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t-lostinworlds · 4 years ago

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Wish You Didn’t (Peter Parker)

a/n: hello, hello. here’s another angst fic as ‘tradition’ since this is my first ever full peter parker fic so yeah, please be kind alska. this is very fluffy from the start but then it’s all downhill from there lol, hope you enjoy this one <3

pairing: peter parker x female reader trope/genre: song fic - Wish You Didn’t Love Me by Jake Miller; best friends to...well; fluff and angst summary: You love Peter Parker with all that you have, but somehow, he doesn't find that as a good thing. Despite feeling the same way, to protect you, Peter wish you didn't love him at all. warnings: wholesome cuteness at the start to set you up for heartbreak, brief dark thought from peter, and swearing. word count: 13.9k+ (i mean, what’s new)

masterlist on bio & pinned post

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"Ugh."

Peter looked up from his textbook just in time to see you drop your bag on the table and then plop yourself down on the seat across him in the library. There was a look of pure frustration on your face, his brows furrowing at the sight of the deep frown written on your lips.

"What's up?" Peter asked, twirling his pen in his fingers as he tilted his head at you in concern.

You let out a big sigh, meeting your best friend's gaze with your frown still intact. "I've got a debate coming up tomorrow," you grumbled dejectedly.

The crease between Peter's brows could only deepen at your words.

You were the best on the debate team, always at the ready to take whatever topic it was thrown at you, headstrong. You're always excited to gush to him about what could be your winning argument, what would put the opposing team at a standstill. So, to see you be somewhat upset about an upcoming debate, it was so unlike you.

Maybe because it seemed last minute but by the looks of it, Peter can't help but feel like it was more than that.

"What's it about?" he asked.

You blew out your cheeks, hand coming up to play with the notebook he had on the table before you blurted out,

"Spider-Man: Friend or Foe."

Peter cleared out his throat just as he turned the page of his book to hide it, sitting straighter in his seat, pretending to get back to reading to avoid your gaze.

He didn't tell you.

Years and years of being best friends yet you didn't have an ounce of clue that you were sitting right across the person who was going to be the topic of your debate.

Peter trusts you of course, he trusts you with his life. His reason was simple really: he just didn't want to drag you into it.

Plus, knowing how worried you can get, he just didn't want to put you through all of that, especially on top of all things college and with what's going on in your personal life. He already feels so guilty with the stress he's put May through, he can't bear to see you have that burden too.

And most importantly, Peter just wanted to protect you.

"Still don't see why you're bummed about it," he said with a shrug, gaze running over the text printed on the paper but none of it was going inside his mind.

"I got picked to defend him."

Peter's head shot up at that, eyes narrowing on your seated form as he asked, "Oh, so you think he's a foe?"

"No..." you trailed off, eyes wandering around his slightly messy table littered with notes, textbooks and books, highlighters and everything in between. "Not really."

Closing his book, Peter leaned forward, arms rested on the surface with his full attention now on you. "Care to elaborate?"

You pursed your lips, shifting in your seat as you crossed your arms over your chest. "I mean, he's probably got good intentions but I've read about the Sokovia accords you know," you started, Peter nodding to show you that he was following. "And it's a debate. The other party would do their best to make him out to be a reckless vigilante. I can already think of so many arguments that they'd throw."

"Such as?"

"That he could be doing this for fame and attention, or that he is doing good things but his drive to do them isn't exactly the best. Is it for revenge? Bragging rights or maybe something darker? Another one could be that he's young, careless and naïve. We don't know what he's really capable of superpower wise which means he can probably hurt innocent people in the future.

"Not to mention if he's on the right or wrong side of the law. Who has to pay for the collateral damages that he has caused? Is it right to let him go scot free? I could go on and on and I just," you paused, resting one arm on the table and then placing your head on it as you looked up at your best friend. "I can't really counter those things with full force because I don't really know the dude nor do I have any real, solid facts about him to back up my claim that he's completely on the good side."

"Research hasn't done you good has it?" Peter hummed, a soft smile playing on his lips as his hand came up to poke your cheek, a sweet attempt to try and rid of your frown.

You shook your head no with a deepened pout, taking his hand away from your face with your own free hand as your nimble fingers then played with his absentmindedly.

Peter's heart grew warm at the gesture.

"There's literally nothing on this spider dude aside from blog posts written by fanboys and girls gushing about how amazing he is. Which is never a great source since it's already so biased," you explained.

"What would truly help you aside from research?" he queried, eyes trained on the way you interlock your fingers together and then letting it go only for a second before interlacing them again, letting it go and repeat. It was such an adorable habit of yours, one that Peter has grown so fond of, your touch always delicate and sweet whenever you fidget with his hand.

"An interview I guess? It'd be nice to get to ask him a few questions. Like, it would help to know why I'm on his side. Get a perspective on why he does what he does, you know?" you sighed, eyes fluttering close with your frown still intact. "At least that way, I know I'm defending someone who I know is worth defending."

Peter hummed as he tore his eyes away from your intertwined hands and back on your sprawled out upper-half on the table. He pursed his lips, gaze on the dip and valleys of your beautiful but stressed face. His brain grew at odds the more he took in your deep frown��one he always hates seeing no matter the reason—as he raked his thoughts on what he could possibly do to help without having the trouble of revealing his secret to you.

"But it's genuinely impossible to talk to him—"

"You could send him an email," Peter blurted before he gave himself time to properly process his words. Hell, he didn't even get to weigh the odds and dangers of his proposition. But now that it already slipped out his mouth—

Shit. I don't think this is a good idea...

Your eyes snapped open as you gaped up at him, brows deeply furrowed as you wondered, "Spider-Man...has an email?"

Too late to back out now, Parker.

"Well, all the Avengers do, under Stark Industries to be specific," Peter said in the most nonchalant way he can muster. "Since, you know, Stark tech in their suits, modifications, upgrades, what color they want it as, etcetera, it's how they talk about those stuff."

You abruptly sat up, dropping his hand as you laid both of your palms flat on the table, eyes now twinkling with hope and excitement. "You think he'd actually see it?"

"Yeah, not many people know about it so," he trailed off with a shrug, opening his book again and flicking through the pages.

You leaned forward, trying to catch his gaze as you narrowed your eyes at him suspiciously. "How'd you know?"

Peter scoffed with a shake of his head, never looking away from his book given that you'd notice his lie right off the bat if he does so. "I don't know Y/N, probably because I work there," he pointed out. Well, technically it wasn't a lie, but it wasn't exactly the truth either.

"And you're giving me it?"

He shrugged, finally meeting your gaze. "I don't see why not? As long as you don't share it around or sell it," Peter warned, shooting you playful glare.

"Yes! Oh my—you are the best," you exclaimed excitedly, jumping out of your seat and rounding the table to give him a back hug. "You're a lifesaver Pete, thank you." With one last squeeze, you pulled away and swiftly snatched your bag, feet in a rush as you treaded towards the door.

"Where are you going?" Peter asked bemusedly.

"Sending the email! Hopefully I can talk to him tonight!" you called back to him.

Peter can't help but shake his head at you with a laugh, "I haven't even given you the email!"

"Just send—"

Sssh!

"Oops, sorry," you whispered, finger over your lips as you rushed back to his side with a bright smile. "Just text me it please? Love you," you hummed, hand landing on his shoulder as you leaned down to place a swift but sweet kiss on his cheek.

The skin where your lips once were quickly turned pink, Peter's heart skipping countless beats at that four-letter word, unable to conjure any response the more he thinks about the actual weight of the warmth that's grown in his chest. He's heard you say it to him many times before of course, but despite holding a different meaning—one with friendship laced around it—it never fails to make Peter's heart soar.

Albeit wanting it to mean something else, something more, Peter knows he shouldn't. Always quick to silence his heart on screaming for more given that it wasn't ideal, for your sake. He always reminds himself that he already feels utmost content with what he has with you now, content with the love you make him feel even if it's only to an extent.

It was enough, for your sake.

Nothing but adoration coated his features as his eyes followed your every movement. His heart grew even more when you beamed at him once you pulled away, ruffling his hair playfully before hurrying out of the library, shooting him one last smile and a wave before disappearing from sight.

Peter can't wipe his own grin off his face, just the sight of your beautiful smile and your joyful eyes, easily contagious on his part. But then realization dawned on him and the curve slipped away, replaced by a frown laced with panic as he pulled out his phone to check the time.

"Shit."

He quickly gathered up his things and rushed out of the library, taking the back door out of the building to the nearest alley. Peter had his eyes glued to his screen the whole time as he quickly made a fake but believable enough email before sending it to you.

***

"Heard you were looking for me?"

You let out a yelp, jumping a few inches back as you spun around towards the direction of the voice. A hand flew over your chest the moment your eyes landed on a figure, shock befalling you as you froze. He was squatted down on the ledge of the rooftop of your apartment building, red and blue faint under the night sky. "Oh my—uh, hi," you squeaked, eyes blinking rapidly to see if what you're seeing was actually real.

The wind was blowing cold, your black pants, plain t-shirt and jean jacket doing just enough to minimize it. The sound of the streets of Manhattan was echoing below, very busy but faint due to your distance from the ground, enabling you to still hear his voice loud and clear when he spoke again.

"Hi, I'm Spider-Man," he introduced as he offered you his hand, masked eyes trained on you as you cautiously walked towards him.

"I know. I'm Y/N," you said, hesitantly reaching out to take his hand, the material of his suit rough against your palm as you shook it. You were in absolute awestruck, eyes glowing with wonder as you did nothing but gape at him.

"I know," he said and you can practically hear his smile behind the mask. He gave your hand a squeeze, the odd feeling that coursed through your bones made you tilt your head at him in mere curiosity, brows furrowed in utter confusion. Mr. Spider-Man swiftly cleared out his throat, eyes casted down as he quickly let go of your hand. "It's on your email," he added hastily.

"Oh, yeah," you muttered. A few seconds passed and you just stood there, staring at him like some star struck fan as you rubbed your hands together in both the cold and slight nerves. After a few seconds more, you finally spoke, "Wow, okay, I didn't expect for you to actually show up."

You don't know where to actually begin.

The first thought you had after sending the email was that he'd never actually see it, or if he does, he'll simply ignore it. You had been ready to wait out in the cold for a couple hours, anticipated the letdown to be frank. Yet here he was, the Spider-Man, right in front of you who, amazingly, even arrived right on time.

Spider-Man was making you nervous.

Normally, you have no problem with doing interviews. It is a form of research after all, and being on the debate team, you've done countless of it. But right now feels different.

Maybe it was the fact that he was a fucking superhero. He's someone who has actually done quite a lot and has probably seen and experienced other worldly things just as much if not more. Or maybe it's the fact that you simply don't know where this will go from here.

Will it do well that you'd get to ask proper questions and get answers that would truly help or will he get cocky and rude that this interaction would only end up being a waste of time?

Despite being famous, he was a complete mystery to everyone. The person behind the mask was wholly unknown and that itself makes you very nervous.

With a shrug, he said, "Well, wouldn't pass helping a friend."

"Are you making your voice deep?" you asked, the sound of his voice a little too...computerized for it to be normal.

He nodded. "Voice modulator, it helps keep my secret identity, well, a secret."

"Oh, yeah, figured."

You stayed quiet again after that, arms crossing over your chest as you kept your gaze steady on him, features coated with a mixture of emotions from confusion, amazement, curiosity and everything in between.

He chuckled softly, probably noticing your painfully obvious shyness. "Got questions for me?" he prodded.

You blinked a few times before frantically nodding, recalling how you specifically said in the email that you just wanted to ask a few questions. You then took out your phone, showing him the voice recording app and asked, "Is this okay?"

Spider-Man tilted his head at you with a soft hum.

"Yeah, I trust you with it."

You smiled.

The pressure and nerves turned lighter on your shoulders as you somewhat felt more comfortable...safe around him. And there's just something about the fact that he trusts you that warms your bones. It's like he's certain you only have his best intentions in mind, as if he knows you weren't in this for a selfish gain. It's really comforting in a sense, makes you feel confident that you're on the right track.

It makes you feel good about yourself.

With a soft nod, you hit record, words of curiosity slipping out of your lips soon after. "Those webs, do they come out from you?"

"No, they don't," he chuckled, taking out a vile from his wrist and then handing it to you. "That is what you call web fluid and I make them."

You gingerly took it in your hands, eyes scanning it briefly before you gave it back. "Impressive."

"Thanks. So, the fluid is like the bullets and these right here"—he showed you the black bands on his wrists with his hands open—"Are the web shooters that make me well, shoot webs. Like so," he explained as he pressed the button on his palm, the webs streaming out soon after and snatching an empty can on the far corner before it landed back in his hand.

You pursed your lips with a nod. "So, you can make weapons," you said with a certain tone in your voice that caused him to shift in his place.

"I—uh, no?" he stuttered, placing the can back on the ground loudly and in a not-so-subtle way. "I will never build a nuclear bomb if that's what you're wondering," he rushed when you narrowed your eyes at him in suspicion.

"Didn't say anything about a nuclear bomb," you pointed out with a tilt of your head.

"I-I'm, uh, I didn't—"

"I'm just messing with you," you cut him off with a soft laugh, your nerves diminishing swiftly at how he seemed to be a little shy and awkward but in an endearing way. It makes him appear more human, normal. "You're so tense, just relax."

"Yeah…okay," he breathed out. He turned around to face the city, going from crouching to fully sitting down on the ledge, hands folding on his thighs as he looked at you over his shoulder. He jerked his head, gesturing for you to come closer to which you gladly did.

You leaned on the concrete with soft hum, placing your phone beside his thigh so it was now between you both. You scanned the beautiful city with a content smile, the view never ceasing to amaze you despite seeing it too many times before. The rooftop is your best escape after all. It was nice to be far away from everything, even if it's only for a moment. Nothing but peace coats you whenever you're up here, may it be from the gentle gush of the wind or the bright shine of the moon that spreads throughout the blanket of black sky.

With a sigh, you looked up at the mask man beside you. Flustered was what you came to be when you noticed that he was already staring at your face, the white and black of his eyes looking somewhat soft, and you swear he looked almost as if he's smiling behind the mask. Warmth was quick to coat your body, a stark contrast to the cold breeze as you cleared your throat, causing him to swiftly look away.

"Sorry, I'm just a little nervous," he chuckled shyly, hand coming up to rub the back of his neck. "Really want to impress you."

You felt your cheeks heat up, a timid smile growing on your lips as you shrugged. "No need to impress anyone, let alone me," you said. "Just be yourself Spider-Man."

Oh, I truly wish I could just be myself right now Y/N—

"Okay," Peter hummed with a smile.

"Are you sure this is fine?" you asked, gesturing towards your phone in the middle of you two. "I don't want to intrude or make you feel uncomfortable by recording our conversation."

Peter's heart grew warm as his smile widened. Always considerate you are, too kind for your own good. If it was someone else, he probably would've had loads of pictures taken by now. Or maybe even a hidden camera somewhere to catch him at the wrong moment. Many of which would then be posted on the internet to spread like wildfire. Not that he minded the photos and videos but it's off putting sometimes, especially when they churn out not-so-good headlines to match.

"Promise me you won't share or sell it?" he joked, mentally cursing himself soon after once he realized it's the same words he said to you earlier in the library. Although he felt a wash of relief right away when you didn't seem to notice as you only flashed him a sweet smile in return.

"I promise," you hummed, turning to face him as you leaned sideways on the ledge. "What other superpowers do you have?"

"Enhanced abilities such as super strength, I can run fast and heal fast. Dialed up senses meaning I can see, hear, smell and feel things on another level. I'm...sticky, meaning I can climb up walls and stick to stuff like how a spider would. And oh, spider sense," Peter elaborated, watching with amusement as he saw your eyes change from awe, confusion, to impressed and back to confusion.

"Spider sense?"

"I can sense danger and threats when it's coming, like I feel a tingle."

"That's really cool," you hummed, hand rapidly lifting up as you took a fast and big swing towards his shoulder. He caught your fist in his hand way before you could even have the chance to land a punch.

Peter shook his head at you in pure amusement, giving your fist a squeeze before he let it go. "That wasn't so successful now was it?" he chuckled.

"It was worth a try. Just testing the waters to see if it would trigger your 'spidey sense' as you call it," you laughed, quoting the two words with your fingers teasingly.

"It didn't because one, anyone could see that punch from a mile away, and two, I said dangers and threats," he paused, tilting his head at you adoringly. "And you're not really a threat."

"Hey, I can be threatening," you scoffed, chin up with your chest puffed out.

Peter couldn't stop the laugh that escaped his lips. "I'm sure you can. I bet you can handle yourself well, especially with proper training." He took in a deep breath before saying, "But that's not really what I meant."

"What did you mean?

"That I feel safe around you."

"Oh." You blinked at him a few times before you fully broke his gaze, suddenly turning bashful as your eyes watched the busy street below where the cars and people were scurrying about in the cold New York night. Squaring your shoulders, you added, "Well, for what it's worth, I feel safer around you now too."

Peter felt his heart leap out of his chest, a proud smile erupting on his face, gaze dropping on the ground—or lack thereof—shyly as red started to dust his cheeks. "That's worth a lot," he hummed, lifting his head at the same time you did, your eyes locking immediately.

You beamed at him sweetly, shifting on your feet before letting out a breath. "Right, onto a more serious question," you paused, gesturing at the whole of him with your hand. "Why exactly are you doing this?"

"What do you think is the reason why I'm doing what I do?" he asked back, eyes trained on your face for a moment before he looked straight ahead. He can feel your orbs burning a hole on the side of his face, your brows furrowed in a way that Peter could do nothing but grin widely. He always found your thinking face endearing.

"I don't know, could be a lot of things. Could be money, glory, revenge, bragging rights, most likely fame?" you suggested.

Peter shook his head, keeping his gaze on the building across. "If I was doing this for fame, you'd think I would've shown my face by now?"

"Touché."

"But no," he breathed out, eyes now trained on his feet as he swung them aimlessly on the edge of the building. "I just want to help to the best of my abilities. I feel like I was given these powers, me, for a reason. If I'm not going to use it for a good cause then what's the point of having them?" Peter turned to face you, holding your gaze securely, even behind the mask as he continued, "If I'm not going to help out the little guy, even if I can easily do that then, who will? I can't simply watch the world fall apart when I could've done something to prevent it or provided a little bit of help, you know?"

You nodded. "With great power comes great responsibility."

Peter cracked a smile. "Yeah, exactly," he hummed, gaze dropping to stare at his gloved hands, turning it over before clasping it together with a sigh.

"How do you feel about the people who think you're not on the good side? That you have some hidden agenda?"

"I pity them if I'm being honest."

"How so?"

"I mean, if you're at a point in life where you can't accept that someone is helping simply for the sake of helping, then you've must've gone through a lot to not trust easily," Peter started, fingers fidgeting with his web shooters before he met your gaze. "We've been taught to always think that there's an incentive in all that we do. If you give, you have to receive and vice versa. But why can't we simply give and not expect something in return? People are so accustomed to the whole give and take thing that when someone just gives, it feels unfamiliar. That's why they get suspicious. They overthink that surely I'm doing this for something else when there's really no other reason than simply wanting to help.

"I also get it. It's a cruel world we're living in unfortunately where we have to keep one eye open. But I wish people would begin to accept that someone is helping to make the world a better place by simply wanting to have a safe and better place. No hidden agenda whatsoever," he finished, brown orbs catching sight of how your smile grew wider, brighter.

"You're a wise man," you said with an appreciative nod. "With a really good heart too."

"Thanks. I try my best."

"I'd say you've probably lived a life, traveled the world, seen so many new things, been to space," you trailed off, raising a brow at him in question.

"Yeah, you could say that," he chuckled.

"Are you a billionaire? Are you a prince in disguise or maybe a king? Are you a lawyer? Or maybe some kind of mythical being like Thor?" you poked.

Peter laughed, shaking his head as he shrugged. "Nah, I'm just a kid from Queens."

Shit.

Peter you fucking idiot. You absolute dumbass—

"Huh, I've got a best friend who's from Queens," you muttered, voice barely above a whisper but thanks to his enhanced hearing abilities, of course he heard it loud and clear.

Peter bit the insides of his cheek to stop his smile, even though you weren't going to see it anyway since he has a mask on. I know you do. "Come on, I want to show you something," he said aloud instead, standing up to his full height with his hand out for you to take.

You narrowed your eyes at his outstretched palm before you looked up at his masked face. "Are you going to kidnap me now and sell my organs?"

Peter threw his head back with a hearty laugh, the sound ringing in the air as he shook his head at you. "No, I'm going to show you New York from a different angle," he said, smiling widely as he leaned over closer, hand open wide. "Do you trust me?"

"You did not just quote Aladdin," you laughed, taking your phone off the ledge to stop recording before shoving it in your pocket.

Peter shrugged with a sheepish grin. "What if I did?"

You smiled widely at that, placing your hand securely in his and giving it squeeze. "Then yes, I trust you."

Peter hoisted you up on the ledge with ease, both of you now standing side by side on the edge of the building. A small squeak came out of you when you curiously looked down and saw that the ground was actually very far away, your grip on his hand tightening when all you could think of was splat. He chuckled, moving closer to you as he lifted your arm and placed it over his shoulders, your eyes snapping back up to look at his masked face.

"Is this okay?" he hummed, his arm wrapping around your waist strongly once you gave him a nod approval. "Hold tight," Peter said.

"Please don't let me go," you whispered, worry-filled eyes boring into his own while a mixture of both nervousness and excitement coated your features.

"Never."

Peter jumped.

You screamed.

The strong gush of the wind swiftly hit your face, hair whipping around as your grip around him tightened starkly. You felt your stomach churn while you swung in the air, passing one building to another, going high up and then dropping back down in a swooping motion. Your legs wrapped itself around his waist almost instinctively, all in fear of falling to your death.

"This was a bad idea!" you screeched, head buried on the crook of his neck, eyes shut tight ever since your feet left the ledge.

"Open those eyes Y/N! You're missing all the fun!" Peter laughed, giving your waist a reassuring squeeze. He felt you slowly pull your head away from his neck, lids inching open one by one until you finally gawked at the wonderful lights and blaring colors of the city in awe.

Your mouth fell agape the more you took the sight in, the city a blur but somewhat beautiful in its own unique way. You loosened your grip around his shoulder just so you could lift a hand up in the air, a satisfied hum vibrating in your chest as you felt the cold wind brush through your fingertips in the most comforting way.

That's when you let out a gleeful laugh.

Peter felt his heart melt ten times over at the beautiful sound. His cheeks were hurting from grinning ear to ear the more he took in how you're having the best time.

You looked absolutely breathtaking, the city lights casting a glow over your features, eyes holding nothing but pure bliss and wonder with that lovely, bright smile of yours to match.

The city was pretty sure, Peter loves seeing it at night whenever he does his patrol. But you, you were gorgeous, a stunning sight that he could never ever have enough of. You never do fail to make his heart stop, never fail to take his breath away, never fail to make his limbs all weak and Peter found himself falling deeper despite trying his hardest not to.

"This is so cool—no!" you shrieked, eyes wide with fear as you shot high up midair and went free falling for a few horrifying seconds before you landed back into his embrace, slotting right into his chest. Peter laughed as you quickly went to latch onto him, your grip viselike with both arms around his shoulders and your legs around his waist. He wrapped an arm around you securely as his other hand held tightly on the web, both of you now face to face as you continued to swing in the air.

You lifted your head up to look at him fully, faces now inches apart as you stared right into each other's eyes. Peter felt his heartbeat quicken when your orbs held a certain spark, as if you could see the actual him right behind the mask. His eyes fell on your lips, slightly parted as you gawked at him. They look really soft, very pretty, inviting.

He gulped.

At that point Peter wasn't sure if he was thankful or annoyed that he was wearing a mask. Because if he wasn't, then he would've already done something he might regret—or not—later on, especially with the consequences that would come with it.

But when you opened your mouth to start to speak, that's when Peter grew even more nervous on what could possibly be running in your thoughts.

Did you figure it out?

You didn't get a chance to say whatever it was you wanted to say when all movements stopped, Peter releasing you from his hold right as you felt your feet touch the ground.

"That was mean," you said once you gently pulled away from him. "You said you wouldn't let me go," you added, adjusting your hair and clothes before you shot him a pout.

"I'm sorry, I got a little distracted," he admitted, rubbing the back of his neck with a shy chuckle. It was a full on accident, mind preoccupied by all things you that he unconsciously loosened his grip around your waist which in turn, made you slip out of his grasp. "I'll always catch you though."

You pursed your lips at him with a tilt of your head. "If I hadn't known better I'd say you're flirting with me, Spider-Man."

Peter felt the heat rush up to his face in a split second. "I-I'm, uh—"

"Whoa," you cut him off once your eyes landed on the gorgeous city of Manhattan but much farther away and wider as you stood on a much higher building. The tall structures that surrounded the scene seemed like toys with their size, the lights that gleamed looking like little specks of stars floating in the air with the Empire State Building right at the middle of it all. "I haven't seen it this high up before," you said, giving him a swift glance before your eyes were back on the scenery. "It's really beautiful."

"Yeah, very beautiful," Peter sighed, brown orbs never leaving your features, his heart thumping in his chest, loud and fast, each beat all for you.

He walked over to where you were stood until your arms were brushing against each other. You spared him a glance, your smile wide and soft in a way that made his heart grow warm. But then you leaned your head on his shoulder and Peter swore he might as well die from a heart attack. If it were you with the enhanced senses, then you would probably catch him out quickly with how frantic and loud each beat his heart was making.

It wasn't new to him of course. You've always been the affectionate kind. And being your best friend, he's always at the receiving end of those affections.

But tonight feels a little different.

The fact that you feel safe around him without having to see his face, when all you see is Spider-Man, it makes his heart melt. The simple fact that you're comfortable when you're near him, that you can feel that you can trust him is really reassuring in a sense. It's like your heart is already familiar with who he is despite your brain—or your eyes—telling you that the person you're standing with right now is a complete stranger.

It feels really special when looking at it in that perspective, it makes Peter feel special.

Sudden boldness coursing through his bones, Peter snaked an arm around your shoulder with a gentle squeeze in the process. It took every ounce of his superhuman strength to keep his legs upright when you inched closer to his side, a soft breath coming out of you, a satisfied one. His eyes glowed with utmost adoration as it traced your features, from the soft smile playing on your lips to the twinkle in those irises as you kept your gaze on the stunning city in front. It baffles him how his heart quickened it's pace even more, just the sight of you in pure bliss. God he was so in love with you and you don't even have an ounce of clue.

Just say it out loud, tell her.

No, I can't. For her, I can't.

"It's getting late. I should probably head back home," you hummed, lifting your head off his shoulder to look at him. Peter nodded, arm dropping to your waist as he crouched down a little, just so you could sling an arm around his shoulder. "No dropping me this time," you warned, narrowing your eyes at him teasingly.

Peter laughed with a nod. "Yes ma'am."

The swing back to your apartment building took no time.

Despite wanting to drag the night out a little longer, Peter knew he can't do that to you when your debate was tomorrow, especially among countless papers and homework he knows you need to get to. Plus, he has his own errands he needs to tend to as well. Both of you landed on the ledge smoothly with you laughing at some bad joke he made. Peter helped you down like the gentle man that he is and giving your hand one last squeeze before he lets it go.

"Thank you for tonight," you said as you turned to his figure that remained standing on the ledge. Nothing but a wide, genuine smile played on your lips as you added, "Everything of tonight."

"Don't mention it," Peter said sweetly. "I had a really great time with you—shit. I hope that doesn't sound creepy or anything but I really did enjoy tonight, you know, our conversation, getting close with you and feeling you close to me while we were swinging...okay, I'll stop talking."

You let out the sweetest giggle that Peter could do nothing but swoon, his eyes softening as he tilted his head at you with the most adoring smile he could ever have the pleasure of wearing.

"I had a great time being close with you, too," you hummed, holding his gaze for a moment before you casted your eyes at the ground shyly. Shifting from your heels and toes, you pointed towards the rooftop door, before timidly meeting his eyes again. "I should probably—"

"Yeah, yeah, of course," Peter chuckled, shooting you a curt nod. "Goodnight, Y/N."

"Goodnight, Spider-Man," you said, swiftly turning around as you went towards the door, giving him one last glance over your shoulder when you pulled it open. He gave you a wave in response, your smile widening before you slipped inside and closed the door right behind you.

Peter had the stupidest, most shit-eating grin on his face that he don't think he could ever wipe off, eyes fluttering close as he spread his arms wide. With a satisfied breath, he slowly leaned backwards, letting gravity take its course as pure euphoria coated every fiber of his being.

Never has he ever felt such joy, freedom and utmost content as Peter lets himself fall.

***

"Hello there."

Peter looked up from his notes only to be met by a set of green eyes, completely taking him by surprise since it wasn't the pair of orbs he was expecting—and really excited—to see. It confused him to the core as to why one of the most popular girls on campus was sitting down right in front of him in the library.

"Hi?" he said, word coming out more as a question than a statement as he furrowed his brows.

"Peter right? Marjorie," she introduced, hand coming across the table to which he shook gingerly.

"Yeah, that's me." Peter smiled shyly, the crease on his forehead deepening the more he raked his brain as to why she's talking to him in the first place. Of course he knows who she is, the whole school does. Hell, he can already hear the whispers of gossip echoing about all because she's sitting right at his table, or as a matter of fact, simply because she's in the room. That's how big of a deal she is.

Marjorie moved forward, both her arms resting on the table with her bust right on top of it, the low cut top she wore doing so little to hide it, cleavage right up his face. Peter was quick to look away with a clear of his throat, eyes trained on his notes as a blush coated his cheeks.

She suddenly brought two fingers under his chin, prompting him to look back up. "Look me in the eyes when I'm talking to you pretty boy," she purred, a sly smirk growing on her lips when his blush deepened. She inched closer until she was fully leaning over the table and into his space, her thumb running across his chin teasingly. Peter's eyes grew wide in downright surprise and confusion, keeping his gaze locked with hers and never looking anywhere else—mostly not looking down—as he swallowed the lump in his throat. "Anyway, I heard you're really smart and I happen to find you really cute too. Not just a pretty face, aren't you Peter. So, I was wondering—"

Peter could feel you coming, hear you even, that all too familiar sound of your giddy and specifically patterned footsteps ringing in his ears. And dare he say it, he could smell your shampoo, the scent gradually growing stronger which was a clear indication that you were getting closer to the library.

He was left downright confused when you only stopped at the door, your heartbeat quickening by a mile as you stilled. Peter grew worried at the uneven sound of your breathing, all shallow and labored, the first thing that happens whenever you're in slight panic. He removed his eyes briefly from the girl across him only to see you turn on your heel in one swift motion and then completely disappearing from sight.

What was wrong? Where were you going?

"I, uh, I'm really sorry but I need to go." Peter quickly pulled his face away from Marjorie's hand, standing up from his seat all while shoving his things in his backpack. "I-It was nice meeting you," he said with a small smile before he sprinted towards the door.

He didn't see you anywhere near the building, didn't see you anywhere on campus at all.

It worried him even more when you ignored his texts and calls for the rest of the day. He knew your schedule but somehow, the moment he reached your class, you were already gone. Or maybe you hadn't even attended class in the first place. There was no other way of him knowing your whereabouts and he was growing really concerned by the second as to what had happened. So, he went with the last option he could think of on finding you quicker.

Peter slipped his mask on with a sigh, the sun already going down when he decided to try and pay you a visit in a very different set of clothes.

***

"Hi."

"What the fu—" You jumped with a yelp as you swiftly turned to face him, hand over your chest to try and calm your heart as you gaped at his masked face. "What are you doing here?"

Three times he's passed your apartment building and you weren't home. But by the fourth try, Peter's worry could only grow some more when he saw you out on the rooftop. You never stay out on the rooftop unless something was deeply bothering you.

"Wanted to know how the debate went," Peter reasoned, not the main agenda but it wasn't entirely a lie either.

"Well, my team won so that's great," you sighed dejectedly, leaning down to rest your elbow on the ledge while your chin landed on your palm.

"You don't seem enthusiastic? You still don't think I'm a friend?"

"No, no, I do now. It's just things in here." You tapped your temple, letting out another sigh when you brought your finger down to your chest, right where your heart is supposed to be and added, "Or in here rather."

Peter frowned. "What's up?"

"Who knew Spider-Man was into gossip," you teased, turning to flash him a small smile.

"Just curios," he hummed with a casual shrugged, settling himself down on the ledge, facing you this time around. "Besides, it's always better to let it out."

"It's just boy problems," you breathed out, eyes back on the orange tinted sky.

Peter felt a lump grow in his throat, heart sinking to his stomach at the thought of you thinking about another guy. He was quick to scold himself, telling his mind not to be selfish as he cleared his throat.

"Hit me."

"Well, there's this boy I like—" you stopped yourself, lips pursed as you started to fidget with your fingers, thinking face that Peter knows so well now in full play. "Actually no, I've been in love with him for as long as I can remember," you admitted.

The ache in Peter's heart grew sharper, painful and overwhelming that he felt his body run cold. His throat grew dry that he could do nothing but nod his head with a hum to tell you he's still following.

"He's amazing, greatest guy I've ever had the pleasure of knowing and he has never failed to show that he cares about me. He's always there for me, whenever he can anyway with his hectic life. And he makes me really happy." A love-struck smile grew on your lips, eyes glowing with adoration, face holding that look of love as you bask in the sunset. The golden glow made you look even more stunning, but Peter wasn't able to fully appreciate your beauty when his mind was too preoccupied with jealous thoughts. But a second later, the joy that's coated your features slowly faded off, now replaced by one with worry.

Peter tried his best to keep his tone steady. Despite having the voice modulator on, he knows it will pick up even the slightest shake and uncertainty. "But?"

"I truly can't figure out if he's acting the way he is because he feels the same way or all of it is just an act of friendship," you paused, taking in a deep breath as you shifted on your feet. "There are moments where I do think it's more but then there are moments where I see him with another girl and I start questioning it again. Like, am I reading things wrong? Am I getting too ahead of myself by thinking he could possibly feel the same way?" You pinched the bridge of your nose in frustration. "I don't even know how to convey my own feelings—"

"You could just tell him," Peter blurted to cut you off, not wanting to hear any more as the piercing pain in his chest could only deepen the more you talk about it. He's already got the drift anyway, no need for you to explain any further.

You turned to look at him fully with furrowed brows. "Just like that?"

Peter nodded. "You are an amazing girl Y/N," he said, nothing but utmost sincerity coating his voice. He just wants you to find someone who's going to make you happy and treat you the way you deserve to be treated. It seems like you've found exactly that, who was he to take that away from you by being bitter? Besides, Peter has long accepted that that someone is never going to be him. "Whoever this guy you're in love with, he's pretty lucky. If he doesn't see that then it's his loss. And if he doesn't feel the same way, then he's not the right guy for you because you deserve someone who'll love you unconditionally."

"You giving out relationship advice now too? A sideline if you're not saving the world?" you joked, only earning a shrug and a soft laugh from him. "But thank you." You flashed him a small but grateful smile.

"Always happy to help," he said. "I better get going, got a city to look after." Peter forced a smile, a useless tactic given that there was no way for you to see it anyway. He stood up to his full height before adding, "Congrats on the debate." He didn't even wait for a response when he swiftly jumped and swung as far away from your building as possible.

The second he landed on top of an abandoned warehouse, Peter immediately pulled his mask off. He couldn’t bear to leave it on a second longer or else he was going to suffocate. Sharp breaths escaped him as his back hit the brick wall, eyes screwed shut to stop any tear from slipping out of his burning eyes. He tried his hardest to calm his frantic heart, to minimize the pain by shoving his selfish thoughts away. He forced himself to think about you and your well-being instead, tried to convince himself that this was a good thing.

He doesn't doubt that this guy you're smitten with is a great one. The way you speak about him just screams it. Add that to you being great at judging character, then he knows you're in good hands. Despite it hurting like a ton of punches in the chest, Peter still hoped that whoever this guy is, he'll catch you in his arms openly and shower you with the truest love because you deserve nothing but. The pain would be worth it if he gets to see you be happy.

Peter knows that whoever this guy is, he would treat you rightly, give you everything you want and need in a way that Peter never could.

Slowly opening his eyes, he lets out a calming breath, mind slowly slipping at ease the more he thinks about how happy, content and safe you'll be with this guy if ever it will work out.

It hurts, unbearably, but his sliver of pain in exchange for your utmost happiness? Then Peter will gladly endure it.

***

The next day, Saturday noon, was when you finally decided to answer Peter's texts from the day before. You apologized for ghosting him, said you got preoccupied and left it at that. And then you asked if he wanted to go for a little stroll in the park, too make it up to him. Peter could never say no to you so here you were, side by side under the afternoon sun, aimlessly walking around a nearly deserted park outskirts of the main city.

"Why'd you disappear yesterday?" he asked, both his hands in his pockets while yours were looped in his. "I saw you stop by at the library but you didn't come and say hi."

You shrugged, eyes trained on the pavement as you kicked at the few rocks that were lying around. "Something came up," you simply said.

Peter can't help but feel a little sting when you didn't elaborate further. Well, he already knew what had happened but that was as Spider-Man. He was hoping you'd tell him too, as Peter Parker, your long time best friend.

"Thank you for the email by the way," you spoke again when he stayed quiet, lifting your head up to spare him a bright smile. "We wouldn't have won the debate if it wasn't for you."

"Winning the debate was all on you and that incredible brain of yours. I'm not going to take credit for that," he chuckled as he shot you a knowing look. Eyes back in front, Peter added, "But I'm always here to help. That's what best friends are for."

You hummed, letting go of his arm as you skipped ahead and treaded towards the nearest tree. "What's up with you and Marjorie?" you asked, settling down on the grass, legs straight with your right ankle over you left as you leaned back against the trunk comfortably.

"What's up with what?" Peter followed you with a deep crease between his brows, sitting right beside you soon after, mirroring your position under the shade.

"You tell me, you were almost kissing when I saw you in the library so," you trailed off, picking at the shreds of greenery, throwing it purposelessly as you still avoided his gaze. "Are you two a thing now?"

Peter shook his head with a roll of his eyes. "First off, we were not almost kissing and second, no, we're not a thing," he clarified, head turned for him to see you clearly. "I didn't even get to hear what she wanted because I immediately left," he chuckled.

Your eyes snapped up to meet his. "You bailed on her in the library?"

"Sort of?" Peter scrunched his nose.

"That's a very bold move, Parker," you giggled, bumping your shoulder with his teasingly. "Most guys would've died to just be in the same room as her."

Peter let out a hearty laugh, shrugging his shoulders and said, "Well, I guess I'm not like most guys."

Marjorie was pretty, Peter won't deny that, but she could never amount to you. Even right now, when you're just sitting beside him in casual jeans and sweater, a simple but very charming smile on your lips as you looked up at the clouds, Peter was already swooning ten times over. Then comes the memory of you looking so breathtaking while he took you around the city. The stunning glow on your face as you stared at the scene in awe was still deeply engraved in Peter's mind, and he knows for a fact that that image will never leave him. Not that he was complaining anyway.

"So, how did your meeting with Spider-Man go?" he asked after a few moments of silence. A shy smile slowly grew on your lips, one that made Peter lift a brow at you in suspicion.

"He's really cool," you breathed out, your grin growing wider as you kept your gaze steadily trained at the blue sky. "He's a gentleman too, a little shy and awkward but in a cute way. Plus, very wise and smart, like lived-a-life wise and genius smart. He then took me to swing around the city which was awesome," you gushed, a dreamy glow coating your face as you met Peter's eyes. "That night is going to be a night I'll remember for the rest of my life for sure."

Peter couldn't help the smug grin that grew on his face. "If I hadn't known better I'd say you have a crush on Spider-Man," he teased, wriggling his brows at you.

"Shut up," you scoffed with a roll of your eyes.

"It's obvious. You have that dreamy look on your face when you talk about him," he poked even more, nudging you with his elbow playfully.

"No, I don't," you laughed as you pushed him away. "Besides, I've got my eyes on someone else already."

Peter's heart sunk.

He found himself playing with the sleeves of his hoodie as he avoided your gaze, trying his hardest to keep his feelings at bay before you'd notice the change in his demeanor. "Care to share with your best friend?" he offered, wondering if you're finally willing to tell him about this mystery guy.

You stayed quiet, eyes fluttering close as you rested your head on his shoulder. Peter kept his gaze steady on you, everything else silent aside from the sound of the rustling leaves of the tree. But then you let out a nervous breath, heartbeat picking up the pace in a way that made Peter grow curious as to what's on your mind.

"I love you," you blurted out of the blue, a slight shake in your voice as you kept your eyes shut.

Although confused, Peter responded, "I love you too—"

"No, Peter," you paused, shifting in your place, pulling away from him as you sat up straighter. You finally met his brown orbs, all while countless of emotions swam in yours. "I love you," you whispered but with your voice firm and laced with pure sincerity, eyes holding his with such intensity that he quickly understood.

Peter stared at you in shock.

Slowly, but surely, everything started to click inside his head. The confession you shared with Spider-Man. When you said you'd seen this guy with another girl...the library. Was that why you quickly ran out? When you saw...almost kissing. Was that the reason why your heart suddenly grew at panic?

The guy you were gushing about so fondly, the same one you said you were in love with for a long time now, the one Peter was growing jealous of...it was him.

You were talking about him, Peter Parker.

He grew at a loss for words as he gawked at you, a smile growing on his lips as he felt his heart stop its course and then beat again but with twice the pace. Peter was so happy, over the universe as pure warmth filled him up from head to toe. The mere thought that you felt the same, it was too good to be true. But it was, he can see it clear in your eyes, it was real.

You love him.

But then his mood was quick to shift, smile slipping off his face, the warmth and joy that coated his bones replaced by fear and worry in a snap of a finger.

Peter's heart stopped at the sight in front of him.

You were getting held at knifepoint by the throat, tears brimming in your eyes, more of it coating your cheeks as you clawed at the arm that trapped you in their vise hold.

"P-Peter, I love you," you whimpered, gaze locking with his, hope slipping out of your orbs, the glow they once held getting dimmer by the second in a way that made a shiver run down his spine. Then Peter heard it, that piercing cackle he knew too well, his brown eyes meeting the yellow ones that glowed right behind you.

"You won't be able to save the love of your life, Spider-Man...or should I say, Peter Parker!"

Peter shook his head frantically as he yelled out your name, running at full speed to get to you only to be met by sudden darkness, your heart wrenching scream ringing in his ears followed by an agonizing sound of a body hitting the floor. Peter's blood ran cold as he frantically called out your name, over and over and over yet nothing but eerie silence echoed back at him.

And then he looked down, eyes landing on his trembling hands, each finger, both palms coated with blood, your blood.

You were gone.

"No, no, no," Peter rushed, voice quivering, hastily getting up on his feet as he looked at you worryingly. "You can't, Y/N. You can't love me."

It's not safe for you to love me.

The look of pure pain that ghosted over you features squeezed at Peter's heart, the pit in his stomach ever growing the more he thought of what he was about to do.

You stood up shakily to be level with him, deep frown on your lips, confusion and hurt swimming in your eyes as you asked, "Why'd you seem disgusted? You could just say you don't feel the same way."

"N-No, it's not that, neither of that because—" he sucked in a sharp breath, a hand running through his hair as he stared into your eyes longingly. "I do feel the same way about you."

You screwed your eyes shut as you shook your head. "Please don't lie to make me feel better, Peter," you pleaded, the break in your voice a sharp stab at his chest.

"When have I ever lied to you?" Peter internally winced at his bold and very false claim. Nothing but guilt filled his stomach given that he lies to you almost every day. He lies to you about his whereabouts, lies to you about his reasons. Peter lies to you every goddamn day by not telling you he's Spider-Man.

"Then why are your actions speaking something else then?" You gestured towards him as a whole, at the obvious distance that he's put between you two. Your eyes were slowly glossing up as you tried to simply understand what was going on.

Peter sighed, "I just don't want to hurt you okay? I—I don't want you to lose faith on the things you love because of me."

I don't want you to lose your life because of me.

"You're not making any sense," you said frustratedly.

"I'm not qualified to be a good boyfriend, Y/N. I won't be there with you all the time. I'd probably cancel on you on so many dates," Peter paused, meeting your eyes so you could see where he was coming from. "Hell, how many times have I bailed on you right now as your best friend huh? The amount of times I've left you on the street to go home alone?"

Your frown deepened as you held his eyes with nothing but sadness. "You had things going on Peter. You're being really unfair on yourself," you said.

"But you still don't deserve to be treated like that. Not now, not ever, no matter the reason," he pushed. "You deserve all those romantic clichés you're always dreaming of, you deserve to be treated like the queen that you are. You deserve the whole world Y/N, but I won't be able to give you that." Peter's voice broke, eyes holding too many emotions as he kept his gaze steady with yours. A painful task with all the pain and betrayal that's coated your eyes, utmost hurt glaring right at him. "Being with me won't be a fairytale."

Peter wasn't ignorant to the fact that you were a hopeless romantic. The countless rom-coms you've watched together have long ago proved that. The specific look in your eyes, that certain glimmer that washes over your face whenever the couple would kiss under the snow or even in the rain, or whenever they'd go on romantic walks on the beach or simply be in each other's arm whenever it's needed, Peter has memorized it. The little changes in your face whenever you see those clichés, he knows it like the back of his hand, knows how you're craving that kind of simple but true love.

But Peter can't give you any of that. Not right now.

"But I don't want a fairytale. I want to be with you. I don't care if we don't get to do any romantic clichés, being with you would surpass all of that, being with you would be more than enough. And I'm willing to try and make it work with whatever you've got going on, even if I have to make sacrifices in the process. Why can't you see that Peter?" you argued, hands clenched into fists on your sides in mere frustration.

Peter winced, the word sacrifice too heavy for him to hear. It was too painful to even fathom what you would possibly sacrifice for him, that you would probably even sacrifice all of it for him, including your life.

"No, no, please don't," he begged. "I don't want you to sacrifice anything for me. I would never want you to sacrifice those little things that make you smile. I don't want you to sacrifice your happiness for me." Peter shook his head in utter distress, palm rubbing at his face harshly that had the tip of his nose turn red. "And what happens then if it doesn't work? You'll only get disappointed. You'll only end up hating me. By then, I would have already put you through so much hurt all for nothing. I don't want that for you, Y/N."

"How'd you know that when you haven't even tried?" you whispered, bottom lip trembling. "It's like you're not even willing to try," you whimpered.

The second Peter saw the single tear that ran down your cheek he instinctively moved closer, hands reaching out, desperate to hold you, to get to tell you it's going to be alright, to apologize over and over for all the pain he has caused. But you stopped him with the palm of your hand. He felt his heart drop the moment you took a step back, shaking your head, bottom lip desperately caught between your teeth to silence your sobs.

Peter nodded gravely, his arms falling limp by his sides, fully understanding that you don't want him near. He doesn't blame you by one bit. "It's not that I'm not willing to, I just," he paused as he let out a shaky breath. "I don't trust myself to be with you. I don't trust myself with your heart because I know I will only end up breaking it. I'll only let you down." I don't trust myself to keep you safe from harm. I'll only fail you just like how I failed them. Peter confessed, brown orbs turning glossy, all from a mixture of pain and anger. He was so angry at himself for putting you through all this hurt, you don't deserve it, not even a single ounce of it.

Yes, he can try, see where this will go and do his best to be there for you at all times. But that's not set on stone, never a clear promise because he doesn't know what his tomorrow is going to bring. He doesn't know if he's staying in the neighborhood one minute and then entering another dimension the next. Being Spider-Man, he doesn't have a schedule where Peter can organize things as a matter of priority, being Spider-Man requires its own sets of sacrifices. Peter doesn't want you to feel the burden of those sacrifices, too.

He doesn't doubt that you would be understanding enough with whatever it is he has going on but that's exactly the problem. He knows you'll take the bare minimum, you'll put him first above your wants and needs. You're just too kind that way, too big of a heart. But Peter can't have that because it's just not right; it's not what you should settle for. You deserve all the dates, all the romantic walks, all the cuddles and kisses whenever you're down, all the stress free nights where you don't have to worry about him or wait for him to come back to you safe and unharmed, all the time and effort, you deserve all of it and more.

And right now, Peter can't give you what you deserve.

"Or maybe you just don't love me in the way you say you do," you accused, voice soft but the sting in it sharp.

"That's not fucking true because I love you with every ounce of my being," he protested in low growl, desperately tugging at his hair, frustrated that he can't tell you his full reasons as to why exactly he can't be with you. "I love you too much and I want to be with you so badly—"

"Then why is that not enough?" you stressed.

"You don't understand—"

"Then make me understand!" you snapped, tears running freely down your face as you looked at him with utmost despair.

"It's not that fucking simple Y/N!" Peter saw you flinch at the sudden boom of his voice, his heart cracking at the sight. He felt everything in him gradually break the more you stared at him with nothing but anguish. He took in a deep breath to calm himself before he slips out any words that he'll only regret later on. Blowing out his cheeks, he croaked, "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I just—"

Peter tried again and walked closer to you, trembling hands slowly reaching in mere need to feel your skin on his to ground him back, relief washing over him when you let him. He felt his heart warm up a little when you didn't pull away from his touch. But the broken sob you let out when he cupped your face, it was too excruciating for him to hear. The agonizing grip on Peter's heart tightened as he stared right into your eyes, the same ones that once held so much joy but was now flooded with tears and grief, their gorgeous glow snuffed out, all because of him.

"I'm just trying to protect you, please, trust me on that," he whispered, not even trying to hide the brokenness in his voice anymore, not even trying to hold back his tears as Peter pressed his forehead against yours.

The little droplets fell down on your face, his tears joining yours on your already damp skin. His thumb oh so tenderly tried to wipe them all away, wishing that it was as easy as that to ease up your pain, to take away your hurt so simply, but he knows it wasn't. It wasn't an easy choice and Peter knows it never will be.

"I love you so much, don't you ever, ever doubt that. B-But we can't. I'm really sorry Y/N, but we can't be together. I-I know this hurts right now, trust me, I know, but I will only make it much worse," he choked, shaking his head when you leaned into his palm with a broken breath. But you kept your eyes open, held his gaze with utter strength and Peter saw it, saw how you still looked at him with love in your eyes. Despite it being mixed with pain, it was there, clear and honest. God he did not fucking deserve you at all.

"You deserve someone who'd treat you the way you deserve to be treated, someone who'd truly show you how it feels to be loved completely and not just the bare minimum. You deserve someone who'd be so much better than me." Peter's voice broke at the end of his sentence, eyes still holding yours just so you could see the other things he can't put into words, the things he couldn't say aloud. He was desperately, silently pleading that you would see right through him, so you could understand why he has to do this. "Maybe in another life, we could make this work. But right now I'm asking, begging you not to love me, because I don't deserve that love, I don't deserve you at all."

Peter practically saw your heart shatter into pieces even more with the simple look in your eyes. It's an absolute torture to look into them right now, to see you be so broken that he found himself wishing that it was only him in pain instead. Even though the thought hurts, he wished you didn't love him. Even though it would be painful to endure, to live in a world where his feelings aren't reciprocated, Peter wished you didn't love him at all if it meant it was going to save you from heartbreak.

Better him in pain than you, always.

Breath unsteady, you closed your eyes with a small nod. "I guess this is it," you sniffled, placing your hands over his, your touch tender as you gave it a squeeze. But then you pulled it away from your face, Peter's hands slipping off your skin as you put some much needed distance between you two.

"Y/N—"

"I don't think we can go back to the way things were after this Peter. I'm sorry I just—I don't think I can handle it." You shook your head with a soft cry, forcing yourself to look back into those brown orbs as you whispered, "I can’t take it."

Peter pressed his lips into a thin line, eyes casted on the grass with a solemn nod as he croaked out, "Then I guess this is it."

"Goodbye, Peter."

He screwed his eyes shut at the sound of your broken voice, the heartbreaking sob that followed soon after made him let out a shaky breath. The sound of your footsteps felt like gunshots, each step taken like a bullet wounding him deep but Peter didn't dare to respond, didn't even dare to look up as you briskly walked away.

Peter had to keep his head down because he didn't have enough strength, didn't have the sense of control to stay still in his place. He knows that if he does as much as look up and catch your figure, he'll run after you, full speed. He'll pull you back into his arms; he'll pour all his love into one kiss as he holds you tightly. He'll keep you in his embrace for eternity the moment he gives in into his selfish needs. But he shouldn't. He needs to let you go, he has to let you walk away, for your sake.

The farther the sound of your footsteps got, the tighter his fists grew, fingernails digging into his palms as his breathing became labored, harsh. Peter swiftly turned around and took a hard swing at the tree once you were gone, glad that no one was around to see the whole thing shake from his strength. The bark cracked under his knuckle, leaves falling around him just as his knees gave out. A sharp, broken, frustrated scream escaped his lips as he buried his face in his hands, body shaking with all the anger and pain, trembling from his heart wrenching sobs.

Peter felt like his lungs were about to give out, emotions overflowing and scorching all while feeling numb just the same. But he kept reminding himself why he's doing this for him to get by, kept telling himself that being far apart was for the best.

For your sake.

***

The wind was cold on your face as you stood out on the rooftop to escape. The night breeze was slowly drying up your tears, much to no use since it's replaced by fresh ones the second after anyway. You don't know how long you've been crying for, but it wouldn't really matter. Your tears could run out but the pain in your heart could only deepen with each ticking second.

You were worried, angry, hurt, frustrated and confused all the same, unable to tie everything together as it all just seemed like a whole jumbled mess in your head, an incomplete puzzle.

You're not naïve to think that there wasn't more to this than he's letting on. You know he was hiding bits and pieces, his words completely restrained. You saw it in his eyes how he was battling his mind. You saw how he was struggling to not slip out whatever it was he was holding back. It was painful, all of it, from seeing him so distressed to him breaking your heart with his care-filled yet hurtful words.

You get where he's coming from, about wanting you to experience it all and more and not just the bare minimum. If it was a different circumstance, the things he said would've been sweet, how he wants you to have the world, how he wants you to live all those clichés just so he could see you smile, see you be happy. But right now, his words just felt bittersweet since you lost him in the process.

All those days of imagining all the different scenarios on what it would look like, how it would feel when he admits he feels the same way, not once did you ever expect that Peter Parker saying he loves you would feel like a knife to the heart.

What hurts even more is the fact that he is so keen on shutting any chance, and sliver of hope down. He won't even try, like you're not worth any risks at all. It makes you question how important you actually are to him, makes you question if he really does love you in the way he claims he does.

"Ahem."

"Shit!" you squeaked, head snapping towards the squatted figure, eyes landing on the familiar masked man who seemed to like the element of surprise. "You need to stop doing that!"

"Sorry, should've given you a heads up," he apologized, voice sounding a little hoarse, a little...different.

"No shit," you grumbled, hastily wiping away your tears with the sleeves of your sweater before you turned back to face him. "What's brought you here?"

"Was just in the neighborhood, saw you out here and I thought I'd swing by," he said with a casual shrug, gaze steady on the building across. You did just the same as you turned back in front, fingers drumming on the concrete ledge as you stood in silence for a couple minutes, his company soothing in some odd way. But you welcome it, makes you feel more present, stopping you from slipping neck deep into the chaos that's in your head.

"You okay? You seem a bit down," he said, voice still a little gruff, eyes everywhere else but at you.

"Well, I guess you can say that," you breathed out.

"Want to talk about it?"

You bit your bottom lip when it started to tremble, a fresh batch of tears brimming in your eyes. "I told him," you whispered. "You know that friend I talked to you about? I told him I'm in love with him and he wasn't too happy with it. He pushed me away, I—" You shook your head with a shaky breath, eyes now trained on the busy street below. You swallowed the lump in your throat before adding, "He said he loved me but he pushed me away."

The superhero beside you cleared out his throat, shifting in his place until he was fully seated down, his legs hanging off the side of the building. "Did he tell you why?"

"He said he wouldn't be a good boyfriend and that he won't be there for me when I need him. He said I deserved better, which doesn't make any sense because he's already been doing that, being there for me. And I have no doubt he'd treat me rightly but he doesn't seem to believe that himself," you whimpered, harshly wiping away the tears that rushed out your eyes, not wanting to seem pathetic for a boy, not to seem weak in front of the masked hero.

"Hey, you don't have to act all tough for me," he reassured, hand coming up to give your shoulder a comforting squeeze for a short but sweet moment. "It's okay to cry, it doesn't mean you're weak."

You nodded, grateful for his understanding, flashing him a sad smile for a second before you stared back at the city. "And I get he's got a lot going on, I do too but what's painful is that he's not even willing to try and see if it would work or not. It hurts to think that I'm willing to try and make ends meet, that I would do anything to be with him, but he won't do the same for me. It makes me feel like I'm not worth fighting for, that I'm not enough."

"That's not true, Y/N," he whispered, almost as if didn't want you to hear it, your brows furrowing a little as you spared him a glance. He was already looking at you but the second your eyes landed on his face, he swiftly looked away. "What else did he say?" he asked swiftly, voice louder with a clear of his throat.

"He said he can't be with me because he didn't want to hurt me which sounds so fucking stupid since he's hurting me now. Really badly," you whimpered, bottom lip quivering as you screwed your eyes shut, taking in deep calming breaths, steadying yourself before you opened them again.

"Maybe he is just trying to look out for you," he started, head tilted to the side as he looked at you with a shaky breath. "Sometimes the best way to protect someone is to keep them at a safe distance, to not get too close to them, both physically but mostly emotionally."

You frowned, gaze landing back on the white fabric that's covered his eyes. "You do that too? Push people away?"

"I don't want to but I have to," he sighed, looking down at his hands like they were too heavy, like they hold so much weight over his life, caused him so much trouble and pain. He stared at them for a few seconds more before his fingers started to pick at his web shooters. "It's the best way to keep the people I care about safe."

"Because of all the bad guys chasing after you?"

He let out a soft chuckle as he nodded. "Yeah, you could say that."

You turned to face him fully, deep frown still etched on your lips as you crossed your arms over your chest. "Does that not get lonely?"

"It does." He nodded dejectedly, his eyes still looking elsewhere. "But it's better than seeing the ones I love get hurt because of the sole reason that they love me and that I love them just as much, if not more. Once they find out who I am, they're going to use that against me. They will always use that against me." The pain and hurt that coated his voice in his last sentence, you heard it loud and clear, makes you wonder what hardships he could've gone through to feel this way. "I think it's best to keep them away from this side of my world. I admit, it's really hard for me to stay away but I just keep reminding myself that all I'm doing is trying to keep them safe as much as I can," he paused, turning his head to finally look at you and you felt your heart stop at his next set of words.

"I'm just trying to protect them."

You felt as though that the clouds cleared up above your head, the puzzle pieces falling into place, completing itself as you slowly and finally tied everything together.

All those times he's suddenly in a rush to leave with a half-assed reason, the times where you'd catch a glimpse of the random cuts and bruises he had on his body, it all became so clear. And the night you first met Spider-Man, that odd feeling you had when he squeezed your hand the first time, it finally made sense. That same night, you felt as though you were crazy when you found yourself gravitating towards a complete stranger, a masked superhero at that. You found it ridiculous how you felt like you could trust him right off the bat. When you felt a vast feeling of being safe around him in so little time, initially you told yourself that it wasn't a good thing, that it was dangerous and you should tread carefully, but now the feeling just felt awfully familiar.

That's when you fully understood everything. The knots in your head gradually untangled itself as you gawked at him, mouth slightly agape in pure shock, tears welling up in your eyes for a different reason this time. All the things he's been through, all the pain and grief from the people he's lost, the weight that the world has put on his shoulders, it made your heartbreak. It made you feel so guilty that you weren't there for him through all that.

A new found weight settled itself in your chest because as you stared right at the mask, you saw him.

"Well, I need to go. You know, got a city to look after," he chuckled shyly as he looked away, his voice sounding starkly different from the previous encounters as it now held a sense of familiarity. "See you later."

With that, he jumped off, your eyes following the red in blue under the night sky, gradually getting smaller until disappearing from sight.

You smiled, a small one, didn't quite reach your ears but it was genuine. Your heart was still aching, mostly for him than for you, but it was also now filled with the greatest pride as you whispered, just under your breath,

"See you later, Peter Parker."

-:-:-:-:-

like, reblog & leave a comment if you enjoyed! tell me your thoughts! <3

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#peter parker #peter parker fanfiction #peter parker oneshot #peter parker imagine #peter parker fluff #peter parker angst #peter parker reader insert #peter parker fanfic #peter parker x reader #peter parker x fem!reader #peter parker x female reader #spider-man #spider-man fanfiction #spider-man imagine #spider-man oneshot #marvel fanfiction #marvel imagine #tom holland #my writing

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notepadsandtealeaves · 3 years ago

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due to the recent influx of minors that can clearly read, but blatantly choose to ignore my wishes of them staying tf off of my blog anyway, blogs without a specified age will now be blocked as well.

read on if you want to know more, and also how to avoid the purge 2k22.

there’s just way too many disrespectful, lying people out there who want to pretend to be something their not, consequences (that will never affect them, but could VERY EASILY spell ruin for someone else) be damned, for me to feel comfortable with making this concession any longer. sorry to anyone of age that this affects, but that’s just the way it’s gotta be. my ao3 will always be opened, naturally, as they have their own age-gating system over there so that’s an alternative for anyone that’s of age but doesn’t want to share that info on tumblr. (tho if things get sketchy over there i’ll be restricting access to registered users only)

at the end of the week (feb.13) i’ll be going through and getting rid of anyone without an age in their bio/a pinned post so if you don’t wanna be purged™ then you might want to add that in. it doesn’t even have to be a specific age either, something like ‘20s’ is good enough for me. now i doubt that my content is worth the effort, minimal though it may be, but whatever lol.

blank blogs are still cool tho, providing there’s an age in the bio, anyways. this site makes ghosts of us all after a while, so i totally understand the urge to just consume without maintaining a proper blog—this place is exhausting.

is this a perfect system? no. will it stop people from lying? fuck no, but at least i’ll feel as if i’ve done my due diligence.

alright, that’s all i had to say folks, you may now carry on with your regularly scheduled tumbling.

#immy rants #there's no gd reason why i should have to keep saying this #it's literally at the top of all of my posts #it's in my bio #it's in my byf #it's EVERY-FUCKING-WHERE #but the kiddos won't listen and now we all have to live in the blender :/#this fucking site gives me a gd headache i swear one of these days i'm just gonna delete it and be done with it #i'm barely even on here too much these days any way and when i do pop in i almost always end up irritated tbh #and these mf are getting bold af too btw #they legit have their /v. much NOT 18+) age in their bio and follow me anyway like???#did you just not think i'd check or????#anyways...#happy sunday folks! lmaoooo

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miracle-sham · 5 years ago

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Seduce a Bat With a Thieving Cat.

| {Maribat2k20 Dickinette – Day 1: First Encounters} |

| [Ao3 Link] | | [Masterlist Link] |

|Triggers/Warnings: Explicit language/some swearing. |

| It's just another typical night on patrol when the Gotham History Museum is broken into, luckily Nightwing's on the scene, that is until everything goes off the rails. |

| Or alternatively, |

| Marinette's not your typical barista, so when she serves Dick Grayson coffee, everything goes sideways. |

| Word Count: 4751 |

»‹•›«

| A/N: I'd just like to preface this fic by mentioning I had already written 2k of this fic by the time Miraculous786 posted their First Encounters fic and after reading it considering the similarities (Dick's PoV during the museum bit, Marinette wielding the Cat Miraculous and hunting down a Miraculous from a Gotham Museum) I was kinda disheartened because y'know I was worried I might get accusations of copying but as I had already written 2k I decided to keep going because I had a different enough plot and I didn't want to waste what I had written so far. |

| If you want to be tagged in future oneshots/fics, or a specific Au, then comment or senf me a DM/ask! |

| Also side note, Don't Like? Don't Read. Also also, please do not criticise any of my writing. This was written for fun and receiving criticism, even in a compliment/criticism sandwich, is the exact opposite of fun. |

»‹•›«

The night started out like any other Monday patrol. Except it's Monday, so of course it all goes off the rails not even halfway through the patrol. Because that's just Dick's luck.

His comm buzzes, as Red Hood of all vigilantes, pipes up. “Just caught sight'a the tiny Catwoman copycat. Looks like she's got her eye on the Gotham History Museum again. O, you got anything on show in there that might pique the kitty's interest?”

Oracle responds a second later, robotic voice overlay sounding charming as ever. “A bejewelled Armlet, which is the newest piece from the ancient Tibetan Jewellery collection is probably what our copycat burglar's after. She's targeted that specific collection before. Nightwing you're closest to the museum, try to cut her off before she can steal the piece.”

“Got it!” Nightwing salutes, knowing Oracle is probably watching through a nearby security camera, as you do. He flips off the roof he's on and shoots the grapple mid flip—because he's physically incapable of not being showy, you can take him out the circus but you can't take the circus out of him—to change his route for the Museum in question.

“Wait isn't that the collection where a bunch of perfectly preserved jewellery pieces were found in a two-hundred-year-old monastery and the pieces themselves are estimated to be thousands of years old?” Robin cuts in, followed by an “Eep!” and a series of crashes and clatters.

“That's the one,” Oracle responds, sounding faintly amused, most likely watching whatever Robin's doing—which is probably nothing to worry about otherwise Oracle would have alerted them.

Not that that'll stop me from worrying, Nightwing thinks ruefully.

Red Hood scoffs. “Pretender, did you fucking seriously memorise facts about some fancy old jewellery?”

Nightwing can practically hear Robin's frown through the comms, and boy does that make his heart clench.

He, Robin, hesitates before answering. “I— one of my parent's last few archaeology gigs before they died was in Tibet where they were a part of the team that found a weird frog statue that's now on display at the Louvre. The statue has the same insignia as the box that the jewellery was discovered in.”

The comms fall silent because well, they've all got their own parental issues so when it's an unspoken rule to not use that as ammo when it comes to bio parents. But the fact that Robin memorises facts relating to digs his parents went on, when they couldn't even remember half his birthdays. It's a painful reminder that the kid still loves his bio parents despite the abuse he suffered from them.

The comms stay relatively silent (as silent as you can get, with six people's Comms hooked to the same frequency, all echoing in various white noise background sounds from their environments) until Nightwing reaches the Gotham History Museum. When the casual patrol chatter, as opposed to the white noise, starts back up, He filters out the sound out and circles the museum, keeping an eye out for their copycat burglar.

Twenty minutes pass and there's still no sign of her nearby. Nightwing double taps his comm. “Looks like our kitty cat's a no show. Are there any other places she might tar—” A loud wailing alarm cuts him off. “Shit.”

He whirls around, searching for the origin of the alarm. There, third skylight over, leading into the ancient Tibetan section added specifically for the bejewelled armlet's appearance at the museum—the section, not the skylight. If the skylight had been added then that would just be bad security choices on the Museum's part.

“Nightwing. Report.” Batman growls in demands over the comms because Batman's incapable of speaking in something other than growls and guttural grunts.

“Turns out, Oracle was probably right. I got eyes on the cat.” Nightwing responds, finally catching a glimpse of the copycat burglar, grappling her way out the skylight that the blaring alarm is coming from. Making a split-second decision, he sprint-swings after her. The chase is on kitty.

“Whatever you do, don't engage,” Batman orders, voice sounding like someone dragged a beat-up thug across a gravel driveway.

So Nightwing does what any self-respecting rebellious bat does, and ignores the order. “Engaging now.”

“Nightwing.”

Of course B tries to use the Robin Listen™ Voice. He pouts, turns off his earpiece midswing and continues to chase after the copycat burglar. He's a good few places behind, but his long legs and familiarity with the museum roof, is slowly but surely helping him catch up to her.

She glances back at him and puts on a burst of speed, and upon reaching the edge of the museum's roof, pole vaults herself over the edge, just missing the next roof, and hurtling towards the street below—not a dangerous move at all.

Nightwing has a split second of panic as he watches her as she's seemingly plummeting to her imminent demise, then decides to do the Vigilante Thing™ and dives after her.

He reaches an arm out and is so close to catching her when the pole she used to vault extends out and wedges itself between the two buildings either side of the street. The copycat burglar then uses the momentum from the fall to perform three pullover flips on the pole-bar—like she wasn't just nearly falling to her death.

Because of her move, Nightwing's forced to regrapple and swing by her in order to not crash into her. He spots a rooftop with two taller buildings either side and thinks to himself, a good point to ambush her at—provided she heads that way, if not, I can always grapple over to the other side of the street.

There are gargoyles on both the taller buildings, so it doesn't take much to grapple up to one and hide behind them (like the bat he is)—to keep her from realising he's still here.

Nightwing watches as the copycat burglar finishes her pullover flips and stabilises on the pole-bar, then walks across it like a tight rope—fortunately heading towards the building that he's planning to ambush her on. Finally, today's luck is looking up!

Once she reaches the building, she steps onto a window sill and grabs the pole-bar. Nightwing studies her and the pole-bar as it contracts and compacts to a baton size. The copycat burglar attaches it to her belt then scales the side of the building seemingly effortlessly.

She takes the path of least resistance as she reaches the top. Which is surprising to Nightwing considering she only just "lost" him. She then starts crossing the middle roof with the two taller buildings on either side.

It's at that moment, he decides to drop in on their copycat burglar. And by drop in on, he means flip over the gargoyles he was hiding behind, and then triple backflips off the roof he's on, so that at the end of his fall he collides with her, pinning her to the ground. Unnecessarily showy, but who's he to not put on a show.

Nightwing pulls out a pair of manacles and handcuffs her wrists. She turns her head enough to get a good look at him and gives him the most unimpressed glare he's ever seen. And I've lived with Batman, he thinks to himself, surprised at how good her unimpressed glare is.

He leans down, trying to intimidate her. “Where'd you put the armlet you stole.”

She hisses—like actually hisses, like a cat or a snake.

However, having been used to villains making weird noises upon being captured—Manbat anyone?—the sound doesn't startle Nightwing as much as it probably should. That is until he catches sight of her slit pupils, and cat ears and tail twitching. Of course, his immediate thought is and they call Batman a furry.

Unfortunately, in the split second where his thoughts are distracted, she mutters “Cataclysm,” beneath her breath. There's a horrible creak of metal rusting and warping followed by a clatter, as she yanks her hands away—causing the manacles to shatter in two.

“Hey, wait a second!” Nightwing protests, he's about to ask what she just did, when she twists underneath his pin and flips the both of them over.

Having not expected the flip, he's caught off guard once more but his reflexes are too well trained to be completely overwhelmed by the move, so he cartwheels out of the flip and out of her range. “That was my favourite pair of handcuffs you broke!”

She raises an eyebrow at him and slips into a defensive stance. “You have a favourite pair of handcuffs?”

Mimicking the action by getting into his own fighting stance, he starts to edge towards her, causing her to edge away from him—forcing them both to circle each other.

“They were a good pair of handcuffs okay!” Nightwing defends, as he scrutinises her form—Clearly self-trained, considering this stance and her earlier moves. It's similar to Jason and Steph's styles, in the 'learnt to fight to avoid getting hurt worse' kinda way.

“Emphasis on the were.” Is her dry response.

He dive forward rolls towards her and jumps up, and using the momentum gained from the roll, throws an uppercut at her. “How about you give me the jewellery as compensation?”

The copycat burglar narrows her eyes at him and blocks the uppercut with her elbow. “The jewellery is worth way more than your flimsy handcuffs.” She retaliates with a roundhouse kick to Nightwing's chest.

Dodging with a back handspring, he pulls out his escrima sticks. “No?” He shrugs, “well it was worth a try.”

She eyes his escrima sticks and gives him a tight-lipped smile. “It really wasn't but go off I guess.”

That was definitely a twinkle of amusement in her eyes there! Nightwing grins then falters. “Y'know, if you're in trouble, you don't have to do this. I can help you.”

The copycat burglar scoffs and throws a punch, which he easily blocks with one of his escrima sticks.

“You don't understand.” She scowls, retracts her punch and spins before trying to jab him in the ribs with her baton.

He blocks with one escrima stick and strikes back at her with the other. “I don't, but if you explain then I could.”

Hissing through her teeth in pain, she glares at him, tail whipping viciously back and forth and cat ears laying flat against her head. She counters his block and strike, by swiping at his escrima sticks with her baton, knocking them from his grip.

“Shit!” Nightwing back handsprings again, to get enough distance between them as to give him enough time to retrieve the sticks.

She thwacks him in the neck with her expanding baton, throwing him off balance and leaving him breathless.

With his moment of weakness, the copycat burglar grabs him and throws him at the nearest rooftop wall.

“Fuck! Me!” He yelps between breaths, temporarily stunned, body aching from the impact.

“No thanks, I'd prefer to take you out to dinner first.” She mutters, probably not intending for him to hear, as she pins him against the wall before he can recover.

Blinking and wide-eyed, Nightwing stares at her for a solid three seconds then waggles his eyebrows. “I'd be up for dinner with you, just gotta let me help you with whatever's forcing you to steal the jewellery.”

She sighs and glances away for a split second, then leans in really close and whispers in his ear. “There's nothing you can do to help me.”

Leaning back, the copycat burglar places a finger over his lips—silencing him before he can speak.

Nightwing flushes bright red and his heartbeat spikes.

“My name is Minou Purrdu, and I'm sorry.” She purrs, pulling something odd out of her baton, a black and yellow spinning top.

With her finger still over his lips, he's unable to ask what she's apologising for.

She whispers under her breath, “Venom,” and stabs the spinning top into the side of his neck.

Gasping, Nightwing is left completely paralysed by whatever the spinning top actually is because it's clearly not your standard spinning top. Unable to move—he can only watch as Minou Purrdu cups his cheek, frowns, pulls away, and begins pole-vaulting her way across the roof and out of sight.

»‹•›«

Nightwing's not sure how long the paralysis lasted but as soon as it ends, he slumps back against the wall and melts, tipping his head back against the brick. His mind stuck on repeating the encounter as he processes what happened. Shit, he thinks while grinning dopily—face flushing bright red again (not that it faded much whilst he was paralysed), I thought I had a thing for redheads but obviously, I've got a thing for badass ladies instead.

He's about to get up when Catwoman, original cat burglar extraordinaire, jumps down onto the roof he's on and gives him a very judgemental look. “I'm guessing the kitten got away with the jewellery, hmm? A shame, I quite fancied the look of it.” She stops, tipping her head to the side and raising a hand to one ear. She shakes her head but continues. “Oracle has some things she wants to say to you, I'd recommend turning on your comm unless you want her send Batman, Robin, or Red Hood here to see you like this.”

Huffing, he rolls his eyes, “thanks,” then taps his comms back on. “Hey.”

Catwoman nods to him and then takes her leave across the rooftops—Probably to go tease Batman or something.

The comm buzzes and an unimpressed sounding Oracle greets him. “Clearly the apple doesn't fall far from the tree.” She pauses then adds, “I recorded your entire "fight".”

Nightwing splutters in response. “What.”

“Awww, did you get your feathers ruffled by the kitty cat, Big Wing?” Red Hood cuts in with a teasing sing-song tone of voice.

“I hate you both,” Nightwing grumbles, pushing himself up off the ground and wall.

“Sorry to interrupt, but I was looking through the museum's private notes on the jewellery collection, apparently some of the pieces are thought to be magical artefacts,” Robin interjects, sounding somewhat strained.

Red Hood scoffs, “so you're saying our copycat burglar's—”

“Minou Purrdu she called herself.” Nightwing chimes in.

Red Hood clears his throat. “—Got her hands on multiple magical artefacts and we got no idea why she's doing it or if she's working with anyone.”

“We might get another chance to catch her, the museum has a few other jewellery pieces from the collection, in the back,” Robin informs them, a familiar thwip of a grapple line in the background.

“So we'll monitor the museum for any suspicious activity.” Oracle sighs. “Also Nightwing, Agent A's currently dealing with B but he wants to know the extent of your injuries from the fight.”

“Gotcha.” He swipes on his gauntlet computer and sends a quick analysis of his injuries—mostly minor bruising—and sends it to the Batcomputer for Agent A to see. “Done.”

“B's being grumpy over the stunt you pulled, so I suggest doing a final loop once you finish patrol before heading back.” There's a clacking of keys as Oracle types away at something, most likely checking the security cams nearby.

Nightwing readies his grapple. “You're a lifesaver O.” Then swings himself off the building to double back to his patrol route.

The clacking pauses and she laughs. “I know.”

»‹•›«

The next morning, as she's sprinting down the pavement, Marinette's phone starts ringing. She stumbles to a stop, barely managing to dodge the other civilians walking down the path and fumbles to get her phone out her pocket. She curses and glances around her then steps off to the side to take the call. She catches a glimpse of the caller's ID before she answers, “Adrien? What is it?”

“Ah, you're awake already, mornin' Mari!” He greets cheerfully, sounding far too awake for eight am on a Tuesday morning. Although then again, he wasn't the one who spent last night (morning?) hopping across rooftops at godforsaken hours and getting chased by the local spandex-wearing vigilantes.

There's a clatter behind Adrien followed by the whir of an appliance, he pauses, probably distracted by whatever made the noise. There's a faint rustle-woosh as he shakes his head. “I'm just calling to check up on you after your late night last night, after all, today's your first shift at the coffee shop.”

Marinette huffs good-naturedly, “I woke up extra early so I wouldn't be late,” Translation: I did not get a wink of sleep last night. “I'm less than a minutes walk away right now.”

Adrien sighs. “Mari, you really need to get better sleeping habits.”

“Mhmm. Alright, I'm nearly there” She responds, busy checking her surroundings once more.

“M'kay, chat to you inside?” And she can just hear the feral grin in his voice as he makes the pun.

Marinette groans at the awful pun. “Really? Whatever, see ya!” And quickly ends the call, before setting off at a brisk pace to get to the coffee shop.

»‹•›«

Once she reaches the coffee shop, Marinette's just barely on time for her shift. She darts into the back room and throws on the nearest apron of her size and slaps her name tag onto the apron.

With the apron and name tag on, she stumbles out the back room and scurries behind the counter to join Adrien, who's chatting to a customer; a superhero fan, if I were to guess, from all the superhero badges and patches on their jacket. As she passes by him to get to her station, he raises a hand without glancing back at her. On instinct, she high fives his raised hand.

Marinette reaches the empty till and waves over the next customer. Out of the corner of her eye, she spots Adrien starting on his customer's order. She smiles as the customer she waved over, approaches.

The customer that approaches, is a pale thin-faced man, with balding grey hair and wearing a shirt and jacket from the latest Gabriel Agreste fashion line. “I need a triple shot, venti, half sweet, caramel macchiato, with three pumps of vanilla and extra whip. And I need it pronto, girly.”

“Of course.” Marinette's smile turns paper-thin as a wave of fury washed over her. This is not my morning, she internally laments. But at least Adrien doesn't have to deal with this bastard. He doesn't need a reminder of the fact that his sperm donor managed to escape his crimes thanks to being an old, white, corrupt businessman.

He glares at her, then sniffs pointedly and pulls out his phone.

Marinette scurries away from the till to go and get started on the order. It's not enough to stop her from wanting to break the customer's nose but it keeps her occupied for the moment being.

As she passes Adrien, he gives her a concerned glance. She responds with a shrug and the shake of her head, she flicks her gaze back to her customer and then to Adrien; silently conveying it's fine, don't worry. I can deal with it.

He frowns but doesn't press, instead continuing as he was doing, in taking his customer's order to said customer.

Sighing, Marinette then gets started on her customer's hell order, carefully making the coffee step by step, to ensure its right. Because as much as I'd love to tamper with his drink, I'd rather not lose my job not even five minutes into my first shift.

Thankfully it doesn't take too long to make the order but as the equipment isn't that far from the counter, she could hear all the impatient huffs and scoffs from the customer throughout the duration of making the coffee. After she adds the final touches, Marinette carefully carries the order over to the customer and goes through the payment process with him.

The customer leaves with a scowl. Good riddance, she scoffs internally. She surveys the coffee shop and surprisingly there's no one else in the queue. She shuffles towards Adrien, looking quite pale, as he hands over the change to a customer who then puts the change in the tip jar and leaves.

Eyeing him carefully, Marinette gently nudges him in the side and softly questions. “Hey, you feeling okay? You're looking kinda pale.”

Adrien glances back to her and nods. “Yeah, I just…” He takes a second to breathe, “that customer you were serving, he was wearing his brand.”

She makes a pained face. Shit, I was hoping he wouldn't notice.

He huffs and grins fragilely. “You're doing your 'Heck I had hoped you hadn't realised that' face.”

Marinette rolls her eyes. “Close, it was a 'Shit, I was hoping you hadn't realised' face but technicalities, technicalities.”

Just as he's about to respond, three giggling people stumble into the coffee shop, a man and a boy with black hair and blue eyes, and a girl with blonde hair and blue eyes.

Adrien stiffens as they approach, so Marinette does what any good friend would do and grabs him by the arm to tug him a step behind her.

“Nuh-uh!” She wags a finger at him, “I'll deal with the next customers, you go take a five-minute breather in the backroom.”

He wavers and glances between her and the approaching group. He shakes his head and grimaces. “Alright,” then scampers off to the backroom in a very cat-like way.

Some things just don't change, she muses to herself, and tenses, throwing on a quick but genuine-looking smile to greet the new customers.

As the three reach the counter, the tallest of the three (the black-haired blue-eyed man), leans on the counter and smirks in a way that can only be described as flirtatiously. The other man groans and the woman bursts into giggles.

Marinette refrains from mentally calling the flirtatiously smirking one 'The Chat Noir of the three'. “Hi, how may I help you?”

The blonde girl shoves the men and boy out of the way and flashes Marinette a dazzling grin. “Hey, can I get a grande Spoiler Surprise hot chocolate and a warmed coffee waffle please!”

Marinette nods, quickly racking her brain for the recipe to the Gotham Special, and adds it to the till. “Anything else?”

The black-haired blue-eyed boy—Who I really need a better internal nickname for him because he's starting to sound like the blue-eyes white dragon with how much I'm repeating that, Marinette thinks absently—half-heartedly glares at the blonde girl before turning his gaze to Marinette and asks, “could I have a quadruple shot Venti espresso with sixteen addition shots of espresso and one of the add energy packets.”

“Timmy, no!” Gasps the man.

“Tim, yes.” 'Tim' responds, grinning mischievously.

The blonde girl barely holds back her laughter, doubling over from the effort.

Marinette stares at him in concern but as soon as she spots the very prominent bags beneath his eyes, she nods—in solidarity and adds the coffee order to the till. “Okay, anything else?”

The blonde girl and Tim share a look before darting off to grab a free table booth, leaving the man at the counter with her.

The man stares after the two before turning his attention to Marinette. “Can I get a grande White Chocolate Mocha, please.” He pauses, “And I'll pay you triple the price of the entire order in tips if you make Tim's drink entirely decaf. Please, he's had three black coffees already today.”

Marinette nods her head slowly. “I–uh, sure, okay. And is that all?”

He nods, “Yep, that's all.”

She adds the final drink to the order and puts it through the till. “That'll be twenty dollars…”

The man hums thoughtfully and hands over a twenty-dollar bill, “Cool, so I'll pay you sixty bucks in tips if you make my little brother's drink decaf.” He then adds, “I'm Dick by the way.”

“Marinette,” she points to the little name tag attached to her apron before getting started on the worst of the drinks, the (now decaf) twenty shot venti espresso. “And that's way too much for a tip, I can't accept that much.”

“Hey, no, you deserve it for making that abomination of a drink that my little brother ordered and anyway it's not like I can't afford to tip you that much.” Dick divulges.

“Oh.” She responds noncommittally, unsure how to respond and so continues to pour the shots of decaf espresso into the venti cup.

Just as she finishes pouring the final shots into the cup, a customer switches the café TV to a news channel. “Late last night, there was a break-in at the Gotham History Museum. The only item stolen was an artefact from the new Ancient Tibetan display. Fortunately, the thief was caught on the security camera. From what can be seen in the footage, the thief appears to be a Catwoman copycat.” A news anchor reports before cutting to the footage of the break-in.

Marinette puts the twenty shot venti espresso on a tray and places the tray and drink on the counter between her and Dick.

“What's your opinion on Minou Purrdu?” He inquires, with a curious look on his face, head cocked to one side.

Thanks to anxiety, Marinette's immediate response is to laugh awkwardly as she internally panics—Oh fuck, he must be Nightwing. Don't be here to arrest me, don't be here to arrest, please—turning away from the counter, she gets started on the white chocolate mocha. “Uh, who?”

Dick rubs at the back of neck somewhat sheepishly, “it's that new copycat thief's name apparently.”

“Huh. I guess the thief must be a fan of puns then.” She comments, avoiding answering his question as she mixes the relevant ingredients into the cup to produce the drink.

“Oh? What makes you say that?” He asks, body language showing him to be genuinely curious—probably not here to arrest me then, hopefully.

Marinette finishes making the white chocolate mocha and carries the cup over to the tray, explaining her reasoning as she did so. “Well, Minou Purrdu is a pun. Minou perdu is french for lost kitty, and so by adding a purr to perdu, the thief made it a pun.”

Dick makes a noise of contemplation, he then spies his drink and grins in a way that's flirtatiously feral enough to rival Chat Noir (she was definitely spot on when she nearly mentally referred to him as the Chat Noir of the three), then points to the mocha, “hey, you mocha me crazy.”

Marinette sighs in poorly concealed amusement and it's at that moment, Adrien walks out the employee room and joins her behind the counter.

He glances around and spots no queue, “need any help with the order?”

She nods and turns to him. “If you could grab one of the coffee waffles and warm it please.”

“No problem!” Adrien nods and heads over to the glass food display to get a coffee waffle.

Dick pokes at up his mocha cup and whistles through at the heat. “This coffee's really hot but not as hot as you.”

Marinette, midway through turning away from the counter to go grab the ingredients needed for the Spoiler Surprise hot chocolate, chokes and flushes bright red. Nope-nope-nope-nope-no! I am not doing this! Absolutely no way am I getting a crush on Nightwing who's currently a civilian and probably is maybe hunting down my secret identity to arrest me!

Adrien, the traitor, puts the now warmed up coffee waffle on the tray and grabs a napkin. He quickly scrawls down a string of numbers that look suspiciously like her personal phone number. He waggles his eyebrows at her, winks, then hands the napkin to Dick. “She's too shy to do it herself, so here's her number!”

She squeaks in surprise—ironic considering the drink she's currently making—and covers her face with her hands, thankfully having not been holding the cup of half-made Spoiler Surprise hot chocolate. Otherwise, she definitely would've spilt it.

Quickly, she finishes the hot chocolate and puts it on the tray. “Here you go.”

“Thanks! and here's your tip.” He places down three twenty-dollar bills on the counter and winks, before picking the tray up and bringing it over to Tim and the blonde girl.

Marinette spins around to face Adrien. “Oh my god, why would you do that?”

He smirks, “because we're in a new city, why not have some fun and follow through with your new crush?”

She groans. “We need to talk in private as soon as our shifts end.”

Adrien's smile falters. “Alright.”

»‹•›«

| Thank you for reading! I hope you enjoyed this little oneshot! Comments, likes, and reblogs are much appreciated! |

@maribat-2k20

#Miraculous Ladybug #Maribat #ML x DC #DC x MLB #Dickinette #Marinette x Dick #Dick x Marinette #Maribat2k20 #Maribat2k20 Dickinette #Maribat2k20 Day 1 #Maribat2k20 First Encounters #Seduce a Bat With a Thieving Cat #SaBWaTC #Sham's Posts #Sham's Writing #Shams's Fics

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whenislunch · 7 years ago

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tumblr

This summer I saw my favorite artist perform live on an island off of Manhattan that used to serve as a jail/mental health institution.

When Frank Ocean came out with his screen grabbed text file posted as a “photo” on Tumblr in 2012, I knew the platform was something special - the one niche he could safely post something so revealing and vulnerable and still not open himself to the direct hate-filled or homophobic comments of any other forum. I had signed up for Tumblr the year prior. I joined with the fantasy of becoming a famous food blogger (and later as a nail artist) so I could quit my publicity job and score all of the PR perks that I so readily dished out to any 'mommy' with a touch of digital pretense.

Personal space on the vast internet was never my craving. I resisted being too present, and enjoyed the ability to control how much I “put myself out there” on facebook, twitter, and later Instagram. With my original two tumblrs, like Frank, I could focus on sharing and following the things I cared the most about: in early cases, it was fan art of Bill Murray, gifs of Daft Punk, and mostly photos of food I had eaten from the everyday life of a new New Yorker discovering the cult nature of the restaurant scene (a similar practice to my behavior as a teen taking shitty photos at punk shows in St Pete, Florida to pin on my bedroom wall). Tumblr became my collection of “curated cool," and nobody cared how hard I was trying or what I put up there, except for me, and it became my favorite place on the internet. Eventually, I realized all of the writers I was admiring on The Awl were including their Tumblrs in their bios, and I was there to follow them. I saw Rebecca Black become a meme before her one-hit would become a wedding band wonder. If sitting at the open kitchen counter at an edison bulb-lit restaurant was the closest you could get to a food industry version of “backstage”, then a Tumblr dashboard filled with all of the blogging generation of the “fake news media” was the analogy. It’s human nature to want to be seen and understood. Selfies perform better than friendies on Instagram - and GPOY’s on Tumblr… well I challenge anybody on music.ly to define the acronym without that peeking at the Childish Gambino Genius page first.

And that’s the tip of the iceberg for where I stand with Tumblr now. After three years of hanging out in the same field, they invited me to meet them at the dugout. After four months of interviewing and pitching challenges and pretending like I was at a digital optimization workshop, I was offered a job. After five years, or nearly, I’m ready for another one. I had the BEST time and the BEST TEAM working at Tumblr. Sentiment is incalculable, and being the Comms professionals that we are, we can swear to the moon that the effect of press results on a brand is unquantifiable when one piece can qualitatively alter the nature of the public’s perception versus the reality of a goal. And I had the the immeasurable luxury to be surrounded by the smartest, most creative, intensely productive, and to borrow a food world phrase - hardiest colleagues in the history of the internet.

My first day at Tumblr also belonged to six others - together we endured a questionable onboarding interaction and then were sent with laptops and branded hoodies to our respective seats at our superdesks on various floors. There were dogs everywhere. I was told that I’d be introduced to the company on Friday and to submit two truths and a lie to help them get to know me. Here they are:

I have photo credits in the New York Times and New York Magazine

I appeared as a backup dancer in a rap video in high school

I watercolor paintings of crustaceans as a hobby

Leave your guess in the comments (oh wait, it’s Tumblr, you can’t).

Friday lunches were my lifeblood for a couple of months. Every week for at least seven thereafter unloaded a new set of amazing humans to be introduced in some absurd way by Sean from recruiting. I remember @sexpigeon vs Homer’s owner in game of pictionary, Johnny and Jake quickly competing for my heart as #1 engineer dudes, and of course, the instant classic game of Mark Coatney/ Marc Cote/ Marked Coat. Tumblr ramped up fast thanks to Lee, a fundraising series and at the tireless behest of my personal champion, Lindsey Dole.

Meanwhile, more magic was brewing in the cauldron. I heard @amandalynferri talking about some game she invented called Pretty Little Lasagna box, or I heard Maddie recalling the time she had her palm read in 14th street psychic's booth seeking refuge from a snowstorm, or @lexkap who sat on the other side of the building with a dog on her lap DM’d me on hip chat to show me her own nail art blog. Then a few of us won a chance to see a sneak preview of a new arthouse film by Harmony Korine and featuring an ensemble cast of former Disney talent that had been filmed in my hometown with a y2k airbrushed aesthetic - there was something innately emotional tied to each of us with this first viewing of Spring Breakers. When we left the midtown theater alongside the ATL Twins, I realized that this company had curated a community to match the intended behavior of its user base. We all connected on a level beyond any workplace I had experienced before.

And there was the professional side to the job - the work wins came quick because I was so lucky to sit under leaders who wanted the team to succeed. Rick Webb and Katherine encouraged me to dig in, and get deep with these shiny new toys called “evangelists” - Valentine, Nate, Liba, Annie, Max, Rachel, Jen, and briefly DCH. An enviable group of brilliant minds and creative energy who have all gone on to accomplish even more for their respective industries than a marketing budget at a start up could have enabled - and I had the pleasure to help share their Tumblr stories with the world - from a puppy bowl to annual southby's to groundbreaking art auctions to thirteen fucking fashion weeks to 35+ art and music shows (brrr)?

And then Tumblr got acquired and the Jenna Wortham turned the New York Times blue, and I got to do something I’m sure will never happen again in my entire career: I threw a party where the goody bag included a free tattoo, and multiple brave souls got them (Tyler, @bryanasortino, Megan & Johnny, among others).

And then Karen (aka #takingitallin aka @beautifulliving) joined, and me and Katherine gained a new teammate at the same time that I gained a new soul sister (and because of her self-described passion for advertising I never had to write an announcement about a new ad product ever again.) I’ve never been more challenged to succeed as I have over the three years I sat next to Karen - a generous and driven woman with endless dreams of supporting others (literally, ask her about the gap in the undergarment sector), who will always find a spot to squeeze me into a photobooth. Even at her wedding.

And lucky us, because then we invited @lilders into the #teamcomms fold and wow, wow, wow was life good. It was my honor working with Lily as she grew from FIT intern into somebody we should all aspire to work for someday.

Which leads to me to the poker faced improv master of all - Katherine. Allora @alittlespace! I am so lucky she believed that this girl who came into talk about a hypothetical strategy to get Eleven Madison Park on Tumblr and then pitched her a fantasy football launch party hosted by Nick Kroll and Mark Duplass could fit in and have the privilege to join the Tumblr Communications team. KB - I’ve already written you the dopiest thank you letter and shared my orchid growing miracle secrets - but it can’t be said enough - I am so grateful to have worked for you for all of these years. You are the best boss, and we will always be the #bestteam.

Because of Tumblr (and @david), I had the pleasure of working with so many additional incomparable people on projects outside of my designated Marketing Comms position, wearing more hats than we even produced for branded activation swag:

Designing and contenting for months with the relaunch of the precious Staff blog with David, Peter, Damien, Tag, Toph, among others

Setting the inaugural year in review with Danielle, Amanda, Christine loose (and then doing it again and again and again, with the wonderful team at DKC - especially that time we added a serving Kale to America’s breakfast.

Marathoning dozens of events with amazing producers like Julia, Suzanne and Magic - and encountering the native talent that thrives on Tumblr like Humans of New York, Chloe Wise, Sam Cannon, Johnny McLaughlin, Jillian Mercado, to a point where I can honestly say “I knew them when.”

Participating in the first ever Sales Offsite aka the greatest bar mitzvah ever thrown by Lee Brown, Dan Walsh and Sarah Won and the rest of the coolest sales team ever assembled (here’s to you @katemaxx, @jeffdtaylor, Meredith, Ari, Kira, and so many more)

Reaching back into my fashion bag of tricks and launching three different clothing lines.

Creating partnerships to show off super surprises at nerd parties at Comic Con and another breaking the internet for Art Basel

Interviewing the CEO of Shake Shack for the one-time-only live episode of “5 with a side of fries" in front of the whole company.

Urgently dealing with Legal, Ads, Trust and Safety on one of the definitive news story of a generation after nine months of back channeling and reporting.

DOING IT FOR THE CULTURE: Racing with the content and analytics teams for stats on the contentious day of #thedress, and then bling rings, witches, boneghazi, superwholockians, wholesome memes, studyblr, emojis, and of course, the toe thing! Thus redefining what it means to “go viral.”

Cleaned a ball pit for the dude from the 1975 to make a splash into them and trolled a legacy music publication

And wow - it took me this long to mention Post It Forward…I am so proud of everyone who helped make Tumblr the most empathetic community on the internet: Nicole Blumenfeld, Jeff D’Onofrio, @skiphursh “Dolphin", @dougrichard, Andy Sebela, Jess Frank, Sarah Won @swon, @pauwow, the brilliant and diligent Michelle Johnson. From building the blog, commissioning the art, recruiting and onboarding the partners, writing the endless number of give/gets, planning the sponsored posts and social content, running the day to day on the blog (and bequeathing that role to Lily), then doing it again with the Mental Health Quilt and IRL with the Post It Forward Summit - I’ve found my new track as a special projects person who can take on any issue, even suicidal teens. If this is my legacy, I’ve planted seeds in the garden I might never see. And special thanks to Victoria, who allowed me to speak at Obama’s White House about why kids need a place on the internet that can help heal - so long as they can find each other.

As it turns out, adults need that, too. From tailing Frank Ocean’s Ferrari to the most woke, mentally aware community and on to, thank god, a bonafide company to match - I will forever cherish my time at Tumblr and I’ll forever been asking #whenislunch. But from every tomorrow on, it will be somewhere else. And you can find me on the internet!

Here’s my LinkedIn, I’m looking.

#bye tumblr #good luck david karp #this is my job #this is my life #memes #tumblr hq #tumblr staff

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dishonoredrpg · 5 years ago

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Congratulations, MINI! You’ve been accepted for the role of THE HIEROPHANT with the faceclaim of ANNA SHAFFER. Wow. Wow, wow, wow, wow, wow, wow, wow. Reading this through from start to finish, and sipping at my coffee -- I felt genuinely at peace. I knew right from the start you pinned down The Hierophant’s character, right from the very first sentence: “When you are brought into this world, a screaming and writhing ball of fury, your mother wails over and over: “I’m burning. I’m burning. I’m burning.”” Boom. Immediately hooked, no hesitation, no doubt. What followed was an in-depth dissection of human anger and rage and what happens when you let a pot boil over. I am fully prepared to let Kithri burn all of Tyrholm down when the time is right. In fact, I welcome the flames.

Please review the CHECKLIST and send your blog in within 24 hours.

OOC INFORMATION:

Name: Hey there! I go by Mini. Pronouns: She/Her/Hers. Age: I am 24! Timezone/Activity Level: I live in New York, so my time zone is EST. I work full time, but my hours are steady and I have evenings/weekends free. One of the things that excites me about this group is the promise of it being writing-heavy, and so in order to produce quality replies I would say that I will certainly be able to get posts up a few days during the week. I am also almost always at least mobile on Discord, and I am really committed to character development — I am frequently around to talk plotting or headcanons. Overall, I just intend to be an active presence! Anything Else: Nope!

IN CHARACTER INFORMATION:

Skeleton: The Hierophant. Name: Kithri Barwin (Pronunciation: ki as in “kiss,” -three, bar-win) Faceclaim: I did send in the message asking after a couple different possible FCs for this character, and I’d say of those that were approved, Anna Shaffer and Jodie Comer are my preferred FCs. I struggle to choose between the two, but I would say that Anna is my first choice, and Jodie is my second. When it comes to Anna Shaffer, I think that her look fits the vibe of the character in a big way. Generally, I almost feel like she fits into the world you’ve created better. I really love her and think she would suit the role nicely, my only hold up for her is that she looks so nice in all of her Witcher resources, and I’d like to have a FC that has range within their resources. But, I can also easily see her fitting the image I have in my head for the character. I’d have to boost her age a bit, probably 3 years — putting the character again at around 31. The thing that I like about Jodie, particularly in The White Princess (which would probably be the source I’d largely draw on for gifs), is that she does an excellent job of portraying this barely-contained rage in her face that I think translates very well to this role. Again, I’d have to boost up her age a bit for the appropriate range — I’d say I’d probably still play the character at around age 31, so 4 years older than Jodie. Really, I’d be happy with either one of them — whoever you see as being more of a fit! Age: 31 Details:

The first line of the skeleton, “you consider the day you celebrate your thirtieth year alive a victory over everything else,” immediately hooked me. What I get from this character is that every moment they live and breathe is something that they view as something that ought to be worthy of awe and admiration; and yet they are met with nothing more than a passing interest, and treated by many as a party trick. They are gifted and captivating, until they are no longer interesting to the people of the court. I also see the “arrogance” perceived in this character as being a huge coping mechanism — what choice do they have but to be proud of their power and the fact that they are living when no one else will recognize it? How can they not be proud, when they feel in their blood and bones that there is so much more power in them than is “appropriate” to display? And what is the point of this power, and the inevitable total consumption that it brings with it, if not to use it? Why do they have to look at their ever-growing scarification, and feel time ticking, if they receive nothing in return? I think for this character, the final straw was the utter dismissal of THE EMPEROR when they asked for the chance to fight at Koldam and show their true power. This was the final sign that neither Septimus nor his son would ever view them as having any more value than being court entertainment. Tyrholm and its King have given them nothing. And if they will not allow this character to embrace their power, then they will burn for it.

On a personal note, I can say that what really draws me to this character is a huge opportunity to play outside of my comfort zone and love doing it. I LOVE fantasy/medieval-type groups, and I tend to gravitate towards noble-class characters, or characters who are political animals. (I am a classic Margaery Tyrell applicant, basically.) But I am so in love with a character who is not only not invested in politics, but seems to almost entirely disregard it as being nothing more than a burden. I also love that they appear to increasingly wear their heart on their sleeve, and both emote and vocalize their disdain — I can only imagine what trouble they might find themselves in because of it. Furthermore, I can only imagine what trouble they might want to create.

And lastly, I did some research into THE HIEROPHANT tarot card. I am very interested in the idea of this card being the counterpart to THE HIGH PRIESTESS, which I’ll discuss further in the plot ideas section. The Hierophant traditionally represents traditional values and institutions, spiritual wisdom, and conformity. I view this character as being a clear representation of the card’s reversal, which represents personal beliefs, freedom, and challenging the status quo.

BACKGROUND:

Below is Kithri’s backstory. This is my first attempt at writing second person POV for a bio, but I wanted to keep in the style of the skeleton!

i. ignition.

When you are brought into this world, a screaming and writhing ball of fury, your mother wails over and over: “I’m burning. I’m burning. I’m burning.” When you are brought to her breast to suckle, she shrieks and pushes you away and claims “it hurts.”

Your mother cries for four days until her voice deadens to silence, and her teary eyes go unseeing. The midwives explain to your father that childbed sickness took her, and that it was the fever that burned her, but he does not believe them. He explains precisely two things to the women: one, that you are not his child, and two, that you murdered his wife. On the first, he is unquestioningly right. You do not carry his features, nor do you particularly look like your now-dead mother. Your face belongs to another man — who, your not-father does not know. It only matters that the memory of his wife has been tarnished, and the only piece of her that he might go on to have has not even done him the kindness of bearing her eyes or smile. On the second, the truth is complicated. You were unborn and your mother lived, then you came into the world and she died. Without you, she may have lived on. But is that murder? Your not-father assures you that it is.

He raises you, because he fears and loves the Undying God and knows that you must be his burden to achieve a blissful afterlife. He gives you his surname, even though to do so pains him. He allows you to call him father, even though he cringes every time you say it in your tiny, childish voice. You do all that you can to persuade him to love you, but it is all for naught. You are bad, and there is nothing you can do to be good. It becomes easier to lean into being bad, because then he at least has a reason to look at you. You are loud because it is the only way to avoid being ignored. You whine and cry and begin to throw tantrums until your not-father threatens to throttle you, or to toss your small body into the fireplace that you tend to gravitate to so often; as if it is the comforting skirts of an ever-absent matronly figure. It does not stop you. You beg to be seen, and will take whatever punishment comes with it.

One day, you are so angry and cry so much that it has no choice but to pour out of you: fire leaks from your burning fingertips and crawls up your throat from the black despair of your gut. For the first time, you see that your father does not simply hate you — he fears you. When it happens three more times — the fire finally unleashing itself from your mouth on the last occasion — you can hear your not-father crying to the Undying God for mercy as you pretend to sleep. Despite the tight squeeze of your eyes, you can feel the way the embers from the nearby fireplace pull towards you with something like a magnetic force — inching closer and closer, as if to give your fingers a soothing lick.

You are six years old when your father saddles the horse and tells you that the two of you will be going on a trip — a long journey from your home in Koldam to a place called Tyrholm that you know nothing about. You are misguidedly excited. The ride is long and arduous, but you enjoy the forced embrace of your father’s arms around you while you sit in front of him on the horse’s saddle. He mutters often how hot your skin is, but the comments rush over your small head. He brings you to a city much larger than the home you came from, and takes you to an inn where the people do not know you and give you ignorant, kind smiles. He whispers to the husband and wife who own the inn while you eat a hot meal, and later chastises you for your nosiness when you ask him what they spoke about. As you are drifting off to sleep, you think you hear your father remark with a sense of uncharacteristic pleasure: “we are a long way from home.”

When you wake the next morning, your not-father is gone.

ii. blaze.

Your father’s abandonment causes a tantrum unlike any you have had before, and in your grief you nearly burn down the inn that he has left you to. The woman who runs the now-damaged property coughs smoke from her lungs as she grabs you by your wild hair and promises to make you regret what you’ve done. Her husband is more empathetic, and wrestles you from the murderous woman’s arms as he attempts to soothe his wife: “she’ll be dead before long, sweetling — do not test the Undying God’s mercy by killing her yourself!”

The wife yells more at the husband, and the husband tries again to calm his wife, but all you hear is that you are dying, and the revelation leaves you feeling chilled for the first time in your life. With fear coursing through your veins, you run from the couple. You run even as the innkeeper attempts to take some of the gold coins your father had paid him to toss at your feet. You run even as the innkeeper’s wife screams for the guard. You run until exhaustion claims you, and you sleep that night in a cramped alleyway amongst the muck.

When you wake, you realize that you are truly alone. You do not know the way back to Koldam, and even if you did, you cannot simply walk back. You have no coin with which to purchase passage back to your home — and even if you did, you know with a too-mature sense of realism that nothing awaits you there. You are as good as an orphan, though perhaps that has been the case since the moment your mother breathed her last breath.

You survive on the streets in spite of the stink of death that clings to your skin. You steal to eat when the charity of strangers fails you, and sleep under porches and in hidden shadows. There are brief instances when merciful strangers allow you to sleep amongst their livestock, and even briefer occasions when a bleeding heart takes you under their roof for an evening. No one will hold on to you for long once they have an inkling of what you are. Slowly, you learn what that is. The inferni are the stuff of childhood nightmares, and now you are more horror than girl. For a long time, you strive to ignore the feeling of fire under your skin. For a long time, you wait to die. Despite this, you continue to live.

When the fire inside of you can no longer be denied, and when you are no longer convinced that every day you will die tomorrow, you start to play with the magic — just a little bit, and just to see. You watch as fire dances on your fingertips, and flows from your lips. You feel the way glowing torches and roaring fireplaces call out to you. Slowly, carefully, you find that you can bend the flames to your whim. You sense the innate control you have over the fire, even despite the cautious voice that whispers it controls you.

Over time, dying begins to feel an awful lot like growing power.

iii. wildfire.

You become the topic of whispers in Tyrholm, and you cannot deny that you like it. They whisper that you ought to be dead by now, and they whisper that you could burn a stable and all its horseflesh without blinking an eye. In all your years in the foreign city that has reluctantly become home, you have caused outright destruction only a handful of times, and nearly always by accident. There are few over the years who have cared enough to know your name, and your tendency to hide in plain sight means that you have evaded the notice of the guard.

You have never destroyed a stable with your burning hands, but when you hear the rumor, you know that you assuredly could. But what is true does not matter to the mundane civilians, who view your magic as something that can never be tamed. You have always craved attention, and you endeavor to feed off of their fear if it is all they will allow, but it does not taste nearly so sweet as the awe and reverence you not-so-secretly hope for. You think that if you could only show them all what mastery you have over the fire that flows from your body, they might realign themselves accordingly. Just as you did with yourself, you can slowly show them what you can do, and gradually reveal your power. Beyond the fears of conflagration, there is a beauty to what you can do; your very existence is something to behold, if they would only look your way.

If you cannot convince them to be wonderstruck by what you are capable of, you do not know what other options you have. You are uneducated and without a trade; too short-tempered to be a serving wench and too proud to be a whore. If they cannot see your beauty, whatever time you have left will comprise much of how you have lived so far: a street urchin on the brink of starvation, equal parts hungry and angry. Your very survival depends on a change of their hearts. You know that in order for them to be awed by you, you must act as if you are awed by yourself.

This forced arrogance is your downfall.

You bring too much attention to yourself too quickly, and the guardsmen that the innkeeper once threatened you with as a child finally arrive, albeit nearly twenty years later. You suspect at first that you will be brought to the cells and charged with disobeying the confusing laws on magic set forth by Septimus, but instead you are brought to Castle Tyrholm. Bizarrely, you are told that you will be brought before the King. You assume that this must be because he wants to deliver the punishment to you himself; to make an example out of you in front of his court. You expect to be thrust onto your knees before his throne, and instead find yourself ushered into the reception hall sometime after the King and his nobleblooded guests have eaten their fill. The occupants, Septimus included, stare at you. You stare back. A miserable beat passes, and then the King demands:

“Entertain us, mage.”

You waver for a moment, unsure of what to do, but decide ultimately that if your eternal fate is to die, you would rather do so showing them all some small piece of what you are capable of. You don’t approach the extent of your capabilities, but you allow a fraction of your true power to escape in a pretty dance of flames that causes gasps to erupt amongst the blue-blooded guests. When you tire yourself, you expect to see condemnation on the faces that surround you. The sound of applause is foreign, and you unabashedly revel in it.

You are offered a position at court that evening, and you do not hesitate in taking it. A part of you knows that it is not an offer, but a demand — you are just too clouded by the heady haze of appreciation to mull over the consequences of that difference.

iv. inferno.

Six years elapse at the King’s court, and you have long-since known that it is not the hub of reverence you had hoped it could be. Not for your kind. Regretfully, it is not even a place where you feel at all accepted or appreciated for who you are. You are not exactly feared by the nobles who occupy the court, but it is not because what you are and what you are capable of does not frighten them. They view you as something wild that the King has broken; a dog on a very tight leash that does tricks for food and shelter. Their laughter is sometimes uncomfortable as they watch you perform your magic in the court, but they are nonetheless comfortable enough to laugh at all. Their applause is sometimes stilted when it is too clear that you are angry as you put on your little show, but they clap when Septimus claps anyway.

You would not dare bite the hand that feeds.

For all the scars that mar your body — the mark of death on your skin over and over again — you are still alive, which seems to impress nearly no one. The only magic that amazes is the work of the necromancers: they give the miracle of life, whereas the miracle of your life resonates with none but you. You are desperate to prove that you are so much more than the other inferni who have come before you, but you have no platform beyond court jester with which to do it. You feel an untapped power swirl in your gut. You grit your teeth and try — unsuccessfully — to ignore it.

When the King’s son prepares to lead the fight against Koldam, you ask — beg, really — for the chance to travel with him. You have no love for the son of Septimus, but you think it may be your only opportunity to show the full extent of your capabilities. Selfishly, secretly, you also have some desire to have revenge against the place where you were born. If your not-father is not dead, then he is old — but you nonetheless dream of him wearing a poor man’s armor while riding atop that same horse he’d taken you to Tyrholm on, burning in your flames.

When you are categorically denied and encouraged to return to your courtly duties, you understand that you will never be seen as you wish to be. You will never be on the same playing grounds as the Court Necromancer, who commands the respect of Septimus himself. There is no more hope to grasp at — there is nothing salvageable in the King’s court. Him and his kind will bid you to be their clown until your fire burns you from the inside out, and you finally die: a legend amongst inferni, and yet not at all remembered by those who beheld you.

At last, you realize the undeniable truth about what must be done. You decide then that if you have to burn up entertaining the nobles, you think it is only fair that they should burn too. For those who are left behind in the wake of your flames, you think your smoldering ghost will tell them the truth they have all so earnestly ignored —

— a mage is not to be underestimated; an inferni least of all.

PLOT IDEAS:

The first four points I have listed are not so much general plotting ideas as they are specific expansions on the character connections the Hierophant has, with some general ideas I have about how I might develop that dynamic over the course of gameplay. The second four points I have are more general plot concepts that I would be happy to explore with whomever. I am also totally down for doubling up — that is to say, any of the specific character connections can also fulfill the general plotting ideas.

THE HIEROPHANT AND THE HIGH PRIESTESS: As mentioned above, something that grabbed my interest in reading about the hierophant tarot card was the fact that it is the natural companion of the high priestess. Taking from the skeleton, I imagine that part of the reason Kithri finds necromancers uncomfortable to be around is because they are difficult to read, whereas she is expressive almost to the point of her own detriment. I also imagine that Kithri would experience a profound jealousy towards necromancers, given that they receive not just respect, but reverence. Given the role the High Priestess serves in the court, I believe that she would be the ultimate representation of everything that Kithri resents. I think challenging Kithri’s perception of what necromancers are and what the specific motivations of the High Priestess really are presents a good opportunity for character development. Depending on the route chosen by a prospective HP player, I can see Kithri finding herself manipulated into fighting the inevitable battle fully on the priestess’s terms, or perhaps finding an unexpected mentor. I also think this dynamic will put Kithri on an interesting journey into learning more about necromancers in general, and potentially finding some common ground through their shared — albeit differently expressed — magical capabilities. THE COURT JESTERS: After reading through the sample application for The Star, I immediately thought that Armel could have a really interesting dynamic with Kithri — and much to my excitement, Hierophant was included on the Star’s connections! I think that Kithri is really desperate for some sign of no-strings-attached kindness, or even a basic acceptance of who she is. Despite that desperation, she is heavily guarded and has a wall of defensive arrogance that would certainly shut people like Armel out. I think it’s interesting that the two essentially occupy the same position at court, and despite their different circumstances and upbringings, they’ve arrived at similar emotions and motivations when it comes to Septimus. I think it would be interesting to see Kithri start to learn trust and friendship — I think she could really benefit from having a confidante, especially as whispers of revolution spread. TO KOLDAM, WITH LOVE: I imagine that Kithri’s motivation for knowing what happened in Koldam is incredibly personally motivated. It was her home once, and though there isn’t anything about it that she looks back on fondly, there is nonetheless a lingering connection there. Although her prime motivation for coming along with the Emperor was having the opportunity to display her full abilities outside of the suffocating confines of the court, I think she also wanted an opportunity to have some revenge against her birthplace, which she likely wholly associates with “rejection.” I think the dissonance between the way the victory has been perceived and discussed by soldiers and the evident difference in the Emperor has clearly caught Kithri’s attention, and she feels as though she is owed some information on what really occurred in Koldam. I think this desire to know has the potential to push Kithri out of her typical tendency to be subjugated by the ruling class and brood. Seeing her in a position to gain the confidence to demand answers, even from a Prince, could certainly alter the way she is perceived by the nobles who view her as a trained monkey. THE ENEMY OF MY ENEMY: I found it very interesting that despite the fact Kithri and The Fool are on a similar side politically, the character connection situates them as having more of an antagonistic dynamic. I would love to explore Kithri’s feelings on being treated by The Fool as some kind of threat to the order they have established at court — I almost think that rather than cowing her into submission, it might empower her to know that someone recognizes just what all she is capable of. I think that as an overarching plot, this character interaction could be a great way to demonstrate that just because there are people who want Septimus gone, it does not mean that they are all allied or have the same ultimate end goal. I think this character interaction would provide a great opportunity to further develop what Kithri really wants to happen in Tyrholm. Will she stay committed to the idea of burning down the throne room, and the noble class with it? Or will she be swayed into falling into a political agenda? POLITICAL PET: As Kithri interacts with other revolters, I think it would be interesting to explore how she fits in with their political agendas. Kithri is not a politician, and I think she does not put much stock into what comes after Septimus is no more. Personally, I think this lack of foresight is not her being short-sighted — she just knows that the chances of her living long enough to see what happens after she shows Tyrholm what she’s capable of are minimal. Why should she care about what happens after she’s dead and gone? She squarely falls into the burn it all down camp, which differs from many of the characters who seem more motivated to find a suitable candidate to replace Septimus. Will Kithri pose a problem as the plot develops, and a coup is planned? Or is there a possibility that one of the revolters can convince her that acting in accordance with their plans will also give her the justice that she seeks? I’d love to play it out. LOW BREEDS FROM LOWTOWN: After being abandoned by her father, Kithri spent her life prior to joining the court in the streets of Lowtown. I’d love the chance to further develop Kithri’s history in Tyrholm through interactions with other characters who have come from this humbler background as compared to the noble characters in the group. I imagine that Kithri would feel more of a natural kinship with people from Lowtown as compared to the noble class, though she ultimately has still felt rejected by and large. Individuals from Lowtown would be more likely to see a less harsh version of Kithri. Because she defines herself so wholly by the fact that she is an inferni, I think it could be cool to explore a more human side to her. BEAUTY IN HORROR: I would really love to explore the dynamics that Kithri has with the other inferni present at the court. I found it interesting that in the skeleton, it ends with: “you’ll prove you are not a hound to be leashed — no mage is. You’re a powerhouse, and they won’t forget it.” This to me suggests that Kithri is not simply disgusted with her own treatment at the court, but is overall angry by the way mages have been treated by Septimus. Despite the fact that she may not be on the same side as the other inferni at court, I nonetheless imagine that there might be some commonality amongst the handful of them present that is worth exploring. Do they avoid one another? Do they have respect for one another? Do they feel at all like they can confide in one another? Kithri wants some kind of acceptance or validation, and so I think she might be open to fostering relationships with others who might understand what it is to be inferni — even if the other inferni might not have her best intentions at heart. HONEY & WILDFIRE ARE BOTH THE COLOR OF GOLD: As a final plot point, I would love to explore some opportunity for Kithri to show kindness or general soft-heartedness. So much of her is consumed in anger and rage, but I think she is still capable of acts of tenderness and empathy. Beyond that, I think she still desires some kind of a connection. Her life has been defined by her early abandonment, and I think it would be great for her long-term character development to have interactions where her rough exterior is gradually broken through. Whether this be through a romantic encounter or intimate friendship is to be decided by plotting, and I would absolutely love either!

CHARACTER DEATH: If it makes sense plot-wise, and given the caveat that you would ask first, I’ll say that I’m willing to have Kithri killed off!

WRITING SAMPLE:

***I do acknowledge that depending on what FCs other applicants may use, Kithri may not be the oldest inferni in the group — but based off the age suggestions set for the inferni skeletons, and for the purposes of the writing sample, I’m writing as if she is the eldest inferni at court. I hope that is okay!***

For all the profound hatred Kithri had built up in her heart towards King Septimus and his court of tittering noble fools, there was always a blip during her little performance where the utter loathing she had towards the King and his retinue briefly slipped away. In the moments immediately preceding her entry into the reception hall, she seethed with barely-contained rage: she was not a trained dog, and by the Undying God, she would not do their little dance for them again. Kithri would pace before the large ornamental doors, grit her teeth and clench her fists, and glower at anyone who dared to meet her gaze. Just before she was escorted into the rowdy room by an apprehensive guard, she would allow herself the fantasy of lighting the hall ablaze, and settle herself with the knowledge that she would make good on the reverie one day. As she stepped inside the hall, the candles which lit the spacious area all suddenly extinguished; and the air filled with the scent of smoke and the gasps of her audience.

It was in that darkness she’d created where a shift occurred in Kithri: the rage did not disappear, but instead retreated to the recesses of her consciousness whilst the forefront became consumed by the fire she worked to conjure. A mind which was usually overwrought by powerful emotion and nonstop thinking became hyper-focused on the flames that leapt from her hands and bent to her whim; and for the duration of her performance she allowed herself the momentary pleasure of reveling in what she could do. With what was just a fraction of her true power, she could amaze any and all who were lucky enough to be seated in the room — their delighted murmurs and shocked exclamations were not lost on Kithri’s ears, even as the crackling flames glowed purple-blue with extreme heat. She was reminded of a time when she believed that all it would take to earn love was to prove that there was beauty in her abilities.

The rancor never stayed away for very long.

When her display of magic ended — which did not so much reach a natural conclusion, but instead finished when Septimus opted to cut it off with a sudden burst of clapping — the mage was thrust back immediately to her bitter reality. The momentary empowerment fled, and she was left with only her hatred and resentments, which clung to her skin like a plague. On some nights, in the moments after she re-lit the candles that gave light to the hall, she found herself staring at the occupants of the room: perplexed to find that they looked discomforted by her presence, when she had been so sure that they had been enamored by her only moments earlier. On others, they continued with polite applause even after she had finished, but the return of her own disgust made it impossible to enjoy the noise. No matter their reaction, she almost always exited the hall with some immediacy following the show of magic — she could not bear to linger around Septimus and his ilk any longer than was strictly necessary.

With a stiff and perfunctory bow, the mage had started to make her way towards the doors from whence she’d came when one of the King’s perfumed courtiers leaned over towards him and remarked: “your mage looks terribly old for an inferni — I thought that they all died before reaching adulthood.”

Kithri could not see the King smirk from her vantage, but she was certain that she could hear it in his voice as he spoke. She paused before the doors, glaring at the wood as if it were responsible for her continued presence in the reception hall, rather than the King who spoke at her back.

“Most die young — mine is a rarity. She is not without her own damage, unfortunately...they do all destroy themselves in the end. Mage, come back here. Show us the scars you’ve collected.”

A chill ran down Kithri’s spine at the request, and she felt her stomach sink as she slowly turned on her heel and made her way back into the heart of the room. Coming to a halt in the middle of the space, she uttered in a tone too icy to be appropriate: “they are covered by my clothing, Your Grace.”

Guffawing, the King waved a dismissive hand at her, and bid: “undo the damn buttons, girl!” Septimus looked about at his retinue, and commented with a sneer: “talented with the flames, this one is, but a bit soft in the head.”

Despite the King’s command to partially undress and display the consequences of her craft, Kithri did nothing for a long moment. She did not trust her hands to move from her sides without flames erupting from her palms and consuming the King — and she was momentarily unable to convince herself of any strong reasoning as to why that was a poor idea. Her wandering eyes caught sight of Septimus’s son seated nearby his father, and she remembered. The young heir sought, for some reason, to cut himself in his father’s image — she would be dead on his orders only moments after Septimus burned. Her death may have been an inevitability, but Kithri refused to die on anything less than her own terms. When she at last unleashed her power, it would not just be Septimus who suffered for it.

Only after repeating an internal chant of in due time in due time in due time did she at last allow her trembling fingers to unclasp the buttons which cinched her sleeves taught against her skin. Pushing up the fabric, Kithri revealed her forearms. The flesh was mottled with scarring: some marks were white and smoothed over with age, while others were raised with an angry-red newness. Kithri could feel the heavy thrum of her heart in her chest as she saw courtiers lean up from their seats to have a better view of her destroyed skin, and inhaled sharply through her nose when the King callously demanded: “I want to see the neck — undo those buttons as well.”

Burning fingers mechanically moved towards her neck, and the forced expression of indifference on Kithri’s face began to tip towards a more telling anger as she pulled apart the fabric concealing her neck. Not unlike her arms, the mage’s neck was similarly covered in scars at all different stages of healing — some were still tender to the touch, so much so that she visibly grimaced as she turned her head and agitated the healing tissue. Similar to the oohs and aahs the mage had earned with her performance, the occupants of the hall ogled her disfigurement with equal intrigue. Kithri endured the forced humiliation for what felt like an eternity before she found that she could trust herself enough to speak, and lifted her eyes to meet the King’s gaze. In her peripheral, she could see the necromancer lingering close by Septimus — she knew that the ancient woman had been watching just as closely as all the others in the room, though Kithri suspected it was not her scars that interested the discomforting woman. She hoped against hope that the elder woman thought the same thing she did: all of this should be burnt to rubble.

“If that is all, Your Grace — might I be excused to my chambers?”

Seeming to have lost interest in his pet, Septimus grunted his affirmative response. Kithri all but ran from the room, and when the heavy doors shut behind her she allowed her expression to melt into one of complete and utter contempt. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the bard — Armel — looking at her. Whatever his expression carried, be it amusement or empathy, she took it to be a mockery.

“Go on, then,” she hissed. “Have a look! And dream something horrible about it tonight.”

ANYTHING ELSE:

Here is a mock blog for Kithri. I’ve filled it with some inspirational posts that fit my understanding of the character. I also have headcanons and a playlist below.

i. headcanons. One of the only creatures in Castle Tyrholm that Kithri shows any outright affection to is Nuria, a nasty tabby cat that serves as a ratter in her quarters within the castle. The cat is missing an ear and is otherwise scarred from numerous fights with other felines and animals within the keep, and has a tendency to hiss and scratch most who come near it. Nuria is sweet with Kithri, which may be because the two are kindred spirits. Kithri uses a gentle hand with the cat, and feeds her table scraps she brings back from the dining hall. As a result of the frequent use of her magic, Kithri often has a smokey, scorched scent clinging to her. Her hair is frizzled at the ends from the extreme heat it is often near, and the majority of her clothes are singed around the wrists. Speaking of her clothing, Kithri often wears dresses and other garments that are long-sleeved and have a high neck. She is not ashamed of the scars she bears — or at least, if someone were to ask her if she was, she would vehemently deny it — but she does not believe that the effect of her magic on her body is anyone else’s business. Kithri has accepted that her scarring is an inevitability of her magic, but she does still suffer some pain from their development across her body. She dutifully applies healing salves to the afflicted areas nightly. She knows that it will not make the marks disappear, but it does afford her some relief from the tenderness and discomfort that comes with newly developed burns and scars. Not unlike the chill that comes from having a sunburn, Kithri often feels cooler than most despite the fact that her skin is warm — or even hot — to the touch. Kithri struggles with sleeping at night, which is largely attributed to racing thoughts and powerful emotions that she struggles to control. Because of this, she has a tendency to sleep during the day time — not for extended periods of time, but she is good for a daily nap or two. It helps that she has a limited interest in interacting with others at the court: she has no qualms with spending her day sleeping rather than out and about. Kithri identifies as bisexual, and has had sexual encounters with both men and women. Sex for Kithri is largely transactional: it is more about lust and release than emotional connection. There are very few sexual memories she looks back on with any sense of nostalgia or affection.

ii. playlist.

I have a playlist posted on Kithri’s mockblog, but I figured I would also just list out the tracks/relevant lyrics here for ease: Prologue: Firebird Suite: The Infernal Dance – Igor Stravinsky. i. Motherless Children – Steve Miller Band (Father do the best he can when the mother is gone, but there’s so many things he just don’t understand) ii. Arsonist’s Lullaby – Hozier (When I was a child, I'd sit for hours, staring into open flame. Something in it had a power, could barely tear my eyes away) iii. Bravado – Lorde (I’m faking glory, lick my lips toss my hair) iv. My blood – Ellie Goulding (And God knows I’m not dying but I breathe now) v. Let the Flames Begin – Paramore (I give it all my oxygen, to let the flames begin) vi. Already Dead – The Pretty Reckless (I’m cold, already dead) vii. Seven Devils – Florence and The Machine (I don’t want your money, I don’t want your crowd, see I have to burn your kingdom down) viii. The Wild One – Suzi Quatro (I’m a red-hot fox, I can take the knocks, I’m a hammer from hell. Honey, can’t you tell?) ix. Destruction – Joywave (Oh my god, there’s no one who can set me right. I’ve been sent to torch the palace down in broad daylight) x. Whore of Babylon – Zheani (I’m naked, dancing frustrated, the brighter flame has you faded) Epilogue: Concerto L’estate RV 315 (The Four Seasons: Summer.) – Antonio Vivaldi.

Thank you so much for reading through all of this. I appreciate your time, and hope for the opportunity to take part in what I think will be a really amazing group! If you opt for another applicant, I would love any feedback you have!

p.s. - i’m just gonna leave this display of Kithri Energy here:

#accepted #accepted: the hierophant

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