“I want to take a moment to talk about you and your idea, because it’s something I always need to remember.
“So, you, as
a screenwriter of a story that you came up with—you are the only person in the
process who will ever truly be alone with that story. You are a mother holding
their baby. You are pregnant with it. It’s in your head. No matter
how complicated the process of writing it, ultimately it is a piece of you.
This is a business and it’s also an art. I always get kinda disgusted when
people talk endlessly about the idea that their art is “part of them”—but it is! It is! It’s as part of them as the words coming out of their mouth, as the things
they say to their friends, as the things you build with your hands, the food
you cook… It’s all a sort of extrapolation of you.
though things can get diluted and get ruined—or never sell—or never make you
any money—or come out and do badly—or get torn apart by a director who you
thought would be perfect and then betrays you—or get torn apart by critics—or,
you know, succeed: always keep in mind that the thing you do when you’re alone,
when you’re writing it, when it’s still part of you, is special. That’s special!
That’s the act of creation! Not even most humans can do that! So if you wrote
something—maybe it sucks. Maybe it’s great. I don’t know. I haven’t read it. Maybe
you think it sucks. Maybe you hate it. Maybe you’re like “I hate everything I
write!” Maybe you’re one of those people. I don’t get those people, but maybe
you’re one of those people. Maybe you’re someone who’s a fanboy of their own
stuff. Great! Please never forget, no matter how far you feel from the work,
that it started inside you. That’s special. That’s a unique thing. And on some
level you should—even if you’re just writing fanfiction for the internet—be proud
i’m finally finished with my resurrection animation! and while i could have done certain things better, i’m actually really proud of the final product! and i’ve definitely learned a lot during the process of making it, i rlly hope ya’ll enjoy watching it!! also in case your confused about anything in this, in the video’s description theirs a list of which tales are being referenced during which time stamps. just in case some of stuff isn’t super clear or obvious
Lance didn’t want to put on the helmet. Not yet. Putting it on meant he was giving in, sealing the deal. Saying goodbye to Blue.
Lance loved Blue. He loved her so, so much- her kind, motherly presence, flying with her, being one with her. Saying goodbye was like throwing that all away.
Blue also reminded Lance of Earth. Her presence reminded him of his Mami’s sweet embrace, her comforting words. Flying with her reminded him of the freedom he felt in the never-ending ocean. Blue reminded him of the blue, blue skies of home. He didn’t want to say goodbye to Blue or his memories.
But then he felt Blue’s gentle nudge that was so familiar to Lance. Lance hadn’t wanted to leave home when he was accepted into the Garrison, but his mother had hugged him close, tears streaming down her face, and then she had nudged him gently. “Go be a hero,” she had said with a watery smile, “and come back home to me.”
Go be a hero, child. You will always be my paladin. I love you.
Lance felt a tear slip down his cheek. I love you too, Blue.
Before he could change his mind, Lance jammed the red helmet on his head, and the blue skies faded from sight.
what’s the use of feeling blue? haha because now Lance is the red paladi-
Someone requested a sickfic of Tony and Peter (I’m really sorry, I totally forgot your url, BUT I remembered your request). I decided to just bust it out because I’m bored and don’t want to practice or do physical therapy or boring things like that.
Title: “Can I Get a Blanket Over Here?”
Word Count: 1672
That’s the only word Peter really had for this occasion, and he briefly thought that he needed to expand his vocabulary.
And then he remembered that he has MJ for that.
He coughed, and the feeling of utter disgust returned. Ugh was certainly the perfect word to describe the situation.
His chest was congested, and he could feel the phlegm that built up. His nose was stuffed up and red from many attempts at blowing some snot out. His head was pounding, his face was warm, and he was freezing.
“How are you doing, loser?”
He looked up through bleary eyes, watching as MJ settled in the seat facing him.
He really tried to think of a wisecrack, but his head just wasn’t doing much for him right now. “I’m surviving.”
MJ glared at him, the book in her hands still unopened. “Really, Hamlet?”
Peter just shrugged. “Whose idea was it to send kids to a small, confined space in the middle of winter, anyway?”
She turned to her book. “Ask the government.”
“That’s not helpful.”
She smirked, not bothering to respond to his comment.
Flu season was his least favorite time of year. He may be Spiderman, but none of his special capabilities that came from the spider bite transferred to his immune system. At least, not when it came to a simple bug that would be gone within a week.
Ugh. He felt like crap.
“At least Flash isn’t here,” MJ remarked off-handedly, not looking up from…whatever it was she was reading.
Peter hummed in response.
“You got the Stark Internship today?”
Peter nodded. His headache had increased in intensity and exhaustion had settled in. Maybe it hadn’t been a good idea to patrol the city yesterday.
Or the day before that.
Or even the day before that.
Or the past week, really.
He felt utterly weak, and every inch of his body ached.
“Don’t give me the flu.”
Peter nodded again, fighting to keep his eyes open. He pulled his jacket closer to his body and coughed, wincing at the onset of pain.
Michelle looked up sharply, watching him with a careful eye. “You should go home.”
Peter waved away her words as he gave into a coughing fit, tears springing into his eyes at the pain spreading across his chest and the severity of his coughs.
Okay, well maybe he wasn’t convincing, but if he went home, he would have to give superheroing a break, and, well…he wasn’t that sick.
As he doubled over, hacking, desperately trying to suck in a breath, he thought maybe Michelle was right.
Someone shoved a water bottle at him, and he grabbed it quickly, drinking around the hotness in his throat. The cool water soothed his inflamed throat, and he gasped once he had his fill.
MJ stood before him, her mouth set in a straight line and her eyebrows furrowed. “You really should go home, Peter.”
He shook his head. “No,” he said, internally cringing at his raspy voice. She shifted awkwardly, avoiding eye contact.
“Then you should eat something.”
He shook his head again, straightening and turning back to the table. “I don’t think I can hold it down.”
She rolled her eyes. “You’re gonna kill yourself if you don’t get checked out, Peter.”
He shrugged. “Yeah, well…what else is new?”
The rest of the day was relatively difficult. He refused to go to the nurse, despite the pounding in his head. He felt colder than he had earlier, and he knew it probably would be a great idea to call Mr. Stark and tell him that he would need to take a sick day.
But he wasn’t planning on it.
Home was starting to sound more and more appealing, and the mere idea of taking a sick day sounded fantastic.
He still wasn’t planning on it, though.
The final bell rang, and he shuffled out of school, silently cursing Ned for staying home today. He tried to recall how much homework he would have to get done before tomorrow, but MJ came up next to him.
“Tomorrow’s Saturday, and we have a long weekend, dumbass.”
Right. Dumbass, right.
He shook the fog from his head, nodding a thank you to Michelle before leaving the campus. Long weekend, Saturday, minimal homework…
He just remembered that he was staying at the Stark Tower for the weekend, at Aunt May’s request for a romantic weekend with her new boyfriend.
He rolled his neck. “Shit,” he whispered to no one in particular.
Maybe he could just sleep once he got there. Or take a hot shower. Or sleep in the shower.
He arrived at the tower, not recalling any part of the trip it took him to get there. He shrugged, licking his chapped lips.
Come to think of it, a hot shower sounded fantastic.
He exited the elevator, making his way to the room Tony had designated as his.
“Kid, you look like death.”
Peter turned sharply, wincing at the pain it added to his headache. Tony’s brow creased, and he walked over to Peter. He pressed the back of his hand to Peter’s forehead.
“Good God, how long have you been sick?”
Peter opened his mouth to answer, vaguely aware of how thick and dry his tongue felt. “Um.” He gestured with his hands, and Tony raised his eyebrows. “Uh…”
“F.R.I.D.A.Y., what’s Peter’s temperature?”
“Shit.” Tony’s voice echoed Peter’s thoughts. “You were at school with that high of a fever?”
Peter nodded, sluggishly trudging to his room. “Mr. Stark?” he called, his voice weak. “Did May drop off my clothes?”
Tony nodded. “Yeah, kid. Why don’t you change, and I’ll be there in a minute to take care of you?”
Peter nodded again, resuming the walk towards his room. He found a duffel bag on his bed, and he opened it up to find the Hello Kitty pajama pants and a shirt that was too big for him. “She must have known that I was sick,” he muttered, quickly changing into the pajamas.
He tossed his duffel to the other side of the room and settled on his bed.
Tony knocked on the doorframe, holding a bowl of water in one hand and a washcloth in the other. His face was grim.
Peter sat up straighter, taking notice of the achiness in his bones.
“You been out patrolling?” Tony’s voice was tight, and he pulled up a chair to the side of Peter’s bed.
Peter knew it was a trick question, but seeing as how he was the world’s worst liar, he decided to just go with the truth. “Yep.”
“While you felt like crap?” Tony dropped the cloth in the bowl, letting it soak up the water.
Peter winced. “Yeah.”
Tony shook his head. “You know, for a genius kid, you can be really stupid sometimes.” Peter opened his mouth to protest. “Lie down.”
Peter did as he was told. “I’m not stupid, Mr. Stark.” His voice sounded small, and he caught the quick flash of concern that flashed in Tony’s eyes.
“Really, kid?” Tony glanced at Peter as he wrung some excess water from the washcloth, leaning over to press it against Peter’s forehead. “What’s your pulse at?”
“Um, well, I have an elevated pulse because of, you know, the whole spider bite thing –”
“It’s at 180 bpm.”
Okay. That wasn’t good.
“What do you think you have, Pete?” Tony pressed his back against the chair, crossing his arms.
Peter squeezed his eyes shut. “Flu?” he guessed.
“Wrong. You show all the symptoms of pneumonia, which – guess what? – is far more serious.” Tony’s eyes practically spit fire, and judging by his somewhat labored breathing, he was struggling not to yell at Peter.
Peter looked away. “You’re mad.”
“No, I’m fucking pissed. You’ve been overworking yourself since I recruited you, only God knows how many times you almost fucking died, you’ve let homework and extracurriculars slip, and to top all that shit off, you don’t take a break when you need one! Yes, I am pissed.”
Peter took a moment to respond, tears blurring his vision. “I’m sorry, Mr. Stark.”
Tony sighed. “It scares me, you know. It scares me when I see you get in over your head. It scares me when I see you throw away – or try to, for that matter – your chance at being a kid.”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Stark,” he repeated.
“You’re too young to die, son.”
Peter almost rolled his eyes at the sentiment, but when he looked at Tony, worry was the only thing he could see.
“I don’t think pneumonia is going to kill me, Mr. Stark.”
Tony crossed his legs as he shook his head. “Probably not by itself. But combine that with your heroing and a couple of jackasses who have no qualms about killing, and you very well could be killed.”
Peter pursed his lips and nodded, processing Tony’s words through the pounding in his head. “Sorry –”
“God, kid, if you say ‘sorry, Mr. Stark’ one more time, I’m 98% sure I’m actually going to scream.”
“Like, I am slowly starting to be convinced that is my actual name.” Tony was smiling, and it was nice to know that he wasn’t in (a lot of) trouble. He reached out and squeezed Peter’s shoulder. “Get some rest. Happy is making a trip for some medicine.”
Peter smirked. “Bet he’s happy about that.”
Tony quirked an eyebrow as he stood, placing the chair back in its original position. “Was that a pun, kid?”
Tony smiled, softer this time, and patted Peter’s knee. “Get well soon.”
Peter was surprised at how quickly sleep was dragging him into unconsciousness. “Thanks, Dad,” he slurred.
The bed was soft and the pillow was just right and the blankets were warm and his father figure was smiling at him, just as proud as he’d always been.