as James Potter, who has hopped up on the ledge of the adjacent archway and swung himself around while clinging to the column between them for support, vastly misjudges his own velocity and goes tumbling to the flagstone of the colonnade. He hits the ground with an oof! in a tangle of limbs and messenger bag; Lily definitely hears a bottle of ink shatter, or possibly his glasses, maybe both.

“The name’s James, actually,” he says, rolling onto his back and looking up at her. “But Jesus is close enough, I s’pose.”

“Do you even know who Jesus is?” Lily asks.

“The bloke with the bread and the fishes and the wine,” James says. “Allegedly came back from the dead—I’m curious how that happened, frankly, given necromancy is impossible, and, in the event that someone does figure it out, it’s been made preemptively illegal—”

“What are you doing?” Lily interrupts.

“Telling you about the Necromancy Laws of 1726,” James says. “What are you doing?”

“No, I meant what are you doing?” She asks, gesturing towards the column around which he’d so gracefully swung, and then to the spot where he’s so ungracefully getting up off the ground.

“Testing the structural integrity of the courtyard,” he says, patting the column firmly. “I’m doing a public service, keeping my fellow Hogwart-ians safe and all.”

“Is that so?” Lily asks, dryly.

“It can be extremely dangerous, sitting in an archway with structurally unsound supports,” he says, folding his arms and leaning against the column with his shoulder. “You’re lucky I was here to test it, who knows what could have happened?”

“Something dreadful, no doubt,” Lily says, fighting a smile.

“Something dreadful indeed,” James says with a solemn nod. “Anyway, this should really be your job, given you’re a prefect. I’m just being a Good Samaritan.”

“Testing the structural integrity of the courtyard falls under my responsibilities as a prefect, does it?”

“Someone has to ensure the safety of the castle and all its residents, Evans,” James says, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “This place is old as dirt, didn’t you hear the Hat back in September? It said Hogwarts was founded over a thousand years ago, we’re probably well overdue for a building inspection. I mean, look at the state of the place. I’ve seen parts of this castle crumble, like the wall between those two dungeons in the East wing. What if the courtyard is next?”

“Funny,” Lily says, “I seem to remember you and Sirius having something to do with that wall between those two dungeons. What was it, again?”

“Besides the point,” James says, waving a hand airily. “A truly structurally sound wall wouldn’t have given way so easily.”

“What’s your assessment of my archway, then?” Lily asks. “Am I safe?”

“Seems so,” he says, assessing the column and the archway, rapping a few times with his knuckles and looking closely at a spot where two stones come together. “But it’s hard to be sure—these things are known to crumble in the presence of pretty girls, you know.”

“And what about when there’s a messy-haired, bespectacled prat in the vicinity?” Lily teases. “Might he contribute to the structural failings of an archway when he goes swinging around its support?”

“The contrary, actually,” James says, grinning. “If my observations prove correct, such a messy-haired, bespectacled prat would cancel it out. Would you look at that? The threat’s been neutralized—I told you, you were lucky I was here.”

“I am lucky,” Lily says.

She means it, is the thing. It’s May and she means it; she’s been unlucky for a lot of the past eleven months—Sev, her father her sister, Mary, everything else that has come between those pillars of poor luck that marked the age of sixteen—but it seems that perhaps her luck has turned of late. Maybe seventeen is her lucky number; or maybe she’s started looking for the lucky moments amidst the unlucky—like her moment of quiet, which James Potter has now interrupted in that way he has, but that doesn’t feel like a stroke of bad luck so much as the opposite. She was enjoying the quiet, and James is generally incompatible with quiet, but a quiet courtyard on a May day feels wrong, anyway.

“I hope I didn’t interrupt,” James says, gesturing at the book in her lap. “Well, I did,” he amends, “but I hope my interruption wasn’t unwelcome. It probably was, actually, but I hope it wasn’t a grievous offense.”

“It wasn’t,” Lily says, stretching her legs out in the sun and pointing her feet. “Unwelcome or grievous, I mean. You quite possibly saved my life, remember?”

“I’d say likely, even,” James says, “and I’d do it again in a heartbeat.”

[addisonneedshelp]

You Belong To Me

M!Tiefling x F!Reader

I sat on the couch staring at the ceiling and thought about the last few months I was now a married woman to a man my parents had set me up with in a matter of five months. Thyil was not a bad man he was just distant he didn't talk much to me and when he did he was a man of few words. I huffed and got up and decided to stop and make dinner for once. I got up and walked to the kitchen and started making a basic chicken Alfredo with garlic bread. I put some music on and got to work and lost myself in the calming activity.

I was half way through dinner when i heard the door unlock and saw Thyil walk in his light purple skin and his deep purple horns sticking out of his skin as he set his keys in a bowl on the counter and his bag on a bench. His tail wrapped around his thigh he didn't seem to notice me at first but he seemed to smell the food and looked up and i watched his pupils dilate and he licked his lips. "how was work" i said watching him "it was stressful" he piped up never taking his eyes off me "is dinner almost ready". "yeah, just give me like ten more minutes". He nodded and continued to watch me his gaze unwavering. I finished dinner and set it on the table and we ate it in peace he enjoyed it i could tell his tail swished back and forth lazily and his ears twitched "thank you" "it's no problem" i smiled.

After dinner i cleared the table and cleaned and i washed the dishes and felt something creep behind me. Thyil came behind me and caged me in gently. "you know i really appreciate what you did" he said brushing some stray hair behind my ear. I flush "it's nothing really" "no i insist" he brushes the hair away from my neck and kisses my neck softly. i take a sharp breath in and calmly dry my hands and turn around to face him. "Thyil what are you doing" i tried to breath calmly he smiled "god you being my little fucking housewife turns me on all i can think about is just fucking you, your my wife and i want to make sure you never forget that" he groans and presses me close and i can feel something hard being pressed against me as he kisses and nibbles my neck. I inhale sharply as he grinds against me slowly "i want you my little wife I've always wanted you". I nod and lift his head and kiss his lips softly I wanted to make this marriage work. Thyil kissed me back and grabbed my hips and grounded me against him slipping his tongue into my mouth. "I want you too Thyill" That was all he needed as he picked me up and walked me over to our bedroom. He laid me on the bed and kicked off his shoes and took his belt off and crawled on top of me attacking my lips. I moaned into his mouth as his hand explored my body. It slipped under my shirt and fished out my breast from my bra and played with my nipple. I took off my shirt quickly wanting to get rid of all the layers and started unbuttoning his. "Someone is eager" he teased as he unclasped my bra and massaged my breasts. I took off my skirt leaving me in my black panties and he smiled and slipped his hand underneath them. He dipped his hand in my wetness and i moaned "such a good wife all ready to take me" he circled my clit slowly and i squirmed but he held me still as he whispered praises in my ear. I felt the knot building in my stomach "Faster Thyil Please" he smiled and quickened his pace and i panted heavily and he kissed my neck enjoying watching me coming undone on his fingers. I came and rode his fingers and moaning softly "good girl" he licked his fingers clean and smiled and i flushed i looked at his growing bulge "are you ready for me" "yes" he smiled as he pulled his cock out and stroked it softly it was pretty big leaking pre-cum already he kissed my forehead "you can tell me to stop okay my love" i nodded as he aligned himself and sunk himself inside he groaned and my eyes rolled into the back of my head. He sighed and moved slowly letting me adjust "go faster" i plead. He looked at me grinning devilishly "your wish is my command" he picked up the pace and rested his head in the crook of my neck groaning softly. I moaned as he came inside of me and he chased his high. I came soon after and was left a panting mess. He looked at me and tucked some hair behind my ear. "your beautiful" I blushed and turned my head away but he grabbed my chin and forced me to look at him. "i love you" he kissed my lips gently and caressed my cheek. I smiled "i love you too" I went to lay down and he grabbed me gently chuckling softly "I'm not done with you yet".

Thank you for reading!!!

[acourtofthought]

Hi! I was wondering, do you think ACOTAR could be read as conservative propaganda in some ways? Its portrayal of gender roles, traditional power structures, and its emphasis on hierarchical, often monarchic systems as inherently good seems really like it...

Gender Roles: Even though there are strong female characters, the ultimate "happy ending" often involves traditional romantic pairings, marriage, and child-rearing, reinforcing conservative ideals of fulfillment through domesticity.

Power Structures: The narrative tends to favor monarchy and "noble" bloodlines as natural rulers, suggesting that power and leadership are best handled by those born into it — a traditional, hierarchical worldview.

Emphasis on Family and Mating Bonds: The books heavily stress the importance of finding one’s "mate" and building a traditional family, which aligns with socially conservative values around personal relationships.

Curious what your thoughts are!

If anyone has noted similarities than I don't think it was intentionally done on Sarah's part, with her trying to push an agenda, as she's living the opposite life of someone who would be trying to push stereotypical gender roles / traditional power structures. She's the bread winner for their family, she's the one working while her husband cares for their kids, he's the one who she's said makes sure she's fed and taken care of.

If we look back over Sarah's different series, I don't think she has followed through on many conservative ideals related to child-rearing or domesticity. Yrene ended up pregnant as did Feyre but Manon did not, Elide did not, Lysandra did not, Nesta currently is not, Aelin did not, Bryce did not. It is more realistic to have a percentage of pairings choosing to start a family then to have none of them want one. I also think people need to remember the trope they are choosing to read. Traditional romance books often deal with the topics of marriage and children and while some authors do write their pairings as forgoing those things, a larger percentage include them. As far as domesticity, it was Aelin who became Queen with Rowan her consort and neither Feyre or Nesta have any interest in cooking and serving their mates.

Mating bonds are a trope unto themselves and I don't think it makes sense to use that to argue that she's pushing conservative ideals with them. They're a freaky magical thing that does not exist in the real world therefore it's apples to oranges. It's simply love with an extra something (and if anyone has an issue with characters wanting to find love than they are definitely not reading the right genre).

As far as the power structure, with noble bloodlines being natural rulers, I think it's a mixed bag. This a fae world which means we shouldn't expect to see modern human opinions in terms of how power structures should play out. But I also think she's showing a break in that within her writing, where Bryce gave up her right to "the throne" in both Prythian and Midgard. Where she left the would have been Dusk Court to someone without royal blood (Nesta), where she wanted there to be democracy within Midgard. She even wrote into SF how sometimes the magic that decides the next ruler jumps around, even bypassing an heir and choosing outside the bloodline.

If anyone is making the decision to read an author who is typically marketed under the umbrella of traditional romance then I think they have to go into that book understanding what kind of story that typically entails. It's not really Sarah's fault for writing what is normally expected of authors in that particular genre, it would be the readers fault for choosing to read that genre and expecting to see something different. I also think some need to let go (especially when reading fantasy romance) of the idea that an author should write in a socially acceptable way based on modern society's expectations and should instead remember that this is a fantasy world where they don't play by our rules. Sometimes the world is meant to be written in a backwards and brutal way because that's the world THEY live in, not us, and it's something the characters need to work on to make changes for the better though it doesn't always happen overnight.

[superwholock36]

~ A Little Taste of Heaven ~ (Peter Parker x Fem!Reader) (8/10)

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Warnings: Violence / Emotional Distress /Themes of Vulnerability Suspense / Mild Injury

Summary: Peter and [Name] find themselves drawn into an action-packed sequence as the pieces of the puzzle start to align. Secrets unravel and connections emerge, deepening the stakes of their fight. Blackout remains a shadowy figure—his motives tangled in mystery, his presence lingering even when unseen. As the tension escalates, one critical question looms: where has Blackout gone, and what is he planning next?

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🎶 BLOSSOM - RØRY 🎶

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

The soft morning light painted the room in golden hues, illuminating the peaceful scene. Peter stretched slightly, his eyes falling on [Name] as she slept beside him. Her hair was a halo against the pillow, her face serene and untouched by the chaos of their lives. He let the moment linger before leaning in, pressing a kiss to her bare shoulder and trailing one up to her cheek. She stirred faintly, her lips parting slightly, but she didn’t wake.

Peter slipped out of bed carefully, mindful not to disturb her. As he dressed, his gaze drifted to the jacket draped over a nearby chair—the one he’d lent her weeks ago when the evening had turned unexpectedly chilly. He reached for it almost instinctively, picking it up and bringing it close. The faint scent of her still lingered, a mix of her perfume and something uniquely hers. It made him pause for a moment, a quiet smile playing on his lips.

Sliding the jacket on, he buttoned it loosely and grabbed his wallet and keys. The morning chill greeted him as he stepped out of the apartment complex and onto the street. The bakery around the corner was already bustling, the aroma of fresh bread and pastries wafting through the air.

Peter picked out a few items—croissants, danishes, and muffins—and paused at the display of sweet treats. He wasn’t sure what her favourite might be, so he added a couple of pastries to the bag just in case. The thought of her smile when she saw the spread made his chest feel lighter, and he couldn’t help but chuckle at himself. He finished the order with two steaming cups of coffee, the warmth of the cups offsetting the brisk air.

As Peter stepped out of the bakery, balancing the bag of pastries and two steaming cups of coffee, his phone buzzed in his pocket. He shifted the bag to one hand and fished out his phone, glancing at the screen. MJ’s name flashed across it. He swiped to answer, bringing the phone to his ear.

“Morning, MJ,” he greeted, his tone light.

“Morning, Parker,” MJ replied, her voice carrying that familiar mix of sarcasm and warmth. “So… how’d it go? Did you screw it up, or are we celebrating?”

Peter chuckled, shaking his head as he started walking back toward [Name]’s apartment. “It went amazing, actually. I asked her to be official.”

There was a pause on the other end, and then MJ’s voice came through, dry but genuine. “Congrats, man. Don’t fuck it up.”

Peter laughed, the sound soft and genuine. “Thanks for the vote of confidence, MJ.”

“Hey, just keeping you grounded,” she quipped. “But seriously, I’m happy for you. She’s good for you, Parker.”

Peter’s smile widened as he reached the apartment complex. “Thanks, MJ. I’ll catch you later.”

“Later,” she said, hanging up.

Peter slipped his phone back into his pocket, his heart feeling lighter as he climbed the stairs. The thought of [Name] waiting for him inside, the coffee and pastries in hand, made him quicken his pace.

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The sunlight filtered through the curtains, gently nudging [Name] awake. She stirred slowly, reaching out for the warmth of Peter beside her. Her hand met cool, empty sheets, and her brow furrowed as confusion set in. “What?” she murmured, her voice hoarse from sleep. Opening her eyes quickly, she sat up, her hair a fluffy, untamed mess, and looked around the room.

“Peter?” she called out, her voice echoing slightly in the quiet apartment. When no reply came, her chest tightened, frustration bubbling up. She threw on an oversized shirt and her underwear, the fabric brushing lightly against her skin as she hurried out of the bedroom, her bare feet padding softly against the floorboards.

Her eyes darted around the apartment as she moved through it, scanning for any sign of him. “Seriously? He just leaves without a word?” she muttered under her breath, the annoyance flaring more with each passing second.

Just as the frustration threatened to turn into something more, the front door clicked open. She turned quickly, her expression halfway to a scowl, but it faltered as Peter walked in, a bakery bag in one hand and two steaming cups of coffee in the other. He grinned sheepishly as the door swung shut behind him. “Morning. Sorry—I didn’t want to wake you. You looked too peaceful,” he said warmly.

Her shoulders relaxed as the irritation ebbed away, replaced by a quiet realization. She sighed lightly, crossing her arms as she watched him set the pastries down on the counter. “You scared me for a second,” she admitted, her tone softening.

Peter walked over to her, leaning down to press a quick kiss to her cheek before turning back to the counter. “I got us coffee—and some baked goods. I didn’t know what you’d like, so I grabbed a bit of everything.”

[Name] felt her frustration melt away as she watched Peter set the pastries and coffee down on the counter. Her lips curved into a soft smile, her voice warm as she said, “That was really sweet, Peter.”

Peter turned to her, his eyes meeting hers with a quiet intensity that made her heart flutter. “You’re so beautiful,” he said softly, his voice carrying a sincerity that left her momentarily speechless.

He stepped closer, his hands found her waist, pulling her gently into him as his lips met hers in a tender, lingering kiss. The warmth of the moment wrapped around them, the world outside fading away as they stood there, lost in each other.

As they pulled away from the kiss, [Name] smirked, her eyes sparkling with mischief. “Not bad, hot shot,” she teased, her tone light and playful. The comment caught Peter off guard, and he let out a soft laugh, shaking his head.

“You’re impossible,” he said, grinning as she stepped away.

[Name] moved to the kitchen, grabbing a couple of plates for the pastries. “And yet, here you are,” she quipped over her shoulder, her voice carrying a hint of laughter.

Peter followed her to the sofa, carrying the bag of baked goods and their coffees. They settled in, the TV flickering to life as [Name] flipped through channels. The scent of fresh pastries filled the air as they began to eat, the atmosphere easy and comfortable.

“So,” she said between bites, glancing at him. “Do you have to head out soon?”

Peter shook his head, his gaze softening as he looked at her. “Nope. Nothing planned. I was hoping to spend the day with you.”

Her face lit up with a bright smile, one that seemed to radiate warmth and joy. It was the kind of smile that made Peter’s heart skip a beat, leaving him momentarily speechless. He couldn’t help but think how lucky he was to be here, in this moment, with her.

As they finished the last of their pastries, [Name] leaned back against the sofa, cradling her coffee in her hands. She glanced at Peter, her tone casual but curious. “So… what do you want to do today?”

Peter shrugged lightly, his smile easy as he looked at her. “I don’t mind. It’s Sunday—we could be lazy, hang out here. Or we could go out and do something. Whatever you feel like.”

She smiled softly, the idea of a slow, lazy Sunday sounding like exactly what she needed. “Being lazy sounds good,” she admitted. “I do have a bit of work I need to finish later—it’s just my side project, nothing major.”

Peter’s expression warmed, his voice genuine as he replied, “That’s fine by me. I’m happy to be here, just in your presence, while you do that.”

Her heart fluttered at the simplicity of his words, the sincerity behind them. She took another sip of coffee, her gaze lingering on him for a moment before she turned toward the TV remote. “Alright,” she said, flicking through streaming options. “Let’s pick a film to watch. Any preferences?”

Peter grinned, leaning in slightly. “I trust your judgment. Pick something good—no pressure.”

She laughed lightly, her hair bouncing as she settled on a title, the room filling with the familiar sound of the opening scenes. The moment felt easy and intimate, the two of them nestled together, ready to enjoy the lazy day ahead.

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The credits rolled on the final movie of their marathon, the soft hum of the TV filling the cozy silence in the room. [Name] was nestled between Peter’s legs, her head resting on his chest as his fingers absentmindedly played with her hair. They both let out a content sigh, the warmth of the moment settling around them like a comforting blanket.

Just as she closed her eyes, savoring the quiet intimacy, Peter’s phone buzzed on the coffee table. He glanced down at the screen, the name “Tony Stark” flashing across it. With a small sigh, he carefully shifted away from her, planting a quick kiss on the crown of her head before getting up to answer.

“Hey, Mr. Stark,” Peter said, his tone polite but slightly weary.

[Name] could only hear his side of the conversation as she sat up, smoothing her slightly messy hair. Peter’s replies came in clipped sentences, his posture stiffening slightly. “Yes, it went well… I’m in her apartment…” His voice lowered as he ran a hand through his hair, his cheeks flushing. “Tony, please.”

Her brow furrowed, watching the embarrassment bloom across his face. His reactions made her wonder what was being said on the other end.

Peter sighed deeply, his shoulders slumping slightly as he responded, “Really? Can’t this wait? You gave me the night off…” His gaze flicked to [Name], a sheepish look in his eyes as he mouthed, Sorry.

She smiled softly, her expression curious but understanding, as she mouthed back, What’s happening?

Peter ended the call, sliding his phone into his pocket and turning back to her with an apologetic look. “I have to go,” he said reluctantly. “Mr. Stark needs me for something.”

[Name] nodded, her smile unfaltering. “It’s okay. We’ve had most of the day together.” Her tone was warm, reassuring, and it melted some of the tension in Peter’s shoulders.

Peter looked at her, his gaze soft yet hopeful. “Can I come back if it doesn’t take long?” he asked, his voice laced with a quiet longing.

[Name] smiled warmly, standing up to walk him to the door. “Of course you can,” she replied, her words light but full of reassurance.

As they reached the door, she leaned in and pressed a gentle kiss to his lips, her smile lingering. “See you later, Peter.”

He grinned at her, his expression cheeky as he stepped out into the hallway. “I’ll see you soon,” he said, his tone teasing but sincere.

She closed the door behind him, the quiet clicking of the lock marking his departure. Turning back toward the living room, [Name] settled onto the sofa again, her heart light and her thoughts swirling with the memory of his smile. A wave of giddiness overtook her, and she kicked her feet slightly in delight, the moment leaving her feeling content and glowing.

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The elevator doors slid open, and Peter stepped into Stark Tower’s command room, his mask tucked under one arm. Tony was already there, leaning against a console with a coffee in hand, the holographic displays lighting up his face. He looked up as Peter approached, his expression unreadable—at least at first.

“Well, if it isn’t Mr. Date Night,” Tony said, a smirk creeping onto his face. “How’d it go? Did you sweep her off her feet, or did you somehow trip over your own?”

Peter’s face flushed a light red, but he kept his voice steady. “It went well, thanks. Uh, really well, actually.”

Tony raised an eyebrow, setting his coffee down. “Good to hear. Guess I’ll pat myself on the back for giving you the night off. Not that you needed my permission or anything—but, you know, you're welcome.”

Peter scratched the back of his neck, unsure how to respond. “Uh, thanks, Mr. Stark.”

Tony waved his hand dismissively. “Enough about your Romeo moment. Let’s talk business. Patrol turned up zilch—no Blackout, no energy spikes, nothing. And I mean nothing. The other guys on the team saw squat too. It’s like the guy’s a ghost.”

Peter frowned, stepping closer to the screens to take a look at the readings. “That’s… weird. You’d think someone like him would leave a trail.”

“Exactly. But he didn’t,” Tony replied, folding his arms. “Doesn’t mean we stop looking, though. We’ll keep helping with the searches between missions. Something like this doesn’t just disappear for no reason.”

Peter nodded, his expression serious. “Got it. Thanks for keeping an eye out.”

Tony smirked again, his tone shifting. “No problem, kid. Now, back to the important stuff—you and your mystery girl. What’s her name, anyway? Or are we still keeping things vague?”

Peter hesitated for a second, his blush deepening. “Her name’s [Name],” he finally admitted.

Tony tilted his head, a glimmer of something warmer—almost fatherly—flashing in his eyes. “Well, look at you. [Name], huh? She sounds special. Good for you, kid. Just don’t screw it up, alright? And if you do, you better hope she forgives faster than I do.”

Peter laughed nervously, scratching at the back of his neck. “I’ll do my best.”

Tony softened, his voice carrying a rare sincerity. “Seriously, Pete. I’m glad you’ve got someone. It’s good for you. Now, go. You’ve got that ‘I’d rather be anywhere else but here’ look, and I’m not in the mood to babysit today.”

Peter grinned, his embarrassment fading into something lighter. “Thanks, Mr. Stark. I’ll see you later.”

As the elevator doors closed, Peter couldn’t help but smile. Leave it to Tony to tease him relentlessly and still somehow manage to be supportive in his own, unique way.

Peter leaned against the elevator wall as it descended, pulling out his phone with a small grin. He unlocked it, intending to text [Name] to let her know he was on his way back. But as he opened his contacts, his expression faltered. “Oh, crap,” he muttered, scrolling rapidly. “I don’t have her number saved on this new phone.”

Just as he sighed in mild frustration, the familiar voice of F.R.I.D.A.Y chimed in smoothly. “Would you like [Name]’s number, Mr. Parker? I have it on file.”

Peter perked up instantly, his grin returning. “Yes, please! You’re a lifesaver, F.R.I.D.A.Y.”

“Always happy to assist,” she replied, displaying the number on his screen.

Peter chuckled, quickly copying it and opening his messaging app. He typed out a message with his thumb, biting the inside of his cheek as he tried to make it sound casual but thoughtful:

“Hey, I’m on my way back now! It’s Peter, by the way—not some random stranger :)”

He hit send, his cheeks slightly pink as he imagined her reading it. Moments later, the elevator came to a stop, and Peter stepped out, his spirits lifted despite the earlier awkwardness.

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

[Name] glanced at her phone as it buzzed with a new message. Unlocking the screen, her eyes scanned the text: “Hey, I’m on my way back now! It’s Peter, by the way—not some random stranger :)” A soft smile tugged at her lips as she typed back, “Get back safely. I’ll be waiting.” Setting the phone down, she let out a light sigh of contentment before glancing around the living room.

The remnants of their cozy day together were scattered across the space—a couple of empty cups on the coffee table, a blanket half-folded on the sofa, and her sweater draped over the back of a chair. She stretched lazily before deciding to tidy up a bit. As she reached for a cup, her elbow brushed the edge of the table, sending a small item tumbling to the floor with a light clink.

“Oh, great,” she muttered, crouching down to look for whatever she had knocked over. Peering under the couch, she spotted the glint of something metallic. Stretching her arm out, her fingers closed around the small object. She pulled it out and sat back on her heels, turning the item over in her palm.

It was a small, smooth metal marble, its surface cool and reflective. She turned it over in her palm, her curiosity piqued. “What the hell…?” she murmured, turning it this way and that. Her fingers paused as she noticed something subtle—a barely visible button embedded into its sleek surface.

Curiosity prickled at her, a quiet debate playing out in her mind. Her thumb hovered over the button, but something instinctual made her hesitate. A small knot of apprehension twisted in her stomach. Don’t press it. Just don’t, a voice in the back of her mind warned. She let out a breath and lowered her hand, placing the marble on the coffee table

“What even is this thing?” she murmured to herself, her brow furrowed. She turned it in her hand again, examining every angle as if the marble might whisper its secrets. But it remained stubbornly silent, its presence inexplicably heavy for something so small.

Shaking her head, she stood and grabbed the coat she had left hanging on the side of a chair earlier. As she carried it to the coat hanger by the door, she slipped the marble into one of the pockets without thinking, her mind already wandering to other tasks. The weight of it felt oddly significant, even as it settled into the lining of the coat.

Pushing the thought of the marble aside, [Name] moved on to the next item to tidy. The mystery of the object lingered faintly in her thoughts, but with Peter returning soon, she let herself focus on the little tasks in front of her instead.

[Name] hummed softly to herself as she sorted through her laundry, folding shirts and matching socks with quiet concentration. The rhythmic task had her mind wandering, drifting from thoughts of Peter to the events of the morning. Even though they had only parted an hour and a half ago, the warmth of his presence still lingered like a comforting echo.

Her apartment phone rang suddenly, breaking her out of the trance. She blinked in surprise, tossing a pair of socks onto the pile before heading to answer it. Picking up the receiver, she smiled instinctively at the familiar voice on the other end.

“Hey, it’s me,” Peter said, his voice light but warm.

“Peter!” she replied, her excitement bubbling to the surface. “I’ll buzz you in.”

She pressed the button, her heart fluttering as she realized how thrilled she was to see him again. It was silly—how could she miss someone she’d only said goodbye to such a short time ago? But she didn’t dwell on it, letting the feeling wash over her as she hurried to the door.

Moments later, there was a knock. She swung the door open, barely having time to react before Peter stepped inside and swept her up into his arms, his grip firm yet gentle as he held her against him. “Is it stupid I missed you?” he asked, his voice soft and filled with laughter.

She laughed lightly, her arms looping around his neck as she grinned at him. “No,” she replied warmly, her gaze meeting his. “I missed you too.”

Peter chuckled, holding her a moment longer before setting her back down. “Good,” he said, his cheeks slightly pink as he gave her one of his signature cheeky smiles.

The joy of the moment lingered between them as she closed the door and led him into the apartment. Even though they had spent so much of the day together already, her excitement to see him again felt like the most natural thing in the world.

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

The past few weeks had felt like a dream, a soft and steady rhythm that [Name] had easily slipped into. Being with Peter was like breathing fresh air after holding it for too long—natural, easy, and entirely calming. There was no whirlwind chaos, no sudden emergencies dragging him away without a word. Aside from his occasional stints at ‘work,’ which he’d been upfront about, he had been present. Truly present. It was a quiet relief she hadn’t known she needed, and she cherished the moments they spent together.

Her own work had settled into its usual grind—running errands, fetching coffees, and juggling endless tasks. Being a glorified assistant wasn’t the most glamorous role, but it kept her busy enough. She didn’t mind it too much; it left her evenings open, and those were often the highlights of her day. Peter usually found a way to make her laugh about it later—calling her “Coffee Queen” or joking about her “secret superhero ability to locate the perfect latte.”

As her day wound down, she found herself back in front of her map, the sprawling collection of pins and strings covering the corkboard mounted to her wall. The map had started as a minor project, a visual representation of Blackout’s destruction. But it had grown into something much larger—a kaleidoscope of information pieced together from weeks of observation, research, and late-night deep dives into weather records and historical data.

Each pin marked a key location: sites where Blackout had attacked, places he had drawn power from before facing Spider-Man, and areas with unexplained power surges. Bright threads of string connected them in a tangled web of patterns and possibilities. Nearby, a cluster of papers and sticky notes covered her desk—snippets of old weather reports, energy output charts, and even odd historical mentions of freak storms and lightning events from decades ago.

She leaned over the map, her brow furrowed as she traced the connections with her fingertip. “What am I missing?” she murmured, her frustration building as her efforts to make sense of it all felt like trying to complete a puzzle with missing pieces. There were patterns—of that, she was sure—but every time she thought she’d found a link, it dissolved into coincidence.

She shifted her attention to a cluster of pins near a large substation on the city’s edge. Blackout had attacked there twice in the past, each time drawing a massive surge of power before disappearing. The substation itself had recovered quickly, but the power outages in the surrounding area had lasted for days. That same substation had also reported unusual spikes in energy readings just before the attacks.

But that wasn’t the only peculiar thing. Pulling up one of her older reports, she skimmed through the highlighted sections. Around the same time as the attacks, there had been unusual weather patterns recorded—lightning strikes and storms that had seemingly come out of nowhere. She’d cross-referenced them with meteorological data, but nothing conclusive had come from it. They were anomalies, unexplained bursts of chaos in otherwise normal weather systems.

Her finger tapped against the paper as she sat back, staring at the board with a critical eye. The threads connecting the power station to other locations had no clear timeline or rhythm. Some attacks were months apart, others only days. She toyed with the idea of patterns in Blackout’s movements—did he favour specific types of infrastructure? Specific conditions? Or was it all random?

Letting out a slow breath, she leaned back in her chair, rubbing her temple. The silence of her apartment was both a comfort and a reminder that she was tackling this alone. Still, the thought of giving up didn’t even cross her mind. Somewhere in all of this mess was an answer—she just had to find the right thread to pull.

Her eyes fell on the edge of the corkboard where the more unusual data was pinned—random weather reports from years ago, odd notes about electrical anomalies in completely different parts of the state, and vague eyewitness accounts. It was all there, sitting in front of her, just out of reach of making sense.

She sighed again, pushing her chair back slightly. “C’mon,” she muttered softly to herself, half to break the silence and half in frustration. “There has to be something. Something I’m not seeing.”

The mystery of it gnawed at her, a puzzle begging to be solved. But no matter how many hours she stared at the pins, the strings, and the notes, it remained stubbornly incomplete—just like Blackout’s sudden disappearance.

[Name] stepped out of her office, shutting the door with a quiet click. Her gaze lingered for a moment on the corkboard covered in pins, strings, and notes—a puzzle waiting for her to return to it. But for now, her thoughts were focused on Peter. He’d mentioned wanting to show her something, but as usual, he’d been light on specifics. A smile tugged at her lips as she headed to her room to get ready, her curiosity bubbling to the surface.

After sifting through her wardrobe, she settled on a pale blue, baggy jumper that hung loosely but comfortably. She paired it with cream leggings and white sneakers, taking a moment to smooth the jumper with her hands before glancing in the mirror. Something about the simplicity of the outfit made her smile—it felt like her, perfectly understated yet effortless.

A knock at the door broke her thoughts, and she hurried to answer it. Peter stood on the other side, his grin lighting up his face as he leaned casually against the doorframe. He was dressed in his usual hoodie and jacket combo, his sneakers scuffed just enough to show how often he wore them.

“Hey,” he said warmly. “You ready for this?”

She tilted her head with a playful smirk. “Ready for what, exactly? You’ve been vague all day.”

Peter chuckled as he stepped inside, rubbing the back of his neck. “Okay, okay—I’ll spill. I want to show you where I work. It’s this lab I get access to, over at Stark Tower. Not the Avengers stuff,” he added quickly, noticing the surprised look on her face. “It’s more like… the tech side of things. The stuff I get to tinker with when I’ve got time.”

Her curiosity was immediately piqued, her expression softening into excitement. “Seriously? I can't wait to see what you do Peter.”

He shrugged modestly, his grin widening. “I mean, it’s no big deal. I help out with some stuff here and there, nothing too flashy. But I figured it’d be cool to show you. You know, the side of me that’s just a nerd in a lab.”

She stepped closer, her tone soft but genuine. “I’d love to see that. Honestly, the nerdy Peter Parker side is one of my favorites.”

Peter’s cheeks flushed slightly, and he glanced down briefly before gesturing toward the door. “Come on, then. You’re gonna like this.”

The trip to Stark Tower was a blur of buzzing anticipation. As they rode the subway into the heart of the city, [Name] couldn’t help the wide grin that spread across her face. Peter, seated across from her, noticed the way her knee bounced slightly and how her eyes lit up whenever she glanced out the window, inching closer to the tower’s location.

“This is going to be so cool,” she said for what felt like the third time, her excitement spilling over. “I mean, Stark Tower. Peter, this is where world-changing stuff happens!”

Peter chuckled, leaning back against the seat with his hands stuffed into his jacket pockets. “Yeah, it’s got a decent view,” he teased, earning a light nudge from her foot under the table. “But seriously, it’s not as flashy as you might think. Mostly a lot of labs and techy stuff.”

“That’s exactly why it’s so interesting,” she replied, her voice filled with awe. “I can’t believe you get to work there.”

They arrived just as the late afternoon sun bathed the sleek glass and metal structure of Stark Tower in a golden glow. [Name] craned her neck as she stood on the sidewalk, the tower stretching impossibly high above them. She let out a small, amazed laugh. “Wow.”

Peter grinned beside her, nudging her gently. “Wait till you see the inside.”

As they entered the building, the cool, polished lobby greeted them, every surface gleaming as sunlight refracted through the glass walls. A polite receptionist smiled as Peter led [Name] to the desk. “Visitor pass for her,” he said, motioning toward [Name].

The receptionist handed over a sleek, holographic badge that lit up with [Name]’s name as she pinned it to her jumper. “This is so high-tech,” she whispered, glancing at Peter with wide eyes.

“You haven’t seen anything yet,” he replied with a wink, leading her toward the elevators.

As they rode up, she couldn’t resist asking, “Do you think we’ll run into any of the Avengers? Like—what if Thor’s just hanging out in the break room or something?”

Peter laughed, shaking his head. “Sorry to burst your bubble, but last I heard, they’re all off on missions. The place is pretty empty today.”

“Oh,” she said, clearly trying to hide her slight disappointment. But it passed quickly, replaced by the thrill of knowing she was about to see where Peter spent his time.

The elevator doors slid open with a soft chime, revealing a corridor that led to the tech labs. Peter motioned for her to follow, his steps quick but unhurried. The hallways were lined with frosted glass doors, each one marked with a small plaque and a glowing interface for access.

“This is where I usually work,” Peter said as they approached one of the labs. He swiped his access card, and the door slid open smoothly, revealing a spacious room filled with sleek workstations, tools, and holographic displays.

[Name] stepped inside, her eyes wide as she took in the sight. “This is incredible,” she breathed, spinning slowly to take it all in. “You get to be in here? Like, every day?”

“Pretty much,” Peter said, grinning as he moved to one of the counters cluttered with small components and a half-assembled device. “This is kind of my spot. Tony lets me tinker here when I’ve got time between, uh… work.”

She walked over, her gaze falling on the device in front of him. “What’s this?”

“It’s a micro-drone,” he explained, picking it up and holding it out for her to see. The tiny machine gleamed in the bright lab light, its delicate components visible through a translucent casing. “It’s for surveillance, but I’ve been modifying it to be more energy efficient. Right now, it’s mostly a prototype.”

She studied it intently, impressed by the intricacy of the design. “You made this?”

“Well, I put it together,” he said modestly. “The base design was already there, but I’ve been tweaking it to improve functionality. You’d be surprised how much you can improve something by just looking at it from a different angle.”

She smiled, setting the drone down gently. “That’s… amazing, Peter. You’re amazing.”

He glanced away, clearly flustered but pleased by the compliment. “It’s no big deal. This stuff is fun for me.”

As they moved through the lab, Peter pointed out various stations—one dedicated to nanotech research, another where he’d spent hours helping to optimize Stark’s energy systems, and even a wall-mounted display featuring holographic projections of designs in progress.

“This one’s a work in progress,” he said, gesturing to a glowing panel. “It’s for emergency communication in disaster zones. I’ve been trying to find a way to boost the signal strength without using too much power.”

[Name] looked at him, her admiration evident. “I don’t think I’ve ever met someone who can do so many incredible things and still be so… down-to-earth.”

He shrugged with a small smile. “Well, I’ve got a good reason to stay grounded.”

The time flew by as Peter explained the various projects he’d worked on and the challenges he faced along the way. For [Name], it wasn’t just about the tech—it was about seeing him in his element, his passion and intelligence shining through with every word. By the time they left the lab, she felt like she had seen a whole new side of him, and it only made her admiration grow.

Peter guided [Name] out of the lab and toward the observation deck on the top floor. As they stepped out onto the platform, she gasped softly, her hands instinctively gripping the railing. The city stretched out before them, bathed in the warm light of the setting sun. Skyscrapers glinted in the golden haze, and the soft hum of traffic below sounded like a distant song.

“Wow,” she murmured, her voice full of wonder. “This view is… incredible.”

Peter didn’t reply immediately, his gaze drifting away from the horizon to settle on her. The way her eyes sparkled, her cheeks flushed with happiness, and her body leaned slightly forward with pure curiosity—it was a sight that stopped him in his tracks. “Yeah,” he said softly, his lips quirking into a small smile. “Wow.”

She glanced over at him, catching the warmth in his expression. “What?” she asked, a playful edge to her tone.

“Nothing,” he replied quickly, rubbing the back of his neck. “Just… you’re amazing.”

A soft laugh escaped her lips, and she shook her head, her gaze returning to the city. “You’re ridiculous,” she said lightly, but her smile lingered.

After soaking in the view for a few moments, Peter led her to the elevator again, this time descending a few floors to another part of the tower. As they stepped into one of the larger labs, the atmosphere shifted—it was busier here, a mix of tech stations and workbenches spread out across the room, with several people quietly working on projects or exchanging ideas.

“This is the energy development lab,” Peter explained as they walked further in. “We’ve been working on a new energy source—something sustainable, efficient, and… well, revolutionary.”

Her curiosity piqued instantly, and she leaned closer to the workstation he gestured to. Sitting in the center was an intricate structure encased in transparent material, glowing faintly with a soft bluish hue. The core pulsed rhythmically, a faint shimmer of light swirling within, as though it were alive. Surrounding it were several smaller components and diagnostic equipment, the display screens showing energy readings and schematics.

“This is it?” she asked, her voice tinged with awe. “What does it do?”

Peter nodded, his expression lighting up as he explained. “It’s called a quantum-stabilized energy core. Basically, it harnesses energy from particle oscillation within the quantum field and stabilizes it for practical use. No emissions, no waste—just clean, sustainable energy that can power cities.” He gestured toward the shimmering core. “It’s still in the testing phase, but we’ve already seen promising results.”

“Peter… this is incredible,” she said, her eyes fixed on the glowing structure. “You’re telling me this thing could literally change the world?”

“If we get everything right, yeah,” he replied, his voice carrying a quiet excitement. “This could be the future of energy.”

Before she could respond, someone brushed past her, reaching for a nearby diagnostic tool on the counter. She glanced at him—an unassuming man with neatly combed hair and a simple button-up shirt. At first glance, he looked perfectly ordinary, blending into the room like any other technician. But something about him made her stomach tighten.

Her gaze lingered for a moment longer than it should have, and as the man moved away, a sense of dread settled over her like a shadow. She couldn’t explain it—the feeling was sudden and unprovoked, and it made her chest feel heavy. Forcing herself to focus, she shook off the unease and turned back to Peter, who was already showing her another component of the project.

They moved away from the workstation, joining the flow of people heading toward the hallway. Peter kept talking, his voice steady as he pointed out different aspects of the lab’s work. She listened intently, her excitement battling with the lingering weight of the strange encounter.

Peter and [Name] strolled down the hallway, the hum of activity from the lab fading behind them. The sleek, modern design of the tower surrounded them, but [Name] barely noticed it—her thoughts were still on everything Peter had shown her. She glanced at him, her smile soft and genuine.

“I’ve really enjoyed seeing this side of your life,” she said, her voice warm. “It makes sense now, why you had to run off all those times. I get it.”

Peter’s steps faltered slightly, and he glanced at her with a flicker of guilt in his eyes. He forced a small smile, shoving his hands into his jacket pockets. “Yeah… I’m glad you understand,” he said, his tone light but tinged with something unspoken.

She didn’t notice the subtle shift in his expression, too caught up in her own thoughts. “I mean, I wish you didn’t have to disappear so much, but seeing all of this? It’s worth it. You’re doing something amazing, Peter.”

He nodded, his smile tightening as he tried to push down the guilt that gnawed at him. She didn’t know the full truth—about why he’d really had to leave so many times—and he wasn’t ready to tell her. Not yet. So he went along with it, letting her words wash over him even as they weighed on his conscience.

Just as she opened her mouth to say something else, a deafening explosion ripped through the air. The force of it slammed into them, throwing Peter one way and [Name] another. Her body collided with the ground, the impact knocking the breath from her lungs. Her ears rang, and her vision blurred as she tried to make sense of what had just happened.

The aftermath of the explosion was pure chaos. The hallway was unrecognizable—shards of glass littered the floor, sparks erupted from severed cables, and flames licked at the edges of the shattered doorway. Smoke billowed thickly, curling around the broken remains of what had been an orderly lab. The shrill, blaring alarms echoed through the space, but [Name] could barely register them, her hearing muffled as though she were underwater. A pulsing red light flashed rhythmically in the corner, casting an eerie glow over the destruction.

Groaning softly, [Name] pushed herself up off the ground, her body protesting with sharp, searing pain radiating from her ribs and arms. Her head pounded, and her breaths came shallow and labored as the thick smoke clawed at her throat and lungs. Gritting her teeth, she forced herself upright, the edges of her vision swimming as she squinted into the hazy air.

“Peter?” she rasped, her voice barely audible. It came out more like a whisper, her breath stolen by the oppressive heat and smoke. Coughing, she tried again. “Peter!”

She couldn’t see him. The hallway was a swirling void of gray and red, the flicker of flames her only anchor. Fear coiled in her chest, but before she could call out again, her gaze caught movement in the distance.

Something shimmered, faint and almost imperceptible, cutting through the haze like a mirage. She squinted, struggling to focus as the shape grew more defined, more solid. Her breath hitched in her throat as the figure emerged, the smoke parting just enough to reveal him.

Blackout.

The armor that had once been an enigma to her research now stood in full, terrifying clarity. His obsidian suit reflected the dim red flashes of the alarm, its surface sleek and ominously smooth. As the cloaking field faded entirely, she saw the energy core in his hand, the soft bluish glow pulsing with a slow, deliberate rhythm. Her heart dropped.

No. No, no, no. The realization hit her like a blow to the chest. This was what she’d feared. The unlimited power source she’d deduced he was searching for—the one she’d pieced together through countless hours of research—was now in his possession. He had it. And she knew exactly what that meant.

Terror clawed at her, cold and relentless, as she watched him stride forward. He didn’t so much as glance her way, his focus entirely on the path ahead. To him, she was nothing—an obstacle not even worth acknowledging.

But something inside her snapped. Reckless and desperate, she lunged forward, her hand shooting out to grab at the energy core in his grasp. The glowing blue light flared brightly as her fingers brushed the edge of the device, her determination overriding every instinct screaming at her to stop.

Blackout froze mid-step, his head tilting slightly as though amused. A soft, disdainful tsk escaped from beneath the helmet. Without warning, his free hand shot out, balled into a fist as he swung for her with deliberate force.

Time seemed to slow. [Name] barely had a moment to react, her body stiffening as she braced herself for the impact. Her heart thundered in her chest, terror flooding every vein as the armoured fist barrelled toward her.

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

Peter followed [Name] down the hallway, her words still echoing in his mind. “I’ve really enjoyed seeing this side of your life. It makes sense now, why you had to run off all those times. I get it.” He nodded along with her, forcing himself to smile, but guilt tugged at his chest with every step. She didn’t truly know the full truth about why he ran off so often—it was more than just tech work, and the weight of keeping that from her was starting to press harder on his conscience.

Still, she looked so happy, radiating curiosity and excitement at seeing this piece of his world. He couldn’t bring himself to shatter that joy, even as his chest tightened with guilt.

Then it happened.

His spider-sense flared suddenly, but just a second too late. The deafening roar of the explosion tore through the hallway, the force slamming into him with the power of a freight train. The world seemed to slow as he watched [Name] being hurled one way, her body colliding with the floor in a terrifying blur of motion, while he was flung in the opposite direction.

Peter’s reflexes kicked in just in time, and he twisted mid-air, landing in a crouch with the ease that years of training as Spider-Man had given him. The impact sent shockwaves through his legs, but he steadied himself quickly, his senses sharpening as chaos erupted around him.

Smoke poured into the hallway, thick and suffocating, curling around the broken remains of the Stark Tower floor like a malevolent force. Alarms blared in every direction, the shrill sound piercing through his muffled hearing, while the eerie pulsing of red lights cast the destruction in an ominous glow. Shards of glass glinted like jagged stars across the ground, and sparks danced from severed cables, their light briefly illuminating the heavy gray haze.

His spider-sense pulsed like a second heartbeat, wild and frantic, warning him of imminent danger. This wasn’t an accident—this was intentional. And whatever had caused it was still here.

Peter pushed himself to his feet, adrenaline surging through his veins. Beneath his hoodie and jacket, he felt the familiar weight of his Spider-Man suit—a precaution he’d taken, knowing he would patrol after his day with [Name]. He quickly donned the mask, his identity hidden once more as he readied himself for what was coming.

Through the ringing in his ears, he thought he heard something. A voice—her voice.

“Peter?” It was faint, strained, and distant, but it sent a surge of desperation through him.

He wanted to shout back, to call out to her, but he stopped himself. He couldn’t say her name—not while he was in the suit. Instead, he focused on the task ahead, his resolve hardening as he began to pick his way through the debris. Every step was deliberate, his movements quick but calculated as he made his way through the chaos, his heart pounding with worry and fear.

Then he saw it.

Blackout.

The villain’s armor gleamed faintly through the smoke, his imposing figure like something out of a nightmare. Peter felt his stomach twist as Blackout moved with purpose, stepping over debris as though it were nothing. At first, Peter couldn’t see what he was holding—but then the glow caught his attention. The energy core. Its pulsing blue light radiated faintly in the gloom, giving the villain an even more menacing presence.

Peter’s breath hitched as his gaze followed Blackout’s movements. The villain’s focus wasn’t on him—it was on her. On [Name].

Dread washed over Peter, his chest tightening as he froze for a split second. He was too far to reach her in time, and panic clawed at his throat. He saw Blackout raise a fist, his body language deliberate and cruel as he swung it toward her with chilling intent.

Terror surged through Peter, snapping him out of his paralysis. He bolted forward, his only thought to get to her before it was too late.

Peter’s spider-sense was blaring like a siren, pushing him forward with urgency. He moved fast—faster than his own thoughts, faster than hesitation. Blackout’s fist was only inches from [Name], but Peter reached her just in time, his gloved hand snapping out to catch the armored fist in his palm.

The impact reverberated through him, the sheer force of it staggering, but he held firm. Blackout tilted his head slightly, as though amused, before speaking in a deep, mocking tone. “Hello, little spider,” he said, his voice carrying a dangerous edge. “Missed me?”

Before Peter could reply, Blackout swung his other fist toward him, the movement sharp and deliberate. Peter reacted instantly, his free hand shooting up to block the second strike. He gritted his teeth, muscles burning with the effort as the villain pushed against him, their proximity far too close for comfort—especially with [Name] behind him, vulnerable and hurt.

He couldn’t risk her getting caught in the crossfire. With a burst of momentum, Peter jumped, twisting his body mid-air to deliver a powerful kick straight into Blackout’s chest. The impact sent the villain flying backward, his armor letting out a metallic grunt as he collided with the ground. But Blackout recovered swiftly, rolling over to skid low on his feet, his posture predatory and ready.

Peter landed smoothly, his body crouched in the iconic spider pose, his back shielding [Name]. His voice was steady but urgent as he spoke, “Are you okay?”

Behind him, [Name] coughed weakly, her voice trembling but audible. “Yes… but I don’t know where Peter is, he could be hurt.”

Peter’s heart clenched at her words, but he shook it off, his tone firm as he replied, “Don’t worry about him right now. You need to get to safety. I’ll save Peter—but I need you out of here.”

Before she could say more, the villain stood, his armor letting out a low whoosh as air hissed from the sides, the sound menacing in the stillness. The glow of the energy core in Blackout’s hand intensified, casting strange shadows on the walls. He straightened slowly, his movements calculated, his posture commanding.

Peter’s muscles tensed, his senses alive and ready as he crouched lower, preparing for the battle that was coming.

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

The armored fist was descending toward her, faster than she could react, the sheer weight and force behind it promising devastation. [Name] froze, her breath hitching as she braced for the impact, terror locking her in place.

But before the fist could connect, Spider-Man was there. In a blur of motion, he shot forward through the smoke, his gloved hand snapping up to catch the armoured punch mid-swing. The impact reverberated through the air, a sharp collision of strength against strength, but Spider-Man held firm, his stance unwavering

Blackout tilted his head slightly, as though studying him. “Hello, little spider,” the villain said in a cold, mocking tone, his voice muffled by the helmet yet laced with menace. “Missed me?”

Spider-Man didn’t reply, his focus sharp as his muscles tensed against the pressure of Blackout’s strike. The villain didn’t wait—his free hand shot forward, aiming to land a second blow. Spider-Man’s reflexes kicked in, his other hand snapping up to block the incoming fist. The tension hung heavy in the air, the two locked in a deadly standstill.

With a burst of momentum, Spider-Man shifted his weight and jumped, twisting his body mid-air to deliver a powerful double-kick aimed squarely at Blackout’s chest. The impact sent the villain flying backward, his armour emitting a low metallic grunt as he skidded across the debris-covered floor. Blackout rolled over quickly, his movements fluid and predatory, landing in a crouch low to the ground.

Spider-Man crouched in front of her, his back to her, shielding her from the chaos around them. His iconic pose was unmistakable—legs bent low, one arm extended, every muscle in his body poised for action. He looked like a force of nature, ready to take on anything that came their way. But it wasn’t just his presence that held her attention—it was the realization that he had saved her. Again.

Her mind raced, her thoughts tumbling over one another in a chaotic whirl. Is Peter okay? She hadn’t seen him since the explosion—hadn’t had time to find him in the wreckage. Her heart clenched with fear as her brain fought to reconcile her worry for him with the sheer shock of Spider-Man appearing before her. He’s here… but how? And where’s Peter?

The realization that she didn’t have answers weighed on her, adding to the dread already gnawing at her insides. If a fight broke out—if Spider-Man and Blackout clashed—she wouldn’t stand a chance. She had no superpowers, no way to defend herself. And she was already hurt, every movement sending sharp reminders through her body. She felt exposed, vulnerable, and painfully human in the face of what was unfolding.

Her eyes darted from Spider-Man to Blackout, who stood just a few meters away, his towering figure radiating menace as his armor hissed softly, the energy core glowing ominously in his grasp. The red emergency lights illuminated his silhouette, making him appear all the more monstrous. The tension in the air was palpable, and [Name] could feel her chest tightening as anticipation coiled tightly around her.

What’s going to happen next? She wanted to shout, to demand answers, but her voice caught in her throat, the smoke stealing her breath. All she could do was watch—watch Spider-Man, watch Blackout, and brace herself for the moment when everything exploded into chaos again.

Spider-Man barely had a second to react before Blackout lunged forward, his movements sleek and unnervingly fast despite the bulk of his armour. Peter shot a web toward his opponent’s wrist, hoping to slow him down, but the strands barely clung before sizzling and disintegrating against the energy field surrounding Blackout’s suit.

That’s not good.

Instinct kicked in. Peter ducked just as Blackout swung, the force of the attack whipping the air beside his head. He twisted mid-dodge, sending another web toward Blackout’s torso—again, the strands fizzled into nothing before they could gain a proper hold.

Peter gritted his teeth. Alright. No webs. This is gonna have to be all hands.

Blackout chuckled darkly, rolling his shoulders. “Looks like your little tricks won’t work on me, bug.” His stance was casual, relaxed—he wasn’t treating this as a real fight. He was toying with him.

Peter didn't take the bait. Instead, he sprang forward, his fists moving in rapid succession. Left hook—blocked. Right jab—deflected. His movements were precise, quick, but every strike that connected felt like hitting solid metal. Blackout barely flinched, his armor absorbing the impact with little recoil.

The villain suddenly pivoted, stepping to the side—not toward Peter but toward [Name].

Peter’s chest tightened. Oh, no you don’t.

He instantly spun, positioning himself between Blackout and her. The villain smirked, clearly enjoying the game. “You’re really going to make this hard for me, huh?” he mused.

Peter didn’t respond. He dove low, legs sweeping toward Blackout’s ankles, aiming to knock him off balance. But the villain leapt back effortlessly, landing smoothly as if Peter had barely posed a challenge.

Behind him, [Name] watched with wide eyes, feeling the sharp pang of realization hit her. He’s trying to get to me. Not because she was a threat, but simply because he could. He wanted to rattle Spider-Man—make him feel like he was constantly one second away from failing to protect her.

It was working.

[Name] clenched her jaw, ignoring the aching protest of her bruised ribs as she forced herself to move. She couldn’t just sit there—she was making this harder for Spider-Man. If she stayed, he’d have to split his focus between fighting Blackout and making sure she wasn’t in harm’s way.

Slowly, painfully, she pushed herself up. Her muscles screamed, her breathing ragged, but she forced herself to step back—just enough to give Spider-Man the space he needed.

Peter caught the movement in the corner of his vision and had the urge to tell her to stay down. But he couldn’t risk breaking focus—not when Blackout was right in front of him, still holding that pulsing energy core like a prize in his grip.

Blackout exhaled, amused. “You know, you’re fun to mess with, Spider-Man. All that jumping around, trying to stop me like I don’t already have what I came for.” He lifted the core slightly, letting the glowing light catch Spider-Man’s attention. “You lost the moment I picked this up.”

Peter clenched his fists. “Not everything,” he shot back before lunging forward again, ready for what came next.

[Name] winced as she pushed herself to her feet, every movement sending jolts of pain through her ribs and limbs. She tried to steady herself, backing away from the furious clash between Spider-Man and Blackout. Her legs trembled, her breath hitched, but she knew she couldn’t stay there—if she did, she’d only make it harder for Spider-Man to fight.

“Stay put!” Spider-Man called out, his voice strained as he dodged a vicious swing from Blackout, the villain’s armoured fist narrowly missing his head.

“I can’t!” she replied, her tone equal parts desperate and determined. “You can’t focus on the fight if I’m here!”

Spider-Man’s breath came quicker now as he twisted and flipped to avoid another attack, his body moving like liquid as he narrowly avoided each blow. “You need to stay safe!” he insisted, his words punctuated by a grunt as Blackout’s foot swiped toward him, barely missing his side. Another web shot out toward Blackout, but it fizzled uselessly against the energy field once again. Peter’s frustration was evident, but he kept his focus sharp.

[Name] took a staggering step backward, clutching her side as she tried to distance herself from the chaos. Smoke and sparks filled the ruined hallway, and she could barely see through the haze, but she managed to gasp out, “Will you—will you save Peter?”

Spider-Man turned briefly, his voice rising in a sharp, heartfelt shout. “I promise!”

Before she could reply, Blackout’s mocking laughter cut through the noise, sharp and chilling. “Touching,” the villain said, his voice dripping with contempt. “But it’s time to finish this little game of cat and bug.”

Spider-Man’s eyes darted toward the energy core in Blackout’s hand, the blue light pulsing steadily like a ticking clock. He could see Blackout shifting, his stance coiling like a spring about to snap, and Peter knew he had to act fast. Without hesitation, he darted forward, closing the distance between them.

Blackout let out a low chuckle as Spider-Man moved closer. “You’re predictable,” he sneered.

Then it happened. Blackout raised the energy core, the glow intensifying as he powered up. His armoured fist crackled with raw energy, arcs of electricity dancing across its surface. Before Peter could react, Blackout’s fist shot forward, striking him in the chest with a blinding blast of force.

The impact was devastating. The energy sent Spider-Man flying down the hallway, his body twisting mid-air before slamming into the ground with a sickening thud. The force carried him several feet, his momentum only stopping when his leg collided hard with an exposed pipe. A sharp tearing sound echoed as his suit ripped at the thigh, revealing a deep gash beneath.

Peter hissed through clenched teeth, the pain shooting through his leg like fire. He clutched at the wound instinctively, trying to breathe through the agony. “Great,” he muttered under his breath, his voice strained. “Just great.”

“Spider-Man!” [Name] screamed, her voice cracking as she turned toward him. Fear and panic surged through her, her eyes darting between the injured hero and the figure now stalking toward her.

Blackout stood tall, his steps deliberate and slow, savouring every second as he approached her. “Well, well,” he said, his tone dripping with mockery. “Looks like your knight in spandex isn’t doing so well. What’s the plan now, little one?”

Pure terror clawed at [Name], freezing her in place as Blackout’s shadow loomed over her. Her chest tightened, her breaths shallow and ragged. She glanced toward Spider-Man, willing him to get up, to move, to stop the nightmare bearing down on her.

Peter, still lying on the ground, heard Blackout’s taunt and felt his heart seize with urgency. He forced himself to push through the pain, his mind racing. I have to stop him. I have to protect her.

He gritted his teeth as he pushed himself up, his leg screaming in protest. The gash from the pipe burned with every movement, the torn fabric of his suit sticking uncomfortably to the wound. The impact of Blackout’s punch still reverberated through him, a sharp reminder of the first fight they’d had—the one where Blackout had slammed him so hard he’d seen stars. But this wasn’t the time to dwell on past failures. He had to move.

Through the haze of smoke and flickering red lights, Spider-Man heard her voice, trembling but defiant. “Stay away from me!” [Name] shouted, her fear evident but her resolve unbroken.

Blackout’s laughter cut through the chaos, low and menacing. “But you wanted the energy core, didn’t you, sweetheart?” he taunted, his voice dripping with mockery. The sound of his laughter under the mask sent chills down her spine, and she felt her stomach twist. He’s a full-on psycho, she thought, her heart pounding as she tried to make sense of the nightmare unfolding around her.

She squinted into the smoke, searching desperately for Spider-Man—or Peter. The darkness was suffocating, the haze too thick to see anything clearly. Where the fuck is Peter? she thought, panic clawing at her chest. She hoped, prayed, that he was okay.

Peter's eyes widened in horror as he took in the scene, his mind racing. Blackout was closing in on her, his steps slow and deliberate, savouring every moment of her terror. The energy core in his hand pulsed ominously, casting eerie shadows across the wreckage. Peter’s decision was made in an instant. Screw the energy core. She’s more important.

With a sharp flick of his wrist, Peter shot a web toward [Name], the strands cutting through the smoke and attaching firmly to her. He pulled with all his might, his muscles straining as she went flying toward him. She let out a startled gasp, her body propelled through the air, but before she could hit the ground, he caught her securely in his arms.

The impact sent a jolt of pain through his injured leg, and he grunted, his breath hitching as he adjusted his grip to keep her safe. “I’ve got you,” he murmured, his voice strained but steady.

Without hesitation, Peter fired another web, aiming at the sturdy remnants of the shattered floor above them. The strands latched onto a beam, and in one fluid motion, he swung away, carrying her out of the immediate danger. The rush of air around them was a stark contrast to the chaos they left behind, and for Peter, there was only one thought driving him forward: Her life comes first.

“Let me go! No, Peter—Spider-Man—let me go!” [Name] shouted, her voice raw and desperate as she struggled in his grasp. Pain rippled through her body, a sharp groan escaping her lips as her ribs protested her movements. Spider-Man held on tightly, his heart twisting with guilt. He couldn’t tell her the truth—that Peter was fine, that Peter was him. Not yet. Not now.

The whoosh of air rushed around them as he swung away from the tower, the chaos left behind. Her words stuck in his mind, clawing at his resolve even as he held her protectively. Through the haze of the wind and smoke, she swore she caught a flicker of Blackout’s figure—just shimmering and disappearing into the gloom like a ghost. “Wha—?” she murmured, blinking rapidly, but the sound of the wind drowned her voice completely.

Spider-Man landed on the rooftop of a building a few blocks away, the impact sending another jolt of pain through his leg. He grunted softly, trying not to let it show as he eased [Name] onto her feet. The wound on his thigh throbbed, the torn suit clinging uncomfortably to the gash.

“You’re hurt,” [Name] said quickly, her voice filled with worry as she took a step closer to him.

“I’ll heal faster,” Peter replied, brushing it off. But his hands hovered nervously near her, unsure whether to touch her or keep his distance. He didn’t want to hurt her anymore than she already was.

“You were reckless,” he said finally, his voice carrying a frustrated edge as he limped a few steps away. He paced back and forth, ignoring the sharp pain in his leg as he struggled to process everything. “Attacking a supervillain like that? What were you thinking?”

“I had to try!” she shot back, her voice trembling but resolute. “I thought—” She cut herself off, biting her lip against the ache spreading through her ribs. “You need to go back and save Peter! You promised!”

Spider-Man stopped mid-pace, his gaze snapping back to her. “I will,” he said firmly, though his tone softened as he crouched slightly, his injured leg nearly buckling. “But first, you need to be safe.”

“Spider-Man,” she whispered, her expression pale and strained. “This is bad. Really bad.”

“I know,” Peter replied quickly, his mind already racing.

“No, you don’t!” she shouted, the force of her outburst sending fresh pain through her ribs. She winced, clutching her side before continuing. “I’ve been looking into his attacks. He charges up—”

“To power up, I know,” Peter cut in.

“No, you don’t!” she interrupted again, her voice cracking with urgency. “His suit takes so much energy. That’s why your fights don’t last long—he burns through it quickly. But now he has that energy core. Unlimited energy. Spider-Man, this is really bad.”

Peter froze, her words hitting him like a thunderclap. Unlimited energy? That’s what he’s been after? He felt his stomach drop as realization flooded his mind. How had he missed this? How had MJ and Ned missed this? The signs had been there, but they hadn’t connected the dots. And now, Blackout had exactly what he needed.

Pushing the thought aside, Peter glanced down toward the street and spotted ambulances pulling up. He had no time to lose. “I’ll fix this,” he murmured, more to himself than to her. He shot a web toward the edge of the building and pulled her back into his arms, ignoring her wince of pain as he swung down to the emergency responders below.

When they landed, Peter grunted again, his leg threatening to give out. He steadied her as they approached the medics, his voice steady despite the pain. “Take care of her,” he said sharply, stepping back to let them work. [Name] watched him helplessly, her lips parted as though she wanted to say something but couldn’t find the words.

Spider-Man turned away, leaping back toward the wreckage of the tower. The floors that had exploded were a nightmare—rubble everywhere, flames still licking at the edges of the debris. His heart sank as he searched, finding people he had worked alongside injured, trapped, or worse. He didn’t let himself dwell on the bodies—he couldn’t afford to lose focus. He helped whoever he could, pulling them free, carrying them down to safety, and ensuring they were cared for.

Once he was certain there was no one left, he retreated to a quiet corner and pulled off his mask, breathing heavily as he leaned against the wall. The pain in his leg was sharper now, but he forced himself to keep moving. Quickly, he changed out of the suit, pulling on his civilian clothes before limping down to the street where the ambulances were parked.

He spotted [Name] almost instantly. She stood near one of the ambulances, her expression tense until her eyes landed on him. Relief washed over her face as she called out his name, her voice carrying through the chaos. “Peter!”

“[Name]!” he shouted back, his own relief evident. She ran toward him, and he pushed through the pain to meet her halfway. As they collided, her arms wrapped tightly around him, and he returned the embrace, holding her close despite the ache in his ribs and leg.

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

Blackout’s stance remained steady, his dark, predatory gaze fixed on the chaos around him. The smoke clung to the air like a living thing, twisting and curling as if it were drawn to the destruction he’d caused. The glowing energy core pulsed steadily in his gauntlet, its soft blue light casting faint patterns on the smooth black of his armor. Finally—it was his. The culmination of every calculated strike, every disruption, every choice that had brought him to this moment. Power, unending and absolute.

As his eyes narrowed beneath the visor, movement in the distance caught his attention. The Spider.

Blackout clicked his tongue in mild irritation, watching as Spider-Man shot a web toward the girl and pulled her to safety. She flew through the air, startled but unharmed, her cries of protest drowned out by the chaos surrounding them. Blackout tilted his head ever so slightly, his lips curling into a faint smirk. “Tsk. Soft,” he murmured, his voice low and mechanical beneath the modulation of his helmet. The Spider’s weakness had always been his heart—his need to save everyone, no matter the cost to himself. And today, Blackout intended to make him pay for it.

The girl clutched against the hero’s chest, the faint whoosh of his escape echoing into the distance as Spider-Man swung them away from the wreckage. Blackout made no move to stop them. His grip on the energy core tightened slightly as he lifted it to eye level, the pulsing glow reflecting in his visor. This was the prize—the key to everything. With this in his possession, he would crush the Spider once and for all.

“Finally,” he murmured under his breath, his voice laced with satisfaction. Turning his head slightly, he scanned the debris-strewn hallway, his mind already pivoting to the next step. The Spider may have escaped for now, but Blackout wasn’t finished yet. Not by a long shot.

With deliberate precision, he tapped a sequence into the panel on his gauntlet, activating the cloaking aspect of his armour. The faint shimmer of light rippled across his form as his figure seemed to blur and fade, blending seamlessly into the swirling smoke and shadows. It wasn’t just invisibility—it was silence, stillness, a complete dampening of presence. His ability to switch off his killing intent was a skill honed over years, perfected to the point where even the Spider’s infamous instincts couldn’t detect him.

This wasn’t about retreating; this was strategy. He wasn’t going to let the Spider escape that easily. No, he was going to follow him—track him, shadow him, and wait for the perfect moment to strike. A game of cat and mouse, with Blackout firmly in control of the board.

As he moved soundlessly through the destruction, the faint blue pulse of the energy core lit his path, a haunting glow in the darkness. His smirk widened beneath the helmet as the adrenaline of the hunt surged through him. The Spider’s world would crumble soon enough. And when it did, Blackout would make sure he had a front-row seat.

The shimmering haze of his cloaking field enveloped Blackout, rendering him invisible as he approached the rooftop where the Spider and the girl had landed. The faint hum of the energy core in his grasp was a soothing reminder of his triumph—he already had what he needed. But that didn’t mean he was done playing the game.

From his vantage point, hidden in the smoke and shadows, he could hear them. Their voices carried faintly over the breeze, snippets of their hurried conversation reaching him.

“… This is bad. Really bad,” the girl said, her tone strained yet determined.

“I know,” the Spider replied, breathless, his frustration evident as he paced with a slight limp, his movements betraying the pain in his leg.

Blackout tilted his head, listening closer. The girl’s words carried intelligence—a sharp mind piecing together the puzzle of his attacks, connecting threads that others had failed to grasp. He almost admired her cleverness. Almost. “Foolish,” he murmured under his breath, a quiet chuckle rumbling beneath the modulation of his helmet. Foolish to think she could’ve stopped me.

As he observed, his gaze shifted to the Spider. The way he hovered near her, protective and tense, spoke volumes. The hero’s care for her was palpable, and Blackout felt his lips curl into a smirk. The Spider’s weakness, he thought with satisfaction, always lies in his heart.

An idea began to form—a new layer to his game. He could end it all now, strike while they were vulnerable and broken. He could tear the Spider apart, piece by piece, and ensure his victory was swift and unrelenting. But where was the fun in that? No, Blackout wasn’t done yet. He wanted more. He wanted to show the world that the Spider would fail, would fall to ruin, and that it was inevitable. And what better way to do that than to use what the Spider valued most?

His plan started taking shape, a grand finale worthy of the chaos he thrived on. He didn’t need to stay here—not yet. Let them have their moment, let the Spider tend to his broken little pawn. Blackout had all the time in the world now, and he wasn’t going to waste it.

He shifted his stance, his armour making no sound as the cloaking field shimmered faintly around him. The villain took one last look at the pair, his smirk widening beneath the visor, before turning away. Silent and unseen, he melted into the night, leaving them to their conversation and carrying with him the promise of their eventual downfall.

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The apartment was quiet when they returned, the chaos of the day left behind but lingering in their minds. The faint smell of smoke still clung to their clothes, and the ache of their injuries was a constant reminder of how close things had come to disaster. [Name] glanced at Peter, her expression soft but tired, and he gave her a small, reassuring smile.

“Let’s clean up,” he said gently, his voice low. “You’ll feel better.”

She nodded, following him to the bathroom. The warm steam from the shower was a welcome relief, the heat soothing their sore muscles as they stepped inside. Peter reached for the shampoo, his movements careful as he lathered it into her hair. His fingers were gentle, massaging her scalp with a tenderness that made her close her eyes and lean into the sensation.

“You’re good at this,” she murmured, her voice barely audible over the sound of the water.

Peter chuckled softly, his tone light despite the weight of the day. “I’ve had practice.”

When he finished, she turned to him, her hands reaching for the shampoo bottle. “Your turn,” she said, her voice steady but kind. He hesitated for a moment before leaning down slightly, letting her work the lather into his hair. Her touch was just as gentle, her fingers moving carefully as she washed away the soot and grime.

As the water cascaded over them, [Name]’s gaze drifted downward, catching sight of the large cut on Peter’s leg. The wound was raw and angry, the edges of the torn skin stark against the rest of his body. Her breath hitched slightly as she stared at it, her mind racing.

Spider-Man had a cut like that, she thought suddenly, the memory flashing in her mind. The gash she’d seen on his leg during the fight—it was in the exact same spot. Her brow furrowed, confusion and curiosity swirling within her. How did Peter get that?

She didn’t say anything, her thoughts too tangled to form words. Instead, she focused on rinsing his hair, her movements slower now as her mind worked overtime. Peter, oblivious to her realization, gave her a small smile when she finished, his eyes warm despite the exhaustion etched into his features.

“Thanks,” he said softly, his voice carrying a quiet gratitude.

She nodded, her lips pressing together as she tried to push the thought aside. But it lingered, a question she couldn’t shake.

The bathroom was filled with lingering steam as they stepped out of the shower, the warmth dissipating into the cooler air of her apartment. Peter grabbed a towel and began drying off, careful not to jostle his injured leg too much. [Name], still wrapped in her own towel, walked into the bedroom and returned moments later with her small first aid kit in hand.

“Here,” she said softly, handing it to him. “You need to patch that up before it gets worse.”

Peter gave her a grateful smile and nodded, his movements slightly stiff as he took the kit and sat down on the edge of her bed. He opened it, pulling out gauze, antiseptic wipes, and tape. She perched on a chair nearby, watching him with quiet concern as he worked to clean the wound.

The gash was deep but clean, the torn skin raw against the pale muscle beneath. Peter winced as he pressed the antiseptic wipe to the area, his fingers trembling slightly as the sting shot through his leg.

“How’d you even get that?” [Name] asked casually, tilting her head as she studied him.

Peter didn’t look up, his focus staying firmly on his leg as he replied, “Landed on something sharp when the explosion hit.”

She frowned, her gaze flicking to the large cut and then back to his face. “Huh,” she muttered, more to herself than to him. “Spider-Man had a wound like that earlier.”

Peter froze mid-motion, the gauze in his hand hovering just above the cut. His breath hitched, and for a split second, his expression shifted—a deer-in-headlights look flashing across his face. It was brief, almost imperceptible, but [Name] caught it. She blinked, her brow furrowing slightly. That’s odd, she thought. He’s always weird when Spider-Man’s mentioned.

Peter quickly recovered, clearing his throat as he resumed patching his leg. “Oh, uh… weird coincidence, I guess,” he said lightly, though his voice sounded slightly strained.

She didn’t press him, though the flicker of suspicion lingered in her mind. Instead, she leaned back, biting her lip as she mulled over the interaction. The pieces didn’t quite fit—but she couldn’t force herself to connect them just yet.

Peter finished taping up his leg, giving her a small smile as he tucked the first aid kit back together. “Thanks for this,” he said softly, his tone sincere.

“Of course,” she replied, her voice steady despite the swirl of questions forming in her mind.

The apartment was cloaked in a soft, tired silence, only the faint hum of the heater filling the air. [Name] pulled on an oversized jumper, the fabric falling loose and cozy over her frame, a stark contrast to the dirt-streaked clothes she’d worn earlier. Peter had already changed into the pajama bottoms and t-shirt he’d left at hers during his many visits, his movements slower and stiffer than usual thanks to the wound on his leg. Exhaustion had seeped into both of them, but neither could bring themselves to sleep—not yet.

Sitting on the edge of the bed, [Name] glanced over at Peter. Her brow furrowed slightly, and she hesitated before speaking. “I think Blackout was in the room when you showed me the energy core.”

Peter stopped mid-motion, turning to her with a puzzled expression. “What? Why do you think that?”

She shifted, tucking her legs under her as her hands fidgeted with the hem of her jumper. “There was this guy… he brushed past me near the workstation. I didn’t think much of it at the time, but I got this awful feeling. Like dread. It was weird—it felt… wrong. I can’t explain it.”

Peter’s brows knitted together as he tried to recall the moment, scanning his memories of the lab and the explosion. “I don’t—” He shook his head, frustrated. “I don’t remember anyone like that.”

“Well, I do,” she said firmly, her voice carrying a quiet edge. Her gaze dropped to the floor, her fingers twisting her jumper. “I think he was there. I think he was watching us, waiting to strike. And now he has the core.” Her voice wavered, and she swallowed hard before continuing, her fear creeping into her words. “Peter, I’m scared. For the city.”

Peter ran a hand through his hair, his pacing slowing as he turned to face her directly. “Spider-Man will protect us,” he said, his tone steady. “And the Avengers—they’ll come back, and they won’t let the city be destroyed. We’re not alone in this.”

She looked up at him, her expression shifting into something sharper—more intense. “Peter, I think Spider-Man’s gonna get himself killed going against Blackout.”

That stopped him cold. He stared at her, the weight of her words hanging heavy in the air. “What?” he said, his voice quieter now, tinged with disbelief.

She leaned forward slightly, her voice rising. “Look at the stats of his fights, Peter! Blackout’s left him seriously injured every time they’ve fought. And now—now he has that core. Unlimited energy. It’s worse than ever. Spider-Man can’t handle him alone.”

Peter clenched his jaw, his frustration bubbling to the surface as he started pacing again, his hands dragging through his hair. “Spider-Man’s dealt with worse. You don’t give him enough credit—he always finds a way.”

“This isn’t about credit!” she shot back, her voice louder now, shaking with emotion. “This is about reality! Blackout is too powerful, and if Spider-Man keeps pushing like this, he’s going to—” She cut herself off, her chest tightening with the weight of her fears. Her voice softened, breaking slightly. “He’s going to get himself killed.”

Peter stopped pacing, his injured leg forcing him to lean heavily against the bed as he sat down, his face drawn with tension. “You think he’s just going to give up?” he asked, his tone sharp but controlled. “Spider-Man doesn’t quit. He can’t. It’s not about him—it’s about protecting people.”

“And that’s the problem, isn’t it?” she replied, her voice quieter now, tinged with sadness. “He’s so focused on protecting everyone that he doesn’t think about himself. That’s why I’m scared, Peter. Blackout knows how to break him.”

The room fell into silence, both of them caught in the weight of their words. Peter sighed heavily, his hands dropping to his knees as he stared at the floor. “You’re wrong,” he said finally, his voice low but resolute. “Spider-Man won’t stop until this city is safe. He’ll win.”

[Name] didn’t reply, her gaze distant as her mind raced with worry. She wanted to believe him—wanted to hold onto the hope Peter carried—but the fear lingered, refusing to let go.

[Name] sat quietly on the edge of the bed, her fingers idly tracing the edge of the blanket as Peter finished setting the first aid kit aside. Her mind churned with worry, the weight of the day pressing heavily on her shoulders. She glanced at him as he settled onto the bed, his movements slower and stiffer than usual, exhaustion visible in every step.

“Peter,” she began softly, her voice hesitant but steady. “Is there… any chance they made a fail-safe for the core? Something to shut it down if it gets out of hand?”

Peter paused, his brows knitting together as he considered her question. He shook his head, his expression grim. “No. Not that I’ve ever heard of. They wouldn’t have planned for it to be stolen—it was supposed to be secure.”

Her shoulders slumped, disappointment settling into her chest. “Great. So Blackout really does have unlimited energy,” she muttered under her breath.

Peter watched her, his lips pressing together as her question lingered in his mind, sparking something deeper. Though he didn’t say it aloud, her words had started turning gears in his head, pulling at thoughts he hadn’t yet considered. He tucked that feeling away for now, letting it simmer as his gaze softened.

“Come here,” he said gently, holding out a hand. She hesitated for a moment before climbing into bed beside him, the warmth of his presence easing some of her tension. They settled into the blankets, her head resting against his chest while his arm draped protectively around her. The quiet that followed wasn’t heavy—it was comforting, the kind of silence that allowed them to breathe.

Peter stroked her hair absentmindedly, his fingers moving in slow, soothing patterns. “We’ll figure this out,” he murmured, his voice low. “Together.”

She nodded, her eyes fluttering closed as her exhaustion caught up with her. The thought of Blackout still haunted her, but in this moment, being wrapped in Peter’s arms made her feel safer—like maybe, just maybe, things would be okay.

As they drifted toward sleep, Peter’s mind buzzed softly with possibilities. Her question about the fail-safe stuck with him, tugging at loose threads in his thoughts. While she let herself rest, Peter’s determination quietly renewed itself. He didn’t know how yet, but he’d find a way to stop Blackout—and keep her safe.

The soft rhythm of [Name]’s breathing filled the room, a steady, quiet sound that told Peter she had finally fallen asleep. Her head rested gently on his chest, the oversized jumper she wore bunching slightly against the blanket. He glanced down at her peaceful face, the weight of the day heavy in his chest. The fear of nearly losing her had settled deep inside him, refusing to leave, but he kept it buried—for now.

Carefully, Peter shifted her so she was resting comfortably on the pillow. He climbed out of bed, mindful of his injured leg, and grabbed his phone from the nightstand. His movements were deliberate, quiet, as he slipped out into the small living room.

He sat down on the couch, his mind buzzing as he tapped MJ’s name in his contacts. The phone rang twice before her voice came through, groggy but alert.

“Peter? What’s going on? Is everything okay?”

Peter exhaled slowly, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah—I mean, no, not really. It’s… been a day.” He hesitated, then added, “Is Ned awake?”

“I’ll call him,” MJ replied, her tone sharpening with concern. “Are you hurt? Is [Name] okay?”

Peter nodded instinctively, though she couldn’t see him. “She’s okay. She got banged up pretty bad, but the medics checked her out. She’s resting now.”

MJ’s sigh of relief was audible through the phone. “Okay, good. Hold on—I’ll get Ned on the call.”

A moment later, the line clicked, and Ned’s voice joined them, sounding half-asleep but worried. “Peter? Dude, what’s going on? Are you hurt? What happened?”

Peter winced slightly, his leg throbbing with every beat of his pulse. “I’m fine, mostly. Blackout—he hit Stark Tower. I was there with [Name]. He has the energy core now. I—I didn’t put it together before, but that’s what he’s been looking for. He needed a permanent power source, and now he’s got it.”

Silence hung over the line for a moment before Ned spoke, his tone serious. “That’s… really bad.”

“Yeah,” Peter agreed, his voice low. “But [Name] got me thinking. If Blackout uses so much power, what if we made something that could disable the core? Shut it down completely?”

“You think it’s possible?” MJ asked, her voice cautious but intrigued.

“I don’t know yet,” Peter admitted. “But I’ve got to try. I’m going to need a few days to figure something out, and I’ll need your help. Both of you.”

“Count me in,” Ned said immediately, his voice steady with resolve. “We’ll figure this out.”

“I’m in too,” MJ added. “When do you want to meet?”

Peter glanced at the time on his phone, exhaustion catching up to him. “Tomorrow,” he said, his voice firm. “Morning, if you can. We’ll need all the time we can get.”

“Got it,” MJ replied. “Take care of yourself tonight, okay? And make sure [Name] is okay too.”

“I will,” Peter promised, his voice soft. “Thanks, guys.”

Ending the call, Peter let out a quiet sigh, his mind racing despite the late hour. The weight of the city’s safety pressed heavily on him, but the thought of nearly losing [Name] overshadowed it all. He pushed himself to his feet, wincing as his injured leg protested, and made his way back to the bedroom.

Sliding under the covers, Peter carefully pulled [Name] into his arms, holding her close as she stirred faintly but didn’t wake. Her presence grounded him, even as his thoughts spun with plans and fears. He pressed his forehead lightly to hers, his voice barely a whisper.

“I’m not letting this happen again,” he murmured, his resolve settling deep in his chest.

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

The sunlight filtered weakly through the curtains, casting soft streaks of light across the room. [Name] stirred, her body aching as the events of the previous day came rushing back. Every movement was a reminder—her ribs protested, her muscles felt bruised, and her head throbbed faintly. She groaned softly, shifting under the blankets before finally pushing herself upright.

The bed felt emptier than usual, and she glanced around, her brow furrowing slightly. “Peter?” she called out, her voice hoarse from sleep. No answer. Slowly, she swung her legs over the side of the bed, wincing as her ribs sent sharp pangs through her chest. She grabbed the oversized jumper she’d worn the night before, pulling it on as she padded out into the living room.

Peter was there, standing near the couch, already dressed in his usual hoodie and jeans. He was fiddling with his phone, his expression focused but tense. [Name] leaned against the doorway, her voice soft but curious. “You’re leaving?”

Peter turned to her, his face softening as he tucked his phone into his pocket. “I was going to wake you before I left,” he said gently, stepping closer. “But I need to get to the tower. I’ve got to start working on something to disarm the core.”

She nodded, understanding immediately. “You’ll figure it out,” she said quietly, her voice steady despite the ache in her chest. “Just… be careful, okay?”

Peter smiled faintly, his hand brushing against her cheek before he leaned down to press a soft kiss to her lips. “I will,” he promised, his voice low. “Rest up. I’ll check in later.”

She watched him leave, the door clicking softly behind him, and let out a quiet sigh. Her body felt heavier now, the soreness settling deeper as she moved to the kitchen. She grabbed the bottle of painkillers from the counter, popping two into her hand before washing them down with a glass of water. The relief wouldn’t come immediately, but it was something.

Returning to the couch, she sank into the cushions, her body grateful for the reprieve. Her mind, however, refused to rest, the weight of the city’s danger pressing heavily on her thoughts. She closed her eyes, willing herself to relax, but the fear lingered, refusing to let go.

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

The days since she’d last seen Peter had felt unusually long. [Name] knew he was at the lab, buried in work with other tech specialists, trying to come up with a way to disarm the energy core Blackout had stolen. His occasional texts were brief updates—just enough to let her know he was okay, but not enough to distract him from the monumental task at hand. She missed him, but she understood. The city needed him, and he was doing everything in his power to make sure it was safe.

Still, she couldn’t sit idly by.

In her office, the walls were lined with corkboards filled with maps, notes, and photos, all connected by a web of red string and pins. She sat at her desk, pouring over the same information again and again, willing herself to see something she’d missed. The faint hum of her computer filled the room as her fingers tapped restlessly on the edge of the desk.

Her phone buzzed, breaking her concentration. She grabbed it, her heart skipping slightly when she saw Megan’s name on the screen. The text was simple: Check your email. I just sent you something.

Curious, she opened her laptop and pulled up her inbox. The email was at the top, marked with the subject line “Blackout – Energy Readings”. Her eyes narrowed as she opened the attachment, revealing data logs from the day of the attack at Stark Tower. The energy signature from the core was there, clear as day, but what caught her attention was the second half of the file: a random energy reading that had pinged twice in the same location not far from the city.

Her pulse quickened as she compared the data to her maps. Grabbing a fresh set of pins, she placed them into the board, marking the location of the pings. The lines from her previous research seemed to shift in her mind, the connections becoming clearer with every pin she added.

Her phone buzzed again, this time with an incoming call. She answered without looking, her eyes still fixed on the board. “Hey, Megan. I got it. What is this?”

“Energy readings,” Megan replied, her tone brisk but excited. “It’s from a tracker I’ve been working on—it logged the energy surge when Blackout attacked, but these other pings? They’re consistent with the core, and they’re recent.”

[Name] frowned, distractedly twisting the phone cord in her fingers as she stared at the board. “So, you’re saying he’s been there recently? Twice?”

“Yeah, exactly. That place—wherever it is—it’s worth looking into,” Megan said.

As they talked, [Name] leaned back, her eyes scanning the mess of strings and pins. And then it hit her. The red lines crisscrossed perfectly at the location Megan had marked. The two energy pings weren’t random—they were central to every lead, every connection she’d been chasing.

Her heart raced. “Megan,” she said, cutting her off mid-sentence. “I think I just figured out where Blackout’s hiding.”

“What?” Megan asked, startled. “Are you sure?”

[Name] stood quickly, grabbing her bag and pulling her long beige coat from the hook by the door. “I’m not 100% sure, but I have to check it out.”

“Wait, you’re going alone?” Megan’s voice rose with concern. “Are you nuts? Don’t do anything stupid, okay?”

“I won’t,” [Name] lied as she reached for her phone to call a cab. Her mind was already set—she had to know if her hunch was right. If this was where Blackout was operating, the sooner she confirmed it, the sooner Peter and the others could act.

The call went through, and as she waited for the cab, she glanced once more at the board. The red lines seemed to hum with urgency, pulling her forward. For the first time in days, she felt like she was a step ahead.

The cab pulled away, leaving [Name] standing alone in front of the building—a desolate, crumbling structure that looked like it hadn’t been touched in decades. Its once-pristine brickwork was now mottled with grime, cracks spiderwebbing across its surface as vines crept along its edges. The windows were shattered, the frames rusted and jagged, and the heavy silence that surrounded it was almost suffocating.

She felt her stomach churn as she stared up at the building, her gut twisting with an undeniable certainty. This was it. She couldn’t explain it—the feeling was instinctive, visceral. Something about this place screamed danger, screamed Blackout. She had to go inside.

Her pulse quickened as she stepped through the crumbling doorway, her footsteps light but deliberate on the dust-covered floor. The stale air inside seemed to hang heavy, the faint scent of oil and burnt metal lingering despite the cold stillness. The building’s interior was just as decrepit as its exterior—walls peeled back to reveal bare concrete, debris littering the ground, and shadows looming in every corner.

The faint creak of her shoes echoed in the silence as she moved deeper inside, her hands gripping the strap of her bag tightly. Her eyes darted from one shadow to the next, her heart hammering as unease settled deeper into her bones. Why does it feel like I’m being watched?

As she rounded a corner, the dim light spilling through the shattered windows illuminated something unusual. A room, its door slightly ajar, filled with stacks of materials. She pushed the door open carefully, her breath hitching as she stepped inside. What she saw made her stomach drop.

Bomb casings, intricate weapons components, and materials she couldn’t even identify were scattered across the room, meticulously arranged. Her eyes widened as she noticed the alien technology embedded into some of the devices—slick, otherworldly designs that pulsed faintly with blue light. She reached for her phone, snapping photo after photo of everything, her fingers trembling as she documented the evidence.

What she didn’t notice was the small sensor embedded in the corner of the room—the silent alarm that she had unknowingly tripped.

She continued moving, her curiosity driving her forward despite the growing unease clawing at her. Deeper into the building, she stumbled upon another room—this one larger, almost like a control center. Maps were pinned to the walls, red markers creating intricate patterns of movement and planning. There were photos scattered across the table, and as her gaze landed on them, her breath caught.

Peter. She recognized him immediately—photos of him walking through the city, sitting at a coffee shop, even entering her apartment. These weren’t casual snapshots. They were deliberate. Targeted. Why would Blackout be watching Peter?

Her eyes moved to another set of photos—ones of Spider-Man in action, swinging through the streets, fighting villains, saving lives. And then, among the images, her own face stared back at her. Her photo was marked with a red X slashed through it, bold and unforgiving.

“What…?” she whispered, her voice shaking. “Why does he have a photo of me?”

The words had barely left her lips when a voice cut through the silence, deep and chilling, ringing out clear as day. “Because you’re the bait.”

Her heart stopped. Before she could turn around, she felt a sharp, jarring smack to the back of her head. Pain flared briefly before darkness engulfed her, her body crumpling to the ground like a ragdoll.

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

Hi! I am so so sorry that I've taken awhile to write this part!!! work ahs been mental, I fell ill and hit a bit of a block trying to make it flow. I hope it makes sense and doesn't feel rushed. Much Love!

Tagged:@never-stop-dreaming30

[grimoireofholding]

🍷✨ Wine Salt: Flavor and Power ✨🍷

In the alchemy of the kitchen, salt is more than a seasoning—it’s a purifier, a preserver, a conductor of energy. Wine, on the other hand, is a symbol of transformation, celebration, and divine communion. When combined, wine salt becomes a potent ingredient both in the mundane and the magical.

🧂 What is Wine Salt?

Wine salt is exactly what it sounds like—salt infused with wine and dried until it crystallizes into a deep, flavorful seasoning. Depending on the wine used, it can take on hues of ruby red or amethyst, embodying the richness and depth of its origins. It carries the essence of the vineyard, the patience of fermentation, and the grounding force of the earth.

✨ Magical Uses of Wine Salt

Wine salt holds a dual nature—the stability and protection of salt paired with the luxurious, ritualistic energy of wine. It can be used for:

🔮 Ritual Cooking: Stir it into food for spells related to love, passion, abundance, and transformation. It enhances meals prepared for ritual feasts, offerings, or spell work.

🛡️ Protection and Warding: Like regular salt, wine salt can be used in protective circles, but with an added layer of intention—protecting relationships, guarding against toxicity in social spaces, and sealing emotional energy leaks.

💜 Love & Attraction Magic: Use in spell jars, charm bags, or candle magic focused on self-love, romance, and deepening bonds. The vibrational imprint of wine enhances emotional connection and sensual energy.

🍷 Offerings & Ancestral Work: Wine is often used as an offering to spirits and ancestors. Wine salt can be a more permanent and stable alternative for long-term offerings or altar work, especially when working with deities or spirits connected to wine, celebration, or the harvest.

🌑 Shadow Work & Transformation: Since wine is created through fermentation—a process of controlled decay—it aligns with shadow work, personal transformation, and accepting life’s inevitable changes. Use wine salt in bath rituals or sprinkled around a candle during deep reflection.

🍽️ How to Use Wine Salt in Cooking

Beyond magic, wine salt is chef’s kiss perfection in the kitchen. Try it: 🥩 As a finishing salt on steak, roasted veggies, or pasta 🍞 Sprinkled over buttered bread or focaccia 🍫 Lightly dusted over dark chocolate or caramel for a decadent treat 🧀 On a cheese board for a gourmet touch

[miruac]

things me and my friends have done or said that i think haikyuu characters would do or say

a/n: my friends and i are the reincarnation of the alignment chart. i love u guys.

warnings: not proofread! word vomit!!

kenma: downloads a game after hearing how shit it is, ended up developing an addiction to said game

asahi: would enjoy psls

teen hinata: gets a concussion by running into the wall during a vb game

lev: goes all out during just dance, ends up punching the tv or throwing the controller at it

atsumu: hitting osamu 'accidentally' with a pool skimmer

oikawa: unironically plays dress to impress

tanaka: developed a fear of the oven after saeko threatened to cook him for misbehaving

ennoshita + narita + chikara: would work together on puzzle games, makes a lot of progress but ends up pressing the restart button instead of the undo button

iwaizumi: secretly learnt how to junko pose

osamu: says he was studying, in reality was out eating

shirabu: tried cutting his bangs on his own, but his hand slipped and he gave himself microbangs

semi: tried liquid eyeliner, ended up getting it in his eyeball. cried black tears the entire day.

tendou: was piping a dual coloured chocolate design, piping bag ended up exploding

kuroo: slid into a girls dms with the pickup line "is your angle less than 90°? because you're acutie"

yaku: ate too much meat at jbbq, ended up knocking out on the car ride back

akane: was trying new makeup styles, got called down in the middle of doing goth makeup. dinner was very quiet that night

kyoutani: bread fiend. bread any time. bread in his bag, locker, bread.

kiyoko: forgets where she placed her glasses, ends up looking around the entire house just to find out theyre hooked on her shirt

akaashi: listens to snsd religiously, tiffany biased

[ireallyliketalldarksultrymen]

so…i might’ve written stuff for the treebark coffee shop au (from this post) instead of doing homework…

—

“That’ll be six eighty-eight.”

Martyn drums his fingers against the hardwood counter, his other hand sliding a styrofoam cup across it. It’s followed by a paper bag, which smells strong of the buttery pastries inside.

The rack of heaters buzz to his left, loaves of bread lined up perfectly to one another, top-to bottom. The steam from it puffs his way, freshly baked dough filling his senses whenever he breathes in. Sure, it might’ve taken a bit of his time, but they were nice to look at.

The was cafe quiet today, music from the speaker sat on the far side of the counter filling the space in lieu of its usual laughter and chatter. Even with the song, the whizzing of cars passing by seemed to be louder.

In the room to his left, the muffled shrill of a mixer and the words, “No, putting pancake batter in the toaster isn’t a good idea—you were hired to be a cook for a reason!” can be heard. Martyn snorts softly.

He’s one of the people who actually decided to come into work today; the shop’s staff of seven weaseled their way down to three, meaning that he’ll be with Cleo and Skizz until closing time. He doesn’t mind at all, actually. Despite him being a sophomore and the two being seniors, they click well together, going out for coffee when all three of their schedules align.

He remembers the first day he came in, which, oddly enough, is something Martyn would not like to remember. 

His supervisor had been sick, which meant that he’d have to figure things out on his own. Martyn was given the task of making an expresso, and somehow confused it for cold brew. To say the costumer was unhappy was an understatement, and to say Skizz couldn’t stop wheezing was a bigger one. 

Cleo saw what happened, and Martyn supposed they pitied him, because she soon taught him cold coffee stored in the fridge for multiple days is vastly different than a drink brewed in under thirty seconds.

Even if it has been three years, he knows neither of them will get off his case about it. Whenever Martyn opens the fridge, Skizz calls, “That’s not where we put espressos anymore!” across the room. 

And patterns seem to stick, because Cleo and Skizz will not get over his feelings for Ren, either.

Martyn decides that telling his coworkers that he finds one of his usual costumers attractive has been a curse. Skizz has been playing Cupid for at least three weeks, trying to set-up outings for him and Ren. Cleo claims to discourage this, but she swoops by the register and drops subtle hints to his feelings when his back is turned.

Even if it may be annoying, Martyn has learned a good amount of things about Ren. He likes poetry, theater, and apparently is in the same astronomy class with Grian. (something he has to ask the other about once he gets home)

Now he’s fishing for his wallet in the back of his jeans, long hair sweeping against his graphic tee.

Ren’s fingers glide through the pockets and zippers of his wallet, sifting for coins that pool at its sides. Numbers splayed across credit cards peek behind his thumbs as Ren moves them along. He plucks out a one, five, and a couple of dimes.

It’s really now or never, and Martyn isn’t sure if he can wait any longer.

In a moment of split-decision, Martyn clears his throat.

“So…you’re Ren, right?”

[rye-in-a-coat]

I arrived at the bread store to which I was told to go and buy twelve bolillos. I grabbed my plate and my tongs and I found other four people with the same items in a queue; it was clear that they all were waiting for the next tray car of freshly baked bolillos to come out of the kitchen and get a grab on the best the product can be.

One by one more and more people aligned in a larger queue, eventually being the same as the number of pieces of bread I was gonna buy and then higher, over half of the customers were all grouped in that section waiting. "I waited twenty minutes for the bus to finally show up, you think I am not going to wait eight minutes for some bread?" a woman spoke.

And finally such car with trays full of the goodness came and a march formed, marching by the trays placing their selection on their own one, then marching around the counter to get their bread bagged and get a recepit and finally march through the register. I went to the convenience store nearby to buy a Dr. Pepper soda as recommended by certain two friends.

I grabbed my two bags of bread very tightly with both of my arms fearing that I would drop them and be an useless human being, I feared as I walked through the rain-wet streets that I would slip in a puddle and fall to the ground and waste all that bread while making myself bleed and get infected from the filth one walks on; I held a grip firmly as if I was hugging someone who loved me. Thankfully I arrived home safely and I drank my Dr. Pepper.

I left it get warm, big mistake, didn't taste good.

[magmacannon]

9, 14, 17, 20, 29, 34 🫵 Roman

yipee!!!!

9. favorite food? least favorite? are they a picky eater? do they have any dietary restrictions?

Roman grew up Really Far North and his food preferences were shaped as such - though he loves a well-cooked or roasted green veggie, his favorite food is a red meat roast cooked in a stock+beer or ale for tenderness/flavor with alliums and tubers/carrots that are served with the meat and maybe a side of bread+butter (hearty stuff). Least favorite food that he's tried was a spiced tomato-heavy salad thing, least favorite food based on concept alone is the fermented bulette meat that his party member tried to make for them ala fermented shark meat.

Roman doesn't consider himself a picky eater - he'll try most things once or twice! - but he also is cursed with Weak Spice Tolerance that bars him from a good amount of food. Rolling a dice here for this last one but he's not allergic to anything BUT.... despite his love for milk, he's sitting as just above having lactose intolerance apparently.

14. are they any good with numbers?

Roman's solid at guessing distances and geometry through practice - you don't want to be a spellcaster, especially an evocation wizard, to have bad aim - and is pretty decent at keeping track of number patterns and budgeting income vs expenses. Higher level or theoretical math is hard for him to grasp but he tries his best!

17. how did they spend their summers/free time as a child?

As a YOUNG child Roman spent his free time either playing at an uncle's lumberyard/hobby farm outside of the walls of Tzeraz or would spend it traveling with his parents within the Northern Kingdom (mostly) while they performed. He has a few friends he'd invite to his house to play (super dramatic war games) besides that.

As he got older and began going to school for magic, his summers were taken up by classes while winter was the big break time where he'd be able to go home for a few months. When with his family and now less-close friends he'd show off what he was learning to anyone who would listen and watch him cast cantrips at snowmen (this annoyed his brother because he'd do it so often). He spent a lot more time daydreaming in his early teens than continuing running around.

20. if applicable, can they drive? if they have their own, what color is their vehicle? is the inside neat and tidy, or a mess?

IN Dorna, Roman's never seen a 'car' in person but he can decently manage to steer a carriage on a well-paved road if needed. He prefers to ride in the back and read/sleep though!

In a world where cars are common he has a minivan that's a little busted up but runs well. He's considering trying to get a Cool Wizard painted on the side. The inside smells decently clean if a little dusty and while the floor's clean, the dashboard compartment and the back have mild piles of stuff (papers/blankets and bags respectively). He travels with ice removal tools Constantly and maybe a portable air pump just in case.

29. are they associated with any particular element (air, earth, fire, water)?

This is ALWAYS a fun one to think of for Roman bc it's changed over time... he's been associated with light/fire for forever if I think about it, but initially I would have def said he was more of a Water Guy. His oldest 'custom' spell was earth-aligned and he casts spells in a very grounded way - I think he wants to be more 'earth' aligned than he actually is in-setting. I think he's probably most associated with fire through how he acts and the magic he casts out of those four options though he wants to be Anything Else atm.

34. how would your character describe themselves? it doesn’t have to line up with how they really are.

Roman would describe himself as a friendly, optimistic guy with a good bit of determination and practice seeing things through (sort of true, he's stubborn). He'd probably say he's 'pretty good' at his job, which is true in that he has a lot of technical skill BUT he lacks focus historically, meaning that he's just Okay at it in truth. He'd say he has a big heart with a lot of love in it, and that's entirely true <3 (he just also has a lot of opinions and some unforseen pettiness, too)