#now lemme see a diagram for the organic parts

[chokefriends]

Anatomy model Eustass Kid

By @godims0tired ♡ for my fic Life Drawing

Rating: E

Warnings: None

Characters & ships: Eustass Kid / Trafalgar Law

Word count: 2978

Summary: Law practices his anatomical drawing with Kidd as his subject. With his devil fruit abilities he can see right inside him.

Kidd finds this insanely romantic.

~~~

Read on Ao3 or below the cut. I know it's an older fic by now but I havent posted it here before so here!

~~~

Kidd jerked into full awareness as he lay sprawled in his bed. He checked around himself without moving and sensed a second heartbeat in the room, near enough that the dim echoes of its electrical impulses lapped at his skin like waves. Slow and calm. Just watching then; not yet poised to attack…

There were eyes on him.

It took him a moment to remember that the other heartbeat was supposed to be there. He wasn't used to having bedmates stay overnight.

Red eyes slid open and found keen grey ones fixed on him.

“The fuck you staring at.”

“You, idiot.”

The big redheaded sprawl snorted crassly at that and flopped over, returning the stare with sleepy menace.

Law smirked. He was wedged sideways in one of the heavy carved armchairs in Kidd's quarters, loosely wrapped in a sheet and busily scritch scritching in a large book. His gaze flicked from page to Kidd and back.

Kidd prodded him, “See something you want, Trafalgar? Come over here and take it.”

His limbs were still all loose and languid from when they'd fucked a couple hours before, but Kidd could stand to go another round. Especially with the sharp, evaluating looks Law was throwing him right now.

“Come on, c'mere.”

“Later. Go back to sleep, Eustass-ya.” The pen bobbed.

“Don’ wanna. What are you doing still up?”

“Just passing the time until my brain decides to let me fall asleep.” Law's insomniac woes again.

“A good fuck will do that for you. Lemme do the ligature thing and you'll be out like bam .” Kidd offered generously.

“Heheh. Thanks but oxygen deprivation is not the kind of sleep aid I need.”

“Your loss.”

Kidd burrowed into his cluster of satiny pillows with a sigh. For an infamously brutal pirate captain he sure liked his little extravagances. The whole room was draped with horribly clashing bits of luxurious fabrics and furs, and the odd shiny sharp thing. The manic magpie whims of past raids.

“Nah, that's no good,” Law recrossed long legs over the chair’s arm, well cushioned with some spotted pelt. “Go back to where you were a second ago.”

“Are you…? What, taking notes on me? Writing an ode to the sinful curve of my flawless ass?”

“Something like that. I'm adding my own anatomical diagrams to this medical text. It’s my favourite for reference material but the illustrations are scanty and kinda shit -- it's like they've never dissected anyone before.”

“Nice. Add a diagram of these.” Kidd kicked up a leg.

“Hah. I'm nowhere near the section on genital abnormalities, but I'll look you up when I get there. Turn on your side again, I was doing upper body musculature.”

“Ooo. I got lots of that, yeah.” Kidd complied.

The lamplight was flickering low behind Law. Kidd could see him and his book backlit dimly, the small hairs on his leanly muscled shoulders aglow like a nimbus. Tinged subtly blue.

Wait, blue?

“Do you have a Room up?”

“Yeah, so I can scan down and see the actual anatomical stuff.”

“Huh. That's handy. You don't even have to dissect anyone.”

“Yeah but it’s easier to see everything if you physically open someone up. You can isolate the individual structures that way.” Law peeked overtop of the book. “And it's more fun to do it the old-fashioned way, heh…”

Kidd gave a low laugh. Law wasn't even joking, he knew. He imagined waking up one night like this, to find some part of him delicately splayed open and the dark haired doctor sketching away with the same expression. If Law used his devil fruit power he could do it painlessly and bloodlessly, without even waking him. Kidd had seen him sever heads away from bodies completely within that blue sphere, both pieces still functioning as one. He’d never been the subject of that eerie power himself, though.

He didn’t think so, anyway.

Law untangled himself from chair and sheet, and finally came over to join him on the bed. Kidd was gifted briefly with a full view of the lithe figure. His recent handiwork was beginning to show in the mottling that ran up either thigh and the bites framing his chest tattoos.

The long limbs refolded next to him. “Stay there, I wanna do the neck muscles now.”

“Lemme see that first.”

“Don't be grabby,” Law complained, but gave up the book.

“Holy fuck.” Kidd flipped through studies of his back, shoulders, hands. “So that's how I look without skin, huh.”

He had been expecting more… yeah. Skin.

“I did say I was drawing the muscles.”

“And my bones and everything.”

“Yeah. Good skeletal structure too. Several odd calluses where breaks didn't quite set right, though.”

“You can see all of that?”

“Yeah, of course. Like I said, I can scan down to any level. Though it helps if I know already the shape of what I'm looking for.”

Something about the drawings was just so Law. The lines so precise, so sharp, somehow impatient. A little obsessive and overworked on certain details, like the hollow between his collar bones and the knobbly crook of his index finger, broken at least twice. Many practice studies on loose sheets of paper showed that Law had been trying to get these parts just right.

It occurred to Kidd that these weren't just anatomical studies using him as a model -- these were him.

Jotted notes crowded around the practice studies, but Law grabbed the book back before Kidd could read them properly.

“Trafalgar. Does that seriously say I have 8.2 litres of blood in me.”

“Nevermind that. Just an interesting fact. You have a lot of blood.”

Kidd stole another peek as Law held him off. “And that I have a grip strength of 68 kilograms in my right hand?”

“At least. That’s not something I can see; that's from uh, experience.”

Kidd leaned back with his hands laced behind his head to look at Law. “One might misinterpret this as a target profile of some kind.” Because that's exactly what it was -- a detailed map of Kidd’s strongest, and weakest points.

“Whoa, your blood pressure’s spiking.” Law grinned with more teeth than usual and leaned in to hover over him.

“Now you're just showing off,” Kidd complained.

“Does this disturb you?”

That wasn't exactly the feeling that was spreading through him, no. Or not entirely, anyway. Kidd just cracked his neck, stretching it out for Law's benefit, and raised an eyebrow.

“So you wanted some neck action? It's all yours.”

Law seemed to like the sound of that. He angled Kidd’s head away and up with a gentle press of fingers, so the ear and neck were exposed to him.

Kidd watched his shadow flicker on the opposite wall and listened to the pen scratch across paper. The undulating magnetic field of Law’s heart was so close now, washing over him. His own blood thudded in his ears, senses all on high alert from holding himself in this vulnerable position.

He could be fuckin patient. Sometimes. Well… when he had all of Law’s attention focused on him like this, he’d stay still forever. He could feel the sharp eyes on him like a touch. His own eyes started to wander back over…

He jumped a little when Law did touch him, nudging him back into place. And then trailing fingers over the mound behind his ear.

“Sternocleidomastoid,” Law mouthed to himself. “Levator scapulae…” The hand travelled down to his collarbone and rested there lightly, his thumb tracing little circles.

It was so calm. And strange. Rare for the reserved doctor to be so casually intimate. Even while they were fucking, touch was more like a struggle, hands straining against and into each other. Kidd was rough without even trying, but it was Law who seemed to flinch from any contact not resembling combat. Or medical care. Such structured things. He’d objected -- vehemently -- to being “pawed at” and “pet like a lap dog” often enough. As though anything less than bruising force would hurt more.

He was so guarded. It made Kidd greedy.

“You're hard, you know,” Law breathed onto his neck.

“Yeah I'm aware.”

“Heh.”

Tattooed fingers ran along Kidd’s side, over the tight bands hugging the ribs (“Serratus anterior…”), and pinpricks rose in their wake. Kidd found himself arching up against the hand desperately.

“Ah, fuck, Trafalgar…”

“Mhm,” Law responded, distracted. Or pretending to be. He followed a particular cord of muscle down Kidd’s powerful thigh with his thumb. “Sartorius. Gracilis.”

“Dick.”

“No that's not a muscle, Eustass-ya.”

“Oh for the love of GOD.”

Law made a sound that was probably a muffled laugh. “Hold still. I'm doing anatomical studies.”

“Oh is that what we're doing.”

“Obviously.”

“Where's the book.”

“It's…” Law looked around for a minute. “On the floor.”

Kidd covered his face with his hands and just laughed. Law sighed dramatically.

“Well. Guess I gotta start from the top again.”

 

---

Law could be a pushy bastard when he topped. But he kept up the slow, focused treatment this time and it was driving Kidd fucking insane.

“I'm gonna flip this the fuck around and pound you inside out if it takes any longer.” Kidd growled from under his arm, slung across his face.

This was as close as he could get to actually asking for it. Here he was laid out, so open and ready, core clenching and unclenching. Needing to be fucked, to have hands on him, in him, whatever. All of it.

“Nah you're not.” Law countered smugly.

“F-uck,” was all Kidd could come up with when a third finger twisted into his slicked up hole. His body tensed and spasmed before yielding itself open.

By the time Law was actually fucking him, Kidd had nearly popped a fucking vein.

Law pushed in slowly, slowly. Until they were pressed together as tight as they could go, breath hot on each other's faces.

“Shit, Tr--ahh…”

“Eustass-ya…”

He was done with all the slow shit. Kidd was a shifting mass of need under him and honestly, he was even more worked up. He dragged almost all the way out only to grind back in hard, and the tight body jolted.

“Aw fuck, yeah…”

Law braced his weight on his arms, pressing Kidd’s hips into the bed. He watched the muscles bunch beneath him with each impact, Kidd straining to meet him. Watched through skin so pale it was translucent, glowing and rippling.

Kidd still wasn't entirely sure what to make of that gaze. All hunger and splitting seams, open lips and ragged breath.

He quirked up one corner of a mocking mouth.

“The fuck’re you-- ah --staring at?”

Law didn't answer for a moment. Under Kidd's skin it was like… layers of red ribbons, wrapping him up. The ribbons all pulling and straining against each other when Kidd moved (when Law moved in him), like something inside was trying to burst out. Under them, ribs curving -- jealous fingers. Wetly clinging membranes. Then under that…

“Your heart. It's…”

Their bodies collided, beaded with sweat. Harder. More. Law could see, hear Kidd's heart beating faster as he picked up his pace. God, he could feel it in his palms. In his dick. Beating so strong it echoed in his ears, drowning out his own.

“Fucking perfect. It's perfect.”

Kidd laughed breathlessly. His heart. What the hell. “...You wanna get your hands on that too?”

Law did.

He wanted to grip it, feel it flutter, make it burst …

… What if I could? he thought. He slowed, thinking, and spread a hand over Kidd’s breastbone. Not just to incapacitate through dismemberment, but to cut a piece from the whole, one vital piece…

Kidd watched the pensive eyes flicker and gave him a swift jab of encouragement with his heel.

“You'll just have to get hold of it the old fashioned way. Hahahaaa…”

“Hah.” Law shook himself from his distracted state. He picked up a pace that was slower than before, though not less jarring. “Like… I should court you or like I should cut you open?”

“Whichever ...ah ... But you should fuckin get me off first.” Kidd guided the tattooed hand down from his chest to his dripping cock, and Law obliged, finally.

They fucked with foreheads pressed together and grips slipping on sweat slick skin. Kidd thought of Law digging his hands right into his chest and came in jerking starts like it was being beaten out of him, legs clamped tight around him. Skin thrumming with the echoes of hands and heartbeat.

 

---

Kidd flipped through the last few drawings with some undefinable flutter in his gut.

“That's some shit you won't see in any other textbook.”

“Mhm.” Law allowed himself to press against Kidd just slightly as they lay sprawled out, sweat drying in the cool air. He was in a fuckin good mood, kinda dazed.

“I do look damn good without skin, I'll say that much.”

“Heh. And with. You can see the suprasternal notch really clearly even under the skin, it's nice. I fuckin love all of that. That area.”

Kidd choked a little but Law didn't seem to realize what he'd said. And that's not even what he meant anyway, Kidd told himself.

But the whole thing kinda was the same as a confession, at least as far as Law went. The drawings, as vaguely threatening as they were, betrayed an intimate preoccupation with Kidd's finer points. Maybe even admiration. Definitely possessiveness. Need.

“I wanna do you too.”

Law grinned, “Already?”

“Not that, idiot. Draw you.”

“I didn’t know you could draw.”

“Well, draft. I can draft things -- just basic. For engineering stuff on the ship, mostly.”

“Oh, nice!” Law bounced up to get fresh paper from the floor by the chair. “How does one usually draft stuff? Don’t you need a triangle thing? Compasses, etcetera?”

“Maybe. I’ll just make an outline for now.”

Law seemed right into this whole idea. “Draw me like one of your machines, Eustass-ya.” He draped himself dramatically across the bed and Kidd shoved him with a grin.

“How do you want me, though.”

Kidd appreciated that question for a moment.

“Doesn’t matter,” he shrugged. “I don’t know how to draw from life -- like perspective or anything. So it’s gonna be pretty diagrammatic. I just need a few details and some numbers.”

“Like specifications? How to build a Trafalgar?”

“Yeah, so I can make another if this one breaks.”

That made him laugh.

“Okay lie out flat and lemme measure you.”

“With what measuring tools?”

“I'll just eyeball it,” Kidd insisted.

This turned out to mean that he was going to get his hands all over him, which Law supposed was fair. He tensed and shied but stayed mostly still, letting Kidd explore his dimensions and proportions. Pages filled up with ratios and vectors of movement. Things got off track again around when Kidd was testing the rotation arc of his arms and quickly became vicious rutting. Light, skimming hands could become crushing ones so quickly.

Anyway, turned out that Law could get off while his arms were being hyperextended behind his back. Pretty effectively, in fact.

After, when they were laid out next to each other once again, and Law’s breaths were finally lengthening into sleep, Kidd dared to try another light touch. Without their thin pretense of functionality this time -- just want. He smoothed a hand over all the tattoos he'd taken such careful note of earlier. A large heart on his chest with a grinning skull similar to his Jolly Roger. Hearts on his shoulders. Kidd’s fingerprints blooming dark purple on his upper arms.

Sixty-eight kilograms of pressure and Law hadn't made a sound, but a feather touch over the marks and a quiet ah pushed past his lips.

“Whose emblem is that tattoo?”

Law mumbled with his eyes closed, “Someone who died. Long time ago.”

“Someone…” Kidd repeated to himself, but didn't probe. “You going to get any more?”

“Nah.” His breath stuttered slightly when Kidd trailed knuckles down his jaw. “I just like… your marks…”

He fell asleep with Kidd's lips against the shell of his ear.

 

---

A roll of broadsheet tied with string arrived by carrier gull when Law was back on his sub some days later. He stole away to his cluttered quarters and spread the roll out on the bed.

Inside the broadsheet was a large-format technical drawing.

There were three flat outlines of Law: front, back, side. All heavily marked out in blunt pencil, all surrounded by arcs and lines, dotted and solid, indicating measurements and angles of motion. The insides of the outlines were empty except for perfectly to scale renderings of his tattoos.

#kidlaw #trafalgar law #eustass kid #fanart #thank you so much dude i really mean it! #its exactly how I imagined laws drawing style to be ♡

[vpyre]

The Geek Division

Grelle was annoyed. She generally was these days, but this time there was a tangible reason. Why on earth did she need to experience “the science side of Grim Reaper Dispatch” when they knew full well that she had no interest in academics and would rather be out learning something useful like how to collect souls? She was in Retrieval training for christ's sake. To hell with “having an understanding and appreciation for all branches of the Dispatch”. It was just pointless. Pointless and stupid and just another thing for her to suffer through. She sighed and tapped her fingers against one of the black lab tables. Beakers and vials bubbled and hissed in the back of the room, barely audible over the clamor of the new trainees as they filed in and found seats with their new friends. No one sat with her. She was left alone to sulk, not that she particularly cared. They were all the same anyway; afraid of her, unnerved by her, rude to her. She would tell them all to drop dead, but it was a bit too late for that.

When everyone had found a seat, four reapers in white lab coats made their way to the front of the room, and one of them stepped forward. As soon as the first word left his mouth, Grelle knew she'd be dying of boredom ten minutes in, if that. Pointless. What a waste of time. As her gaze settled on the view through the long window on the other side of the room, she propped her chin on her fist and twirled a strand of her short hair around her finger. I wish it was longer. To my knees even! I’d be gorgeous if I grew it out; and then maybe they would see me the way I really am. Her thoughts continued drifting wistfully, like a cardinal’s feathers in a breeze.

"Hiya."

Grelle started and whipped around so hard she almost fell out of her chair. Sitting in the previously empty seat beside her was another man in a lab coat, though he was decidedly more rumpled than the other scientists. Where their clothes and hair were tidy and their demeanor formal, his dark hair stuck out in odd places and he was slouching in his seat. When she saw the open, laid-back friendliness on his face, she felt some of her tension evaporate as her mind processed that he wasn't there to harass her like the others. But still... why is he talking to me?

"My name's Othello. What's yours, my dear new reaper?" he asked. She didn't see a single hint of negativity or ulterior motives in his face, so she replied,

"Grelle Sutcliff. From the Retrieval Division." If he was really genuine in his friendliness, she couldn't see the harm in making conversation to pass the time.

"Good to meet you! Now, what're your pronouns, Dear Grelle?"

What? She blinked, trying not to let her surprise show. No one had ever asked her that before; they all just assumed. She couldn't blame them, not really. She'd never met someone like her, never met someone who was aware of anything other than what the societal norm was. But somehow he knew. Why did he know? Reapers must really be ahead of their time, or at least this one was. He seemed to have picked up on her line of thinking when she didn't respond right away, so he continued,

"I've seen you around, so I noticed that you carry yourself a certain way and that you don't appear to like being referred to as male. I wanted to make sure I wasn't assuming anything, 'cos you seem like an interesting person to know."

It was the sincerity in his voice that stifled the last of her apprehension. She relaxed and murmured,

"I... I'm a woman. And thank you. Y'know, for asking. It isn't often that people are this considerate."

"No need to thank me, it should just be common decency. Anywho, it doesn't look like you're particularly enjoying the forensics lecture." Before she could finish stuttering out a defensive response, he waved his hand in a dismissive gesture. "Don't worry, I'm not gonna tattle on you. I'd be in the same boat if I had to visit the retrieval division, seeing as I'm physically incompetent and nothing fascinates me more than science." There were sudden rustles of movement around them as the instructors shooed everyone out of the room for a demonstration. Grelle sighed and stood up to follow,

"Well, it was nice to meet you, but-" a hand on her arm gave her pause. "What?" She turned to look at the other reaper, and he mouthed,

"Come with me!" She hesitated for a moment, deliberating. Then she shrugged. She had nothing better to do; plus he was considerate and kind, which was more than she could say for anyone else as far as she was concerned, so she nodded, relief and mischievous curiosity bubbling up and lifting her spirits. Stifling a grin, she followed him as they scurried through the lab and away from the group, quietly slipping out into the corridor.

She glanced around furtively and asked, "What are we doing?” as he tugged her onward through the stark white halls.

”Alleviating your boredom. You looked like you were about to snap and smash some of those beakers, so I thought I’d save you from the inevitable cleanup duty punishment. And like I said, you seem like an interesting person to know. Plus, I want to show you my lab. Forensics will never interest you if those stuffed shirts are the ones talking. They don’t ever say anything interesting. They all think I’m ‘eccentric’ just cos I’m not satisfied with their dull science; and I very well may be, but at least I’m not boring.” She rolled her eyes, but she couldn't deny that listening to this geek talk was infinitely more entertaining than sitting in that stuffy lab, listening to those stuffy scientists regaling her with their stuffy lecture.

His lab wasn't far, thank god. As much as she hated the Dispatch and its rules, she didn't want to get caught and written up, not when she was doing so well in her retrieval training. They stopped at a plain wooden door in the middle of the hall. It was unremarkable, but from what she could already tell about Othello himself, it was sure to be more interesting on the inside. He unlocked the door and they entered. What she saw was unexpected, but she had expected it to be unexpected, so really it wasn't all that surprising. Where the other lab was neat and orderly, equipment organized and surfaces uncluttered, his looked like a tornado had torn through it. Beakers and papers were scattered across all available tables and counters, almost completely obscuring every horizontal surface. There were science-y odds and ends everywhere. On top of that, there was a huge pile of unrecognizable mechanical parts, metal, and machinery on the floor in the back of the room (strangely enough, the floor was clean and absent of any other clutter).

"What on earth is that thing?" Grelle asked, leaning on a table and gesturing to the back of the room. She hoped he wouldn't get all technical about it; she didn't understand these sorts of things, nor did she want to, but she couldn't help feeling curious.

"It's a dynamo, a generator; or, rather, it will be. I'm still working on it. Humans probably won't have it for the next hundred years or so." He strode over to the desk near the metal thing -the generator- and started digging through the papers. Despite the mess he seemed to know exactly where to find what he needed, emerging a moment later with a diagram, which he waved around enthusiastically, excitement shining in his eyes. "It converts AC into DC using a commutator, which is a set of rotating switch contacts on the armature shaft that reverse the connection of the armature winding to the circuit with every 180 degree rotation, creating a-"

She shook her head and cut in, waving a hand, "Wait wait wait wait. I don't speak geek; mind translating that to English?"

"Essentially, it just generates energy in the form of electricity. But there's so much more to it than that! Lemme show you the diagram." He motioned her over to the desk. Pointing out parts as he spoke, he explained what each one did, how it worked, and how they fit together. When he finished rambling about the generator, he moved on to some of the other blueprints and formulas scattered throughout the room as well as some of the chemical vials sitting in their various nooks and crannies. She didn't understand a word that came out of his mouth, but his enthusiasm was contagious; though she tried to act aloof, she found herself smiling and nodding along as he spouted scientific gibberish. It was entertaining just to watch him gush about it all, and honestly kinda endearing. It certainly took her mind off of her bitter thoughts. Even with the difference in interests, she was just glad to be around someone who seemed to enjoy her company and who didn't harbor any negativity towards her. Someone who went out of his way to cheer her up. Someone who trusted her not to lash out at him. Someone who was thoughtful enough to ask about her feelings and respectful enough to listen to, then act on her answer.

Still, she wondered. "Why did you come talk to me, y'know, back in the other lab? Most reapers would rather avoid me."

He shrugged and put down his test tube. "You just seemed lonely. Not only at that moment, but almost every time I saw you around. To other reapers, your loneliness and hurt might come across as anger, but that's just 'cos they don't bother trying to understand you. Honestly! You'd think they'd have no trouble understanding on some level; after all, we all got here the same way, but some people just don't seem to have it in them to be sympathetic anymore. I make a point of doing things others are afraid of doing, which too often includes being a decent person. On top of that, you're just a very interesting woman, and I like interesting people. Besides, you're really tough and I'm physically weak, so if I stick with you no one will dare mess with me, ha ha!"

Grelle rolled her eyes, but she chuckled a bit all the same. Truth be told, she genuinely appreciated this reaper, someone she had just met, for speaking so openly and kindly. He certainly was eccentric, but he made that a good thing. He continued on as if nothing had happened, and she relaxed in the casually comfortable atmosphere.

All too soon, she heard the trainee crowd walk past Othello's lab, instructors herding them back from the forensics tour. To her surprise, she found that she wanted to stay and simply listen to Othello rave about his beloved science, even though it just went in one ear and out the other for her. She turned to bid him farewell.

"I'm going to head back before I get us in trouble. It was a pleasure to meet you, even if you are a huge geek. And just... thank you. For going out of your way to make me feel more welcome. I may not like or understand science, but if you have to talk about that sort of thing, I suppose I'll humor you and listen."

He smiled a bit and shrugged. "Anytime. And I guess it's too much to hope that I've piqued your interest in forensics?"

"Yes. I'll leave that to you geeks." She shook her head in mock exasperation, but as she walked away, she smiled. Just a bit.

#for the people without ao3 accounts #fanfic #my writing #platonic grellethello #grellethello #grelle sutcliff #grell sutcliff #othello #black butler #kuroshitsuji

[loveissupernatural]

      “The Man Behind the Mask”                        Pt 7

Peter Parker x reader

Warnings: Slight violence, spiders

Summary: You’ve recently moved to Queens, New York after your father finds a new job with the U.S. government handling alien affairs in the city. You’ve grown up in a small town, and it’s your junior year of high school; culture shock takes a whole new meaning when you’re saved by the famed new web-slinging Avenger - and when you meet a new group of friends at Midtown High that seem to always be hiding something. But things quickly get personal.

Masterlist / Pt 1 – Pt 2 – Pt 3 – Pt 4 – Pt 5 – Pt 6

Peter exited the bedroom to find another chair so that he could join you at the desk. You took a deep breath and exhaled slowly, trying to calm the frantic pounding in your chest. You and Peter were about to look at something that very few people had seen, and that even fewer were supposed to see. You were about to get your answers.

Peter returned quickly with a metal folding chair, placing it next to yours with a dull thud.

“Here we go…” he all but whispered to you, opening the envelope and carefully pulling out its contents. You held your breath. Peter’s brows furrowed as he pulled apart the multiple files and pages, spreading them out on his desk until the entire surface was covered. You finally let out the breath you were holding in an awed whistle.

You scooted your chair even closer to the desk, eager to get a close look. Peter sat down as well, scooting close, and if you weren’t so enamored by the secrets these pages held, you’d be drinking up his proximity with barely-controlled enthusiasm.

You spread your palms over the endless diagrams and reports, sighing. “So, smart guy, what’re we looking at here?”

Peter’s mouth curled into a half grin at your nickname for him, sneaking a peek at you from the side of his vision. “Well,” he began, sounding flattered and a little proud, “from what I can tell – ” he brought a few thin sheets of paper toward you that contained light drawings “– we’ve got some kind of schematic here. See?” He layered the long pieces of paper together, a few different ways, before a bigger picture began to appear. “Lemme figure this out,” he murmured, almost to himself, and you loved the way his tongue barely peeped out from the corner of his mouth as he thought.

You leaned in closer toward him and toward the desk, watching the papers intently. Peter began to slow, and placed one last sheet on top.

“What the hell is that?” he asks himself quietly, and you would think his puzzled face was adorable if it wasn’t for the fact it was slowly morphing into horror.

“Peter?” you asked hesitantly, looking from him to the schematic. “What – what’s wrong?”

You’d never seen this expression on his face before, and it disturbed you. He looked angry, but mostly scared, eyes full of question.

“I’ve – I’ve seen something like this before,” he said, and he twisted the pile until it was facing you. Your eyes wandered the pages, looking for his cause for sudden concern, and then you saw it.

Between thinly sketched lines and footnotes, a layered image of a creature began to emerge. Each thin page contained one small part of its body and make up, full of scribbles and calculations that you couldn’t begin to understand, but when the pages were placed on top of each other, it formed a blueprint of some kind. A schematic of something that looked terrifying.

“What… is it?” you breathed, finger tracing the faint outlines.

Peter shook his head slowly, but it wasn’t from lack of understanding. It was from disbelief.

“I thought – I thought this was over,” he said to himself, running a hand through his hair. He suddenly shot up from his seat, knocking the metal chair onto the ground, making you jump. Peter was pacing back and forth, back and forth, not looking at you. His eyes were pink.

You were in the dark. “Hey, hey! Peter, what’s going on? What’s wrong?” “I’ve seen that tech before,” he grimaced, pacing even faster now. His eyes were darting around the room, as if his saving grace was written somewhere on the walls or on the ceiling. “This is bad, Y/N. This is really, really bad.”

“I’m lost,” you blanched, standing up. You approached Peter’s frantic form and placed your hands on his shoulders, then gently slid them down his arms, trying to calm him. Your hands settled at his wrists. He looked up at you, and you didn’t like what you saw. You’d never seen him like this.

“It’s hard to explain,” he shook his head. But then the words started pouring out. “I – not me, I mean Spider-Man – he’s dealt with this tech before. There was this super bad guy, h-he was stealing alien wreckage from the attack on New York years ago and using it to create weapons. He was hurting people.”

“You mean that guy with the metal wings?” you asked, trying to catch Peter’s gaze long enough to calm him down. “I remember, I saw it online. Spider-Man stopped him, didn’t he?”

“Yeah, he did,” Peter answered darkly. “The government went in and cleaned the place out. He was sent to prison.”

“Well, that’s good, right?” you asked encouragingly, squeezing his wrists gently.

“The government went in and cleaned the place out,” Peter repeated slowly, shaking his head. His brows were so furrowed that multiple stress lines were forming on his forehead.

“You – you mean, they didn’t get rid of it,” you realized, and your hands dropped from his wrists weakly.

Peter marched over toward the desk, pointing at the precise drawing of the creature. “Some of these parts, they were in Vulture’s lab,” he insisted. “I-I mean, ya know, that’s what Mr. Stark said. That Spider-Man said. That he saw.” Peter suddenly seemed awkward.

“So, what, instead of dismantling this guy’s work they just…?”

“Revamped it. And they’ve added to it. They’re…” Peter leaned over the schematic, chocolate waves falling messily to his forehead. “They created a-a weapon. But it’s not… I don’t think it’s just a weapon. It’s, like, a thing.”

You joined him, leaning over his shoulder, looking at the drawing again. You could see where Peter’s horror was building from. The machine, or creature, or whatever it was, looked like a cross between a giant spider and some sort of alien being. Its multiple arms were large, jagged, and stretched rigid, it’s head large and covered in what appeared to be metallic plates. You’d seen the news footage from the attack on New York years ago, and you’d seen what those aliens looked like: a nightmarish combination of technological battle armor, putrid skin, and sharp teeth.

Peter began separating the pages, and pointed to each individual one. “Look, Vulture used these kinds of plasma cannons, he built them himself.” Peter pointed to its frightening head, and to its eyes. “Do these look familiar to you?”

As he picked apart each page, he slowed, fixated with one in particular. He looked like he was going to be sick.

You searched the page Peter was staring at, and saw the words “tissue regeneration” scribbled in red ink at the very top. The depictions were obviously not technological, and you realized with a pang of terror that this was alien tissue, pulled from the corpses of the fallen army. There were detached arms and legs, a sketch of vein and organ structure, bones.

“They’re stitching it together,” Peter croaked.

You covered your mouth. You weren’t sure of what this meant for you, or for your family. You weren’t sure what this meant for anyone else.

“Is – is that what hurt my dad?” you asked, but your voice was hoarse, blocked by the nausea and fear congealing into a ball inside of your throat.

Peter didn’t answer, but started rifling through the remaining files so quickly that you don’t know how he could possibly be reading them.

He held up something that looked like a journal, turning to you. “It’s an event log.” —————————————– Ned rushed over as soon as his family dinner finished, barely making it out the front door with excuses about helping you two with your Chemistry project.

“Pete, my mom’s gonna kill me,” Ned whined, taking a seat on the top mattress of Peter’s bunk bed. He threw his backpack down on the ground without care. “She knows that you’re the best Chemistry student in our class. You should’ve seen the look on her face when I told her I had to come over to help you guys. No way she believed me.”

“Dude, worry about your mom later,” Peter said exasperatedly, shoving the pile of schematic papers into Ned’s hands. Peter’s hair was a total mess at this point, and he looked a little crazed. “We’ve got a problem. Like, a really big problem.”

“Like, a Spider-Man-sized problem or a Mr. Stark-sized problem?” Ned asked, turning the papers every which way in his hands, then holding them up to the light.

Peter looked at you nervously, then back to Ned. “I-I don’t know, man. But we’ve gotta tell somebody.”

You held up the black, soft covered journal that Peter had found. “We think this is an event log or something,” you told Ned. “We were waiting to go through it until you got here.”

“Oh, thanks guys,” Ned said, touching his heart. “I feel like an important part of the team.” He grinned to himself and muttered something that sounded like ‘guy in the chair’.

Peter sat down beside your place on his lower bunk, peering into the journal as you opened the first page. It was covered in numbers and words that meant nothing to you. It was chicken scratch. The next page, however, contained dates and times, with short descriptions written out beside each one.

“August 20th, 15:00 hours,” Peter read aloud over your shoulder. “Project Megarachne begins testing phase 1.”

“Megarachne?” you repeated, confused.

“It means big-ass spider,” Ned offered offhandedly, still twisting the schematics in every direction like some secret would reveal itself if he just stuck his tongue out the right way. You gulped.

Peter continued reading over your shoulder. “Memory configuration complete, A.I. integration successful.”

“Is this thing some freaky alien robot?” Ned asked, turning his body so that his head hung off of the edge of the bunk upside down. You doubted he could decipher the scratch-like handwriting like that.

Peter kept reading to himself silently, and reached to gently take the journal from you. You obliged, although you’d miss him peering over your shoulder.

“Yeeesss?” Peter answered eventually, “But… no?”

He reached his hand into the air, waiting for the schematics, but Ned was still twisting them above his head like he was trying to see some optical illusion.

“Dude,” Peter said insistently, wiggling his fingers, and Ned handed him the papers with a huff.

Peter flitted through each page with speed, and you wondered how he understood a single word or number. Then he looked back to the journal. Then back to the schematics. Then back to the journal again.

“It’s – I think it’s both?” he said, and it was obvious that while he was fearful, he was captivated. “It’s like a robot, but with real tissue. They created an A.I., but… but it was sourced from base programming they found inside the aliens’ brains.”

You’d never heard of anything like it before.

“Mr. Stark – Ironman – that’s why he blew up the Mothership during The Battle of New York. It was the power source, the command center,” Peter explained to you, and Ned nodded in rapt agreement, his head still upside down. “When Ironman nuked the Mothership, they all shut down and they died. They weren’t robots exactly, I mean, they were alive, ya know? But they weren’t.”

“So… they’re playing Frankenstein with this thing?” Ned asked with equal measure of awe and fright.

Peter flipped through each page of the journal until he came to the last entry, and to your horror, it was covered in ash and what you sincerely hoped wasn’t –

“Aw, man, is that blood?!” Ned asked, almost sounding like he thought it was cool.

Peter held it away from his face, cringing. “Ugh, gross.”

“What does the last page say?” you asked, and now it was your turn to lean over his shoulder.

Peter squinted. A lot of the timestamps were unreadable behind the rust-colored stain.

“Being… is… sentient?” With a nose wrinkled in disgust, he brought the journal close to his face again. “That’s it. It’s stopped after that.”

“Yeah, well, we know why,” Ned said pointedly. With a lurch of your stomach, you wondered whose blood was on that page. You hoped it wasn’t your father’s.

“So… you think that it, I don’t know, came to life and broke out?” you spoke your thoughts aloud. “It caused the explosion and that’s why my dad is in the hospital?”

“I mean, it makes sense,” Peter replied, chewing his lip. “That could explain why they’ve got goons covering the place. They don’t want a word of it leaked to the public.”

“No one on the floors above or below…” you mumbled to yourself in thought. “But why all of the guns? Why the steel doors and security protocols?”

Peter took a deep breath. He stared at the menacing creature on the page before him, and his eyes never left the drawing when he answered, “Maybe they’re scared it’s gonna come back.”

You swallowed hard, fighting the tears that were threatening to spill. The thought of your father covered in gauze and casts, comatose, trapped in that bed with nowhere to go as this monstrous creature stalked through his doorway to finish what it started…

“You – you have to tell Spider-Man, you have to tell Mr. Stark,” you squeaked pitifully, a rogue tear leaving a trail down your cheek. “This thing, it could come back for my dad, for everyone in that hospital. Could you im-imagine what it could do to do New York?”

Peter grasped your arms, desperately trying to catch your frantic eyes with his wide chocolate ones. “Hey, hey, hey, Y/N, it’s gonna be okay. We’re gonna take care of this, I promise. Your dad is gonna be fine.”

As much as you wanted to believe Peter, you couldn’t. “You can’t know that.” A look of pure determination set across Peter’s face, and he looked up at Ned, still hanging upside down. “C’mon, man, we’ve got work to do.”

Although neither of you wanted it, you went back home shortly after your revelations. Peter insisted that you needed a good night’s sleep, and that they couldn’t contact Spider-Man while you were still there, in case your personal goon was still keeping tabs on you. You knew he was right, but Peter’s presence made everything going on in your life at that moment seem more tolerable, and you’d miss the balm of his kind eyes and sweet voice. Ned and Peter promised to update you at school the next day.

Just as Peter warned, Aunt May shoved cab fare in your hand and absolutely refused to take it back. You waved goodbye to them both solemnly, trying to hide the panic in your eyes in front of Peter’s aunt.

Your apartment felt even more lonely and cold now that the sun had set, allowing darkness to creep in like an unwelcome house guest. You laid in bed, staring at the shadowed vaulted ceiling of your bedroom, watching the fan lazily turn with a faint click.

Your mind, through the trauma of your recent discovery, tried to logically wrap around what you’d learned with Peter and Ned. The government, like they always do, played around with something that they didn’t understand and ended up creating a worse monster than they had to begin with. They thought, in their predictable arrogance, that they could control it. Use it. They’d been wrong, and people were hurt because of it – people were dead because of it. You were so grateful that your father wasn’t the latter.

You fell into a fitful sleep that night, giant spider-like aliens crawling through your dreams. —————————————— The next day, after an awkwardly silent ride to school with your tree of a government-assigned babysitter (it was weird now that you were in the know about his secrets), you rushed inside the bustling halls of Midtown High with buzzing anticipation. You ran toward Peter and Ned’s lockers after spotting a mop of familiar-looking wavy chocolate hair through the crowd. Their backs were to you.

“Dude, you do know that this is gonna get complicated, right?” Ned told Peter, placing another piece of tape on the already large mound holding up the Death Star replica hanging from the top of his locker. “Helping Y/N with her dad, avoiding the feds, figuring out where Arachnizilla is and how to stop it all while hiding th—”

“Dude, I told you, stop calling it Arachnizilla,” Peter chided. “It’s lame.”

“No, it’s not!” Ned insisted, and it sounded like it was for the hundredth time.

“Arachnizilla, huh?”

Peter and Ned spun around at the sound of your voice, looking like they’d gotten caught with their hands in a cookie jar. How much had you heard?

“Heyyyy, y-you!” Peter greeted with a nervous grimace, deep-set panic in his eyes.

You narrowed your gaze at them, painfully aware that you had walked in on a conversation that you were not meant to hear. Peter and Ned did this all the time – talking about something heatedly under their breaths until you approached, then acted like nothing happened. You used to shrug it off, thinking that it was personal or just guy stuff, but this time you’d heard your name.

They were hiding something from you.

“So, what’s the big secret?” you laughed with a forced smile. This obviously concerned your father and the discoveries you all made last night. Why were you being kept in the dark? And why the hell did they look so nervous, especially Peter?

“Secret?” Ned laughed forcefully, swatting away your question like an invisible fly. “Pfft, what secret? Isn’t – isn’t that funny, Peter?”

“Yeah, f-funny,” Peter croaked weakly. His voice went up an octave.

“What’s gonna ‘get complicated’?” you quoted Ned’s words back to them. Your grip tightened on your backpack straps.

“Spider-Man,” Ned blurted. Peter slapped a palm to his forehead.

“Ya know, um, Spider-Man…” Peter fished, looking anywhere but at you for the rest of his sentence, “his, uh, his life is – is about to get complicated, you know? What with the f-feds looking for him and sneaking info to us and dealing with – with that alien thing—”

“—Arachnizilla—”

“Ned, shut up.”

You sighed. Of course this was about Spider-Man. You swore that you’d never heard of such a secretive superhero. Everyone knew the identity of The Avengers, with the exception of the masked web-slinger.

“Did you talk to him?” you asked, retreating your suspicious tone. Their reasoning was sound enough for you, for now at least.

If you didn’t know better, you’d think Peter was breathing a sigh of relief. “Yeah, we talked to him right after you left,” Ned chimed in, giving Peter a moment to regain himself. “He’s on it.”

You nearly collapsed in relief against the lockers beside theirs, closing your eyes and letting the weight of last night’s worry lift from you, if only for a moment. You smiled bigger than you had in days. “Guys, that’s so amazing.”

Peter still seemed nervous, but his smile mirrored yours. “I told you, Y/N, everything would be fine.” His smile grew a little, prideful. “Spider-Man is on the case.”

Suddenly, you felt a hand on your arm, and turned to find a dark-haired guy wearing a permanently-etched smirk. He was vaguely familiar, and as he looked into your eyes, you realized with trepidation that he was one of the many assholes that catcalled you in the hallways almost daily.

“I’m sure you’ve noticed me around,” he said, licking his lips as he looked you up and down. “I figured it was about time I introduced myself. The name’s Flash.”

“Flash,” you repeated, trying to hide the bite in your voice for the sake of propriety. You personally thought it was a dumb name. He evidently didn’t pick up on your less than enthusiastic tone because his hand was still on your arm.

“Yeah,” he affirmed with a cocky nod, leaning against the lockers beside you. “I figured it was high time I came and rescued the damsel in distress.”

You scoffed, but you’re sure that Flash thought you laughed. “Excuse me?”

His unkind eyes darted behind you toward Ned and Peter, and he sneered. “You’re new, so I wouldn’t expect you to know. There’s better company in this school than Penis Parker and Pillsbury Doughboy over there.”

You couldn’t stop the drop of your jaw. The nerve of this guy.

“They’re losers,” he continued, shrugging his shoulders as if they were diagnosed with a terminal illness and nothing could be done.

“Leave her alone, Flash,” came Peter’s voice from behind you, and you couldn’t help but savor the little spark of joy that his protective tone ignited within you.

Flash scoffed and his dark eyes filled with mirth. “Ooh, Parker’s coming out to play.” His eyes settled back on you, and you hated how it made you feel. His hand still hadn’t moved from your arm and its grip was tightening. “C’mon. It’s Y/N, right? Let me show you the people you wanna be hanging out with at Midtown. I could show you around after school.”

You had a gut feeling that you had no interest in this guy’s definition of “show you around”.

Just then, Peter was between you and the invasive Flash, pushing away Flash’s hand from your arm. Relief flooded you at the loss of contact, but your heart hammered at the evident upcoming confrontation.

“Dude, back off,” Peter said and his tone was barely even. You could tell there was irritation boiling just underneath the surface of his words.

Flash went from being amused by Peter’s quips to irritated. “Whatcha gonna do about it, barf bag?” He was a few inches taller than Peter, and he used that height to look down on him as he took a step into Peter’s personal space. All you could see was Peter’s back and Flash’s mocking face. The back of Peter’s neck was turning red.

“Peter…” Ned warned from behind you.

You didn’t like this. Sure, Peter was secretly kind of jacked (at least from what you could tell), but you’d never peg him as the fighting type, and you definitely couldn’t say the same about Flash. Your eyes darted to Peter’s balled fists.

“Shut up, Pillsbury,” Flash quipped at Ned, but his eyes never left Peter’s. He was taunting him. “Come on, Parker. I know you wanna punch me.”

“He’s just trying to get a rise out of you,” Ned said, stepping around you and gently tugging at Peter’s elbow. His tone had turned desperate. “Let’s just go, man.”

“That’s right, just go,” Flash shrugged. He grinned wolfishly at you over Peter’s shoulder. “Leave her with me, I’ll show her a good time.”

It happened so fast that you almost missed it. Peter’s fist flew out from his side and collided with Flash’s jaw, eliciting a sickening crack. You yelped in shock as Flash dropped to the floor.

He was out cold from a single punch.

You stared at the scene in shock. Flash had landed on his back, cushioned by his backpack, head lolled to the side. A tiny trickle of blood pooled at the corner of his mouth.

“Peter,” Ned breathed, and to your surprise he sounded almost disappointed. “Just one punch? You totally could’ve drawn that out longer.”

Peter shook his head at Ned in a “drop it” kind of way, then turned to you with searching eyes filled with pure concern. “Are you okay?”

You nodded and opened your mouth to speak, but no words came out. Were you surprised that Peter handled Flash with a seemingly-easy single punch? Honestly, yes you were. You would’ve never expected the sweet-looking bookworm to have such a grueling right uppercut. He hadn’t even drawn back his fist.

Were you embarrassed that the two caused a scene, over you no less? A little, but the stares of passersby was greatly outweighed by your shock. You looked down at Peter’s now unclenched hand, and there wasn’t even the hint of a mark.

But mostly, you were grateful. Nothing you could’ve said would’ve shaken Flash off, that much you knew, and Peter had stepped up to defend you. Effortlessly.

You flushed deeply at the realization that, honestly, you were a little turned on.

But you still hadn’t answered him, and worry pierced Peter’s brow. “I’m fine,” you finally said to Peter’s relief. You desperately tried to fight back the raging heat that you could feel rising from your neck, to your ears, to your cheeks.

“Are you sure? You seem kind of upset,” Ned said, noticing your redness.

Oh, that was the last thing you were, you thought with intense embarrassment. Peter gently placed his hands on your bare arms at Ned’s words.

“I’m so sorry about that,” Peter began in a clumsy tumble of words. “I – I shouldn’t have done that, and I know it was stupid, but – but he was disrespecting you and he wouldn’t leave you alone, and I’ve known Flash for forever, he’s always been a dick and never knows when to stop and—”

Oh, how much you wanted to kiss him.

“—and he always does shit like this, ya know? And it’s one thing when he’s being an ass to me and Ned, but you—”

Stop staring at his lips, you scolded yourself, which only turned the thermostat up on your already fiery blush. Of course, Ned and Peter thought this meant you were getting more upset.

“—don’t hate me,” Peter was saying, and you realized that you’d missed half of his sentence because you couldn’t stop thinking about how badly you wanted to make out with him. “I’ll – I’ll never punch anyone ever again, okay?”

“Don’t make promises you can’t keep,” Ned muttered under his breath. Peter shot him an unamused glare, but there was no venom in it.

“Mr. Parker!” rang a deep voice, and all three of you jumped apart. A man that you recognized from your first day as the principle was marching down the hall, his broom-like mustache quivering.

Peter gulped. “Shit.”

Pt 8

Tags: @rivaea @starksparker @its-nikki-bitch @martinafigoli @castawayclaires @rintheemolion

If you’d like to be tagged, DM me!

#peter parker #spider-man #peter parker x reader #spiderman x reader #spiderman #spider man #spider man fanfiction #marvel #MCU #mcu spiderman #tom holland #tom holland fanfiction #tom holland x reader #The Avengers #Avengers #spiderman reader insert #spider-man: far from home #spider-man: homecoming #Iron Man #tony stark #marvel fanfiction #marvel fandom #fanfiction #superhero #hero #romance #action #reader insert #x reader #marvel cinematic universe

[jacobs-jorts]

some of my twilight hcs

just so y’all know I really only care about the wolfpack but I do Cullen things if y’all wanna see that.

Imprinting. Is. Not. Slavery. We. Do. Not. Like. That. Stephanie. You. White. Supremacist. 

Yet it exists in my twiworld, because I’m a Hopless Romantic™️ and a maladaptive daydreamer. Instead of the slavery our good friend, Supremacist Stephanie, came up with—there’s still free will. Considering (in the Twilight universe, this is not a thing in real Quileute culture. If you haven’t already, I suggest doing a quick google search on the tribe to learn just how much Smeyer sucks.) the old Quileutes could project their spirits out of their bodies, and that the pack are spirit-warriors, wouldn’t it make sense to have a soulmate? The person who’s spirit is most compatible with your spirit would be your imprint. It’s not an inherent love for the imprintee, but a want to be around and protect. I’d like to think this goes along with Billy’s theory, that imprinting makes a wolf stronger, by giving the wolf something to fight for.

Considering Breaking Dawn was an acid trip, Leah was really able to focus on controlling her temper. She found an outlet doing yoga, wood carving, painting, and pretty much any creative outlet she could get her hands on. She learned how to do traditional basket weaving and her and Emily have (nearly) matching jingle dresses.

Later in life, she backpacks across Europe with her best bud, Embry. In Verona, she imprints on a smug, Mike Newton-but-better, Italian guy (I’ve been developing him in my head far longer than I’ve known about Gay Leah ok i’m new to tumblr don’t @ me). Leah finds out his name is Dante Del Conte and laughs for 20 minutes.

For years, Leah thought she would never feel romantic love again. It was more a personal choice, she had forgiven Sam and Emily, but it still sucked, she didn’t want to risk it again. But when this wannabe Pauly D (jersey shore reference ayyyye) with a goofy smile and calls her stupid names like Bellissima, Carina, and Dolcezza, Leah giggles like a schoolgirl. (I have a half finished fic that I stopped writing bc I got depressed but wanna finish, so lemme know if that’s something I should do lol)

Paul still imprints on Rachel Black (y’all pretty sure she’s in her twenties so...Smeyer what the heck?), but they don’t get together. They’re best friends and bond over this one thing more anything else:

WOMEN.

Rachel Black is a raging homosexual and Paul has raging boner 98% of the time. He learns to hoe from her. Jacob has walked in onthem, Rachel with one of those long pointer thingies, standing in front of a white board with a surprisingly well drawn coochie diagram and Paul sitting, cross legged, on the floor with Kim’s study supplies, eargerly awaiting her instructions. Jacob died in his jorts.

Paul speaks Spanish and part of his family still lives in Durango, Mexico (shoutout to my distant cousins lmao). He uses Spanish to wow women and talk crap to Bella’s face.

Speaking of Jacob, he only wears jorts. he is a jort only wearer. in 2020 he’s still making diy jorts. He may have money considering he now runs his own auto repair shop along with Embry, Seth, Sam, and Emily (she’s handy) but hecan’t give them up. Fashion Queen Billy Black has called him a domestic terrorist for putting his eyesight through Jort-Seeing.

He doesn’t imprint, but he does meet a lovely lady from the Makah reservation. He falls in love organically and has a big, big family because twins run in both lines. He is exhausted.

HE’S THE BEST DAD EVER AND HIS BABIES ALL HAVE BABY JORTS. HE PROPOSES BY TURNING AROUND, IN JORTS WITH THE WORDS ‘MARRY ME’ ACROSS THE BOOTY AND THROWS IT BACK TO BRUNO MARS MARRY ME.

fyi his sweethearts name is Melody and She’s My Baby™️. Fic coming soon.

Seth imprints on me. I literally have a 43 page google doc fic bout it that will never see the light of day and is ongoing

Ok but actually. Sethy boy imprints on a girl from the Philippines. (I’m filipino so uh...had to do it 🤷🏻‍♀️ pinoy pride ma dudes. the rest isn’t my shameless self insert I promise) He kind of panicks because holy shit it’s happening.

Everything ends up going really smoothly. They compliment each other nicely. Seth speaks horrid tagalog to her family and always forgets to add po.

so ik Seth is a sunshine boy, but he actually has pretty bad depression? He doesn’t see himself as all that. For a long time he was kind of cyncical, but one day he made the decision to work on being a good person. It ended up actually working! He’s now Ceo of the company of good peopleness.

Once he’s done phasing he becomes a paramedic. Seth loves to help people and is naturally a protector. Whenever he can, he’s fixing cars with Jake at the garage for some extra cash because he likes to spoil his mother. It’s a way of showing how thankful he is and how sorry he is for giving her heart attacks as a kid. rip harry.

Sam and Emily are both heavily involved in the tribe. The both of them are trying to revive the Quileute language and actively work with the youth.

Embry gets a degree in law. He imprints on the cute girl next to him in class.

His imprint is an imprint of color (specifically Nepali and Black) and the both of them work on getting poc who were wrongly convicted out back on the streets. He’s wildly successful and is able to get Tiffany a better house.

Him and his mom have such a good relationship. He’s a total mommies boy and while he was actively phasing, he felt terrible for the way he treated her.

Tiffany’s a milf and Brady loves her. Embry has broken his ribs for this.

Quil and Collin? Gay. not for each other, but their gay. Quil’s Collin’s gay mentor i don’t make the rules.

I’m tired so imma sleep now.

AND JARED IS A LOVEABLE IDIOT WHO RELIES ON HIS EPIC BUISNESS WIFE KIM WHO SPEAKS MULTIPLE LANGUAGES AND IS CHANGING THE WOLRD BYE

#twilight #twilight headcanon #seth clearwater #leah clearwater #jacob black #embry call #twilight wolf pack #ill be back to curse this cite

[joannalannister]

Petyr Baelish once spoke to Sansa about "the players, and the pieces," He thinks of Cersei as one of the latter, and himself, of course, as one of the former. Who else do you believe he thinks of as a player? Vars, I'm sure. But Tywin? Stannis? Robb Stark?

I don’t think Petyr considers anyone else to be a player tho? 

He calls Ned a player (albeit a “hopeless” one) but Ned certainly wasn’t a player to Petyr. Recall the context in which Petyr is speaking; he’s talking to Sansa. And not just talking, but commiserating with her. "You must miss your father terribly, I know. Lord Eddard was a brave man, honest and loyal . . . but quite a hopeless player." He’s trying to get Sansa to trust him, get her to come over to his side. Sansa doesn’t know Petyr’s role in her father’s death. 

Trust nothing Petyr says.

For Petyr to assign someone the distinction of “player” would be to put them on the same level as himself, and imo Petyr doesn’t think anyone is on his level. Petyr is The Player. He’s the conductor of a great Westerosi symphony in his own mind. A puppeteer, if you will, with all of Westeros as his puppets. 

Fandom calls Petyr a chessmaster, using the term as shorthand for his political acumen and his patience and his cunning and his intelligence and everything else, but I’m not sure "chessmaster” is the most apt image to conjure up for Petyr, an image of Petyr sitting across the board from a living, breathing opponent over a game of chess. Chess is a game of elegance, of nobility. (Maybe you’re thinking about ”nobility” as in “lords and ladies” but if you’re thinking about “nobility” as in “integrity” that suits my purposes just as well.) Not the right image to conjure for Petyr Baelish, imo. Not right at all.

Picture, instead, an Atlantic boardwalk in 1980, in a city that saw its heyday forty years before. The paint is chipped and fading, the happy families fled long ago, and the neon lights flicker on the marquees where they haven’t gone out entirely. On that boardwalk you’ll find an arcade. The gaudy, overbright exterior is a sharp contrast to the darkness within. The poor lighting hides the junkies shooting up and the filth on the floor. Don’t ask what happens in the back room, because it is unspeakable. Petyr knows; he has even profited from it. 

In that arcade, there is a game. It is a for people who are hungry. Petyr is insatiable; he plays it every day. It is a game of labyrinths and enemies around every other corner, but mostly it is a game of leveling up. 

An “Out of Order” sign must be taped to the blackened, cracked screen for weeks if he loses. But he rarely loses. When he wins, his score is displayed in brightly flashing lights for all to see, even after he takes his leave. 

No. Not chess at all for Petyr Baelish. I mostly see Petyr playing against a computer, if we’re making game metaphors. 

Think about what Petyr is saying: “The players and the pieces.” What is a piece? It’s an object. It’s a thing. If I may borrow from Terry Pratchett for a moment, “Evil begins when you treat people as things.”

“And sin, young man, is when you treat people like things. [...] That's what sin is.""It's a lot more complicated than that--""No. It ain't. [...] People as things, that's where it starts.""Oh, I'm sure there are worse crimes--""But they starts with thinking about people as things..."

Petyr dehumanizes everyone around him. He treats them all as things, to be moved and eventually discarded. They’re like the little dots in Pac-Man, only there to be devoured so that Petyr can move up to a new level in the Game.

Like, lemme talk about ASOIAF villains and villainy for a sec...

A major theme in ASOIAF is humanization / dehumanization. I think what you have to pay attention to if you’re trying to identify the heroes and the villains in ASOIAF is who is working to humanize people and who is working to dehumanize people. 

(This is GRRM, so these aren’t always neatly ordered, distinct categories (there will always be some who are “a bit of both” like Tyrion), but I think, generally. this is the classification to go by. However, please keep in mind, even someone like Jon does things like steal a woman’s baby and use the baby in his own plans ... so ... not neat categories.)

So. Humanization / dehumanization. 

For example, Tywin refuses to recognize the humanity of pretty much everyone not named Lannister (and once upon a time, Targaryen, probably). 

Randyll Tarly dehumanizes everyone he perceives to be weaker than himself. (That’s why Tywin is morbidly fascinating to me and Randyll is just plain disgusting to me.) 

The Others want to dehumanize everybody, no exceptions. 

And Petyr, imo, dehumanizes everyone except himself. 

Like, if I was making a pyramid diagram of ASOIAF characters, I would put the Others at the top of my pyramid, for wanting to enslave everybody. (Meaning they would want to save ZERO people, putting them at the pinnacle of my pyramid for Number of People Saved/Humanized.) 

Petyr Baelish would be just one tiny step down from the Others, because he would save himself, so that’s like, dehumanizing everybody minus ONE. 

Then I would put Tywin as the next step down on my pyramid, because he wants to protect Lannisters so that’s, like, idk, ~200 people out of the entire population of Terros. 

Then I would put Randyll below Tywin, because he would be fine with, like, all of the hyper-masculine males of Westeros surviving the apocalypse, but all the “weak” people ~~~deserve~~~ what happens to them in the Others’ invasion.

And so on.

So anyways... Petyr ... I think he’s one of the major antagonists of the series because I don’t think he considers anyone else to be, well, human. And if they’re not, well, human, I don’t think they can be a player in the game he’s playing. I think literally everyone else is a piece to him. Everyone else is just another part of the game he’s playing. 

"In King's Landing, there are two sorts of people. The players and the pieces." 

Petyr is telling Sansa a truth, but it’s not a truth she recognizes. There are two sorts of people in King’s Landing, in Petyr’s mind: there is Petyr Baelish, and then there is everyone else. 

Some people, like Varys, are complex yet powerful “pieces” he simply hasn’t “unlocked” yet. Petyr just hasn’t gotten to that level of the Game yet. 

(I strongly believe that Varys will die before Petyr. You don’t kill off your “one step down from the Others” villain until near the end.) 

And the narratively interesting thing, imo, is that Petyr thinks of Sansa as a valuable “piece,” just a pawn that will help him rise drastically, when I think Sansa is going to be instrumental in Petyr’s downfall in ADOS. 

It’s the way GRRM’s villains dehumanize people which is their downfall. 

For example, Tywin repeatedly refused to recognize Tyrion’s humanity. In the end of ASOS, Tywin thought of Tyrion as half a man (half a Lannister? the last and least of the Lannisters), a little child, and as a result, he thought Tyrion would put the crossbow down and do as he bid, and look what happened. 

Petyr thinks everyone is a piece in his game and ... well, future books will tell how that plays out.

Sidenote #1 - I think the chessmaster title is quite good for Varys. I think Varys is actually (usually) (mostly) (sort of) (it’s ASOIAF, everyone is grey) good-intentioned. There is at least some nobility (integrity) in Varys. 

Sidenote #2 - this is just a note for myself, but at a later date I would really like to write down and organize my thoughts on Tywin’s dehumanization of Tyrion and how that makes Tyrion something like ~~half a Lannister~~ in his eyes, and how this connects to Tyrion’s heterochromia/dualism, and connections to A+J=/=T and the “I cannot prove you are not mine.” Not right now tho. Right now is for sleeping. 

#smalltownwaffle #Petyr's way of thinking doesn't particularly matter to me #so i'm hoping #that this post doesn't #lead to arguments #because i just #don't care #lannister thoughts #petyr baelish #replies