#overwhelmingly realising that kid was perfectly normal

[diluc33rpm]

1/2 Were you a cute kid?

cinemasins ding factually incorrect actually. i, at no point in my life, have been a young member of the species capra hircins

[novamirmirsblog]

Awww I loved the Romeo Romeo fic!!! Can I put my two cents and say Peter would be so used to calling R “Auntie R”. Then one day, out of excitement of something that happened (could be about school, social life, MJ, anything) and he sees Natasha, and without thinking he’s like “Oh my gosh!! Aunt Natasha! You’re not gonna believe what just hap-!” Then he realizes what he just said and is like “Oh sorry! I didn’t mean for that to come out of my mouth! Sorry!” He’s stammering and Natasha is just fighting the urge to not tear up a little because she was called aunt by the spidey boo. What would you add to this?

OMG HE SO WOULD AND NATASHA WOULD BE SO HAPPY BECAUSE SHE THOUGHT SHE WOULD NEVER HAVE THAT KIND OF RELATIONSHIP

Part 3

Natasha had resigned to the fact she would never be as close to Peter as he was to you (she personally found it slightly rude considering she was also named after a spider but she wouldn’t let anyone else know that)

Peter had called you auntie accidentally after you had made him his favourite meal after a tough day at school and it had kinda just stuck.

While Stark’s ego enjoyed being ‘Mr Stark’ to the spider kid, he didn’t appreciate the fact you got a familial title before he did.

Between the three of you, you had basically adopted him. Tony was a father figure (and a bad influence occasionally), you were his aunt and Nat was...well she was Nat.

Peter always wanted to be closer to Natasha, he just wasn’t sure how to go about it. He knew how uncomfortable she found affection to be and while you had done wonders with getting her comfy with it, he still wasn’t sure how well he would be received.

You, an unbiased perspective, saw this emotional turmoil between the two spiders in your life and decided to help. You started with Natasha, subtly asking her how she felt about Peter using aunt with not just you, but her too.

Natasha smiled unconsciously when you suggested it, immediately schooling her face into a look of indifference once she realised what she was doing. You were her girlfriend though and saw straight through what she was doing. She wanted that boy to call her aunt just as much as he wanted to call her that.

During a conversation with Peter, you ‘accidentally’ called Nat Auntie Nat and it was like a light bulb had gone off in Peter’s head.

You had successfully planted seeds in both their heads, nurturing an idea that was already there.

The day that it happened was one that you will never forget. You and Natasha were sitting at the table, drinking your (non alcoholic because it was a little too early for that even thought it was after lunch) drinks when Peter came running in.

That boy could never move slowly. He was either asleep or at 100.

“Hey Peter, how was your day?”

“Good thanks auntie y/n! Omg it was so cool, today me, Ned and MJ decided to see how fast I could climb the school clock. I even beat my personal record Auntie Nat!”

There was a moment of stunned silence. An evil grin began growing on your face. Your plan had finally worked.

Natasha’s eyes began to fill with tears. Not in a noticeable way for anyone normal but for Natasha, this was a big deal. She was so overwhelmingly happy that she just wanted to cry but that would obviously send the wrong message.

While Natasha was having her internal panic, Peter was trying desperately to pull back what he said by talking louder and faster, his face getting redder and redder by the second.

“IM SO SORRY I CALLED YOU THAT MISS ROMANOFF!”

That seemed to snap Natasha out of her haze as the last thing she wanted him to be was sorry. Her little spidey boo had just called her auntie!

“No no no. Don’t be sorry. I loved it...” Natasha mumbled that last part, her face having a slight blush to it (which again, was a major deal for Natasha) “I would love to be your aunt. I mean technically you already call my girlfriend your aunt.” She laughed and brought him into a hug, gesturing you over too

“Although” she continued “I am slightly offended you called me aunt second. We’re both spiders.”

“And I love both my spiders so much!” You took a quick picture before joining the hug. You might have a weird family, but you loved them anyway.

Bonus

“What am I doing wrong happy?” Tony shook his head as he watched the scene in front of him. Damn Natasha had gotten a family title before he did.

“Nothing sir. He loves you the most and you know that. He just gives them the names so they feel like they’re on an equal level to you.”

No one will ever know if what Happy said was true or not, only Peter would truly know and there’s a sneaking suspicion that he loves you all equally.

I LOVED WRITING THIS. ya girl needed some fluff today and this worked perfectly

[wylanvnneck]

@rinadragomir said: Jace/Clary, He broke her favourite mug

Humourous Prompt #4: “So, you broke my favourite mug…and you’re breaking up with me?”

Fandom: TMI

Ship: Clace

Masterlist | Prompt List

Alternate Universe - Normal College Setting

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Clarissa Fairchild’s day had started out quite well. It was noon and the yellow afternoon sun was streaming in through her bedroom windows, illuminating the canvas that she was currently illustrating with vibrant colours and impeccable shading as it stood propped up on its easel.

The sound of Taylor Swift’s soft voice singing ‘The 1’ from her Swiftie Playlist is the only thing to break the silence and it’s peaceful and it’s good and it’s almost like she’s on some higher plane, a plane that she’s currently trying to commit to memory through her painting of a luscious green landscape which had a glossy mirror-like lake at its center with the wispy white beginnings of what would soon be a majestic angel rising out of its depths.

She’s just adding in some touches of dappled sky blue, dipping her brush in the mug of water on the table beside her when the tranquility of the moment is quickly cut off by the sound of rapid knocking on her door. Sighing, the red head contemplates simply not answering before yet another volley of knocks echoes, sounding rather urgent, and so, reluctantly, she stabs her paint covered paint brush through her bun and heads to the door, opening it to reveal the sight of...Jace?

His hands are fidgeting and there’s a frantic look in his golden eyes as he steps forward, opens his mouth, then closes it, only to open it again.

“Clary...can I come in?”

She’s confused. What exactly was her boyfriend of two weeks doing showing up at her room unannounced looking like he’d seen a ghost? Particularly the same boyfriend who’d been avoiding her texts and effectively ghosting her for the last 48 hours, much to her chagrin.

She raises an auburn eyebrow, before stepping back to indicate that he could come in.

“Look Clary, I know that you’re probably a bit mad at me at the moment but I-” 

He breaks off, his hands are still wringing together in agitation and Clary is extremely perplexed by his odd behaviour. Where was the usually suave and over-confident Jace Herondale? The Jace who had been present mere days ago during the last time she’d seen him, when he’d dropped her off at her dorm room doorway after escorting her to an art exhibition, pressing her up against the door and placing a searing kiss on her lips before saying goodnight.

“Jace. What are you doing here?”

His eyes are molten liquid and anguish as he stands in the middle of her tiny room, the sunlight highlighting him and setting his golden locks on fire. He’s two feet away from where she’s still positioned by the doorway, close enough for the scent of his sharp cologne to reach her.

Instead of answering her question, he turns and starts agitatedly pacing the room, his speed increasing as the seconds pass. 

She was still asleep. This was all just a fever dream that her crazed mind had conjured up in her sleep, it had to be, that was the only explanation for this bemusing scenario that she’s currently finding herself in.

“Right ok, so, remind me, in cases of dreams like this, the protocol is usually to pinch yourself, correct?”

“What?” 

He sounds harried and more than a little puzzled as he pauses his relentless pacing for a moment before resuming and she can’t believe that Dream Jace thinks he has the right to find her confusing when he himself was acting this way.

“Alrighty Dream Jace, you just uhh, carry on with your exercising whilst I finish up over here,” she gestures pointlessly towards her almost finished canvas. After all, even if this was just a dream, there was no paint in wasting a perfectly good painting.

“This isn’t a dream Clary, it’s one hundred percent real.’ He pauses. “Although I wish it wasn’t.”

She sees it happening split seconds before he does. His frantic strides had been getting closer and closer to her little desk by her easel, the same desk which held not only her paintings but also her two medium sized white ceramic mugs, one with the words ‘Paint Water’ and the other with the words ‘Not Paint Water’ printed on them. They were a set, gifted to her by her mother when she’d moved into her dorm room and they were Clary’s absolute favourite utensils. 

There’s a sinking feeling in her gut as she watches one of them (the ‘Not Paint Water’) start to tremble as Jace whips past it, the momentum proving to be too much for the little mug to take and within the span of milliseconds it careens towards the floor, the sounds of crashing reverberating through the room. 

The look on Jace’s face is one of absolute horror. 

“Oh my God, I’m so sorry, I didn’t...I didn’t realise.” 

He cuts himself off when he sees her wordlessly stalk to the scene of the crime, bending over the shards and carefully picking up the larger ones with her bare hands and dropping them into the bin.

Still white-faced he rushes to help her and knocks his head on the side of the desk in the process of crouching down next to her. 

Clary’s had enough of this.

Straightening up, she towers over him, giving him her best glare as she plants her hands on her hips. “Jace, seriously, what is going on with you?”

Slowly, he stands up to meet her eye-level, only, he’s a lot taller than she is and she resists the temptation to stand on her tiptoes.

He heaves a deep breath before meeting her eyes. “Clary, I think that you and I should break up.”

There’s total silence. Well, except for the quiet sounds of Taylor Swift’s 22 playing in the background. What a horrendous choice of background music for this moment.

She clears her throat. “So, you broke my favourite mug…and you’re breaking up with me?”

Immediately, he unleashes a torrent of nearly unintelligible words in reply.

“I didn’t mean to break your mug, I swear, but as to us breaking up, it’s just, I’ve been thinking, you’re so good and kind and smart and a great artist and by the angel you’re hot, but you deserve better than someone like me, you deserve a lot better than an orphaned kid who spent his younger years being raised by a deranged foster parent that made him into a monster.”

His voice cracks on that last word.

Her brows knit together as she struggles to understand what he’s just dropped on her. Jace never spoke too much about his foster father, but it was clear that Valentine had really done a number on him as a child and once again she’s overwhelmingly grateful to the Lightwoods, the family that had taken Jace in once Valentine had gone to prison. 

Her heart gives a pang as she looks at the dejected man in front of her. Stepping forward, she reaches out and gently takes his hand in hers, her other hand traveling upwards to rest against his cheek and make him meet her eyes once more.

“Listen to me, you are not a monster. The only monster is Valentine, definitely not you, not the same boy who defended his adopted brother from the jerks who bullied him for being gay, not the same boy who once beat up a boy in high school for making his little sister cry and certainly not the kind and wonderful man who made me fall in love with him over this past year.”

 It’s the first time she’s said that she loves him and she might be a little worried that it was too early, no matter how true, but his eyes are burning into hers now and they seem to see inside her soul, looking for honesty and validation and hope and she gives it to him. He must have found what he was searching for in her gaze because he then crushes her to him, holding her tightly and breathing into her hair.

“Oh thank the Angel. I love you too, have for months.”

They stand like that for ages, savouring the moment and breathing the other in before the light darkens and Clary’s stomach rumbles, reminding her that she hadn’t eaten anything since breakfast. She pulls away from him, still smiling and grasping his hand in hers as she tugs him towards the doorway. 

“Come on, let’s head to Taki’s and grab a bite. Oh, and Jace?”

‘Yes, love?”

“You’re cleaning up that mess and buying me a new mug when we get back, right?”

“Absolutely.”

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Hopefully, that wasn’t too cheesy. Anyways, I hope you liked it Rina and thank you for being such an awesome mutual:))

Tagging: @too-many-aspirations and @cupcakesandkittens 

To any other people reading this, please let me know if you’d like to be added to my TMI tag list for possible future fics🦕❤

[just-my-sickly-pride]

Swansong || Roger Taylor x fem!Reader

summary || sequel to ‘debut’. it’s sixteen years after you and roger first started dating. fourteen years since you graduated university. eight years since you married someone else. three weeks since you realised your husband was cheating on you. what are the chances that you run into roger, after all this time?

rating || family friendly, folks, apart from a few swear words here and there. just angst. pure angst, basically. with a christmassy, festive vibe.

word count || 5.8k (somehow, for fuck’s sake)

author’s notes || so, i’ve had quite a few people ask about a ‘debut’ sequel. surprise! here’s the sequel that i’m sure none of you were after. the idea just popped into my head and, despite the fact that i do not like reading angst (or writing, generally), here i am. also, this is a much older roger than i normally write for (he’s 52 in this), but i still wouldn’t call it pd roger by any means. this video is what i pictured when i was writing him - he was actually 52 years old in 1999, so it works perfectly. roger talks about his kids in this fic, but bc this is an alternate universe, of course, i’ve not used the names of his real kids. (sidenote: there’s an oc in here whose name is naoise - it’s pronounced ‘neesha’!)

masterlist

     “I can’t do this anymore. I have to break up with him right now. I have to.”

    Justine grabs your wrist, snatching your phone from your hand. “No, are you serious? What are you going to do, break up with him over the phone? Text him?”

    Your bottom lip trembles, and you feel tears well in your eyes. “I can’t deal with this anymore, Juss. He hates me.”

    “He doesn’t hate you.” Justine sets your phone down on the table, and cups your cheeks in her hands, brushing the tears away with her thumbs. “Hey. Hey. It’s okay. Deep breath. In and out. With me.”

    You follow her lead – a shaky breath in, a shaky breath out.

    “I’m sorry you’re going through this,” she murmurs. “I wouldn’t wish it upon anyone, especially not my best friend. But you have to hold it together until after Christmas, okay? Just two more weeks. For April.”

    You nod, and take another steady breath. “For April.” April, your daughter, the love of your life.

    “Let’s just go to this stupid party, all right?” Justine said. “Go fix your make-up, I’ll call an Uber.”

    You nod, she gives you a warm, sad smile, and you head to the bathroom.

    You take a drink of water and sigh heavily, then dig out your make-up to fix your foundation and mascara. Fuck him, you think to yourself. Fuck him for ruining everything. Eight years of marriage. Hope that side piece was worth it.

    You’re not sure if he knows that you know about… all of that. But you have your suspicions. He’s not exactly trying to hide it. Coming home late, smelling of another woman’s perfume, having no other excuse other than he’s ‘working late’. He’s been telling you for weeks that he’s just been ‘too tired’ for sex.

    But he’s with April tonight, while you and Justine are heading to the Christmas party of an old friend from uni.

    You tell yourself it’ll be a fun night. It’ll be nice to get away from home for a few hours, anyway.

    The host, Naoise, welcomes the both of you with a glamorous smile and kisses on the cheek, and waves you over with a manicured hand to the drinks table. You recognise a few familiar faces in the room, but you and Justine stick mostly together. Christmas music – mostly Michael Bublé, from what you can hear – croons in the background, just underneath the hum of conversation.

    “She was always good at throwing these things, wasn’t she?” Justine murmurs into her glass of champagne.

    You nod and hum in agreement, trying to surreptitiously cram an appetiser into your mouth and eat it as quickly as possible. “Nice of her to invite us,” you manage to mumble around the mouthful.

    “Yeah,” Justine says. “Naoise was always lovely.”

    “Have you met her kids?”

    “Yeah. She had them young, didn’t she? Right out of uni? They’re, what, ten and twelve now?”

    You finally swallow the food. “Christ.” You pick up your wine and take a gulp to wash it down. “Uh, yeah, I think so. She and Chin got married, like, a month after we graduated or something. Can you imagine April being that old?”

    Justine snorts. “I thought I had my kids young. But she seems happy, so I’m happy for her.”

    “Mm, yeah.” You take another sip of wine. “Wow. Getting married at, like, twenty-one, twenty-two. Oof.”

    “Right?” Justine says lowly. “Like, I would’ve been terrified. I was dating Amanda.”

    Your eyes widen. “Holy shit, Amanda. I forgot all about her.”

    “I know! I can’t believe we dated for almost three years. Even I forget about her sometimes. Can’t imagine being married to her. Eugh. Plus, if Amanda hadn’t dumped me six months after graduation, then I never would’ve met Jules. I wouldn’t have the kids I have now.”

    “Weird.”

    “Yeah. Weird.” Justine’s eyes idly meander over the mingling crowd, and then she looks to you. “Out of everyone you dated at uni, who would you have married? If you had to choose.”

    You sigh. “Juss, I don’t know if I wanna talk about marriage and stuff right now. Not marriage when it’s got anything to do with me, anyway.”

    “Right, of course. Sorry.”

    “It’s fine.” You give her a reassuring smile.

    The two of you drink in silence. You know you should be mingling with everyone else, making small talk, but it’s been a rough couple of weeks, to put it lightly. And everyone will be asking how’s Will? and all of those casual questions and you’ll feel overwhelmingly uncomfortable and bitter that everyone is prying into your personal life, even if they aren’t, they’re just being polite, and that’s just too much to think about.

    So staying by the snacks table it is.

    “Roger,” you say softly.

    “Hm?”

    You chew on the inside of your cheek, and glance at Justine. “I, um– I would’ve married Roger. You remember him? Second year? The older guy?”

    Justine gives you a look. “Uh, do I remember him? The guy who was, like, twenty years older than you and you lost your virginity to? He paid you for it? Yes, I remember him.”

    “Sixteen years, thanks,” you correct her. “And he didn’t mean to pay me for it, it was a mix-up, his friends set him up, and– oh, whatever, you know the story, I don’t know why I’m telling you again.”

    “I’m just saying, hard to forget something like that,” Justine says. “You would’ve married him?”

    You nod. “Given time, yeah, I think so. There was just something about him, y’know? I mean, it makes sense why we didn’t work out. He was older, and I had uni, and I’d never really dated before, all of that. I think it was just a matter of wrong place, wrong time. But he’s – well, everyone has their ‘one that got away’, don’t they?”

    “I guess,” Justine says. She thinks for a moment, and then says, “I used to think mine was the girl I dated all through high school, Kayla. Then I met Jules.”

    “Really?” you say. “You don’t have anyone who you think would have been your perfect match, had things just been a little different?”

    Justine shrugs a shoulder. “Maybe at the time. But not now.”

    You look away, and finish the rest of your wine. “I’m getting another glass,” you mutter.

    “Hey, hey, [Y/N],” Justine says, taking your wrist. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to make you feel bad.”

    You shake your head. “It’s not your fault.” You hesitate, and then say, “Am I a bad wife for– for thinking that? Even after Will and I got married, I– I mean, I never wished I had Roger instead of Will, but I just always knew that, if things had been different, then I know I would’ve ended up with Roger.”

    “No,” Justine says firmly. “No. You were never a bad wife. You’re still not. Don’t ever think that.”

    You take a moment to drink this in, and then say, “You know, I’m the same age now that Roger was when I first started dating him?” You let out a laugh. “Oh my God, I’m thirty-six. When the fuck did that happen?”

    Justine chuckles. “I know. I still feel twenty.”

    “I still feel seventeen, sometimes.”

    “I don’t think that ever changes.”

    “No, maybe not.” You twirl the empty wine glass in your fingers. “I was head-over-heels for that guy.”

    “For Roger?”

    “Yeah.”

    “Yeah, I could tell,” Justine says with a grin. “I always thought it was just because the sex was really good. And he had the money to buy you nice stuff.”

    “All of that helped,” you say lightly, and Justine laughs. “But he was just such a good guy as well. He was such a good listener, and he was so thoughtful and patient and understanding, and, I don’t know if you remember, but he used to do this thing where he’d invite me over if I’d had a hard day at uni, and when I arrived, he’d have a bubble bath all ready for me, and some snacks, and he just…” You trail away. No point in getting too caught up in the memories.

    “I always liked him,” Justine says. “After I got over the age gap. For what it’s worth, I think he really liked you, too.”

    You nod. “Yeah, I think he did.” You sigh. “Well. No use thinking it over, is there? Doubt I’ll ever see him again.”

    Justine freezes, her eyes like dinner plates.

    “Juss?” you say. “What, what is it?”

    “No fucking way,” she murmurs. Her eyes flick to yours, and she grabs your wrist again, her grip tight. “You’re not going to believe this. I cannot believe this is happening. Turn around.”

    “What?” You turn around, and your jaw drops to the floor.

    Talk about speak of the Devil.

    He’s older, definitely. How old would he be now? Fifty-two.

    You wouldn’t have picked it. You would’ve guessed maybe mid-forties. But he always did have a bit of a younger face.

    “Am I dreaming?” you say. “Am I actually dreaming?”

    “What are the goddamn chances,” Justine says incredulously.

    You watch as Roger greets Naoise, and then her husband Chin. By the way Chin beams, you guess Roger was his invite.

    “Go say hello,” Justine hisses, nudging you.

    You whirl around to look at her. “Are you out of your mind?�� you hiss back. “I haven’t seen him for, like, sixteen years!”

    “Then you’ll have so much to catch up on.”

    “He wouldn’t even remember me. We only dated for less than a year.”

    “Don’t be like that. You’re as hard to forget as he is. I’m sure he’ll remember forking over three months’ wages to sleep with y–”

    “Jesus Christ, Justine, can you give it a rest already?”

    Justine tries to smother a smile. “Sorry.”

    You shake your head. “No, it’s too weird. Especially in light of everything, and this whole conversation, it’s… No. Maybe later, but not now.”

    “Maybe it’s fate, or something.”

    “Don’t,” you say, your voice hard. “I’m gonna get another drink.”

    You leave Justine at the snack table.

    You’re just deciding whether to stick to wine or to switch to champagne when a shocking familiar voice says behind you, “Good God, [Y/N]?”

    Hearing him say your name again really is like something out of a dream – like a memory come to life. You turn to him, and, inexplicably, feel a blush heat your cheeks. You have no idea what to say, so you just say, “Roger?” as if you hadn’t already known he was here.

    Up close, you can tell more easily that he’s aged. But he still smells good – different, but good – and he’s dressed nicely.

    Still not wearing glasses, though. He never did. You used to pester him all the time about it when you dated.

    There’s a moment of awkwardness, but both of you go in for a brief hug. It’s weird. You shouldn’t have gone for the hug.

    “My God, it’s been how long?” Roger says with a laugh. “Fifteen years or something?”

    “Something like that, yeah,” you say.

    “You look great.”

    “Thanks. So do you.” 

    “Oh, don’t,” Roger says, waving a hand dismissively. “I’m actually old now, I know.”

    “No, you do,” you insist. “Look good, I mean. Genuinely.”

    His outfit is simple, black-and-white, which almost surprises you. He used to dress a little more eclectically; there was always something patterned or brightly coloured in just about every outfit he wore, especially to parties. Maybe it’s something he’s outgrown. The thought makes you quietly sad.

    He does have a little reindeer pin on his lapel, though. It looks handmade, like something he would have bought at a market, made out of mini pom-poms and tufts of tinsel. So maybe he hasn’t outgrown that part of him entirely.

    He seems a little flustered by your compliment, and, yep, that’s the Roger you remember. “Well, er, thank you. And I meant it too, of course.”

    “Thank you.” An unmistakably awkward moment passes, and you blurt out, “You– How are you? What brings you here?”

    “Funny story, actually.” Roger ducks forward and grabs a glass of red, and you take the opportunity to take some champagne. “I, uh, decided I hated dentistry, so I went back to uni and studied biology instead. Wanted to become a professor, but I was already thirty-seven when I started, and I would’ve had to retire by the time I got my PhD. I’m a teacher these days, high school teacher. Chin just started working with me earlier this year, and we hit it off, I suppose.”

    You blink in surprise. “A biology teacher?”

    Roger chuckles. “Yes, I know. My friends were all shocked and appalled when I told them. The salary’s miserable in comparison, but I don’t hate my life when I wake up in the mornings, so I see that as a positive.”

    You hesitate, unsure whether to ask, but go for it anyway. “Did you always hate being a dentist? I don’t…” Is this too far? Is this out of line? “I mean, well, I don’t remember you hating it that much.”

    Roger drinks this in, and then nods to himself. “Right, yeah,” he says, sounding almost surprised. “I, um, never really told you, actually. I didn’t want to, uh, force you to listen to me whine about a job I hated while you were studying and all of that.”

    “Oh,” you say. You look at your champagne. You should’ve stuck to wine.“Well, for what it’s worth, I wouldn’t have minded. At all. As I remember, I used to whine about university all the time.”

    “University’s for whining,” Roger says with a shrug. “I’d done my fair share of that already, all through dentistry school. And I got to do it again, as it turned out.”

    “Is there, ah, anything else you didn’t tell me while we were dating?” you joke half-heartedly.

    Roger’s eyebrows raise. “Oh, I–”

    “No, sorry, I was kidding,” you jump in. “Obviously, I don’t expect you to…” You inwardly curse yourself, and pour some champagne down your throat.

    Roger opens his mouth, as if to say something, and, in the back of your mind, you recognise that look, but you can’t quite place what it is.

    Then someone calls Roger’s name, and the look is gone, and Roger politely excuses himself from the conversation to be swept up in another.

    You bolt back to the snack table, as subtly as you can, but Justine is nowhere to be found. You quietly vow to throttle her next time you see her for disappearing on you, and shovel one more appetiser into your mouth, washing it down with champagne, then turn to face the crowd you’ve been immaturely avoiding all night.

    It feels like an hour, but must be no more than twenty, maybe twenty-five minutes, before you find a reasonable excuse to slip away again. You’re not having a bad time, per se, and you’re enjoying getting to catch up with old acquaintances, but it’s damn exhausting. You still haven’t seen Justine.

    You wish it wasn’t so freezing outside. You could do with some fresh air.

    Maybe another drink will help keep you warm. Even though you know you shouldn’t. You’re already tipsy.

    You take another flute of champagne and slip outside onto the balcony. The automatic light switches on.

    Your fingers and toes immediately feel like they’re about to fall off. “Eugh, this was a mistake,” you mutter to yourself, and bob up and down on the spot. The balcony is dotted with snow, but it’s hardly been the coldest winter you’ve ever lived through. It’s not snowing right now, at least. And it is nice to have some time to yourself.

    The back door slides open, and you turn to see who’s joining you, hoping it’s Justine.

    It’s Roger. He gives you a smile – a little nervous, a little shy, almost – and holds out your jacket. “You looked cold.”

    The first thing that comes out of your mouth is: “How’d you know it was mine?”

    “I asked Naoise. Here, let me hold your drink.”

    You pass him your champagne, and slip on your jacket, then take the flute back. “Thanks.”

    “No worries.” Roger moves closer to you, standing beside you, and squints up at the dark sky. “Not much snow this winter.”

    You follow his gaze. The moon is half-full. “No,” you agree.

    The sounds of the party are muffled behind you. Beyond the balcony, you can see through the bright yellow windows of Naoise’s neighbours – the silhouettes of family dinners, of other parties, the white light of TVs.

    “Sorry,” Roger says, breaking the silence. “You probably came out here to have some alone time. I shouldn’t have intruded. I can go back inside.”

    “No, it’s all right,” you say. This is nice, you want to add. But you don’t know if that’s appropriate, and you can’t think of anything to say instead, so you just leave the sentiment hanging in the icy air.

    “I realised I never asked what you’re doing with yourself these days,” Roger says.

    “Ah, just working,” you reply. “I’m a market research analyst.”

    “Oh, right. How long have you been doing that for?”

    “Since I finished uni, really. Well, I worked my way up. Started as an intern in web content writing, realised I preferred data analysis, so I wormed my way into market research. But I’ve been an analyst for almost ten years now.”

    Roger ponders this. “Do you enjoy it?”

     “Yeah,” you say with a nod. “I know it sounds boring. Most people think I’m mad for not only wanting to do my job, but actually enjoying it, but I do.”

    Roger smiles, and it’s a fond smile, a smile that you used to see all the time, and you feel a stab in your chest. A voice in the back of your mind whispers, Do you remember what it feels like to be loved like that? When was the last time Will smiled at you like that? When was the last time he smiled at you at all?

    You push that voice aside. You’re just lonely, and hurt, and sad. You’re reading far too much into a simple smile.

    “I think it’s great that you love it,” Roger says. “How lucky you found something you enjoy doing so early in your career.”

    You’re taken a little off-guard, and you duck your head to hide your smile. “Yeah, I guess I am lucky.”

    You take a sip of champagne.

    “Speaking of lucky – who’s the lucky man?”

    You try not to cringe. “Oh. Uh.” You glance down at the wedding ring that caught Roger’s eye. “Yes. Um, his name is Will. We met at a work do, actually. Been married eight years.”

    “He couldn’t make it tonight?”

    “No.” You don’t elaborate.

    Roger says nothing to that, and you wonder if he’s picked up on the bitterness in your tone, as much as you tried to hide it.

    “Right,” Roger says eventually. He clears his throat. “Any kids?”

    “Yes,” you say, and there’s no pretending now – the love in your voice is real. “April. She’s three.”

    “April,” Roger muses. “Lovely name.”

    “Thank you.” You grin at him. “Actually, this is going to sound so strange, but I always thought to myself that I wanted to be as good of a parent to my kids as you were to yours.”

    Roger blinks at you – his eyes are still big and blue, but you doubted even God himself could change that – and, if you’re not mistaken, you can see his face start to colour in the beam of the balcony light. “Oh,” he says. “That’s… one of the nicest things anyone has ever said to me.”

    You chuckle. “Well, it’s true. You were such an amazing dad. I’m sure you still are.”

    “I try to be.”

    “How old are they now? Gosh, they’d all be finished high school now, wouldn’t they?”

    “Yeah,” Roger says, shaking his head in disbelief. “Yes, um, my youngest, Sam, she graduated last year. She’s taking a year off this year, working and travelling. Daphne’s the oldest, if you remember, and she’s moving in with her girlfriend soon. She still lives at her mum’s, but her and Asha have been looking for a place for a few months now. She’s an industrial designer. Then there’s Fox, he’s a musician, he’s a bassist, and Sophie’s still at uni, she’s studying theatre, and she wants to do a master’s in artistic directing.”

    “Wow,” you say. You never got to know his kids personally too well – you met them a handful of times, but you were far too nervous to spend too much time with them back in the day. The last time you saw them, Daphne hadn’t even started high school. Sam was still learning to talk. “Wow, that’s– they’re so grown-up now.”

    “God, you don’t have to tell me,” Roger says with a chuckle.

    You shake your head, sighing, and drink some more champagne. “Do you have a lucky lady, then?”

    Roger’s face tightens, and he looks down at his left hand, splaying his fingers, but you don’t see a ring. He tucks his hand into his pocket. “I’ve been seeing someone for two months now, almost three,” he says. “Jean. I teach one of her kids. She’s lovely.”

    “Jean,” you repeat. “She couldn’t make it tonight?”

    Roger shakes his head. “No. She’s a nurse, so she often works nights.” He pauses, and then says quickly, “She’s fifty.”

    You can’t help but laugh. “Right.”

    “I didn’t want you to think that I always go for younger women,” Roger explains hastily. “You were an outlier. A wonderful outlier, but an outlier nonetheless.”

    “‘A wonderful outlier’,” you muse, a touch playfully. “Could be the name of my memoir.”

    “It could very well be,” Roger says.

    Something doesn’t sit quite right. It seems impossible that someone wouldn’t have married Roger in sixteen years. Surely he’s not just been dating on and off that whole time. Not a guy like him.

    Don’t pry, you tell yourself. Don’t pry, don’t pry, don’t pry– “I don’t mean to pry,” you say, and hate yourself for it, “but – did you ever get remarried, or…?”

    Roger looks a little taken aback.

    “Sorry,” you say. “That’s so rude, I’m sorry.”

    “What gave it away?” Roger says.

    You bite your lip. “You, um, looked at your left hand. No ring.”

    Roger nods. “Hm. Well. Got it in one.” He shoots you a wry smile, but you can see that he’s uncomfortable. “You seem to keep appearing in my life after I’ve gone through a divorce.”

    “I’m so sorry,” you say. “I shouldn’t have asked.”

    “It’s all right,” Roger says. “It was a year ago now, just about.”

    “Were you married long?”

    “Twelve years.”

    “Christ, Roger, I’m sorry.”

    Roger just shrugs, and sniffs, staring out at the apartments and houses beyond the balcony. But you can see the tension in his shoulders.

    “I’m divorcing my husband,” you blurt out.

    Roger looks to you. “I thought so,” he says carefully. “I could see it in your face when I asked about him.”

    You chew on the inside of your cheek. “Yeah.”

    “I’m sorry.”

    You shake your head. “Don’t be. He deserves it.”

    Roger grimaces. “Oh.”

    “He’s been cheating. But I want to wait until after Christmas to– to do all of that. To tell him I’m leaving him, the lawyers, the paperwork. So April doesn’t have to go through it during Christmas. I don’t want to ruin it for her.”

    Roger nods in understanding. He looks for a moment like he wants to reach out and touch you, comfort you, maybe, but he doesn’t. He just nods again and says, “You’re a good mum.”

    Your throat tightens, and you have to look away. You don’t dare to try to thank him for the compliment. The last thing you need is to break down at a Christmas party in front of your ex.

    “I’m sorry,” Roger says.

    You manage a forced laugh, turning to him. “For what?”

    “I don’t know,” he says. “I just… felt like I needed to say it.”

    You drink him in. The moment feels familiar somehow, and simultaneously foreign altogether.

    You sniff, but, luckily, no tears have fallen, and you take a breath to compose yourself.

    “Can I get you another drink?” Roger offers, holding out his hand to take your empty flute.

    “No, I shouldn’t,” you say. “I’ve had more than enough.” You chuckle. “I don’t remember ever saying that when we dated.”

    You expect Roger to laugh along with you, but instead he blinks in shock at you. “Oh, er, I– I also never– I’m glad you…”

    “You’re glad what, I enjoyed getting shitfaced?” you tease, not quite understanding his confusion.

    His eyes go wide. “Oh, drinking. Yes, well, everyone’s like that at uni a bit, aren’t they?” He chuckles uncomfortably, and then rushes out, “Just getting a drink,” and disappears inside.

    You frown to yourself. ‘Oh, drinking’? What else could you have possibly meant?

    Unless Roger thought you were referring to–

    Surely not.

    Referring to the sex?

    Your stomach drops to your feet. “Oh, God,” you groan softly, hiding your face behind your hand. You hope Roger doesn’t think you’re flirting with him.

    That’d be a story to tell the kids, wouldn’t it? Or to tell Jean. Hey, love, guess what happened last night? Ran into an ex, I dated her almost twenty years ago for a couple months, and we weren’t even chatting for more than half an hour before she was cracking onto me. Even though she’s married. Turns out I still got it!

    A shiver rocks through you, and you realise you can’t feel your fingers, but you’re loathe to head back inside. It’s nice out here, in the snow and ice, in a stiff, numb sort of way.

    Roger reappears not long after, wine in hand. “Thought you’d have headed back inside by now.”

    “I probably should,” you say, and cross your arms to warm up your hands. “But no, I don’t think I will.”

     “Do you mind if I stay out here with you?”

     You smile. “Not at all.”

     You don’t know for how long the two of you stand out there. With each passing minute, more of the awkwardness and discomfort slips away. Maybe it’s the alcohol, but soon the two of you are chatting away like no time has passed at all, laughing and bickering.

     He tells you more about the kids, and you tell him about April. He tells you about his second ex-wife – a title that he despises, and, for a while, you let him bemoan the notion that maybe he’s just a terrible husband  before you tell him to stop feeling sorry for himself.

    Mostly, you both reminisce about the past. About the good times and the bad.

    “It was mostly good, though,” you say. “I like to think it was mostly good.”

    Roger nods thoughtfully. “I think it was, yeah,” he says.

    “I can’t even remember how we broke up.”

    Roger snorts. “Are you joking?”

    You shake your head, shrugging. “No. I remember going through the break-up period, which took me far longer to get over than I’m willing to admit to you.”

    Roger grins. “Oh, yeah?” he teases.

    “No, don’t,” you warn him with a laugh. “You’re not getting an ego boost from me.”

    “Did you cry every night? Have a photo of me under your pillow? Eat lots of ice cream and watch rom-coms?”

    “Shut up, I’m not saying a word.”

    Roger laughs, and the sound of it makes your heart sing. “You’re not saying no.”

    You roll your eyes. “I was in a lot of pain for a long time,” you say. “There, are you happy?”

    Roger’s smile fades, and he looks down at his feet. “No, of course that doesn’t make me happy,” he says. He looks back to you. “For what it’s worth, I probably took even longer to get over you.”

    You study his face. It’s a little more weathered, a little more lined, but it’s a face you missed for a very long time. “What happened?” you ask, so softly it’s almost a whisper, like you wouldn’t dare to speak the question any louder. “I… I really liked you, Rog. A lot. Loved you, even, although I– I didn’t know what love felt like at the time. Where did we go wrong?”

    Roger swallows, and shakes his head minutely, his eyes drinking in yours. “I don’t know,” he murmurs. “Wrong place, wrong time. But I…” He cuts himself off, and takes a deep breath, looking away.

    “But what?”

    “Nothing.” Roger gives you a small smile. “I’ve never met Will, but he sounds like the stupidest man alive to hurt you like that.”

    You snort a laugh. “Well. I’m sure he doesn’t think so.”

    “It’ll be too late by the time he figures it out. Stupid men are like that.”

    You don’t know what to say to that, so you don’t say anything at all. All you can think is that Roger really hasn’t changed much at all, and that Jean is a very fortunate woman.

    Your phone buzzes, and you pull it out of your pocket to check it. “Ah, shit,” you mutter. It’s Will. April’s come down with a fever, the text says. Need you home.

    “Is everything all right?” Roger asks.

    You pocket your phone again. “April’s sick,” you say. “Duty calls.”

    “Right, of course. Let me walk you inside.”

    He opens the sliding door for you, and waves you in. “Age and beauty,” he says, and it catches you unaware, makes you laugh.

    “I forgot you say that,” you say. It’s a play on age before beauty – Roger used to say that you bested in him both age and beauty, so the original phrase didn’t fit, and he insisted on saying his version of it every time he opened a door for you. Which was often. He liked that his silly little phrase made you giggle and give him a gentle slap on the arm.

    “I haven’t said it in a long time, actually,” Roger says with a grin, closing the door behind him, trapping you both in the warmth, along with the music and conversation. “Not since you.”

    You both stand there for a moment, grinning at each other, unsure how to proceed, and you feel a familiar squeeze of your heart. “I need to go,” you say, almost apologetically.

    “Yes,” Roger says.

    “I…” You hesitate. “Wait for me at the door, I just want to make the rounds, say quick goodbyes to everyone.”

    “Sure,” Roger says, and you give his arm a quick squeeze, then track down Naoise and Chin to say your thank-yous and farewells, then Justine, then a couple of other people.

    You grab your purse, and meet Roger at the front door. “I had a really nice time tonight,” you tell him. “Thank you.”

    “I was just about to say the same thing,” he says.

    You’re unsure what to say, but then an idea strikes you. “Do you want my number? It’d be nice to keep in touch.”

    “Oh, yes, of course,” Roger says. “That’d be lovely.”

    He hands over his phone, and you save your number. “Give me a call whenever,” he says, as you hand his phone back. “If you need someone to talk to, y’know. Or just for a chat. Divorces are… really not fun.”

    You chuckle wryly. “Well, I suppose you’re the expert, aren’t you?”

    “God, you’re just as rude as I remember,” Roger says with a roll of his eyes, laughing alongside you.

    He stops in his tracks, his gaze towards the ceiling.

    You tilt your head up. A decorative sprig of mistletoe hangs above the door.

    You and Roger look at each other, your faces both pink.

    Your heart clenches. Yes, Jean is a very fortunate woman indeed. “Funny,” you say with a nervous chuckle.

    “Yeah, weird,” Roger says. “I don’t think I’ve ever even seen mistletoe in real life before.”

    “Me, either.”

     Another moment passes. “In another lifetime,” you say with a smile.

    Roger takes a breath, and there’s something in his eyes, something you haven’t seen for a long time, and he nods, smiling back. “Yeah,” he says. “Right time, right place.”

    You nod again, drinking this in, and sigh. “Okay, well, I really do need to go. I’m sure Will is on the verge of panic without me there.”

    “Of course,” Roger says. “I hope April’s all right.”

    “Thanks, Rog.” On a spur of the moment, you give him a peck on the cheek, and then let yourself out. “Merry Christmas.”

    “Merry Christmas,” he says. “I might see you soon?”

    “You will,” you say. Your ride is almost here, so you give one final wave, and head to the lift.

    The door closes.

    You take the lift down and climb into the car.

    You go home, say hello to your husband, and take care of your daughter.

    That night, you sit in the dining room, nursing a hot chocolate, listening to the silence of the house.

    Then, and only then, do you allow yourself to cry.

     Your wallowing was short-lived, though - swiftly interrupted by a phone call from an unknown number.

     You wipe your nose on your sleeve, grimacing, and answer. “Hello?”

    “[Y/N]?”

     You’re gobsmacked. “Roger?”

     “I- I wasn’t expecting you to answer. I was just... going to leave a voice message to say this was my number.”

     You let out a pitiful bubble of laughter. “Why didn’t you just text?”

     There’s a pause, and then an embarrassed, “Oh, yes. I could’ve done that.”

     You sniff. “It’s fine, no harm done. I’ll let you get to bed, it’s late.”

    “Right,” Roger says. “Um, how’s- how’s April?”

    “She’s good, yeah, thanks for asking. Gave her some painkillers and she went right to sleep.”

    “Good, that’s good.”

    “Yes.” You sniff again, wetly, and quickly wipe at your nose a second time. “Ah, well, I, um... should probably...”

    “Go, yes,” Roger says. “Sorry. I didn’t wake you, did I?”

    “No, no, not at all,” you reassure him. “I was just, um, having a hot chocolate.”

    “Right, sounds important.”

     You laugh. “It’s very important.”

    “I’m sure it is. I’ll let you get back to it, then.”

    “I appreciate it.”

     You realise you’re smiling to yourself like a loon. “Thanks for calling,” you say.

     Roger chuckles. “No worries at all. And, um, seriously. If you need someone to talk to, at any time, please just call me. I couldn’t bear the thought of you, I don’t know, sitting alone and crying, or something like that.”

     You almost laugh out loud. “Thank you, Rog. I’ll make sure to save your number.”

    “Please do, so I don’t have to call you in the middle of the night again.”

     You smile. “G’night.”

    “Night, [Y/N].”

     You hang up.

     Your hot chocolate tastes a little sweeter than it did before.

[probably-writing-x]

Unexpected.

Request by anon: Can i request for a peter parker story? where there's a new kid in school (the reader) and she has powers too but peter and ned don't know that. They all become close friends and soon peter and the reader become a thing

~~~

"Is this seat taken?" You ask quietly to the boy sat beside the only empty chair left in this class.

His head was quick to snap up from whatever he was busying himself with as the teen looked at you through science goggles propped on his nose, "No, no, go ahead,"

You smile politely though he doesn't see it as he is already turning back to whatever had previously trapped his attention. You set your books onto the table and wait in silence, tuning out of all of the conversations around you that felt overwhelmingly noisy. Today was your first day at this school, an act you'd grown very used to after moving around so much when you were younger. It was probably for the best as you'd quickly become the 'weird one' at any school you were at for too long. With your abrupt exits, lack of attendance and strange outbursts, your powers had jeopardised any attempt of a normal life. Something you sometimes questioned whether you would change.

When you first became a teen, you had quickly realised that something wasn't all that 'normal' with you. From the slightest things too. Like you'd know not to walk down the street that someone was going to get mugged on, minutes before it happened. Or you'd know not to walk into a shop that would soon become a victim of a knife crime. Small instincts told you not to. But then you realised you could stop it. You could channel yourself into preventing it and that's when you developed your web abilities, your agility and strength - when you became some sort of spiderwoman. And it was something you'd grown to develop over recent years, perfecting every aspect of your so-called 'powers'.

"Excuse me," The boy beside you pipes up and you whip your head out of your daze to look at him, "I think we're working together,"

You realised how little attention you'd been paying only now as you stared into the brown, innocence-soaked eyes that were focused on yours. He had all features of an unappreciated handsome boy.

"Oh, yeah, sure," You nod, looking at the chemical equipment that had been laid out in front of you - it looked like you'd be conducting some sort of titration.

"Okay so I don't know how much you know about this but-" The boy, who was yet to tell you his name, begun, "We need to put the acid in here," He explains as his hands hold the large burette with an evident knowledge of the topic.

"And we're using methyl orange I assume?" You nod, luckily having picked up quite a lot of knowledge from your countless schools, "Or do you think phenylalanine would be better? I guess it's dependent on which gives a better end point for the point of neutralisation, wouldn't you agree?"

The boy's eyes blink a few times at you with his mouth parted, evidently about to say the words you'd just said for him, "Yeah... Exactly,"

You break into a smile and hope it relaxes his tension just a little, "I'm (Y/n),"

"Peter," He mumbles, "Peter Parker,"

"Well, Peter, Peter Parker," You smirk, "What do you need me to do?"

He shakes himself from his daze, allowing the loose curls on his head to bounce back and forth a little, "Can you get the results table from my stuff please? I'll get the alkaline,"

You walk over to his side of the desk and go to pick up whatever results table he was talking about. Lifting up his textbook, you see a lined paper full of some sort of recipe, the title of 'Web fluid' making you widen your eyes abruptly.

"Oh, no, no," Peter is quickly at the side, taking the papers and books from you, "Not that," You can tell by the blush on his cheeks and the flustered tone in his words that you'd probably seen something you shouldn't have seen.

"I'm sorry I didn't mean to intrude," You assure him, "And I didn't see anything,"

Peter is still blushing ferociously but he seems a little more settled, "Just a stupid halloween costume idea, don't worry about it,"

His laugh is far too exasperated for his relaxation to be sincere.

You're about to create a level of mundane small talk, generally common for situations like this, when something else pecks at your senses. It starts with a little itch at the back of your ear, the sound magnified and drowning any swimming conversation. Then it moves to a twitch of your hand that you can only stop by gripping at the table. There's a clench in your jaw of slight irritation - you couldn't even get through your first lesson with some normality?

"I need to-" You start but have to stop yourself from continuing as your urge to leave overwhelmed you. Your feet get you out of that lab before Peter can question your actions any further.

You let your instincts lead you through the unknown corridors that you were yet to explore properly as you follow your own thoughts through each turning and step. Until you see it. The glimmer of a knife pressed against the throat of a young boy, far too young to be exposed to such objects beyond the safety of a kitchen. He isn't shaking nor showing any signs of being scared but it seems near impossible for him not to be. The villain holding such power was a girl of a few years older it seemed, perhaps in your own year. She had a threatening clench to her fists and a chilling ice cold to her heartless eyes.

"You fuck up one more time and I swear to god-" She hisses, her hand with the knife jolting a little closer to the child.

You were smart enough to not intervene and instead chose to use your own way of doing things - webs, webs and more webs.

You focused your aim, hand clenching into the perfect stance before the web shoots out, wrapping perfectly around the girl's hand and instantly pulling the knife away from the boy's neck. It is a relieving sight to see him hurry away, knowing he would deem it a perfectly timed miracle later on. You turned your head and hope to return to the class, only then to recognise the presence of Peter behind you - his mouth agape and his eyes widened, arms slack at the sides of his body.

"Wh-" You start, "I can explain," You raise your hands in hopes it would give him a peaceful reassurance.

"We definitely need to talk," He nods and you can't help but follow him reluctantly down the corridor to wherever he was taking you.

Peter leads you into the sports hall where all of the bleacher seating was set out in preparation for the regular assemblies that took place here. He silently walks up to one of the top benches and you sit down beside him. It is only then that he explodes.

"What was that? I mean, I know what you just did but how?" He exclaims, running a hand through his hair, "You're - you're like another spiderman?"

"Woman, actually," You respond with a smirk, "And, from what I saw on your desk earlier, I'm feeling like you're the other spiderman,"

"Wh-" He stops himself and looks at you, "How are there two of us?"

"I don't know," You shake your head, "But it seems pretty coincidental that we ended up at the same school,"

Peter laughs but you can tell he's trying to process all of this - maybe part of him was pretty relieved. It was good to not be the only teen doing this.

"Do you know Mr Stark?" Peter asks with evident purposeful inquisition, "I mean Tony... Do you know Tony Stark?"

The look of surprise on your face tells him you do but no other details can be said before crowds of students begin to pile into the hall for the assembly. One boy you hadn't seen before makes his way through the mass of bodies to reach Peter, taking the seat on the other side of him.

"Peter I've found a new Lego-" The boy begins with an overwhelming excite to his words.

The glare he receives from Peter complerely silences him.

"I don't think we've met," The boy steers conversation, "I'm Ned,"

"(Y/n)," You smile, instantly recognising how friendly the boy seemed.

"She's hot," You hear Ned hiss under his breath to Peter, "Go for it, man,"

Peter is quick to grow a bright blush to his cheeks before he clears his throat, "Do you know anybody else here, (Y/n)?"

"Nobody," You smile, unable to deny that he was pretty attractive.

"Then I guess you're staying with us," Ned beams, "Have you seen Star Wars?"

~~~

Thoughts on this becoming a series??

Tags: @imarypayne @sunshine112 @bringmethehorizonandpizza @supernatural-girl97 @vibhati123 @butithasntkilledyouyet @faefictions @carisi-sonny @trap-house-homiecide @shamelessbookaddict @tommydaspidey @oneblckcoffee

[mrmallardsmobileposts]

RE: the Easy Mode discourse with Sekiro

I don't mind a game having easy mode. RTS games have easy modes, fighting games have easy modes, all sorts of competitive video games have easy modes. I grew up playing most games on easy difficulties, before moving onto normal for most titles - I don't like being broken down again and again by a game continuously kicking me in the dick, because I don't find that fun. Because of that, I don't like playing FromSoft games.

And I wouldn't play a Dark Souls game, or Bloodborne, or Sekiro, even if they did have an easy mode. Because I realise that the games are difficult by design.

My thoughts on Easy Mode discourse go back to when Cuphead was being roasted for its difficulty. There's footage of a games journalist - a person being paid to cover the game that he's playing - getting stuck on the tutorial for like 3 minutes. He just makes the same mistake over and over again instead of trying something new, and it's a technique that even most kids can work out in about a minute tops - This isn't a kid, or a newcomer, getting their first taste of a run n' gun title, it's a grown man being paid to play and cover this game, and he can't pass a simple and basic tutorial.

This instance isn't a question of accessible game design, because the button inputs are along the bottom of the screen and the physics make sense. It's perfectly fine to fail a few times while you get the hang of it, that's what the tutorial is there for, but floundering on the tutorial for three minutes isn't a fault on the game's part.

The Driver tutorial? That's a pain in the ass. It's unintuitive, it requires knowledge of specific stunt-driving terms out of the box and the time limit is harsh. The Cuphead tutorial is a bit abstract, but the button combos make sense and the actions it wants you to take are pretty clearly signposted. This guy failing to grasp the fundamental controls of the game, free of any hazards or timers or whatever, is a personal problem on his behalf - but that got turned into a "gamer respect" issue regarding video game difficulty later down the line. To my understanding he took the game to task for being too difficult despite his issues with the controls being a personal, localised issue.

I'm bringing Cuphead up because that game's difficulty was lambasted by reviewers upon its release. We had this "developers need to respect gamers by adding an easy mode" discussion before, even with an easier difficulty modifier in Cuphead. Reviewers who were giving the game coverage were roasted for not knowing how to play the game, and rightfully so, and the reviewers shot back with "it's not user-friendly enough, it's a fault on the part of the game!".

Cuphead is designed to be challenging. It can be made easier, but there are aspects to the level design and the bullet patterns of the bosses that give the game its appeal in the first place. It wasn't just a slog through Kaizo-level pitfalls and restrictive controls, and the easier play mode cut boss HP and might have messed with projectile density and enemy placement for all I know - but it was still challenging in the way that the developers intended, with enough concessions to make the game more accessible to less skilled players. That established my distrust of mainstream games coverage in regards to video game difficulty.

FromSoft is known for their difficult games, with different mech combat games years before the Souls games as well as the popularity of their hard-as-nails Souls titles. These games haven't had easier difficulty settings before, with a noted appeal being the feeling of accomplishment that players feel when they wrangle with the controls long enough to be able to beat the game. For all intents and purposes, the Soulsborne titles from FromSoft are made with difficulty in mind. Difficulty is a feature, an obstacle to be overcome.

Of course, plenty of other games are made for challenging play but offer a cinematic mode. That's fine, and it's up to every developer to consider the audience that they want to court with their difficulty modes. But FromSoft games are renowned for their difficulty, and only those players who put up with the bullshit of each game get to experience how those games play out. It's no different to buying a game that you can't beat, or that seems unfairly stacked in the game's favor, or that you just don't like so you take it back - some crazy bastard is going to punish themselves for long enough to finish that game, whether they like it or not. Not everyone is going to find appeal in that experience, or get the most out of that game.

And sometimes games are unbalanced, and require patches to be considered playable by anyone outside of the handful of masochistic "hardcore" gamers who spend hours on end punishing themselves until they're good enough to persevere. Sometimes an easy mode is required due to developer oversight. Sometimes it's just nice having less stuff to stress over so you can enjoy a game's story beats and get a reasonable facsimile of the game's intended effect.

But the Soulsborne games are intentionally hard for skilled players to enjoy, and I don't think there's anything wrong with that. I find it really backwards for games journalists to call out From Software as "disrespecting their players", when they're offering incredible gameplay challenges to be overcome with skillful play. That sounds like they're respecting players well enough to learn the game's systems, become skilled at the game's combat and overcome these extreme challenges on their own. The satisfaction of overcoming the game's biggest challenges is the reward you get for playing, and that impact is lessened by hand-holding or watering down the experience.

I would never touch Sekiro with a ten foot pole because I don't like games that are overbearingly difficult like that, but I certainly respect it for what it tries to do. I think making a company go out of their way to change that intended balance of difficulty is rude - if their intention was to create an overwhelmingly difficult game, then that intent should be respected. If you can't overcome the game's challenges, then there's a whole slew of action RPGs with a range of different difficulty modes for you to play.

And despite that, I'm still on board with games having easy modes. Even a developer known for their hardcore game series aimed at enthusiasts can put an easy mode in their video games to appeal to a wider demographic, and that's fine. Like jeez, have you seen the Fire Emblem purists on GameFAQs who insisted an easy mode on Awakenings was the death of the series, despite selling record-breaking numbers of units? People who take a stand against easy modes in video games, calling it the death of gaming or something like that, are usually massive assholes.

My beef here is the social pressure to add an easier difficulty mode to a game built around challenge and skill. If they cave to pressure and add it, it won't be any skin off my back, but I think that games made for the sake of being challenging should be as difficult as they want to be - From Software should be able to make their games as easy or difficult as they like.

Even without touching on the subject of accessibility for different personal conditions, here are game experiences that are crafted specifically for enthusiasts of a certain genre that the average layman wouldn't enjoy playing, despite having the capacity to play with the pros given the right amount of practice and dedication. If folks found a Touhou bullet hell title too difficult, even on the easiest difficulty settings, are the developers responsible for modifying the game's difficulty settings even more to account for all types of players?

There is the accessibility issue of a game being too difficult for everyone to play. Anyone should have the tools to pick up whatever game they want to give it a go, and gaming is known for having issues with accessibility regarding different gaming peripherals - we're used to standardised layouts on a gaming controller, and anyone who can't fit into that paradigm is shit outta luck. Controllers like the Xbox One accessibility gamepad is making headway in that department, but it's still a prohibitedly expensive option. Custom button-mapping has been on the rise with this most recent gaming generation, but that doesn't mean much if you can't hold the controller due to your personal conditions. Different controllers for differently abled people to play games have always been ridiculously expensive. There's absolutely a case to be made for the video game scene not being the most accessible crowd around.

But given that a differently abled person has access to the equipment that they need to play video games, they should have access to whatever games they want to play. But not everyone is going to be able to beat every type of game, even with the know-how and the proper equipment and the desire to play.

And there will be differently abled people who do pull out all the stops to finish whatever video game they put their mind to. There's a quadriplegic man who's beaten Sekiro before. There are people who overcome difficult video games despite having limited mobility and different accessibility needs. Anyone who wants to try to beat a game should have the equipment to take a shot, and they should be able to play on whatever difficulty is comfortable for them to play on, but if a game is designed with a high skill ceiling in mind and only offers the one way to play it, I think those who are willing to challenge, learn and overcome the game on its terms should reap the rewards.

If a game has busted accessibility options, like improper color-blindness options or button mapping that makes the game even more difficult for differently abled people despite being billed as the "accessible" option - even if a game doesn't allow for custom key-binding - there's a case for a developer or company to change and fix things to make good on their promise of a more accessible gaming experience. If a game is improperly balanced on even the easiest difficulties, there's a case for the developers to alter the game on those grounds.

But I think a game that's been built from the ground up to be a significant challenge, with the intended goal to run the game's gauntlet of considerable difficulty, has the right to present its intended challenge as is - as the statement that the developers intended for the enthusiasts who flock to buy each new release. There will be people who are dedicated enough to finish it from all walks of life. But not everyone will be able to play it, or find it enjoyable, whether that person is differently abled or not.

I don't like Soulsborne games, or games that present themselves as hard-as-nails challenge fests. I don't mind a significant challenge from time to time, but From Software games aren't my scene because I know I'm not going to take to them. While I understand the accessibility argument, I'm pretty jaded from instances like Cuphead where even a difficult game with easier difficulty modes was judged as being fundamentally flawed for the level of challenge it presented.

I don't want to step on anyone's rights or desires, and I don't dislike easy modes in video games. But a game that's designed to be difficult should be able to present its difficulty on its own terms. If that means offering the single intended experience, then that's their prerogative.