#and there are a couple of people in line before john for some blame

[strang3lov3]

Rescue Mission

“You take him beautifully, birdie. Beautifully,” Ezra says, now drawing in and out of you at a faster pace. “Look how happy he is inside a’ ya. You’re soakin’ the fella.”

Tags - smut, dubcon, dbf/dad’s weed guy/uncle!ezra (he’s not your biological uncle. I promise), pussy job, unprotected piv, creampie, cock pronouns in excess, cock nicknames (fella, bastard), Ezra’s cock has a titan’s girth (thank @beefrobeefcal), fire hazards, somno ish, plumber’s crack, smoking weed, a tasteful amount of pussy pronouns, me writing Ezra comes with its own warning, surprise surprise Ezra is morally bankrupt, Beefro contributed so I’m not all to blame, Ezra has a lot more jizz than the average man. i don't know how to summarize this. Fic Help - thank you @beefrobeefcal for being my guiding light. Without you this fic would be nothing! thank you @endlessthxxghts and @noxturnalnymph for your eyeballs! A/N - heddo! I finished my research paper but I still have a few things to do as far as school goes, but the end of the semester is right around the corner!! Thank you all for being so patient with me this month. I love you. Mwah!

This is my submission for @sp00kymulderr’s cock pronoun event. I had so much fun with this!! Thank you for hosting, Gideon!!

After packing your old Vera Bradley weekender duffel bag with the last of your clothes for the long weekend ahead of you, you open up your phone one last time to check the weather. It’s not supposed to snow until later in the afternoon, but you’ll make it to your dad’s before then. 

You haul your duffel into the backseat of your car, then carefully place two 9x13 Pyrex pans covered in tin foil next to it. Your dad asked that you prepare a couple of Thanksgiving sides - sweet potatoes and broccoli cheese casserole. Your dad is taking care of the turkey, with other extended family members taking care of everything else. 

You do one last quick check to make sure everything is in order, taking care to give your cat an extra scoop of food.

Fuck - the litter box. You almost forgot! You thoroughly clean it so your neighbor doesn’t have as much work to do when they’re caring for your cat in your absence, but you realize you forgot to buy a new tub of litter at the store the other day. Not to worry, your dad left you some in the trunk of your car for some reason or another. You’ll just leave that for your neighbor to use. 

You get into the driver’s seat after turning off all the lights and pull up directions to your dad’s on your phone and put on Father John Misty’s newest album, then you’re on your merry way. 

About a quarter way through your drive, you have to turn your windshield wipers on. It’s not bad, but there’s the tiniest sprinkle of snow coming down. It’s probably nothing. People are driving like morons under just the threat of snow, but it’s nothing. It’ll be fine. At a stoplight, you change the music. This time, you listen to Love Deluxe by Sadé, one of your Uncle Ezra’s favorite albums. You wonder if you’ll see him at Thanksgiving. 

Quickly, the snow becomes not-nothing. The further you drive, the worse it gets. The snowflakes are getting bigger and coming down heavier, and the road ahead of you is becoming so covered that you can hardly make out the white and yellow lines painted on the road. You’ve slowed to driving at about twenty miles an hour, and you’re growing nervous. It seems like you’re headed deeper into the storm. 

Forty-five minutes pass, though you’ve not driven more than ten miles. It’s coming down now, and the roads are so thick with snow that you’re driving at what feels slower than a glacial pace. This is getting dangerous. The good news, however, is that you did see plow trucks driving down the opposite side of the median. Not confident in your ability to safely drive through what is now probably three inches of snow on the ground, plus the added slush and ice, you decide to pull over and wait for a truck to salt and plow the roads before continuing on your way. You turn on your hazards and watch the traffic move slowly ahead of you; it seems that nobody else has the same idea as you. 

You text your dad first just to let him know that you’ll be a bit late, that you’re pulling over to wait out the storm and wait for the roads to be plowed. 

Ok. Stay safe. - Dad.

Things could be worse, right? You’re safe and warm in your car, you have plenty of gas in the tank. It’s probably another 45 minutes of just waiting, but finally, it happens: plow trucks drive by, salting the roads in their wake. Halle-fucking-lujah. You adjust your mirrors, put your seatbelt back on, and throw the gear shift into drive. Aaand…

You’re stuck. 

You press the gas again, and you’re still stuck. It doesn’t take long for you to start to panic. But your dad will know what to do, right? You call your dad and explain the situation to him. 

“Try rocking the car,” your dad tells you.

“I don’t know what that means.”

“Forward, reverse. Forward, reverse.”

With your dad on speakerphone, you try just that, but it’s a difficult maneuver. “It’s not working, Dad.”

“Okay, okay. Can you dig yourself out?”

“No!” you whine. “I am not doing that.”

Your dad’s eye roll is audible. “Alright. Cat litter. I left you cat litter in your trunk last time you came up, remember? Sprinkle that around your tires, it should give you enough traction to get out.”

“Cat litter…cat litter…”

“Yes, the cat litter. That I left in your trunk.”

You laugh awkwardly, “Yes. About that.” 

Your dad groans on the other end of the phone, “You have to be kidding. Okay. Hang on, where are you again?”

“Just past…I don’t know. I’ll drop you a pin.” You text your dad your location. The text takes some time to go through, but it does. 

“Alright. Uncle Ezra’s not far from you. I’ll give him a call, see if he can’t pick you up. Hang tight.”

“Isn’t he with you?”

“No,” your dad replies. “Why would he be with me?”

“I just figured he’d be up for Thanksgiving too.”

“I invited him, but I never heard back. Dude probably forgot. Okay, call you back.”

Sounds like Ezra. Ezra always was an…odd duck. You remember him visiting from time to time when you were a kid, and he and your dad would spend a lot of time locked in the garage together. It wasn’t until much later that you realized they were smoking weed. 

Ezra’s not your uncle, not really. It’s just what he calls himself. He’s your dad’s old coworker turned weed dealer turned buddy. Probably still sells your dad weed, though. Ezra also used to sell your dad quarter sticks of dynamite for the Fourth of July, and both of them made you promise not to tell anyone about that.

  Ezra was always a comforting, if somewhat peculiar, presence in your life. He called himself your guardian angel and texted you from an unknown number - he never has the same phone number whenever he texts you - on your twenty-first birthday, promising that one day soon he’d take you out for a beer. 

Your dad calls you back. “Hey.”

“Hey,” you greet him back. 

Your dad cuts right to the chase. He tells you that Uncle Ezra is on his way, that he has your location and he’ll come pick you up in thirty minutes. Worry about towing your car later, et cetera. 

“Okay. Love you. I’ll see you when I see you.”

“Love you too, honey. Be safe.”

-

‘On his way’ your ass. True to Uncle Ezra’s style, he doesn’t show up until nearly two and a half hours later. It’s just like that time he told you he’d pick you up from something at eleven and didn’t show up until the clock said 11:47. ‘Yeah,” he said, ‘Clock still says eleven, don’t it?’  He pulls up next to your car in a beat up old Kia van, the same Kia he’s been driving for years. 

Ezra hops out of his car, clad in snow boots, plaid pajama bottoms, a Carhartt jacket, and a fleece trapper hat. He stomps through the snow and opens your door, then ushers you into his van. “I apologize for the delay. Wasn’t expectin’ to be assigned a rescue mission,” he shouts at you. You’re not sure why he’s yelling. 

You watch Ezra grab your prepared food and the duffel from the back of your car, his ass crack visible through his falling pants. Ezra tosses it all haphazardly in his before getting back into the driver’s seat. He’s covered in snow, stomping off the flakes before looking over at you. With his dark brown eyes narrowed in your direction, he scans you up and down. “What on God’s green earth is the matter with you? You intended to traverse without the proper coverage?” 

“Excuse me?”

It takes your brain double the time to process Ezra’s words. You forgot about the unique way he speaks, his very particular vocabulary. You wonder where he picked up that way of speaking.

Ezra gestures to your torso. Oh, you think. Right. You’re just wearing a hoodie. You suppose it could have been a problem, had your car’s heat gone out.  

“Jacket,” he chastises you. 

“Yeah, no. I got it.”

“Then where is it?��

“No- like, I understood what you-” Ezra stares at you expectantly, with raised eyebrows. “Never mind.”

Ezra shakes his head in disappointment, then puts his foot on the brake of his Kia and pulls it into drive. “My domicile will have to do for you tonight, birdie. If you are amenable to it, of course.” 

“Mhm,” you hum. “Works for me.”

-

It takes Ezra about forty-five minutes to drive back to his house, which is located behind a water tower and a church off of a highway exit. It’s in a secluded area, thick with trees, the snow much heavier on the unplowed roads over here. Ezra pulls into his driveway, then opens the garage via a remote control attached to his sun visor. He gets out of his seat first, then rounds the front of his van and opens your door. “Hold onto me,” he tells you, holding out his arm. “You’re liable to slip and fall on these slick grounds.” 

You take hold of Ezra’s sleeve, and he carefully helps you out of the van and ushers you inside his house. “Get settled in. I shall retrieve your belongings and return to you post haste.”

You toe off your shoes and leave them on Ezra’s doormat, then begin strolling through his home, perusing through his belongings. His home is cluttered yet clean; lava lamps left on, paintings of St. Francis and St. Gertrude on the walls in his game room, which has floor to ceiling bookshelves full of board games and Dungeons & Dragons paraphernalia. A Halloween bucket full of month-old candy on the table. The house smells strongly of incense, and when you turn the corner and enter the living room you see that Ezra’s left his fireplace lit. 

“Awh shit, must’ve slipped my mind,” Ezra says, noticing the same thing you do. He’s got your duffel bag on his back and the Pyrex pans in his arms. He sets all items down, then goes back into his garage without a word. A few minutes pass and you’re left confused by his absence, so you follow him. 

“Uncle Ezra?”

Ezra’s at his workbench, the warm flicker of a flame illuminating his handsome features as he lights a joint. He blows out the smoke, then smiles at you. “Joinin’ me?”

“Uhhh…”

“C’mon,” he urges. “It’s the holidays.” 

You join Ezra at his workbench, still unsure if you want to partake yet. While Ezra smokes, you study his workbench. There’s not one tool in sight, but there’s lucky bingo trolls, little Buddha statues, snow globes, and other little tchotchkes sitting on the bench. It’s lit by old, dim, rainbow Christmas lights, and little ornaments hang from the wire. You touch an ornament depicting John McClane from Die Hard in when he’s in the air vent, turning it side to side as you inspect it. 

“Yippee ki-yay, motherfucker,” Ezra croaks out with a smile then coughs. He offers you his joint. “Let’s have ourselves a merry little Christmas, now.” 

“It’s Thanksgiving, Ez.” 

Ezra’s brows knit together, “What’d I say?”

“Christmas.”

“Oh.”

Ezra’s still confused as he puts the pieces together, and then he realizes you’re correct. “I suppose you’re right, little bird. In any case, s’a reason to celebrate with a little green, no?”

“I’m not sure Thanksgiving is the weed-smoking holiday.” 

“Oh, but it is indeed, little bird. C’mere.” Ezra takes a pull from the joint held between his middle and forefingers, then, still holding the joint, puts both hands on your cheeks and pulls you close, pressing his lips against yours. He blows the smoke into your mouth, “Attagirl,” he says, his lips curled in a wry smile that makes your stomach churn and your heart flutter. You cough a bit, turning away from him to hide your flustered expression. Ezra pats you on the back. “You’re alright. You got it.” 

He pulls off his trapper hat then, setting it on the workbench. His black hair all messy, and he’s gotten grayer since you’ve seen him last, but that little white streak is still prominent as ever. “Let’s get you somethin’ to eat. Betcha need somethin’ in ya,” he says. 

Ezra ushers you inside, then sits you down on a barstool at the kitchen counter window. He opens his once white but yellowing-with-age refrigerator, scratching the back of his head as he examines his lack of contents in it. “I got…uh…” he trails off, bending his upper half to look through condiments and cans of ginger ale. “Wasn’t expectin’ company.” He opens a box of take-out, takes a whiff, and recoils. “Christ almighty,” he exclaims, “Don’t even wanna know what that most unholy concoction is.” then throws the box away. 

You have to laugh. Ezra is as Ezra as ever. Charming, bizarre, endearing, confusing. He’s never had his shit together, not once. You slide out of your barstool, then head into the kitchen to join him. You nudge him to the side, then pull out your Pyrex pans of Thanksgiving sides from his refrigerator. He’s got an R2-D2 magnet holding up a paper full of logins and passwords on it. ‘ezralikesballs’ is his WiFi password, apparently. 

Ezra smirks at you, tapping his index finger against his temple. “Smart girl,” he says, watching as you start pressing buttons on his oven. “Hold it right there–” Ezra pushes you out of the way and opens the oven door, pulling out various Halloween decorations, all of them plastic, before allowing you to preheat his oven. “Didn’t have a proper place to store ‘em.” 

Jesus fucking Christ. How this man made it past forty years is beyond you. You preheat Ezra’s oven, then sit back down at the barstool as you wait for it to heat up. Ezra pours you a glass of ginger ale, and you spend the time until your food is warmed talking. 

Ezra doesn’t have oven mitts or potholders, so you have to pull your pans out with kitchen towels. You carefully pull off the foil, and Ezra’s standing beside you with plates and forks, ready to serve you both. 

“Goddamn,” he marvels, salivating at the sight of the food you prepared. “You made all of this?”

“I did, yeah,” you reply, smiling shyly. 

“Beautiful. Jus’ beautiful.” Ezra serves himself first, a generous helping of both the sweet potatoes and broccoli casserole. He opens a cabinet and pulls out a can of Ocean Spray jellied cranberry sauce, “Knew this’d come in handy. Never hurts to have a can of this stuff for emergencies,” Ezra tells you, waving the can in your direction. He serves you next, then opens the cranberry sauce and puts a bit of it on both of your plates. You avert your eyes from the expiration date on the can. You don’t wanna know.

With a nod of his head, Ezra tells you to go sit in his living room. He pushes an ottoman in your direction with his foot, then sits down on his sofa. He pats the spot next to himself, “C’mere, sweetheart. Uncle Ezra missed his birdie.” You sit next to Ezra, who then turns on his TV. He puts on the Thanksgiving classic, Planes, Trains, and Automobiles, which is also one of his favorite movies. “‘Tis the season.” 

-

Ezra nudges you and leans down to whisper in your ear, “Wake up, sleepyhead. The hour’s come for us to adjourn to my quarters,” he drawls. 

“Hm?”

You hadn’t even realized you were asleep, and asleep on Ezra’s shoulder at that. In your head, you thought you could still hear the movie, that you were following along to it. You’re surprised to see Steve Martin cursing out the airport attendant on Ezra’s TV. 

“Bedtime,” he says. “Upstairs.” 

“Oh. That’s okay, Uncle Ezra. I’m fine right here.” 

“On the sofa?”

“Yeah.” 

“No.”

You turn your head to face Ezra better, stunned. “No?”

“This couch is Hans’ domain. Best not to provoke the fella. Don’t feel like settin’ him off tonight.” 

Hans is Ezra’s cat that you’ve rarely ever seen, but have often felt when his feather-duster tail brushes your foot, heard him when he hisses at you before skittering off into a dark corner. He has to be in his twenties at this point, an Eldritch creature. Hans was ancient when Ezra found him palling around with a raccoon by his garbage, and that was years ago. Ezra’s always spoken about him like Hans is an abusive husband, that one wrong move could result in a reckoning most unpleasant. You’re glad to know the beast is well. 

Ezra stands up first, then stretches backward, exposing his soft, pillowy tummy and happy trail to you. He smirks when he catches you looking. “Your turn, birdie. Up you go.” Ezra bends forward and takes hold of both of your hands, then guides you upstairs and into his bedroom. 

You enter the dark room first, Ezra right behind you with his hand on the small of your back. He turns the lights on and his bed is neatly made with the scratchiest flannel sheets that have to be well over decades old, knit afghans that are even older and have absolutely seen better days. Ezra peels off his clothes, tossing them into a laundry basket on the floor. Clad in nothing but boxers, Ezra gets into his bed. 

God, it is sweltering. Ezra’s house is warm to begin with, but does not heat efficiently at all. You excuse yourself to go to the bathroom and change, pulling out from your duffel only an oversized t-shirt. You’ll just be strategic, so as not to flash Ezra. 

You return to Ezra’s bedroom, and he looks halfway asleep already. “Do Uncle Ezra a kindness, darlin’, and hit the lights for me.” Ezra makes a lazy gesture toward the light switch by the door. 

You turn off the light, and darkness consumes the small bedroom until Ezra turns on his small CRT-TV, Die Hard playing and already halfway through. Another one of Ezra’s favorite films, as evidenced by the name he gave his cat and the little ornament in the garage. You’re not much of a sleep-with-the-TV-on person, but Ezra’s blackout blinds kind of freak you out so it’s nice to have that light. Plus, the volume is low enough. It’s been a long, long day. It weirds you out a little to sleep next to Ezra, but you know that while he’s a strange and bizarre man, he’s ultimately harmless. You slide into bed, exhausted to the point that you’re not even bothered by Ezra’s rock-hard mattress or the scratchiness of his sheets and blankets. The minute your head hits the pillow, you’re asleep. 

-

You wake up in Ezra’s bedroom to that suffocating, smothering heat, the hot air so thick that it burns your nose and your throat. God, how does he sleep this way? His flannel sheets under your body are also warm, and Ezra’s insulating all that heat with his own body. Ezra’s cuddling you tightly, and you’re not sure when that happened, not sure whether he initiated it or if you did. Despite the heat, you don’t entirely mind when he snuggles you closer, curling himself around your body. Nuzzling the back of your neck, strong arms wrapped tightly around you. 

Until you do mind. 

He groans when he presses himself tightly against your frame, his hard cock against your ass as he ruts his hips into you. 

“Uncle Ezra,” you whisper, scooting your body in the opposite direction. In Ezra’s unconscious state, he pulls you back against his body, now fully grinding his hard bulge into your backside with a rhythmic tilting of his hips. “Ezra,” you hiss, voice firmer.

“Wha…” he mumbles, voice thick with sleep, his words slow and slurred. His brow pinched together and his eyes are squeezed shut to block out bluish light from his TV. “What’s ‘a matter?”

“You- your-” You swallow, trying to summon the words. 

“What’s that? You’re havin’ a nightmare of sorts? C’mere, sweet birdie. Go back to sleep. I gotcha.” Ezra presses a kiss against the back of your head.

“N-no, fuck. Ezra-” You wiggle out from Ezra’s hold, then flip over onto your back. 

The loss of your warm body against his cock, that’s when it all clicks for Ezra. “Ohhhh, I get it,” he murmurs, chuckling. “I understand perfectly well.”

“Yeah…”

“I do apologize, little bird,” Ezra says in a raspy, low voice. He reaches for your cheek and drags his pointer finger up and down the soft skin there. “The bastard’s got a mind of his own, doesn’t he?”

Jesus Christ, he’s so fucking weird. He? Ezra’s given his cock pronouns?

“S’alright, go on back to sleep, now.” 

This has to be a nightmare. Or something in between a nightmare and a wet dream. You’ve had those before, anyway. You drift off to sleep once more, then awake again to Ezra’s bulge against you. This time, you feel more of him. His underwear is off, and he’s rubbing the head of his cock against your pussy. “Ezra!”

“What’s troublin’ ya now, birdie, tell me.” 

“You…fuck.”

Fuck, it’s wrong. It’s so wrong and you know it. But goddamn, if his cock isn’t thick. Ezra keeps rocking his hips, grunting softly in your ear as he rubs his hard length against your pussy, arousal dampening the cotton of your underwear. 

“I do apologize for wakin’ ya with my member, but he’s got a titan’s girth, birdie. What’s a man to do?”

Titan’s girth…what the fuck. You don’t even know where to begin deciphering that statement. Right now, the only thing on your mind is fighting the growing heat, that sticky feeling building deep in your belly as Ezra continues to grind against you. His little noises of pleasure aren’t helping in the slightest. 

“Let’s get you outta these,” Ezra huffs rather impatiently, hooking his fingers into the waistband of your panties, then pulls them down with a practiced ease. He tilts your ass, “Yeah, lay like that. You won’t even know he’s there,” he whispers, then slots his length between your lips, coating himself in your arousal as he moves his hips. “Don’t pay him any mind, birdie.”

“Ez- oh, fuck–” you gasp when the thick head of his cock catches against your clit, sparking a pleasure even more intense. “We - you can’t.”

“Oh, I know, angel. He just needs to feel ya a bit, that’s all. Not gonna feel any sort ‘a - fuck–” Ezra notches his tip inside you, only temporarily as he continues rutting, “Any intrusion of any sort.” 

“O-okay.” 

Ezra snakes a hand under your shirt and paws at your breasts, squeezing the soft flesh in such a manner so as not to be too harsh, but god, he could tear you apart. Ever the gentleman, he holds back, teasing your nipples with his fingers instead. You moan a little louder, a little more sweetly when he does that to you. 

It’s an excruciating tease - long, arduous, excruciating. Ezra needs more from you. He could get himself off just like this, fucking your slick folds and no more, but Ezra’s really not one to deprive himself. He’s always been a bit of a libertine in that regard, believing that pleasure’s good for the heart, good for the soul, too. He can’t stave off his hedonistic tendencies much longer, “Ohh, Christ. You feel how fuckin’ hard he is? He needs ya somethin’ fierce, birdie. Needs to be inside that sweet cunt of yours.”

“Ezra…”

“Why don’t you let him in, sweetheart? You need it too, I know you do.”

“We really shouldn’t, Ezra.”

“Says who, sweetheart? Ah–” Ezra notches his tip inside you fully, inching inside you little by little, “You cure what ails him, little bird. Be a lamb, now.” Ezra pushes inside you in one full thrust, burying himself down to the hilt. Ezra did get you sufficiently wet, but it’s still, still such a stretch. You wince in pain, and Ezra covers your mouth to quiet your cry. “You’ll get used to him. Relax, angel. M’gonna have him take good care of ya.” 

With that, Ezra builds a slow pace at first. Just steadily moving in and out of you, his short term goal only to get you used to the thickness of his member. “Ezra,” you sigh. 

“You take him beautifully, birdie. Beautifully,” Ezra says, now drawing in and out of you at a faster pace. “Look how happy he is inside a’ ya. You’re soakin’ the fella.”

Ezra moves fluidly, thrusting in and out of you as he breathes heavily in your ear, whispering swears you’ve only rarely heard him speak. This angle in particular has Ezra hitting that most special place inside of you as that hot, fiery pleasure inside you intensifies tenfold. 

He’s sweaty and warm against you, his body slick with sweat. You clutch his forearm as he fucks you, rocking your hips to match his thrusts. He feels so fucking good, good enough to scramble every thought in your brain. His cock is so long and thick and curved at just the perfect angle. 

Ezra wriggles his arm down the front of you, fingers immediately finding your clit. You gasp when he touches it, rubbing perfect, practiced circles into the sensitive bud. “Oh fuck, Ezra.” 

“Yeah, she likes that, doesn't she, birdie? Don’t take much at all.” Ezra smiles behind you, then presses a kiss against your cheek. He breathes you in as he fucks you, rubbing your clit with precision to bring you to the edge. Within seconds, you’re whimpering, thighs twitching against his large, masculine hand. “Let go,” he grunts. “Come all over him.” 

With his ministrations, his cock fucking you perfectly, you come with a loud symphony of moans, a mixture of swears and Ezra’s own name. Your pulsing cunt coaxes Ezra’s own orgasm along, walls squeezing around him as he paints your insides with so, so much come. A truly astounding amount of come. 

“Ohhh, he needed that,” Ezra groans, pulling out of you with no regard for his spend that spills out of you and onto his flannel sheets. “Thanks for humorin’ him, birdie. Go on and get some sleep now.”

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[artemis-73]

Suptober Day 11: Myth

Dean's always hated hospitals. The smell, the sterile walls, the somber atmosphere, the twisting, scraping dread in his gut. But more than hospitals, he hates the pediatrics wing. He hates the tableaus painted in the hallways. He hates the cartoons playing on the TV. He hates the tiny beds and the blankets with stars and moons on them.

He's standing at the window, staring out at the parking garage when the the doctor comes in. Sam and Jess greet him quietly, but Dean can't bring himself to look. He can tell by the warble in Sam's voice that it's not going to be good news. He can imagine the doctor's face set grimly with a sympathetic twist.

There's a murmured explanation that Dean doesn't try to parse, but he gets snippets. Things like "experimental treatments" and "numbers are still low."

Dean remembers his dad, stark raving mad after their mom died, becoming obsessed with a magical way to fix it. The fix changed day-to-day, depending on how much he'd been drinking. Some days, he was looking for a way to bring her back to life. Others, he wanted revenge on any one of the laundry list of people he blamed for her death: the firefighters, the paramedics, the man who installed their smoke detectors, the electrician who wired the house years before they bought it.

When he turns around and sees little Mary curled up in a mountain of blankets, sounds asleep with dark circles like bruises under her eyes, and half a dozen machines hooked up to her, he understands his old man better than he ever did when he was alive. He'd tear the whole world apart for his niece.

Sam and Jess are looking over the information packets the doctor left, talking about their options and what they could even begin to afford, what their insurance will bother covering.

"I'm gonna go for a drive," he says to the room.

They barely look up when he leaves.

It's late enough in the day that the parking garage is only about half full. The Impala sits alone in one of the corners. In the trunk, there's a box of their dad's things. Stuff Dean can't bear to throw out but doesn't want in his own house, worthless knick knacks and sentimental shit, but most importantly: a journal.

It's the ramblings of a paranoid, possibly schizophrenic man. Dean tried reading it once, right after John died, hoping for some closure. All he found was that his father was sicker than they ever dreamed. He'd imagined a world of demons and monsters to cope with the death of his wife. He'd abandoned his kids over and over again to chase something that would make a deal with him: his life for his wife's.

Dean flips to the last entry. It's from the day John died. It's a rambling whiskey-riddled mess that amounts to blubbering apologies about how he should've been a better father. When Dean first read it, he'd barely skimmed it. Now, he trudges through the lines of slanting writing, looking for any clue.

On the third page, he finds it: a passing mention of a deal he made a two years before. Dean flips back through the pages, skipping over the years until he finds the entry:

It worked. The black eyed bastard couldn't bring her back. He said she was in heaven. I only got two years out of the deal, but he agreed to clean up whoever was responsible.

From there, he reads backwards carefully, looking for what exactly John did. Only a couple pages further, he finds honest-to-god instructions, including an ingredient list, to summon a fucking demon at a crossroads. It says he'll get ten years to live in exchange for whatever he wants. He stands in the parking garage for a long time, looking down at John's clear, blocky writing.

There's a little tin jar that used to sit in John's kitchen. Dean thinks he remembers it even further back, in the kitchen of their family home. It was one of the few things John had salvaged after the fire. When he'd cleared out John's apartment, Dean hadn't even looked in it before throwing it in the box. Now, he pops it open and stares at what's inside: a layer of dirt, a tiny bone, and a singed photo of John.

He feels insane for even considering it. John was sick. Whatever delusion he lived through can't possibly help Dean or Mary.

But if it's not real, then it can't hurt either.

It takes longer than he expected to find a dirt crossroads. He's in the middle of nowhere, and the sun has completely set. It'd be creepy on a good day. Knowing he's trying to summon a demon, though? He's downright spooked.

He replaces John's photo with his driver's license--he doesn't have the patience to go home for a different picture--and digs in the packed dirt with his bare hands. It cakes deep under his fingernails and turns his hands dark. Once he's patted it smooth again, he stands back and waits.

For thirty seconds then a minute then two minutes.

The disappointment is a sucker punch. "So stupid," he mutters to himself.

"Dean Winchester," a gravelly voice says from behind him.

He spins around, heart hammering, to find a man lounging on the hood of the Impala. He's in a suit that doesn't seem to fit quite right, and his tie's crooked and flipped the wrong way. His eyes are piercingly pale. Dean can't tell the color in the moonlight, but he'd guess they're blue, not at all what he expected from a "black-eyed bastard."

But most importantly: he's sprawled on the hood of the Impala.

"Dude, not on my car," he whines.

The man--demon?--laughs. Honest to god, throws his head back and laughs up at the sky. Obligingly, he slides off the car and onto his own two feet. "My apologies."

"Wait," Dean says, finally catching up to what the guy had actually said, "how do you know my name?"

"Your father was quite a character." There's a bite to his words that raises Dean's hackles. "Very demanding, very ungrateful."

"Yeah, well, from where I'm standing, it looks like you shorted him eight years."

"He asked for too much."

"And you were more than happy to deliver."

Any trace of amusement is gone from the demon. He cocks his head and grinds his jaw, and Dean wonders if crossroad demons can kill the people who summon them to make deals.

Finally, the demon asks, "Is this some kind of belated revenge mission? I thought you'd be thanking me, frankly."

"Thanking you for killing my dad?" Dean huffs. Something about the guy presses all his buttons.

"I didn't kill anyone-- Well, that's not true. I didn't kill him. Besides, he wasn't exactly father of the year, now was he?"

Dean doesn't have a response to that, and it's clear the demon knows he's won this round. He smiles faintly then holds out a hand. "I'm Castiel."

Dean's not sure on the protocol with crossroads deals. He doesn't want to accidentally make a deal before he gets to the main event.

Castiel rolls his eyes. "It's just a handshake. Then we can start talking about why you actually summoned me."

Against his better judgement, Dean shakes his hand. It feels like a normal, human hand, which might actually be weirder. He yanks his hand away.

"My niece is sick. Leukemia. And she's getting sicker. Last round of treatments didn't do shit, and I--" He shies away from Castiel's intense, unwavering gaze. "Fix her. That's all I want."

Castiel clicks his tongue. "Simple enough. Ten years for your niece's clean bill of health." He almost sounds disappointed. "Did John mention how we seal deals?"

Dean hesitates, racking his brain. "Uh, no?"

Castiel's eyes flash black, which should knock Dean on his ass. Instead, weirdly, he thinks the look suits him.

"A kiss."

Now that almost lays him out. "Like on the mouth?"

Castiel's eyes flash back to their pale, human version, and he laughs again, this time a low chuckle, like he's hearing an old, familiar joke. "Yes, on the mouth."

"Couldn't just be a handshake," Dean grumbles, but he steps closer anyway. He's had his fair share of awkward, passionless kisses, and none of those ended with Mary getting to have a normal childhood.

Castiel wraps a hand around the nape of Dean's neck and holds him in place. Even though the touch is light, power radiates from it. With barely a thought, Castiel could snap his neck. Hell, he could probably do it without even touching him. (Demon's have psychic powers, right?)

Oh. His eyes are blue. The thought has barely come to him before those eyes flash black again, and he's being kissed. He expected a perfunctory peck. Instead, fire licks against his lips, flares across his skin. His fingers are in Castiel's hair, and his back's pressed against the Impala, and he's not sure when either of those things happened.

Castiel is a firm, hot pressure searing against his front, and Dean wants to pull him even closer. He wants to wrap himself in his warmth and never come back out.

Castiel is the one to pull away first. His hand holds Dean's jaw in place so that he can't chase after him. Dean gets the feeling that it's not the first time Castiel has tried to pull away to speak. His eyes are still black, and Dean's close enough to see himself in the reflection.

"Interesting," Castiel practically pants. He steps back and smooths his suit like it wasn't already a rumpled mess. "I'll be seeing you, Dean."

Between one blink and the next, he's gone. Dean sags against the Impala. I'll be seeing you, Dean. It didn't sound like he meant he'd see him in a decade when he came to collect on his debt. No, Dean had a feeling he'd be visited by Castiel much, much sooner.

"I'm fucked."

[gothicprep]

in december, many of us watched a 4 hour long argument about plagiarism on youtube, and how bad this is for creativity more broadly. but here's another thing that bugs the hell out of me, that i'd argue is just as bad for creativity online: influencer circle-jerk. luckily, i can make my case for how disheartening this is in under 4 hours.

there's a podcast i listen to sometimes called otherworld. it's aiming to be the "this american life" of ghost stories, but its secondary purpose is also to give advertising plugs to the host's insufferable LA transplant friends. it's incidentally good when it's not doing that, but it's insufferable to listen to when it is.

some of the podcast guests include:

bonnie mckee, songwriter for the worst things that plagued your ears in the early 2010s, such as "california gurls" by katy perry and "dynamite" by taio cruz. poor bonnie's solo career never really took off – can't imagine why that is – but she's still giving it a go. incidentally, she started re-recording some songs that were left on the cutting room floor for an earlier album of hers in 2022, which lines up with when she appeared on the pod.

kareem rahma, also known as kareem on instagram, host of a tiktok series that's basically just bothering people on the subway for content. he's also co-founder of something called "nameless network", with some ex-vice employees (put a pin in vice, we'll come back to it later). the purpose of the company is making viral hack shit: "i promise this made for instagram pizza museum is more than a cynical waste of your time. pwomise 🥺". hmm, what do you know. vice is the outlet covering it. the host says they met at a dinner party thing in los angeles.

two episodes about a married couple named sean johns and gina. they're psychics but the real deal! there's definitely a real deal for this sort of thing! the wife is, as you may have already guessed, big on tiktok, and you should listen to her because she uhhh knows what she's talking about for real. not like those other fraudulent people on witchtok (which is all of them, including her, but whatever). unfortunately i forget what her handle was, but i'm sure someone who has more time on their hands to dig for it can dredge it up.

two more episodes with, what do you know, a clairvoyant. did you know that she's the real deal and not one of those fake ones? she's referenced in the episode series prior to this, and what a fucking coincidence, the host of the show had an appointment with her before he began this project. oh, and someone from a more recent episode happened to be a client of hers too. (side note: one episode has a recorded reading of hers, and it'll come as no shock to anyone, but she's just as vague as every other hippie con artist who does this shit for a living)

one guest named alex doesn't outwardly seem like he's an influencer or trying to be, but it's probably worth noting that he's told the same story on at least one other podcast, so who knows what this guy's motivations are

gabi abrao, another influencer and one of the countless writers riding rupi kuar's coattails. i probably don't need to elaborate further.

actress and comedian sarah sherman guest hosts one of the episodes for no clear reason.

jack corbett, who makes bad tiktoks about economics for npr, is another guest. i'd be more forgiving of him, because i don't think it's possible to make good tiktoks about economics, but sadly his episode was one of the worst on the show. guy gets drunk after a bad breakup, fucks his leg up, blames it on tiktok astrologers cursing him. whatever dude. and get this – he and the host both say that they met at the same dinner party that the kareem guy i mentioned earlier was at.

bear in mind, this is only nine episodes out of a 65 episode show, but i think that's enough to say that there's at least some clout-sharkery going on. it doesn't help that the "official" subreddit – meaning, the one moderated by one of the show's producers – has a tendency to go dark when the fans complain about one of the guests. this happened with the psychic married couple and the npr tiktok guy. it's one of those things that makes you wonder if the motivation behind the blackouts is that the complaints give away that this is a bad avenue to plug your shit.

i'm not the only one who's suspicious of this. see this post on the fanmade sub, which asks, "what are the odds that this podcast is total bullshit?" OP defends this in part by saying, "Jack [the host] literally got famous from being a troll/social media guru/guy who’s good at making things go viral"

about that. you might remember this dumb thing that went viral in 2018 of a mural in LA that only influencers could take pictures at. it ended up being a publicity stunt to promote a webshow that jack from this podcast was attached to. what makes that vice article i linked to, imo, really unethical is that the author, justin caffier, is friends with jack. or at the very least, well-acquainted enough that jack was a guest on an episode of caffier's podcast that was published a few months earlier.

i don't know. when you dig shit like this up, it just seems like there's so much content out there that's mostly created as avenues for the worst people alive to network with one another. or if not that, this is the foundation for an argument that those vice pieces like "some fucking idiots took 20 tabs of LSD in the desert" solely exist for whoever wrote them to advertise their vapid friends' social media whatever. and nothing good ever comes out of it. it's a shallow gambit for quick money and attention, designed to be thrown away and forgotten about in 2 weeks. it's depressing!

jack holds that "otherwold isn't a show about the paranormal, it's a show about people". and given all this, that statement feels revealing.

[afpwestcoast]

Bearsville Theater, Bearsville, NY, 10/26/24

Happy Birthday to MEEEEEeeeeeee!

Things got off to a festive birthday start as we were lined up before the show and the greatest venue security guy ever - Reynaldo Gayle, aka Rey - was going over the rules and warming up the crowd when someone told him it was my birthday, so he led the entire line in a rendition of “Happy Birthday to You!” Heavy foreshadowing.

Before we went in for soundcheck Michael McComiskey (Amanda’s man Friday and all-around stellar human being) handed me a copy of “All the Light We Cannot See” signed by Amanda for my birthday. We watched the mini series based on the book and it was awesome, so I’m really looking forward to reading it. Since the Dresden Dolls began performing together again in November of 2022 there has been a heavy emphasis on new material that they were workshopping and preparing for the new album. That album has been put on hold and so tonight the focus shifted not just to old material, but to some truly deep cuts from the vault. But this was more therapy session than nostalgia tour, as it was clear that Amanda was working through some things. Overall the performance was crisp and tight and thoroughly enjoyable, but lacked the manic energy that characterizes the Dolls at their best.

But then again … birthday shot! So …

Annotated Set List:

Science Fiction Double Feature (Richard O’Brien and Richard Hartley cover) The opening theme to The Rocky Horror Picture Show served as notice (warning?) that this would not be a normal night.

Sex Changes

Gravity

Coin-Operated Boy(!?) VERY early in the set for this one!

Backstabber

My Alcoholic Friends Midway through this song it is traditional for (Tour Manager) Jaron to bring two shots onstage for he and Amanda to do together. I have fantasized about being Amanda’s shot-delivery boy; that didn’t happen, but the next-best thing did! Jaron brought out two shots for him and Amanda, as usual, but Michael brought out two for him and … ME! Amanda said, “Happy Birthday, Tom!” and we all did our shots together. Happy Birthday indeed!

The Kill This is a deep cut that I haven’t heard them play in an age.

Missed Me

“It’s about to be time to vote. And it has come to our attention that there are a lot of people out there in the world with a lot of money who are going to very possibly influence this vote in one way or another and the most important thing as all of these things are happening around us and all of these wealthy people who own all of these newspapers and all of the space and the sky because any day now we are going to look up; we’re going to look up and we’re going to see the moon. And it’s either going to say ‘Google,’ or ‘Amazon.’ We wrote a song about this a long, long time ago so we’re going to play it for you!”

Modern Moonlight

Thirty Whacks

“Sometimes it takes going all the way to New Zealand and living there for a couple years to realize that Lizzie Borden really did have an effect on your childhood.”

Pierre (Carol King and Maurice Sendak cover)

Welcome to the Internet (Bo Burnham cover)

There were two children front and center and someone pointed them out to Amanda saying that they were 9 and 11. “Oh my god! My 9yo wanted to watch a movie tonight instead … and I don’t blame him. He did do an incredible interpretive dance to ‘Pierre’ during soundcheck. Full seven-minute interpretive kind of tacky, stretchy goth dance.”

Mein Herr (from ‘Cabaret’ by John Kander and Fred Ebb) (Brian on guitar)

“I wrote a lot of songs especially towards the very end of the time that I was living right here in this neighborhood in a house that at this point feels completely fucking haunted. And they’re ALL incredibly fucking sad songs. I wonder why? But this one’s actually like the least sad, I think. And it’s really sad. … I wanna say one last thing about Rey, our amazing security guard tonight. I’ve been crying a lot lately because of all sorts of things … I’ve cried a couple times today, but Rey made me cry. … He asked me, you know in that like casual way, ‘How are you doing?’ and I was like, ‘I don’t know. I’m not great. I’m pretty fucked up; I’m dealing with a whole family crisis.’ And he said, ‘Oh but that’s out there. Now you’re with your family.’”

Another Christmas (Brian on guitar; Amanda on jingle bells) This one hit with a little more emotional impact than usual tonight.

“This is a song, also from our second record, back before I learned how to write a powerful song about abortion in a non-sarcastic way. This was like 2.0, before we got to 4.0. You should VOTE.”

Mandy Goes to Med School This one included both a bit of Cab Calloway’s ‘Minnie the Moocher,’ and a brief excerpt from ‘Careless Whisper’ by George Michael tonight.

-crew thanks and merch commercial-

Amanda gave a big shout-out to Nikki McQueen, who has been designing amazing posters for the Dolls’ tours for the past couple years and was brought to the show from South Africa by a successful crowd-funding campaign.

The Jeep Song

Massachusetts Avenue (Grand Theft Orchestra cover)

“This is a break-up song, but it’s a really weird one because it’s about that time when you know the break-up’s gonna happen, but it hasn’t quite happened yet. And you’re still like luxuriating in the agony of ‘We’re still fucking’ but it’s over.”

Boston

Half Jack The extended instrumental intro to this one started with Brian solo on the drums for quite a while before Amanda joined in on piano. It was effective at building tension and anticipation. — — Girl Anachronism

Sing (Brian on guitar to start)

Photo Gallery:

Before the show Michael delivered a birthday present from Amanda!

Soundcheck!

Just point a camera at Brian Viglione and you will get something good.

BIRTHDAY SHOT! (photos by Melissa Smith)

Amanda doesn’t have a thousand-yard stare. Not at all.

Blue period.

The Dresden Dolls!

Mein Herr (upper right photo by Deanna Aliano)

Another Christmas (photo by Deanna Aliano)

Good night, Bearsville!

In a final act of birthday kindness Michael hand-delivered the set list to me after the show. They followed it closely for the most part, but veered off toward the end, as is tradition.

[tellthemeerkatsitsfine]

Okay, here's a collection of three short clips from an episode of the Elis James/John Robins radio show I heard recently, episode 115 from April 2016. The first clip is from the podcast intro at the beginning, then one from near-ish to the end of the live radio show. Then one from the podcast outro, which is their Keep It Sessions Sessions, where John and Elis take turns picking a band that they love but can't play on the radio because it's not on the Radio X playlist, so they play a bit of one of their songs for the podcast.

So... is everyone reading this the same way as I am? I feel like I might be missing something, and I hope I am. Because it looks like what happened is John Robins was booked on a charity gig, but then Stewart Lee said he'd do that gig only if John Robins was kicked off the bill, and then they did kick John off because obviously Stewart Lee is going to bring in a lot more people than him. And fair enough if that's what happened, if the gig is for charity then the organizer (who in this case was Elis James) should be booking comedians based on who will sell the most tickets.

Fair enough on the organizer's part, I mean, I don't blame them. But what the fuck, Stewart? I'm really hoping I read that wrong, because that would be a really fucked up thing for Stewart Lee to have done.

The context, if anyone's wondering, is this routine from John Robins' 2014 stand-up show:

Obviously that was not a nice thing to say about Stewart Lee. But as John points out, Lee is the one who has claimed repeatedly that a comedian talking shit about another comedian on stage isn't personal, it's something he does in character and doesn't really mean any of it so no one should read anything into his actual personality about it. If Stewart Lee turned around and starting trying to retaliate in actual real life against the first person who did it back to him, that's not just being a colossal dick in one situation, that's invalidating his entire argument that what's said on stage can stay on stage and should be taken as just a joke and/or character. If Stewart Lee wants to start saying that actually that stuff does count in real life and should be taken personally, that opens a lot of other stuff.

I still think I must be missing something here, because that seems like too ridiculous a thing for everyone to have just been fine with. John Robins is being way too chill about it for that to be what happened. When Elis James got a Twitter verification checkmark before John did, John spent the entire episode and several minutes of several subsequent episodes constantly bringing that up. It is really weird that Elis James could kick him off a bill at the insistence of Stewart Lee, and John Robins would keep his on-air complaints to just a couple of little comments following the plugs for it and then one dig at Stewart Lee's music taste at the end (the clips I cut out for that audio file are the only references to it in the episode). So there are two options there, I guess. Either I've misread this and that's not what happened, or it turns out that John Robins does actually have a line past which a tension-causing subject is so tense that he'll refrain from constantly going on about it on air, and this is past that line. Because I can't imagine he's genuinely that chill about it, given that no normal person would be, and he is much less chill than a normal person.

One point in favour of the idea that I am reading the situation correctly: I do actually remember once having read, on some message board at some point last year while trying to look up something else, that Stewart Lee refused to appear at gigs with John Robins because he didn't like what John Robins had said about him in his stand-up. I tried to find that thing again today, but I couldn't find it. I just remember reading it, but I thought that just meant Stewart Lee avoided wherever John was. Not that he actually went around seeking gigs where John was already signing up and getting him kicked off of them.

You know, this does make that Tweet John Robins wrote about him more recently seem slightly more justified. John Robins wrote some Tweet a couple of years ago comparing Stewart Lee to Joseph McCarthy, and obviously Stewart Lee is not Joseph McCarthy, that was a stupid thing to say. But I can't blame John as much for thinking that way, if Stewart Lee has been going around using his considerable influence to get someone kicked off bills for talking badly about him. Specifically for doing the same thing that Stewart Lee does all the time and justifies by saying you can't hold stuff against him if he does it in character on stage. Fucking hell.

About 18 months ago I made a bunch of posts weighing in on the feud between Mark Watson and Frankie Boyle, giving my opinions as though that were a current issue and not something that happened in 2011, because I'd only just learned about it so it seemed current to me. Well, at least I'm getting slightly more recent with the comedian feuds on which I weigh in, moving from 2011 to 2015.

I'm quite annoyed about this, so as a slight lift to the mood, here's a clip of the next time they brought up that charity gig, in the following episode when it was still coming up so Elis plugged it again, just because it's a fairly adorable exchange:

[kvaradonaa]

thoughts on the pairing of mourinho and abramovich?

Uhh, I was afraid to answer this question at first, but then I remembered I am followed by only hot and intelligent people who don't need to be shown a huge ass "THIS IS BAD" sign to understand that something is, in fact, bad. In that case, I might as well answer.

(But if I get another anon in my ask box telling me "this ship is russian propaganda", I am blocking. You are seriously insulting me by insinuating that I could ever commit what's a criminal offence according to my country's law by spreading such statements. You might find whatever I write distasteful, unnecessary or insensitive as you please, but don't come making ridiculous accusations on me.)

Either way, back to the RPF thing. I think they make up for a really interesting dynamics. See, Jose was probably easily the only person built to survive in Chelsea of that era. Remember when Scolari said that whoever agreed to coach Chelsea, would go through hell? But Jose seems built to survive all the intimidation tactics like arriving at the training centre in a fucking helicopter to scold the staff (really!). He clearly knew there was no other like him, he tolerated bullshit from no one and damn, does he breathe drama 😂. I could see some weird tension going on, not gonna lie. Mourinho was probably the only person who spoke like that to Abramovich ever since that fucking loans-for-shares deal that made him filthy rich and equally influential. But Jose was just, not built to care. He was the special one and he was here to do his job his fucking way. I can imagine a mixture of anger and fascination coming from someone like Abramovich there.

And obviously, as a resident Sheva fucker, I gotta insert him in this story. Maybe even more than him. I had thoughts before about the weird tangled web of dynamics between Chelsea's two strikers, the coach and the club owner. Media tried to antagonise Sheva and Drogba. Well, from Sheva's side, he was kind of an asshole and difficult to work with. Even if the issue on that line was overblown, Sheva did actually see Drogba getting mercilessly bullied by fans, went out and said basically "Well, I don't dive. Never did and never will. And I know that English fans don't like it!" Yeah, shut up 😂. Mourinho obviously wanted Drogba in the club very much, he loved him as a player and as a person. On the other hand, he never asked for Sheva in the team. I can imagine Sheva, the star striker, the Ballon d'Or winner, the attention whore, taking it really badly. Weird jealous antics. Well, he did cry to other people about Mourinho "mistreating him", even if he was himself claiming that everything was fine. A list of people who accidentally outed him with this include Kakha Kaladze and tennis player Andriy Medvedev.

How does it all matter to the dynamics between Mourinho and Abramovich? Well, it later on became really clear that not only Sheva's transfer was entirely Abramovich's idea, but they were also friends, privately. When still playing for Chelsea, Sheva pretended that there was no personal relationship between them, but afterwards, it pretty much became widely known. Sheva was often blamed for Mourinho getting the sacked, but apparently, a couple of days before, it was John Terry who went to talk with the boss. So, who knows... But, Abramovich did want to hire Avram Grant as Sheva's personal coach initially, and Mourinho refused to accept it. Later, Grant went on to coach the team. Damn, that's some level of drama only Chelsea could provide 😭.

Another Sheva related antics, regarding Jose and Roman Abramovich? One time, Abramovich went into the locker room after Mourinho had left, and started giving his own instructions, contradictory to Mourinho's. He spoke in Russian, as he always did in those situations. I honestly think it was a part of intimidation tactics too. Once I knew someone who spoke one language with her ex boyfriend (his native, hers third), but when she broke up, she did so in English so that "he didn't have an upper hand". Speaking your native language does give you more power in expressing self. Not to mention that listening to him yell in a foreign language, then waiting for the translation, added some extra stress for everyone involved (John Obi Mikel once described the experience as such basically). But, oh no, this time he didn't hire an actual interpreter. He had Sheva translate his instructions, making the gap between Sheva and his teammates even bigger, putting him in the opposite position of theirs. Sheva, who surely did not speak English much better (perhaps even worse) than him. I can imagine Mourinho completely losing it as such disregard for his job and such disruption of the team dynamics.

But, well, in the end, Mourinho did get hired again. And won them trophies again. Perhaps he really was the right fit for Chelsea.

[outpost51]

Ayyyy playlist tag game!!!! Gimme a couple songs from #16 and #57 plz <3

~@tabswrites

ask me about my playlists

the stars we wander, the hands we're dealt is uhhhh the second? i think the second castis/avitus mix i've made for @thetrashbagswasteland, who is entirely to blame for this ship even existing. different than the first, this is aimed less at the hatefucking and more at the sad old men they've become, settled into something like domesticity, or as close to it as avitus can manage. neither particularly wants to admit (to themselves or anyone else) what they are, fearful that saying it out loud might make it real, might mean something more than "roommates out of necessity, benefits out of convenience." it means avitus having to confront that people might actually care if he dies, and that maybe... just maybe, he doesn't want to die in a blaze of glory. that maybe he might want to ride this thing out, see where it goes. that retiring from living hard and fast, that learning to be a person again and not just a tool or a weapon, that holding still might not be so bad after all. oops i. made myself emotional--

anyway here's some of my faves on this playlist (it's actually one of my favorites i've ever made):

the cattle by zach palmer [youtube]

longshot by catfish and the bottlemen [youtube]

bugfood by alissic [youtube]

the boy who cried wolf is actually the playlist for act i of stellar parallax! the songs are supposed to follow along with the chapters!

here's my faves and the passages they go with:

brutus by the buttress [youtube]

Jane knocked the wind from his lungs before he could draw another breath. Her eyes weren’t cold anymore. She fought like a hellcat. Like her life was on the line. How hard had it really been planetside? I have been starving and squatting in an abandoned building for the past three years.

Her fist connected with his jaw and the world went fuzzy. The ground defied gravity, rising to meet him with gusto. His shoulder screamed where it connected with the thin mat. John’s grin was lopsided as he wiped the blood from his mouth. He pitied the pirate that ever ended up in her sights. “Shit, Jane,” he chuffed. “You’re good.”

Jane didn’t return his smile. “No, John.” She spat his name over her shoulder like a curse. “I’m just better.”

where is my mind by safari riot (cover of the pixies) [youtube]

Jane was floating. 

Stiff-backed. Limbs dangling uselessly beside and below her like some invisible force had yanked her right off the ground by a string tied to her ribcage. Jaw wrenched open in a silent scream. And her eyes—

Rolled all the way back, as if whatever that beacon was wanted her to see what it was doing to her brain, forced her to see it. 

John lunged for her, but thick, armored arms wrapped around his trunk, the same ones that pushed him away from Jenkins. That let Arterius doom the poor kid’s family to a closed-casket funeral. We can’t risk it, Nihlus had said. Do you want him to become one of those things? Do you think you could put him down?  

But this time the Brawler was pointed at Jane, and Jane was still alive, she just needed help, she needed someone to knock her loose with a stick like the manuals all said to do with a person being electrocuted. John struggled harder against Nihlus, kicked, punched, spat, cursed — then went still as Jane’s head turned all the way around to face them. 

And shrieked. Not the scream he expected either, no, what came out of his sister was hundreds, thousands of voices screaming, sobbing, begging, praying all at once. Its volume grew and morphed into a bellow that seized hold of his mind and squeezed and squeezed and squeezed —

Jane dropped to the ground like a ragdoll, and he jolted awake in the Normandy’s medbay. 

into dust by mazzy star [youtube]

Saren had offered to help. There were two shovels, after all, and they were both biotic.

Jane grabbed one, then shut the shed. “I need to do this,” she muttered, and started digging.

Dark clouds rolled across the sky.

Once she’d broken through the grass, it wasn’t so bad; the ground was soft and the work was repetitive and Eden Prime was quiet, so quiet now that most of its population was gone.

“It’s going to rain,” Saren said, shortly before the first drop landed on Jane’s nose.

“The porch is covered,” she told him, and kept digging.

All at once, the sky opened up. Somewhere in the downpour, she could hear Saren swearing, dragging the cloth-wrapped body onto the covered porch. Jane took a deep breath.

Focused on digging.

Thunk. Swish. Inhale. Swish. Thud. Exhale.

She’d barely made progress before the first aches settled into her shoulders and back. It was 2183. She didn’t have to do this. Holes could be dug with machines, with lasers, with bots.

Thunk. Swish. Inhale. Swish. Thud. Exhale.

Machines, lasers, and bots had certainly made the body that would fill this one.

Thunk. Swish. Inhale. Swish. Thud. Exhale.

But so had her own negligence. All the bodies littering Eden Prime weighed down her shoulders, adding to the pain spreading down her arms and legs.

Thunk. Swish. Inhale. Swish. Thud. Exhale.

She didn’t have to do this, but she needed to.

The corporal didn't have any family left that would bury him. There wouldn't be a wake, a funeral, an awkward standing-around of relatives who could barely stand each other, picking at the potluck fare for however long seemed appropriate so their departure wouldn't look like an escape. He had no cousins, no uncles, no brothers, no father to carry his expensive wooden box to the hole a machine had dug. He had no friends left. Sandra couldn’t dig him a hole — didn’t need to, not after what she’d seen. John and Kaidan were several systems away.

Maybe you’ve got Anderson and your parents and the Smiths and the Harrises, some smaller, more vicious thing spat in her memory, but all I’m stuck with is you.

Jenkins just had Jane, pulling his dead weight over her back to transport him from the porch to his final resting place. The storm raged on, softened the ground even more. It sucked her into the muck with every step and caked onto her armor up to her knees. She lost her boots somewhere along the way.

Maybe she should have left Powell alive.

Saren had offered to help.

Maybe she should have accepted it.

I’m sorry , she’d mouthed seconds before machines dug a hole straight through the corporal. He might have accepted it, had he still been around to. She wouldn't forgive herself, though, even after all this.

It didn’t feel right to just dump him in, and the ground seemed to agree, crumbling beneath her feet and dumping her into the hole instead. There was a metaphor in there somewhere: lying in a grave she’d dug with her own hands, beneath the soldier who’d be alive if not for her.

She belonged there.

“We have work to do, Jane,” Saren reminded her.

He was right. Jane struggled out from under the corporal’s corpse, arranged him like a funeral home might, and made her ungraceful exit from the grave. She was more mud than Marine at that point, but there was work to do. She picked up her shovel.

Thunk. Swish. Inhale. Swish. Plap. Exhale.

She could mourn this man she’d barely known later, after she’d hunted down the bastard who sent his machines to Eden Prime.

Thunk. Swish. Inhale. Swish. Plap. Exhale.

Burying Jenkins was harder than digging the hole; it took seven attempts to convince herself that it was okay to throw dirt on his face — she was returning him to his mother, that was the reason that finally stuck. She was returning him to his mother, and he would help her garden grow.

When she was done, Saren sprayed her down with the half-rotted hosepipe he’d found coiled against the side of the prefab. It didn’t matter if she was wet, he told her, it was raining anyway. Water would dry. The blood on her hands wouldn’t, but the water would.

That was okay, too, he told her, albeit in much prettier words. He and his ship were both stained far deeper than anyone ever should be.

[vro0m]

vro0m’s rewatch - 164.2/310

2015 US GP

Part 2 of the US GP review : the podium and the postrace interviews.

On the podium, Lewis seems very happy. I don't know why but it's not sinking in for me? It seems like any other win lol. Lewis signs himself.

Then he touch Seb’s back as always, puts a hand on Nico's shoulder and says a few words to him. Nico is not even trying to not look utterly pissed. I can't blame him.

Seb doesn't even have time to set down his trophy before Lewis starts spraying him with champagne. 

Paddy pours Nico's champagne down his race suit while Nico turns his back to the crowd and looks down.

It doesn't spoil Lewis' mood though. He's ecstatic now!

Sir Elton John is leading the interviews, weirdly. He's wearing a black and gold Adidas tracksuit which is. A choice. For a podium. Lewis says he can't believe he's here. "It's Elton John !"

He thanks the crowd for being here and standing in the rain, he hopes they put on a good show for them today. He can't find the right words to say how it feels. He couldn't have done it without this team that really took him on board. "I love you guys, thank you so much for everything you do for me." And to his family at home, they're watching. And teamLH, "Still I rise." 

Nico is laconic. He's very disappointed, he doesn't know what happened. He thanks the crowd as well. He reiterates he’s disappointed. No word about Lewis, who's talking with Seb.

Seb started 14th and finished 3rd. He says being that fast gives him hope for what's to come. But it doesn't feel great when you cross the line and know you can't fight for the championship anymore. He congratulates Lewis who's done a superb job all year, congratulations to his team, but they're getting close and hopefully they can fight them next year.

"And Lewis, celebrations tonight?" Elton John says. "Are you throwing a party?" he answers. "I'm gonna party, I'm playing tonight later…" – "I'm gonna be there," Lewis says. "I wouldn't miss it for the world." 

The crowd chants his name until he lifts off his trophy to them. Lewis, Paddy and Elton take a photo together.

Niki says it's very good they have another 3 times world champion. "Can't complain!" He says it was the best race ever to watch. Ted says he must have thought at some point it wouldn't get done today or even maybe that they wouldn't win the race. He says he was most worried about Seb passing Nico and the whole thing being delayed. Everybody did a very good job, the whole team, which is the most important. What does he think of Lewis' achievement? Does he think he can get better from there? "No, he's only as good as I am, " he says, deadpan. Then he laughs. "I'm joking. Three world championships! He will get better and win more, I don't worry !" 

Toto is very happy as well. They're blasting music in the garage. He says Lewis deserves the title for sure, he was brilliant in his driving, he also was lucky the car didn't let him down this season. Nico was a little bit less lucky. It was a bit of a difficult one today for Nico so they need to build him up again over the next couple of days but next year, new rules, and he'll give it another go. Simon is handed the trophy. He says he hasn't had a word with Nico yet. They need to keep the balance right within the team "so it's always between headteacher, psychologist, father, brother, team boss." Simon asks why they didn't pit Lewis during that second safety car. He says it's because they would have had to stack them which means losing time. They weren't sure if it was the right call. There were a lot of marginal calls during the race. Simon asks if he has a message for the people back in the factories. Toto sets down his glass of champagne, grabs the trophy, and says "Yes I have a message, this is yours, you've won it!" 

We see the F1 world champions standings. It goes like this at this point :

Michael Schumacher 7

Juan Manuel Fangio 5

Alain prost 4

Sebastian Vettel 4

Jack Brabham (literally never heard his name before?!) 3

Jackie Stewart 3

Niki Lauda 3

Nelson Piquet 3

Ayrton Senna 3

Lewis Hamilton 3

Simon says "Of course the great, the legendary Michael Schumacher still way out in front… But then again, Lewis AND Sebastian Vettel have got plenty more years in them yet." Indeed. 

Lewis was asked if it was a dream come true in his press conference. He says he's overwhelmed at the moment. His first British championship, his dad and he drove home singing "we are the champions". He says he owes it all to his dad and family who supported him all these years and sacrificed so much for him to be here, and the positive energy he gets from his fans. He realises that while he gets to enjoy driving a Formula 1 it's really a platform he can use to inspire young people and he hopes that they got from today to never give up on their dreams and hopes and to keep working at it. There were many points he thought he'd lost the race but not for one second he believed he couldn't do it. Nico drove a fantastic race, he's been driving fantastically well. "So mad respect for him as my teammate." He calls it a humbling experience especially to equal Ayrton Senna who meant so much to him and still does today. He smiles. He feels very very blessed. 

While they start asking questions to Nico, Lewis hides his eyes behind his hand. He's emotional.

Then he says something to Seb with a smile but Seb barely reacts.

Nico says he got wheelspin which never ever happened to him before even in testing (that’s not true they complained of it several times during starts). They need to look into it later but it was obviously really really tough to lose the lead and the win like that, because he was feeling really good at that point. "And turn one… Yeah for sure was very aggressive… Pfff…" He's literally pouting and sulking. "What am I gonna say you know? You've seen it again, I haven't seen it you know so how the hell– I can't comment yet. I need to see it as always. You know for sure it was extremely aggressive. We hit each other. Well I would say Lewis came into me. So… Obviously that's not good but." The camera pans out to a larger angle. Lewis is frozen beside him with a poker face. Seb is frowning. 

Back to the broadcast, Paddy is wearing a world champion shirt and a Pirelli cowboy hat. "I'm not built to Texas scale," he jokes as he demonstrates the hat being way too big for his head. Paddy says it means a lot to him personally because he's worked with Lewis throughout his career and he's been there for his three championships. He's not trying to claim any credit because it's a huge team working for it. 

Hill picks up on him saying Nico and Lewis are a good pairing for a team. He asks what Nico brings that makes him work well with Lewis in that aspect. Paddy says it's because they have such different characters but are equally able to get the very best out of the car and push each other. He says it's underestimated how important of a factor that is in a team. The two drivers pull each other up on a bad day, because every driver has a bad day, and they need a reference from the other side of the garage. It's fantastic having these two guys because they're both really top of their game. He doesn't think Lewis could have gotten where he's gotten in the last two years without Nico on the other side of the garage. That's a genuinely interesting point of view. 

They show him the start and when they touched. Paddy says although he didn't study it in detail, Lewis came on the radio and said he didn't mean to do that. He still calls it a tough manoeuvre to throw on a teammate, legal or not, and he suspects he had way less grip than he needed. 

Then they ask him why they didn't pit him. He says the right call was to pit during the VSC and they did so with the leading car. Stacking the cars would have caused issues to the second car which is why they didn't pit Lewis. They agree Kvyat crashing was a turning point and the race might have gone differently if he hadn't, although Nico really lost when he went wide. 

He says it's a tough day for Nico, but he'll bounce back. Johnny also asks if he thinks we've seen the best of Lewis Hamilton (l-m-a-o) and Paddy says with much nuance "we're seeing the best" and then he adds "as we go on." He further explains that that year was his best performance but who knows where the limit is, because he might do even better the next year. Hill asks about Lewis getting more comfortable with the team. Paddy says he thinks getting a second title the previous year he "became much more at home with himself" and relaxed into the job.

Oh and we're actually gonna hear more from Lewis! He says he feels very relaxed right now, overdue a drink with the team, but he's buzzing and has a hard time putting it into words.

He says it's the greatest feeling he's felt in his life. He can't believe it and it was such a fun race! He describes it, ups and downs, Nico being 10 seconds ahead at some point and then he came back with strength. He says he never gave up. He talks straight to the camera. He hopes he made his mom proud, his dad, Linda, Nick, his sisters, his aunties, all his family, team LH, he hopes he made them all proud and he loves them all and is thankful for all the support all these years.

He reiterates there wasn't one second of the race he didn't believe he couldn't do it. He's interrupted by some woman to whom he smiles wide and who comes to kiss him on the cheek.

"From one three world champion to another three world champion (sic)", she says. I think it's Jackie Stewart's wife? She tells him well done and he thanks her and says it's good to see her. 

Rachel asks Lewis what Jackie Stewart told him. Lewis says firstly it was great to have him come over and he's such a great champion. It's a great feeling being congratulated by him. He said he remembered how it felt for him and it must be doubly great for him. Lewis says he doesn't know why he said that but he doesn't think anyone can feel as good as he does right now. "I just wanna dance, but I can't!" he chuckles.

Lmaoooo Lewis please. Grow up. She asks him such a great question and he gets so defensive. "You've been pushed by your teammate, how much of your success can you put down to having someone who challenges you so much in the same team?" He stops smiling.

He stutters. He says it's a difficult question. He doesn't think it's a large chunk of it. "It's really down to my guys, my group, the whole team obviously working together and myself as a driver, it's just work that I do on my own," he continues to stutter. "I never really leant on someone else to pull me along the way, you know, I just had to try and find it myself." And that's really what he had to do today, he says, and he gets back to the race and changes subject. He really had to improve his own driving while he was out there (I just wanna note here that along the way this year he got into the habit of saying whilst instead of while and it throws me off everytime it sounds so weird.) to be able to compete with Nico. He was destabilised by the question at first but he's found his footing again now as he’s answering so he says of course it's great to have a teammate that's pushing and helping the development of the car. 

Rachel says "please tell me you're not gonna celebrate with just watermelon juice tonight like you did last year?"

He shakes his head. "Definitely not. No, definitely– lots of change… Tequila tonight." – "Enjoy!" she answers.

He laughs, thanks her, and moves on. 

It's hilarious hearing them talk about how great and important he is to British sports with all that came after and the smear campaigns basically. They say Bernie himself thinks he's a great champion and so proactive and all that. 

Jackie Stewart gets there. He says he's so happy he was there and Lewis is so happy, justly so. He drove a good hard race. Jackie Stewart says he knew he'd never race again when he won his third, unlike Lewis who's looking forward to being able to win more titles. He's got a lot of years ahead of him and he's got every opportunity to win four or five (lol, or six or seven?). Simon asks if he thinks it's possible, in the current car, how long can they continue. Stewart chuckles. "It could be five or six!" (here ya go!) Mercedes is so superior right now, the engine, the chassis, the engineering talent they have, it's outstanding. Seb won 4 titles back to back and that's the type of things you can do when you have that superiority. Johnny says we've seen Lewis' talent grow and grow and grow, I don't understand his question. He says Stewart was critical of F1 and drivers needing a hand and asks if he would help him out. I don't get it. Stewart says he couldn't help him out because his days are passed. Funnily enough he thinks driving-wise it doesn't change, he says. He says all the great drivers of the past people love to bring up had the same way of driving, he cites a bunch of them and he says Lewis can go ahead and do it that way. You're always learning and the older you get the more you learn and the more you can adapt to some of the idiosyncrasies that you would have previously wrestled with. (Ahhhh! He's so right! We’ve seen it happen with Lewis!) You learn how to put them aside and go around them rather than fight them. He thinks Lewis is now at that point when before he was fighting them (YES ABSOLUTELY JACKIE!) and the three men standing there all say yes. Now he could mature a little bit maybe by being more confident, given he has won three titles and you don't need to race hard all the time to win (I don't think he knows how to race any other way than hard though lol). Johnny asks him if it excites him to see him on track because it excites him because he's always on. Stewart says he is exciting to watch whereas Prost wasn't exciting to watch because he was so smooth and clean. He adored the way he drove, just like Jim Clarke (he rambles about them a bit). Simon says everybody would like to see Ferrari on par with Mercedes in 2016. He asks if we put Seb and Lewis in a Mercedes, who does he bet on? Stewart says he thinks three teams are completely capable if they get it right : Ferrari, RedBull, and Mercedes. They have more money and resources than the others. (He rambles again, old man.) He says drivers like Sebastian Vettel and Lewis are so well placed within these teams, and he also cites Alonso who he says has one of the best heads in Formula 1 (All I can think of is : “How's your head? Never had any complaints.”). He thinks they all can win a lot of races. Simon asks again : in a straight fight, Seb against Lewis? He makes a face. He thinks right now Lewis is the fastest driver in F1. Johnny backs him up, "absolutely". 

Seb is disappointed to have lost the title. But it was a very good race and the car was good, even in mixed conditions. He says he's not predicting "I don't have…" he gets a demented smirk, "you're a woman so I have to be careful but…" she chuckles, he smiles more. "I have balls but I don't have a crystal one." He says he doesn't wanna know the future, he knows they're working very hard, but first they have to finish this season in style. She says Lewis said he wants a battle with him next year. You can see him swallow and then smile. Istg. He says of course he's keen on that if it goes the other way around. 

Nico. She asks him first about the start but he says no he'd rather talk about other things first if it's okay. He talks about his mistake. He says again it never happened before and it was weird. He's really confused about it. The race was his. He finally congratulates Lewis and says he deserved to win the WDC. He's had a great season and drove well and he was consistent. And finally, turn one. He says it didn't have a big impact on the race because he was able to get back in the lead (that's true). He says he just looked at it and he was ahead mid corner and so he had a right to the track. So Lewis was too aggressive, took it one step too far. That's not okay. She asks if he told him that. He says no, because he just saw it now. They haven't spoken. He says apart from his mistake it was an awesome race, all over the place, great battles. She asks if he realises the cap Lewis threw him was just his (girl you're brave). "On the podium? Oh you mean in the room…" He says it was nothing. "It's just our typical games." (!!!) He sniffs. She asks if he has the stomach to try again next year. He says he's not thinking about next year, he's trying to digest today.

[ingek73]

ROYAL DISS

Snubbing the King: Why Don’t Big Stars Want to Perform at Charles’ Coronation?

A number of artists have turned down offers to perform at King Charles' coronation in May. Some theorize that the royal family's recent 'PR disasters' are partly to blame

BY HANNAH EWENS

MARCH 1, 2023

King Charles III doesn't understand why no one wants to come to his party. SAMIR HUSSEIN/WIREIMAGE

IN 1997, AFTER attending a Royal Gala evening, Geri Halliwell kissed Prince Charles on the cheek. According to royal protocol and etiquette, you’re only allowed to shake a royal’s hand, so the scandalous moment landed on the front pages of newspapers and went down in pop culture history. Now, instead of daring Ginger Spice to kiss Charles for a second time, The Spice Girls are avoiding him altogether.

The group is among a number of British pop artists who have turned down the opportunity to play at his coronation in May. Adele, Harry Styles, Robbie Williams, and Elton John were also reportedly asked to play and refused the offer. When Rolling Stone asked why, the teams for all those artists declined to comment, bar Elton John’s, who confirmed he was asked but couldn’t play due to scheduling issues. Musicians used to practically line up outside the palace to perform at any major royal event, but that has changed. The public is left wondering: Will any major star agree to play King Charles III’s coronation?

“The Nineties were so different in British pop culture. It was New Labour, everyone was playful and being a bit cheeky,” explains Michael Cragg, author of Reach For The Stars, a book about Nineties and ‘00s British pop. But, Cragg says, “that cheekiness absolutely isn’t here anymore. Now we really want to know who people are and the version of the Royal family that we’ve learned of recently through Prince Harry’s book and how the Prince Andrew scandal was handled: the reality is awful. You could not be the biggest band in the world now and walk up and plant a kiss on them and it still work.”

To perform at a royal event in 2023 would be to align yourself with blatant scandal. The recent allegations regarding Prince Andrew’s relationship with Jeffrey Epstein and an alleged sexual relationship with one of Epstein’s victims are still fresh in people’s minds. And so is Andrew’s disastrous 2019 BBC Newsnight interview about said claims. But before people had a chance to reconcile their feelings about Andrew, Prince Harry and his wife Meghan Markle publicly announced that they were stepping down from royal duties. In the years since, Harry and Markle have levied several accusations against the royal family and the UK press, claiming their respective treatment of Markle led to fears for her mental and physical health. The discourse and growing divide between the couple and the Institution has been well documented in Harry’s 2023 tell-all memoir Spare and the couple’s Netflix series Harry & Meghan.

“The royal family has faced a number of PR disasters in recent times, and anyone performing at the show would have to consider whether there would be a backlash from appearing amongst their fans,” says Simon Jones, PR to Little Mix, Niall Horan, and Louis Tomlinson.

On that same note, it would be a laughingly straightforward decision to decline an offer to perform for many artists. Kingsley Hall of political band Benefits, whose 2022 anti-monarchy single “Flag” was number one on the Official UK vinyl the week of the Queen’s Platinum Jubilee, explains of the British cultural temperature, “We’ve had so much exposure and negative exposure of the Royal family – jubilees, weddings, fallings out, accusations of racism, notable deaths, someone being accused of being a sexual predator – in what I would classify as a short space of time. People are sick of it and probably won’t be involved for that reason.”

For many millennial and Gen Z fans in the UK in particular, Royalism is a dirty idea. Meg, head of a leading British music PR company, notes that both Styles and Adele are at points in their careers where they need to define themselves beyond a successful decade in music. “For them right now, storytelling is really important,” says Meg, whose real/full name has been withheld by request. These big symbolic associations carry a lot of weight and literally go down in history books in bold and underlined. I can understand why there’d be a big PR discussion around artists doing it or not.”

Whereas the public had previously seen the Queen as a longstanding grandmother of the nation, Charles is not the country’s grandfather so much as a blank emblem of the royal family. “ I don’t know what there is to gain for artists by associating with him,” says Meg. “With the Queen, she was fab and glamorous to some people. Charles doesn’t add anything — there’s not a legacy of his that anyone would want to align with. It’s televised, so a lot of people will hear your songs, sure, but in terms of long-term PR strategy, I don’t know if performing would add positively to an artist’s narrative unless they were staunchly pro the monarchy.”

A spokesperson for Buckingham Palace did not immediately respond to Rolling Stone‘s request for comment. Rolling Stone also reached out to the BBC, which is organizing the coronation.

Crucially, this coronation is happening in a year when the UK’s cost of living crisis has dangerously peaked. Ellie (whose real/full name has been withheld by request), founder of a British pop music PR company, says, “Strip back the gold and red cloak, and you have a country where parents are choosing between feeding their kids or keeping them warm. How much money is the coronation costing the taxpayer? It feels like a political statement to play.”

Each artist who declines will naturally have their own political motivations based on their Britishness. As Adele superfan Grace Martha from London notes, Adele is a proud champion of being working class from Tottenham, one of the most ethnically diverse areas in Britain. “The pomp and money this coronation is costing doesn’t represent her values at all,” says Martha. “This issue is so specific to our culture; Americans might think, ‘Oh, she’s from London and a cockney, why wouldn’t she do it?’ But they don’t understand the nuances of different areas, cultures, and identities here. She’s for the ‘everyday person,’ and the everyday younger person in London doesn’t rate the royal family anymore.”

The colonialism of the British empire has been a major discussion point over the past two years. That is behind the struggle to secure A-List British acts, says Hak Baker, a musician from London: “Any situation where I’d bow to an openly racist colonial imperial system that refuses to apologise for its past and eradication of my people’s history I’d rather avoid with a barge pole. We are more aware of the past now. They are not exempt from recognition. I think they’re going to have a hard time.”

Han Mee of Manchester band Hot Milk agrees emphatically, calling it an “outdated institution” that does not represent modern Britain. “Leave it in the past, it’s as old, aged, and expensive as the whiskey that props it up but without the strength and merriment,” she says. “I liked Liz, but it should have died with her – the coronation is a kick in the teeth when this country has never been more of a shit show.”

The real question is: Why do the royals need this entertainment value at all? “No one’s talking about the date or the guests,” considers Meg. “The big headlines around the coronation right now are which musicians are in and which musicians are out, which underlines the importance of music and what the symbolism is of an endorsement from one of these megastar artists.” It appears that in 2023 the royal family needs musicians more than musicians need them.

[idontknowreallywhy]

… you mean that creeping realisation nobody is coming?

Liiiike…

On day 41 the first tendrils of doubt began to weave their way through. He’d expected a couple of weeks, maybe three or four… he’d been air support on two retrieval missions so far so he knew they took a bit to plan and resource. Maybe this was particularly tricky, so maybe it could be four before they came. Maybe five?

Initially Scott blamed his counting. Maybe he’d doubled up some days - maybe mistook a floodlight for Dawn, or a cloud passing over the sun for dusk. He needed some other more reliable method.

He sat in the corner and ran his hands through his unruly hair and matching beard and tried to make himself look respectable. And then his heart froze and sank into his gut where it thrashed painfully against his other organs. He’d never had much success with facial hair, it grew so slowly and patchily. He’d stopped shaving for charity one month and in 31 days it was still pretty threadbare fluff and he got rid of it with a sigh of relief as soon as the challenge was completed. This… this was A Beard.

On day 41… or maybe it was 51 or 61… he began to believe they might just… not... come.

Surely Ash and Val would raise hell, his whole squadron would. Their Group Captain wouldn’t let him rot.

And if not them… Dad… he’d raise hell and then do it himself if necessary. He’d imagined that gruff voice at the door so many times. Of course he hoped Dad wouldn’t have to because the thought he could be hurt was… unacceptable. But he would do something. Someone would launch a rescue soon.

Unless they thought there was no rescue to effect. He squeezed his eyes as he recalled attending the empty coffin funeral of a colleague he’d never known. The pomp and gravitas so hollow and…pointless. The eyes of the man’s family so dark with sleepless grief as they accepted the flag and tried to summarise a life in halting, pain-filled words to a crowd of uniformed people all praying they wouldn’t be next.

Had they… had they done that for him?

Had someone called it? Drawn a line?

Changed the M to a K?

Had his family stood in the front row and listened to a bugle and mourned him?

He could see their faces and it tore at his soul. He could picture Virgil’s devastated eyes, John’s pallor, Gordon’s tears, Allie’s tantrum at the absence of his big brother hugs and he gasped in horror.

He had to get to them and tell them it wasn’t true.

His bruised and battered body screamed at him as it collided with the steel door. He cursed it into silence and threw himself at the unyielding metal again and again and again…

whumpee who was left to rot, and doesn’t think anyone’s coming back for them. maybe they were caught in a disaster, or maybe they were left behind in a cell during a grand escape. their team didn’t realise that one person was missing until it was too late — will they come back for whumpee, or will they decide it’s too much trouble and leave them behind for good?

[prairiesongserial]

22.3

The man in the doorway yelled as John lunged for him, stuck between John and the two boys and unable to dodge. He was saved only by Alys’s reflexes–she moved almost immediately to restrain John, whipping out her own knife and pressing the flat of the blade to his throat.

John bucked and bared his teeth at Alys. The blade dug into the underside of his chin, leaving a line of blood in its wake.

“John,” Val said, warningly.

John seemed too angry to speak. Alys was trying to wrestle him away from the doorway, and he was resisting every step of the way, contorting the hand holding the letter opener to slash at both Alys and the man in the coats.

“Will you–fucking–” Alys panted, strained, as she managed to force John backwards far enough for the man in the coats to inch sideways and cower in a corner of the room near Jothi.

“Here,” Val said, moving towards Alys–he’d meant only to get the letter opener back, but she thrust John at him with no warning. They collided with each other, John’s forehead striking Val’s jaw so hard he felt it in his teeth. “Deal with your friend,” Alys snapped.

Val grabbed both of John’s wrists before either of them had fully recovered, holding fast when John started to twist and fight him. He tried to pry the letter opener from John’s grip, to no avail.

“Let me have it,” Val said.

“No,” John grunted.

“You’re not stabbing anyone,” Val said, in a tone that he hoped left very little room for argument. “Give it back to me.”

John grunted again, wordlessly this time, and did not let go of the letter opener. Val wondered when John had managed to steal it; Friday would have been disappointed in him for not noticing he was having his pocket picked.

Alys had backed off, leaving Val alone to handle John as she searched her friend for injuries. The letter-opener had torn the man’s outer coat, and down stuffing was seeping through the slash, but he was otherwise unharmed as far as Val could see. Jothi stood apart from the others–apparently they hadn’t wanted to risk another bloody nose from trying to restrain John. Val couldn’t blame them.

The two young boys were still in the room’s doorway, wide-eyed. Val had a decent enough idea of who they were.

“They lied to us,” John said, his voice low. He struggled against Val again, forcing Val to tighten his grip.

“I see that,” Val replied. 

“Kids,” John hissed, glaring daggers at Alys. Then: “You wouldn’t let me kill them.”

“I’m still not letting you.” Val tried once more to ease the letter-opener from John’s grasp, failed, and raised his voice to address the others. “I thought you said the Queen got rid of the princes?”

Jothi, Ted, and the man in the coats all looked immediately to Alys. If it hadn’t been clear before that she was the head of this small operation, it was now–no one spoke until she gave a small incline of her head to let them know it was alright.

“So,” Jothi said, “we lied a little.”

John strained in place. Val adjusted, but didn’t let him go. He meant what he’d said; he wasn’t going to let John attack anyone. Not until he heard them out, at least. If he didn’t like their story…well, then there could be some relitigation of the issue of attacking these guys with a letter opener.

“We kidnapped the princes when the Regent was still running things,” Jothi went on. “We thought we could ransom them back in exchange for him stepping down, or even just opening the palaces to let folks live in. Because people–people are going to freeze to death, up top, and we know there’s room in the palaces–”

“The point is,” Ted cut them off, “we weren’t going to kill a couple of kids. They were supposed to be our leverage.”

“See?” Val asked John, pointedly.

John made a noise of disbelief, low in his throat. He clearly didn’t trust that the rebel faction had no ill will towards the princes, but he also hadn’t trusted the rebels from the start. 

Val let his gaze wander, briefly, to the two boys in the doorway. They looked like they hadn’t been eating enough, but not like they’d been treated roughly in any way. They didn’t look scared of their captors, either–if anything, the older boy looked worried about the man John had nearly stabbed.

“So what happened?” Val asked. He had an inkling, but he wanted to hear it in detail.

“The Queen,” Alys spat. “Showed up out of nowhere, right at the tail end of our operation to get the princes. She made it look like the Regent was in on it all along, got him killed or executed or something. Next thing you know, she’s on the throne, saying we murdered her kid cousins and she’s got to retaliate.”

Val frowned. “Why don’t you–”

“Give them back?” Alys asked. “You think that wasn’t the first thing we talked about?”

“You don’t trust the Queen,” Val said. Of course they didn’t–and he was inclined to agree. Even before knowing about the Hemisphere connection, he hadn’t liked her.

“We think if we tried to negotiate an exchange, she’d find a way to kill us and the princes,” Jothi explained. “Because she can only stay on the throne if they stay disappeared. That’s why she’s been trying to smoke us out, and blow up the tunnels.”

“So you’ve gone from kidnappers to bodyguards,” Val said. “And now we’re caught in the middle. The Queen doesn’t know how much we know, because Sacha–”

“Sacha?” Alys interjected.

“Not important,” John ground out. He was still horribly tense against Val, his muscles taut in ways that had to have been uncomfortable, but he was starting to relax, bit by bit.

“The Dauphin. He sent us with that letter…the Queen thinks we’re spies–or she doesn’t know what to make of us, because we thought the Regent was still in charge.” Val frowned. If the Queen thought Val, Friday, John, and Cody already knew what was going on with the princes, their wanted posters had been a good way to control them. Even if it did prove her connection to Hemisphere. 

“Cody and Friday,” John said plainly, and didn’t elaborate. 

Val knew what he was getting at. Cody and Friday were still in danger, despite walking away from the tunnel collapse. Assuming they had walked away. The voices he’d heard on the other side of the rubble made Val want to believe, and he didn’t have much left if he couldn’t believe in Friday’s ability to endure.

“They’re smart,” he assured John. “They’ll be okay.”

John’s mouth twisted. He was right to be skeptical–if the Queen decided that she could publicly pin Cody and Friday as spies working with the rebels, the two of them would have to find a way to escape London on their own. Val didn’t know how he’d find them again. He was trying not to think about that.

“The train,” he said instead, turning to Jothi. “Why were you running it? You never said.”

Jothi grimaced. “We were testing it without anyone on board, to see if it could run the length of the track. It was…we were going to use it to try and get the princes out of London, towards the French border. And now…”

It wasn’t a viable option anymore. Not with both the train and the tunnel destroyed, and the Queen already suspicious of French spies infiltrating the palace. Val’s stomach sank; Alys’s anger at finding him and John in the tunnel had much more context now.

“There’s no other way?” he asked. “Nowhere else you can take them?”

Jothi’s brow furrowed. “The German border…if we could get a boat, maybe. But we’d have to travel on the roads aboveground, and–”

“–any way we’d go aboveground, there’s checkpoints with guards,” Alys finished, curt, folding her arms across her chest. “We’re not showing our faces at one of those. Or anywhere else.”

“The Queen doesn’t know what you look like,” Val shot back at her.

“Doesn’t matter. The princes are the most recognizable people in the country. She’s got them on posters on every street corner.”

“You don’t care enough to try?”

“I care about keeping my people alive,” Alys snapped. The eye set into her forehead was glaring at Val with naked hostility.

He felt for her, a bit. She clearly hadn’t asked to be saddled with this situation. It made sense, not wanting to put lives on the line to try and smuggle a couple of princes the rebels shouldn’t have been responsible for over the border. But it was also far, far too callous for Val’s taste. By the way John had tensed up again next to him, he got the sense that they were in agreement.

“We’ll take them,” John said, his voice low, as if daring anyone in the room to disagree.

“Like hell you will,” the man in the coats said. “You could’ve–”

“He was trying to protect the kids,” Ted cut him off.

“We’ll take them,” John said again.

Alys looked to Val, eyebrows raised. “You’re okay putting your life on the line like that?”

Val let out a breath. What choice did he have? If he and John made their way back to the palace, after all this, the Queen would probably deduce where they’d been. They wouldn’t be safe there. Getting out of England was their best option.

“I am,” he answered. “We’ll take the princes. But we go back for Cody and Friday first.”

22.2 || 22.4

[warningsine]

BAR HARBOR, Maine — Atlantic storm Lee — which made landfall at near-hurricane strength, bringing destructive winds and torrential rains to New England and Maritime Canada — kept weakening Sunday after officials withdrew warnings and predicted the storm would disappear early this week.

The U.S. National Hurricane Center said Sunday morning that the post-tropical cyclone was about 135 miles west of Channel-Port Aux Basques, Newfoundland. The top sustained wind speed was 45 mph with some higher gusts expected.

"Gradual weakening is forecast during the next couple of days, and Lee could dissipate on Tuesday," the U.S. hurricane center said.

The sky was sunny in Maine on Sunday morning. Gov. Janet Mills suspended a state of emergency. Less than 5% of electricity customers were still without power, down from 11% by midday Saturday during the height of the storm. In Canada, 14% of Nova Scotia had no electricity, down from 27% on Saturday, with smaller numbers in New Brunswick and Prince Edward Island.

The center discontinued a tropical storm warning for the coast of Maine late Saturday. It reported late Sunday morning that all tropical storm warnings for Canada were discontinued.

Storm surges were expected to subside on Sunday after being forecast as up to 3 feet on Saturday along coastal areas, the hurricane center said.

Fatality reported in Maine

A 51-year-old motorist in Searsport, Maine, died Saturday after a large tree limb fell on his vehicle on U.S. Highway 1 during high winds. The limb brought down live power lines and utility workers had to cut power before removing the man, who died later at a hospital, Police Chief Brian Lunt said.

A driver suffered minor injuries Saturday, after a tree downed by Lee went through his windshield on Route 11 in Moro Plantation, Maine, according to Maine State Police. John Yoder, 23, of Apple Creek, Ohio, attempted to stop but couldn't avoid the tree. Yoder suffered minor cuts but the other five passengers in the van were not injured. Police blamed high winds for the downed tree.

The storm was tracked as moving around 22 mph and expected to proceed northeast, taking the weather system across the Canadian Maritimes. Rainfall was expected to be an additional 1 inch or less for portions of eastern Maine, New Brunswick and Nova Scotia, the U.S. storm center said.

In Bar Harbor, Maine, the touristy gateway to Acadia National Park, a whale watch vessel broke free of its mooring and crashed ashore Saturday. Authorities worked to offload 1,800 gallons of diesel fuel to prevent it from spilling into the ocean.

Lee flooded coastal roads in Nova Scotia and took ferries out of service while fanning anxiety in a region still reeling from wildfires and severe flooding this summer. The province's largest airport, Halifax Stanfield International, canceled all flights.

"People are exhausted," said Pam Lovelace, a councilor in Halifax. "It's so much in such a small time period."

Hurricane-force winds extended as far as 140 miles from Lee's center, with tropical storm-force winds extending as far as 320 miles, enough to cover all of Maine and much of Maritime Canada.

The storm skirted some of the most waterlogged areas of Massachusetts that experienced severe flash flooding days earlier, when fast water washed out roads, caused sinkholes, damaged homes and flooded vehicles.

In eastern Maine, winds died down enough by late afternoon Saturday for utility workers to begin using bucket trucks to make repairs.

The entire region has experienced an especially wet summer, ranking second in the number of rainy days in Portland, Maine — and Lee's high winds toppled trees stressed by the rain-soaked ground in Maine, the nation's most heavily wooded state.

Cruise ships found refuge at berths in Portland, Maine, while lobstermen in Bar Harbor and elsewhere pulled traps from the water and hauled boats inland.

Billy Bob Faulkingham, House Republican leader of the Maine Legislature, and another lobsterman survived after their boat overturned while hauling traps ahead of the storm Friday, officials said.

The boat's emergency locator beacon alerted authorities and the pair clung to the hull until help arrived, said Winter Harbor Police Chief Danny Mitchell. The 42-foot boat sank.

"They're very lucky to be alive," Mitchell said.

Lee shared some characteristics with 2012's Superstorm Sandy. Both storms were once-strong hurricanes that became post-tropical cyclones — cyclonic storms that have lost most of their tropical characteristics — before landfall. But Sandy caused billions of dollars in damage and was blamed for dozens of deaths in New York and New Jersey.

Lee also was not anywhere near as severe as the remnants of Hurricane Fiona, which a year ago washed houses into the ocean in eastern Canada, knocked out power to most of two provinces and swept a woman into the sea.

Destructive hurricanes are relatively rare so far north. The Great New England Hurricane of 1938 brought gusts as high as 186 mph and sustained winds of 121 mph at Massachusetts' Blue Hill Observatory. There have been no storms that powerful in recent years.

Separately, Tropical Storm Nigel was strengthening and expected to become a hurricane by Monday, the U.S. hurricane center said. It appeared to pose no threats to the U.S. or Canada. It was about 990 miles northeast of the Lesser Antilles and about 1,115 miles east-southeast of Bermuda. It had maximum sustained winds of 60 mph and was moving north-northwest at 13 mph.

[castle-dominion]

c4x7 cops & robbers

castle: bored af Tho I like how he's with his mom at the bank not for co-signing or anything but just for... moral support?

MR: Richard, I’m a business woman now. I do not want your money, I do not want your signature, thank you very much. It’s the principle. Dp: No, Ms. Rogers, it’s the interest. RC: And I’ve just lost mine. Excuse me.

I'm watching this after covid, it didn't seem out of the ordinary At All to see ppl with masks. RC, seeing sussy stuff: Hm. I think this bank is about to be robbed. *robbery starts* RC: It’s not my imagination. It’s definitely not my imagination. I love how he Just Happens to be on the phone with the cops when this is going down lol. She's able to just call it over to her homicide team

Ok so I know This Guy & he just nods at castle's shh motion. Makes sense For Now. Castle should really put the phone in his bra or smth so he can have it still recording w/o needing to have it up to his ear obviously. If it was in his bra (which he totally has) he could still describe the scene (which is smart of him) Manager just has it on his neck? Make that four. "You a cop? (to Castle) You called a cop?" "No. I-- We were already on the line when you guys came in."

British sounding accent huh Love the different doctor names. My first thought was healthcare was so bad in the usa that they needed to rob a bank. How did he open the door I thought he locked it? He DID lock it the thing is right there! I guess it has some wiggle room. You know, come to think of it, those doors look lik ethey are made of glass. Strong structured & thick, but still. A heavy object a couple times... Love a good hostage situation. We've all seen Die Hard we know how this goes.

Man's right. You're homicide he's robbery. He's also very calm & direct. Not impolite but firm & short. (tho "missed your cue" was rude) Where's demming tho?

What if I raise my hand to ask a question? lmao acab tho I don't trust anything here

Ryan looks very s2 like. Blue shirt, tie, brown normal jacket. Espt looks bisexual with his layers. Nice to have contacts in emergency service units Bro I think the robbery people have this handled.

She's a woman she doesn't need to have a bedroom voice the robber is just like horny & straight or smth I don't think that keeping him calm is hard bc he seems like a pro. TJ: Yeah, I don't like that other guy. KB: Yeah, me neither. peterson: ?? Trapper John! Bro it's M*A*S*H! You should come down & watch this episode with us! He IS a pro Oh no now cap peterson thinks that he is beckett's boyf.

Wow what a jerk. Blaming someone for the bank getting robbed. Or well, for getting the cops here too soon. If the cops didn't get here maybe they would have left with the money & let the hostages go. Except the bank ppl said the silent alarms went so ok. Oh no don't tell me we're going to deliver a baby I like how she says they should let the pregnant lady go but the way she says it implies she's ok with being held hostage.

RC: Don’t worry mother. I saw this work on Die Hard. RC: Uh, Mr. Howser-- Excuse me, Doctor Howser. Why not just give them a cup behind a desk?

RC: So, why Doogie Howser? I mean there's so many cool TV doctors you could pick.

Was espt in ESU before homicide? What IS his exp?

omg he likes her <3 lmao the banker & actress hitting it off I wanted to check out the food at my new work before I start working there & ofc I ended up using the washroom & there was some sort of old b/w sensual film playing in the stall. it is not his box: how did he get the key? woah castle remembers which wall & row & column it was in?? & Dp knows the number??? Martha-?

Three hours sounds... reasonable...

it's me! I know morse code! ... -.. is what I saw but they kept cutting away. I also don't know numbers only letters. Numbers are easy I just don't know them. how DO you know it's him? It could be another smart civilian!

Martha actress moments Why is That Guy telling castle this? He was "in the washroom" during castle's secret message sal martino? idk I'll continue with That Guy (unless I quote). "you have no idea" WOW THIS EPISODE IS GOOD I don't make promises

Rick did too well, SM was supposed to freak out bc of the c-4 but rick calmed him down which was NOT the plan.

Wasn't gideon fields? Sus. KR: Whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa. You can't go in there, we don't have a warrant and we don't have probable cause. JE: Bro, Castle's life depends on this. KR: ... Did you just hear that? I think I just heard someone yell out, "Help, police!" JE: (in a voice) "Help, police!" There it is again. Ah yes, dead bodies. Grody. & perfect for the homicide detectives.

I couldn't tell if she was dead for a week or she was just old... but then again the smell of decomp

JE: I don't get it. This is a little, old, retired librarian. What could possibly be in her safe deposit box that would be worth doing all this? KR: Nazi gold, cold fusion, map to Atlantis. JE: Hey, Castle Jr., could you maybe start thinking like a cop, please? (Castle HAS mentioned nazi gold) KR standing with That Booty: I am!?? JE: Are you? KR: It had to have been something huge that was worth killing her over, right? Hey, Super Cop, check it out.

Hug alexis, becks, she needs it, you might too. But hey, rick made kate promise to take care of alexis! & esposito promised to get rid of his porn collection!

Rick just do the flashing bracelet thing again. Idk numbers but (-.-.) ..-. --- ..- .-. is easy enough What is HER accent? cushions is a good idea <3 GOSH WHAT aT Least put him sideways so he doesn't choke!

told Whom to stay with her? Y'all never leave me a voicemail, please text.

it's legit not enough time bestie Send in esposito he looks like a buff firefighter paramedic

Trapper would know her voice. Bad idea. Love the double talking obv not a paramedic since she didn't know she could put the gurney closer to the ground & then raise it up once the fellow is on there UM SIGN LANGUAGE MUCH? Castle could have totally slipped it into sal's shirt

Martha should totally have just kicked everyone's ass & the hostages could have gotten themselves out on the fury of a mother There is a second T in twenTy kate That chuckle was very nathan fillion bc that's where the money is lmao Castle why are you revealing your hand? Just like tf2 for real just like rvb for real Castle has escaped duck tape before. Zip ties are easy to get out of

RC: Mother, I find I'm no longer satisfied with the customer service at this establishment. I think we should take our business elsewhere. Me: Is that code? RC: no just trying to be funny ig

Ron Brandt. Good thing I didn't switch names Were those guys wearing black before? & now they are covered in dust? or were they always wearing that greyish colour?

PUT AWAY THE GUN BEFORE YOU UNTIE THEM BESTIE mr: *shaking her hands with a grin*

They would NOT have messed up Captain Peterson probably is surprised with how good castle is, he's like "wow this guy really does know his stuff" Whose body parts?

Oh no are castle's banker & mother going to sleep together?

I like how beckett has a touchphone & ryan has a flip or smth

See? Castle wasn't supposed to calm him down Holy crap bad bruising I sometimes hate being a christian (what with being who I am) but right now I love it.

That Guy: Honey, I'm home. what a line Girl u should have kicked his balls while he was outside the door TG: Oh, no. Hon, you bumped your head. Ha what a typical abuser line. Disgusting.

*kept the cop's face in shadow*

JE: Come on, let's go pick them up. KR: Ithaca??? Why is espt just going on this huge road trip with ryan? RC: Even as a hostage, I help you solve murders. Beckett, I think…I think you have the perfect partner.

Poor alexis. Poor Ash. Long distance sucks.

In my binge watch I should have counted these. 8th time becks saved castle, castle has saved her 9.

The vodun episode with the purses & champagne, I remember that. The nikki heat murders were not a save, she lived you just gave her your coat RC: Won't be forgetting that anytime soon.

[krispyweiss]

“Oh Yoko!” - Ono Turns 90

Always on the cutting edge, Yoko Ono decided to do one more thing few people ever achieve.

The multi-media creator and widow of John Lennon turns 90 today, Feb. 18, 2023.

Born on this date in 1933, Ono was a renowned artist in her own right before meeting Lennon. The couple did some weird stuff together - “I avant-garde a clue,” George Harrison once quipped when asked about the Ono-Lennon partnership - but also were clearly a team.

She went on to become the second woman to appear on a Beatles recording - after harpist Sheila Bromberg’s contributions to “She’s Leaving Home” - with her line in “The Continuing Story of Bungalow Bill” and her fingerprints all over “Revolution 9.”

And though Fab fanatics love to blame Ono for busting up their fave band, a prescient Paul McCartney put that notion to bed when “The Beatles: Get Back” came out in 2021 and included this delicious gem:

“It’s going to be such a comical thing in 50 years’ time - ‘They broke up because Yoko sat on an amp.’”

Though it’s been widely vilified, Ono’s music has been just as widely influential and, yes, popular. She’s scored a dozen No. 1 dance singles in the United States and the case could be made that without Ono, the B-52’s as we knew them would never have existed.

An optimistic advocate for peace and understanding, Ono still lives in the Dakota Building in New York City, the scene of her husband’s murder in 1980.

“What do you want to surround yourself with?,” Ono, a prolific tweeter, said in one of her recent pearls of wisdom.

“I went for love.”

2/18/23

[masterofmunson]

look after you (1)

TFATWS Bucky Barnes x Fem!Reader

Summary: Sam asks you to join him and Bucky on a mission in Madripoor. When you get injured, Bucky feels the need to remind you more than once that he’s supposed to look after you now that Steve’s gone.

Warnings: tfatws spoilers, language, violence, blood, grief, angst, major pining

Word Count: 6k+ 

Author’s Note: Here she is!! I’m really excited to see what you guys think! This is my first Bucky fic in AGES! I decided to make this into a mini series since this fic is so long haha. Please let me know what you think. Comments, reblogs, and asks are highly encouraged and appreciated! Enjoy!

You hadn’t seen Sam or Bucky in several weeks. You were still adjusting to life post-blip. It had been a long five years for you and just seconds for them. You were no longer the bright-eyed and bushy tailed recruit. You’d grown into your position amongst the established and experienced Avengers. Now, it meant nothing. 

Tony’s gone. Steve’s dead, Natasha too. The Avengers had officially disbanded. You felt lost and confused, still blinded by your grief over losing them. You had nowhere to go, so you just floated from place to place as needed. 

You were laying low and a shell of the person you once were. You had no one to look towards anymore. Bucky went his separate ways and got some sort of footing in New York City with the pardon he was given by the government since his return to the states. You checked in every now and then with him, but you didn’t want to slow down his progress so you distanced yourself from him. 

You know he feels some sort of responsibility towards you. Steve did too, and you suppose now that he’s gone, Bucky feels the need to take his place. It doesn’t matter that you’re no longer the naive 23 year old he met in Berlin all those years ago. It doesn’t matter that there was something lingering between the two of you before he turned to ash. You’re a grown woman now and war and politics has hardened your soul. 

He needs to move on from you. The version he has of you in his head is gone, dead. He wants a fresh start, and you can’t give it to him. 

Sam checks in with you once in a while. He asks you how you’re doing and you respond the same each time. “Same shit, different day,” you laughed lightly. 

He knows better than to ask you to join him on his missions with the military. You’re not in the right headspace to return to the field, least of all if it meant that you were representing the US government wherever the fight was. 

Now that John Walker has the shield and has been branded the new Captain America, it gives you all the more reason to stay away. If he had so much as just breathed in your direction, you’d kill him and rip the shield from his grasp and return it to Sam. 

You ignored all emails and phone calls that had to do with John Walker. He wanted your blessing on live television, as if that meant anything. Yes, you were close with Steve, but you’re not an original Avenger. You just caught his eye during training one day and he took you under his wing. John Walker just wanted to create a bridge between the two of you since Sam and Bucky were obviously out of the question. 

You were the first person Sam called when he told you he was giving up the shield. You didn’t ask why. You knew he had his reasons and you respected him to accept that whatever the reasons were, they were good enough. 

So, when Sam called in the middle of the night, you picked up the phone without a second thought. Rubbing the sleep from your eyes, you sit up and fumble for the light on the nightstand beside you. 

“Sam? You do realize it’s three in the morning, right?” you asked, yawning into your phone. 

Sam curses in your ear and apologizes quietly. “Sorry. You would think with all this traveling, I’d remember time zones are a thing,” he laughed softly. 

“What is it, Sam?” 

“We’re in a bit of a tight spot. We could use your help.”

Your brows pinch together. “Who’s we, Sam?”

“Me and Barnes.”

Your heart jumps inside your throat. How the hell did Sam manage to rope Bucky into whatever he’s doing? The last you heard, Bucky wasn’t allowed to go on government missions until his therapist thought he made enough progress to do so. You know he’s nowhere near the progress he wants to be, so how is he with Sam? 

“Jesus, Sam. You know he’s not in the right headspace to go on missions!” There’s a heavy pause between the two of you before you relent. “Where am I meeting you?”

“Latvia. I’ll fill you in when you get here.”

You hang up quickly and hurry out of bed. After so many years of getting up at odd hours for emergency missions and the like, you’re not surprised that Sam asked you to meet him in the middle of the night. You grab your duffle bag and stuff all your belongings back inside. You travel lightly, and now it definitely seemed to work out in your favor. 

You’ve spent the last couple of weeks in a small town just outside of Helena, Montana. It’s nice and quiet and you’ve really taken the time to reflect on your life since things started going back to normal post-blip. The locals are nice and hospitable, and no one asks you about Steve, Tony, or what you thought of John Walker. You hope it had something to do with the fact that they didn’t know who you were. You certainly hoped that was the case. You’ve kept your head down and tried your best to blend in. 

You go hiking quite frequently and take drives through the mountains. It’s nice and relaxing, a far cry from what you’re used to. You’ll definitely miss it, and you have second thoughts about meeting up with Sam, but you push them away. Steve abandoned you both, and you wouldn’t do that to him. 

It takes you several hours to get to the closest international airport and by the time you arrive, the sun begins to rise in the distance. You hurry through the airport security and send Sam a quick update that you’re about to board your flight before you settle in your seat and fall back asleep.

....

You sleep through the entire flight. You blame it on your ability to sleep anywhere due to the number of missions you have under your belt. You’re wide awake when the plane lands and you’re quick to pull out your phone and send a message to Sam that you’ve made it safe and sound to Latvia. 

Your legs are stiff and sore when you stand up for the first time when it’s time to leave. You pull your duffle bag from the overhead compartment and slowly make your way to the front. It takes you nearly an hour to get through customs and now you’re just anxiously waiting to see Sam. 

When you see him waiting for you at the baggage claim area, you grin as your eyes meet. You hurry over to him and drop your duffle bag to the floor as he pulls you in for a hug. It’s warm and tight and it’s exactly what you need. Sam pulls away first and reaches for your bag, throwing an arm over your shoulder as you walk out of the airport to his car. 

You stop walking when you notice two figures near a very fancy yellow car as you and Sam near them. Sam keeps walking and you take slow, tentative steps. You know one of the figures has to be Bucky, but Sam never mentioned a third person. 

“Sam, I thought you said that it was just you and Bucky,” you said cautiously. 

Sam stops in his tracks and lets out a nervous chuckle and scratches the back of his head. It makes your heart race and you swallow the lump in your throat as they begin to come into focus as they near the two of you. “Y/n, before you get angry, I just need you to know that this wasn’t my idea. Believe me when I tell you that he is the last person we would ask for help,” Sam replied as his eyes went from you to the two people approaching.

“Who is he?” you asked through gritted teeth. 

“Ah! Y/n, good to know that your flight went rather smoothly. It is good to see you again.”

No. There’s no way. You must be dreaming. Hemlut Zemo is not standing right in front of you. He is in prison. He is behind bars for the crimes he committed. The two men that you're closest to wouldn’t jailbreak someone as atrocious as Zemo. There has to be an explanation. It doesn’t make sense. 

“What the fuck is Zemo doing out of prison?!” you hissed, looking between Bucky and Sam, demanding an explanation. 

“Y/n, honey, I can explain, just please get in the car,” Bucky pleaded, reaching out to touch your hand. 

You glare at him and take a step back. “Are you out of your mind, Bucky? You break him out of jail because you need him, is that it? Do you remember what he did to you, because I certainly do!”

Bucky frowns and lets out a deep and heavy sigh. He looks over at Sam. “Did you fill her in at all?”

“No!” you shouted. “I can speak for myself, James! Someone better start talking and tell me what the hell is going on!”

“We don’t really have time for this right now,” Zemo interrupts, “we really must be going. I’m sure Sam and James can fill you in in the car.”

You glare at the Sokovian terrorist and snap at him. “Shut your mouth, Zemo.”

He raises his hands up in surrender and takes a step back. Bucky towers over you and this time you let him take your hand. He squeezes it gently and pulls you into his chest, hugging you tightly. You’re tense and fuming as he holds you. 

His mouth finds the shell of your ear and despite the wave of anger flowing through your body, it sends a shiver down your spine. Bucky whispers, “I hate to say it, but Zemo’s right. We have to go. I’ll explain on the way, I promise.”

You huff childishly and turn your head away from him as he kisses your temple. “Fine. If he steps out of line, I’ll kill him.”

Bucky laughs and takes your hand and walks you to the car. “Get in line, honey. Sam and I have first dibs.”

You resist the urge to smile and Bucky opens the door for you as Sam tosses your bag in the trunk and climbs into the front seat. Bucky slides in beside you and he tells you everything.

He tells you about their first encounter with the Flag Smashers. He tells you about how the leader and a few of her followers have taken a newer version of the serum that runs through his veins. He tells you that she plans on giving the serum to more people to build an army and that you have to stop her. 

It makes your heart stop. You hadn’t really been keeping tabs on the Flag Smashers. Now, looking back, you probably should have. There’s still a lot of unknown variables to account for and it looks like the boys are taking it one step at a time, and apparently it starts with a trip to Madripoor. Zemo chimes in every now and then as he drives and it makes your blood boil that you’re forced to listen to what he has to say. You hate that he has the upper hand and is keeping valuable information hostage. You want to strangle him. 

After a while, Zemo pulls into a private airport. Bucky helps you out of the car and grabs your bag from the trunk as the four of you walk towards the jet just off the runway. You had no idea just how rich Zemo was. Now that he’s out of prison, for now at least, his arrogance returned back in full force in addition to his pompous attitude. 

You board the plane in silence, ignoring every word coming out of the Baron’s mouth. You settle in the back of the plane and ignore Bucky’s stares as you look out the window. You’re too angry to engage in conversation. You don’t care that Zemo insults Steve’s legacy. He’s gone, dead, what do you care? Yes, you wanted Steve to be happy, but he abandoned you. He abandoned Sam and Bucky. 

Zemo rambles on and on. “People like Steve become symbols, icons. Then we start to forget about their flaws. From there, cities fly, innocent people die. Movements are formed, wars are fought,” he turns to address Bucky directly. “You remember that, right? As a young soldier sent to Germany to stop a mad icon. Do we want to live in a world full of people like the Red Skull?”

Silence fills the space and for a moment, you feel a reprieve. That was until Zemo mentioned the Winter Soldier. 

 “We can’t go into Madripoor as ourselves. James, you will have to become someone you claim is gone.”

You immediately stand up and protest, storming to the front of the plane. “No. Absolutely not. I won’t let you use Bucky, not again. There has to be another way.”

Zemo clicks his tongue at you and shakes his head. A smug graces his features and you lung at him, wrapping your hands around his throat. “I’ll fucking kill you!”

Bucky leaps to his feet and tears you off of Zemo, dragging you to the back of the plane behind the curtains to give the two of you an illusion of privacy. Your shoulders shake with rage and Bucky’s hands caress your face. 

“You can’t be him. He’s not you anymore. You don’t have to do this, Bucky. Please,” you begged, clinging to his hands. “I can’t let Zemo control you again.”

Bucky’s touched with how protective you are over him. He pulls you closer and hugs you tightly against him. Your fingers grip the back of his shirt and he presses a gentle kiss to the top of your head. 

“Honey,” he whispered. “I have to. I have to do this so we can stop the Flag Smashers from getting the serum. It’s for the mission.”

You huffed against his chest. Now you’re really regretting your decision to help Sam. You would’ve said no if you had known that it meant watching Bucky turn into the Winter Soldier again, even if it wasn’t real. 

You don’t know what to say. He won’t change his mind. Bucky’s just as stubborn as you are and he’ll do anything for the success of the mission, just like Steve did. 

You pull away and return back to your seat, crossing your arms over your chest as you stare into the back of Zemo’s plush leather seat. Bucky trails behind you and squeezes your shoulder. You shrug off his touch as he takes the empty seat next to yours. 

“And, I’m afraid that where we’re going doesn’t take too kindly to women who are…. how do I put this…. strong willed,” Zemo said. 

“What is that supposed to mean?” Bucky barked, jumping to your defense just moments after you did the same for him.

“Selby will see Y/n as competition. We can’t have that happen. She’ll have to stay behind.”

“You’re out of your mind if you think I’m just going to just sit here and do nothing,” you snapped. “I’m coming with. I don’t care if I have to pretend to be meek.”

Zemo turns to look at you. He’s challenging you. You both know it. He’s pushing your buttons and it’s working. He smirks and leans against the armchair. His eyebrows raise and he asks, “Even if it means pretending to be a prostitute?”

Your gaze doesn’t falter and you ignore both Sam’s and Bucky’s protests. It falls on deaf ears. You don’t care, as long as you’re with Sam and Bucky and they’re safe. “Yes,” you answered without a second thought. You’ve done worse things than pretend to be a sex worker. It would be a piece of cake. 

Zemo grins, letting out a soft laugh. “It looks like you’ll be joining us after all then, Y/n.”

You scoff at him and look out the window. Bucky drags you from your seat once more and pulls you behind the curtain. You look away from him and he reaches to squeeze your hand. 

“You don’t have to do this. You have nothing to prove,” he whispered, brushing the top of your palm with his warm and calloused fingers. 

“You don’t either,” you mumbled back. 

He smiles softly at your retort and pulls you into his arms. He holds you gently and cards his fingers through your hair. You hum quietly as he holds you. 

“Touché, honey.”

There’s a beat of silence between the two of you before you lean back to meet his gaze. His blue eyes pierce through yours and it makes your heart race. You pull away and rub your palms against your thighs. 

You disappear behind the curtain once more, leaving Bucky behind. 

…

When you arrive in Madripoor, you’re dressed in an outfit that leaves little to the imagination. The dress has a plunging neckline that settles just below your naval. Your chest is barely covered and your boobs threaten to slip over the fabric. You’re dressed for the part, that’s for sure. 

Zemo is the first one to look at you when you return from behind the curtain. He whistles at you and it makes your skin crawl. 

Bucky shoves Zemo harshly and grips his chest tightly, snarling in his face. “Watch your mouth,” Bucky hissed, shoving him into one of the chairs. 

He turns to look at you and you reach to squeeze his hand. You pull him away from Zemo and whisper softly, “It’s alright, Buck. Take a deep breath.”

He grits his teeth and shakes his head, and does what you ask. “I’ll kill him. If he does that again, I’ll kill him.”

You laugh softly and press a gentle kiss to his cheek. “I don’t doubt you will, Buck.”

The two of you trail behind Sam and Zemo as you leave the plane. A sleek black car is waiting just off the runway and you follow behind to the vehicle. When you settle into your spot in between Buck and Sam in the back, Zemo turns to look at the three of you. 

“It’s imperative that we don’t break character, no matter what. If you do, we’re good as dead, understand?” 

You scoff and roll your eyes as he looks towards you. “Crystal,” you snapped, crossing your arms over your chest. 

He turns to face the front of the vehicle and silence fills the car. 

Suddenly, a number of motorcycles surround the car as you drive into Low Town. you make sure to keep your eyes forward and Bucky reaches for the hand on your knee. He squeezes it tightly and you do the same. 

Reality is now just setting in for you. This is the first mission that you’ve been on since Steve went back to the 40s, and since Tony died. It had been three long months since Tony saved the world and brought everyone back that was taken five years earlier. You know that three months isn’t long, but it still makes you nervous. You haven’t been training to keep things from going rusty. You had no desire to. 

Bucky leans into you, his mouth near the shell of your ear. “You okay?” 

You nodded, swallowing the lump in your throat. “Yeah, just a bit nervous. I’m a little out of practice. This is my first mission since Steve left,” you mumbled back, squeezing his hand again to keep you grounded. He does the same in return. 

“It’s alright. I have your back. I’ll protect you, promise.”

A small smile finds its way onto your face and you shake your head at him. “You know better than anyone else than to promise something like that before a mission, Buck. It’s bad luck,” you teased. 

He laughs too and the car stops in what you guess is the downtown area of Low Town. You take a deep breath and Bucky does the same. You squeeze his hand one last time before his hand falls from your grasp. He opens the door and climbs out. You follow close behind and find your spot next to Sam. He gingerly wraps his arm around your waist as you walk into the Princess Bar. 

Electronic music blasts through the speakers and the bass vibrates through your chest. You press against Sam as you push through people to get to the bar. The smell of drugs and alcohol is suffocating as you walk and ignore the stares sent your way. They’re not staring at you, but Bucky, who walks just a step behind you like a looming shadow. 

“Ready to comply, Winter Soldier?” Zemo asked Bucky in Russian. 

It makes your blood boil and Sam squeezes your waist tightly, a reminder that you must not break character. You hate it. You hate that Bucky has to pretend to be the person he’s worked so hard to distance himself from. Bucky is not him. The Winter Soldier doesn’t exist anymore. That part of him is gone, dead. You only hope that Bucky reminds himself that the Winter Soldier isn’t him anymore as he pretends just feet behind you.

You stand in front of the bar counter as the bartender approaches. You keep your mouth shut as Zemo exchanges words with the man, briefly bringing Sam, the Smiling Tiger, into the conversation. Your eyes find Bucky’s and your heart jumps inside your throat. His eyes are cold and void of any emotion. He’s stoic and brooding. He’s fallen into character perfectly and it scares you to think that all the progress he’s made over the years has been destroyed in this moment. For his sake, you hope not.

You tear your eyes away from Bucky at the feeling of Sam’s hand on the curve of your ass. You watch him carefully as he takes a shot. The bartender moves on and you let out a careful breath. 

A man grasps at Zemo’s shoulder and sneers at him. He looks over at Bucky as Zemo asks to see Selby before he walks away. Another man approaches Zemo from behind and he speaks in Russian once more. “Winter Soldier, attack.” 

You hold your breath in anticipation as the unsuspecting man rests his hand on Zemo’s shoulder. You want to reach out and touch Bucky, tell him that he doesn’t have to, that the two of you still have time to make a run for it, but you don’t. You can’t. Zemo would probably try and kill you if you interfere and it’s the last thing you need. 

Bucky stalks over to him with two long strides, and rips the man’s hand from Zemo’s shoulder. He twists his wrist back and throws him to the ground. Another man swings at Bucky and he stops it with ease. He punches his back and kicks him against another crowny. As another man attempts to punch and kick at Bucky. He uses his metal arm and momentum to take each of them out.

“It doesn’t take much for him to fall back into form,” Zemo smirked, leaning over to look at you and Sam. 

“Shut your mouth,” you hissed between your teeth as you watched Bucky. 

Bucky grabs one of the men by the throat and slams him into the counter. Guns cock all around you as you look around the room. Your heart is inside your throat and there’s ringing in your ears. You reach to grab Bucky’s arm, but Sam beats you to it.

“Stay in character or the whole bar turns on us,” Zemo whispered. “Well done, soldier.”

Sam lets go of his arm and takes a step back, pulling you with him. He squeezes your hip tightly as you watch Bucky’s grip fall from the man’s throat.

“Selby will see you now,” the bartender said.

Zemo moves to follow him and you resist the urge to reach out and touch Bucky. Sam pulls you along and you walk in silence down a number of hallways. The music fades into the background and you’re squeezing Sam’s hand like your life depends on it. 

A number of men on Selby’s security detail whistle as you walk by. You bite your tongue and resist the urge to snap their necks. The four of you wait at the door at the end of the hall for several seconds before it opens. You walk inside and Zemo takes you from Sam’s side. Your jaw ticks as he guides you to the empty sofa. His hand settles on your thigh and you tense under his touch.

Zemo and Selby negotiate for information. All you need to know is who created the serum and where they are. That’s it. Zemo needs to stick to the plan. 

Zemo stands up from his spot next to you. “Tell us what you know about the super soldier serum, and I give you him…. along with the code words to control him,” Zemo stands behind Bucky, his hand resting on his shoulder. He’s silent and obedient, the perfect encapsulation of who he had been for the last 80 years. 

There wasn’t a discussion over what the offer would be when you were on the plane from Latvia. You just assumed Zemo would figure a way out of it, he was clever enough to do it before. You hadn’t thought that he would actually use the Winter Soldier to his benefit outside of protection. How naive of you. 

Bucky’s eyes are dark and he stares straight ahead as Zemo caresses his chin. He doesn’t flinch or react. He’s playing the Winter Soldier perfectly and you hate every second. You bite the inside of your cheek so hard that you start to taste blood. 

“He will do anything you want.”

Selby grins, leaning back in her spot on the couch opposite of you. She tells him what you need to know. She nears Sam and then the worst happens, his phone begins to ring. 

She tells him to answer it and your fingers squeeze into the leather couch. Your heart races and for the first time since you walked into the bar, Bucky’s eyes find yours. You know he can see your panic. 

Things are fine momentarily. Sam’s trying his best to stay in character and you know it’s not working as well as he’d like. You hold your breath and your panic settles in at the mention of Sam’s name coming from Sarah. 

“Kill them—” 

Your eyes widen in horror as a bullet pierces through the glass window in front of you and lodges into Selby’s throat, killing her instantly. The act is over. 

You leap to your feet and pull the tactical knife that you hid in your dress out from underneath you. You slice the knife across your attacker’s arm. Bucky kicks him into the wall and grabs you by the arm. 

You run as fast as you can out the bar and through the streets of Madripoor. You dodge bullets and fight off others that attack you with knives. 

You do well, all things considered with what you’re dressed in. You dig your heel into the boot of your attacker, throwing them off balance. You kick their leg out from underneath them and Sam knocks them unconscious. 

Bucky, of course, is doing just fine on his own. You run over to help. You disarm the man closer to you and use the butt of the gun to knock him out. 

You barely have time to register the man creeping up behind Bucky. His arm is outstretched with a gun in his hand. Bucky has no clue. 

“Bucky!” you screamed at the top of your lungs, running as fast as you can towards him. 

He turns to look at you as you use your whole body to shove him aside as the gun goes off. 

Time stands still. 

You fall to the ground in a daze as the bullet rips through your shoulder. Your eyes stare up into the night sky as it takes you a moment to realize that you’d just been shot. 

You try to sit up and get back on your feet. You don’t have time to worry about your wound. You need to get the hell out of Low Town. 

Bucky nearly drags you off the ground and you run. You run as fast as you can despite the bullet in your shoulder. 

“We need to get out of here!” Bucky shouted, inspecting your wound. 

A shadowy figure approaches and Bucky blocks you from view. The hood drops and you peer over Bucky’s shoulder. You don’t have time to be surprised that Sharon is the one standing in front of you. 

“Sharon? What are you doing here?” Sam asked. 

“We don’t have time for that!” Bucky snapped. “Sharon, please. You gotta help us. Y/n’s been shot.”

She nods and motions for you to follow her. She stops in front of a beautiful blue car and Bucky guides you into the car, pressing his metal hand against your shoulder to stop the bleeding. You ignore Sam and Bucky’s bickering as they yell at you for getting shot. You don’t have the energy to respond. 

Sharon races across town and pulls up to a very fancy building. Sharon jumps out and opens the door for Bucky. His arm holds your torso and your uninjured arm is thrown over his shoulder as you walk inside. You gather into the elevator as it takes you to the top floor. 

Your entire body goes numb and Bucky guides you to the kitchen counter. Sharon briefly disappears before returning with a heavy duty first aid kit. 

“Do you have tequila?” you asked her as Bucky rummaged through the bag for the correct supplies. Sharon laughs softly before grabbing a bottle of tequila from her liquor cabinet. You take a generous sip and the liquid burns your throat. 

Bucky inspects the bullet wound carefully. Thankfully it was a through and through. He doesn’t have to fish the bullet out. He works quickly and you grit your teeth as he stitches the wound close on both sides of your shoulder. 

The pain lessened to a dull throb now that he’s finished. He cleans the excess blood off your skin before gently placing your arm in a sling. 

“Why did you do that, Y/n?” Bucky chastised you, shaking his head in disappointment. “I could’ve taken care of him.”

You scoff and roll your eyes at him. “I don’t even get a thank you for saving your ass? You were vulnerable, I did the right thing.”

He sighs and you look away. Your eyes find Sharon’s. “Can I borrow some clothes?”

She nods and disappears down the hall to her bedroom. Silence fills the room and Sam takes his turn to reprimand you. You ignore him entirely and take another large swig of tequila. 

Sharon returns moments later with a pair of clean clothes. You thank her quietly and she points you in the direction of one of the guest bedrooms. You hop off the counter and ignore Bucky’s protests and calls of your name. 

You huffed in frustration as you limped towards one of Sharon’s guest bedrooms. You had enough of Sam and Bucky yelling at you for your recklessness, especially Bucky. You’re exhausted and all you want to do is sleep. 

You did what you thought was right. You did what Steve would’ve done. You had Bucky’s back. Isn’t that what mattered? Sure, you got shot in the shoulder, but it isn’t something you haven’t done before. You have the scars to prove it. 

“Stop running away from me! We’re not done talking about this!” Bucky yelled after you, hot on your heels into the bedroom. “What were you thinking?”

You’re sick of Bucky questioning you. You’re not a child and you’re not the bright eyed recruit he thinks you still are. You did what was right in the heat of the moment. You don’t regret it. You’d do it all over again if it meant that he was safe. 

“Stop treating me like a child, James! I’m not Steve’s recruit anymore! I’m a grown woman,” you shouted back at him. Your shoulders shake and you glare at him. “I know you still think I’m that naive 25 year old, but that’s not me anymore. The last five years may have been five seconds to you, but they weren’t to me. Accept the fact that I did what I thought was right.”

“It was reckless!”

“Steve would’ve done it!” you bit back. 

“This isn’t about Steve!” he argued. 

You laugh bitterly and shake your head. He doesn’t see it. He doesn’t see what you see. You know he sees you as his responsibility now that Steve’s gone. He feels an obligation to look after you because Steve did. You have a part of Steve with you. Bucky’s clinging to any last remains of Steve, and that includes you. 

“Isn’t it though? You feel like you have a responsibility to protect me, to look after me. Why? It’s because Steve did and now that he’s gone, you feel like you have to replace him!”

The silence that fills the room suffocates you. Your heart races with anger. You want Bucky to leave you alone. You didn’t ask for this. Sam needed your help, and when you provided it, you got yelled at for it. Now you just want to go home. 

You turn your back to Bucky and pull the pants that Sharon gave you up your legs before discarding the dress in the corner of the room. You don’t care if Bucky sees all the scars that litter your backside. Maybe then he would understand that you’ve always done what’s best for the mission, even if that meant getting hurt. You throw the sweatshirt over your head and turn to look at Bucky again. 

“Do you have anything else to say to me? Are you going to try and deny it?”

Bucky sighs, running a hand through his hair. “You’re one of the only people I have left that have a connection to Steve.”

Another bitter laugh escapes your mouth. He doesn’t understand. “He abandoned me, James! He abandoned us. Steve’s gone. You can’t hold on to him anymore. You don’t have to do anything Steve did. You have nothing to prove to me, I promise. I don’t need you to replace Steve. I need you, Buck. You’re the one that’s here with me, not Steve.”

Tears threaten to spill over your cheeks and you look away from him. The silence is deafening and Bucky moves to take you in his arms. He holds you against his chest and cards his fingers through your hair. You cry against his chest and cling to his henley. He gently guides you to the bed and sits down with you in his lap.

“I’m sorry, honey,” he whispered, rubbing your back. “You’re right. It just scared me. I don’t think I can handle losing you too. I’m sorry.”

You pull away to look at him with your tear stained cheeks and he carefully wipes away your tears with the pad of his thumb. You blink away the remaining tears and lean into his touch. “It’s okay, Buck. You can’t get rid of me that easily.” 

You rest your forehead against his and breathe him in. His metal hand rubs circles against your back and it sends shivers down your spine. He holds you carefully and no words are exchanged. Your eyes flicker to his lips and your heart thunders against your chest. 

There’s a soft knock at the door and you pull your body off of Bucky’s. You sit beside him as Sam pokes his head inside the room. “Is everything okay?” he asked, looking between the two of you. 

You look over at Bucky and then back to Sam. You smile and nod slowly. “Everything’s perfect, Sam.”