#realized i need the recent logo but

[kithtaehyung]

VALENTINO X SUGA | logo concept

[maukiki1]

Ok idk who wants to read a chunk of text before someones art but.

Theres this poorly made metal fusion turkish parody i used to watch religiously as a kid and i got reminded of its existance recently because someone showed it to me and it literally unlocked a core memory and i went to watch it again thinking i wont find it funny anymore because i found it funny when i was like 4 yrs old but. Maybe its the nostalgia but this video is a work of art its so.

The ginga and kyouya wigs being cheap neon colours not even styled to look like the characters hair, the guy playing ginga’s linkin park shirt, the awkward but hilarious acting, the guy playing Ryūga constantly hunching over so the jacket doesn’t fall off his shoulders (it does multiple times) giving him a funny ass posture, the nike logo on the ginga headband, Ryūsei being ginga with a different shirt, the fact that the guy playing daidouji being the shortest one out of the three (yes only 3 people made this i thought there was more somehow) , or literally anything daidouji does ever, the expression ryuga has the entire time, the phoenix costume having a visible star wars shirt making it obvious that its the same guy playing Ryūga, one of the scenes having a visible rope attached to pegasus so its easier to make it look like its flying.. its literally a master its peak youtube ok. I wanted to draw some scenes from it bcs theyre so fucking funny to me. Its peak i fear. I havent posted mfb in a month and this is what im coming back with fuck it we ball

I was gonna draw this one properly but halfway through realized i couldnt capture the expression of the actor perfectly if i did so. Feast ur eyes upon my best work yet

Heres a compilation of clips that give some context to the pictures drawn, except the last one, it doesnt need context hes just standing there funnily

Link to the full parody under cut

Okay so its a turkish parody so ofc its funnier to someone who understands the language but surprisingly there are english subtitles and from what i checked its not translated perfectly some sentences were onviously put through a translator but none of the jokes seem completely lost i mean i made my friend who doesnt know a lick of turkish watch it and we both laughed our asses off so . I think everyone should watch this peak atleast once

[hypnogold]

Gold Addicts 2: The Supermarket

Elias had always thought of the supermarket as his sanctuary—a place to escape whenever things got heated at home with Bob. But recently, his trips had taken on a strange, almost compulsive pull. Every time he drove there, he found himself lingering in the parking lot, where an unusual van sat in the same spot each visit. Sleek and nondescript except for the faint golden glow from within, the van was manned by a small group of men in gleaming golden AC Milan jerseys. They stood calmly, watching the comings and goings of shoppers, their eyes calm but focused, as if waiting.

One evening, after a particularly rough argument with Bob, Elias felt the pull stronger than ever. He drove to the supermarket as usual, feeling a strange sense of anticipation as he neared the lot. The van was there, just as it had been every night, and one of the men—tall, with an intense yet welcoming gaze—caught his eye and nodded, as if he had been expecting him.

Elias parked and took a deep breath, stepping out of his car and approaching the van. This time, instead of a mere nod, the man in the golden AC Milan jersey beckoned him closer. “You’re here again,” the man said, his voice calm and steady, with an inviting warmth. “Looking for something more, perhaps?”

Elias laughed nervously, shrugging as he shifted on his feet. “I just… it’s just groceries, you know?” But the words felt hollow. He couldn’t shake the feeling that there was something else drawing him here—something he couldn’t quite name.

The man smiled, his gaze unwavering. “Sometimes, we don’t know what we’re looking for until it finds us,” he replied, his hand extending toward the van’s open door. Inside, rows of gleaming golden AC Milan jerseys hung neatly on racks, each one catching the light from within the van, almost as if they were glowing. “You’re welcome to try one on,” the man offered, holding a jersey out to Elias, his expression gentle but insistent.

Elias hesitated, staring at the jersey. The fabric looked smooth, inviting, and something about it seemed to whisper to him, urging him forward. Against his better judgment, he reached out, fingers brushing the cool, golden fabric. The moment he touched it, a strange warmth surged through him, melting away the tension and anger he’d been carrying.

“You’re feeling it, aren’t you?” the man murmured. “The unity, the belonging. This jersey—it connects us all. Slip it on, and see.”

With an odd calm settling over him, Elias found himself slipping his arms through the sleeves, the golden fabric settling onto his shoulders like it was made for him. The instant it touched his skin, a deep warmth flooded his body, spreading from his chest to his fingertips, and he felt his mind start to blur. The world around him softened, fading into a golden haze.

“Look down,” the man said, his voice a gentle guide as Elias glanced at the jersey now adorning his body. Across the chest was the AC Milan logo, gleaming proudly, and on the back, in bold lettering, were the words Gold Addict. Below it, a unique number was printed—his number, he somehow knew.

Elias’s mind drifted, his thoughts slipping away like sand through his fingers. He could no longer remember why he’d come, or what he had been trying to escape. The golden jersey seemed to anchor him, filling him with a sense of purpose and calm he hadn’t realized he’d been missing.

“You belong with us now,” the man whispered, his hand resting firmly on Elias’s shoulder. “No need to go back to the life you had before. You’re part of something greater, something united. You’re a recruiter now, just like us—a new Gold Addict.”

As the words sank in, Elias felt any remaining hesitation melt away. He looked up, meeting the man’s gaze with a serene, almost blissful smile. The man gave him a nod of approval, gesturing toward a small group of men standing nearby, each one in a golden AC Milan jersey like his own. They nodded back, their expressions calm and welcoming.

Without a second thought, Elias moved to join them, feeling a deep sense of unity as he stepped into line with his new teammates. He no longer remembered the arguments with Bob, the tensions at home, or even his need for escape. All that mattered was the sense of purpose that pulsed through him, guiding him to recruit others, to offer them the same peace he now felt.

As the days passed, Elias never returned home. Instead, he stayed with the Golden Team, standing by the van each night, waiting patiently with the others. Each time he saw a hesitant, curious face pass by, he would step forward, holding out a golden jersey with an inviting smile, his voice calm and soothing.

“Come closer,” he would say, the golden mist curling from the van around him. “Try it on. You’ll find what you’re looking for.”

And one by one, just as he had, they would reach out, drawn to the gleaming jersey, slipping it over their shoulders as the golden mist embraced them.

The following weekend, Elias’s best friend, Alex, wandered into the supermarket parking lot. He had stopped by to grab a few things, but he couldn’t help feeling the familiar ache of missing Elias, who had disappeared from his life without a word. They’d been close for years, nearly inseparable, and Alex had always sensed there was something more between them, even if neither had ever said it out loud.

As he neared the store, a van parked by the entrance caught his eye. Men in gleaming golden AC Milan jerseys stood nearby, their calm faces and focused stances making them look oddly out of place. He was about to brush it off when a familiar figure among them made his heart skip a beat. He stopped in his tracks, eyes widening as he realized who it was.

“Elias?” Alex called out, disbelief and confusion in his voice. He took a step closer, hoping his eyes were playing tricks on him. But there was no mistaking it—Elias turned toward him, his face calm and serene, wearing the unmistakable golden jersey, the words Gold Addict 27 emblazoned across his back.

Elias’s gaze settled on Alex, his eyes carrying none of the warmth Alex remembered. Instead, there was a tranquil, almost hypnotic glow to them, and a faint smile played on his lips. “Alex,” he said, his voice steady, yet devoid of the usual humor and lightness. “It’s good to see you.”

“What… what happened to you?” Alex’s voice faltered as he took in the strange, almost otherworldly calm radiating from his friend. “Where have you been? Why are you… dressed like this?”

Elias’s smile softened, and he stepped forward, holding Alex’s gaze. “I found something better, something that gives me purpose. I’m not alone anymore, Alex. I’m part of the Golden Team.”

“Golden Team?” Alex looked around, bewildered, noticing the other men in golden jerseys watching him with serene, expectant expressions. “Elias, this isn’t you. You just disappeared—no calls, no messages. You didn’t tell me anything.”

Elias rested a hand on Alex’s shoulder, the touch firm and grounding. “It’s where I belong now. It’s where you could belong, too.” His voice was soft but insistent. “You don’t have to be alone, Alex. You could find unity with us.”

Alex’s heart raced, caught between his desperate longing to have Elias back and the unease creeping over him. “Elias, we’ve been friends forever. I… I thought we had something.” He swallowed, feeling his own voice catch. “This isn’t you.”

Elias’s gaze softened, his hand still resting on Alex’s shoulder. “You’re right. It’s more than just me now—it’s bigger than that. Bigger than us. You don’t have to resist, Alex. The Golden Team is waiting for you. You’d never have to be alone again.”

Before Alex could respond, one of the other men approached, holding out a golden AC Milan jersey that gleamed under the parking lot lights. “Come on, Alex,” the man said gently, his voice warm and inviting. “Just try it. You’ll understand once you do.”

The golden fabric seemed to catch Alex’s eye, and he felt an odd warmth radiating from it, pulling him in. Elias’s hand stayed on his shoulder, a grounding presence, but there was a strange, hypnotic calm in his friend’s eyes that made it hard to think clearly.

“No… I… I don’t think I should…” Alex stammered, taking a hesitant step back, but Elias’s grip tightened gently, and the golden jersey moved closer, held just inches from his chest.

“Don’t be afraid,” Elias murmured, his voice soothing. “You’ve been looking for something, Alex. I know you have. This could be it. This is where you belong, with us.”

Alex’s eyes flickered to the golden jersey, his resistance fading as the warmth from Elias’s touch and the allure of the golden fabric dulled his thoughts. Slowly, almost involuntarily, his hands reached out, brushing against the jersey. The fabric felt soft, comforting, and the pull became impossible to resist.

As he slipped the golden jersey over his head, a rush of warmth flooded him, spreading from his chest to his fingertips. His heart rate slowed, and a calm, serene sensation washed over him, melting away the confusion and unease. The voices around him softened, blending into a quiet harmony as he felt the unity of the Golden Team settling into his mind.

Elias stepped back, watching with a satisfied smile as Alex’s gaze shifted, his expression softening into one of tranquil acceptance. The words Gold Addict 30 were printed boldly across the back of Alex’s jersey, marking his place within the team.

Together, they stood side by side, a shared understanding passing between them as they looked toward the parking lot, each wearing the golden jersey that now bound them to the Golden Team. Alex no longer remembered the loneliness or the unspoken feelings he once held—only the serene unity that now pulsed through him, a part of something unbreakable.

After Alex’s transformation, he and Elias worked together seamlessly, bound by their shared purpose as Gold Addicts. As members of the Golden Team, they were given new tasks: not just recruiting individuals, but expanding the team’s reach, making it easier to bring others into the fold. And now, they were equipped with something new—golden smoke bombs.

The small devices were discreet and easy to carry. When thrown, each released a thick, golden-hued mist that spread quickly, lingering in the air like a shimmering cloud. The mist had the same hypnotic effect as the golden jerseys, luring anyone caught in it into a calm, receptive state. Elias and Alex were eager to use them, ready to share the unity they’d found with larger groups.

The next day...

On a bright Saturday afternoon, Alex and Elias returned to the supermarket parking lot, where the Golden Team had discreetly gathered. A crowd of shoppers moved in and out of the store, each one a potential new recruit. Elias nodded to Alex, and with a slight smirk, they each pulled a golden smoke bomb from their jackets.

With a quick motion, they threw the bombs toward a nearby group of friends laughing and chatting by their cars. The golden smoke burst into the air, curling and drifting like a thick, enchanted fog. The group turned, surprise flickering across their faces as they inhaled the sweet, warm mist. Within seconds, their expressions softened, their eyes glazing over as the hypnotic effect took hold.

As the smoke wrapped around them, they stopped talking, their laughter fading into silence as their bodies relaxed. Slowly, they began to sway, their faces shifting to calm, peaceful smiles. Elias and Alex stepped forward, holding out golden jerseys for each new recruit.

“Join us,” Elias murmured, his voice soothing. “This is where you belong.”

One by one, each member of the group took a jersey, slipping it on over their shoulders as the golden mist continued to swirl around them. Their old clothes, like jeans, start to rip apart and turn into golden shorts. As soon as the jerseys touched their skin, the transformation was complete—their old identities fading, replaced by serene unity as they joined the Golden Team. New numbers appeared on their backs, each one now marked as a Gold Addict.

With each transformation, the Golden Team’s ranks grew. Alex and Elias moved through the lot, strategically tossing the golden smoke bombs at clusters of unsuspecting shoppers. Each time, the effect was the same: the golden mist spread, engulfing those nearby, pulling them into the trance-like state that welcomed them to the team.

Soon, the Golden Team was no longer just a small group around the van. It had grown into a formidable presence in the parking lot, each new member calm, collected, and united by the golden purpose. Alex and Elias exchanged satisfied glances as they moved among their new recruits, guiding them with gentle words and assuring them of the unity they now shared.

The golden smoke bombs made it easy to expand the team’s reach, converting entire groups at once, each new recruit joining with the same calm acceptance. Alex and Elias felt a deep satisfaction as they watched the growing crowd of Gold Addicts, all of them ready to spread the Golden Team’s influence even further.

As the day turned to dusk, the Golden Team gathered near the van, the glow of their jerseys casting a surreal light in the dimming sky. Elias and Alex stood side by side, their expressions serene, satisfied. The transformation was no longer a task; it was a purpose, a calling they shared, bound to their golden unity.

With a final glance toward the parking lot, now filled with golden-clad figures, they prepared for their next mission. The smoke bombs had proven effective, but there was still much to do, many more to welcome into the team.

The Golden Team had only just begun, and with Alex and Elias leading the charge, they were unstoppable, each new recruit another step toward the golden unity that awaited them all.

-

Other Parts:

Gold Addicts 1: Lincoln College

[crowandmousewritingco]

Coffee Shop Meet Cute

Pairing: Frankie (Catfish) Morales x gn!reader

Words: 2.5k

Rating: G (brief mention of addiction and divorce)

Summary: Needing to get out of your hostel, you find yourself at a quaint coffee shop run by handsome stranger.

Author: Mod Mouse

Notes: This is another entry in the Secret Springs challenge by @secretelephanttattoo. This is technically an entry for week 3 shops prompts (I'm using coffee shop for this)

This hostel was the worst idea. Especially when you were trying to finish this chapter in your book, but the guy in the bunk above you was snoring like a fog horn and you couldn’t handle the woman across from you who insisted she tell you the same story of her trip to Switzerland for the 18th time today. You had to get out of here. Quickly you searched your phone for the nearest coffee shop and all the chains popped up first. You scrolled past them, not interested in some corporate super shop. 

One name in particular stuck out to you. Catfish Coffee. That sounds promising. You thought and quickly packed your backpack before the storyteller returned. With the directions on your phone, you followed the winding paths of the city. 

The quaint town was one of many options in what can only be described as a vacation country. Your friend had convinced you to take a trip for yourself after your recent divorce, and  you weren’t going to argue with them. Spending a week just reading and writing to your heart's content sounded like a dream. 

The voice on the map took you out of your thoughts and you looked up to see the sign for Catfish Coffee. The logo was a simple design with a cute cartoon catfish holding a coffee shop wearing a hat with the logo of Standard Heating. You smirked not expecting how cute this shop would be. Excitedly you pushed open the door making a small bell ring. 

You were greeted with the cool air conditioning making you shiver just a bit wishing you had brought your cardigan. Soft music sang through the shop helping add to the relaxing environment. There weren’t many customers in at the moment which gave you some relief. Finally you could find some comfort in your own company. 

The single barista turned at the sound and smiled when he saw you. He was older than you were expecting, maybe in his late 40s. Curly hair poke out from his well loved hat and he wore a dark blue apron with the logo of the shop in the center which when you got closer to the counter you realized that it was the same hat the catfish was wearing. 

“Welcome to Catfish Coffee. What can we get you?” He asked in a friendly tone.

“Well this is my first time here. What would you recommend?” You asked, adjusting your bag. 

“Depends on what you like,” He stated as he turned to point at the menu behind him. “If you want something to beat the heat we got plenty of frozen drinks. Looking for something more casual we got plenty of lattes hot and cold, coffee and tea based. Want something more simple we got plenty of roasts from local farms that you can sample on our coffee flights.” He turned back to look at you smiling. 

 “That’s quite the selection you offer,” You commented looking over the menu again.

He blushed and rubbed the back on the neck. “Gotta make sure there’s something for everyone.” 

“And that gives me an excuse to come back and try all of them,” You reply.

You might have misread his expression but you might have caught a hint of a blush on his stubble cheeks. “You are always welcome back.” 

“I’ll take the honey latte then,” You said when you finally decided. 

The barista rang up your order with a flurry of hands. “Great choice, that one’s quite popular. We get the honey locally as well.” 

You hand him your card. “I didn’t realize this resort had so many local businesses.” 

“It’s amazing what they were able to make here,” He added, handing your card back to you. “That’ll be out in just a minute.” 

“Thank you…”  You paused to look down at his name tag. “Frankie.” 

“No problem. Love seeing new faces,” He added as he grabbed a cup. 

“You must get a lot people coming and going,” You commented. 

“That’s mostly who we get, but we have some regulars that come in,” He adds over his shoulder as he pumps the syrup into the plastic cup. 

“I’m glad you have dedicated customers,” You said as you look around the cafe. “It’s a very cute place.” 

“Thank you,” He replied as he poured the milk into the cup. “I’m very proud of it.” He finished making the drink and set it on the counter in front of you. 

“As you should be,” You smiled and took your drink. You turned and headed toward one of the empty tables. 

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

Frankie couldn’t help but be intrigued by the customer that just walked in. They weren’t the usual clientele he attracted. But there you were sitting at one of the booths holding what can only be described as a tome in your hand. That book must be at least 600 pages, and you were reading as if you were on a deadline. And you had been here for a few hours at least. He was surprised you weren’t interested in any other vacation type activities. 

You seemed so sweet despite the small interaction he had shared with you, and he did want to get to know you. Though he didn’t want to come off as weird so he continued with his business. 

A couple more customers came and went, but you persisted. He checked the time. It had been well past three hours since you entered the store. Though you were no longer reading that encyclopedia. You were typing away at a tablet now with a look of determination etched on your cute face. Wait, did he really think that you were cute? Frankie shook his head rubbing his eyes. Maybe he needed more coffee. 

He made himself a simple cup of coffee and when he turned around he realized you were now the only one left in the shop. Frankie tapped his fingers against the counter and quickly set his own coffee down. He quickly made another honey latte for you, and took a deep breath before bringing it over to your table. 

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

Writing was hard. You were on a roll, the plot and scenes were all coming together, but then you swear to any god out there it just left you. There your main character was having a triumphant monologue, and then blip! It was gone. You groaned and rubbed your eyes. 

“Troubles?” You heard a voice and looked up. You smiled when you saw it was Frankie. “Sorry, I know you’ve been here awhile and thought you could use a refill.” You held up a hand to protest, but he interrupted with a smile. “On the house.” 

“Thank you,” You smiled and happily received the additional drink. You took a sip and it felt yourself relax once again. 

“If you don’t mind me asking, what has you all stressed out?” 

“Oh just the masterpiece I’m supposed to be creating,” You answered with a bit of sarcasm in your voice and gesture to your screen. 

Frankie leaned over to peek at the screen. “You have a good amount so far.” 

“And that’s the problem. I was on a roll but then some writing demon decided to take away my ability to form basic sentences,” You sighed and ran your hand through your hair.  

“I don’t know much about writing. Never did well in English class, but I can tell you if you force something it will break. Maybe come back to it with a fresh mind tomorrow,” Frankie offered. 

You sighed. “I know you’re right, I'm just impatient. I’ve been trying to write this for months now.” 

He chuckled, “I know that feeling, but you might also feel better with some food in you too.” He glanced at the clock then continued. “I close up here soon and my buddies own a bar not too far from here. I can take you there if you want.” He offered rubbing the back of his neck. 

You smiled softly. “I actually would really like that.” 

Frankie smiled. “Then that’s what we shall do. In the meantime, read more of that book of yours. It seems like a good one.” 

You blushed. He noticed you were reading? Frankie was really quite thoughtful. “It is.  It’s got me on the edge of my seat.”

“You’ll have to tell me how it goes,” He says, heading back to his counter. 

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

Frankie was right. Reading more of that book helped with your stress and even gave you an idea for your own book. Before you knew it, Frankie was closing up shop and the two of you walked out into the cool summer air. He quickly locked up the front. Instead of wearing his barista apron, he switched his wardrobe for a worn flannel. 

“The bar is just down this way,” He gestured down the road where you could see a neon sign outside the restaurant. 

“It looks like a cute place,” You mention as you started down the sidewalk. 

“It’s quite the popular bar. They’ve really done a lot with it. Turned it from a almost condemned building to one of the more popular restaurants in town.” Frankie beamed as he talked about his buddies. It was clear he was very proud of what they had accomplished.

You smiled. “That’s amazing to hear.” You took in a deep breath and caught a scent of Frankie’s collonge. He smelled of sandalwood and other earthy tones which you had to admit was one of your favorites. When you reached the door, Frankie held the door open and you thanked him. He really is a gentleman you thought as you entered the establishment. 

The Ironhead Bar was quite the place to be. All sorts of sports games were playing on the screens with plenty of what could only be described as “manly decor” lined the wall. Anything from sports memorabilia to old army collectibles covered the different sections. As if he owned the place Frankie took a seat at the bar and you sat down next to him. Usually bars weren’t your scene, but you felt oddly at home at his establishment. 

A young man wearing a hat almost as worn as Frankie’s hat looked up and smiled a wide smile when he saw you two. “Catfish! Fancy seeing ya here tonight.” he saddled up to the two of you cleaning a glass with a rag. 

“Benny I come here every night,” Frankie rolled his eyes, but smiled. 

“Maybe I should make you start paying your tab,” Benny joked and smacked Frankie lightly on the shoulder. He then looked over at you. “You though are a new face. Frankie, who’s this handsome person?” He asked, gesturing with his thumb. 

“I just so happened to stop by the coffee shop today,” You said looking over at Frankie. “I guess I overstayed my welcome, but Frankie invited me to get dinner with him.” 

That seemed to make Benny smirk. “I see,” He glances between you and Frankie, his smile growing even bigger. 

Frankie rolled his eyes and lightly pushed Benny’s shoulder. “Just get us a couple of Pope burgers and beers.” 

“You got it boss,” Benny winked at you before heading back to the kitchen. 

You couldn’t help but chuckle at the interaction. “I’m guessing you’ve known each other a long time.” 

“You can say that. We’re old army buddies. Once we got out we decided to stick together and open our dream places. He opened this place with his brother, and well you know the coffee shop.”

You smiled softly and leaned your head on your hand. “Ah that’s where the catfish came from,” You said more to yourself. “That's really nice actually. You must really like coffee.” 

Frankie chuckled. “You can say that. You could also say it saved my life.” 

“I feel like there's a story there,” You say as Benny sets your beers down. You didn’t miss it when he gave Frankie an eyebrow wiggle before talking to more customers. 

“There is,” He said, taking a quick sip of his beer. “I’m actually a recovering addict.” Your eyes widened and he held up his hand. “Not beer hermoso. It was cocaine. Got addicted in the army and could never get over it. It wasn’t until Will, Benny’s brother, knocked some sense into me. We found out that coffee was a good substitute for the way I felt high, and well here I am. Five years clean.” 

You smile softly. “That’s really amazing.” 

Frankie blushed and took another sip. “Thank you. It was a hard journey, but it helps when you have friends as loyal as them.” 

“I second that. I wouldn’t be where I am without my best friend either,” You smiling thinking about all the times your friends saved you. 

“What brings you to our neck of the woods?” Frankie asked before taking another sip of his beer.

“I was planning on taking a vacation to work on my book, but um,” You chuckled a little sad. “I found my husband cheating on me so this vacation became the ‘write and not thinking about the divorce’ vacation. Sorry I didn’t mean to that deep.” 

Frankie’s eyes were sympathetic. “I get it. I’m divorced too.” 

Your eyes were caring in return. He sighed “Took the kid in the middle of the night and I haven’t heard from them since. But I think it’s for the better.” 

“Most of the time it usually is, but it's that mountain of emotions that you have to drill through first.” 

Frankie raised his glass to you. “I’ll drink to that,” He said and you brought your own glass to clink with him. You both took another sip and set your glasses down. 

Benny returned with two red plastic food trays and set them down in front of you. “Two Pope burgers on the house for Frankie and the lovely fella.” 

Frankie rolled his eyes and thanked him. Benny patted his shoulder again and continued making drinks. You grabbed the big burger with all the workings and carefully took a bite. You moaned at the taste. “Damn that’s a great burger.” 

Frankie moaned in agreement. His face was as messy as your spots of ketchup dotting his salt and pepper beard. You chuckled and handed him a napkin. He blushed and took it from you using it to wipe up the mess. 

You swallowed your bit. “Don’t worry. I bet my face doesn’t look much better.” 

“I think your face looks handsome,” Frankie semi blurted and blushed. 

You giggled and took a sip of your beer. “Is that so?” You tease. 

Frankie cleared his throat. “So um how long are you on this writing vacation?” 

“About a week. That should hopefully give me enough time to write what I want. And -now that I have a comfy place to work- I should definitely finish this book on time.” 

“Well you have a table whenever you want,” Frankie blushed. 

You pick up your glass. “I’m definitely taking you up on that offer.” Frankie raises his glass to you, giving it a small clink. You had a feeling that this was the start of something really nice.

-------

Pedro Characters Only Taglist

@littlemisspascal @burntheedges

[vertigoartgore]

Dave Johnson : "Blah,biddy,blah,blah,blah. What's there to say ? I did design the new Punisher logo. Pretty happy with it. The cover itself is OK. Not my favorite by any means. But then they can't be all my favorites."

Dave Johnson : "Tried to get that quiet mean vibe. The 'he's so bad, he doesn't need a million guns to kill you' look. And yes, after doing it I realized the Venture Bros. skull thing going on. Wasn't my intent. But what are you gonna do? It was bound to happen.

100% real paint on rough watercolor paper."

Dave Johnson : "Half traditional/ half photoshop."

Dave Johnson : "This one feels a bit like Steranko. I guess I could have sealed the deal by adding a swirling , hypno graphic to one of the backgrounds to really drive it home, but that really wasn't what I set out to do. I'm really enjoying the fact that since I re-designed the logo, I can now use it in the overall design as opposed to letting it just sit there on top of the page getting in my way like most comic cover trade dress. Too bad I still have to deal with the horrible scourge called the UPC box. I mean, seriously !?! Does it have to be so freaking BIG ! Not at all. But nobody wants to rock the boat in the name of beauty."

Dave Johnson : "Red, red, red. Why do I love that color so much? It dominates my work like skulls dominate Mignola's work. My chair is red, I got 2 cars that are red. Devilpig is red. My homemade Samurai armor is red. 

Oh well, why fight it. We all like what we like. It's just that simple.

Damn Equis !

*note* X-Ray is a photo that was manipulated to show all the broken bones. Except the pinky. Because Punisher can kill you with just his pinky. He's just that bad ass."

Dave Johnson : "Ahhhh, Bullseye. You really know your way to my heart."

Dave Johnson : "What a crazy cover. To me, it just screams "insane" ! Maybe I was inspired by a certain DA member that entered into my life recently. Even though I did it before he started sending me death threats (haha) I guess I had an episode of fore sight."

Dave Johnson : "Even though I haven't posted the cover to no.7 yet (because I still need to finish it) I'm posting this. It's a 5 issue story arc involving the character Bullseye. So, I'm trying to do 2 things.

To have every cover involve a bullseye graphic element (so far, so good)

To do all the covers using a blue color palette to reference the original costume of Bullseye (even though the character in this story never dons the outfit)

Also, I realize this cover is kind of a book end cover to an earlier Punisher cover. This one… [link]

But hey, it just worked out that way. If I'd have know that Bullseye was coming up in my future I might have not done the earlier cover. But that said, I wasn't about to NOT do this cover because of that. It fits to well with the story.

But maybe I'm thinking about it too much because the reality is, that it's a stupid comic book cover and the world will go on as is, no matter what I do, haha."

Dave Johnson : "I really had a good time on this one. Bullseye looks like he's really lost it and has become obsessed with getting into Punisher's head.

I gotta say, in some ways this cover assignment has been more fun than 100 Bullets covers. And that's saying a lot. Plus, about a week ago, I was talking to Tim Bradstreet. He said that if I ever needed a fill-in he'd be happy to do so. I told him 'he's have to pry it from my cold, dead hands'. Hahaha."

Dave Johnson : "Ahhh, the Bullseye motif is in effect for one more cover. Actually, I have one more to do with this story line. The writer (Jason Aaron) said that Frank wears a gas mask in this issue. Which is crazy timing because I had started to write back and forth with this guy :icondarkasylumxxx: about a trade. Art for a gas mask. He had asked if I could use his gas mask design on a cover, and I told him that kind of stuff was in the writers hands not mine.

Crazy how the universe works like that."

Dave Johnson : "Hot of the presses. The last cover for the "Bullseye" story line. The bullseye motif was fun to play with. And I can't wait to see what comes next for ol' Punisher. I'm willing to money on the fact that whatever happens, it'll be mondo violent."

Dave Johnson : "Man, this cover fought me all night. I started around 11pm with a basic idea of Punisher holding prison bars so tight that blood was coming outta his hands. But the execution eluded me until 4:30am. The angle I liked, but how to make it say 'Punisher' ? Then the idea of the key brought it all home. Finished it up by 6am and off to Marvel on the East coast just in time for them to get it when they open up the doors. Yeah me!

I think this is my favorite Punisher cover so far. Not sure what you'll think, but I'm sure you're tell me, haha.

Going to go to bed now. I feel like a vampire.

Update Got this response from :iconprimeless: "I'm nobody, so I guess my words will mean nothing to you. Also, my art won't ever be as good as yours. I love this cover as I'm fan of your work, but I continue thinking that your work for 100 bullets is the best you ever did.

The reason is that i find that the Key is saying that "Punisher got somebody into jail" not that "punisher is in the jail".

Sorry. My english is not very nice."

And here's my response: "The cover is not meant to be taken as a literal statement. It's main purpose is to tell you 1. It's a Punisher book 2. It takes place in prison. Obviously, the key isn't a real key. It's a story telling device. Whether or not you personally see it "Punisher got somebody into jail" or "punisher is in the jail". Without the key, it's just a guy holding onto prison bars. With it, it's a guy who, may or may not be Punisher. The goal is to make you pick up the book and find out."

Posting this because I thought it would clarify any future questions. Thanks"

Dave Johnson : "It's a simple cover with a simple idea. Punisher is prison, prisoners not happy about it. Rinse, repeat. Call me in the morning."

Dave Johnson : "You know what sucks ? The way I work. I agonize for 2 weeks to come up with a cover design that I don't hate, and then it only takes me 1 day to do it from start to finish. Imagine if that were the other way around? I'd probably be over rendering and adding so much detail it would make your eyes bleed. But instead I wait until one day before the deadline to force me into doing something. 

Bah! I guess it is what it is. 

This one was hard because I've already done a Punisher cover dealing with Frank's origin story. Seen here [link]"

Dave Johnson : "Mmmmm, Electra vs. Punisher. Sure, why not."

Dave Johnson : "This cover kind of turned out to be a little partridge family bus art style or if you please the art that inspired that art style on the bus [link]

Well, it's not my best cover, but it's not my worst. I really dig how Punisher's face turned out though. But maybe you hate it.

Discuss."

Dave Johnson : "Punisher cover time. Mostly photoshop if you're wondering. No real paint was harmed in the making of this cover."

Dave Johnson : "Another Punny cover. Enjoy.

*note* if you notice, no blood on Frank in the photo. It's the little things."

Dave Johnson : "Sadness."

Dave Johnson's cover run (+ commentaries for nearly each of them) on Aaron/Dillon's Punisher Max Vol.1 #1-22 (2009-2012). Source

[lu-is-not-ok]

horrid thought i had: if your theory on k corp hong lu being semi-conscious during stasis is right, does that not mirror carmen during lobotomy corporation?

...

Wait. Hold on. Wait. Wait hold on.

Ok, so here's the thing: For a while now I've already had a suspicion that Hong Lu's deal is like, way more important than he lets on.

This might sound like a conspiracy Game Theory Matpat rant, but here me out.

First of all, Hong Lu has this weird tendency to break patterns in much less obvious ways than the other suspicious Sinners, to the point it's been driving me insane?

Like.

Okay.

First.

Remember those promo PVs of each Sinner? And how each of them ended on a glimpse of their trauma and All of them either directly referenced a potentially traumatic event or had the Sinner sound distraught? Except for Hong Lu, who doesn't sound in any way distressed like the others did, and then after the game logo is revealed he asks if something he said was weird.

Like, sure, it does make sense for him to say that in context of what he says during that video, but isn't it so fucking weird that the one Sinner with a section in his promo that seems slightly off is also the one who asks if anything he said during that section was weird?

Second.

You know those intro segments during the prologue, that are also on the official limbuscompany.com website? The ones that offer managerial instructions for each Sinner?

Pay close attention to those. For every Sinner, these instructions specify how to deal with that specific Sinner's eccentricities.

Don't show Gregor your disgust. Wait for Rodya's bad mood to pass. Give Sinclair positive reinforcement. Wait patiently for Yi Sang to finish thinking. Look Ishmael's way for sound advice, but don't break her trust. Understand Heathcliff is simple-minded and contact HR if he causes problems. Play along with Don's Fixer act. Don't make Ryoshu breed personal resentment towards you. Give clear and concise commands to Meursault. Give Outis short replies of agreement but keep an eye on her. Simply nod and get it over with when conversing with Faust.

...But then there's Hong Lu's. Which says nothing how to deal with his eccentricities, but rather to not let Other Sinners get physical with him over them. It's not about keeping him in line, it's about keeping other people's reactions to him in line.

I want to note this especially because several other Sinners break patterns in their introductions as well. Meursault's is one sentence. Ryoshu and Outis have a warning. Don Quixote's particulars include a [REDACTED] on the website. Faust's directly asks the manager to fuck around and find out. However, the way Hong Lu's intro instructions break the pattern is the most subtle out of all of them, to the point I genuinely did not realize that was the case until I had read all of them over multiple times.

Third.

Hong Lu's Base E.G.O animation. If you watch all of the Base E.G.O animations in a row, you'll notice that for all of them, the Sinners start already in frame... Except for Hong Lu, who visibly jumps into the frame from off-screen.

Now, you could argue that, technically, Don runs into her animation from off-screen as well, however I think there is a bit of a difference here. Don's animation is too quick to see her actually run in. We see she's not there for maybe a frame, before she pops with an animation that implies she had just run in and needs to break her momentum. This is unlike Hong Lu's, whom we Actively See descend from Off-Screen.

Now, I know what some of you may be thinking.

That I am coping. That these are coincidences. That I'm looking too deeply into things.

However. Here's a connection that I just recently realized, that has been Fucking Me Up.

Mild spoilers for Canto IV and like the first two chapters or so of Dream of the Red Chamber, if anyone cares.

You know how Limbus Company has this... fixation on stars? There's the whole thing with Dante following a star, stars granting wishes, people turning into weird beings from wishing to be stars, and there's this general connection to the sky and space because of Demian also doubling as a reference to The Little Prince.

And then something weird hit me.

See, Dream of the Red Chamber starts with a bit of a backstory to the jade that would later be reincarnated into Bao-yu. You see, it was one of the many stones used by a godess to create the sky. However, this one specific jadestone ended up being the only one not used in that creation, which then led to it feeling horrible about itself, which then led to a monk and a taoist deciding to have that stone reincarnate as a human and live through a human life, kickstarting the rest of the novel.

I'm like, heavily simplifying this, but that's the gist of how that whole thing starts.

Which. Made me think. A jadestone that was part of the ones meant to build the sky, but ended up being left unused. The sky. Stars. Hong Lu being seemingly named after the jade rather than Bao-yu directly.

Holy shit there's no way they won't reference this in some way, right? Right?

So, now imagine me, at my fucking wit's end, having the biggest crackpot theory brewing in my mind.

And you send this ask comparing K Corp Hong Lu to Carmen.

I am going insane.

[kitcat992]

Identity Within︱Moments That Matter: Chapter 13, Unlikely Alliance

As Identity Within progresses, I'm finding that each chapter gets more dense and packed with fanficy goodness; and at this point there's not an single soul in the world who can tell me I need brevity in my writing — because for years this saga has played out in my head like movies without a screen to watch them on. And I refuse to shorten things now for the sake of brevity.

That said, with the wild ride that life is taking me on — and with my lack of free time to write killing my speed for updates, I understand there can be a bit of a memory gap for the average reader who doesn't spend every waking moment of her day thinking about this fic like I do 😅

So I decided that as I go about writing, it'd be fun to refer back moments that matter in the next chapter to come.

This story finally has its foundation to stand on, and getting to develop all the plots that were planted as seeds many chapters ago brings me so much excitement. I wanted to share that excitement with you as I write the most recent chapter, "Unlikely Alliance."

#Brevity is for the weak.

───────

Identity Theft︱Chapter 15: Parker Luck

───────

Peter ran — fast and hard. He took two turns before finally deciding on entering a room.

When he slammed the door shut, he allowed himself a second to catch his breath, chest heaving as he rested his forehead against the cold metal.

His chest burned and his legs trembled, threatening to give out and collapse beneath him. ‘Can’t stop now. Gotta keep going. Gotta get out of here.’

Adrenaline sent energy coursing through his body, but it didn’t provide him the answers on how to escape. His sweat-drenched suit trapped the chill to his skin. The place felt colder than New York in the winter time, no hallway or room free of the frigid air that hurt his lungs.

‘Things gets colder the further in the ocean you go...and this entire building is underwater. Really deep underwater.'

Peter's face crumbled with the sickening realization that he was truly, actually, totally under the sea.

There was no walking out of this building.

And there was no changing that fact.

Frantically looking around, Peter was desperate to find anything that would help him. His focus came at a struggle; fear making his heart beat ten times too fast. Definitely putting him at risk for a juvenile heart attack.

‘If this place is in the ocean, that means they needed a way to get down here, right?’ Peter began to feel his way around the room. It was too dark for him to see anything aside from outlines of lab equipment. The only light he had to work off of was the large tank across the way, glowing eerily green with the substance still inside. ‘Maybe they have diving suits laying around or something.’

One step at a time, he began to walk down a flight of stairs. The metal creaked beneath him, making his shoulders jolt from paranoia with every step. Slowly, carefully, Peter explored the room with a tiny bit of interest that rapidly morphed into growing alarm.

He was right in assuming the place had been abandoned, but for the life of him, he couldn’t understand why so much tech was left behind.

“I wonder if anyone even knows this place exists...” he murmured under his breath.

Peter looked to the corner of the room, walking towards the large tank that reached from ceiling to floor. He quickly determined that whatever the substance was – a thick eerie goop floating inside– it couldn’t be safe. The glowing was almost nauseating to see. The green reminded him a lot of Adrian Toomes.

Peter shook the thought away. He really didn't want to deal with that right now.

And that’s when Peter saw it. Engraved on the cement portion of the tank, illuminated over the green glow and clear as day was the company logo OsCorp.

‘Crap.’ Peter's breath halted in his chest. ‘OsCorp. That’s not good. Not good at all.’

The walls groaned under pressure.

KkkkrrrrreeeAAAAKKK!

Peter spun around with his fist out in defense. Chains suddenly rattled loudly from above, echoing everywhere, drawing nearer and nearer. His mouth dried, the fog made it impossible to see five feet ahead of him.

‘Shit, shit, shit! Where—’

The harsh kick to his chest sent him flying into the nearest wall.

───────

Identity Theft︱Chapter 17: Smoke and Mirorrs

───────

They had made slow progress after Strange ditched them. Every room they searched was a bust, most just being dinky offices or small labs that would hold three, four men tops. It was dark, disconcertingly quiet, and dust notably filled the air in competition with the fog, thick and of the abundance.

Clint vocalized a theory that Tony wasn’t fond of — between the deserted rooms and the ominous flickering lights no longer in their path — their perimeters had gone untouched for months. Which meant Peter wouldn’t be found anywhere here.

Luckily, they finally caught a break. The next room they had entered was huge — at least compared to the ones they had come across so far. It was a laboratory of sorts, that much was obvious.

But this one held higher importance.

The light from Tony’s helmet landed across computers, incubators, tanks — equipment that they hadn’t seen anywhere else in the bunker.

“Jesus Christ," Clint murmured, pushing the door shut behind them. "It’s like a scientist’s playground."

Tony couldn’t disagree. They were getting closer to the interesting stuff, for sure. That was a good sign.

Plus, no one had emerged from the shadows to attack them yet — which meant they still held the element of surprise. The muscles in Tony's throat constricted at the very thought. Exactly how long would they be blessed with that small feat?

Tony hurriedly jogged down the metal stairs leading to a lower floor, the metal creaking with each hasty step he took. He spun around, rapidly taking in everything he saw. While the multitude of equipment had him nervous, he felt relief that most were covered by dirty white sheets or completely untouched altogether. It was just another area the freaks hadn’t utilized.

OsCorp had, obviously. That thought still made him grimace. But at least Dmitri and Klum hadn’t.

Making his way across the room, heavy chains from the ceiling caught his attention. He looked above; they swung slightly, back and forth on their own accord. Tony determined that at one point, more than likely, they held up the disturbingly large tanks surrounding them. All but the one that caught his attention — built into the wall, reaching from floor to ceiling.

The substance inside gave enough light to see at least five feet around the room. It glowed that brightly. It was disgustingly green; a luminous, sickening chemical he didn’t want to mess with.

Clint approached him, standing right at his side. “What do you think it is?”

The eerie green glow reflected against both their faces.

Tony stiffly shook his head. “I think it's not good.”

It was either a very good thing or very bad thing that OsCorp left it behind in their abandonment of the facility. Tony wasn’t sure which would make the most sense.

Nothing this company was doing made sense to him anymore. And Osborn himself? He was just a can of worms waiting to be opened.

───────

Identity Theft︱Chapter 29: Breaking the Cycle of Shame

───────

Rhodey and Tony looked to their left, Natasha taking long strides in her walk with the entire group hot on her tail, even Steve having rejoined. They converged together towards the room’s entrance in a clearly unconspicuous way.

Steve shot a look into the kitchen, eyebrows dipping in worry. Though Wanda seemed to be doing a decent job at distracting Peter, he knew the whole enhanced-hearing deal made it difficult for private conversations. Plus, even he could feel the strung-out, high electricity tension building between them all.

Peter was a smart kid, there was no keeping him in the dark for long.

“Guys, we should discuss this at a later time,” Steve pressed.

“You’re right,” Tony said, arms crossed over his chest. “You’re absolutely right, we should definitely discuss the nitty gritty details at a later time. But for now — and please pardon my impatience building on the anticipation of the United States Air Force weapons procurement liaison division filing a subpoena against OsCorp industries so that they could explain, on the record, how their increasingly dangerous experiments are justified under research standards — I’d like to hear what the court had to say.”

Rhodey bit back his response, all the eyes staring his way putting him at a brief loss. Even Bruce was seemingly curious for an answer.

Though he wanted to say something about Tony expending all the air that inflated his ego down to his lungs for such a ramble, Rhodey instead let out a long, drawn-out sigh.

“The case was thrown out. It’s in their favor.”

Tony physically balked, his body practically jolting forward. “What do you mean it’s in their favor?”

“That’s messed up,” Clint muttered.

Tony shook his head. “You’re telling me I get grade-a shit for building the Iron Man armor and yet these ass-wipes are free to create sentient beings like the damn rock android, no repercussions whatsoever? Not to mention SHIELD knew they were performing highly illegal experimentation’s like Klum’s teleportation abilities and the flying Chitauri heads. How —”

Rhodey held two hands in the air. “The judge declared that the indictment we sought out doesn’t have grounds for reason. OsCorp claims they’ve reconstructed their projects into a more educational stand-point.”

Bruce scoffed. “Gotta give them points for thinking on their feet,” he said, removing his glasses to clean the lenses with the bottom hem of his shirt.

“That’s horse shit,” Tony hissed. “You can’t just slap an ‘educational’ sticker on something and call it a day.”

Rhodey nodded. “I don’t disagree. But they have a valid point, we don’t have ground to stand on. Everything we have against them is mostly hearsay, those documents you found are word of mouth. No solid evidence.”

“Tony has a point,” Natasha chimed in, ignoring Tony’s exaggerated look of shock towards her agreement. “What about the rock android nearly destroying the Collar City Bridge, or the reassembled Chitauri heads that blew a hole near Main Street Park? That should be enough cause for concern.”

Clint winced, half-shrugging. “Think about it, though. The most damage those freaky flying Chitauri heads managed to do was blow up St. Annes, which was already an abandoned building.”

“Yeah, thanks to us,” Sam reminded them, his tone indignant. “We contained that catastrophe before it blew up all of Brooklyn Heights.”

Bruce slid his glasses back onto his face. “And OsCorp proceeded to pay the damages and fines caused by Awesome Android. Not to mention, SHIELD still hasn’t come out and said one way or the other who stole and reassembled the Chitauri heads.”

“Rhodey and Bruce are right.” Steve sighed, his chin low to his chest. “According to Doctor Strange, Francis Klum was sent to another dimension. And we all know what happened to Dmitri. They’re getting away with this on the same grounds we got away with lying to SHIELD about the undersea bunker rescue mission. There’s no proof.”

Rhodey pessimistically nodded, no happier than the others at what he had to say. “Scientific research. That’s what they’re calling it. Nothing they’re doing right now can be deemed illegal.”

“But risky,” Peter spoke up.

Everyone turned to look at him, all seemingly at once.

Peter had stepped forward, Wanda not far behind. Her expression fell guilty, silently speaking an apology to Tony for not being able to hold him back.

Even if he wanted to, Tony didn’t have time to berate her. Steve was already crossing the path to the kitchen, failing stupendously at acting nonchalant.

“Hey, champ, why don’t you —”

“My class went on a field trip there. To OsCorp.” Peter came closer to the threshold, fingers fidgeting together. ��They uh, they are actually...pretty educational. Showed us a whole bunch of stuff. Regenerative cloning of animal limbs, unlimited solar energy, bio-cable mechanisms…radioactive spiders.”

Tony shot his head over fast enough to give himself whiplash.

Steve froze in his steps, head cocking to the side at the realization. “That’s how you got your abilities.”

Peter nodded, the small movement timid and jerky. “One of them got loose. Bit me.”

Tony’s jaw clenched painfully tight, the words giving him pause.

“OsCorp gave you these powers?”

The unwelcome bitter edge that coated his question had Peter suddenly feeling uncomfortable. Even from the distance they stood, Tony’s barely contained anger emitted a heat only matched by his sharp glare.

Peter knew he wasn’t directly mad at him, yet he couldn’t help but feel guilty nonetheless.

“The spider they were experimenting on did, anyway,” he explained shyly, head down low. “It’s uh...it’s dead now.”

The conversation died out briefly, a blanket of tense silence piercing through the room.

Clint brought his festive, colorfully fringed party horn to his mouth, a second away from blowing into the toy. Natasha smacked his hand down before he could.

To Tony’s credit, he managed to suppress the increasing urge that wanted him to focus only on the new and very unsettling information he had just heard. His subconscious told him to wait, or perhaps that was Rhodey harshly whispering his name — he could never tell the difference, they both sounded alike.

“Trust me, we’re going to discuss that later, in excruciating detail.” Tony turned away from Peter and back towards Rhodey. “Did you at least get any more information on the Oz Formula I told you about?”

Tony turned away from Peter and back towards Rhodey. “Did you at least get any more information on the Oz Formula I told you about?”

Sam’s brow wrinkled with confusion. “Oz Formula?”

“Barton,” Tony snapped his fingers twice at Clint, “you remember that green glowing tank we came across?”

“I know what you’re talking about!” Peter excitedly spoke up before anyone else could.

They turned to look at him, baffled.

He shrunk a little under their gaze.

“The..tank, anyway. Came across it. Didn’t know what was in it.” Peter kicked his shoe against the floor, his voice low as he murmured, “Fun times.”

Rhodey went from side-eyeing Peter to looking directly at Tony.

“They were willing to tell us that it’s something originating from their epidemiology department. In fact, most of their funding has gone into this project since the beginning of the year. They call it ‘the next cure for any human malignancy or ailment modern medicine has yet to come across.’ You ask me though?” Rhodey shifted on his feet. “Sounds like a humble way of dodging how dangerously close they are to reaching Strucker levels of science.”

“Why do you say that?” Natasha asked, frowning.

Rhodey turned to look at her. “Because the way they proceeded to explain it — ‘man would become immune to even the destruction of his own molecular structure’ — they made it seem like they’re out to create the next Captain America.”

“You think they’re trying to recreate the super soldier serum that I received?” Steve stiffened, paling at the mere possibility.

Rhodey shrugged. “Hard to say without more information.”

Tony pinched the bridge of his nose, warding off the migraine threatening to sneak up towards the back of his skull. With a rattled sigh, his hand moved into his hair as he managed quite well at keeping his breathing even and calm. It was a feat for him, considering how his insides felt like they were being ripped apart organ by organ, slowly consumed by the monster that was his anxiety.

He had known for weeks now that they were approaching a troublesome juncture with OsCorp, long before Peter’s kidnapping, around the same time he witnessed the Hulk take on a sentiment rock being that the twisted corporation had birthed to life. This only intensified the feeling in his gut that screamed a crisis would soon culminate.

And if there was one lesson he valued the most in his life, it was to trust his gut when something seemed wrong.

Tony took a deep inhale, back ramrod straight as he said, “Looks like we have our work cut out for his, ladies and gentlemen.”

“You sure about this, Tony?” Steve took a step towards him, hesitate to get too close. “We could be starting a war here.”

Tony turned on his heels to face him, brow creased, lips pressed in a firm line. He fixed his gaze squarely to the blue eyes reflecting back at him.

“Possibly. But whatever Norman Osborn is up to, it can’t be good. The depravity is clear as day and proof or not, we’ve come across enough evidence to know that he’s heading down a path of destruction. It’s time somebody puts a stop to his mad scientist game before more people get hurt.”

The pause that followed came with heavy contemplation. The team surrounding the two glanced between both men, awaiting a response.

Finally, Steve nodded, outstretching his hand to bridge the gap between them.

“Okay, you’re right,” he acquiesced. “We’ll follow you on this one.”

Despite the bubbling anger that still sat deep underneath his skin, Tony gripped firmly onto Steve’s hand, giving it a hard shake.

───────

Identity Crisis︱Chapter 15: Slithered Here From Hell

───────

Speaking of the devil — in more ways than one — Tony locked eyes on the man of the hour, at his desk against the far end of the room.

Norman didn’t bother to lift his head, focused intently on the tablet in his hands.

“Stark,” he dryly greeted, no louder than the sound Natasha’s heels made as she entered the office. The glow from the tablet’s screen highlighted the wrinkles and stress lines engraved deep into his skin, an unflattering light in an otherwise dark room. “Should I invite you to take a seat, or do you think this meeting will be brief?”

Tony turned his back to the desk, stuffing his hands deep into his blazer pockets, casually strolling in without further invitation. He occupied himself by taking in the smaller details of the office — the floor to ceiling bookcases, the collection of fountain pens put neatly on display; he held the tip of his finger against antique globe nearby and spun it for amusement.

Anything to keep his eyes off Osborn.

“Should let some sunshine in here,” Tony mentioned in lieu of answering, looking towards the large yet covered windows of the room. Heavy, vintage curtains were drawn on them on, barely a creak of light sneaking in through the corners. “Vitamin D is good for your mood.”

Natasha hummed low in her throat, taking a place quietly against the door frame of the office. Her hands were clasped in front of herself, no doubt already having thought of five different ways to discreetly rid a body and any fingerprints left behind.

It was a disturbing comfort for Tony, knowing she held the same disdain for the man as he did. That if given the chance, they’d both serve him the punishment that was long overdue for the hell he’d put them through.

At the same time, he knew — and so did she — that they had one opportunity for this. One chance to get it right.

Tony wasn’t about to blow that in favor of giving Osborn the black eye he deserved.

“I’m not sure if my assistant made you aware,” Norman failed to hold back a sigh, the sound mixed with the opening of a drawer to his desk where he put the tablet away, “but I do have other meetings planned in my agenda today. Ones that were booked properly, with advance notice.”

Tony barely paid him any mind, peaking through the weighted curtains to catch a glimpse of the Manhattan skyline from outside.

“Mhm. A beaut.” Tony offered him a brief glance, drawing the curtain closed but pointing a finger towards it at the same time. “You just don’t get that view upstate. One of a kind, this city is. Nothing like it.”

Norman kept his gaze straight-on, never looking Tony’s way, going so far as to intentionally clear his throat with growing impatience. “My time today is limited, so if there’s something you’d like to discuss with me —”

The shrill ring of a cell phone interrupted him, catching him off guard. Even Tony had to admit that the noise was humorously loud, especially contained in such a small space.

Norman placed two firm fingers to his temple, eyes squeezing shut as the sound blasted through his office. Tony knew that look from a hundred miles away — a migraine. A pretty bad one, from how it appeared.

“I...as you say, apologize.” Natasha clumsily reached into her purse, finding and clutching onto her cell phone with a blooming tint of pink covering her cheeks. “I must take this call.”

Noticeably aggravated, Norman waved a hand in her direction, keeping his head low as he rubbed gingerly at his forehead.

“That’s not a problem, thank you.” The words didn’t seem to match his gruff tone, his fist gripping tighter with each click her heels made leading out of the office.

Tony watched discreetly from his place at the window, his fingers playing idly with the tassels of the curtain. Natasha closed the door on her way out — Natalie, he should say. The guards followed her out, leaving just the two men in the room.

Clucking his tongue, Tony made his way to the bookcases lining the walls, unable to deny the fact that the open decanter of scotch was smelling better by the second. The edge he felt was getting sharper, and from the look of it, the feeling was mutual.

Now he was starting to remember just how unpleasant those brief meetings at conventions always were, the forced handshakes and fake smiles for the cameras. Osborn had always been scum to him, long before these inhumane experiments ever came to the surface. 

Scanning the bookcases, Tony plucked out the first title that caught his eye, grabbing the book by its spine and pulling it out from its cramped spot in-between numerous other collections.

“The Art of War.” Tony flipped the book over to its back cover, his index finger trailing down the printed design. It was a limited copy edition, cloth-bound with a dust-jacket, kept in pristine condition. “Hm. Have a lot of memories with this one.”

Leaning over his desk, Norman poured himself a modest glass of amber-tinted scotch, barely managing a passing glance to Tony as he did. Norman's disinterest didn’t keep Tony at bay; rather, he found himself walking closer to the desk Norman sat at. His eyes never wandered from the book in hand.

“Not long after the folks passed, Obie made it mandatory to read this puppy front and back, five times over.” Tony cracked the book open, shuffling through it without much thought. The smell of old ink and dry, dated pages was more potent than the cedar and leather encompassing the office. “Had me studying it before I could even consider dipping my toes in the corporate world. Pretty sure I can still quote parts in my sleep.”

As quickly as he opened the book, he closed it shut.

“Let’s see…” Tony’s fingers tapped ceaselessly on the hardcover, his eyes looking far-off in thought. “The whole secret lies in confusing the enemy, so that he cannot fathom our real intent. Only once knowing both your strengths and weaknesses, as well as those of your adversary, can you begin to form a strategic plan.”

Norman moved to take a sip from the mountain glass in his hand, eyes meeting Tony’s squarely, green irises shrouded in the dim light.

“If your opponent is of choleric temper, seek to irritate him. Pretend to be weak, that he may grow arrogant. Momentum is the life force of any conflict. When momentum is on your side, you have the advantage.” Norman set the glass down on the surface of the desk, condensation leaking onto the mahogany wood. “Sun Tzu was a wise man, a military strategist ahead of his time.”

Tony shrugged, chucking the book onto Norman’s desk, taking a seat in the empty chair on his opposite end.

“I tossed my copy,” he flippantly said, brushing some non-existent lint from his suit jacket. “Got tired of looking at it.”

“Why am I not surprised,” Norman drawled out, managing the slightest shake to his head. He placed both hands in his lap, casually and loosely folding them together. “Are you aware that your significant other paid your way in to see me today, Stark?”

Tony was sure the verbal reminder had been said with a sting, some kind of subdued implication for him to feel embarrassed by — going so far as to reach for emasculation. He refused to let it crawl underneath his skin, opting instead to simply nod his head.

“So I have been informed, yes.”

Norman met his gaze with a straight face, unamused and impassive.

“What do you want?”

Tony could have laughed; had honesty been something he intended to rely on, there still wouldn’t be enough time in his day to go down that road. Not even the riches in both their bank accounts could buy what he wanted, their pockets deep in stocks and market exchanges not nearing close enough to provide the peace of mind and security he desperately fought for.

Leaning back casually in the chair, Tony lifted both his hands in an open gesture, plastering a press-winning smile over his face.

“A lot of things,” he started. “World peace would be a great. End to all poverty. No kid hungry, no kid left behind, that sorta thing.” Tony’s face fell flat, the facade beginning to weaken at the fringes. “A tête-à-tête works, too. Heart-to-heart, one-on-one. You, me — none of those pesky lawyers we keep overpaying to do our dirty work. Just a good old conversation between like minded individual’s.”

Norman arched an eyebrow high into his hairline, his hardened gaze unwavering on the man sitting across from him.

The beat that followed felt toxic, inundated with palpable tension. If Tony didn’t know better, he’d say the air in the room had gone stale, stiff and thick from the negative energy stemming between them.

“I’m not at liberty to discuss ongoing lawsuits with you,” Norman finally responded, every bit as calm as Tony expected. “If that’s the only reason you came here, I hate to disappoint.”

“No lawsuits, last I checked,” Tony countered innocently. “No convictions that I’m even aware of. I mean, hell, you know how the Senate Armed Services Committee can be — always keeping themselves busy, soaking up those taxpayer dollars. They go after my Iron Man suits, they go after you with those experiments —”

“This isn’t about my experiments,” Norman cut in, professionally laced tone sharper than a knife. “It’s about your ridiculous claims, ones that you keep taking my company to court for. And you’ll have to pardon my forbearance when it comes to accusations that I can’t entertain. I have much more important things to do in my day than defend myself against such absurd allegations.”

Tony gave an exaggerated shrug. “Are they absurd, though? Can anything be considered absurd now that aliens have attacked New York and Gods have roamed the streets of New Mexico?”

Norman cocked his head to the side, failing to emulate the same grin that twitched at Tony’s mouth.

“Your case on OsCorp continues to be dismissed by the courts based on the grounds that you don’t have proof. It will never be upheld by a judge based solely on your conspiracy theories.” His words were seamless, practiced. Downright methodical. “Quite frankly, the longer you extend this feud, the sooner the public will begin to speculate that OsCorp is a threat to Stark Industries. Is that really a look you want for your company?”

“I have proof,” Tony forced through his teeth. The sting that he’d been keeping at bay started to burn in his chest, germinating with each passing second. “I just can’t use it.”

“Then that isn’t proof,” Norman rebutted, managing to pull of the most contrite look Tony had possibly ever seen. It didn’t look well on him, stretching the crows-feet over his eyes and adding years to his face. “It’s heresay.”

Tony shouldn’t have been surprised by his blatant denial. In a way, he wasn’t. But it didn’t stop his jaw from tightening, or his hand from clenching tightly into a fist.

Despite everything, Tony hadn’t been prepared for just how difficult it’d be to bench the searing hate that congealed in his veins. How challenging it was to sit quietly, play dumb despite all he knew. All he experienced first-hand.

“You know,” he cleared his throat, feigning casual conversation. “There’s a lot about the inner workings of my career you could never familiarize yourself with. SHIELD, the company I'm contracted out to work for —”

“Work for?” Norman tsked, reclining against his plush chair and staring over the expanse of the mahogany desk at Tony. “Is that what you call your vigilantism?”

Tony chose to ignore that statement.

“They have strict security clearance,” he continued on as if uninterrupted. “Information I know doesn’t get shared with the public, not unless I want to wake up in bed with a horses head next to my pillow. Doesn’t mean I don’t know things. Who they’ve gone after, who they’ve shut down in the past…”

As Norman reclined back, Tony leaned forward, his elbows pressing firmly on his knees.

“What sort of...surreptitious buildings floated in the Atlantic ocean…”

An uninvited friction washed across the room, belligerent in spite of the silence that fell between the two.

Tony savored the whisper of surprise that crossed over Norman’s face. It was almost nonexistent — a twitch of his cheekbones, a look in his eyes — blink and it was gone.

But Tony saw it.

He relished in it.

“Six months ago one of your experiments got loose and nearly destroyed the Collar City Bridge,” Tony reminded him. He mimicked Norman’s position, leaning back in his chair, flexing and then folding his hands into his lap. “You paid the city hush money to pretend it never happened. I know it did. I was there, I cleaned up your mess. And I know you’ve been doing worse than that rock android.”

As much as it pained him to admit, Tony and Norman had one thing in common — they were born in the corporate world, taught how to bullshit the same day they were taught how to walk.

So it was no surprise to see Norman appear indifferent, turning a blind eye as if he knew nothing more.

“How so?” he casually asked, reaching for his glass of whiskey.

A mirthless laugh almost broke free of Tony’s throat, managing instead to stay tightly restricted between two pursed lips — clamped shut with brewing anger. He watched wordlessly as Norman took a sip of the amber drink, his eyes never leaving Tony’s, not even as the glass returned to the surface of his desk.

Tony popped his lips, the sound echoing throughout the office. “No one finds it coincidental that a teleporting magician appeared in the same week?”

Norman smirked. Just a little. Just enough.

“And gone the next,” he regarded Tony evenly. “There were no ties with that incident and OsCorp.”

It was the tone of deceptive innocence that got to Tony, so immaculately perfected that it could fool anyone’s ears — surely pass any lie detector, win over any judge. Tony imagined that had it not been for the hell they’d been through earlier in the year, Norman’s act of virtue might have even instilled some doubt in his accusations.

But there weren’t accusations to have. Not anymore. They knew the truth — Tony knew the truth. The truth was nightmares that woke him up at three a.m. Panic attacks he could barely stave off at the smell of salt water and ocean life. The endless reminders of sleepless nights in his compound’s medical bay, praying relentlessly to a God he didn’t believe in at the bedside of a kid too young to experience the trauma he’d been put through.

He didn’t need to hear the truth directly from the fool’s mouth to feel vindicated.

He just needed to buy the time until they had their proof.

“Hm. So you claim,” Tony said, his voice still calm, still leveled. They could both play the game of bullshitting some professional nonsense. “Just as you claimed that your numerous east-coast research facilities were all up to code and legally abiding. Yet the case of one Max Dillon, circa 2008, might see things differently.”

Norman hadn’t looked away from Tony, not even as his fingers began to dance across the plush leather armrest of his chair.

Tony stared right back into his eyes, refusing to be intimidated.

“Remember him?” Tony flippantly waved a hand, dismissing a response. “Of course you don't. He was just another college student, Montclair State University, too desperate for a couple bucks to know what participating in your underpaid studies would do to him.”

Tony leaned in, just an inch, the soft tapping of Norman’s fingers audible in the quiet space between them.

“Amazing how an incident that put a nineteen-year-old boy into a coma brought on by high-voltage electrical shock could just be...tossed out of court like some suburban soccer mom suing their neighbor for leaving Christmas decorations up past New Years.” Tony's voice grew harder, his need to remain reserved slipping between the cracks where his emotion began to surface. “But you claimed — sorry, let me rephrase that — you ‘claimed’ that your study participants were subjected to the highest level of care and consideration in your faculties. Just as you claim now that you’ve had nothing to do with the Collar City Bridge incident. Or the magician in Times Square. Or the revived, modified Chitarui remains that attacked Brooklyn.”

Tony said nothing for a moment; he wasn’t sure if it was to add suspense to his lingering words, or to control the growing pit that started to claw its way into his throat. He could feel his lip twitch, the memories all too vivid, too personal. Close enough to his chest that he was sure each hammering beat of his heart kept them alive and present in his mind.

Norman stared at him, face so expressionless it was as if he knew nothing of the pain he’d cause Tony.

Or worse, simply didn’t care.

“Among other events I can’t list, of course,” Tony finally added, managing a nonchalant shrug that took more effort than it appeared. “But like I said...security clearance. Not sure if I’d be able to get horses blood out of Egyptian Cotton bedsheets. And I would rather not have to try.”

The false image of calm and collected pervading every fiber of Norman’s persona hadn’t taken a hit. His fingers finally stopped moving across the armrest, his hands settling on the smooth surface of his desk not far from where the mountain glass sat, condensation still leaking onto the wood below it.

“And it would be ill-advised to discuss anything further without a lawyer present,” Norman pressed. “That is, so long as you continue to throw subpoenas on my desk every other week.”

A full blown grin pulled tightly at Tony’s cheeks, the phony act coming back just as quickly as it left.

“Hey, it’d stop if I got my answers.”

───────

Identity Theft︱Chapter 19: When The Bad Things Happen

───────

Steve spared a quick glance to Clint, who leaned back into the sofa with an exasperated sigh. He knew the man was more upset at the situation than he was at Helen, they all were.

Though it was a twisted thought, he was glad they didn’t have to be there when this happened to Peter.

Fists hitting skin, bones breaking, gasping and choking on water — he already found himself constantly fighting the sounds out of his head. He couldn’t take more.

“His wrists?” Steve quietly asked. “They...Tony and I saw...”

“They’ll be okay. Hairline fractures,” Helen told him. “The orthopedic department here has been making vast enhancements in 3D printed technology to utilize for limb immobility situations such as this. Unfortunately, they haven’t advanced to the point where it would benefit his leg, but it’s working well on his hands. Barely noticeable, doesn’t even wrap around his forearm, simply a band around the wrists.”

She demonstrated with the smallest smile her mouth could manage, a visible strain that Steve didn’t have the energy to match. He curtly nodded, acknowledging her response.

Sitting next to him, Natasha had locked her gaze on Bruce, never taking her eyes off him throughout the discussion. If she hadn’t been looking directly at him, she would have sworn that she heard the man talk.

‘Amazing, isn’t it?’ rang in her ears, words that he never actually spoke, a personality normally so predictable faded underneath the stress of the situation.

It disturbed her how quiet Bruce had been. It disturbed them all. He was usually one to pitch in with giddy enthusiasm about how this type of technology functioned, proceeding to bore the team with details that they never asked for and could never understand.

Instead, he sat quietly, chin in the palm of his hands and elbows on his knees.

Natasha’s brows pulled together, concerned. “Bruce?”

His head snapped up, as if he now suddenly remembered where he was. Bruce looked at her, the deep lines across his face echoing her exhaustion.

Almost immediately he bowed his head again, taking his glasses off and pinching the bridge of his nose tightly.

“I’m sorry, it’s just...” Bruce heavily sighed, “this is bad.”

Wanda leaned forward, wrapping the blanket tighter around herself. “How bad?”

“His blood is...well, it’s mutated,” Bruce said. “Beyond what’s compatible with any other cross-match. On the surface he still has a normal B positive blood type, but beneath that it...it’s more. The antigens and protein markers have been so abnormally altered by that spider bite that he’s...he’s essentially developed an ABO incompatibility.”

Sam was the first to catch on. “He can’t receive blood.”

Bruce nodded. Clint audibly cursed under his breath, and Rhodey scoffed, shaking his head in disbelief.

“It’s...incredibly unfortunate in the current situation, but yes. We had to stop transfusing the universal O negative to prevent a hemolytic reaction,” Bruce explained.

Natasha stayed neutral. “So what now?”

Steve sat up a little straighter. “Doesn’t he have accelerated healing?”

“Yes,” Helen simply answered. “And that healing factor has certainly kept him alive this long.”

“Where’s the but?” Clint asked, arms crossed and all but rolling his eyes.

Bruce didn’t seem to have the willpower to answer the question. The tension grew twice as thick between them, and Steve was silently appreciative when Helen finally took over.

“He can only regenerate so fast. With his injuries, with the hypovolemia...he spent days dehydrated, malnourished — his body needs twice as much intake as that of a normal individual, and consequently he loses it twice as fast,” she explained. “It’s not as if he’s been stripped of his healing factor. It’s that his body is simply too weak and injured to utilize it.”

Rhodey leaned into the side of the couch, his temple resting between two fingers that rubbed at his forehead. He appeared to be able to keep up with the medical details up until now. It was typically the case for him though, superpowers always had a tendency to complicate things.

“So what does all that mean?” he asked.

Bruce put his glasses back on. “Think of it like a muscle. It takes energy to use. The hematology department has a theory — one I’m inclined to agree with — Peter used a lot of strength in just trying to stay alive. It’s not a...pleasant thing to think about, but his body more than likely went into hypovolemic shock multiple times. A normal person loses a certain amount of blood, they go into shock and if not treated, their heart gives out. Peter's body lost a certain amount of blood, fell into shock and began to regenerate the blood that was lost, until it couldn’t anymore. And then the process repeated.”

His hands spun and twisted around each other, mimicking a moving wheel.

Natasha frowned. “Until now.”

Steve didn’t need to see Bruce nodding to know the answer. He felt the cushions of the sofa lighten as Natasha stood up, her only response being that she walked away from the group. By the time Steve looked up, she was standing across the room and over the stairway banister.

They all knew her well enough to leave her be.

“I would like to reiterate what I said before,” Helen cut in. “By all accounts, he should be dead. He’s hanging on by the skin of his teeth but...he’s hanging on.”

Steve really didn’t know what to say to that. Of course the kid was hanging on. He was a hell of a fighter, a soldier beyond what they could have ever expected.

He was also just a kid.

“We’re not soldiers,” Tony had once told him, the words resonating in his ears. 

Steve was starting to agree with that sentiment.

───────

Identity Theft︱Chapter 29: Breaking the Cycle of Shame

───────

Tony sighed, subconsciously clenching the box harder underneath his arm.

“Scoot,” he demanded, waiting until Peter wiggled to the side before plopping down on the couch next to him. “You were never officially or legally dead, kiddo. Stick to the Paris story.”

Peter nodded enough times that Tony was sure his head would roll off his shoulders.

“Right, right...”

They sat side-by-side, Peter with an open textbook in his lap, Tony with a square wrapped box settled near the sofa’s armrest. For longer than he knew could have been comfortable, Tony stared ahead with unfocused eyes, his only movement the jittery tapping from his foot to the floor.

It got to the point where Peter tried to figure out what was so interesting about the stairway banister he was looking at, curiously craning his neck forward to get a better view.

Just when he opened his mouth to speak, Tony swiftly and wordlessly swapped out his textbook for the gift box, tossing the offensive World History textbook on the coffee table.

“What’s this?” Peter frowned, hands hovering over the box.

“I believe they call this a birthday present,” Tony said wryly, resisting the urge to roll his eyes by instead running his hand through his goatee.

Peter’s eyes widened with shock. “Mr. Stark, you didn’t have to —”

“Kid, keep it up and you’re going to give me an aneurysm. I can feel the blood vessels in my brain weakening as we speak.” Tony turned to face him, pointing his hand towards the red box. “Open it.”

Despite the instructions, Peter didn’t move to unwrap the gift. His hands hovered over it tentatively like it was porcelain glass, afraid it would break.

Only after Tony once again gestured to the gift with eyebrows raised high did Peter begin to unwrap it, and Jesus, was this kid saving the wrapping paper to sell on E-bay? He unfolded each edge with an annoyingly slow precision that had Tony’s blood pressure skyrocketing through the roof.

By the time Peter had folded the glossy red wrapping paper in a neat little square and set it aside, Tony had popped the lid off the box for him. God only knew how long that would have taken him otherwise.

Peter stared down below at his lap with an expression that made it look like he had stepped straight into Narnia.

“Holy sh—”

“Don’t curse in front of Rogers, he’s got a thing about bad language.”

The joke fell flat, especially considering how little Steve had been present throughout most the evening. Tony did a quick glance around; the soldier seemed to have stepped outside, again.

Tony couldn’t help the twinge of guilt that settled in his stomach, knowing he was the reason why.

He turned his attention back to Peter, willing himself to stay in the moment.

“Mr. Stark, this is — I can’t accept this,” Peter stammered, in true Parker nature. “This is — I can’t — this cost — this is —”

“The Canon EOS-1DX Mark II?” Tony interrupted airily, nodding. “Yep, that’s what it is. It’s yours now, treat it well.”

Peter kept shaking his head, to the point where Tony worried he might rattle his skull loose.

“I can’t. Take it back.” Peter pushed the box towards him, refusing to look at it. “Please, take it back.”

“Mhmm, no can do.” Tony swiped his thumb across his nose, giving a hard sniff as he refused to take the box Peter held out for him. “You see, I sorta have this thing about people handing me stuff so..it’s all yours now.”

He was sure to follow his words up with a smile, all charm.

Peter looked to be one second away from screaming or passing out, Tony wasn’t sure which. The last time he saw the kid so excited had to be the day he revealed the Iron Spider suit to him.

There was no denying how much he loved that look, the sparkle in his eyes, the struggle to speak a single coherent sentence. It felt even greater knowing he was the reason for it.

Peter kept shaking his head, his brown locks falling right in front of his eyes. “Mr. Stark —”

“Pete, please,” Tony said, finally taking the box from him only to plop it right back down into Peter's lap again. “Don’t think I haven’t seen you snapping pictures all the time with that dingy little thing you call a phone. You have a knack for photography, not to mention an interest in it. And you know me — I have an irresistible urge to nurture potential. Take the camera, take some damn photos with it, have fun. It’s honest to God the least you could do for me.”

Peter gulped hard, looking down at the box and back up at Tony once more. He still seemed timid as he grabbed the camera into his hands, acting as if its weight was too heavy for even his spider super-strength. Holding the object seemed to perk him up a little though, and he finally let his shoulders relax with a bit more delight.

“You’re the best, Mr. Stark.” Peter grinned, his words laced with an airiness normally reserved for when he had been hopped up on Cho’s good drugs.

Tony chuckled – even sober this kid acted like anything he did for him was extraordinarily superior.

“That’s debatable,” he muttered, leaning back into the sofa with a shake of his head.

“Can I...” Peter lifted the camera shyly, sitting forward a bit further on the couch. “For my first picture?”

Tony shook his head, deadpanned, looking straight ahead as he answered, “I don’t do selfies.”

“Oh, uhm...” Peter lowered the camera slowly, eyes glued to the floor. “Right, sorry, that’s stupid —”

“I’m kidding,” Tony said with a little more firmness than necessary. “Christ, you’re like a kicked puppy. Come here, bring it in.”

All traces of offense vanished from Peter’s face as soon as they had come, his smile widening each time Tony motioned for him to scoot closer. He fiddled with the camera for a brief moment, setting up a timer and proper ISO before holding the device out in front of them both.

Tony wrapped his hand around his back, pulling him in. It was too late for Peter to notice he had taken the opportunity to throw up bunny ears behind his head of hair; the camera flashed and the moment the photo popped up on the display, Tony was snickering like a mad man.

Peter wasn’t insulted, if anything he grinned wider. Besides, there would be plenty of opportunities to get him back.

“Awesome!” Peter looked satisfied as he reviewed the display of the DSLR camera. “You know, I’ve been thinking about taking some candid photos of Spidey, maybe selling some to the Daily Bugle for some extra cash—”

“Alright, hand it back over,” Tony waved his hands in a ‘give me’ motion, “it’s mine again.”

Peter broke out with surprising laughter, even as Tony relentlessly stared him on.

“Okay, okay! Jeeze,” he chuckled, setting the camera aside on the coffee table, bending over to place the box underneath.

“Hold up.” Tony stopped him, his hand outstretched before he could go any further. “You might want to look a little further in that box first.”

Bent over with the box between both hands, Peter craned his head up at Tony, his brows furrowed. Tony had gone back to staring at the stairway banister, the attempt at managing his discomfort more than obvious.

Slowly and cautiously, Peter sat up straight, letting the box rest against his thighs. The two lapsed into silence as he rummaged around the bundles of red and blue tissue paper, his fingers scraping the bottom of the cardboard. He froze when he finally gripped onto the additional item inside, carefully and slowly bringing it out to see.

It was a sleek, thin black watch — or at least, it looked that way. But there was no case to the band, no circular or even square window where a clock could be displayed and time could be shown.

Peter tilted his head to the side, turning the bracelet over in his hands. “What's this?”

Tony cleared his throat, sniffed his nose in a way that sounded painful, drummed his fingers against the armrest of the sofa — all the things he normally did when uncomfortable. He even went to push up the sunglasses he hadn’t been wearing, his hand smoothing back his hair to cover for the mistake.

“I was inspired by that little Starkbits illusion you had going on,” he eventually explained.

Peter frowned, glancing up at Tony before looking back down at the thin, metal bracelet. He vaguely recalled the memory, most of the details having come second-hand from sources like Mr. Stark and Bruce, the two sharing the story with a hearty chuckle.

Still, those had been high-tech casts for his broken wrists. Bone stabilizing devices, Tony had called them. What could this possibly be —?

“It’s a panic watch, directly connected to me,” Tony answered, as if reading his thoughts. He lifted his arm, showing off the same sleek, black bracelet strapped around his wrist. “So if anything happens to you — earth, wind, rain or shine, you can reach out to me.”

The information floored Peter, his throat tightening in a way that made it hard to speak.

“Wow, this is...I-I don’t know what to say...” his voice cracked, forcing him to swallow hard before looking up at Tony. “Why?”

“Why?” Tony echoed.

Peter quickly shook his head.

“Not that I’m not flattered! Or-or appreciative, ‘cause I am. Like, this is awesome, really. I’m just...confused,” his tone swirled in the same pattern that his head spun. “You can monitor the suit, right? Or is this about that nanite mist in the base? Would this even work with that nanite mist? Or is this —”

Tony held a hand in the air, desperate to stop the rapid-fire onslaught of words.

“I’m going to give this to you straight, Pete. No chaser. You good, you able to handle that?” Tony didn’t even let the kid respond before jumping right back in. “Good, that’s what I thought.”

With one fluid motion, he lifted his arm in the air again, his other hand tapping on his own wrist bracelet.

“This works both ways,” he diligently explained. “It’s not just about me keeping tabs on you — you hit a dead ringer, we got the suit for that. This is for non-Spider-Man business. If you’re in trouble, it reaches out to me. And if I’m in trouble, it’ll reach out to you. I want you to feel a part of the team, to feel safe. And I don’t mean that solely to the physical concern.”

The recognition seemed to hit Peter long before Tony had finished, his eyes clouding over in a way Tony could really only describe as shame. He almost wanted to hit the metaphorical back button, undo what he had said and go back to laughing at stupid bunny ear photos.

And yet Wilson, the naggy little shit he was, pestered relentlessness in his ear that this needed to be done, these things needed to be said.

Peter seemed to take it a like a champ, and exactly how Tony expected him to — by deflecting.

“Oh! That’s — I’m-I’m good, Mr. Stark,” he insisted, still twirling the bracelet in his hands. “I’m fine, really. Everyone’s been, ya know...checkin’ up on me. I’m fine, really.”

Tony nodded, firmly. He pretended not to notice the bob in Peter’s throat, or the way he fidgeted with the bracelet as he fidgeted with anything else he could get his hands on during times of high anxiety.

There was no point in calling him out on it right now — it was his birthday, or so they celebrated the day as such.

Wilson was right, the kid needed to go at this on his own pace. Tony searched Peter’s eyes, those wide, absurdly trusting eyes that stared back at him as if he could solve all the problems in the world.

“That’s okay, that’s great. If you’re fine today, that’s great. But on the days you’re not, I’m here to help. We all are.” Tony dipped his chin low, hand braced against Peter’s arm to gain his attention. “And I’m not the best listener, Peter. But I’m here. I understand.”

The words came out with more ease than Tony ever could have anticipated, much smoother than the numerous practice talks he had with FRIDAY in his lab. He distantly wondered if it was premature to declare how natural this felt for him now, this whole mentor nonsense he took on finally gaining the right trajectory it had needed.

For the sake of not jinxing things, Tony decided to push the thought away. He was just happy the bout of nerves he'd initially felt when beginning the conversation seemed to vanish, or at the very most transfer over to Peter.

The kid nodded with a sense of insecurity pouring through every fiber of his begin.

───────

Identity Crisis︱Chapter 8: Infected

───────

With much reluctance, Peter finally looked up, lips as thin as ever as he forced out,

“I need a new backpack.”

Tony blinked. “What?”

“I...” Peter forced eye contact as sheepishly admitted, “I need a new backpack.”

“How?” Tony asked, pulling a face. “I just bought you one before school started.”

The exact conversation Peter was dreading to have landed straight in his lap faster than Mr. Delmar’s cat would do the same. Rubbing the back of his neck, he shrugged, and shrugged, and — jeeze, if he didn’t say something soon, his arms were going to fall right off.

“Yeah, it, um...there was this —”

“Can it.” Tony held a hand in the air, his eyes closed as if he was willing the patience to continue. “It’ll be on your doorstep in the morning.”

Peter sighed in relief. Oh. Well, that was easier than he thou —

“C’mon!” Tony exclaimed, slapping down a hand onto the armrest of his chair. “I just saved you from having to spew out some weak, poorly thought excuse of how you saved a kitten from a tree in Brooklyn and ripped a brand new backpack on the climb down. I deserve a little something for that, don’t I?”

“Huh?” Peter stammered, knitting his eyebrows tightly together. “It wasn’t a cat — I mean, that’s...actually a pretty good story, but it wasn’t —”

“You’re never this quiet, kid.” Tony’s admission was soft, softer than Peter had heard him talk all week, heck, all month it seemed. 

For Mr. Stark to sound...well, like that — it never meant anything good.

“I’ve just been busy with school,” Peter insisted. “I’m getting some tutoring in history class, that’s all.”

Hey, it wasn’t a total lie. Between patrolling, after school activities, and now tutoring, he had been incredibly busy. But the fact that Peter had to tell himself it wasn’t a lie — that was a little concerning.

“Right,” Tony nodded, huffing a hefty amount of air through his cheeks. “Wouldn’t happen to be Osborn’s kid helping you out, would it?”

The question blew through the room like a bomb.

Peter snapped his neck up, his stomach doing a back-flip strong enough to make the nine slices of pizza he ate earlier creep up into his throat.

“How’d you know that?” he asked, his voice thinning out at the end.

Tony sniffed, hard, and flicked his thumb across his nose.

“I try and make it a point to stay up to date on things happening with your school. Lunch menus, funding getting cut in the visual arts curriculum — which let’s be honest makes sense. It’s a STEM school, not Juilliard.” Tony sat a little straighter in his chair, his brows furrowed tightly together. “And a billionaires son of a questionable company joining your class right as the semester starts. Kinda makes my list.”

Peter swallowed past the digested pizza that began creep into his mouth. He wasn’t sure why his heart was pounding, or why his palms had gotten slick with sweat — there was nothing to be nervous about.

Well, aside from Mr. Stark’s stare, eyes so narrowed and stern that Peter finally had to look away.

“Yeah, he’s...he’s helping me,” Peter explained, clearing his throat quietly. “What’s the big deal?”

The sound of wheels rolling against the ground flooded Peter’s ears. He didn’t need to look up to see Mr. Stark had moved closer towards him; he could practically feel the man’s body heat against his forearms.

“Oh, I don’t know. I was hoping you could tell me,” Tony’s casual tone failed to match the energy he put out. “Because it feels like the story doesn’t end there.”

Peter spared him a glance before shaking his head. “It’s nothing.”

“It’s something,” Tony insisted. “My gut’s telling me that.”

Peter shrugged, unable to look Tony head-on as he argued, “Well, you can’t always trust your gut.”

Even that felt like a lie, spoken straight through his teeth.

Tony rolled his chair back a few feet, squinting his eye slightly as he gave them a bit more breathing room. Wordlessly, he watched Peter organize a couple of nails into the pile meant for screws. A beat passed by before he realized the kid hadn’t even recognized the mistake.

“Then prove me wrong.”

Peter raked his fingers through his hair, twisting his mouth in an odd way that any other time, Mr. Stark would have made some sarcastic joke about.

He didn’t know why this was so difficult for him to answer, it wasn’t like he was in trouble. All he needed was to muster up a little bit of confidence so he could admit the truth — which again, wasn’t a problem. He just had to keep telling himself that he wasn’t doing anything wrong.

And ignore Mr. Stark’s stare, which made him believe otherwise.

“Harry and I go back a little bit,” Peter mentioned, a little too quiet for his faux confidence to take hold of.

For a suspended moment, Tony stared at him, quiet and unmoving.

“You what?” he finally balked, confusion getting the best of him. “You’re sixteen. Going ‘back a little bit’ would mean you were a fetus in the womb.”

Peter’s ears reddened. “C’mon on, Mr. Stark —”

“You friends with this guy or something?” Tony rushed to ask, working his jaw.

Peter took notice, scrunching up his face at whatever attitude Mr. Stark was throwing his way. What was his deal? Whatever hostility he had going on was making him anxious, and that was just completely uncool. Lab nights and workshop hangouts were supposed to be fun, chill.

This was so not chill.

“We grew up together,” Peter tried to play off the fact like it was nothing. “Went to the same elementary school, went to middle school together. We were friends. He got transferred freshman year and we...drifted apart.”

“Drifted apart?” Tony echoed back, a line forming between his eyebrows. “That’s...as many years as I have fingers on one hand. That’s not drifting apart — by law of time, babies are not able to drift apart.”

Peter rolled his eyes, electing to ignore the latter half of Tony’s comment. “Maybe. I don’t know. He seems like he wants to be friends again, so...we’re hanging out. No big deal.”

There was something about Mr. Stark that Peter had come to figure out not long after they started spending time together — real time together, the kind that May would joke about, saying it made her jealous. The man had an aura; he spoke with his demeanor, with the energy that poured out of him. With or without intention.

So with that in mind, it didn’t take long for Peter to notice the thick, suffocating blanket of tension that began to whirl around them. It was swift, a tornado that wrecked everything in its place.

Peter knew long before ever looking up that the eye of the storm had originated from Tony.

“Why didn’t you tell me, Pete?” he asked, concern etched deep into the contours of his face.

Peter chewed roughly on his bottom lip, the twinge of pain enough to ground him. It was stuff like this that made him feel like he was in trouble.

“I...didn’t feel like I needed too.” Peter shrugged for what felt like the millionth time.

“Yeah, you did,” Tony argued, a strict boom of authority lacing his tone. “With everything going on with OsCorp —”

“What! What’s going on with OsCorp!?” Peter spun around in his stool, so quickly that the wheels beneath him jostled the workbench. “I don’t know, you don’t tell me these things!”

A look of realization fell over Tony. His face dropped almost as quickly as the handful of screws that fell to the floor. They chimed against the concrete ground, one after another, all while he clearly worked his brain for a response.

“It’s nothing you need to get involved in,” he finally managed, after a pause too long.

“Why?" Peter didn’t let even a millisecond go by without pushing the issue. “What’s the big deal?”

Tony huffed in exasperation. “Listen to me, Pete —”

“You’ve kept everything secret from me, and I don’t even know what’s going on!” Peter was breathless, agitated impatience leeching into his every word. “If things are such a big deal that you don’t want me being friends with Harry all because of OsCorp, shouldn’t I get to know why!”

“You do know why, kid,” Tony bit back sharply, addressing Peter with stern eyes. He stood up from his chair, letting it wheel away from him without a second thought. “Sentient rock androids? A maniac running around wearing a fishbowl on his head? An entire bunker built under the sea? Radioactive spiders? Any of this ring a bell?”

The room went quiet, if only for a second. Peter seemed to shrink down in his stool, unintentionally hunching over to make himself look smaller.

“I just thought—”

“No, that’s the problem, you didn’t think,” Tony’s knee-jerk anger dissipated almost as quickly as it came, his entire body softening a mere moment after his retort. He sighed loudly, running a grease-stained hand down along his face. “Because you didn’t have to. This isn’t your battle. The Avengers will deal with OsCorp and whatever shit they’re spewing out of their ass. But you? You need to stay on the ground, that’s where you belong. That’s where we need you.”

“But I’m able to help!” Peter perked right back up, unable to keep containing the frustrated eagerness he had been suppressing for months now. A part of him knew he should be approaching this in a much different way, that he should be acting more calm and patient. But finally talking about all these things had him way too excited.

And Tony could tell. He pinched tightly at the bridge of his nose. “Christ, kid —”

“I can be a part of this, I can do things for you guys!” Peter stood up from his stool, the wheels pushing it far behind him. He didn’t care, approaching Tony with wildly excited hands. “Especially if I’m friends with Harry! That’s like, an inside source, right?”

Tony looked him straight on. “Reel it in, kiddo —”

“I can get access to places!” His arm gestured to nothing particular. “Like OsCorp, I’ve already been inside OsCorp!”

“Yeah, I know.” Tony marched wide steps to close the distance between them, more intimidating now than he ever could be with the Iron Man armor on. “And that’s not happening again.”

Peter’s brain shuddered to a halt.

His arms dropped down to his sides with a smack, confusion coloring his face so brightly that he could feel the heat reddening his cheeks.

“You....” he cocked his head to the side, as if it would better assist in gauging Mr. Stark’s expression. There was something noticeable in it, as if the man realized a second too late what he had said. Like he had blurted out a secret not meant for Peter to know.

Peter didn’t like how that made him feel.

“How do you know these things — are you spying on me?”

Tony sighed, resisting the urge to roll his eyes at the accusation. He looked away, noticeably debating on a response, shaking his head tightly.

After a short, heated glare directed at the walls, Tony lifted his arm in the air. Immediately after, he used the other to point his finger sharply at his wrist, and the watch strapped around it.

The same watch that Peter wore.

Looking down at his own hand, Peter furrowed his brows, eyeing the nanite technology wrapped tightly around his skin. It took a second, but once the realization sunk in —

“This thing tracks me!?”

If Tony wasn’t pissed off with the accusation before, he definitely was now.

“No,” he curtly rebutted. “Not until it’s removed.”

Stumbling a bit on the uptake, Peter made a face, mentally re-tracing his steps. Now it just felt like they were both accusing each other of things — Peter never took the watch off. Hell, most of the time he forgot he had it on. It was like a second skin, nanites so advanced he only noticed it when someone pointed it out.

When someone pointed it —

Of course.

He closed his eyes and held them shut, cursing inwardly.

“I took it off for security,” Peter mumbled, the realization pummeling down on him, hard.

“It’s a panic watch.” Tony’s jaw clicked as he crossed his arms, his weight shifting from one foot to the other. “What did you think was going to happen if you took it off?”

Peter should have known better. He should have known better, he should have known better, he should have —

Damn it, what was he thinking?

───────

Identity Crisis︱Chapter 14: Correlation vs. Causation

───────

The sound of his disapproval was drowned out by the glass doors of the workshop sliding open, though not loud enough to overtake the continuous clicking of Tony’s mouse. While Rhodey turned his head to greet the newcomers, Tony didn’t budge an inch. His attention on the screen was laser-sharp, problematically hysteric.

Not even the stomping footsteps from behind could break his focus.

“Didn’t you say you were going to back off Peter for a bit?” Clint’s accusation tore through the room, a frustrated edge to his voice bouncing off the walls.

“Yeah, about that,” Tony dryly cut in, eyes unwavering from the monitor, “that’s not a thing anymore.”

Steve was less than two feet behind him, heavy exhaustion wearing on his face. “Clint, we went over this —”

“That’s Peter’s camera.” Clint froze in place, jaw unhinged. His eyes bounced from the computer monitor to the camera sitting on the desk where Tony sat, the plastic of the expensive model reflecting under the workshops overhead lights. “You get permission to take that?”

Rhodey gave a slight shake of his head. “Clint, man, don’t —”

“Yeah, about that,” Tony stressed again, his clicks becoming faster. “Don’t you know me by now? I don’t do well with needing permission.”

Rhodey rubbed aggressively at his temple, and Steve leveled Clint a look, practically imploring the man not to start a fight.

Clint didn’t back down. “What, you don’t know how to handle some off-the-wall behavior from a teenager — so now you’re just going to spy on him?”

“He already thinks I’m spying on him!” Tony spun his chair around, arms thrown in the air as he faced the group for the first time. 

Clint stomped ahead. “So you’re going to prove him right?”

Steve turned away, looking up to the ceiling as he mentally forced himself the patience needed to approach the situation. Meanwhile, Rhodey hadn’t let go of his forehead, close to scrubbing the skin away with the pressure of his fingertips.

Tony eyed Clint intently, staring him down for a second that felt too long. Finally, he spun back around in his chair back, the glow of the computer screen highlighting the stress lines on his face.

“No,” he curtly threw back. “I’m going to figure out what the hell is going on with him.”

Rhodey sighed. “Devils advocate here —”

“The devil can’t help you now.”

Natasha’s voice was an unexpected sound that caught them all off guard, though Tony had little interest in her sudden presence. The remaining three turned around, watching as the glass doors slid shut on their own accord —the noise of them opening over was never heard over their bickering.

Though knowing Natasha, she’d find a way to sneak in even if they’d been dead silent.

Clint turned to face her, hand outstretched with frustration. “Nat, this is ridiculous! You can’t seriously believe —”

“I meant what I told you,” she insisted, her voice low, edged with coldness. “I meant every word of it. Regardless of who believes me.”

As quickly as she turned to face him, Natasha turned to Steve, who leaned his backside against the nearest desk. His khakis wrinkled against the metal table, and the button-down shirt he wore ruffled when his arms crossed over his chest. His exhaustion didn’t deter him from the situation at hand. He locked eyes with Natasha as she stared him down.

“I know when to trust my instincts.” Natasha took a deep breath in, eyes flickering back to Clint only for a brief second. “And I know better than not to.”

The unspoken didn’t need vocalized. Steve nodded back to her, his belief and support steadfast and solid.

Clint, however, shook his head, aggressively fast. “You guys are full of shit!”

Rhodey dropped his hand down to his side. “Clint, man —!”

“You train this kid to fight like, what, an assassin like you, Natasha? A soldier like you, Steve?” Clint grabbed the back of Tony’s computer chair, forcing him to spin and face them. The look he received in return was hot enough to burn. “You took a teenager and put him in a war-zone. You wanted him trained for combat, trained like SHIELD operatives, and the moment he starts behaving like us, you lose your shit on him. You’re a hypocrite.”

Tony looked up at him from where he sat, the shadowy bags underneath his eyes somehow darkening underneath the overhead lights.

“You done yet?” he dryly asked.

“I’m just getting started,” Clint sneered in return.

“Stop it.”

Steve’s command was far from robust, exhaustion sinking its teeth deep into his words. Slowly, and one by one, they turned to look at him. He didn’t meet their gaze, his head bowed low to his chest, his eyes locked intently on the floor.

He chewed on his thoughts before speaking again.

“This isn’t the time for disagreements. Whether we all believe it or not, one of our own may be in trouble. If there’s even a one percent chance that something could be wrong with Peter, it’s in our best interest — and his — that we act on it.” Steve straightened his back, lifting his head while managing to lock eyes with everyone at once. The determination behind the blue irises was prominent. “Though I don’t agree with Tony’s methods, I think he’s right to take action. Especially after what happened last night.”

A soft sheet of confusion seemed to wash over Clint, one that visibly took him aback. He released his grip on Tony’s chair, his head bouncing between the group slowly but surely.

“No one told me anything about last night.” A beat passed as Clint unknitted the tight crease to his brow. “Is that why we left D.C in a rush? What happened?”

Natasha pulled her jacket closer around her waist, barely looking Clint in the eye when she turned towards him. “We felt it was only right if Tony told you himself.”

Clint narrowed his eyes as Tony rolled his.

“Of course,” Tony drawled out, immediately turning back to his computer screen. “Because I haven’t dealt with enough in the past forty-eight hours.”

The clicking of a mouse resumed, though not nearly at the same pace as before. Tony fiddled on the computer, the flat-screen monitor pulling up a different array of screens, some minimized, some enlarged — all keeping him intently focused on the task at hand.

Clint’s impatience grew by the second. “Are you going to tell me or —?”

“Hold your horses, Barton.” The lack of any snark or humor in Tony’s tone was enough to create a thick, suffocating course of tension.

Even Rhodey seemed concerned, his head cocking slightly to the side as he examined Tony.

A few moments later, and Tony pushed his chair away from the screen, giving full access to the others for viewing.

“Five months ago, I designed this device specifically for Peter. It’s an emergency signal — a panic button. It’s tied directly to the one I wear. If he’s ever in trouble, he knows to activate it. I get the alert, and I respond.” Tony showcased the black bracelet strapped around his wrist, eyeing it himself before dropping his hand back into his lap. “It’s a no questions asked kind of deal. I don’t care what trouble he’s in. Burning building, hostage under the sea, or upset that he bombed a math quiz. He’s got a way to seek help. At all times.”

The raw, almost breakable crack in Tony’s voice was enough to shake the room. The confidence he usually carried on his back had been rattled, and it was obvious.

Clint noticed. His demeanor took on a change, softening around the corners as he stuffed his hands into his jean pockets.

“Didn’t know that,” he settled on saying, briefly clearing his throat. “No questions asked...that’s a good way to go about things with teenagers. Smart thinkin’.”

Tony gave him a look, though the heat behind it was halfhearted at best. “I may not be Farmer Joe raising six kids on the prairie, but I was a teenager once. It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to know how they act.”

Clint made a face. “I don’t have six kids —”

“He activated the panic alarm last night.”

Clint’s eyes grew wide, and he did a double-take to the others to make sure he had heard things correctly. Their lack of surprise was instead filled with a distressed confirmation. Clint turned back to Tony, who seemed equally as upset.

“Oh shit,” he mumbled. “Is...you know, is he okay?”

Tony didn’t hesitate to shake of his head. “No.”

Clint arched an eyebrow high.

“He told you he wasn’t okay?”

Tony stopped shaking his head, opting to turn back to the computer instead.

“No.”

“For the love of —” Clint made a noise that stayed locked in his mouth. “Tony, is there any possibility Peter activated the alarm by accident?”

Craning his head over his shoulder, Tony bluntly — and curtly — stressed, “No.”

The blueprints of the design began to flicker away, one by one, as Tony closed them out and resumed his search through the SD card slotted in the console. 3D outlines of the device were instead replaced with candid pictures, each scrolling along faster than anyone could keep track of.

───────

Identity Crisis︱Chapter 16: Web of Lies and Deceit

───────

“So what’s the plan?” Sam was quick to ask, his bold tone ripping right through the room.

Steve whirled his head around, just as Sam crossed the threshold of the workshop with Natasha closely following at his side. Despite their entrance, Tony didn’t budge an inch. His taps on the keyboard were starting to severely endanger the structural integrity of even his own devices.

“Nothing that requires an overly mechanical Big Bird,” he said without looking away from his screen. “Do us all a favor — go meet up with Elmo back down at Sesame Street.”

Sam stopped dead in his tracks. Natasha quickly walked pasted him, never once letting up her pace.

“Excuse me, Tin-Man?” Sam looked to Steve, his face questioning if what he heard was actually — legitimately — what he had heard. The apologetic look Steve offered said enough.

Before Sam could rebut, Natasha held a hand in the air. It was her only free hand, the other tightly clutching a folder by her hip.

“Don’t take it personally,” she pressed, her voice uncharacteristically clipped. “Tony’s pissed at me and has decided to take it out on everyone else instead.”

After a few moments, Sam’s huff of disbelief became the only source of sound in the room — other than Tony’s vicious keystrokes.

“What, because you didn’t want him marching into some high-school and manhandling a student right after he nearly killed the principal?” Sam took the silence as an answer, his eyes somehow widening even further. “C’mon, Stark, no way could you have possibly thought that would’ve ended well!”

Tony rubbed his temples, his stock of patience quickly depleting.

“Up until an hour ago, the damn kid went off the grid,” he said, his attention falling back to his screen. “If Romanoff hadn’t dictated our destination when we clearly should have gone straight to Peter —”

“I talked some sense into you,” Natasha objected. “A superhero billionaire showing up to high-school right after a paranormal assault —”

“He’d be here.” Tony pursed his lips tightly. “Under our watch.”

“And you and him both would be prime suspect number one,” Natasha admonished.

“Yeah, okay, that —” Sam pointed a wagging finger in Natasha’s direction before quickly turning back to Tony, despite the man having his back to them all. “That mostly, but also — how’d he go off the grid if you’ve got a tracker in that panic watch of his?”

A growing headache had definitely bloomed into a full blown migraine, and this time, Tony couldn’t resist the eye roll that followed.

“It’s not a tracker unless he activates it.”

Steve’s response was instant. And firm.

“We know Peter’s home now.” With a deep breath, he adjusted his stance into a parade rest, hands locked tightly and securely behind his back. “We’re getting May Parker somewhere safe — he’ll be alone, we won’t have to worry about anyone else getting hurt. And until we figure out a plan, Clint’s got an eye on him. This is lining up to be in our favor. Like Tony said...we just have to act, and fast.”

The tension in the room didn’t ease. If anything, it grew.

───────

Identity Crisis︱Chapter 29: Rebirth

───────

Peter let out an exhale so hard, he swore it was part of the breeze that blew the curtain forward.

“Holy...cow.” It was the most he could manage. Words weren’t wording, and if he didn’t get his shit together in time for Decathlon, MJ was going to have his head.

Which she could do. Because it was over.

They could go back home. He could go back to Decathlon, go back to school, go back to his life —

Peter looked away as fast as he could, hiding the quiver the worked the muscles of his chin before Tony could see.

It was finally over.

“It’s been a while since you were...up and about,” Tony began saying, his head noticeably tilting to the side. “What’s the last thing you remember?”

Peter cleared his throat — again and again, discretely rubbing at his eye and hoping the shine of liquid against his fingers wasn’t too noticeable. The question was an easy one, and yet he found himself thinking far longer than he expected — to the point he was chewing on his bottom lip, gnawing away at the skin.

His memories weren’t coherent, weren’t linear. They were scrambled in a way that put May’s morning hash browns to shame. He mostly remembered bits and pieces, but they were covered in a hazy fog.

Some were recent, like rushing to the Quinjet to leave the compound before SHIELD caught on to what was happening.

Some were old, like hearing Mr. Stark’s voice all the way back at his birthday party, months ago now. Playing in his head like they were just spoken.

He mostly remembered feeling safe, hearing those voices. They had echoed through his ears in a way that stifled the fear he felt, bringing a sense of protective calm where he needed it most.

Tony cleared his throat and Peter realized he had yet to answer the question.

“You, uh...you said you had to go back to New York for a little while,” Peter finally spoke up, clearing his own throat along the way. “I woke up and...and you weren’t back yet. I think…”

The longer he thought about it, the thicker the fog got.

Peter shook his head. “I don’t remember anything after that.”

Tony nodded like he expected the answer from the get-go. He took a pause, allowing himself a deep breath in before exhaling with a hard sigh.

“You wouldn’t,” he explained, lifting slightly from his chair as his good arm dug into his back pocket. He rummaged around the pocket as he spoke. “That night, you escaped the Citadel. The symbiote began full possession of your brain by then. It...took over. Like we were warned it would do. But something in you was still around.”

A muted grunt sounded from Tony’s throat as he re-positioned himself in the chair, sitting back down with an item clutched tightly in his hand.

He looked down at his closed fist before unraveling his fingers.

“I wasn’t able to get to it right away. Went back into the jungle a few days ago — found a couple of anacondas playing with it,” Tony said, lifting the sleek device where Peter could see it; dangling between his thumb and forefinger. “But there was enough of you left in that big brain of yours that you knew...you knew what to do.”

The moment Peter saw the watch, he immediately looked down at both his hands. It was the first time he realized he’d been missing the device, always so seamlessly sealed against his skin that he forgot he was wearing it.

As quickly as he looked down, he looked back up at Tony and the watch dangling between his fingers.

“I took it off.” Peter gave a ghost of a smile. “It activated the tracker.”

Tony didn’t nod. Only smiled in return, closing his hand once again and sealing the device away.

“I’ll hold onto it,” he mentioned, gesturing the closed fist in Peter’s direction. “You’ve been onto something — I’ve been hovering on you a bit much, been a bit too overbearing —”

“No, I —” Peter reached out, suddenly, his hand reaching for Tony’s before he’d even realized it. “I’d – I’d like it back. Please?”

Tony’s expression softened, and he nodded, handing over the watch without restraint.

Peter let the sleek device sit idly in the center of his palm, eyeing it no different than the first time it’d been handed to him. It didn’t have a single dent, clean as a whistle — looking exactly the same as he last remembered.

But at the same time, it didn’t. The story it held altered its appearance — not on the outside, no, the nanotech hadn’t been altered in the slightest bit. Not even a scratch — or bite marks — Peter’s eyes went slightly wide when he realized Mr. Stark said anacondas. All things considered, the device looked untouched.

───────

Identity Crisis︱Chapter 10: Something Wicked This Way Comes

───────

“What is it?” Steve asked, leaning forward with interest.

Rhodey folded his arms across his chest, stuffing his hands deep into his armpits. “A few months back — after the courts tossed out the subpoena that the Air Force Weapons Procurement Liaison Department submitted against OsCorp industries — Natasha and myself created an algorithm. It took a while to perfect, but we eventually snuck it into their systems.”

“We wanted to latch onto any words, codes, cryptography — anything that may possibly lead us to where they’ve been hiding their experiments since SHIELD shut down the clandestine bunker in the Bermuda Triangle,” Natasha added, wrapping an arm tightly around the leg pulled high to her chest.

“What did it find?” Bruce looked around the room, as if asking anyone nearby. “The program, what – what did it find?”

Steve squeezed the fold on his hands, watching with intent interest as Tony’s technology lit up the kitchen with an artificial glow. The once marble stone of the table was now a display case for translucent screens.

“Not much.” Natasha shrugged. “Rhodey and I were starting to wonder if they’ve given up the game, gone straight after a good scare from Director Hill and her team.”

“You don’t think Fury was involved in all that in any way?” Sam brushed cookie crumbles away from his shirt, swallowing hard as his demeanor fell serious. “Shutting them down and all?”

Natasha shook her head, barely glancing his way. “I don’t know what Fury is up to these days, aside from lurking in the shadows where he sees fit.”

“It’s the man’s favorite past time,” Tony muttered, not once looking away from the multiple screens that he waved and flicked around in the air, a conductor of intangible images only made touchable by his technology. “And you’re spewing fairy-tales and folklore, Romanoff. There’s no way they’d stop cold turkey, not this far into their game. They’ve gone too deep.”

“Pun intended?” Rhodey dryly joked, a tight smile creeping across his face.

Tony gave him the side-eye and nothing more.

“You’re right,” Natasha remarked, nodding towards the holograms ahead. “Something else has taken precedence.”

Tony tapped twice on the table, the glowing imagery beaming as it lifted upwards. His fingers pinched tightly together until the tips of his nails made contact. With one smooth move, he spread his arms wide apart, enlarging the document with ease.

It rotated, spinning around to show those facing the other way. Tony walked the length of the kitchen island to keep up with it, eyeing it with a line deepening between his brow.

“What the hell is this?” Sam asked, adjusting himself on the stool to get a better look.

The images littering the document weren’t hard to distinguish — scans of the human brain, detailing the different matter and components, looking like pictures straight out of an antonym book. With it were diagrams of DNA strands and cell structure, each moving in animation, trial and error to a hypothesis that detailed alongside the report.

“A formula,” Tony stated, finding conclusion faster than anyone else. The look in his eyes said one thing; he was studying it, absorbing the information in ways no one else could even consider doing.

Rhodey’s eyes drifted over his friend, watching as he kept up with the spinning hologram, the reflection mirroring directly onto his face.

“The Oz Formula, to be exact," Rhodey said.

Tony came to a screeching halt. He snapped his head over to Rhodey, his eyes wide, the whites shining blue from the image gleaming in the air.

“Well, stone the crows and strike me pink…I’ll be damned.” He pointed to the document, his finger shaking multiple times, practically wagging at it with excitement. “Rhodey —”

“I know,” Rhodey immediately cut in, calm and cool, collected despite Tony’s heightening emotion threatening to overtake the room. “I told you...I believed you.”

To all the others, it looked as if Tony’s mind had short-circuited. As if the information was too heavy to handle, too much to process.

For Tony, it was his brain running a mile a millisecond, only having stopped wagging his finger to tap it endlessly against his chin. The thoughts came too fast to keep up with, a head-rush of realization opening a gate of closed-off questions that he hadn’t let himself ask until now.

Months of searching, months of digging — finally they had something.

OsCorp could pay their employed scum the worlds worth in money to keep their mouths shut. It didn’t stop the Avengers from finding out the truth.

It wouldn’t stop the Avengers from finding out the truth.

“It came through on the algorithm a few days ago,” Natasha spoke up, addressing the team. “I back-traced it within the servers to a Doctor Lucas Murphy, a scientist employed at Oscorp for over three decades. Multiple PhD’s, doctorates — holds more degrees in biochemistry than anyone in this entire facility.”

“And he’s working for OsCorp?” Sam scoffed, incredulous disbelief lacing his tone. “They must have some amazing pension plans there.”

“So this Doctor Murphy is the one creating the formula?” Steve looked to Tony for an answer, only to see the man had immediately returned to swiping through screens and pulling up new ones. He instead cranned his head behind him. “Rhodey, didn’t you say they claimed it was a cure for any human sickness?”

Rhodey nodded curtly. “Immune to the destruction of one’s own molecular structure and some additional bullshit verbiage, yeah. It sounded too Strucker-ish for me. Like they wanted to create the next super-soldier serum, or something damn close to it.”

The screech of a chair against tile floor cut through the room.

“That’s not this,” Bruce said in one breath, standing from his seat and slowly walking over to where the document floated in the middle of the kitchen table. It was his turn to wag his finger at the screen. “That’s not this at all.”

Natasha straightened up in her stool. “Use your big boy words, Bruce.”

“He doesn’t have to,” Tony cut in. “FRIDAY just analyzed the entire document. While you all were sorting the puzzle pieces, she put the puzzle together.”

Tony took a step back, further away from the table than anyone else. As he did, an array of different screens began flickering to life, one by one, each brighter than the last.

“It’s an artificial biogenic mutagen,” he stated. “They didn’t lie about one thing, It’s definitely being designed to augment the cell structure of the human body.”

The animation in the reports played in a seamless loop, 3D designs pivoting with smooth agility.

Steve realized not long after silence had taken their conversation that the funky-looking DNA strands had circled a total of five times.

“How?” he finally asked.

Bruce pointed a stern, straight finger to the hologram. “This here? It’s a string of different chemical compounds and nucleotides. Adenine, thymine, phosphate-dexyribose — uh, that there is guanine, and cyosine. There’s an entire study here on ribonucleic acid and it’s connection to cytoplasm —”

“It’s the CRISPR technique,” Tony interrupted, offering Bruce an unapologetic smile. “Sorry, Brucey, you were going to put them to sleep.”

There was a pause as the others struggled to understand the information. Natasha tilted her head to the side, pressing her chin against her knee with an attentive look. Steve, Sam, and Rhodey waited for further explanation, eyeing the two men that stood at the head of the table with tense impatience.

“I’ve never...I’ve never seen anything like this,” Bruce awed.

“What’s this?” Steve all but demanded. “What are we looking at?”

“Clustered Regularly Interspaced Short Palindromic Repeats,” Tony smoothly explained, not a stutter in his words. “Otherwise known as the molecular biology’s version of copy and paste.”

“It’s fascinating,” Bruce drawled on. “It’s based on how bacteria protect themselves from foreign viruses. When viral DNA is detected, the bacteria sends out two single strands of RNA — a nucleic acid present in all living cells. It then uses a protein called Cas9, which locates the section of that DNA with the same code. The RNA then locks onto that piece and cuts it there, disabling it.”

Bruce carefully removed his glasses, cleaning the lenses with the hem of his shirt as he continued. “The same process can be used to add or delete information from any organism, including humans. The CRISPR technique can edit genomes — it can deactivate some gene, but at the same time it could also cut DNA and provide another copy. A mutated copy of that gene to change the way its expressed. It can completely alter someone’s cell structure, create a whole new strand of DNA in the process. A whole new person.”

The only immediate response was a mildly disconcerting silence, tense and stifling in the air.

Sam leaned back in his chair, blinking more than once. “That didn’t put me to sleep...but it sure as hell confused me.”

“I think I get it,” Natasha bemused, setting down her leg to lean closer towards the hologram. “You’re saying that this formula will target sections of DNA and replace it with a completely different strand?”

Bruce nodded a few more times than necessary. “Essentially.”

───────

Identity Crisis︱Chapter 31: In a Quiet Lagoon, Devils Dwell

───────

“I’m sorry, sir.”

Norman didn’t hear the doctor’s apology. For once, though, it wasn’t due to the raging pain that had found permanent occupancy in his head. It wasn’t even in fault to the pain that coursed through his body, a disease beyond his control long since taking his flesh and bone hostage to its corruption.

“Get out,” Norman sneered, the words slipping through the cracks of his teeth — his jaw clenched so tight his molars were at risk of grinding to dust. “Now.”

Only a few footsteps sounded, his eyes clenched too tight to see their departure. It wasn’t enough, not for a lab filled to the brim with scientists. He could still feel the heat of their bodies surrounding him; one body in particular drawing closer, until a hand touched down on his arm.

“Perhaps we can try —”

“I said get out!” Norman shouted — his eyes ripping open, bugling with rage. No sooner did after he throw his arm out, gesturing wildly around him. “All of you! Out! Now!”

He was still yelling when the men and women scampered to the exit, all but pushing one another out of the way to clear the room. Their footsteps were like wild animals running in fear; prey that ran from their predator.

It left just Norman. Standing in the middle of the lab, center to his work. His chest heaving with the exhaustion of his anger — exhaustion of his failure.

And one lone scientist at his side; his hand no longer making contact, but still close enough that he could return the touch if desired.

He didn’t, of course. Norman didn’t need to protest the act of sympathy for him to know better.

“Norman…” Doctor Frye began to say. His voice got lost halfway into saying the man’s name, and he allowed the departure, letting silence take the place of anything he may have spoken.

For a long moment, neither said anything. Norman’s heavy breathing was the only thing to sound between them, with a strikingly noticeable wheeze inside each inhale from his lungs.

Finally, Doctor Frye returned his touch. “How long did Adler give you?”

It wasn’t a question asked with compassion. Barely any condolence laced the otherwise clinical tone of the scientist. And yet something migrated into his voice that Norman noticed. Something that had his jaw twisting to work through clenched muscles keeping his response at bay.

Something akin to pity.

Norman had to clear his throat before he answered.

“The cancer has migrated into every red blood cell of my body,” he said, taking the towel from beside him and smearing the cooling gel across his hand. “Treatments have been ineffective for weeks. Chemo and radiation were never on the table to begin with, not with how aggressively the cells mutate.”

From his peripheral vision, Norman could see Doctor Frye’s eyebrows practically touch the high ceilings of the laboratory.

“You have weeks, then?” he asked, barely stepping aside in time when Norman tossed the wet towel his way. It landed somewhere far off to the side, disregarded as Norman began to head for the exit.

“I had weeks, Doctor Frye.” Norman didn’t give the scientist so much a second glance on his way out. Each pounding step of his retreat bounced off the sleek floors with an echo that reached all four corners of the room, speaking the anger that he kept tightly concealed.

The glass doors had just slid open when a voice stopped him cold in his tracks.

“We restructured the formula.”

Norman froze, lingering for so long that the doors slid shut once more. Though he didn’t turn around, he did cock his head ever-so-slightly to the side. Giving his ear a better chance at hearing the man speak.

Doctor Frye took timid steps forward as he re-approached Norman.

“Doctor Murphy and I. We...we went back to formula,” he explained — cautiously. As if each word he spoke was a threat to his well being. “We stripped the Oz serum of its need for the spider DNA — completely restructured it without Arachnid Number 00.” Doctor Frye swallowed, hard, before saying, “It’s finished.”

A beat.

Followed by two more.

Norman turned around, twisting at his hip and spinning on the balls of his feet. His eyes found Doctor Frye’s and didn’t let up — and yet he didn’t say a word.

The expression on his face said enough.

“Adler didn’t want me telling you.” Doctor Frye stopped walking towards him, suddenly, leaving enough length that it took time for his words to reach Norman.

When they did, Norman wasn’t hesitant on breaking that distance with three large strides.

“Doctor Adler strictly told me that the Oz formula was my last chance,” he reiterated, each line engraved in his face deepening with the same aggression that coated his tone.

For every step he took forward, Doctor Frye took one back.

“She insists…” Doctor Frye stumbled on his own tongue, and tripped over his own feet. “She insists it’s not suitable for trial.”

Norman came to a halt — and just in time. If Doctor Frye had taken any more steps back, he’d have collided with the wall behind him.

For a second that stretched on into many, the only sound between them was the blast of the air conditioning from above. The vents were high up in the ceiling, but low enough that the blast of cold air ruffled the frazzled hair on-top of Doctor Frye’s head.

“This isn’t a trial, Doctor Frye…” Norman started to say. His chin tilted low and his eyes narrowed, staring intently at the man in front of him. “This is my life.”

Doctor Frye’s only response was a swallow that shook his throat. Hard enough to quiver the nodule in the middle.

Norman tilted his head to the side. “You agree with her?”

It wasn’t so much a question as it was a statement. A realization.

Doctor Frye didn’t let himself blink, barely taking in a breath of air when it was needed. The tension in the lab only grew without a direct answer to the question.

“The initial trials weren’t...the most promising, sir,” Doctor Frye sounded hesitant to explain, slow to talk, with each word being carefully chosen. “Without using the birth host of Arachnid Number 00, you were beginning to show onset signs of schizophrenia, of – of dissociative identity disorder. Split personalities.”

Norman kept his gaze; his shoulders pulling back tautly and his chest puffing out slightly. Underneath the harsh laboratory lights, the impression of aging skin looked all the more crude.

And a face that normally held little to no emotion suddenly grew thick with building, simmering animus.

Doctor Frye took the moment of silence as permission to continue speaking.

“The formula…” he cleared his throat, multiple times, until coming to terms with the fact that the words would need to be forced out. “The formula, as it stands...could very well come at the cost of your sanity.”

If Norman was the least bit bothered by the disclosure, he didn’t let it show.

“You have the qualitative reports?” he was quick to ask.

Doctor Frye gave one short, sharp nod.

Norman arched an eyebrow. “The tentative analysis?”

Again — one nod, concise.

Norman arched his other eyebrow. “The quantitative data, the conditional studies?”

Doctor Frye hesitated. But nodded, nonetheless.

Norman paused.

“You have the formula.”

Doctor Frye took those final steps back, colliding into the wall behind him and pressing himself there as if it could hide him away. His hands, pocketed deep in his lab coat, dug deeper — any further and his fingers would’ve touched the floor.

“Norman, listen,” Doctor Frye began, forcing his voice to stay firm. “I’m inclined to believe her —”

Norman closed the distance between them. “And yet you taunt a dying man with his means to live.”

The fabric of Doctor Frye’s lab coat pulled tightly as he sunk his hands deep inside the pockets, noticeably clenching the white material on his left side.

Norman immediately shot his head down towards it, eyeing the hand hidden inside the pocket, clenched so tightly into a fist it began to tremble. The longer Norman stared, the more he swore he could see the tight lines around the man’s knuckles, surely the same color as the lab coat he wore.

With his head still low, Norman peered his eyes up.

“You wouldn’t bring the formula here if you didn’t have an inkling of a notion to passing it off,” he stated, the animosity in his tone gone — colored instead with something vivacious in its nature. “Why?”

Doctor Frye didn’t let the change in Norman’s voice have any effect on his expression. But his hand did squeeze tighter, threatening the structure of the lab coat pocket and risking every seam that had been sowed neatly together.

“It’ll do what it’s intended to do,” Doctor Frye evaded a direct response for a more clinical approach. “In all trials, damaged cells were repaired to incredible strength. Mimicking the original super-soldier serum created by Abraham Erskine, almost identical to its properties.”

The excitement in his answer, as slender as it was, didn’t get far with Norman.

“Where’s your hesitations stem from, Frye?”

The question was as tight as the scientists grip inside his pocket.

A second turned into a minute. And for a moment, both men wondered if the conversation had any fuel to keep going. The only thing colder than Norman’s stare was the A.C that blasted from above.

Doctor Frye’s minuscule hope that the topic would be dropped was destroyed with the time that passed — and the growing expression on Norman’s face. Morphing his otherwise detached, emotionless, controlled features into something completely unrecognizable.

Desperation.

“Your cells are beyond mutation from the cancer, sir,” he tried to explain. Norman’s stare didn’t let up, and he looked elsewhere in an attempt to get away from the choleric gaze. “It could repair them. Or it could…”

Doctor Frye didn’t just swallow — he gulped.

Norman grounded his teeth, accompanied by two more steps forward. Easily, and seamlessly, breaching any personal space the doctor may have had.

“I’m listening.”

There was an unspoken behind his words. Doctor Frye had been working alongside him long enough to hear what he didn’t outright say. It wasn’t just that his ears were willing to take on the information. It was that he demanded to be told.

And if there was one thing they knew about the man — all of them. From the scientists down to the janitorial staff — it was that when Norman Osborn wanted something, he got his way.

“Rats with cancer used in the clinical trials turned into...into mutated creatures.” Doctor Frye returned his gaze to Norman, and locked on hard. “They turned into beasts.”

If it were at all possible, Doctor Frye’s emphasis on his final word took over even the blast of A.C from the ceiling vents. It was the only word he spoke that had any firmness to it, steady and stiff with every syllable that crossed his lips.

There was just barely a flicker of uncertainty that crossed Norman’s face. Gone no sooner than it passed by.

“You’re telling me…” he slowly started, a frown deepening the line between his brows. “That your hesitation for...for possibly the cure to any mortal illness,” Norman let that linger for a second, “all has roots in a few sick rats and an overly cautious oncologist?”

A grimace pulled harshly at Doctor Frye’s mouth, twisting his lips into a mess that couldn’t be undone. There wasn’t any space for him to get away from Norman, not with him inches to where the man stood. He could smell the cologne on him no different than the smell of lidocaine gel coating the burns on his hand.

“Adler’s right,” Doctor Frye insisted. “Between the initial signs of schizophrenia shown before your cancer progressed, and what the trials showed us with cancerous rats and their mutated cells turning them into...into…”

Doctor Frye shook his head — just once, but hard enough to rattle his vision.

“It could do the exact same to you.”

The cold air from above poured down on them both in heavy drafts, but it did nothing to take the hot air away from the breath that parted through Norman’s lips. Each puff struck directly against Doctor Frye’s face; the moisture it left behind was just added to the dampness of sweat that started to layer ontop of his skin.

Norman paid it no mind. His eyes fixated staunchly on the arm that Doctor Frye pocketed away — and the clenched fist concealed inside the pocket.

“My life is not in your hands, doctor.” Norman outstretched his arm, open palmed — ready to take what was given to him. “It’s in my own.”

The air conditioning from above shut off, leaving the laboratory to bathe in utter silence.

Slowly, Doctor Frye unclenched his fist.

───────

Identity Within︱Chapter 3: R.S.V.P

───────

“Oh my, my, yes, it’s been…it’s been quite the few months, for sure. A lot of preparation has gone into this, many things occurring behind the scenes — and now that OsCorp has reached the point of publicizing this announcement, well…I won’t lie, it’s a bit of a burden off the back.”

As Peter threw open the front door to the apartment, the first thing he heard was the distant voices coming from the living room television. It was at a volume that told him May wasn’t really paying attention, just using it for background noise. Yet it was loud enough that it reached over her struggle with pots and pans all the way inside the kitchen, and certainly quick to grab his attention.

Anything OsCorp related had a tendency to do that these days.

Peter hadn’t even crossed the threshold of the front door to living room when he looked over at the TV, frowning deeply.

“But of course, things are just beginning. We have a long future to look forward to, one that’ll far exceed my time on this earth.” The voice of the man sounded professional, each word said with a sharp precision and clarity to his statements. “It’s all about legacy, after all. And the Osborn dynasty has yet to untap their full potential in what lays ahead. I’m excited to be apart of these unfolding developments with them.”

Whatever channel was playing, Peter quickly deduced it was a news station. Something where someone was being interviewed — an old man, that much was obvious. He wore a business suit that Peter was sure cost five times May’s rent, and his grayish white hair matched perfectly with the deep wrinkles that dug harsh lines into his skin.

And yet, despite talking about OsCorp, the man was most definitely not Norman Osborn. Peter wasn’t sure he’d actually ever seen him before. Granted, he never paid much attention to these things until recently, but still.

He approached the back of the sofa, watching the TV and moving almost in a trance. So much so that he completely forgot his laundry detergent soaked socks were still gripped in his hand, and his bare feet still sticky with the residue they’d encountered.

“You sound quite optimistic about the longevity in OsCorp’s future, Mr. Symthe,” the interviewer said, his tone as serious and straitlaced as the much older man sitting across from him. “Does this mean you’re not worried about the dissolution of partnership with Bio-Labs? Their upstate, New York facility alone brought in OsCorp over thirty percent of their shares and profits last year.”

The man being interviewed gave a light chuckle — Spencer Symthe, Peter discovered, right as the lower third graphic appeared on the screen, displaying his name in whole.

It also gave him a title. Peter furrowed his brows as he quickly read it. Right next to his full name were the words, Co-chairman.

The man may have not been Norman, but there was no doubt that he was right up there in hierarchy.

“Last year is behind us, OsCorp looks only to the future,” Spencer simply answered, as smoothly as the words that came before him. “Bio-Labs served us well in the past, but OsCorp is moving forward with their endeavors in other ways. We have something quite exciting happening here very soon. I’m not at liberty to discuss the details just yet, but our separation with Bio-Labs has made way for something far better. Both for us and for mankind.”

The interviewer looked down at his lap and the sleek notepad in his hands. “Is it true OsCorp purchased that facility from Bio-Labs?” he read off his notes.

“We did, yes,” Spencer answered so quickly, the camera didn’t cut to him until mid-sentence. “We came to an agreement with Bio-Labs on a price, and OsCorp is hoping to utilize the facility for further expanding their research studies across the east coast.”

Peter suddenly looked left and right, and then down to the sofa — finding the TV remote stuck in-between the armrest of the cushions. Discarding his socks, he grabbed the remote and hit the first button his thumb could get a hold of. It displayed the title of the show over the screen — ‘Executive Insights with Mark Mitchell.’

“There’s been…quite the controversy regarding those research facilities, Mr. Symthe,” Mark Mitchell, Peter correctly assumed, went on to say. “I’m sure you’re more than aware of the legal trial that took place this afternoon — any comment?”

Slowly, Peter dropped the remote down onto the end table next to the couch. All the while, he never looked away from the TV.

“Ridiculous claims made by ridiculous people.” Spencer waved his hand right alongside his answer. “Despite his rank in the air force, I assure you that Colonel Rhodes has no interest in the safety of this country. He sides with his interest and his team alone — that is, the Avengers. The only people we seem to allow to live above the law.” For a man who had kept his tone even and unwavering, there was a slight hitch in words that heated them up, something Peter couldn’t ignore. He suddenly sounded frustrated, angry. To the point where a pause followed, and he noticeably cleared his throat. “These claims made by him and subsequently, the team he participates with, are as foolish as they are deranged.”

Mark simply nodded. “It’s been no secret that Stark Industries very own Tony Stark has been pushing this case, advocating for the entire revocation of OsCorp’s funding and participation with the Institutional Review Board. He states that compliance with regulatory requirements have been, in his words, the biggest disgrace to not only the field of science but to humanity as a whole.”

“And yet Judge Whittaker has made it very clear today that he disagrees with those claims,” Spencer answered the question that had yet to be asked. “Tony Stark’s efforts to shut down OsCorp have been nothing but a blip on our radar. The court system sided with us on that today, making it very clear that there’s no grounds to the absurd accusations put forth by rumors and heresay.”

Mark cocked his eyebrow high, and so did Peter. Both of them for different reasons. “Is that your way of saying OsCorp’s research studies haven ’t been neglecting proper codes and regulations, and remain to demonstrate due diligence in maintaining public safety standards for both their participate and employees? ”

“By all means, yes,” Spencer easily answered. So easily, Peter went to fold both arms over his chest, the look that pulled at his face causing lines he was far too young to be dealt with. “If all goes well, the former Bio-Labs facility will be up and running within a few months, once converted into one of OsCorp’s technological facilities. And it’ll foster not only the community and development of science careers, but also expand the boundaries of research to pave the way for a brighter tomorrow.”

“Oh, gosh!”

May's shout reached over the low volume of the TV, and her frantic footsteps out of the kitchen did just the same. Peter twisted at the hips to see her waving and flapping a dishtowel at the open door of the stove.

“I cannot get that smoke out of here!” May chuckled with a bit of a cough, roughly clearing the smoke out of her throat as she turned around to Peter and asked, “Did you get the mail?”

Peter suddenly frowned. “The mail — huh?”

“The mail,” she repeated, throwing the dishtowel right over her shoulder. When Peter didn’t respond, May let one hand rest firmly on the bone of her hip. “I asked you to get the mail on the way up.”

With a smile so tight that it practically thinned his lips out to nothing, Peter sheepishly admitted, “My phone died.”

The look he got in return was the exact look he expected to receive.

───────

Identity Theft︱Chapter 9: Down Came The Rain

───────

"Don’t forget," Rhodey started to say. "We've still got OsCorp tech on the loose.”

Bruce immediately shot his head towards Rhodey.

“Awesome Android? Wasn't that just one incident?” Bruce furrowed his brows with confusion. “Or...has there been...more I don’t know about?”

Tony shook his head.

"Nope, just the rock head." Reaching into the front blazer of his pocket, Tony pulled out his cell phone, swiping down on the touchscreen with a single finger. "But over the weekend, I had FRIDAY do some digging on good 'ol OzzyCorp."

With a hard shake directed at the empty space in front of them, he brought to life a large holographic image.

“Turns out, they’ve been working on technological dampeners for the past three years.”

The hologram spread out in the empty space of the lounge, pages among pages of detailed project data so extensive that not even Tony could keep up with it.

Bruce leaned forward, elbows on his knees, his whole body practically oozing with a sense of fascination. Any other day and Tony may tossed in a joke or two about it.

While Banner worked mainly with biochemistry experiments, and Stark Industries focused on mechanical technology, OsCorp Industries was a research corporation. And a sketchy one at that.

So, skimming through the documents, none of them weren’t surprised to see an array of under-the-table experimentation programs funded by OsCorp themselves, a handful already shut down by higher government officials.

Tony said it before and wouldn't hesitate to say it again — he wouldn’t trust OsCorp if his life depended on it.  

Rhodey's hum cut right through the silence.

"Technological dampeners..." he mused aloud. “The security feed shut off the night the chameleon helmet was stolen."

Tony immediately noticed that Rhodey didn't ask the question — he made it a statement. Fitting the puzzles together no differently than Tony had.

“And," Tony raised a finger, "Times Square went dark the night before."

Bruce looked between them both — and then again, before setting his sights on Tony.

“My-mysterio?" Bruce creased his forehead with confusion. "You think it’s the crazy magician?”

Tony tapped his fingers in a drumming pattern against the armrest of the sofa, his eyes looking somewhere far beyond the holographic display in front of them. Though he couldn't see it, he could feel Rhodey's stare on him — the kind that warned him not to jump to conclusions without any proof.

Unfortunately for Rhodey, Tony already made that jump a while ago.

“He lets out this smoke. A fog, almost,” Tony explained, idly, thinking out loud more than anything else. “Times Square hasn't been dark since 2003. No way is that a coincidence. Everything that had a chip, a battery, an LED screen — the moment that fog came out, everything shut down like a bad play on Broadway."

“That — that doesn’t make any sense," Bruce insisted, the shake of his head almost hard enough to knock off his glasses. "Fog is vapor water. Tiny liquid droplets suspended in the air — there’s no way it could interfere with technology like that.”

Scientifically speaking, Tony knew Bruce was right. His fingers moved from the armrest of the couch up to his chest, tapping against his sternum and clucking his tongue in thought.

It didn't make sense, and yet...

A beat of silence passed before Tony straightened his back and snatched the scrap piece of paper off the table.

“Could be a way," Tony began to say. "Could always be a way. Never doubt science, am I right, Brucey?"

Bruce watched him pocket away the paper with a frown. "Tony —"

"Nanotech," Tony seamlessly cut in, adjusting his jacket after shoving the scrap piece of paper inside his inner pocket. “The chameleon helmet — that’s nanorobots. Every little nanoguy working on a molecular surface-bound level, nanotechnology at its finest. I even have a new suit in the works. Mark 37, pure nanites, head to toe. Haven't gotten it off the ground yet, but the goal is for nano-machines to create a second layer of artificial muscle — Iron Man armor, purely nanotech.”

Rhodey briefly rubbed at his temple before looking towards Tony.

“What’s your point, Tones?”

Tony met his gaze straight on.

"Think about it," he started. "Technological dampeners? If there’s any trace of nanites in that fog Disappear-O the Magnificent uses, even trace element of nanites — and if those nanites contain technological dampeners —”

A shrill alarm blared through the compound, stealing Tony's words right out of his mouth.

───────

Identity Theft︱Chapter 13: Man Behind The Mask

───────

Down the hall and a few corners to the left, the double doors to Tony's workshop automatically opened for him.

“FRIDAY?” Tony hadn’t even reached the nearest computer console before he was speaking to his AI.

“Yes, boss?”

He collapsed into the nearest chair, the wheels sending him rolling across the floor until he reached his U-shaped steel table.

“Mark 37— tell me, what are the statistics, where do we stand with it?”

Tony was quick to rattle off demands. Luckily for him, he built his AI to respond even faster.

“The project is currently 87% percent complete. Would you like me to bring up journal data to review the remaining requirements that will need to be completed before the suit can become functional?”

"No need, FRI." Tony shook his head, already at work on the holographic keyboard beneath his hands. "Take the project and copy it to a new hard-drive, and bring up the schematics and blueprints for the original design. We’re going to be tweaking it around a little bit.”

He watched as the blue holographic screens appeared in front of him, one at a time.

“Project data copied. Would you like to rename the original file folder?”

Tony pursed his lips to the side. “What ideas was I throwing around?”

A pause gave way. Long enough that Tony could hear the hum of his own technology; wires embedded into the walls taking the silence from the workshop. Even the brief second that passed without any noise was too much for him. He was at risk of falling into his own thoughts if he didn't keep his hands, and mind, busy.

"Multiple names have been found," FRIDAY finally answered. “Extremis 2.0, Badassium Nanosuit, Bleeding Edge —”

“That one.” Tony snapped his fingers. And then again, desperate to keep the silence at bay. “Bleeding Edge. I like it. Keep it.”

“And the copy?” FRIDAY asked. “Would you like to name it as well?”

The question had Tony scrubbing at his face, hard enough to shave off the extra growth on his beard that needed a trim. It wasn't the only thing he needed; coffee. Tony needed a lot of coffee to pursue this project tonight.

───────

Identity Theft︱Chapter 26: Building Blocks

───────

Peter laughed and Tony couldn’t help but chuckle with him, the moment carefree and void of the suffocating stress he had been consumed with over the past couple of weeks.

It was nice, a little breather from the pressures of the real world he had been struggling to deal with.

Even as he went on to explain the finer details of their rescue mission, the room lacked any tension. It helped greatly that Peter wasn’t immune to the pure star-struck wonderment at hearing Tony’s stories, listening intently to how they had increased the tensile strength on his web fluid, how a magical wizard got them in and out of the place, and most of all —

“You finished the nano-suit!?” he exclaimed, nearly jumping out of bed with excitement. “Can I see it!?”

“Sorry, bud.” Tony gave a small shake of his head, his finger lazily pointing down to Peter’s leg. “It’s on you.”

Peter frowned, looking down at his leg before back up at Tony. “What?”

“What was left of it — used it for that sock you’re wearing,” Tony explained. “It’s a nanite cast, designed to promote bone healing. I’m sure Bruce will be thrilled to show you the x-rays of how mangled your leg was. He said it was in eight pieces or something, shattered like a stale piece of peanut brittle.”

Peter didn’t seem to be paying attention. As Tony rambled on, he removed the blanket that covered his leg to better stare at the thick black and silver device that he wore around his calf. It was every sense of the word futuristic, conforming around his leg from the knee down, fitting snugly like his suit. 

“No way,” Peter lamented, looking over at Tony sadly. “But you put so much work into that!”

Despite Peter’s protest and remorse for the forsaken project, Tony couldn’t muster up a will to care.

“Well, you’re more important,” he answered honestly. “Besides, I can make another suit. I can’t make another Peter Parker.”

───────

Identity Within︱Chapter 1: Prolouge

───────

“FRIDAY!” Tony clapped his hands twice as he all but leaped across the workshop, sparing no ounce of energy along the way. “Let’s go, sweetheart, it’s hardware time!”

It was nothing short of a miracle that FRIDAY heard him, what with the way music thundered from every corner of the room. Which was appropriate for the song currently blasting through the surround sound, AC/DC’s Thunder Struck echoing against the walls with enough volume to rip the compound in half.

“Alright, neural network installed and running at full capacity,” Tony rattled off, speaking aloud for his own benefit — though if he could even hear his own voice was up for debate. “Multimodal augmentations at slight field variance. Nanometers passed every algorithmic calculation — because of course they did, my math is never wrong.”

Tony eagerly hopped onto the circular platform stationed center of his workshop, plating both feet firmly in place once there.

“I’d say you’re long overdue for a test trial, my dear.” With both hands interlaced, Tony pushed his arms outward and crackled his knuckles — the music, once again, stealing the noise away.

Disentangling those same hands, he pulled his elbows back in, tapping his fingers against the housing unit sealed onto his chest.

It was hard to tell what caused the tingling vibrations running through his toes, into his calves, and across his kneecaps. It could’ve very well been the blasting bass from the music overhead, casting into the walls and rumbling onto the floors of his workshop. Or for all he knew it was his giddy schoolboy excitement, building into a crescendo that had him jittery with anticipation.

Whatever the cause, Tony didn’t let it lessen his smile.

“Come on, baby, you got this!” Tony watched enthusiastically as the arc reactor lit to light, filling the workshop with a blue glow that grew brighter with time. “Come on, come on…come on!”

It took a beat, and what Tony swore was a few missed beats of his heart along with it, but there was no mistaking when the housing unit released the nanites. Within seconds they poured out, all at once, tiny particulars working in tandem to form over the structure of his body.

The spark from each microscopic piece of red and gold shimmered underneath the workshop lights, coalescing around him with an animation only outmatched by Tony’s exhilaration.

“Yes!” The nanites hadn’t even reach past Tony’s hips when he cheered — and he didn’t stop with just one shout. He kept going. “Yes, YES, that’s what I’m talking about!”

The air crackled with energy as the nanobots worked at lightning speed, and Tony’s body was surrounded by a glowing aura of light as the suit began to take shape; sleek and streamlined, with glowing repulsor beams in the palms of his gauntlets.

His laugh easily reached over the music.

“Tony!”

And so did that.

Tony shot his head up, his grin so large his back molars caught the ceiling lights. It didn’t fade, not even as Pepper came storming into the workshop, bursting through the automatic doors before they’d fully parted for her.

“Oh my god!” Pepper practically screamed against the blaring music, immediately smothering both palms against her ears to protect her hearing. “Tony, what are you doing!?”

Tony threw Pepper a bewildered look.

“What does it look like I’m doing!” he shouted right back, the nanites still building around the length of his legs as he gestured enthusiastically to himself. “I’m re-building the nanosuit!”

For once, not even the usual sound of Pepper’s high-heels clicking against the floor could be heard. She stormed forward with enough frustration in her step that it should’ve rattled the whole earth, but each stomp was muted underneath the bass of the music.

“You’re what!?”

Tony gestured even more enthusiastically to himself.

“The nanosuit!” He paused. “Bleeding Edge?” Another pause, and Tony made a face. “I told you about this, we talked about this! It’s nanotech! Each piece works on a molecular surface-bound level — check this out!”

Tony turned at the hips, and then again on the other side, motioning to the nanites that covered his body with a polished shine. His grin blew wide open as he admired his work.

“It’s taken some time to reconstruct all the nanites from scratch, but since I made sure to copy the blueprints after dismantling Mark 37 for complete magnetic use when Ivan the Terrible forced us to —”

“What!?” Pepper interrupted him with a shout that was more of a scream than anything else.

Tony shot his head up, frowning.

“What part of that didn’t you understand?” Tony guessed the answer based off Pepper’s expression. “The nanosuit? The one I took apart to get Parker back from — did you hear anything I said?”

“I can’t hear you!” Pepper shook her head so vigorously that her ponytail came loose. “I can’t — Tony, turn down the —!”

“FRIDAY, turn down volume.”

Dutiful as ever, his AI complied at the request immediately, lowering the soundtrack of rock music to a near-muted volume.

It became so quiet, so suddenly, that the sound of Pepper’s frustration was audible with each huff of air that blew right through her flared nostrils.

Tony hopped off the platform, pointing a lax finger towards her.

“You looked stressed.” Even as Tony walked towards her, the nanites kept building around his body, already creeping up along the edges of his neck. “You stressed?”

Pepper gaped, staring him down with a look that he tried often not to be on the receiving end of.

“Am I — yes, Tony, I’m stressed!” Despite the lack of blaring music, Pepper still yelled. “The wedding is in two weeks! And you’re down here being...being…” As Tony closed in on Pepper, she brushed right past him, physically jostling his shoulder and sparking a light against the nanites still forming against his arm. “Well...you!”

───────

Identity Crisis︱Chapter 10: Something Wicked This Way Comes

───────

“Back to the, uh, the original point...” Bruce said, one single digit raised in the air. “I’d make sure Pete doesn’t have anymore interaction with...well, anyone related to the Osborn’s. If Norman is the brains to all this...who knows how dangerous he could be.”

Sam furrowed his brows. “I don’t think a high-schooler could do much damage, regardless of their namesake.”

“No, maybe not...” Natasha trailed off, contemplative in a way she normally didn’t share with the group. “But being close Norman Osborn’s son is being one step closer to Norman himself.”

“Is it really fair to assume the kid is trouble because of his bloodline?” Sam was quick to rebut.

Natasha threw him a cold look. “People judged me based off my bloodline, and they were smart to do so.”

“Bruce is right,” Steve needlessly stated, putting an end to the dispute. “Peter’s already been a target before, we don’t want that happening again. Until we can get a grasp on this situation, he needs to keep his head low, stay far away from this.”

“Trust me, I’ve been trying.” Tony massaged the bridge of his nose, disdain coating his tongue, leaking deep into his words. “It’s like pulling teeth with the kid, he doesn’t want to do anything he’s told. I might as well be talking to a deaf monkey.”

The frustration Tony emitted was palpable, visible despite the sunglasses he used to hide his face. What once was a jab at his overly-strict parenting had quickly turned somber.

No one dared to make a joke now.

Despite his berating, no one had forgotten about what occurred only a handful of months ago. When a young, naive kid showed up at their door playing super-hero. Tony may have been the one to buy the casket, but they were all involved in one way or another.

It would be impossible to forget; it was a lesson learned that they all took to heart.

Possibly going through that again — it was a vast precipice to wrap their minds around.

“We’ll make sure that we do our part on this end,” Steve assured, looking Tony straight on. “We took Peter under our wing, we took on that responsibility. It’s our job to make sure he’s safe, make sure we protect him. Whatever happens here, whether he gets involved or not, he’ll be protected.”

Something clenched deep in Tony’s stomach as his gaze latched onto Steve’s, his doubt ebbing into a fierce fury of determination.

Steve reflected that determination right back at him.

“We will protect him, Tony.”

Tony nodded.

He had nothing more to add.

[shingekinohyrulewrites]

Lavender & Velvet

You work as a dancer for private events catering exclusively to Pro Heroes. One day, your boss approaches you with a mysterious assignment.

Read on AO3 here

SMUT AHEAD MDNI 18+ ONLY !!!

Being a dancer was always glamorized, and in your case, it was definitely glamorous.

You were a dancer for a company specializing in private events. If the event required some sort of special invitation, chances are you were probably going to be there dancing. However, given that you lived in a society where those with Quirks ruled, most of the events you attended were often for Pro Heroes. You danced for charity balls, birthday parties, and house parties. You had rubbed elbows with every Hero who graced newspapers, and had gotten to know many of them through this.

However, being a dancer had led to many trysts. Heroes had needs, just like other people, and since you were basically hired to be eye candy, you had slept with many Pro Heroes. Your fellow dancers had joked that you were slowly climbing up the top ten, having slept with Gang Orca (a generous man in bed and very powerful), Crust (a timid man, but polite), and having various trysts with Edgeshot (there was a reason you kept going back to him). Before All Might had retired, you had been working your way up to him, but you had never gotten the vibe from him that he was the type to fool around.

You loved your job, and you never questioned the assignments that your boss gave you. However, you were left feeling curious after your most recent encounter with him.

Your boss, Arima, approached you one day while you were stretching in the practice room. Normally he was always in a good mood, greeting you with his trademark polite smile before explaining your next assignment. When he walked in he seemed nervous, face covered in a light sheen of sweat and eyes shifting nervously around. Upon seeing you he rushed over, bowing as he greeted you.

“I hope your day's going well. Listen, I have a very important assignment for you that just came in. I can’t give you details, but I need your performance to be perfect.”

“Uh, okay, perfect in what way?”

“Just . . . I need one hundred percent from you, okay? I also need you to be as sexy as you can be.”

You raised a brow at that. “Uh huh, okay.”

Arima bowed again, squeaking out a thank you before scampering off. You stood there, trying to process the weird interaction you had just had before sighing. Well, I guess I need to come up with a sexy choreography.

Arima gave you two weeks to put your routine together. The day of the performance he came to see you again. He seemed just as nervous as the first time, bowing again before nervously tugging at the hem of his shirt.

“You will be picked up right at six. A limo will be sent.”

“A limo? Arima, who exactly am I performing for?”

He hesitated, sweat beading on his forehead.

“You will get details later. Just . . . please be ready on time.”

“You know I will be,” you frowned. “Hey, is everything okay?”

“Fine!” he yelled. “I have to go!”

You spent the rest of the day wondering what exactly it was about this performance that had Arima so nervous. You took your time getting ready, glad you had gotten basically your entire body waxed the day before so you could focus on your makeup and hair. Just as Arima had said, a limo arrived at your dance company right at six. The driver greeted you with a sharp nod, opening the door for you to slide in. A bottle of champagne was waiting for you in a chilled bucket, and you helped yourself to a glass.

The limo drove you to what appeared to be a boarded up place, but when you stepped out you realized it was a restaurant. There were no signs or logos plastered to suggest it was, and you figured it was one of those exclusive ones.

Another man met you at the door, nodding to the driver as a silent thanks before opening the door and letting you in. The atmosphere was quiet, a pianist playing jazz music softly in the background as men conversed in hushed tones. A few of them turned to look at you, eyeing you before resuming their previous conversations. You swallowed nervously, falling into step behind your guide as he led you towards the back.

"I assume your boss didn’t tell you anything?” he inquired.

You nodded before realizing he couldn’t see you.

“Y-yes, he has been very . . . silent about the whole thing.”

“Good.”

You were led into a dim hallway. He slowed down, turning his head to look back at you.

“There’s only one rule. Do not touch the young boss. You will be killed if you do.”

You felt your heart sink. The last part of your routine had you running your hands along him, ending with a “happy ending”. Arima had stopped by to check out your routine, and he had been beyond pleased. Apparently, he had been let out of the loop regarding this stipulation.

“Um, okay. Noted.”

He stopped in front of a door, stepping aside so you could pass by him.

“Good luck. You were personally requested.”

Before you could respond, he opened the door. He gestured for you to go in. Sucking in a breath, you stepped through the door. The room was empty, save for a large chair across the room. Sitting in the chair was a young man, staring intensely at you. He had short, brown hair, golden eyes gleaming above a plague mask. He was resting his cheek on his fist, elbow pressed against the arm of the chair. You couldn’t help but notice he was dressed sharp, in a tight black dress shirt tucked neatly into a matching pair of pants. He cocked his head to the side upon noticing you staring.

“Hi.”

He didn’t respond to your greeting. Clearing your throat, you reached into your bag and pulled out your phone and speaker. He didn’t say anything as you set up, connecting your phone and selecting the song. You paused it, placing the speaker down and sucking in a deep breath to get yourself into the element. You exhaled, letting the breath out of your mouth before slowly opening your eyes.

The “young boss” hadn’t moved, still frozen in place as he stared at you. You got into position, reaching into your coat pocket to push play from a remote. The opening notes played, and you let your gaze fall intensely on him.

Pull up to the city

Tell me I’m your lily

I’ll be in that dress you like

You had worn a tan trench coat buttoned up. Underneath, you wore a lavender lingerie set, complete with garters to match the title of the song. You seductively shrugged out of it, beginning your routine as you slowly body rolled.

Body in vanilla

Yeah I know it thrills ya

I know what is on your mind

As you danced, you slowly made your way over to him. You kept your eyes on him, doing a pirouette to get closer.

Take me to a place where

We can see the stars here

Nothing but the radio on

You let your hands run along your body to emphasize the last lyric.

I’ll take you anywhere you say

I’ll take you to my hideaway

Baby just give the word

I wanna give you the world

You eased into the chorus, hitting the movements smoothly and transitioning into the next. As the song went on, you felt slightly defeated at the fact that the guy hadn’t responded. He had the same bored expression, blinking slowly as he watched you move. You tried not to let him get to you, and you amped up the sexy factor as the song progressed.

However, you had a dilemma. The last bridge had a sequence where you sank to the floor and crawled to him, letting your hands run along his thighs and unbuckling his pants to give him a . . . happy ending. When you had shown Arima, he had been beyond delighted and assured you that was what had been requested. But now, after being told you couldn’t touch the client, you were unsure what to do.

The bridge began, and you sank to the floor as you had planned. However, instead of crawling towards him, you sank back onto your feet, letting your hands run down your body. You hesitated, wondering if your idea would work, before deciding to just move forward. One hand cupped your breast, squeezing it lightly as the other trailed down your middle, lingering at the waistband. During the outro, you let your finger slide into your panties, teasing your entrance as you glanced at the “young boss” with half-lidded eyes.

The song ended, and you sat frozen in your spot. The man finally moved, pushing off his elbow to sit up straight. He leaned forward, raising a single eyebrow before speaking.

“Did you intend on touching me towards the end?”

Heat rushed to your cheeks. Embarrassed, you gave a slow nod.

“Y-yes, sir.”

He hummed, the sound low in the back of his throat. He studied you for a moment before lifting a hand.

“Well? Are you going to touch me, then?”

“S-sir?”

He crossed his arms, leaning back into the chair.

“I assume my men told you not to touch me?”

You gave a slow nod.

“Well, I’ve had a change of heart. Do the routine the way you intended.”

You blinked, unsure if you had heard him right. When you didn’t move, he let out a long sigh.

“Tell me, girl, how was the routine supposed to go?”

“I was planning on ending with a happy ending.”

“Oh?”

His golden eyes flashed.

“Yes, sir. I was planning on . . . going down on you.”

“Well, I knew there was a reason I requested you.”

You remained silent, staring at him silently in the hopes he would indulge you with more details.

“I’ve heard great things about you through the grapevine. I don’t normally associate with your . . . normal clients.”

He must have noticed the slight frown that you tried to control, as he went on.

“I apologize, where are my manners? I have yet to introduce myself. I’m Overhaul, head of the Shie Hissaikai.”

Your blood ran cold. While hooking up with some Heroes, you had heard his name thrown around. Apparently, he was considered an “underground” villain, one that was prominent in name but whose activities were difficult to track. That explained why Arima had been so nervous about the whole thing.

“Well, are you going to do the routine now? I would love to receive your happy ending.”

Nodding, you resumed your previous starting position, grabbing your coat to redress. This time, Overhaul seemed more interested. As you danced closer, you noticed the prominent bulge in his pants this time. You felt a surge of confidence, hitting the choreography perfectly and keeping sensual expressions on your face. When the final bridge came, you sank to the floor, crawling slowly towards him. He kept his eyes on you, one hard hanging off the back of his chair as he spread his legs for you. Your hands came to rest on his thighs, looking up at him with a smirk as you glided them up towards his belt. You unbuckled it, slowly unbuttoning his pants afterwards and sliding the zipper down.

His boxers were left, and your mouth was watering at the sight of his thick bulge. You slid them down, his cock springing out. Licking your lips, you left your left hand on his thigh before gently grasping his cock with your right hand. You felt a hand grab the back of your head. Looking up, you saw Overhaul reaching up to remove his mask. Your breath caught in your throat at the sight of his handsome face.

“Well? Go on.”

Without the mask obstructing his mouth, his voice was deeper and smoother. You took him into your mouth, your hand wrapping around what couldn’t fit. He was thick, your mouth stretching to take him in. His hand went back to your head, grabbing your hair to fist it. He guided you up his length, pushing you down. You gagged, the back of your throat taking him in.

“Such a good girl,” he purred.

You felt yourself clenching around nothing, a whine forming in your throat. The vibration of it had him hissing, his fingers tightening around your hair. You kept on, picking up the pace as you moved your mouth along his length. Suddenly, he pulled you off, forcing you to look up at him.

“This isn’t enough for me,” he panted. “Come, sit on my lap.”

You scrambled onto his lap. His hands came to grab your ass, spanking each cheek harshly. Your hands came to rest on the sides of his neck, biting your lip as you stared at him.

“Such a pretty girl. Look at you, so obedient for me.”

One hand moved your panties aside. His hand retracted, a soft rustling reaching your ears before you felt a long finger stroke your slit. You were dripping at this point, and he relished in the feeling.

“Did I make you this wet? Naughty girl.”

He used your natural lubrication to push in. You moaned, throwing your head back as he slowly moved in and out. A second finger pushed in, and you felt his thumb brushing your clit. You grinded on his lap, desperate for more friction.

“So eager. Relax, I’ll fuck you right now.”

He slapped his cock against your inner thigh. You rose up a little, letting him rub his cock against your entrance to gather some of your wetness. Both of his hands came to rest on your hips, helping guide you down as you took him. The initial stretch was painful, causing your mouth to drop open in a silent scream. You wanted to bury your face in his neck, but Overhaul stopped you.

“Come on, I know you can take my cock, baby.”

You let out a loud moan when you bottomed out, your ass pressed against his thighs. He gave you a minute to adjust before spanking you.

“Move.”

Your hands went back to the sides of his neck, biting your lip as you began to move your hips. You rose up, his cock sliding out before you sat back on it. He felt amazing stretching you out, and you managed to establish a good rhythm. His hands remained on your ass, staring up at you with slight amazement as you kept on moving your hips smoothly.

“God, you move amazing. Perks of being a dancer.”

He spanked you, causing you to moan. You moved faster, throwing your head back as you tried to chase your orgasm. You were close, so close, and you were desperate to let go around him.

“What a fucking whore. You just started riding me, and you already want to cum?”

He spanked you again.

“Did I give you permission?”

You shook your head furiously, clenching tightly around him.

“Did I?”

“N-no, sir.”

“Good girl.”

You fought hard, clenching your eyes shut as you started desperately bouncing on him. Suddenly, Overhaul wrapped his arms around you, trapping you on his lap. He began fucking up into you, small grunts tumbling out of his lips. You tried to hold it in, but your orgasm hit you hard, and you began babbling his name nonsensically. He stopped, panting lightly.

“Foolish girl. You weren’t allowed to come.”

He pushed you off, sending you tumbling to the floor. You glanced at him with confused eyes.

“Spread your legs for me.”

You did as told, watching as he stripped his clothing off. You admired his fit physique, and when he came to hover over you, you let your fingers trace the hard lines of his back.

“I’m going to fuck you hard, and you’re going to let me breed you. Understand?”

“Yes, sir,” you moaned.

He didn’t give you warning before pushing back into you. You immediately wrapped your legs around him, your arms continuing to trace his muscles. He dipped his head to the crook of your neck, his breaths coming out in short pants as he thrusted harshly into you. After a few thrusts he pulled back to look at you, eyes studying your features as you relished in pleasure.

“God, you look so beautiful like this. I’m sure you’ll look more beautiful when you’re stuffed full of my cum.”

You whimpered, clenching tightly around him. He picked up the pace, grunting as his movements became erratic and he looked back at your face.

“Are you ready, baby? Ready to be bred?”

Your response was your orgasm, crying out his name as he kept on until he was spilling himself inside of you. The two of you remained united, panting softly as you both came down from your high. Overhaul pulled out, causing you to whine from how sensitive you were and the loss of being stuffed full. He sat back on his knees, admiring your naked body spread out before gently offering his hand.

“Are you alright to stand?”

You nodded, taking his hand and slowly sitting up. His eyes flickered to your core before using his finger to push the fluids that were beginning to dribble out.

“Now, now, we need to make sure that stays up there.”

He handed you your lingerie and coat before walking you to the door. Right before opening it he paused, slowly turning to look at you.

“Would you like to do this again sometime?”

[h-c-u]

Painfully healing

Summary: After you got assaulted, your dad's best friend takes care of you when your parents have to leave for a weekend.

Pairing: Aaron Hotchner x fem!reader

W/C: 5.1k

Rating: +18 (there is no sex in this one, but I still feel like it needs to be categorized as such), age gap

TWs: Depression, Very Detailed Self-Harm, Blood, Cutting, Scars, Unnamed ED. Talks about: rape.

A/N: Guys. This one is dark. Seriously. If you don't feel comfortable with any of the topics mentioned in TWs, please skip it. You are responsible for the media you consume.

Masterlist | List of tags

- Oh, wow! You look awesome, Y/n! – those were the first words you heard from Aaron’s mouth when you opened the door for him. You wanted to run to him, to hide under his jacket, to break down with his strong arms around you, but none of it was showing on your face.

- Thanks! I was kind of on the fence with this one... But a lot of my friends shaved their heads recently, so I guess I'm just basic for following a trend. - you played it down, but there was something in his eyes that you couldn't decipher. You smiled gently, making sure that your cheeks rose up and made the smile lines in the corners of your eyes, so it would look more genuine.

- The dinner is ready! Come on in, before it gets cold! - your mother's head peeked out from the kitchen. - Hi Aaron, good to see you again. - she gave the man a warm smile, before going back to the kitchen.

When you were walking down the hallway, you felt a soft touch on your lower back. You were far past caring about how you looked or what you were wearing, but you couldn't help but notice the contrast in between you and Aaron. He was still in his suit, and even after a whole day of work, there wasn't even one wrinkle on his jacket and shirt, while you were in your galaxy-patterned sweatpants that hung loosely around your hips, held only by a piece of string, and a ratty old t-shirt with a logo of a band that was once your favorite. It was a step up from all the blacks and greys you were wearing for the past month. At least that's what you wanted your parents to think, because the thought of you getting better was making them happy, and you didn't want them to worry even more than they already did.

You thought you saw your father freeze for a second when he realized how close you allowed his best friend to get to you, while for the last month, you had trouble getting a carton of milk from his hand, but he didn't say anything, hoping it was a sign of progress.

- The dinner looks lovely, Peggy... - Aaron complimented your mother’s cooking skills when all of you were seated at the table. Nobody commented on the fact that you were sitting with your feet on your chair and with your chin resting on your knee, even though you knew your mother definitely would bite your head off if you did that just a few months ago. But everything was different now.

- Thank you, but don't just look at it! Let's eat! - you faked a light chuckle at your mother's words and reached for the mashed potatoes because they were the closest to you. The portion you put on your plate was small, but you spread it out to make it look bigger. You didn't plan on eating because you weren't sure if you could even keep anything down. You knew you could get away with it if you made it look like you ate something. And if by the end of the meal, the food was covering less of a plate than at the beginning - your parents would leave you be.

Everyone kept the conversation light for your sake, but if you had to be honest - you were so detached from everything, that you could have talked about anything on autopilot and not even realize what exactly you were saying.

Aaron kept his hand on the back of your chair, letting his thumb brush over your shoulder blades from time to time, and it was the only thing you were able to focus on.

After dinner, you helped your dad with the dirty dishes, while your mum and Aaron were talking in the dining room. You were lost in your own thoughts, and that meant you weren't paying enough attention to what was happening around you. So when your dad accidentally got too close and your shoulders touched, you immediately jumped away and dropped the pot you were holding in your hands.

For a moment there was nothing, but pure panic and fear painted on your face, and you did your best to contain it as quickly as possible, but your dad noticed, even though you didn't want him to, because he did nothing wrong.

- I'm sorry, I didn't mean to... - you said in a calm voice, bending down to get the pot, but before you did, your dad intercepted.

- It's ok, it's all right I can finish up here. - you rarely saw your father this broken, and it hurt to know that you were a cause of his pain.

- I will get better... - you added, trying to give him some hope before you left the kitchen.

- I know, honey... I know. - out of instinct he wanted to hug you, but he stopped himself mid-gesture and let his arms fall down, giving you an apologetic look. In response, you gave him a weak smile and left the room. You knew it would be proper to go back to the dining table, but you just couldn't...

So, you went upstairs and curled into a ball right outside of anyone's view. You couldn't bring yourself to go to your room yet, so you stayed where you were. You knew that your parents’ suitcases were already in the car so they wouldn't have to get them from their bedroom, and you would be left alone, at least for a while.

- Thank you for doing this again, Aaron... - you heard your father's muffled voice.

- It's honestly no problem. I didn't have any plans and she's not ready to be alone yet, so I'm more than happy to help.

- She is getting better though... - you smiled at your mother's words, glad that your deception was working. There was a short moment of silence, and she eventually continued. - You know where everything is, I've prepared fresh towels for you in the guest bathroom. We will be back tomorrow around noon unless the funeral will run longer or we'll be needed around the house, but in that case - I'll let you know.

- I can stay till Monday morning, so it's honestly fine. Take as long as you need, Peggy... She was your sister, and you need to process that properly. - there was another moment of silence. - And don't worry, I'll take good care of Y/n, I promise. - you could hear them getting up from the table and moving to the hallway, closer to you, but still out of sight.

- I know... If anything happens, no matter how small... - you heard the shuffling of the clothes, and a pair of heels moving against the floor.

- I'll call. - Aaron assured. - Have a safe drive.

- Thank you again. - the door opened, closed, and then there was silence, but for the first time in a while it wasn't aggressively clawing at your ears. - I know you're here. Come to the kitchen. - he said in a soft, yet commanding tone, and you didn't have a choice but follow. You didn't put any weight on your heels, so your steps were not audible, and yet he still was able to tell even with his back turned to you, that you were there.

You heard your parent's car leaving the garage, just as Aaron wrapped his big hands around your hips and plopped you on the kitchen counter. He was the only person you still felt safe around, and it made you feel guilty because your parents did nothing wrong and you didn't blame them for anything. And yet you still couldn't be with them in the same room for longer periods of time.

- You're not eating again. - it wasn't a question, and you knew there was no sense in lying to him. Even when you were a teenager, he was able to notice things that eluded your parents. - You were supposed to call me if that happened. - his tone of voice was stern, while he took strawberries out of the fridge and started de-stemming them.

- It's been only two... three days... - you mumbled under your nose, trying to minimalize the issue. - And I'm drinking this time... - he didn't make any comments, just reached for a peach from a fruit bowl and started peeling it. Technically he didn't have to, but he knew you didn't like the fuzzy skin. He eventually cut everything into bite-size pieces.

- And the hair...? - he asked. You only sighed and looked down, while he was putting the board and knife in the sink. He came closer to you, so now he was standing in between your thighs, and gently ran his fingers down your arms until he stopped at your wrists, which he turned up, fully expecting to see fresh marks on at least one of your chopping board tattoos, but there were no new additions. You had them done after your scars from high school finally healed. It took some time, but now he understood why you chose to emphasize the signs of the trauma on your body instead of putting it behind you, and now he was even able to find the joke amusing. He brought both of your wrists to his mouth and placed a small kiss on each of them. - The hair. - he repeated himself and you finally looked up.

- I couldn't stand them touching my neck, my cheeks, getting in my eyes... Every time they did, I could feel one of them tightening their grip on them and yanking my head. So I shaved it. - you eventually explained, trying to avert your gaze, but his hand was right under your chin, stopping you from turning away.

- Did it help? - he simply asked. He wasn't judging, didn't make any comments, just looked at you, studying your face intensely and putting his years as a profiler to good use. You nodded, and he gently run his thumb over your lips. - Open up. - you instantly followed his instructions, fully expecting him to put his finger there for you to suck on, but instead, with his other hand he put a strawberry on your extended tongue. - You need sustenance. - he simply said, and you couldn't even be mad that he tricked you like that, so you slowly started chewing on a piece of strawberry and the taste of it viciously attacked your taste buds. After a few days of nothing but water, even the sweet and mild taste of one of your favorite fruits was intense. Under his stern gaze, you finally swallowed, and he hummed, glad to see that you weren't fighting him on this one. - Again... - you obediently opened your mouth again and he placed another piece of fruit there, this time peach, but before he had the chance to take his hand away, you moved your head forward, closing your lips around two of his fingers licking and sucking them clean without breaking eye contact. He gently smiled and pulled his hand out of your mouth with a loud pop, allowing you to chew again. And as soon as you swallowed, he was there with another piece, feeding you by hand until the small bowl was empty. It wasn't much, but it was just enough not to upset your stomach, and your brain didn't even register it as eating, because of the way the food ended up in your mouth.

You gently grabbed the front of his white shirt and pulled him closer, so you could smush your face against his chest and wrap your arms around his body, snaking your hands under his jacket.

Before the rape, you were a very physical person. Always sitting on someone's lap, hugging people left and right, holding hands with your friends, and laying your head on their thighs... And that need to touch, to be held was still there. But it was overwhelmed by fear, even when it came to family and friends; that broken trust, unfortunately, traveled to them by proximity, but Aaron was an exception...

He was the one whom you called right after, who stayed on the line even when you couldn't say a single word, who asked his co-worker to trace your phone, who got to you in record time, and who kicked the door to the room you were locked in, fully prepared to kill anyone who dared to stand in between the two of you.

He saved you...

He put his jacket over your shoulders and pulled you so close, that you couldn't focus on anything else but him. He was the one who reported the incident, he was the one who held your hand while you were answering questions to the police and who punched the campus cop who dared to suggest that you wanted it. He was the one who rode in the ambulance with you, and he almost bit the nurse’s head off when she suggested that you might want to be alone for the rape kit. You didn't... And your fingernails digging into his writs were saying such. You needed someone familiar in the room because, without him, your mind would break beyond repair. So, when the young policewoman took pictures of your naked, abused body, and the flash blinded you for a split second so you couldn't see Aaron’s warm, chocolate eyes, you instantly went to the floor, but somehow, he managed to catch you before you fell over completely.

And when he tried to pass you to your mother when she finally arrived at the hospital, you clung to him for dear life, and you didn't let go until you passed out from exhaustion hours later. Your parents didn't ask any questions, explaining your behavior to themselves with the fact that it was because Aaron was almost always in your life, and he could actually do something to protect you because of his job... That's why you felt safe with him, and not with them. It hurt them, but in the end, they were glad you had at least someone around whom you could lower your guard, and that it was someone as trustworthy as your father's best friend.

Even now, almost three months after the rape, he was still the only person who could freely touch you, hug you, run his hands over your back, and you welcomed it with such desperation, that it almost scared you. You needed touch, his touch, to ground you in reality, and you hated being so dependent on him, even though your body and mind were already his.

- It's ok... - he whispered against your temple and placed a soft kiss there. - Do you want to go to bed? - he asked and when you nodded, he lifted you from the counter and carried you upstairs to your room. He gently put you on the permanently unmade bed, but you didn't let go of him. - I want to change into something more comfortable, Darling... I'm gonna go get my bag and I will be right back. - he said, but you still didn’t move.

- Please don't go... I have your t-shirt under the pillow, that should be enough... - you said quietly in an almost broken voice, and he just sighed.

- Sure, why the hell not... - he caved in and quickly undressed, folded his clothes, placed them on your dresser, and put on the shirt you must have stolen from him some time ago because he didn’t remember giving you this specific one.

He got in the bed behind you and pulled you even closer, so you were able to soak in the touch you so desperately needed. He buried his face in your neck, smushing his nose against your skin. One of his arms snaked in between your forearm and your torso, and his big hand rested on your abdomen, covering it almost completely; his other arm found its way under your head, and when you rested it on his bicep, he bent it in the elbow, so he could run his fingers over you fresh buzzcut. He intertwined his bare legs with yours, and when you pulled them closer to your chest - he followed, not breaking contact even for a second.

It was so easy to fall asleep with him completely wrapped around your body, but you still resisted it a little, wanting to soak in his closeness.

When you woke up in the middle of the night, something felt... wrong. You knew what all too well, but with Aaron so close, doing anything about it would be too risky. You could omit some facts, and not tell him everything, but if he asked specifically - you would be a goner. What you could do, was go take a shower and try to scrub that sensation off your skin, even though experience told you that it would be pointless. But damn if you weren't willing to try...

So you slithered out of Aaron’s embrace, trying your best not to wake him up, but he still did...

- Y/n...? Everything ok...? - he asked, his mind still fogged by Morpheus's sand.

- Everything's fine... I'm just gonna take a shower... - you whispered and forced the corners of your lips to move up, but that only made him realize that not everything was fine, and that alone immediately jolted him awake.

- I'm going with you... - he simply stated, and the look on your face must have been more revealing than you thought it was because he didn't see fear... You weren't afraid that he would do something, you were embarrassed. And when you realized that he knew more, the muscles in your thighs tensed involuntarily. Anyone else would have missed it, but not him. Not when his subconsciousness was trained to analyze and profile anything and anyone around him.

He shifted his head to the side as if he wanted to say, "Oh no, you did not...", and you instantly crossed your arms on your chest, bit your lip, and looked up, trying to stop the tears that were dangerously close from entering your eyes. Your body was telling the story you wanted to keep hidden, but when Aaron got closer to you and kneeled in front of you, you couldn't keep even the crumbs of composure that you had left. You didn't protest when he pulled on the string of your sweatpants, but when he hooked his thumbs around the waistband, you were no longer able to hold back tears.

He pulled the pants down, and when he saw the state of your thighs, his jaw clenched. He didn't make any comments, but for once his face was saying more than any words ever could. He was angry, but not at you... At himself. Because he didn't see it earlier. He was so absorbed by your wrists because that's what you were familiar with, that he didn't even think about other ways. He rested his forehead on your abdomen, put his hands on your waist, and pulled you closer. You could tell that he was trying to compose himself, trying to hold back the tears, to fight this wretched feeling of helplessness...

He eventually sat on his heels and started tracing every line you've made over the last two months with gentle kisses... Some of them were already long healed, but few were fresh, still scabbed even, but none of the cuts was deep enough to cause any serious damage; you had enough experience to avoid that. And for you, it was never about hating or killing yourself... It was about regaining control over your body and how it reacted, just to feel like yourself again, but you weren't sure which was worse.

- You were supposed to call me... - he whispered against your skin, still hiding his face from you. - Day or night, doesn't matter... I would have answered, I would have... - he choked on his words and wrapped his arms around your thighs. He couldn't say that he would have come, that he could have helped you, calm you down, because logically he knew he could have been on a case on the other side of the country...

- There is nothing you could have done... - you whispered, gently running your fingers through his hair. - Because it's not about you... It's about me. - he looked up at you and you could see wetness around his eyes glistening in the faint light of the moon. - The pain... It's freeing. It puts me back in my body because I'm the one doing things to it. I'm the cause of it, I'm the one making myself bleed, I'm the one in control... - you explained and ran your fingers through his hair again. You could see him processing the new information, but it didn't help with the helplessness of not being able to help you.

- Show me. - it wasn't a request. You needed a moment to register what he just said, but after a moment of silence and a few too-quick blink, you eventually moved to your desk where you kept your special box. You wanted to say no, to plead with him, but... That feeling that initially woke you up was still there, bubbling under your skin, and it was stronger than shame.

You sat on your bed and opened the box. Because it was never about serious harm, you were always prepared and as safe as possible. You pulled out a thin disposable surgical towel and put it on your sheet. Then you disinfected your hands, and the steel hand of a scalpel and put in on the towel, while Aaron watched diligently what you were doing. He half expected you to pull out a razor from your wallet, so to say he was surprised would have been an understatement, but he didn't make any comments. You also got a fresh gauze and drenched it in disinfectant, only to run it over the skin on your right thigh. Next, you took out a fresh blade and attached it to the metal handle, and you could finally get started.

You gently pressed the sharp blade to the previously unmarked patch of skin and without hesitation, you cut yourself. You knew at what angle this specific blade had to be, how much pressure to put, and how quickly to move the scalpel for the cut to be just the right depth to heal by itself and not need stitches. And as soon as the blade pierced your skin, you exhaled loudly and a massive amount of pressure left your body like a weight lifted from your shoulders, and the relief of it made you close your eyes and tilt your head back; the feeling was almost biblical...

When you opened your eyes again, you saw Aaron's eyes drilling into you, but by now, you were used to him reading you, so you just looked down again and chose another patch of skin, far away from the first cut, because you knew that they would heal quicker if they were further apart. You made another cut and once again, the almost orgasmic relief took over your body, forcing a very quiet whine from between your lips...

You wanted to make another cut, but Aaron wrapped his fingers around your wrist and straightened his leg, so it was parallel to yours.

- Do me. - another non-request

- Aaron, no... You don't need it. And it will actually hurt you... - this time you had to plead because it would be pointless for either of you.

- Nothing could hurt me more than seeing you hurt yourself... Now, I can either do it myself and fuck it up, because I don't know what I'm doing, or you can do it for me. It's your choice. - you froze. You honestly didn't know what was worse - actually inflicting pain on the most important person in your life, or watching him potentially injuring himself...

- I'll do it. - you eventually whispered. You still needed a moment to allow your brain to catch up to your words, but you ended up moving the surgical towel so it was closer to his thigh so you could see better what you would be doing.

- The exact same places as you did on your leg. - your eyes shot back to his, but he was serious, and you started to worry. There were more safe areas, especially the one closer to the inside of the thigh, but it wasn't a request. He wanted to show you something and make sure you understood it.

- Flex your muscles... - you requested and as soon as he did, you gently run your fingers over the areas you just cut on your own leg. You determined the exact placement of his veins and an artery. You of course didn't plan on going anywhere below fascia, but you still wanted to be as cautious as possible. - Relax... - he did as you told, and you gently pinched his skin, roughly determining how thick it was in those places, and how deeply you could go without any risks. By now you knew his body well, but not on that level; this was completely new for both of you.

You detached the blade you used to cut yourself from the handle and dropped it into a small metal tin with all the other ones. And then you repeated the preparation process, disinfecting everything that needed to be disinfected and attaching a fresh blade to the scalpel. For a short moment, you were toying with the idea of asking him to shave his thigh, because the healing process could be worse for him if he didn’t, but you got the feeling that it wasn't something he would say yes to right now.

Before you put the blade to his skin, you looked him in the eyes again, hoping that he would stop you, but there was nothing but determination there. So, you looked back down, with your finger traced the path you were about to follow with the scalpel, and made a quick cut. It was long, but a bit shallower than yours, because you weren't used to cutting thicker skin.

He stayed still, not even flinching at the pain he must have felt but seeing the droplets of fresh blood gathering on the edges of the cut ripped something from your chest and crushed it right in front of you. You wanted to apologize, to beg for forgiveness, but his stern look told you it wouldn't be wise.

- Again. - he said quietly, his voice much softer than you expected it to be in a moment like this. And you did... You moved your hand closer to his inner thigh and made another swift cut, this time curving it a little, following the shape of the muscle.

You didn't even realize that you started crying; only when you saw your tear falling down dangerously close to the fresh cut, you moved your head away. You quickly wiped the rest of the tears with the back of your left hand, taking a fresh gauze in your right and drying the drop before it had the chance to contaminate the cut.

- Do you understand now...? - he asked quietly, and you nodded, trying to hold back tears. - Good. Because every time I will find a fresh one on your body, you will be recreating it on mine. And from now on I will be checking regularly. Are we clear...? - you nodded again, trying your best to calm yourself down. He hated making you cry, but he also knew you well enough to realize that it was the fastest and most efficient way to stop you from harming yourself. You needed to realize what it was like to be on the other end of it, no matter how good and cathartic it felt in the moment. He also knew that now, every time you would even think about self-harming, the image of two fresh cuts on his thigh would immediately pop up in your head.

Still with tears in your eyes and without saying a word you cleaned all four cuts you made, and you even gently wrapped them with a fresh bandage, which wasn't something you usually did, but you didn't want any risks tonight... When you were done with the wounds, you put everything away in the box, and the box back in the desk And even though the possibility of you taking it out again was next to none, the knowledge that it was there, just in case, was still comforting.

And then you were back in bed, under the covers, basking in Aaron's body heat.

- I'm sorry I forced you to do this... - he whispered, when you grabbed the material of his shirt with both hands, and he wrapped himself around you, allowing you to hide in the cocoon made from him. - I don't regret it, and I would have done it again, but I am truly sorry that I forced you to experience that feeling. - he could never lie to you... Not even about something like this.

You were quietly sobbing into his chest. Was it healthy? No. Would a therapist hearing about this situation told you to run far away from him? Definitely. But did it work...? In its own twisted way, it did.

- I love you, Aaron... - you said quietly, clenching your fists even more. He run one of his hands over your buzzcut and you leaned into the touch almost like a cat.

- I love you too... - he pulled you closer and let you cry into the material of his shirt until you fell asleep in his arms... But he didn't join you, he couldn't. The guilt and anger he felt were so overwhelming that he didn't know what to do with them. And even though you were safe in his arms right now, the knowledge that the monsters who did this to you were still alive was eating him from the inside. Sure, they were in prison, he made sure of that, but he was seriously considering abusing his power and influence to make them meet their maker. The worst thing was it wasn't the first time he thought about it... He had come up with four possible ways to kill them, and all of them left his hands squeaky clean, that's why it was so tempting.

But if he ever did the things, he thought about doing, he would no longer be a good man.

And you deserved a good man.

A/N 2: Please don’t feel obligated/pressured to reblog, because I write mostly for myself. A comment would be appreciated though :) Love, G.

[eltube]

(new fic!) Evil-Adult-Anon

I wrote this fic as a gift for @kndrules’ birthday this year (Happy Birthday Jay!) and after he mentioned it offhand someone was interested in reading it—so I am posting it here for all to see!

It takes place in our adult AU, where—for reference—sector V members are about 35 years old. This fic doesn’t feature sector V, though; it stars Cree!! Who is in her forties, a Japanese history professor, and still coming to terms with her life after Father. (Father is recently in prison—basically, if you have any questions about the details of this timeline, feel free to ask about it.) It also features special guests (The) Steve and The Toilenator, though you may not recognize him at first.

Enjoy!

With every step she took into the hotel lobby, Cree gripped the shoulder strap of her canvas bag a little tighter. She had tried to dress casual, but put-together: one of her nicer cardigan sweaters, the pants she actually ironed, and her new shoes with the fancy broguing on the sides. Her locs were tied back in a small, loose bun behind her, and she figured that–at least if nobody zeroed in on the death grip of that one hand on her bag–she probably looked pretty composed from the outside. 

She needed the death grip though, because the farther away she got from her partner’s familiar car, the more she felt her bravado slipping away, already making a smaller woman under this big, domed ceiling. Steve had told her way too many times that she’s “got this,” working his clueless magic that once again made her enough of a fool to believe him. Now, the stronger illusion of her–the stranger who so confidently waved at Steve as he dropped her off, as if this was all her idea–was looking down at her real self with a mixture of smug superiority and pity. 

She ran her palm along the bag’s material as she walked on the lobby carpet, grounding herself (as she had been taught to call it) by feeling the bumps along the surface. She recognized and remembered the shapes of the file folders, overflowing with booklets of paper, packed inside. Cree had brought her students’ essays along with her, like she always did during exam seasons in case she had a few moments to catch up on marking them. 

In this case, bringing the student papers along had been a kind of silent, last-ditch prayer of desperation. Like, maybe this whole thing would actually be cancelled, right? Everyone would go home, not even knowing she had shown up, and she could sit peacefully alone on these pearly white couches until Steve’s band finished practicing, just reading first-year history students’ takes on bushido and cracking up without a care in the world. 

It wasn’t going to happen–but honestly, she just needed the fantasy to get her out the door. As the knots in her stomach were reminding her very loudly now, she really did not want to come.

Trying the grounding again, Cree focused on the surroundings of the hotel as she moved towards the conference room, reminding herself to “name three things” for each of her senses. She had resisted this strategy at first, how babyish it sounded. To her displeasure though, she had to admit that when she actually tried it eventually, the damn thing worked.

I hear…the front desk people typing. Luggage carts. A fountain.

I see…ugly wallpaper. Plants. A snack counter…huh, looks like they have ice cream. That logo is familiar. 

I smell…what do hotels smell like? The scent of blandness? Parfum du nothing? ‘Clean stank’? Sure, those count as three things.

I taste…DAMMIT! FUCK! SHIT!

A jolt of surprised rage yanked Cree out of the ritual. She strode directly into something blocking her path, priming her to explode at whoever put it there–and then, just as fast, a wave of hot embarrassment followed. She realized she had knocked her foot against a sign outside the conference room. It was, actually, the exact sign she was supposed to be looking out for.

 “SUPPORT GROUP HERE,”--the text on the cardboard seemed to be shouting out loud to mock her as it toppled over. Cree couldn’t help but project onto it like it was a person she hated, some shrill little kid maybe, pointing and going LOOK WHAT THIS WEIRD LADY DID for the whole hotel to hear. Scrambling to catch herself and prop the thing back up–make it be quiet–Cree looked around, praying that no one had seen her “calm” herself into a clumsy mess. Luckily, it seemed like it was a secret between her and the security cameras at most.

“So much for mindfulness,” she muttered to herself, silently cursing her therapist. That lady was definitely going to hear about the mess she caused with her advice next week. On the bright side, though, all the potential awkwardness Cree felt around walking into this conference room seemed tamer in comparison, now. She let out a long-suffering breath, reasoning that she had come this far, and put on a brave face as she crossed the threshold.

—

The room was set up just the way Cree had imagined it–she couldn’t tell if she found this funny or downright irritating, the cliche of the scene. The circle of folding chairs, the table of cheap coffee, the name tags…it all felt like the setup of a joke at her expense, and when she found herself taking a sharpie and actually writing Cree on one–eugh—that was the punchline. 

A nametag, as if these people didn’t know exactly who she was. Even if she had changed her hair or her mannerisms much in the last 15 or so years, she was, she noted bitterly, the only Black woman in the room, so she would always be unmistakable. 

At least no one’s staring at me. At least not until my back is turned. 

The cheap label stuck to the right side of her sweater, she kept her hand on her bag as she sat slowly down in one of the chairs. It was stiff, but she took some small pride in having good posture. Others in the room, many of whom she was surprised not to recognize–shouldn’t I know everybody here?--were all milling around and making small talk, like friends. They smiled at each other, touched shoulders, laughed; they probably came here dutifully every second week while she was hiding at home.

People started to take their seats around her, and Cree tried to block the lonely resentment building in her gut from showing on her face. As the meeting started and the scattered conversations died down, she closed her eyes and conjured up her confident self from the car again, a witch conjuring ghosts of the past. She would need magic not to screw this up.

Directly across from her, one middle-aged man stayed standing with his hands folded; he, she assumed, was the group leader she talked to on the phone. 

“Welcome, everybody,” he said, and his familiar voice confirmed Cree’s guess. “Now that everyone’s sitting, we can start.”

The man, tall and Latino with greying hair and broad arms, had already introduced himself to Cree last week as Paolo. He was friendly enough, and thoughtful enough with his direct invitation to attend the meeting, that she tragically couldn’t refuse it anymore without looking like a complete jerk. And as always seemed to be the case with these people, he said he knew who she was, but she never remembered meeting him–and again, she wondered if this tendency to erase people’s names and faces from her memory made her arrogant. 

She tried to console herself with the fact that, at least in this case, there were reasons Paolo might have been forgettable; ice cream men were always wearing those stupid hats anyway, and they all looked the same in uniform. It’s not like she was hanging out with them back in the day—they were never even invited to those Anti-Kid Bingo Nights. 

Ugh, she had almost forgotten how much she hated those.

“First of all,” Paolo continued, with the attention of the room bringing Cree back. “Thanks to everyone again who brought food. Feel free to say something about your recipe when we do the circle…if it’s not a family secret!”

There were good-hearted chuckles scattered around Cree where the older members sat, the kind she hears from the tenured professors pushing 70 at work. When she’s not scared of getting a day older, part of Cree looks forward to getting to an age where unfunny jokes make her laugh like that.

“Now, we’ll start with me like always. We don’t have too many new folks here today,”--and Cree felt his lack of eye contact with her here was deliberate–”but it’s always good to introduce ourselves just in case. So, hi everyone. My name’s Paolo–feel free to share just your first name, or your last too, whatever’s comfortable–and, well, when I’m not running this group, I’m the Ohio regional representative of Tasty Taste. It’s been really rewarding for me to help build the new face of the company, and, hey…I’m sure it’s also rewarding for us that I’m able to offer free ice cream to everyone here.” 

There was a murmur of chuckles from the group again, and Cree remembered the stand she had passed on the way in, the shape and colours of the logo all clicking into place. The new face of the company. So the stand used to belong to…hell, maybe the whole hotel used to be his. Suddenly she felt a pang of nausea, like the chair she was sitting on might be coated in poisonous slime.

Paolo went on. “I’ll pass the intros around the circle now, and feel free to share anything about yourself. It can be a fact about you related to the group or not! Then we’ll go into a theme for this week’s discussion. Lou, you’re on my right–why don’t you go ahead?”

Paolo sat down, and the man next to him looked up and smiled at the group shyly. He was white and semi-elderly, with a belly but stringy, gangly limbs, and he sported a decidedly balding head of thin blonde hair. Cree didn’t recognize this guy, either, and assumed he was another ice cream man. How common was it, she wondered, for men like Paolo to still be working at Tasty Taste now?

“Hi, I’m Lou,” the new man said, and something about his voice sounded instantly familiar. “I brought some quiche today, but it is a bit of a family secret with my husband and me…” He grinned. “Um, I work as a [gastrointestinal specialist] now, but for a long time I guess people probably just knew me as a guy who walked around wearing a goofy costume…a guy who no one liked.”

With that bit of context, in his timid voice, it dawned on her. Holy shit. Her mouth fell open, shocked by how bizarrely normal he seemed across from her now. That’s the Toilenator.

Nobody noticed her gaping expression while Lou continued, now so clearly resembling a time-lapsed version of the villain, like a parody act that walked offstage. “It’s been great for me to get to know people through this group,” he smiled, “And I’m glad more people are coming every time. Sigmund doesn’t come with me since it’s not his experience, but he says he can really tell it makes a difference and he’s grateful to all of you.”

Lou sat back in his chair and the group clapped, something that Cree gathered was customary during this “introductions” phase. She awkwardly raised her hands and clapped once, feeling distinctly stupid, like she was at show-and-tell or something. How long has the Toilenator been married? 

More than that—though she realized how cruel it was, while he was being vulnerable—Cree was embarrassed to think she had any common issues with the Toilenator. 

As the next few people introduced themselves, their words blurred into nonsense and this parallel between them horrified her more and more. She was suddenly haunted by a mirror image of herself, wearing an oversized toilet seat around her head, getting bullied by people—who were, by all accounts, total freaks themselves—is that the kind of company she was seeking solace in? 

More people spoke, mostly ice cream men, or B-list villains, or some guy who watered the lawn at the mansion. Ignoring them, she wondered if the Toilenator had any of the same messed up problems as her—maybe he even went to the same therapists about it. Maybe right after Cree left those offices, all woe-is-me, this old guy walked in after her, clearly doing so much better about it since he can be at home making quiche all day. As if all of this couldn’t be more humiliating, now the Toilenator was beating her at therapy! 

“…would like to share something?”

Cree looked up as she noticed the room was staring at her, expectant. It was silent now, no one else sharing, meaning it must have been her turn to speak. She stupidly opened and closed her mouth and sat up straighter, running her hand along her canvas bag nervously again.

”I, uh.”

Paolo was looking over and smiling patiently, and the patience of it sort of made it worse.

”Sorry. I’m…I didn’t bring anything. Didn’t know it was a potluck. I um…well, you all know who I am. I’m Cree. You know me whether you met me back then or not. Everyone keeps telling me to come to one of these things, but I never felt like I…I dunno, deserved it. But now I’m here, so I guess I have to catch everyone up.” 

Once the first words were out of her mouth, it became a kind of compulsion to speak, which in a way was a mercy. She caught faces with eyes burning into her, but fought the urge to try and read their thoughts.

”So, I was Father’s apprentice. For…10 years? Something like that.” 

Speaking his name made it real. She might as well jump right into it. 

”I guess, you know…I realized in my mid-20s, that after everything I worked for, I wanted out. It wasn’t worth it, and he never intended to give me any of the power he promised. I guess a lot of you worked for him for money, but he never even paid me. Then I realized it was his future or mine—he didn’t want me going to school, didn’t want me doing anything that took me farther away, and I guess…something in me sensed it would only get worse. I took a chance, I left, I cut contact and left for college and didn’t look back. I was scared he’d come after me but lo and behold the case against him came together just in time. And it’s only with him in prison that I feel like I can say anything without putting everyone I know in danger, so I’m not used to…saying anything. But I’m trying to start.”

 The room was listening intently, with a kind of respect that she only got in a really good lecture—the kind she never expected and worried she couldn’t rise to. She kept talking anyway, facts spilling out of her that she was always worried would explode if exposed to the air.

”I had some distance from everything, and I compartmentalized everything from back then until I graduated, but…you know, I still live with all the shit I did, while I worked for him, while I was trying to prove that I could be him someday. What I did to kids, to my own kid sister…and I went to him, right? And I did it year after year, and I convinced myself they deserved it. I didn’t think it was right to call myself a victim, because of that. Sometimes I felt I should have been sentenced with him. But becoming…”

 She took a shaky breath, feeling the full weight of the listening silence. “…becoming a teacher, when I’m working with my students…they’re all adults, right, but even then, I keep thinking…the power I have over them scares me. When I think about doing to them what he did, I feel sick, and it just makes me realize…damn, it was wrong when it happened to me, too. I was like that back then, just…young, and powerless, and wanting to impress someone who could move me up. No matter what it took, right? And he knew that. Even the guilt I’m feeling now, it…he made me feel it on purpose. And it worked.”

Cree had her eyes trained on the floor now, on a space between her shoes, and she was afraid to look up after saying what she knew was far too much. These people connected to her by Father’s common thread of abuse—she didn’t know if their pity or their total apathy to her pain would be more devastating. Whatever reaction there would be, it was the one she was afraid of—it was the escaping of the story, the reveal to the world, that hurt her every time. 

—

Cree felt her arm quickly shoot up to her face to wipe at a hot tear escaping. She and Steve had joked on the way over about how her crying was an inevitability, that it was just about how many fugitive tears she let get away. She thought she had prepared for it then, but she never could.

”Cree,” Paolo said in the silence, his voice sounding even-toned and not so sympathetic as to taunt her. “We are all so glad that you came to a meeting. And though it may not be at all close to what you’ve experienced in its intensity, I think you’ve put words to a dynamic that many of us in this group felt in our work lives for a long time.”

Cree bit down on her cheeks and braved glancing up again, seeing that several people were nodding respectfully, including Lou, who had an indisputably kind smile on his face. She wanted to mock it, but it was too genuine for that.

The woman sitting beside Cree wordlessly handed her a tissue and a glass of water, which she sheepishly accepted. When Paolo continued he addressed the entire group, taking attention away from her, helping her come back from where she had gone.

”Many people have said in group before,” Paolo said, gesturing to the circle, “that we have feelings of guilt, like you described. That we feel we can’t be considered Father’s victims, because we weren’t children when he hurt us, or because he didn’t hit us physically, or because we only suffered abuse in the workplace and not interpersonally.” There were more nods around him. 

“It comes up quite often, too, that members of the group are ourselves perpetrators—we hurt children on his payroll, and so we had no right to speak. And it’s true that many of us are guilty of things that we very well may not be forgiven for.” Paolo shrugged. “I’ve spoken to some people, former Kids Next Door operatives, who I hurt while I was an ice cream man. I want nothing more than to reconcile with them, but some of them—rightfully, I think—don’t speak to any of us. There’s a reason this group is for people who worked for Father. We all feel this tension. But it is powerful to break the cycle.”

Cree smiled, finding Paolo’s speech corny, but in a way that released some tension in her. The Toilenator—Lou, Cree reminded herself—was standing up and passing a dish around, apparently sensing an opportunity to relax everyone further. A thin elderly man looked over as he took a piece of quiche, adding his input:

“I had hoped I would see you at a meeting soon, Ms. Lincoln,” he said, and she immediately recognized his voice as the butler, Wintergreen’s. He broke into a smile at the way her eyes must have widened. “Yes, it’s been many years—and I often wondered if you were well, after you disappeared.” His face grew serious again, and he added: “I saw a lot of things back then that, if I could go back, I would not have allowed, or so I tell myself. There are people I would have protected. If I had been a better man…well. The point is to be a better man, now. Though a very old one, certainly.”

That old refrain of laughter, of middle-aged amusement at a tired joke, bubbled up and helped eat away at the nerves of the moment. Cree’s smirk was one of genuine mirth, this time. Her mind swirled with possibilities of what Wintergreen had been doing, feeling, all this time. Here was someone who served Father tea, who made the delightful children sandwiches for lunch. She had never even thought he had a conscience. But in its way, that must weigh on him, too.

Maybe she wasn’t—in every way—alone.

”I became a teacher after I left the business, too,” one ice cream man added, holding a hand under his quiche to catch the crumbs. “And I think what you said about teaching—seeing yourself in your students, and everything—well, that was a really good point. My students are adult learners, and in a new country, so sometimes when I see them lacking confidence, I remember how I felt when I messed up at work and Father exploded at me…you know, it takes me right back there. I’m not an angry guy, and I try to make class fun, but I just think…what if? What if that’s me one day? Sometimes I even have to leave the class because it messes me up. But, I don’t know if this is true for you…it makes it feel more rewarding to do it the right way. To be patient and not like some tyrant. I keep reminding myself that’s not who I am, because I get to decide.”

”I feel the same way about my patients,” Lou beamed, sitting back down now that the quiche tray was empty. “I love reassuring them, especially about things that are embarrassing, like stomach issues can be.” He shrugged. “Humiliation was a common theme in the ways all the villains targeted me, but it doesn’t have the same power anymore.”

”Damn, everyone sure moved up!” Cree thought aloud, laughing in spite of herself. “I guess the job market can’t be that bad, huh?”

”Oh, I wouldn’t say that,” Paolo laughed back. “After all, this group is my big career move, and they pay me in quiche!”

The response to this quip was uproarious, so disproportionately so that Cree found herself earnestly cackling along. As the evening wound down, the relief of introducing herself gave way to a rush of endorphins, powering her forward. 

She had conversations with people her teen self would have never spoken to—wouldn’t have been caught dead sitting in a circle with. That old outline of herself would have called this group a joke, a bunch of expired villains sitting in a circle like a kindergarten class, a cautionary tale about what happens when you let yourself go soft. 

She would have laughed about that with her teen ninja friends and then gone home alone, tried to sleep with the pit in her gut, knowing that she’d have to meet him tomorrow, to give her report, to get her orders. In the back of her mind, Cree thought to herself how much she would have wanted to hold that lonely girl. How much she wished she could call her up and invite her here herself.

—

By the time Cree met the car in the parking lot, she had four phone numbers tucked in her pocket, scrawled on hotel stationary in shaky hands by people who swore they had gotten the hand of technology enough to stay in touch. She often told people she’d call them or text them, fully intending to throw their cards in the trash the second she left—she didn’t intend that, this time. Though she guessed that time would always tell.

Steve unlatched the door handle and grinned at her from the front seat, a fry from the fast food place nearby hanging out of his mouth. “What’sh up?” He said, lips full, and then swallowed quickly to free up his speech. “Band practice was awesome today, you’re gonna love the new album.”

Cree climbed in, slung her bag over her shoulder and onto the floor in front of her. She realized how heavy it was, what she had been carrying all day.

“I’ll judge that when I hear it,” Cree grinned back. “Did you get me a burger?”

“‘Course.” Steve shook the paper bag beside him. “Your go-to after a rough day. I’m guessing you need it, huh? Tell me about everything that sucked on the way home, I’m all ears.”

“Actually,” Cree looked out the window, watching the hotel start to roll past as the car moved. She smiled again despite herself. “I was gonna say you can have it. The eating’s pretty good at these things. And man, you won’t believe who made the food.”

[blazehedgehog]

I Love To Shoot At Trouble

During the Steam Christmas Sale I ended up buying Need for Speed: Most Wanted 2012 because it was like $6 or $7 and I'm in the mood for a new racing game to chew up. EA already gave the game away for free in like 2015, but that meant installing "The EA App". I figured having it on Steam would be more convenient.

You'd think so.

It's not! As part of the first time launch, it installs "The EA App" anyway, which also means it found and uninstalled whatever version of Origin I still had (I wasn't aware I'd ever reinstalled Origin since my HDD crash). As part of this process, it also asked me for my EA password, I misread Firefox's stored password incorrectly, and went through the trouble of resetting my EA account with a new password before linking it to Steam. To my surprise, EA's been sitting on my seven year old cloud save from the few minutes I played of this on Origin in 2017, and asks if I want to import it. Sure, I guess.

So that's ten minutes down the drain before I can even boot up the game. Okay, fine, the game finally launches. Gotta wait while it boots up The EA App each time before it boots into the game, gotta wait for the title screen logo animation, gotta wait for a 10-15 second load screen because even though this game came out in 2012 it's gotta ping some always-online "Autolog" leaderboard whatever. Once it connects, it has to do a slow cinematic pan across your car, telling you what your online rivals have done since the last time you connected, and what kind of equipment you have on your car.

All told, every time you boot up Most Wanted 2012, you're looking at a 30-45 second wait before the game actually hands over control and lets you start driving.

Pull the accelerator and instantly Most Wanted SCREAMS at me:

Fair enough. I'm using a Dualshock 4, and the Playstation 4 did not release until over a full year after this game. Click to the menu it's asking of me and see that the control binding menu is awful -- it's one of those super oldschool ones, like binding keys one by one in Doom 2. I have no idea what these buttons are supposed to be in terms of Xbox equivalents, and I realize that Steam has this thing called "Steam Input" that's supposed to be handling all of this anyway. Steam Input generally makes my Dualshock 4 look like an Xbox controller to most games.

I exit out of Most Wanted, force Steam Input to "on" (I was messing with its settings recently, so I thought maybe it was disabled), and relaunch the game again. Wait for the EA App to boot up, gotta wait through the title screen logos, gotta wait 10-15 seconds on a loading screen, gotta wait another 5-10 on the cinematic pan across my car. I have now spent a minute and a half total waiting for this game to boot while I troubleshoot this.

Pull the accelerator. Instead of it complaining about my controller, straight up nothing happens. That's weird. The Start button works, the analog stick seems to work in the pause menu, but the triggers do not. The face buttons also do nothing. Upon checking the settings, that's because Most Wanted has settled on keyboard mode, even though it's clearly accepting some controller input. After poking at it, it does not seem like there's any way to get it to see my controller.

This makes Most Wanted a special game, because a lot of games I play will happily accept that Steam Input is telling it I have an Xbox controller connected even when I absolutely do not. But this is the rare 1% that seems to be incompatible. It's time to bring in the big guns.

Mayflash makes a terrific little passthrough device called the Magic NS, and the general purpose of this device is that it lets you use any controller on any other platform. An Xbox controller on a Playstation? No sweat. A Playstation controller on the Switch? It'll handle it. If you upgrade to the Magic NS2, you even get full gyro support. Every NS device also doubles as a Bluetooth dongle, so you can stay wireless if that's your thing. I love it so much I bought two, because generally they're only about $20.

A Magic NS2 for my Switch... and Magic NS1 for my PC. Strictly for scenarios like this, where a game expects an Xbox controller and Steam Input fails its camouflage.

Plug the NS1 in, connect my Dualshock 4, and once again boot up Most Wanted and wait the 45 seconds to get through the EA app, logos, loading, and the cinematic pan across my car. More than two full minutes now looking at this junk, and that's not counting the time spent outside of the game troubleshooting this in menus or digging out dongles or whatever.

Pull the accelerator... and my car starts to drive! I can steer! It works! Of course it works. The Magic NS never lets me down. I pull up to the first race event...

Press J and K to start the event.

Those are, uh. Those are keyboard keys. I'm using a controller. The controller is fully functional. You don't need to tell me this in keyboard controls. This isn't going to be one of those games, is it? The kind that still tells you everything in the keyboard shortcuts no matter what?

I drop into the menus again and see Most Wanted is still stuck on Keyboard mode and won't let me switch to anything else, even though I'm clearly using a fully functional controller now. This can't be right. But then I remember: Steam Input is still turned on, and when I forced Steam Input to be on, Most Wanted got stuck in this keyboard mode.

Exit out of the game, tell Steam to turn off Steam Input for this specific game only, and relaunch. Wait through all that crap again. We're up to three minutes just waiting for the game to start, and probably closing in on 20 minutes since I first decided I wanted to try Most Wanted.

Pull the accelerator, it works, drive up to the first event, and...

Pull LT and RT to start the event.

FINALLY. HOLY SHIT.

On the plus side: this game controls a lot better than I remember. It's a decent middleground between Criterion's heavier-feeling Hot Pursuit (2011) and the snappier Burnout Paradise. Though I could do with a lot less full screen flashing or the fact that Autolog alerts hide the minimap for some reason.

Not pictured, but the "always online" nature can also be frustrating if you pause, unpause, and find you have to quickly re-pause again a second time. That second pause will actually incur a loading spinner because it hasn't finished syncing with the server from the first pause, apparently. This game is going on 12 years old.

Anyway. This was a nightmare.

HOT BONUS

"The EA App" now starts up with Windows and is nagging me to enter the login credentials I already entered last night. I have to go through extra steps to get it to leave me alone and not do this

THE RIDE NEVER ENDS

[system-architect]

i took some of my friends/guildies on a run through 'story mode' (listening to all the dialogue) of shattered observatory recently and some of them learned new stuff despite running fractals often, which made me realize a bit there's actually a decent amount of fractals lore that people might not know or have picked up on, especially if you ran through the fractals pretty fast?? imo it's genuinely one of the most fascinating and well-written areas of the game

so, here, some of my favorite fractal/dessa/arkk lore tidbits (and why i Really Love Fractals):

1. arkk and potentially dessa are implied to be ex-inquest-- in the nightmare fractals, arkk mistakes the players for inquest debt collectors, and in his chaos fractal journal entries mentions his 'witless subordinates', so the implication feels to be that his mists research was inquest funded before he ghosted them. in thaumanova, dessa mentions two of the inquest npcs as having been krewemates of hers-- in ls1 she refers to them as being from her 'old krewe', and still describes them as friends (she also refers to them as 'good technicians', like yknow, the inquest rank). also, it may be for aesthetics, but tiles with the inquest logo are used throughout fractals (and in mistlock sanctuary)

2. simon, the cat obtainable from fractals, is implied to have been arkk's cat as per the headstone next to it (does this make arkk's cat golems make sense? maybe! they're also a cheeky reference to the other cat golems throughout fractals)

3. there was a little incident back in ls1 that revealed the fractals lobby is, itself, a fractal, and it and all the creatures in it loop continuously just like the regular fractals. shattered observatory is also vaguely foreshadowed in it, in a sad way :")

3a. similarly, by the way, the mistlock sanctuary is a fractal too-- ever talked to the npcs in there? go speak to ilia-- and the bartender

4. dessa hates the consortium, supposedly 'lost' her boyfriend (potentially arkk's father?) to them, and is not aware that the consortium are the ones who started promoting the fractals to tyria as an 'attraction'

5. dessa is, in some way, connected to the asura boss at the end of uncategorized fractal-- a small fact we only know from the dreamer collection, combined with dessa freaking out and having to leave when the fractal begins. we don't know their relation

6. dessa seems somewhat aware that she is non-existent/a mists magic construct bound to the timeloops. in a now-lost lore interview from wartower, she is described as being afraid to leave mistlock observatory in case she can't return to it. at the end of shattered observatory, she is much quicker to have the revelation than arkk is-- to the point where you could read it as her having known the whole time

7. and now, my favorite, which is more of a headcanon with a solid lore basis that i tend to go full pepe silvia about-- there's two types of fractal we see: ones that are sort of 'possible' or somewhat alien alternate realities, and then ones that are repeating loops of events that actually happened.

chaos, nightmare, and shattered observatory are all evidently loops of events that actually happened. arkk very much does smash into the fractals, you very much do stop him, dessa and arkk very much do effectively sacrifice themselves to stop the fractals from becoming destroyed, and then the loop repeats-- as they explicitly state it will

here's the thing... during the dialogue at the end of shattered, dessa states that arkk did successfully account for all variables except for the reality that they themselves aren't sentient and are just echoes bound to the fractal loop. thus that arkk's DDR would have successfully worked to extract them from the fractals if they were real, corporeal entities.

but since the shattered observatory is an echo of an event that happened, then just like all the other 'echo' fractals, then there needed to have been actual people acting upon the mists to create the event that's echoed in the first place. that is, it didn't just pop into existence of its' own accord. and while we encounter the fractal looped versions of arkk and dessa, they definitely were real people outside in tyria at some point in time

so... in the original version of the fractal... what actually happened? did a real, corporeal arkk meet a real, corporeal dessa? if so, did his DDR work? did they actually escape the mists, and then the loop in the fractal only ended up like it did because the copies couldn't follow in the originals' footsteps? or was arkk real, only to find that dessa wasn't? if the arkk and dessa we meet are only impressions or echoes of the real things, then where on tyria are the real arkk and dessa?

we don't know!! we simply don't know! we also know very little about the consortium, their connections to the inquest, or the uncategorized fractal! there is SO MUCH lore they could expand upon in future fractals and i really really hope they do ;_;

[teecupangel]

So i got a AC x Venom/Marvel crossover idea that ive been toying around with recently that i wanted to share:

So the reason that Symbiotes dont work so well with bonding is mostly the whole "We need to eat brains to live" thing clashes with most superhero morals, but Assassin's kill all the time so that could be a match made in heaven?

So, we could do this 2 ways: 1) is that desmond gets a symbiote when he and Lucy break out of Abstergo. Desmond stepped in some weird white and red goo, but with Lucy running ahead he couldnt really spare a thought to it. So, when he gets shoved in the trunk he gets to bond with the symbiote. Its a misfit just like him, completely alone in a world where you cant tell anyone who you truly are for fear of being discovered/abandoned/abused. So why not be misfits together? Desmond gets major flak for being such a chocolate addict, but hes losing hus mind over here so he gets his chocolate. He doesnt tell anyone about his friend until the templars show up and he and symbiote goes on an all you can eat buffe to everyones horror.

Or 2) where Desmond's body is recovered by Abstergo and during a containment breach a symbiote gets to his body and revives it(Isu bullshit FTW!) and goes on a rampage before dissapearing. Until Erudito gets a call on the emergency line from someone claiming to be Desmond.

Thoughts & Notes:

I imagine the symbiote to kinda look like Carnage & Anti-Venom, mainly being white with red details: his fingers are blood red that fade into black the closer to the hand you get until the black bleeds to the white in the middle of the fore-arms(the legs are the same). Instead of the spider symbol on the chest and back, he has the AC logo.

In option 1, idk what name would fit the symbiote, but in nr.2 id defo say they would name themselves Revenge for what Abstergo did to them.

Desmond would at first have issues eating people, but the symbiote does need it to live and if they stick to Templars and bad guys hes happy, so eh. Just make it a quick and clean kill, its the assassin way.

Idk how the others would really react really, but Bill would defintly go "This we can use, you are the perfect Assassin now", much to Desmonds frustration. Does Bill even see him as his son anymore?

Im all out of ideas now, what do you think? ^^

The origin of the Symbiote can be:

If we’re sticking to keep this as a Marvel/Venom/Spider-Man crossover, the Symbiote keeps its Marvel origin

If we’re keeping this contained into AC world, we can morph the Symbiote into a failed Isu experiment. In this route, the Symbiote could have been a failed plan to create an armor that can withstand the Solar Flare. It gained sentient due to some sort of Solar Flare-induced mechanical failure in its containment or lab and it spent centuries being alone until Abstergo got it.

Regardless of which route we choose, the idea would be: In Abstergo’s hands, it was studied and experimented on without realizing it was sentient which meant Abstergo was hurting it without realizing it.

This way the symbiote would have a reason to hate Abstergo and the Templar Order.

Or, you know, he could just like Desmond and be like “I like you so I’ll eat them.” kind of deal.

Another way that can be a combination of Way 1 & 2, Desmond got the symbiote when he returned to Rome to rescue Bill.

During the chase and ‘fight’ scene between Desmond and Cross, Cross could have accidentally shot the symbiote’s container and Desmond stepped on it in his mad dash to take down Cross as soon as possible.

The symbiote only started talking to him once he’s back in the Grand Temple and he believes it’s a more severe version of the Bleeding Effect first.

Actually…

Regardless of which Way we go for, Desmond wouldn’t immediately believe that he has a symbiote. He would cling to Lucy’s words that he’s hallucinating thanks to the Bleeding Effect and he would think the symbiote is more or less his mind trying to keep him sane by creating a weird sorta-not-sorta-shapeless being that seemed to be a mirror image of himself: completely alone in a world where he cannot tell anyone who he truly was for fear of being discovered, abandoned and/or abused.

The first time the symbiote would make itself known to everyone would be either from a battle with Abstergo (for Way 1 &2) or to actually protect Desmond from the device’s recoil because, while it cannot take the full brunt of the Solar Flare, the device’s recoil? Yeah, could totally do that.

Other Unorganized Notes:

I’m kinda imagining the Assassin insignia to start out more like ink blots with small veins stretched outward and the more Desmond and the symbiote ‘connect’, the more the Assassin insignia becomes clearer until the ink blots disappear but it’s an Assassin insignia that has small vein-shaped lines stretching outward.

I kinda like the idea that the symbiote’s name would be connected to either having an Assassin as its host or eagles in general. On the top of my head: Revenge (like you explained), Soar (which gives us a chance to make a lame joke of someone mishearing it as “Sore”), Flight, Leap, Hidden… or, you know, we can go for “Assassin” because no one can think of a better name or even “Bleed” because sometimes the symbiote suit looks like it’s bleeding and as a reference to the wrong idea they have that this might have been some kind of genetic mutation caused by the Bleeding Effect.

Shaun and Rebecca would freak out (Lucy too if we’re setting this in a timeline where the symbiote’s connection to Desmond made him stop before he stabbed Lucy) but they’d try to understand. Shaun would definitely be more on the side of poking it to see what it does because his self-preservation flipflop a lot while Rebecca is more worried about its effect on Desmond’s overall health in general.

Bill would definitely go “we can use this” the first time he heard of it then ask if Desmond’s alright later but, by then, the damage has been done. Even if Bill is genuine in his concern, Desmond don’t fucking care anymore.

The symbiote is the easiest way to stop Desmond’s Bleeding Episodes although it also likes to talk to his Bleeds. Altaïr finds it fascinating. Ezio is wary of it. Ratonhnhaké:ton just talks to it normally although there’s a hint of cautiousness in his tone.

It would be funny if the symbiote starts Bleeding Desmond’s ancestors once they reached a certain ‘connection level’ but instead of its personality being overwritten by the Bleed, it’s like the symbiote creates another ‘head’ to house the Bleed instead. This turns out to be the best way to keep Desmond from Bleeding but they can’t control who Bleeds, him or the symbiote… not yet anyway.

[yuseirra]

No but really.. the guy(yeah, you know what guy I'm talking about, THAT GUY I KEEP TRYING TO MAKE SENSE OF, THE KAMIKI HIKARU GUY...this is ridiculous) has literally no will to live!! He doesn't have any attachment to his life!! That much was made really clear and it's stated that he's been despairing.

He ORIGINALLY CAN'T HURT PEOPLE. He was so passive about people taking advantage of him in the past, he could only stand wide-eyes when people were so cruel to him, the only thing he could do as those things happened back then was reach out and hug Ai for support and that was enough for him to recover and smile very happily. He has the widest smiles when he's with her, he just.. adored her that much. He really thought that having her would be enough for him to bear these irrational and horrible loads of misery he had to put up with and IT WAS.

AND THEN SHE GETS MURDERED because he trusted his friends to send a bouquet to her in his behalf. So he takes the entire blame for it, it's so messed up.

The way I see it, he would have died then. He would have followed Ai. He really would have lost every power to live then, the way Aqua became depressed after Ai's funeral(they are really similar in many aspects in terms of what they go through) But I feel like something made him live. And didn't Aqua get his first black star eyes when he started thinking of revenge?? What if something really convinced him to have the idea that he can't die there just now??? The exact same way Aqua was?? But the direction was, "I will fix everything. I will have Ai return to life. I will have Ai back."

but you can't usually have these thoughts. You CAN'T bring back the dead or feel their presence or whatever. So why did he start getting these ideas?? What caused him to believe it could be a reality?? The only consistent element I can blame on IS the black star. IT IS THE BLACK STAR. You know how this series has a logo with the の < having the star eyes in it. The star eyes are an important element in this piece. I just.. feel they have to do with him. The black and the white eyes. His company has the name EYES. He talks about eyes having these powers. There's definitely something up with this that they feel the need to bring it up regardless of how illogical it'd seem in real life. This story IS FICTION. IT HAS FANTASY IN IT. Can you see where I'm coming from and what I'm going for?

This can't be it. The guy MAY die here maybe, but what's been shown so far isn't all there is to it and even without these weird ideas about stars (come on, there's just so many throwbacks about it and they basically rub it in Fatal and Mephisto and IDOL.) There's something I can't quite put my finger on yet but there IS an underlying element here that can bring this all together. Or maybe I'm expecting too much from a loosely written piece but no, what the songs are indicating are TOO SPECIFIC. They direct to this idea.

I really do believe we need to look into the idea of gods who don't realize they are gods, and the star eyes. It's about time. I just have a feeling I've been catching about those in a pretty accurate sense. Please do look over my theories, I may be getting at something here, I IMMEDIATELY got this idea after having listened to Fatal back in July. This idea has been introduced TOO recently for it to be brushed off as irrelevant, they WANT to tackle this idea.

If there's "a fallen god" in the series, it's Kamiki. He's just too weird. He starts out really innocent and pure, it's almost like he's so unknowing in fact because he's confused about even the most basic things and he even tried to regard malice positively and it's like he's turned into some evil spirit or some sort of devil. THEN IT'S NOT JAIL HE HAS TO HEAD, HE NEEDS TO UNDERGO PURIFICATION. I KEEP SAYING THIS, SALTWATER MAY HELP HIM LOL. THE ONLY WAY THAT'D MAKE SENSE FOR AI TO WANT TO SAVE HIM IS THIS

AND HEY, AI EVEN SAID IT HERSELF IN THE NOVEL!!!! I BOUGHT IT!!! SHE SAYS SHE MIGHT AS WELL BE A GODDESS!!!! I THINK SHE IS ONE!!!

I AM TOTALLY SERIOUS ON THIS. WAIT TILL I GET THIS RIGHT. TRUST ME, THEY WILL BRING THAT IDEA UP ABOUT GODS AGAIN, THEY HAVE TO. It's just too out of place to be just addressed and then thrown out the window like it's nothing, WHY talk about this in the first place?? There are SO many things in this comic that can be explained with divine elements meddled into it, but are almost impossible to be interpreted otherwise. There is also a scene where Ruby says she could be favored by the gods. They pray. So yeah.

[britt-kageryuu]

Morning Day 2

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They woke up fairly early, but they were caught up with people taking up the bathrooms across their rooms. The each took turns washing up, then fighting over space in front of the mirror getting their makeup looking good.

Donnie was getting their costume on, they were forced to do the interviews in the morning and early noon, so they decided on a version of a Senkuu Ishigami cosplay. This would be a different level of torture, but it was his agreement to have Mikey on M&G. The they would switch with April for the interviews.

Leo was going to be in the Artist Alley helping with the table until Dontron and Miguel switched. For the day he was dressed up like his Usagi, though he couldn't bring a sword because weapon checks can be a hassle. He wasn't looking forward to being stuck in the booth later.

Mikey volunteered to grab breakfast since he wasn't in a rush to get ready. He grabbed a couple breakfast pizzas, burritos, and a little something for lunch later. Hs also double checked everything Leo would need to take to the table for the day. And warn him not to do anything stupid.

Raph would be wandering around, he heard about a couple panels/workshops that sounded interesting, and was looking forward to shopping around. Though he wasn't going to be dressed up today, he was wearing some of their merch, and a Star Warrior jacket.

After everyone who was going in right now was gathered, they left to tap in for the day, and Donnie was getting Shelldon in a little costume, and River took over for Shelldon.

~▪~▪~▪~▪~▪~▪~

🧡

Mikey finished his breakfast while setting up his model, along with messing with what would appear on screen ar the booth, mainly just made the background a paintable surface for him to mess with while talking to guests.

The first number of people to walk past the holoscreen at the booth were watching him draw his Mandarin Paints logo while asking for pictures or just asking questions.

A bit more into the morning Mikey showed off some of his dance skills with some guests, and was having fun drawing random stuff for people walking past.

Up until someone decided to question his Psychology Degree... It was not pretty, and many people had to just stop and watch the trainwreck of a smackdown Mikey delivered.

At least he didn't unleash the full Wrath of Dr. Delicate Touch on the poor fool, just Dr. Disappointed.

💙

Leo wasn't having a terrible time, but so many people kept asking were Mikey was, and it wasn't annoying so much as a bit irritating to repeatedly say 'He stayed up very late to get some restock in, and we let him sleep in.'

One upside was just chatting with CJ when no one was asking to buy something. CJ had been traveling solo more recently, and it was nice to catch up and hear some of the stories CJ had about were he went.

The most interesting thing from the morning was some high and mighty artist tried to claim Leo stole their work, and was selling it. Leo let them yell and complain, while recording them, claiming they saw specifically Leo steal their stuff, and demanded to have 'their work'be returned with compensation.

Leo loved to look on this persons face when Leo calmly and loud enough for the eavesdroppers to hear, "Hey, listen, I get that you might be jealous of the art on sale at this table, but I got some news for ya. This ain't my table. I'm not the artist for this table, nor am I an artist in general, my baby brother is though." Leo could barely keep the smugness out of his voice, "And I sure as hell don't need to steal your work. So why claim you saw ME supposedly steal Your work Hmm?"

The person had realized they were in trouble, and tried to run, but they didn't get far before Con Security got them, Leo gladly handed over a copy of the video for evidence against the troublemaker.

Some parts of social media were going wild with this for days, and that Artists reputation was probably never going to recover. Especially not after possible legal stuff was brought up when mentioned.

💜

Donnie wasn't having the worst time with doing interviews, though they were getting stopped more for getting his picture than anyone wanting to give an interview.

Even if all Donnie planned to ask was, 'what's your day job?', since that was a fairly popular thing to ask when at events, if only for the slight shock value of hearing someone in Realistic Armour say they were a software engineer or something.

Though they also wanted to add in, 'Well I'm a tech engineer, but got dragged into this ridiculousness for a sponsorship deal.' at least once, but again not many want to stop to answer questions on how they're liking the Con.

Though they did end up having a delightful discussion on how data management wasn't taken very seriously, with a person in a fluffy dragon fur suit.

The switch off time couldn't have gotten there any sooner.

❤

Raph was having a pretty great morning.

There had been a panel for one of his favorite shows, and they had the creators there, and the voice actress for Raphs favorite characters.

Then he got on a call with Star while walking around the Dealers Hall, picked up a gift or two for her, she liked this one series that was older and harder to find now.

But he wondered how he didn't see the Build Your Own Plush booth before, the line was long, but worth it.

Though some people recognized him from yesterday, and wanted to ask how strong Raph was. So there's now some pictures of him flexing while multiple people hang on his arms, and a few of him carrying one or more people.

And he thankfully still had time to get to the workshop he wanted to check out. They were going to show how to crochet some simple videogame enemies, and looked like fun.

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

Masterpost

I'm gonna stagger posting a bit, because I want to be sure I like how I wrote things out, especially since I'm still having a bit of trouble figuring watch to write the guys doing on their own.

Which is part of why I split these up in to like Morning and Afternoon posts.

Also if it isn't obvious I can't really write out drama without rushing it a bit, if only because I forget about pacing things out when I want to get to the resolution.

[chronicbeans]

Hello! I've recently been binged reading your human illustrator wally series and I love it-!! It's amazing, and I think it would be cool to see your perception of the others too-!! That is if your comfortable to do so! Amazing work and im excited to see more in the future

I'll do my best! OwO I'll try to make it a bit short, but no promises lol. There is a bit of extra Wally info, too, simply because some of it pertains to other characters.

Human Illustrator Wally AU Character Info:

TW: Brief Mentions of Trauma/Possible Trauma, Past Bullying, Mentions of Delusions, Anxiety, and Paranoia

🖍️ Wally, alongside Barnaby and Howdy, went to a school that mainly consisted of richer families. It was kind of a school for "gifted" kids, and by "gifted" it means "both gifted, but mainly kids if families who PAID to be here". Wally and Barnaby's families paid for them to be there, while Howdy scored high enough in public school to be offered a genuine placement there. The school was a k-12 private school.

🖍️ Wally, even as a young kid, was extremely talented at art. Barnaby... well, Barnaby never really found a talent. What he doesn't realize is that he is actually pretty good at socializing and analyzing people. It was a part of the reason why he drifted towards Wally. He could tell that Wally was pretty lonely and wanted to help. Howdy drifted towards the both of them after being transferred from his public school, because the other children tended to bully him for coming from a poor family and not being able to afford trendy clothes. Howdy has a natural talent in marketing, being great at selling you basically anything. A part of it comes from how he felt he had to make excuses on why he had "cheap" items, such as a very basic lunch or a tattered bookbag.

🐛 Howdy's family was below the poverty line. Due to this his extended family either lived with them to help provide for everyone, or lived nearby to be there to fall back on. This has caused him to have a very close relationship with his family and to be hugely family oriented. His wife passed away, leaving him with their daughter, Henny. He treats her to whatever he can afford, often putting her needs before his own. He doesn't see himself as needing a lot of money, because he always saw how the more rich kids at the private school were mostly snobbish, besides Barnaby and Wally. He believes a good heart is more valuable than anything in the world.

🐾 Barnaby has always dreamed of being a comedian, however, he just can't come up with the right jokes or stunts to make people laugh. He usually starts out alright, before spiraling from both anxiety and believing that he messed up the joke and now has to explain it in vivid detail, thus ruining what good he had. He's determined, though, for better AND for worse. For better, because he has been practicing and practicing, making his jokes slightly better than before. For worse, because he soon became on the brink of being homeless. When Wally offered him a room in his house, he was forever grateful. He was also the first out of the group to figure out that Wally has hallucinations. Although he is unsure of exactly HOW he can help, he knows a few things that he can guess WON'T help, and to avoid doing those things. So, he tries his best to make Wally more comfortable whenever things get bad.

🎀 Julie LOVES fashion, of course, as a fashion designer. She especially loves the aesthetic of Childcore fashion. So, that is the bulk of the clothes she designs. She rarely puts the logo of her company on the clothes she designs, besides the tag. She believes that doing that would not only ruin the design, but be a bit devious, especially for the children's clothing designs. She doesn't want her clothing to make people walking advertisements! She wants her clothing to make people FASHIONABLE. She met the others through a brand deal, where her, Wally and Sally were working together on a show.

🌟 Sally is both a movie and play director. It usually goes that she will make a play, then make a movie out of that play. For her, the play is the most valuable form of the story, but she is well aware that some simply have trouble enjoying plays. For many, they simply do not have the imagination to fill in the details of the background details. So, the movie will help provide them a more entertaining version of the show. She can be a bit of a diva while directing people, but can always figure out when she has become too harsh and accidentally hurt someone's feelings. In those cases, she tries her best to make it up to them. She can also be a bit overdramatic, in both a good and a bad way. She wants her life to be more entertaining, like a real life show, and finds it difficult to cope with how bland the world seems to be compared to the stories she tells. So, when she met Wally and Julie on the show they were working together on, she knew she had to become their friends. They both seemed, to her, like they walked right out of a children's show.

🕊️ Poppy is as shy and anxious as ever. Now, though, she isn't too anxious to make the baked goods she comes up with herself. She has even made by Eros cooking shows with her skills. Before she found her passion of cooking and baking, however, she actually worked as a nurse. Seeing the injuries of some of her patients was what made her grow more anxious and accident wary in the first place. Eventually, she quit her job and moved back in with her family for a bit, before turning to cooking as a coping mechanism. She soon, unknowingly, became extremely good at baking and cooking meals for her family. She decided to make it into a career, when her friends and family got her to go onto a competitive cooking show and won. Then, her career as a cooking star rose up, eventually causing her to meet the others.

✉️ Eddie and Frank are both "outside" of the group. They aren't celebrities. Eddie is still just the clumsy mailman we know and love. In this specific AU, however, he has a form of ataxia that he inherited at birth. Ataxia, in a very basic explanation for those who may not know, is a condition that causes difficulty with walking and balance, coordination, speech and swallowing, and eye movements. His case is very mild, and he is receiving any available treatments he can get his hands on, but it still causes some difficulty with walking and having to make sudden, coordinated movements.

🦋 Frank is the local librarian. In fact, he owns the library. He met Eddie after ordering some books for the library, with him realizing his packages arrived from hearing Eddie trip and drop the heavy packages to the ground outside. Frank, to be frank (pun intended), was quite upset until Eddie explained his condition. After that, they slowly became friends as Frank ordered more and more packages of books to fill the library on time for its opening day. After a few years of them talking, they ended up getting into a relationship and marrying each other. To a little surprise, it was a blue haired stranger that ended up helping them out along the way, by giving love advice to them both before they asked each other out (Cough cough WALLY cough cough BUT NEITHER OF THEM RECOGNIZED HIM cough cough).

🏠 Home is just a little voice in Wally's head. A malicious one, that is. Wally's house itself seems to act as a sort of "trigger" for this specific voice, which is why Wally has nicknamed it Home. It causes an array of problems for him, from filling his mind with anxieties to even planting the seeds for brief bouts of delusion from time to time. As of recent, the delusion aspect has not been as common. Wally has found ways to ground himself back in reality, so those episodes have grown shorter and shorter. The main problems that Home causes at this point in time are anxiety and paranoia. Wally has never shared this fact, but he believes that the reason why his own house seems to be triggering Home is because he had a bad experience in his family's home when he was very little. However, Wally isn't entirely sure that his theory is true. All he knows is that Home only really talks to him whenever he is in his house, usually when he is alone in a room.