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canonicallysoulmates · 1 year

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J2 Main Panel Charlotte 2023

I put this psa in the post for the Gold panel but I know some see one post and not the other so before we get into this panel quick psa that this con took place while the actor's union, SAG-AFTRA, is on strike. This means the boys cannot directly name any past, present, or future projects. For the sake of clarity I will be mentioning projects the boys are referring to by name but please be aware that the boys themselves did not do that they complied with strike regulations.

They had date nights! Jared said that they got to walk around a little bit on this day, as well as on Saturday and Friday they got some dinner ❤️

Jensen says he has some stories to share, and before the questions start he tells one of them; a few months ago D went to a charity auction thing in Austin, and she bid on a race car experience at the Circuit of the Americas track where he would get to ride shotgun in an actual racecar and get driven around the track a couple of times. As well as get to drive an exotic car himself around the track. She gave this to him as a gift, and at first he thought it sounded fun except when he asked her when it was she told him it was at 7am on a Saturday so he was not happy. He asked her if they (she and the kids) were gonna go and watch him and she replied no they were gonna sleep so he was like whatever, he got up super early, went to the track and he's looking around and the people at the track go over everything, they tell him to go downstairs to see who his driver will be and then he can meet them out on the track. He goes and looks at the chart and at first he thinks what he's reading is a joke but it wasn't his car was pink with a rainbow unicorn on the hood, and they name their cars, his was called sparkles glitter hooves which it had written on the side.

So he meets the nice lady who's gonna be driving him and he could tell she didn't want to be there that early either but she runs him through the whole thing, he gets in the car it was a big race car a McLaren, and they get to the track and take off do a few turns and they're not going that fast but he thinks maybe she's just warming up. They get to a section of track that's a straightway, it's over a mile long he thinks this is when she's gonna pick up speed, and she tried but the car was not accelerating like it's supposed to they got to about 50 mph and she tells him that something's wrong with the car and he's like "you think?" by that point they were already pretty far into the track so they have to limp back cause there's like engine failure. They roll in and she does offer to find him another driver but he says not to worry about it that it's okay thanks, gets in his car and goes home. Like an hour and a half later he gets a text saying his car was ready to get driven around and he deleted it, it was not a grand experience and he wishes he had just stayed in bed. Poor Jensen 🏎️

I do find it cute, however, that Jared says that if someone knows somebody who can take Jensen around the Charlotte motor speedway to leave them a card and show him some speed.

Question time!

Do they have a story about an embarrassing or ridiculous injury?

Jared says all of his injuries are ridiculous and embarrassing. For example he ripped his pants on camera for all to see once; also he pulls his back a lot and not doing really cool things like deadlifts or saving his children from a bus but by bending over and picking up a pair of socks in the morning. It literally happened one time when filming SPN (he says when working together on something in Canada) he got to work and said he pulled his back out that morning and Jensen asked him if it was from working out too early. And he told him no, that it was from grabbing some socks from his suitcase. And Jensen was like "grabbing some sock? were they lead socks?" and Jared replied like "no, they were regular socks they had some holes so they were lighter than usual." 😂 That and also tweaking his neck when drying his hair when it was luscious.

Jensen says he hurt his hand the other day while he was putting some stuff away in a hall closet. It's one of those closets that has double doors but the hinges are really tight so you have to shut them both together otherwise it won't close and as he was doing so he pushed on the seem and it pinched his palm and it was so hard that he yanked out his hand and left part of his palm in the door. And you can still see where his palm got pinched.

Related to that a few days ago he walked into his daughter's room and she heard him coming and was running away from the door but slipped and fell and when he opened the door she was on the ground and he asked her if she had fallen but she was like no but it was obvious that she had cause she was rubbing her elbow and her hip so he told her he thought she did and asked if she wanted him to hold her so he gave her a hug, flashforward to when this happened to his palm and he hears behind him "do you want me to hold you?"

He told her no and that he needed for her to go to mommy for some gauze and tape but they didn't have any then he remembered that when he had been going through a box of stuff he had seen a post-production s8 gift from Phil Sgriccia who would send them funny gifts and it was a little survival kit pouch so he figured it would have some bandages he could use till he could go to the store but it was salt, matches and a little thing of Holy Water.

Jared makes a dad joke about how this is why he leaves his doors slightly open so it's not longer a door it's a jar. That's actually pretty clever, that got a chuckle out of me. x

Keegan is there and Jensen asks him if he puts up with those jokes, he replies yes but that they're great....and that Jared's also his boss and he's the most amazing guy ever 😂

Keegan, asks a question, in the last year what have they done in their life that made it 10% better?

Jensen answers make the bed first thing in the morning. He didn't use to do that, he would maybe get around to it, sometimes he wouldn't go back to the bedroom until the afternoon and see it still unmade so now he gets up and makes the bed. Then I guess he remembers he's supposed to be married and he adds he has to kick his wife out of the bed first and then make the bed.

Jared quips that he's tried to get rid of some of his perfectionist inclines so one of the things he likes to do is not worry about whether or not his bed is made but seriously, he will not get on his phone when he's on his bed even if he wants to return a text message he won't do it on the bed, he will force himself to get out of it, and then reply. Jensen demonstrates what this would look like 😆

Jared says that truth be told he had the problem of if it was the middle of the night and he woke up and looked at his phone to check the time he would basically end up mindless scrolling, he would check the news, he would check ESPN, he would be more awake so he would go to youtube and then an hour would pass so if it's not important enough for him to leave the bed to do it then he just leaves his phone on the nightstand. x

If they were forced would they rather have the other's face for a butt or their butt for a face?

Jared saysJensen's butt grows better facial hair than his face and Jensen asks him how he would know that and Jared freezes and literally goes "do I answer that?" No need to Jared, we know 😏

So he goes for Jensen's butt for a face and says he could shave something to make it funny or like a heart. A heart, Jared? You want to have Jensen's ass as your face and shave a little heart on it?

Jensen answers Jared's face for a butt cause he could cover it up with a pair fo pants and Jared says they better be see-through pants otherwise he'd be wasting a damn fine ass. Without missing a beat, Jensen goes "Jared, I don't know if you know this I already have a damn fine ass." Jensen we have established Jared knows a lot about your damn fine ass. 😉

Next question is mostly for Jared but Jensen can feel free to answer: when picking a spatula what is his preference wood, metal, plastic or rubber, and why?

He says you gotta go wood because you can control the whip a little better. That when you're making an omelette sometimes it gets a little aggressive and flings a bit too much- at this point Jensen cuts in and asks him when he's ever made an omelette and Jared jokingly says on an online game from his phone.

Anywyas, Jensen says you don't do wood because you have to hand wash it, and you don't go metal either cause that'll scratch up your pan, you want a hard plastic they're dishwasher safe and not mess up your pan. x

What's their favorite inexpensive brand for whiskey or bourbon?

Jensen says Four Roses makes a pretty good inexpensive whiskey. Jared agrees and also mentions what I think is Diageo - I listened to the clip a bunch of times but it's difficult for me to understand what he says - which is actually a company that owns a large amount of the brands. Jared also says he used to prefer scotch to bourbon but now he prefers bourbon to scotch he thinks he likes a little bit of that sweetness these days.

Jared asks the fan which they like and the fan answers Jack Daniels. Jensen mentions that Jack Daniels is the only brand Robert Singer drinks. x

Any advice for senior year and life in general?

Jensen says he'll give senior year advice and Jared will give the life advice. Senior year advice do as much as you can, sign up for a different club, go play a different sport, try a different instrument whatever it is you're into do as much of it as possible because this is it. You're not gonna have High School again, part of the reason he's on that stage today is because he did just that, in his senior year he was playing baseball but he left the team early to do a play. If he had just stuck with what he had been doing the past couple of years he probably wouldn't have gotten on a stage and been "discovered" so try to do as much as you can and try to get as much as you can out of the year, you'll most likely be glad that you did.

Jared's life advice is similar, he says kinda do what Jensen said for the rest of your life. He remembers when he was a senior something was so scary about it because it was the finale of him knowing what to do with his life but the day after you graduate you wake up and you'll still be you and see there's something else for you to do so don't get overwhelmed by the seeming closure and finale of it just remember this is just a year in your life and if you're as fortunate as they were able to be where High School was four years of their 40-something year lives, you have your next 4 year growth cycle, your next 2 year growth cycle so this is just part of your life. Your life is not about to end it's about to begin. There's something strange and really scary but it should be scary if you feel some fear or trepidation about school being over that's okay but a year from now you're going to be in your next phase of your life. Somethings might look different especially if you follow as Jensen says and keep expanding your horizons, a lot of things will look the same but you'll still be you so keep your eyes on the future. x

If they were Earth embassadors to aliens what would they tell them, and what would they show them?

After joking around about face/butt, Jared says he thinks he would have more questions to ask than answers to give. He would probably try and communicate they mean them no harm, and he thinks he would show them a young child, be like we mean you no harm, and look how cool life can be- Jensen says here take this one, it's okay I got two more, and Jared says I have three that you can have 🤣

But no, he thinks becoming a parent is such a cool promise like seeing a baby or seeing a young child and thinking they have their whole life in front of them, they're gonna be going to their senior year, they're gonna fall in love, maybe they'll have kids of their own it's how wonderful life can be down here so please don't destroy us.

Jensen concurs that showing them the best part of humanity probably the smart way of doing things. x

If they could choose anywhere to live other than where they grew up, or where they live now where would it be?

Jared replies he has a soft spot for Italy. He loves Italy so if he were to choose somewhere international it would be there, if he was gonna choose somewhere in the states he really likes the mountains a lot. Someone in the crowd shouts Virginia and he says Virginia is awesome. Jensen asks if just mountains, and Jared replies yeah, and then gives as an example Sun Valley in Idaho where he got married, says G's family still lives there and they go visit. He says the older he becomes the less he can deal with the 100 degree hot weather in the city so somewhere cooler. He likes North Carolina too, they have a friend who lives in town and he has a place about 20 mins away from where the con is taking place and it's great no bugs, no sweat, beautiful. The crowd is shocked by the no bugs comment, and Jared says he didn't have any bugs do they have bugs and the crowd collectively says yes so he says he doesn't like Nort Carolina that much, he likes it less now 😂

Jensen doesn't know, he says he thinks he's pretty happy where he is.

Interesting answer coming from you at this period if time sir, where exactly is it that you're happy cause door was wide open to mention Connecticut and yet.....x

The next fan is from London and y'all know Jared had to do some accents, I laughed so hard with "Wales" accent 🤣🐳

Is there a book that they have recently re-read, or a book that they have connected to so much that they would want to re-read it?

Jared says his oldest son is entering the 6th grade so he is reading some more advanced books that Jared too would enjoy compared to the stuff from kindergarden or 1st grade. For example he just read Percy Jackson and the Lightning Thief and this year in his curriculum is The Outsiders which Jared hasn't read since before getting to know and become friends with S. E. Hinton, and he actually reached out to her to say hey and told her his kid would be reading the Outsiders for school and she replied to let him know the school and she'd send over a signed copy. So he's excited to re-read that its been a while, he did not read Percy Jackson with his kid but he would discuss the book with him. And that's part of his summer homework to read the book and be able to tell not just what happens in the story but also what it parallels to and themes it explores, but he's really exited to read the Outsiders again.

Jensen says he's not much of a reader but D is an avid reader and a book he sees her pick up again and again is A Confederacy of Dunces. x

When will fans get to meet the two luckiest women in the world, their wives? 🙄

Jensen says the wives might disagree with the fan calling them the luckiest women. He says he thinks they would do a con but that he thinks they find it kind of like it's the boys thing and they don't want to encroach. Jared adds that furthermore and he's pretty sure Jensen feels the same, and he says it sometimes kind of like a joke but he also means it who's gonna watch the kids? That he and G do trips just themselves but they'll try as best as they can to have one of the parents around just be a tether for the kids as best they can. That it's just hard to know that far in advance for them to plan. Doing cons is something he and Jensen love doing and the wives can hold down the fort. x

I am more than happy about the wives not doing CE cons but these are such obvious lies. Both D and G have done cons with the boys before so they clearly don't think of doing cons as the boys thing, G was even a last minute guest at JIB. The whole "who's gonna watch the kids thing?" for starters sir we all know you got nannies and even if you didn't you can afford one but more than that that question and the whole wanting one parent to be around thing has not been an impediment in G attending non-CE cons with him. Including in Europe. But really the most hilarious part is Jared saying that it's hard for the wives to know that far in advance for them to plan when, two recent examples, FanX isn't till September yet G had already signed up for it in July and if you're thinking that's just two months in advance Infinity con in Germany is in May 2024 and she was announced as a guest earlier this month.

Instead of lying and coming up with cheap excuses these men need to grow a pair and admit they don't actually want the wives at CE cons.

Last question, what was their favorite video game growing up?

Jared says if the aliens came to Earth and said they were gonna mess humanity up unless one of the Earthlings can beat them in a video game he would be like okay and say Smash Brothers for Nintendo '64. Jensen says Golden Eye. Jensen also brings up the theory that Mario's cathphrase "It's me, Mario" is actually him saying itsumi in Japanese which means super so what he's saying is super Mario, and he does say he doesn't know if that's true or not it's something he saw online. It's not! It was something that made the rounds on tiktok but it's not legit, it's actually a form of a dad joke. Itsumi is not even a word in Japanese it's a surname.

What Jared says about Mario being named after Nintendo's landlord is partially true, they didn't do it because he let them live somewhere for free, they did it because the employees at the warehouse which is what he was renting to the company thought he resembled Mario so they nicknamed the character Mario and then the creator Miyamoto found out about it and he liked it so he decided to make it the official name. Real Mario's name was Mario Segale.

J2 Main Panel Charlotte

#j2 tinhat #anti genevieve #anti danneel #anti jarevieve #anti jared x genevieve #anti jenneel #mine #non iwtv

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lawnchairthethird · 3 months

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I’m gonna give yall a quick glimpse into my trip to visit my family. And then I’m going to go home and find a therapist. Holy shit.

-me, husband, two dogs drive 9 hours to visit my parents. We don’t visit a lot because the drive/bringing dogs vs finding financial means to get dog care. My dog is seriously epileptic and cannot be left alone for any length of time.

-my parents live in RURAL America. It’s honestly a little scary here. I lived here for a bit in high school but the house was in town. Now they live an acres of land off a dirt road. It’s actually beautiful except they haven’t maintained anything and their gorgeous house is gross and the driveway is literally like crumbling away.

- the reason we decided to visit is my stepdad has cancer. He was in remission, but it’s really likely it’s back and if it is it’s terminal. He’s been in my life since I was 8 but the relationship is really complicated.

-there’s an actual stockpile of guns and ammo in the basement that makes me extremely uncomfortable.

-my mom is…idk I don’t have words. She texts me that ever since they moved here everything has gone wrong. Three of their pets died (they were all extremely old, but it just kept happening one after the other). But she thinks there’s a demon in the house. She sent me pictures of her covered in blood and she keeps “falling” and crashing cars. Idk if she’s on drugs (meth, heroin, and fentanyl are HUGE problems in this town). Idk if my stepdad is beating her. But her legs broken because she ran it over with her car because “the car shifted itself out of park?) she refused to go to the doctor for a month, worked on it, finally got a cast and then she was literally in the bathroom sawing at it with a dremel to ‘make it easier to walk on’

-we were suppose to sleep in the basement which was always nice and had a huge tv and air mattress. Welp- my younger brother turned it into a teenage boy sex den. It’s GROSS. Air mattress is popped. We tried to sleep on the couch, but I think it’s moldy in the basement and made me have trouble breathing.

- my sister is home visiting too (she’s in college/military). She’s just drinking herself stupid to deal with it.

-and to top it off, my dog is being a huge asshole to their dog who is the sweetest.

-my husband and I are going to visit his parents who live one town over. They’re Trump supporting “Christians”

-we’re too tired to safely drive home today, but holy fuck.

-both my parents have tried to convince me my stomach problems are cancer 🙃🙃🙃

-there’s not a single clean towel.

So yeah that’s my trauma. Sorry for super over sharing but I feel so stuck and literally have no escape for like two days. Hopefully one if we leave tomorrow and drive overnight.

#personal

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docholligay · 9 months

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What was your favorite thing you did in the UK/Germany?

That's such a hard thing for me to say on these sorts of trips, because there are so many things that go into "favorite." Apologies that this won’t be very poetically written, I’m sitll musing on my thoughts about it.

The event I loved the most: Dickens Christmas Feast

We all know I love Charles Dickens, and even more so, we all know I love A Christmas Carol. I have seen so many versions of it, I will continue to watch versions of it, it is the best thing about Christmas, I think. So, on the one hand, very low bar to entry foe me.

On the other hand, I cannot recommend it enough to people. I would see anything this theater company did. They did such a wonderful job of building tone as you walked to where the theater was, you get this sense that you’ve about to hear something no one has ever heard before, even though this is probably one of the best known stories in the Western world. They even had a map of London from the late 1800s. I genuinely told people to just go past us in line (We had Royal Circle tickets--everything else had been sold out--so it didn’t matter if we were first or last) because they had a magnifying glass to look at the city map. It was so interesting to me to see the ways its different, but also the way its the same. What parts of the city cropped up, where were the nice areas, all of that.

I loved dressing up. I love dressing up anyhow, but it was so much fun to do it for a Victorian themed event, and people reacted so positively to the handful of us who dressed up. There was one gal who stood by us in line, turned to her mom, and said, “I told you people would dress up! We could have dressed up! I love your costumes.” and then when we thanked her and said we loved to take an opportunity, she said, “Did you bring all that from America?” and upon confirmation, she turned to her mom again and said, “They brought it from America!” I loved her, I hope next time she dresses up.

The food was shockingly good. I don’t put a lot of faith in dinner theater, foodwise, but the duck was well cooked, I love the potted cheese, and the cocktails were flat out incredible. I had smoking bishop, which I liked so much I think I’m going to try and make it at home this winter. Also, in the Royal Circle the service was incredible. Our gal Lily was so very attentive and wonderful, and she let us know that she couldn’t come out during the three acts, but in the meal breaks, she would. I let her know I was going to want to put a cocktail order in about ten minutes before each act began, and she was SO on it, like CLOCKWORK, asking me what I’d like for the next act and having hit the table RIGHT before the lights dimmed again. She was amazing.

And the play. Again, I love A Christmas Carol and I acknowledge that fully, but I never imagined that one of my favorite reworkings of it would be a one man show that is represented as Charles Dickens acting it all out of you in his deeply involved, hyperactive, scattered way. I ADORED IT. I cannot express to you how well the guy did, and how much, in moments, it really felt to me like the feeling of being a writer--especially in the earlier parts of the play--with him saying a line “wrong” and then going, “No, I don’t like that” taking up the exact same position, and redoing it. It was very much the feeling of me pacing around the office in the old days writing something. At the end of the second act, when they had this huge clap of thunder roll, lights flashing, the actor as Scrooge in this moment crying out in fear over the approach of the third ghost, and then the whole room goes pitch black and silent. It’s SO tense. The lights come up, he smiles and goes, “Pretty good, right?” ANd it just captured, for me, that feeling of knowing you’ver written something that’s going to get to your reader, and it is this MOMENT in the writing, but you’re sitting there grinning like an idiot over your desk, chuckling.

The only other players in the work, actually, were the musicians, who were live, and walked around playing the violin and little drums and other instruments, it was such an excellent way to really loop in the music aspect and give this so much more of a live feel.

The whole thing is done as a theater in the round style, and there really isn’t a bad seat in the house. I was in the royal circle, but mostly what we had was more attentive service and much more comfortable seating (They were these sumptuous plush banquettes. So nice. Everyone else was on a regular chair) because the seating was so good for the play itself. And because of how it was done, it had to have sparse staging, but what they did have was wonderful. In the center stage, especially, they had a doorframe that popped up, and when they lowered it, they couldn’t do it without a light slam, so they worked it into the play SO WELL, at one point one of the musicians was holding it for the perfect dramatic moment to hear that slam, and it was such a clever way to work in something that could have been annoying into being absolutely perfect.

It was so cleverly done, I would go see it again despite the cost of it, absolutely, if I were in London at the time.

Thing I think everyone should go see in London: Westminster Abbey.

A lot of the things I recommend are ‘use cases’ because there’s very little int his world that is uniformly bad or uniformly good, there are just good and bad use cases. I think the London Eye would be a fucking horrfying waste of time and money, but if I were bringing beeb, she might love it, as she loves to be up high. When i went with my wife one of my favorite days was when i took the train out to the shitty OW office and walked back to Mile End at the route I think Lena would take, and basically just bopped around the East End. Many people would find that boring or too much walking. I thought the British Museum was an annoying waste of my life. Many of you are audibly gasping at that statement. Use cases.

ANYHOW, Westminster Abbey is one of the only things I can think of in London that everyone she go see. I am not a big historic church person, so please trust me when I say its a very beautiful church, but it’s much more than that. I’m not sure if I just wrote this in my diary or said it here, but it feels like the collective hopes of a nation, and what it makes itself to be. What do we hold dear? What do we call ours? This is even more striking with seeing the scientists, and poets’ corner, the RAF chapel. It’s about what the UK thinks of itself as, what it hopes it is, as much as it is anything else, and I think you get a fantastic sense of that HOPE going through there. There’s a reason Oliver Crowmwell was there, and then wasn’t. Its striking for me in a way churches rarely are. I love that aspect of it, my wife loved the straight history aspects of it, the craftsmanship of the building itself and the graves are absolutely worth study, if you’re a royals person, that’s where the coronation is, if you just want to hit the tourist highlights, it is a major one. I cannot recommend it highly enough.

Thing I didn’t expect to love: The Christmas Garden Path at Blenheim Palace.

I cannot express to you what a tonally bizarre journey the Blenheim path was. It was as if they asked several different people to come together and make this, but refused to allow them to speak to each other, so you jump from moment to moment and it has absolutely no unity whatsoever. You begin in a very boring “Nice lights set to Pentatonix” Christmas display that in no way prespares you for what is about to happen. At one point, in what I called, “The Annual Tory Salute to the Blitz” it is literally the glowering face of Winston Churchill, illuminated, against a backdrop of flames. If you do not believe me ask @morkaischosen who was there with me. Then we went into the “Christmas Rave” where there was, I am not joking, pulsing lights as you walk in a circle around them to techno music. Is this related to Christmas? Who knows? WHo cares! There are dancing fountains! There’s a love tunnel! One of the areas I just called “A Eurovision entry from Eastern Europe” and I was completely right. It was bonkers. It was jarring. I loved it. 10/10. Also, whoever planned it out had amazing wisdom with the drink stops, I am so serious. I never had to chug nor wait, they were spaced PERFECTLY for finishing one drink and wanting another.

But one of my actual favorite times, that I will look on with extreme fondness, is something that I think most people would have found boring to hear about: Sitting on the living room floor with @verbforverb while @tallangrycockatiel sat there and knitted, sampling whiskeys. It was not anything you’d find in a travel guide but in many ways was what I came there to do and will be one of my favorite memories (also verb trying to fucking murder me during a monring run)

#doc does christmas

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argentinagp · 13 days

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so in 2016, i was scrolling tumblr when i saw these selfies reblogged by my mutual. it was of a girl sitting on some breakers near the lake with a caption about it being the one nice day of the year so far. i was like wait. is this person also in Wisconsin? so i went to her blog and lo and behold, she was. so i scrolled through her stuff and found out that we had a lot of the same interests. so i followed her. (what i didn't know at the time was that she'd been following me for awhile).

soon after, she posted something about her mom and being upset and i was like hey. i know all about that kind of stuff so i messaged her to talk to her and we chatted a bit. we started chatting more and more and eventually ended up in a group chat with two of my friends talking about (of all things) one direction. but we kept up our private convo where we talked about literally everything.

then in june of 2016, my mom was rediagnosed with cancer and had surgery. she talked to me through all of this and was there when i was upset an then i made the decision to go home to california for all of july to help my mom out. so i was suddenly on west coast time while she was on central time. and we talked all the time. on snapchat, via text, on tumblr, everything. and slowly, i was like wow. i really like this person. like, a lot. and we talked about her exploring her sexuality and i was like if she's exploring her sexuality i cannot like, come onto her so i'm going to remain chill and be her friend while she needs one.

but through all of this - we had matching layouts on tumblr. multiple different matching layouts. as friends. and then on like, july 12 2016, a bunch of anons came into my inbox calling us grizzy and grazzy and asking about us being like "(eyes) why are you matching" and it was all very silly but it kept me smiling during a really hard time.

and again. we talked all the effing time. the whole month of july. and i had stopped saying "omg i love you" like a friend and started doing "ily" bc my feelings were HUGE i was def like, head over heels. fell very hard very fast.

so then i flew back to wisconsin and literally within days, she was flying to europe for her godfather's birthday celebration. and we tried to text through all of it, i remember sneaking my phone out at work to text her and send her selfies and we counted down the days until she was back in america because it was horrible trying to text across countries with unreliable wifi for her.

and then she landed in wisconsin again and we were talking all again and suddenly she invited me to her house, an hour and a half away, for a bonfire on august 14th. and i was like. sure sure i can do this. let's uh do this. i had no idea what was going to happen. i was unsure of it all, very much like "we're just friends" mindset. and so i drove all the way to her city with butterflied in my stomach, terrified she didn't like me or that we were just friends or we wouldn't click in person, and boy was i wrong. we clicked immediately, hugging and getting along. and we went to get food and our hands kept brushing. and we sat around the bonfire holding hands awkwardly. and then her roommate said she'd leave for the night so i could sleep in her bed instead of grace's bed because she had a twin. and the futon was uncomfy.

and then sometime after midnight, after laying there talking and giggling and generally being awkward, i kissed her. the next day we went to the pancake house as our "first date" and walked to a beach on the lake and then i got vertigo and threw up like, 18 hours into us dating and slept at her house for a whole day (called out of work) and stays at her house for like. three days? basically. i was there for awhile.

and now, 8 years later, grace and i are married and living our best life with two cats and a cozy apartment <3

🥹🥹🥹 this is SOOOOO cute and makes me so happy. I always love when u or grace talk ab each other, there is so much love and your story is the best thing, im honored i can be mutuals of you two and see ur love in my dash 🫶🏻

send me ur love story/crush/etc

#ask #gaynfl #izzy tag #long post

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lyledebeast · 7 months

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Colonel Martin's Closet

A common sentiment I've found across many reviews of The Patriot is that Benjamin Martin could be an interesting character if the filmmakers were not so concerned with presenting him as "good." The contrast between what Martin claims to believe and value, and what others believe about him, and his behavior is certainly stark. However, I find the insistence of Martin, his community, and the narrative as a whole that his violence does not define him, despite being the most consistent thing about him, to be precisely what makes this character interesting.

It becomes clear early on that Martin has been keeping a secret from his family concerning his service in the French and Indian War more than a decade prior to the start of the film. The first allusion to this secret comes when a fellow Patriot expresses surprise that opposition to the impending American Revolutionary War arises from "the same Captain Benjamin Martin whose fury was so famous during the Wilderness Campaign." Martin's only reply is "I was intemperate in my youth." Yet less than twenty minutes of run time later we find him sitting on a British regular's back while hacking into his shoulders and neck with a tomahawk and screaming. Both of these scenes are witnessed by Martin's eldest son Gabriel, on whom the camera lingers in the aftermaths. Later, that son makes the observation, "Wherever you go, men buy you drinks because of Fort Wilderness. Strangers know more about you than I do." Up to this point, Martin has constructed a wall to separate his life as a soldier and his life as a father. Or, rather, several walls. And a door.

In Epistemology of the Closet, a foundational text in queer theory, Eve Sedgwick writes of the closet that "a whole cluster of the most crucial sites for the contestation of meaning in twentieth-century Western culture are consequentially and quite indelibly marked with the historical specificity of homosocial/homosexual definition, notably but not exclusively male, from around the turn of the century. Among these sites are, as I have indicated, the pairings secrecy/disclosure and public/private" (72). The Patriot's subject matter predates the historical specificity Sedgwick delineates, but the film's writing does not. Indeed, given its rampant historical inaccuracies, The Patriot may be said to tell us more about the early 21st century than the 18th one. It is no secret that Martin is a soldier, but the particular kind of violence he engaged in previously breaks containment over the course of the film even as most others' recognition of it does not. I want to propose that the closet is a particularly apt metaphor for the ways Martin's crimes are separated from his identity.

Just as the closet can manifest in different ways, so there are different ways to occupy it. Particularly striking examples of two of them can be found in Tony Kushner's two-part play from the early 90s, Angels in America. Joe Pitt rejects his desire for other men, not giving into it until halfway through the play, because he believes it is sinful. When his wife asks what he prays for, he replies, "I pray for God to crush me, break me up into pieces and start all over again" (Millennium Approaches, II, ii). An earlier attempt at disavowal finds him asking "Does it make any difference? That I may be one thing deep within, no matter how wrong or ugly that thing is as long, as I have fought with everything I have to kill it?" (Millennium Approaches, I, viii). Joe hopes to find salvation in inaction, but ultimately cannot maintain this resolve. Still, the conviction that action will damn him remains sincere. Before going home with his soon to be lover Louis, Joe tells him, "I'm going to Hell for doing this" (Millennium Approaches, III, vii). Joe uses the closet to conceal a part of himself of which he is deeply ashamed, that he has fought, unsuccessfully, to rid himself of. Joe's mentor Roy Cohn, though, insists that his actions do not define him because of his political standing, his "clout." When his doctor diagnoses him with AIDS, he says, "Your problem, Henry, is that you are caught up on words, on labels, that you believe they mean what they seem to mean." Later in this scene, he clarifies:

"I have sex with men. But unlike nearly every other man of which this is true, I bring the guy I'm screwing to the White House and President Reagan smiles at us and shakes his hand. Because what I am is entirely defined by who I am. Roy Cohn is not a homosexual. Roy Cohn is a heterosexual man, Henry. Who fucks around with guys" (Millennium Approaches, I, vi).

There is no shame in Roy's closet. There is instead contempt for other gay men: "Homosexuals are men who in fifteen years of trying cannot get one pissant antidiscrimination bill through City Council." While Joe fears action for the impact it will have on his identity as a married Mormon Republican man, Roy insists that no such connection exists. He believes he can do as he pleases with impunity and his community will keep the secret, as he coerces his doctor to do.

Early on in The Patriot, Martin's way of inhabiting the closet appears to have more in common with Joe's. When he discovers that his son Thomas has gone into his room and opened his trunk full of French and Indian War memorabilia to put on his red British Colonial Army coat, not only does he immediately insist on taking it off of him, but he does not look at it until the end of the scene. When Thomas asks, "What happened at Fort Wilderness?" Martin cannot make eye contact with him and says, "Put it away." What is a trunk but a horizontal closet? And yet this closet serves two purposes for Martin. It conceals these souvenirs from his past, yes, but it also assures that he knows exactly where they are and can access them quickly when he needs them. This is also true of Martin's relationships with the men who fought with him in the previous war, as we see when he is recruiting men in the tavern later. One acquaintance asks Martin if he is paying any bounties, and Martin responds: "No scalp money this time Rollins, but you can keep or sell back to me the muskets and gear of any redcoat you kill." Not only does Martin easily, even flippantly, confirm what is arguably the most shocking of his past actions, but he is offering to do it again with one important modification. He is no longer trafficking in human remains, but he has no qualms about incentivizing murder. Where did his shame go? Like Roy Cohn, Martin has no problem discussing his "secret" with men who already know it. And Rollins is certainly not going to judge Martin; they are allies, and the relationship is mutually beneficial.

Martin's allies support him in more ways than one. In addition to giving him space to operate outside the closet, they also aid in its maintenance. As Sedgwick writes, "'Closetedness' itself is a performance initiated as such by the speech act of a silence--not a particular silence, but a silence that accrues particularity by fits and starts, in relation to the discourse that surrounds and differentially constitutes it" (3). Coming out is not an autonomous, individual action. Much depends on the response of those who witness the silences and confessions, whose response shapes the speech act as much as those whose secret it reveals or conceals. When Gabriel follows his younger brother in asking about Fort Wilderness, Martin answers by telling the whole story. If he may be said to truly "come out" anywhere, it is here: "And not a day goes by that I don't ask God's forgiveness for what I did." As much as Martin centers his current feelings at the expense of his past actions, as much as he'uses collective pronouns when describing those actions--as though he was part of a committee rather than a commanding officer--he does, at the very least, own that he did something wrong. But Gabriel's response is quite telling: "Thomas was my brother as well as your son. You may not believe this, but I want satisfaction as much as you do." This has nothing to do with Martin's confession. It is not even in the same stratosphere as Martin's confession. Like so many loved ones of LGBTQ people in response to their acts of coming out, Gabriel does not accept or condemn what his father has revealed about himself. He simply changes the subject. This scene is comparable to the one in Angels in America when Joe makes a drunken call to his mother in Salt Lake City to tell her "I'm a homosexual," and she responds with "Drinking is a sin! It's a sin! I raised you better than that." (Millennium Approaches, II, viii).

For all these similarities in characters' interactions, The Patriot and Angels in America's uses of the closet could not be more different. When Joe's relationship with Louis comes to an abrupt end, he tries to return to the safety and familiarity of his marriage only to find that his wife is leaving him. Roy, whose body is already marked by Kaposi sarcoma lesions when he meets with his doctor in the first play, is dead from the disease he himself connects with the group he refuses to acknowledge his inclusion in at the end. Ultimately, they are unable to detach identity from action. Martin can, not only owing to his loved ones' cooperation but to the narrative's.

Of course, the main point of contrast to Martin's closetedness is the open-ness of his antagonist Colonel Tavington, who kills both Thomas and Gabriel by the end of the film. Tavington's words, actions, and identity exist in seamless unity with one another. Most of the war crimes shown onscreen are carried out on his orders; he speaks violence into existence. Moreover, those in his community do nothing to conceal his crimes: quite the opposite. In a deleted scene, Cornwallis tells Tavington in a tent full of British officers, "General O'Hara informs me that you've earned the nickname 'The Butcher' among the populace." Not only does Cornwallis uncritically accept that Tavington's behavior warrants such a name, but he assures that all of his officers know of Tavington's actions. Yet neither here nor elsewhere does Tavington deny or diminish his application of violence. And he is aware of the consequences. When he argues to Cornwallis that "brutal" tactics are necessary to capture Martin, he also acknowledges, "If I do this, you and I both know I can never return to England with honor" before asking for land on the frontier, beyond the reach of British law. The closet has not been built that could contain Tavington.

Martin's nickname evokes his closetedness as much as Tavington's does his outness. His actions at Fort Wilderness included both cutting Cherokee and French men's bodies into pieces and distributing those pieces, butchery in the most literal sense of the word. Yet his nickname, first coined by Tavington himself, is "The Ghost," an allusion to his way of appearing out of nowhere to surprise the British forces far more than what he does to them afterwards. Not only are Martin's past victims erased from the narrative, but his present ones are wholly silent on the subject of his violence except, ironically, Tavington, who has to remind his superior that Martin "has killed [eighteen] officers in the past two months" when General O'Hara stops him from drawing his sword on Martin. Perhaps it is not surprising that he sees the truth about him so much more easily than others. The wider Martin's closet door creaks open, the more what we glimpse within resembles Tavington, red coat and all.

Tavington does play some role in the opening of that door, and it is the same role Louis Ironson plays in coaxing Joe Pitt out of the closet and into his bed. Joe knows he is gay long before he meets Louis, just as Martin's taste for violence is well established more than a decade before he encounters Tavington, but these meetings with men who are already "out" create ideal opportunities for Joe and Martin to give in to the desires they have repressed. Ironically, it is during his fight with Tavington at the end of the film, the consummation of the bloody courtship carried out between them since Tavington recognized Martin at the prisoner exchange, that Martin chooses to shut the closet door from the inside. After stabbing Tavington through the torso, the same way he killed Gabriel, Martin tells him, "My sons were better men," and puts a bayonet through his throat. This is not about gratifying his own desire for violence; it is just about avenging his sons. The sons his closet protected him from, whose refusal of knowledge reinforces that very closet, have the final word on defining who their father is. Benjamin Martin is not a war criminal. Benjamin Martin is a war hero. Who likes to kill men in rapey ways.

The final few scene of the film only serves to reinforce how little Martin has changed. He returns home to his children to marry their aunt and produce more "good stock." The final scene reveals his men building him a new house in the exact spot where the one Tavington burned once stood. This house will no doubt contain a new trunk that itself will contain the weapons he used in the American Revolutionary War, waiting for an opportunity when violence, once again, proves the only option. Martin is able to inhabit the closet in a way Roy Cohn can only dream of. Roy believes other Republican lawyers will help keep his secret; instead, they rejoice at his demise. And when he dies, his mourners consist of two out gay men who detest him and the ghost of a woman he helped the state murder. The historical Roy Cohn is remembered as much for dying from AIDS as for anything he did in his lifetime; his panel on the AIDS Memorial Quilt is inscribed with the words "Bully, Coward, Victim." Kushner chose to include a characterization of Roy Cohn because his failure to remain closeted in death so well illustrates the play's themes surrounding the difficulty of change, the importance of community, and the inevitability of progress.

The men on whom Benjamin Martin is based have fared better than Roy Cohn thus far, though that is changing. They are honored in history books and by statues and plaques and the names of universities. It is only in recent decades that the racist acts accompanying their fight for freedom from tyranny have been brought to light as worthy of public as well as academic attention. The Patriot represents an argument against this type of outing. What does it matter that these men who fought for American freedom may have done unsavory things to win it? Is it not better to keep that part secret to better appreciate what they were able to accomplish? It does matter, and it is not better to hide it, because to do so erases the histories and silences the voices of those whose lives were destroyed by the victors' hunger for power, namely Native and Black Americans, and how is that not tyranny in itself?

#the patriot #eve sedgwick #angels in america #the closet #benjamin martin #william tavington #joe pitt #roy cohn #leave it to ben martin to be the first man ever #to go back in the closet #while he's inside another man

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solarisburns · 7 months

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Do you know that scene in the first captain america where Steve drinks an abandoned bar dry after bucky falls off the train? That but its Sirius after Regulus' death

Diagon Alley had been all but abandoned during the worst of the war, so when Pandora Rosier had wrote him and asked to meet in the old bar Sirius knew something was wrong. The girl who he had seen in hogwarts was decked in some kind of colour and crystals but the young woman in front of him was wearing all black.

"Regulus is dead. I can't tell you how or why but he'd want you to know he died doing the right thing." She told him, her voice cracking and looking ready to cry. She didn't say anything else and left the bar, he thinks she may have been crying, he couldn't be sure.

And Sirius couldn't say anything, couldn't do anything. Regulus was dead. His little brother was dead in some nameless grave somewhere. So he poured himself a firewhiskey and downed it. Went to pour himself another but decided to forgo the glass and just drink straight from the bottle. Was this what shock was?

He sat there in that bar half hoping some death eater would come and finish him off. He had promised to follow his brother anywhere. But, he had promised that James, not Regulus, in truth he hasn't followed Regulus in many years. So he keeps his wand on him and sends a patronus. Even years later he couldn't tell you who he sent it to but none the less Lily found him in that abandoned bar.

"It's not your fault, Sirius."

"You know what our family was like, right Evans?" He'd asked with a bitter laugh.

"Yes?" She responded eyeing him with worry.

"Then you know that's not true," He told her before taking another swig of the firewhiskey. Lily sighed before sitting down next to him, she eye'd the bottle with envy, right she'd been pregnant with a mini prongs and she's was still there cleaning up his mess.

"You did everything you could, you cannot save someone who didn't want to be saved," She told him and gave him a look when he tried to cut her off. "Do not disrespect your brother by second guessing him. He made his choice. We both know he was involved with Dumbledore's schemes somehow. He died and he did it doing the right thing. Let Regulus keep his dignity in death, if he died for a cause, you know he would've only done it for something he thought was worth it. Now lets go home, it's bloody cold out here."

There were no more words that Sirius could give to his dead little brother. There were no words that would bring him back. There were no words that were worth it all. So he didn't say anything to Lily just nodded his head and brought the bottle with him when they left.

#not explicitly stated but this is jegulily who broke up midway through Regulus' seventh year. that's why lily knew so much about reg #lily was trying not to sob the entire time she was talking to sirius #while pandora had told sirius barty went to tell james and lily #Evan told dorcas as she stopped talking to them @ the start of the war but they thought she deserved to know. he told her that reg was a sp #they both cried but they did not heal their relationship #this made me sad #black brothers #black brother angst #sirius and regulus #sirius black #regulus black #marauders #pandora rosier #lily evans #marauders era #first wizarding war

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abarbaricyalp · 1 year

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Written for the @sambuckylibrary Summer Bingo! Prompt: Camping/ Mission Fic // Rated G

Just Have To Go Through It

(Going on a bear hunt)

Sam had gone on this mission alone. He had to, he solemnly explained to Bucky a week ago. This was his responsibility. He knew what to do. He needed to do it alone.

Well, not alone. He had a team. Bucky trusted them more than he trusted anyone else, but that didn't keep the worry away. Okay, maybe not worry. Maybe just jealousy and boredom. He had wanted to go on this mission. It had sounded exciting and fun.

Sam had given him a cheap communication device that sent messages back and forth like a silent walkie-talkie. Walkie-texty? It was hardly high level. Almost more like a kid's toy than anything. Still, Bucky kept it on his person at all times.

Mission going successfully so far.

Thing 1 and Thing 2 are out of practice, but helpful enough.

Hey, are there mosses or lichens you can eat? Someone might've just put a stick in their mouth.

Nevermind. Stick and lichen seem unharmed.

Miss you.

At least when you put sticks in your mouth, I know it won't kill you.

------

Bucky ached with the force of missing Sam. Which was ridiculous. This wasn't the first time they had been separated on missions. But it was the first time Sam had done his whole regal Captain America pose and told Bucky to stand down.

It didn't help that Sarah was also out of town and everyone else seemed to not need his help. It seemed impossible. There was always something he could lift for someone. But evidently not this week. All he had to do was sit at home and make sure Sam's figgle-diggle-daddle tree didn't die. And stare at his comm device.

Thing 1 and 2 both need to hear your fire safety instruction in the scary voice again.

Actually, you know what, I just heard how he laughed while waving a flaming stick and it was you straight through. You're part of the problem.

Pyromaniac.

Miss you. Wish this thing had smell transmitters so you'd miss it/me too.

------

Bucky spent a whole day cleaning the fridge and freezer--seriously Sam, put the raw meat in a sealable bag--and then planted more plants for Sam to keep alive when he got back. It was retribution for leaving him with a fraggle rock tree.

He listened to Sam's records and crooned under his breath in a way that wasn't nearly as endearing as Sam's enthusiastic performances. There was no one to dance with, except the broom.

He considered following Sam into the forest and tracking him down, but he made catfish and rice instead. He turned on the detective show he loved that Sam couldn't stand. (Something about another show that was airing at the same time that had the same concept or something) Which, actually, it was kind of nice to binge several episodes without Sam intentionally distracting him. Then again, Bucky did love to be distracted by Sam.

My back is killing me.

I'm too old for this anymore.

Who knew I'd need you around on a mission just for your magic hands.

Come on, that one should've earned a response. You cannot already be asleep, old man.

Fine, I took this picture tonight. Had to leave my phone sitting on a rock for five full minutes to let the exposure get right. I know you like the stars.

He'd sent a picture of the night sky that just about took Bucky's breath away. The sky was literally like velvet, deep and blue and so real he could almost touch it. And each star was like a pinprick of diamond twinkling down. There were so many of them. A heist of a diamonds.

Bucky saved the picture and then shoved himself off the couch to go stare at the stars from the backyard. If he couldn't watch them with Sam, he'd at least watch them at the same time.

------

The snuggle fruit tree dropped three leaves over night and Bucky almost lost his mind.

Finally, something happened in town that required Bucky's help. He got lunch and a new pair of wading pants for his trouble. He pointedly did not wish Sam was around to tell him how he was doing everything wrong. He did kind of wish Sam was around to see him lift and hold the broken end if the pier, but whatever.

And it was almost kind of nice to come home, peel out of his sea water soaked clothes, and fall asleep face down on the couch without anyone bothering him about not taking his boots off. Almost. Because then he woke up and there was sand and salt all over the rug and he had to vacuum for half an hour to clean it.

Last night out here, so of course the drama had to start.

Don't worry, no serious injuries. Nothing that stopped our progress. Just a few scraped knees.

Did you know I apparently don't put bandages on the way you do?

Since when do you have better bedside manner than me?

There's a song to sing?!

Whatever, man. You have to teach it to me or I'm gonna lose all my field medic cred.

See you soon, mi vida.

------

Logically, Bucky knew if he slept, the next day would come sooner. Unfortunately, excitement and want were throwing a rager on top of his heart, so he could barely sit still, much less go to sleep.

He baked a welcome home pie and switched out the sheets on the bed and adjusted the preset channels on the radio and baked cookies this time and sewed a bunch of the fruggle fruit leaves together just to practice his stitches. And then it was about midnight.

If it was earlier, he'd go to Sarah's house. At least then he could waste an hour checking all the locks and sweeping for any bugs. Also searching for real bugs. Sarah needed a cat. Maybe Bucky needed a cat. It'd probably be easier to fall asleep with a warm, white noise machine on his chest or in his lap.

Then again, no. Not when the waiting prize was Sam. Nothing could settle that. Any cat that Bucky would like would probably be just as obsessed with Sam anyway, just as jazzed to see him again too.

So he toiled the hours away, concocting increasingly elaborate activities to keep himself busy until the dawn was finally peeking over the horizon and the songbirds had started their daily concert. Who knew when Sam would be back as far as the day went. If the mission had wrapped up smoothly, it wouldn't be out of the realm of possibility for him to pull up in the morning. In time for brunch even. If there was anything that would distract him, it could be well into the afternoon. With this team, Sam was easily distractible. He would do anything they asked him to, even if it delayed their return home.

Sarah still wasn't home, so he'd have no reason to stop off over there. He tended to, now that he was around more often. He brought her not-apology gifts. ("I'm not gonna apologize for my job, Sarah. I'm just thanking you for putting up with me, is all.") But that didn't need to happen today, so he should be coming straight home. Bucky sorted out all the food he'd made all night--there was probably enough to keep them fed for a week--and then went to sit out on the porch. Something interesting had to find him on the porch.

Sam did roll up in time for brunch. Maybe a little late for brunch. If Bucky had been capable of sleep at that point, he probably would have dozed off in the warm summer morning. The humidity had, for some reason, dissipated and the shade of the porch kept him cool, even as his skin warmed in the air. But he wasn't dozing, just a little distracted when he heard the gravel crunch under the truck's tires.

Bucky did not spring off of the porch, but even if he had, no one could have seen him. He was almost walking at a normal speed by the time he came to the garden sidewalk that led to the driveway.

"Bucky!" AJ called, practically falling out of the back of the truck as he tried to jump out while his camping bag very much so wanted to stay in.

Bucky swooped him up, unhooking his bag as he went, and hugged him tightly. "Hey, little spy," he greeted. "Did you have fun? Keep your uncle in line?"

AJ nodded vigorously enough to shake his glasses down his nose. He used Bucky's shoulder to push them back up. "Look at what I found in the river!" He squirmed out of Bucky's hold and yanked his bag back from Bucky's hand so he could dig through it.

"No, wait, mine first!" Cass insisted from the bed of the truck, where he'd been tossing out the tent and small grill Sam had insisted they bring. ("That's not camping, Sam. That's a vacation.") He threw his backpack in front of AJ and clambered down to excavate whatever treasure he'd found.

"How was the super secret mission?" Bucky asked. He half offered a hand out to Cass as he jumped out of the bed, but Cass wouldn't have taken it even if he needed it, which he didn't.

"I'd tell you, but I'd have to kill you," he shot back and then grinned proudly. "But this is a debrief, so..."

"Guys, could we do all of this inside?" Sam asked. Bucky's heart just about squeezed right out of his chest at the sound of his voice. "I wanna get a real shower."

Please come around the truck, please come around the truck, please come around the truck.

"We washed off in the river!" AJ explained. "Look what it did to my hair!"

Bucky looked away from the front of the truck to examine AJ's hair. The short, loose twists Sarah had braided his hair in for the summer were completely unraveled. So Bucky's first words to Sam after a week were accidentally, "Sarah is gonna kick your butt."

Sam scoffed and dropped a bunch more bags on the driveway. "She'll just make me redo them. I was always the better braider, anyway."

Cass snorted his objection to this.

Bucky finally looked up and saw Sam, looking relaxed and warm and a little filthy. After a whole night of thinking about hugging him for five minutes straight, he suddenly found himself not moving at all. But it was fine because Sam reached out and tugged Bucky to him, around AJ and Cass, and they fell into each other instantly. It was awkward--there were too many bags beneath their feet and Bucky couldn't get as close as he wanted because what he wanted was to curl up behind Sam's ribs and live there next to his heart and it was much warmer in the sun and Sam really did smell rank, but once his arms were around Sam, Bucky wasn't sure he knew how to make them let go.

"It was four nights!" Cass objected with a groan. Those teen years were no joke. "You've both literally been to war. This isn't similar."

Sam choked on a laugh he was trying to hide and then pressed his face deliberately into Bucky's neck, lifting him off the ground. Cass groaned and stomped off somewhere else.

"You popped my back doing that," Bucky grumbled when his feet were on the ground again.

"Old man," Sam answered back. He brought one hand up to Bucky's cheek, smoothing his thumb over his cheekbone slowly. "I see you didn't burn the house down."

"And the town is right where you left it," Bucky agreed. "Except for one pier, which had nothing to do with me."

Sam laughed for real that time and leaned up to kiss the corner of Bucky's eye. Then, before Bucky could reciprocate, AJ was next to them, holding up a very large rock.

"It's petrified wood!" he explained excitedly. "We talked about it in class last year and I found some!"

"Hey, again, let's take this inside and then we can talk," Sam repeated, grabbing AJ's bag and handing it to him.

AJ gave a weary sigh--preteen years were no joke either--but also grabbed a bag from the deluge Sam emptied out of the truck. They watched him drag it into the house before Bucky hooked his knuckle under Sam's chin.

"Welcome home, angel," he breathed and finally, finally, finally got to kiss Sam again.

#sambucky #bucky barnes #sam wilson #captain america #sambucky fanfic #the falcon and the winter soldier #writing #sbsummer2023

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paulineagain · 1 year

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For this week’s writing exercise, I sat down to imagining “girlness,” I was drawn to a very young character in my WIP: the daughter of one of the heroines. I imagine her here a little older than she is in the current story. She is disabled, realizing her asexuality and understanding that her status as a “natural child” will always mark her in early 19th century America. The standards that set her apart aren’t going to dismay her, though. Embracing our personal differentness without saying we’re sorry, especially for women and girls, is also a way to break the rules.

Thank you for including me – and all of us – in this opportunity @bettsfic and @books. It has been a great opportunity for me to dive deeper into so much that I love about writing.

Being born unable to hear came with a lot of rules. She knew that instinctively, never being told. Smile when people’s lips moved, even though they make no effort to be understood. Avoid nodding. They might be asking for something you cannot or will not give. Stick to your own, if you can. They make accommodations for you, and you for them.

The school for the deaf was far away. It was on a river, but nothing like the one back home, and the people were as cold as the weather. Dyed in the wool Protestants from Puritan ancestors, they wore their collars high and their expressions sour. Nothing like the people back home who she knew, again instinctively, her teachers thought of as indolent and lazy. Easy words of misunderstanding and dismissal.

She was called Joy here, even though her name was really Joie. The teachers corrected her with the signs for J-O-Y when she wrote her name in French at the top of her parchment. She would have to cross it out and write the hated letters given in terse movements of fingers gnarled by hard scrubbing and a lack of moister. These women seemed to have no joy, and she was often surprised that they could even spell the word.

Knowing another life, full of people who loved and accepted her for who and what she was, did not soften the hard edges. She came to the school at age ten and now, two years later, she counted days rather than months. Her mother, with a heart in the right place, said that five years away from all she loved would be enough. Seven, though, would be better. Joie wanted out now, and if her mother knew what they told her here she might agree.

Women could not, according to her teachers, achieve more than hearth and husband, home and children. They drilled this into her and her eager classmates. These girls, for the genders were separated in and out of class, giggled and passed notes about boys. Joie didn’t see the attraction. Boys were fine to talk to, and run after in a game of tag. Some of her finest friends were boys but Joie didn’t understand why girls fussed over them. Most of all, she knew she never wanted to marry.

She avoided telling anything but the most obvious when asked about her family, too. The people at this place would mock her for a mother who was a sea captain, an aunt who practiced medicine and a father she did know. Their rules said everything about her family was upside down and sideways. Everything about it was incorrect.

Her own ambitions, also unspoken, were wrong too. Joie dreamed of making her own way in the arts. Her love of portraiture bloomed here, perhaps the only thing that did besides the climbing roses on the shady side of the girl’s dormitory. She hoped to make a life for herself with her talent, and to one day say she had painted every rich Creole lady and praline seller back home. They all held their own fascination, and deserved a place in posterity.

Like the roses that chose the difficulty of a different path in the shade, but managed still to bloom in profusion each year, Joie imagined thriving. Against the odds, and all the rules, she saw herself thriving on her own. Like her mother who could aim and prime a cannon and her aunt who could save lives with surgery, their Joie would succeed. Just five more patient years, and the rules would all but be forgotten.

#tumblr writing workshop with betts #fiction #wip #girl

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theirloveisgross · 2 years

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nothing really hurts, nothing to say. nothing really matters when everything gets in the way. holding me back, put the pain behind you now, gravity’s holding me back, you don’t need it anymore. i want you to hold out the palm of your hand, but we drained all that, why don’t we leave it at that? i won’t say a word, but right now all i need you to know is you’ll be okay.

seems you cannot be replaced in this world, it’s just us. look at the horizon, angels fly high, two kids follow her, and nobody’s coming to help. does it make you feel small? i’m the one who will stay.

answer the phone. i’ll knock on your door, it’ll save me from calling. ringing the bell. harry, you’re no good alone,i’m on my way with some time to borrow. why are you sitting at home on the floor? there were problems in this empty bottle at the bottom, what kind of pills are you on? it’ll only make it worse.

we can talk about it, there’s a time for saying who did what. i don’t want to talk about who’s doing it first, where it went wrong, i don’t want to talk about the way that it was. it can wait ‘til the morning, you know it’s not the same as it was.

light speed internet, i wanna hear all that. leave america, you know it’s not where we’re going. go home, get ahead, we can talk tomorrow. you know it’s not the same if every star is an eye in the sky, you’ll see angels fly as it was.

your daddy lives by himself, he just wants to know that you’re well, so right now all i need you to know is you’ll be okay.

Angels Fly As It Was: mashed lyrics into not-poems, a series (2/?).

#mashed lyrics into not poems #louis and harry #harry's house #fitf #faith in the future #as it was #angels fly #this gave me so many breakdowns geezus #when i heard angels fly the first day #i instantly saw so many replies to as it was for some reason #and well this was fun (and also not because it hurt) to match up #so many of these sitting in my brain for almost 2 months now #but others were like *gasp*#tell me which ones hit you in the tags or in a message or whatever

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detroit-grand-prix · 1 year

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Wildest Dreams Chapter 27 - Wildest Dreams (Phoebe's Version)

Chapter summary: Everything has been leading up to this. It's not the last race of the season, but for Phoebe Stallard, it feels like the last, and best chance to make her goal. After all, what could be sweeter than taking her first podium at home? But in racing, just like in life, it's never quite that straightforward.

Content warning: N/A

Chapter word count: 7,100

Author's Notes: This is the end of the main story. When I finished this, though, this story couldn't let me go, and still really hasn't. I've been working on a bunch of side stories that I will get around to posting, and I'm planning on writing an epilogue that has snatches of the 2022-2024 seasons.

I'm really proud of this story, and I'm glad it's gotten a few dedicated fans along the way. I know OC-centered stories aren't popular in RPF fandoms, and that's fine, but I never feel like I am able to do the actual athletes justice, but the psyche of someone who competes in F1my original plan! Thonestly didn't even get through everything I'd wanted to. It was a challenge, too - writing race play-by-plays is really difficult, honestly! But, as far as the stuff I didn't want to get to, we'll see what I can come up with. Plejuest sprang to mind for me but allowed me to take the story in directions that I hadn't expected. Anyway, thank you again for sticking around until this point. I know this chapter was an absolute monster is still fascinating to explore. And I've really enjoyed being able to examine what it would mean to be the first woman in so long to make it that far. I hope someday that it's not just a work of fanfiction, and that it can be reality. The narrative took me by surprise, too. It's really amazing when the story couldn't let me go, and still really hasn't. I've been working on a bunch of side stories that I will get around to posting, and I'm planning on writing an epilogue that has snatches of the 2022-2024 seasons.

*also, I know the spelling is technically "kerbs" but I just cannot bring myself to spell that word that way. SORRY.

Circuit of the Americas, Austin, Travis County, Texas, United States of America

October 24th, 2021

Bee woke up well before her alarm on race day. Her entire body was thrumming with nervous energy, but at least for the time being, it wasn’t a bad kind of nervousness, at least not yet.

She took her time getting ready before she had to meet Emilia and her parents for breakfast, but time had a way of speeding up for her before something she was dreading. She did manage to eat a good breakfast, though, and Toto and Susie ended up meeting them all there - they were just in one of the hotel’s restaurants, but It was the first time she’d seen Toto since qualifying.

“You had an amazing qualifying yesterday, bienchen. I was very impressed. Your performance has definitely improved this year, and I think as long as you just go out there and have fun, you’ll be satisfied with your performance, no matter what.”

It was different advice than everyone else had given her, but it probably did the most to help relieve the pressure.

Eventually, it was time to head to the track for the pre-race festivities, and festivities they were. There was a drivers’ parade first - Bee and all of her gridmades were herded onto the back of a flatbed truck and were driven slowly around the track, while being interviewed for F1TV. She was amused by the sight of a lot of the other drivers wearing cowboy hats - it just didn’t suit most of them, being rich boys from Europe.

The exception, however, was Daniel Ricciardo - not only was he wearing a cowboy hat and cowboy boots, but he had shaved his beard into a handlebar mustache and mutton chops, and was wearing a University of Texas basketball jersey. He joked that he was an honorary American, and he certainly wasn’t wrong.

“You look more American than I have ever felt,” Bee told him as they climbed onto the trailer. “They should probably just give you a US passport right now.” He laughed at her. “I would love that, honestly.”

Bee was dreading the interviewer, Rosanna, coming around to her, but it seemed that she was first. At least she’d get it over with. The interviews were also projected over the loudspeakers in the grandstands.

“We’ll start with you, Phoebe. It’s your first race in the United States, you’re the first American on the grid in many years, there’s a lot of people in Williams blue with American flags - how are you feeling ahead of the race today?”

“I, uh… well, maybe a bit nervous, but it’s so nice to see so much home support -” Bee had to stop talking because of the cheer that rose up from the grandstand they were passing. “And I’m really hoping that I can run a good race today for everyone. I’m sure it will be fine once the helmet is on, though. This is an amazing track and I had a really great qualifying yesterday, and there’s so many people here today, it’s really incredible to see. When I started, all of the races were under lockdown and there was no audience, and it definitely makes a big difference.”

She spent the rest of the parade waving to the crowd and talking to George for a bit. The truck they were on was going slow enough that she could finally get a good look at a lot of the crowd - not only were there a ton of American flags, but it looked like someone had produced a “Super Bee” banner that had been widely adopted - she saw tons of them dotting the grandstands.

It was the first time she’d seen it, and it gave her a warm, fuzzy feeling. She’d spent so much of her racing career being somewhat of an outcast, an outsider, an oddity. She remembered showing up to testing for GP3 and getting stared at the entire time, like nobody there had ever seen a girl in their lives. They probably hadn’t ever seen one in a racing suit. She didn’t ever think motorsport fans would embrace her like this, especially when she’d reached Formula 1, the pinnacle of motorsport.

But then, she thought about Adelle and Olivia, and how Olivia had said that there wasn’t anyone she wanted to root for before she signed with Williams. Maybe she wasn’t the only one. Maybe it wasn’t the racing fandom embracing her, but her presence changing who the motorsport fandom was. No doubt that Netflix had helped with this, bringing Formula 1 to a broader audience, but how had she changed who racing appealed to by just being a woman on the grid? It was everything she’d been working for, it was everything Susie had been working for, before her.

All the more reason to try her best today, and hopefully climb the podium at last.

Once she was freed from the drivers’ parade, she headed to the Williams hospitality tent to get changed and get warmed up. Emilia was already waiting for her in her drivers’ room. She left briefly so Bee could slip out of the jeans and team shirt she was wearing and into her Nomex baselayers and racing suit.They did their warm up sequence as usual, and Bee hopped up on the massage table, ready for the rest of it. She froze for a moment, wondering if she should take her shirt off for the massage, remembering how warm, soft, and soothing Emilia’s hands were on her back yesterday.

Emilia didn’t even have to ask before Bee made her decision, tossing the undershirt onto the small futon in the room.

“Oh, okay! I wasn’t sure if you wanted to do that again. Did it feel better yesterday with -”

“Yes. It did. Thank you.” Bee said, quickly laying face-down on the table so Emilia wouldn’t notice the blush spreading down Bee’s face. Bee could feel the heat spreading down from her cheeks to her chest, and knew it didn’t have anything to do with the Texas sunshine.

“We’ll just do it this way from now on.” Emilia said quietly. “If you want.” Bee heard the click of the cap for the lotion bottle and felt her heart start to beat a little faster.

“...Yes. I… I’d like that.” It really was much more effective. Bee was almost so relaxed by the time she sat up for her breathing exercises that she felt like she could have fallen asleep. Emilia grasped her hands again and led her through a deep breathing progression, because Bee had told her that it helped ground her yesterday.

“Okay. Are you ready?” Emilia said, handing Bee her shirt and her drink bottle after they had finished. “Drink some more. It’s hot out there and I know you’ll need it.”

Before long, it was time to head out to the car to take her place on the grid. Before Bee went to head over to the garage, Emilia stopped her. She bent down to Bee’s height, wrapped her arms around her, and said, “Good luck today. Just go out and have fun. Don’t get your head so wrapped up in the result that you stand in your own way. I know this is an important race for you, but it’s not the last one this season. I’ll be here for you no matter what happens.”

Bee returned her embrace, closing her eyes, breathing in Emilia’s presence around her. “I know. But it feels like it’s a big one. And… Thank you. For everything you do. I don’t know where I’d be without you.” She meant it, too. She never dreamed she’d develop such a close relationship with her performance coach, but she was glad she had.

They walked over to the garage together.

Bee said hello to her parents. Josephine, once again, insisted on taking pictures. One of Emilia and Bee together, one of Susie with Bee, one with Bee and her dad, and one with Bee and Claire. She asked Susie to get a picture of the two of them together, after which Bee said “Mom, I have to go! I have to get on the grid!”. She sounded perhaps a little more whiny than was necessary.

“I know, honeybee, but how many times do you get to watch your daughter race in Formula 1 for the first time in your home country? I don’t think it’s a usual occurrence! I think I’m actually the first!”

Bee laughed. She wasn’t the first, technically, but she was the first in the US.

She hugged both of her parents, Susie, and Claire, and they all wished her luck.

She walked over to her car in its place on the grid, holding her helmet and gloves. Emilia had an umbrella to protect them from the hot, direct sunshine, but she was so much taller than Bee it almost wasn’t working. “Drink some more.” Emilia said. “I know you don’t like to use the drink system in your car, so you need to make sure to finish whatever’s in that bottle before we start.”

Bee rolled her eyes a little and took more sips on the long straw, but secretly, she was touched by Emilia’s concern. She was right, though - it was going to get incredibly hot in the cockpit, and she would be more dehydrated today than usual by the end of the race.

She clambered into the cockpit while the engineers and mechanics made their final adjustments. Emilia had set her umbrella down over her so Bee wouldn’t start baking while she was sitting there. Once all of the final checks were complete, Bee had to climb back out for the opening ceremonies.

The opening presentation was very American in every way - there was a marching band (the University of Texas marching band), a flyover by military helicopters, a giant American flag on the track held by various American military personnel, a giant flag carried across the sky by people with parachutes, the cheerleaders for the Dallas Cowboys NFL team, and a country singer Bee hadn’t ever heard of singing the national anthem.

Normally, she wasn’t particularly moved by “The Star Spangled Banner”. It was okay, but she’d heard so many national anthems by now that she’d grown to have opinions on them. She liked Germany’s “Deutschlandlied”, of course, and she had liked Austria’s “Land der Berge, Land am Strome” before she’d heard it so much this season because of Max’s victories. She disliked the Dutch anthem, but liked the bouncy, cheerful “Il Canto degli Italiani” because of her love for Monza. The UK’s anthem, “God Save the Queen”, always threw her off, because she’d learned the melody as a child as “My Country ‘Tis Of Thee”, an American patriotic tune.

But as the singer on the track hit the last note, a chill shot down Bee’s spine. It was moving this time, and she didn’t know why.

Finally, it was time to start. She was glad Emilia had left the umbrella over the opening of the cockpit, otherwise, her HANS device may have been too hot to pick up with her bare hands from sitting on her seat.

She climbed into her car, put on her radio headset, balaclava, helmet, and her gloves, and her focus narrowed to her steering wheel and the view out of her cockpit. She took a minute to focus on her breath, and focus on the racing line, as she always did. She snapped her visor closed, the mechanics all backed away from the cars for the start, and she was ready for the formation lap. She took off with the pack, weaving the car to get temperature into the tires and warm up the brakes, not that it would be difficult today.

“Radio check.” She heard Gaetan say.

“Loud and clear.”

“Okay, Phoebe. Let’s have a good race today. Keep an eye on your tires, the track is hot. Let me know right away if anything seems off. Remember it’s not very long into the first turn and it’s an uphill climb, so don’t be a hero. Good luck.”

“Copy. Thank you.”

It was strange to see the cars she was behind and next to at the start - she certainly wasn’t used to seeing a Mercedes in front of her or a Ferrari next to her, but she relished it. It felt like a challenge.

Her eyes locked on the starting lights, and she held her breath as all five disappeared.

Right away, she got an amazing start - she saw a gap between Leclerc and Bottas, and swept straight through it, immediately going up into 5th place. Miraculously, there wasn’t any silliness heading into turn 1, a climb steeper than Raidillon at Spa. She pressed in her throttle, and was right on Bottas’ back as they straddled the entry curb on the right.

The nice thing about the hill was that you could brake later and harder than normal without issue, but the apex was hard to spot over the blind crest. You also had to avoid the temptation to turn into the first apex early - the wider line was superior for the best exit.

She slammed into first gear to rotate the car quickly before a quick shift into second gear, making sure to avoid the sausage curb that would wreck her exit.

Turn 2 was flat, and really just a means of getting to turn 3 as soon as possible - that was where the real fun started. A mistake here could affect your drive all the way through turn 6, even as far as turn 11, so keeping a good rhythm and flow here was of the utmost importance. It was the same as Maggots and Becketts at Silverstone.

It didn’t take long to settle into her rhythm, thankfully - by the time they were on lap 4, she was still right on Bottas’s back end as they went into turns 9 and 10. She managed to tell herself to take 9 flat, but it looked like Valtteri had lifted a bit, and she was able to gain on him. If she could stay on him until turn 11, she’d be able to use her car’s Drag Reduction System on him. Formula 1 cars had a rear wing that had a panel that opened to reduce drag - it was like getting another 20 horsepower on your engine, but it could only be used in certain sections of the track, and only while you were a second or less behind the car in front of you.

“You have DRS on Bottas.” Gaetan confirmed as they flew around the hairpin.

“Copy, I’m after him.”

She pressed the DRS button on her steering wheel, and her rear wing snapped open, granting her an additional burst of speed. She slid out of his slipstream and flew around him. She thought he’d be putting up more of a fight, but it was a long race.

She also wondered what Toto was thinking, as he watched from his spot in the Mercedes garage. Would he have been proud of her for battling with, and overtaking, one of his works team drivers, or would he be disappointed that Valtteri didn’t fight more for his place? She hoped it would be the former more than the latter.

“Good job, Phoebe. Perez is next, but he’s about six seconds ahead, and he’s gaining on Hamilton. Just hang out here for now and watch your tires.”

“Copy, thank you.”

Her and Valtteri played leapfrog for a while, trading positions, almost like it was some sort of game. This went on for about ten laps, until she was on the long back straight again, with Valtteri in her crosshairs ahead of her.

She heard Gaetan say, “Box, box, Phoebe.”

“What?! Why? It’s so early!”

“Slow puncture, losing pressure on your front left.” She hadn’t even noticed yet, but the car had so much sensitive instrumentation that the pressures likely hadn’t gotten low enough to affect her driving. She must have developed it from the curbs she ran over while chasing Valtteri.

Images of Sakhir last year flashed through her mind, when George led most of the race while he was driving for Mercedes temporarily, until a tire mixup made him have to pit twice. He fought his way back through the pack, but a slow puncture made it so that he went from almost winning the race to almost not even finishing in the points. She remembered seeing the graphic of his nameplate sinking from the top of the rankings to almost the bottom, and was now envisioning it happening now, live, on television, with her blue “STA” nameplate instead.

She wanted to throw up - who knows how many positions she’d lose pitting this early? But, she had no choice. At least she’d have a tire advantage, but she’d have to pit again later on, surely.

As a mercy, she hadn’t gone all the way past the pitlane yet, so she didn’t have to do a full lap on a tire that was losing air. Since it was a slow puncture, she could still manage around the 12-19 complex if she was careful to avoid the curbs. Those would cause a blowout that would probably force a retirement. She made it - she pulled into the pitlane and felt the anxiety rising. The pit crew changed her tires, but just as she was pulling away -

“Stop! Stop! Stop! Stay here! Red flag!” Gaetan practically shouted through her headset. His voice was abrupt, urgent.

“What?! What happened?”

“Red flag! Latifi spun into the wall at turn 11 and took Alonso and Gasly with him. There’s debris to clear and they’ll need to repair a barrier.”

“Oh, shit! Is everyone alright?” She was trying not to sound too excited, just in case anyone was hurt.

“Yes, they’re all fine, they’re out, but the track is a mess. Red flag procedure, Phoebe.”

Her relief was almost palpable. It must have happened just before she pulled into the pitlane, and she was on the opposite end of the track from the Turn 11 hairpin, which explains why she had no idea.

“Okay, how many places did we lose? What’s our position?”

“Checking.” It was hard to say, as she was the only one pulling into the pit. Unfortunately, it meant that everyone would get a free tire change, and she wouldn’t have the advantage when she exited, but now everyone else would have to either use a harder tire or stop later on.

A moment later, he said, “We are P6, you will line up behind Leclerc.”

Okay, it wasn’t as bad as she thought, she’d only lost three places. That might not be so hard to make up. The other cars came into the pit lane, and she was able to stop the car and get out. There would be another standing start, and they had an hour.

She stripped off her headwear and walked back into the garage. Emilia was standing at the entrance again, as she had been at the Bahrain red flag. But this time, instead of immediately sweeping her back into the privacy of her drivers’ room, she said, “Are you okay? Do you need to take a minute to yourself? I know that was probably pretty stressful.”

Bee shook her head. “I’m fine. Thank you, though.”

She found it oddly touching that Emilia was just always right there, waiting for her in case she needed her. Sure, as her performance coach, she was more or less Bee’s assistant, but they’d never discussed things like that - their relationship, their routine just naturally developed that way.

Different drivers had different ways of staying alert and “in the zone” during red flag periods. She knew Daniel Ricciardo would put on his headphones and listen to music. Some just sat in their garages, or stood in the pitlane and watched. This past year, during the rain-induced red flag in Spa, she remembered actually deciding to take a quick nap, and she hadn’t been the only one to do so. She remembered watching Kimi Raikkonen on TV infamously eating ice cream during a race in Malaysia in 2009.

This time, though, she and Emilia sat in the garage, though still sitting apart from everyone, Emilia talking to Bee about everything and nothing, as a way of trying to keep her from overthinking and getting anxious again. They would go back to do warmups again before the restart, but for now, they just chatted in German together - at least it gave them some privacy. At first, Emilia strayed away from talking about anything to do with the race, but Bee eventually started talking about the race again.

“I felt like I was going to throw up when Gaetan told me I had a puncture. I didn’t even feel it yet.” Bee said. “All I could think about was George in Sakhir last year, but the red flag came in just in time.”

“You were doing so well, though. I think you’ll have no problem making up those places again. There’s still a lot of race left. And no offense, but I’d never thought I’d see you battling for position with Valtteri. At least you did it without crashing.”

Bee laughed. “Could you imagine? I’d probably just flee the country before I had to talk with Toto about it.”

Eventually, it was time to get warmed back up, but Emilia could tell Bee was starting to get nervous again. While Bee didn’t normally get very emotionally demonstrative around other people, Emilia had noticed that Bee’s body language would change considerably depending on how she felt. When she got nervous, her movements would get stiffer, she’d start to fidget and pace, and she’d start biting her lip, or her balaclava if she was wearing it.

“Well, let’s… go finish this, I guess.”

As Bee turned around to leave her drivers’ room, Emilia seized her by the shoulders, and pulled her in close, bending down until their foreheads were almost touching, looking right into her eyes.

“Phoebe, listen. Earlier was just a warm-up. You showed them what you can do. I know it feels like today is your last chance, but it’s not. We still have so many races together. And regardless of how today ends, regardless of your place, you’re going to be successful. You’ve put in the time, you’ve put in the effort, you’ve worked so hard - it’s all paying off. Those other guys might be in faster cars, but they haven’t had to climb half of the obstacles you’ve had to to get here, and you were fighting right up there at the front with them. You can do it again. I’ll be out there on the pit wall watching when you come across the line and cheering you on, no matter what.”

Emilia pulled her into a hug. Bee was a little surprised at first, but eventually, she returned Emilia’s embrace. She had to bury her face in Emilia’s shirt though, to hide the tears that had started to come into her eyes. Even in German, she felt what Emilia had said right down to her very core.

“Okay. I’m ready. Let’s do it.”

She put her balaclava and helmet back on before she left the room, wanting to stay focused and engaged, but she made sure to wave across the garage to where her parents and Susie were sitting. She saw They all called out to wish her luck as she went back out to her car and climbed back in. She and Georged walked out of the garage together, and he wished her luck as well. At least, that’s what she thought - he already had his helmet on as well, but he gave his head a clear nod and grasped Bee’s shoulder. They gave each other a quick hug.

Once again, the mechanics made their final adjustments, and Bee’s focus once again started to narrow. Gaetan did their regular radio check, and Bee’s car was moved back out onto the grid for the restart.

Once again, her focus narrowed into the view out of her cockpit, the sounds of her own breath, the racing line, and the five red lights in front of her.

As the lights went out, she got another decent getaway. Her eyes were wide open and focused, looking for gaps. She didn’t see any, but she was breathing down Charles’ neck from the start, at least. There were 42 laps left, so, as Crofty, the F1 commentator for Sky Sports in the UK, would always say, there was “all to play for”.

She stayed calm, and patient, and eventually, Charles faltered when she was able to use DRS on him, and was back up into 5th. A few laps later, she was hunting down Daniel. He locked up on turn 14 - it was crucial to be gentle on the pedal there, but he may have gotten unnerved by Bee’s presence in his mirrors. It opened the door for her to get around him, and she did.

“Good job, Phoebe. Perez is ahead by three seconds, but we have to start thinking about tires.” she heard.

“Copy. Just let me know. Going to try to build a gap with Daniel.”

As it turns out, she didn’t have to worry about tires - Ocon had a retirement that caused a safety car, which means that everyone got a free tire change. Sure, she was once again robbed of a tire advantage, but so was everyone else.

Verstappen was in first, so he controlled the pace of the pack behind him once the Safety Car period ended. Bee hated these rolling starts, because of how much control the pacesetter had - you had to have constant awareness of when the front of the pack would start to break away once overtakes were allowed again, lest you be overtaken from behind.

If you went too early, it would mean a penalty. Sometimes, the cars in the back could be caught out. In Mugello in 2020, there was an accident at the rear of the pack when they didn’t realize the cars ahead were not at full speed.

Verstapped broke away, and Bee managed to be quick enough on the throttle to end up wheel-to-wheel with Perez for a moment. She had to back off going into a corner to leave enough space, otherwise she would have ended up getting punted into the gravel trap.

She stayed on Perez for the next few laps, but she was focusing so hard she was losing the lap count.

Luckily, Gaetan was nothing if not reliable.

“Five laps, Phoebe. Push, push. Checo is 2.5 ahead, and has been talking about tire wear. Keep the pressure up and you’ll be in DRS range soon.”

It was getting down to the wire. Phoebe pushed through all of the turns, making sure to stay right on Perez’s shoulder, just to be able to take any opportunity he might have presented. She was so close.

“Three laps left, you’re 1.2 away. Almost in DRS.”

Her pace must have been mind-blowingly quick if she’d cut that much off of their gap in two laps. Maybe he was slowing down. Either way, she couldn’t let up now. One lap later, she heard Toto’s voice in her mind as they rounded the turn 9 chicane together.

“You have to squeeze your arse cheeks and commit.”

They were almost wheel-to-wheel again, and Bee wasn’t going to back off this time.

She was through.

But then… Perez had DRS on her. Bee cursed - she should have waited to overtake him until after the DRS zone. It was a stupid mistake, but she remembered what Natalie told her when she was so angry about her late pit exit during her last outing at Monza.

“Some drivers have even made mistakes that have destroyed their entire car. A few seconds on a pit exit seems like nothing in comparison, right?”

Right. It was a small error on an otherwise stellar performance so far. Nothing to lose her head over. She did her best to keep Perez in the dirty air of her car, to defend. The DRS zone would end soon anyway. She wasn’t going to let him take his position back that easily.

“Last lap, Phoebe. Good job keeping Perez behind you.”

It was now or never. She had to be absolutely dead-on for this last lap, Perez was still on her, and the endless defense she had to put up was starting to get exhausting. She could feel herself start to falter going into Turn 12, and she and Perez were wheel-to-wheel again in the 90-degree corner, but she didn’t let up. She couldn’t. Not now.

In her mind’s eye, she saw the faces of everyone who had supported her over the years - her parents, the Wolffs, Claire, Natalie, Emilia, George, Adelle and her daughter, the dozens of fans that she’d met just this weekend. She didn’t want this podium for herself, but she wanted it for them - a tangible marker to show how far she’d come because of them, a means of thanking them, and showing her how strong she’d become with their support. It urged her forward.

And then - she saw a flash of Helmut Marko’s face. She could see him so clearly - the round, balding head, the thin gray hair, and his small, beady blue eyes. His left eye was a prosthetic and his gaze was always a bit off-center. She saw the disdainful, sour look that he had whenever he talked to her towards the end of her time at Red Bull. She thought about how he’d look from his spot in Red Bull’s garage if she snatched this podium away from his own driver. She wanted, more than anything, to deny him a double podium today.

She also imagined the inevitably pissed-off look on Christian Horner’s pointy, freckled, ferret-like face - she didn’t know Christian that well, she’d avoided ever talking to him. But, it would be a bonus.

She kept her foot down through the turn 16/17/18 series, making sure to cling to the curbs to maintain the most speed. She could practically feel Perez right on her, but she stayed firm, steadfast - it was literally the meaning of her surname, after all.

Perez was practically next to her going through the home straight, but she held her breath and stomped the throttle coming out of turn 20.

Time froze, and then dilated as she crossed the line. It was a split-second that felt entirely too long. She felt like she could feel her pulse between the thin margins of seconds it had doubtlessly been.

She saw a spray of fireworks that shot off as soon as the race leader - Max, probably, crossed the line, and she followed a few seconds later. Did she make it? She couldn’t tell. She’d seen Perez inching up to her on her right side at the last minute, but she didn’t think he’d made it through.

“PHOEBE STALLARD! P3!” Gaetan shouted through the radio. She could hear the cheering from the Williams garage in the background. “THAT’S A PODIUM!”

A scream came from somewhere deep inside of her. She didn’t even feel it coming. She’d just run the race of her life. Even through her helmet and headphones, she could hear the roar of the crowd - it sounded like a prolonged, rolling thunderclap. She practically felt it in her chest, even over the hum of the engine behind her.

She looked up and ahead of her, onto the pit wall, and saw something incredible. The crew of practically every team was clinging to the pit wall fence over the home straight, cheering for her. So it seemed, at least. She saw the British racing green of Aston Martin, Ferrari red, Mercedes white and teal (she spotted Toto easily, as tall as he was), McLaren papaya, Alpine and Williams blues - at the last second, she caught a glimpse of a tall woman, in a blue shirt, with blonde hair, grasping the upper corners of an enormous American flag - Emilia.

She was on her cooldown lap, and was speechless. Normally, a driver would thank the team, depending on their mood, but Bee had felt herself start crying. She was grasping onto the bottom of her visor, trying to wipe her eyes through the gap.

She heard Claire through her radio.

“Phoebe, that was an absolutely incredible race. I’m so proud of you, and I’m so proud of how far you’ve come with this team. I know Dad is at home watching now, and I know he’s so excited and happy right now. It’s been a pleasure to be your team principal, and I’m going to miss you so much next year.”

Bee took a breath, and swallowed around the lump in her throat.

“Thank you, Claire, for believing in me. It’s been awesome working with you, and it’s not going to be the same without you. I wanted to get a podium before the end of this season to send you out on a high note and to thank you for bringing me onto this fantastic team - you’ve all been the best part of racing in Formula 1. The spirit and heart of everyone here and in Grove keeps me motivated, and this podium is for all of you - I couldn’t have done it without you.”

It sounded corny, but she’d meant every word of it. Williams had come so far in the last two years, even with the sale and the transition of leadership, but she loved it. She was proud to have been part of the small resurgence they were experiencing.

She waved out to the grandstands as she passed by them on the cooldown lap, and it was clear that people were absolutely losing it. She could have never imagined this. She almost didn’t want to pull into parc ferme - she was enjoying this particular moment - just her, her car, and the distant shouts of her fans - too much.

But, even so, she arrived and pulled up to the 3rd place bollard (another thing she’d never imagined doing) and saw that her team had gathered around the fence to wait for her.

She was 5’2”, not even 160cm, but she felt twice that height when she climbed out of the FW43B and stood on its nose. She tossed her head back and let out the same scream she’d felt tear itself from her chest earlier - of triumph. All of the tension and pressure of the weekend was gone. She jumped down and sprinted over to the crowd of Williams team members at the gate. She wasn’t quite tall enough to jump up and on top of the barriers like some drivers did, but they did their best to reach her, and she was caught in a hailstorm of hugs, cheering, and hearty slaps on her back and helmet.

It was so loud in that crowd of people. The atmosphere was electric.

Someone - probably Emilia - placed the corner of the American flag in her hands, and she gripped it fiercely.

She turned around to see Lewis waiting for her. He grabbed her into a tight hug that lifted her off her feet, which was not difficult. He set her down, and she stripped off her helmet and balaclava. He did the same, and took a moment to re-tie his braided hair back into a ponytail

“I can’t believe it, Phoebe - you’re the first woman ever on a Formula 1 podium!” Lewis shouted over the commotion around them.

Oh. She’d forgotten about that part. It wasn’t what she’d set out to do, necessarily.

He hugged her again, patting her back. “You must have run an incredible race. I can’t wait to watch it later. Congratulations.”

“Thank you, Lewis, for everything. You’ve always been so kind to me, and it means a lot.”

At the other end of the parc ferme area, there were small stands for them to place their equipment, and a scale to be weighed right near the pit lane. There used to be cool-down rooms where they did this, but they got rid of them during the abridged COVID season to maintain team bubbles. She stepped on the scale after Lewis. Claire was in the garage outside of parc ferme, standing with Emilia. She went over to them, and they both pulled her into large hugs, telling her how proud they were of her, again.

She wasn’t sure where to go next, though. The podium was on the balcony above the FIA garage area they were in, which was where the medical car was parked. Emilia shoved Bee’s drink bottle into her hands while Bee was looking around, trying to take everything in.

“Here. Drink. It wouldn’t be a good look to pass out on the podium in front of your entire country, would it?” Bee shook her head, and drank greedily. She was only just now aware of how thirsty she was. The race she ran was intensely physical, and the fatigue was only now starting to set in.

She wasn’t sure what she should be doing next, though. She wasn’t sure where Lewis had disappeared to, but she heard some cheers outside that indicated he must have been outside.

She peeked around the door of the garage to see that he was doing an interview with Jenson Button, and just as she did, the F1 employee next to her said, “You’re next, Phoebe.”

She typically didn’t hang around after races to watch the podium ceremony these days, so she was happy for the direction - this was all new to her.

She walked over to take her place in front of the microphone, and Jenson asked her a few questions. The cheer she got when she stepped out of the garage was deafening, and a flurry of American flags unfurled in the crowd. She barely paid attention to whatever Jenson was asking her, but she got through it.

She walked back into the garage area, and stood next to Lewis for a few minutes, chatting companionably with him.

“Uh…” she said. “Where do we go now? Upstairs, or -”

Lewis laughed, and grabbed her by the elbow. “I forgot, this is new for you - come on, this way.”

He led her upstairs into a small waiting area that had an FIA official. It was the “backstage” behind the outdoor podium platform, which was set up on the balcony of one of the permanent buildings at the track. She was still gripping onto the flag she’d been handed. She draped it over her shoulders.

They were also joined by someone from Red Bull to accept the constructor’s trophy for the team. She was just glad it wasn’t Christian or Helmut, but that was apparently rare. The trophy presentation party came in - they were all various local officials that she didn’t know, and…

Shaquielle O’Neal? Bee never watched basketball, but knew the enormous man when she saw him.

“We’re just about ready to start, gentleme - I mean… sorry, ladies and gentlemen.” The FIA official said, looking directly at Bee. Bee waved it off. “It’s fine. I know, this is new for all of us.”

The presentation party all filed out. Bee laughed because Shaq had to duck out underneath the door frame. Certainly not a problem she’d ever have.

“Hey, good job.” Max Verstappen told her. “I heard you gave Checo a bit of a headache. That’s not easy to do.”

It was the first thing Max had ever said to her, that she could remember.

“Ah… thank you. I tried. Congratulations to you, as well.”

He nodded a quick nod at her. “Thank you.”

“And in third place…” she heard from around the temporary wall. “The first woman to ever stand on a Formula 1 podium as a driver… Phoebe Stallard, of the United States of America!”

She walked out from behind the barrier. If she thought the cheers were deafeningearlier, this was nothing. It was incredible. She could barely hear anything else, and it was coming from everywhere - from the audience below, from the people crowded onto the paddock club balconies on the left side of the stage area. She glanced at the LED screen behind her, which was playing a pre-filmed video loop of herself making various celebratory poses - she remembered when they filmed it during pre-season testing, and it felt silly then, because she didn’t think it would even be necessary. Well, she was wrong.

They introduced Lewis and Max next, and the Dutch and Austrian national anthems played. Shaquille O’Neal handed Max the first place trophy. She congratulated the Red Bull employee standing next to her on the constructor’s trophy. Lewis received his trophy, and finally, a man came over with the small statuette for her.

She raised it aloft, and it felt like she was lifting the weight of this season, the weight of her entire career - it was everything it represented. Her own expectations of herself, her desire to perform, her desire to show the people that supported her how much she appreciated it. It was all there now, in the form of a solid metallic statuette.

“And now… the champagne!”

She barely had time to react and put the trophy down and pick her victory bottle up. It didn’t matter anyway, Lewis and Max had done this dozens of times before and were far too quick on the draw. They had both set out to drench her, too. She thought she felt Lewis actually pouring the bottle down the back of her race suit. It was sticky and smelly, but it felt kind of good in the heat.

She did her best to return the spray, but it was too late. She showered the crowd below instead. From this vantage point, she could see the faces of everyone that was there for her. She could see her parents, she could see Emilia, she could see the Wolffs, she could see Claire. She smiled and waved to all of them as they smiled back up at her.

It was just like what she’d envisioned the night before, but it was even better, because it was real. It was her goal for the season, the line she’d been striving for, and she’d made it through it all - all of the terror, all of the beauty, both in equal measure.

Schönheit und Schrecken.

It was true that Rilke had said that no feeling was final, and this feeling wouldn’t be, either. She had a few races left for this season, and had already signed for another season. There would be terror. There would be triumph, so she hoped. There would be defeat. There would be anxiety and sadness.

But none of that was here, right now. All that was here, now, was a memory that she wanted to hold onto forever.

#series: wildest dreams #f1 fanfic #f1 oc fanfic #formula 1 fanfic #original character #female oc #female f1 driver #toto wolff #george russell #my fanfic #susie wolff

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burninblood · 1 year

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Random thoughts on Captain America: symbol of truth #12

mostly Bucky, of course.

Under the cut for spoilers

- ok, so this issue felt like a far better reading than whatever Cold War: Alpha tried to be.

- Sam stated clearly that he won’t stand Bucky’s bs and that he doesn’t care about his reasons and stuff once he crossed the line and dragged White Wolf in his game. I wonder if they will mend their relationship when this thing will be over... :/

- WHERE IS ALPINE!?! She just disappeared on us!

- At least we got that conversation between Bucky and Ian that felt so needed and was missing in CW:A. This makes so much more sense, imo. I loved how Ian asked to him “Where do you go to feel like you belong? To feel LOVED?” and Bucky can’t reply ‘couse, now he knows, he doesn’t have a place for that anymore. He lost everything trying to heal something that cannot be healed, at least not in that way. It was such an intense a sad moment of realization. Now Bucky knows he only has his purpose, just like before when he was the Soldier and his only duty was to comply. Difference is now he is the one in charge - or at least so he thinks... - of his own revolution.

- And, probalby the writer/s didn’t even thought about it, but moments later this dialogue happens, we see Natasha sneaking up on Bucky. The only home he ever knew, probably the only person that made him feel loved and that could understand him. There she is, with a knife at his troath, wanting answers. I’m sure the thing wasn’t planned or something, but the serendipty of the moment was intense! UGH!!!

- I just wished Nat would have called him JAMES and not BUCKY! Let’s hope she switch to James in the next issue! I mean, Kelly Thompson may have been wrong about a TONS of stuff, but she got the meaning of Bucky in Nat’s life right, at least.

- Can’t wait for Sentinel of Liberty #12! I bet we’re getting answers, and some good enough to convince Natasha to stay on Bucky’s side at least!

#captain america: symbol of truth #wednesday spoilers #symbol of truth spoilers #comics #bucky barnes #buckynat #cold war #omg so many thoughts!!!!

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tahanann · 2 years

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𝐋𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐋𝐞𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐬: 𝐅𝐫𝐨𝐦 𝐦𝐞 𝐭𝐨 𝐲𝐨𝐮

❝ To whoever finds these letters, I hope they reach you well ❞ ✎▫✧⭒....

Fandom: Hetalia Relationship: F/M Pairing: Alfred F. Jones (America) / (Female) Reader Chapter list: 00, 01, 02, 03, 04, 05, 06, 07, 08, 09, 10, 11, 12, 13, 14 Also posted on: AO3, Wattpad, Quotev

Chapter 13: " He's gone. " ✎▫✧⭒…

Everything in the world was still right now. The heat had recently swept through (Y/n)'s city, causing an overwhelming amount of warmth in the streets. A slight cold breeze had been a saving grace to the citizens having to deal with the current heatwave. Many people were in their homes or visiting malls to cool off. Lazing around was a popular activity for those who chose to stay in their homes.

(Y/n) was included in that bunch.

The young woman had been laying down on a picnic blanket underneath a tree in her backyard. The tree had been there ever since she's gotten this place and it was certainly a favorite of hers. The branches, with or without their leaves, gave her company whenever she had restless nights. It had been like a friend, who trudged through, giving the shadows that covered her from the moon's light.

Her eyes stare up at the tree, watching little critters run around. Squirrels had made this tree their home. The sun's rays peeked through gaps between leaves, illuminating some of (Y/n)'s features.

Despite the radiance she received from the sun, she was as dull as ever. The young woman still struggled with her mental health but she took advice from her parents and close friends. She had to cave in because the days had been getting rather difficult to trudge through. With a bit of therapy and support from everyone, things have been much more bearable.

Work was going smoother now and she was able to socialize as much as before. Felicia and Matthew had been giving her some food through their countless house visits over the past few weeks. Her separated parents found time to call her to check in after she told them about her struggles. They were caring, understanding, and kind.

They had promised to look after her years ago and they were fulfilling it.

It was safe to say that (Y/n) was surrounded by people that loved her, but the same can't be said for her love life. Her relationship with her main romantic interest was blurry right now. Her heart ached for a man who likely has a wife and grandchildren by now, but he was possibly not even alive anymore. Either way, the bridge she had built cannot even reach her destination. A restless fog had covered her sights for the end of the bridge.

It was impossible to cross.

This relationship had been the main source of her misery and (Y/n) had been aware of it for so long. She always thought she could make it work and she fails to see that it has been steering in the wrong direction. The young woman devoted her love to a man that, she believed, loves her back. No one else but Matthew and Felicia knew about this.

Thank god her parents didn't know. They'd tell her to fully detach herself from him, which seems like something she just can't do. She loved him too much and there was a lot to lose, seeing how her mental health hinges on the very thought of him.

Jones.

(Y/n) shook her head, dismissing her thoughts. She cannot let herself get lost thinking about him again. Closing her eyes, she let out a sigh, before she opened them once more. The sun was still there, the sky was still as blue as ever, and the tree was still green and brown. She was still laying on a picnic blanket with containers of food surrounding her.

Evidence of her picnic with Matthew earlier today.

After a while of sky-watching, the young woman sits up. She pushes her hands through her hair as she adjusts to her new position. She blinked once, twice, three times, before continuing to push herself up to a stand. She gathered the remnants of today's activity and headed into her cold home. The backyard lays dormant for the rest of the afternoon, as (Y/n) once again cooped up in her house.

The tv in the dark living room played noise in the background as she cooked dinner for one, with a little extra to be served as leftovers for tomorrow. The warm, orange light of the kitchen illuminates her form, but she remains cold always. The heat had left her home as soon as the sun disappeared. The temperature was deathly cold.

Her hands weren't shivering, but there was a chill pressed against her back, overseeing her chop vegetables and put them all in a pot. (Y/n) paid no mind to the presence, as she had been accustomed to it. The cold was always there, hugging her whenever possible. It lived here with her, almost like a partner, and she's grown to love it.

As a matter of fact, she's always been in love with it.

She only saw him once, but she always felt him. He was here, always stalking her during the night and disappearing for the morning. The moon energized him, (Y/n) believed), and she was fine with it. She supposed she could use the company.

(Y/n) hummed softly to herself as she finished cooking. It was done now and she could finally dine in the comfort of her living room. Wherever she went, the cold drifted alongside her. It sat beside her on the couch as she played something on the tv to keep her distracted from her thoughts. She ate her dinner, watched for a little while, and eventually went away to follow her usual nightly routine.

Afterward, she rested on her bed, her eyes staring at the abyss. The light of the moon seeped through the gaps between the leaves of the tree and the window, illuminating the area just a bit. It wasn't enough to keep the apparitions from appearing above her.

Beside her was her phone, playing a random song to fill up the silence. Her (e/c) eyes continue to gaze at the darkness. She tried finding the sparkle of broken glasses again, though he did not appear. Not after that other night, after her dad's visit, did he appear again. The specter she wanted to believe was Jones never showed itself to her again. The ghosts that she saw tonight were the cells in her eyes, floating around in their liquid casing.

Although she can't see him, she could feel him. The room is still as cold as ever, even if she had her blanket around her. There wasn't a hint of pressure beside her, but he was somewhere here. Watching her, protecting her, she'd liked to believe. The company didn't make her fall asleep, however. There was anxiety gnawing her insides.

There were only two letters left in the box, and the decline Jones has been going through has not been bright. There were a few light-hearted letters but (Y/n) felt as if that was an attempt to make himself feel better. The war wasn't going well, or at least that's what Jones believed. (Y/n) feared that the last two letters will be anything but good news.

She had every right to think about it that way.

Even if it was going to be good news, it'll end terribly for her. She'd lose him. The letters are all she had of the soldier.

The young woman continued to stare at the ceiling, letting her fears chew her insides. Eventually, through fatigue, she would fall into a deep sleep, only to wake early in the morning. The sun barely peeked through the horizon. The room was still cold, but only because of the morning chill that occupied her home. The presence that watched over her was gone. (Y/n) was truly alone in her room.

The (h/c)-haired lady stayed in her room for a few hours, unmoving from her position. She'd pondered and imagined scenarios in her head to make her feel better. It distracted her from the gloom that came with opening the second to last letter. When she had enough energy, she stood up and proceeded with her morning routine.

There, in the bathroom, she felt him. A cold spot was in the corner, and behind the shadows of her door, she saw a figure. The glint was barely visible, but she could make out his form. (Y/n) stared at the apparition, connecting eyes with him for a moment, before he would fade into the darkness of the shadow. From the mirror, she continued to maintain eye contact. Her body was unmoving, fearing if she did move, he would too.

Her heart ached.

"Come back, I want to see you," she'd say. This was the second time she'd see him. But the ghost wouldn't comply, for he had already expended energy to be slightly visible today. It may be that her eyes were just seeing things, but (Y/n) believed it was him. Her still body would eventually move to finish the rest of her routine. When she left, he'd appear within the darkness of her unlit bathroom. (Y/n) felt him move with her, just hovering around.

She stared at the box that held the letters. The second one was sitting on her lap, ready to be opened, but her focus was on the last one that sat at the bottom of the box. Biting her lip, she turned her attention to the one already out of the container. She swallowed her emotions and ripped open the envelope. She didn't want to scan the letter.

It was all going to be the same.

"Good morning, Jones," (Y/n)'s voice cracked at the mention of his name. "How are you feeling?"

She already knew the answer.

To my darling angel, The operation at the beach was a success, but unfortunately, angel, I'm heavily wounded. I don't think I have that much time to live and I'm okay with that, honestly. I've come to accept that my death is nearing. There's not that much for me to live for anyway. Alex...he's gone. He died the day we stormed the beach. He told me he was going to live but he immediately got shot the moment the ramp opened. It's only been a few days since I last saw him but his image is still burned into my memory. Him, along with the annoying thoughts continue to haunt me. I think death is the only way to get them out of there. I'm the only one left out of my friends anyway. Nobody at home will miss me too much. All my friends are dead because of me and I can't handle the guilt of it all. I can't. It's always been my fault. I've already told Ma and Pa about giving up. They tell me to keep living, but it's hard. I don't want to have them deal with me. I know by the time I come back home, I'm not going to have an easy life. I'm so fucked up, it'll be so hard for me to get accustomed to civilian life again. I'll have so many problems and I don't want Ma and Pa dealing with all of that. I'd rather just get rid of the problem and spare them the trouble. I would live for you but I think it'd be useless. You don't love me anymore. You don't even think about me anymore, so what's the point? You've already, probably, tossed the letter aside. But that's okay. I understand. I won't hold any grudges against you because I know it's hard to love me. If you ever live with me after the war, you'd have the same problems as Ma and Pa. Leaving would make everyone feel better. I'll still love you regardless, even in my dying breath, my angel, I'll still love you. I've always told myself that I'd be your protector, so maybe, if God is good and great, he'll let me. At night, I'll be there, to make sure you're safe and happy. Maybe I can watch over you. I'd forever be the moon to your stars, my darling. I've been in and out of consciousness, or so I've been told. I've been in this med-bay for a while now and I know I can't make it out of here alive. It's kind of funny. I've always wondered what it was like to have death at my doorstep. I thought he'd be cold and overbearing, but he's actually a pretty sweet guy and gives people warmth and comfort whenever they need it. I feel him everywhere in this warm medical bay. He's always been by my side, waiting for my time and I'm afraid that it's already nearing. He sits on my bed and watches over me like the nurses and doctors that tend to my wounds every day. He's here with me right now while I'm writing this letter. He's telling me that I should write down everything I want to say to you. He's telling me to snap out of it though, but how can I? The very thought of you gives me comfort. Maybe one day, I will, but for as long as I breathe, I'll forever think about you. My vision is fading, baby. I pray to God he'll let me write to you once more. Just one more day, angel, and maybe another. I want to see you again in my dreams. Maybe he'll let me since I can sleep peacefully now. Forever yours, Jones

(Y/n) looked at the letter in her hands, resonating with his acceptance. Her hands tightly gripped the paper as she stared at his writing. It was messy in some parts, but he tried to be neat. There were tear stains on the aged paper. The young woman had a feeling that, even if he said he accepted death, there was a part of him that didn't want to go. He was still in his youth. He wanted to live but what he went through made it impossible for him.

The (h/c)-haired woman doesn't know the extent of his injuries, but the way he put it, he was gravely wounded. Even if he could be honorably discharged, his wounds make living life impossible. (Y/n) hated having to think about him in this state, but that's all she had in her mind. The thought of him being confined to a bed all his life, drinking medicine to overcome the pain.

It hurt her.

Though, the thought of him dying too, hurt her just as much.

(Y/n) placed the letter against her lips, giving him her usual send-off. "I pray for your recovery, Jones," the young woman would say. She knew the inevitable was coming, but she wanted to believe that he was able to change his mind and fight for his life. The last letter in the box might be proof that he's moved on from his beloved and he went on to live a long, prosperous life.

Despair lingered around her as she tucked the piece of paper back into its envelope. She stared at the aged paper for a bit before hiding it in her drawer. She lingered at her bed for a moment, as she felt a presence surround her. She could only smile before she'd shed a tear and cry out the emotions in her chest.

She'd muster her feelings at some point and put them all in a bottle for future use. (Y/n) left her bed, with her phone in her hand, and went to the bathroom to freshen up once more. She put on a bit of makeup and redness-correcting eyedrops to mask the fact that she ended up crying this morning. A notification ping echoed in the bathroom.

Matthew must be here.

He organized another hang-out with her today because he said he was feeling "a bit lonely". (Y/n) knew it was just a way for him to check up on her. He was aware that they were coming up on the last few days of her obsession. He wanted to make sure that she can get out of this situation alive and well. With the way (Y/n)'s been acting, both of them knew that it'll end in an emotional spiral. Matthew wanted to be there for her when that happens.

The young woman stared at her appearance in the mirror and tugged the corners of her lips to fabricate a smile. It was good enough to wear. She sent her friend a text saying that she was going to get ready. She changed her clothes, fixed her hair, and made her way out with her belongings at hand. Matthew was standing outside her door, holding his fluffy, white dog with the leash.

"Hey. There you are," Williams grinned as he sent a wave to his friend. "Come on. If we don't leave soon, the beach is gonna be filled with a ton of people and we won't have a spot for us." Kuma barked in agreement with his owner, causing (Y/n) to genuinely smile.

"I've already got my things so we can start heading out now." The young woman went over to the Canadian's car and placed her few things in the trunk. Kuma had already hopped onto the backseat, already secured and ready for the trip. (Y/n) rode shotgun with Matthew in the driver's seat. She was given the aux cord so she played whatever music interested her at the moment.

The drive to the beach was long but comfortably quiet. Somewhere through the drive, (Y/n) managed to fall asleep. It may have been general fatigue that knocked her out, or maybe it was due to the crying session she had prior to the trip. Maybe it was simply a little bit of both.

Matthew often looked to his side to check on his friend. His focus was on the road, sure, but when they were stopped at a light, he would take his glances. A sigh left him when he saw signs of what happened to her before he appeared at her door steps. Despite her going to therapy, it was still taking a toll on her. Matthew would know. He's been there before, though it wasn't as heavy hitting as hers.

He's always pondered how she got here, but he never fully dwelled on the thought for too long. Many people have different ways of getting to that point. It would be hard for him to understand where she was. She was dealing with a tough situation and he was only going to be there to support her.

Not question her.

The day was still relatively young when they arrived at the beach. It took them a while to get a parking spot but they were here. Just the two of them, at the beach. Other people were near the shore, like families and couples that took their afternoon strolls. (Y/n) sat around with Kuma as Matthew set up most of their things, from the umbrella to the cooler that held the snacks he prepared earlier today.

Kuma panted, feeling the heat warm him up. With a dog that had such a thick coat, he was barely surviving in this heat. What kept him going was the fan that had been pointed at his face. (Y/n) sat by the hound's side, staring at the clear blue water surrounding the grey beach. The sounds of people and the water comforted (Y/n), but there was a thought that stayed in her mind.

Jones.

A few letters ago, he mentioned pretty beaches and how he's always wanted to visit one with his significant other. As she stared at the water that threatened to come by their towels, she thought of him and his wish. She wanted to fulfill that with him, but she wasn't his. She could be, in her mind, but in reality, she can't.

Her eyes envisioned him with her. The image she's created of him may not be true to life, but this was her Jones. His glasses were pristine and his smile was stuck on his face. He wore his green uniform, his hat, and sparkling medals on his chest. He was with her and he was well. Though the image of him disappeared when Matthew called out to her.

"You're blanking out," the blonde told her. He sat in front of her, with his back turned toward the waves. "Here. I got some snacks from the cooler. I dunno if you've already eaten yet, but it'd be nice to have something for the stomach, you know." Matthew had a sweet smile on his face as he handed his friend the food he packed for today. (Y/n) stared at it and nodded her head.

"Thank you, Mattie." She'd take a bite and feel slightly better. She'd turn her gaze away to look at the spot Jones had been. Matthew noticed her look and did the same, finding no one near them, though he could find a couple playing in the water. Her eyes were still blank and it looked like she was having a hard time focusing on the moment.

"I know there's something on your mind, (Y/n)," Matthew confronted her.

"I'm fine," she mumbled.

Matthew noticed the sign and decided to give up almost immediately. He'd wait for her to tell him. It's no use trying to pry open something that didn't want to be opened. He would sit next to his dog, Kuma, who was now laying down on the blankets. The fan that kept him cool was still whirring in front of him as he took his afternoon nap.

The Canadian stared out to sea, watching the water crash onto the shore. (Y/n) was doing the same, except her eyes saw something different. Her beloved soldier was there, playing in the water, smiling at her. His speck of green stood out in the sea of blue.

She was seeing things.

The duo shared the silence as they sat around. (Y/n) broke their peace by saying, "Did you know...the letters mentioned a beach." Matthew looked to his friend, his eyebrow arching, asking her to continue.

"Jones...he wanted to go to the beach with his girlfriend," (Y/n) continued, "he was stationed at a beach when he wrote that letter. All he ever thought about was her, you know. It pains me a lot to think about it. How he might not even get to see her at a beach." The young woman hugged her legs, but her (e/c)-colored eyes continued to stare at the sea.

"I opened another letter today. The second to last one." There was hesitance in her voice. "He's dying, Matthew. And I'm scared that the last letter- tomorrow's letter- might be his written will." The man she was talking to would continue to be silent so she could voice her thoughts. That's all she needed to do anyway, to make herself feel just a bit better.

"I don't want to lose him. You know this already. That last letter is going to be the death of me."

Matthew's periwinkle eyes stared at his friend as he listened to her. "You know you have to let him go eventually. You can't let some dead soldier hang onto you and break you like this, (Y/n)." He hated seeing her go through something as painful as this, especially since her pain is coming from a dead man. Matthew can't confront the dead.

(Y/n) dipped her head and let out a muffled, "I know." Her heart broke just a bit when Matthew spoke to her. She knows he's right, but she's stubborn. She'll let Jones break her anyway. Matthew reached out to her and placed a hand on her back. He could feel her breaths becoming shallow. She was going to lose it. The blonde did his best to comfort her, through small rubs and pats on her shoulders.

He'd help her with breathing exercises and they worked, for the most part. It's hard to get rid of her thoughts about Jones though. Matthew didn't know that the beach would have such an effect on her. He should have planned this outing better. A hum leaves the Canadian as he looked at his friend. The friends connected gazes and smiled at each other.

"I'm okay," (Y/n) would tell him. They knew both she wasn't, but she was going to try and be better. Looking back at the sea, she'd spot the blue again. The speck of green was still there and the faint apparition of Jones lingered in the water. He no longer had a pristine uniform. Dried blood coated his haunting form and his glasses were cracked. She could never see his face but she always looked out for his smile.

It wasn't there anymore.

(Y/n) stared at the figure in the water, before the wave crashed over him, making him disappear completely. The young woman's lips pursed together and forced a smile. She hasn't told anyone about the visions she's been seeing because she knew that people would think of her as insane. No one would believe her if she said she was being haunted by the object of her fascination.

They spent today's afternoon lazing around the shore under the umbrella and playing. They build sandcastles and buried each other under the sand to distract (Y/n) from her thoughts. At the end of it all, they walked Kuma down the shore, letting the heated pup wet his feet to cool down. Kuma ended up being drenched in seawater, which Matthew had to clean once they were home.

To say that the beach hangout was a success would be a lie, but (Y/n) enjoyed spending time with her friend, Matthew. The blonde walked her to her home and made sure to give her his usual send-off for the night. He gently wrapped his arms around her for an embrace and kept her close for a bit. (Y/n) relished the hug and laughed a little when she felt her friend squeeze her.

"Good night, Mattie," she would say.

"Good night, (Y/n)," he'd reply back. "I trust you. Please don't do anything bad."

"I won't."

The two friends drifted apart and sent each other their final waves for the night. (Y/n) disappeared inside her cold, dark home. She lingered in there for a moment with her eyes scanning her surroundings for a hint of green amongst the void. Nothing, per usual. She turned on the lights of her home and got ready for dinner and her nightly routine.

It was the same old. Nothing ever changed.

The young woman would rest her head on her pillow and stare at the void that wrapped around her. She'd feel pressure at the foot of the bed, finding a glimpse of green.

This is the third time- now.

He moved ever so slightly in the dark. His broken glasses gleamed underneath the moonlight. (Y/n) stared at him before she moved. Her hand met his bloodied fingers halfway and they lingered there.

He was cold, colder than her freezer, colder than the artic, but the smile he held was warm and comforting. The young woman couldn't tell if she was hallucinating things or if his apparition was truly there. He began to shift into a blur the more she stared at him.

"Stay-" (Y/n)'s meek voice called out. His form could only smile.

Then he was gone.

"No-" she'd whispered after. Her fingers curled into a fist as she hugged her legs. Tears swelled in her eyes as she cried. This night would leave her with no sleep, as her tears and thoughts kept her awake. There was no need to worry though. She doesn't have work for another day, anyway.

The sun would rob the moon's spotlight, filling the world with light. It would seep through the tree that hid (Y/n)'s window. The young woman was at her bed as still as a rock. Her eyes were unmoving, staring at the ceiling, and waiting for the day to pass.

Today was the last day, then after that, no more letters. A year has passed already, but it didn't feel like it.

She'd lose energy but she could never regain it. (Y/n) lacked the need to sleep as her mind was constantly busy. She'd move a limb, then another, until she's fully out of bed. She moved like the undead, trudging along her floor until she managed to limp to the bathroom. The darkness of it all gave her comfort. Her (e/c)-colored eyes looked for green but found nothing.

With a sigh, she turned on her lights and continued what she would usually do in the morning. (Y/n) corrected the bags under her eyes and practiced smiling. She's been doing this for a while now and there hasn't been significant progress. She could never feel truly happy.

Approaching the final day made her more miserable.

But unlike Jones, she has too much to live for. She needed to keep fighting whatever was bringing her down.

Once finished, she appeared in her bedroom again. (Y/n) looked at the spot she knew held the box. Her stare was intense and her body was as still as she could get. Anxiety filled her stomach immediately but she reached forward and opened it.

The last letter sat comfortably in its spot, waiting to be opened. (Y/n) didn't want to, but she knew she had to. Biting her lip, she plucked it from the bottom. There was something odd about this one. It was heavier than the others. It threw the woman off, but she pushed forward and she gently ripped the envelope.

The letter had been folded neatly inside and there were a few souvenirs too. The young woman knew that the man enjoyed sending home gifts, but these were different. She opened the paper and found dog tags and a black and white photo. (Y/n) looked at the photograph first.

There was a man posing for his photo. He appeared to have blonde hair and bright eyes with small, square glasses sitting atop his nose. His complexion was clear and pale but flushed cheeks. He had a gleaming smile that completed everything. He wore a dark uniform that held no badges or metals. The soldier was young, handsome, and didn't have a care in the world.

(Y/n) turned the photo around to find writing in pen that said, "Me! Send copies to Ma, Pa, and Mattie when able!" There was no mention of a feminine name anywhere, but that wasn't what she was hyper-fixated on right now. Her thoughts revolved around the idea that she can put a face to him now. Her heart jumped for joy, but at the same time, she brought herself down.

This was the last letter. She can't envision him after this is over. The fact made her emotional, which was enough to put some tears in her eyes. She placed his photo down and looked at the dog tags that accompanied the letter.

"Alfred F. Jones," she whispered. That was his name. Alongside it were numbers, his blood type, his religion, and another name, though this didn't seem like his girlfriend or anything. She was thinking it was his mother since it said "Mrs. F. Jones."

(Y/n) could be heard muttering his name over and over again. She still had the urge to call him Jones. Placing the memorabilia down, she turned her attention to the letter. It was pristine, but she finally noticed there were a few blood splotches on the edges. It's aged, dried blood, which was a cause of concern for her, but it didn't matter.

None of it matters anymore.

"Good morning, Alfred," she'd greet. It was much more personal now. "How are you doing, darling?" She'd try to make herself feel better, but the greeting caught her off guard. It sounded like he was distancing himself away. He didn't call her angel anymore.

To whoever finds these letters, I hope they reach you well. I don't have that much time left in me, but I'd like to write down my feelings and my thoughts. I'm not asking for big audience, but if there is one, and you're the one, please listen to me. That's all I ask. I've been given a lot of paper, so I have enough to put down everything. At least I think so anyway. They say I can always ask for more, but I doubt I can. Breathing is getting significantly harder for me, but I'm trying to live just so I can write. I'm trying to unpack so that in the next life, I'll be given a fresh start. I want to leave everything here in my old body. I don't necessarily believe in the afterlife or in reincarnation, but I just want to leave my baggage here. Experiencing the near end of my life has given me a lot to think about. I've always thought it's impossible to find clarity in death, but now I'm getting first-hand experience and I can't help but think it's funny. I used to think it was strange but now I'm going through it right now. I've found peace in knowing that I'm going to leave soon and that has given me a clear head. I hope this is the first letter you've read because the past ones, the ones that will be sent to my home with this one, are filled with nonsense from a grieving madman. I don't care if you send these letters to a museum, just don't send them to my parents. Send them specifically to my house. If they've seen that their son has gone utterly insane over the years would hurt so much. You can put this anywhere you want, actually, just as long as someone reads them. It could be you, it could be anyone willing to listen to me. I just want to be heard. I want to be seen. I want others to know how a man can suffer because of this war. I don't know when you'll be finding these. You could be reading this years after I die. Just- you know, if you do happen to see my letters, please treat them with care, or not. Throw them away, just- please read them or send them somewhere where people actually care. You can even send it to a museum or something. Leave the rest of these letters unopened so the curators can read them. They'll treat these with care, that is if they are still in good health and these letters are legible, but if you want, you can also take care of them. I don't know why, though, but if you think it's fine then be my guest. But if this is the last letter you've read, then I have a few words to tell you. Thank you, and I'm sorry you've had the misfortune of knowing me. I appreciate the fact that you've read everything because that's all I needed. I just needed someone to listen to me, even if it'll take days or years for someone to find these. You could be anyone, really, and I wouldn't care who you are because regardless, I appreciate you. I'm grateful for your patience and your sympathy because the Lord knows someone like me doesn't deserve it. The thought of someone finding these letters and reading them is enough to make me happy on my deathbed. Thank you so much for taking the time of your day to listen to me and my stupid, incoherent ramblings. Hey, you've been with me the entire journey. You made it this far. If I caused something to you while you're reading the past few letters please know I didn't mean to hurt you. I appreciate your sympathy, I genuinely do, but I am deeply sorry for the pain I may have caused. I've caused too much to other people and the last thing I want is for another person to be hurt because of me.

There were tear stains on the next few pages, but they were still legible. The paper seems fresh too, but it looks somewhat aged.

My darling angel, This is to you personally. I know you're reading this because you've come this far and haven't discarded me yet. I have one thing to confess and I hope that you can listen to me and forgive me. I've hurt you the most and I realize this might hurt you even more. Please, I ask for you to forgive me and listen to the words I have to say. Throughout my life, I didn't think angels ever existed. I'm not a religious man myself, but through the course of the war, I've started to believe God placed an angel to watch over me. You kept me happy and made me sane when things were rough. But the thing is- You never existed. You were never a physical person. In a way, you made me go mad. With some clarity, I realize that creating you was just my brain reaching for ways to feel better. Maybe my silent prayers were heard and God actually placed an angel to be with me from the start. Maybe I willed you into existence. But- You initially came in a form of a joke. I pretended to have a girlfriend because I felt left out. I thought it was funny to pretend to have someone to love. The rest of my friends had their own girlfriends to write to, but I was the only one who didn't have one. So I decided to play along and pretend that you existed, but then the more I wrote to you, a person who doesn't even exist, you became something to me. You never had a physical body because you stemmed from my imagination. I projected to you the qualities I had. I also gave you hobbies I wanted to see. I believed that you were listening to me because Lord knows that's all I needed while I was fighting this damn stupid war. I made myself fall in love with the idea of you, which is by far the stupidest but the best thing I've done in my life. While I was thinking of you, you felt so real to me. It came to the point where I thought you were a living, breathing person that could actually write back to me. Everyone else was getting letters and I didn't. Not getting anything from you made me frustrated, but I held on to you so much because you're all I had. It pains me that you never existed, because I would have loved you so much, wholeheartedly. I would have done everything for you because the idea of you made me so happy. You were my everything. I find my words weird and crazy the more I write them now, but this is how I genuinely feel. I fell in love with a figment of my imagination, but if by some miracle, you truly exist, I would have loved to see you. To hold you, to bring you out on dates, to kiss you. I want to do everything with you and I hope that in another life, I get to meet you. God has to be merciful enough to give me another chance. Maybe I'll win the life lottery in the next one, eh? I genuinely am sorry for the pain I've caused you. I've tried making it up to you. I promised you that I'd be the moon to your stars, that I'd be there to protect you. I've done all I can. I don't know if I could ever become a ghost, or whatever the hell exists out there, but if I could, I would be there at night, watching over you. I'd keep any dangers away from you because I'd hate to see you get hurt. I've already hurt you so much, I don't want anything else harming you. I know it's a lot to unpack. I know I've rambled. I know I've said a lot of shit, but it's all how I feel. This is the baggage I'll leave this body. I know I don't have that much time anymore so I'll cut it here. Breathing is getting hard for me but hey, I think I'll die peacefully. Thank you, my darling. I hope I get to see you in another life. I'll find my way to you again. I promise. I love you. Lovingly, and always forever yours, Alfred

Silence hung in (Y/n)'s bedroom as she stared at the letter in her hands. He was right. There is a lot to unpack, but the young woman doesn't have enough strength to handle it right now. Her vision is blurred with her tears, which dripped down to the paper. Her hands were shaking and soon enough her body would follow.

Heat seeped through her room, but the area in front of her was deathly cold. Rubbing tears from her eyes, she could see just a bit clearer. Before her was an apparition of Alfred. He wore a clean, green uniform with brand-new glasses. The rest of him was in black and white, mimicking his appearance in his photograph.

Alfred knelt in front of her with his hands cupping her own. He held his usual bright smile but tears also ran down his cheeks.

"I love you too, Alfred," she'd whisper. "I loved you so much."

They stared into each other's eyes. Slowly, he'd rise and press his lips against hers.

A final parting gift.

The young woman would take at this moment and she'd close her eyes. They lingered for a bit before he'd leave. There were no more traces of him in her vision. She stared at the clear floor. The perpetual cold temperature of her room disappeared completely and the heavyweight that constantly rested on her shoulders disappeared.

Her mind was given clarity, but her chest was heavy with grief. This was the general grief experienced after losing a loved one though. It wasn't like the one she's felt over the past few months. She didn't feel the world on her shoulders anymore.

But this was at the cost of Jones.

He no longer haunted her.

Perhaps the remnants of his soul have served their purpose and have gotten what they wanted.

(Y/n) smiled as she blankly stared at the spot Alfred knelt at. She'd eventually approach her door to try and get her day started. To make herself think about something else. To start the process of healing. Before she could leave she'd hear a whisper in her ear.

"I loved you too, (Y/n)."

#i forgor to post this #sorry yall #hws america x reader #hws x reader #hetalia x reader #hetalia #alfred f jones x reader #aph america x reader #x reader #fem reader #reader insert

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