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marqmywordsx · 3 years ago

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I Won’t Stop Loving You

Yandere!Inumaki x Reader

Warnings: Somnophilia, non con/ dub con (use of cursed speech), possessive tendencies, a touch of stalking, a lil blood, (character has been aged up-5 years after high school)

WC: 1.6K

a/n: Welcome to my very first Jjk fic ever. I… I don’t know what came over me except for the fact that I found out my new kink is Somnophilia and it just WORKS for Inumaki. I honestly don’t know what the fuck I’m doing anymore but I hope y’all enjoy it.

Love me.

It doesn’t work that way.

At least that’s what he tells himself as he stands over your slumbering body. You’d tiptoed to his room in the dead of night eager for sleep. Your luscious lips curled into a desperate pout to ask him a favor.

“Please Toge, I haven’t had a good sleep in ages,” you whine, or more so beg him.

Toge doesn’t like using his cursed speech on friends, especially not on you. And when he orders people to sleep, it’s deep, almost like death. But the way you’re looking at him now, big giant pleading eyes, long lashes, dark circles staining the many creases folded beneath your bottom lashes, there’s no way he can refuse you.

Tonight is different. Tonight he’s made up his mind.

He nods once, unzips his jacket to expose his delicate pink lips. He flicks his tongue over them, staring into your eyes as he holds your face between his large hands and commands, “Sleep.”

You fall limp in his arms and he pushes your hair away from your face. You’re so beautiful. You’re at peace and Toge’s the perfect friend as he lays you in bed.

Toge’s been in love with you since high school. And 5 years later, when you’re both skilled sorcerers purging evil from the world, his adoration for you stays embedded deep in his heart. There’s just something about the way you read his body language and know exactly what it is he’s thinking—or perhaps not exactly. If only he could communicate just how much he craves you.

How irritating it was to witness other men peer at you, your perfect body, your plump lips, the way your pants fit around the curve of your ass. None of them knew you were his. Your wandering eye didn’t help either. He saw the way you looked at Fushiguro.

It’s Toge’s love for you that spurs his final decision. He watches your chest rise and fall softly, the wrinkles in the large sleep shirt you’re wearing rippling in the pale moonlight. There’s a bruise on your upper thigh, half hidden by the hem of fabric drowning you but Toge can see it. He knows exactly where it came from even though you were unsure.

He’d tapped it a few days ago, eyes wide and worried, inquiring about the source. Beside him, you flipped the page of your book nonchalantly before flicking your eyes down to the contusion and furrowing your brow.

“Hmm? Oh that. I… I actually don’t remember. Maybe I ran into a table or something. You know how clumsy I am.”

How he bathed in the beauty that was your soft smile, and reconciled the twitter pated beats of his out of control heartbeat at your gentle chuckle when he flashed you a disapproving glare. It almost made him lose focus, like the night he gave you that bruise.

He couldn’t help it, you’d felt so nice. Deep wonderful breaths as you laid dreaming of a wonderland where you were the queen and all your subjects existed to please you. Of course he can’t know for sure what you were dreaming, but he can imagine it had to be something of that nature if he took your unconscious moans into consideration.

His fingers dug too deeply into your thighs when you blessed him with your dribbling cunt in the wee hours of the night. He’d buried his face down below, licked gently at the little bud nestled in the nest of coily hair. Plunged his tongue inside you to fuck and feast on your pussy as a delicacy. You laid above him dreaming, blissfully unaware of his presence as whimpers dripped from your lips like a leaky faucet in the night.

How could he have kept control when the very idea of you not knowing it was he who made you feel this good, his tongue you pushed yourself further onto for more of the delicious ecstasy you encountered? He’d let a few groans of his own slip through, and a few times you almost woke. The bruise was the only evidence of his nightly activities and he was pleased to know you hadn’t remembered it when he inquired about it.

Tonight that wouldn’t be an issue. Tonight you’d sleep well and deep. But tonight he would have you and make you his.

“Love me.” He whispers the command in the dark. Already he can feel the painful itch in his throat. His brow darkens in frustration. Perhaps cursed speech doesn’t work on a sleeping person?

“Open your legs.”

Your legs part like the gates barring heaven and Toge’s eyes widen in shock. Perhaps you would love him when you woke up. For now, he’ll let you sleep. He knows how exhausted you are.

I’ll take good care of you, he thinks, running a finger down your tender cheek. He sheds his clothes, swiftly and quietly. His cock thumps eagerly against his toned abs and he climbs over your motionless frame. He pulls your sleep shirt over your head and is pleased to see you don’t don a bra.

He watches your nipples in the cool air of the room, a delectable sight he’s only ever dreamed of. Your long curly lashes flutter when he bends down to flick his tongue against one. Nimble fingers skate across your smooth skin, tracing every scar and beauty mark to commit them to memory.

He moves down to your hair swept lips, now dribbling with slick from his eager but sensual touch. You were made for him, and this is all the evidence he needs. He slowly draws a finger down between them, fingers the entrance to your heated heaven—his main course.

Then he pulls his finger away to examine the way it glistens in the moonlight before putting it to his lips and tasting you. His eyes roll to the back of his head as he savors you and he decides he can no longer wait.

He positions himself between your thighs, lining his thick cock head up with your entrance. He rubs it tenderly over your clothed clit, eliciting a sweet little squeak and breathy gasp from your lovely plump lips. Rolling your underwear slowly down your thighs, he sighs at the marvelous view before him.

The precious seconds of euphoria Toge experiences when he eases into your pussy for the first time are the most precious gift he could ever be bestowed. He’d pray to any god that would listen to have the experience played on loop over and over. His love is finally cemented when he bottoms out inside you, a grateful moan escaping him.

“Love me.”

He pulls out of your cunt and instantly misses the way you feel around him. He looks down on you, insatiable desire gnawing in his belly. He drags his hips slowly, cock stuttering as it pushes back into your tight heat. He can tell from your clenching, you like the way he feels too. It’s involuntary, so why, why won’t you love him?

“Love me.”

He pulls back out again so he can see the tip of his cock stretch you wider than your cunt is used to and push deeper inside to spread your walls and take all of him. This is a sight he wants branded into every fold and crease of his brain, a sight he’ll never forget.

“Love me!”

Your whimpers have become moans now, long gasping moans as he sets a pace that he’s no longer able to keep slow and gentle. He pounds into you, grunting with every slap of his balls against your slick covered thighs. You’re so compliant and obedient, arching your back off the bed in order to feel more of him despite your deep slumber. His fingers leave indentations in the sides of your hips, soon to be dark bruises as he clenches his teeth and drags along your velvety walls.

“Love me, please.”

He hardly recognizes his own voice, trembling from ecstasy or maybe the swelling emotion of believing the more he commands you, the more you’ll adore him. His throat is raw now, the salty copper taste of blood coating his damaged throat. He ignores it, coughing between the chorus of your high pitched moans and squeals, the pap pap pap of your hips meeting his balls; a symphony of sounds detailing the most intense love story anyone could ever witness.

Toge continues climbing the euphoric mountain, quickly reaching the peak to plunge willingly over the other side. Blood oozes from his mouth and onto your naked body as he pants like an injured animal over you. He can tell you’re about to come and he’s amazed you’re still seemingly asleep. Your legs start to tremble, you clench so hard around him he almost bites a chunk of his tongue off.

He doesn’t just fuck you, he ravages you, repeating over and over “Love me, Love me, Love me, Love me! Fuck!”

The ghostly reverb of his activated curse hollows away at your mind, yet you stay asleep and dreaming. He’s intent on pouring all his love into you. It’s the only way, he’s sure of it.

His hips stutter, and then he stops, cum spilling inside you in waves of creamy white heat. He tucks his head into your neck, blood stained kisses oozing down the planes of your body. And before his mind goes blank from the pleasure he whispers to you.

“Cum.”

Your body convulses, back arching up as your cunt tightens, and your eyes shoot open, screeching in what he hopes is pleasure and not betrayal or terror. You milk him dry as you flop back down on the bed and amazingly fall back into a quiet slumber.

All good things must come to an end. It’s a saying Toge’s familiar with. It’s what he tells himself every night he visits you. He looks down at your ruined body, smothered in bruises quickly darkening on your skin, blood, sweat, and copious amounts of white milky cum he’s pumped into your cunt.

It’s finally done. You’re his. And for now it's enough for it to be an unspoken secret. One day you'll come around to the inevitable conclusion that you love him too. One day you'll beg for him, and you'll be awake and needy, adoration pooling in your eyes and core.

But until then...

He closes his eyes, reaching for a bottle of cough syrup he stashed in the side table drawer. He spends the next few minutes cleaning you and putting your clothes back on. And when you look almost as normal as you did when the night began, he kisses your forehead and mutters the last command of the night.

“Forget.”

#Inumaki x reader #toge inumaki x reader #Inumaki #tw:somnophilia #tw: noncon #tw: dubcon #tw: yandere #🌻.Toge Inumaki #🌻.marquie writes

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honestlywrites · 3 years ago

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Anemone | Viktor x Magic! Reader (Part Three)

Lumen AU credited to my wife: @meliapis

Summary: Being away from Viktor has only thrown you into your research, but something is still missing. Despite your efforts to successfully create healing magic, you’re still missing a key component–the energy source.

T/W: Descriptions of severe illness, bruising, and paranoia. Non-descriptive ideas of self harm. Angst with resolution.

A/N: Firstly, I just want to say thank you to everyone who has read. This has been so much fun, creating for y’all. All the comments and reblogs mean a lot. Secondly, a quick shout out to my wife. I know I already credited her but I love her lots and so thank you for creating this wonderful world I’ve been able to tramp around it. And finally, I hope you enjoy! I have more stuff coming out soon so this won’t be the last you see of me.

Part One / Part Two / Masterlist

Primrose, also known as primula vulgaris, is a flower that comes in many different colors with a distinct yellow coloring in the middle. The flower represents a multitude of things–youth, safety and protection, femininity–but in the Victorian flower language, it means “I can’t live without you.”

After a month with Viktor, you had almost forgotten what loneliness felt like. What eating lunch in your lab sounded like, only your plants to keep you company in the silence. Your walk home every day felt like a chore rather than finally leaving work and time felt nonexistent. Knowing someone for a month doesn’t do this to anyone, but meeting your other half–truly the person with a part of your soul–and then them choosing to leave you was loneliness.

At first, you gave him space. A few days went by, then a week, and suddenly you realize that you’d lost him for the amount of time you had known him. His lumen constantly glowed dimly, creating space between the two of you. He never came to find a home in your shoulder, nor did he gently nudge your cheek whenever you were sleepy to remind you to get into bed or to lay down. You wanted to chase him, sit at the lab doors and wait for him to leave just to get a single word in, but deep inside you knew he was better off–or at least that’s what you told yourself.

Even when you were at your loneliest when your mother had died and you had no living family to rely on, you always had him floating nearby. He was your companion, a reminder that even if no one around you wanted your company, he always did. Now that he was gone, it was like a ghost following you around constantly and you didn’t know what to do. So, you dove into your passion–research.

After the situation with the plant, you began burying yourself in old books about runes, coming upon a couple of observations. Their color greatly correlated with the type of magic that was summoned or manifested. Green, for healing and life transferrence. Blue, for evocation and animation. And red, harming magic. These three, you had already tried and if you had more time and focus, there was a world of different magicks waiting–but healing was all you could ever focus on.

Sighing, you sit in the middle of your lab once again, stray notes surrounding you in all directions. It was the energy that was the biggest issue, a human body required incredible amounts of energy to fuel and heal oneself and you only had access to a greenhouse full of different plants. Simply put, healing magic, while possible, was incredibly taxing on not only the healer but for whatever power source being utilized. If you could figure out energy on a larger scale to power the healing magic, then you had the potential to cure Viktor entirely… only if he wanted it.

“Well, how much energy can a plant really produce?” you ask aloud to yourself, standing from the mess and looking around for a scalpel. You could test it on yourself first, a small cut was easy enough. Taking a step forward, your foot lands on a piece of paper, sliding underneath you. Swiftly, you fall back and feel the air get knocked from your lungs, causing you to cough as your back begins to ache.

“Ow,” you mumble, watching as Viktor’s lumen rushes over. Your heart skips a beat in your chest as he floats down and you feel a lump in your throat, tears welling up in your eyes. There had been minimal interactions between the two of you so seeing the concern warmed your heart in a bittersweet way.

Standing up, you can feel the aching in your back and the beginnings of bruises forming. You walk over to the reflection in the window and pull your shirt up slightly to feel the tender skin. That was one way to test how much plants were capable of healing–you didn’t need a scalpel after all. Looking around at the mess of papers and plants set out, you grab a medium-sized palm that is worth sacrificing and drag it into the middle of the room. Before you even attempt to summon healing, you pluck the copper ball out of the air and place him back into a latched box that you had found to ensure that he wouldn’t get swept away in the magic.

Positioning yourself in front of the plant, you take a deep breath in, ignoring the sharp pain in your back, as you focus and draw out the runes. This process was practiced, it was familiar after weeks and weeks of trial and error. You easily envision drawing the life of this plant into you as you finish drawing out the runes, weightlessness taking over for a moment as green light bursts from the circle. As you float in the air, motes of green light get sucked into your body, surrounding you in a blanket of healing. Instead of imbuing you with energy, the throbbing on your back lessens, completely disappearing as the plant fades into ash. You let out a sigh of relief as your feet touch the ground.

Walking back over to the window, you pull up your shirt to poke at the bruising, feeling the pain almost completely disappear. If a singular plant could barely heal your bruising, then you couldn’t imagine how many plants would be needed to heal severe internal damage. It feels hopeless, especially because you don’t know how extensive his sickness is and how far it has progressed in his body. You groan and plop back down on your stool before Viktor’s lumen shoots out of the box, barreling into you once again.

“Ow!” he floats a foot away, almost staring at you pointedly. “I know I did magic, you don’t have to remind me. I’m not going to stop just because you’re away.”

You stare back at the dark copper ball of light and feel yourself wanting to reach out and hold it close to pretend, if just for a second, that everything is okay. That Viktor would be waiting for you to eat lunch on the bay window. That after work, the two of you would walk to either of your apartments to eat dinner and talk about your findings. But it wasn’t. And when you reach out, the ball keeps its distance.

You turn back to your desk, letting your hand fall as you scan through the notes before you hear a loud thump hit the floor. Turning to look over, you see Viktor’s lumen on the floor of your lab, his color barely there.

“Viktor?” you fall to your knees, stool clattering to the floor behind you, and scoop him up in your hands. “What’s going on, are you okay?”

He thrums weakly, his copper light flickering as he weighs down your hands. Something had to have happened, he was either severely ill or in danger.

You gently place him on your shoulder, holding him as if he will shatter if you grip too tight, and rush out the doors, sprinting toward his lab. First, you check the lab he shares with Jayce, the one he’s usually in and experimenting on new technology into the night. Pushing the doors open, the room is devoid of life, quiet and empty.

Taking no time to delay, you rush to Viktor’s personal lab up the stairs around the corner. Mostly full of chalkboards and books, it was rarely used for any aggressive experimentation and mostly a place of peace where he could work in quiet.

Working through the two protective doors, you feel your heart stop when you find Viktor on the floor. Without any time to waste, you scream for help as you kneel down beside him. Calling for Jayce, for an enforcer, anyone. You wrap your arms around Viktor and pull him up into your arms, his bones digging into you and the gauntness of his face seeming to resemble a skeleton. Pausing to breathe, you don’t hear anyone coming and reach over to his wrist, feeling his pulse weaken. The only thing that thrums in your mind is magic that remains from before, energy that hums under your skin as Viktor lies unconscious in front of you.

Never have you tested this before on a power source of your size, plants are easy because they’re limited and disposable. Your own energy, your physical body, was different and when you had tried this before on Viktor–it almost killed you. You can see your lumen, bright green, worriedly hovering by Viktor’s cheek as you lean back to sit on your feet, making your decision quickly. Reaching your hands forward, you begin to draw out the runes in the air, green light illuminating the scene around you. It’s all you have to give him.

Envisioning physically giving your life to him, the energy begins to drain from your body as the circle of runes completes and spins like a record, creating a weightless bubble around the both of you. Your body floats alongside his into the air, green streams of light flowing from you into him like wires or strings. Inside, your heart rate slows as his chest begins to pick up and you think it’s done–your life for his–but something lashes out like a filament of plasma and interrupts the connection. Your vision begins to tunnel, slowly fading to black, as you only see the thrumming bright blue of a light glowing atop the desk.

You wake up, gasping for air and scouring the area for Viktor. It takes a moment for your eyes to adjust, but Viktor comes into your vision, motionless in front of you. His nasal cannula is hooked up to what you assume is a tank of oxygen and watch the slow rise and fall of his chest.

All you can think about was the fact that the rune circle didn’t work.

Besides you, Jayce sits in his chair–head in his hands as he stares down at the ground.

“Jayce?” you ask, sitting up and feel a sharp pain in your neck from sleeping on the chair for too long. “What happened?”

“You’re awake,” he sits up in shock, glancing at Viktor before turning to you. “We found the two of you passed out on the floor–you were fine, obviously, but Viktor… he’s not doing too well.”

“Is is the cough? I thought it was better,” you insist–the healing should have delayed it at least a little longer, or long enough for you to figure out how to harvest enough energy to save him.

“It was, but ever since the two of you…” he pauses and his face scrunches as he seems to find the right words. “Ever since you stopped seeing each other, I guess he just stopped taking care of himself. He started coughing up blood a couple days ago.”

“You didn’t take him to a doctor?” you ask, frowning. Anger builds inside of you, like a pressurized container waiting to pop. Perhaps it was the tiredness, or the anxiety, but Jayce was grating on you and all you could think about was him not being there for his friend.

“No, we’ve been a bit preoccupied with other things–”

“And where were you?” you hear the wheeze of the machine churning out air, aiding Viktor in his breathing. Jayce’s lumen shines a deep rose-gold, happy and content on his shoulder. His clothes look thrown on, hair mussed and there’s a sort of glow coming from him as well. You could only guess what he was up to before this. Rage threatens to bubble over as your hands clench besides you, your knuckles turning white. You feel the lifeless ball sitting on your shoulder, its color nothing but a dim copper and it weighs down on you as a reminder.

“Where was I when?” he asks, frowning. His hazel eyes gaze back at you in confusion.

“Where were you when this happened? Shouldn’t you have known?” you stand up from your chair, looking down at the large man in front of you. “He was coughing up blood, Jayce. Shouldn’t that have been an indicator that something was wrong? That you should have stopped focusing on Hextech for one second to help him out.”

“I was busy!” Jayce stands to meet you, his stature towering over. “With progress day and my new position on the council, I’ve had a lot on my plate. You can’t blame me for Viktor not taking care of himself.”

“You should have at least tried,” despite the exhaustion that seems to weigh your body down, the anger that builds up makes your body shake with rage as red light begins to glow from your hands–threatening to lash out at Jayce. His perfect lumen, shining brightly on his shoulder, the position on the council–all the power he could have ever wanted to actually make a difference in the world. For what? Jayce would be nothing without Viktor by his side.

For a moment, you contemplate letting it go and letting the fury consume you in red tendrils of harm and anger, but a familiar voice utters your name and you whip your head around to see Viktor with his eyes open.

“I’m here,” you whisper and rush over to the side of his bed, sitting on the plush mattress. Jayce comes over, sitting at his chair besides Viktor, glancing at you nervously.

“Jayce?” Viktor asks, his amber eyes looking around slightly dazed.

“Viktor, the doctors, um,” Jayce’s voice breaks slightly. “They said you’re–”

Viktor looks away from his friend, staring blankly at the ceiling.

“How much time do I have?” his voice is monotone, devoid of emotion and your chest tightens. Tears well in your eyes at the lost time, the time you could have been spending with him rather than working away or being mad at the fact that he left. Even if the healing didn’t stick, it was never about the power–only giving Viktor everything that you had to offer.

“The doctors give you two weeks,” Jayce whispers, staring down at the ground. “Maybe a little more.”

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, reaching out gingerly for his hand underneath the blanket. You expect him to pull away, to grimace and demand you leave, but he takes his hand out from the covers and intertwines them with yours. Besides his head, your lumen pops out from underneath his pillow, swirling with red and green light, and burrows into the fabric by his shoulder.

“Don’t be sorry,” his voice is thick with exhaustion, but his accent comforts you–you hadn’t heard from him in what felt like a lifetime. “You didn’t do anything.”

“But I can,” your eyes meet his and his irises burn with a deep copper fire. “You know I can.”

“I’m not going to let you risk your life for mine, it’s not worth it,” he shakes his head and you can see Jayce look up at the two of you.

“What do you mean?” he asks, perking up at the nondescript talk.

“You didn’t tell him?” you frown as you look down at Viktor. Of all the people, you’d think Jayce would be the first to know that you had magic, but it warms your chest a little to know he’d keep that secret even after he left.

“I didn’t tell anybody. You hid it for a reason and I understand that–I would not just betray your trust like that,” while his voice is weak, Viktor’s composure is strong and he squeezes your hand gently as he speaks. A chill envelopes you as the paranoia tries to set in. Inhaling deeply, focusing on the way your lungs expand in your chest, you attempt to calm the panic that threatens to take hold of you. You were safe, even if you told Jayce. He wouldn’t parade you around like a novelty, Viktor would make sure of that.

“I have magic,” you look over at Jayce as he glances between the two of you, processing the information. “I have magic and I had been using it to try and heal Viktor for the month I was with him. Obviously it didn’t stick, but… I’ve been working on it.”

“Working on it how? How could you keep this from me–I mean, I understand, but do you know how revolutionary this could be?” Viktor glares at Jayce from his position on the bed and he quickly closes his mouth before more words try to escape. “Sorry.”

“I know how to save you,” you look down at Viktor, the silence surrounding you floating like a fog. “I’ve been doing research and I know how to use healing magic without hurting myself, I just need enough energy. A plant can barely heal a bruise so, I don’t know where we would find that type of power.”

Looking up at Jayce, you can see the cogs in both of their heads spinning. This was what they were good at, what they were made for, and so this was exactly the kind of science experiment that they could solve.

“That’s easy–the hexcore,” Jayce pipes up, speaking as if the solution was simple.

“What’s a hexcore?” you frown as Viktor attempts to sit up in the bed, pushing himself up from the mattress.

“It’s hextech that evolves and reacts with organic matter–it was the matrix in my lab that I was working on when you found me. The magic inside is like the gemstone, in its purest form” he responds, sitting up against the headboard. “It’s incredibly volatile, but it could work–especially if you’ve figured out how to channel energy in a more sustainable way.”

You try to speak again, but Viktor cuts you off with his glare.

“But only if you can do it in a sustainable way–I seem to remember an instance when healing me meant your immanent ruin,” he add and you shake your head.

“That was the thing that stopped me from healing you in the lab. It lashed out and ruined the rune circle,” you admit and Viktor’s eyes widen in shock at the attempt. “It didn’t work though, and if it’s similar to the gemstones and you think it has enough energy, then I can heal you.”

Viktor stares back at you and the three of you sit in silence, Jayce glancing between the two of you for a moment before setting off to let the two of you deal with the tension.

“I’ll be back with the hexcore. Don’t break anything,” he quickly makes his way to the french doors, shutting them as he leaves. Staring back at Viktor, you hold your ground as you feel the grating stare begin to weigh on you.

“I can do it, I know I can. It’s all I’ve been doing for the past three weeks,” you feel Viktor’s lumen roll off your shoulder, dipping down to go meet yours for the first time in weeks.

“I’ve seen it, my little flower is quite green now a days,” he gently cups your lumen in hand, its usual blue color beginning to bleed through the other magic that had come to surface. “But I don’t want you to unnecessarily risk your life to save mine–you shouldn’t have tried to heal me in the lab, that was reckless.”

Your eyes flutter down to look at your lumens, cuddled up by the pillow and shining brightly as they brush each other. Viktor’s shines a tad brighter than before, amber bursting through the dull and dark cloud he had been in for the past couple weeks.

“I didn’t want to lose you,” your eyes meet his and he melts slightly, his features softening. He reaches out and gently grasps your cheek in his hand, rubbing his thumb over your cheek.

Even with the simplest of touches, your heart fills in your chest at the feeling of him grounding you–of him being here with you. In your mind, everything is decided, but you can’t help the grasp the demon of terror has on your back. Even as you sit, Viktor caressing your cheek, the fear that he’ll crumble away into nothing seems to squeeze your heart. And yet, with him here–the world appears a little less scary–and so you push through the sinking feeling. You had to be honest with him, it was the only way he’d understand.

“When I was little,” you start, pushing down the fear and the vine of anxiety that threatens to surround your throat. “I killed a man by simply touching him on the shoulder because he broke into my house.”

Looking up, you try to gauge his reaction, but his features remain calm as he gestures for you to continue.

“My mom, who found me an hour later, took me in her arms even though I screamed she would die, and told me that I couldn’t tell anyone or else I would be in danger. So I didn’t, but I couldn’t help my curiosity. And after years of research, I never thought it possible to understand any of this until you came into my life,” you smile slightly up at him as he listens. “I’m so sorry I didn’t tell you, I thought I was protecting myself. But in doing so, I broke your trust. Now, I tell you, honestly, that I have figured out healing magic–just like you theorized. Different colors of magic mean different things, and even if you don’t want to see me again after this, I promise I’m not being dishonest about it.”

His hand is cool against your cheek and you lean into it, placing your hand on top of his. Hot tears stream down your cheeks. You had missed this, missed him. Before, it felt like pieces of you were fractured, never to be found again, but now they were whole. Viktor leans forward and you close your eyes to brace yourself for a scolding, but when his lips press against your forehead, they flutter open to see him smile slightly.

“I am sorry. For not taking the time to understand. But now I see all of you,” he lets go of your cheek and pats the place next to him on the bed. You scoot over and lean against him, his arm wrapping around your waist. Instinctively, your head rests on his shoulder as the tears drip down your cheeks onto his shirt.

“I have always been alone, much like you. So I understand the fear of letting strangers in–Jayce is my only friend, next to you of course,” a laugh bubbles out of your chest and you lean into him, feeling the rise and fall of his chest. “I apologize for not being honest. I feel as if I had been honest from the beginning about noticing your magic, then maybe our month of solitude could have been avoided, no?”

“Maybe, but perhaps absence makes the heart grow fonder–or something like that,” you mumble and he chuckles.

“I have always been fond of you,” he states.

You look up at him as he glances down, your noses brushing. Your eyes trail the curve of his face once more and it feels like you’re looking at him for the first time. Even as gaunt as he is, you cannot deny the beauty of his speckled face and the way his brown hair curls down around his face. If you leaned closer, you could brush your lips together. Tilting your head forward a bit, you attempt to press your lips to his as the french doors swing open in front of you to reveal Jayce holding a glowing blue cube.

“Oh great! You made up,” he states cheekily as you quickly pull away from Viktor, a flush warming your cheeks.

“Is that it?” you ask, diverting the conversation.

“Yep, the hexcore in all its glory,” Jayce nods as his lumen swirls around his arm dramatically, hovering around his hand. You slide off the bed, walking over to pick it up. When you touch the core, it glows brightly as it reacts to your presence and produces feedback like a circuit. The hair on your arms stands up from the way that the true kinetic energy seems to run through your veins.

“How do you want me?” Viktor asks, and you look up to see him staring back nervously.

“I think if you lay down, it will be easier on you. I’ll do it from here,” you mumble and turn to look at Jayce, just standing and observing. “Stand back, okay? I’ve never done this with anyone around but myself.”

He nods, going to stand in the corner. In front of you, Viktor scoots to the middle of the bed and sits, preparing to lay back. As he does so, he quickly leans forward and gently grabs your head, pulling you in for a peck on the lips before pulling back. The kiss is fleeting, only a brush, but your cheeks heat up either way and you can see his pale skin turning rosy as well. Out of the corner of your eye, your lumens flash with a bright light and a smile paints your face.

“For good luck,” he grins and lays back on the bed as you clear your head in preparation. Jayce plucks the other two lumens out of the air to hold them, in case anything goes awry.

Inhaling deeply, you clench your jaw and focus on drawing out the runes. You told yourself that this was easy, it was simple because of all the times praciticed in the lab on plants. These runes were memorized and you had nothing to fear–there was no room for doubt now. Drawing them out carefully, one by one, you can feel the magic of the hexcore thrumming through your veins. You feed on it, drawing it into your body and utilizing the energy instead of your own. It feels like pure electricity travelling through you but with no pain, as if it’s meant to be there. Quickly, the runes begin to swirl as you finish them off.

The runes circle quicker and quicker, picking up speed and you look down to see your body glowing a bright green as the usual weightless feeling takes over. Your feet leave the ground and you watch Viktor float into the air as well, looking around at the manifestations curiously for the first time.

You feel the hexcore leave your hand, watching as it travels into the center of the summoning circle. For a moment, it feels like time stops but the second the circle stops moving, the core shatters into motes of possibility, floating around the room and drawing into Viktor. It looks like green diamonds glittering in the air, all travelling toward him as they sink through his skin and muscle and into his lungs, rebuilding them cell by cell. As quickly as it happens, you fall a few feet down onto the ground, your knees hitting the floor. Viktor slams into the bed, bouncing slightly as you quickly get up to your feet and around to his side.

Your hands shake as his chest fails to rise and fall, Jayce coming over to the other side with his hand on his face in shock. Viktor’s not moving. You crawl to his side, placing your hands on his shoulder and lifting him up slightly to try and see if he is conscious, to feel for his pulse and his breath. For a second, you are convinced he’s dead–that you killed him just like that man, but his chest rises suddenly as he opens his eyes.

“Did it work?” he asks and you shake your head, falling down on the bed besides him.

“Don’t do that ever again,” you gently punch his shoulder as he continues to test out his breathing, his chest rising and falling easily without any issue.

“I’m sure there’s some test we could run later, but I feel fine now. In fact, I feel fine enough to do this,” he rises on his knees and leans down, pressing his lips against yours. This time, it’s more than just a brush of your lips, it’s pure adoration. His skin is warm against yours as he cups your cheek, pulling you closer to him. Your eyes prickle, not with tears of sadness, but with tears of joy as you kiss him back–reaching your hands up to tangle in his messy brown hair.

“Well you look healed,” Jayce comments, moving toward the doorway.

You pull away slightly to glance over at Jayce, already halfway out the door as he waves and closes it behind him. You let out a laugh and shake your head as Viktor presses his forehead to yours, staring down at you. Your noses brush, and he looks so alive, so youthful for the first time since you’ve met him. His eyes glow bright golden with joy as you gaze up at him.

“Nemůžu bez tebe žít,” he whispers softly and presses another kiss to your mouth.

“What does that mean?” you ask breathlessly.

“I cannot live without you.”

#viktor x reader #viktor x you #viktor arcane x reader #viktor arcane #arcane #arcane fanfiction #arcane netflix #arcane series #arcane league of legends #jayce talis #jayce talis arcane #jayce arcane #reader insert #soulmate au #soulmate #arcane x reader #arcane x you #lumen au

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eloise175 · 4 months ago

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LMFAOOOO CAUGHT IN 4K READING ILLEGALY AND LYING ABOUT IT SKSKSKS

First of all, for a supposed avid fan they can’t even spell his name correctly, the pirated translations are really coming through lmao, it’s Winter not Vinter

Keep on pretending they read the novel when in reality they probably saw some whacky badly written spoilers here and there and ran with them

And listen, I’ve been there too, times are hard and not everyone can afford to spend on so many chapters and series. But at least stfu about it if you know you’re reading illegally—which means shitty translation, because YOU ARE NOT a reliable source of information. Do your research at the very least before talking, google is free

HILARIOUS how they claim that Callisto is irrelevant to the plot when he was probably the biggest reason Penelope managed to defeat the Laila and he alone was part of 80/90% of the plot. Y’all forget that this man supported her throughout the entire story and believed her unconditionally without question from the start when all the others still gave her the stink eye

Without him, we wouldn’t even have gotten the hunting tournament part because he personally vouched for Penelope’s ban to be lifted. Without him stepping in she would’ve still been under ban, which means no trial arc either. How boring would that have been??

He helped her during Soleil too, if he hadn’t intervened Penelope could have died, same for the bear during the hunting competition

The coming of age ceremony, its aftermath and how Callisto was the only one who fully defended Penelope during the investigation without questioning her actions, when the others still weren’t sure whether to blame her or not, this all while she was on her deathbed mind you

Then he came to her aid—running to her from the fucking frontlines, while she was at sea on a ship because he needed to make sure she was alright and wanted to be by her side

When this man comforted her after she had a breakdown about the game and her real world, how he held and consoled her telling her that he will help her do whatever she wanted

How he fought a dragon and almost got killed in the process just to ensure Penelope would achieve her goal. Callisto was ready to give up on his life and let her go if only it meant that she’d be happy—he would have died if Penelope hadn’t used the dragon’s fangs on him by the way

Bland my ass, without Callisto the story would have been so boring, you guys are reaching lmfao, it’s so pathetic. Not to mention he’s one of the best MLs we’ve gotten so far in rofan manhwas, his personality is top notch—just say you don’t like flavor and move on

How about y’all actually learn to read instead of being uninformed and ignorant on what really happened 😂 delusion doesn’t pay the bills. Do us all a favor and learn how to be a proper hater if you’re gonna hate, embarrassing sksksks

Massive L on stealing someone else’s take but making it worse, it’s giving ‘can I copy your homework, I will change it up’ hevjsnsks goofy ahh shit ✋

Y’all are the reason I despise so vehemently some of the characters, again, you’re ruining it for everyone else please stop yapping <3

Btw this is coming from someone who has the entirety of the officially licensed novel unlocked on Tapas, I’ll do a reread soon now that I have time again just to spite y’all hehjsnsk

I’m sorry Sheep that you had to see that first hand, literally traumatizing *blank stare into the void*

Rant time again!

I wrote this a long time ago but I did not believe that these cockroaches, due to their lack of intelligence, would come to steal my own arguments and change them to their degenerate perspective:

With this, it is clear to me that these people are probably here on Tumblr too, so I'll say it again: Fuck you and your lack of reading comprehension!

Callisto is equally important to Winter in the plot, and throughout the novel that was made clear. Callisto has literally been fighting the Laila clan since his youth and that is why Laila chose to brainwashing him and marry him, so that he would stop interfering in her plans and to have access to the dragon's fang. That you only read spoilers and claim to have read the novel is something else apart, and it only proves that you are just as illiterate.

The one who is not relevant at all is Eckles, because that suffering that they mention in the conversation has no place in Laila's fight like you said, so stop saying ignorant things!

It's disgusting that I have to share Winter with these kinds of fans, even Winter has more class than these kinds of people.

#lmfao omg #y’all are annoying #Callisto solos stay mad #callisto regulus #villains are destined to die #vadd #(non official tags):#death is the only ending for a villainess #death is the only ending for the villainess

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navstuffs · 3 years ago

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Angst headcanons where team gets captured and reader makes the hard decision

Part 2

Pairing: adrian chase x gn!reader

author's note: trying some angst and this will probably have a second part so if y’all want to send me if you want good or bad ending, i will be up for it. based on this prompt.

Warning: VIOLENCE, SWEARING, SELF SACRIFICE, BLOOD, TORTURE, ANGST, PLEASE DO NOT READ IF NOT SUITABLE FOR YOU

One day, the mission is against an ex-mercenary boyfriend of yours. Amanda Waller is tired of his shit and demands him to be taken down. You are the best source of information since he trained you to be the best agent.

You don't tell the team but he was abusive towards you. You were also cheated a few times so you are ready to take him down.

He is very strong and knowledgeable and helped you train self-defense training and martial arts. His team is composed of 3 other people including a woman that has the power to cure people, and the other two are very skilled fighters that you considered family.

The plan: you call him, set up a meeting to try to make amends, capturing him right there. Adrian doesn't like that you will expose yourself but it's the easiest way to do it

Your ex accepts the meeting and seems very happy to see you. He looks even stronger, almost as tall as Peacemaker. The team stays in stand-by ready to attack

Your ex tells you how Amanda Waller has a bound on his head and how last month he had killed 4 assholes who went after him, that he considered his friends

"Like you are doing now."

"Sorry?"

"Attracting me here to try to take me to that bitch. Since when you are Amanda Waller's lap dog?"

Before you can reach to your gun he punches you, making the world spin. Soon the restaurant is full of screams and there is shooting around you

Your mouth is bleeding but you soon get up and notice Peacemaker and Vigilante are going against your ex. Emilia is fighting against the other 2 guys and one soon comes after you

They are as skilled as you, younger than you but much faster. You hear Emilia’s head hit against the floor and she remains on the floor, unconscious. You are fighting them two alone now

"I would never expect you to betray us. We were like family" one of them says before you take him down

You can hear the fight behind you and glance at the moment Peacemaker is being kicked across the wall.

Your ex attention goes towards Adrian and you know Adrian can't win that fight.

You take the 2nd guy down at the moment Adrian is defeated. Your worried face tells your ex what he needs to know and he twists Adrian's arm until he breaks it

His scream pierces through your heart. You close your hand in fists and attack your ex, Murn screaming in your ear to not do it but it's too late.

Your ex stops your attacks easily but you still pull up a fight. When you fall, he keeps hitting you until you lose consciousness.

When you wake up, you are in your ex's hideout. One of them at least. There is a woman keeping an eye on you with a gun and she watches you with sad eyes. You recognize her as the healing lady.

The whole team is tied to chairs, including Leota, John and Clemson Murn. Peacemaker has a horrible injury in his belly and seems to be bleeding out, Emilia is still not awake. Your heart is beating fast. Stress doesn’t make you register the pain in your body and face. Think think think.

Adrian still asks you how are you doing even if he has his arm broken. He looks hurt and fragile, his mask off and your heart breaks in a million pieces. You want to apologize, it is your damn fault, but you don't find your voice

Your ex walks in and ignores Murn and Leota's requests to talk. His eyes are sorely on you and he has a knife he gave to you in the past on his hand.

"So. It is up to you, now. You already know what will happen"

You know. You know because you participated in those a lot of times. You ex gave everyone a choice. He was a sadistic bastard but he was fair. The rest of your ex-team watches you with what looked like sad eyes. It could have been disappointment as well. You were their best warrior and now you were soft. Weak. They were your family once as well. You hurt too many people tonight.

The room is silent. Peacemaker murmurs for you to not do anything, you will face this as a team but he is losing blood too fast. Emilia still hasn't woken up, probably with a bad concussion. Adrian is begging you not do it, NOT do it! Your ex watches all of this amused as Adrian turns to him:

“If you insist on touching them, I will hunt you until the deeps of hell. I don’t care where I have to find you, but I will murder you. Slowly so I could enjoy every scream that comes out of your mouth”

“You found yourself a feisty one huh?”

Your ex kicks him on the belly to make him shut up and you make your decision.

"You can have me."

Your ex grins become big as the whole team watches in horror as he gets close to you with your knife. The one he gave to you when you proved yourself worthy.

He cuts your skin deep to write his initial, on your belly. You look at the sky, while he takes his sweet time perfecting his initials. The cuts hurt like hell, but you take it in, whimpering. You won't give to what he wants and you were tortured worse before. It was fine if that is all you had to do to protect Adrian and the others, you’d do it.

The woman starts healing your friends and you hear Chris and Adrian's scream very far away. The pain of cure is always worse than the pain of the injury. Adrian will be fine, you think, as your ex drags down the knife in your belly, making the skin bleed. They will be okay, you think as the tears come down your eyes, they will be okay.

After your ex is done, he appreciates the view of you as his masterpiece. Your hair is glued to your head and you are sweating, breathing heavily. Your belly is burning with the pain. He caresses your cheek and you spit on him, making him slap you so hard making you fall off your chair

Emilia is the last one cured and she, Chris and Adrian are passed out from the healing process. The woman is taken away extremely weak

Your body is broken but your mind isn't. They will be okay. Your ex didn't lie

Your ex grabs you by the back of your neck and starts taking you away. You give a good look to all of them, trying to keep Adrian's face details on your head, apologizing silently to the awake members. You don't know if you will ever see any of them again

Leota screaming your name is the last thing you hear before your ex closes the door. You look around and see the other 2 throwing gasoline over the house. Your heart sinks

"I did what you wanted! That was the deal! Why are you killing them?"

"Circumstances change. We are extremely upset you betrayed us with Amanda Waller's loser team. I wish we could watch them die, but we have no time to lose. Your new training starts now."

You are taken in a car as the flames go high and you can't stop screaming.

#peacemaker fanfics #adrian chase x reader #adrian chase x you #adrian chase #adrian chase fanfics #vigilante x you #vigilante x reader #vigilante fanfics #ANSGT #PLEASE DO NOT READ IF TRIGGERS YOU #but you can choose if you want good ending or not #just send it to me #and please requst good ending lol #jk if you want sadness I WILL GIVE YOU MORE #vigilante #peacemaker

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raymondebidochonlifechoices · 3 years ago

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To summarise:

The writers took the fans’ complaints about the lack of consequences / insufficient development throughout the show and put them together in a 5-ep special au, where they won’t matter anyway. Take notes about how it’s done, kids!

“For as long as the Serpents have existed, so too have the Ghoulies” narrates Jug Sterling. Precious boi, what are you talking about? You hadn’t heard of the Ghoulies until Toni pointed out their table at the cafeteria at Southside High in 2x3 …

Rivervale is a dark place indeed: the glam rock studded jackets are on, but baby-faced Ghoulie Danny Dickenson has never heard of make-up. Malachi would have never allowed this.

Toni Topaz, school and town councilor by day, gang rumbler by night, kills Danny by accident. Darla and her boys just can’t get a break, can they?

This, by the way, is the second time Toni kills someone. Not that I’m keeping score or anything.

Yay ... Another time-jump ...

Toni hasn’t apologized to Darla because … that wouldn’t bring back her son. That is not how apologies work but whatever.

Tabitha has never had to share living space and it shows.

Jughead hasn’t hung the pictures on the wall, as asked. Can’t really blame him though. Who wants a poster that reads “The biters are back”? after having had to call pest control?

He spends all day eating, reading comics and watching B&W films on his B&W TV. It’s all about the aesthetic after all.

From having sex on a bed full of money to making out in the backseat of a car that looks like the one your dad gave you when you were 16, things are going downhill in VeggieLand. This episode is all about relationship metaphors.

Dr Curdle Jr: ob-gyn by day, coroner by night. You gotta be versatile in order to survive in this economy.

Betty’s pregnancy, like this episode, is hysterical.

A woman is accused of killing her daughter. Councilwoman Toni and FBI agent Betty, guilty of manslaughter and accessory to murder respectively, are in charge of the investigation.

Pop-I-had-an-alien-encounter-Tate believes in ghosts. Who would have thought Pop would turn out to be such a source of supernatural delight? Jughead’s love for him must run so much deeper than just burgers and free coffee (and wifi). I can just picture little Jughead Jones after school, sitting on a stool at the diner, his little legs swinging to and fro, while munching on his burger, raptly listening to Pop’s story of the waitress who died in the accident with the deep fryer.

Apparently, Jabitha’s house is haunted. This had been a crucial -if not shared- factor in choosing their abode for Jughead, who is a firm believer of the “write what you know” adage and was hoping that Sam and Diane -the house’s ghosts- would inspire his writing.

So far, the only mystery he has solved is how to put a ship in a bottle (nudge! nudge! wink! wink! It’s a metaphor y’all!) as a means of “refilling the well of his creative subconscious”. Tabitha, who spends her days refilling ketchup bottles at the Diner, is not amused.

La Llorona comes to Rivervale High School. As with everyone in this show, she opts for the least effective plan, i.e. haunting half the town, when she’s only after Baby Anthony. I guess Toni should have apologized to Darla after all.

It wouldn’t be Riverd/vale if there wasn’t mention of a teacher having inappropriate relations with a student.

Veronica first destroys then fixes Reggie’s car. It’s a metaphor for their relationship, except the car is the only thing actually fixed.

Cheryl holds a séance at Thornhill, where we learn La Llorona’s story: it’s about group extrajudicial killing, which means Nana Rose makes an appearance.

Toni agrees to become La Llorona in exchange of Baby Anthony’s life. Another sacrifice. I’m sensing a pattern here.

Jughead writes a novella inspired by the house’s ghosts and his relationship with his girlfriend. He doesn’t share it with Tabitha, who finds and reads it anyway. Tabitha, who has obviously never read Killing Mr Honey, goes ballistic and smashes his typewriter.

“No!” cries Jughead. “This was the tool of my craft!” “This was a gift from Betty!”

They end up confessing their love for each other and kiss. Ghost!Sam and Ghost!Diane, being Bughead fans, leave.

Toffee is smoking a cigarette on the top shelf of The Wyrm’s bar trying not to get her fur wet by La Llorona’s flooding. This too, by the way, is a metaphor. She’s taking bets on who’s going to sacrifice themselves in 6x3.

#Riverdale season 6 speculation #Rivervale #s6 recaps

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ptergwen · 4 years ago

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web of lies

take a leap. if you start to fall, the net will appear to catch you.

photographer!peter x journalist!reader || masterlist

w/c: 7.1k

warnings: swearing, one drinking mention, descriptions of anxiety, and angst if ya squint

summary: peter can’t stop holding your hands, betty and ned are the modern day bonnie and clyde, ned is a terrible guy in the chair, the osborn’s are up to something, and mj hates you all

a/n: y’all i’m super excited about this series like i haven’t had an idea i’ve really loved in months? so it’s good to be back !!! there are tons of things i have planned and i can’t wait to share them with all of you hehe i really hope you enjoy part one <3 happy reading

to be honest, which is what you do best, you’ve had a thing for peter parker your whole time at the daily bugle. you actually almost told him once.

a couple months ago, peter walked you home on a night you worked overtime. he’d came in last minute to leave some pictures on your boss’s desk. no one else but you was there, hunched at your computer in the dim office lighting. peter was pleasantly surprised to see you, yet concerned for your well-being. you had to put your finishing touches on a story.

he didn’t feel comfortable letting you travel alone at that hour. so, he went with you when you were ready. his company was more than welcomed. you told peter about your article while you two sat on the subway. he’d listened intently, your head resting on his shoulder and his arm around you. he made sure you got to your apartment building alright as well.

“hey, peter?” you’d asked, halfway up the steps. he was waiting until you were inside and safe to leave. “hm? you good?” he’d smiled sort of expectantly. “yeah. i... i wanted to say...”

your words got caught in your throat when he gave you the softest puppy eyes you’ve ever seen. you couldn’t do it. for some reason, you were too scared to confess how you felt. “thanks again for walking me home,” you’d settled on. he’d seemed disappointed that was what you wanted to tell him. nevertheless, he said not to worry about it before taking off.

that one moment perfectly captures it all; how yours and peter’s narrative plays itself out.

—

“we’ve got an update on hydra v. the people!”

“those freaky giraffes escaped the zoo... again.”

“shoot one more spitball and it’ll be your last.”

“does anyone have an aspirin?”

welcome to the daily bugle, where the chaos never ends and the calm never starts. you’ll find new york’s finest writers, publishers, and creatives of all kind right here. that would include you. you’re one of the top journalists in the whole building, according to mr. norman osborn. he’s the brilliant and slightly insane man who runs this place.

although it’s rare for someone in your field, you were hired straight out of college. norman read a few pieces you’d written and loved them so much that he offered you a job. full time, full benefits, no questions asked. there was something special about the way you wove your words together. your writing had its own voice. a strong voice, one the paper was severely lacking.

you’ve been with the bugle for just over a year now. it’s not the quiet, nine to five gig you were initially expecting it to be. you’re each very unique individuals in your office, and there’s never a dull moment because of it. your coworkers can be found hosting debates on the riskiest topics or tackling each other for blueberry muffins, and that’s just a regular tuesday. the place is stranger than strange. but, it’s become home.

thanks to mr. osborn being so accommodating, you actually settled in rather quickly. another big help has been the friends you’ve made. your first was michelle jones, who prefers to be called mj. she’s a fellow journalist with a wickedly dark humor that trickles into her writing. if you had to describe her in one word, it would be blunt. mj is as real as it gets, and also eternally loyal. she keeps her circle small, so you’re honored you get to be in it.

mj sits right next to you, which means you’re always talking through your days. that’s due in part to the way your office is set up. there aren’t any cubicles, tables and swirly chairs taking up their space instead. norman heard it was more progressive, probably from his son harry.

harry is about your age, only a couple of years older. he hangs around quite a lot, but doesn’t do much with his time besides that. according to norman, he’s still seeking out his passion. he’s banking on him finding a suitable career at the bugle. he’d like to pass this all on to harry some day, hopefully sooner than later. either way, you don’t mind having harry here. he’s super funny and friendly with everyone.

there’s also ned leeds, who’s an editor and reviews most of your pieces. he’s sweeter than candy, even when he’s ripping your grammar to shreds. on the rare occasions you’re not discussing breaking news, you two talk about movies. ned is a film buff and gives you the best recommendations. you’re convinced he was a critic in his past life.

last but so from least is peter parker. he only works for the bugle part time, since he’s still in school. you both graduated from your respective colleges the same year. peter wants to get his masters degree, though. he’s a photographer who’s aspiring to be a cinematographer. him and ned have their passion for the industry in common, and that’s what makes them such great friends.

you learned this and more from the times you and peter have partnered up on stories. he’s one of your best friends not only at the bugle, but in your entire life. the many long nights you’ve spent collaborating have brought you close to each other. they consist of drinking and deep talks, along with some actual work. he takes the pictures, you do the writing. you’ve been told you make a lovely pair.

peter says it himself, too. you’d like to believe he means it as more than coworkers. he’s so caring, and smart, and pure, and peter. yeah, you like him an awful lot. you can hardly stand the feeling of it sometimes.

the fact that you you haven’t come clean already is ridiculous.

“goddamn. not again,” you mutter out. “em, you better come look at this. it’s bad.” mj wheels over to you in her chair with a puzzled look. her eyes follow yours, landing on your computer. “leeds just sent this? to everyone?” she questions, your reply a short hum. you’re both staring daggers at the email your screen displays.

ned is responsible for assigning each journalist their own topics to cover. he’s been lacking a bit recently, having you write up think pieces on fluffy things. in other words, stuff that no one cares about. he asked you to compare oat milk and almond milk just last week. you’d hoped this week would be better, but here you are.

“this is ass. who does he think we are, buzzfeed?” mj scoffs at her own words. the daily bugle prides itself on being a reliable news source, on paper and tv. you’re starting to stoop down to the low level of your competitors. “he assigned me some tiktok dance trend. i’m not writing a single word about that app.” she sets her elbows down on the table, head in her hands.

“aw, why not? grandma mj isn’t down with the kids?” you tease and click out of the upsetting email. “i don’t write for kids,” mj deadpans. she pushes her glasses up on her nose. “what’d you get?” “the evolution of memes,” you gloomily reply. you’re surprised norman has been approving these topics. then again, ned is the head editor. he can do whatever he wants regardless of approval.

mj glares over at the kitchen, where betty brant currently resides. she’s making two hot chocolates instead of her usual one. “i blame her,” mj mumbles to you. your eyebrows furrow. “dude, what? betty is an angel. she doesn’t even work in editing.” betty is the bugle’s highest rated anchorwoman. her and her news team are on people’s televisions every night.

“no, but she has been spending a generous amount of time with leeds,” mj grumbles. she’s admittedly very nosy. the upside is that she tells you any juicy office drama there is. “my theory is betty’s making him give us crap stories so she can report the good ones.” she glances over at you to see what you think. “no way. that can’t be allowed... or legal,” you laugh back.

as if on cue, ned appears next to betty in the kitchen. he takes the extra hot coco that’s piled high with whipped cream. betty tucks a sheet of paper into his suit pocket and kisses his cheek, then he’s gone. you can only gasp as you watch this unfold. what has she done to poor, clueless ned?

“not such an angel anymore, huh?” mj smirks in satisfaction. “suddenly, she has red horns and a pitchfork,” you bitterly agree with your tongue in your cheek. betty waves to you two on her way back to broadcasting. mj gives her a fake nice finger wave, you ignoring her. “we can’t sit back and let this happen, em. we have to do something,” you decide. “let’s tell norman.”

uninterested, mj takes off her glasses and starts to clean them. “like he’ll believe us. yeah, golden girl betty brant is sabotaging the writer’s room,” she rewords her previous statement to put its stupidity in perspective. you throw your hands up. “she is, though! we literally watched it happen!” mj puts her freshly wiped glasses back on and sighs.

“i doubt norman would care, y/n. every newspaper to ever exist is corrupt somehow.” your pessimistic old pal has a point. however, you’re not so willing to accept it. “why can’t we be the first one that isn’t?” you offer a small smile. mj snickers, wheeling back to her own computer. “those are words of the innocent.” she’s already tapping her fingers across the keyboard.

“i thought you weren’t doing the tiktok piece,” you say under your breath. you’re slightly pissed mj turned you down, since she’s the reason you know about betty’s meddling. “i’m not,” mj answers sharply. “i’m gonna email quentin and ask if we can change our topics. happy?” quentin beck is another editor in the building. he’s not bad, but he is intimidating. no one typically goes to him as their first option.

“i’m thrilled,” you confirm and grin at mj to emphasize it. “thanks for stepping up. you’re forgiven.” “i didn’t realize i had to be sorry,” mj notes, this time in a playful manor. she shakes her head as she begins writing. “you and your morals.”

what you value most in your career is honesty, under any circumstances. of course, the other daily bugle writers are the same. norman strictly prohibits clickbait and crazy headlines because that isn’t real news. you leave that to companies like buzzfeed. you’re honest in the sense that you say whatever has to be said, what everyone else is too afraid to. you’ll speak your truth no matter who tries to stop you.

it didn’t used to be that way. there’s some childhood trauma that remains deep in the back of your mind. you’ve left that behind you now, having over a decade to cope with it. hey, they say the past is in the past. what’s important is your takeaway, that you would never let yourself or anyone else be silenced from there on out. never again.

quentin ends up giving you the okay to write different stories. he lets you and mj choose choose your own because he’s got “better things to do” and you’re “big girls.” what a peach he is. mj goes with how capitalism is continuing to provoke global warming. she has something to say about every major world issue, and you admire the hell out of her for it.

you’re a bit stuck when it’s time to write your article. it’s terribly ironic because you pushed for this. you aren’t too worried, though. the city is crawling with material, so you’ll find what you’re looking for eventually. lucky for you, some much needed inspiration comes skipping out of the elevator.

“morning, peter,” you hear liz greet him at the front desk. she’s your floor’s receptionist. her wisdom and patience keep this place going. “hi, liz. how’s it going?” he asks. “things have been quiet... mostly. can i do anything for you?” liz peers up at him. peter sports a shy smile. “uh, yeah. mr. osborn wanted to see me?” “right. hang on.” she nods, dialing his office phone number.

it’s endearing how peter calls him mr. osborn, seeing as the rest of you go with norman. he’s probably the politest guy you’ve ever met.

grinning, liz puts down the phone. “you can go in whenever you’re ready. good luck!” peter laughs nervously and turns to leave. “thanks, you too.” his face falls when he realizes his mistake. “wait, i- i didn’t mean to say that. that was stupid. you’re not-“ “it’s fine, peter,” liz reassures him. his anxiety makes him trip over his words sometimes. that, and he’s a bit dorky in general. you find it rather adorable.

you also wonder what exactly he needs good luck for. he’s not even supposed to be working today, so your curiosity as to what’s going on has been piqued.

“um, i’m gonna go now. bye!” peter rushes off, his face tinted pink from the embarrassing encounter. you’re hoping he’ll stop and talk with you for a little while, but he heads straight to norman’s office. your whole body deflates at that. mj notices from her peripherals.

“what’s the matter? missing your hubby?” she coos, her words dripping in sarcasm. “no,” you lie. “i’m... i don’t know what to write about.” ok, there’s some truth. mj gives you a couple pats on the shoulder. “ask parker for help. you two work... well together. don’t you?” this must be the zillionth time you’ve heard that.

“we do,” you murmur and glance at norman’s closed door. peter is hidden behind it. “i just don’t wanna bug him. he has finals soon, and whatever norman is putting him up to. it’s my job, anyway.” mj pokes your arm. “those sound like excuses to me,” she concludes, still jabbing at you childishly. “you really just don’t wanna tell him you like-“

“can you keep it down?” you hiss, yanking your arm back. “he’s literally right over there.” peter stands up and shakes norman’s hand. you catch it through the blinds on his window. “y/n, you were drooling over his mere presence only minutes ago,” mj prefaces, a smile pulling at her lips. “you can handle three little words. i like you, that’s it. spit it out already.”

you’ll never admit this to mj, but she’s right. you lost your momentum after your first failed attempt to say the three little words. you’re still not sure what stopped you. you’d shared the details of that faithful night with her, and she’s been pushing you to try again since.

the door to norman’s office opens, and out walks peter. he’s beaming after their conversation, which seems like a good sign. harry passes peter on his way in to pay his dad a visit. he claps him on the shoulder, peter happily accepting before continuing his stride back into the main office. it takes a moment to register that he’s coming towards you.

you quickly set your focus back on your computer so he doesn’t think you’ve been watching him. even though, you definitely have.

“y/n!” peter calls your name. he’s on the opposite side of your table, in front of you. “peter!” you match his tone. “i was just dropping by. i thought i’d say hey while i’m here.” he’s still grinning. “what’re you doing?” he looks cute as ever in an oversized and cream colored sweater. his curls are slicked back with a tad too much product, cheeks rosy. you gaze up at him when he rests his arms on the table.

“pretending to be productive,” mj answers for you, pressing her lips together. peter cocks his head to the side. “pretending?” “ignore her. she’s being a shit stirrer today,” you explain. “like every other day,” he jokes, earning a laugh from you. mj just tuts and keeps writing. “talk about me like i’m not here,” she mumbles to herself, then gets back into her article.

“anyways, i thought you didn’t work today?” you ask to take the attention off yourself. also, because you’re curious. “oh! get this.” peter perks up even more, if that’s possible. he has energy like no other. “you know alex in broadcasting? betty’s camera guy?” “what about him?” you wonder. “he called in sick earlier this morning, with the flu or something.” he’s oddly excited to announce this. that prompts you to make a funny face.

biting back another smile, peter elaborates. “mr. osborn needed someone to fill in for him, so he picked me. i’ll be here all week.” it makes sense, since peter knows how to work a camera and does so wonderfully. you give him a celebratory push at his chest. “peter, that’s amazing! this is the perfect way to transition from pictures to film, right?” he’s nearing his finals at school, which consist of more movie-like projects. the news will be great practice.

then, he’s off to hollywood. you’ll put that out of your mind for now.

“exactly! i think it’ll be a good place to start. the pay isn’t bad either.” peter wiggles his eyebrows at you, you giggling once again. you do a lot of that when he’s around. that’s going to be more often now. “plus, i get to see you. everyone wins.” he squeezes your hand that was just on him. your heart begins to thump. “except alex,” you challenge, playing with his fingers. “but, for real. i’m happy you get to do this and that we’ll be spending more time together.”

“thanks, y/n/n. me too.” peter grins and leans over, taking a peek at your computer screen. there’s a blank word document on it. “you never told me what you’re up to,” he chuckles. “guess mj was right... nothing.” “i’m always right,” she chimes in from next to you. you look between the two of them with a scowl. “i haven’t found my story yet. i don’t know, this never happens.” peter nods as you share your dilemma. “no good ideas are coming to me,” you murmur.

“they will. you have a way of attracting things.” he licks his lower lip, your heart completely stopping this time. “well, i gotta go set up for rise and shine with betty brant.” he waves his hand like he’s presenting his words. that’s what betty calls her morning news segment. “be careful with her. she’s being really sketchy these days,” you warn peter, mj grunting in agreement.

confused, peter purses his lips. “really? ned says she’s a sweetheart. they’ve been going out for a while.” mj pops her head up and adjusts her glasses. “did ned also tell you she’s bribing him to give her all of our scoops?” she’s asking rhetorically because she already knows the answer. of course he didn’t. “it’s one thing to not like her. you’re just making things up now,” peter huffs.

mj kicks your foot under the table. “i told you no one would believe us. not even peter gullible parker.” “it’s benjamin,” he corrects her. “whatever,” she brushes it off, resuming her work.

peter does tend to be sort of naive, to only see the good in things when there’s plenty of bad. you’re the same in that way, unless you hang around mj for too long.

“is that true? betty’s stealing your stories?” peter turns to you and asks. you gesture to your screen. “i don’t have one, so you do the math.” he hums sympathetically. he’ll listen to you, never mj. “i’m sorry. thanks for telling me, y/n. i’ll watch out for her.” he bends his fingers to look like goggles, putting them around his eyes. you sigh lightheartedly.

“are you twenty two years old or twelve?” mj remarks, but not without a comeback from peter. “you’re, like, eighty five. worry about that.” they’ve had this type of banter for as long as you’ve known them. it’s equal parts amusing and exhausting. “don’t be late on your first day.” you snap peter out of it with a knowing smile. he returns it.

“i hope something crazy happens so you can write about it.” he’s walking backwards now, towards the elevator. “see you later, pete,” is all you say back, yet another laugh threatening to escape you. “see you. bye, michelle,” peter says just to bug her. “it’s mj,” she groans without looking up. he shrugs. “not so fun, is it?”

after peter is gone, you try to get back into work. or rather, you try to start your work. what he said about you having a way of attracting things keeps ringing in your head. was he flirting? no, he couldn’t have been. peter parker doesn’t flirt. words aren’t his strong suit, and you have countless memories that prove this to be true. earlier with liz, for example.

you’re probably reading way into this. peter was simply doing what any good friend would do and gave you advice.

it’s late in the afternoon when anything worth mentioning happens again. peter is still with betty, as far as you know. they’re probably preparing for the nighttime news now. all you’ve done since seeing him is nibble on snacks and bug mj, who’s almost done with her story despite your distractions. this is really bad, considering your deadline to submit is at the end of today.

you’ve never missed a deadline.

mj emails her work to quentin while you repeatedly bang your head on the table. she hits send before deciding to entertain you. “whatcha doing over there?” she cautiously prompts, powering off her computer. “trying to get an idea. i’m desperate, if you couldn’t tell.” your voice is muffled. “i could.” mj grabs your shoulders and pulls you back so you’re sitting up. you childishly pout.

“y/n, the only thing that’s gonna give you is brain damage,” mj says sternly, then softens her tone. “why don’t you ask for an extension? norman gives me them all the time.” whining, you slump down in your chair again. “yeah, but you’re you! we do things differently, have different expectations put on us.” she’s back to cold mj after you say that. “alright. at least i did something today besides pine over that little-“

mj’s insult for peter is interrupted by harry. “ladies, what’s shaking?” he comes up to you two with a the hint of smirk on his face. you manage a nod to acknowledge him. “oh, hey... harry,” mj unenthusiastically replies. she’s the one person who isn’t really a fan of him. “not much. y/n was just having a tantrum.” “she was not,” you dismiss her. “it’s work stuff. you know your dad.”

harry clicks his tongue in a teasing way. “yep, the grind never stops in this joint. boss man is...” he does the sign for cuckoo with his finger. you laugh a little at that. “in a good way,” you add on. mj only watches you two, blinking blankly. harry gives you a definitive pat on the back. “before i forget, he wants to see you.” that gets mj talking. “norman?” she questions. “your dad?” you choke out at the same time.

“who else? he said you two have to talk.” harry flashes you a weary smile. “have fun in there, old sport.” you’re too busy biting the skin off your bottom lip to respond. “mhm... she will,” mj speaks on your behalf. even she sounds worried. saluting you both, harry leaves to go pester your other colleagues. you’re completely and totally fucked.

“that’s it for me!” you grin sarcastically, freaked out by harry. “i’m fired, aren’t i? i’m definitely about to get fired, and it’s all because-“ “relax!” mj cuts off your rambling. she reaches down and grasps at your wrists. “get it together, y/l/n. you’re the best we have, okay? you aren’t going anywhere.” your grin becomes a frown. “then why does norman wanna talk to me? and, why don’t i have a story?”

mj always has the answers, but this time is the execption. she lets out a breath. “i don’t know. you’ll go find out and tell me what happens.” there’s no use protesting. you’re going to have to face whatever you’re about to at some point. “ok,” you give in, defeated. “i’ll be back soon, i hope.”

the walk to norman’s office feels like a walk of shame. mj can do nothing but sit back and observe it. if this ends the way you think it will, you’ll be collecting your things and won’t ever return. norman is a kind man, and he’s usually pretty understanding. he doesn’t mind the workplace shenanigans as long as you get your job done. unfortunately, you haven’t today.

you hear your boss’s booming voice when you approach his door. inhaling deep, you knock on it, and the room goes silent. “come in,” norman responds after a few seconds. mustering up a smile, you open the door to be met with your doom. “hi, am i interrupting something?” you check. “not at all! you’re just the person i wanted to see. sit, sit,” he beckons you over. he’s not using his angry voice, so maybe you’re in the clear. you enter the room as told.

you’re shocked to see a terrified peter is already in one of the chairs. he visibly relaxes a bit now that you’re here. what the hell is happening? whatever you were expecting, this was the last thing.

taking the armchair next to peter, you sit facing norman’s desk. you nudge his arm to get his attention. his big brown eyes lock with yours. “what’s going on?” you whisper. “no idea,” peter whispers back. the two of you turn to norman again when he claps his hands. he’s plopped down into his cushy leather seat.

“so,” he begins, gaze flicking from peter to you. “you kids know why you’re here?” “is it because i missed my deadline?” you blurt out. you’re once again a nervous wreck. peter doesn’t speak, just winces. “not that. although, i did hear from ned that you turned down his assignment.” norman flicks at a post-it on his desk. “i asked quentin for one instead. me and mj,” you explain, peter’s eyes going wide.

“you talked to quentin? that guy’s bad news,” he murmurs to you. “how so?” norman questions, since it’s his employee. “he- he, um,” peter clears his throat before answering, “he’s super critical, you know? hates all my pictures.” “i love your pictures,” you assure him, the corners of his lips turning up. “your style is so cool. yeah, though. quentin’s pretty bitter.”

considering this, norman drums his fingers on the desk. “i’ll look into that. but, that isn’t why you’re here. i’m letting you off the hook this time.” your whole demeanor changes and a huge weight lifts off of you. “really? you are?” “i have a scoop of my own that i want you to cover,” he continues, peter bumping your knee happily. a toothy grin takes over your face.

“since peter will be sticking around for a while, i want him to join you.” norman waits a beat in case you have any questions. it’s been a minute since you last worked together. peter laughs in disbelief. “you want me to take over for alex and do this?” norman nods proudly. “y/n will need the extra hands, if you have them.” “yes, sir. i do,” peter immediately confirms. “my last class is next thursday, so i have the time.”

“wait, so you’re almost done? that’s awesome!” you bump peter’s knee this time. “yup, all that’s left is finals... and studying.” he mindlessly takes your hand, lacing your fingers together. you’re enjoying his gentle touches. “thank you so much, norman. seriously, i appreciate this a lot,” you tell him and mean it. “hey, no problem,” he chuckles at your eagerness. you grip peter’s hand tighter.

“what’s the story?” “ah, yes. the most important part,” norman starts, peter sharing an excited look with you. “how familiar are you two with spider-man?” his excitement fades at the question posed. it’s unbeknownst to you, caught up in the moment. “uh, same as everyone else, i guess,” you casually reply. “how come?” “he’s your subject.” norman points at you both. “you’re gonna study him over these next few months.”

peter’s hand goes limp in yours, and he gulps hard, throat feeling dry. “you mean, like, an exposé?” “no, no. there will be no exposing,” norman clarifies. “i’m sure he wears the mask for a reason.” that settles peter only slightly. you’re not sure why he’s so tense all of a sudden. “what’s our aim here, then?” you steer the conversation.

“see what new york’s favorite hero gets up to every day, how his life is beyond the crime fighting,” norman further describes your task. peter exhales a shaky breath, shifting away from you in his seat. the golden sun hits his face and reveals a bead of sweat dripping down it. you stare at his figure in worry. “you okay, peter?” “fine. i’m just... hot,” he murmurs back. his sweater does look pretty heavy, so you concede.

getting back to norman’s story, you grimace at the idea. “do you really think people will want to read that? for lack of a better term, it sounds kind of...” you pause. “basic.” “i thought the same thing at first,” he surprisingly agrees with you. “harry pitched the idea to me this morning. you won’t believe it! the other night, he caught spider-man hanging outside his window.”

“harry... harry saw him?” peter squeaks out. he uses the wool material that feels like it’s swallowing him to dab at his forehead. “he stopped on his balcony. must have been pretty late, the kid’s a night owl,” norman says about his son. your face lights up as you listen to him. “he took some shots of spidey in action, when he swung off. i saw a few. they were pretty great.” he’s grinning at his son’s success.

“maybe he’ll get into photography with you, pete,” norman suggests. peter gives him a weak smile in return. “we’d be happy to have him.” he usually has a lot more to say about his career than that. his behavior is starting to genuinely concern you. “anyway,” norman gets back on topic, “it got me thinking. how much do we really know about this guy? we’re supposed to blindly put our trust in him?”

you’re beginning to see the appeal now. you’ve written your share of pieces on the avengers and their methods, tackling the same questions norman just asked you. spider-man shouldn’t be overlooked, especially when he operates so close to your home. this could be another revolutionary superhero story in the making. and, you get to bring peter along for the ride.

“you know what? this has a lot of potential,” you smile at norman, then peter. he has his phone in his lap, fingers flying across the screen. it must be something important. you’ll discuss with norman while he takes care of that. “we could make it a weekly thing, about spider-man’s adventures. find out what we can about the man behind the mask...” peter shoots up in his seat. “without taking it off,” you finish, putting his mind at ease.

“see, i knew you were gonna love it! it was a blessing in disguise, you missing that deadline.” norman bangs his fist on the table with a hearty laugh. “what do you say, peter? you still in?” peter slips his phone back in his pocket. his tongue pokes out to wet his lips. “oh, of course. i can’t wait to work with you, y/n/n,” he speaks in a monotone voice, adding on, “again.”

something is definitely bothering him, and it isn’t the weather.

“i gotta go. betty needs me upstairs, so,” peter moves to get up, his body stiff. you assume that’s who he was texting. “thank you again, mr. osborn.” he’s rushing out of the room just like that, until you call after him. “um, don’t you wanna set a time to meet up? so we can get started?” you reasonably ask. “i... i really gotta go. find me later,” peter tells you, giving you both a tight lipped smile and running off.

“the dynamic duo is back!” norman announces to you. you’re disappointed you can’t share that sentiment with peter.

he’s absolutely booking it down the stairs, not bothering to wait for the next elevator. this is bad. this is a nightmare.

peter went from having one of his best days in a while to the worst in not even a full round of work. today started off fine, and got better when norman promoted him. it got way better when you came along. he saw your smile that makes his insides tingle, heard your laugh that’s the prettiest sound to grace his ears, held your hand that he never wants let go.

things went a bit downhill after that. betty was pushy and yelled at him a lot, demanding he only film her good angles for the segment. you and mj weren’t wrong when you told him to be careful.

later on when he saw you again, everything was okay. he was physically shaking as brad told him mr. osborn requested to see him. brad is mr. osborn’s assistant. a try-hard for sure, but good at his job. why did mr. osborn call him in? did betty complain already?

they’d been sitting in mostly silence, save for small talk until you came knocking on the door. simply being next to you was enough to ground peter and his racing thoughts. it was enough, then it wasn’t.

the whole day had gone to shit after he found out you were going to be writing stories about his alter ego. not only that, but he was helping. during the pitch, he’d texted ned to meet him in the bathroom. he was really anxious and needed a friend who understood why.

ned accidentally found out peter is spider-man last year. it’s a long story that involves peter hiding from some bad guys in the building and ned shrieking so loud the lights flickered. they’re cool now that peter talked things through with him. his secret has been kept, from what he knows.

pushing open the men’s bathroom door, peter is a mixture of sweat and ragged breaths. he’s panting from his fast descent down the staircase. he takes in his disheveled appearance using one of the mirrors. his styled hair is now damp and undone, hands trembling and palms sweaty, chest heaving. here’s his daily reminder that anxiety is not cute. as if he didn’t know.

his stupid, gigantic freaking sweater is only making things worse. it’s suffocating him. no one else is in here, so peter pulls it over his head and tosses it to the ground. he’s got a t-shirt on underneath that happens to be black. what a convenient day for him to wear the hottest material there is.

peter splashes his face with some cold water next to try and cool himself down. that doesn’t do much for him. his face still feels like it’s on fire, but now it’s wet. he takes his hands through his mop of curls, backing away from the sink.

“fuck. fuck, fuck, fuck,” peter repeats to himself. he’s silent for a moment, then rage overcomes him. he kicks open a bathroom stall. “shit! i can’t do this. what am i supposed to-“

the door creeks open, so peter shuts up in case it isn’t ned. it thankfully is, and he wears a deep frown at the sight of his best friend. “dude, what happened? you look...” “terrible. i know,” peter finishes for him. he tugs at his locks in another attempt to tame them. ned approaches him carefully. “you’re not, like, dying... are you? because betty was telling me you have to-“ “of course you were with betty,” peter exhales in frustration. “no, ned. i’m not dying.”

in ned’s defense, the text he received was very alarming. all peter wrote was, ‘EMERGENCY. SOS.’

“i mean, yeah. it was my break.” ned sits on the ledge by the window, close to peter. “you do the same with y/n.” the mention of your name upsets peter all over again. he hides his face in his hands as ned watches. “if you’re not dying, then what’s the problem?” ned finally asks. “me and y/n...” peter removes his hands from his face, meeting ned’s worried eyes. “mr. osborn wants us to do a project together.”

“uh, peter? you’ve been saying how much you miss her forever, dude! you’re not excited?” ned snorts at him. he means well, but he has no clue what he’s talking about. “no. it’s supposed to be about spider-man,” peter answers angrily. this isn’t the support he was hoping for. realizing the severity of the situation, ned gets serious.

“oh... but, you’re still doing it?” he questions. “i didn’t have a choice,” peter scoffs out. “i can’t let either of them down.” “you’ll expose yourself!” ned escalates things further. “it’s not like that. we’re gonna follow spider-man around and post updates on him,” peter says, technically in the third person. he’s given an are you insane? look from ned.

“you are spider-man! and, no offense, but you’re not so good at hiding it,” ned refers to himself finding out. “how are you gonna be in two places at once?” damnit, peter hadn’t thought about that yet. he can’t be taking pictures of spider-man and swinging from building to building simultaneously. “i- i’ll figure it out,” peter stammers, unconvincingly.

ned looks him over in a disapproving way. “jeez. you’re really putting your life on the line for this girl-“ “woman,” peter interjects, not loving ned’s attitude towards you. “have some respect.” unfazed, ned gets up from the windowsill. “speaking of women, remember betty? you’re still on the clock,” he changes the subject. peter nearly forgot he has to go film her segment.

“i’ll head up to her now,” peter gives in. he scoops up his discarded sweater, not bothering to check his appearance again. ned follows behind him to the door. “we wrote her script together, you know,” he gladly informs peter, who already knows from you. “not really a flex,” peter mumbles his response. “peter, lighten up.” ned hits at his shoulder. the two of them exit the bathroom.

“you’ll figure this out later. i can always help.” he shoots him a sugary sweet smile. “thanks, ned. for talking with me and everything.” peter doesn’t smile back. they do a quick bro handshake, then they’re going their separate ways. “have a good show, dude!” ned yells back, to which he doesn’t get a response. peter doesn’t have it in him.

he allows himself to take the elevator back up to broadcasting. he’s so drained from the several anxiety attacks he endured. while peter waists for the elevator, he contemplates all the issues he’d better solve. it’s a relief to hear it ding because it brings him back to earth. that doesn’t last long because both you and betty are there when the door opens.

you’d each had the same idea, to find peter. unlike betty, your intentions were good. you asked liz if she saw peter leave. she told you he went downstairs, so you did also. betty was already in the elevator when it got to your stop. she was looking for him because, you guessed it, he had to record the news. the small space was filled with tension as you and betty occupied it.

“perfect. we’re going right back up,” betty beams, motioning for peter with her index finger. “hop in!” “coming,” peter does as told, going to stand between you and betty. she presses the button for your floor and theirs. the doors close. “pete?” you speak up, voice soft. “you kinda ran off earlier. i thought you were with betty.” “clearly, he wasn’t,” betty sneers.

you’re less concerned with her and more with peter. the sweater he looked so huggable in is now folded in his arms, his face splotchy and jaw clenched. he must have gotten triggered by something back in norman’s office.

“are you sure you’re okay? you... you can talk to me about it.” you take a step closer to peter, your doe eyes searching for his. he meets them with a tiny smile. at least, it’s real this time. “i’ll be fine, y/n/n. ‘s nice that you came to check on me, though.” “don’t mention it.” your arms loop around his neck and bring him into a hug. peter hugs you back by your middle, chin resting on your shoulder, breathing out in relief.

you keep your hands on his shoulders when you pull back. his stay on your sides, a lopsided grin now crossing his features. “spider-man...” you quirk an eyebrow. “how are you feeling about that?” “should be cool,” peter somehow maintains himself. “i’m mostly looking forward to doing it with you.”

listening in, betty joins the conversation. “what’s happening with spider-man? anything i should know?” her hand reaches into her bag and emerges with a notepad. does she ever think of her own content? “she’s nothing if not persistent,” you grumble to peter. chuckling, he pulls you into his chest. if he didn’t hold you back, you would’ve pounced on her.

“we’re gonna do a piece on him,” peter tells her. “you can’t copy or steal this one because it’s already been approved,” you contribute, smiling smugly as peter holds you tighter. betty is taken aback. “are you accusing me of stealing? who said i-“ “ned ratted on you... sorry,” peter says in a sing song voice. squealing, you jump away from him. “he did? we were right?”

“mj’s never wrong,” he reiterates. “mj knew about this? oh my god, i can’t believe her!” betty stomps her foot. “we got you on candid camera.” you make a clicking noise with your mouth. peter mimes taking a picture to back you up. “alright, alright. i won’t do it again,” betty mumbles, turning away from you two in annoyance.

“finally!” you hold up your hand for a high five, which peter gives you. “we really do make the best team,” he hums. your fingers intertwine with peter’s, and he lays his palm flat against yours. he prays extremely hard you don’t notice that it’s sweaty. you do, but you couldn’t care less.

“i was wondering when you’d wanna start our... research?” peter asks you, his lip between his teeth. “you were saying something earlier. maybe we could make a schedule.” “how elaborate of us that would be,” you tease. that earns a breathy laugh from peter. with a knowing smile, you put your free hand back on his shoulder.

“what are you doing tonight?”

peter parker taglist

@saturnpeter @tpwk-grande @itstaskeen @missyouhollnd @becicamina @dummiesshort @zspideyy @watchitimreadinghere @my-patronus-is-mabel-pines @dpaccione @karispotters11 @theofficialzivadavid @thehumanistsdiary @kelieah @aayaissaa @petersgroupie @annab-nana @tayyx @swtltlmrvlgrl @magicalxdaydream @haoluvver @kjune113 @captainamirica @marvel-dork98 @emmastarz @killingbxys @viriditie @misshale21 @veryholland @liliswifts @tommydarlings @rebelemilu @peterspideysense @cr-uelsummer @dreamy-clousds @quaksonhehe @quxxnxfhxll @blackbat2020 @babyblue19 @falconxbarnes @zachary-s @dirtytissuebox @dracoswhore007 @heavenlyholland @thsquad @etheralholland @dhtomholland @awh-lilies @tomshufflepuff @multifamdomfan12

if i forgot you please lmk!

#peter parker #peter parker fluff #peter parker x reader #peter parker x y/n #peter parker x you #peter parker imagine #peter parker fic #peter parker fanfiction #peter parker smut #spiderman #tom holland #tom holland fluff #tom holland smut #tom holland x reader #tom holland x y/n #tom holland x you #tom holland imagine #tom holland fic

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gaiuswrites · 4 years ago

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King of Cups || Chapter 1

Chapter 1: The Tower

Archive: ao3 | masterlist | two

Pairing: Din Djarin x fem!Reader

Summary: You’re apart of the Refugee Relief Movement, an intergalactic organization providing aid throughout the systems, and you find yourself assisting at a resettlement camp in Lothal when disaster strikes, changing your life forever, intertwining your path with that of a certain Mandalorian bounty hunter.

Word count: 3.7k~

Rated: Mature

Warnings: descriptive violence, blood/injury mentioning, danger, mature language

Notes: Hi y'all, welcome. This fic is going to be set during Season 2 of The Mandalorian, and will be what I like to call ‘canon adjacent’. ALSo, this chapter is very much so Reader focused, setting up the scene and the general pacing of the story, but naturally, Din will be more and more featured as things progress. I’m a sucker for backstory and a slow burn, so ye be warned. Please feel free to reach out to me. :) I’d love to hear from you lovely little beans. Be safe out there, friends.

Lothal was a planet all too familiar with occupation.

You remember seeing a quote somewhere that read ‘Look no further than Lothal if you want to see what happens when the Empire takes control of an entire world’; and although the Imperial chokehold had loosened when the Empire fell, the planet, even all these years later, still found itself gasping for breath.

Off world migration from the Core Worlds had been popularized since the expansion of the Imperial government bureaucracy, which brought booming business opportunities for the fortunate few, but as the rich became richer, the poor grew poorer. The Lothalites were forced out of their homes, off their own lands—refugees on their own planet; forced to resettle and relocate with nothing but the clothes on their back and the possessions they could cram into their pockets. The only heirlooms passed on from generation to generation were that of poverty, tall tales of former splendor, and the greatest of ancestral traumas: disillusionment.

The truly desperate turned to crime, and what couldn’t be solved by back-dealings and blaster fire was managed with fear mongering and the bitter flair of xenophobia. There was always a species to blame, and it was always the one who seemed to be doing better off, no matter how slight the margin.

Greed. Fear. Despair. These are the currencies in which the galaxy trades.

And so it was then, and continued to be, cycle after cycle. History, always finding clever ways to repeat itself.

On bad days, pollution still loomed heavy over the atmosphere—remnants of the fires from the Imperial occupation still clinging on to Lothal’s weary bones. She had been stripped during that time; gutted and strung up by her feet to dangle from the Empire’s meat hook, exsanguinated slowly, drop by drop, until she had nothing left to give. Her resources and minerals and ore and water and seed, robbed. Pillaged.

She’s free from it now, but the scars remain— the planet remembers. Her people do not forget. Like muscle memory, they all ungulate to this synthesized rhythm they can’t seem to shake, day in and day out, wandering. Forever unsettled.

The planet had always had a diverse population and had become something of a safe haven for other abandoned people fleeing their home worlds, determined to find somewhere - anywhere - for them to survive. Lothal provided that for them. It wasn’t rich or bountiful by any stretch, but it was simple and safe—safe in the way hidden things in plain sight are. One could blend into the crowd of many, unique faces, of all races and backgrounds; you could be anonymous, if you wanted. You could be free.

That’s how you’ve found yourself here in Jortho. You had been with the Refugee Relief Movement for the better part of what felt like forever, and they had transferred you to this planet not six weeks ago. You were out on rotation; the RRM sends someone new twice a cycle for the span of a month or two to varying locations to supply rations, aid with the influx of refugees, organize resettlement lodgings, and generally be of assistance when and where you could. However, your tenure on this temperate planet was coming to a close, and soon you’d be flying back to the headquarters on Coruscant before being bounced to another post somewhere out among the stars.

You love your job. You know it’s unpopular to say, but you do. It’s fulfilling and impactful and indescribably special. The individuals you meet, the stories you hear, they’re invaluable— priceless and precious, like handmade trinkets crafted by the fingers of a child; you press them all to your heart, holding them there. You’d be lying if you said it didn’t get to you— the weight of it; the plights of all of these people, all of these lives, burdening your conscience. It isn’t always painless— you aren’t immune to it. Even so, on most nights you manage to sleep easy, tucked away aboard the transport freighter you flew in on with the batch of settlers newly assimilated into town knowing Maker, at least you were doing something— anything— everything you could.

And really, to call Jortho a town would be an insult to all towns everywhere—but ‘town’ has a certain charm to it that ‘refugee camp’ simply did not, and it gave the people hope. Pride, even. That they belonged somewhere.

You suppose that’s all anyone wants. To belong.

A feather soft gust of wind tickles the golden blades of prairie grass as the sun, bleary and tired, starts dipping from the sky. The crickbeets begin their song early, trilling, sensing Lothal’s moons still coyly tucked away, hiding somewhere along the horizon. A smile adorns your face, private and serene, as you bring a bowl of broth up to your lips, humming when the warm liquid meets your tongue. You sigh, contented, taking in the sights before you; how the dusk blurs the aromatic air, making it opaque, the shuttles docked across the way from you casting long purple shadows onto the flat plains, the snowcapped mountains in the distance bordering the cant of the planet’s surface, nestling Jortho in a shallow valley.

You feel calm, at peace, and take another sip.

An easy moment passes, and it’s the last one you get before silence stalks up from behind you.

You don’t notice it at first, like any patient predator, it goes undetected: the white noise, the nothingness— until finally, you do and then suddenly it’s everywhere. On top of you. Smothering you. Goosebumps stipple your skin and you bristle. The insects have stopped chirping. The breeze has stilled. The air hangs dead.

And then—

Chaos.

You’re hit with a blast of crushing heat, the sheer power of it picking you up off your feet and onto your side, sending your body careening into a nearby structure. Your shoulder takes most of the blow, but your neck still snaps backwards unnaturally, the back of your head colliding with the stone wall behind you with a dull thwack. You let out a groaned cry at the impact, the wind knocked out of your lungs as you crumple to the ground.

For an instant, your vision goes white, stars popping and fusing out in front of your pupils, and it’s like you can feel everything and nothing all at once, hollow but overwhelmed, and all you want to do is close your eyes and drift asleep— Maker that would feel like a luxury, just right here on the damn dirt. And you almost do, you almost let yourself slip under and sink— until you hear a piercing scream from somewhere close.

Immediately your eyes shoot open, desperately blinking away the blurriness that threatens to over take them, and you try pushing yourself up by the heels of your scraped hands, failing once - twice - before finding your footing. You’re shaky at first, uncoordinated and dizzy and redownloading bipedalism, before that sweet drug of adrenaline starts to course through your veins and finally, finally, you take in your surroundings.

The ships that once stood across the field are gone, obliterated, and in their place only metal ribcages remain—empty carcasses like dead birds splayed on their backsides, imploded from the inside out, their bits strewn all around you.

Your breathing comes hard and heavy, fighting down panic, and cloudy eyes search through the thick black smoke billowing up in stacks, trying to pin point the source of the scream you’d heard just moments ago. You cough a strained wheeze, sputtering against the charred air, and wade your way through the debris— it’s only then that you realize the magnitude of the explosion. It’s not just the landing bay, it’s half the kriffing village. The buildings that neighbored the airfield had been decimated, burning roofs and crumbling fixtures, homes collapsing onto themselves, scorch marks and shrapnel branding the outsides of the shanties left standing.

It looks like a battlefield. You’ve seen holovids of this—what war can look like, how it can ruin a people… But you’ve never had to stand in the middle of it, head on.

Your heart drums against your chest as you break into a hobbled run, desperately scanning the area for any signs of life, up and down, left and right, straining against the waning daylight. It’s then that you hear your name, urgent and frantic, and you whip your head in it’s direction, knees nearly buckling in relief. You immediately recognize your friend Hareem, brandishing her arms at you, waving you over to her.

“Thank the Maker, you’re alright!” the Balosar cries out, trembling hands finding purchase on your shoulders, bracing you. You don’t know if its for your benefit or her own, but either way you’re grateful for the grounding pressure; for the first time since the initial blast, you feel solid, like you won’t just float away, atomized and weightless. Worried, you look her over. A sliver of fresh scarlet blooms from her scalp, a small line trickling down past her temple, but she otherwise looks relatively unharmed. You grasp onto her wrist, squeezing firmly.

“What the hell happened?” You ask, voice low and pitched, wide fearful eyes drilling into her.

“T-There was a man-” And she shakes her head, mouth clamping shut, deep wrinkles framing her face.

“Hareem,” you reassure, giving her another squeeze. I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere.

She tries again with a steadying inhale, “I-I saw him. A-a man. He had a device with him, and he set charges, and Maker I don’t know— I don’t know— it went off a-and he ran towards the center of town!” The Balosar is in hysterics, tears spilling down her dirty cheeks, and it takes your brain a moment to catch up, to wrap your mind around the words she’s stuttering out.

A man.

Device.

Charges.

A bomb. This wasn’t an accident; this was an attack—and he’s still kriffing here. You cup her cheeks, thumbs rubbing against the pale skin, smearing away the blood that’s nearly dripped to her chin. Your friend’s gaze is flighty, everywhere and nowhere, and you try giving her a smile, but you’re not quite sure you manage it.

“Hareem? Hareem. Hey, shh, you’re okay. You’re alright…” You peel your eyes off her to glance around hurriedly. “We need to find cover.”

///

You’re holed up in one of the few remaining homes on this side of the encampment, crowded into the small space with three other survivors. All four of you, packed in and silent and petrified. Unsure of any further threat, you stay completely still. Helpless. Laying here, idle, for whatever awaits you behind that feeble, wooden door. You feel like prey for the wicked, just passing the time.

Minutes inch along like this—or maybe its hours; time moves eerily different when you’re attempting to become invisible—and eventually, you almost begin to relax.

Almost.

But a new sound breaks the din, hard to recognize at first, indistinct from all the commotion outside their hut, but you hear it. You all do. The youngest of you, a teenaged Devaronian, grips onto the hem of your shirt, knuckles creasing with anticipation. You tense, spine going rigid. Footsteps. They’re slow, guarded, but they’re getting closer. You bring an arm up, for all the good it’ll do, creating a human shield in front of the boy at your side. Closer. Someone behind you muffles a whimper. Closer. A Bardottan you hadn’t even met until today let’s out the faint whisper of a prayer, lips barely ghosting over the phrases. Closer-

and then, nothing.

They’re here. You can sense him, see his shadow sweep across the gaps in the entryway. You all hold your breath, as if the air is being syphoned out of the space… And the door is flung open, nearly breaking off it’s hinges as it slams into the inside of the house, shuttering the rickety walls with a jarring bang.

You don’t know who looks more astonished: you four, or the Mandalorian before you, dripping head to toe in silver plated armor, pointing a blaster directly at your head.

“Where is he?” He asks, hard edged and modulated, and it’s more of a demand than a question—but he lowers his weapon all the same, holstering it at his side. You gape at him, guppying wordlessly. “Volcur X’elo. The bomber. Where?” He hasn’t moved an inch out of the doorframe but he’s still managing to loom over you, completely filling up the archway, shoulders set and impossibly intimidating.

You gulp, finally finding your voice. “In town, i-in the center of town…” Kriff, you had not idea if that intel was good or not, but it’s all you think to say. Seeming satisfied with your answer he turns on his booted heel, cape whipping behind him, leaving just as soon as he arrived. The dust barely has time to settle as the door teeter’s on its hinge, its rusty squeaks filling the void in the Mandalorian’s wake.

“Fuck,” you hiss, exhaling a breath you didn’t realize you were holding, doubling forward, propping your palms up on your knees.

///

After deliberating it with your group, you all come to the agreement of braving it outside. Better to be out under the open sky than die under a concaving apartment, clambering over each other to get to the exit. After all this, at least your dignity was still partially in tact— normally, you reckon you’d chuckle dryly at that. But you don’t.

Can’t.

You lead the pack through the mazelike streets. The sights that once seemed so familiar after weeks of living here become like strangers to you, and you sleepwalk through Jortho, snaking down paths marred by rubble and fallen wreckage— you haven’t seen any bodies, but maybe that isn’t true. Maybe you’re just too scared to notice them. Maybe they’re there, hovering just outside of your peripherals, haunting the corners of your vision…

You keep your head fixed forward, jaw clenched.

Your feet move on their own like this, only vaguely aware that the red-skinned boy still hadn’t let go of your tunic. You forge on. Have to. You have to. Your only purpose on this kriffing planet was to help these people, to bring them aid, and if that means simply planting one foot in front of the other, then so be it. You take side alleys, double backing here and there, ducking under canopies, looping around yourself, only stopping when you catch a glimpse of beskar, the orange setting sun glinting off the surface of his helmet.

And he’s not alone.

You freeze suddenly, as do the rest, and the Devaronian bumps into you, stumbling under his lanky legs. Some paces in front of you, the bounty hunter has the other man, this Volcur X’elo, by a punishing grip on his shoulders, shoving him forcefully out in front of him; his wrists are bound and he’s fitful without the stabilization of his arms, his feet staccatoed and flailing wildly beneath him as the Mandalorian marches him forward.

The wind shifts, and on it you can hear the bomber rant madly, only catching snippets of the vile nonsense that spews from him.“- like swine, they are a plague to the system! And they must be purged from this planet, and the next, and the next— every last filthy one!” You spare a glance to Hareem, to find her watching the scene in hypnotized horror, but your eyes snap back at the sound of something maniacal, drawing your attention. It’s laughter. The zealot begins to laugh a twisted, mocking cry that makes you want to vomit. “You might have me in binders Mandalorian, but you’re too late. You’re too late. This isn’t over!” He’s practically giggling, gleeful and demented. Disturbed. “You’ve only found one.”

Your blood runs cold.

Only one? Oneoneoneone, one what-

The realization hits you with a punch to your gut. He’s only detonated one of his bombs. Somewhere, nearby, there must be another.

Without another word, the Mandalorian whips the smaller man around, pulling him sharply by his collar to collide with his breastplate, completely dwarfing him with his beskar frame. “Where is it, X’elo?” Nothing. Only laughter. High pitched, terrible roars. He tries again, patience ebbing. “The bomb. Now.” X’elo’s head tilts back and he howls another crowing shriek, keeping private his own sick joke, as if clutching a secret to his chest with slimy hands.

The bounty hunter had heard enough. He clearly wasn’t getting anything more out of him, and with a quick strike, he rears his blaster and pistol whips the terrorist with it. The body drops. Volcur X’elo crumples, unconscious, blood streaming from where he was struck. You hear the Bardottan behind you stifle a cry with her fist.

And with that, Lothal’s sun disappears completely, stealing away the last of it’s light as it furls into itself, shrinking out of sight. The dark ushers a new wave of dread, creeping over Jortho like a miasma, poisoning the very air.

The Mandalorian wheels around, searching for his heading in the labyrinth of the town. Others have gathered now, poking their heads around corners, stealing glimpses through windows. He turns, his head on a swivel. “Where is your power generator?” he demands, addressing the small crowd, but you’re all too stunned to speak. “Anybody. Generator. Now.” There’s something new in his voice, something muddled, and it takes you a moment to interpret it. It’s desperation, you realize, tinny and deep through his vocoder, and with a surge of adrenaline you move forward, furthering yourself from your group. You swallow. “I-Its this way.” Upon hearing your voice, he spins around, his visor latching on to you, and with a nod you both set out.

“Watch him,” the Mandalorian growls past his shoulder, stepping over the bounty’s limp body.

///

You’re still not really sure how he knew where it’d be, you wonder to yourself, gravel crunching under foot as you both trudge on, an eery quiet settling over them. You’d say it was a lucky hunch, but judging by the way the Mandalorian carries himself, you doubt luck had much to do with it.

You had led him to the power generator hub on the other side of the sad excuse for a city, traveling in tense silence, and when you came upon that tall, bulky machine he sprang into action, circling it until he found what he was looking for. The bomb. You stood back, rooted there, and after some grunting and rewiring— or maybe he just hacked at it with a vibroblade, you had no idea; his wide frame engulfed his work and you couldn’t tell what he was up to, all you knew was that his methods proved successful— the man managed to disarm the second device. You had thought you noticed his shoulders release, slumping with relief, after the red flashing lights on the rudimentary interface flickered and then went dark.

And so here you are. The two of you, bathed in the bright light of Lothal’s twin moons, their bellies hanging full in the blue-black night, illuminating the trail of blood staining the dirt beneath your boots as the Mandalorian roughly drags the body by his ankle behind him— through the exploded rubble, through the fragmented lives of the people around you, already displaced and estranged. They’ll all have to move, you think, pack up their lives, or what little is left of them, and relocate. Again. The thought sinks in you like a stone, sobering you.

Even with the weight of a fully grown man to lug, the bounty hunter is still a few long strides in front of you and your eyes are trained on the unconscious form, taking in the way his mouth lolls open like an animal, his hair matted with thick blood, eyes rolled back into his head. You’re talking out loud before you even realize it.

“How sick do you have to be,” you mumble, transfixed. Your voice, it’s not angry; no, shock has effectively robbed you of that— it’s not anger, but bewilderment. Quivering, broken bewilderment.

“H-How hoodwinked and warped you’d have to be, how disturbed... For you to think like that. To do all... all this...”

“Hey,” his gruff voice shakes you from your trance, and you blink up at him, tearing your eyes off the body. “Focus,” he urges, and you can only nod dumbly back at him, suddenly feeling a ripple of nausea slither through you.

The ramp to his ship is lowering as they come upon it and you plant yourself at the base, feet seeming to stop on their own accord, and frankly you’re not really sure why you’ve even followed him this far in the first place— always a step behind him as he hauled his bounty all the way through the vestiges of Jortho, across the arid prairie to where he first touched down. Maybe it’s because you feel untethered, unmoored, and all of his steeled surety is like a lighthouse, a beacon, guiding you away from the rocks.

He heaves X’elo up the ramp and you’re left standing there, staring unseeingly into the durasteel, becoming more and more aware of the ringing in your ears. The longer time passes, the more it’s as if you’re underwater, the background blurring into the foreground, sound gargled and far away. A high pitched buzz pinches your ear drums, and it takes you a moment to realize the Mandalorian is calling out to you, trying to get your attention.

“— Dala.”

Does he sound annoyed? Kriff, you think he might... If you had your wits about you, you might be able to recognize it. But as it stands, you don’t. You’re not here, not all of you. You’re splintered. Suspended.

“Hmm? Sorry, what..?” Your mouth is as dry as Jakku— parched desert tongue darting across your cracked lip, tasting soot and ash and something metallic. Brow furrowed, you touch a shaky finger to the flesh and when you pull it back, crimson red dots your skin.

Oh, you think, numb. Huh.

Your eyes skitter back up to the Mandalorian, towering over you, nearly at the apex of the incline, and his stance is broad and his fists are clenched. You’re almost positive he’s glaring down at you through his visor, and you don’t even know the man, can’t even see his damn face, but you can tell he’s peeved— Maker, just how long had you been ignoring him?

A scratched noise comes through his helmet’s vocoder and his next words are clipped, punctuated. “I said, do you have a way off this skug hole?”

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immortalconclusions · 3 years ago

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This incomprehensible post from @0junemeatcleaver0 was brought to my attention. Like ok first of all, this post was so embarrassing it gave me full body cringe. This is like a badly written high school English essay from someone who didn’t read the book. If you know you know.

And look, I usually try not to be controversial on the internet. I try to stay away from drama. Frankly I am too busy in my real life and I don’t have the time or emotional energy. But even though I am not the target audience of this post and it doesn’t mention me, and it's kinda old news by now, I felt I had to say something in particular because it goes after my brilliant co-writer, who is a WOC. Did you know that? I can’t really let that slide, sorry June. Also, the racism in this fandom is getting worse and becoming impossible to ignore. While I can assure you I am very much not a “cishet white man”, I am not an expert or authority on this topic by any means—I am also constantly learning. But I work as hard as I can to do my part to support my BIPOC siblings both in real life and online.

So I’m gonna get right into it. First of all, you referenced a couple of handy dandy lists from dosomething.org:

Prepare For The Conversation

Understand why white people should have conversations with one another

Think about why you want to have this conversation.

Choose who you want to talk to and how

Establish goals for the conversation

Set expectations for yourself and your conversation partner

And

Have The Conversation

1. DO start the conversation from a place of curiosity and care

2. DO lead with “I” statements

3. DO ask open ended questions

4. DON’T end the conversation at the first sign of discomfort

5. DO stay on topic

6. DON’T think you have to do this alone (IE: bring resources)

7. DO consider taking a pause and returning to the conversation at a different time if you feel like the conversation is moving more towards conflict and away from conversation.

Y’all need to learn basic ass communication skills that you should have learned as a child? How to not be a dick? Shame on you, that’s embarrassing AF, and also kind of hilarious? (Ohhh but I’m *insert neurodivergent acronym here* I refer you to these articles, and these ones too. Please don’t weaponize your fragility and incompetence in a situation where it is hardly relevant).

Not to mention all the ways your post contradicts many of these points. There are just too many to name, and I don’t have the time to go through and name them all. Plus they’re all super obvious if you have more than one brain cell. But, you know, I’m willing to roll with you here in the spirit of logical positivism. Let’s work with your model. Just gotta mention a few because they made me laugh out loud.

To wit, let’s look at the third resource you referenced from guidetoallyship.com. It’s actually pretty good, definitely the best of the three. Good job there! But—oh wait, did you actually follow any of these yourself? Hmm let’s see:

To Be An Ally Is To…

Take on the struggle as your own

Transfer the benefits of your privilege to those who lack it

Amplify voices of the oppressed before your own

Acknowledge that even though you feel pain, the conversation is not about you

Stand up, even when you feel scared

Own your mistakes and de-center yourself

Understand that your education is up to you and no one else

You wrote: “Anti-racist work looks just the same in fandom as out of it. The mechanics are the same. He could have asked Google this question instead of asking fans of color.”

From your checklist:

“Choose who you want to talk to and how”

“Amplify voices of the oppressed before your own”

What happened to amplifying voices of marginalized people? Idk man I don’t really put much stock in these generic basic af wonder bread articles written by other white people (see the first two lists). Like if you were gonna cite some sources….at least make them good ones? You might have to *gasp* click on the second page of Google search results, but I believe in you baby, you can do it. (Since I know we’re all learning, and learning is a process, if you want a reading list I can share mine with you. Feel free to DM.)

You wrote: ““A lot of white people are afraid to talk about racial issues & that’s why this shit keeps happening.” (First line of the first paragraph of that post). From what I’ve seen through my research the reason white folks in the Tumblr VC fandom were beginning to become afraid of discussing race (and racism in Anne’s work and racism in fandom or the implications inherent in narrative choices the showrunners were rumored to be making) was that he was insinuating anyone who didn’t agree with his thoughts on the choices the showrunners were making were all covert racists. He actively made this stuff difficult to talk about. Which is not the role of an ally.”

From your checklist:

“Take on the struggle as your own”

“Acknowledge that even though you feel pain, the conversation is not about you”

“Stand up, even when you feel scared”

“Own your mistakes and de-center yourself”

...omg UWU we white people cant talk about w-wacism because we’re scared, because other people are so m-mean to us T_T and make it hard for us to talk about. I’m sorry what? I have no sympathy for white fragility lmao.

Attention White People: If someone calls you a racist, you should consider the possibility that you actually are. Just by chance of sheer probability. Think about that for a second. No really, use your brains. I know it’s hard. I promise you won’t vaporize on the spot. If you find out that you are, nobody is going to eat you. You just learn and get better. It’s a process, it doesn’t hurt all that bad.

You wrote: “This is not someone who needs to be doing this work.” Says you? Uhm, ok. Didn’t realize it was up to you, but go off ig. Seems to me like the more people the better.

And finally, this gem:

You wrote: “Do you think you know better about racism than a WOC?”

Hey, June.

Do YOU?

#vampire chronicles #vc #interview with the vampire #anne rice #white fandom #fandom #fandom bullshit #nice job amplifying voices babe #thank you for the laughs

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writing-in-april · 4 years ago

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Paint me

Laurent LeClaire x Female Reader

Summary: Reader finally has enough money to splurge on getting herself painted for the first time in her life. When she meets her painter, Laurent, she wonders whether she got more than what she bargained for.

A/N: Hello everyone- sorry this ones out a bit late tonight- I had practice and had to finish up a few things on this one after. This is my tenth fic for my 30 fics in 30 days for April- can’t believe we’re 1/3 through 🙈If y’all have ever seen In Secret you know what scene inspired this fic asdjksdj lol 😂 also @propertyofabelmorales fic from Valentine’s Day also inspired me 🥰 I low key probably spent more time on this than necessary considering he isn’t a very popular character but I couldn’t help myself 😅 In secret was actually the first movie (that wasn’t Star Wars) that I saw Oscar Isaac in so Laurent low key has my heart- even with his murderous tendencies 😂 I always love hearing from my followers so feel free to drop an ask or request here. Thanks for reading and hope y’all enjoy.

Warnings: 18+, Smut, Reader is fearful of Laurent, Reader thinks Laurent might kill her, Dubcon, Oral sex (F receiving), Unprotected sex, Creampie- if any other warnings need to be added let me know

Main Masterlist Word Count: 3.2K

Being painted was an important status symbol in this life. To have your image captured for all to see, put down on canvas by paint from a brush was a way of showing off beauty to the people around you, and the people that came after.

You were elated to have your image captured on canvas for the first time, finally able to afford it on your own. A rare sight in the world that you lived in to see a woman able to pay the fee of having her portrait painted.

Such a rare sight it was that when you had chosen a painter and contacted him he had almost seemed confused. When he had asked if you had a husband you had snorted turning up your nose to then tell him no. It was not that you did not want any sort of romantic touch, but being tied down to someone for years that would probably not cherish you the way you deserved sickened you. So, with no one around to pressure you into an arranged marriage you remained unmarried.

The painter you had hired, Laurent, was sweet as honey, almost to a sickly degree. The charm had remained even after he had realized that you were alone, basically a spinster. Whether or not he kept up the act because he thought it would be easier to get underneath your skirts or because he truly did not mind an independent woman did not matter to you. You would only let your gaze linger over while he painted you, that was all. He was here to paint you, nothing more.

He had positioned you in a chair to sit in a simple position. His reasoning for that he told you was that the simpler the position, the easier it was for your beauty to shine. Painters had a way with words though, so you tried not to let your heart swell from the compliment.

You let yourself stare in each session as he began to lay out the foundation of your likeness. Each time you sat in the chair time ticked by slowly, inch by inch. It was not as if you minded as it let you look upon how his inky curls shone in the dim lighting, plus every other part your eyes were allowed access to. It was only fair in your book, considering his job was to stare at you.

This session you were in now seemed different to the others; he seemed more distant. While you both stared at the other not a single word was exchanged, only the brush on canvas got to speak today with each stroke.

It was harder to concentrate this time on staying as still as possible. You ached to move your legs over, just a bit to the side. Daring to test the waters, hoping he would not notice, your legs twitched a little over to the right.

For a while he continued to say nothing, painting with ease like he had completely missed the twitch in your legs. That was until he decided to speak for the first time in hours,

“No-“ His face twisted, morphing into a look tinged with darkness. It was this first sign of displeasure you had heard from your hours of sitting as if you had a rod in your spine. Dipping his brush back into his paints again to find his desired color was a much more rushed action than before. It was an annoyed and quick movement, trying to swiftly correct the mistake you had assumed he had made. When he returned his brush where it belonged on his canvas it scraped along it as he pushed the paint along, molding it into his image.

Another moment goes by silently and with no more words of displeasure; you begin to relax into your position again. It was already hard to relax fully while his eyes flitted from your body to his canvas; your nerves only raised higher after his outward sign of displeasure. He scrutinized every angle and curve as his eye took in every inch of you to create an accurate portrait of you. You wondered if in his fee there was an understanding that he would paint you in the highest light possible. Though, truth be told it was foolish to question that. What type of painter would he be if he displeased his clients by being honest in his paintings?

It was in his job description to lie. Painters depicted the beauty they saw and made it shine, even if that meant trying to find beauty in the darkest of corners to forcefully shed a light on them. All it took was a painter of proper skill, a canvas, and of course a set of paints. Any unwilling features that tried to fight their painters lies would be forcefully bent to their will, almost like a king, and all with a simple stroke to canvas. No, you weren’t ugly, but you accepted that it was his job to bend the truth to his will.

The darkness you had briefly observed reappeared on his face once more. He tried to be quiet in his frustration, but his whisper could not contain the anger brewing beneath. Truthfully his words were a far cry from a whisper, it was more of a shout, “It is not right!”

Naturally you wanted to question what had made the painter suddenly rise with anger, though you wisely kept your mouth shut tight. You did not know this man, nor did you know what he could be capable of underneath the sweet words. The darkness that brewed glinted in his eyes as he took his brush to canvas again, this time with more venom in his strokes.

You were not going to trust the honeyed words he had spoken to you, at least not now while you saw how the honey could possibly be sour. Even though honey never turned acrid in common knowledge, the sight before you disproved that. Each new brush against his canvas turned violent, almost as if he’d push through the canvas with how much force he was using and create a hole.

You could have left the room in a hurry, or even demanded him leave. After all, it was you that employed him. Watching honey that soured so quick intrigued you, so the rod stayed in your spine, though you knew it was naive of you. You couldn’t trust his words, but you could still listen to them.

Brush after brush splattered paint onto the canvas in front of him that you could not view. His once dexterous movements had devolved into a man you did not know, not that you truly knew him beforehand either. You couldn’t imagine he was painting anything close to your likeness; you highly doubted long irritated strokes would be good for each of your contours and curves.

Clattering noises filled the air of the room you were both trapped in, one trapped by his job and one trapped by curiosity. You hoped the curiosity didn’t kill you like the cat. He had kicked the easel that held the painting he was being paid for, which had caused the clattering. Gripping the paintbrush in his hand with fury he then separated it from the canvas and began to pace.

As he paced your mind wandered further; it was all it could do while it was stuck observing the man before you spiral. You wondered if he had forgotten your presence, even if he had been painting you- and you had even been doubting that.

Clearly he hadn’t forgotten about you as he suddenly stopped his pacing, slowly turning to face you again. His gaze no longer flitted between two things calling his attention, now fully focused on you, still with that rod in your spine.

“It is you.” He spoke with a deadly bite and you could not help but have your bottom lip wobble at his accusation. Racking your brain you tried to find why you were the one that was the source of his wrath and why you were the one that was about to receive it. “You are not in the right position.”

You wanted to protest, saying that you had not moved a muscle since he had placed you in this exact position with your spine rigid in a chair. The protest became stuck in your throat, no doubt because of the fear you now held for the darkness that brewed underneath. You remained stoically silent, rigid as ever, waiting for him to mold you into the position that he wanted you in.

He twirled his paintbrush in his hand absentmindedly while he thought. You did not know what he was pondering, though you had to guess it had something to do with fixing how you were positioned. He answered your own curious thoughts by confirming them, “You need to relax.”

Relaxing, that was hard enough earlier when you had not had fear put in you. Still, you tried to let go of the tension held tightly in your shoulders forcefully just as he did whenever he forced your features to look their best in his painting.

He then sighed, obviously displeased with your effort. Instead of letting you try again he simply gave you an order to ‘stay still’ while he began to approach you with his paintbrush in hand.

As the paintbrush approached you instead of the canvas you could not help but tremble as it came closer. It was not any sort of weapon that could do you any harm; it would take a lot to hurt someone with a paintbrush. Still, you quivered as it approached, perhaps more because of the gaze that was transfixed on you.

Laurent’s gaze was wild, a hint of madness was evident in his eyes. They were two dark pools of almost black fixed upon you as if they were set on devouring you in the oblivion in their depths. Eyes were said to be the window to the soul and Laurent did little to make you doubt that claim. He did not give you soothing words as he saw you tremble beneath his daunting gaze and the slowly approaching bristles of the paintbrush, still partially coated in the color he had last been using. Instead of giving you the soothing words you may have desired the paintbrush crept closer, like it was stalking you in the night just as the obsidian pools he called eyes.

Your quivers were not solely because of the glint of madness you could see, hiding in the depths of his eyes. It would be a lie to say that all your quivers and shivers were rooted in the fear as to what he might do to you if you dared move from the position he had placed you in hours beforehand. Something else akin to desire had found itself at home run in through your veins, unburdened by the worries of what the black pools might be hiding in their abyss.

That feeling, the one that was running through your veins in spite of the lingering fear, was soon guiding your body. You were no longer staying rigid in your position out of fear; you wanted him to touch you, even if only with the tips of his brush.

He knelt down when close enough to then reach to lift up your skirts. You were scarcely breathing now, still afraid yet intrigued as to what a man could do with a simple paint brush. Opening your legs up at the approach of his paintbrush would have been indecent to some, but you could not help yourself. Biting your lip hard enough to possibly draw blood was so you did not move into his touch, letting him come to you as you did not want to incite his wrath. You wanted him to touch you with it, despite that fear of those black pools staring fiercely at you.

The soft bristles finally grazed the inner flesh of your thigh, a small tickle running through the nerves connected to the spot it touched. You could’ve been fooled into thinking that it had been the brush of his hand if your own eyes hadn’t been fixated upon him.

You moved your position just a hair, maybe even smaller than the ones on the paintbrush used to move you.

“There.” His whisper breathless, now devoid of the darkness that had stifled any sweetness.

You ached to hear him say it again, it was not a praise for you in the strictest sense. He had been simply readjusting you, hardly any room or need for any praise. The way he had whispered it along with the whisper of the brush upon your skin made it feel like he was praising you. Before you knew what was happening or considered the consequences you chased the brush he had begun to pull back with your thighs.

The darkness quickly came back on his face when he had noticed you had moved to chase his touch. He began to bark out a command to put you back in your place, even though he was the painter, and you, the client. “Sit ba-“

“Brush me again.” Your plea was too beautiful for him to let it go unanswered, even though you had cut him off. There no doubt was still lingering fear inside you, afraid of what he might do in retaliation.

He surprisingly obliged you, you could see his curiosity meld with the darkness in him. He lifted your skirts again, holding the brush just above the spot where he had touched moments before.

When he brushed the inner flesh of your thigh again, the pressure was harder, less unsure.

That simple touch made you moan, even though he wasn’t touching any spot that normally might bring you pleasure. It was as if a dark shadow had cascaded across his face to blur your perception of who he probably was underneath it all. If it wasn’t for your curiosity and your simple desire you would have thought more critically about his next request.

“Take off your dress.” Like someone without a thought you stripped it off of you in haste, as did he with his own clothes.

In no time at all it seemed, his mouth had enveloped your own, keen on devouring all you had to offer. He picked you up with ease by the tops of your now naked thighs so he could lower you to the floor. He then allowed himself to nip and suck on any section of skin he desired to put his mouth on. Not that you could reciprocate as he had your hands held above your head.

When his fingers started to dance along the tops of your thighs just as the brush had done you instinctively pushed your thighs together. The action was quickly reversed by Laurent releasing your hands to push your thighs apart, giving him an unobstructed view of your entrance.

His mouth was soon swiftly on the places that brought you pleasure, sucking your pearl into his mouth like a sweet.

You wanted to writhe underneath him out of sheer pleasure, but he did not need to bind you to make you immobile. That fear still lingering in your mind kept your body still, even as he combined his mouth with his fingers by pushing them into your entrance.

“There?” He whispered as he crooked them upwards, trying to find the spot that would make you see stars. It wasn’t quite right though, so you shook your head side to side. You didn’t dare to speak, not that you could do anything more but making unintelligible moans of pleasure.

“There.” He whispered with finality when he hit that somewhat spongy spot inside you making you cry out louder than before. It was so nice to hear him say those words again, honeyed words that tasted so sweet even though they were tainted by darkness. Your release shot through you quickly, like an arrow sent to kill you.

He removed his fingers from you when you were finished with your first release of the night, wasting no time to push himself inside you. He was larger than any other man you had been with, stretching you blissfully and almost painfully. You were lucky he was not too cruel to not let you adjust to his size, but as soon as you had he unleashed himself upon you. All you could do was wrap your legs around his waist and let him thrust into you at a brutal pace. The sounds of skin slapping on skin were so loud they almost over took the moans you were emitting along with his grunts.

When his hand came to wrap around your neck your own mortality became evident to you. Early before you had succumbed to his touch with a simple brush, you had been afraid he might harm you, even with the desire pumping through your blood. You had not even thought of beyond a simple bruise or cut to your flesh by him. His hand around your throat while he thrusted into you made you wonder how much it would take for him to squeeze until your lips turned blue.

Desire one again took over your fear, his hand around your neck combined with the sweet nothings whispered in your ear made you fall apart again. It was a slow devastating release like honey dripping off a spoon languidly until it dropped down to sweeten the pot. Even though his own honey had turned sour, he still was fully capable of making people feel sweetness while shrouded in darkness.

He filled you soon after you had finished your own release with a grunt. Neither of you had any real care to be able to give to the possible consequences of him filling you. He rolled off of you and you were glad in the moment he didn’t crush you under his weight like most men would have done.

Silence seemed to be a staple item that constantly wormed its way in between the two of you. No one spoke for a while, truthfully it might have been an hour. Laurent was the first to break it again, with much less malice than before,

“Do you want me to continue to paint you?” He whispered into your skin as he continued to pepper his plush lips across your skin. Glancing up towards the easel that still faced the canvas away from you and then over to the bare man next to you helped aid you in your decision. You could let him leave with wasted paints, wasted canvas, and wasted potential.

The wasted potential was what stopped you from letting him paint the rest of the angles of your body. Pondering what could come of the painting, and your relationship with the man who had just made you see stars while simultaneously making you fear or your life at the same time made you frown. The possibilities were endless, but those two black pools hid something too interesting for you to ignore. You wanted to know more, even ached for it.

“Yes.” You simply replied and you then willingly fell into the abyss.

Ask Me Anything

—-

Tag lists (message me if you want to be added):

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#laurent leclaire x reader #oscar isaac #oscar isaac smut #oscar isaac x reader #in secret #30 fics in 30 days #oscar isaac fanfic

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thinkingisadangerouspastime · 3 years ago

Note

hi! i really like your posts and recently i came across some anti kataang arguments and i would like to see your opinion on that (if you want to answer because you must be very tired of answering those lol)

“i remember perfectly aang forcing himself into katara. not only once, but a lot of times. in that talk they were having during the play it was one of the moments aang was intrusive”

“i saw people saying that katara was jealous of aang with that kids in kyoshi island, which she obviously was not. she was annoyed at them”

“kataang had no development. it feels like a ship made out of nowhere”

“aang is completely obsessed with the idea of katara being his. proof is that episode were the guru tells him he has to let go of her and he choses to break the connection. it’s like: look what i did for you, you should stay with me. aang learning to let go would have been a evolution for his character”

“making them stay together in the end just because aang is the protagonist and has to stay with the girl is boring and adds nothing to the plot”

“he spend years after a girl that never felt the same for him”

hi anon! im very flattered you like my posts 🥰💛 and you’re not wrong that sometimes it gets a lil tiring addressing anti kataang arguments, but that’s because 90% of them are the same foolish rhetoric dressed up in a different costume, lol. i finally have some free time, so i’ll take a stab at these for you!

“i remember perfectly aang forcing himself into katara. not only once, but a lot of times. in that talk they were having during the play it was one of the moments aang was intrusive”

not gonna lie, this particular “argument” made me crack up laughing because they “remember perfectly… lots of times” but can only name one instance 😂 like i am on the floor, because trying to get away with that in a formal essay would earn them nothing more than a goose egg. you need evidence to support a claim, which this “claim” has none of. i mean,, when does aang force himself onto katara?? when katara initiates every cheek kiss they share?? when they are mutual participants in several shared hugs?? don’t get me started on DOBS - the Now or Never Kiss that falls under literally requires reciprocation from both parties, lol. but regarding the ever-so-infamous EIP episode they bring up:

This post talks specifically about EIP and the play’s portrayal of Aang and Katara (and how it cannot be used to define their relationship). This post explains the true source of Katara’s conflict in turning down Aang (i.e. the war itself and the risks the war presents for both of them) and why the EIP kiss did not “ruin” Kataang’s relationship. This post explains how the EIP kiss was resolved through narrative parallels. This post explains how the EIP kiss is so often blown out of proportion. This post explains how Aang did not “threaten” Katara in EIP (with some excellent commentary in the notes, too).

the fact of the matter is that yes, aang overstepped a boundary with katara there. no one has ever contested that because to do so would be to disregard canon, and here’s the thing about kataang shippers: we love atla canon. it gave us everything we wanted and more. (imo, that’s what anti kataangers don’t understand.) the EIP episode can be interpreted as a “low point” for many reasons, but the primary “takeaway” is that the play performed was imperialist propaganda that preyed on the gaang’s insecurities and demeaned them (much to the pleasure of the Fire Nation audience), which had negative consequences, one of which was aang kissing katara largely out of desperation. no one has ever excused that! thus, what i think isn’t clicking with anti kataangers is that aang and katara’s miscommunication in EIP is not a representation of their relationship being doomed to fail. aang made a mistake and immediately backed off without question or hesitation. katara has time to make her own decision and chooses to forgive him. doesn’t it strip more of katara’s agency away to conclude that katara could never ever ever forgive her best friend for a single mistake that - comparatively - could have been a whole lot worse?

(im just saying.)

“i saw people saying that katara was jealous of aang with that kids in kyoshi island, which she obviously was not. she was annoyed at them”

honestly, i have a question for whoever came up with this jfksjdasks. okay, yes, she was annoyed. that’s a given based on her exasperated eye rolls and sighs. but why was katara annoyed with them, hmm?

here’s my thing about katara’s feelings in this ep: jealousy and annoyance are not inherently the same, it’s true. a person can be annoyed without being jealous (obviously). as such, there are essentially two possible interpretations that have validity, although one in my opinion has greater weight in canon:

1. yes, it is possible to interpret katara’s annoyance that episode as being solely related to their delays on kyoshi island. one can reasonably argue that katara’s romantic feelings for aang were not as strong so early in the series (it’s only episode 4, after all, although lbr - she was Looking at aang’s tattoos in episode 1 lmao), and therefore the primary reason she was annoyed at the fangirls is because they were one of the causes extending their stay on the island when katara felt they needed to leave. it’s a fair interpretation.

2. a different and stronger interpretation, in my opinion, is that katara’s irritation was a product of both annoyance at their extended stay and jealousy of the fangirls’ obsession with aang. because here’s the thing about jealousy: it doesn’t have to be some extreme, exaggerated emotion/reaction! when katara gets jealous of on ji in book 3, she makes a single comment about aang and on ji dancing together. when aang gets jealous of jet in book 2 (because of sokka’s teasing), he, too, makes a single comment (i.e. that it would be a bad idea for katara to kiss jet). i bring these two moments up because they explicitly demonstrate within atla canon that reactions of jealousy do not have to be dramatique and outrageous, à la zuko throwing ruon-jian across the room in book 3, lmao. jealousy can be simple! kept to oneself! as such, katara’s disgruntled manner in that episode - which, might i add, is largely if not only shown in reaction to aang with the fangirls - can certainly be interpreted as a quieter form of jealousy akin to several other moments within canon.

more than that, however, if the writers did not at all want jealousy to be an interpretation on the table… why on earth would they have bothered to mention jealousy as a possibility? here’s the relevant excerpt from the episode transcript:

Koko: [Stomps her foot in annoyance and puts her hands on her hips, while another girl happily waves at Aang; irritated.] What’s taking you so long, Aangy?

Cut back to Aang and Katara; the former enthusiastically waves back at his awaiting fangirls, while the latter raises an eyebrow at the scene.

Katara: [Slightly mocking.] Aangy…

Aang: [Enthusiastically.] Just a second, Koko!

Katara: [Sarcastic.] “Simple monk,” huh? [Annoyed.] I thought you promised me that this Avatar stuff wouldn’t go to your head.

Aang: It didn’t. You know what I think? You just don’t want to come because you’re jealous.

Katara: [Close-up; angrily.] Jealous? [More high pitched voice.] Of what?

Cut to a broader shot. Aang moves back slightly, when an irritated Katara resumes to ferociously stuff the basket with more fruits.

Aang: Jealous that we’re having so much fun without you.

Katara: [Irritated.] That’s ridiculous.

(sidebar, but can i just say that seeing “ferociously stuff” to describe putting fruits away is arguably the funniest thing i’ve ever read sjkdhsjalks)

to me, this excerpt alone all but proves katara’s irritation is a mixture of annoyance at the girls’ (and aang’s) behavior/their delayed departure and jealousy regarding how the fangirls’ fawn over aang. katara clearly demonstrates frustration at aang’s seeming lack of concern for their time crunch and how he’s letting his status get to his head (and remember, y’all: this is very early book 1 aang, he’s barely begun to truly reconcile what it means to be the avatar and the last airbender, which is understandable and a-okay! can’t have growth if he doesn’t start somewhere!). that checks out. but next thing you know, katara’s reaction proceeds to dramatically heighten when aang teases the idea of jealousy to her. again: why include this moment if jealousy was never on the table whatsoever as an interpretation for her feelings of irritation? why make katara’s response intensify so strongly if she’s not jealous even a little bit?

in sum, while i don’t think katara’s aggravation is solely fueled by jealousy, the episode itself points to jealousy as at least a part of it. simple!

“kataang had no development. it feels like a ship made out of nowhere”

this take screams willful ignorance, like did they even watch the whole show?? it’s not worth addressing over and over, ngl.

This post and this post explain how Katara’s feelings for Aang develop throughout the series. This post explains how Aang consistently supported Katara throughout the series. This post demonstrates how Kataang is literally ingrained in every episode.

“aang is completely obsessed with the idea of katara being his. proof is that episode were [sic] the guru tells him he has to let go of her and he choses [sic] to break the connection. it’s like: look what i did for you, you should stay with me. aang learning to let go would have been a evolution for his character”

“completely obsessed” h e l p i weep for the lack of brain cells 😭 it is so hard to just say “kataang isn’t my cup of tea” and go?? seriously?? i thought we were past making stuff up to support shipping agendas. lord help us. real quick:

This post explains how Aang never acted like he was “entitled” to Katara’s affections. This post explains how Katara and Aang do not “idolize” each other. This post and this post talk about Aang’s chakra being blocked and unblocked, and how it had to do with fear, not attachment. This post talks about Aang and the Avatar State, explicitly discussing “The Crossroads of Destiny” and the notion of attachment/letting Katara go.

okay, let’s take this claim one sentence at a time:

“the guru tells him [aang] he has to let go of her [katara] and he choses [sic] to break the connection.”

first of all. FIRST OF ALL. can you imagine the hellfire that would have rained down if aang hadn’t chosen to go rescue katara? here is a piece of the episode transcript:

… Right before he is able to completely open the final chakra and master the Avatar State, however, he hears a shriek from Katara and sees a vision of her in chains. At this, he jumps out of the energy sphere and runs away from the Avatar Spirit. The energy bridge that leads him there slowly vanishes behind him until it catches up and falls from underneath him, causing his image to plummet toward Earth. This cuts his connection to the Avatar State, which forces him back to reality.

Aang: Katara’s in danger! I have to go! [Prepares to exit.]

Pathik: No, Aang! By choosing attachment, you have locked the chakra! If you leave now, you won’t be able to go into the Avatar State at all!

Aang hesitates but leaves anyway, leaving Pathik concerned and disappointed.

aang chose to leave because katara was in danger. if he had chosen to stay,, dear god. the vitriol that would have been thrown around. “aang doesn’t really love katara! he chose not to save her!” “aang is so selfish and greedy! he chose power over love!” it’s literally a catch-22. damned if he does leave, damned if he doesn’t leave. #fandomlogic

anyways, yes, sure, aang chose to leave, which at the time broke the connection. he was indeed in avatar state limbo for a Hot Minute. whoop de do.

“it’s like: look what i did for you, you should stay with me.”

logical fallacy: ad hominem, hasty generalization, ∴ not worth our time 💛

“aang learning to let go would have been a [sic] evolution for his character”

i have amazing news for those who perpetuate this take. aang did let her go! he would not have been able to enter the avatar state in COD if he hadn’t! point blank, it is utterly untrue to pretend aang did not “let go” of his attachment to katara. now, im not going to get into the concept of “attachment” here and what it truly meant for aang to have “let katara go” in the book 2 finale (if it was good, bad, etc. etc.). there is a lot of material to work with there that would require like,, an entire post to dig into, if not more. the fact of the matter is that aang did let katara go, and the proof is that he successfully entered the avatar state before azula killed him. the above claim thus sits in complete contradiction to canon and is a moot point.

“making them stay together in the end just because aang is the protagonist and has to stay with the girl is boring and adds nothing to the plot”

“making them stay together” again, is it so hard for someone to just say “kataang isn’t my thing, im gonna stick to fanon pairings, but y’all have fun” i mean that really, really does not seem so difficult to me! also, “making” is a hilarious word to use just because,, atla is a work of fiction. in that respect, the writers “made” everything happen. you cannot escape their sphere of control.

anyways. that’s just funny to me lmao

but no, aang and katara did not get together in a romantic fashion just because aang was the lead male protagonist and katara was the lead female protagonist. i refer back to these posts from earlier:

aang and katara got together because their relationship had been developed since episode 1, duh. reducing their relationship to “lead guy + lead girl” completely disregards the legwork done and the foundation laid for their romantic partnership. like, all someone has to do is rewatch the show 😂 and i hate to break it to whoever created that take, but to say kataang “adds nothing to the plot” again ignores how their relationship is one of the two most important in the show (the other being aang and zuko’s relationship as narrative foils). it is not a cheap coincidence that kataang embodies multiple complementary themes/motifs of atla: push and pull, yin and yang, air and water, oma and shu, etc. etc. their relationship adds emotional depth! how is that not relevant to the plot! atla is a show where just about every relationship is important in some regard (this post touches upon how aang alone transforms all of his friends - think of the bigger picture, then, and how every other dynamic weaves in a crucial thread to create the beautiful tapestry we call atla!).

my point is that kataang is relevant to the plot the way every relationship in atla is, whether or not someone ships/enjoys them. you cannot have a good show without having intimate relationships (emotionally, i mean). can you imagine if someone said zuko and iroh’s relationship wasn’t relevant to the plot?? there is a reason it is such a powerful moment when iroh and zuko reunite in the finale. similarly, there is a reason yue’s sacrifice and sokka’s consequential (and lasting) grief is so poignant. there is a reason it is so heartbreaking when katara and sokka have to leave behind their father at the beginning of tsr. to tie back to kataang, there is a reason it is so hard to watch katara dismiss aang in that same episode. there is a reason so many people are moved when katara pulls aang out of the avatar state when appa is stolen. there is a reason emotional reactions are incited during atla and it is because these relationships are so important!! i don’t care if someone thinks kataang is “boring” - that’s their opinion, they have a right to it. but to insist their relationship wasn’t relevant to the plot? to the story? when in fact it was a key component from episode 1?

are you kidding me?

“he spend years after a girl that never felt the same for him”

“years” lol doesn’t atla take place over the course of a year at most? pretty sure this person didn’t even watch the show 😂 for a third time, i refer to these posts:

i hope i addressed these (nonsensical) arguments to your satisfaction, anon! a lot of them are the same tried-and-failed anti kataang arguments, smh. not to incite new discourse lmao, but it’d be nice if there was at least some variety 😂 thank you again for your kind words, my friend! 💛

#kataang #aang #katara #aanglove #atla #avatar the last airbender #atla analysis #kataangtag #amy answers #anon #amy analyzes

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