In your own space, create a fanwork. Make a drabble, a ficlet, a podfic, or an icon, art or meta or a rec list. Arts and crafts. Draft a critical essay about a particular media. Put together a picspam or a fanmix. Write a review of a Broadway show, a movie, a concert, a poetry reading, a museum trip, a you-should-be-listening-to-this-band essay. Compose some limericks, haikus, free-form poetry, 5-word stories. Document a particular bit of real person canon. Take some pictures. Draw a stick-figure comic. Create something. Leave a comment in this post saying you did it. Include a link to your post if you feel comfortable doing so.
Sliding in just before the day ends in my time zone (forget going to bed on time)!
Title: Peter Pan Syndrome
Summary: Adaptability has its disadvantages.
Disclaimer: Technically a crossover, using the "daemons" concept from His Dark Materials by Phillip Pullman and the characters and setting from Guardians of the Galaxy.
Notes: This is my first try at daemonfic - if you're not familiar, all it means is that every character has an external soul in the form of an animal which can change shape until it matures in a permanent form.
The alien was all reds and blues and weapons and bad teeth, and if that wasn’t enough, his daemon was a horrible big flappy creature with fangs protruding from her beak and too many eyes. She was perched on his shoulder but it was more like draping, since she couldn’t fit without balancing herself with splayed wings.
Up until that point, Peter was sure that Flare had settled. He was sure in the way that wasn’t a belief but knowledge, in the way that you don't consciously think about, let alone feel any surprise. He had been busy running away from the hospital where his mother lay dead, and his emotions weren't going to catch up with him until he was halfway to the next solar system. But at the bedside, Flare had taken the form of Mom’s rapidly vanishing daemon, and Peter knew it was her final change: from now on she would be a coyote, like Zig.
The moment they met Yondu, Flare shifted into a perfect copy of his daemon, the better to scream a challenge at her.
Later, Peter and Flare would learn that the creature was a Centurian Eagle-Bat, and that Kxw’slth, like Yondu himself, was harmless if you showed no fear and outwitted her once or twice and had a violent streak and spent a few years earning her favor and entertained her and were really lucky. In the moment, though, Peter knew only that recent events had not been meeting his expectations, and the best he could do was follow Flare’s lead.
“You better not touch me you aliens you better watch out we’re really mad now and my daddy’s an angel come post outta pure light and he’s gonna kick your butt--”
Yondu was laughing, hard, practically doubled over. Kxw’slth made a crooning sound at Flare and buffeted her lightly with one wing. One of the other aliens, one who looked less alien in Peter’s eyes, came close enough for Flare to see his four-legged scaly dog daemon and switch to mimicking her instead.
Before the night’s end, Peter had been outfitted with a translator chip and given an explanation that explained nothing. The night never actually ended, anyway. It stretched over lightyears and turned into day, but without ever getting the Terran sunrise that would have been its conclusion. Yondu made the occasional stop on Earth and always asked Peter if he wanted to take a walk on its surface, and Peter always said no.
As for Flare, she didn’t settle that night, or any night over the years to come. She tried out the shape of every extraterrestrial creature they encountered, be it a real animal or someone else’s daemon, but wouldn’t even admit to leaning toward one of them as a permanent form. She was never a coyote again. She was never any kind of animal that Peter remembered from home.
He confronted her about it often, especially as he grew older and it became more embarrassing to still be walking around with a child’s daemon. She compromised by switching with less frequency, and for nearly a year they faked it, Flare on his shoulder in the form of a fiery-colored bird they had seen on Xandar. It suited her, he thought, but one day he got into a tussle with a guy whose daemon was bigger than a moose and Flare decided to one up them.
“If you like being huge you should just be huge,” he complained when they were alone. It was an old and tired argument by then.
“I wouldn’t even fit in yer cockpit, fool,” she retorted. “Huge blows.”
The list of her rejects was longer than his arm. Huge blows. Tiny sucks. Flying reeks. Horns are lame. Can’t be hairless. Won’t be an herbivore.
Peter looked at her, vaguely feline and pinning her ears back haughtily. He wished he could talk to his mother about this.
Flare blinked slowly, then relented and put her head under his hand. “Wish I could talk to Zig,” she said.