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urimaginespimp · 3 years

Text

How You Get The Girl (This Love Final Part)

Bucky x Reader (elemental witch)

Set on TFATWS last episode

Note: Thank you to everyone that's tuned in, gave feedbacks, and liked/reblogged. I had to so much fun writing these! After this I’ll be working on oneshots completely unrelated to this story of several prompts.

We got a new Cap!

Previous Part: Untouchable

Marvel Masterlist

--------

“I’m serious, Shuri. I am over him.” you groaned as Shuri won’t wipe off the smug, disbelieving look on her face.

“Sure, Jan.” She replied getting up to continue on what’s she’s working on.

“Hey, I know that reference!”

“I’m just saying... Seven years of pinning over the guy – which five of it was when he was practically dead, by the way – and you’re telling me it took one confrontation for you to get over him.” She shrugged.

Some of the Dora Milaje were also in the lab, and you haven’t been vocal about it, but you didn’t miss the knowing looks they’ve been exchanging every time Bucky was brought in the conversation.

“Well, it would really be nice if you’re being supportive right now.” you sulked in your seat. Yeah, who were you kidding. Maybe you’re not completely, completely over him, but now you’re sorting to the fake it ‘til you make it method and so far, you’re doing well.

“Okay, fine. Want me to set you up with someone? My brother has some contacts around the world and I think with some buttering up he’d consider setting you up to bachelor royalties.” She wiggled her brows at you.

“May I suggest the Prince of Brunei? The internet says he’s looking for a wife.” One of the ladies snickered, making the others hum in approval.

“T’Challa knows him?” this piqued your interest. “He’s pretty hot.”

“Well make up your mind. It’ll take me a few business days of persuading my brother.” She raised her brows at you.

“It wouldn’t hurt to start dating. I’ll think about it first.” you muttered, missing how Shuri winked at the other ladies in the room. Ayo had told her in private about Bucky’s little confession to Zemo, and the princess has a few tricks up her sleeve to speed up the matchmaking process.

“I’m only staying for a few days more. It’s been a few weeks and Val’s been complaining from lack of sleep.” She’s been taking over your nightly escapades, and it’s starting to irritate her to be surrounded with so much booze but not being able to indulge.

Just then, Okoye enters the lab. “Check the news. There’s a live coverage of a hostage in New York. Sam and White Wolf are on it.”

--------

Bucky was looking over proudly as Sam was talking to the Senator.

Seeing Sam now walking over to him, he straightened up and cleared his throat. “Sorry, I uh was texting and all I heard was um a black guy in stars and stripes.”

They both chuckled, now walking side by side. “Nice job, Cap.”

“Thanks.”

--------

He’s done it. He told Yori the truth. Though now that might have been the end of their friendship, he knew the old man deserves the closure for his son.

Now back in his apartment, he took the notebook Steve once owned from his pocket, and opened it to the page where his list is. Looking over it, he saw that the only name left uncrossed is yours.

Just then, his phone pinged twice. One message was from Sam, and the other one from Shuri.

Sam’s read:

I wasn’t kidding when I told you

back on the boat that I’d get the

younger ones here to give you a

crash course on romance.

Check your email.

He rolled his eyes and opened the one from Shuri.

Y/N’s explained everything to us.

We saw you save those people,

White Wolf. Wakand is proud of you.

Brother says you’re welcome to

visit anytime. Take care!

p.s.

It’s good to know Y/N and you are

are on good terms. It finally allowed me

to set her up with one of the princes

mother’s been pestering me about. One less

off of mother’s list for me.

“Damn it, Shuri.” he groaned, reading the last part over and over again. He had to move fast. Heading over to his email, he opened the one from Sam.

The subject says:

21st century romance for reformed dummies.

There was an attached 60-second video. Clicking on it, he chuckled when Sam’s voice started booming behind the camera, where it showed two young girls and one boy, all around below 10 years of age.

“Okay, I gathered you here today because a cyborg friend of mine is need of help. I already filled you in the details necessary earlier, and all you have to do now is give him quick tips. Remember, talk slow.”

The boy on the middle spoke up. “Is she an avenger?”

“Not important, but yes. It’s the one with similar powers to an avatar.” Sam answered, followed by the two girls saying they know which one, and the boy to mutter ‘damn it I always had a crush on her...’

“Okay the first step would obviously be to say sorry.” the girl on the right said directly to the camera.

“Oh! Extra points if you do it standing like a ghost outside her door and it’s about to rain.” the other girl from the left perked up.

“I said he’s a cyborg, not a weatherman.” Sam commented, still behind the camera.

“Say you were afraid to tell her what you want.” the first girl spoke again.

“Six months is a long time to be afraid, man.” the boy in the middle spoke up this time.

“Try years.” Sam muttered.

“Then you say you want her for worse or for better!” The cheery girl exclaimed once again.

“You’ve been playing too many fake weddings, but yes, that could work.” Sam told her, making her beam, showing a missing tooth.

“Tell her you could wait forever and ever.” the boy added.

“I mean he’s already old enough to be your great grandpa but go on I guess.” Sam was snickering, causing the camera to slightly shake.

“Remind her of how it used to be. That is if he was good to her.” the more mature girl was pointing out. “Saying you’ll put her heart back together could also work.” she smiled, and the other one fake swooned on where she was standing.

“She’s right!” she exclaimed, while boy nods and says “that’s how it works.” at the same time.

Now turning the camera, Sam was now in frame.

“And that’s how you get the girl, Barnes. Straight from the local’s experts. Don’t fuck it up.”

And three voices scolded him for saying a bad word as the clip ends.

--------

It didn’t take long for him to take a flight straight to Norway where New Asgard was. This time without the aid of Zemo’s jet, he had to find the means to travel from the airport, while trying to calm his nerves.

As if the universe was on his side, a couple claiming to be heading back to Asgard allowed him to hitch a ride with them.

Now on the backseat, he tried to make small talk.

“So, uh, how are you guys settling in the planet?” he asked.

The lady on the passenger seat turned to face him with a smile. “It wasn’t easy, really. But the princess went out of her way to educate us about life here on Midgard. She’s so good at it, you’d forget she hasn’t even been living here a decade.”

He smiled. They claim you as their princess despite only being adopted by Thor. He recalls how you once rambled about being scared that they’d be indifferent towards you once Thor brings you to Asgard, one of the reasons you’ve been making up excuses to go with him.

“Why, would you look at that. We’re just in time before it starts raining.” The man driving commented.

Peeking through the window, sure enough, the sky was getting darker.

“You’ve got to be kidding me.” he muttered. He might just take the little girl’s advice after all.

After getting out of the couple’s car, he ran straight to where he remembers your home was, just in time when Val just got out of your house.

“Hi. I don’t think we’ve formally met. I’m Bucky.” He greeted extending his ahand to her which she took. A skeptical look on her face.

“Call me Val. I’m sorry what are you doing here?”

“I need to speak to Y/N, please.” He answered truthfully.

“Well it’s about night time so she’s getting dolled up.” She answered

“I know, I know, it’s for her date. But that’s why I’m here.”

Val raised a brow, confused about what date he was getting all bummed about when you were only getting ready to go back to looking out for people out and about at night. But then it dawned to her that maybe this was some of your friend’s doing.

“Y-yes... the date.” She decided to play along, holding back a smirk. Just then, rain started slowly pouring, along with thunder. “Well shit, I have to help some folks get their kids back inside their homes now. You’re free to knock on her door.” She excused herself.

His own clothes were starting to get drenched when he finally knocked on your door.

No answer. He knocked again, louder this time. Now footsteps were heard coming to the door, and the knob turned as you opened it.

“Damn it, Val, the door’s not even lo-” You stopped talking, surprised at the figure that greeted you.

“Bucky... are you insane? Don’t just stand there, come in it’s raining hard.” he urged him to get in and closed the door behind you.

Facing each other, he was taking you in. Val wasn’t lying when she said you were getting ready for your date. He can’t believe he was already getting jealous of a faceless punk.

“So uh... what brings you here?” You decided to break the ice, fidgeting where you stood, still barefoot as it looked like you were gonna have to stay at home if it was going to rain this hard all night.

“Don’t go on the date.” he pleaded, confusing you.

“What?”

“Please don’t go on the date.” He repeated, now walking towards you.

There is no date, but now you were wondering why he’s telling you not to.

“Why?”

“I love you.” he answered without missing a beat, now stepping closer to you. Instead of the reaction he was hoping for, you scoffed and took a step back.

“Don’t pull a Laurie on me.” you replied, a frown etched on your face. He was confused.

“A Laurie?”

“Yeah, I’ve seen enough adaptations of Little Women to know that you’re pulling a Laurie on me.” You spat as a matter of fact. “You’re being really mean, stop it.” you crossed your arms in front of your chest.

“What? I- I haven’t even thought of that reference!” he defends himself, cheeks reddening from embarrassment. “Amy was gonna get married, Y/N.”

“Oh then by all means, feel free to come back just after he proposes.”

“W- We’re getting sidetracked here, doll. I came here hoping there still an ounce of you that loves me. Please don’t tell me you’ve completely moved on from me.”

“What, like it’s hard?” you replied. It surprised you when his brows shot up from recognition of that line.

“Now you’re pulling an Elle Woods on me!” he pointed at you in an accusatory manner.

“Don’t point that finger at me, Barnes. How was I even supposed to know you’ve seen that movie?” you rolled your eyes, walking past him.

“I watched all the movies you told me about back in Wakanda.” he spoke up, making you stop in your tracks to face him again.

“Yeah, that’s right. I watched every movie, I listened to every song, read every book you recommended, and visited every internet site you once said I might like. I was always listening even when I made it seem like I wasn’t.”

You stared at him for a second looking for any indication that he was lying. Recovering from the mild shock, you pursed your lips. “I hope you know the Porn site was a joke. Sam did it to Steve once and I just thought it was hilarious.”

His mouth twitched. Walking over to you once more he stopped when he was only a step away, not breaking eye contact.

“I’m really sorry, Doll. I know it’s bold of me to even ask you, but please give me the chance to make it up to you. And I don’t care if it’s me that has to wait for you this time. Take all the time you need, just please don’t go on that date.”

“Bucky, there was never a date. I have no idea what date you were referring this entire time.” you confessed, making him bring his hands to his face and groan, muttering Damn it, Shuri.

Hearing Shuri’s name, you put two and two together. “Is this about Shuri trying to set me up with a prince?” he nodded as answer. “Well, I did tell her I was gonna think about it.”

He removed his hands away from his face. “Please say no.” He whispered. “I’d tell you what the kids told me what to say if I have to.”

“What kids?”

“Sam got a bunch of kids on video to teach me how to win you back. I’ve already stood under the rain outside your door just like what one of the girls suggested.” Judging from the grin on your face, he was now regretting even mentioning them.

“Well go on, then.” you urged. “Let me see how much you’ve learned.”

“The first time I saw you at the airport, I got so distracted looking at you just casually sitting on top if the ramps while we were preparing to fight. That wink you sent me that day is still engraved in my mind by the way. Then I was so taken back when you bluntly told me you’re attracted to me. I-”

“I don’t think the kids taught you to remind me of my attempts to flirt with you.” You cut him off, embarrassed at the memory. He chuckled at your expression.

“Okay, okay.” he took a deep breath.

“I think I started catching feelings for you the moment they woke me up from my cryosleep and you were there to be the first one to welcome me back. I didn’t think you were still gonna be there like you told me. But you were there, beaming at me like a ray of sunshine. All my years under HYDRA, every time I was woken up, I was only ever treated as an asset. But you welcomed me like I was a friend.” his eyes were starting to get glassy with tears, as he tried not to choke up.

“And then every time you were near, or even when I’d get a whiff of your perfume, I’d start feeling all warm inside and my entire body would be at ease, knowing you were an arm's reach from me. You were the last one I saw as I disintegrated from the blip, and you were the first one I sought out the moment we came back.” he was surprised when you reached forward to wipe away a tear he didn’t even realize had run down his cheek.

“I lied when I said I made a mistake kissing you. It was the first thing I wanted to do the moment I saw you again. But something inside me was always telling me that all I could ever be is someone grateful for your kindness. That it was impossible for the universe to even grant me someone like you after everything I’ve done." He let out a breath before continuing.

"But it was also you, Steve, Sam, and heck – even Zemo– that made me realize that I am worthy of a chance. And I’m sorry it had to take you telling me you were moving on, to have the courage to accept and take the chance that has been long offered to me by the world." He took your hand and gave the back of it a small kiss.

"I love you, Y/N.” Now it was him that had to wipe away your tears away. “Please don’t cry, doll. That wasn’t-”

“Just fucking kiss me already, James.” you laughed, in between sniffles.

He grinned down before you. “You’re my angel with a potty mouth, and I love you.” he whispered, leaning down.

“I love you too."

---------

You and Bucky were out with the Wilsons on their community's afternoon barbeque.

Sarah and you got along with ease, and she was telling you all about their old family business when Bucky hugged you from behind.

"Sorry to interrup, ladies, but I have to show you something Y/N." he said, kissing your cheek.

"Ew, man. I still can't believe your old ass has a girlfriend." Sam commented beside Sarah who was laughing

"You do know I'm older than him, right?" you chuckled.

"I know, but you don't look it." he replied, causing Bucky to flip him off.

Excusing yourself, both of you walked by the docs.

"What's up, old man?" you grinned at him.

"You know what, doll. Most couples would have endearing nicknames for each other."

"I'll call you something sweet once you tell me what that thing you call me when we're alone means."

"What, мое солнце?"

"Yeah, that one! Tell me or else I'll keep calling you ridiculous ones." you threatened, trying not to smile.

"Anyway, мое солнце, I just wanted to show you a text I got from Shuri."

I am yet to have any news that you

manned up and told Y/N you love her,

White Wolf. I was joking before, but now

I really might set her up on a date.

You both chuckled at Shuri's threat.

"I got this." you pulled your phone out of your pocket and dialled her number. You placed it on loud speaker once she picked up.

"Y/N! So nice of you to call."

"Hey, Shuri! Listen..." you feigned seriousness in your voice before releasing a deep breath. "I'm finally over Mr. Smokey eye. I think I'm ready to go on that date now." Bucky was playfully glaring at you for the nickname.

There was dead silence from the other side of the line for a second. "Oh! About that... uh turns out he already has a girlfriend. Planning to propose soon, I heard. Oops!"

"Well that's a bummer. How about the other bachelor royalties your family's friends with? I recently found an article with a list. I can send you one right now. Preferably ones that don't look much like blue-eyed grandpa." you grinned at him as he rolled his eyes. He knows what you were trying to get him to do.

"Uh... turns out my brother isn't that friendly after all." She let out an awkward laugh. "Hasn't Barnes contact you at all?" you could hear the frustration in her voice.

"Oh, that discount prophet, I haven-"

"It means my sun." He finally caved, rolling his eyes.

"What?" you asked him, immidiately forgetting that Shuri was still on.

"WHAT?" she screamed through the phone after a second.

"мое солнце means my sun." he grinned at you.

"Is that Barnes with you?! Hellooo?!!!"

"Talk to you later, princess." you turned off the call when she was about to protest. Facing him again, you stepped closer and put your arms around his shoulders, both of you sharing a grin.

"I love you, мое солнце."

"I love you too, minn stjarna."

"You gonna tell me what that means?"

"You wish."

fin.

--------

@eternalharry @iheartsebandchris @lizzarooni @the-ayo-lit @tanyaherondale @knowyourworth-sellyoursoul @eliwinchester-barnes @ebxny27 @just-a-littlebit-of-everything @fadingdreamersportsmaker @drama-queen-aa

302 notes · View notes

pollosky-in-blue · 3 years

Note

cym as fav lyrics

Aaaaaaa anon you must forgive me for being so late about it, I had one hell of a ride choosing song lyrics *pants as if I'd been running*

But eeee it will be a long post-

• @shecriesalonemp3

"Listen close and don't be stoned

I'll be here in the morning

'Cause I'm just floating

Your cigarette still burns

Your messed up world will thrill me

...

Alison, I'll drink your wine

And wear your clothes when we're both high

Alison, I said we're sinking

But she laughs and tells me it's just fine

I guess she's out there somewhere"

- Alison (Slowdive)

• @its-toasted

"Take everything you have in front of you

Make every movement, do it to the groove

You will not be happy for long if you're working

And what would be the point if it did ever surface?

...

Wake up to the rhythm of the city and I try to remember

Even my brothers have some trouble with

Each other since since those things fell apart

It's the way that things are

It's the way that it is

...

Even when you split me up, groovin' to the sound of the laughter

And if I listen to it closely I can

Still hear all the love in his heart

Every time I take a look at the skyline it makes me feel better

'Cause I just miss you down here where the other people try to move on"

- Blue Coupe (Twin Peaks)

• @deviocat

"Oh, you can't hear me 'cause I sing to a different age

And you should fear me 'cause I believe in a different age

But I live in the city that lives in a different age

Oh, I live in a city that lives in a different age

Where all the poets are writing memoirs

And I'm still singing songs

Oh, all the poets are writing memoirs

And I'm still singing songs"

- A Different Age (Current Joys)

• @lacexleaves

"I used to think of ferris wheel light sounds

The Friday hum of neons and blue

But now they're like circular cages

Of grated tin and rusted wind

Hey, now, who really cares?

Hey, won't somebody listen

Let me say what's been on my mind

Can I bring it out to you

I need someone to talk to

And no one else will spare me the time"

- Hey, Who Really Cares? (Linda Perhacs)

• @francesco-bernoulli-gang

"Angels smoking cigarettes on rooftops in fishnets in the morning with the

Moon still glowing

And here comes Jesus in an Astrovan rolling down the strip again

He's stoned while Jerry plays

Life ain't ever what it seems

These dreams are more than paper things

And it's alright mama you're afraid

I'll be poor along the way

I don't wanna see those tears again

You know, Jesus drives an Astrovan

Yes, he does (I say woo)"

- Astrovan (Mt. Joy)

• @pani-puri

"Pulling up, getting down

This whole place is crazy town

Music bumping and the lights gone down

Never felt at home in any place I found

Oh, I live in a cold, white wind

And I feel the chill coming over me again"

- Butterfly (Adrianne Lenker)

• @anjo-umbra

"Put your hands on the wheel

Let the golden age begin

Let the window down

Feel the moonlight on your skin

Let the desert wind

Cool your aching head

Let the weight of the world

Drift away instead

These day I barely get by

I don't even try

It's a treacherous road

With a desolated view

There's distant lights

But here they're far and few

And the sun don't shine

Even when its day

You gotta drive all night

Just to feel like you're ok"

- The Golden Age (Beck)

• @roseusnoctua

"Satellite, headlines read

Someone's secrets you've seen

Eyes and ears have been

Satellite dish in my yard

Tell me more, tell me more

Who's the king of your satellite castle?

Winter's cold spring erases

And the calm away by the storm is chasing

Everything good needs replacing

Look up, look down all around, hey satellite

Rest high above the clouds no restrictions

Television we bounce 'round the world

And while I spend these hours

Five senses reeling

I laugh about this weatherman's satellite eyes"

- Satellite (Dave Matthews Band)

• @sidereusimber

"And though I may be getting older

Know that I'm going with you

Know that I'm hanging on

to the things that you said

The things that you said

...

I've felt my soul

Rise up from my body when

I look into your blue eyes

...

If cosmic force

Is real at all

It's come between you and I"

- Some Things Cosmic (Angel Olsen)

#jajaja i loved doing it

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lvllns · 3 years

Text

pain is a well-intentioned weatherman

pairing: adam x f!detective (callahan esposito) rating: g, little angsty though words: ~1.9k notes: i have....never written adam before and i think it shows but whatever. this is finished and i’ll take it because i haven’t been able to finish anything in months yikes. ao3 link

—

She gives up trying to sleep after three hours of staring at the wall, eyes blank and thumb methodically rubbing over the scar on her wrist. The bounty is hanging over her head and it’s all too much. Pressure beats down on her shoulders and there is only so far she can bend before breaking.

Callahan crawls out of bed. Throws on whatever clothes her fingers find in the dark and slips from her room at the warehouse. She blinks as her eyes adjust to the lack of light in the hallway, fingers trailing along the wall as she makes for the kitchen. It’s two in the morning, late or early for her, not so much for the pack of vampires she shares her life with now. Light seeps under the doors of a few rooms as she passes. She hopes desperately that the kitchen will be empty when she reaches it.

No such luck, as the light bleeds out into the hallway when she steps through the door. Adam looks up from where he’s leaning against the counter, a mug of something cradled gently between his hands. She can’t quite make out the smell of it over whatever body wash he’s used, the peppermint sting of it overwhelming the space. He’s clearly been training and cleaned up.

“Detective?” He asks, eyebrows knitting together. “Is everything okay?”

There’s a sharp pinch of disappointment when he doesn’t say her name. She bats it away and shrugs. “Couldn’t sleep,” she murmurs.

Stepping further into the room, she grabs her own mug and starts fiddling with the coffee machine.

Adam snorts. She looks over her shoulder to find him watching her, one brow quirked and a small half-smile not quite concealed behind his cup.

“What?”

“Coffee is hardly going to help you get any sleep.” There’s a thread of something in his voice. Cal thinks it might be concern.

The machine clicks on with a soft whir and she hops up on the counter to wait. “I’m not going to get back to sleep so I may as well start my day now.”

“That’s…” Adam trails off. A crease forms right over his nose as he frowns. Callahan places her hands in her lap, tangling her fingers together and squeezing until her knuckles bleed white. “Unwise.”

“It is what it is,” she says, eyes darting from his pinched-up face to the floor. “Nightmares and anxiety don’t exactly make for a relaxing time.” He jerks his head up to look at her, eyes narrowing. She ignores him. Plucks at a thread on the shirt she’s wearing and ah, it’s an old one of Tina’s she never gave back. “Why are you awake?” Adam stares at her. She sighs. “Aside from the obvious not needing much sleep.”

“I...I was training,” he says hesitantly, words escaping from his mouth as though he wishes he could bury them back down.

There’s a loud beep as the coffee finishes and Callahan reaches for the pot, almost missing the wave of relief that washes over Adam. She lifts her mug to her face. Takes a deep breath and knocks back a few mouthfuls before slipping from the counter to rummage through the fridge.

“Did you not just burn your mouth?”

She twists around to look at him and he looks horrified. Eyes wide, mouth slightly ajar. A snort leaves her before she can stop it. With a shake of her head, she says, “Nothing I can’t handle.” Just to prove a point, she takes another large drink. Adam blinks. Mumbles something under his breath in French and drops it. With a triumphant sound, she holds up a container of blackberries and grins. “I’ll get out of your hair now.”

“Cal—Detective, you do not need to leave.” The words rush from him. A dam bursting, water running and flooding the plains beneath. “I’m almost done, I should—”

Callahan bumps the door shut with her hip. “We can both share the kitchen Adam,” she says, cautious and delicate.

“I do not wish to overstep.”

“You could never.”

And, okay, maybe that’s a little more honest than she should be considering whatever they are to each other. He winces, physically winces, shoulders jerking and fingers tightening around his mug. She hops back up on the counter, space between them. Enough, she hopes, for him to not feel cornered and run.

Silence settles then and it’s...pleasant. Not comfortable, not entirely with the weird undercurrent of tension that seems to trail the both of them like a shadow wherever they go.

She drinks her coffee.

He sips his tea.

Neither of them speak until:

“How have you been fairing?” Adam’s top lip catches on the rim of his mug for a moment before he pulls back. Swipes his thumb across his mouth. Callahan forces herself not to follow the movement by staring down at her coffee. “With the kidnapping and the bounty...it cannot be easy.”

She laughs, mirthless and exhausted. “It’s...it’s a lot honestly.” Callahan sets her cup down and presses her palms to her eyes. “I’m still trying to process Murphy, you know?” A shake of her head. Hands falling to her lap once more as her thumb brushes over the scar on her wrist. Adam’s eyes drop to the movement, following the line of her arm back up to her face. “The bounty, fuck, I try not to think about it.”

“Do...do you wish to talk about what happened with Murphy?”

Bless his heart, he’s trying, she thinks. He’s settled against the counter, fingers running around the rim of his empty cup. Their friendship will always be more important to her than anything else but sometimes she wishes...and she wants in a way that threatens to consume them both in a blaze. And she can’t lie, it stings when he drapes his arm on the bench behind her only to turn around and put so much distance between the two of them that she hardly sees him for days on end except for team meetings.

“There really isn’t much to talk about,” she says. Callahan shakes her head and sighs. She fiddles with the container of blackberries for a moment before mumbling, “You were there after all.”

A full-body flinch and it would be comical, watching this tank of a man attempt to fold in on himself, except he clearly blames himself for whatever catastrophic part he believes he played in her maiming.

The container rocks on the counter as she blinks. “Shit, I didn’t mean to—”

He lifts a hand to stop her. “No, I...I was there, you are right.” He exhales through his nose. “I should have been quicker.”

“Adam don’t—”

“Cal,” he whispers, eyes lifting from his hands to her face. He is pleading with her and she is weak to him. “I should have protected you better.” Adam scoffs and he sounds so much like Mason, she has to blink a few times to make sure Adam is still the one beside her. “It will not happen again.” He looks straight ahead at the empty doorway. “I will not let you go so easily in the future.”

Her head is spinning. Fingers trembling where they’re now tangled together. His voice is barely a whisper in the dark but the conviction…

She shivers. Twists her head to look at him and there’s a bright burst of anger beneath her ribs. It flares, burning wild, and engulfs her lungs. “What are you doing?” The words rasp over her tongue, sharper than intended and he snaps his gaze to her. “Adam, what...I…” Frustration drips from her fingertips only to be replaced by exhaustion. “I can’t keep doing this.” She laughs. Tips her head back until it hits the cabinet with a dull thump.

“Can’t keep doing what?” He’s gone tense, shoulders tight beneath the shirt he’s wearing.

Callahan levels him with a blank stare. “Adam.” He says nothing. She groans. “I value our friendship above everything else, but I...sometimes I think…” Well, there’s nothing for it, is there? She focuses her attention back on the blackberries and says, “I care about you, Adam, a whole fucking lot, and sometimes I think you care about me too but then you go and make yourself so scarce we don’t see each other for days at a time.”

Adam swallows hard. “What would you have of me?”

“Your honesty.”

He scrubs his hands over his face. Brushes them over his hair and clasps them on the back of his neck. “It is late and—”

“Right.”

“Callahan.” She pauses at the use of her name, searching his face for...for something. What, she doesn’t know, but something, anything would be a start. “This is...a conversation better had when we are both well-rested.” The way he speaks, low and calming, his usual clipped accent softening, it soothes her nerves and she feels tension melt from her shoulders.

“You’re right,” she whispers, eyes darting back to the berries sitting on the counter. “I just...you know I’m not asking for you to, like, I don’t know, do something outrageous, right?”

“Calla—”

“I just want you to be honest, Adam.” Callahan lifts her gaze and meets his stare head-on. His knuckles are white where they curl around his mug and she can see the start of a hairline fracture in the ceramic. “With me, but with yourself most of all.” One fluid motion has her off the counter, blackberries in-hand, and she moves to set them back in the fridge, her appetite gone now. “Just...be honest.”

“That is easier said than done,” Adam rasps out. She watches the crack in the mug grow. “There...are things you do not know or understand…”

Arms crossed over her chest, she leans against the refrigerator. “And I’m willing to wait, Adam.” He flinches for the third time tonight, shoulders curling forward. She smothers the urge to reach out, to comfort him. Piles dirt on the fire and lets it flicker out. “I just...I can’t handle the way you run from me. Work out whatever you need to, but please don’t hide from me.” Callahan wipes at her face. “I like your company, Adam.”

He closes his eyes, head bowing. Lines travel up toward the rim of his mug, racing toward the top. “I apologize,” he says, voice low. “I...I will try.”

The mug cracks with an audible snap. Adam jerks, hands catching sharp pieces of ceramic between his palms. Callahan jumps, eyes going wide. She moves closer, hand outstretched, but he waves dismissively.

“Careless,” he says with a shake of his head. She’s not entirely sure he’s talking about the mug. Shards clink together in his palms, the gentle sound filling the otherwise silent space.

“Did you cut yourself?”

“Mhm.” Adam shifts all the pieces into one hand. Raises the other so she can see the cut across his fingers. “It will heal shortly.”

She blinks. “Ah. Right. Forgot.” He quirks a brow, and she watches him push down the smile that pulls at the corner of his lips. “I’ll just get out of your hair and let you clean this up.”

He laughs, soft and quiet. “At least it was empty.”

“It’s the little things,” she says with a lopsided smile.

Adam looks up at her. Grins, wide enough to reveal his dimples before he turns to set the broken pieces in the sink. It’s so easy to slip away from the tension. To fall back into the easy camaraderie they have together. Callahan lets it happen. Doesn’t fight it, doesn’t try to press for more. He’s right anyway, this is better talked about when she’s actually had some sleep.

She sighs and leaves the kitchen, lifting her hand in goodbye when he notices her retreating and turns around.

Whatever they have, it’s enough for now.

#the wayhaven chronicles #writing tag #long post #c: callahan esposito #adam x cal #i have zero idea what this is but it's finished so that's something #hopefully this......breaks me out of whatever weird funk i've been in :\#also guess the two lines in here that are the reason callahan even exists lmao #it ends a little abruptly but it's fine this is fine #caiti.txt

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avengersnthings · 4 years

Text

See (Steve Rogers x Reader)

Request: Just heard requests are open. I was hoping if I could get a fanfiction of Steve Rogers x reader where she is also an avenger and somehow develops feelings for him. One day she decides to confess and when she does Steve is lost for words, thinking he doesn't like her she runs into her room and stays there for days and grows distant towards Steve. In the end Steve confesses to her and ends up with something steamy 🙃 and a sarcastic comment from Tony lol

Requested By: @evelynrosestuff

Word Count: 3,367

Warnings: Angst, like one swear word

A/N: My requests are open, so send them in! I hope you all enjoy this.

Tag List: @mp938368 @generalantiope @thatgirlsar @jumperswellies @quicksoldier @kitkatgaming @marvelfandom-stuff @itsmaytimetosaygoodbye @agentraven007 @marvelgoateecollection @thaniya82 @thats-so-rhyan @hymnofthevalkyrie @themcuhasruinedme @themanwiththemetalarm @mslaufeyson @thisismysecrethappyplace @jackiehollanderr @nayr9e @shaydeevee-blog @mxria-hill @littlelonewolfgirl

MASTERLIST

The mission had gone smoothly; well, as smoothly as missions for the Avengers go. The team made it out with minimal injuries, only a couple of bruises and cuts here and there. Overall, a very successful mission. Before you knew it, the quinjet was ascending through the clouds leaving the French Alps behind.

“Good job, everyone,” Steve commended the team while taking his helmet off, leaving pieces of blonde hair sticking up in tufts. “That should be the last of the HYDRA bases in France.”

“That we know of,” Clint grumbled, putting up his legs across the adjacent seat next to him.

“If they would just stop appearing out of the woodwork like cockroaches then maybe we could get some much needed vacation time,” Natasha chuckled, pushing Clint’s legs back to the ground and taking their spot. Clint rolled his eyes before returning his legs back to their spot, this time on top of her thighs.

You nodded in agreement as you pushed a button so that the pilot’s seat swiveled to face the team. “Well, y’know what they say: ‘Cut off one head, two more shall take its place.’” You shivered in disgust at the thought of more enemies to face. Just like Nat, you all needed a break.

“If only we had some way to tell where they were,” Tony gave you a pointed look.

You threw up your hands in defense. “Hey, you know my visions don’t work like that. I can only see when they decide to make a move. I’m not some radar that just pings every time we get near a base.”

“Would sure be nice if you did, though,” Tony smirked before shutting his eyes to doze off. You could feel your face heat up in embarrassment. Sure, you weren’t the strongest or most intelligent member of the Avengers, but your visions did help, right?

“Don’t listen to him, Doll,” Steve comforted while taking the co-pilot’s seat next to you. He placed one of his large hands over your small one and gave you a smile that always made you weak in the knees. Oh, god, here we go again. You could feel your cheeks begin to flush once more as Steve looked into your eyes. It was so difficult to bury your feelings for the Captain when he looked at you like this. “Your visions help us out a lot more than we could ever explain.”

Your eyes dropped down to his hand when he lightly squeezed yours. “Er, thanks. I just wish I could be of more help to the team.”

“You are a tremendous help, Doll,” Steve reassured. “You have saved all of our asses more than once because of your visions. I mean, Clint would be in pieces right now if you hadn’t seen that HYDRA agent going to detonate the bomb next to the wall that he was near.”

“True that,” Clint interjected as he rearranged the arrows in his quiver.

“You should give yourself more credit,” Steve whispered to you. “I know I do.”

There. Right there. It’s things like that that send shivers down your spine and make you want to melt into a puddle. Did he not realize how charming he was, all the goddamn time?

You couldn’t help the small smile that graced your lips at his kind words. “Thanks, Steve. It means a lot to me.”

Before Steve could say another word, Scott started whining from the back of the quinjet. “Ugh, c’mon. Stupid phone. I just want to check the weather!”

“(Y/N) should know,” Tony smirked at you. “O Great and Powerful (Y/N), will it be rain or shine when we arrive back home? Or do your visions not cover meteorology?”

You loved Tony, you really did, but sometimes his snide comments about your visions really got under your skin. You could feel your eyes shift focus on the near future to check the weather before you could help yourself. You didn’t want to answer Tony’s question. You weren’t a weatherman.

“Looks like a 100% chance of me kicking your ass when we get home, Bucket-Head,” You snapped before pressing the button once more for your chair to swivel back to the controls. Loud guffaws sounded behind you, and you couldn’t help the small smirk that replaced your smile. Switching auto-pilot off, you took control of the quinjet to fly the team home.

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

Thankfully, everything was quiet on the horizon of the next couple of weeks for the team. While you were constantly watching for decisions to be made by HYDRA that would send the team into action, everything returned to a sort-of normalcy around the Avenger’s compound. Most of the team got their much-needed vacation and either spent their days lounging on the couch or at some special resort that Tony had managed to book at the last minute. While most went, a few members of the team stayed behind to enjoy the peace and quiet that the compound held. The empty base only housed you, Wanda, Steve, and Bucky whilst the rest were whisked away to the resort. You found yourself relaxing on Wanda’s bed, flipping through some magazine while she cleaned her room and ranted to you. Well, more like about you.

“I just don’t get it, (Y/N). Why don’t you just tell him about your feelings?”

It was the same conversation that she kept bringing up. Wanda was always saying that Steve had liked you, maybe even loved you. She just didn’t understand why you didn’t tell him.

“Well, for one, he doesn’t like me like that. Second, I’m not the type of girl who just professes their love to people. I guess I’m old fashioned, that way.”

“But can’t you just see if it will work out?” She groaned and flopped down on the bed next to you.

Sighing, you put down your magazine next to you. “You know it doesn’t work like that. I can only see when somebody decides something.”

“Well, then decide,” Wanda shrugged.

You cocked an eyebrow up at her. “What?”

She shifted onto her elbow so she could look down at you. “Decide to tell Steve about your feelings. That way, you should know the outcome!”

Sighing, you pulled yourself up into a sitting position. “That won’t work. Even if I did decide to tell Steve how I feel- which I’m not saying I will- I still wouldn’t know the outcome. The vision would be too blurry, too out of focus. Only half of the image would be clear, my half. I still wouldn’t be able to see what Steve would say because he would have to make the decision at that moment.”

“Why don’t you just decide and try to see what will happen? If your vision starts becoming clearer, then you know what the outcome will be, right?”

“I don’t know,” You brought your bottom lip between your teeth, biting gently on it. “I would be practically going in blind. It would be really uncomfortable.” You had always relied on your visions. You couldn’t remember a time you didn’t have the ability to look towards the future. To know what paths folded out before you, which actions would lead to certain consequences. The idea of taking this part away from you felt alien and unnatural.

“Well, that’s how the rest of us feel,” Wanda chuckled.

“Really?” The idea of you going in blind just kept getting worse.

“Yeah, none of us know what will happen, but that’s just life, I guess.”

“I don’t know, Wanda...” You worried.

“Okay, how about this,” Wanda sat up. “How about you decide to tell him. I will talk to Bucky about trying to get Steve to admit that he likes you to himself. That way, you can still try to look for the future and whichever feels like the best path, you take it. How does that sound?”

You never tried to out-think the future like this before. It may just work! “Okay, I’ll try it.”

“Great! Now, let’s strategize over some takeout. Chinese or Thai?” She asked, picking up her phone.

Looking towards the two paths that stretched out before you, you made the decision. ��Thai. I have a feeling that Chinese would lead to us not feeling so great in the morning.”

“Your wish is my command, O Great and All-Seeing (Y/N),” joked Wanda as she placed the order.

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

This whole ‘going in blind’ thing sucked. It didn’t help that with every turn of the corner, you seemed to be bumping into Steve.

The man was everywhere. Every time you went to the kitchen, he was there. Gym? Yep, there was Steve punching the boxing bag, sweat glistening on his muscles. Living room? Sure enough, Steve was lounging on the couch watching some old-timey movie and opening his arms inviting you in. You couldn’t get rid of the man even if you tried.

Not only that, but every time you were around him you were peering into the future to see if the timing was right. The picture never became clearer, never came into focus. Between watching for the right moment to confess your feelings to Steve and watching for HYDRA to make their next move, you had a serious headache.

The pounding in your head wouldn’t stop, not even for the sweet release of sleep. Deciding that a calming cup of jasmine tea might do the trick, you made your way towards the kitchen. Setting the kettle on the stove, you leaned back on the counter and began to rub circles on your temples. Try as you may, the pounding would not abate. You closed your eyes to the present, but that didn’t help either.

“Headache?”

Oh no. You recognized that husky voice anywhere. Your heart leaped into overdrive and your eyes snapped open to reveal Steve in sweatpants and a tight blue shirt. You loved the color blue on him.

“Yeah,” You replied, snapping out of you staring at him. “Thought I’d make some tea to see if it will help.”

“I’ve got it, you sit down,” Steve motioned for you to sit just as the kettle began whistling. Grabbing a mug from the cabinet, he poured the hot liquid. “Jasmine?”

“Yes, and-”

“Two scoops of sugar,” Steve finished your sentence, placing the mug of hot tea in front of you. God, he was perfect. He even knew how you liked your tea. “Want to talk about it?”

Sipping on the tea, you felt the calming sensation pour through your body. “It’s nothing, really.”

“HYDRA?” Steve’s voice grew heavy with worry.

“No, not them. Just something that Wanda asked me to look out for,” You tried to avoid the topic of what exactly she asked you to watch for.

“Well, if you want to talk about it, I’m here,” Steve gave you a warm smile. And just like that, the image of the future seemed to become a little bit clearer. The vision sharpened around the blurry form of Steve, bringing him into focus. Your heart sped up at this realization. It was now or never.

“Actually, there is something I want to talk to you about,” You set your mug down on the counter.

“Anything,” Steve turned his body to give you his full attention now. His blue eyes pierced your very being with the intensity of his focus.

“Okay, well, umm...” Your heartbeat was pounding in your ears. With every passing beat of your heart, the image became clearer. You could begin to make out Steve’s expression in the future. Before you could change your mind, you blurted out the words. “Steve, I love you.”

Silence. That’s what you were met with, silence echoing in the air. Steve made no movement, only the slight rise and fall of his chest to let you know that he was still breathing. Your heart seemed to plummet into your stomach as the path that you just chose sharpened in your mind.

“Er, I gotta go,” You stumbled back from the chair at the counter. The hot tears welling behind your eyes were threatening to spill over. “I can see that my mom is about to call me, so I- yeah.”

You bolted from the room, leaving your tea behind. Trying to hold back the tears, you made your way through the labyrinth that was the compound to the safety of your room. The image of Steve just standing there, no expression on his face accentuated the tears that began to prick your eyes. You whipped your door open just as fast as you slammed it shut before crumpling into a heap on the ground. The tears spilled over your cheeks as sobs racked though your chest. Going in blind was a stupid idea. Telling Steve that you loved him was even worse.

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

It had been days since you confessed your feelings to the Captain. You rarely left your room, only sneaking out for food when you deemed that the coast was clear. The only time you used your sight was to determine which paths towards the kitchen would lead you to bumping into Steve. Whichever ones echoed the most misery you avoided.

Wanda had tried to talk to you. Every time she knocked on your door, you either yelled at her to go away or just flat-out ignored her. Soon enough she resorted to calling and texting you. You weren’t sure when you shut off your phone and stuffed it under your mattress so it was out of sight. You knew that you were being mean and unfair to her. She just wanted to help, afterall. But you just wanted to lay in your bed in misery for a little while longer.

Wanting a change in scenery, you decided to turn the TV on and flip through the channels. Nothing caught your attention, and soon enough you turned it back off when you recognized the black and white movie that was playing on one of the channels. It was the same one you cuddled up to Steve under the blanket and watched with him in the living room.

Shoving the remote under your mattress to join your phone, you could feel the tears threaten to spill over for the hundredth time. Before you could give in to them, a knock sounded at your door.

“Go away, Wanda,” You grumbled, putting a pillow over your head to block out her knocking. “I told you, I don’t want to talk.”

“It’s not Wanda.”

There it was, that husky voice that still made you want to melt into a puddle even after all of the hurt you’ve been through.

“Will you please open the door, (Y/N)? I just want to talk,” Steve’s voice reverberated through the wood.

“I-I’m not sure that’s such a good idea,” You mumbled.

“Please,” You heard the soft thud of Steve resting his forehead on the door. “I miss you.”

He missed you? You were almost positive that he would never want to talk to you again. Your confession destroyed whatever friendship you had.

“Just open the door,” Steve said. “You don’t have to say anything, just listen. I miss my best friend.”

Best friend? Before you could focus on the future before you, you opened your door to reveal a very sad-looking Steve.

Immediately, Steve’s eyes softened at the sight of you. Hair up in a messy bun and day-old sweats on, he was probably revolted at what he saw. “Oh, Doll-”

He moved to hug you, but you placed your hands on his firm chest to stop him from enveloping you in his arms. “Don’t. It will hurt too much.”

His face fell and was replaced with a look of hurt. “I am so sorry.”

Sorry? What was he sorry for? Not loving you? You couldn’t blame him for that, you supposed. “For what?”

“For ruining everything,” Steve’s hand found one of yours and gripped it tightly in his own.

“You didn’t ruin anything,” You tried to pull your hand from his strong grasp, but he wasn’t letting go. “I did. I should have never told you. Then we could at least still be friends.”

“No, I ruined it. Now will you please stop trying to pull your hand away from me and just listen for a second?” Steve demanded, catching your attention. You would listen to him, no matter how painful his words would be. You needed a clean break from Steve Rogers, so that you could maybe heal one day. “I love you.”

What? The confusion you felt must have read clearly on your face because Steve lept into an explanation. “I love you so much, and I ruined everything because I just stood there like an idiot and didn’t say anything. I was so shell-shocked that you loved me too that I didn’t know what to say until I saw you running back to your room. Then you kept avoiding me these past couple of days and I knew I ruined everything. I am so sorry, (Y/N), for letting you think that I didn’t love you for the past couple of days. But, Doll, I’m here to tell you that that can’t be farther from the truth.”

You didn’t see that coming. Steve, your Steve, loved you?

“Say something, Doll,” Steve shifted his weight onto his other leg. “Am I too late? Do you not love me anymore?”

That snapped you out of it. “Not love you anymore? I don’t think I could do that even if I tried.”

“Really?” Steve’s eyes grew wide with hope. “You still love me, even after I almost ruined everything?” He wrapped his hands around your waist, drawing you closer to his chest.

“Yes,” You could feel your face warming with the heat of excitement.

“I need to hear you say it, Doll,” Steve whispered to you, nudging his nose with yours as he leaned in.

“I love you, Steve.”

“I love you, (Y/N),” He breathed out before crashing his lips onto yours. It was better than you could ever expect, the feeling of his lips enveloping yours. The heat that spread through your body is what surprised you the most. The heat of his lips pressed against yours. The heat of his hands on your lower back, pulling you into his warm chest as he tightly gripped the loose fabric of your shirt. The heat that spread from your head all the way down to your toes, warming you up in the presence of Steve. As his lips moved from your lips down to your neck, the vision that formed in your mind left you almost as breathless as Steve’s kiss did.

The future that spanned before you was bright and full of color. You watched yourself being together with Steve, your two futures melding into one. You saw the many nights spent together, holding each other and whispering sweet nothings in the other’s ears. You saw your fingers gripping tightly onto his blonde locks, tugging in pleasure as his mouth worked his way down your body. You saw the two of you fighting back to back, protecting each other in what looked like to be a harrowing battle. You saw yourself in white, walking towards Steve down a long aisle. Images of your intertwined futures flashed before your eyes. Your hands with wedding bands interlocked. A tangle of legs in messy sheets as the morning sun shined through a window. A growing belly with Steve’s large hands placed protectively around the bump. Steve teaching your child how to ride a bike as the child shrieked “Mommy, look! I’m doing it!” The two of you growing old together, gray hair replacing his blonde locks. It was beautiful.

“I love you so much, (Y/N),” Steve murmured against your skin, holding you tighter against him. “I just don’t get how you couldn’t see that.”

Pulling away slightly, you looked up into his steady blue eyes that held so much love for you. Cupping his cheek in your hand, you thought back to the vision of you two together. “I do now,” You smiled, pulling him in for another kiss that was sure to be followed by many, many more.

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thechampagnecircus · 3 years

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The weather can influence our moods. A sunny day will reflect it’s warmth and promise onto a troubled mind, while insecurities or worry can be personified by grey skies. This is why we get seasonal depression or start feeling anxious when the cold temperatures and brown snow of winter linger around too long. A general malaise can sweep over us if the presence of drab, aggressive or cheerless conditions persist. Everyone everywhere always says things like “If you don’t like the weather, wait 15 minutes” which is usually accompanied by a bellowing chuckle and elbow jab. As eye-rolly as this comment is after you hear it a million times, there is truth to it. I grew up hearing that in New England and Calgary is no different. Snow in May, not weird at all. It’s actually a rule of thumb; never go camping over May long weekend, its notoriously known for it’s rubbish weather.

My husband has never really understood this sentimental relationship with good vs bad weather. His mood is rarely affected by such trivial things while I am incredibly empathic. I can interpret anything into a feeling, and sometimes it can be an obstacle while others a strength. It is the stereotypical blessing and curse, for sure. While he views it with a level head, he has his own interesting rapport with the weather. He checks it obsessively in order to determine tee times and ski trips. Inevitably getting very frustrated when the anticipated weather is inaccurate. Whenever he is fastidiously breaking down each forecast, I tease him by saying “ Oh ok, Joe Cupo”, who was the local weatherman from where I grew up. A little inside joke to point out we are not meteorologists, therefore predictions are just that. His analysis of it can get out of control, just like my emotions can.

Everything is about perception. While my mood can mirror the weather, other times the weather will echo how I feel. That brings us to today. It is dreary and wet outside. The wind is blowing through the crab apple tree splaying its beautiful blossoms all over the lawn in a Jackson Pollock like splattering. It is cool out, but still has a spirit of spring coiling in the air. The muted grey unease of the clouds and drizzling rain isn’t speaking in negativity. It feels more like an oath of coziness. A time to snuggle inside, take a moment to rest and admire the rain rather than refute it. It is the replenishing water of springtime, vowing to green up the budding trees and anxious blooms.

The forecast for the next week is all rain, so perhaps after a few days of constant wet and grey I may be singing a different tune. But for today, I welcome the cool hug of the rainy day. Bring our city to life with your showers of renewal and fully usher us into a hopeful season ahead.

#rainyday #spring showers #mood #seasonal depression #mental health #changeyourethinking #positivity #anxiety #ocd #weather

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missmonsters2 · 5 years

Text

The Color of You || Part VII

PAIRING: Natasha Romanoff x Fem!Reader/OFC

Summary: It was another mission Natasha was assigned to. Nothing she hasn’t done before. Same mission, different people. Sent undercover to investigate William Cain, suspect to funding terrorism and smuggling weaponry. Under the disguise of Natanya Rovinski, Natasha is ready for another routine mission. Until she met you, William’s fiancé.

Warnings: There are dark elements to this series. Also, smut later on. Please note this part includes abuse & torture (semi-graphic).

NOTE: This is a pretty dark chapter about reader. Lemme know if you want to be on my taglist for this series, any natasha stories I do, Wanda stories, or everything

PART I || PART II || PART III || PART IV || PART V || PART VI

PART VII of X

Count: 3249

⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷⋆⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷

10 years ago...

Your name was being shouted from a distance. You turned your head, seeing your mother calling you back into the house. Closing your sketchbook, you got up, dusting your pants before making your way back in.

“Really, you shouldn’t be outside too long,” your mother half-heartedly scolded you.

“Why not? We’re in the countryside. There are no neighbors for miles and miles away,” You rebuttal, a little upset that you had to come in.

Your mother merely raises her brow at you. “You’re getting a bit more of an attitude every day, missy. I didn’t say anything when you got your tattoos, but no sass-mouthing me.”

She says it so jokingly that you can’t help but smile along.

“It’s going to rain today,” you say, and your mother seems confused.

“Really? The weatherman said it’ll be sunny all day,” she muses.

“It will rain,” you confirm.

“Best get the laundry in then,” your mother rushes off.

You grin, watching your mother runoff. Your family was wealthy with your father running his own company, but even so, you lived in a beautiful house out in the countryside, away with people and no hired help. Well, you used to have a maid at least, but she had quit saying the countryside was not settling well with her body. Your family paid her a lot of hush money.

Your family adored you, and when they discovered your strange gift, it really worried them what could happen to you if anyone knew.

The worry that people would take you, want to experiment on you, or take advantage of you pushed your parents to make the decisions they did.

So, you and your family took care of your daily things while your father would go run his company, often coming home late at night.

It was a simple life.

Everything was good.

Or so you thought.

“I just...I don’t know what we’re going to do. I may have to claim bankruptcy. We’re hardly making the payments we need to do. The company just keeps getting worse, and I don’t understand why. I had to lay off 80 people today. I’ve closed down many factories in the last month.”

You stood quietly at the door, slightly ajar for you to peer in to see your father in a stressed state as your mother tried to comfort him.

“Should we move back into the city?” Your mother suggests, but your father shook his head.

“No, it’s worse for our daughter out there. You know that. There are too many people and sounds. It triggers the visions.”

Your mother purses her lips but agrees. They sigh stressfully together, your mother’s head on your father’s shoulder.

“We’ll figure it out, darling, we always do.”

It made you feel awful.

That night you stared at the ceiling in bed, praying an answer would come.

⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷⋆⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷

You were in the field again, resting against the tree, sketching the view before you.

It was peaceful, but in the sense that it’s the calm before the storm. You were anxious.

Last night, you were getting horrible visions of a man in a fiery crash. He was stuck in the vehicle, screaming a name you couldn’t hear. The vehicle caught on fire, and there was so much blood.

The crash had disfigured his face, but his expression haunted you.

You weren’t sure what to do with it because you didn’t know who this man, where he was, or when it was happening.

Hell, you couldn’t make out his face without the blood and shards of glass.

A part of you wasn’t sure if maybe you were just having nightmares.

But the same vision kept coming over and over the next few nights. You were getting ragged, and your parents could tell.

They were happening more frequently, with more details each time, but it wasn’t like you had any more understanding.

You spent a day, just trying to mimic what the man was saying in the car before he died. Your mouth followed his movements, but you weren’t getting anywhere.

You felt like you were going to go crazy, watching the same man dying.

It kept going, and going, and going, and going, and going...

Until one day, it stopped.

A part of you was relieved, but there was a drop in your stomach wondering if it stopped because it happened, and it was no longer a future possibility.

The days were peaceful once more.

Well, as can be. You could tell your parents were getting more stressed as they were running out of money, getting closer, and closer to bankruptcy.

You were sure the peaceful days were coming to an end, and you felt so guilty you couldn’t do more.

“--rry, I’m just really lost. How do I get back to the main road?”

You turned your head, stretching to see a tall, handsome man with a couple dirt stains on his suit.

He looked shy.

Your mother merely laughed at his sheepish boyish grin.

“Well, let me draw you a map. Why don’t you come in and grab some tea? Must’ve been some adventure, huh?”

The man laughed and walked inside.

You quietly crawled through the tall flowers, peering inside the kitchen glass door to see the man sit down.

You tilted your head to the side, observing him.

He was obviously wealthy, catching his Rolex watch on his wrist.

You did find it a little weird for someone to get lost here. This was quite out of the way of anything.

He turned his head, and then your eyes met.

He looked shocked, mouth agape.

He actually flushed and looked away.

Since you were caught, you stood up, coming through the side door of the kitchen. Your mother looked shocked to see you. Even a little wary.

“This is my daughter,” Your mother told the man, introducing you.

The man stood abruptly up, coughing slightly as he stuck his hand out towards you.

“I’m William Cain.”

Your mother hummed. “Your dad doesn’t happen to own Cain Holdings, does he?”

William nodded, and your mother gave him a sympathetic smile.

“I heard about the accident. I’m really sorry to hear about him.”

William merely thanked her with a half-smile before looking back at you. You tilted your head down, looking a the map your mother drew and hummed.

Grabbing the pen, you re-drew the path he should take.

“Is it wrong?” Your mother asked.

“No, but...the roads are tricky over there. It is best he takes this route back to the main road.” You quietly say, passing the sheet of paper to him with a small smile. “It was nice to meet you.”

And then you left. Your mother is someone that doesn’t like you meeting strangers, so it’d be best to limit interactions.

She heard small noises from downstairs, but soon, William was on his way.

She thought that was the end of that.

Until he showed up again.

And then again, and again, and again.

The next couple of times, he came with small gifts like chocolate, cookies, or little trinkets, saying it was a thank you for helping him.

The next couple of times, he would come up with ridiculous lies to say he was visiting.

One day, he merely said he wanted to see you.

Then the reasons no longer mattered.

You couldn’t classify that you were in love with William, your heart just didn’t feel that way. But you weren’t unsatisfied to be with him. Especially knowing he could help your father.

Before you knew it, he wanted to whisk you away, back to his estate. He thinks you just have a frail body, which is why you’re in the countryside. He promises your parents of a quiet place for you, where you can still have fresh air, and lots of room to draw and paint.

He promises a partnership for your father’s company.

And with your reassurance, they hand you to him.

“Don’t tell William about your abilities, dear,” your mother tells you as she helps you pack your clothes. “I know he loves you, but you never know.”

You nod, feeling your throat burn as your about to leave your parents.

“We can visit at any time. Heck, we may even decide to move back to the city,” your mother tries to reassure you, but you’ll miss her anyways.

With hugs and kisses goodbye, a final piece of advice, you part ways with your family.

Never to see them again.

⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷⋆⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷

William’s place is quiet.

Much more quiet than you had expected. There are no pictures on the wall, only paintings and trinkets. You meet his mother, who’s just thrilled to have ‘such a young, graceful lady around.’

She seems sweet but also distant. She looks out the window a lot like she’s expecting someone to come home at any time.

William is still finishing university, it was a wonder how he found so much time to visit you. On top of that, he was busying himself to take over his father’s business.

You’re still getting used to the city air. It’s not quite the same as the countryside, but you find that you don’t mind it at all.

William seems to be keeping you a secret because, as the years pass, you never meet anyone new. You’ve visited your parents rarely, and it seems to be getting more infrequent.

There’s an unsettling fear in your stomach, and you don’t understand why. It feels like you’re being tested. William asks your opinion on everything, trying to gauge your reaction.

You’ll purposely choose the wrong thing or say the wrong thing because your mother’s words can’t escape your head.

You’re now having reoccurring nightmares of the man dying in the car crash again. He’s screaming and screaming, but you can’t hear what he’s saying. Waking up in cold sweats and an empty bed, you’re scared out of your mind.

You want to leave.

So in the dead of night, while William is gone, you sneak into the hallways.

Suddenly, you hear footsteps and noises. Panic overtakes you as you scramble through a door you haven’t been through before. You shut the door, leaning against it as you listened to the footsteps and voices walk right past you.

Sighing in relief, you stood up straighter and turned around. It was dark, but the moonlight outside illuminated the room enough for you to see.

You realized that it wasn’t so much a room, but a hallway. Against the wall were portraits lined up side by side. Walking over, you looked at the photos one-by-one. Typically, this was a room you weren’t allowed to enter. William or a maid always led you away.

This must be generations of men in William’s family, you thought.

You come to the last photo. It must be William’s father. You haven’t really seen a big, clear picture of the man before. Even in news articles, they were always taken from afar.

You stood before the large portrait that seemed to loom down on you, staring at you with his clear features and eyes.

A sharp pain shot through your head as you hissed, hand coming to your eyes as the images rush through your head.

It’s the dying man again.

But you can hear everything this time, see more clearly.

“WILLIAM! WILLIAM!” He screams, desperately trying to unbuckle his seatbelt. The car is incredibly hot, a small fire coming from under the hood with smoke. Shards of glass are stuck in his face, and there’s just so much pain.

He can hear a car door shut just a few feet from him. He turns his head to see his son come up to the window.

“WILLIAM, GET ME OUT OF HERE!” He yells, pulling at his seatbelt again. A truck just came out of nowhere, and the fire was starting to grow.

William stood by the driver’s side, careful to not lean too close with the broken glass as he crouched down, his face stoic.

“You don’t understand our legacy, father. You’re going to ruin everything our family has created for generations.”

His father watched as William got up, walking away without even stumbling.

“WILLIAM! WILLIAM!”

He called and called, but his voice was soon drowned out by the sound of the vehicle exploding.

Your head felt heavy as you were gasping in pain. It was like your right eye was throbbing.

“You know, don’t you?”

You whipped around to see William, who just turned onto the hallway, casually leaning against the wall.

You stumble back a little bit, but then your back hit someone else’s. You turn your head to see Evelyn, the last maid you had.

“Evelyn...? What are you--”

“It’s fine, release her,” William cuts you off.

Evelyn lets go of your shoulders, and William walked to stand before you.

“You know what I did, don’t you?” William says to you again, his arms crossed over his chest.

“N-No, I don’t--” You stuttered.

“Don’t lie,” William tsked at you. “I heard from our little rich circle years ago about your parents who had a darling little girl...but something was off about her, she was always predicting things that happened.”

William uncrossed his arms, lifting his hand to caress a strand of your hair. “I paid Evelyn a lot of money to see if it was true. Then I swept you away...keeping you here to see myself.”

“So,” William drawled, “What else have you seen?”

“N-nothing,” you say, and it’s true, at least nothing related to William.

William merely smiles at you.

“I guess we’ll have to change that.”

⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷⋆⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷

It was dark.

And cold.

You don’t know how many days you’ve been in this...hole.

Evelyn has taken you deep into the basement. You’re sure you’re well beneath the floor in this cell.

They dropped you in here with no way of getting out.

It felt like you were in a well.

⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷⋆⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷

Your screams were echoing.

Arm out as your hands stretched to reach...reach something.

“I don’t like it when you run, don’t you understand that by now?” William’s voice sounded disappointed with you.

The blade he held carved into your skin, and you could feel a warm liquid dribble out and slide down your sides.

“P-Please stop...” you begged with tears in your eyes and throat raw from screaming.

“Don’t run from me anymore.”

⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷⋆⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷

You were back in the dark.

Knees crouched to your chest, you had your head down.

Evelyn came by, and you were mad at her. Hated her with every fiber of your being.

You want your parents, your parents will know you're missing if they keep visiting and you’re never around.

Evelyn says your parents won’t visit anymore.

You won’t get to see them until you’re dead, she tells you.

You don’t know what to do anymore.

You’ve been in here for weeks. Your back has begun to scab over, but you refuse to give anything to William.

You stare straight ahead, even if you can’t see anything.

You start to wonder if you should give up and join your parents.

⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷⋆⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷

“Still nothing?” William says to you as you’re forced to kneel before him.

He comes up to you and gets down on one knee. Your face is bruised, and he cups it gently like he cares about you.

“I don’t want to treat you like this, you know. I meant what I said to your parents when I said I’d take care of you. You need to let me take care of you.”

You clench your jaw at the mention of your parents, but you don’t say anything.

William moves in to try to brush his lips against yours, but you vehemently turn your head away.

For a second, you think he might hit you again, but he just sighs.

“Evelyn, take her back,” William says, but he turns to you again. “I want you to help me, but if you can’t, I don’t have any problems achieving what I need to without you too. Don’t become useless to me.”

⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷⋆⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷

Your back rests against the slightly curved wall. Your hair feels matted, and you just feel grimy in general.

William's words keep replaying in your head, but you can’t help but feel hopeless.

You’ve stopped eating the meals Evelyn brings you.

It doesn’t matter anymore, you think.

You stare into the nothingness so long you think you’re eyes have adjusted.

People think that the dark is just black, but it’s not. There are no words to describe the lack of colors around you.

A sharp pain hits your head again as you hiss, bringing your hand to your eye.

The sudden colors are so vivid and bright, it almost hurts you.

You see flashes of red hair, luscious lips, a black suit, and a pair of piercing emerald eyes.

You just see quick flashes of different scenes, but you know one thing for sure.

She’s going to take down William.

“Natasha,” you whisper to yourself as if to test the name on your lips.

It makes you feel warm.

And you get a feeling that you haven’t felt in a long time.

Hope.

⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷⋆⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷

“Then I got myself together...forced myself to give into William and paved his way exactly the way it had to be to bring you here.”

You feel something wet hit your bare back.

Turning your head as far as you can to see tears falling from Natasha’s eyes and it trickles down her face, hitting your back a couple more times.

You wonder if it’s awful to think she looks beautiful when she’s crying too. You turn your body over, Natasha adjusting herself so you can do so.

With your bare chest exposed to her, you lift your hand and cradle her cheek, smiling a little when she presses herself more into your palm.

“Why are you crying?” You ask her softly, using your thumb to wipe a tear that was falling.

“I’ll kill him,” Natasha says, turning her lips into your palm as she kisses the area tenderly.

You chuckle softly because you’re not sure if she really will or not, but it warms your heart nonetheless.

“Do you want to know something interesting?” You ask, your other hand pulling on her shirt, so Natasha will lean down closer to your lips.

Natasha hums.

“When I saw you...I held onto you. Through every dark night, painful crying, and feeling so wretched...I remembered you.” You whispered as Natasha’s lips got closer. Your thumb stroked the softness of her cheek as Natasha gripped onto your sides tightly, screwing her eyes shut as you told her what she meant to you.

“You’re such a beautiful color, Natasha. You’re the soft blue that comforted me, the yellow that brought me happiness, a pure white that gave me light the darkness, and the green that brought me hope. Do you understand me?”

You’re so desperate for her to understand.

Because without her, you would’ve never made it out alive, and you need her to know that.

Your lips brush against Natasha’s as her body lines up with yours. You shiver, feeling her cover your chest.

“You saved me.”

Natasha won’t let you say anymore as her lips crashes onto yours, but you feel her emotions dripping into you as she kisses you deeply. Her grip loosens as she pushes her arms under your back to hold you closer.

“You’re mine,” is all Natasha can say.

PART VIII

#mm: my fics #series: the color of you #natasha romanoff #natasha romanoff x reader #natasha romanoff x ofc #natasha romanov x reader #natasha romanoff imagine #natasha romanov imagine #black widow x reader #black widow imagine #avengers x reader #Avengers #avengers imagine #Avengers AU #avengers reader insert #marvel x reader #Marvel Imagine #marvel mcu #Modern Avengers AU

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rotten-whispers · 4 years

Text

Trump Card - short story

This piece was written directly before the 2020 presidential elections, but has no affiliation to any political leaders of any kind. . . Nor was it written out of humorous anxiety or political parody, all of that is simply a coincidence of course.

(Also available on wattpad, link in bio)

The year is 2116, and you have just sat down to watch the news.

Hopefully, of course. Because there hasn't been any good news in a very long time. The world has gone downhill in the past 100 years, people have said. And now it's a caricature of what it used to be, ripened by catastrophe and apocalyptic apathy in every corner of the globe.

You sip your coffee and wait.

The news will come on at 11am and play until 2pm, where, on the dot, it will be shut off. People should not be over encumbered by disaster, the news stations were told. Our country should only have to stomach it for a few hours every day.

You've never cared very much for the news yourself, of course, because it isn't very interesting. All of the suffering is so overdone, honestly, you've seen it all in the past 30 years that you've been around. Plague, war, environmental catastrophe, attempted alien invasion, progress toward time travel – pish, posh, uninteresting! What new disaster could ever hope to capture your attention? They were fighting a losing battle.

But still you watch the news, because there isn't anything else on right now. Plus, the presidential elections are coming up, and perhaps there will be something interesting there.

All sorts of candidates have appeared in the past 100 years, but they've all been eerily similar. All with the same unprofessional, almost childish ignorance. They have all had the same taste in fashion, and the same swirl of golden hair.

How odd, you and the rest of the world thought. I wonder if these people could be related.

Every year, one of these people would win, too, but every year, there was still a fool who would try to run against them. A poor fool, growing ever more desperate, who would rant and pull their hair and emphatically struggle to get the country to just once, god, just once vote for the other party.

Never any dice, of course. And so the clonal line would continue to win, year after year, and the world shrugged its shoulders and said well, you voted for him, cannot help you there, sorry.

The problem was, you don't believe that you did vote for him -- you didn't vote at all in the last election. Or the one before that, or the one before that. And the one before that? Then, you did, but you definitely voted for the other party.

The poor woman, dressed in blue, who turned directly to the cameras and begged your country to vote for somebody else.

"Not even me," She had said. "Just anybody but him again!"

So you had voted for her. And so had all of your friends, and your friends' friends, and their friends, and everybody that you had ever met. All of you voted for the frantic lady in blue, because you felt that she was right.

Those people did win every year, come to think of it. Perhaps it was time for a change.

But still one of them won. And still they laughed, wearing the same triumphant smirk that your country had become accustomed to, as the frantic lady shook her head and shouted: "What is wrong with you people?!"

That was the last year that you or anybody that you knew had voted. Now even the act of signing the ballot was a waste of time, because our fate was sealed long before the numbers would even be counted.

And this strange line of people, all with identical faces, all with identical heads of strange, golden hair – which had to be toupees, of course, because they looked so unbelievably false – they continued to rule.

And you continued to watch the debates, with a shrug for the other side, who never once gave up trying.

But there is always the hope that this year will be different.

You really, genuinely pray that it will be, because things really seem to be getting worse. The amount of caffeine in your "coffee" is negligible at this point -- hell, the amount of coffee in your coffee is negligible at this point! And don't even mention chocolate. You had dreams of chocolate, the forbidden crop from the dying rain forest. Every year, for your birthday, you scrounged up enough money to buy a single square, and by god did you cherish it. It was a bittersweet reminder of how the world used to be, a hundred years ago.

At least now, however, there were plenty of things to watch on Tv. Plenty of drama to keep yourself occupied.

When the news begins, you eagerly settle down into your favorite chair.

Saturday mornings, a wonderful time to catch up on the rest of the world. It was the perfect escape from the dreary office in which you worked, toeing the line hour after hour, trying to reach that sweet 10pm when you would be released. The new work day was 8am – 10pm, or hadn't you heard? We have to break our backs to afford air conditioning, of course, because the globe has gotten so unbelievably hot as of late.

That was the first story that you sat through, bored to tears almost immediately. Bored of the weatherman as he predicted another record high temperature.

"Wow, and we are going to be at triple digits for our record fifth month in a row! This is truly an unbelievable event!" He said, nearly word for word as his announcement last week. You change the channel.

This one is delivering an update on the plague. It has gotten worse, of course, as it does every week.

"In these troubling times we ask that you keep faith in our government, which is taking every possible precaution." The man said. His words were immediately interrupted by a commercial, advertising a new theme park which had opened in Oklahoma, and which promised a 10% discount to anyone who bought a group pass for the new season.

"You won't regret it!" Chittered the tv. "Nobody has ever regretted having fun!"

That's the usual entourage of disaster, you think. The world always ends the same way, and it does so about five times a month. You flip to the next channel.

Don't worry, they always said, we have everything under control. And then there would be an update with more bad news, and so the cycle would repeat. Sometimes the news felt more like a punishment than a privilege, these days.

But still, there is something that keeps you glued to your seat, the remnants of caffeine racing through your veins. You desperately want to find something new, something to distract yourself from the dreary world outside your doors. Because this is your day off, and you feel that you deserve a break.

Eventually, just before 2pm, on a research channel that you or hardly anyone ever watches, you find your distraction.

"A strange new discovery has been made that promises to change the course of history forever!" The woman on screen says, excitedly. "Dr. Dire, an entomologist has come all the way from South America to talk to us today about a strange little bug! Dr. Dire, what do you have for us?"

Coolly, a man appears. "Thank you, Miss Waters. My research crew and I have discovered a very unusual new form of parasitism that we have never quite encountered before. Have you ever heard of Ophiocordyceps unilateralis?"

"No," The announcer says. "No, I can't say that I have."

"Well, it's more commonly known as the zombie ant fungus. It's a parasite that penetrates the exoskeleton of ants, using them as a tool for reproduction. Essentially, this fungus changes the ant's behavior by forcing the host to climb to the top of a leaf or stem and permanently clamp its mandibles on the plant. Then the fungus will develop a stalk from the ant's head, releasing spores and mummifying its prey."

"That sounds horrifying! And this mind control fungus is what you wanted to talk to us about?"

"No, no." Now his cool attitude shatters, for a moment, filled with scientific intrigue. "I am here today to talk to you about Megalopyge opercularis, the southern flannel moth. Because we have just proven that as a caterpillar, this species is capable of the same complex parasitism and mind control as the zombie ant fungus. And from our experiments, depending on the host of the caterpillar, the lifespan may increase severely as well. We're looking at 30, maybe 40 years of parasitism! While an oblivious host is completely overtaken and used for this insect's needs, unable to communicate, cry, or even scream for help."

"Scream?" The woman repeats, with a laugh, but his eyes are serious when they train onto her.

"Yes, scream, because this creature can parasitize humans as well. We had an accident in the lab," He leans in closer to the camera, suddenly very, darkly serious. "One of our researchers, his suit broke. And this caterpillar crawled on top of him, pinning itself to the top of his skull. We heard him scream, from the horrible stinging hairs -- but we weren't able to reach him in time."

"Did he die?" Both you and the woman are completely enthralled.

"Oh, no," Dr. Dire says. "He was perfectly fine. Or so we thought. . . until a week later, when we discovered that his personality had almost completely changed. He had always been very. . . progressive," The scientist looks uncomfortable. "But now he was almost like. . . Like a caricature of himself."

Dr. Dire narrows his eyes. "My friend had become a completely different person overnight, and we could not find a reasonable explanation for his behavior. . . I thought that it might have been stress, or trauma from the incident, until one day when we ran into each other outside of work -- outside of our protective suits. And then I saw the top of his head."

"And?" She leans toward him.

"And the caterpillar was there. All of his hair had fallen out and the beast was in its place, like a wig, like a toupee. It had become him, Miss Waters. I know that it had. This ignorant, sexist fool is not one of my colleagues anymore. He is not one of my friends. He is a monster and the entire world must know what this parasite is capable of."

"I'm afraid that we're running out of time," The host begins to say, with a smile, but Dr. Dire frantically interrupts, forcing the camera back onto him.

"Listen to me, this caterpillar can infect anyone! We have noticed unusually high populations in the wild, with a distribution that has overtaken most of North America. This creature is not suffering from the changing climate, it is thriving. It is almost as though each and every one of our catastrophes has been a benefit to this beast. It thrives as we perish!"

"Dr. Dire, please-"

"No!" He yells, slamming a fist down onto the table. "This thing has taken over our world! Can't you see? Our ruined planet has become the perfect place for this moth to reproduce. Our bodies have become the perfect hosts for its young to inhabit! And all of us are just sitting by and waiting while it makes everything worse!"

"I think that you're overreacting," Miss Waters says. "How could a caterpillar possibly make the world a worse place? Even if it can control its victims, it's just a bug, isn't it?"

"It isn't just a bug," The man says, and he buries his head in his hands, suddenly looking very, very tired, like he had not slept in weeks. "My friend has never expressed an interest in politics before, but do you know the first thing that he said to me, before he left the lab?"

She shakes her head and Dr. Dire gives a dark, desolate laugh.

"He said: "The elections are coming up. I think that I'll run for president this year."

Something about this story has started to deeply unnerve you, and you are grateful when the news finally ends.

Perhaps it was that horrible desperation in the scientist's eyes -- like a man who had given up entirely, because everything was already lost.

You need to distract yourself from the prickling discomfort in the back of your mind, so you scrounge up some rationales. This caterpillar cannot possibly be that bad -- the researcher was only trying to fear monger because it's election season.

In fact, maybe he was crazy – they always say that you can't trust science these days. Maybe this caterpillar doesn't even exist.

With the news ended, the presidential debates would begin soon. But you feel too unnerved to simply wait -- it's time to settle your suspicions once and for all. So you pull up the caterpillar species on your laptop, and start reading, as the Tv flickers behind you.

Megalopyge opercularis, also known as the southern flannel moth, is renowned for its strangely shaped caterpillars, which are covered with stinging golden hairs, resembling a badly made toupee. The species has adapted readily to the changing global climate, and is now very common in all areas of the globe, particularly North America, where it reproduces in swarms every 4 years.

Every four years, you think, checking the date of its last swarm. 4 years ago, almost exactly. Just a month ahead of the presidential debates, just in time for the upcoming election.

The feeling of discomfort has blossomed into full fledged anxiety, now, as you stare at the television, waiting for the debate to begin.

There is something horribly familiar about this caterpillar, you think. Something that very strongly resembles its golden hair.

"Hello everyone," The president says, as he approaches the stage with his usual grin, like fangs locked in a sneer. He knows that this debate is just a formality, because there is no fear of losing, not anymore. Not since the past 100 years, when his party would win, year after year after year.

You and the thousands of other viewers wait for him to speak, anxiously studying his form. Thinking to yourself that he really does resemble the last president -- and the one before that, and the one before that, ad infinitum.

You wait, and you watch, and eventually, you finally start to realize the source of the scientist's desperation.

On the top of your president's head, as with all of the previous ones, is a mop of wispy golden hair, completely and utterly identical to the parasitic caterpillar.

"Let's get on with it then, shall we?" The president says, leering at the camera. "I have a feeling that this year's election is going to be especially interesting."

#writing #stories #short story #short stories #parody #satire #political satire #politics #science #caterpillars #southern flannel moth

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raleighliving · 4 years

Text

Snowmageddon: A Defense

If you’ve lived in the south during the winter months at any point you’ve probably heard all the jokes and jabs already about how well we tend to handle snow. At the first flake falling, you’ll hear cries of “Shut down the schools” and “Buy bread and milk NOW!” from everyone; northern transplants especially.

Southerners panic at even the hint of snow, clearing store shelves to hoard a years’ worth of groceries and filling jerry cans with enough fuel to cross the Atlantic because the news predicted a half inch dusting overnight. It’s not as prolific or hurtful as other stereotypes but if you’ve grown up hearing it you’re probably tired of the same five jokes like I am.

Not to say it’s completely unwarranted. I’m sure you’ve gone to the grocery store during a particularly cold night and seen gaps in the inventory of various necessities, and fellow North Carolinians forming lines at the gas station to top off before the snow hits.

Even if you’re not from North Carolina, you’ve probably seen the below image of our very own Glenwood avenue from a few years back. Meme’d to hell and back with various edits including references to Star Wars, Ghostbusters, and various post-apocalyptic scenarios.

Glenwood Ave, credit WRAL

So of course, a question I’ve been asked rhetorically from friends across the country is “why?” With a recent snow day passed and another possibly on the horizon, I figured now would be as good a time as any to write about what Raleigh’s deal with snow is and why so many of us dread the icy doom it brings.

Not to say this article excuses the Glenwood Incident or any over obsessive individuals you may run into throughout Raleigh; but instead, I hope to at least provide an explanation for why things are like this. Provide insight for school closures and concerns so that my fellow Raleigh citizenry might seem at least a little less crazy the next time the sky goes gray on a cold Winter’s day.

To understand the issues with Raleigh and snow we need to understand two important aspects of the problem: city maintenance and city planning. While there are many small issues that pervade North Carolina, and especially the city of Raleigh, these two form the crux of our problem.

As you can imagine, any city’s road conditions are linked at least partially to their Department of Transportation’s (DOT) budget. Repairs, litter control, and much more are all accounted for in the state DOT budget; and while North Carolina might not be as small as her neighbors like Georgia she still has to budget accordingly.

How much money is spent on inclement weather for a state that might see snow once every two years is weighed against contracts for road repairs, the much more frequent summer/fall tropical storms, and other projects that need it more.

Of the $5.3 billion 2020 budget, it’s estimated by the NCDOT that we spent 32% of that on road maintenance (and a fraction of that goes towards inclement weather solutions). So a fraction of a fraction of the budget goes towards preparing the roads with brine and equipping plows with a salt/sand traction mix.

Of course, this means we only have so many snow plows and so much brine to spread around the roads. If you get any pre-snow road treatment, you’re likely in more urban areas like Raleigh or you’re by a military base like Fayetteville. Even in those areas, however, pre-snow road treatment and subsequent plowing are usually only afforded to major roads and high traffic areas.

Live in a subdivision or a back road? Then may fortune be ever in your favor, because there’s a good chance that the most you’ll get is somebody laying out InstaMelt from the HOA (if you even get that much). There’s a chance you could drive on Leesville or Glenwood if you can get to them, but that’s IF you can get to them.

The neighborhood where I grew up you couldn’t get out if there was too much snow/ice because all three exits sat atop fairly steep grade hills. Don’t have a heavy enough vehicle or specialized tires? You’re probably going to slide back down or get stuck in a snow drift.

Of course, that’s just my old stomping grounds. But Raleigh is full of various neighborhoods; ranging from cookie cutter suburbs to nightmare hellscapes crafted with form over function kept firmly in mind. For every Longlake or Dominion Park, there’s a road like Sendero Road.

Sendero is a back road attached to a back road with narrow, one-way roads twisting around steep gorges filled with trees and water at various points. The upper-middle class neighborhood is cut in half by a river with an old wooden bridge, and the only reliable turn around point is at the very end of this anxiety coaster.

For schools you have the school buses, which break down super frequently already, with no seat belts transporting kids across the city to school and parents trying to get out of their neighborhoods and dealing with other drivers.

If something gets damaged or someone gets hurt or stranded, all because you had the option to close down but didn’t, then that’s consequences and problems laid at the foot of the school board and superintendent. Parent complaints, insurance rates, and potential lawsuits versus a few days of missed education and a few jokes on twitter; it’s easy to see which bet anyone would take when the sky starts spewing ice crystals.

It’s true, not every neighborhood in Raleigh (and many other southern cities) is a poorly designed nest of streets placed at random using dice; but enough exist throughout that it’s an important consideration for many schools, businesses, and families when they’re preparing for possible winter storms.

Do we shut down schools, or hope the weatherman is right and that the light dusting clears by midday? Do we go and stock up on supplies in case the freezer goes out, or hope that the 2005 ice storm just doesn’t happen ever again? It’s these questions, and previous experiences like the 2005 ice storm that fuel a lot of the paranoia that happens surrounding snow storms.

I don’t expect to change any minds writing this, but hopefully you’ll at least come away with a better understanding of southern snowphobia when you see schools start closing left and right at the first flake, or when you see someone load their cart up with bread and milk.

PS: Apparently, it’s always bread and milk because bread provides energy, nutrition, and doesn’t need to be refrigerated; and milk because you can keep it fresh with snow/outdoor coolers if your fridge dies.

#NC #North Carolina #northcarolina #Raleigh #NCSU #NC State University #Glenwood #Glenwood Ave #Snow #snowday #city planning #Ice #icestorm #icestorm2005 #gifs

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pocket-clown · 5 years

Text

a journal mishap;

// original request: Ooooh I don't know if you've done this before but could you write a fic where the reader finds Arthurs journal and reads his notes about them? Like what would he write about?? How'd he react to reader confronting him about it? 😳

thank you for the request, anon!

Summary: After not realizing that he, in a tired haze, had dropped his journal on the bus, Arthur is ultimately forced to admit his feelings for you - which to his surprise, end up being much more reciprocated than he thought.

Words: 2,970

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Arthur could feel his heart practically seize up in his chest once he shrugged off his hoodie and realized that his journal wasn’t tucked into the waistband of his pants like it usually was.

He always kept it there on therapy days. Always.

He had brought it with him, right? Of course he did - his social worker asked him to, so he always made sure that he did. She even read some of it today, much to his surprise and ultimate discomfort, but she gave it back and he remembered folding it and tucking it into his sweater like he always, always did.

So where was it?

“Happy?! Is that you?” His mother’s shout for him momentarily brought Arthur down from his panic, though it was short lived.

“Of course it’s me, mom. Who else would it be?” He sighed, though his tone was gentle as he slipped off his shoes, leaving them in front of the door before making his way further into the apartment where Penny was sitting in her chair as some old news rerun played on their small television. She only glanced up at him for a second as he moved the pillows on the couch around, just checking so he could be sure that he actually did bring his journal with him today and didn’t leave it hidden away at home.

“Well you never know with this city, anymore. Just today there was another break in - it’s very unsafe here.” Penny nodded towards the television as the newscaster went on to talk about an apartment burglary that wasn’t too far from their own building that occurred recently - recently, as in almost a week ago, but Arthur didn’t feel the need to point that out. He didn’t know what the point of replaying old broadcasts was, but at the moment he didn’t really care.

“Oh, ma - you don’t think I could protect you?” Arthur teased, taking a seat on the couch so he could actually rest a moment for the first time all day. “No one’s gonna bother us - we don’t have anything they’d want, anyway. Are you hungry? Do you want some dinner, now?”

He didn’t miss the flash of doubt that crossed his mom’s face in regards to his comment about protecting her, but still smiled once she nodded and said that he should at least eat something, too, because he “always looked so tired, now.”

His journal wasn’t on his desk, either, he saw as he made his way into their small kitchen so he could heat up her dinner. His panic was only growing as the seconds ticked by, and he absolutely racked his brain while he thought about where he could’ve possibly left it. He hadn’t stopped anywhere on his way home from seeing his social worker - work was much earlier that day, and he didn’t need to go to the pharmacy - so there was no place he could’ve accidentally left it at.

So where was it?

While waiting for his mom’s TV dinner to heat up did he pace the small kitchen, briefly considering asking her if she saw it around - but he knew there really would be no point in that because he knew that he brought it with him for the day, so she wouldn’t have seen it around. That, and the fact that his mom really didn’t need to know that he’d lost his journal; “sometimes I don’t know where your head is” she’d always say with a sigh, and he’d always been so careful with it, insisting that he wouldn’t lose it, that he couldn’t - because not only did it have his private thoughts in it, but it also contained his original comedy material that he didn’t want just anyone else getting their hands on.

“Happy, did you take the bus home? The weatherman said it’s going to rain again, tonight.” Penny called from the other room, oblivious to her son’s turmoil.

Arthur opened his mouth to respond, but before he could, he was hit with the realization;

The bus.

The bus!

He must’ve dropped it on the bus!

The bus - which was long gone by now.

Arthur groaned, before he turned around and thud his forehead into the refrigerator out of frustration.

----------

"i dont think shed even be inturestid"

“im too old anyway”

“shes pretty. she has a nice smile.”

“would she be mad if she knew i followd her again?”

Though not spoken aloud, the words read loud and clear inside your head. Sentence after sentence about who you presumed to be yourself filled one of the many pages of the journal you’d found on the seat of the bus, crude drawings of what looked an awful lot like you in your sweater lining the margins.

It was Arthur’s journal that you held in your hand, indicated by the scratchy writing on the front label that read Arthur Fleck. Of course you didn’t know this when you initially found it; it was already flipped open, haphazardly plopped in the corner where the bus seat met the wall, as if it had fallen there without its owner realizing so after they got up. It was flipped to a page full of messy handwriting, and at first you were just planning on shutting it and handing it to the driver in case the next day someone came around looking for it, but then your eyes fell on your name with smiley faces scribbled all around it at the top of the page.

At first you figured it must’ve been a coincidence; Gotham had a few million people living in it, no doubt did at least a handful of them share a name with you, so this could’ve been about anyone - but that’s when you scanned the page and saw details about you specifically written down, accompanying the aforementioned drawings, and it hit that the was writing about you. You’d flipped to the cover for a second as you sat down in your seat, no choice but to as the bus had begun moving, and that’s when you saw that it belonged to Arthur and your heart fluttered in your chest.

Did Arthur really feel this way about you? You questioned as you peeked where you’d left off, for a second time.

“got to find a way to talk to her more”

“shes the only one thats nice to me”

“i reelly really like her”

You quickly flipped the notebook shut for good this time, pressing it’s worn body to your lap before sinking back into your seat.

This was Arthur’s personal journal - his personal thoughts - you couldn’t just go through it like that, no matter how much you may want to.

You knew Arthur was troubled; not that he was dangerous or anything, even though some of the other tenants in the building spoke of him like that was the case, but within the months that you’d known him the two of you had grown fairly close and you’d learned enough about him to know that he struggled with much more than most people would ever even come close to. It broke your heart, if you were being honest; he tried, he tried so hard to better himself and take care of his mother and try to make those around him smile - but so often did those same people, and at times did it seem like life itself, figuratively and sometimes literally in the case of the former, spit on him.

You both shared a bus; the stop was a level down from the street your apartment building was on, so you’d always walk there and wait for the bus when you needed somewhere to go, and a handful of times had you bumped into Arthur, him being nothing but polite - shy, he seemed at times, but you were the same way so you didn’t mind. On some days, though, he didn’t even need to tell you that he’d had a bad day - the way he’d barely lift his head to look at you as you passed by said more than any words ever could.

Arthur usually got home around this time, and considering you found a belonging of his, you realized you must’ve literally just missed him through the hustle and bustle of the crowd as everyone poured out of and refilled the bus. If you’d found it sooner, you would have run right off the bus to find him and return it, but within moments of getting on said bus and within seconds of finding it, the bus had began moving, and you were ultimately forced to keep hold of his journal for the next who-knew-how-long.

Delicately did your fingers trace the edges of the journal as you gazed out of the window as the bus moved through the streets, taking you to your location after making a few stops to exchange passengers. You mulled over the situation; how would you even approach Arthur about this? Just knock on the door and hand it to him? Leave it in front of the door? Should you even mention that you read some of it? With the way he wrote about you, you felt that you shouldn’t because it seemed so personal that you worried the poor man would die of humiliation if you told him you knew how he felt about you, but you kind of wanted to. You’d be a big liar if you said that the way he wrote about you didn’t make your heart flutter, and you’d be an even bigger liar if you said you didn’t feel the same way.

It would be awkward - but you needed to return it to him, and you hoped you would be home early enough to do it tonight.

----------

Almost two hours later at nearly eight in the evening did you finally return, and within those same two hours had Arthur practically driven himself up a wall with anxiety regarding his missing journal.

His mother, barely awake next to him on the bed as they engaged in their almost-nightly routine of watching the Murray Franklin show had seemed blissfully unaware of her son’s restlessness, and Arthur could hardly stop himself from flying to the door once he heard a knock at it, praying that it was some sweet stranger who was kind enough to somehow manage to track down the owner of the notebook they’d found.

Though it was no stranger, Arthur was still relieved when he opened the door, a fond smile on his face once he saw who was on the other side.

“Oh - Y/N, hey.”

“Hey, Arthur.” You paused for a beat, not sure how to say what you wanted to. “Are you missing anything?”

“Oh, no? I don’t think so.” His voice was quizzical; he seemed a bit caught off guard by your odd question as he’d taken a second to respond. He needed to play it cool and not trouble you, he thought to himself, but after a second of contemplation he figured that it was best to admit that he had indeed misplaced something - you were always nice to him, maybe you would help him find it. “Actually, I’m missing -”

“This?” You cut him off, holding out the worn notebook to him before he slowly took it from you, his eyes looking between your own and it a few times.

“Where did you…?”

“The bus. It was in my seat. I realized it was yours after I closed it and saw.. your…. name.”

You sighed, eyes closing once you realized you had pretty much just admitted that it was open and that you had read it, to some degree. “I mean - I didn’t really read much of it. If I had known it was yours then I wouldn’t have read it at all, I just - didn’t know what it was. I didn’t read a lot.”

Arthur’s eyes went wide at this, and he looked absolutely petrified.

“What… did you read…?”

“Oh! It was nothing, it was just - ah - ,” You pause, your hand finding its way to your face and you scratched at your cheek, shifting awkwardly in place. You’d lie, if you could; you’d save yourself the embarrassment of admitting that you had snooped, and Arthur the embarrassment of knowing that you had read his personal writing.

“Am I really the only one that’s nice to you?” Quickly, barely above a whisper, did you blurt out your question. You honestly didn’t know how else to answer his question, other than with one of your own.

Arthur was dead silent as he stood in the doorway in front of you, his hands squeezing the sides of his journal as he stared you right in the face, and you couldn’t bring yourself to break eye contact with him.

“Y/N - about that, all that... I’m - I - ,” He looked like he was about to die. Arthur brought his hand to his neck - he could feel a laugh beginning to choke up in his throat - and he turned his head away from you as he tried to keep himself calm, his voice strained as he managed to choke out a remorseful “I’m sorry.”

“You’re really the only one that’s nice to me, too, you know.” You said, your voice soft. It was true; everyone else in Gotham was so damn rude all the time - but not Arthur. Not your sweet, albeit troubled neighbor.

Arthur let out an abrupt laugh at this, immediately slapping the hand that wasn’t squeezing the life out of his journal over his mouth. He refused to make eye contact with you, fearing that doing so and seeing the look of disgust and judgement that you absolutely, without a doubt had would push him over the edge and cause him to erupt into a full-blown fit.

“I mean it - I like how you wrote about me, Arthur. I really do. I’m sorry that I snooped - and I’m sorry that I’m kinda making it worse right now by going on about it.” You almost laughed, the heavy regret you felt weighing down on you, your face feeling hot. Never in the short time that you knew him did you see Arthur get angry, but you felt that he was probably pissed at you for going through his personal diary like you had, and you wished you could’ve gone back in time and just gave it to him and said you found it on the ground, or something.

Unbeknownst to you, though, Arthur wasn’t pissed. He wasn’t angry, he wasn’t even mad. The look on his face once he finally managed to look at you was one of pure perplexity, rather than anger; he looked, if anything, like he didn’t believe you. He looked like he expected this to be some big, cruel joke.

“I shouldn’t have read it, I’m sorry, but… now that I know how you feel - I should probably admit that I feel the same way.” You whispered the last bit, afraid that maybe you’d totally misinterpreted Arthur’s writing and it, in fact, was about someone else, or that his feelings for you had gone down the drain now that he knew the context surrounding how you’d learned about them in the first place.

“No - you can’t,” He choked out in between the laughter he was trying so hard but ultimately failing to suppress. “Why would you like me?”

The amount of utter disbelief in his voice expressed at the mere idea of you liking him back was heartbreaking, to say the least. Whether the tears in his eyes were from sorrow or his laughter (which you knew the reason behind; one of your first meetings with him was rather awkward and in the end he’d been forced to hand one of his condition cards over to you as he broke down in a fit) you had no clue, but they didn't keep you from stepping up to him, closing most of the gap that was between the two of you as you took one of his hands gently in your own.

“Arthur, I really mean it. Hey… if I didn’t, do you really think I’d still be standing here?” You spoke, and when Arthur failed to take his eyes off of the ground to look into your own, you tilted your head ever so slightly so you could get a better look at his face before you took a peek over his shoulder, into his apartment. “Hey, is your mom awake? Would you be able to step away and come to my apartment for a bit, so we could talk? I’d really like to do that, but only if you’re comfortable with it.”

You hoped that smiling how you did at Arthur once he finally raised his head, tears in his eyes, was enough to convey how sincere you were in your words. You wouldn’t play with his feelings like that - you couldn’t, even if you wanted to (though why anyone would want to was beyond your imagination), and you honestly expected him to reject your suggestion and slam the door in your face under the impression that you were. When he didn’t though, and instead tightened his grip around your own hand ever so slightly, a scoff of a laugh leaving him, you felt your heart thud with relief.

“I don’t - are you sure?” His voice was still tight, though not as much as before, and you hoped that was an indicator that he wasn’t as worked up. When you nodded in response and told him that of course you were sure, you could almost see the relief wash over him, and though you knew that it would take some time on both parts to really let it sink in that your feelings were mutual, you were more than happy to spend said time with him.

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taglist (adding hours later because in my rush out the door it completely escaped my mind to add this o o p s sorry!);

@tahliamalfoydepp @tsukiakarinobara

#arthur fleck #arthur fleck x reader #arthur fleck x you #joker #joker 2019 #joker x reader #joker x you #joker 2019 x reader #joker 2019 x you #arthur fleck imagine #joker imagine #mine #i feel like their dialogue reads a bit stiff but i didnt have time to fix it before i left and wanted to get this out already so :^)

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imagesofthegreatgull · 4 years

Text

Hybrid Rainbow

Joy has always been a rare and precious commodity. I would argue, though, that in the developed world (Wherever, exactly, that is), it has become somewhat less rare in recent times, as standards of living and education continue to go up. That’s an absurdly privileged thing to say, I realize, but I’m trying to start this thing as evenhandedly as I can. I understand about suffering and poverty; I’m reading A Tree Grows In Brooklyn right now, even! Okay, saying we’re closer now than ever to utopia is going to smack of ignorance no matter how you phrase it, but it also strikes me as undeniably true, in the grand scheme of things. I think most people--aside from the fascists--would refuse a one-way trip in a time machine to any previous era, or at the very least, would recognize that it wouldn’t improve much of anything for them. As unruly as our age is, it’s still probably the best one we’ve gotten thus far, and as the boot-heel of oppression starts to ever so slowly ease up its pressure on the necks of the long-suffering masses, the question has begun to enter into the collective consciousness: what is to be done with joy when it begins to fall, unbidden, into your life with something like abundance? What is to be done if moments of joy no longer must be pried with great effort and sacrifice from the rockface of life, but lie strewn liberally throughout our days, needing only the will and lack of embarrassment to seize them?

Thus far, the latter-day generations have faced up to this problem with decidedly mixed success. The idea that expecting anything other than the very worst leaves one vulnerable to the universe’s cruel whims has been stamped upon the human brain for centuries, and has left many sadly unable to recognize their own privilege (Which, by the way, is a big part of why a whole lotta white folks refuse to admit they have it better than anyone else and continue to dig their heels in against progress because to them it looks like cutting in line). It is still widely accepted that constantly finding joy and peace and purpose in one’s own life is the purview of children and children alone, that it is a naivete to be grown out of. We have the impulse always within us to be hard, to be warlike, to show the world that we’re not weak and frivolous but monsters to be feared, without emotions to be appealed to or ideals to be fallen short of.

Remedying this problem has turned out to be one of the primary functions of counterculture. If it is often unhelpful to simply look at the entire value system of one’s parents and say “Fuck that”, as it tends to foster a rather negative self-definition, still, if part of that value system is a deeply entrenched distrust of happiness, “Fuck that” may be exactly the response called for. The beauty of “Fuck that” is that it leaps past the slow loss of faith in something and arrives immediately at a flat rejection of it, and since much of the history of civilization has been bound up with blind faith in arbitrary and harmful things, the ability and the courage to flatly reject something, to give it no credit for however widely accepted it is but to dismiss it as bullshit from the ground up, is a step forward in human consciousness tantamount to the reinvention of the wheel.

The great irony of the end of the sixties is that all the hippies were miserable for no reason: they won. Rock n’ roll did change the world, it just didn’t immediately transform it on every level into an unrecognizable nirvana. For all the apparent emptiness of its utopian dreams, the basic thrust of the thing worked out just fine: that particular cat will never be put back into its bag, and those ideas are now out in the ether forever, always waiting for someone to find them and be inspired to change their own life and the lives of those around them for the better. The same goes for the punk rock revolution a few years later: they may not have brought the bastards down, but they did successfully bring personal liberation to a lot of people, and poured exactly as much gas on the fires of populism as they intended to. Culture, and in particular art and in particular music, cannot, unassisted, change the world, but it can change your world, and has been changing small worlds all over the frigging place at least since those mop-topped Brits set foot on American shores and probably since Johnny B. Goode learned to play guitar just like a-ringin’ a bell.

The thread can get lost, however. Culture is always a reflection of the people, and the people still spend a lot of their time bored, frustrated, and terrified of letting on that they have feelings about stuff. Young people especially, formerly the eternal pirate crew waving high the flags of “Liberty” and “Up Yours”, in recent times have often capitulated and resigned themselves to no more than a few stray moments of fun pilfered from the fortresses of the almighty Money Man-Kings, usually in the form of drugs, sex, and reckless self-endangerment. The cost of the hippies and the punks giving up their battles is that the counterculture lost its intellectual leadership, at least until the resurgence in political literacy in the 2010s. In the wasteland following the 70s, there were no John Lennons or Joe Strummers to look to for guidance; even the people who were elected to speak for their generation seemed adamant that there was fuck-all they could really say. Yeah, it’s nice to know that someone else feels stupid and contagious, but that’s not really a direction, is it? The generation-defining message Kurt Cobain and his peers sent out was “We’re all way too fucked up to do anything about anything”, and that introspective moodiness pervaded American underground rock music from the invention of hardcore at least all the way up to the moment Craig Finn watched The Last Waltz with Tad Kubler and said “Why aren’t there bands like this anymore?” and set out with rest of the Steadies in tow to remind everyone that music can save your immortal soul and that hey, that Springsteen guy was really onto something, headband and all, and together they all successfully ushered in the New Uncool and now we’ve got Patrick Stickles wailing that “If the weather’s as bad as the weatherman says, we’re in for a real mean storm!” and Brian Fallon admitting “I always kinda sorta wished I looked like Elvis” and everything’s great, except it’s not, everything’s fucked, but rock n’ roll is here to stay, come inside now it’s okay, and I’ll shake you, ooo-ooo-ooo.

The point of all this is my belief that even with the responsibility rock music has to provide cathartic outlets for dissatisfaction, is has an equal or greater responsibility to provide heroes. I think it’s time we all got over pretending that we’re better than the need for heroes, because we all insist on having them anyway, imperfect roses by any other name, and we’d do a hell of a lot better selecting them if we just admitted what we were after. We don’t just want particularly talented comrades, we want King Arthur, Robin Hood, Superman, Malcolm Reynolds. Damn it all, they don’t need to be perfect, they don’t even need to be all that great really, and yeah, Arthur dies, and Robin never gets Prince John, and Superman can’t save everyone, and the war’s over, we’re all just folk now, and John Lennon beat women and Van Morrison is a grumpy old fart and John Lydon’s a disgrace, but it’s the faith that counts. The faith that there’s something greater than ourselves that some people are more keyed into than others, and that whatever they can relay from that other side is what’ll see us through. All the best prophets are madmen, and madmen aren’t always romantic fools; sometimes they hurt people, or fail at crucial moments due to a compulsion they can’t control. Let he who is without sin etcetera, right? Why not cast aside realism and sincerely believe in something or someone, huh?

I believe in the Pillows. I don’t know hardly anything about them; my expertise of Japanese culture and history extends to the anime I’ve seen and that “History of Japan” YouTube video that made the rounds a while back. I can’t locate them within the Japanese music scene; all their western influences seem obvious to me, and the rest I know nothing about. They’re the only rock band from their country I’ve listened to any great amount of, I don’t speak the language they mostly sing in, I don’t even know their career very well. The particulars of any experiences they might have had that motivated them to make the art they make are not ones I could possibly share in, so, saying that I “Relate” to their work sounds a little preposterous. They ought to be a novelty to me, a band that clearly likes a lot of the same bands I do despite hailing from a foreign shore, marrying that shared music taste with a cultural identity I have nothing to do with, a small, nice upswing of globalism pleasing to my sense of universalism but not having any kind of quantifiable impact on me.

Yet I, like a good many other westerners, believe in the Pillows. I’m a little buster, and my eyes just watered as I wrote that. In fact, it’s likely because of the barriers of language and culture that exist between us that my belief in the Pillows is so strong. Pete Townshend, someone else I believe in, once opened a show by saying “You are very far away...but we will fucking reach you”, and though the Pillows are both geographically (At the moment) and culturally miles away from me, Lord strike me down if they don’t fucking reach me. They reach me in a way many of their American college rock peers, many of their biggest influences in fact, never have. Dinosaur Jr, Bob Mould, Sonic Youth, the Pixies, Nirvana--all these artists speak directly to the American adolescent experience, but though they have all moved me to one degree or another, none of them have produced a body of work I can so readily see myself in as that of the Pillows. Maybe it is the novelty of it, maybe I’m fooling myself and it is just my sense of universalism carrying me away, but there’s something I hear in the Pillows that I don’t hear in those bands, and though the obvious candidate for that thing would be the foreign tongue the majority of the lyrics are written in, when it comes down to it, I think that thing is joy.

Joy, to me, is the possibility glimpsed by rock n’ roll. Not hedonistic pleasure, not a sadistic glee over the outrage of authority figures, but real, true, open-hearted, “Freude, schöner Götterfunken/Tochter aus Elysium”--type joy. Buddy Holly had joy. The Beatles, The Who, the pre-fall Rod Stewart, they had joy. Springsteen’s got joy to spare. Those people have such profound love for their art and their audience that just the continual recognition of the fact that they have a guitar in their hands and they’re being allowed to play it is enough to make them ecstatic, and whenever they want to actually express something serious they have to get themselves under control to do it. Yet, whether it’s the unfashionability of those utopian dreams, or the simple fact that rock music has become accepted by mainstream culture and is now a commonplace, unremarkable thing, but half the people who have picked up an electric guitar for the past few decades don’t seem all that excited about it. From Kim Gordon snarling about how people go down to the store to buy some more and more and more and more, to Thom Yorke moaning about how he’s let down and hanging around, crushed like a bug in the ground, even up to Courtney Barnett asking how’s that for first impressions, this place seems depressing, it’s not really a given anymore, if it ever was, that people who make rock music are very joyful in what they do.

Of course, I’m not demanding that our artists be empty-headed fluff-factories; far from it. The Pillows write sad songs and angry songs same as everybody else. But the important thing is this: every song the Pillows play is played with an exuberance and abandon that is immediately striking, regardless of the emotional content of each song. Channelling that kind of revelry into rock music is both to my mind the initial purpose of the genre in the first place and something which has become so rare as to be remarkable. A veneer of detached cool, a howling ferocity, a whimpering woundedness--these have become the hallmarks of American rock music, and they are nowhere to be found in the Pillows.

At the same time, the Pillows are the very antithesis of artlessness. Joy of the caliber they deal in is more commonly found in folky rave-ups, a lack of musicianship giving way to trancelike festivity. But the Pillows are skilled song craftsmen like few others; their sound has evolved throughout the years, but they tend to settle in the neighborhood of power-pop, abounding in glorious hooks and surprising structures. A hundred unnecessary, perfect touches seem to exist in every song; a pause, a solo, a bassline, all deftly elevating the song into a perfect expression of something sublime, something that always--always--takes ahold of the musicians themselves and imbues their performances with power and purpose the likes of which most little busters can only dream of feeling. It should be testament enough to their brilliance that upon first listen to a song I never know what most of the lyrics mean, but whenever I look up a translation, they always turn out to be exactly what I felt they must be; their songs are so musically communicative that they all but lack the need for lyrics.

This dual nature is why I believe in the Pillows: by so utterly failing to neglect both the highest possibilities of musical composition as an unparalleled tool for capturing emotional nuance and the unrestrained id-like rush that is the province of rock n’ roll, they successfully attain the lofty realm that is--or ought to be--the goal of music in the first place. Never once is there a hint of straying into the realm of primitivism nor into overthought seriousness, and instead they locate themselves somehow exactly center on the scale between punk and prog, lacking the weaknesses and gaining the strengths of both. They make rock whole again by finally disproving the tenet initially laid out by their heroes, your heroes, and mine, The Beatles: the notion that growing up means having less fun. The viscerally exciting early work of The Beatles lacks any of the depth and vision displayed by their later records, but those records are so carefully and expertly crafted that they tend to lose spontaneity, and constantly second-guess themselves where the juvenilia they followed forged unselfconsciously ahead. That legendary career path has laid out a false dichotomy that every proceeding generation of kids with guitars has chosen between, save for the few who could see past it, the ones who heard the wildness in “Revolution” and the wisdom in “Twist and Shout” and realized that they were of a piece, were one and the same, not to be chosen between but embraced fully. Pete Townshend. Bruce Springsteen. Joe Strummer. David Byrne. Paul Westerberg. The Pillows. The real heroes are not those who champion one side or another but fight all their lives for peace between them, knowing that we have not yet begun to imagine what could be accomplished if that were made possible.

Just as they bypass the divide between what Patrick Stickles termed the Apollonian and Dionysian tendencies of rock (I prefer to think of the usual battle as being between the Dionysians and the Athenians, with the true devotees of Apollo being most of those heroes I keep referring to, except Dylan, who might be a Hermesian), so too do the Pillows bypass the Pacific frigging ocean. And the Atlantic, to boot. Their music quotes the Pixies and The Beatles directly, and obviously owes much to Nirvana and all their college rock predecessors who spent the entire 80s desperately stacking themselves until the doomed power trio could finally vault over the wall. Their first record is practically a tribute to XTC. They do speak a lot of English, too. I’m informed that much of western culture is seen as the epitome of coolness in Japan, which might explain their obsession with Baseball, and apparently sprinkling a bit of the Saxon tongue into the mix is far from uncommon in the music scene(s). Regardless, there is something ineffably touching to a distant fan in a foreign land about hearing Sawao Yamanaka spit “No surrender!” or exclaim “Just runner’s high!” It looks from here like a show of mutual effort to understand me as much as I’m trying to understand them. They’re generous enough to have already walked to the middle where they’re asking me to meet them, a middle where it doesn’t matter that I don’t have a suffix attached to my name or that they don’t wear shoes in houses. The invisible continent that all forward-thinking and sensitive people come to long for is where the Pillows are broadcasting from, because they’ve realized that its golden shores and spiraling cities are attainable. They’re attainable with joy, with the fundamentally rebellious act of refusing to let the fascists bring down even your globdamn day, because who the hell gave them that power other than us? I know enough about Japan and America to know that either one accusing the other of being imperialist and socially conservative to a fault is a fucking joke, and to know that we’ve done a lot more wrong to them than they’ll ever do to us and the presence of the Pillows amounts to a “We forgive you”, not an “I’m sorry”. Having watched a decent amount of anime, which is basically the result of Japan’s mind being blown by western media and then proceeding to show their love by often almost inadvertently surpassing their inspirations, I know that the only way to save our respective national souls and everybody else’s too is to put our knuckles down, have Jesus and Buddha shake hands like Kerouac tried to explain that they would anyway, and embrace each other’s dreams and passions and adopt them into our own.

It takes better people to inhabit that better world, and in case that sounds like fascist talk, I mean we’ve got to do better, not be better. It’s no physical imperfection that holds us back, nor a mental imperfection exactly, as we all have our own neuroses and if we expunge those then we’ll be kissing art and lot of other vital stuff goodbye. No, it’s our discomfort with ourselves, our world, our neighbors, our aliens, that keep us from seeing that crazy sunshine. If we can’t even acknowledge the greatness around us, that surplus of joy I mentioned a while back that we just seem to have no idea what to do with, then we have no hope of ever achieving further greatness, of ever quelling man’s inhumanity to man down to an inevitable fringe rather than the basic order of the world.

There was always more to do

Than just eat and work and screw

But now that there’s time at last to do those things, we’re still afraid to, afraid that we’ll come up empty, that the search for fulfillment leads only to disappointment, better to hang back and play it safe, better not to risk becoming one of those people I shake my head at and pity and will secretly envy until I die. It’s a new world, and we must learn to be new people. I believe in the Pillows because I believe they make excellent models for that new kind of person. The way they behave in the studio and on the stage is the way people behave when they’re truly free, and we’ve all been set free already or will be soon, so if we’re going to try and learn what the fuck is next from anyone, I think we might as well learn from the Pillows. At least, that’s one of the places we could get that insight. There’s a lot of art and a lot of philosophy and political theory to sift through to in order to put together a workable 21st century identity, and the Pillows are hardly the only people to have begun making the leap. But because of a silly thing like the size of the earth, the infinitesimal size of the earth even compared to the distance between us and the next rock we’re gonna try and get to, not everybody is getting their particular brand of free thought and action, and I happen to think that’s regrettable, and it’s my will as a free individual to rectify it as much as I can.

Writing about music really is worthless, isn’t it? I haven’t said jackshit about what the Pillows actually do other than to vaguely qualify their genre and temperament, and the only more useless thing I could do than not describing their songs would be to describe their songs. If you don’t hear the bracing weightlessness in “Blues Drive Monster”, or the aching nostalgia in “Patricia”, or the soul-bearing cry in “Hybrid Rainbow” then nothing I could write about those would be more effective than “Little Busters is a really good album.” The better primer might be Happy Bivouac, from a few years later; it has the melancholic rush of “Last Dinosaur”, the ascended teenybopper “Whoa, whoa, yeah” chorus in “Backseat Dog”, and the intro that should make it obvious immediately that you’re listening to one of the best songs ever recorded which opens “Funny Bunny”. Those two, Runners High, and Please, Mr. Lostman are the classic era, selections from the former three immortalized in their biggest claim to western fame, the FLCL soundtrack, a brilliant use of their music that could warrant an equally long piece. Before and after those four are periods of experimentation and discovery equally worth your time, not all of which I’m familiar with yet. See, now I’m just an incomplete Wikipedia article; it’d be equally worthless to expound upon the individual bandmates, on the pure yawp of Yamanaka’s vocals, on the passionate drumming of Yoshiaki Manabe and the supernaturally faultless lead guitar of Shinichiro Sato, or the contribution of founding bassist Kenji Ueda, which was so valued by the others that when he left he was never officially replaced (They’re so sweet). I’m not here to write an advertisement or a press-release, I don’t really even know why I’m here writing this, but I know that I believe in the Pillows, that they’re important, and that people should write about them. I’m being the change I want to see in the world, get it? That’s all we can be asked to do.

It occurs to me that people believed in Harvey Dent too, and that didn’t turn out so well. Hell, let’s leave the comic book pages behind, people believe in Donald Trump, they think he’s a hero, and that’s all going down in flames as I write this. Having heroes can be dangerous, but I still believe it’s not as dangerous as not having heroes. “Lesser of two evils” sounds an awful lot like one of those false dichotomies between fun and intelligence or between misery and foolishness I mentioned earlier, so, let’s call it a qualified good. I’m not much of a responsible world-citizen if my only effort towards bringing the planet together is spinning some sweet Japanese alt-rock tunes and bragging about how open-minded I am, but if I do ever end up doing anyone any good, then I’d consider it paying forward the good done to me by the Pillows, among others. They helped me form my identity as an artist (Read: functional human being) and they made my adolescence a lot easier. Actually, that’s a lie: my adolescence was (And continues to be) pretty easy already, and the Pillows reassured me that I wasn’t avoiding reality by feeling that. While American bands sang about the downsides of being a mallrat or a non-mallrat, the Pillows offered a vision of teenagedome much like my own, one that was grandly romantic, in which suffering wasn’t a cosmic stupidity but a trial with pathos and merit, and joy was not an occasional indulgence but a constant presence, whether it was lived in or lost and needing recovery.

That’s the old idea of youth, the youth of John Keats, the youth that makes the old miss it, makes it required that we explain to them that it’s still there, it never left, it’s a dream, a momentary affirmation, an attitude, a muttered curse word. So many of my peers, now no longer engaged in a constant race to stay out of the grave as their ancestors were, seemed intent on beating each other into their tombs, as if reaching walking death before their parents was the only way to outgrow them. There’s so much life just lying around and it’s just plain wasteful to let it lie in the sun and rust in the rain. There’s space enough to stretch, to not keep who you are awkwardly curled up inside yourself, to breathe the air and taste the wine and dig the brains of your fellow travelers in this loosely-defined circus. I found that space in the Pillows, having often suspected it was there, and while everyone is going to find that space in their own way--or not, still, tragically not--I have to think that experience was due in part to some innate and unique quality of the music itself, not just a complimentary sensibility contained within myself. The Pillows are free, and that makes them freeing, it’s easy as that. Their liberation is plain as day; it rings in every chord, every snare-hit, every harmony; it’s up to us ascertain what we can do in our own limited capacity to hoist ourselves up to their level and give some other folks a boost along the way and a hand to grab afterwards. It’s the gift that art gives us, and the Pillows just give it more freely than most is all, which is why I think the suggestion to listen to them is more than just a solid recommendation. Like the insistence on listening to The Beatles, or The Clash, or any of the others, it’s a plea to save your soul, to learn the language of tomorrow and drink the lifeblood of peace and love and piss and vinegar, or else you’ll be lost, lost, lost.

Can you feel? Can you feel that hybrid rainbow?

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erin-hart · 4 years

Text

Self Evident

Ani DiFranco

Yes,

Us people are just poems

We're ninety percent metaphor

With a leanness of meaning

Approaching hyper-distillation

And once upon a time

We were moonshine

Rushing down the throat of a giraffe

Yes, rushing down the long hallway

Despite what the p.a. announcement says

Yes, rushing down the long hall

Down the long stairs

In a building so tall

That it will always be there

Yes, it's part of a pair

There on the bow of Noah's ark

The most prestigious couple

Just kickin' back parked

Against a perfectly blue sky

On a morning beatific

In its Indian summer breeze

On the day that America

Fell to its knees

After strutting around for a century

Without saying thank you

Or please

And the shock was subsonic

And the smoke was deafening

Between the setup and the punch line

Cause we were all on time for work that day

We all boarded that plane for to fly

And then while the fires were raging

We all climbed up on the window sill

And then we all held hands

And jumped into the sky

And every borough looked up when it heard the first blast

And then every dumb action movie was summarily surpassed

And the exodus uptown by foot and motorcar

Looked more like war than anything I've seen so far

So far

So fierce and ingenious

A poetic specter so far gone

That every jackass newscaster was struck dumb and stumbling

Over 'oh my god' and 'this is unbelievable' and on and on

And I'll tell you what, while we're at it

You can keep the pentagon

Keep the propaganda

Keep each and every tv

That's been trying to convince me

To participate

In some prep school punk's plan to perpetuate retribution

Perpetuate retribution

Even as the blue toxic smoke of our lesson in retribution

Is still hanging in the air

And there's ash on our shoes

And there's ash in our hair

And there's a fine silt on every mantle

From hell's kitchen to Brooklyn

And the streets are full of stories

Sudden twists and near misses

And soon every open bar is crammed to the rafters

With tales of narrowly averted disasters

And the whiskey is flowin'

Like never before

As all over the country

Folks just shake their heads

And pour

So here's a toast to all the folks that live in Palestine, Afghanistan,

Iraq, El Salvador

Here's a toast to the folks living on the pine ridge reservation

Under the stone cold gaze of Mt. Rushmore

Here's a toast to all those nurses and doctors

Who daily provide women with a choice

Who stand down a threat the size of Oklahoma City

Just to listen to a young woman's voice

Here's a toast to all the folks on death row right now

Awaiting the executioner's guillotine

Who are shackled there with dread and can only escape into their heads

To find peace in the form of a dream, peace in the form of a dream

Cause take away our PlayStations

And we are a third world nation

Under the thumb of some blue blood royal son

Who stole the oval office and that phony election

I mean

It don't take a weatherman

To look around and see the weather

Jeb said he'd deliver Florida, folks

And boy did he ever

And we hold these truths to be self evident:

Number one, George W. Bush is not president

Number two, America is not a true democracy

Number three, the media is not fooling me

Cause I am a poem heeding hyper-distillation

I've got no room for a lie so verbose

I'm looking out over my whole human family

And I'm raising my glass in a toast

Here's to our last drink of fossil fuels

May we vow to get off of this sauce

Shoo away the swarms of commuter planes

And find that train ticket we lost

Cause once upon a time the line followed the river

And peeked into all the backyards

And the laundry was waving

The graffiti was teasing us

From brick walls and bridges

We were rolling over ridges

Through valleys

Under stars

I dream of touring like Duke Ellington

In my own railroad car

I dream of waiting on the tall blond wooden benches

In a grand station aglow with grace

And then standing out on the platform

And feeling the air on my face

Give back the night its distant whistle

Give the darkness back its soul

Give the big oil companies the finger finally

And relearn how to rock-n-roll

Yes, the lessons are all around us and the truth is waiting there

So it's time to pick through the rubble, clean the streets

And clear the air

Get our government to pull its big dick out of the sand

Of someone else's desert

Put it back in its pants

And quit the hypocritical chants of

Freedom forever

Cause when one lone phone rang

In two thousand and one

At ten after nine

On nine one one

Which is the number we all called

When that lone phone rang right off the wall

Right off our desk and down the long hall

Down the long stairs

In a building so tall

That the whole world turned

Just to watch it fall

And while we're at it

Remember the first time around?

The bomb?

The Ryder truck?

The parking garage?

The princess that didn't even feel the pea?

Remember joking around in our apartment on Avenue D?

Can you imagine how many paper coffee cups would have to change their design

Following a fantastical reversal of the New York skyline?!

It was a joke

At the time

And that was just a few years ago

So let the record show

That the FBI was all over that case

That the plot was obvious and in everybody's face

And scoping that scene

Religiously

The CIA

Or is it KGB?

Committing countless crimes against humanity

With this kind of eventuality

As its excuse

For abuse after expensive abuse

And it didn't have a clue

Look, another window to see through

Way up here

On the hundredth and fourth floor

Look

Another key

Another door

Ten percent literal

Ninety percent metaphor

Three thousand some poems disguised as people

On an almost too perfect day

Must be more than pawns

In some asshole's passion play

So now it's your job

And it's my job

To make it that way

To make sure they didn't die in vain

Ssh

Baby listen

Hear the train?

#Spotify

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juju-on-that-yeet · 5 years

Text

Haunting

Prompt: Whumptober Day 22, Hallucination

Summary: Dr. Iplier comes down with a horrible fever and starts seeing patients he wasn't able to save.

Warnings: Hallucinating, blood, gore, body horror, disfigurement, referenced death and suicide, seriously y’all read at your own risk

Tagging: @peribloke @tired-eldritchhorror (ask to be tagged!)

Read on AO3 (Full Whumptober Series)

Enjoy...?

The fever catches Dr. Iplier by surprise, though it probably shouldn’t have. He’s been running on empty for too long, overworking himself so much that his body is taking drastic measures to get him to stop. Now, Dr. Iplier is stuck in bed, temperature climbing, as The Host watches over him and tries to keep him cool – and Yandereplier hovers nearby, worried and unsure. The pair are trying to decide when they ought to bring Plus in to help out, and if there’s anything he can do that Host and Yandere can’t do already.

Dr. Iplier, though, isn’t aware of any of this. He feels like the fever is cooking him, overheating him from the brain out. It’s hotter than hellfire, and hell is where his mind decides he must be. Everything is dark, shrouded, indistinct, but there’s people appearing before him, familiar people. People who he shouldn’t be seeing, people who died a long time ago.

Patients, of all ages, surrounding him. Everywhere Dr. Iplier looks, there’s someone he failed. Elderly people who died in their sleep, in their beds at the clinic. Little children who choked on strawberries or had allergic reactions. Accident victims who came to Dr. Iplier mangled, already halfway to the grave. People murdered, shot or stabbed or drowned or even set ablaze before their time. Overdoses, unintentional or not. People whose times of death were already written in immovable red when they arrived, and died accordingly. People who might have lived, who almost lived, if not for bad luck, complications, misdiagnoses, mistakes that Dr. Iplier made. He doesn’t make them often, but he does, and they’re here, they’re all here, moaning and wailing and cursing him for failing them.

“I miss Mommy and Daddy,” cries a little boy, face swollen and red with anaphylaxis.

“I just wanted a fix, I wasn’t supposed to die,” yells a pale, convulsing man with bulging eyes and needle marks up his arms.

“I can’t leave my dad, I’m all he has,” gasps a teenage girl pulled from a car wreck, with brown hair and barely any face left to talk with.

“My poor wife, what’ll she do without me?” asks an old man, with purple-smudged eyes and two brain aneurysms that can’t be seen from the outside.

But Dr. Iplier knows they’re there. He remembers. He remembers every single patient, every single sobbing relative, every single flatlined monitor and clouded pair of eyes.

“I’m sorry,” he wails, “I tried, I tried, I didn’t want you to die either, I’m sorry!”

(“Dad, hey, it’s okay! What are you talking about!?”

“He’s hallucinating from the fever. He may not be aware of us right now.”)

The visions get worse, the people crowd around, they wail and scream to match Dr. Iplier’s volume. Wherever Dr. Iplier turns, there’s another accusing glare.

“I was having a heart attack and you couldn’t see it,” sobs a middle-aged woman, as pale as the corpse she became.

“You should’ve waited longer to discharge me,” groans a man, bones cracked and head dented after his still-bad hip gave him a fall down the stairs.

“I didn’t mean to,” cries a little girl, one eye and half her brain blown away from the pistol she wasn’t supposed to have access to.

“I thought I wanted to die, but you shouldn’t have let me,” says a teenage boy, monotone and sad, neck stretched too long and feet swollen with pooled blood.

“I know, I know, I know,” Dr. Iplier sobs, “I failed, I should’ve been better, I’m sorry!”

(“Shhh, shhh, darling, you’re alright, you’re safe.”

“Should we get Midori-kun?”

“The Host isn’t sure. Dr. Iplier’s hallucinations won’t go away instantly, even with fever reducers. It might be best to wait it out. Dr. Iplier has done as much with the two of us before.”)

If it were only this, it would be terrible but not unbearable. If it were only human patients glaring and screaming at him, only pairs and pairs of human hands grabbing his hair, arms, legs, trying to pull him down into hell with them, trying to draw him further into the fire, then Dr. Iplier might still have enough awareness to know that what he’s seeing isn’t real. But it isn’t just human patients.

It’s egos, too. Every single one of the many, many egos that faded away and died, forgotten by the fans, but never by Dr. Iplier. Never by Dr. Iplier, who sat by them and tried to make them comfortable until their inevitable end. Who could do nothing at all but sit with them and wait for them to die. They’re here, they crowd around like the humans did, but their faces and voices are familiar, their glares and wails and accusations hurt so much more.

“I was meant to make masterpieces,” laments Artiplier in his thick French accent, crying so hard he’s nearly incomprehensible. “Didn’t you tell me I could do great things? But it was lies, you lied, menteur, menteur.” His white shirt is now stained a multitude of colors as rainbows flow from gashes and lines across his body. He never looked like that when he was alive, he was never hurt so badly, but the fever heat of Dr. Iplier’s mind makes it so.

“I didn’t, I didn’t mean…” Dr. Iplier gasps.

“You never gave me hope,” mutters the deep, droning tone of Goopiplier, his once-white ectoplasm now red and brown with blood, holes and cracking dry skin peeking through gaps in the sludge. “You always knew I was going to die. You didn’t give me any reason to hold on.”

“I’m sorry,” Dr. Iplier whimpers, “Your time was red, I couldn’t–”

“I was so happy, and just like that it was gone,” Walter Melone Warfstache moans, purple moustache dripping purple blood that runs from his nose, eyes, ears. “Did Wilford forget me, too?”

“I don’t know,” Dr. Iplier whispers, unable to speak louder, “I don’t know.”

“What about my brother?” cries the tinny, high-pitched voice of Mini Bing. He stands on exposed joints, his chest is missing metal plates, still-sparking wires poke out of his arms. His sunglasses are shattered, and one eye hangs loose, attached by a thread of optic wire that threatens to snap at any moment. His other eye leaks tears to mix with the oil flowing like blood. “Why did I die so fast? There was so much we were supposed to do together!”

“I’m sorry, I couldn’t, I couldn’t–” sobs Dr. Iplier.

“At least you both knew your brothers,” wails Weatherman Jim, his movements hampered by the mangled mess of ripped flesh and bone shards that is the entire left side of his body.

“We wanted to, we wanted to,” cries Newscaster Jim, his right side just as ruined and bloody, trying to hold Weather Jim close with his one good arm. “If you’d just kept us alive for a few more weeks, we could’ve!”

“There was nothing I could do!” Dr. Iplier screams.

“What kind of doctor are you!?” sneers the gruff, angry voice of the latest ego lost, Derek Derekson. He’s bruised so bad the skin is broken, blood is so thick in his mouth he’s hard to understand, both his glaring eyes are blackened and swollen. “You of all people ought to know that a son needs his father, and now mine’s alone because of you!”

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry!!” Dr. Iplier howls.

And he is, he is sorry. Derek was nearly as cruel as Dark and as callous as Wilford but he was still one of them, still an ego, still one of the many people that were supposed to call Ego Inc. home but never had long enough to do it. More and more egos, crowding, haunting with their familiarity, horrifying with their bodies; unbroken in life but somehow mangled in death. Dr. Iplier struggles against pairs of hands, dozens, hundreds, egos and humans both, trying to drag him under as he kicks and screams.

(“Dad, hey, calm down! Katarite-san, he’s getting worse!!”

“It’s time to get Plus. Go, The Host will stay with Dr. Iplier.”

“I’ll be right back, Dad, I love you.”

“Edward, can you hear me at all?”)

A new face appears before Dr. Iplier, one he’d never wanted to see again. He moans with terror, tears pouring as he stares into the gaping eye sockets of The Author. His signature shark-fin hair is flat and matted with blood, blood that waterfalls from his empty eye sockets, rustling the strips of dead tissue hanging over the edges and down his cheeks. All the skin without blood soaking it is bluish-white, nearly gray in places, the color and texture of a corpse. His hands are bloody as they reach out and cup Dr. Iplier’s cheeks, his teeth are bloody as he opens his mouth to speak.

“You left me,” he moans, yet in that sharp, clear tone that Dr. Iplier fell for, “You turned your back on me and left me vulnerable. I died because you gave up on me when I wanted to fix things.” His fingers creep across Dr. Iplier’s cheeks, catching tears, but the touch has no comfort in it. “You gave Dark an opening and he took it. And you lost me forever. The Host has my body and my memory, but he is not me. I’m gone. I’m gone. You let me go. You let me die.” His grip on Dr. Iplier tightens, nails digging into his head, like he means to wrench it around and snap his neck. “Do you ever miss me, Edward?” he snarls, “Do you remember what we had? Do you think about me when you let him fuck you like I used to? Does he taste like me? You moved on with him so nicely, you keep telling him you love him how he is now. Do you care at all for what you lost? Did you ever love me at all?”

“Isaac, let me go! I’m sorry, please, I love you, I love you, let me go!” Dr. Iplier wails, fighting The Author’s hands.

(“My love, I know what you’re seeing, and it’s not real! It’s alright, Edward, you’re safe, I promise you’re safe, please hear me!”

“Katarite-san, I brought Midori-kun!”

“Host, what was his temperature when you last checked?”

“Dad, Dad, you’re gonna be okay, can you hear me??”)

Finally, finally, The Author’s hands tear away from Dr. Iplier, but he can still feel the man’s blood on his cheeks, and he sobs, sobs…until a new voice, singsong and high-pitched, floats in from somewhere unidentifiable.

“Kagome, kagome, kago no naka no tori wa…”

“What–” Dr. Iplier gasps.

“Itsu, itsu deyaru, yoake no ban ni…”

“No, no, you’re not, you’re not–” Dr. Iplier sobs.

“Tsuru to kame ga subetta,” Yandere sings as he finally comes into view, “Ushiro no shoumen dare?”

“How!?” Dr. Iplier screams. “I didn’t, you didn’t–” His own tears cut him off.

Yandere stands before him with every injury he’s ever had in his skin, in his bones. His head is caved in, his jaw is cracked and hanging loose, one eye is sliced over and leaking like jelly out of the socket. His shirt is so torn to ribbons it doesn’t cover him at all, and Dr. Iplier can see his open ribcage, the bones bent away and snapped off, revealing his quiet heart and motionless lungs. The gash up his side that almost killed him is open again, and ropes of intestine spill out, flopping and twitching on the ground. Yandere holds one loop in his hand, twirling it absentmindedly, and his other hand is half-sliced off, a perfect diagonal across his fingers and through his palm. His arms are so cut up it’s hard to see the skin, his legs are crooked and bent in too many places.

“You’re right, I haven’t died,” Yandere says, words garbled from his shattered jaw. He smiles as well as he’s able, his tone is light and happy. “But I will. You haven’t failed me yet, but you will.” His good eye closes mirthfully; his bad eye shivers and rolls as it tries to copy the action. “One day you won’t get to me in time, or you’ll make a mistake, and I’ll die just like the rest of them.” He steps closer. “I almost did die, when I was a baby, do you remember? ‘Cause I do.” He reaches into his own chest with his bad hand, nudges his dead heart with the stumps of his fingers. “I remember how you didn’t even have the decency to tell me I was dying.”

“But you weren’t!!” Dr. Iplier insists.

“You thought I was, though, didn’t you?” Yandere asks. “You were so surprised when I survived. I could’ve faded away and you wouldn’t have ever let me know.” He drops the intestine in his hand and picks at the exposed tendons in his other hand instead, making his arm muscles twitch and jump. “Maybe you don’t care. Maybe you’d be happier if I was dead. Maybe that’s why you let me get hurt all the time.”

“Baby, baby, my baby, please,” Dr. Iplier bawls.

“One of these days I’ll die, Papa,” Yandere continues, still messing with his open fingers, “I’ll die horribly, I’ll bleed to death or get my head chopped off or get mangled in an accident, and it’ll be your fault. It’ll be your fault, because you’re my dad, and you’re supposed to protect me.” He reaches into his chest, squeezes his own heart until it squelches and pops under the strain. “You’ll fail me one day, Papa, you’ll fail me and I’ll hate you forever.”

“Please, no,” Dr. Iplier sobs, “Yan, I love you, I love you, please–”

(“I love you too, Papa, it’s okay, it’s okay!”

“I’ll give him an acetaminophen injection to reduce his fever. Host, help me keep him still.”

“Be careful, be careful!!”

“We’ll be very careful, Yandere. There’s no need to cry.”)

Too many hands, too many hands, pushing him down, pulling him under, deeper and deeper into that rising heat, the heat of blood and muscle, of bone marrow, of brain matter, of friction from cold hands scrabbling over each other to yank on Dr. Iplier’s hair and clothes, pulling, pulling, all the way down, into the hellfire, hotter and hotter and hotter –

(“The fever should start going down soon.”

“Is there any way he can be sedated?”

“No, it’s not safe right now. Maybe if his fever gets lower and he’s still hallucinating.”

“The Host…The Host understands.”

“You should both go and clear your heads. I can take care of him from here on out.”

“Wait, we can’t just leave him! W-We can’t–”

“Yandere, there’s nothing more we can do here. Our presence only made Dr. Iplier’s hallucinations worse, and we…we are in no condition to provide him comfort.”

“He’ll be alright, Yandere, I’ll make sure.”

“Come along, little one, The Host has s-some new books in the library he’d like to show you.”

“O-Okay…”)

Dr. Iplier, after what feels like years of heat and haze and moaning corpses, finally tires. His mind exhausts itself and Dr. Iplier finds himself dragged down a different way, not into hellish hands, but into dark and dreamless sleep. He welcomes it, welcomes anything to stop the onslaught of anguished spirits still clawing at his lab coat.

Finally, finally, he sleeps.

~~~

When Dr. Iplier wakes up, he’s still warm, but not sweltering like before. It’s still dark around him, but not foggy or strange. He looks around and sees nothing but the walls of his bedroom. There’s a weight in bed beside him, and he looks down to see Yandere, whole and unharmed, curled up and asleep, snuggled into his chest.

No spirits. No monsters. No dead. Just his bedroom, just night.

He sighs as he puts an arm around Yandere. Something nearby rustles and shifts, and Dr. Iplier looks away from Yandere to see The Host, rousing himself from sleep in the chair he’s sitting in. Perfectly normal Host, maybe a little bloodier than usual, but nothing out of the ordinary.

“Did I wake you?” Dr. Iplier asks, and realizes his voice is sore. Probably from his earlier screaming.

“Technically, yes,” Host admits. His voice is off, too. He probably cried earlier. “But I’m glad for it. I…” He pauses, unsure. “Are you alright?”

Dr. Iplier still remembers the hallucinations. He knows they weren’t real, but he can’t help but feel them all the same. He’ll probably remember them for a while. But Host is here, and he’s fine, and Yandere’s here, and he’s fine.

Dr. Iplier beckons Host closer, and Host leaves his chair to sit on the bed instead. But Dr. Iplier pulls him closer with the arm not around Yandere, and Host adjusts, laying next to him to hold him. The rustling and movement wakes Yandere, who clings to Dr. Iplier tighter.

“Are you okay, Papa?” he asks, voice small and eyes sparkling with tears. Dr. Iplier feels a pang of answering sympathy. He can only imagine how his own despair and terror looked from the outside, both to Yandere and Host. He kisses Yandere’s forehead softly and turns his head to kiss Host just as gently.

“I am now,” Dr. Iplier whispers, answering both his loved ones’ questions.

#whumptober2019 #no.22 #dr. iplier #markiplier fanfiction #markiplier #fanfic #kristin says stuff #my writing #hhhhhhhhhhh #it ends about as okay as it could've but like #idk #i just felt like going apeshit i guess

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roger1na · 5 years

Text

careful ch4 - john deacon x reader

summary: you are a ballet student at the royal ballet academy. To pay for your tuition, you work part-time at the celebrity gossip magazine, Seven. One fateful day you’re sent to interview a band on the rise, Queen, post-concert and befriend the sweetest man on the planet.

words: 4k+

warnings: swearing (and tension ;0)

author’s note: keep forgetting to mention that this fic happens in late july 1974! there are a few inaccuracies concerning brian’s illnesses and newspaper articles but, hey, it’s a fic, right? according to googe though, norwegian wood, really does have waltz time! and it’s a hella good song. thank you for all the love <3

[ch1] [ch2] [ch3] [ch4] [ch5] [ch6] [ch7] [ch8]

chapter four

Your heart was ready to burst out of your chest as you looked in the mirror on that fateful saturday morning.

Your hair was falling around your bare shoulders. You’d gone with a bright red tank top and blue overalls that cut off mid thigh, as the meteorologist had promised a hot afternoon. Nervously you pouted at the mirror and tried to look cute, but you felt ridiculously silly.

You had called Rose on friday night in a panic.

“What the fuck do I wear? I can’t just wear my training clothes they’re ugly as shit,” you were babbling on while Rose had laughed.

“You’re so nervous, it’s adorable.”

“Rose,” you had warned.

“Listen, it’ll be alright, put on something you can move in, but not something dumpy, it’s not like you’ll be bending over backwards with a couple of beginners.”

You had sighed and nibbled on your nails, the chewing sound traveling through the phone.

“Oi, don’t bite your nails, it’s a bad habit!” Rose had scolded you. You had stopped immediately, feeling slightly ashamed.

“See, I’ll do something like this, something embarrassing and he’ll leave me forever,” you had whined.

“If he leaves you for that, he was going to leave you anyway,” she had replied nonchalantly.

“Not helpful,” you had groaned and rubbed your forehead.

“It’ll be fine. It’ll be great.” Rose had insisted and you calmed down slightly. “Now go to sleep. You don’t want to be a raccoon tomorrow.”

“Don’t make me regret calling you, I was expecting support.” You had pretended to be offended. “You know what’s worse? I feel silly, like I shouldn’t be this excited for a date- or whatever you call this. Like I’m doing myself a disservice.”

“You don’t have to go all prude just because you love dance.”

“Hey!” You had snapped. “You love dance too, and when d’you last have a girlfriend?”

“Oi, that’s not what I mean, I mean, you can balance things. If you can do an arabesque you can metaphorically arabesque your life.”

“That’s the worst analogy I’ve ever heard.”

“Alright, alright,” there had been a lightness to her voice. “But I’m serious, stop obsessing, go to bed. It’s one of those ‘you’ll understand when you need to’ moments.”

“Bullshit but, I will go to bed, thank you, because I need the sleep, not because you told me to.”

“That’s right, sleep well.”

“Goodnight you righteous bastard.”

Rose had been right, it was pointless to worry about the stretch of your clothes when at most you’d probably get to the fourth position. She could’ve been right about your love life too, but you were stubborn and refused her help.

You glanced in the mirror once more before grabbing your purse and keys and heading out.

The weatherman had hit the mark, sort of. The sun was shining strongly but there was a certain electricity in the air, which entailed a thunderstorm. The hairs on your arms stood on end as your converse slapped on the hot pavement.

The tube was crowded with children on their way to the park, excitedly babbling at their parents about their last daydream. Your stomach coiled with anxiety and you squeezed your purse so tightly your knuckles turned white. You were sure you looked a right sight, and suddenly felt embarrassed. The whole world was shouting around you, perhaps about you, and you wanted to sink in through the tube floor and into the tunnel. You shuddered at the thought of the cold wetness as the metro pulled into your stop.

The address John had given you by another flashy post-it delivered to an overly curious receptionist (this time with a little doodle of his face with a poor stick figure body holding what you assumed was a bass guitar. Didn’t really look like one) lead to a small, but not rundown, studio graced with the EMI Records logo on the front door.

You knocked on the glass gently, but when nobody came to open you tried the handle and found that the door was unlocked. The hallways echoed with bickering and the occasional strum of a guitar. “Hello?” You asked, your voice caught in your throat. You coughed a bit and tried again. “Excuse me?” The sound clattered off the walls, but didn’t stop the bickering.

You continued down the dimly lit corridor with black and white checkered floor tiles and flyers and posters tacked on the walls with no apparent order or reason. Occasionally, you passed a door with a blurry window and a sign saying ‘recording room’ and a number. You pressed your ear to the wall to try and locate the guitar strumming which sounded without a doubt like Brian May’s red special.

You were concentrating on the sound on the other side of a door marked ‘recording room 3’ when the door swung open and nearly hit you on the nose. You stood there, bewildered, hands clutched over your face in a feeble attempt to protect what Rose called the ‘moneymaker’, eyes locked with John’s grey ones, which were slightly widened at the sight of you.

“Careful,” he let a soft smile rise on his cheeks. “I could’ve broken your nose.”

“Is it my fault you have such an aggressive style of opening doors,” you scolded him.

“Didn’t your parents teach you not to eavesdrop?” He raised his eyebrows and you rolled your eyes but smiled at him.

“Deaky! Who’re you talking to? Is Paul back with our coffee?” A high-pitched voice you pinpointed as Roger’s rang from the room.

“Actually, it’s your dance teacher!” You called out over John’s shoulder, then shot him a glance. “Deaky?” You whispered confused.

“Don’t mind it, it’s just a nickname,” he shrugged.

“Alright,” you smiled. “I still like John, though,” you whispered, mostly to yourself, before allowing him to gently take your hand and lead you into the studio.

You felt very exposed once you’d entered the studio, swinging back and forth on your black vans. The band (minus John) was on a little stage, tending to their instruments, Freddie’s hands set on the piano keys, as if he was hesitating to play. When he saw you got up and crossed the room to you at lightspeed.

“Hello, lovely to meet again,” he flashed his famous smile that had been subject of criticism for too long in your magazine. You returned the expression and out of the corner of your eye saw Brian and Roger get up as well, but shoving each other slightly because of what you assumed was another disagreement on the band’s next album. John shot them a signature glare and they poised themselves.

“I’m not good at dancing,” Roger had a way of speaking you could only describe as a drawl. He shook your hand lightly. You felt his calloused skin scratching your palm slightly.

“Don’t worry, we won’t be doing anything too hard today, I promise,” you replied.

“Unless she’s here to make a fool out of all of us,” Freddie grinned.

“I’m nicer than that,” you said over your shoulder before turning and shaking Brian’s hand as well. He felt miles over you in height, especially combined with his hair.

“What’s with the formalities, we’ve met before, haven’t we?” Brian’s voice was warm and his eyes glimmered in the yellow studio light.

“That’s what you do, Brian, when John brings his girl over!” Roger said in the must duh voice. “We’ve got to make a good impression.” You felt redness prickle at your cheeks. His girl? What’d they think was going on? You shared a quick glance with John, who looked equally flustered.

You were still deciding whether to say something about Roger’s little quip when John opened his mouth to tell him off. “We’re here to dance, not scrutinize each other, right?” Roger stuck out his tongue and John rolled his eyes.

“Actually, we’re here to play music and Fred had a spark of ‘genius’ and now we’re here to dance.” Brian made little air quote signs around the word ‘genius’ before smiling at Freddie fondly to remind him that he was joking.

“Right, so, what’re we waiting for?” You huffed, your hands on your hips. “We need more space, you’ll need to push some things around.” When the boys stared at you incredulously for a moment you clapped your hands. “Hey, I’m a lady, I can’t do this by myself!”

John laughed and kicked Roger’s behind as he whined while they set to clearing a space in the center of the floor. “‘M not sure I like her anymore.” He said, rather loudly, but not too maliciously and you grinned at him from where you were helping Freddie shove the grand piano into the corner of the room.

A small, square, space opened in the centre of the room and all the boys rushed to fill a spot in it, each trying to ridiculously out-pose each other, raising their chins comically high and straightening their backs to the point of bending backwards. They were all excited to compete against the ‘best-ish dancer’ prize, falling over each other like little children.

“Alright, don’t worry, I’m not going to make you dance your feet off.” You giggled and helped them adjust themselves to be in the first position, narrating your adjustments. You got to John, who seemed to have figured it out by himself. No wonder, as the first position wasn’t particularly hard, but often beginners struggled maintaining their balance standing with their feet so close.

You continued, hearing the boys get increasingly more frustrated as the positions got harder. When you got to the fourth position, Roger was practically falling over and Brian was struggling with his long legs. Only Freddie and John had managed to somewhat keep their composure.

“This isn’t my favourite thing to do,” Brian mumbled courteously.

“Fuck ballet,” Roger seconded, not nearly as polite.

“Chin up boys, you can’t ever be as good as me, why complain about it?” Freddie grinned.

“How am I doing, Y/N?” John piped up softly.

“Perfect,” you grinned. “But,” you continued, “if you all hate ballet so much, we can try ballroom dancing instead, it’s a lot easier.”

The boys nodded eagerly, except John, who was stuck on the fact that this meant he might have to dance with you and he wasn’t exactly sure of what to do with that information. On one hand, he definitely wanted to lead you, but maybe not in a room with his best mates where he’d make a fool of himself with his clumsy moves. You made eye contact with him, blush on your cheeks, unsure of what he thought of your idea. His lips twitched into a small, nervous smile and you took a shaky breath.

“Right, so, pair up. Winner, best dancer, whatever,” you waved your hands around incoherently before continuing, “gets to dance with me.” The suggestion was silly, but to be fair, you were an uneven amount and you couldn’t just kick the rest of them to the curb and let John twirl you around, though that was all you really wanted.

“Oh she’s brilliant!” Freddie smiled before rushing over to John, who still had the most flabbergasted expression on his face.

“Do you have waltz music?” You peered around the studio. There was a small box of records on the edge of the stage and you rifled through it, picking up the vinyl for the Beatles’ album Rubber Soul.

“Big fan?” Freddie piped up from where he had taken John by the hands.

“Well, uhm, this was published when I was twelve so, maybe when I was a teen? Not really, but Norwegian Wood is in waltz time.” You dusted the cover and slipped out the record, putting it in the vinyl player. “I’ll show you the steps while we wait for Drive My Car to be over, and then you can lead each other to the beat of Norwegian Wood.”

Roger insisted on leading Brian despite being several inches shorter. Freddie was swishing his hair dramatically as John grabbed his waist.

“This is the worst thing you’ve ever done to me,” he muttered to you in passing as you adjusted their positions and you stifled your laughter.

Norwegian Wood began with an upbeat strumming of a guitar.

“I once had a girl

or should I say, she once had me…”

Brian kept tripping over his feet and Roger was by far the worst dancer you’d ever seen. Freddie and John were a bit more smooth but even they had their little hiccoughs. The song ended and you lifted the needle off of the vinyl.

“You guys did so well!” You grinned.

“Don’t lie,” Roger rolled his eyes.

You burst into laughter. “Okay, fair enough, John and Freddie did really well!” Freddie looked proud and John looked embarrassed to be called on.

“So who was the best?” John asked nervously.

You smiled at him and Freddie gave him a dramatic shove forward, despite definitely knowing he was the better half. John stumbled a bit before reaching you, slightly towering over you, taking your hands into his. Freddie moved to the vinyl player to place the needle back at the beginning of Norwegian Wood. Just as the folks-y strumming of guitar began, someone, you assumed was the Paul Roger had named earlier that day. At least he was carrying a tray with four cardboard coffee cups.

You and John flew apart like scattered mice, as if somebody had walked in on something truly scandalous. You looked at the floor embarrassed as Freddie lowered the volume of the song.

“Paul!” Brian greeted and grabbed a cup that had his name scrawled on with black pen. John walked over as well and took his cup and sipped it tentatively.

Paul was a relatively tall man with shaggy, almost ginger, hair, who spoke with a subtle Irish accent. “Eh, and who’s this?” He smiled at you, but his smile was a bit forced and you were both tense with each other.

“Y/N, hi,” you held out your hand and he set the tray of cups down and shook it. His hands were slightly clammy. In the end, Paul wasn’t nasty. He was just a bit stuck up and awkward. You let it slide and gave him a warm smile. He responded with a slightly stiff one, but that was it.

“Sorry, I didn’t get you coffee, never know when Roger’s bringing a girl about.”

You went red and John scoffed. “Yeah, she’s here with me,” he took your hand, squeezing it slightly. “She’s teaching us dance, remember?”

“Sorry,” Paul didn’t even flinch and continued to serve the coffee to Roger and Freddie who had grown a bit tense. Electricity crackled in the air, like the thunder storm you had thought of this morning.

You sat down on the couch. Roger and Brian immersed themselves in more arguing, pointing to each others notes. Freddie tapped out a few absent notes on the piano. John sat next to you.

“He’s an arse, always has been, always will be.” John muttered. “Take no note of it.”

You glanced up, and looked at him for a while. The yellow lighting of the room created dancing shadows on his sculpted face and light danced in his eyes. His uneven lips twitched upward at the right corner when he noticed you staring. “What? Have I got something on me?”

You shook your head. “No.” You placed a hand on his cheek. “I was just admiring you.” The silliness of the words, the romance that you had uttered made you turn away and lower your hand in embarrassment. John was over the moon, a soft smile splitting his face.

“You’re such a dork, Y/N,” he teased you. “If only I’d have known sooner, what a softie you are.”

“Oh please,” you scoffed, turning away but occasionally looking back at him with a smirk. .

“Do you want to help with something?” He suddenly turned to you, grey eyes sparkling.

“Sure, what is it?”

He set his cup down and dragged you up by the wrists. “Hey,” you laughed. “What’s going on?” Brian glanced at you two absentmindedly, two young lovers in his mind, giggling and enjoying the world. A gentle expression crossed his face before he went back to songwriting.

“Come, I’ll show you,” John only said secretively.

He lead you out of the room, further back into the studio until you arrived at a banged up door which looked like it hadn’t been used in years. The paint was peeling and some of the letters on the door had faded off so it said ‘re o ding ro m’ with a small number six that was more of just another ‘o’ because the stem had been rubbed off.

“They closed this part of studio down because keeping six recording rooms was unreasonable.” He took out a rusty key and twisted it in the lock. “So,” he opened the door with a creak. “I stole the space.”

The room smelt of ink and electronics. “Wow,” you breathed out, in awe. Posters of bands and bassists were tacked on the room as well as pictures of his band, and an article called ‘John Deacon, shutterbug at large’ with pictures taken by him surrounding the title text. Next to the back wall was a desk with a box connected to lots of wiring on it.

“It’s great, isn’t it?” He smiled as you turned around in the room, inspecting the little details.

“It’s so cool.” You jumped around in excitement. “Does the rest of the band know about this?”

John shook his head. “They think the key to the room was lost.”

“Brilliant. And evil, John.” You teased. “What’d you need my help for?”

John flicked his right pointer finger as he realised what he’d brought you here to do, and flashed a quick smile before digging in the drawers and fishing out a boxy polaroid camera. “Will you let me take a picture of you?”

You smiled gently. “You sure? I’m not that good of a model. Or particularly pret-” John cut you off by taking your hand.

“You’re absolutely perfect.”

You hesitated before nodding. “But only if you let me take one of you as well!”

John laughed and let you take a seat and pose slightly before there was a small click and a flash before the polaroid started coming out.

The picture was black and he placed it upside down on the desk, before handing you the camera. “Alright, I have no idea how this works,” you announced, fiddling with the camera. John gave you a wide grin, showing his tooth gap, eyes wrinkling and you snapped a photo.

“We need to place it upside down, so it develops well,” he instructed and tried to take the photo.

“Oh but you promise I get this one? To take home and all?”

“Absolutely,” he assured you.

“Okay, one more, then,” you took the camera from his unsuspecting hands and turned it so you couldn’t see what picture you were taking, only knowing that John was leaning close to you, breath tingling on your cheek and looking into the black lenses.

The photo rolled out and you set it down. John was looking at you adoringly. You turned to him, hips swaying a little bit. “D’you want to finish that dance?”

John took your waist hesitantly. “That’d be nice, yeah.”

“Can you sing? Norwegian Wood?”

John thought for a bit before taking a few small waltz steps, his voice starting low and scratchy.

He lead you gently, smoothly. You glided along his arms, enjoying the warmth of his hand on your waist. And god, you loved his voice. It was deep and soft but powerful. It rumbled from his vocal chords and sent shivers down your spine.

He finished the song, slowing down the beat slightly.

“So I lit a fire

Isn’t it good, Norwegian wood?”

On the last wood of the song, he spun you around slowly, and though you knew the song was about an arsonist burning down his almost one-night-stand’s house, it did really feel as if he’d lit a fire. It burned in your chest and reddened the blush on your cheeks. It sparkled in your hands and steamed where you were skin to skin.

Time stopped. You were both still slightly swaying even though the singing had stopped. Your eyes flicked to his lips and back to look into his grey eyes. You leaned very close, you could feel his breath on your face. He smelt of earthly cologne and breath mints.

There was only a few centimetres between your lips and his when thunder rumbled throughout London and startled you so bad you ducked and fell into his arms with a shriek. You both stood in stunned silence whilst you shook in his grip.

He chuckled slightly. “Are you afraid of thunder?” You looked up, chin pressing against his chest and nodded meekly.

He stroked your hair and kissed your forehead. Fire burned where his lips touched your skin. “Don’t worry. I’ll keep you safe.” And he wrapped his arms around you tighter and rocked back and forth slightly. After a few moments had passed, he said in a low voice: “D’you want to join the others?” To which you shook your head.

“I’m fine here.” You mumbled. “Sorry, I’m a bit daft.”

You felt John’s chest shake as he barked in laughter. “You’re so silly. You don’t need to apologise for anything. I’m just as well here.”

“Thank you.” You felt bad you hadn’t kissed him. Like your chance was gone with the wind, washed down the drain with the rainwater that storms brought from the sea.

Slowly you unraveled yourself from his arms and took the photographs off the desk and smiled at the one with the both of you on it. John insisted on pinning them all on the wall, except the one of himself, which you held from his reach, reminding him that it was yours to keep.

“Like you promised!” You yelled as you let him chase you around the room a bit before he caught you from the waist and pulled you into an iron grip where you squealed with laughter, still waving the photo far from his reach. He looked ridiculously adorable in the shot, his cute smile living in the photo, hair a little messed up.

The thunder rumbled again but you didn’t hear it over your own and John’s laughter. Happiness filled your heart and love pumped through your veins.

The day passed too fast and too soon you were exchanging goodbyes at the exit of the studio. The rain was pouring outside, but the air was still hot. The other members of the band had already said their ‘byes’ and teased her endlessly but goodnaturedly about disappearing for the larger part of an hour.

“You sure you’re okay going out on your own? I can drive you again, if you want?” His voice dripped with concern and his downturned eyes seemed sad.

“John, I’m going to be fine. The cab’s waiting, and I don’t think the driver would be too fond of me just popping over saying, ‘I’ve got another ride, bye.’”

He sighed and looked at you long through those grey, piercing eyes. A clap of thunder made you jump slightly. The hairs on your arms were stood on end. You regretted wearing the tank top. John saw you shiver and shrugged of his own jacket and gave it to you. You tried to protest but he reassured you.

“You can give it back the next time we’ll see each other.”

“Next time?” You whispered.

“Yeah.”

You smiled, and on your tiptoes leaned forward and gave him a kiss on the cheek. “‘Till next time, John Deacon.”

“‘Till next time, Y/N Y/L/N.”

You ran through the rain to your cab, a goofy grin plastered across your face. If the driver had asked, you could’ve talked about this day forever, but instead, you took out the picture of John, with his kind eyes and stared at it lovingly until the cab reached your home.

‘Till next time.

***

taglist: @fourmisfits @deakysgirl @im-happy-at-home @obsessedwithrogertaylor @itsametaphorbriansblog @rhapso-kei

#john deacon x reader #deacy x reader #deaky x reader #joe!john x reader #joe!john deacon x reader #bohemian rhapsody #john deacon #deacy #deaky #joe!deaky #queen #queen imagine #this chapter was sooo fun to write uwu honestly and it’s fluffy to the max #the next one might be abit more angsty i haven’t decided yet #careful - jd

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sciencespies · 5 years

Text

Five years of thirst: S.Africa's Eastern Cape battles brutal drought

https://sciencespies.com/environment/five-years-of-thirst-s-africas-eastern-cape-battles-brutal-drought/

Five years of thirst: S.Africa's Eastern Cape battles brutal drought

Dessicated: An aerial view of Adelaide Dam in Eastern Cape Province, gripped by a brutal drought

South African farmer Steve Bothma heaved a sigh of relief when the weatherman finally predicted rain.

His excitement was short-lived. Just a few days later, the forecast changed. It was back to cloudless sunshine.

In South Africa’s Eastern Cape province, no one can remember the last proper downpour. Some say it was five years ago, others six.

“This is a disaster,” said Bothma, 51, who in his three decades working the land has never seen such dry weather.

“Older people who are 70 or 80 years old would tell you exactly the same thing,” he added.

Southern Africa is grappling with one of the worst droughts in decades—the outcome of years of absent or erratic rainfall, and temperatures that have reached record highs.

Millions are facing hunger due to poor harvests and dwindling livestock.

“It is usually beautifully green at this time of the year,” said Bothma, as a hot gust of wind swept through his sheep pen.

“But now even the pine trees are dying.”

South Africa is one of the world’s driest countries at the best of times.

Rapid urbanisation and growing water consumption have placed a strain on water reserves and caused the coastal city of Cape Town to almost run dry in 2018.

Farmer Steve Bothma separates male and female merino sheep—the animals are being sold for slaughter because of the drought

But the ongoing drought has compounded the situation.

Dam levels dropped dangerously low in October, prompting President Cyril Ramaphosa to call for “drastic measures”.

South Africa is in “a dire situation”, said Ramaphosa in October, highlighting that five out of nine provinces were badly hit.

To the slaughterhouse

Bothma has had to cull around 60 percent of his merino sheep, including lambs.

Because of the drought, he could only afford to keep 2,000 as “breeding stock”.

“Usually I keep them until they are five or six years old,” Bothma explained, as his staff selected animals for the next trip to the slaughterhouse.

The price he gets for his merino wool has plunged by around 40 percent over the past year due to the drought and a foot-and-mouth disease outbreak in the north of the country.

“The wool is full of dust and not very strong,” said Bothma.

A carcass of a cow that died from starvation near Adelaide Dam

Years of dry weather have left scars in the landscape.

Arid fields flanked the windy gravel road leading to the nearest town of Adelaide, tucked at the bottom of a mountain range.

Cows chewed pieces of wood and sheep ambled in search of food.

In town, livestock roamed the streets and nibbled at scorched grass on the golf course.

The nearest dam dried up at the start of the year.

‘Can’t wash’

Some of Adelaide’s 15,000 inhabitants had been without running water for seven months.

A South African aid group, Gift of the Givers, has been helping by delivering water to the area since April.

On a recent water mission, hundreds of people In the township of Bezuidenhoutville rushed up with an array of empty bottles, buckets, iceboxes and even paint cans.

“We are keeping it for food and drink,” said Rodney Douglas, 59, pushing a wheelbarrow piled high with plastic jerrycans.

Thirst: People stand in line for water in Bezuidenhoutville township

Assanda Sais, 38, complained that she could only spare enough water to bathe once a week and that her house was “smelling”.

“We keep dirty water to flush,” she explained.

Bezuidenhoutville’s local middle school has had to shorten its week by half a day due to the lack of water.

Many children were missing class altogether.

“Kids have to help parents to carry water,” said teacher Zeenat Gangat, sweltering as the sun beat down on the container walls of a classroom.

“They can’t wash,” she added. “They complain about stomach issues.”

Poor infrastructure

Local authorities have tried to ease the situation by connecting sections of the town to a reservoir fed by Fish River, around 50 kilometres (30 miles) away.

The water is allocated on a rotational basis, but even then the pipeline to the river is way too narrow.

The hot way home: A young man pushes a wheelbarrow with bottles filled with water

Adelaide deputy mayor Bornboy Ndyebi said the town’s pipelines were in poor shape, and Thandekile Mnyimba, who heads the regional district of Amathole, told AFP that water trucks supplied by the government had broken down.

South Africa’s main opposition, the Democratic Alliance (DA), has accused the ruling party of acting too late.

“It is only when the dam reached a very low level – around four percent—that they woke up,” said DA councillor Ernie Lombard.

Ramaphosa has sought to pin the blame on years of poor governance under former president Jacob Zuma, whom he succeeded in 2018.

“Corruption in the water sector has in no small part contributed to the situation we currently face,” he declared.

‘Can’t sleep at night’

Water insecurity could become “the biggest developmental and economic challenge facing this country,” Ramaphosa added.

Adelaide is already suffering from South Africa’s ailing economy, marked by low growth and chronic unemployment.

Close to 70 percent of the small town’s inhabitants are out of work. When houses go up for sale, they stay on the market.

The dry lands: An aerial view of the dam floor

The manager of Adelaide’s only hotel said she was worried if too many rooms were booked at the same time, as “it takes two weeks to do the washing”.

On nearby farms, high-yielding avocado trees now barely produce 10, low-grade fruit instead of 50.

Helpless farmers watch their animals succumb to thirst and hunger. Alton Snaer has lost nine of his 15 cows.

“I can’t sleep at night,” said the retired farmer.

Bothma feared that more months without rain would force him “to close the books”.

“Farmers are taking their life,” he said, eyes reddened by the dust.

Explore further

South Africa urges water restrictions as dam levels drop

Citation: Five years of thirst: S.Africa’s Eastern Cape battles brutal drought (2019, December 14) retrieved 14 December 2019 from https://phys.org/news/2019-12-years-thirst-safrica-eastern-cape.html

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lovingalexlots · 5 years

Text

Throw Back Thursday v.5

Surprise! Wait, what!? is the throwback this week. It’s one of the longer installments of the D.A.F. series and I liked how it turned out, so it’s saddening to see that it hasn’t been that popular :(

_____________

Ao3 Link

Posting date: 7-17-19

Rating: Teen and Up

Word Count: 2,215

Relationships: Merthur

Other Tags: Established Relationship, Married Life, Anniversary, Nothing goes right, EVERYTHING GOES WRONG, Fluff and Humor, Romance, Awkward Dates, Poor Merlin (Merlin), Arthur is a sweetheart

PART OF MY DOMESTIC A.F. SERIES

Summary:

Merlin is determined to blow Arthur away for their anniversary, but everything that could go wrong, made it their personal goal to do just that.This is just not his night...

(Fic below cut)

It’s almost been a year since Arthur finally made up for his sad excuse of a proposal that hectic Thanksgiving day. Arthur may have beat him to the punch for the proposal, but Merlin is dead set in knocking him out of the park for their anniversary.

He has it all planned out.

They’ll go on their usual walk through the park, but with an added romantic flare, compliment of Merlin’s free time and determination. Then he has reservations at the fancy new restaurant in town that they’ve been wanting to go to. After that, knowing how much Arthur likes sweets but refuses to say, they’ll go to the sweets factory to make handmade sweets together. Bonus: they can make some gifts to give for the holidays that are right around the corner.

Once they’re done there, they’ll go home and Merlin will surprise Arthur with tickets to their favorite band’s concert that’s happening the next town over. A two-parter date will definitely knock Arthur’s proposals on their asses.

The night was gonna be great.

However... Merlin’s luck had other ideas...

xXxXx

The first part of their walk is normal, no decorations no nothing. Around the next bend in the trail is where Merlin began setting them up. He keeps glancing over at Arthur in anticipation. He wants to see Arthur’s reaction as soon as it happens. He’s dying to know how the man will react.

They round the bend and Arthur’s steps slow. The trees along the straight part of the path are lightly sprinkled with fairy lights. It starts with just a few here and there at the beginning, then the trees gradually grow more full of lights the farther down the path they go.

Merlin’s eyes are glued to the blond. The lights twinkle in the man’s eyes, leaving Merlin to gawk at the picturesque sight. Arthur turns to Merlin with a soft look.

“When did they put these here? It’s not Christmas yet,” he says innocently. The little prat knows exactly why the decorations are there.

“Oh I don’t know, maybe they wanted to do it ahead of time this year,” Merlin huffs and turns to walk ahead. Fine, if he wants to play it that way, Merlin will just ignore the lights. Never gets any thanks for things. Why would he expect it now?

Arthur chuckles as he hurries up to walk next to Merlin again. “C’mon sour puss, I was just teasing,” he laughs, grabbing ahold of Merlin’s hand and interlocking their fingers. “How’d you manage all this?”

“I used this thing called a ladder, it helps people reach tall places.” he snarks. Instead of dignifying that comment with a reply, Arthur leans in and kisses his husband. As they kiss, something drips onto Merlin’s cheek. Confused, he pulls away. He swipes at it and it’s only water?

For a split second, he thinks maybe Arthur is crying, but has no idea why. Another drop hits his head, then one dinks the end of Arthur’s nose. Yep, definitely not crying.

That’s their only warning before a sheet of rain starts pouring down on them. The two are caught off guard and run for the gazebo that glows farther down the path. Merlin had also decorated it well, along with the second half of the trail after it. The way he set it up made it seem like the gazebo was in the middle with lights spreading out from there.

“Where’d that come from! There wasn’t a cloud all day!” Merlin whines. His plans for a romantic walk under the stars was ruined! Not only that, but now they were all wet! Should they go change before going to dinner? No, they’ll have to wait until the rain dies down. By then they could be late if they go all the way back home and then backtrack to the restaurant. Merlin’s brain goes in a million directions trying to figure out how to deal with this sudden downpour.

Too distracted to see the slap to the back of the head coming.

“Ow! What was that for!”

“I said your name like five times, Mer lin,” Arthur chastises. “We can just wait here until it dies down.”

“But I got more plans! If we wait for it to lessen up, go home and get dry clothes, and then go, we won’t make it!”

“Then we’ll go drenched.”

“ What !?”

“You heard me, nitwit.”

“But… are you sure? It’ll be uncomfortable to continue all wet like this…” Merlin raises his arms in a gesture showing how his sleeves drip, making him look like a drenched scarecrow.

“You had plans. You went out of your way to get this all set up and we’re going to go through with it. I don’t care if a little rain got in the way.”

Merlin sighs, dropping his arms and letting his head fall onto Arthur’s shoulder. A breeze blew past and it sends a shiver up his back. Arthur wraps his arms around him and they stand there holding each other. The only sound is of the falling rain

xXxXx

After a while, the rain dies down and they’re able to rush back to their car. Good thing it has leather seats, at least Merlin won’t have to hear about Arthur bitching about the material getting wet. Arthur wasn’t even that car savvy, he just liked keeping them in pristine condition like the rest of his things.

Just as Merlin thought, they didn’t have enough time to go back home to change and then go back out to the restaurant. Arthur must’ve read his mind, cause he headed there without a word.

When they get there, the place is bustling with activity. No wonder it’s a good two week wait for reservations. It was quite popular due to it having just opened and Merlin was thanking his lucky stars for being able to squeeze in a reservation.

The hostess flips through the reservations, her lips tightening into a line as she hums.

“I’m sorry, but it seems that your reservation doesn’t exist. Or it may have been written over.”

This just in: Merlin’s stars aren’t the lucky kind.

He should’ve saw this coming. With how the night has been going, he really should’ve saw this coming.

Arthur tries to haggle with the hostess, then moves onto the manager. Merlin can only stand to the side as Arthur bites the employees' heads off. He was looking forward to trying some of their dishes. Glancing over at some of the tables near them sure didn’t help his empty stomach. Was that clam chowder? It looks delicious. Or that steak. Oh, and that baked sweet potato. His stomach protests the teasing.

Sadly, they still couldn’t have dinner there that night, but Arthur did get them a rock solid reservation for a free dinner next week. He even made it a point to watch the manager put it in the logs in big inked letters and underlines just to make double sure. Even took a picture with his phone for evidence.

Sometimes Merlin forgets that Arthur is the son of a big company owner and good at getting his way. Even convincing others that it was their choice from the beginning in most instances.

Once everything is done, they leave to head over to the next thing Merlin had planned. They were a little early, but it shouldn’t change anything.

….Well…

The earliness didn’t change anything, but the candy factory being closed sure did.

Merlin had thought that it’d be less crowded due to the rain. That maybe they’d get to be a little more alone than they would have if it was a busy day. They could even snack on candy while they do it since they missed dinner.

Fate was too busy being a bitch to listen to any of his hopes.

When they pull into the parking lot, it’s completely empty. Merlin’s stomach, his just as empty stomach, drops. The emptiness is replaced by a heavy stone and a knot.

Arthur stops in front of the veranda that shields the wide walkway and entrance. Merlin gets out and goes to the door to see what’s going on.

There’s a paper taped to the inside of the door. It apologizes for the inconvenience and explains that there were complications with the machines, so they’d be closed for the next few days.

Closed.

For the next few days.

The website didn’t mention this at all. Damn thing must be outdated.

Merlin hangs his head. He’s been looking forward to everything planned for today. Yet here he is, standing in front of a closed factory, soaked, hungry, and upset. The only thing keeping him going at this point is the fact that he has one last surprise waiting at home.

At least there’s no way the last one can be ruined. There’s no reservations to be lost, no weather to affect it, and no damn malfunctioning machines to keep them away from it.

He’ll give Arthur the tickets when they get home and Arthur’s smile will make up for the rest of their misgivings throughout the day. It’ll be great. Merlin is putting his foot down, this is going to work. Fuck the weatherman’s forecast, fuck the people who lost his reservation, and fuck the damn machinists for not keeping the factory in shape. He will make this day great if it’s the last thing he does!

xXxXx

When the two arrive home, Merlin rushes into their bedroom before Arthur can even take the keys out of the lock. He blinks after the man in confusion, not knowing what Merlin’s deal was.

Arthur is setting his shoes aside when Merlin comes back.

“I know today kinda went to shit --well, it did go to complete and utter donkey doo-- but I have one more thing for you,” he says before handing the blond a small rectangular box. Arthur snorts at Merlin’s weird phrasing, observing the box that was thrust into his hands.

It looks like it was used to hold a bracelet or something in the past, but it’s way too light to be holding jewelry at the moment.

He opens the box and in side lies two slips of laminated cardstock advertising their favorite band. Two tickets to go see them live in concert. The address says it’s going to be held in the next town over after the holidays.

A moment passes. Arthur just stares at the tickets with an unreadable expression. Merlin is growing more and more anxious about his husband’s reaction. He keeps himself from biting his cuticles as he waits.

Out of nowhere, Arthur bursts into a laughing fit. The anxiety subsides a little. He’s laughing cause he’s happy about the tickets, right?

The blond reaches deeply into his jacket and pulls out a white envelope, then takes two, identical tickets out of it. They’re slightly damp, but undamaged. In fact, they’re even in the same row as the ones Merlin got.

Arthur hands them over for Merlin to see them better. All the while, the man continues to laugh. Laugh like-like Merlin just told the funniest joke ever!

His hands start shaking and the words on the tickets blur. Every plan for the day has failed. The work he put into setting up their walk, the hoops he had to jump through to get the reservations, the thoughtfulness he put into each activity was thrown in the gutter. The garbage-ridden, muddy, flooding gutter. The tickets were his last hope of preserving the day and they failed .

And now…. Now Arthur was laughing at him.

The tear that falls down Merlin’s cheek stops Arthur in his tracks.

“Merlin?” he asks cautiously.

“Every--Everything went to shit, and now you’re laughing at me… I tried so hard to make today fun and great, but I failed and now you’re laughing in my face…” his voice is a little shaky as he speaks, fighting to keep more tears from falling. Add that to the list of things Merlin has failed at doing that night.

Arthur wipes some of Merlin’s tears away with his thumb. “I wasn’t laughing at you . I was laughing because look,” He holds the four tickets next to each other for Merlin to see, “We know each other so well that not only did we get the same gifts, but out of the whole concert hall, we chose the same row. They’re practically right next to each other.”

Merlin sniffles. “Yeah, that is kinda crazy,” he admits.

“You know what, let’s get out of these ridiculous clothes. How’s a hot shower sound? I’m freezing, I know you probably are.” WIth that, he sets the tickets down on the hall table and ushers Merlin up to their ensuite bathroom.

One of the perks and deciding factors when they bought the house was the large bathroom connected to the master bedroom. The tub was equipped with jacuzzi add ons, the sink had plenty of counter space, and the shower fit both of them .

All factors they used to their advantage quite frequently and in many ways. That night being one of the instances where they used them all…

The day might have been shot, but at least it ended with a good bang. Quite several, actually.

#merthur fanfic #merthur #Merlin fanfiction #merlin #throwback thursday #anniversary

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