#and while ive got my gauge right

[bookshelf-dust]

the hurt is good

part i part ii part iii part iv part v part vi

billy hargrove x fem!reader

word count: 2,344

warnings: swearing, smoking, reader is lonely, descriptions of billy’s abuse, mentions of neil

a/n: hi! so i decided to challenge myself with this. i’m making this a multi-part story. i’ve never done anything like this before, but so far i’m enjoying it. i’m not entirely sure where we’re headed, but i’ve got a sort of outline in my head. i’ve also decided to try something else new, and i’ve picked out some songs that you can listen to before you read to get you in the mood—but only if you want of course. this is all a really new experience for me but i have put a lot of heart into this first part. i hope that you enjoy this, really i do. also the title is from a part of hop’s letter to el. <333

before you read, listen to: wheel in the sky by journey and/or (don’t fear) the reaper by blue oyster cult

————

Sitting cross-legged on your bed, you turn the page of the book in front of you, the sound of the paper flipping an audible one.

You lift the hardback, tuck your nose into the center of the pages and give it a sniff. It might be odd to do so, yes, but to you, books are the best smelling thing in the world.

You put it back down, go back to reading.

A knock breaks you out of your fantasy literature-induced stupor.

“Honey? Okay for me to come in?” Your mother’s voice, soft and sweet.

“Sure.” Your voice is quiet when you speak, though just loud enough for her to hear.

Your bedroom door opens enough for your mother to stand just inside, her back against the frame, one hand gently resting on the knob.

You reach for your bookmark, drape it over one side of the pages and then close it.

“Hey, kiddo.” Her smile is easy. You try your best to give her one of your own, but you know it falls short.

“Wendy and I are going out to dinner tonight and then to an art show.”

Wendy was your mother’s longtime best friend, and quite the riot.

“Apparently her new girlfriend is something of an artist.” She gives a suggestive wiggle of her eyebrows. “Do you think you’d like to tag along?”

You uncross your legs and stretch them out: contemplating. Then you do the same to your back, which makes an obscene crackling noise—enough to make the both of you grimace.

You know how you’ll feel if you go out with your mother and her friend.

You’ll be okay for the first little while, but then there will be too many people. You’ll get nervous. You will probably say something wrong and feel the need to shut down. You will shut down. Your hands will get shaky and you’ll get upset, and by the end of the night you’ll wish you hadn’t gone at all.

You know how you’ll feel if you stay home, too.

You’ll be fine, totally fine, having avoided everything you’d face in the other situation. But you’d be guilty. Guilty because you’re young and you won’t be going out to do whatever or making friends. You’ll feel like you’re failing your mom, who just wants you to experience things.

You decide that leaving your house shouldn’t require this much stress.

“No, I don’t think so,” you finally say. “But thank you for offering.”

You watch your mother as she moves further inside your room, settling on the edge of your bed.

“Are you sure?” She sets her hands on your knees, tapping her fingers, many a ring glinting in the overhead light of your room.

“We could get frozen yogurt. You know, I really think you’ve turned Wendy into a monster after we went last time. It’s all she talks about now.”

That gets a small smile out of you, but brings an ache to your chest.

“I’m sure. Don’t get too crazy, tonight, though. And be sure to let me know about her new partner.”

“Alright. Hug or no? What’s the affectionate meter at right now?”

“A hug is fine,” you say through a quiet laugh.

She wraps her arms carefully around your shoulders, allowing you to squeeze first, that way she can gauge what you need.

“I’ll leave some money out so you can order pizza, okay?” You nod. “Also there’s a pint of the ice cream you like in the freezer.”

“Okay. Thank you.”

“Anything for you, my little honeybee.” With a final pat of your knee and a wink sent in the direction of your book, your mother sweeps out of the room, and a little while later she is out the door.

Alone in the house, you let out an exhale, before heading to the kitchen.

Opening the designated take-out-menu-drawer, you scrounge for the one belonging to a local pizza place. You go ahead and order now, knowing that it might take awhile since the place is in downtown Hawkins.

You realize, setting the phone down, that you don’t know what to do with yourself once you’ve got the chance to do whatever you please.

You retrieve your book to read on the couch until your dinner arrives, not only for a change of scenery, but because you’ll need to be out in the living room to watch an episode of your favorite show in a while anyhow.

You’ve only sat momentarily when you hear it. Hear him. When you hear his music, specifically.

Billy Hargrove lives a few doors down from you, just close enough that you can always hear when he comes home, music blaring—not that differently from the volume you play it at when alone in your car—and doors slamming.

You don’t know him personally, only from school. Only as this pretty boy who’s been in Hawkins a few months.

You know enough that you hate the way people at school look at him. Like he’s an object. Like he’s this foreign being just because he came all the way from sunny California. The way they talk about him. About his ass, or his car, or his little redhead sister.

You know he’s pretty. You’d never deny that. But he’s just like the rest of you, and it bothers you that people treat him—at least from what you’ve seen—like this all-powerful dude.

But you also know enough that you think maybe he doesn’t have the best home life, just from what you’ve seen when you’re not out—which is always.

Sometimes you see him walking up and down the street at various times during the day. Or you hear his car speed off.

Sometimes, though really only sometimes, you see him trailing his sister while she skateboards, either talking or sitting while she goes.

To you, he seems like a loner.

And maybe it’s because you’re one too that you see him that way. That you can see him that way.

————

Outside, Billy cups his hand around his cigarette. It’s seemingly out of habit, since it’s not windy out. His thumb slides along the spark wheel of his lighter once, twice before the flame catches. The tip glows red in the night.

He walks a little further, as he inhales deeply, closing his eyes and soaking it in. He kicks a rock, hard, trying to see if it’ll hit the post of the mailbox a few feet ahead of him.

He watches a pizza delivery car ride by and pull into a driveway. He hasn’t made it very far on his walk. The walk he wouldn’t be taking because it’s pretty damn cold outside.

But Neil Hargrove wasn’t aware that Max Mayfield had joined the Hawkins AV Club, and when there was no Max at home, he took it out on Billy, telling him he was an irresponsible waste of space.

It took Susan getting home with her daughter and explaining the situation for Neil to calm down.

But Billy’s back was aching from where he’d been slammed up against a doorframe, and frankly he wanted nothing more than to get out of the house.

So here he was.

A porch light flicked on as if whoever was inside had been waiting on that pizza. You had been—sitting on the couch and listening for car sounds.

When the delivery guy rings the doorbell you appear, and Billy realizes he knows you. That he goes to school with you. You’re very quiet. He also thinks your very pretty, and he’s never noticed that before.

You look very comfortable; all of your clothes seem to be too big. With the way the yellow outside light hits you, it gives your face a multitude of shadows. Billy thinks about some of the greek statues he learned about in a history class back when he lived in California. About how artists tended to sculpt women with real bodies.

Shit, he thinks. He’s probably staring at you. But you really are very pretty.

On the stoop, you take the pizza and set it on the table just inside the door and then hand the guy his money.

You decide not to be a dick and make sure that he gets out okay. When he backs out, you catch a flash of red out of the corner of your eye.

You wouldn’t be able to see him if it weren’t for the street lights. Billy is looking at you. You smile at him, and to your surprise, he smiles back.

“You okay?” You ask, hoping that your voice carries to him, because you don’t feel like shouting.

You watch him shrug and take another drag of his cigarette. The fingers on his free hand fidget with the ring he’s wearing, and you pretend not to notice.

“You?” He questions in return. Something about the sound of his voice makes you feel warm inside.

You shrug back, and he lets out a breath of a laugh, before you turn around to go inside and he continues with his walk.

You kick the door shut and lock it behind you, thinking about Billy.

That is the most extensive conversation you’ve ever had with him, aside from one a few days after he started at Hawkins High, when he didn’t know where the auditorium was, so you walked him the whole way there. You were pretty sure he’d been embarrassed to have to ask for help, but you hadn’t been bothered at all.

In fact, that exchange outside was the most conversation you’d had with anyone outside of your mother in a while.

Most days you didn’t say a word at school, keeping to yourself, trying to get homework done any chance you could so that it didn’t actually become homework. Sometimes you had to speak with a teacher though, and of course you said thank you when someone held a door—but that was it.

Quite frankly you didn’t know what to think. Part of you hoped you’d see him again. That you’d make a friend.

You hadn’t had a friend in a very long time.

————

When your mother returns home, it is with many beans to spill.

Wendy’s new partner, who you found out was named Stephanie, was, in your mother’s words, “Hot enough to go gay for.”

Your mother had also undoubtedly had some to drink while out and about.

“Also that boy from down the street? Don’t you go to school with him?”

You start fussing with a string on your sleeve. “Yeah, why?”

“Well he was brooding on his porch when Wendy retrieved me, and he’s still wandering around outside. It’s been,” she checked her watch, “three hours.”

You scratch at your nose, thinking.

“I saw him when the pizza got here.”

Your mother hums. “Well, I’m going to go shower the art gallery off of me and then probably stay up too late reading.”

“Okay.”

She smiles sweetly at you, collecting the pile of rings and other jewelry that she’d taken off and set on the counter while talking to you, and then you’re alone again.

You flatten your body over the countertop, bending at the waist and stretching so that your fingers can grip the other side.

You think about Billy out there. He was obviously going through something. And maybe it isn’t any of your business, but you hate the idea of him being alone, wallowing in self-pity. Not that you have any room to talk.

You straighten, walking carefully so as to not allow your socked feet to slip along the floor, and find yourself reaching for your coat.

Shoving your feet into a pair of shoes, you flip on the porch light once again, and make your way outside.

Across the street, Billy is resting against a low wall that has a mailbox set into it.

Looking both ways out of habit, you make your way towards him, stopping a few feet away. He looks up at you, both hands on the brick underneath him. There is a half-finished cigarette in one of his hands. You find yourself wondering how much he’d smoked since he’d been out here.

“Hi.”

“Hi.” He quirks a brow at you.

“You’ve been out here a long time, you know that?”

Billy glances at his watch. “Seems so.”

“Not cold?”

“‘M fucking freezing my ass off out here.”

You try and choose your words carefully, not wanting to push too hard. “Seems like you could solve that problem if you went inside.”

“Are you worried about me or something, Y/N?”

Trying not to think about the way your name sounded leaving his mouth, you admit to your crimes.

“Yeah, actually. You were out here earlier, and my mom said she saw you when she left and when she got home. I didn’t like the idea of you being alone.”

Something in Billy’s face softens. “Yeah?”

You exhale, your breath leaving a plume of air in front of you.

“Yeah.”

“Well then I guess I better get my ass inside, huh?”

You stuff your hands into your pockets and realize what you’ve got in there.

“Here.” You pull out a little hand warmer packet an hold it out to him.

Billy laughs. It’s a beautiful sound, you think. Charming and hearty. “Thanks.”

“Anytime.”

————

At school Monday, you make your way to the lunch table you’ve claimed, grass squishing under your feet.

You flip open your book, shove one leg under you.

It’s only been a little while of munching on grapes and forcing yourself to concentrate before you feel a weight drop onto the bench across from you, shifting the old table a little.

You look up. Billy Hargrove looks back.

He throws his bag on the worn wood, slaps a book of his own on top of that.

You’re confused at his appearance, and he seems to sense that.

“I didn’t like the idea of you being alone.”

You feel yourself heat up, and sit on one of your hands because you also feel like you could cry.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

————

please let me know if you liked this! feedback is always appreciated!! comments and reblogs mean more than you know. <33

[savnofilter]

His Spidey-Senses | h. sero

         College AU!Sero Hanta x [GN]Reader

CONTENT WARNING(S): sfw, light suggestive content, kithing 😙, tsundere!reader, sero may have hyper fixation on a certain Spiderman scene, established relationship.

COUNT: 2k words [10 mins].

READ MORE: part two [masterlist + student masterlist].

A/N: this originally was a collab with a dear friend i am no longer friends with. ive been wanting to write sero more often and thought this would be the perfect work to finish and do so. if you so happen to be on my blog, ily. the first para to the fourth ("lectures -> day.") were written by her with very light editing whilst the rest is mine. wish we couldve finished this together years ago. anyways, hope yall enjoy this as much as i did finishing it. i'll make this post look prettier when my pc starts working again. 🥺🫶🏽

Lectures droned on and for you, it was a total bore. What you would give to be in the hero studies track and not stuck in the general studies degree... Hell, you were starting to consider your quirk turning anything you touch into rubber as a consideration for a strong quirk. As the blood hero, Vlad King, continued on, your eyes wandered to the clock above the board, counting down the seconds before the bell could finally ring. And sure enough, in ten seconds you were already bolting through the door.

You made quick steps to the end of the hall in hopes you could hurry and get these papers settled for the up-and-coming agency visit. As you shuffled through the papers you didn’t notice one of the windows that opened, the air from outside blowing the papers out of your hand before you could even think about what happened. Your eyes watched in defeat as the papers left your grasp, your brain not processing what had just occurred before one so happened to hit you in the face.

Your papers!

You rushed to the window and looked around in absolute worry, eyes wildly searching for them before sighing deeply in despair. How were you supposed to get them now? That was your only chance to get them done finally and they were due by the end of the day.

“Shit, shit, shit…” You mutter under your breath angrily as your eyes quickly scan the area helplessly. You crouch down body finally out of shock to collect your things. Of course when you finally finish this assignment after being so busy lately something out of your control happens again. While collecting your things in defeat a male's voice calls out to you from the open window.

"Did 'ya drop these?"

You whip your head around and look at the source of the sound, a gush of relief washing over you as you look over at your hero. "Oh my god," You stand up and lean against the ledge, hands reaching out for the remaining papers of the stack. The black-haired male pulls his hand back as you reach out to him, his actions making your arms recoil in confusion. A wave of annoyance promptly follows.

"Sero, give me the papers."

"Nuh-uh," Your boyfriend does his signature grin and moves to hang upside down from his tape. "You gotta give me a kiss first."

You scoff and tilt your head with a deadpan look, staring at him as you try to gauge if he is being deadass or not. You look away from his smug and handsome face, glancing left and right to make sure no one else occupies the hallway at this time. You chuckle as you wordlessly lean forward to give him a kiss, his soft lips eagerly meeting yours.

You and Sero had decided to binge old Marvel movies over the weekend and it may have been your worst and best mistake yet. Right into the first entry of the night, your excited boyfriend, Sero, insists that you start with Spiderman. You two bickered for a while as you wanted to go in chronological order, but later you chose to comply with his request only because he seemed excited to see it. In your memory, the movie was pretty good so there wasn't much complaining, but it wasn't the overall movie that got him obsessed. It was the most iconic bit of the movie for fanatics that set a cultural reset in cinema and fandom:

The upside-down kiss.

At that moment as your head laid on his chest, your cheek could feel the thumping in his chest speed up as the scene progressed. Instinctually you peer up at your boyfriend and lean away to see his face better, a playful smirk on your face as you squeeze him.

"No way you're blushing!" You sit up and get a better look at him with the dim and cozy lighting accentuating his cute face.

Sero rolls his eyes and gives you a look that begs for understanding, his hand grabbing your forearm as a plea. "Of course I am! That kiss was totally unnecessary."

"Mm, you think so?" You tease, body leaning into his and your face only centimeters away from his this time. "So you'd never want to try that with me?" Prying, your free hand that rested on his chest slid its way up to the side of your boyfriend's neck. Your thumb presses lightly against his pulse enjoying the way he shifts at the pressure on his neck.

"That's not what I mean and I didn't say that." Sero responds lowly. You two look into each other's eyes before leaning in to press your lips against his in a heavy kiss.

That night you two certainly did upside-down kiss, not exactly portrayed from the movie but you can already guess what went down. Either way, he was totally enraptured by that scene and used almost every chance he could to have you two recreate it.

You thought his infatuation was cute (which you made the mistake of telling him). In some instances, they were certainly out of place and even managed to gain a bit of a crowd when he'd give you a peck. You were a shy person when it came to showing affection, the fact that you were relaxed enough to do it so easily in private was a milestone. What really took the cake was his public displays of affection, the ongoing lookers enjoying a little too much of your abashed reaction to his advances. The perfect thing about your boyfriend is that he knows when and where to tease you, though. Every kiss he gave you caused you to feel embarrassment mixed with overwhelming love. Even in the more public settings, it was done with so much rizz you couldn't help but feel like a blushing schoolgirl or better yet, MJ. You couldn't lie, the whole appeal was that in many ways Sero always acted and felt like your own superhero—never mind the fact he was training to actually be one. As much as you were a tsundere at heart, his cheesy gestures always seemed to win you over.

But you know what the best part about this is?

You two were on the same page for your couple's costume this Halloween.

"You're my hero, seriously. I think I would've had a breakdown if you didn't catch those." You look up at him as he switches around to be upright again and step back as you collect the papers, giving him room to enter the hallway. He understands your thought process and effortlessly enters the building, gracefully landing on his feet. He makes sure to close the window behind him to avoid another mishap from occurring.

Sero doesn't say anything as he watches you fix the papers in order at a small table, eyes soft in their observations. There was a never-leaving tension on your delicate features, shoulders hunched while your back was impossibly straight. He had known you for a while now and it was clear to him that you were too stressed.

He stares at you for a bit longer making you look up at him with light confusion written all over your face at his silence. "Baby, let me take you out. You look stressed as fuck."

Your furrowed brows, slight frown, and irritation immediately lessen at him calling it out. You sigh softly and shake your head as you go back to rearranging your papers. You didn't want to outright say no, but there's no way you could easily agree. You felt bad either way with how much he does for you.

"C'mon, I can tell with my Spidey senses that you totally need me to take you out."

"'Ro, you have that training all the way into the evening tonight. I can't ask that of you!"

"Oh but you can," He genuinely smiles as he pulls you in by your waist. What you didn't know about him was that when he's around you, he always feels energized. Even if he had a super jam-packed schedule for a whole week, an hour with you always brightens his mood. He was more than willing to spend the rest of his night with you if it meant making you feel better. It wasn't like he secretly felt like he was sacrificing on his part either, he would willingly drop everything just to be with you. He pulls you closer as he places both of his hands on your waist and pulls you close to his chest. "Relax."

He mutters against your lips as you wrap your hands around his shoulders, a full-on kiss finally happening for the day. You softly hum as he applies more passion to the kiss, his hands sliding up a bit to hold your back and you arch into him. Your lips move so easily against his that you totally forget where you even are. The only thing you can focus on is that his lips and hands felt so good on you.

Your body melts against his natural fluidity, your muscles and joints already so accustomed to the black-haired male. You could feel something start to poke against your tummy, the pressure already sending a jolt of arousal straight to your core. You softly whimper when he slips his tongue into your mouth, wanting nothing more but to be engulfed completely in his presence.

As you slip further into the kiss, an irritating thought runs across your mind for the second time during this encounter: your papers. You groan in annoyance as you force yourself to pull yourself away from your lover, a string of saliva connecting you two. You bring up your wrist to wipe it away although not fully committing to pulling away from him just yet.

"Ah shit," You try to collect yourself and lightly pant as you look up at him. It was a mixture of not wanting to go, a silent plea for more later. "I have to meet with my professor-"

"Tonight though right, babe?" He leans against the wall as he asks. You sigh and nod your head in acceptance.

"Tonight, I promise." You lean in and give his cheek a kiss before taking your papers and sending him a small wave. You step back and swivel on your heels, hastily returning on your journey to the aforementioned lecture room. You’re able to hide the giddy smile that reaches your lips as you already start to fantasize about your boyfriend, but he already knew you would start cheesing the moment you turned around.

You felt so incredibly lucky to have your very own hero grace your life like this.

    all rights reserved © do NOT steal, alter or copy this work.

[paper-mario-wiki]

I don't know if you've talked about this elsewhere already but was the break from streaming intentional and/or are you planning on returning to streaming some time in the foreseeable future? no pressure, I just miss your silly antics :o)

felt very burnt out from being someone who people are always lookin at all the time mostly! (and also a lot more reasons)

got a new job that pays just as well as streaming (which is enough to pay for rent in seattle with roommates, buy food for myself, and sometimes buy yet another japanese gamecube via online auction), and have been enjoying the feeling of not relying on anonymous teenagers and young adults who are just as poor as me on the internet for my income. It's something i was extremely grateful for, but it's not only a very infirm way to generate revenue on a reliable basis, but also i always felt an ever-present sense of guilt for it. like, instilling within other people who i know are in my tax bracket (one that is below the poverty line) the idea of "hey if you dont tip me for doing this free service, the quality of which is damningly subjective, I will be homeless. but no pressure haha" is something that i was never able to shake.

also like. performing is quite draining for me! the way i portray myself in my streams is EXTREMELY extroverted while, in my personal life, i prefer to spend 8 to 14 of my waking hours every day by myself in my room with my dog. i like the quiet, and i feel at peace most when i am not being perceived by other people.

lastly, i really dislike having inordinate levels of social power. for a several reasons. like, SEVERAL reasons. this is the longest section of this post.

8 years ago, i got way more famous than any 16 year old should ever be when i got tens of thousands of followers overnight for doing undertale shit. and i think it really fucked up my ability to make friends at a time where my only experience meeting new people was at school or at church, and i lived far enough out in the woods that i couldnt just go outside and hang out with the neighbors cuz the neighbors lived a mile away. my socializing skills in general are way more stilted than i'd prefer for someone my age. in private settings ive got my foot in my mouth a lot. and sometimes in public settings too! im sure if youve seen streams ive been on, youve seen plenty of "chase you really shouldnt have said that" moments. and youre probably right, i probably shouldnt have! my moment-to-moment gauge for what i should and shouldnt say is very slow to catch up cuz ive got like. advanced mental illnesses. like, im not joking when i say ive been formally diagnosed several times over by different doctors with shit ive never heard anybody ever talk about, online or otherwise.

i dont think that's an excuse to say heinous or cruel things by any means of course, but i also think that i should not rely on a job where there's constantly a microphone in my hand and an audience listening intently to what i say. im not at all pulling the "its okay that i say mean things because im mentawy iww" card. as a matter of fact i think it's not okay that i say them! and i feel very embarrassed when i do! the filter that separates "normal healthy thoughts" and "intrusive unhealthy thoughts" is thinner and more flimsy in my brain than in others.

ive only gotten this far because i surround myself with very smart, patient, and kind people, and by trying to be understanding and patient with others too. and ive begun apologizing to people a lot more. i dont like it when people are mad at me, and i dont like that for a long time i had professionally painted myself into a corner where im typically always the "heel" in comedy settings, because the "heel" is the guy everyone shits on all the time. i got this reputation not because i actively enjoy being mean, but because i learned to adapt to the aforementioned "clinically unreliable intrusive thoughts filter" by realizing i would say things that came across as mean, and in real time exaggerating that it into a character that people could shoot back at without feeling guilty while still having fun. theres nothing that ruins a good time quite like someone who is constantly apologizing for doing something wrong, and then continuing to do that wrong thing anyway. dont misunderstand, i absolutely adore dunking on weenies when everyone can get a good laugh out of it (like tumblr anons, who i think should be classified as prokariyotic invertebrates and not people (no offense)) but even though it's a joke it still feels very bad when that's expected of me when i walk into a room. because if i walk into a room, and everyone expects me to be an asshole, everyone is on the defensive before i say anything, and sometimes they take shots at me when im not trying to "play". even worse, if im a heel in a setting where it's expected of me and someone cant really keep up with "the bit" then that just means im being an asshole to someone who cant or doesnt have the energy to fight back. and not just any asshole, an asshole who has had nearly a decade of professional experience being a paid asshole.

if im being frank, i dont know if i'll come back in a full capacity. i might! im not ruling that out! and you'll probably still see me pop up in my friends streams, because i did LOVE what i did for a very long time! but after i took my "break" in december after being more stressed than ive ever been, and i knew it was no longer financially necessary for me to livestream, i had the thought "i will go back to streaming when i find within myself a desire to do so" and ya know what? i havent yet.

and DO NOT FUCKING BOTHER MY FRIENDS ABOUT THIS. if you post a fucking "hey have u heard what chase said" message in their chat or in their DMs or anything, im not joking when i say you are actively being the kind of person i changed my career to avoid! fuck you, for real! stop trying to interface with them to get some new piece of information or opinion about me you fucking weirdo! they'll talk about me if they want to, but going to someone who is doing their own thing and asking them to instead comment on someone else it is ALWAYS fucking annoying. if you want to think about me, do it by yourself! or ask me directly! or do it in the comment section of a video im in! or write a fanfiction about me and then throw it away!

but if ur not that kind of person then ur cool dont worry.

anywho! im sorry if this is a bummer to read. but that's the full skinny.

im still posting regularly on twitter (clown_depot)! and if i DO go live, either on my twitch channel or on a friend's stream, it will be posted there!

thanks for watching :^]

im not goin radio silent, im just gonna turn off the electric window that lets people see me for a while.

[havin-fun-imagining-twd]

He hasn't been himself

What -- we're still in S02E05 Chupacabra, and Daryl gets some stitches (courtesy of you), T-Dog teases you about calling that mangy hick so many pet-names, and you come face to face with your big brother Shane's descent into something that you're afraid of you don't recognize.

Relationships/ is there fluff? -- yes! found-family fluff and slowww-burn Daryl x Reader fluff

Perspective - 2nd you, 3rd Daryl at the end

When - right after Spell your last name, please. when Daryl is getting some medical attention after his very rough, hell of a day

Pronouns - neutral, y'all

TWs - some language, and light discussion of giving sutures (stitches), and Daryl's significant scarring (the result of child abuse) is mentioned

I always do my assigned reading, what chapters will help with context? XD -- all of them muahahahaha Start with souls stripped bare, then the Invisible, tugging strings Part 1 and Part 2, then of course Spell your last name, please.

is there a crappy screenshot of the mangy hick? -- yes, you'll be embarrassed on my behalf.

Masterlist -- Official One here, purely chronological one here :)

Have fun and happy reading!

You

Because Maggie and everyone else but Hershel and Rick are leaving the room, you use your uninjured side to take over maintaining pressure on Daryl's head wound.

That he wanted specifically you to stay made that strange, invisible string on your chest tug more. And that you had to curl your arm gently around him so you could press the rag down properly didn’t escape your notice. Neither was the way his hand just brushed against yours to take over for you.

While you’re waiting for the tugging string to give it a rest, Patricia mumbles to you that she’ll come back in to help clean Daryl’s head once Hershel gives the okay.

“Daryl, is this about what you found?” Rick asks.

“Hell yeah it is.”

More quietly, he wants to know “Would it be alright if Shane and Carol came in, too, or is it better if it’s just Shane?”

You think he means if what Daryl had to tell him was good or bad news regarding Sophia.

“You and Shane seem to be a package deal,” Daryl grunts in response.

“Like a BOGO sale,” is your unhelpful, dumb comment to yourself followed by a more helpful, “Oh snap, doc, his second bag is empty already,” when you see his IV fluids are drained again.

A blunt, “Remove it and bandage him,” answers that. “The wax for the needle point is in my kit.” Mr. Greene’s patience gauge is pointing to the E, that much is plain.

While you’re busy taking out the IV catheter (guess what!—this time you did the venipuncture and IV setup! You can do that now!) and pressing a gauze pad to the site, Rick lets your brother in.

Shane seems kinda terse when he hands over the search map and squats on the little ottoman.

Rick places the map on the bed in front of Daryl, then kneels down to face him.

Before anything is said, Mr. Greene points to the bloodied rag that Daryl is not pressing down like you’d directed. “Are you able to maintain firm, constant pressure, or will Rick have to assist you?”

“I can hold a rag,” he responds back in that…unpleasant way he’s got.

You make a face at him. Rudeness is bad enough, but 1.) rudeness to the host, 2.) to the host who’s offering medical care, and 3.) whose horse he’d stolen borrowed without asking and now lost, and 4.) who is about to teach you stitching, and 5.) was using/had used a ton of his own stock of medical supplies? Who 6.) also just lost a man he considered family because of helping your group, like dude?

Daryl. Use a tablespoon of that gentleness you got in there.

Hershel looks at you, and you hope he sees the apology in your eyes.

“Y/N, if you’re going to observe,” he begins, pulling the towel off Daryl’s back and putting it aside. “Wash your hands again with me in the chlorhexidine solution and position yourself on this edge of the bed, there.”

It sucks that you’re all out of gloves. You’ll have to add that to the supply list, along with IV fluid if possible. Fortunately, there was enough chlorhexidine as well as iodine to sanitize, plus the leftover doxycycline but don’t get you started on how that’s unsafe antibiotic use, there’s only so much you can do.

Under his breath, Hershel explains, “We used the clamp and forceps during the boy’s emergency, but they aren’t sterilized. Stitches are best done with a clamp, but as you can see, it will be just our fingers today.”

Thankfully, you have clamps in the med-bag, you’ll donate one.

“Shane, in the med bag, there's a small bag with blue stripes, in it are two clamps,” you call over. “Grab one for me?”

“Swirl it in the solution first,” Mr. Greene requests. “Y/N, did you observe the two times you were stitched, and when Theodore had his?”

“Not the first time.” You shake your head. “But I did watch when Teddy got his, when you did Carl’s, and when Miss Patricia redid mine earlier.”

“She what?” your brother cuts in.

You idiot, Y/N.

“Y/N, what happened that you got stitched up again?”

You’d not told him on purpose. It’s not like you did anything wrong in not telling him, but you immediately feel overheated and guilty as if you had.

You reach out to accept the clamp from him. “Yeah, she checked them earlier,” you do your best to reply in a way that would imply it as being a routine course of action. That didn't count as a lie, right?

Mr. Greene to the rescue: “Y/N, watch what I do, then copy it on your own when I say. I’ll guide you along.” He holds up a small packet. “This is called a swaged needle. There's no eye, the thread is part of the needle. An ordinary straight needle can be used, likewise regular thread, in an emergency, but ideally a curved and swaged is best for obvious reasons. Cleanliness would be a concern, for one.” He opens the packet, points to Daryl’s side.

You sit where he asks and look at Daryl’s wound.

Hershel continues: “We’ll do a simple continuous stitch, the pattern is straightforward. If Daryl pops them, then I suppose you’ll learn how to do interrupted suturing. It’s time-consuming, but more secure.”

That your eyes travel down Daryl’s back again isn’t intentional, but there they get stuck, the same way your eyes had gotten stuck staring at it earlier when you’d helped remove his shirt.

The poor man.

What you thought you saw earlier, back at the house, was correct. Scars. Very big ones.

It looks like the tattoos he’s got on his upper back are partially to cover/distract from some of them on the more visible places up near his shoulders and neck.

A lot more money for a lot more ink would’ve been needed to try concealing the rest of what that person did, those scars were very thick and wide. And no, an accident would not have made such specific scarring, unfortunately, how those got there had to have been deliberate. Scattered all around were cigarette burns, too, some in patterns.

Statistically, it was probably a parent or parental figure.

Mr. Greene’s hand passes over your line of vision as he calls your name. You blink out of it, see his finger wag as if to say ‘don’t look at them anymore.’

After wiping your eyes with your forearm so as to not contaminate your hands, he points to the spot and nods once. “Daryl, I’m going to begin. It will pinch, then burn. Stay still.”

You cringe as the needle goes in. The invisible string tugs when you see Daryl’s breathing pattern hitch and his muscles clench in discomfort. Your stomach tells your eyes to look away when the skin tugs as the needle exits and the thread is lightly pulled.

“Then use the tool to gently bring it across like so,” Mr. Greene murmurs, “going slowly with the thread.” He does two more, then pauses. “Alright, now take over.”

Already?

“Rest in peace, bud,” you joke, whether to ease Daryl or yourself. It’s an insane blessing you have the doxycycline, is all you’re saying.

Slowly you thread the needle, as smoothly as you can. You use a low angle to pull it all through and gently hold the skin down to reduce how much it pulls…oh my gosh, you’re giving sutures right now. “You have my leave to cuss me out if it’s hurtin’ too bad.”

“Ain’t nothing.”

“There’s that phrase, dude,” you quietly tease, focused on closing the wound and Mr. Greene’s silent guidance.

Daryl must be doing okay (or is toughing it out like a champ), because he starts to talk to Rick. “Right around here is where I saw the doll, see where the creek bends there?”

“Was it on top of the ridge, or down by the creekbed?”

“Creekbed, right near a waterfall. Spotted it from up top.”

“Was there a little camp or any tracks?”

“None that I saw. My guess is she was thirsty, but got her feet stuck in the mud and needed both hands to get out. Or somethin’ made her run again.” He stops pressing the rags to his head to look at the bleeding for a quick second.

Shane speaks up. “You run into any walkers by that spot there?”

“Yeah.”

“How many.” Not really a question.

You lose your focus for a moment, hearing his tone and being disappointed and a little frightened by it, so you pause the suturing. Breathe slowly and bite your tongue.

“Why? They friends of yours?” Daryl tosses at him, completely unphased even if dickish. You’re on his side with this one. “They wouldn’t have been a problem if I wasn’t stuck on my back with a bolt stickin’ out of me.”

Shane raises his eyebrows as if to say “See? Told you,” then licks his teeth but doesn’t say anything other than: “Yeah, so I just wanna be realistic about this. Think we all do.”

“Daryl, I’m all ears,” jumps in Rick, ever the decent human being diplomat. “Can you tell us more?”

Mr. Greene taps you and directs you to get back to it.

Daryl tells Rick, “I’m thinkin’ the doll flowed downstream a ways after the rains yesterday, see the area closer to the road, there? I’d check around there.”

“I’ll take some people there tomorrow.”

“Not now?”

“Sun’s going down.”

Without looking up as you resume your work, you know Daryl will understand. His own words were 'Out in the dark’s no good.'

Rick then points to the map. “This spot here?”

Daryl hums in agreement and nods at wherever he’d showed him. “She must have dropped it crossin’ there somewhere.”

Rick looks back at your older brother and tells him “Cuts the grid almost in half,” as if it were a plea.

And just as you and Mr. Greene finish stitching him back up, Daryl grates in the most unattractive way possible, “Yeah, you’re welcome.”

Rick whips out his skill at de-escalation again. As poor Hershel has to quickly remind you to snip the suture from remaining thread in the packet (you legit forgot, so he does it for you), Rick turns the focus on the patient. “How’s he looking?”

“I had no idea we’d be going through the antibiotics so quickly.”

Fair enough.

Hershel then washes his hands again, so you do the same. “Any idea what happened to my horse?” he then states more than questions, in the way you might confront a teenager who left their dirty clothes on the kitchen floor after sports practice.

And God save him, that mangy hick has no shame. Caught red-handed, he still yips like a grumpy little coonhound, “Yeah, the one who almost killed me? If it’s smart, it left the country.”

You either just huffed, tutted, scoffed, groaned, or made all four at once. RIP invisible, tugging string.

Mr. Greene’s response implies his generosity, which makes you feel shame on Daryl’s behalf all the more. “We call that one Nelly. As in Nervous Nelly. I could have told you she’d throw you if you’d bothered to ask.”

Your friend says nothing back. He stays quiet, and simply twists onto his back and starts spacing out at the ceiling, pressing the rag to his head and looking as if he feels very small and very tired.

His eyes close—and you remember that he’s just been through hell and back. He almost died how many times today?

As annoyed and on-guard as he is, Mr. Greene was offering him due kindness and patience when he didn’t get overly short with him.

Still, the way the older gentleman next chides in the most graciously Southern way possible, “It’s a wonder you people have survived this long,” strikes you as having such dry comedic timing that now you’re the only one cracking up in a room full of uncomfortable people.

It doesn’t stay full of uncomfortable people for long; Shane and Rick see themselves out.

When the door opens, you spot Lori in her worried-position (on the floor with her knees curled toward her chest). As she leaps up from the floor to see Rick, you give her a little wave before the door is once more shut.

Quiet and stillness passes over the room. You breathe out. Breathe in.

Okay, it's probably just about time to clean up and bandage Daryl’s head.

You turn to see him still laying there on his back, eyes still closed. By the looks of it, he wanted to cover up; he’s pulled the side of the quilt over his stomach. You take the towel you’d used to give him some modesty earlier and gently drape it over his exposed abdomen.

But your big brother’s voice sounds through the door before you can do anything else.

The beginning of whatever he said, you don’t catch, but it doesn’t matter. You hear enough. “…Hershel on this one. Can’t keep goin’ out there, not after this.”

Rick is saying something back, but his voice is softer and you can’t make out as much of it. “Daryl” “risked,” and “first, hard evidence” gives you the gist, as does Shane’s response to him:

“That’s one way to look at it. Way I see it, Daryl almost died today for a doll.”

“Yeah, I know the way you see it.” Rick’s footsteps then fade down the hall.

On the other side of the door, your pulse thumps in your ears. Your breathing is faster than it should be.

Shaney still has that little girl written off?

“Y/N,” Mr Greene calls from the bedside.

Before you calm yourself down enough to turn to help Hershel, your brother starts talking again.

He’s whispering, but it’s still recognizable enough that you hear every word. “I’m not out to be a hard case, just bein’ realistic. He’s just gotta start making the tough calls.”

Shane's speaking to Lori, then?

His footsteps are moving down the hall, and you quietly open the door in time to hear him mutter, “You know I’m right.”

Door now open, your fist grips the knob and doesn’t let go.

“I may not agree with all his choices, but I respect him,” Lori states.

With all she's got going on, she shouldn’t have to deal with how much Shane has changed for the worse. In fact, in your gut you don't want your brother even near her, now that you know they’d been intimate. And that she’s pregnant…

You miss her first few words, but do hear “Your way isn’t harder, it’s…it’s the easiest thing in the world to cut our losses and to not help. You keep telling yourself you’re making the tough calls, you’re really just trying to justif—”

He cuts her off by mumbling, “—The only thing I care about now in this world is Y/N, you and Carl. So I, apologize if I appear to be insensitive to the needs of others, but see, I’ll do whatever it takes to keep the three of you safe.”

His words aren't a put-on, that's what alarms you. You know what smooth or schmoozy Shane sounds like; but that there was genuine.

Lori calmly shakes her head and walks toward him, placing her hand on his shoulder. “Even abandoning a lost child?” she prompts. “Really?”

She sounds like she expects Shane to snap out of it and think better on it. To remember his goodness.

But.

To the woman that his best friend since childhood married, and in the context of not caring about a missing, abused child, your brother instead tilts his head and offers Lori a small grin.

He’s…he just flirted with her.

Lori takes a step back.

Her back tightens, her head bows slightly. “My son and I are not your problem anymore. Or your excuse." She turns away. "As for Y/N, they’d be horrified to hear y—” she cuts off as you loose your grip on the doorknob, making noise, causing her to finally notice you standing there.

“You’re right, Lore, they would be,” you drawl, voice soft. “Sh-Shane, get out.”

Whatever he starts responding with, you don’t give a fuck, your softness vanishes as you growl back, “Get. Out.”

You link your good arm into Lori’s and take her down the hall to Carl’s room. She stops you from plowing through the door by holding you by the waist. You take a moment, turn toward her.

She looks you in the eyes and shakes her head, silently mouthing “Please.”

“I won’t,” you mouth back. Still, under your breath, you do stress “B-but he, he needs a leash. Rick can leash him.”

She looks into your eyes but says nothing back.

As soon as the door is open, your words charge out, “Ricky, Shane needs—

“—Mom! Y/N! Mr. Dixon found Sophia’s doll! The one Eliza gave her!” interrupts Carl, (crying and) grinning so wide that your cheeks are getting sore just looking at it.

You take in the room.

Carol and T-Dog are there along with Rick. Lori goes to her son, takes his hands and kisses them, Beth scoots in behind you holding three glasses of water.

Seeing your nephew helps you remember yourself, and you begin to smile back. Your lip wobbles. “He found her doll, little dude.”

Some tears decide to fall when you take a moment and lean against the wall.

Shane is scaring you.

You are frightened of your own brother.

And no, it's not just how he's been after Otis got killed, he hasn’t been himself. He’s scaring Lori, you saw it just now—and this is before he even knows about the new baby, oh my God how are you going to fix this? God, Shane doesn’t even care—doesn’t understand—that a clear sign of Sophia was found today.

And, and he doesn’t care about anyone else here, either, not even about Rick? “The only thing I care about in this world is Y/N, you and Carl.”

If that was really just him trying to flirt or whatever, you aren’t sure whether you’re more disgusted that he claimed to not care about jack-shit else to do it, or that he was saying something that awful not only to flirt but to flirt with a married woman. His best friend’s wife.

That you’re at Rick’s side and murmuring low, “Shane’s a problem,” doesn’t register in your head until he’s replying with what’s pretty much a platitude: “He’ll see reason.”

Even coming from Rick, it doesn’t comfort you.

“But how to we fix it?” you whisper. “Ricky, it’s like I can’t see him anymore. I’m gettin' scared of h—” you stop what you’re saying, a little alarmed that you just started to confess it out loud.

Rick is quiet.

“He hasn’t been himself,” he admits.

Lori’s whispering cuts in, “Honey, w-what are you two talking about?”

You figure she’s scared that you’re telling Rick more than is your business, so you subtly shake your head, then ask “Lore, have you noticed Shane ain’t been himself?”

The expression on her face is controlled. “He hasn’t been.” And she turns to sit back down beside her son and takes one of his hands into hers.

Rick rubs your arm a few times, and nothing else is spoken.

Whatever, you need to get back.

You’re supposed to be helping patch Daryl up, not hiding moping in here like some idiot bitch.

Cursing yourself that not only did you admit to being scared of your brother, but that you’re scared at the possibility he’s still in the hallway, you hold your injured side to lessen the pain when you bend down to peck a kiss on Carl’s forehead. “I’m headin’ off, baby, to help with Mr. Dixon,” you mumble in goodbye.

“Wait, Y/N.”

You turn back around to see Carl giving you his—sneaky grin? Why, what’s he about to rag you about? “Mr. Douglas told me you called Daryl ‘baby’ like a hundred times after he fainted.”

“That ain’t true,” T-Dog cuts in. “Y/N, I’m sorry, he’s mistaken.” He turns to Carl.

Wait up, T-Dog’s doing his pout thing he does before teasing somebo—

“First off, Y/N was at it before he even passed out.”

*sigh*

“And it wasn’t just ‘baby’, it was also ‘honey’, ‘sweetheart’ and ‘sugar.’ Oh yeah, and ‘mangy hick,’ gotta admit that one threw me.” He makes a particularly wide smile in your direction. “Can’t remember if they also called him ‘darlin’ or not, though.”

“However many times Y/N called him a sweet name, Mr. Dixon deserved every one and more,” Carol softly tells the room.

As for you, you must feel lighter, because now you’re smiling, too.

What's better, you’ve thought of a way you’ll feel safe comfortable if Shane’s still in the hallway (that won’t include taking Rick, because you’re pretty sure Lori needs him to feel safe comfortable right now).

“Theodore, will you walk me back to darlin’ baby sugar sweetheart Daryl’s room, please?”

“Walk you a whole six yards down the hall?”

“Please," you ask him more urgently than you'd intended.

He might could've noticed, because he quickly stands and goes to the door with you. "I'ma charge you for this, though."

"Naturally, how many of my jewels will it take?" you joke.

"You gotta call him 'mangy' again for me."

You snort so hard it makes your new stitches hurt. That's the easiest possible exchange he could've made. "Deal."

-------------------------

Him

When he heard from outside the door their soft, “Thank you, Teddy,” his muscles relax again.

He’d been worried. Last thing he knew, Shane must’ve been saying some bullshit, ’cause Y/N had dead-ass growled at him to “Get. Out.”

After two knocks, a pause, and a “Daryl, it’s me,” he realizes he’s gotta call back, “You’re good,” so they’d come in the room. Usually people knock and just bust in, it was real nice to have someone wait until he said it was cool.

He’s damn relieved they’re back and doing okay. Other than worried about whatever crap their brother was slinging around them, he’d felt…small, and, and naked without them in there. Now that they’re back, he feels safe, like he’s got clothes on again.

It’s the total opposite of earlier that morning, when he’d felt like Y/N had seen too much of him, and him too much of them. Didn’t feel like that no more.

“Well, you’re still lookin’ nice and mangy, so I guess I haven’t missed much,” his friend jokes, then shuts the door behind them.

Why did they just make a face to whoever was out in the hallway?

“Where’d Mr. Greene go?”

Daryl grunts, unsure.

Y/N sinks into the little footrest by the window. “We’ll get you some dinner in about an hour, okay, sugar?”

Another pet name, another weird feeling in his stomach and chest.

His friend stares out the window and massages their shoulder and neck. “Oh, are you thirsty?”

That he can answer. “The opposite.”

“Ah, let me help you get up—wait, maybe let’s wait for Patricia or the doc to get back, just in case. Can you hold it?”

He just grumbles back. Ain’t like he’s two years old, of course he can hold it. "What's the deal with your brother? Heard him mouthing off."

"Yeah. He, um, he ain't been himself." Y/N grimaces as if there was a bad taste in their mouth, then covers their face, sighs, and changes the subject. “Should we might call today ‘rough,’ or pick a different adjective?”

No idea. Today was…“Today was somethin’ else.”

“Whoa, we’re going hardcore.”

He starts to crack up, which is how he learns that now, laughing makes his head and side ache.

“Crackin' up hurt, didn’t it?” they guess correctly.

A grunt passes as his “yes.”

His friend breathes in slowly, out just as slow. “When you’re up and at ’em again, I’m taking you with me to go light all the candles at that little church to help thank the heavens you got home alive.”

…he feels all warm and can hear his pulse again, what gives? Like, it’s just that he’d imagined Y/N talking about his coming “home” safe, it’s just weird it’s coming up again in real life. Not a bad weird, but still.

“Well,” they scrunch their nose and stare into space, “‘home’ might be different than the usual definition, but you know what I mean. You got back alive to us after all that, it’s—I dunno, God’s got plans for you yet, dude.”

Hadn’t had a friend say stuff like that to him before, so he just lays there like a beanbag.

Y/N is still still staring into space. “And like, all afternoon I had this tense…dread, that you were hurt. Kept explainin' it away, with a quick prayer just in case.” A chuckle. “We’ll bring Carol and Sophia with us when we go light those candles, deal?” Then they give him a look he can’t translate. “Right-o, bud, let me see that side of yours, I wanna admire my handiwork.”

Standing up with a wince, they walk to him. When he begins to slowly twist back onto his side, they stop him and tell him to stay comfortable. His stomach gets all funny again when he partly pulls aside the towel covering his abdomen and his friend gets close.

Y/N starts to put their hip on the bed, then pauses. “Does it hurt you when the bed jostles, baby?”

His stomach goes all funny again. He’s, um, he’s hungry… “You’re good.”

And not a moment after sitting on the bed and exhaling does Y/N groan and start to jabber, “Oh, Moses, I just did it again, look how red you got. Tell me, did you feel redder when you knew how many of us were crowded around you like seagulls on french fry, or when I kept callin’ you pet names? T-Dog’s been poking fun at me for it.”

He…grunts again. It’s, um, he isn’t really sure what else to do, this isn’t a conversation he knows how to tackle. Hadn’t had a friend who called him a ton of pet-names while taking care of him after he’d pin-balled down a ridge twice and got a bolt lodged in his side and fought off two zombie bastards after dreaming up a conversation with Y/N and Merle.

Now Y/N is looking at him in the way they usually look at Glenn before they goof off together. “Wanna compare yours and mine right quick before they get back?”

Well, he hums this time instead of grunts, so that counts as conversation.

“Carl and I joked that we have temporary, sewn-in friendship bracelets. You’re in the club now, too, welcome!” They lift their shirt slowly, blocking the rest of their belly with their arm. Their stitches are up by their ribs aaaaaannd why are Daryl's goddamn cheeks feeling hot again?

“We both have white nylon thread. Carl got blue, though, real fancy,” Y/N says, cute smile on their face.

“He showed me his when I talked to him last night, actually.”

With a giggle, they nod. “Of course he did.”

The front door to the house opens, and the muffled voices of Dr. Farmer and Patricia sound outside the closed bedroom door.

Y/N looks back and forth from their stitches to his, then mumble to themself, “Miss Patricia definitely gave me a different stitch, check out the variations.”

Daryl couldn’t tell from the angle he was in, to be honest, but…“Yeah, mine are way better.”

Y/N deserves a compliment. And, dunno, he’s not an expert, but his side is probably sewed together nice. It’s not like it's still bleeding, right?

Y/N almost misses it. “Hey, the stitches Patricia gave me are grea—ohh.” Their face lights up, and they bop him on the arm. “Aww!”

Daryl feels the corners of his mouth raise. His shoulders relax.

Dr. Farmer Mr. Greene calls from the hall, “I’m opening the door,” and finally walks back in with Patricia.

---------------------------

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[devilfic]

❝small favor❞

IV. another white guy from new york.

parts: previously / next plot: it's uncanny, but it can't be. right? because that would be stupid. and spider-man isn't stupid. right? pairing: mcu!peter parker x gn!reader. cw: violence, guns, knives, blood mention, alcohol consumption, peter parker isn't beating the average white guy allegations, well. when he smiles like that he might. words: 6.7k.

You almost expect them to turn you away at the door when you hand over your badge, some paranoid part of you thinking they’ll take one look at you and know you don’t belong here, but the man at the check-in hands it back to you with a pleasant, “Enjoy your evening.”

That was half an hour ago, and Parker was nowhere in sight.

He was going to “meet you there” as Jameson promised, though without a clue what to look for, you found yourself aimlessly floating through perfume clouds of high society. You didn’t want to hit the bar this close to eight, but if you didn’t find an anchor quick, you’d vibrate right through the floor. Worst of all, you didn’t even have the guy’s number. What would you do if he was a no-show?

Your job, you suppose, sullen and already dreading the evening to come.

There’s no sign of Wilson Fisk either. In your usual setting, you might’ve already flagged down a guest or two to ask what they thought about the rumors, but your usual settings were messy, bloody, and out in the real world. Here, you had a list of questions to ask that didn’t even scratch your curiosity.

What’s your name? Are you excited to be here this evening? How does the Stark Charity Ball reflect the New York City you know and love? Were you attacked? Can you confirm Wilson Fisk was on the scene?

You hadn’t even made it to the fourth question before you’d given up. How would you last a night like this?

Slithering through the crowd, you make your way to the snack table with hopes to eat your way through the night. At least you could count on rich people to shell out on good cheese.

There’s a band playing in the corner, a gentle stringed melody that you appreciate over the chatter of the guests. You make your way over and let yourself get carried away in the tune, only glancing every so often at your watch to gauge the time. It was nine minutes to eight, nine minutes until Pepper Potts took the stage to start the night, and you still had no idea where your partner was.

It’s almost natural the way your hand finds your phone, swiping over the familiar contact name and pressing out a quick message.

The party can’t start without you.

Towering windows make up most of the ballroom, fading sunlight overpowering the chandeliers above, and you take advantage in hopes it might reveal your webbed friend hanging off the roof.

Almost immediately, you get a text back.

Aww, you really do like me :) No kidding. Are you already in place? Just about. Doing a quick perimeter check. You enjoying the party? I would be if my partner was here on time. Hey, cut Parker some slack! His train’s probably late and I don’t see any signs of Kingpin yet. I'm just glad you've stopped trying to fight me on this. If you can’t beat ‘em... And maybe look up every once in a while, you’re gonna run into somebody.

Just as your eyes scan the very last word, your senses go haywire. There’s cold liquid running down your hand and you've just run into something. When you finally tear your eyes away from your phone, you unfortunately realize that something is now wearing the remainder of your drink.

People nearby have formed a clearing around you, but it feels less out of courtesy and more to point and laugh at you. Regardless, you’ve got to fix this, “I am so sorry, I wasn’t looking where I was going. Are you okay?”

Your victim stands in a small puddle of sangria, the front of their tux dripping in it still, and you could see how red stains crawled up crisp white. You could only imagine how much every bit of their suit cost (and the Daily Bugle definitely didn’t have the budget to cover it).

They lift their copper head and you’re at first struck by the smile on their face, then the peppering of freckles across the bridge of their nose, and finally... their name.

He carefully removes his suit jacket to assess the damage to his shirt, “Nah, don’t worry. I was looking for a reason to leave early anyway.”

You’re breathless, certain you should be rushing to grab towels or begging him not to sue you into oblivion, but you don’t really get that far, “I’m... really sorry.”

He laughs, so genuine that you feel the tension in your shoulders deflate just at the sound. Just then, a waiter rushes over with a hand towel, insisting he lead him to the men’s room to clean up, but he’s waved off with little more than a “thank you” and “I’ll survive, I promise.”

He steps out of the puddle to allow someone to clean it up, bringing him that much closer to you. When he's done with the towel, he hands it off to you. His eyes trail to your chest and his eyes widen some, “The Daily Bugle. You a reporter?”

You realize he’s spotted your press badge and rush to introduce yourself, wiping absentmindedly at your sticky hand, “Uh... yes. Actually. Crime beat reporter.” You set your empty cup on a passing waiter’s tray and hold out your clean hand to shake.

His hand is warm, if not a little sticky like yours, though you have no grounds to complain, “Nice to meet you. I’m Harry.”

“Oh, I know.”

He quirks an eyebrow, still smiling, “Then... was that drink a calculated assault?”

“No! God, no. I genuinely wasn’t looking where I was going.”

“Not very safe for a crime beat reporter, don’t you think?”

You’ve got to be on fire. You feel like it, struggling between a laugh and a whine, “I’m sorry you had to be the one to teach me that lesson.”

“No worries. Like I said, you did me a favor.” Harry glances around, “So… you're reporting on what, exactly? You betting on a robbery or something?”

The humor of that isn't lost on you, “Actually, I’m filling in tonight. Our usual reporter definitely wouldn’t have ruined your nice shirt.”

“Oh, I don’t know. I find this stain rather charming.”

You can’t help it. You giggle and he smiles even wider, “May I ask why you want to escape so soon?”

“Not if you’re gonna write it down.”

“Off the record? In exchange for the stain.”

Harry Osborn has a boyish look to him even though he’s steadily approaching 26, some baby fat still clinging to his cheekbones when he smiles wide enough, “Well, this was my first stop since hopping off a nine hour flight from Oxford and I’m, as the English say, absolutely knackered. I was gonna leave in half an hour after photos but…” He laughs, casting a look over his shoulder at the stage, “I’ve made my donation. I won’t be missed.”

Perking up with an idea, you reach into your bag and pull out a recorder, “In that case, how about I get you down for a comment on your generous donation of…”

“Five million.”

You blink, swallowing hard, “Five million… to make up for it? I'll even throw in a few questions about your study at Oxford. I hear you're working on a revolutionary breakthrough with lab-grown bacteria that breaks down plastic.”

Harry's eyes light up. For a moment, the image of Harry Osborn is just Harry, “You sure Jameson would let you publish something nice about an Osborn?”

The Daily Bugle was no friend to Spider-Man, but neither was it a friend to Norman Osborn. You recall some of the more scalding headlines about Oscorp’s president that you’d published in the past. It was the one thing you and Jameson could agree on. “You know Jameson well?”

“Of course. I’ve got a buddy who works there too, actually. You might know him. His name’s-”

Harry’s voice is drowned out by the collective oohing and awing of the crowd when the lights dim, shrouding the grand ballroom in the fading glow of the sun. The stage, once empty, is now illuminated with the presence of Pepper Potts. Uproarious applause fills the room. Harry smiles politely at you. His buddy would be a conversation for later.

You want to focus on Pepper, you really do, but it’s like you’ve broken out of a spell the second Harry’s eyes leave yours, and you find yourself once again scanning the crowd for Parker. There was no good reason for him to be this late and you couldn’t even give him a piece of your mind about it.

You shoot off an indignant text to Peter.

Your guy better have been hit by a cyclist on the way here or he’s getting an earful when I see him. Pepper looks amazing :(

But no instant reply. In fact, three minutes pass and there’s nothing. You glance up to the windows for any sign of him watching and find none. Was... he here?

You glance at Harry. If Jillian were here, she’d punch you in the face for what you’re about to do, for the opportunity you're about to squander. Okay, maybe not a punch, but it’d be violent.

But then you’re thinking about Peter, about that night that changed everything, about his blood and bruises and the men with guns for hands. You think about how Peter worried for you. You think about Harry, who has just donated five million dollars to charity, and how there are over a hundred more of him packed in this ballroom right now. You think about Wilson Fisk, and how much havoc he could wreak if he put Spider-Man out for good.

And then you're elbowing yourself through the crowd, searching for the nearest emergency stairwell, hoping that if Peter’s still watching he might meet you halfway. Parker and those questions be damned. You'd find a way to make it up to Jameson somehow.

You’re about ten feet away from the nearest exit when someone takes a hold of your wrist, a few seconds away from the end of Pepper’s speech, and whoever is holding you back has a grip so iron it stings. You can’t clearly see the face of who’s grabbed you but it doesn’t feel familiar. Your heart jumps into your throat. Had Fisk's men infiltrated the room already? Had they gotten to Spidey? Did they know you? Were you next?

You’ve got no pocket knife on you, but you have a fist.

You curl your fingers inward and aim right for your captor’s head. Your fist makes contact with skin. The room erupts into thunderous applause. The lights go up.

You never actually land the punch, but your captor looks a little too wide-eyed to be one of Fisk’s men, too soft in the face. His own hand has completely stopped yours in its tracks, just a hair away from breaking his nose, and he’s staring at you like a deer in headlights. A big, brown doe-eyed deer. “Uh, hi,” your eyes flicker down to the camera hanging from his neck, almost blocking the badge beneath it that reads "P. B. Parker", and then you meet his eyes with the same bewilderment, “sorry I’m late.”

Parker is about average height with a build you can't quantify when his shirt is draping off him. It's a ridiculously huge plaid thing, the kind of thing someone would wear to hide themselves, but all he does is stand out in the sea of Armani and Givenchy. Old jeans, old shirt, high-tops, and a muddy-grey beanie to top it all off. It was a wonder they let him in the door at all.

What you can feel is the strength behind his hand as it holds your fist in place. Some people are looking—you realize, after the tremors of your punch reverberate back up your arm—and so you yank your hand back before any security can take notice.

Your partner waits a full second before holding out his own, offering a subtle, wobbly smile, "I would've been here sooner but... traffic, ya know?"

His voice is low, you notice this next. Practically a mumble. You kind of realize why your coworkers said you weren't missing much; outside of his awkward mannerisms and sweet, unassuming baby face, he looked like any other white guy from New York. He also seemed like he didn't want to be seen or heard, and you imagined that Jameson had no problem with that.

But his mumbling forces you to take notice of his lips so you can read them, and their thin, blushy quality is only marred by a little dryness. Broken by biting or... or something. "You're late." Is all you manage to say.

His lips part, turning downward, "Yeah, I know," he stutters, the pitch of his voice going up a hair, "I said- um, I caught the last half of Mrs. Potts’ speech." And then he turns his camera to you, flicking through images that are too small on the screen for you to assess the quality of. You actually have no doubt they're good, but you're upset he's late and you're certain there's nothing remarkable about this guy—nothing at all—and yet you can't stop staring.

"You know Spidey?" You blurt out next, and his eyes widen and zero in on you. You don't know why he's surprised. "He's mentioned me, hasn't he?"

Parker blinks, "Oh! Yeah. Yeah. All the time. You're very... good. At your job."

"Thank you. So are you."

And wouldn't you know it, he actually blushes. It's sweet and alarming how quickly red blooms across the apples of his cheeks, how his hands wobble around his camera a bit, how it disarms you for a moment. It'd be cute if you could just figure out what about him was throwing you off.

In fact, you're so enthralled in figuring out that something that you see his lips moving but just miss his question, barely hearing the tail-end of it. You watch his lips again as you ask him to repeat it, but the musicians have started up a jaunty tune with trumpets and high white keys, so you duck closer to him and ask him to repeat it once more.

"I asked-" And as you get closer, you have an excuse to look at him more deeply.

Your eyes follow the curve of his mouth to his chin (and all its little hairs that he hadn't caught shaving), down to his neck where you see, just peeking out beneath the lip of his beanie, a curl. You've abandoned his question now. You just feel, as strange as it is, that you need a closer look...

Your hand is moving before your mind can catch up with it, until it's caught in Parker's halfway to his throat. You're so close to him that you can see the way the skin of his chin rolls with the effort to lean away from you, or the honey speckles in his eyes that are all but eclipsed by his blown-wide pupils.

His fingers are latched around yours. He's not using the same strength he was before, doesn't need to, but you can sort of feel it beneath the callouses. Even then, it's so gentle. You don't know why you react with just as mush wonder. The world might as well be at half-speed. You almost wish him to speak again because you've got nothing to say for yourself here.

Parker looks on at you, still holding onto your hand. He smells... like the city.

"Do you-" He starts, chokes on his spit, and then swallows, "are you always this friendly when you're tipsy?"

You blanch. "What? I'm not-" You yank your hand back, cup it to your mouth and nose, and breathe in the sangria. Could he smell it on your breath? "I'm not tipsy. I barely even had a drink before I spilled it all over..."

You catch Parker's eye to find him looking interested. "Spilled it all over...?"

"Someone. Whatever. It was an accident."

"You spilled your drink on someone?"

"It was an accident."

"You know, I was feeling real bad about showing up late, but Jameson's gonna have a field day with this." You're mortified. He wasn't interested, he was amused. "Are we gonna get sued?"

"No!" Your voice draws the attention of a couple nearby, making you shrink even closer to Parker, "I told you it was an accident and I apologized. And you're still not off the hook for being late."

He folds his arms across his chest, smiles steadily this time, and agrees. The action is so unmistakable that it saps all the lightheartedness right out of you. Parker notices the change.

The only thing that breaks the moment is Harry Osborn finding you both.

Your head whips at the first "Peter!", thinking you'll see red and blue somewhere nearby, but Harry is gunning straight for Parker with the widest smile on his face. You break away just in time for him to envelop Parker in a big, friendly hug that would've knocked Parker off his feet if not for how solid he was. A few onlookers take in the scene, some amused, others not so much.

It takes you a moment to digest that Harry meant Parker, had called him Peter with such love and affection that there was no way he was mistaken, and Parker had returned the hug a beat later without correcting him.

There were probably a million Peters in New York alone. And yet...

They stay intertwined a minute longer, only breaking away so that Harry could hold... Peter's face in his hands. "Peter Parker! What the hell are you doing here?" Harry seems to remember you're there. He releases Peter and points to you, "So, you two know each other after all. Pete's the buddy at the Bugle I told you about. We've been best friends for years."

As if this Peter business wasn't enough for you to wrap your head around, you struggle to imagine these two being best friends. One of New York City's richest heirs and a contractor for the Daily Bugle. Your disbelief is evident as you ask, "How did you two meet...?"

"College. We went to ESU together. We were even roommates before I went off to Oxford." Harry smiles proudly, patting Peter on the back. It's then that you notice Peter is looking very, very uncomfortable. You wonder for a moment if this is all some elaborate joke Harry's playing, but it hadn't struck you as his type of humor.

This is, in fact, a man named Peter Parker. He works for the Daily Bugle, he's best friends with Harry Osborn, he works with Spider-Man, and they both share a name. Unremarkable Peter Parker. Nothing you were missing, they'd said.

Peter must see that you're focused hard on him, so he turns to Harry, "Yeah, Oxford. Why aren't you... there? Again?"

Harry laughs, unbothered, "Don't tell me you didn't miss me?"

"No, it's just... last I remember, your dad wanted you there until your project got approved."

The very mention of Norman Osborn kills the mood entirely. Harry's smile falls quick, though he tries to hide it, and shuffles a bit uncomfortably. "That was the deal. But you know dad: the world revolves around his every whim." Harry's eyes cut to you so fast that you tense up, recovering quickly. "Off the record."

Jillian would not accept that. You, on the other hand, swallow it down and tuck it away for another day, "Anything for a friend of a friend."

That gets Harry smiling again, however terse. The conversation quickly changes course as Harry pulls at the stained white of his shirt to show Peter, "Speaking of: you like? Our new mutual friend gave it to me."

Peter glances at you, chuckling with a nervous edge, and grabs at the fabric to examine for himself, "Something tells me you deserved it."

Harry immediately resorts to banter that Peter melts into. It was no doubt now that they were friends, that Peter's awkwardness had only been on account of you being here.

You can only smile and nod, smile and nod, while you watch Peter's every move. You couldn't say anything even though you were bursting, but now your heart was beginning to pound in your ears, making it hard for you to do what you were trying to pretend you weren't doing.

Spider-Man was smart. Beneath the quips, he was extremely smart. He wouldn't tell you his real name and then show up here as a civilian, so brazen, knowing that you'd instantly figure out it was him. That'd be too easy. He trusted you, sure, but he wasn't stupid. He'd been uncomfortable at the very thought of unmasking when you'd mentioned it last night. If Peter was... Peter, he wouldn't have come at all. Because that would be stupid.

And he wouldn't have bothered to pretend, up until the last second, that he wasn't Peter, if he was just going to flay himself before you like this. Because you would've figured it out eventually.

So, surely, there were a million Peters in New York and you happened to know two of them. And they knew each other. And one of them was a superhero. Of course.

You slip your phone out, checking your recent messages with your heart in your throat. If Peter wasn't Peter, he'd have texted you back by now. Because Peter—fuck—Spidey wouldn't miss a chance to make that joke.

There's one new message. You barely get to see what it says before broken glass sprays from above.

There’s a cacophony of sound all at once. Glass breaking, screaming amongst the crowd, and the sound of gunfire letting off into the ceiling. One minute, the room had been in peaceful bliss, and the next, a tidal wave of terrified guests were rushing at you.

You’re lucky that Peter’s arm is like iron, strong enough to rip you back and away from the crowd that converges on the exits, because if you had stayed in your spot for a second longer you would have been trampled underfoot. Like your phone, which is in pieces the second it slips out of your hand.

Harry is there too, huddled against the two of you in the corner, but that doesn’t stop you three from all being pressed upon by the panicking crowds. There’s no rhyme or reason, no order in the chaos. Beautiful clutches embedded with Swarovski crystals lay abandoned at your feet. Everyone in the room can see, whatever it might be, that their life is worth more than a single thing in this room. Even worth more than the lives of the other guests they shove to get out first.

You try your best to see over the heads of the swarm to get a glimpse of what had set the entire party off, and immediately two things are visible. One: Pepper Potts is center stage, the bright white stage lights beating down on her. If it weren’t for the sweat beading at her brow, you’d think her bored. The second thing was that there was a man standing beside her who wasn’t standing there before, a microphone in one hand and a gun in the other.

Even from all the way at the back of the room, you could see the gun trembling in his grip as the barrel kissed Pepper’s temple.

The next thing is his voice. It’s loud, feedback screeching off the walls so high that you think they might shatter the windows. The crowd is loud and he’s louder. You can hear him saying something about how everyone shouldn’t leave just yet, that they’d want to see this front row and not on the 10 o’clock news. You do not see Kingpin. This man is utterly alone.

Harry is shouting something at you, you can feel his breath and the spit that flies out in the hurry of his words, but you can barely make out what he’s saying over the guests. Peter clutches you both even closer.

“We… we have to…” You start, glancing up at the windows for any sign of Spider-Man, but you see nothing. Your eyes drop to Peter’s to find him already staring right at you. You’ve no idea what’s going through his head, and the adrenaline rushing behind your eyes makes it hard to speculate. You only know what you need to say, “…we need to find Spider-Man.”

“We need to leave!” Harry argues. He wriggles out of Peter’s grip and starts pulling you both toward the nearest exit, but he only makes progress with pulling you forward.

You were about to argue back until you felt Peter’s hand at the base of your spine, pushing you into Harry with ease and right toward one of the exit doors. You turn, clutching onto Harry as to not lose him in the crowd, only to find Peter isn’t following you. “You both need to get out of here.”

“Both? Wh- Peter! We’re not leaving without you!” Your attempt to grab at him is futile. He shrugs away from your touch, keeps pushing you and Harry through the stampede as if he really intended on staying behind. “Peter!”

He finally looks you in the eyes that second time, the desperation with which you’d said his name snapping him out of some dissociative spell, “I’ll be right behind you! I’m gonna help get people out. Some got trampled, I-I’ve got to-”

Harry is next to admonish him, “Pete, come on. This isn’t the time to play fucking hero!”

But Peter’s not listening again—eyes faraway, slipping over the crowd as if searching for something—he’s heading back into the fray, calling to you some half-hearted promise that he’d follow soon, and then his head disappears into the whirlwind of bodies. You were able to follow him up until the moment his hat got pulled off, and then… nothing.

The current pushes and pulls at you and Harry, dragging you down the hallway. You feel your ankle twist awkwardly and are thankful that Harry is still clinging to you because had he not been, you would’ve been dragged down and trampled for sure. He holds you upright, pressing you to his side, assuring you over the noise that you’d go back in to get Peter in a minute.

You think that Harry Osborn is much kinder than his father seemed to be, and that you really do owe him a good soundbite in the Bugle after this.

You feel a draft coming from outside, promising you were close to being free from the confines of the hallway. You grab Harry’s hands and peel them off of you, pushing him forward into the crowd without a second thought, just as you see the light of the city come up ahead. His head whips to you. He calls your name as he’s swept away, but you press yourself hard against the wall and let the crowd lead him out to safety.

The crawl back to the ballroom is awful.

There are fewer people escaping, thankfully, and so it’s less like an undertow, but there are so many people and all of them are perfectly fine with throwing their bodies forward with caution thrown to the wind.

It takes you longer than a minute to get back to the door you’d come out of, even longer to squeeze through with elbows hitting you square in the chest and heels digging into your feet.

The room is less than a third of what it had been when the gunman had arrived. You frantically search for Peter in the remaining, scattered crowd; people are frozen in awe, in horror. Some people in the crowd were begging the gunman to reconsider, and others were praying. Your heart sank. A woman was about to die and there was virtually nothing you could do.

You look up to the windows one more time. You couldn’t see him, couldn’t call him, but you close your eyes and pray too. Whoever he was. Wherever he was.

And then you hear it. The familiar thwip! cuts through the air. You open your eyes and a second later, the clatter of the gunman’s pistol hitting the floor follows. You’re blessed with a whole five seconds of glee before the gunman surges forward and pulls a knife on Pepper, holding it to her throat in a panic.

“Easy there, buddy.” Your head snaps up to the rafters. From a single thread of spider silk, Spidey descends from the ceiling with a hand outstretched. He’s a ways away from the two of them, offering some sense of space. “You don’t wanna do this.”

The gunman has since abandoned his microphone, but his voice reverberates in the near empty room just fine, “Get out of here, Spider-Man! You’re next!”

“Why don’t you and I hash it out, then? Just you and me. Leave Mrs. Potts out of it.”

“No, no,” the man mutters; you can hear sirens growing closer to the building, “she’s part of it. You’re all part of it.”

Pepper speaks up for the first time, “Whatever you want, I can get it. This doesn’t have to end badly.”

That must’ve been the wrong thing to say. The man jerks his knife closer to her skin and you can see, after a moment, a thin bead of red dribbles down her collarbone.

Spidey holds out both his hands, “Whoa, whoa, whoa-”

And it happens in a flash. One second, Pepper is being held at knifepoint, and the next, she’s being pushed off the stage.

Spider-Man immediately swoops in and catches her, swinging her to safety on the other side of the room, but you’re too mesmerized by the new body on stage pinning the attacker down by the throat. How you’d missed him, you’ve no clue, but he’s wrestling the man onto his stomach and restraining his arms behind his back just as the doors to the ballroom are thrown wide open.

Cops stream in, rushing the stage to take the gunman into custody. Some head straight for Spider-Man and Pepper, but it’s the guests that catch your attention. There are maybe fifty of them in the room altogether, but applause catches on like wildfire. All of them, and the musicians and the cops at the door, erupt into applause.

Because the man on stage, the man who’d thrown himself at the gunman and disarmed him, the man who had just saved Pepper Potts’ life… was Wilson Fisk.

You can’t find Harry anywhere. Most of the guests had stayed behind out of sheer curiosity, but Harry was nowhere in sight.

You stand out on the sidewalk with the rest of the crowd as the police escort the gunman into a cop car, murmurs flitting from ear to ear on who he’d been, what he’d wanted, and whether they should stay behind for interviews. Pepper was still inside getting questioned. But Wilson Fisk was out here.

You’d been in the same room as Fisk only once before, the night of his infamous press conference three years ago when you were still an intern trailing after the likes of Jillian. He’d struck you as a measured man, one who carried himself with impenetrable humility, and even in the face of his detractors kept a cool head.

Back then, he’d been accused of money laundering, something to do with all his companies not adding up. In and out of trouble, he was. Jameson had likened him to a cockroach: never quite dead, even when he really ought to be by now.

And now he stands before reporters, guests, onlookers, and the like, giving a statement about his “harrowing” rescue of Mrs. Potts. He hadn’t even been invited.

You know you should be right up there with the rest of them, fiending for a soundbite, but you’re gnawing your bottom lip from afar trying to catch him in a lie. Something about this was refusing to add up, and thankful as you were that Pepper was safe, the whole thing was off. Convenient, even.

You watch him smile and nod, none of the charm ever reaching his dead eyes, but everyone eats it up anyway.

Just as you’re about to force yourself to head over, knowing Jameson would have your head otherwise, you’re flying.

“Jesus!” You screech, scrambling to cling onto Spidey as the crowd below watches the two of you swing away. Your stomach drops as he carries you to a nearby rooftop, and you all but collapse when you meet solid ground. “Oh my God, don’t ever do that again.” You expect a quip in return, but when you look behind you, Spider-Man is sitting with his head on his knees, utterly silent. Your stomach drops again, “Spidey?”

That gets him to look at you, big white eyes narrowing, “We’re not on a first name basis anymore?”

You’re stunned, and then you scowl, “Peter Parker.” When he says nothing, you repeat it, “Peter Parker.”

“That’s his name.”

“His? Or yours?”

His eyes stay narrowed at you, only now his head is lifted upright, “I’m not the only Peter in New York.”

“I’m sorry if I find it a little suspicious there’s a Peter Parker who works at the Daily Bugle selling the only decent photos of you in the city, who just so happens to share your name and- and your lips.” That last part awkwardly tumbles out of you and his eyes are no longer narrowed.

“My lips?”

Peter’s lips flash in your mind. You don’t know how to say it without sounding more suspicious than him, “You’re… you both… your mouths are very similar.”

A beat passes. The silence isn’t enough to convince you you’re wrong, but it is enough to make you fidget.

But then Peter bursts into laughter, and, well, it’s not funny to you at all. “Quit it.” You demand, meek.

“I’m sorry, I just- I stick to walls and you think it’s crazy that we’re both named Peter?”

“You can’t convince me I’m off with this one.”

“There were like… four Peters in my graduating class!”

“He even kind of sounded like you! When I could hear him clearly.”

“He sounds nothing like me!”

“He sounds a lot like you.” You say, and wish that there had been a moment when you’d caught him speaking at an octave higher than his, frankly, forced baritone and an octave below shouting. Peter—this Peter—has a voice you know well enough. You’ve memorized his vocal fry when his voice gets a little too high, that nervous ramble-y pitch of his. It’s so distinct. If you had just… heard him use it just once, “You can’t make me feel crazy about this.”

“’m not trying to make you feel crazy, I swear. You’re one of the smartest people I know. I’d be skeptical too.” You wait patiently for a confirmation or a denial, but he gives you none. He takes a deep breath and stares out over the edge of the building where Fisk is being escorted to his car. You crawl over to sit beside him.

Part of you wants to ask him to prove it, to peel his mask off and show you, but you can’t make yourself do it. He’d only just given you his name. He trusted you with that. You’re wary about pushing it.

Because the pieces fit so well, but he’d never make that kind of mistake. Would he?

Would he think it was a mistake?

Peter sighs. “Hey, you alright?” You ask.

He doesn’t really look at you, though his voice answers at a lower volume than before, "This was too convenient.” You hum in agreement. “That guy… he said we were all ‘part of it’. Like it was planned.”

“You think Fisk planned it.”

“I think he’s a little too eager to be in the spotlight about it.” But getting that off his chest doesn’t seem to change the solemnness in his tone.

“Pepper was never in danger.” Your hand presses against the scratchy concrete, itching to touch him. To comfort him. “If this was Fisk’s plan, it was all for publicity. Pepper was never gonna get hurt.”

“She got hurt.” Peter whips his head to you.

You knew Iron Man was his mentor, had plucked him off the streets and thrust him into a world of gods and aliens before his untimely death. And maybe with Tony gone, he thought it was his job to keep her safe.

“Peter, you can’t… you can’t think like that. You can punch your way through a lot of things, but that? That back there? You did what you could.”

“I could do more.”

You get that urge to touch him again, only this time, you let yourself do it.

Your hand touches the side of his mask, cupping below his ear. He watches you the entire time but doesn’t move to stop you. Your thumb rests on his cheek and your pinky- it brushes the overlap between his mask and the rest of his suit, “It’s not just that you’re Peter, too.”

You feel the muscles in his neck twitch, “What?”

“It’s that… in all that chaos, you chose to stay behind. To help people. You made sure me and Harry got out, but you stayed behind. Everyone was so busy trying to save their own lives and you were thinking about them. I don’t know Peter Parker very well. Maybe he’s just that kind of guy. But I know you. I know if anyone in that room was you, he’d be it.” Peter doesn’t say anything. You feel the tension in his jaw, feel the way his throat bobs with a hard swallow, but he doesn’t say anything. He just watches you. You stare hard into those white eyes and imagine a someone staring back at you. “Or maybe that’s just the kind of people Spider-Man hangs out with.”

He huffs humorously, “Yeah, that checks out. We’re friends, after all.”

Your heart swells to hear it, “friends”. “Don’t make this about me when I’m trying to expose your secret identity.”

“I think Peter Parker would be flattered you think so highly of him. He was kind of worried he made the wrong impression… after you tried to punch him in the face.”

Your jaw drops, having nearly forgotten in the mess of the night. “Well, maybe Peter Parker shouldn’t go around grabbing people in the dark.”

“You were walking so fast. How else would Peter Parker get your attention?”

“Are you just saying Peter Parker over and over to convince me that you’re both completely different people?”

“I just think it’s funny that you don’t believe more than two Peters can live in the same city.”

“There are other factors!”

“Can’t believe you’re the type of reporter who flies by the seat of their assumptions. But you do work for Jameson, after all.” When Peter stands, you naturally follow.

You decide to switch tactics, bruising the alter ego, “You- you know what? You’re right. You couldn’t be Peter Parker. Peter Parker would be shaking and crying if I so much as raised my voice at him.”

“Wow. I’m gonna tell him you said that—wrap your arms around me?” And he snakes an arm around your waist, sending your heart into overdrive again, “he’s never gonna talk to you again. He’s probably gonna issue a copyright claim every time you put his pics on the Web-Blog, now. Legs too.”

“Wait, no. We are not swinging again. We are taking the stairs.”

“How else am I gonna get you off the roof? Legs, please.”

“We can take the stairs!”

“Door’s probably locked and Kingpin’s already on his way back to his super-secret evil lair. Legs or I’m webbing you up in a baby wrap.”

You grumble. It’s enough to make you grab onto his shoulders and jump, locking your ankles across his back with the fear of gravity instilled in you. You reckoned he’d be fast enough to catch you if you did fall. The very possibility makes you sick to your stomach, though. “Please don’t drop me.”

Peter dips his chin into the crevice where your neck meets your shoulder. "Don't worry," and it's not even that you hear his voice, you just feel it, "I've only dropped someone once."

And you're plummeting off the ledge before you get the chance to run away.

[variousqueerthings]

im watching a danish 1918 silent film called "himmelskibet" (the sky ship/spaceship) and it's interesting from several perspectives

for one, i enjoy the idea that these people have the notion of going to space and build a spaceship (an incredibly charming spaceship) in 2 years and it works! lifts ve-e-e-e-r-y slowly out of the atmosphere over the course of several days

for two, they're going to mars. which in 1918 reads differently im sure, than in 2024 and the rich colonialism wet dream -- also because in this movie mars is in fact populated, so it's actually not colonialist in the way it might have been x amount of years later in space-exploration cinema and the martians are depicted as being far more civilised (and also more... back-to-the-earth, we'll get to all of That) than earthlings, which is interesting

for three, they build the spaceship and point it towards mars, but don't have the tools to gauge how long it'll take to actually get there -- they calculate a presumed date before they leave, but whilst on the spaceship just have no idea where they are? this isn't deep, it's just funny to me

point the fourth. mars is populated. it's populated by a bunch of very human-looking aliens, because it's 1918 and the only difference between us and aliens is that the aliens are fruitarian hippies who all wear long robes (yeah, i can buy that) who have overcome everything bad that humanity currently is. the message is a hopeful one, with the lead martian saying "what we are, you will become"

the martian society is presented as a utopia. they're fruitarians, they've got no crime, no violence, and in what feels like some of the most long-lasting of political ideas, when the astronauts bring violence with them, they are made to think about it, but not punished (and there's some christian repent vibes to it, but it's not too egregious as to not work as concept -- the movie as a whole is very christian in feel though) and the protagonist considers how evil it is to throw people into prisons on earth. there's also a whole thing about embracing/celebrating death, rather than fearing it, which i wanna roll around in my head for a bit

but... the film tries very hard to juxtapose this utopian ideal with earth, however can't figure out how to make that work in imagery, or even put its finger on what is actually wrong with earth society that violence abounds in the first place (you'd think there might be some wwi imagery in there, but no, not a one -- its way of "showing violence" is random young well-dressed people on the street assaulting an elderly man and laughing, or smoking and dancing, or implied sex before marriage...)

all the scientists/leaders on mars are men, while the women... idk, frolic in beautiful dresses (there are a couple of interesting women in this, but they're not The Thinkers, they're The Feelers). they're all white and christian (if, danish christians rather than american christians). they're all thin and able-bodied and "beautiful." there's a scene where the women dance "a chastity dance." it begs the eternal question of "wait is this actually portraying a white supremacist eugenics cult?" WHICH is not what the movie wants to say, it very much wants to say something about anti-violence idealism as the future for humanity, it's like. got its heart in the right place, even if the final messaging is "we take this woman from a higher culture and within her lie the seeds for a superior earth," which hmm.. yeah. ive. ive heard things like that said before. not about a martian

it's interesting what kind of shorthand we have for storytelling. how the people making this movie undoubtedly were trying to think of the most visually effective way of conveying utopia, and how that imagery is mainly used today to make a viewer go "uh oh" to the extent that i almost briefly wondered if there was going to be another shoe about to drop, even though the movie hadn't been going in that direction at all

very much enjoyed it on the whole though. a moment in time. a very very early scifi film. ye olde danish text

And the most important thing.

Behold A Spaceship:

[intotheelliwoods]

@mimjandoodlesstuff 🤝

Edit: CENTIPEDLE IS IN HERE FOR DESIGN INSPIRATION to clarify

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@hellishgayliath Funny thing, as much as I would love to give the thing an actual name, ive been just calling him goop man for so long that everything else just doesnt seem to fit lmao??? He got dubbed goop man on the discord server like, a month ago, and it stuck like goop

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Technically yes, either one of them would be viable to be used to destroy the key!

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@cavern-of-shenanigans Not in exactly 40 years no! I will touch on what the exact "condition" was next update! The 40 years comment was just moreso Big Leo trying to play off the dire situation as a joke so Little Leo would be less worried!

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..... maybe

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Good question! I will answer this in a comic once I figure out how to draw it out~

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SORRY ABOUT THE MASTERPOST NOT UPDATING finally should be all good! I apparently reached the link limit on it hence why I could not edit it!

Anyways the masterpost has now been split into three different posts for the sake of all the links-

Part 1, being just the main series while also being my pinned post

Part 2, bonus drawings and mini comics

Part 3, crossovers, and misc stuff (cough cough looking at you extra tiny little leo saga)

On a sidenote, 2AL IS A FIC? I mean, what is a comic aside from a visual fanfiction

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@thedemisapppic THIS GIVES ME IDEAS.

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@havethetouch Dont worry he did not open the box! He just entered it to say hello!

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Sounds about right :)

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@qbertsstuff Not a bother at all, they are gauges! Just very cartoonified!

[checkadii]

i see ur tags. rubs my gay little hands together. please discuss ur tma au (also ur writing is superb very evocative we love vash and his uncanny-ness)

I opened the ask while going down the stairs and almost tripped I’m ngl . ANAYYAS. YOU BOTH

IVE JUST BEEN HAVING LIKE. A RANDOM SPUR OF THOUGHTS ABT IT . Abt the possible setting mostly

Okay

Cause like,,, WE HAVE TALKED ABT THIS BEFOR EI REMEMBER YOUR REBLOGS REESE if we’re thinking of the au taking place . A LOT of the characters have high potentials to be slaughter avatars, especially those in the ghg and that’s just. Simply because on no man’s land violence is just expected, especially with a profession they have

So. A more,,, “normal” setting could open for possibilities. Normal as in “modern” even though trigun takes place in some fuck off future far from ours I’m pretty sure😭 Like . Say Midvalley. Slaughter w the guy who plays MUSIC? ANDDD USES IT FOR VIOLENCE? That’s a pair baby!!

Put him in a relatively safer world where the ghg aren’t a group of assassins but something else. maybe they don’t even exist. Where he’s just some guy.

The way we view fear in tma is somethjfn to think abt, heavy on avatarhood here, I like to think of it as like,,, fear has dug it’s claws into you, has become you / one with you / overtaken you whatever, and now you have to live with it, and the avatarhood is how you cope with that, what you choose to do with this fear . Does that make sense. a mark is the trauma be it physical or mental, and Becoming is wielding it, maybe accepting it intimately

So, say. Back to Midvalley right. What do we know of him other than this violence. That he was a killer way before the ghg. What other than the slaughter. We have widderwally nothifn

WHICHHH IS WHY ITS SUCH. A THING TO THINK ABT! On a setting that isn’t no man’s land, and a “modern”/“normal” setting that doesn’t involve the ghg being assassins, what can he be! What can any of the characters be! What can we take from their character and personality and gauge a fear that could be their drive that doesn’t stem from survival! (I think buried web Midvalley might be cool tbh . no I can’t elaborate)

Milly and Meryl being eye-hunt is. Well. Points at them and their entirety. Mostly to me is that what they do well, but I really want to think about what could’ve made them become, does your main fear have to be the thing. What am I saying

Like mike. Our pal mike crew our buddy our chummy guy. He was mainly hunted by the Lichtenberg spiral figure right. Like yes he was struck by the vast but . Gragh I hate that they’re categorized like that when they are technically one

Also. Snort. Janemike appearance

Anyways . I lost the plot in my head ERM

Milly and Meryl being eye hunt …. They can be archivists. Together. As a treat I think. Imagine them being archivists in any setting pspsps

They both are witness to the various bullshit on Vash’s journey, have seen sorrow, pain, enlightenment, god knows what, destruction. They have also seen happiness, comfort, calmer times. Rare as it can be. They’ve seen secrets shared histories laid bare they’ve made themself present for a LOT. witness . eye. yk. does any of this make sense. also fits w their reporter occupations

the hunt part,,, well. they’re constantly on a trail, right . constantly chasing after a target (cough) . And that could be played into the eye’s tendency and urge to know, but their synchronicity i think is also important,,, they’ve got each other’s backs and know this, able to cover up where one falls short (like that time! W that guy who straight up tried to kill vash! And Meryl was held at gunpoint very unimpressed then Milly shoots her stun gun!) Peas in a pod, a pack, stronger in number. That kind of thing!

Also because. I think Milly’s scary perception CAN BE A THJNG. IT SHOULD BE. PELASE. and her monthly (POINTS AT YOU REESE)!!! Little reports, documentations . In a way!!! ya know!!

whichiswhyeyehuntissuchacombo.ok.itslikeapackagedeal

okay buried wolfwood. Loud wheezing

Once again, if we throw away the eom and ghg. Wolfwood would grow up relatively . Aight. to just Be some guy . All of these characters could! Without the constant fight for survival and constant high stakes most of not all of them would straight up just. Chill. Mostly. Probably. Idk. They literally could have the potential to be marked by ANYTHING and become avatars of ANYTHING at that point. Maybe. IDK

Buried wolfwood … burdened and chained down by fear, by his mission, drowning in the sticky river of the blood of his targets … he plays the devil. yk. while his heart cries out. his shoulders are heavy with a role a mask a title he does not want but his feet are planted firmly on the stage he has been set on . Boxed in. Midvalley and Hoppered went against their role, and they ended up. Well. Not well! He knows he’s stuck

The Punisher weighs on him, his sins, his wrong doings, all the things that he fiercely believes can’t be redeemed, and he doesn’t try to claw his way up and off and out the stage, he lets himself sink deeper into it, clings onto it even, because if he does otherwise, then. What else does he have, right?

Buried because HOOOWEEE I think buried mark works well for him, and Buried because being an avatar of the buried works. Vibes I’m going off vibes I’m afraid. I also really love the buried SHOUTOUT TO FOREVER DEEP BELOW CREATION THE TOO CLOSE I CANNOT BREATHE I LOVE YOUUU

And now that he’s been dragged even deeper because of his mission to escort vash. Yea. He knowsss there isn’t an outttt of this . He’s deep in both his belief, and his torment . I need to furiously throw something at him

VAST DESOLATION VASH TIME EVERYONE HEAR ME OUT. OKAY

wow we’ve gone from “I’ve been thinking abt the setting” laid back leaning against my pillow to “OKAY CHARACTERS” locking in leaning forward I’m

Again. It would be silly to think abt how not having factors like the general plot of the manga or being put in a normal setting would change what avatar he could be . Because w/o finding out about Tesla, the story wouldn’t have been as it is right

But like. It is what it is so. What is it. Take a shot everytime I say is. That’s another shot

The vasts whole gig involves the fear of insignificance, of falling, of areas or things you can’t quite navigate or comprehend, of heights, depth, infinity, the ocean, the open waters. right. Idk I’m like constantly cross referencing the wiki for both tma and trigun LMAOO I think the buried and vast should kiss (grabs vw

The way characters reacted to vash being pseudo immortal —

Oh my god I’ve been typing for an hour. Okay. This isn’t even much I’ve straight up just sat there staring blankly at my phone doing nothing except moving to type for an hour okay

Right. When faced with something whose entire being is just so unknown, so incomprehensible to you, you can’t help but just . Feel sorta insignificant right . Cant help but wonder and think . Vash has that effect. To me. People who know of his true nature can’t even begin to fathom what he has seen, what he has lived through, what exists far beyond the scope of their human lives. His entire existence can’t be fully explained in words, experiences and memories simply too. badumtsh vast

ialsothinkthatarchivistvashwouldgoHARDletstalkabtthat

ARCHIVIST VASH. HEAAAR ME OUT. he’s literally a walking record of times past, of the history of gunsmoke . His instinctive goofy act and downplay of literslly everything about him, the fear of being perceived in ways that could possibly be used and turned against him rihjt.

He has encountered man at their highest and low, has been witness to achievements, to starts and to ends of all kinds of multitudes, has been the canvas to slaughter, has been the focus of eyes, the target of hunts, buried by the ideals he sworn to live by (WHICH . NOW THJNK ABOUT HIM KILLINF LEGATO. NOW.), he’s seen the darkest sides of the planet and man seen what lurks in the shadows, masters escaping because of the situations that became too much, finds himself on the brink of spiral and clutches onto that brink, walked a long lonely road as people come and inevitably go, found himself stuck in a web that he spun and that others spin, has found himself surrounded by destruction, desolation, the fear of his own flesh, of his own body, idkhowtoworkcorruptionintothis, the uncertainty of his own existence, an oddity, jsut soemthinf off, uncanny valley in a sea of faces,

OR SOMETHINF. I DONT KNWO

okay kicks archivist vash off the table back to vast desolation

The desolation part o think js. Pretty self explanatory. He is grief and destruction, is literally called the humanoid typhoon, diablo. Surrounding him is nothing close to semblance of peace and safety , the trail he leaves behind is naught but that of loss, promises of vengeance. Ig. Yk. Shrug emoji

Vash’s staunch pacifist nature clashes against this . Colossal all encompassing force that is him . Nuclear baby or whatever. I need to shut up

. Extinction knives ….

I’m running out of typing juice GELP

Knives’ actions that led to the great fsll is. Without the great fall plants would’ve probbalt not been exploited to the extent they were because people wouldn’t have been forced to run them to the ground while they scramble for survival on a planet as gunsmoke

In a way, the “end/extinction” of his plant kin was caused by him. which. is

right so we agree that knives anger and hatred comes from fear right. Like. It’s how he copes. What he chooses to do with this fear. channels it into a weapon

The discovery of Tesla ,,, do you think after waking up he thought about seeing vash in that pod . Or seeing his withered crumbling body broken into pieces through eyes that float outside his skull.

So. To protect those he love from that fate, he has to erase the other factor from the equation right. Change the outcome. Drastically

The great fall was a sharp veer off course for humans, and what follows is scrambling for order

Knives embodies the extinction by trying to change that order. I thjnk . Yk. I’m. Okay I’m actually out of juice my brain is slow like. Like molasses dripping off a spoon (said in Tommy Coolatta’s voice)

Team rocket is blasting off aga💥

[firefly--bright]

sound//waves

jean kirstein x fem!reader, modern a.u.

summary ; each sound has its own shape, something tangible for you to feel. jean's shapes are weightless but important, and you find the importance of your own shapes through him. warnings ; reader being self-conscious of her voice :') idk what the trope is here. pining idiots who don't realise they're both in the same boat. a/n ; hehe,,, this fic was a pretty long time coming i think? but its for @/samepictureofjeankirsteverday on instagrams celebration for hitting 1k days!! so congratulations!! its also inspired by her own fic, quietude on ao3 :) pls give it a read its SO CUTE and i loved it sm <333 congratulations again :33 ALSO i have never done karaoke before so im sorry for any,,, errors. i genuinely dont know how they work and ive watched only like 2 animes with a very vague karaoke scene </3 just pretend that every inaccuracy is For The Plot taglist ; @holding-infinity-and-a-book , @mrsnobodynobody , @hopeless-anti-romantic-again , @jeanscremebrulee , @berrijam , @happxme , @cherrypieyourface , @imgayandshesanime , @moonmalice , @kivernova , @potaho3frog , @xakilicious , @katestrophes , @gojo-ana , @ppushable, @candleohappiness , @zombiefiedskeivy

masterlist is in pinned post ✿ enter my taglist ✿ requests for headcanons are open! ✿ playlist to listen to while reading! (it has a couple karaoke songs wink wink) ✿

right tile art credits ; @ppushable on tumblr!

you'd always been conscious of how loud your voice could get. 

a little annoying, you thought, because whenever you got excited about something, your voice would jump through octaves, creating an exponential curve on a graph. when you were with friends who knew how to make you laugh, your throat would make a weird sound - stuck between a guffaw and a choke of self-conscious laughter - if it was particularly funny. and your voice was always stuck between the contrasting spaces of either being too loud or too quiet, never really being able to gauge what was required when. 

you'd rather listen than talk. your voice would work around the right people, your mouth having a mind of its own, spilling contents you didn't agree to, but you'd regret the sound of it later. secrets would lie, open, barren, self-aware, in a disgusting pile of weird decibels on your table, in the space between you and whoever had to bear witness to it. you always cringed at the sound of your own voice after hearing it back in video, wherever it was captured. 

you grew up quiet, never growing used to using your voice until you were a late teenager. not knowing the importance of words until they were said, until after the reactions were met. 

and then you met jean. loud, boisterous laughter filled the room as he shouted the rules of the game, clearly drunk, at a party you couldn't remember the importance of, and you were next to your equally as loud and agreeing friend who shouted cheers and another one, her other half, she had loudly exclaimed, her twin, really, and you could hear the resemblance in the way they both chanted a cheer of “jean! jean! jean! jean!” continuously as the guy wearing a button-up shirt that was now soaked with wine with a bottle of the liquid held a considerable height away from him, drinking with twitching lips and shut eyes. He stopped with a spluttering cough, unashamed still, a large, cocky grin plastered over his lips - plump and red with the tint of the wine. Then he let out a loud whoop and you wondered how he didnt feel the guilt of being loud weighing down on him. Maybe it was the alcohol, you assumed, taking a cautious, controlled sip of your own. Sasha and connie soon joined him, and along with their arm came yours, linked in between sasha’s tight grip.

Introductions were made, voices inclining louder to be heard over the music. “Sash told us about you,” jean shouted, a surprisingly inviting smile on his intimidating face, and you joked around, “yeah shes in love with me!” jean all but nodded with an approving smile, and the rest of the evening by pounding music that you could feel your heartbeat on, and you don't hear jean’s presence until about two weeks after it all.

He was quiet then. Suddenly his face went back to being intimidating, and his voice was heard through a groan the first time you heard it after the boisterous party. “Marc, can you please-”

Marco continues about his day, and then you add on with your unfamiliar voice shrinking under the sounds of the cafeteria that was quickly filling in with tangible shapes of voices. The rest of them have to lean in a little closer to you to listen, and your voice shakes against your chest at the bearable effort just to talk about your mundane and frankly low-grade joke about stagnant coffee that you couldnt even remember after you said it, but somehow made them laugh.

“Oh hey!” marco spoke from beside him after he spotted your head approaching them from a distance, his voice a happy, upbeat version of it’s usual quiet and important self. You waved to them with a smile, not uttering a word until you were at their table. With sasha beside you, you let her do the talking at first. Consonants loud, slight country accent clear as the day above you, she spoke about the “boooorrriinnggg” lecture she just had to attend, her back slumping against the seat. Your face rested consciously on your palm, an unintentional look shared between you and jean that said mostly nothing but quiet and secret amusement. His eyes were pretty, speaking a thousand, weighted words against his lids, all of which were heard clearly by you. Hes a stranger, really, nothing more than a name and a scruffy but pretty face, but that didnt stop the bounds of familiarity working their way through the shared space between you. Marco snorts from beside him, and pushes his remaining fries to the brunette. Sasha hums approvingly, comforting, the waves travelling to you safely. Undisturbed, just how youd prefer them to be, and her voice floats above your body, letting it settle there, with you looking at it’s gentle remnants.

“Ackerman’s classes are always a terror-shock,” jean spoke, now, directly to  you, eyes on yours, and you had to stop yourself from being consumed by the tidal waves of sound - his voice, low, warm, joking, natural as if your presence was just enough for him to find comfort in.  

You laugh along with him and your voice - a hungry animal of itself - involuntarily, becomes more itself than you’ve ever found it to be. Which is a shock, but then sasha rests her head on your shoulder, asking you, “when’s your next class?” her voice vibrating on your shoulder, travelling through your bones. Your voice - the hungry animal - or whatever it gently became, replies with a, “in a couple minutes.” 

“What block?” jean asks, and marco checks his phone for his own calendar. 

You hum even if you don't have to think, “block-b. Just a bit of a walk.”

“I have class the same way. I can walk you,” he says, casually, picking his back up from the ground beside him, his knee knocking into yours for a moment. He doesn't apologize. You get up next, picking up the remnants of the trash left on your table and follow him.

His voice is a constant after that. Surprisingly, his voice becomes something you reach out to, the tendrils of waves asking you to stay a bit longer, to shed your coat, to give him your bag to hold. Gentle commands that all but fuel your hungry voice, lungs soaking into whatever has become of his laughter mixed with yours. 

“Karaoke night!” sasha shouts, entering the apartment with no remorse of her voice being louder than the howling dogs at night. You exchange a natural, knowing glance with jean who stands next to you in the kitchen, handing you a spoon. Connie follows her in, and his presence is just as loud, the shape being a little sharp against your palm, just enough to remind you that this is your friend. His bag flops against the table and he groans with each joint that moves in him. 

“Im going to sing the best songs-” he starts, but jean is quick to cut his voice off, as usual, “-you’re going to sing CPR by Cuppcake you crazy bastard, im going to hit you-” “im not going to sing that! I have taste and dignity and-” “-you have a will to make us suffer.” jean states, and the two of them go back and forth while you hand marco’s cup to him in the living room. “Thanks,” he says, whispered among the background, his lips pursed with an attempt of hiding his laughter. 

You smile back at him, but your laugh isnt hidden. You turn around, hands on your hips, exclaiming, “okay! Karaoke night in three hours. Then we go to mitras’ and eat something good.”

Sasha agreed with a mouthful of food and a muffled voice, and you reeled from the fact that you could project your own voice into the apartment with such force. You’ve always been loud, and your mouth always ended up working by itself, spilling contents you didn't agree to be spilt, and you grew quiet again with the consciousness of it all. You never knew how to strike the right balance between quiet and loud.

But then you met jean, who was looking at you, his mouth drawn between half smirk and half amusement, brows raised only slightly, enough to keep you questioning.

“What?” you asked him. Cornered him, really, and your voice was meant to be sharp but ended up being soft around it’s edges, a happy smile accompanying it, and jean’s smirk widened, just by a bit. He shrugged. “Nuffin,” he said, voice half-hidden and half-proud under the food he was chewing. 

Chips. Barbeque, the ones you bought especially for him, the one sasha was hoarding. You narrowed your eyes at him in faux suspicion, but let it go only a bit after, turning your back to him as his voice travels to you without hinderance. “Sash, stop eating th3e damn-” “i’ll do whatever i want to!” she says, turning her back on him as well, facing the marble countertop of the kitchen with jean’s - now her - bag of chips, crinkling under her fingers as she dug through them, feeding one to you.

Karaoke was set. Three hours timing, as you said - a little too loud, unconscious of it being that way - and your shoes squeak over the floor. There had been a significant wait, but connie’s rambling had done you good. “For once,” jean said, voice barely heard over the sound of all the other occupied rooms, “he’s useful.” “that’s not what you said last night.” connie says, but his voice is octaves higher than jean’s and impossible to ignore. You open the door to the room with a smile, and marco groans. “Guys, keep it in your pants for one night.” “im not the one-!” jean starts, but sasha clamps his mouth shut with her hand. “If you're not going to sing, i don't want to hear your stupid, neighing voice complaining,” she said, a murderous tilt in the sound, something you didn't want to mess with.

Sasha in a bad mood wasn't sasha at all - a learned fact that had been taught very unfortunately to you - and you tried your best to get her moods up with whatever means necessary, hopping next to the big screen and detangling the wire of the microphone as marco scrolled through the song options, humming under his breath. A round of lemon sodas was immediately ordered, and jean left a seat for you in the corner of the couch facing the screen, an unsaid determination to get you to sit closer to him. Connie slung his arm around marco’s shoulders and, like the demon on the former’s shoulder, guided him to choose Copacabana by barry manillow.

“Wanna duet, beautiful?” he asked you, hand flat open for you to hand him the mic. You raised your brows with a smile, “you cant handle me, springer.” even if in reality, it was you who couldnt handle him, his voice ten times louder and unashamed than yours, something you admired.

“sash! Connie’s challenging you!” you say instead, smile poisoning your sentence, making it irregular. “hey! I never said-” he starts, but sasha bounces off her seat to your voice, hugging your arm, taking up the challenge and squinting at connie with vitriol. “You're on, baldie.”

Connie’s not a competitive person. He’d never cared about grades, about being first in class, about races, in board games - it was all just that to him. A game, something to have fun about; an admirable trait if went unpaired with the rest of his jokes. But he liked doing things out of spite - a revenge that flowed so deep that he had to do something drastic. 

Even before the music turned on, before their cue, they'd started their serenading, making marco wince with an adoring smile as he grabbed sasha’s outstretched, inviting hand.

You made your way back to jean, as you always found yourself doing, licking your lips against the cold of the AC blasting in the room, the floors shaking under the weight of your beating heart to the thumps of the song, rhythmic and out of tune. Marco sang well, you knew this, but his voice got lost under the competitiveness of sasha and connie, shouting over each other and clambering over the lyrics as they ran away from the screen, still getting the words wrong. 

You laugh, sitting down, stealing a chip from the bowl jean held in his lap as he flipped through the book of remarks strangers before you had written in the same room, their handwritings messy and intoxicated with the extensive - and expensive - cocktail menu, hearts littered under the praises of their time. 

“I wonder if they added it,” you said, almost shouting as he leaned in as well, head ducking near your mouth to hold your words in his heart. Impossibly close, his cologne masking the smell of the leathery couch and the stinge of cold air, and he lifts his head, a curious glint in his eye only enhanced by the rotating, artificial, lights that played their colours on the wall along with the trapped soundwaves. “Wanna check?” his lips upturned into a smirk, a pink light bouncing off his hair, then green, then a blue, the same colours in the same order projecting onto you and the adoring afflictions of his voice were not lost on you.

Jean chuckled, the sound hiding under the unbearable symphonies, pointing his finger at one of the notes. “Someone wrote-” you had to lean in close to hear him, afraid that you wouldn't catch the waves woven so delicately and carefully for you, that you'd miss them, somehow, “-that they are sad that… oh shit, thats connie.” the note, scrawled with a blue ballpoint pen, complained about how there was a lack of the sonic movie soundtrack on the machine. You laughed, your shoulders shaking under the now weightless time, a physical proof of your smile. Jean held it in his heart, woven carefully, as if it would slip away somehow.

 

Something to do. Together, like a secret, because really, how else would he say it if not like this? Like the shape carved itself just for you, smooth and soft. How else would he say something unimportant so close to you, his hand encircling your shoulders, arm resting on the back of the couch, voice the only thing you hear even if the loudness of the setting is all too present and all too distracting. Because that’s what this was, even with the distracting and present and loudness of the setting, he asks you, and his words form their own shape and fall into your lap, a gentle, warm question with round edges, easy to hold in your open palms that eagerly closed over it to not let it go.

Your heart beats to the thumps of the song. Your teeth ache with the sweetness of his voice as you nod with the same glint in your eye, and the unsaid but well-heard command is enough to get him standing up and walking to the machine, checking and flipping over the songs that offered themselves, his white shirt tinted against the moody lighting, the old bracelet you made him hanging over his wrist with a poorly tied knot that somehow withstood the test of time and weather and temperatures of his warm body. His hand scratched the back of his neck, and the present song was almost coming to an end, not that you were paying attention to it, but it was hard to not remind yourself of the moment you were in when the moment included him, the same ground he stood on being the same ground your feet rested on, the same room his voice held and clung onto also being the same room your own voice was in, floating to his, something you found it doing a little too often.

Your name was spoken on the microphone, brightly, with a wide smile, something you hadn't been used to until you met sasha. Your eyes met hers, crinkled at the ends with a smile wider than her heart, as she pointed at you, “your turn! jean-boy, choose something!” met with another shared and important - because all of them were important - glance with jean, eyebrows raised, affection rippling over his features, and you relented, hopping up to the microphone as she handed it to you.

“Oh, but when i asked you to, you didn't sing? I see how it is," Connie said, teasing smile on his lips. Marco shook his head with a smile as you shrugged. “You dont pay the rent,” you said simply, and the opening to cant take my eyes off of you by frankie vallie clung to your clothes, spreading a wide and knowing smile over your face, glancing at jean again. Again.

Sasha watches. Seeing it play out - not rehearsed, a little clunky, your shoes creaking under your weight as you hop to the beat, looking at jean who, in turn, looks at you, and sasha watches. Your voice hums out the tune before you sing it, before the lyrics start rolling in, impatience staining your tongue because of excitement, and she watches. Connie gulps down his drink from the corner of the room and tries getting up, but marco pushes him back down with a gentle and forceful hand, “dont,” his voice says, lost again, and connie doesnt ask why. Sasha hands her microphone to jean, clunky and unrehearsed, and he takes it without reluctance because he could never refuse being near you. 

Your shoulders shake without effort or thinking, and the usual hesitance that comes to jean so easily, like habit, almost disappears, finding solace in god knows where but he’s just glad its not there right now, with you. Brilliant smile, voice usually small and a little uneasy now grows with the swell of the song and he cant help but not sing. His voice is nothing but background and really, all he’s doing is humming into the mic just as you were moments before, and he sees everything. Your voice makes it hard not to notice you, stark against the background of the four walled-room, head bopping to the beat. It's hard not to notice when something so tangible and breathing and beautiful is in front of him, singing, smiling towards him, looking at him like you do with your eyes all shiny and almost sparkling under the shitty lights, he thinks, how can someone make a karaoke room feel like a shrine? 

He's not poetic. He knows this - out of the two of you, you find more of the metaphors, the small but noteworthy variables with the phrases and words - but he’d turn into a poet just to make one of the songs you like to sing so much. Humming under your breath, kept there until future and important use while making coffee, lost lyrics that you couldn't remember building up at the back of your throat as your hand flew across the your computer’s keyboard but even then he’d choose your inexperienced and unpracticed voice over a well made concert. 

Your lips shine with the light, and he forgets how to breathe. His mic floats somewhere near his mouth, he’s sure of that much, but everything else is lost to him. Your voice becomes his guide, wavering a little at the higher pitches, careful of the lyrics. You mess up once, laugh it off, shrugging your shoulders, and your smile is etched onto the speakers, making their way across the room and into his ears and, god, he can feel it. The beat doesn't matter to him, his heart finds the way of your voice and beats to it. As soft, as careful, unhesitant and unrestrained until the three minutes and twenty-four seconds of the song are over. And all he did was blink.

You turn, handing the mic back to sasha, connie’s standing applause met with a wide, unbashful grin and a little bow, faux pride in your posture. 

Jean all but follows your footsteps only a little ways from sasha, as she chooses another song of her liking, and his eyes are on you, adjusting the sleeve of your shirt that had folded up. You look at him, lips moving under his gaze, sound travelling and only a little delayed because jean thinks about your lips for too long. “You have a good voice,” you remark, smiling, and he blinks. Thank god the place is only dimly lit because his face feels red, heart pumping dangerously close to his chest. 

“Yeah?” he asks, as if he needs confirmation. Really, he just wants to hear your voice again.

You hum. He leans in to hear it as if it's something more important. It is, to him, every molecule that's disturbed by your voice to reach to his ear is something that he needs to be accounted for. He’ll make a home there, he thinks, where your voice lives in between the atoms, the shape it makes mid-air, just for him to hear.

“HORSEBOY THIS ONES FOR YOU,” connie shouts in the already loud speaker, making jean wince, connie pointing his finger between jean’s brows, a scowl on the latter’s features. The starting notes of “my heart will go on” start playing, and jean groans, head tilting upwards, catching the way you laugh softly, and turning to you incredulously. 

“Y’know your bald head is shining like a disco ball right now?” he says in retaliation to the now belting-his-heart-out connie, his hand making a fist over his heart, eyes screwed shut, pinch between his eyebrows, knees bending at an almost-painful angle that will most surely make them hurt later, with marco doing the background vocals, eyes closed, and… was that a tear? 

“Jesus, and then? what did he say?” sasha’s voice loudly asked, uncaring for any sleeping neighbours that would surely be jolted awake by her, coercing you to tell her more about the terrible group project you had just gotten out of last week. “He said he’d just give the work to someone who owed him a favour.” you said with mild but mostly dissipated annoyance.

Marco winced from in front of you, legs crossing two steps at a time. Jean scowled, turning his face to yours from where he climbed beside marco, “what the fuck?” to which you could only shrug with pursed lips. Sasha’s arm was around your shoulders, her fingers tracing comfortable shapes on the cup of your shoulder. 

“Wait, who owed him a favour?” connie asked from behind you, two steps under yours. You spared him a glance and shrugged again, “no idea. And then, of course, he told me, last minute, that they couldn't do it and he didn't have the skills,” you put air quotations around the last word, clearing your throat for dramatic effect, “to complete it himself.” 

“What the fuck does that even mean-” “what a fucking dick,” “god, im so sorry,” jeans voice was the first one you heard, followed by sasha’s, and then marco’s. “I wish we could still guillotine people.” connie spoke up just after you crossed the last step, marco’s shoes squeaking to a halt before your door. You fished your keys out of your pocket, opening the door to its jingle.

“Guillotines are for rich people, dumbass,” jean said, rolling his shoulders back as if the sentence itself burdened him.

“of course you’d say that, you french fuck.” connie spoke, wiggling out of his coat the second he stepped through your door. Sasha went headfirst for the couch, collapsing into the cushions without any plan to remove her own coat. Her soft snores soon filled the apartment - a trait both her and jean shared. The two could fall asleep anywhere and anytime, state of their body be damned. Jean had told you, after a long nap, his voice a low hum, that he had insomnia as a kid. He didn't know how he grew out of it, but it ended up with him on the opposite side of the sleep spectrum - unable to wake up unless shaken very violently. He asked you to slap him awake once, and when you hesitated, connie stepped in with a loud smack to jean’s cheek.

Marco stretched out his arms while walking to sasha’s room. “Im taking her bed.” he says, a tired yawn stretching out at the end of his sentence. Connie groans, “where will i sleep?” he asks, looking at you with a smirk, “if only a beautiful girl with a pretty voice tells me i can use her room…oh, if only,” he sighs, placing the back of his hand on his forehead. 

“Yeah. if only, you bitchless moron.” jean says, and you shake your head with a smile. 

“Do you think women are bitches, jean?” connie asks, the hand on his forehead finding itself on his chest, gasping. sasha ‘s snores break through his sentence.

“No! I.. i love women. I mean, im not like, im not… like a slut or anything, but-” “sounds like something a slut would say. Fuckboy.” “I respect women!”

“Ladies, ladies. Stop fighting over me.” you say, walking towards your room without sparing either of them a glance, expecting jean to follow you. “Cuddle with marco, con, I know you want to.” 

Connie groans, again, a little too dramatically to be taken seriously in the first place. There’s no malice hidden in his voice, none of the usual complains you would've found, “fine. If you say so. See, jean? This is how you respect women.” 

“Youre only saying that because she’s pretty.” jean says. You try not to let it get in your head as you enter your room, your door creaking open. “Night, marco!” you whisper-yell across the hall, even though sasha’s eyes wouldn't open even a peek with any amount of sound. “Goodnight!” he whisper-yells back from across the hall, only a couple steps away from the door of your room. 

Jean and connie’s voices are still arguing about something, but you're too tired to make their words out, all of it becoming gibberish. You clear your throat - a sound that’s enough to get them to stop. “Goodnight.” 

“Hey, wait-” jean speaks, and connie snickers from behind him.

Your room is silent, save from the irregular sounds of the cars passing downstairs, gravel under their rubbery tires. Everythings been said and done; teeth brushed, face washed, pillows fluffed (by jean’s persistence). You collapsed onto bed, leaving enough room for jean to squish into, the sound of ruffling blankets and the plush, squishy pillow under your ear. He lays on his back for a moment, before facing his body towards you, the deliberate motion creating squeaks of spring from the mattress. Everything has its own sound. Jean’s hands tuck under his head, and you resist the urge to laugh at his position. He sees right through you.

“Whats so funny?” he asks, whispers, really. You're not sure why. Maybe it's the overwhelming silence, the inability of breaking the warmth that crosses across both of your bodies, sharing the same blanket.

“You look funny tucked in like that,” you say, imitating his hushed voice. Maybe it is too important, you think, to talk about things that are funny in the moment for no reason but to keep your heart steady against the faraway but present sound of his - just one of those sounds that didn't need to be heard to know it was there for you.

His sigh turns into a laugh. You're both laughing at nothing, soft puffs of air, carbon dioxide overlapping carbon dioxide. Sounds are science, right? This felt a lot like poetry. Maybe they all merge together, and Jean speaks up before you can think more about it, “do you think Connie is spooning Marco right now?” 

You laugh a little more. “Are you jealous?” “that we’re not…cuddling?” he asks, a little unsure, but with a small smile anyway. He's hesitating. You know him enough to know the way his voice - though soft and pliable right now, gaseous against your palms, shape unreadable - sounds when he's unsure. You shrug. “Are you?” you don't know if the whispering is making you bolder or if you're just tired. You’ve always been a little conscious of your voice, a little too in your head about needing to be soft, uncaring if your sentence goes unheard. It doesn't matter as long as youre peaceful, as long as your voice doesn't disrupt disrupt disrupt.

His cheeks go a little red. It's how you know you’ve got him. Your smile turns softer, a little more understanding. “I…okay,” he says. You're both not sure what he means by it, but you can't help but marking it as important, just as everything he’s said to you.

“Your voice is…really pretty, by the way.” jean states, eyes not meeting yours. His lips form a thin line after saying it, as if he’d been wanting to keep it a secret, as if the fact that it somehow got out was a fault. You don't have much to say to that, though, so the sentence lays there, between the space of the pillows, between the blankets. It’s weighed, careful but untamed, and it lingers there for a moment, soft and pliable and unconscious. 

“I mean… like everytime i hear your voice its… its nice. Not just when you're singing. I like that too.” he rambles, voice still a hush, words still soft and pliable - putty-like, shapeless but you catch them and you don't let them go, let them seep into your skin and against your bones and into your bloodstream. “When you pick up the phone, or when you're humming something. I know it's… i know you think it's not meant to be heard. But I hear you. And i… I like hearing you.” he says. He likes hearing you. He likes hearing you. The words don't have shape. They wave over you, not tidal, not forceful, but like the same warmth of the blanket that rests over your shoulders, crinkled at the edges, a little worn out as if he’s been saying it to himself before giving it to you. 

God, and youve always been conscious of your voice. So when you speak next, its a surprise to you when its not the same whisper he was speaking in, instead only a bit higher than it, enough to contain only bits of your voice, the carvings on the roof of your mouth and the back of your throat and behind your teeth have no use hiding, now, because your voice projects forward just enough. Just enough because he thinks your voice is pretty.

“I… i like yours.” you say. Your eyes slip a little shut, and you feel more than hear him shift towards you, his arm crossing over your waist. “Its beautiful. Peaceful. Even when you're…insulting eren.” you sigh into his chest. His breathing holds you just as his arms, and his warm chest stutters a bit as if he’s taking a deep breath, something that tickles the parts of your hair that are near his nose. Every sound has its feeling, every sound creates waves and its on you to make them twice more meaningful as they are despite the words they hold, and even as jean gives you wordless reactions to your senseless but meaningful words, they're all accounted for. They're all just as important, just as held as everything else he’s said because its him.

“Thank you. For speaking to me. For letting me hear you.” you say with finality, no room for argument. As if he’d argue you. His lips press to the top of your head, unmoving. His palm covers your ear, making the soft sounds of his breathing muffled, but his thumb traces shapes of his sound against your ear. 

It tickles a little, but you hear the movement clearly. 

Sound waves, importance given to them. By you and by him. 

✿

[my-castles-crumbling]

hey cas,

so, i dont really know exactly how to word things right so please bear with me while i try to explain a bit.

i think i have bipolar disorder (or something similar, im still looking into things), but i dont know if im just going crazy and imagining things. theres not really anyone in my life i can talk to about it to gauge their opinion, so im kind of left by myself to deal with it.

i dont have a trusted adult or loved one i can go to for help, and ive not been to a doctor since probably 2017 at the latest so im not even sure who id be making an appointment with to discuss anything like this. ive considered trying to get myself into therapy but im afraid that if i go in saying that i think im bipolar and have other mental illnesses (im about 99% certain i have anxiety and likely some sort of depressive disorder too, but that might be more linked with the mood swings of bipolar) that its the wrong way to go about it? like, i might just be really ignorant but i dont think thats how therapy works is it?

basically im worried that if i go in saying the disorders i think i have, then theyll tell me im exaggerating or that i need other people to back me up or that i do need to see my gp doctor (which, again, i dont actually think i have one) or that it isnt my place to try to diagnose myself etc.

im not really sure what im asking here? maybe if you have any advice/experience about what therapy is actually like or what i could expect? or a better way to go about getting help? i really dont know honestly aha, sorry

Well, you've definitely come to the right place lol, I've been to and ghosted many a therapist! (Don't ghost your therapist!)

Actually, recently I started therapy again and it's been a great experience, so let me tell you about it. Warning: I live in the US, so if you live elsewhere, it might be different.

When you start therapy, they're going to ask you a LOT of questions. Lots about your background, your childhood, your feelings, etc. It'll feel a bit invasive, but make sure to be honest! Like brutally honest. Like if you're like...'I might be feeling this way but idk if I'm faking..' tell them that. They need to know everything.

Then, if you're a minor, they'll talk to your parents and get their insight. If you have issues with your parents, make sure to tell them that BEFORE this part happens, so they can take what your parents say with a grain of salt.

Last, they'll give you a 'tentative diagnosis.' This means that this is what they think you have, but it's not a die-hard medical diagnosis. They'll treat you based on this, but if you ever wanted accommodations in school or anything for it, you would have to go to a clinical psychiatrist to get it written up.

Here's the thing: the diagnosis my surprise you or even make you feel invalidated. If it does? Tell them that. Because, two things: One- they may have gotten something wrong. Or two- they need to know if you aren't understanding something fully.

To be very personal, I am diagnosed with both depression and anxiety. When I started therapy recently and again got those diagnoses, I wasn't surprised. But I also was told I have 'illness-anxiety disorder' which is the new term for a hypochondriac. I was super insulted because I was picturing the stereotypical hypochondriac who fakes illnesses for attention (this was uneducated of me) but my therapist explained that this version of anxiety more means that I have a lot of anxiety related to being nervous to get sick or the results of getting sick. Which was like- oh. yeah. I do panic every time someone sneezes on me. My therapist said this has become increasingly common since COVID.

All this to say it sounds like seeking out therapy might be a great way for you to get the answers you're looking for. But even if they're not the answers you think they'll be, remember that your feelings and experiences are still extremely valid and no less real.

<3 <3 <3

[freyayuki]

Dissidia Final Fantasy: Opera Omnia Dare to Defy Astraeus VII Quest

The final Dare to Defy event, Dare to Defy -The Battles’ End-, just started in the Dissidia Final Fantasy: Opera Omnia (DFFOO) mobile game. This is a global original event that features 21 Shinryu (level 300) or higher quests.

Sadly, the reason why this is the final or last Dare to Defy event is because DFFOO just announced that it will discontinue or end its service on February 29, 2024.

The end of service announcement news came as a shock. I talk more about that in another post, but I really wish the news wasn’t true. Wish the game wasn’t ending at all.

Dare to Defy -The Battles’ End- Information

According to the in-game news:

This final challenge features up to 21 quests and contains the bosses featured in Shinryu difficulty (or higher) quests from past story chapters and events as well as new Shinryu bosses, and requires Perfect clears with character restrictions!

Dare to Defy -The Battles’ End- is divided into 3 sets of 7 quests - Dare to Defy Astraeus, Dare to Defy Nyx, and Dare to Defy Eos.

But the character restrictions applies across all the quests. This means that if you use a char on 1 Dare to Defy quest, then you can’t use them anymore on the other fights in this event.

You can’t bring a friend support to these fights. Each quest needs to be Perfected (meaning get the score and all the other mission requirements on the same run) in order to get all the rewards.

All the chars are boosted in this event so each quest starts with the force gauge already charged to 50%.

Dare to Defy Astraeus VII Quest

Cleared the Dare to Defy Astraeus VII quest with Weiss the Immaculate from Dirge of Cerberus: Final Fantasy VII (#ad), Aranea Highwind from Final Fantasy XV, and Fujin from Final Fantasy VIII with Pandemonium as my summon.

My Calls were Leonora's from Final Fantasy IV, Seymour Guado's from Final Fantasy X, and Selh'teus's from Final Fantasy XI.

The level for this quest is listed as "???" so it's supposed to be harder than a Shinryu or level 300 quest.

Weiss, Fujin, and Aranea are as fully built and maxed out as they can possibly be. They are currently equipped with Level 5 of 5 Ultima Weapons.

Aranea, Weiss, and Fujin have 3 Crystal passives as well as the additional stats from the Green Crystal Room (for Fujin) and the Blue Crystal Room (for Weiss and Aranea).

Anyway, when the fight started, just had everyone setup their buffs and such while waiting for my force gauge to be fully charged.

The enemy's force gauge hit 100% first so he got to go into his force time first.

Once my force gauge was fully charged, had Fujin activate her FR. On her next turn, used her Force Echo.

Used one of Aranea's Force Echoes. This canceled the force time of the enemy.

Didn't get the chance to use Weiss's Force Echoes before going into Aranea's Burst+ phase. By then have 9 turns of force time left, the HP damage bonus was at 458%, and the boss was at 85% HP.

By the time I only have 5 turns of force time left, the HP damage bonus was at 856%. As part of this fight's gimmicks, the boss was set to get back to 100% HP upon reaching a certain HP threshold.

Well, Aranea was able to hit that threshold so now the boss was back to 100% HP.

By the time Aranea was about to cast Outstanding, her finishing Burst+ move, have 3 turns of force time left, the HP damage bonus was at 999%, and the boss was down to 65% HP.

Right after Aranea's Burst+ mode ended, the boss removed his debuffs and gave himself multiple framed buffs.

It was Aranea's turn. Had her use Seymour's LD Call to dispel the buffs of the boss.

Afterwards, used the Crytsal Ability Attack feature to deal some more damage to the boss.

Now only have 1 turn of force time left and the HP damage bonus was at 949%. The boss was down to 55% HP.

After my force time ended, just had everyone spam their skills and refresh their buffs and such while waiting for my force gauge to be fully charged again. My chars were still dealing pretty good damage thanks to the HP damage bonus retain feature.

Soon, the force gauge of the enemy hit 100% again. His force attack dealt some damage to my chars.

Once my force gauge was finally fully charged, had Aranea activate her FR. By then the boss was at 18% HP.

Summoned Pandemonium soon after that. IIRC, never got the chance to use Weiss's Force Echoes anymore since the turn order went Aranea -> Fujin -> Weiss. The fight ended before Weiss could get another turn.

Soon, the boss was down to 3% HP. Have 9 turns of force time left and the HP damage bonus was at 609%.

It was Fujin's turn. Already used Selh'teus’s LD Call earlier. Now I had Fujin use Selh'teus’s regular Call which restored a bit of the party's HP.

This attack plus the off-turn attack from Weiss was more than enough to finish off the boss already, ending the battle on turn 18.

Got the score and all the other mission requirements, which also got me the Perfect. But did end up with 2263 HP lost.

The enemy never got to move other than firing his force attack. Aranea dealt lots of damage as my main DPS while Weiss helped with his off-turn attacks and Fujin buffed the party with her support and such. All the launches helped too, of course. Overall, this fight wasn't that hard with this team.

Conclusion

So, what about you? Which chars did you use to complete this Dare to Defy quest? Feel free to share your thoughts and opinions by leaving a comment below or by reblogging or replying to this post.

Notes:

screenshots are from my Dissidia Final Fantasy: Opera Omnia game account

[moz1505]

Guitar Showcase

#4 : Jackson King V JS32

yall are not ready for this

This is my King V, the first thing I did when I found out I was employed was go out and buy this, and I couldn't of made a better choice (I could of 100% but this sick)

I know all the playing ive posted so far is complete dogshit, but I swear im actually good enough to perform. Im not gigging im too bad for that but I occasionally perform for my school and my V has been my signature every time

The King V, In my opinion, is a staple in offset guitars. the JS32 features a silky smooth 24-Fret 25.5" Amaranth Fretboard with the Signature Jackson Sharkfin inlays. The neck is a Bolt-on on the Poplar Body. The King V JS32 also features a dual set of Jackson High-Output Humbucking pickups and a sleek 3-way toggle switch you switch between them. One of my favourite specs is the Floyd Rose Licensed Jackson Double-Locking Tremolo bridge.

Right off the Bat, it plays amazing. I use a set of uncoated thinner gauge strings (I forgot what lol) because I built this thing to scream, and scream it does. The thin strings just glide across the fretboard and it makes it super easy to move on them, slides. pinch's and hammer-ons/pull-offs just feel effortless with it. The sound quality is up there too, while it does sound a little tinny even after wearing the strings in, its only really a problem if you're playing unplugged.

Plugged in, The guitar really captures the deep low's and squealy high's with the high-output pickups ; the combination with the floyd makes it perfect for anyone who likes bands like Pantera and Van Halen because its perfect for making those kinda sounds

I bought the V because honestly I was super into my megadeth phase (still am) and I just wanted to be like Dave, to be fair the V is cool as hell

Talking about Dave, heres Holy Wars... the Punishment Due.

I sound like absolute shit and I mess up a few times (accidental harmonic my beloved <3) But I just got off a 7 hour shift and I cant be fucked re-recording, so thanks guy

Anyway if this gets 15 reblog ill play the main riff, and if it gets 30 ill play dave's solo, and I'll make it sound GOOD

[goldrushzukka]

1, 12, 18 🤍

i would do anything for you. you know this.

1. How many words have you written this year?

oh jesus. idk. i had some of aidays10 written already at the start of the year, but including outtakes/edits & my recent work on epilogue and azuki companion fic, id say like 20k? which is not a crazy amount but also it is. my mind.

12. How many WIP’s do you have in your docs for next year?

2 definitely happening next year are aidays epilogue & azuki companion fic. ill see where im at after that, if i want to start another big project or tackle some of my littler ideas.

18. The character that gave you the most trouble writing this year?

tbh jet in aidays10&11. it's the first time ive ever written him, so it was difficult to gauge whether i had his voice/mannerisms/characterisation right, especially with the added layer of AU. he turned out a little bit bitchier than i think he probably should be, but also he was only in like 4 scenes as a plot device so 🤷‍♀️

30. Biggest surprise while writing this year?

honestly the fact that so many people came back to read the finale of aidays. i got a not insignificant number of comments/tags/asks from people who had moved on from atla like 2 or 3 fandoms ago and it was really heartening to know that they cared enough about my work to come back.

[ylojgtr]

ive just been thinking about it so here are my initial thoughts

fucking marrok man. like wtf. i was legitimately excited for this guy, even though he kinda seemed like a one-note character, i was so excited to see what being an inquisitor was like after the empire was defeated, like it's almost a reversal of order 66 and now the hunters become the hunted. and if filoni has proven one thing, it's that making one-note characters more complex is kind of his specialty. but i GUESS NOT

the ahsoka-baylan duel...it was just not enjoyable for me. my interpretation is that they were trying for something similar to what obi-wan and maul did on tatooine in rebels, where they used lightsaber stances as non-verbal communication. in rebels it was obi-wan assuming his prequels/cw pose, then his original trilogy pose, then the pose that qui-gon used when maul killed him. maul thought he could use the same attack he did when he killed qui-gon, and his immediate defeat shows how obi-wan has thought about that day for years and years, and how he's always learning from his past, whereas maul only thinks about his past as a source of anger and motivation for revenge. in ahsoka they might have been using the stances to sort of gauge each other's knowledge of the jedi traditions, and i appreciate the different uses of this heavy reliance on star wars lore, but the payoff doesn't seem so satisfying. ahsoka dismisses talking about her past (and tbf, why wouldnt she, like this guy is trying to start another galaxy wide war) so we don't really get anything out of it all *SO FAR* i really hope the relationship between her and baylan evolves and this lightsaber thing becomes more important, but on the surface right now it just felt like another sorta boring lightsaber fight. but i would absolutely love to hear other people's thoughts on this and ill probably edit this once more people have seen it and posted about it

also where's zeb. we saw him in the mandalorian, we know he's there. where are you hiding him. we know he knows paul sun-hyung lee (i forgot his characters name). he would absolutely have come with hera. also morai

im usually a pretty conservative shipper, like i don't really care about ships (as long as they're ethical lmao) i just don't really engage with that part of fandom. i could get behind luke and ezra being together, there's some cool sun and moon imagery there and they sort of have contrasting stories, as @hashtagloveloses said once. zeb and kallus i don't mind either. but barrissoka is my everything. it is the one ship that i want to see SOOO BADLY FUCCCKK PLEASE DAVE YOU SAID YOU HAVE PLANS FOR BARRISS LIKE TEN YEARS AGO PLEASEE

but yeah shin and sabine would be pretty cool too, there's definitely a lot of tension there and even though we don't know much about her (i really want to learn more) it would be cool to see shin have someone truly care about her, not be her boss or anything, and have sabine learn to lean more into honesty expressing her affection, since she's always been really stoic and i think shin would need that sincerity in a relationship

and i already mentioned anakin in another post but fuck im so happy to see hayden chritsensen again man. even if his story is lackluster (which oh my god i hope it's not) im so happy to see him again ❤️

i also really hope anakin brings up some character development/exploration for ahsoka cause like. what has she been doing. this is probably the biggest problem i have with this show so far, or at least second biggest lmao. i like that they're taking time to explore different characters and relationships in the universe, but i really want to see ahsoka get more time to shine. when put in a leadership position, she's always been a little more serious (character development from that one time she led a while squad to their deaths cause she was careless), like when she was with the younglings when they got their kyber crystals, but that doesn't mean she's invincible/unfeeling. she has lots of feelings about anakin and obi-wan and ezra and sabine, and i really want to see them!! when she said it's better to destroy the map and lose ezra than let thrawn return and start a war, i want to see her struggle with that like sabine does because she misses ezra too! i get that she didn't want to talk about anakin with baylan but let her talk about him with someone else! hopefully her world between worlds experience will help with that. some of the most solid development we've seen with her so far is being upset by how much she's let people down, ie anakin, sabine. and baylan tries to play into that to make her feel bad. i feel like that certainly will be explored more but fuck. it's about time.

i also want to see her relationship with the jedi more fully explored. i had always assumed that, while she was deeply affected by order 66, she didn't regret her decision to leave the jedi order. i thought that barriss had shown her some of the problems with it, and that her supporting the siege of mandalore showed that she was able to pursue what she thought was important, not the jedi order who were being heavily controlled by the senate and the politics of the time. but she seems to feel guilty about the fact that she's not a jedi? that she somehow let them down by not confirming to a system she no longer believed in? idk if i just made that up in my head cause i like to think of it that way and that my hradcanon is interfering with my enjoyment of this show lmao, someone please tell me if it is

another big problem i have with the show so far is how much it relies on the audience being invested in these stories to supply dramatic weight. and i don't mean in the way that it doesn't explain who sabine, ahsoka, hera, jacen, etc. are, this is obviously a show specifically for cw and rebels fans and im all the way here for it. i mean theres very little substance here, it feels like mostly biding time until ezra and thrawn show up. like we're 4 episodes in and we've seen some relationship development for ahsoka and sabine, a bit of hinting at a backstory for baylan, and...a lot of good guy v bad guy race for the special map, which just isn't very enthralling cause we know someone's gonna get to thrawn and ezra, we all saw lars mikkelson in the trailer. what i really want to see developed is his response to him being seen as a sort of messiah that will bring the empire back. or why baylan is so certain thrawn will start another war, or still be loyal to the empire at all with their power, and therefore political value to the chiss, as well as palpatine, who was sort of keeping him in line, gone. i want something substantial out of these stories were invested in, not just fodder for "ooh who are we gonna see next?"

also how much you wanna bet that ahsoka uses the world between worlds to get to thrawn. like its lines and shit appear in the credits so it's probably important

but yeah that's about all im thinking about right now hopefully next episode is crazy, cause it sure is shaping up to be a doozy

[lillified]

Hello!! I really love your work and I'm interested in becoming a story board artist myself and was wondering if you majored in anything specific to become a storyboard artist? Ive done research and ive been told that taking an illustration or Animation major would be the best choice to make and im stuck between the two,, what do you think would be the better decision?

hey!! uhh, I’m probably not the best person to ask because a) I’m still VERY green and I absolutely do not want to assume too much expertise and b) I didn’t go to college!! haha!! so this is like. the opposite of my ballpark lol

BUT I guess the moral of the story I can kinda give both from listening to other more seasoned storyboard artists/mentors and my own experience is: it’s not really required??

school can be helpful for multiple reasons: firstly, it CAN (big emphasis on that can) give you a more streamlined general access to the knowledge that you need, which independent study doesn’t always afford. I’ve been able to progress pretty far without instruction, but having a good mentor will help you skip past a LOT of the tedium of hunting for it and hopefully make you more confident in your own abilities (one of my biggest issues in the professional sphere has been decision paralysis! because I’ve been given a lot of freedom to do things but I am very bad at gauging my own skill! it sucks! having some sort of certification and not going immediately from being in high school to working probably would have made things easier!). Another benefit of going to school is, obviously, the CONNECTIONS. If you go to the right school chances are youre gonna be in the same class as a bunch of other future people in the industry, and that will help you out majorly in the long run! point being: there are benefits!

that being said, there ARE downsides. obviously school is expensive, AND if you don’t go to a GOOD school then you probably aren’t gonna get, like, ANY of those aforementioned benefits. it’s not the fault of educators in those spaces, the way the industry works and the way our school system works just makes it incredibly hard to get a good, industry-ready art education at any old school.

also, art in general is not one of those jobs where getting a degree makes you arbitrarily qualified, which is one of the big scams of the whole thing. your WORK is the end all be all, and the only way your work is gonna be up to snuff is if you do more work. getting a good mentor can really help, but plenty of people go to college and get an art degree just to get a degree and then graduate realizing they barely got to actually focus on the type of art they’re supposed to have in their portfolio for the job they want!

so while I can’t really give you advice on the specific thing you actually asked for (so sorry lol i realize how dumb that is) I think that you should do research on what your college of choice offers and what specific things you’re going to learn, and then evaluate which major will best align with your field of choice! every program is different and every school is different. get the most bang out of your buck if you do intend to go to college, and know that the resources are out there for you to learn on your own! look for something that enhances your work and doesn’t detract from it :)

[sleevesareforlosers]

hello hope ur doing well!!! are u knitting anything exciting??

HI MATT IM GOOD HOPE YOU ARE TOO!!!!!

im still working away at this lace hood ive had on the needles for like....... almost a year now....... but i think im within 2/3 to 3/4 done on it so THATLL BE NICE. might even have it done in time for the weather itll be useful in. but other than that (and a potholder i dont have the right yarn for) i dont have any projects on the go atm. i finished a pair of socks that were my backstage project at the last show i worked and i just need to get around to weaving in the ends and washing them and theyll be fully complete.

i do have an upcoming project that a friend is spinning the yarn for rn and then im gonna make a little cowl/scarf thing with it which im REALLY excited for. i got a sample of the yarn a bit ago to play around with the gauge and see how i liked the feel and its literally soooo so soft (wool/silk blend) and warm i cant WAIT

BUT atm i am more focused on these quilts im making to (hopefully) sell so the knitting is more of a like. keeping my hands busy while i watch stuff project.

what about you what do you ahve in the pipeline???