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shihalyfie · 3 years

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Daisuke’s characterization in V-Tamer is actually out of character

This is a post rather different from the usual content I do for this blog, and to be honest, I’m a bit hesitant about it, since it’s hard not to make it sound like some kind of scathingly critical negativity about the relevant chapter. It’s not intended that way -- V-Tamer’s crossover chapter with 02 lies firmly in “Bandai-commissioned spinoff” territory with what was most likely very little input from the anime staff, and with these kinds of things, right hand very rarely talks to left hand, and you see it in things like Tag Tamers having major contradictions with the anime despite how ostensibly important it is to 02′s story. Izawa and Yabuno were busy with V-Tamer production, and it’s very likely Toei and Bandai only provided them with very scant details of 02′s base premise (especially since the chapter itself doesn’t refer to any major 02 plot details besides XV-mon’s and Magnamon’s existence). I really do not blame them for not necessarily having thorough awareness of Daisuke and his character arc (especially since he himself is a rather deceptive character), and having to make a lot of assumptions while writing.

In the end, I decided to write this due to personal request from an acquaintance, who pointed out that there are a lot of people out there who like to claim things like "Daisuke got more character development in this single chapter than he did in 02 itself” (which is another manifestation of the constantly repeated fanbase mantra that Daisuke was lacking in that department when he really wasn’t). The thing is, this chapter’s interpretation of Daisuke is so far removed from the character he was even at the start of 02 that this “development” only works by artificially engineering a conflict that shouldn’t have even happened with Daisuke in the first place.

Again: This is not something meant to criticize this chapter as something bad (personally, I do think it’s rather entertaining in its own way) as much as, simply, out of character is still out of character, and I'm mainly just writing this in the hopes of making a case that this version of Daisuke should not be reflected back on the original series.

(Screenshots below are from the DH translation of V-Tamer, and PositronCannon’s 02 subs.)

The issue here is that the whole plot of the chapter itself is based on the idea that Daisuke is the kind of person who likes fighting for the sake of fighting, and has an impulsive urge to charge in aggressively to the point of even looking down on his friends for denying him. Certainly, on the surface, it does seem to match up with Daisuke still having difficulties adjusting to these new kids being his friends at the beginning of the series, and generally having an abrasive, rough-around-the-edges personality, but...

Ah.

The above screenshots are from 02 episode 7, which is a very early episode -- one that clearly takes place before Magnamon’s appearances in Hurricane Touchdown and 02 episode 20-21, and XV-mon’s appearance in 02 episode 22 -- and one that’s still part of Daisuke’s early bout of “shallow” episodes, in which he’s still instinctively lashing out at Takeru due to his perception of having something going on with Hikari. And while he does initially lash out at them for wanting to turn back, the moment everyone else makes a good case for them turning back (especially when their own Digimon run out of energy), he -- rather easily -- grits his teeth and actually calls the retreat himself.

On top of the fact that Daisuke is very capable of pulling back when he practically understands it’s necessary (even if he hates it), some important points need to be made about his behavior here: Daisuke does not push forward on fighting because he likes fighting and attacking things, but because he practically wants to see the Dark Tower destroyed (and the Dark Tower is causing problems for everyone everywhere right now). He hates the Kaiser, and wants to fight everyone under him, because he’s hurting others. Only one episode later, Daisuke vocalizes that he’s even okay with losing a soccer game as long as he gets to play someone who’s inspired kids all over the country and enjoy the match.

The other problem is that it actually implies that Daisuke would be able to do anything without his friends’ approval. Despite Daisuke’s ostensibly rough surface demeanor, he gets strung along easily. It is absurdly easy to shut him down or override his opinions just by being assertive enough. There’s a very good reason why he’s been described as “prevented from doing much in the first half”. Daisuke spends the first half of the series largely unable to make his own decisions because his friends keep making them for him, and part of his character development involves him becoming able to actually put his foot down and do what he wants when it’s something he cares about, which is something that very much does not set in until the second half.

In addition, the implication that Daisuke would be actively belligerent to the point of having the priority of “destroying enemies” instead of “helping others” is very contrary to the whole point of his character arc:

In 02 episode 20, the first time Daisuke does truly put his foot down against the wishes of the others in the group, it’s because seeing Chimeramon destroy so many things hurt him that badly that he hates sitting around and doing nothing. Again: Daisuke is a person who does things because he cares about and wants to protect others, not because he necessarily likes fighting. It’s also important that he makes this statement that he’ll go in “even alone” -- he does not look down on the others or show distaste for them for choosing to recuse, because they’re understandably exhausted, but simply says that he’s frustrated at the idea of giving up this one chance, and doesn’t want to squander it. (It’s also consistent with the way he treats the mortified Ken in 02 episode 48 -- he reminds him that Jogress won’t work if Ken’s not feeling up to it, and says that he’ll do it alone if he has to because something has to be done.)

And speaking of Ken, this trait of Daisuke’s is why that whole character arc of him reaching out to Ken works in the first place! Because, again, Daisuke hated the Kaiser because he was doing horrible things. The moment the Kaiser stopped doing horrible things, Daisuke didn’t feel up to kicking him while he was down, actually urged him to do the first thing he could do to make amends -- “go home” -- and ultimately chose to reach out to him because he thinks in terms of moving on and creating positive things, not for destruction for the sake of destruction. Because Ken seemed to not be hurting anyone anymore, and he’s actually doing something to help, so why not believe in him and let him help?

Again: with the exception of episode 48 (which is just reinforcing something from before), all of these episodes are before XV-mon’s first appearance in 02 episode 22. Daisuke had always been this kind of positive and supportive person from day one; those traits had just not been very easily visible because he was still trying to deal with his initial awkwardness and being rather rough around the edges, but they’re still traits he’d always fundamentally had.

The chapter continues with Daisuke actually looking down on his other friends and protesting angrily against them trying to pull him back. Beyond the fact that (as stated above) the anime’s portrayal of Daisuke would make him very unwilling to fight back against opposition at this point of the series, the idea he’d actually be condescending about his friends is a little...hmm. Because, again, in 02 episode 7:

Daisuke does momentarily lash out at Iori and Takeru in a moment of emotional compromise when he’s stressed over Hikari getting trapped in the Digital World, but he actually takes it back. Incredibly quickly. He apologizes to Iori, and decides to not let Takeru put the blame on himself, even though his emotionally-compromised moment had initially gotten him to instinctively try to pin it on him. (Which is important because, yes, even when Daisuke’s inclined to lash out at Takeru for his perceived existing relationship with Hikari and be jealous of him, he still cares about Takeru himself to the point he doesn’t want him to load himself with the guilt.)

Daisuke’s brashness is portrayed during this early part of 02 as him very, very badly needing validation. This means that going out of his way to push aside the people he calls friends would be the last thing he wants to do, because he actually wants their approval, and for them to like him, and therefore he’s willing to apologize quickly and try to make amends because he plays badly with actual confrontation.

While this line isn’t quite off, it does rather clash with the way Daisuke actually portrays himself, which is that he doesn’t really have this much of an ego. The literal translation of this line is that he calls himself “your cute little junior”, but even the more liberal translation used here doesn’t quite work with Daisuke’s character, since it’s not implied at any point that Daisuke thinks Taichi actually cares about him back the way he adores Taichi.

Again, Daisuke is an extremely deferential person who craves validation, and this is especially in the case of Taichi, who arguably is the one who creates the easiest mood shift in Daisuke for the early parts of the series. Whenever Taichi is nearby, Daisuke immediately becomes deferential and respects literally everything he does.

Observe Daisuke’s very resigned and very deferential facial expressions and attitude in 02 episodes 8 and 10, whenever it comes to Taichi (and note that the third screenshot here also comes from a situation where Daisuke wanted to advocate for pushing forward instead of retreating; it was that easy for Taichi to shut him down). For all it’s worth, Daisuke’s never really shown to have a lot of pride in himself (beyond the occasional joke), and it’s heavily implied that he sees Taichi as so amazing that he’s not even remotely in his league. That’s why it’s such a big deal that Daisuke puts his foot down and protests against what Taichi wants them to do in 02 episode 39, and it’s not even rudely or aggressively (he still uses polite Japanese!) as much as just firmly “I have a friend and I need to help him, I’m sorry.”

During the chapter, Daisuke claims that he doesn’t want to go back and meet his friends, because he doesn’t think they care about him, but, well, again: Daisuke is someone who craves approval. It’s somewhat understandable that he’d maybe have some degree of insecurity that they don’t like him as much as he wants them to, but the series by this point (remember, we’re talking episode 22, given XV-mon’s appearance) makes it very clear that Daisuke is well aware that his friends like him this much, and he has no real grudges against them.

This is one of the reasons it’s so important that 02 had so many scenes of the kids just...bantering in the computer room, or having tons of “free time off hours” that had nothing to do with Digimon fights, because although Daisuke is brash and rough around the edges, otherwise, the group of friends here get along perfectly fine. Once the stress of fighting is removed, these kids are part of each others’ social circle and love hanging out for the sake of hanging out, and even someone as dense as Daisuke should know very well that they do at least like him this much.

And, more importantly, whatever Daisuke might think about what his friends think of him, he himself likes them a lot. He cares about them a lot. Even all the way back in 02 episode 10 and 11, with Miyako and Takeru (whom he ostensibly banters and gets touchy with a lot), he still makes it clear he likes what Miyako’s doing and wants to check on her (without prompting), and later, when he gets in a fight with Takeru, he blames himself for not understanding Takeru’s feelings instead of feeling inclined to blame it on him. (In fact, this so-called hostility with Takeru is really overblown here, because there’s no reason Daisuke should think everyone takes Takeru’s side; when they did get in a fight in 02 episode 11, everyone was more concerned about getting them to calm down than they were about taking sides, because both of them did have a very reasonable position.)

And while Daisuke getting set off by the Takeru and Hikari issue might have been in-character at one point, it’s not for him at this point in the series, because 02 episode 22, the very episode that introduces XV-mon, has him take a completely different view of the situation:

Daisuke had already gotten over a lot of it by this point. The last time he shows any indication of Takeru and Hikari having ~something going on~ to the point he suspects Takeru of being an obstacle is all the way back in episode 17, which oh-so-coincidentally happens to be the same episode where he later learns about the truth of his seniors’ great adventure in 1999, and therefore receives the full context of why Takeru and Hikari knew each other beforehand (which they had been absolutely terrible at elucidating for 17 episodes). By the time we get to this epsode, Daisuke does not hold anything against Takeru himself, and he doesn’t even accuse them of having a thing, just moping that they “get along so well”. He’s not angry about it, he’s sad about it, and it’s heavily implied that he’s really just sad about being third-wheeled more than anything.

It’s also important to realize that this is long past the point where Daisuke would have shown any outright hostility towards Takeru at all. At worst, he maybe scoffs “do whatever you want!”, or ends up a little sad that they’re leaving him out, but he ends up putting this on himself more than he ever lashes out at others about it anymore. The grudge against Takeru had already gone long under the bridge, by this point Takeru is just a friend that he likes reasonably well and is sad to be third wheeled by, and it’s only 13 more episodes before he’ll stop bringing his crush on Hikari into the issue for the rest of the series.

And, remember, Daisuke has always been someone who does things “because other people are being hurt”. He’s not actually that selfish! Whenever people are really in trouble, he goes in to help them -- remember, back in 02 episode 8, he was crushed because Ken turned out to be the Kaiser, and someone indirectly trampling on the dreams of all the soccer-playing kids in the country. Had this been Daisuke from the anime, he probably would have immediately wanted to go back the moment he realized there are people in need and hurt left behind, regardless of his own feelings on his relationship with his friends.

The rest of the chapter is fairly on-the-nose, with Daisuke managing to create a “miracle” through the power of his feelings by remembering what it meant for Taichi to give him his goggles, and for managing to connect to his friends despite them being trapped, with Daisuke and Taichi eventually parting on good terms and Daisuke even getting the honor of doing the victory dance with him. This is why I want to emphasize (I’ll say this in bold) that I do not think this is a “bad” chapter just because it’s not compliant with Daisuke’s anime characterization. Given what the chapter sets out to accomplish, setting up a story of someone who feels neglected by his friends and eventually decides to reach out to them with his own feelings, it’s thematically solid and well-plotted out as a story, and the crossover and thought experiment of how Daisuke would react to an alternate version of Taichi is very entertaining. Plus, Izawa’s writing and Yabuno’s art is charming, and it’s lovely to see the 02 kids in this style.

It’s just, well, the entire premise of this chapter relies on a conflict generated by Daisuke being a character he is very much not. And, again, it’s not something that I can really criticize Izawa and Yabuno for; Daisuke’s quite the deceptive character, and it really doesn’t seem like Toei and Bandai gave them a lot to work with, especially since this chapter only works within a very narrow range of 02′s timeline, between 02 episodes 22 and 25, when V-mon can evolve to Adult but Ken hasn’t formally joined the team yet. (And in fact, I’d generally apply this sort of caveat to things relevant to Daisuke that come from the Bandai side instead of Toei side; too many things out there seem to only really be working with the base details of “Taichi’s junior who has a crush on Hikari” with no regard to the actual nuances of his character.) Personally, it seems that Izawa and Yabuno did their best with what they had to work with, and they even made it a fun chapter while they were at it! -- so I would simply say that it’s probably best to enjoy this chapter without thinking about the lack of canon compliance too hard, but also not to judge the actual anime version of Daisuke too much by this portrayal.

#digimon #digimon adventure v tamer 01 #digimon adventure 02 #motomiya daisuke #daisuke motomiya #shihameta

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lemonpeter · 3 years

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STARKER, by Peter B. Parker

Chapter 7: Betrayal

A/N: !!! and the plot progresses, with this absurdly long chapter (I think it’s our longest yet)!! we would love to hear your thoughts on the story so far and any ideas you have about what’s coming in the future! - bloo & bri 💕

Warnings: nff scene in the beginning, heavier angst (it’s finally starting 😈), character death mention

Masterlist ao3

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When they walked through the doors of the fancy restaurant with the French name that Peter didn't even want to attempt to pronounce, the couple was met with a young woman standing at the hostess station, looking like she'd rather be anywhere else.

Barely looking up from the little podium where she obviously was 'hiding' her phone, she glanced at Peter as she spoke, not paying any attention to the older man beside him. "Sorry for the inconvenience, but unfortunately we're full tonight. I'd love to help you make a reservation for another time if you'd like." Her eyes moved back down as she fiddled with a pen absentmindedly.

Tony didn't respond, just smirked down at Peter from behind his dark sunglasses. 'Wait for it' he mouthed. He sniffed lightly, nose twitching.

And Peter, well he just stood there and did exactly that. His eyes wandered, landing on the small, gold metal rectangle pinned to the hostess’ black button up. Hailey, it read in flowing black script.

The woman looked up, finally, when neither of them said anything. Her eyes met Peter's again and she smiled at him, raising one of her eyebrows questioningly. "Is there a specific day you'd like?" She turned to the side and began clicking through options on the computer. "We could do next Tuesday evening, at seven-thirty?”

Tony took that as his chance, clearing his throat. He shifted and took a step closer to his husband, hand moving to rest on his lower back. “We have a reservation, actually.”

Hailey looked up, then, head turning to face Tony in response to the sound.

Peter had to bite back a laugh at the way the hostess' expression changed, leaning into Tony’s embrace.

Mouth gaping, she simply stared at them for a moment, eyes wide with shock. Then a deep flush overtook her face. Hailey hurried to speak, spluttering over her words as she straightened her posture. “Oh, God, I am- I am so sorry. Mr. Stark. So sorry, Let me just-.” With shaking hands, she began typing before turning to them a moment later, an embarrassed smile pulling at her lips. “Everything’s, um, all set for the private room you reserved, sir. M-mister Stark.”

“That’d be ‘Misters’ Stark,” Tony corrected, smiling down at Peter. He pressed a kiss to the boy’s temple, eyes closing briefly and making a delicate blush spread over his cheeks.

“Yes, of course. If you’ll both follow me, I’ll show you to your table.” Having reconstructed her mask of professionalism, Hailey grabbed two menus and gestured for the two men to follow her into the main area of the restaurant.

They walked through the deep, navy velvet curtains that were drawn and made their way through the dining area. There were tables scattered throughout, all occupied by people who looked like they had more money in their wallets than Peter had seen in his entire life up until that point.

He could feel all of their eyes on him, no doubt wondering who was so lucky as to be on the arm of Tony Stark. He could hear their scandalized whispers. And he’d honestly thought he wouldn’t know how to feel about the attention. But here he was, preening under their gazes. The teen loved everyone seeing that yes he, Peter Benjamin Parker, had somehow lucked out and captured the attention of the playboy. He certainly looked the part, in his powder blue button down (of which the top few buttons were undone, exposing a bit of his chest and the thin chains draped from his neck, but not open enough to give away the lingerie he was wearing underneath) and his tight gunmetal trousers, both by Gucci. He didn’t even want to know how much the outfit actually cost.

But he wanted everyone else to.

The warmth of Tony’s palm on the small of his back as they walked, his fingertips ghosting over the top of his ass, had something warm fizzling deep in Peter’s belly.

Once they reached the far end of the dining area, they were led into an alcove off to the side, separated by another dark curtain. There was a single table in the moderately sized room, set up for two. A bouquet of red roses sat in the middle of the white table cloth like a centerpiece. The lighting was inviting and intimate at the same time, and it was quiet, the conversations of the other patrons but a low murmur in the background.

Hailey sat the menus down on the table in their respective places before turning to the two patrons. “Here you go, gentlemen.” While the two of them sat down, Tony pulling Peter’s chair out for him, she reached for the glass pitcher of ice water and filled each of their glasses. “I’ll start you off with some water, and a server will be right with you. I hope you enjoy your visit with us here at La Brise Fraîche.” She shot them a quick smile before making a hasty exit, face once more taken over in a rosy blush.

Tony chuckled as he shifted his chair a bit closer to the table. Slipping off his sunglasses, he popped them into the pocket of his black suit jacket, in front of the little pocket square that matched Peter’s shirt. “She certainly changed her tune, huh baby?” He shot Peter a soft smile as he picked up his menu and gestured for the younger man to do the same.

Peter hummed in response to his husband’s teasing, following his lead and opening the menu in order to look it over. A frown soon formed between his eyebrows, and his eyes flicked from the parchment up to Tony’s face. “Tony,” he said softly, “this, uh, most of this is in French. I can’t- And there’s no prices on here. How do I…” He trailed off, uncertainly, all of his earlier confidence gone now that they were alone again. He felt extremely out of his element all of a sudden.

Reaching across the table, the older man brushed his fingers over the back of Peter’s hand. “It’s alright, Pete. What are you in the mood for, baby? We should definitely get some wine,” he said, winking.

Peter giggled and threw his head back a little. When he looked back over at Tony, his eyes were gleaming and he bit his lip, running the toe of his shoe from the inside of the man’s ankle up to his knee. “You trying to get me drunk, Mr. Stark?”

Tony’s gaze darkened, causing Peter’s breath to catch in his throat. “Maybe I am, Mr. Stark.”

Their waiter approached them, then, slipping through the navy drapery. “Good evening gentlemen. I’m Jacques, and I’ll be your server tonight. Can I start the two of you off with something to drink?” He smiled at them both as he spoke with a light French accent, eyes flickering between them before focusing on Tony.

The billionaire cleared his throat, not even bothering to reach for the proffered wine list. “We’ll have whatever the finest Cab Sauvignon is, and how about a Sauvignon Blanc as well?” Though he phrased it as a question, it didn’t very much sound like one, and Peter squirmed in his seat at the authoritative tone of his voice.

God, how was he going to make it through this dinner? They hadn’t even ordered yet and he was already horny.

And it only got worse from there.

The wines Tony had chosen were really strong, Peter thought to himself as he fumbled a bit with his fork, trying to twist up some of the creamy pasta on the plate in front of him. It was some sort of mushroom-based sauce, and it looked delicious. And it would be, if the numerous other dishes they had ordered and already sampled, Tony insisting that he try a little bit of everything, were anything to go by.

He was flushed from the alcohol, and inebriated enough that he was no longer bothering with trying to hold back the little sounds of ecstasy that left his mouth at each bite of the incredible cuisine.

His eyes fluttered shut once he finally managed to twist up enough pasta to put in his mouth, and the soft noise he made sounded truly indecent. He heard Tony’s sharp intake of breath and sighed contentedly as he chewed the bite of food before opening his eyes again in order to get another forkful.

Feeling his husband’s eyes boring into his skin, Peter looked up from his plate. A small whimper escaped him at the hungry look in his eyes. “Tony?”

The older man licked at his bottom lip as his eyes roved over Peter’s face. His voice was somewhat rough when he spoke, leaning forward in his seat. “You’ve got a little something there, baby,” he said lowly, bringing his thumb to his mouth to lick it before reaching across the table to swipe the digit just under Peter’s bottom lip. The small smear of glistening white came off easily, and he pressed the pad of his thumb against Peter’s lips, prompting him to open.

Another whine escaped the teen as he did so immediately, granting Tony’s finger entrance. Peter began sucking on it lightly to clean the sauce off, and he hummed once the light cream dissipated and he’d swallowed it down, allowing him to focus on the sensation of Tony’s calloused skin on his tongue.

Tony groaned softly, shifting in his chair. “Mmm, that’s my good boy.” He pulled his thumb away, smirking at the displeased noise that came from his young lover as he reached down to adjust himself in his pants.

Peter caught the movement. His own cock, which had been slightly interested since they’d left the hotel thanks to how sexy he felt in the lingerie he had slipped on, gave a slight twitch. “You hard for me, Daddy,” he asked, blinking coquettishly at the man and reaching for one of his two wine glasses, bringing the one filled with the red wine to his lips. He made a bit of a show of running his tongue from the base of the goblet up to the rim, cleaning up a rivulet of the dark, blood red liquid that had dripped down while he drank.

“Always, baby boy,” Tony said softly, keeping his eyes on Peter as he took a bite of what was left of the steak au poivre in front of him.

They continued eating, and Peter continued his teasing, until their server arrived a few minutes later to check on them. The young boy was glad the table cloth was there to hide the erection in his lap, his flush intensifying as Jacques approached them. Tony, however, didn’t look phased, continuing to eat the rest of his food and sip at the full-bodied alcohol in his glass, eyes trained on his husband.

Beginning to clear away the empty plates, Jacques spoke up. “I hope everything has been to your satisfaction, gentlemen.” When they both responded in the affirmative, he continued. “Would you be interested in ordering anything for dessert? Tonight’s special is a beautiful lavender and honey posset, it’s absolutely to die for,” he intoned, making eye contact with Peter and smiling.

Tony scowled at the interaction, sniffing lightly and narrowing his eyes a bit. “Nope, I think we’re all set…” He trailed off at the pleading look Peter gave him, big brown eyes peering over at him dolefully.

“Please, Tony,” the younger man asked, foot once again moving to rub against the inside of his husband’s leg. “I’m not sure what a, um, posset is, but it sounds really yummy, and Jacques says it’s good.” He looked at Jacques briefly, who nodded, and then back at Tony. “This is about trying new things, right?” He bit his lip for good measure, just to punctuate his little performance.

With an eye roll, Tony caved, his hand wrapping around Peter’s ankle underneath the table. He squeezed it, not ungently. “Alright,” he said, sending Jacques a quick smile as he piled the last plate into his arms. “We’ll have one of the possets, then, please.”

And he’d obviously made the right choice, as he was now watching Peter suck the remnants of the custard off of his pointer finger like it was his job to ensure that the small glass jar was spotless. “That good, sweetie?”

Peter hummed around his finger, eyes flicking up to meet Tony’s, which were once again flashing at him dangerously. His body thrummed in response, every fiber of his being screaming out in want. “It’s so good, Daddy,” he whined softly, the hand not in his mouth pressing down on the bulge in his pants. “So good.”

Sitting up straighter in his chair, Tony took a deep breath before reaching into his pocket for his wallet. He flipped through it for a moment before pulling out a stack of hundred dollar bills and slapping them down on the table. Standing, he walked around the table to Peter’s seat in order to gently pull him up and closer to him.

Peter followed willingly, stepping into Tony’s personal space and craning his neck up to that his lips could meet the older man’s. He moaned softly at the feeling of their clothed erections pressing up against each other.

“Let’s go, baby,” Tony whispered into his mouth, pulling away so that he could lead Peter out of the room and through the main dining area. He paid no mind to any of the other patrons, who were no doubt scandalized by the sight of the two of them, rumpled and clearly aroused.

Peter just flushed, grinning as he made eye contact with a few people, winking at an older lady who was looking at him with wide eyes.

Yeah, he liked people knowing he was Tony’s.

When they got back to the hotel, Tony backed Peter up against the door to the hotel room as he began to lavish his neck with kisses and bites while his hands gripped at Peter’s ass. “Fuck, baby, you look so pretty tonight,” he rasped, relishing in the way his husband jerked in his hold in response to a particularly sharp nip.

“Just for you,” Peter moaned, hands fumbling to remove Tony’s jacket. He threw it to the ground as it was shrugged off, gasping when he was lifted into the older man’s arms in order to be carried over to the bed and deposited on the covers. Kicking his shoes off, he watched as Tony did the same and rolled up the sleeves to his wrinkling white dress shirt.

Crawling on the bed to kneel over Peter, Tony reached for the buttons on the boy’s shirt and began undoing them. A low growl sounded in his throat at the first peek of black lace that became exposed. “What do we have here?”

Peter preened under his heavy gaze, pushing up onto his elbows so he could slip the shirt off his arms, exposing the black bodysuit he wore underneath. “Do you like it, Daddy?” He peered up at him from underneath his lashes.

“Like it? I love it, baby boy.” Tony trailed kisses down the teen’s chest, feeling the muscles in his abdomen twitch under in ministrations. When he reached the waistband of the dark trousers, he undid the button with practiced ease and pulled them down, pausing for Peter to lift his hips and throwing them to the floor once they were off. His eyes raked over Peter’s form, mesmerized by the sight of him spread out on the fluffy comforter, the inky lingerie creating a strong contrast. He could very clearly see Peter’s erection straining against the lace, and the wet spot that was glistening with precum.

“Daddy,” Peter whined, hips twitching upward in an attempt to get some friction. “Touch me, please.”

Tony hummed softly, eyes locking on Peter’s lips for a moment before he got off the bed in order to walk over to the kitchenette area. He rifled through the drawers for a moment, ignoring Peter’s indignant noises. When he found what he was looking for, he resumed his previous position.

Making eye contact with Peter, Tony uncapped the lid of the honey bottle and squeezed some out onto his pointer and middle fingers. “Get up, baby,” he said softly. “Kneel for me.”

Eyes wide, Peter followed the request, only wobbling a little bit as a result of the alcohol in his system.

“Now open,” Tony instructed as he brought his dripping finger’s to Peter’s lips. He groaned when the digits were enveloped in the warmth of the boy’s mouth, shivering when he started suckling, not unlike the way he treated the man’s cock. “Fuck, Peter.”

Bolstered by Tony’s words, and desperate for the sticky sweetness he was desperately chasing with his tongue, Peter whined in the back of his throat before he closed his eyes and began sucking in earnest.

Eyes blazing, Tony watched in awe as the teen fellated his fingers. His other hand moved up to grab at Peter’s unruly curls, using his grip to hold the boy still as he pressed his fingers further into his mouth.

Peter’s eyes flew open as he gagged around the intrusion, throat convulsing as Tony held him there. He whimpered, eyes watering as he struggled to breathe. He gasped when Tony eventually removed his fingers, spluttering as thick saliva dripped down his chin. “Daddy- please,” he rasped, voice already a little wrecked. “More.” His eyes flickered to the honey bottle that was laying on the bed.

Smirking, Tony snatched it up. His hands moved to his belt and began unfastening it. “Want some more dessert, baby?”

***

Peter was going to be mortified when he realized that they were able to see everything that was going on. Every lingering touch or look, every...well, every time he was with Tony was being broadcasted to SHIELD through EDITH. No matter what was going on, sensitive and tame content alike, it was all being witnessed by the agents (plus, even more uncomfortably, May and Ned.)

Unfortunately, he wasn’t aware. So it didn’t seem like he was going to stop anytime soon.

So Ned was forced to suffer through every moment of it in a room full of adults. Again, including Peter’s poor aunt. Hopefully she wasn’t paying attention, though, because it definitely would have been even more awkward for her to see. Or even think about.

Just. Ew.

Personally, he was trying to figure out if the situation was illegal. After all, Peter was seventeen. And even though technically it was all in his head, it was still explicitly sexual content that they were all witnessing, starring him.

Maybe it wasn’t the best or most relevant thing to be thinking over, but Ned was trying to ignore the reality of what was actually going on. Watching his best friend make bedroom eyes at and get railed by their deceased idol wasn’t something he was particularly fond of.

He just needed to distract himself from the...activities that kept occurring on the monitors. So he tried to keep his mind away from that part of the situation, legality and all.

What he really needed to focus on was getting Peter out. It had been nearly two weeks since Beck’s announcement that outed Peter’s identity. It had been almost two weeks since Peter had run away and gone into hiding.

They hadn’t even been able to make contact with him through May for days now. He was solely focused on Tony, just as he had been since the wedding. They weren’t sure how much longer that pattern would continue. Or if it would ever stop.

Everyone was getting more and more anxious by the day.

Ned hadn’t found any real solution yet. There were no cracks in the program, no hidden door in the code that he could sneak his way through. So far, it was all sealed tightly.

Usually, that would be considered a good thing. But it just made his job that much more stressful in the moment. They still had no location for Peter. They were yet to discover a way to shut down the illusion. All they had was the ability to send May in when Peter wanted his family there. Nothing else. And there hadn’t been much family bonding time lately.

“When do you think they’ll finally stop?” Paige wondered out loud, eyes firmly on the screen as she leaned over Ned’s shoulder.

The teen jumped at the sound of her voice, head whipping around until they nearly collided. He had no idea that she’d snuck up on him. “What? Oh.” He made a face as he processed her question. “I don’t know. Hopefully soon.” Although that was doubtful, if he was honest with himself.

She hummed in acknowledgment, nodding a little. Her eyes seemed to follow the movements on the monitor before she finally glanced away, seeming a bit flustered. “Yeah. They’ve been at it a while, huh.”

Ned had absolutely no desire to discuss his best friend’s sex life. Especially considering the circumstances. And the interest in the agent’s voice sparked something in him. Not annoyance, not at her, but something very close to that. He wasn’t quite sure how to describe it. “They kinda have. But I’m trying to not pay that much attention to all of it. I’d like to have something of a normal friendship with Peter when he’s out. I can’t do that if I spend all this time watching him get-“

“Leeds,” Fury interrupted, standing over the two young people.

Paige instantly straightened up when she heard him, a light flush overtaking her cheeks as she pushed her hair back behind her ear.

“Yes, sir?” Ned answered, slowly looking up at the man.

“Any change? There has to be something you can do to get his attention.” The director worked to keep up his hard exterior, but was obviously uncomfortable. As was everyone else.

Except maybe Paige. But Ned didn’t want to think about why that was.

Ned sighed, fingers absently tapping at his keyboard. “No. Nothing yet, sir. I’ve been looking for a way to slip through into the program more frequently, but everything is airtight. Tony Stark knew what he was doing.” He couldn’t keep the admiration out of his voice. Which was a little annoying, since the tech and designer in question was causing nothing but issues. “And Peter too, I guess,” he added, knowing that Peter had probably input quite a bit of his own code into the program.

“Do you think he knew that Peter would use the glasses for this?” Paige murmured.

Again with the interested tone. “Probably not,” Ned supplied, clicking away from the live-feed for a moment. He technically wasn’t supposed to do that, but it would make everyone more comfortable for the moment. And it made certain that agent Oliver would have to stop watching, at least for the time being. “I mean, maybe. But probably not.”

“Stark wasn’t exactly the picture of perfect morality, but I don’t think he ever imagined anything like this happening.” Fury shook his head, face contorted in visible discomfort. “Especially not from Parker. I knew he was a devious little shit but not like this.”

Ned was pretty much on the same page. He knew that Peter had his moments, but it was never anything more than normal teenage hormone-fueled...lust felt like too strong of a word, but nothing else was coming to mind. He’d never thought that Peter was even capable of the things he had seen playing out on the screen. Although, he really hadn’t thought about it too much. Or ever.

His best friend was objectively an attractive guy, but Ned had really never thought of him in anything but a platonic way. So this was a lot of stuff that he’d never wanted to see.

“I dunno, I don’t know much about him but he seems like the closeted-kinky type,” Paige offered with a slight smile pulling at her lips. “Y’know, eager to please and all? Maybe I’m the only one that sees it.”

“Can we not talk about this?” Ned said quickly, definitely louder than necessary. The annoyed-but-not feeling was back. He adjusted his glasses just so he could have something to do with his hands for a moment. “I’d rather just focus on getting him out. Or figuring out how to talk to him.”

“Leeds is right,” Fury agreed, looking at the screen again. “It wouldn’t be my first choice, and it pains me to say it, but I suggest you turn that back on. Just to be sure nothing gets missed. We need to send Ms. Parker back in as soon as he shows signs of wanting her back in.”

None of them believed that it would be happening anytime soon, but Ned begrudgingly clicked to the feed again.

“Great. Keep checking to see if there’s anywhere you can slip through, he’s already held onto that tech for too long.”

The man walked away, leaving Ned and Paige alone again.

Ned looked at the agent, giving her a smile. “So, any ideas? We’re still stuck with what we’ve got and I feel like I’ve tried everything.” He sighed heavily, looking back to the screen.

He expected to see more of the same, ‘the same’ being Peter engaging in some insanely sexual scene with no end in sight. But it seemed like they had finally stopped, as the screen was dark, Ned’s reflection looking back at him. Something that only happened when Peter fell asleep, therefore unable to keep the tech running.

“They’re asleep!” He announced to the room. Everyone seemed to collectively relax. No more having to watch a potential lawsuit.

And sleep was good news for Ned; that meant he was able to finally get some real work done without having to constantly check up on the feed. He would have about seven hours or so (going by how long the illusion was typically down for a night of rest) to work and figure out a way to shut things down without worrying about his friend waking up and realizing it. Maybe even stopping him.

Nothing had come of the other nights he’d been able to work, but he kept hoping that he’d get lucky soon. He was determined to save his best friend. He had to.

So he started the stopwatch to record how long Peter slept and then got to work.

***

Ned worked all night, but was still stuck exactly where he had been, in terms of progress. The only connection they had was through the small gap he’d been able to squeeze his own coding into to get May through. And he had a bad feeling that his ‘solution’ with that wouldn’t last for much longer.

He kept track of what Peter (and Tony, by extension) was doing as the morning went on, instantly becoming more focused when he heard a brief mention of family.

“I think it would be nice to spend another day with them,” Peter commented through the crackly speakers, seeming to pack up the countless bags that he’d acquired over the past couple of days.

Not-Tony hummed in agreement, moving to help his- husband? (Ned wasn’t quite sure how all of it worked. It was all just pretend, after all.) No matter what they were considered, Tony began helping Peter with gathering up his bags. “I think that’s a great idea. Haven’t seen them since the wedding, we should spend some time with them.”

“Yeah, just having everyone over would be nice. We could watch a movie or something. One of those old ones you like.”

Tony made an offended noise, glancing in Peter’s direction. “Just because it came out before, what, two thousand? Doesn’t make it old. You’re just a baby,” he teased.

“Cradle robber,” Peter shot back playfully, an easy smile on his face. Like what he said didn’t make Ned’s skin crawl. They joked so easily (Peter’s mind did, at least) and yet the age gap between the two seemed to become that much more apparent in the moment.

“Oh, quiet.” Tony waved one hand. “So are you thinking that you just want to go back to the tower? Or was there another idea in that pretty little brain of yours?”

“Just home. Please.” Apparently ‘home’ was the tower, where Tony had mentioned, because he nodded and smiled after the answer.

“That isn’t his home,” May said softly from somewhere behind Ned, causing the teen to turn around.

Ned leaned back in his chair, looking up at her. “I’m hoping that he remembers that,” he admitted. “But I’m sure he does,” he corrected quickly when he saw the woman’s expression fall.

“He has to. He can’t just- he can’t leave us like this. For someone who got him killed.” May’s voice took on a slightly angrier tone as she spoke. But the anger fizzled out just as quickly as it came. “I need to talk to him, Ned. Not just within his little script. I need to actually get through to him.”

The teen nodded slowly, watching her closely. He knew it was a bad idea. The mission so far was just to stick to the scene that Peter wanted and to follow his lead. Get close to him. May wasn’t nearly close enough yet. And Peter didn’t seem to be close to changing his mind in any way. “But Fury said-“

“I don’t care what he said,” May said sharply. “Peter needs his family. His real family. He needs me. Not the me he expects to play along with his little game.”

That was a dangerous thing to say, especially given how the director seemed to know everything that was going on. Ned hoped that Fury hadn’t heard her. That could possibly compromise the one advantage they had. “He does need you. But just- not yet. You have to go along with his scene right now. Just for a little while longer.”

The woman watched him, expression softening slightly. She knew that he was right. But there was nothing she wanted to do more than reach out to Peter and bring him home. To his actual home. “Okay. But I’m not going another week or whatever without him. I can’t do that shit. This has already gone on too long. He needs to be home. And if he doesn’t get it together, I’ll be bringing him back with or without SHIELD’s help.”

The last bit sounded like a threat, and it probably was. Ned knew that she missed Peter. He was her only remaining family member. And he missed him too, of course he did. He just knew that it was different because May had seen him break too many times before. And she didn’t want to see it again.

She left, presumably going back to the small room that had her setup for entering the illusion. If Peter was talking about family, she had better get ready to go in as soon as he expected her to.

She slipped the headset on and waited, heart aching as she watched Peter interacting with Tony through the screen. She’d never seen him look at anyone quite like that. With so much love in his eyes. It nearly broke her heart to think about how her goal was to take him away from that. But she felt less guilty when she thought about all she was bringing him back to.

His home. His family. His friends. Everything he needed was all here in the real world. And he’d find someone else to look at in that same way, she was sure of it. And when he did, it would be okay. Because it would be the right person and the right time.

Not a dead man who was the root of all his issues.

May held her breath as the scene changed before her eyes, transforming into the sleek and expensive interior of Stark tower once again. And as the couple relaxed in the living area, she saw how Peter’s expression shifted into one of more concentration.

And she heard the quiet ding of the elevator and knew it was time for her to slip into the fantasy again. She heard agent Oliver instructing her in the background, but she already knew what to do.

She let herself relax, getting pulled into the illusion until she was standing in the elevator with the rest of Peter’s ‘special guests.’ It still gave her an odd, sick feeling of deja vu to see Mary, Richard, and Ben all together like that. It was all wrong. But she had to act like everything was okay. Like she wasn’t horrified by being surrounded by family members (and her husband) that she’d already lost and grieved for years.

Her participation in the scene had to be perfectly in accordance with Peter’s intentions or it would all be ruined. At least that’s what she’d been told countless times. But as soon as the doors opened and she saw Peter again, every plan they’d ever discussed dropped to the bottom of her list of priorities.

She just wanted him to come home.

Peter glanced up once he heard the doors, beaming. “Perfect!” He held onto Tony’s arm gently, leaning against him. “Now everyone is here.”

They filed out of the elevator, going over to the couple. May couldn’t help but realize how off it all felt. Without Peter actively controlling the other figures, it was like they were hardly there. Nothing more than stand-ins.

It was terrifying to witness, making her that much more determined to bring the boy home. He couldn’t stay in this environment, living entirely in his mind with no real company. It would only do further damage to his mental state.

As soon as they were in a certain vicinity, the scene seemed to come to life. Suddenly there was soft chatter from the other people as they started carrying their own conversations.

May jumped when she felt a hand on her lower back, instantly wanting to bat the intruding touch away. She knew who it was before she even looked and forced herself to relax. She had to remind herself that it wasn’t her Ben. Letting herself get attached wouldn’t do her any favors. It couldn’t happen. She had to keep her focus on the goal of saving Peter. That’s what was important.

“It’s nice of them to have us over like this,” Not-Ben murmured to her. “Yknow, I like seeing Pete so happy.” He smiled a bit and May’s heart ached. There was the smile she remembered. Easy, slightly mischievous. All Ben.

“Yeah…,” she started, forgetting what they were talking about for a moment. All she could think about was her husband. She could finally have him back like this, maybe she saw the appeal-

No. She couldn’t let herself get sucked in.

“I don’t know. I’ve never been a huge fan of Tony Stark,” she whispered back, not caring about possible consequences. She had to keep her mind straight, and in that moment that required being honest.

“But he’s happy, May.” Ben’s eyes searched her face, but she knew it wouldn’t matter. He wasn’t seeing anything. And even if he did, he couldn’t do anything with the information he found. He was just another figment of Peter’s imagination.

“Yeah. For now,” she mumbled, looking away. She had to focus on what was wrong. So her brain didn’t get convinced that he really was her Ben.

He was too tall. Not by much, but just enough that it was noticeable. And it bothered her.

And he was too...muscular. Sure, he’d never been thin, but it wasn’t like this.

Then it clicked.

This Ben only existed as Peter saw him.

Of course her husband would have seemed like some big, strong man to the boy that he raised. He was Peter’s superhero. And Peter never saw anything different.

That fact shouldn’t have hurt as much as it did.

She fixed her expression, not letting her true feelings show. She still needed to focus on the task at hand, and that was getting close to Peter. She had to follow along with his scene and make sure everything was in place. Nothing could seem out of the ordinary from how he wanted it.

They all sat down, on a couch facing Peter and Tony.

Peter grinned at them, clapping his hands together happily. “Okay, so, I was thinking maybe we could play some games? That’s always fun, right?”

“Yeah, as long as you don’t cheat,” Ben mumbled with a smile. It was all just teasing.

“I would never! Mean.” The teen stuck his tongue out at him before laughing. “What should we play?”

“Monopoly?” Tony suggested, wrapping his arm around his husband’s waist.

“You’re so old,” Peter whined. Then he giggled, leaning into the touch. “Kidding. Monopoly would be fun, it just takes forever.” Good thing they had all the time in the world to play.

“And ruins families,” May said under her breath, but thankfully no one else seemed to catch it.

“No one has anything else going on, we can play for as long as we want,” the older man assured him. “Want me to go grab it?”

Peter nodded, smiling up at him. “Sure, baby. Thank you.”

Tony stood up to get the game, coming back only a moment later with the box in his hands. “I call being banker,” he said playfully. He sat down and started setting the game up on the table between all of them.

No one argued, just laughing as they kept joking and teasing each other about the entire thing.

As the night went on, the energy level never wavered. Everyone was happy and relaxed, excited to be around each other.

Everyone except for May.

She hid it well, playing along, but inside she was deeply bothered by all of it. Nothing felt right, no matter how the others were acting. None of them were real. It was just her and Peter.

She watched as Tony reached out for his “husband” again and her stomach flipped. She was tired of watching them behave like that and pretending it was okay.

“Don’t touch him.”

The words left her mouth before she could stop them and the guilt set in instantly. She had just ruined the whole mission.

But now she could try things her own way.

Tony’s hand pulled away from Peter immediately, the confusion clear on his face. And May knew that the expression was only reflecting what her nephew was feeling.

“May, he can touch me. He’s my husband, after all. We got married, remember?” Peter shot her a smile, cuddling up to the other man. He tried to brush it off as how protective she always was. Maybe that was just bleeding into his projection of her.

“No, he isn’t, Peter.” May’s voice shook as she stood up, trying to move closer to him. “He isn’t real. You know that. None of this is real.”

“You’re not real,” he said quietly, eyes wide as he tried to figure out what was going on. That wasn’t supposed to happen. But as much as he tried to focus, she wouldn’t go back into place. Things wouldn’t go back to how he wanted them.

What was happening?

“Yes, I am. I’m the only real one here. It’s just you and me, Peter.” She met his eyes, looking desperate. “It’s me, baby. It’s actually me, I’m here. Please come home, this isn’t good for you. You need to come home and give the tech to Fury so-“

“No,” he said quickly, seeming to snap out of his confusion. “Tony gave it to me. It’s mine. No one else’s. And this is my home.” He glared at her, moving into Tony’s arms more.

How had SHIELD hacked May into the program? There shouldn’t have been any way for them to do that. He’d worked on the security coding himself, adding onto what Tony had already designed.

“Did I?” Tony mumbled, looking like he was trying to remember. What tech was being used? It seemed like they were just in the tower, nothing out of the ordinary.

But May ignored him. She continued tearfully. “Your home is with me. Your home is in the *real world*, not this thing you’ve made up! You can’t stay here!” She was getting more frantic.

“No, May. I can stay here. Maybe you should, too.” He watched her, trying to keep himself calm. He needed to regain control over the illusion. Maybe he wouldn’t have to lose anything. He just had to convince her to stay.

“I’ll be doing no such-“

“What’s the issue?” Ben cut in, moving to stand next to May. But he wasn’t going to help her. He was looking directly at her. “You could stay, couldn’t you. Right here. What’s the harm in that?” He grabbed her hands, brushing against her wedding ring.

The one she knew was buried in her closet, amongst the other things that reminded her of him too much to leave strewn about the apartment but she couldn’t bear to completely get rid of.

But it all felt so real.

“You’re dead,” she whispered, her own tone surprising her. She sounded terrified and just as weak as she had in the time right after he died. “I can’t stay. You’re gone and never coming back. All of you are.” Except for Peter, who didn’t want to be saved.

Ben smiled at her, like he’d expected the answer. Then he leaned in, pressing a gentle kiss to her forehead. Like he had a thousand times when he was alive. “I’m here now, May. Isn’t that enough?”

She hated how real it all felt. How tempting it was. She hated how she could feel his lips against her skin and how easily it pulled her back into the denial she’d felt right after the accident.

Maybe she could stay. She could have him back, live out life like they were supposed to. They were supposed to be together until they were old and grey until finally going from natural causes. Old age. His murder couldn’t touch them here.

It would be so easy to just stay.

But she knew that she couldn’t. It wasn’t possible. It would only destroy her mind to stay with him. And if she wasn’t taking care of her physical body then what would happen? She had to go. Staying wasn’t an option. She just had to convince him of that as well.

She stepped away from Ben, ignoring how much it hurt her to do so. Then she turned to Peter again, moving closer. Maybe if she could just hold him-

His eyes narrowed more as he watched her. He pushed her away when she tried to get closer again, instantly feeling guilty. But he wanted to keep her away. She was trying to take everything from him. If she didn’t want to stay, fine. She could go.

But he wasn’t going to lose this too.

“Get away from me,” Peter snapped, staying close to Tony. He looked almost protective, although he knew that physically it was impossible for anything to happen. “This is my home. Here. With him. And my family.”

May was still shocked at how he’d shoved her. He’d never behaved in such a way before, no matter how things had gotten. And he’d never been so angry, not at her. Not at anyone.

Where did her boy go? What happened to him?

“Peter, please,” she begged. “You can’t live like this. It might seem good for now, but you’re just going to hurt yourself. Please, you’ve gotta shut it down and tell us where you are. We’ll come get you and everything will be okay. SHIELD is working on fixing what happened with Mysterio, you can-“

“I’m not going anywhere! And I’m not telling you where I am, you’ll just make me stop!” There were tears welling in his eyes and his voice was shaking despite how strong he attempted to sound.

All May wanted to do was wipe those tears away and pull him in for a hug like she’d done countless times before. But she had a feeling that was a bad idea.

She felt so helpless, watching him from afar. She was losing him and she knew it.

That hurt more than anything else.

“Baby, please,” she murmured gently. “You can come home. Everything is going to be okay. We can get you some help,” she said slowly.

“I don’t need help. I need this.” And no one would take it away from him. “EDITH, find however she got in. Patch the hole. Make sure it won’t happen again.”

“Yes, Peter,” The AI answered, almost sounding nervous. If that was even something she was capable of.

Fear flashed through May as she stared at him. “Peter, please, don’t shut me out.”

“You’re not taking this from me. Everyone has taken everything from me!” Tears streamed down his face freely. “I get to keep this one thing. I get to have them all back. And you can’t take that. No one can. I won’t let you.”

“Peter, you need to come home. I miss you, we all miss you so much, baby. Please!”

“I miss you too. That’s why I wanted you here. But you messed it all up. You could have stayed here with me. With Uncle Ben.” He wiped his eyes, trying to calm himself.

“I’m sorry, baby, you know I can’t.”

“So you have to leave.” He was informed that EDITH found the coding that had been put in and she started fixing it.

“I love you, Peter. Please, think about what you’re doing,” she begged him. She was pushed from the illusion, still able to see through her headset but she couldn’t interact anymore.

“I love you too. But I’ve already thought about it. This is where I belong.”

Her screen went dark.

She ripped the headset off and threw it, burying her face in her hands. She’d fucked it all up.

And she’d lost him. He didn’t want to come home.

He wasn’t going to come home.

Agent Oliver rushed in, wincing when the tech hit the wall. It was probably broken now, but that could be dealt with later. She’d just watched everything play out on the screen, just like the others had. May was the first priority. “Ma’am-“

“I’m going home.” She looked up, eyes red like she was holding back tears. She pushed her glasses up and sniffled. “I’m leaving. This entire operation is pointless.” She stood up, quickly leaving the room without looking back.

“Ms. Parker, please, we’ll figure out another way,” Paige followed after her.

“May?” Ned looked up from his computer, quickly wiping away his own tears. There was enough to deal with, he could hold it together. He still had to figure out how to save Peter. “Please, don’t go. Not yet.”

She looked at him, but shook her head. “I’m going home. I can’t...I can’t do this. I messed it up, you’ll be better off without me. I can’t help you anymore. I’m sorry.”

As she walked away, she heard other people calling after her. Probably Fury, some other agents. But she didn’t turn around. She needed to get out.

Unlike Peter, all she wanted was to go home.

The drive to the building was short, her brain in a fog the entire time. She didn’t let herself feel. She couldn’t yet. Not until she was in the safety of the apartment.

Her car was parked and she was going up the elevator before she knew it. She blinked, slightly disoriented. She kept her eyes closed during the ride up, almost convinced that she would see Peter again when the door opened.

Of course, she didn’t. And she walked to the door of the apartment, posture defeated. Her whole body felt heavy, weighed down.

As soon as she put the key in the lock, the door opened and Happy pulled her into his arms.

“The kid called me,” he told her gently.

Her heart skipped a beat when he said that, hoping maybe he meant Peter. Maybe he changed his mind.

“The one you’ve been working with. At SHIELD,” he clarified, seeing the look on her face.

With that, she promptly dissolved into tears.

May Parker was a strong woman. She didn’t cry often. And even less often around other people.

But too much had happened, even for her. And she knew that Happy wouldn’t go anywhere no matter what she said. That he would stay, that he wouldn’t let anything happen to her. So she let herself cry, not holding anything back.

Everything was falling apart. Each tear that fell reminded her of it all. The guilt, the hurt, the anger she’d felt. The reopened wound of missing Ben. The aching void in her heart where Peter was missing.

Her boy didn’t want to be saved. So what was there that she could do?

Maybe this was just another loss that she’d have to learn to live with.

#starker #peter parker #tony stark #tony x peter #tony stark x peter parker #SbPBP #B&B write #Peter’s EDITH!verse #starker angst #nff #mention of character death

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grumpyhedgehogs · 3 years

Text

hand over fist

Summary: Cody is one step behind Obi-Wan Kenobi in all things.

Warnings: blood, injuries, dead bodies, no major character death. AO3

Cody is one step behind Obi-Wan Kenobi in all things.

He feels safest following his commanding officer, one step behind and to the right. He slotted into the space at Kenobi’s shoulder immediately after the first battle the Jedi led them into and simply never left. His home is at Kenobi’s side, one step behind. He’s always been prepared to follow Obi-Wan wherever he goes.

So it is no surprise to him that, one moment after he sees Kenobi go down in the field, a blaster bolt rips into his own side and tears its way out of him again. His ribs cave, his knees buckle, and Cody falls. Pain lances through him when his shoulder jars against the solid rock underneath him; Cody jostles, cries out, and slumps on his side.

It’s hard to figure out what’s going on; rain lashes against his face, and even through his armor and his blacks his skin is going numb. It’s a mixed bag--on the one hand, the numbing cold means the blaster wound doesn’t hurt half as much as it should, but on the other he can’t assess the actual damage if he can’t feel anything. His right arm doesn’t have full range of movement, and when he’d landed on his left hand something had made an ominous snapping sound. His elbow had gone out from under him right after. The storm that had rolled in on them soon after the bombardment had started is darkening rather than letting up, and paired with the wind driving the rain nearly sideways, his visibility is down to nil.

Cody has lost sight of Obi-Wan.

The thought sticks with him as the haze settles over his mind. Cody drifts in a strange grey fog, pain clouding him. The sounds of blaster fire and his brothers’ shouts are distant now; he feels the rumble of machinery through the ground beneath him, but it’s far away. Moving hurts too much; it radiates a stabbing agony up through his chest, spreads into his throat and his lungs and his mouth. It tastes of copper. He breathes through it, and drifts.

Cody has lost sight of Obi-Wan.

He should have passed out by now. Cody knows this, just as he knows he’s lost time. He isn’t unconscious, not yet, not like he should be, but he’s not all there. The fog is less painful now. The fog is kind.

Cody has lost sight of Obi-Wan.

The rain slows down. Mud splashes against Cody’s face, clogs his mouth, and sets off a coughing fit. It coats the side of his head, spreads to his nostrils and blocks his breath. Water seeps into the seams of his lips, and when he opens his mouth to try to clear his airways, it tries to drown him. He jackknifes in an attempt to get upright and screams as the wound pulls at his gut. He feels something tear again. He flops back, limp like a dead fish. Someone is letting out a pathetic sounding whimper nearby.

Cody has lost sight of Obi-Wan.

It takes precious minutes for Cody to catch his breath again. The fog has been wiped away, but he still can’t see very well. There are bodies around him, looming out of the darkness like distant mountain ranges. He can only raise his head a few inches, collapsed prone as he is, but he just needs something--some sign, anything--

There.

There is little light left, but the burning silver of a dropped lightsaber is a sight Cody’s gotten used to over time. He could pick it out with his eyes closed now. The weapon almost taunts him, lying less than a klick away. Obi-Wan must be nearby; Cody had been sprinting to catch up when the Jedi fell. Cody just needs to find him.

This lightsaber is your life , Obi-Wan’s lecture to Skywalker echoes in his head. Cody isn’t in the business of leaving his general’s life unprotected.

Turning over is the worst part. He knows without trying that he’s not going to be able to get his feet under him, so crawling it is. Cody digs his elbow into the ground beneath him, now thankful that the rain has softened the mud enough from him to sink a grip into it. It’s just enough leverage to topple himself on his front, but his ribs scream in protest when his weight bears down on them. Black and white spots flood Cody’s vision and he thinks he must yell again, but he’s not sure. He’s probably lost his voice by now anyway. The copper taste is back. He spits the blood out when his eyes clear enough to pick up that silver glint again. Cody’s thoughts fluctuate wildly, but the one thing he can latch onto is the spine-tingling fear that if he loses sight of the weapon again it might get lost in the dirt and the mud and the rain. He might lose Obi-Wan.

His left wrist is swollen to nearly twice its size but the cold is working with Cody, allowing him to dig his forearms into the mud above his head without too much pain. Reach out with his right makes the wound pull again and there’s a gush of warmth against the numb skin of his abdomen, so shocking it sets off pins and needles. His blood is mixing with the dust of this Force-forsaken planet. He knows it is the blood of one vod among many.

Cody keeps his eyes on Obi-Wan’s lightsaber.

Hand over hand, fistful of mud after fistful of mud, Cody drags himself across the battlefield. His progress is painstaking, pulling and digging into his wound, especially when he crawls over rocks he can’t make out in the dimness. He has to push the limbs of unresponsive fallen soldiers out of the way. The rain trickles into Cody’s eyes but he can’t blink, can’t afford to take his gaze off the one sign he has that Obi-Wan was ever here with him in the first place.

“Kote?”

The harsh whisper comes from somewhere on his left. Drained and gasping, inhaling more dirt than air at this point, Cody pauses, body falling momentarily limp. He rests his temple on his bicep, but doesn’t look around even though he opens his mouth, because the saber is only a little farther now. He could get there in twenty minutes if he kept up the pace--he just needs to rest for a minute. Just a minute.

“Who’s there?” He rasps. His throat feels like the quartermaster took sandpaper to it.

“Boil, Kote.”

Cody breathes. The black lump at the edge of his vision twitches; he sees his brother's head turn towards him but he can’t make out Boil’s face. He can hear the fear in his voice clear enough anyway. “Cody!”

“I’m here,” he says. “I’m awake.”

“Good. Can’t--can’t fall asleep now.”

“The General went down.” Cody is scared to blink, but the saber is still there when he opens his eyes again. Boil swears faintly. “I can see his jetii’kad.”

“He’s gotta be near.” Boil finishes for him and Cody feels absurdly grateful. It’s getting even harder to breathe. More warmth rushes out of his wound and meets the mud. His brother has to pause between each word to breathe and Cody clings to each rattling noise it makes in Boil’s chest. “Can you make it?”

“I will.” There is no other option.

The lump that is his brother moves again, wriggling towards him, and Boil says, “Here. Let me help.”

Boil’s grip on his left arm slips twice, slick from rainwater. He pulls so hard Cody thinks he might pop it right out of the socket, but Boil gets him a yard or two forward all the same, so he doesn’t mention it. Cody grunts his thanks and as he steels himself, reaching out for new handfuls of mud and rock, he feels Boil’s shove at his knees propel him just that bit farther.

As he struggles forward, Boil’s voice rings out with new volume. He is hoarse, faltering, but his words make the brothers Cody can make out on the ground nearby startle. “Commander’s going for the General! Help him.”

Boil breaks down coughing after that, sounding too wet and deep, and then the noise is carried off by the wind and Cody can’t think about it anymore. Just beyond the silver of the lightsaber, he sees another body. There are pale fingers lying on the ground, curled slightly, reaching for the Jedi weapon; Cody’s heart thumps hard enough that it might break right out of his abused ribcage.

More hands push and pull at him as Cody drags himself across the battlefield. Waxer whispers some encouragement at him from near his left ear. The vode work together to haul Cody towards their Jedi as fast as their injuries allow. But in the end, the last few yards are void of any allies, and Cody has to pull his own weight to the end of the line.

The lightsaber is cold in his grip, even colder than Cody himself; it would’ve been warm if it were in use recently. Cody is unsure of how long it’s been since Obi-Wan went down. He pulls the weapon to his chest, uncaring of the awkward position as he lunges the last few inches towards the body beyond. Agony flares through him. The fingers are limp in his grip as Cody clutches at them; his gloves make it hard to tell the temperature of the body. But when he tugs, gasping for breath, they flinch and twitch in his.

“ General.”

“ Cody. You came to get me.”

His Jedi’s voice curls around his name with familiar warmth, surprise coloring it. Cody tries to form his mouth into a smirk but he can’t feel his lips. “Always, General.”

“You’re hurt.”

Obi-Wan says it like it’s tenfold worse than his own injuries. Cody doesn’t have the heart to roll his eyes.

“It’s just a scratch.”

“Ah. Well, in that case I shan’t worry, shall I?”

“No.” The hand in his has none of Kenobi’s usual strength, but Cody hasn’t been able to feel his own fingertips in hours now, so he’ll overlook the weakness in Obi-Wan’s grip for now. He squeezes, though, as much he can, and after a horrible pause, Obi-Wan squeezes back. “You don’t ever have to worry about me, Obi-Wan.”

“I think I will anyway, if you don’t mind terribly.” Obi-Wan tries to shift and lets out a little weak sound. Cody pulls on his fingers in warning and the Jedi settles. “Apologies,” Obi-Wan gasps, strained. “I’m not--not at my best, or I’d--”

“Don’t.” In this moment Cody is not above begging. “Just rest. Just rest.”

“I’ve been stargazing.” The sentence is a non sequitur. Or is it? Cody is so tired. He might have lost time again; the fog is returning, licking at the edges of his vision. He takes a deep inhale, holds it until his ribs feel like they’re about to break through his skin, and lets it out. The fog recedes.

“What?”

“The stars,” Obi-Wan repeats, voice barely there. Cody’s not sure what liquid he feels seeping into his gloves as he grips at the Jedi’s hand, if it’s mud or blood or water. He holds on as tightly as he can. “The rain’s stopped--look at the stars.”

Rolling over isn’t any easier the second time around, but his general has asked it of him and Cody would do anything for his general. The sky, not clear of clouds, is at least done releasing a downpour. There’s a break in the clouds above them; moonlight slinks through it and tiny pinpricks of white stand out against the black. Obi-Wan’s grip had gotten stronger when he’d groaned as he shifted, and his fingers only relax marginally when Cody confirms he is watching the stars now too. The battle is ending, growing quieter. It is as if Cody is in a bubble of paradise right in the middle of hell: his Jedi holds him, the numbness gives way to warmth, and the stars watch over them both. A dreadful, joyful calm washes over him and Cody thinks--thinks--

If I have to die, Cody thinks, muzzily, I’d like to die like this.

He doesn’t die, of course.

Cody opens his eyes some time later without quite realizing he has closed them, and squints against the blazing white of Medical. His body is stiff, but numb no longer; every inch of him screams. Cody’s teeth grind down but he stifles the cry of pain before it can claw its way out of him. Turning his head makes his neck protest but it means he can see his brothers, at least half of the 212th, bundled into cots just like his. The blue of the 501st’s uniforms makes relief flood his stomach when Cody spies Kix leaning over Boil. Waxer, sitting up in bed across from him, gives him a little wave when Cody catches his eyes. His brother points over Cody’s head.

Cody turns, weary and flagging. On his other side, obviously not supposed to be upright, is the bandaged and battered form of Jedi High General Obi-Wan Kenobi. A few yards behind him there rests an empty cot, the blanket thrown hastily back. Obi-Wan’s face is bruised and swollen, and his foot is propped up at the end of Cody’s bed, bandages swathing the ankle. Kenobi is shirtless, his right shoulder, bicep, and pectoral heavily bandaged; scarlet droplets are seeping through the carefully applied linen already. Obi-Wan slumps in his seat, listing slightly to the side with his eyes closed.

His hand is wrapped firmly around Cody’s.

Cody sighs, settles, and breathes easy.

#codywan #cody sw #commander cody #sw #star wars #star wars fanfiction #clone wars #star wars the clone wars #clone wars fic #waxer and boil #my writing

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chiseler · 3 years

Text

Ballard’s Abandoned Landscapes

If you set reality at noon on an analog clock, most science fiction would range from about 4:30 to 6. Philip K. Dick might ring in at 7:30. J.G. Ballard? 9 pm or your personal bedtime.

I’m talking about early, ‘60s Ballard, simply because that’s what hit me first and still hits me hardest. I recently bought (downloaded to my Kindle – interesting to think where that might fit into the Ballard world) his complete stories, but I’ve stopped dead, for now, at “Terminal Beach,” one of the finest short stories in the English language. So that’s the era I’m going to talk about. I’m an old fart and entitled.

It’s hard to pin down what defines any writer, what sets him apart from any other writer. In Ballard’s case, beyond the bizarre settings and sprung mental framework, I think it’s the unique uniting of personal isolation and claustrophobia with a sense of unbordered physical and internal space.

Many of the stories are set in deserts or uninhabited/disinhabited, windswept nowheres. He seldom introduces more than two or three characters, who often interact like cyborgs hurling dogturds at a target close to each others’ heads. Things happen without explanation and often without resolution.

Several of the stories deal with Vermillion Sands, an artistic community of the future where the world of art has run aesthetically and conceptually amok. Statues move and crawl, poetry drifts on the winds, ideas (and ideals) that were set up to evolve across the landscape peter out like grandpa in his dotage. But if you look at the impetus behind the individual elements, most of them have been realized, in one form or another, in the half century since Ballard wrote these stories.

At the uber-level, he knew. He saw. He envisioned. Many writers of SF’s “Golden Age” pictured isolated developments surprisingly well. They understood how technology would (or might) unfold. What Ballard saw was the human drive and how, in a technological society, it could be revealed. He was like Bradbury that way, and it may be the universe’s quiet salute that they died so temporally near each other.

I might have made it sound like Ballard was dreary or empty, a drum beaten in a deserted warehouse. Sometimes he was. Not every story is a resonant gem. But at his (often) best, he brought together characters, or a character and an environment, with such understated intensity that they caught fire without oxygen. People you would never want to know, never want to meet, never want to think about sizzle and sparkle in their own personal skies. I don’t know if that gives any kind of useful image, but it’s as close as I can come to pinning them against Ballard’s backdrop.

So let’s look at a few of those stories from the late '50s, early '60s.

Along with the sense of abandonment, there is often a dissolution of personal experience. In “The Last World of Mr. Goddard,” an unexceptional man living in a closely locked house keeps a miniature world alive in crate. How real is this tiny world and how connected to his? We find out to his and our chagrin. (It might make you think of Theodore Sturgeon’s “Microcosmic God,” but it goes in an entirely different direction.)

“The Watch-Towers” presents the landscape overseen by an evenly-spaced grid of floating towers, obviously peopled, but no one knows by whom, from where or why. Nor, like the inhabitants below, are we allowed to find out. The towers simply are. But there are repercussions for ignoring or disdaining them.

The completely isolated characters of “Manhole 69” are subjects of an experiment that has removed the need for sleep. They live and interact without mental pause 24 hours a day. What happens to their unrelieved minds? And can they tell how much of the crushing claustrophobia is outside, how much in?

“Mr. F. is Mr. F.” merges two of Ballard’s obsessions: isolation/dissolution, and time as an inexorable enemy. Mr. F., confined to his bed and managed by his overbearing wife, is becoming younger by the day but not internally stronger. The cycle he goes through is especially terrifying for being, in that confined bedroom, absurdly mundane.

The battle with time in “The Garden of Time” is even more isolated, as a couple keep the depredations of an advancing war rabble at bay by picking a time flower each evening – while the flowers, which refuse to bud anew, ever dwindle in number: Time can be held at bay, but it will be the victor at ages’ end.

“Chronopolis” is a deserted city, the result of an edict which forbid clocks, watches and all observance of time’s passage. We follow the underground progress of renegade isolates driven by the need to know when.

Again, from these descriptions it may seem that Ballard ignores character for theme and textured absurdity. Actually, almost all of Ballard’s early stories are driven by character, fully realized human beings set in skewed or inverted situations and let go to wend their way, accepting the impossible even while battling against it.

Mangon, “The Sound-Sweep,” operates a sonovac. Like your Hoover or Electrolux, it ingests the unwanted and untidy, but in this case the refuse is sound, suctioned with exquisite care. Mangon can remove the harsh overlays of a cathedral’s yattering tourists while leaving intact the chant-soak of the stones. But what most defines him is his love for the over-the-hill opera singer, Madame Gioconda, and his sad, resigned response to her gift of derision.

Ballard for the most part ignores humor. It simply doesn’t fit into his dense, choking worlds. But he lets loose a volley of exuberant howlers in “Passport to Eternity.” A couple with all the solar system at their disposal for a vacation attempt to plan the perfect getaway. This leads them to investigate a scattering of underground firms offering … what they outline in half a dozen pages would fill an entire Philip K. Dick novel. Ballard slaps one bizarre and tortured idea after another onto the page, held in place by Laurel and Hardy glue.

And, of course, there’s “The Terminal Beach.” Wandering alone among the concrete ruins of Eniwetok, the island staging grounds for atomic and hydrogen bomb tests, Traven (B. Traven?) loses himself inside the maze of pseudo-buildings erected to examine the effects of mankind’s most unrestrained energy on its most vulnerable structures.

He talks with his lost family and to the skeletal remains of a Japanese flier tied to a porch chair. He is visited by a scientific team who cannot coax him to leave his vigil, because he is trying to find – what? Justification? The past? A sense of why he has no future? Afterwards, you might think Borges, or in some sense Nabokov. But while you’re reading it, you won’t think of anything else.

by Derek Davis

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damienthepious · 4 years

Text

i yeet myself forcibly from tuesday to tuesday like some sorta leapfroggin’ disaster honestly.

Space To Be Kinder

[ao3]

Fandom: The Penumbra Podcast

Relationship: Lord Arum/Sir Damien/Rilla

Characters: Lord Arum, Sir Damien, Rilla

Additional Tags: Second Citadel, Lizard Kissin’ Tuesday, Established Relationship, Fluff, Sleeptalking, Napping, Nightmares, Somft......

Summary: Sir Damien still prattles, even when the knight is unconscious. Unsurprisingly, he still worries, too.

Notes: I realized too late that this is two weeks in a row of unconscious!Damien, but at least THIS one is SOFT. yeehaw. love you. Title from the song Apple Cider by Early Eyes.

“Arum…”

“Yes, honeysuckle?” Arum perks up, pulling his snout out of his book and glancing over at the poet beside him, only to find Damien slumped entirely sideways, curled on the blanket, his own journal of poetic drafts loose by his hand. Arum blinks, tilting his head as Damien shifts slightly with a small, weary sigh. “Honeysuckle?” he murmurs again, more quietly, and Damien shifts at the sound of his voice and murmurs Arum's name again.

Rilla peers over Arum’s shoulder from his other side. “Oh, did he pass out?”

“It appears so.”

“I knew he was more worn out from that trip than he said he was,” she says softly, shaking her head and turning back to her sketching. “So damn stubborn.”

“But-” Arum glances to the knight, watches him shift again, fingers twitching against the blanket as he murmurs an incomprehensible plea with his eyes still closed. “What…”

“Oh,” Rilla whispers, her lip quirking into a fond smile. “I forgot you probably haven’t seen him nap before. He talks in his sleep, sometimes.” She shrugs. “Mostly nonsense, though on occasion it comes in rhyme anyway, which is fun.”

“He-” Arum stares down at the knight as the lines of his face shift with whatever dream is gripping him, as he mutters another low, musical line of nonsense, and Arum feels his heart flop over in his chest. “Ridiculous,” he murmurs. “Even unconscious he cannot help but prattle-”

Damien makes a small pained noise, brow furrowing, hands flexing. “Arum,” he says again, a pleading worried murmur, and then he mumbles something that Arum cannot understand, his tone still low and unhappy, and Arum’s own hands flex in response against the blanket beneath them.

“What…” Arum swallows, the worry twisting Damien's face making his chest feel tight. "What do I… do?"

"You don't really have to do anything," Rilla says, looking at the pages in her hands rather than at either of them. "It's just a dream, and he usually either wakes himself up or starts sleeping more deeply pretty quick."

Damien makes another quiet, unhappy noise, and Arum stares down at the sleeping poet, unconvinced.

After a moment, Amaryllis lifts her head from her sketching, the slight movement catching at the edge of Arum's vision, and she breathes out a very small laugh.

"If you're worried," she says indulgently, "you can play with his hair a little bit. That tends to help him zonk out."

"Worried," Arum scoffs, but his voice is still near a whisper, so obviously feigning a lack of concern won't fool anyone, least of all someone as clever as Amaryllis. She raises an eyebrow, and Arum frowns and looks away until she gives another small laugh and flits her attention back to her notes.

Arum attempts to do the same, lifting his book and trying to focus on the words before him, but Damien inhales sharply, his head tilting away with a low stream of murmurs slipping from him, and Arum cannot focus on the book when he can still see Damien over the pages.

"Arum," the poet whispers, and Arum clenches his teeth. "Please… please…"

He fades to mumbles again, but Arum can hear his heart stuttering, his sleeping breaths growing more ragged, and he cannot help himself. He can hardly bear to see Damien plagued by his own mind when the poet is awake- how could he possibly endure watching when Damien cannot even attempt to fight back against it?

He reaches a hand out, slow, and just barely drifts his knuckles down Damien's cheek, hissing low between his teeth as Damien gasps. Damien murmurs again, wordless this time, and Arum leaves his hand on Damien's cheek, cupping his face gently before he lifts another hand and slips his fingers into Damien's hair.

"Please," the poet murmurs. "No- please don't- don't hurt-"

"Hush, honeysuckle. You're perfectly safe. I have you," Arum says, his claws carding slow through Damien's curls, but the poet's brow stays furrowed as he presses his face into Arum's other palm, and he gives a low whimper. "You are safe," he says again. "You're safe, honeysuckle."

"No," Damien murmurs, his expression twisting. "Can't... can't lose you, I can't…" he mutters off, incoherent once more, vague denials on his tongue, and Arum's heart lurches hard.

Arum leans closer, flicks his tongue, hesitates. "You're safe," he says, more quietly, and Damien whimpers. Arum hesitates again, repeats the motion to draw his hand through Damien's hair, slowly. "I'm safe, honeysuckle," he tries instead. "We are all safe."

Damien inhales, exhales a little less harshly. "But- lily… my lily-"

"We are safe, little love," he repeats, reaching a third hand to touch Damien's shoulder, to stroke up and down his arm. "Safe, and home, and-"

Arum pauses, and Damien shifts again, his lips parting. Arum leans closer, pressing his snout nearly to the skin beside Damien's ear, feeling Damien's heat tickle at his scales, his hands soft in the poet's hair, on his cheek, drifting across his shoulder.

"We are all safe, and home, and loved," he whispers. "Loved so fiercely, honeysuckle."

Damien hums, only almost words, and Arum can hear his heart slowing down already. He smiles, helpless against it, and nuzzles carefully closer.

"Not a force in the world could touch the magic between us, Damien."

Damien sighs, the remaining tension leaking out of his limbs, and when he murmurs again Arum cannot quite pick out his words, but-

Amaryllis was right. The nonsense does, indeed, seem to rhyme.

Arum buries a laugh, leaning back away from the poet now that he is sleeping more gently, and he realizes after half a moment that Amaryllis is watching him.

His frill flutters automatically, but the look on her face is nowhere near the laugh he expects. She is smiling, yes, but the smile is somewhat crooked, somewhat soft.

"Huh," she says.

"What?" he mutters, ducking his head. "You told me to- to play with his hair, I did."

"Yeah," she says, her smile going even wider. "You're… kinda good at that, huh?"

"I am good at most things, Amaryllis," he mutters, looking away, but then she shifts closer, her hand lifting to his chin to tilt his face back towards her.

"You're actually really sweet, you know that?"

Arum scoffs, his frill flaring in earnest now as he tries to look aside again, but he cannot pull away from her without disturbing Damien, and-

He startles when her lips press against his cheek, no hint of teasing in the touch, and when she pulls away her dark eyes are soft and warm. He can't make himself look away, and- he does not try.

"That was a compliment, y'know," she says, still smiling. "It's one of the things I love most about you."

"I- Amaryllis-"

"I just- I love you a lot, okay?"

She leans into his shoulder, settling against him with a sigh, and Damien is still curled beside him as well on the other side. Arum feels pinned between them, utterly breathless, perfectly warm.

He wraps an arm around her shoulder after a moment, pulling her even closer, dropping his head to rest against her own.

"I love you too," he murmurs, closing his eyes. "Rather absurdly much." Amaryllis breathes a slight laugh against his neck, and Arum smiles. "Enough, even, to let you call me sweet."

#elle's fanfic #the penumbra podcast #second citadel #rad bouquet #lizard kissin' tuesday #lord arum #sir damien #amaryllis of exile #im..... sleeb.....

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motleymoose · 4 years

Text

Homecoming Pt.3: Bits & Pieces Ch. 3

Chapter 3

This Isn't A Peace Talk

Fandom: The Mandalorian, Star Wars Characters: The Mandalorian (Din Djarin), Gender Neutral Reader, The Child Words: 2.3k+ Warnings: SO MUCH ANGER AND SQUABBLING

Summary:

I get to use my mech skills, but also I have a fight with the bounty hunter.

Notes:

I don't know why it took so long to get this chapter out, but it's here now!!!

Thanks for reading!

Homecoming Masterlist

***GIF NOT MINE***

The hours bled into one another as we flew ever closer to the Mandalorian’s destination, and I was becoming nightmarishly restless. After checking the patched wiring in the hold’s crawlspace and tinkering with a few spare parts in need of cleaning, I snooped around the hold some more. Most of the hold was empty, except for a couple of crates marked FOOD AND MEDICAL and half-dozen still-frozen bounties in the carbonite lockers. With nothing to do and a whole lotta time to do it in, I prowled about the lower decks in tight figure-eights, much like a wild creature stuck in an observation tank. The boredom was driving me bonkers.

Unable to take the utter lack of stimulation anymore, I grabbed a portable equipment chest in one hand, shouldered the diagnostics kit on the opposite, and made my way precariously up the ladder to the top deck.

It didn’t take long for the bounty hunter to find me, borrowed tools scattered around me and a diagnostics pad in hand, pottering around the engineering room with grease smudged across my forehead.

“I told you to stay put,” the Mandalorian gruffed, nearly tripping over me. I sat cross-legged on the floor, running a simple program to check on the aural sensors. I glanced up at him dubiously. His fingers brushed his blaster in a convulsive if threatening manner.

“You told me to stay out of your way. Engineering isn’t anywhere near in your way, unless you deviate from your way on purpose.” I stopped, trying to sort out what exactly I meant by that. But I batted it away with a hmph. I didn’t have time to figure out my own nonsense. “Besides, can’t a person ogle another person’s band limiter cuffs without the third degree?” Still seated in front of the sensor panel, I craned my neck over my shoulder and up, agitated at the interruption.

The visor tilted upwards, contemplating. Gloved fingertips drummed on the pistol’s grip until he sighed deliberately and relaxed his arm. “Fine,” he said gruffly. “Just - don’t break anything important.”

“I’m a blackthumb. If I break it, I’ll fix it better,” I said, forcefully bright and smiling. The little diagnostics computer dinged. I unplugged it and stood up, stretching the kinks from my spine. Sidestepping the Mandalorian, I slapped his pauldron good-naturedly as I slithered past him and into the bay.

“I do want to take a look at your pressors, though. This ol’ girl ‘bout rattled the teeth out of my head when she came out of hyperspace. May also need to tweak the conversion module to keep up with all that new tech you’ve got back there,” I said, easily falling back into Professional Mechanic Mode. Making my way to the cockpit, I crawled underneath the control deck, holding a pen light between my teeth as I lay on my back and surveyed the wiring system.

A tiny, warm body flopped onto my legs, and I was delighted to see that the child had come to join me. He scrambled up my thighs, across my belly and came to rest on my chest. Big ears wiggling happily, the kid propped his chin in his hands and stared at me intently. I removed the flashlight from my mouth and wedged it between my neck and shoulder, making it easier to talk to him.

I happened to be in the middle of explaining the intricacies of navcomp programming to my rapt pupil when the toe of the hunter’s boot nudged my hip.

“What?” I asked curtly as the long mental list of small improvements faded from my mind. By then my hands were caked in carbon dust, and the child made no move to slide off of me. Resigning to my fate, I signaled for the Mandalorian to continue with whatever it was he had to say; I wasn’t going to be moving out from under the control deck any time soon.

A flutter of cloth on steel, and the bounty hunter was in my space, crouching beside the pilot’s chair, his helmet parallel to the lip of the deck.

“What are you doing to my ship.” His tone was smooth yet menacing.

Rolling my eyes, I shooed the child off of me and clambered out from under the panel. The Mandalorian had retreated to the door while I’d wriggled out. Brushing dirty fingers across the chest of my jumpsuit, I sunk heavily into the co-pilot’s seat, scratching my forehead with my opened multitool. The little one trundled to me from out of the console’s shadows and tugged at my pantleg until I was obliged to pick him up. He held a small silver object tightly in his grubby little hands, and he ferreted it away underneath his tunic as soon as he settled onto my lap.

“Just a few minor adjustments and reroutes. Nothing too fancy or critical. Did you know this ship was stripped by Jawas?” I gestured animatedly with my custom multi-purpose tool. “I wouldn’t have noticed with how amazing the rebuild was, but I could tell by the wiring harness modifications. Distinctly Jawa scavenged mods.” Grinning stupidly, I shook my head in amazement. “Whoever rebuilt the Crest sure knew what they were doing!”

“Yes,” the bounty hunter replied, a little more brusquely than I thought the conversation warranted. He leaned against the cockpit’s door frame, arms crossed and exuding false indifference. He was strangely emotive for how much beskar covered his body.

“No doshing way?” I exclaimed. The prospect of Jawas intrigued me to no end; they were a scavenging people, mainly dealing in mech and droids. Their methods of acquiring said mech and droids could be considered loosely in the vicinity of ethical, if you squinted really hard, but they always did have the best stuff.

The Mandalorian stared out into the inky dark of space, starlight blurring over the silvery dome of his helmet. He cleared his throat, started to say something and then stopped. I waited patiently, the prickly curiosity holding my jittery nerves in place. The kid whined and made grabby hands at my multitool, so I folded it back into itself and gave it to him. It looked absurdly gigantic in his tiny fingers, but he gnawed on it with gusto.

A sigh crackled over the bounty hunter’s vocoder. “An Ugna- my friend. His name was Kuiil. He negotiated to get all the parts back from the Jawas, and then he-he helped me repair the Razor Crest.” The tension he had been holding suddenly dissipated, and his shoulders sagged in something akin to relief. His breastplate rose and fell in a juttering, painful beat, and the strangled sigh of modulated air buzzing from his helmet told me everything I needed to know. Whoever Kuiil had happened to be, I knew that he must have been a very good friend to the Mandalorian, and his loss was still felt across hyperspace.

“I’m sorry,” I whispered.

The bounty hunter huffed. “Nu kyr’adyc, shi taab’echaaj’la.”

“Not gone, merely marching far away,” I murmured in turn.

The Mandalorian stilled. For a beat, neither of us moved. The silence widened the already substantial gap between us, sweeping away what little bit of common ground we had found purchase on. Having that tiny foothold crumble beneath me in a matter of seconds set me on edge. I didn’t like him any more than he liked me; our mutual dislike for one another had turned into something more, something almost companion-like. But since I had to go and open my big dumb mouth, we were back to Square One.

The kid let out a loud, wet snerkt!, pulling us both out of our respective thoughts.

Arms uncrossing and leather gloves tightening into fists at his sides, the bounty hunter took the two steps from the doorway to the co-pilot’s chair. Without a sound, he took the slumbering child from my arms and stomped off to his quarters.

“I -” A tiny kernel of guilt blared in warning. “Wait, I didn’t mean to- ah, blast it,” I muttered, crossing my arms over my chest. I hadn’t meant any disrespect to his friend, or his Creed. I only knew enough Mando’a to get me into trouble, and I hoped I hadn’t overstepped any boundaries by saying the tribute in Basic. Fiddling with my multitool for a long moment, I tried to come up with some sort of apology that would convey my cultural misstep.

Wracking my brain for Mando’a phrases to express my regrets at my choice of words, I didn’t hear him return to the cockpit.

Huffing once more, the bounty hunter startled me from my guilt trip. I averted my eyes, swallowed my pride and braced myself to deliver an apology. “Look, bud. I’m not good with-”

“Where did you get this?” he asked, cutting me off from my apology.

“What are you -”

“Where did you get this necklace??” he repeated, hissing through his teeth.

Silver flashed into my field of vision. I blinked a few times, my eyes refusing to believe what the bounty hunter dangled in front of my face. “Wha-” My voice cracked dangerously. I couldn’t believe it. It was my pendant. My eyes followed the Mythosaur skull as it swung back and forth, mouth gaping in astonishment. A small spark of Hope rekindled somewhere deep down inside my chest, clearing a slim but bright path through the anger and the guilt that had been dogging me for the past several days.

“My - my..” I said weakly, tears pricking at my eyes. “Where did -”

The hunter lunged suddenly, slamming both fists down on the armrests on either side of me. I yelped in surprise, shrinking back in the co-pilot’s chair. Pinned in, I could do nothing more than stare at him, confused.

“This shouldn’t exist. It shouldn’t be yours.”

The small, flickering flame of Hope guttered out, and once more I was cold and empty and full of rage.

“What gives you the right?” I spat. I leaned as far forward as the hunter’s presence would allow, my nose almost pressed against the beskar helmet. “You don’t know me. You don’t know where I came from, or what I’ve done to get here. All I am to you is a bounty that went wrong. It’s not up to you to decide what I can or can’t have.” Chest heaving and fists clenched together in my lap, I stared down the Mandalorian. I was too confused to be scared of what he could do to me, too pissed off to care about his reasons.

That pendant was mine. And I wanted it back.

The Mandalorian’s blank, glassy facade didn’t move. No words, no sounds escaped his modulator. Hot waves of anger rolled off of him, anger that I didn’t understand, didn’t want to understand. The co-pilot’s seat trembled underneath me, but I wasn’t sure if the movement was his or my own.

“Give it back,” I growled, finally breaking the silence. “It’s mine.”

“No.” The rumbling baritone was tense, straining against his control. His whole body held unspeakable amounts of emotion, and he was unwilling, or unable, to let it go.

“Bastard.” I swung up from my hips, clipping the lip of his helmet smartly with my clasped fists.

He stumbled back, dropping the necklace as both hands came up to straighten his helmet. Seeing an opening, I rushed the bounty hunter, driving my left shoulder into his side and pushing him into the opposite wall. With a roar, he ducked out of my grasp, using his momentum to kick out at my knees. I dodged sideways, his boot only grazing my shins. Now off-balanced, I staggered back and tripped over my own feet. I took a nosedive, landing heavily on the pilot’s seat. The air was knocked from my lungs, and for a moment too long I was dazed. At that opportunity, the Mandalorian grabbed the back of my collar and hauled me out of the chair.

“Hrrkt!” I choked, scrabbling to loosen the stranglehold my jumpsuit currently had on my neck.

“Last time. Where. Did. You. Get. This.” With each word, the hunter shook me like a ragdoll. The calm he exuded was frightening in comparison to the violence he was promising.

“Uunrkt,” I replied.

The Mandalorian released the back of my jumpsuit, and I crumpled, catching myself on the pilot’s seat. Pressing my forehead into the roughly-woven seat cushion, I panted laboriously. Tears were streaming down my face. I sniffled loudly and wiped my nose on my sleeve before I spoke.

“That is mine. It was given to me by my caretaker.” The anger I had been feeling melted into sadness. I was tired of fighting the emotion, so I embraced it, allowing myself to finally feel. “It’s the only thing I have left.” I broke off with a sob, burying my face in my hands.

“What was his name.”

I went rigid. Names held power, even I knew that growing up where I did. But he was dead, so surely the issue was moot? At least, I hoped he was dead. The alternatives to why he never returned hurt my heart too much to bear.

“You wouldn’t’ve known him,” I said thickly.

“Try me,” the hunter said gruffly.

I couldn’t get around it now. Even if he wasn’t dead, sharing his name with one of his brethren probably wasn’t the worst thing I could do.

But, then again, if he wasn’t dead, that meant I didn’t owe him anything for leaving me behind.

“Reyn. His name was Drys Reyn.”

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bowtomypointlesswords · 5 years

Text

Have you ever had an exact... image for your story? Because I have a distinctive aesthetic for one of mine...

The Magnolia Plot. I haven't spoken on it much, really only put up a couple of character mood boards, but... I've been thinking on it lately.

It's a story with several things: An Oceans 11 style/film noir plot, a dieselpunk world, a PI main character, and a very specific mix of aesthetics.

First: Wes Andersen. If you don't know who he is, Wes Andersen is a movie director. He directed such movies as: Isle of Dogs, Fantastic Mr. Fox, Moonrise Kingdom, and The Grand Budapest Hotel to name a few. His style is bright, bold use of color that speaks to each scene, each character and their emotions at any given time. His use of color is... brilliant.

Second: In a similar vein, Pushing Up Daisies. This was a fantastic, cancelled utterly too soon show about a man who could bring people back from the dead but only for a minute. He was a pie maker and helped a private eye and accidentally brought his childhood crush back to life after she died. It's a great big beautiful show about love and loss and was absolutely morbidly funny and it had the same aesthetic beauty of Wes Andersen films. Seriously just look up any screenshot from it and you'll be blow away by just how gorgeous it was. On top of that the story had this fantastic naration to it that reminded me of #3

3: The Series of Unfortunate Events. Both the old movie and the Netflix adaptation had the same gorgeous visuals and aesthetic to them. Like the above they played with color. Morbid humor was also a selling point, but the big part of why The Series of Unfortunate Events was and is so popular was the narration of Lemony Snicket. In the same vein of Douglass Adams the story had a wit and clever use of words, pacing, and liberal use of messing with perceptions. An internal logic of chaos that somehow, in the context of the stories, was perfectly acceptable.

4: Holes. Holes. Oh my god the book and the movie were just amazing. Are you recognizing the trend in theme and aesthetic here? A mix of humor to tackle difficult subjects, the whole Kisssin Kate subplot... Just. I can't sing praised for Holes enough. It was a clever, well written book and the best damn book to movie adaptation I've seen. Holes too had some of the same aesthetic choices in it. Despite taking place in the desert, with the kids all wearing orange jumpsuits, there's still a distinct aesthetic choice made in the movie... similar to the above actually. All color is made to stand out. Kissin Kate's lipstick comes to mind. Madame Zironi's purple tones. It's hard to truly explain how the color works so specifically... muted in some places but bright so specific colors stand out even more. It's an aesthetic I adore greatly in case this list hasn't been enough proof of that.

5: Studio Ghibli. Just. Studio Ghibli man. The color, the softness of everything, the gentle sway of blades of grass... just that whole aesthetic is kinda part of the above too, just less pastel and soft... Studio Ghibli movies are soft, beautiful masterworks, who somehow feel like home and adventure all at the same time.

6: Fallout. Fallout has a very nicr 50s aesthetic mixed again with morbid humor and a sense of impending doom. I love the aesthetics of the 50s, the flow of the designs, again the color. The idea of 50s futurism. Of course Fallout is completely post apocalyptic, and The Magnolia Plot is only kinda post apocalyptic, but the aesthetics still fit. Especially with the Film Noir story telling I'm aiming for.

I have no idea how to achieve this for The Magnolia Plot... It's so absurdly specific and yet hard to pin down exactly. I don't even really have a full plot I just have the Aesthetic of it. How the story feels, how I want it to feel... bright, bold, colorful, but holding that morbidity, the dark humor and the strange narrator... I don't know it I just know the story knows it's aesthetic fully. From the moment the MC stepped into my brain she was fully formed and knew exactly who she was, what her look was. I don't know her story, hell I still don't really, but it just struck me how utterly specific it's been in narrowing down the whole image.

I know how the story feels, but the plot... eh, that'll come later. Right now, I'm busy studying the masters of the style I'm hoping to follow.

#wip: the magnolia plot #I only get the Aesthetics TM #plot? what's that?#some please let me ramble to them for the next four forevers about Wes Andersen's style.#I love it so much. so pretty. so much color.#it's 2 am why am I awake rambling about this?

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riseandshinelittleblossom · 5 years

Text

Meet the Beaumonts: When Maxwell Married Stephanie

This is yet another installment of the Cordonians Gone Wild AU created by @ao719 @cocomaxley @leelee10898 and @speedyoperarascalparty . Thanks for letting me join in on the fun, chickas!

Disclaimer: I don’t own the TRR characters, they own me.

Tag list: @fullbeaumonty @annekebbphotography @carabeth @stopforamoment @zaffrenotes @editboutique @moneyfordiamonds @give-me-ernest-sinclaire @3pawandme @ooo-barff-ooo @tornbetween2loves @choiceslife@ownworldresident @perfectprofessorherokid @wannabemc2 @enmchoices

Stephanie smoothed the rainbow-colored tulle of her mid-thigh length skirt, checking her reflection in the mirror. She adjusted the deep blue, sequined bust of the dress before reaching for her lipstick.

“You look fantastic, Rosebud.” Maxwell said utterly enthralled with the woman before him.

She peeked up into his eyes in his reflection in the mirror.

“Wedding colors and House Beaumont colors. You outdid yourself with this dress, Hun.”

Her fiance rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly. “Well it helps that you could make a potato sack look sexy.”

She spun to face him, stepping on tiptoes to wrap her arms around his neck. His hands gripped her waist and he placed a chaste kiss to her mouth. He felt a smile bloom against his lips as a snicker fell from the love of his life.

“You look pretty spectacular yourself, Baby.”

Stephanie adjusted his tie and brushed off his shoulders. “I don't know why you bother with a jacket, though. They never last the whole event because you hate them.”

“Yeah, well. I have to try hard to look good enough to be on your arm, Red. Shall we?” Maxwell extended his arm and she took it, draping her hand in the bend of his elbow.

They entered the ballroom of the Ramsford estate, greeting guests as they headed towards the dais, grabbing champagne flutes along the way.

Bertrand and Savannah stood arm in arm on the raised platform, their own toasting glasses in hand. The Duke of Ramsford cleared his throat as his wife handed him a microphone.

“We'd like to thank you all for joining us for my little brother's rehearsal dinner. Savannah and I are overjoyed to be welcoming the lady Stephanie Scott into our family tomorrow. Please enjoy yourselves and do make sure to offer proper salutations to the bride and groom.”

A few hours later Stephanie found herself with Gen and Alicia near the dessert table.

“You called it with the jacket, Stef. I guess it must be hard to move like that in one.” Alicia laughed, gesturing towards Maxwell as he grooved out on the dance floor.

Stephanie glanced in the direction her friend had pointed to find her fiance, devoid of blazer with his shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows. “Yep that's my Maxie.”

She beamed as she noticed Countess Madeline and Lady Kiara at a table nearby.

Knowing that the two bitter women were almost always trying to plot against Alicia and Pam, she edged a little closer to them, straining her ears against the absurdly loud music to eavesdrop.

“It's really very sad if you ask me, the nose dive this once prestigious house took when Duke Barthelemy and Duchess Renee died.” Madeline sneered.

“Oui. House Beaumont was once one of the most revered houses in Cordonia and now they've only sullied their name by Bertrand marrying a commoner.” Kiara agreed.

“And now the spare is following suit. And even worse, she's an American commoner. Maxwell's parents are likely rolling in their graves over his choice of a wife. Rest their souls.”

Stephanie gulped, her face going pale.

“Stef, are you okay?” Gen asked placing a hand on her friend's forearm.

“I…. I feel dizzy. Excuse me.” She replied as her world started spinning. She sat her champagne flute down and headed towards the nearest door.

She staggered into the the hallway collapsing into the wall. She pressed her back firmly against it, sliding into a sitting position, gently hugging her knees.

Stephanie's nostrils flared as her chest heaved, her breathing coming in short spurts through her nose.

Pam and Drake appeared in the hallway. He was adjusting his tie as Pam pawed at her hair, trying to smooth it back into place.

“Stephanie, oh my God!” The brunette woman rushed over placing her hands on her friend's shoulders.

Stephanie blinked furiously, trying to focus on Pam.

“Drake, go get Maxwell. She's having a panic attack.” She instructed. Drake raced into the ballroom.

“That's it, honey. Breathe. Max is coming.”

A few moments later Maxwell came flying out of the ballroom with Alicia and Anitah on his heels.

“Rosebud! What happened?!” He shouted kneeling to take Pam's place in front of his fiance. He gingerly cradled her face in his sizeable hands, his eyes darting back and forth between hers.

Just the sight of him calmed her by measures, but her breathing was still erratic. “M...Madeline…” she squeaked out.

“Sssshhhh. Don't try to talk, Sweetheart. Just focus on me.” Maxwell told her calmly.

Alicia began removing her dangle diamond earrings, promptly handing them to Anitah.

“Brooklyn?” The queen asked and Alicia nodded before stalking into the ballroom, her skirt swept up in her arm.

Stomping up to Madeline, she cocked her fist delivering a swift right hook to the Countess’ nose.

Madeline fell from her chair and Alicia stepped over the crumpled woman. “Listen now and listen good. I've had enough of your shit. You stay away from Stephanie. Do you hear me?” She pointed at the blonde on the floor who nodded swiftly.

“That goes for you too, bitch.” She huffed at Kiara.

Back in the hallway, Stephanie's breathing was almost back to normal and Maxwell helped her up, pulling her protectively into his arm. “I'm going to take her to bed. Anitah will you let B know what happened?”

“Of course.” Anitah replied.

The couple slowed as they approached Stephanie's estate room. She looked up at Maxwell with puffy eyes and tear-stricken cheeks.

“Are you okay, Rosebud?” He asked, his thumb gently caressing her face.

“I am now. I'm so sorry, Hun. I don't know what came over me. I just got so overwhelmed…”

Max placed a finger over her lips. “It's fine, Red. As long as you're okay now that's all I care about.”

Stephanie looked deep into his eyes searching for any hint of disappointment. Finding none, she wrapped her arms around his waist. She pulled him tight against her, breathing in his familiar scent. Maxwell always smelled like chocolates and coffee, and she sighed delightfully into his chest.

When they finally parted, Maxwell leaned in slowly. Just before his lips met hers she turned away, his kiss landing on her cheek. He didn't move at first except to lean away a little, his mouth still puckered a moment before it fell into a frown.

“Did I...did I do something wrong?” He asked, brows furrowing.

“No.” Stephanie began her gaze still averted. “It's bad luck before the wedding.”

“Well I've never heard that a kiss was bad luck. Just the spending the night together. Is that an American thing?”

She winced at his words, hoping he didn't notice. American thing.

She looked back up at him. The concern on his face was breaking her heart, so she smiled warmly.

“I'm just tired is all. I'm worn slap out.” She forced a chuckle, but he grinned in response and that was what she wanted to see.

“I love your southern-isms, Rosebud. Well I guess I'll let you get to bed then.” He planted a kiss to the crown of her head and slowly turned her door knob.

“Good night, Maxie.”

“Oh it's going to be the best night because tomorrow I'm going to marry the girl of my dreams...but like in real life.” He winked as she chuckled stepping inside.

“I love you, Maxwell Beaumont.”

“I love you too, Stephanie Scott. I already can't wait to see you tomorrow.”

The next morning the squad and Savannah all gathered in the bridal ready room positioned just off of the boutique. Stephanie's gown stood, all by itself, in the corner. She stepped over to it, admiring the craftsmanship of Ana de Luca.

It was a strapless dress with a white, corset-style bodice. Stephanie ran her fingers over the rainbow colored jeweled detail just below the breast. As her hands continued to dance further down the dress to the multi colored layers of tulle creating the skirt, she drew in a deep breath and tugged her floral print robe closer to her body.

Every piece of her was ready to meet Maxwell at the altar and become his wife. Every piece but one.

A nagging, irksome feeling in the pit of her stomach kept replaying the Countess’ words over and over again.

“...even worse she's an American commoner.”

“Well we're all dressed.” Alicia began, drawing Stephanie from her trance. She turned to face her bridesmaids, each wearing a different color of the rainbow.

Alicia was in royal blue, Savannah in a vibrant yellow, Genevieve wore hot pink, Pam a deep plum, and Anitah in a Kelly green. Each was a vision in her respective dress; Stephanie's childhood vision of her special day.

“Now let's get you in that thing. It's going to take all of us.” Pam mused pointing at the wedding gown.

The bride stood before the floor length mirror, her ginger hair pinned half up, the rest flowing down her shoulders in loose, beachy waves.

“So you have your something old.” Savannah stated, draping their grandmother's antique pearls around Stephanie's neck and clasping them.

“ Your something new. From Rashad's dad.” Gen held up a pair of freshwater pearl earrings.

“They're lovely, Gen. Please thank Demetrius for me.”

“And something blue…” Alicia finished, wrapping a blue handkerchief embroidered with House Beaumont's crest around the handle of the bridal bouquet. “Now we just need to find you something borrowed.”

“ I think I can help with that, actually.” Anitah said. She reached into her bag and pulled out a box, opening it to reveal a simple silver tone tiara adorned with Crystal and pearls.

“It's from my royal collection. It'll match your heirloom pearls nicely and I think every woman should feel like a queen on her wedding day.”

The monarch smirked as Stephanie's eyes went wide. She stepped up, adding the tiara to the crown of Stephanie's head, careful not to jostle her hair.

“Oh Anitah!” The bride began whirling to peer into the mirror once more. “It's beautiful. How can I ever thank you?”

“Just knock em dead out there. Seeing you look your best as you marry one of my best friends will be thanks enough for me.” The queen shrugged.

Stephanie studied herself in the mirror. The woman staring back at her , wrapped in all the trappings of a noble wedding, looked nothing at all like herself. Suddenly she felt dizzy again. She couldn't shake the feeling that this was a mistake.

Not because she didn't love Maxwell. She did. More than anything; But seeing herself so dressed up only drove home the point that she didn't belong here on his arm.

And the others are court, people that were important in Maxwell's country, they were taking notice.

How could she ruin his House like this? Certainly she couldn't change the fact that his brother had married her cousin. The ladies at court would probably always gossip about Savannah, but at least she was a Cordonian.

… Maxwell's parents are likely rolling in their graves over his choice of a wife….

“I... I need to talk to Maxwell. Now. Right now!” Stephanie declared stepping away from the mirror. Her bridesmaids shared a concerned look.

“Stef, it's almost time to start. Drake will be here any second to walk you down the aisle. Max is probably already at the altar-” Pam tried to reason.

“I don't care what time the invitation says! Max and I are the ones getting married! What are they gonna do? Start without us?” Stephanie snapped.

Alicia's eyes went wide as she mouthed “okay…” turning to face Pam.

“I'm sorry you guys, I'm not trying to yell, I just...I really have to talk to him. Now. It can't wait.” Stephanie pulled her bottom lip between her teeth.

Gen nodded. “Okay, but you can't see him before the wedding it's bad luck. So stand right here and me and Nitah will go and get him.”

The ladies ushered Stephanie to the wall just next to the door jamb. She leaned against it, her head falling back to rest upon it as well as she sighed loudly.

A few moments later they returned.

“He's right outside.”Gen told her, a small giggle escaping her lips. “Funny. He's standing just like that.”

Stephanie's eyes met Genevieve's, silently thanking her for honoring her crazy request.

“Okay, we'll give you guys some privacy.” Pam stated ushering everyone out. She paused in the doorway and said, “we'll be waiting in the vestibule. And no peeking you two.”

Once everyone was gone, Stephanie asked, “Maxwell?”

“I'm here. Is everything okay, Rosebud?”

She could hear the subtle anxiety in his voice and she closed her eyes as her heart sank. She slid down the wall, the fabric of her wedding gown catching slightly as she did.

There was a faint scraping against the other side of the wall indicating that her soon-to-be husband had done the same. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Maxwell's familiar, large hand reach around the corner, palm pointed skyward.

She smiled to herself, lacing her fingers in his. Her hand suddenly looked so naked since she had removed her Sapphire and diamond engagement ring for the ceremony.

“I've just been thinking...we met seven months ago. Seven months. There are still so many things...and today we're getting married.”

She looked down at the multicolored tulle skirt of her gown, rolling the fabric between her unoccupied hand.

“Somehow you don't sound so sure about that, Red. Are we...are we getting married today?” Maxwell's voice was calm now, even and understanding.

“I love you so much, Max. I can't imagine my life without you, But this is a huge step. I guess I just wanted to..ya know? Give you an out. If you want one. It's just us here, so we can do this quietly-”

“Stephanie, why would I want an out? You're my soulmate.” He interrupted gently squeezing her hand.

“Look… I don't fit in here, Maxwell. I'm not made for all of the pomp and circumstance. The fancy parties and the opulence. I mean one of your best friends is literally a queen. I grew up on a farm in Texas. You're nobility. I can't compete and I can't keep up. And most of all, I know I'm not good enough. I just don’t wanna make you look bad.” Stephanie mused, her voice cracking.

From his place in the hallway Maxwell shook his head, wiping his hand down his face before nervously wetting his lips.

“What brought this on? Have you been just stewing in this? Stef...I love you and you love me, the real me. That's all there is to it. I don't care about all of the other stuff.”

“I overheard some ladies at our rehearsal dinner talking about how first Bertrand married below his station and now you were doing the same thing and how your parents would be so disappointed. I don't know.”

Maxwell pulled her hand further into the doorway. She could just make out the ends of his messy chocolate hair and the tip of his slightly upturned nose as he brought the back of her hand to his lips. He lingered there for a long moment, his breath warm against her fingers.

Finally he said, “ If you don't want to do this, I can't make you. It'll kill me to let you go, Stephanie; but I will gladly do that if that's what you want. I'd do anything for you, even break my own heart. I just want you to be deliriously happy, Rosebud. No matter what it takes. So I'll tell ya what I'm going to do. I'm going to head out there, to the altar, and I'm going to marry you, if you'll still have me. I don't care what anyone else thinks. I just want to be your husband, because I love you and I know that this type of love only happens once in a lifetime.”

Maxwell pressed his lips to her hand once more before standing. He brushed off his slacks before adding, “ I really hope you'll meet me out there. I can't wait to see you in that gorgeous gown, baby.”

Stephanie closed her eyes and took a deep breath. She was still silently begging her tears not to fall when Drake appeared in the doorway.

“There you are. Let's go get you married, Beaumont.” He grinned.

#cordonians gone wild AU #cgw au #trr fanfic #maxwell x stephanie #maxwell beaumont #drake walker #riseandshinelittleblossomfic

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twitchesandstitches · 5 years

Note

Is Circus Baby a part of Task Force X? If so how does she feel about the others? And has Ranamon ever tried being inside her body, with the whole "can inhabit/possess robots" that digimons can do in the crossthicc AU?

She was suggested for the Task Force in an earlier post and i say.... yeah, she’s suitable for there! she is canonically a member of Task Force X, but in what role is unclear. she might do whatever job she is suited for, which is generally the case. For example, Harley Quinn is mainly a psychologist and therapist for them as part of their redemption and coming to terms with their actions, but her immense size and power also makes her a valuable field agent, one of their best. Circus Baby is likely good at both just hitting things (because strong Thicc robot), assigned to missions where they match capture someone due to her body’s ability to open up and contain targets, but her keen strategic mind also makes her good at planning and setting up traps.

kind of leaning towards the idea that she prefers being a trapmaster and strategist and is a bit miffed when she is tasked to just hit things or engulf them. she has OTHER talents besides that, Miss Waller

In general, she’s fairly well-disposed towards the others but she is distant, generally lurking away from them in weird spooky chambers and sewer analogues, doing her own thing. Because of the sheer numbers at play its hard to come up with SPECIFIC character interactions beacuse of h ow many i’d have to pin down.

ask me for specific character/character interactions, if you think of any and want me to elaborate on how they might be in this AU. this goes for ANY character and dynamic, whether in the same faction or not

In general, she likes Harley because clown themes + she is good at her job, dislikes Ivy because... well, Ivy is NOT an easy person to like, and is a bit terrified of Reaper/Gabriel Reyes. Reyes is an incarnation of Ghost Rider in this AU and she can FEEL the eyes of the angel within him seeing her sins, the blood on her hands... and the flames of his insatiable need to punisah those that deserve to suffer.

it does not make her comfortable around him at all.

She is even more anxious around Shockwave because... well, he is a good bot, but he wasn’t always like that, and those more familiar with his gentle grandpa robot demeanor don’t know the horrors he commited before his redemption. she however DOES and is afraid of him, though in an awkward ‘oh god please dont let him notice me’ sort of way

Ranamon can certainly do that! It’s likely how Ranamon most often travels with the group; her new ability to manifest in the physical world generally only applies within the unique space of their homebase dimension. In this state, Ranamon is a passive passenger, acting as a friendly voice in her head and obnoxious commentor, but Circus Baby does gain access to some of her abilities in this state.

(Digimon can upload themselves to networks and robots in general, but its not particularly fast for most, nor can they just brute force and take control normally. Some CAN, but from the Digimon’s perspective, its like fighting through a horde of enemies; you have to be REALLY tough to just smash through them all. And doing this to a self-aware robot is both horrifyingly evil and so absurdly hard that there’s no real point in it!

any number of Digimon can upload into a robot, network, server or any digital information processing system, and give it a big boost with their processing power adding to it. this includes cyberware mounted into cybernetic mods, or personal gear that has the same effect.)

#queued #anon replies #replies #side note: circus baby here is also much cuter than in canon #but also pretty damn huge #she can store multiple people in her body or parts of her body #possibly bigger on the inside #this also is not dangerous so she's not an iron maiden or something #crossthicc AU #/#//#////#circus baby #fnaf #ranamon #digimon #Anonymous

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regenderate-fic · 2 years

Text

And Still I Will Live Here: Chapter 5

Fandom: Doctor Who Rating: Teen Ship: Tenth Doctor/Rose Tyler, Metacrisis Tenth Doctor/Rose Tyler Characters: Tenth Doctor, Rose Tyler, Jackie Tyler, Pete Tyler, Tony Tyler Series: And We’re Not Out of the Tunnel Word Count (Chapter): 2,484 Other Tags: Pete’s World, Pete’s World Torchwood, Angst, Chronic Illness, Disability, Disabled Character Read on AO3 / Read in order

Summary: Rose has been tired for a couple years now. She thinks it’s from working so hard on the dimension cannon without a break, but then she gets a break and she doesn’t quite recover. Finally, she starts going to doctors, but they’re no help. At least John (the metacrisis Doctor) is with her every step of the way.

(Fic is COMPLETE with chapters posting Tuesdays and Fridays!)

NOTES: posting early again because i am very very tired. just like rose! also my knees hurt. just like rose.

the phrase "my second heart" in this fic is based on a concept from @giovanni-bottesini's teegarden gallifreyan, which is an absurdly comprehensive conlang of gallifreyan. also i stole the idea of tentoo using it for rose from @mouserat-vevo. thank you to discord friends for enabling me every day <3 and thank you to the wldw server for allowing for idea communism

next chapter is the last one!

The wedding is a month out, then two weeks, then a day. It’s going to be a relatively small affair, an August wedding in the Tylers’ backyard, but that doesn’t mean Jackie hasn’t gone all out with the decorations and the catering and everything else. They’re going to put the altar in front of a fountain, using an existing footpath as an aisle. Tony is going to be the ring bearer, a task he’s taking extremely seriously, and Pete’s agreed to give Rose away. She’s decided to walk: she can manage a short distance, and she trusts her dad and John to support her if she needs it. And they’re not inviting anyone who won’t understand if she needs to sit down mid-ceremony.

On the day of the wedding, she wakes up with John in the Tyler mansion— they’re not doing the thing where they don’t see each other on the wedding day. Maybe, in yet another universe, where the two of them are guaranteed a lifetime together, they could waste the hours before their wedding: but in this universe, all they are guaranteed is today. So they wake up together and get ready in the same room, John looking dashing in his tuxedo. Jackie’s hired someone to do Rose’s hair and makeup, her veil pinned to a complicated nest of braids and curls, her eyes dusted with gold. And as promised, Jackie decorates the chair, winding white tulle and leafy garlands around the handles and arms, weaving ribbon through the wheels’ spokes. When Rose looks in the mirror, extending delicately gloved hands to touch the wheels, she sees herself as the beautiful bride she never quite thought she’d be, and for a moment, happiness bubbles up in her chest.

And then it’s time for the ceremony. Rose, hidden away in a little tent at the back of the yard, stays in her chair until the very last second: the only way she’ll be able to stand later is if she conserves her energy now. Her dad’s back there with her, and Tony, holding two rings tied with ribbon to a pillow, standing straight up in his tiny little suit. He’s determined to do the ring bearer position justice, and Rose is nothing but grateful.

They don’t have a wedding party— they thought about it, but decided that the simpler the ceremony was, the easier it would be on Rose. So when the music starts, Tony walks out first, the pillow held out in front of him, and Pete helps Rose to her feet. She’s lucky: today’s a good day. The kind of day where she can stay on her feet for longer than a few minutes. The kind of day where she can take her father’s arm and follow her little brother out onto the path.

She squints, her eyes adjusting to the afternoon light. Friends and family are seated in folding chairs on either side of the cobblestone footpath, cousins and friends and coworkers all together. She can see her mum up at the front, twisted around in her chair with baby Gabriel in her arms, and straight out in front of her, at the end of the line, is John, his eyes locked to hers. And it’s like everything around them has frozen, and the only things in the world are John, standing at the altar in his tuxedo, and Rose, taking step after step to get to him.

Her breath catches as she thinks about the married life she and John could’ve had, in another timeline— they could’ve kept working together, lived in a nice little house, even had kids, maybe. The tears start to fall. She spares a passing thought to her makeup, glad the artist thought to use waterproof mascara.

Pete lets go of her as they approach the altar, and Rose takes the last few steps on her own, reaching out for John. He keeps his hands on her upper arms, not supporting her weight so much as reassuring her that he won’t let her fall. When she looks up at him, she sees that he’s crying too, tears tracking down his face. It’s as much a funeral as a wedding.

Their officiant starts his script, welcoming everyone to the ceremony, introducing John and Rose. Rose is barely listening. The only thing in her life, at this moment, is John, standing in front of her with his beautifully open face and his perfectly tailored tux.

They’ve written their own vows. John’s are first.

“Rose Tyler,” he says, his eyes never leaving hers. Everything is in his voice: every emotion, every bit of himself. “My second heart. I love you, and I will always love you. No matter how far apart we are, in this universe or any other. It is my honor and my privilege to give myself to you, every single day. I will be proud to be your husband.” He’s really crying now, and so is Rose. She doesn’t know why she decided to stand for this— the crying is making her dizzy.

It’s her turn.

“John,” she says, groping for the words she wrote down weeks ago and committed to memory. “I can’t imagine myself spending my life with anyone but you. I love that I get to wake up next to you. I love that I get to work with you. I love that everything I go through, I get to go through with you. I love you, John.” She manages to smile through her tears as she parrots his own words back to him. “In this universe, or any other. I am so, so happy to call myself your wife.”

Both of them, now, are sobbing uncontrollably. Rose is holding on to John’s forearms for dear life, and he’s supporting her, and their officiant is looking a little uncomfortable.

“Erm.” He adjusts his glasses. “Do you, John Noble, take this woman, Rose Marion Tyler, to be your lawfully wedded wife, to have and to hold, to keep and to love, for as long as you both shall live?”

“I do.”

Rose’s grip on John’s arms tightens.

“Do you, Rose Marion Tyler, take this man, John Noble, to be your lawfully wedded husband, to have and to hold, to keep and to love, for as long as you both shall live?”

Rose looks at John. Love fills her chest and her stomach, radiating out, mixing with the sadness that has consumed her ever since they realized what they had to do. All she is, it seems, is wrapped up in these emotions. “I do.”

“It is now time for the exchange of rings.” The officiant keeps talking, and once again Rose isn’t listening. Tony’s come up to them now, proudly holding the pillow above his head, and Rose can’t help but smile down at him, even through all the tears. At the officiant’s signal, John bends down to untie Rose’s ring, a thin silver band, and slips it onto her finger, where it perfectly complements the one he gave her upon their engagement. And then Rose unties John’s— his is a thicker band, with an indent running all the way around the middle. The rings fit together: the indent in John’s is just the size of Rose’s band. Rose slides it onto John’s finger, and something seems to slide into place within her. This is how it’s supposed to be: her and John, bound together forever.

“By the power vested in me,” the officiant says, “I now pronounce you husband and wife.” And then, after a too-long pause, “You may kiss the bride.”

The second their lips touch, Rose is overwhelmed. She clings to John, trying to hold every single piece of this perfect moment in her mind: she’ll need the memory down the line. This is all she’s wanted for years now— and it won’t last. She won’t be able to stay. But it’s still worth every second.

The officiant presents them to the crowd as Mr. and Mrs. Tyler-Noble— they’ve decided to hyphenate, so each of them will always have a piece of the other. And then they walk back down the aisle, John’s arm around Rose’s waist. It takes too long, Rose becoming dizzier with every step, but she makes it back to the tent and her chair without falling or fainting. She closes her eyes for a second, trying to readjust, and when she opens them, John is kneeling next to her.

“How are you doing?” he asks quietly.

Rose hesitates, trying to evaluate. She’s still a bit dizzy, and her legs hurt from standing for so long, and of course she’s more tired than she’d like to be, but— “I’m all right,” she says. She looks at John, her husband, and leans in to kiss him. “I’m glad we did this.”

“Me, too.” John gives her a small smile. “Ready to go back out there?”

Rose nods. He pushes her back onto the footpath, and they make their way over to the tent that’s been set up on a wide expanse of grass. Jackie had the foresight to put in a false wood floor so Rose can use her chair: John only has to get her across a few yards of grass before her wheels are rolling on the smooth material.

The guests cheer for them as they make their way to the head table, and once they’re there, Jackie and Pete and Tony descend upon them with hugs and congratulations. Jackie’s given Gabe to the babysitter to put to bed, but Tony’s been determined old enough for the party. He climbs right onto Rose’s lap, ignoring any and all protests, and Rose laughs, adjusting him so he’s sitting securely on her thigh. There’s a space left chairless for her at the table, and John wheels her right up, taking his seat next to her. He takes her hand, and she squeezes. She doesn’t dare let go.

Jackie, as the mastermind behind the whole affair, welcomes the guests to the reception. She’s remarkably composed, but Rose can see tears in her eyes. She ends on a toast— “To my beautiful daughter, and her wonderful husband. May their love last.” Rose lifts her glass, clinking it with John’s and Pete’s and Jackie’s. Tony, feeling left out, squirms over the side of Rose’s chair and runs around the table to get to his seat and join in the fun, and Rose reaches her glass to his, too.

And then the caterers start bringing out the food. They’re only doing two courses and dessert, again with Rose’s stamina in mind— the more food there is, the harder it will be for her to eat. It turns out not to really matter, though. Between the conversations with her family, the people coming up to congratulate her, and her hand still resolutely clasped in John’s, she barely gets a chance to try the food. Somewhere in the middle, she manages to forget all the sadness, everything that’s coming next, and she finds herself grinning ear to ear, losing herself in the joy of being married to John.

The meal rushes by. It’s too quick, really. One minute, Rose is dipping her spoon into a full bowl of soup, and the next, she’s finished with her plate of chicken. And suddenly the DJ is walking over, asking Rose and John if they’re ready for the first dance.

This is the only other part of the night Rose has decided to stand for. It’s only a few minutes, and a slow dance means John can support her. Her body will hurt tomorrow, but today, this is what she wants. So as the music starts, she lets John pull her to her feet, reaching up to wrap her arms around his neck. He holds her by the waist, and they step out onto the dance floor, moving in time to the slow strains of violins.

The song is only three minutes long, but it seems to last forever, Rose’s head nestled against John’s chest, his arms solid around her waist. They step in circles around the dance floor, and Rose is vaguely aware of all the people watching them, but every cell in her body is dedicated to knowing how wonderful it is to be in John’s arms, dancing at their wedding, relishing their love. She can feel his single heartbeat against her ear, and she closes her eyes, allowing herself to be totally enveloped.

The music fades away, replaced with something faster, and the DJ invites everyone to come onto the floor. Rose and John stay for a few more moments, still lost in each other, but as the floor gets crowded, Rose’s legs start to shake, and she pulls away slightly. John understands immediately, and he holds her up, his arm around her waist, as they move back to the table.

The evening progresses as planned: they watch the dancers, cut the cake, and eventually move back out on the dance floor, mostly motivated by Tony pulling at Rose’s arm until she wheels herself out there. She dances with him, holding his tiny hands, moving her upper body, and spinning herself in circles, until Jackie swoops in and tells him it’s time to go to bed. He whines about it, but Rose is sure he’ll fall asleep the second he gets inside.

Finally, the party is over, the guests coming over to give Rose and John their congratulations as they trickle out, leaving the tent empty but for Jackie, Pete, Rose, and John.

“What a beautiful night,” Jackie says, falling into a chair.

“Couldn’t have done it without you,” John says. He’s still holding Rose’s hand, his thumb drawing circles on her palm.

Rose nods her agreement. “Thanks, Mum. It was amazing.” She yawns.

“We’d better get you home.” John’s looking at her with worry in his eyes. It sort of annoys Rose, to have everyone acting like she’s so delicate, except that she is rather delicate, these days. And she is tired. The late night is well worth it, but she’s going to be making up for it for the next few days at least.

Jackie and Pete come with Rose and John to the car, sending them off with cheers and well-wishes, and John drives them home. There’s a warm silence to the world right now, Rose notes, staring out the window. Everything is dark, but every so often, she can see an orange light in someone’s window, a sign that the world is still alive, even when it sleeps.

She manages to keep her eyes open the whole way back to their flat, but when she gets there, she’s just about ready to keel over, metaphorically speaking. She lets John help her out of her dress, and then she sinks into the mattress, closing her eyes. She’s vaguely aware of John joining her, his body surrounding her, as she falls asleep.

#my fic #chaptered #doctor who #fanfiction #and still i will live here #ten x rose #tenth doctor #rose tyler #angst #and we're not out of the tunnel

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streaks-of-lavender · 6 years

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Fander Pride Meet Up Entry

Hello! Spoonfullofcrofters here! You can call me pretty much whatever, some know me as Adrian, some Quinn, a lot of people just call me Carrot based on my email address. I am a genderfluid, aroflux bisexual. He/him or they/them pronouns, please.

I first realised that I was bisexual in 9th grade, when I came across the term on BuzzFeed. Ever since I was little there had been signs that I didn’t know how to recognise. Or maybe I was too scared. Because I didn’t know you could be bisexual. As in, I didn’t think it was physically possible. It had to be one or the other, no in between at all. I wasn’t biphobic or anything, just ignorant. No one had ever even said the word “bisexual” to me before. I didn’t know it existed. As far as I knew, it was gay or straight, that was it. And so for a long time it terrified me to no end. I knew I wasn’t gay. I’d liked guys before, I was attracted to guys, so I couldn’t possibly be gay. Right? For a long time I was in denial. I tried to ignore that part of me, tried to pretend it didn’t exist. It was around when I started high school that I couldn’t ignore it anymore. It demanded to be acknowledged. There had been so many little things. The “boy” I saw one day in fourth grade and thought was cute, until they turned around and I realised it was a girl, but I still thought she was cute. That time I was watching a show and a character that hadn’t been seen for a while showed up, and my first thought was, “Damn, she got hot.” That one shook me up for a good two days. The time I said to my mother, when she asked, “IDK. Either one, I guess, it doesn’t really matter.” I legitimately said to my mother “Could be either, I don’t care” and still thought I was straight. Currently laughing at baby bisexual me. Then one night I was killing time on BuzzFeed, and I saw an article about problems bisexual people have. I’m not sure what compelled me to click on it, but I did. I read it. Then all the comments. Then searched BuzzFeed for more, and when I’d read everything, proceeded to Google. I’ll admit I was a bit in shock. Suddenly here was a word, here were people like me, here was the answer I’d been searching for. It didn’t take me long to start calling myself bi. It was something I’d always been, no matter how much I tried to repress it. The only difference was that now it had a name. My gender identity was a much more complicated process.

As did my sexuality crisis, my gender crisis began on the internet, on YouTube this time. I was watching Mileschronicles. His old version of the gender tag, to be specific. He said something along the lines of, “I don’t feel entirely like a girl, but I don’t really feel any pressure to figure out what else I feel like, either.” I thought, “What’s the big deal? No one feels completely girly all of the time. Mostly it’s just kind of meh.” and then I thought, “Wait.” That was that door open now. This, however, was not nearly as easy and clear cut as the end of my straight phase had been. I was terrified and shocked and uncertain. How could I not be a girl? I’d always been a girl! Sure, most of the time I wasn’t the most feminine person, but that didn’t mean I was a boy or anything! As per usual, I took to the internet for answers. I learned about all sorts of identities. Nonbinary, agender, bigender, demigender, genderflux. I could never seem to settle on one, though. Ironically, the one I never really looked into was genderfluid, because I thought, “no, that’s definitely not it.” Currently facepalming, brb. Part of the reason I was having such a hard time was my uncertainty. This was uncharted territory here. Sure, my mom and brother were both gay, but this was completely new. Was it true? Was I lying? Could I be making it up? Then I found a tumblr post saying, “If you have to ask, then the answer is probably yes,” which helped. The other issues was that I couldn’t pin it down. I’d find one thing that felt right and go, “Oh, this must be it!” But then a few days later it would feel wrong again. At the time I thought I was faking it. Now I realise it was just changing. It took me a lot of reflection and more than a few all-nighters to start really understanding and becoming comfortable with it. Suddenly so many things made sense. Why I was so much more bothered than all the other girls during our fourth grade Human Growth and Development unit. Why when I’d go shopping to buy clothes for a chorus concert, the thought of having to wear a dress made me so uncomfortable, but a few nights later I would be longing to pull out the skirt buried in the back of my closet. Why every little part of puberty felt so utterly wrong. I didn’t want to start wearing that awful flowery deodorant my mother wanted me to. I didn’t want to wear a bra. And I did NOT want to get my period. The first few times I had it were awful. I was mortified. I was shocked. I wanted to hide under the covers until the sun went away. At the time I think it was because I thought I was too young, but looking back, there was more to it. This bone deep sense of NO, WRONG, THIS IS NOT SUPPOSED TO HAPPEN, THIS IS NOT ME. I would get so confused when sometimes I would be watching someone like Zoella on YouTube and it would leave me feeling absurdly feminine, wanting to run around the room and scream at the top of my lungs, “I’m a girl!!” which never made sense, because of course I was. What else would I be? Genderfluid, that’s what. At the time I just had no idea.

That was almost two years ago now. Things were rough at times, but I’ve been blessed with the most understanding and supportive family in the world, the best possible friends, and probably the best possible environment, and I am so happy. My parents accepted me as soon as they got over their initial shock. My friends made adjustments without batting an eye. My teachers started using my new name without question when the guidance counselor emailed them. Sure, things might have been a bit hard at first, but I’m doing okay. For the first time in forever I feel like I’m going to be alright. And potential reader, whatever you’re going through right now, you’ll be alright too. If you need it I’ll be here to support you every step of the way. Take it easy, guys, gals, and nonbinary pals (I’ve always wanted to say that). <3

#fanderpridemeetup #genderfluid #aro-spec bisexual #thomas sanders

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stargazerdaisy · 6 years

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This is all Kylia's fault

Like seriously. ALL HER FAULT. She just had to tag me in this post and then my stupid brain spun off into another dimension and vomited up 1700 words over the course of the day.

THIS IS SO CRACKY I AM ALMOST EMBARRASSED.

So if you think this is just the stupidest thing you've ever read, blame @kyliafanfiction. I had no control over this or at all.

Enjoy. I hope.

Skye is digging through security code for the base, making sure everything is up to snuff. When she starts noticing some weirdness in the code. It catches her eye, and let’s face it, it’s new, which makes it interesting. So she goes digging. And digging. And digging. Because, Skye. At first it’s just quirked eyebrows. Then they start to pinch. Then her brow gets positively furrowed. By this time, there are mutters escaping intermittently. Which then turn into sighs, and then, growls. Finally, she shrieks, “FITZ! GET IN HERE!”

“What now?” he huffs, rolling his eyes at her dramatics.

“I think I found something that honestly, is just completely insane and I’m probably crazy, but I really don’t think I am. I need you to check it and see if you can tell if it’s real or not.” Skye steps back from the computer, head tilted, as if reading the code sideways will help it make more sense.

Fitz slides around her to get a look at the screen, grumbling quietly to himself about how no one can ever do anything without him, and if he wasn’t here, the entire base would collapse under the weight of everyone’s expectations alone, and that’s before we even get to all the structural damage they keep causing. But as he starts examining the screen, his murmurs slow down and eventually stop mid-sentence. His mouth hangs open and he can’t even blink.

“No way. This can’t be…”

“Right?!” Skye screeches. “You see it too, don’t you?”

“But there’s no way that could be right. That can’t actually be what’s happening.” Fitz pauses for a moment, then turns to look at his friend. “Can it?”

“I’m not saying it makes sense, but the code is all there. I can’t find a flaw with it,” she confirms.

“Woooooow, I’m going to need to need a minute,” Fitz says, plopping into the chair Skye has just vacated.

The silence stretches on as they each try to make sense of the information on the computer. Finally, Skye breaks it.

“So,” she begins, “when and how do we tell them?”

“No, we can’t,” Fitz replies.

“I think we have to,” Skye says. “Don’t they deserve to know?”

“But will it actually help them? Will there actually be any value in telling them they have no control over their own lives?”

“Oh Fitz, are you on this again?” Simmons says as she breezes into the room, only having heard the last part of his thought. “We are not cursed. We are writing our own destiny, not the other way around.”

Skye and Fitz look at each other in alarm. Do they set her straight or let her be with her mistaken assumption?

“I don’t know, Jemma,” Elena says, coming in behind her. “We’ve seen an awful lot of stuff happen that is so crazy, it doesn’t seem like it could have happened without some external force directing it.”

“That doesn’t mean it was pre-destined,” Mack says following his girlfriend. “If we don’t have power over our own choices, what’s the point? I’m not about to surrender my agency. We can change things.”

“But how you would know if you did or did not have agency? It’s not like characters in a play know that they’re characters in a play. They think they’re regular people just living their lives.”

“Fitz!” Skye hisses. “Might that be a little too on the nose?”

Fitz merely shrugs.

“You’re literally no help,” Skye scowls. “You tell me we shouldn’t say anything and now we’re having some deep philosophical discussion about free will.”

“Tell us what?” Coulson asks, popping in at an absurdly convenient time, as if it was choreographed.

“What did you do now?” May pipes in, stern expression as always.

“Oh my gosh, we didn’t do anything!” Skye says exasperatedly. “I just found some weird stuff when I was going through the security code.”

“And what did you find?” Coulson prompts, when it is clear Skye wasn’t going to elaborate.

She exchanges another look with Fitz. He shakes his head no, she mouths ‘Please!’ at him, he grimaces and starts gesturing more vehemently to keep quiet, while she gets more animated with her pleas, all the while not a single word is actually spoken.

Finally, May loses her patience and demands, “Someone better explain what is going on right now.”

Skye swallows guiltily and shoots Fitz one last look. He throws his hands up in defeat and turns away in frustration.

“Okay, so, um, you might want to sit down for this,” she starts.

“Get to the point,” May insists.

“Fine. But remember, you asked for it.” One last deep breath and she launches into her explanation. “So when I was looking through the code, trying to spot and fix any weak spots, I noticed some weird stuff. I followed it and well, I’m not sure how to say this, but… We’re characters in a TV show.”

Stunned silence follows her announcement. Then, seemingly on cue, the entire group bursts into laughter.

“Oh Skye, that’s hilarious,” Jemma says. “As if any of us are interesting enough for a television show.”

Mack guffaws. “If this was a TV show, people would constantly be making fun of it for how ridiculous it is.”

“Speak for yourself,” Coulson says. “I am plenty interesting. Anyone would love to know more about my robot hand and its gadgetry that would make Tony Stark jealous.”

“Don’t get ahead of yourself, Phil,” May says flatly. But seeing Skye’s irritated expression in response to all the laughter, she asks, “How can you tell, Skye?”

“I know it sounds crazy. Trust me, I do. I didn’t believe it either. I made Fitz come check it with me,” Skye defends herself. “Tell them Fitz!”

Fitz huffs, but replies. “It doesn’t make sense. But the code is there. I saw what Skye is describing. She knows code way better than I do, so If I saw and she can describe it, then it’s probably true.”

“So what, this is like the Framework?” Elena asks, her eyes flitting across everyone. “We’re just simulations?”

“Sort of,” Skye says. “What’s different is that it’s not running automatically. In the Framework, Aida had just set up the parameters and algorithms and the program ran itself from there. This is different. There is someone, or several someones most likely, intentionally picking and choosing and directing what happens to us. Like, everything. For the past 5 or so years.”

The room is quiet once again, but the tension is palpable.

“You mean someone chose to cut off my arms?” Elena asks angrily.

“Mine too?” Coulson adds, shocked.

“They sent me to space on purpose?! TWICE?!?!” Jemma shrieks.

“And gave me brain damage!” Fitz says.

“And shot me!” Skye cries.

“And made me dance,” May exclaims, disdain and loathing dripping from every word.

“So we aren’t real?” Mack says. “This is making my brain hurt.”

“Like that’s hard, Turtle Man,” Elena snarks.

“Who are these people that think they can just do this and we’ll have nothing to say?” Coulson demands.

Skye’s mouth twists into a scowl. “Best I can tell, there are several people involved, but it mostly comes down to two people. They make all the major decisions and even write a lot of it. So they’re definitely the ones to blame.”

“Geez, it’s like they get off on torturing people as much as possible,” Simmons complains. “What the hell is wrong with them?!”

Without warning, Kara, Ward, and Lincoln manifest in the room, as if pulled from beyond the grave. “WHO DID WHAT NOW?!?!?!” they all scream in unison.

“Ummm…” stammers Skye.

“Well, that is fucking bullshit,” Kara curses.

“Tell me about it,” Ward glowers.

“I got blown up in a spaceship, just because someone thought it would be entertainment? Are you kidding me?!” Lincoln hisses.

“Look at me! I basically died three times!” Ward says.

“At least they liked you enough to keep bringing you back,” Lincoln points out.

“At least they remember you. They don’t even mention me ever again!” Kara cries. “I was just a plot point to them, only useful when they needed me to prove something. And they sucked at that too.”

“As opposed to having you possessed by an alien squid-slug-thing after you have your chest caved in? -Thanks for that, by the way, Coulson – But, I don’t know. I probably would have preferred getting forgotten all together.”

Kara shrugs noncommittally. Either option seems pretty crappy.

“Well, this is freaking depressing,” Fitz says. Everyone nods glumly in agreement.

After a moment, Coulson speaks. “To think, all of this craziness: Hydra coming out of the shadows – thanks for that, Ward – to Skye’s crazy parents to the Inhumans to Radcliffe and Aida and now going to the future and coming back; none of it was happenstance. It was all on purpose. Just…..wow.”

“At least you got brought back to life,” Kara mutters under her breath. The couple people closest to her, Lincoln and Skye snicker but try to hide it.

The group lapses into quiet as they each contemplate what this information means for them. Moments of enlightenment flicker across their faces one by one, as they remember some other event or instance where they had thought it was just luck – good or bad. How those recognitions built up emotionally varies. Bewilderment and confusion reign for some, others are angry and seething, more still are somewhere in between. Fear is a significant factor for all of them. If all of this had happened already, what will be coming next?

“It’s even worse, you guys,” Fitz says, realization suddenly dawning on him. Everyone turns to look at him. “They kills dogs.”

It is so silent you could hear a pin drop. No one dares to breathe. Evocative of a school of fish, they all turn slowly, in perfect synchronization, towards a single point. Almost like...they were looking at a camera.

“I’ll kill them,” May hisses.

“Not if I get there first!” Ward bellows.

And just like that, they all took off in a charge, scrambling to get to their tormentors and make them regret ever daring to mess with them.

#daisy writes #or at least thinks she does #kylia the egomaniac #aos crack #crack fic #this is so insane #I can't even decide how I feel about it #but I wrote it #and all I want is to make people laugh #like that's the only goal here

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