#Feel free to add your own take or tips if anyone has it! I'd love to read about it too | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

leopardmask-ao3 · 2 years ago

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I posted 2,597 times in 2022

That's 2,460 more posts than 2021!

56 posts created (2%)

2,541 posts reblogged (98%)

Blogs I reblogged the most:

@altospaceangel

@theminecraftbee

@favoriteginger

@quietlywatchingwritingreading

@skylardoesthings

I tagged 2,033 of my posts in 2022

Only 22% of my posts had no tags

#hermitcraft - 412 posts

#fanart reblog - 369 posts

#for mom - 250 posts

#not fandom - 246 posts

#empires smp - 146 posts

#save for reference - 99 posts

#pixlriffs - 61 posts

#minecraft - 48 posts

#writing - 46 posts

#tango tek - 41 posts

Longest Tag: 137 characters

#but maybe that's what happens when you lived on an ocean world and then bioengineered yourself in the opposite direction when it exploded

My Top Posts in 2022:

The art piece I did for the content exchange hosted by @mastasof-ravenkroft ! My giftee was @muuum-am-i-adohhhpted and their Empires fic Beyond The Sunflower Field (which I loved, by the way)! This piece was a very new style for me, but the painterly vibes just felt right for a scene of Gilded Homestead/Heliantha. I decided to set it somewhere around mid-fic, where Pearl has been working the land around Heliantha for a while, but hasn't taken on her leaderly title yet.

17 notes - Posted September 3, 2022

10 Weeks of Celebration for 10 Years of Hermitcraft

Prompt 2: Meaning and Impact Anyone can learn how to build beautiful things. Just ask Bdubs! Even people who have tried to kill him in the past are welcome students of his brilliance.

Read it on ao3 or

"Your base is... tall."

"Why yes it is! Thank you for noticing!"

Bdubs led Foxtrot across the grounds outside his monolith. "So, what brings you to my humble home? Just a neighborly visit, or are you looking for advice from ol' Bdubs?"

The android dragged his gaze away from the towering structure and focused on Bdubs' face. He was still learning the balance between politeness and honesty... "Both?"

"Well, welcome," Bdubs replied. "I do love seeing my wonderful friends and neighbors take an interest in what I'm doing. I saw you're building a base of your own here - that's great!"

"Yes, I wanted to join in with the town plans," Foxtrot replied, "learn how you all do things and be a part of it. I never really learned how to... make stuff that looks good, though - before finding you all, I had no reason for that."

"Oh yes, that's revenge quests for ya." Bdubs nodded. "And of course, you came straight to the expert!"

"Well, I asked Tango first," Foxtrot corrected. "He told me to come talk to you, because that's where he learned a lot of building tips from and he thought you could explain things better than he could."

"Awww, how schweet of him," Bdubs effused. "Come in, come in, I'll show you around!"

Bdubs backed into a corner to let Foxtrot through the door. "It's kind of tight quarters in here, I know, but that made every floor a great challenge for me. I don't know that I'd recommend makin' too many rooms this small while you're still learning what you're doing, to be honest, but feel free to use any ideas you get from this place!"

"Okay!" Foxtrot looked around the entry room, focusing on the half-hidden barrels and chests. "Why are these... like this?" he asked. "I think I understand the arch, but you'd get much more storage if you didn't have the trapdoors and just had a wall of just barrels."

"Ahhh, but it's all about texture and breaking up the space, isn't it?" Bdubs replied. "The shelves just make sense here. And there's more storage up on the second floor - it's not like I need it all in one place." He led Foxtrot up the stairs to show him. "See? There's always a balance to be struck. This is all perfectly good storage space! It just doesn't need to be all lined up in straight rows of labeled double chests to do its job!"

"So basically, don't have too much in one spot that's all the same thing."

"Yes, yes, exactly that! And make sure you mess around a bunch with the details. For example: trapdoors are a wonderful thing to add in if you aren't sure what to do. Come on, I'll show you just how much detail you can pack in if you want to - and more storage!" Bdubs started up the stairs again. "Come check out my plant lab."

Foxtrot pricked his ears a little higher in curiosity. "Plant... lab-?"

18 notes - Posted April 21, 2022

Week 4 of the 10 Weeks of Celebration for 10 Years of Hermitcraft challenge - this week's prompt is "Comfort and Calm".

Stress has her name for a reason. She senses it in others, and though she wasn't there for it herself, she can feel the effects of the moonpocalypse from everyone around her. She does her best to help out in her own way.

Read it on ao3 or

Stress hummed as she assembled and set a picnic table in front of her house, big enough to seat seven or eight people. She had realized, somewhat belatedly, that her little teapot house may not comfortably fit everyone who was invited - though it was certainly open to them - so this tea party would be held mostly outdoors.

Zedaph was the first to arrive, trotting up while Stress was still setting the table. After an animated greeting, he picked up a couple plates and started to help out. He had somehow gone through the end of HC-8 and the move to HC-9 practically unscathed, and Stress had invited him because she appreciated having more of that kind of energy at her little gathering. She herself had been off-world at the time: an extended vacation with Iskall and the other Vault Hunters, which had become even more extended when they heard the news.

Stress and Zedaph chatted for a while, but as soon as Tango reached them, Zedaph was there. He hung off Tango like a human weighted blanket, even as Tango tried to sit down. Tango clearly didn't object, though. Stress giggled at the awkward position this put Zedaph in and pushed a chair closer. "'Ere you are, why don't you both sit like that, eh? Instead of contorting yourself to lean over him all the time."

At this point Tango was chuckling too and he gently shoved Zedaph into the second chair. "Yeah, you don't have to twistificate yourself around on my account. Plus we'll both need our hands free for food."

"Oh, yeah, good point." Zedaph extricated himself and sat down, but sat almost between chairs, pressing himself against Tango's side and acting very casual about the fact that he was doing so. Stress just gave that a knowing nod. At Xisuma's request, she had been the one who had finally found Tango, adrift and alone. He needed the weight and presence of some human friends.

By that time, the other invitees had arrived: Cleo, Jevin, and Xisuma. Stress greeted them warmly and served tea to everyone before sitting down herself.

"Are we expecting one more?" Cleo asked, indicating the empty chair with a place setting.

"Don't you worry about that," Stress replied. "'Ave some tea, 'ave some snacks. It ain't much, since we've all practically just got 'ere, but that's alright, innit?"

"We're all here, and that's what matters," Jevin agreed, picking up his teacup in both hands and savoring its warmth. "Food and stuff will all happen eventually."

Xisuma just nodded at that. He had taken his helmet off for politeness and to drink his tea, and he still held himself nervously, as if expecting someone to come up behind him at any moment and tell him to stop having fun - but the others could see him smile a little more every time he looked around and saw a hermit’s base or one of his tablemates.

The conversation was quiet, but earnest and kind. Everyone mostly avoided talking about what had happened, instead expressing their relief and excitement at the new world, their new plans, and what they could do now that they were together again. The snakes that Cleo had acquired occasionally reached for a bite off one plate or another. Cleo fed them morsels, Xisuma didn't seem to notice nibbles disappearing, and Jevin waved one away like an annoying fly as he reached to refill his cup. (No one had actually seen him drink any tea, and no one was paying enough attention to see how he held the mug with a thumb dipped into it. He never had figured out an easy way to absorb liquids that looked like how the humans did it.)

"Halloooo Stress! What's all this about?"

Stress looked up with a grin at the new arrival jogging toward them. "'Ello Iskall! Care to join us?"

Iskall put his hands on his hips with exaggerated indignance. "You're throwing a whole party over here and you didn't invite me? How could you!" He cracked a little smile, mostly joking and unable to be truly mad.

"Well, clearly I didn't need ta," Stress pointed out, "seein' as you found us anyway, right? Look, I even set a spot for you. I knew you'd turn up whether I wanted you or not."

"Well, if you insist..." Iskall sat down with a huff, then giggled, triggering laughter from the rest of the table. "Hallo, everyone else here too! Could someone please pass the tea?"

20 notes - Posted May 5, 2022

Loving the vibes of Pixlriffs, by all accounts and behaviors the most Normal Guy around, just hanging out in his yard having a conversation but then briefly having to pause said conversation to go chase away a minor god like he's chasing off a stray cat that got into the garbage

109 notes - Posted June 30, 2022

My #1 post of 2022

I'm seeing people post their art here that they did for the 10 Years Of Hermitcraft, 10 Weeks of Celebration art and writing challenge and realizing, oh, yeah, maybe I could post the fics I'm writing for it here too. The challenge isn't really tailored to writing but it says it is so I took it as a writing challenge anyway.

Prompt 1: Dressed for the Occasion In which Grian helps Cleo make her new dress a little bit better. Who better to ask for clothing help than someone who sewed himself together?

Read it on ao3 or

"You're going to the party like that?"

Cleo turned and gave Grian a withering gaze. Grian's button eyes gave no hint to his intentions. "I am," Cleo replied. "Is there a problem with that?"

Grian ran a finger around one cuff of his red suit - a slightly nervous habit that he'd probably picked up from Mumbo. "Well, your dress is very nice, and I get the look you like to go for, but that tear in the side..."

"Is meant to be there, yes," Cleo finished. "I've got to have inventory access somehow, right, even at a special event."

"Inven- right, of course," Grian realized. "Well, even though we both know it's meant to be there, it doesn't really... look like that, does it? It kind of looks like you had an accident with a tree branch, to be quite honest."

Cleo crossed her arms. A few of her snakes hissed at Grian. "Oh, it does, does it? Are you offering to help fix it?"

Grian nodded. "I am, actually. We can definitely keep the gap there, but just make it look... cut, rather than ripped, right? And that would mean making it a tiny bit bigger, so it'll actually be easier to use."

"...Can you do this while it's on me?" Cleo relented. "I don't fancy trying to get this dress off and on again right now."

"Yeah, should be simple enough," Grian decided. "I'm not going to try and hem it or anything, that would make it look too fake. Gotta go for at least a sort of natural look."

So, Cleo stood with her arms crossed as Grian worked away, using a miniature pair of shears that he always had on him, trimming away stray threads and bits of fabric and treating the cut edges with a special slimeball-based glue he'd gotten off-world.

"I gotta say," Cleo commented, watching him work, "I didn't really expect you to be this... graceful at this."

"Lots of practice," Grian replied. "It did take a few tries to get the hands right on the body I pattern all my others on, but I need the ability to repair myself, right?"

"Ah, yeah, that's true, isn't it. You get good at one-handed sewing too, since they're always the thing that get damaged first."

"Ughhh, that is the worst when that happens. Sometimes I have to use another body entirely to fix the first, but you don't really do that, do you?"

"No, that's pretty uniquely a you thing. I just gotta either deal with it anyway or ask whichever hermit is closest that I trust with a needle."

"Are there many of those?" Grian asked, an invisible smile in his voice.

"No."

Grian laughed, then put away the anti-fray solution and got out a needle and thread.

"I thought you said you weren't going to hem it." Cleo frowned.

"I'm not, I'm just making sure the corners don't pull too hard." Grian made a few quick stitches here, a couple more there, then stood up and clapped once, an action that made no sound except a quiet paf. "Right, finished." He set down two gold blocks between them. "What do you think?"

Cleo turned to the side, looking at her reflection in the polished gold. Grian had turned the ripped bit into a sort of flame-shaped opening at her waist, a curving shape that actually complemented her nicely, rather than looking like - well, like a zombie had ripped a hole in it with their teeth. Whlch may or may not have been what she had previously done to it.

"I think... I really like that actually," Cleo admitted. "Thanks for that."

"A hole in a dress that shows off the hole in you," Grian said matter-of-factly, as if that were a common, normal reason for a design choice. Then he snickered, which Cleo followed.

"It does!" Cleo said with exaggerated emphasis that just made Grian laugh harder. "It's so practical!" In a more normal voice, she continued, "Genuinely, it never occurred to me that you had sewing skills that extended past, like... making weird new bodies for yourself."

"Oh, yeah," Grian said as the two continued on toward the party. "I make, or at least adjust, most of my clothes - even did a dress for myself once or twice. Anyway, who do you think tailors Mumbo's suits?"

132 notes - Posted April 18, 2022

Get your Tumblr 2022 Year in Review →

#tumblr2022 #year in review #my 2022 tumblr year in review #your tumblr year in review #oh this is long because it took out all the keep readings #okay sure #long post

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evita-shelby · 2 years ago

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Hi !

Can you do one where tommy has an affair and falls in love with a very suductive and manipulative reader ?

@l1-l4 did one similar "devil is a woman" and its SO GOOD , like ...art siriously you need to read it

Dont feel pressured to write anything , thank you 🙂

Oh i love her fics, especially the one where Grace’s sister has an affair with Tommy.

I was going to make this set in like season 6, but them I'd have to write about Ruby, and he cheats on Lizzy in canon already, so this oneshot takes place in season 3 to make the reader way more evil lol

Venus

Gif by @retromafia

If you asked anyone, especially his insipid Irish wife, you’ll hear how Thomas Shelby never cheats.

That things between the two of you were over when she came back fat with his bastard.

If anyone asked his driver, the maid who washed his clothes and Polly, especially Polly who knew him better than anyone else, you’ll hear about the woman he loves who looks like Venus herself.

You met him as a nude model posing for Churchill, you had fucked him with your eyes as he agreed to kill whoever Churchill asked him to kill.

That led to drinks at his pub, a day at the races, a week shopping and fucking in London and all while you remained the chaste widow of some rich old man who died trying to consummate your week-long marriage. People even thought you were still a virgin waiting for her handsome nouveau riche boyfriend to make a move.

You were no angel, you were a demon straight from hell. And the world was just so blind to the fangs you hide beneath your pretty lipstick.

Even Tommy forgot how wicked you were until you unleashed hell after he fucked up with Grace.

Grace Shelby had one boy lost to her forever and a loveless marriage behind closed doors. You made sure everyone and their dog knew it on both sides of the Atlantic.

He married her out of duty, he hadn’t even touched in the two years he made her wait for the wedding he never wanted.

You see, she had assumed Tommy was the daddy, but when the dates didn’t add up, you tearfully told darling Clive’s bereaved mummy how Grace had claimed the little blonde cherub was the product of an affair with your boyfriend because she had never loved sweet, sweet Clive.

Her late husband’s parents had issued an ultimatum that same day, forget Thomas Shelby or forget Clive Junior. They were powerful, Clive’s mum was born a Vanderbilt and his paternal grandmother an Astor, even here no one would dare fuck with them.

But she chose a man over her own child, something no person rich or poor would ever forgive thanks to those tips you gave the tabloids.

You’d never liked Grace, not when you knew her from finishing school nor when the two of you had your court presentations together. You came to loathe her when you discovered your beloved Thomas had fucked her in the same sofa he had said he loved you.

But you still loved him, and he loved you, so you forgave him after punishing him for two years.

Your idiot lover had gotten the marriage license already when he believed the bun in the oven to be his and because of that General Curran had threatened to throw him and his family into prison if he didn’t marry his stupid niece.

You didn’t forgive him for his sins until you showed up at his wedding wearing white and stole the show.

You didn’t care about driving attention to yourself , you feigned innocence and said you assumed that because the bride wore such a garish shade of purple you were free to wear white.

Can you ever forgive me, Y/N? He had asked so sweetly as you led him to the master bedroom that bitch had no idea you decorated.

If she knew that everything had been done by you for you, she’d run for the hills.

You’d kill to see her destroyed, but revenge takes time, something your viper of a mother had taught you well.

He loved you, he felt alive when he was with you, and you knew he wasn’t lying as the two of you fucked on his marriage bed to prove it.

Grace is only here until I can get rid of her, he said when the two of you removed any trace of your affair and returned to the party downstairs.

“Doesn’t Mrs. Shelby look stunning?” your ‘friend’ asked another lady as Grace entered her gala looking like she wanted to cry.

Tommy had used Section D to get his divorce, a divorce that had hit Grace like a missile this morning.

"Pretty and ornamental like a statue.” You heard her companion titter. No one liked Mrs. Shelby, in fact no one cared about her. "A statue that should've been left in the attic, if you ask me."

Not her family, not her husband, not her so called friends. Society hated her, especially when ‘someone’ discovered a story about sweet and innocent romance she had destroyed like the wicked bitch everyone thinks she is.

The guests were only here because you shared the charity with her just as much as you shared the man who funded it.

They came as a favor to you, you who was so sweet and kind and would never abandon a child you bore for a man who didn't love you.

If Grace knew about it, she’d die.

You made a mental note to send an invitation for your wedding in Paris next month.

February 14, a Valentine’s Day wedding for two star-crossed lovers in the most romantic city in the world.

Tommy was yours, heart, soul and body. She could have his name and money for now, but even that would be taken away from her in a heartbeat.

You'll be generous of course, give her some cash and have her return to Northern Ireland where she'll die in obscurity like she deserved. It's not like you'll ever need your late husband’s country home now that you have Arrow House.

“I heard from the housekeeper that he had every trace of her removed today.” Polly gave you a knowing look. She hated Grace for what she did in 1919. “Apparently this is the last time she is appearing in society as his wife.”

“Vengeance is mine, I will repay, says the Lord.” You quoted like the saintly women you pretend to be.

#thomas shelby x reader #tommy shelby x fem!reader #thomas shelby x fem!reader #reader is evil af

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thequeenofthewinter · 2 years ago

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Handling Self-Doubt

This post has been a long time in the making as I, myself, have been navigating how I deal with my own self-doubt when it comes to writing...and if I am honest with you, I've really been feeling it lately.

There is a whole world of writing with many different subjects, styles, and characters, and this, my friends, is a beautiful thing. At the same time, it is also easy to get lost in comparing oneself to others which in turn leads to--you guessed it--the dreaded self-doubt.

I'd like to be able to tell you to just ignore it and NOT feel this doubt because your writing is fantastic, amazing, and brilliant. However, let's be real. Most of us creatives (if not all of us) feel self-doubt at one time or another. It is important for us to find a strategy and a manner in which to deal with these feelings and not just let those nasty self-doubt demons get to you.

I can't promise that what I do or what works for me will work for everyone. I can only speak from my own experience. I am also not a professional writer, and I don't pretend to know everything. I am still learning and growing as a writer too. Please feel free to add your own strategies in the notes.

Ask yourself why you are feeling that self-doubt. Have you been "rushing" your work? Are you burnt out and need a break? Are you not in a good headspace? (Taking a break is NORMAL.)

Are you comparing yourself to someone else? Do you feel that your writing is not worth being read or someone else does it better? Keep one thing in mind: Your writing is valid. ALWAYS. And yes, there will be people who write differently from you. That doesn't mean your writing is bad. It just means that the other author has a different style, they are in a different genre, and/or they have a different perspective. Your writing doesn't have to be like anyone else's. In addition to this, you don't know how long this person has been writing. Writing takes practice and everyone develops at a different pace. There is nothing wrong with that.

Related to number 2, arm yourself with tools. If you feel that your writing needs improvement, that is okay! We can always improve. (But also don't chase perfection. It doesn't exist.) Look up some writing tips to help you improve (but don't take tips as law, guys. They’re not always right.)

Join a community and/or talk to other writers. This has really helped me. Talking with other people who have had the same struggles as you and can share their experiences is a big help in letting you know that you are not alone. They can also help you by giving feedback, ideas, or just a space to vent.

Remember why you write. Most of us write because we love what we do, and it brings us joy. It is amazing to be able to share our writing with the world and to know that others love it. However, if no one else does, that's fine. You are writing a story because you enjoy it. That's the most important thing.

My inbox is always open to talk. If you don’t have any writer friends, I’ll be your friend. <3

Happy writing all!

#how writing a fic works #writeblr #writing #writing fanfiction #writing encouragement

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fancystudentpeanutpie · 3 years ago

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I didn't think I was actually going to get somewhere with the evo blackout club au but I've been going insane with ideas soooo here's what I've got lol. If anyone else wants to come talk about this with me I'd love to hear your ideas. Other than that I'm not really sure what to do with this.

So the plot is almost the exact same as the game. The evolutionists are all kids (12-15) living in a small town in the middle of nowhere.

At night, the whole town becomes sleepers, aka they get mind controlled by something while asleep and they don't remember what happens when they do that. Somehow the evolutionists stop doing that. Since they're all already close friends, they tell each other and (unlike their parents) they actually believe each other.

They start the blackout club, where they try to figure out what's going on and stop it. They take turns every night (usually with 3-4 people, never alone) just getting done anything they need to do. They have their own little hideout where they make stuff and have meetings and whatnot.

And yes there's also the shape and all that.

Anyways here's the evolutionists, I didn't finish it so feel free to add ideas:

Grian:

15. Him and Pearl are twins. His hair is short, thick, and waffle coloured, but he dyed it blonde. He has heterochromia, making his left eye light blue (like his link skin) and his right eye a really dark brown that looks black (like his new skin).

As the unofficial leader of the group, he usually ends up making the decisions when no one else knows what to do. He also makes/buys a lot of the tech they need to do stuff. I'm not sure how yet but I'm going to make this lead to npc Grian somehow.

Pearl:

15. Since her and Grian aren't identical twins, she has dark blue eyes and is slightly taller than him. But she has the same hair, she just keeps it longer and dyed it white (plus she dyed the tips light brown as an expirement. She really likes it).

Salem:

14. She looks the exact same as her old skin, including the red streaks.

Zee:

14. No mustache obviously. His hair is naturally dark brown but he recently dyed it orange soo yeah. Other than that he looks the exact same.

He tries to be the responsible one when Grian isn't around, but noone listens to him.

Martyn:

13. Looks the same as his spring skin? Or summer whichever one he's known for using.

Him, Netty, and Jimmy are bffs <3. They almost always stick together. Martyn refuses to go out on missions unless at least one of them is with him. He's pretty much known in the group for being the best prank caller (other than Taurtis), and being a really fast runner. He loves nature and stuff so he knows a lot about it, which isn't really important to the blackout club but it's why there's a few nature books scattered around the hideout.

Netty:

13. Unfortunately has to live with being the shortest of the group. She has pale white skin, light brown eyes, and long, straight, brown hair she dyed light gray. She dyed it a while ago so her brown roots are showing.

Between Martyn and Jimmy, she's the most agile. Especially when it comes to climbing. She absolutely ADORES climbing up onto high things. She's also slightly more responsible than them, emphasis on slightly. She has a tree house in her backyard, which she uses as a place to hide stuff when she can't get to the hideout, or just as a place to go to avoid her parents for blackout club business.

Jimmy:

13. Same as his skin. The usual.

He isn't as agile or fast as Netty or Martyn, but Grian and Netty have been teaching him so he's definitely getting better. He's at least agile enough to fit the groups' standards, which to be fair is pretty high.

Mini:

12. Same as his skin but without the beard.

He's everyone's little brother. He always takes a crossbow with him during missions but he never

Taurtis:

14. Same as his skin.

He likes to pretend that he’s the co-leader. No one believes him, obviously. But he tries. As previously mentioned, he’s a really good prank caller. He’s good at being a distraction in general, actually. He usually goes on any mission that Grian also goes on, but he’ll sometimes join other groups.

Tom:

14. I'm not sure whether he should be bald or not? I feel like he wouldn't look like Tom if he had hair but minors don't tend to be bald unless they didn't have a choice so? Hmmmm

He's fully responsible for himself, but refuses to take any responsibility over the others. They’re to feral, including their ‘leader’.

Big b:

12. Same as his skin but again without the beard.

Everyone jokes about him being the healer because he always takes bandages with him. He’s probably the least

#evo smp #evolution smp #evo blackout club au

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emetophobiahelp · 4 years ago

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how do you manage a long-term relationship whilst having emetophobia? I love the idea of spending the rest of my life living with someone I love but idk what I'd do if/when they got s*, I wouldn't have it in me to look after them, the whole "in s*ness and in health" clause terrifies me.

Here’s my advice: I’d say communication really is the most important thing! If your partner is respectful of your emet (which they should be!), then just talk to them about your needs and boundaries. I’m sure it looks different for a lot of people. For example, my partner accepts the fact that when she gets s* in that way, I won’t be capable of taking care of her and is prepared for that.

It can be hard, for sure, but it’s not a necessity for a healthy relationship that you hurt yourself trying to push your own boundaries and needs to take care of a s* partner if you’re incapable of doing so. Everyone has different needs, so hopefully you’ll find someone who respects yours!

Anyone else with advice or tips feel free to add on to this post!

- Win

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dottiechan · 4 years ago

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Hey!! I've been following your blog for a while and I love your style! I read you are self taught. I want to learn how to draw people too so I thought I'd ask: can you recommend some resources that worked for you? Thank you soo much! 😸

Hi! Thanks for the ask, and for your kind words!

A little something to consider though before I proceed with the rest of my answer - take everything I say/recommend with a grain of salt. “Self-taught” isn’t a mysteriously elusive concept, it doesn’t mean someone’s mastered a skill all by themselves, it simply means taking control of your own learning process and allowing yourself to find the methods and ways that benefit you. If something anyone recommends doesn’t work for you and makes you feel bad in any way, I say ignore it.

That being said, you can find the rest of my thoughts beneath the cut:

Find the right platform and tools

This is step 0. Nothing will feel right unless you find a form of artistic self-expression that resonates within you. I find digital art to be much more forgiving and not to mention cheaper than the more tradtional ways, but not every platform works for me. I’ve been using Autodesk Sketchbook for a while now because it is completely free, beginner friendly and has just enough tools to help you make more elaborate drawings as well, but I would break down crying if I had to learn how to use Photoshop (while some people excel at it!). As for tablets, I totally recommend the Wacom ones. I’ve been using my Wacom Intuos Comic tablet with my laptop for years and I’ve never had any issues with it.

References

I suck at human anatomy. There, I’ve said it. I’ve never learned it properly for drawing purposes, and every attempt I’ve made to do so simply left me frustrated, so unforntunately I don’t have many resources for you, per se. Whenever I try using anatomy guides or tutorials, my drawings end up looking weird. So I mainly only use references. IMO anatomy doesn’t matter much as long as the shapes look natural, and as long as your drawing conveys the message you want it to convey. References help guide you, while giving you the necessary freedom to make adjustments as you see fit (while on the other hand I personally find rigid anatomical “rules” restricting). Use references for everything - the lighting, the face, the hair, the hands, the clothes. I always have several photos saved to my phone while I’m drawing that I often look at.

(If you want to learn how human anatomy works though, more power to you! There is an great amount of drawing tutorials out there by wonderful artists! :))

Some of my favourite places to go to for pose refs:

Senshistock

SketchDaily Reference Site

Kibbitzer

Google images of celebrities or models (cliche, I know, but it’s a good way to get many references of the same body type, face, etc.)

Some tips I wish someone told me when I got into digital art:

If you find poses or faces difficult at first, practice by tracing. A lot. Get familiar and even intimate with certain recurring lines or ratios or curves, and eventually they will come back to you when you draw without tracing. Gradually shift to just looking at references. This will take time, so be patient with yourself. Tracing is a great way to warm up to a new platform and/or tablet too - this is how I got comfortable with my current setup 3 years ago. (Out of respect for the creators, do not claim traced refs as your own work.)

It will probably take a while, so practice as often as you can. Unfortunately, there is no way around this, but instead of setting a goal (i.e. “I want to learn how to draw people”), try to enjoy the journey. Even when you think your drawings don’t come out as well or as realisitc as you want them to, you’re drawing people. And you can find unique solutions once you let go of this “ideal state” you want to reach. That’s when your style will emerge. :)

Something looks wonky or out of place in your initial sketch? No problem. Use the Quick transform > Lasso tool in Sketchbook to outline and drag the part where it would look better. I have salvaged so many sketches like this, such an easy fix to when you mess up the ratios in for instance a face.

Find The Brush. The One Brush to rule them all. The brush that makes you feel the most comfortable, the one that accomodates your style the most. (Mine is the Dry Marker. I feel like I could conquer the world with it.)

Always change the background colour from white to something a little darker. That way it is so much easier to add white highlights and make a face or a body look more 3 dimensional. (Especially if you’re lazy like yours truly, and would like to get away with not adding any colours to a drawing.)

Put everything on separate layers!!! Otherwise making even minor tweaks will be extremely difficult.

#dottiechanart #dottiechan asks #anonymous #i hope you'll find something useful here nonny :)

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velkynkarma · 5 years ago

Note

Happy April Fools Day! The fool is me for not thinking of a prompt when I had a chance. I'd like to see Ryou getting nabbed by a bounty hunter who mistakes him from Shiro. Dark results or humorous, your call :)

Of course :) It took me a while to decide which direction to go in, but I got there eventually.

——

A ringing noise fills Ryou’s ears, off key and inside his head more than something he’s actually hearing. His vision is blurry and unfocused when he finally manages to open his eyes, and they feel thick and heavy, like they’re full of sleep. The taste in his mouth is rancid, and his tongue is uncomfortably dry.

Damn it, he thinks to himself, and his own thoughts swim awkwardly in his head. I’ve been drugged. Again.

Again. Of course it was again. Nobody should be this used to recognizing the signs of being drugged into unconsciousness. The fact that he was so acquainted with the basic symptoms was all kinds of messed up. And yet, here he is.

In a way, it’s useful. He’s so used to identifying the issue at hand that he can already bypass the shock of being drugged into unconsciousness, and go straight to figuring out how, why, and when it happened, and even more importantly—where the hell he was now.

Where was I before this?

It takes a bit for his struggling, drug-addled mind to shake off the remains of the chemical effects enough to access the memories, but they come eventually. The celebration festival on Takarsis. The Takarites had reached out to Voltron for protection. Ryou had set up the arrangements and been there when the Takarite queen had officially signed the Coalition agreement, aid for protection. There had been a feast afterward, and a whole party throughout the city, one team Voltron had been encouraged to attend.

Ryou hadn’t been with anyone at the time he’d disappeared. He’d gone off on his own to check some of the farmer’s market produce, and see if there was anything he could add to his garden. He’d seen most of the festivities after a spicolian movement on Takarsis and was more interested in shopping. Not even Shiro had argued with him going off by himself—the Takarites weren’t really fighters, and nobody thought they could pose much of a threat.

Apparently they’d been dead wrong about that. Then again, grabbing somebody from behind while slapping a drugged rag over their mouth was hardly fair, or even a fight.

Okay. Not a great start to his situation, but it could be worse. The team might not notice he’s missing for a while, with the party in full swing. But they will come looking eventually, once it’s over and Ryou doesn’t come back to the Castle of Lions. They all would search, of course, but Shiro will focus obsessively on nothing else until then, and Keith will be right there next to him, both hellbent on finding Ryou and damn the need for sleep. They’ll probably both be wondering if Ryou somehow managed to wander off and forget how to come back, but Ryou can deal with that annoyance when the time comes.

That’s the ‘when’ and ‘how.’ ‘Why’ is going to be a little harder to figure out without doing some investigating. For now, ‘where’ is far more important.

Ryou blinks his eyes a few times, trying to clear his vision. Gummy spots of sleep slide uncomfortably out of his line of sight, but at least it’s not as clouded as before. Not that it helps much. The room he’s in is dark, and most of the available light comes from a square hole with bars that’s cut into the door on the far side of the room. The room itself has nothing else of interest in it.

Lovely. A prison cell.

A few of Shiro’s memories take strong objection to this newfound discovery, bubbling up to do their best to remind Ryou about all the awful, terrible things that happened to him during his time in the Galra prisons. Ryou shoves them to the back of his mind as hard as he can. It doesn’t feel personal, like it happened to him, but he doesn’t need any reminders of what could happen to him in his current situation. He needs to focus. Shiro’s memories do not allow for much focus.

He takes stock of himself next. His head is clearing rapidly now, so whatever they’d used on him had been short-term at best. He can live with the headache. He’s sore all over, which is probably from being man-handled while unconscious, but he’s had far worse in his short lifetime. There’s strain in both his shoulders and his arms, though, thanks to the fact that his wrists are tied together above him over his head.

“Deja vu,” Ryou mutters under his breath. His tongue still feels a little thick in his mouth, but he can talk at least.

His arms present more of a problem. Why do people always restrain him like this? Don’t they know it hurts?

At least he’s sitting, this time, wedged into the corner with his legs splayed out in front of him like a discarded doll. That means his full weight isn’t suspended from his wrists, which is a relief at least. When he tips his head back, he can just barely make out the chains tying his wrists together and bolting them to the wall.

So he’s not going to bounce himself out of this one, like he had when Remdax and Vakala had caught him. He’ll just have to find another means of escape.

He slowly and carefully pulls at the chains above his head, testing their strength and sturdiness while trying hard to not make any noise. His captors, whoever they are, don’t appear to have left a watch. He doesn’t want to alert them to the fact that he’s awake unless he has to; every tick he has to try and work out his escape without scrutiny is precious.

But when he moves his arms, his right forearm sends a bolt of excruciating, stabbing pain through him. He clenches his teeth shut, but not before a strangled, smothered scream escapes him, despite his best efforts.

What the hell was that?

He squeezes his eyes shut for a moment, breathing through his nose and staying perfectly still. Once he stops moving, the pain tapers off, until he feels nothing again.

Blinking his eyes open, he cautiously—very cautiously, so as not to move his arm again—tips his head back once more to find the cause of so much unexpected pain.

There’s some sort of band on his arm. It’s dark colored and has a few blinking red lights on it, and is bolted securely around the white paladin armor on his forearm. It looks a bit like the cuff Vakala and Remdax had put on him to suppress his Galra arm, back when he’d first been allowed to ‘escape’ the Galra.

Ryou frowns. Something like that shouldn’t work on his Olkari arm. Olkari engineering was unique, using a biomechanical plant-based system, and it required very specialized biomechanical technology to integrate with it. Regular electronics wouldn’t have any affect on his arm.

Then he spots the thin crack on the armor, bordering the foreign band. Very cautiously, Ryou twists his right arm, nudging the band just a fraction with his left. It sends another bolt of excruciating pain through him, but he knows it’s coming this time and braces, gritting his teeth so hard his jaw cracks but suppressing another scream. This time, now that he’s paying attention, he’s aware of something digging through the paladin armor into his biomechanical arm, tearing at the synthetic muscles as he moves.

No wonder it hurts so bad. There’s a spike puncturing his arm—or more than one, from the feel of it, studding the inside of the band. His Olkari arm doesn’t integrate with regular tech, but it does have synthetic nerves, and while that gives him a sensation of touch it does come with the tradeoff of pain as well. It’s still rudimentary, which means if he doesn’t move his arm and doesn’t aggravate the nerves, he doesn’t get the feedback of discomfort. Unfortunately, he’s going to have to move a lot if he plans on escaping.

Priority two is getting that thing off, Ryou determines. Right after priority one, getting out of these chains.

On the plus side, his right arm is mechanical. The sensation of literal stabbing pain is unpleasant, but unlike a real human arm, there won’t be long term damage and he can’t bleed out. Ryner had made upgrades recently to make his arm better at self-repairing all but the worst injuries; that was probably one of the reasons the band was hurting him so bad. The arm was trying to fix itself around it. If he can just get it off, it should repair enough that he won’t hurt too badly after, and the wounds definitely can’t kill him.

Ryou takes a deep breath and prepares himself for some inevitable pain in his future as he maneuvers the chains. But before he can try tugging on them again, he hears a voice outside, and a shadow passes in front of his thin rectangle of light.

“I knew I heard something!” the voice snaps. “He’s awake. Knew we should’ve dosed him more.”

“Congratulations,” a second voice growls back, obviously irritated. “You want a quiznaking medal? Get off your ass and make sure he’s secure.”

“We all go,” a third voice says. “This is the Black Paladin Shiro, after all.”

Ryou whips his head around to watch the door. Whoever they are, they think he’s Shiro? That’s unexpected...although it does suddenly explain the band on his arm. If they thought they had Shiro, they probably thought they were suppressing Galra technology, not Olkarian.

Things have just gotten a lot more interesting.

“Chorek, get another dose of that drug ready,” the third voice continues. “I want him out when we move him.”

“Please. We could take him,” a fourth voice says.

“You wanna die, feel free. I’m not taking my chances against a gladiator champion. I got a revolution to plan.”

“Ugh, fine. Josil, you’re no fun.”

“No fun, and planning to live.”

Four voices. Four opponents. Four people who were interested in taking Shiro somewhere. And something about a revolution. Ryou doesn’t like the sound of that, and decides to hang tight, just for a little while longer. For intelligence gathering purposes.

The door cracks open, and several aliens file into the room. One immediately turns a blaster on him, and Ryou’s been around long enough by now to recognize its make as something off the Unilu black market, not Galran.

The alien holding the gun isn’t Galran either. He’s Takarite, same as all the others—blue-green skin, short stature, squarish features, thick hands, and with two sets of curled antennae in place of ears. Their eyes are multi-colored, more like constantly changing prisms, and more angular and multi-faceted than Ryou is used to.

“Where am I?” Ryou asks immediately. “Who are you? And why am I restrained?”

“Silence, Champion,” the largest of the Takarites snaps. He’s not the one holding the gun, but Ryou immediately recognizes his voice as the one that had been giving the orders. Josil, if he’s right. “You remain quiet, and we won’t have to get mean.”

A lie, obviously. Ryou had just overheard them talking about drugging him, so they plan on enforcing compliance rather than bartering it out of him with good behavior. He doesn’t argue the point.

He doesn’t correct them about ‘Champion,’ either, although that is a lot more puzzling to him. It’s not the first time he’s been mistaken for Shiro, but he hadn’t actually been trying this time. The team had been encouraged to wear their Voltron armor for the festival, and Ryou had been out in his green variation, and had never switched the colors to his imitation Shiro setting. He wasn’t wearing his helmet, so his graying hair didn’t match Shiro’s either. He’d even brokered the agreement between the Voltron Coalition and the planet as Ryou, not Shiro, so people knew there were two of them.

Then again, the Takarites had struggled to tell the difference between most of the paladins of Voltron all day. It wasn’t polite to ask, but Ryou suspects Takarite biology and vision simply wasn’t designed to identify human facial features. As far as he can tell, they identify each other through different means—scent, vibration, and maybe some other sense humans and Alteans simply don’t have. They definitely didn’t see colors on the same wavelength that the paladins did, which meant they couldn’t tell the difference between the lions outside of general shape.

They’d figured out their own ways to identify most of the paladins in the end at the formal ceremonies. But they had struggled with Shiro and Ryou, probably because the two of them were functionally identical in every aspect the Takarites considered significant.

So maybe it’s not all that surprising to be kidnapped as ‘Shiro’ even if he wasn’t actually trying. At the end of the day, he can definitely play the part to perfection, and that’s all that matters.

“You have no right to kidnap me,” Ryou says, forcing a note of command into his tone. “We’re your allies. Voltron is here to help you.”

“Voltron is here to ruin us,” one of the other Takarites snaps back. “The queen was a fool for signing our freedom over to a giant robot overlord!”

“That’s not what happened at all,” Ryou says, frowning. “There was an agreement. The Voltron Coalition provides protection—”

“—in exchange for slavery,” Josil interrupts, oddly angular eyes glittering darkly with anger. “We won’t have it.”

“It’s not slavery,” Ryou says, incredulous. “The Coalition is a team effort. Planets that have agreed to provide military support for you and other non-combatant planets are willing to defend you. But that extension of their military aid means less manpower for creating necessary food and supplies to sustain them. Non-combatant planets like Takarsis agree to shoulder that burden in exchange for not needing to participate in combat. Everyone benefits.”

“It’s a load of quiznacking shit, is what it is,” the Takarite holding the gun snarls. “It’s slavery with a pretty name.”

“And where’s the great robot overlord in all this?” the fourth Takarite adds. “Not doing any of that stuff you said.”

Ryou’s eyebrows raise. “Voltron fights at the heart of the Galra empire,” he says. “We literally take on the biggest and toughest opponents so you don’t have to.”

“That’s what you say,” the gun-toting Takarite growls. “But where’s the proof?”

Ryou can’t believe it. He’s been captured by insurgents and conspiracy theorists. It’s almost embarrassing.

But he schools his expression to remain as calm and neutral as possible, and says reasonably, “If you have grievances, I’m sure you can bring them up with officials. I can get you an audience with the queen; I have some pull in the palace, now. Kidnapping me isn’t the answer.”

“It’s exactly the answer,” Josil says, taking a step forward—but still, notably, remaining carefully out of range. “Kidnapping Champion means Voltron’s got no head. We handicapped the Coalition in one stroke. And once we turn you in, we’ll have the funding and the support to free ourselves from your tyranny.”

Ryou’s blood runs cold. “Turn me in?”

One of the unnamed Takarites smiles. It’s a surprisingly toothy, unfriendly look. “Didja know you got a bounty on your head, Champion? You’re worth a lot to the Galra. Lotta money to fund the revolution.”

“And the military power to fight back the Coalition,” the fourth Takarite adds. “They’ll owe us a favor, for handing over their missing Champion. They’ll have to help us liberate the planet.”

Ryou’s heart thuds heavy in his chest. Shiro’s memories bubble to the surface again, frantic and panicked at the thought of going back to them, to her, but Ryou shoves them back.

This time, it’s harder, mostly because it tangles with his own very real memories and feelings. He doesn’t want to go back to them, either. He knows what Haggar will do if she gets her hands on him again. He knows he won’t ever come back from that, mentally or physically. She’ll strip his mind bare, drain it of every confidential detail she can use against the Coalition, and leave him with a broken self and an empty husk. Every part of himself that he forged anew, she’ll break and toss away. If she’s feeling generous, she’ll kill him quickly. More likely, she’ll let him die of his own failsafe, as punishment for not being a good little sleeper agent.

But it’s not that bad yet, Ryou tries to calm himself. You still have options. The team will look for you once the party is over. If you’re forced, you can still call out to the Black Lion, and get a message to Shiro that way. Things aren’t hopeless yet.

And fortunately, he has one other thing working in his favor to suppress his panic: anger. And the more ticks pass, the more of it he has.

“You’d sell out your entire planet to the Galra?” Ryou asks, his voice cold. “Do you know what they do to planets like yours?”

“Free them from overlord scum like you?” the gun-toting Takarite counters, scathing.

“They are the overlords,” Ryou says. He tries to keep his voice calm and unaccusing, still, but he can’t quite keep the fury contained. “They strip-mine entire planets for resources. Literally enslave the populations, putting them in camps and forcing them to participate in destroying their own homes. When they’ve taken everything they can, they drain the planet and everything living on it of quintessence. All that’s left is a broken shell of a planet. If you do this, you are consigning your entire race to death, and destroying your home.”

“Better than false slavery and servitude for the rest of Takarsis’ existance,” Josil says. “I’d rather have died fighting for something I believed in than get taken in by liars and thieves that destroy our sense of self. Takarsis forever!”

There’s no reasoning with these people. It’s disgusting. Ryou abandons any pretense of diplomacy getting him out of this mess. He needs to get out, and report this as soon as he can to the Takarite queen. Even when he does escape, and these guys don’t have the leverage of ‘Champion’ to work with anymore, that won’t stop them endangering the whole planet.

It seems like that’ll all be on him, though. Short of calling for help through the Black Lion—and hoping Shiro’s in the pilot’s seat at the time—it doesn’t seem like anyone can hear him. Even without wearing his helmet, he should have an open channel to the rest of the team in his armor. The fact that there’s been no response yet means these idiots are blocking signals somehow. It would also explain why nobody is tracking his location; that signal is probably blocked as well.

Assuming anybody even thought to look to begin with. If the party is still going on, nobody is going to believe anything is wrong yet.

Ryou’s still running through his potential options when one of the Takarites checks a device in his hand, stuffs it back in his pocket, and says, “It’s time. The fireworks display’s going off in twenty doboshes. If we get to the ship in time we can take off in all the noise and nobody will hear.”

“Good,” Josil says, nodding. “Chorek—drug him. I don’t want him causing a ruckus while we move him.”

“You got it,” the Takarite on the far right says. He’s got a bottle and a cloth in his hands, and as Ryou watches he liberally douses the cloth in the liquid. A faint chemical smell taints the air, and something dark and cruel in the back of Ryou’s head tickles at his brain, looming dangerously. He shoves it back with everything he has. He’s not sure if that one’s Shiro’s or his, but he can’t let it control him. Not now, not when it’s so important to be aware.

The effort leaves him shaking slightly. The Takarites must mistake it for fear, because the one with the cloth chuckles knowingly. “Sisret’s gonna keep that gun on you while I come close,” he warns. “You’re gonna play nice, or we’ll put a few extra holes in you. Might make your first arena match a little tough, if you know what I mean.”

For a moment, Ryou’s mind goes completely blank, like the words don’t process right. His numb mind slowly gains feeling again as Chorek’s words sink in and gain meaning, and then he says slowly, “You’re sending...me back to the arenas?”

He’d almost said him. They’d shocked him so badly he’d forgotten for a moment what he was doing here. He’s never almost broken character that badly before.

“Sure,” Sisret drawls, as he steadies the gun on Ryou. “I hear the arenas never had another fighter quite like Champion. They’re eager to have you back, and they’ll pay a lot of gak for it.”

Ryou stares at him. In his mind, the floodgates are broken, and all the arena memories of Shiro’s he’d ever managed to rediscover come pouring in. They all feel distant, like a film he’s experiencing of the terrible things Shiro went through, but there’s so much of it. Difficult battles. Awful wounds. Emotional struggles. Hunger. Sleeplessness. Pain.

This time, Ryou lets them. This time, they aren’t a distraction—they’re fuel for the fire.

“Do you know what that place does to its prisoners? Do you understand what it’s like?” he asks. Slow. Careful. Dangerously soft. He keeps his eyes trained on Sisret and the gun, ignoring Chorek and his cloth dripping with drugs even as he comes closer. Sisret actually shifts uncomfortably under the intensity of the stare, although he’s smart enough not to drop his gun.

The fourth, unnamed Takarite actually laughs at the question. “Yeah. A quiznacking good time!” he chortles. “I won ten thousand gak betting on you, once. Think you could give me the insider information on the next fight? I bet I could double the bounty we get off you!”

Ryou sees red.

Forget escaping. Forget calling for help. These sick bastards would put Shiro back into that hell without a second’s hesitation, and had the gall to think about profiting off of it. Every single one of them is going to die. No one is ever going to know what killed them.

They think Champion is dangerous? They caught something even worse—an ambush predator built for silent kills that no one ever suspects are coming.

It takes barely any concentration at all for him to activate his Olkari arm. He doesn’t doubt for a second that it will work, and his faith in Ryner’s engineering pays off. His hand glows pale green as the energy coalesces in his palm, still yanked above his head by his chains.

Sisret’s eyes gleam brighter, and his mouth opens in a perfect ‘O’ of surprise, before he gathers himself. “He’s—”

Too late. Ryou drops his fingers to point at Sisret, and fires.

His aim isn’t great, considering his arms are wrenched over his head and tied together. But the nice thing about having a hand that’s also an energy gun is that his aim doesn’t have to be great at this range. The blast hits the wall next to Sisret’s head, sending stone shattering everywhere, but it’s more than enough of a distraction to force the gun-wielding Takarite to throw himself to the ground for cover.

Before any of them can react, Ryou twists his wrist backwards, and fires at the wall and the bolt holding the chains to it.

At this close range, the blast hurts him, too. The concussive force as the wall shatters is enough to send another lancing stab of pain through his arm as the useless restriction band is jarred. He holds his scream back through sheer force of will, reinforced by a lot of fury. Chunks of stone shower around him, coating him in dust and bouncing off his armor, as the wall cracks.

Ryou barely notices any of it. He’s already moving, ignoring another protesting stab of pain in his arm, as he yanks his arms down. The chains are still secured to his wrists, but they’re free of the wall. He moves from the sprawled sit they’d put him in to an aggressive crouch in ticks, swinging around with the chains until they wrap around the approaching Chorek’s throat.

The Takarite makes a throaty squeaking noise as the chains pull taut. He drops the bottle of chemicals, and tries to flail out with the cloth, but it’s easy enough to dodge. The scent of trailing chemicals sails past Ryou’s shoulder harmlessly and splats on the stone floor.

With a cold, efficient twist, he wrenches with the chains. A sharp, meaty snap-crack fills the air, and Chorek sags bonelessly, eyes suddenly devoid of any color.

“Quiznak!” one of the Takarites shrieks. Ryou dislodges the chains from Chorek’s neck in time to spin and catch Sisret shakily coming to his feet, raising his black market issue blaster.

“Don’t kill him!” Josil barks. “He’s not worth anything dead!” There’s enough authority in his voice that Sisret listens, but that voice shakes with sudden fear, too. He knows he’s screwed up.

Good.

Sisret’s hands jerk as he tries to adjust his aim last minute, trying to find a non-lethal shot. Ryou has no such compunctions. He raises his still-chained right fist, letting the agonizing pull of the restricting band fuel him, and charges his fist again.

At this range, it’s impossible to miss. The pale green blast cuts a burning, bloody hole through Sisret’s torso. The Takarite collapses, gun clattering across the floor, and stares at the damage in bewilderment before the color fades from his eyes.

In the shocked silence that follows, Ryou takes the time to blast the chains off both of his wrists. The cuffs are still there, but the chains aren’t liable to trip him up anymore. He can work on getting them removed once the threat is contained.

“Are you having a good quiznacking time yet?” Ryou asks, as he glares coldly at the unnamed Takarite.

He whimpers, both sets of antenna drooping, and huddles farther back into the corner.

“No?” Ryou asks. His voice is low and calm, but unquestionably dangerous. “You mean it’s only fun to watch the slaughter when you’re not a part of it? Too bad.” His eyes narrow. “You’re a part of it now.”

“You—you can’t do that!” Josil yelps, voice high in his panic. His multi-colored eyes flick to the gun Sisret had dropped and then back to Ryou, but the gun is on Ryou’s side of the prison cell, and clearly neither of them like the idea of getting too close anymore. Not when he’s unbound and pissed. Cowards. “The inhibitor band—”

“Oh—you mean this?” Ryou taps the band on his forearm, and then casually reaches around until he finds the latch. With his hands free, it’s easy enough to unclip and remove. It’s agony to do so, like pulling knives out of his arm, but he channels that pain into his expression as he glares across at the surviving extremists. Once the spikes are out, the pain immediately lessens, as they stop aggravating his synthetic muscles and nerves.

He gives it an idle glance. Little wires and blinking bits adorn the four two-inch-long spikes on the interior of the band. They were probably intended to burrow into the Galra arm and lock up all weapons functions, movement, and anything else that might prove problematic for a kidnapping. All in all, a real nasty piece of work. He drops it on the ground, and crushes it under his boot heel. “Yeah, that doesn’t work on me.”

Josil’s the first one to move. He bolts for the door and slams it behind him, leaving his companion behind. There’s an audible sound of a lock clicking, and footsteps as he runs for freedom.

The unnamed Takarite slams against the door, cut off mid escape, and pounds on it frantically. “Josil!” He wails. “Josil, you can’t leave me in here with him!” He pauses mid-pound, and whirls to face Ryou, eyes glittering brighter in his panic.

“Remember when I asked you if you understood what the gladiator arenas were like?” Ryou asks, calmly. The Takarite whines in answer, and claws at the door.

“It’s like this,” Ryou answers, when his kidnapper doesn’t. “They lock you in a room with someone else, and only the one who lives gets to leave. It’s not fun, is it? Terrified and facing down somebody who’s a lot stronger than you, with no way out? And you would have sent Shiro back to this just to make an extra buck.”

The Takarite swallows, and then says confusedly, “But...but you’re Shiro—”

“No,” Ryou says, as he charges his Olkari arm. “I’m really not.”

The Takarite blinks, but then his eyes widen in sudden understanding. “The brother—”

Ryou’s shot takes him in the eye, and that’s as far as he gets.

He doesn’t spare time for mercy, or for regrets. This nameless bastard didn’t deserve any. He would have consigned Shiro back to the arenas and his entire planet to a long, torturous death, out of his own ridiculous sense of pride and false patriotism. He deserved it.

And there’s still one more.

Busting the door open isn’t hard. Two full blasts from his Olkari arm and he’s free, and pounding down the hallway at top speed. He can see Josil in the distance at the end of the hall, and there’s no way he’s letting the bastard escape.

Fortunately, he’s got range on his side.

At this long distance, accuracy is difficult, and it’s even more difficult moving. Ryou raises his fist and takes the shot anyway. He misses, in that he doesn’t hit Josil, but he does startle the Takarite into skidding to a halt when the blast hits the wall ahead of him. He whirls, spots Ryou, and shrieks. “How did you—”

Ryou’s second shot hits him in the stomach. The Takarite lets out a shriek of pain as he clutches at his wounded abdomen, and collapses to the ground.

Ryou jogs up to him easily, now that Josil is nothing more threatening than a squirming bit of jackass on a floor rapidly becoming drenched in dark green blood. Josil moans pathetically as he clutches at his stomach, and his eyes glitter in fear when he catches Ryou approaching.

But he forces a weak, rictus smile as Ryou approaches, and chokes through blood-stained teeth, “This isn’t the end.”

“Oh?” Ryou asks.

“There’s more of us,” he wheezes. “We’re not the only cell. We will liberate Takarsis.”

“You’ll kill everyone, you mean,” Ryou says. “I think the queen will be interested in hearing that.”

“I’ll never talk.”

“Oh, I never meant you,” Ryou says. His voice is colder than ice as he glares down at the last of his kidnappers. Josil must feel it, because he shivers. “You planned to send Shiro back to the arenas. He’s suffered enough, and you deserve to pay for even trying.”

Like his nameless companion, Josil frowns in confusion, laced with pain. “Shiro? But you’re—” And just like that, his eyes gleam brighter as he, too, realizes just how badly he’d screwed up. “The brother. The diplomat.”

Ryou doesn’t say anything at all; merely raises his hand to start charging it again.

Josil eyes the growing pale green brightness of Ryou’s right arm nervously, but he chokes through his bloodied throat, “You negotiated the agreement that sold our souls to Voltron. You deserve to die too, you quiznacking bastard.”

“But as you’ve seen, I’m a lot harder to kill than I look,” Ryou says. “Trust me. Smarter people than you have tried.”

“Takarsis for—”

Ryou shoots him. The strangled cry falls abruptly silent. Ryou shakes his head. “Liberate Takarsis? You would have killed them all out of greed. Good riddance.”

And he turns, and leaves the body behind.

———-

A little exploring reveals that Ryou had been taken to a warehouse on the far end of the city. It’s barely been a varga and a half since he’d been taken, and the party is still in full swing. It might have been vargas more before anyone had even noticed he’d disappeared.

That’s good, since it gives Ryou plenty of time to act. A quick exploratory search of the warehouse reveals stockpiled weapons and chemicals; this had been a regular nest for a set of insurgents. It’s something the local authorities will definitely need to know about if they intend to protect their people from Galra invasion. Josil had said there were more people belonging to this group.

So he’s quick about removing any evidence of having been there, including the inhibitor band that was supposed to be used to restrain Shiro. The last thing he needs is that kind of technology getting out. He finds the keys to his cuffs, too, and pulls them off before melting them into slag with his Olkari hand.

Once he’s removed himself from the evidence, he calls in an anonymous tip to the Takarite police, notifying them about both the den and the ship that’s supposed to be turning him in to the Galra. They can handle things from there.

Ryou himself is a little more of a challenge. He’s covered in dust from the wall, and while his ranged attacks meant he hadn’t gotten too bloody, there is some pretty visible damage to his arm. His Olkari arm is repairing itself reasonably well, now—it hurts less every time he moves it—but there’s nothing he can do about the punctures in the forearm of his armor.

He has no interest in causing a panic with the team, though. They deserve to be able to enjoy their party without having to concern themselves with him. More importantly, Shiro deserves to not be bothered with the full details of what had happened. Why be assaulted by those memories, or by the threat of going back to the arenas, when he’s not in danger of that anymore?

Because he won’t be. Shiro is still at the party, but Ryou had only been taken because he’d gone off on his own. He doubts Shiro would be able to get away with that, not as the Black Paladin and leader of the Voltron Paladins. He’s safely in the middle of thousands, and not even Josil’s ridiculous extremist group would be able to pluck him out of the middle of that crowd to take him back to the Galra.

Besides, Ryou doesn’t want to deal with his overprotective fussing. He’s dealt with it enough as it is, without admitting to being kidnapped in Shiro’s place. The last thing he needs is Shiro refusing to let Ryou out of his sight. Or Shiro feeling guilty about Ryou being taken in his place. Ryou doesn’t regret that at all—if Shiro really had been taken, Josil’s little coup might have been successful. They’d obviously planned for him. This was one of the reasons Ryou had decided to be Shiro’s double to begin with.

No, Shiro’s got enough on his plate. He’s not going to be bothered with this.

So Ryou cleans himself off as best as he can, breaking into a closed restaurant for their public bathroom, and washing away the dust and blood. He doesn’t have any visible wounds on his person—thank goodness he’d only been knocked out with drugs, and not a blow to the head, which would have left a nasty lump. The puncture wounds on his armor aren’t too obvious, as long as he angles himself right, and underneath the armor his Olkari ‘skin’ already looks smooth and undamaged.

It will do, as long as nobody inspects him closely. He doesn’t intend to let anyone.

Getting back to the party is easy, and now that he’s outside the extremist next, his comms are no longer blocked. “Back from the farmer’s market,” he announces. “But I’m beat. I think I’ll turn in a little early, if nobody minds?”

“It should be quite alright,” Allura says. Ryou can see her up on the raised platform in the middle of the wide clearing being used for the majority of the feast, sitting next to the Takarite queen. “I can handle any additional negotiation that is needed, although I hardly think there is any. You did an excellent job.”

“Thank you,” Ryou says, smiling despite himself.

“Did you get the plants you wanted?” Shiro asks. Ryou picks him out easily too, close to the raised platform to be backup for Allura on the off chance that something goes wrong, not that anybody expects it to. He’s safely surrounded by dozens of Takarites and within full view of Allura, Keith, and Pidge, which means he definitely won’t be disappearing without a fuss.

“No, unfortunately. They didn’t have anything I was interested in,” Ryou says. “I was mostly just curious, anyway. We don’t really need anything.”

He’d never even made it to the farmer’s market, and he had been genuinely curious in one of the fruits they sold here. Oh, well. The safety of Shiro and the planet was far more important than that. He can swallow his disappointment and live with the lie if he has to.

“Too bad,” Hunk says. “I was looking forward to cooking with something new.”

Ryou hums noncommittally, before saying, “Alright, then. I’ll just be back in the Castle. Call me if you need me.”

“Rest well,” Allura says over the comms. And just like that, Ryou’s avoided any and all suspicion.

Ryou doesn’t rest when he’s inside. He changes out of his armor to civilian gear after taking a quick shower, just in case. He sets the armor in one of the machines used for repairs, and for creating new equipment. He snags a holopad and brings up the coordinates of each member of the team, even Matt’s rebel tracker, like he would when coordinating a mission from the sky. And he watches the party for the rest of the entire night, keeping track of every single blip on the screen, to make sure nobody disappears.

It’s not until they’re all safely back in the Castle that Ryou finally lets himself relax. Everyone’s safe, nobody is in danger, and there’s no cause for panic. Things are finally okay.

He breathes a sigh of relief.

———

The following morning at breakfast, Allura announces some shocking news.

“The Takarites have warned us to be cautious,” she says. “Apparently, last night their police force received an anonymous warning regarding a terrorist organization. It’s a group the queen tells me they’ve struggled with for years, but apparently the recent agreement to join the Coalition has them...particularly riled up.”

Shiro frowns, immediately attentive. “Do they need our help?”

“The opposite, actually,” Allura says. “They reported that this group is particularly aggravated by Voltron, and suggested the paladins may be targets. They asked if we would be terribly offended if we cancelled some of the additional festivities while they deal with the situation, but do not want to put us in unnecessary danger.”

“Takarite festivities can go on for as long as a spicolian movement,” Ryou points out, ever the diplomat. “If they want to cancel them, this must be serious.”

“Agreed,” Allura says. “They beg us to please be careful while remaining on Takarsis while taking on supplies and planning our next course of action. But they assure us they have things well taken care of. It seems one of the cells of this organization has already been dealt with by some sort of...vigilante. They gleaned plenty of information for finding other cells from the anonymous tip.”

Shiro frowns. “Sounds like they have things in order, but we’re still willing to help if they need it. In the meantime—” he turns to look around at each of the other paladins, “—nobody goes off-ship alone, and I want everyone to be cautious.”

“As if they could take any of us down,” Lance says confidently. But he wilts under Shiro’s stern look, and backpedals meekly. “Right, right. Staying put. It sucks, though. We were gonna get that parade today...”

“We don’t know what they’re capable of. It’s best to listen to the locals. If they want our help, they’ll get it—otherwise, we take their advice,” Shiro says. “Is that clear?”

The irony is, they would have been capable of taking Shiro. If it really had been Shiro they’d captured, and not Ryou, they would have won last night.

Ryou hates the thought of it. Shiro could have been in a Galra prison cell again right now, agonizing over the next opponent he’d be forced to face.

But that hadn’t happened, and it never would. And Ryou can’t let on that he knows anything about it at all, or risk showing his real thoughts on the matter.

So instead, he just says, “It won’t be so bad, Lance. We can work on that next level in Killbot Phantasm III if you want.”

Lance brightens immediately. “Oh, yeah! That’d be cool. I can’t read it without you.” Shiro shoots Ryou a grateful look, and Ryou nods back, understanding.

This is the way it should be. Everyone safe. No one the wiser, no one guilty, no one worrying over nothing. This is what he’s good at, and this is what he’ll do with those skills, to protect the universe, his friends, and Shiro however he can.

Whatever it takes.

#Parallel by Proxy #April Fools 2020 #Velkynkarma writes #Ryou #Shiro #gets a little dark #bosstoaster

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royallyprincesslilly · 4 years ago

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Hey, I just started writing CE fanfic and posted my first ever and I wanted to ask you for some tips on like how you build a community of readers, promote your work, advice for a new fanfic writing, how to stay encouraged etc. Sorry if that seems like a lot haha, answer whatever but I'd love to know what you think.

Heyyy,

Welcome aboard the super talented and fun Chris Evans writing fandom.

Wow. I am going to try to tackle this, and I hope that it is helpful and useful information. I took the last day or two to attempt to organize my thoughts, so here goes.

-Building A Community of Readers-

*I’d say consistency is a major part of it building readers. Find a way to post regularly, and I mean, what is regular for you and your life. I see people who post a story a day or even 2 stories a day all the time, and I am in awe. For me, that would only happen if I actually put my everything into cranking it out like that. So tweak what is regular for you and try to remain consistent with it.

*Creativity is also essential. You will see 5 similar stories within thirty minutes on this app if you’re searching. Similar in that the idea is relatively the same. That doesn’t mean don’t write it, it just means you now get to put your own spin on it. You get to play with it and be as creative as you can get. I think creativity is super important in fanfic.

*Interaction. You can post all day, every day, but if you’re not interacting with those who read your work, I feel like it defeats the purpose. As much as authors like to get their likes and reblogs and see those comments, a reply to a comment is also something readers want to see. Interact as much as you can, thank them for reading. Show appreciation for them because no one has to read anything. You will also get to know people on more than a URL basis, and that, to me, is really cool.

-Promoting Work-

This is something that I don’t do much of if I do it at all. The most promotion I do is post here, reblog my masterlist and individual work. Within the last year (think it’s coming up), I began posting on Wattpad as well, but I am not as consistent there are I am here. I know some writers are religious on the story sites such as Wattpad, AO3, and Tumblr and will post a link on Tumblr to their Wattpad and AO3 or vice versa. Some even create free websites to put all their work and direct traffic to it. There are so many ways to promote your writing.

I’ve been meaning to look into setting up an IG account and make posts highlighting what I write as well as putting them on my WordPress site. I’ve even been looking into Patreon and how it can work for me as a writer. These are all options you can look into as well. In this tech, era promotion can be as simple and as complicated as you make it—experiment on what works for you.

- Advice For A New Fanfic Writer-

*NEVER EVER EVER EVER compare yourself and your writing to that of someone else. This is like the GOLDEN RULE for me. This is soooo important. There is no better way for you to pigeon hole yourself and your potential and enjoyment on this ride that fanfic writing is. No good will come of this, you won’t feel any better, it will only make you doubt yourself, your ability, and question if you even want to try to do this anymore. Don’t do it!

*Have Fun! I think every one of us started doing this because we thought it would be fun and a nice avenue to explore our creativity. None of us came here like this is a job, and I have to do it. I think it is important to keep that reason forefront in your mind. Write for the fun of it, test limits, and have fun doing it. The minute it stops being fun and starts feeling like an obligation or job, then you need to get back to the root of it.

*Try to hone your craft. This means yeah write and post but also try to get better at it. None of us are at the pro level where we won’t learn new things or make mistakes. I don’t even think the “pro” published writers are at this level. Take the time to learn more about writing, English, grammar, the power of storytelling, different voices and styles, etc. This can only help you in your fanfic journey as well as your everyday life and future if you decide that you want to venture out of fanfic into self-pub or traditional pub.

*Write for You. Write what you would want to read. Chances are there are countless other people who are into what you are but just haven’t voiced it. If you wanna make a story about Sam Wilson AU where he is an actual shapeshifting Falcon and he falls in love with a woman who thinks is normal but turns out to be a vigilante by night who has questionable morals and a pet unicorn that is her sidekick, WRITE IT. Don’t think will anyone like this or read it. Write It!

-Staying Encouraged-

This is tough and it’s hard for me to give advice on this because I can tell you how to do it but everyone has to find that thing that works for them to stay encouraged enough to keep going. This is a personal thing for everyone.

A general answer I can give is when you get discouraged try to remember that nothing happens overnight. It takes time to build something, time, patience, and dedication to build readers or even get better. Try to keep in mind that if you stick to it, it’ll happen. Sort of the equivalent to “If you build it they will come”.

Also, try to look at those who have voiced interest and excitement or even support for you and your writing. It may be fifteen people or even three. Those three to fifteen people found you and really like what you offer, focus on that, wrap yourself in that, and keep going knowing those three to fifteen people will love what you put out.

Don’t focus on the numbers. This means the likes, reblogs, comments, or even followers. Don’t focus on it and get so wrapped up in it that it has power over you to make or break your day. Keep it in the mindset of “if you build it they will come”. It’ll happen.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

These are the things that I can think of at the top of my head. I am sure there are other writers who can add on to this with a lot more advice and tips and I welcome anyone who has anything to add on to do so.

I hope these were helpful. Thank you for the question. 😘

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nonbinarypoststhings · 4 years ago

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Hey Liam! This is the writer anon before. Sorry abt wording it poorly, and I'd like to apologize because I didn't mean to be fluidphobic. I'd like to try clarify my ask. So in my story I have a genderfluid dancer (A) whose gender changes between M and F. MC has seen A presenting themselves as F, but only when they're dancing, so MC wasn't sure yet what to make of it. At first MC thought that it was just a performance thing, but then they came out as genderfluid (1/2)

(2/2) I want to show that MC (cis F) supports their identity no matter what. I thought that having her accept them taking a bath together because she thinks that they're both women would be a good way to do it because of my own personal experience. But someone pointed out that doing this only when they're F can be a little fluidphobic. Can I ask for advice to amend this or another way so she can show support? Thank you and I hope you have a lovely day!

I think that the best way to show support would be to:

1. If they have to take a bath together, ask the genderfluid person if they are uncomfortable with it or not, instead of it being them thinking they are a girl at that point, you cannot tell my gender unless I tell you. Really, them thinking that the person is a girl is probably not optimal if they are not sure.

2. You could literally show someone being supportive by them respecting their pronouns and their preferred name. Or saying that they can come them when they figure their name out. There is a lot of other ways of being supportive than taking a bath with them but I also don’t know the context for the story, or anything about the character, so I don’t know.

If anyone else have more tips, feel free to add on :) Hope your writing goes well.

#genderfluidpoststhings ask

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madasthesea · 6 years ago

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what about the remember me one? seen a lot of fics with peter getting amnesia but never one of tony forgetting anything? could be a nice switch to see how peter would deal with that + tony trying to figure out how he went from a wild playboy to a supposed superhero with a teenager. I'm sure I'd cry lmao

Guess what, anon. I already had 2000 words written on this very topic. Hence why this is so very long.

Tony wakes up. He blinks around at the well-lit room around him—softblue walls, clean sheets on his bed. There’s medical equipment around him,beeping steadily with his heartbeat.

He isn’t worried, but he is confused.

He has no idea where he is.

A hospital, he thinks,but he doesn’t know how he knows that.

Actually, the more he thinks, the more he realizes that he doesn’tknow... anything.

His name is Tony. He’s in a hospital room. There’s a dull achebuilding at the back of his head.

That’s it. He closes his eyes and concentrates, tries to rememberhow he got here, but there’s nothing before he opened his eyes.

“Tony?”

Tony jerks his eyes open, looks at the dark-haired woman suddenlystanding in front of his bed.

“Hi,” he says.

“Hi,” she replies, smiling a little. “I’m Dr. Helen Cho.”

Tony tries to think if the name is familiar. Or if it should befamiliar. It isn’t, so he says, “Nice to meet you.”

Dr. Cho hums. “Yes. About that. I suspected based on the MRIresults from this morning, but this confirms it. Tony, you have full retrogradeamnesia. It is temporary. We’re finding a solution.”

Tony frowns. “How do you already know it’s temporary if I’ve justwoken up?”

Dr. Cho doesn’t seem surprised by his blunt question. In fact, herlittle smile grows just a bit.

“The cause of your amnesia is not from blunt force trauma or a deteriorationin the hippocampus, but another source that I feel is best not to disclose atthis time. I’ve consulted another doctor with your case and he assures me thatthere is a solution that will fully restore your memories, it will just take afew days to take effect.”

“That sounds suspicious as heck, but I guess I’ll take your wordfor it, Doc. You seem like you know what you’re talking about.”

“I do. That’s why you hired me,” Helen says simply. That’s news toTony. He thinks about his response for a moment.

“And the other doctor. I hired them, too?”

“Dr. Strange is a... colleague of yours. He wanted to help.” Tonyraises an eyebrow, a retort on the tip of his tongue, but Cho keeps speaking. “Wouldyou like to see your family now, Tony?”

Tony freezes. He... he has a family? Are they worried about him? Dothey know he has amnesia... that he can’t remember them?

What if they get mad that he can’t remember them?

His mouth is suddenly dry. He swallows hard.

“Do they know?” He whispers.

“I’ll warn them before they come in,” Helen assures him. When Tonycontinues to stare at the door with wide eyes, she adds, “They’re very worriedabout you, Tony. They’d like to see you.”

“Right. Ok. Umm... bring them in, I guess.”

Helen leaves. Tony tugs at the blanket over his lap, his stomachfluttering with nerves as he waits for someone else to show up. He has no ideawho to expect.

Does he have a spouse? Are his parents alive? Siblings, maybe? Noneof those feel right, but does that mean anything?

The door opens again and Tony’s jaw drops a little bit.

The woman walking toward him is easily the most beautiful personhe has ever seen. Her long strawberry blonde hair falls over her shoulders, herblue eyes wide as she hurries over to him.

“Tony,” she murmurs, sitting on the edge of his bed. She puts onehand on the side of his face, worrying at her bottom lip with her teeth.

“Umm,” he breathes intelligently. “Hey.”

The woman smiles a bit, her eyes filling with tears. The sightmakes something in Tony’s gut clench, icy dread shooting through his veins.

He sits up a bit, presses his hand over hers.

“Don’t cry,” he says without thinking. “Please don’t cry.”

Her face softens. She rubs her thumb along Tony’s cheek.

“Hi, Tony,” she whispers. “I’m Pepper.”

“Pepper,” he repeats quietly, hoping that it will feel familiar inhis mouth. It doesn’t. “That’s a nice name,” he offers, smiling a little.

Pepper laughs, a soft exhale of breath. Tony likes the way hernose scrunches up when she does it.

“Thank you.” They sit for another moment, hands still overlapping.Tony looks at her intently, hoping that if he looks hard enough he’ll remember something about her.

Finally, he has to ask. “And you’re my...?”

Her smile is a little sadder this time. “I’m your fiancée.”

Tony gapes at her for a second. “Holy crap.”

Pepper laughs again, an actual laugh that makes Tony smile justfrom hearing it.

His breath catches in his throat when she leans forward and kisseshis cheek. His heartbeat pounds in his ears, his stomach swarming with butterflies.

“Even with amnesia, you’re still my Tony,” Pepper says like it’sthe greatest compliment in the world.

He smiles at her, a dopey grin that makes her laugh again. It’sofficially his new goal in life to make her laugh as much as possible.

Although he wants her to stay, after a few minutes, he can’t helpbut wonder if there’s anyone else out in the hall, anxiously waiting for theirchance to talk to him.

“Is... Dr. Cho said ‘they,’” Tony starts out haltingly. “Arethere... more people?”

“Of course,” Pepper assures him. “I’ll go get him.”

Without any explanation as to who ‘him’ is, Pepper kisses hischeek one more time and leaves. He watches her go, his nerves mounting again. Hehalf hopes she’ll come back with the next person. Her presence is starting tofeel familiar and comforting—like his body is remembering her before his brainis.

To Tony’s surprise, the next person that walks in is a kid.

He’s scrawny and a little short, and could be anywhere between thirteenand sixteen. His brown hair curls over his ears, his forehead.

When he saw Pepper for the first time, she had felt like a totalstranger. But as soon as he sees the kid, something in him seems to perk up, avoice in his head repeating I know him. Iknow him. How do I know him?

Tony sits up in his bed, watching the boy with furrowed eyebrows.Why does this kid seem so familiar?

And then their eyes meet.

The boy’s eyes are a warm brown. Tony doesn’t know how he knows, butimmediately he thinks ‘just like mine.’

Tony’s heart skips a beat. His breath catches in his lungs.

Oh mygosh.

That’s myson.

The thought comes with the quiet certainty of fact. And then there’sa rush of emotion so intense Tony is dizzy with it. A sense of awe fills him atthe thought that this living, breathing person is Tony’s kid, and with it an innate need to protect him from anythingthat could possibly hurt him.

The boy stops at the foot of the bed. Tony can see now that hiseyes are red from crying, and it feels like being punched in the stomach, animmediate cry of fix it resounding inTony’s mind.

“Come here,” Tony says, numbly patting the bed where Pepper hadsat before. The kid hesitantly settles himself next to Tony, their legsbrushing through the thin blanket.

Tony swallows hard, tries to take in everything about his son’sface. He’s beautiful, really, and he knows most fathers say that about theirnewborns, but this is Tony’s first time meeting his kid and he’s shaking andscared and already so completely in love with this kid that he doesn’t even know.

He raises a hand to the boy’s cheek, just like Pepper had done tohim. His eyebrows beetle as he looks at Tony, an almost pleading expression onhis face.

“What’s your name?” Tony whispers, hating himself for having toask.

Tony can almost hear the sob his son chokes back.

“Peter.”

Peter.

“I’m sorry, Peter.”

“What for?”

“For being such a terrible father that I forgot my own son,” Tonyexplains.

To his surprise, Peter freezes. Maybe he had hoped that Tony hadn’ttruly forgotten him, had still remembered who he was even if he couldn’tremember his name, only to be disappointed.

Tony almost apologizes again, but Peter stops him by slumpingforward and hugging Tony around the middle.

“It’s not your fault,” Peter assures him, his voice breaking.

Tony wraps his arms around Peter’s shoulders, buries his nose inthe kid’s hair. It’s comforting, if not familiar, and Tony is content to sitthere for a long time.

Pepper comes back with Dr. Cho and two other men who introducethemselves as Rhodey and Happy. Tony makes a face at their weird names and theyboth laugh. Peter is still tucked into his side and Tony is happy to keep himthere, combing fingers through his curly hair. He wonders for the first timewho Peter’s mom is. She must have curly hair just like Peter’s, he thinks.

To his surprise, Cho says that he’s free to leave. He’s even moresurprised to learn that this isn’t actually a hospital at all, but a medbay ina tower that he owns and lives in.

“Am I rich?” he asks at that, and everyone laughs so hard theycry, which Tony doesn’t understand at all.

Pepper and Peter lead him to the elevator after he’s changed outof the hospital gown.

“FRIDAY, take us to the penthouse,” Pepper asks politely.

“Of course, Miss Potts,” a woman’s voice answers. Tony jumps andlooks at the ceiling where the voice came from.

“That’s your AI, FRIDAY. You made her,” Peter explains.

“An AI?” Tony asks, his eyes alight in curiosity. “And she runsthe tower?”

“And a load of other things.”

“That’s amazing,” Tony says, grinning. Peter and Pepper both smileback at him.

“Wait until I show you your lab,” Peter promises.

The day speeds by to Tony. After Peter shows him around the lab,which had Tony feeling like a kid in a candy store, they mess around for acouple hours, Peter’s jaw drops and his eyes go huge as he realizes something.

“What?” Tony asks, self-conscious. As fun as the day has been, Tony’samnesia is a stumbling block in most of their conversations, a handicap theyhave to work around.

“You’ve never seen Star Wars,”Peter gasps.

“Umm... no,” Tony agrees, because he definitely doesn’t rememberever seeing it.

Peter grabs his wrist and doesn’t even wait for Tony to put histools down before starting to drag him from the room. “Come on. The only thingbetter than watching Star Wars forthe first time is watching someonewatch it for the first time.”

“That good, huh?” Tony asks, laughing, letting his kid tow himalong.

Peter stops dead and stares at him. “They’re the best movies inthe world.” Then he keeps pulling him along.

And so he spends the evening sprawled on the couch with Peter andPepper, eating pizza and watching Star Wars and Tony thinks maybe he doesn’tneed his memories back if this can be his life from now on.

When Darth Vader reveals himself to be Luke’s father, Tony isappropriately shocked.

“He just cut off his son’shand?” Tony asks, outraged. Peter nods against his shoulder, seeming pleasedwith Tony’s reaction. Tony uses a finger to tip Peter’s chin back so they’relooking at each other.

“I promise, even if I go dark side, I will never cut off yourhand, ok, baby?” Tony tells Peter in faux-seriousness.

“Good to know,” Peter laughs, tucking himself closer to Tony’sside. Pepper, on his other side, is watching them, and when Tony looks over ather she doesn’t clear the confusion off her face quite fast enough.

He wonders if maybe he and Peter don’t usually act like this, ifmaybe Peter is just relieved that he’s ok and is humoring his more tactiletendencies.

He thinks maybe he should be more concerned about the fact that hecan’t remember the previous years of his life, but there’s something... freeingabout it. He can just exist, in this moment, with his fiancée and his son, withno recollection of any past tension or grief or worries.

He isn’t sure why, but he has the terrible suspicion that a lot ofhis memories are not good ones.

That night he dreams of monsters and flying and fathomless spacespread out before him. Someone is screaming, and it’s him and Pepper and Peterall at the same time.

He wakes breathless, the void of his past a welcome reprieve.

The thing he finds weird, he decides as he wanders around thepenthouse the next day while Peter’s still asleep and Pepper’s at meetings, isthat there are no pictures of Peter as a child.

There are plenty of recent pictures, where Peter looks the same ashe does now, and Tony’s in many of them, but if the kid was his son, wouldn’the have baby pictures around? The kid with a trophy of some kind, a Christmas,a birthday?

Maybe they were estranged for a long time?

The thought that Tony could have had a son and not been allowednear him makes him sick.

There are no pictures of anyone that could be his parents either. Hegets a sinking feeling he knows why.

He almost asks FRIDAY, which is still the coolest thing he’s everheard of, but he doesn’t. He has a hard time admitting to himself it’s becausehe doesn’t want to know.

When Peter is finally up and dressed, he comes to Tony with a grinon his face.

“I have a surprise for you,” Peter says.

“Kid, I have no memories, everything is a surprise.”

Peter laughs and takes Tony by the wrist, leading him to theelevator. They go down past the labs, but stop before the Medbay. Tony waitsfor the doors to open with baited breath.

The room Peter leads him into covers the entire floor, and islined on every wall with gleaming metal statues in shades of red and gold.

“Woah,” Tony breathes, stepping out and turning slowly so he cansee more. “What are these?”

“These are your babies,” Peter says simply.

Tony arches an eyebrow at him. “You’re my baby. These are...awesome.”

Peter rolls his eyes, but he seems to be blushing a little, whichTony again finds odd. He was just stating a fact, what was there to beembarrassed about?

“You know what I meant,” Peter says.

“I... I made these?” Tonyasks. Peter had told him that he’s a world-class genius and a mechanic, but it’shard to believe when he has no memories of being either of those things.

“Every one.” Peter sounds proud, and Tony preens a little internally.His son is proud of him. It’s a good feeling.

“What are they for?”

“Brace yourself,” Peter warns, smiling. Tony waits. “Along withbeing a genius and a billionaire, you’re also a superhero. Called Iron Man.These are your suits.”

Tony looks again at the suits, walking slowly around the room andtaking in each one.

“I... I’m a superhero?”

“You’ve saved the world a few times,” Peter admits, tipping hishead against Tony’s shoulder as they stand together, looking at a clunkiermodel of the suit. The plaque under it reads “Mark III.”

“Wow,” Tony breathes. And then he notices the one suit differentfrom all the rest—instead of a robotic suit of armor, it’s more form-fitting,metallic red and blue with a spider emblem on its chest. He walks toward it. “Isthis mine, too?” He asks, confused.

“No, that’s actually... that one’s mine,” Peter tells him. “I’m asuperhero, too.”

Tony whips around to look at Peter. “I let you fightsupervillains?” he asks, suddenly appalled at his own parenting.

Peter shrugs. “You tried to stop me. It didn’t work. So now youprotect me, instead. You made this for me.”

“Are you... is it just the suit? Like me? Or do you...?” He doesn’treally know how to ask his kid if he has superpowers, so he trails offawkwardly. Luckily, Peter gets what he was trying to say.

“Want to find out?” he asks, grinning slyly.

If Pepper were home she definitely would have stopped them. But turnsout Tony’s decision making is very easily swayed when Peter’s enthusiastic andexcitable, and before he knows it, he’s suited up in one of the Iron Man suits,Peter’s in his Spider-Man suit, and they’re both exiting the tower from thebalcony on the 98th floor.

Tony nearly falls to his death the second he takes off, but FRIDAYhelps, and Peter gives him pointers as he swings along next to him, and soon he’sflying like it’s second nature. And maybe it is, to him, buried in his muscles,so deep that even amnesia can’t make him forget it.

He and Peter explore New York from the air, laughing and whoopingas they go, and Peter shows him what he can do: the strength, the wall-climbing,all of it. Finally, breathless, they both sit on the edge of the roof of askyscraper, their feet dangling hundreds of feet above the pavement.

Gosh, how could he ever forget this?This life, this amazing family, this job.

Or maybe his life wasn’t actually like this. Maybe he didn’t spendhis days flying around the greatest city in the world with his son at his side,happy and carefree. But the possibility of it is there now—he’s gotten a tasteof it and wants more. Even when Dr. Cho’s miraculous solution comes through, hecan’t imagine he’ll ever choose to go back to what he was before.

Peter’s rambling next to him, talking about a time when the two ofthem had stopped a bank robbery together. He sounds a little wistful. For thefirst time, Tony feels guilty about not remembering.

“This must be hard for you,” Tony says when Peter pauses.

Peter looks at him. He’s taken off his mask, figuring they’re sohigh up no one can see his face. He shrugs, bouncing his heels against theconcrete below him.

“I... I know I don’t... know you super well right now. I can’tremember when your birthday is, or your favorite food, or what you like to do.”

He stops and takes a breath, before reaching out and turning Peter’sface toward him. The kid’s eyes are wide, and there’s something sad about themthat makes Tony’s heart break.

“But I know I love you. I just look at you and there’s this weightin my chest and I just know that Ilove you so much.”

To his dismay, Peter’s eyes fill with tears.

“Oh, jeez,” Tony says, hastily moving to wipe the tears away asthey fall. “Do I not tell you that enough or something, Pete?”

“No, no, I just... I love you, Dad,” Peter whispers, and there’ssomething in his voice that Tony doesn’t understand, something guilty and sadand afraid.

“I-I’ll get my memories back soon,” he promises, hoping that willfix it.

“I know,” Peter says. He smiles sadly, than yanks on his mask andstands, leaping without hesitation off the building. Confused and a little hurt,Tony follows.

As they make their way home, all Tony can think about is how Peter’svoice broke when he called him Dad.

In his dream, Tony is holding Peter in his arms, cradled to hischest, looking down at his son’s face.

Peter’s crying. Tony’s crying, too.

He watches his son slowly turn to dust, and at the same rate, hisheart shatters into pieces.

The fragments coat his hands.

Tony wakes up and can’t breathe.

Whatever sick joke his imagination was playing on him, he wasn’thaving it. He stood from his bed and tiptoed down the hall. With a little helpfrom FRIDAY, he found Peter’s room and slipped inside.

He could hear the kid breathing and was instantly soothed as if itwere a lullaby.

Did Tony sing lullabies to Peter when he was a baby? He wonderswhat his favorites were, which ones Peter would babble to, which would calm himdown when he was crying.

Tony steps forward and crawls into his kid’s bed.

Peter stirs next to him, the shift in the mattress alerting him toTony’s presence. “M—Dad?” Peter asks groggily.

“Hi, baby. Sorry I woke you,” Tony whispers.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” Tony assures. The fear of the dream is behind him, the detailsslipping away. It wasn’t real, obviously. Peter’s here, warm and sleepy, andnot ash on his hands. “I had a weird dream, is all.”

Peter blinks himself into alertness. “What happened in it?”

“It doesn’t matter, it was just a dream.”

“Dr. Strange said to tell him if you access your memories in yourdreams. I need to know,” Peter insists, sitting up.

“Well, I know it wasn’t a memory, cause you died in this dream,alright? And clearly, you’re not dead, so not real,” Tony says, propped up onhis elbows.

Peter’s face goes pale, then he sighs. He lays back down, restinghis head on Tony’s chest and getting him to lay down in the process.

“You were holding me,” Peter says quietly. “And I started turningto dust in your arms.”

“How—” Tony starts, butPeter interrupts.

“That really happened. I... I died.”

“Oh my gosh,” Tonybreathes, horrified, wrapping his arms tight around his kid. He remembers thedream more vividly, all of a sudden, remembers the horrible red dirt and thepain in his chest and the absolute, desolate grief. “Oh my gosh.” There are tears in his eyes.

“It’s ok,” Peter whispers. He curls into Tony’s side like he wasmade to fit there. “You saved me.”

“My son. My son.” Tony holds Peter so close he can feel his heartbeating against his own chest. It’s the only thing that lets him sleep againthat night.

If his lifeis anything like his nightmares, he thinks before he falls asleep, he doesn’t want his memories back.

Apparently, the single memory is all Dr. Strange needs to bringthem all back. He explains, in a rather pompous way, that he’s a sorcerer whois going to retrieve Tony’s memories from where the other sorcerer who did thishid them.

That sounds like the most absurd thing in the world to Tony, buthe thinks about Peter yesterday on the roof, of Pepper that morning when she’dgone to kiss him and he’d stiffened in surprise and she’d turned away, tryingto hide her frown, and forces himself to sit still.

And just like that, his memories are back. It’s overwhelming atfirst, all the information pouring in like a computer rebooting. Then he’sjust... there.

He opens his eyes and sees Peter across the room and thinks, Oh, crap. Amnesia Tony was an idiot.

Now that he has his memories and knows that Peter is not, in fact,his son, he is absolutely mortified. And, judging by how much Peter’s avoidingeye contact, he’s not the only one.

Dr. Strange leaves in a spray of golden light and then Pepperlooks between the two of them and excuses herself and suddenly it’s just Tonyand Peter, not looking at each other.

Tony thinks he should be the adult here and speak first, but Peterbeats him to it.

“So, we’re all good now, right? I should probably go back home,May’s been wondering,” he rambles, already halfway out the door.

“Kid,” Tony calls. “Come on, we should, um... talk? About this?”

Peter’s shoulders slump. He seems to steel himself before he turnsaround and forces a smile. “It’s ok, Mr. Stark. I get it, you don’t need toexplain. Why else would a kid be hanging around, it was natural for you toassume...”

“Pete,” Tony tries to say, but Peter just plows over him.

“—And about what you said, it’s-it’s alright, I know it’s just causeyou thought I was-“

“Peter,” Tony saysloudly. There’s a beat.

“I’m sorry I called you ‘Dad,’” Peter whispers. Tony stopsbreathing for a moment. “It was selfish.”

“What do you mean?” Tony asks, his heart beating loud in his ears.

“I just wanted to see how it felt.” Peter’s voice is small,ashamed.

Oh, kid.

“Come here, Pete.” Peter doesn’t move. “Alright, I’ll come to you,”Tony says, and crosses the room until he can rest both hands on Peter’sshoulders so he can peer into his eyes.

“Kid, you have this all backwards. I didn’t love you because Ithought you were my son,” Tony murmurs. It’s strange how much easier it hadbeen to say when he had no memories of his father telling him he was weak, ofhis team leaving him beaten and bloody, of betrayal after heartbreak afterinjury. He tries to channel that Tony, the one that lived in the moment becausethere was no past to dwell on. He takes a breath and plunges on.

“I thought you were my son because I loved you. Because you walkedinto that room and I knew you, evenif I didn’t remember why.”

Peter’s expression cheers up marginally. “Really?”

“Yeah, buddy. Really. And I,” he hesitates for a second cause it’sfeelings and not necessary, but it’llmake Peter feel better. “I liked you calling me ‘Dad.’”

Peter gives him a watery smile. “I liked having a dad. For alittle while.”

Tony chucks him gently under the chin.

“You’ve always got me, kiddo.”

#Irondad and Spiderson #Tony Stark #Peter Parker #MCU #brotp: speaking of loyalty #my writing #fic #time for bed #I'm so tired I wrote the last part with my eyes closed so hope it isn't awful #Anonymous

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lesbianau · 6 years ago

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I'm a trans mtf gal majoring in LGBT/queer studies so I'd just like to add something! English isn't my first language rip so I apologize for my grammar. But there was so much misinformation being promoted yesterday and from what I could tell the op's of these posts were mostly cisgender? Which is so so uncomfortable. The idea of these messages from cis people on gender being cemented in this fandom as the acceptable way to talk about gender is a bit distressing. And from what I can(...)

tell from following you is that you’ve been very respectful about this topic from the posts you reblogged so overall I feel comfortable sharing this message with you. Since it seems like others who tried to do the same thing were met with hostility and anger. So to get to the point, I’d just like to say that from where I stand, with both academic and personal experience with this, er, discourse, is a few things. A lot of people have already said this and for whatever reason(…)

it’s been rejected. Which is bad! Let me make this clear: gender exists as a mental, emotional, and physical spectrum. It’s incredibly complex. A queer person’s experience with gender is their own to put into words. No one else can. This goes for gender identity and gender expression. The reason why it’s such a sensitive topic is because the idea of gender we know know comes from a misogynistic, homophobic, and transphobic society. When you assign gender- that is, categorize(…)

(I’m putting the rest under the cut, but this is a very interesting read i highly recommend)

anything at all as either feminine or masculine- you are by default perpetuating those standards. Pink is not feminine, blue is not masculine, sewing is not feminine, woodwork is not masculine, certain manners of speech or dress or walk or physical features- none of these things that are gendered. Society assigned them genders and decided to shape us around it. It is through this idea that queer people experience oppression, shame and violence. It is because of it. And as(…)

long as we continue to live in this society it’s an influence that we cannot escape. It shapes us, our perception and our beliefs on a subconscious level whether we like it or not. To change it would mean undoing centuries of social conditioning on a global scale. It just can’t be done. What we can only do is decide for ourselves our own feelings with gender, sexuality, etc. We weren’t born with the perks of falling into every societal standard demanded of us. As a result(…)

we are forced to examine our identities and try to make sense of what makes us feel a disconnect with the identity we’re told we must have. For some it’s a journey away from those societal standards entirely. For others it’s about finding a more comfortable spot within those norms. There is no invalid way of experiencing this. For gender specifically the experience is even more nuanced, confusing and delicate. This is because the further away one strays from gender norms(…)

specifically the greater the danger. There can be fatal consequences to simply existing as a trans individual. Both from violence and suicide. Because this is what our society perpetuates. So the second any of us project something born from discrimination and hatred onto anyone or anything other than ourselves, we are are honoring what it was meant to do. As a trans woman my experiences with masculinity have been very unpleasant and as such I’m very sensitive about conversations(…)

involving femininity and masculinity. For me womanhood is something I associate with femininity and I can’t break free from my feelings about it. However not all women feel this way. There are masculine women who are joyous in their womanhood and they are valid in their experience. It does not and would never affect my experience nor would mine affect theirs. Unless I came up to her and told her women can only be feminine or she came up to me and congratulated me on(…)

being a feminine man because we would both cause each other a lot of pain. Even if she meant to be nice to me I would be experiencing depression for weeks even though she meant no harm and even if she apologized to me right after. Another example is if someone told me they loved how feminine my demeanor despite having no hips I would probably burst into tears right there! I can’t help but have a very traditional view of gender in regards to my own identity. I’m a feminine woman(…)

who thinks everything I am and do is feminine. But because I can’t afford to transition I feel that I have to be more loyal to societal norms of gender in hopes I can be more passing. I see a feminine woman when I look in the mirror without makeup or my wig. But the world doesn’t see that. I go to sleep a masculine cis man according to society. Hell, I’m a cis man crossdressing in a wig to my neighborhood Kroger when I groceries. Someone might say that to me as a complement(…)

but hearing things like that nearly drove me to suicide in my teens. I can’t think of a more clear example of the harm in societal gender norms. It is a one-sided word. I walk towards the handle and I am given security. I love being a girly girl and wearing pink and wearing padded bras and a wig because I feel feminine and when I feel feminine I feel like a woman. If I were to take all that sitting at the tip of my sword and walked right towards a trans man what do you(…)

think would happen? It’s a terrible thing! If I waved around my sword out in the open- gave my view of gender and interpreted the identity of gender according to my experiences- what do you think would happen? It’s dangerous! And what I see every day with Harry is a lot of sword waving. Yesterday it was an outright sword fighting! When people were saying what made Harry masculine and feminine the only thing they were doing was promoting every homophobic, mysogynistic and transphobic(…)

and traditional societal standard of gender. Harry’s feminine because of this, followed by a statement that is meant to contrast the previous one regarding why he is masculine because of something else. The excuse is that they’re appreciating how multidimensional he is. But what they do is very blatantly categorize these traits as paradoxical. That there is something about the things being mentioned that are different, complex and unharmonious. And(..)

in a way that is the most harmful they make the implication that this is something he means to be. Harry has made a connection with gender and himself and it’s very simple. Masculinity, femininity, womanhood and manhood. The context has always been lighthearded and it has always been consistent. There is ironically no complexity at all. By simply wearing a leopard print suit he became Shania Twain according to his friends. He thoughtlessly talks about being pregnant without(…)

commenting on his gender or biology. So I find it strange that others try to make him out to be so deeply complex when he talks about himself so bluntly! The only way to speak on gender identity and gender expression is to take cues from the other person and stay true to respecting their identity. This is never seems something that’s given to Harry in the way people talk about him. It is the only way you can refer to someone’s gender identity ever. When he is taken apart(…)

and categorized into what is and is not comparable it directly opposes how he talks about himself. This isn’t something that doesn’t do his character justice or undermines what a complex and multifaceted human being he is. I’m a complex and multifaceted person and I only connect with one gender! I don’t like how this always used as an excuse or even something that comes into question. The only way to talk about gender and everything that falls into it is by mirroring(…)

the comments of the individual and those closest to them who are already doing the same. By not doing that you’re stepping into the minefield that is societal gender norms. It’s no wonder the people at the forefront of yesterday’s discourse were met with an entire onslought of outrage. This is how it will always be and honestly should be. People need to learn compassion and understanding and distance if they are trans or not. The great irony is the fight to establish(…)

Harry’s masculinity and the guilt that is demanded from those who don’t mention it the way they do. Not being masculine is one of the rare things Harry’s been very vocal about. Yesterday’s discussion should’ve never escalated the way it did. This is much bigger than fandom. Because what is shared is what you are being told is oksay by the person. If they compare themselves to women and use female pronouns then take cue. If they says they are not masculine then take cure. If(…)

the person shares with you a comment involving themselves within the gender spectrum then this is the only thing it’s okay to repeat. To speak generally is to place your view of gender onto a queer person who will always be listening and who will always disagree. Reading through some of the things from yesterday broke my heart in two. I don’t ever want to see such reckless comments on gender in a fandom full of so many queer people ever again. Wasn’t the outrage and pain obvious enough? I(…)

just can’t believe it could happen when the person they were arguing about has, to me, been more than clear about how they are comfortable being spoken about in their relationship with gender. If my opinion is of any value to people then I hope they listen and make an effort to at least think about something I said in the giant essay I didn’t meant to send you initially rip I apologize for that Kaleigh! I didn’t mean to send as many messages as I must have after all these hours(…)

I couldn’t help but get this off my chest. At least a trans person has had a say in this in a way outside of yesterday’s debate and maybe people will be more understanding of what really went so wrong yesterday. Anyway thank you so much for giving me this space Kaleigh! I hope I worded myself well enough and didn’t accidentally miss the anon button 😭 Have a lovely day ❤💙💚💛💜

hello darling! thank you for sending this to me because while i know a lot of what was being discussed was making me uncomfortable, i also didn’t feel comfortable speaking on it because i didn’t feel educated enough to do so. i’m sorry people made you uncomfortable and you’re so strong for reaching out to educate people who happen to read this. gender/identity is so personal, and people trying to “disprove” certain aspects of someone’s expression just to fit their personal narrative is so horrible and in no way okay in an lgbtq+ space. i love you a lot and i really really appreciate these messages ❤️

#you're incredible and so valid honey!!#thank you for spending so much time on this!!#asks #anon

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