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unfinishedslurs · 1 year

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party king (steddie)

“You want me to what?”

“Go to a party with me,” Eddie says, looking at Steve like he’s the weirdo here. “What’s the big deal, King Steve? You’ve been to plenty of parties.”

“You know, no one actually called me that,” Steve tells him, abandoning his tapes to put his hands on his hips. “Billy started it. I think he just wanted people to call him a king.”

Eddie visibly considers this before nodding, like it makes sense. Which it does. Billy was, in Steve’s private thoughts, an egotistical maniac who needed to calm down.

May he rest in peace.

“But you’ll come to the party with me, right?”

“Give it up, Eddie,” Robin calls from where she’s rewinding tapes. “Steve hasn’t been to a party in forever. He’s basically a grandpa now.”

“Hey!” Steve objects. That’s rich, coming from her. Going to bed at nine some nights so he gets a few more hours of sleep before waking up in a cold sweat does not make him a grandpa. It just makes him traumatized

“Steeeeeeeve,” Eddie whines, widening his eyes until it looks like they’re going to pop out of his sockets. His exaggerated pout isn't going to do him any favors either. No matter what the kids say behind his back (looking at you, Henderson) he isn't a pushover.

“Why would I want to go to a high school party?” He crosses his arms, leaning against the counter. “I graduated. I have better things to do with my time.”

“Like lose arcade games to freshmen?” Robin asks. He flips her the bird.

“Please, Steve?” Eddie asks. “Pretty please? Pretty pretty please, with cherries and whipped cream and six little nuggets on top?”

“What the hell are you even saying anymore?”

“You want him to eat his babies?” Robin shrieks. “Like Kronos? Is one of them going to cut off his head and free the rest?”

Eddie’s eyes light up, and Steve slaps a hand over his mouth. He doesn’t know who that guy is, and he doesn’t want to deal with the two of them chattering over whatever movie villain he’s assuming is in their weird cult classic films when he still doesn’t know why Eddie is asking him to this party.

He doesn’t even flinch when Eddie licks his hand.

“I’ve been slobbered on by actual monsters,” he says flatly. “Your spit has zero effect on me.”

Eddie bats his eyes and gives his palm a kiss, right where he’d laved his tongue. Steve rolls his eyes and wipes his hand on the side of Eddie’s face.

“Hey!”

“Don’t dish what you can’t take,” Steve says. “Now, why exactly am I getting asked to go to a high school party?”

“Jessica Roberts needs some kush, and she asked me to sell there.”

“Okay? Still not answering my question.”

“There’s gonna be jocks at the party,” Eddie finally confesses, “and I don’t know if they’ll try shit. But given my track record lately…”

“So you need a bodyguard?”

“Hey!” Steve shouts, and is summarily ignored by everyone. So he does what any normal person would do, and slams an abandoned beer bottle against the edge of the counter so it shatters.

The jocks turn and look at him after that.

Steve glances down at the jagged edges of the bottle in his hands, flipping it like it’s his old ice cream scoop. Yeah, this should work.

“Leave him alone,” he says, steely inflection to his voice.

“Or what, Harrington?” One of them asks. “Heard you just been sittin’ in this room all night. What, you hanging around the queers now? Didn’t take you for a f-”

He stops talking when Steve grabs him by the hair and presses the broken bottle against his throat.

“Here’s what's gonna happen,” he says quietly, taking a look at his buddy. He’s let go of Eddie, a lot more spooked now that his friend is shaking in his Nike’s. “You’re going to leave this room. You’re going to leave Munson here alone. You’re not going to bother him, or anyone else in his dragon club ever again. If I hear that you or your little friends are fucking with him, I have a very nice nail-studded baseball bat in my trunk I’d be more than happy to introduce you to. Capisce?”

“Woah, woah, woah,” the guy that was holding Eddie says. “What the hell, Harrington?”

Steve doesn’t break eye contact with the guy he’s threatening. “Capisce?” He asks again, putting a little more force into the word.

“C-capisce.”

“Good,” he says, shoving him away. “Now get outta here.”

They scramble away. Steve walks over to the trash can and throws away the remains of the bottle, running a hand through his hair. He finally turns around to see Eddie staring at him with wide eyes, frozen.

“Sorry-”

“Fuck me.”

“What?”

Eddie’s entire face flushes, like he didn’t mean to say that. “Uh.”

Steve looks at him, and then around the kitchen they’re in. Glass and beer on the floor, music blasting loud enough to set him on edge, a crowd of people that look at him like a zoo exhibit. Fuck, his head hurts.

“Yeah, okay,” he decides. “We’re going to mine, though.”

“Wh-what?” Eddie looks like a deer in headlights, even though Steve’s offering exactly what he asked.

“I…have no idea what I’m doing,” Eddie confesses.

“Oh, are you not…” He trails off, gesturing towards Eddie’s back pocket. “I assumed…”

Eddie laughs abruptly, slapping a hand over his mouth like he startled himself with it. “You know hanky code, Harrington?”

“Can you call me Steve when you’re in my bed?” He’s already got his shirt off, for God’s sake. “Listen, man, if you don’t want this, it’s no biggie.” He starts to get off, and Eddie’s hand clamps over his thigh.

“No, no, no, don’t you dare. Just gimme a minute, I’m processing.”

“Processing,” he repeats flatly.

“Yes, processing. I’ve got the guy of my extremely virginal wet dreams shirtless on top of me. I did not think this would ever happen. I didn’t even know you were queer until tonight.”

Steve’s mouth shapes into an “o” of understanding. “You’re a virgin?”

“Jesus, could you focus on anything else I said?”

“You dream about me?”

“Let’s go back to the virgin part.” His fingers start nervously tapping against Steve’s leg.

“You’re not subtle,” Steve says flatly. “I know when you stare at my ass.”

Eddie colors in a flood of bright red. “What if I wasn’t? What if I was…uh, jealous or something?”

“I guess that’d make sense, since you’re flat as a board.”

“Wh—hey!”

#party king au #stranger things fanfic #steddie #steve harrington #eddie munson #steve being unhinged is so fun #furthering my 'eddie has a flat ass' agenda one fic at a time #honestly i don't think steve is UNpopular after s1-2 like i feel like he'd exist in this weird space #where everyone likes him but he has no friends outside the party #and maybe he went to a couple of parties post s3 with robin but they got bored and bailed

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spider-stark · 13 days

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INFINITELY YOU

part three // spitfire

SUMMARY - In every universe, Peter Parker seems destined to fall in love with you. And, in every universe, he realizes it too late. When universes collide and two of them are granted a second chance at rectifying their biggest mistake, neither of them are willing to let the opportunity go to waste–even if you end up not being the person they thought you were.

WARNINGS - 18+, minors DNI

WORD COUNT - 4.5k

// masterlist // series masterlist // send me your thoughts // no way home fan fiction // rewrite

name key: tom!peter = peter // andrew!peter = parker // tobey!peter = pete

On the walk back from Peter Pan’s, it seemed as though Parker had managed to entirely escape the sputtering awkwardness that had ensnared him the night before.

And, after countless city blocks of listening to him babble about absolutely everything and anything, you realized that there was one very striking similarity between him and Peter.

Both boys had a fervent interest in all things nerd.

“New Hope takes place nearly two decades after the rise of the Galactic Empire, meaning that Leia is only nineteen when she's kidnapped and forced aboard the Death Star! Which is like, absolutely insane, right? Seriously! Imagine being nineteen years old and stuck inside of something that has the potential to obliterate an entire planet!”

Shoving open the lobby door to your complex, Parker hardly even waits for you to hum your agreement before continuing his retelling of the Star Wars film.

“And at the exact same time, Luke is finally beginning his Jedi training! Which, honestly, nineteen is actually super old for that, but-”

Moving towards the stairs, Parker close on your heels, you cut him off with a question. “Too old? Nineteen is hardly even an adult,” you argue. “What age do most Jedi start training?”

“About four or five, so obviously Luke was way behind,”

Not even a full three stairs up, you come to a grinding halt, leaving Parker to bump into your back. “Four?!” You cry out, wide-eyed as you spin around to face him. “That’s insane!”

Parker only lifts his shoulders, clearly not understanding the reason for your horror.

Furthering your point, you add, “There’s nothing ethical about taking a bunch of little kids and training them to be weird, intergalactic warriors!”

“It’s the best way to train them!” He lifts his hand defensively, explaining, “The earlier they start training, the less likely it is that the kids will have formed an attachment to their families! That way they learn to act out of logic instead of emotion!”

For a heartbeat, you’re rendered entirely speechless by the absurdity of his claim, left to stand with your mouth agape as you blink at him.

“That sounds like emotional abuse,” you finally huff, shaking your head. “Actually, scratch that—it doesn’t sound like emotional abuse, it just is!”

“It’s not abuse-”

You hold a hand up, stopping him before he can say anything else. “Give me one good reason why a group of adults should withhold love and affection from children if they aren’t abusing them.”

“Uh, how about the fact that love is basically what made Anakin turn to the dark side!” Parker scoffs, clearly unwilling to recognize how insane the notion he was pushing actually is.

“Or maybe Anakin turned to the dark side because he was indoctrinated and traumatized by some stupid space cult!”

The expression on his face is downright laughable.

It was as if you had just reached out and slapped him across the face. His jaw went slack, his mouth hung open in blatant offense. As a sputtering noise falls from his lips, trying and failing to come up with a good rebuttal, you smirk.

“Exactly,” you boast, taking his inability to speak as a sign of victory.

Twirling on your heel, you continue up the stairs, nearly all the way to the top before you finally hear him come stomping up behind you.

“The Jedi Order is not a cult!” He finally shouts after you.

Already traipsing through the hallway, fiddling with your keys, you sing-song, “Whatever you say, bug-boy.”

Reluctant to admit defeat, Parker continues grumbling under his breath as you unlock the door, spouting something off about your lack of respect for George Lucas.

“Look,” you tell him, pushing the door open, “if liking Star Wars matters this much to you, then I’ll gladly watch them with you.” A wry smile plays on your lips as you turn to look at him, standing in the doorway, “Maybe watching them will be enough to change my opinion on turning kids into galactic slaves.”

Eyes narrowing in a playful glare, he’s only able to hold the expression for less than a few seconds before a laugh causes him to break character. “I just can’t believe that Peter hasn’t made you watch them already,” he admits. “I had you watch them so much that you could probably recite the scripts from memory alone!”

His amusement dies off as soon as he finishes the sentence. Despite having been the one to bring it up, the mention of his world seems to cast a sullen shadow over him, ruining his sweet, boyish smile.

Curiosity instantly claws at you, begging you to ask him why his world seemed to have such a negative effect on him. Or, rather, why his version of you seemed to have such an effect.

This had happened last night too, when you had asked him if the two of you were friends in his world—and it was because of this that you assume that you’re somehow the common denominator in his discomfort.

Still, you don’t let yourself ask him about it. For as much as you’re starting to like Parker, you don’t know him nearly well enough to try prying into his life.

Not yet, at least.

“Well, you’re more than welcome to force me into sitting through them in this world, too.” You tell him sweetly, sweeping an arm out to gesture inside of your apartment, inviting him. “It’s not like I’ve got any plans for the rest of the day.”

You couldn’t even remember the last time you did have plans. Life had been so quiet since that last night with Peter and Mj—the night when everything went so horribly wrong.

Parker sucks in a breath through his teeth, a hand coming to rest against the back of his neck. “I should probably get back out on the streets,” he reluctantly says, sounding more like he was convincing himself of that than you. “But, I don’t know, maybe we can take a rain check on it, yeah?”

Disappointment washes over you, sudden enough that you’re sure it shines through on your face. It takes a shocking amount of willpower to stop yourself from trying to persuade him to stay, wanting to remind him that two other Spider-Men were already running themselves ragged in pursuit of the villains—so why did he have to go, too?

You had grown used to his constant talking, having found solace in the chatter that kept you from slipping too far into your own thoughts. Selfishly, you wanted him to stay so that you wouldn’t have to be alone; so that you wouldn’t have to risk thinking too long about Doctor Strange or the multiverse or constants or Peter.

The thought of admitting any of that out loud, however, felt incredibly humiliating.

“For sure,” you force a smile, trying to ignore the many thoughts swirling in your mind. Then, eyeing the slightly too-tight Ramones shirt that he’d stolen from you, you add, “But shouldn’t you at least come in and change?”

His nose wrinkles slightly as he shakes his head. “Nah—I think this city has more than enough spider-people swinging around it right now. I figure we might actually benefit from one of us patrolling on the ground-level, y’know? Maybe I can ask around for any giant lizards or blown light bulbs.”

It’s hard to tell if the last bit is meant to be a joke or not, but you laugh anyway if only to avoid knowing why you should be worried about lizards and light bulbs.

“Sounds like a plan,” you second his idea. “Well, I guess I’ll see you later then?”

A surprising sense of joy lights his eyes at the sound of your hesitance, unfitting of the simplicity of the moment, but charming nonetheless. He grins—a wide and endearing sort of grin—as he takes a step back, “I won’t be gone long,” he promises before reminding you, “lock the door behind you, alright? And if you need anything-”

He pauses, patting the pockets of his jeans only to remember that he didn’t bring a phone with him to this universe—and that, even if he did, there likely wasn’t a wireless plan good enough to support multiversal travel.

“If you need anything, call 911.”

“Got it,” you laugh, watching as he stumbles backwards towards the stairwell, cheeks red with faint embarrassment.

Turning to go inside, you can’t ignore the warmth that now blooms in your chest.

You could definitely get used to having him around.

A peculiar sensation prickles at your skin, curling along your spine like icy fingertips.

Something was wrong. Very wrong.

The usually comfortable atmosphere of your apartment had shifted. An eerie tension fills the space, a near-suffocating feeling that has the very walls holding their breath, humming a tune of warning as you inch further into the living room.

Your stomach twists as the sharp tang of exhaust fumes fills your nostrils. By the couch, a faint breeze rustles the curtains of a window, wafting in the nauseating scent of the city street below—a window that hadn’t been open when you left earlier.

A mere foot or so away, you notice that the picture frame Parker had been fiddling with before is now lying on its face, having been knocked off the end table and abandoned. Atop the table, you notice that the lamp is sitting askew, its base just inches from tumbling over the edge and joining the frame.

Someone had come in through your window—and it didn’t appear as though stealth had been very important to them, given that they had clearly stumbled into the table upon their entrance.

Adrenaline floods your senses, your spine stiffening as you take a series of slow, quiet steps.

Moving towards the corner, you carefully reach out a hand to grab the metal bat propped against the wall. The bat had been an unlikely housewarming present from when you first moved in, given to you by Peter’s mentor and your own reluctant renegade, Tony Stark. For nearly two years now it had sat in this corner, unused and gathering dust—until now.

You wrap your fingers tightly around the base, wincing slightly as the rubber grip pulls at the still-healing flesh on your palm, making you curse yourself for not properly bandaging the wound last night.

But you’re used to pain—and so you’re easily able to bite back against it as you ease through the living room, checking for any sign of the intruder's presence.

As you walk, gripping the bat like your life depends on it, you can’t help but hear Tony Stark’s voice echo in your mind.

If you’re gonna live alone, then you should have some sort of protection—he had told you, gently placing the cool steel into your hands for the first time, a ribbon tied sloppily around it—not that you need it.

Satisfied with your search of the living room, you start easing towards the hall. You’re good at sneaking around, having had a lot of practice at it—every movement you make is calculated, every footfall so purposefully gentle that it’s nearly silent.

Quiet as you were, you could do nothing to ease the sound of your blood thrumming wildly in your own ears, your heart pounding against your chest.

The incessant beating worries you—because you know that there are people in the world with the unnatural ability to hear such things. Peter, even with his enhanced hearing, had to be close to someone in order to hear something as soft as their heartbeat; but you had heard rumors that there were others who could hear a pulse from miles away, others like the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen.

The thought makes your blood run cold, though you try to push the worries from your mind. From what you know, the Devil doesn’t have a habit of breaking into apartments, nor was Queen's his usual jurisdiction.

No—what you were dealing with had to be no more than an average burglar!

An average burglar who, somehow, scaled up the side of a building to break into your apartment…

Alright—you think, approaching the end of the hall—perhaps it’s a not-so-average burglar, then! Still better than the Devil.

Peeling one hand from the bat’s handle, you curl your fingers around the doorknob to the guest room, Parker’s room. You ease the door open slowly, trying to keep the old hinges from crying out as you peer into the space.

The sweet scent of vanilla is the first thing that hits you, contrasted by the subtle bite of vetiver.

Parker—the room smells of him, even though he had only been here for one night.

On the bed, the quilt is rumpled and thrown about, pillows strewn about. The doors of the armoire are wide open, a few old shirts hanging over the edge of one of the shelves, no doubt from when he went digging through your clothes in search of something to wear.

The room was messy, but empty.

Your shoulders sag, half-a-breath loosing from your lungs. The relief is short-lived, however; as by the time you edge back into the hall to turn towards your own door, you’re overwhelmed with dread.

If whoever broke in was still here, then this was the only place they could be—save for the bathroom, though you seriously doubt any burglar would have much interest in scouring through your toiletries…

Easily, gracefully, you twist the knob, the metal yielding quietly to your careful touch.

The curtains are tightly drawn, eradicating any trace of sunlight and leaving the room cloaked in shadows. But, even in the darkness, you’re able to see the rough outline of a figure sprawled out across your mattress.

For a split second, you think of Parker’s advice to call 911, the weight of your phone suddenly heavy in your back pocket.

You think of how you should follow that advice.

You think about how fast you could run—if you would be able to reach the front door before they could catch up to you.

But then you stop thinking, disregarding all logic and reason as you take a step into the room, as if drawn in by some invisible force.

Remaining mindful of your surroundings, you slowly approach the edge of the bed. Squinting in the darkness, you try to study the body laid out atop your comforter. Watching the steady rise-and-fall of their chest, it suddenly hits you that, whoever they are, they’re asleep.

Slinking around the corner and coming to stand at your bedside, you’re finally close enough that you can see them in spite of the absence of light. Crimson and blue spandex clings tightly to their arms as they cling one of your pillows to their chest, and you feel your entire body sag with relief as you loosen your grip on the bat.

So this must be Peter 2.

The fabric of his mask is bunched up and resting along the bridge of his nose, which is somewhat smushed against the pillow he’s holding, no doubt leaving him to breathe in the scent of laundry detergent and your perfume.

Lower, you can make out the subtle contours of his jawline and the curve of soft, pink lips. Higher, you’re met with the impassive stare of then white lenses sewn into his mask.

The lenses shield his eyes from your view, and a curious feeling begins to tug at the furthest corners of your mind. Take it off—it seems to whisper, compelling you to move in closer, your shins pressing against the side of the mattress—take it off.

You grit your teeth and try to ignore the feeling, try to ignore the velvet-voice slithering through your mind; begging you to look at him, to touch him, to notice him, to-

Pain shoots along the side of your temple, likely in response to the sudden tightness in your jaw. It distracts you enough that you’re able to shake the strange feeling long enough to regain your focus—even if the remnants of it still linger.

You shouldn’t be interested in him—you should be pissed at him.

Not only had he broken into your house, which was already bad enough, but he had also climbed into your bed and made himself cozy! The absolute gall, the audacity he must have, has you allowing the tiniest sliver of rage to ignite inside of you.

Both hands still gripping the bat, you lower it from where it rests against your shoulder to swiftly jab its head into his stomach.

A cough sputters past his lips as the impact pushes the air from his lungs.

You’re actually shocked that you landed the blow—in truth, you had expected his spider-sense to kick in and detect the incoming hit, waking him with just enough time to dodge the shot. But, apparently, his instincts had made the mistake of assuming that you were of no threat to him.

“Morning sunshine,” you chime, your feigned cheerfulness set off by a sneer.

He’s scrambling into an upright position, knees sinking into the mattress as he presses a hand against the sore spot you’d created on his stomach. “What the fu-”

His voice is hoarse—from sleep or pain, you’re not sure—and he doesn’t finish the curse spewing from his mouth once his head shoots up towards you, as if finally registering the sound of your voice.

“I don’t know what things are like in your world,” you muse, swinging your bat back to rest against your shoulder, “but in this one, breaking and entering is considered a crime.”

He’s still catching his breath, and while those damn white lenses covering his eyes give so little emotion away, you assume that he’s going to apologize. It’s what Peter would do, and Parker, too.

But not him.

“Your friends said I could stay here,” he defends himself. Taking another deep breath and extinguishing the burning in his lungs, the lower-half of his face transforms into a defiant smirk. “It’s not breaking and entering if you were invited.”

“And did they tell you to sleep in my bed, too?” You shoot back, brows rising in annoyance. “Word of advice: next time you’re invited to stay in a total stranger’s house, maybe try not to repay their kindness by crawling through their window.”

He mocks you without missing a beat, “Word of advice: you live in a shitty neighborhood—if you don’t want people coming through your windows, you should try locking them.”

“Ah, right! Cause the average person is definitely willing to scale the side of a building for the prospect of an unlocked window!”

“You’re a pretty girl in a dangerous city,” he drones, lifting a shoulder as he meets your sarcasm with purposeful calm. “You’d be surprised what people would be willing to do for a chance at getting you alone.”

The insinuation sends a shiver down your spine, but you mask your unease, flashing a smile that’s more predatory than sweet. “Aw,” you coo, “so you think I’m pretty?”

He returns the expression, skillfully avoiding your derisive question. “I think you’re irresponsible—and a little cocky.”

“Better to be cocky than a felon,” you remark. “Just spare my neighbors the acrobatics show next time, would you? Maybe try knocking on the door like a normal person! Preferably when you’re not dressed like… that.”

It’s not that his suit wasn’t nice, because it was. But it lacks the advanced Stark-tech that makes Peter’s suit so uniquely sleek, meaning that it was likely safe to assume that no one in this world would mistake this boy for the real Spider-Man.

Unless they were to catch him scaling up the side of your building…

“I tried knocking.” he sounds exasperated, as if you are testing his patience. “You weren’t home.”

You snort a laugh, wondering if he truly believes that is all the reason he needs to break into someone's home.

“Then you should’ve waited until I got home,”

“I hadn’t slept in over twenty-four hours. I was too tired to wait.”

“Then you should’ve slept in the alleyway with the rest of the strays,” you hiss at him, fingers tightening around the bat as your frustration builds.

The sheer ferocity in your voice gives him pause, stunning him into silence.

Then the corner of his mouth begins to twitch upwards, lazily grinning at you as if he actually enjoys the verbal onslaught.

You can tell that he’s watching you through those white lenses, and his tongue darts over his bottom lip, you feel your breath catch in your throat. “Fine,” amusement dances in his tone as he raises his gloved hands, “fair enough.”

For a moment, no sound comes from your parted lips, leaving you to stand there gaping at him until you remember how to speak. “Fair enough?” You echo, shaking your head slightly. “That’s all you’ve got? No apology?”

He moves, forcing you to take a step back as he shoves his legs over the side of the bed and rises to his feet. He’s not as tall as Parker, but he still stands an inch or so higher than you, making it hard to not feel intimidated as he stares down at you, your own face staring back from the reflection of his lenses.

“Better not push your luck, Spitfire,”

He’s baiting you—he has to be! Using a stupid nickname to get under your skin, to try and prod further at your short temper. And it’s working—god, you hate how much it’s working!—because you find yourself contemplating putting his superhuman durability to the test by whacking him over the head with your bat.

“By the way,” he says before you have a chance to act on your intrusive thoughts, pointing at your hands, “you’re bleeding.”

As if his words switch a flip in your head, you’re suddenly aware of the acute throbbing in your palm. You loosen your grip on the bat, letting it clatter recklessly to the floor as you hold your hand out to examine it.

Unsurprisingly, the rubber handle managed to tear open the barely-healed cut on your palm, courtesy of your too-tight grip on it. You hiss through your teeth, watching as blood oozed from the cut, dripping down towards your wrist.

Slipping past you, the boy only half-manages to stifle his laugh. “You should probably take care of that.”

He’s already slipping out into the hall by the time you regain enough awareness to follow after him, gritting your teeth against the pain.

“And where do you think you’re going?”

“To the other room,” he calls over his shoulder. Once he’s standing in front of Parker’s door, he spins back around to face you, his snarky expression still in-tact. “Where I’m hoping you won’t follow me.”

Everything about him causes your blood to boil—his grating voice, his insolent attitude, his stupid soft lips.

“Would it kill you to be nice to me?” You exclaim, your voice strained with pain as you try to wrap your hand in the lower half of your shirt.

It takes no-time for blood to start seeping through the thin material, and you certainly don’t look intimidating like this—the lower half of your abdomen on display as you try to apply whatever pressure you can to the wound—but you don’t care.

“I don’t have to let you and Parker stay in my house—I’m doing it because I’m nice, alright? And, so far, you’ve been nothing but a dick!”

The thin fabric of his mask shifts, brows furrowing at the mention of Parker. Unlike Peter, however, he doesn’t bother commenting on the nickname. “Nice isn’t exactly the word I’d use to describe you. Especially since you’re the one calling me names.”

The levity in his tone makes you want to scream—what was his deal?!

You press harder against your bleeding palm, your breathing turning shallow. You’re not sure if it’s frustration or pain or what, but you feel like your head is spinning. “Look, I don’t know you, alright? But this? Isn’t gonna work,” you bark at him, chin lifted defiantly as you stare into his mask, unrelenting. “If you plan on staying in my house, then you’ll get your shit together—got it?”

His head tilts, curiously watching as you continue your frantic speech.

“No crawling in through my windows or sleeping in my bed or smarting shit off! And take off that stupid mask!” You huff, shaking your head. “Or, I don’t know, pull it down the rest of the way! Just do something because you look stupid like that!”

The words are spewing from your mouth like a torrential downpour, fueled by the rage swirling in your stomach and the throbbing in your hand and—

He laughs, a genuine laugh that isn’t born of derision, and you feel your racing thoughts slow to a halt. “You should work on your insults,” reaching for the nape of his neck, he tugs his mask off. “Because that was pathetic.”

It’s no longer just your thoughts that have slowed, but the entire world. Everything around you feels like it has come skidding to a stop—leaving you staring up at him like a dumbfounded idiot.

He’s beautiful—a commonality among Peter’s variants, it seems.

He’s smirking, an infuriatingly charming smirk that lets you know he has no intention of listening to your demands for him to silence his quick wit. But you’re not focusing on that—no, you’re focusing on the features that had been hidden from you this whole time; his dark hair, tousled from removing his mask, falls in a chaotic halo around his face, contrasting the vibrance of his eyes.

His eyes.

They leave you breathless, and you hate it. Colored with the deepest cerulean you’ve ever seen, his eyes feel like staring into the depths of a crystalline ocean. You can almost feel yourself getting swept up in their tides, feel them enveloping you in a feeling of familiarity, as if this wasn’t the first time you had been pulled into their ebbing waters.

“Have we–” your mouth has gone dry, your voice cracking. “Have we met before?”

It’s a ridiculous question, and you recognize that even as it’s spilling from your lips. You couldn’t have met him before—not when the two of you weren’t even from the same universe!

He seems to be thinking the same thing, and you’re already preparing to take the full force of whatever smartass comment he’s about to fling at you. “I’ve met you,” he says simply, taking you by surprise. Then he inclines his head towards your still-bleeding hand, “You should patch yourself up before you stain the carpet.”

You look down at your hand, at the hem of your shirt, soaked in blood.

“But just so I know,” you look back up, his body half-turned towards the door, his fingers resting against the knob, “if Peter and Parker are already taken, then who does that make me?”

You have to force yourself to take a breath. “What did I call you in your world?” He’s silent for a moment, staring at the floor and chewing on his lip. Then, pushing the door to Parker’s room—their room—open, he smiles.

“Pete.”

a/n - ayyy, pete's finally here! and, ofc, lots of other little important details sprinkled around as well.

also, i really wanna say thank you to everyone who has been reading and enjoying this story so far! it truly means the world to me to read all of the nice comments and to know that you guys are interested in this story! so, again, thank you 💖 as always, please comment/like/reblog and let me know if you wanna be added to the taglist!

part four, titled "blooms of subterfuge", to be released april 29th

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compact-turtle · 6 months

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How would all three yans react to having children? Good or bad?

This is actually such a fun prompt and ask! Thank you for sending it in. I'd actually love to write a full post sometime instead of a small little drabble about this! It'd be so much fun imaging one of their daily routines and lives with a family.

Atticus:

-Isn't really that interested in kids unless his darling wants them. At first, he'll try to talk his darling out of it. Gives lists of reasons on why he can't be a dad. Eventually, comes around to it if his darling really wants them.

-He's a strict and stoic father. Makes sure the kids go to bed at a certain time, finish their chores and do their homework. The kids have to be punctual.

-Not a fan of extreme harsh punishments at all. No taking away meals, locking in closets or any of the sorts. Especially, hitting if they don't listen. (His parents used to do it to him which has resulted in a traumatized farmer)

-More type of look at the consequences of your actions. You don't do your homework, then you fail your class. You don't collect eggs from the chicken coop, no eggs for breakfast. You don't feed the dogs, look at them go hungry. (The doggies don't actually go hungry since Atticus secretly feeds them, they're just always begging for food)

-Shows he loves them through his actions instead of words. He'll take them special getaway trips, go bird watching, catch bugs, make presents, etc. He wants his kids to know that he loves them despite his strict behavior. He's trying to break the cycle of generational abuse that came from his parents. It's hard ngl but he makes an effort every day to overcome it.

For readers who imagine pregnancy:

-kisses your belly when you're asleep. Reassures the baby that he'll always take care of them. He would never do it when you're awake since he's nervous you'll deem him as less than manly or "strong".

-Does not let you work on the farm at all!! He hires extra farmhands to replace your usual help. Lectures and scolds you when you try to do anything. Don't you know that an accident could happen any time especially somewhere dangerous like this farm??

-Your safety and the baby's safety are top priority at all times.

-Watches films and tv shows about pregnancy and families. He makes sure to remember all the details so he can be the best father just like on the tv!

-No sexy time at all when pregnant! He's afraid it'll injure the baby. Only complies when his darling coaxes him into it but even then, it took a while.

Orion:

-Hella yea. The only one who's willing to jump on board and be excited for them. Takes the kids out on daily foraging and exploration nearby the home. Teaches them how to jot down information.

-Shows them his notes on all different types of plants, creatures and landscapes. Tells them which things to avoid and how to survive if in contact with dangerous creatures.

-Kids grow an immunity to his terrible cooking. Actually, enjoy it and treat is as an odd delicacy to be savored.

-The children are taught both languages. Darling's for communicating with other members of the species but his in case they need to talk, and others are listening in.

-Reminds the kids how much he adores them and their mother every day. Tells them tales about his home world and adventures with their mother.

-However, his favorite story to tell is about how their mother heroically saved him from death and starvation. Sometimes he embellishes details like

"Oh, your mother also fell in love at first sight with me. They were just too shy to admit it, but I could tell."

-The real question though, are human species able to get darling's species pregnant???

For readers who imagine pregnancy:

-Does darling get pregnant like a human? Orion will have to find out. However, I imagine the way of getting pregnant to be similar, but they don't give birth. Instead, an egg like thing forms within their reproductive system and they push out something similar to an egg.

-The egg would hatch within two months after growing to full term.

-Orion has built a nest for the egg and watches it every night. Proudly tells the egg about all the adventures they'll go on as family.

-Darling insists that Orion doesn't need to baby the egg since the shell is quite strong. Still, he doesn't listen and frets over any small movement from it. Makes little hats and scarves and dresses the egg in it.

-Orion makes sure to take so many notes during this period. What color is the egg? How long before it hatches? How many times does it move in an hour?

-He takes notes in case darling and him decide to have another egg baby. He'll be more prepared second round.

-Enjoys setting the mood up for some sexy time. He feeds you the right food, sets up the small hut just right and everything. Ofc he'll makes sure to cover the baby egg with a blanket. He doesn't want your baby egg to see anything inapposite after all.

Ivar:

-He'd want to wait a few years into marriage. The idea of kids is daunting. He's seen the worse of man and how destructive the world can be. Really nervous about letting kids out into that type of environment. Still, he does desire a family that you'll raise together.

-He's a fun goofy dad. Takes all the stress of the kids when he arrives home. Plays with them, teases them and drains all their energy so you can relax. I'd imagine that Ivar insists that you be a stay-at-home mom while he goes to work.

-Listens to his kid's problems from boyfriend issues to " I can't believe they cancelled my show". Actively enjoys listening to his kids talk about anything and everything.

-Signs his kids up for self-defense classes. He's aware that there's so many dangers in the world and he can't always be there to help. They've got to be prepared for anything that could happen.

-Supports his kids in all their activities. Shows up to every single game, recital, spelling bee, etc. Whatever it maybe, he'll be there. Wants them to know he cares about them and their interests.

-Doesn't really enjoy mentioning stories from his time at war to them. He's afraid it'll corrupt their world view and he want them to live a peaceful life :(

For readers who imagine pregancy:

-Ivar reads up on all those mom-blogs and pregnancy books. Puts headphones on your belly so your baby can listen to Mozart. Does it actually do anything? Idk the mom blog says it stimulates baby growth or something like that.

-You have a strong craving at 1 in the morning? He's on the case to get it for you. If he can't find it any stores, then he'll drive over to the next few towns to get it. He's so determined to find it.

-loves decorating the baby's nursery. He'll put up decorations and different decals for the baby. Also enjoys building things for it such as dresser and the crib.

-Also doesn't let you by yourself. You want to talk a walk around the neighborhood by yourself? Nope. He's right there holding your hand or pushing you in a wheelchair.

-loves to initiate sexy time with you. During his mom blog reading, he read that it was a great past time while pregnant. Plus, he loves you no matter what you look like even if you're insecure about your changing body.

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kayunivy · 5 days

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Okay.... Let's analyze what happened in dcmk these last few weeks. Obvious SPOLIERS will be commented so you know.

> Appearance of Aoko's mother in Magic Kaito.

Where was she all this time? Why did she never appear or even show a sign of life? She didn't even call her daughter on her birthday... She appears so oblivious to everything, she didn't even know who Kaitou Kid was since her husband has always been obsessed with trying to catch this thief for YEARS. It seems like Gosho just randomly placed her in the story without trying to connect with the canon, it's almost as if she was a character outside of her original manga.

> Film 27 and its breaks in logic and common sense.

After all these years, Gosho decided to go against everything he had already said and made the Kaishin to be cousins, not only ruining a unique relationship (whether you shipped or not) but also bringing plot holes and contradictions in the story. If they are cousins what's the excuse for them never trying to even interact before? Why was it that when Yukiko first met Kaito, she never acted like she was related to her? The same with Toichi, she always talked about him as just her teacher and NOTHING more than that, it doesn't make sense to put that in the story now. Why did Kaito never even have support from his family? Not even showing up at Toichi's symbolic funeral? How come Yusaku never went to talk to his late brother's family, even if he knew the truth KAITO DIDN'T KNOW...

No one even considered his feelings...

> All the bullshit involving Kaishin.

The biggest problem for me about them being cousins is not just because of the ship but because of all the history and construction they had. It's as if everything that's different about them is summed up in the simple fact that they're related. But Kaishin has always had something unique, something that Gosho himself defined as "a mysterious bond". Them not having the slightest type of relationship made everything so unique, a connection that only the two of them could have together, one would easily understand the other even though they were complete strangers. Now I feel like they want to throw that away.

> TOICHI KUROBA AND MY HATE FOR HIM.

Gosho had already said that Toichi was possibly alive but the confirmation brought me a wave of anger and contempt that I had never felt for any other dcmk character (even bo). Let's think about Kaito in this whole story:

• lost his father when he was just a child and is still traumatized by it today.

• for 8 FUCKING YEARS he discovers that his father's death was never an accident but a murder.

• His father was actually an internationally wanted thief who was after a precious stone capable of bringing immortality.

• he steps into his father's shoes as KID and decides to try to find out for himself what happened to his father, who killed him and why.

• now there is a criminal organization that thinks he is the KID who didn't really die and they are trying to kill him once and for all.

• he decides to put himself at risk looking for Pandora, being something belonging to the organization and the police themselves.

• a lot of people hate him, regardless of whether he hurts people or not.

• more and more he becomes more and more removed from everything and becomes burdened with the KID charade.

• his own mother doesn't care about him, on the contrary, it seems like she likes to make things even more difficult for her son (she disguised herself as her dead ex-husband just to screw with her son's head, that's sickening to say the least).

• everything Kaito does is because of his father's murder, he never wanted to be KID, he never liked stealing, he doesn't do any of that for pleasure (except when it involves a certain mini detective but that's not the focus now ).

• and in the end his father was ALIVE all this time, doing who knows what while his son was risking his life because of him... BRO...

This whole thing is insane. And not in a good way.

#i'm insane #I can't stop thinking about Kaito in the middle of all this #someone needs to hug him #i'm crying so hard #my baby :(#kaito deserves the world #kaitou kid #kaito kuroba #conan edogawa #shinichi kudo #kaito x shinichi #kaishin #dcmk #magic kaito #detective conan #meitantei conan #aoko nakamori #toichi kuroba #gosho aoyama

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vintagegeekculture · 4 months

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RIP Tracy Tormé, Creator of the "Holodeck Malfunction Episode" and Sliders

Tracy Tormé’s most enduring legacy in popular culture is that, while a writer on TNG’s tempestuous first and second seasons, he created the entire concept of the Holodeck Malfunction Episode.

Yes, even people who suggest you skip TNG’s first couple seasons say that “The Big Goodbye” is one you don’t want to miss. And there was a very nice tribute to Tracy Torme in an episode of Picard, which had him as the author and creator of Dixon Hill… which he is, and deserves credit for this.

I suppose I should mention I had a personal encounter with Tracy Tormé at a convention. The main thing I remember was that he looked absolutely terrified when someone asked him about what happened with “The Royale,” far and away TNG’s worst episode except the clip show, about the crew getting trapped on a hotel they can’t leave from a badly written book. To his great credit, he took responsibility for the episode not working and did not pass on the problems to the production crew.

The most extraordinary thing about Tracy Torme is that he had a Forrest Gump like ability to appear in the background of scifi culture’s greatest moments.

Not only was he inside the TNG writers’ room in 1987-88, he was around during the production of Terminator with James Cameron. Tormé was the one who, hearing about the production of the film, squealed on it to Harlan Ellison, telling Ellison that it was based on his old Outer Limits episodes, with a visual based on his script for “Demon With a Glass Hand.” In other words, he was the Gavrilo Princip who got that entire conflict started, where two of the most proud personalities in scifi butted heads, James Cameron vs. Ellison. Cameron, to this day, insists that the film company gave Ellison money and a credit because it was easier to pay him off than to go through litigation (which rings true, frankly, for risk averse production companies), and to this day Cameron insists, with his absolutely expected big dick swagger, that Ellison is a “parasite” who received money for nothing, and if it had been up to him, he wouldn’t have given him a dime.

It’s also worth mentioning that Torme also created the TV series Sliders.

Has anyone else noticed that Sliders is an incredibly right wing show? Seriously, watch it again if you haven’t seen it in years. If you haven’t watched this show since the 90s and you were a kid and all that went over your head, it’s kind of amazing how Limbaugh/Newt Gingrich era right-wing Sliders actually was. It made 24 look like Doonesbury. The targets of Sliders were 90s New Right satire: health care systems, infuriating hippies, the nanny state disallowing the public smoking of cigars, California weirdness, the drug culture, the USSR. Torme’s right wing views were less John Millius-style “blood alone moves the wheel of history” stuff, but more like that of a slobby regular joe in the 90s, Dennis Leary’s character in Demolition Man for instance, who mostly just wants to smoke cigars, ogle girls, and eat hamburgers without getting scolded by his wife. He was less “Passion of the Christ” and more “Animal House.”

I am not saying this as a negative, but merely a description. Contrary to popular belief, right wingers driven by bizarre sexual pathology and weird grudges produce amazing art, as Millius and John Swartzwelder show. A lot of Steven Universe fans love to say things like “all good art is about empathy and kindness” and I reject that notion. Good art can also be about reflecting things in the human experience like fear, trauma, cruelty, and paranoia.

For that reason, it doesn’t surprise me that Tracy Torme’s best movie script was a horror film about a traumatic experience, Fire in the Sky. An ominous movie about a vanished ranch hand who was the victim of alien abduction, in the earned finale the film’s tension builds toward, our hero remembers the true cause of his missing time: an abduction by aliens, who’s motives are emotionless and incomprehensible, and who subject him to horrific vivisection that we see in excruciating detail. Travis Walton is treated not with sadism or cruelty, but with icy detachment, by alien superintellects that view him as no different than cattle, and are to him as we are to cattle. The most terrifying detail of the film is that the classic “gray alien” look turns out to be spacesuits, revealing a far more frightening appearance underneath.

#tracy torme #tng #sliders #terminator

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dadvans-likes · 11 months

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i made this poll because i thought Once Upon A Forest and The Brave Little Toaster were also don bluth movies, but no, there were just multiple sickos making kid films in the 80s

#polls #don bluth #anyway the answer is land before time #but all movies are a close fucking second

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puppiesandnightlock · 6 months

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Link: Why Bruce Should Not Have The Title of World's Greatest Detective Anymore, a presentation by Tim Drake

Summary: Bruce didn't know the Super Sons were dating somehow, and Tim compiled a list of evidence of a bunch of moment here he should have caught on, but did not.

Featuring Confused and Tired Dad Bruce, PowerPoint master Tim, Traumatized Dick, and an embarrassed Damian.

Super Sons Week Bonus Day: Family and Legacy (this one won by a landslide on the tumblr poll)

In Bruce’s defense, he was a father of six officially and about twelve emotionally. He had long ago resigned his title of World’s Greatest Detective to Tim, so honestly, could you blame him for not noticing that his youngest son had had company around more often? And come on, it was Jonathan Samuel Kent, the two were practically glued to each other even before recent developments.

How recent, he wasn't sure.

And now he had to sit through a folder Tim had given him, evidence compiled in an attempt to clear things up in his head. He plugged in the USB that fell out of it and it opened to a powerpoint.

Of course.

Angels and Demons, or otherwise known as B, how the fuck did you not know?

A presentation by Tim Drake

Evidence #1: “Wrestling.”

The slide played a clip of surveillance feed from inside of the manor. Damian had Jon pinned to the ground, both panting and flushed.

“What’s going on here?” Bruce turned the doorknob, poking his head through the door.

Damian scrambled off of the taller boy, schooling his features to a mask of indifference.

Jon made no such efforts, choosing to starfish across the carpeted floor, a blank look on his face as he stared at the ceiling.

“Nothing, Father, we decided to make use of our time and spar. Jonathan needs practice.”

Bruce eyed them suspiciously, pausing to take in the scene. Damian’s usual gel slicked hair was ruffled, and Jon’s curls were splayed out on the floor, some in his face.

Then again, his hair was always a bit unruly.

Their faces were flushed, and they had been breathing heavily when he came in.

The quick once over seemingly revealed nothing to him, although one could clearly see the still blown pupils of an expressionless Jon, and both boys’ kiss-bitten lips.

“Next time, spar in the cave, that’s what it's there for.” He walked out, shutting the door behind him.

The video feed played for a bit longer, Damian putting his face in his hands, a very un-Damian-like thing to do, and groaning.

“I cannot believe that actually worked.”

Tim had left a little note on the side of the video after it stopped playing. You have six kids, and one of them is one Richard John Grayson, how on earth did you fall for that?

Evidence #2: Dates

This opened to a video from a phone, someone walking into Damian’s room and filming his fussing with his appearance in the mirror.

“Whatcha doin’, baby bat?” Tim’s voice came from the other side of the camera.

“Fixing my hair, what does it look like, Drake?”

“Whoa, whoa, chill. I’m just curious, I haven't seen you put this much interest into your appearance since you had picture day.”

Damian scowled, more out of admittance that he was right then spite.

“Say what you will, Timothy.” He hesitated. “How do I look?”

“You’ll blow his socks off, Dames.” Tim said softly, a hand reaching out from behind the phone to straighten his jacket.

Damian inhaled deeply and carefully walked down the stairs. The doorbell rang, and as if filming a reality show, Tim followed dutifully behind. Jon stood, looking as nervous as he was, holding a small bunch of wild flowers that he immediately thrust into Damian’s face.

“Oh my god-” was whispered from Tim as the camera zoomed in on Damian, a pink flush becoming slightly visible.

“I’m so sending this to Dick.”

Damian handed off the flowers to the nearest person, but not before threading a few into Jon’s curls.

“Where are you going?” Bruce came out from the dining room, files in one hand and a cup of coffee in the other.

Tim switched the camera over to him, zooming in on his tired appearance, then zooming out so he could see everyone.

“The movies, s-sir.” Jon stuttered.

Burce raised an eyebrow. “Jon, you’ve known me for years, you can drop the formalities.”

An undignified squeak came from the boy and Damian sighed, albeit affectionately.

“We will be going, Father.”

“Have a good time.” He waved them off, disappearing into the labyrinth that is Wayne Manor.

“That’s it?” Tim was heard screeching off screen. “He gave ME hell, gave my dates HELL, broke out the KRYPTONITE when Kon even LOOKED at me, and all you get is HAVE A GOOD TIME?”

“Sucks to suck.” Damian jeered, taking Jon by the hand and dragging him out the door.

Followed by it was several screenshots from a chat titled “Rockin’ Robins”, all of them sharing stories until someone pointed out that maybe Bruce didn't even know it was a date, which was accurate.

This note said There were flowers. Flowers.

Evidence #3: They were in A FUCKING CLOSET.

Bruce spat his coffee out at that, massaging his temples. This was getting to be way too much. He did not at all need to know about what had happened in the closet, especially because he remembered this particular one and frankly? It was embarrassing that he didn’t catch on then.

Bruce was walking down the hallway when he suddenly heard noises coming from the third floor janitor's closet.

Tentatively, he opened the door. The last thing he expected was for Jon and Damian to stumble out of it, school uniforms slightly unbuttoned and very rumpled. Jon’s glasses were crooked, and Damian’s tie was missing.

“F-Father!” Damian stuttered, attempting to smooth out his ruffled appearance. Jon silently handed him his tie, both boys flushing furiously under Bruce’s rather confused gaze.

“What were you doing in there? Aren’t you supposed to be on that field trip? Your class is still on the first floor.”

“W-We were…uh-” Jon fidgeted with the buttons on his shirt, nudging Damian for help.

Suddenly, his gaze caught on something reflecting green in his son’s back pocket. His eyes narrowed and his face set into a firm expression.

“We will be talking about this at home. I’m disappointed in both of you, I thought we’d gone over this.”

Damian’s face paled, before morphing into one of confusion. “What exactly are you talking about, Father?”

“Sneaking out for hero work.”

Both teens inwardly sobbed in relief as Damian said stiffly, “Yes, Father.”and Jon with a quaking “Sorry, Uncle Bruce.”

Satisfied in his parenting skills, Bruce continued towards his office.

If he watched the video Tim had put in from the surveillance feed of Wayne Enterprises, he could almost guarantee they would have both been sporting some rather suspicious brusings.

Bruce stood up, he was going to need a drink to get through the rest of this.

Unbeknownst to him, most of his kids were perched in the living room, wheezing at their father’s reactions.

Damian was rather displeased at all that was being shown, and his face was flushed red.

“Looks like baby bat isn’t so innocent.” Jason cackled.

“My precious sweet little boy, this is OBSCENE, they are BABIES!”

“Richard, I am nineteen years old.”

“BABIES.”

Tim closed the laptop as Bruce left the cave, leaning back. “It was sad, honestly, to compile all this information and realize Bruce didn't get any of it. I mean, how long has it been?”

“Three years.” Damian muttered.

“Three fucking years. It’s sad to see him go.” Duke said solemnly.

There was a moment of silence as they mourned the loss of their once perceptive father.

Then promptly burst into laughter.

@super-sons-week-2023

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