#this isn’t like a devastating loss like you’d imagine when someone is like I Lost A Parent

[altschmerzes]

made an appointment to talk to my rabbi about the whole “my abusive dad who has been the boogeyman around the corner my whole life up and died suddenly and it kinda turned me inside out and jewish grieving rituals helped me a lot when my beloved granddad died but i don’t know what to do now that i cant seem to get past the death of someone im not grieving and don’t remotely want to honour” thing hopefully he’ll be able to like. help out there, some words of wisdom, some advice. trying not to feel weird about reaching out about it, i think this is what clergy is sorta for. probably.

[fanficimagery]

Five Years After

Imagine going to the feed store for your sister, only you come home with more than just feed for the animals.

Words: 5.1K Author’s Note: The ending of this imagine was definitely inspired by a TikTok video :)

When the Blip happened, you were in complete disbelief. Chaos erupted all around as planes fell from the sky and automobiles crashed because their drivers had vanished into thin air. Everyone was a complete mess as they attempted to call loved ones, their calls going straight to voicemail or being answered by another family member that were having to deliver the bad news of a disappearance.

Your only living relative was your sister Laura and her children she had with her husband Clint, so when one of your co-workers and a handful of your customers vanished into thin air, your first call had been to your ex-Avenger of a brother-in-law. Unfortunately Clint was just as clueless as you and the phone had nearly slipped from your hand when he gave you the news that Laura and the kids had vanished. You had nowhere to go and were so scared because of the looting that had started, so Clint told you to pack your things and get to the farm as soon as possible.

You'd only been on the farm for a full day before Clint's friends came looking for him. Natasha, who you had met after your sister had married Clint, greeted you with a rather solemn hug. It was Steve Rogers, however, who attempted to introduce himself with as much joy as he possibly could in order to be polite.

You had shaken his hand, smiling sadly. "You don't need to force a smile for me, Rogers. The circumstances suck. I get it."

That had surprisingly pulled a short laugh from Natasha. "See, Steve? Told you she wouldn't be expecting the Man with a Plan."

Steve and Natasha had proceeded to stay for the duration of the day, telling Clint all about a fight that had taken place in Wakanda and who out of their friends had vanished. It was a devastating blow and you had no idea how everyone was going to cope. Then soon after the two Avengers had left, Clint went into overdrive. He was making phone calls left and right, packing bags and weapons, and you were at a complete loss.

You had decided to leave him be and it was only the following morning when you woke to an empty house did you find the letter on the kitchen counter. In the letter he had apologized for leaving you after everything that had happened, but went on to explain that there were criminals still out there who had survived the Blip when others who were sin-free didn't. He couldn't leave them be while people like his wife and children were no longer alive, so to work through his aggression he was going to hunt those criminals down. Fortunately enough, he left you in possession of the farm-house and made it so you were able to access his bank accounts. He told you not to look for him or get the others involved, so you waited a whole day before contacting Natasha and telling her all about Clint's derailment.

Clint left no trail, leaving you all alone. Or so you thought.

With Clint's vanishing act, Natasha and Steve made you their responsibility. They made sure you knew they were only a call or email away, but only after Nat drove down to give you some technological devices since the regular power grid was fluctuating. Since Earth lost half its population, everything seemed to be falling apart.

Then Tony Stark was brought back home and the world seemed a little bit brighter.

For years you drifted, working at a grocery store in town to keep yourself busy. The Blip took a toll on everyone, but it was nice to have to talk to someone even if the other person moved on autopilot. Clint sent an email every other month from a burner email, so it was a dead end every time Natasha looked into it after you had forwarded it to her. And about the only news-worthy thing that had happened after the Blip was the announcement of Tony and Pepper Stark's baby girl Morgan. You didn't know the Stark's personally, but it didn't stop you from sending their little girl a present every year on her birthday for the next five years on behalf of yourself and the Barton family.

One morning you're sitting at the breakfast table when you hear the telltale sounds of a jet overheard. You figure it's just Natasha and Steve for their monthly check-in so you think nothing of it.

The screen door creaks open and you call out, "In the kitchen!"

The steps of what sounds like more than one person falter, but then they pick back up until they near your location. "Got enough for another plate?" That oh so familiar timber makes you spew orange juice across the table. You're up and out of your seat, staring at your brother-in-law who's a lot more tatted up than you remember him being. "Hey, sis."

Tony Stark stands just a couple feet to Clint's right, but his presence isn't enough to deter you from marching up to your brother-in-law and punching his shoulder. "You asshole!" You punch him again for good measure as tears sting your eyes. "You left me. You left me all alone! How could you-"

He dodges your continuous blows, wrapping his arms around you to keep you from attacking him. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry, but I'm here now. It's all going to be okay." The fight instantly drains out of you as you sag into his embrace, sob after sob leaving you as you clutch to him tightly.

Clint tightens his grip a little more around you until your cries turn into sniffles. "What- what are you doing here?"

"Lang came up with a plan to bring our people back." You tense in Clint's arms and pull back to look him in the eyes. "Banner and Stark made the machines necessary to make the plan work. We're going to bring 'em home. We're going to bring 'em all home, Y/N."

"Please tell me you aren't joking," you mumble.

"Nope. No joke," Tony says. "It's not a total guarantee, but we're going to try our best." You let go of Clint and turn to look at Tony who's standing by the stove and picking at the leftover scrambled eggs. "Mmm. These are good. What'd you put in them?"

"Uhh, just butter and cheese."

"Morgan would absolutely love these. She's on this whole cheese kick right now."

That earns a chuckle, and after gathering yourself you look back at Clint. "So what's going to happen now?"

"The team's getting ready for a test run," Clint says. "I just wanted to let you know I was home and that we had a really important mission coming up."

"How soon?"

"Today if the test run goes good," Tony says. He pours himself half a glass of juice before downing it in one go. "And speaking of, we need to go."

You look at Clint, a little let down that he's leaving so soon, but he grins and pulls you back into a hug. "It's going to be okay." You nod against him and he lets his arms drop before he steps back. He looks around the kitchen and his grin widens. "You've kept up good with the house. I'm impressed."

"I should hope so," you mumble. "I had to flirt with the hardware store boy so he'd help me keep the house from falling apart."

Clint laughs. "You did good, Y/N. Laura will be proud."

"Yeah, yeah. Now go bring my sister, niece, and nephews back."

"You got it, boss."

          - - - - - - - - - - 

You're grateful for the day off because it leaves you with time to clean the house from top to bottom. You need some way to burn off all your anxiousness and making sure the house looks good for your sister is one hell of a way to do just that.

You're not sure how long you'd been cleaning when you decide to take a break, and you head outside for some fresh air. You walk off the porch and onto the grass, tilting your face skyward as you inhale and exhale softly, your eyes closing. One moment all you can hear is the wind ruffling tree limbs and grass, and the next it's a cacophony of chirping birds.

Your eyes fly open and you're shocked to see the swarms of birds flying around in the sky. Sure there have been birds around after the Blip, but you've never seen so many together since then. You're too busy staring up into the sky that you don't see what appears to be ash take formation behind you.

"Aunt Y/N?" The timid voice makes your heart stop before you whirl around, your eyes widening at the sight of Lila glancing around in shock. "What's going on? Where's dad?"

"Lila?" You breathe out in awe. You stumble towards her, eyes glistening with tears. "They did it. They actually did it." You pull her into a hug, cries stuttering in your chest. As you hug her, you glance towards the open field where you see Laura appear, followed by Nathaniel and then Cooper. "Laura!"

You grip Lila's hand tight as the both of you break out into a run towards the rest of your family, you and Laura colliding with twin oomphs. The two of you are crying as Laura tries to work out what the hell happened and where Clint is, but before you can explain anything she's pulling her phone out of her pocket and dialing Clint's number. As she worries about getting her husband on the phone, you quickly hug Cooper and pick up Nathaniel to hold on your hip as you squeeze him in relief.

"Clint?" Laura sobs when he finally answers. "Clint, what's going on? I-" She stops talking all of a sudden and she looks at you, eyes wide.

"What happened?" You ask.

"I- I don't know. One second he was talking and then-" She cuts off, glancing at her children and shaking her head. "He just cut out."

You know all is not fine and that something terrible must have happened for Laura to trail off the way she did. But instead of worrying her kids, you offer a grin. "I'm sure it's fine. As clumsy as he is, he probably just dropped his phone." She forces a smile for her kids' benefit. "So why don't we go ahead and wait for him inside. I'll make something to eat while you guys relax and I'll catch you up on the five years you missed."

"Five years!?" Laura nearly shouts.

You wince. "Yeah. You guys missed a lot."

          - - - - - - - - - - 

For the next couple of hours you tell Laura all about the Blip and how half of Earth's population just disappeared- Avengers included. You tell her how Clint had you move in, and how you helped take care of the house and what few animals they had on the farm still while working at the local grocery store. You tell her all about Steve and Natasha, and how Tony Stark is now married with a daughter of his own.

"Wow." Laura chuckles. All the kids have fallen asleep around the living room, leaving Laura the time to finally ask, "And where was Clint this entire time? I noticed he brought you onto the farm, but then everything became about Steve and Nat."

You suck in a breath sharply. "I was hoping you wouldn't notice that."

"Y/N.."

"He went rogue." Her eyes widen and you wince. "He left me here with access to your bank account, which I only used to pay bills and buy groceries by the way, and not even Natasha could find him. He only came back when she tracked him down and told him there was a chance they could reverse the Blip."

"Oh Clint.." She sighs, shaking her head in disappointment.

The sound of a quinjet hovering makes you and Laura perk up, but you keep quiet so as to not wake the children. You and Laura meet each other's gazes before you carefully get up and tiptoe out of the living room, and then you're rushing out the front door and down onto the lawn.

The door drops down and then Laura is sprinting across the field to reach her husband. You joyously laugh, jogging over to catch up. But as Laura and Clint hug one another, sobbing, you turn your sights to Steve who's standing sheepishly off to the side. There are two others with him, but since you've yet to meet them you make your way towards the familiar.

"Hey Rogers. Good to see you in one piece."

He tiredly chuckles. "Y/N." You punch his arm and he opens them up so you can hug him. "How are you holding up?"

"Better now that I got my sister back," you muse. As you pull away, you glance behind him into the quinjet. "Hey, where's Natasha?" Steve's smile falls and your heart plummets into your stomach. You can practically read the answer in his eyes. "No.." You shake your head.

His breathing stutters before he clears his throat. "We, uh, we lost Tony too."

Your expression completely crumples then, but Steve is quick to pull you back into a hug. He lets you cry into his chest before Clint steals you away, and then you're crying into your brother-in-law's shoulder. Then once all the tears taper off, Steve introduces you and Laura to Wanda and Bucky.

"I'll be in contact with you about what Pepper decides to do," Steve tells Clint. "If you do anything for Nat, let me know."

Clint sniffles. "I will."

You, Clint, and Laura wave off Steve, Wanda, and Bucky as they return inside the quinjet and lift off.

"Come on," Clint then sighs. "I need to see the kids and then figure out a way to tell them all about auntie Nat's sacrifice."

"And plan a memorial," Laura says.

You frown. "This was not the homecoming I was hoping for."

After a few days of planning, Clint decides on a cookout with all the Avengers and close friends of Nat's invited. It was a couple of days before Tony's own memorial, so you were surprised when Pepper Stark showed up with Morgan in tow. You were happy to finally meet the young girl who you'd been sending gifts to and you gladly ended up on babysitting duty.

You had met more of Clint's ex-coworkers, but your attention always ended up back on the children. Then when it came time to say a few words on Natasha's behalf, you somehow ended up between Steve and Bucky as the children ran back to their respective parents with Steve tucking you into his side when the tears started.

Then when the day of Tony's memorial came, there were more guests than you had anticipated. So as Pepper and Morgan walked a small flower raft with an arc reactor replica on it and set it out on the water, you stood back with Laura and her family and waited in silence. And as the crowd dispersed, you mostly kept to yourself until you saw Steve walk out of Pepper's home in the oddest white and red suit you'd ever seen.

Walking up behind Steve, you nod at Bucky and Sam who grin at your presence. When Steve turns around, you chuckle. "Why do I got a feeling you're about to do something very stupid?"

He grins and adjusts his grip on the suitcase hanging by his side. "Someone's gotta return the stones to their original timeline."

"Mhm. Well be careful. Don't start any unnecessary fights."

"I'll try my best."

As he walks up onto the platform, you step back and nudge your arm against Bucky's. He smiles down on you and you stand by his side as you listen to Bruce who walks Steve through about what's going to happen. Bruce checks all his monitors, giving Steve the go-ahead when everything is fine. Steve nods, a mask of sorts opens up and wraps around his face, and he presses a button that had been in his hand. Bruce counts down the seconds before he flips a switch which is meant to bring Steve back, but nothing happens.

Bruce looks around his monitors and starts pressing some more buttons. "Where is he?" Sam asks.

"I don't know. He blew right by his time stamp. He should be here," Bruce says as he flips a few more switches.

Bucky sighs and you quickly glance at him, and he looks more resigned than anything as he turns to walk off.

Your attention goes to Bruce as your heart rate picks up. "Get him back."

"I'm trying."

"Get him the hell back!" Sam urges.

You and Sam are low-key panicking, but it's Bucky's calm voice that stops the both of you. "Y/N. Sam."

The two of you whirl around, gazes sliding towards where Bucky is staring off to. In the distance, on a stone bench by the water, there appears to be a man sitting there that wasn't there before. You and Sam stumble forward, and you squint your eyes, only to glance back at Bucky with wide eyes.

"Is that.."

"Go."

You share another look with Sam and he gestures for you to follow him. The two of you walk towards the man together and Sam stops just behind him as you walk around in front. When you get a good look at your friend who is way older than what he appeared to be a mere twenty seconds ago, your heart cracks just a little.

You try to force a smile, but it wobbles as an elderly Steve chuckles at you. "I'm really trying not to be so mad at you right now." Your voice cracks and he pats the spot next to him as you sniffle. You immediately sit next to him and take his left hand within your own two, a gleaming wedding band not going unnoticed. Your fingers trace it. "Was it at least a happy life?"

Steve pats your hand. "It was. It was the beautiful life I always dreamt of."

You take a moment for yourself, inhaling and exhaling deeply. "You know you were my complete impulse control, right? Who's going to stop me from trying to get into your best friend's pants now?"

There's a snort from behind you, but you don't bother giving Sam your attention. "Go easy on him," Steve tells you. "I'm not sure he even remembers how to flirt."

You grin as you lean your head on his shoulder. "I'm really going to miss you," you say after a beat. Another moment passes before you drop Steve's hand and sigh before you stand. "Well, um, I should get back my sister and Clint now." You meet his gaze and flash him a small smile. "It's going to suck not seeing you every month, but I'm really glad you found your happiness."

"Thank you, Y/N."

Your bottom lip wobbles again. "Goodbye, Steve."

As you walk away, you hold your head up high and nod to Sam when he looks at you to make sure you're okay. You continue walking, nodding at Bucky as you pass him up as well when you see Laura wave you over. "For the record, I still remember how to flirt." You stumble and and then hear Bucky chuckling quietly behind you.

"Goddamn super soldiers and your dog ears."

As the days turn into weeks, Clint and Laura offer you a permanent place on the farm now that everything seems to be going back to normal. He's promised to build you a small house on the property for all that you've done in the past five years, so in the meantime you've taken to bunking with Lila while Wanda took over the guest bedroom. Clint had also taken to bringing Bucky to the farm when he noticed the super soldier not coping as well as he was letting on, so you found yourself often sitting by the back pond with him as the two of you traded stories about Steve and yourselves.

Though you had originally joked about getting into Bucky's pants, you found yourself seeking friendship from him more than anything else and vice versa. So when you weren't working at the grocery store, you were watching the kids for Laura and Clint or hanging out with Bucky and Wanda. It was no surprise to anyone that the three of you latched on to one another after losing those that you did.

"Hey Y/N," Laura calls out. "Will you do me favor?"

You glance up as she walks out the front door, you and Wanda ceasing your conversation. You grin. "What do you need?"

"Lucky needs some dog food and we need a few bales of hay for the goats."

"Oh. Okay." You look towards Wanda. "Wanna go for the ride?"

She shrugs. "Sure."

"Thank you! You can just put it on the Barton tab at the store," Laura says. "Clint pays it monthly and I've already called ahead to let them know someone was going in to pick up some stuff we needed."

"Got it." Standing up, you pat down your pockets to make sure you have your keys, phone, and some cash. Realizing you have everything, you grin at your sister before walking down the porch steps. As you near your truck, you whistle at Bucky who was throwing knives at a target on the side of the barn. "Hey Buckaroo! We're heading into town. You wanna come?"

He throws the last knife in his hand before he turns to look at you. "Don't call me Buckaroo!" He shouts back as he makes his way towards you.

"Then stop lookin' so darn cute!"

Wanda snorts and you laugh as Bucky shakes his head at you. "One of these days he's going to flirt back and then what are you going to do?"

"Bend myself over the table and let him hit it from behind," you mumble. She snorts harder this time and your eyes widen when you see Bucky start to smirk.

As he nears the two of you, he says, "What did you say?"

"Nothing," you blurt. "Nothing at all. Wanda's just easily amused, is all."

His gaze slides to Wanda, but she shakes her head and doesn't tell him a word. You mentally sigh and praise her for being a good friend, and then you turn to walk towards your truck. Wanda readily heads for the back driver's side door while Bucky walks around to the passenger seat so he's seated next to you.

Once you're seated behind the wheel and the engine is turned on, you take a moment to find a decent song on the radio before driving. It's not too long of a drive and you find yourself pulling up to the local feed store not even three songs later.

Parking and cutting the engine right in front of the store, you turn towards Bucky. You know he's not a huge fan of being out in public, but you rather not have to flirt inside the store to get a helping hand. "Hey Buck, can you do me a favor and load up four of those large rectangular bales of hay and one bag of that dog food right next to it?" You see him tense. "I rather not have to flirt with the boy inside just so he'll help out."

He relaxes then and gives you a nod. "Yeah. Sure."

"Thanks. Just keep watch through the window. Wait 'til I give the signal for you to start loading up." He gives you another nod and you turn around to face Wanda. "Wanna head inside with me?"

Wanda grins and readily opens her door, you and Bucky following right after. But as you and Wanda head inside, Bucky remains by the tailgate of your truck and keeps watch through the large front window as you had said. Inside, Mr. Reeves is waiting by the cash register and keeping an eye on Bucky outside.

"Don't worry, Mr. Reeves. He's with me." Mr. Reeves glances at you, smiling in relief. "I need four large bales of hay and a fifty pound bag of dog food."

Mr. Reeves starts punching buttons on his register. "Alright, sweetheart. Is that going to be all for you?"

"Sure is. Um, Laura asked if you can put it on the tab? Clint will be by at the end of the week."

"Sure thing." You turn towards the window and give Bucky a thumbs up. He turns to open the tailgate and then move towards the bales of hay to start loading up. Mr. Reeves chuckles. "That's a strong fella you got there."

His words make you blush and Wanda giggle, but you can't even reprimand your friend because she is further away than you expected. She's leaning over what appears to be a warming box, hand inside as she smiles down at something you can't see. "Whatcha got there, Red?"

Her smile widens as you hear small chirps. "Ducklings."

You walk over to her, peering inside and your heart absolutely melts. Inside are the cutest ducklings you've ever seen and you know you're done for when you set your hand down inside and one particular little duckling runs onto your palm.

Mr. Reeves walks over, chuckling. "They were hatched a few days ago. All have been looking mighty strong and are ready to go to good homes."

"How much?"

"Y/N," Wanda laughs. "What are you doing?"

"I'm taking this little sucker with me." You pick up your hand, duckling still happily nestled in your palm as you cradle him to your chest and look at Mr. Reeves. "Any chance you have those small plastic kiddie pools?"

"As a matter of fact I do," he muses.

Wanda is giggling the entire time Mr. Reeves gets exactly what you need, you nuzzling the yellow fuzzball to your face. You pay with your own money and sadly hand over the duckling when Mr. Reeves has to box her up. You then carefully take the box from him as Wanda takes the kiddie pool, and you walk behind her as you make your way to the truck.

You have absolutely no regrets about buying the duckling, but you still hide the box as you walk around the truck and open the driver's door. Wanda shoves the kiddie pool into the back with her and Bucky turns so his gaze darts between the both of you- Wanda looking far too amused and you looking a little sheepish as you continue to stand outside the truck.

"What did you do?" He sighs.

"Well we went in to just buy the food," Wanda says, "but-"

"I bought a duck." You blurt. You finally put the box in front of you, on the seat, and you open the lid. The duckling chirps and you beam down at her, picking her up and nuzzling her once more. "I'm gonna name her Flauta." Bucky snorts and Wanda laughs uncontrollably then. "No one tell Laura."

"Gonna be hard to hide her, doll."

Bucky reaches over to take the duckling from you and the sight of him cradling it, holding it up to his face and smiling makes you melt once more. Wanda is staring knowingly at you, but you don't even have the urge to flip her off because you know you're fucked. Instead, you take your phone out of your back pocket and snap a picture.

"That's my new wallpaper."

Bucky doesn't bother admonishing you for taking the picture, so after setting it as your wallpaper you put your phone away and climb into your truck. He holds onto the duckling as you make the drive back to the farm, Wanda giggling every now and then when you glance at Bucky and sigh longingly.

When you make it back to the farm, Clint and Laura are on the porch as the kids play out in the yard. They both stand as you park, their expressions turning suspicious as Wanda hops out of the back with the kiddie pool in tow. You grin as you hurriedly hop out as well, leaving Bucky to carry the incriminating evidence.

You can tell he expected as much as he watches you jog around to his side of the truck, already pointing at him through the opened window. "Bucky bought a duck!"

He shakes his head at you and you blow him a kiss, Clint and Laura then joining you by the truck. "Oh really?" Your brother-in-law muses.

"Yep."

"Mhm." Clint looks to Bucky as Laura bites back a grin. "Buck, what's the duck's name?"

Without missing a beat, he says, "Flauta."

Laura finally laughs. "Nice try, Y/N." As Bucky and Wanda guess how Laura knew, she says, "When we were younger, Y/N did the same thing but with a turtle. She named him Taquito."

"And Taquito lived a long and happy life until we went off to college," you say. "Flauta will live just long, if not longer, here on the farm."

Clint chuckles and then takes the duckling from Bucky. He looks to Wanda and gestures for her to follow him. "Lets go get this little lady all set up. The kids are gonna have a blast."

Laura follows after them, but not before winking at you, and you shake your head as you're left alone with Bucky. He finally climbs out of the truck, shutting the door and then leaning against it. You nervously laugh as he smirks. "You threw me under the bus."

"I couldn't take the chance that they'd make me return Flauta." You pout. "I couldn't send her back, Buckaroo. I'd already named her."

He pushes off the truck, turning you around and laying his arm around your shoulders. For a moment you forget how to breathe. "You're just as bad as Steve."

"Oh whatever." You roll your eyes, grinning as your arm wraps around the back of his waist and start walking towards where Clint went. "Steve got you shot at. I momentarily put you in momma bear's crosshairs." He quietly chuckles. "And besides, I didn't hear you deny it. Admit it, Barnes, I'm growing on you."

"Like a fungus."

You pinch his side. "Oh fuck off." He fully laughs then. "Just you wait, Buckaroo. The day we decide to put sex on the list of things we should definitely be doing, I'm gonna withhold just because you're being an ass."

"You sure about that?" The teasing lilt to his voice suddenly makes you feel at unease. "You sure you won't immediately bend over the table and let me hit it from behind?"

Your face flames, but you can't help but laugh at your earlier words. When you manage to calm down, you can't help but say, "I hate you," as you finish making your way towards your family.

"Nice try, doll, but I'm calling bullshit."

[therealvinelle]

I know this is like taking a bat to the beehive but... I really wanna hear your opinions on the whole... Imprinting thing

(Note before we go any further: this meta is written purely about the shapeshifting aspect of the Quileute characters, I don’t at all get into the racism in Twilight or any kind of social commentary. This is a purely watsonian meta. Others in this fandom have already addressed the racial dynamics at play, far more eloquently and knowledgeably than me. If I say something in here that’s in any way offensive, that’s not my intention and I’m open to criticism.)

Ooh imprinting.

I touch upon it here, basically I hate it.

The imprinting is part of this theme where the shapeshifters lose their free will and autonomy, and I find it tragic, cruel, and unnecessary.

First of, the fact that they have to phase at all.

They’re made warriors to protect their tribe. There’s no choice involved, only genetics and magic irrevocably changing their lives, and at a ridiculously young age, too. Sam is the oldest of them, and he is 19.

Violence is an inherent part of what they become. Their purpose is to protect the tribe, by fighting vampires. Not only is this insanely dangerous (we see Jake get so injured by a single vampire that he’s bedridden for weeks), but if they succeed, they will have killed. In the singularly brutal manner of tearing apart and burning someone who looks a lot like a human, who talks and might beg for their life, at that. And I remind you, most of these shapeshifters are literal children. They might not see vampires as people, but all the same, killing one can’t be good for their mental wellbeing. (Thought: Perhaps an argument can be made for Laurent’s death having a part in the turn Jake’s personality took? Some, though not many, of the symptoms for PTSD do fit. I don’t know enough about PTSD to pursue this train of thought, but it occurred to me just now, in particular he becomes quite aggressive and prone to outbursts after that incident, so into a parenthesis it goes)

Not to mention how inhumane that responsibility is. Vampires in the Twilight-verse are terrifying, and the shapeshifters might have the power to fight them. But (and this is where I plug one of my all-time favorite animes, Puella Magi Madoka Magica, as it asks the question “Is it okay to sacrifice yourself for others?” because that’s... well there’s a parallel to be made to the shapeshifters. It’s on Netflix!) does that mean they should? Is it really their responsibility? Again- they’re kids!

Then there’s the time Sam lost control, and accidentally mauled the girl he loved. And it’s so cruel to both him and Emily. Sam never chose to have to control himself in the first place, he never chose shapeshifting. He didn’t choose to imprint on Emily either, and he didn’t choose to lose control that day. At no point in the series of events that led to Emily being mauled did Sam have any real choice, and yet he will shoulder the guilt for what happened for the rest of his life.

These kids get superpowers, and several of them seem to enjoy being shapeshifters, but the fact remains that they now carry this huge responsibility to protect their families and homes, doing so is incredibly dangerous, they lose out on their regular lives, and they can’t opt out of it.

This all sucks, but then we get to the fact that they are deprived of their free will, as their alpha can issue an order they physically can’t break. The alpha becomes alpha because of bloodlines, not because of a democratic election. Jake got a mockery of a choice in that he could choose to become alpha himself, or let Sam continue, which was really just choosing between a rock and a hard place. There is no limitation to what this order can be, from “don’t say X to person Y” to “let’s kill someone you love”. Jake has to struggle to break that last one, and he’s only successful because of the bloodline thing letting him become his own alpha.

Oh, and there’s the massive invasion of privacy when they have a hive mind. Cool concept, less cool to have it be reality. Leah is the poster child for how a hive mind can backfire, and they can’t opt out of this.

I’m not good at gifs, but the shapeshifters just make me think of that gif of someone flicking a lightswitch on and off, “WELCOME TO HELL!”. Of course, Twilight in general is a pit of despair for everybody, so I suppose that gif really is... well it sums up all of canon.

So, we have these kids aged 19 or younger, as of Breaking Dawn they skew as young as thirteen, their lives are turned upside down by something they can’t opt out of, they must shoulder this huge responsibility to protect their homes and families from the terrifying threat of vampires, and on top of all of that, they must obey orders that are so irresistible, they can compel them to harm someone they care for.

With all of that in mind, you’d think that the shapeshifters had enough on their plate. That through all of this they would at least retain their selves, and be able to look forward to a future where they could stop phasing, and go on to live normal, human, lives.

Yeah, NOT IF THEY IMPRINT.

I’ll just quote Jake’s description:

Everything inside me came undone as I stared at the tiny porcelain face of the halfvampire, half-human baby. All the lines that held me to my life were sliced apart in swift cuts, like clipping the strings to a bunch of balloons. Everything that made me who I was—my love for the dead girl upstairs, my love for my father, my loyalty to my new pack, the love for my other brothers, my hatred for my enemies, my home, my name, my self—disconnected from me in that second—snip, snip, snip—and floated up into space. 

I was not left drifting. A new string held me where I was. 

Not one string, but a million. Not strings, but steel cables. A million steel cables all tying me to one thing—to the very center of the universe. 

I could see that now—how the universe swirled around this one point. I’d never seen the symmetry of the universe before, but now it was plain. 

The gravity of the earth no longer tied me to the place where I stood. (Breaking Dawn, page 237)

Everything that made me who I was disconnected from me.

Jake’s love for his father, his home, his very own self, it’s all gone now. And while I have thoughts on the authenticity of this imprint, whether it was organic, the description above is apparently how imprinting feels. It’s along the lines of what Sam, Jared, and Paul all describe.

I don’t think I can put into words just how devastating I find imprinting, I think the above quotation speaks for itself. And as with all other shapeshifter things, there is no choice involved.

We see its devastating effects in the Emily, Sam, and Leah debacle. Sam and Leah were serious together, so much so that they were engaged. Sam had fallen for and chosen to be with Leah. Perhaps they would have broken up eventually, but Leah was still the choice he made. Then he imprints on Emily, and all that is for naught. He had to break up with Leah, who if she hadn’t phased never would have learned why, Emily and Leah’s relationship is ruined, and Emily must forever live with the knowledge that if Sam had his free will intact he would be with another woman.

Then there’s Jared and Kim. Kim crushed on Jared, but Jared never noticed her. The fact that they were in the same class is damning: if a boy is attracted to a girl, he's gonna notice her. Jared never did.

Quil imprints on Claire, who is a toddler. That’s just a recipe for misery and disaster all around.

And I’ve only touched the shapeshifter side of things. They lose their autonomy and freedom, but the imprintées draw the short straw too. They’re now responsible for this other person’s happiness. Sure, having someone who’ll be whatever you need them to be sounds nice (well, it sounds horrifying, but I’m playing ball) on paper, but you can’t opt out of them being like that. The imprintée can’t say “Sorry, not interested,” and she certainly can’t shut the imprinter out of her life, not without irrevocably ruining the imprinter’s life. The imprinter needs her. She’s the center of his earth now, but she didn’t choose to be.

Imprinting is a liferuiner for everyone involved.

Then we have the question of what imprinting is even for. I’m afraid I agree with Billy, that it’s for procreation. We see Sam, who was dating a woman about to phase (even if Leah isn’t infertile, she’s a warrior now. She can’t run in the woods and fight vampires, and gestate and nurse a child at the same time) conveniently imprint on her cousin, who as cousin to Leah is from a shifter bloodline. Claire, as Emily’s cousin, has those same genetics. Paul imprints on a woman from the Black family line. Jake is the outlier, but either Renesmée’s gift helped that imprinting along, or he imprinted because of the offspring they could potentially have (I firmly believe it’s the former because the latter... NOPE. Also, I can’t imagine whatever magic drives imprinting would want vampiric progeny for the future generations. Regardless of Renesmée’s person, her biology is wired to desire human blood. That’s exactly what Jake is supposed to protect people from. Bad match.).

I just.... ughhh. God, I hate imprinting so much, and on every level.

To me, everything about the shapeshifters is about free will, autonomy, and the loss thereof. And it would have been beautiful if their story was about reclaiming that, but it isn’t. None of this, with the exception of the alpha orders, is even acknowledged.

So, in summation, yes I hate imprinting, but it’s only the horror cherry on top of a very sad and problematic cake.

[nightingaelic]

could you do Fallout New Vegas companion’s reactions to a Courier Six who is also the Lone Wanderer telling their stories from their time in DC? (bonus points for Arcade’s reaction to them hating the enclave, and if that would make him decide to keep his past hidden even longer, or if he would still tell them?)

The logistics and implications of this make my head spin. This is also super long, honestly I should just quit writing reacts and start writing fics OH WAIT

Getting the courier talking was a tough thing to do, but on nights where the moon was full and the coyotes' howls were miles away or at least behind some stout walls, on nights where they were a few beers in and they hadn't seen another living soul in a few days, that Mojave Express deliverer started to reminisce. That wasn't really the surprising part, though. No, the surprising part was what they would remember, fondly or not-so-fondly: A world apart from the desert, a continent away on another coast, and stories of life in a vault, a missing father, pure water and a Brotherhood divided.

Arcade Gannon: Arcade didn't mind these moods, at least when they first cropped up. He nodded along as the courier talked about living in their father's shadow, about feeling cornered by their own family's legacy. He hung on their words about living in the cradle of America's history, about Project Purity, all of the gritty details of modifying a GECK to bring water to a devastated wasteland.

Eventually though, the courier's memories soured, with the arrival of Enclave remnants in their life. Arcade folded into himself with every harsh word, every jolt of plasma that had disrupted his friend's world relived in horrific detail. They gestured angrily as they described their newfound purpose, their battle for power with the fractured Brotherhood of Steel at their back, and their smug satisfaction at the moments they were able to crack open Raven Rock and the Enclave's mobile base crawler and lay waste to their tormentors.

It took a few rounds of these stories before the courier noticed he shrank and grew quiet whenever they neared the end of their story about breaking into another vault to find the GECK. They stopped abruptly one night. "What's up with you?"

"Um..." Arcade scratched the back of his neck and looked away. "Nothing. Nothing, I just... have some personal experience with the Enclave, myself."

The courier sighed. "Yeah, there's a few people walking around the West Coast that have similar stories to mine. Arroyo's full of them, for one. Is it something like that?"

Arcade took a deep breath. "I feel... well, it's a lot closer to home, for me. Close enough to raise questions, so I don't talk about it much."

"Close enough to..." The courier twisted their face up in confusion for a moment, before realization set in and their eyes grew large. "You were... your... oh."

"Mmm-hm."

"Well, fuck me." The courier smiled and popped a cap off of another beer. "I've been doing all the talking, haven't I? Let's hear your story about working with the guys in power armor who ruined my life, right after dad did."

Craig Boone: Whenever the courier started up like this, Boone couldn't help but notice a familiar twinge of regret and self-doubt in their voice. It shone through most clearly when they spoke about their time with the Brotherhood of Steel, the men and women they'd fought alongside and lost during their struggle against the remnants of the Enclave. It was there, too, in their story about returning to the vault they grew up in, setting the chaos that had arisen in their wake to rest, but not being able to go back to the way things were.

Boone didn't pry. He knew that feeling well. Instead, he cracked open bottles of beer, liquor, soda, whatever they had on hand during their nights in the desert, and just listened. He'd done the same for Carla, when they were younger and new to each other and he couldn't get enough of her voice and how it flowed endlessly, easily, the way his never could. He absorbed it all now as he did then: The joy, the pain, the loss, the fear, the triumphs and falls and abandoned dreams that filled the courier up and drove them to travel west, beyond anything they had ever known.

That last part stumped Boone a bit, though. "Why didn't you stay?" he finally asked one night.

They looked surprised. "Stay? Stay where? I didn't have a home anymore."

Boone shook his head. "With the Brotherhood. Or some other settlement."

"Like Megaton?" The courier sighed. "I thought about it. Close to the vault, friendly people, easy work... I guess I just didn't want to wind up... stuck."

They flushed red and looked away from him. Boone knew why they were embarrassed, but he also knew the truth in their words.

Sometimes the courier cried after they had finished, though they did their best to hide it. Boone pretended not to notice. He was pretty sure they knew he was pretending, but he was also pretty sure that pointing it out would be worse than just letting it be an open secret between them. The silence between them endured, but something grew inside it and flourished. Some kind of deeper understanding.

Lily Bowen: The more the courier spoke, the more Lily made connections in her muddled mind. Of course they knew the basic layout of most vaults, they had grown up in one. Of course they were extra-sensitive to the Mojave heat, they had come to the desert from the cooler of the two coasts. Of course they'd been extra-wary around the super mutants or nightkin of Jacobstown, they had only known angry super mutants looking to grow their own numbers through any means necessary.

Their shared experience of growing up inside a vault reminded Lily of happier days, and she often asked questions about Vault 101 during the courier's stories. "Were you sweet on anyone inside your old home?" she asked, with a big smile befitting a proud grandma.

The courier blushed. "That's not very polite, Lily."

"Oh, I'm sorry, dearie."

"No, no it's okay." The courier smiled. "There was a boy who picked on me a lot, but I never figured out whether he did it because he hated me or liked me. His name was Butch. And there was Amata, my childhood friend. She was the daughter of the Overseer."

"Daughter of the Overseer?" Lily grinned. "I'm sure she was a lovely young woman."

The courier looked a little misty. "Yeah. She was. Probably still is."

Lily pulled a handkerchief that used to be a small tablecloth from inside her overalls and handed it over. "Maybe we can go back there together, pumpkin," she offered. "I always wanted to travel to the capital. We can visit your friends, see the sights."

"Yeah, maybe someday." The courier accepted the gift and blew their nose. "I've got some things I need to finish up here before I even think about wandering back east, though."

"Then let's make a list and do our chores," Lily said happily. "Number one?"

"Ohhhh, man." The courier smiled up at her. "I wouldn't even know where to start."

Raul Alfonso Tejada: Raul got a faint smile on his face whenever the courier started up like this, as if their memories reminded him of another place he had come from, another time. While they couldn't have more different backgrounds, pasts- hell, he had several hundred years on the courier, even if they shared the same road today- there was something in the description of the other roads they had walked that made him feel warm on a cold night.

"What's on your mind?" The courier asked him one night, when Raul's smile grew larger than usual.

"Nada, boss," he reassured them. "You're just a good reminder that I can change my mind about the future anytime I'd like. Tell me the one about that radio DJ again."

"Again?" The courier rolled their eyes. "Why? I could tell you a million stories about Underworld and all the ghouls that lived there, but all you want to hear about is Three Dog. You'd probably have more in common with the Underworld folks, honestly."

Raul nodded noncommittally. "Sí, but my favorite stories are about people who had to rise above bad situations and become someone uncommon. Anyone who's able to do that is either fighting for something great or running from something terrible. Sometimes both."

The courier shot him a skeptical look. "Three Dog's holed up in his radio station 24/7, he's not running from anything or out fighting for anything. All that stuff about 'the good fight' is a load of bull."

"Now, now, Six," Raul chastised. "Just because he looks like your average pendejo doesn't mean he isn't doing his part. You even told me his radio show is inspirational for the Capital Wasteland folks."

The courier held their hands up in the air and bobbled them, as if balancing an invisible scale. "The duality of man. Being an average pendejo, or convincing everyone around you that you aren't actually an average pendejo and can pull off miracles."

Raul laughed. "And which one are you, boss?"

"Eh, I'm still figuring it out."

Rose of Sharon Cassidy: Cass was never one for fixating on her own past, but she couldn't help but sympathize with the courier whenever they deigned to add onto their unbelievable story. It was hard enough for her to navigate her own damn life: She couldn't imagine being called upon to steer an entire area's destiny.

After another night of recalling their life inside a vault with their dad, then their unexpected loss of him right after being reunited on the surface, the courier stopped suddenly. "I'm sorry," they said.

Cass paused her swig of precious whiskey. "What?"

"I keep going on and on about my dad, and here you are not knowing what happened to yours."

"Eh." Cass took her drink and waved her hand around until the burning swallow made its way down. "S'loads of people in the wasteland without a clue what happened to their pops. I'm not special. In fact, I'd say it probably hurts a bit more, what happened with yours."

"Well, all the same." The courier sank deeper into their seat and examined their own bottle of spirits. "I feel like an open book, tonight. Anything you want to know about where I came from that I haven't already spilled?"

Cass thought for a moment. "Tribals."

"What about them?"

"Does the East Coast have them? You're not the first traveler I've met from there, but none of you have so much as mentioned any tribals out east."

"Mmm." The courier looked thoughtful. "I guess we do have them, though maybe not in the traditional sense. There's a mess of them in Point Lookout for sure, and at least one tribal group in the Capital Wasteland outright, but beyond that things are more... loose. Fewer intact families, fewer intact homes."

"Huh." Cass took another drink. "Maybe that's where my dad went."

She let the courier stew in the awkward silence for a bit before she grinned and reached out to smack them. "Just kidding. Keep going. I want to hear about that giant robot again."

Veronica Santangelo: Veronica usually sat and listened, spellbound, picturing a chapter of her order that had realized the very thing she kept trying to tell the Elders and made the ultimate sacrifice to follow their hearts anyway.

Well, maybe Elder Owyn Lyons hadn't come to the same realization as her, but he had had a change of heart that split his company and cut them off from almost everyone they had ever known. It had been five years since the High Elders had instituted radio silence toward their East Coast chapter, and so far there had been no attempts to re-establish contact.

Veronica prodded the courier for any info she could get about the Capital Wasteland Brotherhood of Steel. The courier let slip pretty early in their friendship that Elder Owyn Lyons had passed away, which wasn't unexpected. The man was 76 years old, after all. She learned on one particularly emotional night that his daughter, Elder Sarah Lyons, was also dead, something she wasn't sure even the Western Elders were aware of. That memory was clearly painful for the courier though, so Veronica didn't press for details.

"And the Enclave?" the Scribe asked one night, arms wrapped around her knees. "Are they completely gone?"

The courier grew cold. "Yes. I made sure of it."

"Right." Veronica nodded. "So the Brotherhood took over the air force base they were at. It must have been chock-full of tech and resources, if it was the Enclave's last stand."

"It was." The courier sighed and shifted in their seat. "And it woke up some of our brothers and sisters to their original mission in the Capital Wasteland. I thought maybe that selfishness had died with Liberty Prime, but... well, I didn't like it, so I left."

"Mmm, yeah." Veronica nodded again, sympathetically this time. "I know how you feel. Felt."

"Feel," the courier agreed. "I just wish there was more I could've done. Maybe there wasn't anything else, short of seizing power."

"You'd definitely get pushback for that in the Brotherhood," Veronica agreed. "But you might get that chance out here in the broader Mojave."

ED-E: At first, ED-E enjoyed the stories, trumpeting and cooing various beeps at the appropriate moments for emphasis. The one time the courier began badmouthing the Enclave, however, the eyebot waited until they had finished before playing back the first tape that Dr. Whitley had recorded before its trip.

The courier listened to the scientist's words from years ago, deflating slightly as it played out. When the tape had finished, they stood up and checked the eyebot over. "He sent you toward Navarro, huh?"

ED-E beeped affirmation, and the courier sighed. "But Navarro was already gone. I'm sorry. I guess I'm... well, me and the Brotherhood of Steel back east are responsible for your previous master's decision to send you away. Might be responsible for more, too."

ED-E beeped sadly. The courier pressed their forehead against the eyebot's metal dome in apology.

Rex: Well, surprising for most. Rex was not most. As soon as the courier got really into their recollections, Rex usually yawned and went to sleep. He stirred when he felt their hand reach down to scratch the ruff of his neck, or pat the glass dome that held his brain.

"Good dog," the courier said, through the veil of sleep. "You remind me of another pup that used to follow me around."

[bi-bard]

An Extra Dose of Chaos- Malcolm Bright Imagine (Prodigal Son/Criminal Minds Crossover)

Title: An Extra Dose of Chaos

Pairing: Malcolm Bright X Reader 

Requested: Nope

Word Count: 1,861 words

Warning(s): Violence in canon of both shows

Summary: (Starts on season 13, episode 7 of Criminal Minds) The BAU found themselves in a time of need after their final confrontation with Scratch. Though absolutely devastated by the loss of Stephen Walker, (Y/n) was somewhat excited to not be seen as the new kid anymore when Malcolm Bright was brought on to the team. Now, if he could just stop making such a mess of things...

Author’s Note: THERE MAY BE A PART 2 OF THIS BUT I’M NOTE SURE YET! It took a long time but... I found a way to connect them! I am so excited! Also, I doubt Malcolm would’ve lasted this long in the B.A.U but this is the best way to put him in the story without using two seasons that were airing at the same time (Season 1 of Prodigal Son and season 15 of Criminal Minds)

Please consider supporting my Ko-fi account. It would mean a lot to me. If I know there are people interested in it, I’ll get the monthly donation part set up. 

Buy me a coffee? https://ko-fi.com/khoward0 

----------------------------------------------------

I let out a sigh as I walked to the round table. Another day without Stephen. We had both joined the team around the same time, but I was still declared a new kid because he beat me here by about a month. Garcia had given Luke the official title but I still felt it whenever we were debriefed on a case. Stephen gave me someone to relate to. 

I looked over to the door as J.J walked in. She grinned at me.

“Emily hired a new agent,” she said. I nodded. “How are you?”

“Shaky but desperate to get some work done,” I replied, forcing a smile. I knew she was going to say more but luckily the team walked in before she could.

Emily stayed standing as everyone got settled in their seats.

“Everyone, this Malcolm Bright, he’s our new agent,” she said, pointing at the man standing next to her. He waved. Emily and him made their way to their seats. “Take it away, Garcia.”

Malcolm had sat in the spot right next to me. I glanced over at him while he read the case file. He seemed... giddy? That wasn’t the right word but I don’t think there was a better one. Something that should’ve disturbed him just... didn’t.

It was a strange case. Victims were kidnapped, had symbols carved into their faces, and then were found in their cars but miles away from where they were last seen. All without any memory of what had happened to them. 

“Alright, wheels up in 30,” Emily said before standing. Everyone followed close behind her.

“Hey, Malcolm,” I said, stopping the new guy before he left. “How are you feeling? I know some of this stuff can feel overwhelming on the first day.”

“I’m alright,” he replied. “Believe me, I’ve seen worse.”

“When,” I asked, my eyebrows furrowing together for a moment.

“Oh, y’know, research for school and such,” he shrugged the question off. “I’ve gotta get my go bag.”

“Okay, see you on the jet.”

“We have our own jet?”

--Time Skip--

“Spencer,” I said, looking at the photos of one of the victim’s injuries. “These can’t be taser or stun gun marks.”

“Why,” the doctor in front of us asked. 

“They usually burn the skin around the radius of the mark,” I replied. “There’s no burn mark.”

“Did the victim report a metallic taste in her mouth,” Spencer asked as Malcolm looked over my shoulder at the photos. 

“They’re probably snake bites,” Malcolm noted, cutting the doctor off a little bit. “Blood tests would show if there was any venom present.”

Spencer turned around and listed off a few blood tests that I could never remember. I closed the file. 

“A snake as a way to subdue a victim, that’s risky,” I said, looking at Malcolm.

“Hot day, lock the snake in the car, and wait,” he mumbled. “It leaves a lot to chance. This is the element that matters. There’s no way a snake is a weapon of opportunity.”

“If it’s a dangerous reptile, there’d be records of licenses,” I said as we followed Spencer out of the hospital. “Once we have the kind of snake, we could ask Garcia to cross-reference.”

“Except if it was bought on the black market,” Malcolm added. 

“You do not know Garcia,” I smirked, picking up my pace to keep up with Spencer. Damn this boy and his gazelle legs. 

“She seems delightful,” Malcolm shrugged. None of us spoke again until we were in the car. “So... why does this guy choose body modification? Why specifically the scarring? Surely tattoos would have a similar effect to the women’s self-worth.”

“I don’t know yet,” Spencer replied. “I say we relay what we know to the team and see what they say.”

We both nodded, waiting for him to start the car.

--Time Skip--

I wondered why my heart could beat so fast yet I could look so calm when we got to crime scenes. It was like my fear responses stopped halfway. I’m sure there was a reason for it but there are some things you think about but don’t really want the answers to. 

I took a deep breath as the car stopped. I unbuckled quickly. We had split up. Matt, J.J, Malcolm, and me in one car; Rossi, Spencer, and Luke in the other. Emily stayed back at the police station to help us out as much as possible. 

Matt and J.J went around the back to keep watch. Malcolm and I got to the front door. I was just about to lay my hand on the doorknob so we could be smart about this...

and then Malcolm sprinted in. No count, no warning, he just ran in without any warning.

“Malcolm,” I hissed, following him quickly. What the hell was wrong with him. 

I barely got there at the same time as him when he busted the door down. 

“F.B.I,” I shouted, actually doing my job. I followed him inside.

He didn’t have his gun aimed. Did he have it out when he first ran in? I kept my gun fixed on Desi- the unsub- who was just staring at us. Her mom tied to a chair and her sister trapped on one of the seats you’d see in a tattoo parlor.

“Desi, drop the knife,” Malcolm said, holding his gun up. 

“You- You don’t know what she did to me,” she replied.

“We do,” he nodded. “We know about the neglect and... and the abuse.”

“I was so scared,” she was whispering.

“Who wouldn’t be,” I asked. “You were just a kid-”

“I tried so hard to erase any sign of her,” she continued. “And there she is on the front page. They think she’s perfect.”

My eyes drifted towards the snakes in the room. 

“The perfect woman! The perfect mother! They don’t know what she’s capable of... what I’m capable of.”

“We know,” Malcolm nodded, grinning at her. “I also know that if you surrender and we walk out of here, everyone else will know too. She’ll have to live with that. Isn’t that what you wanted? For your mom to live with the shame of all of this?”

Desi went to move forward, towards the snakes.

“Desi,” I said firmly. She stopped... for a moment. She then ran at the container, shoving it towards the ground before sprinting out the other door. 

“Help her mom,” I shouted, walking over to her sister. “Hey, stay with me, yeah? We’re gonna get you help.”

I went to call for an ambulance, only stopping for a second when I heard gunshots. I shook it off, calling the ambulance before helping her sister up and out of the room. Malcolm had already left with her mom.

--Time Skip--

We were all on the jet later that night. Some of the team was playing poker, others just relaxing. I was lounging on the small jet couch, cradling a mug of tea. 

“Hey,” Malcolm said softly, sitting next to me. I nodded as a way to acknowledge him. “I’ve only known you for a few days but I can already tell that silence is not a good sign.”

“You ran into the house with any regard for safety,” I replied. “Your gun wasn’t drawn, you didn’t wait for back-up and was just lucky I was there, and you ran into an active crime scene without announcing that you were the F.B.I.”

“I did almost everything wrong.”

“Pretty much,” I sighed. “But you did a good job reasoning with Desi. As good of a job as any of us probably could.”

“Well, I’m sorry about what happened... but can I ask something?”

“Yeah.”

“Why are you so worried,” he asked. “I’d say you were angry but you aren’t displaying all of the signs of anger and you can’t just be nervous about the unsub because the event is over with.”

“I was the new kid before you,” I explained, already questioning whether or not I was ready to talk about this. “Around the same time I joined, Stephen Walker did. The team was looking for this serial killer that called himself Mr. Scratch. We thought we had found him and we knew the house was safe... we thought we were gonna catch him. Then, I think he laid spike in the road. Our cars crashed into each other. It was bad. Emily was kidnapped, the rest of us unconscious... except for Stephen. He died in that accident before they’d even found the cars. I had to tell his wife. I couldn’t even look to my right on my way home because her tears had stained my shirt. I lost the person I was closest to on the team.”

“Now you see another new kid running into snake dens like it’s no big deal,” Malcolm concluded. I nodded.

“It makes me really nervous,” I looked down. 

“I’m sorry,” he replied quietly. I shook my head.

“It’s alright,” I looked back up at him. “Just... please don’t do something like that again.”

“... I’ll do my best.”

I chuckled at his hesitation. If all went well, Malcolm would fit in just fine.

--Time Skip (In Between Seasons 14 & 15)--

“Hey,” I said as Malcolm walked over to his desk. He had yet another meeting with Emily and Cruz. This time it went a step further. “How’d it go?”

“I had a meeting to explain my actions,” he explained, grabbing his go-bag. It was pretty much the only thing he had at his desk. “And they fired me.”

“What,” I asked. I bit the inside of my cheek.

“Are you surprised that it happened or are you surprised that it happened?”

“You did punch a sheriff,” I trailed off. 

Malcolm nodded and started walking toward the elevator. I stood up and followed him quickly.

“Where are you gonna go,” I asked.

“Probably back to New York,” he shrugged. “My mom wants me back there anyway.”

“Oh,” I nodded. I wanted him to stay closer. I wanted to see him. I looked down nervously as we waited for the elevator. “It’s gonna be boring without you here.”

“Always kept you on your toes,” he chuckled. The elevator dinged. “You should come visit. Just give me a call.”

“Okay,” I replied. I was going to just wave but then jumped when Malcolm quickly kissed my cheek and stepped into the elevator. I could only watch in shock as the elevator doors closed. 

“Did that just happen,” Garcia asked, walking over to me.

“Oh my god,” I whispered, looking at her. “Oh my god!”

“Go talk to him,” she shouted as the other elevator opened. I ran in, waving at her and telling her to let Emily know where I went.

What I didn’t see was J.J walk up to Garcia after the elevator doors closed.

“What’s (Y/n) doing,” she asked. Garcia just grinned. 

“Proving that you owe me twenty bucks,” she replied.

“No he didn’t,” J.J said. Garcia nodded.��“I’m waiting for (Y/n) to confirm that before I give you money.”

“(Y/n) might still be in shock when they get up here.”

...and maybe I was.

----------------------------------------------------

Masterlist

What I Write For

Request Guidelines

Musical Prompts

Small Moments With…

When Worlds Collide (Doctor Who Crossover Series) Masterlist

Some Original Characters

folklore/evermore Writing Challenge (and Masterlist)

[pomegranates-and-blood]

In another life

My Masterlist

Pairing: Ivar/Reader, Ivar/Awful Life Choices

Summary: Ragnarök has come for all of them, the Seer’s words to Ivar prove right, and he wonders on what the world ending truly means when he has already lost it all.

Word Count: 2.5k

Warnings: Mentions of death, descriptions of violence and death, major character death, angst (or my best attempt at it anyways, but this ain’t a happy story), and my terrible writing.

A/N: So, the world ending, right? Charming thing to write about. I just really like the idea of reincarnation and yeah, here goes. The quote is by cynthiago, you can find it here.

In this universe, the Heathen Army conquered Northumbria and Mercia and it kept raiding for longer than in the show. In this universe, no Freydis. Björn was made King of Kattegat by undirectly, as a result of helping Lagertha defeating Ivar, who took to the Silk Roads with the Reader chracter , and found the Rus and thus, shitshow.

Not long ago he was just like this, sitting before his chariot, covered in blood, and facing an army that hesitated at the sight of him.

But this time, this time is different.

There’s no Viking army to support him, there’s no Ubbe or Hvitserk to fight beside him, there’s no…there’s no victory.

There’s no chariot at his back, only splintered wood.

He remembers the Wise One’s words, so many years ago when he told Ivar of his Fate: your chariot lies as broken as your legs, a snake has settled in your skull, your eyes betray you.

He hears laughter, or at least it sounds like it in his head. The cackles that left his lips as Christians died before him, the mocking giggle of that Rus as he forced his hand, the warm laugh you breathed by his ear as you promised to marry him.

A cruel twist of Fate, or maybe just his arrogance playing against him, but he realizes now none of it happened in the order the Seer spoke it.

“There has to be more to it than…this, don’t you think?” You ask, eyes on the horizon before you. Ivar moves closer, pressing a kiss on your bare shoulder and silently demanding your attention returns to him.

It doesn’t, and it irks him more than he should let it by now.

But, he gathers, a part of him will always want you, want your attention, your touch, your eyes meeting his. He can’t imagine a day he won’t want to have you in his arms, just like he refuses to imagine the day he can’t.

You agreed to marry him once a deal with Alfred is struck and the war can pause, he reminds himself of that with a familiar warmth spreading through his chest. You’ll be his wife, only his.

The memory of your warm laugh as you embraced him and whispered your promises to be bound to him before the Gods and your families -or what was left of them- makes him want to have you all to himself, to feel nothing but you for hours on end.

But, because you asked a question, and because even the slightest of rejections, even one born out of genuine curiosity for an answer, Ivar knows will make him lash out; he replies,

“All that’s left that isn’t ours is Wessex, love.”

You shake your head, “I mean…more than these years we have here. More than this life.”

“Valhalla?”

“Maybe,” You muse, and your eyes return to the horizon. “Maybe there’s more to life than this. Maybe…maybe we get to live again.”

“Like those Eastern men say? We…return?” Ivar questions, the beginning of a mocking smile teasing at his lips before he bites it back, aware of the seriousness in your expression.

You were always one to question everything and nothing. Why an axe curves that way, why Freyja favors cats, why Vikings must be bound to these lands.

Why the world is so big and life so short.

You and Björn have that in common, he guesses. Though you don’t have the thirst for discovery his brother does, instead you just look for…transcendence.

“Maybe we’ll meet in another life.” You seal your promise, your hope, with a kiss against his lips, and smile.

His eyes stay trained on your inviting lips even as he argues, “But you know where we go when we die.”

“Valhalla, Ragnarök, it all may mean something else,” You whisper back, “Things are not as literal as you think they are, Ivar.”

“What does Ragnarök mean to you then?”

“The end of the world,” You reply without hesitation, a slight waver in your voice, “But the world ends every day for someone different.”

It is only then he realizes your eyes are not on the horizon, but on the trails of smoke left by the burning pyres of those lost in the fight.

Ivar can still remember your warmth. You were so…alive, so warm and free and so alike fire.

He spent most of his younger years breathing life to that fire, making you clench your hands into fists and get that adorable little frown with well-placed taunts and jabs.

Gods, you even felt like fire under his fingertips when he touched you, he can still remember how your touch scalded and soothed away years of pain and anger and loss. You kissed him and it felt like the cold that made the bones in his legs ache never existed, you touched him and it felt as if he’d never again know what it was like to be alone.

You’d promise love against his skin in fervent kisses that left their mark even after so many years, and for every time he’d tell you how being loved by you felt like the best kind of wildfire, you’d tell him being loved by him felt like the soothing embrace of ice over a burn, like a relief after a lifetime with bare feet on burning coal.

And he wishes he had believed you.

For so long he thought his eyes to deceive him when it came to you, when it came to the proof of your love and your loyalty. For so long, he wasted so much time fearing you’d leave him, betray him.

Now you haunt him.

Your eyes are big and filled with tears as you look at him, but he refuses to give away his own weakness, instead gritting his teeth and looking at you with nothing but fury and poison.

“If I don’t kill you, you’ll…”

“I’ll kill you, and I’ll make it painful.” Ivar promises, voice hoarse not because you threaten his life with your sword - the sword he gifted you, back in a time when you were cruel enough to pretend to love him- at his throat, but because he knows only one of you will leave this room alive.

You shake your head, and your head drops, your back curves with a sob that still tugs at a pathetic and stupid part of his heart.

“You’ll kill us all,” You whisper, and though your voice trembles, the grip on the sword grows tighter, more certain, “You’ll be the end of our world, if I don’t stop you.”

“Then stop me.” He dares, and Gods, he wants your eyes back on his. It is the end, and he realizes what you meant when you said the world ends many times for many people.

“Don’t make me do this.” You beg, but he doesn’t think you’re talking to him. Maybe Fate, maybe the Gods, he doesn’t know.

“You’re not strong enough to kill me.” Ivar offers, more softly than he should. But it is true, and you both know it. And when your gaze -finally- returns to his, he sees it written in the tears that stream down your cheeks, in the helpless and furious shine of your eyes.

“But I am strong enough to defend my people.” You state, resolute, and though you lower your sword with a shaky breath, Ivar still feels the threat of sharp steel at his throat, but for completely different reasons.

Cold grips at his heart, fear and dread.

“You will not leave me.” He states, voice as certain as it has ever been, and yet it still tastes of desperation, still feels like the lie a madman tells himself.

“I know your ways of war, my love. If anyone, I am the only weapon our people have in fighting against you and these Rus.”

“I will not let you betray me!” He yells, but you don’t react, you only step closer.

The sword makes a clanking noise as you drop it that rattles inside his head.

Your eyes fill with tears, or maybe his do, he doesn’t know anymore.

Your smile is sad, but it still speaks of days spent with you safe in his arms, of nights when your voice by his ear was the one thing that kept him from breaking, of a life that he thought you’d be able to have.

His eyes flutter shut when your hand lifts to his face, dainty and delicate fingers tracing the newest of scars. He curses his weakness, and he forces his eyes to open and meet yours, if only because it may be the last time he can.

Your lips breathe a kiss over his.

“Only death would stop me.”

And with five words and one movement of his hand, his world ends.

Ivar watches as the warriors make way for one of their own. A leader, maybe.

He extends his arms at his sides, even if his ribs keep him from breathing, even if his arms shake, even if he doesn’t see on one eye from the blood that pours from the deep cut on his head. He taunts him, dares him to attack like he did so long ago in a city they have long since lost.

The warrior swirls a sword in his hand, and drops the shield he was holding, eyes set on Ivar. Ivar knows he won’t win.

You did always say he realized his mistakes too late.

You were the only one he ever admitted to any regret, so when the devastating realization of what the war he had brought to his homeland meant for his people and the Gods themselves dawned on him, he had no one to talk to but the wind.

It has been like that for a long time. He doesn’t remember any more how long it has been since…since.

Maybe it is better this way, that no one is there to know how many regrets he carries with him to wherever the Gods will take him. Maybe it is better they think of Sigurd’s death as the cold act of a man that can love nothing, and not the rash action that cost him something he didn’t know he held dear. Maybe it is better they think the war he brought with the Rus at his back is the ruthless planning of a man that would burn it all for a throne, and not the stupid mistake of a king with no kingdom and too much arrogance to see when he was walking into a trap.

Maybe it is better they think your death was the certain and inevitable action of a monster that can’t love anything more than his own ambitions, and not the act of desperation and fear that cost him everything.

The man in front of him steps closer, without fear, without hesitation.

He lost someone. Ivar knows that glint in his eyes. The man wants revenge.

He wouldn’t be the only one. For all the Rus and their games took from him, for all the Saxons and their God have cost him, why should he have allowed any of them to have anything to call their own? No, they deserved to suffer, to feel what it is like to have the world end with a whimper, to know what happens to those who take what is his.

He doesn’t feel any shame -even though he knows you would, you would blink big and sad eyes his way and whisper about mercy and softness and goodness, as if any of those saved you-, and he didn’t feel any then, when he ordered his men to kill the children, to take the wives and hang them for them all to see along the edges of the battlefield; when he led raids and had them burn the villages to ash; when he laughed and laughed until all that was left was raw throat and hoarse sobs as they lost it all, just like he did.

He manages to hook the curved edge of the axe behind the man’s knee, and brings him down to his level, moving quickly and attempting to ignore the pain of broken legs, of cut and bruised body, as he settles over him, letting the axe find a home in the man’s eye.

A scream, pained and guttural, and the man strikes back, trying to move him back but unable to do so.

Ivar feels the piercing and sudden sting of the blade that goes through him, like his did so long ago, to too many people that were undeserving of that fate. But it is with a smile he greets his Fate, his death.

He kills that man, and drops beside him as if their Gods, their wars, stopped mattering, and made them equal. There are no kings, no commanders, no Vikings and no Christians. Only two dead men in a rundown city, and an army that watches in silence.

With gasping and broken breaths, he looks with blind eyes up at the sky, and he knows he will die today.

Your chariot lies as broken as your legs, a snake has settled in your skull, your eyes betray you.

The Seer was right, he always was. Ragnarök came for them all, their world as they know it will end. And the end isn’t far, both for the golden age of the Vikings and for Ivar.

His eyes always betrayed him; he has learned that. Seeing shadows and betrayals where there was none, seeing tricks and lies where there was only truth. For a long time holding on to the certainty that it hadn’t been his fault, he believed it meant seeing love and loyalty in your eyes when you were only playing with him. He knows now, has known for a while, it meant seeing in the smile you pressed against his lips the life he wanted you both to build, and not the strain of a woman pulled between her love for him and her love for her people.

Ivar believed for so long the snake that settled in his skull was you, with your soft touches and your warmth and your love; he was blinded with his own hate and fury, so certain in this self-fulfilling prophecy of his that you could never love him, that it was all a trick. Gods, you were right beside him telling him not to trust Oleg, not to turn his back on his -your- people, and he didn’t listen. The snake that settled in his skull cost him all he had left, the one he had loved above anyone else. He made sure to make him suffer before he died, he would fight this endless and already-lost war for a thousand years for a chance to make Oleg pay for it again.

But, at the end, it wasn’t Oleg’s knife piercing your heart, was it?

His body shakes, and he cannot stop it, he cannot control his breathing and Gods, he is dying.

He looks up at the sky, the sky that remained the same when you died in his arms with love on your lips and regret in your eyes, the sky that remains the same now as the last of the battles for life as they know it is lost.

And Ivar thinks -hopes, he hopes like he hasn’t hoped for anything in such a long time- that maybe you were right after all. Ragnarök isn’t darkness and chaos for them all, for the world ends each day a different way for everyone. The Gods know his world ended on a cold night years ago, and has ended again every day since.

Maybe Valhalla is nothing but another chance to live again.

He murmurs your name with a ragged breath that leaves his lungs at last, and pleads that if the Gods hear him, they will let him see you again. In another life.

____

So, I hope you liked it! I would really love to hear your thoughts on this, it has been boinking around in my head for a while, the idea of reincarnation and of the Seer’s prophecy about Ivar.

Anyhow, this is thought out to be the first part of a two (or more, but still short) series, where I dip my toe on the modern/soulmate!au. It can, of course, end here, because I tried writing it to be a standalone if moderns are not your thing.

If you guys are interested, I can write the next part(s), tho it could take a lil while cause I have a lot of stuff to do writing-wise, atm.

Thank you so much, I love you all! <3

[fancytrinkets]

First kiss cutscene (Dorian/Trevelyan - location changed)

The sun is low in the sky when Dorian approaches the gates of Redcliffe.

"You didn't have to wait for me," he says. "I would've made my way back to camp on my own."

He sounds exhausted.

"I know," Trevelyan says as he hops down from the stone wall where he's been sitting. "But Cassandra asked me to check this place thoroughly, so I've been talking to the locals. I helped a few of them and got a free lunch out of it. Not bad, for a day."

Dorian doesn't answer. He seems inclined towards silence. Understandable, Trevelyan thinks, for someone who's just spent hours in conversation with the parent who would have forcibly altered him by way of blood magic. Trevelyan follows his lead and stays quiet. As they pass through the gates, the long shadows of late afternoon stretch out on the road before them. The day fades to evening so beautifully in this wild, green countryside. Trevelyan is content to take in the landscape, not saying another word.

Once they've walked for a while — more than halfway to their campsite — it's Dorian who breaks the silence between them.

"So let me see if I understand this properly," he says. "You're telling me that the leader of the Inquisition spent his time running frivolous errands for villagers all day long?"

Trevelyan grins at him, thoroughly overjoyed to be teased so unexpectedly.

"Frivolous errands? How dare you — I assisted the locals in an adventurous fashion," he says.

"Adventurously gathered elfroot, did you?"

"The mockery hurts," Trevelyan says, entirely insincerely. "I'm a sensitive man."

"Oh, are you? I'll bear that in mind," Dorian says.

Trevelyan doesn't fail to notice the look Dorian gives him — a quick, appreciative once over — before turning his attention back to the road ahead.

"I'll have you know, my adventures took me all over the Hinterlands. I gathered quite a few varieties of herb — not only elfroot. And after that I tracked down a lost sheep for its distraught human companion."

"How thrilling that must have been for you."

"Mmhm. Lord Woolsley. May he rest in peace." Trevelyan presses his hand to his chest as though he's sincerely moved by the loss.

This has the intended effect of piquing Dorian's curiosity.

"Wait — the sheep died?" he asks. "After you rescued it? Or did you somehow manage to kill it in the attempt?"

Trevelyan grins and evades the question by heaping rapturous praise upon Lord Woolsley.

"Dorian, you should have seen this majestic animal. Wool like the color of the sky at sunset — reds and oranges, a hint of purple. He was wily, too, but I tracked him down, way high up in the hills. He didn't want to go home, but I figured out how to nudge him along with a spell or two."

"So you accidentally killed this animal with your magic?"

Trevelyan gasps in mock indignation.

"Don't insult me, I have better control than that!" he says. "I killed him on purpose because he turned out to be a rage demon in disguise."

Dorian groans. "Were you sitting around all afternoon thinking up this ridiculous story?"

Trevelyan's about to explain that it really happened. It sounds like a fabrication, to be sure — but like most things that have occurred so far in Redcliffe, the truth is stranger than stories. He pauses, however, when he sees that Dorian's expression has shifted. The amiable facade falters, and beneath it, he looks truly devastated.

"Are you alright?" Trevelyan asks.

"No," Dorian says. "Not really."

And Trevelyan would leave it at that, if asked. But instead Dorian stops at the edge of the empty road, turns towards him, and opens up about all of it — how it felt, and still feels, to have been rejected and betrayed so thoroughly by his own father. And then, to Trevelyan's utter surprise, he apologizes — both for dragging the Inquisition into a private issue and for the things Halward said and assumed about Trevelyan personally. He apologizes for putting his own rage on display in a humiliating spectacle.

"I can't imagine what you must think of me now."

For a second, Trevelyan's left at a loss for words.

How could Dorian possibly think that any of this reflects badly on him? To Trevelyan, it's quite the opposite — a true measure of his strength and resolve. It's also the confirmation of everything he's been feeling towards Dorian thus far. Attraction and camaraderie are wonderful things, but his feelings go well beyond both — Trevelyan deeply admires this man. 

It's time to tell him so.

He puts his thoughts to words, not as eloquently as he'd like, but he manages to convey the sentiment. The effect of those words upon Dorian is immediate. His troubled expression changes to relief. He smiles, and looks genuinely hopeful. The next thing Dorian says is about the importance of staying true to what's in your heart. It's fucking romantic, is what it is — and Trevelyan's not about to let the moment pass unanswered. He steps forward, palms up, entreating. He's not even sure what he's asking for until Dorian meets him halfway. 

Before Trevelyan's thoughts can catch up with him, he's holding the man and being held. Standing at the edge of the road under a darkening sky, he kisses Dorian for the first time. It's more gentle than anything he's imagined. Trevelyan's fantasies — when he's alone at night with the privacy to indulge himself — have been lustful and unrestrained. He's imagined nothing of the soft, almost tentative way they take hold of each other. Dorian seems cautious in this, and Trevelyan meets that caution with a kiss that's well-paced to be careful and slow. Their mouths open not to devour in a passionate frenzy, but to taste and to savor. 

Oh, Trevelyan thinks, I've missed this.

Because while he does remember the last time that kissing someone lit a spark in him with this same intensity, it's been years since it's happened. 

Trevelyan pulls back, not because he wants it to stop — quite the opposite in fact. He'd like to begin moving lower, kissing along the line of that beautiful jaw, learning what sounds of pleasure he can wring from this man by kissing his throat. But he steps back to check in and make sure this isn't too much too fast on an already overwhelming day.

Dorian doesn't look troubled at all. But he shivers as Trevelyan pulls away, and it's unfortunately not from the good kind of chills. With the sun gone down, the temperature has dropped precipitously.

"You know, I'm much more skillful at this when I'm not freezing half to death in the wilderness."

"We can pick this up again back at Skyhold," Trevelyan says. "I mean, if you'd like?"

"I would like."

"Good," Trevelyan says. "So would I."

(I really love these two in a solid, friendship-based romance. Read more of my long, weird fic here if you like)

[justsasuke]

Here’s the thing about Kakashi. He’s quite possibly Konoha’s worst (yes, you read that right) worst Sensei. Mostly due to the fact that he’s so caught up in his guilt and past that he literally had nothing to give his students.

I’m not saying this to hate on Kakashi, he’s his own person with very valid struggles and I don’t want to slam him bc of his life experiences, but for the purpose of this here writing I’m going to ignore Kakashi’s right to be stuck in the past and talk about why he isn’t qualified to do the job the 3rd Hokage assigned him. Specifically in relation to Sasuke (bc let’s be real, after shippuden started was Kakashi really Naruto and Sakura’s sensei anymore? also this blog is about Sasuke so if you’re expecting any other type of content IDK how to help you)

Let me start by saying Kakashi had a lot of potential to help Sasuke out; they come from somewhat similar backgrounds - prominent families in the village that at some point were no longer favorable to the village, and then losing said families.  Both were child prodigies and (I assume) had a lot of external pressure to live up to and not enough time to work through their own feelings...

you’d think with everything they had in common Kakashi could have used his experiences to relate to Sasuke and then guide him down a much healthier path--but instead he only made things worse.

and here’s where we get into the main meat of this rant and my list of reasons why Kakashi was a horrible sensei (grab some popcorn bc I’m about to go off)

1) Kakashi identifies Sasuke’s issues early...and then does nothing. without a doubt, Kakashi knew who Sasuke was.  He knew what had happened to the Uchiha clan, and he could probably imagine what kind of pain Sasuke was going through and yet when Sasuke very openly admits that he doesn’t have any purpose for his future except to avenge his clan Kakashi simply makes a mental note that it was ‘just as he thought’

2) Kakashi doesn’t really say anything nice... your mileage may vary with this one, and of course it’s a matter of personal taste, but Kakashi doesn’t say anything nice about Sasuke.  Not to his face anyway.  and it’s not just that he isn’t nice, he taunts him too. To a regular person this may not cause much damage, but we have to look at the fact that Sasuke has grown up alone and un-nurtured for the last 5 years and that the last person who was important in his literally told him that he was worthless and unfit for anything (hello root cause of Sasuke’s insecurity) Kakashi’s words then become really destructive and damaging to any chance he had of creating a safe space for Sasuke to open up and feel looked after/get the help he needed

3) Kakashi didn’t get it This happens during the infamous treetop chat, where he literally ties Sasuke to the tree so he can say what he wants to say. (red flag right there bc honestly what is with this village and constantly trying to force Sasuke to do what they want him to do without actually taking the time to listen to him or address his problems directly.  Seriously.  Also why are you waiting until just now to reach out to him when you’ve known he’s been struggling since day one.  see #1 on this rant)

I hate this scene because it’s a really good moment outside of the context of, well, Sasuke and all that he is and has been through. It was meant to be a call to reality scene where Kakashi helps Sasuke see that he’s not alone in his suffering, that he has friends who care about him, that leaving the village isn’t going to help him, and his life situation isn’t actually all that bad. (can you spot the sarcasm?)

Spoiler alert: this scene is another example of people who thought they understood Sasuke and knew how to help, which is not the same as actually understanding him and knowing how to help. See also Naruto, Sakura, and Gaara to name the most prominent other ones.

4) “sure, but everyone I ever loved is already dead... :)” Ok listen.  I get where Kakashi is coming from, I really do. but this line.  I hate it. Again, it’s a great line out of context of everything Sasuke is dealing with. And yeah, I can see why Kakashi thought it might help. But just to recap, Sasuke’s entire clan, his immediate family, probably the bulk of his friends because Bigotry™, his extended family, everything he’s known and loved and held dear, his security, the family culture he grew up with, any promise of a bright future etc. was taken away from him by his older brother whom he loved more than anything in one night.  He literally lost everything that would help him gain any sort of bearing of identity and sense of worth, not to mention anyone to love him, in one night.  and it was taken by the person he loved most, someone he trusted and looked up to and believed in.  And then that person told him he was completely worthless. Kakashi on the other hand lost his best friend during a ninja mission (a devastating loss but common within the context of everyone being ninja and it being wartime), and lost his father and other friend/crush? to suicide. All very real pains, but different than Sasuke’s.  

Sasuke’s lash out of “what if I killed everyone you ever cared about” was a plea for someone to understand the kind of agony he was carrying everyday, and Kakashi--who honestly out of everyone else should have sensed a need to sit and listen--ignored it by taking the opportunity to invalidate Sasuke’s very specific pain.

5) Kakashi kind of ....gave up? At some point it seems like Kakashi just gave up trying to help Sasuke and decided that it was unavoidable and inevitable that Sasuke was going to “go bad” and leave the village. I mean, he noticed it on day one, right? (srry, I’m salty about that one if you couldn’t tell).

6) Except he didn’t At some point he decides that as Sasuke’s sensei he should be the one to take responsibility for Sasuke going “bad” and kill him. Forget talking to him, forget apologizing for not taking the time to talk to him earlier, he decided that he’s going to fight Sasuke and “take care of the problem once and for all”.

I could go on, but at this point I think I should stop and take a really, really long walk. In summary:  While you’d expect Kakashi to have seen and treated Sasuke differently he didn’t, and while he was set up to be the perfect mentor character to Sasuke (Naruto got Jiraiya so you’d think Kakashi would’ve stepped in to help Sasuke more) he really fell flat. Overall as a sensei I think he was too bogged down with his own pain and survivor’s guilt to really be present, and maybe he was too scared to help Sasuke grow because he thought if he fed the fire it would only get worse. In any case, other than teaching Sasuke chidori, Kakashi was really detached from Sasuke’s struggles except when he thought it had gone too far.  And by then it was too late to do any good. I think if he had stepped in a little more, listened a little more, helped Sasuke channel his feelings productively, maybe even helped Sasuke work through said feelings, things could’ve been great. He could’ve been the Iruka to Sasuke’s Naruto, you know?   but he wasn’t.

[morimallow]

wah... hinata with a f!reader that goes from friendship to dating to wait actually i’m in love with this person. oh jesus christ

*squints and whispers* I was just thinking of Hinata as a lover a while ago and then received this ask.. Gasps, were you reading my mind? Ooooh, also, I have a boy bestfriend since my first year of high school and I had a crush on him for a bit until I decided to just continue being friends (I didn’t confess, LOL) but our friends said we were acting like a couple. I’m talking shit so let’s just go on with this. ajhduehfjdhvdkjoigeyeu

This is from high school!Hinata to time skip so beware of major spoilers! ^o^

That's How It's Always Been

Everyone considered you and Hinata inseparable.

Of course you'd start as friends, that's just how Hinata is. You can't resist him whether you're that isolated student in the back of the room or the captain of a sports club, a member of the Alien Society Club, or the one Hinata grew up with. The one thing that made you a bit more special than the others is how you ride with his.. his recklessness.

Hinata's the type of guy to just randomly voice out his thoughts and what he would like to do, probably got it from Tendou or worse, he enhanced this doing of Hinata.

Who else would Hinata go skinny dipping with in the swimming pool behind a crappy hotel? Who does he call at 3AM asking what's the correct spelling for egg and why it's double g? Who's the one being pampered because he felt sorry for letting you stay up late? Who's the one who went to all of his volleyball practice matches and official tournaments? Who's the one who mindlessly agreed to dating her best friend? You, it's always been you since the very start.

It's not uncommon for someone within your circle of friends to be the one to suggest things you and Hinata might want to do but on a particular day at lunch, one scoffed and jokingly said, “Why don't the both of you just date already and see if you'd go straight to marriage?”

You guys don’t actually do things immediately after an idea comes up. Of course you’d question and answer each other’s questions. People at your table were looking at the both of you as if asking if they’re seriously considering to date.

“I mean, we have nothing to lose, right? We’ve been together for so long so dating would be a piece of cake!” Hinata said to you enthusiastically, ignoring your other friends. 

You thought of an answer by imagining how Hinata would act when you’re dating and an idea comes to mind, “This means free food!” you exclaimed and you turned to your friends, “Right? That’s what people who are dating do, right?”

By then, your friends just went on with the idea because you’ve always denied your feelings and they’ve concluded that you both just didn’t realize it yet which is quite dumb because you’re all over each other and the other one sulks when the other one is away. They just want the both of you to finally be officially together.

And so, dating begins.

When you realized nothing changed in the way you treated each other, you remembered the time your friends said you look like a couple so that’s probably it.

He would wait for your class to finish then would spend lunch together, you walk him to the gym after a reasonable amount of arguing because he wanted to walk you to your next class, you’d go out on weekends or study together which always ends up with the both of you goofing around. He would text you before and after a volleyball match. He would sometimes call, too, because, “Nothing, I’m not used to this, you know? We’re always together so I’m kind of homesick.”

“Homesick? Sho, we learned about this. If you’re homesick, call your mother or Natsu─”

“I consider you my home too, you know?” he said cutting you off. You were shocked and needed the time to process that one single line of his but you know Hinata can’t be on the line for so long, they still have to do their warm-ups so you stuttered a response, “E-Eh? I mean, I consi─”

“Ah, Y/N, we have to go! Wish me luck, okay? Cheer me on… darling.” Call ended.

Can’t he be more subtle? You were now as red as a tomato. First, he considered you his home and then, he called you darling?! Panic. Mess. Your mind is a total mess, it’s jumbled, it was flipped upside down.

He had been calling you some endearments he searched up on the internet because he’s been calling you by your first name since the day he remembers. Then you remembered you didn’t have the chance to tell him you consider him as your home too.

They lost.

They lost and you wanted to talk to him but you know he won’t like that. He had received more than enough pitiful looks and the only thing he wanted to see was your genuine and comforting warmth. He didn’t need your words because it all shows in your actions that you want to suffer with him, you want him to share his burden to you because that’s how it’s always been. You took care of him like the loving future girlfriend you and you blushed at the thought. You know Hinata will become a bigshot popstar-like person in the future.

You were cuddling on a picnic mat in the middle of a grass park not far away from his home in the middle of the night. You made sure he wore enough layers because he was still running a fever. He had his eyes closed but he isn’t asleep, he’s just savoring the moment and taking his time to accept what had happened.

You admired his face, half covered with a mask because he doesn’t want you to be infected, shamelessly that you propped your chin on his chest while your arm is hugging his torso, unconsciously pulling him to you or pushing yourself closer to him because he won’t budge.

“Are you warm?” you asked in a silent whisper, scared to ruin the atmosphere, scared to ruin his train of thoughts but you really wanted to check on him.

He didn’t open his eyes. Instead, he turned to his side, making you bury your face in his chest, “I don’t know if it’s because of my fever but…it’s warmer. We’re warmer, Y/N. I like this.” Little did you know that it was warmer because you were craving for each other’s heat.

This wasn’t an ordinary cuddle between friends but you won’t dwell on that thought. You guys have always been friends since the start.

It’s a good thing it’s dark out, the only source of light was the moon and a couple of streetlights. You fisted the back of his shirt, afraid that he might go away ─ that this was all a dream, you blushed. No, this can’t be. You always hug Shoyo like this. It’s normal for friends, right? This is just an overwhelming feeling because it has been a devastating week full of fails, losses, and self-doubts. Yeah, maybe that’s just it.

“Hey, Sho?” The calming blanket of the cold night enveloped the both of you; the leaves were swaying softly to the gentle beat of the wind. Shoyo hummed to acknowledge you, he was too tired to talk. He just wanted to sleep with you in his arms like usual during sleepovers.

“Remember the deal we made when we were kids?” you were being shy and you wanted to slap yourself because of it. That’s your best friend! Why would you be shy?

Shoyo stopped breathing for a second. You guessed it was because he was caught off-guard or maybe he was thinking of which one but you don’t hesitate to think that he knows that deal. It was too big and life-changing.

“I won’t take it back. If we’re both still single when we’re 30, I’ll marry you. You better find a husband fast because you’ll be stuck with me forever if you won’t,” he laughed lightly. It was hard for him to mutter the last part. Half of him wanted you to himself but he thinks it’s because he’s used to you being a part of his life ─ no, his entire life and he wouldn’t mind spending the rest with you. He’s your best friend after all, it’s normal.

You slowly closed your eyes, a small smile ghosting your lips, “I don’t mind,” you whispered.

“Alright, alright. I’m still sick so let’s go home,” he said as he gently grabbed your face with both of his warm hands. You looked into each other’s eyes and you both know something changed but decided to ignore it. You silently stood up and folded the picnic mat. Shoyo took it from you and tucked it under his arm.

He held your hand, “Home,” and squeezed it.

This dating went on for years until he came back from Brazil. It wasn’t easy but you both understand. You made time for him as he did for you. He made sure to never miss a single detail of his day when one of you called. There were also times you were so stressed that he tried to sing a song for you. There was one time he accidentally opened his camera just after his shower (because time is important and he wants to talk to you every time) when he took it from the sink and you saw his toned torso, “HINATA SHOYO!” you shouted from Japan. You didn’t know that wasn’t on accident, he wanted to test it out ─ advices and tips from Heitor, Nice, and the one and only Oikawa Tooru.

Kenma, Shoyo’s sponsor, asked you once if you could bring things to Shoyo in which you were baffled why you were required to go if he can just ship it to Brazil like usual.

“I only want the best for my athletes,” was his only answer which didn’t leave your mind for the next few months but still, you flew to Brazil, expenses paid by Kenma.

Brazil with Shoyo was an experience ─ a memorable one, to be exact. You heard his Portuguese getting better and better as days pass by, he would practice on you too but you’d get flustered whenever he does because you shouldn’t see your best friend like that and he would remind you that you two are, in fact, dating.

Sometimes, he would drag you in the morning so you could join him in his morning routine then an evening routine was made in just one week of staying there: romantic walks by the beach.

He couldn’t come with you to the airport but before you left his apartment, he hugged you tight and said, “Thank you for reminding me what home felt like,” then he placed a chaste kiss on your forehead.

Which leads you here now, in the bleachers with your friends back in high school. You were wearing the jersey Shoyo gave because you were his best friend and the one he’s dating, you have that privilege, he said. You didn’t mind…Carrying his name felt nice.

Maybe one day, you’ll have it─ No, no, no, not those thoughts again.

The game was fantastic. You felt proud of Shoyo because you saw how he started, how he thrived, how he worked hard to be what and where he is now. You felt like tearing up.

He would always look at the stands during timeouts to smile at you and you’d smile back. Yachi, Tsukishima, and Tadashi saw everything and said, “Whipped,” at the same time which made you blush and avoid Shoyo’s eyes.

The press crowded the court so they could interview the players and just when Shoyo was about to be interviewed, he excused himself but said he will come back. He wanted to be with you in his debut as a member of the Jackals and in being an official professional volleyball player.

So, that’s where you are, beside him with a hand placed protectively and softly on your waist as he beamed at the camera, “Okay, we can start now if that’s okay!”

They directed the first few questions to only him before they asked him who you were. Shoyo’s eyes seemed to brighten even more, “Oh, she’s my best friend and─” he stopped and smiled sheepishly, “Actually, I want to ask her something important before I continue if that’s fine with you.”

“Yes, of course. Should we stop recording?”

“Ah, no. If this goes well, I’d want everyone to know but if it doesn’t, well…that’s also fine.”

Shoyo knows you’d answer honestly, with or without cameras because that’s how it’s always been. The moment he looked into your eyes, you already knew what he would ask and you both already acknowledged the change you noticed back then in the dimly lit grass park in the middle of the night during your first year of high school because that’s how it’s always been.

“After years of dating, can I finally call you my girlfriend?”

Your lips broke into a wide smile and with springs on your heels, you jumped on him, recording cameras be damned. You just got asked by the Hinata Shoyo to be his girlfriend. He buried his face in the crook of your neck as you said yes all over again.

Shoyo remembered the press and acknowledged them once again, “Oh, right! This is Y/N, my best friend and now…also my girlfriend!”

M. List

[juju-on-that-yeet]

Unravel, Chapter 14/20

Work Summary: Antisepticeye has a plan to destroy Darkiplier, steal his power, and take over everything - and he might just succeed. What starts with Yandereplier going missing evolves into a messy web of betrayal and grief, of blood and tears, of old wounds and new faces. However this ends, Ego Inc. will never be the same again. Chapter Summary: After Anti’s devastating attack, all the egos can do is lick their wounds and mourn the ones they’ve lost. Some of them are coping worse than others. Warnings: Implied death + discussions of death, some graphic descriptions

Read on AO3

Enjoy!

~

To most of the egos, the first few days after Anti’s attack are a blur, spent in a haze of grief and despondency that turns them all into zombies. Half the egos have the nightmares that Natemare gave them to keep them up at night, the other half have the memory of Anti ripping out the hearts of their friends. Time is meaningless in the wake of those horrors, and hours can pass by with the egos doing nothing but remembering.

The only ego who truly feels each creeping second of each creeping day is Google.

Granted, that’s not true of those hours immediately after the fight. With Dr. Iplier and Plus both dead, Google is the group’s best medic, and it becomes his job to triage and help everyone. He stitches up and gives ice packs to the main group, he gives oxygen to and monitors the breathing of the weaker egos, and does what he can for the three dead. None of it is easy work. Everyone is upset, some are angry. Just when everyone has mostly stopped crying, the news of exactly what ended the battle comes out to those who weren’t there, and half of those egos start crying again at the thought of Wilford snapping Jackie and Marvin’s necks. No one blames Wilford for doing it given the circumstances, but they still grieve Jackie and Marvin, they still consider them friends, or at least friendly. When Silver hears about Jackie’s death, he goes silent. Once he’s been treated by Google, he goes to his room and stays there for three days, not even coming out to eat.

Google can’t care. Even once everyone’s injuries are treated, he still has too much to worry about. There are still duties that are now his responsibility, some that he thinks he’s doing better than others.

He has to look after Celine now, for one thing. She’s returned to the clinic once the excitement of the fight is over, and Google has to make sure her condition doesn’t change. He fashions a chip to put in her heart monitor that will alert him to any significant change in her heart rate, so that at least makes the work easier. Also in the clinic is Dr. Iplier’s body, and that’s considerably less easy to address. Google patches up the hole in his chest to the best of his ability; partly because it’s customary to fix those fatal injuries when figments die in case they come back to life, and partly because it was unnerving to look at the hole through his chest and the blood all over his body. Whenever Google looks in on him, someone is always there. Sometimes Host, sometimes Yandere, sometimes even them both together, talking to Dr. Iplier or crying or just sitting numbly. Google never watches long. It reminds him of the emotions in his own mind that he’s trying to avoid.

Those emotions start to swarm him when he’s repairing Plus and Oliver, both of whom have been placed on stretchers in his workshop for him and Chrome to repair. Anti broke up both their cores, smashing a chunk of each into tiny pieces and breaking countless metal plates and snapping countless wires as his hands went through their bodies. The only thing keeping Google from giving into the tidal wave of despair that creeps up when he looks at his little brothers is the fact that, from the neck up, they don’t look dead at all. Androids don’t go pale or rigid with death like humans do. The absence of breathing isn’t strange, either, since androids hardly need to breathe at all. If Google just looks at their faces, they could pass for being asleep. If he’s not looking at their faces, he’s looking at the holes in their chest. Stitching up Dr. Iplier was comparatively easy; Plus and Oliver are mechanical marvels, with hundreds of parts to repair, to recreate, to reorder, to replace. He has Chrome to work alongside him, but Chrome isn’t much help.

Google has been keeping his emotions down, but Chrome has not, cannot.

It’s not a surprise to Google. Chrome’s never been able to control his emotions, even when he really tried, though he usually didn’t. Now, not only are his brothers dead, but it was his hands that dealt the killing blows. It was Anti’s fault, of course, and Google knows that Chrome knows that, but it doesn’t make the guilt go away. It doesn’t make Chrome feel any better. He can hardly stand to work on his brothers, can hardly bear being in the same room as them. He either destroys his room, breaking his prototypes in half and punching the wall in directionless rage, or he wallows in despair, screaming and crying more than Google even knew he was capable of. Maybe the worst part of it all is that Google has no idea what to do about it. He doesn’t know what to say to his brother. He tries telling Chrome that he doesn’t blame him for what happened, that it wasn’t his fault, that Plus and Oliver will (hopefully) be okay, but none of it sticks. It all feels trite, even if it’s true. Chrome’s never gone to Google for comfort, they’ve never had that kind of relationship.

But Chrome and Yandere do.

Google sees them together often. It’s not a new thing to see, but things are different between them now. They both carry a grief so suffocating, so unimaginable that it might swallow them both whole if they didn’t have each other to turn to. It’s good for them both; Google is certain that Chrome would drown in his guilt and sorrow without Yandere, and he can only imagine what Yandere might do to himself if he had to bear the loss of another loved one alone. They both feel guilt for what happened during the fight with Anti. Chrome’s reasons are obvious; Google hears him describe to Yandere how he can still feel the oil on his skin, still feel the weight of his brother’s cores in his hands, still feel the curl of his fingers into the delicate machinery. Yandere has his own guilt to wrestle with as well. From what Google can gather, Dr. Iplier sacrificed himself to keep Anti from hurting Yandere, and Yandere regrets how angry and hateful he was to Dr. Iplier before his death. As upset with Dr. Iplier as he was, he never wanted anything like this. Yandere and Chrome understand each other’s grief better than anyone.

Google will walk through the control room for a screw or a metal plate, and see Chrome and Yandere on the couch there, trying to comfort each other. Sometimes Yandere will be curled in Chrome’s lap, wailing into his chest, and Chrome will be holding him, stoically stroking his hair. Other times Chrome will be the one breaking down, sobbing hard enough to need coolant refills afterwards to replace the tears, and Yandere will hug him tight, whispering gentle words into his hair. Google can’t help but be envious at how Yandere can get that close to Chrome. He wonders why it’s so hard for him to connect with his little brother, why it’s so easy for Yandere. Somehow Yandere, between fits of grief, can become Chrome’s pillar of support, and Google, despite his database of information, can’t understand it.

That is, he can’t understand until one day, when Chrome is trashing his room again and Google can’t get him to calm down. Chrome shouts over everything Google tries to say, won’t listen to the words that he can hear. Google’s so focused on trying to get through to Chrome that he doesn’t know Yandere has come into the room, attracted by the noise, until he speaks.

“Aka-kun?” he asks, “What’s going on?”

Google is a little impressed. Yandere has red, irritated eyes from crying earlier in the day, but he’s utterly fearless in the face of Chrome’s destructive rage. Upon seeing him, Chrome’s nostrils flare and he turns away, eyes still blazing red.

“Go away,” he growls, so low the air rumbles.

“I won’t,” Yandere replies, undeterred. He steps into the room alongside Google.

“Leave me alone!!” Chrome yells, punching the wall, putting the dozenth hole in it since he started this fit.

“I’m not going to,” Yandere says, a note of stubbornness entering his voice, “And I don’t think you actually want me to. Come on, look over here.”

Chrome stomps further into his room. He still hasn’t turned to look at Yandere. He says nothing.

“If you really wanted me to leave, you’d say it to my face. Come on, otouto, look at me.”

Many moments pass. Google waits for Yandere to speak again, but he doesn’t. He stays where he is, stays silent, and simply stares at Chrome, expression so gentle Google can hardly look at it. Chrome continues throwing things for a long minute, but eventually goes still again, body shaking with rage. It takes nearly another full minute for him to look back over his shoulder at Yandere. His eyes are narrowed and blinding bright red, but tears are flowing down his cheeks.

“Come here, otouto,” Yandere murmurs. If his voice were any softer, Google thinks, it would break in two.

After a few more agonizing moments, Chrome finally turns around and shuffles to Yandere. He’s no less angry, Google can tell, but he seems tired, exhausted from his own hot-blooded rage. When he reaches Yandere, he hugs him, lifting him off the ground to hold him close. It reminds Google of a child hugging a teddy bear nearly as big as they are. Unlike a teddy bear, Yandere hugs back, arms wrapping around Chrome’s neck as he lets his legs dangle. He starts talking to Chrome, whispering gently, and Chrome walks out of the room and to the couch that he and Yandere always go to, carrying Yandere with him.

Google tries to return to work on Plus and Oliver, though the whole interaction stays in his mind. It doesn’t help that his advanced hearing can pick up hints of Chrome’s muffled tears and Yandere’s whispers from the other room. That evening, when Google hears Chrome go back to his room to start cleaning up and charge for the night, he listens for Yandere to start walking out of the control room. Instead, he hears Yandere’s footsteps come closer, until he looks up to see Yandere standing in the doorway of the workshop.

“What?” Google asks. He feels a little protective, suddenly, over his two little brothers’ bodies, both laid out in full view. But Yandere doesn’t look at them, only at Google. His eyes are no longer red-rimmed, and he seems calm yet curious.

“You’ve been staring at me and Aka-kun a lot,” Yandere asks, “What’s up with that?”

Google is surprised, not just at Yandere’s boldness, but at his observation.

“Blunt, aren’t we,” is all he says in reply.

“No more than you on the average day,” Yandere scoffs, though he manages a quick grin. “Seriously, though. You’re always looking, but I can’t tell what you’re thinking when you do.”

“Must you know?”

“Well…I have a hunch.”

“Do you.”

“Yeah. So…why do you always stare?”

Google must be going nuts. All those moments of holding in his feelings must be making him loopy. He decides he might as well tell Yandere what he’s been thinking. The world has already gone so sideways, a little more crazy couldn’t hurt.

“I can’t get through to him,” Google says, not bothering to clarify who he means. “Not just today, not just when he throws fits, but not at all, ever. Not since the fight.” He looks down at Plus, who he’s currently working on. “He’s so locked in, and I can’t get through. I’ve never had to worry about him like this before, he’s never needed me like that. But he does now, and nothing I say seems to make a difference. Yet you do. He listens to you. The things you say work. How?”

There’s a pause as Yandere considers this.

“Was that your hunch?” Google asks, only a little derisive.

“Sorta,” Yandere admits. “I know from Aka-kun that you guys don’t get all, like, touchy-feely about stuff. I don’t think he minds that, that’s just how it is. But I think I know why that is, and why he goes to me for emotional stuff instead.”

“Why?” Google can’t help but ask.

“You aren’t vulnerable,” Yandere replies. “You said Aka-kun’s locked in, but so are you. Aka-kun’s told me that he hasn’t seen you cry or grieve or anything. Not that he thinks you don’t care, and I don’t think that, either. But I think he sees how you don’t, like, emote about it, and he’s internalized it. He can’t relate to you. He can’t be vulnerable to you unless he’s losing control, and I think it’s because a part of him doesn’t know if you’ll understand. Because you’ve been the cool big brother this whole time.”

“One of us has to be collected,” Google mutters, though Yandere’s words spear him deep. For someone normally so dramatic, Yandere is much more emotionally intelligent than Google would’ve guessed. “It has to be me.”

“You don’t have to fall apart or anything,” Yandere says, “Just…unlock. Open the door. Let him know you have feelings in there, and maybe then he’ll feel like he can talk to you.”

Even after Yandere leaves and night falls, his words stick. The more Google turns them over in his mind, the more he thinks Yandere’s right. From the outside, he realizes, he must look close to invincible. How could Chrome know that Google’s single-minded drive to fix his brothers and keep Ego Inc. standing is a way to chase away his own despair? But Google fears that if he tries to unlock, tries to open the door a crack to give Chrome vulnerability, that the door will swing wide open out of his hands and he’ll be just as despondent as Chrome, and then nothing will get better.

It takes another few days before Google gets an opportunity to be vulnerable, and it starts with Bing of all people.

Bing took the news of Oliver’s death hard, and the time it took Google to repair Bing’s injuries was difficult for them both. Bing steers clear of the control room for a while, and Google doesn’t care to know what he does with his time. He has enough to deal with without worrying about someone he doesn’t even like. But then Bing walks into the control room, managing to choose a moment when Google and Chrome are both there, taking a break from fixing the others.

“What are you doing here?” Chrome is first to ask, voice venomous. Google’s reaction isn’t so severe, but he isn’t happy to see Bing, either.

“I’m not here to start anything,” Bing starts, defensive. He sighs. “I just…you guys are still repairing Ollie and Plus, right?”

“Why do you ask?” Google counters, approaching Bing. Chrome follows, eyes starting to glow red.

Bing almost steps back, intimidated, but it only takes a moment for the anxiety to wash out of his eyes and replace itself with numb sadness. Google suddenly wants to look away. Bing has the same look in his eyes that Google sees every time he looks in a mirror.

“Ollie’s my best friend,” Bing says, “And I know you have him and Plus to fix, and a lot of other shit to deal with since Doc’s gone, so…” Bing steels himself, meets Google’s eyes with determination. “I wanna help you repair the others.”

Google only has a split-second to be shocked before Chrome interjects.

“No fucking way,” he snaps, “Why the hell would you offer to help us!? You hate us!”

“I want to help!” Bing insists, “Maybe I don’t like you guys, but I care about Ollie, and Ollie cares about Plus, and I’m the only other person who can fix them aside from you and Googs.”

“I’m not letting you touch my brothers in a million years!!” Chrome shouts, “How the fuck do I know you aren’t gonna do something to them, if not to Ollie then to Green!?”

“Jesus, I’m not a fucking monster!!” Bing exclaims, reeling back as though struck, “If you’re really that worried about it I can just help with Ollie and leave Plus alone!” He scoffs and shakes his head. “Just because you and Google were a dick to me when Mini Bing died doesn’t mean I’m gonna sink to your level. But I’m not gonna make you accept my help, so fine. Talk to me if you change your mind, or don’t, I tried.”

Just before he turns to leave, Google sees that numbness filter back into Bing’s eyes. Then he’s gone, walking out of the control room without looking back. Google is left stunned by the whole interaction, and turns to Chrome as soon as Bing is gone.

“What the hell was that?” he asks flatly.

“Don’t tell me you were gonna let Bing work on the others!” Chrome exclaims, eyes still burning red.

Honestly, Google was. He could tell just by looking at Bing that he wasn’t lying about his intentions and his reasoning. It may have hurt Google’s pride to accept help from his nemesis, but Oliver and Plus are more important than a petty grudge. And Bing was right; Google has too much on his plate to turn down an extra pair of hands.

“We need more help,” Google says, trying to be diplomatic, “There’s still so much we have to fix, and I’m busy being everyone’s doctor on top of it.”

“We’re not getting help from Bing!!” Chrome spits, getting in Google’s face. “We don’t need that moron screwing things up even worse!!”

“He knows our mechanics better than anyone else in this building,” Google retorts, frowning deeply, “And you know as well as I do that Bing was telling the truth about his feelings. Are you really too proud to accept help??”

Chrome glares at Google petulantly, but says nothing. After days of running on empty and pushing down grief, something in Google breaks.

“You’ve got some nerve to turn Bing away when you’ve done almost nothing since your brothers died,” Google snarls, voice dripping with poison, “All you’ve done is throw tantrums and break things while I try to make things better. I’m getting Bing to help us and you’re getting your head out of your ass before I come back.”

Chrome draws back, and his expression barely changes, but not even his relentless rage can hide the spark of pain that flits through his eyes. He turns away from Google, stomping to his room and slamming the door. Google regrets what he said before the sound stops reverberating through the air.

“You don’t have to fall apart or anything,” Yandere had said.

“A bit late for that now,” Google thinks bitterly.

He knows he has to apologize, but he also knows he has to give Chrome time to cool off before he tries. As an android whose internal clock is always attuned to the exact millisecond of every moment, time is straightforward and linear and unsurprising. Yet the twenty minutes Google waits to talk to Chrome is the longest twenty minutes he’s ever experienced.

When he knocks on Chrome’s door, he already expects him not to respond. The silence still aches, stretching long between them. Google knows better than to try pleasantries, so he takes a deep breath and begins.

“I’m sorry,” he says, “I’m sorry I said those things. I know what happened really hurt you, I know you’re reacting to that. I…I can’t imagine how you feel. I don’t want to imagine it. I don’t even want to think about how I feel.” Google sighs, Yandere’s advice ringing in his head. “The truth is, I’m terrified. I’m terrified that I’ll be working on Ollie and Green and they’ll both just disappear in front of me. I feel guilty, like if I’d just been faster or been a few steps closer when they were killed, I could’ve stopped Anti from killing them. And I’m sad, I’m so sad all the time, I miss them both so much, I almost hate looking at their bodies.” Google leans forward, letting his forehead gently thunk Chrome’s door. Now that the words are coming, he can’t stop them. “I’ve been keeping all that down because I didn’t want to make things worse for you and I didn’t want any distractions from repairing the others. I feel like I have to be the strong one. But it means we’ve been drifting apart. The one thing I haven’t been able to do is be there for you, and I’m sorry for that. I want that to change, I just…” Google’s throat tightens, tears collect in his eyes, and he can’t decide if he hates or craves the sensation. “I didn’t want to stop being strong. I don’t want to fall apart. But…” A sob escapes him. “Maybe I have to.”

The door opens. Chrome is standing there, eyes still red but no longer glaring. They’re wide, tear-filled, leaking coolant down his cheeks. He opens his mouth, but nothing comes out but a whimper. He stops trying to talk and throws his arms around Google instead, squeezing tight enough to crack a human’s ribs.

But it’s not too tight for Google, and Google hugs back just as hard, and finally lets himself feel.

Some time later, when they’re both done crying, Chrome speaks up first.

“I’m sorry, too,” he says quietly. “You were right about Bing, I was being an ass.”

“Wait, admitting you were wrong and that you were a jerk?” Google asks, feigning shock, “Who are you and what have you done with my brother?”

Chrome snorts, letting Google go and stepping out of the hug to look him in the eyes.

“Seriously,” he continues, “I mean, I know I haven’t done much, and Bing was telling the truth about everything, I just…” He looks away. “I hate the thought that the guy I hate could do more for my own brothers than me.”

“I hate it, too,” Google admits, “I’m definitely not looking forward to asking him for help. But the others need it, and they’d need it no matter how much you were helping me.”

Chrome nods, considering. He looks back at Google.

“I hate looking at them,” he says, brows drawing together in sadness. “I hate seeing them like that, and remembering what I did…”

“That was Anti, not you,” Google tells him, “I’ll say it until you believe it.”

Chrome smiles, crooked and tear-stained but unmistakable, and that’s when Google thinks they might be okay.

Going to Bing and asking him to help out is as awkward as Google feared it would be, but once he’s assured that Chrome is okay with it, he accepts and starts working on Oliver like he offered. Now that the dam’s broken between Google and Chrome, Chrome is able to contribute more, though he still has to take frequent breaks. He and Yandere continue to help each other, but from what snippets of conversation he overhears, Google can tell that Chrome needs less from Yandere than he did before. Yandere catches Google’s eye at one point and gives him a huge smile, and Google can only shake his head and grin in return.

Despite that ray of light, Ego Inc. remains shrouded in darkness. Oliver and Plus are still dead, and so is Dr. Iplier, and so is Dark. Everyone is still upset, still sad, still in mourning. Google is still the one in charge of healing everyone. He still has to monitor the other egos, still has to change Host’s bandages every other day while he weeps over Dr. Iplier, still has to see if the dead have risen or if Celine has awoken, still has to attend strategy meetings with an increasingly-despondent Wilford, still has to fear every crackle of static electricity or glitch in a monitor in case it means that Anti is back. It’s likely that he’s waiting for Jackie and Marvin to wake up again, but given how popular they are, it won’t take long, and the egos aren’t ready to face him again. Despite the meetings, there’s no new ideas, no plans, nothing. Ego Inc. is still suffering with no end in sight.

The drudgery is interrupted when, a week and a half after Anti’s attack, the chip Google put in Celine’s heart monitor goes off.

It pings until Google turns off the notification, telling him that her heart rate has gone up. Google has no idea what it means; even Dr. Iplier barely knew what to make of Celine’s condition, what to make of the fluctuations in her vitals. Still, Google leaves the control room and walks down the hall to the clinic to make sure nothing’s wrong with her. He doesn’t know what he expects to see as he opens the door to her room.

It sure as hell isn’t Celine sitting up in bed, looking wildly around herself, hands clenched around the rails of her hospital bed. Her gaze lands on Google, dark eyes wide and piercing. Google is sure that even a human would hear her rapid heartbeat from the doorway. Yet when she speaks, her voice is strong, sharp, as harsh and angry as Google remembers from the videos she’s in, yet breathless and strained with nerves.

“What is going on,” she gasps, “And where on earth is my brother?”

[loved-lefthaunted]

What are your thoughts on all the evermore songs?

oh my god. this is such a hard question for me so brace yourself. it’s taken me nearly 2 months to write this out and i still don’t think i’ve managed to encapsulate all my thoughts.

So, I have very strong feelings about evermore. I immediately loved it three times as much as folklore, for a variety of reasons. I can do a song-by-song breakdown alongside my general thoughts of the album below:

Firstly, I want to preface this by saying that I do not disregard the impact that folklore had on me prior to evermore’s release. I am not oblivious to the fact that folklore likely primed me for the sound that evermore had and that my mind was set up for a similar sounding album so was willing to receive it with more open ears.

That being said, I think that evermore is the superior album. The overall emotional range and sonic variety of the album is wider and more thought out. The different songs provide a more well-rounded listen in my opinion and give me much more emotional investment than folklore. Each individual song feels strong and there are far more songs with single potential than folklore.

So let’s get down to it:

1. Willow - iconic. The big sister that cardigan deserves. The song that I wish the Lover album had been. A song so fully devoted in such a soft and sweeet way without feeling sickly. A mature way to dedicate a song to the person that you can’t live without but in a way that doesn’t throw pink confetti at your face and tell single people to fuck off. TAKE MY HAND? OKAY TAYLOR. WRECK MY PLANS? FOR SURE BABES. THAT’S MY MAN? 100% FEEL U GAL.

2. Champagne Problems - LOOK. I AM CLAIMING THE NAME SAMPAGNE PROBLEMS FOR ALL FUTURE CONTENT. I want to be proposed to just so that I can reject them and then get wildly drunk on overpriced alcohol. It’s heartwrenching in a way that Taylor hasn’t been since the likes of Treacherous. It doesn’t throw sadness at you, overwhelm you with tears. It hides heartbreak within a soft piano riff and gorgeous imagery.

3. Gold Rush - a sapphic daydream. i cannot believe this is real. The return of a heart-thumping drumbeat and the most lovely, pure song that just describes the infatuation with someone beautiful and how you can wonder about them and be so happy about them and jealous of them all at once.

4. ‘Tis The Damn Season - this christmas song makes me wish i had a boy next door in my hometown that i could randomly sleep with. why don’t i have a fluffy hallmark holiday film based upon this premise? why isn’t there a christmas music video to show me how their interactions work during the holidays and how it differs so vastly with their normal lives? Why can i feel both the distance and the closeness that these two people feel? the cutest dedication to a very un-cute casual relationship. a bittersweet shout out to the people who make us happy for a few fleeting moments spread out over the long haul.

5. Tolerate It - i have very VERY strong feelings about this one. it feels like it both encapsulates romantic and non-romantic love so perfectly. It pairs perfectly with the likes of Closure (more on that later). We all deserve to be celebrated. In a world of people settling for less than they deserve, we should reach for those who deserve us. We are worth it. Find someone who will show us how worthy we are. It’s aching and slow and painful and just....everything. Just because someone has always been there doesn’t mean they deserve to continue to be there. Tolerating you is not the same as deserving your loyalty.

6. No Body, No Crime (feat. HIAM) - IT TOOK 14 YEARS BUT TAYLOR FINALLY MURDERED A MAN IN COLD BLOOD AND I AM HERE FOR IT. MEN ARE TRASH, LADIES. REMEMBER THIS. ENGRAVE IT INTO YOUR TOMBSTONES. TATTOO IT ON YOUR FOREHEADS. MEN AS AN ENTITY DO NOT DESERVE US. MURDER THEM. A YEEHAW DREAM. (I have no strong feelings about HIAM but the existence of Este’s name is a blessing in itself, their backing vocals are a lovely addition and a true testament to their friendship as we know how protective Taylor is about mixing business and friendship through collaborations)

7. Happiness - this song is HURTFUL. a song about growth, a song about finding yourself amidst the loss of a partner, a friend, a family member. a loss so deep that it will hurt you for years to come and take a piece of you away forever. but a loss that you have to be resigned to and grow from and let go of. the slow build of the backing is something i haven’t heard since Holy Ground. Both songs talk about loss and moving on in such starkly different ways but still encompass the feeling of reminiscing on something good and pure and perfect whilst battling the knowledge that it’s over and trying to be happy for the person now that they’re gone.

8. Dorothea - the sweetest girl in the neighbourhood. a childhood friend that we all miss having. a person we watched grow into something massive and successful and we’re so genuinely happy for them. the song encompasses the feeling of a distanced joy. a joy that has nothing to do with you, everything to do with this person that you’d be happy to accept again with open arms but will be equally as happy to watch succeed from a distance. a bouncy backing track and lovely vocalisations that really build a sense of a warm hug and the feeling of soft morning sun on your skin.

9. Coney Island (feat. The National) - alright. so i’m sat on a bench in the cold, wrapped up in a winter coat and a hat and gloves and a massive scarf that covers half of my face. i can see the air when i breathe out. there’s an empty ferris wheel at a deserted fairground and i can remember when it was alive and bustling and when i was surrounded by all of the people closest to me on a late summer’s day. and i miss them. i yearn for that to be back. the way we yearn for a time before covid, before masks and elbow touches and sanitising everything. a time when you could sit around a table with your friends and welcome someone with a hug and visit your family for the holidays. a time of joy that was so overlooked until it was gone. The presence of The National is also a breathtaking addition and truly deserved after Aaron’s input on both folklore and evermore. I’m glad they saved it for this song.

10. Ivy - this song just radiates GREEN. Am I in a forest? Am I just in a greenhouse, watering the plants? The guitar/banjo sounds make me so horrifically nostalgic for Speak Now era. The male backing vocals remind me that Taylor has evolved so far from the girl we used to exclusively listen in conjunction with Caitlin Bird and Liz Huett. 

11. Cowboy Like Me - one of the only songs I don’t really care about? it’s not bad, it’s just not great. it’s yeehaw without the accompanying passion. It’s the end of a sad, sad wild west movie. It’s a backing track in a scene of a TV show when someone is going on a journey alone to find themselves. But it’s nothing special.

12. Long Story Short - DO NOT FUCKING TOUCH ME. THE BEST SONG ON THIS ALBUM IN MY OPINION. THE STRONGEST BEAT, THE NOSTALGIA OF 1989, THE LYRICS OF RED, THE FUCKS GIVEN OF REPUTATION. THE PERFECT IMMERSIVE TAYLOR EXPERIENCE. TRULY A 10/10 ENTITY. I WILL HAVE THIS PLAYING AT MY GRADUATION. I SURVIVED.

13. Marjorie - the loss of a grandparent is always a lot. i’ve lost 2 due to Covid and it’s cut me deeper than I ever imagined. Marjorie is the 50′s sepia toned daydream that sends you flying back to being a child and being taught life’s most important lessons when you were far too young to understand them from someone so much wiser than you. It feels like I’m being taught to live again. Another build up backing track, but in such an uplifting way? A way that makes you think of the sun slowly coming out of the clouds. Of the end of a rainstorm and the start of a new day. Optimism and innocence. Peace and hope.

14. Closure - right, the return of sadness. The use of the clatter and discord in the background. The death of a Big Machine (subtle and perfectly done). She’s doing better. We all are. It reminds me of the friends I’ve lost and crave to have back but know I’m better off without. We have to let go of this. Close the chapter. You don’t even need the epilogue, it’s over. The production makes me so uncomfortable and it’s SO NECESSARY because lack of closure is UNSETTLING. It’s horrifying. It’s devastating. But the lyrics and the power of the song show how strong you can be and how important it is to push through the discomfort and continue to live.

15. Evermore (feat. Bon Iver) - the titular song. The return of Bon Iver’s vocals and the lone piano background are truly something to be commemorated for years to come. Although it lacks the painstaking hurt of Exile, this is one of her most simple pieces of artistry on this album and it’s BEAUTIFUL. Something that feels bare and raw. A song that cuts deep and shows us the true core of what she’s currently feeling right now: that although pain might feel forever, it’s not. all pain, much like joy, is fleeting and we have to feel it but we need to remember that it’s only a piece of our experience and place it into context. The song veers on self-pity and wallowing in hopelessness until the latter third, where suddenly hope rises out of the ashes alongside a slightly padded out production from Bon Iver’s vocals. A strong end to the album. This song sets us up for future albums on a note of optimism. It’s a new dawn. 

[yehet-me-up]

Into The Ancient Woods - Four

Pairing: fae!Jongin x lady knight!reader

Genre: Fantasy AU

Rating: PG13 - mentions of blood, gore, etc.

Word Count: 2,149

Moodboard (that I’m OBSESSED with) @gingersaysjump​ 

Summary: When your sister is stolen by the Fae King you set out on a quest to save her. But when you arrive in the Kingdom of the Fae, all is not as you thought, and in no time killing the king becomes the furthest thing from your mind.

A/N: I wanted soooooo badly to combine these drabbles into a oneshot but after a few weeks I realized that it’s either going to be a few fun drabbles or... basically a full book’s worth of a plot and there’s no happy middle. 😅So I picked out my favorite bits from the rest of what I wrote and here they are! 😄

One | Two | Three | Four

Too much has been sacrificed to turn back now.

A king needs his queen. The kingdom needs love and blood to begin again. New life to wipe the stains of death away from its’ surface like steam from a mirror. And to do that he needs you. No one else. He’s tried. 

Other fae women. Their drops of blood did nothing. 

Other mortal women. Their spilled blood had only appeased the curse for a short while. 

No, he thinks as he gently sets you on the plush bed, watching the light cascade over your face. No, it must be you. You’re his final hope. The one with the hair the color of fire and the spirit to match.

~~~~~~~

The cell is an opulent one, but it is a cage nonetheless. Now that he has you, he isn't willing to take any chances. The bed may be lavish and covered in blankets - red and gold brocade, warm against the chill that lingers everywhere in his kingdom. 

He wonders if you’ll scream at him again when you wake and he smiles at the thought. It’s been far too long since life flowed in this village and he craves the intensity.

His healer already attended to you, removing any damage his sharp and efficient magic did. Exhaustion is the only thing keeping you from consciousness now. He stifles his impatience and paces in front of your cell.

He has questions - hundreds of them, as he observes the gentle rise and fall of your chest. 

Who put the flowers in your hair - were they done with your own hand or by someone else’s? A lover, perhaps? 

How did you come upon the sword you carry? The mortal kings have long been dismissive of the women in their kingdom. Did you steal it?

Jongin longs to pry open your mind and heart and have a look to see just what kind of woman fate brought him. Decades and centuries of waiting for the prophesied one. Endless years of suffering, now brought to an end. If she accepts me. And this.

~~~~~~

It's midday when someone comes for you again. Unfortunately, it's the King himself. Handsome and devastating and evil.

Though you now know it would solve none of your problems, you still long for your sword to be able to drive it through his heart. If just for the satisfaction of having bested him.

'Would you like to go for a walk, kultaseni?'

You make a noise somewhere between a scream and a whine of confusion. 'Surely you are joking.'

He leans an arrogant shoulder against the frame of the door and smiles at you. 'I am not. You have seen your sister, alive and unharmed. I would like to speak with you and would prefer to do so without bars between us.'

'You're the one who put me here,' you counter. You grip the metal so tightly it bites into your palms.

His expression turns mournful, brows drawn together and his plump, red lips pouting. Irrationally you want to sink into the bottom one with your teeth and pull. Just to taste him. Just to hear him moan and know it was you who caused it. But then the light shifts and his expression is reserved and taunting once more and you swallow the thought.

'Fine. But if you try and harm me, I'll gouge your eyes out with my thumbs.'

He raises a brow and smiles at you, pleased by your comment. 'I'd expect nothing less.'

The castle and the village, in daytime, are disconcertingly similar to your own.

Children play in the town square, their laughter echoing off the cobblestones. Women and men walk to and fro down a path off the center square, carrying baskets of fruit and grain from the harvest. Soldiers stand guard at the palace gates. No wonder they were so cavalier, you think, their threat comes from within. Not from the world outside.

Jongin leads you towards the mountains that rise towards the south. The villagers nod as you pass, watching you with awe. You wonder if everyone has heard the tale. You can almost hear their silent pleas, asking you to be your savior. Would you not do the same, in their place?

Thankfully the path disappears into the trees and you and Jongin are alone once more. Here, he's quiet and contemplative, hands drawn behind his back. You've never seen a man more beautiful. Or more dangerous. His moods change faster than lightning and you do your best to keep up.

He runs a ringed finger along the branch of a thick tree. Its bark is twisted and old, fighting death as the tree reaches towards the sun. 'The forest was so beautiful, in my youth.'

Curiosity gets the better of you. 'How did it come to be cursed?'

~~~~~~~~~

The light through the branches falls on his face and suddenly you can imagine the boy he was in his youth. His amber eyes are shrewd and playful. You wonder what it was like when his smile was easy and unburdened, when he gave of himself willingly and joyfully. 

When his choices didn't carry the fate of an entire Kingdom behind them.

You feel your heart soften a fraction and pull back, afraid of being drawn in by him. Even if you understand the source of his actions, even if the women aren’t hurt - there’s still blood on his hands that will never come clean.

‘If you wanted me… if I’m the prophesied queen, why did you take my sister? Why not come for me directly?’

He pauses, a slight blush coming to his cheeks in the golden light. ‘Is it so wrong that I would want my future queen to be able to say goodbye to her family in some way? To the human world?’

‘So you’ll really let her go back? You meant it?’

He folds his hands behind his back, contemplating. 'I'm entirely honest. If you hold up your end of the bargain, I'll hold up mine.'

You watch him, through the trees he looks almost human. His skin is ice white, with none of the bright warmth you'd associate with living. But his features relax in nature, away from the harsh lines of the castle. He’s been just as much a prisoner of the curse as the village, as the woods. 

For long moments you both get lost in your thoughts. He pulls a flower from one of the trees and holds it between his fingers. You can only imagine what must occupy the mind of a king of an immortal land. If you make this choice, you will become like him. Trapped forever in this land, trapped forever in this body. Until you choose to die.

'Will it hurt?' you ask quietly.

He looks at you suddenly. 'Are you agreeing?'

His eyes are wide with hope and you imagine him much younger. Being forced to make a deadly choice to save his people. Wouldn't you do the same, in his place?

'Yes.' Your promise is a whisper. 'Yes,' you repeat, stronger, finding your conviction and surrender like air beneath your wings. 'I'll do it.'

Jongin catches you off guard by wrapping you in his arms. In two steps his scent and his body envelops you. His delight is a palpable thing between you, seeping into the marrow of your bones. He pulls back and watches you fiercely.

'I will owe you for this,' he says gently, breath cascading across your lips. 'Forever.'

Even if you didn't know that magic lived in him, you'd be transfixed. His eyes are dark brown, cut through with amber in the bright sunlight. You remind yourself of the terrible things he's done and on instinct you step back.

'You didn't answer my question.'

His hands hang in midair for a moment, as though he were imagining you still in his arms. 'Yes, it will.' His hands fall to his sides and he looks sad. 'I'm sorry for that. Being remade is not an easy feat, from my understanding.'

You steel yourself. 'I've said many times in my life I'd be willing to fight, and die, for those I love. And if this will forever keep them safe, I'll do it.'

Jongin nods. 'You cannot know what it will mean for my people. Centuries of pain ceasing, like blood clotting in a wound.'

No words come, the thought of a lifetime away from your family sits heavily in your mind. But wounds still leave marks, even after they heal. Never seeing your mother and father again. Never being human again. 

Some wounds never heal. But for this, you'll sacrifice everything. And perhaps, in time, come to find other reasons to live. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~

The stone dais in the square is empty. Distant noises of battle - swords clashing, men and women fighting for their lives - pound in your ears as you race to complete the ritual before it’s too late. Before all is truly lost forever

Jongin hesitates for a moment before stepping up behind you. He could have remained opposite you, closeness wasn't a necessity to slice your arm. But despite it all, you're glad he's there. The fact that he lives and breathes and feels comforts you. You hope you're still yourself after this night is done.

'Ready?' he asks, softer than you'd imagine.

With his chest to your back like a shield you slide up the sleeve of your overdress, exposing your skin. Fear clogs your throat and you struggle for breath. Fear of pain. Fear of loss. Fear of failure.

You grit your teeth and will yourself to be strong. 'Ready.'

His broad hand wraps around your wrist, holding it out over the circular opening of stone. The bottom is stained with age, with the imprint of hundreds of years of dead leaves. The sun has bleached the rim. With morbid fascination you hold still as he draws the blade against your skin.

The cut is deep, well-placed. You wince at the searing pain and bite down hard on your cheek, but still you don't look away. His face presses against yours and you realize abruptly how close he is. Jongin sets the knife down on the rim and wraps his free hand around your waist, keeping you steady. Held close against him, as if you were lovers.

The blood pools in the base, in drops, thick and red. You should have asked him what the transformation entails. Too late you realize you were so caught up in the loss of your human life, you'd asked nothing about your journey into the immortality.

Moonlight shines, clear and bright, as the clouds above you clear. Like a beacon it settles on the steady drops of blood that fall from the open wound. It's slowing, turning from a steady flow to a trickle. Just when you think he'll take up the knife and reopen the wound, the stone beneath you trembles. A great rumbling starts beneath your feet and you cling to his arm with your right hand. Ready for whatever hell is unleashing upon you tonight.

'Hold steady,' he says.

You nod and press your lips together to avoid screaming. In the silver light the blood in the base shines. It morphs from red to orange to a near white color in seconds. The structure around you drops a fraction before stilling. Your breath comes out in pants and you keep firm as the shimmering moves up the drops of blood, flowing upwards and back into your body.

When it reaches your skin, you feel like you've been stabbed all over. It's like the time you got too close to the fire as a child, when the flames licked along your skin and burned. You can't help the sound of surprise and agony that leaves you as the ancient magic undoes your humanity.

Jongin catches you as you fall, turning you in his arms and easing you down onto the stone. His hand beneath your head cushions you as your body writhes and jerks as though it were trying to evaporate like smoke. He seems to glow himself as he watches you with a look both fearful and intense with hope.

He squeezes your hand and you look down, realizing he's clasped his hand around yours. The world fades at the corners of your vision. The branches of the trees appear menacing in the darkness. The great turrets of the castle disappear as the clouds move over the moon once more. A great bolt of lightning cleaves the sky, striking the dais.

Your head lolls to the side and you watch the stone crack in half. Thunder echos around you so loudly you gasp. As you lose consciousness you hold Jongin's focus, praying that it worked. That his kingdom will be restored. That your people will be free. That he will once again be whole and uncursed.

[natewallace]

COMMISSION:  The Sound of a Voice

After confronting Kurogiri/Oboro at Tartarus, Hizashi has a falling-out with his friends and partner.

for: @scattered-imagination ♡ by Sam WC: 3802

                                 Thank you so much! this was lovely to write.                                                                      commission info + AO3 + ko-fi

Shouta Aizawa likes the quiet of the faculty room at the end of the day. In the fall, the midday sun pours gentle light in through the window and casts a warm glow over Shouta’s spot by the window, allowing him time to think and grade papers before returning home. 

It’s not often that someone him this late in the day. But when Yagi Toshinori’s hesitant face peers through the door of the lounge, Aizawa greets him with a low hum.

“I figured I’d see you here,” Toshinori says with a small smile. Aizawa nods, looking up from the stack of papers to be graded at the table. 

“You don’t usually stay this late,” Aizawa murmurs.

Toshinori rubs the back of his head. “I know. I, erm...I wanted to talk about — about Yamada.”

Aizawa sighs. The very way in which Aizawa’s posture shifts at the mention of the other man is enough to make Toshinori flinch. 

“He’s burning himself out, Aizawa.”

Aizawa blinks and remains silent.

Toshinori takes a careful step inside the. With a glance at the floor, he moves to stand across the table where Aizawa sits. 

“And you can’t...can’t reach him at all, can you?” 

Aizawa glares at him under hooded eyelids. Behind the thick strands of his hair, the former number-one hero almost feels intimidated.

“I’m not delving into the details of my relationship with — with him, right now. We don’t speak as much as we used to. That’s it. I can’t reach him any better than you, Nemuri, or Tensei can. Admittedly, I...I haven’t noticed the change in his behavior until you and Nemuri brought it up to me today. This...this thing he does isn’t entirely abnormal. He goes on these crazy energy-splurges and then sleeps for a week.”

Aizawa sigh as a pang of guilt creeps through his stomach. Estranged or not (and God, Aizawa hates that word), he should have seen this for what it is. This behavior isn’t Hizashi — this is far, far worse. And he’d been ignoring it; he’d been ignoring a lot of things, save for work, since their visit to Tartarus.

“But this isn’t normal, no.”

Toshinori sighs. Aizawa watches him with measured eyes.

“What do you propose we do?” 

Aizawa’s voice is strained around the question, and Toshinori notices a desperation in his eyes that hadn’t been there before. When he speaks again, it’s hardly above a whisper.

“I...I don’t want to see him get hurt.” Toshinori manages a small smile. 

“None of us do, Aizawa. Nemuri proposed we go to his apartment tomorrow night. It would technically be breaking and entering, but erm — we figured you’d have a spare key. Just know I’m not supporting this, and that it’s highly illegal and — “

Aizawa gives him a flat stare. Toshinori shrugs sheepishly.

“I’ll be there, then,” he says quickly. “With the key.”

That seems to please Toshinori well enough.

_____________________________

The racing in Hizashis head shows no sign of slowing. Even as he pushes open the door to his apartment, no one train of thought seems to settle enough for him to follow it long enough to make any sense. His eyelids dance like hummingbird wings and unfocused eyes dart every which way as his hand trembles to unlock the door. 

He needs to sleep. Or to sit down. But something deep in his chest looms within him like a vast, inky trench that he dare not let anywhere near the surface of his own psyche. He scratches his head idly, almost throwing off his directional speaker before he notices the four people sitting on his couch with a sudden jolt.

Across from him, Shouta is slumped across the couch cushion, a sigh that makes his chest ache. He sputters, feeling like he needs to say something. They had hardly spoken in weeks. Since speaking with Oboro — Kurogiri — at Tartarus, meeting Shouta’s eyes has been a near-impossible feat. That looming, dark expanse of water threatens its way up Hizashi’s throat, and he quickly shoves it down with a weak smile.

Nemuri is leaning on the back of a chair beside the couch, and to Shota’s right, Toshinori stands awkwardly near the corner, his hand on the back of his head. Tensei has his head bowed, his hands clasped tightly together until he looks up when Hizashi enters the room.

“Oh hey!” he chirps. He curses inwardly as his voice cracks. He’s mentally exhausted, and he’s suddenly vividly aware that it’s painted all over his face.

Nemuri offers a small smile. Toshinori just sighs, looking around with a weak wave. Shouta and Tensei look away.

“This is a pleasant surprise,” Hizashi continues. He takes off his speaker, placing it on the table in the middle of the four. “Let me put some dinner on, yeah? You four have gotta be starving.”

“That won’t be necessary, Yamada,” Toshinori says with a raise of his hand. Nemuri nods in agreement. 

“Hizashi…” she begins carefully. “We actually wanted to talk to you. About that. We don’t want you to take care of us. We want you to talk to us.”

He swallows thickly. He feels their eyes burning into the front of his skull, no matter how much he tries to look away.

“Oh. Well, we could’ve all gotten a drink or something. Not that I don’t love when you guys come over and all, I’d just like to clean up a little first!”

“You wouldn’t have agreed to come,” Shouta says lowly. He takes an uneven breath, forcing himself to meet his eyes. “Because this isn’t a friendly call. Hizashi…”

He sighs softly. Shouta feels suffocated — why were Tensei, Toshinori, and Kayama here when they weren’t the ones in Tartarus? Nemuri had been Oboro’s friend, but they didn’t have to watch as Oboro all but clawed his way out of Kurogiri —

He shoves the thought aside.

“You haven’t been yourself,” Tensei points out when Shouta is clearly lost for words. “Not since you and Shouta visited Tartarus.”

Hizashi freezes where he stands. “Look, man, I don’t wanna talk about what happened at Tartarus, okay? That was me and Shouta’s business.”

“He was our friend, too,” Nemuri says softly. The hurt in her eyes is enough to make Hizashi want to cry.

“And I may not have known him,” Toshinori says quietly, “But I consider Oboro Shirakumo’s...situation...to be a failure of hero society itself. And as a representative of what is meant to be the best of the best of Pro Heroes here in Japan, I consider this to be a personal matter in regards to your well-being. I also consider you to be my friend, Yamada, and I worry about your well-being.”

Hizashi presses his lips together as Toshinori looks at the ground with a hard expression.

“Guys, I appreciate this,” Hizashi says softly. “But I’m fine. Really.”

“You’re not,” Shouta snaps. He clamps his mouth shut when Tensei gives him a warning glance. His tone had been far too harsh.

“You’re not fine,” he says again, slowly this time. He stands up, if a bit awkwardly, to approach Hizashi. His hands twitch to take the other man’s hands in his own — to hug him and cling to him as he had before. But he can’t. Their relationship had deteriorated in the past few weeks, and they both know it.

“We want you to talk to us, Hizashi.”

Hizashi raises his hands defensively. “I told you! I’m fine.”

“Hizashi...you’ve lost weight,” Toshinori says gently. “Your smile used to be the brightest smile across U.A. and...I can tell when someone is forcing a smile, Hizashi. I’ve had to do it many times myself. You aren’t smiling — you’re acting.”

Hizashi looks at them in disbelief. He shakes his head, his eyes wide and unfocused as he harshly grabs a chair and drags it into the makeshift circle. He sits down, worrying his chapped bottom lip between his teeth before staring at the four of them in silence.

“I’m tired,” he admits. “I’m really, really tired. I want to help you all. I love it — it makes me happy. But sometimes, I feel like I’m on the outside looking in. You know?”

The four of them look at one another in silent confusion, unsure of what to say. He stares at Shouta, first.

“You’ve been complaining that I’m too loud,” he whispers. “You almost never do that. You forgot about all of our dates last week.”

Shouta’s lower lip trembles, but before he can respond, Hizashi turns to Tensei.

“Tensei — you locked me out of your classroom when I was shaking. You couldn’t handle it. I — I don’t blame you. I haven’t had a panic attack since I was a kid, and — and I know I — I hurt someone the last time that happened. My voice got out of control. But I needed you, Tensei.”

His gaze darts to Nemuri when Tensei, too, is at a loss for words.

“You’re drinking more,” he points out. Her face flushes.

“Hizashi, I — “

“No,” he snaps. He bares his teeth. “Nemuri — let me continue. Please.”

Never one for being told what to do, she bows her head in meek obedience.

“You were drinking,” he says again. “And wouldn’t let me stop you. You blacked out. Thank God you were at home, or else you would’ve been destroyed by the press and God knows what else.”

Speechless, she blinks and says nothing more.

“So,” he continues, addressing the group. “You see? This is why I’m tired. I love you — all of you. But...I can’t do this anymore. We lost Oboro as children, and it was devastating. I’m done lying to myself — I changed, that day. We all did. Seeing him like that again at Tartarus made me feel like a scared, lost little kid who suddenly got smacked in the face with the reality of Pro Hero work at the age of fifteen all over again. And now, I’m stuck wishing he had just stayed dead. You know how screwed up it is to wish your old best friend was dead instead of — instead of a monster?”

His voice cracks in the silent room.

“I can’t pretend to know what you have seen,” Toshinori says softly. “But I know that it’s a burden that not even a Pro Hero should have to bear.”

Hizashi manages a weak, tearful smile. “Then at least you, Toshinori, understand why trying to be there for all of you all of the time has not been working for me. I can’t do it anymore. I’m sorry.”

He sighs. He hadn’t expected to feel better after letting everything air out — but Hizashi feels lighter, somehow, even amidst the struck and devastated faces of his friends. He winces, unable to meet their eyes. He hadn’t wanted to hurt them — but he couldn’t keep it in any longer.

“I think Hizashi is right,” Tensei murmurs. Shouta looks up and meets Hizashi’s eyes, but the two say nothing at all. Nemuri nods.

“We’re sorry, Hizashi,” Nemuri says quietly. “We...we’ve hurt you. I think...I think it would be good if we spent some time alone. None of us have been processing this well. I’m glad you told us.”

Hizashi bites his lip. He wants to cry; he doesn’t want them to go, but he knows there is nothing else to be done. Nothing else to be said.

“I’d like to stay,” Toshinori murmurs. “If that’s okay with you, Yamada.” He looks around the room, stricken by the others’ response. Maybe this was for the best, but is leaving Yamada really what’s best right now? He doesn’t know.

Hizashi offers him a weak smile and, much to Toshinori’s relief, nods in weary agreement. 

“Thank you,” he murmurs. The rest murmur pained goodbyes, and Hizashi wishes them well. Shouta opens his mouth as though to say something more, but Hizashi only shakes his head.

“Shouta. Not now.”

Shouta looks down and nods. Shuffling out the door, he follows his friends out of the apartment door, leaving Hizashi alone with Toshinori. The silence that follows feels stifling, and when Hizashi hides his face in his hands in a barely-concealed sob. Maybe it’s the way Toshinori approaches him and places a hand comfortingly on his shoulder; maybe it’s the way he says nothing at all, merely lets Hizashi cry and cry until there’s nothing left in him to weep for any longer.

His silence and his simple, gentle touch are enough for Hizashi to let go.

“You can’t be there for everybody all the time,” Toshinori murmurs. “You have to separate that roll from yourself. Without learning to do that from a young age, I would have destroyed myself much more quickly than I already did. You can’t do that to yourself, too. You have a bright and promising career that is still years ahead of you, Yamada. Embrace it for you, and don’t let yourself be dragged down by impossible expectations.”

Hizashi nods in agreement. Toshinori smiles and offers him a hug, which Hizashi gladly accepts.

Over the weekend, Toshinori comes to visit Hizashi frequently, offering to cook for him and bring him takeout on Sunday night. They laugh and talk about television shows and work. Toshinori even helps Hizashi clean the apartment, which Hizashi had, admittedly, let get to an unacceptable level of disaster over the past couple of weeks. All at once, Hizashi vividly understands just why Yagi Toshinori is Japan’s Number One Hero. He’s kind — terribly, terribly kind and patient beyond even Hizashi’s own understanding.

Maybe, having someone simply let Hizashi let go had been exactly what he had needed.

_____________________________

On Monday night at the bar, Nemuri, Shouta, and Tensei drink in uneasy silence. Shouta nearly didn’t come. His silence weighs on them all like a heavy blanket.

“We need to do better,” Nemuri murmurs. “All of us.”

The other two nod in agreement.

“We’re all struggling. But it was no excuse to treat Hizashi the way we did,” Tensei points out. “We’re all at fault. We need to get over our own crap and get through this together. We did before — we can do it again.”

As doubtful as Shouta is, he agrees for the sake of agreeing.

The following week, Hizashi’s behavior is strange, to say the least. He says nothing of their conversation at his apartment and seems to almost back to his usual self — but without Hizashi’s typical and endearing over-the-top cheer. He calls Shouta ‘Aizawa’ even when they’re alone, which isn’t often. And while he gives pointers on grading and offers to help open a door when Tensei is carrying an armful of books and other supplies, it’s as far as the extent of his help goes. Hizashi keeps a measured, practical distance, and it’s enough to leave Shouta dumbstruck and quietly scrambling for any sign of his old partner and friend.

“Distance,” Toshinori had told Hizashi gently before leaving on Sunday night, “might be the kindest way of taking care of yourself. I am not suggesting you abandon your friends. But you have to place yourself at a distance away from them that they relearn to take care of themselves while you heal, too.”

Hizashi had agreed. And once he’d committed to the practice, it had been easier than he had expected. But he’s angry — angry at himself, angry at them, and angry at the world, most of all. He doesn’t like the invisible emotional barrier he’s committed to placing between him and his friends. But, at the end of the day, he can’t deny that it just might be helping him. Even his distance from Shouta seems to be taking some of the weight off his shoulders when he returns home after teaching class. 

At the end of the day, Shouta checks his phone. Hizashi would have texted him at least twice by now — be it about a date, or even just a stupid picture of a cat that he found online. But there’s nothing. He had grown used to that ridiculous point of contact from the other so much that he hadn’t realized just how much he’d relied on it until now.

One, single text from Nemuri sent to him and Tensei vibrates across his phone.

We’re losing him.

Shouta doesn’t respond; but he knows that the simple statement is nothing but the raw, unyielding truth.

A week of Hizashi’s emotional and psychological distance comes and goes, and Shouta isn’t so sure he can handle it anymore. He misses Hizashi more than he ever thought he could miss a person he sees almost every single day. He wants him back, not as a caretaker or a bearer of Shouta’s own tight-knit emotional burden, but as a partner; as someone to spend the weekends with, someone who can make him laugh ‘till he’s snorting and red in the face, and someone he can simply spend time with without the weight of the world across their backs. He never thought he’d find himself craving the physical touch that Hizashi so willingly doles out — even when Shouta isn’t exactly in the mood for it — or the way they used to embrace late at night, quiet and unrelenting in the dark of Hizashi’s quiet bedroom.

He’d treated Hizashi like something disposable. He, Tensei, and Nemuri all had. Not willingly, no — but in their own, self-centered grief, Hizashi had been the last ray of sunshine they’d clung to in hopes that the world might treat them kinder once they’d dragged their feet to the end of whatever long, relentless tunnel that seeing Kurogiri at Tartarus had thrust them into. 

They just hadn’t realized Hizashi had been left behind, unable to reach the light they had to believe existed, even if they couldn’t see it just yet.

Shouta lays in his bed early that Friday night and stares at the dull, unchanging ceiling of his bedroom. Hizashi had always brought so much color into the dullest of places. His bedroom never felt so barren as it did when Hizashi wasn’t here. Sighing, Shouta grabs his phone off the nightstand and all but jams his fingers into the buttons to dial Hizashi’s phone number he’d memorized long ago.

Hizashi picks up on the fourth ring. 

“Hello?”

It takes Shouta a moment to answer. He feels his pulse race in his throat like he’s a teenager talking to Hizashi for the very first time all over again.

“Hey, Hizashi.”

“Hey, man.”

They remain silent on the line, and Shouta sighs.

“How are you?” Shouta asks quietly. He drapes an arm over his eyes, gritting his teeth. His voice sounds fake, and he hates it.

“I’m alright!” Hizashi chirps. “Hands Up Radio just got another sponsor last night, and I’ve been freaking out about it. It’s great news, y’know?”

Shouta breathes a quiet laugh. “That’s good to hear,” he murmurs. “I’m proud of you.”

“Thanks!”

The line goes silent again. Shouta closes his eyes and takes a steady breath, choosing his words carefully.

“Would you want to get coffee this Friday night? Maybe to celebrate?” Shouta asks. “I’ll buy.”

Hizashi is hesitant to respond.

“You want to get coffee?”

“Yeah. Honestly, Hizashi, I miss you and I feel like shit for the way I’ve been treating you.”

Shouta hears Hizashi sigh quietly. “Shouta, it’s ��� “

“Don’t say it’s okay, because it’s not,” Shouta snaps. He bites his lip as he tries not to sound harsher than he intends to. Emotional vulnerability is completely and utterly not Shouta’s thing. And maybe, just maybe, his precise lack of emotional vulnerability is partly what got him into this very particular mess in the first place. Swallowing his pride, Shouta grits his teeth and lets the words come out as honestly as he can muster.

“It’s not okay to treat you like a disposable therapist just because you cope with shit by throwing yourself into the midst like an eager cocker spaniel while the rest of us sit on our asses and mope. We all lost someone, and yeah, it’s especially fucked up to lose someone this way. They didn’t teach us this stuff in school. But we didn’t become heroes for the ease of it all, Hizashi.”

Shouta clenches his teeth, gripping the phone harshly in his hand as he forces himself to keep his voice steady over the line. Doing this is hard; but so is everything else about this situation. He’s never given up before when something was hard, and he doesn’t intend to start now.

“I don’t expect you to forgive me,” he says slowly. “But my last, lingering shred of narcissism makes me think that maybe I’m worth it enough for a second chance.”

After a moment, Hizashi sighs again.

“You’re so lucky you’re hot, you know that?” he says finally.

Shouta lets out a sound between a harsh laugh and a sob.

“I know I am,” he croaks, laughing quietly into the receiver. “Trust me.”

Hizashi lets out a soft giggle.

“Thank you, Shouta,” Hizashi says seriously. “Thank you for...thank you for apologizing. Look, in your defense, I should have said something sooner. I shouldn’t have kept how I felt bottled up for so long. I didn’t communicate what I felt because I was afraid it would only push you all further away. This past week...I just needed space. And...maybe a small part of me needed to know whether or not you would reach out when I pulled away. I guess at heart, I’m still a kid desperate to be the center of attention.”

They both laugh bitterly.

“We’re all emotionally stunted,” Shouta mumbles. “I don’t know how Toshinori does what he does without losing his goddamn mind. Number one hero and that man still has it in him to smile. I know some of the shit he’s seen, but there’s gotta be stuff that he just doesn’t talk about.”

“I don’t know,” Hizashi admits.

Shouta hums. “Have Tensei and Nemuri reached out to you?”

“No, they haven’t.”

“They will. Just — give them time.”

That seems to please Hizashi well enough, and he agrees that he would.

“So, coffee this Friday?” Shouta asks again.

“Yes!” Hizashi chirps. “Maybe we can...head back to my place afterward..?”

“That sounds good to me.”

“And have sex?”

Hizashi’s small, hopeful voice makes Shouta laugh harder than he has in weeks.

“And have sex,” he confirms. Shouta’s smile never leaves his face. “And maybe,” he continues, “We can even cuddle and watch a movie after.”

Hizashi’s pleased yelp hurts Shouta’s ears, but the sound is quite possibly the most beautiful sound he’s ever heard.

[ironfidus]

(un)breakable

Post-IW Iron Dad fanfic.

Read here on AO3 (@a_matter_of_loyalty).

☔︎

Summary:

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

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

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

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

☔︎

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He hated that he had lost Peter at all.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But she didn’t.

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

Just... don’t.

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

Neither of them were okay.

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

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

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

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

☔︎

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Good graffiti,” Peter argued.

“No.”

“Just one picture, I’m begging you.”

“No!”

“...please?”)

MJ was breathing heavily. “Leeds—“

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Who the hell...” MJ whispered.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The influence he held over them all was undeniable.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He hesitated.

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

Peter told him everything.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Mr. Stark had never looked more vulnerable.

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

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

(Ned knew the feeling. All too well.)

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

☔︎

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

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

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

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

He felt so exposed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

50% of all living creatures. In the universe. 

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

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

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

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

(It should have been him.)

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

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

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

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

He smiled then, grim and mirthless. 

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

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

Peter.

He loved Peter. His kid.

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

The crowd’s murmurs grew louder.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

What are you still fighting for? 

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

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

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

(Except he hadn’t.)

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

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

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

Tony knew the press wouldn’t be so kind.

What are you still fighting for?

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

None of them would.

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

(Too good for this world.)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

His composure broke apart at the seams. 

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

And the world stopped spinning.

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

None of that mattered.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I’m sorry, Ned.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I couldn’t save him.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

So. May had thanked him.

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

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

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

He couldn’t fail Peter.

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

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

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

…Tony was tired of letting Peter down.

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

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

☔︎

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

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

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

Ned and MJ were the only ones whispering.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Of-fucking-course.”

“MJ—”

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

It should, MJ had said. Should. 

(‘Should’ applied to a lot of things.

Peter should be alive.

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

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

But none of those things were true.)

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

Ned noticed.

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

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

“Peter’s still dead,” MJ whispered.

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

Peter’s still dead.

Peter’s still dead.

Peter’s still fucking dead.

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

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

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

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

(He wished the stars would shine again for him.

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

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

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

Could hear his prayers. 

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

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

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

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

Please.

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

Please.

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

It was barely there, but it still existed. 

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

Please.

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

Please. 

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

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

(Three weeks ago, Peter had been alive.)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He couldn’t hear a word Tony said.

☔︎

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

He admired Tony Stark, too.

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

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

And yet.

And yet…

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

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

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

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

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

…inauguration of the Peter Parker foundation.

...the Peter Parker foundation.

...Peter Parker foundation.

…Parker.

Holy shit.

Parker. Peter fucking Parker.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

☔︎

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

Tony was exhausted.

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

You’re everything, Pete.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Perfect.)

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

He also knew who that handwriting belonged to.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Peter should know how amazing he was.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Aunt Hottie: Thank you, Tony. 

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

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

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

Helicopter Mentor: Peter could NEVER be a burden.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

They didn’t know shit about Peter Parker.

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

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

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

Tony’s throat dried.

Pete.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But Peter had never been his.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

God, he missed Peter.

☔︎

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

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

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

“Ned…” MJ sounded devastated.

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

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

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

Ned was inconsolable. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ned felt like drowning.

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

Ned knew what that felt like.

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

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

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

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

Nothing else seemed to matter.

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

“Ted,” Happy said.

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

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

Who would he laugh over stupid things with now?

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

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

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

Speak away. 

There were so many things Ned wanted to say.

Why didn’t you tell me?

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

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

Why didn’t you save him?

You were supposed to save him.

But all of the words died in his throat.

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

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

It should have reassured Ned.

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

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

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

Ned had no idea what to say to that.

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

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

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

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

“That’s – I – he—“

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

☔︎

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

What about May, Stark?

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

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

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

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

This time, he had so much on the line.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Pep—”

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

“And now?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The partition went back up again.

“Tony?” Happy’s question went unspoken.

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

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

Tony ignored it.

☔︎

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

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

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

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

“Thank you,” she whispered.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Amazing things,” Happy murmured.

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

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

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

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

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

May cried harder.

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

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

Tony closed his eyes.

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

Tony didn’t have an answer.

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

How am I supposed to say goodbye to you?

How am I supposed to live like this?

How am I supposed to heal?

He couldn’t.

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

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

[izvorposts]

SnK ch 125 Spoilers Ahead.

About Levi

I haven’t been in the fandom for too long, but SnK has become an addiction (laughs in suicidal) and I want to share my thoughts on the latest chapter, mainly Levi. I know I won’t say anything new, but I have the urge to write about it. 

First off, they’re back, yay! Maybe we can say that 2020 started in a promising way. Maybe.

Second of all, Levi is a burrito and I see way too many people being overly excited about him going back to fighting when/ if he gets better. No. Please, no.  Levi is not a killing machine. There is so much more to him than just being a soldier/ captain. But, let’s start from the beginning.

LOSS

Levi’s life has been heavily permeated with loss and abandonment since he was born. Kuchel died when he was very young, but old enough to remember her. Knowing what having love means and then losing it is devastating. To top that off, when she died, he had nowhere to go, so he just lived for, we don’t know how long, but even if it was just a few days it’s still heavy, his mother’s dead body in a small room in a brothel. After that, Levi gets saved (let’s put it like that) by Kenny, who teaches him how to survive, but eventually (yes, for a sensible reason) he abandons him, too. Levi learns the reason only after it is disclosed by Kenny many years later, but up until that point Levi only knows he was abandoned and that’s it. His life in the Underground can’t have been easy, not matter how skillful a gangster he was. I feel suicidal if there are more than three days in a row with no sunshine, he lived with no light for years. There he has two friends, Farlan and Isabel, whom he also loses after they’d joined Erwin. He’s left with two people he’s close to – Erwin and Hange, and he’s also left with that damn syringe Kenny gave him, which eventually led him to decide who lives and who dies. The syringe was an insane cycle. Levi gets it from Kenny, gives it to Erwin and Erwin now only entrusts Levi with the fucking thing, he also entrusts him with the decision to use it as he see fit. And, yet again, Levi loses the person he deeply cares about – Erwin, just this time it was Levi’s decision. Like, fuck. Now, these are just some major losses in his life, but we can’t forget about his comrades and the life he leads as a soldier.

IDENTITY

For the longest time he lived he was Levi, just Levi, not even knowing his last name. Then he becomes Heichou and Levi Heichou and only later in the story he is someone with full identity – Levi Ackerman. There are many other things that constitute our identity more deeply than our name, but our names are the first things we learn about ourselves. I guess we have them for a reason. Another important part of his identity is Humanity’s Strongest, and while he does deserve it, it’s vital we see beyond it – he’s a human person. It’s also vital to take a look at how much pressure this puts on someone, no matter how mentally strong they are. Having only one person rely on you for something puts you under pressure – let’s try to imagine having entire humanity rely on you for, no less than, giving them freedom. We see Levi fight and we see him live, but the question is – what does he live for? Does he live for himself among other things, or is his every move carefully calculated so he could survive to go to yet another battle? Does he see himself as Humanity’s Strongest and nothing more? His current burrito-like state and the final sentence of the manga sound ominous to me, because no matter how precious someone is for the world, their inability to keep doing something they did for the longest time hopefully won’t make them lose their sense of purpose. We don’t know what is going on in Levi’s head, but for the fans, really, there is so much more depth to him. I hope that, if he can’t fight anymore, he won’t think that this is the end for him, that his purpose is lost, and I sure as hell hope the fandom won’t be disappointed, because:

SELFLESSNESS

What Levi did with Erwin when he let him go was a prime example of selflessness. There was literally nothing in it for Levi except guilt, pain and more loss. Had it been me with that syringe and one of my friends, I’d be like: Bitch, you’re getting the serum and you’re staying because I can’t face yet another loss (this is probably why no one will ever do a manga about me lol jk). Levi lets him go, he lets Erwin find peace, he puts what is most important for Erwin above everything else, himself included. Giving someone up to let them die in peace/ be happy/ find their sense of purpose/ really whatever requires superhuman effort and loads of selflessness and that’s Levi for you.

CARING 

No matter if you only watched the anime or also read the manga, Levi is extremely caring towards his comrades and friends. On countless occasions he stops Mikasa from getting hurt or killed, because she’s incapable of not following her impulse. His priority is to minimize the loss of human life and he does everything he’s capable of to keep his people alive. When Eren was to seal the hole in wall Maria, we see Levi mention Hange’s group and wondering if Hange is alright more than once. He takes care of them like they’re his responsibility, he protects them and he genuinely cares.

PATIENCE

Even though he comes off as impatient and blunt, he actually rocks the role of a teacher. He takes pastor Nick to see for himself what people have gone through and he does the same with Dimo Reeves – he just talks to them, no aggression, no threats. He lets people choose, and this is really something I admire about him; he lets Eren make a choice when they face the Female Titan for the first time. He keeps saying that no one can know what the right choice is, he doesn’t force people to do as he says (okay, a small exception being Historia becoming queen).

EMOTIONAL and COMPASSIONATE

Yeah, not the first adjective you’d associate to Levi, but let’s remember his reaction when they all learn that the titans are actually humans, when he realizes he’d been killing humans all along. His reaction to Petra’s dad when they come back after fighting the Female Titan. The fact that he collected Ivan’s patch and what he told Dieter and Jurgen.

BRAVE

Okay, no need to overanalyze this, obviously, the man is the epitome of bravery, but he’s the one who assumes responsibility for Eren, when we just learn Eren can become a titan, before anyone, Eren included, knew what he, as a titan, could do. And it’s also Levi who guards Zeke, and we all know how well that ended for Levi.

MODEST

Levi doesn’t claim that he knows what the best or the right thing to do is in many situations. We don’t hear him speak a lot, but he does say more than once: “Who’s to say what the right choice is.” “Make a choice you’ll regret least”, etc. He doesn’t try to enforce (again, the situation with Historia is an exception) his views on anyone.

And so on and so forth.

So, wouldn’t you agree that it’s been enough, that he deserves to keep living in peace? I’m afraid that he’s one of the most underappreciated characters in SnK, and I claim that he’s the most tragic one, and making him a one-dimensional killing machine simply isn’t fair. Levi is a deep, multi-leveled character and he deserves all the appreciation we can give him. And I can’t emphasize this enough - he’s human.

If Levi can’t fight anymore, his role won’t be any less vital - he’s already done a fuckton of things for humanity, maybe more than anyone, both as a soldier and as a person.

He deserves happiness and peace, he’s got Hange by his side (if I’m inspired and not lazy I might write a few things about Hange these days, I feel they’re also quite underappreciated), which is a good start. Levi is comprised of unbelievably many qualities we don’t see in people too often, please pay more attention to him.

I will wholeheartedly support fanart and fanfics that give Levi and Hange happiness and if I do write more fanfic, I solemnly swear the two will always be happy. And if it’s okay to ask, Isayama, please, do the same. 

[peonybane]

Agape And Pragma: Prologue

Pairings: OT7 (BTS) x Reader

Word Count: 1.9 k (damn this is short)

Genre: Hybrid AU, Fluff, Angst, Sci-Fi, Smut (maybe)

Summary: Your entire world had be torn asunder by just one lab test. Time heals all wounds, but does it really? What will it take to feel whole again?

Warning: Mentions of cheating, loss of fertility and it’s psychological consequences.

Hybrid Types: Golden Retriever Hoseok, Great Dane Taehyung, and French Lop Eared Rabbit Jungkook... with more to come.

a/n: So, I wrote roughly 10,000 words of this whole thing in one day. This was not suppose to be my first published series, but here we are. The prologue is VERY angsty, but I do think it’s important enough to read as it gives context for everything else.

It was about 60 years ago, the U.N. approved of the Genetic Freedom Initiative. The GFI was meant to set the standard in morality in human genetic research worldwide, allowing researchers to explore every lead… no matter where it took them. But the opposite was achieved— it destroyed the any shed of scientific ethics left in that field. 

At first, it was thought that the initiative would open the doorway to the genetic advancement of the human species for the better. Imagine, genetic diseases just gone. Cystic Fibrosis? Wiped out. Hemophilia? A thing only read about in text books. Tay-Sachs disease? Never heard of it. Even things like Polycystic Ovarian Syndrome, while not necessarily life threatening, became a distant memory. 

Then came the genetic modifications to ‘improve’ the individual. You want your child to be a musical progeny? Here’s a genetic mutation that will increase their ability to differentiate tone and increase hand eye coordination. Want your child to be an Olympic swimmer? Here’s the genetic cocktail for a long wing span and an increase in lung capacity.

Initially, the world thought that genetic modification would not gain much traction as how costly it was. But all that changed when a team of scientists in Japan created not only a new, cheaper alternative to testing for certain genes, with a 97% positive identification rate, but also a method of implementing the genetic modifications with 95% success rate. Sweden was the first country to take this new method and basically gave the tests out for free to expecting couples to see if their child would be born with a life threatening condition. Sweden then heavily subsidized the procedure to alter the baby’s DNA if the parent or parents wished for it. This quickly made it affordable, not just the modification to prevent diseases, but also the ‘improvements.’

The rest of the world soon followed.

It’s funny. Every genocide in history is birth from two things: good intentions and arrogance.

Humanity thought that because it could take control of its destiny— of nature…. We were arrogant. We believed we could play God and throw the rules that were put into place, the rules that were put into place to protect us, back in Mother Nature’s face. Oh how devastating were the consequences. 

After the ‘improvements,’ came the perverting of genetic modification. ‘Enhancements,’ they were called. The modifications were to improve us, and at first they truly were. Better eyesight borrowed from falcons. Sense of balance from cats. Scientists dabbled in bats’ sense of hearing.

Because of the new Genetic Alteration Boom, no one loud enough took a moment to stop and ask, “Is this right? Should we slow down?”

If they had… the genocide could’ve been prevented.

When the first, ‘enhanced’ babies were born, there was an unintended consequence: their appearance was slightly altered to resemble whatever animal their DNA was spliced with (these features having not been noticed on ultrasounds as they were either still underdeveloped or were written off as shadows). Even as scientists tried to keep the results under wraps, knowing that things would not end well, it was already too late. The world was taken by ‘Hybrid Fever.’

Everyone wanted their children to have cute rabbit ears. Or the graceful legs of a gazelle. Or have the wings of an owl. Or the gils of a shark. It didn’t matter. Ethics had died.

Almost 20 years after the first Hybrid was born, Humanity finally discovered the consequences of playing God: a fourth of the world’s population was infertile, all of them Hybrids. 

Generations had been lost. Capable, loving people were robbed of a joy. All because of Humanity’s desire to play God.

When the news came out that Hybrids were infertile, the genetics industry practically committed suicide. The only remnants left appear to be only… government experiments and black market dealings. What are they doing in th—

You stopped reading. Why the hell did Liam think this would be something you’d be interested in reading? Sure you were interested in his field of work but come on. This was depressing as hell and honestly, you knew most of this from your parents.

There was a knock on the door. “Come in.”

In stepped the doctor and you put your phone away, still seething a little at the article your best friend had sent you.

“Hello, how you today, ma’am? Good to see you again.”

“You too, Dr. Yoon. I’m fine, though I was a bit surprised to receive your office’s call to come in. I thought you usually did consultations on the phone?”

The smile on Dr. Yoon’s face died. She became stiff and the air became heavy. She took a moment and pursed her lips. “I’m sorry.”

Dr. Yoon handed you a paper. It had your lab results as well as your pap smear results. You looked at the numbers and the write-ins. No… this couldn’t be right. It couldn’t be! “W-What is this? This isn’t what… I think it is? Is it?”

“Your fallopian tubes have been severely damaged. I don’t think we can fix it.”

“W-Why— What caused this?”

“In your case we think it’s pelvic inflammatory disease… your general practitioner misdiagnosed it was an UTI… but it wasn’t. You only exhibited symptoms similar to UTI. And your GP took your word that you and your partner are exclusive. I think you had chlamydia. But the antibiotics killed it, but not before it reached your fallopian tubes.”

“B-But h-how could… how could’ve I gotten it? My boyfriend and I have been together for two years. And we were clean when started having sex. We went to the same clinic together to get tested!”

But deep down you knew… you knew Taka had been lying to you. Been lying about the business trips. About the late nights at work… all those weekends spent at the office. You just accepted it because… because you just wanted him to be happy. Besides, you were used to being alone. Why would this be any different?

You wanted to be angry, you really did, but all you could do is mourn the loss of your children… children that would never be. The children that you’d been looking forward to almost forever. You had always believed that love and life were the greatest things in the world… how could you not want children… but that dream… that dream now laid dead. 

Dr. Yoon placed her hand on your shoulder. “Is there anyone you want me to call? I don’t want you to be alone right now.”

You shook your head. “No… no I have someone I can call.”

“Alright, dear. Let me know if there’s anything else I can do.”

She nodded her as she stepped out of the room. Immediately, you pulled out your phone, dialing the one number you could think of. You waited a few moments before you heard the familiar voice, “Hey, Shortstack, you miss me?”

“Li—“ you paused taking a deep breath. “Liam? Can you come pick me up?”

The usual playful tone was gone. “Shortstack? What’s wrong?”

“I’m at the OB/GYN. Could you please just come get me.”

You heard the jingle of keys in the background. “What’s wrong? Where’s Taka? Why isn’t he with you?”

All too quickly and sharply, you replied, “Fuck Taka!”

There was a pause. “I’ll be there in 15. Hang tight.”

You hummed a sound on confirmation. Liam cut the call and you left the examination room. After paying for your visit, she sat waiting for Liam, your results clutched in your hand, the other unconsciously rubbing the spot on your stomach where life should’ve been created. You were like a seesaw, swinging between anguish and numbness. Your mind granting you spells of blankness, no thoughts in your head. Nothing to bury yourself even further. 

When Liam picked you up, he managed to pry the results from your hand, the look on your face making it evident that you were in no mood to talk about what was wrong. Looking over the results (being medically trained had its advantaged), Liam cursed, scaring the bejesus out of a pair of old ladies. “I’m going to fucking kill him.”

Before Liam could do anything else, you latched onto his jacket. He looked down at you and into your hollow eyes. “C-Can I stay at your place, just for tonight?”

“Shortstack, you can stay as long as you want. Let’s go.”

You nodded, letting Liam guide you to his car. Once in the car, you let you head rest on the doorframe, closing your eyes as the world around you both whizzed by. 

Once you were at Liam’s place, he guided you into the house. Nothing could shake you out of you stupor, not even the excited sounds of one of Liam’s roommates, Hoseok. He shouted your name in glee, having not seen you in what felt like ages. Before Liam could protest, Hoseok pulled you into a hug, his fluffy tail wagging at a million miles per hour as it smacked against the verdana in the entry way. 

When you didn’t hug back like you normally did, Hoseok pulled away from you, looking down at your face in concern, his tail drooping down and his ears folding back against his head.

“Hobi, why don’t you take her to the couch and start a movie? I think it’s a movie and puppy pile night tonight.”

Hoseok was about to open his mouth to inquire, especially since Taka didn’t like it when they did puppy pile night, so they stopped doing it. Liam shook his head, telling him no silently— that he’d explain later. Liam headed towards the kitchen, getting a tub of ice cream ready.

As Hoseok guided you to living room, he had you sit down. He helped you remove your shoes and wrapped you in a blanket. You were in too much shock to be much of any help. After settling down next to you and pulling you into cuddle (where you proceeded to finally relax), the front door opened and two voices could be heard entering, both wondering where that salty acidic smell was coming from. Liam intercepted them and told them to go join the puppy pile. A few moments later (after removing their shoes and jackets), the other two Hybrids entered the room. The sight before them ensuring that there was to be no questions at the moment.

Jungkook walked over and joined you on your other side from Hoseok, letting his long floppy ears cushion his head against your shoulder as he wrapped his arm around your waist, little cotton tail twitching as he finds a comfortable position to be in. Taehyung join the fold, sitting down on the ground in front of the couch, resting his cheek against your lap, whimpering lowly as he stroked your knee. You slowly brought your hand to his floppy ears, rubbing them. He let out a content sigh, his tail lightly thrumming against the floor. 

The tension in the room began to dull… and the tears started to fall silently. The boys just sat there, surrounding you in their love and comfort, not knowing what was causing you this grief. 

Liam stood in the doorway, leaning against it, watching you all. His heart was breaking for you. There were two things that you wanted nothing more in the world: to be someone’s one and only, and to have children. Both of those dreams were cruelly taken from you.

As always, reviews, comments, asks, and tags are always loved! ~Peony

Next (Chapter 1) --->

Agape and Pragma Masterlist

Masterlist

All rights reserved. © Copyrighted 2019.