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calling4glaives · 2 years

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Personnel Files 3: Crowe Altius

Moving down the alphabet from Axis to Crowe, let's continue our deep dives. Crowe stole our hearts with just a few scenes, and deserved so much better. Even if we want so much more, she does have a little more information to go off of than Axis and Sonitus, so let's dig in!

Crowe Altius

From the facebook blurb:

Tumblr Blurb: She is a member of the Kingsglaive and possesses the ability to handle magical powers. Because of the experience of being raised an orphan she cherishes Nyx, Libertus and the other members of the Kingsglaive and thinks of them as family.

Name: Crowe - English: the large-beaked black bird, also many things with a “beak” shape: crowbar (prybar with a “beaked” end), crow (corvus, Roman boarding plank with a beak-like spike to anchor it), etc; a cry of victory/alarm/etc, as the sound a rooster or cockerel makes, or Peter Pan Altius - Latin: higher, deeper (as an adjective and adverb), part of the Olympic motto – Citius, Altius, Fortius (Swifter, Higher, Stronger)

Background: As with many glaives, we don't know exactly where Crowe's from. In addition to the two official descriptions above, we have Libertus's description from the movie: “What a life, huh? She was brought up an orphan. Run out of her village. I still remember the first time I saw her. Scrawny little thing, all covered in dirt. Not a friend in the world. But those eyes...damn. There was something about those eyes. She deserved better. And I would've done anything to give it to–”

Orphan is mentioned several times, but where she was found and how old she is is still a mystery. She could be the girl in the group photo on Nyx’s corkboard, which still works because Galahd can, wherever you place it, certainly count as the “outskirts of Lucis”. She also could have been found in a different region on a glaive mission; while we hear about Libertus seeing her as a younger sister (to her annoyance, though whether it’s the younger or the sister thing that’s annoying is up for debate), each official blurb mentions the whole glaive is her family.

Equipment: Unlike Axis and Sonitus, Crowe is seen in several outfits, her uniform and a casual version, her undercover disguise, and the concept art of her and her friends in Galahd.

- Uniform: Crowe’s uniform is drastically different from the mens’, with its higher, heeled boots, skintight leather bodysuit, scalloped standing collar, netting on her shoulder, gem necklace/fastener, and cape, though it shares the modeling of the lapels, cuffs, silver accents, buttons, and hood (and, presumably, but not seen, the cloth mask). Her oversleeves do appear similar to those worn by the glaive next to Luche on the wall and Nyx, though they only wear one and she has two. Overall, her uniform does appear to match the other mages’, down to the red gloves and capes, though the gem might be unique to Crowe; it’s hard to tell because the others wear their cloth masks. (The capes are patterned with an eight-sided geometric tiling pattern, according to the models; I wonder what the pattern represents?) One does wonder how she uses the restroom in that outfit; not quickly that’s for sure. Her messy hair is in a bun, and she doesn’t have any braids, at least not according to her hair modelling video.

[[According to one piece of concept art, she does apparently have a dagger, which can be glimpsed very briefly when the mages are conjuring the firestorm:

Image from the wiki]]

- Casual - though she rags on Nyx for wearing parts of his uniform to Yamachang’s, she seems to be doing something similar, if the bodysuit and gem are any indication. She wears the same outfit when the news of the truce comes through, though she pairs them with elbow-length black (leather?) gloves and crossed belts like the mens’, though we never see the weapon meant to go on them. The only differences between her battlefield uniform and full uniform seen in the briefing scene seems to be the cloak and hood, which makes sense with the lack of customization among the mages.

- Undercover - Perhaps because she’s leaving Insomnia, her undercover outfit features actual color: various greens in the shirt and jacket. It might be her own personal style, because it matches the outfit seen in the promo art of her, Libertus, and Nyx working at the bar, albeit with a purple version of the shirt(s). The layered effect also matches Cor’s. She has a knee pad/brace, perhaps for fashion, perhaps as a nod to the king and the tendency of members of the Lucis Caelum bloodline to have knee/hip issues. Her helmet is an orangy-pink, one of the few nods to her supposed theme color of orange, alongside her belt.

[[Gif is from ffxvcaps, still is from @capsource]]

- Dead - Crowe’s skin is very pale white and almost scaly and she has dark streaks running from her eyes, probably an indication of starscourge (does this also account for her very pointy breasts in the body bag?). It could also just be her mascara running from crying as she died, as Luche taunts Nyx; she appears to wear mascara and probably lipstick, though lacks eyeliner on her lids, even the “default dark eyeliner” seen on most women in movies and video games.

- Alternate Future - Crowe wears a split-sided orange tunic bound by a thick belt-wrap and several beaded belts over a sleeveless skin-tight black shirt and shorts (possibly one garment), plus cuffs around her upper arm, though her feet are invisible.

She has an identical L’il Malbuddy cellphone charm to the one on Nyx’s corkboard (which is there before her body is found, btw).

Rank: Crowe appears to be a leader among the mages, as Drautos addresses her directly when asking for an update on their massive firestorm, though she was not standing at the point of their wedge during the casting. She’s obviously trusted enough no one doubts her being sent on a solo assignment, and was deemed important enough to have killed directly, either for her magic skills (we never see her carrying a weapon, so her martial skills are unknown) or her connections with the rest of the glaives, as a distraction and/or damage minimization.

Personality: Crowe is sure of herself, quick to tease, obviously takes duty seriously but has good personal relationships with Nyx and Libertus especially, worried about the treaty but willing to wait and keep up a positive front. Apparently the hair clip is not her style, whether that’s the hair aspect or the jewelry, though she wears a gold bracelet while undercover.

Relationships: The effects Drautos hands over after her death all appear to be things she was wearing, not things from a barracks, etc., so presumably she has a home of her own somewhere, and Libertus and/or Nyx is her next of kin.

- Libertus - She seems to resent being called a little sister – which could be a general rebelling or genuine distaste. She takes Nyx’s side more than his, defending Nyx against Libertus’ teasing when it gets a little mean (though she adds her own, lighter teasing) reminding Libertus to thank him, calling for Nyx and not Libertus when Libertus is crushed. Those first two could also be worry for his situation similar to Nyx's confrontation about the pills albeit expressed in a rough way, as she doesn't shy away from physical confrontation either.

- Luche - she seems on fairly good terms with Luche, and is often standing beside him in group shots, but he seems to gloat over her death, though that could be more about the reaction it garners in Nyx at the moment.

- Drautos - Why did he order her death? If the glaive is a family, did Drautos make a pragmatic choice or a personal one – to let her die before she has to watch as the rest of her family falls?

Behind the Scenes: Voice Actor - Alexa Kahn, who also works with redubbing lines (and could be the woman in the picture on Nyx’s board). Mocap (and, presumable, though uncredited face): Andrea Tivadar, who is also the facial scan for Lady from DMC 5.

As before, we'd love to hear if we missed information, or you'd like receipts on some of our claims, or even just your own theories or fanon regarding our favorite mage.

And good luck with your content creation for Legends week! Please send us an ask if you have any questions or confusion.

#KGLegends22 #ffxv #Crowe Altius #kingsglaive #ff15 #deep dive #edited 2022.9.12 for Crowe's dagger

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mousetrap-if · 3 years

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Meet Max Keller

Here's the second of the cast intro profiles. I'll be updating these as the game progresses and the characters develop further.

Basic Info

Name: Max Keller

Gender + Pronouns: Male (he/him), Female (she/her), Nonbinary (they/them)

Height: (m) 6'0", (f) 5'7", (nb) 5'4"

Age: 26

From: Beaufort, South Carolina

Personality: Caring, adaptable, soft-spoken, cautious, thoughtful

Occupation: Part-time character actor, part-time med student

Has Worked Here For: Six years

Relationship: Never spoken to them, but you have seen them eating in the cafeteria below Fantasy Quest a few times

For more on Max, check below the cut.

Max's Role

Max is a character actor, specifically, they're one of the elite few character actors who only portray face characters (characters not in fur suits). They go out into the parks as the characters from Whimsey shows so that guests can talk with them, get pictures with them, or even an autograph. Most other roles believe that character actors receive the best treatment by Whimsey and (while that's probably true) that doesn't mean they have it easy. Actors are constantly around people, dealing with children, and being tested/pushed by contrary guests. Being a face character isn't just about having a pretty face. You have to be smart, level-headed, patient, and a master of improv. Most actors portray multiple characters but there's typically one that they portray most. For Max, this character is...

Male Max: Damien (the villain from Beauty and the Beast)

Female Max: Mostruosa (the villain from Sleeping Beauty)

Nonbinary Max: Peter Pan

Max's Costume

Max wakes up wearing the costume of the character they usually play.

For Damien this means a dark green, knee-length hunting jacket over a long, golden-brown vest with matching gloves, black trousers, leather boots, and a dark brown wig with a short ponytail. He also has to wear a muscle suit (though m!Max doesn't really need it).

For Mostruosa this means a floor-length gown made of raven feathers and black mesh covered in gems. She also wears black faux leather leggings since the gown has a slit up the front of the skirt. The dress has a short train, long bell sleeves, and a high collar. She also wears a long, black wig and a crown fashioned from black spikes.

For Peter Pan this means a rough, green tunic, dark brown pants, a belt, bracers, and short boots all made from the same fake leather, and a green cap decorated with red leaves. They also wear a red wig (a slightly brighter red than their natural hair) and lots of fake freckles.

Max's Mannerisms

There's a slight hunch to their shoulders when they're standing around as themself. They rarely gesture with their hands when they speak, preferring to keep them shoved in their pockets or held behind their back.

Max's Voice

Max speaks in a medium-pitch, warm-toned voice with a slight American Southern accent but they effortlessly adopt other voices and accents to portray different characters.

#interactive fiction #twine game #horror #interactif game jam #mousetrap #max #cast #intro #profile

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the-gloomth · 9 months

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New Morningstar Blouse

View On WordPress

#canadian designer #goth fashion #new spiked blouse #peter pan collar blouse #plus size gothic brand #plus size lolita fashion #punk lolita #spike blouse #spikes #toronto fashion

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woodlanddreams · 4 years

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the ladies!

[ID: (left to right) Lup from taz balance is an elven woman with tan skin and freckles. she has long, light blonde hair in a ponytail and purple eyes. she is wearing a black top and a red robe. her hand is in a fist and on fire. she has a grin on her face and looks like she’s ready to take down the hunger. there is a low opacity purple skull mask on her face. Aubrey Little from taz amnesty is a human woman with dark skin. she has an eye brow piercing, two hoops on her right ear that are cartilage piercings, one regular ear piercing on each side, and a bridge-of-the-nose piercing. she has curly red hair that is shaved at the sides and amber eyes. her hands are raised and on fire. she is wearing a black top with a purple vest with spikes on it. Dr. Harris Bonkers phd is sitting on her left shoulder. she has a look of determination on her face and is smirking. Rainer from taz graduation is a human woman with pale skin. she has long blonde hair and blue eyes. she is wearing a green dress with a peter pan collar. she is staring at something out of the picture and smiling. there is a squirrel skeleton on her shoulder and a low opacity green skull mask on her face. ID ends.]

#lup #rainer #podcasts #the mcelroys #taz balance #taz #taz amnesty #the zone cast #taz graduation #taz grad fanart #aubrey little #beka draws

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starker-fluff · 4 years

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Peter Pan Chapter 2#

I apologise for last chapter. But it’s back to fluff now I promise.

Trigger warnings: mentions of abuse, mentions of violence, gun shot wound, mentions of kidnapping.

—//—//—

The first thing Peter noticed when he woke up was the beeping coming from beside him. Next was the pressure on his chest. Slowly Peter opened his eyes to a dimly lit room that was adorned with medical equipment. Looking down at his chest he saw little Morgan curled by his side with her head resting on his chest.

He gently ran his hand over the back of her hair, smiling softly as the girl snuggled closer. Creaking sounded next to him, making the young man tilt his head to see the most handsome face he’s ever seen resting against the back of the chair.

“Tony..” Peter croaked out, reaching out his hand just far enough to brush against Tony’s finger tips which was resting on the railing of his bed. He could of reached much further but his body felt incredibly heavy and drowsy.

“You’re awake. Hey sweetheart.” Tony said softly after he became aware of his surroundings after his long nap. Tony’s hand reached up and brushed his fingers through his curls. Peter gently reached up and pulled the man’s large hand down onto his face. The boy resting his cheek against his palm and letting out a soft hum.

“I’m so glad you are back, baby. Do you know who you are?” Tony asked quietly as he smoothed his thumb over Peter’s soft cheek, both being cautious of the sleeping child.

“My name is Peter Stark.” He cooed back, eyes fluttering shut as he enjoyed the balmy warmth and touches coming from his lover’s hands. It had been so long since he had felt a loving touch.

“I’m so proud of you, baby. You are doing so well. What about her?” He gestured you Morgan, “and me?” Tony finished, his eyes hopeful as he clung onto any threads left that would let Peter remember him.

“Morgan and Tony. Daughter and Husband.” Peter mumbled softly, turning his head to press a soft kiss into the palm of Tony’s hand. Finally opening his eyes he sees the love of his life attempting to quietly cry.

“Noo. No. Don’t cry. Did I say something wrong?” Peter panicked slightly, the beeping spiking.

“Shh. No no, baby. I’m just very happy you remember me. Would you mind if I hugged you?” Tony asked as he shifted forward in his chair. Smiling in adoration as Peter let out a happy squeak and lazily patted the space next to him. The older man clicked down the railing, towing off his shoes and chucking his blazer off before climbing into the bed. Tony was extremely careful as he manovered under Peter as you not disturb his wounded side. Morgan only stirred slightly as Tony picked her up and laid her against his side so that Peter was less at risk of getting hurt.

“Go back to sleep, darling. I’ll watch over you.” Tony cooed softly to Peter, letting the boy relax against him. Peter let out a little hum of satisfaction, enjoying the way his body turned to jelly as he melted into Tony’s body so that they fit like a puzzle piece. He might not remember everything but his body does, especially when Tony raises his hand and Peter immediately grabbed it to cuddle as he fell into sleep. Little did the boy know that this was always how he slept, clinging onto Tony’s arm.

—//—//—

The next time he woke up he was still cuddled up to Tony but he was speaking and he could hear Morgan giggling in the background.

“Morning princey.” Tony said with a little chuckle as Peter only huffed in response. The boy tried his best to turn over and hide in Tony’s chest but stopped when his side spiked with pain.

“I know sweetie. It’s gonna hurt for awhile. But why don’t you open your eyes and say hello to Nat and Rhod-“ Within the second Peter’s eyes were open and was staring hard at the two. Squinting as he tried his best to connect the dots.

“Hey Peter. Don’t worry about trying to remember right now. We know what happened. You’ll remember us eventually.” Nat said with a disappointed smile. Peter felt bad, guilty, that he couldn’t remember them when they could remember him.

“We bought some clothes and food for you guys. We brought Peter’s ring as well.” The boy’s ears perked up at the word ring. He had a ring? He raised his hand making a hand gestures for Rhodey to give him the ring. The man complied, dropping the diamond encrusted ring into the Peter’s hands. He stared at it for a long long time, the silence becoming awkward but he remembers waves crashing and a song he can’t quite remember.

“Did we get married near the ocean?” The boy asked as he slipped the diamond onto his finger.

“Yeah!! And there was a swing!! And a pool!! Nat did a back flip into the pool. She was going to teach me but Daddy said no and then Papa chased Nat around the pool threatening to steal her kneecaps.” Morgan filled into the blank for Peter as she skipped over to the bed. The room feel into laughter which ended with Peter wincing and Tony worried and trying to tell everyone to shut up but he just ends up making everyone laugh more. Suddenly the door slams open.

“BITCH.” Bucky made his entrance, pointing at Peter with a big smile.

“BITCH!!!” Peter said back excitedly. Bucky settles slightly and smiled happily.

“I knew there was no way he’d forget our greeting. You owe me five bucks.” The long haired man plopped himself down by the bed, lifting Morgan into his lap. A cocky grin was plastered on his face as he looked over to Nat and Rhodey. Peter just giggled and was smiling so much his cheeks hurt, he was glad Bucky was here. He was another familiar face that made him feel safe. Tony looked over to Bucky and gave a thankful smile before leaning down to press a gentle kiss to Peter’s cheek.

“But seriously. It’s good to have you back. Tony is so useless without you.” Bucky said earnestly but ended it in a joke, kinda. It was true though. Tony had been an absolute mess without having Peter by his side. Two years of his life were spent frantically going through his days trying to follow any lead that would bring Peter back.

“Yesh. Welcome back Pete.” A voice came from the doorway. Steve stood in the doorway. Everyone’s head snapped to the door and they were all glaring, making Steve duck his head and hide around the corner. Peter frowned and looked up at Tony who was seething with anger in Steve’s direction. Confusion was set on Peter’s face as he tried to figure out why everyone was mad at Steve.

“Come on, Baby. We should get your showered and into comfy clothes before the doctors come.” Tony said sharply, moving as fast as he could without hurting Peter. He really was in a hurry to get Peter out of Steve’s view. Did he do something?

“Mmk.” Peter slowly responded, letting Tony pick him up bridle style and carry him into the connected bathroom. Natasha places a bag inside the door before shutting the door. Soft chatting continued on in the other room as Tony gently sat Peter down on the toilet. The older man caustiously taking off the hospital gown and Peter’s boxers before turning around to turn on the bath, filling it up to about the hip level so that Peter wouldn’t get his wound wet.

“Uh, Tony, what did Steve do?” Peter asked cautiously as Tony turned back and gathered the boy up in his arms. The man’s jaw tightened as he lowered Peter in the warm water.

“He’s is incompetent. What happened to you is his fault. If it wasn’t for him being selfish I wouldn’t have had gone crazy for two years. He wouldn’t still be here if it wasn’t Bucky begging me to let him stay.... Sadly I listened.” Tony grumbled as he picked up a soft sponge and began to gently lather soap onto Peter’s thighs and calves, doing small little circles which had Peter slumped against the wall of the tub staring up at Tony with love sick puppy eyes.

“What’s that look for, cutie?” Tony chuckled, forgetting about the disappointment out in the hall.

“You’re my husband. I remember when you proposed. We were in that cozy little cabin alone and cuddling. You were drunk off your ass and so was I but I woke up with a ring on my finger and a soppy hungover mob boss clinging too me like a sad puppy.” Peter cooed up his husband, recounting the events that filtered into his mind.

“Of course you remember that but you don’t remember simple things like how you are allergic for shellfish..” Tony chuckled, scooping up water to clean Peter’s hair.

“Im allergic to shellfish?” Peter said slightly worried that he would accidentally eat shellfish and die now.

“No. You aren’t. And that just proves my point..” Tony smirked, pressing a kiss to Peter’s nose before shifting around so he could massage shampoo into Peter’s hair. Grimacing are how dirty and gritty it felt, how ever took his Angel was going to pay. Meanwhile, Peter was in literal heaven.

—//—//—

About half an hour passed before Peter was lifted out of the bath and dried off. He did a little booty wiggle then immediately regretted it when his side screeched in pain.

“That’s karma for trying to be a cheeky boy.” Tony commented, taking Peter gently by the chin and kissing his forehead. Guiding the young man back to the toilet where he helped Peter into a pair of comfy shorts and a very loose sweater. Peter picked up the collar and nuzzled his face into it, enjoying the softness and the warmth. Everything is so soft and warm compared to the concrete box. Whilst Peter was distracted with the soft sweater, Tony picked him up once again and took him back to the hospital bed. He sat beside the bed but still held onto Peter’s hand, peppering soft kisses onto the boy’s hands every now and then.

“How are you feeling Peter?” Strange said as he walked in the door, not even looking up as he navigated the room to get to Peter’s side.

“I’m good. There isn’t much pain as long as I don’t move too much. Other then that I’m really happy.” Peter explained, happily cooing to Tony as the ‘intimidating and scary’ mob boss kissed his fingers.

“You look very pale, you were not this pale last time I saw you. Some time in the sun will benefit you.” Strange advised. Peter glanced down to his hands and realised how pale he was, he was basically milky white all over. He thought he was tanner... Maybe it was just the dirt making him look tanner then he really was.

Soon everyone became distracted as Strange continued to a general check up on Peter’s body, his wound and anything important he should know. Peter decided to tell Tony and the doctors what happened at a later date, he wasn’t ready yet. General chat seemed to fill the room as Strange did his thing, Peter just doing as he said without thought and taking his advice. The poor boy used this empty time to try and think and remember. He felt like he was close to something from before his life disappeared but he couldn’t quite grasp it. The thinking and trying to remember was making him exhausted.

Eventually the calm chatter and the soft circles being drawn on his hands by Tony slowly lulled Peter back into a quiet sleep. Strange had warned everyone that Peter would be napping a lot due to his body healing from such a severe wound.

“Wait... don’t wanna sleep without. Tony.” Peter managed to mumble out as his eyelids drooped. Grasping onto Tony’s hand and trying to tug him closer.

“I’m here, baby, I’m here. I’m going to stay with you. I’m not going anywhere. Just rest, beautiful.” Tony cooed softly as he waved his hand at the group, telling them to leave. He then just slipped into the bed beside Peter, holding him close as the boy let out contempt little hums as the quiet thump of Tony’s heart pulled the boy under into a peaceful sleep.

Tags:

@itfeelssogoodmrstark @starkly @thequeenoffish

#starker #starker fluff #happy starker #tony x peter #see look fluff #sweetness #bucky is my life #starker fic

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lichen-punk · 3 years

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Baby pink, fairy tail, and bright pink from the pink ask meme

Baby pink - What advice would you give your 10 year old self?

jeez 10 is like. Immediately-pre-trauma rory i have NO idea what i could tell them that would help dfgjkhsdjklgjkfd i guess maybe just that theyd live to at least 22? and maybe get them interested in money management if possible since god knows they wont have a financial safety net soon lol

Fairy Tale - What is your favourite mythical creature?

you must know by now that it is dragons dude

Bright pink - What is your dream outfit/fashion aesthetic?

well my dream fashion aesthetic basically my current one but more so and transer lol i like a good mix of stuff yknow i like pins and patches and paint and spikes and secondhand sweaters and ripped faded denim and weird vintage pieces and misused military surplus and super-fem-but-in-a-feral-way yknow a little psychedelic a little punk a little grunge a little folkpunk a little cottagecore dfkjhdfkjgdf

my dream outfit which i make any video game character i create wear if possible (and clearly think way too much about) is, bottom-to-top: big stompy punk boots, torn fishnets, yellow floral a-line dress w a white peter pan collar and cap sleeves, spiked leather o-ring collar, lots of silver rings and piercings, smudgy makeup, oversized mirrored circular sunglasses, super backcombed messy hair, and a Healthy dousing of glitter

the main thing is im just a big disliker of pure functionality, ive always believed that anything you keep around should be made pretty or interesting to look at, and i apply that to clothes too. also i wanna look weird enough all over that if people stare at me in public i know its cause of the clothes and not cause im doing something wrong lmao

#idk what to tag that first one? bummer tw xckjfgd #this is the trouble with picking Specific ages instead of general younger i had a lot of bad years lmao #this set has some really cute ones yall should ask me more #sorry for the delay i went to go answer this earlier and got distracted by that moron lmao

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pastelgothqxeen-blog · 6 years

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How to be a Queen like me

Do your hair appropriately. Hair is one of the most important factors of the pastel goth look. If your parents say it is okay to dye your hair. go ahead ! Do not dye your own hair though, make sure a parent or a hairdresser does it.

Having wild hair (even black or pure white) can make it difficult to get jobs or get into universities. On that note, you will want to make your hair very simple, either just normal or with blunt-low cut bangs. To make your hair appear softer, try putting hair oil on the ends and conditioning often.

Common hair colors for pastel goth are: Any pastel, Pastel Purple, Black, Pastel Pink, even Pastel Blue, or Natural.

You may also want to spend some extra time working out hair styles that work for you. Keeping your hair in a style is a lot classier and more fashionable than leaving it down or in a ponytail.

Wear the right clothing. Clothing is basically what makes the pastel goth. If you don't get the clothing right, you will be regarded as a scene kid, a regular goth, a hipster or just plain normal. To make sure that doesn't happen, colors and pieces to avoid wearing are listed in the tips section.

Stock up on the following: oversized tops/sweaters/cardigans, button up formal shirts, one nice tuxedo shirt, striped clothing, plain pants, plain v-necks, plain dresses, Peter Pan collar shirts, any collared shirts, high waisted pants/skirts/shorts and floral pattern clothing.

You may want to avoid red clothing, as other people will pinpoint you as scene or hipster if you wear it. Try going for a violet or sky blue top instead.

Wear the right shoes. Shoes are a huge part of the pastel goth look. You may see lots of pictures of pastel goths wearing high heels, but this is not appropriate for middle school and could result in expulsion or suspension from school on your part.

Doc Martens has great shoes, which fit to your feet and come in many styles and colours. For example, you could try their boots.

Mary Janes, Combat Boots, Uniform Type Shoes, Short Doc Martens, Ballet Flats, Leather Shoes and many other shoes from shoe companies are great choices for footwear. Make sure that your footwear is comfortable and appropriate. You will want to avoid shoes with spikes and embellishments; they are more scene and goth than pastel.

Get accessories. Accessories are important to finish off the pastel look. Many people overdo them, so remember to understate all accessories.

A rule of thumb is to never wear more than 4 accessories at once.

Good accessories are hair bands, flower crowns, bows, metal link bracelets, charm bracelets, small leather purse, and a nice necklace. Please be sure to make all jewelry appropriate, and never wear any large earrings.

Make sure to personalize this look to your liking in the end.

Be kind to people. Pastel goths are supposed to be innocent and intelligent. Make sure to keep your grades up in school; if they go down, your parents might blame this on your pastel Gothicism.

Sarcasm is allowed, but only a very small amount, which is to be said very jokingly.

Have fun being a queen

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ratherhavetheblues · 4 years

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INGMAR BERGMAN’S ‘ FROM THE LIFE OF THE MARIONETTES’ “Weak people choose strange paths…”

The films of Ingmar Bergman have elicited from his loyalists a bemusing history. At the point where a consensus about the remarkableness of his skills and heart was at full tide, there also began to occur some battle fatigue in face of waves of other demanding presences of his. A pantheon readily arose, by way of influential critics who jumped to the idea that the mother lode had been reached and that the latter flood was secondary and not worth the strain. That Bergman began to produce films by way of television, also seemed a sign of losing it. (Also a sign of the viewers’ easily losing it, was the myopia about films predating 1957, regarded, if at all, as quirkily overreaching.)

For what it might have meant, the television series of Scenes from a Marriage (1973) became a last hiccup before finding other entertainments to go with popcorn. The soap opera (with a difference), in question, displays a couple of patricians and their on-again, off-again liaison, ad nauseam. But Bergman-being-Bergman, he inserts another couple, very different from the silver spoons. The protagonists host a dinner party for their friends, Peter and Katarina, who proceed to humiliate each other. After the hosts are rid of them, they stage a rededication to their superiority. “Peter and Katarina don’t speak the same language. We speak the same language…” Peter and Katarina, played by different actors, in German rather than Swedish, resurface in the 1980 film, From the Life of the Marionettes, in order to elaborate what heterogeneity can look like and feel like. Peter, another silver spoon, manages to remain another Peter Pan. His malaise with a Katarina drawn from one of his staffers, drives him to butcher a prostitute, perform necrophilia upon her and end up in a mental hospital holding his teddy bear. His wife is left to be an adult. Few of the original loyalists would have seen this film. Too bad, because it’s easily as brilliant as Scenes from a Marriage and any of the other films thought to be great.

The immediate shock, so unlike Bergman’s usual sophisticated procedure, signals, I think, a new form of traction bidding to surmount the dilemmas of a perverse planet. Doing something that new, the project would suggest, might occasion a rich departure.

Therefore the film today begins with the savagery meted to an anonymous (but eventually named) young girl becoming, in a coward’s eyes, an enemy army. The first we see of her is a close-up of her lips having been heavily covered with scarlet lipstick, along with a necklace of cheap tags, resembling a dog collar. (This imagery will pay dividends, later.) Then the attacker whispers, “I’m tired…” Long after the presentation of the hooker’s demise, we’re given a second look at the preamble to the horror. She tells him, “I don’t smell anything anymore… When I was a kid, my mother would take me to see her parents in Denmark. I remember how the seasons smelled. Winter… winter smelled like snow, coal stoves and wet gloves. And summer smelled like seaweed and ant hills. Spring smelled like melting ice and snow in ditches… budding Easter catkins and rain. But the autumn was the most beautiful of all…” She notices that Peter’s fallen asleep (that being a familiar “glitch,” when a heart was vividly at its best). She comes over and kisses his cheek. “I wasn’t asleep,” the Lost Boy lies.

The violence at the shabby brothel speaks to a hatred of nature, in someone letting fear overtake a brave and confused hope. But, as with the victim’s word-choice of “catkins” (a blossom resembling a spike), much thrilling dare and joy anoints her last moments. In his fatigue, she covers his face in a sort of benediction—her grace engaging his errancy. On the other hand, her swatch of black hair cascading over his head discloses a monstrous figure. During the explosion of his attack, small features speak to the ways of primordial action whereby intensities entail a gentle gift. As she struggles to avoid being crushed, a wash cloth appears on a clothes line. Its contours describe a bear cub. She manages to run to the concern’s stage, a vision of blood red, where two paper palm trees on the wall fail to bring a cogent dance. With each tree, however, as so often maintained, a subterranean force is called upon. Here the crazed figures crash between the trees, describing, instead of a harmony, a horror. At this moment, the coloration subsides to black and white, where many thoughts and many feelings bid for truth.

Though not over the hill like Peter, Katarina has a tiger by the tail which she manages quite badly. Firing up his indiscretion, the body of the work consists of several vignettes regarding his policy of refusal to grow up, and particularly refusing to touch the phenomenon of death. Two weeks before decimating a large percentage of the poetry of Munich, Peter Pan sees fit to pay a visit to a family friend by the name of Mogens Jensen, a professor of psychiatry. (At another instalment, twenty hours after the murder, that academic was quick to insist, to some kind of tribunal, that, “To be honest, I am deeply shocked. I’ve known Peter Egermann for twenty years. He is an amiable, talented, conscientious man whom everyone likes, as far as I know. He’s happily married to a hardworking career woman. He has a large circle of friends and leads a comfortable, rather modest life. A charming mother, Cordelia Egermann, the actress. His father died a while ago. His family is wealthy. His brother is a consul [in Bergman's film, Dreams [1955], a wealthy man seeking a miracle is also a consul]. His sister is married to a businessman.”/ “No hereditary depression in his family?”/ “Not that I know of… ” [all speaking the same language, until Katarina crashed the party]. “Peter and Katarina never consulted you?”/ “It was never serious. Nothing Valium couldn’t cure…” [This interplay includes the doctor’s large collection of African sculptures, seemingly the antithesis of classical rational logic.]) Peter admits, “There have been many long nights and too much drinking, recently. Besides, I am very aware of the fact that time is passing.”/ “Fear of death?” the specialist asks. Peter very ill at ease, without mentioning his fear, claims that what precisely bothers him is that he wants to kill his wife. “I’ve been carrying that idea around with me for two years.” The Valium expert, expert at circumventing death, listens to Peter’s assurances that, though both have been unfaithful, “We’re great in bed” [sounding like Johan and Marianne, in Scenes from a Marriage]. Then he reproves the conscientious man for asking, “I want you to tell me my hormones are responsible for my urge to kill her…”/ “Why did you come to me? You don’t believe in your own agony. You don’t believe in the existence of the soul…” [serious matters, but bemusingly pursued]. Peter, far gone in a relapse of bourgeois snottiness, can’t imagine what the family friend could be fussing about. Jensen continues, “Of course I’m angry. Because you have so little respect for your fear” [a paramount fear which the scientist won’t touch]. Concluding their conversation with Peter’s, “Maybe you should prescribe something for me,” the delinquent only pretends to leave the office, and, “letting himself out,” lurks in the darkened foyer, his advantageous cleverness leading him to expect the doctor to speak to Katarina. He’s wearing a woolen scarf, woolens being a flash point of the Anna of the film, The Passion of Anna (1969), who can only tolerate a mundane life and will attack at any chance to butcher carnal unruliness. On one occasion, she expresses her dislike by butchering a herd of sheep. Just before the exit, a Peter, who could feel he’d made an ass of himself, trots out a little homage to Katarina. “I’ve always loved to watch my wife, even when we hated each other. Or when she was revoltingly drunk… I’ve always loved the way she moves.” (Cut to her in their bathroom.) “She watches me in the mirror. She is lost in her own thoughts and she breathes heavily. I’m standing behind her, and I’m holding the razor in my right hand. She watches me the whole time. And now she really sees me. An imperceptible smile hovers around her lips. Now the knife slowly moves toward her throat. I can feel her slight agitation, a slight pulse at the throat…” (She smiles in seeing the now-constant clash this way.)

While standing in the dark, Peter lines up within a lamp alight on the wall and a pronounced part of that wall. Nothing happens. Katarina, rushing to what Jensen might enlighten her, stages an opening gambit far from impressive, to wit, “Have you got anything drinkable around here?” Completing the triad, the doctor proposes her coming to Tunisia with him, on business, for six weeks. She tries for the high road with, “Why hasn’t a clever man like you realized that I love Peter?” Cut to Peter, superimposed upon three windows, the depths of which might as well be in Tunisia. Giving us a sense of the priorities of that haute couture business she runs as a sidebar for Peter, Katarina exudes studious bourgeois unflappableness. The healer perseveres, “I think it’d be a lot of fun to have an affair with you…” Showing more urgency than the first responder, she snipes, “I didn’t come here to sleep with you, but to talk about Peter… Besides, I have my period…” Neither coitus in the office nor the possibility of someone getting hurt attains to seriousness. But the surroundings themselves lift this misadventure. There are two identical table lamps and one of the pedant’s wild creatures in between. Far, unfortunately, an impressive array. The lady with unstable cares pronounces, “If Peter’s really sick, he needs me.” In that frame of melting solicitude, the caregiver declares, “I don’t know, Kat… My intuition won’t let go of this…”/ “I also have an intuition,” she chides. Asking her what her intuition reveals, he receives a feeble strain of one-upmanship: [My intuition discloses] “that consciously or unconsciously you’re trying to figure out Peter’s and my relationship.” Despite this self-aggrandizement, she also reveals that the “relationship” is veering out of control. It veers promptly in her “relationship” of the world of classical reasoning, being so cavalierly wielded. “I’ve always been afraid of you…” This window of her intuition” curdles to the cartoonish. “Peter’s a part of me. Don’t you understand that? I carry him inside of me, no matter where I go. He’s inside me [that intuition of kinship being a vastly complex system, not amenable to whimsy]. I’ve never felt that with anyone else… If we had kids, it’d be different. He’s my child, I’m his…” (In the film, Dreams, a fashion careerist hears from a married lover of her’s that he has reached a state of affairs where he is as weak as a toy, “a worn-out teddy bear.” The connections between these two films will blossom throughout.) “No, that’s not true. We didn’t want to be clever or mature. That’s why we fight and hit each other and cry. We don’t want to grow up. But we share the same blood circulation. Our nerves have grown together in some strange, uncanny way. Can you understand that?” Her so seemingly passionate about their closeness of sensibility is far more hope than substance. In fact, her bidding, in painful truth, to be not of the same language as Peter, carries a danger she underestimates. Her final words with Jensen here, therefore, measure her cowardly incompetence. “Whenever Peter’s not feeling well, the same happens to me. I want to run home to Peter and hold him and say, ‘Now, from now on, I’ll understand everything you say or think… everything you feel…’ I want to hold him fast until he finds me. Why the hell don’t we see each other, although we live together?”

The next step involves her mother-in-law, a week after the murder, receiving a police investigator at her estate. “Peter was the child I’d always wanted. We were so happy. He had a wonderful childhood. Maybe it was too sheltered… He was a fearful child. He was afraid of the dark. He always wanted the light in the hall to be left on. He was afraid of all sorts of things: dogs, horses, large birds. He was like me. I was also sensitive and somewhat sickly. He was very close to his sister… They’d play with dolls and put on puppet shows. He was a quick learner at school [not, you can bet, a quick learner at what they don’t teach in school]. He always got the highest grades. When he was twenty, he met a nice girl [you can bet a patrician, like him]. They got engaged and planned to get married after finishing college. And then he met Katarina and fell madly in love with her. Katarina had a lot of control over him. She had the say. What Peter’s parents said or thought wasn’t important anymore… I don’t understand anything… I’ve had a good and happy life. Peter came to see me a few days ago. He had a list of things that needed to be dealt with, pertaining to his fixing up an old house for them.” (A rare lingering bit of rebellion. She noted that the roof is badly insulated. In The Passion of Anna [1969], a weak-willed man addresses his rotting roof. Disaster follows. But here, not a complete massacre occurs; therefore, we’re enmeshed into a very complex dynasty, a life of marionettes that, rarely, beats the odds.) Onscreen, many candles surround the old lady. A surfeit of candles. Three lamp lights—two, rigidly, side-by-side: another, way off beam. He stands behind her, being eclipsed by his mother, with only his arms and hands seen at her head (a configuration resembling his threatening knife upon Katarina; and also resembling the precious fashion designer, in Dreams).

The episode, “Five Days before the Catastrophe,” tests the catastrophic errancy of a woman struggling to navigate a true magic which her vision fails her. The odd couple find themselves at variance, unable to sleep, and they come to the dining room table to table their agendas. He begins a cognac, while raggedly choosing to cover up with a bedsheet. Then he opines that the meal they had that night at another couple’s place was “horrible.” She chooses whiskey. “That relaxes me. And it’s healthy.” He argues, “Don’t drink so much…”/ “I’ll drink as much as I want, my darling. I never go overboard…” That goads him to remark, “You were pretty insufferable last night.” Her rebound is, “Don’t I know it… I was like that on purpose. That’s the way it is. On purpose[making sure she was at an advantage; that being the bane of any hope for that disinterestedness she needs to practice on the way to creativity]. I enjoy embarrassing Martin… He always tries to fondle me in secret. So I get tipsy and fondle him. Openly. That’s a subtle way of getting back at someone, Little Peter.” Subtle! The pressure requires real subtlety. And the pressure for us is to realize that Katarina has embarrassed herself. We won’t get much subtlety from her. But this film has challenged the viewer to provide the vast subtlety she lusts for and fumbles. He, from his sterile decorum, complains, “You’re starting to get loud and nonsensical.” Her, “That’s your opinion… Everyone else thinks I’m terribly nice,” would be a prelude to hating herself when alone and sober. More empty loudness from her, pertains to an argument about his mother, cropping up the following day. When he reminds her that she promised to be present for a discussion of the quirky house, she sneers, “I don’t have the time. Your business friends consider it an honor to eat that grub your awful old mother prepares… She’s a rotten old monument to your [deceased] father’s imperium of oppression…” (Though Peter laughs at that, that we know now he’s been contemplating her murder for two years, there has to be some quiet rancor.) The tenor of their conflict reaches an unexpected turn for Katarina. “Now I’ll tell you what I actually didn’t intend to tell you. No, it’s nothing special, just a feeling… It happened early yesterday morning. I was in the bathroom drying myself with a freshly washed, rough towel that smelled good. Suddenly, I had an insight, or what it’s called… I saw all these familiar things around me and knew that they soon wouldn’t belong to me anymore. That everything would be taken away from me. None of these things around me would belong to me anymore… That feeling was gone after a minute or two, but last night it came back…”

Peter ignores this (as he ignored, by sleeping through the prostitute’s insight, she being light years more significant than he). What he doesn’t ignore, however, is the mention, by Katarina, that his friend, Harry, had set up a tennis workout early in the morning. On hearing the reminder, Peter informs her that his friend’s tennis elbow was acting up and that therefore the game was off. This brought to mind (despite her having so recently come close to cogency) a recurrent annoyance about Harry’s smoking habits, which reach 70 cigarettes a day. Her gambit of attending to some form of vitality (which does not touch her alcohol habit) becomes a case of her (ragged) concern for a peculiar sensual force. There is another Harry, the protagonist of the film, Summer with Monika, who, after disastrously attaching himself to a poisonous girl, runs her out of his life. This figure makes plenty of sense here, inasmuch that Katarina is on the hook to ditch a dead-end sensibility. That other Harry becomes adept in work and wider responsibility. But Katarina’s wider responsibility is as hard as it gets. Next morning the rush-hour traffic powers past their flat. Two streams of vehicles, headed in opposite directions, presenting much statement but no links. There are contrasting lights in the German darkness, depending on the direction. At work Peter dictates to a secretary, “We have two alternatives.” Not three. Later he notes, “The problem is that a completely new point was raised…” In an ironic conclusion to this very long instance of pedantry, rounding off a punishing display of mutual disarray, we have Katarina rehearsing the models for her imminent fashion show. The effete impact being a paragon of how not to deliver well.

Our major protagonist makes good on her threat to be missing in action at Mama’s soiree. At a bar (where she drinks heavily and shoos Peter along to thrill to something she too should care about), one of her colleagues, the major designer of her concern, spirits her away to his art deco gem of a flat (showing two diamond-shaped lamps vertically positioned in the dazzling darkness along with one rounded lamp too far-off be a player), for the sake of lifting her spirits, and becoming, as far as his lights allow, a genuine friend. Tim, the first responder, had mooted, “I have a wonderful idea. Come to my place for a few hours. You can take a nice long bath. I’ll make us a salad.” In face of this handsome proposal, she corrosively claims, “I’m fine where I am.” In standing up she collapses upon his chest. “I feel so bad.”/ “I suddenly had the feeling that you were terribly unhappy,” he perseveres. (She covers one eye with her hand.) Once to Tim’s tidy home, he shifts the subject to that Martin she felt she had to outsmart with “subtlety.” “We were very attached to each other. But as you know, fidelity doesn’t exist. Not true fidelity.” (Tim is shown by a full-length mirror. A twosome.) “When you’re gay, you can’t be faithful.” Pulling himself back to the subject of conviviality, Tim states, “You have to cry if you feel like it.” Then back to political advantage: “Most gay men like women. Not because we’re particularly feminine, but because we’re more in touch with our feelings. I didn’t come up with that. Martin said that. But it could be true.” (One light is on behind her.)

Tim emotes, “Splits! It’s immeasurable grief… Maybe it isn’t grief at all, but some sort of madness.” (She in the way of a lamp with two lights.) She contributes, not entirely candid, “People like me have never given the soul much thought. Then the soul starts acting up, and you’re helpless. You know?” Tim says, “I understand.” She continues, “Perhaps a few tears are shed at first. A strange kind of crying which then turns into a terrible howl of grief and hopelessness. Then it turns into a blind roar… a roar… a roar…” (Cut to Tim, nonplussed. Is Katarina caught up in Tim’s sentimental menu?) The designer avers, “Everybody breaks down once in a while… I’m pathologically addicted to intimacy!” (Two diamond lights between them.) Then Tim speaks at length about about the horror of getting old.“Two incompatible people… Sometimes I think they all stem from one and the same origin.” He concludes this rampage of intimacy by asking Katarina to lay her hand against his cheek. She does. But when he asks—“Can you feel that my hand is me? That it’s me?”—she shakes her head. (Katarina joining a host of dullards ignoring what’s up. Can she rally? That’s the heart of the saga.)

Three days after the murder, Tim, the apostle of intimacy, is summoned by the police due to his being instrumental in Peter’s meeting the victim. After a lot of flim-flam at the expense of a one-track-minded functionary, he declares—what happened to intimacy and more in touch with our feelings?— “I liked the idea that Peter was cheating on her with a prostitute. But that’s only part of the truth. Weak people choose strange paths. I gradually focused on taking Peter from his wife and making him mine. I saw the coldness in his marriage… I knew I could save him… People like me have a feeling for such things.”

A somewhat less predatory scene pertains to a letter from Peter to Mogens, which never becomes sent. It functions as a glimpse of the influence of Katarina. And it confirms that that toss away platitude, “Weak people choose strange paths,” is studded with deadly practices. Peter premises is cri de coeur, by declaring (Tim-like), “What I’m going to describe isn’t a dream in the usual sense.” (It’s, in fact, more a dream like the fervid dreams of the film, Dreams.) “Although I experienced this under the influence of pills and alcohol, the experience seemed more real and horrible than the reality of everyday life.” Cloaked in a calming fog, there were him and Katarina seen in bed from the vantage point of the ceiling. The documentor struggles to describe the fabric of this action: more than “sensual;” not only “erotic;” “a direct link between my lower body and the intense, sweet-smelling moisture of a woman.” (Katarina’s hair tumbling as she sleeps.) Then a moment showing them nude from a long distance, with over-exposed visuality, insinuating a snowscape. In the vein of “more in touch with our feelings,” Peter gushes, “I moved over a glittering, spacious surface with my eyes closed. And all was very quiet. My contentment was complete. I had a strange urge to tell a funny story.” (Can Katarina’s heights get past the funny story stage?) “There was a little eye on every finger.” (In Dreams, one eye upon a raincoat suffices; here the push to be “big” collapses the traces of remarkable initiative.) He moves to touch one of her nipples. Then he rattles off a formula, where only the deftness of motion can prevail: “If you are death, then I welcome you, dear death. If you are life, then I welcome you, dear life.” Amidst such sophomoric efforts, he does break from tradition to realize, “that it was dangerous to become afraid.” Back to his cruising speed, he imagines consistently to be unable to penetrate her. “I fell into a rage. I withdrew to stop myself from killing her.” Her vigorous countering of his aggressiveness, leaving him holding his head, produces a long glare of intransigence between them. This is followed by her gently soothing his wounds. “It is difficult to describe that particular moment. The very air I was in was transformed… We entered a sudden spirituality without reservations.” That her range puts his to shame culminates in his fantasy of having killed her “in some cruel way.” The missal describing a weakling. No wonder it was never sent.

The episode, “Two Days before the Catastrophe,” brings the letter to solid action. It begins with Katarina frantically trying to reach Professor Jensen, because Peter is up on their roof contemplating jumping to his death. True to form, the psychiatric flop is not available. Her backup choice is one of his cronies, namely, Arthur, a name (in the form of King Arthur) redolent of maintaining good breeding. (In The Passion of Anna, a weak-willed artisan on a broken roof ends up like a figure in the works of Samuel Beckett. From here on in, it’s about whether Katarina can fare better than that.) Arthur tries to rally the on-again but largely off-again rebel with, “It’s respectable to want to jump, but inhuman to torment one’s fellow man.” He adds, “Someone will see you and alert the police… Can’t I at least get your fur coat?”/ “That would be nice of you,” the not quite desperate enough malcontent replies. (Weak people choose strange paths.) He’s back before Arthur can carry the furs. Katarina attempts to calm the country club regular, but at this stage he shows no interest in their constellation. She drops that hot potato and hopes to find more success with the paragon of easy chivalry. “Poor Martha (Arthur’s wife), we’ve disturbed her.”/ “Not at all,” he tells her. “She had an early operation at the children’s clinic.” In the Swedish Bergman film, Dreams, a woman, named Marta, uses a trump card of children to fend off the protagonist fashion entrepreneur, Susanne, intent on a weak paramour. Marta is a pretty smart cookie, but not as bright and brave as she thinks. On the subject of hard knocks, Peter, attempting to look somewhat less weak, kicks Katarina backwards from her position of sitting on the carpet by the chair he occupied after doing without his furs. Arthur does nothing noble here. “Come sit with me,” is his policy of law and order. An embarrassed lady of the house chirps, “I’m fine on the floor…” Then both of them begin to glare at each other. She plunges on with, “We had a drink with Johan and Marianne. Then we all went out to that new Italian restaurant near the theatre.” (She drinks. Arthur smokes. Far less overt is her uphill climb to bring her seldom uncanniness to a full fruition and a hope for beating back a horde of cowards, along lines of surpassing those who kick, while keeping in play those who meant something, being held in reserve.) Arthur asks her, “What’s that on your neck?” This brings instant communication from Peter, “Her necklace broke… I got caught in it, and then it broke.” (Peter got caught in Katarina’s audacity. And then it broke.) Arthur remarks, “Make sure it doesn’t get infected.” Peter the Weak blurts out, “Oh, Katarina says she wants to leave me. I say great. What a godsend. Then she says she can’t live without me. I say I can live better without her. She says I’m important…” (Katarina lies back on the floor.) As the transaction spins crazily, Katarina loses her temper, as she has done may times. But, while she has an end-game, he has nothing.

During the rest of the humiliation from out of that overt consideration of suicide, the conflict and its results do nothing but confirm that their life together is no more. She snipes, “Shut up, Peter, you’ve had your performance.” But now Peter—terrified in face of his wife’s reckless and valid cares (and occupying the model of that Anna, the little pedant and coward, emerging from the film, The Passion of Anna)—opts for an eleventh hour return to full bourgeois appetites, including a final “performance” to recompense his treason against his clan. How far apart are they? One indicator says a lot, though no one notices. As Katarina lies back on the carpet, pondering her future as a solo act, we see her from upside down and particularly the collar of her shirt. Two button holes and a button: the two of them no longer in business, but, for her, filling little needs could go far. That she is far from steady enough to see her way through this snake pit may be transparent in the following communication later in the conversation. “Poor Peter, I feel so damn sorry for you.” (That is precisely what the protagonist, Susanne, in Dreams, has to endure, from a prim, nihilist Marta, who believes that no couples ever become magic. That, in the cyclone going on at this point, Katarina becomes a stiff, is food for thought. She set this doomed, underground adventure by way of a degree in charisma. We’d like to discover if she can reinvent (and then some) a new and wider fruition. Out of the pointlessness of tons of clashing verbiage, there is one kernel of might from her: “We accepted the rules [of skepticism] but had no knack for the game [the play and its good-naturedness].”

In the episode, “Three Weeks after the Catastrophe,” we find some signs that Katarina is beginning to find a knack. Paying a visit to her grieving mother-in-law, our protagonist counsels lightening up, going on a visit to Paris where the grieving one has a sister. As to being possibly needed by the butcher now ensconced in an institution for the hopeless, the daughter-in-law relates, “I went to see him yesterday. He didn’t seem to be all there… He’s getting injections to stave off distress.” So prostrated is the mother with the shock, Katarina (surely feeling some irony, which now, though, for her, might have an impact for some good, for some people) suggests Professor Jensen to lighten her load. The offer is accepted. Despite Katarina’s history of hating that lady, she now declares, “I can come to see you every day…” This gambit is promptly shot down by the host’s digging into their troubled relationship. “You think it’s all my fault…” (But Katarina has begun to leave such sterile warfare, while needing to stand up to a history of panzer violence.) The mistress of the mansion argues, “You’ve always been very critical of Peter’s and my relationship.” Having to retort, “You were critical of our marriage,” would simply not be what was on her mind. A better manoeuver, though, would—in face of the woman with no future (like her son), dictating, “I gave birth to him and raised him. He’s a part of my life. You don’t have any children. You don’t understand a mother’s feelings…”—“You’re right. I don’t understand.” Pleased to feel on top, the maternal one speaks through a dynasty. “I didn’t want to hurt you.” The guest in the leopard-skin coat, assures the old lady, “You didn’t hurt me.” Pouring on that favorite insult by those smelling a kill, “I feel so sorry for you,” is met by Katarina’s, “I don’t believe that… I’ve been here for half an hour. All you’ve talk about is your feelings…”Perhaps her parting words forever (but not necessarily), the solo pours out her heart to someone who wouldn’t give a shit. “Full of astonishment, I look back on our lives… on our former reality, and think, ‘Was it all a dream?’ It was a game. Lord knows what the hell we were doing. This is true reality, and its unbearable.”(It could be that being in the presence of Peter’s mother has somewhat rattled the soloist.) True reality is not unbearable to the strong, and Katarina knows it. She also knows that being a soloist is madness. Her being felt on the spot to match the matron’s emotions swings her into a line she’d find ludicrous when composed. “A strange, hard surface. But under the surface I’m crying. I’m crying for myself because I can no longer be the way I was… I cry for Peter. I’ve never been able to put myself in other people’s shoes… But suddenly I think I know what Peter is feeling and thinking….” And even in such a maudlin funk, her better self returns. “But the [exponentially] worst part of it is… that poor woman. I tell myself she was only frightened for a moment… That doesn’t help.” Just before Peter presumes to make his piddling statement for the sake of the “betters,” he learns that the woman knowing catkins is also a Katarina. The guest that day to the mother-in-law was very significantly on a track to touch those worth touching. To more fully disclose Katarina’s distinction in leaving that fortress of enmity, we look back to Peter’s doggerel where his wife (the only thinker that long family tree had ever enclosed) had had her creative heartiness cribbed and twisted into a cheap stunt. “There was a little eye on every finger.” What had the unsteady thinker wasted, on a worthless associate, was her hard won realization that her gentle and powerful proof against inertia not only opens and drives the fireworks of the cosmos itself, but being gifted by a vast menu of carnal initiatives, by way of which to be truly blessed, truly loved. (The outset of the film, Dreams, with its producing a large set of red lips, like those of Katarina’s, also traces a word for the wise: “One has to say no at some point.”)

An Epilogue showing Peter’s cell returns coloration. It has nothing to do with him (the exponent of, “no way out” and solitary chess, recalling the cowardly patrician in The Seventh Seal), but that Katarina is in the building, perhaps for the last time.

As this saga has unfolded, we’ve come to a unique need to add to Katarina’s struggle. Bergman’s exceptional skill about problematic drama eschews attending to further steps along this endeavor. The hundreds of montages accompanying the narratives were not only about the “mood” of the stories, but the actions of the viewers. The placements about the mundane, the ecstatic and their harmonics are not precious museum-pieces; but a way of life hugely dissimilar from the dynasties which have commanded fealty for, in one case 4000 years, and, in another, 2500 years. That they are massively wanting is one thing. That their homicidal proclivities exude a pall upon the land may be well seen by the former’s incompetence and arrogance to the point of a world-wide collapse, without so much as an apology. That is the reality which Katarina and we must deal with at a level of difficulty so extreme as to seem, “no way out.” But along with the Byzantine history, there is a stunningly underused resource to foster a “knack” in return. The likes of Katarina, who finds snippets of magical dynamics setting her apart, can, if alert enough, become buoyed by an agency recommending action for the sake of interplays that have no end of joys, but very much end of sentient life. This planet of toxic dynasties, so effective in paralyzing the full range of creativity (delivering a world of marionettes), is far from the only place graced with a creative knack.

#ingmar bergman

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almighty-avenger · 7 years

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Waiting - Peter Parker

Relationship: Peter Parker x Reader

Summary: The reader is concerned about Peter coming back to her after fighting crime all day. This causes her to think of the night they started talking and forming their bond.

Warnings: Swearing, drinking, a sweet kiss

Words: 4480

A/N: This is my first imagine so please be kind. It is a bit long but PLEASE bear with me. I worked hard on it.

KEEP IN MIND:

The regular writing is present time

The slanted writing is a flashback

Enjoy my loves <3

+++

Waiting. It’s an agonizing feeling. To expect outcomes of situations that you have no idea how to decipher or understand.

You weren’t patient, you never were and you couldn’t be now. Especially not now, at a moment like this.

But, yet, here you were, still waiting.

The remaining question: How will this all end?

11:37 p.m. the clock presented.

Exhaling a frustrated sigh of defeat, you roll over on your mattress, eyes burning of fatigue. Your body craved desperately to drift off, into the land of slumber where you could escape your thoughts, your worries, your fears but your stubbornness remained tall and strong-like a cement wall.

How could you sleep when he was still out there?

You gaze out the tall window that was feet away from your bed, its glass sprinkled with raindrops from earlier precipitation. Outside, it led right out to the fire escape where he would usually arrive to slip into your room. Gazing out the window now, you reminded yourself to buy some plants and flowers to add some beauty outside your window. You’ve been meaning to do it for weeks now.

As you kept staring, you search for a looming shadow or listen for a delicate tap against the glass, anything that signaled that he was here. That he had come back to you, that he was safe. You could never truly sleep soundly unless you knew for certain that he was okay.

Who were you waiting for?

Peter Parker, that’s who.

A.K.A Spiderman

A.K.A your best friend

A.K.A the love of your life

Your head buries itself into your soft pillow as you think of him, your cheeks warming as you picture his tousled chocolate locks, sparkling brown eyes and heart thumping smile. The damn kid made you feel like the zoo escaped in your stomach whenever you locked eyes and you hated/loved him for it.

You both met last year, when you moved to Queens as a sophomore. At the time, Peter was identified as “The Dude You Had 30 Second Small Talk with in Chemistry Class” and those “conversations” you two shared were rare, usually right before your teacher started her lecture.

Like, the occasional: “Hey, did you read the chapters last night for Chem?”

Or: “Your poem in the literary magazine was real good, Y/N!”

Or, ironically: “I saw Spiderman swing above me on my way to school… coolest thing I’ve seen all week!”

But, sadly, you both merely classified as acquaintances to one another.

Until…

+++

Last Year, Halloween at 11:37 p.m.

Your eyes bore into the back of your friend, Jess, her lengthy golden hair whipping from side to side as she sprints to the door ahead. You didn’t bother to keep up with her, no matter how freezing your body felt in the frigid wind. The brisk air whips against your stockings in a brutal manner and it was then, that you wish you wore pants to this party instead of your moderately short black dress. It was practically November. You trudge through the decaying grass as you cut through the lawn, arms crossed over your chest, crunching leaves under your Doc Martins.

Reaching the door, were are welcomed with a gust of warmth along with the scent of sweat and weed.

“Ah, refreshing…” you mutter under your breath, while rolling your eyes.

Scanning the perimeter for Jess, you spot her by the stairs, many feet away, chatting with her other friends. Anxiety kept your feet planted by the entrance as you watched them speak to one another. Her friends were not your own, only strangers that you glanced at politely in the in the hallways or had exchanged three words with during your month at Midtown. Despite your discomfort, you walked on toward them, mentally giving your anxiety the middle finger since it had kept you from doing so many other things in your life.

You’re only two steps into walking forward until Jess turns and dashes up the stairs, as if she were the roadrunner and you were the coyote.

What the fuck…

Huffing out in frustration, you make a beeline to the snack table close by, not in the mood to follow her again. You didn’t even want to be here in the first place, you weren’t going to follow her around like a lost puppy.

She’ll be back. She can’t leave me alone at a time like this…

Your mind attempts to reassure you but it didn’t ease the rapid thud of your heart.

You could do this, but not alone.

Fifteen minutes later, you were still attached to the table as if it were your best friend. You occupied your time by looking down at your phone, chomping on chocolate pretzels and frowning at anyone who gave you an amused smirk.

Right then, a group of upperclassmen made agonizing eye contact with you a few feet away. The girls attempted to be discreet about their staring but failed, the giggles they tried to hide with their hands giving them away. You glare into their posse circle until they get intimidated and look away, embarrassed.

You sigh out sadly as the last stare glances away. The brave face you masked on before the party was faltering into a look of pure insecurity.

You thought you could be brave.

You thought you could handle this but the anxiety was overpowering you.

Why the hell where you still here? What was the point?

You had your doubts coming here but Jess had begged you to come, had encouraged you, had basically dragged you here and then left you alone. Alone. At a party. After she promised to stay with you all night. It was social suicide, especially due to the situation you were in now. Clenching your fists in anger, you started for the door until a familiar face stopped you.

Sweet relief seeped within your chest.

“Hey! Curly Twirly!” you call, grinning, as you spot Michelle’s curly, wild hair from afar. That was the nickname you had given her yourself. She was the first friend you made at school, having been assigned together for an activity in one of your classes. She always managed to make you laugh in the dullest situations and although she’d never admit it, the walls she built over her exterior seemed to crumble whenever you two spoke.

She was wearing an orange shirt with the word ‘COSTUME’ printed on the front. You smirk at her irrefutable wittiness. Why the hell didn’t you think of that?

Her head turned toward you at the sound of her nickname and that was when you noticed the unsettling look of agony in her eyes. You only caught a slim glimpse of that look until she masked it with a plastered smirk. Something was up, you knew because the smile didn’t quite reach her eyes.

“Y/N, thank the Black Widow you came to this lame ass party…” she calls.

You widen your eyes at her sentence, getting caught off guard. Even though you two were friends, M.J. never said something like that to you before or…anyone really.

She approaches you, gazing at your outfit with extreme focus.

“Spectacular costume, Wednesday Adams is one of my role models.” she smirks.

You were dressed in a black dress with a peter-pan collar, black stockings, Doc Martins and had tied your hair into two braids. Boom. Behold, your costume.

“Shocker…” you say, the sarcasm clear in your voice. If Wednesday Adams were a real person, she and M.J. would be BFF’s.

“I’m surprised you’re here…” she admits, swiping a plastic cup from the beverage table and filling it with punch. The punch was obviously spiked, the cup she filled reeked of alcohol- vodka probably. You cringe as the cup comes too close to your nose for comfort, the intense scent still making you sick to your stomach.

“I thought people were still giving you shit?” she asks, sipping her beverage.

“They are,” you admit. You roll your eyes but not at her, at the assholes around you who continued to talk about you in front of your face.

“Yet, you still came?” one of her perfectly plucked eyebrows arch.

“I wanted to prove that they couldn’t get to me, but I don’t think I’m fooling anyone…” you truthfully confess.

You wished so badly to not give a shit, but you did.

“Hey…” she nudges her shoulder into yours. “You fooled me…”

You smile graciously. She had been one of the few people who didn’t judge you based on that stupid video.

“Besides,” she huffs, frowning. “Fuck what other people think. They don’t know jack-shit about you…” she continues. “This is just another ‘Midtown Mini Drama’. It’ll be forgotten in a week.”

“Thanks M.J…” you mumble. “God, I’d so rather be in bed with a book right now…” you admit, shamelessly to her. You knew she would understand, the girl had her nose in a book 24/7.

“Amen, sister.” she mutters as she tips her face back, draining her drink down in a one gulp. You cringe instantaneously, again, nearly tasting the bitterness in your mouth as you watch her. You were glad you were sticking to you lemonade and pretzels tonight.

“What the damn hell?” M.J. bluntly utters, causing you to snort in amusement. Your eyes followed to where hers were fixated- the entrance of the party to where Ned Leeds and Peter Parker were standing.

WTF?

“Twice in one month? That’s monumental.” you murmured in her ear as you both continue to gaze at the spot the two boys were standing. It was true that they didn’t come to many parties, only attending one bash weeks ahead of time that a girl named Liz had hosted.

You study the costumes of the two boys and notice both dressed as Star Wars characters. You recognize Ned to be Obi Wan Kenobi with his white tunic, white pants, belt and brown robe along with Peter as Darth Vader, dressed black from the neck downward and the iconic mask he held in his hands.

You smirked at their choice of attire, these dudes where hella cool.

As they linger throughout the monumental house, they came upon the snack table several minutes later where M.J. and you were still standing. They approached you as M.J. was gulping down the spiked punch as if she were dying of monumental thirst while you were inhaling the snack table like you were a vacuum on supersonic mode. (Especially the chocolate covered pretzels. Yum.)

Peter locks eyes with you and graciously delivers a soft smile when you have about six pretzels in your mouth. Embarrassed, you cover your mouth with the back of your hand and give him a wave with the other. You realized at that moment, under the neon flickering lights how cute he really was. Why you noticed now? You had no idea.

“Evening, ladies…” Ned suavely greets as he approaches MJ and you with Peter by his side. You swallow the pretzels painfully, not having the chance to chew every single one as you prepare to speak.

“Hey guys,” you smile, brightly. “Having fun?”

As the two boys begin to reply, M.J. cut them off.

“I wouldn’t decipher this party with the word ‘fun’.” she quips, her tone laced with boredom.

“That’s because you’re still sober…” you tease, mimicking her past action by bumping your shoulder with hers.

“This is why I keep you around…” she smirks, once again.

She turns away from you and the boys, back to the table to refill her cup, yet again. You stare at her, growing even more worried and mentally cursing yourself for the sentence you had just said. This was already her fifth cup. Why was she drowning herself in alcohol? You wouldn’t be as concerned if she was a regular partier but this behavior wasn’t normal.

“What are you doing?” you ask, stepping slightly closer and setting a hand on her shoulder.

“Getting shit-faced.” she responds, blankly. “Isn’t that what you’re supposed to do at parties?”

“She has a point…” Ned adds, from the side. You spot Peter hit him in the arm with your peripheral vision.

“You know what I mean…” you whisper in her face. “Why are you drinking so much? Are you okay?”

“Fine,” she bites, her eyes narrowing. “Leave it alone.” she harshly whispers.

“MJ, talk to-”

“I don’t need a babysitter, Y/N.” she barks at you over the music, glaring at you with so much intimidation it made you feel small and insecure. “Just, leave me alone.” she continues, the same cold tone latched within her words. She never spoke to you that harshly before.

Usually, for you, whenever you got into an argument with someone, you were quick witted and decently sly but as for right now, you were speechless.

It was harder to stand up to your friends rather than your enemies.

Before you had the chance to regain the strength to argue back, she whips around and stalks away to another room, taking her drink with her. You watch her back until it disappears and release a sigh. You desperately wanted to go after her but you didn’t want to smother her and possibly get her even angrier at you. She obviously didn’t want to be near you, hence her walking away…

The music begun to kick in to a louder beat, muffling the voices of other party-goers surrounding you. You could barely hear yourself think, the pounding music thumping throughout the walls was distracting. The room felt even more clustered and full, causing you to sweat and pull at the collar of your dress.

“–Okay?”

You whip your head to your right to where Peter was standing, closer than he was before. He was staring at you, pure curiosity swimming in his orbs. His eyes- so gentle and welcoming, looking at them had you feeling calmer. He was the warm fire in a rainstorm.

“What?” you dumbly utter. The damn music was causing your hearing to dysfunction, it was drowning everything out, even your own damn thoughts.

“You–Okay?”

The words were hard to understand over the bumping but you could read his lips. You smile sadly at him. He was such a sweet guy, he barely even knew you and here he was, asking that question. He could have easily walked off moments ago, escaping the awkward banter between you and Michelle but here he was.

“Yeah, thanks.” You nod, smiling gratefully. “I should probably just give her space…”

He mimics your nod, agreeing with you. You glance at your surroundings and realize Ned was nowhere to be seen. Huh, where the hell did the dude go?

“–Seventy three?” You heard the number he mumbled but once again, you didn’t hear the full sentence.

“Sorry, what?” you laugh, awkwardly.

“Did–? Seventy three?”

Ugh, this fucking music. It wasn’t even a good song either…

Clenching your jaw in frustration, you exhale. You wanted to chop the DJ’s head off.

“WHAT?” you yell, leaning in closer toward him, so close that you could see the purple and pink hue of his lips. (They looked soft…)

“DID. YOU. DO. CHEM. YET?” he bellows. His voice and face was still friendly even when he was screaming in your face. He was talking about the chemistry homework that had been assigned. You were to read page seventy-three in your textbook and complete the five paged packet that was due Monday. You haven’t even started yet.

“Oh!” you realize. “Uh…no, not yet.” you confess, yelling, slightly ashamed since Peter probably already finished it. That kid was an absolute wizard with anything science related. He had the highest grade in class, no doubt. He nods in understanding, looking away then back to you again, as if he wanted to say something.

“I–I can give it to–”

“Do you want to go outside?!” you yell, interrupting him. You would be able to hear everything he said to you out there. Besides, the pot in the air was getting stronger, giving you a headache.

He only stares at you, blankly.

“WHAT?” he shrieks.

You already get the answer you need. You turn around, latching onto his wrist and lead him out the door with you. You felt your cheeks grow hot at the sudden gesture, you just grabbing him and leading him away but you couldn’t deny the giddy pound in your chest.

+++

Lifting your head up from the pillow with sonic speed, your eyes blink rapidly. You zero in on the time displayed on your cable box that rested on your dresser.

2:34 a.m.

Shit.

You had fallen asleep.

Breathing heavily, you struggle to remain calm. You stumble out of bed to your window, leaning your head against the cool glass. You gaze out, scanning the fire escape as if he would magically appear in that moment. Peter has never been this late, ever.

What if something happened?

You stand motionless for a moment, the light patter of rain against the roof and the pounding drum of your heart the only noises you could hear. Scrambling for your phone seconds later, you dial the digits you have ingrained in your brain.

+++

Last Year, Halloween at 12:41 p.m.

“So?” you ask, leaning in slightly closer towards him in curiosity. “How was your first drink?”

“Terrible…” Peter winces, scrunching his face up in the cutest way possible as he crumples the plastic cup in is fist. He gulped down the whole drink in one sitting and you were impressed since this was his first time drinking. He had gotten some punch in the house before coming outside with you.

“Tastes like piss, right?” you ask.

“Like piss…” he agrees.

You giggle like a child as he stares off into space, blinking slowly and gazing off in wonder, a dazed look on his face. One of your eyebrows arch.

“Oh my god…” you breathe. “Are you already buzzed?”

Silence.

“Maaaybe?” he gets out, his voice slightly high-pitched at the end, making you cackle like a hyena.

“You are such a lightweight, you’re adorable.” you gush.

The words sprang out of you and it caused a small blush to ignite across his cheeks. Peter glances down at his high-tops bashfully, a tiny grin lacing his lips. While looking at him, you painfully resist the urge to leap in front of him and squish his cheeks with your fingers. God, he was so cute.

“Um–I–I…uh…” he stutters.

“Peter, calm down.” You smile. “I’m just teasing.” Your body shakes with laughter again at his painfully awkward stuttering.

You and Peter were currently sitting side by side against a tree outside the house. Although there was still a slight chill in the air, the temperature outside had gotten slightly warmer, leaving you refreshed and cool.

Some others from the party even came outside as well, one pair came out to lay on the lawn to stare at the stars or some came just to walk around in the cool air and drink with their fellow friends.

It had been about half an hour since you two had been hanging out with each other. You talked about school or the randomness of your daily lives. During those 30 minutes, you came to learn that Peter was a total cinnamon roll and you adored the way he talked to you.

As you glance toward the monumental home, you are reminded of M.J. The agony in her eyes, her strange behavior, the excessive drinking.

“I should check on M.J…” you say, out loud.

“Good idea,” Peter nods. “I’ll come with.”

You rise from the grass quickly and look down at Peter in amusement, who seemed to be struggling to stand. You giggle painfully to yourself as you help him up, both of your hands gripping on his surprisingly muscular biceps. Damn, what was he hiding under all those layers?

You steady him as he rises.

“Thanks, Y/N…” he flushes.

“Anytime,” you grin.

As you start to walk up the lawn, toward the door, a heavy arm slings over your shoulder, halting you. The monstrous weight nearly pushes half of your body downward and a horrid stench of body odor slaps you like whiplash as it emits from the strangers armpit.

“What the fu-” you speak out, scrunching your face up in annoyance and disgust. You nudge the body off you and turn to face the unknown male.

He’s stocky and much taller than you, with dark hair and a lazy smile. He held a beer bottle in his big fingers and was dressed as a Yankee baseball player.

“Can I help you?” you angrily spit. You didn’t like being touched by guys you didn’t know. Who the hell does?

“You don’t remember me?” the tall boy grins, taking a step closer toward you.

You take a grand step back, too grand however, because you collide into Peter’s chest. With this amount of proximity, you get a whiff of Peter’s scent- laundry detergent, pine and deodorant.

Sweet mama, you could sniff that boy all day like a flower.

“You really don’t remember me?” the random tall boy asks again, snapping you back to reality.

“Clearly.” you snarl, not in the mood to deal with any self-righteous pigs tonight.

“Y/NNNNNN!” a girl shrieks into the air in excitement, causing you, Peter and the stranger to jump in horror. Seconds later, two arms sling over your shoulders in a crushing hug, forcing Peter to back away from you. Hot vodka breath fans in your face and you shut your eyes painfully, cringing.

“Where have you been?” Jess laughs in your ear while she squeezes you painfully.

“You tell me,” you flatly reply, frowning at your friend that had abandoned you all night. You shrug her arms off your shoulder. “You’re the one who ditched me.”

Her eyes roll in annoyance, making you even angrier. “Don’t be so dramatic…” she mocks.

More people linger around the tree that you and Peter once occupied alone. Most of these people were Jess’s friends and some were random strangers. They all circulate around you, making you uncomfortable. You catch Peter standing side by side among them, looking timid himself.

“Whatever,” you huff. “I’m leaving.”

“What? No!” she begs, her manicured fingers latching onto your arm. “I got Brandon to come and see you!” she explains, excitedly.

“Who the hell is Brandon?”

“That’s me, Hot Stuff.”

You glance over to the stranger who had put his arm around you. Brandon gives you a wink as he nudges Peter to the side as he steps closer to you and Jess. You only stare at him, unfazed by his comment but suddenly able to recognize him.

You remember who he was and it made you want to slap yourself with a cactus.

Because you were such a drunk idiot last weekend.

“What are you anyway?” he utters, looking at your costume up and down. “Some goth bitch?”

You don’t even try to hide the irritable glare on your face.

“I’m Wednesday Adams, you moron.” you bite.

You see Peter grin shamelessly behind Brandon. In attempt to hide the laughter that lingers behind his smile, he covers his mouth with his sleeve.

“Woah, chill.” Brandon’s thick eyebrows raise in shock. His stunned reaction only lasts a fraction of a second until that annoying, careless smirk appears on his face again. He stares down at you with interest, giving you the impression he’s most likely wondering what you look like without your clothes on.

“You’re kinda feisty, aren’t you?” he slurs.

“To self-absorbed assholes? Yeah.” you swiftly reply. “Keep testing me and I’ll get even meaner.”

Everyone around you snickers at your snark. From the sidelines, you see Peter’s eyes nearly pop out of their sockets in flabbergasted shock. He doesn’t care to hide the laugh as he lets it out with ease. It was a lovely sight to him, watching you roast this drunk buffoon in front of you. You were so sassy, so…irresistible.

“Y/N!” Jess bellows.

“What?” you ask, innocently.

“Stop embarrassing Brandon…” she scolds.

“He’s embarrassing himself, I’m just mocking his stupidity.”

Holy shit, you needed to be stopped.

“Um, okay…” Peter pipes up, stepping to the side of you. Everyone in the group whips their head towards him in shock, they didn’t even notice he was there.

“We should get going…” he mumbles as he grabs onto you elbow and leads you away from everyone and to the house.

“She’s my DD!” Peter awkwardly calls toward the group.

As the two of you walk across the lawn to the door ahead, you realize Peter still hasn’t let go of your elbow. His face leans in close to yours.

“You’re dangerous…” Peter whispers into your face, only he’s smiling when you look over to him.

“Am I scaring you, Parker?” you beam, unable to hide the amused smirk from spreading across your face.

“A little.”

“You still have time to run away, right now.” you teasingly warn.

“I–I don’t want to…” he manages to reply, fumbling with his thumbs as he looks down toward the ground.

The two of you stop in front of the entrance of the party, both of you standing on the doormat, your shoulders touching.

“So,” you start, “We grab M.J. and I drive you both home? Sound like a plan?”

You don’t bother for a reply from him, your fingers latch onto the door handle but his voice calling your name stops you.

“Y/N…” he sighs, finally making eye contact with you.

“Peter…” you tease, breathing out his name like he did yours.

“If–If…I wasn’t drunk right now…” he states, slowly, looking down at his feet. “I’d kiss you.”

“O–Oh!” you squeak, squeezing the door handle in bewilderment. That was absolutely the last thing you expected him to say. You knew it may be true because there was no way in hell Peter Parker would say something like that to you sober.

“W–Would you?” you attempt to joke, grinning ear to ear in excitement and closing your eyes, making sure this wasn’t a dream.

“Yes…” he breathes next to your ear, you could practically hear the soft smile in his voice.

Without thinking, you lean in, capturing Peter Parker’s lips in a sweet peck.

+++

“Hey,” you speak shakily into the phone, your voice trembling erratically and embarrassingly. “Call me as soon as you get this, okay?” You squeeze the phone in a deathly grip as you struggle to keep breathing. You hang up before you get pathetic and start crying like a goddamn baby on the phone.

The tears start to roll down your cheeks with speed, similar to how the rain slides down the glass of your window outside.

Maybe you were getting worked up for nothing but how were you supposed to know? How were you to know what happened out there?What happened to him?

You stare outside the glass motionless, blankly, numbly.

There was nothing you could do now, only wait.

+++

Part 2???

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