#i got tired of the idea and aborted it but you can see where it's going

[septusuki]

They call themselves whalers. They make jokes, name themselves Ahab, and cackle as they peruse their selection of harpoons. It is some kind of farce; their line of work. A long, drawn-out stageplay, where nothing can go right, and everything is ten times as cruel as it ought to be.

"So," Captain Ahab smirks into the camera. She's recording a documentary, with the help of her crew. "the first step, is to prep the virus harpoons." She laughs, letting her arms span wide as she purrs over her barely-mobile cart of weapons. Each one is the size of a titanic syringe, big enough to inject enough sludge into anything that it'd kill it flat. At least a dozen, all knocked in place and standing at attention, almost like clubs in a golf-caddy.

"There's one!" Ahab's assistant calls out from camera-left, her oculars zoomed in ten-times, so she can pry their prey from the background. "White whale, spotted five clycks to the south." Crossing her arms, the spotter is content in her work. She watches with baited breath as the overeager mech lopes through the tall grass, and out of tree cover. Her smile twists in on itself, growing smugger and more violent by the second.

"Confirmed." A second spotter relays, connecting their HDMI cable to a larger VLC display, and making the little mech massive on the medium-sized theatre screen. Two legs. Chaingun platform. Scout unit. Each feature of their whale-sized prey is picked out and pointed at by the screen's in-built program. Made fun of, and preened over like a cut of meat. "We'll intersect with it in ten minutes." Spotter-2 nods, clapping their companion on the back; a job well-done. The documentary is going to be perfect, regardless of whether anyone cares to watch it.

CHUNK!

While the spotters are celebrating, Ahab primes the harpoons. They lock in, sinking slightly into their separate firing stations, and squealing into activation as they load up with terabytes of scrapcode and malware. "Ten minutes, then she's done for." She growls, so easily taking the moniker of an apex predator, even when faced with a mech two-hundred times heavier than her. Ahab has the gusto of a real whaler, a real pirate. She'd have been exalted, two thousand years ago. Now, though, she's a bylaw away from being called a petty criminal. Preying on PMCs, and uneducated pilots. "We track 'er down, we take 'er down." Pumping a fist as she recites her mantra, Ahab clicks her bike on, after making sure the harpoon-cart is attached, even if it's only by a flimsy chain-link.

After letting the camera-drone onto the back of her bike, there is a near-raucous cry from a half-dozen other operatives. To war, then. To their war, which we shall so gladly scavenge the prizes of.

[jweekgoji]

can a Resquest of TFO Sentinel prime with Cybertronian femme reader, that the reader is pregnant and that is her conjux

TFO!Sentinel/Femme!Reader [hcs]

tw: accidental pregnancy, established relationships, Sentinel is a jerk (as usual), yandere!Sentinel, possessive behavior, very brief mention of abortion, narcissistic!Sentinel, OOC (?). terms used: sire - a father, sparkling - a child. word count: 840 words. a/n: the tw sounds scary but it was funny to write.

Oooh no, poor thing, how did you manage to get pregnant by this guy out of everyone? During one of your shared moments of intimacy, you both found out that none of you have any protection! And you two can't get your servos off each other because everything just feels too good, too right? Don't worry, Sentinel is fast enough not to finish inside you, trust him (never trust him with this).

Jokes aside, in my opinion - Sentinel is not a family person at all. Firstly, he's too busy for something insignificant as a family, and secondly, that would mean you are going to pay less attention to him. A whiney, loud, crying mess of a cybertronian is just not something he would dream of.

So if you do end up being pregnant, it was probably an accident.

I imagine Sentinel being a total dumbass about it. Not because he's uneducated about pregnancy, of course not. He's just used to getting laid with one bot and another without any consequences. Usually they don't call back, and even if they do, who the hell would believe them? Sentinel Prime accidentally knocked you up? Sure, we all trust you, hun.

However, he can't just dismiss his own conjunx. That's the moment where he needs a good amount of time to process everything. Sentinel hates the idea that he would not be able to bring you to every fancy meeting, showing you around for everyone to see like you're his luxury item, something everyone can watch but can't touch. Then, he would have to sacrifice his moments of intimacy with you, since you would be too tired, not in the mood, and dangerous for the sparkling.

His possessiveness over his conjunx is incredibly high and even ridiculous. Sentinel probably keeps you in your shared berthroom more than usual, which at first might sound sparkwarming and very caring of him. Like aww, he wants you to rest and not bother about a thing! He's such a good conjunx. In reality, Sentinel is searching through various doctors on Iacon, the ones he can bribe, so not a single word comes out of the room. He doesn't want his people to talk about his personal life behind his back.

Sentinel, obviously, also makes sure no one but him knows about it. Maybe Airachnid gets to know too, but it's not like you can keep something from her, the spider lady most likely knows about your early signs of pregnancy faster than everyone. Faster than Sentinel, lol.

During the early stages of your pregnancy, Sentinel is pretty stressed out himself, even though he doesn't show it at all. Because, what do you mean, he is going to be a sire? When you actually tell him this, he would loudly laugh in your face. You're totally joking, are you? Wait, why aren't you laughing? ...Oh.

When he realizes it's not a joke, that's where he gets serious. I am not going to sugarcoat it, since he might think about getting rid of it. Quietly and painlessly, it is early enough for the process to go smoothly. No one gets to know about it, and by the end of it, you will go back «to normal», and that's perfect for him.

But the more he thinks about it, the more he gets conflicted. What if someone finds out? Sentinel Prime, the great leader of Iacon, got rid of his own sparkling? He can already taste the bitterness on his glossa, when he reads the articles, various comments, his ratings and support from the parties are getting lower and lower. What a nightmare.

But when Sentinel sees you, sleepily wrapping your servos around his arm, nuzzling against his shoulder, so close to him that he can almost hear the faint beat of a spark inside you, he decides to keep it.

He grows prideful through some amount of time. His conjunx, carrying his sparkling. Sentinel sees his sparkling as something of his own too, just like you are his.

It is too early to think about his sparkling being the next ruler of Iacon, his heir, since, well, Sentinel doesn't plan on leaving anytime soon, but he does like the idea of making a tiny some-sort-of-royal-family of his.

For everyone else, Sentinel Prime is the best sire anyone dreams to get. Why wouldn't he, if he's their protective, hardworking leader? In public, this tiny, soon to be growing family is a role model of how every family on Cybertron should be. Inside the closed doors, what you have is not what someone would call «perfect». Sentinel might claim that he loves you, he genuinely loves you and his sparkling, but you would never tell if he's pretending or not. You might just believe him with this one.

[sevensistersofsussex]

Would you ever write a fic a la NoImKillingBoys’s where Elena snorts a miracle baby? There so much to sort thru with pregnancy and female gender expectations in the tvdverse, but I feel like pro choice isn’t really delved into in many fics much?

if not do you know any similar ones to rec?

Oh!

That is very interesting to me. Because you are very right that there is such an expectation of gender performance in the tvdverse. It's just expected that Caroline will carry the twins because she's a good person and good people have children.

This does give me an idea and it would likely be a one shot but I do like the idea of Elena coming back from the dead to see her last living parent sacrificing his life for her and now she's got a drunk history teacher as a parent figure and oh, also her boyfriend left her to sacrifice himself for his brother. And she's just...exhausted and so done. So she indulges in living in the now with her new life but god she's resentful and angry and petty. She wants to be grateful and be the charming, compassionate girlfriend on a hopeless quest to save Stefan but she can't cause she's so fucking angry that this is her life. Then....her period is late. And it's even later and it's definitely not the stress but maybe her body is weird now cause of the whole being dead thing except after dozens of tests she knows it isn't. She's pregnant and yeah...she doesn't even know the father and she can't imagine bringing a baby into this world. She'd never even really thought about being a parent and especially not now. And she's thinking of all the things she'd been willing to give up when she agreed to be sacrificed and it's hitting her now all the things she'd give up if she goes through with this pregnancy. She's not even thinking about dooming another doppelganger to her fate she's just thinking that she doesn't want to take care of anyone else. She's tired of taking care of everyone else. She wants to live and not for this imaginary baby but for herself. So....when Klaus comes to town she makes a dangerous agreement. He helps her with the abortion and in exchange, she gets to live whatever life she wants. It's risky but if she isn't so convincing about it. It's not another doppelganger he needs after all, it's her. Her blood. Not anyone else's and after all, pregnancy is dangerous. Would he be willing to risk it for the potential of another doppelganger years down the line? One that might not even work with the hybrids. He concedes. She gets the procedure. Elena Gilbert has never felt more free, more alive. She was meant to die in that car crash with her parents and that weight has been hanging around her neck for the last year. And maybe she did die. Maybe she's different now. Because that Elena would have sacrificed everything and this Elena....this Elena just wants to live.

Aaaand I'm back - I think you are right. Pro choice isn't a main theme in a lot of fics and I don't know of many that boldly go where the brilliant noimkillingboys (@jennifersminds) does and write about Elena making the choice to terminate.

The closest I can think of is Baby It's Cold Outside by @katherineholmes because most of the fics I've read have her feeling anxious but mostly uncomplicated about it. It's not as straightforward about snorting (? please feel free to explain this in an ask if you'd like because google was useless...) a miracle baby but the discussions to come up. It's not a given for Elena that she'd carry it and she does consider her options.

That said, if anyone else has any recommendations of similar fics, please comment! I'd love to read them along with anon.

[yelenapines]

vent bcs i am abt to commit murder what the fuck

cw: swearing, homophobia, vent

oh my fucking GOD. WHAT THE FUCK. WHAT THE ACTUAL GODDAMNED FUCK. I AM. WHAT.

so i'm minding my business, going on about my day. it's lunch time, i'm eating with my "friends" and then they suddenly go, all concerned "Ines. (thts my name). 😐We saw a pin saved on your pinterest😐. saying that everyone should be gay.🥺 something about god saying eveyone should be gay.🥺" (for context, i think they're talking abt a video of a girl obviously JOKING saying that you should be gay because then you don't have to abort. (was satire on "Christian" logic. She was so obviously joking i can't omfg)) anyways. so internally i'm like here we fucking go. bcs ik my "friends" and i know where these convos usually go "wHy DoN't YoU lIkE gUyS" and shit like that. Obvi at first i'm like calm. I tell them it's a joke. then friend to my right goes super serious and shaking her head like "It wasn't a joke. it wasn't" (again, it was a joke). so i'm like for your own sake i'm gonna stop you from continuing right there. So then i'm kinda bothered by this as i continue eating bcs like. IT'S A FUCKING JOKE HOW STUPID CAN YOU BE. so I get up and✨leave✨ to the library. and then for the rest of the day they're MAD AT ME and IGNORE ME. I'm sorry but do you realize how fucking stupid you're acting? Like bbg. I'm sorry a gay joke offended you🥺 next time i won't have gay jokes saved to my pinterest only HETEROSEXUALITY ND THE GOOD FAITH IN OUR LORD AMEN FUCK GAY PEOPLE (/sar!) ok aside from that. why were you stalking me weirdos??  i find it hilarious that this whole conversation got to exist because it must have been something like this. "Ahhhh I'm bored what should we do?" "Hey let's stalk Ines's pinterest😄"  "Great idea! We definitely don't act liike toddlers!!😆😆"  *sees video. everything in life crashes down. the world turns dark. there is only despair, dishonnor and betrayal. life is over and joy is no more* "😰😰😰" "*tearing up* we need to talk to her. this is such a serious matter and concern worthy 🥺. we have to rid her from this DEMON. to the extortion room!" and then sat down at lunch looked me dead in the eye and asked about it. I'm actually lmfao right now i- Bae. (not my bae) I. I am speechless. I am FLABBERGASTED. HOW- how would you see a joke abt how everyone should be gay and take it so seriously😭. do you genuinely think that we're actually gonna convert everyone to be gay and cause extinction?? 💀 HOW. they took it so to heart i'm dead 😭😭.  dk why you were so concerned and later on deathstaring and ignoring me but have fun at being mad ig. you sound ridiculous and like a 5 year old. also do you know how fucking ANNOYING it is that my ONE friend who's not homophobic or makes weird comments or questions is the one friend who keeps hurting me and I need to cut off. And guess what? I would rather be her friend ANYTIME. if i had to choose, she would be first choice, without question. i am sick and tired and would be better off without any of you bitch ass motherfuckers. 

I hope you enjoyed our friendship and when i was there for you. Have a nice life.

[weirdthoughtsandideas]

I talked about this like... 2-3 years ago, but in Glee, we've had 4 people who have been actually pregnant (Quinn, Sue, Emma and Rachel) and two who have thought to be pregnant but weren't (Brittany and Rachel).

Now, I had this idea... what if both Brittany and Rachel actually turned out to be pregnant those times it turned out their were not?

I'm thinking this scenario where the show tackles three unplanned pregnancies with teens, and they all have different outcomes.

Quinn ends up pregnant, and puts her baby up for adoption.

If Brittany turned out to actually be pregnant, I think she'd be the one to keep the baby to raise.

And if Rachel turned out to actually be pregnant, she'd have an abortion.

I know for a fact that just with Sue's daughter, Brittany's child would possibly just disappear and not be mentioned for longer periods of times. That's Glee for you. However, Brittany still lives at home and thus we can assume that while she's at school, maybe her parents are helping to take care of her baby, or the baby is at daycare. Or Lord Tubbington is the babysitter.

Either how, Brittany being pregnant could also cause some drama. Artie would most likely be the father, and it could cause a lot of arguments between them. Also, Santana wants to be with Brittany obviously, and if I know my girl, Santana would be like "Brittany, you and me run away, we raise this baby together, let's go". The baby would be born sometime in early S3; and it is another reason to Brittany having to repeat senior year, because during S3, even if the baby is not present in every episode, they are mentioned constantly. Brittany is tired, she's a new mom, and she will absolutely make the most odd comments about it because she is Brittany. I think, just like how she treats Artie later in the show, she also this time legit forgets they ever dated. I think that he's sort of an absent father, but occasionally he checks in. Maybe he uses their kid in one of his short films, or is seen cuddling with them on occasion. However, I honestly believe that Santana has decided to be a self-proclaimed second mother to this child. I bet she's even actively trying to convince them from birth that Brittany got pregnant by her and not a boy. I imagine shortly after the baby is born, Artie is sort of wanting to at least connect with them a little bit. He's not into Brittany anymore but yk, he wants to at least see the little one. And then this happens:

Artie, rolling up to Brittany and Santana: Where are you going now? Brittany: Oh, to my house. Why? Artie: Can I come with you? Santana: We're gonna be kinda busy, four-eyes. We have a child waiting for us at home that we need to take care of. Artie: Yes, that's why I wanted to come along. I want to see my child. Brittany: But... you said you weren't ready to be a father. Artie: I know, but... I still want to spend some time with them. Santana: Sorry, but you're too late. This child doesn't have a father. They have two moms now. Artie: But- Brittany, shrugging: Sorry, Artie, Santana called dibs. - The girls walk away - Santana, in the distance: I should get a breast pump so I can breastfeed, too. Brittany: Good idea!

Now, this sounds absolutely ridiculous, I know. But remember that this is Glee, where weirder things have happened, so if this happened, it could absolutely have been played out like this. I also think that in later seasons, her kid sometimes just hangs out in her room, maybe is included randomly next to Lord Tubbington during Fondue for two, and maybe is seen dancing at the wedding in S6.

But... while that storyline would be all funky, a bit weird but also a bit wholesome, if Rachel turned out to be pregnant in S4, I am a bit eerie how well they would have made an abortion storyline. Cause to me, that's the road I felt like they were heading on if she had turned out to be pregnant. And Glee, while it can be absolutely insane, can also at times tackle serious subjects. It's just the question if they always can tackle it well. Sometimes they can, sometimes they can't.

I think, for Rachel's character, an abortion storyline could be a good character progression for her. But knowing the show, what could happen would be that they had a good episode of her struggling, having lots of emotional moments and talks about it, and then end the episode of her going to have the abortion, probably with some very touching song sung in the background. But then they'd just forget about it in the next episode, acting like nothing happened. Or they would totally screw it up. Actually, maybe it was good that they never tackled it...

Now, these were just ideas I had on what could happen if the two characters who thought they were pregnant but weren't actually were, and how I think that would have gone.

Also I don't count Bree thinking she was pregnant in that one episode because Bree is a very uninteresting character to begin with.

[arabellasleopardcoat]

My thoughts on Episode 4 SPOILERS AHEAD!!!

Shorter episode today!!! Nice

Daemon hallucinating again. Murdering young Rhaenyra.

Simon Strong being awfully efficient. He looks so done

Daemon asking poor baby Tully into kinslaying.

How interesting, Rhaenys jealous? Alyn is Corlys’?

Alicent lying about moontea. The dress is gorgeous. She is having doubts about Viserys naming Aegon heir. Oh, so the tea is not merely a contraceptive but an abortive. I find it very interesting it can have both properties in the same universe (Showcased by Rhaenyra and Alicent), way better than ours.

Baela and Jace are such a power couple. So are Rhaenys and Corlys.

Criston Cole executing people. You go Lord Darklyn! I swear I do not want to come across as a Black supporter, but Criston doesn't make it easy.

The tension between Aemond and Aegon. And Aemond flexes his High Valyrian, making him look bad. The plotting between Aemond and Criston is really setting up for Aegon to believe he is being betrayed, which gives me a bad feeling about what will happen. Aegon really wants to be seen as a competent King, he doesn’t know HV.

Larys catches Alicent red handed. Alicent refusing to acknowledge it. Hilarious.

Daemon keeps on hallucinating. This time, he chases himself as Aemond and stumbles into Alys workshop. I love her set up, and her already. She is so witchy and has the weirdest lines. She speaks nothing but truths, and I love her sarcasm. It is as I imagined her and more.

Daemon is showing the wonders of sleep deprivation. He sees Laena.

Finally someone speaks about feeding dragons.

Division between Aegon and Alicent, finally. Her doubts are showing, and her asking Aegon to do nothing seems to shatter him. She thinks him worthless.

Criston es a pilas, como diríamos en español. This man never tires. Gwayne being the voice of reason, incredible.

Jace versus Rhaenyra. Nice! I love seeing Jace arguing with her. He has chronic eldest child syndrome.

Rhaenys volunteers for Rook’s Rest. Oh. Aegon, at the same time, chooses to do something rash. Drinking before dragonriding seems like an awful idea. Jace finally learns of The Song of Ice and Fire.

Cole had a plan. He might get back into my good graces. Rhaenys gets her Dracarys once for all. I’m laughing so hard at seeing Aegon steal Aemond’s thunder. Cole is furious, and his battle cry is boring. Oh god, Aegon doesn’t know shit, Rhaenys is handing his ass to him. Finally, Vhagar is here. Did he? Oh he did! Mad, awful Aemond burning both of them. They are giving the victory not to teamwork, but Aemond alone which sucks but is very in line with the relationship they portrayed between the brothers. I don't like it, but it works. It's consistent with the writing. Aemond has gone off the rails this episode.

Rhaenys is a queen. She is so dignified and fearless even in a suicide mission. I love how she straps herself to Meleys and chooses to die with her girl. Surprisingly, they make it only to get jumpscared by Vhagar and fall to their deaths. I felt for her. Never was a GOT character more dignified. Aemond, of course, is an anime villain.

Criston sorts of deserves it. Poor horse. Show us Aegon!!! Where is he!!! Criston survived but what of Gwayne and Aegon!!! Everything burns, was Aemond seriously about to murder Sunfyre or Aegon? Thank god for Criston.

I am sure Aemond feels King already.

[gust-jar-simulator]

Decided to write a crazy thing for the hell of it. Tool Gods AU, what if Vier got summoned by Twilight Princess Zelda between games.

I am sleep deprived and haven’t eaten dinner so that MAY affect my writing. We will see.

•🔮🌒⚠️🌘🔮•

It felt terribly unnatural to have hands of their own.

Vier grunted lowly, a strangely organic sound, and pinched the bridge of their nose between foreign fingers. There was… stone? And magic. Even without looking, runes and lines of power carved through the floor beneath them, almost uncomfortably hot.

That’s what tipped them over into opening their eyes. Heat was an odd thing to complain about, considering they’d been in volcanoes, and something about the magic tasted stranger still. Not earth, or fire, or anything familiar, but the searing line of sunset or dawn. A liminal, divine thing.

They blinked, and were in a castle, seated on the floor before a princess.

I know you.

Kneel? Stand? Sit? Vier ran through three aborted moves and settled on a tailor’s seat, bandaged hands clasping their ankles as their back straightened. They’d never been polite before, but they also couldn’t tear their eyes away from just underneath the princess’s heart.

I know you.

A long, long time ago, before they’d even been the Four Sword, a little boy had gripped their hilt and wielded a gem of pure light. They’d wondered where it went, after effectively carving it out of Vaati’s throat last time.

“Hello,” said someone attached to the light, and Vier tilted their head.

The someone cleared their throat, and Vier wrenched their eyes away to actually see the shape of Hylian ears and long dark hair. They hummed, because they were a sword, and what else could they reasonably do?

The princess managed a masterfully subtle sigh, and clasped her hands together. She looked… not old, not tired, but… eroded, almost. Too strong for her skin. “My name is Zelda, princess of Hyrule. I have summoned you from the Sacred Realm to answer some questions regarding the Hero of Courage and his rebirth through time. May I ask what to call you?”

Call them?

Summoned?

Apparently their mouth understood how to make the words, because it punched out of them like force jewels. “What- you can hear me? Summon me?”

The princess paused for a brief, but notable, moment. “Yes, you’ve been given enough magic to maintain a body during our discussion. My spell was unspecific, but requested the presence of a hero’s guide, either past or future. Before you was a golden wolf, if that clarifies things, though it was disinclined to talk.”

It absolutely did not, but that was fine. Vier squeezed their ankle- squeezed their own ankle!- and marveled at the feel of fabric on skin. It was a bit different from their usual self-image, more outfitted for travel than the typical nothingness of a spirit’s existence. A belt, a pouch, a greatkilt in pastel colors like waterfall spray. They turned their head, and the heavy weight of a braid brushed against their back.

Adventure.

They hummed, a delighted inhuman chime like whistling steel, and lounged back against the binding runes with a laugh. “Well then, Zelda,” and they knew that name like they knew the leylines of the earth, “I’ve never been called by name before. Are you certain your spell summons guides?”

“Yes.” Less flappable than most. Very interesting. Her expression didn’t even move. “If you have ever worked with a hero, then that is why you would be here.”

Running a quicksilver tongue over the edge of teeth- they had teeth!- Vier rolled the idea around curiously. They’d known a guide, of course. Small wonder the spell hadn’t hunted down Ezlo. But time was strange, and the golden power of the princesses was strange with time in turn. It would have to be, to reach into the Sacred Realm and pull something out untainted by twilight, in this age. But what a strange definition of guide.

They glanced over her shoulder, because interest in the small square of sky out the window was easier than thinking of where they’d been. “I have worked with… several heroes, I suppose. Four? Ten? Something like that.” The Sacred Realm thrummed in the background of their thoughts, a tether to something that made as much sense as it didn’t. The binding spell gave strange clarity to the pull, and they grimaced slightly. “I will have another, eventually. Or I have. Or I am. Linear time is horrible, I don’t know how you stand it.”

“With great patience.” The very edge of her impassive expression lit with a shadow of amusement, and she took a seat in a chair she’d apparently brought over for the purpose. “I apologize if existence is… disorienting. I take it you don’t manifest like this typically.”

“Light, no. I’m a weapon.” They held up a hand. “And, before you ask, I’m not that weapon. Whatever that weapon is. Ask me your questions and let me go, I’ve a promise to keep.”

“Very well.” She tilted her head, mimicking them. “What weapon are you, then?”

“The Four Sword,” and it came with the weight of magic and meaning, lifetimes of blood and jewels and a small smithy’s hand. They looked her in the eye. “Vaati’s Bane, and the hope of the Minish people.”

They could see her taking mental notes, but she reached for no pen. “The hero of the current era is the Hero of Twilight, and before him was the Hero of Time. Do you know them?”

Not theirs. They raised an unimpressed brow at her. “Why should I care, they never held me.” Something… flickered, though, in that odd nonlinear space where memories should sit, and they frowned. “I might know a mirror of Twilight, if that helps you at all. I think… people have forgotten what it was, if it was ever something. Demons feed on it now. Or they will.”

The princess’s hand clenched on her skirt, and she said nothing for a long moment. Then, quietly, she cleared her throat. “Then you may not know, but I must ask: do you know what opens the mirror again? What becomes of it? Or who comes after the Hero of Twilight?”

The last one, surprisingly, was the easiest to answer. Vier felt exhausted, but gave her a shrug anyway. “None of my heroes succeed yours. Or at least they don’t share blood. I’ve tasted it, and I would know- the very air here reeks of twilight, it would be under their skin. They might be after him in time, but not in spirit.” They tilted their head back, reached into the aether a little more, pushing at the dreamy edges. “The Hero of Twilight…. an old wolf will hunt with the young dead, where the dragon eats its own tail.” A blink. A shift in their seat. “That’s all that makes sense. Remembering the future comes out in prophecy, it seems, and the rest is nonsense about boars and flowers.”

Frowning at her lap, the princess absorbed that, before nodding. “It is… more helpful than I expected, but also less. That does tend to be the way of prophecy, though.”

“I hate prophecy,” Vier added in a stunning moment of personal opinion. “but thankfully there aren’t any about me. Just a simple problem and a simple solution: stick it with the pointy end.” Their face screwed up sourly. “Or it would be simple. I love my heroes, but they can be very stubborn.”

She actually laughed, short and quickly muffled by a gloved hand, eyes glimmering. “Heroes being stubborn? How very unexpected.”

“Yes, yes, laugh at them, I certainly do.” Vier stretched a little, curious about the weight of muscle and bone, thinking through the rest of her questions. “I don’t know what opens the mirror, but it involves a demon called Ganon. As for what becomes of it….” Flickers, flashes. A surprisingly warm hand. A hammer. The ragged edge of grief in a strained throat. For the first time, resenting the light.

They shook it off, and offered an even smaller shrug. “Heartbreak. I think. I’m not sure your Hylian has the words for it. And it will… it.” Vier could remember, almost, the first time they heard someone stutter. The new perspective on it twinged an old wound. “I’m not sure, but I think it’s sealed with me.” They tried to remember more, anything, but there was a terrifying empty howl where the Sacred Realm dug claws of memory and they didn’t want to know what it meant.

“…I see.” Maybe she did. Maybe she didn’t. Princess Zelda looked at them with something terrifyingly like kindness and they glared at the bandages around their hands instead. Vier knew kindness in the form of apologizing to no one as their magic swelled the edges of a brittle Hylian soul. Vier knew the kindness of a scalpel, of a bone saw, of leather to bite instead of the hero’s own tongue. They made their heroes bleed gemstones just so they wouldn’t have to feel bitter organic iron ground into their hilt wrappings again. The gods were kind. Prophecy, full of hope, was kind.

They took a deep, shaking breath, and wondered if people still shared kinstones these days. The jagged crack in their magic was esoteric and hard to match, but somehow- stupidly, insanely- they’d been matched four times by now, three more than they’d ever imagined.

Vier made a promise to a dying boy, once. Maybe they could make a promise to a boy who hadn’t lived yet.

They patted down their thighs, got their knees under them, and stood like a real person in the presence of someone who might possibly understand, looking at her head on. “You want to help the next hero. The Hero of Twilight’s successor is not next, but if you want to do something- anything- my boys will need it. You dragged me into this world, and I can see the goddess on you. Someday my seal is going to break. If you have regrets, if you want to do a good deed, if you recognize that you owe me something, then please.” They stepped right up to the edge of the binding circle, and laid a hand on the shimmering shield of magic in the air, barring them from leaving. “Be it magic, be it knowledge, be it prophecies, help them in a way I can’t. I know your name, Zelda of Hyrule. I have known it, and I will know it again. You have been frozen, and stolen, and sacrificed, and sealed, whether you remember it or not. Leave something for the you who comes. Leave something for her knights.” They shook, and shook, and curled their hand into a fist. “Because I was never meant to work alone, I was part of a set, and since the very first of my heroes I have been missing my shield. I can’t protect them anymore. I can only strike first.”

It was incredibly gratifying to have her meet them eye to eye, and she answered with the only words they could have ever accepted. “Then we will strike first. The royal bloodline specializes in seals- I will see what I can do.”

I know you.

I really, truly know you.

Light, they’d never been so relieved to be right.

><><><><

I have some theories on the Picori Blade and the Light Force. We don’t get a lot, which means I get to go wild.

Also if you’re curious about my take on the reincarnation cycle: the heroes of the Four Sword are kind of a different strain from the heroes of the Master Sword, but the twain do meet. To make a long story short, the successor of the hero from FSA is the hero from Hyrule Warriors. My reasoning? Whatever the hell happened to rip Ganon in four pieces.

I will be expanding on that idea in canon proper.

[theivorybilledwoodpecker]

^^^THIS

People need to break out of this fairy tale morality where the "good guys" never ever get angry or do anything harmful to the bad guys. That if a person harms a single hair on an evil person's head, both are equally evil.

This theory is built into the idea that "good" victims just sit there and take it.

This mentality is responsible for:

Rapists and murderers getting out of jail, while their victims and the families of their victims live in fear and anger. Without fail, no matter how horrific the crime, people will say, "But they've changed! Shouldn't we try to reform people?" And then the rapist or murderer reoffends, and somehow the people who spoke for them don't seem to feel any responsibility.

People calling domestic violence victims "abusers" because they fought back.

Kids being told that no matter how much they're bullied, they can never call the bully mean names or hit them back.

People of color, Jewish people, LGBTQIA+ people, and every other marginalized group being told "it's their right to free speech and protest," when a mob of bigots carrying torches marches through town, spewing slurs as they go.

People keep framing wishing ill on forced birthers as "wishing ill on someone who just has a different opinion."

No. It's not. Maybe a few years ago that would have been the case. But now you cannot say this is "just having a different opinion" or "saying things you don't like."

For one thing "just an opinion" that certain people don't deserve human rights. "Just an opinion" that little girls should be forced to give birth.

But the laws they support, the politicians they vote for...these have hurt so many people. If this was "just an opinion" they had, then the line in the sand was the 10-year-old girl. Why didn't forced birthers change their tune? Where is all the news coverage of the forced birthers protesting to demand exceptions be added for children?

Oh, they didn't protest? They kept on supporting the laws and calling people who got abortions sluts and murderers? Then, no. It's not "just a difference in opinion" or "just words they are saying." Their hands are red.

Anonymous, I'd @ you, but I see you bravely chose to hide your username.

@prettyvintageafternoon Sorry for hijacking your post and going on a rant. I just get really tired of the "if we're all nice to them, they'll be better people mentality."

So you’re just a misogynist then? Wow.

Me not caring about misogynistic women is not misogyny, whether my statement offends your precious morality or not. I did not ask for these abortion bans and I actively predicted the harm they would cause, especially to women who look like me.

Fuck off.

[munson-blurbs]

Oh, Baby (Dad!Eddie x Mom!Reader)

First installment in my Dad!Eddie series. Feedback and suggestions are super appreciated :)

Warnings: language, pregnancy, allusions to sex, allusions to abortion, mentions of Eddie’s deadbeat dad

WC: 1.5k

February 1992

It’s Saturday, a day where you normally slept in, but you’re abuzz with nerves that wake you at 7:00 AM. Your husband, Eddie, sleeps soundly next to you, arms splayed across the pillow and sheets bunched around his waist. His long curly hair is pulled back in a ponytail, though strands have fallen out of the holder in his sleep. He’s oblivious, blissfully unaware of the emotions that pang through your body. For a man who prides himself on being so in tune with you, whose tagline is “I know your body better than you do, babe,” he hasn’t picked up on the fact that you’ve been eating your pasta with butter because you suddenly can’t stand the smell of marinara sauce, or that you come home from work and immediately fall asleep on the couch, or that you didn’t ask him to pick up tampons from the pharmacy next to his record store this month.

You creep out of bed and tiptoe into the bathroom, digging quietly in the back of a drawer where you’ve hidden the EPT box. A few weeks ago, you would’ve been excited at the prospect of being pregnant with Eddie’s baby. Then he’d made an off-handed comment about not wanting to be a dad because he didn’t know how to be one, and that he was happy for it to be just you and him forever.

It’s the longest five minutes of your life, but when your watch finally signals that it’s time to look, you take a deep breath and peer at the counter. 

Two pink lines.

A sob escapes your lips and you clamp a hand over your mouth to keep from waking Eddie. You have no idea what you’re going to do. It feels wrong ending the pregnancy without telling him, but you also don’t want him to feel any pressure to be a dad. His own father had repeatedly told him that he was a mistake, that he was a burden, and you didn’t want to risk repeating the cycle.

You’re still mulling over your options when you hear the sound of footsteps shuffling towards the bathroom door. You cap the test and shove it in the waistband of your underwear, hoping it’s covered by your oversized T-shirt.

Knock knock knock.

“Sweetheart, I gotta come in,” Eddie mumbles sleepily. You can picture him rubbing his eyes and stretching, thinking about injecting caffeine directly into his bloodstream to wake him up. He’d been promoted to manager at the record store, and while the extra income was certainly helpful, it also means he’s a lot busier.

You open the door and smile weakly. He blinks a few times and asks, “Are you crying?”

“Just allergies, I think,” you offer, lying through your teeth.

“In February?”

“Yeah...winter allergies.” It’s pathetic, but luckily he’s still tired enough to leave the matter alone.

“Okay. Go back to sleep and get some rest. You need any medicine or tissues?”

You shake your head and pad on back to bed. The pregnancy test is still pressed up against you, and you shove it under your pillow as soon as you climb under the covers.

~

“Hey, Munson! Got anything new for us to listen to?” Steve Harrington walks into the record store around 11:00 AM, hoisting his son on his hip. “Maybe something with Elmo for Andy to rock out to?” He tickles the toddler, who lets out an excited giggle.

Before Eddie can respond, Andy wriggles out of his father’s grasp and makes a beeline for Eddie, crashing into his legs with a laugh.

“Hey there, bulldozer!” Eddie scoops Andy up as the boy tugs on a lock of his hair. “‘Course I got something for ya! Saved it in the back because I had a feeling Dad would be bringing you by today.” Steve always stopped by on Saturdays. It gave Nancy some time to herself, and Andy loved seeing his Uncle Eddie.

Steve, Eddie, and Andy walk to the back where Eddie’s stashed away a Sesame Street cassette. Andy’s face lights up when he spots the familiar Muppets on the cover. 

“Ed, do you and Y/N wanna swing by later for pizza?” Steve asks. Andy nods his head vigorously, which makes Eddie’s heart melt.

“I’d love to, but Y/N has been real weird about food lately,” he states.

“Weird how?”

“Like she doesn’t really have much of an appetite, and normal foods gross her out. Y’know, all of a sudden I can’t put cream cheese on a bagel because the smell makes her throw up.”

Steve’s eyes widen. “Sounds like she’s pregnant, dude. Nancy had the same thing...I think they’re called aversions?”

Eddie practically falls over. “No, she can’t be...” But then it all clicks into place: the exhaustion, the short tempers, the nausea. “Oh, fu-fudge,” he amends, acutely aware of Andy’s presence. 

Steve laughs and claps Eddie on the back. “Congratulations! Maybe pick up a test for her on your way home.” He notices that his friend is eerily quiet. 

“It’s okay,” he says softly, taking Andy from him. “You’re gonna be a kick-ass dad.”

"No. I’m not,” Eddie argues, trying not to raise his voice. “I don’t even know how to be a dad. Mine jumped ship. Would rather rot in prison than raise his own kid.”

Steve sighs and tells Andy to go sit on the couch for a few minutes. “Listen, Eddie,” he starts. “You are not your dad. Not even close. You have a job that you like and you’re great at. You’re kind and patient with your wife. And, don’t tell Dustin, but I’m pretty sure you’re Andy’s favorite uncle.”

That elicits a small chuckle from Eddie, but he’s still ambivalent. “Sure, I can be a good uncle. But taking care of my own kid? That’s...terrifying.”

“Y’know, Munson, a few years ago, I also would’ve been terrified at the idea of you being a dad,” Steve jokes lightly, “but now? Seeing who you’ve become? You went from slacker metalhead to...well, responsible metalhead. And while your old man ran away from the challenges of fatherhood, you’re gonna stick around and fight like hell for your kid. I guarantee it.”

~

Saturdays at the store usually fly by, busy with customers, but today’s shift seemingly dragged on forever. Before jumping into his van and racing home to you, Eddie pops into the drugstore next door and grabs a pregnancy test. His hands are shaking as he counts out the change at the register. 

He finds you at home, asleep on the couch with reruns of some black-and-white show playing on the TV in front of you. He loves the coziness of the apartment that he calls home. You’re what makes it ‘home.’

Where are we gonna fit a baby? Eddie wonders silently before gently rocking you awake. “Babe, can I ask a favor?”

“Mm, Eds, too tired,” you think he’s asking for something sexual as you curl up into the blanket.

“No, no. Not that.” You hear the sound of a plastic bag and see that he pulls out an EPT box identical to the one you’d hidden in the bathroom. “Can you just take this for me real quick?” You seem confused, so he explains. “I was telling Steve about how you haven’t been feeling well, and he thought...maybe...” he trails off, shoving the box towards you.

“I’m not taking that,” you declare adamantly, determined to get back to your nap.

“Please, Y/N? Just so we know.”

“I already know,” you snap without thinking. “I’m pregnant. I have a doctor’s appointment next week to confirm and discuss my options, okay?”

“Y-you’re...wait, options?” He sits down next to you, rubbing your calf with his thumb.

You force yourself to sit up, and it takes all of your energy. “I know you don’t wanna be a dad, Eddie. I wasn’t gonna say anything until I was sure, but I’m not going to keep a baby that you don’t want. That won’t be fair to any of us.”

Tears pool in his eyes. “Listen, I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t scared to death about having a baby. But I talked to Steve, and he helped me realize that I’m not like my own dad. If anything, I’m like Wayne, just looking out for the little lost sheep of the world. I want our place to be where our kid’s friends can come to be safe and just relax, maybe play a little D&D...” he smiles as he kisses your lips softly. “Our home isn’t going to be one to run away from. It’s gonna be the one people run to.”

You grab his hand and look deep in his big brown doe eyes. “So...we’re doing this? We’re actually going to bring a little Munson into the world?”

Eddie kisses you harder this time, gently placing his hand on your stomach. “I’m all in.”

[mediocre-daydreams]

hello 🫶🏻🫶🏻 can i req a peter parker x stark!reader who r also bffs (with feelings 4 eachother) where both of them have this little game they like to play with eachother where they make up like insane conversations and the other has to follow along until they get tired ?? like “oh you look fine even though you got stabbed by an alien yesterday” “u dont look too shabby for someone who had to give birth to a baby” IDK like anything u want but they didnt know that their conversations were getting overheard by the other avengers and once the avengers come together and talk about it they’re like wait.. why the fuck does it sound like [] have two children at home and are secretly married IDK ANYTHING U WANT BUT AS CRAZY AS POSSIBLE i love crack fics

TYSM <33

— 🦜

i've been putting this off bc i love the idea and want it to be perfect so i stayed up late last night and in my delirious haze i came up with some dialogue prompts and i woke up this morning and found it in my notes so here's the beaut! i lowkey love it thank you 🦜 !!

𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐠𝐚𝐦𝐞

peter parker x stark! reader

summary: at first, you and peter were like "let's see who can uphold the most ridiculous conversations," but bro... you don't think the sexual tension is a joke anymore, and neither do the other avengers.

w/c: 3.1k

notes: crack crack crack, fluff, swearing, many sexual innuendos (and also just jokes about sex outright) and swears (c'mon it's me), mentions of abortions and roe v wade in a humorous context, murder, cannibalism, and foot fetishes in a humorous context, one "ur mom" joke, if it sounds crazy that's because it is crazy and i think u should just read it already

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

you and peter’s friendship was anything but normal. well, you supposed, nothing could ever be normal for the two of us. peter’s an arachnid abomination and i’m the daughter of an egotistical billionaire who cosplays as a flying suit.

there were two ways in which your relationship was unusual. one: the practically nonexistent line between platonic and romantic, which everybody just always had to point out. the two of you had always been a bit touchy-feely—to be fair, mostly with each other, but were you really to blame? you were stuck in a tower full of traumatized assassins, spies, and people in metal suits; it wasn’t like there was any good cuddling options around. peter was a self-described “nerd and loser,” so girls weren’t exactly lining up to cuddle with him either. 

two: you had a game going on (if it could even be called that). peter had a hard time transitioning into an “official” member of the team, so you, being the coolest and closest to his age, tasked yourself with the responsibility of being his friend.

what started as making up nonsensical greetings or coming up with more and more obscure versions of “see ‘ya later, alligator” had spiraled into a competition of who could keep the most ridiculous conversations going.

--

you were sitting beside natasha at the kitchen bar, the two of you nursing copious amounts of black coffee and sporting dark eye bags. (so maybe karaoke with katy and shang-chi on a wednesday night wasn’t the greatest idea you’d ever had.)

peter took a double-take as he made his way towards the fridge, looking perfectly refreshed and wide awake.

“lookin’ good!” peter clicked his tongue at you in greeting, smirking at the scowl on your face. he knew you would’ve flipped him off had you not been holding your drink.

“thanks,” you drawled sarcastically. “i’ve been trying this new diy skincare routine, where you use curdled breastmilk as a face mask for 20 minutes. it’s really helping with my dark circles.”

natasha, the woman who was never caught off guard, was caught off guard.

peter hummed thoughtfully as he poured himself a glass of milk, which he was now losing his appetite for. “20 minutes seems pretty short, don’t ‘cha think? i keep my menstrual blood mask on for at least 35 minutes.”

you scoffed, taking a large swig of your coffee and wincing at its bitterness. “yeah, well you should probably do it for longer. i can see your premature wrinkles forming from here.”

peter slipped into the seat beside you and smiled in greeting to natasha, whose eyes were bleary and unfocused. peter turned to shove his face close to yours.

“hm, maybe you should try juice cleansing. your skin is looking awfully dull today, unlike mine, which is dewey and radiant.”

you rolled your eyes. “sure, dude. look at your birdnest for hair.” you tangled your fingers through his mess of curls and scratched his scalp. peter couldn’t hide the content groan that slipped from his mouth.

“if my skin is dull, your hair is practically straw. unlike mine, which is easy, breezy, beautiful: covergirl.” you made a big show of preening your bedhead.

natasha made gagging noises. “alright, you two are disgusting. in more ways than one. can you please stop, because i’m so hungover right now and i will not hesitate to aim my projectile vomit onto one of your faces.”

you and peter looked at each other with big grins. peter shot finger guns at natasha. “eyy, that’s the spirit!”

--

you and peter found it especially funny to start these sorts of conversations in front of steve and bucky. not only were the two perplexed by modern lingo, they were also the most gullible two people on the team, which made them easy targets.

bucky and steve exchanged testosterone-fuelled jabs at each other in the sparring ring as you tied your shoelaces as peter sprayed his face with water. the two of you listened to the grunts of exertion and the various gruff noises that filled the air to appease the two supersoldiers’ masculinities.

you sighed, stretching your sore arms. you and peter had been fooling around with the gym equipment for an hour now, waiting for bucky and steve’s match to finish (and it didn’t look like either of them planned on backing down anytime soon). with a final tug on your shoelaces, you looked up at peter curiously, who blushed at your wide, innocent eyes. or perhaps he was just red from the exercise.

“you smell really good,” you commented, bumping your shoulder against his. “what cologne do you use?”

peter paused to consider his response. “it’s… my au naturale body odor. it’s cruelty free and uh, vegan.”

“that’s so earth conscious of you!” you gushed, running a warm hand up and down peter’s arm. though he was sweaty, gross, and overheated, he shivered at your touch.

“y-yeah. i haven’t showered in three weeks. it really enhances the… musky base notes of the scent. it’s very masculine,” he nodded as if he knew what he was talking about.

“well, it’s very aromatic. i like it.” you patted peter’s bicep definitively, jumping to your feet as you bent in half to stretch out your limbs. peter stared at your ass toned calves, and thought that he should work on his legs as well.

“oh hey, it looks like bucky and steve are done!” you pointed at the two heaving supersoldiers, who had stopped fighting altogether so they could stare at you and peter.

bucky mouthed “what the fuck?” to steve. steve mouthed “language” back.

--

peter was busy scrawling illegible physics notes as he, tony, and bruce watched planet earth intently. bruce was busy jabbering away at the “incredible biological discoveries” that david attenborough was narrating, and tony was absentmindedly filing his nails while occasionally poking peter in the back with his toe to correct him on a mistake he’d written.

“hey dad. bruce.” you caught sight of peter’s unmistakable form, hunched over the glass coffee table with papers scattered haphazardly across the surface and a bulletpoint pen between his teeth tha you found very seductive endearing.

“hey peter!” you squeaked. “it’s- uh, fancy seeing you here!” you blurted, cheeks heating as peter turned to you with his cute stupid fucking glasses.

“hey,” he raised his eyebrows. “you come here often?” peter purred lowly.

you gulped, unsure as to why he was bothering you so much today. maybe your period had come early.

“no, actually. i was stopping by to meet my real estate agent here; i’m loving this property,” you played along, tucking yourself into peter’s side.

“ah, well, they’re not here at the moment. i think they got stopped at security—something about smuggling exotic animals. but i could be your tour guide, if you want? i’m very… thorough.” peter waggled his eyebrows.

david attenborough began discussing whale mating habits.

“oh, are you now?” you challenged, biting your lip smugly as you watched peter began to stutter.

“y-yes, i am. and, as a matter of fact,” peter turned to pull something from his pocket. he presented you with a microfiber cloth. “i’m such a gentleman, i’ll even clean you up after.”

peter’s head was suddenly slammed into the glass table. tony had rammed his foot (not just the toes) against peter’s curls.

“stop sexing up my daughter, spiderling. i’ll take out your suit’s built-in heater.”

“i’m sorry, i’m so sorry, mr. stark,” peter sputtered.

you giggled at his immediate change in attitude. leaning in, you murmured into his ear. “me, you, my bedroom, nine pm. i’d like that thorough tour.”

neither of you were sure if the offer was genuine.

--

sam had invited the team to a backyard party with his family, but not without warning everybody to watch their language around the kids. (it was an empty threat; everyone knew sam would be the first to slip up.)

you were “chatting” with a little kid; in other words, nodding along as they infodumped about cretaceous period with surprising expertise for a 5 year old.

you felt a poke in your side and screamed embarrassingly loudly. peter stared at you for a second, cheeks puffing and lips pinching together, before he burst into laughter. spit went flying all over your face.

“ew, you nasty! eugh,” you made a big deal of it. looking at the kid, you pointed at peter. “c’mon, let’s attack him! like a… brachiosaurus!”

the kid looked at you disdainfully. “the brachiosaurus was a herbivore, idiot. and it lived during the jurassic era, not the cretaceous period.”

your jaw dropped at the child’s betrayal. the mini-paleontologist toddled away, leaving you and peter dumbfounded.

“i sure missed a lot,” peter gaped.

“i- apparently, yeah.” you tucked your head into peter’s shoulder, fiddling with your empty plate. conversation buzzed steadily around you, but you and peter only cared about each other.

the two of you sat in comfortable silence, watching as sam teased his sister and as wanda was unsuccessfully trying to teach bucky how to use a pair of tongs. (bucky insisted that his vibranium hand could do the same job.)

“so, how many of those things have you eaten?” peter pointed his chin towards your empty plate.

“uh, approximately four.”

peter nodded approvingly. “four’s pretty good. you still hungry though? i could go for some food right now.”

you smiled evilly, untangling yourself from peter. “oh petie… i’m always hungry. i was skeptical at first, but damn, do these barbeque grilled fetuses hit. they’re gluten free, i think.” 

you stood up and yelled over the table to sam. “hey, are these things gluten free?” you pointed to where wanda and bucky were tussling over the grill.

sam looked at you incredulously. “no?” 

you turned back to peter. “well, you heard the man. at least they’re ethically sourced, though. better eat up quick, before roe v. wade gets overturned. fuck scotus.”

“yeah, fuck scotus. i’m all for womens’ sexual liberation. anyway, once you’re done, can you fuck me too?” peter deadpanned.

you choked. “oh, wow. you got me that time. i concede. i-”

--

“so, what’ja do for your art project?” you and peter were entwined on a common area armchair, you resting casually on peter’s lap with one hand pressed to his chest and peter’s arms pulling you even closer to his body.

“i made a collage of my feet pics.”

“huh.” you nuzzled your nose into the collar of peter’s shirt, taking a deep inhale of his cologne (his actual cologne, not his au naturale body odor). “for free?”

“what?” peter, much like everybody else in the room (who were all clearly listening but pretending not to.)

“i mean, you’re showing your feet pics for free? you’re spiderman, pete. you could charge so much for them. here, you can use my onlyfans account.” you began to pull out your phone.

“DAUGHTER?” tony roared from the couch diagonal to the two of you. whoops.

“…father?”

“can somebody tell me why my pure, uncorrupted, virtuous daughter is in the lap of a hormonal, horny teenage boy? god knows what the white sticky stuff actually is…” tony cursed under his breath. “and would somebody like to explain why the words onlyfans, peter parker, and feet pics are being used in the same sentence and coming out of my daughter’s mouth?” 

you cringed at all the innuendos (intentional and unintentional) that tony had just dropped in front of nearly the entire team.

bruce choked on the sandwich he was eagerly chowing into. natasha choked on air. wanda was biting back a mischievous smile and steve looked like he was about to faint.

bucky leaned over to sam and loudly whispered, “what’s an onlyfans?”

--

friday rolled around, which meant it was time for the avengers’ weekly family bonding event. this week, it was movie night. wanda and natasha were clapping enthusiastically as sam and bucky danced along to the jingle bell rock winter talent show performance, which meant you and peter could snuggle up to each other and converse freely without fear of being overheard.

peter’s head was in your lap, and you were mindlessly scratching and tugging at his curls as you smiled at your teammates’ antics. even from this odd, unflattering angle, peter couldn’t help but think you were the most beautiful girl he’d ever seen. the television screen illuminated your face and made your eyes sparkle more than they usually did. and he had the perfect view of your lips—so soft, sensual, always containing such happiness, always begging to be kissed…

“hey bug?” you looked down at peter, smiling softly with the look you seemed to only reserve for him.

“hi,” peter whispered breathlessly, heart racing at the nickname. the corners of his eyes crinkled in the way that seemed to be only reserved for you.

“uh, this might be a- a little forward, but what are your weekend plans, ‘cause-”

“homicide.”

“excuse me?” you squinted at peter.

“you heard me. this weekend, i plan on committing homicide.”

you sniffed, a little disappointed in where the conversation had gone but willing to play along nevertheless.

“that’s it?”

“what do you mean, that’s it? what are you doing?”

you smirked deviously. “UR MOM!” you burst into a fit of giggles that peter found adorable, so he couldn’t stop himself from laughing with you.

“my mom- my mom’s dead!” he said through cackles.

the two of you looked at each other and only laughed harder, garnering the attention of the rest of the team. 

wanda opened her mouth to speak, but tony was too quick.

“alright, this has been going on for too long. peter, off of my daughter. daughter, off from… underneath the kid.” he cursed. “god, that sounds so wrong.”

“what?” you questioned, genuinely confused at what the issue was.

peter rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly, a warm pink crawling up his cheeks and to the tips of his ears.

“what? the problem is, you two are discussing matricide in front of a team of superheroes, not to mention practically dry-humping each other in a public space! not that it would be acceptable in a private space, but you get what i mean,” tony gritted.

“while we’re at it, can we talk about how your daughter has a stash of breast milk? and peter has menstrual blood? where do you even get the menstrual blood, peter?” natasha shook her head before gasping in horror. “it’s not- it’s not hers, is it?”

you waved your hands. “no, ew, gross! on the plus side, if it were hypothetically mine, that would mean i’m not pregnant.”

tony glared at you, finger in the air pointing shakily at your chest.

“okay, am i the only person who’s worried about the murder bit? because i’m pretty sure the kids were talking about cannibalizing dead fetuses at the party i threw last weekend—”

tony shrieked. “excuse me? you just said you weren’t pregnant, missy. where are you getting the fetuses from?”

“i said, hypothetically, but anyway-”

tony slapped himself in the face a few times. “god, this is why we need to stock up on condoms around here. do you guys even have sex ed in school? i don’t care if the two of you,” he waved a finger between you and peter, “are doing the deed—wait no, i do—but please tell me you’ve had the banana demonstration.”

“tony, i think the kids are quite a nice couple,” steve chimed in bravely. tony spun around and gave him a withering glare, but the supersoldier didn’t back down. “i said what i said. well, peter should definitely shower more, three weeks is criminally disgusting, but other than that, they’re good for each other.”

wanda nodded seriously. “i can hear both of them thinking about jumping each others’ bones every time i see them together. it’s kind of annoying, actually. so if you just let them fuck, my mind would greatly appreciate that.”

bruce sighed. “the sexual tension is so obvious that david attenborough doesn’t even need to narrate it for me to identify it. it’s like when those two whales were mating…”

tony dragged his hands down his face, overwhelmed. you and peter’s hands had found their way closer to each other, despite your bodies being a modest distance apart, and your pinkies intertwined reassuringly.

“care to explain?” tony waved his hands around. “the sexual tension bit? the cannibalism? the feet fetishes? just… anything?”

“it was a joke, i swear, mr. stark!” peter jabbered desperately. “it’s… a game we play. where we try and come up with the most ridiculous conversations and then just keep it going.”

you nodded furiously. “right! and i’m totally the winner. none of it was real. plus, friday would have alerted you if i ever made an onlyfans account.”

tony stroked his chin contemplatively. “so, the sexual tension bit? that was also a joke?”

peter opened his mouth, “ye-”

you opened your mouth, “no!”

the two of you gaped at each other.

“what we mean to say is, no, it’s not a joke! yes, there is… sexual tension.” you widened your eyes at peter pleadingly.

tony mumbled angrily to himself, pacing the room as the avengers watched the live-action reality tv unfold before them.

“is there really sexual tension between is?” peter hissed at you.

“uh, yeah. unless you were being serious about wanting to thoroughly fuck me and also fuck me after i went through the entire supreme court, then no, that would just be flat-out sexual.”

peter pursed his lips. “right, okay then. you’re right. there is sexual tension between us.”

you mock pouted. “so you’re saying you don’t want to thoroughly fuck me?”

peter turned bright red just as tony turned to the two of you, who had gotten much closer to each other in the time that he’d been worrying.

“gross! i’m getting secondhand cooties. whatever, you guys go have a play date or something. just… please be more classy than cady and aaron, dear god. the teenage foolery in this movie is actually-” tony shuddered, unable to express himself with words.

“i’m still interested in the property, y’know?” you whispered.

“well then, can i extend another real estate tour offer?”

“absolutely. and i will gladly take you up on that offer.”

you took peter’s hand, the two of you giggling madly as you raced and slipped down the hall towards your bedroom. you heard tony groaning and whining from the common room before he shouted, “keep it pg-13 in there!”

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

peter parker masterlist | main masterlist

taglist:

@bambamwolf87 @cowboibeepbeep @yourallihave @im-a-slut-for-fluff

[quintessencewrites]

Ally? Ally.

ShuRiri x OC (Sade Davis)

Sade's first date with the Wakandan Queen and reconnection with her Riri.

Warnings: Explicit language, mentions of abortion, some angst, hella fluff

Word Count: 2.9k+

Tags: @sweetalittleselfish-honey @letitias-fav @zestgodtj @becauseimswagman1 @iloveours@k3nn3dyxo @dayjlovesromance

A/N: Whew, yall have no idea what it took to finally get this story out! Enjoy this one, cuz my next story will have a bit of a time jump. I did proofread this, but I'm coming off a 12 and a half hour shift, so if you find any mistakes, pretend you didn't see them.

Enjoy &lt;3

“Are you out of your mind?” Iris asked, her voice ascending with each word. Honey was sprawled across our bedroom floor, laughter engulfing her. “There’s no way you’re going though, right?” Iris cuts through the sound of her partner’s chuckles. 

“Actually… I am,” I trail off, standing from my bed and heading to my closet.

“The Queen of Wakanda’s got balls,” Honey howls. “First she takes your girl from you, then she takes you for herself.” Iris cuts her eyes at Honey, silently shushing them, then turns back to me. “What’s going on in your head, Sade?”

Honey sits up at the question and adds “Yeah Corazóne. If you needed to get a ménage à trois out of your system, all you had to do was ask.” They’re struggling to hold back tears and giggles when Iris points to the door and tells poor Honey “Goodbye.”

Iris is much smaller than Honey, but her voice is so commanding that it gives her partner no choice but to obey. My roommate leaves our room, still cracking up. Iris turns back to me and walks over, grabbing both of my hands in hers. She repeats: “What is going on in your head? Why did you agree to go out with Shuri?”

She’s looking at me as if she can see right through me. I open my mouth to answer, then shut it again. I have to look away. If I keep looking Iris in the eyes, she’ll be able to get my entire life’s story out of me, dark secrets included. 

Iris isn't having it though. She releases one of my hands, grabs my chin, and pulls my eyes back to her. She deepens her gaze, eyebrows raising, and asks me once more. “What is going through your mind, Sade?”

“I miss her,” I cry out. Iris doesn’t say a word, instead nodding to my response. “I miss my Riri,” I continue. “I miss her so much it hurts, Iris.” Cue the damned tears that I’m tired of crying. “I want to see what Riri saw in her when she-” I can’t finish the statement. “I need to see what Riri saw in her.”

By the time I finish pouring out my heart, Iris is teary-eyed too. She blinks and I feel the hold she had on me snap. “Is this going to hurt you more than it’ll help you?”

Is it?

“I sure as hell hope it doesn’t,” I answer truthfully and Iris smiles at my response. “Let me help you get ready then.”

I’m so grateful because I didn’t even know where to start. Before I get a chance to thank her, Iris throws her arms around my neck and pulls me in. I don’t hesitate to hug her back, tightly. Tears fill my already damp eyes. I’ve needed a hug for so long. We stay in the embrace for several minutes, me with salty tears and snot running down Iris’ shoulder, and her rubbing my back in comfort. Iris pulls away first and walks over to my closet.

“Where is she taking you?”

“The Botanical Gardens.”

I see a flash of a smile on Iris’ face, but it doesn’t last long. Her expression is now one of worry. “You’re staying on campus for your date?” I offer up a confused “Yeah.” Iris’ anxious eyes grow more prominent than I ever thought was possible. 

“Sade, you’ve already got the entire student body talking about you because your girlfriend-” She changes her words when I flinch. “Ex-girlfriend went MIA. They’re gonna talk more.”

“They’re still talking? Riri’s back; she has been for a month, safe and sound. What are they possibly talking about?”

Iris cringes, holding a flowy white dress in her hands, and answers. “Sade, nobody knows where Riri was. You told Honey and me, but the only people who know where Riri was basically live within these four walls, and the only ones who know why are you, her, and the Queen.”

“So they’re making shit up? What are they saying?”

Iris walks over to my bed, lays the dress down, and sits beside it. She shrugs, “It’s what the human brain does to fill in the gaps.”

“Iris,”  I start slowly. “What are they saying?”

An insincere chuckle leaves her lips. “Depends on who you ask. One theory is that you were abusing Riri and she was hospitalized for a few days.” My jaw drops, but Iris continues. “Somebody told me that Riri cheated on you with a professor and ended up pregnant. She left and went to Virginia for an abortion, and when you found out, you dumped her.”

“What the fu-” My phone’s buzzing silences the explicits about to leave my mouth. Shaking my head and reaching into my pocket, I pull out the little device and read the message that just came in from a number I don’t recognize. The message reads: ‘I have sent Okoye to pick you up. I will see you at the gardens in 20 minutes, Miss Davis.’ It’s clearly from Shuri. My eyes focus on the last part of the text. 20 minutes. I had 20-now 19 minutes and 27 seconds- to be ready and out the door. 

“Shit Iris, I’m gonna be late.”

“That’s kind of your M.O.”

I don't even have time to glare at the girl. Instead, I rush to my vanity. “Ight now. Come make me pretty.”

Okoye doesn't knock when she arrives. The general picks the lock, just as she had when she first stepped foot in my place. I’m sliding on my shoes and standing in the warrior's presence. She looks me up and down, taking in my appearance. I don’t know how, but Iris had worked her magic on me. The white dress was cut low enough to give a peek of cleavage, and the thin spaghetti straps held them high and proud. The hem of the dress flowed and just barely kissed the ground. She didn’t do much to my hair. “Your natural curls look best,” she’d told me, fluffing the type 4 coils. 

“Let’s go,” Okoye finally spoke. “The Queen is waiting.”

The ride to the gardens was an awkward, silent one. Okoye’s eyes never left me, while mine searched for anything but her. I nearly jumped out of the vehicle when we arrive, longing to escape the Wakandan’s glare. 

My eyes scan through the flock of flowers, searching for the Queen. I spot her a few feet away, crouched to the ground, examining some plant with intensity. 

I step towards her hunched figure, slowly and hesitantly. The nerves in my body were growing and spreading. Maybe I should just turn around and go home… Too late; she’d seen me. She stands, towering over my short frame, and greets me with a wide smile. Her majesty’s eyes wander my body and somehow that large smile grows larger. 

“Okay,” she drags out. “Not even together yet and you’re already matching my drip.”

I feel the blush start in my stomach and climb up to my cheeks as I look down at her fit. She’s wearing all white as well, toned muscles on display through the fabric, and curls hanging low in her face. 

“You look stunning,” her words pulled my eyes away from her body and back to her face. Blushing even harder, I whispered “Thanks.”

The queen holds her hand out, offering it up to me. “Come,” she speaks. “Walk with me?” I found myself nodding in agreement and allowed her hand to rest in mine. It fit so well, her hard calloused fingers countering my soft, manicured ones. We walked in slow motion up the path in comfortable silence. I caught her big, brown eyes searching the plants that surrounded us before making their way back to me. She spoke first, breaking the stillness.

“I’m not the person you think I am.”

That stops me in my tracks and I turn to face her. “I’m sorry?”

“I am not the person you think I am,” she repeats. I’m intrigued by her words. “How would you know what I think of you?” I challenged.

Her smile drops and a mask of seriousness overtakes her features. With furrowed brows and a sigh, the Queen responds. “I’m not a homewrecker or some selfish bitch. I was not trying to break up you and Riri. It’s just- so much was happening. There were so many emotions. I needed an outlet, but I went about it all wrong and I will never be able to apologize enough.”

I tried to swallow, but my throat rejected the action, too dry to attempt it.

“When Namor attacked my country, my people were caught off guard; we were unprepared.” I nodded. “Riri told me this already,” I started. Shuri’s eyes grew teary. “I’m sure she left this part out.”

“Namor targeted my mother and Miss Williams. He flooded my palace and when we reached it my moth-” Her voice cracked and her hand squeezed mine, needing an anchor. I squeezed back. “Shuri, you don’t have to. I know what happened to Queen Ramonda.”

Shuri held up her free hand, eyes pleading, and I was silenced. She continued.

“My mother and your Riri were laid on their backs. Surrounded by water, neither one breathing.”

I felt my breath hitch in my chest. Riri mentioned the Queen’s drowning but omitted her own.

“I tried to help. To save them both, but I didn’t have the strength of the black panther yet; I was easily restrained. Okoye and Nakia took charge. Nakia took to Miss Riri and shocked her twice. Okoye did the same to my mother.” Tears were flowing down the Queen’s slender face and I realized they were coating my own as well. “It took only one more shock for Riri to come to, coughing and throwing up the water that filled her stomach and lungs. My mother never woke.”

My chest heaves as I process her words. I could've lost my Riri for good, and I would have never known. “She-” I attempt. “She didn’t-”

“I didn’t think she would,” the Queen interrupts. “She blames herself for my mother’s death.”

My mind is racing, trying to digest all of this. Shuri’s slender hands rise to my face and wipe it free of the tears adorning it. “I have been through so much this past year, but you have been through so much mental anguish lately, sithandwa sam. Your eyes are filled with so much sadness.” Her hand lingers on my face, caressing my cheek. I lean into the touch, not realizing how deprived I had been. 

“Queen Shuri,” I begin. The young royal shakes her head. “Just Shuri, please.” 

“Shuri,” I say slowly. “Why did you ask me out?”

Her eyes finally leave my face and her head hangs. “Riri spoke of you in Wakanda. Very highly, might I add. I thought to myself ‘Wow! I have to meet the girl who receives such praise from the most intelligent person I know.”

By now, Shuri and I have reached the bench in the center of the garden and together, we take a seat. “She talked about me?”

“Always.”

“So, you knew I existed and you two still-” I trailed off.

My question catches the Queen off guard. “We were in an overly emotional state, Miss Davis-” Now it’s my turn to interrupt. “Sade,” I correct. She nods and continues. “Sade, we were so caught up in our emotions and it just happened.” 

I nodded, growing exhausted from hearing the same answer, exhausted from the drama, and exhausted from all the damn tears I cried. 

Shuri and I sat together on the bench until night fell and the air grew chilly under the moon’s shadow. We spoke for hours, getting to know more about one another than what was on the surface. 

She told me stories of her late brother, King T’Challa, and we laughed through our tears. Moments passed and we sat in silence, staring at the large, bright orb that filled the sky, 

“You’re so easy to talk to,” the Queen spoke. A smile grew on my face before I could contain it. She smiled at me and brought my knuckles to her lips, planting a light kiss upon them. “I really enjoyed our night.”

“I did too,” I stated honestly. Because I had. Shuri had made me blush and laugh and cry and open up in a matter of hours. She rose from the bench and I followed suit. Still hand in hand, we began walking in the direction of my dorm. 

“What do you say to a second date?” the tall girl questions, trying and failing to hide her excitement. A laugh escapes me. “I’m serious,” she whines. “I’m working to make you mine.”

“Are you taking Riri on dates?” I ask.

Her head shakes back and forth. “You’re my focus, for now, pretty girl.”

I blush and don’t offer a verbal response, just nodding.

“Okay. Second date. When and where?” Shuri’s smile lights up the darkness brighter than the moon as we reach my front door. “I’ll text you all the details. Just show up looking pretty.”

The Queen plants another peck on my hands and one on my cheek before skipping off, happily into the night. Smiling hard, I barely step foot into my home before I’m ambushed. 

Honey and Iris are seated on the couch and my Riri is at their feet on the floor. All eyes are on me when I walk in and Riri makes no effort to hide her roaming eyes. Iris speaks first. “They’re talking.”

“Already? The date just ended. I just walked through the door.”

“Yeah, well you dating the Queen of Wakanda is the talk of the town,” Honey chuckles. 

“We’re not dating,” I retort, ad Riri simultaneously expresses “They’re not dating.” I glance down at her, but she won’t meet my eyes. I make my way across the living room to my and Honey’s bedroom door. 

“I’ll deal with it in the morning, Iris. Thanks.” 

She offers me a smile and says “We’ll deal with it in the morning.”

I smile back at her alliance, then turn my head to the girl on the floor. “You.”

She looks up and I nod my head in the direction of my room. “Let’s talk.”

Her brows are raised and her eyes are as big as saucers, but she obeys. We file into the room and I shut the door. 

“How was your date?” She asks before I can even finish clicking the lock behind us. 

I face her and evenly reply “You drowned, huh?” Riri’s face flushes and she stammers, struggling to gather her words. I take the opportunity to continue. “You died, Ri and you could’ve stayed dead and I would have never known what happened to you.”

“I didn’t want to worry you,” the girl whispers.

“I put out a fucking missing persons for you Ri. I was already fucking worried.”

She looks defeated and says nothing. “You left me Ri and came back harboring secrets. We never kept secrets. You were supposed to love me.”

Riri steps towards me and pulls my body to hers. “I do love you. So much, Sade. I want to reverse time and take it all back.”

“But you can’t,” I state, an undeniable sadness lacing my words.

A smirk grows across her pretty face. “C’mon baby, you know I’m all genius and shit. I could build us a time machine right now; just say the words.”

The ridiculous statement brings a laugh out of me and I feel my guard melt away. “Why are you even here, Ri?”

“I came over to help Iris with damage control.”

My eyebrows formed the question my mouth couldn’t.

“The rumors are spreading faster than we can keep up with. And they’re kind of wild.”

I groan. “I know. Did you know you were pregnant by a professor?”

“The hell?” I laugh at the poor girl’s confusion. I walk to my bathroom, stripping my body of the dress and picking up a pair of sweatpants and an oversized sports tee. 

“So you stole my Chicago Bulls shirt?” I ignore her, knowing any answer would bring her to anger. My girl doesn’t play about her Bulls. I move to sit on my bed and pat the empty space next to me. Riri hesitantly agrees and makes herself comfortable. She grabs my hand and pulls it into her lap, playing with my fingers and tracing my nails. 

“You really don’t care about what they’re saying?”

“No,” I answer quickly. “My friends don’t think that of us and those nosey fuckers aren’t paying my tuition.”

Riri laughs at my words and nods in agreement. “So,” she begins again. “How was your date?”

I think back to the day I’d just had with the Wakandan Royal and smile. “It was good.”

Her face falls slightly. “Do I have competition?”

“No, my Riri,” I allow my head to drop to her shoulder. “You have an ally.”

“An ally? Sade, are we really a throuple type of couple?”

“Yeah,” I say slowly. “I think we could be. Don’t you want to give it a try?”

Riri’s silent, thinking about my words. She lifts her arm to wrap around my body and I fall deeper into her. 

Hmmm, the sweet girl hums. “An ally,” this time a statement instead of a question.

Masterlist

[equivocaleternity]

15 megop or 20 dratchet for love askmeme?

(read on ao3)

When Ratchet onlined, it was to the first new sight he’d seen in decades. There was no flat, endless wasteland, no trudging mass of mindless Decepticons in front of him. Just the clean walls of a small room—not that clean, actually, there was dust in the corners, but it wasn’t in ruins, and that was more than Ratchet ever thought—

Oh. He was thinking. He could think. He could process things other than pain and grief and a desperate wish to just die, anything to be free of Megatron’s mind endlessly devouring his own. He could think, and the thinking didn’t hurt. He could think, and his thoughts were his own. He could feel an absence in his mind, a lack that felt sweeter than he ever could have imagined. Megatron wasn’t there anymore. The link he’d felt for so long it felt like eternity was just—gone. If he were able, Ratchet would have cried.

“You’re awake!”

Ratch didn’t stiffen or turn in surprise at the new voice, but only because he couldn’t. He couldn’t move at all. Not even his optics. They were locked open and staring straight ahead. He didn’t have to move, though; the owner of the voice walked in front of him—white, red and gray, brief details of an alt mode that didn’t look like an Earth vehicle—and bent down until they were at eye level.

“Hi, Ratchet,” said a face Ratchet had never expected to see again.

Ratchet stared. It was all he could do.

“Oh, right, you can’t speak, can you? Hold on, I think I can fix that.”

Drift—Drift, of all people—moved forwards, hands disappearing under Ratchet’s line of sight. Touching Ratchet’s throat, probably. Ratchet couldn’t feel it.

Drift was here. How was Drift here?

“You were in pretty rough shape out there, you know. Still are, but I’ve been doing what I can to get you up and running. There. Try to speak now?”

Ratchet felt something clunk into place in his throat—and, oh, he could feel sensation, now. He tried to speak. It wasn’t easy, but his vocalizer clicked on after a few aborted attempts.

“Drift,” he said. “I mean-n—Deadlock. I—”

“You were right the first time, actually,” Drift—Drift—said. He smiled. “I’m back to Drift again. You have no idea how good it is to hear your voice, Ratchet.”

“Meg—Megatron-n-n—”

“Megatron? He’s dead. Almost didn’t believe it at first, but yeah. He’s definitely dead.”

Megatron was dead.

Ratchet had already known that—he’d known it to his spark, that blessed absence in his mind, but hearing it still lifted a weight from him, like he’d escaped the pull of a black hole.

“How-w-w—” Primus forsaken, he couldn’t speak.

“Easy, there, don’t strain yourself.”

Ratchet wished he had arms to cross. “How…did…you. You’re…here. How—”

“Medics really do make the worst patients, don’t they?”

“Not as bad-ad-ad as..Deceptic-cons,” Ratchet said, just to be ornery.

It got a laugh out of Drift. “And you’ve patched up enough ‘cons to know, huh? Bleeding spark Autobot. I’m serious, though! I’m playing it by guess here, Ratchet. If you mess your vocalizer up I don’t know if I’ll be able to fix it again. But to answer your question—it’s a long story.”

Ratchet really wished he had arms to cross.

“And-nd I’m…so busy,” he said, giving Drift an unimpressed look as best he could with most of his face unresponsive.

“Alright, alright! Point made. Just—give me a moment, it’s hard to know where to start.”

“Thought you were—were dead,” Ratchet said. “M-Megatron—Megatron thought—how are-are-are—”

“Was that what people thought? Megatron too? Huh. Explains why I didn’t have to deal with hitmen. I thought maybe he just didn’t want to admit I defected.”

“D-d-d—”

“Defected? Sure did. A while ago, now.” He looked away. “I know it’s rich, me saying it, but I just…I got tired, Ratchet. I got tired of fighting. I got tired of being someone who hurts people just because I can. So I left. Cut contact completely, and just—left.”

“Knew you…could,” Ratchet said.

Drift looked back at him. “You—you really mean that, Ratchet?”

“Y-y-y—”

“Shh, shh, don’t hurt yourself!” He put his hands out like Ratchet was going to fall over and he had to catch him. When Ratchet stopped trying to get the word out, he slowly lowered them. “…thank you. Really. You don’t know how much that means to me.”

Ratchet wanted to say more, but he could feel himself slowing down. Thinking was getting harder and harder.

“I’m…tired,” he said. “But I need—need to know-w what…happened.”

“And I’ll tell you,” Drift said. “Everything I know. But there’s no rush, Ratchet. You can rest if you need to. I’m not going anywhere.”

“Hold-d you…to that,” Ratchet said, and felt himself slip away.

-

Ratchet got used to life on Drift’s ship—life with Drift—with an ease that surprised him. They fell into a routine, of sorts; whenever Ratchet was awake and had the energy, Drift would work on repairing him, and Ratchet would give direction as best he could. Ratchet had never quite got used to being repaired; it wasn’t his pain tolerance, or that he was afraid of injury, so much as it simply feeling odd. No matter who was doing the repairing, Ratchet always felt like he should be helping them. He knew it was a ridiculous thing to feel, but he’d never been able to shake the worry that he was being lazy just laying around.

It felt even stranger, now. He wasn’t sure he’d ever been in this bad shape, but more than that he’d forgotten what everything felt like. Objectively, he knew it hadn’t been that long. Ratchet’s chronometer was broken, but his hadn’t been, and if Ratchet thought back to before the link was broken, he could access the time logs. Twenty years. A fraction of his life, and yet it made everything before it feel so far away.

Drift helped, though. Whenever Ratchet started to get tired, Drift would put away his tools and they would switch to just…talking. Ratchet had half-expected them to run out of conversation once they’d finished telling each other what they knew about everything that had happened on Earth, but they kept finding new topics.

It’d taken them a while to finish telling each other about Earth, though. They’d both had a lot to catch up on.

Ratchet knew much more than Drift did about events before Megatron had razed the planet, but Drift had learned a good bit of what had happened since then—such as the fact that where they were now was a dead zone. The Dead Zone. Cybertron was a lost cause, but Earth was slowly healing, a home for both humans and nebulons, now. There were places, though, that the humans declared off-limits. Epicenters so radioactive it wasn’t safe for organics to stay in long, and where no signals could get in or out, even with Cybertronian and Nebulan technology. Cybertronians were in no danger, but the humans had made it part of the treaty that no Cybertronian set foot in a dead zone—trust was being rebuilt, but slowly, and the idea of areas where Cybertronian activity couldn’t be monitored made them jumpy, apparently. The site of Megatron’s death, referred now simply as the Dead Zone to differentiate from the others, was especially taboo, and Cybertronians had been forbidden from entering even to retrieve the dead.

“That’s why I came,” Drift had told him. “I was going to pay my respects, give you a funeral if I could. No one else would have gotten in trouble for it—I wasn’t part of the treaty, and there’re clauses about ‘rogue, unaffiliated, or uninformed Cybertronians.’ I’d be punished, since I’m aware of the treaty, but no one else would be unless it’s proved they knew I was going to do it.”

It was painful, Ratchet wouldn’t lie, to know that there were Cybertronians, Autobots, his friends, on the same continent as him, and they’d left his body to rust, but it had soothed the sting when Drift told him they’d fought for a provision to be made allowing to enter with the sole intent of collecting the dead in a hundred year’s time. Starscream, of all people, had been the one to propose it.

The universe outside seemed a tired one, but a kinder one, in many ways. Ratchet grieved all the losses suffered—somehow he’d stopped believing Optimus would ever really die, and even now, poor Buster’s death hit him as hard as some of his oldest comrades’ demises had affected him during the war—but the idea that the war was really, truly, over…there weren’t words that could even begin to describe how it made him feel.

-

“Well, I’ve got good news and bad news,” Drift said, sitting back on his heels.

Ratchet grimaced. “What’s the bad news?”

Drift gave him a wry look. “You know, I was hoping you would ask for the good news first, but I really should’ve known better, huh? The bad news is that I’ve fixed you up as much as I can without more parts and materials I have here, which was also going to be the good news.”

“Oh,” Ratchet said.

He hadn’t realized Drift had so little to work with. He’d a good job—most of Ratchet’s internals were covered enough that he wasn’t at serious risk as long as he was kept in a clean, stable environment, but there were still plenty of gaps. Considering he wasn’t much more than a head and shoulders, with his torso just a makeshift container for his insides, the fact that Drift was already out of medical supplies didn’t bode well.

“Don’t worry, though,” Drift said. “I can get more parts easy. I’ll just have to make a quick trip outside. I just wanted to let you know I’ll be gone for a bit. I wish I could give you my comm link, but even if comms worked here your comm system is pretty busted, and I don’t have the knowhow to fix it. In any case, you shouldn’t need it. I’ll only be gone a little while, and then—”

“Where are you getting the parts?”

Drift looked at him in surprise. “From outside,” he said. “There’s a bunch of empty frames not far from here.”

“No,” Ratchet said. “We’re not using them.”

“But you need—”

“No,” Ratchet said. His vocalizer grated the word to harsh noise. “I won’t—I don’t want—haven’t they suffered enough?”

Drift went quiet.

“I can’t—I can’t use them,” Ratchet said. “I can’t make them nothing but parts again.”

After a moment, Drift nodded. “Okay, Ratchet,” he said, softly. “I understand. I’ll think of something else.”

He stood up. Ratchet couldn’t see his face when he was standing up—was he looking at Ratchet? Was he upset? Frustrated? Ratchet—he couldn’t take from the Decepticon dead, but there wasn’t any other option if he wanted to get fixed. The likelihood of finding materials suitable for a Cybertronian as damaged and repair-intensive as Ratchet was anywhere in the Dead Zone that didn’t come from a Cybertronian was vanishingly rare. Human machinery worked in a pinch—Ratchet would know, he’d used it enough times, back before…back before Megatron. But it had a much higher rejection rate, and Ratchet only used it when he really had to, or for temporary patch jobs. Ratchet needed almost a full frame restoration. To send Drift off hunting for parts that wouldn’t even work wouldn’t be fair to him.

“Drift,” Ratchet started, unsure how to continue. “You’ve done more than you had to already. I won’t ask you to—”

“What? Sorry, I was lost in thought. I think I’ve got a solution.”

Ratchet blinked. “You—you do?”

Drift knelt back down. “The perfect solution, actually! You don’t want to use the spare frames, and I saw enough of the Dead Zone coming in to guess that there’s not going to be much good searching the rest of it, right? But we can’t go offplanet, either—you’d never make the trip through the atmosphere—so the answer’s simple. My ship is small, but it’s made out of good stuff. I won’t be able to do everything, like limbs, but I can use the plating and wiring to get you fixed up as best as I can.”

Ratchet stared at him. “You can’t do that,” he said. “You need your ship. You can’t get out any other way, it’s weeks to the edge of the Dead Zone, and the terrain is treacherous, you’ve talked about it! How will you leave? How will you—”

Drift put a hand on Ratchet’s patchwork shoulder, and Ratchet stuttered into silence.

“It’s okay, Ratchet,” Drift said. He was smiling. “Didn’t I tell you? I’m not going anywhere.”

[s-brant]

Baby Names

(gif: @mishellejones) (SERIES MASTERLIST)

Summary: Y/N gets frustrated while putting the crib for her and JJ’s baby together and finds herself missing her dead brother more than ever.

Word Count: 2.2k

Warnings: Fluff and minor angst.

A/N: Asks and ye shall receive, here’s a little blurb about what happens after Tokens! You don’t really have to read the other parts to enjoy this fic if you don’t want to, but I do recommend it for some backstory. This was slightly inspired by this fic by @cognacdelights, so go give her stuff a read! Let me know if you liked this. Have fun!

Y/N Routledge thought she got over her brother's death long ago.

Though you never truly "get over" losing a loved one, though there will always be a small part of you, however small, that aches for their presence again, she thought she moved past the tragedy to the best of her ability...until last week.

To say that the pregnancy was a surprise would be the understatement of the century. She and JJ were both on the same page about children when their relationship began, and that page was that neither of them wanted them yet. Sure, the idea of it in the future stirred their hearts with fond emotion, but considering that they had yet to graduate high school and barely scraped by on their own, they weren't jumping headfirst into that aspect of adulthood.

They were meticulous about safe sex. They couldn't afford another mouth to feed, she wasn't sure she could handle the emotional trauma of having an abortion, and, underneath it all, he had some reservations about being a father. It wasn't that he didn't envision a future with kids in their relationship, he did, but the topic of fatherhood always took him down a dark path within his mind.

So, she went on birth control once they started dating and they went along with no scares for the next six years as they graduated and started figuring out what the next step for their lives was going to be.

Y/N could get lost thinking about it, honestly, but she tries not to get too swept up in the minor mistake that led to this.

"You, my friend, need to stop moving around in there," she whispers down at her protruding belly with a hand cradling the heavy weight of it, "I'm trying to get your crib set up without JJ yelling at me for not asking for help, and if you don't stop kicking me, I'm not gonna get anything done."

She's sprawled out on the floor in the living room of the Chateau with her legs stretched comfortably in each direction while she hunches over to read the directions of the Ikea furniture. The sugarcoated description makes her want to hunt down the company CEO for sport, because for how "simple and easy!" the construction of it claims to be, she is at her wits end.

The last thing she needed after having her grief over John B's death reignited by their decision to name their kid after him last week was to stress herself out over something as stupid as this, but she won't quit. With how much JJ has been coddling her the further into the pregnancy she gets, she wanted to prove that she could do something for herself.

Whenever she brings in the groceries from the car and goes to lift the bag of dog kibble out of the trunk, he rushes up behind her back and scoops it out of the trunk before she dares to touch it. It always ends with her hollering after him that it's under twenty pounds, the upwards limit of the weight she's allowed to carry according to her doctor, but he refuses to hear any of it.

Inside of her, she feels a sharp sensation of something hitting her right in the ribs in response to her comment, and she groans in frustration. It's as if he did it because he knows she wants it to stop, the feisty little fucker.

"You're definitely your daddy's son, aren't you? It's already enough having one of him, the last thing I need is a JJ clone."

Their three-year-old Rottweiler rescue huffs a sigh from where he lays, frog-legging it, on the floor next to the unboxed crib pieces she can't put together to save her life. His drooping jowls produce a puddle of slobber on the her favorite carpet that is past the point of saving from his constant wear and tear. After a year of having him, she decided to stop trying to prevent him from ruining it. There’s no point.

She smiles at him as she leans forward to read through the directions for the billionth time, saying, "I actually think he'll be a lot like his uncle, but that's just me. If he isn't, I'll feel a little stupid over the name situation."

John Booker Routledge-Maybank.

Hell of a name if you ask her yourself, but for every internal struggle it reopened inside of her, she couldn't help but love it as soon as JJ casually proposed the idea on his way out of the door for work one morning.

Going on without John B has been a learning experience in every aspect. Any time she wanted to turn to him for advice or tell him something about the recent events in her life, she had to walk out back to their dying magnolia tree and sit under the shade to talk to the wind. Then, once the tree finally died and they were forced to cut it down, she took to sitting on its stump and doing it there.

It got easier as time went on, but she can't keep herself from wondering what it'd be like if he didn't die ever since she saw the results on the pregnancy test six months ago. Whenever she does something like going to her OBGYN appointments or, case in point, setting up the crib, she pictures him there.

She can see him here now, petting Bowie's shiny coat until he falls asleep with his head propped onto John B's outstretched legs. He'd be twenty-three years old by now with his life barely starting to blossom to its full potential, yet here they are. Correction, here she is, and he's off somewhere at the bottom of the ocean, already decomposed to the extent that not even his bones can be salvaged anymore.

Her chest sinks in another sigh, and she flips through page after page of the instructions with increasing aggression.

"This crib is so fucking—"

"What are you doing?"

The sound of her yelping in surprise at JJ's voice coming from the door is enough to make him laugh to himself, though his amusement is buried partway by what he's walking in on. He specifically asked her to wait for him to put the crib together, knowing damn well it wouldn't be the easy task she thought it was, but he should've known she'd do it anyway.

She looks over her shoulder with a mixture of guilt and frustration painting her features as she throws her hands up in the air and gestures vaguely to the unassembled crib. Her eyes are shining with the rapid onset of hormone-induced tears.

"I can't put this crib together 'cause the instructions aren't right, all the pieces are labeled wrong, your son won't stop kicking me, and I miss my brother so much right now," she spews the words with no pauses to breathe until the very end, when she stops short to suck down a breath as soon as she gets the last part out.

It leaves JJ standing at the entrance to the house with this stunned expression.

There's no amusement to be found anymore. Once she turned and flashed those wide, teary eyes that never fail to spark an ache in his heart at him, his tired smile vanished and his feet started moving before he could say anything to her.

The floorboards creak beneath his half-laced boots on his way across the room to her. It prompts Bowie to pop his head up from around the side of the coffee table to catch a peek of whoever it is that's approaching his emotionally distraught owner. Upon seeing JJ's familiar face, the dog relaxes back into his lounging position atop the carpet and tracks JJ’s movements until he's seated next to her.

"This is about John B?" he asks.

Her cheeks are flushed in embarrassment at her sudden outburst, and she can't bear to meet his gaze right now. Despite him being her closest friend and husband, she feels as small and vulnerable as she did six years ago when she first learned of her brother's death from Shoupe. Time might as well be shaped in the form of a never-ending circle for them, directing them back to their seventeen-year-old state of mind every time things turn sour.

Y/N finally lifts her hanging head to look over at him after another few seconds and thinks she might crumble at the look on his face. He hates watching her cry.

"I guess," she says through a sniffle, "It's about the crib too, but I've been thinking about it a lot more since we picked the name. Our baby’s gonna grow up never knowing who his uncle was..."

With that, JJ takes it as his cue to pull her closer.

He scoots up behind her and lets his chin rest on the curve bridging her neck and shoulder together as he twines his arms around her body. It's a closeness that's as natural as breathing for him, so natural that he can hardly remember the years before it became normal for them to take part in little moments of intimacy like this. The warmth of their bodies cohabitates in the blurred line distinguishing where she ends and he begins, and he feels her relax, sagging in his embrace in appreciation of his miraculous ability to make her feel better no matter how worked up she is.

One of his hands rests on the swell of her bump in an absentminded effort to calm him too. Even though he isn't consciously thinking of it, he knows that her distress must upset the baby too. The contact steadies her, keeps her grounded to the moment rather than allowing her to slip away into the current of her negative thoughts, and she clings to every word he has to say.

He says, "You and I both know that isn’t true. He's gonna grow up seeing all the pictures you have of John B and ask about him all the time. And we'll tell him all the stories"—there's a pause of contemplation as he recalls a few particularly non-PG memories of his best friend—"Well, maybe not all of them, but you know what I mean."

This draws a soft bout of laughter from deep within her chest that he feels with how her body shakes ever so slightly with it. It seems so wrong to laugh with tears in her eyes but she can't help it. Her emotions have been scattered in every direction since the pregnancy began, and it has only gotten worse the further along she gets.

"If you ever tell him about the kief incident, I'm never giving you a bl—"

His free hand smushes over her mouth before she can say the rest.

"Don't even think about finishing that sentence.”

It's said so frantically, it makes her erupt in laughter hard enough to tickle her abdomen muscles with the aching sensation of it. The vibration of it under his palm makes him drop his hand a second later with the need to hear the beautiful sound. After seeing her cry, it's a welcome shift in mood, even if it's at his expense.

Her head is thrown back on his shoulder, mouth parted into a smile with the gleeful giggling filling the room. His stomach churns with butterflies at the sight of her. Even after all these years, he has the same reaction to her laughter every time. It makes him smile to himself and watch her in quiet reverence. It makes him ache with the same inklings of longing he felt for the first time when he was much younger.

Her laughter begins to die down by the time she can draw enough breath in to murmur a soft, "Sorry, angel," to him and reach down to hold the hand he rests on her belly as consolation for her joke.

They remain this way for another few minutes, tangled up in each other's arms on the floor of the living room with Bowie snoring a few feet away, before he manages to convince her to let him be the one to set up the crib instead. It takes a good five minutes of playful back and forth before she concedes under the condition that he'll let her paint the nursery by herself when the time comes, and that's all it takes for her to abandon the task in favor of finding something to snack on in the fridge.

In her defense, the crib is actually quite difficult to put together.

JJ doesn't consider himself an expert handyman by any means, at least not with anything outside of his area of expertise as an electrician, but he likes to think he knows enough to put together a "no assembly required" Ikea crib without wanting to bang his face against the wall.

In the end, it gets finished by the two of them in the middle of the night over a box of cold leftover pizza from the previous day. It takes them two hours of struggling before they get it fully assembled and placed where they want it in the room that'll soon belong to their son.

He pretends not to notice her sneaking back in to tie John B's old bandana around the wooden railing before they go to bed.

Tag List: @gabiatthedisco, @fangirlvoice, @black-syren, @apparrio, @particularcth, @planetdemon, @idk-ijustworkhere, @krisphann, @astrydis, @k-k0129, @zarahsloves, and @stilesflannels.

[fleur-de-violette]

And I’ll look into your eyes to find out if I’m real

A3O Summary: Bruce wants a lot of things. A bath. Seeing his family. Not having been missing for a whole year.

He wants Dick to wake up and realize he’s not a hallucination.

Whumptober 2020 day 6 – Stop, please. Note: Have you seen that the whumptober 2021 prompts are out? They’re super cool and I didn’t finish the 2020 so it’s safe to say I won’t do them. Still, I’m excited for it.

Back to the fic, warning for hallucination, lots of crying and pretty much general angst. Enjoy!

-

Bruce wants a bath.

He wants a lot of things. One of them is a bath. He never considered himself too dependent on the luxuries that came with his civilian identity, but right now, he really wants to be in clean, warm water with a nice scent, maybe a few candles, and some relaxing music.

It isn’t as much about the bath itself, because he had the time to clean himself, warm up and relax his aching muscles in the shower, it’s the idea of it. He wants to be in a moment where he could allow himself to lose time without feeling guilty about the next crisis. These moments are too rare, if not nonexistent, in his life. And now isn’t one of these moments.

Bruce wants a lot of things.

He wants Alfred not to look so tired. He wants to see Tim smile, really smile. He wants to take the next flight to Hong Kong just so he can hug Cassandra. He wants to solve a case with Steph, watch that smart spark in her eyes and find out how much she grew up. He wants to go to Crime Alley and check on Jason. He wants to shake Gordon’s hand and to kiss Barbara’s hair. He wants to feel Selina’s body against his. He wants to understand Damian. He wants to see Dick’s eyes.

He hasn’t seen Dick’s eyes since he came back from time. Batman’s white lenses had left his son’s face sometime between the moment he passed out next to Damian and the moment a neurosurgeon removed a bullet from the inside of his skull. Dick had yet to wake up.

And Bruce hadn’t seen Dick’s eyes in a year.

It’s something that hasn’t happened since that fateful night at Haly’s Circus. Even when they weren’t talking, he always took the time to check on his ward. His son.

He never wanted things to go this way. He has all the money anyone could wish for and more, a position of power, both in one of the biggest companies on earth and in the most famous superhero team in the universe. He’d been trained by the best of the best.

And yet.

And yet he can’t stop his family from ripping to shreds.

The Joker is still loose. He’s got a dozen missed calls on his phone, mostly from Clark. He doesn’t care. Right now, he doesn’t care. He’s tired.

Dick must be tired too. Bruce tries to tell himself that this is the reason he hadn’t woken up yet. He’d been assured by several doctors that the surgery went well. Dick should wake up anytime now, and the confusion and pain will decrease within the next few weeks, leaving only a scar on the back of his head, until that, too, will be hidden behind the thick black hair Bruce hadn’t ruffled affectionately in ages.

Bruce’s hands hover over his son’s unconscious body, as if afraid of touching him. Of breaking him more than he already did. Not for the first time, he wonders what would have happened if he had ensured that the young boy from the circus found a good foster family and left him there. If he hadn’t, with all the vanity of a twenty-four-year-old millionaire, thought he was the only one who could take care of him.

He sighs. He lowers his head once again toward Dick’s face and sees two cloudy blue eyes looking back at him.

He blinks. Tries to control the avalanche of emotions falling upon him. “Hey,” he says, choking on his own voice.

He’s not really expecting an answer, so he’s surprised when Dick opens his dry lips and lets out a small, “Hey. Long time, no see.”

A tear Bruce knows Dick doesn’t even notice forms itself in his son’s eye. Bruce wipes it away gently. “Are you in any pain?” he asks.

“I’m okay,” Dick lies. Bruce doesn’t call him out on it.

“Do you remember what happened?”

Dick goes to shake his head but aborts the movement with a pained jerk. “No,” he says instead.

“Do you want me to tell you?”

Dick lets out a small laugh. “How would you know? You’re a figment of my imagination.”

Bruce suddenly feels very cold. He takes in both the knowledge that Dick doesn’t think he’s real and the implication that hallucinating him is something he’s familiar with.

His hand presses a little more on his son’s face. “I’m here,” he says. “I’m real.”

Dick closes his eyes and another tear escapes one of them. “Don’t. Please.”

“Talk to me. What can I do to convince you?” Bruce feels a pressure building behind his own eyes.

“Please, stop,” Dick repeats. “I can’t. I can’t believe you.”

Bruce takes a deep breath. “Okay, we’ll take all the time you need. You don’t have to believe me now, but you need to calm down.”

Dick is close to hyperventilating now, and Bruce wonders if he should just leave the room and let Alfred take care of him. But that seems too much like running away for his liking, and he’s been away long enough.

“I can’t believe you’re real,” Dick continues, not caring, or perhaps not registering what Bruce said. “I can’t, you’re not. I can’t hope, because what if I wake up and you’re gone? Again?”

Bruce feels his heart shattering into pieces, but he can’t let himself break down. “Breathe, Robin,” he says, immediately wincing when the name passes his lips.

Calling him by a title he hadn’t worn in years probably won’t help Dick’s grip with reality, but he can’t help it. Right now, he can only see a distressed child in front of him. A child who always responded well to this name.

And it seems that some things can’t be erased by time, because Dick gasps and takes a few more deep breaths, calming down. Bruce thinks the worst of it is over. He thinks maybe Dick will fall back asleep, and wake up again in a few hours, less confused this time.

He’s wrong.

Because not a minute later, Dick opens his eyes again, and says, “The real you would be much angrier than that.”

Bruce feels the mass in his throat, the one that appeared at the beginning of the conversation, start to grow again. “What? No, why would I be angry?”

“Let you down,” Dick answers in a way that makes Bruce wish he had never asked. “Disrespected your will. Let Gotham become a mess. Destroyed Batman’s name.”

“You didn’t,” Bruce murmurs. “You didn’t.” When Dick doesn’t seem to calm down, he adds, “You’re a better Batman than I’ll ever be.”

Because this is true. He doesn’t need Alfred of Gordon to tell him what he always knew. Dick is the essence of what Batman should be. He’s the Batman Gotham needs, even if she doesn’t deserve him. And for that reason, Dick shouldn’t have been Batman. He’s perfect, and he’s destroying himself.

Batman had never been a title to pass on, let alone to Dick. Sure, he trusted his son and first sidekick to take the mantle if he was unable to, but he never had wanted him to be Batman. No one but him was supposed to be Batman. Cassandra was the closest to the title, but she wasn’t ready, and he couldn’t let that burden fall on her.

Still, he hadn’t wanted it to fall on Dick, either.

“Why are you saying that?” Dick asks. Bruce can practically see the gears turning in his head. Good. He knows firsthand that Dick is a damn good detective. He will figure this out. “This is not something I believe or fear or want to hear. Why are you saying that?”

“I’m real,” Bruce repeats, and Dick lets out a sob.

“You’re not,” he protests, but Bruce can see his resolve weakening. “You’re not. Tim said, but you…”

He stops. Blinks. A few more tears fall out of his eyes, and Bruce knows his own aren’t dry either. “You’re real. You’re… please, be real.”

Bruce bites the inside of his cheek to keep himself from breaking down. “I’m real,” he chokes. “I promise.”

Dick’s eyes go wide. “What about Damian?” he asks. “Aren’t you angry?”

Bruce sighs. What about Damian? This is a whole different question. The kid is sleeping in his room right now, having finally listened to Alfred, leaving his Batman’s side. He had barely said a word to Bruce.

Bruce has been gone for a year, not by choice, sure, but gone nonetheless, and now he doesn’t know where he fits, between his son in blood and his son in everything else.

Batman and Robin, a bond that can’t be broken. A bond that still exists, he hopes, between himself and Dick.

“I will talk with him,” he says because his relationship with Damian, his complicated feelings about the mere existence of Damian and his anxiety about having to work with him as a Robin, aren’t Dick’s responsibility. They never should have been. “I’m not angry with you.”

Dick blinks again. “My head hurts,” he finally admits.

Bruce’s hand hovers over the morphine drip. “Do you want more painkillers?”

“If I sleep,” Dick asks, “Will you still be there when I wake up?”

Bruce bends down, leaves a kiss on his son’s forehead. “I promise.”

“I don’t believe you,” Dick says. “But thank you, for being here.”

Still, he closes his eyes and his body relaxes a little. Probably as much as it is possible while recovering from brain surgery.

Bruce stays there a long time, his hand still on Dick’s face. He’s broken a lot of promises. But he’s sure of one thing.

He will be here when Dick wakes up again.

He will still be real.

Ending Note: Hope you enjoyed the fic! Many thanks to @ohmytoddhewitt for beta reading!

[not-enough-teeth-and-treasures]

An Autistic’s Perspective on Tears of Themis’ Representation (spoiler alert: it’s bad)

Before you read, I should warn you that there will be spoilers for Chapter Five! Read at your own risk. Also, trigger warning for discussions of ableism and harmful disablility stereotypes. I get pretty heated as well, so if you’re not a fan of swearing and stuff, then it might be best to skip this.

So, I was debating whether or not I wanted to talk about this, mostly because this game doesn’t do anything new in regards to the perception of autism in media. Unfortunately, it ends up leaning into a lot of not great tropes and goes into “what the fuck that’s incredibly offensive territory” waaay to quickly. So here I am.

The most prevelant character with autism (or who we start out thinking has autism. Don’t worry, I’ll get to that) is a small, supergenius child (a boy as well *sigh*) is so overdone at this point that there aren’t many new criticisms I can say. The stereotype of autism presented in media is overwhelmingly extremely intelligent (usually with sciency or math based interests) men with no ability to socialize or be kind to others. This not only paints autism as a disability that effects men primarily (which creates intense stigma around AFAB autistic people and makes it harder for us to get diagnosed or believed), but also creates this expectation of greatness. Autistic people are often held to superhuman standards, which further others and dehumanizes us in the eyes of allistic people. The vast majority of autistic people are not savants, and that it perfectly fine.

But all of this is pretty standard. The red flags started popping up when it was revealed that the autistic kid, Hugh, doesn’t actually have autism and is faking it in order to keep people from asking hard questions about him or trying to pry into his life (which is full of secrets). I’m definitely not a fan of perpetuating the idea that people fake diabilities in order to manipulate people, so this plot twist was not my favorite. However, it wasn’t really enough to inspire me to write a whole ass essay about the representation. And then I got to the fucking text conversation with Vyn.

Here is where I’m gonna put a trigger warning for talk about eugenics, curing autism, ableism, and basically just a fuck ton of awful shit. Fuck, this makes me so mad.

So, I went in and took screenshots of both options just to see, and all of them lead to terrible bullshit. Lets start out pretty light with the MC and Vyn discussing symptoms.

This is a pretty limited and honestly incomplete explanation of autistic behaviors. These can definitely be symptoms, but they’re heavily overcovered and really basic. A lot of autistic people don’t have these symptoms, and it would be really nice if more media branched out and covered more of the spectrum. However, considering they don’t do anything different in any other areas, I’m not surprised.

Also not a fan of Vyn’s use of “abnormal.” It has some very negative connotations and is a bit insulting, honestly. These behaviors are perfectly “normal;” they’re just not as accepted by neurotypical people. Plus, no behaviors can really be labeled as normal because humans are complex and different.

That was the easy shit. Let’s get into the truly awful garbage.

This is treading into ABA territory here. For those of you who are unaware, ABA is pushed as the best autistic therapy, but a large majority of autistic adults consider it to be abusive and unhelpful. This is mainly because it seeks to “correct” many behaviors that are helpful for autistic people. It seeks to surpress stims (which are behaviors that improve the mental health of autistic children), force us to talk (as opposed to letting us use sign language and technology), and more. This harms our mental health and makes us ashamed of who we are. These behaviors do not need to be “corrected.” We don’t need to act “normally.” All this therapy does is make us more palitable for neurotypical people, and it’s bullshit.

It also doesn’t help that ABA was pioneered by Ivar Lovaas, a man who did not believe autistic people were human. He developed ABA as a way to “build a person” using harsh punishments such as withholding affection and ELECTRIC SHOCKS. If you think this is a think of the past, you’d be wrong. Electric shocks are still being used to harm disabled people. Look up the hashtag #StopTheShock to learn more and help push for legislation that bans this practice.

Oh, and did I mention Ivar Lovaas also inspired gay conversion therapy? Because he did! So yeah, fuck ABA and fuck Vyn for performing it (god damn it, Vyn, I liked you a lot).

And now, onto the eugenics. Fuck my life.

FUCK! THIS! BULLSHIT!

I am so tired of autism being treated as this horrific disease that needs a cure. I had a perfectly fine childhood. Yes, it was hard at times, yes I got traumatized, but a large part of that was due to ableism and abuse from teachers and peers. A large reason why autistic people suffer is because the world is not built for us, and we are often denied accommodations that would make our lives better.

It is beyond offensive and disgusting to suggest that we would be better off not existing than “suffering so much” because of autism. Because that is what this game and everyone else who thinks there should be a cure is suggesting. There is no me without autism. it literally affects my brain structure. You are wishing for a completely different person when you tell me that autism should be cured.

Now, I’m not going to get into the horrible consent issues that arise from talks about a cure, including genetic editing, fear mongering to parents so they think abortion is the only option, and straight up Nazi style eugenics. I do not have the spoons to delve into that exhausting discussion. But if you want to know more, then there are so many incredible autistic people who have written blogs, Twitter threads, and more about why a cure is a terrible idea.

Oh, and if you’re going to come at me with the “severely autistic people should be cured” bullshit, don’t bother. There is no such thing as “severe” autism, first of all, and second, non verbal autistic people (which are who people think of when they talk about “severe” autism), largely don’t want a cure. There have been so many surveys of tens of thousands of autistic people, and the result is that the overwhelming majority do not want to be cured. We want support and proper accommodations. Listen to us.

So, in conclusion, fuck this text conversation and it’s ableist and offensive bullshit. I really wish ToT had stayed away from autism, or at the very least did not touch on therapy or a possible cure. For a game that is about genetic experimentation on children and how bad that is, it sure peddles a lot of eugenics.

Fuck, this text conversation actually made me ill and I hate that. I’m so done with constantly trying to prove to the world that I am a human being who deserves to exist. I’m gonna go cuddle my service dog now.

[qqueenofhades]

Hi. You made a post a couple of days ago about how queer historical fiction doesnt need to be defined only by homophobia. Can you expand on that a bit maybe? Because it seems interesting and important, but I'm a little confused as to whether that is responsible to the past and showing how things have changed over time. Anyway this probably isn't very clear, but I hope its not insulting. Have a good day :)

Hiya. I assume you're referring to this post, yes? I think the main parameters of my argument were set out pretty clearly there, but sure, I'm happy to expand on it. Because I'm a little curious as to why you think that writing a queer narrative (especially a queer fictional narrative) that doesn't make much reference to or even incorporate explicit homophobia is (implicitly) not being "responsible to the past." I've certainly made several posts on this topic before, but as ever, my thoughts and research materials change over time. So, okay.

(Note: I am a professional historian with a PhD, a book contract for an academic monograph on medieval/early modern queer history, and soon-to-be-several peer-reviewed publications on medieval queer history. In other words, I'm not just talking out of my ass here.)

As I noted in that post, first of all, the growing emphasis on "accuracy" in historical fiction and historically based media is... a mixed bag. Not least because it only seems to be applied in the Game of Thrones fashion, where the only "accurate" history is that which is misogynistic, bloody, filthy, rampantly intolerant of competing beliefs, and has no room for women, people of color, sexual minorities, or anyone else who has become subject to hot-button social discourse today. (I wrote a critical post awhile ago about the Netflix show Cursed, ripping into it for even trying to pretend that a show based on the Arthurian legends was "historically accurate" and for doing so in the most simplistic and reductive way possible.) This says far more about our own ideas of the past, rather than what it was actually like, but oh boy will you get pushback if you try to question that basic premise. As other people have noted, you can mix up the archaeological/social/linguistic/cultural/material stuff all you like, but the instant you challenge the ingrained social ideas about The Bad Medieval Era, cue the screaming.

I've been a longtime ASOIAF fan, but I do genuinely deplore the effect that it (and the show, which was by far the worst offender) has had on popular culture and widespread perceptions of medieval history. When it comes to queer history specifically, we actually do not know that much, either positive or negative, about how ordinary medieval people regarded these individuals, proto-communities, and practices. Where we do have evidence that isn't just clerical moralists fulminating against sodomy (and trying to extrapolate a society-wide attitude toward homosexuality from those sources is exactly like reading extreme right-wing anti-gay preachers today and basing your conclusions about queer life in 2021 only on those), it is genuinely mixed and contradictory. See this discussion post I likewise wrote a while ago. Queerness, queer behavior, queer-behaving individuals have always existed in history, and labeling them "queer" is only an analytical conceit that represents their strangeness to us here in the 21st century, when these categories of exclusion and difference have been stringently constructed and applied, in a way that is very far from what supposedly "always" existed in the past.

Basically, we need to get rid of the idea that there was only one empirical and factual past, and that historians are "rewriting" or "changing" or "misrepresenting" it when they produce narratives that challenge hegemonic perspectives. This is why producing good historical analysis is a skill that takes genuine training (and why it's so undervalued in a late-capitalist society that would prefer you did anything but reflect on the past). As I also said in the post to which you refer, "homophobia" as a structural conceit can't exist prior to its invention as an analytical term, if we're treating queerness as some kind of modern aberration that can't be reliably talked about until "homosexual" gained currency in the late 19th century. If there's no pre-19th century "homosexuality," then ipso facto, there can be no pre-19th-century "homophobia" either. Which one is it? Spoiler alert: there are still both things, because people are people, but just as the behavior itself is complicated in the premodern past, so too is the reaction to it, and it is certainly not automatic rejection at all times.

Hence when it comes to fiction, queer authors have no responsibility (and in my case, certainly no desire) to uncritically replicate (demonstrably false!) narratives insisting that we were always miserable, oppressed, ostracised, murdered, or simply forgotten about in the premodern world. Queer characters, especially historical queer characters, do not have to constantly function as a political mouthpiece for us to claim that things are so much better today (true in some cases, not at all in the others) and that modernity "automatically" evolved to a more "enlightened" stance (definitely not true). As we have seen with the recent resurgence of fascism, authoritarianism, nationalism, and xenophobia around the world, along with the desperate battle by the right wing to re-litigate abortion, gay rights, etc., social attitudes do not form in a vacuum and do not just automatically become more progressive. They move backward, forward, and side to side, depending on the needs of the societies that produce them, and periods of instability, violence, sickness, and poverty lead to more regressive and hardline attitudes, as people act out of fear and insularity. It is a bad human habit that we have not been able to break over thousands of years, but "[social] things in the past were Bad but now have become Good" just... isn't true.

After all, nobody feels the need to constantly add subtextual disclaimers or "don't worry, I personally don't support this attitude/action" implied authorial notes in modern romances, despite the cornucopia of social problems we have today, and despite the complicated attitude of the modern world toward LGBTQ people. If an author's only reason for including "period typical homophobia" (and as we've discussed, there's no such thing before the 19th century) is that they think it should be there, that is an attitude that needs to be challenged and examined more closely. We are not obliged to only produce works that represent a downtrodden past, even if the end message is triumphal. It's the same way we got so tired of rape scenes being used to make a female character "stronger." Just because those things existed (and do exist!), doesn't mean you have to submit every single character to those humiliations in some twisted name of accuracy.

Yes, as I have always said, prejudices have existed throughout history, sometimes violently so. But that is not the whole story, and writing things that center only on the imagined or perceived oppression is not, at this point, accurate OR helpful. Once again, I note that this is specifically talking about fiction. If real-life queer people are writing about their own experiences, which are oftentimes complex, that's not a question of "representation," it's a question of factual memoir and personal history. You can't attack someone for being "problematic" when they are writing about their own lived experience, which is something a younger generation of queer people doesn't really seem to get. They also often don't realise how drastically things have changed even in my own lifetime, per the tags on my reblog about Brokeback Mountain, and especially in media/TV.

However, if you are writing fiction about queer people, especially pre-20th century queer people, and you feel like you have to make them miserable just to be "responsible to the past," I would kindly suggest that is not actually true at all, and feeds into a dangerous narrative that suggests everything "back then" was bad and now it's fine. There are more stories to tell than just suffering, queer characters do not have to exist solely as a corollary for (inaccurate) political/social commentary on the premodern past, and they can and should be depicted as living their lives relatively how they wanted to, despite the expected difficulties and roadblocks. That is just as accurate, if sometimes not more so, than "they suffered, the end," and it's something that we all need to be more willing to embrace.