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#everything is dull and joyless and i hate it

muzanswaifu · 1 year

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Sweet Treat Teaser

Tomioka x Fem! Reader

18+

Here is a teaser for an request im working on for the lovely @muzans-stuff.

Summary: After Tomioka rejects her proposal, reader takes a different approach to gain his affection

Warnings: Rejection, Heart-break, Arguments, Reader has big breasts

The sour taste of bitter sadness and anger always upset her stomach, food seeming bland and tasteless and hobbies joyless and obsolete. The days drew long and slow, chores boring and pointless, yet sleep hadn’t seemed to be the answer either as she lay awake for hours. Mother and Father tried to give her time, but no amount of reprieve seemed to work, so they continued sending her to busy herself around the Wisteria House. Slayers came and went, their time seeming to last for seconds before the next batch would come and replace the others. All of them knew better than to take up too much of her time.

“It’s not you… It’s me.”

“What kind of ridiculous excuse is that?”

With the cold season cresting, more injured corps members required attention, Mother sending for more doctors and nurses as temporary help. She made her (y/n) help as well, despite her lack of medical knowledge, briefing her on the basics of care for those who had more minimal injuries. Harsh weather meant more victims and prey as demons had no fear of freezing to death. She found the cold refreshing, a numb pleasure to erase some of her darker thoughts. Feeling sad just felt so right during times like this.

“We wouldn’t be a good match… You wouldn’t like the lifestyle.”

“You don’t know that!”

Why did everything have to be so dull? Things used to be so worthwhile before what happened. Maybe it was her. She was the one who tried to change everything and had to open her stupid mouth. She could’ve left everything as it was, sure it would’ve been difficult and anti-climactic, but she would take that over this disgust with herself any day. She missed how things used to be. Why did he have to say no? They could’ve been happy.

“It’s not happening… I refuse.”

“Why?!”

“Because that’s my answer. That’s final.”

“You won’t even give it a chance? You were the one who kissed me! Did that mean nothing to you?”

“Enough.”

“I can’t believe you could be so- so heartless…”

“I said enough.”

“... I hate you.”

“ … ”

She should’ve kept silent, but every word from her pathetic mouth just drove her deeper into her pit of despair. Had she given him time to just think about her confession, maybe Giyu would’ve grown to accept it rather than push her away. But all she’d managed to do was upset him further, a look of disappointment falling upon his stoic expression and quickly making her realize what she’d said. She reached for him in the moment, tears welling in her eyes as an apology pulled at her lip, but he was gone, his form disappearing from her sight in only a moment, leaving only a slight breeze of chill. Or perhaps it was her own guilt that caused her to shiver.

She wanted to blame only herself, she really did, but why did he drag her along so thoughtlessly? He was the one who asked for her personally to apply all his bandages and ointments (despite her novice experience.) He was the one who followed her around the house like a lost puppy while she worked despite her mother pestering him to rest and recuperate. He was the one who kissed her when she checked his temperature during his recovery, staring long into her eyes and slowly leaning in to brush his lips against hers ever-so-gently. Although he quickly pulled away and muttered his apologies, excusing his own inappropriate actions, the deed had already been done. She knew he’d had feelings for her for quite some time. Even despite the kiss she’d seen the way he looked at her, his eyes alight with a delicate passion when they met hers, or the clear lust that consumed him when those eyes ventured southward. It was obvious he had some obsession with her chest, his preference evident with his lingering stare and gaping mouth. Tomioka hadn’t even had the decency to keep his eyes up during their first meeting, his head quickly bowing down and mouth gawking as he ogled at her fullness. Sure, she would admit she was decently large, but she had no idea it would’ve elicited such a reaction from the swordsman. He’d gotten more manners later on but it always made her flush when she remembered that despite his nobility, he was a still man as well.

The house was so quiet ever since their fight, the snow muffling any sounds of nature and lulling everyone into a deep tire. The visiting slayers slugged around like zombies with such little energy which gave her an agonizing amount of time to pity herself. Tomioka hadn’t visited for so many months, she wished she could excuse his absence for lack of injury but the chances that were miniscule. This wasn’t the only wisteria house in his district, so he was likely hiking the extra mile to another to avoid her. Even if he didn’t wish to see her anymore, she wished he would at least come to heal his injuries. Just knowing first-hand that he was alright would be enough, just seeing him would be enough.

Before long, even winter had passed, the air still chilly and dry but the ice starting to melt and thaw. Snow began to turn to rain and the frozen ground turning to sloshed muddy earth. A whole season passing without a single reunion.

She missed his peaceful company. She missed his small smile when he was humorous. She missed the way he’d look at her, how he’d look at her like she meant everything to him. As much as his rejection still stung, she still loved him.

The violent sound of clashing awoke her, feet and bodies audibly pounding across the floorboards in the medical ward of the estate. It wasn’t unusual for wounded slayer to come at this late hour, but they usually had the courtesy to arrive quietly.

“Hurry, hurry! Get him to the table now!”

(Y/n) could hear the frantic shrill voice of her mother and the shuffling of a few others through the walls, their panicked movements frightening her completely awake. Whatever was happening sounded serious, likely a life-threatening injury. Perhaps she should help.

She hastily threw on a robe over her nightgown, speed-walking down the hall to the sight of all the fuss. Her face scrunched in disgust as she was met with blood scattered across the floor, leading a crimson trail to one of the medical rooms. It smelled gross, a metallic odor filling the house and watering her eyes, but she continued onward to the room, peaking in to get some clue of the distress.

Blood everywhere, soaked into every article of clothing, several doctors and nurses ambled about the room, throwing commands to each other. Mother stood at the corner, biting her nails and anxiously watching the treatment. Everyone was frenzied but there was only one person on the table. She leaned forward through the doorway to get a better view. It was hard to see with everyone gathered around the patient, but she could see bits and pieces here and there, the body leaning toward male. But she didn’t have to further theorize as a nurse moved out of the way, revealing his face. She could feel the moment her heart stopped.

His face was a bit scuffed but the harm looked minimal, but there was still sweat beaded across his forehead, his teeth clenched together and eyes sewn shut, indicating his severe pain. A nurse’s hand held his slicked bangs back, and she could see the sea of bandages that began at his sternum. His deep blue eyes flickered open and locked onto hers, and she gasped. She stumbled away from the door, sneaking back to her own room quickly and shutting the door. Her heart was pounding, sweat glazing her burning flesh.

(Y/n) had never seen him so maimed, nor had she ever seen him in any pain really. Her presence couldn’t have made it any better for him, in fact, he was probably even more uncomfortable right now. Look at her, making everything worse as per usual.

She finally fell unconscious several hours later after worrying and dreading Giyu’s health. Would he recover from such injuries? Would he be permanently wounded? The pit in her stomach refused to go away, her angst building and building until her body physically couldn’t take anymore and her sunken eyes closed. She woke only a few hours later, dizzy from so many nightmares and promptly setting off to find her mother to ask for any updates. She found her already woken, putting away laundry in the early hours.

Mother explained he was decent, not perfect but not broken either. Apparently he’d stumbled in hellishly late last night, weakened and hallucinating from a poison demon’s attack. He managed to make it to the closest wisteria house, this one, quickly enough and was treated right away. As for his pained reactions, they were also a result from the demon’s art, the venom merely increasing his body’s sensitivity and heightening the effects. He was knocked out from pain killers and was going to be sleeping for quite some time, the actual damage was going to take a while to heal anyway.

Her answer was satisfactory enough, the girl sighing in relief and limping back to bed to get more rest. No wonder he’d come here, he was probably too out of it to realize why he was avoiding it. She wouldn’t put it past him to leave as soon as he composed himself.

But to her disbelief, he didn’t.

She almost didn’t believe her eyes when she walked past the courtyard one morning and saw him active outside, stretching out and wincing from his injuries. She took another route to get to the kitchen. The next day was the same. And the next. And the next. Each day she would try her best to avoid him, finding he most frequented the courtyard and the section of the estate where his room was. He seemed to be doing the same as well, turning the other way when she happened to come into view, staying in his room or training most of the day. Part of her is grateful he’s healing so fast. The other part is bitter. The bad memories still lingered in her thoughts. He was definitely still mad at her, and she was still hurt. If everything went smoothly, he would be out of here soon, she just had to be patient.

To be continued...

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wheels-of-despair · 5 months

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Enough | A Make Up Story | Tom Grant x You | Series Masterlist

Epilogue: Are You Fucking Kidding Me? Words: 2k

WINTER

Just as you feared, your life had been waiting for you back home.

It had taken five awful hours of driving to get there. You'd collapsed on your bed as soon as you walked in, still in your clothes that smelled slightly of him, and stayed there until morning.

The temp you'd trained had proven to be useless, and your work had piled up during your week away. It took you a month to get caught up again. You'd never exactly been fond of your job, but after your week with Tom, it had reached a new level of joylessness.

You sent out several resumes, but never heard back from anyone. So you kept plodding along, performing tasks you disliked and taking orders from people you hated. What else could you do?

You went on a few dates, each one worse than the last. You accepted invitations to events with people you barely tolerated, hoping it might spark something inside of you. Maybe you'd find something you enjoyed. Maybe you'd find someone you liked. Maybe you'd stop going home and thinking about things that weren't meant to be.

One night, several drinks deep on a dance floor so crowded it felt like you were fighting the bodies around you for air, you realized… here, in this crowded room, surrounded by people, was the loneliest you'd ever been in your entire life. You froze. The excessively loud music became a dull roar, bodies knocked into you, and all you could do was stand there feeling like a shell of a person.

You're not neon lights and wild adventures and meaningless hookups with people who won't bother to learn your name. You're talking 'til sunrise and listening to the rain and goofing on crappy movies.

You don't belong here.

You battled your way to the exit and walked home, head ducked so no one could see the tears streaming down your face.

You spent your nights watching stupid movies alone in bed after that. Why force yourself to do things that only made you feel worse?

Your mind always drifted to a curly-haired beauty in Cornwall. What would Tom think of this movie? Or the state you're in? What was he doing? Had he found someone who deserves him? Was he still angry with you for leaving? Did he understand that it was for his own good?

You thought of Jade, too. Did Ruth take care of her? Were they still together? Would she show up on your doorstep in a few months like nothing ever happened? Would you drop everything for her if she did?

Thinking of them was painful, but it was better than feeling nothing.

One cold and drizzly day that winter, after a long and dull day at the office, you were looking down and fumbling for your keys in front of your building when you ran into something solid.

You jumped back, realizing it was a person.

"I'm so sorry, I wasn't…" You looked up and froze.

"At least it wasn't a car this time, I suppose."

Tom.

"Is this an 'I missed you' stare, or an 'oh God I thought I got rid of him' stare?"

"First one," you croaked, not quite believing your eyes.

Tom opened his arms, and you stepped into them instinctively. You didn't think you'd ever get to feel this embrace again.

"What are you doing here?" you ask, trying not to melt into his chest.

"Kind of a long story."

"Will you come inside and tell me?"

"Mhm," he hums, not moving.

"C'mon," you whisper, wondering if this was a dream. He felt real enough. You reluctantly pull away and lead him inside by the hand, fighting the urge to glance back every few steps to make sure he's still there. But he's right there with you when you unlock your door.

You shed your jackets and retreat to your bedroom, not knowing when your flatmate would come home and ruin everything. You sat on the bed while Tom wandered around, looking at the pictures cluttering your walls. You wonder if he'd notice the Cornish sunset that looked suspiciously like the one you'd seen on your last night together. You'd found it on Google and printed it at work in a particularly intense moment of weakness.

"How've you been?" you ask.

"Miserable, and you?"

You laugh. "Same, actually."

Tom focuses on your bookshelf. "Seeing anyone?"

"Ha," you chuckle dryly. "No. You?"

"No. Found someone great a while back, but she ran away from me."

You feel your heart sink as he sits next to you on the bed.

"Jade came to see me."

"Yeah?" This should be interesting.

"Yeah. She's sold her gran's van. She and Ruth are going to go see the world."

"Really? Where are they going?"

Tom shrugs. "Said they were going to pack their bags, go to the airport, and get on the first cheap flight to somewhere hot."

"Sounds like Jade."

"Sounds like a fucking nightmare."

"I know!" You laugh incredulously. "Where are they going to stay? What if no one speaks English? What if they get lost? What if they run out of money?"

"My thoughts exactly," Tom grins. "Said they'd figure it out as they go."

You thought about it for a moment. "Can't decide if that's brilliant, or insane."

"Insane, definitely." His smile fades. "We talked about you, too."

You drop your gaze and begin tracing the pattern on your blanket. You don't know what Jade told him, but it stings like a betrayal.

"What are you doing here, Tom?" You pick at a loose thread, unable to meet his eye.

"I'm here for work, actually," he says, getting up to inspect the knick-knacks on your desk. You're suddenly self-conscious about the seashells from the day you watched him scramble his brains in the sea. You'd forgotten all about them until you finally made yourself unpack, finding them scattered in the bottom of your bag. You spent nearly an hour sobbing over them that day. They were the only pieces of Tom you had.

"Oh yeah?" Of course he's not here for you. "Shirley expanding her empire?"

"I wouldn't know. She fired me."

"What?!" Your jaw drops in surprise.

"Yeah, about a week after you left. Not exactly a great time for ol' Tom Grant." He picks up a shell and runs his thumb across the smooth surface. You wonder if he knows where it's from.

"Tom, I'm so sorry. I know you loved it there."

"A blessing in disguise, really. You did me a favor."

"I did?"

"Yup." He puts down the shell and picks up another. "You left, I moped… then I beat the shit out of Kai. Fucker's really gotta stop running his mouth. Anyway, that was my third strike, so she sent me packing. But they broke ground on a new caravan park a few minutes up the coast last autumn, so I dropped by to see if they needed any help. Talk about perfect timing. Their handy-man had just gotten a better offer and bailed. Owner hired me on the spot. I'm head of maintenance."

"Tom, that's amazing!" He puffs out his chest and grins.

"It comes with a lot of perks, too." He puts the shell back and leans against your desk, crossing his arms and waiting for you to ask.

"What kind of perks?"

"I've got my own truck. Get paid more than double what Shirley was giving me. Got my own caravan. Brand new, too, but it has a few flaws." He pauses.

"Such as?" you prompt.

"It's twice the size of my old one. Got a bloody bathtub in it. And the bed? Way too big for one person."

Is this going where you think it is?

"Anyway, I'm here on a recruiting mission. We got the big stuff set up, but we're opening in the spring. Gonna need a full staff. Lots of openings to fill, in everything from housekeeping to the office. So if you know anyone dependable who's willing to relocate for a job… and maybe a handsome lad who makes great pancakes…"

You shake your head, trying to make your brain process everything he's just said to you. He grins in a way that does not help you get your thoughts in order.

"Jade said to always tell you what I want and how I feel, so here it is," he says, dropping back onto the bed next to you. "I want to give this a shot. I want you to come back to Cornwall with me, and I want you to stay. I want you to be the first thing I see when I wake up, and the last thing I see before I go to sleep. I want you. Because I love you."

You stare at him in disbelief, head spinning, tears threatening to spill.

Tom suddenly looks nervous. "I mean, if that's what you want too…?"

Of course it's what you want. You've never wanted anything more in your entire life. Not even her.

"Are you sure?" You have to ask.

"Are you fucking kidding me?"

You tears spill as you rush at each other, desperately needing to make up for several months of lost kisses.

"I'm guessing that was a yes?" he asks when you break for air. His curls are out of control, thanks to your roaming hands, and most of your clothes have somehow disappeared. A devilish smirk decorates his face. He's the most beautiful person you've ever known.

You nod, unable to find your words.

"You don't have to work there, by the way. But I think you'd like it. Owner's rich and clueless, but he's a good guy. You and me could fucking run this place. Make it better than Shirley's ever was. Teamwork, love."

You take a moment to imagine what your life might be like, living with Tom and working in a place you actually liked. A place that Tom helped build, even. You imagine welcoming guests and watching sunsets and cooking together and playing in the sea and putting up a Christmas tree and trying out that bathtub… and maybe squeezing into a rental shower every once in a while for old time's sake.

"This is what you want, right?" he asks nervously.

Tom has mistaken your fantasies for hesitation. You smile and cup his face. You've had so much time to think about what you want… and this is better than anything you could have possibly imagined. But at the center of every fantasy lies one little thing.

"You said something to me one night…" you begin quietly, as if it might shatter the illusion. "I think it was the night we had dinner at April's. But you said 'if you love a person, they should be enough.'"

Tom nods his head in your hands.

"That's what I want, Tom. I want to be enough." You hold your breath.

"You are," he whispers, eyes wide and genuine. And you believe him. You really do.

"So are you," you whisper back. "You're everything to me."

"C'mere," he smiles, reaching out and pulling you to him before you can start crying again. You lift your head and meet his lips in a sweet kiss that soon turns needy and desperate. You do have a lot of lost time to make up for, after all.

An hour later, you lie on your backs in your twisted sheets, staring up at your ceiling and trying to catch your breath.

"Was that my sign-on bonus?" you joke.

"Don't tell anyone else, or they'll all expect it."

You laugh together and reach for his hand.

"We really doing this? You and me?" you ask.

"Absolutely," he says.

"Guess I get to live out my job-quitting fantasy tomorrow," you grin. "How long do you think it'll take us to pack?"

"As a team? With our motivation? Sunrise."

You laugh, feeling happy and whole again for the first time in months. You get to quit your job tomorrow and come home with boxes so you can start packing. You get to leave this place and all the people in it behind, and start a new life with someone you love. Someone who loves you back. Someone who wants to keep you.

"I love you."

His words make your heart soar, and you have no doubt that he means them. He means them as much as you do.

"I love you too, Tom."

#writings of despair #tom grant is enough #tom grant #tom grant x you #tom grant x reader #am i forgiven now??

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ratingboomercomics · 1 year

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Ugly joke, ugly faces, ugly crosshatching over everything…. And this is a pet peeve but I really dislike the mouth on the side of the neck thing the exterminator has going on…. I feel like the only ones who can get away with drawing mouths where they are not meant to be is Klasky-Csupo(and, like, maybe Picasso). I hate how dull and gray and flat his house looks(those little details like how nothing is in the bowl, nothing is out the window, just makes it seem very bleak), and how awkwardly the dialogue is fitted into the balloons. I’m just a big hater of this one, I guess.

Putting the art aside- this is so weird. Like, it feels a little too revealing? I’m not saying this is the cartoonist being autobiographical with his comic, I think it more reveals that his sense of humor is…. Like this. For fear of going on and on about why it’s bad, I’ll just rate this one 0/10 for an utterly joyless joke delivered in an utterly joyous way.

#damn sorry for being so mean #I’m just a hater ig #I hate this comic as much as he hates his liberal son #wish I could exterminate it #baby boomers #boomer cartoons #boomer comic #0/10

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fireheld · 8 months

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"you know, what people say about me is true." a pause, baby blues shifting away from billy's face to the space between them, to their worn out shoes. "i did kill my sister when i was six. i would rather you know through me than through anyone else," he says softly, face burning red hot. — @pumpkinstabs

Michael’s words hang in the air between them like smoke. Billy — he wants to speak but he doesn’t know what to say. Mean, angry things linger on his tongue, it takes work keeping them from spilling out.

He’d heard the rumours, the little whispers, of course he had, but he always blamed it on small town politics. It couldn’t have been that simple. But it wasn’t just the kids who’d said it, who’d otherwise ignored Michael. That’s what made him believe that there must’ve been a grain of truth in it. Probably not as drastic as murder but something, something that became twisted and gnarled through the grapevine.

This is an outright confession of the thing Billy often pushed to the back of his mind when he was with Michael because he was so different with him. Still quiet, in a way that made Billy appreciate it, but his eyes were gentle and so was his touch. There was nothing about him that made Billy think of him as a killer.

And Billy, well, Billy doesn’t believe that all kids are angels. He knows firsthand that some kids are wrong, in all the worst ways, but Michael?

He looks up at him, scans over his face, his avoiding eyes and his tense shoulders, the red in his cheeks.

Billy can’t imagine it. He tries to see it from a more personal perspective but his head is buzzing and there’s not really enough time for him to think, really think, but he tries to anyway. Maxine is an enigma to him, she is someone he protects while also being someone he hates, someone he resents, but the furthest he’s ever gone is leaving lingering bruises on her wrists that he thinks about even after they’ve healed because that is the proof of all the horrible things he already knows about himself.

He’s never thought about killing her though. He doesn’t think he could ever go that far, on purpose or unintentionally. (This isn’t like Harrington, this is so far from being like with Harrington, but he knows how bad it could have ended).

Then again, Neil liked to tell him about how his mother almost shook him once, when he was a squalling newborn. He liked to remind him of it every time he cries.

“I should have let her kill you, Lord knows it would have saved me the trouble.”

Then again, his mother was crazy, and he might be too, because all he can think is that Michael is different because he’s never hurt Billy, he’s never even looked at him with disgust which is strange because when Billy is comfortable, as he often is with the other around, he’s gross. He cannot for the life of him imagine it. Can you hurt the things you love? His mother almost killed him, his dad hurts him constantly but Michael? He’s a form of love without all the pain. It’s so hard for him to compare Michael, so loving and thoughtful and everything Billy has ever wanted to the coldness of death, to the joyless nature of murder.

“.. why’d you do it?” There is no curiosity in the question. Just a dullness, an ache, like Billy is prodding at an old bruise. He doesn’t understand, not really, but he had his mother and her strange ramblings, and he has his own dark and twisted thoughts, the ones that are sudden and angry, the ones he can barely resist.

He isn’t sure Michael wants to hear something flippant, wants to hear Billy say ‘well, I’m crazy too, I hurt people too’ because the difference between bruising and killing is so large, it’s like comparing a lake to an ocean.

“Just don’t lie to me,” He keeps his voice soft, “I just want to know why.”

#revving the engine — ( ic ).#pumpkinstabs — ;;#[ Billy in all his confused glory ]#cw child abuse #cw implied cocsa

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cappsikle · 4 years

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It’ll be ok // fred weasley

Pairing: fred weasley x reader

Summary: the world just seems a little too heavy, but luckily, you have him by your side.

Warnings: it gets just a tad heavy mental health wise / not all of it is proofread so please forgive that

Word Count: 2.6k

A/N: Hey guys!! Sooo this is my first ever fic on tumblr! I would just like to dedicate this piece to @ickle-ronniekins as it was her and a bunch of talented writers that inspired me to get back to writing, and I wouldn’t be doing this if it wasn’t for them!

Also if you like this fic please reblog! It would mean a lot if you did!

This fic is just a huge projection from my own feelings, quarintine has got me in my feels, and I’m sure everyone could do with some Freddie comfort. Enjoy!! <3

-----

There you were, hunched over various textbooks and pieces of parchment that seemed to cover the whole table. Fred looked up at the clock on the wall above the fireplace and then back down to you. Something in his eyes changed as he walked over to the table, quickly bidding goodnight to George and Lee as they headed up to the dorms.

Fred sat in the chair next to yours and he couldn’t help to just take a minute to admire you. But from glancing at you now, Fred knew that something wasn’t right. From your usually very well-kept hair that now looked as though you ran your fingers through it at least a hundred times throughout the night to your joyless and sunken eyes, eyes that used to hold all the joy and spark Fred loved most about you, but are now just dull and almost... lifeless.

For a while now, Fred had noticed small changes in the way you’ve been acting recently, and it wasn’t even just him, all your other friends had taken notice as well, but no one knew what to do. It wasn’t until this very moment as he watched you tire yourself out with work that he realised just how much had changed, and he felt a pang of guilt for not talking to you about it sooner. So, in the softest voice he could muster, Fred tried to coax you from your work whilst placing a gentle hand on your arm. “Hey, love. ‘S getting a bit late, reckon we should head up to bed?”

Your head snapped up at Fred as he spoke, only now taking notice of his presence, but you then quickly looked back down to continue scribbling mercilessly on the parchment. You needed to get this essay done before tomorrow, otherwise, you’ll slowly but surely fall behind on everything else. You can’t let that happen,

“I’m sorry Fred, I really can’t. I have to finish this stupid essay for potions”

“For potions? Isn’t that due next week?” You looked back up at Fred, your eyes widening as you became more distressed.

“I-I know but if I get this done now then I can use my time to focus on other assignments. I’ve fallen behind and I need to catch up.” Fred slowly nodded his head in understanding. It seemed like a good enough excuse, hell, he’s been in this exact position before, pulling his fair share of all-nighters for assignments due the next day, but when Fred looked deep into your eyes, there was something there that he couldn’t quite place. Desperation? He wasn’t sure.

“Look, love, you’re wearing yourself thin. You need a break”

You don’t know why, but suddenly you’re very irritated. It’s possibly due to how much sleep you’re getting, well, more like lack of sleep. You don’t know why, but suddenly you’re snapping at him “Fred, I don’t need a break so can you just please leave me alone?”

You don’t want to look at him, for the fear of seeing a look of hurt or the resentment that’s bound to be there you’re not sure you can take that sort of thing, so you lower your head and quickly wriggle your arm free from under his hand.

Fred tried not to feel offended, he really tried, but you removing your arm from his touch just nicked him in his chest. He knew you didn’t have a problem with him, he knew this was something that seemed too out of his control, but he just wished he knew what to do to make you feel better. Maybe giving you some space should help.

“Okay... I’ll head to bed then. Try not to stay up too late, yeah? I’ll see you in the morning. Goodnight” Fred placed a quick and gentle kiss to the crown of your head as he stood up and walked towards the stairs. Before ascending, he looked back towards you still slumped in your chair, and an unsettling feeling crawled its way into his stomach. With one final look, he walked up the stairs towards his room.

Once Fred left, you chucked down your quill in frustration and rapidly ran your hands through your hair, pulling at the roots in distress. You hated this. You hated how you get annoyed at things that shouldn’t annoy you, you hated how it was impossible to get a good night’s rest, you hated how your mind just wouldn’t. Shut. Up. And what’s worst of all, you loathed how you keep pushing the one person who seems to give a crap about you. It’s not like there’s a lot of people who do.

A sharp pain nestled in your chest, but you tried to ignore it, you always did. You weren’t even sure what it meant. Anxiety? Guilt? It was probably a mixture of both. You didn’t know how, or when, you allowed it to get so bad. With Umbridge slowly taking over the school alongside her vile punishments (you’ve had your fair share of them), the upcoming N.E.W.Ts that you needed to ace and the stress of keeping up with the DA meetings. But that doesn’t even seem like the half of it. Every little inconvenience had the power to ruin the rest of your day.

You couldn’t deal with it anymore, with any of it. You just wished there was a way to make the world slow down to grab your bearings, to just actually breathe. You released a big sigh and grabbed your quill again, but the tip doesn’t even touch the paper. It’s stuck, just like you. Eventually, you fold your arms on the table and rest your head on them. You know you must finish but maybe... just five minutes won’t hurt. Just five minutes.

---

Fred lay awake on his bed, staring up at the ceiling for merlin knows how long. That weird feeling in his stomach didn’t go away, something just felt extremely off. Fred checked the watch located on the table beside his bed. It was pretty late; he’d been awake for at least a couple hours. Knowing that he wasn’t going to be getting any sleep anytime soon, Fred threw the covers from his body and gently got out of bed, careful to not wake any of his sleeping roommates.

By the time he made it down to the bottom of the stairs, he was already wishing to be back in bed, however, what he saw made him stop in his tracks. You were still there, this time unmoving with your head resting on your arms and your deep and even breathing. Why were you still here and not in bed? As carefully as he could, Fred walked over to your sleeping self and gently laid a hand on your shoulder squeezing just enough to rouse you.

After a few more gentle squeezes you started to stir awake. Fred almost felt bad for waking you, but he knew that you would have a much better time sleeping in an actual bed than a desk. You lifted your head and Fred couldn’t help to admire the sheer adorableness of your sleepy form. Your hair was dishevelled and sticking up in a few places, your cheek was red from where it was resting and the tiny noises that came from you whilst you stretched. However, as much as he’d love to stare, he knew he had to take care of you, or at least get you to bed.

Once you had done stretching, you looked around the table until your eyes landed on an arm, which trailed all the way to Fred’s face. You were taken aback at suddenly seeing his face next to yours, but you quickly calmed down upon looking into his soft eyes, the glow of the fire making his brown orbs look more alive and opening.

“Hey,” Fred said, a small smirk appearing at the corner of his lips.

“Hi,” you smile back. For a moment, when you looked into his eyes, you felt warm, like you were safe, you always did. You loved Fred, you loved him so much but often at times you caught yourself doubting whether or not you deserved to be with him, and each and every time Fred did his absolute best to prove your thoughts wrong. Looking into his eyes, you just get that feeling... the feeling of coming home to a warm bed after a cold day. Sometimes, you feel as if your heart might explode from the amount of love you have for him, you couldn’t even out into words. But that warm and safe feeling was quickly diminished and replaced with dread once you looked down to the mess that was sitting on the table. Darn this stupid assignment.

“Crap, I can’t believe I fell asleep!” you groan as you shuffled through some of the parchment, trying to find the one you needed.

“Hey, hey, hey, slow down there” Fred placed his hand on top of yours, trying to stop your erratic movements. “Don’t you think it’s time to take a bit of a break? It’s nearly two a.m.”

“Fred, I can’t just ‘take a break’, I’ve got too much to do,”

“And it’ll all still be here after you’ve had some sleep,”

You released a groan in frustration and turned to face him, your irritation getting the better of you. “Don’t you get it? That’s the problem!” your voice started to rise with each word, the stress and lack of sleep catching up to you. “If I stop now then I’ll fall behind and I just can’t let that happen, ok? So just back off.”

“Hey,” Fred grabbed your cheeks in both his hands and guided your face, so you were looking at him. Seeing your widened eyes and reddened cheeks concerned him, as this was just so unlike you. What happened to this happy-go-lucky and incredibly bubbly person go? The person who had the purest soul than anyone he knew? You just looked... tired. He knew he had to tread carefully here if we wanted to crack all your walls to understand what the hell is going on.

You moved your hands up to try and remove his from his face, but his grip tightened ever so slightly to make your attempts futile. “Look, I’m worried about you. All this,” he tilted his head to the side to gesture to everything on the table. “it isn’t like you. Please don’t hide away, because you know I’m here for you.”

You both stayed silent for a minute, his hands holding your cheeks and yours resting on his forearms. Then suddenly, out of nowhere, you just crumbled. Your face scrunched up and your breathing became erratic as you looked down to hide your face from Fred’s gaze. You leaned forward so your head was resting against his chest, letting out a few silent sobs as you just... broke. At the sight of your crying figure, Fred immediately jumped into action. He removed his hands from your face and wrapped his arms around your waist, carrying you over so you sat in his lap. One of his hands trailed up to stroke your head as his other maneuvered your legs so they wrapped around his torso, your head pushing further into his shoulder.

You reached up and wrapped your arms around his neck, trying to get as close to him as possible. You just needed the warmth that constantly surrounded him. After a few minutes of tears and whisperings of sweet nothings into your ear along with Fred’s comforting touch, your breathing started to return to normal, and your sobs turned into the occasional hiccup. You weren’t really expecting to have a total breakdown, you honestly thought that you had things under control, but when you looked and Fred and he looked at you, you knew you couldn’t keep everything bottled up anymore.

Fred was the first to break the silence, “d’you wanna move to the couch? It'll be comfier”. The only response he got was a small nod of your head, you not really being able to trust your voice enough to speak. So, Fred stood up with you still wrapped in his arms as he carried you over to the couch in front of the fire, grabbing the spare blanket and wrapping it around you and himself. It was like a nice little cocoon of comfort and warmth.

And for a while, you two stayed like that, basking in the silence and the warmth the fire provided. You knew you needed to say something, you just didn’t know what exactly you could say. Fred was in the same boat. Should he make a joke to try and make you feel better? That always did the trick. But... something about tonight just told him to leave it on the backburner for now. He slid his arm underneath the blanket and stroked up and down the expanse of your back, hoping to relax your tense muscles. Occasionally Fred would turn his head to place delicate kisses on your forehead, cheeks, nose... basically anywhere his lips could find.

God... what did you do to desrve someone like him? Someone so boisterous and loud, but also understanding and gentle when he needed to be. As the minutes ticked by, and Fred’s hands continuously moving across your body, you finally found the courage to speak up.

“Sometimes I just feel like...” you trailed off, trying to find the right words.

“like?”

“like nothing is going to be ok. Like no matter how hard I try, or pretend, I’m not going to be ok,” your voice caught in your throat as you buried your head into his shoulder, a weak attempt to shield yourself from the world threatening to beat you down. A silent tear trailed down the side of your face, but you hadn’t made any attempt to wipe it away.

Fred sighed through his nose, and he swore a piece of his heart cracked when your voice did. He knew you were struggling with something, but he was just never sure of what or how bad it was. He only wished he could just take all your pain away, even force it upon himself if it meant that you’d get the chance to be happy.

“Oh love, I had no idea. I’m so sorry”

“It’s okay...” you half-shrug your shoulder, removing one of your arms from around his neck to quickly wipe the corner of your eye “no one really knew, so it’s fine”

There was a moment of silence as the both of you tried to catch up with your thoughts, until Fred finally spoke up, a strain in his voice, “no, it’s not fine. I hate that you’re feeling like this. Please, is there anything I can do to help you?”

You shrug your shoulder again. To be completely honest, you weren’t even sure if there was anything he could do. You've barely even figured out what you can do for yourself. However, there was one thing you knew you needed, the one thing that could help you through anything. “Just be here, and hold me?”

Fred placed his lips to your forehead, leaving them there for a bit as he gave a gentle kiss. He breathed deeply through his nose and spoke the words against your forehead. “for you, my love, anything.”

With those final words and his fingers slowly tracing up and down your arm, you felt for the first time, that maybe, just maybe, things might turn out ok.

-----

whew and there we go!!! My first fic completed!! I honestly have no self control when it comes to word limits, my teachers hate me for that... oopsies! anyways I hope you all enjoyed that, if you guys liked my work feel free to send in any requests!

Reblogs and comments are greatly appreciated!!

- Mills

#fred weasley x reader #fred weasley x you #fred weasley imagine #harry potter #sad vibes #soft boi #harry potter imagine #george weasley #george weasley x reader #george weasley imagine #reader insert

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nitrateglow · 3 years

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My bottom five new-to-me movies of 2020

2020 sucked. So did these movies. Before I do my customary top 20 favorite movie discoveries list, I wanted to share five very special new-to-me movies that were painful to watch. Forgive me if it all sounds like ranting. It probably is.

(And remember-- if you like any of these movies, that’s fine. I am not attacking YOU. I just didn’t like a movie. I know this is a stupid disclaimer to put on a list of opinions, but combing the venomous old IMDB message boards has me on edge a bit lol.)

Star Wars Episode IX: The Rise of Skywalker

Whether you love the sequel trilogy or hate it, everyone pretty much agrees this movie was a mess. I thought no movie could have a more structurally unsound screenplay than The Crimes of Grindelwald, but Rise of Skywalker gives it staunch competition. It creates a new artform from making things up as the plot requires: new powers for Rey, new Macguffins to pursue, new motivations and backstories for characters.

I admit I dislike The Last Jedi. I dislike it a lot, actually, and it appears JJ Abrams did too from the amount of retconning he does here (Rey isn’t nobody! Honest, guys!). But you can’t backtrack THAT much. Either plot out your entire trilogy before shooting the first film or play fairly with the cards you were dealt by the filmmakers of movie two.

If anything, these movies have become a cautionary tale about not having a plan when making a movie trilogy. Now, George Lucas didn’t really have one either when he was making the original trilogy, but in that case, he wasn’t even sure the first movie was going to be a modest hit, let alone the biggest movie of the 1970s. He had an excuse and did well enough finishing the trilogy. Here, Disney knew there would be sequels, they knew they had a hungry audience, but they chose to just wing it and the results are just-- so disappointing, especially given the talented young actors and lovely special effects they had at their disposal.

The more I think about it, the more poetic the image of Palpatine hooked up to a life support system/crane is. The best ROTS can do is riff on earlier, better movies and hope our affection will make us overlook the awfulness.

Artemis Fowl

Outside of Animal Crossing, Artemis Fowl might have been the only entity to benefit (if only slightly) from the pandemic. I cannot imagine it would have been anything but a box office bomb had the theaters been open.

Artemis Fowl feels like it should have come out in 2003-- not just because the books were more prominent then, but the whole style of this film in general. In 2020, it’s positively anachronistic. The whole thing is a joyless attempt at dipping from the old Harry Potter well, with a bit of Spy Kids thrown in for good measure. Beyond that, it’s so poorly done as a whole. I have never read the Artemis Fowl books, but I watched this with a friend who has and his head near caught on fire. Apparently, it cuts out everything that made the books cool, like the protagonist basically being a kid version of a Bond villain. Here, he’s anything but that: he’s the usual bland child protagonist surrounded by a cast of slightly more interesting characters. Josh Gad seems to be the only one really trying. Judi Dench shows up and somehow gives a worse performance than whatever the hell she was doing in Cats.

I was actually shocked Kenneth Branagh of all people directed this. I generally like his films, even the less successful ones like his musical adaptation of Love’s Labors Lost. Even the uninspiring live-action Cinderella remake he helmed is at least pretty to look at-- Artemis Fowl has neither brains nor beauty to recommend it.

Bloodline

This film was intended to jumpstart a career comeback for Audrey Hepburn. This decidedly did not happen. One has to wonder what she saw in this sordid material in the first place. Maybe she really just wanted to work with director Terence Young again? Or she thought this would be a good, more modern take on her screen persona? I have no clue. All I know is that Bloodline is one of the worst big-budget Hollywood movies I have ever seen.

No contest: this is Audrey Hepburn’s worst movie. Hate on Green Mansions and Paris When It Sizzles until the stars turn to ash-- at least there was some fun camp value in them. The plot in Bloodline makes no sense, going into unrelated digressions that lead nowhere (did we really need that extended flashback about the dead father? or the subplot with Omar Shariff’s two families?). Oh and then there’s the awful sleazy snuff film subplot that’s also poorly developed and goes nowhere. Hepburn is game, but she can’t save the sinking ship. The best she can do is be charming in a terrible 70s perm.

Luckily, she made the underrated They All Laughed two years after this cinematic fecal matter bombed, so at the very least, Hepburn’s big screen swan song was a film worthy of her presence. (Hint: there will be more about that movie on my top 20 of the year list!)

Halloween III: The Season of the Witch

You all have no idea how excited I was to see this. All the mentions of it on Red Letter Media made it sound like deliriously entertaining schlock. I mean, it’s a movie in which the villain sells cursed Halloween masks that turn children’s heads into bugs and snakes! That sounds awesome! Instead, the movie is badly paced and boring: the main characters are uninteresting and the plot takes an interesting premise then does.... nothing with it. Nothing whatsoever. The second act is the cinematic equivalent of treading water. In fact, so little happens, that the filmmakers squeeze in a pointless sex scene between two character who have all the chemistry of a lit match and a bag of M&M’s.

The thing that annoys me most about this film is that it killed off a great concept: that all of the future Halloween films would be standalone stories centered around the spookiest time of the year. Unfortunately, this movie botched itself so badly that people often think the absence of Michael Meyers was the problem. It wasn’t: it was the absence of a good story.

Blindsided

This is probably the most watchable movie on this list, but that’s not saying much. A bloodless ripoff of Wait Until Dark, Blindsided is an unimaginative thriller with no thrills, humor, or interesting characters whatsoever.

The whole film is just repetitive. The situation doesn’t slowly boil to something horrific, the threat presented by the villains doesn’t escalate, there are no interesting interactions between the characters: no, here the underdeveloped protagonist is interrogated, tortured and/or sexually harassed, tries to escape, is recaptured, rinse and repeat for ninety minutes. I admit there’s some clever resourcefulness on the part of the heroine in the last scene-- but it’s basically just Wait Until Dark’s climax (down to the twist with the villain finding an alternative source of illumination for crying out loud!) without the emotional payoff that comes from slow-burn pacing or the fantastic performances, so even that’s a letdown.

I thought the movie might at least be saved by Michael Keaton as the main criminal mastermind since he’s shown he can be a great villain in other movies (if they had remade Wait in the 80s, he would have been a perfect Harry Roat Jr.), but even he seems to be phoning it in here. Beyond a scene of attempted cat murder (I’m serious-- the bad guys are so incompetent they can’t even kill a cat), there’s not even anything so bad it’s good to enjoy. Blindsided is just dull and by-the-numbers.

#thoughts

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curewhimsy · 3 years

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Symphony Saga Resonate chapter 1

I was inspired!

Notes: This fanfic is like, a middle/high school-centric fic so my OCs are all middle/high school aged here (youngest= 12, oldest= 18)

Also everyone is gonna age by 6 years eventually

AO3 link

——————

Can a dream change the world?

Can a song awaken the soul?

Does our universe truly have limits?

Why am I asking all of these questions?

We all each have a story.

We all matter.

If we all join together, how big of a miracle can we create?

The story of Resonate unfolds...

———

Queen Rainbow’s Point of View

In a world where color was scarce... wonder was draining from people’s souls, and warmth was fading from their hearts. The warmth in their smiles were waning... And soon enough, they weren’t able to truly smile any longer.

This world... was called Monochrome.

Being the furthest planet in its solar system from the sun, Monochrome was already quite a lonely place. But everything froze over when Obsidian stepped to the throne.

Monochrome was a painfully boring place, filled with progressively more boring people. It got to the point where the most boring, bitter person of all would automatically be crowned as royalty.

Her name was Obsidian, and she became the Queen of Misery. She did not believe in fun, happiness, or love. Her heart was made of coal. When she breathed out, thick black smoke would fill the air, despite her never being a smoker.

Queen Obsidian’s very existence would always pollute the air with negativity and gloom that would make people lose hope. She was so boring, that her presence would transform sugary donuts into regular old bagels with nothing on them. She was so boring, that her royal fanfare was played on a single off-key kazoo. She was so utterly dull, that she even sent Planet Monochrome into a thousand-year-long ice age after telling one terrible joke.

But worse than all that combined, the Queen of Misery was a selfish, spiteful, and joyless person.

Nobody exactly knew why, but Queen Obsidian hated music... Possibly because of how positive and fun it could potentially be, not to mention the sheer raw emotion and vibes it could could convey.

One day, Queen Obsidian heard a song. It was awful. She hated it so much, that she ordered it to be sent to the Nowhere Of Permanent Erasure Void, or “NOPE Void” for short, where it would be deleted from our reality.

Queen Obsidian wanted to erase all the universe’s music from existence this way, and for people to never make or listen to it again. Ever.

Knowing that Monochrome barely had any worthwhile tunes to get rid of, Obsidian began to target the music on other worlds.

And what better place to start than the magical, colorful planet known as Whimsica?

Whimsica, a charming, fittingly whimsical world filled with magic... It may ideally be peaceful, yet we’ve been attacked by Monochrome for years just for being so idyllic. Apparently, our bright, rainbow colors that can be seen from space are an eyesore for them.

This is also where I come in.

My name is Queen Rainbow... and I’m the Queen of Whimsica. I’m only 16 years old, which is... actually pretty old for a monarch of Whimsica, believe it or not!

Whimsica’s monarchs are usually children nowadays! That’s because we have a childish kind of “whimsy” in our hearts and an arcane sort of innocence to see the world through rainbow-tinted lenses.

A long time in the past, Whimsica had a very strict older queen who forbid the royals, even the ones in the future, from ever befriending commoners.

That queen used a spell, so if a royal was caught being friends with a commoner, they would fall into a long slumber. The length of how long they would sleep corresponded to how strong the royal‘s bond was to the commoner.

Recently, the spell was broken, however! So now I can befriend and hang out with all the common folk I want. To be honest, being that kind of queen wasn’t so great, it was a little lonely, and I always hated feeling so unapproachable... and responsible!

Well, to tell the truth, the eldest of the three princess sisters actually does most of the work. 18-year-old Celestine is the responsible and proper eldest sister. Lunette, age 16, is the middle sister, and a bit mischievous. The youngest sister is 14-year-old Stelle, and she... well... is a bit of a problem child.

Anyway. I had proposed a new course of action against what Monochrome is trying to do. The princess sisters and I, along with Celestine’s best friend Nikamowin, and even the two royal anthromorph cats, Sparkle and Twinkle, have been using our magical powers the best we could to fight against Monochrome’s Queen and royal force, and the monsters they use against us.

But I still feel we need more help. We need the help of magical musicians.

I’ve been beginning to practice making music so I could harness its positive energy and make my songs into magic that can defeat Monochrome’s negativity. Nikamowin is also a skilled singer and can use songs to help us, but I still feel we need to power of more music.

So I assigned a job to Sparkle and Twinkle. Their job now is to look for passionate musicians with pure hearts, who are interested in joining our force to help save music for the entire universe...

———

Haku Yowane’s Point of View

Location: Earth

I zipped up my backpack to the faint scent of dust around the house, tied my shoes, wiped my long bangs from my eyes, and got ready to step out the door to go to school. Another gray day.

Even though I didn’t live with her, my world felt so empty now. My heart felt so hollow.

It was the little things.

Rain pattering on the roof... once a cozy and quaint sound... now just a gloomy and sad reminder.

An old notebook... once a source of joy and closeness... now just cold and distant.

A stuffed cat... warm and beloved... now even more well-loved, and irreplaceable.

All these things I saw right before I left my house to go to school reminded me of her.

My grandmother.

She passed away three weeks ago.

Right before I began opening my door, I looked back, and saw Snowbell, the plush cat Grandma gifted me long ago, eyeing me gently from my table.

I decided I couldn’t go to school without Snowbell. I couldn’t leave her alone.

I picked up the well-loved plush and hugged her gently and sadly, and made my way out the door with her.

Snowbell was special to me.

At the age of five, I was quite meek and lonely, with a reddish nose and wobbly knees. I would catch colds often, and constantly be sniffling, which was how I earned the nickname “Sniffles”.

I was a bit odd. I had strange habits such as pretending I were a cat, even lapping milk out of a bowl at snack time. I liked to draw pictures and play make-believe at recess. I didn’t like strangers or crowds.

In school, I was usually scared and overwhelmed. Once during indoor play time, I sat in my own little corner away from everyone and drew on the walls. When my teacher found the drawings I had drawn on the walls, I got scolded. I spent the rest of the day crying and sniffling, not understanding why I was yelled at.

That was when my grandmother decided my imagination was just too big for such a little girl, so she bought me a friend, a stuffed white kitten, to talk to.

My grandma told me that Snowbell was a special friend, and she was always there to listen. So when I was sad, I would hug and talk to Snowbell and felt I wasn’t alone.

Snowbell was there for me through the good days, and the many bad days... She was there when I graduated kindergarten. She was also there shortly after, when I was six years old, when my parents divorced...

Before my parents divorced, my brother Dell and I were very close. He was technically my half-brother. My father, who I was never close with, already divorced a former wife before marrying my mother. Dell was the son of my father and his former wife. His last name was Honne, his father’s last name. My last name is Yowane, my mother’s last name.

Dell and I would always play and sing together. Even though I was clumsy and fail at his games sometimes, he was very patient and would comfort me when I cried. Sometimes my dad would randomly yell at or scold me. When that happened, Dell would always stand up to my dad and protect me. Even when my parents were fighting and yelling so loudly that I got scared, Dell and I would hide together and he would comfort me. He was truly an amazing brother.

However, when my mother and father divorced, my father insisted on taking us with him. My mother refused to let him take us. There was a huge custody battle over us, and eventually, a heartbreaking compromise was made.

Dell was going to go with my father. I was going to stay with my mother.

I just wanted us to stay together. But in the end, we couldn’t.

One morning after sleeping in, I went downstairs to see around half the furniture in the house gone and my father outside in the moving van. My dad was about to leave. He left me without saying goodbye.

But Dell... He waited until I woke up so he could say goodbye before leaving. I cried with such intensity that he turned around. His face right then shocked me. He was seven years old... but had such a grown-up expression on his face... I had never seen such an look on his face before. So much pain... yet so accepting of his fate.

He hugged me one last time without any words, until I stopped crying. Once my tears stopped, he pat my head, and made his way out the door.

I never saw my brother, my best friend, ever again.

Two years passed. I turned eight years old. My mother, now single, talking to her sister, had an idea.

My mother’s sister had a daughter, who would be my cousin. My mom noticed that without Dell, I was very lonely lately. So she proposed to my cousin and I to meet.

My cousin’s name was Miku Hatsune. She was six years old at the time. The same age I was when my parents divorced. The first thing I noticed about Miku was how cheerful she was, and how accepting she was towards me. I quickly became friends with her, and even though she came over only around once a month and I only got to see her those times, we were really close friends.

The day we first met, we played in the backyard. I was still very shy and awkward at the time.

A butterfly landed on a flower nearby, and Miku urged me to try and touch it. I did, and the butterfly flew away.

I instantly burst into tears.

“Why?” I said, through my tears. “Why does everyone leave me? Like Dell? And my dad? Why...?”

“Don’t cry, Haku...” Miku pat my head to try to cheer me up. It reminded me of when Dell pat my head to say goodbye... it kind of calmed me down.

To cheer me up even more, Miku began singing me a song. She taught it to me, and I began to sing it with her.

We began to sing together, and soon enough, we were surrounded by butterflies. We began smiling and laughing. It was a great memory.

“Miku?” I looked at her fondly. “Promise me you won’t ever leave me, okay?”

“Okay!” Miku answered, smiling.

But one day, around three years later...

My mother called her sister as usual... and every single trace of her, her husband, Miku, and even Miku’s little sister Mizu, had vanished without a trace.

When I heard this, I was devastated. I began to wait a little while... but soon it became apparent that Miku and her family were gone... maybe in a freak accident or disappearance... and weren’t ever coming back.

I remember sitting under a tree, and just crying.

After that, I really only had my grandmother. My mom was always kind of distant and neglected me emotionally.

My grandmother, however, was warm and understanding. She was also very fun and always made me smile. She was the most magical person I ever knew, because she always told me amazing stories. Sometimes I wondered how she even thought of them. I always told her perhaps she should become a writer and make them into books.

I was inspired to become a writer myself because of her. I used many of her stories as inspiration, because I thought she needed a lot of recognition. She also always wanted to be a musician, and so did I, but I was always much too shy. My grandmother couldn’t pursue music because of her health condition and age, sadly.

Now that she’s passed, I think I will try to fulfill my grandmother’s dreams in homage to her.

Thinking of these memories may have left me sad... but I’ll at least always have the precious memories of these people in my heart, even though I may never see them again. In memory of them, may I live my every day to my fullest.

#symphony saga #symphony Saga resonate #symphony Saga: resonate #my writing #utau #vocaloid #whimsica #whimsica saga #oc #ocs #fic #life of pastell #writing

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ironfidus · 4 years

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(un)breakable

Post-IW Iron Dad fanfic.

Read here on AO3 (@a_matter_of_loyalty).

☔︎

Summary:

“We all lost people,” Tony Stark says, his eyes unblinking and sad, devastated and broken, and the heavens weep.

He‘s right, of course: they all lost people they loved in the Decimation. But it isn’t until the people of Earth realize that even the greatest heroes have been transformed by grief that they finally see the severity of the situation.

(Three weeks after the Decimation that robbed the universe of 50% of its inhabitants, Tony Stark finally re-emerges in the public eye. Only this time, he doesn’t broadcast his message through a press conference, or a professional interview, but rather a televised speech from inside the gym of Midtown School of Science and Technology.)

Or, Tony Stark has everything—until he doesn’t.

☔︎

“What do you think the assembly’s going to be about?” Ned asked quietly. He sounded as curious as ever, his question still drenched in the innocent wonder he always seemed to have an abundance of, but this time his eyes were dull, miserable. His voice, too, was inherently different, no longer carrying his particular brand of cheer and excitement. Instead, his voice was joyless and muted, as if there was no one left to listen to him.

At the very least, that was how Ned felt. Ever since they’d first met in primary school, he and Peter had been inseparable. Whether he was happy, or excited, or upset, or angry, it was always Peter he vented to, rambling on and on to Peter’s seemingly unending patience. Ned had never once imagined that there would come a time when Peter wouldn’t be there to listen to him.

MJ, beside him, blinked almost uncomprehendingly at the question. “I don’t know,” she said honestly—she seemed to do that a lot more now; be honest. “A memorial service in commemoration of all the students and staff members lost, maybe. Or, knowing our school, they’ll just glaze over the Decimation and start lecturing us on safe sex as if—“

She stopped abruptly, her lips slamming shut. For a second, just a second, Ned swore he saw tears gather at the corners of her eyes. But then she blinked again, and the trace of sadness was gone.

Ned swallowed and looked away. MJ may not have been able to bring herself to say it, but he heard the rest of her words regardless: As if anything matters now, in the wake of half the universe going up in flames.

“Right,” Ned croaked out, barely able to recognize his own voice. It was a familiar feeling by now—too many times he had listened to himself speak about meaningless things to his parents over breakfast, or stared into the mirror at his red-rimmed eyes and haunted gaze, and realized he no longer knew who he was.

He hated it. He hated that losing Peter had cost him himself.

He hated that he had lost Peter at all.

“Hey, Leeds,” MJ’s voice broke through his despair. He gazed across the lunch table to find her smiling sadly at him. “You okay?”

Ned flinched at her words. What kind of a question is that? he wanted to demand, wanted to get up in her face and shake his fist and shout until the reality of their situation hit her and her nonchalance fell away. For a second, he thought of doing it, thought of throwing caution to the wind and shattering the fragile balance that had settled between them amidst Peter’s disappearance.

But the second the words gathered on his tongue, he noticed the tension laced in the hunch of her shoulders and knew he couldn’t do that to her—to either of them. He heaved a sigh, his own shoulders slumping and his anger crumbling.

Because of course he wasn’t okay. Neither of them were.

Frankly, he thought, he would be genuinely surprised if anyone on Earth was okay right now.

“I’m sorry,” Ned said, then, because he didn’t know what else to do. What words were there left to say when everything seemed lost?

MJ stiffened. Ned wondered, for a moment, if she would dismiss his apology and go back to pretending she was unscathed by the Decimation.

But she didn’t.

Instead, she smiled, a crooked smile that twisted her face and left Ned frozen, and said, “Don’t.”

Just... don’t.

Ned took in a breath. “Okay,” he said, “okay.” Sorries are useless here, Ned, he scolded himself. You know that. Stop throwing words at a problem that can’t be fixed by anything, much less worthless platitudes.

Neither of them were okay.

The other students looked at MJ and saw a heartless girl, emotionless and unbroken when everyone else seemed left in tatters. But Ned looked at MJ and saw someone who wasn’t whole: he saw the falter in her steady stride when she passed Peter’s locker every morning; he saw the furrow in her brow whenever a teacher still called out Peter Parker during attendance and was met with nothing but silence; he saw the way her eyes would dart to the empty space beside Ned every lunch period during their stilted conversations that was always missing something (someone) nowadays; he saw the strain in her expression every time she turned on her phone and was confronted with her wallpaper—Peter’s beaming face pressed between hers and Ned’s.

He saw all the ways she felt Peter’s absence.

Grief didn’t affect MJ the same way it affected Ned. But that didn’t mean she wasn’t affected.

It didn’t mean that the grief didn’t linger, in every nook and cranny of both their lives.

☔︎

When their lunch period ended with the loud, startling ringing of the bell, neither of them jumped. (They didn’t react to much these days.)

MJ simply marked her place in her book with a bookmark (gifted to her by Peter, Ned knew, god he knew), stood up slowly, and offered Ned a nod.

The show of solidarity left Ned breathless. He stared blankly up at her, and a part of him was waiting for someone to chime in with a teasing “Are you waiting for us, MJ? Aw, I always knew you cared!”

But the remark never came. He knew MJ heard it, too—the deafening silence that took up the space left behind by Peter.

Ned pushed himself to his feet eventually, noticing that everywhere around him in the cafeteria, everyone else seemed to be affected by the same sluggishness of loss. He couldn’t blame them.

Every second, he found it harder and harder to breathe in a world that was no longer home to his best friend. It was difficult, almost impossible, to find motivation when Peter used to be the one urging him along at every turn, an encouraging grin on his face.

Ned exhaled shakily and turned away from the memory. He knew if he let himself dwell on Peter now, if he let himself cry, he wouldn’t be able to stop.

“Come on, Leeds,” MJ murmured to him as he rounded the table and stood beside her. Together they stood in silence for another moment, and Ned realized all at once that he hadn’t heard MJ call him ‘loser’ since the Decimation.

He didn’t dare ask why. (He figured he already knew why, anyway. ‘Loser’ was her term of endearment for both him and Peter. It didn’t feel right to leave Peter behind and be the only one worthy of MJ’s bestowed nickname of ‘loser.’)

“I hope they don’t hold a memorial service,” Ned whispered as they crossed the cafeteria and began to head towards the gym. He didn’t know why he said it, only that he meant it. “It feels... condescending, somehow. I don’t know, I just – the other students, they...”

“They didn’t know him,” MJ finished knowingly.

Ned nodded. “They all – they didn’t see the Peter I did.” He paused. “The – the Peter we did, I mean. Sorry, MJ.”

MJ just nodded understandingly. “Yeah,” she said, her voice hushed and almost reverent. It was times like this that reminded Ned that he wasn’t the only one who’d lost Peter. MJ had, too. And – and May, oh god.

Peter had been all May had left. (Had been. The past tense was killing Ned.)

“Maybe it’ll be a Rapping with Cap video,” Ned mused, and was rewarded with a small, amused smile splitting MJ’s face. It died a second later, but he counted all the victories he could get, no matter how small they were. He had to, or he knew he would go insane.

“Maybe,” MJ agreed. “I hope it isn’t the puberty one.” Her nose scrunched up in distaste, and Ned cracked a quiet laugh.

“Oh my god, please don’t be that one,” he snickered.

All too quickly, though, the mood grew somber, their grins fading into frowns. The moment felt so incomplete without Peter there to shudder and point out that ‘the puberty PSA isn’t nearly as bad as the sex-ed one, come on guys.’

“Okay,” MJ interjected sharply, “you need to lighten up, pronto.” He just looked at her, unimpressed, and she pointed a finger at him in warning. “That’s an order, Leeds.”

Ned squinted. “Says you,” he snorted, pushing her playfully on the shoulder.

She rolled her eyes at him. “I’m the exception,” she said arrogantly, because she could.

Ned stuck his tongue out. “Conceited, much,” he snarked. “You’d think you—“

His voice died abruptly when they stopped in front of the gym. He wasn’t sure if they were some of the early ones or some of the late stragglers; he used to be able to tell by the degree of chatter and noise escaping through the tiny crack between the gym doors, but these days even a room full of teenagers could be as silent as a graveyard in the dead of night.

Ned winced. Not the best analogy at a time like this, he conceded.

“Well?” MJ’s eyebrow was arched, almost challengingly.

Ned sighed. “Let’s get this over with,” he mumbled, pushing the doors open and ducking inside.

Luckily, they weren’t too late—most of the students had already arrived, but the assembly hadn’t officially started yet and there were still a few seats left untouched. Ned and MJ quickly claimed seats of their own, Ned feeling Peter’s loss especially hard when he found himself looking for only two empty seats side-by-side instead of three.

Once they had settled in, MJ returned to her book, and Ned ended up pulling out his phone. They were both trying, so hard, but sometimes it was just too much of a struggle to pretend that Peter’s absence wasn’t affecting every minute they spent together.

They were still a team, and they still had each other’s backs—he didn’t they could ever stop having each other’s backs, not after everything they’d been through—but it was different now. And sometimes, every time he looked at her, all he saw was Peter not with them. Sometimes, when it was too hard to even try to carry on a conversation, all Ned could hear in the unbearable silence was all the words Peter would have said. All the words he would never say anymore.

Ned hated to admit it, but it was draining. (Everything was draining.)

He realized all too quickly, however, that drifting back to his phone was a mistake. He hadn’t really had the chance to aimlessly browse his phone since before the Decimation—in the past few weeks, he’d only ever used the device to call or text his family and MJ.

But his parents were busy at work, his little sister busy at school, and MJ busy beside him. Without a reason to be on his phone, Ned inevitably found himself launching his photo gallery—

—and staring down at his phone, breath stolen from his lungs.

The most recent photo in his album was of him and Peter on the bus to MoMa. They were both beaming into the camera, Ned’s eyes wide and full of excitement as he flashed a peace sign. Peter, who’d been responsible for capturing the selfie, had been mid-laughter when he took the shot, evident by the blur around his doubtlessly shaking shoulders and the way he’d thrown his head back slightly, mouth wide open in a gaping laugh.

(If Ned tried hard enough, he could practically hear Peter’s laugh echoing in his ears, fond and exasperated and too loud. He missed that laugh. He’d give anything just to hear it one more time.)

Ned didn’t remember what they’d been talking about, or why Peter had been laughing, but... God, Peter looked so carefree, liberated by joy.

(Oblivious to the fate that would befall him before the day was over.)

Before Ned could start falling to pieces over a single photo (just one out of hundreds, Jesus, thousands), his phone was snatched out of his hand. He looked to the side to come face-to-face with MJ glaring at him, shutting off his phone without a second glance. “Stop it, Leeds,” she glowered. “Don’t do this to yourself.”

Ned sniffed. “Peter loved taking pictures,” he whispered, like it was a secret. “It used to annoy me so much, how he would sometimes make us stop whatever we were doing just so he could snap a photo of us.”

(“Come on, Ned,” Peter cajoled, eyes bright with laughter. “It’ll only take a minute.”

“More like ten,” Ned grumbled, jabbing Peter’s ribcage accusingly. “I know you, Parker.”

Peter grinned sheepishly. “Please?” he tried. When Ned didn’t budge, he whined, “Look at it, Ned—it looks like it belongs in a museum! It’d be a crime to just walk past it.”

“It’s graffiti, Peter,” Ned deadpanned, unamused.

“Good graffiti,” Peter argued.

“No.”

“Just one picture, I’m begging you.”

“No!”

“...please?”)

MJ was breathing heavily. “Leeds—“

“I want to get mad at him for taking photos of me when I’m not ready again,” Ned blurted out, remembering all too well Peter’s protests of but it’s called a candid, Ned, you’re not supposed to be ready in response to Ned’s complaints.

MJ froze, her grip tightening on her book until the papers creased around her fingers.

Ned didn’t seem to notice. Now that he’d started, he couldn’t swallow down the rest: “I want to roll my eyes at him for making me stop eating just so he can photograph our food first. I want to take another stupid selfie of us in front of some random statue or other. God, MJ, I’d take anything. I just – I want him back. I want him here so I can yell at him and joke around with him and gossip about how Star Wars is better than Star Trek and be his guy in the chair. I want to make fun of his dumb science pun t-shirts—”

MJ snorted at that, the spike of amusement muting the anguish for a brief moment, her mutter of ‘you wear the same lame t-shirts, Leeds’ falling on deaf ears.

The moment passed, and MJ had to redirect her focus to keeping her tears at bay.

“I want to ask him a thousand and one questions about his crime-fighting alter-ego. I want to get mad at him for leaving footprints on my ceiling. I want to tease him about Liz. I want to build LEGOs with him. I want to have a seven-hour Star Wars movie marathon in his tiny bedroom. I want to... I want to pretend to be annoyed with him when he steals one of my sandwiches during lunch.”

Ned stopped suddenly. MJ was silently glad for the reprieve—all the memories she’d tried to hold back of Peter were flooding to the surface, and she didn’t know what would happen when they broke through.

“I just want my best friend back,” Ned said finally, brokenly. “That’s—that’s all I want, MJ.”

“Yeah,” MJ said hoarsely, wide-eyed and trembling minutely. “Yeah, me too.”

Ned squeezed his eyes shut. “Fuck,” he whispered. “Fuck. I don’t know if I can—“

He was cut off by the lights turning off suddenly. He froze, startled, and was privately relieved that he had been interrupted before he could confess that he was lost without Peter. MJ doubtlessly already knew it, but it made it feel less real, somehow, if he didn’t admit it to himself.

On the makeshift stage, Principal Morita took a few steps forward and gripped the edges of the wooden podium. “Good afternoon, students,” he greeted into the silence. Even he seemed less cheery than usual. “I’m sure you’re all wondering what’s keeping you from your last classes of the day.”

When MJ held out Ned’s phone, it took Ned more than a few seconds to realize she meant to hand it back to him. Ned pocketed it without a word, chest still heaving from the effort of his rant, eyes still stinging with the thought of Peter.

“To be honest,” Principal Morita carried on, “I had no intention of calling an assembly when I woke up this morning. But before lunch, I received a very interesting phone call.” He paused, briefly, and the smallest of smiles crept up his face. There was an uncanny excitement there that Ned hadn’t seen in what seemed like forever.

Whatever this assembly was for, it was clearly something big.

“So it is with immense pleasure that I introduce our guest speaker today. Truthfully, I’m not quite sure myself why he’s chosen our humble school to make his first public appearance in – in weeks, but for some reason, he has.”

Ned and MJ exchanged a wary glance. Guest speaker? Public appearance? Ned mouthed at MJ, who looked just as confused until she glanced around the gym and finally realized that students and faculty members weren’t the only ones present. She gaped, stunned, and nudged Ned until he, too, followed her line of sight and spotted the crowd of reporters and cameramen gathered to one side of the gym.

“Who the hell...” MJ whispered.

The rest of her question went unspoken, but she didn’t have to wonder for long—seconds later, the principal grinned proudly and spoke into the microphone, “Without further ado, I’d like to call Tony Stark, owner of Stark Industries and Iron Man himself, to the stage.”

Ned’s jaw dropped. MJ’s book nearly fell out of her lap. And all around them, dozens of students came to life with hushed whispers that weren’t hushed at all.

Indeed, not two seconds later, Tony Stark sauntered onto the stage and met Principal Morita at the center. Principal Morita held out his hand hopefully, and Mr. Stark indulged him; Morita looked dazed the entire time they shook hands.

“Thank you for arranging this on such short notice,” Iron Man said eloquently, his charming words a jarring contrast to the solemn mood that had preceded his entry.

The effect of Tony Stark’s presence was immediate: the cloud of misery seemed to lift from the crowd, replaced by excited chatter and awe-filled stares.

Even now, amid the fallout of the world’s end, the public loved Tony Stark.

The billionaire smoothly replaced Principal Morita behind the podium, turning to smile at the audience. His familiar sunglasses were already perched on his face, and his signature smirk ready for the cameras—the same cameras that immediately set off with endless flashes and shuttering noises as the press began taking pictures of Tony Stark for the first time since he disappeared into a spaceship weeks earlier.

(The world hadn’t even known Tony Stark was back, Ned remembered, until Stark Industries’ CEO Pepper Potts released an official statement over a week following the Decimation. Evidently, he’d clawed his way back to Earth and landed in Wakanda, welcomed by the mourning and newly-crowned Queen Shuri.)

Mr. Stark tolerated the flashing cameras for a minute longer before he held up a single hand. Almost immediately, the audience obediently fell silent, and the cameramen stopped snapping photos of the billionaire.

The influence he held over them all was undeniable.

“Thank you,” Mr. Stark said again when everyone had complied with his non-verbal command.

Ned felt his jaw unhinge for the second time in five minutes. Now that the excess noise had died, he could hear Mr. Stark all too clearly, and he sounded... he sounded so different. In all of Mr. Stark’s extensive record of interviews, press conferences, and public appearances, Ned had never heard him this subdued.

In that moment, Tony Stark sounded just like anyone else: lost, broken, grieving.

But Ned knew, just as the rest of the world did, that Pepper Potts was alive. And so was Colonel Rhodes. Even Mr. Stark’s Head of Security, Mr. Happy (as Peter loved to call him), had survived the Decimation.

To everyone else, it would appear as if Tony Stark’s found family was still whole and complete.

Ned realized otherwise. His heart lurching to his throat, his mind flashed to Peter without his permission, to his best friend’s contagious grins and giddy laughter and uncontrollable rambling (Oh my god, Ned, you won’t believe what happened on patrol yesterday—I was caught up in this gang fight, and the men had guns and knives and everything and – and they had a dog, a dog, Ned! He was so brown and furry and cute and I just wanted to hug him, I—), and he wondered if Tony felt Peter’s loss the same way Ned did—like a gaping wound, an amputated limb, a missing heart.

And then, faster than the audience could react, Mr. Stark reached up to take off his sunglasses in one swift move, and Ned figured he must.

Because the man staring back at him was not Tony Stark. He couldn’t possibly be Tony Stark.

Tony Stark was untouchable, infallible, unmovable. Tony Stark was proud and witty and sarcastic and arrogant to a fault.

(“Peter, are you okay?” Ned asked urgently. His friend’s dazed eyes and trembling hands made him more than a little uneasy. “Is it... one of those days?” Is it a sensory overload? was what he didn’t say. He didn’t need to—they both knew it was what he meant.

Peter blinked, stuck in a haze that didn’t seem to want to let him go. “I – no,” he shook his head. “No, it’s...”

He hesitated.

Ned’d heart plummeted to his feet. How bad did it have to be, he wondered, that Peter didn’t want to tell him?

Peter told him everything.

Five minutes later, long after Ned had lost any hope of getting a real answer, Peter twisted the thick fabric of his sweater in his hands and whispered, as if he still couldn’t believe it himself, “It’s Mr. Stark.”

Ned sucked in a breath. He didn’t know Tony Stark as well as Peter did—all he knew was what Peter told him.

But Peter had always painted ‘Mr. Stark’ out to be a hero, resilient and strong-willed and indomitable.

Today, though, Peter stared at him through bleary eyes and confessed, “He’s not okay, Ned. He—he had a panic attack yesterday and I was there and I didn’t know what to do, I—“

Ned gathered Peter into his arms wordlessly, pretending he couldn’t feel the wetness that immediately soaked into his t-shirt.

“I don’t know how to help him,” Peter gasped through a muffled sob. “He’s not—he’s not the Tony Stark the public sees. He’s not the heartless monster everyone makes him out to be.”

Ned closed his eyes and drew Peter in closer. He didn’t tell Peter it would be okay, because he didn’t know if that would be the truth.

“He’s – he’s hurting, Ned,” Peter stuttered. “He’s been hurting for a long time.”

Listening to Peter cry into his shirt, Ned felt his chest tighten with fear, and he had to ask himself:

If the heroes are all out there saving us, then who’s saving them?)

The man standing on that stage today was anything but emotionless, Ned realized. The tinted sunglasses had hidden Mr. Stark from the world before, but now, with them hanging loosely from Mr. Stark’s fingers, everyone could see the exhaustion weighing down his gaze, the tired lines framing his forehead, the red that colored his eyes with the telltale sign of grief.

Mr. Stark had never looked more vulnerable.

Naturally, because the press was full of the type of vultures MJ so often complained about, the cameramen and paparazzi impulsively began snapping photos again, rude and obtrusive. Ned expected Mr. Stark to immediately put his sunglasses (read: his shield) back on, but he didn’t.

He didn’t even seem to fully register everyone’s reactions. Instead, the expression on his face was dazed, unseeing even though his eyes were wide open.

(Ned knew the feeling. All too well.)

When the commotion finally died a second time two minutes later, Mr. Stark leaned towards the mic and started speaking, his eyes dark for a reason other than the dim lighting.

☔︎

Everything—everyone—was so loud. Tony had never hated high school more than he did then, walking up to the stage and greeting Peter’s principal with a handshake and a “thank you.”

He hated it even more when the same cameras he’d been accustomed to his whole life snapped more photos of him than they had in months.

After he removed his sunglasses, it took the press even longer to calm down. Personally, Tony wanted to scream at them all. He felt like his world had ended, and yet all they cared about was who could take the best (or worst) photo of him to spread to everyone in the states.

It made him more than a little uncomfortable, staring into an ocean of Peter’s peers and ruthless reporters, knowing that they were all staring back at him. Knowing that they could all see him for the hollow shell of a man he was now.

He felt so exposed.

But even though every whisper felt like another dagger stabbing into the still-healing wound Thanos had carved into him, Tony couldn’t bring himself to re-armor himself with his sunglasses. He wasn’t doing this for himself, after all.

He was here for Peter. Peter, who’d admired him unquestioningly and called him his hero. Peter, who’d always been thrilled to spend time with Tony even if only in the lab, geeking out over all the newest technology. Peter, who was so smart and so kind and so selfless and – and just so much better than everyone (than him).

Peter, who deserved so much more than the ending he got. Who deserved to be seen as the hero he was. Who deserved to be remembered.

(Tony would always remember him. He didn’t think he could forget.)

Tony had been lying to the media his entire life, but Peter was worth more than another deception. Peter was worth everything, and Tony wanted nothing more than to give him exactly that.

Standing here in front of dozens of impressionable teens, preparing to pour his heart out about the boy who’d snuck into his life and into his heart, Tony knew he couldn’t pretend. He couldn’t just hide behind a pair of sunglasses and play Peter’s death off as anything less than the end of his universe.

(Thanos had thought that he was only taking 50% of the universe when he snapped his fingers, but he’d been wrong. Because Thanos had taken the entirety of his.)

It was with Peter’s selflessness in his mind that Tony took a breath and began:

“I’m sure you’ve all noticed that everywhere around the world, people began to fade three weeks ago. The Avengers and I have been calling it The Snap, but word on the street is people are referring to it as the Decimation. I suppose the Decimation is more accurate, given the sheer magnitude of all we’ve lost.”

Tony quieted for a moment, trying to ignore all the cameras pointed at him, undoubtedly recording his every word. But this wasn’t for the cameras. It wasn’t for the rest of the world.

It was for Peter, who was already dead and gone. Who’d already moved on, yet Tony couldn’t seem to do the same.

“I know you’re all looking for an explanation,” he said. “For an answer to why. But the truth is, I don’t have one for you. All I can tell you is this: three weeks ago, we fought a beast who called himself the Mad Titan. Thanos. The monster responsible for killing 50% of all life in the universe, and destroying the lives of all those who remain.”

50% of all living creatures. In the universe.

Tony could practically feel the horror of his audience. He’d been fighting off the same horror ever since Titan.

And he knew—he knew—that everyone watching him could also hear the words he didn’t say: We lost. The Avengers failed.

It was their fault. His fault, because what nobody else knew was that Strange had given up the Time Stone, which had been instrumental to Thanos’s victory, in exchange for Tony’s life.

Tony still didn’t get why. He wasn’t worth it. He wasn’t worth more than half the universe. More than Peter.

(It should have been him.)

“In the aftermath, the rest of the world has been trying to move on, and I don’t blame you. It seems impossible, after all, to reverse a situation like this. But no matter how slim our chances, I can’t move on,” he exhaled raggedly. He paused, let his gaze fall briefly to the floor, and then straightened his posture, staring fiercely at the audience, mimicking a confidence he did not feel. “Along with the rest of the Avengers, a few warriors from across the galaxy, and Queen Shuri of Wakanda who has been generous enough to lend us her help and her lab, I’ve been trying to find a solution.”

All movement in the gym careened to a halt, shock and disbelief filling the air. Around the globe, everyone else watching Tony Stark’s speech stilled in much the same way.

A solution? they all asked themselves. Is it possible?

“And I’m not asking you to believe me,” Tony continued. “I’m not asking any of you to have faith that we will succeed. I’m not asking you all to get your hopes up if you don’t trust what I’m saying. But what I am doing is telling you that the Avengers will do whatever it takes to get back all the people we’ve lost. All the people we didn’t get to say goodbye to.”

He smiled then, grim and mirthless.

“We call ourselves the Avengers because if we can’t save the people we love, then at the very least we’ll fight to avenge them,” he broke off, stumbling over silence for a belated moment.

The people we love. His words echoed in his mind. Love, love, love—

Peter.

He loved Peter. His kid.

“But this time, revenge isn’t enough,” Tony snapped back to himself, pulling himself together long enough to glare into the nearest camera, imagining Thanos on the other side. “I refuse to allow Thanos to take half of our people from us.”

The crowd’s murmurs grew louder.

“So I promise you all”—Tony swallowed, remembering his last promise (to Peter), remembering hitched sobs and quivering hands and shallow breaths and you’re alright, remembering that the last thing he’d ever said to Peter Parker was a lie—“the Avengers will find a way.”

The cameras went wild. The reporters did, too, jumping up into his line of sight over and over again, trying to catch his attention, roaring question upon question at him.

The students and the teachers—they were left in silence, staring at him with a worshipping kind of wonder that reminded him all too vividly of Peter.

(Peter used to look at him like he’d hung the moon and the stars all for him. What Peter didn’t know was that if that were the case, then he was only capable of doing so because he had Peter.)

For you, Peter. “We’ll find a way,” he repeated. “We’ll get them back, however long it takes.”

He let the claim settle for a few seconds before nodding once, sharp and certain, and pointing at the first reporter.

In the end, it only took four reporters to get to the question he’d always known was coming.

“Kelly Robinson, from the New York Bulletin. Mr. Stark, your fiancée made it clear that the press was to leave you alone following your return to Earth because you were heavily injured. Given the losses we all faced, and the personal wounds you already received, why haven’t you given up? What are you still fighting for?”

Tony’s facade of growing confidence immediately collapsed at her words, crumbling into dust the same way Peter had. How could he stay strong in the face of those questions?

What are you still fighting for?

Steve had asked him the same thing, after he’d woken up in the med-bay to the concerned stares of the Rogue Avengers. Clint, too, had been curious, Tony had known.

After all, in their eyes, Tony hadn’t lost anyone. He still had all the people he loved—Pepper, Rhodey, Happy.

He’d walked through fire and come out on the other side unscathed.

(Except he hadn’t.)

At the time, Tony had recoiled away from the question. He’d frozen up and refused to answer, hearing his heartbeat grow louder and quicker and more panicked through the machine hooked to his heart.

And Steve and Clint both had taken one look at the tears in his eyes, the desperation with which he’d clutched his chest, and the insanity in his stare, and wisely stopped asking.

They’d realized he was determined to see this through, and it had been enough.

Tony knew the press wouldn’t be so kind.

What are you still fighting for?

He didn’t answer her question, not immediately and not directly. He knew she wouldn’t get it.

None of them would.

He needed them to understand. To see just how good a person Peter had been.

(Too good for this world.)

“My name is Tony Stark,” he said instead, “and I am Iron Man. I’m sure you’re all wondering why I need to say that—you all know who I am, after all.” Tony cracked a smile, but it was weak and the joke fell flat. No one laughed—it wasn’t funny, not anymore.

“But today, standing here in the gym of Midtown School of Science and Technology, I am not that man at all. I am not Tony Stark—Genius, Billionaire, Playboy, Philanthropist. I am not Iron Man, the superhero, the Avenger. Frankly”—his voice was bitter, venomous—“I don’t feel like a hero at all these days.”

He broke off into a chuckle that was more pained than amused.

He sought out Kelly Robinson amongst the reporters, locking eyes with her until she flinched and stepped backwards uncertainly. “Today,” he began, and though his voice was quiet, it still carried over the silence, “I am just another man who’s been hit by an unimaginable tragedy.”

Robinson’s eyes widened. Tony didn’t have to look around to know that everyone else’s did, too.

“We all—“ Tony stopped, stumbling over words and choking back his grief. “We all lost too much in the Decimation,” his voice was strangled, nothing at all like what they knew of him.

They were beginning to think they didn’t know him at all.

“Three weeks ago,” he started over, “some of you lost friends, some of you lost family. Some of you lost your mother, your father, your brothers and sisters. Three weeks ago, I—“

He breathed in a desperate gasp that didn’t seem to fill his lungs with air, feeling the ground crack and splinter beneath his feet, the air grow cold to his skin, the world start to crash around his ears.

His composure broke apart at the seams.

“Three weeks ago,” he repeated, a whisper of loss, “I lost – I lost my kid.”

And the world stopped spinning.

Tony found Robinson’s eyes again. He pretended not to notice the ashen complexion of her face, or the regret in her eyes.

None of that mattered.

“You asked me why I still fight.” His words punched through the curtain of silence, cutting like the serrated edge of a knife. “The answer is simple.”

He smiled, lips curling to reveal teeth, a vengeful snarl. Thanos would pay.

“I fight for him. I fight for the smile on his face. I fight for movie marathons and game nights and afternoons in the lab.” He shoved his fists into his pockets, not caring that he was making the expensive fabric crease and crumple, ruining the lines of his suit. His PR managers would have a field day with that. “I fight for the day I can hold him in my arms again and tell him I love him.”

If he’d thought the crowd had been loud before, it was nothing compared to the noise they emitted now, screaming over one another to be heard. And yet despite the cacophony of sounds, it was Ned’s gasp and quiet holy shit Tony heard, his voice deafening to Tony’s ears after all the ridiculous videos Peter had shown him of he and Ned doing stupid things.

Tony found Ned easily, Peter’s best friend a familiar face to him even though they had personally only ever met once. Ned looked devastated.

Tony flinched. God, he should have approached Ned personally first, should have gotten over his own fears and told Ned the truth of what had happened.

Ned deserved better than finding out Peter had died in a speech open to the rest of the world. (It was one thing to suspect Peter had been Dusted. It was another thing entirely to have it confirmed.)

I’m sorry, Ned.

He was such a coward. He’d almost been too afraid to tell even May. It had taken him almost two weeks to remind himself she had the right to know. It was the least he‘d owed her.

He’d been terrified of her lashing out at him, even though he knew he would have deserved it. But Peter’s aunt... she was even stronger than he’d realized.

It was no wonder Peter loved her so much, Tony had realized when he’d finally let the words he died fall from his mouth like a confession. Because May had thanked him.

Her nephew, the last of her family, had died and she had thanked him, as if he deserved anything more than her wrath—

(“Thank you for being there,” May whispered, her eyelashes thick with tears. “If it couldn’t have been me, I’m glad it was you who held him as he—“ she flinched and cut herself off. Shaking her head, she finished, “I’m sure he was glad, too.”

“No,” Tony’s voice was hoarse. “No. He begged, he begged—“

“He looked up to you.” May’s smile was a sad, lonely thing, dripping of misery and defeat. “You were his hero.”

“I couldn’t save him.”

May swallowed and looked away. In the quiet stillness of the Parker residence, Tony’s voice was quiet, small, broken. It was nothing like the confident facade of the great Tony Stark, smirk ever-present for the cameras.

May knew that this, here, was the real Tony Stark. The Tony Stark who loved her nephew, who told Peter jokes when he was upset, who bought Peter new shoes and jackets and backpacks no matter how profusely both Parkers tried to deny him, who guided Peter into the life he deserved.

“He believed in me,” Tony’s hands were shaking, violently, “he had faith in me and I failed him, God, I—“

The Tony Stark who was always trying to give parts of himself away to save the people he cared about.

“It’s not your fault,” she shook her head, even though grief and anger burned in her throat, itching to reveal themselves in a hail of thunderous words aimed at the man she’d trusted to protect her boy. She wanted to be mad, God did she want to (because if she wasn’t angry, then she would have to dwell on the despair and she didn’t think she was strong enough for that), but the look in Tony’s eyes made her stop.

He was just as devastated as she was. He lost Peter, too, she realized.

“I’m sorry,” Tony said, a stuttered gasp, and May closed her eyes.

“It’s not your fault,” she repeated, more slowly and with more conviction this time. She knew he wouldn’t believe her, but she needed to say it anyway—part of her knew she was only trying to convince herself. “You... you weren’t just a hero to him, Tony Stark. You made him into the hero he was, too. You inspired him to be brave and uphold the mantle of Spider-Man even when he felt powerless. He was strong because of you. Because you gave him purpose.”

“I didn’t deserve him,” Tony whispered, soft and sure.

May didn’t say that she doubted either of them deserved Peter.

Instead, she shuffled forward and wrapped her arms around his shoulders, drawing him close. It should have felt uncomfortable, her hugging Tony Stark, but it didn’t. Because this wasn’t really Tony Stark.

This was just Tony, someone who was grieving just as she was.

Tony choked back a cry and let her hold him up, let her support him like he might drown without her there to keep him above water. “I miss him,” he said honestly, “so, so much.”

Tears stung at the backs of her eyelids. She ignored them. “I know,” she whispered hoarsely. “I know.”

She didn’t tell him she missed Peter, too. She didn’t have to—Tony already knew she did.)

So. May had thanked him.

She had thanked him and then she’d fixed him a cup of tea and a horrible meatloaf that had reminded him of the first time he met Peter and he’d ended up crying all over her again.

She had thanked him and then she’d pressed a framed photograph of him and Peter into his shaking hands (“That boy loved you so much,” she whispered, a wistful smile clinging to her lips the same way tears clung to her eyelashes, and Tony stared at the picture like he’d seen a ghost, a ghost with the most adorable brown curls and the happiest, happiest eyes and an innocent grin and two fingers sticking up from behind Tony’s head in an imitation of bunny ears and – and Tony couldn’t do anything but stare), pretending not to see the way Tony had to choke back a sob when she told him keep it, he would have wanted you to have it.

She had thanked him and then she’d gathered him into another hug, warm and engulfing, and whispered bring our boy back, Stark into his hair and he’d known, he’d known, he couldn’t fail her.

He couldn’t fail Peter.

And yet, when the door had swung closed between them, locking shut with a solemn click that had left Tony breathless and weak in the knees, mind struggling to wrap around the sheer finality he’d heard in that sound, Tony had collapsed against the door and realized he was already failing Peter again.

He was failing Peter by giving up. He was failing Peter by hiding away with nothing but himself, a seemingly endless supply of liquor, and his own goddamn fears to keep him company. He was failing Peter by burying his head in the sand and turning away from the world that needed heroes, especially in a time like this.

He was failing Peter by not doing everything he could to bring him back.

…Tony was tired of letting Peter down.

Happy had arrived to shepherd him away like he was a lost soul desperately in need of guidance, and Tony had let himself wallow in his grief for only the hour it took to drive back upstate before he’d picked himself up, gathered the shattered pieces of himself in his bleeding hands, and called Peter’s principal with an unprecedented request.

It was time he let Peter’s death bolster him rather than cripple him. His kid was counting on him.

☔︎

There seemed to be no end to the noise. Everyone had something to say.

It was so overwhelming that Ned couldn’t, in fact, hear a word of it. He doubted anybody else could, either.

In the wake of Tony Stark’s—he’s Iron Man, Peter, Iron Man!—admission, it felt as though everyone in the entire gym (and perhaps everyone in the entire country) had been sent to their feet, gasping and exclaiming excitedly to their friends and bellowing questions of disbelief.

Ned and MJ were the only ones whispering.

“Holy crap,” MJ said eloquently, having given up on her usually robotic composure after Tony Stark first took off his sunglasses. “Well shit.”

“You don’t think...?” Ned trailed off.

MJ’s eyes were blown so wide open it would have been comical if Ned wasn’t sure the size of his own eyes rivalled hers. “Peter?” she asked, needlessly.

They exchanged a look. They were both thinking the same thing: Who else could it be?

“Oh, my god,” Ned breathed. “Oh, my god.”

“Peter fucking Parker,” MJ muttered. “Damn. Of course Peter is the one person who can make Anthony Edward Stark admit he loves him in front of the whole world.”

MJ laughed, then, sharp and loud, drenched in torment. Ned watched, concerned, as her chuckles grew less amused and more hysterical, her eyes tearing up despite herself.

“Of-fucking-course.”

“MJ—”

“It should make me feel better,” she cut him off before he could say anything more—not that he even knew what he’d been about to say, “knowing that so many people cared about Peter. Knowing that we aren’t the only ones who miss him. Knowing that even Peter’s hero is grieving for him.”

It should, MJ had said. Should.

(‘Should’ applied to a lot of things.

Peter should be alive.

Ned should be able to hug his best friend after school.

Queens should still have its favorite web-slinging vigilante out keeping the streets safe at night.

But none of those things were true.)

“It should make me feel better,” MJ repeated, tonelessly. The hysteria in her voice had died, but remnants of it remained in her eyes, opaque and unnoticeable.

Ned noticed.

“But it doesn’t,” she said. “It just makes it all harder.”

Ned didn’t reply. He didn’t have to for MJ to know he agreed.

“Peter’s still dead,” MJ whispered.

Those three words made up the saddest sentence Ned had ever heard. He immediately wished he would never have to hear it again, but even then, even as he recoiled away from MJ as if struck, he knew he would—in his nightmares, in his daydreams, in the recesses of his mind where the voices refused to shut up.

Peter’s still dead.

Peter’s still fucking dead.

Ned wanted to scream at MJ—at everyone—to leave him alone. Instead he swallowed down the urge, felt it go down his throat like shards of glass, and turned back to the stage. “I want to hear what else he has to say,” was all Ned said.

MJ said nothing. After all, what else was there to say?

(Nothing. There were no words at all, not for this.)

Ned drew his knees up to his chest and wished he was seven and innocent again, giggling with Peter over his new Star Wars figurines under the green-tinted lights of the glow-in-the-dark star cutouts decorating his ceiling.

(He wished the stars would shine again for him.

But the stars had long vanished, and with them, so had their light.)

All there was left for Ned to do was tune back into Iron Man’s speech and act like he cared at all about the reporters and their burning questions, when all he wanted to do was take Tony Stark aside and demand, Is it true? Are you going to bring them all back? Are you going to bring Peter back?

For a moment, Ned could have sworn Mr. Stark’s eyes locked with his, and his breath caught in his throat. He wondered if, even from all the way over there on the stage, the scientist could hear his thoughts.

Could hear his prayers.

Then Mr. Stark flinched minutely and took a step back, hurriedly averting his eyes, and Ned exhaled heavily.

Come on, Mr. Stark, he thought, pleaded, begged, you’ve always been Peter’s favorite. You’ve been saving him from day one, from even before you knew who he was. You rescued him at the Stark Expo, you rescued him constantly when he was getting himself into world after world of trouble as Spider-Man—you rescued him all the time.

Be his hero again. Please. Just save him one more time.

Mr. Stark cleared his throat up on the stage, shook off whatever stupor had seized him, and quickly pointed at another reporter.

Please.

“Josh Anderson, CNN News. Mr. Stark, you claim that you and the Avengers will give us back the people we’ve lost. But what about right now? What do you plan to do to help those that remain, those who’ve lost their families, their jobs, their financial security, their motivation? What will you do for everyone who is struggling to come to terms with the Decimation?”

Please.

“Thank you, Josh from CNN News, that’s an excellent question,” Stark responded. The raw anguish had been pushed back, replaced by the steely fierceness Ned had always associated with the Great Tony Stark. Yet even still, there remained traces of the other Tony in the newly-appeared smattering of salt and pepper in his hair, in the way he rocked unsteadily back and forth on his heels, and in the haunted look in his eyes.

It was barely there, but it still existed.

“To answer your concerns, Pepper Potts and I, on behalf of Stark Industries, wish to reassure you all that you are not alone.” There was a softness to Tony’s voice, a certain wrecked quality that made Ned think it was Tony who needed to be told he was not alone. “We are here to help. To prove this, we’d first like to offer a solution for those who are suffering financially due to the Decimation.”

Please.

“Thus, as the Avengers continue to fight for all of your loved ones, it is with great pride and joy that I announce to you all the inauguration of the Peter Parker Foundation, after – after my kid.” Tony had said pride, he had said joy, but though there was indeed a modicum of relief in his expression, it was greatly outweighed by the sheer heartbreak.

Please.

The breath whooshed out of Ned in a speedy exhale. Beside him, MJ really did drop her book this time.

“Whoa,” Ned mumbled quietly. Three weeks ago, he would have laughed excitedly, cheered, and hugged Peter as he confidently proclaimed this to be the greatest day of his life.

(Three weeks ago, Peter had been alive.)

“‘Whoa’ is right,” MJ agreed, just as dully. She looked surprised, but not amazed. “That’s—wow. Peter… Peter would have been beyond thrilled.” And MJ was right. Peter would have been ecstatic. He would have stared at Mr. Stark in awe and cried, probably, upon realizing just how important he was to a man he’d looked up to his entire life.

Ned couldn’t find it in himself to be anywhere near ‘ecstatic.’

Meanwhile, all around him, there were whispers everywhere. Of course there were; Peter’s classmates hadn’t even believed that Peter had been an intern at Stark Industries, much less Tony Stark’s ‘kid’, apparently.

If Ned possessed the energy to feel anything but overwhelming and all-encompassing devastation, he would have probably been delighted to finally have it proven that Peter really had known Iron Man.

But as it were, he couldn’t even bring himself to seek out Flash in the audience and revel in the doubtlessly shocked, deer-caught-in-headlights look that he could vaguely imagine on Flash’s face.

What did it matter that they’d finally vindicated themselves when Peter wasn’t here to celebrate with?

Below on the stage, seemingly unaware of (or, more likely, completely aware of but indifferent to) the chain reaction he had set off, Tony continued to elaborate on how the Peter Parker Foundation would be aimed at helping any and all people with everything from providing their kids with an education to paying for funeral costs. He explained it all with an ease that spoke of his experience, but a stiltedness that betrayed his discomfort.

Ned didn’t care. He tried to listen, tried to pay attention, but he couldn’t seem to focus on anything but the roaring in his ears, the stampede in his chest, the shrieking in his skull, the rattle of his bones.

He couldn’t hear a word Tony said.

☔︎

Flash was not afraid to admit that he admired Iron Man. In fact, he had admired Iron Man since the hero first revealed himself in a dramatic moment worthy only of Tony Stark.

He admired Tony Stark, too.

But that didn’t mean he was blind to the genius’s faults—because he wasn’t. He knew who the Avenger was; he knew that, for all his greatness, one of Tony Stark’s most prominent flaws was that he was utterly incapable of processing his own emotions.

Hell, the entire nation knew that. Tony Stark’s emotional shortcomings had been documented since before Flash had even really known who Tony Stark was besides the fact that he shared the name of Stark Industries.

And yet.

And yet…

Flash found himself gawking at Tony Stark, whose presence was currently gracing their humble school. He didn’t think even the announcement that the billionaire CEO of Stark Industries was Iron Man had shocked him this much.

…It is with great pride and joy that I announce to you all the inauguration of the Peter Parker foundation.

…with great pride and joy that I announce to you all the inauguration of the Peter Parker foundation.

…and joy that I announce to you all the inauguration of the Peter Parker foundation.

…I announce to you all the inauguration of the Peter Parker foundation.

…inauguration of the Peter Parker foundation.

...the Peter Parker foundation.

...Peter Parker foundation.

…Parker.

Holy shit.

Parker. Peter fucking Parker.

Flash whimpered. (He would never admit it to anyone else, but yes, he whimpered.) He couldn’t believe he’d been bullying Iron Man’s kid.

He wasn’t given the chance to wallow in his self-pity, however, because Tony quickly continued to speak, changing the subject to all the other ways he and Stark Industries planned to help the world heal.

But even as he spoke of rebuilding efforts and pardons for the previously-Rogue Avengers and alliances between governments, Flash could tell that everyone remained hooked only on the news that Tony Stark had a kid.

And Flash looked at Mr. Stark, and he saw a sadness in his smile—the same sadness he saw every morning when his mother came into his room just to make sure he was still there and whole—that made Flash’s chest tighten.

Peter Parker did that. Parker put that look on Iron Man’s face.

It was all too clear that Mr. Stark genuinely cared about Flash’s classmate. Peter must be something, Flash mused, to make Tony fucking Stark, genius, billionaire, philanthropist, give a damn.

And what did it say about Flash, then, if he was capable of hurting someone so undeniably good that even Mr. Stark could see it?

☔︎

Fifteen minutes later, the reporters were still unsatisfied, each of them putting their hands up over and over again, clamoring for his attention even if they’d already had their chance to ask a question just moments before.

Tony was exhausted.

All they see you as is ‘Tony Stark’s kid’, Tony thought regretfully. That’s my fault. You’re... you’re – so much more.

You’re everything, Pete.

“That’s enough,” Tony snapped, corralling his misery back into its cage. He was sick of standing here and regaling the world with stories of how great Peter had been when none of these people had even known his kid. Peter was beyond all of them—none of them, especially not him, deserved Peter Parker (or Spider-Man).

Peter Parker and Spider-Man were one and the same, but Tony knew better than anyone that Peter didn’t see it that way. Peter had been so unaware of his value that Tony found it inconceivable.

How was it that the best person he knew hadn’t even been able to see his own worth?

(“I don’t get it,” Tony said, frustrated. “You could knock your bully out in a single punch. Why don’t you?”

“Because I’m Peter Parker!” Peter answered heatedly. “Because when I’m at school, I’m not Spider-Man. I can’t fight back because I’m supposed to be a weak nobody.”

“You are not a nobody. Don’t you dare say that about yourself again,” Tony hissed. His gut churned to hear Peter put himself so down. “Suit or no suit, you’re still Spider-Man.”

Peter was so good. Why couldn’t he accept that?

But Peter just shook his head stubbornly, a hint of sadness in his gaze. “No, I’m not. Spider-Man is strong, brave, invincible. I’m nowhere near any of that. When I put on that mask... I’m a different person. The thing is, Mr. Stark, Spider-Man possesses a greatness Peter Parker cannot even hope to touch.”

Tony wanted to throw up. God, his kid. His precious, precious kid who he loved so much. He wished he could just hold Peter tight and make Peter see himself the way Tony saw him:

Selfless, kind, intelligent. Powerful beyond measure yet compassionate to the extreme.

Perfect.)

(“Holy crap,” Tony breathed, staring wide-eyed at the finished equation scribbled on his whiteboard. He knew without a doubt that he hadn’t yet had a chance to fix that equation.

He also knew who that handwriting belonged to.

He spun around in his chair and pointed accusingly at Peter. “Peter Parker, you are a genius,” he praised, grinning widely when the boy’s head jerked upwards and Peter was left blinking at him, confused.

“What – what did I d–do?” Peter stammered.

Tony’s grin broadened. “You solved my equation is what you did, you little prodigy,” he teased. “Honestly, Pete, I’ve been racking my brain trying to figure that out for days now, and you’ve been here for, what, two hours maybe? That formula is way beyond high school maths.”

Peter’s cheeks pinked. It was adorable—Tony almost cooed at the sight. He didn’t, of course—he wasn’t a blubbering toddler or a gushing grandmother—but it was a tempting urge. “I – I don’t... I don’t know,”—Peter was fumbling to find words, looking anywhere but at Tony—“I was just playing around with the numbers and I thought I recognized something. I’m – sorry...?”

Tony rolled his eyes. “Don’t apologize, I’m complimenting you. You did good, Pete.” His eyes twinkled proudly. “You’ve been holding out on me, haven’t you, you little rascal?”

“That – that’s not...” Peter shook his head, and the twin roses on his face abruptly faded as his expression morphed from embarrassed to disheartened. “You’re wrong, Mr. Stark. I’m not that smart.”

Tony frowned immediately. If it were anyone else, he would have dismissed the words as teenage angst, but there was something about the look on Peter’s face that didn’t sit right with him.

“No, you’re not,” Tony agreed, and watched as Peter flinched visibly and blinked his eyes rapidly like he was trying not to cry. A little smile crept up Tony’s face as he finished, more sincerely than he’d intended, “You’re smarter.”

Peter’s eyes widened again. This time, the tears that formed were less dejected and more grateful.

Still, his stubbornness persisted. “But Mr. Stark, I—”

“No buts, Pete,” Tony said gently. “You’re a genius, kid. Trust me, I know what I’m talking about. You – God, Pete, you’re smarter than I could have ever hoped to be at your age. And I know you’ll be even smarter when you grow older.”

Peter sniffled and looked away, less out of shyness and more out of disbelief. Tony hated that disbelief.

Peter should know how amazing he was.

“And you know what?” Tony carried on. “I can’t wait until you surpass everyone else in the field, including me. I just know you’ll impress them all—you’ve already impressed me.”

“You’re – you’re lying,” Peter protested, but his voice was weak. Peter wanted nothing more than to be able to believe Tony was telling the truth, but how could he? He was just a nerdy kid from Queens. “That has to be an exaggeration, or—”

“It’s not,” Tony said firmly, so sure and full of conviction that Peter faltered. “I would never lie to you, not about this. Peter, I’m so proud of you.”

Peter brought his wrists to his eyes and wiped hastily, turning bodily away from Tony.

Tony pretended he couldn’t see Peter break down in the corner of his lab. He pretended it didn’t break his heart to think that Peter genuinely believed himself to be worth so much less than what he was really worth.)

(“Well, don’t you look down today,” Tony joked when Peter walked into his lab like someone had killed his puppy.

Except Peter didn’t laugh. He smiled pathetically, an obvious farce that even a toddler would be able to see through, but he didn’t laugh.

“Hey,” Tony frowned. “What happened? Who do I need to beat up?”

Peter rolled his eyes. “No one,” he muttered, the frown never leaving his face.

“Peter,” Tony sighed, “seriously. I can’t do anything if you don’t tell me what’s wrong. So please, tell me. I want to help you.”

Peter shook his head. The phony smile on his face grew wider, as if that would distract Tony from noticing the lack of luster behind it. “It’s really nothing,” he lied. “Don’t worry about it, Mr. Stark.”

Tony worried. He let it go, and he didn’t prod any further, but that didn’t stop him from worrying.

He kept a close eye on Peter as Peter manouvered around the lab as if he belonged there, bringing a smile to Tony’s lips for a fleeting moment before he remembered something was wrong.

All throughout the hours Peter spent working in the lab, Tony watched him, waiting for him to slip up and give Tony something to work with.

But Peter never did. He looked at Tony over his shoulder once every few minutes, chewing his lip intently, but he didn’t say a word.

In the end, Tony was forced to let Peter go back home, eyes still dull and joy still muted. Usually, Peter would skip out of the lab with a bounce in his step, not even trying to hide how happy he was, but this time, Tony’s brows knitted when he saw how Peter seemed to be hunching in on himself as he walked, his legs practically dragging behind him.

It only reinforced the thought in Tony’s mind: Peter was upset.

Tony stressed over the question of what exactly Peter was unhappy about for hours until he finally received a text from May, instantly cluing him in on the situation.

Aunt Hottie: Hey, Tony. I need a favor.

Aunt Hottie: I’m sorry to ask you this, but Midtown offers an out-of-states field trip to its students every year. Peter was really looking forward to go and have some fun with his friends, but I’m not sure that’s possible anymore.

Aunt Hottie: I really wish I could let Peter go, but it’s just that the trip is so expensive and we’ve been struggling lately.

Aunt Hottie: You know I hate to accept charity, but I was wondering if you could help us out, just this once. I know it would make Peter’s day.

Tony stared at his phone screen, his chest stuttering in his ribcage for a moment. His eyes skipped over May’s text messages a second time, and he knew how to read between the lines—May didn’t just want Peter to enjoy a trip with his friends; she wanted him to enjoy himself and just be a teenager for once, a kid instead of a hero shouldering the weight of the world.

“Oh, kid,” Tony whispered to himself, feeling his heart shatter. God, Peter was too fucking selfless.

Tony closed his eyes. “Peter, goddamnit, I’m a billionaire,” he sighed, thinking of all the times Peter had glanced uncertainly at him during their lab session. “And funding your field trip is probably the best and most worthwhile thing I could possibly spend my money on.”

Didn’t Peter know that Tony would bend over backwards to make him happy?

He shook his head and started to type out his response, fingers flying furiously across the keyboard. If he focused on the menial task hard enough, he could even ignore the few tears that had gathered in his eyes. It physically hurt to know that Peter was too afraid to accept his help even when Tony was so desperate to give it to him.

Helicopter Mentor: Of course I’ll pay for Peter’s trip, May. You don’t even have to ask.

Helicopter Mentor: You know I’m more than happy to lend you guys a hand anytime. And trust me, it’s not charity. I don’t pity you. I know you want to provide for Peter, but I have the money, and Peter’s worth it.

Helicopter Mentor: Why didn’t Peter ask me when he was over at the lab?

He didn’t have to wait long for a reply.

Aunt Hottie: Thank you, Tony.

Aunt Hottie: I know it’s not a handout, Tony, but can you blame me for being proud?

Aunt Hottie: You and I both know Peter. He feels bad. He doesn’t want to be a burden, or feel like he’s using you for your money.

Tony’s frown deepened. He rushed to deny Peter’s assumptions, the tears finally spilling over.

Helicopter Mentor: Peter could NEVER be a burden.

Helicopter Mentor: And I know he wouldn’t deliberately use me, May. Peter’s a good kid. He deserves the world.

And Tony had every intention of giving Peter exactly that.)

No, these people had no idea who his kid was.

They didn’t know anything about Peter. They didn’t know that Peter had laughed at every little thing, heart full and happy and unburdened by hatred. They didn’t know that Peter used to constantly wow Tony with his brain—Peter could catch one glimpse of a complex problem that confused even Tony and immediately spit out a thousand and one ideas of how to solve it. They didn’t know Peter had a nervous tick; whenever he was self-conscious or flustered or anxious, he wouldn’t be able to help but stammer out every second word. They didn’t know Peter had a moral compass stronger than Captain America; they didn’t know Peter would have gladly risked his own life if it meant saving even one other person.

They didn’t know that Peter’s favorite color had been red, after the Iron Man suit, or that Peter had made Tony cry when he’d admitted that his favorite hero was the man behind the mask, Tony Stark. They didn’t know Peter had defended Star Wars to the very end. They didn’t know Peter had cried every time they watched Coco, even though he knew the movie by heart by now. They didn’t know Peter had been so well-versed in gamma radiation and nuclear physics that even Bruce Banner would have been stunned.

They didn’t know that Peter’s favorite ice cream flavor had been Hunka Hulka Burning Fudge, but that he had always eaten Stark Raving Hazelnuts anyway to make Tony feel better. They didn’t know that Peter used to love eating pancakes with gummy bears mixed into the batter—much to Tony’s unending disgust. They didn’t know that Peter would turn into a squealing seven-year-old at the slightest mention of Thor, God of Thunder (and no, Tony was not jealous, thank you very much).

They didn’t know Peter had loved his friends dearly. They didn’t know that Peter would have never bailed on even a simple movie night with Ned, even if it was Tony Stark himself asking him to. They didn’t know that Peter had catalogued all of MJ’s favorite genres and authors just so he could surprise her with a new book every so often and make her smile. They didn’t know that Peter would have moved heaven and earth for Ned and MJ.

They didn’t know that Peter had swung his way into Tony’s heart and refused to leave. They didn’t know that Peter’s innocence and childish glee had effortlessly gotten Tony wrapped around his finger. They didn’t know that Peter had showed up on Tony’s doorstep with a sheepish grin and a clumsily-wrapped present on Father’s Day (or that, for the first time in his entire life, Tony had finally experienced a Father’s Day he could look back at with a smile). They didn’t know that Peter had warmed up the cold rooms of Stark Tower without even trying. They didn’t know that the first time Peter had stumbled upon Tony panting on the floor, in the throes of a panic attack, Peter hadn’t shied away; Peter had stayed by Tony’s side unhesitatingly, murmuring words of love and comfort to the wounded man. They didn’t know that Peter had patched up Tony’s heart and trust after Steve Rogers had broken both with his betrayal.

They didn’t know that Peter’s first priority had always been his aunt—they didn’t know that Peter was always thinking up new ways to earn money just so he could ease the financial strain May struggled with. They didn’t know that Peter gave before he took. They didn’t know that Peter used to cry himself to sleep at night imagining all the people he hadn’t been able to save—and all the people he hadn’t even known needed saving. They didn’t know that Peter had always put everyone else before himself.

They didn’t know that Peter had made Tony’s life so much better, or that Tony was flailing without him now. They didn’t know that the Peter-shaped hole in the universe had made the lights in Tony’s life go out.

They didn’t know that Tony felt so incomplete, so broken and empty, without Peter. They didn’t know that Tony would still miss Peter long after the world had forgotten all about Spider-Man.

They didn’t know that Tony had loved, and would always love, Peter as if he were his own son.

They didn’t know that in the seventeen years he’d been alive, Peter had touched the hearts of so many—Tony, May, Ned, MJ, even Happy and Pepper and Rhodey.

They didn’t know shit about Peter Parker.

“That’s enough,” Tony echoed his earlier words, loud enough to punch into the ears of everyone present. The racket slowly died down. Tony breathed a sigh of relief. “I’ll be taking only one more question.”

Instantly the hands were back up, desperation rushing through the reporters.

Tony scanned the group slowly, and his eyes subconsciously hooked on one of the younger reporters, a man with unkempt brown hair and an eagerness that had already left his more senior peers. He was wearing a checkered shirt and a sweater that reminded Tony of Peter more than he’d like to admit.

Tony’s throat dried.

Pete.

Tony couldn’t escape him. (He didn’t want to. He’d give away all of his fortune and fame if it meant getting Peter back.)

“You, with the red sweater”—Peter preferred blue—“and square glasses.” He couldn’t help himself. He’d always been fantastic at self-sabotage.

The man blanched. It was easy to see that he hadn’t expected to be chosen—Tony could figure why: he was on the young side, and obviously inexperienced.

But so was Peter, Tony thought, and he was smarter than even the best and most accomplished of my highest-paid scientists.

Tony watched as the young reporter recovered his composure admirably, a practiced smile falling onto his lips as he asked, much more smoothly and charmingly than Peter would have, “James Hall from The Post, sir. Who was Peter Parker to you? What exactly do you mean when you say he was your kid?”

James Hall was not Peter. Peter was awkward and a stammering mess and endearingly terrible at social situations. James Hall, on the other hand, was mustering a confidence that Peter would never have been able to fake.

It brought him both unexplainable relief and despair to recognize that this reporter, who resembled Peter only in his brown hair (Tony had loved Peter’s hair, had loved running his hand through those untamable curls) and nerdy clothes, was completely different in the ways that mattered (it mattered because Tony had adored Peter’s shy stammer more than Peter had ever known).

Tony couldn’t see Peter in Hall anymore. His kid was gone.

But the reporter’s question nevertheless made Tony’s breath still in his lungs in a way only Peter’s questions ever had before—Why won’t you let me fight with you? Why did you give me back the suit if you don’t want me to be a hero? Why don’t you care?

(He cared. God, he cared too much.)

He was my son, were the words that impulsively formed on his tongue, begging to be let out. The need to shout the claim from the rooftops burned bright inside him.

He had already opened his mouth, ready to let those four words chase out of his chest, when he realized that they were a lie.

Peter hadn’t been his son. In fact, May—who’d raised and loved Peter for far longer than Tony had even known him, who had more of a claim to Peter than Tony ever would, who’d lost everything in Peter—was probably watching this impromptu ‘press conference’ right now from the safety of the Parker apartment.

Tony had entertained the idea that Peter was his for so long that he’d almost had himself convinced of the idea. Ever since Toomes, and ever since Tony had taken a shine to Peter and his incredible mind, Tony had discovered it was impossible to keep Peter out. As the weeks and months had flown by, he had caught himself staring at Peter more and more often, trailing his eyes over Peter’s curly brown hair and doe brown eyes and cheeky smile and thinking, fuck, I wish he was my son.

But Peter had never been his.

“He – he was my intern,” Tony finally answered, unable to fight off the wobble in his voice, the falter in his words, the shudder in his breath. “Peter was the youngest intern Stark Industries has ever had. Despite his youth, however, his application immediately stood out to us—his ideas were brilliant, full of the kind of revolutionary genius that evades men twice his age. It seemed like the only option available to us was to make an exception for him. So we did, and Peter continued to prove himself, time and again, until eventually I took him on as my personal intern.”

The cover story dripped from his lips like honey. Tony had never wanted to lie about Peter, but he knew Peter would never have agreed to revealing his identity so soon.

But there was one truth he could admit to. “Over time, I saw him as less of an employee and more of a son. I mean, who could blame me? Peter was undoubtedly one of the smartest people I’ve ever met, and believe me, I’ve met a lot of smart people. Hell, I’ve met me. Plus, I’m sure everyone here is more than well aware of my eccentric nature—pseudo-adopting a teenager with an ingenuity to put my own to shame is far from the weirdest thing the press has reported me doing.”

It was the most honest he’d ever remembered being.

He paused. “So when I call him ‘my kid,’ it’s not because he’s biologically mine. We’re not related in any way—though I’m not ashamed to admit I wish we were. Peter was, well – I guess you could liken him to a leech who stuck to me and refused to let go, though I promise you he’d detest the comparison.”

He grinned, mischievously, but the amused laughs that ran through the audience did nothing but make him all the more aware of the one laugh he couldn’t hear.

I wish I hadn’t told you off for being so loud so often, because right now there’s nothing I wouldn’t do to hear that laugh just one more time.

God, he missed Peter.

☔︎

After he’d answered his last question, Mr. Stark walked away from the audience to the sound of their continued yells. Principal Morita had barely returned to the stage to dismiss all of the students before Ned was leaping off his seat and rushing down the aisle.

“Ned!” MJ’s voice halted him in his tracks, her fingers wrapping around his arm. “Where are you going?”

“He knew Peter was dead,” Ned hissed. “He knew, but still he left us hanging for weeks on end, forced to accept the fact that Peter’s gone and we never even got to say goodbye. We didn’t even know if Peter had – had vanished in the Decimation or if something else had killed him. We didn’t know.”

“Ned…” MJ sounded devastated.

“And he just left us in the dark, MJ. He has the nerve to tell the whole world about Peter Parker before telling us, his friends.” Ned shook his head furiously, tears falling onto his t-shirt, distorting the words I Make Horrible Science Puns But Only Periodically even more than he already had by crumpling the fabric in his fists, desperate to ground himself (the shirt had been Peter’s, dubbed one of his favorite ‘comfort shirts’ thanks to its large size; Aunt May had given it to Ned four days after the Decimation when she’d found him curled into a ball on the floor of Peter’s bedroom). “Didn’t we deserve to know? Didn’t we have the right to know?”

“Ned, please.” MJ’s voice quaked, her chest convulsing. She stared at him with wide, skittish eyes like she was afraid he was in danger of exploding at any moment. “St–stop.”

Ned didn’t stop. “I’ve been asking myself what happened to Peter for three weeks. Three weeks. I couldn’t shake the thought that maybe he didn’t fade in the Decimation. Maybe he was killed in battle—by Thanos, apparently. I kept remembering that moment on the bus when Peter asked me to cause a distraction and the first thing that popped into my mind was we’re all going to die. And everyday, I wonder, why did I have to say that? Why did the last thing Peter heard me say have to be that?”

Ned was inconsolable.

MJ, listening to Ned’s outpouring of grief and anger and guilt, felt much the same way. It was as if Ned’s words had collapsed her chest in on her heart, crushing her.

She couldn’t breathe. She opened her mouth, not knowing if it was to agree with him or reassure him or beg him to shut up shut up please shut up, but no words escaped her.

Ned shook his head, tore away from MJ, and rushed after the disappearing form of Tony Stark. He was vaguely aware of her pinching herself out of her stupor and calling after him, but he ignored her, his focus tunneling in on Mr. Stark.

He found the Avenger marching down the hallways in front of the auditorium, flanked by two large, imposing men.

Ned ground his teeth together. For a split-second, he saw Peter dance into his vision, eyes pleading and teary, begging him to leave Mr. Stark alone. Begging him to see that Mr. Stark was suffering, too.

And Ned knew. Ned knew Mr. Stark was suffering—there was no denying that, not when he had been able to see all the evidence of it just minutes before on the stage.

But Ned had also been suffering. He’d been miserable for every second of the last three weeks.

(“Do you still hear him?” MJ whispered one afternoon, when they were sitting in silence in the library, side-by-side but separate.

Ned felt like drowning.

“Because I – I do,” she answered herself a second later. “I can’t help it. He’s everywhere. He’s here now.”

Ned knew what that felt like.

“Y–yeah,” Ned whispered. “So do I. I hear him all the time.”)

“Stark!” he shouted. The students who were lingering in the hall started, turning to him with wide, horrified eyes, as if scandalized by his impertinent use of Iron Man’s last name. The old Ned would have been just as appalled by his abject disrespect towards one of his childhood heroes, but that Ned had died with Peter.

The two men guarding Tony whirled around in a flash, a glare on one of them and a tired look on the other. The angry one immediately lifted a hand to the bulge in his suit jacket, chest shoving forward like he wanted to lash out and barrel towards a high school student.

Ned wouldn’t have cared. Peter had been his best friend, and now he was gone.

Nothing else seemed to matter.

But the other man faltered, and lifted a hand to stop his colleague. Ned recognized him as Happy, who had picked Peter up after school everyday without fail, who used to buy Peter and Ned ice cream if he saw them celebrating their test results, who’d honked rudely at Flash and then ‘gently’ nudged the bully with his car when he overheard Flash mocking Peter.

“Ted,” Happy said.

Ned didn’t care about that, either. Peter wasn’t here to roll his eyes at Happy and pout, Happy, I know you know his name is actually Ned. You’re not fooling anyone.

Ned nodded at Happy, unable to so much as smile. “Mr. Happy,” he greeted, and suppressed a flinch when he couldn’t help but remember all the times he and Peter had laughed at Happy’s obvious distaste for his nickname.

Who would he laugh over stupid things with now?

“I need to speak with Mr. Stark,” Ned insisted.

Before Happy could protest, Tony pushed forward and offered Ned a single nod that spoke a thousand words. His sunglasses were still off his face, and Ned could see the entire array of emotions that crossed his eyes.

“Well, I’m right here,” Tony said, too numbly to be the man who’d played Mario Kart with Peter at 1 A.M., thrilling Peter so much he’d jabbered endlessly about it to Ned the next day. “Speak away.”

Speak away.

There were so many things Ned wanted to say.

Why didn’t you tell me?

Why did you let me wonder what had happened to Peter for so long?

Did you know that the last thing I ever said to him was “we’re all going to die”?

Why didn’t you save him?

You were supposed to save him.

But all of the words died in his throat.

Instead, when he opened his mouth, what came out was a plea—“Promise me you’re going to bring my best friend back.”

Tony didn’t blink. He didn’t falter, he didn’t flinch, he didn’t hesitate. “I’m going to bring all of them back.”

It should have reassured Ned.

But he’d been through too many days without Peter to take even Iron Man himself at his word. He didn’t trust many things anymore.

“Don’t you dare lie to me,” Ned forced out through gritted teeth. “Not about this.” Not about Peter.

This time, Tony did flinch. “Like I said,” he said finally, “I’ll do whatever it takes. I – I swear.” Tony tore his eyes away and cursed, rubbing his face tiredly, his breath tripping over itself. “I’m bringing Peter home if it’s the last thing I do.”

Ned had no idea what to say to that.

Luckily, MJ responded for him, having caught up to him by now, “You better.” She paused. “Though try to make it out alive. Peter will have both our heads if he knew we let you sacrifice yourself for him.”

“I’d do it, you know,” Tony interjected, half-desperate and half-determined. “If it comes to it. Peter – Peter’s life is worth more than mine.”

MJ gave him a long, searching look. “I know,” she said at last. “But I meant what I said. Peter would want to come home to you, too.”

This time, it was MJ who left Tony speechless instead of the other way around. He stared at her like he didn’t quite know what to do with that information.

“That’s – I – he—“

“She’s right,” Ned said quietly when it was clear Tony was too shaken to speak coherently. “You have to stay alive. For Peter.”

Their gazes met again. In Tony’s eyes, Ned saw a plea, an apology, a denial. He saw please I miss Peter too and I want him back and I’m sorry and Peter deserves better than me and so long as Peter comes home at all, I don’t care what I have to do and I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.

For the first time, Ned felt like he could empathize with someone like Tony Stark, so seemingly untouchable from a distance. He glanced sidelong at MJ, and imagined that she might be thinking the same thing, if only she let herself feel these days.

(Ned didn’t get it. He was completely incapable of even trying to hide away from his grief—he felt Peter and Peter’s absence wherever he went, like a second skin he could not shed—but MJ seemed to be the opposite. Whereas he was stuck suffocating in his sadness, unable to leave, she had mostly detached herself from it, able to survive only because she had pushed it all away.

Ned thought he would die if he let Peter go. Even now, he didn’t want to.

Peter had been his best friend. That would never change.)

Then Tony swallowed and shoved his sunglasses back on, fingers shaking around the frame, and Ned was left to face his grief alone once more.

☔︎

It took Tony’s bodyguards over twenty minutes to fight off the stragglers and carve Tony a path to the carpark through the crowd. When Tony finally reached his car, Happy held open the back door for him, and then, instead of climbing into the passenger seat, slid in after Tony while Jim started the car.

Happy waited until they were already in motion, the sound of the engine constant and reassuring, to speak up: “Thank you.”

Tony froze. He could barely hear Happy, quiet as the bodyguard was being, over the vibrations of the car, but there was no mistaking Happy’s words.

“Hap,” his voice cracked, “don’t – don’t thank me. Please. I didn’t—”

“Thank you,” Happy repeated. “You know we don’t blame you, Tony. And – it’s nice to finally see Peter get the recognition he deserves as himself, too, not just as Spider-Man.”

(Spider-Man was great, yes, but Peter Parker was braver, stronger, better—

Even if he couldn’t be heralded for it right now, Peter Parker was the real hero.)

Tony didn’t know what to say. He hadn’t done what he did to be thanked. He’d just... he’d just wanted to celebrate Peter. To honor his kid.

Happy exhaled slowly. “It doesn’t make things better, not by a long shot. It doesn’t bring Peter back. But... it’s easier, somehow, knowing we’re not the only ones who see that kid for his true potential anymore. Peter deserved to know he was appreciated. I regret not telling him that more often. I wonder if he even knew – if he knew I cared.”

Tony’s eyes burned. God, but he hadn’t even remembered that Happy had loved Peter, too—that, sometimes, when Happy was so exhausted of the other aspects of his job, it was only Peter’s text messages and long rambling voicemails that could get him to smile.

And he hadn’t even realized. He’d been so consumed by his own grief that he hadn’t been able to see that Happy had been missing Peter, too; that even though he was a terrible substitute for Peter and all his goodness, Happy had needed him.

Happy had needed him to admit to how much he cared about Peter, too, and Tony hadn’t been able to get his head out of his ass long enough to see that.

Christ, how selfish have I been that I’ve holed myself up in my room, as if I’m the only one allowed to grieve Peter? I don’t own exclusive rights to his absence.

There are others whose lives have been irreparably damaged by Peter’s loss, too. Just take a look at Happy, you asshole. He never admitted it to Pete’s face, but you saw the change in him: you saw the way he smiled whenever the hour-hand on a clock drew nearer and nearer to 3:00 P.M. on a weekday; you saw him listen to all of Peter’s voicemails eagerly even though he’d complain about it to the kid’s face; you know he memorized all of the kid’s favorite haunts and hobbies.

When Tony looked at Happy, he could easily see the new frown lines and worry wrinkles marking Happy’s face and wondered how he could have been so blind to have missed it before. Happy wasn’t crying—Tony didn’t think Happy had shed a single tear since that first day Tony had come back without the Spider-Kid in tow, and he’d been forced to admit that he’d (they’d) lost Peter Parker—but he might as well have been, for all the pain Tony could see in his eyes.

And Happy wasn’t the only other one who’d known Peter the same way he had: as the kid worth giving it all up for.

What about Peter’s friends? They didn’t look fine back at the school. They’re grieving for him, too. And what about May?

What about May, Stark?

Tony knew he’d been selfish for too long. He’d thought that he was the only one who felt like Peter’s death had crushed the heart in his chest and transformed his universe irreversibly, but he knew now that he’d been wrong.

He stared at Happy, at this man who’d been his friend and who’d had his back for so long, and shivered at the gratitude reflected in his eyes. Tony didn’t deserve that. He didn’t deserve Happy looking at him like he’d done something good, when in reality all he’d done was what he should’ve done when he first landed.

Suddenly, a bone-deep weariness seeped into Tony. He needed to be better. He needed to see Peter again.

He’d told the world that he’d fight to the end to right Thanos’s wrongs. And he would. He’d fight harder than he ever had, because this time, it was Peter’s life at stake.

This time, he had so much on the line.

(“You need to get up, Tony,” Pepper whispered into the silence of their bedroom one night. Even their relationship had been stained by Thanos’s deeds. “You need to get better.”

The first time she’d begged him to stand, to rise again, he’d snapped at her. This time, he just looked at her, sad and weary, and asked searchingly, “How?”

Pepper flinched. “Call – call him, please. You don’t have to forgive him, but... the world needs the Avengers right now. And I need my fiancé. Please.”

“What can the Avengers do, Pep?” Tony was drained. “It’s already done. Thanos won, we lost. Half the universe is gone. There’s nothing anyone, even us so-called superheroes, can do now.”

“You can try,” she pleaded. “You can get back up on your feet and try.”

Tony’s open, vulnerable gaze shuttered. “I thought you hated that I was Iron Man. You’ve never wanted me to risk my life out there.”

“And I still don’t want you to now,” she admitted. “But I know who you are, Tony. And I know… I know that this—staying still, doing nothing—is killing you more than being Iron Man ever did. So get up, Tony. Bring Peter – bring him back. And come home to me, please.”

“I don’t know if I can,” Tony said weakly. “I’m not the Iron Man you know anymore. The fight with Thanos changed me. I used to be fearless, but now...”

“No,” Pepper shook her head resolutely, defiantly. “You weren’t fearless, Tony. You were reckless—there’s a difference.”

“Pep—”

“You dove headfirst into anything that would get you in trouble. You never thought of the consequences. You just... took risks. You lived like you didn’t have a care in the world.”

“And now?”

“And now you have more to lose,” Pepper said it like it was a fact, like it couldn’t be anything but the truth. Her words hit Tony harder than any of Thanos’s attacks had. “You can’t afford to be reckless anymore. If you’re more afraid nowadays, it’s because you care.”

Pepper molded her hand against his cheek, eyes soft and loving, but honest, too. “And it’s exactly because you have more to lose now that you’ll win.”

“I love you,” Tony choked out. “I love you. I love you.”

A sad smile tugged on her lips. “I love you, too. I believe in you.”)

Tony’s entire perspective had been shifted by Peter. Before he met Peter, he used to switch between categorizing the parts of his life as “Before and After Pepper” and “Before and After Iron Man.”

Now all he saw was “Before and After Peter.”

Pepper had been right. He had more to lose now. He had more to fight for, too.

Tony nodded at Happy, didn’t tell him You’re welcome, and knocked on the partition separating the front of the car from the back.

A second later, the divider rolled down. “Yes, Boss?” Jim inquired.

Tony smiled a smile he didn’t feel. “Change of plans, Jim,” he announced. “Take us to May Parker’s apartment, please.”

Jim nodded obediently, already pulling up the address from FRIDAY’s database.

The partition went back up again.

“Tony?” Happy’s question went unspoken.

Tony looked back at the man. His smile grew a touch more real. “She shouldn’t be left alone,” was all he could say to that. “Not right now.”

Happy nodded in understanding, and that grateful look Tony felt so undeserving of took over his face again.

Tony ignored it.

☔︎

When they came knocking, May opened the door with a knowing look on her face. She’d clearly expected them to come her way, after watching the speech.

“May,” Tony greeted. He didn’t feel like breaking down at the mere sight of her anymore. That was something. Progress, am I right?

He chuckled bitterly. Would you have been proud of me, Peter?

May nodded back. There was gratitude in her eyes, too, so akin to Happy’s that Tony had to look away briefly. When he turned to her again, though, the expression was still there, shamelessly coloring her face.

“Thank you,” she whispered.

“You shouldn’t have to thank me,” Tony insisted. “It’s what Peter deserved.”

May smiled sadly. “He would have thought otherwise.”

The look on Tony’s face mirrored hers. “I know,” his voice was hushed. “I know.” He was wrong. He was so, so wrong. He deserved the world.

May swallowed tightly. Her eyes drifted from Tony to Happy, and the soul-crushing grief was back. “Oh, Happy,” she whispered. “You’re here.” May looked back at Tony. “You’re both here.”

Tony nodded. May, wordlessly, moved away from the doorway so they could both enter. Tony watched, guilt brewing in the pit of his stomach, as May slowly returned to the living room, moving with a decided lack of liveliness that unsettled him.

May was one of the strongest women he knew. She ranked right up there with the likes of Pepper Potts and Natasha Romanoff. To see her like this, so defeated, was wrong.

There was nothing he could say about it. How could he judge her when he’d been the same way? When he still felt like that?

“Tea?” May offered, sinking into the sofa like it was the only thing holding her up. “Coffee?”

“No, that’s okay,” Tony shook his head politely, following May onto the sofa. Happy quietly settled in beside him.

“How are you doing, May?” Happy asked when Tony couldn’t, because how could he ask her that when he wouldn’t even know how to answer, if he was the one on the receiving end of that question?

May seemed to struggle with finding an answer, too. “I don’t know,” she said. “I’m just getting through all of this—life without Peter—day by day. Everyday.”

What else was there to do, when there was no reason to smile anymore?

“I’m still sorry,” Tony blurted out when the silence in the apartment and the restlessness in his head became too much. He pressed the underside of his palm against his head, willing away the voices to no avail.

May nodded. “I know, Tony. And you still have nothing to be sorry for.”

He looked away. Why didn’t she blame him?

It was his fault. Peter was gone—gone gone gone—and it was because of him.

“I dragged him into this life,” he argued. Why couldn’t she see that?

“He became Spider-Man before he met you,” she pointed out.

“But he went onto that spaceship because of me,” the words stung to say, but they were true. “His exact words were ‘speaking of loyalty.’ He was there because he was blindly loyal to me, and I didn’t even have the decency to turn the ship back around. I have everything to be sorry for.”

“No, you don’t,” she insisted. “You were his hero. Of course he came after you.”

“I never meant to... I didn’t want him to get hurt. I just wanted to give him everything he wanted and more. I wanted to see him win over the whole world the way he won me over. God, May, he could’ve achieved so much,” his throat constricted around the words, and he had to fight to see, to breathe through the pain. “He could’ve done so many great things.”

“Amazing things,” Happy murmured.

“He had his whole life ahead of him,” Tony whispered, like it was a secret. “And it was stolen from him, just like that. Now he’ll never have the chance to show everyone else why he was the best kid all of us knew.”

“The very best,” May agreed, laughing wetly. “He could’ve changed the world.”

“He did change the world,” Tony corrected. “Spider-Man changed so many people’s lives for the better. He went out there every night and saved people who’d already resigned themselves to believing they couldn’t be saved. In every possible way, he was so much better than the Avengers, than me, because where we didn’t even realize we had a duty to save the ordinary people, too, Peter was already looking after all the little guys. Peter cared so much.”

A strangled sob tore out of May’s throat. She fell back against the sofa and cradled her head in her hands, crying violently, desperately.

“But Spider-Man wasn’t the only one who made a difference. Peter Parker changed the world, too,” Tony said earnestly. “He changed mine.”

May cried harder.

“I’ll never stop being sorry,” Tony whispered the words like a prayer. “He was my kid, but May, he was your son, and I – fuck, I can’t—”

“It wasn’t your fault. You didn’t do this,” she denied hoarsely. She didn’t know how many times she had to repeat it to get him to believe it. “I know you loved him, too. Better than anyone, I know the effect Peter has on people. He’s been changing my world since he was six, after all.”

Tony closed his eyes.

“I hate Thanos,” May‘s voice quivered as her chest heaved and she gasped for breath. “He took Peter from me. He took my boy, Tony. He was – he was all I had left. When Ben died, I felt like drowning, but Peter was always there to save me. But what am I supposed to do now? How do I bounce back from losing my child?”

Tony didn’t have an answer.

The truth was, he’d been asking himself the same thing over and over again, on repeat, for three weeks.

How am I supposed to say goodbye to you?

How am I supposed to live like this?

How am I supposed to heal?

He couldn’t.

All he could do was hold onto Peter’s memory like a lifeline.

All he could do was keep fighting for the day Peter, and everyone else who’d disappeared, could come back.

#marvel #iron dad #fanfiction #iron dad fanfiction #peter parker #tony stark #post infinity war #spiderman #iron man #irondad and spiderson #ned leeds #michelle jones #irondad angst #marvel fanfiction #faye writes

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arysthaeniru · 4 years

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✨ and 💢 for botw!!

✨ what draws you towards your hyperfixation? what is interesting about it?

I’m constantly intrigued by the themes of legacy and growth that happen over and over again in Breath of the Wild? The main storyline is filled with themes of legacy, especially since all the Champions (except Teba, because the Rito are woefully incomplete as a section) are in the shadow of the former, dead Champions, and a lot of their story is coming to meet the weight of the past that has marked itself physically into the landscape? Rising to meet the memories and idolizations of martyrs and dead people. That’s basically one of the main basis of my research project as a PhD student: the weight of memory in people, but especially how it manifests in physical locations.

I also think that Link having amnesia is such a fascinating look at legacy of the self. I often feel overwhelmed by the expectations my past self had for me, and of course, Link’s journey is different. He’s literally forgotten who he was before, but I feel like a different person every year, and living up to the weight of your past failures is both daunting and freeing all at once, and Link is a fabulous little exploration of that? I constantly think about the joyless, stern Link we see in the flashbacks, and the stupidity of being the player and trying to find joy in the present? It’s a silliness that comes from knowing failure, and that’s fascinating to me.

It’s also just such a soothing, calming world to explore and filled with little secrets and funny NPCs. The music design is wonderful and minimal, and the scenery is consistently pretty. There’s something very beautiful about the world after the apocalypse in Breath of the Wild, and finding life in the ruins and making something new, just because you must, is such a theme that’s near-and-dear to my heart (which is why Diurnal Ending constantly makes me weep.)

I find the korok secrets some of the most delightful little motivational goals? In terms of game design, the shots of dopamine come frequently and are usually quite fun to wrangle into place, but unlike other collect-a-thon games, the korok seeds are actually useful for later gameplay. It’s a masterpiece not only of world design in general, but game design too.

The awe of coming across a dragon for the first time is like nothing else. The whole thing you do on Mount Lanayru is a genuinely breathtaking sequence.

💢 what do you NOT like about your hyperfixation? is there something you would want to change about it?

As they always do in Zelda games, the Gerudo have...weird, almost racist undertones to everything about them. Their outfits are stupid and overly horny, and the whole sequence of Link finding a disguise to get in is dealing with some BAD trans stuff. The fandom has done their best to make Link chill or make it better by making Link non-binary or trans! But it doesn’t change the fact that the person he gets his Gerudo clothing from,Vilia, is a bad trans stereotype. I also think about the fact that every Gerudo you meet who’s looking for love is actually deeply unsatisfied with whoever they find is awful? It’s get that it’s supposed to be funny, but it’s a weird message about settling that’s only applied to the brown women. Even though I LOVE the two main characters we get, Urbosa and Riju, the rest of it is...questionable.

In terms of bigger structural problems, I think Breath of the Wild’s main plot is....barebones at best? The Rito and the Gorons are not really fleshed out at all. The Rito especially have been shafted, since you end up knowing NOTHING about the current-day champion, Teba, and his problems. You do nothing in the Rito area in the build-up to fighting the Divine Beast, like you do in the other regions. It’s just often very rote and dull when you get to the plot, which is...sad? It means you just want to get the main plot stuff over with, so you can go back to the good gameplay and world design in the rest of it.

And even when they try very hard with plot, the Zora area is FILLED with boring, stupid dialogue that’s horribly telegraphed? At one point, one of the old Zora that hates you, Muzu, points out that it’s deeply convenient you get back your memories of fish-wife being in love with you when you’re trying to get him to help you with your mission, and I have to say, I 200% agreed with him! My god. None of the Zora section makes sense! They’re very old and stuck in their ways, everybody there hates Hylians, they can breathe in the water and in the air, because they’re amphibians. Why the FUCK do the Zora care about the dam breaking and the Divine Beast flooding Necluda? The only one that should care should be Sidon, and it should be you and Sidon doing your own thing against the express wishes of the rest of the Zora council. That would contribute to the theme of growing to meet the legacy of the Past Champions: doing the right thing even when it’s hard. This is not a difficult thing to realize, but it’s very clear that the development team did not care very much about the plot of this game.

I think the memories are repetitive and kind of dull too, and if you think about it too long, make absolutely no sense. How the hell did Zelda take a picture of Kara Kara Bazaar that’s completely empty, it seems to be a bustling world in her time too? When did she have time to take a beautifully serene picture of the Bottomless Swamp as they were running for their lives from the Calamity? Why does Impa seem to pretend that these were carefully selected memories that Zelda left for you, instead of random pictures left over from before that might jog your memories? If Zelda knew you were going to have amnesia after your time of slumber, why the hell is everybody else surprised by it????

This game is not perfect by any means. But what it does right, it does INCREDIBLY right, so I just seethe about these things I hate, and try to write fic to fix it xD

#botw #this is so long #i'm so sorry vince #i have a....lot to say about this game #and it's just so good #and also terrible all at once xD

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artificialqueens · 5 years

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Undone, Chapter 19 (Bitney) - Stephanie/Veronica

A/N: Welcome to Chapter 19 of UNDONE, our slow burn Bitney lesbian AU. Here’s a link to the previous chapters.

Summary: You never know what the final straw will be…

Thank you so much to @missdandee for her incredible beta help. XO

TW: Emotional abuse, intimidation, gaslighting, PTSD

***

Courtney chuckles to herself as a familiar hook starts blasting from her car speakers. She merges onto Washington Boulevard towards the studio, automatically thinking about how much shit Bianca gave her for having the song on her playlist. ‘What kind of lesbian are you, anyway?’

The kind of lesbian who fucking loves ABBA. And not ashamed of it.

Half past twelve Watchin' the late show in my flat all alone How I hate to spend the evening on my own...

The song is speaking to her today more than ever. If it was a month ago, she’d be so delighted to tell Bianca about it coming on that she might have pulled over to text her. Or else, she’d race into the wardrobe trailer breathlessly the second she arrived on set.

Autumn winds blowin' outside the window As I look around the room And it makes me so depressed to see the gloom

There’s won’t be any giggling about the song (or Courtney’s cheesy taste) in the wardrobe trailer today. Courtney takes a deep breath and sings along.

“There's not a soul out there...No one to hear my praaaaaaayer!”

It’s been getting more and more difficult for Courtney to hold onto her anger. Ever since she broke down at Sasha and Shea’s, she’s had to acknowledge that the worst part of this whole ordeal wasn’t losing the romantic fantasy. It was losing her friend. Someone she relied on, someone she trusted.

Gimme, gimme, gimme a man after midnight Won't somebody help me Chase the shadows away Gimme, gimme, gimme a man after midnight Take me through the darkness To the break of the day

Courtney leans her head back, gripping the steering wheel tightly. She still feels like she’s been used and toyed with and lied to. But in spite of everything, she misses Bianca. Maybe that makes the whole thing even worse.

It’s easy for Courtney to shrug and move on. Aloofness comes naturally to her--it’s just not coming this time.

***

Bianca had been successful at minimizing her interactions with Courtney. She’d been getting all of her alterations done ahead of time, letting Jamie handle the fittings and pictures. Today, though, something is wrong. Jamie sends her to see Bianca, who frowns when she sees her. The dress gaps at her waist, like it hasn’t been tailored at all.

Avoiding eye contact, Bianca wraps a measuring tape around her waist.

“Did you lose weight?” she asks, her tone almost accusatory.

“Umm...maybe? I did a juice cleanse,” Courtney says. She chews on her lip, feeling like she’s being scolded, as Bianca writes down the new numbers and starts to pin her dress. Unsure why she’s feeling so defensive, she adds, “It can’t be that much.”

“Mmhmm.”

Bianca’s face is solemn as she works, and Courtney feels a rush of emotion. Only it’s not anger, like it’s been for weeks--or sadness, like she wallowed in last weekend. It’s more like pity.

Courtney’s gone through many ups and downs in her life, but one thing that’s always stayed pretty consistent is her honestly with herself. She can’t imagine what Bianca is going through right now, keeping all of her feelings bottled up inside. It must be exhausting.

So she tries to lighten the mood, saying, “You should really be telling me that I didn’t need to lose any weight. That I was just perfect before.”

Bianca doesn’t crack a smile, and Courtney deflates a little.

“You know, when someone fishes for compliments, it’s polite to humor them.”

Bianca looks up at her. Her beautiful eyes are dull, joyless, and it breaks Courtney’s heart all over again.

“You didn’t need to lose weight,” she intones robotically.

Something is going on. Courtney is sure of it. Something beyond the two of them. Bianca just doesn’t seem like the confident, sarcastic, tough bitch that Courtney knows she is.

“Well…” Courtney falters a bit.

Everything she wants to say is too much, or not enough. Talk to me. Please.

“Thanks.”

Bianca nods and goes back to work.

***

Why does this keep happening to her?

For the third day in a row, Bianca sits in the garage in her parked car, unable to force herself to head upstairs.

Things with Jared haven’t even been that bad, if she’s honest. They’re mostly avoiding each other these days. They talk about what to eat for dinner. Their work schedules. The fucking weather. It’s as if there’s been a very tentative truce, a fragile agreement not to get too deep.

Bianca knows that he takes her depression personally. That he sees any unhappiness as an attack. He’s made that clear a million times over the years - if she’s not happy, then he has Failed and therefore she Better Be Happy.

But lately, for whatever reason, he seems to have backed off. He’s giving her space, and for that she’s grateful--even if her gratitude is accompanied by a constant, nagging fear. This respite won’t last forever. When’s he going to snap? What’s gonna make him snap? Bianca feels sick with worry, just thinking about it.

And then of course, there’s the guilt. The ever-present guilt, the feeling that she’s not enough - as a woman, as a wife, as a partner. Now compounded by the fact that he hasn’t told him about her pregnancy. The doctor confirmed it this week, and for some reason, she can’t bring herself to share the news.

She hasn’t told anyone. Not even Latrice. Not even her sisters.

Why hasn’t she told them? Why can’t she tell him?

She sniffles, realizing that tears have been leaking from her eyes. She pulls down the visor and wipes her face, carefully fixing her eye makeup, taking a few more minutes to gather herself together.

Before she heads inside, she stares at herself in the mirror, plastering a smile across her face. Yikes. She sighs and snaps the visor shut.

***

With Jamie gone for the morning, Bianca is forced to do all the check-ins. She’s clearly trying to avoid more interaction with Courtney by calling her in along with three other actors. But after everyone else is gone, Courtney returns to the trailer. With the transparent excuse of having a loose thread hanging from her sleeve.

Bianca clips it quickly, immediately going back to her sketchbook.

Courtney walks slowly to the door, reaching for the handle, then turns around.

“Hey, B?” Her voice is soft, almost a plea.

“Yeah?”

Bianca doesn’t look up, and Courtney hesitates. She probably should have figured out what she was gonna say ahead of time, but as usual, she’s flying by the seat of her pants. Fuck.

After violently flipping to a new page in her sketchbook, Bianca asks, “What?”

“I just...I just want you to know that I’m still here, if you ever need anything.” Courtney swallows and continues. “I know you might not, and that’s okay, obviously, but if you do...I’m here. That-that’s all.” She takes a deep breath, as if trying to decide if that is, in fact, all she has to say.

For once, Bianca doesn’t have a smartass comment. Instead, she gives one brief nod, and a simple, “Thanks.”

Courtney nods back, giving her a look that’s almost a smile, and leaves.

***

“Latrice?”

It’s late. Too late to be calling on a weekday, especially given the time difference. Nonetheless, when Bianca calls her friend while taking the dogs out, she answers immediately.

“What’s wrong, honey?”

“How do you know something’s wrong?” Bianca tries desperately to sound lighthearted. She fails.

“Well, it’s almost 3 am. Something better be wrong.”

Bianca laughs, and that’s what it takes to break the dam wide open. Tears are falling now and she doesn’t know why, doesn’t even remember why she called.

“Talk to me, B.”

“I don’t know what to do,” Bianca admits, sitting down on the curb, sniffling, wiping frantically at her eyes. “Tell me what to do. Please.”

There’s a very brief pause, and then Latrice answers her in a somber voice.

“Pack a bag. Just...pack a bag. Enough for a week. Keep it in your car.”

Bianca takes a shaky breath.

“You don’t have to make any decisions right now, okay? Just pack the bag.”

Bianca nods, which she realizes is stupid. Latrice can’t see her.

“Are you still there, baby?”

“Yeah,” she managed to choke out.

“I love you.”

“I love you too. I’m sorry for waking you.”

“It’s okay.”

For a few moments, they sit on the phone in silence, as Bianca’s breathing returns to normal, tears slowing to a manageable trickle.

“Thank you.”

“Anytime.”

***

Three more hours, Bianca tells herself. Just three more hours.

She’s been carefully packing a suitcase for Jared to take on his business trip, counting down the minutes. She can’t help but feel guilty about the utter relief coursing through her veins, knowing that he’s going to be out of town for the next week and a half. Nonetheless, that’s the reality of the situation. She’d already steamed and pressed three suits for the garment bag, while he met the boys for lunch to finalize their presentation.

Bianca hears the front door open and continues to fill little travel bottles for his toiletries bag.

“B! Where are you?!”

He bursts into the bathroom, staggering up to her. As he wraps his arms around her from behind, Bianca can instantly smell the booze on his breath.

“Hey. I’ve almost got your suitcase together. Why don’t you go check it out?”

“I’d rather check you out,” he growls into her ear, hands inching up under her top. She tries to wriggle away, but his grip is solid.

“I’m serious! I don’t want to forget anything. I packed enough for over a week, but is that-”

“I’m sure it’s perfect, baby. Fuck, you smell so good.” He bites at her neck, yanking down the cups of her bra.

“You should really check, because I wasn’t sure if you-

“Bianca, Bianca...I don’t care.” He spins her around, pinning her to the counter. “I’m gonna be gone for almost two weeks. So...come on, let’s just...have a good time, before I have to leave…”

“Jared, stop!” Bianca pushes him off, heart racing.

He glares at her, eyes cold and eerily still.

Bianca swallows, picking up the toiletries bag and clutching it to her chest.

“I just think I should finish…”

“Why do you always make me feel like goddamn monster?”

“I’m sorry, I-” Bianca flinches as he reaches a hand up to touch her face, and he grits his teeth, slamming a fist down on the counter.

“Do think I’m going to fucking hit you?!” he shouts.

The bag slips from her hands and she covers her face, fear and humiliation flooding through her whole body.

“Do you know what it fucking does to me when you act like this?!” Jared screams, inches from her face, cheeks red with rage.

The room is too small, his voice is too loud, the air is too thick for Bianca to get a breath. Her skin is hot and itchy all over as she tries not to break, treacherous tears collecting in her eyes.

“Don’t you dare, don’t you dare fucking cry!” he continues, grabbing her by the shoulders. “You better fucking stop, stop acting like a goddamn victim--because this is your fault, you are the one doing this to me!”

Bianca opens up her mouth, trying to force out an apology, but the words won’t come out.

“Fuck!” Jared screams, and with that, he storms from the room, slamming the door behind him. Bianca takes a few gasping breaths, leaning forward against the sink, unable to face her reflection in the mirror.

You’re okay, you’re okay...

She rinses her face with cold water and then goes back to methodically packing Jared’s things, keeping herself calm by going over the checklist in her mind. Shampoo, conditioner, deodorant, toothpaste, razors...

Soon, her mind is comfortably numb, reviewing what she’s packed already. She can hear Jared banging around the kitchen.

Ties, underwear, socks, T-Shirts…

The TV turns on, volume turned up all the way, some garbage reality show about fishing or hunting or living in the woods.

Jeans, shorts, sweatshirt, extra charger, power adapter...

The dogs can sense her anxiety. They paw at her legs, whining slightly, and she stops what she’s doing, sitting and lifting them onto the bed. She’s broken out of her trance now, as tears begin to fall once again. Sammy licks at her face while Dede curls in her lap.

Bianca tries to breathe, but she can’t seem to get it together. She takes the phone out of her pocket to check the time. Two more hours. Her heart is racing again. Fuck.

I just want you to know that I’m still here, if you ever need anything.

She opens her contacts, finger hovering over her name. She shouldn’t message her. What would she even say? Right now everything feels uncertain, vision blurry with tears and the room tilting off its axis. But one thing is definitely certain, and that’s that she doesn’t deserve any kindness from Courtney.

“Okay. I’m fine now.”

Bianca’s head snaps up, startled, phone slipping from her fingers and skidding across the floor. Jared is standing in the doorway, swaying slightly, a glass of what looks like whiskey in his hand. His lids droop and he’s got a placid smile on his face.

“Who were you calling, B?” he asks, taking a sip from the tumbler.

Her mind races, but not fast enough, and by the time she gets a message from her brain to her limbs to go pick up the phone, he’s already scooping it lazily off the ground.

“Jared, please give it back…” Heat creeps into her face and ears, stomach feeling like it’s being twisted in a thousand little knots.

“Oh, your little girlfriend, huh?”

“Jared-”

“No, it’s cool. It’s not a bad idea, actually.” Jared grins devilishly and presses a button on the phone, holding it up to his ear.

Bianca chokes back a sob. “What are you doing, please-”

“Shh, it’s ringing…”

Courtney slides the groceries into her car as the phone begins to buzz in her pocket. She rolls her eyes. Probably a telemarketer or something, but she gives the screen a quick glance as she shuts the back door. Her heart leaps when she sees the name on the caller ID.

“Hello?”

“Hey sexy. What are you up to?”

It takes Courtney a few seconds to recognize Jared’s voice. Her heart begins to beat faster. She can hear the slur. Why the fuck does he have Bianca’s phone?

“Where’s Bianca?” she asks, then adds, “It’s a little early to be this drunk.”

Courtney can hear him chuckle, and then Bianca’s voice in the background, barely, saying, “Please, stop.”

“Well, you know, I was just thinking, you should come over. Because you’re fucking hot, and fun, unlike the frigid bitch standing next to me-”

“Put Bianca on the phone, now,” Courtney demands.

“Whatever.”

Courtney hears shuffling, but she doesn’t wait for Bianca’s voice before asking, “B? Are you there? Are you okay?”

“Yeah, I’m...I’m sorry. I’m sorry for bothering you. I-”

She’s clearly been crying. Or, she’s still crying. Courtney’s chest constricts. She grips her car key in her hand, leaning on the door for support, trying to breathe evenly.

“It’s okay. Um.” What can she say? What can she do? How can she save her from this god-awful nightmare?

“Okay, well. I’ll see you on Monday.”

“WAIT!” Courtney’s mind is racing, a million miles a minute. She can’t let her get off the phone, not now, not when her voice sounds like that. Not when his voice sounded like that. “Don’t...don’t hang up, please. I need to ask you...”

Courtney can hear a shaky breath, then her voice, small and tired. “Yeah?”

“Um…I...I have this gift certificate. For a spa in Koreatown. Um. I was about to go, and...you’re on the way, so, I could...they supposedly do really amazing facials.”

“Facials.”

“Yeah, I’ve been meaning to talk to you about skin care. You know, you’re obviously really negligent about exfoliation and you’re not getting any younger. So, you should come with me.” Courtney is babbling, desperate. “Apparently they have some kind of miracle treatment that-”

“Courtney, that sounds…like the last thing I-”

“Bianca, you’re not listening to me!” Courtney’s voice is starting to get shrill. “I’m saying, that if, for whatever reason, you want to get out tonight, I can pick you up, and we can go to the spa. You know, because, you obviously really need a facial and I’m just trying to be a good friend here.”

Courtney presses a hand over her eyes. Why did she think this would work? She’s such a fucking moron.

There’s a long pause. “Facials.”Her voice is a hoarse whisper.

Courtney’s breath hitches as she says, “Yeah.”

“Okay. Yeah. You’re right, that’s...a good idea.”

“I’ll be there in 20 minutes,” Courtney tells her, relief filling her lungs with oxygen.

***

Bianca stands on the curb, a purse over one shoulder, duffel bag from her trunk over the other, dog carrier clutched in her hands. Dark sunglasses obscure most of her face. Her heart pounds as she prays for Courtney to come quickly, before Jared puts the pieces together and comes downstairs to find her.

Convincing him that this was a normal outing had required epic levels of patience and self-control. She’d promised, she swore. Promised Courtney that she’d check out this spa with her. She was so sorry to run out like this, right before he has to leave, but his suitcase and garment bag were ready to go.

Oh, the dogs? Well, don’t worry about them. The spa is next door to a doggy daycare. Yeah! It’s so convenient! And they love getting to play with the other little dogs.

Have a safe flight...I’m sorry too.

Yes, text me when you land. Of course I love you.

When Courtney’s Prius pulls up, Bianca races to the door, flinging her duffel bag into the backseat and getting in as fast as possible.

“Are you alrigh-”

“Yeah. We’re not really going to Koreatown, right?”

She can’t bear to look into Courtney’s eyes, so she stares straight ahead, buckling her seatbelt. Courtney pauses for a moment, considering her response.

“We can go wherever you want,” she finally says, softly.

Bianca glances in the mirror, uneasiness growing as she catches her building looming in the background. She presses two fingers to her temple, swallowing hard.

“Just drive.”

#rpdr fanfiction #bianca del rio #courtney act #bitney #latrice royale #oc #lesbian au #fluff #angst #undone #stephanie #veronica #tw emotional abuse #concrit welcome

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anthonybialy · 3 years

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Republican and Can't

The business party isn't keen on competition. Republicans are dead set against a third option. Two is already confusing.It's either a failure of imagination or imaginative fear of losing power that leads the side ostensibly against government to nominate hypocritically flaccid dolts who spend marginally less enthusiastically. Wendy's disrupts the McDonald's/Burger King ease of choice. Wait until they hear about Five Guys.

It's unbelievable and understandable that a regrettable election competitor would try to copy the other one. Panicky insecurity creates a flimsy copy. The side truly obsessed with uncontrollable spending, needless trade wars, and presumed federal involvement in health care beats the other one that endorses unfortunate ideas halfheartedly. The two-party system is as indistinguishable as Spy vs. Spy. I forget which one is my favorite, but I do know I loathe the foe.

For ease of selection, there's been a reduction of choices in the second selection which resembles the other one, anyway. Your Republican options are the Donald Trump rude lame insult wannabe insider wing and the Bush/Romney Ivy League snotty surrender caucus. Ensuring options remain narrow is especially popular amongst the former's cultish rubes who can't admit Earth's greatest winner lost to Joe goddamn Biden.

I wish there could be more choices than establishment dull liberals and wannabe establishment obnoxious liberals. Thinking there are are only a few choices is what Democrats claim and desire. You've got more choices than those who offer a meek copy even as they naturally tell you otherwise.

Restrict choices either by lack of imagination or deliberate obfuscation. See: there's an option. Binary Fox News thinking got the joyless party trapped into inviting the same unwelcome crasher. The erstwhile president's former messenger service is a fitting mouthpiece in its way. Hate whoever criticizes to be a sophisticated grownup. The North Korean pink lady aspires to such loyalty.

Why do you want to be fed to the lion, asks the shark? Potential club members are pressed to join one of two completely different Republican gangs who will add debt without daring to cut a buck of spending. The matter of which style they prefer should make going broke more comfortable.

Pretend to be against the system while funding every bit. The same mentality behind demanding support for Trump to defeat wicked Hillary results in two wretched factions competing to be the least worst. Get down to the most hideous finalists imaginable and figure which won't please Satan as much.

It shouldn't be that challenging to locate a human who understands government sucks and possesses a plan to halt said sucking. Getting one who wants to run is the challenging bit. But we just need the one. Until that single person is located, primaries will remain liberals versus liberals in the party that's supposedly for conservatives. People who can't imagine someone polite who still sticks up for the right to keep one's own funds are playing the party game. Can't we just drink instead?

Trump is a self-made man except for the man and self-made parts. An utter fake naturally embraces government intervention on every occasion. Why wouldn't a party rely on the guy who never figured how to enact wholesale Obamacare repeal?

Standards and people both remain unchanged for different reasons. Tethering oneself to a personality can only be made more regrettable by the attached people in question. Republicans have a chance to dedicate themselves to limited government instead of an inept buffoon and refuse to take it. Remaining Trump fans are battered spouses who are scared to leave him. Ask one of his ex-wives for advice.

It's inspirational in its way how limited in imagination the Republican Party remains. Their inherent lunkheaded nature also explains the inability to sell any maneuver that involves letting people choose how they'll spend or live.

A political conglomerate that thinks it can run your life better than you can can’t think of anything other than two options who combine to form zero good ones. Not everything from the past is worth cherishing, as seen by both types of recent regrettable presidential nominees. Binary Republicans choose between Budweiser or Miller in a craft brew world. They can't even imagine a world with taste.

A strong example of the opposite should inspire the decent to prefer the actually classy. Trump was a rude losing insurrectionist. He really does like the CSA. Dismissing nonsense about white supremacy infecting all corners of society would be easier if he hadn't inspired a charge like Pickett.

Fearing success would explain a lot. Anyone still enticed by the loser who didn't do what he claimed shows the downside of comfort with familiarity. Explaining just why the last Republican president was, is, and always will be full of it should be the easiest task since beating Hillary Clinton.

Embodying phoniness has only been his default setting for his entire goddamn life, so why learn after decades of him craving attention? Only forty percent of one was spent in the presidency after he couldn't even lie as well as Joe Biden.

Trump gets attention despite deserving even less of it than usual. He's happy in his miserable way. We still have to discuss him if you thought the punishment for whatever we did was over. Anyone sensible was sick of it in 2016.

You can even go back to being repulsed in the mid-'80s if you had the misfortune of encountering his shrieking about how incredible he is for that long. Ignore the failed football league, casinos, and presidency. Embracing the anchor will surely allow for reaching new heights. It's only spray-painted gold, which novice swimmers will discover too late.

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euphxmia-pxtter-blog · 7 years

Text

The Prank (a Marauders/Wolfstar fanfic; BPD!Sirius)

trigger warnings: abuse mention, self harm "James! JAMES!!" The desperate, terrified voice pierced through the silence of the dormitory like a razor blade. A moment later, the door banged open, revealing a wide-eyed, sweat-soaked, shaking Sirius Black. "I... Oh god, James, I really messed up." He wanted more than anything to explain himself, to explain why he did what he did, but there wasn't time. "Snape k-knows about the tree- how t-t get past it- we've gotta stop him!" James and Peter, both sitting on their beds, jumped to their feet. "Peter, you tell Madam Pomfrey what happened, in case he gets injured. Sirius, just stay here; don't move a muscle. I'll take care of it," James said quickly before racing from the room. Peter followed him out. The door swung closed behind them. Sirius just stood there. He stood and stared at the door. His heart was still beating fast, but- having delivered his message- he was left frozen in a state of shock. He couldn't process, he couldn't understand. /'What have I done?'/ he thought dully. /'What have I done, What have I done, What have I done?'/ And then, predictably, the voice in his mind answered, /'You betrayed Remus. And you might have killed someone.'/ With that thought- that enormous, almost incomprehensible thought- something inside him broke. His stomach constricted. He sunk to the floor, bringing his legs up to his chest and covering his head with his arms, as if this meaningless gesture could somehow protect him from his own actions. His lungs burned. His head spun. He didn't understand how this had happened, how he could have told the secret he'd sworn to protect with his life. His limbs shook violently. He was a traitor, possibly a murderer. Briefly, he thought, /'They'll all hate me now,'/ but that didn't matter right now. There was so much worse that could happen, and he had lost the right to care about what would happen when /his/ world came crashing down. Even if Snape didn't die, even if James arrived in time to save him, he would tell. Snape would tell everyone that Remus Lupin was a werewolf. Everyone would turn on him, fear him, hate him. He'd be in danger. Dumbledore would have no choice but to expel him, and he'd never have a job, a life. And it would be Sirius's fault. He would have single-handedly destroyed the life of the one person he cared about the most, the one person he would most gladly die to protect, the one that he- No. No, he had no right to even think those words. Not now. He sat in silence for what felt like years, but was likely only hours. When the buildup of pressure under his skin, waiting for the others to return, became too great, he got up and paced. When that didn't help, he started pulling his hair. The sharp prickles on his scalp helped distract him, but it wasn't enough. Not nearly enough. So he started scratching. He dug his fingernails into his skin and raked over the same spot again and again, wincing through the pain and wearing away the outer layer of skin. He didn't bleed, but the skin left behind was pink and dotted with red not quite at the surface. It stung like a burn. Sirius's mouth curved up in joyless satisfaction. He started again in another place. All those overwhelming feelings began to ebb and recede, until all but a dull, throbbing ache in his chest was gone. He felt empty, hollow. The void was all he knew, and it was a horrible, twisted kind of safety that he found there. He returned to his curled-up position on the floor, but now he just stared blankly at the floor- pulse steady, arms slack. Eventually, he heard footsteps, but he didn't move. He heard a voice outside the door- Peter's- ask, "What do we do?" He heard James's muffled response but couldn't make out the words. He didn't move. The door opened, and both boys entered. Sirius's eyes flicked up to their faces. "So?" he said tonelessly. For half a second, James's brows furrowed in anger at the nonchalance in his voice. Then he seemed to notice the wild hair and unfocused eyes. His eyes drifted down in what was now instinct to check Sirius's arms. His eyes widened a fraction when he saw the marks, and his tone was significantly softer than it might have been as he said, "Snape's fine." Sirius nodded. He knew he would feel relief about this later, but right now he just waited to hear more. "Moony's okay too," Peter said quietly. "Dumbledore convinced Snape not to talk; I don't know how." At this, Sirius did let out a minuscule sigh. Even in his numb state, he was worried about Remus. "He won't be expelled?" he asked. "No." "And has he turned back yet?" "Yeah, an hour ago. He's in the hospital wing now." James crossed the room and sat beside his friend. Peter crouched at their feet. "Why'd you do it?" James asked simply. "I got mad," Sirius answered. God, it sounded so stupid now. "He- Snape, I mean- he caught me in the hallway, started talking about Regulus, then making cracks about my home life. 'How did a precious, rich Pureblood like you end up so fucked up? What, did daddy touch you?' 'You think your mommy would take you back if you cried, little Blood Traitor?' 'Your brother's on the right side for now, but you'd better be there to watch out for him if he messes up, or else.' All that shit. I should have walked, I know, they're just words. But I lost it. I snapped, said I could tell him a secret, and the idiot bought it. I realized what I'd done a minute after he left and came running for you, and, well, you know the rest...." The room was very quiet. Peter looked at James, James looked at Sirius, Sirius looked at the floor. Then James put an arm around Sirius's shoulder. The long-haired boy's gaze snapped up, locking with his friend's. He started to cry. Emotion seeped back in- sorrow and guilt and shame and relief. He clung to James's shirt and sobbed into his chest. James, ever parental, stroked his hair, which just made him cry harder. He cried until he couldn't anymore, until he was dry-cheeked and utterly exhausted. Still leaning on his best friend, his eyes slid shut and he fell asleep. When he woke up several hours later, Sirius was alone, but not for long. After just a few minutes, the door opened again. Peter and James came back in, followed closely by Remus himself. He looked awful: bags under his eyes, hair wild, an ugly bruise on his jaw. He stared at Sirius. Sirius stared back. Neither one moved, just watched each other carefully. Finally, gently, Remus said, "Are you alright?" Sirius's heart broke. "Me?" he croaked. "I almost killed a boy and got you thrown into Azkaban last night, and you're asking if /I'm/ alright?" His eyes started to burn again, but he blinked hard. He wouldn't cry in front of Remus. He wasn't allowed. This wasn't about Sirius, it was about the friend he betrayed, and he wouldn't manipulate his friend into forgiving him by crying now. The only problem was, it didn't seem like he had to. "Pads," Remus said steadily, "Last night, you had to deal with Snape mocking your abusive childhood and threatening your brother's safety, if James and Peter are telling it right. And since then you've been dealing with the guilt over your mistake- and don't try to say it wasn't taxing for you, because I see your arm. Plus, I know everything is ten times worse for you because of your illness, which is why you did what you did in the first place. So, yeah, I'm asking if you're alright." A wave of bitterness rolled over Sirius. Not directed at Remus, of course, but just because of the situation. "Ah, yes, I forgot. I can't be held accountable for being evil because of my /illness/." "Your illness is literally the reason you react so impulsively when you're angry, Sirius!" Remus exclaimed exasperatedly. "It is an /actual/ condition with /actual/ effects, just like my lycanthropy! Yeah, you have a little more control, but you've got to deal with it all the time, and I only have to once a month! You aren't evil. And I /am/ holding you accountable; what I'm /not/ doing is hating you or being furious with you, because you're disordered and you're sorry and you're already beating yourself up over it, so I don't have to." Sirius was still staring, now with an expression of awe on his face. Words that he'd thought a hundred times were now racing through his head. /'He's perfect. He's so perfect, so good, so pure. He deserves the world. I love him.'/ "Sirius?" Remus prompted, waiting for a response. "Sirius, say some-" "I love you." The words were out of his mouth before he could stop them, and as Remus's eyes widened, Sirius's face went red. He hid behind his hands. "Shit. Merlin, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to- oh, shit, I'm sorry." No one spoke, and then: "We're just gonna go..." James's voice said. Two pairs of feet shuffled out of the room, closing the door behind them. Sirius chanced a glance up at Remus's face and was surprised to see a warm smile there. He suddenly looked healthier, better-rested. "I always believed," he said softly, lowering himself onto his knees beside Sirius, "that I wasn't worthy of love." "Well, you are," Sirius responded with newfound fierceness. "You deserve everything, /everything./" "Really?" Remus said, something like playfulness or amusement in his eyes now. "Everything?" "Everything," Sirius repeated firmly. "What about the guy I've been in love with since second year?" Remus asked. And before Sirius could respond, they were kissing. They were kissing, and it was like nothing either had ever experienced before. Sirius's stomach swooped with glee. It felt like finding something that had been missing his whole life, a piece of him being put back in its place. He reveled in the feeling of Remus's touch, the scent that was so distinctly his- coffee and candle wax, the faint taste of chocolate on his tongue. It was heaven. When they finally broke apart, both breathing heavily, Sirius leaned his forehead against Remus's. "I never thought I was worthy of love, either," he whispered. "Well, you were dead wrong, then, weren't you?" Remus replied, and they both laughed. "You were too," Sirius pointed out. Remus grinned. "I guess so." They say its darkest just before the light, and Sirius supposed that- whoever "they" were- they were right.

#Harry potter #marauders era #James potter #Sirius black #peter pettigrew #remus lupin #hogwarts #wolfstar #fanfiction #bpd!sirius #tw: self harm #tw: abuse

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ratherhavetheblues · 5 years

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KELLY REICHARDT’S ‘WENDY AND LUCY’

The truest way to the heart of Kelly Reichardt’s film, Wendy and Lucy (2008), may turn out to be its penultimate moment. This was not always my approach, as a reading of the Wonders in the Dark blog from February 15, 2012—A Dangerous Devotion: Lars von Trier’s “Dancer in the Dark” and Kelly Reichardt’s “Wendy and Lucy”—would show. There I was intent upon engaging the protagonists of each work having risked everything (like Joan of Arc) for the sake of getting to the bottom of a dilemma unfortunately even beyond their very alert and brave powers. What, specifically, drives such souls to the brink of destruction?

There are ways of taking a closer look at the phenomenon, and Wendy and Lucyshows the way. Like Mouchette, a classic film figure under heavy fire, Wendy can no longer stand her emotionally violent, Midwestern blue-collar family and neighbors and their Rust Belt home base spanning Muncie and Fort Wayne, Indiana. Unlike Mouchette, the famous waif, she does not choose suicide as a meaningful change (nor is she destined to be immortalized by a forum of movie buffs). She hits the road with 500 dollars in savings from unspecified jobs, and a clunker supposedly capable of reaching that land of fool’s gold, Alaska. (Where others dream of gold, she—speaking volumes—dreams of a job in a cannery which, at least, does not resemble Indiana.) However, she does also bring a stunningly vast fortune in the form of her golden retriever, Lucy (a born retriever of buried treasures).

Right from the get-go we know Wendy will precipitate some kind of screw-up. Getting to that late and primary revelation mentioned above, there is Lucy in the back yard of a suburban Portland, Oregon, home, having become a foster-home for her as the upshot of Wendy’s jail time for shoplifting. (Perhaps before beginning with that end of their era together, in that tranquil yard, we should notice that, in the course of Wendy’s return to freedom she distributes posters including a photo, around the area where Lucy was last seen. “I’m lost!” the tag-line runs. When Mouchette is confronted in a forest by a figure suspicious about her intent, she defends herself by blurting out, “Lost, Sir! Lost!” The truly lost, Wendy, having found where her beloved had landed, proceeds there to confirm her incurable lostness. (And Lucy proceeds to confirm her genius.) The subversion of mainstream sentimental film reunions here is an important gift.

Wendy first sees Lucy gazing at a flock of seagulls circling her new and possibly very short-term yard. Calling out to her and saying, “You miss me, Lu?” Wendy passionately clings to the chain-link fence. Lucy forgets the seagulls and rushes to the only familiar aspect of a life having undergone a shock we never fully see, this being a remarkable hallmark of Reichardt’s narratives. “I’m sorry, Lu,” is a recognition that Wendy sees her friend as having smashed out the cliché ceiling where jerks come up smelling of roses in the hands of infinite forgiveness. “I know… I know, Lu” the wanderer emotes. But does she in fact comprehend that when, at the entrance of the grocery store she was about to rip off (after not entirely sincere calming kisses and caresses), Lucy could read her friend’s being a disappointment as spiked by, after Lucy’s desperate barking a warning, undergoing Wendy’s marching up to the leashed-secured companion, clamping down her snout and angrily telling her, “Don’t be a nuisance! I don’t need that?”

The beginning of Lucy’s painful realization that she doesn’t need the felon includes the frenzy on seeing her partner brought back to the store by a clerk and then taken away in a squad car (all the more disturbing in never seeing the back-door departure while left to puzzled and desperate staring at the front door). However, the generally supposed-to-be dull-one’s real struggle is left for us to reconstruct. As now newly composed, Lucy listens to Wendy’s solicitude and her heart is both joyous and something else, very hard to undergo. “Don’t be mad, Lu… Here, I got you this!” [a stick, to fetch]. She throws it toward where the seagulls were. “Such a good catch! Drop it! Good dog! Good girl!” Lu happily plays, with old-time and not old-time energy. (Lucy’s flagging and once prominent lodestar [with funds having dwindled by way of the shoplifting fine, the car disposal and a theft/ assault in the woods] had become a lachrymose spent force like Mouchette; while Lucy had become a form of another cinema figure—unforgettable to a choice clientele—namely, Baltazar, the donkey, carelessly regarded as “The Mathematical Donkey.”) “I’m sorry, Lu,” is followed with a defeated cry. “I lost the car…” comes next, followed by the rather hasty, wishful thought, “That man seems very nice…” Suddenly it’s, “You be good… I’m gonna make some money, and I’ll be back! OK, Lu, be good…”

How good Lucy could be in face of that collapse requires inference about how she weathered the abandonment. After Wendy’s release, she looks for Lucy at the pound. Though she comes up empty, we can imagine her dog going through the fear and depression seen in all the inmates on hand. We can imagine Lucy’s sense of being ripped away from not only a person of great interest but the infrastructure by which they had been sustained. Missing the interpersonal love intrinsic to that stemming would not be the end of Lucy’s heavy reflections. The moment of their kiss and caress through the fence out in the suburbs, fathoming how much is left and how much is gone, offers a wider range of action whereby other entities (seagulls, for instance; and the sea itself) offer creative love more resilient than that of Wendy.

From that perspective, accessible only to those who, with passions unstinting, beat back lostness, Wendy’s way of concluding the interplay is far more breathtaking and chilling than any gun battle. The intensity of this kinship should not be allowed to filter down as a sentimental highlight of melodramatic, advantage-addicted presences bending to the dubious powers of physics, religion and morality. Wendy, by and large, seems common and flighty. But, as we are about to investigate and define, her awkwardness and suspicion (and responsiveness to generosity) stem from an aristocratic spell. She does not cherish many others of her species for the very good reason –but too bluntly rendered—that they are far more remote from her energies than Lucy.

In the subsequent Reichardt film, Meek’s Cutoff (2010), Emily (played by actress, Michelle Williams, who also puts Wendy on the map) sees her real world shrink to one American Indian heading for the hills without her. She had considerably come to the point of being enraptured, from which to chart a difficult and seldom seen course. Here it is Lucy who sustains what Emily is about to undergo, while Wendy more closely approximates Emily’s game but uninspired husband, Solomon. While Wendy was spinning her wheels to little effect, Lucy was bringing lucidity to the matter, lucidity in the sense that effective love requires effective hate. That shocker, in the context of a sweet pup, requires incisive explanation. Creatures great and small, as our film makes efforts to highlight, find themselves intent upon many objectives. But their most remarkable action, namely, participating along with creativity itself (mustering the energy to complete its presence) is not widely accomplished among humankind. Wild creatures, including pets more fluent with carnality and its paradoxes, put together far better numbers of this sort. Though much of the world’s humans hunker down in finalities seeming to them consummate, from the perspective of that other way (being about kinetic coordination, rather than a stand) there comes to pass a state of impasse massively hindering forward momentum. By the same token, wild creatures (including some humans) feel at war; but also—through agencies of daring and reflection—a kind of peace. As the reservoir of coming to grips with impasse veers to more sanguine areas, there is the possibility of oscillating overtures amongst the options, especially in the syntheses of blithe percolation, increasingly putting heat on the opposition by attractive ways careening (like happy wolves) as part of a delicate wolf pack. Thereby, the problematicness of such a pragmatic inertia, never to be dislodged, can paradoxically flourish in ways integral to a cogent primordiality.

The power of the scene where Lucy and Wendy go their separate ways derives from that unique, compelling infrastructure. Such a smash-up, between those who have travelled where so many haven’t, elicits a post-mortem (where no one has actually died) for the sake of casting light upon a skill with consequences far beyond domestic viability. When it comes to breathing down Wendy’s neck to discern what’s the matter, we can begin by availing ourselves of Reichardt’s previous film, Old Joy (2006), where a couple of incompatible guys waste the beauties of rural Oregon and spend a bonfire night worsening their intrinsic depressiveness. In the course of Wendy’s joyless playing fetch-a-stick with Lucy where we first see them along a forested path in Oregon, the retriever stumbles upon a tribe of runaways spending the night around a bonfire. Actor, Will Oldham, who, in Old Joy, joylessly goes through the motions of play with the dog of the hour—Lucy, in fact—comes back to haunt Wendy and Lucy as once again a nocturnal presence proud of making a statement against those who work with a will. A (strategically significant) responder to Lucy’s neglect—an unwashed young girl with a large ring through one nostril and looking more affectionate than Wendy—readily becomes the leading light, eclipsing the loudmouth (Icky), though another boy, weighted down with a sense of his own errancy, also outperforms the medicine man. Wendy eventually comes into the picture, a picture of wanting to be somewhere else. She—a mixture of shyness and mistrust—divulges her travel plan, which prompts Lucy’s new friend to call out, “Hey. Icky, this lady’s going to Alaska!” That sets off Wendy’s having to hear the know-it-all recommend a company to work for (later we see her jotting down the particulars), without any recognition that she has anything in common with him. Increasing the alienation is Icky’s follow-up boasting about totaling a two-hundred-thousand-dollar earth mover there, when stoned, of course (Oldham’s playing the part of a stoner, in Old Joy). “They couldn’t pin it on me… I was gone!”) Her rather brittle body language here is a case of being all to the good and yet all to the bad. Before Lucy rushes ahead to that intriguing underworld, there is a play of twilight in the trees, smudges of vivid color—forming a dynamic incentive leaving Wendy far behind.

Following directly upon that wake-up call where a bonfire has a hard time priming Icky and Wendy toward some semblance of viability, there is Wendy’s parking her car on a quiet street; and a blurry pink figure, due to car and house lights springs, up by her window. “Sleep, girl,” she tells Lucy; but wakening is the keyword. Next morning our protagonists are wakened by a security officer, who informs her, “You can’t sleep here, Ma’am…” Almost simultaneously, a pigeon flashes skyward by that same window touched the night before. Its joining the patterns of exhortation constitutes a final bon voyage before Wendy’s limitations take over.

Her malaise and hard eyes in spying at the periphery of Icky’s campsite, before joining Lucy being treated well, bespeak more fear than alertness. The prompt death of her car (an Accord, of all things) while being told by the officer to move it sends her into an anxiety attack hardening into crude defensiveness. That same morning of ignition not happening brings the revelation that Lucy’s food bag contains 10 small kibbles. Rather than dip into her puny war chest to care for her partner, we have Lucy on a tight leash and Wendy scavenging for bottles and cans (an occupation of Oldham’s Kurt, in Old Joy). In their constriction (Lucy on the lookout for anything edible on the ground), Wendy ties her friend to a fixture at a strip mall while she goes off to a public washroom. She brushes her teeth, gives herself a sponge bath (attending to an injury at her Achilles heel) and fills a bottle with water; but Lucy does not become a beneficiary of that exercise, exposing how patently hopeless the master of rugged and woozy individualism amounts to. On the other hand, with the lady going to Alaska chewing on some nondescript scrap and Lucy at a loss to find even a scrap, their peril, pain and stoicism disclose that this is no mere folly but an enduring and profound love, however disastrous.

The dead car having changed a rout into a massacre, Wendy attempts to shoplift a can of I AMS (and sundry snacks), and the young stock boy who intercepts her proves to be an instance of all she hates and carelessly hopes to hide from. (The shoplifting scene in Greta Gerwig’s film, Lady Bird [2017], where two young check-out girls regard the effort as a laughable farce, seems to be more Icky than Wendy—a somewhat inadvertent underlining of how uniquely pitched our film has been composed.) The clerk may be a schoolboy part-timer, but his rhetorical apparatus, as fortified by a crucifix, comes to us as redolent of a fanatical opportunism able to override the far more rounded and easy-going manager. So well on top of her subject, Reichardt endows the moralist with a voice recalling smug Eddy in Leave It to Beaver; and also Kurt in Old Joy and Icky in our film today. Not leaving the experience with that, she shows us that Wendy herself has little trouble slipping into that murder-inciting register. “Excuse me, Ma’am? I think you’re forgetting something…” More an Inquisition than a secular mishap, Andy, the born cop, impressively hounds his boss, Mr. Hunt, who had begun with the modulated outlook, “OK, well, what are we talking about here?” Having nothing to do with grey zones, the upstanding choir boy invokes an egalitarian axiom being hard to deny. “The rules apply to everyone equally.” With the can of I Ams on the desk as Exhibit A, the clean-up drive puts forward another indubitable truth, “If a person can’t afford dog food, they shouldn’t have a dog.” Wendy, who had only too quickly put out the fabrication that she was intending to pay for the loot after checking on how her dog, tied outside, was doing (far worse, in fact, than Wendy was able to comprehend), expertly directs her smarts and phony sincerity to the generous motives of Mr. Hunt. “I’m very sorry… This isn’t going to happen again…” (The frenzy, despair and hopelessness of Lucy, on seeing her being ushered back in, comprising what we can imagine to be far from a unique error.) Andy presses on, with, “The food is not the issue. It’s about setting an example, right?” Wendy’s being as annoying a sophist as Andy kills any hope she might have had. “I’m not from around her, so I couldn’t be an example…” This brings Hunt to say, “We have a policy, Ma’am.”

Film stories about troubled humans and their dogs seem to invite the clientele to an evening of strong feelings everyone can easily appreciate. Wendy and Lucyis a film far from easy to fathom. In their first walk seen together, after a rather routine fetch-and-drop ramble, Lucy upgrades to that remarkably rough-hewn young girl who, when Wendy finally catches up, tells her, “Great dog!” [greatness being measured not by looks but by another kind of presence]. Learning of her name, the nomad declares happily, “You’re a sweetheart, Lucy!” What she sees, even if she can’t begin to explain it, is depth. She asks Wendy about Lucy’s breed, not as if it matters. The question catches the owner only half-listening, “I don’t know… a mix of hunting dog and retriever…” That verbal fumble becomes one of a series of sloppy assertions in Reichardt’s films, exposing the speaker as lacking articulative grip but unable to admit any shortfall in mastery within a troubling preoccupation. (Propped upon that bemusing skid, there is the nearly magical dialectic of hunt and retrieve, the “greatness” of which Wendy misplays and Lucy embraces.) Another form of elegant and ironic composition comes our way here in the form of a reprise of hugging Lucy, this time by Wendy. On realizing that collecting empty drink containers is not going to fit the bill, Wendy, outside the grocery store, performs a preamble to theft she has repeated frequently. She, too, caresses Lucy, and Lucy, as with the person the night before not having any ulterior motives, licks her face, always having been on the lookout for Wendy being as heartfelt as herself. Why would the supposedly advanced discernment need to prepare the lower form toward passivity, unless the latter has been treated to Wendy’s dark side, again and again? (Here, once again, the Shirley Temple, Depression Era concomitants of this duo lead first only to the shattered, for the sake of harder and deeper gifts.) “Don’t bother anyone, OK?” is the remarkably cynical patter on account of providing for her dear one’s breakfast. Lucy begins to wail and swish her tail fiercely in a vain gesture to make the coming outrage devolve to some kind of creative lift. Wendy turns back in anger and scolds, “What did I say?” She clamps Lucy’s snout and we wonder at the crude hysteria by which she would suppose to attain to innovative distinction.

After paying the $50 fine, Wendy returns to the scene of the crime and the scene of the end of her partnership. The bus that drives her there (a conduit of freedom) contains an ad which runs, “It’s not too late to sleep like a baby.” That seems the right time to attend to the sizeable unemployment and poverty constituency at that moment of truth. Having scandalized so many other expectations, this film is very apt to transcend political and moral bromides. All the scavengers flocking about the bottle returns depot are unfailingly gracious. When Wendy, seeing fit to retire from that trade after an hour or so, contributes to the cache of a man in a wheelchair, he describes her generosity as “cool.” Right from that first walk, ending with Icky and associates having more in common with the scavengers than marauders, a murmuring, lullaby motif of a woman’s voice wafts over moments of promise. Accordingly, it comes to light during the first moments of her bottles pick-ups. Its maintaining a sensuous balance, where imbalance so overtly threatens, combines with Lucy’s vigorous command of emotions (and capacity to be still) to expose sleeping-like-a-baby inertia as decadence, not accomplishment. Wendy, for all her gross incompetence, has had the drive to leave Rust Belt Fort Wayne. But choosing an extravagant (“cool”) destination she clearly cannot afford, from the points of view of money and maturity, leaves her floundering in distraction and melancholy similar to the casualties of the defunct saw mill which pushed a modicum of self-confidence to the total loss of such a state. (There is a startling and thrilling cinematic delivery apropos of this vale of anxiety. The district repair shop is closed for Sunday and a dispirited Wendy cups her hands to the shop’s window to see its interior free of reflection. In Mark Romanek’s Never Let Me Go [2010]—where a “Miss Lucy” is fired from her teaching job for siding with school children having been being bred for body parts—the schoolgirl protagonist and her friends cup their hands to a travel bureau window in order to ascertain that an employee within is the mother [the “origin”] of the doomed protagonist.)

Two other fixtures of that Portland exurb are the grandfatherly Walgrens parking lot minder who is mindful of Wendy; and a demented, self-pitying and rather far-seeing thief who steals about half of her meagre liquid assets. The man who said a mouthful when he said, “You can’t sleep here, Ma’am,” does in fact demonstrate alertness to Wendy’s predicament and that of those meek undead. Though he never deals with Lucy, the parking monitor functions in this distressed-dog movie the way Edmund Gwenn calms the maelstrom in Lassie Come Home (1943). Here, once again, good-will folk wisdom and cliched expectation in the foreground are no match for that nature in the background which Reichardt knows to be paramount. In response to Wendy’s counting on the local pound to eventually produce a Lucy Come Home, the Gwenn figure recommends the more active strategy (seemingly proven in his family history) of leaving on the ground items of her clothing to induce the missing loved-one to the happy fate befalling Lassie. Her departure from him includes his gift of a few dollars, all he can spare on a minimum wage salary, while making sure his granddaughter (having a body language in league with Andy) doesn’t see what is transpiring. (Just before that, we found Wendy angrily stalking about, demanding Lucy to appear and stop spoiling her excellent life. She catches up with Andy, being picked up by his mother after work, and punk-style, howls, “Have a great night, OK? Your son’s a real hero! [“Lucy! Come now!”].) A sweetheart, like Gwenn; but careful not to disrupt mainstream family priorities. Gwenn’s independence as a tinker provides food for thought. Waiting for news of Lucy, Wendy—perhaps feeling the need to do justice to the greenery she has denied herself—thinks to spend a night in the forest nearby the train tracks, where a golden patch of foliage only slightly steadies her. But her bid for bracing solitude exposes her to, like so many other of her overtures, a down side of the open road. The soporific aura of that hard-luck, wrong-side-of-the-tracks constituency seems to confirm her assumption that risk inheres in a field readily and quite pleasantly consumed. With her elderly friend (spending numbing days standing on the dead cement, and counting it a great improvement over his previous all-night job), she hears him declare, “It’s all fixed!” [needing a job to find a job]. “That’s why I’m going!” [to another type of numbing]. Suddenly highlighting the meaning of true risk is a predator who tells her, “Don’t look at me!” as he loots that portion of her money she hasn’t kept in her money-belt. The real plus of this episode consists in the sociopath very closely seeing-eye-to-eye with Wendy. “I don’t like this place… It’s the fuckin’ people that bother me… I’m out here trying to be a good boy, but they don’t want to let me… They treat me like having no rights… They can smell the fear… Fuck! I killed more than 700,000 people with my bare hands! Fuck if I know!”

“They can smell the fear,” is a brief sentence presiding over many horrific missteps. (Lucy can smell the fear.) In the aftermath of the car trouble, Wendy calls back to Indiana and her sister and her sister’s husband, on the vague supposition they might be interested in her troubled life to date. The far more sanguine husband picks up the call and kindly listens about the end of the vehicle. “It’s kinda bad here, actually…” “What does she want us to do about that?” the sister loudly asks, being like one of those the invader imagines killing with his bare hands. Wendy comes back with, “I don’t want anything,” [from the likes of you]. But countenancing the likes of her—and him—makes, as Lucy knows, more sense than going to Alaska. As with the complaining mugger and the whole town, it seems (and maybe the whole planet), vividly addressing sleeping babies seems to be a forgotten, or perhaps never found, skill. (Andy’s rabidity being merely a variant of falling prey to a gigantic creative exigency no one wants to pay the cost of.)

Lucy, on the other hand, has shown us what succeeding-to-thrive looks like. (A recent Time magazine expose, of the very smart and the very workaholic hogging material wealth, prescribes ways of letting others in on that rational advantage binge. That would be way down the track where Lucy thrives.) Wendy hops a freight going North, and as she slouches on the floor with a scowl on her face she looks out at the countless conifers (the most primordial trees), pulled along like toffee, into a mysterious weave by the speeding train. Lucy, too, is carried along, by the vicissitudes of foster care. Wendy is crushed by the countless obstacles. Lucy, by her own lights, knows of a fluid, mysterious range she is acute enough to recognize as being her real home. Lucy Come Home.

#kelly reichardt

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raeningdemons · 7 years

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[Excerpt from Sarah J. Maas’s novel, Heir of Fire. Spoiler warning.]

“You know, it might be better if you just slapped me instead.”

“Instead of what?”

“Instead of reminding me again and again how rutting worthless and awful and cowardly I am. Believe me, I can do the job well enough on my own. So, just hit me, because I’m damned tired of trading insults. And you know what? You didn’t even bother to tell me you’d be unavailable. If you’d said something, I never would have come. I’m sorry I did. But you just left me downstairs.”

Saying those last words made a sharp, quick panic rise up in her, an aching pain that had her throat closing. “You left me,” she repeated. Maybe it was only out of blind terror at the abyss opening up again around her, but she whispered, “I have no one left. No one.”

She hadn’t realized how much she meant it, how much she needed it not to be true, until now.

His features remained impassive, turning vicious, even, as he said, “There is nothing that I can give you. Nothing I want to give you. You are not owed an explanation for what I do outside of training. I don’t care what you have been through or what you want to do with your life. The sooner you can sort out your whining and self-pity, the sooner I can be rid of you. You are nothing to me, and I do not care.”

There was a faint ringing in her ears that turned into a roar. And beneath it, a sudden wave of numbness, a too-familiar lack of sight or sound or feeling. She didn’t know why it happened, because she had been so dead set on hating him, but . . . it would have been nice, she supposed. It would have been nice to have one person who knew the absolute truth about her---and didn’t hate her for it.

It would have been really, really nice.

She walked away without another word. With each step she took back to her room, that flickering light inside her guttered.

And went out.

Celaena did not remember curling up in her bed, boots still on. She did not remember her dreams, or feel the pangs of hunger or thirst when she awoke, and she could barely respond to anyone as she trudged down to the kitchen and set about helping with breakfast. Everything swirled past in dull colors and whispers of sound. But she was still. A bit of rock in a stream.

Breakfast passed, and when it was done, in the quiet of the kitchen, the sounds sorted out into voices. A murmur---Malakai. A laugh---Emrys.

“Look,” Emrys said, coming up to where Celaena stood at the kitchen sink, still staring out at the field. “Look what Malakai bought for me.”

She caught the flash of the golden hilt before she understood Emrys was holding out a new knife. It was a joke. The gods had to be playing a joke. Or they just truly, truly hated her.

The hilt was engraved with lotus blossoms, a ripple of lapis lazuli edging the bottom like a river wave. Emrys was smiling, eyes bright. But that knife, the gold polished and bright . . .

“I got it from a merchant from the southern continent,” Malakai said from the table, his satisfied tone enough to tell her that he was beaming. “It came all the way from Eyllwe.”

The numbness snapped.

Snapped with such a violent crack that she was surprised they didn’t hear it.

And in its place was a screaming, high-pitched and keening, loud as a teakettle, loud as a storm wind, loud as the sound the maid had emitted the morning she’d walked into Celaena’s parents’ bedroom and seen the child lying between their corpses.

It was so loud that she could hardly hear herself as she said, “I do not care.” She couldn’t hear anything over that silent screaming, so she raised her voice, breath coming fast, too fast, as she repeated,”I. Do. Not. care.”

Silence. Then Luca warily said from across the room, “Elentiya, don’t be rude.”

Elentiya. Elentiya. Spirit that cannot be broken.

Lies, lies, lies. Nehemia had lied about everything. About her stupid name, about her plans, about every damn thing. And she was gone. All that Celaena would have left of her were reminders like this---weapons similar to the ones the princess had worn with such pride. Nehemia was gone, and she had nothing left.

Trembling so hard she thought her body would fall apart at the seams, she turned. “I do not care about you,” she hissed to Emrys and Malakai and Luca. “I do not care about your knife. I do not care about your stories or your little kingdom.” She pinned Emrys with a stare. Luca and Malakai were across the room in an instant, stepping in front of the old man---teeth bared. Good. They should feel threatened. “So leave me alone. Keep your gods-damned lives to yourselves and leave me alone.”

She was shouting now, but she couldn’t stop hearing the screaming, couldn’t hone the anger into anything, couldn’t tell which way was up or down, only that Nehemia had lied about everything, and her friend once had sworn an oath not to---sworn an oath and broken it, just as she’d broken Celaena’s own heart the day she let herself die.

She saw tears in Emrys’s eyes then. Sorrow or pity or anger, she didn’t care. Luca and Malakai were still between them, growling softly. A family---they were a family, and they stuck together. They would rip her apart if she hurt one of them.

Celaena let out a low, joyless laugh as she took in the three of them. Emrys opened his mouth to say whatever it was he thought would help.

But Celaena let out another dead laugh and walked out the door.

After an entire night of tattooing the names of the fallen onto Gavriel’s flesh and listening to the warrior talk about the men he’d lost, Rowan sent him on his way and headed for the kitchen. He found it empty save for the ancient male, who sat at the empty worktable, hands wrapped around a mug. Emrys looked up, his eyes bright and . . .grieving.

The girl was nowhere to be seen, and for a heartbeat, he hoped she’d left again, if only so he didn’t have to face what he’d said yesterday. The door to the outside was open---as if someone had thrown it wide. She’d probably gone that way.

Rowan took a step toward it, nodding his greeting, but the old male looked him up and down and quietly said, “What are you doing?”

“What?”

Emrys didn’t raise his voice as he said, “To that girl. What are you doing that makes her come in here with such emptiness in her eyes?”

“That’s none of your concern.”

Emrys pressed his lips into a thin line. “What do you see when you look at her, Prince?”

He didn’t know. These days, he didn’t know a damn thing. “That’s none of your concern, either.”

Emrys ran a hand over his weathered face. “I see her slipping away, bit by bit, because you shove her down when she so desperately needs someone to help her back up.”

“I don’t see why I would be of any use to---”

“Did you know that Evalin Ashryver was my friend? She spent almost a year working in this kitchen---living here with us, fighting to convince your queen that demi-Fae have a place in your realm. She fought for our rights until the very day she departed this kingdom---and many years after, until she was murdered by those monsters across the sea. So I knew. I knew who her daughter was the moment you brought her into this kitchen. All of us who were here twenty-five years ago recognized her for what she is.”

It wasn’t often that he was surprised but . . . Rowan just stared.

“She has no hope, Prince. She has no hope left in her heart. Help her. If not for her sake, then at least for what she represents---what she could offer us all, you included.”

“And what is that?” he dared ask.

Emrys met his gaze unflinchingly as he whispered, “A better world.”

#excerpt #fave #This part gets me every time I read it #I end up in sobs #Because I relate to Celaena #So much #I connect with this brokenness so much it hurts #I connect with these feelings so much it hurts #throne of glass #heir of fire

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