#starker fic fragments

[heartbreaknow]

Halloween Starker Fragments

This is not a fic per se. Just some fragments. Bits and bobs. It’s the cat ears and vampire fangs of a fic, if you will. A roll of Rockets and some Twizzlers.  

~🎃~

“Hey, Cheerful Cat, you had enough monster mashing yet?”

~

Peter spends Halloween of his senior year at the Tower. 

May’s working a double shift so one of her coworkers can take her kids to the haunted house at Floral Park, so Peter has no reason to be home. Meanwhile, SI is throwing a Spooky Science charity function from noon till six, the popularity of which proves far greater than anticipated. 

So Peter shows up, and allows himself to be drafted by one of Pepper’s assistants—put to work beside some of the real SI interns he’s bumped into on occasion and vaguely recognizes. They put some cat ears on him and draw some whiskers with an eyeliner produced from someone’s makeup bag, and he ends up spending the afternoon explaining exothermic reaction to elementary school kids and keeping their foamy “witches brew” from escaping its designated area.

~

Mr Stark drops by around 2 p.m., bestows a bunch of money on a number of youth science and technology programs in the city, and puts on a show that involves nanites programmed to take various ghoulish forms: a disembodied crawling hand, which transforms into a miniature hissing cat, which transforms into a large spider, which scuttles to the edge of the table and into Tony’s waiting gauntlet, immediately melting into it.

It must seem like magic to their young audience, no matter how simply Mr Stark explains it. It still seems almost like magic to Peter, and he was actually involved a little in some of the programming. Well, the cat and the hand. Mr Stark didn’t tell him about the spider.

~

By the time 6 p.m. rolls around, Peter’s skin and clothes are mottled in green dye from the witches brew, and he’s only eaten five or six mini KitKats since 10 a.m. He doesn’t really notice the oncoming sugar crash until—

“Hey, Cheerful Cat, you had enough monster mashing yet?” 

Mr Stark appears at his station ten minutes from closing and tells him there’s Chinese food getting cold upstairs. Peter’s stomach rumbles as if on cue. He tries not to let his shoulders droop as he exhales a long, tired breath. But Mr Stark notices, and waves off his protests that he should stay and help clean up. “Everyone who volunteered for this is getting a paid vacation day, kid. Unfortunately I cannot pay you not to go to school; they would revoke my mentor’s license. So pack it in, Salem.��Penthouse. Chinese food. The Thing is on. You can tell me all about how old it is.”    

~

As they duck out, headed for the elevators, Peter tilts a glance at Mr Stark, grinning. “Hey, was that a Sabrina The Teenage Witch reference you made back there?” 

Mr Stark flicks one of his cat ears, and says something about horrendous animatronics and knowing Melissa in the 90′s.  

~

Peter’s only been truly, properly trick-or-treating once or twice, because his neighborhood was all apartments, and they weren’t usually much good for going door-to-door. But his parents did take him to the nearest mall to trick-or-treat when he was little, and May and Ben took him for a couple of years after that. There was this one little shoe repair store that was kind of out of the way, and not a lot of foot traffic reached it. The manager there was super nice and always gave Peter a full-sized chocolate bar. It was awesome.

Then, the next day at school, Peter would meet up with Ned and trade all of his Oh Henry bars for Ned’s raisins, because for a couple of years Ned’s mom was on a health kick, and Ned was only allowed like two mini chocolate bars on Halloween night and that was it. But Peter liked sharing with Ned, and the raisins weren’t even that bad, as long as it was a fresh box.

Peter recounts some of this to Mr Stark while sitting on the carpet, eating ridiculously gourmet Chinese takeout and sorting all the Oh Henrys from the 50 piece box he found unopened on the counter (someone must’ve bought it as a token effort at Halloween preparedness). He still saves his Oh Henrys for Ned if he gets any, even though Ned can buy them whenever he wants to now. It’s just tradition.

 ~

Tony didn’t go trick-or-treating at all. Howard thought it was gauche; maybe not for other children, but certainly for Howard and Maria Stark’s son. Going door to door, asking for a handout from strangers? It just wasn’t appropriate. Plus, the neighborhood wasn’t suited to it: All those skyscrapers in Manhattan. And on Long Island, all those mansions, all spread out, with heavy gates that were never open.

Jarvis did always bring Tony some of the toffee his wife made, though, and a pumpkin which he would invite Tony to help him carve, after hours, just before he left for the night. So Tony would go up and put on his worst clothes, and they would set the pumpkin down with a satisfying thunk on Tony’s own juvenile work table, and lay out newspaper, and cut the top off the pumpkin. And Tony would put his hands down into the strange, alien viscera of it, and dig and dig against the slimy walls, and think about all the things he could make.

~

Tony says he never did the whole candy brigade. Carved his share of pumpkins though. Ghouls, bats, spiders—he throws a piece of candy corn at Peter to punctuate that last one.

Part way through the night Peter starts catching the candy corn in his mouth whenever Tony throws it, which is…. Something. Tony’s not sure what exactly. The candy traveling a perfect arc from Tony’s hand to Peter’s open mouth—white flash of teeth, quick pink tongue. Something.

~🎃~

[keelywolfe]

FIC: Outside Influences ch.5

Summary: The Fell brothers have a disagreement.

Tags:  Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Off-Screen Sexual Assault, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Aftermath of Violence, Pre-Spicyhoney, Blood and Injury, Injury Recovery, Aftermath of Sexual Assault

Please read the warnings on this one!!

Chapter One | Chapter Two | Chapter Three | Chapter Four 

~~*~~

Read Chapter Five on AO3

or

Read it here!

~~*~~

Before they’d come to Snowdin, before their well-protected house with locks on the door and wards layered over every barred window and entrance, Edge spent most of his life sleeping outside. Curled up in the alleyways of New Home behind trash bins, hidden in filthy pockets dug out from trash heaps in the dump.

His first memory of sleeping in a bed was in this house, and he still slept lightly. Wary of any XP seekers creeping up on him, ones too immoral to take heed of a striped shirt despite the punishment of death if they were caught. Depending on LV-maddened Monsters to be rational wouldn’t bring one back from dust; his own first LV came from such an attack, sending a needle-sharp bone into the eye of his would-be murderer and sometimes Edge still remembered the screams.

He summoned such a bone now, small and hidden in his hand before opening his sockets to see where the weight of the stare he could feel was coming from.

By the bedside, Red stood looking down at them, his expression unreadable. It cleared Edge’s mind to see him, instinct allowing rationality and memory to return.

He was in his own bed, that much he remembered. He didn’t remember sinking down from his sitting position at the headboard, nor did he remember allowing Rus to curl up closer to him, all his slim weight pressed against Edge. Currently, Rus was more on top of him than not, his skull snugged into Edge’s shoulder. One long leg was slung over both Edge’s and they each had their arms around the other in a messy tangle of limbs. Edge's free hand had somehow worked itself beneath Rus's shirt, his fingers circling the strong line of his spine almost possessively. Edge let go hastily, but Rus didn’t seem to have Edge’s sense of awareness; he only slept on, his breathing soft and even. One of his hands was curled up loosely on Edge’s chest, his sleeve pushed up and even in the dimness Edge could see the darkened bruise circling his wrist, a stark reminder of why Rus was here.

The harsh gleam of Red’s eye lights was starker, prickling sharp. He jerked his head towards the door, walking off without waiting for Edge.

With a clench of his fist, Edge dismissed the attack and went to work at detangling himself from Rus. It was a more difficult task than he’d expected; Rus clung like one of the parasitic vines that curled up the pine trees in Snowdin forest, making a low, unhappy sound as Edge carefully loosened his grip and slipped free. He still didn’t wake, sighing softly as Edge drew the blankets back over him, tucking in the soft folds. Edge lingered a moment, absently tracing one of his coronal sutures, following the curve of Rus’s skull. Then he turned away.

His bare bone feet were silent on the carpet as he went after his brother, but the moment he closed the door behind him, Edge jerked to feel harsh pressure on his soul, the soft, audible ting as it turned blue.

“What—” the fuck. The words were bitten off, unspoken, as he was yanked forward, dragged forcibly down the stairs to land painfully on his knees at his brother’s feet, hard enough to knock off a couple of HP points.

With some effort, Edge lifted his chin enough to look up at Red, who glared down at him with one darkened socket, the other filled with blazing crimson fury. The fingers of his raised hand curled fractionally and Edge choked, struggling to breathe for one beat, two, and then Red’s grip relaxed enough to let him drag in one harsh inhale.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” Red snarled. It should be disturbing to see that raw anger directed at him and what did it say that some part of Edge was ruthlessly pleased to see his brother’s protective instincts so roused for Rus, even if it was against him. He’d watched Red fight other Monsters so many times before, that razor-grin of his recklessly wild as he easily sidestepped their attacks, dragging their HP down to one before leaving them to bleed out, kicking their dust off his shoes without a backwards glance.

Red was pitilessly efficient, his anger only tempered now by who Edge was, protective instincts warring against each other. He knew his brother, knew how deeply buried the fragments of Red’s caring were, and wondered dimly if part of his anger was because they’d been unearthed and brought to light.

Edge only panted, struggling to breathe around the pressure still heavy on his soul, shaking his head, "There was nothing untoward going on."

"oh, no, nothing untoward,” Red said, saccharine sweet, contrasting with the blaze of his fury. That crazed strobe of his eye light increased to a seizure-inducing pulse. “two pals curled up all cozy, was that it?”

"He asked me to stay!"

"oh, he asked for it, did he. think that’s what those other fuckers told themselves?”

Crimson was the shade of magic and anger to Edge, but in that moment, rage flared white-hot, his own magic rousing in sharp warning. It was too close to what Rus accused him of before, the memory of Rus offering sex to him, his desperation and fear. Bad enough from Rus, but at least understandable, twisted in confusion as he was. That his own brother would even consider he would do such a thing…! Edge pushed back against Red’s phantom grip with a pulse of his own, the laws of gravity slippery between them as he snarled out, "Don't you even insinuate that I would take advantage of him! Don’t you dare!"

For one brief, eternal moment, they glared at each other with their magic straining against control, violence trembling on the brittle edge of tipping over. Then Red dropped his hand and stepped back, allowing Edge to struggle to his feet.

He fell back to lean against the banister, still panting. Shook himself like a wet dog, sloughing off the dregs of his brother’s intent. It was more difficult to wrench in his own magic, dragging it sullenly inward when it was eager to be used, sitting pulsing and ready since the moment he’d found Rus.

Red only stepped back, putting necessary space between them as he stripped off his jacket. He tossed it carelessly on the coffee table, one sleeve trailing along the floor. His shoes followed, this time placed properly on the mat even though a trail of wet footprints were visible on the carpet, leading up the stairs, but not down. By the time he turned back to Edge, his eye lights were their normal crimson.

"sorry ‘bout that,” Red said, finally, with rare sincerity, “i don’t think you would, bro. not on purpose. but he's confused as all fuck right now and i know how you feel about the honey bun."

"What?" Edge pushed himself upright to look at his brother blankly, the remains of his anger draining into confusion. "How I feel?”

That confusion only worsened at his brother’s skeptical look. It morphed slowly into dark, sardonic amusement, his permanent grin widening with a flash of sharp teeth. "really, bro?” Red shook his head. “we’re really gonna go here. okay, what’s his favorite movie?”

“What?” The non-sequitur only threw Edge off even more.

“movie,” Red repeated impatiently, sharp fingertips tapping.

“I suppose it’s that wretched one with those ghost hunters.”

“uh huh. how does he take his coffee?”

“With enough sugar and milk to turn it to mud, what are you—"

“favorite brekkie?”

“Pancakes drowning in honey,” Edge snapped irritably, “Enough! What are you getting at?”

Red only looked at him with blatant disappointment, as he might if Edge stupidly allowed mercy only to be attacked the moment his back was turned. “bro,” Red said, deliberately, “you know an awful lot about a guy you don’t like. c’mon, you two argue like advanced foreplay. me and sans have been making bets on how long it takes for you two to sack up for weeks. personally, i figured you’d give in by now, but you always were a stubborn shit.”

It was one of the more ridiculous assumptions he’d ever heard. Edge stalked over to sit down on the sofa that Rus kept avoiding, kicking Red’s jacket aside to brace a bare foot against the coffee table. He propped his chin on one hand and asked with mocking politeness, “And when were you go to mention this absurd theory of yours?”

“what, and ruin this prime entertainment?" Red grinned wolfishly. But it faded quickly into uncommon seriousness, "but the game is postponed for rain, kiddo. he’s not in a good place. you don’t watch yourself, you’re gonna fuck this up.” He stalked over and poked a sharp fingertip painfully into Edge’s sternum hard enough to scrape a bead of marrow. “better think long and hard about what you're doing." Red grimaced. “okay, that's a pun even i don't like, scratch it."

“There’s nothing to think about,” Edge said, coldly. He pushed back to his feet, “from now on, keep your idiocy between you and Sans.” He started back up the stairs, wary of letting Rus wake on his own after what happened the last time.

“do you even get how deep you’re digging yourself?” Red called out, each word tipped with razor intent. “you don’t have your head on any kind of straight over this! wanna know why i was even in your room, little brother? you didn’t lock the front door. storm's over, the buns are out clearing the roads and you were sound asleep, all ready for a knife in the back!”

The words drove in between his shoulder blades and Edge hunched as if they were a knife, stabbing deep. The locks were saturated with magic as was the door and while they couldn’t keep out a determined opponent, they would at least provide enough warning for them to wake and defend themselves.

Unless the door wasn’t locked.

They were useless bits of metal if the bolts weren’t thrown, leaving the house and its occupants unshielded and vulnerable to anyone bold enough to simply turn the doorknob.

Blue had slammed the door closed when he left, Red had shortcutted after him and Edge hadn’t locked the door because he’d been worried about Rus, worried about his reaction to his brother’s unexpected denials. Too worried, enough to cloud his judgement. Red was right, always fucking right, and what else was he right about?

He liked to think he was self-aware and his sudden clarity was unpleasant. Edge didn't hide from anything, not even unwelcome realizations. If he looked inward, he could see that perhaps there were moments of absurd fondness for Rus even in the midst of their past arguments, his exasperation tempered with something else entirely. Rus had been abrasive and rude from the start and Edge gave it back in spades, but didn’t he always return for more, wasn’t there a certain thrill to a perfect insult given or received?

Unwillingly, Edge thought of the kiss that Rus had forced on him. How would it have been if they'd both actually wanted it, that remembered sweetness eager instead of angry. Only Rus was so hurt right now, lost, and—

Red sighed, breaking through his circling thoughts, “he could be good for you, bro. maybe you’d be good for each other. work on getting a collar on him and you can find out. but not now. let’s work on getting this problem taken care of and then maybe.”

There was a sound of movement and they both looked up to see the light showing from beneath Edge’s door. But the door remained closed and Edge exhaled slowly, asking with deliberate softness, “What happened with Blue?”

From the scoffing sound Red made, he wasn’t fooled by the subject change, but he let it drop, “eh, the blueberry skulked around town for a while then went home. He was in the kitchen when i left, taking his bad mood out on some veggies. least the kid can handle a knife. when our sugar skull is feeling well enough to head for home, he’ll have something to snack on.”

The thought of Rus going back to Underswap to face his brother alone made sourness rise in the back of Edge’s throat. He managed to swallow it down and nodded curtly, starting back up the stairs. Through the creak of wood, he heard his brother say under his breath, “keep it in your pants, boss.”

Edge ignored him. His pants weren’t the problem when it came to Rus.

~~*~~

Read Chapter 6

[her-starkness]

No

Woohoo, my first Starker fic! See how boldly I am venturing forth, hahaha! (Yes, this is also on AO3 as “anonymous”, as the rest of what I am posting ... kinda really doesn’t match Starker. It’s still me though).

--

There are many reasons why Tony says “no” to Peter, when Peter comes to him, speaking of love, even though everything in him – his heart, his brain, his very soul, long to badly to say “yes, yes, yes”.

The main reason, the one that is both his blessing and his eternal curse, is that he is a futurist, and so he knows what saying “yes” would mean, would do to Peter – and he just can’t do it.

Sure, Tony might have another good decade in him, maybe even two if the fates he doesn’t believe in are kind – but the way he has been living his life? He doubts that he has more than that.

And Peter – Peter is such a good, such a loyal person, that Tony knows that he would stick with Tony whatever may come.

And what will come, inexorably and inevitably, is Tony slowing down, Tony’s body breaking down, Tony’s mind scrambling itself, either in one big rush, or in small, constant, heartbreaking increments. Tony’s parents might have been spared that kind of fate (though what kind of sparing being assassinated is, Tony’s not sure), but he’s had plenty of other examples of the vagaries and cruelties of aging in his immediate surroundings to know what is in store for him. It’ll be his mind giving out on him, as it did for aunt Peggy, or his body leaving his still lucid brain trapped in an unresponsive shell, as happened to Happy’s mother. Or it will be sudden, like Pepper’s father’s heart attack was.

Whatever decay the inexorable march of time will bring him, Tony knows that it’s probably not too far off – his alcohol-soaked youth, a constant sleep deficit, palladium poisoning, the accumulated injuries that being Iron Man brought with it – they’re already taking their toll on his health and stamina, and that is something that is only going to get worse.

And, for once, Tony is sure that he has actually found someone who is loyal to him, who would remain at his side in good times and bad, just as marriage vows and romantic ideals promise – and he can’t, he can’t do it.

It’s not because it would be a scandal now – that they could weather, or simply wait out until Peter is 21 – they’d be strong enough for that, he’s sure.

No, it’s because of what is lurking in the future that he says “no” and breaks both their hearts.

Sure, a September – April relationship sounds kind of romantic when it’s being written up in romance novels, but September’s sunshine is going to turn into October’s gold and decay, is going to turn into November’s rot, is going to turn into disease, decay, death – while April blossoms into May and into the prime of life of June and July.

Peter – Peter would be 25, 30, 35, and Tony would be turning into an old man whose hands tremble, knees creak, whose brain is slowly going.

He’d be slowing Peter down, when Peter should be enjoying the prime of his life, should be running at it at full speed, unbothered by thoughts of age and decay beyond having to take care of aunt May – he should not be waiting for Tony to stumble along with his walker, to struggle to pour himself his own coffee, to endlessly forget what day it was or who the people around him are … no.

Tony won’t, Tony can’t, do that to Peter.

And that, that, is why Tony says “no”, when Peter comes to him, body soft and oh so seductive, heart sure and loyal, speaking of love and forever.

Tony believes Peter that he means it when he says “no matter what comes”, and that is precisely the problem.

Tony knows what forever would mean, what will come – and he loves Peter too much to do that to him.

“No. I’m sorry, but no.”

Tony’s heart breaks into a million unmendable fragments as he watched Peter rush out the door, and possibly out of his life, but he knows that it is for the best.

.

[unsettledink]

It does suck.

I’ve been thinking about this a lot too lately. Literally sitting here tonight trying to get up the motivation to finish writing the rest of Fluffuary’s fics when I’m averaging about two comments per fic, even on the ones that are starker instead of the rarest of pairs. (Though I love every one of those comments!)

The response Starker Fluffuary fics have gotten vs the response Starker Kinktober fics got is pretty different. I told myself to expect that since smut always gets more of a response, and I’m used to being in the tiniest of fandoms so it does feel pretty normal, but all the same seeing little interaction makes me a little sad.

(Cut because it got stupid long because good luck shutting me up once I get going)

It helps me a little to remember that there are always outside factors at play that I can’t do anything about, that are just part of the ebb and flow of fandom.

It’s always seemed like Jan-Mar especially is one of the worst times for fandom hibernating. Everyone’s miserable and depressed and stressed because winter, and then this year add covid crap on top. Personally, looking at things and realizing it’s about to be a year since things really went to hell has just made me want to lie on the floor and Not Be. February is the worst month for me, when my SAD has beat me down enough I’m just grimly surviving.

There’s still some holiday hangover from just how many exchanges and events happen in December that seems to factor in as well.  I still have fics from Holiday events I have yet to read, nevermind the more recent things - there’s something like 280+ notifications in my email just for AO3 fics, not including things solely on tumblr. 

For writers at least, there’s just an issue of time. I’m struggling to keep up with reading and commenting on fics the other people in Fluffuary are posting while getting my own done in the few hours a day I have free. All my other projects or lists of tbr? Yeah........ It’s embarrassing for me to think ‘But I want interaction!’ and then be like ���Yeah well what’s the last comment/reblog you left?’. The guilt is real and major even though I’m pretty practiced at shoving past it.

Maybe it’s just the way fandoms operate now, but starker has been one of the most fragmented fandoms I’ve ever been in. There’s like, a solid five or six different circles I am on the edges of (god only knows how many more are around), and almost none of them have significant overlap. It’s super easy on tumblr to have these little groups of people all reblogging each other’s stuff and not even see much outside it, I guess? AO3 has a whole different group, there’s a whole cluster that seem to live mostly within exchanges, meme has a little group, I’m in like five starker discords and most don’t have more than a few members in common - who knows how many more there are I don’t know of - all of these different places and people and groups splintered off. It’s incredibly frustrating and I think it really hurts the overall community. It sure doesn’t help that half the starker stuff probably doesn’t even show up on the tag, so unless I follow someone I’d never know. That’s not to say that wasn’t a thing before tumblr, but it felt like there much larger areas of overlap, a few places where EVERYONE went even if they had their own little circle.

And one of the things that promotes is ... what’s the word I want? Not echo chamber, but like - you start just seeing the same things over and over, the same tropes and characterization and kinks that everyone is gravitating too instead of the variation that comes with more people. It’s just the nature of the beast. The problem is - well, for me at least - is that a couple of the really popular elements are things that are Very Much Not My Thing. Which is cool! But I’m not likely to read them, and after a while I get so tired of seeing the same things I don’t even want to give them a try. I don’t have a solution beyond just pushing myself to try, but when I’m already drowning it’s much harder.

tumblr, at least, moves so fucking fast. (God I hate tumblr.) I’m obsessive about getting to the end of my dash every single day (probably part of why I have so little time lol) and I can’t imagine how often things posted once or twice get missed because of that. You’re already doing better than me in reblogging your work to catch more eyes.

I don’t know what it was like during the heyday, but honestly this does feel about like most movie fandoms several years after the movie came out. They just... get so much quieter. There’s no getting around it. I’m curious to see how/if it takes back off after the next Spider-Man movie.

This is going to sound weird but might be a factor for you specifically? But I’ve seen that sometimes producing a lot of content ends up getting less response. Wtf right? I think it’s partly people getting overwhelmed and shutting down, and partly getting into a mindset that ‘this person is rocking it out without help’. ao3commentoftheday has a good post talking about it that I should find.

Uh, that all got super long and rambly and drifted from my point a bit. It was partly to say that it helps me to remember it’s not necessarily me or my writing that’s ‘the problem’, but a huge number of outside factors as well (though it may not help you at all!) Reading back it feels like maybe some of it comes off as... invalidating? Like a defensive ‘hey they have reasons!’, but that’s truly not my intent. You’ve got every reason to feel unhappy with less interaction than you hoped for. It sucks a lot.

I know I could do better. I’ve got a solid ten - probably closer to fifteen or twenty oh crap the Dec event shit - of your fics sitting waiting for me to say something about and add to my reading blog. Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhh

And I know it’s just words that may not mean much, but don’t give up. Even if they didn’t say it, it’s guaranteed there are people out there that loved it. It’s hard, but try not to let it drain your enjoyment if you can. There are reasons you love writing these two beyond feedback. (But let’s all be honest, the reason for actually posting the stuff we write IS feedback!)

Uh, anyway. My two twenty cents on it, from someone with next to no followers and a couple decades in fandom, for whatever it’s worth.

I never want to see another post about the starker fandom being dead, k? Until y’all start actually appreciating creators and interacting with content, you don’t get to say shit. Because we’re still here. There are still creators here, doing our absolute best to make people happy and post what we enjoy doing

But when a fic of a few thousand words that took days to write gets two dozen notes and, like, two comments? That’s incredibly disappointing and frustrating

And for the record, we see those of you that reblog. That comment. Personally, I get so excited to see a comment on my posts or sweet comments written in the tags of a reblog. For those of you that do that, I see you. This isn’t about you, you’re incredible

Everyone else? Do better.