#TV Woke Up From the American Dream

[ausetkmt]

The New York Times: In 2022, TV Woke Up From the American Dream

In the Peacock series “Killing It,” Brock (Scott MacArthur), an Everglades snake hunter and would-be YouTube influencer, gets shot in the face in an altercation over a sack of python eggs. It is the best thing that has ever happened to him.

The shooting leaves Brock minus one eye. But it’s captured on video, and the upload gets millions of views, giving him the lucrative viral success he’s wanted for years.

“American dream!” he says, beaming. “Getting shot in the face!”

On TV, 2022 has been the year of the American dream — with a catch. For many of the hustlers, entrepreneurs and strugglers onscreen, that aspiration still exists. But as Brock experienced, it can cost you an important part of yourself.

“Killing It,” created by Dan Goor and Luke Del Tredici of “Brooklyn Nine-Nine,” slipped under many TV watchers’ radar last spring, including, mea culpa, mine. In its first episode, it seems like a simple, wacky buddy comedy: Craig Foster (Craig Robinson), a Florida security guard with dreams of starting a prostate-supplement business, teams up with the ride-share driver Jillian Glopp (Claudia O’Doherty) in a contest to exterminate invasive pythons.

But as the season goes on, it becomes a broad, big-swinging satire of an adversarial economy that can seem to be booming and busting at the same time. (Tim Heidecker has a boisterous turn as a testosterone-pumped motivational speaker who preaches the philosophy of “Dominine,” which is one more than “dominate.”)

As Craig, Jillian and their opponents claw toward their prize, one foot of dead python at a time, they give us a tour of the hustler’s mirage, in which the promise of riches shimmers on the horizon, all yours if you only go to one more paid conference, pitch two more investors, take three more jobs.

The work experience of Jillian, an Australian immigrant, is especially bleak-comic. She drives an Uber that tows a mobile billboard (which doubles as her home), gets a TaskRabbit stint helping a rich woman (D’Arcy Carden) perpetrate a tax-fraud scheme and takes a job murdering birds at an airport, all with a heartbreakingly cheerful spirit of optimism.

The comedy is grotesque and blunt — Craig spends one episode with a dead snake nailed to his palm — but sneakily smart. In this hunt for the American dream, it says, every life form must find a lower life form to kill. And while the series is set in 2016, three years before the first stirrings of Covid, it feels pandemic-adjacent in its focus on the stratum of the work force for whom work is risky, physical and in-person. You cannot drive an Uber, or shoot a nail gun into a python’s skull, over Zoom.

The pandemic plays explicitly in Season 2 of Starz’s strip-club melodrama “P-Valley,” about a line of work that is defined by in-person interaction. The proprietor of the Pynk nightclub, Uncle Clifford (a resplendent Nicco Annan), who is nonbinary and uses she/her pronouns, spends much of the season sporting a bejeweled mask, enforcing 2020-era Covid protocols while trying to keep her business afloat at 50 percent capacity.

The Pynk is a magnet for dreams, and not only naughty ones. The “P-Valley” creator, the playwright Katori Hall, respects her pole dancers as artists and athletes, and she recognizes their work for what it is: a job that manifests the economy tangibly, translating desire into dollar bills flying in the air.

And because dancers age out so quickly, the job also renders the pressures of the economy in time-lapse: You have just a few years to rise up the pole before your tiring muscles pull you back down.

Every dancer enters the Pynk with an eye on something else — a showbiz life, a business career, or simply escape — but one of the most affecting journeys of Season 2 belongs to Mercedes (Brandee Evans), who comes to realize that she has reached retirement age without having figured out her next step. “You’re just going to have to learn how to dream new dreams,” Uncle Clifford tells her. That’s the price of dreaming: You can’t afford to wake up.

The summer’s surprise buzz phenomenon, FX on Hulu’s “The Bear,” focused on the pressures of a different sort of service industry. Carmy (Jeremy Allen White), a high-end restaurant chef, comes home to run his family’s struggling Chicago sandwich joint after his drug-addicted brother’s suicide. The pandemic isn’t a factor in the story. But the show’s depiction of work as a kind of barely restrained combat (which sometimes boils over into actual combat) feels like a bespoke fit for the post-reopening economy of labor shortages and supply chain issues.

The memorable, high-decibel work sequences make “The Bear” look and sound like a war story that happens to take place in a kitchen. Work here is furious, violent and relentless. Flames roar up the sides of pans, pots clatter like artillery, slabs of beef are dragged and hoisted like casualties. Hands are burned, fingers slashed; the pace of the prep rush turns the kitchen staff into sweating, shouting bodies, meat cooking meat.

All the while, Carmy flashes back to memories of being mocked and belittled by his Michelin-starred boss in the restaurant where he used to work. At times, you wonder why he chooses to stick with this job that often makes him so unhappy. In the season finale, reminiscing about his brother at an Al-Anon meeting, he seems to hit on an answer: Sometimes our dreams are not ours alone, nor are they even our choice. “Me trying to fix the restaurant was me trying to fix whatever was happening with my brother,” he says. “And, I don’t know, maybe fix the whole family.”

In politics, “the American dream” has long been used aspirationally, to evoke family and home. But as my colleague Jazmine Ulloa detailed earlier this year, the phrase has also lately been used ominously, especially by conservative politicians, to describe a certain way of life in danger of being stolen by outsiders.

The typical counterargument, both in politics and pop culture, has been that immigrants pursuing their ambitions help to strengthen all of America. (The Dream Act has its name for a reason.) But some recent stories have complicated this idea by questioning whether the dream itself — or, at least, defining that dream in mostly material terms — can be toxic.

The third season of Hulu’s “Ramy,” starring the comedian Ramy Youssef as a rudderless young Muslim from an immigrant family, takes on the theme directly. The title character’s parents, Maysa (Hiam Abbass) and Farouk (Amr Waked), have found prosperity tantalizingly out of reach, signing up with ride-share and grocery-delivery apps in their middle age.

Maysa has grown resigned, but Farouk remains in a poignant unrequited love affair with the dream. He chases real-estate deals; he gins up a hapless business selling ad space on takeout containers; he fantasizes about appearing on “Shark Tank.” (Ramy, meanwhile, has hit it big in the jewelry business, having partnered with some contacts in Israel, but finds himself more spiritually adrift than ever.)

In the season’s final episode, Maysa and Farouk, having come across a stash of hallucinogenic mushrooms, reminisce about their early days in the country when they would feed Ramy and his sister hot dogs, not knowing they contained pork. Stoned, they make a run to buy convenience-store franks, bite into the seductive, non-halal treats and realize that they taste disgusting. “Why did we sell our souls?” Farouk asks. “We gave it all up for hot dogs.”

Most recently, Hulu’s “Welcome to Chippendales” — about another kind of commercialized American meat — reconsiders the immigrant dream from the vantage of success. The story of Somen Banerjee (Kumail Nanjiani), the founder of the male-stripper empire, it is in many ways of a piece with this year’s glut of scam-and-scandal docudramas; it’s a rise-and-fall series in which the fall is less interesting and takes twice as long. (The creator, Robert Siegel, gave us the prosthetic fantasia “Pam & Tommy” earlier this year.)

The series stands apart, though, for showing how Banerjee, born in India, uses a learned idea of American appetites to pursue a received idea of the American dream. In some ways, being an outsider makes his success possible — much in America is novel to him, so he’s receptive to new ideas (like seminude dancers in bow ties).

But his embrace of Americanness (for instance, he goes by “Steve” rather than “Somen”) cuts two ways. He experiences racism before and after he hits it big, but he also uses discrimination as a business tactic, ending up in court because of a scheme to bar Black patrons (whom, he concludes from experience, will make white customers see his club as less “classy”).

Banerjee has perhaps internalized the American dream too thoroughly. He gets his first intimation of this when he returns to India for his father’s funeral, his suitcase stuffed with gifts of electronics and Velveeta, hoping to be welcomed as a conquering success. Instead, his mother scolds him for leaving the family printing business to run a fleshpot. “We are middle-class people, Somen,” she says. “We did not need saving by America.”

He leaves, weighed down with rejection and processed cheese. Beyond his mother’s personal disappointment is the verdict that he has stopped being himself, but in the process he has not really become a new person either. He is simply a reflection of another culture’s artifice, an imitation of an imitation.

This is the danger of the American dream when you scale it down from the national to the individual level. You risk devoting your life to wanting something because it’s what you’ve been told you should want. Everybody loves a Cinderella story, but sometimes your dream, in reality, is just a wish somebody else’s heart made.

and Women started directly responding to bs,

whoooooops, guess that blew his wig uhhhruh back

yeahhh..

[littlegrapejuice]

Saved his life | LS2

Pairing: Logan Sargeant x Reader

Summary: You come to check on Logan after qualifying at the Dutch GP, hoping to lift his spirits.

Author's Note: ok so this literally came to me in a dream😭 logan's replacement was announced on tuesday (still crying about it btw) and istg i woke up wednesday morning after having lived this plot during my sleep

You had been seeking him out after FP3, and were once again seeking him out after qualifying. Logan was nowhere to be found and you worried about the state he mentally was in since his crash. The backlash from his team as well as journalists had blown out of proportion, for they were all focusing on the damages suffered by the car before considering the health of the driver.

Similar to you, Logan's fans were doing their best to support him and wondered about how he was doing. You had seen many comments online about people complaining that neither Williams - as in James Vowles - nor commentators had expressed an interest in the well-being of the driver, only talking about ruining a newly upgraded car - which would be proven illegal later on.

Scouring the paddock, you were now going from garage to garage looking for Logan. Obviously, you had first gone to the Williams one but without any success in finding the American. You hadn't even known at first if he was actually at the track, but a quick shot of him on the TV screen had confirmed you that he was indeed in his garage.

This is why as soon as qualifying ended, you had waited for George to come back to the Mercedes garage so that you could notify him that you were leaving for the time being. You had plans together later tonight, meaning that he didn't mind you doing whatever you wanted until then.

And that's thus how you were still walking around the paddock, praying that it wouldn't take much longer to find Logan.

As you then thought you had seen him from afar, someone obviously had to come up to you and stop you in your tracks. You turned around at the tap on your shoulder and was met with a blonde driver, but not quite the one you would've rather faced.

"Hi Max," you said with a smile.

"Hey, you alright?" He asked both because he was genuinely interested in your answer and because he couldn't help but notice you frantically looking around.

"Yeah, I'm good! Congrats on P2, that's great at your home race." You gave a last glance to the side and decided to temporarily abort your mission as you had unfortunately lost sight of who you thought had been Logan.

"Thanks, I wish I could've gotten pole but I'll get the first place from turn one so that's alright."

"I'll be internally rooting for you, but you know I'll have to stick to my roots and publicly support my team."

"Of course," Max replied. "The Red Bull garage is always open if you ever feel like changing your mind. We also probably have better food than Mercedes." He let out a smile at your laugh before scratching his throat, as if he was thinking about his next words. "Listen, I-"

"Sorry Max," you apologised as you checked your watch and got afraid you would miss logan leaving the track. "I'd love to talk more with you but I was on the way to do something important so please make it quick."

"Yeah, hmm... did you have the chance to visit the city and its surroundings? I was thinking that..." Max hesitated before he saw you nodding at him, silently telling him to continue. "We could grab a drink or some food later on, and I can show you around? Seeing as this is my home country, I'm pretty familiar with it so I could give you a proper tour and you'd see things that you would never see with a regular tour guide and-"

"Sounds lovely yeah!" You felt pretty bad for interrupting him once again, but the clock was really ticking and you were getting more nervous. "I already have something planned for tonight though, so maybe another day?"

"Well, there's only tomorrow left then. After the race?" He suggested with hope in his tone.

"I'll get back to you on that. Depending on who's winning, I might be celebrating someone else you know."

"Of course, but I'm pretty confident that I can score another victory here."

"Great, then that's settled! Super cool to chat with you Max, I'll see you later." You waved at him and quickly started walking again to the direction you had last seen Logan several minutes ago.

You were gone so fast that you hadn't even heard Max telling you that he would text you his request again, as he had sensed that your focus had been on all but your exchange with him. You liked Max to be honest; he was a really sweet guy and could easily match your energy as a fellow yapper. However, he had chosen the worst moment to strike up a conversation with you. Thinking about how you could repay it to him next time you'd see him - probably tomorrow, all your stress was going away as you finally found the person you were looking for.

You stopped close enough to him that he would notice you, but a few metres away so that you had time to catch your breath without it being too obvious that you had been almost running around for him.

As he called out your name, you couldn't help the smile that lit up your face.

"You're good?"

"I am now, thanks. Been searching for you, you know? You're quite hard to find," you told him in complete honesty with a light laugh.

"Really?" Logan was surprised by your words. He hadn't expected anyone to come talk to him today, except for his teammate Alex or a couple drivers texting him for a check up.

"Yeah," you nodded. "I couldn't see you after practice earlier and I thought talking to you face to face was better than a text so yes, I was looking for you."

If you and Logan weren't surrounded by hundreds of people, he would definitely shed a tear at your kindness - not like anyone was actually paying attention to the both of you as you were on the side of the path. He didn't think a headline consisting of F1 Driver Logan Sargeant seen crying while talking with F1 Driver George Russel's long-time friend was a good idea though.

"And you wanted to talk to me about something important?" He wondered.

"That's what I said", you replied. "I wanted to talk to you, about you, I guess."

"That's not super-"

"It is," you immediately interrupted him before he could finish his sentence. You knew what he was about to say and you were definitely not letting him give voice to his thoughts. Seeing as he was still taken aback by your words, you kept going. "You're important, Logan. More than a random chassis, or an engine, or whatever they put in the shit car that they make you drive."

Hearing your own sentence, you were about to apologise for the strong opinion - Logan was driving said car so you didn't know if you were right to comment on it - but the chuckle that came from the American stopped you from doing so. It didn't last long as Logan quickly covered his mouth, thus shutting down the sound, but you suddenly wished you could hear it again.

And not because you're trash talking his team, but because you're, let's say, watching a movie together and a funny scene comes up; or because you're walking around a park and he laughs at your clumsiness when you almost trip on a random rock.

You just wished, right now, that you weren't at the track, in this paddock, with all those cars and people around. You just wanted to be with him, in a quiet place where you could just enjoy each other's presence without having to worry about a team principal that didn't take his driver's needs into account or about journalists that couldn't seem to see the human aspect of a driver behind the suit and helmet.

Your thoughts were however soon interrupted when a hand appeared in front of your face.

"Hello? Earth to whatever planet you're on?" Logan had a smile on his face. He wasn't laughing anymore but he didn't seem annoyed either at your silence. "Did you get lost in your mind?"

"Possibly", you answered with a nervous laugh. "Sorry, won't happen again."

"It's fine, don't worry."

You could see Logan was genuine in his eyes. The way they were being lit up by the sun suddenly made you wonder about what was hidden behind it. They often say that eyes are the mirror of the soul; but for now, you could only see yourself in Logan's.

"Hey Logan," you said after a few seconds of silence. He glanced down at you, which you took as a sign to continue. "Do you wanna hang out with me tonight? I- hmm I have this dinner with George, Lando, Alex, and their girls. And it could be nice of you to join. I mean, if you want to of course, and if you don't have anything planned already but yeah, that'd be cool. I'd like that."

When Logan didn't reply, you started to think that it was over and that your stress was so obvious, and that he wasn't going to accept the offer. But then:

"I'd love to." Your gaze was now filled with hope, until the next words left Logan's mouth. "But I think I need to be alone tonight. It's absolutely not against you or the others, but today hasn't been the best day for me as you obviously know and even though it could lighten up my mood, I'd rather focus on tomorrow's race."

"Oh, hmm... okay, yeah... I totally get it, no problem."

Logan was not dumb; he noticed your immediate change of attitude as you lowered your gaze, so he decided to add on to his explanation:

"It's just a raincheck, you know? I'm not going out tonight, but I'd absolutely be down for another day if we both find the time. Sounds good?"

"Yeah!" You nodded with a smile. "Raincheck, okay, got it."

"Sorry to cut this short, but I gotta go for now." Logan gave you a smile before checking his phone. "I'll get back to you for a hang out, but thanks for taking the time to talk with me. I truly appreciate it."

"It's normal, we're friends so... I wasn't really thinking twice about it."

"Then thank you for that as well. We'll see each other later, right?"

"Of course," you confirmed. "Race's tomorrow so at least then, goodbye for now Logan."

"Bye, take care."

He gave you a quick hug before departing, and next thing you knew, he was gone. You then turned around, ready to exit the paddock and go back to your hotel, so that you could get ready for your dinner tonight with your friends.

.....

"George, hey!" You called out to him as you saw him from afar. "Thanks for waiting, sorry I'm a little late."

"No problem," he replied. "I sent Alex and the girls inside to keep us a table. We're just missing Lando, but I think he'll be here soon."

As if on cue, you had received a text. Thinking it was from the curly haired man, you opened it in front of George before reading the sender and the content of the message.

Hi! Regarding our conversation from earlier, I decided to formally ask if you wanted to grab dinner with me tomorrow night after the race?

A smile unknowingly took place on your face, and George couldn't help but notice it.

"What's got you all happy?" He asked before adding a comment. "You're even blushing so I guess this is not Lando."

"It's no one," you said as you immediately locked your phone before George could look at the screen. "Just a friend I'm supposed to catch up with tomorrow."

"You have friends other than us in the Netherlands right now?" A familiar voice questioned from behind you.

"Lando!" George exclaimed as the last of your group was finally here. "Hey mate. Congrats on pole. Good quali you did there."

"Thanks man." Lando glanced at you while the three of you started walking inside the hotel, towards the restaurant. "So what's this about a friend of yours?"

"Drop it Lando," you replied, annoyed - although you could truly never be annoyed with him. "I'll tell you all about it when it's over if you still wanna know after the weekend."

"Of course I will! I'll even bring that up in the groupchat so you'll have to tell this wonderful and absolutely not suspicious story to everyone," Lando laughed as he nudged your side.

Thankfully, neither George nor Lando had brought up the topic with the others, even though they were still curious on what you were hiding. You were glad that they didn't because how could you even explain to them that you would be going out to dinner with a fellow driver? You honestly didn't think they would mind, but you also didn't want them to go and bother said driver when you knew that the paddock's walls had ears everywhere.

Hoping that it would be fine to reply to the text later, you had therefore waited until you were back in your hotel room to agree to the offer. Tonight's dinner had been amazing and you were always happy to spend time with your friends whom you didn't see much, but tomorrow's would be something even more special as it would actually be your first time hanging out one on one with the driver you were maybe fancying.

Before forgetting, you also decided to notify your friends of your plans - omitting the driver aspect of the 'friend' you would be seeing after the race - so that they wouldn't be surprised to not see you attend any celebration. Of course you would try and spend some time with the winner if he was part of your friend group, but at least you were in the clear to not go party all night with them.

.....

And you had never once regretted not attending the party that had celebrated Lando's win at the Dutch Grand Prix. He had told you that day after the race that you would have a myriad of other chances to attend another one as he was planning on winning more and more often - which he did.

Tonight's party, however, would be in your honour. As well as Logan's. And you couldn't see yourself anywhere else than here, in front of him. You truly didn't think you would one day end up in this situation, and neither did he. Logan hadn't really expected to experience such an event in his life, but he eventually did, all thanks to you.

You had saved his life. That day, when you reached out to him after qualifying, was unknowingly a turning point in his life. He had been at his lowest. He had known what would certainly happen following the Grand Prix; he had been expecting to be let go after the disastrous performances he was giving.

Knowing didn't make it less painful though.

He did get dropped by his team, Williams, which you cursed for as long as you could and still did from time to time. And even if Logan had achieved being a Formula One driver - which no one could ever take away from him, he had still felt like he was worthless after it happened.

He hadn't known how to process the sudden end of his short time on the grid and felt lost for a while, wondering about what would define him as a person now that the dream he'd had since he was a child was over.

But you had made him believe that it wasn't the end of the world and that something else was waiting for him. He could've ended it all, but you showed him a glimmer of hope and he chose to keep going, see what else was in store for him. He still had a future. And he had been right to trust you, as he was now here, facing you and about to be making you his. Only two words left to say before doing so.

'Thank you', he mouthed to you before the long-awaited sentence was to be heard out loud. "I do", he then confirmed without tearing his gaze away from your face.

..........

Okayyyy so this it lol

Hope y'all liked it🫶🏻 this was my 1st time ever writing for a driver since i got into motorsports and I feel really happy w it!! Thanks to my brain for making me dream ab logan, i think it kinda helps me cope regarding him not being the grid anymore (i miss him sm chat)

Idk when I'll write again for a driver if i ever do so, but don't hesitate to give feedback on this so that ik how to approach a future work🤍

[godmadeaterribleerror]

Chapter 2 - A New Kind of Tension

Series Masterlist

Author's Note: Chapter title from American Idiot by Green Day.

Word Count: 5.8k

Chapter Summary/Warnings: Soldier Boy is woken up, and you have to deal with the pitfalls of your idea. Contains usual warnings.

Tags: Soldier Boy/Supe!Female Reader, canon divergence, enemies to friends to lovers, canon divergence, slow burn.

Read on A03!

Chapter 1 - Chapter 3

Want to be tagged? Just ask!

When he was forced into this type of sleep, Ben didn’t dream. This type of sleep was more like death, with no part of him alive in any way that mattered. But in the few seconds before he woke, with chemicals leaving his system and consciousness returning, he felt pain.

Borderline unbearable, exhaustive and consuming pain. The last few times he had been woken up, the pain had made the bomb in his chest start to tick, tick, tick, building up and up, off the beat from his heart until they found a rhythm, and he would explode.

It never relieved all that pain, but fuck him if it wasn’t cathartic.

Every time he had woken up in Russia, he’d fought the scientists like a fucking animal. When that assfuck, traitorous Brit and his cum guzzling team had found him, Ben hadn’t hesitated to use teeth and fire, hellbent on getting out, on getting home. This time wasn’t any different, the beat in his chest was already banging against his ribs, save for the stark exception of his surroundings.

He wasn’t in a clean lab or disgusting tube. He was in a suburban living room, complete with potted plants, one of those new and weirdly flat TVs, and some of the most boring paintings of roses he had ever fucking seen. Not a single person was in sight, no tubes were hooked to his body, and no cannon barrels or gas-filled vents sat in his vision. A small part of him hesitated, wondering if he was suddenly dreaming, his body having adapted to fight back and allow him some hazy peace. But the fever in his chest was growing, and there was no goddamn world where he would ever find suburbia and floral-patterned carpets peaceful. No, this was someone’s attempt to trick him, to make him compliant. Maybe Vought, maybe the Reds, maybe the CIA, didn’t matter. They all died the same.

The nuclear explosion from his chest lit the room, tearing out of him with a rush. Ben braced himself for bullets and grenades as his captors realized their little plan had failed, but none came. And as the dust cleared, he realized that not only were there no soldiers dropping from the sky or weapons hurling at his body, but everything was… exactly the same. Well, the plants had been burnt to a crisp, but that was the only evidence of his power having ripped through the room. The TV was still smooth and clean, the sofa hadn’t moved an inch, and the paintings hung evenly on the walls.

What the fuck.

He paused, the drum in his chest having stilled, and listened. Bird song, running water below the floor, electrical hums through the walls, and…

There it was.

Heartbeats.

Five heartbeats. All sped up, all bouncing around in the chests of their owners. Three moved heavily and quickly, one rapid and staggered—that one reeked of terror—and one beat only a single mark off from steady, almost as if it were devoid of any fear. Interesting.

Ben searched the room for a camera, but settled on looking in the direction of the heartbeats.

“I know you’re there,” he drawled. “I can fuckin hear you. Come out, you pussies.”

There was a pause, all five heartbeats having stuttered at his words, before a door creaked down the dark, sconce lined halls, and footsteps sounded towards him.

The people who stepped from the shadows into the living room should thank the Lord that Ben didn’t kill them the moment they were in the light. Grace Mallory, the thin-lipped bitch, watched him wearily, with the backstabbing Billy Butcher to her left. Only a step behind them was the blonde broad that had blasted him in the face at Vought Tower, accompanied by her and Butcher’s gangly cocksucker. The only one he didn’t recognize stood at the very front, a woman who was looking at him with sharp eyes, arms crossed in front of her body and legs planted apart. This was the holder of the steady heart, unsurprisingly given her collected stance and cold gaze. It was almost amusing, the way she was looking at him, like she was a lion and he was a gazelle, like if she glared her lovely eyes at Ben enough, he might drop dead. But he turned his eyes from her tiny fury to Butcher and Mallory, giving them a smirk that made his murderous intentions clear.

“What the fuck is this?”

It was Butcher who answered, returning the false smile. “This is an intervention, mate. You have a problem, and we’re here to help.”

“The only problem I have is you. If you had half a brain, you’d start running.”

“Really? Because to me,” Butcher’s smile didn’t falter as he gestured around the room. “It seems like you’re having some performance issues.”

“Don’t make him angry,” the cocksucker mumbled from the back. Butcher only rolled his eyes in response.

“This, Soldier Boy, is an opportunity. We’re giving you a second chance to help us with Homelander.” Mallory said, watching Ben carefully.

“A second chance?” It was Ben’s turn to roll his eyes. “You should be grateful that I might not kill you all when I leave.”

“I’d start playing nice, Soldier Boy.” The blonde stepped forward with a scowl. “You don’t have the upper hand here."

"Oh, please, you blast me down once and think you’re some sort of god? You caught me off guard that time, doll. This time, you won’t be so lucky.”

Blondie opened her mouth to retaliate, but Butcher snorted first, a newer, more twisted grin on his face.

“Starlight’s no god, but she is,” Butcher nudged the steady-hearted newcomer forward. “Meet your new babysitter. Go on, Love, say hello.”

The woman stumbled slightly at the push, her already strong frown deepening, and had barely turned her anger to Butcher when Ben started to laugh. All eyes fell to him as he gave a loud snort of amusement, a broad grin on his face.

“Jesus,” he wheezed. “Didn’t think you were funny, Butcher, but that’s a fucking riot.”

“We’re being serious,” Starlight snapped. “You answer to her now.”

“Yeah,” Ben rolled his eyes, giving his alleged keeper a once over. “Sure. Sunshine over here is going to stop me from ripping all your heads off your bodies. Fuck, she won’t even stop me leaving this room.”

“Wanna bet?”

Ben paused as the woman spoke for the first time. It wasn’t just her heartbeat that was level and even. Her voice was smooth, unbreaking and calm with not a trace of anxiety. Her eyes were still watching him coldly, her pretty face set like a mask.

“Excuse me?”

“Would you like to bet that I can’t stop you?” She repeated slowly, as if he were a child.  “I’d advise you not to, but I don’t think you’d care for my opinion.”

“You think you can stop me, Sunshine? Are you fucking stupid?”

“No, but I don’t think my intelligence matters here. You’re not walking out that door.”

Part of Ben wanted to start laughing again. At her blatant lack of self-preservation to go up against him and not flinch. At her smooth claim of intelligence but painfully clear lack of understanding about the situation she was in. At her companions, who had all stepped back, undoubtedly realizing that their gambit had failed and leaving her in his line of fire.

Part of him wanted to be quick and brutal, make her an example before he left. But it wasn’t worth it, and her face was too nice to ruin, so he settled to just walk past her. He’d kill Butcher on his way out and figure out what he wanted to do from there.

He only had to take three long strides to reach the hall, making to just move past the woman, but she side-stepped, blocking his path. Ben looked down at her, finding his amusement at her misguided boldness fading into annoyance.

“Move, Sunshine. I’ll only ask once.”

She met his glare, no break in her resolve. “I’d say the same to you, Grampa.”

“I’m warning you. I’m not above hitting a lady.”

“I thought you were only going to ask once.”

That was it. Ben moved to grab her, to shove her aside and end her pointless little charade. He didn’t have time for her frivolous, self-indulgent bullshit, he had tried to warn her, and at this point her blood was really just on her own hands.

It happened fast. He reached to push her, she didn’t flinch, her face looking almost bored as Ben lunged, and his hand had barely landed on her arm before he let go, recoiling from her with a roar.

“What the fuck!” He looked at his hand, now raw and red, with blisters fading as soon as they had formed. His gaze shot to the woman’s unbothered face, she herself having neither flinched nor wavered. “Did you just fucking burn me?”

“I warned you,” she said. “I don’t play games I can’t win.”

Ben looked past her, where the small group remained, having retreated down the hall. Butcher’s face was painted with deep amusement as Starlight and Mallory held twin looks of satisfaction. Only the cocksucker still looked afraid, but his nervous eyes were trained on the woman, as though she might blow to pieces at any second.

“Somebody better start talking,” Ben growled.

“We tried to tell you, Governor,” Butcher said with an overly dramatic sigh. “She’s in charge here.”

“You think this will hold me? I-“

“You were unprepared, we got lucky, it won’t happen again. We all heard the speech you gave Annie.” The woman cut him off with a snort. “You need to start getting it into your head. You do not have the upper hand. The sooner you do, the sooner we can actually do something productive instead of peacocking like idiots.”

Ben stared at her, the drum in his chest growing loud once more, his anger serving as fuel. He didn’t bother to try and control it, simply letting it set to his heart and build and build. Just before the sound could drown out all his other senses, he heard the woman yell.

“Everyone out!” Her voice was slightly alarmed, but laced with no panic. And as the door slammed down the hall, Ben realized her heartbeat hadn’t retreated. She was still right in front of him. He hoped this hurt.

As the smoke cleared, Ben opened his eyes to, tragically and annoyingly, see the woman completely intact, unbothered, and in one piece. Most he could tell, she had only taken a step back.

“Are you done?” She raised her eyebrows.

“Bitch,” he said. “I’m gonna fucking kill you.”

“Lovely,” she sighed. “You just tried that. Didn’t work. Won’t work. Not on me. Like I said before you started acting like a toddler, the sooner you accept that, the sooner we can help each other.”

“How could you possibly help me?”

She grinned. “I’m so glad you asked. Hughie! You’re up!”

The skinny little coward appeared over her shoulder, anxiety painted over his face. “Can’t Mallory or Butcher do this?”

“Nah, Mallory has a powerful resting-hater-face, and Butcher would get himself killed all over me, which would be gross. I don’t need that right now.”

The cocksucker pouted. “Annie?”

“No, I don’t think he’s her biggest fan, especially after the whole tower thing-“

“Stop talking about me like I’m not right fucking here,” Ben cut in.

“Fine, you baby. Hughie,” the woman nudged Cocksucker forward. “Give him the pitch.”

Ben didn’t listen to Cocksucker as he rambled, catching only the beginning and electing to ignore him once the words “article B-55XP2 allows” were said. Instead, he focused on the woman, whose brow was furrowed as she listened to her companion talk. Small tendrils of smoke were rising from her body, and Ben noted the way Cocksucker stood off to the side, attempting to somehow paradoxically hold and elude both Ben’s and the woman’s attention. Her lips were in a tight line now, and she was hugging herself slightly, curving into her own body. The smoke from her had begun to choke the room, and though Ben could hear her level heartbeat, he could also hear her gnaw on her lower lip and the tap of her foot on the floor. When her gaze abruptly slid to his, Ben held it unblinkingly, and the crease in her brow only deepened.

Before Ben could figure out what sat behind her sharp eyes, Cocksucker let out a cough and said a name that made the woman turn.

“Can you turn it down, please?”

“Oh, shit. Sorry, Hughie,” she mumbled, taking another step back as Cocksucker gave a nod of thanks.

“So the big thing to know…” Once again, Ben didn’t hear whatever it was being said. No, he was now fully staring at the woman, her name playing in his head. It wasn’t a supe name, like how Butcher had referred to Blondie. Almost every supe Ben had known preferred being called by their fancy little brand name, but he hadn’t even learned if this bitch had one. Fuck, he hadn’t even heard of her. Last time he had been introduced to a large number of new players, most of them weak, whining pussies with pathetic powers, but this woman was far from pathetic. He hadn’t heard anything about a fire-supe, let alone a doll faced, angry, bitchy one who had to have the resting heart rate of a whale. He bet he could pick it up to match the Cocksuckers, if he really tried. He bet he could make her scream, maybe from being ripped limb from limb, maybe from cumming her brains out all over him. A smirk started to grow on his face as he imagined it, her ice-queen demeanor crumbling from his irresistible charm-

“Are you fucking listening?” The woman herself broke him from his thoughts, her fingers snapping in his face.

“No,” Ben sneered. “Why should I?”

“Well, if you’d pay Hughie half the attention you seem to be paying to my tits, you’d be able to answer your own dumb question.”

“Don’t fucking flatter yourself-“

“Please, I’ve been told you stick your dick in anything with a hole.” She cut him off again, an action that, if she kept it up, would result in her being punched. “Tell you what, I’ll get you a real nice watermelon to play with if you just fucking listen.”

“Fine.”

She paused, but was thrown for only a second. “Ok, great, Hughie-“

“But you do the talking.”

She almost snorted. “Are you that fucking crow-brained that you can’t listen unless it’s something shiny?” She paused. “Sorry Hughie. No offense, you’re plenty shiny.”

The Cocksucker, Ben knew his name was Hughie at this point but couldn’t find himself fucked to use it, just shrugged. “No offense taken.” His attention shifted back to Ben. “Will you really listen if she talks?”

“She talks like a person. You talk like a boring army manual.”

“Could’ve just said book,” Cocksucker said with a frown, but stepped back nonetheless.

“This is fucking stupid,” the woman said with a glare that was somehow stronger than before.

“You wanted me to listen to your stupid little sales pitch, Sunshine. This is what will make me listen.”

She rolled her eyes further back than Ben had ever seen before, but started to speak, her voice dripping with contempt.

“Here’s the deal. You help us with our Homelander problem, we give you immunity for all the definite war crimes you’ve committed and keep you from being Sleeping Beauty for a third time. You’ll stay here, with me, until we have a clear and safe shot at Homelander. You’ll do your little Oppenheimer magic trick, and we’ll take care of the rest. After Homelander's dead, you’ll be free to leave America for good, and live out your shitty immortal life on some stupid island where no one knows who you are.” As she came to the end of her speech, Ben grinned at her.

“See? Wasn’t so hard.”

She didn’t even blink. “Any questions?”

“Questions? Nah. But you should know, this is fucking stupid, and I’m not participating in it. All I’ll get is a vacation, and I could have that right fucking now.”

“Really? Because from where I’m standing, it looks like you can’t leave this room, let alone go on vacation. And I’d say what you’d ‘get’,” she used air quotes, and Ben wondered if he could throw her out a window. “Is us not knocking you out right now.”

“Also immunity,” Cocksucker piped up.

She nodded. “Also immunity. We’re offering you this once.” She gave him a sickly-sweet smile. “Act now and we’ll throw in a second watermelon.”

“I’ll fucking break out.” Ben snarled.

“Take your best shot. This safe house is more durable than a cold-war bunker, inside and out.”

“I’ll kill your team.”

“Try it. I’ll burn off your money maker.”

“I’ll heal.”

“Doesn’t mean it won’t hurt.”

“I’ll go back to Vought.”

“Please, you hate them almost as much as me.”

“I doubt that.”

Her voice was coated in visceral, hot rage when she answered. “Don’t.”

Ben paused at that, squinting at her. “Why do you hate them?”

She shrugged. “Not your concern. But for the record, if you did try something that ass-brained, I wouldn’t just burn your face.”

Ben almost flinched when he saw her eyes flick down.

“What if I fail?”

“You won’t.” Her tone made it clear that there wasn’t room for debate.

“What if I want to stay here after, then?” Ben snapped. “I just spent forty years away. I’m not going again.”

“Fucking earn it.”

Ben let out a slow breath. He wasn’t an idiot. He knew when he was backed into a corner. But he had been against walls that were far more dangerous, and far more painful. He would play this little game until he figured out how to take her, the only player aside from him that mattered, out. But he wasn’t going to make any of this pleasant. If they wanted pleasant, they shouldn’t have crossed him in the first place.

“I want my fucking shield and suit back.”

She smiled with teeth for the first time. “I’ll see what I can do.”

——-

This had been a mistake. Now that everyone had left, you could admit—to yourself and no one else—that this was a stupid, arrogant mistake.

The first day had been… rough. There were three bedrooms, all with identical queen beds and equally generic decor. Solider Boy had insisted on laying on all of them to “test their durability." When you had told him they were all the exact same, he had called you an “uncultured hick." You had explained that you were from Boston and currently lived in New York, two urban areas that rendered “hick” an unsuitable title for you, offering “street trash” as a replacement. He told you he’d call you whatever he wanted, utilizing his nickname of “Sunshine” once again. You reminded him of your threat to burn off his favorite part of himself, he said that you would be only depriving yourself of it, and you left the conversation before you could make good on the promise.

Eventually he came down the stairs and gruffly told you that the bedroom with the attached bathroom was his, before stomping back into the said room to do something undoubtedly disgraceful .

Day two was only worse. You had collapsed in the bedroom with the five horse paintings, as it had been closest to the stairs, and you were exhausted from a day of verbal sparring and worrying if you’d have to go back to MM, tail between your legs, and admit you’d been wrong. Now, having gotten a whopping 4 hours of restless sleep, you just wanted coffee. Mallory told you she would send someone to drop groceries overnight, the safe house door having a bank-like slot for packages, and she had made good on her word. You had been able to tell this because when you walked into the kitchen, it looked like a food bomb had detonated.

“What the shit is this?” You said, your voice more tired than angry.

Soldier Boy, sitting at the counter, glared at you. “You’re up late.”

“It’s 7am. In nobody’s world is that ‘late’.”

“I’ve been up for 2 hours.”

You shrugged. “That sounds like a you problem.”

“I had to eat a sandwich.”

“Yeah, that happens.” You survey the mess for anything that you can use, hoping to see a box of cereal buried somewhere. You find what you’re looking for, along with some coffee that you put into the filter and stare at with blank exhaustion. In your sleepy haze, you block out Soldier Boy’s ramblings of hunger and shitty, crunchy peanut butter, hoping he tires himself out and leaves you alone. 

You were startled out of your head by the sound of your name.

"Huh?"

“Whatever you’re making, I want some too.” That gets through to you, and your head snaps up.

“How do you know my name?”

"Cocksucker said it."

"Cocksucker?"

"The little puppy that follows Butcher and Starlight around."

"Hughie?" 

"Sure." He rolled his eyes. “So, what are we eating?"

"We?"

"I asked you, very nicely, to cook me some of whatever you're making too. Or are you fucking deaf?"

“I’m not cooking anything.”

His brow knit in confusion. “You’re not going to eat? I thought all the feminist shit stopped that.”

“I’m going to eat, Jackass. But I’m not going to cook anything, I’m just going to throw cereal and milk into a bowl. You can do that yourself.” You decided not to touch the feminist comment, focusing on pouring your coffee instead.

“Well, what are you going to cook for lunch.”

“Well, if Mallory followed my list, I’ll heat up chicken tenders.”

“Dinner?”

You tilt your head. “Not sure. That’s like, twelve hours away.”

“But you’ll. You’ll cook something.”

“No.”

“Why?”

You sighed. “I don’t know how to cook.”

“What?!” He looked horrified now. It would almost be funny, if it were any other circumstances. “How?”

“I never learned.”

“But you’re a woman!”

“Yeah, no. We’re not having this conversation.” You turned on your heels to leave the room, coffee in hand, trying to ignore the hot feeling bubbling under your skin. You paused only to call back over your shoulder. “And clean up your fucking mess!”

Thankfully, after that, the morning was uneventful. You avoided Soldier Boy, he avoided you. All the way into lunch, you were almost able to forget your situation.

Almost.

“Fuck!” You tripped over a bag of apples on the floor, your eyes having been glued to your phone as you entered the kitchen. You looked around, seeing the mess from this morning sitting just as you’d left it.

“Keep it down!” Soldier Boy’s voice carried down the stairs. You ignored his request, raising your voice to a shriek.

“Get your manwhore ass down here right now, before I make you!”

You stepped further into the room, the bubbling feeling returning, and surveyed the area that somehow looked worse than before. Picking through the melted frozens, scattered produce, and loose cans and boxes, a dirty knife and plate on the counter.

“What the fuck is a manwhore,” he grumbled as he walked through the door.

“What the hell is this?” You ignored his question, gesturing around you.

He frowned. “The kitchen.”

“No, you ass. Why is all the food still out.”

He glared at you. “Because I’m already doing enough for your sorry ass, I’m not cleaning too.”

“You didn’t even put away your dishes!”

Soldier Boy just gave you an annoyed look, turning to walk away. Your vision went red.

“Shit!” He howled, running backwards into the room before turning with a glare. “You bitch!”

It took you a second to understand what he was talking about. You only managed to clue in from the fading scars on his face, and the realization that the feeling in you had boiled over.

If you were a better, less tired and angry person, you might have apologized. Thank god you weren’t.

“I am not going to spend the next who-knows-how-many months cleaning up after you. If you want to make this as difficult as possible, turn this house into a shithole, feel fucking free. I won’t stop you.”

“You don’t know how many months we’ll be here?”

“There’s a lot of moving parts to this operation that don’t concern you, and-“ You held up your hand as he started to interject. “That’s not the point. Clean up.”

“You should be thankful I’m even still here, you bitch. If it matters so much to you, do it yourself.” He growled back.

“Are you really that fucking stupid, or did you not just hear me say that this is not my mess to clean?! Either you do it, or it doesn’t get done.”

“You couldn’t make me with a million dollars and a blowjob.”

“Good thing I’m not offering either.”

A cold silence settled in the room, your arms crossed over your chest, trying to keep yourself from exploding once more. His glare had developed a murderous glint in his eyes, his fists clenched at his side.

“Bitch.”

You raised your chin. “Cunt.”

“You know, if I didn’t think it’d be a shame to ruin such a nice face, I’d slam you into the oven and burn yours off.”

“Oh, so you are that stupid.”

“Watch yourself.” He said your name in a low voice, taking a rough step forward.

“Sorry, for a second there I thought you said you believed you could burn a supe with fire powers. I must’ve misheard you.”

“I could make this very painful for you.”

“As opposed to your cheery compliance so far?”

“Do you think I’m just going to roll over?” He hissed, taking another step forward. “Be you and Butcher’s little lap dog?”

Something grew taut in your gut, but you held his gaze. “I think that if you don’t back the fuck up, I won’t make you roll over so much as physically harm you until you’re crying on the floor.”

"You're fighting a war you can’t win, Sunshine. I’ll kick your ass.” He sneered. “I’ll make you sob back home to Daddy Butcher.”

Your blood felt cold, your jaw almost cracking from the pressure in your chest. “So do it. Or move.”

Soldier Boy’s face was a portrait of rage, and you felt like he was dissecting with his cold green eyes. Looking for any weakness, any exploitable fallacy on your mask, any crack in your head that he could pry open and fill with poison. Make your lungs collapse into your ribs, make you claw and claw in desperation-

“Hm,” he grunted. He pulled himself to his full height before turning and leaving, leaving your anger sizzling at nothing. You watched as Soldier Boy, with controlled and rigid movements, stepped away from you, leaving the room without another word. Leaving you in the slop of the kitchen. He was getting further and further away from you, too far you to do anything about it, except maybe-

Before you could stop yourself, your hands were wrapped around the knife on the counter and the knife was flying across the room. It bounced off of Soldier Boy's back with a pitiful sound, but he stopped in his path, turning slowly. He glanced down, eyes finding the abandoned utensil on the floor before he dragged his gaze back to you.

“Did you just throw a fucking knife at me?”

“Clean up.”

He stared at you with the same eyes as before, the only betrayer of his emotions the twitch of a muscle in his jaw.

“It’ll take more than a bad throw to make me pussy enough to be your maid, Sunshine.” With that, he was gone.

———-

Ideally, the woman Ben would be forced into a lockdown with would be fun. She would give him sweet smiles and syrupy words, laugh at his jokes, and sprout similar ones. She wouldn’t be a sulking, useless, bitter prude whose greatest talent seemed to be finding issue with every word out of his mouth. Every time they had spoken, he had felt that beat in his ribs grow and grow, and it was nothing short of a fucking miracle it hadn’t gone off.

He hadn’t cleaned the kitchen, and he wouldn’t. It was beneath him, and she was the one who had chosen to be here, not him. In a brief moment of weakness, the stench from the rotten produce almost breaking his resolve, Ben had eyed a vacuum cleaner, only to realize he couldn’t use it if he wanted to. There were far too many buttons, weird twisty things lining the handle and bag, and he would take the first flight to Russia before he asked her for help.

They skirted around each other with success for two days after the knife incident, sneaking into the kitchen at odd hours to look for somehow edible food and leaving every possible door in the house locked behind them. A beautiful and well executed arrangement, broken only by her sudden appearance in the living room a few days later, standing behind him as he watched TV.

“We need to talk.” When Ben didn’t answer, she walked around the sofa, and grabbed the remote, turning off the screen. “Now.”

Ben scowled. “I was busy.”

“Watch a re-run of Jeopardy? With categories you don’t even understand?” She crossed her arms in front of him.

“I understood enough.”

She snorted. “One of the categories was ‘Celebrity-Inspired Products’. Name one modern, non-supe celebrity.”

Ben paused. “Marlon Brando.”

“Marlon Brando died in 2004.”

“Gene Wilder.”

“2016.”

“That one funny guy who was on the rise. In that stupid book movie.” Ben frowned. “William Robinson.”

She titled her head. “William Robinson… Do you mean fucking Robin Williams.”

“I was close,” Ben said with a shrug.

“Yeah, well, not really, cause he died in 2014. Now can we please talk.”

“Are you here to apologize?”

“Yes, actually.”

That got Ben’s attention. “Well then. Go on."

She had started to chew her lip again, her nose wrinkling like she smelled something bad. Though, to be fair, she probably did. The milk in the kitchen had become a problem. “I am sorry.” She took a needlessly labored breath through her nose. “I shouldn’t have thrown the knife at you. It was childish.”

Ben waited for her to continue, and when she didn't, he leaned forward. “That’s it?”

“Yep.”

“So you’re going to clean the kitchen?”

She let out a dry laugh. “Nope.”

Ben lounged back. “Then your apology is worthless.”

The now-familiar look of anger had returned to her face. “I am not your maid.”

“And I’m not yours.”

“I didn’t make the mess. And I’m not going to clean it just because you think you’re better than me.”

“I don’t think I’m better than you,” He retorted. “I am better than you.”

“Because you’re a man?” She jeered. “A big whiny baby with muscles?”

“Because I built up the company that gave you your little sparkle show. I am Vought. Those ungrateful backstabbing assholes wouldn’t be anywhere without me.”

She fell silent at that, the victory pumping its fists inside Ben’s head slowing the drum in his chest. If he had observed one thing about her, it was that there was almost never a time she lacked in words. Also, she listened to her stupid music deafeningly loud and had an impressive arm. He had felt that knife hit him, sharp end first, right on his spine, still burning from the heat of her touch. Another deep breath escaped her, a fog that had formed on her face clearing.

“Power and greatness have nothing to do with cleaning. Vought won’t hear about your refusal to run a dish washer and grovel on their knees for your forgiveness.”

“Because when I’m through with them, they won’t have knees.” Ben smiled at the fanstasy on a wheel-chair bound Stan Edgar.

“No, because they couldn’t give a shit about it. I don’t love being here any more than you, but I have to be. This is a marriage of convenience, so we-“

He snorted. “I'm not marrying you, Sunshine. You’re pretty, but too much of a bitch for my taste.”

“It’s an expression, you fucking idiot. It means a weary alliance hinging on a favor. We don’t need to like each other, but we can’t kill each other, or this will be a net loss.“

“Sure.” Ben gave her his cockiest grin. “Whatever you need to tell yourself.”

“You couldn’t handle me, Grampa.” Despite her mocking voice, her small step back didn’t escape Ben’s notice. Though her heart was steady, he dismissed it as anxiety. Obviously, nobody had helped her relieve any of that clear, needless stress plaguing her in a while. He would. Make this whole situation a little more bearable. Maybe, once she had a good fuck, she’d turn out to be just half as pleasant as his fantasy.

“I fucked Marilyn Monroe. I almost made her leave that pussy, Kennedy. You’d be lucky if I looked at you.”

“I’d say I’m lucky right now. You’re too busy trying to fuck your own reflection to look anywhere else.”

“And my reflection thanks me every fucking night.”

“Whatever you need to tell yourself,” she gave him a toothy, arrogant smile. Ben knew she thought she’d won.

“If you ever want someone to pull that stick out of your ass, I’d be happy to help.”

Her smile faltered quickly, but was plastered back onto her face just as fast. “I’m sure it’ll fall out on its own.”

“In case it doesn’t, my door is open.”

“Thought I was a bitch?”

“You said we didn’t need to like each other to get hitched-”

“Never said hitched.”

“So if you ever want to ‘not like each other,’” he winked at her. “As hard as possible, my door is open. I’m a gentleman, you’d have fun.” He reached to take her, and he had hardly brushed their fingers when she jumped back, recoiling like he was covered in warts.

For the first time, Ben thought that the look on her face might be fear. She rubbed her hand like it had been burned, a part of him thought she might bite through her lips, and her heart had become erratic. But when she spoke, her voice was just as level as always.

“Clean your dishes, and keep your door fucking closed. Or next time I throw a knife, I’ll aim for your eye, and I won’t miss.”

She stomped up the stairs, the room lingering with smoke long after she left.

[lovelytsunoda]

purple haze // charles leclerc

summary: writing a novel is a long an arduous process. luckily for y/n, she has a very supportive partner in crime, and when it all works out, he's the only person she would want by her side.

pairing: charles leclerc x author reader

warnings: alcohol consumption, talk of deadlines, book referenced is a good girls guide to murder by holly jackson. gets a lil steamy towards the middle but nothing comes of it. still not sure how i feel about this one, but i havent written for charles in forever and i got an idea i really liked but i don't know if it worked out when i put it on paper.

by the time y/n closed her laptop, she felt like her fingers were going to fall off. she leaned back in her desk chair, gutted to find that the monaco cityscape outside her living room window was now pitch black, as might had fallen on the city.

her first book had been a red-wine and oasis fuelled fever dream, the last three chapters being written to ‘don’t look back in anger’. and now, the final edits were done.

“I’m so proud of you, mon tresor.” charles gushed, bringing her another glass of wine.

“the last three years are finally paying off. a good girls guide to murder is done, and the world is ready to meet pippa and ravi.” she grinned, clinking her glass against her boyfriends.

she had poured three years of her life into that book, and Charles had been by her side for all of it. through numerous rejections, edits and late night idea-vomit, nobody was prouder than charles was so see it work out for her.

and now he knew she needed a break.

taking her hand in his, he gently dragged her out of the desk chair and towards the couch, placing their wineglasses on the coffee table as he urged y/n to sit on the ground between his legs.

his hands were warm as he began to massage her shoulders, attempting to release the tension caused by the last round of edits, which she had worked on almost from sunup to sundown.

“there’s still so much to do.” she whined, tilting her head back to look up at her lover. “now there’s arcs and extra promotions and finding advance reviewers and-“

charles cut her off with a kiss. “none of that right now. right now, you and me are going to finish this bottle of wine and watch something pointless on tv.”

smiling to herself, y/n got up from the floor and moved to the leather couch, slipping seamlessly into charles' lap and nestling against his chest. his body was warm, and his sweater soft. even if his cologne was a little bit too strong, he made her feel safe. treasured.

"that sounds perfect." she hummed, gently turning his face so she could kiss him. "thank you for supporting me."

"always, my love." charles smiled before kissing her again.

SIX MONTHS LATER

it was half past five in the morning when the phone rang. charles could sleep through just about anything, but it was the vibrations of the phone against her side table that woke y/n.

she looked over at her sleeping lover, pressing a gentle kiss to the smooth skin on his shoulder blades before slipping out of bed and creeping into the hallway to answer a call from her agent, cecelia.

"cece, its five in the morning. couldn't this have waited?"

ceclia cleared her throat. "i've just heard from the american office. the preliminary numbers for the new york times list are in."

"fuck. how did we do?" she closed her eyes, holding up her crossed fingers and praying to every god she wasn't sure she believed in.

and when cecelia spoke again, she almost dropped her phone.

"okay. thank you for letting me know, cece."

she slipped back into the bedroom, bare, dry feet sinking into the plush carpet at the end of the bed before she sat down at the end of the bed, gripping the phone so tightly that her knuckles had gone white.

"mon amour." charles rasped, exhaustion in his voice as he rolled over onto his back. "what's wrong?"

"i just got a call from cecelia." she started, trying not to let her emotions show through. "she's just been on the phone with our american agent with the new york times numbers."

charles sat up, one of his warm hands going to rest on her thigh. "and?' he asked hesitantly, his piercing eyes meeting her uncertain ones in the dark.

"i made the top ten." she shouted, grin spreading all across her features.

making the new york times list had made everything worth it. all the sleepless nights when she had woken up with an idea she was scared to lose, all the rewrites, the weeks of writers block. the rejections, the aggravation, the insecurity.

this was it.

she had done it.

"i'm so proud of you." charles beamed, folding her into a hug. "i knew you could do it, my brilliant girl."

she dropped her phone on the bed, red-faced and giggly as she kissed him, allowing her hands to wander across his toned chest. "wanna show me just how much?"

THREE YEARS LATER

the theater was almost silent when the lights came up, the end credits of the final episode fading out on the screen. she held her breath, fingers gripping charles' hand so tightly that she thought she might break the fragile bones in her husband's fingers.

oh, yeah. they had gotten married about a year after her book had come out, while she was in the middle of writing as good as dead, the conclusion to the series.

since a good girls guide to murder had come out, her life had changed for the better. she felt more secure in herself and her talent, and the words had never come easier when she started writing the sequel, eager ton continue the story. she had since written two more books to complete the trilogy, as well as two standalone novels: five survive and the reappearance of rachel price. around the time that rachel price was announced, she had gotten another call from cecelia, asking if she and charles could come to london and meet with representatives from the bbc.

they wanted to turn her first book into a tv series.

she had been hands on from the beginning, throwing herself into her work and doing her best to make sure that the version of the story the readers saw on screen was the version that she had visualized when she'd first explained the storyboard to charles, the driver helping her connect everything on their living room wall with red yarn.

and now was the time. the time to see if it had all paid off. the theater was filled with minor celebrities, influencers, and the tiktokers who had made her book blow up in popularity.

it all came down this night.

"it's okay. whatever happens, you know you did your best." charles whispered in her ear, running one hand up and down her bare back. underneath the flimsy straps of her red dress.

she closed her eyes, taking a deep breath when the roar off applause began to drown her.

she rode the rush of emotions, allowing the tears of gratification and relief to ruin her mascara as she let her body go slack, resting against charles as she watched the room rise in a standing ovation for pippa and ravi.

"we did it. we made it, charles." she laughed, tilting her head up to kiss him.

"no, cherie. you did this. they're all here for you."

she watched as the event's host, a former spice girl that charles knew through his paddock connections, stepped out into the middle of the small stage set up at the front of the theater.

"and now, the moment i'm sure you've all been waiting for, a few words from y/n /y/l/n-leclerc!"

she wiped her eyes and fixed her hair, taking a deep breath before she walked across the stage, taking the microphone from geri halliwell, and turning to face the crowd.

in the front row, there was charles. her one true love. her biggest supporter.

and in that moment, she truly allowed herself to believe that she had made it.

[goqmir]

in my dream i imagined a world in which the most popular tv show in america was a drama/dark comedy about several neighborly families now vying for scraps of sustenance in a bloodborne-esque apocalyptic city where they have all died and gone to a torturous underworld. and the main character is the dork nobody really liked in any family who arbitrarily escaped death by hiding his soul in that of an automaton.

this tv show was the result of a brand deal where the artist Drake got really into painting somewhat gothic portraits of imagined characters during the 2020 lockdown. Wal-Mart offered Drake an exclusivity deal to sell prints of these paintings that included a personal studio, and Drake requested for his studio a hole so deep in the earth that they can use magnets to make the canvasses have zero gravity. americans lapped that shit up and Wal-Mart began releasing ads of Drake in his dark and cavernous underground warehouselike studio where he would paint mildly gothic portraits on floating canvasses held down to the floor and walls by a series of trusses from Roblox and cables from Teardown. these portraits were astoundingly popular and a similarly successful TV show was produced by Wal-Mart using the characters Drake would paint.

during the dream, I lived this TV show through the eyes of the twink main character. I escaped from the underworld pits by hiding in the body of a Wizard101 wooden automaton, and began wandering the streets of the gothic city it took place in, meeting still-alive members of the group of families the portraits depicted. A little before my death, tragedy struck the families and they had a falling out. During my dreams i had to watch all of these tragedies in grim detail, which I depicted as fairly funny in my head to the average american but like. i never really found death or suffering that funny even if a character dies by a series of slapstick events. so it kind of just sucked for me to have to bear witness to it.

every time a new character would appear, the original Drake portrait depicting them would be shown on screen. every character had the name of a Universes Beyond Magic: the Gathering card-- Graham O'Brien, Rosie Cotton, that sort of thing, even though they weren't related to the characters.

there was a segment where i could choose to revive anyone from the underworld that wanted to leave, and I saw the cartoon shadow of a cute babe from behind a boat winking at me and flirting with me. I chose her cuz i was like woahhh i love women but when I revived her I realized it was actually Evie Frye, my rival in life who was close to me as a child but drifted apart from me after witnessing the comedically gruesome death of her father. the dream then played out that death in a flashback sequence, which was sickening enough to me that it woke me up. and then I spent 30 minutes writing this post and that's been my morning so far.

[pigeocore]

Are we fucking with Dethklok mom headcannons? Idk I have some very specific thoughts about Murderface and Toki's moms. More very long but fun info under the cut

Tammy was born and grew up in the same trailer park that her son would ultimatly inhabit. She was a louzy student, didn't care about grades, loved skipping school and there wasn't a single class she didn't spend chatting with the other girls. No suprise that she ultimatly dropped out of high school. For a while she worked odd jobs to justify Stella not kicking her out of the trailer up until she was a young adult. That's when she found her new purpouse: to become a star. She moved to the big city with big hopes and dreams, sighned up to every audition possible for pretty much everything, ready to take the hearts of Americans by storm. Anyway she quit that two months in because it was too much work and got hired as a waitress instead.

Murderface's dad, who I don't feel like giving a name to, was a regular at a diner that Tammy woked at. He was a middle class guy, a few years older than her with a relativly good job and a wife. He saw something in her and soon enough, Tammy became the other woman in his relationship. Although their affair wasn't strictly limited to intercourse, anything other than that was rather messy and the two were constaly on again and off again. That is until Tammy got pregnant and in a suprising decision, Murderface's dad decided to step up. He divorced his previous wife and married her instead, turning her from a poor waitress to a full-on picket fence housewife, something that he'd come to quickly regret. Their relationship started falling apart pretty much immidietly. When they weren't having screaming maches or mediocre sex, they didn't talk at all. He'd spend the whole day working or sitting in front of the TV drinking and she'd tend to the house. This tension was what would ultimatly lead him to commit the infamous murder-suicide.

Now, Tammy was not good at her job. In fact, she kinda sucked. Her cooking was terrible, she'd constantly half-ass any task she was given and would not take any criticism. Still, it was at least good enough to not make the house explode. Her not being nor striving to be the picture-perfect housewife was what ended up alienating her from a lot of other women around her. Still, she didn't care about fitting in with those girls, she saw the as "pompous bitches" and continued doing her thing

A lot of that attitude also carried over to her parenting. She was very irresponsible, although most of her behaviour stemed from lack of knowlage rather than anything purpouseful. Tammy was totally the kind of mom to leave her baby alone in the car while she went shopping or let it crawl around the house unsupervised. Once again, she would not take ANY criticism about her parenting techniques. Still, she did geniuanly love Willy a lot for what it was worth. Her son ment the world to her and god forbid anyone call him ugly. Whenever her husband, who unlike her had a lot of distaste for their baby, tried to say anything on the matter she'd fight him until the neighbours were calling the cops due to noise complains

She also had a bit of a morbid side to her. She loved violent movies and would sneak into grindhouse theaters on occassions, especially when she was younger. Truly a shame she died before Texas Chainsaw Massacre came out. She would've been ecstatic to hear her son joined a death metal band, although I don't think she would've supported all of his shenanigans.

Also she looks like Murderface because I think it would be really funny if he just looked like every woman in his family lol

Anna, nicknamed Andzia by her family was born in the polish region of lubelszczyzna in a fictional village of Jagiellonki Książęce Kościelne trzecie A-Kolonia. It was the kind of village where there was nothing except a church, roadside shrine and a few homes. Her family were farmers, she spend a good chunk of her childhood picking fruits and tending to farm animals.

In school, she was considered an excellent student, both due to her behaviour and preformance. She was very quiet and well behaved, always stuck in her own little world and never getting in any trouble. She also had really good grades. Andzia especially excelled at language learning, something that'd come to be very useful for her in the future. She wasn't very interested in persuing an academic career though and cared more about other stuff, including helping her parents around the farm

Another thing she cared about very deeply was her religion. She went to mass every sunday, pray every day before going to bed, took part in every possible church activity and even sung in the church choir. She was proud of being a christian, always looking for ways to become even more devoted. However, she wasn't always the nicest about her belifs and tended to secretly judge other christians who did less than her

Andzia met her future husband through complete coincidence. They both happend to be on seprate pilgrimages to the same holy site, it was tradition in Aslaug's cult that before taking the role of the reverend the man must go on a spiritual journey for one last time. The two just kinda bumped into eachoter and ended up clicking. Andzia saw Aslung's belifs as a way for her to become an even better christian and Aslaug saw her as a good fit for a wife. She stayed with him after her group departed from the site and within a month, the two were engaged and organizing a way for her to leave Poland. Andzia came to Norway and officially joined the cult through marrige a few months later, something that would've probably happend sooner if leaving Poland through less legal means at the time was a bit easier. She took the name Anja Wartooth in order to assimilate better into her new Norwegian family. Toki was born a year later

I know a lot of people like to headcannon Anja as a victim of abuse in the same way that Toki was, but I personally see her as someone who was very much complicit in her son's treatment. Although I don't think Aslaug was the best husband to her, she still treated Toki just as badly as he did and though she now thinks she may have sometimes went bit too far, she doesn't really see herself as in the wrong

Overall her and Toki's relationship is not good. TLDR: She always saw him as a dissapointment and if she could, she would've had other kids to replace him with (Unfortunatly she and her husband didn't have any luck conceving again, which they blamed on Toki too for some reason). He on the other hand really wants to love her but can't help but rightfully feel resentful and hate her for all she did to him

Despite that, Anja cared enough for her son to teach him a bit of polish and some facts about their culture. Toki then continued learning from the polish books she brought with her from back home (He didn't have much to do inbetween work, praying and punishments) and actually ended up being almost fluent in it at some point. Currently he has gone rusty but still knows enough to read some signs and order some beer at the bar, which was enough to impress the band at their first international tour

One last fun fact: As you can guess, Aslaug's cult dennounced the pope which was really hard on Anja because like every polish person at the time she fucking loved John Paul II. He was her secret true love/celebrity crush, despite everything she secretly kept a picture of him in her room. When she discovered he died somewhere during the events of Dethfam she was DEVISTATED. Toki on the other hand is a rzułta morda meme connosiour.

[quixtrix]

rayman, eden's feel good american dream story; an analysis

guess who's back with taking ubisoft's silly guys and cutting them open. yknow, if you strip rayman of his personality, of all the behind the scenes we get of him, we get a run of the mill news reporter that is an immigrant, who by face alone serves as a shining ray of hope. he's easily something that by all means, can be classified as a diversity hire. immigrant, nonhuman (which in the world of clh can be considered to be equated with poc irl), and notably the only one in his work environment. don't believe me?

we rarely ever see anyone other than rayman on the show in the form of a coworker. the only time we do see other eden affiliated people, they are both white. "but you can't see red's face!!" there is a reason his dialogue makes you think of more right leaning people with their claims of 'wokeness is destroying everything' under something like april from tmnt being black and not ginger. he's a caricature meant to represent a specific group of people under fascism; those who have successfully consumed the fearmongering and have let it turn from fear of those that they are told are beneath them into hatred for them. there is also the fact that on live tv he throws up a middle finger, refers to an implied group of immigrant people as 'filthy interdimensional alien scum,' and seemingly gains no backlash for it. yes, the other reporter does try to give red a chance to go back on his words, but he sticks to it. and despite all of this, we get no indication that neither red nor the niji 6 had to apologise or received punishment for this. in fact, red is possibly given more chances by eden due to him being weirdly in charge of bullfrog's containment in a way? (i'm not entirely sure WHY he was there, but as he is one of eden's tv personalities, he's at a possibly televised trial of a terrorist.) now if you compare this to rayman, who also acted inappropriately on tv by literally saying fuck, you'd come to realise that rayman was treated so much more harshly. he was IMMEDIATELY replaced by a clone of himself, with no warning nor any indication that eden would do such a thing. it's very likely this was one of, if not the first time that rayman has slipped up like this on live tv. maybe it's a repeat offence considering his personality, but then you could argue that red is a repeat offender of the same shit and then you have to wonder why a soldier like red was not easily replaced but someone who is the literal face and voice of eden was with ease. it's because rayman made himself more than jus a story, he humanised himself by showing a peek of his raw feelings. remember that cute little exposition of the rayman kids show about hybrids? where we see all of these hybrids working as society's grunts and the kids are told to be thankful for hybrids? it's very sweet and gives a good message! now the rayman kids show is a product of eden propaganda, but rayman very much has a hand in it, most likely as a writer. he uses his platform to speak on issues that has happened and affected him. this can be seen in his biopic.

jus sit with this image for a moment. you ever think about why rayman is specifically made as an alien? why he's specifically an immigrant? in real life news reports and speeches, there is a difference in implications when people use immigrants and not aliens. you wanna know why?

as someone apart of an immigrant family myself, i live in a community of other immigrants. majority of them are hispanic, and while i myself am not hispanic, i am very aware of how hispanic immigrants were referred to and treated by politicians under trump's presidency. how couldn't i? even as children in middle school and elementary, we had discussions about what trump was saying because it directly targets my friends and their families. they are people targeted by a man who specifically uses derogatory terms to dehumanise them, to make it easier to justify in the average american mind that the government is doing the right thing by keeping out and protecting america from these so-called 'invading animals.' makes what red was saying earlier feel very on the nose, right? adi shankar, the showrunner for captain laserhawk, is also an immigrant man. immigrated from india, which by the way, did you know has a lot of people immigrating for the purpose of having a better life? that's a common sentiment that can be found in every single immigrant family's story. i've asked my filipino mother why she took an opportunity to live and work in america, and she told me it's because she wanted to give her children a better life than what we would have had in the philippines. hell, i bet if you share a similar background to me, you can ask your own parents the same thing and get the exact same answer, regardless if you came from latin america or africa, or asia. it's because of the concept of the american dream. everyone who has ever engaged with any degree of immigrant discussion has heard of the american dream. it's a concept that seems to be consistently proven via word of mouth, with the biggest examples being celebrities. they will always, without fail, eventually speak about the american dream within their backstories. and typically, they will use their platforms to further empower others within their community. it's why people from specific ethnicities tend to group together, why people make art meant as something akin to a homage to their people. it provides hope to the masses, makes you relate to the person on the screen, and believe that this society is truly a gracious one by providing opportunity. because yeah, it may be bad, but it could be worse. i mean we appreciate you! just look!

dont mind the fact that the majority of opportunities allotted to you is grunt work, the work where you at the base of the pyramid, with the harder jobs and the jobs no one wants to do. dont mind the fact you will be actively dehumanised, forced to work for hours in conditions we wouldn't put anyone else in, but hey. we appreciate you. we thank you. and yknow, you can become more than what you are. yknow, we let someone just like you be more than what you are! nevermind the fact that if they slip up, they'll be met with MUCH harsher criticism in comparison to someone who isn't you! aren't we so gracious? i probably sound a bit like matpat's insane out of context real world examples, but this show is filled with political imagery, so let me be. anyways, let's get back to eden and rayman. rayman, despite being specifically from dimension x as an alien, keeps hybrids in mind when he's doing his work.

people of colour tend to share solidarity with one another due to the fact that surface wise, we share similar struggles. to grossly oversimplify things, we all face discrimination through our appearances and are oppressed by the rules of a society created by our white oppressors. again, hybrids and dimension x immigrants can be equated to irl poc, and despite being different from each other, there is still community. rayman keeps them in mind, hoping to make things better for the overall nonhuman and nonnative (native as in naturally born) population of eden. but, rayman is not what he believes he is. because despite everything he has worked for, despite what he has tried to do, he is still a facilitator of the fascist regime that has an active hand in the perpetual oppression of his own people. one of the core concepts within fascism is us versus them. it's an easy way to instill fear (which is very much needed in fascism to make it easier to lie to the masses) and it's used in multiple layers, beginning with a large group (ex. us versus ussr, capitalism vs communism), then progressively sizing down (ex. saying all eastern europeans are communist, then going smaller and say all those affiliated with eastern europeans are communist) with the goal being to put people against each other and break up community since if you put your minds together, you'll start to realise that the fascist system is bullshit. what i've personally come to find is that in order to hide the fact that there is fascism lurking is that someone that can be considered a 'them,' an other, will be given a seat at the table. it's so they can be used as an excuse, a human shield, when they inevitably slip up and can be paraded to the masses as proof that the other is not as smart or powerful as 'us.' the 'other' within the 'us' is used as something to look down at, while also justifying to oneself that they have a place, that they are not being oppressed. they have an opportunity as much as anyone else! so long as they don't mess up. rayman messes up, and is shunned from 'us.' hes a mistake, impure, clearly not like 'us,' 'us' who had been so gracious to give this 'other' a place. he's cut out and discarded because he has well worn his purpose, and clearly, they can just get another little puppet. they'll dress him up and make him worthy of being one of 'us,' and make sure that this one won't fall to the fault of his little ideas. which is exactly what leads to rayman's transformation of ramon. being forcibly forced out and discarded by eden because he showed his true ideas makes him realise that there was no real place for him within the system. because what good is his work if it leads to what he tried not to create? it's worthless, just as the system it attempts to thrive in is.

tl;dr, rayman is a representation of the american dream, specifically celebrities. he tries to do what he can with his platform, but the fact is that within a fascist system, his impact is not entirely felt in the way he wants it to. that is why he becomes ramon.

anyways if you reached the end of THIS LONG ASS PIECE GOOD LORD thank you!! always open to discuss this and take criticism, my ask box is open in the lil 'who's asking' :^]

[mistressoftheelderitchwhorehouse]

Cook Out Blues

Aged up! Bakugou x Black! Reader

_________________________________________

The plop, plop, plop of rain drops against the roof of the penthouse woke you up before the high pitched alarm. You groaned and pushed yourself onto your side, a hand blindly reaching for your husband's phone. You tapped out the code, the date of your first... well date, and tossed the phone back on the side table.

"Mornin' babe."

You felt a large hand run down your side. You hummed and leaned against Bakugou's body, his natural warmth lulling you back into a relaxed stupor that died as quickly as it came on when Bakugou pulled back the blankets.

"Awe, come on! Baaabe-"

"We got stuff to do today."

"But-"

"You can shower first."

You groaned, but pulled yourself out of bed as Bakugou grabbed his phone. You made a beeline to the bathroom, and flicked on the lights. The whole routine of taking off your bonnet and taking down your braids felt pointless. With the rain it was impossible to want to do anything other than stay in bed and watch TV. Your day of grilled hamburgers and fireworks ruined.

Just last week your favorite cousin had come to Japan to visit. Shopping, a cook out, and getting your hair done had been in the cards but waking up to rain...

You turned on the shower and stepped under the hot water. After a nice scrub you stepped out and slipped back into the bedroom. Your husband was gone, but you could hear him humming from the kitchen.

You pulled on a comfy sweat shirt on and some shorts on, and padded to the kitchen. You were surprised to find Bakugou mixing herbs into a bowl full of ground meat. In the living room the TV showed off the news, and the dining table was set.

"Hey babe." You went over and peered into the bowl. "Uh, what's going on?"

He set the spice shaker down and dipped his hand in the meat and began to mix it. "Gettin' your lunch together. Your cousin's still coming, right?"

"Yeah but I thought we'd just order pizza." You pointed to the giant window over the sink. "It's still storming."

"I've still got a stove top." He shrugged. "You whip up those deviled eggs amd I can get us some of that American beer your cousin likes."

You felt your heart warm at his words. Bakugou could be brash and abrasive but sometimes...

With a soft laugh you hurried over to him and wrapped your arms around his torso, immersing yourself in the scent of burnt caramel.

"Hey, watch it!" And yet he didn't push you away. "You want cheese in this?"

"Yes please!"

Sometimes he was a dream come true.

[thechurchofsplatterdaysaints]

Golly, mister. That drink sure does look awful refreshing!

Bad dreams woke me up @ 4am. While it 110% tracks that my birthday turned into a national gd tragedy I can live without wrestling my own gd head too. Kindly lift boot from neck, Universe. Let her breathe free today.

In 2001 I woke up to Times of Grace on the turntable and mom crying in my ear saying "turn on the tv the world is ending." What a choice of words. That's both tragically american and a great twilight zone title.

UGHHH. Fuck this shit. Not letting the ghosts of some past bs ruin my mf day. Will, however, get pretty for violence and let some ground and pound do me right.

Made grilled chicken salads (Pixburgh style, obvs) for lunch that were gtfoh good. Maybe a new Absolut flavor to mix things up. Definitely music. Smooth those rough edges with some dabs, even.

Kindly keep a good thought if you're of a mind to. Quite the lil Virgo clique we've got!

HANDS UP CHIN DOWN! LFG!

[ecofear]

i'm rereading area x rn and i just finished annihilation #yourinfluence... ik u like control a lot, what draws u to him?

EEEEEEEEE I HOPE UR ENJOYING UR REREAD.... ^_^

so ive been mulling over this ask since i woke up and i've been trying to decide how seriously i take this question and thus my answer. i've decided for a sort of middle ground. i'm not gonna scream to you about him being my meow meow (which he is) but i'm also not going to take a few days to really go into depth which i was considering (going thru the entire book of authority and acceptance both and grabbing screenshots and going thru it ALLL to explain what about control i really enjoy....)

so middle ground. i'll try to be normal.

SPOILERS FOR AUTHORITY AND ACCEPTANCE INCLUDING THE ENDING!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! also i talk about sex a bit

there's a lot about control i like. i think jeff is very good at making his characters detailed and complex enough that you can lose time on exploring who they are.

we can talk about how control is the trope doomed by the narrative, he was groomed from a young age to end up where he ends up. he has dreams and waking dreams of jumping into area x: his destiny is set, everything that happens to him is written in time and he cannot avoid it. he cannot fight it. he cannot control it.

control is the eyes we see the horrors of area x through. see the biologist isn't good for this, she lies to us, she changes the narrative, she excludes information, she manipulates and warps it to be exactly what she wants it to be. she controls how we view area x through her eyes. she's not our eyes.

in authority we get to see this [area x and southern reach] through the eyes of someone.. like us. john rodriquez is extremely normal. jeff purposefully gives him an extremely normal american name, there's nothing particularly unique or special about him. he watches tv, he likes chess, he jogs, he has a cat, he loved his dad, he likes to go to bars, he sleeps with attractive people when he feels like it, he dates a lot. like john is so normal man it's almost painful. but the first real thing we get with him.. is him asking his new colleagues.. the people he will become the boss of... to call him control? i know nonbinary people with less confidence in their chosen name than him.

we're immediately given this normal ass dude but something ain't quite normal but why? we learn why: spy parent and spy grandparent groom small boy into being a spy. something he doesn't align with at all. nothing about him is suited for it. in field work he fucks up because he makes him feel so confident his ego makes him sloppy. in office work he can't handle the politics and can't navigate it. he's assigned fixer because it's the only thing he can do; because he's a normal dude who can talk to people, has charisma, is pretty smart.

i like to think even his mother is very aware he's not cut out for it but she's still willing to help him, keep getting him new jobs and using her position of power and influence to save him time and time again. i think a lot about how she put him in the face of direct danger more than once, but most importantly in front of area x, knowing full well what it could do to him, but having to do this cruelty to him because he's the only person she knows well enough to know if he changes. if he stops being this nice fucking guy lol.

like think about how terrible he is at his job at director IMMEDIATELY. he's dominated and overshadowed by grace instantly, he tries to use charm on her and fails multiple times, he wants her to like him and he doesn't know how to do this but meakly submit and also say "please like me". you ever think about the stupid fucking internal thought he has? i can't remember exactly how its worded but its like "look out at this mosquito orgy and warm to me, grace".

which moves onto my next point: he's so silly. he calls his cat chorry. when he sees whitby freaking out he says "i'll come back later" and tries to leave. ?? like it's a comedy. he starts a war over a squished mosquito in his car, like grace looked out at the mosquito orgy and didn't warm to him, but instead chose to squash every chance of a relationship they had, without knowing if she did it. when in fact HE did it, he just doesn't remember. he makes a shit joke at the voice because he's mad and his best comback is turd. "you're a turd" is what john has in his back pocket.

he tries so hard not to be a fuck up but he's been groomed to enter environments where he can only fuck up because he's not built for it. bro should be at the club, basically.

i like to think about his relationships a lot, how he essentially love bombs his partners and gives them every single piece of him he can give, loves them so utterly and passionately, because he knows it's not gonna last but he wants to experience it all the same. he wants a relationship and love but the life he was given doesn't fit it. and clearly he's not terrible because his ex still tries to maintain a relationship with him, even if it's just platonic. she still cares, and that characterises him a lot. he's not a bad guy.

when he talks about how he knows he will leave them behind, that his need for secrets and to understand, to see beyond the veil, i can understand that. think about it: his mother left him all the time, disappeared for weeks, months, at a time, until she really left and it was just him and his dad. how he must have thought about her, how he longed to know what she was doing, why she was leaving him, what was so important that he would leave him and his father. as he got older, seeking this out, seeking her out, being offered the door but if he chooses to set through it there's no going back: the need to know the secret that took her away so desperately that he would do it. trapping himself in that cycle too, but it's his girlfriends he's leaving behind, and then later even chorry gets left behind, even his father gets left behind, his mother + grandfather, too.

you think about how when he packed and left his home he also left behind his fathers chessboard? that's leaving his father behind for these secrets, for the need to know. when he throws his gun into the ocean for ghost bird? growing away his grandfather, his mother, letting go of that life they groomed him for, letting go of the agent he is and becoming something new: something that will follow ghost bird to hell itself, and then at the very end: he drops chorry. the chesspiece he held on for dear life: his life. his normal, ordinary life. holding on to what he had in those evenings at home: a comfy spot on the sofa, some shitty movie and chorry on his lap. he lets go of chorry, lets chorry fall to the ground, leaves chorry behind for the ultimate secret. he needs to know.

he needs to know why he was put on this path, why he was groomed for this, why his mother left him, why he was put in the southern reach, why why why. his life was laid out for him, destiny written since his birth, a path he had no choice but to walk despite how unsuited he was. the biologist didn't go this far. no one knows what this secret holds. he has to know. it has to be him. no more secrets. no more being left in the dark. it's his turn to know everything.

i do love how it overwrites everything to him. when he gets close he doesn't think about anything else but knowing what this secret is. he doesn't think about whitbys thesis, he doesn't think about the brightness, even his love for ghost bird and his obsession with her (we'll get to that) goes out the window. he's determined if anything.

control is doomed by the narrative. and i don't think it's super obvious? if you don't remember the dream he has you won't realise that the start of authority is the end of authority: he dreams of falling, he jumps.

also back to relationships: when we're told he has one night stands and the woman he's sleeping with calls him a player and he remarks he doesn't think he's a player, which i think is very true, i think he would have a normal relationship if he was allowed to have a normal life, something very interesting is going on in that scene. did you notice? they're not having sex. he's going down on her. as she's calling him a player, he's performing oral on her. now this might not be something a lot of people pick up on especially in queer spaces: but men giving oral is not "common", as cishet men would like you to think. like think about it, a blowjob is an expectation, eating pussy is disgusting. there's many men out there who won't do it. far more than you'd think. i've been involved with a lot of cishet men in my life and they've been repulsed by vaginas, thought the idea was sickening, some were even confused i asked like pussy eating is a myth. hell there's famous men out there who refuse to eat pussy and talk about it proudly. control giving oral in that scene is a characterisation, he's happy to give, he's happy to provide, he cares about others, he cares about his partners, he doesn't see it as embarrassing or shameful or like a submission even, and since it's a one night stand he very likely enjoys it. so now we know truly, imho, what kind of normal man he really is.

i don't think these are my only reasons for liking him though. and i also understand people may really dislike him. like especially in acceptance, he was an absolute dickhead at points. he was unlikeable. he chose to try and torture and hurt ghost bird by making up fake lines in whitbys thesis. he felt awful about it, regretted it immediately, but he also never admitted it or apologised. she still forgave him. ghost bird put in work to make him more likeable at the end! but i also empathise with him a lot in the same way she does. he was not built for this, as i've been saying. no part of john rodriquez was made to survive area x. she knew that, we, the reader, should know it too. authority tells us how not cut out he is for all this, and then we see him jump. we watch him doom himself: we watch the narrative continue its descent to his demise. we read acceptance knowing he is fucked. that he is not going to survive the ending.

and boy, was i upset. reading acceptance was so hard for me. i was crying CONSTANTLY. every time i was pulled away from ghost bird and control i was ACHING to return (despite glora + saul being other characters i fucking adore, and i loved their sections more than i can say, i was taken out of them a bit by needing to know what happens to ghost bird + control!) and every time i saw the CONTROL or GHOST BIRD at the top of the screen i would VIBRATE.. and feel a bit sick.

i think a lot of liking control comes from seeing him through ghost birds eyes, and also how he sees ghost bird through his own.

think about authority again, he looks forward to seeing her. the interrogations become a sort of anchor for him to get through the day. they help. they steady the madness. ghost bird steadys the madness. that's why things noticably deteriorate when she's gone, and that's why he doesn't like when she changes. he still enters her room when she's sick despite knowing he shouldn't and regetting it because he needs her, he needs the anchor of seeing her. when she changes in personality he doesn't like it and misses when she was confrontational because he was expecting it: expecting his anchor to stay the same. when he's in the interrogation room with her everything settles: calm, white, just the two of them speaking, he feels like he has some control here, he can control this situation, grace isn't there, the former directors notes don't haunt him, whitby isn't in the corner of his eye, he's not thinking about the dead mouse and the phone. it's just him and ghost bird and he's in control. even though we know he's not, we quickly learn ghost bird has the control in their interactions and he's fooling himself.

he finds himself caring for her because that's who he is, he cares about people, he cares, so he tries to make things easier for her. he wants to help her. hell if he wasn't a mummas boy with mummas boy issues he might have tried to help her more. i think the end of the book shows that he would toss aside the agency for her, if he could (and he does). i like to think about the scene at the pond, where he wants to just talk to her, listen to her, be with her. he wants it to be a normal interaction. he wants to be her friend. to learn about her on equal ground at this point. he hits the point where he doesn't want that control with her anymore: and then he remembers he has to interrogate her because what if they're listening?

control brings me pain because i'm witnessing just a nice person be shoved into this weird ass horror scenario. i want him to go home, put on his jammies, and cuddle chorry. i want him removed from the narrative! please someone save my boy Oh no he's a bunny now.

so i hated the ending when i read it.

i hated it. i really. really.

hated it.

of course i did, i was fighting every step of the way for him to get a happy ending. i wanted him to be happy. he didn't deserve how much he was suffering, how tortured he was, he didn't deserve it.

but this is the horror. to return to an original point: he's our eyes.. into the horror.

he is the normal person, just like us, not fit for area x and all this government bullshit and alien bullshit and the bullshit, and his horror is our horror. how it warps and changes him, how his personality becomes something lesser, how he loses control entirely. how he WRESTLES for it. how he tries to fight and is crushed again and again. how he needs someone built for this to anchor him: how we return to ghost bird being the anchor, but for us too. she keeps us sane in area x.. as sane as we can be. but she's not a babysitter, it's not her job, she wants to protect, to guard, to be the warden for, but she has her own mission and she won't sacrifice it. she even tells control at the end, she gives him his full name, and tells him she cannot protect him here. he has to open his eyes. and he fucking runs. he runs.

but he runs forward. he runs past her. she lets him go and he lets her go.

he needs to know.

and that act of letting go lets area x claim him. transform him. he is no longer afraid.

see i hated this so so much. and i'm crying as i write about it. but i don't hate it anymore.

i used my sort of unhinged rabbit shit you might have seen all over tumblr to COPE. i had to go all in or i would continue to hate it and i didn't want that. i had to accept what jeff vandermeer chose for control. i had to accept his destiny.

the southern reach series is about ecofear, about ecophobia. it is about ecohorror. it is the birthplace of ecohorror to a lot of people. control is the embodiment of ecofear as a character. the fear of nature. he fights back against nature throughout the series. he denies it. refuses to accept it. we see how it destroys him, this denial.

and when he finally lets go, when he lets go of his fear, when he stops being afraid, he is transformed. the loss of human hubris. he becomes part of nature. in a very literal sense, of course. but you see my point.

i can't give myself full credit for this either, that essay i read put in a lot of work for me to help understand controls place in the story as our eyes. he is human hubris as a character.

ghost bird says he dies at the end, and i do believe her. at this point she can see far more than she could before, she is so attuned to area x that she probably knows.. everything. omnipresent, like a god, almost. i think she's just connected in a way that brings her closer to the aliens area x was made by originally - at least in my interpretation. i think if anyone would know if he survived, it would be her. if she says he's dead, he's dead.

but i don't think he's gone? or i think, in his last act, he did something. changed something, like ghost bird said.

i think that maybe when sweet little rabbit control jumped into that light, maybe time slowed down, maybe it was like a new reality entirely, he left his plane, maybe it was like a new dimension, i don't know. i think he learnt there: i think he got his understanding. i think maybe he knew more than a human could ever. let alone a rabbit. either way, we know as a rabbit he still had his thoughts: i like to think that he merged with area x in a way that made his dna part of area x, i like to think area x is alien, and him. a bit of human, a bit of earth, for this alien Thing.

and i think ghost birds theory that he made a door for them was right. we hear it from him himself, he loves her, and he never disliked grace, he was quite desperate for grace to like him in fact. i think he would have thought of them. done something for them. i wouldn't even be surprised if he was able to make it just a little less hostile to them. yknow? especially to grace, who was really just like him. just another person, but one with the strength to survive. idk. all of this is theory, ofc, and only mine, maybe.

control is a good person with flaws. he's funny, he's silly. he's caring and he is loving. he wants to be cared for and loved. he's driven by his issues with his mother, who loved him and abandoned him and hurt him, and he still forgives her. he forgets where he is and tries to be normal and people give him weird looks for it because normal isn't accepted here. we can't be friends. he knows that, doesn't stop him wanting it, doesn't stop him trying.

and boy does he try.

all he does is fucking try.

he tries and he tries and tries.

and fails.

again and again and again.

he fails.

he makes me sad. he makes me happy too.

i think it's kind of funny i've attached so hard to the most ordinary character in this series, but like i said i see him through ghost birds eyes. he's pathetic. he's pathetic and he means no harm. he's like a sad, lost little bunny rabbit who you want to protect.

do you ever think about how control says he tried so hard to get grace to run, begged her, sobbed to her, but she wouldn't move and so he ran. and then grace tells a different story, like he barely tried, like he bolted. do you ever think about how rabbits bolt as fast as their legs can go when they're afraid? do you ever think about how flighty they are?

do you think about how when the biologist came back, he tried to pull ghost bird away, but he ultimately fled? how he ran, bolted, even when it was ghost bird who he was trying to save?

do you think he's cowardly? do you think he's a coward?

do you ever think about how terrified he was in whitbys horror, those paintings, whitby curled up there, and how control stared at him? just stared? frozen, powerless? do you ever think about how rabbits stare? those wide eyes staring at you as they coil up inside for that bolt? do you ever think about how control didn't bolt, but calmly left, despite his terror?

is he a coward? or can he just read when he's truly in danger, and knows the correct response for it?

do you think he's a coward for not trying harder to save other people? do you think he should put himself in danger for them? die for them, maybe?

it makes me think about how fiction often shows us that our protagonists, or main characters, are heroes? it is the hero of the story.

he's not a hero. he's a normal, ordinary man, shoved into extraordinary circumstances. and he won't leave them. thinks he's something he's not. thinks he's made for this. he's not made for this.

the most human scene for me is when he's sobbing in his car and saying sorry over and over again. he's not a hero. he can't save you. he's just a guy.

and then he sees his mother and he thinks he can do it again. he'll go to ghost bird, he'll bring her back, she's the answer, she has to be, he can do this. he can solve this. fix this.

and then he can't. he can't do it. again he can't do it.

reminders over and over and over that he isn't fit for this.

that he wishes he was for his mother.

idk. this got really long and i can keep going. but i'm not gonna i am going to end it here. i have to for my own sanity. i doubt anyone is reading this far anyway.

i love control. he has shot his way up my favourite characters list a ridiculous amount. a lot of my love involves my love for ghost bird, too. my love for their relationship. their bond.

control is a damsel in distress who was doomed by the narrative and just needs a warm hug. you ever think about how ghost bird uses hugs to calm him? to anchor him? how she holds him. how he can only sleep if she's holding him? man. someone please get my boy out of this nightmare.

[stevetonyweekly]

SteveTony Weekly - December 10th

Here’s a very short list because it’s been a very busy week. Enjoy and be sure to leave your author comment and kudos. 

Triple-A Rated by iam93percentstardust 

Three assassination attempts in two weeks. That's gotta be some kind of record. Three attempts - and that doesn't even count the Ten Rings. Tony's pretty sure that Stane's trying to kill him again. Fury's pretty sure of the same thing, which is why he starts sending agents to protect him. It's just that Tony doesn't like any of his new bodyguards - except one.

Do-Over by gottalovev 

Steve woke up six months ago into a future that leaves him indifferent. There is work, and not much else. His current mission is a basic search and rescue operation to retrieve an American who was kidnapped by a terrorist group ten days ago. He won't let the fact that the hostage is Howard's son be a distraction.

From The Ground Up by thatsweetmysteryoflife 

The first time Steve had seen Tony Stark since SHIELD had fallen, he was on TV.

Or, how a team became a family, and friendship became love.

Unsaid words by Herogers 

And he was moving on.. well, he was getting on with it. It was fine, really.

Well, at least he felt fine, until he saw Tony for the first time in years and the words felt like they were scraping their way up from his chest, begging to be let out.. He was fine. This is work, this is for something more than him, more than both of them. So if the sight of those honey brown eyes piercing through his blues were almost nauseating.. It had to be fine.

Zero to One by magicasen 

Steve returns the Stones, comes back to 2023, names Sam the successor to Captain America, and sets off on his bike. Life is transient, and grief is all-encompassing, until Steve starts dreaming of Tony every night.

Truths and Roses Have Thorns About Them by FestiveFerret 

Steve has a secret. And then he makes a poorly-timed joke to a reporter, and suddenly he has two secrets.

One: He's in love with his best friend.

Two: Despite what the press thinks, they're not actually dating.

and you think love is to pray by StevieVixxen

It’s a betrayal that cuts deep…

Soft Skills by Lady_Ganesh

"So," Bruce said carefully. "You're saying that your tower became a big target for an alien army, so you're going to rebuild it as an even bigger target?"

"Well, when you put it like that, it sounds stupid," Tony said.

The team tries to bring Steve Rogers into the 21st Century. It mostly works.

As my beta CaptainBlue said: Also I love how you did a fic about Avengers team building and still managed to make it 100% about Cap. You have a gift. This is why I love her. Any remaining mistakes are mine.

Think Again by KandiSheek 

Tony doesn't understand why Steve always makes him run laps or do push-ups before sex. Steve doesn't know why Tony doesn't like his kind of foreplay. After all, everyone gets turned on by exercise. Right?

Cat's in the Cradle by Last_Chance_Anna

Steve starts thinking about his father and the affect he had on his life. Tony is there to offer support and comfort.

Santa Claus is Coming to Town by Last_Chance_Anna

Steve and Tony throw a Christmas party, and Steve rediscovers his jealous streak when it comes to Tony. Luckily Tony knows the cure for that. Spoiler alert: It's sex.

Not a Perfect Man by Neverever

Steve and Tony are back on track as friends and spending a lot of time together as they form a new Avengers team. But Steve is again in a rocky relationship with Sharon and Tony is dating a new woman. Steve struggles as his long-dormant crush on Tony comes back with a vengeance because he's supposed to be a good man and he doesn't want to lose Tony as a friend. What is he supposed to do as a friend when Tony's new girlfriend turns out to be not good for Tony?

Running out of Time by Lenalena 

Prompt: "After the events of IM 1, Tony joins the expedition searching for Captain America as a holiday to get away from all the media speculation and stock value crash hate he was getting from the board. He's testing out new kit, working up a new portfolio of technology to boost the company back up, when he finds a plane wreck, buried halfway under the Greenland ice sheet."

That is how he ends up hiding Captain America in plain sight, while the man gets adjusted to the 21st century. He is just doing him a favor, okay?

What could possibly go wrong?

[laughroditee]

Your Ghost | a COD fanfic - Part 1 - Knight of Swords

CW: this story takes place after Soap's death and contains supernatural elements, tarot, mentions of death and blood

I didn't want to make the chapters too long (I'm unsure what the proper netiquette is for word count), so it will continue in subsequent posts.

Summary: An American tarot reader finds herself inextricably linked to John MacTavish, whose ghost needs a favor from her before he can rest.

Mood Music:

The first time I knew something was wrong was a few months ago when, out of nowhere, an excruciating pain shot through my head, causing me to scream and promptly pass out.  The dreams that followed in my unconsciousness were heavy and sad: bagpipes at a funeral playing their mournful melody for a person I didn’t know.  I had been at work that day, like any other day, but when I woke up, I was in the hospital.  Doctors ran so many tests on me, thinking perhaps I’d had a brain aneurysm, but scans of my brain were clear, and subsequent tests showed that I was right as rain.  Totally healthy.  I returned to my everyday life, with the only complication being the inexplicable migraines that continued to plague me.

Then came the wanderlust.  The nasal sound of bagpipes continued to wheedle their way into my dreams, and pretty soon, I became possessed with the need to go to the UK.  It became a matter of life and death.  I didn’t even have a passport, but knew I had to go.  Where exactly, I wasn’t even sure.  Scotland would make sense, considering the bagpipes, but my gut said no.  No, that’s not right.

So I did what any good woo-woo witchy person would do: I pulled out a map of the UK and my pendulum and asked for assistance narrowing down my intended destination.  Stilling my mind, I took a deep breath, focusing on the amethyst pendulum dangling from my hand.  The crystal twitched and spun before swinging slightly right, south on the map.  I followed the pendulum south over Scotland, past Northern England, toward London, but the crystal had other ideas, sending me back north.  It spun in circles around a location: Manchester.

That’s how, months later (had to wait for my passport), I found myself at the Brittania Hotel in Manchester, in one of their “standard twin rooms without a window.”  I never really knew how much I liked windows until I didn’t have one, but that’s beside the point.  At least I got a private bathroom, a coffee maker, and a TV, so I can’t complain too much for $44 per night.  Besides, this entire trip was an exercise in insanity, so why not add in some sensory deprivation while we’re at it?

As soon as I stood on UK soil, I knew this was the right place; that intuitive nudge felt like a soothing affirmation.  And that’s a great thing because simply being up in the air triggered another migraine, and I was afraid I’d puke on the guy next to me.  After unpacking my bag in the hotel room, I flipped a card from my tarot deck: The Knight of Swords.

The Knight of Swords talks about action, as all Knight cards do.  There’s a sense of motion, movement, and moving forward inherent there, with The Knight of Swords having the connotation of almost overwhelmingly swift movement; in fact, you can interpret it as needing to take heed that you’re not leaping before you’re looking.  (What irony.)  But that’s only one part of the story as the suit of the card will tell you what’s moving.  Swords in the tarot represent the element of air, so all things related to logic, ideas, communication, words, writing, and thoughts.  Holistically, you can interpret The Knight of Swords as needing to make sure you check your words before you say things so that you become aware of any potential obstacles on this path that you’re charging down. But, ultimately, you have the clarity of mind to overcome any challenges.  Where there’s a will, there’s a way.

However, the court cards in tarot can also signify people: kings as men or masculine energy, queens as women or feminine energy, and pages as children or youthful energy.  Knights, though, are tricky.  They can symbolize people of any gender, anywhere from age twenty-five up to forty, people who move in and out of our lives, physical travel, change, or pure energy and where you’re focusing it.  It can be hard to know what the “correct” interpretation is in any given reading, with so many meanings to consider, but I usually just go with my gut or pull some more cards for context.  In this case, why not both?

Pulling two more cards from the deck, I laid them out on the bed next to the first one: Death and the Three of Swords.  Contrary to popular belief, the Death card doesn’t usually mean death or foretell of someone dying.  It means change and transformation, the end of a cycle and the beginning of a new one.  The Three of Swords features an illustration with three swords stabbing through a bleeding heart: heartbreak, but sometimes literal heart health problems.

"Wow, bad day," I said as I looked over the cards.

I suddenly felt a presence in the room that wasn’t there a minute ago, the hairs on the back of my neck and my arms standing on end.

"Ye finally made it, lass."

My head whirled around so fast that the ends of my bobbed hair stabbed me in the eye.  I shot to my feet, spilling the rest of my cards to the floor.  “Fuck!” I whined, cradling my stinging, watering eye as I stumbled backward. 

Deep, apparently very amused laughter rang out in the room, and I was astonished to see a man there, wearing some kind of military getup, a mohawk cut into his dark brown hair. Oh, and he was semi-transparent.

I backed away slowly, my hand clapped over my eye.  There is no way in Hell.  “What the fuck, are you a ghost?” 

His expression sobered as he nodded his spectral head.  “Unfortunately.”  

“What do you want?” I asked, my voice a couple of octaves higher than it would typically be.  The urge to scream was overwhelming, and he put his hands out placatingly. 

”Easy, love,” he cooed, keeping his voice as soothing as possible so as not to spook me further.  “We have a blood tie.”

“What?”  The man — ghost? ghost man? — could tell me he was king of Scotland, and I don’t think that would change my hesitation or the level of existential panic I felt at that moment.

“We’re kin,” he said with a little more force, trying to reach me through my brain-melting anxiety.  “Family.  Somewhere along the line, we share blood.  Is it so hard to imagine?  Big world like this?”

“I’m literally talking to a dead man,” I say as my inner thoughts bleed out of my mouth.  Either my imagination is amazing, or I’m having a breakdown.  Maybe there really was something wrong with my brain, and they just couldn’t find it.  Maybe the migraines were making me hallucinate.

“Evangeline!” 

That caught my attention, my blue eyes snapping to his in shocked confusion.  “How do you know my name?”

He had the audacity to sound frustrated.  “Like I said, we share a blood tie.”

"Oh, of course.  That obviously explains everything.  I’m so relieved."

He smirked.  “Yer a wisearse ye are.”

Well, he did get one thing right anyway.  “How come I don’t know your name then?”

”Because I’m dead, and ye’re not.  It’s John, by the way.  John MacTavish.”

Examining him warily, I ask, “So we’re, like, cousins or some shit, John MacTavish?”

He shrugged, pushing his long sleeves up his forearms, which is such a mind-boggling thing to think about a ghost doing — like, what’s the purpose of that? Is he too warm?  “I dunnae know exactly, lass; I just know that I was pulled to ye.  And ye answered.”  It was then that I noticed the ghostly blood on the side of his head, his presumably fatal bullet wound in the exact place where I felt my migraines.

My stomach dropped into what felt like a vat of ice.  “Oh… Oh no. I’m not a medium!  I don’t see dead people!” I desperately pleaded with him, trying to convince him he'd gotten the wrong girl. “I just sling cards; I don’t do any of that other stuff!”

”And yet, here I am.  Here ye are.”  He put his hand on his hip.

“Yes, but… Why?  Why are you here?  What do you want from me?”  Then I saw his tattoo.  With a sudden motion, I moved quickly forward — I think I actually startled him — and I bent my head down to look at his forearm.  Nested inside of laurels was a sword with wings, topped by a knight’s helm and crown.

”Knight of Swords,” I breathed, astonished.  Rushing back, I grab my card from the bed, brandishing it as I return to where he stands.  “This is you?  You did this?”

The ghost of John MacTavish looked down at me with a serious expression.  “I did.  I need yer help, Evangeline.  Yer the only one who can do it.”

Part 2

[thedemonfella]

THE SILLIEST FUCKING DREAM JUST HAPPENED TODAY WHEN I TOOK A NAP AND I WANNA TYPE IT OUT BEFORE I FORGET TOO MUCH OF THE DETAILS. Okay so in this dream i was the scout and was in a match a lot of it was just me firing and running like scout is known to. I was getting chased by a pyro and accidentally gave away my spies position (which was the blu spy) and he was so pissed that before he died from the flames he tried to slap me. I was just hiding in the corner next to some lockers and got out scot free. Cut to a bit later i was at a fairly big american styled dinner on a date with the red sniper. We walked into a room with a load of tables away from the bar area. There's a tv in there next to one of the tables WHICH THE FUCKING MUTANT NINJA TURTLES are at watching the tv i think there was a birthday cake and it was one of their birthdays. We sit at a table kind of far from them at the back. Instead of being a normal person sniper sticks some of his fingers in my mouth and i though of uh... getting a bit silly but of course the ninja turtles are there and they are minors so instead i just sat there biting at snipers fingers and he just let me do it with no questions. What a nice date. Cut to later Medic and heavy in an ambulance drop me off near my house and medic almost talks to me like i'm his dumb son saying "now you tell me if zhis sniper is any trouble." I walk down the road and SUDDENLY ASCEND OUT MY BODY and suddenly i'm seeing the entire history of this immortal within his cyan colored species as he is personally ranting to me about how he though he was destined to rule his species and went up to the leader like a bitch saying how he was entitled to it. The current leader gets so pissed that he banishes him from their land. I then wake up on the ice with multiple characters from many medias around me and apparently we are celebrating christmas and some of them are ice skating. Suddenly REAPER FROM OVERWATCH comes in singing slurring his voice and ruins everything by turning the place into a bootcamp and bullying the shit out of everyone. And that my friends is how reaper fucked up christmas. And then I woke up in a cold sweat.

[beardedmrbean]

ASSIS BRASIL, Brazil (AP) — Dozens of migrants sleep in a mosquito-infested six-bedroom wooden shelter in the Brazilian Amazon, their dreams of a better life in the U.S. on hold because of President Joe Biden’shalt on asylum.

Johany “Flaca” Rodríguez, 48, was ready to leave behind the struggles of life in Venezuela. She has been waiting in the shelter holding 45 people in Assis Brasil, a city of 7,000 residents bordering Peru, because others told her how difficult the journey to the U.S. has become.

Migrants, police, officials and analysts say Biden’s actions have caused a wait-and-see attitude among migrants who are staying in Latin America’s biggest economy, at least for now. Like anywhere along migrants’ routes toward hoped-for new lives, local communities are finding it hard to meet new populations’ needs.

After sleeping on dirty mattresses and in half-torn hammocks, and eating rice, beans and ground beef, Rodríguez decided this month that she and her dog Kiko would spend a few weeks with friends in the southern state of Rio Grande do Sul.

Wearing a headband, leggings and a small backpack, Rodríguez woke early to walk more than 100 kilometers (62 miles) for two days to a nearby city of 27,000 residents. There, she hopes to make some money and take a bus to Brazil’s south, then reach the U.S. one day.

“I have to stay here until it is safer to go,” Rodríguez said. “I am not super happy about staying (in Brazil), but that’s what I can do.”

Brazil saw waves of migrants passing through to North America in the first part of the year. There were Indians, Bengalis, Senegalese and Nigerians, among others, said Rêmullo Diniz, the coordinator of Gefron, Acre state’s police group for border operations,

When Biden said he was going to crack down, many people in those groups began staying in their countries instead of heading to Latin America, Brazilian government officials and independent analysts said. For citizens of South American countries, it’s easier. Brazil allows residents of its 10 neighboring nations to stay visa-free for up to two years.

The Biden administration said last week that arrests for illegal crossings from Mexico fell more than 40% since asylum processing was temporarily suspended at the U.S. border with Mexico on June 5. Arrests fell below 2,400 a day for the first time during Biden’s presidency.

Acre state offers a snapshot of the attitude among many migrants, and raises the possibility that Acre and other resting spots will become long-term hosts.

The city of Assis Brasil has little to offer to migrants but the wooden shelter where Rodríguez was staying and a school gymnasium where 15 men can sleep. There are two small hotels and a bus stop used by vans crossing into Peru. It has five restaurants scattered along its main road, two grocery shops and an ice cream parlor that has Amazon flavors like local fruits cupuacu and tapereba. Migrants frequently beg for money at the city’s only square.

There are three daily flights into state capital Rio Branco, where 21-year-old Jay came from India en route to the U.S. to study engineering. He declined to disclose his hometown and his last name.

Wearing a white cap reading “RIO DE JANEIRO,” he said that “it would take too long if I just sat and waited,” in India.

“It is a long trip, very risky. But it is my dream to study there and I will accomplish it,” he said.

Brazil’s westernmost state is a remote enclave in the middle of the rainforest, used by tourists as part of an alternative route to visit Cuzco, once the capital of the Inca empire in Peru.

One of Assis’ main attractions for locals is sitting on the benches of its main square Senador Guiomard to watch soccer on TV and eat barbecue. The small city’s founders came to the Amazon in 1908 to start a rubber plantation that 50 years later became a city. Not much has changed since, despite the BR-317 road that runs by it, the only land connection between Brazil and Peru. When residents of Assis Brasil are bored, and they often are, they go to neighboring Peruvian city of Iñapari to have a drink, generally a pisco sour.

Venezuelan migrant Alexander Guedes Martinez, 27, said he will stay as long as needed to get more cash and maybe in a year go to Houston, where he has family. He came with his 17-year-old partner and their 5-month-old baby.

At the Assis Brasil shelter where they were staying last month, he said that he hopes “to go (back) to Venezuela and get key documents to try to cross in a better fashion.”

“I want to be cautious because of my daughter,” he said. “Being here helps.”

Acre state’s patrol has about 40 agents to inspect 2,600 kilometers (1,615 miles) of border with Peru and Bolivia. A main road connects the three countries, but local police say that many migrants also move through the forest, some of them carrying drugs.

Cuban migrant Miguel Hidalgo, 52, tried to get to the U.S. years ago. He left the island to Suriname, then came to Brazil and doesn’t plan on leaving any time soon.

“I like Brazil. I have been here for a short time, but people are not prejudiced against me, people are lovely,” he said. “I want to live like a human being. I am not asking for any riches. I want to live in tranquility, help my family in Cuba.”

Acre Gov. Gladson Camelli said in a statement to the AP that he is worried about a bigger influx of South American migrants coming soon.

“Our government has tried to do its part in the humanitarian support,” he said.

Assis Brasil’s Mayor Jerry Correia also is bracing for more demand. City hall is feeding about 60 migrants every day and voters are feeling upset in a year of mayoral elections.

“This is all on our back. This is a policy that has to be handled by the federal government,” Correia said. “People don’t know what happens on our border. We need to be seen.”

[wintersandthebeast]

20. Redfield

RE8 | Wintersberg | Romance, Slow Burn | Action, Sci-Fi

Link to Master List

Just before he woke, Ethan’s dreams were punctuated with a faraway voice.  Eva, calling out in German.  Then the pounding on the door commenced.  Ethan bolted up, realizing he’d broken into a cold sweat.  When the pounding continued, he moved from pure instinct, sliding from his bed, past Rose’s crib, to the window.  It was the front parlor door, visible from the window.  From this angle Ethan could see the dark figure, and parked on the gravel in the front, the BATT UMG.  Behind it, shadows of the team, in full tactical gear.  

Oh, shit.

He swiftly grabbed Rose, remembering the trauma of that night when Chris took her from him.   Ethan turned and entered the hallway.  As he ran out the door, Ethan almost crashed into Alina, Maricara’s oldest daughter.  They’d spent the evening earlier discussing American TV shows.  Now Ethan met her eyes, saw the fear in them.  He spoke urgently, but kept his voice low, as the pounding continued.  

“I need you to take Rose upstairs, and don’t come down until I come and get you.”  He wanted to say so much more, but there was no time.  She took the grumpy, awake redhead and dashed toward the back staircase.  

Ethan bolted forward, hearing a door slam further down the hall.  Shit .  Karl was up. 

Now Ethan, barefoot and only in pajama pants, skidded around the dining room corner, flew through the parlor, and lunged toward the door.  When he pulled it open, already knowing who was on the other side, he pushed Chris backwards, hissing a venom-filled, “What the hell are you doing here?”

Chris Redfield’s light eyes sparkled when he saw Ethan, but he only had time to marvel in awe for seconds before a loud commotion was heard and his glance fell over Ethan’s shoulder; Karl had flung his hammer onto the dining table as he sped around the corner and the large antique wooden top broke.  

Everything on the table crashed to the floor as Karl now took the living room in two leaps, drawing his hammer back.  Shirtless and with nearly glowing eyes, he looked like an angry pagan God as he advanced.  

Chris scowled and took quick steps back; Ethan turned and put his hands on Karl’s shoulders, as if it would do any good.  The pair slid across the doorway as though Karl were a steam engine and Ethan was the wind; soon they were in the yard.  Ethan had succeeded in blundering Heisenberg’s backswing; Karl flared his nostrils and pushed past him.  But  in the time it took him to pull the hammer back again, Chris and, behind him, his team, had their weapons drawn. 

The sound of this distracted Heisenberg, but only momentarily.  Within moments the hammer was held up, began to spin, and a sound drummed in Ethan’s ears.  He could feel the magnetic field.  Before he could get between the two men again, all of the guns were yanked into the air, Heisenberg now laughing like an amused child as he magnetized the triggers, sending a spray of bullets into the air.  Chris made an exhausted sound and snapped at his team to get back.  They heeded the warning, but Karl wasn’t done.  He tried to magnetize their armor, realized it had been reinforced with carbon, and instead turned his rage to Chris.  

Redfield now withdrew a large knife, and readied himself in a combat stance.  He spoke directly to Heisenberg, who was now melting the remaining bullets with inductive heat, and tearing the weapons apart while he bellowed. 

“I JUST WANT TO TALK TO ETHAN!” Chris yelled over the uproar.  

“YOU DESTROYED MY FACTORY, YOU MOTHER FUCKER,” Karl spat in the loud, metallic-toned echo.  Lightning sparked from the man’s body and Chris took another step back.  Ethan finally saw the moment where he could get between them without connecting with the deadly hammer, and he took the chance.  Then he had an idea, and pressed into Karl’s shoulders with his palms again, sending them to the liminal space.

The world looked the same, but Chris was gone.  Karl stared into the emptiness, confused, and then glared at Ethan.  The murderous stare on his face showed nothing other than pure insanity, unhinged rage, but Ethan held steady--he couldn’t see Chris.  Ethan was in two worlds now, and he knew that Redfield and the others would hear and see them.  “Easy, big guy, it’s me.  Easy.”  He spoke as if he were talking to an animal--more or less, he was.  

“Karl.”  He put one hand over the man’s heart.  It almost burned to the touch.  “I need to talk to him.  And--” he raised his voice when Karl tossed his head at this, “I need to do this now.  I have to…. We have to end it.”

“I’m gonna end it,” Karl growled.  “Put me back, Ethan.” 

“Heisenberg,” Ethan said shrilly, and he realized Eva was nearby, watching with a mixture of interest and fear.  “Please.”

“Put me back ,” Karl growled dangerously.  Ethan frowned, and then said in a less patient voice, “Remember, I’ll be here after whatever you do.  Depending on what you do.  And I’ll have to deal with it.” 

This actually gave the raging man pause, and they finally made eye contact again.  Heisenberg seemed to understand the gravity of what Ethan said, and his eyes softened.  Only for a moment.  He took one hand from the hammer and gripped Ethan’s elbow, pulling him into a halfhearted embrace.  It was an agreement.  And then…

They were back.  

Karl rounded on Chris, smirked at the man’s long, carbon-fiber blade, and then waved his hands toward the UMG in a grabbing motion.  Chris and Ethan watched rather helplessly as the vehicle twisted with a sickening crunch, glass splintering, and when it was compressed into a shred of what it had been, Karl squeezed his hands together, wringing them.  The vehicle exploded, no doubt from more heat pressure, and now Karl flung his hands and the debris flew toward the rest of the team, who were already fleeing for cover.  The large chunk of twisted metal rolled across the gravel, coming to rest fifty feet from where it had started.  

As the vehicle smoldered, lighting Karl’s face and torso, giving his skin an orange glow, he glared at Redfield before moving his lips almost into Ethan’s ear.  He never broke eye contact with the other brunette as he growled, “You have ten minutes.”  

Ethan, a rather embarrassed look on his face, turned to Heisenberg and nodded.  

Now Heisenberg forced himself to look from Chris to Ethan, his expression unreadable as he gazed at the blond’s lips.  His voice was less of a growl, but still full of fury when he added in his sing-song Trans-Atlantic, “I’ll…put on some coffee.”

 Chris looked shocked, appalled at the small smile Ethan stole to Karl as the other stalked off toward the house.  When Heisenberg was far enough away, Ethan stared mutely at his former friend and finally began, “Do..you want to come in?”

“Ethan, if you need us to get you out of here--”

The blond smirked in a way Chris had never seen, as though he were full of secrets.  Now Ethan rubbed the back of his neck, shook his head and tried again, “Let’s go in, I’m cold.”

“Yeah, all right,” Redfield mustered, and the pair turned back toward the manor.  As they walked away from the smoking, melted wreckage, Umber Eyes called out, “We’ll uh…stay and watch the car?”

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

Chris looked even more tired than when they were in the village together.  Ethan fell rather than sat onto the couch, and Chris warily lowered himself, removing a backpack and sheathing his knife while glancing toward the kitchen.  Finally, he studied Ethan.  Redfield didn’t mince words.  

“Ethan, I’ve been…I can’t tell you how much I regret not telling you about Mia and Miranda.  She moved so fast, faster than my team and I could….” He threw up a gloved hand, shaking his head, and Ethan simply stared in response.  “There’s no excuse.  I was worried you had been infected, Rose too.  I just wanted to get the hell out of there.  I didn’t know….I didn’t mean.”

“I understand,” Ethan said honestly, but his expression was contemplative.  

“Where’s Rose?  Is she okay?”  The sincerity of the man’s questions, his concern, had an unexpected softening effect on Ethan.  He remembered Chris then, as he really was.  Not the Chris that he’d thought….those long, confusing nights where his entire sense of being was one betrayal after another.  One abuse after the next.  Karl would utterly ring Ethan’s neck if he said it, but the two men were a lot alike.  Both with good intentions, sometimes mixed effects.  Bruteish in their methods of protection.    

“She’s fine,” Ethan said proudly.  His heart was never fuller than when he said those words, even though they carried an edge.  An unspoken, even though you used us to bait Miranda with her and she was used in a horrifying ritual. 

“Ethan…are you?”  Chris leaned forward, and glanced toward the kitchen.  “Heisenberg…”

“--saved me,” Ethan interrupted.  “I know how that sounds.  But I’m in the right place.”

Chris’s skeptical look transcended all human language, but Ethan continued to stare at him almost as if accepting a challenge.  

“And,” Ethan added, “You didn’t finish the job.  The center of the village, under all of that?”

“I know, we saw,” Chris muttered, actually rubbing his temple.  “Had eyes on the ravine that night…”

Ethan continued with a slight frown.  “But…the center is still alive.  I don’t even know if I’d be alive if it wasn’t, at this point.”

“I know,” Chris sighed.  “Ethan…listen.  I didn’t come here to drag you and Rose away.  I didn’t even come here to…” he glanced past Ethan again.  “...deal with anything or anybody from the village.  As far as the US government, Romanian government, The EU, INTERPOL, the BSAA and all other entities are concerned, this area is neutralized.  I had already sent them the footage of your death at Miranda’s hand, and we have the video of Rose…of her..…”

“The ceremony?” Ethan said in a disgusted tone.  Chris nodded.  

“You’ve been through enough for a lifetime, and I’m…I’m sorry that I had anything to do with that, Ethan. I really am.  It’s time for you to live your life, for you.” 

Alina entered the room with a tray; on it were cups of coffee, creamer, and sugar.  The young woman’s eyes were wide as she took in the sight of Chris Redfield, and she gently placed the tray near them.  Karl appeared in the doorway, still shirtless, still seething, and glared at Chris until Alina went to his side.  

“Baby still sleepin’?” he growled, and she nodded.  Karl put a hand on her shoulder and tossed his head.  “Thanks.  Get some sleep.  Ethan will come get her.”

The girl looked relieved at this, and disappeared from view.  Now Karl stalked slowly into the room and sat across from both men, draping his arms over the chair back and one leg on his other knee.  

“Go on, it’s not poisoned,” he said conversationally.  

“Heisenberg,” Ethan warned, and then turned back to Chris.  “Time for me to live my life?”

“I know Miranda is still, in some way, alive.  I don’t have all the answers yet on if she’s a threat.  I’m being told I can’t spend any more time on this case, but I won’t give up. I’ll help any way I can.”  Now Chris met Heisenberg’s eyes.  He sighed, exhaling as though he wished he hadn’t looked at the other.  

“Somethin’s off,” Karl speculated in his dangerously sing-song tune, and reached for the coffee, holding a cup near his nose as he reclined again.  “There’s a reason the government isn’t upset about losin’ Rose.”

Ethan lowered his brows at the engineer, and the scowl made its way to Chris.  Not only was Heisenberg cripplingly (refreshingly) honest himself, he also had a way of seeing through other people.  Ethan wondered if seeing the glaring truth of everyone around him was one of the reasons Heisenberg was so reclusive.  It made the blond feel even happier that the engineer was so fascinated with him.  But then, Ethan didn’t fucking keep secrets and string people along in ways that fucked with their head.  

“He’s right,” Chris stated matter-of-factly.  “I think you know why there’s no order to comb the wreckage and gather the cells of whatever they can get their hands on.”

Ethan was silent for a moment, and then said with an inhale, “They already have samples.”

“They’re already utilizing samples,” Chris corrected, and Karl stroked his beard.  “This project predates all of us…and I’ll have other places to be, sooner than I’d like.”

Ethan wished the coffee he was drinking were whiskey.  It hurt to hear the truth, but he’d always known, ever since Louisiana.  He sensed a deep exhaustion from Redfield, and his steely glance actually faltered as he thought for a moment what the other had gone through.  It must be hell, Chris’s reality.  

Redfield now stared at Karl oddly, and then back to Ethan.  “There’s one more thing, Ethan.” 

When he got no reply except a rapt audience, Chris did his usual--a short, clipped sentence with no emotion.  “Mia…she’s.”  He met Ethan’s gaze.  “She’s gone.” 

Ethan felt as though he’d been punched.  His breathing changed abruptly and the coffee cup left his hand; shaking, it tipped on the marble table and he stared past Chris and into…somewhere else.  Heisenberg’s gaze was sharp, and it landed squarely on Ethan, while Chris sighed loudly.  

“She was going to come back to the States with us.  We needed to get her her meds, and she went into the pharmaceutical lab sanctioned for our project.  She uh…” now Chris’s resolve seemed to wear out and his gaze went to the spilled coffee on the floor.  Ethan was hugging himself, hands wrapped around his elbows as if he were freezing.  

“She’d researched, Ethan.  She made plans for this.  It’s…you, she.. can’t just…” You can’t just kill yourself, it’s not that easy , Ethan interpreted from the silence.  He had been through enough ‘should have dieds’ to know.  Now he put one hand over his mouth and squeezed his own jaw.  “She knew the chemicals in the lab and…we didn’t find…it was the next day.  I’m sorry.” 

Ethan now nodded, dazed, and his vision blurred.  He sensed more than saw the dark form of Heisenberg leave his chair and slink to his other side on the couch, draping an arm forward protectively.  Chris forced his gaze back to Ethan, but at the shocked look on the blond’s face, he turned his focus to the backpack at his feet.  

“The night,” Ethan mumbled, and Karl tilted his head as if trying to listen better.  “The other night, that I told you about.  The…dread.”

Karl had no words, and his expression was impassive, but he rubbed the blond’s back silently.  Ethan blinked rapidly again.  “Rose…she wouldn’t stop crying.  I should have known, I--”

“Ethan,” Chris interrupted, with a painful shake of his head.  “This had nothing to do with you.  Mia would have been dead a long time ago if it wasn’t for you.  And she knew I couldn’t protect her anymore, Ethan.  Mia has a past that goes back farther than you know.”  He sounded almost angry, as though he hadn’t quite forgiven Mia for what she was making him do.  Chris shook his head, resetting and steadying his breath.  

“She…left this, and said it was for you.  There was a note.”  Chris pushed the backpack over.  “I didn’t go through it all, but a lot of it is research.  On Eveline.  On Miranda.   I’d rather it be lost here than have to make its way back Stateside anyway.”  This last sentence was full of venom.  Ethan took the backpack with no emotion, placing it by the couch and immediately looking toward blank space again.  

Finally, the blond seemed to remember his voice and manners.  “Thank you for--telling me.”  

“You’re gonna get through this,” Redfield said with more conviction than he’d said anything so far.  “You and Rose, you’re gonna be fine.  Jesus Ethan, it’s so good to see you.  I didn’t think I’d ever get to tell you any of this.  I should have trusted you.  I should have told you.  And no matter how or what…” he gestured, indicating he knew ‘other’ forces were at play, “...reason you’re here, I’m thankful.”

Ethan couldn’t quite say the same, but he nodded anyway, trying hard to keep up mentally.  Chris stood, then Karl bounced upward, and Ethan found his legs.  

“I hope it’s okay if I check up on you sometime,” Chris offered, his blues drifting toward Karl, who was shaking his head vehemently. 

“Yeah, of course,” Ethan breathed as Karl intensified his head shaking.  

“I’m gonna go,” Redfield said awkwardly, already backing out the door, but he paused in the doorway, where Ethan stood bracing himself against the frame as though he might tip over.  Chris risked the ire of Heisenberg when he pulled the man into a firm hug.  Ethan found himself reciprocating, and it took every ounce of his willpower to not burst into tears there in the doorway with his face hidden in Chris’s coat.

When the two parted, Karl glared after Chris and then threw out a sour, “Watch the driveway…” hand gesture, “...lotsa bumps.”  

Chris raised his eyebrows sarcastically as he turned away.  The door closed, and the team was left in the dark.  

“Sounds like that went well,” Tundra quipped.  Chris didn’t pause in walking away from the home.  “Can we get the hell out of here and never come back?”

She pressed, “Is he really …okay, in there? With that..? Thing?  Man?”

Chris looked up at the waning moon.  “I don’t think there’s anybody who’d protect Ethan more furiously, if that’s what you mean.”  

[messyo5]

The Return of The NPS Ranger (Just in My Head)

Whenever I feel like I don't know what to do with my life, as in career-wise, I always resort to USAJOBS and I scroll on there for between an hour or four hours. It depends on my sense of security in myself and my will to close the chrome tabs. I do this because one of the first jobs I can remember wanting so badly was to be a park ranger. I loved their neat brown uniforms with the shiny buttons, and how despite having clipped collars, they wore the polo and slacks like a t-shirt and jeans. I loved the way every last one I had met felt familiar and warm, although I suppose that might be because they are some of the first people I had met who matched my own mother's zeal for forestry and ecology. I loved the way they made me feel included and intelligent and made learning and showing off how I cared for the environment so damn exciting (which makes me sound like a hippie but there's worse titles to have, just don't get me confused with them, there's an overlap but we are most definitely not the same). Regardless, the rangers always left me with new ideas and facts and love and wonderment for the intricacies of the world that quite frankly, blew my tiny mind. I was 10 when my family had the traditional TV show arc of going out west from our suburban east coast city to a couple of the numerous parks in the wild deserts and prairies, but most notably, we went to Yellowstone. This trip was so mind altering for me, its one of those experiences that wakes you up. We all have those, for one reason or another we have experiences that wake up something in you that just was already there, but it was dormant, all it needed was a prod or a push or just a single line or thought to make it roar to life and paint your life in new shades of depth and thought and complexity that you had never before imagined. Seeing the architecture of ancient stone, ribboned plains and flats, crystalline pools of sulfur and bacteria, yeah, you could say I was a little interested. In Yellowstone I talked to a 17 year old girl with long dark hair and a voice like a chickadee. She was the driver for one of the yellow taxis for a tour around some of the park's geysers. There at one of the stops she made, while she was wiping off the silica rich water from the windshield of the car, she gave me advice that changed my world, I could start working as a driver for the national parks and get paid $12 an hour (more than I made in a year as a 10 year old) when I turned 16, and the NPS would give you housing and food allowance, which meant that I could work literally anywhere I wanted to and be independent while I was at it. Getting a job like that became my obsession up until I was ACTUALLY 16, then I had a job at a pizza place and was miserable with myself for that, but also realized that with the newfound American-Dream freedom of turning 16 and being able to drive, I valued the time and gas money I was given during the summer to see my friends. But because of that years have gone by and I still haven't worked for the NPS. But its always nagging me in the back of my mind when I think about taking a new job or different job for the year or over the summer. Something seems so fulfilling to go back to that passion, that thing that woke up a chunk of my being. That's why I find myself scrolling the NPS job listings for hours, contemplating all the different paths my life could take if I chose as far as Washington, Cali, Alaska, or as close to home as the Smokies. The people and places I could meet that would make me feel so full of wonderment and life, and more importantly, the little girls I could tell about the salamanders in Appalachia, watching in nostalgic warmth as her grin unfolds and she asks me to tell her more.