#pepper saying she chose her name was something i meant to delve into but i didn't so

[lovelyirony]

if you’re taking prompts uhh “the darkness encroaches (you keep it at bay)” idk for who maybe tony?

Tony, for one thing, did not like the fact he was apparently part of a long line of magic-users. 

His mom had always been tight-lipped about her own family history, even after she left dad and they moved back to New York. 

Tony had asked one time about her family. They had to talk about family history in one of his classes, and there was no way in hell that he wanted to talk about Howard in any capacity that was even neutral. (After all for his debate class, he was talking about how much he sucked in terms of universal weaponry policy.) 

Mom had given him a sharp look from the kitchen counter, and even though she was wearing rubber gloves and her hair was pushed back by a bandana that had little Mickey Mouse print on it, she still looked terrifying. 

“They’re not worth mentioning, Tony. Make something up.” 

“Geez, okay. Touchy subject...” 

“Not touchy. Just not worth the time.” 

Tony didn’t make a comment after that, because in all honesty he and his mom have never been excellent liars to each other, and this time is no exception. 

He does make up his family history. He knows his family is probably from Italy somewhere, they moved in...1923? Yeah, that sounds good. And he’s named after an uncle. 

(He isn’t.) 

Tony doesn’t ask his mom again because he knows that she won’t give in or break down to answer his questions, and there’s probably good reason why he doesn’t know. 

- 

Oh, there’s a reason alright. 

- 

He likes science. He likes understanding things. In his (correct) opinion, magic is just science that no one understands yet. Everything has an explanation. 

Well. 

He accidentally set an asshole’s Mustang on fire. 

To be fair, he was an asshole. He had been talking over the professor during every single slide in the lecture presentation for his lecture, and Tony had just about yelled in frustration. 

So instead as he saw the guy rev his engine for his stupid fucking car and make a whole big scene about how he had a Mustang, how fucking cool is that you absolute shit-heel of a person-

Fire. 

Nothing serious, but Tony knows he did it. 

He could feel how his hands twitched, how something came to him and from him. Something not normal. 

Or at least if it was normal, health class never came close to covering it. 

- 

But it’s a one-time thing, he thinks. He’s not really doing anything else, so maybe it only happens when he’s really mad? That’s probably it. That has to be it. 

Except the ramen that he likes at the grocery store is on the top shelf, and Rhodey wandered off to get actual food, and so he can’t reach it because he’s not a freak who is like 6′4″. 

It floats. 

It fucking floats. 

The sweet-chili-ramen floats into his cart and Rhodey sees it, and he stares. 

"Either I took an edible and it finally kicked in, or you just did something that definitely isn’t supposed to happen.” 

“Maybe the latter,” Tony says faintly. 

“Oh,” Rhodey says. “Do you think we have time to get that queso you wanted, or do we have to pay for the groceries and go to the car to process?” 

“Queso over my mental state,” Tony responds automatically. “Let’s go.” 

-

They eat in silence when they get to their apartment, and they don’t say anything for about ten minutes. 

“So. Do you think you can fly on a broomstick?” 

“What? No!” Tony exclaimed, but pausing. “Well, I’ve never tried before, so...” 

“Then we have to try. For science reasons,” Rhodey says. “Where the fuck do we get a broomstick?” 

So...

As it turns out, you can’t really get a traditional broomstick, so they went to the store and bought a mop. 

“They have a mop, but not a broomstick?” 

“To be fair, it is April.” 

“Why does that matter?” 

“Well,” Rhodey starts to explain, “April showers bring May flowers, but also wet boots into the hallway. Also, it’s not your holiday yet.” 

“Well yeah, it’s not May yet.” 

“I didn’t mean your birthday, dipshit. I meant your holiday.” 

“What the fuck is my holiday?” Tony demands. “No one has a ‘celebrate Tony Stark’ day in their calendars, as far as I or my ego knows, so-” 

He stops. 

“Oh, you little shit.” 

“I’m not little,” Rhodey brags. “I’m taller than you.” 

“For now.” 

“For permanence!” 

“I’ll make you pay for this broomstick with the last ten dollars in your checking account.” 

“Then I’ll tell Jarvis!” 

“Damn your need to know my family,” Tony curses. “Fine.” 

- 

Tony can’t fucking fly on a fucking mop. 

- 

One broken arm later and a phone call to his mother later, Maria Carbonell is sitting on her son’s dormitory mattress and wondering just why the hell he lied to her about how he broke his arm. 

Here was her son’s lie: 

“Um. I broke my arm because dinner sucked.” 

A.) There was no follow up. 

B.) Her son is bad at lying as she is. 

Unfortunately, she did not announce her arrival, and so she gets Tony’s roommate opening the door and screaming that the liquor is in the second cabinet from the left. 

Maria raises one eyebrow. 

“Did Tony at least pick out good wine?” 

“Uh...you’re Tony’s mom?” 

“Yes.” 

“I didn’t think you were coming to visit until move-out.” 

“I...we had an interesting conversation. You wouldn’t happen to know why Tony actually broke his arm, would you?” 

“Um...no.” 

(Rhodey is also a bad liar.) 

- 

Tony gets home about ten minutes later and promptly says: 

“Oh fuck.” 

“Is that any way to greet your mother?” Mom asks, already sipping delicately on her glass of water. 

“Um...move-out isn’t for another month.” 

“I know. But you lied to your dear mother.” 

“How did you know?” 

“You can never hide anything from your mom, and your excuse needed work, honey,” Maria answers. “So. How did you break your arm?” 

Tony sighs. 

“Promise me you won’t laugh. And don’t tell Jarvis.” 

“What did you....what?” 

- 

The mop. 

Maria doesn’t laugh at first, at least until she sees the pictures that Rhodey took and chuckles. 

“You promised me you wouldn’t laugh!” 

“What were you doing? And why?” she asks, laughing. Tony rubs the back of his neck nervously. 

“Um, well...funny story...” 

- 

Maria should have known that her son would have her...abilities. But she had hoped that if he had never known the family, had never known what she could do, that maybe...maybe they wouldn’t come. 

“So what you’re telling me,” Tony says, nostrils flaring, “is that there’s magic?” 

“Yes,” Maria says. “And what we deal with specifically is good magic.” 

“Oh, so I could’ve put Glinda the Good Witch on my family tree project,” Tony says sarcastically. 

Maria scowls. 

“Don’t sass me, Tony. I did it for your own good.” 

“I set a car on fire!” 

“Well, what kind of car was it?!” 

“A Mustang!” 

“Then that makes sense!” Maria says. “Your father drove one, and we all know how that turned out!” 

Tony blinks for a moment. 

And then laughs. 

Maria starts laughing too, until they’re both giggling in the apartment, and Tony tells her about the grocery store incident. 

- 

Mom tells him, essentially, that they have a job: defend from the darkness. She doesn’t say if the darkness is someone or a group or a concept. She just says that she’ll send him some of the spell-books (fucking spell-books!) over and talk about how emotions and different hand motions can affect how spells go. 

“So, why never the family? I mean, you could’ve told me about them and then just not mentioned the magic portion,” Tony asks when he’s moved back into their house, and has grilled Mom on just about every single page in the book. 

“Because as much as your father is a terrible person, you’re still like him in some aspects,” Maria says. “And you are stubborn and don’t let information go. You want to know how everything works, and that includes family. You would’ve been wreaking havoc since you were eight.” 

“I was already wreaking havoc when I was eight,” Tony whines. “But, this also raises the question of when are we doing a family reunion?” 

She stops, looking at him. 

“They weren’t exactly pleased when I married a millionaire.” 

“Not even when he became a billionaire and you got half his fortune?” Tony teases. 

“Not even then,” she answers. “I have a...complicated relationship with magic.” 

“As in, you don’t use it.” 

“Correct,” she answers. “You don’t need magic in your life, and quite often, it gets you in more trouble than you anticipate.” 

“Are you going to give me a ‘magic has consequences’ speech?” 

Maria laughs. 

“No. Magic, as far as I know, doesn’t really have consequences. The actions you do have consequences. You could blast up an entire country and as long as you don’t get caught, no consequences other than what you do to yourself.” 

“Like having guilt?” 

“Like having guilt. But enough about that, it’ll make you feel weird for a week if you keep thinking about it. I want you to light candles from two feet away.” 

“Of course I can do that,” Tony scoffs. 

“Sure you can.” 

-

Tony also sets the curtains on fire! 

- 

Maria realizes that her son is perhaps just a tad (okay, a lot) more powerful than she was (and is). 

So, she regrettably calls her mother. 

- 

Nonna Carbonell is a very imposing figure. A woman who is four-foot-eight and about seven-feet-tall in terms of personality, and dresses only in questionable 1970s-print dresses. 

“Ah, so you finally come back home, Maria. And you brought your boy! Who I only see twice in the magazines!” 

“You know exactly why I didn’t come back, Mama,” Maria says, rolling her eyes. “But enough about that. You need to teach Tony.” 

“Antonio,” Mama says, grinning at him and pinching his cheeks. “Ah, so good to see you have the Carbonell nose, your father was ugly as a mule.” 

Tony pointedly does not say that everyone else seems to think that he is the spitting image of his father, but...

His mom and Nonna do not get along, if family dinner is anything to go by. Tony’s lucky that his mom got him at least some Italian lessons so he’s not completely lost with all of his aunts, uncles, and cousins. 

He sees pots and pans coming off the shelves themselves. Ladles and knifes dance out of the drawers. 

His baby cousin-Geraldine, who is only two-is waving her fingers lackadaisically, and in what seems to be no effort, her bottle of juice is off of the counter. 

Great. A two year old is better at magic than he is. 

- 

Nonna is a great teacher, who also happens to terrify Tony with how much she can do. 

“You’re important,” she grins. “You have more power than your mother, thank God.” 

“Why thank god?” Tony asks. 

“You always thank God, Tonio,” Nonna says, waving the curtains shut. “Now, let’s see you get the flour off the shelf.” 

“Are you sure you don’t want me to get, like, a salt shaker?” 

“If you spill the salt shaker we get the devil!” Nonna declares. “Flour is better.” 

It is not better. It turns Nonna into a ghost, and Tony has to spend ages dusting it off his black jeans. 

“Maybe pepper shaker next time,” she says weakly.  

- 

Tony does call Rhodey. He was supposed to go on a road trip to see him, and now he’s in Italy learning how to fling flour sacks across the kitchen at his idiot Uncle Theo. 

“How goes your magic training you fucking nerd?” 

“Literally I call you, and that’s how you greet me?” 

“I told my DnD group that you moved to Italy to play on a campaign for a worldwide championship.” 

“You are quite literally the worst friend ever.” 

“False, because when I moved out I found your favorite Black Sabbath shirt and am saving it for when you move back. Please tell me you’re moving back so I can plan friendships accordingly.” 

“I’ll be back. Who knows, I might be able to help with some lifting.” 

“I still don’t trust your noodle arms, no matter how much ‘magic’ you have now.” 

“Hey! They’re not noodles!” 

“Says you, noodle-arm boy.” 

“I’m going to curse you into a toad.” 

“There’s no way you can do that,” Rhodey says, laughing. “I guarantee you that you wouldn’t be able to turn me back.” 

“And then we’d have so much more space in the apartment, darling.” 

“But then I wouldn’t have to pay rent! Huzzah! And I wouldn’t have to do my stupid business classes!” 

Tony laughs. 

“I’ve missed talking to you, Rhodey. I can’t wait until I get to come home again.” 

“Me too,” he responds. Tony can practically feel his smile through the phone. 

There’s yelling that Rhodey can hear, something about “come back here you American bastard and learn how to knit with magic!” and a hurried “goodbye, love you” from Tony. 

- 

Tony does get good at magic. He gets very good. 

It’s terrifying to Maria, really. 

Darkness has always existed, and it will always exist. Their family exists as a way to keep it balanced, and Tony...

He plays with magic as if he’s always known it, now. He can do things that not even the older family can do. He has meshed magic with mechanics, and he’s started on ideas that Maria was quite sure no one had thought of. 

- 

And then, of course, family does what family does best: 

They tell you things you should’ve known about three months earlier. 

-

With most families, the thing that they don’t tell you is something like “oh, Aunt Margaret made a terrible choice in husbands again.” Or perhaps “did you see his tattoo? Who in their right mind gets a Sonic the Hedgehog tattoo on their chest?” 

- 

With this family, it is the fact that darkness is coming within the next four years, and Tony is probably their only chance. 

“Why didn’t you tell me?!” Maria hisses at her sister. 

“Because you moved to America!” Gia hisses right back. “We can’t afford to collect call every single time we had trouble.” 

“You couldn’t tell me that the darkness is approaching way sooner than we expected?! Because what, you didn’t want to pay for a phone call!” 

“To be fair, Nonna made that decision,” Enzo says. “She thought we could handle it. And we can! We can!” 

“Oh sure, that’s why Nonna told me that my son is your only chance,” Maria says, dry tone to her voice. “God, I need wine...” 

“Everyone needs wine, it’s practically a requirement,” Gia says. “Don’t worry. Things will work themselves out.” 

“But will it work out for us?” Maria asks. “I don’t want to be the modern model for the next pietà someone wants to make...” 

- 

Tony, unfortunately, is his mother’s son and has listened in on every single conversation that’s ever been had in their house. Here are three things that he has learned: 

1.) Apparently, his mother used to bake the best bread, and they forgot to write and ask her for the recipe, and they also didn’t call her. 

2.) He’s the last hope for everyone of existing with good things, and no one’s sure how to beat the darkness and he has no clue how to. 

3.) Apparently his grandfather (named Basil, of all names) could out-drink anyone and had publicly threatened at least six government officials just because he wanted to see if he could. 

- 

You will notice that one of these facts is most likely important than the others. 

Who the hell names their kid Basil? 

(Just kidding.) 

- 

Tony gets back to the US, promises his mom that he won’t tell anyone, and then immediately tells Rhodey when mom goes to the grocery store. 

“Wait, so...they’re trusting you?” 

“I know! What a terrible idea!” 

“God, I know. You can’t even clean a microwave.” 

“That was one time!” 

Rhodey laughs, tackling Tony in a hug. 

“I know, I know. Welcome back, Tones.” 

He feels safe. Protected. 

- 

He has to learn how to fucking throw knives. Mom has decided that she is going to call in a favor from Howard, and it involves dragging Tony to a most-likely-illegal-pseudo-government-set-up and training under a guy who goes by Hawkeye and a lady who goes by “Black Widow” and expects Tony to be fine with it.  

Rhodey also attends, because Tony appreciates misery with company. 

Plus, they can complain together as they’re getting their asses kicked. 

“Do you ever think about taking a vacation?” Rhodey asks, panting as Natasha once again slams him down on the mat. “I’m sure that Florida or the Philippines would appreciate you. Tourism or the economy, or something like that.” 

“You’re not getting out of your fighting lessons by bribing me with a nice vacation,” Natasha says simply. “Tony, adjust your left arm. You’ll break it when Clint comes into contact.” 

“Maybe I want to break my arm!” Tony declares. 

“Do you want to have to wrap your cast in plastic every single time you shower?” Clint asks. “Because that’s what’ll happen.” 

“Why don’t you just spray the cast with some sort of waterproofing spray?” 

“Would that even work?” Clint asks. “Because you might have just blown my mind.” 

“It might work, I don’t know,” Tony says, panting. 

-

It is eight months when Tony first brushes with darkness. 

It’s the morning, which is...odd. He wouldn’t think that darkness would show up in the morning, but here he is on his morning walk trying desperately hard to fight it off and also not grab attention. 

He manages to slam it down on the road and have a car run it over, and for the most part, the darkness retreats. He sends it off with a curse, and he runs all the way back to the apartment. 

Rhodey frowns. 

“We probably need other people, right?” 

“A regular family reunion and then some.” 

- 

So as it turns out, they’re not getting a family reunion. At least, not any time soon. 

Apparently, Nonna is demanding that they have to be there from October 31st through December 7th, according to Holy Days of Obligation and Holidays (specifically, Christian holidays.) 

“Nonna, isn’t witchcraft considered illegal or something?” Tony asks. “Like, I thought the church didn’t like that.” 

“Too bad, too late. We stay. Talk to your mama, Tonio. She will have answers.” 

-

Maria has absolutely no answers! 

“I didn’t seek out witches who live here, baby,” she says, pressing a kiss to his forehead. “Why don’t you email people? Ask around?” 

“You can’t just ask people if they’re a witch!” Tony cries. 

“Why not?” 

“Because you get people who think you’re insane, or they’re insane!” 

“So?” 

“...good point.” 

- 

Pepper Potts is not sure why she answers the post. It is probably something else not related to what she does. Maybe she’ll be meeting with weirdos. But when you get an ad that’s about “stopping darkness from engulfing the world in two-to-four-years: you wanna help?” you listen to that. 

So she answers, and she walks in her business-casual outfit, and she meets two guys who are sitting at a shitty folding table at the park. 

One of them is wearing cargo pants. 

“Are you here about the darkness?” one of the boys says, blinking up at her behind gigantic glasses. 

“Um. Yes?” 

“Good. My name is Tony, this is Rhodey in the terrible pants. And you are?” 

“Um. Pepper?” 

“Oh, cool name.” 

“Thanks, picked it out myself.” 

Rhodey laughs. 

“Good. Now, what kind of magic stuff can you do?” 

“I’d hardly call it stuff.” 

“Tony uses his to make us ramen while we marathon a crime show, I’m calling it stuff,” Rhodey defends. 

Pepper watches around her, and satisfied with the lack of people around, lifts Rhodey out of his chair and floats him about thirty feet over. 

When he jogs back over, he’s grinning. 

“Very cool. What else?” 

Pepper is well-versed in technique, spells, and a few tricks that Tony doesn’t know about involving manipulation of light. 

“How can you do that?” 

“Practice,” Pepper says. “And a late-night conspiracy theory documentary.” 

“Cool,” Tony and Rhodey say at the same time. 

- 

Pepper actually doesn’t live that far away, and she goes to the same college. They see a lot more of her and become friends. 

She helps them update the spell-book, get it organized online, and focus on finding out where the darkness is going to appear next. 

- 

Tony is trying very hard not to break down from stress. He’s barely twenty, ate ramen for lunch and dinner yesterday, and is not very sure that he can do this. 

People keep telling him that he’s the only hope they have, and he doesn’t want to be that. 

He just wants to have a regular summer and make fun of Rhodey’s questionable fashion choices. 

He doesn’t even know how to defeat this. At all. And he just wants to graduate college, and get a job somewhere and annoy his mom into teaching him how to make homemade pasta. 

Not...not this. 

But you don’t get to choose what you have to do for others. You have to do what they need. 

Rhodey, at least, understands this. 

- 

That is why he is outside of Tony’s door with a half-cold burrito of questionable origins, a smile, and no knowledge of personal boundary space. 

(Not that Tony minds.) 

“Hey,” he says. “So, you have to save the world and I still remember the fact that you forget to get your shit out of the microwave.” 

Tony laughs at that, taking the proffered burrito and biting into it. 

“You still have shitty taste in burritos. Where is this even from?” 

“A badly-painted truck two blocks from here. I think I was their first customer of the day.” 

“No shit,” Tony says, taking another bite of the burrito. “You want to watch a movie or play a video game?” 

“Movie. Something light.” 

- 

This is how they get to watch a movie that honestly doesn’t mean anything to either of them, but it is mindless and it allows Rhodey to sneak his hand over Tony’s, and it allows Tony some sort of happiness that at least Rhodey is still by his side. 

“Hey Tony?” 

“Yeah?” 

“You think if I managed to find an actual broomstick, you could fly it?” 

“Oh, fuck you!” Tony laughs, tossing a pillow over Rhodey’s face. 

“I’m serious. You managed to charm the coffeepot into being sentient, so...” 

“That was a mistake, and now we’re stuck with Maggie, don’t bother her.” 

But it does have him thinking. 

If he can charm a coffeepot, what else could he charm? 

- 

A suit of armor. 

That’s what he charms. He was originally shooting for a broomstick, but then Pepper surprised him and now he has a charmed suit of armor that stands in the hallway of his mom’s old house. (Their base of operations.) 

It gives him an idea. 

Why not combine the old with the new? 

After all, it’s not like darkness hasn’t adapted to hundreds of years of battles. Why not throw a curveball? 

- 

“I don’t like using my major,” Rhodey whines as Tony makes him lift one of the arms for his own suit. 

“Too bad,” Tony teases. “I’ll get you pizza after.” 

“Promise?” 

“Mostly.” 

“Good enough for me.” 

Pepper thinks they’re both idiots, at least until she gets her own suit and is positively thrilled when she looks like she’s a superhero from a television show. 

“Yeah, yeah, we look cool.” Tony says. “Now, who’s ready to learn how to conduct magic and electricity at the same time?” 

It works out better than anticipated, all things considered. 

- 

“You ruined the couch, Anthony Edward Stark-Carbonell!” Mom fumes. “The couch! Where I sit!” 

“To be fair, it’s a really ugly couch,” Tony says weakly. “And it’s, um, for the betterment of...magical society?” 

“Don’t you dare quote your Aunt Gia at me!” Mom goes on muttering in Italian, and it sounds suspiciously like “why did I have to have a son who blows up couches” to Tony. 

- 

The darkness comes in full-force on a Saturday night, which is really inconvenient for a lot of reasons: 

1.) A Saturday? Really? It couldn’t come on, like, a Thursday? 

2.) They’ve been celebrating Rhodey’s birthday and perhaps Tony has enjoyed two or three drinks and gotten a pleasant buzz out of it, all things considered. 

3.) It’s midnight. Why midnight? That’s late, Pepper wanted to get to bed. 

4.) Mom is going to kill them, because technically they weren’t supposed to be out on the town. 

 -

So here they are, panicking and throwing shitty restaurant chairs around in order to main some sort of ahead-of-the-game mentality. 

“Do you think if we called your mom, she would help?” 

“She would probably kill me first!” Tony wails. 

“Before darkness can?” 

“Probably!” 

- 

Maria won’t kill her son yet. 

Yet. 

But god she’s going to come close. 

“You could’ve just asked me to buy you wine!” she says. “You could’ve had a movie in!” 

“Well sorry, I didn’t think that the darkness was going to come on Rhodey’s birthday!” 

“Oh when would you have thought it would come? Next Thursday? Or something more convenient for your year?” 

“I mean, when I have to visit Howard over the summer, that would be beneficial.” 

“I’ll make up a different excuse,” Mom hisses, deflecting a tendril of darkness from the window and wincing as it smashes a painting down from the wall. 

- 

The fight is a hard one. All good fights are. (Although the best fights are ones that are over in five minutes, give or take.) 

It’s been hours, Tony is tired, and honestly he really is debating calling a break and going to get a shitty fast-food burger. 

Rhodey says “no” even though his stomach is growling. 

Pepper has been having fun finding new ways to animate cars, but she’s getting tired. 

- 

And then it gets all of his family that he’s made. 

He can see Rhodey writhing in it, can see his mom fight it off, and watches Pepper scream. 

Tony is not sure if he can do it. 

But he has to. He has to beat this fucking terrible thing back because if he doesn’t, everyone else dies. And they don’t get families, they don’t know what will happen. 

(And he also really wants to plan a vacation with Rhodey and Pepper next year.) 

So he takes himself and all of what he knows, and launches himself directly into it. 

-

By all accounts, he wasn’t supposed to do that. But he hasn’t been able to cut it down into a more manageable size, so he figures that maybe it’s time to try something that has never been advisable by anyone on either hemisphere of the world, or anyone who has ever been rational. 

Going into darkness is a very difficult thing, because for one, you can’t see shit. 

For a second thing, he can hear everything. 

Darkness is not just absence of light. It can be absence of every single damned good thing on the earth, in your head, or anywhere around you. Some people have described it as hell. 

Tony is alone, and he is not sure what to do. 

There’s a table, and there is someone sitting there. 

“So.” 

The woman is stirring an olive around her martini, and she looks impeccably dressed. A fitted skirt and suit, manicured black nails, and eyeliner that looks impossibly intricate. 

“You are...?” 

“The person you’re supposed to destroy.” 

“But you’re not exactly a person, are you?” 

“Smart guy. No, I’m just the personification of what you’re fighting. You intrigue me, Tony Stark.” 

“Just Tony.” 

“Fine then. Tony.” 

“Why do I intrigue you?” 

“Most heroes are alone,” darkness says. (Does he capitalize her name? He’s not sure. “They go alone, they don’t involve people in their struggle. You have involved your family, put them in danger.” 

“They would’ve been in greater danger if I had gone by myself,” Tony says. “People have a nasty habit of sticking together, you know.” 

“Do they now?” 

“Yeah,” Tony says. “And now, I have to make sure we stick together anyways.” 

“And what do you mean by-” 

He’s already lunging at her. 

She wasn’t expecting him to lunge, he guessed. 

She goes down, and yells. 

Tony scrabbles to fight again as she sends out a blast his way, and he ducks. 

“You can’t hide from me!” she yells. 

“I’m not trying to!” he yells back. “I’m just trying to kill you!” 

The fight goes on, and she plays dirty. Her nails tear into his armor, and he tears his fingers through her hair. 

“You can’t beat me,” she howls, triumphant as she manages to pin one of his legs down, and trying to claw at his face. “Darkness always exists! You would be nothing without me!” 

Tony pauses for a second. 

“So what you’re saying is...as long as you exist, so does everything else?” 

“Yes!” 

Tony grins. 

“Aw, you shouldn’t have told me that honey.” 

With darkness being the beginning, everything else comes forth. Tony summons his cousins, his family, Rhodey, Pepper. 

And eventually, her physical form gets smaller and smaller. 

- 

Darkness is not something that can be eradicated from your life. But you can beat the shit out of it with help. Tony learned that. 

He also learned that Rhodey has a phenomenal flying kick. 

- 

They spend the following day laying on the couch or adjacent chairs and staring at the decorations that they need to replace. 

They also learn that Nonna has learned how to call, and is not quite sure if she can be heard or not. 

“TONIO? TONIO! WHERE ARE YOU?!” 

“Nonna, quiet,” Tony groans. “I literally just saved the world yesterday, please don’t yell.” 

“I HAVE FOOD FOR YOU. COME TO ITALY. NEXT WEEK?” 

Tony groans. 

“Sure, Nonna. I will come.” 

“BRING FRIENDS. HAVE GIFTS FROM POPE FOR YOU.” 

“You...when did you have time to get gifts...the pope?” 

“HAVE FRIENDS. COME!” 

Tony looks at Mom, Rhodey, and Pepper. 

“So. When should we leave for next week?” 

[navegandoaciegas]

five more minutes

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader

Warnings: secret relationship, general smut warnings, explicit language, 18+ please.

Summary: Three times when all you wish for is five more minutes of time with Bucky. AKA, dating co-stars is complicated, and that’s why you chose to keep your relationship a secret.

A/N: I wrote this for @wxntersoldiers​ ‘s 6k AU writing challenge and I chose Actor!AU. I hope you like this! English is my third language so please forgive any mistakes. Also I tried to make a moodboard but I’m not artistically inclined so... 

Five more minutes is all you could ask for every time the clock strikes 7AM and Bucky has to rush out of bed, silky sheets tangling up his legs, tripping over his own feet as he scrambles to put on a t-shirt that he hopes your smell doesn’t linger on; in the darkness he stumbles on the shoes you’ve thrown away in a haste to get undressed, and curses you for drawing the blinds at night before finally sneaking out your hotel room with a whispered ‘see you on set’. Groggy like you always are in the morning, you wait with bated breath for him to text you he’s back in his, unseen by the rest of the cast and crew that swarm the place at 8, your secret safe another morning, before falling back asleep. 

All you want is five more minutes of his chestnut hair sprawled over his pillow, his soft snores and jerky legs, his prosthetic arm weighting on your waist and warmth radiating off of him that compensates for his blanket hogging tendencies.

“Just five more minutes.” he grumbles when the alarm goes off, the same thing he says every morning, the same four words he used to say everyday back in school; just like his mother would drag him out of bed anyways, ignoring his pleads, so do you.

Turning around you press sweet kisses on his forehead and graze his stubble covered cheeks.

“We don’t have five minutes.”, you whisper, “Makeup and hair is coming in an hour.”

Bucky groans in annoyance and buries his face deeper in the pillow, mumbling something about wanting to stay with you all day.

Five more minutes is not too much to ask for, and today you decide that the planet could stop spinning on its axis and time could freeze, all for a little more time together before you have to face the reality of your relationship.

Fleeting moments, longing looks, lingering touches: a small price to pay to keep the rest of the world from poking and prodding your love, questioning your motives, twisting and warping reality until your unadulterated feelings are but a publicity stunt, until one is an abusive asshole and the other is a serial cheater, and what was once a safe haven becomes the source of all pain and insecurities.

But in the darkness of your hotel room, in your little oasis of peace, you’re not a clandestine affair, but a precious secret that’s worth keeping, and all that matters is you and him; there’s no shouting paparazzis, no nosey interviewers, no assuming public, just you and your sweet kisses, Bucky and his delicate touches.

His hands roam over your body, goosebumps spreading behind his soft caresses, heat pooling in your core when he kneads the flesh of your thighs and ass, nipples stiffening when his teeth graze them. 

Five more minutes, and maybe a little more, is all you ask for, just enough time for you to explore his body, tug on his hair, nip his throat and kiss your way downward, careful not to leave any sign of your love, no mark of your sweet possessiveness.

Five more minutes of his tongue delving in your glistening folds, his long fingers circling your bud, of you bucking your hips to meet his thrusts until he’s buried deep inside you, and the burn of him stretching you gives way to pleasure. 

Your head is yanked back when he pulls on your hair, his cock sliding in and out of you as your clit keeps rubbing on the sheets, his hips hitting your ass as he fucks you into the mattress. You squeeze your eyes shut and bite the pillow to muffle the moans and screams erupting out of your mouth.

Your walls clench around him and you feel your orgasm near, pleasure shooting from your core to the rest of your body, toes curling and mind hazy; Bucky follows close behind, his cock swelling as he snaps his hips harder and faster, until he spills inside you, hot release filling you so much you come too, clamping down on him and milking every last drop he gives you. 

These moments as you recover from the explosion in your bodies, these adoring looks when you bask in the aftershock of pleasure, these rare cuddles after making love to you: you don’t get them often. And as most beautiful things in life, they’re not meant to last.

A knock at your door bursts your loving bubble and jolts you back to reality, the harsh reminder of not being able to scream your love at the top of your lungs hitting you like a freight car.

“I got you breakfast.” announces the faint voice of Peter, your PA May’s nephew, the college kid who runs errands for you, brings you coffee and holds your purse when you’re out shopping, the same kid people speculate you’re hooking up with about any time he’s photographed with you, the same way you’re rumored to be sleeping with half of Hollywood.

You and Bucky both sigh, knowing those five more minutes you wish for are delayed yet again, and now you’ll have to find a way to successfully sneak him out of your room.

🎬

Blissfully unaware is how you’d describe the people in your life, always so close to finding out, to walking in on you doing something you’re not supposed to, and yet so far away from the truth, so painfully oblivious that they could never even suspect anything. 

Their blindness makes you delirious with excitement: your love is only yours, you don’t have to share it with anyone else, because you don’t want to, because you’re greedy and selfish like that and because holding hands under the table, sneaking kisses between takes when no one is watching, fucking in the trailers with the door ajar because you secretly want to get caught, is the rush of energy you never knew you needed to feel alive, the fix of adrenaline you can’t live without.

Heated touches, swollen lips, rough hands on your body, open mouthed kisses. Panting, moaning, crying. Fuzzy hair on your sensitive nipples, strong legs between your own. Rough sand underneath you, the sound of the waves that beat on the shore in your ears.

He looks so beautiful under the orange Hawaiian sunset, red faced and disheveled, hair sticking everywhere, his hard length pressed against your core. You feel warmth inside you when he looks at you, when he grazes your skin with soft caresses, when he peppers your neck with kisses. Your heart is beating out of its cage and-

“And, cut!” Pepper, the director, shouts at the top of her lungs, interrupting the magic of the moment, “You guys did amazing!” 

The crew starts packing as Pepper congratulates you, praising your ‘great on screen chemistry’, the kind she’s never seen before, and the realism of each of your touches and looks. You wish you could say you’re that good of an actress, but the truth is when Bucky touches you the rest of the world disappears, you’re not Karina and he’s not Oliver. It’s just the two of you, and sometimes you have to stop yourself right before moaning his name instead of Oliver’s. 

That night he’s in your room again before a movie premiere you’ve both been invited to, with a nicely packaged pink bag, “A gift.” he says holding it up to you, “Wear this tonight. Don’t worry, I washed it before.”

Absolutely not, is the first answer you give when you unwrap the white tissue paper around the present, but as always Bucky manages to be too convincing for your own good: the promise of all the things he can do with his tongue if you behave like a good girl is all it takes for you to change your mind.

At the premiere, you wear the vibrating panties like he’s asked of you.

It’s humiliating in the best way possible the way he smirks watching from afar how you squirm every time he controls the vibration so it’s high enough that you feel an orgasm near, but not fast enough that it seems achievable, a sweet torture he’s subjecting you to as you slowly rub your aching core on the seat whilst struggling to keep a straight face when people talk to you. You’ll both look back to the pictures taken tonight and remember what you were hiding. It’s your dirty little secret, the glances you steal, his hand controlling the device in your panties and increasing the speed every time a man dares talk to you. You’re going out of your mind, desperate to lose control and aware you can’t do that. 

Bucky tries to entertain this interviewer who’s flirting with him, but all he can concentrate on is your thighs clenching and your face glistening in a fine sheen of sweat. He sends you a look, and you don’t even need words or gestures to get up from your seat and head straight to the restrooms where he’ll be meeting in enough time that it won’t seem suspicious.

After all, you’ve perfected the art of sneaking around. 

When you get out of the stalls and back to your seat, eyes half lidded and lips swollen, Natasha smiles, completely oblivious to what just went down in the bathrooms, and the idea adds to the pulsing ache between your legs.

Outside, bodyguards part the crowd, flashing lights blind you, loud voices overwhelm you. You make your way through the shouting paparazzi and fans that ask questions you dread to answer. One day you will, likely on some scripted talk show, reading a speech May will have prepared off the teleprompter.

“Fans have been speculating about you and Barnes dating, can you tell us more?”

“There’s been talks about a whirlwind romance between the two of you, both on screen and off.”

One day you will.

You smile at the cameras, joke with interviewers. Bucky spots you from afar and smiles when your eyes lock together.

Surrounded by hundreds of people or on a desert island, underneath the bright lights of Hollywood or in the darkness of the trailers where you’ve fallen in love, all that matters is him and you.

One day you will, but not today. Today you need five more minutes. Today your secret is still yours, your love is only yours, and you have no intention of sharing.

🎬

You never ask for much, never wish for the moon; you just want five minutes of peace and quiet, five minutes where paparazzi don’t follow you around like hungry hyenas, where you can grab lunch with an old friend and not have journalists speculate about your love life as you eat. 

“So, who is it this time?” Bucky asks in a monotone voice, hands rubbing sunblock on your shoulders.

“Quentin Beck.” you reply drily, scrolling through your Instagram feed. It was Bucky last time, Carol Denvers before him, among an endless list of actors and models.

He hums, “How long?”

“Couple of weeks, maybe months? Who knows.” you shrug, sipping on a margarita, contemplating the beauty of Tony’s private island. Your eyes are met with a horizon of endless blue, sky and ocean fusing into one, resembling Bucky’s eyes; white sand burns the soles of your feet, and a gentle salty breeze blows his hair. 

TMZ reports rumors of you sneaking out of Beck’s hotel room in the early hours of the morning, hours you spent blissfully asleep on Bucky’s chest.

“Not me, I didn’t realize you were dating someone else.” he deadpans, unfolding the beach chair and sitting on it, only for it to collapse on itself, sending him ass first on the ground.

You can’t help the ugly but heartfelt laugh that escapes you at the sight of your hunky boyfriend folded in half, and you only laugh out more when he glares at you.

“I bet you’d help Beck out if he fell on his ass.” he grumbles, struggling to get up.

“I would because he’s my boyfriend, apparently.” you giggle.

The look in Bucky’s eyes would make anyone cower in fear, but you can’t decide whether it turns you on or amuses you. One moment you’re laying on the beach and the next thing you know, Bucky’s hauled you on his shoulder, prosthetic arm keeping you in place as he rushes to the shore. 

The ocean is surprisingly warm and calm, much like his eyes. Forehead against yours, he holds you up so you’re clinging to him like a koala, and you both sway along the gentle waves.

You press your body onto his and he groans in your mouth when you slant your lips against his, kissing him possessively. Your hands are needy and desperate as they roam over his lean body, tug on his hair, reach in his swim shorts and palm his cock, and his touch is bruising on your thighs. You hiss at the stretch of him inside you, and your walls clamp down on him as he bounces you on his cock, grunting filthy promises and sweet praises into your ears.

While he makes love to you in the ocean, the sun kissing your skin and salt clinging to your bodies, you both moving in sync, the rest of the world is speculating on your love life, rumors spreading around like wildfire about who you might be dating, thousands of photos of you and Beck eating together, articles being written about your commitment issues. You wonder which one of your so-called friends would sell you out in a heartbeat, which one of the crew members would out your relationship with no hesitation if they knew.

And the fullness of him inside you and the sweet secret you two share like teenagers hopelessly in love are the biggest fuck you that you could think of.

You never ask for much, only for five minutes of bliss, and among the gentle waves of the ocean and underneath the scorching sun of the tropics, you finally got them.

🎬

masterlist

I hope you liked this. if you did, please consider reblogging and leaving some feedback, it helps me a lot 🥰

[thequeerwitch]

Dancing In The Starlight

Gordon Ramsay x OC

Word count: 1611

Rating: PG-13 

A/N: Kinda posted this on impulse, I wrote this a while ago and reread it to see whatever edits it needed, but it honestly seemed pretty solid so I posted it. This fic does include an OC named Yvette, the profile preview isn’t up yet but it may be up when you’re reading this. Also, this kinda ends abruptly cuz I was planning on writing more and delving into adult content, but I didn’t think it really fit the vibe of the rest of the fic. I’ll work on the 

          When the party grew dull, I went out for fresh air. The marble balcony overlooked an elegant garden, perfectly pruned and cared for. I leaned against the railing, the chill arose goosebumps against my bare arms. I looked down at the garden—roses of all colors peppered the deep planes of green hedges, surrounding a marvelous three tiered fountain. I turned back to the party. Contestants were mingling in extravagant gowns and suits while a camera crew recorded it all. Some dancing together, others enjoying themselves at the bar, and a few glared across the room at each other to give the cameras something interesting to capture. The life of reality television. I turned my back to the window dividing the balcony and the ballroom. I was glad to be alone for once, away from the constant buzz and chatter of my colleagues. I wanted so badly to feel happy for the winner of the show as Chef Ramsay presented her at the ceremony, but I couldn’t help but linger on the subtle taste of victory that I had for a moment. For one moment as she and I stood side by side, Chef Ramsay eying us both, I knew I was going to win. My heart raced, and my palms were slippery from sweating. Gordon gave me one final, remorseful glance, and he chose the other contestant. Sure, first runner up wasn’t too bad, it would look great on a resume. But it wasn’t winning. It was soul crushing disappointment, and the knowledge that my dreams were over.

          A pair of footsteps trailed outside and stopped right behind me. I couldn’t face them, whoever it was. In fact, I really didn’t care. But I knew the cameras were on me, so I plastered a smile to my face and turned. There she was, her wine colored gown hugging her curves a little too tightly, and a cocky smirk painted across her face in scarlet lipstick.

          “Congratulations,” I said. “You really deserved this victory.”

          “I know.”

          “Is there something you wanted to say?” I asked.

          “I just wanted to step away from the cameras and have a chat, y’know, contestant to contestant.”

          “Alright.”

          “I told you Gordon favored me.”

          “And I told you I don’t really care.”

          “Oh, I know you care. You said it yourself in the first episode, all you wanted was his approval.”

          “That has nothing to do with it, everyone wants his approval. Just because you got his ultimate approval doesn’t mean you can be a prat about it now.”

          “Now, now. Don’t be a sore loser.”

          I swallowed back a retort and held my head high. “Sure, you’re right. I don’t want to ruin your night with my sour feelings. Let’s just call a truce here, yeah?” I extended my hand to her, trying to make my face seem as friendly as possible.

          She quirked her lip up and approached, grasping my hand and bringing my close for a hug. Then she whispered, “As long as you know that you’ll always be number two. You’ll never be a master chef as long as you live.” She pulled away, offered a smile, and returned to the party.

          My hands shook at my sides, tears threatening to ruin my makeup. I turned back and leaned against the railing, covering my mouth so I wouldn’t sob too loudly. I couldn’t go to the bathroom, that meant passing by a number of cameras and being caught by more contestants. I had to pull myself together and get out before someone found me like this.

          “Yvette?” His voice was low and gentle, I knew who it was without needing to see him.

          Shit.

          I couldn’t bear to look at him, I couldn’t let him see me like this. Chef Ramsay came closer, and a warm hand closed around my shoulder. I instinctively pulled away tried to hide my face. “I’m fine, I just—I needed some air.”

          “Yvette, look at me.” His fingers came to my chin and beckoned my face to him. I met his cool, blue gaze. His sandy hair was fashioned out of his face, and he wore a flattering black suit and a red tie to match the member of the team who won the season. “Talk to me, what’s bothering you.”

          I pulled away. “I know what it looks like, I’m not upset about not winning.”

          “Alright,” he said.

          “I’m not sure it’s best to speak of it like this.”

          “Why?”

          I decided it was best to lie. “It’s…personal. Personal business.”

          “I get it if you don’t want to talk. But may I do something to get your mind off of it?”

          “I don’t know if there’s anything you can say that will help.”

          “Dance with me?”

          I turned to him. “What?”

          Gordon presented his hand to me with a warm smile on his face. “Yvette, may I have this dance?”

          I hesitated for a moment. How could I do this with the man who was—and for all intents and purposes, still is—my boss? Then again, this may be my last chance to rectify this. In some way, this may be the approval I needed from him, and maybe more. I took his hand and he lead me out into the middle of the balcony. His hand glided to my waist and while his other held onto my hand, and I wrapped my arm around his shoulder. We swayed for a moment, the slow music flowing with our steps. For a moment, our hearts were in sync as we spun slowly in place. I didn’t care about the cameras, or the contestants, or even the woman who won in my place. It was just Gordon and I together, and everything melted away. His hand tightened around my waist and brought me closer to his chest. I could smell his musky cologne now, feel his breath against my face as he exhaled. He brought his forehead down to mine, and I closed my eyes. He squeezed my fingers and brought my hand to his neck. My fingers shakily grazed the soft edges of his hairline. Our noses touched at the end more then once, and I felt his breath against my lips. And in that moment, all care and dignity went out the door. I brought our lips together, and he kissed me back. His hands rode up my waist and to my shoulders, one hand cupping my cheek as he turned his head to deepen our kiss. My pounding heart ushered gentle warmth through my body, toes curled in my shoes. I could taste the sweet cherry wine on his soft lips. His thumb grazed against my cheek, bringing me as close as he could to kiss me again. I rested my hand on his chest and he gripped it tightly. I could tell he didn’t want this to end anymore than I did, but any further and we would be undressing ourselves for the public…the party…the cameras.

          I broke away for a brief moment, only for him to dive in for one more kiss before obeying and pulling back. My entire body felt hot, but for a different reason this time. I didn’t want to look away from him in fear of what I would see if I turned towards the party, and from the look in his eyes, he felt exactly the same way. I rested my chin against his shoulder and spun so I could get a glimpse of the party. Thankfully, it appeared that everything had gone on without notice. I whispered, “We’re clear,” and I pulled away, locking my hands behind his neck. I didn’t know what to say, so I watched over his shoulders to avoid looking him in the eye.

          “Y’know,” he finally said. “This is why I couldn’t choose you.”

          I shook my head and squeezed my eyes shut. “You don’t have to explain, she really deserved—”

          “You and I both know that’s a load of shit. She’s an excellent cook, yes. She has the skills to handle a restaurant of her own. But she doesn’t have the attitude, or the passion that you have.” He brushed his fingers across my cheek. “I let my feelings get the best of me, which is why I couldn’t let you win. It would be too obvious. The viewers, and even some of the chefs, are starting to take notice.”

          “Notice to what?”

          He chuckled. “Seriously? They keep saying I’m soft on you, they think I fancy you. They have no idea that they were right, which is why letting you win would have destroyed both of us. If you wanted any hope of a successful career, I had to make it clear my feelings weren’t biased, and I let the clearly inferior chef win over you.”

          “You—you let her win…because you loved me?”

          His grip loosened on my waist and he stopped swaying. “I’m…sorry. I know how you must feel.”

          “No…no, it’s not that. Earlier, I thought my career crushed. I honestly thought I wouldn’t achieve my dreams…but being here with you, it makes me realize that my dream has only begun.”

          He held my close and pressed a kiss to my forehead. “That’s what I wanted. This night is about you, not her.”

          “We should probably go back,” I said. “What if the cameras see?”

          He hesitated, then pulled away and released me, his warmth and muskiness left with him. “You’re right. But…I want to see you again.”

          “I’d like that.” 

          “We can discuss the details in the morning. For now, go mingle and enjoy your night.” 

          “Yes chef.”

          “Call me Gordon. I’ll see you in a few hours.” He kissed my cheek then returned to the party. I stole a few moments of victory to myself, smiling into my hands to avoid squealing, then I returned to the party with a new kind of confidence. I mingled with a few contestants who congratulated me on making it so far, apologized for my disqualification, and even went as far as to say I should have won. All through, I remained humble and praised the winner, probably more than she deserved. Her words whispered through my head a few times, “You’ll never be a master chef as long as you live,” but I kept thinking of Gordon, the breathtaking kisses he left against my lips and his earnest words screamed over the vile poison that tried to plague my thoughts. I didn’t let her words drag me down, tonight was my night and I was going to act like it.

[convertidophoto]

Screeching Weasel should always made me smile

I am convinced that when anyone first begins to delve into any style of music there are certain bands that “mean” more than others.  To my ears My Brains Hurts by Screeching Weasel was the best punk record by any band recording at the time of its release.  This was, at the time for me, a no-B.S./no-discussion fact and I was not interested in debating the point with anyone on any level.  The crux of my argument was how could you listen to that record and not want to smile and singalong.  When Screeching weasel popped up on the Common Ground calendar, I could not believe it. I was going to get so see the best damn punk band in America at the time and if you disagreed, you were wrong!

During 1991 punk was to me encompassed sounds as variegated as Siouxsie and the Banshees, the Dickies, Negative Approach, Born Against, Youth of Today, Flipper, the Big Boys, and Napalm Death.  In my mind, Punk was not a specific sound, or a physical look, or a fashion statement; punk was more a way of approaching daily life.  In short, punk meant doing or saying what you wanted, how you wanted to say it, when you wanted to say it, if only because if you did not say it no one else would do.  Of course, one did all this with the explicit understanding that you accepted fully the costs and benefits of your choices.  Exemplifying my belief was Screeching Weasel.  In the face of scene splintering into SxE, grindcore, crust, NYHC, Ska-punk, Dischord, peace punk, and SoCal Bro-core, Screeching Weasel played an unapologetic mix of the musical pop stylings of The Dickies and The Ramones punctuated the unvarnished lyrics/opinions of Ben Weasel.  

Pre-internet music shopping was about diligence and the experience of finding a record that informed your world differently.  In many instances, I had only heard of records from seeing them on “want-lists” or trading friends of auction adds in the back MRR.  Many of the classic HS records could not be heard unless you had a copy or new someone who had a copy.  It needs to be said over and over…it was FUGGING hard to find punk records.  Every week Chris and I would scour the used bins at Direct Hit, RPM, Forever Young Records, Recycled Books and Records, Half-Price Books, and many more little shops.  The efforts paid dividends as we connected with other punkers hunting records, the clerks who came to know us and would hold records for us or inform us of cool stuff upcoming that we should buy.  It was not convenient like now where you can read a review of band and stream or download their entire catalog in minutes.  It was through this near obsessive exercise of hunting that I first heard Screeching Weasel.

The first Screeching Weasel song I heard was “This Bud’s for You” off the MRR compilation LP They Don’t Get Paid, They Don’t Get Laid, but Boy Do They Work Hard (A D.I.Y. Complication) and I loved it!!  [I read later that the song was a joke but I don’t care.]  That LP is a classic and straight forward punk sound of the music and low-brow critique of SxE found in the title made that song my favorite. [This is no mean feat on an LP that also has Nausea, Christ of a Crutch, Jawbox, Dissent, the Detonators, Amenity, Cringer, and the Libido Boyz amongst others.]  I could empathize greatly with the anti SxE mindset; I was not a drinker of any note and I genuinely liked many of the SxE bands.  What I did not like, however, and still do not like are those that take themselves seriously rather than taking their responsibilities seriously.  More precisely, what I did not like was a more militant brand of SxE that would be known as Hardline which was beginning to rear its intolerant head in scenes around the country. I think it was this that ole Ben was targeting.  Regardless, the upbeat tempo, no frills hc punch of the song and production to match made it a standout on the LP and as a result the song made it on every comp tape I made for a few years.  In the end, the comp LP did what comp LP was supposed to do; it made you want to locate more from the best bands and I was on the hunt for Screeching Weasel.

It must have taken me nearly a year or so to find any other Screeching Weasel records.  As was often the case, our local stores didn’t stock any of their stuff and frankly they really were not the sort of band that dominated want or trade lists.  It appeared that during the late 80s and early 90s Screeching Weasel were still largely a regional band.  When Lookout Records! advertised that they were releasing the new Screeching Weasel record this began to change.

My Brain Hurts was a breath of fresh air to me when I bought it at Direct Hit Records.  Instantly, that album made much of what I been listening to or hearing sounded bloated, stale, plodding, and second-rate.  Admittedly, this was a slight overreaction but what’s the point of being young and excitable if you are to be staid and stodgy?  

The album had everything I loved about punk; the songs were catchy, it sounded timeless but remained rooted in the rooted in the past, there were no throwaways on the album, and it did not sound like anyone else at the time though clearly it remained complimentary with many bands that existed at the same time.  I played the LP to death when at home and the cassette I made of it, did its duty holding out until the end in my car’s tape deck.  I made EVERYBODY who rode in my car listen to it; friend and family alike found no reprieve or respite from the bouncy sounds when rolling with me.

By the time the day of the show arrived my proselyting meant that instead of the usual two-some, Chris and I, we browbeat another two or three of our friends to make the drive into Dallas to see Screeching Weasel. Upon arriving, it looked like this would be one of the biggest shows at Common Ground.  The street in front of the club was rent with mommy and daddy type cars.  Clearly, the suburbs were emptying tonight and all the punkers and punkettes were coming to the show.  This only added to my nearly irrepressible excitement.

Dallas had a dearth of good local bands during the early 90s.  The majority of bands merely aped their favorite bands; no matter how well a band executes this maneuver it is depressing to those that realize this. Sadly, I thought Pasty Face was such a band.  Their earliest shows saw them trying to sound like the Bad Brains to which they gradually added funk influences ala the Red Hot Chili Peppers.  By the end of their run, Pasty Face was an overt RHCP tribute band without the name to match.  Importantly though, they brought out paying kids that would ultimately benefit the headlining band.  I knew they pulled a crowd but I assumed that all the kids at Common ground this night were there to see Screeching Weasel.  IT was not the first time I was proved wrong.  Mercifully though, I chose to schmooze rather than watch Pasty Face. I cannot remember whether we were inside or outside but we just killed time as distant from Pasty Face as we could waiting for Screeching Weasel.  

Just before the band was about to start, my buddy Todd grabs me and asks if I wanted to work the stage lights.  I had no idea Common Ground had stage lights much less that they “needed to be worked”.  Of course I said yes, it seemed asinine task and I was the person for it!  As the band took the stage Ben commented into the microphone, “Where’d everybody go?”  Then only did I noticed that the crowd that once numbered 150-200 was now down to about 35 people.  [I always stood near the stage and had no reason to look behind me.]  Inexplicably and to my amazement, nearly everyone left!! Clearly most of the crowd were friends of Pasty Face and never heard of or did not care to hear Screeching Weasel…bless their hearts!

Despite the fleeing hordes, Screeching Weasel played on entertaining immensely those that remained.  In fact, the only thing that appeared to hamper their ability to play was the stage lights.  In my ignorance and exacerbated by my glee, I was flicking the switches along with the drummer beat.  I think Ben said something about it giving him a headache and making him nauseous or something like that as Todd came walking over to me in a hurry and forcibly removed me hands from the lighting controls.  Fair enough I thought, now I was free to go stand with remaining crowd in front of the stage.  The band sounded so much better from the front than the side of the stage.  

In the few breaks the band took between songs Ben talked a bit about the songs they were about to play or told amusing anecdotes.  The only funny story I remember was about the song Jeannie’s got a Problem with her Uterus. After playing that song at an earlier show, a woman came up to Ben and let into him about that song stating he was a misogynist because he wrote that song. Ben quipped that he had to wait until he got home after the show to look up what misogynist meant to know what she said to him.  The remainder of their set is lost to the ages and I can only smile thinking about it so I am guessing I enjoyed it.

           As per usual, I could not tell you how many songs they played or which other songs they played but apparently I loved it.  Those people who came with me all agreed that Screeching Weasel were great and we all left happy we came.  Before we left though, I bought a shirt and a 7” from the band that validated what I told everyone.  Though it long since stopped fitting, I still have my “Choosy punks chose Screeching Weasel” t-shirt.  The following years were good for Screeching Weasel as their popularity only grew as did my enjoyment for the band.

           It would be another couple of years before Screeching Weasel were to play Dallas again.  I think it was during the spring or summer of 1993 that they appeared on the calendar for Club No.  On this tour, Screeching Weasel had The Queers as an opening act. Oh yeah, it was going to be awesome! Unfortunately, Club No closed unexpectedly so nearly all of the shows cancelled and never happened.  Thankfully though, Todd and the coolest record store owner in Dallas stepped into save the day.  Kelly Keys offered her store for Screeching Weasel and The Queers to play a pass-the-hat show if I remember correctly.

           Direct Hit Records was small storefront in Fair Park area of Dallas.  It was at most 20 feet wide and 50 feet deep.  Nonetheless, it was an oasis in Dallas.  Kelly was a fan of underground music and she did everything she could to stock as much new and used records, tapes, CD’s, videos, and magazines as possible.  This day, Kelly pushed all the racks to the back to make some room for the bands to play and for a small number of people to watch.  Todd hipped me to the show and I drove in from Fort Worth for the midday show. I was like a kid at Christmas.  In my mind I was imaging the set list they would play replete with all my favorite songs.  This was not to be the case though.

           In keeping with the intimate nature of show, Screeching Weasel decided to play a “special” set. As Ben explained they were on their way to California to record a new album.  Since this was a small show and no too much unlike practice, the band decided they would play their entire new-as-yet-unrecorded album song for song in order.  This was the first time I ever heard Anthem for a New Tomorrow.  I must admit to preferring the versions I heard that day to the studio versions.  That album and My Brain Hurts remain my favorite Screeching Weasel albums to this day; yes, wiggle isn’t too bad either.

           Over the years, I had two more chances to see Screeching Weasel play in larger venues.  I did not go to either show.  It was not because I do not like them anymore (I still thought they wer very good) or because Ben is an asshole (boy howdy he was/is!!) but because something about them changed.  We all remember how they famously stopped playing live for a while and then their records became spotty.  Also during this period the band acquired an air of circus like hype and I didn’t care for it. For me the strength of the band was the workmen like way they went about being in a band.  Once that changed and when they became “a thing” they no longer seemed fun and frankly their albums no longer left you smiling.  The wit, humor, and bounce that punctuated their albums was replaced increasingly with bitterness, hype, and songs that are best described as filled then the whole Riverdales thing happened.  I’m still scratching my head about that…

           Screeching Weasel will always occupy a happy place in my life; my wife and I bonded over our shared loved for their early records when we first met 24 years ago. Occasionally, we still breakout those old albums and reminisce about how much we enjoy them.  Unlike me, my wife has never seen Screeching Weasel play live. It is for that reason we are going to see them play in Portland, OR this summer.  I am not sure what to expect of them 25 years after the last time I saw them but just thinking about the show and the two shows I already saw has me smiling again; for that fact I thank them.