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starry-eyes-love · 1 month

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Never Letting You Go

Masterlist

Pairing | Agent Javier Pena x Agent F!Reader

Summary | What starts out as a shitty Valentine’s Day turns into everything that you’ve ever wanted. Javi treats you the way you need, by never letting you go.

A/N: First time writing for Javier's character, forgot this was in the vault. Enjoy

(As a reminder I'm no longer doing tag lists, make sure to turn on notifications on my page for when I post).

Warnings | 18+, Minors DNI, Smut

Language, angst, mentions of prostitution and Agent work, mentions of the cartel, mentions of cheating (from your previous relationship), grinding, mentions of penetrative sex, soft fluffy moments.

Word Count: 5.5K

“Fuck baby,” he said, grinding against your ass with a little bit more force. “Do you feel that? See, that’s what you fucking do to me woman.” Javi was now rocking harder into you, giving you slow deep thrusts. You could feel his hard outline in his pants as he was seated firmly against you. “This is what you’ve always done to me. I don’t hate you, fuck baby, I like you. I want you. So if you’ll shut up long enough, then maybe you’ll hear me say it.”

Today was Valentine's Day, and usually this was something that didn’t concern Javier Peña. He was a DEA agent that was in the middle of trying to bring down drug dealers and drug lords, he didn’t have time to be concerned about feelings or emotions on a specific day on the calendar. But yet here he was, in the files room pacing back and forth, trying to calm his nerves. Javier was never nervous when it came to the opposite sex. He usually was always so calm, cool, and collected when handling them. Well, except for today that is, and especially when dealing with you. Somehow you had gotten under his skin just enough that now he was pacing back and forth, mind racing of what to do if you didn't like the gift that he just left you on your desk. He was so lost in his own head that he didn’t hear the door open and Steve Murphy step in.

“Javi, what the hell are you-” Steve said, stopping dead in his tracks when he saw Javi pacing back and forth, running his hand down his face.

“She ain’t gonna like the gift. Why did you say it was from you and not a secret admirer? Jesus. Soy un idiota (I’m such an idiot).” Javi mumbled to himself.

“You got a lady a Valentine’s gift there Peña?” Murphy said, slamming the files on the desk and causing Javi to jump. Javi just stood there, not answering his friend and fellow DEA agent’s question. Steve, seeing how nervous Javi was, continued to tease him slightly. “Who’s the lucky girl, Peña?”

Before he could answer, they both heard you marching down the hall, yelling, “Peña, I’m gonna fuckin’ kill you, you arrogant bastard.”

About a year ago you were transferred to Columbia in an attempt to assist in the capture of Pablo Escobar. At first, you were excited about serving your country and bringing the bad guys to justice. That was before meeting your two male DEA partner’s, however. The first time you met Steve Murphy and Javier Peña it was love at first insult. You were the head female DEA agent hired to work alongside them in helping bring down the Medellín Cartel, and subsequently Pablo Escobar. However, your transfer to Columbia somehow pissed both of them off.

Since you had arrived, all those two idiots did was piss you off one way or another. They were the biggest source of your headaches and irritations to date, and one of the biggest reasons why you hated your current job. They wouldn’t listen to you, and they continuously left you out of the loop on information. To make matters worse, when they got bored you were the target of their practical jokes, like today.

Today was Valentine’s Day, and one day on the calendar that you wished you could just completely remove. You hated Valentine’s Day with a passion, ever since you found your ex-fiance balls deep in your sister on Valentine’s Day one year ago. It was after that you found out that the man who you thought loved you had always cheated on you with your sister, from Moment. Fucking. One. You were together five years with him, and apparently all those five years he was also fucking your sister every chance he got. You were happy to hear that her husband caught them in bed and had filed for a divorce. You thought it was poetic how she lost a man who made a shit ton of money for an asshole who could hardly pay rent for his shitty apartment. So when you took the job transfer to Columbia you felt okay with the situation that had happened, as shitty as it sounded.

But then last night your sister called you and informed you that she was getting married, and that she was pregnant too. She advised you that it would be best if you didn’t attend the wedding because of hard feelings the two of you had. When you asked who the soon-to-be husband and dad was, she had informed you that it was your ex-fiance and that they both were happy they found someone that loved them deeply. As soon as you heard that, you told her to ‘go to fucking hell,’ and then slammed the phone down. Out of anger and rage you grabbed the bottle of alcohol that was on the counter, and downed most of it in one go. Yeah, you weren’t going to that fucking wedding.

When you woke up and realized it was Valentine’s Day, you seriously contemplated calling in work sick. But you remembered that you had a morning meeting with your bosses and you knew that Javi and Steve wouldn’t show up. So you begrudgingly got up and showered, swearing underneath your breath of how life wasn’t fair. You hated today, Valentine’s Day, with a passion. Six years ago you met your ex on Valentine’s Day because he was stood up on a date, a date with your sister you found out much later. Then last year, on Valentine’s Day, you caught him cheating with your sister. How did life get so fucked up?

To add to your already sour mood, when you got into work early you noticed that all the rest of the females in the office had big bouquet of flowers on their desks from Javi and Steve. Each of them had a note saying that they really appreciated all the hard work that they have done, and that they were special angels for helping them out. When you got to your desk you didn’t see any flowers or note telling you that you were special. The only note that you saw was from Steve saying “don’t fuck up this meeting” and asked if you took your “anti-bitch pill today yet.” Yeah you hated this fucking day.

The meeting that was only supposed to be an hour went on for three long hours, and you were berated for two out of the three hours in the meeting. You had to once again mop up the mess that both Steve and Javi had created, promising to get results instead of excuses. Recently, all the leads that your department was getting in capturing Escobar were cold, no one had seen him or heard of him in almost a month. Even when you went in and shook the crime tree, nothing fell out of place which made everyone uneasy, especially your superiors.

Finally when the meeting was over with you were able to return to your desk to try to let your heart and blood pressure return to normal. When you approached your desk, you saw a little basket there with a pretty red ribbon with sparkles in it. You looked around quickly to see if anyone noticed or was standing there, you also glanced quickly under your desk to make sure Steve or Javi wasn’t sitting there waiting for you to relax so they could scare you. When you noticed nothing was out of the ordinary you felt your heart flutter in your chest, especially when the tag read “to the most special DEA female agent” in Javier’s handwriting.

At first your heart fluttered, thinking that finally someone, Javi, took the time to give a shit. If you were being honest with yourself, you did like Javier Peña. He was very sexy and attractive. When he wasn’t being an asshole, he was truly sensitive and understood the female sex with their emotions. You thought that he didn’t care anymore about you, but the longer you looked at the name tag on your gift, the more you thought that maybe you were wrong at your assessment. Your heart raced and you felt the heat creep up your neck at the thought that maybe Javi did see you as something more than just an individual who worked with him each day. But when you opened the basket and saw the gift that was laying there for you, your wonder turned into embarrassment as your face fell. Then when you read the note inside you saw red with anger. That bastard took it one step too far this time.

Once Javi heard your voice he suddenly froze, slowly listening to where you were coming from. When he realized that you were getting closer, he glanced over at Murphy with wide, scared eyes. He mouthed “shh, shut the fuck up,” when Steve went to open his mouth to ask Javi something.

As Steve stood there he was trying to understand what the hell his partner had done to anger you so much. He mouthed to Javi ‘what the fuck did you do man?’ Javi just shook his head and placed his finger to his lips to silence Steve’s further questioning. He wasn’t trying to be a coward, but with how angry you were right now, he didn’t want to come face to face with you. Yes, Javi had a knack for pissing you off so much that you’d threaten to kill him. But from how angry you sounded, he figured that if he was standing in front of you right now, that you would in fact shoot him dead.

Javi and Steve continued to stand in silence together for a few minutes. Javi was hoping that you would just continue down the hallway and not stop outside of this door. For a moment it sounded like you had moved on, so much so that Javi felt himself visibly relax and let out a sigh. But that moment was short lived. When Javi heard the door knob turn he quickly said, “shit Murph, lie,” and then he ducked behind one of the filing cabinets against the wall.

“What the-” Steve said, looking confused, but for only a minute as you quickly came bursting through the door seething with anger.

“Murphy, where is he?” you said, steam practically coming out of your ears at how mad and pissed off you were at Javier Peña.

“I don’t-”

“Don’t give me that I don’t know shit. You two are practically glued together at the hip, so where the hell is he?” You bit back, standing right in front of Steve’s face.

“Woah, now wait just a second there princess, don’t be biting my head off. I don’t know where he is, or what he’s done, but you can just curb that attitude of yours and-”

“Don’t act like you don’t know what he’s done. This smells like both Peña and Murphy antics to me,” you said, crossing your arms over your chest.

“Well sorry cariño, I don’t know where he is or what he’s done.”

Huffing, you let out another long sigh, balling your fists up and slamming them tight against your side. “This is what he’s done,” you said, shoving the box you were holding with the card in his face. “And if you happen to see him, you can tell him that I’m looking for him.”

You went to leave, but Murphy blocked your exit saying, “wait a second here princess, don’t go and give me something like this and then take off. Let’s see what’s gotten your panties in a twist.”

“I knew it, it was your idea. I don’t get why you both have to always be so-” But before you could finish Steve had opened the box and saw what was inside it. Steve pulled out a pair of black lace panties that had a vibrator attached to them, and as he did he noticed the note at the bottom of the box. The note was written in Javi’s handwriting and said, “for all those lonely nights baby, when you’re so wound up and don’t have a man that can be inside you. Enjoy.” Signed, Javier Peña.

Murphy was shocked at what he saw and couldn’t help but laugh out loud. He knew Javi loved to rile you up, and he had to hand it to his partner, he definitely got you going. It was the perfect gift to get even for all those irritating moments the three of you had. But when he looked up at you he immediately froze, his laugh dying out in his throat. Your eyes were red and puffy now as frustrated tears streamed down your face. Steve could tell that the jokes maybe went a little too far this time.

“Sweetheart, we’re-”

“Don’t, just don’t Steve,” you said, grabbing the box and throwing everything back inside, not wanting to look up at him. “I get it, it’s a joke. A really fucking mean joke, ya know. You all can have any woman that you want. And here I am, in Columbia, and I can’t even get sleazy drug lords to choose me when I’m undercover. Shit, I couldn’t even keep my ex-fiance faithful on this day. You guys will find this hilarious, last year I found my ex fucking my sister. Apparently he never wanted me, wanted her cause now they’re getting married and having a baby and I’m not welcome around my family any more, cause I guess I can’t keep anyone happy. So nice of you to give the other girls flowers, and tell them how great they are when they don’t even fucking do anything for you. Meanwhile I have five bullet wounds and several cracked ribs for covering your asses. By the way, you guys are getting a raise in pay and I’m getting a 5 dollar reduction in pay. Apparently the superiors feel that it’ll give you guys motivation or something. So yeah, you’re right, perfect joke. Happy fucking Valentine’s Day to me.” And with that you left, slamming the door.

This was a joke that Peña and Murphy started with you about six months ago when you were placed undercover to go and try to extract information of the whereabouts of Pablo Escobar. They placed you at a brothel, knowing that some of Pablo’s higher up men were going to come to choose women to give them sexual favors for the night. With the help of a few informants, they had dressed you up and gave you pointers on how women acted in these places in Colombia. Javi had made a joke at you that you were the highest paid prostitute on the street, but when it came time for Pablo’s men to take you, you were the only one left behind. You weren’t ugly, you actually were quite beautiful, but that night Javi and Murphy had a hay day with you, as you were the only one that was not chosen. To make matters worse, you had gone out with them that night and couldn’t even get a guy to buy you a drink at the bar, let alone talk with you. And now the joke, you thought, had gone too far. Humiliated and embarrassed, you went and gathered your things and left to go home for the day, not wanting to see anyone again.

After you stormed out, and Murphy knew you were gone, he walked over to where Javi was, facing the back wall. “You got her vibrating panties?” Steve said, shaking his head and laughing.

“At the time, I thought it was a good idea. But something got lost in translation I suppose,” he said, still not wanting to leave his hiding spot.

“Peña, let me give you some advice. If you like a girl, don’t get her vibrating panties and then give her a card that says ‘for all those lonely nights when you don’t have a man.’ It just makes you look like an even bigger dick than what you already are.”

“Yeah, I realize that now,” he said, still not coming out of his hiding spot.

“Did ya know any of that other shit she was talking about?” Steve said, pulling a cigarette out and lighting it. Javi shook his head no as he came out of where he was hiding.

“Kinda fucked up if you ask me. Fucking her own sister and then marrying her. Talk about a cold hearted son of a bitch.”

“Yeah, I never knew. Fuck Murph, what do I do?”

“You already know what you gotta do man. Or do I need to call her back in here so she can spell it out for you?”

“Fuck you,” Javi said, walking out the door to go find you. He felt like the biggest dick right now. The gift and note wasn’t a joke from him, and he hated to think that you felt like it was.

Javi eventually learned that you had decided to go home for the day, leaving your work here. “She’s taking a sick day,” is what Maria, the secretary in the front office, had told him. Javi had attempted to get some paperwork done, but he kept thinking about you and how hurt you sounded when talking with Murphy. He didn’t mean for it to come off as a joke, in fact Javi wanted you to have the panties for a good reason, he wanted you to wear them for him.

Javi had been the biggest pain in your ass from the start. He was always coming over to your desk, forcing you to work through his work, making you work in the field with him, etc. To you it felt like he was punishing you for being good at your job. But in reality, he secretly liked you and wanted to be with you. Javi didn’t know why he couldn’t communicate his feelings to you, why he always had to make fun of you or rile you up. “I’m taking a sick day,” Javi told Murphy as he walked towards the door.

Murphy, who was still at his desk, said “Connie said she’s at home now.” Connie was one of your best friends here in Colombia. Being in a foreign country was hard, and making friends was even harder, especially what you did for a job. Your friends back at home disagreed with your career choice of being sent to Colombia, so your entire support structure was no longer there. Connie was one of the nicest women you had met or seen in the longest time. She understood your career choice, and didn’t hold it against you when your plans would change.

Javi had stopped and bought a dozen flowers from a street vendor before he got to your house. When he knocked on the door he softly said, “querida, I’m so sorry. Please open up, I didn’t mean to make you cry, I-”

“Who the fuck said you made me cry Peña?” you said, opening up the door suddenly, looking up at him with bloodshot eyes, tears at your lash line.

“No one I, Jesus woman, c’mere,” he said, stepping inside and placing the flowers on the end table by the door when he saw your face. He then reached for you, pulled you tight into his chest, holding you as the dam opened up again and the tears fell. “I’m so sorry baby, so sorry. I didn’t mean how it came out, fuck-”

“What did I do for you to hate me?” you said, voice muffled in his chest.

“Nothin’ baby, I don’t hate you, I-” he said, rubbing his hand up and down your back, trying to soothe you. This was not going the way that he had hoped.

“I mean, I pull extra duty, and am one of the strongest hitters on the team. Fuck Javi, I even have brought in more leads than Murphy and yet you publicly humiliate me.” You said, as a sob broke free from your mouth. You didn’t know why you were opening up, allowing Javi to attempt to soothe you. You just didn’t have it in you to fight right now, too emotionally worked up to even care.

“No, no, baby. It ain’t like that, look at me,” Javi said, pulling you away from his chest and gently cupping your face with his hands. “Querida, I got them for you and for me, for you to think about me.”

Shaking your head you stepped back and said, “what? Peña, what the fuck are you talking about for you and me? I’m not-”

“Shit, this ain’t coming out the way I wanted it to,” Javi said, pacing back and forth in your living room. Javi was mumbling to himself, unsure of how to deal with the situation and correct it. Not knowing how to place it into words, his feelings, he thought that he could show you. He immediately reached for you and kissed you hard on the lips. Javi, once again, was hoping the kiss would show you that he cared, but all you read was he was being condescending once again. You immediately pulled back and found your strength and slapped Javi hard across his face.

“Javi, what the fuck do you think you’re doing? Just because I’m crying, trying to understand why the guy I have a crush on hates me, doesn’t give you the right to-”

“I like you,” he said, rubbing the sting site he felt across his cheek. Damn that woman could hit hard, he thought to himself. You continued to talk overtop of him, not realizing what he just said. You kept saying how much of an asshole he’s been to you and how much you hate men as you’ve always been taken advantage of. Javi shook his head at you, hearing words such as dickhead, asshole along with other words such as, pendejo and cabrón. You kept telling him off, not listening to anything that he had just told you.

With a sarcastic laugh, he said, “I can’t fucking believe you, you don’t listen baby.” He was now getting just as frustrated at you for not listening to him. She says I don’t listen, hell, she doesn’t listen.

All you heard was ‘I can’t fucking believe you’ and nothing else. Once again, you marched over to smack Javi hard across the face. But this time, he caught your hand mid-air saying, “I don’t think so cariño. You only get one free hit, and you already used it up for today.”

The sadness that you felt earlier had now turned into blinding anger and rage. You started fighting back. You were done with men treating you like assholes, for cheating on you with your sister, for not listening to you or even attempt at paying attention. You started hitting Javi’s chest, yelling at him and saying, “you’re an asshole,” over and over again. You were throwing a temper tantrum, frustrated about the last few days, and Javi was your outlet. However, Javi didn’t see your attitude nor behavior as enduring or even cute. Him, having about enough of you using him as a physical punching bag, decided to take matters into his own hands to calm you down. He grabbed your hand and threw it behind your back, slamming you to the ground while yelling, “Enough.”

You kept trying to kick him, to hurt him more. You weren’t part of this planet anymore, you just saw red at reliving every shitty moment for the last six years. Of taking the smacks to the face your boyfriend gave you when he was drunk and you questioned why he had red lipstick stains on his shirt and around his cock as you undressed him from a night out with his friends. What you didn’t know is that it was your sister’s lips that were around him, and not some other woman. It didn’t make those moments easier, but you always thought that maybe it was just a one night stand, not a five year long relationship behind your back.

You kept kicking Javi, yelling that you were done with people hurting you, clearly not seeing him anymore. To help calm you down, Javi maneuvered his body so he was sitting on your ass, with your arm behind your back. Your chest was laying flat on the floor, his chest then tight on your back as he snarled in your ear, “you’re gonna stop this shit, right now, stop trying to hit me.”

“Fuck you David-” you said, not realizing that you called him your ex.

“I’m not him baby. I never was, nor will I ever be him. So stop calling me David, my name isn’t fucking David.” Javi growled in your ear, leaning harder into you to get you to calm down.

You finally relaxed at hearing Javi speak to you, reminding yourself that he wasn’t your ex. As soon as you relaxed Javi released your arm, but stayed firm against you, hands on both sides of your head as he breathed hard and fast at the fight that you gave him. It was then that you remembered everything that Javi and you were, everything that you were alone.

Sometimes at night when you couldn’t sleep you’d go back into work and find Javi working alone at his desk. He’d always come over and ask you why you were showing up at work around midnight on a day where you just placed in 12 hours. Alone the two of you would always find moments where you could be soft with each other. He’d order you both greasy pizza to eat at night and he’d tease you of picking off all the pepperoni. Nights where you were scared to be home alone, he’d take you back to his house and you’d sleep in his bed when he slept on the couch. When you got shot several times, after you were discharged home, he’d stay with you in your apartment. He even slept next to you on your bed a few times.

He also bathed you when you got sick with a fever from the infection of the bullet wounds, and nursed you back to health for several weeks. If you were being honest, Javi was your best friend when the two of you were alone. But at work, he was the biggest dickhead. You were jealous when he started flirting with the new secretary that came in, Phillis, and hated when you saw him at the brothel down the street. Javi never attempted sex with you, and honestly, it upset you. You wanted him, but apparently he never wanted you. So at work you took out your frustration the only way you knew how, you became a pain in his ass like he was a pain in yours.

But when Javi didn’t move, continuing to breathe hard in and out, you knew that something had changed. You went to move your ass and immediately he hissed “don’t” as his hips stayed tight against yours, not moving nor letting you up. After a moment of submitting to him you heard him ask in a strained voice “are you calm enough for me to move or do we have to keep you like this for a little longer?”

You didn’t know why you felt like saying it out loud, but you didn’t want to play this game of not being honest with him anymore. “I’ve calmed down, but Javi, I’d like it if you stay like this for a little while, hell you can even push deeper into me if you want.” You gave Javi a little wiggle of your ass at his statement.

The air around the two of you changed, thickening with sexual tension. “Shit baby, ya can’t say that to me,'' he said, slightly leaning forward and pushing his crotch tighter to your ass. You felt him slightly rock back and forth, groaning at the feel of you beneath him.

You slightly arched your back, pushing up so he could kiss your neck. When you changed the position both of you moaned loud in unison, feeling his hips slowly grind harder into you. You never remembered feeling this good by just letting a man grind into you, but fuck, Javi was slowly making you feel feral.

“Javi, I don’t-” you said slowly.

“No,” He growled, not wanting you to tell him to stop. He couldn’t take it anymore, couldn’t hold back. He wanted so desperately to be deep inside of your warm cunt that he was struggling right now to keep his composure. “Fuck hermosa, feel what you do to me.”

But you were, you felt how much Javi wanted you and you knew how much you wanted him. You laid there and let him slowly grind his hips into you again until something snapped inside.

“Javi, fuck me,” you said, pushing your ass harded back into him.

Javi immediately stilled his hips at your statement, looking down at you, trying to determine if what you were asking was what he thought. When he didn’t respond again, you said with a little more bite, “Javi, you gave me a vibrator for all those lonely nights when I don’t have a man’s dick inside of me. Please, I don’t want to use the vibrator tonight. For once on Valentine’s Day I want a man inside me that fucking cares. If you really care, please give me that.”

You felt Javi get off from you and walk away, towards the door, rustling around with something. You laid face down in the middle of your living room, tears welling up in your eyes at being rejected once again. You hated this fucking holiday, but when you let out a little sniffle you felt his hand cup your chin, turning you to the side. With the softest eyes possible he said, “come on now, no more crying. Now up you go,” as he helped you stand. Once you were standing he smiled down at you and then gave you a slow tender kiss on the lips. When he pulled back he held out the black lace panties in front of your face.

“Here, I bought these for you. Now, go and put them on, and let me see them on you. Then I’m gonna fuck you like you deserve, like a man that’s wanted to be with you from the moment he laid eyes on you. Fuck what you stupid ex did to you last year-”

“And every year before,” you said softly.

Javi’s eyes got impossibly dark, anger and lust mixing with them. He hated your ex, the man that broke you. If Javi had to spend the rest of his life showing you that you deserved more, then he would do it. Fuck his superiors, or anyone else that thought he and you shouldn’t be together.

“The fact that you say that makes me angry that any man would ever-”

“Forget it Javi, it’s-”

“No. Now pay attention sweetheart, cause I’m only gonna say it once. No man should ever make you feel like this, ever, you hear me? Now, go put them on baby, and let me see you in them. Then, I’m gonna take you to bed and show you how a man is supposed to treat the woman he cares about.”

“Oh, and how’s that Peña, what are you gonna do that makes me forget all the stupid shit other men have done?” You said, playfully nudging Javi and his cockiness that you have found you love.

Javi grabbed you by the hair and tilted your head back while whispering above you, “I’m gonna fuck you so good that you’re gonna forget every man before me, baby. Then I’m gonna show you how a real man treats the woman he’s crazy over. It’s just you and me, and I’ll remind you of that every night before we go to sleep. There’s no one’s pussy I’d rather be buried in than yours. I only want to be balls deep in you, and not anyone else.” Javi then slammed his lips onto yours and gave you a kiss like you deserved.

Maybe you had to have David be in your life and screw you over, because without him, you’d never have met Javier Peña. Javi was a real man that made good on his promises, of being the man that you needed. Before the night was over, and after you came down from your intense rough sex with him, you found yourself looking into his eyes and seeing the potential for a future once again. As Javi slowly rocked into you, making slow love at the end, he whispered, “you’re mine cariño, and I’m never letting you go.” And that was the thing that tipped you both over the edge, moaning each other’s names and kissing each other like you both had just found your future soulmate.

Javi did make good on his promises, he never let you go.

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astroboots · 10 months

Text

EVERY YOU EVERY ME #14

Pairing: Miguel O'Hara x female reader

Summary: You try to move on after the Universe has been saved.

Word count: 4,700

Warning: Angst

Series Masterlist | Spiderverse Masterlist | Astroboot’s Masterlist | thirstworldproblemss’ Masterlist

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You're standing in the middle of your old apartment.

The same apartment that had a helicopter crash into it and left nothing but rubble, ash and melted cement in its wake. Except now it's restored, like nothing ever happened.

Your rickety dining table sits in the middle of the room, propped up by a hardcover book to make up for the fact that one leg is crooked. Your tiny double bed with your lumpy mattress is pushed up against the wall. The usual piles of clean and dirty laundry indiscriminately mixed together sits unattended on top of the unmade covers.

You don't understand.

Why is it all back to normal?

You shake your head, snapping yourself out of it.

Miguel… You need to get back to him and you don't have time for this right now.

"Lyla," you summon. A warm ping vibrates against your inner wrist as Lyla appears. "Take me back to the void."

Lyla shakes her head firmly. "I'm sorry I can't do that."

"What do you mean? Of course you can, you've brought us there twice. You did it when Miguel commanded you."

She peers up at you through her pink heart-shaped glasses, with a solemn look in her holographic eyes.

"The first time was a miscalculation. The second was to eliminate the continued threat to your life."

Her words stop you cold. 'Continued threat...' Is she referring to Miguel?

"Lyla, please. Stop messing around. Take me back to Miguel."

Lyla's eyes go blank, no longer the flippant expression you are so used to seeing.

"Request denied. My programming does not allow me to expose you to danger."

"He's going to die if we don't do something Lyla!" You shout at her.

There is a tremor in your hand. Your nerves are shot, exhausted and tired from everything that has happened in the last 24 hours and you can feel the tears pushing up against your throat.

"Isn't it part of your protocol to protect him?!"

"I was built to protect you. My primary directive is to make sure you're safe above all else. That is my purpose."

She recites the words as if she's reading from a manual. It's flat and emotionless in a way you've never known Lyla to be before. Like the line is hardwired into the very core of her basic coding. There are no funny jokes. No sass.

"Lyla, please," you beg.

She doesn't answer you. That same impassive expression as before is still on her face.

"Lyla..." you try again.

You scramble to think of your options. To devise a plan B. But to your horror, you can’t think of anything.

What are you meant to do? You’re not a super genius who can build source code out of thin air that can break the laws of physics. You have no superpowers. No magic that allows you to travel to other dimensions.

The only thing you know how to do is file claim insurance applications. You’re useless.

There's nothing to be done.

It's over.

Your legs give in from the oppressive weight of your realization. You slump to the floor, unable to hold yourself together as the hard wooden floor hits your knees. You fold in two, hunched over the floor and you let the ache inside your chest break and pour over and you cry.

When you come to some time later, you find yourself curled up on the floor. You don't know how long you must've been crying for. But it must’ve been long enough for you to have cried yourself to exhaustion and slipped into unconsciousness.

Turning onto your back, you stare up at the ceiling, shivering from the cold breeze of the evening coming through the window.

Your limbs are cramping from exhaustion. You're dehydrated. Mouth dry and eyes crusted with dried tears. There's a deep-seated headache burrowing into your skull. It's a struggle for you to get up from the floor into a seated position, as you properly take in your surroundings.

At first glance, this version of your apartment looks identical to yours, but on closer inspection there are some stark differences.

By the window, there are black out curtains hanging from the ceiling to allow for sleep-ins during daylight hours.

On your bed, amongst the mountain piles of laundry strewn haphazardly, there are items you don’t recognize. Oversized hoodies that are big enough to fit a bear. Male sweatpants. Socks so big they look like they're Christmas stockings.

Walking over to the kitchen area, there's a distinct lack of coffee. It's been replaced by expired Reese's Peanut Butter cups, milk duds, and Hershey bars that fill every corner of your kitchen cupboards to the brim, stuffed haphazardly on the upper shelves that you could never reach. They have even made their way into your nightstand and stuffed and hidden between books on the bookshelf.

Lyla doesn't even have to tell you where you are. You already know.

This is your home. In your other self's dimension. It belongs to Miguel's nena.

Miguel sent you here, the closest universe he knew of that was identical to yours, so that you could live out your days in safety, without him.

Fucking idiot.

This is not what you wanted.

Days pass.

It's an odd and empty existence, you've beaten the impossible odds and won against the universe itself and made it out alive. Yet you're not sure that anything about this truly qualifies as a victory.

For all you know, the world that is your home may have been destroyed.

After all that's what Stark said: there is no guarantee that just because you left, everything would go back to normal.

And who are you to argue with the (second) smartest man on earth?

There's no way of you knowing what the outcome was, and Lyla refuses to transport you out of this current dimension.

You spend most of your days curled into a ball in bed unable to summon the strength to keep yourself upright or awake for more than an hour at a time, haunted by the knowledge that your escape from your death might have doomed trillions to theirs.

In the hours in between, when that inescapable guilt doesn't eat into your mind, the only thing you are left with is replaying the moments of your life in the past three months.

It flits through your closed eyes like an old film reel and in every one of those moments, Miguel is there, reminding you of what you have now lost.

You feel hollowed out, scraped out and empty like there's nothing inside. The only time you manage to feel anything that resembles an emotion is when you clutch onto whatever piece of oversized clothing that once belonged to Miguel. The only physical trace you have to prove to yourself that he existed and it's not just some fantastical made up story in your mind.

Miguel once told you that anyone who gets lost in the void gets erased. Their very existence scrubbed from the records of the world. Does the fact that you can still remember him mean that he's still there? And if so, how much longer will you be able to mourn him before he's faded entirely in that space. Before your very memory of him and the love you have that sits inside you with nowhere to go is gone too?

Nothing about this feels like a happy ending.

In the first few days, you don't leave the house. You tell yourself that it's better that way. Now that Miguel is no longer here, the idea of walking out in into open streets in broad daylight seems strange to you.

Lyla tries to tempt you with exotic holidays.

“Bali, India! The world is your oyster, we can fly out first class tonight and do an Eat Pray Love for as long as you want to!” Lyla’s voice sings in your ear. "Thailand is lovely this time of the year, barely any tycoons."

Most of the time, you ignore her presence, burying your head into the pillow, pathetically hugging onto one of the oversized shirts that’s been left behind.

Everytime you hope to catch a whiff of the remnant traces of Miguel’s presence there. But there’s nothing. It just smells of stale detergent.

After surviving the end of the world, a lot of things that used to be important seems meaningless to you now.

Alive as you may be, there’s no real purpose for you carved out in this dimension. You don't go to work in the mornings, because the you of this universe died years ago. Showing up at your office at the Chrysler building would likely induce heart attacks amongst your old co-workers.

You could scour Careerbuilder for job ads, but there's a sour pit in your stomach that hugs tightly around your guts everytime you think of the prospect of having to speak to job recruiters.

You don't think you have it in you to lie to some stranger at an interview and pretend that being in front of a white screen poring over excel sheets 8 hours a day is the way you want to spend the rest of your life until you hit retirement.

Besides, rent is not an issue anymore. Nor is money when Lyla is there to take care of you and act as your digital sugar momma. A standing order for any and all bills needed to maintain this home had already been set up long before you arrived.

You feel sorry for Lyla. She's been programmed to take care of your mental and physical well being and you know she is at wit's end with your listless behavior.

She pulls out all the stops. Lyla orders take out for you, delivered right to your door to try to get you to eat. If she had a physical body, you think she would hold you down and force feed you.

But something is wrong with you, because even though every dish is your favorite, rounded up from your favorite restaurants in the city, for the first time in your life since you were born, you no longer have much of an appetite.

You usually only manage mouthfuls just to keep Lyla from constantly nagging, before you shove the take-out box back into the fridge and then crawl back into bed.

Everything tastes bland and grey. Everything around you seems to have lost its color and shine. Was the world around you always this dull?

On the fifth day, there is a familiar baby-pink box with Gladis' logo printed on the lid arriving at your doorstep.

“Surprise!” Lyla announces. “It’s your favorite! I ordered the luxury box with the elderflower lemon flavors, as well as the lychee-raspberry jello!”

You sit down by the table, staring at the beautifully adorned cupcakes in the box. Spirals of white and pink frosting with petals of edible flowers. There's freshly cut strawberries and blackberries and chocolate shavings on op.

Picking one up, you cram the whole cupcake into your mouth, trying to cling onto the memory of that first time when the flavor of lemon zest bursting on your tongue had made you squeal with happiness.

That doesn't happen.

This time, as the sugar hits the top of your mouth, all you can think about is how much you miss him. How things will never be the same without him.

How you'll never get to have him sit next to you, smiling softly as he watches you eat. That you'll never get to see him demolish a cupcake in one bite and leave frosting on his nose.

It doesn't feel the same, you just feel hollow. Wetness spills across your cheeks, and snot clogs your nose and throat. You must look like a looney, ugly crying with your mouth stuffed full of cupcake, barely swallowing.

After that Lyla doesn’t order them for you anymore.

It's morning you think, judging from the bright sun pouring in from the blinds.

Lyla is buzzing near your ear where you've taken off the watch and placed it on the pillow next to you for company.

"You need to get out of the house. You're turning into a social recluse. It's not a good look," she says, as she peers down at you over her pink-tinted glasses.

"How about I get a date for you? Have a fab night out on the town? I have a roller-dex of the top bachelors in New York. I'm happy to hack into their calendar!"

You ignore her, burying your face deeper into the pillow, hugging Miguel's worn hoodie tighter to your chest. You pull the cover over your head, but you can still hear her babble on through the thin separation of fabric.

"What's your type? Oscar Isaac? He’s hot– No, no you're right he's happily married and we don’t wanna be homewreckers here. What about Lenny Kravitz? Doesn't get cooler than Kravitz and he’s long divorced."

"Lyla stop," you groan, poking your head back up above the covers. You just want quiet. Just want to stay here cocooned in this space that is the closest you'll ever get to Miguel for as long as you can remember him, until that too is taken away from you.

"I'm fine. I don't need a date."

"You're not fine though. You've only eaten a box of cupcakes in the last week. You haven't showered and you look like a mess. Your hair is greasier than the BP oil spill off the gulf of Mexico. My purpose is to keep you safe, and that includes your mental and emotional levels, which are... " she stops, throwing up some diagnostics boxes in floating holograms, then makes a face. "Yikes."

She’s doing this on purpose. Talking incessantly, so that she can nag you into doing what she wants. Suddenly you gain newfound sympathy for Miguel. You used to think it was funny when she nagged him and got on his nerves, but now that you're on the end of it, you see how he must’ve suffered when Lyla was in one of these moods with him.

"Will you stop if I step out of the house for a walk," you offer as an olive branch, hoping for a little peace and quiet.

"How long of a walk?"

"Five."

"Minutes?!" Lyla screeches with outrage. "The general recommendation is 150 minutes of weekly exercise, I'm going to need at least an hour's walk from you boss-girl."

"Twenty minutes."

"Forty!"

"Half an hour, or I'm going back to bed and wearing earplugs."

Lyla grins. "Deal".

The streets here look the same as the ones in your dimension, down to the Bodega owned by the old Korean couple around the corner. This version of earth is identical to yours in almost every way you know of.

Except in this New York, instead of Matthew Ellis, a man named Biden who is apparently over 100 years old (give or take a few years) is president.

In this reality, Leonardo Di Caprio apparently won an Oscar, while Amy Adams still hasn't, which is nuts to you.

The Avengers also don't seem to exist here. Though Superheroes still seem prevalent. A group of misfits that refers to themselves as the Fantastic Four seems to dominate the news cycle more often than not.

Ahead of you, the street splits into two paths and you take a corner into the smaller street that you know should cut through to a dog park.

But it doesn’t. Instead of green grass fields and park benches, you end up in a small narrow dead end of a street. Somehow you're lost. Shit. You should've paid more attention.

Looking up, you turn your head left and right to try to make sense of where you could be. You’re just about to pull up google maps, when the flickering light of the one sole streetlamp illuminating this alley catches your attention.

You're 12 blocks from Chinatown, but you recognize this alley even though it shouldn't be here.

From a distance, you spot the familiar red stall. The same small rickety table. The same red cloth draped on top. The same old lady with her abnormally large shiny head, comically large sunglasses and white-blue robe. The same giant sign spelling out: Fortune teller.

Only this time, there's only one folding chair set up in front of it.

She takes one look at you, as you sit down with a look of familiarity in her milky-white eyes.

"Your bad luck is gone," she says.

You should be more surprised that the scam fortune teller from another dimension seemingly remembers the conversation you had with her other self. But it doesn't. You've learned by now that nothing is as it seems.

Random near death accidents are not just due to bad luck. A superhero that repeatedly saves you isn’t just doing it out of sheer goodwill and duty. A starmap is not just a starmap, and you’re willing to bet your life that this fortune teller is not just a fortune teller.

“Who are you?” you ask her.

“Is that of importance to you?”

“Yes.”

She takes off her sunglasses and stares directly into your eyes. Without the obstruction of dark tinted lenses, you can see that it's not glaucoma causing the whiteness in her pupils. In her eyes, there are galaxies, millions of tiny dots of glowing stars, endless and mesmerizing as you stare back into them.

"My name is Ulana. I’m a Watcher. My role is to observe the Multiverse from the Nexus of all realities.”

There’s no longer that harmless demeanor and friendly smile that makes you drop your guard. She holds herself with reverence as she speaks, with the aura of the divine.

“Does that mean you are able to observe every reality in this moment?” you ask.

“Yes.”

The image of your New York with its pink cracked sky and the chaos you left it in crowds your vision.

"Can you tell me what happened to my old world after I left? Is it still there?"

"Your old home is intact and safe."

You let out a shaky breath you didn’t know you had been holding all this time.

Thank god.

Relieved tears spill from your cheeks. Somehow you haven't single-handedly caused the destruction and death of whole worlds and countless lives.

Even if you can never go back there, that place will always be your home, and your chest warms at the thought that even without you it will always still be there.

You take a moment to gather yourself, to wipe the errant tears that are welling up with the back of your hand.

Then you take a deep calming breath before you ask her the question that has been plaguing your mind since you arrived in this reality.

"Is Miguel still alive in the void?" you ask her.

"Your husband is still alive. But he doesn't have much time left. He's fading."

Your fingers curl into fists on top of your knees, "How do I save him?"

"I couldn't tell you.” She shakes her head sadly. "My kind is not allowed to intervene. We are only meant to observe the ongoings of the universes. I've already meddled too much.”

Ducking down, she reaches under her desk, sorting through the pile of junk paper, before she leans back up over the table.

"This is the only help I can give you," she says, reaching over to place something into your hands.

You look down to see a familiar bright yellow Star Map.

"He'll be home this time," she tells you.

You're standing on the doorsteps of the old brownstone on 177A Bleecker Street, staring up at the old ornate wooden front doors.

Unlike last time you were here, there's no hesitation in you anymore. It doesn't matter that you've come alone with no other superhero to validate your mad and fantastical story about the Cosmos that was out to kill you.

You don't care if Strange thinks you're a random crazy from the streets.

If he doesn't believe you, then you'll make him believe you. If he tries to have you hauled out, you'll kick and drag and scream at the top of your lungs, and chain yourself to his front door if that's what it takes.

You bring your hand to the door knocker and tap it three times. Then you wait.

Nothing.

Didn't the fortune teller say he was going to be home this time?

Goddamnit, was she a scam after all? What kind of name is Ulana for a celestial being anyhow? Did you end up wasting another ten dollars?

You grit your teeth and step forward again, grabbing the door knocker to pound it down against the front door, even harder this time and you don’t stop at one or two, you keep slamming it down fervently.

Mid-knock, the door creaks, swinging open, as an exasperated voice greets you.

"Yes, yes, yes. I'm coming. There's no need to knock that aggressively, I'm not going to come to the door any fast–"

He stops mid-sentence as he looks at you. For a man you've never met, Dr. Strange's eyes go wide at the sight of you standing on his doorsteps. His eyes are filled with the disbelief of a man who's seen a ghost.

"You're alive," he says.

“Sit down and make yourself comfortable,” Strange says as he hurriedly pulls out a chair by the old oak table in his dining room.

“I’ll make us some tea,” he says.

He waves his cape with a dramatic flare in the empty space, and from a distance you hear a small click, before you realize that he must’ve used magic to put on the kettle.

For someone that’s supposed to be a sorcerer, you don’t know why the hell he bothers having a kettle. Seems a bit redundant, couldn’t he just use magic to instantly heat water?

You sit down as instructed, hands folded in your lap as you try not to fidget.

There’s a prolonged and uncomfortable silence as you both wait for the water to boil.

Strange opens then closes his mouth, as if he’s unsure of who should speak first. In the end though, he doesn’t say anything at all, he just drums his fingers impatiently on the wooden surface as he smiles politely but awkwardly at you. Across the room, the water starts simmering to a boil.

This wasn’t what you had expected. You had counted on him to try to kick you out and you having to make a passionate plea for him to listen to you. Instead he’d opened the door and insisted on inviting you in and now the two of you are drowning in a sea of uncomfortable silence.

There’s a tinny whistle from the kettle, and Strange darts up from the chair, as if the interruption was a godsend. He rushes over to pick it up, before walking back to the table with it at a much slower pace.

Then he stands next to you, tilting the snout of the kettle into your small tea cup.

Strange stares intently at your face as he pours the boiling water into the cup. So focused on you that he doesn't pay any attention to the level of the hot water, until it spills over the rim and onto the table surface below. Then he seemingly snaps himself out of it.

"Shit! Sorry," Strange begins. He wipes up the spillage with his robe, even though there are perfectly good paper towels behind him, even though he could’ve just used magic to make it vanish in the blink of an eye.

"You look exactly like her," he says, then he stops himself.

Strange considers the statement and does a curt little nod at himself as if berating himself for how stupid that comment sounded. "Which of course you do. You are her, just… from another dimension."

From your time with Miguel, you’ve been able to glean from his childish rants about the man’s “ugly” and “useless” and “impractical” cape that there’s a hostility there towards Strange that goes beyond just Miguel being Miguel.

Judging from the guilt in this man’s eyes as he looks at you from across the table, you can guess that there is a complicated history between Strange and Miguel and you.

“Did you know me?” you ask.

“Yeah, we were friends. Good friends,” Strange corrects himself. Then a sadness seeps into his eyes as he stops wiping the table and pulls back his robe close to his body. “Although I supposed I wasn’t a great friend to you near the end of things.”

He places the cup down on the table in front of you, the rising steam wafts through the air, smelling of mint and honey as he drags out the chair and sits himself next to you.

"Why don't you tell me everything from the start," Strange asks you.

So you do. You tell him of that first day when you fell out of the Chrysler building and was saved by Miguel. Tell him about how Miguel saved you again and again and how you tried to trap him with cookies and how you fell out of the Chrysler building a second time on purpose, which makes Strange laugh that sounds fond and warm.

You tell him of the void, the fortune teller, the Avengers and everything in between, and how despite surviving all of that Miguel had exiled himself to the void and sent you here by yourself, with each event you tell him his eyes grow sadder.

When you're done, Strange nods solemnly. He picks up his cup and takes a small sip of his tea to buy himself time to gather his thoughts. Then he finally speaks again. "What can I do to help?"

"Miguel is still in the void. I need your help to send me there so I can get him back."

Strange frowns, then goes entirely quiet as he stares out of the window in deliberation. It takes several moments before he speaks again.

"The void is a dangerous place, stay too long and you will be erased from existence. If you go in you may not be able to find your way out and I wouldn’t be able to help you from here."

“That’s fine, I just need your help to get there” you say.

He sets down his cup as he continues. "I can’t in good conscience send you back out there. I've already broken my promise to keep you safe once."

Frustration brims in your chest. As flattered as you are over Strange’s concern over your safety, you bristle at the fact that there seems to be none extended to Miguel’s. Every second you spend here is another second wasted.

“Miguel is there. If I don’t save him, he’s going to be erased from existence.”

That doesn’t seem to move the doctor in the slightest.

“For Miguel, his own life is a small price to pay in exchange for yours. He’d sacrifice the whole world for you to live.”

“That’s not a choice for him to make.”

Strange scratches his thumb over his bearded jaw, as if he's trying to figure out how to solve a puzzle, before speaking again.

"Right now with Miguel gone, the volatile cosmic energy surrounding you is stabilized. The version of you in this universe died and is viewing your presence as an equivalent exchange. You could stay here. You'd be safe. Miguel would've known that. That's probably why he sent you here.”

"I don't want to stay here if Miguel isn't here," you counter.

Leaning back in his chair, Strange up at the ceiling in deep thought.

"It's risky, if I sent you there, you may not even be able to find him. He might not even have his physical shape anymore, he’s been there too long by now."

His head ducks back down as he looks at your face, observing you for long moments.

You don't know what it is he sees, but a small amused smile quirks at his lip as he shakes his head again.

"But... I think you already know the risks and nothing I can say will dissuade you will it?" he says.

You nod.

It's not that you've stopped being scared of the void. It's not that the very thought of it doesn't fill your stomach with a cold dread. It's that Miguel is there, and there is no risk you're not willing to take to have the chance to see him again.

You square your chest and confidence swells inside you with your answer.

"Send me there."

~ Next Issue

Credit and Dedication: We're almost there guys! Next issue is going to be the final one. Thanks to everyone who has been with me on this ride! I cannot wait to share the final conclusion with you all.

Special thank you (as always) go out to my bestie: @thirstworldproblemss who is a big reason this story even lifted off the ground in the first place.

Big BIG BIGGEST thanks to my muse @guruan who has gifted me with so much inspiration be it thirsty twitter art of our favorite rude spider or her own insanely gorgeous art. Have you seen this heartbreaking beauty?!

I don’t have a tag list but please follow me on astroboots-writes and turn on notifications to be notified when I post something new!

#miguel o'hara x reader #miguel o'hara x you #miguel o'hara fi #miguel o'hara fic #miguel o'hara fanfic #miguel o'hara #miguel o'hara fanfiction #spiderverse #oscar isaac #across the spiderverse fanfiction #across the spiderverse #marvel mcu #marvel #miguel ohara fic #miguel ohara #miguel ohara x reader #miguel ohara x you #spiderverse fanfiction

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three-penguins-in-a-trench-coat · 5 months

Text

Memory in Stardew Valley is kinda fucked

So, memory in Stardew Valley is almost like a tangible thing, and I wanna talk about it. I mean technically speaking, you can sell it, trade it, swap it, bop it, twist it and so on and so forth. Why do I wanna talk about it? Because I have no social life and the only thing I can feel is the rage of my ancestors as I harvest yet another batch of ancient fruit wine.

Most people know about the Dark Shrine of Memory, the fun statue that wipes your ex's memories for a quick buck. Now that's pretty neat and all, but I think this leads to further interpretation I'm sure Concerned Ape wouldn't think is relevant but I'm gonna push it.

Someone had to put that statue there. I don't think it's the witch, because she has to shell up 30 big ones every time another thirsty wizard comes along. Also, Rasmodius still has his memories of them, and if I were her I wouldn't want a guy like Razzle-Dazzle thinking about her. And it's probably vice-versa, as the witch still curses the town from time to time to spite the purple-haired goblin.

Mr Qi would be a reasonable guess, especially since you have to pay to use it, and he is known to have several marketing schemes around the place, but this one doesn't feel like him. I think there's another powerful creature out and about, they've stumbled across a way to erase memories and are using it for profit. The witch is just a tool behind the mastermind.

On top of the memory shrine, the Dark Shrine of Selfishness also contains a portion of memory magic. No one remembers the children that disappeared. No one except the farmer. Perhaps some immunity comes with being a fallen god, or perhaps it's simply because they're the ones that paid, so they are cursed to forever remember their sin. Either way, considering the fact that two of the statues directly erase memories, there's something interesting going on.

Another aspect of memories that people don't often think about is resetting days. Now this does reach a fair bit into undertale, but I think it applies pretty well here too. Days can loop over and over again, and no one will remember any of them, except for the Farmer. With the knowledge and foresight of what's happening, the Farmer can escape danger and the villagers know no better. There is perhaps only two other people in Stardew who might have an idea of what's going on. The Witch, and Mr Qi.

The witch is obvious, she has the shrines in her house, but from Mr Qi's dialogue, we can gleam an idea of what he may know.

I got to where I am through the force of pure willpower, kid. You see... The mind is a very powerful tool. In fact, it's the most powerful tool in all of reality... and beyond

“Some things transcend time and space, kid. It's a unique feeling in the heart... a whisper of things beyond.”

Now it could be pretty easy to interpret this a hundred different ways, but I want to link it to memory right now. The specific wording states that Mr Qi might be aware of resetting save files and that memories can be erased. I don't think he can alter other people's memories (though we don't know enough about him to be sure), but he may have found a way to keep his own memories safe.

Perhaps it's even how he found the Farmer. One day, he wakes up again, and he knows it's the same day. This happens sometimes, and he's forced to live the same day twice, three times or even more sometimes. He seeks out the source of the issue and stumbles across the farmer. On the surface, they seem like a regular person, until one day, the day resets again and the Farmer acts like they've done it a thousand times, taking every right move in the mines and getting everything they failed to do in the last attempt.

I think Mr Qi would want to keep an eye on someone like that.

From all of this, I have come to a conclusion. The statues present the idea of memory, but they also show that memory magic can be used to accomplish very specific tasks. We've only seen a few examples, but it wouldn't be much of a stretch to say that memory could be distorted a thousand different ways in Stardew. Perhaps none of the memories you have of your neighbour are real, and they never existed before yesterday. Or your parents actually died when you were three and you were raised by the spirits of hell. You actually have the memories of your best friend who died last week. Who knows?

Nothing is real, reality is an illusion.

#there is the possibility I'm overthinking this #but ive never listened to the rational part of my brain before #im not starting now #stardew valley #stardew #sdv #stardew farmer #sdv mr qi #mr qi #stardew theories #stardew theory

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oathkeeper-of-tarth · 29 days

Note

So, I'm curious: What's your take on Aylin's experience after/if she kills Lorroakan?

Allegedly, there's some information floating around somewhere that said Aylin was angry with Selune after she killed Lorroakan, but I can't find where this info is.

If you saw posts about that here on tumblr it was probably posted by @justanotherignot! I've actually been meaning to gather up all the devnote tidbits about Selûne from Aylin and Isobel for a while now, so thank you for the excuse to do so and ramble a bit.

Player: I was just wondering what it was like in that cage of Balthazar's. Aylin: Let us not dwell on those dark days. Their memory is a vortex within my heart that leads directly to the Hells.

What is happening is, well, it's the century of unthinkable horror catching up to her. It's the Trauma(TM) - in one of the conversation options she's literally triggered by the mention of someone being run through repeatedly! It's the growing awareness that although she's been freed (and possibly reunited with her love), the secret is out and there are always going to be assholes gunning for her, aiming to use her as an "artefact" and power source to fuel their ambitions, without any regard for her, you know... basic personhood and well-being. Also, Lorroakan was blatantly lying. He didn't find any super special way to siphon her immortality with "no harm, no pain of any kind", he was just replicating Balthazar's soul cage (you can even find a letter from Ketheric to him, showing Lorroakan was pestering them).

On to the stuff from the game files! First, the conversation with Aylin directly after the Lorroakan fight in the tower. I'm going to be putting the context notes in square brackets next to the lines they apply to. I also plucked some audio out from the files for some of these because I love the delivery.

Aylin: The fire-haired fool is dead. Yet as I stare upon his corpse, I feel… sadness. Why? [Slow and curious, angry and confused by all that has happened.] Player: What kind of sadness is it? / I know something of sadness - or at least the ballads do. What does it feel like? Aylin: A gripping in the chest. As though I'd lost someone, something. [Lost in thought for a moment; confused.] Aylin: A paladin's fatigue, no doubt. You were excellent in battle, as is your way. And I am proud to fight at your side. [Remembering herself. She is Dame Aylin.] Aylin: I will catch my breath, then to camp I will bring my bones. Moonmaiden be with you. Player: Smiting is a weighty duty - sometimes it can be tiring. / Perhaps smiting has lost its pleasures. Aylin: Say it can't be so. For I am Selûne's sword. And ever must be. [She means it, but on the periphery of her consciousness is a tiny crack. Wondering about her fate.]

The above never fails to get me - she is Dame Aylin! Sword of the Moonmaiden! Glorious immortal paladin, champion of a righteous cause! She smites evil-doers for breakfast, that's, like, her whole thing! What do you mean she can't just pick up where she left off and go about her merry smitey way? What do you mean the thing that is supposed to be the literal core of her entire being (forever) doesn't feel good and glorious anymore, but just makes her feel sad and empty? No, no, no, we can't have that.

Player: One of the greatest tragedies of revenge is that it can only be taken once. / Because you won't get to kill him again? Aylin: Perhaps. Yet if I could run him through a thousand times, I wonder-- [Lost in thought, she's been triggered to remember her own fate being run through over and over.] Aylin: Battle has tired my mind, made me susceptible to flights of fancy. You were excellent in battle, as is your way. And I am proud to fight at your side.

Aylin: I will return to camp shortly. I just need a moment to… to… [Lost in thought.]

She so very desperately needs some rest and a chance to come to terms with everything that happened and that was done to her. And it's clear it's going to be hard because she is defaulting to trying to deny anything is wrong, is clearly trying (and failing) to just be her old self immediately, has blatantly internalised a lot of that classic I Am A Sword stuff on top of everything (even though her mother is huge on free will and choice!), and is just really not well-equipped to handle any of this at all.

Next, this is the post-Lorroakan convo you get if you have both Aylin and Isobel in camp.

Aylin: Ah. Ally mine. We are reunited once more. [Warm, but drained. She's not feeling like herself.] Aylin: I was just regaling sweet Isobel with tales of our prowess. Isobel: Very impressive. Thank you for helping Aylin - that wizard sounded absolutely dastardly. [Good humored. Soft in tone. A little uncertain - she's not sure why Aylin isn't herself.] Player: My pleasure. He had it coming. Aylin: He did, and it came. Now, my friend: bask in your victory. I will do the same. Aylin: But fear not: when the time comes for you to face the foe of foes, Isobel and I will stand by your side. [Rallying her soldierly spirit, but still a little drained.] Isobel: We wouldn't miss it. Not for anything. Aylin: Go well, friend. We will see you soon. And with our great powers combined, this city will be saved. Player: Hopefully he'll be the last. Aylin: There are always more bastards behind bastards. But we will run through them all, each by each.

Player: I hope you can rest easy now, Dame Aylin. Aylin: I always do, with darling Isobel by my side. Aylin: Enjoy the spoils of your victory. Spin memories of Lorroakan's death in your mind like silkfloss.

If Isobel isn't there (meaning she died in Act 2), you get this version:

Aylin: Ah. Ally mine. We are reunited once more. [Warm, but drained. She's not feeling like herself.] Aylin: I was just reviewing our fight against foul Lorroakan; your moves and mine. The victory was soundly won. Aylin: Don't you think? [Uncharacteristically, Aylin is seeking input. She's usually so confident about everything, but killing Lorroakan has not had the intended effect on her.] Player: Indeed I do. Let his demise serve as a warning to anyone else who'd seek you out. Aylin: Let him be the last. If my dear mother has any mercy, she will ensure it. [Trying to stay her usual self, but her mask is cracking a tiny bit here. Privately, Aylin is dealing with a great deal of anger toward her mother, the goddess Selûne, But she's not yet willing to face it. How could her powerful mother let all this happen to her?]

Player: We fought well - though I was a little worried about you afterward, in truth. Aylin: Set your mind at ease, my friend. Dame Aylin is more well now than she has been this past century. [Good humored. Soft in tone. A little uncertain - it's true she's better now than she has been, but why does she feel so shitty, then? (She's in the beginning of reckoning with the trauma of what happened to her).]

Player: I hope you can rest easy now, Dame Aylin. Aylin: Yes. I wish for the very same. Aylin: Enjoy the spoils of your victory. Spin memories of our prowess in your mind like silkfloss.

So, a few things pop out for me here. First, you get the more explicit anger at Selûne if Isobel isn't there, as opposed to the "hahah, I will smite all the bastards who dare come after me, no matter how many there are" line. "How could her powerful mother let all this happen to her?" just... damn, hits hard, even if you subscribe to the theory that Selûne simply could not intervene in the Shadowfell imprisonment beyond sending those poor people whose graves you find in front of the mausoleum.

And here Aylin really lays it on thick with the denial that there's anything wrong at all. Combined with the letter you get from her in the epilogue if Isobel is dead, it just paints such a bleak, sad picture. I can just see her going all out on the Sword of Selûne duty-bound paladin side of things, no rest, no healing, no stopping even for a moment, no dealing with anything at all, from the trauma to the bitterness towards mum. Until whatever horrible breaking point comes, a year or a century from now. The need for Isobel's humanising influence is so clear. I've touched on Isobel's side of things here.

Speaking of having a bone to pick with Selûne, if you're playing as a cleric/paladin of Selûne, you can get some extra very honest dialogue with Isobel in Last Light:

Player: Why has the Moonmaiden waited until now to take an interest in this curse? Isobel: Maybe she was waiting for one of us to find this place ourselves. Free will, and all that.

Isobel: Though if it were my place to ask why she let Ketheric turn; why she allowed this village to rot at his hands - believe me, I would. [A cold edge in her voice]

Player: Are you faring all right? It can't be easy holding a lone candle in such darkness. Isobel: All things with her strength. You know the litany. [A little sarcastically. She's got a bone to pick with Selûne but isn't being too overt.]

Side note: the amount of devnotes for Isobel's lines that say she's delivering them "with swagger" and being "cheeky" makes me smile every time. Love her. Love her snark.

Also, to get it out of the way: no, I'm fairly sure Aylin did not break her oath. I see this brought up a ton and I just see no way for it to be the case. There is nothing to suggest this outside of a wording similarity and it just makes no sense. Girl is clearly some flavour of Oath of Vengeance (she uses Abjure Enemy, so this is the case even mechanically, even though she's obviously an NPC and not a standard player-build paladin) and she killed a very shitty guy who was also explicitly after her in godawful ways. You can do far worse things in the game than her dramatic speech and backbreaker and not break your OoV.

#sorry this took so long!#baldur's gate 3 #bg3 #dame aylin #isobel thorm #lorroakan #datamine #voice lines #audio #i'm stopping myself here but i could go on about this FOREVER #time for the comfort part of the hurt/comfort let's goooooooooo #oathkeeper replies to things

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ecoamerica · 2 months

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youtube

Watch the American Climate Leadership Awards 2024 now: https://youtu.be/bWiW4Rp8vF0?feature=shared

The American Climate Leadership Awards 2024 broadcast recording is now available on ecoAmerica's YouTube channel for viewers to be inspired by active climate leaders. Watch to find out which finalist received the $50,000 grand prize! Hosted by Vanessa Hauc and featuring Bill McKibben and Katharine Hayhoe!

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crownmemes · 3 months

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Questioning Sentences, Vol. 20

(Questioning sentences from various sources to ask all kinds of muses. Adjust phrasing where needed)

"What makes you think I’m so much better than you?"

"Why are you wearing perfume?"

"Can you honestly tell me you've never done anything hypocritical?"

"You think I have a hypocritical attitude to hypocrisy?"

"You don't like flying, do you?"

"Suddenly you discover humanity?"

"So, when you say 'call me if you need anything', you mean 'don’t call me'?""

"Something on your mind?"

"Have you ever actually killed anybody, or do you just talk them to death?"

"You don't think that's a little paranoid?"

"Is this some clever practical joke that I'm not aware of?"

"Are you going to cry?"

"Why do you want so badly not to be human?"

"Did I mention that I have been drinking?"

"You would really give up everything you've ever known for me?"

"What exactly are you looking for?"

"Did you iron your shirt?"

"I assume you have a reason beyond wanting to make me completely miserable?"

"Why are you so curious about his curiosity?"

"You blow-dry your hair?"

"Does that make me evil?"

"Are you afraid of silence?"

"I'm supposed to show you sympathy?"

"How many people do you know in completely happy, fullfilling relationships?"

"Are there no depths you won't sink to?"

"Are you really okay?"

"You don't think she's hot?"

"What do you do with your time off?"

"May I have a drink now?"

"Why do you think that people would treat you worse if they knew the truth?"

"Excuse me for actually caring what I look like!"

"Have you watched any X-Files that inspire an explanation?"

"I don't suppose it's occurred to you that I might hugely prefer someone else?"

"Do the consequences of attacking outweigh the potential benefiits?"

"Did you sleep here?"

"I take it you two aren't sleeping together anymore?"

"You've come home to me, then?"

"Would you care to be a little more specific?"

"Is there any fucked up thing you don't know about?"

"What? You're saying I've only got one friend?"

"Tell me about your father? What was he like?"

"You've done this before, right?"

"Who said I was joking?"

"You really believe this, don't you? That you're a vampire?"

"Why don't we just kill him?"

"Why is everybody so ashamed of sex all of a sudden?"

"What do you mean you're married?"

"Are you thinking of doing something that has an outcome you can't live with?"

"What is the point in tradition if one is constantly changing things?"

"I don't mean to pry, but is something troubling you?"

#rp meme #rp memes #roleplay meme #roleplay memes #rp prompts #roleplay prompts #sentence starters #assorted;#questioning;

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fanhackers · 6 months

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I interviewed the organizers of the Media Fandom Oral History Project, and they shared about the project and what makes it important! The project collects oral histories (interviews) from fans about their fannish experiences. Oral histories help fans define for ourselves what it means to a fan, and they help preserve our histories for future generations.

The project needs volunteers! Email oralhistoryfandom (at) gmail (dot) com if you want to get involved.

The full interview can be found under the cut.

-Lianne, Fanhackers volunteer

Q: Can you briefly introduce yourself, the project, and its purpose?

Morgan Dawn: I am Morgan Dawn and have been a slash fanfiction fan since the 1990s. I entered fandom during the last years of paper fanfiction and the beginning era of online fandom.

The Media Fandom Oral History Project’s goal is to capture our history in our own words and with our own voices. The idea came when I was sitting at our kitchen table with my friend Sandy Herrold. We realized that fans talking to other fans in informal settings was the perfect way to showcase our community and our connections. What could be more fannish than talking about and sharing the things we love? We started interviewing fans at conventions, then moved to phone interviews and have finally switched the project into a Do-It-Yourself Mode with fans taking the lead interviewing their friends and choosing what they want to preserve.

The recordings are submitted to the University of Iowa's oral history collection and are available online. We are hoping to provide transcripts for all of the interviews. The University of Iowa has one of the world's largest fanfiction fanzine collections. You can see the list of interviews at Fanlore, one of the OTW’s projects.

Franzeska Dickson: I am Franzeska Dickson and have also been a slash fan since the 90s. In my case, I started as a 13-year-old screaming about Scully on alt.tv.x-files during the first season. (I was a NoRomo, as I recall, mostly because I thought Mulder wasn't nearly good enough for her.) I remember being floored when I was told about fanfic. I have no memory of being told that slash existed. I guess it didn't seem like a big deal. I spent the late 90s and early 00s in anime fandom before swinging back to oldschool Media Fandom and later to other Asian fandoms.

I ran into Morgan at a con and informed her that her recording plans were all wrong and she needed the type of voice recorder that linguists use in the field… I ended up with the recorder and the bulk of the early interviewing work.

Q: Speaking as if to someone unfamiliar with oral history and your project, why is the Media Fandom Oral History Project important?

MD: The recordings allow us to speak directly to future generations of fans and control the discussion of what it means to be a ‘fan.’ By having fans talk to other fans we bypass the dominant narrative of how fans interact with the TV, movies, books and comics. It is also an opportunity for marginalized members of our community to talk about their experiences. There has been much scholarship surrounding live action and anime fandoms. Some of it has been done by academics who are fans themselves and it has been wonderful to see the growth of Fandom Studies. But oral history offers every fan the ability to use their own words to talk about the things they remember and what matters to them.

FD: The early zine generation is rapidly dropping dead, and even when they aren't, I'm always running into younger fans trying to do research who have zero clue who's still alive or where to find them. If we wait for people to do their secondary academic research, it will be too late. Primary sources now or we won't have them!

The scope of fans who are interested in fandom history is much wider than the people who can make the right connections to talk to someone older. It's particularly true for early zines, but it's even true for something like Livejournal: I could rustle up thirty people in five minutes who'd be able to speak cogently on that fandom history. A lot of would-be history researchers currently in undergrad would not. For the future academics, the meta writers, or merely our curious fellow fans, it behooves us to record our history in our own words.

Q: What has the Media Fandom Oral History Project accomplished so far?

MD: We have completed 57 interviews. The first few years we went to in-person conventions and used a digital recorder to interview anyone who was interested. In 2017, a graduate student named Megan Genovese obtained funding and did 24 interviews over the phone in a single summer. During the pandemic, we moved into a DIY (do it yourself) phase - instead of a single person doing the interviewing, we now invite fans to contact their friends and spend an hour chatting about their fandom history. They can use their smartphones, Zoom/video conference recording or reserve a time slot on our international audio conference system.

We have recorded the history of some of the earliest slash writers, publishers and artists. We have preserved the memories of the first fan who created the first fanvid using a slide project and cassette audio tape. We have heard from fans who organized conventions and started letter writing campaigns to save shows. The interviews include filk singers, fans whose passion is meta, and fans who created and ran some of the first fiction archives. These fans are creators, organizers, supporters, and devotees and have so many stories to tell.

Q: In what ways do you hope the project will grow in the coming years? Or, what are your hopes for the project's future?

MD: We’re a small project and it is difficult to scale with our current resources. By shifting to the DIY phase we’re hoping to encourage fans to take the reins of their fandom history and never stop telling their personal fannish stories. The DIY project also allows fandom communities to leverage off our existing “infrastructure” - we can offer permission forms, an international recording platform (if needed), and a place to archive the interviews.

FD: All fandom history resources suffer from a strong predilection for the researcher's friends or their part of fandom to be the main focus. I hope people from very different parts of fandom will interview their friends about areas other people haven't found important or accessible enough to record.

Q: What help is needed, and how can people get involved?

MD: We need 2 intake coordinators to answer questions, e-mail and collect permission forms (Participants must sign a permission form allowing their recordings to be archived at the University of Iowa). We also need help with outreach to communities that may not be aware of the project - anime, BL fans, cosplayers, filkers, fans in other countries. This is not just a historical project looking backwards. We want to capture our community as it is today and hear from fans whose experiences differ. The central focus has not changed - fans participating in transformative fandom - reading, writing, creating fanfiction, fanvids, podfic, art, managing discord communities. But it all starts with intake coordinators who can keep track of participants and follow up to get the recordings. Each oral history also has a written transcription, as we want this project to be as accessible to as many people as possible. We’ve tried some automated transcription services, and the results are very uneven. This means there’s another opportunity for volunteers, people to listen to the recordings and to help transcribe the contents.

Q: Is there anything else you'd like people to know about the Media Fandom Oral History Project?

MD: It's a way for fans to be heard. They can describe their experiences on their own terms, in their own words, and take back some of the power of storytelling, rather than having others tell their stories for them.

It's a way to help preserve and honor fan experiences and fan history.

Envision you and your friends, talking about the things you love, your community, and what they mean to you, and describing and preserving these things for history.

Plus, it's really fun!

FD: If you don't want 'fandom history' to mean just one kind of fandom history, speak up while you can, whether that's here or in essays or in your own projects!

#oral history #fan project #author: Lianne

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lastoneout · 10 months

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Okay tumblr, I need you to settle something for me.

My fiancé and I are currently both doing crazy video game challenges, and we can't agree on which of us is more unhinged; me for digging out a giant 64x64x127(length, width, depth) block hole in my single-player survival Minecraft world almost entirely by hand OR my fiancé for doing the Professor Oak's Challenge in Pokemon Legend Arceus.

For those not in the know, The Professor Oak's Challenge is a type of Pokemon challenge run where you are forbidden from moving on to the next gym/major area until you've finished the Pokédex page for every single Pokémon you can catch in your current area. So say you start a new file on FireRed, you can't fight Brock until every single Pokémon that is avaliable to you before hand has been registered in your dex, including evolutions. In regualr pokemon game this leads to a lot of grinding, since you have to do things like level your starter to it's final evolution, around level 30-35, by fighting pokemon that are level 2-5, but in Legends Arceus you have the added challenge of not having your pokedex pages count as "complete" until you fulfill a bunch of tasks like catching a certain number of them, or using a specific move in battle multiple times.

For my challenge, I'm just using like four enchanted netherite pickaxes, a beacon, and as much dynamite as I can scrounge together to clear out all the blocks in a 65 by 65 block square from a little below sea level all the way down to the bottom of the world. If I've done my math correctly each layer is 4,096 blocks, and I'm digging through roughly 127 layers, which all together means breaking ~520,192 blocks. According to my sources this would take around two months straight of 24/7 digging, but I've sped up the process with enchantments and the beacon and the dynamite. I'm also not planning on doing anything with the hole(though I have considered filling it with melons), I'm just digging bcs I find it meditative and for the satisfaction of a job well done.

#minecraft #pokemon #pla #pokemon legends arceus #mineblr

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apocalypse-shuffle · 1 year

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BATMAN | BATFAMILY (assorted canon)

────────────────────

“Long Overdue” (Bruce Wayne x Batmom!Reader)

| Reader was with Bruce in the past but grew distant after Jason’s death. No one tells her when he comes back from the dead until Bruce is forced to bring her in on an ambush when they’re overwhelmed.

-Jason and Batmom!Reader reunion.

| SFW, canon typical action, cursing, past death of a child, Reader & Bruce are divorced, -angry!reader

| This is like half fanon half UTRH/Batman:Hush. I’m really just fucking around with canon rn. Also the pictures used are just for aesthetics and have no contextual meaning to the story. (pic source: Batman - Three Jokers comic)

| 1k+ words

| parts: one, spurt, two, three, four, five, six/six point five, seven.

Bruce clears his throat for the third time in ten minutes.

In contrast you roll your eyes for the third time in just as long before bending over to switch on the A/C. The Batmobile got stale whenever Bruce started binging. The vehicle not smelling like old blood and sweat stopped being important once your ex husband neglected his duties as Bruce Wayne.

Once upon a time that negligence would have worried you. Still does even if you vehemently tamp it down.

Another clearing of his throat.

“Spit it out already.” You hold your arm tighter to your chest at a bump in the road as you watch him, bullet wound treated rudimentarily enough to hold you over until you get to the cave but still adding to the scent of blood.

Bruce isn't a meta-human; he still emoted even if he did it in such small increments that the untrained eye wouldn’t catch on. You were far from untrained though; you’ve been speaking Bruce almost as long as Alfred has and so you see the twist of fearangersorrow that flashes across his face.

The same damn twist of fearangersorrow from the last days of you and Bruce’s relationship. This time around your stomach doesn’t drop and your body doesn’t flare, mirroring those same emotions. You don’t answer Bruce's natural pull at all in fact, only sigh as you do your best to keep your arm from jarring.

“I didn’t come here to fight. Say what you want.”

Not that you expected to get much leeway on that front. Asking Bruce to communicate without a million half truths was like asking a baby to scrape the paint off thirty feet walls. It could be done technically, it would just take a lot of patience and outside assistance.

His hands tighten on the steering wheel, gloves creaking, before he works through the motions of forcing himself to relax.

“You’re not going to like it.”

“Bruce, when's the last time I liked anything that came out your mouth?”

“You were on a video call with Dick and you laughed when I was complaining about that mite infestation in the cave.”

Of course he would remember that, living filing system that he was.

“Yeah, I was laughing at you,” you clarify with a tiny snort and Bruce gives you his faint smile.

“I know,” he says voice gone soft. You have to clench your eyes shut against the onslaught of emotions that tone elicits. How long has it been since you’ve heard it? “I'm…sorry.”

You don’t think he’s talking about the joke.

“Bruce-”

“I know,” he repeats before pausing. You recognize the active way he’s composing himself and something in you can’t help but to shrivel up. What could be so bad that he's acting nearly as off as when he had to explain how Joker killed your son to you?

Your heart pumps faster in your chest like it wants to run away from the impending news, and you have to open your mouth so that your breaths don’t begin to stutter. No more, not after Jason, you can’t take another death.

In an attempt to avoid the nearing collision of your anger and worry at Bruce gearing up to drop yet another bomb on you and straight up verbally expressing he’s sorry about it beforehand - which what the hell? - you run through what you know.

He could just be acting funny about a shared account you forgot to separate. That’s always a possibility. You focus on keeping your breathing level.

You’d seen Dick and heard from Babs tonight, talked to Dick on how to not burn down his house whilst cooking just three afternoons ago and he’d mentioned Alfred doing fine then. Hopefully that still rings true. The newest Robin that’d been dragged out of a collapsing building last week would still be recovering and no one had mentioned Timothy adding to his injuries so it likely wasn’t him that had Bruce like this, and you haven’t heard anything negative or otherwise about Batgirl.

Even this new Red Hood guy didn’t seem to be much of a problem outside of you not knowing who the hell he is and him being all up in your business earlier. You’d take a lot of shit over the dysfunctionality of you and Bruce’s relationship, but not from a stranger. Besides, you weren’t omniscient - that was more Alfred’s deal - so you weren’t exactly the best gauge on the greater intentions of the city’s newest crime boss. You made a habit of not looking too closely at Gotham’s vigilante scene if you could help it.

Joker did go by that once though, right before his metamorphic dip in a vat of acid green, but you knew it wasn’t the clown under that helmet. For one, Joker didn’t fight with Hood’s brute strength and honed finesse and secondly you knew for a fact the green haired bastard was in Arkham right now. Alive and well.

Your hands clench at the reminder.

“You let him live!”

“We are not executioners, Y/n!”

“Uh uh. Absolutely not, that’s where you’ve got me fucked up.” You take a deep breath before gesturing towards the expanse of Gotham. “When you choose over and over for this man to live you are explicitly signing everyone else’s death sentences, and how you don’t see that is beyond me.”

The way Bruce shakes his head is almost reflexive.

“We always stop him before he can do anything like that.”

“Oh really? Always? Because I got a son six feet under that says otherwise, and last time I checked so do you.”

Bruce twitches. “We don’t trade lives.”

You stare at him, your frustration a harsh nearly livable thing at that moment. The memory of him throwing you off the Joker, of the screaming match afterwards, makes your tongue taste like ash.

“Sure we do,” you murmur. “You just won’t see it that way.”

“We. Don’t. Stoop. To their level, Nightfall,” he accentuates gruffly and just as suddenly as it came your anger rushes away with the next gust of wind that lashes at your face.

An argument on methodology is not what you came here for. You're furious about The Joker, you have no doubt you always will be, but that fury isn’t what drove you to hunting Bruce down on a random rooftop. Joker isn’t what got you back in your suit on this night. Bruce is.

Bruce Batman who’s clearly getting ready to turn this into a thing again.

“Bruce. Bruce stop it.”

You look at him. Really look at him for the first time in weeks and something just…clicks. Bruce and you have been standing at a precipice this whole time. This was it. How Bruce handled Jay’s death was either going to make or break you. And if Dick going virtually no contact had been the trial run the continual state of your marriage wasn’t looking too good. No more kids to patch up the cracks. No more looking away from new cracks formed.

Your mask gets pulled off a second later.

“My baby is dead, Bruce. We had to bury our mangled son today and you want to go out and be Batman when Bruce Wayne is needed at home. I don’t want to argue philosophies, I want you to leave the cape at the door and be here for me as my husband.”

Problem was that Bruce hadn’t been able to do both, and by the end of that interaction you’d punched him for it. Punched him for your son too. One failed attempt and all of a sudden he couldn’t kill Jason’s killer or let you do it for the both of you. No, he’d cracked down instead. It would be inexcusable and he’d clash with you the whole way.

You can admit to yourself that you gave up because you didn’t want to be faced with the possibility of Bruce throwing you in jail over the Joker. He’d stopped you from wiping him from the earth three times at that point, who’s to say he wouldn’t have eventually caved and gotten you committed?

Bruce couldn’t balance being the husband to a grieving wife and being the grieving father of a murdered son. Couldn’t handle being Bruce Wayne when The Batman was so much simpler; easier to hide behind than confronting everything. So he retreated.

In a way you understood, the death of a child wasn’t something you walked away from at all in some cases and it certainly changed you in every situation, but you were supposed to have been able to deal with that blow together.

Bruce’s voice, tight and broad, less Bruce and more Bat once more, brings you out of your head.

“A few weeks ago the Red Hood made his presence known after an undisclosed amount of time hiding below the radar in Gotham with a duffel bag full of severed heads.”

You hum lightly having already known this. Dick got chatty when he was stressed.

“A few days after that Red Hood and I got in an altercation wherein he unmasked and gave me his blood and fingerprints. Both that I then tested…”

Behind your mask you squint, breath rushing out of you as another possibility you hadn’t dared to let yourself think comes to mind. Grief’s most dangerous wish. You start shaking your head. It's a useless attempt to not let the pieces come together.

“The results matched that of Jason Todd’s,” there’s a moment of brief wrenching stillness before he adds quieter, as if his veneer of control has suddenly been punched out of him. “Our Jason….”

…TBC

NOTES: Hope you enjoyed! Comments would be appreciated if you wanted to leave one! I read all of them, I only don’t respond cause this is a side blog.

P.S.: It’s gonna come off like I hate Bruce in the later chapters (only sometimes irl) so yeah. Apparently I’m just getting out some general Bruce frustrations with this, so fair warning. This is not a happy ending for his ass.

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ashleysmessyjourney · 1 year

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My First Messing Accident at Night

Color me surprised.

I woke up two nights ago to roll over, just awake enough to get more comfortable before I let sleep take hold of me once more. You know what I'm talking about, right? How you wake up for mere seconds to get cozier before you're asleep again?

Well, as soon as I rolled over, I felt the oh-so-familiar feeling of something warm and heavy sliding into my diaper. I thought I was dreaming and tried to fall asleep again but then the smell hit me like a ton of bricks. I sat up in a flash to check but the heat radiating from the seat of my diaper was undeniable proof of what I had done.

What was shocking was that I hadn't even felt the urge grow within me. I hadn't felt any sort of movement from my tummy that would signify that I needed to go #2 until it was already coming out. I didn't push. I didn't cough. I didn't do anything that would help push that hot load into my diaper and yet, it happened anyway.

Granted, I had a few drinks that night and snacked on some popcorn, so I wonder if that had anything to do with it. Guess I can't eat microwave popcorn anymore; it would seem that there's something in there that just upsets my tummy in such a way that I have a "negative reaction" if you catch my drift.

I'm sorry it took me a couple of days to gather my thoughts about this; I was genuinely shocked; scared even. For the hypnosis to work coupled with almost two years of exclusively messing my diapers is just... I don't know. I think I liked that it happened out of my conscious control, but a small part of me also doesn't like that it happened out of my control, if that makes sense.

For those wondering, I've used a mix of subliminals and hypno files from various high quality sources. What works for me might not work for you, so I recommend doing some research to find what works for you. I like using the files from Fiona Clearwater and some Mindmaster files. Should I keep listening to those files that encourage messing?

As always, you can add more time onto my timer by sending me gifts from my wishlist here. As an incentive, each book bought will make me listen to those hypnosis files 5 times. I've been reading a lot of adult fantasy romance lately and I crave more.

More gifts = more messy updates, too!

AllMyLinks

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felassan · 1 year

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David Gaider on Twitter: "Going through my old DAI files and came across the original plan for a playable post-credits Epilogue... which, due to time constraints, eventually got down-scaled to the post-credits cutscene you saw on release. A lot of the meat here was, I believe, resurrected for Trespasser." [source] "At the time, I was pushing hard for an actual denouement - as opposed to always ending the story so abruptly after the climax. Considering how few players ever get that far, I suppose I can see the argument that it's not exactly a great place to focus resources. I did like where the cutscene ended up, mind you. A nice, Marvel-esque stinger that hinted at story to come. Took the sting out of having yet another story plan go awry... which is simply par for the course for game dev. Writing can always imagine more than we can produce. ;) And in case anyone wonders: no actual work was done on that playable section prior to the cut. You can imagine it being this fully-fleshed out, glorious thing, if you like... but it could just as easily have been half-baked and terrible. The team was fully stretched as it was." [source, two, three]

Some further info from follow-up tweets -

User: "It's a bummer, though I understand the logic. A proper end to cap off the experience can make or break your enjoyment of the full game though, imo" DG: "That was indeed my argument. There's a point where we have to draw the line and finish the story, however, and I'm afraid the original plan was... mmm a mite too big. This was far from the only cut."

User: "WAIT. Am I reading this right… Solas drains Flemeth and then COMMANDS the Well of Sorrows drinker to kill Flemeth?" DG: "I think it was Flemeth who commanded it. I'd have to look through the whole document. It's complicated. Part of why it was eventually cut, probably."

User: "Hold on. We were to kill Flemeth on Flemeth’s command to, possibly, prevent Solas from taking everything? Was passing whatever energy she did to the Eluvian her way of preparing for survival ?" DG: "I don't think it was going to be explained any more than it was in the cutscene you got, tbh."

User: "My WoS Lavellan is SCREAMING rn god please help her in the next game" DG: "Keep in mind that none of this *actually* happened. ;)"

User: "Interesting to see this was envisioned as having adversarial encounters between Solas & Flemeth with the well-drinker being ping-pawned between them. I noticed the Inquisitor lurking off-camera in that cutscene and wondered if they were originally meant to be part of it." DG: "Heh. I'm pretty sure the Inquisitor being placed there in the actual cutscene's level was because a player had to be present *somewhere*. Might be wrong, though." John Epler: "the way the cinematics worked, if you had them firing too far from the player character the engine would try to optimize and cutscenes would start jittering" DG: "Yeah, I thought it was something like that! Thanks, John."

User: "Does this have any link to the fact that there are dialogue audios of Morrigan reacting to solas “absorbing” Mythal in the game files?" DG: "Possibly? I finished writing the epilogue, so it's possible some of it got recorded prior to the cut."

User: "So Morrigan would've finally gotten to kill Flemeth herself, and nobody had to turn into a dragon this time? Also, this clears up what even happened to Flemeth at the end. She's definitely dead. Presumably, the spirit or essence of Mythal and possibly Urthemiel are inside Solas?" User 2: "does it? it can be theorized that flemeth commands the inquisitor/morrigan to kill her so solas wouldn't be able to take all her essence. regardless, in the ending we did get it's not entirely clear what happened. but i doubt she's truly gone. she cheated death before." DG: "And remember that what this stuff points at never actually happened. Whatever becomes of Flemeth in the future is up to the current writing team, and is based only on the cutscene you saw."

Summerfall Studios: "Our creative director davidgaider shares some insight into how Dragon Age: Inquisition's epilogue evolved over production" DG: "You want "evolved over production"? *cracks knuckles* Lemme tell you how we cut Corypheus attacking Skyhold. Now *that's* evolution."

#dragon age #bioware #solas #video games #long post #longpost #morrigan #queen of my heart #dragon age: dreadwolf #dragon age 4 #the dread wolf rises #da4 #tags for the mention of what happens in the future

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dduane · 1 year

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I've been following the fanfic & author discussion and I definitely see the issue with fanfic based on your own work. However, I'm curious how that doesn't extend to, well, everything else. If an author reads a coffeeshop AU based on their works and then writes something similar into a book, how is that different from reading a coffeeshop AU from a completely different media and then writing something similar with the names changed to their characters?

At the fanfic level, for me, it does extend to everything else. Let me tease this out a bit for you.

All writers distill their output at least partly from huge amounts of data, fed into their storymaking systems over (routinely) decades of time. When that input comes along in the form of traditionally "published" material—books or films or comics or whatever—I’d expect there to be an inherent understanding that what one publishes or films may (if you're lucky) wind up in the public consciousness. And thereafter—assimilated and, ideally, much changed and individualized—it may also end up in the work of people who create in the same general way you do.

Where traditionally published materials that I've internalized are involved, I've paid for them (or libraries or similar institutions have paid for them for me). Money''s changed hands, confirming (as it were) the contract between the creators and me. After that, what I make of Paradise Lost or Perelandra is my business.

And my business, both generally and specifically, is subversion. It's a rare work in any genre that doesn't afterwards leave me wondering "But how about if this was done completely differently...?" I.e., "What if a prince rescued a prince?" "What if you don't need a school to learn magic, because the universe teaches you?" And so on. ...The only hard and fast rule I have about this process is one that Heinlein handed me: "Sure, file the serial numbers off that idea and make something else of it. But you have to leave it different, and ideally better, than when you found it. If you're going to be the magpie who makes off with a pretty shiny thing, you must bring back something bigger and shinier in return."

So that's how that operation goes, when I'm dealing with what we might consider mainstream/tradpub works.

But fanfic operates under different rules. No money changes hands (because no money may). Fic writing is founded in a gift economy. And for me, to steal a gift or steal from a gift-giver is vile.

So, per the original question: For me, the primary difference between the two kinds of fics you're positing above is that in the first case, the fic's author and I are (creatively speaking) in a relationship... even if (strictly speaking) it's a nonconsensual one. I therefore feel a responsibility to protect their work from me by not allowing myself into situations where I might, however accidentally, borrow from it. And I also feel a responsibility to protect myself from possible adverse consequences of having seen their work. Safest way to ensure that protection on both sides? Not to see their work.

In the second case, let's say we've got a coffeeshop AU where, oh, I don't know, Bert is a barista and Ernie is a regular customer. (And Big Bird is the manager, and Cookie Monster is—no no, let's STOP this now...) Here it's safe to say that my relationship with either the IP owner* or the fic writer is likely to be nil. The writer doesn't know about me, or (I'm sure) care. They've put their stuff out there on AO3 or wherever for their own reasons, and at least theoretically for others' entertainment. So I'm at liberty to take it as such.

Which is all very well on the face of it. But if I caught myself inserting business from that Bert/Ernie AU fic into something of mine, what I'd consider the right thing for me to do would be to discard that whole line of thought and start over... because this is material sourced in a gift economy, and to me it feels wrong to use a gift this way.

And stressing this point: I'd do that once I'd caught myself. Because as I mentioned at the start of this, all writers pick up and digest concepts and situations that then go "into the pot", as Tolkien said, and get lost over time in the general melange of flavor. If I don't catch myself, and then the flavor of the original gets submerged in the overall taste of the soup to the point where I can't ID it... that could get troublesome. And if I later realize what's happened, it'll pain me no end.

This is why I do not want to see Young Wizards fanfic at all. The chance always exists that if I do look at any of it, I might accidentally internalize it and pop it out, however changed, years later... and would thereby have abused my relationship with the fic writer. (And yes, ever though they would by definition be in that relationship with me nonconsensually, that would not make it right, or all right, for me to do the same thing back to them.) In this regard, I'd sooner be safe than sorry... because being sorry about something you've written is a very sad, bitter place to be.

...Maybe all the above will strike some people as unusually rigorous. (shrug) That doesn't bother me; not least because they don't have to live inside my head, and I do. My creative life doesn't have a billion rules, but this is one that seems obvious to me, and which I do my best not to violate. It's not all about legal exposure. It's about trying to do right.

HTH.

*It's surprising how many potential scenarios I had to throw out just now because I am in relationships with the IP owners, or have been. Pity. The Cap/Bucky one would have been fun...) :)

#fanfic #and #ethics

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chalkrevelations · 7 months

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Ugh, my BOYS. How do I love them? Let me count the ways:

So, let's start with Boston returning to the scene of the crime their first encounter - not only to the shop itself, but leading Nick back to the very same spot where they first had sex - first connected in the only way Boston knew how, at that point - the way Nick led him back there that first time. Boston's wounded and hurting, and he's tried to explain himself and no one will listen to him, but there's one person who he knows cares about him no matter what he's done, one person who's actually told him so, one single person in Boston's life who's ever opened their arms to the monster in the closet and been a source of unconditional love - and it's someone who he knows will listen and will let him apologize for what he's done, and who then, if precedent is to be believed, will not continue to beat him up about it, and so that's where he goes to ground.

The leveling of power here is fantastic - Boston is introduced to us in the first ep as The Hunter, but he's never been that in his relationship with Nick. Nick has been the hunter, the pursuer, since the minute he tilted that eyebrow at Boston, since the decision to snap his suggestive selfie onto Boston's phone, since he grabbed Boston's wrist like a snare and led him to the back of that shop. He's laid traps for Boston, he's hunted (and stalked) Boston, he almost had Boston, he tells Sand, before he accuses Sand of ruining it. And then - then he lets Boston go.

If you love something, set it free. If it comes back to you, it's yours.

So here Boston comes, back. Not only back, but onto Nick's home ground, into Nick's family's shop, where Nick has the advantage and comfort of familiarity. Boston is showing himself to be Nick's. But at the same time, he's back in his role as the hunter. He's the one now doing the pursuing. During every bit of their conversation in the shop, Boston is busy gauging Nick's reactions to see if he can and should take another step forward, back toward Nick, if Nick is open to it, if Nick's goodbye was about Boston or about Nick - and whether it was therefore permanent or open to change if the situation changes, if Boston changes, if Boston indicates he wants there to be something between them again.

Boston walks in the door and he sizes up Dan, and he knows that's the guy who was kissing Nick at the bar, and he files away that information. And he comes up to the counter - and we can see Nick is the prey this time, instead of the hunter, because of his very different demeanor from the first time he and Boston stood at this counter, literally taking a step back, acting uneasy and puzzled about what's going on - and Boston asks if that was Nick's boyfriend. And Nick has every opportunity to say yes - Dan literally just told him that he wants to hit on Nick! - to lay down a firm boundary right here, up front. But he says 'No." And so Boston is free to feel out his next step.

So Boston takes the opportunity to get Nick to that back corner where they have history. And then he asks for Nick's advice. "What's your opinion" aka "What do you think would suit me?" aka "What do you think of me?" And when Nick continues to play along, we get this whole coded metaphorical speech that continues to be this exploratory dance of Boston feeling his way forward and Nick constantly saying yes and allowing Boston to take the next step:

I broke a thing, can you help me fix it?

Yes.

The fix will need to be tough, because I don't usually take good care of things I own. (I hurt you, and I know it, and I admit it.) (I'm not good at this, can you help me be better at this?) (Can you continue to bear me when I fuck up, will you continue to accept me and love me even when it hurts?) (I came back to you, I'm yours. Are you still mine?)

And Nick's response is so telling - be more careful next time. Not "be more careful with the next one," but "be more careful NEXT TIME." (Yes, and maybe there can be a next time.) Some things can't be replaced.

I'll take good care of it from now on. (Things will be different.) (I want to change. I want us to change.) (I want to be better, I want us to be better.) (And oh, by the way, I'll SHOW YOU A PICTURE of something irreplaceable.)

And then Boston hands Nick the phone. (Here I am, naked in front of you, in a way I've never been with any of the tons of people I've had sex with.) (I miss you.) (I don't want to be without you.) (Will you come back to me?) He can't even look at Nick to begin with, before his curiosity gets the better of him.

And then Nick tells him to have a seat while Nick does this work. (Can you wait for me if I need time?)

And Boston's reply is that he has all the time in the world to wait for Nick.

Y'all. I can't. I cannot with these two. This is everything I ever wanted. I know I said I would give you ACTUAL MONEY, Jojo. How much do I owe you?

#and that's not even GETTING TO THE ROOFTOP yet #ALL OF THE AWARDS for neo and mark #ALL OF THEM #boston (of)#nick (of)#bostonnick #boston x nick #only friends #only friends the series #the monster in the closet #beauty breaks the beast #how we feeling bostonnick nation?

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ao3cassandraic · 8 months

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Angels, demons, language, and culture: part 3

(Part 1 and Part 2 for those interested.)

"I play an ineffable game of my own devising. For everyone else, it’s like playing poker in a pitch dark room with blank cards, for infinite stakes, with a dealer who won’t tell you the rules and who smiles all the time." --God, Good Omens

This is just. Creepy and awful and so, so wrong for a quasi-omnipotent being. Ugh. Good Omens!God is an abject horror.

But if you're one of the poker players at that table, what do you do? You try to figure out the rules and mark the cards, naturally. Especially if leaving the table only happens via swan dives into burning sulphur, or getting kicked out of the only home you've known into a hostile desert with lions in it. While pregnant, yet.

So, I did a Bat Mitzvah back in the day, as it happens, and my Torah portion was from Deuteronomy. Which is, as I am hardly the first to notice, chockablock full of rules. Good Omens definitely leveraged (rather than inventing) the idea of trying to figure out Her rules and codify them in writing! Note, however, that the Bible per Word of Gaiman is a human thing. Codifying divine rules? Therefore also a human thing, minus I suppose the Ten Commandments -- though I can certainly envision a Good Omens in which Moses was, um, not exactly telling the truth about the source of the tablets; we only really have his word for it.

Angels and demons, who have a low opinion of literacy and just generally don't seem to be very good at it, never did this. We see that Aziraphale, Before the Beginning, has intuitively figured a few rules out: don't question Her, don't comment on (much less critique) Her decisions or designs, don't ever ever piss Her off. The Starmaker hasn't gotten this far, tragically, and our Crowley remains confused throughout the show as to what rule he can possibly have broken that earned him the identity-changing torture She inflicted on him.

Fundamentally, Crowley doesn't want to -- perhaps can't -- believe that She is capricious and cruel. He thinks there are rules, "don't test to destruction" being a major one. We know he's wrong, however. She straight-up told us so, in the quote at the top of this post! Aziraphale, too, knows, though he buries this knowledge as deep under the words "ineffable" and "Great Plan" (there is no Great Plan, She told us so, it's all a game to Her) as he possibly can -- I think as a coping mechanism -- and does his best to avoid drawing Her attention again after the Sword Incident.

But we see angelic and demonic confusion about the rules of Her game again and again. It's at the root of Aziraphale's successful Great Plan/Ineffable Plan hairsplitting at the airbase. It's why Aziraphale has to (with Muriel's help) dig through the contract for Job, and why Gabriel and Michael can't even be arsed to, even revising Job's reward on the fly. They're guessing! They're guessing about the rules based on what they've seen of Her caprices! She likes sevens!

It's how Crowley rules-lawyers the demons into letting the Whickber Street tradespeople go. If there are actual rules of Heaven-Hell engagement -- and there may not be! Crowley's pulled plausible-sounding lies out of his arse before! -- I'll bet you anything you like practically nobody in Heaven or Hell has actually read them. (My top picks for rules-of-engagement authors, if those rules actually do exist, would be Satan and the Metatron.)

And it's why Uriel has to ask the Metatron, as unsure and afraid as Uriel has ever looked in the entire series, whether the remaining archangels have done something wrong. The Metatron's response refuses to clarify what's at issue -- he, like Her, won't tell anybody the rules. If I'm feeling extremely cynical, I think She and he refuse to explain the rules because they're more powerful if there's no rulebook that rank-and-file angels can use to contest them with.

It makes me so sad. The legions of Heaven would assuredly have followed Her rules, if they only knew what those rules were! Fanart of the just-fallen Starmaker routinely breaks my susceptible heart, not least because the commonest expressions on his face are agony, sorrow -- and confusion. It's just all so damn unfair.

Same with Job, and Peter Davison sells it beautifully. Poor Job assumes he must have broken Her rules somehow, and blames himself for not even knowing how. That's totally on Her, though! If Her rules aren't clear enough for righteous Job to be able to trust his own righteousness under a horrible test, that's Her fault, not his!

The closest that Heaven and Hell -- and humanity, for that matter -- have to Her rules is prophecy. I probably don't need to spill many pixels on how vague and confusing prophecy is, how often it's counterfeited, and how pointless it is to try to live your life by (or trying to avoid) true prophecies; prophecies will invariably gotcha you. Good Omens is hardly the first work of literature to point this out. (Try the story of Oedipus. That's a good one. Yeesh. Or, if we want to be all Biblical about it, Moses again.) Agnes Nutter may well be the only genuinely well-meaning prophet in the entire history of prophets! Even so, her book is incredibly bewildering! Generations of her descendants try to figure it out, and mostly they fail -- look at the annotations we see on Anathema's index cards.

So when @thundercrackfic asks me what Aziraphale gets out of books, my first (though not only) answer is "rules for living." Not just rules for living as safely as possible around Her, though -- rules for living among humans, too. I headcanon (and posited in "Endgame") that Aziraphale has been collecting human etiquette manuals as long as humans have been writing etiquette manuals. Codified rules, like the ones in Deuteronomy, likely help him feel more secure.

I think this is also why Muriel characterizes books as portable people. Muriel is trying their sweet adorable best to figure out the Earth rules on the fly, since nobody Upstairs told them (or indeed knows, the Metatron aside) what those rules are. They do have Aziraphale to help them along -- Aziraphale is so much better than Upstairs! he doesn't condescend or insult, he just gently instructs -- but Aziraphale can't teach full-time, he has other things on his plate. So Muriel the scrivener, one of the few angels who would have a clue about literacy due to the nature of their job, gravitates to books and discovers that they too can be gentle and compassionate teachers.

The final question outstanding is how well Aziraphale understands and assimilates human books, especially fiction, especially especially non-literal figures of speech. It's an excellent and complicated question, and I don't think I have The Answer to it, but I'll see what I can do.

#good omens #good omens meta #rules rules rules #good omens god is a horror #aziraphale #crowley #the starmaker #angel muriel

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