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tup-ika-5385 · 8 months

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Chapter 3 Summary:

Plans are made as Tup's condition starts to deteriorate.

Fic Summary:

Six months after the trials of Umbara, Tup and Dogma are growing into themselves as well-established members of the 501st. Tup's been training more with Fives and Jesse, set on an ARC trooper promotion, and even Dogma has found a place in medical, where his intense focus and organization are both needed and appreciated.

While practicing for his medic exams, Dogma find some worrying abnormalities in Tup's numbers, making some worrying discoveries. As Tup's condition worsens, help comes from unlikely sources as Dogma, Kix, Fives, and Hardcase fight to discover the truth and save their brother.

A Sequel to the fic "A Series of Hard Knocks," focusing on Tup and Dogma as they discover a nefarious plot.

Chapter 3:

To absolutely nobody’s surprise, Tup fell asleep the moment they got back to their bunkroom, and after reviewing his notes with Kix, it wasn’t long before Dogma joined him. Despite the sharp worry clawing at the back of his mind, Dogma fell asleep quickly, slumped against his batchmate’s chest, listening to his heartbeat. It was barely five hours later when he woke up again, Tup still plastered to his side, to find Kix and Fives discussing something over a datapad.

Carefully removing himself from Tup’s grasp, Dogma slid out of the bunk and gave a quiet nod to the other two.

“Get enough sleep, Dogma?” Kix asked with a knowing look. Back when he’d taken his medic’s exam, he hadn’t slept nearly enough. He could only imagine the added stress that Dogma was likely feeling from this whole scenario.

“I’m fine,” Dogma grunted. “How’s Tup’s scans? Have you two come up with anything yet?”

Fives grimaced, “I looked through what I could find of the Kaminoan’s files, and I couldn’t find anything on brain tumors. Other types of tumors, yes, but nothing from the brain.”

Kix nodded, “It was weird, but we could barely even find brain scans to compare Tup’s to; at least not higher-level scans like we did. It’s like the long-necks used their di’kutla hyper tests every single time, just for kicks!”

Fives had been smirking at Kix’s words, “for kicks,” when a thought came to mind. “Still, you’d think that they took brain scans for other things. Brain bleeds, concussions, kriff, even their freaky experiments. But we found nothing. I’m just saying, it’s a little suspicious.”

“Hmm. You might be onto something, Fives. Either way, though, we still need to figure out how to get whatever-it-is out of Tup’s head– without the Kaminoans finding out about it.” Kix said, deep in thought.

“Well, why don’t you just remove it?” Fives asked.

Kix rolled his eyes. “Oh, and should I rearrange the stars while I’m at it? I’m a field medic, Fives, not a brain surgeon. That requires special training; that or a really good medical droid.” He snapped before wincing internally at his tone. “Sorry, haven’t had my kaff yet.”

Fives shrugged, unoffended. “It’s okay, we all had an early start today. But if it’s a med droid we need, that shouldn’t be too difficult. We’ll just need to find one and convince it to do the surgery without alerting the long-necks. Easy!”

Dogma raised an eyebrow at Fives’ nonchalance. “And how do you plan on doing that?” Fives was taking this far too lightly, in his sleep-deprived opinion.

Typing on his datapad once again, Fives responded. “Well, if you give me a moment to find the programming manual for those medical droids–”

“An AZ unit would be better,” Kix interjected, and Fives nodded before continuing.

“Yep, just as I thought. Most droids, even the stuffy ones, will go against basic protocol if it means that their base function is fulfilled. Luckily for us, AZ units are programmed to do what’s best for the patient, above all else! So if we convince the droid that it would harm Tup to alert the Kaminoans, we should be good to go!”

“Are you sure that’s going to work?” Dogma asked, hopeful but still skeptical.

“I’m sure of it! Besides, growing up with Echo as a batchmate, I got pretty good at thinking around the regs.” Fives grinned, relieved that they finally had a plan to help Tup. Sure, he was close with everyone in his squad, but since Echo died, Tup was his best friend, and he hated feeling helpless when his brothers were hurting.

Kix nodded, and the group sank into thought. “How are we going to get our hands on a medical droid?”

Fives smirked, “Leave that to me.”

When Tup came back to awareness an hour later, his entire being felt like it was wrapped in a thick fog. If his vision had been a little off earlier, now it was downright blurry, and he shook his head a bit in the hopes that it would clear it. Instead, a sharp pain lanced through his skull and he let out a groan.

Distantly, he could hear his brothers moving around him, and one of the blurs got close enough that he could recognize Dogma. “-Hey Tup, how are you feeling?”

Tup scrubbed at his face with a clumsy hand. He may not have Dogma’s training, but something definitely felt off. “I-I don’t… feel like myself…” He muttered, earning a concerned look from Dogma.

“Hey Kix, does his voice sound slurred to you?” Dogma asked, shining a light in Tup’s eyes, and Tup let out an uncharacteristic whimper as the light seared his retinas.

“Sorry, sorry, vod. Just need to check something.” He apologized before turning towards the other medic, and Tup drifted a little, in a haze.

“ –Tup. Tup?” Flinching harshly, Tup realized that he’d spaced out again, and the other three troopers were all standing around him.

“W-what?” He asked, attempting to get up, only to be pushed back down with a gentle hand.

“We need to get him back to medbay– now.” Kix said, voice insistent. “I don’t know why, but his numbers are looking worse, and I don’t want to hold off for too much longer.”

Dogma nodded, and Tup belatedly realized that he’d captured his batchmate’s hand at some point, but thankfully Dogma didn’t seem to mind, squeezing it lightly whenever he started to drift again.

“How are we going to get him into medbay undetected?” He asked, and Fives opened his mouth to respond when, all of a sudden, Hardcase entered the room with an enthusiastic grin.

“Vode, you would not believe the– what’s going on?” Hardcase paused, noting the stress lines on Kix’s face, and how they all gathered around Tup. “Is Tup alright?”

Fives paused before taking charge of the situation. “There’s no time to explain, vod. We’ve gotta go to medbay. But first, I need you to do something for me.”

Nodding expectantly, Hardcase said. “Anything, Fives.”

At that, Fives’ expression quirked into a small grin. “I need you to punch me in the face.”

Hardcase blinked, and hardly a moment later, Fives was clutching his jaw with a groan. “You could’ve at least hesitated, vod!” He complained, shaking his head to clear it, a sardonic grin on his face. “Right, let’s head to medical.” He ordered, and the others were swift to follow, with Kix and Dogma each looping one of Tup’s arms around their shoulders.

Hardcase followed behind, a small grin on his face despite his growing worry. “You said there’s no time, Fives… why exactly did I just punch you in the face?”

“Come on, I’ll explain on the way.” Fives said, and Hardcase nodded. He’d followed the ARC into fire many times before; following him into medbay couldn’t be that bad.

Once they got to medbay, citing a sparring match gone wrong, it wasn’t long before Fives and Tup were seated on an exam table, being looked over by a med droid. Thankfully, it was one of the newer AZ units Kix had mentioned.

With Tup slumped on Fives' side, looking increasingly worse and muttering under his breath about good soldiers, it didn’t take long for the med droid to recognize that something else was going on. Thankfully, Fives came prepared, and after Kix showed the medical droid their scans, it wasn’t long before they were deep in discussion.

“Think about it. It’s your duty to save the patient, right?” Fives asked.

“That is correct.” The med droid bobbed his head in a nod, surprisingly expressive for a droid.

“And you agree that surgery is the correct course of action with these scans, as the best way to save the patient, right?”

“That is correct.”

“So, by stalling and informing the Kaminoans, who according to you, would move to terminate, dissect, and study the patient, you’d be letting the patient die, willingly.”

Fives forced himself to continue, keeping his voice even despite how the words threatened to choke him. Tup wasn’t on death’s door, not yet, but if he kept going downhill as fast as he was, Fives didn’t need to be a medic to know it’d be bad.

“Impossible! That is against my programming!”

“That’s not the way it looks to me,” Fives challenged.

“I cannot perform a surgery of this magnitude without disobeying protocols.” AZ-3 hedged, and Fives knew he had him right where he wanted.

“Check your programming,” Fives said. “I thought saving the patient at all costs was fundamentally your highest order.”

“That is correct.”

“Right, then let’s get to it.” Finally, Fives allowed a relieved look to cross his face as the medical droid was finally convinced to do the surgery– without alerting the Kaminoans. He looked over to Kix and Dogma, seeing dual looks of relief. Hardcase still looked a little confused, having been blindsided by the whole scenario, but thankfully, he’d kept the questions to a minimum, recognizing the urgency of the situation.

“Remind me to never leave you alone with a medical droid, vod.” Kix said, tired yet amused, still beyond grateful that Tup was going to get the help he needed.

Tup himself was oblivious to everything that had happened, having fallen into an uneasy state of unconsciousness after they’d laid him down on the exam table, not quite asleep, but definitely not awake either. His hand was still being carefully grasped by Dogma as he kept watch over his brother.

The med droid bobbed in the air, quickly getting started with the surgery prep. “CT-5385 is already unconscious, but I will administer a sedative to ensure he does not awaken during the surgery.”

Fives interjected. “Tup. His name is Tup.”

“Tup? What is a Tup?” The med droid asked, confused.

“He’s my friend; our brother. He’s not a number.” Fives continued, insistent.

“Yes he is. We all have numbers. My number is AZ-345211896246498721347. His number is CT-5385.

“Wrong, he has a name. No clone uses their number, not anymore.” Not since Kamino, and definitely not since Umbara, if any of them had a say in it.

“But you are a number. CT-5555.” The med droid’s tone was curious, even as it puttered around the exam room prepping for Tup’s surgery.

“No, I am Fives. Call me Fives.”

Kix’s face quirked into a small smile, listening to Fives argue with the medical droid. Still, he couldn’t deny the effectiveness of the ARC trooper’s tactics, convincing the med droid to help Tup.

“But, five is a number?”

“No, not five, Fives .” Fives enunciated to the confused droid.

“Oh…” AZ-3 nodded, and Fives grinned in success, only to be crushed when AZ continued. “The difference is minimal.”

Dogma huffed in amusement, appreciating the distraction from Tup’s deteriorating health, however small. As he stood there, waiting for the medical droid to start cutting into his batchmate’s brain, Dogma jumped forward at a sudden thought.

“Wait– Tup’s hair, I don’t…” Dogma paused, forcing himself to use clinical terms, even though it was his batchmate laying on the exam table, unconscious and vulnerable.

He reworded his thoughts carefully. “Cutting the patient’s hair unnecessarily would negatively impact his wellbeing. I’ve read about other techniques for civilians with brain tumors, but… is there any way to do the surgery without shaving his head?”

AZ-3 tilted his head robotically. “Hair is not alive, and thus has no pain receptors. How would cutting CT-5385’s hair negatively impact his well-being?”

Dogma paused for a moment, trying to explain. “Tup… when we were cadets, a trainer once attempted to forcibly cut his hair, against his will. After this event, his range scores were lower for a while, and he had trouble sleeping until it started to grow out again. Even now, he’s… careful about who he allows to touch his hair. Losing sleep could lengthen his recovery, which would be harmful to his overall health.”

A moment passed, and AZ-3’s servos whirred for a second before responding. “It would be less efficient, and would be more time-consuming, but it can be done. Hair-sparing techniques will only require me to shave half-an inch of his hair away from the surgical area, once I have applied the proper sealants. Would you like me to proceed with the surgery for clone trooper Tup?”

Dogma let out a sigh of relief as AZ immediately started prepping for the surgery. “Yes, thank you, AZ.”

AZ bobbed his head, hardly pausing from his “I am a droid, I do not require thanks.”

Dogma shook his head, exasperated, before stepping back, reassured that Tup’s hair would be saved. As he moved back towards the others, Fives gave him a friendly nudge. “Good job, vod. I didn’t even think about his hair.”

Dogma nodded wearily. “He’s going to have enough worries after this surgery. I didn’t want to add any more, if I could help it.” He kept his gaze on Tup, forcing himself not to look away as AZ continued with the surgery. It was lucky that they'd gotten him into surgery when they did, but his brain couldn't stop going through likelihoods of brain damage, skull pressure, even death, as he forced his gaze away from Tup's vitals.

He flinched slightly as Fives wrapped an arm around his shoulders before he relaxed a little bit at Fives’ reassurance. “Tup’s lucky to have a vod like you watching out for him.”

“Thanks… you too.”

Even with the additional steps for the hair-sparing surgery, it wasn’t long before AZ-3 finished the surgery, placing a bacta patch over the incision. Once he was done, he transferred the tumor to a microscope slide, which he passed to Kix.

“What is that?” Fives asked, shuddering at the misshapen tumor on the slide, and a pit of dread filled Dogma’s stomach as he looked back at Tup, still painfully still. Only time would tell if there were any lasting effects, so he squeezed his batchmate’s hand and hoped for the best.

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pretensesoup · 11 months

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Queer books, day 25/30

Yesterday (6/25) was the thirty-ninth anniversary of the death of Michel Foucault, and so somewhat non-traditionally I want to look at a book by a queer person that is definitely not about LGBTQ+ people doing things, but is the basis of a lot of queer theory (and other theories--we'll get into it). Hey, it's my series, I get to make the rules.

My love for Foucault has been well-documented elsewhere. This morning, I saw someone write that many people find Foucault very difficult to read, but in reality one of the things I love about him is that he writes very clearly, especially for a philosopher, and his work is often full of very interesting ideas.

Foucault is interested in power and tracing the historical origins of the organizations/entities that exercise this power in our lives, like prisons, schools, workplaces, religious institutions, and the medical establishment. Discipline and Punish is largely about prisons (as well the subtitle might indicate), but he also talks about schools, factories, and the military in it. Basically, the story goes, in the late eighteenth/early nineteenth century, Jeremy Bentham designed a new type of prison that was supposed to induce not just punishment but REFORM in the people who were sent there. Picture a round building, where each inmate gets a room to themselves around the circle, and in the center a guard tower. Each cell has a window facing the tower such that the inmate can be observed by the guards, but not see the guards doing the observing. Thus the inmate is forced to assume that they are always under observation and ACT like they are always being observed (i.e., they must behave "properly"). Eventually, they learn to self police, and then they are reformed. This is the panopticon prison.

This type of structure is repeated in society in a lot of ways, it turns out. The way that schools teach students to internalize rules related to behavoir/comportment, to do assignments by certain arbitrary deadlines and to be responsible for these themselves, to study the material on their own because they won't know when they might be quizzed. Workplaces want you to learn how to spend your time as your boss directs even when your boss isn't there to keep an eye on you. Police surveilance among the non-imprisoned population works this way. Drones work this way. And on and on.

I heard someone on a podcast (I think it was episode 156 of Random Number Generator Horror Podcast Number 9) say that when we say "all cops are bastards," one of the things we have to do is learn to get rid of the cop in our heads. Well, this is an account of how that cop gets there.

There's a lot more to say about Foucault's body of work, which was extensive despite the fact that he was only 57 when he died. (I know that doesn't sound super young, but Kant died at age 79 and Bertrand Motherfucking Russell died at 97!). After all, this field of inquiry was extremely influential on feminists and queer theorists like Judith Butler. But instead, I'm just going to give you a couple of key quotes:

Police surveilance provides the prison with offenders, which the prison transforms into delinquents, the targets and auxiliaries of police supervisions, which regularly send back a certain number of them to prison.

(Does that critique sound familiar?)

[In the eighteenth century, what] was then being formed was a policy of coercions that act upon the body, a calculated manipulation of its elements, its gestures, its behavior. The human body was entering a machinery of power that explores it, breaks it down and rearranges it. A 'political anatomy', which was also a 'mechanics of power', was being born; it defined how one may have a hold over others' bodies, not only so that they may do what one wishes, but so that they may operate as one wishes, with the techniques, the speed and the efficiency that one determines. Thus discipline produces subjected and practised bodies, 'docile' bodies.

Anyway, Foucault's ideas are like a toolbox, and you can choose to apply them in different places. And that's the basis of A LOT MORE of modern discourse than I think we ever really talk about. So if you're at all interested in this stuff, I highly recommend it. 10/10, go and read.

#michel foucault #my beloved #discipline and punish #theory #queer theory #docile bodies #the panopticon inside your head #pride #thirty days of books #queer books

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miusejournal · 2 years

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THE ART & CONTROVERSY OF THE CORSET

Looking through archival Vivienne Westwood capsule collections I was so engrossed with the beautifully crafted corsets that were designed. From the different prints to the structure of the corsets I realized just how much these pieces are not just pieces of clothing but art. The corsets themselves are beautifully crafted from cotton twill and structured with baleen and steel bones to keep its structure. It's clear that Vivienne Westwood’s corsets are eighteenth century inspired with an association with sexuality and deviancy. It is very common to see corsets be worn as a fashion statement instead of an undergarment. Historically, corsets were worn as a symbol of patriarchal oppression. However, in the present day it is a symbol of femininity and sexuality. Conspicuously the corset has become a fashionable article of clothing that can not only make your outfit more elevated but a form of empowerment. It can be seen as an art piece like the Vivienne Westwood corset, it has become a form of art that is showcased in museums around the world for all to see. However, with art comes controversy and the corset is far from it.

The history of corsetry illuminates controversy within many aspects. A perfect example of this is the 19th century controversial topic, “tightlacing”. Tightlacing was the practice of lacing someone into a tightly laced corset that significantly altered the shape of their body. There were many complications and health consequences due to tight lacing such as damaged or rearranged internal organs, breathing restrictions which oftentimes lead to faintness, fertility problems, and poor digestion. Horrifically, tightlacing did not only extend to women, it also extended to young girls. Historically, before the 16th century young girls were subjected to wear tightly laced corsets from their childhood up to womanhood. These young girls were “corset trained” for their future and subsequently subjected to achieve a certain beauty srand that enforced malicious notions of a woman's body that still linger in present day. The manipulation of women’s bodies to achieve a certain beauty standard is horrifically fetishazed and all a bit stereotypical for how a woman’s body should look based on obscure body standards. If we follow the festishisation of the “hourglass figure” then the ideal waist size would be little to none existent. It is undoubtedly clear that for many decades women have been subjected to beauty standards and fitting into the quote on quote standard. However, in recent years with the resurgence of corsets fashion lovers are beginning to treat this piece as a wardrobe staple piece.

One of my most favorite corsets is the infamous Jean Paul Gaultier cone bra corset dress that was presented in his Fall/Winter 1984-1985 show titled “Barbes”. The cone bra corset dress is a signature design that is continuously used in reference for the designer. Gaultier added many intricate attributes to the dress that makes it what it is, iconic. From the lacing on the back, to the sensual detailings of the fit of the dress when put onto the body, to the velvet textile used in a ruching effect to give the dress texture. This iconic piece by Jean Paul Gaultier speaks to the tantalizing nature of women and women's sexuality. This corseted dress gave a sense of fantasy where the woman wearing it could feel strong as the garment forces you to stand tall and feel empowered. The cone bra corset dress is taken out of the sphere of immorality and instead a sphere of self empowerment.

Similarly, Vivienne Westwood took the corset which signified patriarchal oppression and subverted it to luxury outerwear that is seen by many as a work of art. A particular Vivienne Westwood corset that I hold dearly to my fashion loved heart is the portrait corset which debuted in the Spring/Summer 1990 show “Portrait Collection”. In this collection there was a range of corsets that were printed with 18th century painting. Famously the 1743 painting Daphnis and Chloe, Shepherd Watching a Sleeping Shepherdess by the French Rococo artist Francois Boucher. This particular corset reinterprets the past of fashion and subvertly brings both the past and present together into the current era. Vivienne Westwood alternatively showed this corset on the runway as outerwear instead of underwear which in turn reclaimed its symbol of female liberation and empowerment. This corset has famously been worn by the likes of Bella Hadid and FKA Twigs. And has been interpretted in many different ways from the on coming fashion trends.

Both Jean Paul Gaultier and Vivienne Westwood have invoked upon the ideals of what it means to be a woman and how women are subjected to standards that are out of the norm. Instead both designers shifted the ideas around femininity and sexuality to more liberated, empowering, genderfluid approaches that allow women to no longer feel constricted but instead make a statement and I believe that is what makes it art.

In the present day it is apparent that the representation of femininity and gender fluidity, the exploration of corsetry is no longer subverted to oppression but acceptability and the celebration of the contour of the body. It is clear that there is still space for corsets, however not in the traditional sense. There is a new wave of sensual somatic that seeks to uplift the contour of the body and burgeon for liberation and empowerment.

(Dec. 24, 2021)

#vivienne westwood #jean paul gaultier #high fashion #faahion #fashion history #corsetry #90s runway #90s aesthetic #90s fashion

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bedlamsbard · 2 years

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for the writing ask: 10, 19, 30, and 33 :)

10. Top three favourite fic tropes.

I love a good hostage rescue! which is why I seem to put one in every story, but I like reading them too. (I don't always love how other people do them, but that's true of anything.)

sentient buildings/landscapes! one of my faves -- the MCU's the first time in a long time I haven't actually been writing it. (SGA had some great sentient Atlantis fic.)

multiverses! I write them a lot and I used to read them in fandoms where they were more common (I don't like the way the canon MCU did their multiverse). love seeing characters meet alternate versions of themselves/their friends.

19. Share a snippet from a wip without giving any context for it.

Loki’s breath puffed out in a white cloud even as frost formed around them, dousing the remaining braziers and climbing up the walls, spreading over the ceiling with a crackle of forming ice. He saw his fingers where they gripped the Kursed’s head turn blue, the color spreading up along the backs of his palms to vanish beneath his shirt-cuffs and uru-alloy vambraces, though as always he could still feel the change passing over him. The color of his skin was the least of it; beneath that bone shifted, muscle hardened, internal organs rearranged themselves, flesh and sinew and cartilage all made the minuscule and not-so-minuscule alterations that turned him from one of the Aesir to one of the Jotnar. His feet cramped inside his boots as his toes grew an extra joint each. A few extra teeth forced their way through his gums and his left eye went entirely blind, the damaged rods and cones unable to bear the strain of the shapeshift. When he blinked his eyes open – he had shut them at some point – his good eye saw everything through a spectrum a little different than his usual one, all the brilliant energy of the Kursed beneath him, the lightning crackling through Thor’s veins, pin-points of life forms barely visible through the insulating stone and marble of the palace.

30. Describe a fic that almost happened, but then it didn’t.

Trade All Your Tomorrows! There's still concept writing for this one up on tumblr somewhere -- I can't remember if it's tagged with that or not because it's been more than seven years now. This was the Kanan and Hera time travel fic that I almost wrote before I decided to do what would later become Backbone instead. The premise was that post-FatG Kanan and Hera got swapped with their TCW-era selves, meaning that Kanan woke up with a bunch of clone troopers and Depa Billaba and Hera woke up on Ryloth with her family (this version of her family and background was very different than what got used in Backbone), but bb!padawan Caleb and tiny!Hera woke up in the Phantom, where they later got found by Zeb, Sabine, and Ezra. So the younger versions would have shenanigans in the present day, while the older Kanan and Hera were able to tell the Jedi about Order 66 and upcoming events. After they got swapped back, events in the altered timeline would result in Order 66 still happening to some degree and the Empire still rising, leading to fifteen years later Ryloth rebel Hera and Jedi Knight Caleb (who'd come of age in a Jedi Order in hiding/exile) would meet at a arms deal on Tatooine (Nal Hutta? it's been a minute) and hook up. (Later versions of the altered timeline got adapted into Watchtower -- another fic that never got written -- and the alt timeline in Crown, which hasn't appeared on the page yet but is where Ezra was while he was gone, because I loved the set-up so much.) It got discarded in favor of Backbone because it didn't have an action plot and I got jossed by the Kanan comics in a way I didn't want to deal with, plus I liked Backbone better.

33. Give your writing a compliment.

I am very, very good, and I know I'm very, very good. I'm also pretty well-rounded; I can plot on a dime, I love worldbuilding, I can do dialogue, description, and action, and I love what I do.

#gendertrickery #bedlam replies #meme response

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erisenyo · 23 days

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for the ask game 🍅 and as a counter what’s your fave thing about your writing?

side note after my latest reread of burning bright & a couple of your other fics my rare internal dialogue took on a voice that was very distinctly yours for a while lol. v entertaining once i noticed

🍅 ⇢ give yourself some constructive criticism on your own writing

Well I am currently wrangling some hardcore pacing issues, so that is top of mind, though I think by this point the overall wordiness is something of a feature and not a bug of my style haha

Relatedly though, I have been trying to figure out how to get more descriptions into my writing in a way that feels organic. Place descriptions, scenery, the clothing, the environment, jewelry character are wearing--a lot of time there's a lot of rich detail in my head, but I struggle to get it down onto the page in a way that doesn't feel like it kills the pacing.

And my fave thing about my writing!

It's hard just to pick one! But I've been more consciously playing around with narrative tension in my past few fics (especially the Zukki series), and the way I can rearrange the order of events a reader expects when it comes to certain tropes or cathartic moments, and I've been really pleased with how it's coming out!

I also think I'm good at writing characters who are in denial to themselves but whose motivations are very obvious to the reader, which is fun and delightful haha

And your side note!

Wait that is AMAZING lol. My writing voice (or maybe, Zuko and Sokka's narration voice lol) worming their way into your subconscious, I love it. I hope they provided much snarky and amusing commentary on your day :P

For this Writer's Truth or Dare ask game!

#asks and answers #ask games #fic writing #Not me forgetting deciding I wanted to thing about this answer then then promptly forgetting to answer it at all #Also your *latest* reread - that makes me so happy! Rereading is truly such a wonderful compliment!

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mindsmissing · 3 months

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ugh, my internal organs are rearranging themselves

all I ate were maryland cookies and a chug-a-lug-jug full of milk

what did I do wrong?

Or was it the sensations crisps I ate right after?

They were, by far, the most unsensational thing I’ve eaten.

a cockroach could taste crunchier and crisper and tastier than what god awful crispy crangle I just put in my mouth.

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isittherightword · 7 months

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And I lost you

The one I was dancing with

In New York

No shoes

Looked up at the sky and it was

So scarlet it was

I'm awake with your memory over me

That's a real fuckin legacy

To leave

So scarlet it was

Maroon

This morning I was dancing in my kitchen, first to bongos by cardi b and Megan the stallion but something came over me, because I'm hoping to do my application today, or at least make progress and see what's required of me. I turned on maroon and this is what came up.

You know the thing about the career shit is that it really was a heartbreak. I was really close to my friend who was going through a divorce after like 14 years together and it was crazy how much the depth of our grief paralleled each other. My first real, deep earth shattering heartbreak was my divorce from surgery.

I actually really did love it. It was love. I was enamored with everything- the discipline it took to wake up in the morning every day at 4 am. The amount of things we got done before most people even got out of bed. The idea of having to know everything internal medicine doctors know and also know how to cut people open and take out and rearrange their organs. The intimacy of it. The weight of the responsibility of it. The knowing of people in ways they could never know themselves. I also was in love with the rejection, the doubt, the need to prove people wrong who said I couldn't do it. I loved the challenge of it. And until this day when I think about doctors, surgeons always will be my people. The specialty I fit most with. It was a real match. There was real shit behind the decision. It wasn't all a lie as I've told myself all of these years. There was love there. Real, love.

So scarlet it was

maroon.

There was enough love that I was willing to endure abuse, cruelty, racism, gaslighting, neglect, rejection. I wouldn't have put up with all of that pain if there wasn't love there. It was love. It's ok to say that.

The job really was my identity. But it never fit right- like a pair of slacks a size to small that you have to unbutton in the car while you drive. There was always something about it that cut a little to deep- there was a cord that led to somewhere a bit to deep inside my soul that made a lot of the shit that we put ourselves through as surgeons destabilize me in a way that it didn't seem to affect my other colleagues.

I had to pause to think of why.

At the end of the day when all was said and done- I didn't like the actual job of performing surgery. The idea I loved- the concept of the intimacy of it all, the tangibility of healing people and respecting disease and leaving their bodies more whole through the trauma of the process. That idea in theory appealed to me. But the actual action of it wasn't enough to sustain me. I found the OR cold and anxiety provoking and draining. I didn't enjoy the pressure of it, and I never really felt that accomplished. I think if I had been in the right program where the abuse wasn't as severe as the places I ended up I may have finished, but I would have been, underneath it all, unsatisfied with my life and career. It wouldn't have been for anything other than a sunk cost fallacy. I have a lot of friends, who finally, after all of these years are just now finishing or recently finished, and when you ask them if it was worth it they laugh.

I had a patient who had a gastric wedge for a GIST tumor- a benign tumor of the stomach. Literally the surgery is cutting out a piece of the stomach like you would a pie. It's not complicated. It's simple, and usually people only stay one night and just go home. You use what's called a ligasure device which uses sound waves to cauterize (or melt) the tissue together and seal it. And that's it. You cut it out like a pie. Simple.

I got a call that night that he felt like he couldn't breathe. I saw him and a man who was as black as I am turned the color of grey sand, clutching his chest, telling me he couldn't breathe.

I thought he was having a heart attack, or a pulmonary embolism, but wasn't bold enough to bolus the heparin without getting the labs back. I did get him to the ICU. After what felt like hours, but must have been 15-20 minutes the labs came back and his hemaglobin was 4.5. If you don't know, normal is 15.

We called the ACS team and right there at the bedside they sliced open his abdomen. So much blood poured out of his belly- it covered the floor and made it slippery. To add to that one of the transfusion bags burst on the ground as we tried to massively transfuse him. So scarlet it was.

There was so much noise and chaos while the code went in it was deafening. Once the more senior residents arrived I had been tasked with the job of calling the wife. I called and called and called and called and called. Nothing.

Finally after all the blood had drained from his body onto the floor, his heart stopped and we had to pump on his chest as whatever was left squirted and slid out of his abdomen onto the floor, onto our hands, our scrubs, our shoes. It was everywhere. So scarlet it was.

Then the silence came. The code was over. What was a room rancorous with the chaos of trying to save a life fell silent with the failure. I have never heard anything that quiet in my life.

Until the sound of an iPhone pierced the air. When we found the phone, a picture of a beautiful black woman on the screen with the word "Wifey".

My senior resident later told me that the screams she let out would haunt him for the rest of his life.

That was when I knew the job wasn't worth it. I had known before. I had had a suspicion. I felt weary with the exhaustion of waking up at 4 am every single day. I was traumatized by the neglect and isolation in that program. I was isolated, I was deeply lonely. At the time, I had nothing. My immediate family was as toxic as ever and had left me to wither away and die, starved of love or support in a hostile, deserted environment. My friends were also suffering and couldn't take on the weight of my flailing arms, lest they get pulled under and drown as well. I was in love with a man who took pleasure in pretending to pull me out just to hold my head under the water again and again- a sick game of emotional waterboarding. I had nothing. And the love that had driven me to throw everything I was and everything I had into becoming a surgeon, had run dry after years of drought.

But that night, as I sewed a dead man's abdomen closed, and wiped the blood from his cold skin, put my hand on his eyelids to close his empty eyes, I knew. It wasn't worth it.

I didn't want the weight of the responsibility. I didn't want to be haunted by the memory of misfiring a ligasure device, wondering if such a small action took a perfectly healthy father away from his wife and two daughters. As doctors, we see people die all the time. Death is a natural event. Sometimes death is preventable, sometimes it's not. Sometimes the difference between life and death is a misfired ligasure or a misplaced stitch. The OR for me was already a cold, joyless, anxiety provoking place. The gravity of wondering if any move I made would haunt me for the rest of my life, rip a son, daughter, father, friend, away from this world, made it unsustainable. I had already sacrificed so much. My youth, my identity, my body, my mind, my spirit- I knew the weight of the job would eventually snuff out what small light was left of my soul.

So I left.

Pt 1/?

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softniall · 2 years

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can my internal organs rearrange themselves into a comfortable position because this pain is unnecessary and ridiculous

#genuinely why does it hurt so much and why am i in so much pain and WHY DOES IT FEEL LIKE EVERYTHING IS STABBING ME #it me

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titoist · 2 years

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i finished it. breath persists to be a little shaky, i suppose. i'm a little embarrassed that a novella has had such an impact on me... i'm unsure if my parlance in spite of the last day of posting feels a tad bit like a smile with a missing front tooth. moreover, i'm not quite sure what to say... it all seems to speak for itself, to some extent, right?... it feels like i've been... cut open, ripped apart & atomized completely, my chest splayed open & my internal organs prodded at... i get the thought that someone brandished a knife & took it upon themselves to cut me into ever-smaller constituent parts, & whereupon they lovingly rearranged me into something completely new... ....well, maybe not completely new - but certainly a bit more understanding... scratching the back of my hand nervously. i'm not going to make any cliche'd statements that i now possess perfect clarity about my state - that it all has been made abundantly clear, or anything cloyingly romanticist like that. but, good lord, my dear fyodor gets it - he really does! it all boils down to this little excerpt - a single moment of pure, sober happiness; “God in heaven! A whole moment of bliss! Is that not sufficient even for a man's entire life?...” which i suspect will ring in my head for a long, long, long, long, while...

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skyrim-mod-load-order-dt · 2 years

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Mod load order for skyrim - Microsoft Community

💾 ►►► DOWNLOAD FILE 🔥🔥🔥 Asked by bistro I am using version 1. Any help would be appreciated. This happens if you're using an older version of Mod Organizer. I had the same problem because I had downloaded and extracted Mod Organizer 1. What happens is that Loot sorts the load order correctly, but Mod Organizer 1. I was just about on the verge of trying dynamite when I realized I was still on Mod Organizer 1. Once I fixed the shortcut to run Mod Organizer 1. It's perfectly normal, the USKP is an "esmifyed" esp. To put it simply : It's an. So, just let loot handle the position of the USKP as he want ;. Even running loot from within MO , though, while it shows inside of loot that it will move it up when I sort plugins, once I Apply, it does not move it. If this is a version thing, im just going to have to go back to NMM , which would be too bad, because I really like MO now that I had learned how it worked after watching all of gopher's youtube tutorials on it. So I am assuming there is no way to fix this problem since the newer versions require Windows 7 or higher? You could downgrade USKP. There's still a bagillion fixes in 2. Thank you for all the replies. It is really too bad. Great utility, and from what I have experienced, a great great community. I signed up to this forum to say i'm in the same boat as you However, in LOOT it doesn't seem to show any errors. Don't know what's up with that. Again Vista not being supported is a bummer If you are stuck with an old Windows, so cannot use the version of MO which has fixed this problem managing the Unofficial patches - Use a different mod manager. This issue happens to me as well, but I have the latest MO. My shortcuts are also up-to-date. I know this because recently I've had to re-install all of Skyrim, MO , and the other utilities from scratch. In part because of my OCD-ness. LOOT appears to be working fine. The plugin load order of MO also looks fine. Its only the load order on the left that is being automatically rearranged by MO. I'm not sure I understand this completely. I assume you're referring to the left vs right panes in Mod Organizer. The install order is in the left pane and you should be able to sort it manually into any order you want. If you mean the Unofficial Skyrim Patch won't sort into the proper order in the right pane, make sure you're using the latest version of Loot and triple check that you're running Mod Organizer 1. You need to be a member in order to leave a comment. Sign up for a new account in our community. It's easy! Already have an account? Sign in here. By using this site, you agree to our Terms of Use. Mod Organizer Support Search In. Sign in to follow this Followers 2. Question bistro 0. Posted July 10, Share this post Link to post Share on other sites. Recommended Posts. Greg 0. Kesta Posted July 10, edited. Will the mod be released as an ESM file? As of October , the answer to this is "yes" - but with a catch. The files themselves are what the CK and the game consider "master files" - that is, a file with the ESM flag set on it internally. However, the file extension on them is still set as. This is what's known in modding as a "false flagged ESP file" which basically just means you won't damage your save by upgrading to the new format but at the same time will gain the various benefits provided by this. Not the least of which is that the game will be more stable and entire classes of engine related issues will no longer be present. Edited July 10, by bistro EssArrBee 8. Thank you again for the replies and your time. Posted July 18, Or you could use Nexus Mod Manager or Wrye Bash to manage your mods instead which : A Dont have a problem with 32 bit integers B Work on older versions of Windows If you are stuck with an old Windows, so cannot use the version of MO which has fixed this problem managing the Unofficial patches - Use a different mod manager Simple. TechAngel85 0. Jimmyflow 0. Posted July 23, Any ideas? Updated LOOT? Create an account or sign in to comment You need to be a member in order to leave a comment Create an account Sign up for a new account in our community. Register a new account. Sign in Already have an account? Sign In Now. Go To Question Listing. Recently Browsing 0 members No registered users viewing this page. Sign In Sign Up. Important Information By using this site, you agree to our Terms of Use. I accept.

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sokkisky · 3 years

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~closer~

Want to make a request?: https://sokkisky.tumblr.com/ask

Rating: SFW (Angst, Comfort) Pairings: Keigo x OCD Y/N

Warnings: OCD, *Hate* word, Anxiety, Pills

Word Count: 1.2K

A/N: Hi! I’m back. <3

Thank you for everything @megustaitachi, thank you for letting me write this for you.

‘I hate you.’

It floats through Y/N’s mind. Like an endless loop, something that won’t stop. Repeating itself over and over again, ‘I hate you’. It was strong, the tension and thickness of the word itself pounding in Y/N’s head. They were cuddled to themselves, the argument seeming to revolve their life at the moment.

It was more than soul crushing, Y/N’s body seemed to shake with anxious feelings. It seemed to be more than just an argument. Keigo’s cool calm demeanor fading into seething anger. It was strange he was never angry, but any long argument could make anyone frustrated. A small disagreement turning into a massive storm of hateful words and seething pain until he shouted it.

‘I hate you, I hate the burden you cause.’

He left, the house felt cold, heavy tension in the air as it sunk into Y/N’s heart. It didn’t matter what they were arguing about now-, none of it mattered. What mattered is that he was gone.

The world seemed to crumble, like it was flipped on its head and shattered into a million pieces. Like someone took a baseball bat to Y/N’s life. Their body trembled, shaking furiously as they sat against the bed frame, their bones seeming to rattle inside them. Tears threatening to fall from their eyes.

Y/N looked up suddenly, something intense filling them, a need, an insatiable need to make everything okay. Chills ran down their body as they shakily moved to stand, their legs begging to fall again but they pushed through, moving towards the bathroom. Y/N’s head moving ahead of their body, their arms reaching for anything to help steady themselves as they staggered towards the open door.

They straggled in, swaying from side to side as they wobbled, their feet heavy against the marbled flooring. The words seem to pound in their head alongside the orders from their brain to fix it.

Fix something.

The towels weren’t aligned on the shelves correctly. They were folded perfectly but they still weren’t right. They were never right. Nothing was ever perfect, but it needed to be. Y/N needed to make sure it was. The heaping perfectionism killing them inside but how could they ignore it. It was always there, the heavy burden to make things perfect. The ever increasing need to fix them filled Y/N. They moved to the towels, trying to rearrange them to perfection before they realized the soap dish wasn’t perfect. Nor the paper towels, was the underside of the sink organized?

The ever increasing mass of problems filled them, the OCD inside of them creating more and more problems. Besides, how could you fix the big problems if you couldn’t fix the small ones. It was annoying how the world saw OCD, it was nothing like what they thought. It wasn’t quirky. It was devastating, the ever increasing need to fix it. Fix whatever. Even if there was nothing to be fixed. The world seemed to spin around Y/N, the room twirling in fearsome and aggravating winds. It wasn’t moving, there's no way it was, but then why was Y/N dizzy, why was the world going dark?

Y/N gripped the counter, sweats running down their body. Their breathing was too heavy to control, panting strongly before the darkness seemed to cloud their mind.

‘It’s over, he hates you.

You aren’t worth it at all.’

~~~

He was an idiot.

He felt like the worlds biggest fool, hates Y/N? No. No he didn’t. He never did. He paced the apartment hallways, the penthouse door behind him standing broad but the eerie feeling of something being wrong seeming to seep from the thins cracks under the door and alongside the hinges.

He wanted to run in and just apologize over and over again, beg for their forgiveness but how could he. He knew what he said and he knew about the issues they had. It was said on a split decision and burst of frustration. Keigo slumped against the door, his head hung down, his hands on the back of his head. His wings drooped to the hallway carpet, as his eyes welled with tears. He hated what he said, he couldn’t help but internally kick himself, knowing he hurt you.

He knew he did.

How could he face you, at least right now, while tensions were high.

He didn’t deserve to talk to you.

~~~

It seemed like hours had passed before he stood up, the blood coming back to his weak legs as his right hand pushed against the door for support. His wings hung low still, his hair messy and his body weak. He gathered himself first before he opened the door.

Keigo walked into the penthouse apartment looking around. His phone dinged, the food order he set earlier to be placed now having been placed. He ignored it, walking into the apartment. He looked around and noticed a plethora of small changes. The items on the coffee table had been rearranged, the shelves redone and organized. His eyes scanned the room before his heart sank.

Two pill bottles sat on the kitchen counter.

He walked over although he already knew what it would be, SRI and Benzodiazepine. He palms them both in her hands, reading the labels. They opened a few pills having been left on the counter. His face turned from worry to panic as he moved around the room. He didn’t want to shout, he knew they were here somewhere and startling them with his voice wasn’t what they needed right now.

He moved from room to room until he stopped in front of the loft. He climbed the creaky ladder, his head peeking from the side when he saw them.

His heart shattered all over again, their body cuddled around the dog the two of them shared as his golden eyes peaked above the wooden platform. His whole body softened, Y/N looked calm.

“Songbird?” he said softly.

Keigo climbed into the loft, slowly as Y/N’s eyes landed on him. It wasn’t a glare but more of a cold stare, a defense. “Go away.” they said softly, their arms holding on tightly to the dog, it’s fur fluffed as he nuzzled closer to them. Keigo expected it, he’d say the same if he was in their shoes. “Y/N,” he said softly, the tears coming back to his eyes.

He kept his distance, sitting in front of them, trying not to get too close or make them uncomfortable. Y/N’s eyes held a tint of sadness, like they wanted to just accept him, understand that he didn’t mean it but Y/N didn’t move. Holding the dog close.

A knock was heard at the door and Keigo turned, climbing back down the ladder of the loft and disappearing around the corner. Y/N watched him go.

Please don’t go.

But he wasn’t gone. He returned and in his hand food from Y/N’s favorite place. He flew up, alongside the ladder placing the food between them. He watched Y/N. “It’s yours.” he said softly before letting out a heavy sigh.

“I’m so sorry lovebird, I hope you know I don’t mean it. I don’t mean a single thing I said.” he spoke gently, his eyes threatening to tear up again and his hands shook. His hands trembled in his lap, his lip quivering. “I don’t know what came over me but I love you. I need you in my life.” he said, his voice shaky.

“Please Y/N, let me come closer.”

~~~

It's been a long conversation. A long talk. Keigo let Y/N ramble, speak freely about their feelings and how they were doing. He felt so guilty, his body unable to stop quivering. He felt like a villain, like one of the evil doers who lives for the suffering of others, but he never wanted Y/N to suffer he didn’t.

He never would.

Y/N sat between Keigo’s strong red wings, his body enveloping them, his arms holding them tightly. He was making sure they’d eat. It was important they felt okay enough to eat something. He asked about the pills, holding Y/N closer when they responded they didn’t want to talk about it.

Closer.

All Keigo wanted was to be closer, and to stay there. He didn’t want to move.

He’d never move.

He’d always be right there.

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rabbitrabbit12321 · 2 years

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The quickest way you can tell no women, or at least no person who had ever been pregnant, were consulted in the script for Revenge of the Sith is how Padmé reacted on Mustafar. She was super pregnant with twins at the time and you expect me to believe that she was still putting up with Obi-wan and Anakin’s bullshit? Now, yes, RotS mostly made her out to be little more than a pretty prop piece, and she was not a particularly good wife from the start (not that he was a great husband either), but I take issue with the idea that the woman who stood up to galactic gangsters as a teenager would just go all weepy at this point.

Imagine this from her point of view: you’ve raced across the Galaxy to find the supposed love of your life and father of your unborn children, you know during this trip that he’s very likely been lured to the dark side and driven to murder children. You know going in that this is an extreme case and it’s not going to be easy. You get off your ship and go to him and, yeah, this is bad, but you can at least talk to him. You’re at a very delicate point with a guy who, if you were paying ANY attention, you knew was emotionally vulnerable and increasingly more volatile… and then, strutting off your ship like he owns it, comes Obi-wan in full arrogant mode, even though you TOLD him not to come and he’s NOT helping deescalate the situation.

Now understand that Padmé was far along in her pregnancy. Her pregnancy with TWINS. She’s put up with Anakin not being there because she’s a warrior’s wife and that’s just how shit goes. At this point in her pregnancy, no matter how good a version she got, it HURTS. Your organs have rearranged themselves, your bladder is the size of a thimble, your legs are sore and your feet have swollen. Your hip and pelvic bones are separating, which DOES NOT FEEL GOOD, and you have TWO little parasites that like to do flips and kick your spine and your internal organs. Did you know that fetuses are most physically active when the mother’s body is at rest? Padmé has Luke and Leia up in there — they are bouncing around like cirque in there. She isn’t sleeping. I am actually leaving out the things about pregnancy that make a child-bearer feel most undignified because the people of Tumblr are NOT READY for that realness.

Here’s how shit would’ve ACTUALLY gone down the second Obi-wan was mentioned:

PADME: I don't believe what I'm hearing . . . Obi-Wan was right. You've changed.

ANAKIN: I don't want to hear any more about Obi-Wan. The Jedi turned against me. Don't you turn against me.

PADME: I don't know you anymore. Anakin, you're breaking my heart. I'll never stop loving you, but you are going down a path I can’t follow.

ANAKIN: Because of Obi-Wan?

PADME: What? No! What does that even mean? I can’t follow because of what you've done . . . and what you plan to do. Stop, stop now. Come back! I love you. We have children, and they are going to be born any minute, so, we need to figure this out and I’m not raising our kids as Sith.

ANAKIN: (seeing Obi-Wan) Liar!

PADME turns around and. sees OBI-WAN standing in the doorway of the Naboo Cruiser.

PADME: No! What the hell Obi-wan!?!

ANAKIN: You're with him. You've betrayed me! You brought him here to kill me!

PADME: NO! You know what!?! I’m DONE! Obi-wan, quit standing there like an arrogant twat. I told you to go away. What did you do? Hide in a closet? Seriously? Turn around and swagger your ass back to whatever broom closet you spent the last several hours in. [Turns to Anakin] And YOU! You call me a liar? Say I’m plotting against you? Tell me, Anakin, if I even wanted to — which you KNOW I don’t and you’re just being a jealous bitch again FOR NO REASON — when, WHEN would I have time to do it? In between watching the whole damn Republic and everything I have spent my life working for crumble around me — thanks for THAT by the way, having to go to the ‘fresher every 5 minutes because of my bladder being shrunk to the size of a grape to make room for your kids — YES, PLURAL! I’m carrying TWINS, which you would know if you weren’t so busy “saving” me that you don’t have time to actually come home let alone to any appointments! — and never getting ANY sleep because these kids insist on bouncing around like Yoda in a lightsaber battle whenever I try to sit down? Seriously Anakin! WHEN, PRAY TELL, would I have any time to betray you? [seething, pauses for breath]

Obi-wan: [cautiously] My lady —

Padmé: SHUT UP OBI-WAN! YOU SHOULDN’T EVEN *BE* HERE! This is between my husband and I — yeah, HUSBAND! Catch up! — and you are adding nothing useful here! SO GO BACK TO YOUR CLOSET AND MEDITATE ON HOW YOU FUCKED UP TO THE POINT THAT YOUR BROTHER IS TRYING TO TAKE OVER THE WHOLE GODDAMN GALAXY!

[At this point Anakin would be in shock and would probably say something unhelpful while his brain was working on processing like: wife YELLING | wife MAD | Twins, TWO, WUT? | heheh, Obi-wan’s FACE right now | oh shit, she’s turning back to me…]

Anakin: I am the Chosen One, I have all this power!

Padmé: Oh really? Good! Does that mean you have the meiloorun juice I asked you to get me TWO MONTHS AGO!?! I take from your blank expression that’s a no. Shocking! I remind you, Chosen One, that you CHOSE to marry and have children with me. If you want to protect me, then get on the fucking ship and defend me and our children from the Emperor that’s no doubt coming for us now. You know, the one that you’ve been helping because you’re so full of yourself that it never occurred to you that you might be WRONG.

Anakin: But my mother…

Padmé: Really, Anakin? Really? You’re fighting with your best friend and your HEAVILY PREGNANT WIFE on a damn volcano planet. I don’t think Shmi would exactly be bubbling with pride right now.

We’re done here Anakin. Get on the damn ship so we can get this shit sorted out. And lose the yellow eyes, they’re creepy. Give me your lightsaber. GIVE IT ANAKIN! [Anakin resists at first, but then blinks and exhales and his eyes are blue again] Yeah. [She takes the lightsaber in one hand and one of his in her other and gently pulls him up the ramp onto the ship] Come on, these fumes are making me nauseous. [Yelling into the ship] Obi-wan, make yourself useful and work out a rendezvous with Yoda and Bail. We have to get to work fixing this mess you all caused but, to start, Anakin and I are going to snuggle and he’s going to rub my back while we start working through some shit… and you are NOT TO TALK TO US about anything other than flight updates until we get to Yoda.

——

Sure, that wouldn’t have served the purpose of bridging the gap to A New Hope, but it’s a lot more believable.

Sorry the formatting is shit, I just wrote this on my phone on a whim.

#anakin skywalker

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forasecondtherewedwon · 4 years

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In Over His Headboard

Pairing: Peter Parker x Michelle Jones (Spideychelle) Rating: E Word Count: 7560

This is a submission for the first day of Thotumn, organized by @spideysmjs!!! Today’s prompt: Dirty Talk.

Summary: MJ learns that Ned's best friend went through a lot of backpacks as a teenager. And a lot of headboards as an adult.

MJ is very observant.

But that’s old news.

The other O-word she lives her life by is ‘organized’. In kindergarten, she rearranged everyone’s cubby during naptime (without permission) to suit her precepts. As an adult, she keeps her books sorted by topic and, within that, by size. The handles of her measuring cups are perfectly aligned. The apartment that houses both the books and the measuring cups is tidy, full of furniture with secret built-in storage spaces, and fewer than five miles from the house in which she grew up. MJ has organized and reorganized her own space so many times that, even though her few good friends think it’s crazy, it explains why one of her passions is helping people move.

Packing boxes is a delight. Laying down rugs so that their straight edges are perfectly parallel to the walls thrills her. Helping someone determine exactly the correct lineup of toiletries in the cabinet under their bathroom sink is a religious experience. She doesn’t express her joy in smiles or shrieks of excitement, but in her diligence. She’ll be tucked quietly in the closet, ordering jeans by shade of blue, while the rest of the volunteer movers crack open a beer in the kitchen, calling it time for a well-earned break.

Lately, everyone in MJ’s life has gotten disappointingly settled: her brother and his wife upsizing in suburbia for the baby on the way, her parents (who are finally coming down hard on not letting her shift their knickknacks around anymore), and Betty. Betty’s engaged—so engaged—and simply made space for her fiancé to move in with her, so MJ didn’t get to assemble a single cardboard box. She still feels slightly betrayed.

When Betty calls and starts in about schedules and plans and photographer, MJ assumes they’re about to go over more wedding details. But no, her friend informs her, the schedule involves the timed renting of a moving truck and the access date for a storage unit, the plans are who’s lending a hand and with what, and the photographer is Ned’s friend and future best man, some guy named Peter. MJ forgets the name (and asks Betty for it again later—day-of, as they’re driving to the guy’s apartment building). It’s a dull speck on the metaphorical diamond Betty has just held up to the light for her to inspect—whatshisname needs people to help him move.

Before the pleasure of putting someone’s possessions in just the right spot can commence, there’s the grunt work. MJ understands and accepts this as a necessary evil. On the day of Ned’s friend’s move-in, she dresses in overalls—multiple pockets for micro-organization on the fly—with a cropped t-shirt underneath because there will, inevitably, be stairs and it’s July. She’s trying not to begin sweating too far in advance, limiting her anticipation to a foot jumping on the immaculate rubber foot mat of the passenger seat of Betty’s car and a series of probing questions.

“Doesn’t this guy have any friends?”

“He has friends,” Betty assures her, being a responsible driver and keeping her eyes on the road, “just not a lot of super close friends.”

“And the close friends he does have weren’t available?”

“Umm…” She concentrates on watching the pedestrian countdown light as they cross an intersection. “I think a bunch of them went with him to the storage unit to load up the truck. I guess they don’t have the whole day off.”

“Oh, unlike me, who has nothing better to do.”

“Don’t get snippy. And don’t pretend you wouldn’t have begged to help if you’d heard me mention what I was doing today.”

MJ plays with the seatbelt strapped across her chest, feeling defensive. It’s her go-to reaction whenever Betty reveals how clearly she sees her.

“I was just trying to figure out why I was asked.”

“Ned’s his friend, I’m Ned’s fiancée, and you’re my friend.”

“The six degrees of Michelle Jones,” she mumbles.

“What?”

“Nothing. He lives in Queens?”

“Yeah, Peter’s local. He and Ned went to school together. Crazy, huh?”

“Crazy that you can travel the world and end up with a fiancé and a circle of friends from your hometown,” MJ agrees. Today, Betty’s in jean shorts and a beachy shirt that ties in a knot at the end of its row of iridescent buttons, but MJ mostly sees her on the news, looking as prim and expensive as a collectible doll. She’s a foreign correspondent for CNN, though she’s reining in the foreign part now that she’s living with Ned and about to get married.

“Crazy,” Betty repeats distractedly, making a perfect, tight turn into the belowground carpark next to the building bearing the address MJ wrote down two weeks ago. This is where the magic will happen.

The pile out and her friend beeps her fob to lock the car. She wants to take the elevator that’ll bring them up to the lobby, but MJ insists on trekking back up the ramp they drove down. It stretches her legs, a good warm up. As they emerge from the darkness of the lot and sun slices across their faces, she feels like she’s walking into Disney World. They stand on the sidewalk and right as she’s about to ask Betty when they guys are supposed to make an appearance, a U-Haul pulls up to the curb.

She sees the driver’s side door open and slam shut without seeing the driver, but Ned comes bounding down from the passenger’s side to hold his fiancée’s hands and give her a quick kiss on the forehead (they’re so engaged), then three more guys fold themselves out of the tight back of the cab and hustle around to the rear of the truck. The couple’s display of affection distracted MJ; she can only assume it’s the driver out of sight in the back, passing belongings down to his helpers, who swiftly stack them on the sidewalk near the front doors of the apartment building. There’s an array of boxes, then staggering steps as the guys navigate couches and mattresses out of the truck, racing against the inflexibility of the No Parking and No Idling signs on this street. If a bylaw stooge comes along, they’re screwed. New York’s street signs exist for the city to make money, not for the ease of citizens needing to unload their furniture.

The guy’s—Peter’s—friends are surprisingly quick, so MJ lets the speech she was mentally writing to argue in favour of his right to park the truck in front of the building he’s moving into dissolve in her head. Peter hops down from the back of the truck. From where she and Betty are standing, she can only see his legs and hear the clang of the rear door closing. The trio of extra helpers clamber back into the U-Haul with the intent and discipline of clowns into a clown car and wheel off to return the truck. MJ finally sees the man she’s come to help as he brushes his hands together and steps quickly onto the curb to avoid another car angling into the carpark. He shakes hair off his forehead and squints towards them, sun in his eyes, already smiling.

“Um, hello,” MJ hisses at Betty, quickly turning to her. “Were you going to mention that your fiancé is best friends with Spider-Man? That’s Peter fucking Parker.”

“And I’m Betty fucking Brant,” she counters breezily. She’s looking past MJ, waving at Peter. “I’m on the news more than he is and you don’t freak out when you see me.”

“I’m not freaking out.”

“Hey!”

MJ spins to look into the eyes of a municipal—no, a national—no, an international hero. She doesn’t say anything fast enough, so he moves past her to hug Betty before coming back to her with eyebrows raised in what looks like a mixture of inquiry, politeness, and gratitude.

“Michelle?”

“But my friends call me—”

“MJ,” he finishes for her, and normally that would be irritating, but Peter Parker is endearingly boyish close-up. He’s shorter than she is. He’s freckled. He does look like somebody she could’ve gone to school with and had a low-key crush on for years and years. The fame can’t touch that, which is why, she figures, his hero-next-door schtick works so well for him. He’s local, like Betty said. Every bit of him sells that and it’s obvious that he’s not trying.

“And yours call you Spider-Man?”

Might as well get that out in the open—that she recognizes him. He laughs easily and glances down.

“Nah, pretty much just ‘Peter’. ‘Petey’ if they either really want to make me suffer or they really like me.”

He gives her a look and it’s brief, but there’s a lot to it. The propositioning tilt of the head, the wolfish curl of the smile, the assessing cut of his eyes to catch her from the corner of his vision. MJ gets a strong sense that ‘really like me’ is a euphemism for ‘enjoy me sexually.’

“We’ll see how I feel once we’ve moved all your shit upstairs, I guess,” she responds flatly.

“That sounds fair.” His voice is bright now, no lurking depravity. “I hope I don’t have enough boxes to make you hate me.”

“Please. Boxes are nothing. I’d be more worried about that dresser turning me against you. What is that thing made of?”

“Solid oak,” he brags, then grimaces. “It sucked just lifting it onto the truck.”

“Can’t you just…” MJ mimes the motion Spider-Man does when he shoots that gunk at people and buildings.

“Lift the furniture up to my building with web fluid?” Peter crosses his arms and looks like he’s really calculating it in his head. “Wouldn’t be graceful. I’d probably smash some windows if I tried to do it from outside, and doing it from inside wouldn’t be that much easier than just carrying it up the stairs. Also, that’d attract a lot of attention and everything I do doesn’t need to make the news, you know?”

“Oh yeah,” she agrees dryly. “I hate it when I’m just grocery shopping and there’s a whole camera crew right in my face.”

He laughs at her sarcasm. Appealing.

“Right?”

And then they have to scurry to catch up because Ned and Betty have already started moving everything into the lobby.

After it’s all inside and not available to be swiped by anyone walking or driving down the street, they decide to take turns carrying stuff up to the fourth floor. (Fourth? MJ could swear she was told second.) One person stays with the remainder of Peter’s stuff while the other three lug boxes and chairs and, eventually, the dreaded oak dresser. She’s too focused on maintaining a brisk pace to really check out his apartment—beyond noting the large windows and protruding edge of the kitchen countertop (that catches her in the stomach while she’s squeezing around a box Ned left too close to the front door). It wouldn’t matter. Layout and organization haven’t been much on her mind since Peter Parker stepped out from behind that truck.

This process isn’t supposed to be a spectacle, but people notice Peter, and Peter, ever the neighbourhood Spider-Man, notices people.

A man exiting through the lobby nods towards Peter’s desk and starts a conversation about materials and quality. MJ almost trips up the stairs with a box in her arms as she hears him say, “Yeah, I’ve got more wood than I know what to do with.” Betty, on her way down, catches her eye and gives her a funny look.

“You’re sweating.”

“It’s hot,” she fires back.

Ned’s above, guiding one end of the couch, and Peter and MJ are heaving the other (mostly Peter) when a different dude narrowly gets past them on a landing, only to turn around and remark on the wonder of them being able to maneuver it. “It’s long,” Peter agrees, “but I’ve fit this thing into some pretty tight places.” Right after, he asks MJ if she needs a break. She’s fine. She only almost dropped her corner of the couch because her hand cramped.

As she’s taking a final box through the door of his apartment, she overhears, “I’ll let him choose the position. What do I know? I’m happy to put it anywhere. The only thing I can be trusted to be in charge of is making sure it’s well-hung.” Stumbling forward, she sees that Peter (who just spoke) and Betty are admiring a large, framed print of him and Ned in cap and gown, clutching diplomas. MJ grabs a bottle of water from the case they carried up here at the beginning—it’s lukewarm, but practically glacial compared to the temperature of her face right now—and asks her friend if she wants to step outside to get a little air before they continue.

Leaning against the wall of the building, MJ chugs some of her water, then hands it off to Betty. While her friend’s drinking, she says, “So, he’s gay, right?”

Betty catches the water that slops down onto her chin.

“What?”

“Peter. He’s gay.”

“I’ve seen him with guys when we’ve all gone to the bar together—”

MJ breathes deeply in relief. She needs him to be gay; the knowledge will quell how she feels when he utters these outrageous, completely explainable sentences, or when he walks ahead of her up the stairs and she’s forced to stare at his ass for four floors, or when she remembers that look he gave her before they started moving everything.

“—but Ned mentioned a serious girlfriend Peter had in high school, so I think he’s bi. Oh my god,” Betty adds in a tone of realization that scares the hell out of MJ. “You want him.”

It takes rapid backtracking and a convincing presentation of the facts (those being every suggestive thing Peter’s said today and leaving out the part about his ass) to wipe the excited look off her friend’s face.

“So, you’ve just been misunderstanding him. And eavesdropping.”

“Can we call it eavesdropping if he has nothing to hide?”

“Fine,” Betty says, rolling her eyes. “It’s not eavesdropping because he has nothing to hide. I’ve known him almost as long as I’ve known Ned and, yeah, he might have an entire second identity, but the guy’s an open book. Peter couldn’t be sly if his life depended on it. He’s a goof, MJ. He’d never say that kind of stuff for real.”

Except that they hike back up to the apartment together and Peter’s voice drifts into the kitchen from one of the rooms down the hall, making the women halt and lock eyes.

“Remember how many backpacks May bought you in high school?” Ned chuckles. “This reminds me of that.”

“I do go through a lot of headboards. I’m not trying to break them, but I always put my legs into it too much and I just go so deep.”

“The room,” Betty babbles next to her, gripping her wrist. “I’m sure he’s talking about the depth of the room, coming in through the window too quickly from patrol.”

“It’s easy for you to tell yourself that,” MJ points out. “You’re engaged. You have no reason to think about Peter like that.”

Ned emerges and heads straight for Betty. These two are so gross together that neither of them protests against being hugged, though they’re sweaty from labour. With his arm around her friend’s waist, Ned turns to address MJ.

“Are you hanging around for a while?”

“Yeah, definitely. I can help unpack,” she pledges.

“Great. I know Peter’d like to get curtains put up for privacy today too, because, you know, being Spider-Man and having all these windows don’t really go well together, and you’re the tallest. He’ll probably want your help.”

She’d rather be assigned the task of choosing which kitchen cupboard will hold his plates, his glasses, the cans of premade soup she imagines Spider-Man relies on when he’s always darting around at night, too busy to devote a lot of time to making dinner. But she’s here to help. It’s not her apartment; she’ll go where she can be useful (any maybe do some sneaky rearranging later if he makes dumb organizational choices).

“Babe,” Ned says to Betty, “I’m going on a beer run—and maybe tacos, do you feel like tacos?—do you wanna come with me?”

“Of course, babe, but I don’t want…”

She looks at MJ, who’s trying to be inconspicuous, sorting the boxes labelled ‘KITCHEN’ from those labelled ‘LIVING ROOM’.

“One sec,” Betty tells her fiancé, walking over to MJ. “Will you be alright here if we go out for food?”

“Mhmm.”

Without glancing over, she plucks the X-Acto knife from her overall pocket and slices through packing tape to reveal nested pans, cloaked in mismatched dishtowels to prevent scraping during transport. The combination of careful and slapdash makes her smile to herself.

“It’s rush hour now, so I’m not sure how long we’ll be,” Betty warns.

“That’s fine.”

“I think we all need a little fuel before we settle in to unpack.”

“Yeah.”

“MJ,” her friend says sharply.

“What?”

“Are you ok being alone with Peter for a while?”

“Yes,” MJ says, rolling her eyes. “He’s Ned’s best friend and he’s Spider-Man, not some random creep. I’m not afraid he’s going to jump me. Anyway, I have this.” She waggles the knife.

“I’m more worried about you jumping him.”

She narrows her eyes at Betty.

“Have a little respect for my self-control.”

Her friend just shrugs.

“I’d understand. There’s the allure of him being a superhero and, more importantly, the fact that Ned and I can both vouch for him being a genuinely great guy.”

MJ narrows her eyes even more, this time in suspicion.

“Is this a moving day or a blind date?”

“Oh please.”

“That’s not an answer. Betty,” she presses, but her friend turns and grabs Ned’s hand. The wave as they leave the apartment is mockingly innocent.

Alone, MJ darts a glance down the hall, where she knows Peter is still doing whatever in the bedroom. She’s not going to race in there like some glassy-eyed fangirl. Even if Betty does endorse him so warmly, and he does seem so down-to-earth, and his ass does look like that in his jeans. She lifts his cookware out, one piece at a time, then moves on to the tangled jumble of utensils in the next box, trying to separate a pair of tongs from a warped spatula. She doesn’t hear Peter walk into the kitchen.

“Hey,” he says suddenly from behind her.

MJ jumps and holds up the tongs threateningly, but her hand falls as she stares at him. He’s wiping sweat from his neck with the hem of his navy t-shirt. There are his abs and the taut skin below his navel.

“If you have a minute, could you give me a hand with this rod? I can’t get it up on my own.”

Her gaze springs up to his face and she stares at him.

“Huh?”

“The… curtain rod?” Peter says. “I can stand on a chair to do the one end, but I can’t do both ends at once. Do you think you could—”

“Yeah, sure.”

His smile is pleasant and relieved and MJ follows him into the bedroom like he hit her with some sort of magic spell, not just artless, unintentional dirty talk. She sets the tongs down on the floor by the wall; whoops.

“Warm in here,” she notes as she sidesteps a clear plastic tote of Peter’s clothes.

“Yeah, I was gonna open the window, but I didn’t know if the humidity would only make it worse.”

MJ watches as he gestures with one hand and props the other on his hip, hiking up his t-shirt to hook his thumb in the waist of his jeans. She encourages him to go ahead and risk it. The space is unbearable without at least the illusion of fresh air. She redoes her drooping ponytail, feeling new sweat slide down the nape of her neck as Peter crouches and jerks the window up from its sticky sill. Her gaze, and possibly her mind, gets lost somewhere in the breadth of his shoulders. His triceps look as hard and as perfectly rounded as the rolling pin that was still in the box when she left the kitchen. Emptying her chest pocket of odds and ends—knife, scissors, permanent marker, Allen key—MJ unbuckles her overalls, letting the straps and the bib hang down. The buttons on the hips keep the pants part up, but she can’t stand to have the whole thing closing her in any longer. She can’t breathe.

They each take an end of the curtain rod and Peter uses his knees to climb onto his nightstand, already positioned against the wall. It’s overkill because he’s not that much shorter and MJ can hook her end into the bracket without even having to get up on her toes. She’s done first and turns to look at Peter, kneeling on the nightstand with his thighs apart. She pictures joining him on that narrow surface, straddling his lap. God. How long have Betty and Ned been gone?

Then again, why fight it?

“Having some trouble getting it in?” she asks.

The rod clunks against the wall as Peter whips his head around to look slightly down at her.

“Your rod,” MJ clarifies. “You want me to take over? I can handle it.” At his continued dumbstruck silence, she goes on. “Or I can just direct you from here. You could try working it back and forth a little until you get the perfect angle. Then I’m sure it’ll ease right in.”

He hardly seems aware when the curtain rod falls into place. After a few extra moments of immobility, he dismounts and swishes the semi-sheer curtain across the window. She can feel his eyes on her, tracing the strip of stomach between the bottom of her crop-top and the folded-over denim of her overalls.

“What’s next?” she asks. “Maybe go into the bathroom and investigate the plumbing? Or, you know what, I didn’t finish unpacking your utensils. Would you rather go back to the kitchen and get your hands on my box?”

“What are you doing?”

It sounds like his chest is tight, like he’s forcing the words out. MJ smiles gently at the real-life superhero into whose apartment she has miraculously been deposited for today and perhaps only today.

“Helping.”

“Did you have to call it handling my rod?”

“Did you have to tell me you couldn’t get it up without me?” she challenges.

Peter’s mouth falls open and he makes a choked sound of protest, but she raises her eyebrows at him, daring him to argue.

“You asked me for a hand with your rod,” MJ presses. “That was you. You started it. And it wasn’t even then, it was hours ago. What is there in this apartment that you haven’t made some sort of phallic reference to?!”

“I… did I? I’ve been doing that?”

“Don’t play dumb with me, Spidey. Own it or don’t, but don’t pretend you haven’t heard some of the shit you’ve said today.”

“Are you offended?” he asks, avoiding her eyes, but not her body; he takes his time staring at that.

“I might be if you don’t do anything about it,” she huffs. “I’d hate to think that Spider-Man’s all words and no action.”

“I’m off-duty.” A sly smile.

“We can just talk,” MJ says casually, thinking that she’ll possibly die of heat exhaustion and unresolved sexual tension if they stand around chatting. “Why don’t you tell me how Spider-Man’s managed to crack so many headboards?”

He shoots her the same kind of look he gave her on the sidewalk.

“It wasn’t always Spider-Man.”

She smirks and gives him a look of her own.

“Then why don’t you show me?”

It’s the honesty in his expression that she appreciates as Peter surges towards her, grabbing her face between both hands and kissing her urgently. She grips his waist and scrunches his t-shirt in her hands. At the first little pause they take to snatch a breath, she peels the shirt up and he yanks it off the rest of the way.

“Nice,” she breathes, stroking his torso with her gaze before adding her hands.

He gives her a jerky nod of acknowledgement and goes for her shirt. Tugging it off screws up her ponytail again, but she doesn’t have time to care; Peter’s kissing her, wet and demanding, while he reaches around and fumbles to unhook her bra. When he nudges his hips against her, she feels him. He’s been making sideways insinuations about his dick all day (whether he admits it to her or not), and here’s the real deal at last. MJ presses her tongue slickly into his mouth, eyelashes fluttering at the urge to open her eyes and see what kind of face he’s making to accompany the groan he lets out as she deepens the kiss. As he draws the straps of her unfastened bra down her arms, she regretfully takes her hands off his chest, swiftly unbuttoning her overalls. Left side buttons, then right. Peter hampers her by grabbing her ass and rolling his hips forward as she’s trying to get her pants down. She doesn’t discourage him. It’s thrilling that he’s handsy.

The room’s a mess—not dirty, thankfully, and she assumes he must’ve come on another day to vacuum and clean, but with a short, uneven stack of boxes in one corner, the container of clothing, the box spring and mattress leaning together against the wall, and the headboard, poking out of the closet because he hasn’t put his bedframe together yet. MJ hates disorganization, especially when it fucks with the logistics of what has all the promising tempo and quick chemistry of a fantastic hookup.

“We could just…” He huffs, lifting his mouth off her neck where he’s started licking and sucking. “…tip the mattress onto the floor?”

She’s taken aback by the idea of fucking Spider-Man on a mattress in the middle of his mess of a bedroom. With the curtain as the only thing to show they made any progress in this room before giving in to their libidos. But she’s in her underwear, overalls ringing her ankles, and the man beneath the famous mask looks hot as hell when he’s been kissed hard and riled into an expectant erection. How else are they going to pass the time before their friends return? Fanning out magazines on his coffee table?

“Let’s do that,” she agrees.

They work as a team to control its fall. The room’s carpeted, so the mattress doesn’t make much of a sound beyond a soft thump when it hits the floor. MJ frowns at it thoughtfully. “You don’t have sheets.”

“Fuck sheets,” Peter says, half declaration, half laugh, and walks across the mattress to get to her.

She smiles against his mouth because it’s funny that he’s momentarily taller, standing on the mattress while her feet are still on the floor. Good thing he’s already taken his shoes off. MJ pulls away and drops to unlace her own sneakers, very, very aware of the rasp of Peter unzipping his jeans right above her head. She steps out of her shoes and overalls, then frees her hair of the elastic, flinging it spontaneously across the room, tousling her hair in her hands to fight the tingling of her scalp as she straightens up.

Oh. He’s already stripped his boxers off.

If her mouth actually does fall open as dramatically as it feels like it just has, it’s fine. MJ forgives herself. You’re supposed to be embarrassed after meeting a celebrity, wincing over every rambling sentence you blurted at them and every awkward twitch in your high-strung body language. Only you will ever recall your spastic behaviour. The celebrity forgot you the moment you exited their line of sight. Wait, will Peter mark her down as a horny fan and forget her? She hasn’t known him long enough to separate the man from the heroic icon, but she hopes neither side of his identity involves treating a partner like that. But no. Doesn’t matter. She can overanalyze later. Peter takes her hands and guides her onto the mattress where they make out standing up for a few minutes—him hot and rigid against her stomach, her not quite naked—before things get so heated that they collapse with roaming hands (Peter) and trembling knees (MJ).

For such a wholesome figure, Spider-Man curses wildly as he slides her underwear off, nose skimming down her skin from between her breasts to below her bellybutton while he works.

“You… you look…” he pants, propping himself up on his hands just to admire her. She has to confess, to herself alone, that it’s flattering, that it’s already making her want more of this: reckless afternoon sex in her friend’s fiancé’s best man’s new apartment. “God, I’m so glad you—”

“Called your bluff?” she suggests wryly.

“And everything before that. I’m so glad you were standing on the sidewalk when I got out of that truck.”

Well. That’s a little earnest. Then again, the man is hovering over her in the nude, so they’re in the heat-of-the-moment realm, during which time, comments of disconcerting earnestness do not count, or can be retracted later with no fault to either party.

To counteract it, MJ teases, “Are you saying you’re glad I came?”

“I’m glad you didn’t immediately leave when I said that thing about my wood,” he confides, kissing swiftly back up to her chest and using nothing but his tongue to toy with her breasts. She gasps at the sudden pull of his teeth, then laughs.

“So you were saying that shit on purpose.”

“Don’t be mad that I was too intimidated by your hotness to flirt with you to your face.”

His tone is playfully giddy and she likes this guy, she really does. She gets a good grip on his soft brown curls and tows him up for more kissing. Her knees bump his bare hips as she forms a cradle for him to drop into. Hint, hint.

Luckily, Spider-Man knows his cue.

He rocks between her legs and her chest rises and falls like breathing is a massive exertion. His angle is almost just right, so MJ shuffles and shifts and he’s endlessly patient as she rubs against him from below, testing. Well, not endlessly patient. The instant she moans in satisfaction, he’s got a hand wrapped desperately around her hip as he grinds down with tenacity. Right. This isn’t just any hookup, any guy. This is the guy who makes a career out of not backing down. Heat flows through her at the sudden thought of being handled with the intensity of one of Spider-Man’s mission.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” she says as she feels the head of him slip lower, skipping across her entrance. “Condom.”

Intense, and kind of a lustful dumbass.

“Right,” he agrees, flushed when he raises his face from where he’s been breathing in the scent of her hair. “I have one, uh, in my wallet.”

And then he doesn’t break away from her for a good ten seconds, like he’s hoping she’ll let him slide in bare. Horny motherfucker. MJ wants to screw Spider-Man, not birth his crime-fighting offspring. She tucks her chin and gives him a look that promises, as much as it would pain her, this thing is shutting down here and now if he doesn’t wrap it up. With a resigned exhalation (and a little smile implying he knows what he was trying to get away with), Peter pushes off of her and goes to dig around in the pocket of his jeans. She rolls onto her stomach to study the ropy musculature of his thighs. When he extracts the condom with a triumphant burst of sound, she flips onto her back again and watches him trip over the jeans he just dropped. There’s a charming contrast between this unexpected klutziness and her assumption that he could pull anybody with a pulse using those trusting brown eyes and his Avengers status.

He crouches beside MJ and doesn’t take his eyes off her, flapping the condom between his fingers.

“Should I put this on or do you wanna put it on me?”

She presents her palm.

“Give me that. You can’t even be trusted to install a curtain rod.”

“Oh, I’m extremely ready to install a rod,” he says eagerly, watching her tear the condom open and reach for his waiting cock.

“You know, you’re a real dork for a guy with those commitments and that ass.”

“Thank you?”

Before his uncertainty can swell to self-congratulations, MJ rolls the condom roughly down his dick, making him heave and shake, hips bucking into her perfunctory hold. Smirking, she closes her fist and pumps him quickly, eyes on the blank bliss on his face, his slack jaw. After a brisk minute of this, he begs her to slow down, then, still kneeling at her side, cups between her legs and starts fondling her at an even more vigorous pace than she was using on him. Her breaths come in hiccups and she can’t point out how unfair this is. Just as she��s arching for more, thinking she’s about to come faster than she ever has in her life, Peter stops cold.

“Are you ready to—”

MJ glares and knocks him back onto his ass, then scrambles onto his lap, continuing to push him down until his shoulders touch the mattress. His expression is cheerily confused.

“I was this close,” she says, pinching her fingers together until they nearly touch. When her complaint brings an impish smile to Peter’s face, she pinches those fingers around his nipple, so he hisses and curls into himself. Shaking her head at him, she takes hold of his erection and eases down onto his lap. His ecstatic chant of, “Oh man, oh man, oh man,” is moderately distracting, but MJ persists. It’s just who she is: stoic.

“God,” he groans beneath her as she begins swaying forward and back, “this is almost as good as catching the midnight opening of a new Star Wars.”

She covers his mouth with her hand and he laughs behind it.

“I was just trying to lean into your perception of me. I’m kidding.”

“Are you though?”

But she frees him for the noises he makes. Some of these grunts and whimpers scale her spine like a ladder, raising goosebumps as they go, until the whole sensation comes shivering back down and she finds herself riding him harder.

“Firm mattress,” she huffs.

“’S new. The last one was awful on my back and—ughhhhhhhohfuuuck—with the hazards of my line of work, I figured I gotta start taking care of myself.”

“If you won’t, I will,” MJ mumbles, curving forward to lick his chest, charting it all under her tongue, as she continues to shove back against him.

“Fuck,” he says, short and sharp. He seizes her hips and rolls her beneath him. “You should know, you taking control is a big turn on for me.”

“Clearly.”

She’s not sure how much sarcasm comes across in her gasp because his manhandling has knocked the wind out of her. Actually, she’s happy to let him steer things; being on top was starting to remind her legs of every step she’s walked up and down in this apartment building today, carrying Peter’s shit. He kneads some of the tightness away when he grasps her thigh and digs in with a roll of his fingers. Her moan is as much in relief as arousal. Then he starts thrusting so fast and deep that he has to pull her back towards him every so often so she isn’t forced off the mattress. The hum leaving her mouth is somewhere between breathing and moaning, one note that drags on and on, jumping and breaking when he catches her mouth in sloppy, ravenous kisses.

He’s still doing his damnedest to make out with her when her lips part with a genuine shriek. The tickle of Peter’s tongue against the roof of her mouth somehow adds to the sensation, like a high vibration over the low thrum of him drilling in and out of her. MJ comes seconds into the beginning of her scream; Peter comes with a crack. The sheer force of her orgasm—Spider-Man is clearly not without finesse, he simply does not choose to employ it in favour of fucking like he’s a sportscar running a red on a highspeed chase—has her too stunned to figure out why the sound accompanying his was wrong.

“What was that?” she asks hazily as Peter slumps over her body, breathing hard and still gently thrusting. He’s sweaty, but so is she. With something like pride, she realizes he’ll have to go to sleep tonight with his mattress soaked in her scent.

“Leg slipped,” he says.

MJ does vaguely recall that. In the midst of her climax, he’d moved. It wasn’t enough to distract her, so she’d focused on the feeling, as well as the resolution to not let him get her that close to the edge a second time without going over it.

“And hit what?”

“Uhhh…”

He doesn’t appear to know either, with his bleary, punch-drunk expression that’s unfortunately pretty adorable. No, no, no. A hand with moving, a hasty fuck, and she’s out. The whole day’s been extremely worth her while. She tells herself she doesn’t need more.

But Peter rolls off and she misses his weight and warmth, his shape and soft eyes. He’s sitting on the edge of the mattress with his knees folded high when he goes, “Shit,” under his breath.

Because he also happens to be handling condom-removing at the time, MJ sits up fast, in a panic.

“Did it break?”

His posture inflates with a deep breath, then sags.

“Yeah. I don’t think there’s any way to salvage it.”

Salvage it? That’s a weird fucking thing to say in the situation, like it could possibly matter whether or not they were able to repair the condom after he’s already come inside her. Still, MJ’s skeptic nature makes her grab Peter’s shoulder and wrench it back, only to see the tied-off condom dangling between his fingers. It looks intact. She grips his chin and turns him to look at her.

“What do you mean it’s broken? It’s not in tatters. It’s not leaking.”

“What?” He squints at her, then follows her gaze to the condom. “Oh, not the condom. My headboard.”

Sure enough, she looks up and there’s his headboard, still protruding from the closet, but now in two pieces. The closest is on a slow, sad slide to the floor. He must’ve kicked it. MJ laughs breathlessly.

“Oh, thank god.” Abruptly, she’s pissed. “I thought you were talking about the condom! You don’t scare a woman like that!”

“You thought the condom broke?”

“You had it in your hands and said ‘shit’ in this horrible way and I thought…” She sighs.

“We could’ve made it work,” Peter argues, making her nostrils flare as she puts her underwear back on. “Our baby would be super cute.”

“Our baby?! We met hours ago.”

“I’ve developed stronger bonds in less time,” he says with a shrug, leisurely getting up and sliding his boxers up his legs. Nice ass. No. “You’d be surprised how soon after meeting me some of the villains in this city get themselves so worked up that they wanna kill me.”

She yanks her t-shirt over her head with silent ire. Then has to take it off again because she forgot to put her bra on first.

“Quit looking like that. Nothing happened to you.” Peter’s mouth turns down as he glances over to the wreckage of his headboard. “I have to replace that. Again.”

MJ’s seriously about to snap at this idiot for his insane priorities when he straights up stiffly as he’s stepping into the legs of his jeans.

“They’re back.”

“Who? Betty.”

“And Ned,” he says, now moving faster, doing the fly, throwing his own t-shirt on.

“Inside out,” she says. Not to be helpful, just so that Peter doesn’t give away exactly what they’ve been doing with their time since their friends left.

She goes to swat him when he comes towards her, but then his fingers are buttoning one side of her overalls while she does the other. MJ’s just clicked the straps back into place when the front door opens and closes. Sourness fading, she gives Peter a grateful nod for his help.

“Wait,” she hisses. “Where’s the condom?”

On the instruction of some bizarre reflex, he grabs it from the floor and whips it clear across the room, sending it sailing out the window. Her jaw drops in horror.

“I can’t believe you just—"

“Guys?” Betty calls. “The Mexican place up the street was closed, so we just hit the liquor store for now. How’s the bedroom coming?”

MJ and Peter race to the door; she pulls it closed so fast that it smacks him in the ass, but then he gives her this stupid look like he liked it. And here’s Betty.

“You’re sweaty,” she notes. “Been working hard? You guys get the curtain up?”

“Yep,” MJ says honestly. “No problem.”

Her friend beams in satisfaction, but her expression shifts to conspiratorial as she links her arm through MJ’s and starts to guide her towards the kitchen, likely wanting to know if Peter said anything else colourful during her absence. Except that moron decides to pipe up from right behind them.

“And when we finished with the curtain, we moved on to the bed.”

“You did what?” Ned demands from the kitchen, then comes hurtling around the corner.

“No,” Peter gasps. He flings himself back to the bedroom door and blocks it, holding both hands out to keep his best friend back.

“MJ?” Betty questions with a growing grin.

She glances between the three of them for a moment and realizes there’s no way Peter’s keeping this secret. Time to go on the defensive.

“You brought me here,” MJ argues. “I can’t be blamed for my weakness for organizing—”

“Oh,” Betty shoots back. “For organizing and not for—”

“—apartments. All I—”

“—Peter, who you were so clearly attracted to from the instant you saw him?”

“—wanted to do was—”

“Me?” Peter says, taking a hopeful stab in answer to MJ’s explanation.

She glares at him.

“You flirted shamelessly with me all day—”

“You didn’t even realize I was flirting.”

“—so how am I supposed to help it if— Oh,” MJ says, catching the end of that comment, “and is that supposed to negate the effect it had?”

“I loved the effect it had. I have nothing to say against it.”

“How did you two go from shy teenagers sneaking glances at each other to an old married couple within the last half-hour?” Ned asks, jubilant.

“You’d have to ask my new neighbours,” Peter says calmly. “I think the scream they overheard is probably enough of an explanation.”

“That scream was on you,” MJ protests.

“And the noise complaint I’ll probably get is on you!”

“Sounds like you two should exchange numbers,” Betty suggests brightly. “In case you need to follow up for that noise complaint.” They both look at her. Then, MJ withdraws her phone from the back pocket of her overalls and pushes it into Peter’s hand.

“Fine,” she says.

He agrees with a shrug, eyes on the screen as he taps out his information.

“Come on, you crazy kids,” Ned coos, “let’s grab a beer while they’re still hot from the walk back.”

Betty giggles at this and twines her fingers through her fiancé’s.

In the kitchen, she pulls MJ aside right as MJ’s contemplating squeezing past Peter a second time on the pretext of getting ice. (The first time, she pressed her ass to his groin and felt him rub against her in response.) She didn’t even need the ice; she dumped it straight into the sink.

“So, how was that?” Betty asks, searching MJ’s face keenly for approval and recognition of a job well done.

“Perfect,” MJ has to grant her. “He did something incredibly irritating right before you guys got back, so I’m sure he found my annoyance entirely organic.”

“Method number sixty-three for getting a guy’s number still works like a charm. Though you know you could’ve just asked me for it.”

“Yeah, but messing with him was more fun.”

Her friend smiles against the lip of her bottle.

“Do you feel bad?”

“Nah. He’s been messing with me all day.”

“Hey, MJ,” Peter calls to her from where he and Ned have started emptying another box marked ‘KITCHEN’. “You wanna help me screw something to the wall later?” Smiling broadly, he waves a magnetic wall-mounted knife holder.

“Like that,” MJ stresses to Betty, then tosses her bottle cap so it bounces off Peter Parker’s stupid, smug, handsome face.

#thotumn #peter parker is a thot #my writing #spideychelle #peter parker #michelle jones

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ryqoshay · 3 years

Text

OTP Ask Meme (Impatient Edition) YuuAyuSetsu

And yet again, I know the point of these things is to wait for followers to Ask questions from the list, but reading though this one got me thinking too much. About all of my flagships. And I wanted to answer all of the questions. And not wait for a handful to maybe be asked.

So again, credit again goes to @lonelypond for this version coming across my dash. Reblog that version if you want to do this thing correctly.

Also, just because I’ve already answered these here, I’ve expanded on some for various reasons and left others short if I believe the reasons are obvious. So if you still want to do the whole interactive thing, you can still ask for clarification or whatever.

And finally, there will be spoilers ahead for Tri-Arame, both for scenes I’ve written and posted, as well as some that remain in my Notes and WIP Warehouse. I’ll try to remember to link to the chapters mentioned.

1. Who wakes up first?

Ayumu. The comfort of sleeping next to or between her girlfriends has caused her internal clock to be uncanny in its accuracy, such that she no longer needs an alarm, as depicted in Early and Bright. Yuu doesn’t need an alarm either, as if the smell of cooking breakfast or brewing coffee isn’t enough to wake her, Ayumu will do so eventually. Setsuna will wake up sometime after Ayumu and before Yuu.

2. Who wants to stay in bed just a little longer?

Yuu is always happy to spend a little longer in bed, if for no other reason than to cuddle with whoever is there with her.

3. Who takes longer getting ready?

One could argue Setsuna, but that would primarily be because Ayumu is taking her time enjoying styling her hair.

4. When they can’t sleep, what do they do?

Probably watch anime.

5. Who falls asleep while watching a movie?

Ayumu, especially if she is comfortable and warm in between Setuna and Yuu. Yuu might fall asleep depending on the genre of movie.

6. Who falls asleep last, watching the other with a small affectionate smile?

Depends on the night’s sleeping arrangement, though more likely Yuu or Ayumu.

7. Who comes up with the cheesy pick-up lines?

Yuu intentionally. Setsuna less intentionally as she honestly thinks quoting some anime or manga line is cool; neither Yuu nor Ayumu are willing to dissuade her as they find it adorable.

8. Who gets extremely competitive playing Mario Kart?

Yuu and Setsuna like to make just about anything into a friendly competition. As of Betting For Play, they start including little requests winner gets to make of the loser. Ayumu joins the fun from time to time but is nowhere near as competitive as the other two.

9. Who accidentally pushes a door instead of pulling?

Setsuna, if she is focused on talking about anime/manga/idols/etc with Yuu or Ayumu.

10. Who sets the other’s ringtone to something loud and obnoxious behind their back?

Yuu

11. Who rearranges the bookshelf/DVD shelf in alphabetical order?

Setsuna likes her doujin collection organized properly so she can quickly find her favorites when she wants to reread them again.

12. Who does the hands-over-the-eyes “Guess Who” thing?

Yuu. I can see Setsuna doing so after she is more comfortable with her girlfriends.

13. Who points out a dog when they see one?

Setsuna

14. Who’s prone to road rage?

Setsuna, but only if Ayumu and/or Yuu are passengers with her; her desire to protect those she loves kicks in. If she is alone in the car, she might grumble a bit but it won't ruin her day.

15. Who’s prone to wearing socks indoor (or to sleep)?

Ayumu, and possibly Setsuna. We've seen barefoot sleeping Yuu in canon.

16. Who reminds the other to put on sunscreen before going to the beach (or pool)?

Ayumu

17. Who carries all the important documents while traveling?

Ayumu

18. Who gets the window seat?

Probably Setsua. Then Yuu and Ayumu get to enjoy watching her excitement from the view.

19. Who puts their cold hands/feet on the other?

Yuu intentionally. Setsuna unintentionally.

20. What do they argue about the most?

Less an argument, more a heartfelt disagreement, but they all maintain a concern about doing their fair share or that they’re somehow holding the other back or whatever. The other two then have to reassure them they’re doing fine.

21. Who’s clumsier?

Setsuna. Ayumu to a lesser degree.

22. Who texts more often?

Yuu and Setsuna

23. Who is better with kids?

Setsuna is best at keeping kids entertained and happy, with a story or a song or other sort of performance. Ayumu is best at tending to the kids’ needs, like feeding and calming them down when they’re upset or applying first aid. This isn’t all to say Yuu is bad with kids, just that the other two are better.

24. Who’s the better cook?

Ayumu, by far and away. Yuu is capable of the stereotypical bachelor level of cooking. Setsuna is prone to extreme experimentation, but if supervised by someone like Ayumu, she is capable of producing something edible.

25. Who mistakes salt for sugar?

Setsuna.

26. Who puts the fork in the microwave?

Possibly Setsuna

27. Who cooks at 2 in the morning?

Either Yuu or Setsuna

28. Who lets the microwave play the loud beeping sound at 1 a.m.?

Yuu, though she would be quite apologetic about if it woke anyone up.

29. Who licks the spoon when they’re baking brownies?

All of them.

30. Who likes doing the dishes?

Ayumu and Yuu are fond of doing them together. Setsuna is happy to take one of their places as she falls into the routines of the other two.

31. Who has bigger cravings? What are they?

I would say Yuu for idols, but I believe Setsuna matches or possibly exceeds her. Setsuna for anime and manga and doujin, in addition to idols of course. Ayumu initially just for Yuu, but then later for both Yuu and Setsuna. For food? Yuu and Ayumu have a canon fondness for Kope Pan and I imagine they pull Setuna into this desire over time.

32. Who remembers what the other one always orders at a restaurant?

Ayumu

33. How do they eat ice cream? What’s their favorite flavors?

They each get different flavors with the express intent of trying some of the others. Not sure about favorite flavors yet.

34. Do they go on dates? What are they like?

Absolutely. Ayumu prefers peaceful walks in parks or window shopping in the mall. Yuu also likes those things, though more because it is time spent with Ayumu, and eventually Setsuna, than for the activity itself. Once introduced to idols, she keeps track of local performance schedules and insists they go regularly. Setsuna loves hitting up the comic and game shops and has reservations for Comiket as soon as they’re available. She also loves the idol Lives, obviously.

35. What do they smell when they smell Amortentia?

Yuu smells the slightly gasoline-like smell of the dye Ayumu helps her use, the pyrotechnics used on stage during certain performances, and Tamagoyaki. Setsuna smells the sweat produced while performing under the heat of a spotlight, tabasco chilies, and the lingering scent of Yuu and Ayumu left on Ayumu’s bed. Ayumu smells the fabric softener the Takasaki family used for their laundry, Yuu’s hair, and Setsuna’s hair.

Tamagoyaki is the sweet, rolled egg omelet we see Ayumu feed Yuu in an early chapter of SIFA, or possibly Ayumu’s Bond Episode, I forget. Either way, I like the idea of that being a simple dish Ayumu learned to make at a young age and got Yuu hooked on her version of it over the years.

For Setsuna, I wanted to be more subtle with the tabasco thing, so I could hint at it instead of stating it directly. Thus, I looked up the ingredients for Tabasco… and what do you know, it’s made from tabasco chilies, which themselves are named after the state of Tabasco in Mexico. So yeah, a brand named after its main ingredient, which is named after the region where it is grown. No getting away from the name there.

Also, yes, Ayumu gets two hair entries, one for each girlfriend. I don’t care if it’s cheating or a cop out or whatever. I love the headcanon that she is obsessed with hair, so of course how it smells would be something that resonates with her. And she would absolutely be able to tell the difference between Yuu and Setsuna in a blind scent test.

36. Which one is the secret snuggler?

Setsuna is decidedly the most “needy” in her snuggles, though Ayumu can have her moments. Yuu loves all forms of physical contact, but that really isn’t much of a secret to anyone.

37. Which one offers their jacket to the other when they complain they feel cold?

Setsuna, with her desire to be heroic and cool. And Yuu, having grown up with Ayumu who gets cold.

38. Who reaches for the other one’s hand while driving?

Ayumu

39. Who leaves little notes in the other one’s lunch?

Ayumu. (Bonus: What does it say?) Cute, little affirmations of her love for her girlfriends.

40. Who is the most affectionate?

Yuu is the most open about it with Setsuna coming in a close second, but only after she is more comfortable in knowing she isn’t impressing herself too much on the others. Ayumu loves her physical affection, but is more reserved in initiating it; more sensual intimacy on the other hand…

41. Who is the big spoon/little spoon?

After a few weeks of rotation and figuring things out, they settle on Yuu being the big spoon to Ayumu while Setsuna snuggles into Ayumu’s chest, as first portrayed in Late Return Night. If, however, Yuu and Ayumu exhaust Setsuna during intimate activities, leaving her passed out between them, again, Yuu will roll her toward Ayumu and be her big spoon instead, like in Betting For Play.

42. What is their favorite feature of their partner?

If asked, Ayumu would probably say she loves Yuu’s gentle, supportive smile and Setsuna’s heart-igniting, passionate smile. However, if actions speak louder than words, her girlfriends’ hair might be considered her favorite feature. Yuu loves Ayumu’s adorable blush when she is teased and the fire in Setsuna’s eyes when she performs. Setsuna loves Ayumu’s braided bun, enough to want to emulate it sometimes, and Yuu’s excited expression as she cheers from the audience.

43. What is the first thing that changes when they realize they have feelings for the other?

For Yuu? Honestly, not much, in either case. She had little desire to rush anything and was happy to take it all at a casual pace. Not much changed for Ayumu either when she realized she loved Yuu as they were already spending a ton of time together anyway. However, upon realizing she had feelings for Setsuna, she resolved to finally move past her jealousy over the bond Setsuna had formed with Yuu; how successful she is with this is part of her character development in TA. Setsuna tried to walk away from the other two when she realized her feelings for them were stronger than just friendship and she was afraid of coming between them. They pulled her back in. And she let them.

44. What are their nicknames for each other?

Currently, I only have Yuu not using any honorific with Ayumu, as opposed to -chan she uses was her peers and juniors, and eventually her seniors after they’ve all graduated. I figure she has been referring to Ayumu as such for so long that changing, even to add -chan, would feel strange, even if she constantly calls Ayumu cute, making the honorific fitting in that regard. Setsuna uses -san with everyone, even her girlfriends and Ayumu uses -chan in a similar manner to Yuu, though with Yuu as well.

I have seen other authors use the alternate reading of the kanji for Ayumu’s name and have her girlfriend call her Pomu. I’ve also seen Setsuna shortened to Setsu, as Ai does in the anime. And while I am not opposed to someday adopting either or both of these to my own writings, I am awaiting what may or may not be revealed in the second season of the anime before I finalize how the trio refers to one another. Even if that means major retcons to what I’ve already written; just add them to the list…

45. Who worries the most? Over what?

Probably Ayumu. However, as mentioned above, all three worry about contributing enough to the relationship. Prior to officially dating, Ayumu and Setsuna worried that they were getting in the way of the other being a happy couple with Yuu, as revealed in Change Overnight.

46. Who initiates kisses?

Yuu, as mentioned above, is quite happy to initiate physical affection of all sorts, both in public and in private. Setsuna is more willing to initiate hugs and welcome home kisses, though is more hesitant with other types of kisses. Ayumu is similar to Setsuna but swaps for good morning kisses as the type she is more comfortable initiating.

47. Who says I love you first? How did it happen?

Yuu drops the more casual version quite often, and with just about everyone she is remotely close to. She probably starts adding the more serious version occasionally, with just Ayumu and Setsuna, as she feels their bonds have strengthened to that point. Setsuna is not quite as liberal with the casual version as Yuu, but definitely uses it more with Yuu and Ayumu. She probably doesn’t use the more serious version until after they’ve made their relationship official. Ayumu realizes she hasn’t said it at all, not even the casual version, prior to them dating, and decides it’s high time to start, as revealed in Change Overnight.

48. Who tells their friends/family about their relationship first?

They probably tell their friends at the same time. For family, I would imagine Yuu has no problems saying something right away. Ayumu likely isn’t far behind. Setsuna… I’m still working through my thoughts on her family, to be honest.

49. What do they do when they’re away from each other?

In When One’s Away, Ayumu started a practice to send one of Yuu’s sleepshirts and one of her own stuffed animals with Setsuna when she goes out on tour. She also has a set of wireless charging mounts that allow the three to share a conference call so they can see and hear each other before falling asleep at night. If Yuu is the one away, swap her shirt for one of Setsuna’s. If Ayumu is away, she would swap her own stuffed animal for one of Setsuna’s. This is to make sure no one feels completely left out, since it is rare that the three would be separated completely and more often only one would be away at any given time.

50. Who gets overwhelmed by small acts of kindness?

Setsuna and Ayumu.

#YuuAyuSetsu #Tri-Arame

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