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too-much-tma-stuff · 1 month

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Finally getting help (prt 9)

Masterpost

“So where’s the brother?” Jason asked as he followed Bruce down the hall.

“He’s in Tim’s lab. It seems like they’ll be able to share it, which is good even with as big as this place is I don’t think we have room for two mad science labs,” Bruce said with dry humour, making Jason laugh in spite of himself.

“Tim must be thrilled to have a buddy huh?” He asked, still chuckling. No one in this family was stupid by any means, he often felt like the dumb one and objectively he knew he was still a fucking genius. But even with all of them being That smart no one could keep up with Tim’s innovative and scientific mind.

“I think he might even learn a few things, which is a frightening concept. Danny asked for microwaves and toasters this morning so he could cannibalize them into anti-possession tech. The way that boy combines science and magic is going to give both me and Constantine ulcers.”

Jason snorted, both at the joke and maybe a bit out of pleasure that someone was going to be giving Bruce a hard time. “Well if you need a babysitter don’t call me. I don’t want to deal with any of that,” he chuckled.

“Oh absolutely not, you would only feed into the chaos,” Bruce said quickly making Jason cackle, because he was right.

“Alright,” Bruce murmured to himself when they reached the closed door to the lab, it was almost lost in the banging inside but Jason heard it. Heard Bruce bracing himself for whatever was going to happen when Jason and Danny met.

He opened the door and across the room Jason saw who must be Danny. He was prime adoption bait with his black hair and blue eyes, but he was… absolutely beautiful, slight and elven, gently curved and wired with muscle. Jason froze, and it seemed so did Danny, staring at each other from across the room. Butterflies fluttered in Jason’s stomach, building till they didn’t feel like butterflies but something buzzing, trying to get out. He could hear the growl coming from his chest, not his throat.

Danny’s eyes swirled with green and he vaulted over the work table, abandoning the half finished tech he was working on to lunge at Jason. He collided with Jason with a snarl of his own, Jason growled and flipped Danny over his shoulder, the hall was a closed space so Danny twisted, running into the wall feet first and landing in a crouch. Jason twisted so he didn’t have his back to a wall anymore as Danny lunged at him again and Jason dodged, pushing off the wall to give himself momentum as he threw himself after Danny.

Danny grabbed Jason’s arm and used his momentum to throw him over his hip, following him down to the ground, barely missing as Jason rolled away. He didn’t even think to draw a weapon, that wasn’t what this fight was about, they weren’t actually trying to hurt each other. Even as Jason punched down so hard he cracked the floor he somehow knew Danny would dodge, and wouldn’t get hurt. And Danny did, he got out of the way and lashed out in return, kicking Jason in the chest and sending him flying a few feet back giving Danny time to scramble back to his feet and chase after him.

This give and take carried them down the hall and to the landing by the stairs. Somewhere in the background Jason knew that someone was shouting at them to stop, and to be careful, but he wasn’t listening. He was too focussed on the growl emanating from Danny, and from himself which were starting to smooth out again, to feel less like desperate insects trying to escape and more like a cat’s purr, or some sort of song. They were reaching equilibrium, some sort of harmony.

He didn’t realize how close they were to the stairs until Danny knocked him back again and this time when he stepped back he didn’t land on solid ground. The two of them tumbled down the stairs, rapidly switching who was on top as they fell. Jason could feel himself collecting bruises but he didn’t fucking care.

They came to a halt at the bottom of the stairs with Jason on top, his forearm pressed against Danny’s chest just below his throat. They were both breathing hard, staring at each other with wide blue-green eyes. The growling died down, lowering down into purrs harmonizing with each other as they caught their breath. Jason’s was lower and Danny’s a little higher, it was a hypnotic sound that made Jason feel… peaceful.

Danny moved first, reaching up slowly to touch Jason’s face, but before he could Jason realized what they had done and the position he was in. He had fought with Danny, and he was now pinning an abused teenager to the floor straddling his waist. This looked bad and now that he realized what was happening it Felt worse! He practically shot up off of Danny and was about to bolt before Danny grabbed his hand.

“Wait! Don’t go yet! Let me just, let me get you a specter-deflector so no one can possess you first okay?” Danny asked, sounding oddly desperate and even though Jason wanted to run he nodded.

Danny looked relieved and let go of Jason before suddenly flying up and through the floor above them. Jason blinked at the ceiling above him before looking around him.

Oh dear, Bruce, Tim, Damian, and Jazz were all watching from the landing above. Damian looked like he wanted to kill Jason himself, Bruce looked disappointed, Tim impassive and Jazz looked… Excited? Why did she look happy?

Danny flew back down through the floor before anyone could think of what to say. “Okay! Here’s the specter-deflector,” He said, clicking something that looked like a watch into place around Jason’s wrist. “That’ll protect you, this is a blaster,” he said, handing Jason an odd sci-fi looking gun. “It’ll reload automatically from ambient ectoplasm, it works best against dead and undead but it can hurt humans too. And.. um, this is my number,” He said, blushing furiously as he handed Jason a slip of paper. “Please text me?”

When had Jason’s mouth gotten so dry?! He had to lick his lips before he answered, painfully aware of how hot his cheeks were and that he must be blushing too. He didn’t blush much, not since his death and resurrection, but he was absolutely blushing now, and he was still purring too if more softly now. He didn’t even know that he could purr, not really. “Ya, Yes, I’ll text you,” he promised before he fled the house. He would have to have some of Alfred’s lasagna later, just then he desperately needed to calm down and clear his head.

-----

Jazz was practically vibrating with excitement and as soon as the door had closed behind Jason she couldn’t contain it anymore. She squealed as she vaulted over the railing of the landing and landed in the foyer and sprinting over to Danny. “Danny what the heck! You have a crush?! I haven’t seen you that passionate in ages!” She enthused scooping Danny up under his arms and twirling him around.

“Jaaazz,” Danny complained even as he went kitten limp in her arms letting her hold him at arms length nearly a foot off the floor.

“I didn’t even know you liked boys! Why didn’t you tell me you like boys!?” Jazz demanded, shaking him a little.

“I didn’t really, I mean I always preferred girls. The only guy I ever really had a crush on was Dash and-” He cut off when Jazz made a disgusted face. “Exactly! That was never going to happen and he was an asshole so I didn’t want to talk about it!”

“Okay ya I understand- Wait you were making fun of me for having a thing for bad boys when your type is asshole meathead jocks!? Ohhh you’re never going to hear the end of this baby brother!”

“Oh my god No!” Danny groaned, finally squirming out of Jazz’s hold and dropping back to the ground stepping back.

He turned towards the Wayne’s who had made their way down the stairs while the siblings were talking. “Is Jason an asshole?” He demands of Tim, he’s probably the fairest judge in Danny’s estimation.

“Absolutely,” Tim said promptly before realizing what he said and backtracking a little. “But I’m his brother, I'm supposed to say that. Jason’s heart is in the right place, he's a good guy, just kinda violent and a complete jerk,” Tim said.

“Perfect,” Danny said his expression a little dreamy.

“Why on earth would you have a crush on Todd?! You could do so much better!” Damian squawked indignantly, breaking the tension and making everyone besides Bruce laugh, and even he smiled just a little.

“I want to say you did well Bruce, I know it was hard not to break up the fight but so? It was good for them, I hope it won’t be too hard on you if they do end up dating,” Jazz said, patting Bruce’s arm.

He shifted from one foot to the other a little awkwardly but then shook his head. “No it won’t be, I mean it won’t be the first time, Barbra was as good as my daughter and she dated Dick, and Steph and Tim dated. It’s always a little awkward but I’d rather that than a Super,” He said, shooting Tim a look, he cleared his throat and looked away.

“Well good, we’ll see how this works out but really,” she turned back towards Danny. “This could be good! You’ve always been attracted to violent people but I don’t think that your ghost instincts realized that when Val was shooting at you it wasn’t bonding for her the same way it was for you,” she told him, her tone borderline accusatory.

Danny looked down and shifted from side to side, giving a little shrug. “I know, but she was a good girlfriend, when she wasn’t being Red Huntress and I wasn’t being Phantom. When we were just Danny and Val, it was good.”

“Oh Danny,” She sighed and pulled him into a hug. “I know, but he has the same instincts as you, I’m rooting for you Danny.”

“Thanks Jazz,” Danny said softly, hugging her back.

“Welp, I’m heading back to the lab,” Tim said, obviously uncomfortable with the genuine emotions he made a break for it before he could get roped into any hugs.

#danny phantom #dc x dp #fanfiction #dead on main #jason todd #finally getting help au #Danny is pregnant #trans!Danny #vlad is a creep #bruce wayne #jazz fenton #damian wayne #tim drake #multi part fic #long post #unedited #let me know if you find any mistakes

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ghouljams · 8 months

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idk why but just imagining soap taking care of love when ghosts not around- maybe she got too drunk out at night with some friends or got hurt or maybe just one her period who knows

Yes more poly Ghost/Soap/Love, the softest throuple. Ghost runs and errand and leaves Love in Soap's capable hands.

You've learned very quickly that Soap is about as close to an actual walking heater as you can get. That's not a bad thing either. Ghost is always a nice sort of cool lukewarm, so being sandwiched between them in bed almost puts you at an equilibrium, and when your hands are cold you can just stick them under Soap's shirt. Seeing him yelp and flinch away from the chill is pretty funny too. Soap's internal furnace is especially helpful when it comes to aches and pains, something you are taking full advantage of.

Soap rubs his hand over your stomach, pressing just below your belly button as you lay over his lap on the couch. You're cramping hard. You've already thrown up once today because of it and you spooked Simon bad enough for him to willingly go to the pharmacy. You give a quiet pained hum as Soap pushes a little more firmly, the heat helps, the pressure helps, honestly you think death might help.

"No tears, come on sweetheart," Soap mumbles, thumb soothing gentle circles against your skin. You're doing your best.

"Can't you just magic the pain away?" You whine. Simon did it once. It was blissful.

"What, so I can feel it? Pain's gotta go somewhere, lass, and I'm not putting Ghost through it." Ah. That explains why Simon didn't offer again. Babies both of them. Who are you kidding, you're a baby. This sucks.

"At least get me a blanket then," you grumble. Soap rolls his eyes with a smile.

"Got a better idea, let's just..."

Soap twists on the couch and hitches your legs up around his waist before he settles comfortably(flops, he flops) on top of you. It feels like all the air has been forced out of your lungs, he's heavy and you're moderately crushed, but you're used to it; Simon does this all the time. He's so warm. A weighted heated blanket compressing you exactly where you need it. Soap's lips drag along your jaw absentmindedly, letting you get settled and comfortable under him.

"Better?" He asks, his teeth just scraping your skin. You nod, careful not to headbutt him as you melt against the couch. Your arms are tight around his shoulders, holding him close as he takes his time sucking bruises along your bared throat. "Best part," he rocks his hips against yours, and the breath the catches in your throat is plenty distraction from your cramps. You hadn't even considered that.

When Ghost gets home you and Soap are passed out on the couch. Tangled together in a way he finds probably more endearing than he rightly should. It's cute seeing how tightly you hold onto Soap, the way he presses his face against your neck, the soft sleeping breaths you share. Ghost settles a small brown paper bag on the kitchen counter and goes to put the kettle on.

He scoops a spoon of the floral mixture from the bag into your preferred mug and switches the kettle off before it can wake you up. Best to let you sleep while you can, he knows its been sparing these last few nights. Hopefully this will help. Painkillers are all well and good but with how bad your pain fucked him up? You need some magical intervention.

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yeyinde · 1 year

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how do you think the boys would look after you when you’re sick? i think Soap and Gaz would wind up getting sick because they couldn’t stay away from you

they definitely seem like the type to coddle. as for the rest—

GHOST—

It's short. Succinct. He prefers blunt honesty, and that's what you aim for when, sniffling pathetically, you open up your messages, and type out: Can't make it. Came down with something, and hit SEND.

It goes unanswered.

You pretend, through the hazy spool of your fever, the one that clots inside of your head until you're shivering, teeth chattering, and yearning, that you aren't surprised. That it doesn't prickle somewhere inside of your chest with the distinct flavour of disappointment.

You toss your phone aside, head swimming, and try to get some sleep. You need rest.

You dream of vague touches, and low words dripped in condescension but carrying a tinge of worry. Of care. It's a mess inside the gummy spool of sickness, but it's comforting. The phantom hand on your forehead makes you sigh.

When you wake up hours later, there is a bag from the pharmacy filled with electrolyte water, cold and flu medication, canned soup, and something to reduce your fever. No note. No phone call. No text. The message is clear.

(Next to the bag, is tea in a thermos. No brand. You taste it and know he made it himself.)

—distant, reserved. He sends you a care package, one he delivers himself, but doesn't linger. If you ask him about it, he'll roll his eyes, maybe mutter a fuckin' hell as he walks away from you.

—(if you'd touched the seat across from your bed, you'd find that it was still warm.)

GAZ—

He shows up wearing a mask, and has a duffle bag slung over his shoulder. Says, as he makes his way inside, that he'll fix you right up. All you can do is baulk when he storms your kitchen, pots clattering loudly together, and tells you to go sit. He has it covered.

(It surprises you a little bit when he does.)

He brings spicy soup that, according to his auntie, is going to clear your sinuses. He fluffs your pillows and drags a blanket over to you. Tucks you in, nice and tight, and turns on Taskmaster for you.

You spend the evening drifting in and out, caught in the throes of a fever nap, but he stays by your side the whole time.

You wake up late at night, startled awake by some ALDI commercial, and find him snoring on your couch, your feet in his lap. The mask is lopsided. His hair is moussed. He left you some medicine and a glass of water on the coffee table.

His phone chimes with the sound of an alarm. When you check the notification, all it says is: MEDICINE. EVERY FOUR HOURS. You turn it off, and a notes app pops up. You don't mean to look, but the sight makes you a little misty-eyed.

how to care for someone who is sick

All the boxes are ticked. Spicy soup. Water. Blankets. Rest. Medicine.

You throw the end of your blanket over him and snuggle into his side.

He wakes up hours later, and you watch trashy reality television together until he carries you to bed.

—no getting rid of him. He wants to make sure you're taken care of. It doesn't surprise you at all, when, a few days later he rings you up, and says he's sick. He's a surprisingly adept caretaker.

SOAP—

The last thing you remember is texting Soap about something—sick, can't make it—before the medication and the sickness dragged you under.

You wake up, sticky and wet from the cold sweat of a fever—edging, somehow, on the equilibrium of being both incredibly hot to the point of panting from the inferno blazing through your veins, and absolutely freezing, near hypothermic with goosebumps, and chattering teeth. Nothing sticks in the oil-slick lining of your head. It doesn't make sense. You're dizzy and disoriented. The room spins. You kick the covers off of your burning legs, but pull the comfort tighter around your torso where an arctic chill has settled in the pit of your stomach.

You try to move, but you're chained down. Locked. Trapped. You nearly panic, but a noise cuts through the wave of terror—

"Stop wigglin' so much," it's slurred into your shoulder, humid breath ghosting over your sweat-slicked neck. "M'tryin' t'sleep…"

His mohawk tickles your nose, his scent thick in your throat. Soap pulls you closer, tucking you deeper into his embrace, and murmurs soothingly until you settle. Until the wave of nausea passes, and the throbbing in your skull is abated by the warm milk and honey smell of him that floods you.

Clumsily, he reaches for a bottle of water he tucked beneath his pillow, eyes lidded and groggy with sleep.

"Drink," he urges, pressing it into your hands.

"I can't drink right now, I'll be sick—"

"Y'need water," he rasps, rubbing his cheek over yours. "Need to drink so you don't get dehydrated."

You huff. "I'll need to sit up for that."

The prospect of moving makes him grumble softly. His arm tightens around you, refusing to let go.

Then he stills.

The curve of his smile on your skin spells trouble. You're already shaking your head before he pops up, smirking. The sleep fades from his eyes in an instant. "I know a way—"

"You'll get sick," you warn, but he's already twisting the cap off, and spilling the water into his mouth

It bulges his cheeks. He looks ridiculous, and you scoff.

"There is no way—"

His lips seal over yours. Water runs down your chin when he pushes it inside the melting cavern of your mouth.

He doesn't need to slip his tongue inside, but he does it, anyway. Nips your lips when he pulls back, eyes glazing over as he watches you sputter and gasp.

His hand settles on your throat. "Swallow it. Got the whole bottle to get through."

His eyes trail over your wet cheeks, darkening when your throat bobs under his hand.

"Good girl," he breathes, and brings the nozzle up to his mouth again. His hand leaves your neck, and slips under the covers. There is a promise in the tips of his fingers when they glide over your molten skin. "We'll work on sweatin' your fever out next, bonnie. You're burnin' up."

—Soap's definition of caretaking is coddling you. He's a firm believer in sweating it out.

—it doesn't surprise you when he sends you several articles about how sex is good for colds, and you only feel slightly bad when his voice cracks a week later.

PRICE—

For a man who lives off of Maduro and scotch, his immune system is surprisingly resilient.

("It's the cigars," he husks, leaking smoke from his pores. "Keeps me in top shape."

You know better than to argue. It's never a battle you'll ever win.)

You, however, do not survive on miracle tobacco and malt.

Price doesn't answer the text you send—sick, can't make it to dinner tonight—but nine times out of ten, he usually doesn't. It doesn't surprise you, and you're not worried. He has other things to do—reports, interviews with new cadets, and planning recon missions for men in precarious situations. You turn your phone over on the coffee table, prop your heels on the edge, pull a blanket over your legs, and turn on the trashiest reality television you can stand.

A cup of tea sits by your ankle. You'd taken some medicine, and expect to be napping in a fugue state for the rest of the day.

It's just a tickle, really. Nothing to be worried about. Nothing that needs immediate attention. You're used to dealing with it alone.

Somewhere between Gemma blinking at the camera in confusion, you fall into a fitful sleep. Plagued by fever demons that ravage your body until you're drenched in sweat, and moaning in discomfort. Everything feels wrong—

A worn, rough hand settles on your brow. Words clipped, gravel thick.

Just gotta let it work itself out, love.

Your stomach churns. You whimper. Arms slide under your knees, bracketed around your back. Flying. Weightless. You sniffle into a warm neck that smells of smoke, and hickory.

Adrift in the sea. The waves lap at your body. You cling to the thing keeping you upright amid the waves that try to drag you under.

It sets you down on a lush shore, sand billowing around you until you're tucked inside a cocoon of sun seared warmth.

It pulls away.

Your hand snaps out. "Please, don't leave me—"

Gritty hisses whisper in your ear. "Shush, shush. M'not goin' anywhere, but you need water and some medicine. Stay here, love. I'll be right back."

You find comfort in the raw, rasping tone. Pitched low, and brassbound. You nod, head carving out a piece of bliss in the sand beneath your head.

It's a blur, really. You remember the weight of a hand holding your head in a plinth, water slipping down your aching throat. A hand brushing back the sweat-slicked hair on your forehead. Dry lips pressed to your crown, susurrus murmurs leaking out into your skin.

You wake up hours later. The island fades into shades of familiarity. There is a weight in your palm. You blink the dredges of fever away, the gossamer of sick that sounds like the waves crashing on the distant shore.

Price. He's sat in an armchair pushed as close to your bed as it'll allow. Your fingers threaded through his. The other hand falls on his lap, resting over a manila folder.

His head dips, chin tucked into his chest. Soft, brassy snores fill your bedroom.

On the table beside you sits two glasses of scotch, a bottle of water, an ashtray, and medicine.

You smell something robust and meaty wafting into the room. On your dresser is a bag of takeaway from the Vietnamese restaurant you were supposed to go to. The heady scent of Pho fills the air.

Your fingers squeeze his, a gentle pulse. Warmth blooms in your chest. The heat is enough to rival your fever.

He stayed.

(He snorts awake a few moments later, and makes you sip the scotch between mouthfuls of the electrolyte water. Good for you, he says. Drink it up, now.

Once you've drunk as much as you could, he hands you the pho, and watches you sip the broth.)

—firm, like everything he does. No room for arguments: he's taking care of you whether you like it or not.

—he keeps you tucked to his chest, and turns on your favourite movies, making snarky comments from the corner of his mouth that make you laugh. You feel instantly better with him by your side.

He, of course, does not get sick.

#godddd im so sorry this took so long!!!!!#im terrible #captain john price #simon ghost riley #john soap mactavish #call of duty modern warfare #kyle gaz garrick #cod headcanons #gaz headcanons #soap headcanons #price headcanons #captain price x reader #ghost headcanons #simon riley x reader

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deepouterspacecandy · 18 days

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Weathering the Storm

Okay, so the requests for angst or a fight with Abby have been rather prevalent. I hear you loud and clear. I truly enjoy writing pieces for all of you. But also, I don’t view Abby as the girl who is going to fight with you or land herself in a toxic relationship, so that’s not what this is. If anything, I think Abby is the girl who shows you what genuine, safe love is. It’s normal to tackle big emotions when you’re integrating someone into your life, but I don’t want to perpetrate unhealthy dynamics for my fellow lesbians. You're worthy of a love that doesn’t leave you feeling lost and lonely, and it’s out there. I swear.

Alas, here’s my interpretation of your first big spat with Abigail Anderson in a post-apocalyptic world. 18+ only, light angst, sexual themes.

Your first official fight with Abby feels awful, like a steely punch to the gut. You’ve squabbled and debated over trivial things in the past, but this conflict feels more substantial. It’s beginning to fester into a nauseating and distressing ache in your stomach that serves as a meager reward for feeling frustrated and guilty.

But here’s the thing—surely, it’s only natural to feel upset with her given what you’ve been told. So why then, does it feel like a dark, looming cloud hanging overhead? Maybe the ultimate challenge is in navigating the delicate equilibrium between your triggers and your trust in her.

As you process your emotions, you find temporary relief by immersing yourself in work, fully aware that she is employing the same coping mechanism somewhere beyond the walls of the stadium.

It would be reassuring if she were on the FOB, ensuring her safety and giving you peace of mind, but truthfully, Abby is a highly sensitive girl who becomes immensely distraught whenever she senses instability in her surroundings. Drawing on her inherent instincts, she leans heavily into the role of being useful, which eases the threat of her life coming undone.

You are gentle with that aspect of her because you understand her struggle to be vulnerable.

It feels dreadful to be avoiding her like this, and it’s impossible to shake off the discomfort. But the scale of what transpired feels too enormous to dismiss, and you are at a loss on how to bring your emotions to the surface without everything collapsing.

With the blanket she knitted for you wrapped tightly around your shoulders, you reread the same page of your book a dozen times. You feel a strong desire to numb the sharp shards of glass piercing your stomach, the very place where warm flutters usually stir. The ache of Abby’s absence eclipses the original cause of your sorrow, leaving you feeling empty and lost.

When a knock at the door shatters your brooding thoughts, you toss your book onto the coffee table. The idea of dragging yourself off the couch to answer it feels overwhelming, your energy drained.

With a sudden click, the lock turns and Abby steps into your apartment. Her shoulders slump, as if weighed down by the assumption of your hesitancy to welcome her. After shutting the door, she leans on it, fidgeting with her keyring.

“Is it okay that I’m here?” she asks.

Nodding at her, you sit up on the couch, curling your arms around your knees.

With a clink, Abby drops the small lanyard into a trinket dish on the kitchen counter. After six months of subtle hints and coy smiles, it took a mere two weeks of dating for her to swipe the key to your place, and you were more than happy to surrender it to her.

“How’d everything go on your run?” you ask.

A half shrug lifts her broad shoulders, while her eyes deliberately evade yours, exposing her discomfort.

“You remember that old mall?” she asks. Engrossed in her thoughts, she chews on her lower lip. “We finally cleared it today.”

“That’s good,” you say. “Stalkers have been running the place for years. It’s about time new management stepped in.”

Abby puffs a soft laugh, her bittersweet chuckle implying she doesn’t feel deserving of finding your jokes humorous. Her face carries such a profound sadness that it pulls the strings of your heart tight, urging you to rewind time.

“I found something for you, but I left it at my place,” she explains. “I didn’t want you to think I was trying to grease your palm or anything.”

“Well, I’m not above bribes,” you tease, hoping to smooth the furrowed lines on her forehead. “I’ve always been a fan of your gifts.”

“Are you breaking up with me?” Abby asks, choked with emotion.

Her question is a thunderous brick to your chest, stripping you of breath. It wasn’t a notion that had crossed your mind, but as the hours dragged on, you were anxious about her perceiving it as a thought you were mulling over.

“Is that what you want?”

“Can I be honest?” Abby sniffs.

She’s hugging herself so tightly that you’re concerned about her blood flow. Fear grips your heart, leaving your mouth parched as you struggle to swallow.

“Of course. You can tell me anything.”

You pat the spot next to you on the couch, and Abby eagerly shuffles closer, her footsteps soft against the carpet. The rug, carefully wrapped in a protective sleeve when you found it, was a surprising discovery on your most recent run together.

The way she unraveled you on it, after it arrived at your door, is a memory that will always stay with you.

When Abby takes a seat beside you, the weight of her body sinks into the cushion and creates a magnetic pull that draws you closer. Her initial apprehension fades as she gently touches your socked toes, her hands instinctively wrapping around them to provide warmth.

“Out of everyone in this fucked up world, you’re the one I can’t bear to lose,” she says. “But I know sometimes I’ll mess up and it sucks because I’m crazy about you.”

“I’m crazy about you, too,” you say.

“I can’t stand letting you down.”

“Yeah—I hear you there. I feel the same.”

Her hair falls across her face, and you reach out to tuck it behind her ear. She leans into your hand, savouring the gentle gesture.

“I’m sorry for making you doubt me like this. I promise there is absolutely nothing for you to worry about.”

“It’s just that everyone’s talking, you know? It’s a lot of gossip, but it still hurts.”

Reflecting on the day that woman arrived, you can’t help but recall her doe eyes raking over Abby, as if she hung the moon and all its stars.

Which she absolutely does—but only for you.

You two have been through this before, watching as crushes come and go.

Each week, the stadium welcomes a constant influx of new civilians and soldiers, captivating affection-starved humans with the beauty inside. Once people realize that the two of you are already in a committed relationship, they tend to respect the boundaries.

This woman gets under your skin in a way no one else ever has.

“It should’ve come from me,” Abby says. “I feel so bad you found out the way you did. Can I tell you what really happened?”

The pad of her thumb finds your ankle, tracing circles around the delicate bone.

“I want you to hear it from me this time,” she continues.

“Alright,” you say. “Shoot.”

She recounts the party at Manny’s last weekend.

It was the only event that you two hadn’t attended together since you officially became a couple. At first, you didn’t have any concerns because Abby has consistently been dependable in her communication with you.

Manny wanted to throw a wild bash to help everyone blow off steam after a nerve-wracking mission, and you wanted her to enjoy the breather. If you hadn’t been so exhausted the week leading up to it, the bass-heavy music and infectious laughter of your friends would’ve invigorated you—Abby playfully bouncing you on her knee to the rhythmic beat the way she always does.

Instead, it was someone else vying for the empty spot on Abby’s lap.

“She got pretty wasted, like—all over the place drunk. Near the end, she was hitting on everything that moved, basically.”

“Okay. And that included you at some point?”

“It took me a minute to notice, but yes. She tried to make a move.”

A hot, prickling sensation coils like a bitter serpent in the pit of your stomach, impossible to suppress.

“God, Abby. And you still walked her home after? I can’t understand that.”

Your attempt to keep your emotions in check proves futile as tears sting the rims of your eyes, threatening to spill over. The moment you sniffle against them, her gaze immediately locks onto you.

“Please don’t cry,” Abby whispers. Using the sleeve of her shirt, she dabs away the moisture staining your lashes. “Nothing happened. I swear on your life.”

“Did you think about hooking up with her?”

“Fuck no,” Abby says. “I would never, ever step out on you.”

When she clasps your hand, it’s with a firm grip, as though she’s afraid you might slip through her fingers.

“She was all over Manny, and his new girl was getting really pissed off. Like, she was a total mess, and no one wanted to deal with it. Before shit went down, I got her out of there. But she isn’t my responsibility and I realize that now.”

Mulling over her narrative, you’re convinced beyond any doubt that it’s truthful.

When something needs fixing, everyone instinctively turns to Abby. It has always been that way. She has adopted the duty of looking after her community and providing structure, and you deeply admire that quality in her.

There is a significant amount of pressure that accompanies the responsibility of being a protector. It would be nice if people cut her some slack from time to time.

Perhaps you could be the one to initiate it.

“You’re spoken for, Abby.”

“I know,” she says. “And I don’t take that for granted.”

“Maybe it goes without saying, but I’ll seriously fuck her up if she tries that shit again,” you warn. “I am not kidding, Abigail. Drunk or not, I don’t care.”

Sporting a mischievous grin, Abby bites down on the inside of her cheek. When she lets go of your hand to fidget with her own, you playfully nudge her.

“What?” you ask.

“I don’t hate this side of you.”

“Yeah, well, we better put the cork back on ‘cause things will get pretty real when I’m kicking her slutty ass all over town.”

“Copy that,” Abby smirks. “Putting the cork back on the crazy, pronto.”

She lifts her legs onto the couch to wrap the blanket around both of you. While she’s earnestly trying to convey the depth of her devotion to your relationship, she’s struggling to contain her laughter at your feistiness.

Her knees collide with yours, bringing back memories of the night she invited you over to watch a movie but couldn’t take her eyes off you long enough to pay attention to the screen.

That first kiss had such hunger and heat behind it that the recollection still makes your cheeks flush, her rough, curious hands keeping you breathless for hours.

“Can I tell you a secret?”

“Spill,” you say.

“You’ll always be my girl,” Abby says, tracing the curve of your spine with her fingertips. “I’ve known it from the start.”

“Well, I think the people may need a reminder,” you murmur.

You feel her velvet breath on the back of your hand as she kisses it. Tenderly, she pulls you onto her lap and nestles her face in your hair.

“Let’s give ‘em one.”

#abby the last of us #abby tlou #abby x fem!reader #abby x reader #abby x you #tlou abby #lesbian #tlou part 2 #abby anderson

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adrift-in-thyme · 3 months

Text

Febuwhump Day 12: Semiconscious (Warriors & Time)

Ao3

CW for poisoning, vomiting, blood and injury, and a near death experience

————————————

He stopped seeing clearly long ago.

His surroundings are no longer distinctive shapes. No, they are mere colors now, smeared and edged in the glare of lantern light. It is as though someone poured oil out on the street and left it to be trampled.

Warriors stumbles over something substantial and nonexistent. Another wheezing breath tears out of his lungs. Everything tips sideways and he goes with it, tripping over his own feet. He collides with a lamp post, frightens a blurred figure, garners murmurs of “inebriated” and “not right in the mind.”

He doesn’t care. Not much is bothersome, he’s quickly realizing, when you can’t breathe.

Wildly, he glances around. The buildings lean right, then left, their glowing windows seeming to leer at him. The inn…he has to find it. That is where his brothers await, that is where he can get help.

Warriors gulps in air and gains nothing from it. The ground tilts. He goes down, bile rising in his throat. He has already vomited up everything his stomach contained. But his body is desperate, desperate to rid itself of whatever is killing him.

So, it tries again.

He comes up feeling no less dizzy, no less sick. If anything, it is worse now. When he shoves to his feet, his vision goes abruptly dark. For a moment, he is certain that this is it. This is when he collapses, surrendering to the bitter embrace of oblivion. But then it screams back into a mirage of shifting shapes and nauseating shades of vibrancy.

“Captain?”

Warriors blinks rapidly. Someone is standing before him – a woman he thinks. The visible edges of her expression convey worry.

“Are you well?”

He grins and it feels wrong. Lopsided, clumsy, sharp…a grimace more than anything else.

“Not to worry. ‘M fine.”

“Oh.” She frowns now. Or at least, he thinks that she does. Drunk, her silence screams. Irresponsible. “O-oh alright, then. Goodnight to you.”

It’s good a thing, his mind assures him, as Warriors gazes dazedly at her retreating form.

It’s a good thing that they think you’ve drank too much. Better than them knowing. Safer.

…yeah. Safer.

He is certain he’s going to be sick again. His lungs rise and fall, and nothing comes of their efforts. The ground churns like the sea in Wind’s Hyrule. If only it were warm here like it is on that beautiful beach. But no. Here it is icy cold.

He shivers, stops the failure of his equilibrium with a nearby wall.

Just find them. Find…find your brothers.

Darkness tinges his vision again, spreading like an ink blot on cloth. It grows from left to right, and he lists sideways, drifting towards it. Something catches his boot on the way over. He stumbles, fails to catch himself, crashes down in a tangle of long limbs and thick fabric.

“Oh, look what we’ve got here!”

Giant forms move in the borders of his waning sight. Warriors stares up at them, icy heat prickling the back of his neck and head. Everything smells and tastes of iron. Everything hurts.

“It’s the princess’s favorite little errand boy!”

Something flat and harsh connects with his cheek. Warriors’ head snaps sideways. He chokes, coughing blood onto the pavement.

Get up! His instincts screech. Get up and fight!

He ignores them. It’s so easy to do that now. They are usually so loud, so boisterous and unignorable, hardened and loudened by years of experience.

It’s nice to silence them for once.

“He don’t look so good. Looks like somebody already got a hit on ‘im.”

“Poison?”

“Seems like it. He reeks of something rancid and it ain’t whiskey. His breathin’ ain’t right either.”

“Well, then.”

A hand fists in his collar. The next thing he knows, the ground is falling out from beneath him. He hovers somewhere above it, gazing obliviously at the space before him. Something is there – or maybe someone – but he can’t make out their features.

“He’s all lonesome out here. Might as well finish what they started. It’ll be easy.”

He should be afraid. He’s not.

Warriors feels nothing now except pain. Well, pain and the curious sensation of drowning. Strange, he doesn’t remember seeing water anywhere around here. But maybe he’s simply floating in it, unknowing, unseeing. That would certainly explain how cold he is.

His body slams back into the ground, and what little wheezing breaths he had managed to garner abruptly flee. Dull panic slices through the haze for a split second – just long enough for him to grab a wisp of air. Then, it’s back, a fog as thick as the stuff hovering over Time’s Lost Woods.

Unavigatable. Unbeatable.

For once, he can’t win this battle. For once, he has an excuse to succumb.

And he’s not one for giving in – his stubbornness is practically unmatched – but throwing in the proverbial towel now…fills him with relief.

“Go on boys! Gut him!”

The words reach his ears, but he hardly hears them. And he certainly doesn’t comprehend. Everything is so very far away…

It’s odd how without oxygen the world grows soft.

His head flops sideways. Lazily, he blinks into the indistinct expanse of Castle Town. The colors run together more than ever now. He can hardly tell them apart anymore.

Its beautiful, he thinks, with a loopy smile. Like Arty.

The soft shink of deadly metal surrounds him. Pain streaks through his abdomen. He coughs. Blood spills down his chin and drapes his tunic in crimson. It is wonderfully warm.

Again, metal strikes. More blood, more warmth. More pain.

His eyes flutter. There is not much to see now. But darkness is beginning to be replaced with dazzling light.

It is as beautiful as Castle Town…maybe even more. It beckons him, envelops him like a hug.

Come, it whispers, in the voice of his mother, come to me, dear child. Rest.

Somewhere, someone screams.

Warriors smiles and it is a soft, gentle thing. He starts to step forward.

“No!”

Hands grasp his wrist, as small as a child’s yet, much too calloused to be. Warriors dares to glance over his shoulder.

Mask stands there, his green clothing even more vibrant in the world of white. Tears have turned his large blue eyes the color of Warriors’ scarf. His lip trembles, despite the way he has it between his teeth. And while his grip is strong, his expression is a rapidly crumbling wall.

Warriors feels the tug again, the call from the endless light. He needs to go. He wants to. Sweet Hylia, he wants to.

“Sprite…”

“You-you can’t!” Mask shouts, stepping closer. He is shaking, Warriors realizes. The child who has faced monsters larger than himself armed with nothing more than a cocky grin and a slingshot is shaking. “You can’t leave me!”

The tears fall and smudge the markings that have now appeared on his face. Shades of blue and red trickle down his cheeks.

Warriors blinks and suddenly, the child’s hands are drenched in blood. He gasps, stumbling back. But Mask holds on.

“Sprite, I’ve got to go,” he says, desperately, because he must see that he can’t remain here. It’s time…isn’t it?

“No. It’s not.”

Mask ducks his head, as a sob tears at his tiny body. Salty water plunks onto the ground. It sounds like raindrops.

A downpour on a sunny day. A child curled beneath his scarf, grinning mischievously. A beautiful woman laughing, face upturned to the sky.

A tear slides down Warriors’ own cheek.

“Oh, Link…”

“Please,” he croaks, soft now, vulnerable. Broken. “Please, don’t leave.”

A single eye meets Warriors’ two. A face marked by a war god crumples, every year, every battle, every loss written in the tears streaming down it.

The captain moves closer. The light seems to dim now, lessened by the aching in his heart. Time…Time should never look like that. If he could reach him, maybe he could make that pain go away.

Time drags in a trembling breath. Crimson-drenched fingers fist in Warriors’ scarf like he did so often as a child.

“I need you, big brother.”

Warriors take another step and another and another. He can’t stop now. The decision seems plain. Whatever is behind him, wonderful though it may seem, is not yet for him. Not when Time is looking at him as though he is his entire world and then some. Not when he can hear them now — the faint pleas of the other heroes.

His brothers. His family.

He reaches out, fingers brushing Time’s cheek. The hero’s breath hitches as he leans into his touch.

“I’m right here, Sprite,” the captain promises. “And I’m not going anywhere.”

With a sob, Time falls into his arms. Warriors closes his eyes and buries his face in his shoulder. And as they cling to each other, the endless white surrounding them comes crashing down.

#febuwhump 2024 #febuwhump day 12 #blood tw #injury tw #poisoning tw #near death experience #linked universe #linkeduniverse fic #lu warriors #lu time #whump #angst #trin writes #ohoho this was a fun one to write #I just love writing near death experiences for some reason XD #and picking on wars of course #that’s always a joy

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poetry-protest-pornography · 4 months

Text

Grief is a strange thing.

Someone really important to me died yesterday, and for me, mourning for him inevitably becomes mourning all the people I've ever lost, the pain just compounding until each loss feels magnified beyond comprehension.

Mourning him becomes mourning the actual loss, but also all the missed chances to connect, the plans we half made, the distance between now and the last time we spoke, and all the years that it's been since I got to hug him.

Mourning becomes guilt.

Of the three men I've ever thought about the potential of a future with, he was the second. We spent the majority of my mid to late teen years talking for hours several nights a week. We didn't officially date, but we were emotionally committed to each other, and for those years, there was no one else for either of us.

Eventually, the into-early-morning conversations were less frequent, and he met someone wonderful, and then I did, and we settled into the same easy friendship we’d always had, but relied on each other less and less, until we really only spoke a few times a year. And I never stopped loving him in all the time since, and I know he loved me, too, and it was the kind of love that sinks into you when you make space for someone, and let that space stay long enough that it carves into you but doesn't take anything away from you.

And so I'm hurting for that little piece of me that will always be shaped like hours long talks and years spent thinking maybe and him and the kind of friendship that starts and doesn't stop just because it changes, or because you take up less time in each other's lives.

And I'm hurting for his wife, who made him so happy, and his family who he loved even when it wasn't easy, and I'm hurting for him, who is gone and whose absence makes the world a little less beautiful.

And I'm morning a little for the friend I lost late last year, and my friend who was older than me but also my little brother who's yarzheit passed two months ago, and my grandfather, who's yarzheit just passed, and my father, who never really leaves my thoughts, and it's all happening at once, so I'm hurting for all the time between now and the last time I got to hug any of them, and all the plans we half made, and all the moments we missed out on connecting, and it's all so much to feel at once and still move through the world. And grief becomes guilt, and I'm so accustomed to feeling guilty that it all gets wrapped up around me in a way that's hard to distinguish from my base state of being, so it all lasts for so long.

Grief is a strange thing, and I'm writing this all out (fully crying in a waiting room) intending to ask for a little grace while I find my equilibrium, and for you to all be a little kinder to yourselves and to the people you love, and I'm realizing that these are things I can do, too. I can give myself grace while I figure out all these big feelings, and I can make sure that I tell the people I love that I love them, and I can try to have less missed chances to hug them.

These people who have left spaces in me didn't leave them empty, they're still there, and I know that they wouldn't want me to drown in this. I can do it for them, until I can do it for me. I can untangle all the overlapping hurts, I just need to give myself time and space to feel it first.

I'm sorry for the long ramble, I think I needed to put this somewhere as a reminder of sorts.

If you read this far, please take this hug I've got on hand.

#grief #mourning #self compassion

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baldurs-gape · 3 months

Note

Silently begging you to continue “the price paid”, your work is incredible!

Your kindness has me flustered and blushing, Nonnie. So it took me a little while to scrape together the goo that had become of my last brain cell. I'm more than happy to write a little more of The Price Paid for you. Not going to lie, it thrills me to be able to share more of the story with a willing and eager recipient.

Ownership of Pain

Just because Astarion was more visibly alert didn't mean things were magically back to how they used to be. On the surface he seemed to be settling back into the usual groove of the party. Maybe his flirting was a little more extreme, far too willing to try and seduce any willing member for a night. Except nobody was accepting his offer. Not even Halsin or Gale, both of whom had been so willing to promise their shared affections as long as Astarion came back to them. Because Astarion remembered those long days and nights where he was locked in his own body, unable to break free of the comfort of nothingness. It was the closest he could get to ceasing to exist even if it didn't make the past magically disappear.

If Astarion couldn't prove his worth with his body, he resorted to other skills. Tagging along with a group heading out, he made sure camp was always brimming with pilfered supplies. Not only was Gale able to cook veritable feasts, tents were suddenly more comfortable with extra bed rolls, stuffed toys and even art. While Astarion didn't claim responsibility for it all, he didn't make a secret of it, sighing in relief whenever he could dump a load of stolen wares somewhere in camp. The others could sort through it, he was only good for the acquisition, not for putting any of it to actual use. Though he did keep a pair of simple gloves for himself, ensuring the ring which kept him free was hidden from view and as secure on him as possible.

Things maybe were returning to a new equilibrium. One that wasn't as good as before, Astarion had a knack for serving in an unsettling way. If his presence wasn't requested, he near enough disappeared into his tent. At first the others left him to it, hoping he just needed to bit of time to himself. Alas, it seemed to be nothing more than wishful thinking. Especially when Lae'zel caught a whiff of garlic emanating from his tent one quiet evening.

"Your spawn may have looted the wrong thing," she told Halsin, not unkindly.

Approaching the tent with Gale, Halsin wished Lae'zel had been right. If only it had been the case of some fumble, uncharacteristic as it was of Astarion. Instead, Halsin stepped into the tent and almost turned to leave without a word but Gale was at his back and far more vocal about their discovery.

"Just what in the astral blazes are you doing?!"

Crouched on the ground, wearing his gloves, Astarion had crushed a whole head of garlic and scooped it into a pouch. His actions would have been considered odd but could have been ignored if not for the fact that all around his lips and nose was blistered and bleeding exactly in the shape of the pouch's neck. Halsin could feel his heart squeezing, on the verge of shattering as he struggled to keep calm.

"Astarion? What's the meaning of all this?"

The more he looked, the worse the picture in his mind became. There was a healing potion set aside that was only half full. A rag next to it, its corner dried and tinged with potion and old blood. Taking it all in meant Gale slipped past him and was taking the garlic filled pouch from Astarion's lax fingers. In fact, Astarion looked on the verge of getting lost in his head again. It pushed Halsin into action too.

"It's okay. We're not angry, you're not in trouble. We just want to understand."

"Here." A stronger potion of healing was pulled from Gale's robes and thrust at Astarion. His hesitation wasn't a good sign but Gale chose to ignore it in favour or wagging the bottle to encourage it. Even so, Astarion's motions were hollow and obedient without any sign of thought beyond doing as told. The first few swallows were obviouly agony but he didn't say anything.

Once the bottle was empty, Gale took it from lax fingers and asked, "Why would you do such a thing?"

"It stopped the screams." Voice devoid of emotion, Astarion didn't meet their eyes. Obviously there was more to it but now wasn't the time to push it.

"What screams?"

Silence stretched longer before Astarion complied and answered. "When I trance." Face crumpling a little, he battled tears. "I mustn't disturb anyone's sleep. Can't give them reason to leave me behind."

Gathering him up between them, there were murmurs of reassurance that almost definitely fell on deaf ears. But it was all they could do.

"Please let me be useful," Astarion begged quietly. "I can be good."

"You are good, so good." Nose buried in his hair, Halsin pressed a kiss to the top of his head and tried not to think of how the garlic must have burned Astarion's throat and lungs until it was too painful to scream. "You're loved, okay?"

Of course his words fell on deaf ears. So it didn't take much to try and make actions speak louder than words. Next time a party was heading out, Astarion was with them. A small fight was expected and Halsin deeply hoped it would help restore some of his confidence. Once more he was wrong.

As soon as the fight commenced, Astarion froze, weapon slipping from between his fingers. In the grand scheme of things it wasn't a huge issue, the others more than capable of picking up the slack. It wasn't a long fight but Astarion had no part in it other than standing at the very edge, eyes near enough glazed over.

Once the fight had concluded, Astarion didn't snap back into the present. In fact, he cowered as Shadowheart approached him to hand his dropped bow back.

"You okay there, soldier?" Karlach asked with as much softness as she could muster, standing next to Shadowheart.

"Don't send me back. Please don't." Whatever it was Astarion was begging for, it made no sense to them. "Don't leave me behind."

The way he swayed, like his knees were on the verge of giving out, on the brink of sending him crashing into the dirt so he could plead properly made the others unesay. Gale stepped forward and tenderly wrapped an arm around him, helping him stay upright.

"We're not sending you anywhere or leaving you behind. Come on home, back to camp we go."

Upon their return, Halsin was there, helping guide Astarion to the fireside. They didn't dare leave him alone in his tent anymore, not when they could avoid it. The smell of garlic and sight of blistered skin still haunted them.

After the incident it became an unspoken agreement. Astarion no longer joined ventures where fighting was expected. As exceptional as he was with a dagger, all skill was lost in the face of freezing at the sound of blades clashing. Gale and Halsin also stopped going out together on missions unless Astarion was with them. One of them was always in his orbit, ready to protect him at the drop of a hat.

Perhaps the worst was the way Astarion didn't seem to mind. He used to whinge and complain incessantly about being bored and being left behind. Now, he took his fate like a defeated dog, resigned and accepting as long as he was thrown scraps. Though what he was given was more than scraps, Halsin knew that it would be a long while before Astarion would take it at face value. For now, they simply had to give what they could and hope that Astarion would learn to eventually trust them again.

#gale/astarion/halsin #gale/astarion #halsin/astarion #gale x astarion x halsin #gale x astarion #halsin x astarion #astarion #bg3 astarion #halsin #bg3 halsin #gale dekarios #gale of waterdeep #bg3 gale #bg3 #baldur's gate 3

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chemblrish · 20 days

Note

Hi! Do you have any tips for studying chemistry? For some reason I cant seem to get all the formulas in my brain.

Hey!

My unhelpful but still favorite advice for shoving formulas into one's brain is to understand them 😅 A purely memorization-based approach is very bad for chemistry.

If the problem seems to be particularly understanding/ remembering formulas:

Ask yourself if this particular formula is just words turned into numbers and mathematical symbols. I think it may not work for everyone, but for example I found it easier to remember the literal definition of pH that is "the negative decimal logarithm of hydrogen ion concentration" rather than "pH = -log [H+]" bc otherwise I'd keep forgetting about the minus sign.

Check if you find deriving a formula from another formula easier than just memorizing it. Again, my personal example is I hate memorizing things so much I never really bothered to remember the equation that describes Ostwald's law of dilution - bc I knew I could easily, quickly, and painlessly derive it from the equilibrium constant for concentration + degree of dissociation (and I've done it so many times now it stuck in my brain anyway).

When all else fails, I turn to mnemotechnics. To this day I remember that Clapeyron's equation goes pV = nRT because many years ago someone on the internet shared a funny sentence whose words start with these 5 letters. The sillier the better.

If the issue is with chemistry in general:

Take it chapter by chapter. Chemistry, like most STEM subjects, is just blocks of knowledge upon blocks of knowledge. For example, if you want to learn electrolysis, you need to understand redox reactions first. Try to identify where the struggle begins and work from there.

Once you've picked a topic you want to work on, follow the reasoning in your textbook. If you get stuck, that might be a sign you're simply missing a piece of information from a previous chapter. If an example comes up, try to solve it along with the tips in the textbook.

If anything remains unclear, it's usually not the best idea to just leave it and move on. If the textbook becomes unhelpful, turn to the internet or maybe a friend. Otherwise, the next chapter may just turn out to be needlessly confusing.

Practice problems practice problems practice problems!! And not just the numerical ones. The theory-based ones where they ask you about reactions, orbitals, the properties of the elements etc. are important too.

Choose understanding over memorizing whenever possible.

Try to look at the big picture: the way certain concepts are intertwined, how one law may be a logical consequence of another law you learnt before, why some concepts are taught together, why you had to learn something else first to get to what you're studying now. Again, as an example, I think it's particularly fun to see towards the end of ochem, somewhere around the biomolecules: you need to integrate your knowledge of aromatic compounds, ketones and aldehydes, alcohols, carboxylic acids... Stack new information upon what you already know.

Study methods I'm a big fan of: spaced repetition, solving past papers (anything I can get my hands on tbh), flashcards for the things I absolutely have to memorize, exchanging questions and answers with a friend, watching related videos.

If by any chance you end up taking pchem, I have a post for that specifically.

I hope you can find something helpful here :) Good luck!

#inbox #chemistry asks

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daisychainsandbowties · 3 months

Note

Absolutely love the 17776 au. Its such an interesting concept and im exited too see where it goes. Easily my favorite wn fic

🥺 your favourite? 🥺🥺 here's a little snippet of the next chapter just for you 🥰

...

Are you still there?

I’m sorry, it takes 11 days to charge enough for a message. I’m still here. I promise.

She sends this, what, after another week? A handful of days cupped in her palm like pebbles, like the baby teeth they wrestled from her mouth with too-big fingers and tossed into the wastepaper bin.

This Ava, who sits in a void the size of herself, has never seen a sunrise. She hasn’t yet invented stars, through there is one close enough and important enough that she’ll have to, soon.

per aspera ad astra

She’s weak, and small. A dim light too shy to shine but there, present as a cold shape in space, turning with her great metal wings casting no shadows. Not anywhere.

The light touches her, but not like that, not like a girl’s mouth and the hot wet progress of her tongue, down in the crease between thigh and oh god. fuck.

The light loves her maybe as much as that, as fervently but not as badly, lumens blushing over the white-tipped primaries, the mixed metaphor metacarpals of her body which is winged only in the sense that it soars.

They build satellites like this, in the afterimage of birds with wings that drink the light down the way you take a girl in your mouth. Ava’s not the same as them because so many are still cupped around Earth in a too-tight grip. Nothing is the same as it was.

would you recognise home, Ava? if it walked up to you and kissed you?

Ava’s old. She’s got that NASA decrepitude to her – built to be beautiful by accident, like the Apollo Lunar Module with her odd legs, her aluminium body drinking down dust. Bulky in her clothes, her tanks of aerozine 50 fuel, nitrogen tetroxide oxidizer, water, oxygen, helium… her pretty skirt of a descent engine.

They don’t tell children this, but they left this part behind on the moon.

Somewhere, out in the void that surrounds her, that is her, Ava senses a heat signature. With sticky fingers she reaches out and tries to touch it.

Stares at the light spilling out of them or through them. She is not the light but she is a light. Her fingers shock her almost half-awake.

These are real, at least. She puts them in her mouth and they taste like copper wires and nitrogen tetroxide, which tastes of equilibrium, of hypergolicity, of moon dust.

They taste like a prom date left behind on the moon, and whatever happened to her.

(nothing, if being lost can bear that description)(it cannot)

They feel like a girl’s fingers and Ava knows this because she has always been an open-mouthed thing. Call her hungry, call her awed, call her a slut.

Either way, you’ll know her by name.

#warrior nun #17776 au #avatrice #anon #🥺 i'm so awed that this is your favourite

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everybodyknows-everybodydies · 8 months

Text

“You don’t like me,” says the Archmage with a funny little smile.

She honestly hadn’t thought he had noticed. She’s been very polite—but. Well. “Well,” she says aloud, careful, “I wouldn’t say that.” Which is true: she would not say that. It would be—rude. And, evidently, unnecessary.

“No, I don’t imagine you would,” he agrees. “But I think it is true?”

She resists the need to shift all her weight to one side and instead stands whisper-still. Her jaw shifts uncomfortably, despite herself, all the same. “You’re the Archmage,” she says after a moment. And I’m not sure why you’re in my workroom when you’ve never indicated you’re even aware of its existence, she doesn’t say, but perhaps he can use his apparently finely-honed powers of inference to get there on his own.

He looks away. “I am.” Like that: he’s not here anymore. She shouldn’t be surprised. He’s never here, which is the problem; one can see him in the courtyard contemplatively chewing the same dry bite of apple into dust from before morning classes through noon, but he’s always really somewhere else, no matter how many nervous apprentices try to impress him with their best understanding of theory told in exaggerated conversation with each other as they walk past, no matter how many times Mirabelle asks him yet again to sign off on the same thing he’s been tucking under his cup of tea all month.

She thinks of clearing her throat. It never works when Urag tries it. And Urag has worked with him a long time; he knows how to steer conversation somewhere productive, even if only by inches. She, on the other hand, knows very few conversational tricks, and fewer that would be useful here. Really, she wishes he’d just stay put and listen when people need him. “Archmage,” she says finally, gently as she can. “Can I help you?”

He blinks, the red flash of his eyes suddenly alight—she thinks again, absurd, of apples—and then dim again. “Ah,” he turns his head, like he’s just remembered she’s there, or possibly that he’s there. The shadow of his hood across his face makes him look, she thinks, older than she’s reasonably sure he is. “Yes. I’d like to think you might.” He sets a thin book on her desk, to his side. “You fix these,” he says, after a beat. “Why?”

She pauses, one hand already halfway to the book. Thermal Equilibrium. “I like to fix things.” She studies his distant face. She’s not sure what she’s looking for, but this is the most he’s spoken to her, directly, alone, in a year and a half.

“And are you—good at it? Fixing things?”

This might feel like a trick question if she thought he was listening to the answer. “I hope so,” she says anyway, taking the book to see what needs repairing, touch light. “Always more to learn, though. You know.” She’s not sure why she adds the last bit. She doesn’t know what he knows. Not as though he ever shares any of it.

The book is much thinner than it should be, the spine hollowed out loose. There’s a clean set of slices where the pages have been neatly removed—a good two-thirds of the text block cut out, it looks like; to what end, she wouldn’t be able to guess—but without the missing pages there’s nothing for her to put back, really. Clean up the edges, maybe; reinforce and narrow the spine. She opens her mouth to ask what exactly he wants her to do.

He’s looking at her with that funny little smile again, half-gone. His eyes slide off her like water, and he lifts a hand as he turns to go. “That’s good,” he says, more to himself than to her. “That’s good. You ought to learn how to break things next.”

#writing tag #Kharish gra-Shatul #thinking some thoughts. that is all!

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sesamestreep · 4 months

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New Taylor Swift prompts! 16, Matt/Foggy

16. I’ve missed you all this time (from this prompt list) I don't know what this is, but it's technically set in the 60s, even though I did not make that explicitly clear anywhere in the text and it serves no purpose beyond just...vibes. I mostly just wanted to write silly new year’s fic, don’t worry about historical accuracy or world-building, everyone be cool! happy 2024, you silly and sultry geese! on ao3 here 🥂✨

Matt can still hear the noise of the party, barely dampened even when he's several rooms removed. He’d be able to hear it from the lobby of the building, truth be told, but here he can still make out conversations without having to focus that hard. He tries to direct his senses somewhere else—somewhere with less overlapping chatter and clinking glasses and shuffling feet over plush carpets—and breathe deep, so that maybe he can regain some equilibrium and hopefully go back to the party in a few minutes and act normal. It’s almost midnight, after all, and who goes to a New Year’s Eve party just to ditch out before midnight?

“Matthew Augustus Murdock,” a voice calls out from the far end of the paneled hallway.

“Not my middle name,” Matt says, smiling, “as you already know.”

“But wouldn’t it be better if it was?” Foggy asks, as he slides down to sit next to Matt.

“Yes, I imagine I’d have lived a much easier and more successful life, if only my middle name was…what was it again?”

“Albert,” Foggy says, “or something. Who cares?”

“Good point,” Matt says, pressing his shoulder into Foggy’s happily. “How’d you find me?”

“I used the one and only superpower God graced me with: I’m like a homing pigeon for you specifically. I always know where to find you. It’s eerie, frankly, and damned useless, but—“

“Not to me,” Matt interjects, too readily. “I mean, for what it’s worth.”

Foggy nods, his overly long hair that he keeps meaning to get cut rasping over his shirt's stiff collar as he does. “That’s a good point.”

“I make those occasionally.”

“Occasionally,” Foggy repeats in a comically shrill, tiny voice, like he’s doing an impression of a cartoon mouse, for whatever reason. He’s a little drunk, clearly, which Matt could tell from the way he’s talking and the way he’s moving and the way he smells and, well, that’s probably enough evidence.

“If I’m ever in trouble, I know who to call,” Matt says, which is maybe too honest, but Foggy doesn’t have to know that.

“You wouldn’t even have to call, Matt,” Foggy replies, solemnly grasping his shoulder. “If you’re ever in trouble, I’ll know and I’ll come running.”

“I would pay real money to see you actually run anywhere.”

“You’d have to, my man. I imagine it would take a massive breakthrough in science for you to see anything at all, and those things tend to cost a pretty penny,” Foggy says, grandly. “And also, on a much more serious note, go fuck yourself.”

Matt laughs and collapses against Foggy’s shoulder. “I’m sorry, I just know how much you hate running.”

“Which means you’ve entirely missed the inherent capital-R romanticism of me offering to do it for you! Classic Murdock. Absolute philistine behavior. I should expect it by now.”

“Your gallantry is wasted on me,” Matt agrees, still doing that thing of being too honest.

“I know,” Foggy sighs, theatrically, “and yet, here I am.”

“Why are you here, anyway?”

“Missed you, came looking. Same as ever.”

“Aw,” Matt says, leaning into his side even more. “You’re right, I really don’t deserve you.”

“I never said that. You said that,” Foggy says, poking him. “But anyway, I lied and the real answer to your question is that I got tired of girls coming up to me and asking where my handsome friend had got to.”

Matt knows two things with a decent degree of certainty: Foggy hadn’t been lying when he gave his first answer (Matt would have heard it in his heartbeat and likely noticed any other number of tells that Foggy has when he does lie, besides) and that no one would have had to ask him to go looking for Matt after he disappeared. His joke about homing pigeon-like tendencies is more truthful than either of them would like to acknowledge. When Matt goes missing—as he very frequently does at these types of things—Foggy always comes to find him. Matt’s been doing this since way before he met Foggy—having overly heightened senses does not make crowded social functions more manageable in general—but he can probably admit that he does it more now that he knows someone will come looking for him.

He also knows that girls like Foggy a lot more than Foggy thinks they do. He’s always talking about how girls seek him out to get in with Matt, but Matt doesn’t really believe that. There have been a few girls, here and there, certainly enough that Foggy’s right to be a little paranoid about it, who have turned their sights from Foggy to Matt, which on top of being unkind is just bad business sense. Anyone with a brain in their head would see that Foggy’s the better option of the two of them. And Matt’s got plenty of flaws, but he’d certainly never take up with anyone who hurt his best friend, so it doesn’t work out the way anyone hopes it will, anyway, when they do. Still, he's sure Foggy could have found a nice girl to keep him entertained until Matt got back to the party, if he put his mind to it, and that maybe he'd just been looking for an excuse to duck out himself when someone asked about Matt.

“This is where I got to,” Matt says, with a slightly pathetic shrug.

“Who says I meant you?” Foggy asks, absently. “I have other friends that are handsomer than you!”

“Not only do you not have a single handsomer friend in all the world,” Matt says, belatedly unsure if ‘handsomer’ is even a word, but otherwise too confident to turn back, “you don’t even have another friend at this party.”

“I’m exceedingly charming, Matthew,” Foggy over-enunciates. “Everyone at this party is my new best friend.”

Matt loops his arm through Foggy’s and leans his head back against the wall. “Sounds like I’ve got a lot of competition.”

“You’re not having fun?” Foggy asks, the change of topic so sudden and his tone so unexpectedly serious that Matt has a brief moment of confusion that he means with this joke they’ve got going. It takes a second to realize he means at the party in general.

“It’s fancy.”

“Too fancy, you mean…”

“You know I don’t go in for all this stuff,” Matt says, shrugging.

“Like I do, you mean?” Foggy asks, lightly, even though Matt can feel him warming with embarrassment.

“Like I used to,” Matt clarifies, and trusts his meaning to be clear.

“Right,” Foggy says, and the tone in his voice is the one he uses exclusively when he refers to Matt’s ex-girlfriend from junior year who almost caused him to drop out. “Fair enough, I suppose.”

“You can head back. Really, I don’t mind. I just need a few more minutes.”

“No, you’re right. It’s…a bit stuffy, isn’t it?” Foggy muses. “I mean, I didn’t even know people still had apartments like this, outside of, well, the Rockefellers.”

The apartment belongs to the parents of one of their friends from law school and the only reason they have free rein over the place is because the parents are vacationing in Aspen with friends. Even without being able to see it, Matt can tell it’s a swanky place. The rug he’s currently sitting on is so plush that he can basically sink his entire hand into it. Every table he passed on his way to this hiding place smelled so strongly of Pine-Sol that there has to be a maid on staff, if not a team of them. He’s fairly certain this random hallway he discovered is actually a back passage to the kitchens, so the servants don’t have to be seen coming and going. He's not sure if he asked their host about it that they'd even know it existed. And Matt’s shoes, as well as most of his clothes, are secondhand.

“You were having fun until I made you feel bad,” Matt says, tucking his chin onto Foggy’s shoulder and trying to look contrite.

“No, I mean—I like having you around, Matt. You keep me honest,” Foggy laughs. “Two and a half years of law school, four years at an Ivy before that, I think I’ve just made peace with having to go to parties in uncomfortable clothes and to make conversation with people I don’t really like. I don’t think I’d call it fun, but it’s a social life of some kind, I suppose.”

“We should have gone to Josie’s,” Matt says, holding onto him too tightly, even with the excuse of a few drinks.

Foggy snorts, thinking of the beloved dive bar they sneak off to in Hell’s Kitchen whenever they can, whenever they’re home. It’s only a matter of blocks to get there, but sometimes, at school, it feels farther away than all that.

“I don’t dare imagine the caliber of our prospects for a kiss at midnight there,” Foggy says, with an exaggerated shudder.

“Can’t be any worse than our prospects here,” Matt replies.

Foggy whistles, low, under his breath. “You’re going to be disappointing a lot of nice girls with that kind of talk, Murdock!”

“Better to disappoint them now than later,” Matt says, fully burying his face in Foggy’s shoulder now. He gets like this when he drinks. Foggy's used to it.

“Oh, that’s right. You don’t do the whole ‘going steady’ thing anymore,” Foggy says, leaning in conspiratorially. “You’re too damaged and that means you’re never going to get married, so you’d rather not lead anyone on.”

“You say that like it’s not true,” Matt whispers back.

“It isn’t true, you moron!” Foggy laughs. “One day, some beautiful girl is going to turn your head so quick, you’ll have neck problems for the rest of your life!”

“Sounds uncomfortable,” Matt says.

“And I’ll be there,” Foggy continues, like Matt didn’t even speak, “laughing.”

“Well, as long as you’ll be there, Foggy.”

“Did I mention you’re a moron?”

“Yes. A few times now, in fact.”

“Then, I’ve done my duty.”

“And what about you?” Matt asks. “When’s somebody going to turn your head?”

“Somebody turns my head every goddamn day, it feels like,” Foggy grumbles. “The problem isn’t my head. It’s everybody else’s.”

“There’s plenty of girls who’d be more than happy to trap you in matrimony.”

“Hmm, well, I’m sure that’s true enough,” Foggy replies, thoughtfully. “I guess it’s more about finding someone you wouldn’t mind being trapped with.”

“And you haven’t found her yet, I take it?”

“No,” Foggy says, sadly. The girl he dated for most of their sophomore year—the one everyone had been certain Foggy was going to end up marrying—had just gotten engaged last month. Foggy still wasn’t entirely over it, Matt was pretty sure.

“And you’re certain she’s not here?” Matt asks, encouragingly.

“Unlikely,” Foggy says. “None of the girls here would be caught dead with me in the daylight. One of them might be unscrupulous enough to let me kiss her at midnight, though.”

“So, go back,” Matt replies. “Find the girl in that room with the lowest standards and lay one on her!”

“I will if you will.”

“I don’t know this for sure, but I do have serious doubts that any girl in the room will let the both of us kiss her at midnight.”

“I meant, you should—you know what I meant!” Foggy exclaims, embarrassed again.

“I was trying to be funny!”

“‘Trying’ being the operative word there…”

Matt sighs. “What’s the point of kissing someone at midnight when there’s almost no chance of seeing them ever again after tonight?”

“You’ve just described the point yourself! It’s just for fun, to start the year off right! There’s no pressure!” Foggy says, disbelieving. "What’s gotten into you? I thought zero expectations romance was your specialty!”

“Maybe I’m just not a New Year's kind of guy.”

Foggy hums thoughtfully. “Can I tell you my theory?”

“Your theory? About what?”

“About you, and New Year's, and all of that.”

“Oh. Sure. Go ahead.”

“I think you’re afraid,” Foggy says.

“Afraid?” Matt asks. “Of…New Year’s Eve?”

“You don’t want to participate in these silly little rituals, like kissing someone at midnight, because you’re secretly terrified that something good is going to happen to you, and then you won’t know what to do with yourself.”

“Really, Foggy. Be serious!”

“I am serious,” Foggy replies, casually. “You’re scared of being hit over the head with it again.”

“Hit over the head with what?”

“Love,” Foggy says, simply. “You felt it once and it nearly derailed your whole life, so now you avoid any situation where you might accidentally meet someone interesting or have more feelings than you’ve carefully rationed out for yourself for that particular day.”

Matt swallows, feeling utterly exposed. It’s not something he would have been able to say for himself an hour ago, but the words feel true to him coming from someone else. He doesn’t like anybody knowing him well enough to know all of that, though, and if it wouldn’t be so utterly obvious, he’d pull away from Foggy right now just to be safe. Like that would even help, he thinks reluctantly.

“You missed your calling not going into psychiatry, Foggy,” he says, stiffly, once he’s gathered his wits enough to form sentences.

Foggy’s hand, warm and a little damp, closes over Matt’s where it’s still resting on his arm. Matt wants nothing more than to flinch away from it, but he controls the urge in the interest of saving face.

“Don’t be mad at me,” Foggy says, quietly, like there’s a chance they might be overheard somehow and he wants Matt to be the only one who hears this. “I’m just trying to tell you that, in avoiding fun and frivolous things, you are not sparing yourself from being hit over the head. If you’re meant to get hit over the head, it’ll happen whenever and wherever Cupid so chooses. It’ll happen at the deli or the bank or while you’re waiting for the bus. Which means that the only thing you’re ultimately sparing yourself from is fun and frivolity, and that’s a stupid way to live your life. That’s all.”

“I think you just called me a moron again,” Matt says, weakly. He doesn’t know what else to say. The rest of it is...too much to consider.

“I called you stupid, actually, but I see your point.”

In the distance, Matt hears the noise of a crowd of people all simultaneously trying to shush each other, with limited success. He imagines even Foggy can hear it too a moment later when they all begin counting aloud.

“Last chance…” Matt says, tipping his head backwards in the direction of the room where everyone’s gathered.

“It doesn’t matter,” Foggy says, apropos of nothing, as far as Matt can tell. He’s about to ask what he means when Foggy continues, anyway. “I have someone who meets your criteria.”

“My criteria?”

“Yeah. You’ll only accept a kiss from someone you’ll see again after tonight, right?”

“Uh, I don’t think I said ‘only’, I just meant—”

“Too bad,” Foggy says, as the countdown reaches its conclusion. “Happy New Year.”

Matt’s halfway through formulating a question or an objection of some kind, which is the only reason he turns in Foggy’s direction at that moment. It’s clear from the noise of surprise Foggy makes that he absolutely had no intention of kissing Matt right on the mouth and was probably, in fact, aiming for his cheek, trying to be funny and charming after Matt was such a spoilsport about the whole kissing at midnight thing. If Matt hadn’t moved, there’s no doubt in his mind that that’s what Foggy would have done and then it would have been over and they’d already be laughing about it and moving on. But Matt did move and, even awkwardly off center, Foggy is kissing him on the mouth right now and they’re both just frozen like that, shocked and useless.

Matt doesn’t give himself much credit for genius. He’s reasonably smart, and can be even smarter if he applies himself to a subject and really studies up on it, but there’s plenty of people in any given room smarter than he is, most of the time. He has his moments, though, and this is one of them. He sees very clearly the two paths available to them. Down one, this moment stretches awkwardly and they allow it to become a source of discomfort and then outright pain that they'll avoid talking about for years, or maybe possibly forever. Regardless, it has the power to ruin their friendship and Matt simply can't abide that. Down the other, they don’t flinch from it and they don’t make it any stranger than it has to be and it becomes one weird but not fully objectionable moment in their long and storied relationship. They’re not going to trot it out as an anecdote at parties, sure, but they’re not going to become crazy about denying it happened either. If Matt can steer them in the direction of the latter, he thinks maybe it will all be okay, but it’s going to require him not to make matters worse. For whatever reason, the only way he can think to not do that is by kissing Foggy back.

It’s immediately apparent that, momentary genius or no, while it does not technically make things worse, it also does not make them better. Then again, Foggy makes a sort of interested noise as he feels Matt return the kiss, which Matt is infinitely better off for knowing about and having heard and being able to think about some other time when he’s alone preferably.

They don’t take it any farther than just that. They’re not necking in some random person’s hallway or doing anything truly objectionable. They just stay there, mouths pressed together so that Matt can smell (and sort of taste) the champagne Foggy’s had and the last cigarette he smoked and a hint of that sugary gum he always chews, even though he hasn’t had a piece since before they came to the party. It mostly feels, more than anything else, like they’re breathing together and it’s not sexy the way wild, passionate groping in the dark can be, but it’s intimate in its own unique way. Matt, against his own better judgment, puts a hand on Foggy’s cheek, and he doesn't really know why beyond just really wanting to and that seems to be reason enough.

Foggy doesn’t try to slip his tongue into Matt’s mouth—despite the alarming reality that the moment Matt realizes that’s not what he’s doing, he also realizes he’d let him—or try to escalate matters one bit. His hand is still grasping Matt’s collar from when he first pulled him in, but his other one doesn’t roam. His lips, still pressed to Matt’s, only move to exert a little more pressure and to alter the angle at which they meet slightly. He takes precisely zero liberties and makes no effort to get fresh with him at all. It’s very gentlemanly, and Matt doesn’t know what to do with himself because it doesn’t feel awkward or fumbling at all. It feels like restraint, and once he knows that, everything is different.

The tune of ‘Auld Lang Syne’ reaches him from the other room, but it’s drowned out almost entirely by the sound of Foggy’s heartbeat in Matt’s ears. Foggy must hear it too, though, because he breaks their kiss with the worst sort of gentleness, pulling back only enough for them both to have space to breathe but not far enough that Matt can’t feel that breath on his face.

Matt traces his thumb over the curve of Foggy’s cheek before dropping his hand back down into his own lap and licks his lips as he slowly turns away.

“Happy New Year,” he says, aiming for calm and unaffected and likely missing it by a lot.

“You too,” Foggy says, even though he already said it first. His heart is still beating too fast and too close and too loud for Matt to read his tone, which is too bad, because he’d really like to know how Foggy feels right now and if he feels anything like Matt does.

Because Matt feels like he’s been hit over the head.

✨

#mattfoggy #daredevil #matt murdock #foggy nelson #matt x foggy #prompt fill #ask #firstelevens #taylor swift song prompts #homelywenchsociety #that's my writing tag! don't worry about it!#SLOWLY BUT SURELY FILLING THESE I PROMISE #it just takes me eight or so scrapped attempts before i find something i like #also this is um...definitely becoming a series.... yikes....#do not yell at me I KNOW #anyway #happy almost new years i hope 2024 is good to all of us

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hms-no-fun · 1 month

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do you have any advice for getting better at writing? More specifically, any books, lectures, or talks about writing that you would recommend?

i know i'm not gonna be able to give a super satisfying answer here because i don't really read/watch much on the topic of getting better at writing. the most important book in my early development as a writer was Stephen King's On Writing, which does a very good job distilling the essence of the job to certain tools in a toolkit and helped me come to terms with how disposable a lot of my writing is. i recently picked up Steering the Craft by Ursula K Leguin, because i read Left Hand of Darkness for the first time and it rewired my brain. i haven't spent much time with it because it's meant to be an exercise book that you write along with, but i feel it will be useful.

otherwise, i know from experience and from the mouths of many other writers that the only way to get better at writing is to write more. a big part of my early development came from a desire to always push myself with each project. if i detected a weakness in one story, i wanted my next thing to be about that weakness in some way. i pushed myself to write more dialect, to switch tenses and persons, to go out of my comfort zone and write from the perspective of (GASP) a woman. things of this nature. much of what resulted from those exercises was not particularly good, but that's not really the point. you do the best you can in the moment, but never let yourself feel wholly satisfied. there are always improvements to be made, new ideas to explore, more diverse modes of expression to play with.

i'd say the best thing you can do when looking for writing advice is to look to the writers whose stuff you like. i guarantee anyone who's been published will have a talk available on youtube somewhere. in the past i've gone ga-ga for the lectures of Neil Gaiman and China Mieville, because i like their books and wanted to know how that sausage got made. understanding other people's process is a good way to understand your own. pay attention to things you identify with, but pay especial attention to the things you feel a natural disagreement with. a procedural thing, say, that just doesn't make sense to you. a BIG part of becoming a better writer, in the "maintaining a self-confidence equilibrium" sense, is recognizing what parts of the process are yours. whatever it is the comes naturally to you, that draws you in, you'll invariably have strong opinions about that someone in some writing institution or other would tut-tut at. i find it's very difficult to really take something worthwhile from criticism unless you know what you're about on some level. i have a pretty good sense at this point of my strengths and weaknesses as a writer; i know the difference between a qualitative misstep and a choice that won't resonate with every reader.

it helps if you can find some like-minded people to write with in a low-stakes environment. or maybe not low-stakes! the only read i ever finished my first novel was because i was writing towards a contest deadline. deadlines can be good! but sharing stories around with some friends and giving each other feedback is a great way to build up some confidence. collaborating on a shared world or story can be immensely rewarding, as long as you don't go into it expecting to make money or get famous. don't put pressure on yourself to Make A Real Thing On A Schedule unless you really trust the people you're working with and have had a lot of conversations about professional conduct.

but otherwise, it all comes back to write more. don't be afraid to leave a graveyard behind you of countless unfinished works. the vast majority of things i started writing from when i was 14 to like 25 i never finished, then i finished a book and almost never wrote again. it's all part of the process, and it's not linear or obvious in any meaningful way. the trickiest part, for me, is learning how to write for your current project even when you don't feel the ~passion~ and ~inspiration~. and that's just a matter of time and honesty and elbow grease.

all any writer can ever tell you is how *they* write. they can give you signposts and guides and best practices, but ultimately no one will ever be able to teach *you* how to write for *yourself*. that only comes with practice. but it's doable and very worth the doing, in my opinion

#sarahposts #writing advice

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random-imagines-blog · 26 days

Text

The Secret Place {Sirius Black x BlackWidow!Reader} Part ii

Requested by: Anonymous Wordcount: 4649 Summary: The great Wizarding World War is over, but Sirius notices that the war within you is far from being finished. Notes: Contains murder, blood, darkness of red rooms Sequel to: The Secret Place

No more Voldemort. But that didn’t necessarily mean peace.

You weren’t thinking about the different Death Eaters who had managed to escape the aurors and were out there, licking their wounds somewhere. You weren’t thinking about the werewolves and the vampires and the giants and the rolls who were always feuding among one another and causing trouble to all mankind. You weren’t even thinking about the day-to-day bad guys - the ones who will steal a purse and then run down the street, or the ones that think paying in small change is hilarious, or the perving gym coach, watching the teenage girls stretch. They were their own brands of evil, yes. But what you were thinking about, what you were always thinking about, was the Red Room.

Grimmauld Place was one of the most protected residences in Britain, and yet, it always felt like it was not enough. That any day now, one of your former classmates was going to show up, ready to fight you. To drag you back.

Sirius sensed your anxiety, no matter how well you hid it. He was the only one who had. People like Harry who stopped in often, they thought you were happy. You had a damn good poker face - but Sirius sensed it. Maybe it was the animal in him, the dog, that almost acted as an emotional support animal, and knew when you needed it. But regardless of how much he held you, tried to comfort you, tried to assure you that everything was going to be okay, you remained in that quiet, anxious state. It was getting bad. You wouldn’t tell him what was wrong, but you wandered the house every single night, recasting all of the protective charms. Not even an ant would be able to crawl through the tiniest space in your defenses. And not even a wizard as powerful as Dumbledore would be able to penetrate through. Which made him wonder - what, or who, were you so afraid of that you felt the need for these defenses to go up? A monster, an ex-boyfriend, family member, he just wanted some sort of answer, but you were mum.

Day by day. You did your usual things. You smiled and laughed and tried to cheer up Harry when he would stop in to visit or would spend the night in the bedroom that Sirius had designated for him. You cooked and you cleaned, and you read books that he would pick up for you or that Hermione would leave laying around. But you went out even less often than before. Only if completely necessary - grocery shopping or the like. You loved Sirius, he felt that love from you every single day, the gratefulness that he had not been killed during the war against Voldemort. You made love to him, you cuddled up to him, you made jokes and laughed at his and yet - that heaviness was always there, encompassing.

“Hey love,” Sirius said, after you had put down a cup of tea in front of him. Although he was happy with you, this feeling of you hiding something, something this serious, something that you were this afraid of, made him feel inadequate. That you didn’t trust him or have enough faith that he would be able to keep you safe. That’s all that he wanted. For you to feel safe with him.

“Hmm?” You said, sitting across from him now at the dining room table. Now that this was no longer a house that supported a dozen or so people, he had switched the table to something smaller, more intimate, so that you were able to reach across and take his hand if you wanted to. This is what he wished for now, setting his teaspoon to the side and reaching out. You took his hand, and he relished the warmth, letting your closeness try to reset his equilibrium.

“What’s wrong?”

Your eyes darted straight to his as he asked that question. It felt like it came out of the blue. “Nothing. Why?”

That question seemed so pointless to Sirius. He didn’t answer it, knowing that you would just use those pretty little lies - I’m fine, I haven’t been sleeping well, just a headache - as an excuse. Nothing is wrong, why couldn’t you just trust him with the truth? Why couldn’t you just paint a picture of what was wrong and see if he could fix it up? His frustration was growing, but as always, there wasn’t any point in arguing.

“I’m sure it’s nothing,” Sirius nodded, having a drink of his tea and leaned back in the wooden chair, looking up towards the ceiling. There had to be a way to know. How was he supposed to live his life without knowing what was haunting you? It was like it was haunting him now, some unknowable thing that was always creeping in the shadows, bringing them closer, dragging them over the mood of the couple.

It was later that night that he came up with a plan. He was having trouble sleeping, his mind going from point to point to point. Where you said you came from - your accent - the way that you stretched and exercised every single day, keeping your body in the best shape possible - the way that you moved like every single motion was designed, practiced, controlled, the few times that he had seen you flinch and immediately go into attack mode. Your past - it was clearly not good. It affected your sleep, causing tossing and turning. Sirius then realized that the key was right there. Your dreams.

The answer to everything was in your dreams.

Though tired, he watched your face as your brow furrowed, as sweat beaded along your forehead, as your jaw clenched and your teeth grinded against one another. You never spoke though, as much as he lay there and tried to will you to. To say something, anything that would let him know what was going on with you. But if the dreams weren’t going to come out ... he was simply going to have to go in.

Sirius Black wasn’t the best with potions. It had been a long time since he had to make one, considering how long he had spent in Azkaban where he wasn’t able to do any sort of magic except for shifting to keep his humanity intact. Some things, like spells, are muscle memory but potions are a lot more difficult, so he had to instill a little help from the cleverest little witch that he had ever known. Hermione Granger.

He explained the situation in a letter to her. And a week later, an owl came with a vial of a potion. It was a transparent white, almost looking like watered down milk. When he smelled it, it even smelled like that, bringing back memories of Mrs. Potter heating up milk for hot cocoa when he and James were boys. He read the letter from the young witch that offered him good luck, and that you better not find out that she had been the one who made it. Even the witches and wizards who took down Voldemort were wary of your temper.

All he had to do was put it in both of your drinks that night. It would go well with tea, so as the evening wound down into night, he put the kettle on the stove. You weren’t suspicious over anything, you weren’t watching him make the tea, you were just sitting on the loveseat, reading today’s Quibbler. It actually made him feel guilty, betraying your trust like this. But it was going to be for the best, he told himself. You could only get closer after this.

He brought you tea in your favorite mug, the potion mixed in. He feels another stab of guilt inside of his stomach as you seem to suspect nothing at all, drinking it as normal. He’s struggling not to stare at you too much, trying to see if the potion is having any weird effect on you. But you sip your tea and read as usual, barely giving him a glance. The two of you lived in this comfortable silence. Sometimes, not a word needed to be said.

“I think I’ll turn in a bit early,” you said, after your cup was empty. You got up from your favorite comfortable spot and kissed Sirius on the forehead, lips lingering gently.

“I’ll wash your cup, love,” Sirius said, nodding at you, letting his eyes close with content at the feeling of your kiss. He was struggling to stay awake himself, but he had to in order for the spell to work. You had to fall asleep first - or else you would end up in his dream and the whole plan would become painfully obvious to you.

“Thanks - see you in the morning,” you said, softly, and made your way to the bedroom that you both shared. He watched your back, his eyes trailing down your body. It was like that saying - hate to say goodbye but love to watch you go? He definitely enjoyed the sight of watching you walk away, getting an eyeful.

He waited a few more minutes before getting up and picked up both mugs, bringing them to the kitchen and giving them a rinse the muggle way. Chores - something he’d gotten used to doing when Molly Weasley had basically taken over his house. And then he prepared himself mentally - taking a few deep breaths to keep him relaxed, keep the guilt and the jitters at bay. He was nervous, of course. You were brilliant. You might be able to tell that something was up once he appeared in your dream.

He took a quick swig of Firewhiskey that he kept hidden underneath the sink, hidden among the dishtowels. At least, he thought it was hidden. You probably knew about it and let him have it. He sighed after swallowing the burning liquid, put it back away, and then made his way towards the bedroom, getting comfortable beside you. You were already out like a light, and he nuzzled his nose against your temple, kissing it sweetly. Taking in the smell of your hair. He fell asleep quickly that night too, for once not haunted by his own past - by his dead friend’s faces as soon as he closed his eyes.

It didn’t feel like a dream. Even his own, though often serious, had something of whimsy to it. This didn’t. Everything was proper, in the right place, more like a film rather than a memory even. He was seeing things through your eyes, and everything was so sharp, in focus. You were handcuffed to a bed and a woman came around and soundlessly unlocked the cuffs. You were watching Snow White with a bunch of other girls, younger girls, barely even teenagers, reciting every word.

It didn’t seem like any kind of school that Sirius had heard of. He understood boarding schools, considering Hogwarts, but this seemed different. There wasn’t any friendly chatter, there wasn’t any sense of warmth, and even the classes seemed stricter somehow. Like McGonagall times a thousand. And when it finally looked like things were looking up, some sort of sport that he had never heard of maybe - he got the shock of a lifetime.

You were fighting. This wasn’t some brawl between two people who didn’t like each other. This was teacher-endorsed, actually trying to hurt one another for a grade. What the hell kind of school did you go to? You were punching this girl as if you were a professional boxer, both of you barely over ten years old. Your knuckles were bleeding from the impact, but your face remained stoic, nonchalant. The other girl retaliated with a kick to the stomach, making you back up two steps, but you were right back in there, punching her in the face, the chest. Blood was on the mat now, not just on the two of you. The other girl was down, and you knocked the wind out of her before dragging her up to her knees and wrapping your arms around her head like you were prepared to break her neck.

But the worst part of it was your face. There was no expression in those eyes that he had come to know. When Sirius had seen people fight like that, there was always anger, some sort of flame inside of them that kept them going, kept them motivated. But you were going on a pure, unemotional drive. Like this was just a History of Magic test that you were doing.

He was waiting for the teacher to call this off. He was looking at this stern looking woman and anticipating that she would step in at any moment. But all that she did was nod. And to his absolute horror, he heard the sickening crack as you broke the spine of your classmate and let go of her as she fell lifeless onto the mat.

Sirius started to feel dizzy. He started to feel sick. But he was stuck in this dream now and had to try to compose himself. He thought he had seen the worst that he was ever going to see. He knew you were a killer now - he knew that you had done at least one horrible thing. But this was not the end.

You were older now. Right in the middle of those teenage years, you didn’t seem to have gone through an awkward phase. Instead, you looked absolutely radiant. You were in the middle of a group of girls your age, dancing elegantly. He had no idea that you could do ballet. When you danced with him, it was always up close, holding one another, perhaps a bit of a waltz. But here you were, less graceful than controlled. One girl stumbled just a little beside you and your instructor called for you all to start again. Through the whole dance. This happened repeatedly. One teeny tiny mistake and you all paid for it until you were absolutely perfect. It must have been hours, but of course in the dream, it only felt like a matter of a couple of minutes. Your toes were bleeding through your shoes. But you dared not let the pain show on your features. The same blank stare that you had shown when you had killed your classmate.

A girl slipped on the blood on the floor. You were not the only one bleeding. Except she really tripped. Fell. Sprawled onto the ground. It looked as if her leg was broken now, bent at an odd angle, and she was looking right up at you, a spark of helplessness in her expression. You didn’t even look at her. You just started up the dance from the beginning, despite your agony, despite the fact that two women came in and dragged the fallen girl out of the room, despite the mess on the floor. Controlled - you were so damn controlled.

And then further proof that you were a killer. Two different men. Or at least, he assumed they were men. Both of them wore suits, both of them had heavy thatched bags upon their heads, hiding their identity. One, you shot directly in the heart with a muggle gun, the sudden bang making Sirius jump. And the second - you had your wand pointed directly to the man’s chest and you said the cursed spell. Avada Kedavra.

But the worst was saved for last. He could handle seeing you hurt others, as horrifying as it was. It all looked like things that you were forced to do in whatever school that you had been put in. It looked like a war, and people were forced to do horrible things in war. Kill or be killed. But now - now he was seeing you hurt. Now he was seeing that control slip for the first time in memory disguised as a dream.

You were strapped down onto a gurney, clearly put under the body binding spell, since your body wasn’t fighting but your mind clearly was. Your eyes were wandering in every direction, catching onto anyone who walked by with the hopes that they could stop whatever was going to be happening. But no one helped. Everyone looked away from you, leaving you to your fate. Your teeth started to grind together, the only thing that you could do in this state, and your eyes were blinking away tears - not of sadness, but of hatred. Especially towards the strict looking woman who was pushing the gurney through the halls, parading you and what they were about to do to you.

Sirius did not speak Russian. Hell, he hardly spoke Latin and that was the language that most of the spells were in. He wasn’t the most studious sort, skating through Hogwarts with charm ... and Remus’s help, who was the smartest out of the four of them. So, he didn’t know what any of the symbols that hardly looked like letters meant. He couldn’t understand the signs that were on the walls, or on the final door that you were put through. But he could recognize a medical facility when he saw one.

A surgery room. Extremely clean, like everywhere else in the school. Sterilized. Although this was a memory, a dream, he could smell the strong scent of rubbing alcohol. The woman who brought you in left and a female surgeon stepped forward, whispering to you in Russian. You spoke back, your angry tone, standing up for yourself, he assumed. Your hospital gown was opened, you weren’t even given anesthetic. There was no spell put upon you to take away your pain. Just restrain you. He could see the pain in your eyes as a cut was made near your belly button, and then he could look no more. Could only turn and look at the wall, his hand over his mouth, running over his fine facial hair, in horror. He knew almost nothing about medical stuff, but he got a good idea of what they were doing. Tubal ligation.

That made him feel sicker than all of the killing, the blood, the control, combined. Seeing that choice being taken away from you. Seeing you in actual pain was the worst thing that he had ever seen in his life. He wanted out of this now. He started to panic in a way that he hadn’t since he had heard that his best friend was dead, heard that he was being arrested for the murder of another friend. He couldn’t stay in that space anymore, and so he stumbled towards the door, opening it and --

He woke up. He was greeted with the darkness of his room, as dawn hadn’t yet come. He instinctively felt for you next to him and was relieved that you were there. That you were coming out of those horrible memories yourself now. He wrapped his arms around you, pulling you into his chest so that his own sorrowful face wouldn’t be the first thing that you saw.

Over the next couple of days, you said nothing. You didn’t give away that you knew what he had done. You treat him normally and yet, at the same time, you seem to be closing up. That almost glassy stare that he had seen in the dream, in your memories, is starting to come back and that terrifies him beyond belief. Both wizarding wars that he had been a part of hadn’t scared him as much of the idea of you slipping out from his fingers and becoming whatever that Russian facility had wanted you to become.

You made the meals, you tidied up, you ran your errands and you read a lot. You corresponded with friends, you dutifully kissed Sirius on the cheek before you made your way to bed. But you didn’t look Sirius in the eyes anymore, and you didn’t cook anything that needed a lot of concentration, and your letters were all shorter than usual and you didn’t enjoy your late-night tea with him anymore. You stayed in bed longer.

Sirius Black couldn’t live like this any longer.

Instead of letting it be a quiet dinner while the two of you sit there and listen to the silence, he spoke up. “I - was in your dream the other night. I saw everything.”

You sipped slowly at your tea, putting the mug down next to your fork, your plate half finished. You took a slow inhale through your nose, and as it came out of your mouth, it was shaky. Your shoulders started to tremble. All that it took was him mentioning the dream, and you were starting to spiral. His eyes went wide, and his hand reached out towards your shoulder, settling on it, trying to make it calm down. Trying to make you calm down. But instead, you angrily brushed him off of you, as if he was a piece of lint. It took everything in him to tell himself that you were going through something that he could never understand, and that hopefully you weren’t mad at him, just the situation.

“How could you...” You started to say, but you broke apart before you could finish your sentence. Your hands went in front of your face, and Sirius assumed it was to try to hide your vulnerability. You never let him see you cry. You never let anyone see you cry.

“I - had to,” Sirius said, putting his hand on you again, and this time, you didn’t brush him off. “I had to know what was going on, so that I could find a way to help. You’ve been so distant lately, love, and I just wanted to bring you back to me.”

You wiped your eyes, your cheeks splotchy, skin puffy, the whites of your eyes were red. “N-no, that’s - not what I meant,” you said, your voice hoarse already. Lower in tone. Vulnerable. You weren’t as put together as you usually were. You weren’t holding everything in anymore, and - though you looked exposed to the world right now, he thought that you had never looked more beautiful. “I meant - how could you still be here?”

This question made him dumbfounded. He moved his chair in closer to yours, the squeaking overtaking any sound that you were making. It would have been humorous under any other occasion. “Where else would I be?”

“Anywhere. Far from here? I knew you were in my dream Sirius; I saw you there. I saw you in my memories. I was just - waiting for you to leave-”

His confusion was evident, and he didn’t try to hide it. Not even when you looked over at him. But now, he was also feeling the hurt of your words. They cut through him like a knife as he read into what it was that you were saying. “You want me to go? You want me to leave you?” He asked, his hurt turning into anger, as it did with most men. “All because I wanted to find out what was wrong? No, y/n, this is my house, and I’m not going anywhere.”

“Will you just let me finish?” You sighed, taking a deep and wary breath. “I was waiting for you to leave because how can you stand to be around me, knowing what I did? I know exactly what you saw, and all of it was real, Sirius. Every kill that you saw me do, every exercise in control, and -” This was when you really started to feel overwhelmed, and you couldn’t even lift your hands to your face to hide it, they were shaking too hard. “The surgery... Sirius, how can you love me after seeing all of that? How can you sleep next to me and now be repulsed? How-"

Sirius reached to you with the back of his hand, lightly caressing it against your cheeks, making your mouth close again. It was such a soft and reassuring feeling, those tattooed fingers. No longer with the dirty and broken nails due to all the good care that you gave him, the help you gave him when you first met back in Hogsmeade.

“It’s easy. It’s the easiest thing in the world to love you. And it’s not things that you have done, my love, it’s things that you were put through. I know you. I see you every day, and I see how this haunts you, but it isn’t you.”

Tears were pouring down your face at an exponential rate, and he was catching them with his fingers on your cheek. “You really - you really still love me?”

“More than ever,” Sirius admired your face as he said this. You showed more emotion now than you did in the memories, save for when you were being carted off to the surgical room. This showed that you were not the person that they had made you be. Not entirely.

“I love you too,” You whispered. It was rare that you said it, even though you felt it through every bit of your being. You’ve been taught for so long, had it drilled into you, that emotions were a weakness, and should only be shown for manipulation purposes. But you were defenseless to this feeling right now. “I love you so much, I - I was so scared that you were going to leave me, to think that I’m a monster.”

“Only in the mornings before you had your tea,” Sirius said, getting just the slightest chuckle out of you. He continued to hold his hand against your face, even when he leaned in and pressed a soft kiss onto your lips. You breathed in the scent of his shampoo, his mustache lightly tickling the skin above your lip, and you deepened it, ready to do more than tell, but to show.

Your love. Your appreciation. Your gratitude. Your fears. Your desperation.

They all showed as you moved in closer to Sirius, rounding the table to sit in his lap and just have him hold you for a couple of minutes, lips never leaving one another's. He was more than happy to do so, a thumb rubbing against your hip, holding you safely and securely.

After a couple of minutes, you leaned your forehead up against his, looking down at the thin space between you. “That’s not the only reason I’m afraid, Sirius. I deserted them. I couldn’t take it anymore. And there’s no way they’re just letting it go, no matter how much time has passed. I know they’re looking for me and I’m terrified that any day they’re going to show up and -” Your breath hitched in your throat, and he held you a little closer.

“I’m not going to let anything happen to you,” he said, his soothing voice tinged with seriousness. “And I’m not going to let anything happen to me either - I know that’s what you’re about to argue. You’ve been brilliant in keeping them from knowing your location so far, and we’ll keep managing. You’re not in this alone. We take care of each other, remember?”

You nodded, and he felt relieved at that. No arguing, no buts, no ifs, no conditions. You were just accepting it now, and you even looked alleviated by his words. Like the weight of the world had just been taken off your shoulders.

“I love you,” you said, again, for the third time tonight - which was probably your new record.

“I love you too,” he replied, and knew that he would never, ever be sick of hearing, or saying, those words.

#Sirius Black #Sirius Black x Reader #Harry Potter #requests #siriusb #x reader

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poetriarchy · 5 months

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i've been relatively inactive on tumblr for the past few weeks but i NEED TO VENT about this somewhere because i'm losing my marbles and being an adult means you have no one to tell you what to do in these situations. i've had a sinus infection for like the past four weeks (maybe four and a half? I've kind of lost count), been doing the neti pot for the past two weeks or so, did flonase for a bit before i stopped because it was making me nauseous, etc.. It's definitely better than it was three weeks ago but every time i think I'm getting better it just gets worse again and then i feel like shit. initially i had like crazy congestion, crazy fatigue, headaches/sinus pressure, maybe a low fever. now all of those come and go, with the exception of the fever (haven't had that in forever). i got prescribed antibiotics a week and a half ago but i had to cry to the doctor about it in order to even get them because she was really convinced it was viral and not bacterial, which i totally understand. she was like you can start taking them whenever and it's fine, i wouldn't prescribe them if i thought it was a really bad idea, but maybe wait a couple days and do the neti pot + flonase combo. so now i'm here. still haven't taken the antibiotics, i feel stupid for not taking them after everything i went through to get them but she kinda scared me about antibiotic resistance lmao and now i'm worried about dealing with side effects on top of everything else, especially because apparently only .5-2% of all sinus infections are bacterial so idek if it'll work.......i'm definitely going to take them by this weekend at this point i think, but i'm trying to decide if I should start taking them now.....have a few deadlines on friday and don't wanna fuck up my equilibrium even more. beloved mutuals and followers alike. help me

#a #this is so stupid #poll

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eternally--mortal · 11 months

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One of my many time travel headcanons slots into the irondad—spiderson corner of the Marvel fanverse. I love Spider-Man and his stories, but I also suffer from visceral second-hand embarrassment and second-hand pain of seeing someone neglected or abandoned or alone, so most of my voluntary interactions with the Spider-Man/Marvel fan sphere come from the warm and fuzzy and emotionally rewarding sections with Tony and Peter becoming family. I know there are some arguments about how realistic that may or may not be to the movies, but I don’t really care. I love that those fan fictions and fan arts exist and I embrace them because they’re my favorite way of intaking that particular corner of media. So if you’re on that same page with me, enjoy my little private time travel headcanon:

In a Universe where Tony survives, Beck would have to curb his plans. They wouldn’t have formed the same way. For one thing, the drones and the glasses wouldn’t have been accessible through Peter / Tony’s will. For another, Peter would have been immediately more obviously tied to Tony, because Tony wouldn’t want to let him out of his sight after saving the world for Peter. In this version Tony and Pepper essentially adopt Peter and share informal joint custody with May. Peter gets to be Morgan’s older brother and he eventually sees Tony as his dad. They take their time to adjust: Peter has time to settle after the snap and find a new equilibrium, and the group of them develops a normal family routine. There’s definitely an optional version of this where Harley’s there as well because I have a soft spot for that, but this is mostly about Peter and Morgan (sorry Harley. You’re awesome, I just didn’t imagine you in the bulk of this story).

Beck’s team takes longer to get their shit together—partially as a plot device to allow Peter to adjust enough to call Tony “dad” and partially because Tony isn’t dead in this version, so their plans have to be different.

When the public figures out that Tony has a ‘son’—one that’s just as smart as he is—Beck and his crew decide not to go directly after the drones. They go for the kids instead. They figure ‘hey, if the rumors are true and the brat is just as smart as Tony, he can build whatever we want him to. If not, we can use the kids as leverage to get what we want.’ They go after Peter and Morgan and steal some of Tony’s super-secret-recently-invented time travel technology and hop around the space time continuum for a little bit. They don’t realize that Peter is Spider-Man because they’re convinced he’s Tony’s son and have fixated on that rather than on the fact that Peter might be a superhero (since Tony so obviously considers him a son they didn’t do as much digging into ‘why on earth would Tony Stark take interest in this random kid?’). But Peter doesn’t know whether he should play his hand as Spider-Man. They keep him separated from Morgan most of the time and he has to keep her safe because they’re threatening him with her. Peter doesn’t want to take the risk that he’ll escape and they’ll portal away with Morgan somewhere/when where he can’t find them.

Beck and his crew haven’t tried to reach out to Tony yet. They’re pretty confident that they can use Morgan to get whatever they want out of Peter instead. And besides that, Beck really just wants to make Tony suffer, so he figures taking his kids somewhere unreachable is the best way to do that. But he also wants to be able to watch Some version of Tony, just to remind himself of whom he’s torturing. So after hop-skip-jumping their way through the time stream, Beck takes them back in time to just after the Avengers saved the world from Loki—or some other convenient time within the span of movies. There’s some flexibility there. (The watches work for all of these trips. It’s possible that Peter and Tony revisited the tech to eliminate Pym Particles as an energy source. Maybe Beck’s team of engineers found another power source. Or maybe they just have a huge stash of particles. I don’t know. I didn’t really think about that part of the story. This is really mostly just background.)

Peter wants to lessen the risk of being more permanently separated from Morgan, he wants to make it easier for Tony to find them, AND he likes that they’re in a time period where he can reach some version of the Avengers. So he sneaks out while they’re trying to make him build something and he sabotages all of the time bracelets so they can’t be used again.

The real meat of the story comes with the back-in-time Avengers. Tony gets an odd transmission that he can’t open (because Peter sent it to JARVIS in the hopes that His version of Tony would find it and see it in the future and would know when and how to come back and get them). Then the Avengers run into the future version of Tony who shows up in the past. Younger Tony gets super suspicious, and he and the other Avengers assume that this is some super villain using a copy of the Ironman suit.

Beck’s crew may also have done something to get them on Team Cap’s radar, and Cap may be investigating some of their movements as potential remnants of Hydra or something else equally suspicious. Especially since Beck’s crew may have been too bold entering into this part of the timeline when they assumed they’d have access to an escape (before Peter broke the bracelets).

Finally the Avengers have a run-in where they see Tony’s face. Maybe they even catch him and drag him back to Avengers Tower (which of course he would know how to control / escape). He won’t tell them what’s going on because he takes one look at his younger self and sees a traumatized man with narcissistic tendencies who is Not ready to be a father. So he just tells them that Beck “stole something from me” and to “not get involved.” He plays up some of his familiar bravado and ego so they won’t dig too far into what exactly Beck might have stolen.

Meanwhile Beck is getting fed up with Peter, for obvious reasons. They’re trying to get him to fix the bracelets on Top of everything else they wanted him to do, but he keeps stalling for time. Beck keeps almost catching him recording covert videos, and before Peter has the chance to upload and send any more of them, the crew packs up and ditches the base where they were originally holding the kids. Peter and Morgan are now stuck in the past together, but Peter’s finding fewer and fewer opportunities to escape with her without revealing himself, and now that they’re in the past he’s afraid that Beck might discover his identity and go after Peter’s younger self as well before he even has the spider bite. Besides that, none of Beck’s team realizes how much food Peter needs to eat to stay functional. And when he’s difficult they do things like withhold food (which is a problem for his metabolism), withhold heat (when he can’t thermoregulate, so it’s basically like drugging him because it makes his body think it has to hibernate), actually drug him, etc. He’s hedging between causing problems to make life difficult for Beck, playing at good behavior in order to get more time with Morgan, actually practicing semi-good behavior to buy some time for Tony to come get them, and trying to formulate a better escape plan. And when Beck relocates them to an old Hydra base, Peter decides not to take any risks about showing off his spider powers.

The Avengers team breaks into Beck’s old base after the relocation. Cap is convinced that Tony made some stupid world-ending tech that’s going to get them all killed and that That is what Beck stole. That, or it’s just the time travel tech. To be fair, Tony is also pretty convinced that it’s some sort of tech, and he’s fairly invested in finding out what future-y stuff his older self is being so cagey about. They find evidence of a lab with mechanical parts (tools and pieces that they gave Peter to try and get him to build things, etc.). But Nat comes across a room with a blanket in the corner and a couple crayon drawings and does the whole “Guys, maybe we’re on the wrong trail here” bit about how maybe they don’t really know what’s been stollen. Tony gets what he can out of the computer and takes it back to the tower to decode.

A week later he’s de-encrypted the files enough to access some of the videos that Peter made and saved behind some walls of coding.

There are little snippets that show Peter stalling for time, ones that show some of the repercussions of his sabotaging the watches, etc. There are videos that show how much Beck’s team is treating him as a stupid normal kid and trying to manipulate him in a variety of ways—sometimes with Morgan, sometimes with violence or bribery.

A video where Peter wonders if he should be building something to appease them because they’re not feeding him and he needs to see Morgan, and how he wants to hold out, but Dad he’s not sure he’s going to be able to if it means Morgan might get hurt. How he promises to take care of her.

There are videos of Peter being a little shit and pulling tricks behind Beck’s back to mess with the tech.

A video of Peter looking a little better and Morgan sitting there assisting him and handing him the right tools before he can finish asking for them. They sing a little Italian at each other (in this version May taught Peter some Italian and Tony taught Morgan and Peter some as well). Morgan tells Peter “that’s not the way Daddy builds it.” And Peter has to tell her that they don’t have dad’s stuff at their disposal. (They’re sneakily building an E.M.P. instead of whatever Beck wants. That’s why Peter had to stash the thumb drive so it wasn’t hooked up to the computer system. Unfortunately Beck gets wind of it and figures out what they’re doing before they can use it. He’s noticed the Avengers sniffing around which is why they ditch their original base.) There’s definitely a moment in a video somewhere where they’re talking about Pepper (calling her ‘mom’) and how she would be able to stop Beck maybe even more easily than Tony—Peter says it as a Half-joke to make Morgan feel hopeful—and Peter says “can you do your mom impression?” And Morgan’s face transforms into this little deadpan look and she goes “No, Tony.” And they both laugh and joke about how Pepper would just tell Beck “No” and take them home. And then we see Beck storm in and discover the E.M.P. and throw it into the corner where it smashes (which is how the Avengers find it when they investigate), and we watch Morgan get dragged off screaming and Peter screaming back for her and trying to talk down Beck while Beck is pulling the whole ‘I thought letting you work with your sister would make you behave, but obviously I can’t trust the two of you together’ bit. He says shit like ‘you’re a worse brat than your dad’ and insults their whole family and says some nasty things about Tony and then about Peter and Morgan all while he’s ordering his people to shut the place down and clear out. Beck figures out that Peter’s been recording all of this after his team drags the kids out and he leaves a nasty message for Tony about how he’s going to pay, blah blah blah, how he’s never going to get his kids back. Something dramatic.

Obviously there’s some backlash in the team to Tony finding out that he’s a dad or that he’s going to be. They try to do some calculating to figure out when he’s going to have Peter (since they assume he’s a bio kid), but some of that is messed up by the fact that they don’t know about the snap or the five years that Peter lost. It’s generally chaos. They’re also a little more rushed to figure this out now that they know that there are kids involved. (They also don’t realize that Peter has powers, but it shouldn’t really matter because he’s a kid anyway.)

(At some point there would also be a conversation later when they meet up with Older Tony where someone suggests that Younger Tony just deal with Beck in the present time to avoid all of this so that Older Tony can explain how time travel doesn’t work like that and that This future version of Beck is already set the way he is, likely on a deviant path from their own Beck.)

Beck super mad that the time watches are broken and that the Avengers are on their tail. He rigs up the Hydra base and uses some of his hologram tech to manipulate the kids into thinking they’re being rescued when they’re not (either just to be an asshole or to try and get Peter to fix the watches through manipulation), or to show Peter a hologram of Morgan when she’s not in the room and vice versa to mess with them. At one point he possibly makes Peter think he’s shooting Morgan or something as a form of punishment for Peter not cooperating. There’s a large variety of evil that Beck is frankly willing to dip into to psychologically mess with these kids (and Tony by extension).

Older Tony and the Avengers end up working together to go save Peter and Morgan, which could honestly go a variety of ways. But I like the idea that Peter and Morgan are integral to the escape somehow, by building something or by Morgan remembering something important or by Peter using his smarts or his powers just a little. Younger-Tony gets handed Morgan (by another hero, against his will) at one point while Older Tony is in another room on the other side of the base trying to negotiate with Beck who’s threatening to kill Peter (something like that), and Morgan calls him Mr. Stark or Tony instead of Dad or Daddy because “You’re not my Dad yet” and makes a comment about how there isn’t enough gray in his hair. And he’s not really sure how to respond to her so they’re kind of strangers to each other.

Morgan possibly mentions something about ‘why didn’t you bring Uncle Bucky?’ and Steve just about has a heart attack, and Peter has to defuse it like ‘I don’t think they know about Uncle Bucky yet.’

Beck and his crew are taken into custody. Peter and Morgan get some time in the med bay for recovery. We get to see them interact with JARVIS (which is a little odd because they usually just have FRIDAY). The Avengers get to see Tony being a dad—even if he’s a little cagey about it around the super hero team. There are allusions to him being married to Pepper (without them directly saying it). Peter and Tony fix the time watches (without letting JARVIS see the schematics, because we can’t have an earth-conquering robot knowing how to traverse space-time), and they go home. (Either that or we involve Harley, who’s possibly been home with Pepper this whole time and did not get kidnapped because having all three kids would have driven Beck over the edge. And Harley took care of the technology from his end and ended up altering the tech to open a doorway instead of just using the watches. Not canon compliant, but I don’t know that I mind it as an option. Because, again, The Feels are more important to me for this particular story.) There’s definitely a little moment somewhere in their stay at the tower in the past with the Avengers where Peter wants to drink coffee or something and Tony tells him ‘thanks, no, I’ll take that’ and then asks Morgan to do a Mom (Pepper) impression, so Morgan turns to Peter and goes “No,” and Peter responds with “traitor” or something. I don’t know I think it would be cute.

And then there’s just the aftermath. Peter has Aunt May and MJ and Ned waiting for him when he gets back home. There’s family time with Pepper (and maybe Harley???). All those good vibes. Back in time there’s an acknowledgement of the fact that Tony is a whole-ass person who will grow and develop. Cap wants to go look for Bucky. And the seed has been planted that something is going to go wrong with JARVIS. Tony wonders if Peter’s out there somewhere and was possibly a child of one of his one night stands. Things like that.

#tony stark #peter parker #irondad #spiderson #marvel Spider-Man #mcu spiderman headcanon #mcu headcanon #marvel headcanon #marvel fanfiction #Tom holland’s Spider-Man #I’ve been sitting on this idea for a while because then No Way Home came out #and I was depressed all over again and reminded that the way I like to view Peter’s story is not how it’s portrayed in film #and how it’s also super tragic in the comic books and in ever iteration of his story #that doesn’t mean I don’t like the films #but I’m really glad that the fandom has this corner to it #it’s been a valuable fan experience for me and has been personally healing in a lot of ways #it’s rewarding to see Tony as a parent for Peter #I’ve had this one in my head for a while #I’m sure there are scenes I’ve thought of that I’m forgetting now #or that I’ve smushed together or altered #and I know I had some alternate storyline scenes and moments when I was first considering it #I just don’t remember them now #stories I don’t have the energy to write but that live rent free in my head #let Peter and Morgan be siblings #Let Tony be Peter’s dad #I love them #they’re a lil family #time travel au #I have too many of these I know #it’s my trope weakness

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