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caguaydreams · 4 years ago

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A thorough analysis on why Vah Medoh’s dungeon theme makes me want to cry

Yep, that’s an accurate title. Hi there! do you have a moment to hear about Breath of The Wild soundtrack? posting for yet a third time in hopes that tumblr won't hide it. I'm so tired

What started as a quick and harmless post, pretending to simply point out a couple of things, rolled downhill, out of my grasp and turned into a massive snowball of a short essay. How and why did this happen? Well, I assume a lot of people know about this song, and know what I’m talking about when I say that it makes me tear up and sob uncontrollably with every change in key as the seconds tick by and I spiral down into a dwell of misery from where I struggle to find the exit and to later recover.

……No?…..At the VERY LEAST it makes you a little uncomfortable. And I state this with much certainty, because after reading hundreds of comments everywhere online where this song is present, I picked up on a vast majority of people who expressed to feel the same way I did when it came down to our current music subject. See, statistics don’t lie… normally. So, naturally, my intrigue got the best of me. I wanted to find out exactly why this soundtrack was mercilessly stirring up everyone’s emotions, so I caved in and we ended up with this.

Buckle in, fellas.

Out of all Divine Beasts’ dungeon themes, Vah Medoh’s is the one that I can’t sit through. Not without growing antsy and wanting to turn it off as soon as possible. I find it genuinely difficult to listen to, and it’s not only because Revali is my favorite character and the song is just, plainly put, depressing, mind you.

We’ll start from 0 terminals activated.

It opens up similar to the other three dungeon themes; the pace is slow but eerie, gives off the impression that it sounds broken somehow. Something is off here, and it’s easy to figure out what that is from the get go: you’re basically entering a majestic, ancient, mechanical mausoleum, where everything went terribly wrong a century ago. Someone is gone, someone you knew, someone who was probably close to you, but it’s impossible to be sure. You don’t remember a thing, and this entire ordeal is confusing at best, and terrifying at worst. It’s your duty to make things right again.

It’s the same for all four Divine Beasts upon entering, save for the obvious little differences that separates them from each other and make them unique. Ruta’s is played on a major key, adhering to a sense of hopefulness. Naboris’s begins with a startling smashing of the piano keys, much like thunder of a sudden lighting strike. And Rudania’s theme starts threatening, dangerous, like scalding lava.

But now, back to Vah Medoh. The tone here is… alienating. The dissonant chords are all over the place, and feel disconnected, cold. It’s almost as if someone doesn’t want us to be here, or just like the elusive key, our presence is unexpected. Fitting, for a Divine Beast that’s high above the land, impossible for most to reach, yet we somehow made it. Apart from the piano, we have the occasional hint to rito culture, in the shape of a short, synthetic version of the rolled chords at the very beginning of Rito Village. A quiet reminder of where we come from. There is also, of course, the morse code distress signal, but we’ll talk more about that later.

As soon as this formal introduction is over, we finally get to the more, say, intimate stuff. Oh, and wouldn’t you know, it’s just tragic.

One terminal activated.

There’s no better short way I can describe this passage, other than anxiety-inducing. Especially when the strings come into play, and there’s two reasons I can think of why I feel this is an important thing to point out:

1- Characters and Symbolism.

I tend to associate stringed instruments, all of those which compose the violin family, with rito culture. And Revali, most specifically. In Creating a Champion we can see the early concept art and designs for all or most major characters in the game, and Revali’s highlighted rough design might be the one that changed the most throughout proper development of the character, out of all champions. He looks quite different from our usual depiction of him, it’s fascinating. What truly catches my eye, however, is the design of his bow.

You thought bird puns were bad? Oh boy, how do you feel about Revali having a bow that looks like a violin/cello/viola??? And do you need a bow to play it also??? Like, is it even an instrument or it’s nothing more than a mere fashion statement?-

Anyway. I believe this was originally going to be a not-so-subtle wink to rito culture, being heavily musically inclined as we can see and conclude for ourselves. Perhaps Revali was going to be a musician as well, now how cool it that!

Needless to say, the idea was eventually scrapped. But one detail I am CERTAIN carried over to the character we know and love today(okay not all of us love him but seriously if you dislike him why are you still here lol): strings. The association between bows(weapon) and stringed instruments, aside from being a quite clever and creative one, goes beyond the concept art and remains strong as part of Revali’s character, settling for having a presence via score. After all, Revali is a master of archery, so in that way it makes sense to keep strings as symbolism to reinforce the idea and drive it home.

But can you guess what other thing Revali excels at? That’s right: flying. He’s the only rito we know of who successfully managed to take advantage of wind currents and bend them to his will. And do you know what musical instruments are often used to evoke the feeling of flight and gale? If you thought of bowed strings, you’re correct! Unfortunately, I couldn’t find much support on this topic online, so you’ll have to take my word for it. I am most certain that this is fact, although not something worth discussing on the Internet, by the looks of it.

Anyhow, violins/cellos/etc are ever-present whenever we’re close to Rito Village or dealing with a rito related mission. Attack on Vah Medoh, for example, features a sequence of strings that is meant to evoke the strong winds we’re fighting against in that particular moment(*). Another great example is The Final Trial, the song that plays at the shrine of resurrection nearing the end of the Champions’ Ballad. Preceding the activation of each terminal, you’ll notice that a new instrumental element joins the crowd: the first one corresponds to the tambourines, related to the zora and Mipha; the second one are strings, referencing the rito and Revali, etc. I tell you, the moment I heard this during the trial I almost started crying like a baby. And, although strings have a lot to do with Rito culture in general, they tie most strongly to Revali, since he was the champion of his people, and his legacy carried over throughout the years. His accomplishments became material of folk tale, a legend, a source of pride and inspiration for the village. And let’s not forget that, at the end of the day, Revali is the crucial and foremost connection Link has to this place. Other than appeasing Vah Medoh, Link’s responsibility here is to free his past fellow champion’s spirit from Ganon’s malice. The soundtrack is referencing Revali first, and by extension his devotion to his home.

With all that in mind, let’s move on to our next point:

2- Nowhere to Go.

You shoot the canons, land on top of the Divine Beast, do what you gotta do, activate the first terminal and the soundtrack goes off unannounced. Like some sort of surprise anxiety bomb. The rhythm turns fast, the melody erratic, incredibly desperate in its execution. There’s this sheer despair, fear, this feeling of suffocation almost, which are so well achieved in this particular piece.

And that is, partially, because a quite familiar resource is used here as well; one that we’ve heard before in songs such as Rito Village or Revali’s theme. You could even think of it as a motif: two notes are played in an semitone interval, repeatedly and in quick succession. For the sake of later convenience, we’ll call this the Flight Motif, now let me explain why. In Breath of The Wild, this semitone loop is often followed up by some form of resolution. In Rito Village, formerly known as Dragon Roost Island(**), that resolution consists of a graceful descent of the melody, from a high that was built up previously during the motif. On the other hand, if you listen to Revali’s theme, you’ll notice that the interval repeats itself for a couple of times as thought charging up, to then rise fast and determined into a triumphal reprise of Revali’s distinctive assigned melody. This juxtaposition supposes the difference that lays between common rito flight and Revali’s trademark ability; both musical sequences are speaking of flight, albeit in two different languages depending on the way to achieve it. While the rito traditionally use their wings to glide and let themselves get swayed by the air currents Buzz Lightyear style, Revali takes full advantage of his flying capabilities to somehow create an updraft of his own, rising meters above the ground whenever he likes or needs to.

So, now that I layed out my base of thought when focusing on the strings, this’ll be much easier to explain. We’ve settled what the instruments themselves are a symbolic representation of Revali, in this scenario specifically. He was the only one inside Vah Medoh, and the score is, in a way, a retelling of what we can vaguely assume went down here during the Great Calamity, as much as it is what sets the tone and ambience for Link’s mission. But what are we hearing exactly? What we talked about, the Flight Motif, is being repeated nonstop. And that’s the thing, remember how I mentioned that this sequence usually finds resolution at the end? Well. Inside Vah Medoh,… it never does. The melody picks up in numerous occasions, but it’s not nearly as graceful, or calculated, as we’ve grown used to by now. It gets tangled and lost, and then inevitably falls to the ground in disarray. The pattern repeats itself, reaching higher after a handful of failed attempts, but no matter how much it tries, the cycle never ends. What used to tell us about flying and freedom in the skies, has morphed into an almost sinister musical incarnation of a tornado, and there is no way out of this trap. What do you think it must feel like to mindlessly flap your wings against wind currents so strong and violent, that it is impossible to get anywhere nearby, let alone take off every time you lose your balance. Or every time you’re shot down. On top of that, trying to aim and fight back in whatever short breaks and opportunities you get, at an enemy that’s much more powerful and relentless, who’s using your own element as a weapon to destroy you… it’s a risk Revali surely had to take in order to put up a fight. Even knowing full well that the odds were not in his favour, that he was most likely going to lose this battle, that he was going to die. Let that sink in. I’ll skip the activation of the second terminal, since there’s barely any change registered in the theme in general. So-

Three terminals activated.

I know this post is supposed to be a breakdown of the song purely, but that doesn’t mean there’s no place for a little theorising, and the following scrutiny is also quite relevant for our discussion. Bear with me for a bit. I’ve read almost everywhere about people’s most common interpretations on the Divine Beasts SOS signals, and how everyone thinks that Revali’s coming in last (a few seconds later than the other champions) has to do with him holding on for longer. Or, also, overconfident as he was, it means that the idea of calling out for additional support didn’t cross his mind until it was too late, and that’s why the beeping sounds more frantic and panicked than the others’ when it does appear. After giving it some thought myself, I’m betting on the latter option holding more ground, and that’s not all. I want to touch upon a detail of the piece that I never acknowledged was there until very recently(after seeing myself obliged to listen to this song fully and a handful of times, suffering every minute of it for the sole purpose of this analysis. It’s okay I didn’t need my heart anyway). Soon after activating the third terminal, the SOS signal disappears, or grows distant and faint enough that we can’t make it out from the background anymore. In its place, we’re confronted by this… shrill, piercing and painfully slow tune. It sounds synthetic, artificial, devoid of life. And it’s funny, because you know what it reminds me of? I’ll tell you:

A heartbeat flatline sound.

And I want to highlight that this doesn’t happen in any of the other Divine Beasts themes. All their SOS signals carry on, but Medoh’s is no more. This abrupt stop, followed by this bone-chilling tune…. makes me believe that Revali was the first of the champions to fall. A few days ago I came across SuperZeldaGirl’s video on a similar topic, theorising that this could very much be the case. There is not much evidence to support this claim other than some visual cues that could be suggesting to it, but after I found this in the soundtrack, and if we’re to rely on it for anything, I believe Revali was either the first champion to be ambushed by Ganon, or well…. the first to be killed. It is plausible, because short after Calamity Ganon unleashes his power, Revali parts from the group and flies directly to Vah Medoh, and he very well could’ve been the first pilot to arrive.

On this note…. we’ll have to wait and see for ourselves, when Age of Calamity provides long-awaited answers to many of our questions.

Four terminals activated.

An interesting melody is being played on what, for me, would qualify as a glockenspiel or a celesta, which are keyboard based instruments that produce a sound similar to that of a music box(***). If you want to pay more attention to it, I suggest listening to Vetrom’s Instrumental Mix Cover of the theme, where they practically zoom in on this part of the song (keep in mind that it uses the All Terminals’ time signature so it’s being played faster). For some reason, this particular addition makes me feel profound empathy. The sound of this instrument could be described as cute or childlike, magical, even. It is more often than not used to represent innocence, but I highly doubt that’s specifically the intention here. Much like the leading strings’ melody, the melodic contour of this one is trapped in a loop of going up and down constantly, but the difference is that this time around it sounds more under control. And much more uniform too. It doesn’t lose focus or takes risky, fruitless leaps, but rather chooses to stay on a path of waves that consistently rises and falls without taking detours. Like a determined battle strategy, giving it your all. You fall, but get back up again, and try again, and again. It reminds me of Revali’s approach to training, being persistent to the point of overworking himself. He had discipline nailed down to a tee, which I also think served him well in combat. It’s not just about being hard on yourself, either, but being confident and having complete faith in your abilities; believing that you’ll make it. For this to appear now, that the SOS signal is almost completely gone, is significant because it means that by this point, being so close to success on Link’s behalf, the music is sparing genuine encouragement for once, in spite of the tragic outcome of the past and the danger of the current situation. But, in all honesty, this is probably just me reading too much into it. Perhaps the composer just thought this addition sounded pretty bitching and there’s not much else to it, which is completely fine. Although, intentional or not, sometimes coincidences do happen, and at the end of the day, interpretations like this are a form of appreciation for an artist’s work and for what they can unknowingly accomplish.

All terminals activated.

This is the moment when the song finally lightens up. Notice how the strings abandon the wave pattern for a more even contour. The beat quickens, the melody stabilizes. At first I thought, coming from our flight analogy, that this meant a cease in movement entirely, and it was partly one of the reasons why the song in general makes me anxious. But thinking about it now, …there is something different going on here. The strings are playing on a steady rhythm. It resembles a march, it’s like a pounding heart. It’s a lively, hopeful statement. And what’s interesting is that, up until this point, there was so much fear and helplessness present in the score, even going as far as to reach a dead end when we activate the third terminal. But that’s it, isn’t it? the music just keeps going further.

It’s saying: this isn’t over yet. Even after complete and utter defeat, there’s still hope and an underlying wish to overcome this predicament, and we started to hear this as soon as a fourth terminal is activated. The melody we previously talked about? it’s here as well, and its beat is much more daring and confident.

And I just want to say… this is so powerful. Because this sentiment is deeply tied to the game’s story and Revali’s character arc. You see, he is introduced as someone who resents Link for being the manifestation of his failure, in a way, because Revali has trained arduously his whole life to be where he is, to be recognised. And yet… this hylian gets chosen by a magic sword and some tale of divine destiny and, apparently, that’s all it takes for him to be deemed the hero that will save the land. In Revali’s eyes, Link has done nothing to prove his worth before him, so it is easy to see why he despises the silent knight so much; he is yet another individual that was born into their destiny. Meanwhile, Revali has had to build his reputation from the ground up, earning him a place among the greatest warriors of Hyrule, and even then he finds himself surrounded by people who grew up praised for being born gifted. We can see how Revali is the odd one out, and can map out the reason for him acting so antagonistic towards Link.

But once we’re on Medoh, things start to change. When Link enters the Divine Beast, Revali greets him with disdain, as per usual. Of course, Link has no recollection of whatever happened a hundred years ago, other than a small glimpse of the rito champion talking down to him, a memory that came and went in a flash. So as Link, we more than expect Revali to act cold and mocking, which he does. He provides us with as little help as needed in order to free Medoh, reluctantly, shielding his wounded pride over having to wait for Link, of all people, to come to their rescue. But you can hear him starting to open up bit by bit(I wish I could translate his dialogue directly from Japanese but I’ll make do with a couple of dubs and other numerous sources from translators online). With each little step Link takes towards success, activating the terminals, the perception Revali has of him shifts from one of resentment to one of genuine admiration and respect. By the end of it all, he is willing to not only cheer on Link during the boss battle, but to trust him with his life’s worth achievement. And once left alone, he admits defeat and lets go of his bitterness, realising that he was wrong to underestimate Link, and later wishes he could’ve had a chance to measured up to him. To take all of this into consideration and work with it in the soundtrack I think it’s genuinely splendid. And for once, I am grateful that it ends in somewhat of a positive note that puts my soul to rest. I still have a hard time listening to the first two thirds of the entire thing, but now I can look forward to a hopeful and earnestly heartening conclusion for all the pain that this composition puts me in. I must admit that it’s beautifully and brilliantly crafted, and that I am enamoured of it regardless.

That is why I wrote roughly 4k words about it! I hate myself!

If you’re as crazy as me about the soundtrack of this game, I recommend you read the published cd interview with the composers themselves! if you haven’t already. I just found it yesterday(unbelievable but it’s true) and… after writing all of this and checking it out, I felt validated. It sure is a one of a kind feeling.

Alright folks, we’ve made it to the end. Congratulations for sticking around and thanks being interested in my nonsensical rambling!

I also hope that you, like me, will now be unable to listen to bowed strings without being reminded of Revali. Good luck!

————– Annotations/Sidenotes/Whatever

(*)The Flight Motif(in point number 2) is also present in this track. We can hear it in the background right after the Rito leitmotif, as per usual. It starts with a clarinet, I think, before the strings take the lead. (**) Note that the Flight Motif only comes into play in the Breath of The Wild rendition of the song. (***)I strongly associate this instrument with Mipha, given that it is used in her theme, in every “response” to the initial melody. It can be heard in Attack On Vah Ruta, as well, it enters the scene when the notes Mi(E) and Fa(F) are played. The initial tune, Si and Do(B and C) are played on a clarinet or oboe, wind instruments just like the flute that leads Sidon’s respective theme. The celesta can also be heard inside Vah Ruta, activating the first terminal…. when the song really takes a turn just like Medoh’s. Mipha has nothing to do with the song of this analysis, however. We must understand that instruments, although they are attached to characters/various story elements in some cases, can always be used outside of that context, for that is the nature of an orchestral soundtrack. If you have this many tools at your disposal, you will make good use of them.

#Revali #Vah Medoh #botw #loz #aoc

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ephemeralstark · 4 years ago

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An Intern’s Ordeal

Summary: Peter gets invited to the Annual Stark Charity Gala, only he thinks he's attending as an intern and panics because he doesn't even know how to make coffee so how can he manage an actual event. Throw in a stab wound, some fractured ribs, a healthy dose of self-deprecation and a case of mistaken identity, and Tony realises that Peter really doesn't understand how much he means to him.

Rated T | Irondad | Completed | 10k

AN: i hope you all enjoy, i’ll add the link to read on ao3 in a reblog if you guys prefer that!! tw for injuries and blood, stay safe my lovelies and the tag list is at the end!

“You know,” Peter commented idly as he set down the wrench Mr. Stark had handed him on the table, “when you said you wanted me to come over and help out in the workshop, this wasn't exactly what I thought you’d have planned.”

“No?” Mr. Stark wondered as he held out a hand for the weird caps Peter was still tightly gripping after being warned not to lose them, “what did you think we were going to do?”

“I don’t know, really,” Peter shrugged dismissively, “but I kinda thought it would be something to do with Spider-Man.”

“Spider-Man?” Mr. Stark spoke as though he had forgotten who Spider-Man was, as though he wasn't sitting in the same room as him, before cursing slightly under his breath and dropping one of the caps.

“Yeah, you know? The red and blue guy who swings over the city on webs that he made himself because he’s so totally cool and smart.”

“I know who Spider-Man is, kid,” Mr. Stark said rolling his eyes at Peter, “can you grab that wrench again? Then get down here, it’s your turn to do a bit of work.”

“Well, I’m just saying you sounded a bit confused,” Peter said as he jumped off his stool and crouched by the engine on the floor, the smell of motor oil and grease making his head spin a little, he blamed his enhanced sense of smell for that as he other man didn't seem to be affected by it.

“Not about Spider-Man,” Mr. Stark corrected him, before frowning and giving Peter a serious look, “Pete, do you think I only keep you around because of your abilities?”

“Uh,” Peter faltered, unable to find the words to explain how he did think that but not in a way that made Mr. Stark seem like a bad guy, just in a way that proved Peter wasn't any more special than the next intern who passed through the halls of Stark Industries.

A look of understanding seemed to cross Mr. Stark’s face and before Peter could even open his mouth he continued to speak, “hey, actually, how would you feel about coming to this charity Gala on Saturday?”

“Wh- wait, what?”

That… had been the last thing Peter expected Mr. Stark to say, why would he invite him to a Gala? Didn't he realise that Peter was probably the last person in the world who should be invited to a fancy event - in fact, he wasn't entirely sure he owned a suit, would that be an issue? Maybe he could borrow that one of Ben’s he wore to Homecoming.

“Charity Gala,” Mr. Stark repeated, “it's a big event with suits, ties, dresses, and champagne; lots and lots of champagne, not that you’re allowed to drink that, but as Stark Industries is the organiser of the even then I can make sure we have plenty of soda. So, what’s your favourite: Coke, Pepsi, Dr Pepper, Sprite, Fanta…”

“Uh, I don't- I don't know,” Peter stammered, “just whatever you want is fine with me.”

“Come on, Kiddo, I want to make this enjoyable for my favourite intern, so what’s your drink of choice?”

“Uh, Dr Pepper, maybe?” Peter said unsurely.

“You got it,” Mr. Stark said, “now come on, get your head in the game, we need to rebuild this engine.”

“Why are we doing this?” Peter wondered, still feeling slightly confused by the conversation that had just occurred, he felt like there was a deeper meaning to it.

“By the time I was your age, I’d lost count of the number of engines I’d rebuilt, this is a young genius’ rite of passage.”

I’m not a genius, Peter thought to himself but instead of voicing the thought aloud, he focused his attention on the task at hand. Or, he tried to, at least, the truth was that he was slightly caught up on Mr. Stark’s comment about wanting his favourite intern at the Charity Gala.

Was that his way of saying that he wasn't keeping Peter around because of his Spider-Man abilities, but rather because of his status as a Stark Industries intern? But that couldn't be right, Peter wasn't even a good intern - he usually just fiddled around in the workshop and tried to improve his Spider-Man equipment before attempting to eat Mr. Stark out of house and home. So, why wouldn't he take a better intern to the Gala? And what exactly would be expected of Peter on Saturday?

“Kid?” Mr. Stark poked Peter’s arm making him jump in shock and his head snapped to the side to see his mentor staring at him with a slightly concerned expression, “you good? You’re off in your own world tonight, I’m starting to get a little worried and you know me; I don’t like to be worried, I like to be blase in most situations.”

“I’m yeah, I’m good, don’t worry,” Peter lied, “I was just thinking about this US History project I’ve got to hand in soon.”

“History?” Mr. Stark muttered, screwing up his nose in disgust, “you go to a STEM school, right? Shouldn't they be focusing on the sciences more than history?”

“Well, you know how it is,” Peter muttered with a shrug, “those who are ignorant of history are doomed to repeat it, and I suppose they have to give us a rounded education.”

Mr. Stark cast him a dubious glance, “you sure that’s the saying, Bud?”

“Well, it’s close, I think,” Peter mumbled, “anyways, I like history, I don't think it’s something I’ll pursue as a career but the class is interesting enough.”

“A career?” Mr. Stark asked jerking back in shock, “in history?”

“Not for me,” Peter repeated, “I don’t know, I’ll probably go into research or scientific development or something, I haven't thought about it in too much detail, to be honest.”

“You haven't- Kid, what? You should absolutely be thinking about this,” Mr. Stark said, “I know I’ve mentioned this before but I do have some pull at MIT. In fact, I have some pull at almost every college out there, you name it and I could probably get you in. What can I say? People love me.”

“I just don't want to make a life-changing decision at fifteen,” Peter muttered, “I know I’m going to have to soon, but do you know how much people change and grow? I asked May and she said she’s nothing like the person she was as a teenager, so if that’s going to be the same for me, how do I know that I’ll choose the right career at this point in my life, I’d rather take the time and make that decision.”

“Alright,” Mr. Stark said, “as much as I’d love to put you through college and have you working full time at Stark Industries, I can understand why you feel that way and it’s quite a mature observation - even though I hate it.”

“You’d want me working here?” Peter asked with wide eyes.

“Of course, you’re my favourite intern after all,” Mr. Stark said with what Peter was sure was meant to be a teasing grin, but all he could think about was the swooping in his stomach as those words were repeated. ‘Favorite intern’ was that Mr. Stark’s way of saying he was going to have to act like an intern at the Charity Gala?

He instantly began to feel nauseous, Mr. Stark was dropping hints about the intern thing which meant that he was absolutely expecting Peter to be on the ball at the Gala and he was only used to messing around in the lab. In fact, Peter was fairly sure that he’d never done anything intern-like; Mr. Stark had once asked Peter to turn on the coffee machine and Peter had merely shrugged, shoved a handful of sour patch kids in his mouth, and admitted that he had no idea how to make coffee.

So really, Peter had never done an intern’s job, he was going into this completely blind.

“Peter?” Mr. Stark prompted, “are you alright? Was that too much?”

“I’m fine,” Peter said quickly, as he lurched to his feet, “I just really gotta go and… work on that project.”

Peter stumbled over the toolbox on the floor, a testament to his distraction as his Spidey-Sense would have usually warned him of such obstructions, and grabbed his backpack off the ground.

“Peter, wait-”

But Peter didn't wait, or even hang around outside the door to the workshop to listen to the end of Mr. Stark’s sentence, he ran. Like a coward, his mind supplied.

He wasn't a coward, he was just… scared that Mr. Stark was going to expect more of him than he was able to give, he didn't know how to be an intern, so really, was it any surprise that no one at school believed him? Ned probably would have eventually lost his trust in Peter after a while if it wasn't for the discovery that he was Spider-Man.

Peter made his way upwards to the roof, instead of towards the main exit, slipping his web-shooters on over his wrists in preparation to swing home.

“Peter, Boss has requested that I ask you to stay, at least for ten minutes,” F.R.I.D.A.Y. said, which of course shouldn't have been a surprise considering she was everywhere in the building - except the bathrooms.

“I can’t,” Peter said, guilt gnawing at his stomach as he spoke, “tell him that I’m sorry for rushing out, and it wasn't anything he said-” that was a lie but Mr. Stark didn't need to feel guilty about expecting Peter to do his job “-and maybe just say I’ll see him on Saturday, although if wants to he could text me the details?”

“I’ll pass that along,” F.R.I.D.A.Y. said gently, or as gently as a robotic voice could sound, “take care Peter, don't forget your mask and swing safely.”

“Thanks, F.R.I.,” he mumbled as the doors to the roof slid open and Peter breathed in the cool NYC evening air.

Taking note of her advice, he pulled his Spider-Man mask out of his backpack and pulled it over his head, he didn't bother changing fully into his suit, he was only going home - he had no plans to stop and fight any crimes.

“Good evening, Peter, I heard from F.R.I.D.A.Y. that you were distressed, how are you now?” Karen greeted him instantly.

“Of course you did,” Peter muttered, “I’m fine, don't worry, but can I ask you something?”

“You just did, but of course I am your A.I. system therefore you can ask me as many questions as you’d like,” Karen told him.

“Alright,” Peter mumbled, rolling his eyes behind the mask as he wondered whether she had been programmed to respond with that whenever he asked if he could ask a question, “uh, so theoretically if I asked you some questions would you have to tell Mr. Stark what I asked you?”

“No, he only has override codes in case of an emergency, but I was designed to be yours alone and that must come with some degree of trust.”

“Right,” Peter said, trying to process her words as he launched himself off the side of Stark Tower and felt the cold wind make his clothes flap in the breeze, his stomach swooped with the familiar, intoxicating fear of falling and he felt himself immediately perk up with the adrenaline rush.

He waited until he could make out the shocked expressions of the people on the street before he shot a web, feeling the familiar tug on his arms as his fall was broken and he swung in an upwards arc - it felt like he was on a rollercoaster and he couldn't deny that he loved every moment of it.

He had almost lost himself in the comforting thwips of web-slinging and the soothing breeze when Karen spoke up once more and reminded him of his concerns.

“Did you want to ask me anything else?” she prompted.

“Uh, yeah,” Peter mumbled, “what would an intern typically wear to a Stark Industries Charity Gala?”

“Mr. Stark doesn't typically take interns to his Galas,” Karen informed him, “however, I know that you’re asking this because you were invited this Saturday, therefore why don't you just wear formal attire.”

“How did you know that?” Peter asked in a moment of paranoia.

“I am connected to Tony Stark’s personal server which is the same server as F.R.I.D.A.Y. and she has the finalised guest list for the Gala which includes your name.”

“Is there anything else there about me?” Peter wondered, “besides my name, that is?”

“Unlimited access.”

“Unlimited because I’m an intern, right?” Peter asked, “I have to be able to do what Mr. Stark needs during the Gala?”

“I don't follow your line of questioning,” Karen said.

“Yeah, no,” Peter mumbled, “I didn't really follow that either. How about this: what does an intern typically do?”

“I need more context,” Karen said, “the job role of an intern depends on who they intern for.”

“Alright, what does an S.I. intern do?” Peter corrected.

“In which department?”

“Mr. Stark’s personal intern, what would be expected of that person?”

“The only person to ever fill that role is yourself, therefore I’m afraid that’s only a question you can answer as it was never an official post therefore I can’t source any information from a job application.”

“So,” Peter said slowly as he swung, “you’re telling me that only I know the answer to the thing I don't know?”

“Exactly.”

“Great,” Peter mumbled, shaking his head to himself.

So basically he was the only person who had ever interned for Mr. Stark, which made sense, after all, Mr. Stark had always had Miss. Potts with him, she had been his assistant before she had taken over everything, therefore why would he need interns? If anything, Miss. Potts was probably the one who had interns, so what if Peter asked her?

No.

That wouldn't work, she and him hadn't seen each other a ton and if he went up to her and started asking weird questions she would either assume that he was looking for money or she’d grow suspicious and tell Mr. Stark about him questioning her.

So, he was essentially lost. There didn't seem to be any clear answer about how to be a good intern for Mr. Stark or what would be expected of him on Saturday. To be fair he should have expected this to be harder than expected, his mentor wasn't one to play by the rules and why should this situation be any different?

“Are you alright?” Karen asked, “you’re acting strange tonight, your behaviour is sparking concern.”

“I’m fine,” Peter lied, “just worried about this project thing I have to prepare for school next week.”

“You know, I am connected to a great deal of information, if you need help with a project, you can always ask me,” Karen reminded him.

“Yeah, K, I know,” Peter murmured, “I just need to think, alright? I’m fine, I just need some time to myself.”

“Noted.”

And with that, she fell silent, finally, and Peter was left to his thoughts and worries. Which he had absolutely planned to do, except a piercing scream breaking through the night distracted him from himself.

“No, no, please, my husband’s medication is in that bag!” A woman shouted, sounding panicked, “please, no, he has seizures and if you take his meds he will be in danger and my money is in there too, I can’t buy more pills.”

Peter immediately changed his trajectory, so much for not getting involved in anything, I probably should have put the whole Spidey-Suit on, he thought to himself as his hearing honed in on the desperate sobs coming from an alleyway.

The scene that met Peter in the alleyway made his blood boil and he felt himself gritting his teeth without meaning to; a lady who looked to be in her late seventies was clutching at her handbag as though her life depended on it, although judging by what Peter had previously heard, her husband’s did. The thief was tugging sharply and slashing the air between them with a sharp blade, he didn't seem to be trying to stab her, but he wasn't exactly being careful.

“Hey!” Peter shouted, successfully distracting the thief who seemed to jump out of his skin and let go of the lady’s handbag on impulse.

“Spidey?” the man asked, looking over Peter’s clothes with a confused frown which reminded Peter that he was wearing an incredibly dorky science T-Shirt with an amazing science pun on it, he would probably have to bin the shirt now, or at the very least retire it for a year or so.

“Stealing a lady’s handbag?” Peter asked, not needing to put much effort into proving that he was disappointed in the guy, “really man? That’s low, especially when she’s told you her husband’s very important medications are in there.”

“No one asked you, beat it!”

“I can’t do that,” Peter said, “I’m going to have to insist that you walk away, maybe if you go in the opposite direction I won’t knock you out and call the police.”

Alright, so maybe that was a lie and Peter was planning to web the guy up and call the cops no matter what he decided.

“Oh, fuck off,” the man muttered.

“Hey!” Peter shouted, “language!”

“Who the fuck do you think you are?” the thief snapped, forgetting about the lady and her handbag in order to focus his attention on Peter.

He made a quick hand motion to the lady to run, and thankfully she didn't need to be told twice as she instantly broke into a hasty trot away, her heels clicking on the concrete but the thief didn't seem to care, his attention was solely on Peter and the blade in his hands was no longer being held loosely, now it was poised to attack.

“Woah, dude!” Peter muttered, holding his hands up as he backed off a few steps, “I take it back, you can use whatever language you want.”

“Why couldn't you just keep swinging?” the man asked as he took a couple of calculated steps forward, “I had this all under control, why the fuck did you think it was a good idea to get involved?”

“You were stealing that lady’s handbag,” Peter said, “and her husband’s medication, there’s nothing about that situation that is controlled.”

“It was for me, alright?” the man screamed.

Uh oh, Peter thought, from experience he had realised that when people were overly emotional, they became unpredictable. This man was armed and seemed desperate.

That was something that Peter occasionally struggled with; he was out almost every night as Spider-Man and often he stopped people who weren't truly bad but they were just in a difficult situation. Did that make him a bad person? Some of those ‘criminals’ were potentially only trying to scrounge money to feed their families.

He couldn't think like that though because if he started excusing some people’s bad actions and condemning others’, where did he draw the line? Spider-Man was the person who looked out for the little guy, he stopped crime, he didn't take statements and decide who was guilty or whose actions were justified. If someone did something wrong then he would stop them and that was that.

“Look, I get you think you have your reasons for this, but it's wrong,” Peter said, “why don't you put the knife away, and maybe we can sort this out without anyone getting hurt?”

“You-” the man broke off, seemingly too angry to form a coherent sentence, instead he lunged forward, knife in hand.

Peter hadn't been expecting that reaction, he had hoped the man would have been willing to compromise. In a desperate attempt to avoid being impaled on the guy’s blade, Peter forced himself through the air and he hit the ground with a thud, feeling as though something in the side of his chest had cracked.

“Ouch,” Peter muttered, trying to ignore the whine he could hear in his own voice, he was meant to be the tough hero who fended for those who couldn't fend for themselves, “hey, man, that was seriously not cool.”

“Shut the fuck up!”

The man lunged at him again, still holding the knife, and Peter skittered backward like a crab until his back came up against a hard, metal surface: oh, the dumpster. He desperately needed to get back up on his feet, he was at a serious disadvantage.

His Spidey-Sense thrummed in alarm and he whirled around just in time to see the moonlight glint off the blade that was flying towards his face - this guy was aiming to kill! In a last-minute, desperate attempt, he pushed himself downwards so that the guy stabbed into the dumpster instead of Peter’s face, the blade cutting through the metal as though it were butter.

“Dude, what the hell?” Peter gasped out from his place, flat on his back on the damp alleyway ground.

“Stop moving,” the man grunted as he swung again.

“What?” Peter asked, “no!”

Why would he do the one thing that would mean certain death? Sure, he put on a spandex suit on a nightly basis and swung around the city at dizzying heights, but he didn't have a death wish. Besides, his suit had a certain degree of shock absorption ability, and it was cut-proof, which didn't always prevent Peter from getting hurt, but it definitely took away the brunt of his injuries.

Except he wasn't wearing his suit currently…

He was very much just Peter Parker in a mask, although he did have his web-shooters. His web-shooters! Just as the guy lifted the blade, with two hands, looking as though he was ready to perform a sacrifice, Peter shot a web upwards and pulled himself out from certain death.

As he flew upwards he felt the man strike one last time, and in his desperation, he succeeded. Pain radiated through Peter as the blade embedded in his thigh and was dragged downwards as Peter’s body moved up.

“Ah!” Peter called out in agony, the man below in the alley laughed in victory.

“Got the little bastard!” The man cheered as he started to run.

Peter wanted to chase after him, web him up and make sure that he would never hurt another person ever, but he was smart enough to know that with the current state of his leg, he wasn't going to be chasing anyone.

“Karen? You there?” Peter asked, despite knowing that she never went anywhere.

“I’m here,” she confirmed, “I know you needed time to think, but I would seriously recommend seeking medical attention, you have a large laceration down your right thigh.”

“I’m aware,” Peter said dryly, or tried to, his humour was shadowed by the pain that was coursing through him.

“I can contact Mr. Stark if you would like?” she offered, and normally Peter would have said yes, he would have felt relief at the thought of his mentor coming to pick him up from the cold rooftop and taking him back to the tower where he would receive decent pain relief and have his wound cared for immediately.

But, he couldn't say yes, because he had run out in such a strange way that the next time he saw Mr. Stark the man would undoubtedly have more questions than Peter was ready to answer.

“No,” he said slowly, “but thanks, Karen, actually though… could you just alert the police to that guy, I don't care what you tell them, just make sure he can't hurt anyone else, please?”

“Consider it done,” she said.

Peter let out a breath of relief that he hadn't even realised he’d been holding. It was going to be alright, the cops would pick up the guy before he hurt anyone else, that lady would probably be at home with her husband by now and he could go home and patch himself up before he started to research further into interning at a fancy Gala.

Or, that had been the plan.

By the time he made it home, the sun was beginning to reappear in the sky and he could hear the sounds of the city waking up for another day.

It's a good thing May was on the nightshift, Peter thought to himself as his apartment block finally came into view.

His jeans were no longer blue, but rather a strange brownish red with the effect of a mixture of dried and still flowing blood. His blood. It wasn't often he ended up covered in his own blood, but these things happened he supposed.

Taking advantage of the last hour or so of dim light, he carefully crawled up the side of the building, doing his best to make sure there wasn't a blood trail leading up to his window - he wouldn't be able to explain that one away easily.

“You have a text from Mr. Stark,” Karen informed him.

“Oh…” Peter mumbled and he painfully crawled through his bedroom window and let his body fall to the carpet with a thump, “what does it say?”

“One message from Tony Stark, sent two minutes ago: hey Kiddo! I’m not really sure what happened back there, maybe I overstepped by bringing up colleges and working with me, or maybe you’re more interested in Oscorp - although I don't know why didn't you hear about their animal experimentation scandal? Probably not a good time for jokes, but let me know you’re alright, ok? I saw that Karen has been active all night, so try and get some sleep and just know that I’m not mad at all… I’m just a little confused, but there's no pressure here for you to explain what was up. “

“Do you think I upset him?” Peter asked his A.I. carefully as he lay on his bedroom floor, probably creating a mess of blood that he would be forced to scrub at later.

“I like to think he was honest in the message, I believe he is just confused.”

“It’s stupid,” Peter mumbled, “like, I shouldn't have freaked out, it was so dumb of me.”

“Would you like to talk about it?” Karen offered.

“Uh, maybe?” Peter said, “I could keep the mask on while I clean this leg up.”

“Sounds good,” and if Peter wasn't mistaken, her voice sounded gentle and reassuring, he was lucky that she was a computer program and didn't tire of him, or need to sleep.

So, Peter carefully pulled himself back to his feet, crying out in agony as soon as he put weight on his bad leg. If the thought of trying to stand once more didn't fill him with dread, he would have crumbled instantly.

“Shit,” he muttered, he wasn't one for regularly cursing but all things considered he felt the situation called for it, and there was no one around to hear, except Karen.

He made his way slowly to the bathroom, dragging his leg rather than stepping to try and reduce the amount of muscle movement, not that it mattered, the blood still oozed out and the tearing sensation still made him feel nauseated.

“I’m going to have so much blood to clean up before May comes home,” Peter whined to Karen as he pushed open the bathroom door, leaving a red smear behind.

“Would you like me to contact Mr. Stark for you? He can hire a cleaning company,” Karen offered.

“A… cleaning company?” Peter asked, feeling ill at the thought, and not just from the pain he was in, “no, no that’s fine, thanks though.”

He and May weren't poor per se, but they didn't often have an abundance of money to spare, and the thought of paying someone to come and clean their little apartment, when that money could have been used for gas or food, made Peter feel ill. He already caused their food bill to skyrocket thanks to his enhanced metabolism.

Peter sat down heavily on the side of the bathtub, letting the bright lights hurt his eyes momentarily.

“Karen?”

“Yes, Peter?”

“I didn't run out on Mr. Stark because I was upset that he had brought up college or offered me a position at Stark Industries,” Peter admitted, “I mean, it was a bit of a shock, and I know I’m going to have to decide what I want to do with my life soon enough because I can’t live in limbo until I know for sure, but yeah, working with Mr. Stark is the dream.”

“So why did you leave?” Karen asked.

“He asked me to go to the Charity Gala,” Peter said.

“That’s a bad thing?”

“No, no, no, not for a normal intern,” Peter admitted, “but for me, yeah, I’ve never actually done anything intern-y in my life, I don't even know how to make coffee because I don't drink it and that one time I tried to make it for May she made me promise to never put her through that again.”

“So?”

“So interns get coffee,” Peter said as he inched out of his jeans, the dried blood creating a kind of glue between the fabric and his skin.

“You have never gotten coffee,” Karen informed him as though that wasn't partially what he was freaking out about.

“Exactly,” Peter muttered, gently easing his clothing off was causing him too much pain, so he tore the jeans away from the wound in a sharp motion that made stars blink in and out of existence in his line of vision as darkness threatened at the edges.

He didn't remember slipping off the side of the tub, but just as he thought he was going to lose the fight to stay awake, the fuzziness disappeared from his vision and he was blinking tiredly on the bathroom floor with his leg oozing fresh blood.

“Peter? Peter!”

“Ugh,” he groaned, “s’ok, ‘m fine.”

“I really think it’s about time we sought more professional help,” Karen suggested.

“No, no, it’s all good,” Peter said as he started to feel less dizzy from the agony, “besides, I was telling you stuff, remember?”

“Indeed, would you like to continue?”

“Yeah, uh, so, the coffee thing,” Peter mumbled as he gently nudged his jeans off properly, trying to avoid looking too closely at the blood on his leg as he did so, “well, it’s just that I’ve never done one of the most simple things an intern does, and Mr. Stark was dropping hints about me being an intern, so obviously I need to fill that role at the Charity Gala, but how can I when I don't know what’s expected of me?”

“Maybe you’re meant to just go and have a good time?” Karen suggested.

“No, no it’s not that,” Peter was sure, “he mentioned interning a few times, it was very clear that he’s wanting me to step up and actually fill that role.”

“Why don't you ask him?”

“What? No way!” Peter said quickly, “I absolutely can't do that.”

“Why not?”

“You wouldn't get it,” Peter muttered and ripped the mask off in one smooth action, feeling slightly guilty about cutting off his closest confidant so ruthlessly.

He tried to ignore the turmoil in his mind and instead focused his attention on the gash on his leg. He carefully pulled himself back up onto the side of the tub and swung around so that he could clean the wound off in the bath. He used the showerhead and rinsed it on the gentlest pressure setting, rubbing at the skin around the laceration to clear it of the dried and congealing blood.

“What the-”

For some reason he had expected a long swipe, maybe from upper thigh to his knee, he had not expected the sight he was met with. The wound was the length of his pointer finger, and it was wide. It was almost like someone had cut an oval into his flesh rather than swiping him with a knife.

It needed stitches.

It probably needed a professional, but Peter was an amateur with a complex against disturbing others and a strong need to avoid Mr. Stark until the Gala, so he was going to have to deal with it himself. How much blood had he lost? How long did he have until this wound became life-threatening? He needed to get his shit together and sort it out.

Once he had finished rinsing the laceration, he wrapped one of May’s nice yellow towels around it tightly, to try and stem the flow of the blood - a large part of him felt guilty, he was going to have to throw it away and listen to her confused rambles as she wondered what had happened to it.

“Come on, Peter,” he muttered to himself, “you can do this.”

He forced himself to stand, ignoring how that simple, painful movement made a sudden red appear on the otherwise pristine towel.

“Gotta close it up,” he muttered as he opened the mirrored cabinet and began to rake through for the first aid kit he knew was hidden in there, various things fell as he searched and clattered into the sink making him glad that he was home alone.

When he opened the first aid kit, he rummaged until he found the thing he had been looking for; a pack of Steri-Strips. He opened them and read through the information leaflet.

Only use on shallow, clean, uninfected wounds. Do not use where bleeding is unmanageable or significant. Do not use on hairy, oily areas, joints, the face. Seek medical attention if the wound was a human or animal bite.

Well, that was a lot of situations in which they were unsuitable and Peter was fairly sure his wound wasn't shallow and he would have said the bleeding was erring on the unmanageable side, but what else could he do? He didn't have any other option, he would have to try.

So he did, he carefully unwound the towel and looked at the nauseating wound on his thigh. He needed to align the edges and hold them in place with the Steri-Strips. It sounded simple… but it was going to hurt. Gritting his teeth, he started to get to work. Small whimpers and whines of pain would escape every now and then as he struggled not to lose himself to the lightheaded feeling that kept coming with the pain.

The Steri-Strips didn't work as well as Peter had hoped, the edges of the wound weren't exactly lining up and there were parts of the sticky side that were attached to the open part of the wound, which he was sure wasn't meant to happen. But, it was an improvement, and that was all he could ask for.

He stuck one of the sterile dressings over the top and used the first aid scissors to cut a strip off the towel - he was going to bin it anyways - which he then tied tightly around the affected area to create enough pressure to stop the bleeding.

“Now to clean up,” he muttered with a slightly delirious laugh that he was putting down to the blood loss.

Sitting there, with his leg wound cared for - to his best ability - and his throbbing ribs, Peter realised just how tired he was. He still needed to clean up the mess he’d created and research what Mr. Stark would be expecting of him at the Gala.

He pulled on his mask tiredly, “Karen?”

“Yes, Peter?”

“I’m sorry.”

“I forgive you, what can I do for you?”

“Can you text Mr. Stark for me and say: sorry for running off like that, don't worry I’ll be at the Gala tomorrow, and I’ll be fully prepared.”

“Message sent.”

“Thanks, Karen,” Peter said and laid his head back, fighting the urge to fall into a deep, comforting sleep. He still had so much to do…

----

By the time Saturday evening arrived, Peter was so nervous he was almost crawling about on the ceiling.

“Oh, Honey, relax would you,” May said with a fond eye roll as she rewatched the tie tutorial that she’d saved after they’d both been mystified by the snakelike fabric on the night of Homecoming.

“Relax?” Peter asked, his voice a few octaves too high, “May, I can’t just relax, this is the Stark Charity Gala and I am a Stark Intern.”

“So?” May asked, motioning for him to come closer so she could do up the tie after her third run through of the video.

“So, I need to be the best intern that has ever been to one of these things, if it gets out that I’m Mr. Stark’s personal intern and I don’t do a good enough job, then my actions will impact negatively on Mr. Stark and I can’t have that!”

“You need to calm down, Pete,” May said with a laugh, “you’re getting too in your head about this, why don't you just try to have a good time? And maybe go fix your hair.”

“Yeah,” Peter mumbled running a hand through his curls, “hair. I can do that.”

“Just don't use as much gel as you did last time, alright?” May said, “the curls suit you, the greasy look does not.”

“Oh ha ha,” Peter mumbled as he made his way out of the living room, pain echoing in every step, but May couldn't know.

She couldn't know about the thirty dressings he had gone through in the last two days as his leg refused to heal properly, despite his normally impressive healing abilities. She couldn't know about the weird yellowish-green discharge that was escaping constantly or the strange smell he had begun to notice. She couldn't even know about the smattering of dark bruises that spanned across half his ribs and made breathing difficult.

“Don’t take too long, Peter,” May called after him, “Happy will be here soon and I want to take some pictures of you before you leave.”

Peter looked at himself in the mirror, taking in his ghostly pallor and the bags beneath his eyes, how had he avoided causing May suspicion? He looked terrible, or maybe that was his enhanced sight picking up on things normal people couldn't see.

He coated his fingers in a light amount of gel and ran them through his hair, enough to style it but not so much that it looked greasy, as May would say.

“Alright, I’m ready!” Peter declared, walking back into the room to be met with the flash of a camera, “woah! May!”

“You look so cute!” she said in response.

“I am not cute!” Peter insisted, “I- I’m- I am the most-”

“Face it, you’re the cutest,” May said pinching his cheeks gently, before pulling him into a hug that squeezed his ribs painfully, “alright, now, have a good night, alright?”

“You sure you don't want to come?” Peter asked.

“Oh no,” May said with a laugh, “I have a bottle of red and a handful of romcoms with my name on them.”

“Alright,” Peter said, “have a good night.”

“You too, and if you’re staying at the tower, send me a text, ok?” May asked, “I don't want to spend the night worrying about where you are.”

“You got it!” Peter said with false cheer, he doubted that Mr. Stark would want him to stay over, especially as he hadn't replied to the man since that message while he’d been cleaning his wound up.

Peter made his way downstairs to see the familiar sleek black car parked by the curb, without hesitating he wandered over to the back door and slipped inside.

“Hey, Happy!”

Happy grunted in greeting and fixed Peter with a piercing stare through the rearview mirror.

“Is uh, is everything ok?” Peter wondered nervously.

“I could ask you the same thing,” Happy said, “Tony says you’ve been avoiding his messages.”

“My phone died,” Peter lied.

“You couldn't charge it?”

“My charger is broken.”

“You couldn't get a new one?”

“We’re not all billionaires,” Peter mumbled.

“You could have asked Tony, he would have replaced it in a heartbeat.”

“How?” Peter asked, “my phone was dead.”

“Alright, fine, keep your secrets,” Happy grumbled, “just… be careful alright, Kid? Tony is really worried about you and I thought he was maybe overreacting because I know how he can be sometimes, but now I’m beginning to think something might be wrong.”

“There’s nothing wrong.”

“Is there anything I can do?” Happy asked, ignoring Peter’s lie.

“Uh actually, can we go to a Drive-Thru Starbucks on the way?”

“You… want coffee?”

“Uh, yeah,” Peter mumbled.

“Alright, sure,” Happy said, “the first time you’ve actually asked for something so I’m not going to say no.”

Was it really?

The server manning the Drive-Thru window looked very confused when Happy pulled up and requested an Americano and a Hot Chocolate, Peter could see her glancing between the two of them, obviously wondering who Peter was and why he was being chauffeured around.

Maybe she would make up a story for her friends to laugh about, or maybe she was tired and nearing the end of her shift and didn't really care. Either way, Peter slunk back into the seat and looked the other way until Happy handed him the two drinks he had requested.

“So, what’s with the drinks Kid?” Happy asked.

“I don't know how to make coffee,” Peter admitted as though that was an appropriate answer.

“Alright,” Happy said and he sighed deeply, “do you… do you normally drink coffee?”

“What? No, this stuff could kill me,” Peter said, “ever since becoming Spider-Man, I have bad reactions to caffeine.”

“Bad reactions?” Happy asked, his eyes narrowing at Peter through the mirror.

“Oh yeah, you know; palpitations, heart arrhythmias, rashes, jitters, headaches, projectile vomiting, occasional hallucinations, collapsing episodes, cra-”

“So it’s bad?” Happy interrupted.

“Yeah, it’s pretty bad,” Peter agreed.

“So…” Happy trailed off, looking seconds away from pulling over so that he could tear the coffee from Peter’s hands and throw it, “why exactly did we get you a coffee?”

“Oh, this isn't for me.”

“Peter, Kid, come on, you’ve got to give a little here,” Happy muttered, “why did we get a coffee if it’s not for you and you can't even drink the damn stuff?”

“It’s for Mr. Stark,” Peter said as though that should have been the most obvious thing in the world.

“And pray tell, why are you getting a coffee for Mr. Stark before the Charity Gala?”

“Because I’m an intern.”

“Of course,” Happy muttered, looking about ready to drive them off the bridge they were currently crossing, “why did I even need to ask?”

The divider slowly raised between them as Happy muttered his statements of disbelief under his breath.

-----

“There he is!” Mr. Stark said cheerfully as Peter walked into the room, Americano in hand, “I was starting to worry you wouldn't show up.”

“I promised I would,” Peter said, despite Mr. Stark’s words he could see the worry in the older man’s eyes, “oh uh, here, I brought you coffee.”

“Coffee?” Mr. Stark asked, taking the drink from Peter and looking at it in confusion, “you brought me a coffee?”

“Yeah,” Peter said, “I hope it’s alright.”

The worry only seemed to intensify rather than lessening, was Mr. Stark that concerned about Peter messing up in public? If so, why should he invite him?

“Thanks, Kiddo,” Mr. Stark said, taking a polite sip from the cup, “anyway, why don't I introduce you to some people.”

“Sounds good, but maybe I could go to the toilet first?” Peter asked, “it was a long drive and I may have had a hot chocolate.”

“Great, a sugar hyped kid,” Mr. Stark joked, “go on then, scram, you don't need my permission.”

Things seemed to be going smoothly enough until Peter walked out of the bathroom to find his Spidey-Sense thrumming away with a sense of urgency. Just as he started to look for the source of danger, a hand fisted into the fabric at the back of his neck and he was tugged to the side harshly.

“Where have you been?” a man asked angrily, “and what are you doing out here without even a tray of drinks?”

“I uh-”

“Shut up!” the man snapped, “I don't know who your daddy is or whose ass he had to kiss to get you this job but if you’re going to work tonight I need professionalism.”

“I’m not-”

“I said ‘shut up’!” the man shouted once more, giving Peter a little shake to further drive his demand home. Peter was surprised to find himself slightly afraid, and the shake had hurt his ribs and pushed a little too much pressure down his sore leg.

“Please, Sir,” Peter begged, “I’m not working.”

“Oh you absolutely are,” the man snapped, “you think you can sneak through here and meet Iron Man?”

“I didn't-”

“I have half a mind to kick you out into the gutter,” the man continued, “you are a disappointment to all of us in the service industry, you are meant to remain professional at all times, which doesn't mean fishing around for secrets and autographs.”

“I wasn't!”

“Liar!”

The man tightened his grip and started marching Peter forward as though he was a disobedient child.

“Sir, listen, please,” Peter pleaded, “Mr. Stark is waiting for me.”

The man froze, his grip tightening momentarily, and Peter’s Spidey-Sense blared louder.

“You disturbed Tony Stark?”

“No! No, no, no!” Peter insisted, “I came here with him, I’m his intern.”

“That’s a lie,” the man said, “Stark Industries never brings interns to these events, now come with me or I’m going to end up kicking you out on your ass and blacklisting you from ever working an event in New York ever again.”

“You can’t make me do anything,” Peter grumbled, trying to twist out of the man’s hold but being restricted by the pain in his leg and side, he wasn't going to be able to free himself, “you have to let me go?”

“Or what?” the man asked with a sneer in his voice, “what are you going to do about it?”

“Him? Probably nothing, he’s far too polite for his own good, but me? That’s another story entirely,” Peter felt the grip loosen in a second and he almost crashed to the floor from the relief of it, only for Happy to grab his elbow and stabilise him.

“Thanks, Happy,” Peter whispered, knowing the man would hear him.

“You’re Tony Stark’s security,” the man who had grabbed Peter stated with a dumb expression on his face.

“Yes, and you were manhandling one of the people I am here to protect,” Happy said seriously, Peter had often wondered how Happy - with his tendency to get overstressed and his annoyance at most living things - had become the Head of Security at Stark Industries, but now, looking at him confronting the man, he had no doubts that Happy deserved that title.

“I wasn't- manhandling?” the guy asked, “that’s a bit… harsh, wouldn't you say?”

“I call it as it is,” Happy said, “care to explain?”

“I thought the kid was one of my waiters.”

“Did you recognise him?” Happy asked.

“Well, no, but there are a lot of them, it’s difficult to know them all,” the man said.

“That’s dangerous,” Happy said, “it’s fortunate for you that I personally run background checks on everyone working this function, but if you’re not even able to recognise a stranger among your employees then I feel like you won’t have a future organising events for Stark Industries.”

“Wait, no, you can't do that!” the man insisted, “this is my biggest job of the year.”

“It’s a shame you care so little about it then, imagine not caring enough to learn your employees’ names?”

“It was a misunderstanding!”

“Peter, did you try to tell this man you weren't a waiter”? Happy asked patiently.

“I uh said that I’m an intern and that Mr. Stark was waiting for me,” Peter admitted, feeling a little guilty for the ashen look that came over the man’s face when he realised that Peter had been telling the truth, after all, how else would the head of security know Peter’s name?

“Mr. Stark is in fact waiting for you,” a familiar voice broke in, “and he’s not a patient man, what is going on here?”

The man now looked positively grey as he tried to look anywhere but at the confused and impatient billionaire before him, Peter however noticed the way Mr. Stark’s eyes narrowed in on the crumpled fabric by Peter’s neck and the sheen of panicked sweat on his forehead.

His mentor looked questioningly at Happy, “well?”

“This is Bernard Kyting,” Happy said, and Peter was sure in that moment that Happy knew absolutely everyone in the room’s name and face, “he is the owner of the company that organised this Gala, he is also the man that just manhandled Peter and attempted to kidnap him.”

“Kidnapping? What no!”

“Uh, Happy, he wasn't going to kidnap me,” Peter said hesitantly.

“Are you sure?” Happy asked seriously, “because we should operate on the worst-case scenario and him trying to force you to go somewhere against your will without listening to you say you’re an intern and that Tony was waiting for you sounds bad to me.”

“It would probably sound bad to the police too,” Mr. Stark agreed thoughtfully.

“You’re not serious!” Bernard gasped.

“I’m deadly serious when it comes to Peter’s safety,” Mr. Stark said.

“Mr. Stark, I really don't think-”

“Hush Peter, we’re handling this,” Mr. Stark said, “actually, don’t hush, Happy will handle this and I am going to show you off to all the stuffy businessmen here, let’s make them all insecure as a twelve-year-old shows them up.”

“Mr. Stark, I’m fifteen,” Peter said, rolling his eyes.

“Exactly, now come on.”

Maybe it was the anxiety that had been festering in his stomach since he’d been invited to the Gala, or maybe it was the stress of almost being roped into working as a waiter for a high-end Gala, or maybe it was even the blood loss he’d recently suffered… maybe the reason didn't matter, because it was kind of irrelevant.

The important thing was that Peter suddenly found himself falling forward.

He felt hands grab at him to try and stop him from crashing against the ground, but they caught him exactly where his ribs were sore and Peter screamed and everything flashed a brilliant, agonising white before the darkness suddenly crept in.

------

When Peter woke up he was partially surprised that he had actually passed out and partially relieved that he had passed out. He had managed to completely avoid the stress of pretending to know how to act as an intern.

He tried to sit up, only to gasp and fall back against the pillows as his ribs announced their displeasure at the sudden movement, “oh,” he murmured under his breath as he tried to catch what little of it was left thanks to the pain.

“I wouldn't recommend that,” a smooth voice said from beside him, Peter turned his head to see Mr. Stark sitting there, looking over his tablet at him.

“Hey,” Peter mumbled, trying to avoid eye contact.

“You have three fractured ribs,” Mr. Stark informed him casually, “which wouldn't normally concern me too much because I get it, it kinda comes with the job, no matter how good you are, you usually end up a little banged up.”

Peter nodded solemnly, not wanting to speak up because he got the impression that Mr. Stark was nowhere near finished.

“However, imagine my surprise when I lift your unconscious body up off the floor and find myself with a patch of blood on my new grey suit,” Peter winced, yeah, there it was, “so of course, there’s complete pandemonium, we think there’s an assassin in the Gala, we lock the place down and organise S.H.I.E.L.D.’s medics to attend. The highest of all security is on alert and preparing to raid the building, only for us to find that you have a stab wound, that looks to be a few days old on your leg.”

“Oh, that,” Peter mumbled.

“Oh that, yes that,” Mr. Stark snapped, “what the hell were you thinking not telling me about that?”

“It happened after I left the other day,” Peter admitted, “and I thought I’d managed to deal with it myself.”

“You thought-” Mr. Stark broke off and sighed, pinching his nose between his thumb and forefinger, “do you realise how irresponsible that was?”

“It was fine,” Peter mumbled.

“Fine?” Mr. Stark questioned, his voice rising an octave from the shock of hearing such a thing.

“I have healing powers,” Peter said.

“Kid, you’re still human, you still need appropriate medical care and time to recuperate after getting hurt,” Mr. Stark said gently, “you’re not a machine, no one expects you to be able to keep going without looking after yourself.”

“I guess,” Peter whispered.

“And you had no idea what you were doing, did you?” Mr. Stark asked although it seemed like he already knew, “those Steri-Strips were totally inappropriate for that wound.”

“I know,” Peter said, looking down, “I just didn't have anything else.”

“You had your phone.”

Peter cast him a confused look, “my phone? They don't like blood or moisture that much.”

“To… call me,” Mr. Stark said slowly, looking at Peter with a strange mix of disappointment and amusement, “you’re a smart kid, but would you really think to put your phone on a bloody wound before using it to call me.”

“Uh, not usually,” Peter said, “but this kinda happened after I left yours the other day.”

“Ah,” Mr. Stark murmured, seemingly understanding something that Peter hadn't yet explained.

“What?” Peter asked, feeling unnerved by the older man’s sudden understanding.

“I freaked you out with all that talk of colleges and coming to work for Stark Industries,” Mr. Stark said quietly.

“What? No!” Peter almost shouted, jerking upright in the bed despite the pain in his ribs that threatened his ability to breathe, “Mr. Stark, that’s not at all what happened.”

“No?” Mr. Stark asked, arching an eyebrow curiously.

“No, of course not,” Peter mumbled, “I mean, yeah, I wasn't ready to think about that sort of thing, but it would be an honour to work for you in the future, but Mr. Stark, I realised that I’m a really bad intern.”

“What- Kid, no,” Mr. Stark said quickly.

“I am!” Peter argued, “I don’t know how to make coffee, I don't know how to sort paperwork, I don't know what else interns actually do! There’s no way you can say I’m good at it when I don't even understand my own job description. You invited me to the Charity Gala as your intern and I freaked out because I didn't want to embarrass you, I wanted to make a good impression.”

“Kid, I invited you to the Gala as you,” Mr. Stark said, “we both know the internship is a fake formality to keep your alter ego a secret and give you a boost in your college applications.”

“So, you’re not mad that I don't know how to make coffee?”

“I never was,” Mr. Stark said, “wait… is this why you brought me an Americano earlier?”

Peter nodded guiltily, “yeah…”

“Kid, you absolutely did not have to do that, although I must admit since I’m staying away from all the fun stuff now, it was rather nice to have,” Mr. Stark said, “I wanted you there so you could have a good time and so that I could brag about how amazing you are.”

Peter couldn't stop the warmth that spread over his cheeks and he ducked his head.

“I just didn't want to be a disappointment,” Peter mumbled.

“Kiddo, you could never,” Mr. Stark sounded as though he had never been more sure about anything, “I’m slightly upset that you didn't come to me about this wound, but I get that your teenage brain works in mysterious mystery ways.”

“I tried my best with it,” Peter mumbled.

“It’s infected.”

“I didn't say my best was good,” Peter continued, he pulled the blankets to the side to look at the wound on his leg only to find that the bloody, yellowing dressing he had last seen was gone and had been replaced by a bright white one with only a tiny amount od seepage. “You fixed it.”

“Well, my doctor did,” Mr. Stark corrected, “I called him in and we gave you some of Cap’s meds to keep you a little out of it while we cleaned it up and you’re now the proud owner of some stitches.”

“Oh cool,” Peter mumbled.

“Stitches are cool?” Mr. Stark asked with a raised brow, perhaps he was questioning Peter’s sanity.

“No, I got Captain America’s drugs!” Peter said with a smirk, “he always tells us not to do drugs in those PSAs so this is a wonderful twist of medicated irony.”

“Yeah, I think they’re still in your system a little,” Mr. Stark muttered, “so since you’re still a little dopey, I think now would be a good time to remind you that you have three fractured ribs and you’re not allowed to go out as Spider-Man until they’re fully mended.”

“Wait… what?” Peter protested, “why?”

“Swinging will put a strain on them and cause you pain meaning you could flinch and fall, or you could receive another blow and worsen the damage,” Mr. Stark said, “come on, Underoos, you were just bragging about your healing powers, it won’t be forever.”

“But…” Peter hesitated.

“But what?”

“If I can’t be Spider-Man will I still be allowed to come to the workshop?” Peter asked and he focused his attention on fiddling with the sheets rather than facing the look he knew Mr. Stark would cast towards him.

He wasn't ready for the ‘why would you come to the workshop if you’re not needing upgrades?’ response, the one that he knew in his head he was about to receive.

“Kid, what?” Mr. Stark responded instead, “look at me, Peter.”

Peter blinked back the tears that were building in his eyes, trying his best not to appear childish and weak before the man who had been his hero since he was a child.

“Pete, c’mon Kiddo,” Mr. Stark said gently, and Peter found himself unable to avoid him any longer, “I don’t know why you have this idea that I only care about Spider-Man, because you are always going to be my number one priority.”

“But-”

“Uh uh,” Mr. Stark cut him off, “no, you need to listen to this. I’m Tony Stark, do you really think I would have a fifteen-year-old kid running around my home if I didn't want him there? Do you think I’d be texting his Aunt and arranging transport for him when she’s at work? Would I have a ridiculous amount of food and sweet things in my kitchen? Would I brag about him to my colleagues and competitors?”

“But we spend so much time designing stuff for Spider-Man?”

“Because you are Spider-Man and no matter how much I wish you had a safer hobby, I know that you won’t quit helping people just to stop the greying of my hair and the wrinkles that are forming. So instead of sitting here panicking about you getting brutally killed, I help you develop things that will ensure your safety - which you then bypass by trying to teat that wound by yourself.”

“Oh,” Peter mumbled, how had he gotten it so wrong? “I’m sorry.”

“Kid, don't apologise,” Mr. stark said, “listen, I’m the one who’s sorry for making you think that I only cared about Spidey, I know I’m as Pepper would say “emotionally constipated” but I really do care about you and your dorky interests.”

Peter couldn't help but smile, “well, in that case, I’m sorry for freaking out about the intern thing, and for hiding my injuries from you.”

“Those are apologies I can accept,” Mr. Stark said with a smile, “although, I wouldn't be opposed to you turning up with coffee more, especially when we both know Happy’s the one paying for it, just… not Starbucks, ok? Try some smaller places, support local businesses and all that jazz.”

“MJ would love that you said that,” Peter mumbled.

“Yeah, yeah, come on then,” Mr. Stark said, his knees cracking as he stood and stretched.

“Come on?” Peter repeated, “where are we going?”

“Someone has to explain all of this to your aunt and I’m not taking the blow on my own,” Mr.Stark said.

“You can’t throw me under the bus,” Peter protested, “I’m injured.”

“Yeah, and I will be too if you’re not there to soften the blow.”

Peter grumbled under his breath as he clambered out of the comfortable bed, May was going to be so pissed at him, in fact, he’d be lucky if he lived to see his Spidey-Suit ever again. Maybe he should write a will, did he had time for that?

He was pulled out of his thoughts by Mr. Stark moving to his side to support his weight so that he didn't step too heavily on his sore leg.

“You don’t have to help me,” Peter said, “I’ve been walking on it since I hurt it.”

“Yeah and look how that ended up,” Mr. Stark muttered, “anyways, this is as much for me as it is for you. May won’t kill me if she thinks I’m holding you up.”

“You’re using me!” Peter protested.

“Now he gets it.”

Tag List: @joyful-soul-collector @thatavengersbitch @clover-roseee @thespydersargon @iron-loyalty @ormbunkar @justme--emily @pookiethefrickinbunn @pillowspace @dumbofassbi @kiki44430

lemme know if you want to join/leave the tag list :D

#spider-man #Iron Man #tony stark #peter parker #irondad #spiderson #mcu

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rhmg-au · 4 years ago

Text

“’Ello- Oh-!”

As the cyborg stepped in, he was greeted by the worried stare of the doctor. He was mostly surprised to see the General being in the same room. He fully lets himself in and shuts the door.

“General sir!” Green gave a quick salute.

“Green.” Galeforce acknowledges. His voice was stern, but there was hints of concern. “Dr. V told me there was something wrong so I came here as fast as I could.”

“A-A-Ah-! I h-hope I wasn’t cutting off something i-important-!” Green apologized but then Dr. V intervened.

“Green, your stuttering is getting worse. Time is of essence. I will perform diagnostic on you so you go to other room, da?” She said, pointing at a door that leads to another part of the lab. “You wait there while I get ready, understood?”

“Y-Yes, doct-t-teerr-” Green walked off into the other room, occasionally shaking his head to brush off a jolt of pain. Once the door closed, his two “creators” were left alone.

“...Code Red Light, is it?”

Dr. V nodded and showed Galeforce the notes on her clipboard. “He’s responding negatively to certain phrases and sights, as I told before Green came in. What I worry most is the worst spike when he responded...or should I say, questioned the name....Right.”

The General clenched his fist, “He’s remembering.” He said coldly.

“That might be the case.”

“I thought you said you’ve wiped off everything within his memories. There should be no way he could remember if done so.” Galeforce seemed mad at Dr. V, but she shrugged in response.

She adjusted her glasses before she continues, “It is true that I have wiped all memories, but with this incident, we gain insight of his deeper state of memory. Deeper than the surface memories, which was more or less completely wiped off.” She flipped her notes, revealing a diagram, looking like layers. “Green, despite passing prior tests, is still in constant development and in a sense, we’ve only scratched the surface. We are here and there are possibilities of deeper layers.”

Galeforce fiddled with his goatee while Dr. V explained the schemes, “Is it not possible to delete everything in one go? To the roots?”

Dr. V shook her head, “Breaching one’s memories isn’t easy sir. All we can do now is observe, test and react one step at a time. With the current issue, what we could do is block off specific things in his memory - like a blacklist in his database.” She flipped the notes back to first page. “Which include the memories of Reginald Copperbottom and reacting to Right.”

“Will this guarantee in fewer incidents like this?”

“It should be so.” She got some work gloves on. “After I rewire these blacklist commands, we still need to put him on another test to see if he complies to these commands. That should not be problem for you, da?”

The General pulled off a smirk as he pulled out a controller, “Not at all, doctor.”

“Well then.” The doctor grabbed her clipboard once again and walked to the door leading to the other room. “We must not waste any time. If he reverts we are done for.”

A quick nod and the two entered.

(TW for restraints, a distressed Green, mind control, memory wiping and hoo boy :])

Green whistled a little tune to keep him distracted from the constant buzzing in his cybernetics as he dangled his feet over the edge of the medical bed. He pondered on what Galeforce and Dr. V was discussing on the other side, hoping whatever his issue is isn’t too serious or anything. (Besides, he might miss game night with the gang!)

His little whistling was cut off when the two entered the room. He gave them a sincere smile as a welcome.

“Hello Green, sorry to keep you waiting, boy.” Galeforce tipped his hat in apology but Green shook his head.

“No worries sir! I didn’t wait for long anyways, so alls good!” Green said cheerfully, gaining a small chuckle from Galeforce. “So...m-my issue? Should I u-uh, lay down or something-?”

Dr. V shook her head and instead points to a chair. “I will run diagnostic on system first so you sit and I will link to computer.” Green gladly followed her instructions and insisted on connecting the cables and wires himself. He had went through many of these diagnostics he had the wires practically on memory. “Good, now stay still while I check.” She said as she sat by her computers and booting them all up.

Galeforce took a seat facing Green and again was greeted with his smile, “Green my boy, I heard you went on with the scheduled training without my permission, is that true?”

Green gawked and hung his head, “Th-That is t-t-t-true, General....Sorry, I probably wouldn’t end up l-like this if I didn’t....”

“No no, what is happening is not your fault. Your systems are fairly new so there should be glitches that we missed. But not to worry, Dr. V here will fix you as good as new, okay?” A sweet reassuring smile. Galeforce then turns towards Dr. V, “Are the diagnostics up?” His hands gave out a particular signal, which the doctor nodded to.

“The primary system diagnostics are completed and there doesn’t seem to be anything out of the regular. I suggest we try a full database scanning in case problem resides there and run several tests.” Her fingers swiftly typed in commands after commands before eventually doing the database scan. A bright red was reflected from her glasses as she curled up a small smile, “There we go.”

Green tilted his head slightly before noticing the red reflection, “Oh no! Is it b-b-bad, doctor?”

“We found the culprit. Seems to be several files within you mem-...mm..optics files.” She corrected herself before any slip ups. “You said you seeing things and glitching, yes? Well, seems like there are some bad file readings in your optical codes and what nots.” Lie. Lie it off. “I can try to fix it, but I will need to run a few....gimmicks testing to make sure. Are you okay with that, Green?”

“Sure! Just like usual!”

“Good. Now....” She began typing again. She started with a good memory file to be played on Green’s visions. A memory of Charles. “Green, I want you to tell me what you see or think right now.”

Green blinked before focusing on the vision being played out, “Oh! It’s Charlie!! Yeah, this is when I beat him and the Twins in Mario Kart! Haha! Love that defeated look of his!” He blinked and the vision stopped, “Aw.”

Dr. V continues to play out several memory files to bait him, before signaling Galeforce to step in. The General nods and scoots his seat closer to Green.

“Everything good?”

“Yes sir~!” Green chirped as a memory of him cradling one of the soldier’s pet cat was being played out. “Funny fuzzy friend is on my visions now!”

And comes the trick question.

“That’s good. Anyways, I have a question for you, Right Hand Man.”

“Yes?”

Silence.

“Odd. I didn’t call your name, Green. You responded to the name Right.”

That’s when Green’s cybernetic eye starts to glitch once more....followed by a sudden distressed look on his human eye. “I-- W-Wait-- But I---” The stutters and glitches came back.

Galeforce’s assuring aura drops into a cold stare at the sight of the cyborg glitching. “Have you forgotten your own name...that you’re responding to another? The one we once told was wrong?”

“N-No sss-sir I-- That n-name sound-- ffff-amiliar-- I-”

There it is.

“Dr. V. Get to it. And while you’re at it, get rid of Copperbottom’s files as well.” Galeforce stood up from his seat and ordered.

“Wh--at-?”

“Yes sir.” She quickly entered termination codes and sent them to the two problematic memory files. The first to go was the name file as the progress window popped up. The termination was slow....and painful on Green’s behalf.

Green held his head and whimpered as the file was slowly deleted. Luckily, he did not struggle too much and before he knows it, the file was deleted off his database.

But that was not the last.

Once FILE:RIGHT.mem was deleted....it was FILE:RC.mem on the progress window. Reginald’s files.

That struck an immediate hard blow onto Green’s cybernetics as he screamed in agony, as if refusing for the files to be deleted. He struggled and tries to stand up before Galeforce grabs him and shoves him back to the seat and restraints locking him in place. The progress was painfully slow as the system seemed to be resisting the termination commands. Like a war playing out within Green’s mind. Tears flowed freely through his cheek with the overwhelming pain in his head.

“WHAT’S...W-W-W-WHAT”S HHHHAPPENINGGGGG--?!?!?” He tried to focus on Galeforce, who stood coldly in front of him. “GGGENERAL-- WH-WHAT’S HAPPENING T-TO ME--?! I-IT-- M-MY HEAD--!!”

“There is nothing to fear, Green. Relax. We are merely fixing you.”

“B-BUT--! YOU---” His cybernetic eye flashed the dreadful red for a split second, but that was enough to make Galeforce put on his death glare. “YOU CAN’T DDDDDDDDDELETE---!!!”

“He is remembering. The system is trying to fight back the commands. The deleting progress is stuck on 34%.” Dr. V reported, trying to retain her calm demeanor despite Green now showing signs of reverting to Right. “What do we do now, General?”

“What else?” He looked at the doctor dead in the eye. “Add more commands. It’s about time we rewire him into the perfect weapon.”

On command, more aggressive codes were inputted and soon the progress bar increases - much to Green’s inconvenience. His struggles became more frantic with every percentage of deletion. But as the progress bar nears completion, he weakens in his struggles.

“P-Please--!”

78%

“I d-don’t-”

85%

“N-No--”

98%

“I-” Green’s vision starts to blur out, as he could only make out the faint looks of The General and Dr. V standing in front of him.

“Hush now Green.”

98%

“This is for your and our own good.”

98%

“N...” His visions starts to glitch out.

99%

“Sweet dreams, Green.”

100%

> FILE:RIGHT.mem successfully deleted.

> FILE:RC.mem successfully deleted.

> COMMAND:Recalibrate Memory File Order

> COMMAND:Update System Commands

> COMMAND:Update Firewall

> COMMAND:Run System Diagnostic

> COMMAND:Run Full System Scan

> COMMAND:Reboot PRJ_GREEN.exe

> COMMAND:Update PROJECT GREEN Database

[ PROJECT GREEN DATABASE HAS BEEN UPDATED ]

[ Green is unavailable for asks until further notice ]

[ SIGNOUT:GALEFORCE ]

[ SIGNOUT:VINSCHPINSILSTIEN ]

#CHANGE LOG - [ 01 ]

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johnkrrasinski · 4 years ago

Text

𝐄𝐱𝐢𝐥𝐞

Chapter 1: You Were My Town

full masterlist // series masterlist // commission open // support my work

Pairings: Dark!Steve Rogers (in future chapters) x Reader

Word Count: 2,061

Summary: Steve Rogers; a Hollywood A-lister and your clandestine occasional hookup. Best friends since childhood, but people change and friendships fall out. Now you were merely strangers with benefits. What happens when one day you stopped being his doormat to be a better man’s queen? The selfish Steve Rogers would not like it. How far is he willing to go to get his favorite possession back?

Warnings: smut, non-con/dub-con, dark Steve (in later chapter), angst, Steve Rogers is an asshole in this one, no redeeming qualities. (MUST BE 18+)

A/N: first chapter is finally here!! this series is dedicated to the lovely @belovedcherry who commissioned this story and developed the concept. thank you for being a friend when i truly needed it. i’m really glad that you trusted me to write this story for you. with all my heart, i sincerely hope you like it. this series will be updated everyday, there will be 4 more chapters ahead.

PICTURE EXCLUSIVE: New Couple Alert! Steve Rogers and a blondie bombshell can’t keep their hands off each other! The headline verbalized.

The notorious heartthrob was spotted leaving The Ritz-Calton Hotel in Los Angeles around 2 AM with Spanish model, Alondra Ondiviela, 28, who looked stunning in a salmon sports bra and black overall, as she walked hand-in-hand with Dusk and Dawn star, Steve Rogers.

Steve Rogers was last linked to Blade in Deep actress, Anne Amorós back in early spring this year but had reportedly split after only two months dating.

Steve Rogers has been previously linked to many gorgeous models in the past, earning him the infamous title of ‘Hollywood’s favourite ladykiller.’ Will Alondra Ondiviela be the one to finally make Steve Rogers settle down and give up his womanizer ways? Placing our bets on how long this couple is going to last!

You closed the tab on your browser as you sighed defeatedly on your couch. You laid your head back on the headrest as you shut your eyes and folded your arms against your chest. Just how many more gossip articles can you endure?

Steve Rogers was your childhood best friend and… Perhaps the only man you had ever truly loved. You knew it was nothing but sheer naivety for you to concede that. You knew it was cruel and inequitable to your heart, but, you still held on to that tiny glimpse of hope that someday, things will change. He will change. Despite all the shit he had put you through, you couldn’t abnegate yourself from him. He always lured you back in with his sweet words and sinful lips whenever you try to expel him from your door.

It wasn’t always like this. Back in kindergarten, Steve used to be this good, shy, scrawny kid who had a blistering passion for art. He was always very twitterpated by watching live shows on stage. When you were kids, Steve would try to sneak both of you into the theatre when the lights were out. Steve didn’t grow up in a very lucky family. His abusive father abandoned his mother when he was only four years old, and since then, his mom had been working tirelessly to keep a roof over their heads and fill in their fridge with food.

You, on the other hand, were a little luckier than him. Your parents had decent jobs that paid the bills well enough to survive. Whenever Steve was short in cash, you would always offer him a little bit of your pocket money or your meal. You would even offer to buy tickets for both of you so you didn’t have to sneak in and could actually get good seats. But he would always say, “well, where’s the fun in that?”

So you’d drop the topic and go along with whatever deceitful ways he had in mind. After all, he was your best friend and you trusted him. You’d rather choose the thrill of bootleg games than waiting ten minutes early before the show starts anyway. But you remember it vividly under the aura of those stage lightings and when the actors were personifying in their larger-than-life costumes, he would be so mesmerized by the show before him that sometimes he wouldn’t even say a word to you at all until it was over.

Before you went home, he and you would walk to the nearest burger place, where you would eat under the polychromatic neon sign and he would tell you, “someday, I’m going to my face on the big screen or one of those giant stages and I would make my mom proud!” he cheered. And you’d always encourage him, “…and I’ll be there to watch and clap for you in the audience.”

Rest in peace, to your naïve bravado… Little did you know, his dream was going to be your doom.

You remained closed friends as you grew up; going to the same school, sharing a few classes together, until, in high school, things began to change. He began to join auditions and taking art classes and extracurriculars. He became busier and busier every day to the point where he could only hang out with you on the weekends. That is when he absolutely had no rehearsals or he wasn’t too worn out from a week full of activities.

You also noticed the different manner and shift of inflexion when you two hung out. All he would talk about is the ‘clique’ of popular boys in school had asked him to sit with them at lunch and how the popular girls would start preening at him when he walked down the hallway. It was as if by partaking in these arts clubs, it gave him a VIP member card to get access into sitting with at exclusive spots and it upgraded his status.

He changed his looks as well, by going to the gym more often and eating more so that he would gain some muscles. He began dressing like one of those jocks and he would begin throwing in some flirtatious comments to those popular girls when they were around.

Eventually, he and you began to grow apart. It got worse when he started dating one of the popular girls, Janet, and he would ditch you even on weekends despite all the plans you had made weeks prior.

“I can’t hang out today, y/n. Janet’s parents are out of town and I think we are going to hook up in her giant pool!”

“But what about the movie that we planned to see together today? I thought you had been anticipating for it since a year ago?”

“I know, but can we just postpone it? It’s not like they are going to take it out tomorrow! We could still see it next weekend.”

“Well, we’ve bought the tickets, Steve.”

“Ah, shit, alright, I’ll just pay back the money, okay? How much are those tickets?”

“No, it’s fine, Steve. Don’t worry about it.”

“Really? You sure, y/n?”

“Yeah, I’ll just ask my mom or maybe Wanda to go see it with me. Don’t want those spoilers on the internet ruining it for me.” You chuckled hollowly. Disappointment filled up your heart but you pretended like it was alright, anyway. If Steve wanted to spend time with his girlfriend then, you had no right to stop him and force him to hang out with you.

“Ah, got it. Thanks, y/n. You’re the best!” and then the frozen seconds on the screen showed that he had ended the call.

The phone calls and text messages began to dwindle. You would often try to text or call him first but it would go to voicemail and or you would be left on read. When you were at school, Steve completely stopped hanging around you. He would rather be with his new ‘friends’ now. And he was too occupied with making out with Janet to notice you as you both walk past each other in the hall.

Wanda was your most trusted confidant and she knew about all the feelings you caged inside you for Steve. She would always be there for you when you cry over him and she would always encourage you to move on and stop trying to reach him. “You deserve so much better than this, y/n. Why would you ruin yourself for an asshole like him?”

Curse your adamant heart for refusing to listen to Wanda and take her advice. In the bottom of your heart, you knew that Wanda was right. You deserved so much better than what Steve had turned you into. You used to be this bright-eyed, rose-coloured heart person who saw your future in a radiant lustre. You were always drawn to helping people out. You used to think that maybe you’d end up being a nurse or a school counsellor, but as you grew older, gradually, you realized that there is far way more pernicious malady than physical ones.

Like the wound in your heart that Steve keeps tapping on every time he acts like he didn’t know you or he left another call or text unanswered. Every time he posted pictures of him and Janet, or him and ‘the boys’ who would walk around the school as they owned it. You had always dreaded those boys. You knew they were bad news and you didn’t want to be associated with them under any circumstances. You and Steve used to make fun of them, how much of a loser they are and how negligent they are toward their grades. But who would’ve known that Steve would turn into his own worst abomination?

Eventually, like all good (and bad) things, they must come to an end. You graduated with a 3.8 GPA and you were proud of yourself for all those times you spent being at home to do your homework and study until around 2 AM.

You were happy; you were satisfied with your grades, your parents were there, cheering for you in the audience and taking countless pictures of you when you walked on stage, and you could finally move forward to the next stage of your life. But something was missing.

“Gosh, I can’t wait to finally graduate.” He scanned the paper with a mark that mocked him in big bold red as he sat at the edge of your twin-sized bed. You had just returned from school and you had received the result of your Math tests. You luckily got a B+ but clearly, Steve didn’t acquire the same latter.

“C’mon, it’s just one bad test. It doesn’t mean that your life is over.”

“I know but, I don’t like seeing a C+ on my test, y/n. It makes me feel inadequate. Besides, I need a solid 3.7 GPA in order to get into NYU. Otherwise, I wouldn’t stand a chance.”

“Stop being so dramatic, you still have what it takes. You just need to do a lot better in the next one.”

“Yeah, I’m really gonna have to work my ass off though. Math has never been my strongest suit.”

“Neither it’s mine, but you know what? Someday we’ll wear our graduation hat and this wouldn’t even matter. You’d probably forget that you’ve ever had a C in your high school year.”

You recalled those times where Steve would endlessly talk about graduating and what would happen when both of you go on separate ways. He would tell you “don’t be silly. We’ll always be best friends even if we go to different universities. It’s not like we don’t have a phone, y/n.”

You always imagined that on your graduation day, you both would celebrate it together but of course, those dreams have long perished. Steve didn’t even have a smile on his face when your name was being announced.

He was supposed to be there, standing right next to you and engulf you in a warm, giant hug. The one that he used to give on your birthdays. But no, now, you could only watch him from several feet away farther than you both used to be. You could only hear his echoing laugh as he high-fived the boys and twirl Janet around up in the air like the happy ending in your favourite Rom-Com movies.

That should be me. Your heart cry mourned for the memories and the fractured promises. It was like there was this colossal fortress between the two of you and while you were fighting to climb it to reach him, he, on the other hand, didn’t even have the patience to wait for you.

It’s okay though. At least you had your parents and Wanda and her parents and twin brother, Pietro who adorned this special day distracting you away from the anguish of missing Steve. You were going to spend this entire day with the people who truly loved you and you loved just as equal before you had to leave for the new phases of your own lives.

You will finally move to your college dorm, have yourself a roommate, and invest your time and energy in something that you knew you were always meant to do and it excites you that your journey of helping people will start soon.

And Steve Rogers will be nothing but a consigned to oblivion memory that will sink like a battleship beneath the waves.

At least for now.

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bad-bitch-beauchamp · 4 years ago

Text

Songs About Me: Chapter Five

Thanks for your continued support for these sweet artsy bairns! Here’s the next installment! I read all of your kind comments and they mean the absolute world to me.

READ ON AO3

Louisburg Square, Beacon Hill, Boston

Claire was just walking up to the picturesque green of Louisburg Square, where her townhouse sat facing the gardens, when her phone began an incessant buzzing. She had her hands full after stopping at the market for dinner staples (otherwise known as a box of Velveeta Shells & Cheese). She was fumbling with her purse and muttering a not-so-quiet “Shit,” when she dropped her keys on the porch. When she stooped lower to get the keys, more toiletries from the market spilled onto the ground and rolled down the steps while her phone continued to buzz. “Oh fuck it all to hell… Oh hello, Mr. Grant!” Claire’s next door neighbor was a kind man, but always appeared perplexed -- whether by her uncontrollable hair, clothes splattered with dirt from the shop, or simply by wondering how she came to be the owner of one of the most coveted real estate properties in New England, Claire would never know.

“Hello dear. Are you alright over there?” His brow was knit as Claire shoved her scattered belongings back into their various bags all while muttering under her breath as to not offend the old man’s sensibilities. She stood, and realized he had most definitely already heard her vocabulary choices.

“Oh, I’m fine, just one of those days!” One of those days where you fall head over heels for the strange guy you met last night and then all your shit falls on the sidewalk because your brain is short-circuiting.

“Well as always, if you need anything, I’m just here and happy to help.”

“Thank you! One day I’ll absolutely take you up on it -- I’m usually less of a mess!” She tried to joke it off, but it sounded a little too much like she was trying to justify herself to neighbor, and herself.

Mr. Grant smiled. “Of course, dear. Ah, you seem to be very popular today!”

Claire’s phone went off for at least the fifth time. She tried to reign in her annoyance, said her goodbyes to the man, and using her foot to kick a back of groceries inside the doorway finally made it inside. She dug around her bag for the phone ready to lash out at whatever telemarketer couldn’t take a hint, but stopped.

Two missed phone calls, four missed texts. The caller left a voicemail for each call. She pressed play on the earlier one.

“Hi Sassenach, uh, Claire, I guess I should call ye Claire since that’s yer name, huh? Shit. Hold on… Okay, let me start over. Hello Claire, this is Jamie. James. James Fraser? From the bookshop and the karaoke, ye ken? Of course she kens, ye damn eedjit… Me! Not you! Oh god this is literally the worst call I’ve ever made in my life. Fuck it, I’m just going to try again.” The voicemail abruptly ended. Claire was in stitches at his earnest attempt to just talk to her. At least he wasn’t lying when she heard him say she wouldn’t have to wait long at all for message from him. She pressed play on the second voicemail.

“Hello Claire, I hope this message finds ye well. It was verra nice to see ye today at my shop. It may be the cool, relaxed thing tae do would be to not call ye right away, but ye make me feel anything but cool and relaxed and under control. Ye make me feel… like there’s something different between us, mo nighean donn. As I told ye in the shop, I dinna think I can wait another week to see ye. If you would do me the honor of saying yes, I would verra much like to take ye out for dinner and drinks. Or anything ye wanted to do, really. Dinner and drinks was just my idea… okay I think I’m getting flustered again so I’m going to quit while I’m ahead. Okay thanks, talk to you soon hopefully, bye. Oh, and this is Jamie Fraser.”

Her laughter had died out the moment he said how she made him feel. Is that really how he felt about her? Did he mean it? Claire had a feeling that Jamie Fraser from the bookshop and the karaoke, ye ken didn’t ever say things he didn’t mean. She fell into the couch facing the big bay window, and breathed. Her breath came in heavy, her heartbeats fast. Her thoughts were swirling and her mind racing and everything felt light around here. A little breathlessly, she opened her text app to a number she didn’t recognize.

[+16178256192]: Hello Claire, this is James Fraser from Fraser Literature and from karaoke last night at The 21st Amendment.

Claire actually laughed out loud now. As if she could forget who he was! He had turned her world upside down at the bar, she sang in his shop, she gave him her phone number less than an hour ago! She added his number to her contacts before reading his following texts.

[Jamie]: Okay that was weirdly formal, sorry

[Jamie]: Could ye do me a favor and just delete the first voicemail?

[Jamie]: I was hoping we could maybe set up a time for the date I mentioned earlier at the shop? I would really like to see ye again before next week.

[Jamie]: And maybe before we have to hang out with the Spanish Inquisition. ;)

Claire laughed through her nose at that last one; apparently, Jamie had been grilled about their relationship? Interaction? by Rupert and Angus like Claire had been by Joe and Geillis. She reread all the messages he’d sent her before responding.

[Claire]: Hello James Fraser, owner of Fraser Literature and karaoke. I do indeed remember and even if I didn’t, you’ve reminded me several times in your many incessant texts/voicemails. ;)

Three dots immediately popped up, disappeared, popped up, and a next text appeared.

[Jamie]: I told ye to delete the first voicemail! You weren’t supposed to hear my rambling!

[Claire]: Uh huh, seems likely. ;) Maybe I have a super power that renders you useless around me?

[Jamie]: Well lass you're not far off.

[Jamie]: How’s about that date? What are you doing tonight?

[Claire]: Lol, you’re not tired of seeing my face yet?

[Jamie]: Not yet, not ever.

[Jamie]: Sooooooooo, dinner? ;)

Eventually, they decided on a little Italian place close to Claire’s place. Claire paced around the upstairs bedroom, trying out an outfit only to rip it off and throw it in a pile on the floor. She’d walk to the bathroom, evaluate her look, give a deep breath out her nose, and was now at the point of yelling about how she had no clothes. But, she remembered. In a garment bag at the back of her closet hung a blood-orange dress. A square neckline gave way to a triangle dip in the middle, the hem came just to the middle of her thigh with a cinched waistline.. She smiled, sadly. The last time she wore the dress, she was still in med school. Frank had asked her out to “a dinner with a few medical friends” and promised she could make a few connections to help her down the road. Claire ended up discarded at the door until Frank needed to show her off to a classmate or professor or colleague. She learned he hadn’t told anyone she was also studying medicine, telling her he “wanted to let you stand on your own, darling.” The last time she had worn that dress, she realized she wouldn’t resign herself to a life of being second-best to her partner, to a group of strangers, or to anyone. Tonight was the perfect time to remind herself she was taking things into her own hands yet again -- with Jamie at her side. Her smile turned genuine, and she pulled it off the hanger.

-- -- --

Jamie knew this was unusual. Claire wasn’t the first girl he’d ever been interested in, but if he had any choice in the matter, she would be the last one. Rationally, he should’ve been talking himself out of planning a future with the girl from the bar, but he couldn’t help himself. When he was in high school in Scotland, he kissed a girl who smelled like hairspray and spun sugar and he didn’t like that at all. He kissed a few lasses before rugby games and they’d tell him it was all for good luck. He enjoyed them (didn’t every red-blooded teenage boy enjoy kisses before sports games?), but enjoyment was the extent of it. In college, he had met Annalise. She was smart and kind and lovely, and so bonny. She’d loved his family, loved him. And he had loved her, too. Their relationship started after their first year at school when they became close friends and confidants. She was truly one of the best friends he’d ever had, outside of the lads. When he said he was leaving Scotland to pursue his dreams in the states, she said she was being “abandoned”. Jamie considered asking her to come with him to build a life, but reconsidered. After many long conversations, many tears, many honest words… they had decided their relationship was based in comfort. They loved each other, there was no doubt about that. They loved each other because of their close friendship, their proximity to each other at school, their families’ friendship that developed because of their own. When Jamie confronted Annalise about his realization that he would forever be grateful for her, but didn’t see a romantic future together, she had cried and told him she was so happy -- she felt the same. They split amicably and continued to call and text when they could. Friendships like theirs didn’t just dissipate.

With Claire, things felt… different. Emotional, raw, honest, profound. It felt like something he couldn’t quite place. Something he didn’t have words for. The mere thought of her made his pulse quicken, made his breath catch in his chest. Their connection last night at the bar, their physical connection at the bookshop (god, how it felt to be touched by her…) , their easy banter over text, and then when she gave him her address… he had to sit down. He knew her address exactly. He’d passed it every time he went home, or went to work, or went anywhere at all. She lived in Louisburg Square, across the garden and just to the right of a place he knew intimately. She lived across the garden and just to the right, of his place. They were neighbors. He never knew. He thought back to telling her how they must have just been missing each other for years, but god, he never knew how close they really were.

Jamie finished tying up his leather boots and took a look in the mirror. Hair brushed back, curls falling at his neck, a light blue button-up, a leather jacket. Not too bad. Still not good enough for her, though. He tugged at the neck of his shirt, and left his townhouse. He made his way up his side of the square, and stopped not ten feet up the sidewalk. He saw her. From the second floor, Claire was illuminated by soft light in the window, gauzy curtains framing her. He could only watch in awe as her head tilted to the side to fit an earring to her ear. She reached for a brush and started to comb out a curl. Jamie sighed contentedly when he noticed her hair was still down, curled around her face, wild as ever. Claire gave up with the brush and settled herself to smoothing down creases in her wee dress with delicate hands. Hands that had touched him, healed him, had literally written her name over his heart. She was... ethereal. Tearing his eyes away from the window, he managed to send her a message:

[Jamie]: On my way there Sassenach

[Claire]: No worries, take your time. See you soon!

Jamie rounded the center garden and up to her steps. The light from the window was still glowing, but he could no longer see her. One more text:

[Jamie]: Just outside

He walked up the steps, raised his knuckles to the brass knocker, and paused. First step to forever… His phone buzzed.

[Claire]: I thought I said to take your time? ;) seriously, how’d you get here so fast? Just a sec and I’ll be down!

He did knock then, answered her text to say there was no rush, he wasn’t going anywhere. Behind the door he heard a literal run down the stairs and he stifled a chuckle. There was a jingle of keys, a fairly loud, “Shit!” as the keys hit the floor, a scuttle of shoes around the entry, and the door opened.

Here we go, lad.

#songs about me fic #in which tessaactually tries fan fic #outlander fan fic #outlander fan fiction #jamie x claire #the frasers #jamie fraser #claire beauchamp

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cinna-wanroll · 4 years ago

Text

Obi and Ahsoka being an iconic duo for however long it takes you to read this

Long hyperspace journeys could stretch on for days, with nothing but the white noise and the whir of the ship’s engines to keep the occupants any company.

But eventually, there reached a point where the giddy anticipation was lost into a stagnant period of waiting.

And so there sat Obi-Wan Kenobi four days into hyperspace, waiting.

He was usually a very patient man, years of training a young, rambunctious Anakin Skywalker had required that much of him. And he was still patient. Yet something inside him was stirring, the nagging doubts not leaving him alone. So while The Negotiator tore through warped space, his window of time to figure things out was closing.

And here it was, his great doubt; how much longer he would be able to save those he was assigned to protect. His ship was hurdling at a speed faster than even light could travel towards a world in turmoil, and he- a mere man- was expected to fix it. The hopes, dreams, and futures dreams of an entire civilization depended on him.

He shivered and wondered how the lives of innocent people could constantly pour across his hands and slip away if he wasn’t careful. The knowledge that he was responsible for them was sometimes too much of a weight to bear alone- another reason why he valued his battalion so much. Their support was always constant, their determination and reassurances making him stronger.

But that still left the question; why was he responsible? His chest tightened as he knew he shouldn’t be, but it wasn’t his place to decide, and he would never leave any being to suffer.

A deep breath calmed his mind as he sat upon his bunk with crossed legs, letting the cool airflow help guide him into a deep state of meditation. He rested his palms against his knees, instantly falling into the stance he’d practiced since he was a boy.

In place of his worry and fear came a tide of clarity that the Force provided- a place where all things had an equal purpose. He smiled softly and sank into that familiar peace, deepening his connection to the Force with every moment.

About five minutes into his practice, the door to his room zipped open without warning, quick footsteps following after. He didn’t get up, but he did open his eyes slowly, consciousness slowly returning to the Jedi master.

He’d expected to see Anakin, perhaps even Cody on a busy day where he forgot to knock, but not Ahsoka. He blinked in surprise as she entered his quarters with a friendly smile.

“Hey master,” she greeted, joining him in his bunk.

He raised an eyebrow, “Padawan Tano,” he nodded as she sat down, “I don’t suppose you’ve forgotten how to knock?”

She blushed slightly, dipping her head in embarrassment, “Apologies master, I didn’t mean any disrespect. It’s just Master Skywalker-”

Obi-Wan’s mouth twitched into a slight grin as he finished, “Hardly ever follows any basic courtesies, I know.”

She returned his smile shyly, nodding.

“So, what can I do for you, padawan?” He turned to give her his full attention, uncrossing his legs and putting himself into a more relaxed position.

She sighed, laying back on the low bed, “Master Skywalker’s been having me review these stupid holos for hours now-” she brought her hands to the side of her head in exasperation, “and if I see one more blasted star chart I think I might just defect to the CIS.”

Obi-Wan chuckled, “I can’t say I blame you- Master Qui-Gon used to make me study every map of every planet of every system until it felt like I knew the layout of the entire galaxy.”

Ahsoka giggled, sitting up and resting her head on her knees, expecting him to continue the story.

“What’s more- I used to have to write every single report on every mission because the council wouldn’t stop complaining about Qui-Gon’s versions.”

Her eyes widened in disbelief, “What? Why?”

He tipped his head slightly, giving her a conspiratorial look, “Something about them being too full of,” he adjusted his tone until it was just slightly more regal sounding, “personal ideals and passionate phrases not appropriate to include in professional documents.”

‘Well,” she shrugged, “that does sound like the council.”

He ignored the slight offense and continued, “Yes, but I gave them all a run for their money. My reports were all no shorter than fifty pages each, detailing every breeze that blew while we traveled,” a mischievous spark lit his eyes as he finished.

“Ah, so that's why it takes you forever during mission debriefs,” Ahsoka grinned, “you developed some bad habits.”

“Hey,” he chided while she laughed, “at least I don’t exaggerate, hmm?”

“What's the fun of an adventure without stories to tell, Master?” She countered, crossing her arms in mock-defense.

“Certainly stories are plenty exciting without all the extra flare you add?” He asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Eh, I like to give them my personal touch.”

They both smiled, Ahsoka laying back down and Obi-Wan resting his back against his bedpost.

They fell into a comfortable silence before Obi-Wan confessed, “I’ve been quite bored as well, trapped in here without anyone to talk to. Everyone’s just so-” he searched for the right word.

“Preoccupied? Distant? Distracted? Absent?” Ahsoka filled in for him.

He nodded, surprised, “Precisely. I suppose I shouldn’t be complaining about everyone finally doing what they’re supposed to. But it makes me wonder- should I be taking this more seriously? Do I have a right to stay in my room, waiting aimlessly to arrive? Or should I be doing something?”

She paused before responding, “Well, what can you do?”

He opened his mouth as if he already knew the exact answer to that question before he realized that he didn’t at all.

“I- I’m not quite sure.”

She nodded and sat up, resting a hand on his shoulder.

“I think sometimes in war, you have to accept the fact that there isn’t anything you can do at the moment. You can worry and stress, but in the end, it only serves to hurt yourself and those around you than save anyone else.”

He looked over at her, studying Anakin’s young apprentice as though he hadn’t seen her in a while. It made him feel- weird, to see how much she was growing. But a thread of warmth came with it, a sense of pride he hadn’t expected.

“That’s a very wise observation, Ahsoka,” he said finally, nodding to her.

His praise made her perk up a bit and smile, as eager to please as ever, “thank you, Master Kenobi.”

He nodded and returned her look, deciding he wanted to get away from his shadowed room for a bit, “Do you feel like playing a friendly game of sabacc, padawan? I’m sure we've got a deck of cards around here somewhere.”

She got to her feet swiftly, stretching as he followed suit, “Sure! Although, Master- I don’t think there’s such a thing as a,” she held up her hands in air quotes, “friendly game of sabacc. People always have ulterior motives.”

He chuckled as they walked towards the entryway into the corridors beyond his room, “A common-found truth, yes,” he began as they stepped out of the room, “your master has taught you well.”

She shrugged, “There are also some things that have to be learned on one’s own.”

“Oh?” He asked, “And how would you have learned such a thing?”

She grinned and shrugged, “But Master, I thought you said my stories had too much flare.”

“Oh no, now I’m far too intrigued to care. Please elaborate.”

“Maybe I’ll tell you- but only if you beat me.”

He grinned, “You’re on, padawan.”

When they entered the main quarters, they were greeted with an almost eerie silence and empty space, all furniture and objects long since neglected.

“Wow,” Ahsoka mused, “I never thought this room could be so- quiet.”

“Me neither,” Obi-Wan agreed, looking around for a drawer or any sign of a compartment for a deck of cards.

“I know we have a deck,” she added as Kenobi walked over to the small shelf of datapads they kept from previous missions, “I just saw Crys, Wooley, and Kano playing last night.”

“Hmm,” he said, fingers tracing along the backs of each pad carefully, checking to see if anyone had decided to place the deck in between some of the holos like they usually did.

“They might’ve put them in one of the holo chess compartments,” she suggested after he stood back and shook his head.

He sighed, knowing she was probably right, “But I’ve asked them not to put the deck back in there at least five times now.”

Ahsoka shrugged, unbothered, “Maybe they forgot.”

He looked back at her disbelievingly, “Five times?”

She threw her hands up, “I don’t know. Have you met Wooley? I don’t think he ever fully recovered from that concussion.”

He laughed and pressed the holo chess compartment gently, frowning as sure enough, the deck of cards appeared.

“It appears you’re right,” Obi-Wan said, sitting down on one end of the table and unboxing the cards, “sixth time’s the charm.”

She took her place at the opposite end, grinning, “I’m sure they’ll get it this time.”

“Do you know how to shuffle?” He asked, looking up at her.

“Do we have to?” She asked, surprised.

“Yes. It appears they were playing Mahaa’i Shuur- all of the mistresses are next to each other, I haven't looked at the rest of the deck yet.”

“Okay,” she said, reaching her hand out for the deck.

He sat back while she focused on shuffling, watching the cards shift around almost hypnotically.

“Master, you don’t know how to shuffle?”

The question caught him off guard, and he was forced to admit he’d never really thought about it before.

“I suppose not- everyone usually did the shuffling for me,” he ticked each person off on his fingers, “Master Yoda, Qui-Gon, Master Tahl, Bant, Quinlan, Satine, Anakin, the Clones-”

“Hold on,” Ahsoka interrupted, suddenly looking very amused, “you’re telling me you’ve played cards with Master Yoda?”

He nodded while she dealt out two cards for each of them, and the game began.

“Yes, many times. He always used to come to visit me in the crèche quite often, and we’d play cards or watch a holo while the other younglings went out to wrestle or play senators.”

He drew a commander card.

“You two always seemed close,” Ahsoka commented as she took her turn and drew, a slight frown forming on her face, “do you have any idea why?”

“Why what?” He asked distractedly as he drew the queen of the darkness.

“Why he would come to visit you.”

Obi-Wan tipped his head, trying to think, “Actually, now that you mention it, no. He used to come to visit me when I was a small infant, I still have memories of him from the age of three.”

Ahsoka wrinkled her nose and teased, “does that mean Master Yoda used to change your diapers?”

Obi-Wan returned her disgusted expression, “I don’t know, and I have no intention of finding out.”

She laughed, moving part of her hand to one side.

She organizes her cards by value, he realized, narrowing his gaze.

The door to the room opened, letting in two familiar faces as they both continued to draw.

“And that’s why I was-” Anakin stopped mid-sentence as he saw Obi-Wan and Ahsoka, concentrating on their game. Out of the corner of his eye, Obi-Wan saw Rex salute.

“General. Commander.”

“Hi,” Ahsoka looked up at him briefly, “we were just talking about how Master Yoda used to change Obi-Wan’s diapers when he was a youngling.”

Obi-Wan’s face reddened, and he stared at his cards, not brave enough to look up.

“We were not.”

Ahsoka shrugged, moving another card to the left of her hand, “I don’t know, sounded that way to me.”

Anakin crossed his arms at Ahsoka, “Yeah, well it sounded to me like I told you to study those holos earlier.”

“I did,” she protested, “but you gave me so many that my head started to swim!”

“Those holos are important,” Anakin persisted, “and that doesn’t excuse why you’re out here playing cards with Obi-Wan instead of doing your meditations.”

Ahsoka sighed, laying down her hand, “Yes, Master.”

“Come now, Anakin,” Obi-Wan chided without looking up from his hand, fourteen away from winning, “surely after all those times you used to whine at me about even basic form, you can allow your padawan a break.”

Ahsoka looked up at her master hopefully, who had turned his glower on his old master.

“Fine,” he determined finally, “but as soon as you’re done, you go straight back to those holos, understand?”

Ahsoka smiled gratefully, “Yes, Master.”

Anakin walked up behind her chair, gazing at her hand. Obi-Wan looked up to scrutinize over what Anakin’s expression was like, but to his disappointment his former apprentice’s face belied nothing. He frowned, wondering when Anakin learned to become such a formidable card player.

A voice in the back of his mind reminded him that Senator Amidala was an esteemed and practiced Sabacc player, but he quickly banished the inkling, drawing another card.

The Star, blast.

Rex did the same as Anakin, coming up and watching over Obi-Wan’s shoulder.

After a few more rounds, Obi-Wan had almost forgotten he was there. So when he drew a card that let him win within -17 points, the Jedi almost jumped when Rex said, “I’ll bet one of my pistols Kenobi wins.”

He repressed an eye roll, only shaking his head and drawing the idiot, zero points.

“Which one?” Asked Anakin, looking up at Rex.

“Eh, the good one.”

“Hmm- how about, whoever loses the bet gets shiny training duty for a month, and your pistol?”

“Deal.”

Obi-Wan held up the idiot card as though he were comparing it to Anakin, and Rex chuckled softly.

“What?”

“Nothing sir.”

The game continued, with Obi-Wan just -2 points away from winning when Ahsoka slammed her cards down enthusiastically, calling “Idiot's Array!”

Obi-Wan looked over her cards and smiled, setting his hand down, “Well done.”

“Thanks,” she said, high-fiving her master.

“Gah,” Rex exclaimed, clapping Obi-Wan on the shoulder, “you let me down, general!”

Obi-Wan put up his hands defensively, “Hey, I’m not the one who told you to bet, Captain.”

Anakin walked up to them, grinning like a fool, “Yeah, but now someone has to train all the new shinies for a whole month! Ha, that’s for making me walk around the temple in my bathing suit last weekend.”

Obi-Wan’s eyebrows shot up, “Wh-”

He was cut off by the beeping of his comm. He gave Anakin a death glare before opening the transmission with a tap, mouthing the words this conversation is not over.

“Yes, Commander?”

“We’ve arrived, sir.”

“Very good Cody. We’ll be right down.”

He cut the transmission and started towards the door, the others following closely behind to the bridge.

Ahsoka did a merry little skip, coming up to walk beside Obi-Wan and Anakin, smirking.

“Looks like I won’t have to do those map studies after all,” she boasted.

Obi-Wan resisted the urge to groan- you shouldn’t have said anything, Ahsoka.

His old apprentice smirked right back at the young Togruta, “Don’t worry padawan, I’m sure we’ll have plenty of time on the surface for you to do some analyzing.”

She groaned and turned towards the hallway that led to her room, “I’m going to pick up my shoto.”

“Okay,” Obi-Wan said, cutting off Anakin before he could start to argue, “but be prompt- I expect we’ll be departing within the next ten minutes.”

She met his gaze and nodded happily, before running off to grab her lightsaber.

“Now,” Obi-Wan began, rounding on Anakin, “what is this I hear of you strutting around in your bathing suit around temple grounds last weekend?”

#obi wan kenobi #ahsoka tano #crys #wooley #star wars #cinna1fic #anakin skywalker #commander cody #master yoda #kano

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mightydragoon · 4 years ago

Text

Pray for Piett

@silvereddaye

Piett isn’t paid enough for the skywalker family drama bullshit.

(comprised in no particular order, some stories are more explicit than others with Pray for Piett)

1. Compromising -samvelg

5 + 1 Five times Admiral Piett misunderstands the nature of Luke and Vader's relationship, and the one time he doesn't.

https://archiveofourown.org/works/11539302/chapters/25908651

2. For Want of a Skywalker--- acuteneurosis

After the miracle of having survived Bespin, Piett does not ask why they are stopping on Tatooine. Or why Lord Vader suddenly has acquired a small child. Or why this child's name is Luke. Or how long they are going to keep him.

He probably should have.

https://archiveofourown.org/works/22044874/chapters/52612567

( Note* Part 1 of the Through the Eyes of the Beholder)

3. The kidnappings of a Sith Lord - maedre13

How a certain Sith Lord may or may not kidnap his rebel son. One-shots. Strongly inspired by sparklight´s “Where Our Intrepid Hero Doesn´t Get Away”.

Current chapter: In which Vader tries to arrange a marriage

https://archiveofourown.org/works/10606992/chapters/23453241

4. Living Relics-- planningconquest

Poe Dameron, on a routine flight, stumbles across an entirely new mess for the New Republic to deal with. Finding Imperial relics that can help with the galaxy's most pressing questions and problems.

https://archiveofourown.org/works/23113807/chapters/55303762

5. Luke Skywalker Is Altogether Too Likable - Mokulule

A bounty hunter claims to have caught the empire's most wanted rebel, unfortunately for Admiral Piett, Lord Vader is not in attendence, so he will have to take the call.

Alternatively; the Piett POV story I have amused myself with for several months and that I hope others will also enjoy.

https://archiveofourown.org/works/14477958/chapters/33444051

(Note* Part of the Likability Conundrum series )

6. Firmus Piett Is Altogether Too Likable- Mokulule

This is a companion piece to Luke Skywalker Is Altogether Too Likable, it is basically the first chapter from Luke's POV with more background and angst.

Luke has been captured by the nasty bounty hunter Bossc Blackscale along with small Twilek child Nia, who was used as a hostage.

Now he's about to enter Imperial custody and he meets the most peculiar Imperial.

https://archiveofourown.org/works/18065363

(Note Complete Series below)

https://archiveofourown.org/series/1300493

7. Some Assembly Required - Mokulule

Luke desperately call out for help in the force. Darth Vader finally gets his hands on his elusive son, but he doesn't quite get what he expected.

https://archiveofourown.org/works/17394782/chapters/40941173

8. One Dream, One Vision- severnlight

After the disastrous duel on Bespin, more than mere words transpire over the newly forged bond between father and son. And this time, R2 is not so lucky with the hyperdrive. Darth Vader is beyond pleased to finally have his son in custody, but the Force keeps whispering something about the terrorist Princess as well. With the identity of Lord Vader's long lost son revealed, every being of some consequence from Core to Outer Rim is busy plotting their own schemes for Luke Skywalker. The young rebel is trying his best to navigate the new relationship with his father, and scramble a plan or two of his own. Admiral Piett and various unsuspecting Imperial citizens are entangled in the drama. Vader acts completely unpredictable, the threads of destiny are tossed up in the air, and the Galaxy holds its breath.

https://archiveofourown.org/works/9817640/chapters/22044329

9. Darth Vader Goes to School - LadyVader23

Darth Vader gets bored with killing people and decides to get a degree in Engineering. He develops an interest in his classmate, Luke Lars. Poor Piett becomes the awkward middle man.

https://archiveofourown.org/works/23905714/chapters/57477952

(Note* Vader essentially commits identity fraud on Piett to do a few online classes and Piett roles with it because what you want to say no to Vader, and gets tangled in the fuck up that is Vader’s life)

10. LIBERO per fidem, or How Piett Accidentally Hastened the War Because He Kinda Cared About Vader--ThreadSketchier

It's the Admiral's job to overthink things. This time, however, it's going to be both the best AND worst decision he's ever made.

(note* this is not technically a fic and it’s a private story but it’s still worth checking)

https://archiveofourown.org/works/22535980/chapters/53852038

11.. How (not) to cope with Skywalker family drama - prayforpiett

In which the admiral of the Executor tries to find ways to manage his stress. Like any sensible person, he tries to turn his frustrations into creative endeavors. And he also drinks. A lot.

Of course, it all gets worse when he starts to have stress dreams about a certain Luke Skywalker...

https://archiveofourown.org/works/24320452/chapters/58632580

( Note* From the appropriately titled author PrayforPiett. )

12. A Life Day Miracle - Mokulule

A few months after the Death Star was destroyed, Darth Vader gets an early Life Day present in the form of the child he'd thought he'd lost, now if only events wouldn't keep conspiring against him he would actually get to tell his son of their relation.

Luke and Wedge are very confused, this is not how they expected being captured by Imperials would go.

https://archiveofourown.org/works/17646887/chapters/41613821

(Note* Mokulule again)

13. In Loco Pirates - izzythehutt

A down-on-his-luck Hondo Ohnaka manages to capture the unicorn of all bounties--Luke Skywalker, which sends Darth Vader, Lord of the Sith, on a painfully familiar trip to the planet Florrum to collect his prize. The failed negotiations leave Vader in the awkward position of being stuck in a besieged pirate bunker, trying to balance keeping his wayward child safe (and in his custody) with controlling the tongue of a loose-lipped pirate who--to the surprise of no one--has a bad habit of telling 'amusing' anecdotes from the Clone Wars.

https://archiveofourown.org/works/3841744/chapters/8574070

(Part 1 of In Loco Pirates-Verse https://archiveofourown.org/series/324137)

14. Palpatine Ad Portas - izzythehutt

When the Emperor Palpatine moves the Empire Day Celebration to Naboo, Darth Vader is forced to confront a past he had thought better buried and forgotten. Admiral Piett becomes the reluctant confidante of the monarch, caught in the middle of a deadly Sith cat-and-mouse mind game. Meanwhile, the young Rebel who blew up the Death Star returns to his mother's home world to pay his respects on the anniversary of her death--unaware of his father and the Emperor's presence on the planet and the very grave danger he is in.

https://archiveofourown.org/works/4819292/chapters/11034437

(Part 2 of In Loco Pirates-Verse https://archiveofourown.org/series/324137)

15. Meet the Skywalkers - frodogenic

Newly returned from the Unknown Regions with Darth Vader, Admiral Piett doesn't expect much of a welcome from the New Republic. And not in a million lifetimes would he have predicted that their very first guest would be Luke Skywalker. After all, Skywalker and Vader are still mortal enemies...right?

Multichapter prequel to Lord Vader's Limpet and Driving Lord Vader.

Chapter 14: The Lady’s 25-year sojourn enters the final risky stretch.

https://archiveofourown.org/works/8158216/chapters/18696025

(Note* Part 3 of the Limpet AU, see more here https://archiveofourown.org/series/554200)

16. in an endless universe----loosingletters

Chapter 8 , 9 and 10 : Grandfather Vader AU

Luke has a kid to raise and the Empire might not care much about its personnel, but at least it pays its mechanics well. Enter Darth Vader.

Part 1:https://archiveofourown.org/works/22955416/chapters/55002466

Part 2: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22955416/chapters/55067716#workskin

Part 3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22955416/chapters/56968354#workskin

(Note* Link to full series :

https://archiveofourown.org/works/22955416/chapters/57641386)

17. Allegiance - KaelinaLovesLomaris

Luke is captured by Imperials while on a mission and ends up needing his father's help getting out of a tricky situation. What follows is shameless Luke and Vader father-son bonding, with plenty of action, angst, and fluff, as Vader finally has his son at his side and plots to destroy the Emperor. Everyone's favorite Imperial, Admiral Piett, plays a large role, as does Luke's fellow pilot, Wedge Antilles, and Boba Fett will probably make an appearance.

Post ESB AU, with canon divergence. This is not Dark!Luke. It is eventual Vader redemption.

https://archiveofourown.org/works/6745156/chapters/16127191

(note* Allegiance-verse series)

18 . Interview with a Sith Lord--- KaelinaLovesLomaris

Before Piett was the Admiral of Death Squadron, he was captain of the Accuser. And once Darth Vader learned of his son and realized he would someday need to take the Emperor down, he began looking for an admiral he could trust... Or how Piett got the job of captain of the Executor and eventually became admiral of the Death Squadron. This is in my Allegiance-verse, but it's not necessary to read Allegiance to understand this.

https://archiveofourown.org/works/8747338

( Note* Allegiance-verse series)

19. Twin Suns - EagleInFlight

ROTJ AU: Vader reached out into the Force, eager to teach this trooper a lesson when suddenly the old him woke from his slumber and an Anakin quip slipped out of his mouth: “Have the Empire become so desperate that they’re recruiting below the height requirement?” A wave of amusement splashed through the Force from the trooper. That signature... The trooper took off his helmet, jerked his blonde hair back from his eyes and stared up at him. “Explains why I can’t see out of this helmet.” Darth Vader was left utterly speechless. His son stood before him. His son was here of his own free accord. Luke flashed a smile that warmed Vader’s heart. “I’m here to rescue you.”

OR: Luke Skywalker sneaks on-board the Executor to rescue his father, Darth Vader.

https://archiveofourown.org/works/14289804

20. Skywalker Family Values - Ariel_Sojourner

Camp Chippewa is proud to be the Empire’s foremost camp resort for privileged young adults. Located on the picturesque forest moon of Endor, your child will have the opportunity to participate in wholesome outdoor activities and socialize appropriately with their peers. We invite your offspring to join us for the experience of a lifetime and a bright future in service of the greater glory of the Empire.

On opposite sides of the galaxy, on opposite sides of a civil war, Darth Vader and Padme Amidala unwittingly send Luke and Leia to the same camp during school break. Chaos naturally ensues.

https://archiveofourown.org/works/14258124/chapters/32883750

(Note* Piett doesn’t feature in this as much compared to the others but dear lord still, pray for this poor man)

21. Two and a Half Men (with a baby)- orphan_account

After a long day of bargaining with Hutts and attempting to ignore his past, Darth Vader is nearing the end of his rope. When he discovers his two-year-old son, it's the straw that breaks the semi-rational Sith Lord's back; in a rash act worthy of the Skywalker name, he scoops his son into his arms, steals a shuttle from his own fleet, and punches in random hyperspace coordinates to a destination on the other side of the galaxy.

Unfortunately, father and son are not the only ones on the ship.

https://archiveofourown.org/works/7420057/chapters/16853212

TAGS

Firmus Piett

Firmus Piett & Darth Vader

Feel free to add any more to the mix .

#prayforpiett #star wars #pray for piett #sw #fanfic recs #dragoon's fanfic recs #ah shit here we go again #skywalkers #skywalker family drama #fanfiction #fanfic #recomendations #firmus piett #darth vader #luke skywalker #leia organa #skywalker #star wars fanfiction

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nuptia · 4 years ago

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AN INCOMPLETE LIST OF THEMES AND MOTIFS THAT RELATE TO WREN’S NARRATIVE.

NOTE: these themes relate to the first arc of her story, which is where the majority of wren’s threads will be placed in order to keep a forward momentum on this blog ( and to make her narrative more manageable to me ). her themes are likely to develop as she does, but i want to spend a little time talking about certain things that will reoccur on this blog.

HUNGER / GREED / TO DEVOUR ( tw for food in this specific section, please skip forward if these topics disturb you ).

LYRICAL THEMES: at seventeen i started to starve myself / i thought that love was a kind of emptiness / and at least then i understood the hunger that i felt / and i didn’t have to call it loneliness. [ hunger by florence + the machine ].

GENSIS: elijah controlled every aspect of wren’s life and this specific aspect of trauma manifests in wren’s relationship with food. he used it as a punishment, he used it as a reward, he used it merely to show he had control --- wren would define her relationship with him as one of constant hunger ( both of her own body, but the way he devoured her, as well : that fact she was literally a void around him waiting to be filled as he ate her whole ).

POST - ELIJAH: she gorges herself for weeks after she’s killed elijah, eager to take back some semblance of control, desperate to fill some sort of empty pit inside of her. she feels constantly sick and heavy over it, but lashes out when maria tries to get her to stop. EVENTUALLY, SHE LEARNS THAT CONTROL IS NOT ABOUT DEVOURING EVERYTHING : it’s about getting the choice of when you devour and how much ( but she won’t ever lose that greedy pit inside of her that demands more, more, more ).

A SIDE - NOTE, DEVOURING GODHOOD: to wren, elijah is and always will be a god. a vengeful one, but she can’t fathom a mortal holding so much power within them. she aches to eat him whole and take whatever godhood he has, to become godly herself --- this is what she imagines full control to feel like, eating god to become a god.

FUTURE MANIFESTATIONS: i am hoping to later explore the concept of fullness and the overflowing cup, and how this relates both to pregnancy, motherhood, and found families.

PREY ANIMALS ( featuring most prominently : gazelles, does, and bunnies ).

LITERARY THEMES: all the world will be your enemy, prince with a thousand enemes, and whenever they catch you, they will kill you. but first they must catch you, digger, listener, runner, prince with the swift warning. be cunning and full of tricks and your people shall never be destroyed [ watership down by richard adams ].

GAZELLES: agility, alertness, and grace. apt metaphors for wren and her body. it should be noted that wren remains the opposite of clumsiness ; she is consciously and constantly aware of her body. every inch of it : she can check for wounds with removing clothes, every part of her known and felt to the deepest degree. if she fumbled or messed up around elijah, she was punished --- she protects herself against this by making sure her body is under her control constantly.

DOES: nature that cannot be subdued and adaptability. does were her mother’s favourite animal ( and as her mother had powers relating to nature, you can imagine why ). does symbolise, for her, elijah’s inability to snuff her out --- he forced her into a world of harsh white lines, apartment complexes, a city that bustles. but she remained unsubdued, growing against his harshness like a tangled thorn.

BUNNIES: fear and creativity. wren is a woman in the run. it’s the most integral part of her story --- she is escaping unjust punishment and can only do so by the act of fleeing ( which requires great creativity just to stay alive, but also it means she is constantly in a state of fear ). she hops between words in a very chaotic way and she’s rarely static. she exists in constant motion, just like a bunny, filled with fear and creative because of it.

FUTURE MANIFESTATIONS: i can’t imagine that wren would ever become a predatory animal, but i would like if she became associated with bird imagery --- it would be quite befitting, given her name, and i think it would represent the claiming of freedom she’s been denied.

A TURNED BACK ( representing an inability to understand your own face and unknowing yourself so deeply that you begin to know yourself all over again ).

LITERARY THEMES: when i imagine myself / i am always leaving / i couldn’t drawn my own face if god asked [ the vault by andres crepas ].

DISASSOCIATION: wren has no idea who she is --- she has been nothing but a belonging for so long that she isn’t sure there’s much left of her ( to draw on earlier themes, she must devour to become something at all, to fill herself up instead of remaining empty ). she plays a little game with herself in bathroom mirrors where she holds up her finger and says ‘this is my finger and it is pretty’ to try to get a better understanding of her body. everything about this is made so much worse by the fact she is unendingly on the run. she is always turned, she is always running, so how could she possibly stop to know her own face?

FUTURE MANIFESTATIONS: i have drawn my own face --- god didn’t have to ask ( i did it all myself ). i want her to associate

NATURE ( what is motherhood? i want to become a tree ).

LITERARY THEMES: not that i want to be a god or a hero / just to change into a tree, grow for ages, not hurt anyone [ notes by czeslaw miloz ].

NATURE AS MOTHERHOOD: wren’s earliest memory is planting tomato seeds with her mother. she remembers her mother’s dirt - touched fingers over her own, her gentle voice telling her the right way to do it. instruction hadn’t felt like punishment then : it had been an act of care to her. her childhood home had been filled with flowers and plants, her mother ensuring that nothing ever died. the house was ever - alive, a paradise of flowers, home to nature itself ( and her mother was the eternal creator of it all ).

DISASSOCIATION OF NATURE: in contrast, elijah is all cities - and - skylines. she hasn’t touched dirt in a long time after she entered her relationship with him. he makes sure she’s clean and shiny, which means she doesn’t get to be around nature anymore. the plants are fake. while on the run, wren is surrounded by dust and grime, motel rooms with dying plants, cars fuming up the world, the unnatural taste of bullets. she thinks of herself in terms of failed motherhood because a mother to her has always been best represented by a tree.

TREEHOOD: god, the tree is the wren symbol. she wants to dig her roots in deep and have something close to a home, something stable and real. it is in direct contrast to her constantly on the run, a girl trapped in motion. she wants to be static. there’s also a lot here to do with transforming and getting to be something else : she might not know who she is, but she knows who trees are, and that means a lot to her.

FUTURE MANIFESTATIONS: idk i personally think that she should get to be a tree if i’m being honest with you. but, also, i want her to relate more to nature and for the majority of her motifs to be nature - themed. i think her disassociation from nature is perhaps the most impactful thing that’s happened to her because of her it represents the failing relationship between her and her mother. i would like to replace her tree motfit with a bird motif: desperation for stability vs utter freedom.

PERSEPHONE AND DEMETER ( the myth that never needed hades ).

THE MYTH: tumblr has very much romanticized persephone/hades which i don’t care about but i like the story more when it concerns the trauma of a mother-daughter relationship. demeter had her child ripped from her and demanded that the gods give her back --- all they could get for her were six months with her child. let’s split this up better into wren’s childhood and adulthood. before elijah, wren was utterly her mother’s. afterwards, she was utterly elijah’s. there was never any room for wren to be herself. she misses her mother in that tender way that you love the seasons and a ripe harvest : the hope of return seems dull and far - away, but wren still longs for it.

FUTURE MANIFESTATIONS: escape hades and return to demeter. she wants to feel her mother’s arms around her again. she wants to become demeter and give her child daisies and laughter and a man who isn’t hell itself.

#[ & ] headcanon.#i will be like. here is things about wren that will crop up in my writing in a little list #and i'll look and billy and post 'this man is a virgin'#the duality....#if anyone reads through this i am madly in love with you actually #anyway pick ur fav theme mine is treehood #sometimes my baby just wants to be a tree. that's all

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rottenappleheart · 4 years ago

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I finished “Heaven’s Vault,” that archaeology/alien translation game that everyone was so excited about before it came out, and then I never heard of again. I think I know why.

Short version: it seems as though it was made by people who were very good at the worldbuilding/linguistics parts, and not very good at making a video game.

Long version: I did enjoy the game, eventually. Beat it in just under 20 hours, feeling fairly good that I hadn’t missed anything major and had done everything I could find to do before the end. I also see now that there’s a New Game+ which gives the opportunity to spin things out again in a different manner, with more information, and this really neat article (spoilers ahoy) talks about how the mere concept of a NG+ is part of the worldbuilding (the Loop religion centers around the idea that everything that has happened will happen again.)

The learning curve was very steep at the beginning, because of the aforementioned gameplay problems getting in the way of the “meat” of the game. Some low points:

The controls are extremely janky and remained frustrating throughout. I had to turn the mouse sensitivity to its very lowest setting to avoid spinning like a top, and the restricted camera angles often send you walking off in a direction you never meant, leaping back and forth through doorways when you just wanted to enter (or exit) a room, etc.

The mandatory and constant “sailing” minigame, while beautiful, is aggravating and not as fun as I assume the developers thought it would be, given how much you have to do it. Whereas Wind Waker’s equally mandatory and equally constant sailing is a feature of the game, here it was mostly a lengthy interruption between the snippets of actual content. Except that bits of the story are also spun out in conversations between Aliya and the robot Six on these sailing interludes, so you’re encouraged not to skip them, the few times you are even given that option.

The graphics are... odd and awkward, unfortunately. The developers tried a very neat thing with (beautiful and detailed) 3D rendered environments, populated by (also beautiful, but jarringly animated) 2D hand-drawn characters. Who don’t have feet, but kind of fade into invisibility just below the knees, so as to avoid rendering walking animations, I guess. It’s very strange. There’s also no “collision sensor,” so your 2D player character is constantly clipping through other 2D NPCs, which sometimes interrupt everything you’re doing for a 15 second animated scene where they greet you, then walk away. There’s no way to avoid this. And when that happens, it overrides and cancels any ambient but plot-relevant discussion you were having with Six, which was deeply frustrating.

Speaking of which - there are a lot of strange, time-consuming transitions. Walking out of one section of the Elboreth marketplace into another takes another 10 second scene triggered by you entering a doorway, just to show you walking through a side alley. Every single time. When you show artifacts to a colleague, he will walk all the way to the other side of his office and walk all the way back before offering the same dialogue as every time before. Realistic, to grant him time to check his data? Yes. Extremely frustrating as an element of gameplay? Also yes.

Also, my game glitched multiple times, everything slowing to an infinite limbo as a triggering event failed to trigger, requiring a full reset. Any interaction with Oroi, for whatever reason, had a 33% chance of glitching.

All of this adds up to a game that creaks and clunks, and is deeply frustrating to play. These are all things which seem fueled by bad design/poor planning, and it takes away from the GOOD parts of the game. Namely:

It’s really beautiful (once you get over the 2D/3D intersection.) The music is lovely, and all the designs are top notch. I really enjoyed spending time in these various worlds and discovering their history. (Actually WALKING through the worlds, less enjoyable, but...)

The development of the story and the character interactions is mostly organic and nuanced. Like a Bioware game (I’m sorry to reference them but it’s the easiest comparison), your responses to different plot events and side characters, and the order in which you discover things (or even what conclusions you draw! there isn’t necessarily a single right answer!) shapes the narrative. Unfortunately, it quickly becomes obvious when the NPCs have run out of interactions for you... such as when you take a twenty-minute sail to revisit your home planet, suffer through endless clipping issues and mandatory transitions, only for your contacts there to have zero dialogue options. (Whoops, this was supposed to be the “good” section.)

The translations, which are the heart of the game, become really fun after the first few. Initially, you have ZERO information when you are given your first line of text to interpret, and have to guess blindly. In a little bit, you are given more information to determine whether that first guess was right or wrong. It’s a little frustrating, but I think what the developers were going for is that Aliya is already roughly familiar with Ancient script, and whatever initial guess she makes is about 50/50 correct. Each new line of text you uncover builds on the glyphs you already know. It became very fun to make more educated guesses - ah, I recognize the symbol we identified as “Gods,” so maybe combined with this other symbol, it might be “Prayer” or “Temple” - something related. Or when you start breaking down the “me/you/we/my/your/our” glyphs, it all makes SENSE. That was the fun part I eventually couldn’t get enough of - parsing out what Ancient meant, and piecing together the story behind the Nebula.

I genuinely did gasp when I figured out A Big Thing about the world story.

I really love stories about robots. Long-suffering, mildly sarcastic robots who are trying very hard to keep you alive while you do stupid things like climb down cliffs they can’t follow. I am very glad I was warned about the risk of losing Six forever and could avoid that particular path, because I think the last third of the game would have been a real bummer without Six as a companion.

Do I recommend it? Yes... mostly. Yes, with the caveats above about how clunky and frustrating the gameplay is. I probably will replay it in a while, taking advantage of the NG+, but not right away - I need to play something less inherently frustrating.

I wish there were more games like this, but I also wish it had been better developed, so that the good parts of it could really shine.

#heaven's vault

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seb-owns-these-tatas · 5 years ago

Text

Witcher Of The Night (Chapter 4)

THIS IS MODERN ERA READER WHO WOKE UP IN THE DIMENSION OF THE WITCHER.

CHAPTER 3

Characters: Geralt of Rivia x small!Naive!Reader

Summary: Ciri wanted chicken and so she gets one. Y/N needed warmth amongst the cold weather in the Forest of Kaedwan and she'd received more than a warmth for her body as it traveled straight to her heart; warming her soul. Even getting some sort of comfort from the witcher himself. Other than that, Geralt had a lead on where the sorceress was. Though, right now he needed her to help you Plus, he also had other options other than that.

Warnings: FULL OF Y/N AND GERALT FLUFF. ❤ Geralt is an asshole at first because of certain reasons. 😂 Blood and animal killing in this one. Smiling, soft Geralt, tho still having that stoic expression of his of course. Gotta write him completely in character. 😂 Also, a Hirikka is here and will be on the next chapter!

Words: 3,900+

A/N: There's a part 2 for this chapter. It'll be a chapter 4.1 but will be posted after 2-3 days. ^u^ I couldn't put them together because it'll be 8-9k words long. 😅😂 Sorry, if I write long ass chapters and the pace is still slow. I need to develop their characters, relationship and such. The places said here are from the game however it isn’t accurate and I just made my own direction. Like how I try to make my life go in the right path but failing and actually walking on the wrong path. LMAO. Also, I’m making a masterlist for WOTN! 🤗

TAGLIST IS STILL OPEN FOR THIS ONE! Heehee! Don’t forget to REBLOG, COMMENT OR GIVE FEEDBACK IF YOU DID LOVE THIS CHAPTER! IT’LL MAKE ME SMILE!

Disclaimer: PNG's used in edits are not mine even the GIF's too. However, the edits and oneshots are definitely from moi. Characters, places and said monsters aren't from moi as well.

MY WORKS ARE NOT NOT NOT NOT NOOOOOOT TO BE POSTED ON ANY OTHER WEBSITES. My official username in Wattpad is “TATATHEPOTATO” and that’s the only other site I have for writing aside from Tumblr. Thank you, Tater tots!

"Do you not...have cars, Geralt? Or motorcycles?"

You've panted like you were having a marathon, palms falling on your knees as you took a breather; seeing a small cottage on the far end of the shallow path in the forest.

It was a smaller house that had a fence with chickens, goats and pigs segregated by kind. The home was a sandy shade of yellow and a slip of brown which was also made just like how Geralt's have been.

No answer was given to you other than how he was hauling Roach back to look at you who were walking along side with him; not bothering to even ask you for a ride. It's not like you were hoping he would. Based on the change of mood he'd gotten, you were sure he won't lend you his horse to lessen your difficulty in traveling bare foot.

You've already asked what his horse's name was. He simply answered with the word 'Roach', allowing you to touch the horse as she neighed. Much to someone's dismay; specifically a bard who happened to saw the whole interaction, left a mutter to himself.

"Why does the midget get to touch Roach in haste and I don't?!" Jaskier muttered rather in disbelief. The Witcher fixing his black, hooded wool cape attached to his shoulders, giving him a subtle hum with the gravel of his voice.

Jaskier huffed for the third time, hands on his hips as he watched the scene before him with incredulity in his baby blue peepers. You happily caressed her crest as Geralt fixed things on the leather bag attached to the horse's hip.

"Geralt---" Jaskier started but was cut off with a insouciant scold from the man himself, "Don't call her midget," he cut him off without even paying him attention. Jaskier gave a nod; a grin molding his face leading to mischief at the chide given.

Jaskier took a step close and planned to give Roach's crest a caress but his stern friend was fast enough to cease his wishes, "Still, don't touch roach," Geralt quickly mumbled as he felt Jaskier's plan on touching his horse. The bard slyly grabbed onto his own hair, brushing them through his locks like he wasn't about to pet Roach. Geralt closed the bag with a soft click, giving him the side-eye; voice firm and full of derision, "I don't want you singing a song about my horse in the near future,"

Which is why you were walking on your own now with Geralt's good will on making you handle the death march rather like a happy child.

It was probably okay, you thought at the back of your mind. Walking, that is. Exercising in the morning was great, except that if it weren't too chilly unlike him who have gotten a full armor and gear out of his closet like he'd gone out of a magazine or animè. The sword on his back even giving you shivers, but a different kind because of how tough looking he had as his exterior.

You shook your head as he just looked back at you. That look of his that was filled of inquiry; asking you what you were saying in the back of your mind. A huff of pure exhaustion was given to The Witcher before you sauntered forward, leaving the man eyeing you with sass and a high raise of his bushy brow.

Geralt followed through along with Roach as he pulled her reins, slowly galloping as he analyzed your form from behind. His buttoned up tunic that reached the ends of your thighs with a weird kind of foot ware that certainly doesn't help with the crispy, brisk temperature of the forest.

Geralt gravelly sighed, watching you struggle with scrubbing your legs together as you pathetically strolled forward and onto the place that he'd pointed. He was too engrossed at seeing you struggle when he has heard a slight twig breaking from afar, catching his senses and making him look to where it came from.

"Midget," The Witcher tried calling you with that deep voice of his in the middle of the woods. Though, to no avail; you never heard him coherently and continued your stroll through the forest; hollering a message without even looking back because of the mere exhaustion.

"You're too slow, Geralt, like an old man! I'm exhausted!"

He breathed out his vexation of your naivety that you weren't strolling in your world. You were walking in theirs and having your own little dimension while you walk by yourself can be pretty dangerous.

Geralt heard the crack of another wood. It was from behind a large hickory tree. He doubtfully grabbed onto the handle of his sword wrapped behind him; halfway unsheathing the sword and contemplating if he needed to jump off his horse when suddenly a medium sized Hirikka came into his view, maybe an inch shorter than you. Those eyes that were doe, just like yours whenever you wanted something and eventually getting it from him.

"You're hungry, aren't you?" Geralt asked the Hirrika. The tone in his voice softer and in awe. He'd rummaged through his bag without taking his Aurum, blazing eyes away from the harmless creature, feeling an apple inside his bag and threw it as the Hirikka caught it with its own two paws.

"Don't get yourself killed out there,"

Thus, he began to follow you as fast as possible before you even get yourself harmed from any monsters. When he'd seen you leaning on the fences of Cuthberth's home, he didn't know he has been holding a breath for as long as he could remember without seeing the sight of you.

You were making him insane for not even waiting for him and thinking what would've attacked you in the forest of Kaedwan.

Cuthbert was feeding the chickens inside their palisades. His friend thought you were lost but you've said that you came for the purpose of buying chickens with a man. He was friendly enough to give you chitter-chatter while waiting for Geralt to follow you from behind. It took minutes before he arrived with a complete set of body parts; so the worry of him being killed off by a monster was thrown in the dumps.

As he rode his horse closer, you've had the chance to admire the beauty edging to be seen. You were in awe as his mere self was enough to get you ogling at the man treading near. Never seeing such a man like that who wore armors in his everyday life except from seeing Cosplayers in certain conventions that seemed so fake rather than Geralt who felt real. Too real that you were pondering if he was just a mere hallucination or a fantasy of yours.

He was definitely eye-candy. Dashing. Ravishing. Beyond gorgeous.

Cuthbert saw them coming and so, his expression turned wild with a grin. His dirty fingers scratching his bald head in excitement as he jogged out of the fences with a giddy self. "Oi! You didn't tell me it's the infamous Geralt of Rivia, elfin!"

Famous. He's famous? you thought to yourself before keeping your eyes away from the witcher who had already jumped down his horse and gave you a look; asking what was wrong because you were staring like there was a problem at hand.

You didn't need to tell him that your heart was actually the problem. It was always skipping a beat whenever he'd pay a glimpse to stare at your eyes.

A soft clear of your throat, your fist covering your mouth as you do and you eyed Cuthbert inquisitively, "Is he famous? Famous for what? Is he an actor? Model? The king of this kingdom or something?"

Cuthbert patted his dirty hands on his soiled apron full of flour, a hand on his hip while the other reaches out for Geralt's powerful looking shoulder in attempt to give him a pat. The animal butcher's forest green eyes coruscant of fervor. Geralt's initial response was to give him a smile back with the man's excitement in seeing him again, "This lad's a something! Kills all types of beasts, vampires, dragons, huge kikimores---"

You coughed out loud, making them snap their heads from where you stood. Cuthbert's words sounded too surprising to be true. As much as you remembered, vampires only existed in the movies and games; not in the real life survival of people. His words caught you off-guard, "Vamp--vampires? There's vampires here, Cuthbert? Even dragons?"

Geralt looked at you, utmost jaded. The way your voice stuttered alerted him that you were scared or probably still unfamiliar--still illiterate of their world since he was doubting to give you all the information ahead if you abruptly disappear out-of-nowhere with the knowledge of the continent; their world. It would be very much dangerous for it to be compromised especially that you had the experience in teleporting to their dimension.

Cuthbert gave a loud laugh, not believing the strangeness of your words, "You're actin' like yer’ never been here before! I thought yer’ were livin' with the Witcher?! You should ask the white wolf, here! He's killed hundreds! Maybe even thousands!"

You've fluttered your eyes closed, trying to calm yourself from running off the forest and getting yourself killed just like the horror movies you've watched. You've called them idiots, now wasn't the time to call yourself one as well.

Though, you were completely unaware of Geralt's gaze which consist an ample amount of worry. You continued your rambles in a hushed whisper, "I'm not just in a freakin' game that have monsters, but even a live-action movie of Twilight. This is great, real great."

The Witcher clenched his teeth, gradually turning his body to you without moving his soles. His forehead creasing as he could feel your heart beat quickening, "Are there also wolves? Big bad wolves here?" your voiced lowering a miniscule, sounding diminutive.

His friend gave off a shrug, his mouth forming a thin line when he did so as he scratched his whitened beard, "We may never know what this world can bring, Elfin! It always brings out the worst of everythin'!"

At the confident mention of that, you've felt your chest tightening with the knowledge of having vampires and dragons around. What if you died in their world? Would you also be dead in earth? Geralt licked his Crimson lips, staring down at you with utmost comfort that he could give. Yet, he failed at that with how stoic his expressions can get. Though, his eyes were exempted because his feelings can be read through those stern, Aurum eyes.

Midway, he'd lift his burly armor-coated arms to plan and give your back a caress to calm you down; but he was immediate enough to drop it down considering that maybe even a touch to the hand would calm you because he'd seen it trembled. If only he was thoroughly direct towards you; he would in a heart beat.

"Don't panic, Midget." The roughness of his voice; that definite amount of timbre. It was the only word you've heard from him. Short but straightforward. Even so, still the only thing that calmed you down through out all your panic attacks back in earth and even in their world.

Cuthbert has seen Geralt's attempt of comfort; even seeing his eyes shift in a way that nobody else could. He had a smirk on his face, scrubbing that beard he was owning, "Who is she, Witcha'? Another one of those clingy harlots of yours?"

Geralt turned his head to see Cuthbert smirking. The way his eyes changed into a lethargic faze meant that the witcher was mantling the emotions he was having or probably having no idea that he was feeling it yet; in denial of the state he was in.

"---Or the trouble and strife?"

The witcher knew what he meant and decided to let those words fall out of his ear to the other. His hands clasping together on his front as he straightened his back, cocking his head to the side as he narrowed his eyes on the latter, "We need...chickens," Cuthbert raised his eyebrows in astonishment, "You cook now, witcher?"

No words were said besides from a satisfied hum as the chickens clucked before the butcher of animals. The panic died down because of Geralt's voice and you've finally had the will to insert yourself in the conversation.

"I do!" you excitedly exclaimed, stepping a foot closer to Geralt and the witcher was aware of it, giving you the side-eye, "---also, do you have any spices please?"

Cuthbert nodded in comprehension, sending a playful wink to The Witcher and scrubbing his hands together as he also gave you a rogouish smile, "Oh, that kind. The little woman, Geralt! Literally because this elfin is quite short but fetching nevertheless!" Geralt gave him an apathetic blink of an eye, sighing from the talkativeness of the man.

But, also worth it if he could see those anticipated beams of yours as you stood beside him.

The latter gave out a loud sigh, seeming to be in his head space as he talked his thoughts out loud, "---I remember how Gisela cooks Flamiche for me whenever I go home from me' hunt! Though, that woman seldom does it anymore considering how Bridgely gets her attention a lots!"

Geralt gave him that daunting smile of his; wanting to tell the man to just butcher the heck out of the chickens already as he wanted to get it over with. You gave Cuthbert a wide smile, oblivious of Geralt's taunting gaze back at the man. He suppressed a laugh and nodded to himself; quickly running off to Geralt's wishes.

As the chicken was being slaughtered across the fence, Geralt was thoroughly unaware that you were already sniffing and crying because it was all out in the open and you could see how it was being killed. He watched you look over the fence and inspect Cuthbert cutting its head off and it made you shriek, warm tears falling on the sides of your face while watching how much pity you've given to the chicken.

Geralt did a double-take, eyeing you and where you were staring at and saw how you were crying over a chicken being slaughtered. He wanted to laugh because of how you were being sad over it. However, he decided against so as to not offend you when you were just pouring your heart out in this one.

"I thought...you wanted chickens?" the witcher pondered, leaning away from the fence and facing you instead with that amused glint in his eyes.

You've sniffed hard, patting your nose with his clothes that you were wearing from; the snot wanting to come out of its cave. You gazed up at him; eyes damp and reddish from the cries. "I did, Geralt! But not for it to be killed like this!" you hiccuped from all the bawling that has happened, "---It was better to be bought in a supermarket!"

The way you cry always made a pinch inside Geralt's heart. A kind where he would try and do everything to make it stop because you were annoying but also irresistible.

His lips lifted in a slight beam, looking around the forest before peering down at your sobbing thyself. "There, there," surprisingly, Geralt cooed before you; stopping your weeps short as you gaped at the tall witcher. His chiseled face warped in clear softness and mirth, "---for a bountiful feast requires death in exchange for us to be sated,"

The amazing color of his eyes gleamed more under the sun. You couldn't help but outstare back at him with that stupefied look of utter adoration. You snapped out of your daydream when he was waiting for a witty retort but you've loudly cleared your throat; the heat travelling to your neck. Before it can even reach your face, you turned your head back to look at Cuthbert who was now grinning back at you; holding the headless chicken up for you to see. Its blood dripping down the ground as he mouthed a 'what do you think?' back at you and Geralt to tell you if the size of the chicken was a-okay.

Your face quickly morphed into a wince, another mourn about to come to light when you've felt a warm hand on your shoulder; shooting lightning to your spine as you jumped from the physical touch. Geralt gently turned your body around; away from the panorama of chicken slaughter. The way his lips lifting in a small, soft smile never leaving yet. "Don't look at it,"

A huff was sent to the latter, "I can't! It's making noise!"

"Then cover your ears," Geralt's brow raised in sarcasm. Though, those playful sparkle never dying down. You narrowed your eyes back at him, an annoyed crease of your forehead as you explained and raised your hands back at him. It looked dull and definitely freezing, "But, my hands are shaking from the cold!"

Geralt studied you from head to foot, noting the lack of clothes you were wearing. The smile you've grown to love fell as he sighed, looking away for a moment before a tiresome gaze of his eyes was sent to you. He held onto the string of his jet black hooded cape, unlatching it around his neck as you stared up at him in utmost curiosity.

The softness of his cape fell around your shoulders like a furnace hugging your body; better yet the soul that needed a hug after all you've experienced since the first time you've been in their world. You could feel your heart warming at the gesture of Geralt giving you his dramatic cape; even growing hotter when he was tethering the tie together; intently staring down at your face and feeling his thick, calloused fingers inches before your neck.

Maybe, an egg was worthy of using your face as a frying pan right now.

You consciously looked away from the heat of his stare. Geralt tightened the tie around your neck as you've felt the heaviness of his cape over your shoulders. He drew he fingers away from your neck, slanting his head as he never cut the gaze he had; rather than you who'd looked away because you were...blushing.

"Better?" His voice graveled, a small beam carving his face. You've reluctantly gawked back at him, giving him a reserved nod. The way you were acting looked entirely stupid, your eyes looking like those googly ones used as stickers back in your desk as you tried avoiding the intensity of his stare. You bit the insides of your cheeks, deciding to leave the exhilaration out in the back as you had the courage to look at him, "Better!---Never better, Ge-Geralt!" Regardless of the brave act, you embarrassingly stammered and cited his name wrongly with a shameful 'J', "I mean, Geralt. Geralt with a G!" you back paddled in an instant, scratching your temples as you avoided his eyes and tried to fan your face.

The witcher looked askance, he could hear your heart beat running miles after miles. Geralt pondered why and what was making it pump fast when you weren't even having your panic attacks.

He crossed his hefty arms, looking at you skeptically but with a stupefying smile on his face, "Are you going to stop being a bairn now?"

You initially stopped fanning your face, narrowing your eyes back at him; completely confused, "What's a bairn?" he sighed and glanced at the sky, shaking his head with a beam that fell as quick as you've seen it when Geralt heard Cuthbert walking to where you were and glanced at the acquaintance.

The dead chicken was tied close to the witcher's bag located on the hip of his horse. You were busy staring at the four pieces of aftershafted chickens dangling on Roach's side with that sympathetic glaze of your eyes but actually talking at the back of your mind that its death would be worth it because you cook well and he'll taste good.

Cuthbert scrutinized your nodding form. A strange expression written on his face that tells that he was seeing the oddity that you were nodding at the chickens like you were talking to them.

The animal butcher was running his blabber mouth about how his chickens were also missing every other day. Sometimes his pigs or goats that made Geralt narrow his eyes from his share of message; his nose slightly scrunching from the admission of Cuthbert with his missing animals.

He didn't need to know that some were kind of caught by Geralt's hands. Maybe at least ten chickens, three pigs and two goats. Even so, slaughtered by the witcher himself.

The sneaky witcher couldn't catch a chicken as of the moment because he always does it at night. Catching a chicken from other people's fence in the morning can be risky and definitely tricky.

"About...the sorceress," Geralt trailed off, grabbing Cuthbert's attention away from you before he could even think you didn't belong to their world and guessed about his stealing escapades. He spun his head to look at Geralt, thoroughly distracted from how he called him out, "---you still hangin' onto that sorceress you had, witcher?"

"No...It's....kind of complicated," the latter speculated with a shake of his head.

Cuthbert nodded in understanding, scratching the nape of his neck as he seem to ponder, "The tittle-tattles around the village says that the sorceress is in a burgh called 'crow's perch' in the east of Vizima," pause. "It's a long journey out there! Lots'a beasts to encounter before it!" he roughly warned.

The Witcher only hummed in response; deep in thought as he calculated how long will it take to get there after a week when he was done with any favors for the villagers of Kaedwan and for some of his options on how to get you home.

His first choice was the Djinn. Now, he just needed to find one. Again. But, not for the sole purpose of asking peace and a long nap but to help you.

Geralt fished out the black pouch he kept on his sides, reaching out to give it to Cuthbert across the fence. The animal butcher shook his head to decline the money, "No, I don't need yer' coins." he simply admitted with a scoff, "You've helped us a lot; for me to be accepting some kind of repayment from the white wolf himself---,"

"----You deserve a thank you for all your help, Witcher." Cuthbert continued with a grateful tone.

Thus, this was the first time that he'd been acknowledged by his help in slaying monsters and terrifying creatures. The man himself didn't know how pleasing it was to hear those words from a mere human and from a person he'd help back in the years. Even so, seeing those smiles you've given him when you were excited to cook the damn chicken didn't seem so satisfying and delightful to look at; until now..

MORE FLUFF ON CHAPTER 4.1! Heehee! THANK YOU FOR THE LOVE, TATER TOTS! AM I THE ONLY ONE WHO LOVES GERALT CALLING Y/N, MIDGET?

Taglist: @alyxkbrl @himarisolace @barkingbullfrog @ayamenimthiriel @hellodevilslittlesister @vania-marie @spookypeachx @grungelovebug @fangirl-inthe-us @nympeth @missjenniferb (I couldn’t tag you AGAIN bud! A different blog was popping out of the recommendation and it wasn’t your blog. Though, I’ll try again on the next update! Don’t worry! Tumblr is being DUMBLR RN. I’M MAD) @amirahiddleston @gabethelobster @dreaming-about-starfleet @uncoolcloudyhead @melaninstylezz @psychosupernatural

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swanlake1998 · 4 years ago

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Article: Tokenism vs. Representation: How Can We Tell Them Apart?

Date: January 19, 2021

By: Theresa Ruth Howard

Last year's Black Lives Matter protests jolted the ballet world into action. All of a sudden, things that once "took time" instantaneously became easy fixes, like it was an episode of Oprah's favorite things for Black people: "You get an opportunity, and you get an opportunity!" Much of this sudden, reactionary change has elicited high levels of skepticism, prompting the query: Is this true representation or is it merely tokenism?

There is empirical data that white people seldom keep word when it comes to BIPOC individuals. Social justice (especially when it comes to Black people) has almost always been a trend, a tool wielded to benefit white people more in the end, and there usually is an end marked by a lull and a slow, silent rolling back of the majority of what has been accomplished.

In the early stages of addressing systemic racism, until companies have a proven track record, it will always be a "damned when you do, damned if you don't" situation. Trust must be earned. Nothing done will be enough because it feels like trying to make an ocean out of a desert with an eye dropper.

That is not to say that there isn't meaningful progress being made. We are in the midst of a global shift. Power is being redistributed, rules and criteria are being altered. The standards of what was once acceptable, or enough, no longer suffice. People are no longer just "grateful" to have a seat at the table—not only do they expect to eat, they want to help plan the menu. The truth is, we lack a suitable metric to measure this progress because we have never been here before.

What is “representation”? What exactly is “tokenism”?   

The Oxford Dictionary defines "tokenism" as "the practice or policy of making merely a token effort or granting only minimal concessions, especially to minority or suppressed groups."

The complexity of the question "What qualifies as tokenism and what as representation?" rivals that of Blackness itself. There is often a conflation perhaps because representation is part and parcel of tokenism, making it difficult to discern one from the other, or at what point it shifts. What it looks like for the bystander may not be how it is experienced by the person in the situation.

It is important to note that the act of being the "only" or one of a few does not in and of itself amount to tokenism. Too often that assumption is made by the public and it is unfair, reductive and wounding to those holding those spaces. What determines tokenism depends more on why and how someone occupies the space.

This is where the process of diversification gets slippery, manufacturing conflicts of confidence for Black dancers who, like sacrificial lambs, may question the reasons they were hired, cast or promoted. Were they given an opportunity for their talent, or because they are Black, and in what measure? These are often the speculative whispers from colleagues, classmates, parents and patrons. It is a psychological head trip to which one will rarely get a satisfactory answer.

The way diversification is approached says everything. When the motivations are authentic, there will be respect, sensitivity and mindfulness; an effort to cultivate cultural competence will be made. This requires a great deal of humility. In order to be able to interact effectively with people of different cultures, racial and ethnic backgrounds, you have to admit that you have blind spots, and are ignorant of things and, more importantly, are desirous to learn. This requires engaging them as human beings, not just tools as a means to an end.

Faculty additions

The recent hiring of full-time Black faculty members at Boston Ballet School (Andrea Long-Naidu), Pacific Northwest Ballet School (Ikolo Griffin), San Francisco Ballet School (Jason Ambrose) and School of American Ballet (Aesha Ash) all came to fruition during the COVID-19 crisis and the BLM reckonings. All four schools were part of the Equity Project's 21-ballet-organization learning cohort—the three-year partnership between Dance Theatre of Harlem, Dance/USA and the International Association of Blacks in Dance that aimed to increase the presence of Blacks in ballet, onstage and off. (Full disclosure, I was a member of the design and facilitation team.) There were a number of school directors in the room, including BBS director Margaret Tracey, PNB's Peter Boal (artistic director of both school and company), SFBS's former administrator Andrea Yannone and director Patrick Armand, and SAB's chairman of faculty Kay Mazzo.

One of the constant discussions was the importance of having representation on school faculties; it was drilled into their psyches. There were multiple conversations, and eventually the ball started rolling downhill. Unfortunately, the news of these faculty additions was only made public after last summer's social media protests by Black ballet dancers, making them appear reactionary.

The announcements began with a cacophony of press about Ash's appointment at SAB, which was met with underground backlash. Much like the overwhelming coverage about New York City Ballet's first Black Marie in 2019, which other companies had been quietly and consistently doing for years (without fanfare), the jump over contrition and bolt towards heroism for many soured representation into tokenism. In contrast, when Balanchine took Arthur Mitchell into NYCB as its first Black principal dancer, Mitchell asked that there not be a press release heralding the advancement. Instead, he wanted simply to appear onstage as a matter of fact.

When you wave a flag too hard late in the game, and are overly pleased with the little you have done over decades, you get no pat on the back. Though pleased for Sister Ash, inherent distrust has the Black community sitting with its arms folded, watching and waiting to be served the pudding that holds the proof of change.

This is the flip side of the representation coin. Organizations can dust their hands off and feel good about the progress they have made, while the actual burden and responsibility of "representing" gets laid squarely on these new Black hires. Ironically, these Black instructors return to the space of racial isolation they inhabited as dancers, with one major difference: Now they are expected to be an agent of change.

With the media blitz around her being SAB's first full-time Black faculty member, Ash is very clear when I ask her what her role is. "I am a teacher," she says. "I am not there to transform the entire structure. I was hired to be a teacher and I am hyper-focused on being the best darn teacher that I can be."

Her refrain sounds exactly like most Black ballet dancers who just want to dance, but whose very presence is a statement of silent resistance to a centuries-old system of whiteness. With this lack of representation, coupled with the increased visibility via social media—whether intended or not—they are instantaneously branded as "role models," and saddled with the pressure of expectations from the public at large, the Black community specifically, as well as their organization.

For these new faculty members, if and when their institutions make a faux pas, you can be certain the first question will be "Where were they?" When presented with this reality, Ash resolutely replies, "Let's make it very clear that I'm not the executive director or the artistic director of the School of American Ballet. But if I see things that don't look right to me, I'm absolutely going to feel very comfortable going in there and saying 'This does not look right.' " She sees her role as a long-time member of the Alumni Advisory Committee on Diversity and Inclusion as the space to do that.

Conversely, when asked what Ash's role is, Mazzo replies—along with giving glowing compliments about Ash's teaching abilities—"We feel that we hired an activist who wants to make more change," referring to her creation of her Swan Dreams Project. "We'll look to her for her perspective, her opinions or insights or feedback. It'll carry an enormous amount of weight as we continue to evolve and learn. I think she might not even realize what that means."

It could well be within this sliver of obfuscation that genuine representation can curdle into tokenism—the space where boundaries are unclear and assumptions are made. There has to be an agreement and clear boundaries with veto power enabling a person to control the way their Blackness, gender, sexual orientation or identity (in body and voice) are utilized both internally and externally for it not to wander into the realm of tokenism.

A person's desire to participate (and to what degree) should not be assumed because they represent a particular demographic. Having your thoughts, feelings, experience and emotional labor taken into consideration is something that is often not afforded to marginalized people. Being granted the power of choice with regards to participation, though not the norm, would be equitable. In this way the truest measure of whether something is tokenizing lies with the person in the experience: If they have agency and are empowered, it matters little how things appear.

In extending the invitation to Andrea Long-Naidu to join the Boston Ballet School, director Margaret Tracey was clear: "I need someone like this to hold me accountable. Knowing Andrea's commitment to supporting the Black student in the white ballet world made me think this is the kind of person I need on my team." The discussions between the two solidified what feels like a developing partnership.

Long-Naidu is looking for a space that will allow her to stretch into her desire to be a part of the change, and influence the field's push towards diversification. "I want to be at a high-level ballet institution where I am working with dancers, where I can make a difference," she says. Over the past five years she has been stepping into her power, both as an educator and as an advocate. "I am finding my voice in this work. I want to be a part of helping predominantly white institutions be more welcoming for Black bodies."

It helps that the two share history as former NYCB dancers, allowing for the uncomfortable dialogue necessary both for the learning curve and the strengthening of the new allyship. They align in their growth journeys: Tracey is prepared to receive radical feedback and Long-Naidu is ready to share. "Andrea is my first hire where I have shifted my focus from whether this outside person is a good fit for us to making sure that our environment is not stuck in a place that may not allow someone like her to fit in," says Tracey.

Casting and marketing

We all want to see Black and brown dancers rise through the ranks. What we don't want is Black dancers being cast when they are not ready, or prepared for a role just for a company to showcase it has them. This is the epitome of tokenism and sets dancers up to fail, a luxury, by virtue of their Blackness, they do not have. Blackness is held to a different standard so unlike their white peers, whose failings are their own, the "representation" Black dancers carry comes with the heavy burden of the entire race.

Artistic directors might not view it this way when casting, but being culturally competent would mean taking this into consideration. When fast-tracking a Black dancer, true equity would mean providing the extra support (technical and emotional) they might need to have them succeed. Hence, it's not about what is normally done; it is about what is necessary in this instance.

Tokenism in casting can stigmatize the dancer amongst their peers and the artistic staff, setting off the cascade of whispering echoes of "They only got it because they are Black." Even though white people have been getting opportunities because they are white for eons, it creates yet another level of isolation, stress and vulnerability in a Black dancer, potentially crippling both their confidence and their career.

Ballet organizations that have been actively working to educate and examine themselves, and are successfully expanding recruitment, increasing diversity in training pipelines, company rosters, faculties and administration, are grappling with how to best communicate progress without tooting their own horns too loudly. This is the space between a rock and a hard place; if they quietly go about their work, no one will know, and if they promote too heavily it could be perceived as pandering.

This culture shift demands transparency. Gone are the days of blind acceptance; the people demand receipts. Ballet has seldom had to explain itself, aloft at the pinnacle of the dance hierarchy, supported by centuries of tradition, the very act of "showing" deemed beneath it. Those days are on the wane.

The majority of ballet companies use the traditional rankings system. Star power is real, ballet lovers are loyalist, and marketing campaigns often follow suit by using images of principal artists or those performing lead roles. Hence, when most of your diversity (specifically Black dancers) resides in the corps de ballet, purposefully diverting from the marketing norms to telegraph the presence of nonwhite artists is by definition tokenism.

That is, of course, if marketing followed that hierarchy to begin with. When Tamara Rojo took the helm of English National Ballet in 2012, the company underwent a rebrand, highlighting ENB as a company that tells stories. Together with Heather Clark Charrington (director of marketing and communications since 2014), she transformed the promotional black-and-white backstage images into evocative art pieces capturing a moment, feeling or mood of a work. Together, Rojo and Charrington identify the dancer who can best capture it, regardless of rank or role. Many times there isn't correlation between the dancer on the poster and the principals on the stage.

Ironically, this nonhierarchical norm had gone unnoticed until 2018, when the breathtakingly stunning poster of Swan Lake featuring Precious Adams was released, and comments about casting and tokenism were raised. This is a prime example of when righteous indignation based on assumptions and lack of knowledge results in possible collateral damage to the very person you are advocating for. If companies are expected to do better by their artists, then the public needs to check itself, as well.

We need new procedures and practices to check our work. If your whole marketing department is white, perhaps consider enlisting the eyes of nonwhite members of the organization or cultivating external critical friends to look through a different lens to vet images and copy. The trick is you have to trust and listen to their feedback.

COVID commissions

The call to give Black choreographers opportunities was right up there with the call for ballet teachers, and the excuse was the same: "We can't find them." It seems that the glow from the world being on fire illuminated the field such that suddenly Black choreographers could be seen raining from the sky like extraterrestrial squids in Watchmen.

Black folk have been in the game long enough to know that the majority of recent commissions are purely reactionary. "Of course when I received multiple commissions, it crossed my mind that it was in alignment with the Black Lives Matter movement…and being a Black woman I tick two boxes," says Francesca Harper, who has eight commissions on deck. "I have been creating films since the beginning of my career—two of the companies came to me specifically because I can create something for film."

However, the nagging question of Blackness versus talent conjures uncertainty. "You wonder, Are they really looking at me?" asks Harper. "Are they looking at my work? That, for me, is always a painful moment."

Darrell Grand Moultrie is another of the numerous Black choreographers the ballet world is now inviting to take center stage, albeit virtually. While he has choreographed repeatedly on Atlanta Ballet, Colorado Ballet, Dance Theatre of Harlem, Cincinnati Ballet, BalletMet, Ailey II, Milwaukee Ballet, Tulsa Ballet, Richmond Ballet, Smuin Ballet, Sacramento Ballet, when American Ballet Theatre's Kevin McKenzie called to extend an invitation, according to Moultire, McKenzie apologetically said, "Unfortunately, I have not been exposed to your work."

Before Moultrie accepted the commission to choreograph in a bubble for ABT's virtual gala in November, he made three things clear: "First of all, I wanted this to be on the Met stage," Moultrie says. The second was a commitment to make that happen post-COVID. The third was he wanted to up McKenzie's "exposure" to Black choreographers in the game. McKenzie agreed.

"I think my commission with ABT is Kevin opening up to see who is out here," Moultrie says. However, that work should have already happened: Over the term of the Equity Project (which ABT was a part of), names of Black choreographers were often bandied about, including veterans Donald Byrd, Robert Garland, the overlooked Christopher Huggins, and Jennifer Archibald, who deserves a bump up, and Amy Hall Garner, who is on the come up.

The "it takes time" and "we can't find" mantras are to some degree the by-product of a lackadaisical attitude. One can believe that these recent gestures are earnest attempts to right a wrong. But the ease with which it could have been done before (and was not) is insulting, and makes it look and feel like tokenism.

It always feels like when Black people's houses are on fire, white folk can't seem to find a cup of water to fill it, yet when their houses are ablaze, here we come with buckets and hoses, always in service. At this critical time when the world is operating in crisis mode and on the learning curve of working remotely and presenting digitally, it feels like Blackness is used as a convenient tool to get out of the diversity doghouse. The fact that these opportunities are being given with anemic budgets cannot be overlooked and one has to wonder if these commissions offer parity.

Black people are too familiar with this type of post-woke euphoria, white guilt and shame married to a need to save face, creating just enough access and opportunity to smother the flames. Then, slowly, things begin to settle pretty much where they were before.

That being said, this time feels different (though we say that every time) because the landscape and the rules have changed. Increased exposure, transparency, the power of influencers' individual platforms and call-out culture all make it possible for anyone to write or contribute to the narrative. This collaborative quilt of divergent perspectives, which in time will become history, will now include more voices and experiences, forming a mosaic revealing a more comprehensive picture.

The work that ballet is attempting is a process, not a project. As to whether or not this is sustainable representation or mere tokenism, Moultrie sums it up this way: "We know what is happening right now is just a reaction. A good reaction, but only time will tell."

#article #ballet #theresa ruth howard #racism #anti black racism #aesha ash #andrea long-naidu #francesca harper #darrell grand moultrie #dance magazine

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twistedblud · 5 years ago

Note

Could you please do a yungblud x reader using 81 82 and 106 prompts from the smut prompt list ok bye have a nice day

y#81, #82, & #100: “stop dancing like that or i’ll cum in my pants.” “i’m not going to touch you unless you beg.” & “what are you doing in my bed?!”

(there’s no #106 so i’ll assume you meant 100)

warning(s): unprotected sex, hair pulling, oral (female receiving). can’t think of any other ones. i’m quite tired so enjoy!

y/n and dom were friends. solely friends. although a few months ago the two had engaged in a friends with benefits type of situation. dom had gotten out of a relationship and grew closer to y/n, y/n being there for dom during the whole situation. one night, something clicked, and they ended up having sex. it wasn’t planned, at all, but after the events that transpired between the two? neither party complained.

they continued having sex up until about a month ago, when y/n broke the one rule dom and her had established. no catching feelings. she knew it was foolish to think she could fuck someone and not eventually develop feelings for them, but it happened. she rejected dom’s suggestive texts that same night she realized her true feelings.

tonight, however, dom was far from her mind and y/n headed downtown to meet up with a tinder date, praying this one didn’t have a hair fetish like the last guy. she shuddered at the mere thought as she headed through the already open doors of the club her and her date planned to meet at. she took a seat at the bar, signaling for the bartender with a smile. “vodka please. straight.”

the bartender nodded, pouring her a full shot, which she quickly downed in a matter of seconds. one turned into a few more and y/n began to feel buzzed, but nowhere near drunk. she checked her phone notifications and skimmed through the messages from her date. he said something about not being able to make it because of a work emergency, asking her to reschedule. she ignored it, simply getting up to go dance, letting the stress flow away from her busy week.

she completely let loose, not minding the sweaty bodies near her. one could say y/n was in her own world, that was until she felt a tap on her shoulder. she swiftly turned around and made eye contact with the last person she’d expect to see here.

“dom?! what? i-”

“’ello y/n. it’s been a while hasn’t it?” dom shouted over the loud music, leaning down so y/n could hear her better. she felt a familiar run down her spine when his breath fanned over her ear. she couldn’t figure out what to say to him. she hadn’t planned on facing dom anytime soon. dom almost completely read her mind, reassuring her. “you don’t have to say anything. just dance with me.”

y/n agreed was confused but still agreed, letting dom grab her hand and bring her to a less crowded area of the dance floor. they found a spot and began dancing. sure, at first it was awkward. dom being stiff and y/n being hesistant on what moves she’d do next. however there was a change of heart when [insert your upbeat song] came on, the two immediately recognizing it as y/n’s all time favorite.

she forgot dom was behind her, grinding on him mindlessly as he let her dance freely, going along with her flow. dom didn’t want to be that person, but y/n was basically grinding on his crotch. he’d be lying if he said it wasn’t turning him on, even in the slightest bit. he’d definitely be lying because there was evidence which happened to be the evident outline in pants. he was hard. he leaned down to whisper in y/n’s ear, “stop dancing like that or i’ll cum in my pants.”

“what if i don’t wanna stop?” y/n challenged him. she didn’t understand what possessed her to say this but it was fun. fun knowing how she made dom feel this way. he froze at her words, lust laced in her tone. he definitely knew y/n was challenging him. and he loved a good challenge.

“i have an idea.”

---

“f-fuck!” y/n cried out, dom mercilessly pounding into her from behind. the two ended up at y/n apartment where dom practically dragged y/n to. he didn’t like how bold she gotten. so it was obvious he needed to remind her about who exactly was charge. dom didn’t plan on showing any mercy to y/n, grabbing a handful of her hair and yanking against him, still pounding into her. “don’t think i forgot about you going M.I.A. angel.” dom sighed at the feeling of y/n’s walls clenching around her, watching her, helpless in this grasp.

y/n couldn’t form a coherent sentence, too distracted from dom ramming into her core at a rapid pace. “mmm,” y/n simply groaned out, not satisfying dom with her answer at all. he pulled out and flipped her over so she was lying down on her back. he hovered over here and began kissing her stomach, leaving a trail of them down her navel. letting out a relieved sigh, y/n knew exactly what he was doing, shutting her eyes to brace herself.

dom simply chuckled at her assumption and stop kissing her body. she shot her eyes open in confusion, wondering why he stopped now out of all times. “i still didn’t get my answer love.”

“what answe-. oh. don’t wanna talk about it” y/n mumbled, squirming at the thought of confessing her forbidden feelings for dom. his eyebrows furrowed, wanting her to elaborate, or just simply get any type of answer.

“y/n, you ghosted me. for a month. that shit sucks yeah? the least you could do is tell me wh-”

guilt rising up in her, y/n cut off dom. “fuck, dom, i like you okay? like i have actually feelings for you. exactly what we agreed to not do” y/n breathed out honestly scared for his reaction. it completely caught her off guard when dom went in to kiss her, cupping the sides of her face as he did so. the kiss was short but sweet with dom pulling away, breathing out.

“i’ll take that as a good thing?” y/n laughed as dom laughed at her words. he nodded, kissing her again to fully reassure her. “so that means we can get back to what we were doing?” y/n suggested, smoothing her thumb over dom’s cheek.

“nope,” dom moved over to her ear and whispered, “i’m not going to touch you unless you beg” he sternly said, and pulled away from her ear watching her face scrunch up with irritation.

y/n rolled her eyes at his childish game, but wanting to give him so badly. “come onnn dom. please?” y/n pleaded as she tried to convince him.

“please, what, doll?” dom made his way down to her core, hovering over it, admiring the glistening view of arousal tinted on her core. his breath fanned over her cunt, making her squirm even more in frustration.

“please...need your tongue” y/n begged and pleaded. if she didn’t get some type of contact soon, she’d go crazy. “need it so badly.”

greatly satisfied with her answer, dom planted a sloppy kiss on her core before diving in with his tongue, licking a strip up her folds. y/n whimpered out at the sudden feeling, her right hand finding its way entangled in dom’s hair. he continued eating her out with an occasional attack on her clit, sucking it - which got a more than pleasing reaction from y/n. she lifted her hips up, her cunt already sensitive. he got a firm grip on her stomach and held her stomach down, knowing she’d use their safe word if she were truly uncomfortable.

y/n cried out in overbearing pleasure, “dom. dom. dom!” as her release snuck up on her as she let go in his mouth, dom letting her calm down. he got up and helped y/n move to her preferred side of the bed whenever dom came over, placing her under the covers. he made his way to the other side, slipping under the covers as well, letting y/n doze off. he reached over to the lamp on the nightstand, turning it off. he noticed y/n was now fully asleep and he kissed the top of her head - mumbling out a quick “goodnight” before drifting off to sleep himself.

---

y/n woke up in slight discomfort as she rose out her bed, padding over to the bathroom to freshen up. she noticed dom wasn’t on his usual side of them which bothered her a bit. she assumed he had left, sighing, before hopping into the shower to wash off the activities from the night before.

after drying off and putting on a fresh t-shirt, along with panties and shorts, y/n headed back into her room. she placed her towel on the floor, reminding her to a) wash her clothes and b) get a new hamper. as she walked past the bed, she did a double take, noticing a figure in the bed. it was dom, sitting up with semi-tired eyes, scrolling through his phone. he wore no shirt, but instead just boxers.

“dom? what the hell? “what are you doing in my bed?!” y/n questioned, genuinely confused at where he was before when she had woken up.

“in case you forgot love, i slept here last night. got up to get some water and then i got hungry. so i made me self some cereal” dom informed her with a quick glance from his phone. y/n stifled a laugh, climbing on the bed and over to dom, removing his phone from his hand, giving him a quick kiss before moving onto his lap. dom smiled at her action, his big grin planted on his face.

what am i gonna do with him?

#yungblud #yungblud smut #dominic harrison smut #dominic harrison x reader #yungblud x reader #yungblud imagine #dominic harrison imagine #dom smut #dom imagine #concepts

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levinneheart · 4 years ago

Text

Trouble Ahead

Prologue

A collab w/ @old-me-is-gone

➳ Description: This is a story between enemies; a middle school friend turned salty, a high school partner turned full debate sessions, and an unfortunate girl stuck in the middle… it seems there is going to be trouble ahead.

➳ Pairing: Tsukishima Kei x Feisty!F!Photographer!Reader x Akaashi Keiji

➳ Prompt: Frenemies, Enemies to Lovers, Love Triangle, Shy Confessions

➳ Genre: FLUFF, ANGST

➳ Word Count: 4,010

➳ Written by: @old-me-is-gone and co-edited by (banner also by): @levinneheart

➳ Disclaimer: Pictures used are not ours and are all credited to their owners. Haikyuu characters are owned by Haruichi Furudate.

Routes: Wit’s End || Partner in Crime

Middle school is meant to be a time where kids can develop and find themselves. In [Y/N]’s case, middle school was the time she garnered a skill and adept talent for photography while also meeting her first friend after moving from Tokyo.

Standing by the counter where she was waiting for her recent photos to be developed while she picked at her nails. The darkroom had become a place of solace for her. Moving from Tokyo to the middle of nowhere, a place also known as Miyagi, hadn’t been easy and starting middle school without any friends was even harder. Since no one made an effort to at least try and befriend her within the first month, [Y/N] had decided that she didn’t need anyone else. So being in the darkroom seemed to be the only valid option for her.

When her mom asked her about her day, she would ramble on and on about the fake experiences she had at school. In her fake world, she was popular and had a lot of friends. In reality, she was just the weird loner girl who took photos of trashcans around the cafeteria. [Y/N] had the darkroom all to herself as she was the only member of the photography club. Although, sometimes other clubs would use her clubroom to store excess club materials and such.

Leaving her to have a single counter for her photos. To make it an actual working darkroom, she used a red tissue paper that she had attached to the hanging ceiling light with a rubber band and blacked out the windows with random cardboard from the kitchens. The other two walls that she didn’t use were reserved for the volleyball club to shove extra netting and brooms into.

She really should have printed out a single paper that wrote: ‘Please Knock, Photos in Developing Stage’, that’s at least what she learned from the hindsight when the door opened again for the nth time and she was greeted with a single sliver of light. [Y/N]’s eye went wide as she stopped picking at her nails. “Wait! Don’t-”

The door slide completely open and [Y/N] squinted at all the sudden light. When she realized what had happened, she rushed to the tins of developing liquid and tried to cover them with her hands so her photos wouldn’t be exposed to light.

“Damn it.” She groaned. She tugged at her hair as her photos went streaky and the coloring blended in together from the light. [Y/N] felt a pang of sadness hit her heart as she whipped around to chastise the person who opened the door.

Standing in the doorway was an oddly tall blond boy. His hair seemed to glow from all the light streaming in. After rubbing her eyes slightly, [Y/N] could make out the glasses on his face and recognized him from the volleyball club. Tsukishima Kei.

Always pleasant visitor. She thought sarcastically, rolling her eyes.

“What the hell are you doing just hanging out in a darkroom?” Tsukishima walked in and inspected the shelves, looking for some equipment.

“Hey! Wait a minute! You should have knocked! Because of you, all my photos are ruined!” She exclaimed, huffing and stomping her foot as she brought Tsukishima’s attention to her by acting tough.

Tsukishima tilted his head before rolling his eyes and grabbing an air pump. Tossing it into the air before catching it again. “Because of me, your photos are ruined?” He scoffed at her, his tone was condescending and sarcastic.

[Y/N] stretched her hands out and gave a quick ‘duh’ in response. Tsukishima gave her a wicked smirk that begged to be punched off of his face. [Y/N] didn’t care if she was a lot shorter than him, she just wanted him to apologize for ruining her photos.

When Tsukishima started to walk towards the exit, [Y/N] ran to block the entrance while holding her hand out on either side of the frame and looking up at him as she sneered, “You need to apologize.” Tsukishima fake lunged at her, causing [Y/N] to flinch and bring her arms to her body while he grabbed hold of her shoulder and moved her away from the door with ease.

“I don’t apologize to entitled brats like you.”

“Entitled brat my ass,” She mumbled before chasing after him. “Get back here you tall excuse for a human!” When [Y/N] realized she wasn’t going to be able to stop him with force so she swallowed her pride and jumped on his back, wrapping her legs around his waist and holding onto his neck with her arms.

“What the fu-” Tsukishima turned around, before trying to pry her off.

“Not until you apologize!” [Y/N] argued.

“I’m sorry. Now, get off of me!”

“It doesn’t sound sincere enough.”

Tsukishima thought back to all the times he had jumped on Akiteru’s back, and how his brother had managed to get him to hop off all on his own. So, remembering what Akiteru did, Tsukishima dropped the air pump and started pretending he was being chocked.

[Y/N] immediately hopped off and ran in front of Tsukishima and held onto his shoulders. “Holy hell. Are you alright?”

Tsukishima held back a smirk as he faked being upset. “No. You really hurt me.”

“What can I do to make it up to you. Hell, I'm really sorry. Like really sorry.” [Y/N] rubbed her elbow and shuffled her feet. [Y/N] rubbed her elbow and shuffled her feet in guilt.

“I’ll think of something.” Tsukishima would never admit it but in the short period of time that he had known the strange (h/c) haired girl, he wanted to be around her more. Nobody had ever had the courage, or sheer idiocy to even try and stand up to him before.

[Y/N] threw her hands up into the air and glared at Tsukishima. “Great, you asshole! Now, I feel indebted to you for some emotional reason.” She picked up the air pump and started walking down the steps towards the gym when Tsukishima called out to her.

“What are you doing?” He walked down to her with a few short strides in his step.

“Helping you. I can work off this icky guilt by helping you. Okay? Let's go.”

Months went by after that. Tsukishima and [Y/N] most definitely didn’t become friends. They just sat together at lunch and hung out at the park. [Y/N] went to all of Tsukishima’s volleyball games whilst Tsukishima went to all of [Y/N]’s art shows. So no, they weren’t friends. They were, merely, people who shared a common experience and decided to continue building upon that shared experience.

Then, news of [Y/N] moving back to Tokyo happened during their third year in middle school. Someone heard [Y/N] talking to her dad on the phone about it, and eventually it spread like wildfire. Some people were pretty upset, after having gotten to know [Y/N]. Other people just honestly didn’t care, but instead wanted in on the drama.

The drama was that apparently since Tsukishima still didn’t know that [Y/N] was moving. And the entire school wanted to see him explode when he finally found out. Which meant that hordes of people hovered around Yamaguchi, Tsukishima, and [Y/N] as they went about their days.

“Do people just actively look for ways to piss me off.” Tsukishima grumbled as he took another spoonful of his chicken noodle soup. Tsukishima felt the eyes of the people hiding to the side of the wall right behind him.

“Tsukki, I honestly doubt it's that!” Yamaguchi comforted. [Y/N] was busy snapping photos of the trees far off while Tsukishima let his eyes and mind wander as he stared at her trying to find the right angle to take a picture. His Adam's apple bobbed when she stood up and stretched her back out. She knelt back down to take a photo but lost balance and fell on her butt, she laughed lightly at herself before getting back up. Tsukishima could feel his heart pound in his chest and his face heat up.

“Are you alright? You're looking a little red there Tsukki?’ Yamaguchi took a bite of the cookie his mom packed for him, talking with his mouth full.

“I'm fine. But, hey, why have so many people been like, extra nice to L/n? A whole bunch of guys from the volleyball club pitched in and bought her a polaroid camera.” Tsukishima wished that the group of underclassmen would have asked him to help pitch in to buy the yellow camera that she adores so much. She never left it alone, keeping it tucked away in its case amongst her school bag.

“Oh? [Y/N]’s moving to Tokyo. Remember?”

Tsukishima dropped his soup, the contents spilling all over the courtyard as he tightens his fists. “What?” He growls out while Yamaguchi slaps his hand over his mouth.

Mumbling his apologizes profusely, “[Y/N] said not to say anything, Tsukki please don’t hate [Y/N], she was just doing what she thought was best- “Tsukki, where are you going?” Tsukishima slams his hands against the table and pushes off, storming to where [Y/N] was standing.

“[Y/N]!” Tsukishima never yelled at her. So, she whips her head around to see a red-faced Tsukishima. [Y/N] thought she saw smoke coming out of his ears. “Were you going to tell me you were moving, or am I just an afterthought?” [Y/N] almost drops her camera from shock. She holds it tight to her chest, cradling it as she cowers away from the raging boy in front of her.

“I was gonna tell you.”

“No, you weren’t.” He spat. He gripped her forearm to pull her closer but when he did, [Y/N] dropped her yellow polaroid camera and it shattered, glass and parts of the camera flew around the concrete courtyard while her eyes glazed over with tears.

“You jerk! Don’t try talking to me, until you're ready to apologize for being such an asshole!” Tears fell from her eyes and spilling over her face before swinging her satchel over her shoulder as she marched to the school building. Tsukishima’s hands ran to his hair, pulling it tightly as he let out a short scream that sounded like a grunt. Yamaguchi walked into the school building and he knew, there wasn’t going to be a way to comfort Tsukishima’s mood when he got like this.

[Y/N] packed up and got ready to move. Putting all of her belongings into suitcases and duffle bags. When she was putting her pictures into her collection of shoeboxes, she glanced at the ones of her and Tsukishima. Her favorite picture was one she had originally given to Tsukishima for his birthday, but she liked it so much she had her mom scan it and print out another copy that [Y/N] laminated.

In the photo, [Y/N] had rubbed birthday cake all over Tsukishima’s face. Giving him a frosting mustache and his hair mixed in with chocolate cake. She pulled him in close, and Tsukishima rested his arm over his shoulders, he gave a side smile while rolling his eyes. Then she gave him a quick kiss on the cheek, getting a photo of her giggling as Tsukishima turned to face her with a blushing face and cake all over him, his eyebrows shot up into his forehead.

Then [Y/N] remembered back at how he had grabbed her arm and made her drop her Polaroid camera. In a fury, she ripped up the photo, sliding down her bed and staring at the now empty wall that was once full of pictures of friends and family.

The next day, while saying goodbye to Yamaguchi, when her mom asked where Tsukishima was, [Y/N] simply said, “We aren’t talking at the moment.”

“Are you sure? I can always call his mom, and we can wait for him to come over so he can say goodbye?” Her mom waited outside the car, but [Y/N] got into the backseat and buckled her seatbelt, refusing to say more on the matter while Yamaguchi waved goodbye to her car that had begun driving off. He hoped that Tsukishima had gotten his text message. And he did, as of right now, he was begging his mom to drive him to [Y/N]’s house.

Tsukishima ran after her parents’ car, hopping out of his mom’s car and tried chasing after [Y/N]. Before realizing, she had already driven too far that his yells for her to come back fell to deaf ears. Tsukishima fell to the ground and stayed silent as he rubbed his thumb of the package of a yellow Polaroid camera that had a simple ‘I’m sorry’ written on a green sticky note.

When his chest began to heave, and his heart felt weighed down while watching her car got out of view. Because, for the first time, he longed for someone who was now gone. Someone who was really gone. And every day over the entire summer, he beat himself up more and more for not apologizing. Because not apologizing had meant that he lost the person he had grown closest to.

[Y/N] was used to going to new schools and moving around a lot in primary school, she had to adjust to all of the changes. But high school was a big jump. A bigger jump than any other jump she had ever taken. Luckily, Fukurodani had accepted her based on both her grades and her talent in photography, saying that such a talent must be nurtured with the right tutelage and proper education. Which [Y/N] thought was just a bunch of pretentious bullshit in order to try and use her grades on their average grade scale.

Needless to say, [Y/N] started her first day. Her dad had bought her a brand-new blue polaroid to make up for what had begun to be known around the L/n household as the ‘Tsukishima Incident’. Armed with a positive attitude and her blue camera, [Y/N] took the first step out of her house and into her high school career.

Trains move fast. And the train system was just so complex and so utterly beautiful. People rush around without a second thought. [Y/N] just had to capture that. Taking photos as she stepped onto the Fukurodani train though, probably wasn’t a good idea though. Because she bumped into someone and dropped her camera. When she heard the plastic crack she cringed and she turned around to face who she had run into.

A boy. A cute boy at that. One with dark blue eyes, with green floating around them. His black hair seemed to be slightly curly, or at the very least slightly wavy. [Y/N] opens her mouth slightly to try and say something but, no words come out as the boy stares to the side of her, not meeting her eyes. [Y/N]’s first thoughts were: wow okay, he’s hot and he’s intimidating.

Akaashi sighed before muttering, “Please pay attention, you could hurt someone.” He didn’t want to stare at her, so he opted for not meeting her eyes. Taking a mental note of her broken camera, and the way she didn’t wear the school skirt but chose to wear the pants instead. Not that he would admit that he was starting at her hips, or her legs for that matter.

“Sorry!”

“It's fine. Just don’t go bumping into people again okay?” Akaashi got off the train, the girl hopping off as well.

“Yeah of course.” [Y/N] paused, wondering if this could be the amplest time to make a friend at her new school, but when she looked back to him, he was gone.

Finally arriving to class, [Y/N] slipped into her new seat, and she bounced her leg up and down. Being in a mixed class with first and second years was going to be pretty exciting. She thought about all the people she could learn from and all the interesting things she would learn throughout the year. When the pretty boy walked in. [Y/N] stopped bouncing her leg in favor of just staying frozen.

Embarrassment flooded her senses. Akaashi sits down and makes conversation with the fellow second year next to him. [Y/N] slides down her seat and tries to cover her face with her long sleeve beige sweater. When the teacher walks in and brings the class to attention, [Y/N] clears her throat lightly and sits back up. Hoping that the boy doesn’t notice her sitting in the back row.

“For the rest of the year, I’m going to assign you partners.” Students immediately turn to look at each other and whisper about being partners. “Partners that I will personally assign.” Disgruntled cries erupt for a second before the teacher shoots a quick glare onto their pupils.

The teacher lists of names, and students shuffle around to sit next to each other. With every passing pair, [Y/N] feels her heart race.

“Akaashi Keiji and L/n [Y/N].” [Y/N] looks around for a moment, wondering about this ‘Akaashi’ guy before her throat goes dry. Sitting down next to her is the same guy she bumped into on the train. Akaashi recognizes [Y/N] from the train.

For the first week the two don’t talk. Merely passing homework between themselves to correct or when [Y/N] forgot a pencil that one time so Akaashi lent one of his to her. They were resigned to this emotional withdrawal from each other. Until they were assigned a project.

“I think it should be on the history of the modern developing process for film and such.” [Y/N] throws out. Tapping her pen against her notebook, accidentally causing ink spots to freckle across the page. Akaashi takes the pen away from her, in order to stop the incessant tapping sound that was beginning to distract him from coming up with an idea for the project.

“Well, the project should be something simple and straightforward. So, how about the history of volleyball? It can be traced back clearly through the Olympics and all of the data is already there.” Akaashi titles her page with VOLLEYBALL HISTORY. [Y/N] rolls her eyes before crossing it out and writing Camera Film Development History. Akaashi pulls out another piece of paper and titles it with the volleyball one. To which [Y/N] wrinkles her nose, before crossing it out and putting her idea down on the paper.

“Stop it.” Akaashi grumbles.

“Never.” [Y/N] writes her idea down and rushes up to the teacher. Akaashi shoots up and grabs her by the hand, pulling her into his chest.

Akaashi promised he would never use the trick Bokuto taught him, but considering the dire situation he was in, he decided that he had no choice. Leaning his head close to hers, [Y/N]’s eyes widened as she moved her head. “Let’s use my idea, Princess.”

[Y/N] fake a gag before slipping out of his grasp. “Ew, no. Never do that again.” When she tries to go to the teacher again, Akaashi groans before pulling her away again. “Let go of me!” She states, trying not to raise her voice.

“Never.” Akaashi mimics her tone from earlier. And [Y/N] turns her face into an image of disgust.

“I said to let go of me!” [Y/N] kicks Akaashi’s shin, making him yelp out in pain. The teacher, having been aware of their argument from the beginning, just sighs and sends them off to the principal’s office.

Akaashi isn’t angry, he’s just upset. But because of a wild and reckless first year, he is the one being punished. Even though [Y/N] is also going to the office, he feels like he’s the one being criticized. He wants to protest and say that she was the one who kicked him, and she was the one who refused to do a compromise with him.

[Y/N] bites down on her tongue as she sits outside the Principal’s office. It's only the second Monday of the year and she is already in trouble, so much for making a good impression on others.

Regardless, through the months that pass, Akaashi and [Y/N] still argue. They don’t physically fight; they just bicker incessantly. The seats in front of them and behind them were vacated once the students had realized their fighting wasn’t going to stop.

[Y/N] tried her best to fit in. But when she was informed that there wasn’t going to be a Photography club, she felt deflated. But when a pair of girls stood around the entrance of the school trying to hand out fliers, [Y/N] too the opportunity to say hi.

The girls, that [Y/N] was now informed of as Yukie and Kaori, asked her if she would be willing to be a manager for the volleyball team which [Y/N] happened to be familiar with, so she agreed. The two girls invited [Y/N] to start training as a manager during a training camp, to which [Y/N] happily agreed to as well.

The training camp had started off well enough. All the third years had started off introducing themselves and had politely begun to ask about [Y/N] and her likes as well as her dislikes. Akaashi spotted her before she spotted him. He groaned and pulled Bokuto aside. “You have got to be messing with me, right?” Akaashi ran a hand through his hair before toying with his hands.

“What do you mean Akaashi?” Bokuto folded his arms while he tilted his head to the side.

“She’s insufferable.” Akaashi stated, crossing his arms over his chest.

“I dunno, [L/n]-kun seems really nice.” Bokuto tapped his chin while shrugging.

“I had to go to the principal's office because of her, remember.” Akaashi leaves out the finer details of the reason why he went to the office though, figuring that Bokuto didn’t need to know all of the information.

Bokuto walks back towards [Y/N] before calling out Akaashi, “She might be different outside of school, you never know ‘Kaashi.”

Akaashi leans his back against the brick wall. Exhaling deeply and closing his eyes. He doesn’t even notice when [Y/N] walks up to him and inspects his jersey. When she taps his shoulder, Akaashi flinched a bit before sighing deeply to calm his nerves. He tries to walk away and [Y/N] immediately grabbed hold of his hand.

“I'm sorry it feels like I'm invading on your life. But the third years are all really nice to me.” [Y/N] holds her hands behind her back as she digs the tip of her shoe into the ground. “And I was wondering if we could actually have a civil conversation about our project. I'm willing to compromise now, if you are.” She looks at him with puppy dog eyes.

How can Akaashi have it in his heart to deny her? When her tone got ever so soft when she talked about the third years being kind to her? Akaashi doesn’t like the way his heart bubbles up at her actions.

“[Y/N]?”

Tsukishima drops his duffel bag, his arms going limp at the sight of her with a second year from Fukurodani and wearing its uniform. And he didn’t like the sight of her smiling since the last memories of her he had were of her with wet eyes and rage. Tsukishima rushes to pick up his bag. Yamaguchi, who had seen the whole scene unfurl, ran after Tsukishima.

Once Tsukishima had stopped, now hiding in the bus, Yamaguchi had finally caught up with his friend. Yamaguchi grew tired of the way he could dance around the topic of [Y/N]. She was their friend, the three of them grew up together. “Tsukishima. What are your feelings for [Y/N]? Tell me the truth.” Yamaguchi crossed his arms and Tsukishima looked up at him with a blank stare, his mouth opening and closing like a fish.

[Y/N] only saw Tsukishima for a moment before he rushed away. She looked back to Akaashi, whose face was slightly red but he still had a blank look plastered on. She had a choice to make. Go after her broken friendship with a childhood friend, or stay with the new and intriguing project partner.

Either way, she knew that there would be trouble ahead.

Routes: Wit’s End || Partner in Crime

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