১ your childhood imaginary friend was actually a lonely deity, and they blessed you with powers because you never forgot them
১ you were a victim of a localized reality glitch; your body plugged the leak in space, which is now anchored inside of you wherever you go
১ you made a binding vow as a child that you then promptly forgot. the contract activated and gave you access to powers.
১ you won a previously unbeatable combat/heavenly trial and now you carry the combined power of the others who failed before you.
১ you were clinically dead for four minutes. you came back from the other side unharmed but not completely human
১ you were chosen as a vessel for an ancient entity, but your soul was so dominant that you accidentally assimilated them and their powers into yourself
১ you came across a forgotten forest while exploring as a child and drank from a well that wasn't meant to be drunk from
১ your parent chose to give you their own powers upon retirement
১ you were born with a natural deficiency in your soul, it doesn't hold boundaries allowing you to influence everything around you
১ you inherited a debt where the universe demands that you must posses an immensely terrifying power to repay an act a great ancestor committed against reality.
১ you caught a falling star in the sky still too hot to the touch and the cosmic rays instantly rewrote the wiring in your energy centers
১ you fell asleep in a forest and woke up with a spare shadow that obeys your will.
১ you survived a ritual gone wrong and ended up absorbing the energy meant to feed a god
১ you received a curse that was not intended for you. as a defense mechanism your body has inversed the effect, and it turned into a sacred blessing
১ you traded your emotions/soul/something precious for powers
১ you solved an impossible puzzle that turned out to be the physical lock to a sealed form of ancient magic
১ you're a cosmic being, you annoyed your sibling too much and got cursed to live a millennia as a human with powers you despise
summary. you feel haunted by a stranger, a fuzzy gap in your memory that made no sense. but magic has a funny loophole when it comes to these kinds of thing.
warnings. inaccurate loopholes in stranger’s spell. based off taylor swift’s new song: I knew It, I Knew You. not proofread
word count. 1.5k | masterlist (requests open!)
a/n. entering spider-man mode
You weren't solving a crime. Yet, if anyone got their hands on your notebook, they'd think the opposite. Contained in the lined pages was an elaborate assortment of fragmented dreams, crude sketches, and information written with little care for organization or grammar. It was a strange collection that you'd been piecing together for about six months.
You were missing something. And you knew how strange it sounded. How could you miss something, someone, you had so little memory of? For all you know, the person you were missing was nothing more than some stranger you passed on the street who, for some reason, clung to your brain and threatened to drive you crazy. The more you tried to rationalize it, the crazier it sounded to you.
You knew someone and had forgotten them; that was what you were going with. It was the only thing that made sense! And it didn't even make much of it. But there was a fuzzy space in your memories that reached out with desperate hands, like it wanted so badly to reach you, but wasn't close enough.
Maybe you had hit your head and couldn't recall, and that knocked whoever it was right out of your brain. Maybe whoever it was was a mere figment of your imagination, and you needed to see a doctor. But doctors were expensive, and you had too many pieces for it to be nothing.
You had initials, which you were fairly confident in: P.P. A Midtown sweatshirt you didn't buy, nor did your friends loan you that appeared in your backpack one day. And a list of memories that didn't feel right when you recalled them.
Obviously, that wasn't much to go off of, but you knew the fuzzy image of a stranger in your dreams and the twist in your gut when you gazed at the high school sweatshirt that something was right.
"Do you believe in magic, Spiderman?" you asked the red-and-blue-clad figure as he landed on the rooftop with a graceful thud.
He looked at you for a moment, quiet and still. "Uh, I mean, yeah. Kind of hard not to with..." He vaguely gestured around with his hands. Superpowers and magic seemed to go almost hand-in-hand, even if the said superpower wasn't brought on by magic. The disbanded Avengers had their own set of magical folks, mixed with the more science-y ones. They came together for the same purpose, until they didn't anymore.
"Okay," you said, kicking your legs against the edge of the building you sat on. The city was alive underneath you, lights stretched out as far as your eyes could see. There was something peaceful about the constant noise, a lullaby you grew up with. "Do you believe in coincidences?"
Spiderman scratched the back of his neck before he shrugged. "I guess so."
You narrowed your gaze at the superhero, and he seemed to shrink back slightly. You knew you weren't intimidating him, not when he could swing around the city and knock out bad guys with seemingly little effort. So what was it? If he didn't like you, he would have found another rooftop- there were plenty. Yet, night after night, he joined you.
"I don't think I do," you answered, swinging your legs around from dangling off the ledge to planted firmly on the rooftop's ground.
"What'd you mean?" he asked, voice steady, but you saw his fingers anxiously tap against the roof's ledge.
You chewed down on your lip and turned your gaze away from the masked hero. "If I tell you, you might think I'm crazy."
He stepped closer beside you, his own gaze fixed out on the city too. "Hard to seem crazy talking to a dude dressed in spandex."
That brought a laugh out of you.
"Okay," you started. "I think...you, Spiderman, are a part of this really confusing puzzle in my head. There are so many pieces, but the more I think about it and try to put them together, I circle back to you." Spiderman was silent. You swore you couldn't even hear him breathing as you paused.
Your courage was waning. Before you lost it, you reached into your discarded backpack and pulled out the well-worn high school sweatshirt. Spiderman was watching you closely as you held it up.
"Does this mean anything to you?" you asked him.
He cleared his throat. "Uh, t-that's a high school, right?"
You felt your heart sink slightly as you nodded.
Then, he spoke again. "I went there."
Your head snapped up, eye widening. "You went there? When?"
He hesitated, like the words were having a hard time forming in his throat. "Same time as you."
Something between shock and triumph ran through you. Under your breath, you whispered, "I knew it." Maybe not exactly, but you had a hunch. There was something terribly familiar about Spiderman that you couldn't put your finger on. It kept you up at night after your rooftop conversations. Something in his voice nagged you, pulling on a severed thread somewhere in the back of your mind.
"Did I know you? In school."
He sucked in a breath. "Y-You did. Until you didn't."
Confused, you clutched the sweatshirt to your chest. There was something about the hunk of fabric that brought you comfort in a way you couldn't explain.
"I don't forget people easily," you replied.
A sad sort of laugh left his mouth, slightly muffled behind his mask as he shook his head. "You didn't have much of a choice."
"Did I hit my head?" you asked. "That's my running theory."
He shook his head once more, more definite that time. "No." Spiderman turned his gaze toward the sky, too polluted with light to see the stars. He seemed to be thinking hard for several seconds, leaving you standing, hugging the sweatshirt as confusion swirled around your brain.
"Magic. It was magic."
"Magic?" you repeated. "Magic made me...forget you?"
"I guess not entirely."
You blinked, thinking back on the fuzzy figure that haunted your memories. It was like your brain was battling against something...magic, maybe? Your brain wanted to uncloud your memories, but it kept being stopped by something.
"I knew you," you whispered more to yourself. "Without the mask."
Spiderman nodded slowly. He looked around the rooftop before he reached for the back of his neck and stopped.
You swallowed thickly. "You can trust me," you rushed out, feeling your heart start to race.
"I know," he replied, with no hesitation, like he had said those words before. "I-It's not that. It's...I don't know how much you'll remember."
Neither did you.
Spiderman sucked in a breath and tugged on the back of his mask before he pulled it up and off. You held your breath as you watched.
Under the mask, he was around your age, with a pale complexion in the moonlight and soft brown eyes. There was a tenseness in his jaw and a slight furrow in his brows as he slowly lifted his gaze to look at you.
There was a tickle in the back of your mind, like when you start to recall something you once forgot. It was like there had been an itch constantly annoying you in your brain, impossible to scratch. But as you took a step closer to Spiderman, studying the expanse of his face, you felt the itch start to dissipate.
You're not sure what compelled you, exactly. You didn't feel fully in control of your actions as you stepped closer. With a shaky hand, you reached up and carefully brushed your fingers against his cheek.
Something akin to a bolt of electricity ran through your body. You jerked back as a bubble of pain popped inside your head. You squeezed your eyes shut and pressed your fingers against your temples for a moment as your brain was flooded. A dam had broken loose. The fuzzy images and confusing gaps in what felt like precious memories filled themselves out with each intense wave.
You didn't feel yourself fall back to the ground.
Freshman year. An empty lunch table. Star Wars nerds. Washington DC. The Decathlon Team. Chemistry. Homecoming. Iron Man. Tutoring sessions. Aunt May. Coffee dates. A spaceship. Thanos. Venice. Mysterio. A promise. A kiss. A way home. A leaked identity. More Spidermen. Too many villains. Dr. Strange. An "I'll find you." A spell.
Peter Parker.
A gasp left your lips as you opened your eyes to see a maskless Spiderman kneeling beside you. His expression was drenched in worry, his suit-clad hand hovering over your shoulder, like he was scared to touch you.
You all but launched yourself at him, practically tackling him in a hug that caught him off guard and sent you both crashing against the rooftop.
"Peter," you cried into his shoulder, holding onto him so tight you were only a little worried about squeezing the life right out of him.
He sputtered in response, until his brain caught up with his mouth. "Y-You remember?"
You pulled back just enough to see his face. He looked a little older, a little sadder. But the Peter Parker you knew and loved still twinkled in his eyes, even if it was behind a kind of haze.
"I remember," you replied, leaning forward to rest your forehead against his. His arms tightened around your waist as he let out a breath of his own relief.
╰┈➤ˎˊ˗ Villian! Dark! BND! Peter Parker x Stark! Reader
╰┈➤ˎˊ˗ Peter Parker once had everything he ever wanted. Now, he is out for blood one way or another. Nothing will stop him from making Tony Stark pay, starting with finally taking and ruining you for himself.
╰┈➤ˎˊ˗ SMUT!
Peter had once believed your father hung the stars in the sky, but you were the love of his life, the one blessing he never felt worthy of. God, he felt so fucking fortunate.
Tony Stark, your father, was Peter’s mentor, the one who guided his brilliance and helped him find his purpose. Around Tony were the people Peter trusted most, friends who had become a family to both of you. Thursdays were for golf with your dad, Rhodey, Thor and Bruce, a tradition Peter never missed. Fridays belonged to the Tower’s game room, where Scott, Vision, Sam, Bucky and Steve gathered around a worn card table, laughing loud enough for the whole floor to hear.
You had grown close to Natasha and Wanda, who were with Bucky and Vision, and the three of you became inseparable. They adored you, encouraged you to give Peter a chance, teased you about the way he watched you as if you were something precious and delicate. Tony had been wary at first, protective in the way only a good father could be, but even he could not deny how gentle Peter became around you, how the world seemed to soften whenever you walked into a room. The man simply worshipped the ground you walked on.
Before long, your life with Peter settled into something warm and familiar. Dinner parties in the loft you shared at the Tower, movie nights at Wanda and Bucky’s townhouse with the entire group piled onto mismatched couches, quiet mornings when the compound felt more like a home than a headquarters. It had all felt so beautifully domestic.
For a time, Peter believed all of you were making the world better, and he loved his friends and family fiercely.
Then came the spell.
The sky split open with a violence that looked almost unreal, like something out of one of those cheesy Sci-Fi flicks Peter loved so much. Portals tore across the horizon, New York shook, and the entire world drowned in chaos. The Avengers scattered into the hell awaiting them, each pulled toward a different disaster. Peter was thrown into the front lines, fighting creatures twice his size, pulling civilians from burning buildings, doing everything a hero was expected to do.
But he should have been somewhere else.
Aunt May had called him in a panic, her voice trembling. “Peter… sweetheart, please just be careful. Do NOT worry about me! I'll make it out. Just stay safe.” she took a deep sigh, breathing in the ash around her. “I love you.”
Tony had stopped him mid call. “We need you here, kid. We'll get her out. It’ll be okay."
He lied.
And you had ended up in a more tricky situation. Tony had locked you in the cellar of Stark Tower. Jarvis’ protocols were programmed to keep you trapped like a high profiled criminal. You pressed your palms against the reinforced door until they stung, tried every override your father had ever taught you, pleaded with the system in a voice that stayed soft even as it broke. You had even resorted to screaming at the top of your lungs until you became hoarse.
You felt useless. Powerless. Your shirt torn at the hem from trying to pry open a panel, your hair all messy and frizzy from pacing, your heart aching with every unanswered question. Were your parents safe? Were your friends alive? Was your Peter okay?
When the battle finally ended, when the sky sealed and the world fell into a stunned, smoky silence, Peter searched. He tore through the ruins of their apartment building, calling her name until his voice cracked. He found her beneath a collapsed beam, her hand reaching toward the door as if she had still been trying to escape.
Cold. Still. Alone.
No one had even tried to reach her.
Not Tony. Not the Avengers. Not even Happy.
Something inside Peter shattered so completely that Spider Man ceased to exist.
He vanished without a word. No calls. No explanations. Just absence.
Except for one night, one mistake, that neither of you ever spoke of again.
Three years passed.
Then he returned. Not as a hero. Not as the man you fell so hopelessly in love with. The man you MARRIED.
He came back as something far more dangerous.
Eerily dangerous.
It began quietly. Advanced technology slipped into underground markets, decades ahead of anything Stark Industries had ever produced. People whispered about a new power rising in the shadows, a company with limitless resources and a mind behind it that so terrifyingly brilliant.
Parker Industries.
Peter built an empire in the dark, using his wits to dismantle everything the Avengers stood for. This was not ambition. It was pure, evil retribution.
He sabotaged their systems, exposed their secrets, turned faithful allies into enemies.
And when the Avengers finally were able to contact him, Tony reached out with a tearful video message and begged him to come home. He wrote countless letters and even promised to concede.
One evening in particular, the lights in the compound flickered. Screens went black. Emergency alarms began to pulse red. Every device in the room crackled to life with a single message:
| You left her to die. Now it's your turn to lose everything.
The message repeated once, then vanished, leaving all of you in shock.
It had been a week since Peter vanished. No calls. No messages. No trace. You barely slept, barely ate, barely breathed without wondering if he was alive.
So when your bedroom door eased open in the middle of the night, you sat up with a gasp.
“Peter?” your voice cracked.
He stepped inside, shadows clinging to him, his curls were damp and unruly from the rain, his eyes tired and hollow.
“My love,” you whispered, a hand flying to your mouth. “Oh my god… it is you!"
He crossed the room in three silent steps and pressed a finger to your lips.
“Shh,” he breathed, barely a sound.
You felt tears spill before you even realized you were crying. He cupped your face with both hands, thumbs brushing your cheeks as if he could wipe away the week of fear. He kissed the tears as they fell, soft and desperate, like he had been starving for the taste of you.
“Where have you been,” you tried to ask, voice trembling, “Peter, what happened, why did you—”
He kissed the corner of your mouth, then your jaw, then the warm place beneath your ear. Your breath caught. His hands slid to your waist, pulling you against him as if he needed to feel you to believe you were real.
“Pete-”
“Shh..” He hummed quietly.
You felt the apology in the way he held you, the ache in his touch, the way his forehead pressed to your shoulder as if he might break.
You wrapped your arms around him, fingers curling into the back of his shirt. “I missed you,” you whispered.
"I missed you more." he lifted you effortlessly, carrying you toward the bed. His mouth found yours again, deeper this time, full of everything he could not say.
You sank into him, into the warmth of his hands, the weight of his body, the urgency in every single kiss. Under the covers, everything felt muted and dreamy. His breath against your neck, your fingers tangled in his now damp curls, the light sweat from his body pressed to yours. You kissed him like you were afraid he would disappear again, your lips trailing along his jaw, his throat, the line of his shoulder.
Your hands slid down his arms, tracing the shape of muscles you knew by heart. You kissed the curve of his bicep, longing and lingering, but froze when your lips brushed over something unfamiliar.
Ink.
A tattoo.
You pulled back just enough to look at him. The room was dark, but you could see the whites of his eyes watching you, unblinking, almost glowing in the shadows. You couldn’t place it at the time, but the way he looked at you so unsettlingly should have been your first clue.
“Pete,” you whispered, your voice barely a breath. “When did you get a tattoo?”
You felt his mouth curve against your skin, a quiet grin you could sense more than see. His teeth flashed faintly in the dark, and a low chuckle rumbled into your shoulder. His hand slid to your waist, steady and warm, and he leaned in until his forehead touched yours.
“Don’t worry about that tonight,” he murmured, voice low and rough. “Let’s just focus on making you feel good sweetheart. Is my baby okay with that?”
But you could feel it. The tension in him. The way he held you like he had done something terrible. You reached for his arm again, fingertips brushing the ink. “Peter…Come on, I-I think we seriously need to talk about where you’ve been-”
He kissed you before you could finish speaking, a kiss that swallowed the words and the fear behind them temporarily. His hands framed your face, then your hips, pulling you closer, deeper into him, into the heat and the ache and the need that had been building.
Before you knew it, he impaled you so hard that you could feel a tingle everywhere in your body. His thick cock filled you up. You bit your lip from practically screaming. Sure, you had made love to Peter countless times. Sometimes even a few times a day but, you had never done it without a condom.
During a brief moment of clarity, “Pete…” You whimpered, “Y-you know I’m not on the pill-”
“Who gives a fuck about the pill!” Peter snarled.
Taken aback from his sudden outburst, you gazed up at him all cock drunk and wide eyed.
“Shit, my love.. I didn’t mean it. I didn’t mean it.” Peter caressed your cheek adoringly and left a gentle kiss on your temple. “I didn’t mean it, my sweet girl. I’m so sorry.”
You nodded and succumbed to Peter lightly circling your clit as he began to thrust in and out of you.
With a few more intense thrusts, it became harder to breathe. Your entire body shaking, your fingers gripping onto Peter’s suit. You were about to burst.
“Cum Love. Cum all over me.” Peter chuckled into your neck.
Your walls clenched around him as your head jerked back on the brink of fainting. You gripped his biceps and moaned. You swore you saw actual stars above you as your vision went blurry. Peter hummed all satisfied and began whispering praises, "My good, sweet girl.. What a good girl.."
If only you had noticed the way Peter placed his mask on your vanity. It looked careless, like he had tossed it aside without a thought, but nothing about it was accidental. He angled it just so, the lenses pointed toward the bed, the internal camera already blinking to life.
He made it look effortless, a casual flick of his wrist, but he had positioned it with precision. The mask sat there in the dim light, silent and unassuming, recording everything. You should have noticed the absence of his webshooters.
Later, when he slipped back into the run down cabin he had been hiding out in, surrounded by the scattered pieces of his tech, he would pull up the footage. He would watch it again and again, replaying every moment he had stolen for himself.
And after he left your room that night, that was exactly what he intended to do.
Summary: His problem was this—that stupidly impossible and funny mouth of his. Peter Parker and his witty responses. Peter Parker and his clever quips. Peter and that mouth you'd love to shut so much. So you do.
OR; At a bar, you finally snap and give Peter Parker something better to do with those gorgeous lips than running it.
WC: 5,7k
A/n: I missed writing about my boyfriend, so here I am. Spidey enthusiasts, gather around, please! I love this Peter Parker playlist to set the mood. / read on ao3
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
"Oh my goddess in fucking heaven, do you ever shut your goddamn mouth, Parker?!"
The whole bar goes quiet, and as soon as his name is out of your lips, it's a heartbeat too late.
The drink in your hand feels like a bomb as Peter turns around, a stupid smile already plastered on his stupidly gorgeous face.
Everything about him is so—so stupid. He said so himself in class once. "I'm the world's stupidest genius, professor," with a laugh, that smile, that easy shrugging shoulder.
His eyes are fixed on you, as chocolate as ever, as bright and sparkling as they were when you first met him, but with a glint of something unrecognizable. When he opens his mouth, your chest tightens and your breath stills, waiting for it, knowing something clever and smart will come out of it, dreading whatever it is.
"You said you want to shut my mouth, did I hear that correctly?"
There's sweat somewhere in the back of your neck, you're sure of it. "I didn't say that."
"No?" He props his chin on the backrest of his chair, eyes now fixed in your direction and glinting with something you have never seen before. "I could've sworn I heard you saying you wanna shut my mouth."
"Nope. Hearing things once again, Parker. All I did was question whether you have the capacity to ever shut that trap of yours."
The image is born without your permission at his words, though. You wanna shut my mouth.
They echo.
You wanna shut my mouth.
How would you go about that?
You shiver.
He pouts. Sometimes, Peter does that—one of his annoying habits that drives you up the wall, or simply drives you to stand up as you are right now. Standing up in the middle of your table because that boy can get under your skin, no matter where you are, no matter how sober or not, apparently.
"That's mean. Why are you so mean to me?" The question is delivered with a smile.
You roll your eyes and bat away the hand of your friend who's pulling on your jacket in a silent request for you to sit back down. "I don't know. You awaken that part of me like very few people do." It was the truth, and it also wasn't.
The truth—the embarrassing and mortifying truth came with a weight you had no desire to even think about right now, in the middle of the bar while surrounded by your friends and once again arguing you Peter. The overlying excuse, on the other hand, had its own truth—even before The Incident, Peter already got under your skin.
His existence meant danger before you knew about his stupidly witty mouth and his clever brain. Before you shared classes with him, only to discover how funny he was underneath all those clapbacks.
"How can I put it back to sleep, then?" He lifts both arms in mock surrender, dropping a bit of his drink on the friend next to him. "I didn't even—oh, shit, my bad Lia, wasn't paying attention. I didn't even do anything to you this time!" He redirects his attention to you after his apology, and there it is—the sweet, and yet cocky smile that drives you up the walls. "I was here, talking to my friends, having a nice time, and you decided to meddle in our conversation. What did I say this time that pissed you off so much?"
This time, the clapback belongs to you and it's at the tip of your tongue. "Ah, so you're the only one who can meddle in other people's businesses, is that it?" Even his friends laugh at it.
Peter winces a little through his smile, and there you are, smiling as you bicker with him once again.
How many times have you ended up here? Wanting his clever mouth to be shut while talking to him at the same time? Prodding and poking whenever you get the chance.
"Fine. I'm a meddler. I can admit to that, but can you admit that so are you?"
"I don't have to admit anything to you," you replied just for the sake and pleasure of being difficult.
Peter was still smiling. He did the nose scrunch thing once again, and you hated how your entire chest responded to that stupid habit of his. "You like being difficult."
"And you like being mouthy and loud about it."
"I'm seriously wondering what I said this time that was so wrong that it earned your rage." He gestures with the empty hand this time. "We're at a bar, milady! And although it seems our old married couple bickering seems to entertain the masses even here, I'm pretty sure you're as tipsy as me. You were supposed to be having fun."
I am right now. "Who said I'm not?" It was harder to keep your smile and facial features organized into something neutral or sarcastic with alcohol in your system.
Peter's smile widened. "I'm taking that as the admission, then."
"Admission to what?"
"How much you adore pulling my pigtails." As if the words were not enough, Peter pretends to tug a chunk of his hair and feigns wincing in pain. Somehow, the smile's still there, in his eyes, in the corner of his mouth.
This time, you roll your eyes and sit back down, too bothered by how much his glee affects you. "You wish, Parker. Just—you could try keeping your shitty and wrong opinions to a low volume, at least."
From this distance — there are two tables filled with people between you and the object of your conversation — it's a bit hard to tell, but you're sure his friend makes a comment about you two under his breath.
Peter either misses it or chooses to ignore it. "I'm gonna have to insist, then. What was it that I said so wrong this time, milady, hm? Maybe I'll even apologize."
"Why don't you two stop half-screaming from across the bar and go talk somewhere else? Jesus fucking Christ, every Monday and Wednesday this shit." It's someone from one of the tables between you both.
The guy's friend says loud enough for you to listen. "Leave them to it. You know how they are."
And he replies with, "Of course I do! Everybody fucking does. Every week. Just fuck already, for fuck's sake. And stop talking over fifteen thousand other people!" He adds that last bit with a directed look at both of you.
Just fuck already.
It mixes in your brain with you wanna shut my mouth and suddenly—yeah. "I'm going outside," you announce to your friends.
"What?! Babe, no. We were in the middle of our ratings," she gives you puppy eyes, but you're already coming around the table.
Rating every Tolkien character from least to most fuckable would have to wait until after your freak out.
"I know. I'll be back. Keep on without me," you need air. Also water.
In the back of your neck, there's the prickly and distinct feeling of being observed as you wander to the bar and order a bottle of water. "Actually, make it two, please?"
He's observing you as you walk out of the bar to the back alley where all the smokers gather. Without a glance in his direction, you can confirm that Peter Parker has observed every step you take before you are out of his sight.
The air does you good, though.
It's chilly, and it smells like cigarettes instead of back alleys, and it's a trade you'd make any day.
None of the people smoking bother you.
Drinking the water does wonders for calming your nervous system down on any given day, but today, words are rolling around your head, and they are enough to turn your brain hostage.
You wanna shut my mouth.
Yes. Groaning, sipping bigger gulps from your bottle, you can admit to yourself, under the blanket of darkness and surrounded by complete strangers, you would love to shut Peter Parker's mouth.
Maybe the confession is too much for a brain without its usual filters because it breaks a dam.
It's a domino effect: one image of you shutting his mouth inside the bar created directly by his own words, melts and gets mixed, shuffling into another image.
In this one, both of you are in the classroom you share, and yet there you are, still shutting his mouth.
Suddenly, all the instances where you and Peter have ever shared the same place are flooded by those: shutting him up, quieting him, making him lose words, making Peter unlearn all the clever things he knows until he has nothing but blabber to say or whimpers to release, noises, gasps, your name, your name—
The prickly sensation on your nape returns, and you react as if being stung.
Tense. Waiting for it, knowing it's coming, there he is, your brain offers, but you're too much of a coward now to look.
He approaches anyway.
"Permission to come closer?" He asks.
What a fucking nerd. Not that you are far from one, but you snicker at the comment, curse yourself mentally and maybe under your breath, but allow it anyway. The side eye you give him tells him just as much.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
She's loud, mouthy, insanely clever, beautiful, and all the things Peter keeps telling himself he only observes.
It's easier said than done.
Easier in class when it can be pivoted towards something purely academical, or at work when he can pretend it's harmeless due to the distance, or at night as he swings from building to building and she's only in his mind, and not his life.
It's harder when he's been drinking with his friends and she looks even prettier without all the walls so hung up tight.
Alcohol makes people's filters go down.
Not his—Peter doesn't have a filter, never did, and ever since the bite his body responds to very little things, at the same time as it responds to absolutely everything.
His body responds to her.
Gods, if only bickering with her weren't so damned adictive.
When their little scene causes other people to complain and she leaves, Peter curses under his breath, leaves his glass on the table and gets up before he can even think about what he's doing.
His hearing picks up on Lia's 'oh, fucking finally' and the way Jorge responds with 'I know, if they don't get it out of their system I'm doing something insane like locking them inside a cupboard, I don't fucking know' and he thinks oh...
Maybe it's not 'easy', then.
Maybe it's been only 'obvious' and 'ridiculous' so far.
Too bad—Peter's got no other way of flirting. He can admit it as he navigates the sea of bodies to make his way outside now; they have been flirting.
He's been, at least. Despite his promises to himself that Peter Parker had no right to flirt with anybody, that he had no right to make anyone his anything ever again, that's what he's been doing — they've been doing? — and everyone's been watching, annoyed or amused, entirely aware of what's going on.
The alley is filled with smoke that come out of the three groups standing in their little circles, but his gaze fixes on a very specific body standing alone against the wall, chugging a half emtpy bottle of water.
Fuck it.
He approaches, shoving both hands inside his hoodie in hopes of maybe not being so flamboyant and expressive. Not flirting too much.
(Who is he still trying to fool?)
"Permission to approach?"
Her response is a snicker, and Peter notices her body language switches to straight up shoulders without even glancing in his direction.
"Hi, Parker."
"Hello, milady."
"What can I do for you?"
Shut my mouth, apparently. Peter holds the teasing for now and his eyes wide in surprise when he sees a bottle of water being lifted in his direction. He takes it. "Thank you." Does she think he's tipsy? Probably. "Sorry if I annoyed you in there."
"No, you're not."
He smiles before he takes the first sip. "Eh," he is sorry... a little bit. "I kinda am."
Another snicker. She finishes her bottle of water. "Hard to believe ya."
"Why is that?"
"I think you love pissing me the fuck off."
Peter laughs. He hasn't gotten used to how foul mouthed she is just yet. It's been more than a year but it still makes him laugh and think about what his uncle would've said if he heard how much such a pretty lady can curse.
Probably something old fashioned enough to make her say even more curse words.
"I..." he thinks carefully of his next words and feels the entirety of his neck tingling, then warming when her eyes set on his face. "... like how passionate you can get while arguing."
At that, she takes a second. Then, she answers with, "What the fuck does that mean?"
"Means that you get involved in arguments and discussions in nice ways."
"Nice ways? What we've been doing is nice?"
"It hasn't been?"
She stops, and Peter's seen enough to recognize when a smile is being held back. "You're crazy."
He smiles. "So are you."
"It seems that way." A sigh. "Peter..."
"Yeah?" His heart speeds up. She never says his name. That is the distance—his delusion about all of your exchanges being nothing... and the way you never say his name. He wants to hear it again. Desperately. One single time of his name out of your lips, and he already wants to hear it again.
God, what are you doing to him?
"I'm sorry," you say.
Peter stops in his tracks, his entire body still. "I—what?"
"You heard me, don't make me say it again."
"I know I did, I just—why? I don't get it. You've got nothing to apologize for."
Your eyes are not as glassy as they were inside the pub, and when you look at him, Peter feels something pull him a step closer.
There's a distinct vulnerability in the way you're staring that he's never seen before, or maybe never saw from this proximity to be able to identify.
"Don't I?" your voice is low and he misses the way you were speaking to him in there. He shakes his head, and takes one more step. He ignores the way this is the closest you two have ever been, and tells his speeding heart to shut the fuck up because it's too loud. You lick your lips and—fuck, maybe it's kind of impossible to tell his heart to do anything in your presence other than react to every miniscule action of yours. "I've been told I'm a... what's the term? Raging bitch, I believe, a few times."
His laughter is loud and honest, and it makes him happy when his eyes open and he sees that it pulled a smile out of you. "Oh—fuck, I'm sorry. That was hilarious."
"You think me being a raging bitch is hilarious?"
"No!" He's still laughing, but he's also warm enough to feel it in his face from the way you're staring at him from under your lasher. He mentally takes note that you made no comment on the proximity. He relishes in that fact. "No—I just think it's funny how much men are fucking crybabies nowadays." He chuckles when your eyes widen in surprise and your smile does too.
"Who said it was only men who called me that?"
He says your name in a tone that says 'please'. "I don't go to the same course as you but we do share two classes, remember?"
"Yup. We bicker in them every time."
"Exactly. I might've heard it once or twice when someone said something about people I know. About you." He might've also told them off every single time, but he keeps that part to himself—for now, at least. "They're raging bitches if you ask me."
The way you laugh should be printed and bottled. "They really are."
"Not me, though?" He's fishing, and from the way you look at him, you call it immediately.
"Parker."
"Oh, no!" He groans, hands flying out of his pockets straight to his face. "Back to Parker, fuck me!"
You laugh again, and Peter cannot get drunk, but he is. All your little 'fights' and arguments have never been real—you two enjoy playing the devil's advocate when in each other's presence but you've always been aware the other one is a decent person, he's aware of that. He knows you don't actually hate him because Peter's seen how you react around people you hate. Around men you hate, especifically.
"I can't call you by your name?" You ask, being difficult.
There it is. The thing you two do—be difficult with one another. "That's my surename."
"Which is part of your name."
"I know, but Peter sounds so much nicer."
"Hmmmm, I don't know. I'm quite fond of Parker."
His smile is wicked when hearing those words. "I'm printing that out and putting it on a T-shirt."
You try to fight a giggle and lose it. Peter had no clue what he was expecting out of tonight—frankly, he just wanted to please one of his friends by doing something he rarely does (or has the money to) and go out for a bit, and suddenly, there you were.
Suddenly, here he is. Laughing with you.
"You're actually ridiculous."
"But not a raging bitch?"
You punch his arm, laughing. "Stop!" Peter's heart spikes once again at the contact. "I hate it when you're funny."
"So what I'm hearing is that you hate me?"
Peter's cheeks hurt by now. He's been here for what? Two, three minutes tops, and his cheeks hurt because he's unable to stop smiling.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
It's the smile that's doing it—your heart is attempting to murder you, or maybe Parker is, because he's been smiling non-stop and it's doing things to your insides that you're unable to stop now.
This might be flirting.
A part of you — the insecure girl who still lives somewhere in your subconscious — tells you there's no way Peter Parker is flirting with you.
The women who grew to have at least some confidence in reading basic signs and body language says his tilted head and side smile are more than enough.
You test the waters.
"You're not that funny, Peter," and there it is—his squirming when you say his name in a low voice.
He groans again. "God, you're such a shitty liar."
"So you're back to insulting me now?"
His laughter is so nice it's unfair. "Fine. Fine!" He throws both hands up and bites his lip and your brain's sirens go off, spinning in red, blue, and screaming. "I'll just leave then. I'm not funny and I'm clearly bothering you..."
The bait is so ridiculous you're able to reel the laughter in this time, watching as he spins on his heels with the precise smoothness of his moves that always baffled you, and he starts walking away slowly with his head and eyes still on you.
You manage to hold back the desire to reach and hold him by his clothes, too terrified of what you'll end up doing if you touch him again.
You felt a jolt of electricity at the simple touch, and you keep your hands to yourself this time.
"You need a compliment from me this badly, huh?"
He stops pretending to walk away. "I would like at least the admission that I'm the funniest guy you've ever met. It's the least you could give me for making you laugh so much tonight. Plus all those times I made you laugh in class inside your head but you held it in because you gotta keep up your appearances, milady."
It's only one compliment he's fishing for, but you decide to throw everything up in the air and—well, fuck everything.
Peter is flirting with you, and maybe you've been stupid all along to think that the biggest crush you've ever had was once sided.
So you decide, for once in your life, to be brave.
He's waiting patiently, a small smile still in the corner of his mouth as he waits to see if you'll yield, and you dive into it.
"Well... you're not only the funniest guy I've ever met, but..." you speak slowly, watching as his shoulders straighten and his face sombers at the realization something else is happening here. "Also... the smartest."
And there it is.
You've done it. You managed to shut Peter Parker's mouth.
Matter of factly, his mouth opens up slightly, gaping at your words and his eyes widen at the sincerity in your voice.
Without waiting for his brain to catch up with what just happened, you decide that since you're wet already, might as well swim in this accomplishment.
I managed to shut up smarty pants Peter Parker.
"You're also sweet," you add, smiling in victory when his eyes widen even more. "I mean—walking with arms linked with your aunt in the market? That's—god, I wanted to jump into the river when I saw that, and we don't even have rivers here! That was so sweet. She looked adorable, by the way. You two laughing, talking. You're also quite talented. I noticed all your seminars have pictures that you took, and they're really fucking good, y'know that?" He has no answer to your question, but you're flying high on how stunned he is. Too stunned to speak. "You've got a great sense of morality from what I've heard around campus. That's hard to come around in guys these days. I know that's one of those 'bare minimum' requirements, but—still. Hmmm..." you wonder how much more you can make his jaw fall, and decide to end on a high note. Pretending to just remember something, you go. "Oh! And..."
This time, it's you who steps closer.
There are only a few inches separating you two now, and you get to see that he's blushing from this distance — or lack thereof.
Even in the darkness you can see it, and if your heart was beating fast before, it's beating hard enough for you to feel it in your ears now.
"It doesn't hurt that you're also the most handsome guy I've ever seen. I know beauty's subjective, or whatever, but... to me. You're really pretty to me. I like when you're wearing your glasses, too."
The world spins and halts then, because Peter huffs out a single breath and the next thing you know, both of his hands are on your neck.
Then, his lips are on yours.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
Your skin is feverish under his touch.
Peter knew it must be just his imagination, but your words drowned every thought he's had tonight—fuck it, it drowned every thought he's ever had in his whole life it seemed.
One of his hands slides through your side feeling every inch ofyour arm and then wraps around your waist, pulling you closer. As close as you can get.
He's rewarded by a groan, muffled against his mouth. Swallowed by his tongue.
There's your tongue, sliding with his with the precision and tempo of someone who's been doing that for years, despite it being only the first time. Peter moans when your hands squeeze him right back. He loves how strong you hold on to him. He loves how you fit your body inside his hold, squeezing yourself to push against him, grind against him, and he's whining into the kiss.
"Fuck—I did, I fuckin' did—oh." Your words are muffled by your sigh when he sucks on your earlobe.
"Did what?"
"I shut you up," your giggle is a little bit of a moan, and Peter manages to chuckle as he assaults your neck. "That feels good."
"You feel good," he grabs your waist tighter, being extra careful with his strength there, and then someone in the alley wolf whistles, reminding the both of you how not alone you are in here.
The realization hits you both at the same time, stopping the kiss, but not the desire.
Ignoring the taunting that comes next, he focuses on the way you stare at him with expectation.
Peter smiles and you beat him to it. "Your place or mine?"
He winces a little at the question, but then he's hit by those words that tattooed themselves all over his brain once again, the part where you went 'I mean—walking with arms linked with your aunt in the market? That's—god, I wanted to jump into the river when I saw that, and we don't even have rivers here! That was so sweet. She looked adorable, by the way. You two laughing, talking' and he realizes how much you got under his skin by blurting out everything that you seemed to be thinking regarding him.
His face relaxes back into a smile and you're waiting for it, patiently. "Ah—I live with her."
"Oh! Your aunt."
"Yeah." He'd leave it at that, but he feels the need to add: "I did have my place for a while, but when she fell at work—didn't feel right. Didn't wanna leave her alone after that."
"Of course not." As simple as that, and said with a smile that makes him want to burn everything down, or maybe build a whole fortress around you. "Mine, then?"
Peter nods, then drags you away.
In the cab, Peter watches as you text your friends to let you know that you're alive and won't be coming back. He does the same, and feels with a jolt of electricity running through him the second your hand comes to rest on his thigh.
As a result, he's half-hard by the time the ride is finished and you two make it to your apartment.
"I have a roomate, but she's still at the pub," you lock the door behind you and he nods, understanding he can do as he pleases.
Peter sort of wants to make you scream.
There's a second of silence when you two are alone in the dark, and you throw your keys in the table next to the door.
Slower than the first time, he glues himself to you once again.
This time, there's nobody around to stop either of you.
First, he starts by undressing you.
Piece by piece of clothing, Peter unwraps you with the same care he unwrapped the first gift he got from uncle Ben that he knew was expensive. None of the harsh and rushed tearing—he removes the clothes, leaving kisses on every new inch of exposed skin.
A part of him wants to shy away when you decide to do the same with the exact same care, but your gaze pins him to his spot, unable to move or do anything to stop it.
He's burning.
Peter feels exposed—worse yet, he feels seen, and wanted, and where there usually would be jokes there's nothing but silence.
He enjoys how you drag both you to your room without detaching your bodies.
Then, something happens to break the silence—when the back of his knees hit the edge of your bed and he sort of stumbles into it, his hands fly to his sides, dropping the picture on your side table on the floor.
"Oh, shit! Sorry, I'm sorry," he mumbles.
You laugh at him, picking the frame up and putting it back on its place. "It's fine." You sit on his lap earning a groan from him—there are only a pair of briefs and panties separating your bodies, and the way you grind and wiggle to feel his hard cock makes him whine, too. "Hmmm."
"What?" you ask in a low voice. The silence spell was broken, and Peter's hands are all over you again.
His brain keeps screaming for him to be careful all the time, but that voice has to swim with all of the want and need he's feeling. "Such a baby."
Condescending tone—and he whines louder. Huh. "Shut up."
You chuckle, wiggling your hips slower, making a mess of his neck and chest with your mouth. "You want me to?"
"No."
"Thought so." The way you whine your hips makes your pussy fit along his cock and Peter hasn't felt this lightheaded in years. "Wanna ride you, Peter."
"Oh, fuck."
"You like it when I say your name, don't you?"
"I really do," and it sounds like a confession even to his ears.
"Hm. Maybe I'll have to make you earn that, then."
Peter refuses to admit he's a whining mess underneath you, but there's probably a stain in his briefs already and the desperate way he's bucking his hips into you while his hands grip your hips strong enough to maybe leave bruises says enough.
"You're mean," he sounds wrecked and you barely started.
Peter opens his eyes to see you smiling in delight.
"I think you like it," it might be the way your condescending tone is just right or maybe it's just you, but he does. Peter nods, defeated and desperate, and grinds harder. "Fuck."
"Yes, please."
"Patience."
"Okay," he yields in the same second. He'd allow you to hang him upside down right now. "Whatever you want."
"Oh, god." He's thankful for this, at least. He's not the only one wrecked in this room. "You're so good."
Peter has some objections to that, but they get lost when you get up for a second and then remove the last items of clothing separating both of you. He has to bite his lip when he sees you grabbing a condom because as much as his brain is screaming at him to fill you up until you're dripping down your thighs with his cum, there's no safe way to tell you he's unable to transmit any diseases.
"I wanted to give you a mindblowing blowjob, but I'll be honest—"
"Please sit on me," he begs.
The smile you offer him is the brightest thing he's seen in months. There's a laugh, too, and Peter's too high on your touch to even manage a smile.
The next two hours pass in a blur of limbs, sweat, tongue, slick, and muffled words tangled in moans, screams, whines.
Peter has to hold his strength and he loses that battle a few moments.
The second he snaps his hips up to meet your thrusts and is rewarded with a scream and a cry of his name, he moans even louder.
You moan so pretty, baby, you tell him.
That only makes him moan louder.
Don't do that, wanna hear you, you say when you catch him biting his lips, and he cries out at that.
"Oh god, god, please, Peter," you beg at one point, and that's when he first snaps.
He's been good—Peter's allowed you to sit on him at the speed you desire, torturing him by going as slow and as fast as you like, teasing him with smirks and playing with the head of his cock against your clit during a few moments, but when your thighs start to lose their strength and your knees weaken, you beg and that's all it takes before he flips you on your back and climbs on top of you.
Slides inside you again with so much ease.
Both of you are wet enough to make your whole sheets wet.
You're dripping enough to ruin every night of sleep he'll have for the following month, at least.
Then, there's the filth spilled back and forth between you two.
It turns out the sass and clever replies are worse in the dark and between four walls.
Peter whispers everything you seem to love hearing it, and it turns out, he does love being talked down by you—just a little.
You just do it so well.
"That's it—no. Slow down. That's it. Don't be greedy. Fuck—you wanted—oh, you want to please me so much, hm? So eager to obey. I like that. Don't go faster—don't cry, baby, I don't care—FUCK, just like that, Peter. Fuck me slow and I'll let you use me however you want, baby."
It gets to his head.
Peter's human — well, most of him is, anyway, and you seem to have the key to his guts.
All he can do is obey because he wants to obey.
Peter fits so well inside of you he grunts with the effort to not bury himself deep enough to live there.
Your voice whispering filthy, sweet nothings make a home in his brain, and he's almost crying by the time you grab his by the neck, strong enough to make him wonder if he will have bruises the next day, and say, "Fuck, I'm so close, let it go, Peter, fuck me, fuck me, it's okay."
He's almost sure he actually cries at that.
And then he does as he's told.
He lets go, and fucks you the way he secretly desired to every time you two exchanged looks. He fucks you while holding you by the neck, while holding onto your waist for dear life, while moaning and chanting your name over and over the same way you're screaming his.
Both of you get so lost in the pleasure that when you both cum, Peter thinks you two black out for a second.
He sort of wishes he could go to sleep inside of you, and that thought is the one that brings him back to life for long enough to eventually slip out and realize he'll have to be the one with the strength to clean you both up into enough shape that you can slide under a sheet and get some sleep, but he does all that on shaky legs and a foggy brain.
Peter's fucked.
Both of you are, and it goes beyond the mindblowing sex that just happened.
He pulls you into his arms and sleeps with that knowledge. That's a problem for when the sun is in the sky.
I hate (love, actually) to break it to you, but you actually have! Just hear me out.
We are constantly being told that shifting is "the act of moving your awareness from a reality to another", which is true.
However there has always been some confusion/ misinformation (in most popular shifting spaces) about what qualifies as a different reality, and consequently, about what qualifies as a reality shift.
What I've noticed throughout the years that I've been observing and engaging with shifting spaces online, is that most shifters only consider something "a shift" when you become aware of a different reality in a way that breaks the illusion of continuity (let's call this category 1).
Here are some examples of breached continuity:
- if you fall asleep in your cr and wake up in you desired reality -> that's a shift.
- if you fall asleep with a red t-shirt on, and wake up with a yellow t-shirt on -> you shifted to a "parallel" reality.
But whenever the change doesn't impact continuity (considered as normal) they don't think of it as a shift (let's call this case category 2).
For example:
-Falling asleep with the tv on, and waking up with the tv off --> not considered a shift because it is "common sense" that the tv goes on stand by after a while.
- Or, falling asleep in the car as a kid and waking up in your bed--> not considered a shift because "obviously " your parents carried u to ur bed, right?
Right...?
WRONG!!!
Both categories fall under the umbrella term "shifting", because in both cases your subconscious beliefs "triggered" a change of awareness (a shift).
And for the very same reason, any slight changes, or occurrences that you experience in life can be referred to as shifts.
Long story short the mechanism behind shifting to your desired reality is the same mechanism behind you waking up to your phone having its battery on 100% after charging it overnight (for example).
hi lovely! hope you're doing well. i've been a lurker for awhile bc i love your designs, and now i'm finally done procrastinating my main masterlist lol.
i was wondering if i could request some bluish purple dividers that have a sleepy/dreamy/nighttime vibe? i hope that makes sense lol. i have one series masterlist made that might make it a bit more clear what im looking for.
i tried looking for something similar that you might've already made so i didn't have to bother you with a request, so if you've already got something like this i'm so sorry!
hi there lovely!!! and I may have gone a tad overboard with the different dividers I made… but I really hope you can find some of these useful for your masterlist! 💜
please like and credit if you use, reblogs are appreciated! thank you! 💕
Can you do extra content about being the best model in the industry? Like having the best poses, the best catwalk, the best horse walk, the best aura, etc.
Only if you want to, no rush, and thanks for reading.
‧˚꒰ model extras to script for your dr ୭ ˚. ᵎᵎ
𝜗ৎ 01. The gracefulness your body exudes as you walk down the runway is so naturally perfect that no one can even imitate it—they had to coin a new term for your walk because it was so groundbreaking that it had to be remembered.
𝜗ৎ 02. You know your angles and the outfit you'll be wearing so thoroughly that you always get the best results. An open back? That turn you did looked spectacular. A tricky accessory? You made it work perfectly on the catwalk.
𝜗ৎ 03. You have a knack for adapting to the look the designer needs for that season—whether it's sexy, sweet, or elegant? You know how to pull it all off perfectly.
𝜗ৎ 04. You can easily move in sync with the background music on the runway; it doesn't matter if you have to completely change your pace—those little details you add to your walk are what make designers choose you again and again.
𝜗ৎ 05. You're so versatile that you can make any outfit or accessory look its best—even if luck wasn't on your side and you were given the least stylish piece in the collection, you inevitably end up being the center of attention because you bring it to life.
𝜗ৎ 06. The connection you have with the camera is so genuine that your photos always turn out perfect; even though details like lighting, shadows, or image quality might affect the photo, no photo featuring you can ever be considered “ruined.”
thanks for the request! sorry if there aren't many or if they aren't very varied—i just don't know that much about modeling :(t
hi so to all the ai users specifically ! who have been saying the climate change wont affect them ! news flash it will and it has already begun and one way or another this will affect you directly x so i’m not going to sit here and complain and criticize people who turn to ai . instead i’m also going to provide resources that you can use to quit using platforms like chatgpt or character.ai to connect with your realities or manifestations . this is specifically for those two things , other things like education and artwork , you have the internet and books to get the same information ai has been retrieving !
shifting ( connect to your dr ) :
- pinterest ! make boards . scroll through pins . visualize yourself in that pin .
- music ! spotify , apple music , youtube . i don’t know go crazy . make different playlists for different realities . make playlists for different scenarios in that reality .
- discord ! join shifting based servers that allow you to speak about your realities . share your favorite experiences with others on there . make friends that you can talk to instead of chatgpt .
- games ! video games like minecraft where you can build , sims , tomodachi , etc . if you are looking for free content , genshin impact , sims , roblox , etc . create your dr homes , visualize how it would feel to be there in the flesh .
- writing ! post on tumblr , post on tiktok , hell , even write fanfics about yourself on wattpad . who gives a shit , at least it isnt killing anyone . just pour your heart out in your writing , immerse yourself in it .
channeling :
- shufflemancy ! use spotify , connect with your friends and family from your realities . ask questions and get answers in terms of music . decipher songs through lyrics or intentions behind the song .
- tarot ! learn how to do tarot , make your own diy deck , practice with it . channel your highest self or people from your realities . pay for tarot readings or find people online who would be willing to help . there are many on tiktok , just find the most reliable ones .
- pinterest ! here's a how to guide .
&& a note . . . instead of ai , channel people from your drs . it’s better because it’s actually the real person and not some artificial intelligence who is the generalized and basic version . just saying .
manifesting :
- law of assumption ! learn more about loa & how it is so helpful when it comes to manifesting your dream life and even helps with shifting .
- pinterest ! make different boards to help visualize . make a moodboard for your dream life , a desired wardrobe , wishlist , dream body , the list goes on .
- guidance ! you really don’t need a lot for manifesting if you say you don’t . robotic affirmations , sure . affirming once , sure . anything . you just have to learn , and if you need help learning there are many resources on tumblr ( shiftblr & loablr ) , tiktok , and even pinterest . if you don’t want to pay for lessons , i’m sure a good handful of creators will answer questions through comment sections on tiktok or inboxes of tumblr ( mine are always open ! )
- journaling ! journal your thoughts and ideas instead of telling some app on what to do next . i’ve seen many apps that utilize ai for manifesting ( marketed through tiktok ) and you do not need them . trust me .
i know this is going to fly over many people’s heads but seriously , manifesting and shifting are two things even ai can’t open your eyes for all this , you need to do on your own . so instead of asking some bot to help you , let’s go back to how we did it before ai existed ! let’s do it the normal and safe way . and the debate of ‘ if i am the creator of my reality , i can use ai and get whatever i want because i can manifest it won’t affect the environment ‘ ( trust me i’ve seen someone along the lines of this ) . . . if you are the creator of the reality then why do you even need ai in the first place ? just let the bot rest guys . also !! all this energy and time that goes into using ai , could be fueled into shifting or manifesting .
you gifting them a necklace when you were younger and they never take it off to the point it’s getting annoying dude take it off you’re showering
once you find a notebook and they freak out taking it away from you later on when you start dating turns out that was their teenage diary and it was full of mental breakdowns from having crush on you
Your first experience getting drunk was with them and it was a chaos, you were pinching their cheeks patting them singing out loud and at the end them carrying you to home
First day of university you kiss them on the cheek and act super clingy for other students to think your sp is taken ( yes I stole it from Caleb and mc )
There was a time that you two used to date other people to make each other jealous and the whole relationship was a hell for both of you and one time you’re sp got too jealous that they had to take you out of classroom to have a serious conversation ending up shouting at each other “ aren’t you the one dating z why are you so bothered about me dating x “
You being in a band as teenagers and escaping from school together
You two grow up as neighbors so your parents only trust the situation if you two are together
You two were childhood friends but they suddenly left without saying anything or later any news from them and you started to hating on them,years later when you meet them again you two start having fights and being on each others throat butttttt yeah as we all know you two come back to your senses and start being friends again
There was a time that you two #obviouslyvirgings were talking about first kiss and how you two haven’t had any so in the most awkward way you two look at each other “ wait what if we .. practice together? “
You always catch them staring at you but you used to think it’s pretty normal between friends until everyone around you starts pointing it out and showing pictures of yall and their just there staring at you with stars and hearts in their eyes
You two get super touchy around each other like twins and you’re not like that with other friends at all in fact yall get protective over this physical touch when it comes to others
