#i hate to say it. but i think the breakfast bar was the catalyst

[eorzeashan]

HAHAHSDH

I got the other king of knights????

[loveofafangirl]

72 Hours

[Baron Zemo Masterlist] [Marvel Masterlist]

Pairing: Baron Zemo x Reader/You (no gender, race or body type described)

Synopsis: You are tasked with watching Zemo for the weekend while he assists you in providing tech support and intel to your teammates in the field.  *Sort of: Enemies to Lovers* *One-Shot: Not same “reader” as my other stories.

Word Count: 2.2K (sorry this is longer than I intended)

A/N: This is a request for @purebloodwitch, where y/n is part of the Avengers and used to taking care of everyone, but at Zemo’s safe house he starts taking care of her and she is uncomfortable at first. I hope this fits what you are looking for. I hope you enjoy it. 

3 days.

72 hours.

That's how long you had to suffer his company. You stare out the window, taking in the country view. The car was taking the two of you to one of his safe houses. You had wanted to go on the mission with the rest of your team, but you were the most organized and could most easily relay intel to different groups as you uncovered it. Plus, it had been decided you were the least likely to bring physical harm to him. Though, you weren't so sure at the moment.

You had been against Bucky's plan to release Zemo. You remembered the bombing at the U.N. and the fallout that began that day. You blame him for the Snap and the loss of so many of your colleagues. If he hadn't turned the Avengers against one another, maybe Thanos never would have collected all six Infinity Stones. Maybe no one would have vanished, tearing the world apart—twice: once when they disappeared and again when they returned. As far as you were concerned, Zemo was the catalyst that led to Thanos, the need for the GRC, and the rise of the Flagsmashers. Everything began that day at the U.N. 

You look at your watch:

71 hours and 26 minutes.

When you arrive at his safe house, he insists you let him hold the door for you. You had always stood on your own, caring for those around you. You weren't used to gestures such as these, nor did you want them, least of all from him. 

Your fists clench when he refuses to go in first. Reluctantly, you proceed, allowing him to hold each door for you.

"Would you like a tour?" He gestures grandly around the lavish apartment.

"No," you state coldly, ignoring his coy smile that seemed to dip slightly at your tone. "Just tell me where to set up."

"Perhaps by the windows," he suggested. "The panels are one way. You can see out, but no one can see in. It should give us a good vantage point to keep watch without being noticed." 

You begin moving the bags of equipment you brought.

"Allow me." Without waiting, he takes the bags from you and carries them to the area he had previously pointed out. 

You follow wordlessly.

"There you go."

You nod your gratitude, unable to bring yourself to say thank you to him.

"Is there anything else?"

"No. When I'm done setting up, you'll need to tell me everything you know about Project Typhon and get me the decrypted files you insisted that only you could access."

"Of course, I am at your service."

You keep an eye on him while working. You still couldn't believe you got stuck babysitting. Now your focus was split between the work and making sure he didn't get into any trouble. 

He moves about the kitchen, grabbing this and that. He returns with a tray in his hands containing a teapot, two cups and saucers, small sandwiches, and a tin of cookies. "I had the pantry stocked before our arrival."

You give him a curious expression.

"I did not want you believing they had been sitting for the years." 

"I'm good."

He pours two cups of tea, offering one to you. "You haven't eaten since early morning. Please, help yourself."

You breathe deeply, trying not to give in. You had packed some rations, but you hadn't eaten any yet. You hate how appealing everything looked. You begin reaching for it, but pull back, now convincing yourself it could be poisoned. You turn your attention back to your work after a quick glance at your watch. 

65 hours. 

The evening passes slowly. You juggle your Zemo-sitting duty with decoding his cryptic replies into useable intel to relay to the two teams you were monitoring while also keeping an eye out for any digital chatter that may hinder your mission.

"Why me?" You sigh to yourself, thinking back to how you had asked Sam that same question when he first told you this was your assignment.

"You're good with people, Y/N."

"So you're sticking me with him?" You pointed an accusatory finger over your shoulder to Zemo.

His head shifted to the side, "No offense taken. I understand the difficulties. If you allow me a moment to explain."

"You understand nothing," you chided. Your gaze narrowed to a glower. 

"Easy, Y/N," Bucky interjected. 

"You of all people—" Your head shook in disbelief. "I was there. I saw what he did."

"We need him. He's the lesser of two evils right now."

You crossed your arms, not sure that was true. 

Your thoughts drift back to the present. You check the time again:

63 hours.

Zemo lounges beside you, nursing a drink in his hand. "I surmised you would decline a drink like my own, so I brought you a coffee instead. I noticed you had a few over the past days." He gestures to the warm mug on the table beside you. 

The rich aroma captivated you as you breathe in its bold notes. You really needed it. Begrudgingly, you took your first sip. It is better than you expected. A hum of delight slips from your lips. 

Noting his growing smirk, you muster the strength, uttering, "Thank you." You surprise yourself at the sound of your tone. It was much more cordial than you had intended it to be. 

"It was my pleasure, Y/N."

The two of you remain in silence, except for the occasional exchange needed for the mission. You were so focused on the job you hadn't even noticed him refill your coffee cup until you picked it up, expecting to savor the last drops but found a full cup met you instead. 

He kept working, seemingly not looking for any credit. You didn't offer any, but you had to bite your lips back to stop a smile threatening to erupt. 

57 hours. 

You rub your eyes and stretch your arms. "I'm going to try to get some sleep. Don't even think about trying anything."

"Wouldn't dream of it." He stood as you made your departure. "Gute Nacht. Sleep well."

You walk away without looking back. You knew there were agents strategically placed along the perimeter so he wouldn't get far, but you still worried.

Warm sunlight streams in the window of the large bedroom, gently caressing your face. The mattress is so soft and amazing; it sucked you into its depths immediately, and you fell quickly. You nuzzle in the soft fabric of the bedding, not wanting to move. It was your best sleep in months, even though it was only for a few hours. You think to yourself that you could get used to this.

Your body tenses at the thought as you remember where you are. You jump out of bed and quickly get dressed. Your team is counting on you. You swipe your phone checking the time.

52 hours.

You head straight to your setup; your fingers float nimbly across the keyboard as you attempt to focus solely on your work. Your stomach growls, pulling your focus. The scent of bacon frying greets you. You turn toward the kitchen, and for the first time, notice Zemo.

He catches your eye. "Would you like to join me for breakfast? I've set the two places." Sensing your hesitation. "I can bring it for you as well."

You glance at your phone. No new communications from the team. No alerts from any of the traces you had set up. Nothing to keep you there. Before you know it, you're walking in his direction.

He moves around the counter, pulling out one of the high bar chairs for you. 

You sit, even allowing him to push it in for you, a warmth spreading over you. 

"Please." He gestures to the plate in front of you and takes the seat opposite you. "Enjoy." 

You nibble on a piece of bacon and let the taste linger on your tongue. It was just the way you liked it. He sips his black coffee, watching you enjoy the first bites. You cover your mouth, feeling self-conscious suddenly. You shake your head, trying to brush away the feeling as you question why you care what he thinks. 

Your phone lights up, but it's nothing important. You glance at the time 7:11. You try to remember why you cared. Your attention shifts once more to the man across from you; that was why. 

51 hours. 

The two of you go about the day. Zemo is more useful than you expected. He quickly decodes and unscrambles messages and relays them to the team. Like you, he thrives on analytics and strategic thinking. There were moments where you actually enjoyed the conversation that developed. 

A few times, your fingers brush against his while reaching for the same thing. He always offered his apologies with that smile that made you forget what he'd done that day.

Before you know it, he's bringing you dinner.

"Is it really that late already?" You question, glancing at the time. You accept the plate. "Thank you." 

You enjoy a pleasant evening together, sharing the meal he prepared for you. He was a great cook to your surprise. This was better than anything you had eaten at the Avengers compound lately. 

As the night lingers and you wait for your team to send you new intel, he tells you stories about Sokovia. Once, he mentions his son before pausing and quickly changing the topic. 

In your rush to label him as a terrorist because of that fateful day, you never listened to his reasonings. They didn't excuse his actions, but he wasn't the cold-hearted killer you had expected based on his military profile. He was just a man who lost his entire world. 

When you part for the evening, you gaze back, lifting your hand. "Good night, Zemo."

The next morning, you wake softly, breathing in the comfort of the bed. You reach for your phone; his file is still open from where you fell asleep reading it. You wanted to understand him. There was so much more than you gave him credit for. 

You realize you were wrong. He wasn't the cause of everything that happened. You were. Everything began not the day at the U.N., but that day in Sokovia, with Ultron, and with the Avengers. They had created Zemo; he was merely a product of their haste. They were the catalyst to their own undoing. He had just shone a light on it. 

You lie back thinking over the past two days—the conversations that you'd shared, the kindness he had insisted upon, even when you tried to care for yourself, and those small touches that elicited a feeling you couldn't understand. 

Your last day together followed much of the same patterns: sharing meals, breaking down and relaying intel, keeping watch.

You notice how at ease you are. Your body is calm with no tensions or worries. You hadn't checked the time since—well, you weren't really sure. A look of horror flashes on your face as you realize you were enjoying this—enjoying him. 

"What did I miss?" He questions, strolling in from his bath, still in his robe.

Your body flushes, and your eyes cascade over his form. Realizing what you had done, you turn away and clear your throat. "Can you please put some clothes on?" 

He shrugs and walks off. As soon as he turns away, you find yourself chewing your cheek as you watch him leave. "Snap out of it! The only thing that matters is the job," you scold yourself. 

For the rest of the day, you keep your distance, averting your gaze, and avoiding him as much as possible. When he wishes you good night, you don't reply, hurrying off as quickly as possible.

You hope to find reprieve in the quiet of your room in the comfort of the softest mattress you had ever known. However, you toss and turn all night, your mind restless with growing thoughts of him.

You skip breakfast, or so you had planned. When you didn't come out, he left it outside your door.

You pack up in silence, catching glimpses of his curious look. You know he is probably wondering what changed, but he doesn't pressure you.

As you leave, you take one glance back at the beautiful apartment.

He waits at the door, holding it open for you.

This time, you don't protest and even offer your thanks. A smile fills your face as he opens the car door too. 

Your eyes close, remembering all the good moments from the past 72 hours. Without thinking, you turn into him, brushing a kiss on his cheek. "Thank you." 

Your gaze lingers on his soft brown eyes longer than you intend. You feel trapped, unable to break away, but you don't want to either. You lick your lips, wanting more, but worrying what it would mean. You decide to go for it, but as you move to him, he's already there, meeting you halfway until he pulls you entirely into his embrace. His lips are warm and inviting. You feel the world around you melt away under his tenderness.

Your heart flutters when you finally pull away. "That's a one-time thing."

His head tilts to the side, considering your words, and then nods in agreement.

You get in the car, your gaze still focused on him, a devilish smirk forming on your lips. "Unless I decide it's not." 

Marvel Perma(til the end of the line): @the-soot-sprite​​​; @fandomxreaders ;  @moonstuffsteve​

Zemo tags: @montypythonsholysnail​​​ ; @killsandthrills​​​ ; @noavengers​​​ ; ​@nalabarnes1031 ; @trelaney​ ; @willowtheewisp​ ; @marchingicenotes7 ; @valquiria3000​

[txemrn]

Catalyst

a Prequel to the Nanny Affair

Chapter 2: Covalence

Need to catch up? Chapter 1: Acquiesce

Rating: 18+ (Mature Audiences only)

Word count: 3255(+/-)

Warning: language; sexually suggestive language; mention of physical abuse, drug abuse, assault and adoption

"Alright, Pine Shadow family, here are your finalists!" Principal Larson's voice booms over the gym speakers. One would think he's announcing a night of rough and rumble with the WWE rather than announcing the award winners for a middle school science fair. Regardless, his enthusiasm is contagious much to the science departments delight. "Let's give them a big Wildcat round of applause for all of their hard work!"

As the audience abrupts into cheers, there she sits, melting into her chair as her knees bounce feverishly in fear. Her French-braided hair accompanies a denim headband, keeping the stray strands of brilliant wheat out of her gray eyes. Against her mother's disgust, she picks at the rubberbands attached to the hardware in her mouth. In her young 12-year-old mind, the audience seems to be doubling--no, tripling in size.

She worries if her hard work will payoff with a shiny blue ribbon--if any ribbon at all. Mrs. Ferguson and Coach Kincaid gave her nods of approval when she created elemental silver from the glucose mixture and Tollen's reagent-- who wouldn't be impressed with a 6th grader with an advanced passion for chemistry? But still, she worries.

"And," the principal continues, "our first place winner is--" The anticipation thickens the air as every movement seems to propel through space in slow motion. Like a dramatic montage of Rudy sacking the Georgia Tech quarterback to clutch the W for Notre Dame, or an injured Danny LaRusso crane-kicking Johnny Lawrence to become the All-Valley Karate Champion: this was her field; this was her stadium; this was her Hail Mary. All of the hours of research at the library; all of the frantic trips to the hobby store; the redundant presentation practices; the late evenings followed by the early mornings accompanied with the inevitable break downs. It all came down to this.

"Our first place winner is… Brynn Schuyler!" The applause is defeaning as time seems to stop. Did she hear the principal correctly? The name sounded very familiar--like her own name!

"Brynn Schuyler!" Did she really just win the coveted first place ribbon at the science fair? She froze, her tiny little body unable to process the abundance of emotion she was encountering all at once.

"Where is Brynn?" Outside of being gifted her hamster and her mom letting her wear clear lipgloss, this is the most incredible day of her life--

She feels a tap on her shoulder. "Ma'am?" The veiled-look from her eyes washes away; the clouds around her head vanish. Reality hits.  "Are you Brynn Schuyler?" She feels the warmth of rose flood over her fair complexion as the barista interrupts her morning ritual: reminiscing.

"Uh--yes," as she brushes her fingers over her brow, as if to create a shield to her embarrassment.

Smooth. Real smooth, Brynn.

She quickly brightens, extending her hands, "I'm sorry. That's--"

"Iced venti white mocha latte with a blueberry muffin… and two mini cinnamon maple scones?"

I don't know what would be nicer: reading out my order for everyone to hear or calling me a 'fatass'.

"--me. Yes, thank you," she whispers with gnashed teeth behind a courtesy grin. As she slithers back down into her seat at the local coffee house, Brynn hides the pastries in her backpack, keeping them well within her reach as she continues to work: scouring the wanted ads.

Next Tuesday makes four months of no job and no steady income. She has been on seven 'promising' interviews with no avail. She is able to keep her bill collector's away with her savings account, but even that was beginning to dwindle like her existence.

Brynn is a scientists, a chemist to be exact--or at least she was. Her love for science led her from the suburbs of 'the City of Brotherly Love' to the University of Massachusetts at Amherst where she studied education. Her dream was to impose the wonders of science on young minds as they experienced the physical world around them. But, after her personal observation of the devastation of Alzheimer's disease with her grandmother, she took an unexpected internship with the Massachusetts's Alzheimer's Disease Research Center. She realized she didn't want to just teach science; she wanted to do science. One Master's degree in Chemistry later, she was well on way to making a real difference in the world. Or so she thought.

'Benson's BBQ: Host needed'--maybe. 'Browning Steel: Welder with experience'--no. 'Bus Depot: driver wanted, great benefits'--no. 'Cutshall Clearance Store--stalker needed'-- surely they don't mean 'stalker', but they may need an ad editor.

She had scored the chance of a lifetime when she was hired on as one of the first female level I Chemists at the Lincoln Laboratory at MIT. She quickly graduated from fetching coffee, dry cleaning and business lunches for her superiors--also known as a research assistance--to finally being a project manager of her very own, very first multi-million dollar research study. But after twenty-months with no success, the funding was pulled on the project, the wind knocked out of her sails. The punches didn't stop there: her team of men threw her under the metaphorical bus and it was 'off with her head,' her moment of glory now over. She often feels foolish that she thought she could actually make a difference in the world; even worse, she felt agonizing guilt for being a woman that couldn't hang in a man's world, feeling as if she was responsible for a sudden shift backwards in equality.

'Danny's Barber Shop: receptionist'--maybe. 'Danny's Cake Decorating: baker'--no. 'Danny's XXX videos: call for details'-- uh, Mr. Danny has his dick in one too many pies.

Bzzt.

Saved by the text.

She giggles to herself in seeing she has a message from her roommate Jenny. Knowing that this is about to become a full-on text conversation, probably more suitable for an actual phone call, Brynn folds up her marked-up paper, and stretches her legs. She grabs her second scone, placing it into her mouth to hold as she piles her greasy hair into messy bun on top of her head, secured with a pen.

She swipes across her spider-cracked screen; the message: 'Turn around whore! ;-P'

"Brynny!" Brynn ducks as if she is about to be hit. "I thought that was your Corolla parked outside!"

"Jenny! You scared me!" She exhales loudly. "What are you doing awake? It's--" Brynn looks at her phone, "holy shit! Is it really almost noon?" She has no place to be; she just hates the feeling of time slipping by unnoticed, especially with her not being an active participant in life these days.

"I'm sorry, girl--"as she sits her coffee cup down at Brynn's commandeered table, "And you're right--I should probably still be asleep." She stifles a yawn, "I had a very busy night--"

"At the bar?" Brynn raises an eyebrow, "Or with Xavier?" her lips curling into a knowing grin.

Xavier is the first intact penis Jenny had ever been with--and she was loving it. It had been the topic of conversation during their 3AM chats this week, but when Jenny didn't come home from her shift at the bar last night, Brynn automatically knew Jenny must be exploring the new uncharted territory at his place.

"I didn't--I mean--" Jenny let's out a scoff. "Fine. Both."

A giddy Brynn scoots her chair closer. "Ooooo do tell."

"I--" Jenny pauses for dramatic effect, "happen to have a very--"

"Insatiable appetite? Ferocious needs?" Brynn giggles as she wraps her delicate fingers around her straw, gradually sliding them up and down its length.

Jenny clears her throat, straightening out her overall posture. "I was going to say, 'healthy sex life,' but since you have to be a thirsty bitch about it--" she leans in closely to Brynn, grabbing the remains of her scone. She flanges her lips around the breakfast pastry, fluttering her eyes closed, finally letting out a soft moan when she takes a nibble. "Oh honey, he was ferocious." She draws a sip from her hot coffee before lowering her voice. "And he satiated my appetite very… very… well."

Brynn jokingly sticks her fingers in her ears, pretending to be disgusted, yet squealing in excitement. Jenny playfully hits her arm as the two women uncontrollably giggle as they continue to enjoy each other's company.

Jenny Browder and Brynn Schuyler were a very unlikely pair. They met in undergrad in a entry-level sociology course during their first semester freshmen year. Of the two, Brynn was mature and focused, especially when it came to her education.  Often times, she had to be the voice of reason with a newly uncaged and untamed Jenny who was more concerned with socializing and drinking.

Jenny was brought up in a strict, Fundamentalist household, the kind that saw dancing and playing cards as evil. She somehow convinced her parents that God was calling her to attend UMass after a life-long career of being homeschooled. It was 'Goodbye, long dresses,' and, 'Hello, Bombshell Bra.'

She never returned back home. Even when she failed out after Sophomore year, she packed up her guitar and headed for Nashville to become a star. The two friends had quickly turned back into strangers.

Brynn will never forget they day Jenny stumbled back into her life. In the midst of grad school, Brynn had volunteered at a free/low-cost community health clinic offered to lower-socioeconomic families. Jenny was waiting outside the facility, chain-smoking her last four cigarettes. Brynn was unloading testing equipment when she recognized a very familiar purple butterfly tattoo.

"Jenny?" Hearing her name, she instantly responded. She looked so different--older even, weathered. Her once-lustrous auburn hair looked as if it hadn't seen a brush--or soap, for that matter-- in weeks. Her eyes had lost their glow, surrounded by gray bags. Even though she kept her arms crossed in an attempt to hide it, her stretched-tight shirt boasted a growing bump. But, perhaps the most bothersome was the severely picked scabs, scratches, and bruises, littering her entire body.

They made cordial small talk until Greg, her alcoholic and abusive fiancé, honked his horn from his rusty Ford Ranger, notifying Jenny it was time to leave. Before she could run out on her again, Brynn quickly dug a pen and Post-It pad from her white coat, and wrote down her cell number. Truth be told, she never expected her to call.

Two o'clock in the morning about 3 months later, Jenny called. In his usual anger fueled by Wild Turkey, Greg had beaten her and forced himself on her until he passed out from the exhaustion of his stuper. But, something was different this night; something snapped in Jenny's brain. Enough. Her body was frail and bleeding; but her spirit was kindled, coming alive with courage, telling her she was not broken, telling her to fight.  Fueled with what could easily be described as courage--or insanity--she stole $12 from his wallet and packed an old duffle bag with a change of clothes and a water-stained Post-It note.

At a gas station outside of Boston, Brynn picked up a very pregnant Jenny. They sat in the darkness, the cabin filled with silence and stillness; but the conversation was loud and clear: Jenny was terrified. Terrified to talk, terrified to act, terrified of her past and terrified to even imagine a future. Brynn reached over and grabbed Jenny's hand as they both quietly sobbed. They weren't freshmen anymore.

All of a sudden in the quietness of the car amongst all of the chaos, a baby began to dance. Waves and ripples fluttered across Jenny's abdomen; flips and tumbles quickly ensued, becoming stronger and stronger. They took her breath away for a moment, but quickly returned in the form of tiny giggles.  Brynn's eyes sparkle with wonder as she gently places her hand on her friend's belly, gently rubbing circles with her thumb and fingers. Jenny places both her hands on Brynn's, guiding her around her bump, occasionally pressing deeply until finally they are greeted with a kick.

For the first time in a long time, Jenny wasn't terrified. Her head wasn't pounding from an incessant ache, a craving for just one more hit. Her body was breathing, healing in between the throws. For the first time in a long time, Jenny had clarity. And she was ready to talk.

Jenny got the necessary help she needed. She spent time at a battered women's shelter where she was safe and protected; she was able to receive prenatal care and some deeply therapeutic counseling. She even painfully detoxed from her methamphetamine addiction. But her biggest victory:  she was beginning to forgive herself, allowing herself to heal.

Six weeks later, a very round and overdue Jenny gave birth to a beautiful red-headed,  9 pound 8 ounce boy. Her heart swelled with love--a love she had never experienced before--as they placed him right on her bare chest. Overcome with joy and tears, the new mom kept him safe and sound, snuggled in a blue receiving blanket in her healing arms. She had already missed so much--she didn't want to miss another moment: she wanted to remember how his chunky cheeks felt against her lips as she kissed him. She wanted to remember the gentle smell he had after his first bath. She wanted to remember that tiny, fierce grip around her finger, a grip that would extend past her finger and right around her heart. A grip that would never let go, even well-after she laid him into his new mother's arms.

Jenny Browder is the strongest woman Brynn knows--and probably will every know. Even while she was still rummaging through the train-wreck that was her former life, Jenny had the selfless spirit of a saint and the bravery of the finest medieval warrior. She had nothing of value to her name except for her battered heart; but being the mother of all mother's, she gave her last possession away. She knew that in order to give her son the world, she had to place him in a new world.

Jenny celebrated five years of sobriety last month, and has empowered many women throughout the New England area with her story, speaking at meetings and volunteering part-time at a crisis center. She reconnected with her cousin Sean and his husband Charlie a few years back; feeling a pull to be near family, she moved to Newark, a few blocks away from the happy couple.  She now has a home--an apartment--of her own, a car, and a steady income, bartending at a local, lively bar called Annex. As an added benefit, she also gets to perform twice a month with the house band. Going back to school might even be in her future; but for now, she is happy to be living life again--even if that meant hosting a squatter on her couch in the form of her best friend.

"Any luck on the job front?"

Brynn blows a raspberry with pressed lips in her exacerbation.  "Well, today's options include wearing daisy duke's at a BBQ joint, or becoming a baker--possible porn star--with a man named Danny--"

Jenny laughs, "Ewww, gross. Do I even want to--"

Brynn waves her hand in front of her face, erasing the air of the horrid idea, even if it was a joke.

"Well, the perfect job is out there."

Yeah, yeah, yeah…

Brynn sighs, "Oh, Jen, you have to say that--"

Before she can hang her head down,  Jenny interrupts the pity party, grabbing the remains of massacred muffin from Brynn's hand. "No, I don't. And believe me--" She stares warmly into Brynn's stormy eyes, "You are a catch. You are one in a million--"

"Are we still talking about jobs, or--"

"The perfect job is out there for you--trust me! We are one day closer to it." Not missing a beat, "Speaking of which--" Jenny rocks back and forth in excitement as her heart-shaped lips spread into a smile.

Oh, God…

"What are you doing tonight?" The words almost slur together like a waterfall crashing out of her mouth.

Don't invite me out. Don't invite me out.

"I think I'm gonna--you know--stay in, order out. Look for more jobs--"

"And feel sorry for yourself?"

Damnit, she's good.

Brynn sighs deeply as she lays her head down on her crossed arms.

"Well, it's a good thing we're not going out. You are just--" she lies, "accompanying me to work--"

"Jenny!"

"Brynny," Jenny fires back as both women compete in a staring--moreso glaring contest. She gives in first to the silly gesture, her look warming with affection. "Look, I-I know things have been have sucked recently--"

That's an understatement.

"You need this. It's time to join the world again. You can't just stay cooped up in the apartment all the time--"

"Um," Brynn clears her throat. "I do believe I am in a coffee shop right now." She smirks while delicately fanning her arms out in the air, as if she was showcasing a brand new car on a game show.

"C'mon, girl," Jenny whines, "You know what I mean. Just come up to the bar. Sit and talk with me. Keep me company. Meet some of my regulars. You will feel so much better about yourself--"

"You know I have nothing to wear."

12 pounds, fucking 12 pounds, and my entire wardrobe seems to have shrunk overnight.

"We'll figure something out--I promise! C'mon!" Jenny quickly bounds to the door with a sluggish Brynn in tow. "Besides," Jenny whirls around to continue, "You have a lot of miles left in this thing--" spanking Brynn's butt. Reflexively, Brynn immediately shields her pained bottom, her mouth gaping open. Jenny continues. "I've gotch'ya with shots all night. At least come window shop--it's Thursday night, which means the corporate hotties are shopping for some young ass--"

"Oh, yes. Because a one-night-stand and a raging case of chlamydia will cure my problems--"

"Hey, a shot in the ass, and you're good as new," Jenny jokes, making her apprehensive bestie crack a smile. "That's why I said, 'window shop.' Plus they're rich and love flaunting that they are rich. So--" Jenny shrugs her shoulders, "More free drinks for you!"

Brynn folds her arms across her chest, averting her gaze into the bustling traffic. She starts chewing on the sides of her mouth while letting out a long-winded sigh, clearly uncomfortable with the whole idea. The fact is she was embarrassed of herself, of what had become of her life. There she was, merely existing, living on her best friend's couch with no prospects--job-wise and love-wise. And now that her former-slender body sprung unwelcomed curves, she feels more comfortable in hiding--from the world, and from herself.

Jenny steps back out of her black sedan. She pushes her sunglasses back into her short hair, the sunshine illuminating her scarlet layers. She places her hands on her hips as she silently challenges her friend to a battle of wills.

Brynn feels her piercing gaze, but she can't bring her self to match it. Jenny never pushes her to do anything--and now, all she wants to do is help pull her depressed house-guest out of her mucky misery. And Brynn knows that she will be grateful for the night, especially tomorrow morning. She just needed the little shove.

Brynn breaks their silence with a long, drawn out sigh. "Okay."

"Yes, yes, yes!" squeals Jenny. She slides back into the driver's seat, adjusts her sunglasses and bellows across the parking lot: "Get in loser! We're going shopping!"

Brynn could only hope it was for a new life.

@choicesficwriterscreations​ 

[sleepykittypaws]

The Christmas House

Original Air Date: November 23, 2020 (Hallmark) Where to Watch?: Hallmark will replay it multiple times this season, and for every season in perpetuity

It's impossible to review Hallmark's The Christmas House without noting that this time last year, then-Crown Media CEO Bill Abbott was personally taking phone calls from a SPLC-designated hate group, and pulling a Zola ad showing two brides chastely kissing from his network, at that hate group's behest. The ensuing firestorm of well-earned criticism following Abbott's bad judgement, is, without question, what brought us to today, with Abbott ousted, a woman of color, Wonya Lucas, now at Hallmark's helm, and a still totally G-rated holiday lineup that now regularly features former Hallmark no-gos like, interracial romance and LGBTQ+ inclusion, improving Hallmark's abysmal diversity record, one movie at a time. 

So, even though Hallmark had to be dragged kicking and screaming into the 21st century, it's still hard not to be at least a little emotional that they're finally joining us here. The bigots are still having online temper tantrums about losing their all-white, all-straight safe space, but Hallmark's holiday ratings are up 7% year-over-year—a significant jump in a world where cable subscriptions are declining by 10-15% annually.

Now, what that progress looks like on a network known for being “clean,” conservative and about as unwilling to take risks as any channel on the planet, is another story. Frequent Hallmark star, and out gay actor, Jonathan Bennett, has been tirelessly talking about The Christmas House, since the day it went into production. And Bennett brings a lot of energy to this ensemble story, written by co-star Robert Buckley, of a family getting together to decorate their home one more time before it's sold. 

Buckley and Bennett play the sons of Sharon Lawrence and Treat Williams, a recently retired couple struggling with that fundamental shift in their relationship. Buckley is the star of a ridiculous court show, Handsome Justice, of which we luckily get to see a clip, and Bennett, a baker, and his husband, played by Brad Harder, are waiting to hear about an adoption, after several previous disappointments. 

Bennett and Buckley bring more humor than is normal for Hallmark to their portrayal of loving, competitive brothers, who clearly enjoy ribbing each other.

How conservative was past hallmark, you ask? Well, that Buckley's girl-next-door love interest is divorced, not widowed, is still a somewhat shocking twist in that world, as is the fact that both Buckley and Bennett are "allowed" to sport some facial scruff, rather than be clean shaven. Oh, and that the family next door is (gasp) Latino, is also something we likely wouldn't have seen in the Hallmark of yore. All of which is just mind-blowing, since those “days of yore” for this TV network were [checks notes]…2019, not 1968.

Lawrence and Williams are believable as a long term couple, and their life-change struggle to re-center their relationship feels real, but the way it's revealed is almost as anti-climactic as its resolution. The movie laid very unsubtle hints along the way—all storytelling progress aside, Hallmark movies are still written so you can half watch and not a miss a thing, allowing folks to join 20 minutes in, or do the dishes and come back without being confused—that Williams and Lawrence's wanting to have "one last Christmas" was about more than just downsizing in retirement. 

When Lawrence told the story of the clearly-actually-brand-new-and-from-Homegoods Santa pot, and what it meant to her, I thought Williams was going to later accidentally break Checkov's sentimental teapot and, in her anger, Lawrence would blurt out something about that's why they were separating, shocking their grown sons. 

And, honestly, as predictable as that would have been, it would probably have had more impact than what did happen…Lawrence just casually telling Buckley while stringing lights, and then nobody really mentioning it again, excepting oblique references during a single conversation between the brothers, and then Lawrence just announces at breakfast that they're not doing that after all.

Definitely feels like Hallmark's aversion to conflict in its stories is one of those provisions that is still firmly in place. (We saw a similar unwillingness to commit to actual marital difficulties, despite that being the central plot point, in Cranberry Christmas.)

Which is too bad, because Lawrence and Williams being much better than the actors usually used for these parent roles, could have handled a more realistic story well, and brought some real emotional beats to the movie.

As expected, Buckley's romance with Ana Ayora was the definite A-plot here, but why did their memory lane rekindling catalyst have to be close-up magic, the worst of all entertainment options? Was there no mime troop they could have been teenage members of? When it comes to magic, and jazz, I'm like Indiana Jones and snakes…Why'd it have to be magic?

Also, no way that 29-year-old guy they have playing "teenage" Mike grows up to be Robert Buckley. Nope! They definitely had to soft focus all the mostly unnecessary flashback scenes so that those actors, easily less than a decade younger than our leads, didn't quite look their age. 

And, c'mon, Buckley, who, again, is the star of his own TV show, gives the love of his life a necklace he bought…in high school? For real? I'm surprised we couldn't see her neck turn green in real time. At least get a gal a little upgrade. Sheesh! 

The whole rival real estate agent thing went nowhere. And what was that subplot even supposed to be about? Would have much rather seen a scene from the Handsome Justice episode where Buckley's character defended a dog accused of murder, than that whole waste of time. 

On the other hand, loved the Grift body spray mentions, and so glad we go to see that ad. Hallmark doesn't do subtle—"But will they get it?" is basically the network's motto—but this is one case of subtext just being text that worked.

Oh and, how did his parents buy a house on the Hudson river just by selling a nice, but fairly average, suburban home? Sure, they said it was a fixer upper, but anything on the water is gonna be way more pricey than where they were, and you've still got to have the cash to do the fixing. Also, you know the old adage about how nothing soothes a struggling marriage like a whole house renovation project, amirite?

Speaking of money…Why didn't Buckley just buy his folks the house right away if he didn't want to see it go? I mean, even if he's only a mid-level TV star, this wasn't some extravegent manse, and certainly wouldn't be an unusual thing for a well-off child to do for their middle-class parents. Why all the rigamarole with the weird guy and the rescinded offer? And, like, what was that all about? So many stories I'd have rather seen from this talented cast than some of the filler we actually got.

Harder didn't get nearly enough to do, but he and Bennett had decent chemistry and they got most of the best lines. The joke about "Will we decorate like this for our kids," and Bennett's emphatic, "No," cut the tension of an emotional scene well, with perfect timing, making it actually, laugh out loud funny—a Hallmark rarity. And when Harder appears in doorway after hearing from the adoption agency, and Bennett knows just by looking at his face what the call said, I got emotional.

That all the couples in this one got to kiss, including Bennett and Harder, is important. With the specter of last year's Zola debacle absolutely lingering over the entire movie, it's hard to think of a better, actual example of #LoveWins, than that moment.

I also teared up when we saw Bennett and Harder's family at the end, not only because it was a long overdue Hallmark milestone, but also because Harder's real-life son, Kael, played he and Bennett's on-screen adopted child, and is just so stinking cute.

Am I giving this bonus points for finally having an LGBTQ+ storyline, even if it was pretty far from the foreground? For sure. But Buckley and Bennett also brought humor and heart to this one, of a variety not usually found on Hallmark, and Lawrence and Williams also upped the ante on the quality here. Notable that Hallmark also sprung for two actual, name-brand holiday songs, so they were willing to spend a little bit of extra cash on this effort, which says more about their “commitment to diversity” than years of empty promises ever did.

Would have liked House even more, if Hallmark had been brave enough to swap the storylines; Bennett falling in love the boy next door, and Buckley and his bride waiting to hear about adoption, but barring that, do wish it had been bit more of a true ensemble (i.e. all three love stories had equal weight).

Despite quibbles, I'm still putting this on top of the 2020 Hallmark heap, at least for the moment, because I laughed, I cried and I felt good about the progress that has been made, no matter how long overdue it is.

As I've said so many times, representation really does matter, particularly on a channel like Hallmark, which caters to exactly the audience that most needs to see LGBTQ+ people laughing, living and loving, just like every other family.

Representation really can change lives. It opens hearts and minds. It can help those struggling within themselves feel seen and worthy. Really can not underestimate how transformative these normalizing glimpses can be, particularly for a network like Hallmark, with a large "conservative" audience. 

"Conservative" is in quotes, because there's nothing genuinely conservative about human rights, and respect for those unlike you. Empathy and acceptance for others should be a baseline standard for living in a society—not a political statement. 

No one has the right to deny someone else's humanity, and someone's choice to hold hate in their heart deserves no respect from Hallmark, or society at large. Really hopeful that some kid out there who feels excluded and awful about themself because their family and upbringing has told them everything they're feeling is wrong and sinful, can now see representation like this on their family's safe space TV channel, and know it's going to be OK.

It's a small step, but it's definitely a good one, and I'm really looking forward to the actual lead LGBTQ+ holiday romances coming soon, like Hulu's Happiest Season (Nov. 25), Lifetime's The Christmas Setup (Dec. 12) and Paramount Network's Dashing in December (Dec. 13), and hoping Hallmark joins that club in 2021.

Until then…

Final Judgement: 3 Paws Up

[omgnsfwisnsfw-blog]

8: So Be It

“Church.” They. We. John had for so long only been responsible for his actions. Wake up, brush his teeth, eat breakfast, read, eat lunch, read, ignore the voice through the vent, read, dinner, read, lights out, staring out into the darkness until he finally drifted away, wake up, brush his … “Church.” And everyday she pulled him out of that routine. That first week John resented Mike McGuire for it. He wanted to curse her for her ignorance. This morning he had just finished a bowl of oats. He knew Mike was still doing some wrap up getting her number two up to speed to run her business. He knew that he’d be able to dig into another … That’s another thing that perplexed him. He woke up one morning last week to see a box of assorted books in front of the door of the guest room. It was never brought up. But every dinner was over a different movie on the television. Every training session was in tandem and was always accompanied by strategy. What was the future of their tag team? What does he think of his opponents? What does he need to do to succeed? But that Saturday morning, John had just cracked open a book about the life and death of Nikola Teslawhen she said it was time to go. They could make a trip of it towards Baton Rouge and then catch a flight back back North to Boston after the Friday event. “Church!” His blank stare out of the passenger’s side window was startled by a sharp yet ultimately harmless jab. He turned away from the endless farm fields and turned to the driver. “Yeah?” “You with me, buddy? You looked a million miles away just then.” The reverberations of the powerful engine of her muscle car, a gaudy yellow late model Mustang, certainly aided in that distance. The red leather seats creaked softly as John adjusted his seat and sat straight back up. “I’m okay.” “Good,” she smiled, looking almost at peace behind the wheel, the sun on her face, “You got any ideas? Tons of stuff to do on the way there. Pick something. Anything you want.” “I don’t know,” John looked back out the window and saw the handwritten sign about the man with no vocal chords, “I always lived out west. Even when I traveled,” John paused, perhaps considering his words,“when I traveled it was the same loop. The hotel, the gym, and the arena.” “I did that stuff too. Livened it up a bit though, used to go bar hopping a lot. Man, some of the crawls I did were fuckin’ eeeepic,” she snickered to herself a bit, “You wanna do something like that? I know all the best places.” “I don’t drink. Never have,” John had started to understand that some of his social interactions were unintentionally blunt, “but …but don’t let that stop you.” “Okay, fair enough. Well, there’s a travel guide in the glove compartment there. Should have some stuff of interest en route. Leaf through it an’ see if there’s anything that catches your eye.” “Surprise me,” John had almost tried to stop himself from saying that. He hated surprises. He liked his routine. He hated his routine, too. It was too familiar and was born of a sense of minimization. Mike responded with that wide grin and accelerated past a semi truck. Some more time past and John could feel himself getting lulled into the sights as the farm plains transitioned into the rocky corridors of West Virginia, “Fine. This time. But sometime between now’n Baton Rouge you’re pickin’ something. We’re doing this together, y’know,” she drove a bit longer, eyes flicking to the exit signs and the flow of traffic, before speaking up again, her cadence that of a person watching their words when unused to doing so, “Hey. Sorry to bring this up again, but it’s kinda been buggin’ me. That thing a while back. With Emma. What was it about? You like her or somethin’?” He’d almost forgotten. The woman certainly had, “I, uh, would consider it a Freudian slip,” he felt that Mike sometimes walked on eggshells around him about these subjects and she most likely did not want a repeat of what could be the catalyst of this whole ordeal. He had heard and read what people thought of him. Amongst all of the requests to end his own life, people had legitimate questions and concerns. He was artful in his ability to dodge the questions about his past and his even more surreal present. John cleared his throat, “Look, I’m not sure. She, I mean, you know …” He danced around it for so long and in the eyes of the public, they painted him as dull or even some masterful sociopath disassociated with the act and its victim. “Mike, I, I’m just not sure. The dispositions were nothing alike but the shine of her eyes, her hair — they were a reminder. So to answer your question: I don’t like her. I mean, I don’t dislike her. She’s just a competitor,” he continued to struggle as Mike listened with her eyes intently on the road, “I don’t know why I’m back. I’d been forgotten and now, I’m here talking with you and now doing what I always wanted to do. I don’t talk about it because I don’t know what to say. I can barely remember what happened. I’d been grilled and grilled over details that I just didn’t know. I had finished a show and it was called it Beware the Ides of March. It was in reference to whatever the main event was. I’d opened the show and was the first person out because Reno was my hometown. The promoters like that sort of thing, you know? It was twenty minutes away from the apartment. I was alone which was the usual at this stage. I was woken up from my bed the next morning with a loud knock,” John sighed, “and well, there’s been plenty of discussion about it. It’s been in print, on the TV, so it doesn’t bear repeating. I was where I was at and now I’m not. I don’t think… I, I, I belonged there.”

 “Okay. S’ all I wanted to know,” she let it go at that. She didn’t want to dwell on that particular subject, she supposed, any more than he did. Her fingers drummed on the crimson leather cover of the steering wheel. Letting a pause linger for a bit, she smiles over at him, artfully letting the subject pass for a new one, “Mind if I turn the radio on?” “Okay.”

 “Master conversationalist as always, my man.” 

Chuckling softly, she turned the dial on the radio- what would be considered an old-school affair, no Sirius or even a cassette deck. She kept it true to the rest of the vehicle on her rebuild, even though she was well aware she could’ve put in something more modern.

 “Lessee… gospel… country, ugh… fuckin’ disco… goin’ to hell, yeah yeah… HERE we go,”

 she landed on a rock/metal station, by lucky happenstance at the tail end of a commercial break. The band was a classic and it pleased her. TNT, it’s dyno-mite, “FUCK. YEAH. … This cool with you? You an AC/DC person?” John looked into the rear view mirror and they were all alone in this stretch of road as it cut and curved throughout the high walled rock landscape, “It’s not really something to have an affinity for but if you’re going to put me on the spot, alternative current based equipment just have better life expectancies.” She paused for a moment, blinked, and laughed, “The band, Church. The one on the radio. Right now.” John looked at her blankly then at the radio and then back at her, “I know. I was just playing around. This is fine.” “A’ight, cool. Lemme know if you get sick of it, I’ll find somethin’ else,” she drove on, the road spreading out like a ribbon of asphalt before them. John didn’t. He just listened. Eventually this one faded out into static and Mike had to keep turning the dial past all of the sludge. He almost objected a few times but he also remembered the old adage that the driver is the master of the radio. An hour or so passed and finally Mike finally just turned off the radio for the mean time. The mountainous terrain eventually gave out to a thick wooded view. “Hey. Just so y’know, I believe in you. I know how fuckin’ corny that sounds, but I do. I like t’ think I have an eye for these things and I really think I’m lookin’ at the next TV champ,” she paused, maybe placing her words, maybe for effect, “Something you said really stuck with me. I think you figured out a question I’ve been askin’ myself for years without me even askin’ you, in a conversation that wasn’t even about me. Weird’s that sounds.” Earlier that week, the company had arranged for another sit down interview. By virtue of defeating the former champion, Bishop Church had earned the #1 contendership for the Television Championship. What stood before him was his greatest challenge and the company wanted some face time from both their champion and challenger. So once again, John sat in the hot seat. Despite Mike being there, that tense feeling did not dissipate. John fiddled with the microphone clipped to the collar of his t-shirt while Ace Heart flipped through a stapled packet of papers held steady with a clipboard. “Careful with that. The audio technicians hear every time you touch the clip.” John stopped and sat up straight in his director’s style chair, “Okay.” “So here we are again. Before we start, you gotta tell me, why did you delete your Facebook account?” “I don’t trust Zuckerberg. You ever get the feeling that he’s not giving straight answers.” Ace scoffed at that, “Look, Bishop, we set that up for you as a way for you to speak to your fans. You had 150,000 followers and then all of a sudden, you 86’d it.” “I just … didn’t want it. I’m here for this, isn’t that what you wanted?” Ace raised his hands perhaps feigning indignation, “Yeah, that’s right. You’re here. For this. Whatever this will be.” Ace signaled to the camera man and crew to start filming. “Dr. Pepper presents an Extreme Wrestling Corporation live interview on Facebook Watch. I’m Ace Heart and this is Bishop Church.” John nodded. Ace sighed, “Splendid. So since we last talked it seems like your circumstances have made a 180 degree turn. You’ve managed to dispatch Emma Louise, Chris Chambers, and most recently former Television Champion Kendrick Kross one after another. Most notably this is the same Kendrick Kross who unthroned Ruthless Aggression at Stranglemania. Now three days after you face Malice at Friday Night Rampage, you get your first shot at gold against Ruthless Aggression at Monday Night Brawl. Most recently, she impressively defeated a man twice her size in Grizzly Duggan and retained the TV title. Now she stands before you - your biggest match to date, what say you?” “She-“ “Swear to God, if you say she seems nice, this is over.” John’s eyes narrowed at the interruption but just seconds later, his expression relaxed. He turned to face the camera. “Ahhh, women. Women, women, women, women, women.” Ace’s reaction is one of abject horror but he was helpless to stop as John continued. “What are women like? What do women want? How should I treat a woman? Sometimes the hardest thing to do is to find a woman at all. I’ve been staking out for hours looking for one and the closest I got was this fellow.” The camera shot cut to Mike, unknown at this to all viewers, chowing down on a ham and cheddar sandwich at the catering table. Back to John, the camera shot tightens in on him, “Where are all the women?” He then turned back to the interviewer, still frozen, “Is it all perhaps an elaborate fraud?” Finally, “CUT!” Ace exploded right after the cameras turned off, “What the FUCK was that? What are you even talking about? Your opponent is a woman. Half of the roster are women. Why can’t you just answer my questions?” He then shouted to the assistant off screen, “Where’s his goddamn handler? Saint assured me that I wouldn’t have to put up with this shit anymore.” As if on cue, Mike stepped into the interview set and stood in face to face with Ace while seemingly shielding Church from him, “Partner, okay? Not handler. Partner. Got it?” “Okay Bishop’s partner, can you explain why every interview with this guy turns out to be a waking disaster? In my nearly twenty years of thousands, literally thousands of interactions, I’ve interviewed them all. Every hall of fame inductee, every champion, every one that mattered in this industry has had the decency to answer my questions and yet talking to this guy is like squeezing blood from a stone.” “I’m still here,” John mumbled. “Ignore him, Church. Your right-hand man’s got your back. Just forget about that guy for a sec. It’s not his fault he ain’t got no class or sense of professionalism.” “Why I never!” “Go trim the ‘stache or something. And you there, sweetcheeks, gimme that camera,” there was a bit of a jitter on the picture as the camera was either handed over or taken forcefully, and adjusted by its new operator. Ace Heart shrugged his shoulders and there was an exodus of company crew from the set, “Just like before.” John nodded. The shot came back to life. John stood behind the right director’s chair and looked deep in thought. The camera zoomed out as the new cameraperson struggled with the controls. After a moment, Mike managed to follow his movements. “I’m starting to understand it,” John gestured, “you know, the necessity of all of this. This sport is fueled on the idea of conflict and the reasons for those conflicts vary. Sometimes it is simple. Two people not liking each other. Sometimes there is something at stake. Bragging rights, money, or in the present case: championship gold. And this is a business after all so it’s not just the contest itself. It’s also the circumstances that led up to and surround the bout. That’s why there is all of this pomp and circumstance. Does it really matter what I say here? Will these words truly have an affect on what happens in that squared circle? Actually, yes. And that is what is expected of me.” John took a seat, although he tilted the chair facing forward. “Expectations, right? There are certain expectations on how I should conduct myself. Smile for the camera. Talk to the people. Tell them why I’m the best. Or don’t. Be absolutely abhorrent. Be a disgusting caricature of humanity. Also them why I’m the best. That’s not me. Reevaluate your expectations. I talked a little bit about what people have seen in me thus far and I expect that afterwards, they perhaps had to reconsider. That’s how we got here. I was asked a question on how this stage was set. If you’re watching this, you probably saw just how that happened.” He paused. John so much wanted to keep this internalized. He felt nervous talking about himself but he didn’t feel the need to deflect. He wasn’t so naive to know that she wasn’t the only one listening but just the hypothetical idea of it allowed him to continue. “The former champion stated that he needed this. Essentially he believed that a victory over me would be a turning point. He didn’t see me as viable. He didn’t think of me as a peer. He concluded that I was just here to collect a paycheck. He misjudged me. He underestimated my passion for the sport of professional wrestling. And so he learned in this cruel world that needs aren’t always fulfilled. His story has to carry on with the knowledge that all of the accolades and comeback aspirations evaporated in the space of three seconds. Thus is the cycle of life. That cycle brings us to the idea that I am a contender now.” He shifted in his seat and sat forward. “This is my very first championship opportunity. Never before have I had to chance to compete with stakes so high. Some could say that I need this but that would be oversimplifying it. Think about it. Think about who I am. Not what you see and read but who I am right now. Do I need to be champion like I need air to breathe? Do I need it for financial security? I guess it would be nice but as the camera shakes to and fro, I’m not just here for material objects. What about for love?” John chuckled softly. “As ridiculous as that sounds, the history books are filled with pages of men and women who take advantage their standing for their romantic desires. How about just to make myself feel better? That journey isn’t so trivial that gold plates screwed into a leather strap will clear the path. And so what it comes down to that what a man can be, he must be. So that addresses the match itself. If I can become champion, I must become champion. But that isn’t the end of it, is it, Ruthann Hunter?" For this whole time, he waxed hypothetical to the masses but his meandering questioning tone changed to a more direct one as he began to address his opposition. ��If it was, you would have ridden off into the sunset long ago.” The genesis of Mike prodding John into the proverbial sunlight will most likely never meet the air. She had went to check in on him early his stay and she discovered notepads filled with amended notes of his opponents. Who they are. What they do. How John could neutralize their abilities and come out on top. And most noticeably notes on what they said about him. Real statements and all he could manage was nonsense. It wasn’t until his exchange with Ace here that she noticed that it was very intentional. “This is where I would go into that tired song and dance about who you are. You are a living legend and I’ll be the exception. I could say that I would stand fast against the ruthless aggression and persevere. Let me stand up here and I could raise my voice and snort and chortle about my destiny.” John shook his head. “But none of us know what the future holds for us. I can’t make that promise. I want what you have. That’s human nature. We always want what we don’t have. This sport is like a microcosm of life. Look no further than the former champion. Look at the desperation in his words even when he was proud and boastful against you. Due to this being a competition, we usually absolve ourselves of what affect we have on the vanquished. Think about that, won’t you? Someone somewhere in an office gets a promotion over someone else. Maybe that person that failed needed the money more. Maybe they have a crippling disease. In our world - who cares? So the former champion was right on one thing, we all see each other as stepping stones. We all see each other as that obstacle to self-actualization.” He stands up and moves closer to the camera. “And so we go about and we both say this to each other solemnly. I don’t care about your legacy. I don’t care about your family. I don’t care what you have done in the past. I don’t care about what losing could do to your ego. All of that does not matter in the confines of the ring. In that moment, we are two demigods engaged in a struggle that could ravage the earth. The ground could fall to pieces all around us as we were locked together and all that would matter is our musculature straining as we resisted each other’s powers. Our bodies would be intimate in ways no mere mortal could comprehend.” And for this, he did raise his voice. “That is what matters.” And back to a low conversational tone. “This isn’t about redemption. I’m here to take what is mine. And if that has to be on the backs of the broken and beaten…” Closer. “So be it.” Mike’s epiphany was punctuated as the car hit a pothole. They rattled about, “What do you mean?” “Ooof! Shit. Sorry. What I mean is… I kept hittin’ fucking walls. I got a bit of momentum here an’ there but I never got no place because I kept hittin’ walls and I could never think of what the hell was wrong with me. And I never HAVE been able to figure it out until you said it. I didn’t have enough… I dunno. Killer instinct seems really fuckin’ cliche but that thing you were talking about. Having t’ not worry about other people, what they were like or what their dreams an’ motivations might be, long’s you’re in between those bells,”

 her eyes, no, her entire expression was alight, as if she’d just seen the writing of God or heard the prophecies of Mohammed or gotten the truth of the universe from benevolent space aliens
, “I kept holding back, I think. Not… consciously, but on some level I cared too damn much about the other guy when I shouldn’t have.” “Mike, the battlefield is the only place where those virtues that the good covet become a weakness. I’m glad you understand. It’s ignoring that very distinction that creates the overabundance of negativity that permeates the landscape of the company,” John reached over and put his left hand over the middle space and on gently on her right forearm, “We can be that change. I mean, a real change. Let’s not kid ourselves - what we do in the ring will be for selfish reasons but outside we can discover who we are - who we are meant to be.” Mike gave a small gasp inward while trying not to look like she was gasping inward. This was huge. She was a physical person, her affection for a person was accompanied by a shower of hair ruffles, noogies, playful jabs, and other forms of fond roughhousing. She’d held back with this somewhat as it had become apparent to her that John wasn’t exactly the touchy feely sort. So for him for once to initiate physical contact with her… it was so overwhelming almost that she— “Look out!” “Oh FUCK!” Mike suddenly swerved away from a brown blur in their line of site. They could hear a loud thud as something smashed against the right headlight of the car and then into the side mirror on the passenger side. As Mike, rather expertly regained control, John turned his head and could see the tail end of the culprit dart into the woods. Mike put the car to stop in the breakdown lane free and clear. She cut off the engine, “You alright?” “Yeah.” “Good. Okay. We’re okay. Shit,” she closed her eyes, taking a few deep breaths and willing her heart not to burst through her ribcage and slow the hell down already, “I’m gonna go check out the damage. Fuck. Hopefully nothin’ I can’t fix,” 

carefully scanning the traffic, Mike exited the Mustang and took a look at what’s been done to her labor of three years. Thankfully, nothing much. The passenger side mirror was torn loose, there were some significant but not horrific dents, but probably the worst were the liberal traces of blood and fur all over the affected area. It was going to be a bitch to clean up. Still, it could have been much, much worse. Meanwhile, John faced the trees, “You hear that?”

 “No… hear what?” Admittedly, she was a little preoccupied with the state of her vehicle. John could hear a pained yowl. He started towards the source of the noise. “H-hey, hold up!” Reaching in through the passenger door and pulling her 8-ball keychain out of the ignition, Mike followed her counterpart away from the car and off to wherever he was heading to. John hurried through the first rows of large trees until he reached a small clearing. He could see it. A young female deer laid out in the leaves, twigs, and debris of the forest. It’s eyes were wide in the realization of its situation. Blood seeped out large gash on its neck and it also trickled out of the corner of its mouth. It gasped and fought for every breath. John’s shadows loomed over its dying body. Mike finally caught up to him. “Oh. Oh, geez. Poor thing. Shit. What do you do in this situation, I know this… okay. You call the cops for the accident, the park service or some shit to take care of the deer… goddamnit. I’m sorry, Church. This was supposed to be fucking fun,”

 sighing, she fished in her pocket for her phone. “I hope it goes without saying that any interaction with the police may not be beneficial to me,” John knelt down next to the animal. “Oh. Fuck, sorry,” she wasn’t in the mood to argue the point, and shakily dropped the phone back into her pocket, “Hey… what’re you doing? I don’t think there’s much you can do for her at this point.” “Give me your knife.” She closed her hand around the four-inch object in her pocket- a utility Swiss Army knife, mostly used for the screwdrivers and bottle opener, “What do y’want my knife fo… no. Church, nuh-uh. We can’t.” A little more assertive, “Give me your knife,” without facing her, he put his hand out with the palm up and he grasped for the knife to be placed there. “Fuck. Shit,” biting her lip and with obvious hesitation, she took the knife out of her pocket and placed it in his hand. Hers trembled in a manner very unlike her. John looked down at the multi-tool and used his thumbnail to flick open the blade. He stared down into his reflection in the sharp sliver of steel. The deer flailed its once strong legs in a helpless fashion unable to control its motor functions. The smell of urine and feces wafted throughout the air and its blood began to pool and carpet the foliage under its neck. “I’m sorry it had to be this way,” the blade pressed against its throat. “So be it.”

[musingsofanewbienurse]

Transitioning to Veganism

In January 2019 I decided to take part in veganuary with the intention of being fully vegan afterward (bar what was already in my cupboard and needed eating up). It wasn’t a sudden decision, in fact, it had been a gradual choice that I had been considering for months at this point. I had been vegetarian since July 2017 and had been gradually decreasing my intake of animal products so that by the end of 2018 my diet was 80-90% plant based already. I had been avoiding dairy for the most part anyway as it causes my skin to break out badly and cheese was an expensive luxury on a furgal university budget. The only thing that really let me down in that aspect was when I ate out or by not checking labels.

Like most people I had watched the world-famous Netflix document ‘What the Health’ in the spring of 2017 and that was probably one of the first major catalyst that lead to me analysing and changing my diet. I had grown up on a small, rural island off the mainland of England, one of its main agricultures being farming. Every-day I would see cows and sheep grazing in fields both outside my bedroom window and on the way to school, I saw these animals had a good quality of life (in a way that they do not always in larger areas of Britain and the US), and like many people, never really questioned the connection between that and my dinner plate.

I was also notoriously fussy, and although I liked most varieties of meat, the same could not be said of vegetables. In fact I hated every single one until I was 16 and then I could just about stomach carrots. A healthy diet I did not have, despite how much my parents tried to push otherwise. Going vegetarian was simply not a viable option for me back then; but on joining university I started to cook for myself and my taste matured, leading me to today, where I now love 99% of veg (broccoli is legitimately my favourite food) and it makes up the bulk of my diet.

It meant, that when I watched the documentary I was able to genuinely consider becoming vegetarian, and started to slowly phase meat out of my diet. Even then, I knew that ultimately I did want to become vegan, after seeing the impact the meat and dairy industry has on our health*, the environment and on the animals who are subjected to it. But I wanted to do it the right way and for the long-term. If I cut out everything at once I knew after a week or two I would revert back to my usual diet, my body craving things that had always been present. I also wanted to be educated about things I substituted meat for; I go to the gym regularly and I wanted to know that what I was eating would have a good variety of nutrients. And most importantly, I didn’t want my mental health to suffer.

Like most young women growing up in this century I have had issues with food and my body. Although I have never received any formal help or diagnosis I definitely had an unhealthy relationship with food, especially in my mid-teens, though even now some days are harder than others. For the most part I am a lot better, but I was wary that if I suddenly cut out a lot of different foods and placed a lot of restrictive rules on my diet that I would be taking a huge step backwards, that I would go back to obsessing over every little thing that I eat. I didn’t want to sacrifice my health and knew that if I was to do this safely, then gradually converting my diet was the only answer.

And that is what I did. First it was dairy milk, an easy swap as there are so many alternatives on the market. I mainly go for soya at home because it’s the cheapest and I really don’t need anything fancy in my bowl of porridge, but oat is by far my favourite and go-to when I’ve gone out for a coffee.

Eggs was one of the biggest changes. In my second year of uni I had eggs for breakfast nearly everyday that I wasn’t on placement, and I genuinely didn’t see myself as able to give them up. But in third year I found a love of porridge and overnight oats, or tofu scramble if I fancied something closer to what I usually had eaten. And eventually I was only having eggs when eating out, there is nothing nicer than an eggs benedict (and if anyone can link me to a good vegan recipe for it, I will love them forever).

Like I previously mentioned, cheese wasn’t a large part of my diet, because as a university student it just wasn’t worth budgeting for. I’ve never had a problem with any of the vegan alternatives I’ve tried, though this may be because I ate cheese so rarely that I couldn’t really directly compare the two.

Chocolate, the crux for many people, was a big one. “But how do you live without chocolate?” I’m normally asked by my horrified coworkers, and the answer is that I don’t. In fact, I probably have it in some form everyday, it just took a bit of getting used to looking for the vegan friendly alternatives in tescos. But there are plenty, and even some of the major brands are accidently vegan (looking at you bourbons).

Eventually it just left occasions where I was eating out (laziness would sometimes lead to me choosing the vegetarian option, and other times it was simply because that was what I wanted to eat), and items where I had not checked the label for hidden ingredients. Milk powder is in bloody everything, and if it’s not that, it’s normally eggs. Quorn in particular is well-known for this, though their vegan range is steadily growing.

By December 2018 I felt ready to take on Veganuary. I no longer felt like my diet, or lifestyle would be negatively impacted by it and I saw it as a great chance to draw a line under the sand. When speaking to my dad on the phone two weeks in he asked if I was struggling yet. And honestly? I hadn’t even noticed, as there had been so few occasions where I would have chosen the non-vegan option anyway. To me it just made sense that after January I continued to eat plant based, and now, at the end of February I haven’t regretted it once. I am a giant advocator of eating a vegan diet. I feel so much healthier than when I ate meat, am more active than ever and can’t remember the last time I fell ill. I do understand it’s not possible for everyone, people who have had or have eating disorders may definitely struggle, and placing a load of rules on what they can and can’t eat wouldn’t be beneficial to their mental health in the slightest (just as it wouldn’t have been for me once upon a time).

I also understand that if you’re not educated about nutrition and the aspects of a healthy diet, then becoming vegetarian/vegan doesn’t automatically mean you’ll be any healthier, especially with the wide range of plant based foods and meals now out in supermarkets (I’m not berating any of these releases in the slightest, it’s amazing to see so many options and makes it a lot more accessible than it once was, it just means navigating for a healthy option isn’t always the easiest thing). Being vegan is still a privilege, I only have to support myself on my wage and it leaves plenty of room to opt for the more expensive meat alternatives and keep my diet balanced. A single parent with two kids however doesn’t have this option, and places like Lidl and Aldi are brilliant for selling a large quantity of meat for a relatively low price.  

But reducing your meat and animal product intake is good for the planet, and I do think that every little thing, whether that be partaking in Meatless Monday or swapping dairy milk for soya helps. No-one has to be perfect or commit to the most severe of changes, especially if they feel it is what they should do because Instagram told them to, but making a substitution here and there helps massively.

*I am not saying that meat and dairy cannot make up a healthy diet, though like anything in large quantities it isn’t beneficial. There is also plenty of evidence against cows milk and how we digest it. In early 2019 the Eat-Lancet commission (linked below) was published, outlining global targets for the world population to achieve a healthy, nutritionally balanced diet whilst keeping food production sustainable. The diet consists mainly of fruit, vegetables, grains and legumes, with a small amount of meat and fish. It is fairly similar to the Mediterranean diet, and emphasises that you don’t need to cut all animal products out, but reducing them would be highly beneficial on a number of levels!

Walter, W., Rockstrom, J., Loken, B. et al (2019) Food in the Anthropocene: the EAT-Lancet Commission on Healthy Diets from Sustainable Food Products. The Lancet. [online] Available at: https://www.thelancet.com/journals/lancet/article/PIIS0140-6736(18)31788-4/fulltext#seccestitle10

[foolscapper]

Exploding Head Syndrome: A MCU Post-IW Fanfic | Ch. 1

(READ IN CHRONOLOGICAL ORDER.)

It takes two years for them to right everything. Two long years — most of it spent in chaotic shades of tears, screaming, silent defeat, and a very unsuccessful five stages of grief for everyone involved. It's a world where billions of people have all had their candle wicks pinched in tandem between ugly purple fingers, their lights gone out in the pits of their mourning loved one's stomachs. There was not enough time in the day for funerals, not enough room or money for smoothed gravestones, and far too many people that will never, ever be identified as dead. Those people, the ones without families and friends, they simply never existed. Perhaps in the backgrounds of neighborhood photos they weren't meant to be a part of, but ultimately? They are vagabonds who just blew away in the wind.

And those who did have people left behind, who mourned and prayed for them?

They were just memories on walls.

Nobody from their team of heroes took their noses out of books or their eyes off screens, carving out new and old information on celestials, on resurrection, on righting the wrongs done by an arrogant bastard who decided to snap his fingers and purge the universe of any happiness; that same purple bastard had vanished without another word, and Thor had paced through the Avengers headquarters those first days with guilt etched into the lines of his weary face. His brown and blue set of eyes looked into Tony's, and his lips had pulled into something of a haunted grimace, and he said with no ounce of doubt, "This could have been over, had I aimed for the head."

The half of the Asgardians that Thanos had spared came to earth just a few months after; they filled in the broken pieces of a fractured glass Wakanda that had been devastated by the loss of their king. It was an intellectual gathering, more than anything, a concoction of mad sciences that would yield more together than apart. Steve Rogers kept in touch with them, eyes and ears waiting to be sated by something fruitful, about Thanos and his whereabouts.

They didn't need flip phones because they lived down the hallway from each other, and sometimes when Tony wasn't pouring through information with Bruce, he was letting the captain talk his ear off about world news that might matter if Tony would let it. With every passing day, the Sokovia Accords became a relic, something from the old world. The fight in Germany almost didn't feel real anymore. But it was, and it had been the catalyst in meeting a young man from Queens who loved Alt-J and Star Wars.

The scroll bar on the missing children's pages Tony's accrued is so tiny, he can barely see it on his screen. He sits there at the kitchen table while Morgan sits on his lap and slams blocks around like a tiny radioactive dinosaur. And he's tired and regretful as every face seems to blur and morph into Peter's (his goofy shirts, his awful Mets hat, the fifth Jansport backpack that month). Pepper makes Tony coffee, rubs his shoulders, makes breakfast for their daughter. He looks at both of them every day and reminds himself he doesn't deserve them.

Rhodey brings updates from Ross, as an exasperated courtesy more than anything.

Tony also cares very fucking little about that, too. Natasha is in full agreement.

Oh, and the raccoon stuck around, too. Two years, and Tony Stark made friends with a kleptomaniac trash panda who lost almost every person he's ever come to love, and the blue chick might as well be counted among the lost, because she hit the atmosphere running and never stopped (but if there's anyone Tony would bet on for killing Thanos through hate alone, Nebula might be able to accomplish it before supper). Rocket heads out from time to time to try and find clues in the deep reaches of space — "Where's Thanos? Have you seen where he ran off to? Where's that ugly son of a b—" And you know, it ends about as successfully as the last time the little garbage bear rolls back in. Truth be told, he likes Rocket a lot. Good eye for tech, familiar snark used to push people away, a raging hate-boner for a certain mass murderer...

Ah, yes. The bastard who sacrificed his daughter, go fucking figure. Tony looks at Morgan's freckled face as he changes the umpteenth diaper that day and can't fathom the concept of being her end. It's horror fiction, the pages ripped out of books conjured to be nothing more than a terrible daydream of a bored writer. 

It's the same horror fiction where Peter clings to him sobbing for help, falling when his legs disintegrate underneath him. 

Tony looks for that kid everywhere, despite knowing exactly where he is.

He waves the photograph in Pepper's face, inches from her, the sharp juts of his fingernails biting into the Polaroid like dog teeth — (retroware, a camera found in a dumpster, delicately and lovingly re-mantled into a working camera, pictures snapped in quiet labs on lazy Sundays where Tony pretends the kid shouldn't be there) — but Pepper just looks at him like he's a wild man, and maybe he is, with owlish imploring eyes and unkempt hair, but nobody is listening, they just talk about their day and nobody is looking at this kid in this photograph: the kid with the curvy brown hair and pinching, smiling eyes and thin lips, he's only a kid, he's missing, does nobody see that? But Pepper just puts her hands up at the sides of her head and shrugs like he's out of his mind, and she's talking about being behind schedule —

"Tony, honey, there's nothing there — I don't know what you want me to see." And she is getting progressively more furious at him, because there's nothing, but he can clearly see this teenaged boy's face looking back at him when he turns the image back to himself: he's in the lab, Tony took the picture (say cheese, and the kid said provolone, because he's a massive nerd, but Tony would have done it too, so what does that make him), and no, Peter's not in the lab, he's not anywhere. Not in the ground, not in an urn, not standing on his feet, not stuck to his hands.

"No. No no no, look at him, why - why are you not looking at him?" Tony asks, curled fingers pecking over the shirt on his chest, right where his blue heart used to be, and he's so fucking angry that Happy said it Pepper said it Steve said it Everyone says it, the same thing, different voices: "It's a black box, Tony. It's just a black box. The picture's not developed. Something got screwed up, sorry."

He looks at the photo again and wants to see a black box, wants this to just end, but he knows it can't. In the Polaroid, the kid is tied to a chair in sweltering heat in the middle east, under the shadow of cave walls, streaked with mud and blood and wet from torture, and Tony has it on good authority the human body was not made to live in the sea, not made to breathe the deep dark waters in a two-foot basin of murky water. But Pepper looks right through the photo every time and asks him if he's remembered to water the ugly office plant she put on his desk — he shoves it off and it smashes all over, dirt underfoot crunching with the same texture as Titan. The desk is covered in nothing but Polaroids of every waking fear he's had, but they all swear on their lives—

"They're all just black boxes."

He wakes up with a strangled sound of panic, the sheets ripped out from under Pepper's soft pale arms, and she darts awake alongside him with little choice in the matter. He isn't sure how to even begin to explain the nightmare, so he doesn't, which seems adequate enough for her at this point; she instead rakes kind fingernails over his scalp and he lets himself rest in his own sweat, until eventually it dries up with her ability to stay awake with him. But there's no sleeping now. Which is fine, because not an hour later Morgan's crying in a crib that Tony doesn't let leave their room. She's smart — not quite two yet, but she's got an eye for how to get what she wants. She slaps her hands on the bars like she's a chubby convict and says, "Juice!" like she hasn't already had enough juice in the day to turn into a berry.

"... I got her," he says with feigned exasperation, but more than anything, he just wants to hold onto the kid and remind himself she won't crumble into dust. He walks her through the hallways and stares out large windows, places where the memory of Peter Parker ghosts the halls in Tony's mind. He stands where Peter watched in boyish awe as the jets took off — where he'd lead him down a path towards reports and a new suit. Regrets dance like spots in his vision. Run along now, young buck. 

He misses the others, too. He thinks about them often, wants to get them back from the jaws of death.

But everyone knows Peter is a special case, for him. A special mission set aside to complete.

There's an aunt across the city that somehow manages to get up and go to work every day. She's all that's left of a family she'd married into — the last Parker, putting unopened Christmas and birthday presents in a room that hasn't been touched in two fucking years. Tony doesn't know how she does it, after the Parkers and her husband's death; perhaps it's not always the abundance of loss that breaks someone; perhaps it's the abundance of loss that helps steel them for the next blow.

Either way, he gives her as many promises as he can muster, and she just nods like she can actually trust him.

"If it isn't the terrible terror," Rocket slurs from the end of the walkway, as he rounds the bend. Tony can't believe his eyes; he's sure there must be some youtube video out there of a raccoon holding a vodka bottle, but seeing it in person is another thing altogether. The short-statured creature adds, "Not the gremlin baby, I mean you."

"Robbet!" Morgan says, gleeful and unaware of just how alike her and Rocket's walking performances would be toe-to-toe. 

Tony is less enthused.

"Did you — Did you fly back drunk?" And really, he's not one to talk after some of the stunts he pulled in his suits, but when he looks out the window there's a clearly tipped over spaceship on the front lawn of the headquarters, almost meeting the tarmac where the quinjet resides. 

Rocket wags a paw at him like he's nuts. "Seemed like the thing to do. You Terran nimrods are great at it."

"You could've hit the building, you jackass," he hisses, "There are people sleeping here you could've killed."

"Wouldn't be the worst way to go out on this stupid planet."

"You're so lucky I'm holding a toddler, or I'd kick you in the head."

"Bring it, old man." But the longer the squabbling goes, the more Rocket seems to completely lose whatever steam he has. They end up sitting right against the big glass windows, and Tony lets Morgan rub her grubby hands all over the panels, because he's pretty sure the cleaners here prefer her messes over the ones Tony leaves in the labs (you know, the ones that almost start fires). The kid eases something inside him, and he's not one to recommend having a kid as therapy (because it definitely didn't solve his panic over being a shit dad), but it at least keeps him grounded. Gives him perspective. Focus.

"Robbet," she commands, fidgeting with Rocket's ear. The raccoon's gotten used to the attention, so much so that he just lets it be, and Tony watches expectantly for words he knows are gonna come sooner or later. This isn't the first time Rocket's stumbled in like this, though he'd hesitate to say it's common enough for an AA meeting. 

"Nothin's out there, Stark," he says tiredly. "Thanos is in the wind after we pinned him in the rice terraces. Nebula's out there givin' her... I was gonna say blood, sweat, and tears, but I dunno how much of her is even left t'do that. But the universe is too damn big." He rubs his eyes tiredly in a way that is obscenely human. "We ain't ever gonna get the bastard, much less reverse the damage. I can't keep putting off..."

"Mourning?"

Rocket and Tony lock eyes for a moment, the billionaire's face unreadable.

Rocket looks away, and for once, he can't usher up a snarky, assholish retort. 

"Mourning."

And Tony could understand that much. The world has already been grieving and crying it out, but the Avengers? They haven't allowed themselves to do it. Scott's got his kid, and he's all his kid has now — the cops had found her wandering a park alone, crying for Ant-Man to save them, and Tony's paid for therapy but fuck if that always helps. Clint refuses funerals for the two children he and his wife lost, not until Tony can look him in the eye with complete certainty and say 'there's nothing else we can do'. And Tony is not gonna lie about that shit, not even for a moment. Steve always chases for Bucky, and Tony expects as much (both in a fond way, and in a resentful way that makes him wanna strangle the bastard; what, we can't all be perfect at making up)... He also talks about Wanda and Vision and Sam often, and the room always descends into pained silence by the time they both realize how many people they've lost.

"Sorry I called you a gremlin," Rocket suddenly says, and Tony's confused for a moment before he glances over and finds Morgan sitting between Rocket's legs, cupping his furry face in her hands like she's trying to figure out why his beard is so much more out of control than her father's. Suffice to say, the drunk raccoon eventually passes out against the window, and Natasha makes her cameo in the shaded moonlight long enough to click her tongue and heft the creature up. Usually it'd be a more violent affair, but he's so out cold, he doesn't even so much as twitch.

"I'll get him in the recovery position, I guess," she says with a quirk of her brow. 

One time he'd asked her in a moment of admittedly godawful anger how she managed to be a stone-faced robot in the wake of all of this; she had slammed him down onto a table and said it was the hardest thing someone can ever do.

"Could always throw him into a tree," is his reply, and she smirks — but tucks Rocket in, regardless.

They're all he's got now.

Two weeks later, Captain Marvel gives them the location of Thanos.

One week after, Thanos is dead and Bruce and Tony are staring at the melted, twisted remains of a gauntlet adorned with six stones.

It's a full month, when the snap is finally undone.

"W-what the flying fuck just happened?"

Probably not the most eloquent way Peter Jason Quill, Star-Lord and fearless leader of the Guardians of the Galaxy, could have reclaimed his life and body, but that's the way it happened. One moment his sinking despair had been blown away in the wind with the rest of his crumbled body; the next, he's gasping for air like a newborn baby with his hands on his chest — unable to breathe, unable to think, unable to do anything but feel helpless and lost. Then his name comes back to him, his age, where he's from, followed by the first of many memories: his mother and him, making cookies with The Rolling Stones blaring on an old radio in the background. 

Then all of it follows like a stampede trampling over each other: the ravagers, Ego, celebrations full of booze and old 70's and 80's hits with his team; he groans pitifully and remembers too suddenly that his mother is dead, Yondu is dead, Gamora is dead — and then he cries like he's never cried before in his goddamn life. Like, full-bodied sobbing, harder than he's ever allowed himself in the last thirty years. His fingers curl in rough alien soil and every nerve in his body is alight with something he can't really explain, leaving him shivering. When all is said and done, it's cathartic, but his head is pounding and his eyes are red and wet and — and his legs don't want to work, exactly, so he drags himself into sitting and stares all around him with a helpless, sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach.

Where are the others? 

Drax crawls out from behind the rubble with a bit-back curse as if summoned by Peter's sheer will alone, and Strange floats down from god knows where. Both of them wipe their faces and breathe like they'd just run a marathon, one you'd sprint for — to try and escape the returning memories. The questions bubbling under the surface can wait (when, why, how, who, where; where the fuck is Thanos so I can kick his head in and ignore the aching guilt of the stupid shit I've done). Peter's lips curl into a relieved grin despite himself and he staggers to his feet, rushing to meet Drax before the lumbering warrior can collapse on his knees; he steadies the two of them, and between four colt-like legs, they make it work until they can move on their own. 

"Drax, holy shit. I'm so happy to see you right now, I saw you and — where's Mantis? And... Stark and the kid?" 

He's not gonna pretend the last two weren't cliff notes in his order of priorities, compared to Mantis. That's his sister, his family, and his heart is pounding at the thought of losing anyone else from his team... because Gamora's so fresh in his mind, an abrasion so new and raw and — don't think about it, Quill, don't think about it right now, not until you can make it to a ship and find somewhere to lick the wounds. It's so hard to breathe, so hard to keep his memories in check. Judging from the pinched expression Drax has, he can only imagine the miserable television show going on in that thick skull of his. He had family, he had a life, a home, and now it's all coming back in thunderous waves. 

Drax perks. "I hear her. This way!"

And like clockwork, Mantis sobs more loudly from over the hill of debris, and Peter is already leaping over and down it, displacing rubble in his wake. It claws him up as he goes, but what's one more injury if it means getting to his team sooner? Add another wound to the dozens lanced in his heart, whatever, he can take it. What he can't take is finding someone he loves gone again because he wasn't good enough—

("I love you, more than anything.")

"Mantis! Shit, dammit — hang on, we're coming, hang on!" He skids to a stop at the bottom with Drax hot on his heels, and it's only there that he's relieved to find she's unhurt, curled up and sitting on her legs; her back is trembling, hands poised in front of her — no, no, hands pressed to the temples of a crumpled figure with shaggy brown hair and a terribly youthful face. He swallows hard at the sight, guilt coiling in his guts, because he had made this kid a footnote in his concerns all but fifteen seconds ago.The other Peter.

("Peter, huh? Samesies!" the spider kid laughs.)

The kid is on his back, and his eyes are open, face lax under Mantis' shivering fingertips. Quill automatically assumes the worst: that he didn't make it, because even if his skin has a healthy color, he doesn't look alive. Why didn't... he come back, too? What went wrong? Crouching down beside his friend, he examines the boy and his listless gaze that looks right through him, right through everything. A death stare. He's seen so many in his life — from ravagers and enemy alike — that he doesn't question it further than that.

"... Mantis, it's okay," he says softly, placing a hand on her shoulder. "He's gone. We gotta move."

"No, no, Peter," she weeps, freezing him with her desperation, "You're wrong. He's still here. I can feel him. But th-there's so much pain — something is wrong, and it hurts."

"She's right," Strange says with a surprisingly soft voice, "He's still breathing."

Quill watches with wide eyes the rise and fall of the kid's chest, and then the surprising drip of tears into the shells of Peter's ears.

"It hurts," Mantis says again, black hair curtaining her pained expression. "He's further and further away. I can't do anything. He is so afraid."

Peter Parker's eyes are open, half-lidded, without any sign of life behind them. But Quill feels like every word Mantis sobs is a memory he can't quite bring into focus... like — like a dream he'd forgotten in the time he'd been nothing but ash. Like a beacon, scrambling all of his senses and blinding him just before he had burst back to life from under the current of death. He remembers a snippet of what it was like on the other side, rolling over and over like he's stuck in a sea — a sea of souls. He remembers it was the kid's voice, calling out from oblivion as they were hoisted back into their bodies.

He remembers hearing his own voice... remembers saying, thinking, screaming: Hang on, kid, I got you!

— it hurts, it hurts, it hurts—

He puts his hand gently on Peter Parker's cheek.

It's warm. His body breathes in steady rhythm.

So why isn't there any life behind those eyes?

The lab is quiet, save for the rambling of an excited high-schooler bragging about their odds at the new decathlon competition. Tony doesn't really mind so much, though he's not about to tell that to the kid sitting there in his old thrift shop sweater; the same kid whose hair is curling out of control now, escaping the prison of hair gel he adds in the early morning. Peter's always so animated with his hands, most of all — always fidgeting, always moving, always so eager to sign and gesture faster than Peter's mouth can move.  "And Ned's got a brand new video-game he's dying to try out, but I dunno if he can handle it; it's a horror game, you know? He's kind of a big softy — oh."

Tony glances at Peter with a scoff and a raised eyebrow, though his smirk fades a little at what has drawn the kid's already battered attention span from the conversation. Peter holds an old trophy in front of him that he had taken off the nearest shelf: a replica, actually, but still no less important. It's the arc reactor, etched with those intimate, familiar words that Pepper still whispers to him when they're alone and living in their own little world.

"Aaww, look at that," Peter says with a playful smile, pressing the trophy against his chest, where the reactor would've resided in Tony's.  "... Proof that Tony Stark has a heart."

Peter's smile softens painfully, his eyes reflecting a long and sad goodbye before he crumbles away into nothing.

[megwritesfanfiction]

Let Go, Chapter 3/?? (Raven/??)

Disclaimer: I do not own Teen Titans. This is a work of fiction that I am not making a profit off of.

A/N: Here we go update! Here we go!! 

Did you miss the first two chapters? I got you, fam!  Chapter One Chapter Two

Flashback

Her nose wrinkled as she tried to hide her amusement. “That isn’t cliche.” Raven spoke as she turned to hide her grin, but the sarcasm was evident in her voice.

“Oh, really?” Beast Boy laughed, following her down the aisle of the bookstore. He tucked the graphic novel he’d selected underneath his arm as he followed her as if she were prey. “Really now? You wanna go there?”

“I’m just saying.” Raven’s voice was light and teasing as she picked up a novel. “It’s cliche. The whole superhero story?” They lived it. She never understood why he wanted to ready about it.

“And that isn’t?” He eyed the romance novel in her hand. He plucked the book from her hand, placing the book against his forehead. “Don’t tell me…” Beast Boy’s brow furrowed in mock concentration, “Boy meets girl. Boy likes girl, and girl likes boy. There’s mutual attraction and chemistry, even if it’s the love hate thing or friends to lovers, but…” He paused dramatically as he pretended to struggle, “enter conflict. Boy and girl are separated by conflict, but then are somehow brought back together in a whirlwind of emotion.”

“You know-“

“Or one of them dies,” he smirked, handing her back the book, “and then there is some bullshit sappy, light hearted feel good ending that eases the main character’s suffering.”

Raven nudged him, turning her back to him as she focused on the selection of books.

“Don’t hate the player, hate the game, mama,” Beast Boy spoke, flashing a brilliantly flirty smile at her as he moved rested his chin to her shoulder.

“That’s fair,” She nodded, looking at another book and ignoring the blush creeping up her neck. “But your comics-“

“Graphic novels.”

“Graphic novels,” she corrected as she continued to shop for a book, “are just as cliche as any romance novel.”

“No, it is no-“

“Name one superhero who doesn’t have a tragic origin story,” Raven smirked. She casually picked up a book, reading the summary on the back as she waited for a response. The empath felt him stiffen behind her. “I’m waiting…”

“Mama…”

She hated that pet name. “I thought we agreed Rae was acceptable,” Raven murmured, more to herself than speaking to him.

“Babe...”

She also hated that pet name.

“A tragic origin is absolutely an essential catalyst in the creation of a hero.”

He never ceased to amaze her. Only Beast Boy had the ability to speak so eloquently about comic books. She loved it. “I get that, but it’s cliche.”

“Nooo…”

“Yea…” Raven teased, imitating his tone.

“It’s not the same thing.”

“Well you can’t have a great love story without conflict,” she argued, picking up another book.

His eyebrows raised. “Disagree.”

“I mean,” she shrugged. “I don’t mean fighting-“

“Yea.”

“I mean, love isn’t easy. In reality, there are ups and downs,” Raven told him. “I feel like great love stories have challenges. Things like separations, fights, death, break ups, whatever… makes the love story more meaningful.”

“I get it,” Beast Boy sighed as he nodded, leaning against the self in front of her, “but…”

Raven stopped. Her arms wrapped around the novel she picked as her eyes rose to meet his gaze. For a moment, his eyes were too green and too vulnerable.

“I’d like to think not all love stories are complicated.” His smile was soft.

She nodded, returning his smile. “I’d like to think not all heroes are broken.”

Flash Forward

“Do you care if I smoke?”

She wrinkled her nose in surprise. “You smoke?” Raven was really in no position to judge him, but she couldn’t help her initial reaction of surprise.

“I know,” Roy smirked, placing a cigarette between his lips. He rolled down his window and hoped to bypass the ‘smoking is bad’ lecture. “It’s bad for me,” he murmured, lighting it. “I am well aware that it’s disgusting, and it’s going to kill me.”

Raven smirked, fingers wiggling a bit as she continued to drive. “I don’t care,” she shrugged. “I’m basically the patron saint of the goth scene in Jump.” She was practically immune to it.

“The patron saint of the Jump City faction of goths,” Roy repeated with a snort. “I love it.”

“What?”

He inhaled deeply as laughter bubbled from his chest. “That is probably the greatest thing I’ve heard all week.”

“Not to brag-”

“Please,” he gestured graciously. “I need to know about your journey to canonization.” He couldn’t stop laughing. “Brag.”

She shrugged keeping the smirk from her lips, adjusting the rear view mirror. “It’s not that exciting.” Her eyes drifted to the clock docked between them. They were only a few hours into their cross country drive, and she welcomed the mindless conversation.

“I beg to differ,” Roy disagreed taking a puff. His head and eyes tipped in her direction as he wiggled his eyebrows. “I have to hear this.”

With a chuckle, she exhaled loudly as she adjusted herself in the driver’s seat. “Okay.”

“Excellent,” he grinned.

“There’s a club in downtown Jump called Nyx and Erebus that, I may or may not have frequented regularly.”

“I honestly can’t decide what’s more amusing,” his grin grew wider than the Cheshire Cat. “The fact that the goth club is named after the Greek deities for night and darkness or that you go clubbing.”

“I don’t go ‘clubbing’.” She rested her wrists against the wheel to ensure she could quote him properly. Raven didn’t even have time to express her delight and shock at his Greek mythology knowledge.

“Regularly attending a venue for the purpose of debauchery-“

“No!” Raven laughed. “No debauchery. Just a bunch of goth kids raving with glow sticks and smoking.” Not mention some drinking and drug use.

Roy sighed, his smile ridiculous. “I gotta say,” he gave her a little shrug as he leaned toward her with a pout. “I’m hurt that you’ve never mentioned this to me or haven’t taken me.”

Whatever.

“I mean,you let your team know this part of you, and I get it they’re your team, but,” he paused dramatically as he took another drag. “I am your grilled cheese buddy. We’ve broken bread together. The fact that you’ve never shared this information with me hurts.”

“Actually,” she corrected, eyes glancing to the GPS for a second as she continued her drive. Raven couldn’t help but wonder how their conversation drifted to this randomness, and she wouldn’t admit how much she was enjoying this. “My team never went to Nyx and Erebus with me.”

“Seriously?”

She nodded. “Seriously,” Raven confirmed.

“How?”

Her shoulders shrugged as she turned onto the interstate. “Honestly? I didn’t think they’d be into it.” Her teammates had nothing against clubs. The often frequented bars and clubs during their team nights, and Raven knew they wouldn’t object in joining her at her usual venue.

“Bullshit,” Roy chuckled. “Starfire finds the delight in everything, so the fact that Starfire is happy would make Nightwing happy. Cyborg wouldn’t complain even if he wanted to…”

“That’s fair.”

“And I’m sure Changeling and Terra would all over the dance floor…”

Raven felt her heart sink at the mention of that particular couple. “I know, I just-” The thought of those two evading her personal space made her irrationally angry. For a brief moment, the easiness of their conversation caused her forget some of the things that plagued her. “I just-“ What would be safe answer?

Roy’s eyebrows raised.

“Nyx and Erebus is my place. It was something away from the tower and the team. I was some girl with purple hair would just wanted to dance.” Partly true.

“I dig that,” he nodded, eyes examining her closely. He pushed his questions back and favored optimism. “We’ll find you a place all your own in Steel,” Roy smiled.

“I can’t wait.” Her excited smile was accented with sullen eyes.

Hell was freezing over.

Or had already frozen over.

Green eyes darted around the kitchen as he slowly brought another mouthful of cream of wheat to his lips. Still observing, he reached for another piece of toast as he tried to process the scene.

First, he’d woken up at a reasonable hour.

Early.

Changeling, by some miracle or divine intervention, managed to open his eyes before the chime of his alarm. He’d kissed the sleeping blonde next to him and gotten an early start on his day. After a refreshing shower, he made in record time to the kitchen.

NIghtwing was up, no surprise there. He was at the kitchen table brooding over what Changeling could safely assume he was on his second or third cup of coffee judging by pile of newspaper in front him.

He gave the masked Titan a little nod, before getting a large pot of water on the stove for breakfast. Since he managed to beat Cyborg to the kitchen, he figured he might as well make breakfast for everyone.

He smirked curled on his lips as he pulled the ingredients for breakfast.

Cream of wheat, toast, and fruit sounded perfect to him.

While he waited for the water to boil and the oven to heat, Starfire and Terra entered the kitchen. Starfire greeted him with a seemingly half hearted chirp,and Terra kissed him sweetly before taking her seat. Changeling finished cooking and promptly served breakfast before taking his own seat. With a happy sigh, he tossed some blueberries into his hot cereal and buttered his toast.

“Looks good.” Terra smirked, placing banana slices in her own bowl.

Starfire gave a smile smile as she nodded in agreement. She sprinkled a bit of sugar in her bowl before stirring it absentmindedly. “Indeed,” she added.

The changeling hadn’t even noticed when Cyborg entered the kitchen; but when he saw the gleam of metal from the corner of his eye, Changeling couldn’t help the devious smirk curling on his lips.

“I already made breakfast,” he tried to keep his tone even in the midst of him intentionally antagonizing his friend.

Changeling was surprised at the metal man’s silence when he approached the stove, and he was down right bewildered when joined them at the table with his own bowl. Changeling watched wordlessly as Cyborg ate the cream of wheat without complaint.

He counted on him at least making a couple slices, or a pack, of bacon to go with the meal. But, Cyborg settled for a few slices of cantaloupe and some raspberries to go with his hot cereal and toast.

Unsure of what to think or say, the Changeling kept eating in the silent kitchen. The scratch and squeak of spoons against the ceramic bowls echoed off the walls and unnerved him. His eyes settled on the empty chair across from him as slowly realized they were short a Titan.

“Where’s Raven?”

“That’s gross.”

Roy raised an uninterested eyebrow as he took another bite of the massive sandwich in front of him. “It’s delicious,” he told her, mouth full of melted cheese as he stuffed a few ketchup soaked fries in his mouth.

Raven shook her head, eyeing her own sandwich strangely. How the hell was she supposed to eat this thing?

The sun had just started peeking over the horizon when the bright neon lights of the diner came into view. They’d been on the road for a little over six hours, and Roy insisted this place had the best grilled cheese sandwiches in town.

Raven looked at the long stretch of empty road, darkness, and dust around them. She quickly insisted that this diner must be the only thing in town. Placing the car in park, her violet eyes looked at the diner curiously. The seafoam wood panel walls were weathered and faded below the bright pink neon sign. Raven noticed small signs in the window hanging in front of discolored blinds. There were a few trucks parked in the dirt lot and lights on inside.

They were open, but would they serve grilled cheese at this early hour?

Her question was quickly answered. Before they could settle in booth, Roy flashed the waitress a dazzling smile and ordered two grilled cheese specials with extra cheese.

The grilled cheese special consisted of several selections of cheese melted between two thick slices of bread with a large serving of fries and coleslaw.

“My arteries are clogged looking at this thing,” Raven sighed wondering how her companion was able to unhinge his jaw to bite his sandwich. How many much cheese did they use?

“You’re being dramatic,” Roy smirked as he continued attacking his sandwich. “What the hell are you doing?”

Raven looked down at her sandwich, gesturing with the knife and fork in her hands. “There is no way I can bite into that thing.”

“You haven’t tried,” he dismissed, taking another bite to finish off the first half of his sandwich.

She dropped the cutlery with a sigh. “I’m gonna be covered in cheese.” Raven delicately dipped a fry in ketchup, nibbling on it.

“Rae,” Roy started, messily eating his own french fries covered with ketchup. “We’re on a road trip. Calories don’t count, and junkfood is a must.”

Raven gave a theatrical sigh as she picked up one of the halves of her sandwich. “This is going to be messy.” Her lips twisted into a little frown.

Roy shrugged with an obvious lewd smirk. “Some of the best things in life are messy.”

She took a large bite in the sandwich, struggling to catch and control the strings of cheese that stretched.

She shrugged. “It’s good though,” she decided, chewing as delicately as she could. “Crap,” she commented, rushing to chew. Dropping her sandwich to her plate, she picked up a napkin.

“What?”

“Phone’s ringing,” she informed him, pulling out her phone. “And my hands are covered in grease.”

He shook his head. “No phones during grilled cheese breakfast time,” Roy told her. “If it’s important, they’ll leave a message.”

True.

Ignoring the screen, she placed her on on silent before sliding it back into her pocket. She picked up her sandwich resuming her breakfast. “This is a lot of cheese,” Raven commented, hand covering her full mouth as she struggled to chew. “Probably too much cheese.”

“No such thing,” Roy told her seriously pointing one of his fries at her.

To be Continued... 

[gospacegay]

LRTIHEW: Part Four

The title stands for “Longest Rusame Thing I Have Ever Written”.

First Chapter: https://gospacegay.tumblr.com/post/165808913233/lrtihew-part-one

Previous Chapter: https://gospacegay.tumblr.com/post/165835878803/lrtihew-part-three

There is swearing, fluff, eventual smut, insanity, and lord knows what else.

“Well... You have a lot of experience with this but... I was thinking of killing my president.” Alfred stated bluntly. Ivan was shocked to hear this, keeping his expression blank. “He can not be that bad, Alfred.” Ivan objected, feeling a sick mix of joy and concern. This was definitely a real name type of conversation. The possibility of international anarchy was somewhat exciting.

“He's stripping human rights, deregulating the market... He's a fucking monster. I need to kill him.” Alfred insisted, expression steeled. “Can you ah... what is it... impeach him?” Ivan asked, still knitting. “It's going to take a year to work, and... He needs to be out now. He wants to go to war with China. Fucking China. That dude is as tough as you are.” his guest fretted, clearly losing his cool.

This was serious. China would look for allies and Ivan would be torn from his comfortable neutrality. The global markets... Ivan didn't want to think about what a potential market crash would do for his already struggling citizens. “Okay. I will help you kill him.” the Russian agreed, keeping his regular demeanour.

“Oh thank you! You have no idea how stressed out I've been about this!” Alfred crooned, sweeping Ivan into a massive hug. Not certain what to do, the taller nation awkwardly patted America on the back. “It will be fine, yes?” he soothed, or hoped he did. He wasn't very good at these positive types of interactions. Released, the Russian settled back in his rocking chair.

“Oh I'm so excited! I was thinking, oh he's not gonna go for it or be a huge dick, but oh my god you're so chill about this!” Alfred squealed happily, bouncing all over the place. “Yes, I am chill, as you say. Now, how do you wish to kill him?” Russia answered calmly. “I want to rip his head off.” Alfred answered quickly, expression dreamy as he clearly imagined it. Ivan couldn't help but truly smile, seeing a kindred spirit of carnal destruction for a few seconds. Maybe they could be friends, someday.

After a long night of scheming and evil plans, the duo ordered takeout from the functioning half of Moscow. Dinner was fish with fries, a heaping helping of coleslaw on the side. The dessert squares turned out to be nanaimo bars, which were absolutely delicious. After killing the bottle of vodka, a mostly sober Ivan and a drunk Alfred decided to sleep.

With the power still off, Ivan's bedroom had turned into an icebox. Alfred was largely useless, still unable to hold his liquor after two centuries. Must be a trait he inherited from England. Dragging a mattress from a long abandoned guest bedroom, Ivan set it up in the warm living room. A few dusty blankets later, everything was ready.

Getting comfortable, the tall Russian looked over at his guest. “Where am I supposed to sleep big dummy?” Alfred slurred, slumped over the worn love seat. “Wherever you wish, though it is advisable to share the mattress. Body heat is wonderful for blizzard survival” Ivan answered, meaning it in the most platonic way possible. He had saved many lost and cold travellers in the past by keeping them awake and close. It was possible to freeze to death even inside structures, if the heat couldn't stay in effectively.

“I'm not layin' with you commie. Uh, not commie. Whatever.” Alfred complained, correcting himself mid insult. “I am curious America. You have not called me communist for almost a year. Perhaps you have gleamed my reasons for the soviet union?” Ivan wondered out loud, one of several questions that weighed on his mind.

“Communists are still evil, and capitalism will always prevail.” The tanned American argued predictably, then sighed. He looked remorseful a moment, continuing, “But I'm trying not to hold it against you anymore. You were starving at the time, or at least your people were. Starving people do crazy things, like kill the royal family, or start cult societies. Evil stupid cult societies.”

Ivan had been hungry prior to the massacre that triggered the soviet union. Hungry enough to kill, to do something regrettable. His precious Romanovs had ignored the signs. He loved them, he did and always would, but they had been so dense. They took little heed of his condition, presuming him to be sick, ignoring his warnings. They died for that sin, painfully and horribly.

“At least you understand that much.” Ivan whispered, glad someone understood even a sliver of his motives. Rationing the few pieces of firewood left, Ivan tossed a few on to keep the heat in the room alive. Sleep came quickly, the cold of day having sapped Ivan of his energy. He slept poorly, shivering  and getting up frequently to stoke the fire.

After an unknown amount of time Ivan woke to weak light of morning. The snow plastered windows filtered the room pale grey. A lukewarm America was wrapped tightly around him under the covers, still wearing that fluffy sweater. Fearing the worst, Ivan checked Alfred's pulse. It was much too slow. As dangerous as Ivan could get when enraged, he had no wish for people to die on his watch. Unless they particularly deserved it, life was indeed sacred.

The fire was completely dead today, the room plunged to hair raising temperatures. If Ivan was feeling uncomfortable in this environment, it could kill his temperate to subtropical guest. Using a newspaper as kindling, Ivan built the fire up again and started boiling water. Alfred was still unconscious, pulse low. “Please wake up America.” Russia muttered anxiously, taking off his treasured scarf and winding it around the other nation's neck and face. Desperate, he resorted to holding his guest close and attempting to rub heat into his back. He had to react to something!

After twenty fearful minutes, a very groggy America came back to life. “Never coming back here again.” he coughed, looking exhausted. Relieved, Ivan brought him a fresh extra strong coffee. “Drink, America. It is warm.” he urged, not giving the younger man a choice. “I am glad you are not dead. Your soon-to-be-murdered boss would be very displeased with my government.” Ivan commented once Alfred was fully revived.

“You mean... you still want to help? I thought all the plans were drunk talk.” Alfred answered, looking very happy. “This act will bind us as comrades.” Ivan purred, quite pleased. “What do you mean? Why are you acting like a bond villain?” Alfred demanded, looking apprehensive. “We will be friends, yes? Then you can return a big favor for me!” Ivan explained, letting his inner glee seep through his normally flat expressions.

“I'm not killing Putin. Even if he is a jerk.” Alfred refused, munching on freezing cold bread from the kitchen. “No, silly American. You will not bring harm to my boss. He is mine.” Russia replied with ease, not bothering to disguise his dark possessive nature towards the end. “Oooh, crushing much on the Putinator. You know hes getting old right?” Alfred teased, ignoring the warnings like always. Ivan scowled but said nothing. His favorite strong willed leader aging less than gracefully was a concern gnawing at the back of his mind.

After a cold breakfast of cereal and breads, the duo set to work shoveling out the front door. It took three hours of labor, but the punishing blizzard had finally settled in the night. The amber glow of street lamps came closer, humming to life one city block at a time. Finally, Ivan's house was live again. It was just in time for both of them to have hot showers before heading to the airport. They separated peacefully at the waiting area, for Alfred had a military jet on stand by.

They would not physically see each other again for many months. Convening too often would arouse suspicion, outside their normal boxes of behavior. While not dead, Alfred's president was almost immediately absent from office, horrendously ill. Ivan knew the man would be sleeping most days, vomiting and becoming blistered. The pain of the blisters would drive him to assured madness. He would eventually die, when his heart gave out from the stress. Ivan knew this intimately.

During the cold war, Ivan had entirely embraced the hate and darkness within. His people produced nuclear bombs, rockets, and guns never seen before. They also engineered insidious diseases, all of which ever left a laboratory. Strains of disease so virile they had to seal the files for then underground in hidden bunkers. The particular strain infecting the American president was so obscure, it's name was stripped from soviet records. It had a fatality rate of eighty percent, they highest they ever tested on dogs.

Although the president's death would be a bit on the flashy side, it could easily be explained away with deadly allergies to certain foods or alcohol. After all, the main catalyst for the disease had laced every drink the man had for months. His body was primed for any disease at all, immune system almost permanently crippled.

[coreytravelogue]

Vancouver, BC Canada - August 29, 2019

I was meaning to post something sooner, something for after Kelowna, after Victoria, after Toronto (again) or at least something on the 5th anniversary of me going to Europe but time and circumstances got in the way. Can’t say any of the three trips would be worth their own blog but I guess since I got an hour before I board for next and biggest adventure of this year I should bring whomever actually still reads this back up to speed.

Kelowna was a bit of a let down for me, I had memories of Kelowna as a fun summer trip area to go to as a kid, instead it feels like a mere shadow of its former self, the only thing that was left from my childhood and the only thing that was relatively fun in Kelowna to do was Scandia and even that paled in comparison to how I remembered it as a kid but me and my girlfriend had fun. The purpose of the trip was to show my girlfriend more of British Columbia. The biggest highlight of the trip was to be able to play and finish Time Crisis 2 with her. Time Crisis was always one of those games I did alone and could never get anyone to play with and one I could never pass myself. Who knew that playing these shootem up games would end up being a date thing for us.

Beer I would give 1/3 C, food 1/4 C, vibe 1/2 C, transit 1/2 C and things to do a 1/3 C. So Kelowna gets C11/12 on the Corey Scale which seems like it is scathing but in the end outside of Scandia there wasn’t much to do, transit was ok, vibe was ok, food selection wasn’t that great and the beer which I was hoping to be the good thing wound up being lack lustre both in quality and selection.

Victoria I don’t think I need to review again, my view of that city hasn’t really changed it is still a favourite place to go to in BC. We went to help my friend Dani move for the forth time in 5 years. In return we got to stay at her brother’s for free. We didn’t really do that much outside of what we normally do; my girlfriend goes through the vintage shops for stuff, I go through the record and music shops and both basically enjoy walking around Victoria. Had breakfast again at John’s Place and had the best French’s Toast I have had in recent memory. I am definitely going back there for that.

Then there is Toronto, I went on a work related trip that I feel was less needed for me to go and more of a thank you from my workplace for the hard work I have been putting in over the last few months and I have put in a lot of work. I only stayed in Toronto for two nights, when I got there I barely had time to do anything but finish my mom’s Christmas shopping and buy myself a jersey. The next day was the work related training and after hanging out with fellow coworkers from other parts of the country I went to a bar that had the best selection of beer I could find and basically spin the wheel on Toronto beer.

I can’t say my opinion of Toronto has changed, I still hate the airport, I am not really a fan of their beer or lack their of, people there are nice enough and once you figure out their transit it is fairly straight forward it’s not my kind of place. With all that said I feel like I still need to visit Toronto one more time, I actually regret that I didn’t use what little leave time I have left to just take the Friday off and make a weekend out of it. I would have went to the Wonderland park, a museum maybe and see the hockey hall of fame again. Toronto is too big for me, too fast and I don’t like their beer. If I had a choice I would take Montreal over Toronto.

So here we are to now, it has been five years since I went to Europe and today I will return again though not for 2 and a half months but 2 and a half weeks. I have done enough talking about Europe, I feel like I need to talk about the adventure that has been the last 5 years since. As much as I have ranted about the glories of my trip to Europe it wasn’t what changed me, Europe was the catalyst but not the entire reason. I find myself looking back to five years and feeling like I am a completely different person than who I was back then at least from an emotional and life state.

5 years ago I was suffering from depression boardering on suicide, I had a dead end job I felt trapped, I was lonely and desperate for love in my life and I felt like things were hopeless to me. I made a promise to myself early in my 20s that before I turned 30 that I would do something with my life, it was either make a movie or go to Europe. My friend Tyler suggested Europe and I think he was right in the end. I went to Europe at 29 looking to find myself or at least a reason to keep living and after a few long nights or looking deep into myself in many places especially in Ireland I came out a better person but more or less as one friend would call me still a hot mess. I found the tools in Europe but I still didn’t know how to use them.

After Europe I was still lonely, depressed, lost and further more now unemployed even though I thought that my job would be waiting for me when I came back. On top of self induced heart break and betrayal I had my own version of a nervous breakdown not too long after I came back from my annual trip to Newfoundland. One that forced me to question whether continuing to mentally beat myself up was worth it anymore because it never worked, it only ever made things worse. I decided to try and fight my depression and try and make my life better. So I made a three year plan and got a job at Walmart which funny enough paid better than my last job. The plan was to go to school for the next two years either in Brewmastery or Library Tech and after graduation I would travel to Europe again before hunting for my career. Thankfully I chose library tech though I can’t help but wonder what would have happened if I chose brewmastery.

It came down to money and health, if I was to do brewmastery at the time I would have to move to a small town in Alberta. Completely up root my life and work in a business that was and probably is killing me slowly. Or choose library tech and try to find a way to get into doing something I like which is record keeping.

By the time the summer was over I was in the best shape of my life and finally have a handle on my mental health issues. While working at Walmart I got witness the negative effects of depression. My workplaces was littered with all sort of depressed people who were all in my position but many with their own ways of dealing with it. It was through seeing them that I realized that I made the right choice in fighting. Every night I would witness people who were so obviously miserable that their misery would spill on to others and I hated that, that was the turning point to me when I realized my depression was hurting others, to see it happening here was sobering. Then there would be some who did nothing complain about where they worked and their life, some who just looked utterly miserable all night long. Again it made decision to fight more justified. All I need to do is to think about the summer to remind myself why fighting is the way to go.

My first year of college was blitzkrieg of fun, drama and life changing events. I went from having a hard time getting a woman to even having a second date with me to having two or three women who I could have had a chance with. By the end of that first year I found a summer job that paid even better than anything before and it lead to consistent work for much of 2017 which enviably lead to a full time job.

I went from preparing for a possible Europe trip in the summer of 2017 when I graduated to having a contract to work till March 2018, I went from having no one in my life who loved me to a woman who was willing to cross the pacific multiple times just to see scruffy looking hairy dog like me. I was then prepared to go to Europe after March 2018 when my contract was over only to move to any other branch and work with them till September. Even by the end of September just coming back from Australia to see my girlfriend I was preparing myself for a Europe trip only finallly now have a career. So Europe was no longer something I could do at least at that point.

Here we are in 2019, my girlfriend from Australia has moved in with me, I have a full time job that pays well, a living wage if I didn’t live in Vancouver. I have my health, I have a love in my life whom I love and who I know loves me, I have a decent job and good workplace culture though they can burn me out with work on occasion so what is the problem?

I guess over the past few months I have been afraid, I have been feeling lost and displaced as well. Afraid mainly that I could easily slip back to who I was 5 years ago though everything is different now I feel lost again I feel like I need to find the next path to go but I don’t know what it is. I feel like I have also lost touch with myself again. I don’t think I know myself very well anymore. Above all else I have been experiencing burn out over these past few months working three jobs in one.

I don’t feel like I have much if any time to really enjoy anything. If I am not sleeping or working I am trying to recover while spending time with who I love and what few friends I have left who still live in Vancouver. Again I also feel like my interests are changing, I am not as passionate about movies or music anymore. I am not as passionate about beer anymore as I was not too long ago. I know a lot about those three things but I don’t really care as much for them anymore.

I would like to get back into video games and anime again, I would like to get to hang out with more people and play games, I would like to be apart of something however outside of wishing to join D&D I don’t know where the gateway is to the next phase of my life. I even feel like that with my clothes. I feel like I need a makeover I just don’t know what the change would be so I am just walking through the fog till I find the road I like more and I will take it.

I don’t expect Europe to fix me, it didn’t the first time and I don’t expect it to this time either but I do hope if will give me some perspective. I already feel like I am getting some by talking about this now.

In 5 minutes I board, four hours from Vancouver to Chicago then from Chicago a 9 hour flight to Amsterdam. I won’t be staying in Amsterdam but will be at the end. Tomorrow will be the most stressful day of the trip for me because of some uncertainties that I am not sure of but I know I have done what I can to mitigate but I won’t know till I get there whether it will work out. This is all part of the adventure, something I must accept as per usual and in a way I like it this way. I like to plan for every possible and once I have the plan then I am ready to throw it away and let the wind guide me.

I know I will have fun, I will try my best to, I deserve it. So here we go......shazbot nanu nanu

[humanintereststory]

8: So Be It

“Church.” They. We. John had for so long only been responsible for his actions. Wake up, brush his teeth, eat breakfast, read, eat lunch, read, ignore the voice through the vent, read, dinner, read, lights out, staring out into the darkness until he finally drifted away, wake up, brush his … “Church.” And everyday she pulled him out of that routine. That first week John resented Mike McGuire for it. He wanted to curse her for her ignorance. This morning he had just finished a bowl of oats. He knew Mike was still doing some wrap up getting her number two up to speed to run her business. He knew that he’d be able to dig into another … That’s another thing that perplexed him. He woke up one morning last week to see a box of assorted books in front of the door of the guest room. It was never brought up. But every dinner was over a different movie on the television. Every training session was in tandem and was always accompanied by strategy. What was the future of their tag team? What does he think of his opponents? What does he need to do to succeed? But that Saturday morning, John had just cracked open a book about the life and death of Nikola Teslawhen she said it was time to go. They could make a trip of it towards Baton Rouge and then catch a flight back back North to Boston after the Friday event. “Church!” His blank stare out of the passenger’s side window was startled by a sharp yet ultimately harmless jab. He turned away from the endless farm fields and turned to the driver. “Yeah?” “You with me, buddy? You looked a million miles away just then.” The reverberations of the powerful engine of her muscle car, a gaudy yellow late model Mustang, certainly aided in that distance. The red leather seats creaked softly as John adjusted his seat and sat straight back up. “I’m okay.” “Good,” she smiled, looking almost at peace behind the wheel, the sun on her face, “You got any ideas? Tons of stuff to do on the way there. Pick something. Anything you want.” “I don’t know,” John looked back out the window and saw the handwritten sign about the man with no vocal chords, “I always lived out west. Even when I traveled,” John paused, perhaps considering his words,“when I traveled it was the same loop. The hotel, the gym, and the arena.” “I did that stuff too. Livened it up a bit though, used to go bar hopping a lot. Man, some of the crawls I did were fuckin’ eeeepic,” she snickered to herself a bit, “You wanna do something like that? I know all the best places.” “I don’t drink. Never have,” John had started to understand that some of his social interactions were unintentionally blunt, “but …but don’t let that stop you.” “Okay, fair enough. Well, there’s a travel guide in the glove compartment there. Should have some stuff of interest en route. Leaf through it an’ see if there’s anything that catches your eye.” “Surprise me,” John had almost tried to stop himself from saying that. He hated surprises. He liked his routine. He hated his routine, too. It was too familiar and was born of a sense of minimization. Mike responded with that wide grin and accelerated past a semi truck. Some more time past and John could feel himself getting lulled into the sights as the farm plains transitioned into the rocky corridors of West Virginia, “Fine. This time. But sometime between now’n Baton Rouge you’re pickin’ something. We’re doing this together, y’know,” she drove a bit longer, eyes flicking to the exit signs and the flow of traffic, before speaking up again, her cadence that of a person watching their words when unused to doing so, “Hey. Sorry to bring this up again, but it’s kinda been buggin’ me. That thing a while back. With Emma. What was it about? You like her or somethin’?” He’d almost forgotten. The woman certainly had, “I, uh, would consider it a Freudian slip,” he felt that Mike sometimes walked on eggshells around him about these subjects and she most likely did not want a repeat of what could be the catalyst of this whole ordeal. He had heard and read what people thought of him. Amongst all of the requests to end his own life, people had legitimate questions and concerns. He was artful in his ability to dodge the questions about his past and his even more surreal present. John cleared his throat, “Look, I’m not sure. She, I mean, you know …” He danced around it for so long and in the eyes of the public, they painted him as dull or even some masterful sociopath disassociated with the act and its victim. “Mike, I, I’m just not sure. The dispositions were nothing alike but the shine of her eyes, her hair — they were a reminder. So to answer your question: I don’t like her. I mean, I don’t dislike her. She’s just a competitor,” he continued to struggle as Mike listened with her eyes intently on the road, “I don’t know why I’m back. I’d been forgotten and now, I’m here talking with you and now doing what I always wanted to do. I don’t talk about it because I don’t know what to say. I can barely remember what happened. I’d been grilled and grilled over details that I just didn’t know. I had finished a show and it was called it Beware the Ides of March. It was in reference to whatever the main event was. I’d opened the show and was the first person out because Reno was my hometown. The promoters like that sort of thing, you know? It was twenty minutes away from the apartment. I was alone which was the usual at this stage. I was woken up from my bed the next morning with a loud knock,” John sighed, “and well, there’s been plenty of discussion about it. It’s been in print, on the TV, so it doesn’t bear repeating. I was where I was at and now I’m not. I don’t think… I, I, I belonged there.”

 “Okay. S’ all I wanted to know,” she let it go at that. She didn’t want to dwell on that particular subject, she supposed, any more than he did. Her fingers drummed on the crimson leather cover of the steering wheel. Letting a pause linger for a bit, she smiles over at him, artfully letting the subject pass for a new one, “Mind if I turn the radio on?” “Okay.”

 “Master conversationalist as always, my man.” 

Chuckling softly, she turned the dial on the radio- what would be considered an old-school affair, no Sirius or even a cassette deck. She kept it true to the rest of the vehicle on her rebuild, even though she was well aware she could’ve put in something more modern.

 “Lessee… gospel… country, ugh… fuckin’ disco… goin’ to hell, yeah yeah… HERE we go,”

 she landed on a rock/metal station, by lucky happenstance at the tail end of a commercial break. The band was a classic and it pleased her. TNT, it’s dyno-mite, “FUCK. YEAH. … This cool with you? You an AC/DC person?” John looked into the rear view mirror and they were all alone in this stretch of road as it cut and curved throughout the high walled rock landscape, “It’s not really something to have an affinity for but if you’re going to put me on the spot, alternative current based equipment just have better life expectancies.” She paused for a moment, blinked, and laughed, “The band, Church. The one on the radio. Right now.” John looked at her blankly then at the radio and then back at her, “I know. I was just playing around. This is fine.” “A’ight, cool. Lemme know if you get sick of it, I’ll find somethin’ else,” she drove on, the road spreading out like a ribbon of asphalt before them. John didn’t. He just listened. Eventually this one faded out into static and Mike had to keep turning the dial past all of the sludge. He almost objected a few times but he also remembered the old adage that the driver is the master of the radio. An hour or so passed and finally Mike finally just turned off the radio for the mean time. The mountainous terrain eventually gave out to a thick wooded view. “Hey. Just so y’know, I believe in you. I know how fuckin’ corny that sounds, but I do. I like t’ think I have an eye for these things and I really think I’m lookin’ at the next TV champ,” she paused, maybe placing her words, maybe for effect, “Something you said really stuck with me. I think you figured out a question I’ve been askin’ myself for years without me even askin’ you, in a conversation that wasn’t even about me. Weird’s that sounds.” Earlier that week, the company had arranged for another sit down interview. By virtue of defeating the former champion, Bishop Church had earned the #1 contendership for the Television Championship. What stood before him was his greatest challenge and the company wanted some face time from both their champion and challenger. So once again, John sat in the hot seat. Despite Mike being there, that tense feeling did not dissipate. John fiddled with the microphone clipped to the collar of his t-shirt while Ace Heart flipped through a stapled packet of papers held steady with a clipboard. “Careful with that. The audio technicians hear every time you touch the clip.” John stopped and sat up straight in his director’s style chair, “Okay.” “So here we are again. Before we start, you gotta tell me, why did you delete your Facebook account?” “I don’t trust Zuckerberg. You ever get the feeling that he’s not giving straight answers.” Ace scoffed at that, “Look, Bishop, we set that up for you as a way for you to speak to your fans. You had 150,000 followers and then all of a sudden, you 86’d it.” “I just … didn’t want it. I’m here for this, isn’t that what you wanted?” Ace raised his hands perhaps feigning indignation, “Yeah, that’s right. You’re here. For this. Whatever this will be.” Ace signaled to the camera man and crew to start filming. “Dr. Pepper presents an Extreme Wrestling Corporation live interview on Facebook Watch. I’m Ace Heart and this is Bishop Church.” John nodded. Ace sighed, “Splendid. So since we last talked it seems like your circumstances have made a 180 degree turn. You’ve managed to dispatch Emma Louise, Chris Chambers, and most recently former Television Champion Kendrick Kross one after another. Most notably this is the same Kendrick Kross who unthroned Ruthless Aggression at Stranglemania. Now three days after you face Malice at Friday Night Rampage, you get your first shot at gold against Ruthless Aggression at Monday Night Brawl. Most recently, she impressively defeated a man twice her size in Grizzly Duggan and retained the TV title. Now she stands before you - your biggest match to date, what say you?” “She-“ “Swear to God, if you say she seems nice, this is over.” John’s eyes narrowed at the interruption but just seconds later, his expression relaxed. He turned to face the camera. “Ahhh, women. Women, women, women, women, women.” Ace’s reaction is one of abject horror but he was helpless to stop as John continued. “What are women like? What do women want? How should I treat a woman? Sometimes the hardest thing to do is to find a woman at all. I’ve been staking out for hours looking for one and the closest I got was this fellow.” The camera shot cut to Mike, unknown at this to all viewers, chowing down on a ham and cheddar sandwich at the catering table. Back to John, the camera shot tightens in on him, “Where are all the women?” He then turned back to the interviewer, still frozen, “Is it all perhaps an elaborate fraud?” Finally, “CUT!” Ace exploded right after the cameras turned off, “What the FUCK was that? What are you even talking about? Your opponent is a woman. Half of the roster are women. Why can’t you just answer my questions?” He then shouted to the assistant off screen, “Where’s his goddamn handler? Saint assured me that I wouldn’t have to put up with this shit anymore.” As if on cue, Mike stepped into the interview set and stood in face to face with Ace while seemingly shielding Church from him, “Partner, okay? Not handler. Partner. Got it?” “Okay Bishop’s partner, can you explain why every interview with this guy turns out to be a waking disaster? In my nearly twenty years of thousands, literally thousands of interactions, I’ve interviewed them all. Every hall of fame inductee, every champion, every one that mattered in this industry has had the decency to answer my questions and yet talking to this guy is like squeezing blood from a stone.” “I’m still here,” John mumbled. “Ignore him, Church. Your right-hand man’s got your back. Just forget about that guy for a sec. It’s not his fault he ain’t got no class or sense of professionalism.” “Why I never!” “Go trim the ‘stache or something. And you there, sweetcheeks, gimme that camera,” there was a bit of a jitter on the picture as the camera was either handed over or taken forcefully, and adjusted by its new operator. Ace Heart shrugged his shoulders and there was an exodus of company crew from the set, “Just like before.” John nodded. The shot came back to life. John stood behind the right director’s chair and looked deep in thought. The camera zoomed out as the new cameraperson struggled with the controls. After a moment, Mike managed to follow his movements. “I’m starting to understand it,” John gestured, “you know, the necessity of all of this. This sport is fueled on the idea of conflict and the reasons for those conflicts vary. Sometimes it is simple. Two people not liking each other. Sometimes there is something at stake. Bragging rights, money, or in the present case: championship gold. And this is a business after all so it’s not just the contest itself. It’s also the circumstances that led up to and surround the bout. That’s why there is all of this pomp and circumstance. Does it really matter what I say here? Will these words truly have an affect on what happens in that squared circle? Actually, yes. And that is what is expected of me.” John took a seat, although he tilted the chair facing forward. “Expectations, right? There are certain expectations on how I should conduct myself. Smile for the camera. Talk to the people. Tell them why I’m the best. Or don’t. Be absolutely abhorrent. Be a disgusting caricature of humanity. Also them why I’m the best. That’s not me. Reevaluate your expectations. I talked a little bit about what people have seen in me thus far and I expect that afterwards, they perhaps had to reconsider. That’s how we got here. I was asked a question on how this stage was set. If you’re watching this, you probably saw just how that happened.” He paused. John so much wanted to keep this internalized. He felt nervous talking about himself but he didn’t feel the need to deflect. He wasn’t so naive to know that she wasn’t the only one listening but just the hypothetical idea of it allowed him to continue. “The former champion stated that he needed this. Essentially he believed that a victory over me would be a turning point. He didn’t see me as viable. He didn’t think of me as a peer. He concluded that I was just here to collect a paycheck. He misjudged me. He underestimated my passion for the sport of professional wrestling. And so he learned in this cruel world that needs aren’t always fulfilled. His story has to carry on with the knowledge that all of the accolades and comeback aspirations evaporated in the space of three seconds. Thus is the cycle of life. That cycle brings us to the idea that I am a contender now.” He shifted in his seat and sat forward. “This is my very first championship opportunity. Never before have I had to chance to compete with stakes so high. Some could say that I need this but that would be oversimplifying it. Think about it. Think about who I am. Not what you see and read but who I am right now. Do I need to be champion like I need air to breathe? Do I need it for financial security? I guess it would be nice but as the camera shakes to and fro, I’m not just here for material objects. What about for love?” John chuckled softly. “As ridiculous as that sounds, the history books are filled with pages of men and women who take advantage their standing for their romantic desires. How about just to make myself feel better? That journey isn’t so trivial that gold plates screwed into a leather strap will clear the path. And so what it comes down to that what a man can be, he must be. So that addresses the match itself. If I can become champion, I must become champion. But that isn’t the end of it, is it, Ruthann Hunter?" For this whole time, he waxed hypothetical to the masses but his meandering questioning tone changed to a more direct one as he began to address his opposition. “If it was, you would have ridden off into the sunset long ago.” The genesis of Mike prodding John into the proverbial sunlight will most likely never meet the air. She had went to check in on him early his stay and she discovered notepads filled with amended notes of his opponents. Who they are. What they do. How John could neutralize their abilities and come out on top. And most noticeably notes on what they said about him. Real statements and all he could manage was nonsense. It wasn’t until his exchange with Ace here that she noticed that it was very intentional. “This is where I would go into that tired song and dance about who you are. You are a living legend and I’ll be the exception. I could say that I would stand fast against the ruthless aggression and persevere. Let me stand up here and I could raise my voice and snort and chortle about my destiny.” John shook his head. “But none of us know what the future holds for us. I can’t make that promise. I want what you have. That’s human nature. We always want what we don’t have. This sport is like a microcosm of life. Look no further than the former champion. Look at the desperation in his words even when he was proud and boastful against you. Due to this being a competition, we usually absolve ourselves of what affect we have on the vanquished. Think about that, won’t you? Someone somewhere in an office gets a promotion over someone else. Maybe that person that failed needed the money more. Maybe they have a crippling disease. In our world - who cares? So the former champion was right on one thing, we all see each other as stepping stones. We all see each other as that obstacle to self-actualization.” He stands up and moves closer to the camera. “And so we go about and we both say this to each other solemnly. I don’t care about your legacy. I don’t care about your family. I don’t care what you have done in the past. I don’t care about what losing could do to your ego. All of that does not matter in the confines of the ring. In that moment, we are two demigods engaged in a struggle that could ravage the earth. The ground could fall to pieces all around us as we were locked together and all that would matter is our musculature straining as we resisted each other’s powers. Our bodies would be intimate in ways no mere mortal could comprehend.” And for this, he did raise his voice. “That is what matters.” And back to a low conversational tone. “This isn’t about redemption. I’m here to take what is mine. And if that has to be on the backs of the broken and beaten…” Closer. “So be it.” Mike’s epiphany was punctuated as the car hit a pothole. They rattled about, “What do you mean?” “Ooof! Shit. Sorry. What I mean is… I kept hittin’ fucking walls. I got a bit of momentum here an’ there but I never got no place because I kept hittin’ walls and I could never think of what the hell was wrong with me. And I never HAVE been able to figure it out until you said it. I didn’t have enough… I dunno. Killer instinct seems really fuckin’ cliche but that thing you were talking about. Having t’ not worry about other people, what they were like or what their dreams an’ motivations might be, long’s you’re in between those bells,”

 her eyes, no, her entire expression was alight, as if she’d just seen the writing of God or heard the prophecies of Mohammed or gotten the truth of the universe from benevolent space aliens
, “I kept holding back, I think. Not… consciously, but on some level I cared too damn much about the other guy when I shouldn’t have.” “Mike, the battlefield is the only place where those virtues that the good covet become a weakness. I’m glad you understand. It’s ignoring that very distinction that creates the overabundance of negativity that permeates the landscape of the company,” John reached over and put his left hand over the middle space and on gently on her right forearm, “We can be that change. I mean, a real change. Let’s not kid ourselves - what we do in the ring will be for selfish reasons but outside we can discover who we are - who we are meant to be.” Mike gave a small gasp inward while trying not to look like she was gasping inward. This was huge. She was a physical person, her affection for a person was accompanied by a shower of hair ruffles, noogies, playful jabs, and other forms of fond roughhousing. She’d held back with this somewhat as it had become apparent to her that John wasn’t exactly the touchy feely sort. So for him for once to initiate physical contact with her… it was so overwhelming almost that she— “Look out!” “Oh FUCK!” Mike suddenly swerved away from a brown blur in their line of site. They could hear a loud thud as something smashed against the right headlight of the car and then into the side mirror on the passenger side. As Mike, rather expertly regained control, John turned his head and could see the tail end of the culprit dart into the woods. Mike put the car to stop in the breakdown lane free and clear. She cut off the engine, “You alright?” “Yeah.” “Good. Okay. We’re okay. Shit,” she closed her eyes, taking a few deep breaths and willing her heart not to burst through her ribcage and slow the hell down already, “I’m gonna go check out the damage. Fuck. Hopefully nothin’ I can’t fix,” 

carefully scanning the traffic, Mike exited the Mustang and took a look at what’s been done to her labor of three years. Thankfully, nothing much. The passenger side mirror was torn loose, there were some significant but not horrific dents, but probably the worst were the liberal traces of blood and fur all over the affected area. It was going to be a bitch to clean up. Still, it could have been much, much worse. Meanwhile, John faced the trees, “You hear that?”

 “No… hear what?” Admittedly, she was a little preoccupied with the state of her vehicle. John could hear a pained yowl. He started towards the source of the noise. “H-hey, hold up!” Reaching in through the passenger door and pulling her 8-ball keychain out of the ignition, Mike followed her counterpart away from the car and off to wherever he was heading to. John hurried through the first rows of large trees until he reached a small clearing. He could see it. A young female deer laid out in the leaves, twigs, and debris of the forest. It’s eyes were wide in the realization of its situation. Blood seeped out large gash on its neck and it also trickled out of the corner of its mouth. It gasped and fought for every breath. John’s shadows loomed over its dying body. Mike finally caught up to him. “Oh. Oh, geez. Poor thing. Shit. What do you do in this situation, I know this… okay. You call the cops for the accident, the park service or some shit to take care of the deer… goddamnit. I’m sorry, Church. This was supposed to be fucking fun,”

 sighing, she fished in her pocket for her phone. “I hope it goes without saying that any interaction with the police may not be beneficial to me,” John knelt down next to the animal. “Oh. Fuck, sorry,” she wasn’t in the mood to argue the point, and shakily dropped the phone back into her pocket, “Hey… what’re you doing? I don’t think there’s much you can do for her at this point.” “Give me your knife.” She closed her hand around the four-inch object in her pocket- a utility Swiss Army knife, mostly used for the screwdrivers and bottle opener, “What do y’want my knife fo… no. Church, nuh-uh. We can’t.” A little more assertive, “Give me your knife,” without facing her, he put his hand out with the palm up and he grasped for the knife to be placed there. “Fuck. Shit,” biting her lip and with obvious hesitation, she took the knife out of her pocket and placed it in his hand. Hers trembled in a manner very unlike her. John looked down at the multi-tool and used his thumbnail to flick open the blade. He stared down into his reflection in the sharp sliver of steel. The deer flailed its once strong legs in a helpless fashion unable to control its motor functions. The smell of urine and feces wafted throughout the air and its blood began to pool and carpet the foliage under its neck. “I’m sorry it had to be this way,” the blade pressed against its throat. “So be it.”

[meanwhileinoz]

10+ Ex Husbands Reveals When It Was Finally Enough For Them, Grab Popcorn

If you’ve wondered how far a man has to be pushed before they say enough,

Then this article will answer it for you. Most divorce stories online are because of something scandalous or heartbreaking, like cheating or falling out of love. And it’s often from the female perspective too, so these stories are extremely eye opening. These are stories of men who have been through something devesating, and there’s no way you can read these without feeling for them.

These were shared on Reddit, and almost none of them have a happy ending. Divorces aren’t exactly Disney endings. They’re agony, and legal court systems favour women, with the wife getting custody of the children 84.4% of the time where the husbands become ATMs to provide child support checks regullarly.

Get popcorn, get tissues, because this is going to be an emotional ride.

Source: Reddit

1. Affairs.

“She let me know she was pregnant and wanted my permission to tell all her girlfriends during a girls’ night out.

Since I knew there was no possible way it was my child, she was also unknowingly admitting to having an affair. I can do math and deduce, and she clearly couldn’t. It was with her boss.

Lawyered up the next day, and he ate her alive in court. I got primary custody of our child we already had, and child support, and a sheriff’s notice that she had to vacate my home in 30 days.

I never knew she could be that dumb.”

2. The abusive mom wins custody.

“I always refused to raise my voice during arguments, which usually made her crazier and scream louder. After one such argument, during which our 3-year-old daughter was playing upstairs, she started coming down at the same time her mother was storming up the stairs like a child of comparable age. Our daughter was in the way and her mother got in her face and screamed, ‘GOD, I FREAKING HATE YOU, MOVE!’

Of course, my daughter came to me, hurt. That was the moment I decided it was over.”

3. Thanksgiving.

“We were already not speaking. It was Thanksgiving. I knew she wasn’t going to bother, but I made a turkey and whatever goes with turkey for my then 8-year-old daughter. I had the turkey out on the counter to rest after roasting.

My beloved bride walked in, calmly threw the turkey in the kitchen trash can, and walked out.

I had to take my kid to freaking Golden Corral for Thanksgiving. That was it. I was done.”

4. Afghanistan.

“When, after being in Afghanistan for 8 months (May ’02-Nov ’02), she was missing, but had my car, I found two random women, with kids and pets, living in the apartment I paid for, the electricity cut off, had no money in my bank account, a pay advance authorized by my commander, and a friend telling me to go easy on her because she was 5 months pregnant with HIS kid.

OH! And he had had heart surgery to remove some kind of cysts from his heart just before I left. He was 23, had a pacemaker, and basically half a heart. If I scared him, he could die.

I’d say that was the moment.”

5. Narcissist.

“Besides the narcissism, random violence and violent outbursts, it was her strange punishments. Her last one doomed her. My crime? I forgot milk on the way home from work so she didn’t talk to me, not one word, for a week. PURE BLISS, for a week. When she asked if I was ready to apologize, I handed her the divorce papers.

‘Why?’

‘Because you rob me of solitude, but provide me with no companionship.’”

6. Abused for years.

“I endured a physically, emotionally, and mentally abusive relationship for over six years with my first wife, four of which we were married. There were many, many instances that should have caused our marriage’s demise.

The proverbial straw that broke the camel’s back, though, was eight days after I had major oral surgery. Due to a freak medical occurrence, I had to have 28 teeth cut out and two holes drilled into my sinus cavities from top of the back of my gums.

She and I were in a grocery store parking lot, and I asked her not to start an argument in the store because it’s a small town and I was so tired of being ‘those people.’ Her reaction was to backhand me in the mouth. Six times.

Or at least, I counted six times because I’m pretty darn sure I lost consciousness. I just remember waking up when we were pulling into our driveway while she was freaking out because my face was against the window and blood was coming from my mouth like a fountain.”

7. Thankless.

“Not me, but one of my best friends. He got a pretty substantial year end bonus from work. He decided to use most of it for his wife’s Christmas gift and pay off her remaining student loans (~$14,700).

Christmas morning (he was nice enough to let me stay at his place when I traveled for work, as he lived 20 minutes from the airport) we all woke up and had breakfast. His family and her parents came over and we started exchanging gifts.

Besides paying off her loans, he had gotten her a few times items. She opened the card saying her loans were paid off she just sat there for a minute. After the silence, and assuming she was kinda in shock, she asked, ‘Did you seriously not get me anything else? I bought you that stupid keyboard (the wrong one, btw) and you only got me a few things?’

At that point, his brother-in-law and myself decided to go hang out in another room for a while they ended up getting into a huge fight. A day later, when he was dropping me off at the airport, he told me that he was going to visit a lawyer and get a divorce.”

8. Bisexual wife.

“She woke me up in the middle of the night to grab the extra blanket off the bed. I expected to find her disgruntled on the couch alone the next morning. I found her in the guest bed with another woman- both naked. No forewarnings or clue-ins. Just despondent betrayal.

I woke her for answers and got a whole lot of mumbles. Decided to split for ‘space.’

That weekend, we both ended up at the same bar on the same dance floor. I thought she’d followed me there to make amends. She’d brought the same girl and completely ignored me when I called out to her. When I walked up to her, she pretended I was a stranger…I told her I’m not going to play any games and didn’t know what was going on. She said she didn’t want to be married. I gave her the ring back and went to tell my friends goodbye that night. I didn’t want to tell them why, I felt so embarrassed.

She saw me talking to my friends and decided to make out in front of us with her new woman directly on the dance floor eight feet away from where I stood while everyone stared.

Looking back now, I realize she probably was scared to come out. I can give her credit for that. But she was an awful person for the way she did it and for never having the courage to say to my face whatever she was feeling. I thought we were best friends. I thought we were going to be together forever… She asked me to marry her.

Now I’m just grateful for not being with a liar and a coward. I’ve made a fresh start. Sold everything. Traded my entire wardrobe and style to feel like I’m in a new life. Sure, I’ve lost more money than I ever thought imaginable. And the dog… I just keep optimistic that I’ll find someone who deserves my time. I don’t focus on the past and I have faith in God and the future.

Whoever I marry next will be grateful for a man like me and loyal. But until then I’m gonna enjoy the single life again and just play.”

9. Wes Coast.

“We met and spent the first seven years of our married life on the West Coast, then moved East. Five years later, I took a job back on the West Coast, but it was the middle of the school year, so I went out ahead and lived on my own until everyone could join me.

Things hadn’t been very good between us for a while, but I hadn’t articulated it to her—or even myself—beyond vague feelings of dissatisfaction.

One weekend, out there on my own, I decided to take a day and drive to one of my favorite towns, a town in which I had lived long before I knew her, a town we had visited often while married. It was late afternoon and I was about to head back to my hotel when I realized that I could visit a particular beach that had special meaning to me from my earlier life there.

I stopped at a convenience store, grabbed a Grolsch like I used to drink on that beach, and drove out there. Hiked out to a specific spot I remembered, sat down, popped the beer, and looked out over the ocean. And it hit me that I hadn’t done that in over 20 years. Whenever we’d visit the area, I’d suggest stopping at the beach, but she wasn’t interested and would always veto the idea.

I’m sure reading this it seems like the tiniest thing, but it was the catalyst for me, realizing just how completely dissatisfied I was with our relationship. I think from the time I sat down, I knew it was over within maybe 10 minutes. Just sitting there, sipping my beer, looking at the ocean.”

10. Always absent.

“My wife was around less and less…had to be free to live her life, go out with her friends. More often than not, she would call me to pick our daughter up from daycare, even though she’d promised to pick her up and have some girl time…’Just tell her I’m working late or not feeling well.’

She always had something better to do and the kids were old enough to know better. I went to pick our daughter up one day. When they called her name, she came running over until she saw it wasn’t mom, again. Her shoulders drop and she slowly walked over to ask, ‘What’s her excuse this time?’ That was the breaking point. Told her to get out and even helped pay her security deposit to get her out.”

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