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voraciousvore · 30 days ago

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Heey there! Can I ask for a Martin and Candy short story? In the pov of Martin

Miss those two I love them

Of course!

Plot: Martin reveals to Candy his traumatic past and finally comes to terms with it. The events referenced are from The Origins of Martin Maneater.

Word Count: 3.8k (sorry, I know it's long, hopefully it's good, I didn't reread it beginning to end because I'm tired, but I don't want to wait to post)

CW: Soft fatal unwilling vore, trauma, blood/violence

------ Confronting the Past ------

Candy adored shopping. She’d been scraping by on crumbs and secondhand clothes for what felt like an eternity, so to finally have discretionary income was an inordinate luxury. She had fun trying on colorful frilly dresses, fancy shoes, ruffled skirts, and silky blouses. She perused the novelty knick-knacks and tchotchkes with amusement, imagining how they would look next to her giant boyfriend’s model cars.

Martin, for his part, loved to see Candy happy. The way her eyes sparkled as she skipped through the shelves swelled his heart with delight. She looked absolutely precious in all the outfits she modeled for him, like a perfect little doll. She lit up under the influence of his praise like a beam of sunshine. She was the light of his life, and he’d do anything to keep that smile on her face.

He took her regularly to Quentin’s Collectibles, a hobby store that sold all sorts of human products scaled to Candy’s size. He lavished gifts on his sweet miniature girlfriend, providing her with cute little sets of furniture, silverware, clothes, and whatever else she wanted. She didn’t cost much, since everything was toy-sized. He liked to spoil her, especially with how grateful she was for the smallest, most trivial little things. Candy wasn’t a materialistic girl by any means, but she deeply cherished every indication of affection that Martin had to give.

There was one section of the store that Martin hated, however: the dollhouses. They were amazing handmade works of art, ornately crafted and oftentimes furnished with functional appliances. Every time he saw them, his forehead would bead with sweat, his heart would palpitate like he was ill, and his fists would clench defensively. His traumatic past drained him like a hungry leech, regardless of how much he tried to buck it off.

“Martin, sweetie, can you take me over to the dollhouses?” Candy piped up from her perch alongside the plastic dolls, most of which still dwarfed her in size.

Martin stiffened, his heart dropping into his gut like a stone. “Um…” He swallowed, though his mouth was dry as cotton. “Let’s not. Those are a bit out of our price range anyways.”

“Oh, no, I just want to look, silly!” Candy replied with a twirl, full of happy energy.

“Well…” Martin stalled, fumbling for a plausible excuse. She gazed up at him with eloquent doe eyes that melted him into a warm puddle of sappy love. He couldn’t possibly say no, and disappoint her for no good reason. “Alright. Hop on.”

He cupped his hand alongside the shelf and Candy eagerly jumped into his soft palm. Martin tried to quell his rising anxiety as he thudded over to the dollhouses like his feet were encased in blocks of concrete. He reluctantly set Candy down and observed while she explored the neighborhood of replica homes. As she disappeared inside one, only to pop her head out a window on the third floor, Martin’s intestines slithered and curled in his abdomen like a nest of snakes.

“Ooh, this one has an electric stove!” Candy called out from the interior. “And a shower!”

“Uh huh,” Martin managed to grunt.

“Gosh, it would be so lovely to be able to bake on my own,” she continued. “Even if my cakes would hardly be the size of your fingernail.”

“Right.”

“And if we had one of these, you wouldn’t have to pour me a bath in a cup. You wouldn’t have to take care of my every need.” Her voice dropped into a mournful note. “I wouldn’t be as much of a burden on you.”

“Oh, Candy!” Martin protested. “You’re never a burden!”

Candy stepped out of the house with an almost sheepish expression. “If you say so. I just wish… sometimes that I could be more independent. I don’t like having to rely on you all the time, when I have so little to offer you in return.”

“No, no, Candy, you’ve got it all wrong! You know I love to dote on you!” Martin insisted. He hastily wicked his clammy palms on his trousers before scooping Candy up off the porch of the tiny house and nuzzling her with his stubbled cheek. “You give me a wealth of happiness. I love you, darling.”

Candy hugged the bridge of his nose. “I love you too. You’re my whole world, Martin.”

He drew his hands back to gaze upon her tenderly. She looked so small and fragile compared to his colossal palms: She could get lost in the furrows of skin like canyons. To imagine that some giant—a barbaric beast like his father, who shared his flesh and blood—wouldn’t hesitate to hurt her, to chomp her up like a grape, made him sick.

“You’re so tiny…” he murmured softly. “You couldn’t be a burden on me if you tried.” He stroked her thigh gently with his enormous thumb, marveling that a delicate being like her could trust him so readily. “My responsibility is to protect you.” His stormy eyes grew distant with painful memory.

Candy studied him quietly for a long moment, examining the subtle muscle movements in the topography of his facial features. “Martin? Are you okay?”

Martin blinked. “Yeah.” He lowered his hands to chest level, cradling his diminutive lover against his sternum. “Let’s go home.”

Candy didn’t protest. Though she didn’t press him further, Martin could tell that Candy knew something was bothering him. He’d never brought up his past to her, nor did he ever mention his parents. As far as he was concerned, they were dead to him, an unpalatable vestige of a former life he wished to cut away and discard like a cancerous tumor.

That night, Martin dreamed of dollhouses. He was back in the store, with Candy. She ran inside one of the houses and vanished. When he opened the roof to find her, she was gone. He began to panic, searching frantically for her. She was nowhere.

Huge rumbling footsteps rattled the houses as a foreboding shadow wreathed the landscape. All of a sudden, Martin was small, human-sized, lost among the merchandise. He yelled for Candy until his throat was stripped raw, running in the alleyways between the toy structures that now loomed over him. The dollhouses had an uncanny resemblance to real houses, complete with a maze of sidewalks and lawns strewn haphazardly in an irrational tangle.

The thunderous footsteps waxed louder and more menacing, leaving spiderweb fractures in the foundations and stucco of the houses. The shadows stretched and deepened like black ink spilled across a page. A leviathan boot stomped down nearby, smashing one of the buildings into rubble. Martin jumped with a yelp and spun around to behold a horrific sight.

His father, Mr. Maneater himself, leered down at him, larger than life. His black irises burned like coals in his sockets, his bright teeth glistened wolfishly, and his dark hair, usually combed down in a neat part, whipped around his face wildly. Martin froze as an icy ball of sweat traced his spine. He was helpless.

Candy began to scream with an agonizing wail that pierced his eardrums. Martin sprinted towards the torturous sound with desperation. His father stepped over him, crushing houses and splitting the sidewalks in his wake, effortlessly outpacing his son with his powerful long legs. Martin’s own limbs pumped like pistons, but he had no chance of catching up as his lungs pleaded for air.

The giant reached the house where Candy was screaming and tore it from the earth, lifting the entire structure high into the blackened sky. Martin lobbed threats and curses to no avail as dirt and splinters of wood rained down from above and blinded him. He stared in horror as the house was ripped open like a flimsy cardboard box; chunks of walls and furniture tumbled the ridiculous distance to the ground, where poor Martin scrambled to avoid them.

Mr. Maneater rummaged about in the crumbling ruins of the house until his fingers grasped his desired target. With a widening grin, he pulled the squirming woman from her hiding spot.

“Martin! Help me!” Candy squealed. Mr. Maneater licked his lips, opened his mouth wide, and dangled her teasingly over his extended tongue.

“NO! LET HER GO!” Martin demanded. He rushed over to his father’s shoe, grabbed the cuff of his pants, and began to climb in a last-ditch effort to save her.

His father watched him with amusement before turning to his desired prey. “Down the hatch,” he proclaimed, before dropping her inside his maw and snapping his jaws shut like a piranha. Her cries were abruptly cut off; the resulting silence felt terribly wrong. Martin filled it with his own invectives, punching the solid tower of the giant’s leg until his fist was bloody and bruised.

“Delicious,” Mr. Maneater taunted, thrusting Candy into his cheek with his tongue and sucking on her. Martin shrieked hoarsely, incoherent with the lacerations in his throat. He heard the swallow more than he saw it: a revolting, wet, lengthy squelch, followed by a deep, satisfied sigh that sent tremors through the wall of flesh towering over him.

He had no time to react before gargantuan fingers squeezed around him and ripped him away, raising him high in the sky. With Candy sealed away in her living tomb, he felt feeble and weak. A pair of glowing hateful coals seared into him. His father didn’t have to speak to convey his upmost contempt and disapproval, his condemnation of his son as unfit to uphold the Maneater bloodline. He flicked his worthless son away, sending him flying to his death.

“Martin? Martin?”

A soft, gentle, feminine voice cut through the fog of his nightmare with the crisp clarity of a sunrise. Small hands pressed into his chest, tickling his carpet of hair. He opened his eyes and a wave of relief cooled his feverish skin. She was safe. She was okay.

“Martin, are you alright? Your heart is racing.”

“Y-yeah, I’m okay. Just a bad dream.” He hesitated. Should he tell her? He didn’t want to frighten her. He didn’t want to dredge up his ugly past, his secret shame. But he loved Candy, and trusted her with his life. He was ready to let her in. “I… I dreamed of my father.”

Candy perked up with interest. “Oh?”

Martin swallowed. At least his throat no longer felt like he raked it across a cheese grater. “Candy, I need to tell you something.”

He spilled his guts. He told her about his first time encountering a human: Emma. How she was given to him on his dinner plate, treated as nothing more than a birthday treat, nutrition to fuel a growing young giant. How he saved her instead, and kept her hidden from his parents. How she was so afraid, and small, and vulnerable, unable to hear or speak. How he tried his best to communicate with her, and make her comfortable around him.

And the day that he used his birthday money to buy her a dollhouse. Relating the traumatic event was like extracting a porcupine quill embedded deep in his chest, the barbs resisting his pull. But he forced himself to say it out loud. How his father scolded him, beat him—and found her. And just like that, her fate was clinched permanently behind Mr. Maneater’s lips.

By the time he finished, his gray eyes were stormy with tears. Candy listened attentively the entire time, clinging to every word. Her eyes became glassy as well. “Oh, Martin… I’m so sorry, I had no idea…”

Martin sniffled, hugging Candy close to his heart. “It’s… hard to talk about. But now you know why I’m estranged from my family. And why I was so nervous about hurting you, when we first started dating.”

Candy kissed him and patted his pectoral. “I understand. But I never felt I had anything to fear from you, my love.”

Martin smiled through his sorrow, soothed by her words. “I know it’s not entirely my fault, but I still carry this guilt with me. I atone by being the kindest, gentlest giant I can be, and keeping you safe.”

“Awwwww, babe, you excel at that! You shouldn’t feel responsible though: You did all you could to protect her. You were only a child, after all. I’m glad to know you’ve always been my sweet Martin that I know and love.”

Martin raised Candy up to his lips and kissed her. “Thank you.”

As painful as the retelling was, Martin felt as if a burden had been lifted from his shoulders, a knot of tension untied in his core. He could finally forgive himself for his failure; he was able to let go and heal. Candy was the center of his cathartic release, his guiding light, his treasure, his beloved. He felt like a proper gentleman, no longer a monstrous giant cursed with Maneater blood, while in her presence.

He wanted Candy to have the best life she could live with him, unencumbered by her size disparity as much as possible. He decided he needed to overcome his past and get her a dollhouse, or at least the functional set-ups. While they sold individual miniature “rooms” with all the necessary hook-ups, he knew that Candy was entranced by the cute toy houses with all their little decorations and furnishings. Though she never said it explicitly, Martin inferred that she probably found comfort in having a residential space scaled to her for once, a break from living in a world of giants. And they really weren’t that expensive, when he considered how much she would use it.

He surprised her one fine afternoon after work. He took her into Quentin’s Collectibles and let her browse the shelves for a while. He didn’t feel that same sick dread curdling his innards as much as he did before when he approached the faux houses, though some of the unpleasant aftertaste still lingered. He endured it for Candy.

She was ecstatic when he revealed his intentions. She settled on one of the cheaper, more modest houses that she found quite charming, and Martin agreed it would make a lovely addition to their apartment. He carried it out of the store under his arm, with a shopping bag full of furniture in his other hand and Candy bobbing eagerly on his shoulder. A warmth radiated through him when she lovingly kissed his neck.

He was careful not to knock Candy off his shoulder as he stepped through the threshold to their apartment, closing the door behind him with his foot. He hastened to move his model Bombardier Learjet 35 off the coffee table to make room for Candy’s new house. He opened it up and began arranging the fixtures to suit her preferences. His heart soared as he soaked in her enthusiasm, but a small twinge of pain strummed his heartstrings as he was reminded of little Emma.

Nevertheless, he was glad that he had made this difficult choice. He would do better this time. He was a man, no longer a child. He was strong. He was secure. Candy loved him and trusted him with her life, and he would do everything in his power to uphold that trust.

As he watched her frolic through the rooms of the tiny house, he heard a firm, heavy knock on the front door. He turned his head, only to see the knob twist and the door open on its own. Since his hands had been full earlier, he hadn’t bothered to lock the door behind him.

A man stepped in with confidence, a man that he’d had no contact with for years, but one he recognized all too well. His features were unmistakable, despite the advance in years: eyes like coals, black hair neatly parted and slicked down, refined clothing concealing a sturdy build that barely restrained a feral intensity. Martin’s blood ran cold.

His father.

Candy peeked out a window. “Martin, who’s that?” she asked innocently. “Do you know him?” She glanced up, only to behold Martin’s face frozen with horror. Fear crept up her throat, choking her. She didn’t know what to do, when her big strong protector looked so scared.

Mr. Maneater surveyed the apartment, his dark eyes pausing on the dollhouse. He narrowed his lids and curled his lip with obvious disdain. “So it wasn’t just a phase,” he remarked, venom lacing his tone.

Martin couldn’t move, couldn’t respond. He couldn’t believe what he was seeing, the impossible scene unfolding before him as if an infernal pit to hell had split open the carpet in his living room. Replaying in his head, over and over at a dizzying speed like a macabre film, were terrible flashbacks to that nightmarish day: his dad picking up the dollhouse; his dad holding him to the ground, beating him senseless; Emma languishing in a puddle of blood on the ground, barely alive; the poor girl squirming between his dad’s fingers; his Adam’s apple throbbing as he swallowed her. Martin feared he would vomit before he could even do anything.

His father said something with an irritated inflection, but Martin couldn’t hear through the blaring static in his ears. His heart was pounding into his lungs with a stabbing pain. Panic electrified his nerves. Mr. Maneater scowled, clearly annoyed that Martin didn’t seem to be listening to him, and strode through the threshold into the living room.

The threatening movement snapped Martin into action. Without thinking, reacting on pure protective instinct, he lunged forward. He couldn’t allow tragedy to strike twice. He would keep Candy away from the dangerous giant even if he had to spill his own father’s blood, or die in the attempt. His heart would not be able to bear another loss, another victim to his tainted bloodline.

Martin was a large giant, but he’d inherited his genetics from his father, who was also very tall and broad. Where Martin was soft, his father was hard. Mr. Maneater had a keen, cruel edge to him, honed from his earlier life of hardship and grueling labor before he’d been lucky enough to land himself a cushy accounting job. He was not the type to be easily bested in a fight by a gentle giant like his son, even if caught off guard. When Martin swung with a wild fist, he dodged the blow and planted his elbow in Martin’s solar plexus. Martin collapsed to the floor with a breathless gasp and a clumsy thud. His father planted his foot between Martin’s shoulder blades, pinning him down with his weight.

“This is how you greet me, after all these years,” Mr. Maneater complained with a dismissive flick of his wrist. “I guess I should’ve expected that.”

“GET OUT!” Martin roared, struggling to recover the air in his lungs. He coughed thickly, pushing up against his dad’s shoe. “Don’t you dare touch her! I’LL KILL YOU!”

“Look, I’m not here to judge you for your weird fetishes,” Mr. Maneater grumbled. “Or eat your pet human or whatever.”

“She’s not my pet, she’s my girlfriend!” Martin protested hotly, compelled to defend Candy’s honor as much as her physical body.

The older man rolled his eyes, clearly even more disgusted. “Whatever.” He heaved a sigh. “I came here to...” He paused, gritting his teeth. “To... reconcile.”

“Huh?”

“I want to be in your life again, son. I want to have a relationship with you again. I miss you. Your mother misses you. We... we still love you, despite your flaws.”

Martin finally shoved off his father’s foot and scrambled back to his feet, dusting off his clothes. “Really,” he said incredulously. “You expect me to forgive you for what you did. Without even bothering to apologize.”

Mr. Maneater’s gaze, so intense and hot, finally faltered. “I’m... sorry.”

Now Martin was on the offensive. “No you’re not.”

Mr. Maneater frowned. “Look. I can’t change the past. What do you want from me? Do you want the truth? I regret that I hurt you so deeply. I’m sorry for what I did, even if I don’t agree with your perspective. Maybe... maybe I don’t understand why you care so much about humans, but... I’m willing to move on from that, and accept your bizarre lifestyle choices. I want my son back.”

Martin ruminated on his words, unsure how to respond. He crossed his arms. “Hmph.”

His father raised his hands with exasperation. “Your mother and I discussed the matter. We’re willing to give up eating humans, if that’s what it takes.”

Martin’s eyes widened with shock. “Seriously?”

“Yes,” he confirmed resolutely.

“I...” Martin studied his father for a long moment. His father stared back with flaming coals. “I... I need some time to think about it.”

“Of course. Of course,” Mr. Maneater replied, slumping with relief. “Come to us when you’re ready, okay?” He glanced down at Candy, giving her an uncomfortable nod, before turning back to Martin. “Right. Uh. I’ll be on my way now.” He backed out of the apartment, shutting the door behind him.

Martin deflated like a balloon, sitting on the floor next to the coffee table, bracing himself on the surface with his shaking hand for support. “I can’t believe this.”

Candy came out of the house over to his hand. She stroked his knuckle to comfort him. “Martin...”

“I can’t risk it,” he declared. “My family is savage. I can’t put you in danger. No way.”

“Martin...” Candy repeated. “I think he really meant what he said.” Martin stared into the distance, deep in thought. Candy watched him for a minute before poking his finger to get his attention. He carefully flipped his hand over so his girlfriend could crawl into his palm, then cradled her against him protectively. Candy snuggled up to his enormous, warm body, listening to the frightened beating of his elephantine heart.

“It’s good for you to have your family in your life,” Candy pointed out. “I wish I could have a good relationship with my parents. They rejected me and told me I wouldn’t amount to anything. I wish I could've proved them wrong. But I couldn’t do it, not on my own.”

“Oh, Candy...” Martin massaged her gingerly with his fingers. “You’re a remarkable, strong, brave woman. If they can’t see that, it’s their problem, not yours. I’ll always be here for you. I’m your family.”

“Yes, of course!” Candy kissed his fingers reverently. “But, you know, Martin... you don’t have to carry the burden of the world on your shoulders alone. I’m here to support you too. And by the sound of it, so are your parents.”

Martin smiled down at her, wrapped up snugly in his palm. As always when he saw her, his heart swelled with tenderness. With the love of his life in his hand, small enough to tuck away in his pocket for moral support, he felt that everything would be okay. “Perhaps.”

#tumblr asks #my writing

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dorothylarouge · 2 months ago

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The current era of the X-Men comic line feels adrift and directionless, far more so than I think it’s intentional. Editorial feels asleep at the wheel in the sense that there seems to be no unified vision for what things should be building toward. There’s a lot of reflection and mourning of Krakoa, and talk about the need to rebuild, but we’re nearly a year on and there’s still no clear answer on what that actually means, and that’s a problem!

Doug Ramsay is the successor to Apocalypse. Nothing’s been done with it. Charles is back out in space having freaky cloacal sex with Lilandra after his big event ended on a wet fart. All these things that should give the X-books direction just… aren’t.

It doesn’t help that so many of the books are mediocre. Simone’s Uncanny is the most frustrating book on the racks because she’s got these actually interesting mutant kids that I enjoy reading about but then half the book is devoted to legacy team members that Simone can’t seem to write for the life of her. Rogue, the ostensible lead, is boring as hell, with very little of the fire that usually makes her such a compelling character. Meanwhile, Jubilee may as well not even be around for how much focus she gets.

The less said about NYX the better.

There are some good books in the lineup. MacKay’s X-Men is very good, with consistently good characterization for Scott as well as Max, Ilyana, Cain, and Quentin (plus Idie and Kwannon! What a great roster), and Exceptional X-Men is doing a lot of what Uncanny is doing but better, with stronger character work.

Ultimately, though, I think a paralyzing reluctance to advance and develop a new status quo has gripped the X-books, and as @bimboficationblues noted when she and I discussed this it’s because the MCU has its thumb on the scale. With the MCU poised to introduce mutants any time now, any new status quo will have to be snapped back to a “back to basics” approach for synergistic reasons, and so they’re kind of just staying in that “back to basics” mode, which is ultimately harmful to the books.

#comics #x men #marvel

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witsserviceablesubstitute · 2 years ago

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I'm unpacking my MacDennis thoughts a little here because I don't want my posts about the queerness in IASIP to get hopes up, but I also do not want people to think they are delusional for having belief in a Mac and Dennis romance.

Do I think Mac and Dennis will end up together in the end?

I don't know.

I do think they'll get to a place where they have evil fun together again. This requires the rebalancing of their relationship and that's been happening for the last few seasons. I also believe Mac weaponises how dumb he's perceived a lot more than the audience sees. He's a manipulative, stubborn, and sneaky man in his own right, and Dennis's attempts to manipulate him have mostly backfired. It would be perfect narrative symmetry if it turned out Dennis only had the illusion of control after all— which is what they both want.

Hell, I even think there's a possibility Mac and Dennis go in the complete opposite direction, with Dennis heartbroken and alone and Mac moving on. It'd be a bit tragic and grim yet not undeserved.

But if I'm drawing from every experience I have ever had with shows that play around with homoerotic subtext between main characters; then no, I don't think it'll be textually romantic.

The Magicians, a show that prided itself on being queer friendly, couldn't even treat Eliot like the love interest he'd been for 4 seasons until Quentin died and Eliot was mourning him. A love triangle whereby Quentin explicitly explored his feelings for Alice but the only acknowledgement of how deep his feelings for Eliot ran were when there was no possibility of exploring them substantively.

However,

Did I spend a week and a half feeling edged by an on again/off again romance subplot told entirely in homoerotic subtext?

Yeah...

It's pretty audacious if I'm honest. On the one hand I'm annoyed they got away with it because it's proof of how homophobic our society is that the most common sitcom romance structure was utilised like this but the mainstream would still scoff if it were pointed out that Mac and Dennis's relationship is queer (and not the longest running gay joke of the series). On the other hand I'm impressed, what bloody brilliant satire it would be if they do follow through on it. It's good satire even if they don't follow through on it.

This brings the next point, it's okay to not like Mac and Dennis romantically, nor how they've developed (though I admit I do and hope it ends on 'Will' rather than 'Won't'). The toxicity born from their extreme inability to communicate their needs to each other is the underlying theme of their relationship and it's fine for that to be a hard limit. However, soften those edges a little. Don't gaslight each other into thinking the homoerotic complexity of the relationship isn't there when it is. If only because that's what shows like IASIP do all the time to get around the backlash of exploring controversial queerness explicitly.

I'm not angry at IASIP for this by the way, I don't think another sitcom would have allowed Mac to come out at all or created an episode like 'Mac Finds His Pride'. I love that episode, I'm grateful to them for producing something so affirming, subversive, and transformative (and for making me cry).

#mac macdonald #dennis reynolds #iasip #it's always sunny in philadelphia #macdennis #queerness in television #thought thing #navel gazing #mac is dennis's love interest #he deserves to be acknowledged as such

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safaiagem · 10 months ago

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Who wants some angst on this Work in Progress Wednesday? I'm still making my way through the next chapter of The Hour of Separation, and considering it the penultimate chapter with the big confrontation, it's proving to be a BEAST. That's not a bad thing for the readers, though. What is in this chapter before we even get to the confrontation is angst, so much angst. That isn't that surprising considering the events of the previous chapter and what Charles specifically had to go through, but here's some more.

"Tell me? Maybe I can help," Edwin replied.

"My mum," Charles said after a long silence. "I feel like if Quentin had killed her, he would have forced me to see her too, so I don't think she's dead. I should go check in on her, but I don't know what I want to see. If I see her mourning my dad, I think I'm going to be angry because he was a bastard who nearly fractured my skull and locked me in a basement for almost two days; he doesn't deserve any tears. If she isn't mourning him, I think that's going to be even worse because then I'll always think that maybe she didn't love him as much as she said she did, maybe she could have left and gotten me out of there, and she chose not to.

"Is he going to get a funeral?" Charles continued. "Are people going to stand up there and eulogize him, say he was a good man, a devoted husband, and a father? Is there going to be an investigation into how he died? Is someone going to care enough to see if he was murdered, or are they just going to rule it an accident? Are they going to put more effort into solving his case than they ever put into mine?" Charles was shaking, and he buried his face into Edwin's lap, but there wasn't any hiding the tears. "Will his death matter more than mine? Will he matter more than I did?"

#dead boy detectives #payneland #edwin payne #charles rowland #dead boy detectives fanfiction #work in progress wednesday #my writing

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duckprintspress · 11 months ago

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Created Works Round-Up: June 2024

Duck Prints Press’s monthly “created works round-ups” are our opportunity to spotlight some of the amazing work that people working with us have done that ISN’T linked to their work with Duck Prints Press. We include fanworks, outside publications, and anything else that creators feel like sharing with y’all. Inclusion is voluntary and includes anything that they decided “hey, I want to put this on the created work’s round-up!”

Check out what they’ve shared with us this month…

The Making of a Work of Fanart: Relating to a Couch, Part 1 by EliotQueliot

video || the magicians (tv) || platonic or familial, m/m || quentin coldwater/eliot waugh || general audiences || no major warnings apply || 00:08:11 || complete

summary: I created a video using my phone photos and scans to show the process of making the illustration for Chapter 4, “Relating to a Couch, Part 1,” for my Queliot fic The First Duty of All Magicians Is to Save Their Friends (on Archive of Our Own, https://archiveofourown.org/works/44312533). I added a little commentary. The scene is AU for The Magicians 3×05, “A Life in the Day.”

TUMBLR – AO3 – YOUTUBE

Paintings for Mosaic Haiku, Chapter 2 by EliotQueliot

art || the magicians (tv) || m/m || quentin coldwater/eliot waugh || general audiences || creator chose not to use warnings || complete

summary: I’ve created watercolor paintings for all six scenes in Chapter 2. I try to add a little something to each scene that might be different than the original–something in keeping with the totality of what we know and believe about Queliot in our hearts. It might just be a chance to see some details more clearly, with more detail, color, or light; it might be slightly more interaction between the characters, such as a hand on a shoulder, which was placed there later in the same scene; or it might be a chance to glimpse a little more of their faces than is shown in any one shot (because on the show we get the full range of motion and their tone of voice to add clues, as well as what we know about them; so a moment is always more than just a single frozen image, and I’ve tried to reflect that where I can).

AO3

Mosaic Haiku, Chapter 12 by eliotqueliot

fiction || the magicians (tv) || m/m || quentin coldwater/eliot waugh || general audiences || creator chose not to use warnings || 217 (it’s poetry) || complete

summary: Exploring the lives of Eliot and Quentin at the Mosaic in Fillory, through a series of haiku that delve into their thoughts, feelings, and experiences, and the impact their love continues to have on them even after the time loop is over. Please note that the AO3 chapters are slowly being updated with watercolor paintings, while the mirror Tumblr chapters have the still shots from the show that will later be painted.

TUMBLR – AO3

…Baby One More Time, Chapter 2 by EliotQueliot

fiction || the magicians (tv) || m/m || quentin coldwater/eliot waugh || mature || creator chose not to use warnings || 2,001 || complete

summary: In this fic, Eliot takes his knowledge of Horomancy to the Time Witch Jane Chatwin in an effort to save Quentin. In this chapter, Eliot revisits the Mosaic; though changes are hinted, the chapter focuses on his reunion with Quentin.

TUMBLR – AO3

you want it darker? || dark king eliot, Chapter 4: Quentin by EliotQueliot

fiction || the magicians (tv) || m/m || quentin coldwater/eliot waugh || explicit || creator chose not to use warnings || 10,217 || complete

summary: Quentin takes his mission as Eliot’s guardian angel very seriously. Exploring the Underworld together, Quentin and his father Ted search for ways to get Q back home to El.

other tags: Special warnings for: Grief/Mourning, Depression, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt

AO3

Silver by Zel Howland

art || black sails || no ships || mature || graphic depictions of violence || complete

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mend what has been broken (repeat as needed) by corduroyserpent

fiction || the scum villain’s self-saving system || platonic or familial || tianlang-jun & zhuzhi-lang || teen & up || no major warnings apply || 1,892 || complete

summary: The ritual that returns Zhuzhi-Lang to life is not without its flaws. Tianlang-Jun cares for his nephew in the aftermath.

other tags: Post-Canon, Zhuzhi-Lang lives, Hurt/Comfort, Blood & Injury, Non-Sexual Intimacy

TUMBLR – AO3 – TWITTER

Soft Whispers by Smehur

art || harry potter || m/m || draco malfoy/harry potter || general audiences || no major warnings apply || complete

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Phalar Aluve by Smehur

fiction || baldur’s gate 3 || m/m || astarion/tav || teen & up || no major warnings apply || 1,453 || complete

summary: Tav makes a blood sacrifice to the goddess of the dancing lights, and Astarion refuses to let it go to waste.

other tags: Developing Relationship, Fluff, Blood Drinking, Drow Tav

AO3

Meus ex Machina by edupunkn00b

fiction || sanders sides || platonic or familial, m/m || logan/remus, janus/oc orange side(lucas) || teen & up || no major warnings apply || 55,619 || complete

summary: Last century, the first Powered child was born. A frail, squalling infant with skin that burned to the touch and eyes that seemed to read your every thought, it was abandoned at the hospital.

Three years later, another was born. Then another. And another. Within a generation, most hospitals delivered more Powered children than powerless. The world turned on its head and the circuits were filled with advertisements for augmentation or that one weird trick to ensure your child was born gifted.

But veneration turned to fear and those powered children who were not cast out were raised to serve the needs of the strongest voices in their communities, whether corporate or military.

Four Powereds said ‘no more’ and broke away to find their own way to serve—and maybe even save—the world.

Until one day, a Powerless dropped down into their midst, scarred and broken, but armed with steel and hungry for vengeance. Was there a place for him in the world they sought to build?

And did he have the power to save one of their own?

other tags: Superpower AU, Human AU

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Spaced by edupunkn00b

fiction || sanders sides || no ships, platonic or familial || general audiences || no major warnings apply || 1,419 || complete

summary: Happy Birthday to Roman Sanders. The moment I saw the video explaining Roman’s birthday celebration would be late, I couldn’t get this out of my head, so, here we go…

Logan’s Photoshoot

Thomas’ video about June and how he ‘spaced.’

other tags: Canonverse with OC Orange Side (Lucas)

TUMBLR – AO3

the old stars are of no importance by enchantedsleeper

fiction || the strange case of starship iris || platonic or familial || general audiences || no major warnings apply || 2,493 || complete

summary: In which RJ McCabe has more emotions about listening to a drunken group singalong than they’d expected. Spans season 1 episodes 9 & 10 and the aftermath of episode 10.

other tags: Post-season 1, Found family feels, Missing scene(s)

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Intimate Understanding by Shadaras

fiction || quanzhi gaoshou | the king’s avatar || f/f || sun xiang/tang rou || explicit || no major warnings apply || 3,585 || complete

summary: Tang Rou gave Sun Xiang a once-over, head to toe, as their paths crossed in the Hangzhou arena’s halls. “Looking good,” Tang Rou said, grinning. “If you want to catch up after the match, shoot me a text—your hotel can’t be that far away.”

“Yeah, alright,” Sun Xiang said automatically. She watched Tang Rou stroll off, hips swaying cockily, and then shook her head. Weird. She and Tang Rou weren’t friends—what could there be to catch up about?

(The answer is: Sun Xiang’s transition, via the medium of sex.)

other tags: Trans For Trans, PWP, Clothed Sex, Oral Sex

AO3

Dandelion Seeds by Shadaras

fiction || star wars || platonic or familial, f/f || reva sevander + ahsoka tano || teen & up || no major warnings apply || 15,364 || complete

summary: A Mirialian collector has a Jedi Holocron stored safely in her vault, and rumours of its existence have reached multiple organizations. Crimson Dawn orders Reva to retrieve this holocron through any means necessary, while the Rebellion asks Ahsoka to acquire it through the most legal means possible.

When Reva and Ahsoka encounter each other at the vault door, they choose not to bring the holocron to either organization, but instead to listen to the Force and work together to learn what the holocron can teach them—and discover what they can learn from each other.

other tags: Pre-Relationship, Jedi Philosophy, Canon-Typical Violence, Jedi Holocron, Set Between Kenobi and Rebels

AO3

like clay in his hands by Shadaras

fiction || kaiju no 8 (manga) || m/m || hibino kafka/hoshina soshiro || teen & up || no major warnings apply || 1,400 || complete

summary: Soshiro gives Kafka private training in hand-to-hand combat, which brings feelings they’ve been been suppressing right up to the surface.

other tags: Fighting as Flirting, First Kiss, Dom/sub Undertones, Mild Breathplay Vibes

AO3

On Beauty by Shadaras

fiction || original work || f/f || teen & up || no major warnings apply || 1,391 || complete

summary: “You want to be beautiful,” Matty says, matter-of-factly, because she knows Vae can’t argue that point.

Vae wants to, of course, but she wants even more to deny Matty the ease of knowing her.

other tags: Butch/Femme, Clothing Porn, Established Relationship

AO3

Phase Shift by Terra P. Waters

fiction || original work || platonic or familial, f/m || teen & up || graphic depictions of violence || 99,000 || complete

summary: When self-professed science geek, Camilla Mitchell is dragged into a dimension full of hostile telepathic creatures, her loved ones only know she’s missing. Cam’s friends, her brother, Oliver, and her mother, Kathryn, work furiously to solve her disappearance and bring her home. Other members of their small Minnesota town disappear, one after the other, including Lizzy Becker’s best friend, who is ripped from her arms. Lizzy badgers loner Oliver into working with her to rescue their missing loved ones. They discover a bridge between the two worlds—a bridge that allows the hostile creatures from Cam’s newly-discovered dimension into ours. If there’s a bridge, there’s a way to rescue the people taken. Right?

LINK

Charity Pins and Stickers [Honkai: Star Rail] by Saro / Legendaerie

physical product || honkai: star rail || m/m || dr. ratio/aventurine || general audiences || no major warnings apply || complete

summary: Featuring Dr. Ratio’s letter in both EN and CN from Trailblazer Mission: Cat Among Pigeons and the Sigonia’s Knot of Cyclicality relic. All profits are split between Doctors Without Borders and The Trevor Project.

#created works round-up #duck prints press #there's so much this month!

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diamond-dangeresque · 9 months ago

Text

for what i do love about this game—and i love a lot!!!—there are certain things about the story i wish we had either the opportunity to do or otherwise capitalize on

and i'll throw dat shit under a readmore for spoilers. you know. for a 13 year old game lmao

(also i will be using he/him/his pronouns when referring to Hawke simply because my first playthru was Garrett Hawke and therefore i think of Hawke in those terms)

so from the second we deal with Quentin and find his stash of books and letters during All That Remains, including one signed from his "very good friend “O”" i knew two things:

Orsino is behind this, and

i want to cave his smarmy little skull in for being an accessory to Quentin's atrocities, including MY MOTHER'S MURDER

and while i am aware that this can be kinda-sorta dealt with on a Templar playthrough, what bothers me is that i have no way to Deal With This Information until basically the end of the game, which feels...i dunno, like maybe there should have been a side quest of investigating these documents either solo or with the help of Aveline, Templar!Carver/Circle!Bethany, maybe even Anders or Varric, but it feels really weird that you find a letter that definitively proves Quentin was 100% not alone in what he was doing, and Hawke's response is 🦗🦗🦗

now yes, in the immediate aftermath he's mourning or grieving or drinking himself into a stupor or whatever Hawke (yours, mine, otherwise) does to live with not being able to save his mother in time, but it's still then Very Odd that he never just...follows up on this. like "welp, mom's dead and i killed her killer, who was definitely and apparently working alone. somehow. yep."

i would love a sidequest like that works like this, slowly piecing together who could have been assisting this madman by finding additional clues, locating “O”'s dead drop point, finding out it's the Gallows's First Enchanter being this serial killer's accomplice much to [Anders's horror//Aveline's disgust//Fenris's "well I can't say this wasn't unexpected but what the fuck"//etc etc], and then like

idk

maybe you can have a chat with Meredith abt it, convince her that No The Mage Circle Isn't All Bad, It's Just Orsino, starting an investigation and then gathering the evidence needed to convict him (and maybe optionally getting him in a room and beating the unholy piss out of him, real "Smash A to Break Orsino's Nose" kinda stuff) , and thennnnnn. idk, have him hung from the Gallows!!!! good shit, justice for Leandra and all the other women murdered by Quentin, closure for you and your sibling,

or you can take vigilante justice on him and. "hey Meredith, so Orsino died. yeah, he fell down the stairs. tripped on his robes, broke his neck on the way down. terrible shame. tut, tut. (please ignore the bruises and broken bones.)"

and then we're like "welp. so the Circle needs a new First Enchanter, aaaaaand 1. Orsino had like no protege lined up for this, and 2. no one here wants to be First Enchanter anyways" so you could potentially set up smth like

Hawke can become First Enchanter if he's a Mage

Bethany can become First Enchanter (probably easier to convince her on a high Friendship rating)

One of the mages you spared (and still lives) from Acts 1 and 2 could be trained to become First Enchanter; personally I think Alain's got gumption, but to each their own, yeah?

of course i know the problem with this story is that it kiiiiiiinda pulls away from the whole "Mages vs Templars butting heads and also the Chantry blows up" story point that 2 wants to get to, though tbh I don't think these have to be mutually exclusive?

Meredith can accuse Hawke of conspiring to lead the rebellion himself and doing so by taking Orsino's place, taking advantage of Meredith's "trust" (whether or not that's true is up to you) and thus being both the more dangerous mage of the two and proving—to herself, ofc—the inherently duplicitous nature of mages as a whole

Meredith can accuse Bethany of being a tool for Hawke's conspiracy against her, effectively using nepotism to undermine her authority and maybe even fearing being replaced herself by another of Hawke's buddies (which is absolutely not true, but red lyrium is a hell of a drug, so 🤷); this can even tie back to a choice you can have on Meredith's side where you can execute your sister or not to prove your loyalty (which obv doesn't work, but y'know 🤷)

Meredith can distrust any of your First Enchanter choices due to a wide variety of reasons: lack of experience, lack of talent, your sympathy being used against you for a position they do not deserve, I Just Don't Fucking Like Them, etc etc

it also creates this cool throughline of Quentin's fuckery being a consistent B- or C-story for Dragon Age 2, underneath Mages Vs Templars and The Qunari Are Vibing (Until They Aren't).

like. if Meredith is gonna be The Big Bad Evil Person no matter what route you take, that means you do have some flexibility on the story along the way.

but the story was also cranked out in 18 months under EA's infamous pressure cooker system, so i don't blame any of the writers for Not Thinking Of These Things, i get it, i do

and if you just want to Skip That For Whatever Reason and go through with what's already there then you can also do that. i guess. (you monster.)

the only other major grievance i have with the game is that Blood Magic Hawke isn't as story-polarizing as it could be. yes i know Blood Magic wasn't as big of a deal even in Origins/Awakening as the lore and story make it out to be; as a Grey Warden you at least get the excuse of "whatever it takes to kill the archdemon, ya feel me?", but Hawke has no such excuse and if anything having Blood Magic should both 1. be a major story beat changer, and 2. be non-reversible (mostly due to the first reason; would be kinda weird if you went Blood Mage for the story stuff, then headed over to the Black Emporeum, chugged a weird potion you got from a dusty-ass shopkeep, and went "nah i change my mind")

and yes, i am also aware that Blood Magic wasn't even going to really be a thing (PC) Hawke could have, and it was basically shoved in last-minute with not much to the story to supplement that. but there is still something to be said about a lot of missed story opportunities involving this. there was also apparently a cut storyline about Mage!Hawke dealing with a near possession attempt, and that both could have unlocked Blood Magic permanently and be yet another cool way to integrate the innate Weirdness of mages into your story

........but i digress, because after that it's mostly very minor grievances about Things I Want But Do Not Have that could probably be fixed with mods if i searched hard enough.

also: no post-game cards about my friends or my lover. come onnnnn. it's literally static text on a background. this isn't hard to implement!!!

ok rant over i'm gonna crawl into a hole now and cry about anders

#dragon age #dd.txt #dragon age 2

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deadcityhq · 1 year ago

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CHARACTER NAME: quentin coldwater CHARACTER FACECLAIM: jason ralph CHARACTER AGE/DOB (if relevant/they're not old af): 27 at time of death june 2nd, 2023 / born july 20th 1995 CHARACTER PRONOUNS/GENDER IDENTITY/SEXUALITY ETC: any pronouns, agender, bisexual/romantic/bit-of-an-idiot CHARACTER FANDOM (if relevant): the magicians OC OR CANON: canon CHARACTER TYPE (for example: werewolf, shadowhunter, warlock, demon etc): magician/warlock/u know,,, magic fuck HOW LONG HAVE THEY BEEN IN NEW YORK/WHY ARE THEY THERE ETC: born and raised in new jersey but moved to new york for school, both the normal kind and then later, magical. he's currently been back for about a week bc yes he was busy in the pre-afterlife yelling about it all, poor penny IMPORTANT CHARACTER INFORMATION TO NOTE AND SHARE (this could be important headcanons for initial plotting, mini bios etc, supporting docs):

growing up, quentin was the kind of kid that often found escape in fictional worlds. this became more intense when he met his lifelong best friend, julia wicker, who in turn introduced him to the fillory and further books. this kicked off quentin's love and fascination with magic, even leading to him leaning sleight-of-hand magic. these books and the world of magic in general continued to be an escape for quentin, especially as he grew older and it began to be a little harder for him to ignore how out of step with the world he felt. escaping into these books was a comfort most days, and a life line on his darkest days-- including his first hospitalisation at 16. quentin longed to find belonging, to have a purpose and meaning in life, and often dreamed of escaping to fillory and finding something greater to commit his life to.

of course, this wasn't possible. so he did what every depressed, escapist kid does: over achieves and gets into a good university and studies literature.

until, somehow, when he was supposed to be interviewing to take his masters at yale, his world changed entirely for a different reason.

discovering that magic was real, and that there was a school for him to go on and study at… it changed quentin's life. meeting the people he did, changed his life. and while not all of it was easy, he still felt like he had a purpose. through every twist and turn: discovering fillory was real, becoming a king, mourning friends, experiencing intense trauma, killing a god, killing another one to free a friend, it was all worth it because, finally, he'd found a path. a purpose. a true calling in life and a place he belonged.

until it killed him.

dying to save his friends, sure, maybe that was a good thing. a worthwhile death. but… in all honesty, quentin was angry when he was met in the afterlife by an old friend trying to convince him to move on and cross over. like, honestly, what the fuck? after all that, after everything--

no fucking way was he going quietly.

he isn't sure how long he fought with those fuckers in the underworld, but he knows it was a long time. he had Things To Say, okay, a case to plead, people to piss off with his non-stop-talking. eventually, some-fucking-how, it actually worked. they got so pissed off with him or rather, penny specifically did, and pointed him to the exit.

now, it's been about a week since his return to earth and 'life' and… it's been a bit weird. sometimes he doesn't feel entirely connected. his magic is a little bit wonky. sometimes explosive, even. and he keeps sleep walking and ending up in graveyards. creepy. but he figures he'll get his shit together eventually. surely everyone is a bit weird coming back from the dead, right? he's pretty determined to find death though and talk it through. yes, just talk. of course. nothing else. maybe he should find his friends first--

THREE AESTHETICS THAT REMIND YOU OF YOUR CHARACTER:

gold painted between cracks in pottery

a broken, chipped tea cup you can't seem to part with

old books with endless annotations

ADMIN ANDY APP.

#admin andy app #quentin coldwater app #accepted

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tortoisesshells · 6 months ago

Text

widowshill asked: can we see the many-times folded list fanning out indefinitely

A moderately-abbreviated list of complaints:

My subjective problem is that I simply don't care about a lot of it, and some of that's the circumstances in which I'm watching it, but part of it, I'm going to say, is the set-up. The wrap-up for 1897 was sloppy, to put it mildly, leaving a handful of characters alive, and many of those in the wind, slouching towards the present/1969. Am I going to get a clear resolution to those questions? Maybe eventually. But it's intensely frustrating that 1897 ended and left all the parts strewn out all over the place. If Quentin was successfully prevented from being walled up alive and dying in 1897, what does that mean for the present? If that means he never haunted? Do the present-day Collinses remember Quentin? What happened to Petofi, really? Are there any knock-on effects of Trask getting Amontillado'd? And what the hell was the point of Kitty getting kidnapped by Josette's ghost and then forced(? unclear to me.) to commit suicide? This doesn't have anything directly to do with the Leviathans yet, but I started the arc really peeved.

Part of Leviathans also depends on introducing a number of new characters - because they've done away with most of the original cast of Collinsportians. The Todds, for example, both facilitate the plot and will inevitably be wrecked by it - and while I can't say ultimately how effective they'll be as plot devices, right now I don't think the narrative's done enough to make me care about them being ground to dust by Collinsport horseshit. Joe Haskell being driven insane and forcibly committed to Windcliff? Tragic, because he's inherently decent and we had a lot of time to care about him. New characters who get thrown in the meat grinder of being sock-puppeted by snake cultists in two episodes or less? Well. I'm trying to care, but I don't know who the Todds are. And they're not even well-connected to the other characters - it's not as though anyone is being set up to mourn them when the worst inevitably happens? I'm not sure I care about them, and no one I care about on the show particularly does. So there's that.

(Sidebar: I know I complained about this to you, but. The Todd's antiques shop is a delightful set but it's so badly integrated into the world of Collinsport. We've established that no one comes to Collinsport, except the summer people - and at large Collinsport isn't exactly an economic powerhouse. The Todd's just opened this place in the fall? To what trade? How are they making enough money to hire Carolyn on part time? It used to be that the economic situation in town was a major issue; more recently, Collinsport as a place mired in the past was still a significant point of commentary. If Leviathans had been made 400 episodes ago there'd be some dialogue about what used to be in that storefront, or the difficulty of making enough money to live on if you're not fishing. I miss that show. I know we've got immortal werewolves now but I demand that Collinsport's economic situation makes sense.)

Part of it, and I'm sorry to be unkind because there's no way the working conditions for those child actors was ethical in the slightest, is that the various kids they've had playing the Leviathan Child are just. Not up to DS standard. If they want to sell me on a child gleefully contemplating murder again, they've got to find someone in the same league as Henesy. I had no trouble believing that kid had drowned kittens and attempted to murder at least two major characters and frame a third for one of those attempts. To be flip: git gud, little Antichrist.

Part of it, much more seriously, is that I can already see how the narrative is divorcing itself from consequences for the characters. I'm thrilled that Dennis Patrick is back and getting paid, and thusfar he's been one of the most consistently affecting performances but. I hate Paul. I hate the retcon eliminating him willingly deceiving Liz about his death and allowing Jason to eventually blackmail her; I don't want the narrative to tell me to feel sorry for a man who made his wife miserable before attempting to rob her and abandon both her and their daughter. Liz, on the flip side, has been brainwashed by the cultists and is currently tormenting Paul, but because she's brainwashed and not responsible for her actions, they've lost any emotional heft they might have had. There's no possible emotional catharsis for her - either in choosing to let it go, or choosing the twist the knife. Liz's internality has been sacrificed, again.

Lastly, Dark Shadows earliest and most effective monsters were those whose monstrosity was both literal and metaphorically appropriate - Laura, an undead fire witch apparently produced by a dangerously unhappy marriage to Roger, came back to burn their son alive; Barnabas, the privileged son and vampire - who'd been immured by a father who could neither stomach Barn's murder of innocents nor convince himself to destroy his son and heir, coming back to drain the lifeblood out of Collinsport in a way merely more literal than the way his descendants have. What are the Leviathans saying about anything? They're not even dealing in real cult tactics - the brainwash is completely magical. They're not charismatic. They're not selling anything to those who are strong-armed in. This is the late fall of 1969, we're knee-deep in the Mansion Family murders, and DS has nothing topical to say about cults? They're not even trying to say anything about H. P. Lovecraft!

In sum: I'm not scared of the Leviathans because they're so obviously unreal, they're tenuously connected to either the established world in Collinsport or the lived experience of the viewers in late 1969, they're relying on retconning established canon, and as soon as they're inevitably destroyed, no one is going to face any consequences because everything was the Leviathans' fault. I would say bite me, but I'm not even sure Barn is a vampire at this point.

oh. and they sheared down Quentin's sideburns.

the problem with Leviathans is. well. there's a lot of problems with the Leviathans arc.

#polkaknox talks #meta #the news from collinsport #sorry to be a huge bitch. but.

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fruggo · 4 years ago

Note

I’m not gonna lie this would be the first time I requested something so if I do something wrong I’m really sorry,

Can I request Quentin, Leon, Steve, and Frank meeting a female reader who, before the entity took her, had already faced off her own killer?

And this made her kinda tough? Like she knows what she’s doing

oh my gosh thank you so much!! this is my first ever request to fulfill so we’re in this together :DD seriously i really appreciate you!

i decided to do a headcanon kind of format for this, i hope that’s okay! also these are my absolute favorite boys aaahhh this is so fun for a first request

the boys x tough f!reader (part 1) (part 2)

warnings: swearing, reader kicks frank in the shins

word count: ~700-1k each (sorry if it’s too long…i kind of got really excited and uhhh maybe i got carried away,, yeah. sorry)

(also i'll be honest quentin's is not my best. that was the one that got eaten by the tumblr abyss and i had to write all over again, and it just didn't come out the same way that i wanted it to at first :( i did the other boys hoping i'd get some inspiration to fix it afterwards, but i got kind of stuck. so it's not my favorite, but i hope you like it okay! i want to write better stuff for quentin in the future, he is my favorite sleepy boy <3)

𝐐𝐔𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐈𝐍 𝐒𝐌𝐈𝐓𝐇

when you arrived in the realm, everyone thought you would be the same as the others—frightened, confused, and overwhelmed. but you took this nightmarish challenge in stride, adapting to your surroundings quickly and learning far faster than anybody else had.

your past experiences had made you independent and sometimes distrustful, so once you had the gist of things, you didn’t need (or want) anybody to tell you what to do. and nobody was inclined to, either—your instincts naturally told you what to do and when.

the first time you met quentin was a little awkward, i wont lie. you were wary of speaking to the other survivors; you weren’t going to let yourself get hurt again.

it was the beginning of a trial. the nurse’s fatigued shrills could be heard all the way from the edge of the wrecker’s yard, but you immediately started work on a generator, unafraid. a few minutes passed, when soft footsteps indicated someone’s approach. it was quentin—he started to work on the wires without hesitation.

you were a little surprised, only because the other survivors usually left you to your own devices. you got the impression that maybe they were intimidated by you, which you didn’t particularly mind. but you wouldn’t particularly mind some company now and then, either.

it was comfortably silent for a while, before quentin spoke up.

“what’s your name?” he asked, gaze still focused on the wires.

hesitating a little, you told him. then you said, “and you’re quentin, right?” you already knew most everybody’s name just from observation.

“that i am,” he replied.

then it was quiet for a while.

very quiet.

well, what were you supposed to say now?

the silence was deafening and very, very uncomfortable to you. normally you were okay with a quiet atmosphere, but it was the kind of silence that buzzed in your ears, chewed at your stomach, filled the area as if it were something solid. man, what were you supposed to say—

it was then that you realized poor quentin had fallen asleep, his face smooshed onto the generator. his cheek was now covered in grease and grime.

it made you smile—only a little. you finished repairing the generator on your own, causing quentin to wake with a start and bang his head on the pole protruding from the machine. he swore like a sailor until he realized where he was, smiling sheepishly.

“sorry, i wanted you to have your nap. you looked really tired,” you said. you also couldn’t stop admiring the dark grease on his face—it was really quite funny. and no, you weren’t going to say anything about it. it could stay there a little longer.

you spent the rest of the trial running the nurse around the whole wrecker’s yard, only suffering one injury until the end. quentin had no idea how you had been here for such little time and already knew how to outplay the nurse, one of the most difficult killers to survive against. he still didn’t know how to do it well himself, so he was thankful for you.

however, once the exit gates were opened, you found yourself in a bad spot. the nurse had caught you in an empty clearing with nowhere to hide or predict her moves, and she downed you instantly. quentin cringed hearing your agonized scream as you were hooked.

there was no way you were dying on his watch. once he was sure the nurse was gone, he gently lifted you from the hook, pulling out his medical kit to begin patching up your shoulder.

despite the pain, you had enough energy to smile at him and say, “thanks, nap boy.”

quentin feigned offense with a wry grin, pulling out some gauze. “is that all i’m going to be to you? nap boy?”

you hummed, pretending to be deep in thought. “maybe you won’t be if you get me out of here.”

“that won’t be a problem," he smiled, quirking an eyebrow.

“show me the gates and then we’ll talk, nap boy.”

from then on, quentin became your go-to source for supplies and general comfort. you weren't scared of this place, but it was nice to know you had somebody who would really be there for you.

he would often fall asleep on your shoulder at the campfire--he really was a nap boy, and you would never let him live that down.

𝐋𝐄𝐎𝐍 𝐊𝐄𝐍𝐍𝐄𝐃𝐘

leon could not tear his eyes away from you the first time you arrived in the realm. your presence was strong; he could tell you weren’t one to back away from a fight.

most of the survivors had been (rightly) confused and disoriented when they popped into the realm, but you tried to accept it quickly. you didn’t like it, in fact all you wanted was just to go home, but you came to terms with it and jumped into trials headfirst like an insane person.

that was the courageous part about you—maybe you were scared, but you did scary shit anyways. in fact, you did scary shit to spite the fear, to prove to yourself that you were strong enough to overcome it.

and leon couldn’t lie, that was cool as hell.

you had tunnel vision and didn’t pay much notice to the other survivors; you were too focused on learning about this place and getting out of trials. having gone through some real shit, being here hardly came as a surprise to you. if you were going to be here forever, what was the point in mourning? might as well just accept it and try your hardest to survive. maybe someday this sick game would end, but for now, you were prepared to fight for your life and that’s all you could really focus on.

your first trial was not the best. even though you were resourceful, you didn’t know what the objective was yet, so you weren’t sure where to start other than analyzing your surroundings. luckily for you, leon kennedy was one of your teammates.

after being downed immediately by bubba’s chainsaw and tossed onto a hook, you were amazingly resilient to the pain. leon was the one to lift you from the hook, and he took out his medkit to help patch your wound, but you flinched away from him before he could touch you.

he was puzzled. “what’s wrong?” he asked. he didn’t want to make you uncomfortable, but he wanted to help you.

you hesitated and looked him over before mumbling, “i’m fine.” and you tried to stand on your own, beginning to limp away. you didn’t want or need anyone’s help.

leon sighed, following after you. “let me help, that must hurt a lot.”

“i told you, cop, i’m fine. i don’t want your help, okay?”

leon opened his mouth to insist, but decided against it. if you didn’t want his help, then he shouldn’t butt in. that wouldn’t keep him from watching over you, though.

but then leon called after you (perhaps a little smugly), “do you even know what you’re supposed to do?”

begrudgingly, you stopped walking. no, you didn’t know what to do. “i’ll figure it out,” you said over your shoulder. and you would; you had been through enough to survive any situation thrown at you.

but maybe one pointer couldn’t hurt.

“do a generator,” he told you, giving you a cheeky grin when you turned around to look at him. he was lucky he was cute.

the first part of the trial had been rough, but after that first hook you were doing a lot better. you managed to find your own medkit from a chest, and you learned how to fix a few generators. you found it came pretty naturally, and were satisfied that you hadn’t needed anyone’s help (except leon’s. but you didn’t have to admit that yet). when the killer came near, you skillfully avoided him and stayed hidden as much as you could.

you were also pretending that you didn't notice leon hovering near you. he was not very good at being subtle; he was obviously trying to make sure you didn't get hurt. it was cute. you didn't want to ruin his fun, so you didn't say anything about it.

it wasn’t long before the gates were powered and in the process of being opened. you saw a red glowing light in the distance, and assumed that must be your destination. you put all of your remaining energy into sprinting to the exit, adrenaline pumping through your body.

but then there was a heartbeat. a heartbeat so loud it filled your head, splitting your concentration. it wasn’t your own heartbeat--it was the killer’s.

the sound of the cannibal’s chainsaw roared in your ears and pain tore through your body; you collapsed to the ground with a cry of agony. shit, that really hurt, and you weren't sure you could ever get used to it. eternity sure seemed a lot longer than you had first anticipated. would you really be here forever? doing this over and over?

biting your lip until it bled, you tried to crawl towards the gate, dragging the lower half of your body with much difficulty. it was no use, though--you hardly got anywhere, and you could already feel the killer picking you up. just like that, you were going to die? you had been so close..

but as you were being placed on bubba’s shoulder, you saw a flash of a police uniform and a blinding light, and before you knew it, you had been dropped to the ground, the exit gate looking awfully lovely and much more desirable than a meat hook. you gathered all of your strength and began limping forward, when suddenly you felt an arm firmly wrap around your waist and your own was placed around someone else’s shoulder.

leon. when you looked up at him, all he did was give you a calm smile, which you felt inclined to return. with him supporting you, the two of you made it safely to the exit and began the long traipse back to the campfire, where you would find yourself spending a lot of time together.

from then on, you always remained quite unfazed by the events of the entity’s realm—the only thing that ever made you feel weak was being around leon. he was just so cute :]

𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐕𝐄 𝐇𝐀𝐑𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐓𝐎𝐍

you had never met someone so persistent in your life. from the moment the entity stole you here, steve harrington was after you, and there was next to nothing you could do about it. he sure was living up to his self-proclaimed role of babysitter.

you told him you were fine, that you didn’t need him following you around, but the asshole did it anyways.

“how cool do you think you are?” you asked him at some point, to which he simply shrugged with that stupid grin on his lips.

“i can take care of myself.” “i really don’t need you to baby me, steve.” “steve, if you don’t leave me alone i’m going to break your kneecaps.” these were all things that had come from your mouth multiple times recently. you were seriously thinking about that last one now.

you knew you could make it on your own, and you only wished he would give you a chance to prove that to him so he would leave you alone. but it was like he had attached himself to your hip, and for some reason the entity seemed to really enjoy putting you in trials with him. great.

he was a dumbass and a sweetheart, and you weren’t sure which one of those took higher priority. you knew he only meant well, but god, you wanted to be independent for once. why did he think he had to protect you so much? you arrived here after running for your fucking life, fighting off your long-time pursuer, and living in awful, ever-changing conditions. you had seen your closest friends die, right before your eyes. you didn’t need to be sheltered or coddled, but you couldn’t seem to make steve understand that, no matter how much you fought with him.

steve would literally throw himself in front of the killer for you. he clicked his flashlight in the killer’s face if they were after you, and he would swear and cuss until they chased him out of pure annoyance. it got him killed countless times, and you didn’t know whether to call him stupid or selfless. probably both.

eventually you decided to just copy him and see how it worked out. you weren’t scared, you had no reason to be. you wanted to show him you could be just as flashy as him.

as you arrived into a trial, steve right across from you (of course), you smiled to yourself. you had brought your best flashlight, and you were prepared to use it. the two of you began to work on a generator together, making light conversation as usual.

“if the killer comes here, hide. i’ll take him away.” “fuck you, steve harrington.” “sure, if you really want to.” “why don’t you ever leave me alone?” “it’s a mystery, isn’t it?” “i could punch you right now.” “but you won’t. i’m too good to look at.”

you know, the usual friendly stuff.

you purposefully connected the wrong wires, making the generator spark and sputter. “oops. oh no, the killer must be on their way,” you dead-panned. steve gave you an unamused look.

and indeed, only a few moments later, you heard the sound of the hillbilly and his chainsaw roaring in your direction. the two of you split up, and the killer’s weapon collided with the generator, making an awful screeching sound.

and that was when the chaos started.

steve began hollering and flicking his flashlight into the sky as usual, and after a moment’s hesitation, you did the same. steve looked at you in astonishment, pausing, but then he started again, even louder. you tried to outdo him.

“HEY BILLY! FUCK YOU!” you screamed, ignoring steve’s attempts to get you to stop. “COME AFTER ME, SHITHEAD!”

steve started actually yelling, just yelling, while you continued to swear meaninglessly. the poor hillbilly looked confused and overwhelmed, and eventually he couldn’t take the noise anymore--he just left, opting to find the other survivors while the two of you sorted out whatever it is you obviously had against each other.

it was dead silent now that the killer was gone, and you and steve were both out of breath. but as soon as you made eye contact, laughter bubbled up from your chest, causing you to collapse against the tree and slide to the ground. your voice was hoarse from all the screaming.

and then he was laughing too, stumbling over to plop down next to you, and your giggling started up a whole new round.

after the laughter died down, you stared at your hands, ignoring steve’s gaze on the side of your face until you couldn’t anymore.

“what?” you asked, finally looking at him. he was smiling all stupid again. “what?” you insisted, fighting off a grin of your own. you hated when he looked at you like that, because it made you want to smile back at him.

“nothing,” he said coyly, laughing again. you punched his shoulder playfully.

“c’mon harrington, when have you ever held your tongue before? spit it out.”

he nodded, that was true. so he said it. “i just like you, that’s all.”

oh. oh.

realization dawned upon your face. “is that why you always--”

“yes,” he interrupted you. “i thought it was obvious. man, you’re clueless sometimes.”

oh.

huh.

you guessed…maybe…steve harrington wasn’t that annoying. maybe.

𝐅𝐑𝐀𝐍𝐊 𝐌𝐎𝐑𝐑𝐈𝐒𝐎𝐍

to say you were feisty was an understatement. frank hated your guts at first because you were so good at evading him, which he would never admit. but the thing that made him really mad was that if he ever downed you, you would kick at him and try to trip him over, like actually bruise his shins. it hurt like hell.

this lead to his decision to constantly tunnel you, and he would laugh at you while you were on the hook, too. so you hated his guts just as much as he did yours. it was a mutual guts-hating situation.

your teammates always felt bad for you, but they also thought you were a badass and knew you could handle yourself. you hadn’t told anybody where you’d come from or what had happened to you, but they knew it was something interesting. there was a reason that nothing that happened here really got to you.

sometimes things escalated even further than shin-kicking. there was one time where frank had managed to grab the back of your shirt as you tried to vault a window, and as he pulled you closer to himself, you elbowed him in the neck and squirmed out of his grasp. while he stood stunned and lost for breath, you kicked the back of his locked knee so that he fell to the ground and bonked his forehead on the wall—the classic dead leg.

this was very funny to you.

not to him.

while you ran away, laughing to yourself, frank’s anger built and built. he was tired of letting you make a fool of him, and it was time to be serious about things.

he ignored you for the rest of the trial, forming a plan in his mind. there was something he needed to do after this, so he made sure to kill everybody else to please the entity—he couldn’t get caught up, it would derail his anger train. he also didn’t feel like getting kicked in the balls or some shit, so he let you out without a problem.

frank did some brooding at the ormond lodge before he was ready to go through with his plan. and his shins really, really hurt, so susie helped him ice them before he left.

the masked killer made his way to the survivor camp rather hastily. when he arrived, he saw you pacing around, deep in thought.

so he threw a rock at you.

it was just a pebble, really. maybe it could be considered a rather large pebble, but frank insisted in his mind that it was a pebble.

“ow, what the fuck!” you cursed, rubbing your sore shoulder and looking around to find the culprit. and then your eyes laid on him.

he looked so sultry standing there at the edge of the woods, arms crossed and mask smiling, you could almost laugh at him. he acted so serious, when really, he was just an angry and misbehaving twink.

you put on your best serious face, genuinely trying not to be amused by this, and strode over to the killer.

“what do you want?” you asked confidently, mirroring his body language and crossing your arms.

frank bristled at your approach, as if trying to make himself look bigger. he wished you were scared of him like everyone else, it would really make him feel better.

“i want a truce,” he said.

you almost burst into laughter at that. a truce? what the fuck for?

he said was willing to stop tunneling and camping you if you stopped beating the shit out of him with your sticky little hands. he didn’t say it like that, but you knew that was what he meant. you, a survivor, could beat up frank, a killer, and it upset him and his little ego :(

just to humor him, you agreed. and frank nodded.

“but,” you continued, raising your eyebrows, “you have to give me something else.”

he started to say “no, no way—“ but you interrupted him: “you’re asking me to stop fighting for myself and just give in when you catch me. i think i deserve something other than just not being tunnelled.”

frank glared at you under his mask, thankful that you couldn’t see. “okay. whatever. what do you want?”

“i want to see your face.” you thought this was a good choice, something you could lord over him forever. it was surely only a win for you. his face was something private, and you would be the only survivor to know.

of course you wanted to see his face, frank thought. everyone did; they wanted to find out if he was good-looking. which, according to him, he was. if you ever asked the other members of the legion, susie was the only one to actually respond. she felt obligated to compliment him as she was basically his sister. so she would say frank is handsome in a ruggedy, jess mariano kind of way. you wondered how she knew what gilmore girls was, since that came after her time, but susie would never give away her secret.

so with a sigh, frank agreed to let you see his face. he didn’t really care, all he wanted was to stop having bruises on his shins. it was kind of miserable, and the entity never did anything to help him.

when he said that you couldn’t do it here, and you asked why the fuck not, he said it was because some other survivor might see. you decided he had a fair point, so reluctantly you let him drag you all the way to ormond.

when he took off his mask, your first thought, whether you wanted it to be or not, was “wow! he really does look like jess mariano! but with tattoos! hot!”

you were lost for words. you didn’t really know what you were expecting, but you sure weren’t expecting him to be that attractive.

he could tell your thoughts from the look on your face.

this had been per your request, and you were planning on this being something you could hold over his head, but the situation had turned into something that he could hold over your head.

oh dear. frank morrison now held pretty boy privilege over you.

and soon you would find out that he was going to keep tunnelling you anyways.

listen i've been watching a lot of gilmore girls and i just get jess vibes from frank, except our boy is more of a twinky idk shdjfhsf i love this guy sm

#so many notes!!!! thank u!! :]#dbd x reader #dead by daylight x reader #dbd fanfic #dbd headcanons #frank morrison #frank morrison x reader #quentin smith #quentin smith x reader #steve harrington #steve harrington x reader #leon kennedy #leon kennedy x reader #fruggo writes #dbd #dead by daylight #requests

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red-doll-face · 4 years ago

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I just found your blog and I LOVE IT.

If I might ask: What’s your saddest dbd headcanons (killers or survivors)

Call me crazy, but I must know! ❤️

Ohh this one was a good one but it hurt me so badddd, ahhh. I’m glad to share , I have some bad dbd brain rot lmaooo I didn’t do every character so I hope these are ok 🥺 these are a bit long too

Sad Dead by Daylight Hcs

Claudette Morel:

Claudette is one of the criers. Probably cries while getting mori’d and can't help the tears during the really bad matches. Her pain tolerance isn’t very high, hence the willingness to waste time healing herself if it means she can stop being in so much pain.

Meg Thomas:

Spends time alone thinking about her past life. Her mother is a subject that makes her really frustrated. People mentioning their moms makes her a little standoffish. Wishes she had a chance to say goodbye in some way.

Ace Visconti:

Ace doesn't have much family to even miss him. He wonders if they noticed he’s gone or hasn’t come back. Maybe they think he hit big bucks and left them behind. Ace is stuck really. Even if he were to go back, he’d be dead or working off his debt.

Feng Min:

Gets super mad when she loses, it makes her so angry that she doesn’t control the trials. She blames other people for her losses but actually is very critical of herself. Casts the blame on others so she doesn't have to face her own mistakes.

David King:

All of his perks are about putting his ass on the line for his teammates yet everyone seems to think he’s selfish and a dumb brute. David doesn't know what to do to be more approachable; genuinely wants to be seen as a friend.

Laurie Strode:

Laurie never got the chance to mourn her friends. She thought she won. Finding out she’ll never truly escape Michael or be able to forget him makes her so mad. When she gets Michael in trials she makes sure the glass in her pocket is extra jagged and serrated.

Jane Romero:

Jane only wanted recognition and acknowledgement. Everything she's worked so hard for feels like a waste for her now. She should have spent more time on herself or with her father. Jane feels like she has no purpose anymore besides running and screaming for the enjoyment of the entity.

Yui Kimura:

Yui can’t stand the Clown or the Stealth Killers. Reminds her of bad memories. When she loses against killers like ghostface, she is especially angry.Her fighting spirit can’t help her actually get back at them.

Zarina Kassir:

Spent so much time fighting inequality only to spend the rest of her life where the odds are never in favor of the survivors. Where the oppressed are destined to lose. Each one of the people is subjugated, both killer and survivor and there's nothing she can do to free them.

Cheryl Mason:

She's been through literal hell and back just to end up in a weird recurring nightmare. At least Silent Hill had an escape. She's killed a god and somehow someone her size with a boxcutter can kill her? Huh.

Élodie Rakoto:

Feels guilty over the loss of her parents and feels extremely disillusioned by this realm. It's so much more boring than she thought it would be. All of her searching and traveling was not worth this shithole.

Steve Harrington:

Steve, though 18, is very much still a kid. Steve is naive about certain things and his optimism gets chipped away at a lot. Wasn’t too enthusiastic at having to care or look after Dustin and his friends but misses having people to protect.

Jeff Johannson:

Someone who definitely ends up taking hooks for people and ends up dying. Has a reputation among the killers as a survivor who is easy to leverage during the endgame because he will try for that save.

Kate Denson:

Feels very lucky to even have her guitar. The other survivors didn't get to bring many things with them. Makes her feel a little bad when she Often feels too worn out and exhausted by the trials to play it.

Quentin Smith:

Unfortunately stuck in pseudo-hell with his abuser. Gets really anxious against Freddy. Leans on his fellow survivors. Will sometimes accidentally bring Freddy to others in an attempt to get Freddy the hell away for him.

Evan ‘The Trapper’ Macmillan:

Actually has tried on numerous occasions to remove the metal rods and shrapnel embedded in his skin. It hurts like hell and just when he thinks he’s got it, he loses grip. These attempts never work.

Philip ‘The Wraith’ Ojomo:

When he’s alone, Philip will try and talk to himself. His vocal cords are warped, his voice a scratchy growl and garbled gurgle. He remembers what he used to sound like but he tries talking less and less.

Max ‘The Hillbilly’ Thompson Jr.:

Besides being named after someone who locked him away for most of his life? Max has to rest a lot between trials. The constant movement puts strain on him and causes him dull pain. His back causes him a lot of grief. The Entity is barely merciful.

Michael ‘The Shape’ Myers:

Meant to be forgotten by everyone who ever knew of him and he knows it. Loomis, after deciding that Michael couldn't be ‘fixed’ just hoped that the system would swallow him. If it weren't for the entity, Michael knows he'd either be dead or caught and back with Loomis.

Bubba ‘The Cannibal’ Sawyer:

Used to be one of the nicer killers to go against and might have been sweet to certain survivors who deserved kindness. But the Entity punished him for it. Bubba isn't very nice anymore. Probably a little meaner to avoid being in trouble again.

Amanda ‘The Pig’ Young:

Another one down to give second chances, much like the second chance she saw in John Kramer. Doesn’t do this a lot however, therefore escaping the ire of the Entity. She’s spent a lifetime hurting others emotionally and physically. Now, she’ll spend an eternity.

Rin ‘The Spirit’ Yamaoka:

The pain and anguish is so heavy but time is no cure in a place where time is nonexistent. No happiness to replace her rage. Especially in a place where her anger is a weapon for a greater power. Also has tried to pull the glass out of her skin and press her limbs back together. Can’t stand to see herself in the mirror.

Adiris ‘The Plague’:

Her body is always on the precipice of falling apart. Her skin rots; her flesh aches and feels like it will tear away at any moment. She is immortalized yet so close to death. Her body hurts so much but she has a purpose to serve. (makes me even sadder bc jannneeeee my mainnnnn😔)

Kazan ‘The Oni’ Yamaoka:

Misses his son. Never got to see him grow up, considering he;s already met his descendant. Proud from a distance because that's all he can be. The beginning of something so angry that it passes down his family line.

Caleb ‘The Deathslinger’ Quinn

During his life, was under the control of people who made him work for their gain who used him. The Entity emphasizes the killers as a position of power but Caleb does much of the same here. Works and works. Never for himself.

Pyramid Head ‘The Executioner’:

His existence has always included pain. He’s not quite sure what it’s like without it. He’s made several efforts to take the pyramid off. It pulls painfully at his neck. Makes awful groaning noises and roars.

Ji-Woon ‘The Trickster’ Hak:

Has never been much more than entertainment for other people since he was a child. Never expected to be much more. To the point that now, if he doesn't feel impressive in some way, he feels incomplete. The entity is his way to really indulge his ‘true artistry’.

Yun-Jin Lee:

A bit selfish when it comes to surviving. A few people around the campfire dont like her for that reason. Some of the meaner people will even leave her behind because they remember all of the times Yun-Jin might have done something similar.

Thanks for reading!!! I’m sorry I don’t post often but I have Shit ton of hw and I recently started a new project sooo ya know 💖💖💖

#dbd #dbd x reader #dead by daylight #michael myers #slasher x reader #dbd the shape #dbd killers #dbd survivor #red writes

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simplyalexeiofficial · 4 years ago

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I've been seeing a fair number of posts and/or questions regarding the mosaic timeline and whether or not it actually happened, and I dare say that my time has come. I've put what is probably an unhealthy amount of time trying to figure out the in-universe mechanics of time travel because I'm doing an elaborate and self indulgent rewrite and I needed to know what rules I was working with. So, I present to you, my mosaic theory.

To start, we have to visualize Jane Chatwin's time loops kind of like a tree. The trunk is the single timeline from before Jane starts the time loop, the branches are the different loops. While the branches (events) of each loop go off into different directs, they all stem from one trunk, ie. We can reasonably assume that before Jane started the time loops where there was only "one" timeline, and every event that occurred in that one timeline happened in every loop because it was before the paths split.

I can already hear some of you getting ready to argue, but just hear me out.

Quentin and Eliot both did and didn't go back in time because whether they realized it or not, they accidentally created another set of time loops. How is this possible? Well, I mean, we're dealing with the time key itself, the tool that Jane used to create the original loops to begin with. The same time key that, presumably, was the catalyst that sent them back in time to begin with, even without the watch to act as a conduit. Timeline 40 is a branch, but branches can split into more branches. So, what happened wasn't that stopping Quentin and Eliot from stepping into the clock erased the mosaic timeline from existence, it was that timeline 40 had split into timeline 40A and 40B. In timeline 40A, Margo gets to them in time to stop them from going to the Mosaic, this is the timeline that we follow through the rest of season 3 all the way to the series finale. In timeline 40B, Margo doesn't make it in time to stop them (there's no evidence to say that Margo never received Q's letter at her wedding, just that she wasn't there to stop them from going, it's entirely possible that she got held up on the way, or couldn't find them in time).

Now, timeline 40B continues on after Q & E depart. Just because we don't see it, doesn't mean it doesn't exist because it's like timeline 31 or timeline 15, they're not important to the story that we're following but we know they still happened. My assumption for Timeline 40B is that the questers continue to gather the keys even though Quentin and Eliot never return. (remember, just because Margo wasn't there to stop them, doesn't mean she never got Quentin's letter or found the Key with Jane). Whether they finish the quest or disperse to mourn their lost friends is irrelevant, because we're still following 40B Quentin and 40B Eliot. For them, the branch of 40B is kind of like an ingrown hair (that's the best example I could come up with, sorry). It's split from the branch and curled down, growing back into the trunk because the Mosaic happens before Jane starts her original time loops, ie. when it was all a singular timeline. We know that Jane has the key that she got from Quentin in every time loop and this is why. IN CONCLUSION, Not only did the Mosaic happen. It happened so hard that it happened in EVERY time loop, because it occurred before the timelines split into more than one branch.

This also explains why Quentin and Eliot remember the Mosaic. Jane remembers the other time loops because she made them. Quentin and Eliot remember the Mosaic loop, because they made it (albeit, unknowingly)

Now, I know there are people who are gearing up to say "but what about when Julia and Quentin go back in time in season 1?" Well, same principle. Quentin and Julia went back to before the start of Jane's time loops, when it was all a single timeline. The Witch and the Fool mentioned in the books that Quentin15, Quentin27, Quentin38, etc. read are all Quentin40 and Julia40. wHiCh BriNgS uS tO tHe MoSt DeLiCiOuS ReVeLaTiOn. That Jane's time loops are the reason the Beast exists in the first place. If Jane hadn't created the time loops, Q40 and J40 wouldn't have gone back in time and given Martin the idea/information that he used to become the beast (because, remember, Martin just wanted to stay in Fillory, Q+J were the ones who told him how did it, even if they thought they were talking about Plover because they didn’t realize Martin would be the eventual beast), which in turn wouldn't have led to Jane creating the time loops to stop her brother. It's a giant time travelling cluster fuck and I love it so much.

Anyway, I also have an entirely self indulgent theory that Todd is actually a descended of Quentin's because Todd kind of sounds like Ted, as is Teddy, as in Theodore, and one could not-unreasonably assume that Theodore and Eliot (which, even if it has two T's is still Todd's first name) could be passed down as family names. It would also act as a not-unreasonable explanation of why Todd is so enthralled by Eliot, because damn that's his actual ancestor (even if not by blood).

I spend an obnoxious amount of time thinking about this.

#the magicians #brakebills #magicians #quentin coldwater #eliot waugh #queliot #the time key #the key quest #time travel #the mosaic

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greatmarvel · 6 months ago

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okay, that's kinda creepy. ultra spine tingly. because not only does this guy look nearly exactly like the mysterio of his universe, he sound exactly like him, too. to the inflection, and the tone, and down to the dramatic layers that he put on that has fooled him once before. but the multiverse can't be this coincidental ... it couldn't be this cruel.

because the quentin beck of his timeline was dead. he could even still feel the cold touch of the trigger, and the warm tears that streaked his face when he died and mourned him.

no, he can't be that beck. he simply can't. so, with a clear of his throat, he put his attention back to the man with the fishbowl head, and thought of him as nothing but just another villain. never mind whatever feelings he had for the man before. from now on, he's just another rogue that needs to be put to justice.

with that in mind, peter then switched his webbing to a wider, stronger one-- which did the job of covering and restricting the other man's access to the stark tech pretty easily and nicely. not bad for a rushed formula! gonna have to pat his back later for that one.

" yeah, no. that won't work on me anymore, fishbowl. you can try that trick on another spider-person stupid enough to listen. " he says, inching closer to him as he is still perched on the ceiling, making himself seen in the light. all the while he is still listening for any shield guys or other authorities who heard the alarm.

nothing yet.

it looks like he will need to stall for a bit longer. " really, though? you got transported into this new universe that's at the brink of dying and you're still stealing stark tech? " he says. " don't you think it's time for something else? "

quenin beck was dead. or he had been. as dead as a guy who suffered a gunshot wound and bled out could be. but he was very much alive. quentin wasn't sure how and he wasn't interested in finding out why. having always been quick on his feet he quickly determined that he wasn't in his universe. those glasses he had swiped from that insufferable twink were nothing more than fancy spectacles now. undeterred quentin deduced that if this universe was anything like his own that there would be an iron-man here, too. and where there was iron-man there would be the tech he needed to resume his work as mysterio.

it didn't take long for quentin to track down a warehouse full of stark technology. tony was just as careless in this universe as he had been in his own. mysterio was able to bypass security using the same exact passcodes he had memorized during his time working for the bastard. he had definitely lucked out when he found a small army of drones similar to the ones he had employed in his own reality. quentin was able to reprogram them with ease and craft a neuro-link headband that allowed him to control them fully. as far as quentin was concerned this technology was nearly rudimentary. all of that rummaging had attracted the attention of guards who were quickly dispatched by mysterio and his illusions. one had been made to believe he was falling from an airplane while the other was chased out of the room by demons. mysterio had just finished recreating his entire outfit using a sophisticated 3D printer when Spidey discovered him. Quentin lifted the bowl of his helmet and placed it on top of his head. His handsome face was now hidden beneath a swirling green mist. Mysterio was back, baby. And not even a sniveling twink in spandex could stop him now.

That familiar voice definitely made Quentin tense up. Of course. If there was an Iron-man there would be a Spider-man, too. But this couldn't be his Peter. No. Quentin quickly tucked away the sliver of fondness he had for him. This Spidey would fall for his tricks just like the other. "You don't understand." He explains, laying on the drama. "My reality was destroyed. My wife and daughter killed. I'm trying to stop that from happening here, but to do it I need tech." His voice softens, "I know that sounds unbelievable, but I won't let you suffer like I have."

#milfsterio #threads / peter parker.

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couldntbedamned · 3 years ago

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Goodbye Grey Sky, Hello Blue - 4

Summary: In an alternate universe where trains and zeppelins are still common forms of travel and the internet and cell phones exist, nineteen year old Peter Parker has few options left after he's swindled out of his inheritance. Unable to pay for college, let alone keep the house left to him by his deceased aunt, he's running out of time before he's out on the streets. Desperate, Peter signs his life over to the Bureau of Civic Spousal Selections to take his chances as the selected husband of a complete stranger. After all, he only has to make it through a year and then he can choose to annul.

Dr. Stephen Strange has little interest in marriage, preferring to focus on his career. When his career is threatened by what a nosy board of directors considers a "lack of personal fulfillment and settling down," he opts to select a spouse through the BCSS and chooses Peter Parker. The young man's profile he’d briefly skimmed suggests intelligence and compatibility. It's not ideal, but if after a year it's not working out, he can always annul the marriage and send Peter on his way.

It's a marriage neither truly wants, with sharp learning curves for both. It's either going to be forever or it's going to go down in flames.

Warnings/AO3 Tags: 18+ MINORS DNI, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - 1950s/Modern Fusion, Doctor Stephen Strange, Jewish Peter Parker, Peter Parker is of Legal Age, Marriage of Convenience, Marriage Contracts, Government Sanctioned Marriages, Domestic Discipline, Dubiously Consensual Spanking, Spanking, Aftercare, Mildly Dubious Consent, Dubious Morals, Dubious Ethics, Asshole Stephen Strange, Smartass Peter Parker, Other: See Endnotes

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Chapter 4

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Alone in his new home, thoroughly humiliated by the knowledge that he didn’t even have free reign over one of his own body parts, Peter allowed himself some time to simply feel sorry for himself. He grieved for what his life could have been, had he not made the mistake of trusting the smooth-talking and handsome Quentin Beck. He mourned the loss of a future where he was in college and growing into a career. He’d lost his inheritance, the house he’d grown up in, and, thanks to the stupid BCSS and stupid Dr. Stephen Strange, the right to his own damn body in a matter of a few months.

He’d been alone and grieving and in his pain, he’d ignored his gut and let himself be swayed by the sophisticated man who’d promised to secure Peter’s future only to take him for everything he had and disappear as if he’d never existed.

Once he’d gotten the tears out, he straightened up and decided to busy himself.

In the bathroom, he hung both his and Stephen’s towels up to dry - they could be used again. The towel on the bed, however, definitely needed a wash. Blushing furiously at the memory of just how thoroughly Stephen had claimed him, how much pleasure he’d coaxed from him, Peter gathered up the bedclothes, the towel and washrag, and hauled the load downstairs. He all but threw the bundle on the floor and went back up for the hamper.

When he was back down in the mudroom, he studied the washer and dryer. Just like in the kitchen, the appliances were from Stark Company. The Stark Easy Living washer and dryer were widely regarded as top of the line. Unlike the stately blue, however, these were an attractive seafoam green. He was familiar with the machines, though the ones his aunt had had were much older and didn’t boast the efficiency Stark Company was known for.

He started with the sheets and pillowcases, added in the towel and washrag. Frowning at the detergent available, he added some and started the cycle. He’d add his preferred brand of detergent and fabric softener to his list of groceries to buy. Peter hadn’t ever been able to afford to be picky, but he didn’t trust other brands to not break his skin out. If Stephen raised a fuss, Peter would just have to remind him that he was supposed to take care of himself.

Dishes loomed in the kitchen and since they were his least favorite task, Peter figured he may as well get it over with. He kept the cast iron skillet off to the side while he rinsed off the two other skillets, the cutlery, plates, glasses, and Stephen’s coffee mug. Regarding the dishwasher with skepticism, he pulled out the cell phone Stephen had given him and looked up the instructions. The pictures seemed easy enough to follow and he loaded the dishwasher up, added the little tablet that was allegedly dish soap, and set it run.

Other dishes handled, he turned his attention to the cast iron skillet. This, Peter was comfortable with. He missed the skillet his aunt May had had, missed the days when he’d come home from school and be greeted by the smell of latkes or falafel frying. She’d taken great care of her skillet, which had been her mother’s and before that, her grandmother’s, and while teaching Peter tricks like cooking eggs in the grease from the chicken or turkey sausage, she had made sure that Peter understood how to properly care for it when it one day became his.

That day hadn’t come. He’d never get that skillet back, but he could take care of this one. He wiped it out with a warm, damp dishrag, added some coarse salt and scrubbed at the stubborn bits. When it was clean, he coated the entire thing in a thin layer of grapeseed oil. He arranged the racks in one of the ovens and put foil down on the lower one. Pleased, he placed the skillet upside down on the top rack and set it heat. Maybe it didn’t need it, but Peter had no idea who’d used it last and if he was going to cook with it, he was going to treat it right.

The dining room and living room only needed some light dusting. As he put together the cleaning supplies he’d need and started in on the living room, Peter vaguely wondered if either room had ever seen much use. Apart from the den and Stephen’s - their - bedroom, the house was just cold and impersonal.

In the dining room, he looked through the sideboard to get an idea of just what he had to work with. The tablecloths were expensive but not tacky. He assumed the dinnerware set he found was for everyday use, given that the built in housed the fanciest set he’d ever seen. Would that be what he would have to entertain with? At least the serving platters and bowls were included, he supposed.

He didn’t want to clean in the bedroom at all, but having an unmade bed wasn’t an option for him. His cock tried to make its interest known as he made the bed with the spare set of sheets, but the cage, while not exactly uncomfortable, prevented any possibility of getting hard or getting off. He groaned in frustration and had to adjust himself several times as he finished with the room and started on the bathroom.

Scrubbing the shower was a chore, mostly because his mind kept inventing scenarios where he was uncaged and could get away with taking his cock in hand. The pound of the water would hide the noises he’d make, and any evidence would be washed away… Then the scene shifted to one where he was caught by Stephen.

He had to sit down as he imagined it, the stern expression Stephen would have as he realized what Peter was doing. He’d tell Peter to hurry up with his shower, and would take the towel and dry Peter off himself. Not gently, no, he’d be quick and impersonal about it, Peter imagined. Maybe he’d be scolding him, too, about his lack of control and respect for Stephen’s authority.

Maybe he’d get spanked again, maybe Stephen would just use him again, taking control and driving into him. Maybe he’d actually let Peter see him this time. Peter was sure that Stephen, unfairly attractive as he was, would be an incredible sight. Or maybe it was the kind of thing where Peter wasn’t important enough to merit that kind of consideration.

It took a bit, but he got himself under control, hand squeezing over his caged cock through his pants.

He was wholly confused at how he seemed to be oscillating between anger, fear, anxiety, arousal, and sadness, just to name a few. And with the confusion, came a different kind of fear. The last time he’d experienced such emotional upheaval, he’d lost everything. He’d gotten through, if being a Selective Spouse to a husband who didn’t even want him counted as getting through.

He checked the time - 10:04 am - and went back to work. He still had laundry to finish and groceries to buy. And then there would be dinner to make.

Stephen stopped by the administrative office of Sanctum General and updated his file. The secretary, a Ms. Claire Weiss, raised her eyebrows when she read the certificate to be copied. She gave him back the original and smiled cheerfully.

“Congratulations, Dr. Strange!”

He nodded and went to his office. He had a busy day ahead of him and pushing back appointments for personal reasons only eased the rush so much. He was just reviewing his first case when there was a knock on his door.

He sighed. “Come in.”

It was Dr. Mordo. Of course. Which meant Doctors Richards and Xavier, Ms. Rambeau, and perhaps Mr. Bolt wouldn’t be too far behind. The ever-self-righteous Ms. Carter was thankfully out on sabbatical, or else he’d have probably thrown something. (Or not. He’d been forced to attend a few of the charity frisbee games so many of the staff signed up for and having seen her in action, knew she couldn’t catch worth a damn. The last thing he needed was to get fired because he’d thrown something and hit one of the directors on Sanctum General’s board.)

“Good morning, Doctor,” Stephen said.

“Strange! I heard the wildest rumor that you were married yesterday and I just had to stop in and see if it’s true.”

Stephen held up his hand, plainly showing the new ring.

“So if it’s true, then what are you doing here?” Mordo asked. Stephen didn’t buy that puzzled smile for a moment. “Why are you not home with your new bride?”

“I have patients to see,” Stephen answered pleasantly. “And it’s my groom, not bride.”

“Ah, Stephen!” Dr. Charles Xavier said, wheeling himself in. “Is it true? Did you really come into work the day after your wedding?”

“I have patients to see,” Stephen repeated.

“Surely you can reschedule them or ask Dr. Palmer or West to see them?” Mordo asked. “I’m sure your groom would appreciate the extra time together.”

Stephen’s mind flashed to Peter and the sheer fury Stephen had seen in his eyes after locking the cage on his pretty cock and he nearly snorted. Peter didn’t like him, at all. Which was just fine. His husband would learn to deal with his new circumstances sooner or later. He’d certainly been okay with them when Stephen had been balls deep inside of him…

“You should take at least a week off.”

Dr. Reed Richards, Sanctum General’s head of oncology. The man had four doctorates, an overinflated ego, and was under the delusion that because he was married with two children, he was humble. He was also convinced he knew what was best for everyone around him, be they patient, staff, or colleague.

“I have a surgery scheduled on Thursday and I’m not risking my patient going under Dr. West’s knife for a procedure the man’s never performed before,” Stephen said. Was Dr. West a capable surgeon? With the right support system, sure, he was adequate. But for the kind of specialized surgery Stephen was an expert in? Not a chance in hell.

“Then by all means, do the surgery,” Ms. Rambeau said, stepping in with Mr. Bolt. Christ. “But then go home and be with your husband.”

His office was getting awfully crowded.

“You’re all unusually interested in my marriage,” he said.

Bolt, whose childhood injury left him unable to speak, stepped forward. He’d probably heard everything with that damned bat-like hearing of his.

We’re interested in your happiness, Stephen, he signed. You don’t seem to be.

“I’m perfectly happy,” Stephen lied through his teeth. He would be happy if they would just leave. him. alone.

“Stephen, I understand that the weight of sharing your life with someone can take a while to settle in,” Richards said. Arrogant, condescending man. “But this isn’t the time to throw yourself into your work. It’s the time to throw yourself into your marriage.”

“Sanctum General isn’t going to burn down just because you take some time off,” Rambeau insisted.

No, but without him, it wouldn’t pull in near the amount of money it did. That wasn’t arrogance on his part - it was fact.

“Go home, Dr. Strange,” Xavier urged. “Be with your new husband. Your patients will be waiting when you come back next Tuesday.”

He opened his mouth to argue but Xavier added, “You’ll perform the surgery on Thursday, and take Monday off as well.”

They all looked as if they thought they were being benevolent instead of patronizing and interfering.

“Enjoy your time off with your husband,” Richards said. “Sue and I will be looking forward to meeting him.”

“I’m sure,” Stephen bit out. He almost felt guilty that Peter would have to be subjected to the most condescending and insufferable group of people on the planet. Almost.

We’ll see you next week, Bolt signed. Congratulations.

They left, sparing him the annoyance bordering on humiliation of leaving them there.

He poked his head out of his office door and glanced at Billy, his admin, who appeared to be meticulously filtering through patient files. Appeared, since Stephen had no doubt the little twerp had been eagerly listening for any word he could glean from the altercation between some of Sanctum General’s titans. It might have been more convincing if the files weren’t upside down.

“You’re fired,” he said, shrugging out of his white coat and hanging it up.

“No, I’m not,” Billy replied, unconcerned.

“No, you’re not,” Stephen agreed with a sigh. “You’re still a little traitor.”

“Yep,” Billy said. “See you on Thursday and enjoy your time off!”

Stephen spared him a glare and left.

Hanging up sheets to dry out on the clothesline wasn’t nearly as easy as some of the movies made it seem. He’d never had to do it before; May had been particular about laundry. It took him far longer than he’d ever admit, but eventually the sheets, towel, and pillow cases were wafting in warm, gentle air.

Once he’d taken care of the rest of the clothes from the hamper he checked in on the skillet. Satisfied with his cast iron project, Peter turned off the oven. He’d get it seasoned to his liking in no time.

Laundry in progress, house dusted and clean, bed made, Peter eyed the placard of numbers near the phone with unease.

A car service? Really? Midtown had been a sprawling jungle of a city with trolleys and a subway system at the public’s use. Peter had spent what had to have amounted to hours on the trolleys to school, to temple, to the Midtown Minotaurs baseball games.

And here, he was expected to use a car service. To be the only passenger.

Weird.

He rang up the service and asked for a pickup at quarter til noon. He gave his list of anticipated stops, hoping that the driver sent would know their way around. The last thing he needed was to get lost and wind up back home too late to finish the laundry and start dinner.

The closet behind the staircase had several grocery bags, a few of them insulated. He’d have to see about buying a couple more so he could keep certain things separate. He set the bags by the front door and seeing he had time, went into the den to look for those cook books the old housekeeper had left.

The Joy of Baking

Keeping House and Home - A Cookbook for the Modern Family

Southview Hotel’s Classic Cooking

He looked through them, discerning what seemed feasible given his middling skills. Some things could be done easily while others had him saying an audible “nope!”

He added some ingredients to his grocery list and went to wait for the car.

Stephen came home to an empty house.

He pulled up the car service logs on his mobile and relaxed when he saw that Peter had scheduled a trip, presumably for groceries.

With little else to do, Stephen went upstairs to change into more casual clothes and then back down to his den. He could just read or find a radio show to listen to. Maybe then he could spend time with his new husband until Peter started on dinner.

Hopefully Peter wouldn’t be too put out that he’d not have the house mostly to himself for at least a week. Or, if he showed his attitude again, Stephen could always correct it.

And really, how hard could avoiding his husband all week be, save for nights?

<<<>>>

#couldntbedamned fic #spiderstrange #spideystrange #stephen strange x peter parker #peter parker x stephen strange #1950s-modern era fusion au #1950s au #read the fucking warnings #no seriously read them #peter parker x doctor strange #doctor strange x peter parker

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cagestark · 5 years ago

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The Rest it Kills

About this: ballerina!peter and mobster!tony. Starker. Physical and emotional between established quentin beck/peter parker.

THIS IS UNFINISHED. Anyone is welcome to continue it.

“FRIDAY, baby? Do you have the shot?”

It’s a celebration, which does nothing to explain why the room gets quiet as soon as Tony enters it. Around the table are four of his best and brightest, the handful of underlings that were instrumental in helping Tony execute his vision of how to repay Adrian Toomes for encroaching upon his weapons market. For a job well done, he’d invited them up to the penthouse to have at his expensive collection of spirits.

He’d left them alone for only a half hour to make a few calls, but now upon his return they were shifty eyed and babbling about something inconsequential, a sure sign that they had hastily changed the subject.

“Alright,” Tony says, pouring himself a glass of scotch. “Out with it. I’m a paranoid bastard at best. At worst?—well. Ask Toomes.”

“It’s nothing bad, Tony,” Rogers says. If the fact that Rogers hadn’t told a lie his entire life didn’t put Tony at ease, then his clear eyes and voice did. Rogers was his number two, and they got on thick as thieves. He’s about as likely to lie to Tony as the sun is not to rise.

“Then I’m not angry,” Tony says, taking the empty seat. “But now I’m curious. Which is worse?”

“Angry,” Wilson says in that deadpan way that Tony just adores.

“Come on, don’t leave me in suspense,” Tony says, finishing his scotch with a single gulp. He pours himself another.

It’s Romanov who—doesn’t break, per say. Tony isn’t convinced that there’s anything that could break Natasha, though if they were on opposite sides, he might have a few places he’d be willing to start. She must weigh the pros and cons and decide that letting Tony in on their little secret is the best move. Whether it’s best for her, for them, or for someone else, Tony can’t say.

She shifts and pulls out a piece of paper folded in half and tosses it across the table. Barnes and Rogers groan.

“Nat, you rat,” Barnes says.

“Wow,” she says, eyes glittering. “That rhymed, Bucky. It was beautiful.”

“What the fuck is this?” Tony wonders out loud as he unfolds the paper. It turns out to be nothing extraordinary. It’s a program for the New York City Ballet. The ballet is something new by Ratmansky, with principal dancers MAXIMOFF/PARKER. “Ballet? Taking up a new hobby, Barnes?”

“I thought I’d look great in the tights,” is all Barnes says. A deflection if Tony’s ever heard one.

“Their boy toy is the lead,” Romanov admits (to fresh groaning from around the table).

Tony’s eyebrows raise. “Boy toy? All three of you?”

“We are in the process of wooing him, so to speak,” Wilson admits, taking a swig from the bottle in front of him. “Barnes and Rogers might be willing to tag team him, but I want him all for myself.”

Rogers’s eyes flash, cold steel in the overhead lights. “Watch the way you’re talking about Peter. He’s not a piece of meat to be shared.”

“This is a goddamn episode of the Bachelor,” Tony laughs. “Which one is Peter: Maximoff or Parker?”

“Parker,” all four chime together.

“I feel like a father whose kids are going out on their first date. Are you buying him flowers? Are you opening the car door for him? Are you being safe?” Tony jests. He leans back in his chair feeling the warm thrum of the scotch in his stomach, glancing from one besotted man to the next.

“All that and more,” Barnes says. Then, with more than a little bitterness: “It’s the way he deserves to be treated.”

Tony lifts his brows. Natasha slides him the deck of cards so that he can shuffle. He’ll lose, especially once he’s as drunk as he hopes to be, but there’s no amount of money he could lose to them that wouldn’t amount to pocket change in his book. Consider it their bonus. As he deals, he asks, “Trouble in paradise?”

“You could say that,” Wilson mutters. “He’s not exactly on the market.”

“Never took you for a homewrecker, Rogers. Barnes maybe—“

“Hardly a home to wreck,” Barnes admits. “Not a happy one, at least. Pete’s boyfriend is a perverted, abusive low life.”

Tony goes stiff. The buzzing in his gut transfers to his brain, raw as the sizzle of electricity. In his mind, he sees himself as a young boy sitting cross-legged by the vanity in his mother’s room watching her apply creams and powders to disguise Howard’s abuse. All the heinous crimes Tony commits, that one is not among them. He doesn’t prey on the weak. It’s the only promise to his mother that he’s never broken.

“So, take care of him,” Tony says lowly. “Do you or do you not have certain skills and the balls to use them? You could kill this boyfriend and have it look like a hundred different accidents. What’s the problem here? Do you need daddy’s permission or something? Well, here, I’m giving it.”

Rogers scowls darkly at his hand. “You wouldn’t understand.”

“Wouldn’t I? Regale me, then! Because it sounds to me like I’m sitting around the table with a bunch of pussies.”

“Peter asked us not to,” Barnes says.

Tony blinks. “Is—is that it? Good God. Definitely a bunch of pussies. Kill the bastard anyway. If you can’t stomach it; if you don’t want your boy toy mad at you, give me a name and I’ll do it. It can be done before we’re four rounds into poker, for fuck’s sake.”

“It’s not like we don’t have the stomach for it,” Wilson says. He’s the newest of their crew, but Tony appreciates his fearlessness, the open, unabashed expression he gives Tony when calling him out on perceived bullshit. “It’s about respect, man. We respect Peter’s wishes, and he trusts us because of it.”

The form of respect Tony is most acquainted with is fear. This softness he sees in his men right now translates to nothing short of weakness. Tony has never lived in a fairytale: the world is hard, and it makes hard people.

The rest, it kills.

“It’s complicated,” Rogers says to soothe Tony’s hackles. “If you knew the kid, you’d understand I think.”

“Now you’ve gone and done it,” Barnes mutters. There’s movement underneath the table: one person kicking another, everyone jolting to get their legs out of the way. Barnes looks like he’s sucked on a lemon, or taken a shot of Nat’s imported whiskey. “Now he’s gonna go see Pete for himself and none of us will have a chance.”

As it is, Tony doesn’t have to lift a finger to meet Peter because Peter comes to him.

Tony knows the benefit of giving his men a nice long leash.

He doesn’t have to. With them living in the Tower, it’s within his rights to keep surveillance on all of them; except he knows that distrust breeds distrust. Wilson, Romanov, Rogers, and Barnes have earned his trust. For that reason alone, he removed the wiretaps and cameras in their rooms upon their arrivals.

But it’s still his home, and he watches it. Closely. Tony has just poured his third glass of scotch when FRIDAY alerts him that there’s an unauthorized presence in the Tower.

“Unescorted?” Tony asks. His blood thrums—this is the most exciting thing to happen all day.

“Mr. Rogers and Mr. Barnes are the ones who granted him entrance using Mr. Roger’s passcode, and they appear to be returning to Mr. Rogers apartment, judging by the floor number selected in the private elevator.”

Tony rolls his eyes, relaxing back in his chair. “A fuck, baby?”

Tony has asked them not to entertain guests at the Tower without his authorization, but Tony was young once. He knew the thrill of breaking rules, how good forbidden, casual sex could feel. He wouldn’t put it past Rogers and Barnes to have grown bored, considering they’ve been dicking each other down since they were teens. Just thinking about twenty years of monogamy has his cock shriveling. If they’re just bringing home someone to bend between them and spitroast, Tony’s not going to bother abandoning his scotch.

“Judging by the young man’s level of inebriation, I would hope not.”

Groaning, Tony sets his scotch aside. He gives it a mournful glance while he steps into a pair of jeans and straps up. “I’m coming back for you, baby,” he whispers. “Wait for me. Take no other lover. Fuck, I hate wasting my humor on an empty room.”

“I’m here, boss,” FRI offers.

Tony rolls his eyes.

When he knocks on Steve’s (Steve and Bucky’s apartment, considering how much time Bucky spends there) at fifteen minutes ‘til midnight on a Thursday, he would usually expect a bleary-eyed blonde to crack the door open, a dark apartment the backdrop behind him. Instead, the door opens and light floods out into the hallway. Steve is dressed in his pajamas, that is to say that he’s wearing only a pair of pajama pants that cling to his hipbones for dear fucking life.

“FRI said there’s someone in my building and they’re drunker than I am. Don’t you know that’s a crime?” Tony asks, leaning against the doorframe. The cock of his hip emphasizes where his gun rests, but Steve’s eyes don’t even flicker to it.

Nonplussed, Steve just steps aside to give Tony room to enter.

Slumped on the sofa, bundled underneath a large blanket is a young man. Handsome, his face is a testament to masculinity: cut jaw, straight nose, flat brows and thin lips. The only hint of estrogen is the clear, smooth skin that looks like he’s never grown facial hair in his life. Right away, Tony places his bets that he knows who this kid is.

Peter Parker is resplendent, large brown eyes that blink sluggishly, dragging all over Tony’s figure like his eyes can’t decide where to rest. Sitting up, the blanket falls away and reveals his naked chest which Tony eyes with appreciation. He has the optimal figure for a ballerino, obvious strength that is lean and not bulky.

One of the thin lips is split, bruise blooming like the most tender flower beside his mouth. The wound opens when the kid’s mouth falls open.

“Ohmygod,” he slurs, elbows shaking from lack of strength. He collapses back onto the comfortable couch. “Tony Stark is here.”

Were he not so sobered by the kid’s appearance, the bruises and blood and the red-rimmed eyes and raw mouth, he might be charmed. Bucky appears dressed no more than Steve and Tony, a glass of water in his hand. He helps Peter sit up and coaxes him to drink from the glass. Every other sip, Peter gets distracted, gaping from naked chest to naked chest. At one point, he falls asleep propped up on Bucky’s shoulder.

“He’s not drunk,” Tony says, standing back with Steve while they watch Bucky try to coax the kid into consciousness. “Drugged?”

Steve hums. A muscle in his jaw jumps from how he’s grinding it. “It’s not the first time. Beck and Peter have different tastes in the bedroom. Peter has mentioned before that sometimes after their date nights, he wakes up sore.”

“Jesus fucking Christ. And you haven’t killed this guy, yet?”

Steve looks downright tortured. He does it well; Tony’s always thought of him as a bit of a melodramatic. “Peter would never see us again if we did. We have to decide between being around to support and protect him or not being around at all.”

“If Beck was dead,” Tony says coldly. “There’d be nothing to protect him from.”

“James,” Peter groans, losing and finding purpose again during the middle of the word. “Tony Stark is here!”

“In the flesh, kid,” Tony says, stepping forward. Peter’s eyes trace down Tony’s chest, tracing the matting of scars over his sternum before dipping over his abs (nowhere near as pronounced as Barnes or Rogers’s, but Tony does alright). The kid licks his lips. He can’t help but preen a little, winking at Bucky who is rolling his eyes. “

The curiosity has been planted like a seed deep inside Tony’s mind. It sprouts, soaking up thoughts until it’s the only thing he can think about, Peter Parker, principal dancer, owner of three of his best-men’s hearts.

It leads Tony here, to the best seats money can’t even buy at the Lincoln Center in Manhattan, dressed in his best tuxedo, dark eyes focused on the curtain that glows gold. His heart pounds when it withdraws on a dark, empty stage, though he hardly knows why.

By the end, he has a better idea.

There’s no hiding a single sharp line or sensual curve in the outfits they wear onstage, the pale tights and leotards. There is nothing soft about him save for his curls, but still he leaps and lands silent on his canvas-clad feet. The dance is obviously based around Maximoff’s character with Peter there as her supporting love interest, but even when the red-head bewitches the audience with her fouettés, Tony can’t take his eyes off of Peter’s figure, bowed at the edge of the stage and watching her with the sweetest supplication. When it is time for his own variation, he leaps and bows with a boneless grace that does more than take Tony’s breath away. It makes him hard. It makes him think about those long, strong legs wrapped around his waist while he gives the boy his cock. It makes him think about peeling those tights off and wrapping them around the dainty, pale wrists. It’s a good thing no one can see his erection behind the wall of his box seat when they all stand to give their ovation.

Peter bows and flushes, hand in hand with Maximoff before standing behind her sweetly while the entire place howls for her.

Tony thinks that maybe he’s starting to understand.

No one bothers him where he leans against the wall beside Peter’s dressing room door. Whether it is his reputation or his thunderous expression, he knows not, but he’s grateful for the lack of distractions while he eavesdrops on the conversation taking place inside the dressing room between Peter and a man Peter calls Quent.

—work harder in the gym. Have you been tracking your calories on the app we downloaded together?

Yes, Quent, Peter mumbles, barely audible through the walls.

All of them?

I said yes.

Don’t get defensive, babe. I had three different audience members come to talk to me about your figure tonight. It pisses me off too! If you’re ready to leave the industry—

You know I’m not.

Quentin sighs, the long-suffering sigh of an argument that has been often visited. I know. This is your dream. Poor baby. It must be so tough, loving a job that hurts you so much. But I’m so proud of you for pushing through, Peter, you know that, right? I just wish you were a little more grateful to me for trying to keep you on the right track. You treat me like the bad guy.

Peter doesn’t respond.

Is there anything you need before I go? How’s your back feeling? Your lifts looked a little strained towards the end.

Feels okay. I’ve got everything I need back at my apartment. I’ll go home and put my feet up.

You deserve it. Just don’t forget to use that app okay? There’s a rustle, a struggle, maybe Peter trying to pull away. But Tony’s always had an overactive imagination. Hey. Don’t be like that. I love you.

You too.

Peter. Say it right.

Tony slips away from the door before Quentin can come out. From his place around the corner, Tony still has decent vantage to put eyes on this man for himself. Average height, average weight. Fit enough—for a civilian. Tony’s hands positively ache for a gun. Though he’s carrying, he’s no fool. Now isn’t the time, nor the place.

Once he’s sure the man is gone and not returning, Tony makes his way back to the door. It’s time to meet this young talent from Queens (yeah, Tony read the brochure) for himself. But when Tony goes to lift his hand to knock, the door swings open.

Peter blinks in surprise. He’s dressed in gray leggings that look soft as cashmere, a NYDC hoodie on, sneakers on his feet. Spilling from the sneakers’ tops are black fuzzy socks, meant to keep his toes warm from the cold New York weather.

He’s limping.

And gaping. It never gets old, seeing the way his reputation precedes him. He loves the way the crowds part for him on the street, loves the way waiters and waitresses stammer and struggle to serve him, the way eyes grow wide like Tony is a god in the flesh.

Tony extends a hand. “I’m Tony Stark. It’s a pleasure to meet you; you’re a very talented dancer.”

“Hi,” Peter breathes, taking Tony’s hand. Tony grips gently, feeling like he’s liable to break bones, the kid’s so fucking delicate. And cold. But Tony knows the saying: cold hands, warm heart. He wonders what that makes him. Peter works to regain himself, saying, “Trust me, I know who you are. It’s so nice to meet you. Thank you—they didn’t tell me that anyone important was going to be in the audience.”

“They who?” Tony asks. “Your managers, or my men?”

Peter swallows, face draining of blood. As much as Tony likes these games, they aren’t as enjoyable when the worm on his hook is as pretty and polite as Peter is. He puts on his most charming (softest) smile and makes sure to ask, gesturing to the messy dressing room behind him, may I come in?

Nodding, Peter opens the door wider. They both ignore how he was clearly on his way out, a backpack in his hands. He sits it down carefully by the vanity where he applied his stage makeup and seats himself on the chair, nudging his shoes off. When he stretches the arches of his feet, he winces. Tony gives him a moment to settle, stepping around the tiny room and taking in the smells and sights. On one wall is a picture of Peter and Quentin, arms around each other, beaming.

“Mr. Stark?” Peter asks, voice quiet. Tony glances over at him. “Are your—men in trouble?”

“No,” Tony admits. “If they were, I certainly wouldn’t be here watching ballet; I’d be...busy.”

Peter sags in relief. The way his shoulders hunch throw his collar bones into sharp prominence where they peek out from the neck of his sweatshirt. “Oh thank God. They’re so nice, Mr. Stark, and I promise they don’t tell me anything about their—your work. James still insists that he works for some guy named Potts in New Jersey. Who’s Tony Stank, he asked me when I brought you up.”

Tony lets his lips twitch. “James’s middle name is Buchanan. Some call him Bucky. Tell him I said: now we’re even.”

Peter grins and it’s radiant. Tony feels an unsteadiness in his gut, like missing a step on the stairs or hearing a gunshot go off when he’s not been the one to pull the trigger. There’s just the gentlest stirring of jealousy when Peter mouths the name, Bucky, testing the way it tastes and wrinkling his nose in laughter.

“I can’t wait to see the look on his face,” Peter says. “Thank you, Mr. Stark.”

Now might be the time to offer to let the kid use his given name but—Tony’s kind of into it. A few more instances of Mr. Stark rolling off that polished tongue might have Tony hardening in his tux. “Take a picture for me,” Tony suggests, sitting down on the cozy loveseat that is opposite of Peter’s vanity.

“You said—you enjoyed the show?” Peter asks, demure. The sleeves of his sweatshirt pass his wrists and most of his palms, turning his hands into adorable little sweater-paws. When he reaches up to bite at a nail, the sleeve slips down past his tiny wrist. Tony could surely wrap an entire hand around that wrist and have more to spare.

“It was incredible,” Tony admits. “I don’t usually have the attention span to sit through longer shows, but I was hooked from curtain rise to curtain fall, kid.”

Peter flushes, not so much in embarrassment as he does from the pleasure of being complimented. The flush of the drunk, though it seems Peter’s poison of choice is praise. Tony can’t help but want to spread him out on the sheets in his bedroom and say the sweetest, filthiest things to see if he can get the kid hard with just his voice. “I’m so glad. There hasn’t been as much press; new shows are always a little slow to take off. Wanda really is something special, though. She spent a season overseas and came back with so much more grace and growth—”

“Did she do well tonight?” Tony asks, unbuttoning the top button on his jacket to reveal the trim waist and vest beneath. He realizes what he’s doing just as the words are coming out of his mouth. Tony is flirting with Peter, and his flirtation is a force of nature. “I barely noticed her. Couldn’t take my eyes off of you, kid. How the hell you manage to dance that way, I can’t fathom.”

Now the flush hints at being flustered. He soaks in the way Peter’s face darkens, the way he hides behind one of his hands as the praise makes his posture go soft and waxy. His voice is remarkably even when he says, “Lots and lots of practice.”

“Your hard work pays off. I was captivated. I could tell that my men were the same.”

That topic sobers Peter, who sits up straighter. His pretty face twists, the question mark clear, the confusion too genuine for Tony to take it disrespectfully. On the contrary, Tony finds his forthrightness attractive when he asks, “Why did you come tonight, Mr. Stark?”

“I came to see what it was about you that has my men so enthralled,” Tony admits. With the kind of power he has comes the freedom to be honest, even painfully, brutally honest, because repercussions are either minimal or nonexistent.

“Did you figure it out?” Peter asks. Tony can’t help but feel like the kid is asking him for the both of them: what is it so special about me? Yes, this boy is fragile. That can’t be overlooked. But inside of him there’s still a spark of spirit ready to alight at any moment, grateful for any tinder that it’s given. He’s not Maria Stark. Not yet.

“Yes,” Tony says, standing. He rebuttons his jacket. “And I’d like very much to get to know you better, if you’re agreeable.”

“Me?” Peter’s head cocks, squinting up at Tony like he’s trying to see through him, to see what is really being said. “Why?”

Tony is used to letting his baser instincts guide him. He fucks who he wants, goes where he wants, says what he wants, and he owes no one alive an explanation for it. Many people have stopped asking Tony questions like why? Certainly none of Toomes’s men asked Tony why when he was torturing them forty-eight hours ago.

“Because I want to,” Tony says. He reaches down and picks up Peter’s backpack, putting it over his shoulder, the canvas bag downright gauche against his Givenchy tuxedo. “So what do you say, kid? You look dead on your feet, but would you like to be dead on your feet somewhere more private?”

Peter takes a long moment to think about it before tucking his toes into his shoes.

He belongs there amongst the backdrop of Tony’s penthouse. Peter glances around with all the coltish wonder of a newborn, running his fingers across the genuine leather of the sofa, leaning forward to look at the smart-glass table that Tony likes to prop his feet up on at night. Upon entering, Tony removes his tuxedo jacket and takes Peter’s hastily-removed sweatshirt. He appreciates the four inches of skin that appear when his shirt rides up, sticking to his outerwear.

He doesn’t appreciate the yellowing bruises dotting the kid’s biceps. Fingertips, he knows. His mother wore them round her neck like pearls.

“Is it okay if I take my shoes off?” Peter asks. He limped from the theater to the car, from the car to the elevator, and from the elevator to the couch where he collapsed with a sigh of relief. When Tony encourages him to, Peter nudges off his comfortable shoes and brings one foot up into his lap where he firmly presses his knuckles into the sole.

Peter asks for a drink. Tony gives him access to his wine, and the kid chooses for himself: a red, Chateau Margaux that smells of rose petals and hints at citrus and turns Peter’s cheeks pink. He doesn’t ask for a second glass, and Tony doesn’t offer it; the last thing he wants is the kid to think that Tony invited him here to take advantage of him.

“Tell me,” Tony asks, watching with rapt attention the faces Peter makes, like he’s dancing on the knife’s edge between pleasure and pain. “Tell me how you met my men. They aren’t exactly patrons of the arts.”

Peter’s face smoothes and he smiles. “It was Natalie, actually. She comes to shows every so often; I think her and one of the instructors know each other. Sometimes, she sponsors promising dancers.”

Romanov. Her and this instructor must truly know each other for her to be using a cover name around them. He files all this away in the darkest parts of his mind, should she ever become a problem someday. Tony has places reserved in his brain for all of his closest allies; already, he is making one for Peter too. Trust is earned but ever ephemeral.

“So Nat introduced you?”

“Yes. She sponsored me for a while, so we got to know each other pretty well. Once I mixed up my days and showed up at her condo when I wasn’t supposed to, and I met the others. Sometimes they would come to shows or send me gifts backstage.” Peter frowns. “I asked them to stop though because—Quent would just throw them all away.”

“Quentin Beck.”

“How’d you know?”

Tony just smiles and changes the subject. “You must know that the three of my men are half in love with you.”

Peter groans, pressing both his palms flat to his heated cheeks. “I had a feeling they were...interested. I hope they don’t feel that I’ve led them on, Mr. Stark. Nothing untoward happens at all when we’re together; sometimes I, I meet Steve and James for dinner, or other times Sam comes over to my apartment and we just talk, I promise. They’re so kind and it’s—it’s nice to have people to talk to.”

Peter stops talking abruptly, mouth open. He lets it fall closed with a click. When Tony prods him gently, he admits, “The attention is nice, too. It feels good, feeling wanted. Does that make me bad?”

Tony wonders what kind of miserable asshole would have Peter in his bed at night and not show the kid attention. It takes a special fuck-up to come home to a lover like Peter and not make him feel wanted. “Wanting attention? Not at all, kid. It’s the least of what you deserve.”

“You sound like them,” Peter says, smiling. “James and Steve and Sam. They’re always doing and saying nice things and telling me that I deserve them.”

“Good,” says Tony, one side of his mouth curling upwards. “I feel like a proud father; I’ve taught them well. Should you have those elevated?”

“Sorry?”

“Your feet. Elevation will keep down the swelling.” Tony places one of the expensive throw pillows on his lap and pats it invitingly. Peter stretches out without anymore prompting, toes flexing as his joints pop before curling in. The kid makes for an indecent picture, all long lines, absolutely nothing hidden by the leggings he wears.

“I asked them if I could meet you, you know,” Peter admits. He’s red from far more than the wine, now, judging by the way he has one hand pressed over his eyes to shield him from Tony’s gaze. As if it’s possible to. Peter peaks through his fingers. “Don’t take this the wrong way, Mr. Stark, but I’ve had a crush on you for ages.”

A crush. God. Tony doesn’t know what’s more hilarious, the sweet naivete of this boy or how it makes his cold heart flutter. Tony’s eyebrows raise. “Is that so? I’m not exactly crush material for the mentally stable.”

Peter hums. “When I was a kid, I had a lot of bullies. I started dancing when I was four years old, and not a lot of other boys understood. Sometimes, I used to daydream about you coming to protect me from them. To put them all in their place and then whisk me off to that house you gave a tour of on TV once, the one in Malibu.”

“Good taste,” Tony says. “You know, I used to do the same thing when I was young. I dreamed about someone coming to protect me and my mother, to take us both away somewhere where no one could ever hurt us.”

Sitting up on his elbows, Peter fixes Tony with a serious, solemn stare. “Really?”

“Really.”

“Is that what happened?”

“No. I became that someone. What happened to you?”

“I guess I gave up on the idea,” says Peter.

“Look. Maybe you don’t have your crush on me anymore, but I’m not the kind of man who can look away from innocent human suffering. My men told me about your boyfriend.” Peter sags back onto the couch and puts his face in his hands. He shakes his head from side to side, though no words come out. “This is my offer, kid. Let me take care of the problem. Let me be that knight in shining armor you wanted when you were younger.

#starker #cagewrites #unfinished fic #tw: abuse #ballerina!peter #mobster!tony

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nellie-elizabeth · 4 years ago

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First Line Meme Rules: List the first lines of your last 20 stories (if you have less than 20, just list them all). See if there are any patterns. Choose your favorite opening line, then tag 10 of your favorite authors!

tagged by @lizardkingeliot. Thanks!!! <3

This is going to be fun!

1. The Production of Penny. SPOILERS for A Comet Pulled From Orbit.

For the first several weeks, it’s just impossible to meet her. Penny will feel bad about it later, but he can’t take in any new stimuli when his entire body, mind, soul is shivering in the exposed light, trying to adjust to a reality he’d given up on returning to. He holes himself up with his family in one of his favorite places, a small house in Alaska, of all places, that he’d only just acquired and made comfortable when he’d—when he’d gotten himself trapped somewhere else.

2. The Way a Fool Would Do

You never really know what you’re getting into, when you choose to take a soulmate. Before Quentin had bound himself to Eliot, he’d been forced to endure the normal barrage of questions from the Fillorian Soul Council, and then a separate barrage of questions from his cousin Julia, who had nitpicked his choice down to the marrow, pouring concern after concern into Quentin’s already terrified brain.

He’d been so frustrated with her at the time, but in retrospect he can’t blame her for her caution. The fact is, no matter how much you prepare, no matter how much you think you’ve thought it all through, binding another soul to your own is unlike anything else in the world. It is impossible to know how it will feel until it’s already too late to turn back.

3. The Genesis of Julia

She decides, while watching the 1984 Summer Olympics one lazy day, a magically cool glass of lemonade on the table beside her as she lounges back into their comfiest armchair, to master gymnastics. The decision is made more or less on a whim; this is how Julia decides how to spend a great deal of her infinite life minutes, truthfully. She’s organized and meticulous once she knows her goal, but when it comes to finding said goal, it’s all about what strikes her fancy.

4. The Construction of Kady

The dust took a couple of weeks to settle, after Kady’s abrupt departure from her old life and chaotic intrusion into her new one. She’d been in the middle of war with her own people when she’d died for the first time, and the others had found her desperately attempting to steal magic from a rival hedge group in order to survive, too anxious about her own life to properly mourn for her mother’s death, and certainly too caught up in her own frantic mind to trust any of these new people, much less believe them about their immortality, or her own.

5. The Origins of Alice

There was no way to prepare for something like this. There was simply nothing she could do, nothing she could write down, no refinements she could make, that would help her to be more ready for what the morning would bring.

Alice hated that very much, of course.

6. The Creation of Quentin

The object in question was beautifully rendered, detailed and precise. A burnished color, the cool weight of it reassuringly solid in Q’s hands as he examined it, turning it over and over in his hands. This one wasn’t even particularly old; it looked to be a sixteenth century model, and Q had seen older and more beautiful in his time.

7. The Making of Margo

When Margo first met Alice, she understood her immediately. That wasn’t to say that Alice was boring, or predictable, or that there was nothing Margo had to learn about her. It wasn’t that at all. It was more that in meeting Alice, Margo was able to take one look at her and think to herself: ah, now this I know what to do with.

8. The Explanation of Eliot

El was afraid of heights, but only a little.

He could fly, after all, and that should have made fear illogical. But if anything, his ability to subvert gravity was the very reason for his nerves: he’d never been able to trust himself with anything, much less his own life or the life of others. The few times his telekinetic powers had been called in as a means of escape or rescue, when he’d held an innocent stranger or beloved family member in his arms and floated with them down from the side of a mountain or building or cliff face… well, those were the things he had nightmares about, on the rare occasions when he could remember his dreams. It was that sensation of freefall, of knowing it was magic, something inexplicable, deep in his consciousness, in his soul, even, that was the only thing preventing sharp, painful, deadly impact. He knew himself well enough to know he should never be trusted with something so precious as the life of another.

9. A Comet Pulled From Orbit

Alice Quinn woke up.

This was an unexpected development, considering the events of mere moments ago. Specifically the agonizing thirty seconds she’d spent bleeding out on the carpet, wondering in an abstract sort of way how long it would be before someone thought to look for her and found her mangled corpse tucked into the corner of a Brakebills Library study room, surrounded by the shredded remains of several large magical tomes, and her carefully collated notes.

---

Pausing here for a moment after the first 9 - eight of them are all part of one series. The main story, A Comet Pulled From Orbit, is an Alice POV AU of The Old Guard. Prominent Queliot subplot, some burgeoning Kalice and other ships as well. Lots of found family, etc. The other stories, all the ones with the seven main characters' names in them, are meant to be a series of small snippets to fill out that universe, backwards and forwards. I'm noticing that I do a lot of setup, I don't often start in medias res with any of these, trying to set a tone and get the information started right away. Each of the chapters of the snippet stories could be their own thing, so it's a little weird to consider it the start of a bigger story!!

Okay, moving on to earlier stories.

10. is it too late (or could this love protect me)

This is a story about nothing and everything. It is a story between then and now. It is a story of people living their lives, living them, and living them, and continuing to live them, with only some pedestrian heartbreak and alcoholism and good old millennial economic angst to add some variety to the humdrum of continued existence.

This is a story about stupidity, and love. Stupid love.

(A/N - hmm I kinda hate this beginning now even though I'm SUPER proud of the story as a whole)

11. Maybe This Time

"Quentin Coldwater?" Eliot says, twisting the name up in his mouth like an insult.

Give him a break - it's a weird fucking name, for one thing. And besides, the off-putting demeanor is an intentional scare tactic.

12. Beyond the Veil

"Do you think the Lorians would want a seat at the table?" Fen asked doubtfully, looking over the charter in front of her.

"Well, they're going to want to review the language, at any rate," one of the advisers put in. "Especially the order of the names."

"But it's in alphabetical order!" Margo said. "Fillory comes before Loria - sorry, not sorry."

13. Running All This Time

Quentin was sweet. There were a lot of words that Eliot could think of to describe him, several of them a lot more besotted than he was comfortable with, but sweet was an apt descriptor, generally speaking.

He had the softest little smile, and wide brown eyes that crinkled up in the corners when he was happy. He had strong yet gentle hands, hands that were somehow mesmerizing as he flapped them around wildly during conversation, trying to paint pictures in the air to accompany his latest rant about whatever-the-fuck. His voice was calming, his circular logic compelling, enough so that Eliot found himself listening - really listening - whenever Quentin was talking to him, even if it was about the Plover books and what they suggested about this time period in Fillorian history, or the politics of trade when it came to buying labor from talking animals, or how he may have come up with a better tracking system to mark down the mosaic patterns they'd already tried. Dry, uninteresting stuff, really. Which is what Eliot told Quentin, with an eye-roll, to stop him from getting a big head.

14. To Feel the Same

Quentin finds Eliot sitting alone in the armory, surrounded by books.

Something tense and frantic inside of him unclenches, like it always does around this man. It’s actually a remarkable thing, because by all rights Eliot should make him more nervous, not less. Quentin is a nervous person, after all, and Eliot is so… Eliot . A High King in his blood. Quentin had meant that, when he said it, and had drank in the gratitude in Eliot’s eyes like a glass of pure, crisp water, essential and quenching.

15. Identity Theft

The first thing the man noticed as he came to consciousness was that his head was pounding. It felt like the worst hangover he'd ever had, times about a million, and for several seconds all he could do was lay there and gasp and wait for his eyes to adjust. He appeared to be in a semi-dark room of some sort. It was large, with a cavernous ceiling above him, and the air was drafty. Like a garage maybe, bigger even - a warehouse?

The second thing he noticed was that he wasn't alone in the room. There were shapes all around him, rustling and making confused, pained sounds. After a few moments of this, there was a whoosh of energy and an orb of light floated above his head, illuminating the space in a soft glow. Someone in the room had cast a simple light spell. He looked around and sat up slowly, trying not to jostle his still pounding head. His next observation was that pretty much everyone in the room with him was kind of stupidly attractive.

16. Promises

Quentin gets about thirty seconds alone in his bedroom in the cottage, before Eliot is bursting through the door without knocking. It's not that he wasn't expecting him to take it hard, but seriously - can he not give Quentin just a couple of minutes of peace?

"This isn't happening," Eliot says without preamble, slamming the door shut behind him. "I'm sorry, Q, but it's not."

"I honestly don't think it's your decision to make," Quentin says, running a tired hand over his face.

17. The Curse of the Broken Vase (aka The One Where They Get Married and Nothing Goes Wrong)

Quentin was pacing.

He was pacing, and he was tugging his hands through his hair, which he really shouldn't be doing because it had actually taken a hairdresser an annoying amount of time to brush it out and tie it back, and apparently it was perfect now, even though Quentin couldn't really see how it was different from his normal lazy bun, but whatever.

There would be people, Eliot included, who would be annoyed with him for messing up his hair.

18. Liquid Courage

Eliot was fidgeting. Which was unusual, and generally not a good sign. But it still wasn't much of a warning, Quentin had thought to himself later, given what was about to happen. Then again, Eliot had been acting strangely all week, a little distant and distracted, and Quentin had known his partner was working up to discuss something with him.

Quentin had been worried, of course, but in an abstract sort of way. He figured whatever it was, the two of them were more than equal to the challenge. Given everything they'd been through over the entire course of their relationship, he really couldn't imagine any piece of news that would be capable of obliterating their lives.

19. Reciprocal

The thing about Quentin Coldwater was that it was pretty much impossible not to love him. Honestly, it wasn't even Eliot's fault - how was he expected to spend every second of every day around such a beautiful, adorable, kind person without letting it get to him? And the sex. Well. That was fucking incendiary, which really wasn't helping his resolve in the love department.

20. Fragments

It was a perfectly normal morning in Fillory. Which, honestly, should have been Quentin's first warning that things were about to go very, very wrong. Fillory was many things, but normal was not one of them: Q had gotten used to being woken up by harried castle employees, alerting him to one catastrophe or another. The Serpent War had ended months ago, but the paperwork was still pouring in like it had never stopped. His official role in the government wasn't supposed to have anything to do with the war efforts, but it had been an all-hands-on-deck situation for the last year or so.

---

Oh my goodness, this took me back to almost my first story in this fandom! I have 22 Magicians fics posted, so that's almost all of them...

I think my favorite of all of these is Maybe This Time, just because I like starting off with such an iconic moment from canon. It's the kind of fic that I hope resonates with people differently upon a re-read, and I like the strong, instantly recognizable hook. You read that first line and you know where you are, but you have no real idea where the story is about to take you.

I've also had a lot of fun writing Julia in the Comet 'verse and I like her opening line to the first snippet I did for her!

---

I'll tag @hmgfanfic, @ameliajessica, @hoko-onchi-writes, @freneticfloetry, @honeybabydichotomy, @allegria23, @spiders-hth-is-an-outlier, @rubickk7, @portraitofemmy, @propinquitous, and all others who want to!!

#queliot #the magicians #my fic #my posts

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