james ortiz provided some of his own personal rocky backstory on the sag aftra podcast, transcribed by me because we all have to be miserable about it together.
link to the podcast, this section below is from timestamp 24.35
“andy weir provided a packet to the creature shop that was like a packet of eridian biology and stuff but there wasn’t much about eridian culture or eridian sociology and i made a bunch of choices going in because i just needed to have like a ‘who am i?’ right?
[…] and i made a decision that rocky’s species, that eridians are really social animals that in fact are like a beehive or a pod of dolphins - it’s a unique and really integrated ecosystem of everybody doing their [specific] part. and the fact that rocky had to fly that ship for about 45 years - longer than grace has been alive, i wanna point that out - he’s been alone on that ship, having to run that by himself and- ryan and i would talk about that, one day we sat down and he was like “so what’s the movie from rocky’s perspective?” and i was like “oh it’s like ‘alien’, […] like he’s in a ‘contagion’ movie by himself and he has no idea what’s going on.”
he’s basically in castaway by himself which of course ryan is too but like, one reason why we never cut to the past of rocky is like, i think it was really horrifying! i don’t think rocky has slept in however many years and so a thing i was really struggling with is this idea of like “rocky must watch sleep” because how do you make that a need as opposed to like, a cute idea? and i just had to make the decision that […] he has a lot of unprocessed trauma around the things that he doesn’t understand and how much he is blaming himself because he’s the guy who fixes, he’s the guy who fixes and there was something really freeing about deciding that rocky was a deeply emotional, deeply anxious, deeply horrified person - being - that is trying to move through that in some way and how that affects the early scenes with him until there’s a point in the story where you can see we’ve physically softened rocky’s behaviour, because he’s finally feeling more safe and ok but all of that lore, all of that information [was essential].
i also decided, this is just a small nerdy thing, that there was actually some of his family, was on that ship too.”
summary: based on this fanart made by @m00n-man2! with you both fussing over eachother n being very lovey-dovey
yaps!: i immediately fell inlove with the said fanart bc OHMYGODDDDD it's so freaking good. also..pls send requests..im so bored rn 🤧🤧🤧 also used they/her pronouns for adrian since idk listened to "Lovefool" by The Cardigans and "Harvey" by Her's!
The coziness within your shared house on Erid was thick with a unique kind of pre-party anxiety. It wasn't the "will the oxygen scrubbers fail" kind of anxiety, but rather the "how do I wear this without looking like a confused biology textbook" kind.
Ryland Grace stood before a polished surface that served as a makeshift mirror, his expression a mix of bafflement and genuine awe. He was currently being draped in "Eridian Celebration Clothes," an intricate ensemble designed specifically for him by Adrian.
"I feel like a very fancy lamp," Ryland muttered, his voice echoing slightly in the domed room. He adjusted a translucent, glowing green cape that draped from his shoulders, adorned with dark, oblong beads that hummed with a faint, bioluminescent energy. The garment featured a complex back piece that looked suspiciously like a DNA double helix, a nod to his role as the planet's resident biologist.
"You don't look like a lamp, Ry," you said, stepping into his line of sight while struggling with your own set of glowing bangles. Your outfit was a mirrored version of his—Adrian had insisted on a 'matching set' for the two humans—incorporating the same ethereal green netting and bioluminescent accents accents across his attire. "You look... majestic. Like a very science-forward space prince."
Ryland turned, his glasses sliding down his nose as he took you in. His eyes widened. "Oh, wow. [Name], you're... wow. The way the light hits those beads? Rocky really outdid himself. Or, well, Adrian did." He reached out, his fingers hovering near your shoulder where a series of glowing teal cylinders formed a sort of high-tech ruff. "Is this comfortable? It looks like it might be heavy."
"It’s surprisingly light," you laughed, reaching up to nudge his glasses back into place. "But I think your cape has caught on your cargo pants. Hold still."
You leaned in, your fingers nimbling untangling the delicate green mesh from the pockets of his sensible Earth-style trousers—a hilarious juxtaposition to the high-fashion Eridian upper half. As you worked, you could feel Ryland’s gaze fixed on you, warm, comforting, and steady.
"There," you whispered, smoothing out the fabric. "Now, you just need to stop slouching. Adrian said, and I quote, "Grace is slaying, statement'".
Ryland let out a startled bark of a laugh. "They used the word 'slaying'? I really need to stop teaching her 21st-century slang. It’s coming back to haunt me in the most fabulous way possible." He straightened his posture, spreading his arms wide, the green netting billowing around him like an aurora. "Better?"
"Much better," you teased, though your heart did a little flip at the sight. The glow from his collar cast a soft chartreuse light across his face, highlighting the slight grey in his beard and the genuine spark of excitement in his eyes.
"Wait, your wristbands are lopsided," Ryland noted, suddenly all business. He caught your hands, pulling you closer. His touch was grounding amidst the alien finery. He began adjusting the stacked green bracelets on your forearms, ensuring they matched the symmetry of the ones Adrian had given him. "We can't have you going to an Eridian gala with asymmetrical jewelry. It would be a scientific scandal."
"A scandal, Ryland? Really?"
"Total chaos," he insisted, his tongue poking out the corner of his mouth in concentration. "First lopsided bracelets, then we’re miscalculating orbital trajectories. It’s a slippery slope."
You watched him work, the domesticity of the moment clashing beautifully with the fact that you were both dressed in bioluminescent Eridian couture. He was so careful, his fingers light against your skin, making sure every strand of the glowing thread was perfectly aligned.
"You're fussing," you murmured.
"I am not fussing," Ryland countered, even as he reached up to adjust the glowing bead hanging from your ear. "I am... calibrating. I'm ensuring our visual output is optimized for Eridian optical sensors."
"Right. Calibrating." You reached out and caught his tie-dye-like green collar, pulling him slightly closer until your foreheads rested against each other. "You look incredible, Ryland. Really. You look like the hero they think you are."
He went still for a moment, his breath hitching. The bravado of calibrating softened into something much more vulnerable. "I’m just a middle-school teacher who got very, very lost, [Name]."
"And found a way to save two worlds," you reminded him. "While looking like a bioluminescent snack."
Ryland groaned at the pun, but he didn't pull away. Instead, he wrapped his arms—mesh, bangles, and all—around your waist. The fabric of your celebration clothes crackled softly with static electricity. "If I'm a snack, you're the whole Eridian buffet. Is that a thing? Do they have buffets? I should ask Rocky."
In the corner of the room, Rocky and Adrian—watched the two of you, their five-legged forms shimmering, almost glowing, in the low light as they let out a rhythmic series of notes that translated to pure approval. "Grace and Partner are slaying, double statement".
"He’s watching us," you whispered into Ryland's chest.
"Let him watch," Ryland replied, his voice muffled by your hair. "He’s the one who designed this stuff. He’s probably just admiring his handiwork. Or wondering why we aren't eating iron shavings yet."
Ryland pulled back just enough to look you in the eyes, his hands moving to cup your face. The light from his glasses—now glowing with a faint teal hue to match the outfit—made his expression appear even more tender. "Thank you for being here. For doing this. For wearing the glowing seaweed."
"I wouldn't be anywhere else," you said, reaching up to pat his head, mimicking the affectionate gesture Rocky gave him. "Now, Professor, shall we go show the Eridians what 'slaying' actually looks like?"
Ryland grinned, that crooked, infectious smile that had gotten him through the loneliest reaches of space. He adjusted his DNA back piece one last time, stood tall, and offered you his gloved hand.
"Let’s go give them a show, statement."
giggles......i hope u had fun reading this!!!!! I also hope u guys know that I REALLY appreciate all types of reblogs n comments!! they make me feel giddy like ehehehehehehehe
genuinely, this filled me with so much happiness!! the descriptions of Grace's and his partner's clothes were so lovely; i could tell you really looked at my art 😢🫶💚
and the line about the glowing seaweed made me snort lol
the response to Grace in Eridian celebration clothes is so overwhelming HOLY SHIT. i read every comment and reblog! im so thankful to everyone who takes time out their day to send their love to my art 💛
THANK YOU SO MUCH PHM FANDOM 🫶🫶 WE'RE THRIVING!!
please send in requests for more drawings!!!! :D i am so so happy to draw your ideas/visions!!!
OKAY I KNOW I ALREADY MADE ART FOR THIS BUT I KEPT THINKING ABOUT IT SOOOO
BAM !! 💥💥 re-design LET'S GO
In my previous doodle, I had drawn a South-Asian Peter Parker but since Spiderverse popularized our wonderful Pavitr Prabhakar, I wanted to propose a Peter for my East-Asian girlies!! I made him Viet because I'm Viet and I always liked the name "Binh" (peaceful/vase) for Uncle Ben. Plus, I'm a sucker for drawing Wade with exposed muscles, and I wanted to do his melanated skin some scarry justice.
Bro…… you just keep cooking, good god. THE WAY YOUR STYLE LOOKS LIKE SOMETHING STRAIGHT FROM A COMIC???? UGHHHHHHH ITS SO GOOD‼️‼️😫😫😫 I literally have no words, this is insanely amazing. AND WHATS CRAZY TOO IS THAT I WAS THINKING OF VIET PETER WHEN I MADE THIS POST‼️ GAAAHHHHH, I’M FANBOYING SO MUCH, THIS IS SO FUCKING GOOD!!! Thank you for blessing us yet again with your beautiful art of these two 🙏🏽🙏🏽🙏🏽
OKAY I KNOW I ALREADY MADE ART FOR THIS BUT I KEPT THINKING ABOUT IT SOOOO
BAM !! 💥💥 re-design LET'S GO
In my previous doodle, I had drawn a South-Asian Peter Parker but since Spiderverse popularized our wonderful Pavitr Prabhakar, I wanted to propose a Peter for my East-Asian girlies!! I made him Viet because I'm Viet and I always liked the name "Binh" (peaceful/vase) for Uncle Ben. Plus, I'm a sucker for drawing Wade with exposed muscles, and I wanted to do his melanated skin some scarry justice.
i headcanon Adrian to be an environmental landscaper and architect, who designs clothes for fun because they're just that talented and badass. they spearheaded the making of Grace's biodome and his erid-cultural closet lol
I'm trying to write a Spider-Man fanfiction, where it opens up with the aftermath of Aunt May's death. I researched a bit on Jewish tradition for funeral proceedings and mourning, and scrapped together the intro below. But, important info, I'm not Jewish nor really knowledgeable in Jewish tradition/custom. Any criticism and comments you have would be sincerely appreciated!
Additionally, Peter will be grieving and observing Shloshim afterwards so any notes you have about that would be welcome as well !!
---- WIP below ----
It was cancer that killed Aunt May.
Peter crushes the black-ribbon strand of kriah in his palm, hands fisted over his chest, feeling like he was fifteen years old again and seeing Uncle Ben get shot in front of him.
The funeral procession had been small and intimate, officiated by the same rabbi that had done his parents’ funeral. When the rabbi pinned the kriah on Peter’s right chest, he had whispered, “Stay strong.”
The only family May had was him. There were a handful of friends and co-workers from May’s restaurant job from before the cancer got too rough. There hadn’t been enough people to fully bury the wooden coffin in turns, so Peter had got to work with his up-turned shovel and buried her the rest of the way.
They offered condolences where Peter stayed rooted in the grass, and eventually left. He didn’t know them well.
Spider-Man goes missing for seven days as Peter Parker sits, staring at the walls of the living room and listening to the emptiness of the house.
His professors send him e-mails expressing their concern and telling him to take all the time he needs. They go un-answered. Even Jonah J. Jameson stops by the Parker residence, trying to open a door that stayed locked. He goes away.
After Shiva is completed, Peter wills himself to move. He fingers the black ribbon pinned on his right chest and starts to clean the house. He throws out the molding food in the fridge. The dishes are washed, dried, and put away. He wipes, dusts, organizes as he pretends his aunt is in the other room, and they’re only spring cleaning.
He extinguishes the seven-day candle and scrapes the wax off the table.
He methodically uncovers all the mirrors in the house. In Shiva, mirrors are obscured to avoid looking at your reflection. When his parents had died, May had been the one to explain that it was to take the ego out of grieving, and she had carded a warm hand through his messy hair.
His reflection reveals the state of his mind. His mousy-brown hair is shaggy and over-grown, stubble litters his chin like soot, and the dark rings under his eyes pronounce the hollowness of his cheeks.
Technically, he should take the black ribbon off his chest.
Instead, he straightens it out.
He goes back to the living room and quietly recites kaddish by himself, his voice flickering and dimming like a weak candle.
Then, he slips into his familiar red-blue spandex, (careful to smooth the ribbon under his suit), pulls on his mask and goes on patrol.
--- A/N ----
The author in me wants to make the black ribbon a symbol of Peter's grieving overall, and how he refuses to stop grieving. Please tell me if this is a disrespectful portrayal of kriah, though!
this has been rotting in my drafts for months lol. come get y'all's food!!
Robert knows he is not a boy when he is thirteen years old.
It’s a late Saturday night on the anniversary of his mother’s death. His dad promised that he’d come home for a family dinner, so Robert had gone all out. The rice was cooked, the vegetables chopped, the beef marinated and fried, and the kitchen smelt like it used to. For those beautiful hours he spent cooking, he could close his eyes and pretend that his mother was just in the other room.
But like always, his father never showed up.
So Robert threw a fit.
It was ugly—like he was still eight years old, and banging on the mech-suit with a hammer. It didn’t end with a chunk of his ear missing, but it did end with a trashed kitchen and a refrigerator that maybe needed to be replaced. (What is it with him and wanting to attack machines when he’s down?)
And like always, when the stillness of the house becomes too loud, Robert switches on the TV. Unfortunately, because it is midnight on a Saturday, the usual cartoons are all run up and all that’s left are weird, adult pieces that Robert isn’t sure he should be watching. He flicks through the channels at random until—
Oh my God, she’s beautiful.
A woman is regally sitting in front of the camera in what looks to be an interview. She’s dressed in a yellow sundress, sleeves billowing out like a storybook princess. Long lashes frame her eyes like the claws of a ring that cage the diamond in, and her lips are painted a bold, ostentatious orange, glossy as a pearl.
Then she talks, and Robert abruptly thinks:
Oh, is this a man?
And like she read his mind through the screen, she laughs.
“You know, a lot of people—when they see me, they think, ‘oh, she’s gorgeous’. And then I turn around and talk, and all of a sudden, it’s all ‘are you a boy or a girl’?,” she looks away from the interviewer and faces the camera, smiling, “And that’s alright! That’s okay! I get it… People like me are very, uh… considered to be very abnormal. You know, sometimes, unwanted. But, honey, I promise you. We are beautiful. And all you have to do is listen, and you’ll think so too.”
Robert finds his lips tracing the words. We are beautiful.
“Everyday, I’m so happy that I can be a woman.”
Her smile is radiant.
“I feel so blessed that I can— can— wear my little dresses, and brush my hair, and do my make-up. Everyday, I feel so free that I can look at myself in the mirror, and think: Yes, that’s a woman right there. And even without all my glam, I can just square my shoulders and know in my heart that I am a woman!”
A big pause. The smile starts slipping away from her face. She tosses her pearlescent hair across her shoulder.
“But you know, my father…” The woman purses her lips. “When I came out to him, he kicked me out immediately. Just— ‘pack your bags and get out’. Didn’t even let me say goodbye to my mom.”
“Oh, wow,” the interviewer says.
“Yeah.” She starts to smile. “And you know what’s fucked up? My grandfather had done the same thing to him.”
“Oh!”
“Mhm. Daddy wanted to be a singer. Pop-pop thought he was selfish. And a sissy. And sissies had no place in his household, no sir. So my father stole five-hundred dollars from Pop-pop’s wallet and walked out that night. And my father, he never ended up singing professionally, actually.” The woman is still smiling. “‘Cause he had me.”
Robert scoots closer to the TV.
“But he always loved music. He would sing everywhere. He used to sing me to sleep, actually. He’d be singing when he came home from work, even though he was dead tired. He was in love with music. And it— I—”
The woman is blinking a lot, and Robert sympathizes. She’s trying not to cry.
“We shared that. And it brought us close. He always said I’d make it. But…” The woman sighs deep, and blinks long and slow. “In the end, I did make it. Just not with him.”
Then she’s laughing. And Robert is switching the TV off.
Later that night, his father would come crashing into the house, reeking of smoke and sweat, and promptly collapse on his bed. Robert would wait until he heard his snores fill the empty space, before softly padding to the bathroom.
In the mirror, Robert would try to imagine himself as that woman on the TV, with her effortless charm and her ephemeral glow. He’d pucker his lips and imagine what he’d look like with lipstick. He’d drape a towel around himself, pretending it was a dress. He’d twirl the strands of his short hair, and wonder how it’d look like if it was long.
Umma had long hair. It splayed across her back like a black waterfall, and softened her face. People always said he looked exactly like his father, but his eyes and lips were all hers. He knows this as fact because sometimes his father can’t stand to even look at him.
Robert makes up his mind right there and then. He wants his hair to be like Umma’s, he wants to wear all those dresses, and maybe do make-up too.
Robert squares her shoulders and thinks at her reflection: That right there is a woman.
—
Still, of course, she will be Mecha Man. The only reason she was born, the only reason she was conceived of (even in thought), was to eventually inherit the mantle; continue the line of stalwart mechanical heroes. Mecha Man was a symbol of human persistence and innovation that has run alongside (kept up with) a rapidly metamorphosing humanity for half a dogged century.
"You will make a good Mecha Man," her father says, one quiet night, a wound silently weeping in his side as he lays haphazardly on the living room sofa. Rendered almost drunk from pain medication, he holds Robert's thin shoulder with a broad, warm hand, still gloved from his hero outfit. This assessment is wrought with the affection he cannot express.
Robert has measured her life in training milestones. Her worth in her ability to take pain. Her love is dedicated to a distant but steadily approaching future. A good Mecha Man.
And then her father dies.
Abruptly, her legacy has arrived. The cock-pit is empty and waiting. Robert clambers in, small and unsure like a bird at the edge of a cliff. Before that hatch closes, Robert stares at the empty space she’s always envisioned her father standing in; the familiar patch of concrete that she’d stand in, right before her father took off to the skies. In front of the mech suit with his arms crossed and his shoulders relaxed, and a smile on his face, confident and proud.
It’s empty.
And the hatch closes.
She is fifteen. The city needs her. Robert notes with rapt interest the strange balance of hero-worship and vile slander that the news paints her in. Somehow, they know she is too young. She is either a selfless and strong heir, or a reckless nepo-baby.
"An inspirational story of a young hero, moved to protect the city after the untimely death of his father." “A line of brave men spanning three generations, even this teenaged—” “Mecha Man Blue is the worst Mecha Man to ever protect the streets of Torrance—”
Honestly, she finds it all a bit funny. And she learns to turn off the news.
She is sixteen and has earned a good amount of scars. Robert is proud of them. They are her scars; proof that she has bled for her mantle. “A good Mecha Man.”
She is seventeen. Her face keeps growing hair. Her father once had a beard; it almost resembled an M hugging his lips. It was an inconsequential detail about him. Anyway, her face looks better without facial hair, so she shaves it every morning until it’s as smooth as the day she came into this world.
“Know in my heart that I am a woman.”
She is eighteen, and she learns that she is an attractive man. With little effort, she can slip into bars. If she smiles charmingly at any pretty lady that does have a fake ID, she can “handsome” her way into alcohol and music. Or, she can chat it up with the bouncer—“Did you catch the Rams game last night? Aw, dude, [whatever players’ name] had great defense”—and they usually let her slip inside after a bro-fist, ID-check forgotten.
She doesn’t let herself drink every day. She feels uncomfortable being impaired the next morning, when lives are dependent on her competency. Though oblivion feels nice, after all the stress of saving lives, the perceiving, touching, talking that comes before…
She knows she likes people. Just. In small doses.
And now she is twenty-one, and out of her suit. With great effort, she has stripped herself away from her mechanical turtle shell and roams the streets of the city she protects as one of its citizens.
It’s a Saturday. She hasn’t felt like a person in weeks. So it’s time to drink.
--
man, i'm gonna be so real. i have no idea how to continue this (ToT), help pls!!
