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ephemeralstark · 3 years

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An Intern’s Ordeal

Summary: Peter gets invited to the Annual Stark Charity Gala, only he thinks he's attending as an intern and panics because he doesn't even know how to make coffee so how can he manage an actual event. Throw in a stab wound, some fractured ribs, a healthy dose of self-deprecation and a case of mistaken identity, and Tony realises that Peter really doesn't understand how much he means to him.

Rated T | Irondad | Completed | 10k

AN: i hope you all enjoy, i’ll add the link to read on ao3 in a reblog if you guys prefer that!! tw for injuries and blood, stay safe my lovelies and the tag list is at the end!

“You know,” Peter commented idly as he set down the wrench Mr. Stark had handed him on the table, “when you said you wanted me to come over and help out in the workshop, this wasn't exactly what I thought you’d have planned.”

“No?” Mr. Stark wondered as he held out a hand for the weird caps Peter was still tightly gripping after being warned not to lose them, “what did you think we were going to do?”

“I don’t know, really,” Peter shrugged dismissively, “but I kinda thought it would be something to do with Spider-Man.”

“Spider-Man?” Mr. Stark spoke as though he had forgotten who Spider-Man was, as though he wasn't sitting in the same room as him, before cursing slightly under his breath and dropping one of the caps.

“Yeah, you know? The red and blue guy who swings over the city on webs that he made himself because he’s so totally cool and smart.”

“I know who Spider-Man is, kid,” Mr. Stark said rolling his eyes at Peter, “can you grab that wrench again? Then get down here, it’s your turn to do a bit of work.”

“Well, I’m just saying you sounded a bit confused,” Peter said as he jumped off his stool and crouched by the engine on the floor, the smell of motor oil and grease making his head spin a little, he blamed his enhanced sense of smell for that as he other man didn't seem to be affected by it.

“Not about Spider-Man,” Mr. Stark corrected him, before frowning and giving Peter a serious look, “Pete, do you think I only keep you around because of your abilities?”

“Uh,” Peter faltered, unable to find the words to explain how he did think that but not in a way that made Mr. Stark seem like a bad guy, just in a way that proved Peter wasn't any more special than the next intern who passed through the halls of Stark Industries.

A look of understanding seemed to cross Mr. Stark’s face and before Peter could even open his mouth he continued to speak, “hey, actually, how would you feel about coming to this charity Gala on Saturday?”

“Wh- wait, what?”

That… had been the last thing Peter expected Mr. Stark to say, why would he invite him to a Gala? Didn't he realise that Peter was probably the last person in the world who should be invited to a fancy event - in fact, he wasn't entirely sure he owned a suit, would that be an issue? Maybe he could borrow that one of Ben’s he wore to Homecoming.

“Charity Gala,” Mr. Stark repeated, “it's a big event with suits, ties, dresses, and champagne; lots and lots of champagne, not that you’re allowed to drink that, but as Stark Industries is the organiser of the even then I can make sure we have plenty of soda. So, what’s your favourite: Coke, Pepsi, Dr Pepper, Sprite, Fanta…”

“Uh, I don't- I don't know,” Peter stammered, “just whatever you want is fine with me.”

“Come on, Kiddo, I want to make this enjoyable for my favourite intern, so what’s your drink of choice?”

“Uh, Dr Pepper, maybe?” Peter said unsurely.

“You got it,” Mr. Stark said, “now come on, get your head in the game, we need to rebuild this engine.”

“Why are we doing this?” Peter wondered, still feeling slightly confused by the conversation that had just occurred, he felt like there was a deeper meaning to it.

“By the time I was your age, I’d lost count of the number of engines I’d rebuilt, this is a young genius’ rite of passage.”

I’m not a genius, Peter thought to himself but instead of voicing the thought aloud, he focused his attention on the task at hand. Or, he tried to, at least, the truth was that he was slightly caught up on Mr. Stark’s comment about wanting his favourite intern at the Charity Gala.

Was that his way of saying that he wasn't keeping Peter around because of his Spider-Man abilities, but rather because of his status as a Stark Industries intern? But that couldn't be right, Peter wasn't even a good intern - he usually just fiddled around in the workshop and tried to improve his Spider-Man equipment before attempting to eat Mr. Stark out of house and home. So, why wouldn't he take a better intern to the Gala? And what exactly would be expected of Peter on Saturday?

“Kid?” Mr. Stark poked Peter’s arm making him jump in shock and his head snapped to the side to see his mentor staring at him with a slightly concerned expression, “you good? You’re off in your own world tonight, I’m starting to get a little worried and you know me; I don’t like to be worried, I like to be blase in most situations.”

“I’m yeah, I’m good, don’t worry,” Peter lied, “I was just thinking about this US History project I’ve got to hand in soon.”

“History?” Mr. Stark muttered, screwing up his nose in disgust, “you go to a STEM school, right? Shouldn't they be focusing on the sciences more than history?”

“Well, you know how it is,” Peter muttered with a shrug, “those who are ignorant of history are doomed to repeat it, and I suppose they have to give us a rounded education.”

Mr. Stark cast him a dubious glance, “you sure that’s the saying, Bud?”

“Well, it’s close, I think,” Peter mumbled, “anyways, I like history, I don't think it’s something I’ll pursue as a career but the class is interesting enough.”

“A career?” Mr. Stark asked jerking back in shock, “in history?”

“Not for me,” Peter repeated, “I don’t know, I’ll probably go into research or scientific development or something, I haven't thought about it in too much detail, to be honest.”

“You haven't- Kid, what? You should absolutely be thinking about this,” Mr. Stark said, “I know I’ve mentioned this before but I do have some pull at MIT. In fact, I have some pull at almost every college out there, you name it and I could probably get you in. What can I say? People love me.”

“I just don't want to make a life-changing decision at fifteen,” Peter muttered, “I know I’m going to have to soon, but do you know how much people change and grow? I asked May and she said she’s nothing like the person she was as a teenager, so if that’s going to be the same for me, how do I know that I’ll choose the right career at this point in my life, I’d rather take the time and make that decision.”

“Alright,” Mr. Stark said, “as much as I’d love to put you through college and have you working full time at Stark Industries, I can understand why you feel that way and it’s quite a mature observation - even though I hate it.”

“You’d want me working here?” Peter asked with wide eyes.

“Of course, you’re my favourite intern after all,” Mr. Stark said with what Peter was sure was meant to be a teasing grin, but all he could think about was the swooping in his stomach as those words were repeated. ‘Favorite intern’ was that Mr. Stark’s way of saying he was going to have to act like an intern at the Charity Gala?

He instantly began to feel nauseous, Mr. Stark was dropping hints about the intern thing which meant that he was absolutely expecting Peter to be on the ball at the Gala and he was only used to messing around in the lab. In fact, Peter was fairly sure that he’d never done anything intern-like; Mr. Stark had once asked Peter to turn on the coffee machine and Peter had merely shrugged, shoved a handful of sour patch kids in his mouth, and admitted that he had no idea how to make coffee.

So really, Peter had never done an intern’s job, he was going into this completely blind.

“Peter?” Mr. Stark prompted, “are you alright? Was that too much?”

“I’m fine,” Peter said quickly, as he lurched to his feet, “I just really gotta go and… work on that project.”

Peter stumbled over the toolbox on the floor, a testament to his distraction as his Spidey-Sense would have usually warned him of such obstructions, and grabbed his backpack off the ground.

“Peter, wait-”

But Peter didn't wait, or even hang around outside the door to the workshop to listen to the end of Mr. Stark’s sentence, he ran. Like a coward, his mind supplied.

He wasn't a coward, he was just… scared that Mr. Stark was going to expect more of him than he was able to give, he didn't know how to be an intern, so really, was it any surprise that no one at school believed him? Ned probably would have eventually lost his trust in Peter after a while if it wasn't for the discovery that he was Spider-Man.

Peter made his way upwards to the roof, instead of towards the main exit, slipping his web-shooters on over his wrists in preparation to swing home.

“Peter, Boss has requested that I ask you to stay, at least for ten minutes,” F.R.I.D.A.Y. said, which of course shouldn't have been a surprise considering she was everywhere in the building - except the bathrooms.

“I can’t,” Peter said, guilt gnawing at his stomach as he spoke, “tell him that I’m sorry for rushing out, and it wasn't anything he said-” that was a lie but Mr. Stark didn't need to feel guilty about expecting Peter to do his job “-and maybe just say I’ll see him on Saturday, although if wants to he could text me the details?”

“I’ll pass that along,” F.R.I.D.A.Y. said gently, or as gently as a robotic voice could sound, “take care Peter, don't forget your mask and swing safely.”

“Thanks, F.R.I.,” he mumbled as the doors to the roof slid open and Peter breathed in the cool NYC evening air.

Taking note of her advice, he pulled his Spider-Man mask out of his backpack and pulled it over his head, he didn't bother changing fully into his suit, he was only going home - he had no plans to stop and fight any crimes.

“Good evening, Peter, I heard from F.R.I.D.A.Y. that you were distressed, how are you now?” Karen greeted him instantly.

“Of course you did,” Peter muttered, “I’m fine, don't worry, but can I ask you something?”

“You just did, but of course I am your A.I. system therefore you can ask me as many questions as you’d like,” Karen told him.

“Alright,” Peter mumbled, rolling his eyes behind the mask as he wondered whether she had been programmed to respond with that whenever he asked if he could ask a question, “uh, so theoretically if I asked you some questions would you have to tell Mr. Stark what I asked you?”

“No, he only has override codes in case of an emergency, but I was designed to be yours alone and that must come with some degree of trust.”

“Right,” Peter said, trying to process her words as he launched himself off the side of Stark Tower and felt the cold wind make his clothes flap in the breeze, his stomach swooped with the familiar, intoxicating fear of falling and he felt himself immediately perk up with the adrenaline rush.

He waited until he could make out the shocked expressions of the people on the street before he shot a web, feeling the familiar tug on his arms as his fall was broken and he swung in an upwards arc - it felt like he was on a rollercoaster and he couldn't deny that he loved every moment of it.

He had almost lost himself in the comforting thwips of web-slinging and the soothing breeze when Karen spoke up once more and reminded him of his concerns.

“Did you want to ask me anything else?” she prompted.

“Uh, yeah,” Peter mumbled, “what would an intern typically wear to a Stark Industries Charity Gala?”

“Mr. Stark doesn't typically take interns to his Galas,” Karen informed him, “however, I know that you’re asking this because you were invited this Saturday, therefore why don't you just wear formal attire.”

“How did you know that?” Peter asked in a moment of paranoia.

“I am connected to Tony Stark’s personal server which is the same server as F.R.I.D.A.Y. and she has the finalised guest list for the Gala which includes your name.”

“Is there anything else there about me?” Peter wondered, “besides my name, that is?”

“Unlimited access.”

“Unlimited because I’m an intern, right?” Peter asked, “I have to be able to do what Mr. Stark needs during the Gala?”

“I don't follow your line of questioning,” Karen said.

“Yeah, no,” Peter mumbled, “I didn't really follow that either. How about this: what does an intern typically do?”

“I need more context,” Karen said, “the job role of an intern depends on who they intern for.”

“Alright, what does an S.I. intern do?” Peter corrected.

“In which department?”

“Mr. Stark’s personal intern, what would be expected of that person?”

“The only person to ever fill that role is yourself, therefore I’m afraid that’s only a question you can answer as it was never an official post therefore I can’t source any information from a job application.”

“So,” Peter said slowly as he swung, “you’re telling me that only I know the answer to the thing I don't know?”

“Exactly.”

“Great,” Peter mumbled, shaking his head to himself.

So basically he was the only person who had ever interned for Mr. Stark, which made sense, after all, Mr. Stark had always had Miss. Potts with him, she had been his assistant before she had taken over everything, therefore why would he need interns? If anything, Miss. Potts was probably the one who had interns, so what if Peter asked her?

No.

That wouldn't work, she and him hadn't seen each other a ton and if he went up to her and started asking weird questions she would either assume that he was looking for money or she’d grow suspicious and tell Mr. Stark about him questioning her.

So, he was essentially lost. There didn't seem to be any clear answer about how to be a good intern for Mr. Stark or what would be expected of him on Saturday. To be fair he should have expected this to be harder than expected, his mentor wasn't one to play by the rules and why should this situation be any different?

“Are you alright?” Karen asked, “you’re acting strange tonight, your behaviour is sparking concern.”

“I’m fine,” Peter lied, “just worried about this project thing I have to prepare for school next week.”

“You know, I am connected to a great deal of information, if you need help with a project, you can always ask me,” Karen reminded him.

“Yeah, K, I know,” Peter murmured, “I just need to think, alright? I’m fine, I just need some time to myself.”

“Noted.”

And with that, she fell silent, finally, and Peter was left to his thoughts and worries. Which he had absolutely planned to do, except a piercing scream breaking through the night distracted him from himself.

“No, no, please, my husband’s medication is in that bag!” A woman shouted, sounding panicked, “please, no, he has seizures and if you take his meds he will be in danger and my money is in there too, I can’t buy more pills.”

Peter immediately changed his trajectory, so much for not getting involved in anything, I probably should have put the whole Spidey-Suit on, he thought to himself as his hearing honed in on the desperate sobs coming from an alleyway.

The scene that met Peter in the alleyway made his blood boil and he felt himself gritting his teeth without meaning to; a lady who looked to be in her late seventies was clutching at her handbag as though her life depended on it, although judging by what Peter had previously heard, her husband’s did. The thief was tugging sharply and slashing the air between them with a sharp blade, he didn't seem to be trying to stab her, but he wasn't exactly being careful.

“Hey!” Peter shouted, successfully distracting the thief who seemed to jump out of his skin and let go of the lady’s handbag on impulse.

“Spidey?” the man asked, looking over Peter’s clothes with a confused frown which reminded Peter that he was wearing an incredibly dorky science T-Shirt with an amazing science pun on it, he would probably have to bin the shirt now, or at the very least retire it for a year or so.

“Stealing a lady’s handbag?” Peter asked, not needing to put much effort into proving that he was disappointed in the guy, “really man? That’s low, especially when she’s told you her husband’s very important medications are in there.”

“No one asked you, beat it!”

“I can’t do that,” Peter said, “I’m going to have to insist that you walk away, maybe if you go in the opposite direction I won’t knock you out and call the police.”

Alright, so maybe that was a lie and Peter was planning to web the guy up and call the cops no matter what he decided.

“Oh, fuck off,” the man muttered.

“Hey!” Peter shouted, “language!”

“Who the fuck do you think you are?” the thief snapped, forgetting about the lady and her handbag in order to focus his attention on Peter.

He made a quick hand motion to the lady to run, and thankfully she didn't need to be told twice as she instantly broke into a hasty trot away, her heels clicking on the concrete but the thief didn't seem to care, his attention was solely on Peter and the blade in his hands was no longer being held loosely, now it was poised to attack.

“Woah, dude!” Peter muttered, holding his hands up as he backed off a few steps, “I take it back, you can use whatever language you want.”

“Why couldn't you just keep swinging?” the man asked as he took a couple of calculated steps forward, “I had this all under control, why the fuck did you think it was a good idea to get involved?”

“You were stealing that lady’s handbag,” Peter said, “and her husband’s medication, there’s nothing about that situation that is controlled.”

“It was for me, alright?” the man screamed.

Uh oh, Peter thought, from experience he had realised that when people were overly emotional, they became unpredictable. This man was armed and seemed desperate.

That was something that Peter occasionally struggled with; he was out almost every night as Spider-Man and often he stopped people who weren't truly bad but they were just in a difficult situation. Did that make him a bad person? Some of those ‘criminals’ were potentially only trying to scrounge money to feed their families.

He couldn't think like that though because if he started excusing some people’s bad actions and condemning others’, where did he draw the line? Spider-Man was the person who looked out for the little guy, he stopped crime, he didn't take statements and decide who was guilty or whose actions were justified. If someone did something wrong then he would stop them and that was that.

“Look, I get you think you have your reasons for this, but it's wrong,” Peter said, “why don't you put the knife away, and maybe we can sort this out without anyone getting hurt?”

“You-” the man broke off, seemingly too angry to form a coherent sentence, instead he lunged forward, knife in hand.

Peter hadn't been expecting that reaction, he had hoped the man would have been willing to compromise. In a desperate attempt to avoid being impaled on the guy’s blade, Peter forced himself through the air and he hit the ground with a thud, feeling as though something in the side of his chest had cracked.

“Ouch,” Peter muttered, trying to ignore the whine he could hear in his own voice, he was meant to be the tough hero who fended for those who couldn't fend for themselves, “hey, man, that was seriously not cool.”

“Shut the fuck up!”

The man lunged at him again, still holding the knife, and Peter skittered backward like a crab until his back came up against a hard, metal surface: oh, the dumpster. He desperately needed to get back up on his feet, he was at a serious disadvantage.

His Spidey-Sense thrummed in alarm and he whirled around just in time to see the moonlight glint off the blade that was flying towards his face - this guy was aiming to kill! In a last-minute, desperate attempt, he pushed himself downwards so that the guy stabbed into the dumpster instead of Peter’s face, the blade cutting through the metal as though it were butter.

“Dude, what the hell?” Peter gasped out from his place, flat on his back on the damp alleyway ground.

“Stop moving,” the man grunted as he swung again.

“What?” Peter asked, “no!”

Why would he do the one thing that would mean certain death? Sure, he put on a spandex suit on a nightly basis and swung around the city at dizzying heights, but he didn't have a death wish. Besides, his suit had a certain degree of shock absorption ability, and it was cut-proof, which didn't always prevent Peter from getting hurt, but it definitely took away the brunt of his injuries.

Except he wasn't wearing his suit currently…

He was very much just Peter Parker in a mask, although he did have his web-shooters. His web-shooters! Just as the guy lifted the blade, with two hands, looking as though he was ready to perform a sacrifice, Peter shot a web upwards and pulled himself out from certain death.

As he flew upwards he felt the man strike one last time, and in his desperation, he succeeded. Pain radiated through Peter as the blade embedded in his thigh and was dragged downwards as Peter’s body moved up.

“Ah!” Peter called out in agony, the man below in the alley laughed in victory.

“Got the little bastard!” The man cheered as he started to run.

Peter wanted to chase after him, web him up and make sure that he would never hurt another person ever, but he was smart enough to know that with the current state of his leg, he wasn't going to be chasing anyone.

“Karen? You there?” Peter asked, despite knowing that she never went anywhere.

“I’m here,” she confirmed, “I know you needed time to think, but I would seriously recommend seeking medical attention, you have a large laceration down your right thigh.”

“I’m aware,” Peter said dryly, or tried to, his humour was shadowed by the pain that was coursing through him.

“I can contact Mr. Stark if you would like?” she offered, and normally Peter would have said yes, he would have felt relief at the thought of his mentor coming to pick him up from the cold rooftop and taking him back to the tower where he would receive decent pain relief and have his wound cared for immediately.

But, he couldn't say yes, because he had run out in such a strange way that the next time he saw Mr. Stark the man would undoubtedly have more questions than Peter was ready to answer.

“No,” he said slowly, “but thanks, Karen, actually though… could you just alert the police to that guy, I don't care what you tell them, just make sure he can't hurt anyone else, please?”

“Consider it done,” she said.

Peter let out a breath of relief that he hadn't even realised he’d been holding. It was going to be alright, the cops would pick up the guy before he hurt anyone else, that lady would probably be at home with her husband by now and he could go home and patch himself up before he started to research further into interning at a fancy Gala.

Or, that had been the plan.

By the time he made it home, the sun was beginning to reappear in the sky and he could hear the sounds of the city waking up for another day.

It's a good thing May was on the nightshift, Peter thought to himself as his apartment block finally came into view.

His jeans were no longer blue, but rather a strange brownish red with the effect of a mixture of dried and still flowing blood. His blood. It wasn't often he ended up covered in his own blood, but these things happened he supposed.

Taking advantage of the last hour or so of dim light, he carefully crawled up the side of the building, doing his best to make sure there wasn't a blood trail leading up to his window - he wouldn't be able to explain that one away easily.

“You have a text from Mr. Stark,” Karen informed him.

“Oh…” Peter mumbled and he painfully crawled through his bedroom window and let his body fall to the carpet with a thump, “what does it say?”

“One message from Tony Stark, sent two minutes ago: hey Kiddo! I’m not really sure what happened back there, maybe I overstepped by bringing up colleges and working with me, or maybe you’re more interested in Oscorp - although I don't know why didn't you hear about their animal experimentation scandal? Probably not a good time for jokes, but let me know you’re alright, ok? I saw that Karen has been active all night, so try and get some sleep and just know that I’m not mad at all… I’m just a little confused, but there's no pressure here for you to explain what was up. “

“Do you think I upset him?” Peter asked his A.I. carefully as he lay on his bedroom floor, probably creating a mess of blood that he would be forced to scrub at later.

“I like to think he was honest in the message, I believe he is just confused.”

“It’s stupid,” Peter mumbled, “like, I shouldn't have freaked out, it was so dumb of me.”

“Would you like to talk about it?” Karen offered.

“Uh, maybe?” Peter said, “I could keep the mask on while I clean this leg up.”

“Sounds good,” and if Peter wasn't mistaken, her voice sounded gentle and reassuring, he was lucky that she was a computer program and didn't tire of him, or need to sleep.

So, Peter carefully pulled himself back to his feet, crying out in agony as soon as he put weight on his bad leg. If the thought of trying to stand once more didn't fill him with dread, he would have crumbled instantly.

“Shit,” he muttered, he wasn't one for regularly cursing but all things considered he felt the situation called for it, and there was no one around to hear, except Karen.

He made his way slowly to the bathroom, dragging his leg rather than stepping to try and reduce the amount of muscle movement, not that it mattered, the blood still oozed out and the tearing sensation still made him feel nauseated.

“I’m going to have so much blood to clean up before May comes home,” Peter whined to Karen as he pushed open the bathroom door, leaving a red smear behind.

“Would you like me to contact Mr. Stark for you? He can hire a cleaning company,” Karen offered.

“A… cleaning company?” Peter asked, feeling ill at the thought, and not just from the pain he was in, “no, no that’s fine, thanks though.”

He and May weren't poor per se, but they didn't often have an abundance of money to spare, and the thought of paying someone to come and clean their little apartment, when that money could have been used for gas or food, made Peter feel ill. He already caused their food bill to skyrocket thanks to his enhanced metabolism.

Peter sat down heavily on the side of the bathtub, letting the bright lights hurt his eyes momentarily.

“Karen?”

“Yes, Peter?”

“I didn't run out on Mr. Stark because I was upset that he had brought up college or offered me a position at Stark Industries,” Peter admitted, “I mean, it was a bit of a shock, and I know I’m going to have to decide what I want to do with my life soon enough because I can’t live in limbo until I know for sure, but yeah, working with Mr. Stark is the dream.”

“So why did you leave?” Karen asked.

“He asked me to go to the Charity Gala,” Peter said.

“That’s a bad thing?”

“No, no, no, not for a normal intern,” Peter admitted, “but for me, yeah, I’ve never actually done anything intern-y in my life, I don't even know how to make coffee because I don't drink it and that one time I tried to make it for May she made me promise to never put her through that again.”

“So?”

“So interns get coffee,” Peter said as he inched out of his jeans, the dried blood creating a kind of glue between the fabric and his skin.

“You have never gotten coffee,” Karen informed him as though that wasn't partially what he was freaking out about.

“Exactly,” Peter muttered, gently easing his clothing off was causing him too much pain, so he tore the jeans away from the wound in a sharp motion that made stars blink in and out of existence in his line of vision as darkness threatened at the edges.

He didn't remember slipping off the side of the tub, but just as he thought he was going to lose the fight to stay awake, the fuzziness disappeared from his vision and he was blinking tiredly on the bathroom floor with his leg oozing fresh blood.

“Peter? Peter!”

“Ugh,” he groaned, “s’ok, ‘m fine.”

“I really think it’s about time we sought more professional help,” Karen suggested.

“No, no, it’s all good,” Peter said as he started to feel less dizzy from the agony, “besides, I was telling you stuff, remember?”

“Indeed, would you like to continue?”

“Yeah, uh, so, the coffee thing,” Peter mumbled as he gently nudged his jeans off properly, trying to avoid looking too closely at the blood on his leg as he did so, “well, it’s just that I’ve never done one of the most simple things an intern does, and Mr. Stark was dropping hints about me being an intern, so obviously I need to fill that role at the Charity Gala, but how can I when I don't know what’s expected of me?”

“Maybe you’re meant to just go and have a good time?” Karen suggested.

“No, no it’s not that,” Peter was sure, “he mentioned interning a few times, it was very clear that he’s wanting me to step up and actually fill that role.”

“Why don't you ask him?”

“What? No way!” Peter said quickly, “I absolutely can't do that.”

“Why not?”

“You wouldn't get it,” Peter muttered and ripped the mask off in one smooth action, feeling slightly guilty about cutting off his closest confidant so ruthlessly.

He tried to ignore the turmoil in his mind and instead focused his attention on the gash on his leg. He carefully pulled himself back up onto the side of the tub and swung around so that he could clean the wound off in the bath. He used the showerhead and rinsed it on the gentlest pressure setting, rubbing at the skin around the laceration to clear it of the dried and congealing blood.

“What the-”

For some reason he had expected a long swipe, maybe from upper thigh to his knee, he had not expected the sight he was met with. The wound was the length of his pointer finger, and it was wide. It was almost like someone had cut an oval into his flesh rather than swiping him with a knife.

It needed stitches.

It probably needed a professional, but Peter was an amateur with a complex against disturbing others and a strong need to avoid Mr. Stark until the Gala, so he was going to have to deal with it himself. How much blood had he lost? How long did he have until this wound became life-threatening? He needed to get his shit together and sort it out.

Once he had finished rinsing the laceration, he wrapped one of May’s nice yellow towels around it tightly, to try and stem the flow of the blood - a large part of him felt guilty, he was going to have to throw it away and listen to her confused rambles as she wondered what had happened to it.

“Come on, Peter,” he muttered to himself, “you can do this.”

He forced himself to stand, ignoring how that simple, painful movement made a sudden red appear on the otherwise pristine towel.

“Gotta close it up,” he muttered as he opened the mirrored cabinet and began to rake through for the first aid kit he knew was hidden in there, various things fell as he searched and clattered into the sink making him glad that he was home alone.

When he opened the first aid kit, he rummaged until he found the thing he had been looking for; a pack of Steri-Strips. He opened them and read through the information leaflet.

Only use on shallow, clean, uninfected wounds. Do not use where bleeding is unmanageable or significant. Do not use on hairy, oily areas, joints, the face. Seek medical attention if the wound was a human or animal bite.

Well, that was a lot of situations in which they were unsuitable and Peter was fairly sure his wound wasn't shallow and he would have said the bleeding was erring on the unmanageable side, but what else could he do? He didn't have any other option, he would have to try.

So he did, he carefully unwound the towel and looked at the nauseating wound on his thigh. He needed to align the edges and hold them in place with the Steri-Strips. It sounded simple… but it was going to hurt. Gritting his teeth, he started to get to work. Small whimpers and whines of pain would escape every now and then as he struggled not to lose himself to the lightheaded feeling that kept coming with the pain.

The Steri-Strips didn't work as well as Peter had hoped, the edges of the wound weren't exactly lining up and there were parts of the sticky side that were attached to the open part of the wound, which he was sure wasn't meant to happen. But, it was an improvement, and that was all he could ask for.

He stuck one of the sterile dressings over the top and used the first aid scissors to cut a strip off the towel - he was going to bin it anyways - which he then tied tightly around the affected area to create enough pressure to stop the bleeding.

“Now to clean up,” he muttered with a slightly delirious laugh that he was putting down to the blood loss.

Sitting there, with his leg wound cared for - to his best ability - and his throbbing ribs, Peter realised just how tired he was. He still needed to clean up the mess he’d created and research what Mr. Stark would be expecting of him at the Gala.

He pulled on his mask tiredly, “Karen?”

“Yes, Peter?”

“I’m sorry.”

“I forgive you, what can I do for you?”

“Can you text Mr. Stark for me and say: sorry for running off like that, don't worry I’ll be at the Gala tomorrow, and I’ll be fully prepared.”

“Message sent.”

“Thanks, Karen,” Peter said and laid his head back, fighting the urge to fall into a deep, comforting sleep. He still had so much to do…

----

By the time Saturday evening arrived, Peter was so nervous he was almost crawling about on the ceiling.

“Oh, Honey, relax would you,” May said with a fond eye roll as she rewatched the tie tutorial that she’d saved after they’d both been mystified by the snakelike fabric on the night of Homecoming.

“Relax?” Peter asked, his voice a few octaves too high, “May, I can’t just relax, this is the Stark Charity Gala and I am a Stark Intern.”

“So?” May asked, motioning for him to come closer so she could do up the tie after her third run through of the video.

“So, I need to be the best intern that has ever been to one of these things, if it gets out that I’m Mr. Stark’s personal intern and I don’t do a good enough job, then my actions will impact negatively on Mr. Stark and I can’t have that!”

“You need to calm down, Pete,” May said with a laugh, “you’re getting too in your head about this, why don't you just try to have a good time? And maybe go fix your hair.”

“Yeah,” Peter mumbled running a hand through his curls, “hair. I can do that.”

“Just don't use as much gel as you did last time, alright?” May said, “the curls suit you, the greasy look does not.”

“Oh ha ha,” Peter mumbled as he made his way out of the living room, pain echoing in every step, but May couldn't know.

She couldn't know about the thirty dressings he had gone through in the last two days as his leg refused to heal properly, despite his normally impressive healing abilities. She couldn't know about the weird yellowish-green discharge that was escaping constantly or the strange smell he had begun to notice. She couldn't even know about the smattering of dark bruises that spanned across half his ribs and made breathing difficult.

“Don’t take too long, Peter,” May called after him, “Happy will be here soon and I want to take some pictures of you before you leave.”

Peter looked at himself in the mirror, taking in his ghostly pallor and the bags beneath his eyes, how had he avoided causing May suspicion? He looked terrible, or maybe that was his enhanced sight picking up on things normal people couldn't see.

He coated his fingers in a light amount of gel and ran them through his hair, enough to style it but not so much that it looked greasy, as May would say.

“Alright, I’m ready!” Peter declared, walking back into the room to be met with the flash of a camera, “woah! May!”

“You look so cute!” she said in response.

“I am not cute!” Peter insisted, “I- I’m- I am the most-”

“Face it, you’re the cutest,” May said pinching his cheeks gently, before pulling him into a hug that squeezed his ribs painfully, “alright, now, have a good night, alright?”

“You sure you don't want to come?” Peter asked.

“Oh no,” May said with a laugh, “I have a bottle of red and a handful of romcoms with my name on them.”

“Alright,” Peter said, “have a good night.”

“You too, and if you’re staying at the tower, send me a text, ok?” May asked, “I don't want to spend the night worrying about where you are.”

“You got it!” Peter said with false cheer, he doubted that Mr. Stark would want him to stay over, especially as he hadn't replied to the man since that message while he’d been cleaning his wound up.

Peter made his way downstairs to see the familiar sleek black car parked by the curb, without hesitating he wandered over to the back door and slipped inside.

“Hey, Happy!”

Happy grunted in greeting and fixed Peter with a piercing stare through the rearview mirror.

“Is uh, is everything ok?” Peter wondered nervously.

“I could ask you the same thing,” Happy said, “Tony says you’ve been avoiding his messages.”

“My phone died,” Peter lied.

“You couldn't charge it?”

“My charger is broken.”

“You couldn't get a new one?”

“We’re not all billionaires,” Peter mumbled.

“You could have asked Tony, he would have replaced it in a heartbeat.”

“How?” Peter asked, “my phone was dead.”

“Alright, fine, keep your secrets,” Happy grumbled, “just… be careful alright, Kid? Tony is really worried about you and I thought he was maybe overreacting because I know how he can be sometimes, but now I’m beginning to think something might be wrong.”

“There’s nothing wrong.”

“Is there anything I can do?” Happy asked, ignoring Peter’s lie.

“Uh actually, can we go to a Drive-Thru Starbucks on the way?”

“You… want coffee?”

“Uh, yeah,” Peter mumbled.

“Alright, sure,” Happy said, “the first time you’ve actually asked for something so I’m not going to say no.”

Was it really?

The server manning the Drive-Thru window looked very confused when Happy pulled up and requested an Americano and a Hot Chocolate, Peter could see her glancing between the two of them, obviously wondering who Peter was and why he was being chauffeured around.

Maybe she would make up a story for her friends to laugh about, or maybe she was tired and nearing the end of her shift and didn't really care. Either way, Peter slunk back into the seat and looked the other way until Happy handed him the two drinks he had requested.

“So, what’s with the drinks Kid?” Happy asked.

“I don't know how to make coffee,” Peter admitted as though that was an appropriate answer.

“Alright,” Happy said and he sighed deeply, “do you… do you normally drink coffee?”

“What? No, this stuff could kill me,” Peter said, “ever since becoming Spider-Man, I have bad reactions to caffeine.”

“Bad reactions?” Happy asked, his eyes narrowing at Peter through the mirror.

“Oh yeah, you know; palpitations, heart arrhythmias, rashes, jitters, headaches, projectile vomiting, occasional hallucinations, collapsing episodes, cra-”

“So it’s bad?” Happy interrupted.

“Yeah, it’s pretty bad,” Peter agreed.

“So…” Happy trailed off, looking seconds away from pulling over so that he could tear the coffee from Peter’s hands and throw it, “why exactly did we get you a coffee?”

“Oh, this isn't for me.”

“Peter, Kid, come on, you’ve got to give a little here,” Happy muttered, “why did we get a coffee if it’s not for you and you can't even drink the damn stuff?”

“It’s for Mr. Stark,” Peter said as though that should have been the most obvious thing in the world.

“And pray tell, why are you getting a coffee for Mr. Stark before the Charity Gala?”

“Because I’m an intern.”

“Of course,” Happy muttered, looking about ready to drive them off the bridge they were currently crossing, “why did I even need to ask?”

The divider slowly raised between them as Happy muttered his statements of disbelief under his breath.

-----

“There he is!” Mr. Stark said cheerfully as Peter walked into the room, Americano in hand, “I was starting to worry you wouldn't show up.”

“I promised I would,” Peter said, despite Mr. Stark’s words he could see the worry in the older man’s eyes, “oh uh, here, I brought you coffee.”

“Coffee?” Mr. Stark asked, taking the drink from Peter and looking at it in confusion, “you brought me a coffee?”

“Yeah,” Peter said, “I hope it’s alright.”

The worry only seemed to intensify rather than lessening, was Mr. Stark that concerned about Peter messing up in public? If so, why should he invite him?

“Thanks, Kiddo,” Mr. Stark said, taking a polite sip from the cup, “anyway, why don't I introduce you to some people.”

“Sounds good, but maybe I could go to the toilet first?” Peter asked, “it was a long drive and I may have had a hot chocolate.”

“Great, a sugar hyped kid,” Mr. Stark joked, “go on then, scram, you don't need my permission.”

Things seemed to be going smoothly enough until Peter walked out of the bathroom to find his Spidey-Sense thrumming away with a sense of urgency. Just as he started to look for the source of danger, a hand fisted into the fabric at the back of his neck and he was tugged to the side harshly.

“Where have you been?” a man asked angrily, “and what are you doing out here without even a tray of drinks?”

“I uh-”

“Shut up!” the man snapped, “I don't know who your daddy is or whose ass he had to kiss to get you this job but if you’re going to work tonight I need professionalism.”

“I’m not-”

“I said ‘shut up’!” the man shouted once more, giving Peter a little shake to further drive his demand home. Peter was surprised to find himself slightly afraid, and the shake had hurt his ribs and pushed a little too much pressure down his sore leg.

“Please, Sir,” Peter begged, “I’m not working.”

“Oh you absolutely are,” the man snapped, “you think you can sneak through here and meet Iron Man?”

“I didn't-”

“I have half a mind to kick you out into the gutter,” the man continued, “you are a disappointment to all of us in the service industry, you are meant to remain professional at all times, which doesn't mean fishing around for secrets and autographs.”

“I wasn't!”

“Liar!”

The man tightened his grip and started marching Peter forward as though he was a disobedient child.

“Sir, listen, please,” Peter pleaded, “Mr. Stark is waiting for me.”

The man froze, his grip tightening momentarily, and Peter’s Spidey-Sense blared louder.

“You disturbed Tony Stark?”

“No! No, no, no!” Peter insisted, “I came here with him, I’m his intern.”

“That’s a lie,” the man said, “Stark Industries never brings interns to these events, now come with me or I’m going to end up kicking you out on your ass and blacklisting you from ever working an event in New York ever again.”

“You can’t make me do anything,” Peter grumbled, trying to twist out of the man’s hold but being restricted by the pain in his leg and side, he wasn't going to be able to free himself, “you have to let me go?”

“Or what?” the man asked with a sneer in his voice, “what are you going to do about it?”

“Him? Probably nothing, he’s far too polite for his own good, but me? That’s another story entirely,” Peter felt the grip loosen in a second and he almost crashed to the floor from the relief of it, only for Happy to grab his elbow and stabilise him.

“Thanks, Happy,” Peter whispered, knowing the man would hear him.

“You’re Tony Stark’s security,” the man who had grabbed Peter stated with a dumb expression on his face.

“Yes, and you were manhandling one of the people I am here to protect,” Happy said seriously, Peter had often wondered how Happy - with his tendency to get overstressed and his annoyance at most living things - had become the Head of Security at Stark Industries, but now, looking at him confronting the man, he had no doubts that Happy deserved that title.

“I wasn't- manhandling?” the guy asked, “that’s a bit… harsh, wouldn't you say?”

“I call it as it is,” Happy said, “care to explain?”

“I thought the kid was one of my waiters.”

“Did you recognise him?” Happy asked.

“Well, no, but there are a lot of them, it’s difficult to know them all,” the man said.

“That’s dangerous,” Happy said, “it’s fortunate for you that I personally run background checks on everyone working this function, but if you’re not even able to recognise a stranger among your employees then I feel like you won’t have a future organising events for Stark Industries.”

“Wait, no, you can't do that!” the man insisted, “this is my biggest job of the year.”

“It’s a shame you care so little about it then, imagine not caring enough to learn your employees’ names?”

“It was a misunderstanding!”

“Peter, did you try to tell this man you weren't a waiter”? Happy asked patiently.

“I uh said that I’m an intern and that Mr. Stark was waiting for me,” Peter admitted, feeling a little guilty for the ashen look that came over the man’s face when he realised that Peter had been telling the truth, after all, how else would the head of security know Peter’s name?

“Mr. Stark is in fact waiting for you,” a familiar voice broke in, “and he’s not a patient man, what is going on here?”

The man now looked positively grey as he tried to look anywhere but at the confused and impatient billionaire before him, Peter however noticed the way Mr. Stark’s eyes narrowed in on the crumpled fabric by Peter’s neck and the sheen of panicked sweat on his forehead.

His mentor looked questioningly at Happy, “well?”

“This is Bernard Kyting,” Happy said, and Peter was sure in that moment that Happy knew absolutely everyone in the room’s name and face, “he is the owner of the company that organised this Gala, he is also the man that just manhandled Peter and attempted to kidnap him.”

“Kidnapping? What no!”

“Uh, Happy, he wasn't going to kidnap me,” Peter said hesitantly.

“Are you sure?” Happy asked seriously, “because we should operate on the worst-case scenario and him trying to force you to go somewhere against your will without listening to you say you’re an intern and that Tony was waiting for you sounds bad to me.”

“It would probably sound bad to the police too,” Mr. Stark agreed thoughtfully.

“You’re not serious!” Bernard gasped.

“I’m deadly serious when it comes to Peter’s safety,” Mr. Stark said.

“Mr. Stark, I really don't think-”

“Hush Peter, we’re handling this,” Mr. Stark said, “actually, don’t hush, Happy will handle this and I am going to show you off to all the stuffy businessmen here, let’s make them all insecure as a twelve-year-old shows them up.”

“Mr. Stark, I’m fifteen,” Peter said, rolling his eyes.

“Exactly, now come on.”

Maybe it was the anxiety that had been festering in his stomach since he’d been invited to the Gala, or maybe it was the stress of almost being roped into working as a waiter for a high-end Gala, or maybe it was even the blood loss he’d recently suffered… maybe the reason didn't matter, because it was kind of irrelevant.

The important thing was that Peter suddenly found himself falling forward.

He felt hands grab at him to try and stop him from crashing against the ground, but they caught him exactly where his ribs were sore and Peter screamed and everything flashed a brilliant, agonising white before the darkness suddenly crept in.

------

When Peter woke up he was partially surprised that he had actually passed out and partially relieved that he had passed out. He had managed to completely avoid the stress of pretending to know how to act as an intern.

He tried to sit up, only to gasp and fall back against the pillows as his ribs announced their displeasure at the sudden movement, “oh,” he murmured under his breath as he tried to catch what little of it was left thanks to the pain.

“I wouldn't recommend that,” a smooth voice said from beside him, Peter turned his head to see Mr. Stark sitting there, looking over his tablet at him.

“Hey,” Peter mumbled, trying to avoid eye contact.

“You have three fractured ribs,” Mr. Stark informed him casually, “which wouldn't normally concern me too much because I get it, it kinda comes with the job, no matter how good you are, you usually end up a little banged up.”

Peter nodded solemnly, not wanting to speak up because he got the impression that Mr. Stark was nowhere near finished.

“However, imagine my surprise when I lift your unconscious body up off the floor and find myself with a patch of blood on my new grey suit,” Peter winced, yeah, there it was, “so of course, there’s complete pandemonium, we think there’s an assassin in the Gala, we lock the place down and organise S.H.I.E.L.D.’s medics to attend. The highest of all security is on alert and preparing to raid the building, only for us to find that you have a stab wound, that looks to be a few days old on your leg.”

“Oh, that,” Peter mumbled.

“Oh that, yes that,” Mr. Stark snapped, “what the hell were you thinking not telling me about that?”

“It happened after I left the other day,” Peter admitted, “and I thought I’d managed to deal with it myself.”

“You thought-” Mr. Stark broke off and sighed, pinching his nose between his thumb and forefinger, “do you realise how irresponsible that was?”

“It was fine,” Peter mumbled.

“Fine?” Mr. Stark questioned, his voice rising an octave from the shock of hearing such a thing.

“I have healing powers,” Peter said.

“Kid, you’re still human, you still need appropriate medical care and time to recuperate after getting hurt,” Mr. Stark said gently, “you’re not a machine, no one expects you to be able to keep going without looking after yourself.”

“I guess,” Peter whispered.

“And you had no idea what you were doing, did you?” Mr. Stark asked although it seemed like he already knew, “those Steri-Strips were totally inappropriate for that wound.”

“I know,” Peter said, looking down, “I just didn't have anything else.”

“You had your phone.”

Peter cast him a confused look, “my phone? They don't like blood or moisture that much.”

“To… call me,” Mr. Stark said slowly, looking at Peter with a strange mix of disappointment and amusement, “you’re a smart kid, but would you really think to put your phone on a bloody wound before using it to call me.”

“Uh, not usually,” Peter said, “but this kinda happened after I left yours the other day.”

“Ah,” Mr. Stark murmured, seemingly understanding something that Peter hadn't yet explained.

“What?” Peter asked, feeling unnerved by the older man’s sudden understanding.

“I freaked you out with all that talk of colleges and coming to work for Stark Industries,” Mr. Stark said quietly.

“What? No!” Peter almost shouted, jerking upright in the bed despite the pain in his ribs that threatened his ability to breathe, “Mr. Stark, that’s not at all what happened.”

“No?” Mr. Stark asked, arching an eyebrow curiously.

“No, of course not,” Peter mumbled, “I mean, yeah, I wasn't ready to think about that sort of thing, but it would be an honour to work for you in the future, but Mr. Stark, I realised that I’m a really bad intern.”

“What- Kid, no,” Mr. Stark said quickly.

“I am!” Peter argued, “I don’t know how to make coffee, I don't know how to sort paperwork, I don't know what else interns actually do! There’s no way you can say I’m good at it when I don't even understand my own job description. You invited me to the Charity Gala as your intern and I freaked out because I didn't want to embarrass you, I wanted to make a good impression.”

“Kid, I invited you to the Gala as you,” Mr. Stark said, “we both know the internship is a fake formality to keep your alter ego a secret and give you a boost in your college applications.”

“So, you’re not mad that I don't know how to make coffee?”

“I never was,” Mr. Stark said, “wait… is this why you brought me an Americano earlier?”

Peter nodded guiltily, “yeah…”

“Kid, you absolutely did not have to do that, although I must admit since I’m staying away from all the fun stuff now, it was rather nice to have,” Mr. Stark said, “I wanted you there so you could have a good time and so that I could brag about how amazing you are.”

Peter couldn't stop the warmth that spread over his cheeks and he ducked his head.

“I just didn't want to be a disappointment,” Peter mumbled.

“Kiddo, you could never,” Mr. Stark sounded as though he had never been more sure about anything, “I’m slightly upset that you didn't come to me about this wound, but I get that your teenage brain works in mysterious mystery ways.”

“I tried my best with it,” Peter mumbled.

“It’s infected.”

“I didn't say my best was good,” Peter continued, he pulled the blankets to the side to look at the wound on his leg only to find that the bloody, yellowing dressing he had last seen was gone and had been replaced by a bright white one with only a tiny amount od seepage. “You fixed it.”

“Well, my doctor did,” Mr. Stark corrected, “I called him in and we gave you some of Cap’s meds to keep you a little out of it while we cleaned it up and you’re now the proud owner of some stitches.”

“Oh cool,” Peter mumbled.

“Stitches are cool?” Mr. Stark asked with a raised brow, perhaps he was questioning Peter’s sanity.

“No, I got Captain America’s drugs!” Peter said with a smirk, “he always tells us not to do drugs in those PSAs so this is a wonderful twist of medicated irony.”

“Yeah, I think they’re still in your system a little,” Mr. Stark muttered, “so since you’re still a little dopey, I think now would be a good time to remind you that you have three fractured ribs and you’re not allowed to go out as Spider-Man until they’re fully mended.”

“Wait… what?” Peter protested, “why?”

“Swinging will put a strain on them and cause you pain meaning you could flinch and fall, or you could receive another blow and worsen the damage,” Mr. Stark said, “come on, Underoos, you were just bragging about your healing powers, it won’t be forever.”

“But…” Peter hesitated.

“But what?”

“If I can’t be Spider-Man will I still be allowed to come to the workshop?” Peter asked and he focused his attention on fiddling with the sheets rather than facing the look he knew Mr. Stark would cast towards him.

He wasn't ready for the ‘why would you come to the workshop if you’re not needing upgrades?’ response, the one that he knew in his head he was about to receive.

“Kid, what?” Mr. Stark responded instead, “look at me, Peter.”

Peter blinked back the tears that were building in his eyes, trying his best not to appear childish and weak before the man who had been his hero since he was a child.

“Pete, c’mon Kiddo,” Mr. Stark said gently, and Peter found himself unable to avoid him any longer, “I don’t know why you have this idea that I only care about Spider-Man, because you are always going to be my number one priority.”

“But-”

“Uh uh,” Mr. Stark cut him off, “no, you need to listen to this. I’m Tony Stark, do you really think I would have a fifteen-year-old kid running around my home if I didn't want him there? Do you think I’d be texting his Aunt and arranging transport for him when she’s at work? Would I have a ridiculous amount of food and sweet things in my kitchen? Would I brag about him to my colleagues and competitors?”

“But we spend so much time designing stuff for Spider-Man?”

“Because you are Spider-Man and no matter how much I wish you had a safer hobby, I know that you won’t quit helping people just to stop the greying of my hair and the wrinkles that are forming. So instead of sitting here panicking about you getting brutally killed, I help you develop things that will ensure your safety - which you then bypass by trying to teat that wound by yourself.”

“Oh,” Peter mumbled, how had he gotten it so wrong? “I’m sorry.”

“Kid, don't apologise,” Mr. stark said, “listen, I’m the one who’s sorry for making you think that I only cared about Spidey, I know I’m as Pepper would say “emotionally constipated” but I really do care about you and your dorky interests.”

Peter couldn't help but smile, “well, in that case, I’m sorry for freaking out about the intern thing, and for hiding my injuries from you.”

“Those are apologies I can accept,” Mr. Stark said with a smile, “although, I wouldn't be opposed to you turning up with coffee more, especially when we both know Happy’s the one paying for it, just… not Starbucks, ok? Try some smaller places, support local businesses and all that jazz.”

“MJ would love that you said that,” Peter mumbled.

“Yeah, yeah, come on then,” Mr. Stark said, his knees cracking as he stood and stretched.

“Come on?” Peter repeated, “where are we going?”

“Someone has to explain all of this to your aunt and I’m not taking the blow on my own,” Mr.Stark said.

“You can’t throw me under the bus,” Peter protested, “I’m injured.”

“Yeah, and I will be too if you’re not there to soften the blow.”

Peter grumbled under his breath as he clambered out of the comfortable bed, May was going to be so pissed at him, in fact, he’d be lucky if he lived to see his Spidey-Suit ever again. Maybe he should write a will, did he had time for that?

He was pulled out of his thoughts by Mr. Stark moving to his side to support his weight so that he didn't step too heavily on his sore leg.

“You don’t have to help me,” Peter said, “I’ve been walking on it since I hurt it.”

“Yeah and look how that ended up,” Mr. Stark muttered, “anyways, this is as much for me as it is for you. May won’t kill me if she thinks I’m holding you up.”

“You’re using me!” Peter protested.

“Now he gets it.”

Tag List: @joyful-soul-collector @thatavengersbitch @clover-roseee @thespydersargon @iron-loyalty @ormbunkar @justme--emily @pookiethefrickinbunn @pillowspace @dumbofassbi @kiki44430

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#spider-man #Iron Man #tony stark #peter parker #irondad #spiderson #mcu

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edenmemes · 4 years

Text

the witcher (show) starters

❝ victimhood is not your colour. ❞ ❝ you can’t outrun destiny just because you’re terrified of it. ❞ ❝ your job is to control chaos, not to succumb to it. ❞ ❝ you don’t deserve the air you breathe. ❞ ❝ not a single person alive looks in the mirror and doesn’t see some form of deformity. ❞ ❝ you lie, you keep secrets. you succumb to emotion and weakness. ❞ ❝ not answering questions is part of your brooding pillar of charm. ❞ ❝ you’re just mad because you lost your chance to be beautiful. ❞ ❝ you smell of death and destiny, heroics and heartbreak. ❞ ❝ there’s no power in puppeting fools. ❞ ❝ i’ll leave that for someone who gives a shit. ❞ ❝ i need to get back to my horse. ❞ ❝ your will to live is strong. ❞ ❝ i’m still not enough. even for you. ❞ ❝ need a hand? i’ve got two. ❞ ❝ my men will kill you. ❞ ❝ i’m here to drink alone. ❞ ❝ go. on your own or at the end of a rope, your choice. ❞ ❝ do you know how many people wouldn’t blink if you died? ❞ ❝ you weren’t taking control. you were losing it. ❞ ❝ people call you a monster too. ❞ ❝ i've waited all these years for you to admit we're made for each other. ❞ ❝ if only you could tell between friend or threat. do you even know the difference anymore? ❞ ❝ when you live as long as i do, all the names sound the same. ❞ ❝ were you in love? ❞ ❝ this place isn’t safe when you’re alone. ❞ ❝ the only thing you do quickly is flee. ❞ ❝ even if you were a beauty, still, no one would love you. ❞ ❝ not a happily ever after after all. ❞ ❝ hm, doesn’t rhyme. all good predictions rhyme. ❞ ❝ you are making me uncomfortable. ❞ ❝ unchecked kings and queens start massacres. ❞ ❝ i just want some damn peace. ❞ ❝ i dreamed of becoming important to someone someday. ❞ ❝ the only thing special about you is the crown on your head. ❞ ❝ what do you long for? fame? money? power? ❞ ❝ what? no one mentioned the impending doom part. ❞ ❝ true words are rare words. ❞ ❝ i want more. i have to be more. ❞ ❝ do other women find this coarseness charming? ❞ ❝ love casts long shadows. ❞ ❝ if she runs, kill her. ❞ ❝ don’t give me that look, shitling. ❞ ❝ today isn’t your day, is it? ❞ ❝ how come when my life comes to shit you’re the one shoveling it? ❞ ❝ i know who you are. what you are. ❞ ❝ i envy you. to live, and to have no love. ❞ ❝ you’d leave a man bound to die in such a dignity? ❞ ❝ i loved your mother. ❞ ❝ don’t you know who i am? ❞ ❝ so that’s all life is to you? monsters and money? ❞ ❝ there’s a vortex of fate around us. ❞ ❝ is history a wheel doomed to repeat? ❞ ❝ the sword of destiny has two edges. ❞ ❝ i’ve considered your company and conversation payment enough. ❞ ❝ this isn’t who you are. ❞ ❝ will you be joining me? ❞ ❝ no amount of power or beauty will make you feel worthy of either. ❞ ❝ i don’t believe anyone has that power. ❞ ❝ nobody smart plays fair. ❞ ❝ i won’t listen to a man who pimps the world as some romantic adventure. ❞ ❝ a true man would state his desires. ❞ ❝ don’t turn this on me. ❞ ❝ i want to be powerful. it’s what i’m owed. ❞ ❝ that makes sense just as much as it doesn’t. ❞ ❝ you’re smart, aren’t you? you know everything. ❞ ❝ i feel something out there waits for you. ❞ ❝ please don’t hurt me. i’m lost. ❞ ❝ i won’t kill you...but you cant stay here. ❞ ❝ there’s no ‘us’. there’s only me. ❞ ❝ i’m asking for a teeny-weeny little favor. ❞ ❝ yeah, you’re probably right. but what if you’re not? ❞ ❝ i’m not your friend. ❞ ❝ you and destiny can both fuck right off. ❞ ❝ i love the way you just sit in the corner and brood. ❞ ❝ i will not suffer tonight sober. ❞ ❝ pretty ballads hide bastard truths. ❞ ❝ i will not involve myself to petty men’s squabbles. ❞ ❝ happy childhood makes for dull company. ❞ ❝ it’s impossible to be prepared for every battle. keep your sword close, and keep moving. ❞ ❝ i see a lot of myself in you. ❞ ❝ you can’t change the world this way. ❞ ❝ i don’t need anyone. & the last thing i want is someone needing me. ❞ ❝ alright, stand close to me and pretend you’re mean. ❞ ❝ why are you dressed like a sad silk trader? ❞ ❝ only one of us will be alive to find out. ❞ ❝ i stole rather than starve. i killed rather than be killed. ❞ ❝ i have’t only done good in my life either. ❞ ❝ it’s like ordering a pie and finding out it has no filling. ❞ ❝ when i cut my finger i bleed. that’s human, right? ❞ ❝ they’re rough around the edges but they’re earthling like me. ❞ ❝ royalty is best endured in small doses. ❞ ❝ i thought the world needed me too. ❞ ❝ sometimes, the best thing a flower can do for us is die. ❞ ❝ handy with a blade. handy with women too. ❞ ❝ are you trying to hurt my feelings? ❞ ❝ you look like you’ve been through hell. ❞ ❝ i can’t do this without you. ❞ ❝ you know cautionary tales won’t work on me. ❞ ❝ you talk nonsense while making wise and meaningful faces. ❞ ❝ the apple never falls far from the tree. ❞ ❝ when i go it will be far more dramatic than this. ❞ ❝ try not to get any daggers in your back before dawn. ❞ ❝ you have your mother’s blood. you’ll be alright. ❞ ❝ a great ruler always chooses mercy. ❞ ❝ it took two strikes to kill him. they weren’t clean. but they were spectacular. ❞ ❝ if i have to choose between one evil and another, i’d rather not choose. ❞ ❝ i would do anything to forget who i was. ❞ ❝ i have no doubt blood will be spilled here tonight. ❞ ❝ there’s a grain of truth in every fairy tale. ❞ ❝ people look at you for who you are, not what you can give them. ❞ ❝ do you believe in destiny now? ❞ ❝ we can leave. we can find a way out. ❞ ❝ lovers? fun for a bit, i’ll admit, but all eventually disappoint. ❞ ❝ let’s face it, you’re a girl. we’re just vessels. and even when we’re told we’re special, we’re still just vessels…for them to take…and take…until we’re empty…and alone. ❞ ❝ people like to invent monsters and monstrosities. then they seem less monstrous themselves. ❞ ❝ every time i’m around you i say more in five minutes than i’ve said in weeks. ❞ ❝ maybe someone out there will want you. ❞ ❝ if you must kill me, i’m ready. ❞ ❝ people linked by destiny always find each other. ❞ ❝ thank the gods. i might live to see another day. ❞ ❝ i was having a rather lovely dream which then turned into a nightmare. ❞ ❝ you desperately need money for new clothes. ❞ ❝ more and more, i find monsters where ever i go. ❞ ❝ life is too short. do what pleases you...while you can. ❞ ❝ gods you’re pretty. ❞ ❝ my lady, i would never degrade your honor in such a way. ❞ ❝ my world is cruel. you enter, you survive, you die. ❞ ❝ i feel i shall die a broken hearted man. ❞ ❝ who slits a man’s throat while he’s relieving his bowels? ❞ ❝ why help those who don’t listen? ❞

#roleplay starters #roleplay meme #sentence starters

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the-phantom-ender · 3 years

Note

Can I request Ranbob and Foolish? Wanna see how our favorite Dream kinnie would interact with our favorite totem god.

So. This is the first time I’ve ever attempted to write Ranbob. Forgive me if he’s a tad ooc ;^^ This might have to be the last request for tonight. I got a little carried away and it’s… past 2.

ITS UNDER A READ MORE THIS TIME BECAUSE ITS ACCIDENTALLY LIKE 1.2K WORDS

To every power, there was a weakness. Every ability had a drawback. This was the nature of existence, a law of the universe. An action had an equal and opposite reaction, this was just how the world worked. And Foolish was as bound to the rules of the universe as any mortal man.

The acute awareness at death had long since been a thing he’d tuned out. Being a deity of the living and the dead, sensing every fallen existence was overwhelming, at one time. But eventually it had dulled into background noise. As familiar as breath. There were times, however, where a particularly tragic or abrupt death caught him off guard.

Long after the land of the Dream SMP was ancient history, regarded as folk tales and mythology, he felt this painful tug. There was a whisper, in the edges of his mind. The ocean itself seemed to be mourning, death and tragedy occurring under her blanket of darkness. His oceans did not cry out often, it was always oddly unsettling when they did. Perhaps a sailor had been caught in a storm and the waves regretted aiding in their passing?

For whatever reason, be it idiocy or curiosity, Foolish decided to check on things. To follow his ocean’s call to where she mourned. This led him to a vast underwater city. Now, of course, the god didn’t approach this place as himself. Instead, he shifted his appearance into that of a small catshark. Still a dangerous animal in a sense, but small and unassuming. Sharks were… his thing, alright?

The city was alight with fire, water flooded into a room with a burning tree. Dark ash and smoke stained the sea black. Foolish just hardly noticed the body of a man among the wreckage. His heart was heavy. Certainly, the glass dome would shatter under the water pressure and send shards into the water, polluting and harming the environment. Once again, his heart ached for his ocean.

Gathering himself, he cast out his mind, sensing one living being in the entirety of the city. Abruptly, he shifted his appearance back into that of his own (albeit small enough to fit the halls of the city), appearing outside the ruined dome. He scanned the area sadly, drawing his attention to the opposite end of the hall. A man emerged, clearly startled by the presence of another. A bloodstained sword hung at his side. Foolish understood what this meant.

“Ah! Greetings!” The man spoke, a false sense of friendliness in his tone as he wiped the blade clean on his suit,” What brings you to Mizu? Do you, too, have an interest in the history of the great Dream SMP?”

Right. So this was one of those people, huh? Not that Foolish had anything wrong with historians, of course! It was just… funny to see people tell tales of people he’d known. Especially if they were completely off base. And considering the familiar half toned appearance of the man before him, there was a decent chance he was.

“Uh… something like that, yeah.”

A smile grew on the man's face, Foolish noting the similarity to another smile he knew. “Right! Well then, my name is Ranbob. I am a descendant of the great and wise historian Ranboo! You’ll have to forgive me, I was not… expecting guests.”

It took all the will he had for the god to not burst into laughter. The great historian Ranboo, eh? So that’s what history decided he became. That was a more flattering title than some past acquaintances of his had gotten, to be fair.

“Foolish. It’s a pleasure to meet you Ranbob of Mizu.” A proper title. Foolish extended an arm for a handshake, emerald eyes sharp and dangerous.

The handshake was taken, a handkerchief in between them. Ranbob’s eyes seemed cold. There was the same expression he’d seen in so many others in those eyes. A man who had given away his humanity in pursuit of a goal. The willingness to kill for their own gain. Still… this man was a descendant of Ranboo. There was still the clear haze of forgetfulness in his eyes. A trait that never went away, it seemed.

“...Likewise.” a beat “Would you like a tour?”

“If you'd like to give one.”

Foolish stayed silent as he was brought between rooms. He knew this was a set up. He could tell that the person leading him was dangerous. Still, despite this, there was an odd charm to him. He’d learned, at this point, to appreciate the beauty in death. Sometimes, that was all you could do in the face of tragedy. By gods had Foolish seen enough tragedy to have a bit of beauty.

He knew he was nearing the end of this encounter as Ranbob mentioned idols. Right, yes. Time had a tendency to turn normal people into those, putting them on a pedestal. Foolish had the excuse of being an old, old god. Even by the time that he’d met those of the Dream SMP, he was practically unheard of. At least it meant that he wasn’t recognized right away. Though… his temple was still standing.

“Everyone in this place has their idols,” Ranbob hummed, leading him into a room that was immediately a red flag,” Would you like to know mine?”

Neon green.

“Who might that be, kid?”

“Dream! The god of the server! I aim to follow in his footsteps, to do as he did!”

“You serve a false prophet, Ranbob.”

“... What? No, no, don’t you say something like that. I know the history, my family wrote it!” The man gritted his teeth, expression souring,” I know what I know! And one thing I know for certain is that no one leaves Mizu alive!”

And all at once, he charged. Foolish made no effort to deflect him, of course. His eyes simply glinted as the blade glanced off of his body- clearly making no dent in him. A green hue glimmered around him and his face fell. Ranbob hadn’t let him reason, it was a shame, honestly. He seemed to be a smart man.

“Dream is no god,” Foolish hummed, easily disarming Ranbob, who was promptly scooped up into a bear hug restraint,” He was a foolish mortal man with one hell of a god complex, though. You could stand to learn the lesson he never did. Cruelty is learned, life and death aren’t unkind, history is always doomed to repeat.”

“Let me go!” Ranbob thrashed in his iron grip, ears tilted down,” Let go of me! You know nothing! Nothing I say!”

“The totem knows nothing, eh?”

“N-no! The totem god isn’t- real! That was a myth even in the time of the SMP!”

Foolish squeezed the man harder, not quite hard enough to hurt. Ranbob’s goggles fell over his eyes as he tossed his head around uselessly. His heart hammered hard enough that the god could feel it in his grasp. This man was a murderer, sure, but Foolish didn’t like scaring others.

“Ranbob. If you’re looking for a god, I’m your best bet. Dream was a kid with a complex and, well, XD doesn’t exactly deal in mortal affairs unless someone’s breaking a rule. Or you’re GeorgeNotFound, but George is long dead at this point. If you want someone to teach you history, I have much scripture in my temple. If you’d like me to teach you, I can.”

“Wh- huh?”

“You like history, right? Who’s a better source than someone who lived it?”

#transcribed from enderspeak #dream smp #foolish gamers #c!foolish #dream smp fanfic #dream smp fanfiction #c!dream #dreamwastaken #dreamxd #tales from the smp #ranbob #tftsmp ranbob

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wack-ashimself · 2 years

Text

Russia is not a threat.

But you know who is?

China (they're turning into what the US used to be, which was a world market dominating country. Do you know how many countries owe them money/land?)

However, a 1 on 1 direct OR economic war with china would be catastrophic. America would lose. It would be the first war in forever where they would actually launch attacks (if only hacks) on american soil (pearl harbor doesn't count. We stole that land. It wasn't ours...but technically, ALL american land is stolen so...there's that).

So what does the US want to do?

Fuck up, in any way they can, everything around china so it hurts their trade. It's all we CAN do cuz china does have the upper hand in every way.

-Economically: they are the US back in the day when we were #1. They are STUPID rich and powerful.

-Technology: they can (and it has been proven) crash our entire electrical grid if they wanted to (we have NOTHING hardware wise or software wise that could stop this).

-War: they have the moral high ground. They don't do war with other countries; they buy them out. So if we attempted ANYTHING, a good chunk of the world would actually side with china (being most are in debt to them).

-Population: they have more workers, working harder, producing more, and are FAR more loyal than average americans.

-Culturally: again, more people on the same page (and if not, they're in jail. I never said china is the GOOD guy, I just think they are the smarter bad guy).

So what can we do?

1-make sure no war happens. With anyone (unless like they're gonna end the world or genocide). Spread truth and up to date information 24/7 so that way we can't be lied to by the mainstream media and buy into their lies (how many wars have they lied us into?)

2-Make every community (in every country) self sustaining and independent. Can't hack a grid and crash it if it's like blockchain. I may not like digital currency (it's the hottest trending pyramid scheme, no more noble than the fake american dollar), but it does have a few good ideas. All businesses-worker owned. All utilities-locally owned and controlled. All basics of survival-covered for everyone. People forget that the WHOLE POINT OF ANYTHING is to make it as good as possible for us to...enjoy. Live. Thrive. Don't need to fight if everyone's got what they need.

3-Stop pollution. Almost every major non war* issue we have is linked to pollution. In our food, air, water. They found microplastics in a vast majority of the human race! Even island nations that don't produce plastics!

4-Kill all the major banks. Wall street. And the federal reserve. They dictate the world and SHOULD NOT EVER. If you let people die for profit, you should die. Period. (my argument will always be the same-why by DEFAULT do heartless faceless banks own a majority of the world? THAT IS A CON GAME!!!)

5-Hold those accountable (in EVERY country) who lead us to where we are today. Justice dept, cops, military, political heads, bankers, big business, etc. If they are not held accountable now, history will repeat itself cuz WE DID NOT LEARN YET AGAIN.

6-Be patient. Adaptable. Change like this is bumpy, rough, not pretty, and will have to be changing as needed. Even tho the above is vague as all hell, each and every person will have a different idea in their head on how to get there. The only way they can have a bad idea is if don't have good intentions. 'The road to hell is paved with good intentions.' No. Bull shit. May have started good, but there was a point where it was clear they wanted control in the end. But they kept going, with a smile.

Just...be ready to do something you never did before so you can get something you've never gotten before.

We got this (or we don't and we are doomed anyways).

*war actually accounts for some of the biggest contributions to pollution. Look into burn piles. It's as primitive and barbaric you can get to taking out the trash-burn it all with jet fuel.

#war #russia #china #pollution #world revolution #america #usa #government #burn piles

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theonetheycallhannah · 4 years

Text

The Treatment of Captain Syverson-Chapter Eight: Heat/Ice

Pairing: Captain “Sy” Syverson x OFC (Shane Benton)

Summary: Playing hooky leads to more delicious food (Sy cooks! Swoon!), some deep conversation, and new revelations about Shane’s past.

What? You’re behind? Don’t worry! CLICK ME to catch up before reading this chapter!

Word Count: 2.5k

Warnings: Language, mature themes, more food sluttiness, shameless nerd speak, unfettered and shameless sappiness.

Author’s Note: So, guys, I’m sorry. I really wanted to get this chapter to you Sunday. Life has just been a bit disheartening of late. Between being upset over some personal turmoil some friends are going through (two of my oldest friends are getting a divorce!) and coming home from work utterly exhausted on all possible levels, it’s been hard to write about lovey dovey things. As I said in my recent reblog of my masterlist, though, I’m working on some prologues, one for each character. I don’t plan on them being terribly long, but I want you guys to have some more back story.

Disclaimer: Unfortunately for me, Henry is not mine, le sigh, and all mention of him, his characters, any characters from his films, or his precious doggy, Kal, are strictly for transformative and recreational use. I neither ask for, nor accept payment for the work I post on Tumblr or AO3. Unbeta’d because this is for fun and escapism.

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Hope I’m not forgetting anyone! If you want to be notified when I post a new chapter or work, I’ll be happy to add you to my tag list! Stricken blogs are getting personal messages from me when a new chapter is uploaded because Tumblr’s faulty tagging system will not stand in the way of me delivering what the people want!(?) lol! (Although…their lackadaisical notification system might…sorry for that. I have no control. lol!)

It was hard to feel guilty for calling out of work for the afternoon under false pretenses when she was curled up on the sectional in Sy’s “nerd lair” with his head in her lap as they watched John Wick on the massive TV he had down there.

“You mean to tell me we watched the entire Bourne franchise upstairs on that…that iPod Touch, by comparison, when we could have watched down here on this majestic monolith!? In what is essentially a theater!?” She’d asked immediately, derailing the grand tour of the museum of things she would soon find amazing.

“Hey, I haven’t been coming down here a whole lot since I hurt my knee. Stairs haven't exactly been easy or, ya know, possible. I had my gaming computer down here for weeks, too, couldn't do a damn thing about it, because I didn't trust a'one of my buddies or my neighbors to haul her up the stairs for me. Leia's a custom machine worth thousands a' dollars. If she's getting' broke, it's all gonna be on me."

"You named your gaming computer? Leia?" So many emotions were flooding her. Adoration, sympathy, lust, and just a sheer need to squeeze the bejeezus out of him.

"Yeah, it's a common thing. And…not to be that guy, but…you do know who Leia is, right?

"If by Leia, you mean Leia Organa, Princess of Alderaan, true daughter of Darth Vader, adopted by Bail Organa at birth, sister of Luke Skywalker, hero of the Rebellion against the Empire?"

"Hey, I thought you wanted to take things slow, sunshine." he pulled her close, flush with his body. "Then you go talkin' all sexy to me like that." he lingered at her cheek with light kisses.

"Well, you did the same with your baseball talk the other night." she moaned into the contact with relish.

"I can't help it if certain sports terms have made their way into everyday speech. Your…exposition there, about my boyhood crush was intentional."

"You had a crush on Leia?" he nodded, shyly. "I had a crush on Han! Heck with Cap and Widow, THERE'S our couple's costume for next Halloween!" she said, excitedly!

"Oh, I didn't know you were talking about costumes for public use." he said, a naughty smirk in his eye.

"Stop it, you. Finish your tour. I want that soup on the stove." she said, patting her tummy.

He showed her the various memorabilia he'd procured over the years. Posters from a few of her favorites, and a few others that she recognized but wasn't as excited about. Die Cast models of several famous film vessels and vehicles, and a "life size" LEGO R2-D2 which would have had her salivating even if she hadn't been hungry. Apparently it took him almost a month to assemble the droid, but he did it all by himself.

"Aww…I wish I could have helped." she lamented.

"Maybe I'll pick up the Death Star and we can do that one together."

She nodded excitedly, eyes wide, rubbing her hands together in front of her chin with greed.

"Okay, little mouse." he chuckled. "Let's fill that belly and start this movie."

They filled massive bowls with generous portions and took the crackers down stairs so they could start the marathon. If they wanted to get through all three films tonight, they'd best get started.

They were both fairly quick eaters out of habit given her often truncated lunch breaks and his typical ten minutes in the mess hall. Even savoring the delicious creamy, cheesy concoction, as she tried to do, it was hard to slow down on. It did give her something to focus on during the first, emotionally devastating part of the film though. Once she finished, she expressed a final groan of delight and thanked Sy, kissing him on his cheek as she held the other. She felt the smile bloom across his face as she prolonged the contact.

They were about halfway through the movie, a big fight scene in a night club, when something dark and grim hit Shane in the chest. Watching Keanu Reeves pretend to beat up and kill all of these actors and stunt men, it occurred to her that the man with his head resting gently on her lap, long body taking up the rest of that side of the sectional, had fought and killed. The man letting her play her fingers through his hair and beard had shot and blown up people. He was told to do it. Ordered to do it. But even though he was doing it lawfully and by military order, as far as she knew, it was still his job…at least some of the time. She knew that was an oversimplification of the function of the armed forces, but…sometimes, it was an apt description.

She had never thought of Sy like that before. Someone other than the strong but gentle teddy bear that had come to be such a comforting presence in her life. She needed that, after all she'd been through…she tried not to think about the hurt of her last relationship. She hadn't discussed it with Sy. It was history. Ancient history. But she was, after all, a believer in the fact that those who knew nothing of the past were doomed to repeat it. She'd tell him…one day. Everything that Elliott had done to her…had put her through. But not tonight. Suddenly, she thought being on the arm of a soldier, someone who'd lived the kind of life that Captain Logan Syverson had lived, might make her feel more safe than she had in ages.

"You're awful quiet, sunshine." he said, cracking a beer open and handing it to her before doing the same for himself and sitting down with his thick arm around her.

"Just…trying to be respectful of the movie experience. You know." she smirked at him as the menu music to the second movie played.

"It ain't that. I know this is still new, what we're doin', but I've watched enough movies with ya over the last few weeks to know that you don't keep quiet for a full length feature." Shane worried the tab on her cold Miller Lite. She wasn't sure how to bring this forward. "Spill it, sweetheart. What's eatin' ya?"

"What…what do you think about when you're watching movies like this, Sy?"

"Guess, same as anybody. How awesome the fighting and driving is. Wondering when Keanu got to be a badass. And if there's really an underground society of assassins. Why, hon?"

"I, umm, I only wondered if it…it doesn't make you miss…your job?"

The smile he gave her was both bemused and amused. "Come 'ere." he prompted her to lean her head into him, and sat his beer down on the buffet behind the couch so he could better hold her. "Do we need to go over the function of a captain of the Army of These United States? Because as flattered as I am that you think so highly of me, I'm no John Wick, nor do I know anyone like John Wick. Or five guys that would make one John Wick. Ten guys. Maybe twenty."

"The fighting doesn't bring anything back?" she smoothed the creases in his shorts as she tried not to act like she was over thinking his past.

"That fightin’s…it's like dancing. It's choreographed, precise, and the outcome is predetermined. Real fights are the exact opposite. They're chaos, unpredictable, and the right guys don't always win. Trust me, I've seen a lot of them go south in a big way." they both let a moment of silence pass before Sy broke it. "What’re ya really askin’, Shane?"

She wanted to ask so many things. The questions seemed to clog the ventricles of her brain like leaves in a rain gutter. Bottlenecked traffic.

"I just…couldn't help but think…about things you must have had to do when…when you were active, and I just…if you need to talk about anything, I'm here." She imagined that taking someone's life, no matter how personal or impersonal the act itself seemed on the surface, would create some level of emotional scarring.

“Oh, sweetheart." he kissed the top of her head, making her feel as warm and cozy as the soup had…perhaps more so. "You are important to me for so many reasons. You've shown me how to smile again. Laugh. Real, genuine happiness. No sarcastic shit like I had to use on my men in my squad. But although I'd feel comfortable talkin' to ya 'bout near anything, there's a counselor on the base who's specifically trained to help guys like me. Who've seen what I've seen and been through…similar situations. He makes sure I don't feel like less of a man for what happened to me. You make me feel…like more than a man…something stronger than I thought possible."

She was straining hard to corral the tears within her waterline, but they broke free when he squeezed her tightly to him with both of his massive arms.

"So…that HEP I gave you is working?" she laughed, knowing full well that his home exercise program had no bearing on the strength he meant.

"Come on, Shane." he raised an eyebrow at her, challenging her to see herself the way he saw her. "Them handouts you give me don't mean a hill o' beans in this conversation and you know it. The way you hold yourself, speak to others. There is so much quiet strength in your kindness that comes right out of your beautiful little heart. Some days I'll see you working with kids, if I get in early, and I know they annoy you and freak you out, but you never let that show." He looked into her eyes, misty from emotion, and he wiped away the tears from her cheeks. "I'll never be able to explain it right, the way you inspire me to be a better and stronger man. And my heart just breaks to hear you put yourself down. And don't say you're just kidding, because I know you think you are, but behind every one of those jokes is a truth, at least as you see it." He'd seen her make to argue and knew her tactic before she had attempted it. "Give yourself some credit, Shane."

"I'm too busy blaming myself for the bad stuff to give myself credit for anything good." she sniffed. "You're the first guy I've…I've been involved with that's acted like I was worth anything more than a meal ticket. Someone who was only suitable for enough sex to make it an official relationship just so they could have a place to live, and do whatever quasi-job was a thing. First serious boyfriend was a freelance writer, but he never seemed to be writing. Then there was the guy with the internet start-up…but he could never tell me in a satisfactory way what the company actually did…so that was brief."

He seemed to know she was bracing for something big. Something difficult. He gave her silence and stroked her shoulder in encouragement to continue. She took one of her deepest ever breaths.

"Then came Elliott. Elliott Thomas. My last boyfriend. The worst of them all. Most useless and greatest offender. I ignored all of the signs, of course. He had a YouTube channel and an Instagram that he was trying to gain followers on and become a so-called "influencer." she rolled her eyes. "He had no life skills. He had a bit of an eye for photography and he could find humor in uncommon places, which he thought made him insta-famous and vlog-worthy."

"I hate him already." Sy growled.

"Well, maybe I shouldn't tell you the rest, then." he asked her to go on. "He always seemed to find these ways to cheat on me and lie to me that I couldn't quite prove, but I was just certain of. But I just…I didn't want to believe it. I wanted THAT one to work. Well. I came home one night after work, and he had another girl in our bedroom. I told him he had until the next day when I got home to leave. Things got a little physical, but I can hold my own." she said, proudly, "and I bolted with my purse. I stayed with Heather, our evening secretary, and we hashed it out, and got a little blitzed on moscato, and cried together."

"Wow."

"He was gone the next day. All I heard from my landlord was, 'you shouldn't be hearing from him anytime soon.' so I guess he had his cop buddies send him a message. He blocked me on all social media and I haven't heard a peep from him since. That was five years ago."

"What a scum bag." he stated, obviously.

"Yeah, I haven't been able to really think about a relationship since then…until…" she let the word hang there, knowing they both knew what the end of the sentence was. "Until I met you." Drifting unsaid in the ether of the unspoken.

"It's been a long time for me too. I mean…I haven't quite been a monk, but I haven't…I haven't cared for a girl since…actually, I've never felt this way about anyone."

"I didn't mean to unpack all of that tonight when we're only a third of the way through our marathon. I really wasn't even going to bring it up at all. It's just…been on my mind. Ya know. I once heard a very poignant parable about keeping your mouth shut if you're warm and happy. I was attempting to do that." she chuckled.

"Yeah, but we need to be able to open up to people in this life. Keeping a bottle stopped under pressure ain't no good for the bottle. Or what's inside."

"Such wisdom. You know just what to say to me." she grinned into him.

"Just seen what keeping yourself closed off can do to a person. And the people they love."

Love…there was that word in the air. Not officially said, but felt in all ways. They held each other close as the opening to the second movie played.

Up Next: Chapter Nine-Group Therapy

#netflix sand castle #sand castle #captain syverson #captain syverson fanfic #captain syverson x ofc #sigh for sy

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novadreii · 3 years

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my thoughts on castlevania s4 SPOILERS obviously

wow, i was actually impressed with hector for once. he collected the last wit about him to turn his situation around and take his balls out of lenore’s hands back into his pants. i thought he would go sicko mode on her and feared it getting a little revenge misogynistic, but i was pleasantly surprised at how civilized it was between them up until the end.

lenore was a little useless, wasn’t she? i half expected her to go, “you know what? fuck diplomacy” and just go mach 1 on everyone. eh.

isaac, oh. isaac. my favorite secondary character. wanders the desert conquesting, killing and raising the dead which made him realize things. he realized so much he marched right into carmilla’s castle while her beserker and army were away and owned her ass. good for him.

carmilla. oh, carmilla. tied with isaac for my favorite. so determined and single-minded that she sent away all her forces while she schemed in her fortress. she depended too hard on her partners doing all the work for her, and as a result she wasn’t much of a thinker, just a bloody, murdery doer. for example, she didn’t think that there were other formidable forces in the world that may want to impede her whole world domination plan? did she forget about isaac, out in the world rogue forgemastering? that was a threat she should have checked on before going global. she got too greedy, too quickly, and she paid the ultimate price for it. she went out like a fucking boss though, and i was pleased with her arc overall. as far as villains go, her raison d’etre was relatable and hard to argue with.

the dialogue style is both one of my favorite parts of the show but also at times a pain point for me. when it’s good, it’s relaxed, comfortable and realistic and the characters play off each other really well with it (like quipping back and forth during battle which i normally hate but works well here). when it’s bad, it’s a little cringe. some dialogue scenes went on wayyyyy too long while the characters repeated things they’d literally just said verbatim, which is awkward af in screenwriting. i.e. Isaac telling Hector twice in the space of 30 seconds “Dracula earned his rest.” which is odd because impactful phrases like this usually are not repeated so as not to, yknow, dilute their impact. Also Carmilla waxing spiteful about “evil old men” and repeating some variation of the phrase 15 times in one scene. lastly, the liberal sprinkling of the word “fuck” in every other line is also like, mostly welcome but once or twice just sounded silly given the context of the scene. i’m nitpicking, here.

saint-germain. Idk much about his woman, but she definitely seemed worth slaughtering a village and raising dracula from the dead for. violent and hot as fuck, she never uttered a single word which i want to think is indicative of something but what? did we ever figure out why she kept eluding him via dimension-jumping? imagine she was trying to get away from him all this time lol. yikes.

the smartest people in this whole show are the vampire lesbians who peace tf out immediately when they see their castle is under siege and figure out carmilla is dead. LOL at them assuming useless lenore is dead too (bc, she’s useless) and just leaving her there. they packed their shit up, moved out west, presumably to build a lover’s stronghold where they could just be in vampire love forever. GOOD FOR THEM.

trevor: continued to drunkenly yell Fuck while being masterfully proficient immediately at any weapon he picks up, though eventually always ending up using his fists like the brawler he is.

sypha: if she met the avatar, she'd be like “lmao, you can ‘bend’ the elements, huh? i can use them in ways that would make your skin crawl and your head explode to even think about. sit the fuck down.”

alucard: adorable himbo with a heart of gold, needs a tough as nails gf to jerk him out of his moods and organize his kitchen for him. another round of good for him. i was a little scared they would kill off his gf but that would have been unimaginably cruel considering what he went through in s3. alucard had imo the best/most stylish fight sequences of the season. and they know what we’re about, since he was shirtless or at least in a very deep V cut most of the time. thank you.

i had 2 major predictions for this season going into it: trevor would die (permanently), and sypha would have a kid/get pregnant. i was 75% on the money.

i liked the ending message of why humans win these wars against vampires despite being slow meatbags compared to them. the vampires’ fatal flaw is resistance to change, provoked by their immortality, arrogance, and insatiable desire for power in order to provide themselves long term stability in the world. whereas humanity’s best trait is the polar opposite: adaptability. throughout history, the ability to adapt has been proven to be the determining factor in a species’ survival. vampires, for all their god-like strengths, prove to be no exception to this rule. alucard, with his human heart, is the only one with vampire blood who has proven he can make major changes and overcome personal prejudices to live a better life.

And my final thoughts on the ending are: everyone major got a satisfying end to their arc. BUT. it was just too happy. either trevor should have stayed dead, OR dracula and lisa should have gone back to hell. but not both. having everyone come back to life and go on to skip in fields just seems contrary to the tone and messaging of the whole show, which is pretty high up on the edginess scale.

i love a bittersweet ending in general, so i’m biased. imo, the joy of a mostly good ending is rendered all that much sweeter by reflecting on what was lost to obtain it. imagine:

alternate ending 1: trevor comes back, the gang lives happily ever after at Belmont Village or wtvr they name it, BUT. we see alucard lost in thought thinking about his parents, how he saw a flash of their souls during the penultimate battle. there’s regret there, the regret of shit left unsaid and shitty family dynamics unsolved. we cut immediately back to hell, with lisa and dracula embracing, maybe whispering a few lines of doomed lovers dialogue and something about their son. they’re in hell, but ultimately, they’re together. cut back to alucard, yanked out of his sad thoughts by his pretty gf who won’t let him get too deep in the weeds. shot pans out of them together with the gang. the end.

alternate ending 2: trevor is DEAD dead. sypha stays with alucard and the gang at belmont farms and raises her kid. maybe we get a 2 year timeskip and we see the little shit have some of his dad in him/her. sypha is sad about trevor but doesn’t mope about it. she runs that town like it’s a business. alucard is the best uncle to that kid & the orphans they could ask for. everyone gets trained in ass-kicking next door at the belmont hold. lisa and dracula are miraculously alive through whatever convoluted bs makes it work, and contemplate one day moving back to see their son. dracula has a moment to realize that his family is mostly human, and what he loves in them he can learn to tolerate from all of humanity.

don’t those feel happy but just. TINGED. with just enough sadness to be more memorable? idk i may just be a masochist.

i haven’t mentioned the technical aspects such as animation and direction because they were amazing. really, really incredible animation that is going to be hard to follow up (and netflix is going to make copycats of this formula, you bet your ass they will). where cgi was used, it was excellent and barely detectable, really well integrated with 2d. so engaging to watch.

overall: 9/10

#personal #castlevania #castlevania spoilers #castlevania season 4

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dicapriho · 5 years

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Important quotes to take from this article, that sums up perfectly why Daenarys’ treatment in season 8 was so heartbreaking..(long post with bullet points for easy reading):

Game of Thrones is "a world where women are often treated as disposable objects, Daenerys outwitted and overpowered her male enemies. As the sole protagonist in her own storyline, far from the rest of the characters, she was set up to be one of the few unambiguously [female] heroic figures in the series."

"in just a few episodes, she quickly transformed from a woman who has prided herself on saving the downtrodden to one who burns the innocent."

"[Daenerys’] treatment this season from the makeup of the writers’ room: The writers and directors on the show have always been overwhelmingly male, and women were shut out of both writing and directing jobs for every episode in season 8."

"Throughout her life, Daenerys has shown a commitment to justice...She freed the slaves in Meereen... When Drogon burned one child, she chained up her other two dragons, leaving herself more vulnerable...She put her fight for the Iron Throne on pause to fight in Jon’s war against the White Walkers [in the North where she knew she would feel unwelcome]."

"She was called the “Breaker of Chains” for a reason. When she misstepped, we forgave her, as we forgave, say, Tyrion for strangling Shae." [And Jon for killing a child for betraying him!]

“Daenerys has certainly used “Dracarys” to punish plenty of people during her reign... she always gave some compelling reason for doing so.”

She first used her dragon’s fire to kill a warlock who tried to imprison her, and again against a slaver who tried to cheat her...she crucified all the masters in retaliation for them having killed slave children — but they had killed children...She burned all the Khals who were threatening to keep her as a slave or rape her, or both."

Dany’s advisors gave awful advice:

"Daenerys agreed to make Tyrion her hand because Tyrion said he “knew things”...specifically, he claimed to know how to make alliances in Westeros and exploit people’s hate of Cersei in order to put Daenerys on the throne. Except, Tyrion did…none of that."

"...when did Tyrion convince a single lord that if they joined their side, they could get a new title and nice castle and see the land’s most hated woman [Cersei] burned to a crisp? Never."

"...what Tyrion did do: Try to cut a deal with slavers that would have kept slavery legal for a longer period of time, until Daenerys decided to burn their ships instead; convince Dany not to fly to King’s Landing and burn the Red Keep, which would have resulted in far fewer Kings Landing deaths; come up with the horrible plan to capture a wight that almost got Jon killed and lost Daenerys a dragon and still didn’t earn Cersei’s allegiance; convince Daenerys to trust Cersei, who has never proven herself to be trustworthy; forget to remind Daenerys that Euron and the Iron Fleet would almost certainly be waiting near Dragonstone, thus losing Daenerys another dragon; free Jaime from captivity in an effort to help both his brother and Cersei escape death at Daenerys’ hands..."

"Don’t even get me started on Varys, who didn’t write a single letter to a single lord to gain intel against Cersei or an ally for Dany but did find time to spread the word about Jon’s true parentage...”

“Tyrion and Varys were supposed to be her helpers. They failed her. Instead of owning up to this and realizing the part they have both played, Tyrion and Varys begin to worry that Daenerys is a flawed ruler exactly because she’s losing faith in them over their terrible decisions."

On the Sansa v Dany struggle:

"...The writers of the show cited much more petty reasons for their [Sansa and Dany's] conflict: “[Daenerys is] also very pretty, and how much does that factor in? Sansa starts off this season very suspicious and not at all friendly with Dany.”"

Her Isolation:

"In the last few episodes, Daenerys finds herself envying the love that Jon’s people feel for him...it’s destabilizing for her to arrive in Westeros and find that people are not eager to see her. Why, exactly, the Northerners don’t appreciate her dragons — without which they could not have defeated the Army of the Dead...."

"Daenerys rightfully glowers at Jon as his countrymen celebrate the fact that he mounted a dragon a couple of times when Dany has been riding one for years [Not to mention she is the first Targaryen in hundreds of years to have successfully mothered & raised/trained dragons]...In a mission to make Dany feel as isolated as possible, the show killed off her closest advisors, Jorah and Missendei."

"Daario is controlling Slaver’s Bay in her absence. Yara Greyjoy is sworn to her. In theory, the new Prince of Dorne would be allied with her since Daenerys struck a pact with Ellaria Sand. Daenerys could have called on any of these allies when she faced Cersei’s army but didn’t — simply because the show needed her to be alone ."

On Missandei:

"Game of Thrones fridged Missandei. There’s no other way to put it. Her capture and death happens just so Daenerys would feel isolated. The fact that the writers turned the only major black female character on the show into a device to motivate Daenerys feels even more cringeworthy."

"The fairly quick transition from complicated hero to totally mad villain leaned heavily on an oft-repeated line: “every time a Targaryen is born, the gods toss a coin”. But should Daenerys’ Targaryen blood necessarily doom her? After all, Jon is half Targaryen, too. So why does he get to sit comfortably on the other side of the coin?...The show has long been obsessed with various characters’ struggles to shake their family’s legacies. Tyrion killed his own father and joined Team Daenerys, only to betray Daenerys in order to help his family again."

"Daenerys has long tried to differentiate herself from her father, the Mad King, only to become her father’s daughter."

"...the show’s most recent plotting flaws was Varys’ rushed decision that Daenerys was a terrible enough queen that he would endeavor to poison her — quite a stretch for a man who served under King Joffrey...Remember that Varys once wanted to put Dany’s brother Viserys, a demonstrable megalomaniac, on the Iron Throne."

"...when Varys found out Jon was a Targaryen, he began openly conspiring to undermine and overthrow Daenerys...He accused her of being paranoid while simultaneously conspiring against her, which means she had every right to be suspicious...Again, it’s a failure of the show that the man who was once revered as Master of Whispers walked up to Jon in the middle of a crowded beach and suggested he usurp Daenerys."

"Other rulers we think of as heroes in this story have executed men for less than attempted murder: Robb Stark executed Rickard Karstark for killing the Lannister hostages, against Robb’s orders...Ned Stark executed someone for abandoning the Night’s Watch...Jon Snow executed the men who succeeded in murdering him (before he was resurrected) including Olly, a young boy."

"...Jon betrayed Daenerys’ trust by telling his family, and Tyrion betrayed her — twice. Davos also betrayed her too for totally inexplicable reasons by helping Tyrion smuggle Jaime to Cersei...Her advisor’s lie to her and gaslit her, plain and simple. And yet the way that Daenerys’ destruction of King’s Landing is shot, we are supposed to see her as the irrational one and Tyrion as one of the victims of her terror."

"...either due to time restrictions or lack of source material or just plain lack of creativity, the show took shortcuts this season...And those shortcuts tended to rely on the laziest of sexist stereotypes about crazed, power-hungry women."

"Maureen Ryan at the Hollywood Reporter put it best: “Inescapably, infuriatingly, what we’re left with is apparently the central message of Game of Thrones: Bitches are crazy.” "

"...Had [Dany's] paranoia been seeded many episodes ago and grown over the course of several seasons, it would be an epic Shakespearean tragedy. Instead we must infer this descent based on her frizzy hair."

"Worse, the moment when she seemingly decides to rule with fear, not love, comes after she’s romantically rejected by Jon...” [Suggestible that the lack of requited love is a strong enough reason for a level-minded strong woman to fall into a pit of craziness, despite all the good she has ever done and vows to continue doing..]

"Varys suggested that Jon would be a better ruler exactly because he did not want to rule. Figures in mythology and history ranging from Moses to George Washington to Harry Potter have been heralded as heroes because they came to power reluctantly. Those figures also tend to be male. How do our stories cast women eager for power? As evil queens. And now Daenerys is a cliché."

"There have been a lot of problematic characterizations of women this season, as revealed by the writers’ own commentary surrounding the episodes...Sansa essentially parroted what the writers have been saying for years about her rape by Ramsay Bolton — that it made her stronger...and the showrunners called Cersei, one of the smartest, most vicious characters on Thrones, “just a girl who needs the comfort of a man..”

"...in the end, Daenerys cycled through several tired stereotypes: Another evil, power-hungry queen literally shot with a dragon’s wings behind her; the crazy lady that a noble man has to heroically overcome..."

Like Cersei, Dany was a character introduced in the first episode, who ws incredible meaningful in the narrative of Game of Thrones. Instead of going out with a bang, Daenerys’ death wasn’t a bang like she truly deserved, but a whimper and forgotten to emphasise the man’s conquer and victory.

#game of thrones spoilers #anti got #daenerys targaryen #got spoilers #long post #sexism #anti d&d

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caltropspress · 3 years

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FEEDBACK LOOP #7: Curly Castro’s “Weapon 13X” featuring Breeze Brewin

There was a very old man, an old white man out in the crowd, and he started screaming and crying like a baby and he kept crying and he said, “God damn, God damn, what is this God damn country coming to that the niggers have got guns, the niggers are armed and the police can’t even arrest them!” He kept crying and somebody led him away through the crowd.

—Robert F. Williams, Negroes with Guns (1962)

Gun flash beats the child’s head in, maniac teeth dance in a bloody grin blue lies, badge confessions, yng dude dead just beyond his mama’s arms

—Amiri Baraka, “Stop Killer Cops”

Police said Cleaver and Hutton were holed up at 1218 28th Street with two 9 mm automatic pistols, two AR-15 and one military-type M-14 automatic rifle, and a large supply of ammunition, some armor-piercing.

—Berkeley Barb, Volume 6, Number 15, Issue 139

“Weapon 13X” is a diptych. Two verses; one pivot—or volta, for you bookworms. Curly Castro is first with a séance that summons the mysteries of Clarence 13X and Weapon X. These nullified variables and Roman numerals come together in an elixir mix so potent that it would make Aes Rock choke on the amalgam. Castro opens the fission gate and discharges two-hundred forty thousand mega-therms on the city of brotherly love, the city of bombs from above onto a 6221 Osage Avenue row house. Shameek just got bust in his arm, leg, leg, arm, head. The Black man is God personified, and Logan is regenerative. Adamantium claws. Mathematical jaws. Science dropped and experiments performed. Spark this like metal does when dragged across concrete.

2. “Harriet would grab her balls, / This my gun, and this my rifle.”

Harriet Tubman gets cast by Kubrick for Full Metal Jacket, recites the Rifleman’s Creed, but it was actually a pistol she kept buried within the folds of her calico. She sallied forth seeing visions from the overseer’s heave of a weight—made her skull snap. Don’t sleep. “When the caliber’s inside you,” you can’t necessarily count on “the muzzle smoke revival.”

Quelle Chris provides production, lest we forget his 2019 Guns album with its Dada-bullet, double-barreled barrage album art. The title track armed to the teeth: “Ain’t no cracking that code, / Ain’t no safety on locks, / Might as well get you one, / Procrastinating will get you popped.” The machine gun funk outs finks and COINTELPRO cooperators, conspirators, dispiriters. Here, Castro’s got those same turncoats and sucker MCs in his sights, so to speak.

4. [The oppressor] teaches the Negro that he has no worth-while past, that his race has done nothing significant since the beginning of time, and that there is no evidence that he will ever achieve anything great. (Carter Godwin Woodson, The Mis-Education of the Negro, 1933)

Castro makes a promise, provoked by those who came before him, those who brandished firearms in the faces of their enemies:

We never will disarm: these are the lies that you were sold, When your glory tripped up, you trade your weapons in for gold. With Yakub in the schools, trade your dreams, knowledge folds. Found the tome, Mis-Education Negroes…

Dr. Yakub sloshing liquids in the lab—Bunsen burners explode and the lab leak is viral whiteness. Tricknology replaces Biology. Castro is looking back while moving forward. “Doomed to repeat it”-type forewarnings. He knows the ledge and also wants his people to.

aim get your sights & its sound in abstract or journal movements to a peace settlement

dude shot my man

dead, precious lord blow off theres no willy in th blues theres no you.

—from Tom Weatherly’s Maumau American Cantos (1970)

Castro is a “gunhand, cybernetic with spray cans, / Basquiat, baklava, Mau Mau.” That’s likely an intentional malaprop—surely his militant stance calls for a balaclava. Even still, Castro doesn’t stutter. He will still sh-sh-shift his voice on you—the dynamics of his delivery raise stakes and get guttural, scraping against sewer plates. He’s potent, even if Basquiat’s pistol appears flaccid with its hand-scrawled linework. In another piece, Basquiat starts the decolonization process at the point of a safari helmet. The image detonates.

6. Free country? Man, I should fuck you up for sayin’ that stupid shit alone.

“This film is a call to racial violence!” a film critic shouted at Roger Ebert after a screening of Do the Right Thing. She worried Bed-Stuy would set fire to theaters, but Lee’s 1989 film wasn’t The Rite of Spring in Paris in 1913. An amerikan psychotic turn to theater violence would be postponed until Aurora in 2012, and it would be white violence, which would come as a shock to none who have tracked the trajectory of white violence. Displacement is white violence, too. White violence is a sine qua non for gentrification. And so Castro allies himself with “Buggin’ Out battle brownstone houses, some Bird fans, / While Mookie turns the radio up and launched the trashcan.”

7. “We are the weapons.”

Of late, Castro has consistently been proving you’re out your depth, with verses so allusive they suggest a strong “Erick Sermon and Parrish Smith, nobody blink. / They don’t now who the fuck that is” vibe. So what, though? At this point, Castro’s a vet, an elder. The youngins need to catch up or cash out. Get KRS-One bookish, kiddies, or be left behind. Be the weapon or never prosper. Create your own mythos: “Omega built a mother by the sun and Cyclops sent / a blurred Baraka poem capable to raise the dead. / Yet instead I use the sword...”—with Wu-Tang pronunciation of the w in “sword,” of course. History moves backwards and forwards at the same time. Language is lost and recovered. The poem is “blurred” because it’s been duplicated on a mimeograph—a machine that involves a “drum.” The words are ink-smudged. Baraka’s former partner, Diane di Prima, shouted, “"Power to the people's mimeo machines!” Accuse and attack, Baraka sloganeered. We’re talking about agency—by hand-crank, handgun, or mic check.

Castro creates imagery like Emory Douglas did with paint: painfully bold and saturated with color like blood soaks clothes. Baraka called Douglas’s art a combo of “expressionist agitprop and homeboy familiarity,” which applies to what Castro does on the track. I quote Mao who called literature and art “part of the whole proletarian revolutionary cause,” and Mao quotes Lenin who called lit and art the “cogs and wheels in the whole revolutionary machine.” And Baraka also said Douglas’s work:

functioned as if you were in the middle of a rumble and somebody tossed you a machine pistol. It armed your mind and demeanor. Ruthlessly funny, but at the same time functional as the .45 slugs pouring out of that weapon.

The Panthers were trapped and tear-gassed in a West Oakland basement. Eldridge Cleaver told Bobby to go out naked—unarmed as the day he was born not quite eighteen years earlier—but he emerged from the burning house fully dressed, with dignity, and he was searchlighted and shotshotshotshotshotshotshot dead.

Castro needs Brewin to make the cypher complete—a two-man killarmy using loud words in quiet wars, no silencer.

9. “Before blurting out, try analysis, brother.”

Breeze’s Yo, listen… at the start of his verse is comparable to Sir Thomas Wyatt intoning Whoso list to hunt… to begin his 16th-century sonnet. The amalgam here is less Five Percenter plus clandestine government experimentation and more a deconstruction of the both violent and sexualized language of braggadocio. “Anything you say isn’t played like Miranda Rights,” and so we’re already with our hands behind our backs, silenced by an pig officer’s gag order. The competition doesn’t get played; they play themselves.

Sir Thomas Wyatt sets it off like so:

Whoso list to hunt, I know where is an hind, But as for me, hélas, I may no more. The vain travail hath wearied me so sore, I am of them that farthest cometh behind. Yet may I by no means my wearied mind Draw from the deer, but as she fleeth afore Fainting I follow.

Breeze has wanted to stay pleasant to the ears—you know, like Lauryn Hill phone sexing—so this isn’t new territory but rather a well-worn path. Wyatt’s wearied and “so sore” by “the hunt,” the pursuit of his love interest, even though he knows “where is an hind.” Still, “as she fleeth afore / Fainting [he] follows.” He can’t help himself.

Love is lost within violent pursuit. Breeze speaks of a “plan to strike” and “zero in” on a “target,” his quarry. He and Castro are “talking about broads often, no doubt, / We broad and burly as hell, / Brag about the hunt, you was jukin’ a girly gazelle.” Breeze’s assault is dizzying, a salvo from all angles: “Hit ’em with some counter clay rebuttals that’s subtle but still befuddle if dude slow.”

10. “It’s nothin’, I gotcha, and that’s word to Super Lover Cee.”

Super Lover Cee and Casanova Rud’s 1988 single “Girls I Got ’Em Locked” articulates the carceral embrace of “locking” a girl down, which—consequently—requires violence to enforce: “Don’t ever touch a girl owned by me or I’ll ruin ya’, / Slap you with my mic simultaneously as I’m doin’ ya.” The girl is commodified, and Super Lover Cee takes a proprietary attitude toward the relationship. If you overstep, you’ll be ruined, that is, you’ll fall. And while you’re prostrate, you’ll be slapped with the phallic mic simultaneously. Is the Super Lover doin’ her or you, though? What’s truly getting him off? That hypermasculine posturing skews homoerotic. Breeze Brewin laughs at you for subscribing to the nonsense: “Dag, if that was what you believe then your world be a hell.”

11.

Liberal discourse suggests policing your impulses. Put down the gun—don’t touch it. “Touchy subjects,” like racism (apparently), get the “We need to have a conversation” treatment. Look, don’t touch. Don’t touch the exhibit of stolen artifacts—those Benin bronzes in the British Museum. Beneath the topic of orignoo gunn clapping, Curly Castro’s track is about the x’s and o’s of eros as well. Many gestures meant to protect women are merely some other man staking his claim, adorning her with “diamonds in letters plain,” as Wyatt writes of the collar around the deer’s “fair neck.” Wyatt’s sonnet warns against overstepping (or even half-stepping). The collar reads Noli me tangere (touch me not)—she belongs to someone else. It’s a bad touch example. Like his fellow Indelible J-Treds, Breeze Brewin is the living circle-circle-dot-dot: nobody can touch him.

12.

Let’s bring it back to Little Bobby Hutton. When Eldridge Cleaver told him to leave the ambushed basement naked, he was thinking of Bobby’s safety. He thought the extreme measure of appearing on the street without clothes would be enough to convince the pigs he wasn’t armed. Cleaver was naïve to think so. Bobby Hutton was right to emerge clothed. In doing so, he rejected the indignity of the auction block, the lynching, the mutilation and spreading of souvenir flesh. The searchlight made Bobby Hutton the subject of a spectacle, yes, but he refused to consent to the psychosexual desires of white supremacy. He refused the castration ritual. Little Bobby Hutton, in effect, threw down a challenge to the cops: Use your imagination once again. Try to think of a few situations where your own weapon might be used against you…used against you…used against you.

Images:

Emory Douglas, The Black Panther, Vol. IV, No. 78, 1971 (detail) | Weapon X (detail, issue unknown) | Emory Douglas, Rat Subterranean News (1970) | Harriet Tubman with gun sketch | Anti-Mau Mau British propaganda poster | Newspaper headline from Negroes with Guns | Jean-Michel Basquiat, Untitled (date unknown) | Jean-Michel Basquiat, Native Carrying Some Guns, Bibles, and Amorites on Safari (1982) | Screenshot from Spike Lee’s Do the Right Thing (1989) | Two images from the Berkeley Barb, Volume 6, Number 15, Issue 139 (1968) | Emory Douglas, The Black Panther (miscellaneous poster) | Medieval depiction of the hunt (unknown) | Image detail from the Berkeley Barb, Volume 6, Number 15, Issue 139 (1968)

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florenceandthemachine · 4 years

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happy chapter! yes I know I missed last week and I've updated the chapter count to reflect. my state is cold as fuck and also somehow on fire and the Big Sad hit me real hard so I had to take a weekend to be dead. love you all.

Chapters: 3/4 Fandom: 9-1-1 (TV) Relationships: Evan "Buck" Buckley/Eddie Diaz (9-1-1 TV)

”Alright, Eddie.”

No, it was not alright. It was not alright at all.

“I’m starting to worry about you.”

Eddie felt his bed dip as Buck sat beside him, groaning in response, rolling over in a desperate attempt to hide his shame.

“Chris is about ready to call in for a rope rescue, and you’re still not out of bed. I may not understand why you’re meeting your parents for lunch today, but you are, so get up.”And therein lied his shame. Eddie didn’t need a reminder. His parents had spent all of ten minutes in his living room the night prior—annoyingly vague about why they were there in the first place, insisting that even though they were just ‘passing through’ they still wanted to spend some time with their grandson.

Not their son. Just their grandson. Which was totally fine and didn’t bother Eddie at all.

Eddie had spent every one of those ten minutes clenching his teeth so hard he thought he would pop a crown, but ultimately agreed to their request (maybe a little quicker than he would have liked, but he had done less for more when it came to making sure Chris stayed in bed). As bad as that was, though, he wasn’t sure what was worse—the fact that he was so hesitant to spend some time with his parents, or the fact that the moment they left, all he felt was guilt.

He knew that he wasn’t the crazy one here; but even then, it was hard to ignore how it sounded, feeling so unhappy—so hesitant—to spend time with his own parents. He knew exactly how it looked for him, because what kind of son was chomping at the bit to rip his own parents head off, just for wanting to spend some time with their family?

It should have been a perfectly reasonable request. It should have been something Eddie was happy to do. It should not have been something that set Eddie’s teeth on edge, that tripped up his sixth sense like no other, the soldier's sense that he had developed in Afghanistan buzzing in the base of his skull like a beehive. It felt like something was about to go incredibly wrong, and it felt fucking disgusting to have that reaction triggered by his own parents, but he couldn’t deny that he was afraid history would repeat itself.

Maybe he really was a garbage person.

The guilt only got worse, surprise surprise, after they left and Eddie discovered Buck standing in the kitchen, where Eddie had told him to stay. He had all but forgotten about Buck. How could he forget an entire person?

Garbage person, strike two.

Eddie wound himself in his blanket even tighter, guilt and shame doing little to motivate him on getting out of bed, but his silence was short lived as his blanket burst into flames just long enough for him to yelp and bolt upright before it completely disintegrated. “You—that’s not—you cheater!”

Buck just laughed, the bastard, idly examining the nails on one hand as he shoved Eddie out of bed with the other. “I’m a demon, you dolt. Of course I cheated. Now,” he started, pushing Eddie upright and all but herding him toward the closet, “why don’t you get dressed and tell me what’s really going on?”

Eddie felt a lump sink into his stomach as he stood up, a harsh breath coming out of his nose as he yanked a pair of pants off of a hanger.

“I’m scared, Buck.”

Either out of shock or respect, Buck remained silent, and Eddie could only spare a glance over his shoulder before he ducked his head, dressing haphazardly. “The last time I saw my parents they tried to... to take him. They were trying to take him from me, and my response was to literally pack Chris up and move across the country. They didn’t reach out for years—it’s been years, Buck—not when Abuela broke her hip, not when Chris changed schools, not when Shannon died. A year goes by, and nothing. And then they send a card, and then I meet you, and now they’re just... here again. And I think they’re going to try again, I think they’re going to—“

Eddie looked down at his hands as he felt the fabric of the shirt he was holding tear beneath his fingertips, staring at the hole, like he couldn’t believe he had just worried a hole through it. He looked up to Buck, guilt and misery written on his face as he tossed the garment aside, hiding his face in his hands as he rubbed at his eyes, dragging his hands down his face shortly after.

“You are going to lunch and I’ll be nearby, but Eddie, listen.” Eddie didn’t realize he was spiraling until Buck stepped forward, grabbing his hands and giving a firm squeeze as he shook his head. When Eddie looked up again, all he could see was Buck—eyes glowing, mouth set, teeth maybe just a little sharper than they were a moment before. “I will never, ever let them—or anyone else—take him from you. Ever.”

“…and Mark says that Washington has one of the biggest volcanoes, but I don’t think that’s true. Ms. Flores and Mr. Beeman says that Mars has volcanoes too, even bigger than any of the ones we have here on Earth!”

“I’m sure it does, buddy. Maybe that’s why it’s the red planet? All the magma?”

“No, Dad, the magma is underground, when the volcano erupts it turns into—hey!” Eddie had a smile on his face as he reached over to steal one of Chris’ fries, grinning as his kid squawked, pushing his dads’ hand away playfully. Their afternoon together had started easy enough; Chris had stolen the show easily, directing the conversation through himself in that effortless way kids managed to do, talking about his school, his friends, his day to day. To this day, Eddie would never understand how this kid had him wrapped around his finger so easily—all it took was the bat of an eye for Eddie to swing through the drive through on the way to the park, and suddenly he was meeting his parents at a picnic table near the playground with arms full of chicken tenders and fries.

Not a great look. Whatever.

Chris had been every bit as ecstatic to see his grandparents as Eddie knew (feared?) he would be, propelling himself forward at a speed that would have made Eddie panic had Buck not spent some significant time over the past few months working on Chris’ physical therapy.

He wasn’t sure if it was a blessing or a curse, how easily it was to use his son as a distraction from whatever nightmarish scenario his parents wanted to bring up, but even that grateful moment was cut short as his father chuckled, reaching forward to tousle Chris’ hair playfully.

“Mark, Flores, Beeman, I can’t even keep up anymore kiddo. Sounds like you’ve had a busy third grade in your new scho—“

“Fourth grade, dad.”

“What?”

“Fourth grade, Dad. Chris is in fourth grade.”

Eddie regretted the words the moment they left his mouth. As good as it felt to even attempt to put his father in his place, he could feel the exact moment that both of his parents swiveled their laser-like attention to him. They were smiling, sure, but Eddie felt like he was back to being a kid again, waiting for the inevitable slip up that would get him grounded.

“Fourth grade, right.” Eddie smiled tensely as his father nodded, gesturing between he and his son. “Of course, we would know that if you bothered to call once in a while. We don’t hear from you on Christmas, birthdays, nothing.

“You know, you can always call us too, not send some letter on the anniversary of my wife’s death like a complete—”

“If we didn’t hear from Pepa regularly, how would we know that you and Chris were even alive?”

“Dad—“

“But we’re doing good.”

Eddie felt his jaw click shut as Chris spoke, his heart swelling with pride as both of his parents turned their gaze again. His mother at least had the decency to look mildly guilty—his father, no such luck.

“Of course you are, kiddo. We’re just trying to make sure that your dad has enough help. There’s been a lot of big changes since you both left Texas—two new schools, new grades, new teachers, your father’s new job, and—“

The death of Chris’ mother, Eddie’s mind provided, angry once again that Shannon was being so disregarded by people who were supposed to be her family.

“Yeah, but we’re still doing good.” Chris said, not looking up from the fries he was dunking into ketchup, smearing only a little bit on his upper lip as he shoved the handful into his mouth. “Dad says that sometimes the hard things make us stronger, but things aren’t even that hard. And Buck says that I have a lot of, um. Initiative! And they both say I’m perfect, so that’s good.”

Eddie didn’t hesitate. He didn’t freeze as his parents turned back over to him, and he certainly didn’t feel his heart sink into his stomach. He just… was trying to un-swallow his tongue, was all. Buck had been the one topic that they had somehow danced around, and Eddie wasn’t sure if he should have been thankful or not that Chris ripped that bandaid off.

He was afraid, to be honest, of that particular aspect of their new lives coming to light—there were few wounds that Eddie’s parents loved rubbing salt in more than his parenting and his financial situation, and suggesting that he had private help for Chris? That was certainly something that hit both of their favorite topics.

“Buck?”

Even if, you know, he had sold his soul instead of provided a monthly stipend.

“Who is Buck?”

“Buck’s great!” Eddie felt himself finally breathe as Chris picked up the slack, his cheerful demeanor impervious to the doom and gloom swarming around both of his grandparents right now. “He’s really smart, and he’s super nice. Plus he makes Dad laugh, which is also nice. And he taught me how to make cootie-catchers! Did you know that they can see into the future?”

Eddie wasn’t panicking. He definitely wasn’t panicking. He definitely wasn’t looking between his mother and his father, trying desperately to come up with something, some excuse, some way to explain the strange name that called Chris perfect and made him laugh.

...Buck really did know how to make him laugh, though. And he did love Chris, that much was clear. And those two thoughts were the only things buzzing around in his head when he opened his fat mouth.

“Edmundo, who is—“

“Buck is my boyfriend.”

You could have heard a pin drop in the moment afterward—his father turned a lovely complexion of purple and red while his mother looked like she had literally seen a ghost, which, hey! Not that far off from the truth. Eddie wasn’t sure if he was just in shock, or if he was having a stroke, or what, but he suddenly felt heavy, grounded for the first time all day, firmly planted in the moment.

So, Eddie decided that Buck was, as of ten seconds ago, his boyfriend. It… made sense, in a way. Fuck, they were basically co-parenting his kid. Chris absolutely adored Buck. And Eddie knew they were sexually and romantically compatible, hell, he knew Buck intimately from his teeth right down to—

“Buck is your what—”

“Buck!”

Eddie was getting very, very tired of being caught by surprise, so it was actually exhausting to have yet another rug pulled out from under him. He turned his head as Chris called out and almost fell out of his seat, seeing who else but the demon in question striding toward them, smiling like the sun,

Honestly, at this point, Eddie should have expected yet another whiplash, but nothing could have prepared him to turn around and see Buck, striding toward him with a big smile on his face, wearing what Eddie could only describe as a “meet the parents” outfit.

If there was another reason as to why Buck would be wearing a sweater vest in California, Eddie would love to hear it.

At the very least, he wasn’t the only one who was shocked. His parents had similar slack jawed looks on their faces as Chris raced toward Buck, who easily wrapped Chris in a huge hug with a “Hey, Superman!” before setting Chris on his hip easily.

Eddie didn’t realize that he was up until he was already moving, trying to think of how he could explain this, but Buck was quick on the draw—keeping Chris balanced in one arm, he drew Eddie in easily with the other, kissing his cheek, murmuring against his skin easily.

“Thought you could use some backup from your boyfriend.”

...oh, right. Demon. Probably heard the whole thing. Cool, that was definitely a cool thing and not embarrassing at all. Eddie felt his own hand fall into Buck’s as they started to walk back toward his parents, a weight writhing in his stomach, only partially subdued by the warmth burning pleasantly through his bones from the small contact he shared with Buck, looking over as Buck set Chris back down, grinning at the giggling ten year old like he wanted nothing more out of this life.

“Mom, Dad, this is Buck. Buck, these are my parents.” Eddie was half tempted to let the moment stew in a silent awkwardness before starting introductions, but Buck spoke up before he could do anything, extending his now-free hand to Eddie’s father first. “Evan Buckley, Eddie’s told me a lot about you. Glad to meet you both.”

Huh. Eddie never thought to even ask if Buck had a first and last name. He always thought it was just, ‘Buck’.

It was comforting for him to see the good, Catholic guilt push both of his parents to accept the greeting with an incredibly pained smile and a handshake of their own, as much as he knew they both wanted to pretend he wasn’t there.

“So! Evan.” His mother started, always the diplomat. “What do you do?”

“I’ve known I was bisexual from, like, sophomore year. I brought boyfriends home in highschool! Why is this so hard for you to wrap your head around?”

Long since abandoning the idea of civility, Eddie’s voice was tired, watching as Buck pushed Chris on the swingset across the park from their little picnic bench. Chris had all but dragged Buck over there, subconsciously (or maybe consciously, though Eddie hated thinking of that) feeling when Eddie needed some time to yell at his parents.

Which he definitely, definitely wanted to do. Because Buck was a fucking delight, he answered every question perfectly, he complimented, he flattered, he smiled, and his parents had given him absolutely nothing back.

Now, he was actually finding himself… jealous. Because he would have sold his fucking left leg to just be over there, with his kid and his… Buck, instead of here, with the firing squad. Watching the two of them together was nice, though, definitely a memory he would treasure later—right now, it was providing just enough serotonin to keep him from jumping off a bridge.

“Because you’re not like that, not really!” His mother’s voice was pleading where his fathers had been firm, but Eddie couldn’t really tell the difference between the two when they were both parroting each other. “Eddito, you can’t expect us to believe this is just... happening now. In highschool, that was one thing. I am your mother, we are your parents. No one knows you better than we do!”

Eddie threw his hands into the air, turning it into a wave at the last moment when Chris looked over, trying to keep his face relatively neutral. “Mom, you don’t know the first thing about me, apparently, but I’m starting to think that might go both ways. Maybe I don’t know the two of you, either. For starters, I had no idea my parents were so fucking mean.”

The innocent look his father shot back at him made him want to puke. “Eddie, I can’t help it if pointing out the truth seems a little mean to you. That woman leaves you—”

“That woman was my wife, and she died, next topic.”

“—leaves you,” his father repeated, ignoring what Eddie had said yet again, “and now I’m supposed to believe that you, what. Decided that instead of finding someone who could give Chris what he needs, you just looked for the first man waving a rainbow flag and that was that?”

“Dad, I swear to God, if you insult Buck again we’re done for the day.”

If Eddie was surprised by his own assertiveness, he was alone in that—his father wasted no time in scoffing, shaking his head.

“I have every right to criticize someone spending that much time with my grandson, Edmundo. When was the last time you and Chris went to service? Because if it got around that you were hanging around with someone like that—"

Honestly, there was a certain level of irony here that Eddie had to appreciate. His conservative, religious parents didn’t like his boyfriend (and, wait, how had Eddie attached Buck to that word so easily?)—not because he was a literal demon from Hell, which would have been a perfectly reasonable thing for two good, God fearing Christians to dislike, but because he was a man.

“Hey, Chris, we gotta get going! Come say bye, buddie!”

All that aside, the stunned silence that followed as his father struggled to find his voice was sweet, so sweet, even if it was incredibly short lived.

“Really, Eddie? One little disagreement and you’re just going to walk away? We don’t see Chris for two years, and the first time we visit is when you decide to—”

“Chris is going to come over and say goodbye.” Eddie interrupted, voice dangerously low as he looked up to where Buck was helping him down from the jungle gym. “If you try and play him against me with this, you will lose. If you try to play him against Buck, you will lose and I will laugh at you. But we are going home now, and if you give him any grief about that, if you try to make him feel bad that you don’t come up to visit more often, if you do anything that puts a frown on his face, that’s it. You will never see him again. Ever. And I’ve already kept one promise to you once in the past five minutes, you wanna push for two?”

Eddie wasn’t sure if he was burning that bridge or crossing it, but he was all smiles when Buck and Chris rejoined them, easily slotting himself against Buck’s side as his mother and father each hugged and kissed Chris’ head. Eddie may have let his eagle eye slide a little bit—he could tell my Chris’ giggling protests that they weren’t saying anything uncouth, and even if they were, he knew Buck would put a stop to it before anything else.

Waiting until his mother released Chris, Eddie leaned and kissed Buck on the cheek, tilting his head back to the truck. “Chris, you wanna go with Buck and get buckled in? I’m gonna walk your grandparents to their car.”

Chris took off happily with Buck in tow, and Eddie allowed himself a moment to feel all warm inside watching Buck take Chris’ hand happily as they walked away before he had to turn and face his parents once more. He wasn’t sure if it was a good thing or not that his mother was first to speak, pleading with him while his father unlocked and started their car. “You don’t need to be so sneaky to talk to us, Eddito. You know your father and I just worry.”

“If you want to talk sneaky, let’s talk about your spontaneous road trip to Los Angeles. Have you talked to Abuela? Or Pepa? Because Buck’s met them both, and they both love him. Have you even thought about visiting with them while you’re out here?” Eddie asked, the look on her face answer enough. Eddie sighed, shaking his head as he turned to his father, waiting to see what kind of explanation he would try and bury this in. “You dragged Mom a thousand miles just to interrogate me but you won’t even see the rest of the family?”

He felt the hair on the back of his neck stand on end as his mother shut the door to the passengers seat of the car, and Eddie found himself wishing he could just tune this entire topic out as easily as she seemed to when his father met this gaze again.

“I am just trying to get you to do what is right for Chris.”

“That’s just it! I am what’s best for Chris, and I don’t understand why you can’t accept that. He’s my kid, mine, and if you can’t trust me to do what’s best for him,” Eddie paused, “then I don’t know what I can do to get that across.”

He shook his head as he started to walk back to his car. He had really, really hoped that would be the end of it, but he was well aware that would require luck, which he did not have, his father's voice calling after him making that painfully clear.

“You don’t know what you’re doing, Eddie. When your little… mistake comes crashing down, we will be the only ones here for Chris! You can’t just turn your back on family!” Eddie felt his hackles rise as he walked away, ears ringing as he dug his heel into the dirt and looked over his shoulder.

“You turned your back on us—on me—a long time ago.” Eddie’s voice was low as he opened his door, slumping into the driver seat like a string had been cut, hands shaking as he started the truck.

“What was your family like?”

Eddie’s voice was soft from his place against Buck’s side, tucked up under one of Buck’s arms, the warmth from the demon eliminating any need for a blanket.

Eddie had made it exactly three blocks (just long enough to be out of view of his parents) before Buck had demanded he pull the car over so they could switch. He was more than happy to give up any responsibility, sliding into the back seat beside his kid, letting himself be completely engrossed in whatever Chris was listening to for the rest of the ride home.

Buck had been the one who drove them home, made dinner, entertained Chris while Eddie showered. Buck was the one who helped with everything along the way just like he always did. And now Buck was literally, literally anchoring him into reality, a comforting weight along Eddie’s side.

He couldn’t tell what Marvel movie was on—honestly, he had kind of stopped caring about any of them after Black Panther—but they were still Chris’ favorite, and he was sure that Chris would have been livid at them for talking if he hadn’t fallen asleep in the first five minutes of the movie. He wanted to save the moment like a snapshot forever; Chris’ head against Buck’s thigh, sprawled out over the both of their laps, his soft snores doing little to mask Eddie’s question (or Buck’s snort in return). “Eddie, my parents were like... completely crazy. Yours are getting up there, but mine were insane. My mom...” Buck shut his mouth as Chris shifted, waiting until he was settled to resume.

“My mom is the reason I got into this position in the first place.”

Eddie felt his face fall as Buck spoke, repositioning himself to sit up a little straighter beside Buck, eyes trained to the demons’ face. Buck was smiling, a sense of bitter irony on his face as he pushed some hair from Chris’ forehead. “When my dad died, my mom... didn’t take it well. She kind of fell off the deep end. Maddie was lucky, she got out before the shit hit the fan. Anyway, my mom and I tried everything—therapy, grief counseling, the power of prayer—seriously.” Buck said, a smile on his face as Eddie laughed, shoulders shaking.

“You’re such an ass.” Buck said, but he was smiling as well, shaking his head. “Anyway, when that didn’t work, my mom tried the other route. She was, like, off the deep end at that point. Talismans, ouija boards, drugging herself up to talk to the dead. I probably should have turned around when I came home to find a pentagram painted on the floor, but.”

Buck shrugged like this was the easiest thing in the world to announce, but Eddie had long since stopped laughing, his jaw a little slack. “Oh, Buck...” He hated how weak his voice sounded, but Buck brushed it off, continuing on.

“No big deal. She sucked at Latin, turns out. I got these devilishly good looks, and she got torn apart by hellfire.” Eddie choked on a laugh as Buck beamed at him, because of course he would be making a pun at a time like this. He stifled the rest of his laugh as Buck squeezed him a little tighter, shaking his head as Chris let out another little snore.

It was easy enough to maneuver Chris into his arms, carrying him to his bedroom, though he certainly wasn’t about to object to Buck’s abject closeness, less than a half step behind Eddie as he put Chris to bed. It wasn’t until he stood to leave did he actually see the look on Buck’s face as he tousled Chris’ hair and said goodnight; it was incredibly soft, dopey even, and the only reason Eddie could make that comparison is because Hen had told him plenty of times that was the same way he looked at Chris.

He just never thought he would see that look on someone else.

Eddie kept his voice low as he closed Chris’ door, starting the walk back to his own room slowly, swaying easily in step beside Buck as he scratched at his head. “Do you remember, when we met, you told me—“

“How incredibly hot you were, how good you were with your tongue, how—“

“Jesus, Buck, no, you fucking pervert. I was going to say, you told me that I wasn’t being normal about this.” Eddie said, and Buck hummed, his hand idly reaching out toward Eddie’s. “What are most of your contracts like?”

Buck snorted as he tugged Eddie into the bedroom, turning off the television, the lights, even locking the front door with a wave of his hand. “I’ve never fucked another contract, if that’s what you’re asking.” he started, pulling the sheets down with another wave and a laugh as Eddie threw his shirt at Buck’s head. “God, Eddie, they’re fucking assholes. Everyone’s power hungry, or money hungry, or just stupid as fuck, seriously. In like, a whole decade, I’ve never had anyone make a contract for someone else before. But you…”

Eddie looked up as Buck pulled him closer again, planting a kiss on his lips. Part of Eddie wanted to shy away, wanted to say the boyfriend thing had all but been an act, but he had given up on that about thirty seconds after Buck told his father to fuck off.

“Even when you were drunk, you only cared about what was best for your son. That’s why it was so easy for me to make a contract with you. Seeing how good of a person you were, how much you loved your kid? No question.”

Buck’s voice had dropped down low as he sunk into the bed, making grabby hands at Eddie until he followed suit, finding himself fitting perfectly in the crook of Buck’s shoulder, resolutely not thinking about the flat plain of muscle beneath his hand as he wrapped an arm around Buck’s midsection. Eddie felt his eyes wander across Buck’s face, his lips, the smooth line of his neck to the little gem on his necklace. “You really think I’m a good father?”

“Eddie, come on.”

When he looked back up at Buck’s face, Eddie felt a spark burn through his spine, meeting Buck’s glowing eyes for the third time in three months and the second time that day. Eddie wasn’t sure who moved (okay, he was definitely the one who had moved) but the kiss was soft, a barely there brush of lips, a pressure that set Eddie’s lips on fire.

“You’re amazing.”

#911 #buddie #eddie diaz #evan buckley #halloweenfic #demon!buck #flospeaks #fic

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