#it's like getting hit with a truck twice in a row for me personally

[shiraishi--kanade]

[quietlyimplode]

ignite your bones

After the fall of General Dreykov, and the remnants of the Red Room still at large, Natasha first year at SHIELD is anything but healing. Labeled a traitor and a turncoat, Natasha tries to find her footing in a strange new world.

Whumptober 2024: Day 22 - bleeding through the bandages

Warnings: swearing, canonical violence

Word Count: 1.5k (gif not mine)

Summary: Maria and Coulson have a debrief, Maria expresses her true feelings about Natasha. Oh, and violence.

Masterlist

Whumptober Masterlist

.

“Fucking shitheads,” Maria growls, watching them circle.

The five person team is easily broken; two split left, two right and one leads down the middle.

She takes the one in the middle, rolling under her truck, and shooting his leg. He drops and she puts a bullet in his head.

“One,” she whispers.

Two sets of two.

She takes the gun off the corpse, recognizing him as Barnaby, and resists the urge to kick him.

Sliding under the car, she moves to the right, and climbs into the bed of her truck.

Peeking over the side, she shoots twice.

The first one hits, the second goes wider.

Both shots alert the remaining three to her position and she ducks as wild bullets fly over her head and hit the car.

Maria rolls out, crouching low and listening to the sound of boots on the ground.

She hears them before she sees them.

They shoot and miss as she runs at the team of two.

She knees one in the chest, knocking the wind from him. Unsheathing her knife and throwing it, she hits the second in the leg.

“Fuck,” she swears.

He punches up as she punches down. Maria then elbows him in the head, pushing it against the concrete.

She traps his gun between their bodies and straddles him like a lover, smacks him with the butt of his own gun, and then dismounts.

“Three,” she counts.

The next shot whizzes past her head, hot and searing.

She runs.

Shooting behind her, she wants to go back for her knife, but survival tells her to go and she bolts further into the car park.

Maria reaches for her phone, calling Coulson as she runs.

“Maria?!”

He sounds out of breath, as he answers on the second ring.

“Maria! I can’t talk, meet me at safehouse six. If Clint calls, tell him the same!”

She hears the phone drop, and the sounds of dogs barking.

She drops her phone too.

The bicycle left untethered seems the easiest escape and she hopes whoever it belongs to doesn’t need it.

She grabs it and rides, feeling the urgency of the chase and the men at her heels, knowing they’d take her out if the opportunity arose.

She has a choice, take them out or escape; the former feels more dangerous but the satisfaction in doing so, alluring. The latter is safer but she knows they’d still be after her.

She rolls her eyes at herself.

“Fuck,” she swears again under her breath.

“Two to go.”

They’re easily spotted as she stops and scans the back of the parking lot. The sounds of gunfire had made people scatter and their uniforms made them stand out.

She checks her bullets.

Four.

She feels her limbs begin to grow heavy, the initial adrenaline fading. She’s running out of time.

One has her knife.

She hides behind the cars, if she can get around behind them, they’d be easy targets.

Quietly, she drops the bike and confidently begins to move from car to car, keeping out of sight as they sweep the parking lot in search of her.

Finally, they split when they reach the end of the row.

She takes the one that’s limping. Her knife must have embedded deep.

The first shot hits him in the chest, the second misses, but the third finishes him. She retrieves her knife, and feels irate, recognising Seif.

“Fucker,” she doesn’t restrain herself and kicks his dead body.

“One.”

It’s not even a challenge. With one bullet, she approaches him from behind and shoots him in the head.

Satisfied, she takes his gun, holsters her own, and runs back to the bike The sounds of police sirens and emergency services are closing in.

The whole ambush only lasted only minutes, though to Maria it felt hours.

Safehouse six, she thinks, the code is not hard; six blocks from Shield, floor six, apartment 36.

The adrenaline fades further and she feels the stickiness of blood on her neck.

She hopes it’s not hers.

.

Coulson finds the first aide kit under the sink in the bathroom.

He pulls out the gauze and a bandage and puts it to the side. Washing hands, he watches the pinkish-red blood run down the sink. His knuckles split and the knife wound that runs along his left hand doesn’t seem too deep.

He decides against stitching it and instead places small butterfly bandages on either side and then wraps his hand with practiced ease.

Clenching his fist, he lets it go and feels that he did a good enough job.

His shirt is beyond repair.

The closet holds sets of clothing, different sizes and for different occasions.

He opts for another shirt, but rolls the sleeve over his bandaged arm.

He checks his own burner phone, hoping to hear from someone.

No Clint, no Maria or Fury.

He knew it would be dangerous, but he may have underestimated how much cornered dogs fought.

He hopes that Thompson is imprisoned for life for all he’s done, locked up and the key thrown away.

.

Coulson doesn’t have to wait long.

Maria knocks, three sharp raps on the door.

He opens to find her holding a hoodie against her head, soaked with what he thinks is her blood.

“Shit,” he comments, his usual stoic face shocked.

“Got them,” she grins.

He ushers her in and directs her to the bathroom.

Pulling it away, blood leaks from the side of her head, the graze of a bullet wound obvious.

“It needs stitches,” he tells her, “maybe glue.”

He probes it and she hits his hand away.

“Just glue it,” she hisses.

“You have to wash it,” he argues, “you might want to shave it first.”

Maria rolls her eyes annoyed.

“Fine.”

She opts to wash it, Coulson watching her, sitting on the toilet.

“Clint?”

He shakes his head.

“Fury?”

He shrugs.

“I guess we wait?”

Coulson nods.

The water runs red with her blood. He offers her scissors and a straight razor. She takes them, annoyance on her face.

The blood slows as she works her way around the graze, looking at herself in the mirror like she’s putting on makeup.

She sighs.

“That’ll have to do.”

Coulson gently glues the cut, ignoring her wince.

“What’s next?” she asks, admiring his work, and turning her attention back to him.

“Your arm is bleeding you know?”

Coulson looks down, finding his bandage tinged with red.

He sighs.

“Do you think Clint and Natasha are okay?”

Maria nods.

“As long as she doesn’t turn on him, they’ll be fine.”

The words come out flippantly. She meant it like a joke, but it’s evident by Coulson’s frown that he doesn’t take it that way.

Maria feels mean.

After all Natasha has been through, she feels sorry for her; feels like maybe in another life they might have been friends. But still, there has to be caution. She loves Clint like a brother, but doesn’t really know how to keep him safe since Natasha’s arrival.

“You still don’t trust her?”

Maria doesn’t answer straight away. She does trust Natasha, in a way, but to admit that would be something else.

Trusting a Russian? Her military father would roll in his grave.

“Do you think this is her fault?”

She asks the question that she can’t help thinking.

Natasha came and SHIELD changed. She had warned Clint.

In those first couple of weeks, she told him after the attack in the kitchens, that the others were scared of ‘different’. That people are scared of anything threatening.

She didn’t want to be like that, but after the attack she’d just endured, she wondered… would things have fallen apart if Natasha hadn’t come? Or had she just exposed what would have happened eventually?

It’s hard to admit the cracks and fissures in SHIELD were already there, and Natasha had just made it break.

Coulson sits on the closest chair and motions for her to do the same.

“I don’t,” he answers, “but tell me why you do.”

“She came and it changed. She unveiled traitors and now they’re after us, everything is different…” Maria knows it’s unfair, even as she says it.

“And you're scared?”

She shakes her head.

“No.”

But even as she denies it, she knows it’s true.

“Everything’s changing.”

Coulson looks at her.

“Maria, it’s the nature of life and the world we live in that things change. We need change to make a difference. We can’t let Hydra or the KGB or Russia operate beneath us. If we did, what would we stand for? Natasha may have pushed it forward, but it’s not a bad thing. Her being here, she’s made a difference.”

Maria looks at her feet.

She knows he’s right.

It just feels so uncomfortable.

“It’ll be okay,” he smiles, half hugging her.

“Give her a chance. Clint hasn’t done a bad thing. And I think you know it.”

Maria sighs heavily, a grumble on her lips.

.

[marshallpupfan]

There's something I've been wanting to talk about for some time now, and due to the fact it's been crossing my mind more and more, I'm just going to get it out of my head. It involves Marshall, his role during season 9, the upcoming spinoff "Rubble & Crew", and why the franchises lately has been leaving me... frustrated.

This will be lengthy, so hit "Keep reading" if you want to see more.

It goes without being said that I am absolutely crazy about Marshall. It's why I created my Marshall Pup Fanatic accounts, why I continue buying his merchandise, and why I even purchased my own mascot costume to wear in parades and such (which hasn't worked out yet, but hopefully in due time). As I've said many times, Marshall is legit my #1 favorite character, and due to just how much I love him, I enjoyed giving back to the franchise by supporting it.

I just wish the cartoon, itself would do the same for Marshall. Nowadays... it really doesn't anymore.

I don't know why, but ever since season 7, it feels like things just got a lot worse for the Dalmatian. Dino Rescue and Moto Pups barely gave him anything, the first half of season 8 ignored him way too much (eight missions in a row... twice), and even the theatrical film stripped him of most of his personality and gave his wipeout, his biggest running gag, to someone else.

Understandably, I found all of this to be frustrating. It's always been my impression that Marshall's one of the more popular characters in PAW Patrol, due to how much he's featured on advertisements, the numerous amounts of merchandise he gets, and the fact that most fans, both young and old, really seem to love him. And yet, his treatment in the cartoon has been so poor. I really don't get it.

And for a while there, I thought there might've been a silver lining to it all; the spinoff. When we first learned about it and nobody had any idea who it'd focus on, I really thought it was going to be Marshall. No other pup was experiencing what I mentioned above, as even Zuma was appearing more during missions for a while there. I figured they were using Marshall less because they were saving up ideas to use for him in the spinoff! Why else restrict him so much? To me, it made sense! It HAD to be him!

Well, you know what happened with that. Rubble was chosen for the spinoff, and Marshall's treatment in the cartoon got worse and worse... just because.

I so badly wanted him to be the star of the spinoff. I felt he deserved it, especially after how the cartoon began treating him. It would've been a fine way to make up for it. As a fan who became a big supporter of both Marshall and PAW Patrol, I felt an odd sense of betrayal, as silly as that may sound.

I guess, if anything, I'm glad later portions of season 8 got better for Marshall after a while. The first Rescue Knights episode gave him so much focus, and I was happy to see him co-star in that Cat Pack short with Leo! Unfortunately, it was short-lived, as things quickly went back downhill for Marshall after that. Arguably, he's at his lowest point yet.

We're currently fifteen episodes into season 9, and his usage during missions has been so unimpressive. Typically, he's only called in to handle small tasks, he's often restricted to backup, he disappears quickly no matter what he's doing, and he's yet to receive much focus, such as Big Truck Pups refusing to call him in as a first responder. I fear Aqua Pups might do the same.

Furthermore, Marshall has yet to appear on a single season 9 title card. The only one of the main six, in fact. You'd think, out of the twenty-six we've seen so far, he'd appear on at least ONE...

I really don't understand why this is happening. It's almost as if Spin Master has turned their backs on Marshall... and as a result, I no longer enjoy the franchise like I once used to. Maybe it's wrong of me to watch PAW Patrol for just one character, but Marshall really did become that special to me. And to see Spin Master treat him like this... it frustrate me, and I'm starting to wonder just how much longer I want to continue supporting the franchise.

Seriously, why stay loyal at this point? Just so I can keep tuning in to see my favorite pup get the same poor treatment? It's clear that Spin Master is shifting their focus, their priorities on Chase, Skye and Rubble, and whatever plans they have up their sleeves doesn't seem to have much room for Marshall (Rocky and Zuma also fit into that, sadly). Do I really need to keep subjecting myself to constant disappointment, new episode after new episode after new episode?

To be fair, it wouldn't be so bad if missions actually gave Marshall something that allowed him to make a difference. Sadly, that's not happening, either. As I said, Marshall keeps getting restricted to small tasks, such as wrapping legs, parking his vehicle in front of sand sculptures, and harmlessly spraying robot cats. Compare that to Chase and Skye, who continuously get tasks that save lives. The difference is like night and day! And I know the cynical answer might be "well, maybe it's because he's clumsy", but that was never an issue in the earlier seasons. Pups Leave Marshall Home Alone, the Pup-Fu episodes, the Ultimate Fire Rescues, Ready Race Rescue... all fine examples of Marshall being quite skilled and competent.

And there's a reason I said later portions of season 8 got better for him. Remember the first Rescue Knights mission, where Marshall was the only pup to stay outside of the castle to stop Sparks the Dragon from attacking it, and then he later bravely leaped up on the beast's back to retrieve the stolen Dragon's Tooth from Claw? It was such a great episode, and a wonderful showing of the skills I've come to expect from Marshall! It was something I was so happy to see, and for a little while, it renewed my faith in the franchise! I was so desperately hoping it'd last... but then season 9 came along and flushed all of that right back down the drain.

It's as if we went from "Marshall is clumsy yet highly skilled" to "just let Marshall do something small, then get him out of there as fast as we can". Just what happened... and again, why?

I hate to say it, but I really don't know if any of this will ever get any better. Again, their priority seems to have shifted to Chase, Skye and Rubble, and I fear this is just how it's going to be for Marshall from now on. I don't know that for a fact, but it's a bad feeling I'm getting. And when I look at the upcoming season 9 episodes we know about so far, none of them seem like they'll change any of this for Marshall one bit.

Is this just how it's going to be for the rest of season 9? Is Season 10 going to continue this poor treatment for Marshall? And will the theatrical film sequel even attempt to restore his personality and give him his elevator wipeout? Truth be told, I'm just not optimistic...

I apologize for making this post so lengthy. For better or worse, it's clear I'm very passionate about Marshall, and all of this is something that frustrates me, especially since I can't seem to find a logical reason as to WHY it's happening. All I know is that, if this continues for too much longer, I may stop watching PAW Patrol. Hey, I still maintain that I'm just as crazy about Marshall as ever... but the franchise, itself? Not so much anymore.

If I do stop watching new episodes, that doesn't mean I'm going to abandon my accounts or anything. I honestly love posting daily pics of Marshall every day, and I plan on keeping that tradition up for as long as I can! Unfortunately, I can't promise I'll be as active as I used to be, such as posting updates on new episodes and talking about what goes on with the franchise and whatnot. I'll probably stop posting Weekly Wipeouts, too. I'm not at that point yet, however, and if I do decide on anything, I'll probably wait until the end of season 9.

For now, I'll continue watching, though only in the hope that things will finally get better for Marshall. I don't expect much, but... who knows, maybe they'll find a way to surprise me and renew my faith in the franchise once again? I hope so, anyway...

[sharkchanic]

You've taken our homes, schools, hospitals! This is all we have! And it's on sale?! I'm getting to the bottom of this. I'm getting to the bottom of all of this! Hey, Hector. - You almost done? - Almost. He is here. I sense it. Well, I guess I'll go home now and just leave this nice honey out, with no one around. You're busted, box boy! I knew I heard something. So you can talk! I can talk. And now you'll start talking! Where you getting the sweet stuff? Who's your supplier? I don't understand. I thought we were friends. The last thing we want to do is upset bees! You're too late! It's ours now! You, sir, have crossed the wrong sword! You, sir, will be lunch for my iguana, Ignacio! Where is the honey coming from? Tell me where! Honey Farms! It comes from Honey Farms! Crazy person! What horrible thing has happened here? These faces, they never knew what hit them. And now they're on the road to nowhere! Just keep still. What? You're not dead? Do I look dead? They will wipe anything that moves. Where you headed? To Honey Farms. I am onto something huge here. I'm going to Alaska. Moose blood, crazy stuff. Blows your head off! I'm going to Tacoma. - And you? - He really is dead. All right. Uh-oh! - What is that?! - Oh, no! - A wiper! Triple blade! - Triple blade? Jump on! It's your only chance, bee! Why does everything have to be so doggone clean?! How much do you people need to see?! Open your eyes! Stick your head out the window! From NPR News in Washington, I'm Carl Kasell. But don't kill no more bugs! - Bee! - Moose blood guy!! - You hear something? - Like what? Like tiny screaming. Turn off the radio. Whassup, bee boy? Hey, Blood. Just a row of honey jars, as far as the eye could see. Wow! I assume wherever this truck goes is where they're getting it. I mean, that honey's ours. - Bees hang tight. - We're all jammed in. It's a close community. Not us, man. We on our own. Every mosquito on his own. - What if you get in trouble? - You a mosquito, you in trouble. Nobody likes us. They just smack. See a mosquito, smack, smack! At least you're out in the world. You must meet girls. Mosquito girls try to trade up, get with a moth, dragonfly. Mosquito girl don't want no mosquito. You got to be kidding me! Mooseblood's about to leave the building! So long, bee! - Hey, guys! - Mooseblood! I knew I'd catch y'all down here. Did you bring your crazy straw? We throw it in jars, slap a label on it, and it's pretty much pure profit. What is this place? A bee's got a brain the size of a pinhead. They are pinheads! Pinhead. –Check out the new smoker. - Oh, sweet. That's the one you want. The Thomas 3000! Smoker? Ninety puffs a minute, semi-automatic. Twice the nicotine, all the tar. A couple breaths of this knocks them right out. They make the honey, and we make the money. "They make the honey, and we make the money"? Oh, my! What's going on? Are you OK? Yeah. It doesn't last too long. Do you know you're in a fake hive with fake walls? Our queen was moved here. We had no choice. This is your queen? That's a man in women's clothes! That's a drag queen! What is this? Oh, no! There's hundreds of them! Bee honey. Our honey is being brazenly stolen on a massive scale! This is worse than anything bears have done! I intend to do something. Oh, Barry, stop. Who told you humans are taking our honey? That's a rumor. Do these look like rumors? That's a conspiracy theory. These are obviously doctored photos. How did you get mixed up in this? He's been talking to humans. - What? - Talking to humans?! He has a human girlfriend. And they make out! Make out? Barry! We do not. - You wish you could. - Whose side are you on? The bees! I dated a cricket once in San Antonio. Those crazy legs kept me up all night. Barry, this is what you want to do with your life? I want to do it for all our lives. Nobody works harder than bees! Dad, I remember you coming home so overworked your hands were still stirring. You couldn't stop. I remember that. What right do they have to our honey? We live on two cups a year. They put it in lip balm for no reason whatsoever!

"poor bees-"

[profoundlyluckyfox]

He is here. I sense it.Well, I guess I'll go home now and just leave this nice honey out, with no one around.You're busted, box boy!I knew I heard something.So you can talk!I can talk. And now you'll start talking!Where you getting the sweet stuff? Who's your supplier?I don't understand.I thought we were friends.The last thing we want to do is upset bees!You're too late! It's ours now!You, sir, have crossed the wrong sword!You, sir, will be lunch for my iguana, Ignacio!Where is the honey coming from? Tell me where!Honey Farms! It comes from Honey Farms!Crazy person!What horrible thing has happened here?These faces, they never knew what hit them. And nowthey're on the road to nowhere!Just keep still.What? You're not dead?Do I look dead? They will wipe anything that moves. Where you headed?To Honey Farms. I am onto something huge here.I'm going to Alaska. Moose blood, crazy stuff. Blows your head off!I'm going to Tacoma.And you?He really is dead.All right.Uh-oh!What is that?!Oh, no!A wiper! Triple blade!Triple blade?Jump on! It's your only chance, bee!Why does everything haveto be so doggone clean?!How much do you people need to see?!Open your eyes!Stick your head out the window!From NPR News in Washington,I'm Carl Kasell.But don't kill no more bugs!Bee!Moose blood guy!!You hear something?Like what?Like tiny screaming.Turn off the radio.Whassup, bee boy?Hey, Blood.Just a row of honey jars, as far as the eye could see.Wow!I assume wherever this truck goes is where they're getting it. I mean, that honey's ours.Bees hang tight. We're all jammed in.It's a close community.Not us, man. We on our own. Every mosquito on his own.What if you get in trouble?You a mosquito, you in trouble. Nobody likes us. They just smack. See a mosquito, smack, smack!At least you're out in the world. You must meet girls.Mosquito girls try to trade up, get with a moth, dragonfly. Mosquito girl don't want no mosquito.You got to be kidding me!Mooseblood's about to leave the building! So long, bee!Hey, guys!Mooseblood!I knew I'd catch y'all down here.Did you bring your crazy straw?We throw it in jars, slap a label on it, and it's pretty much pure profit.What is this place?A bee's got a brain the size of a pinhead.They are pinheads!Pinhead.Check out the new smoker.Oh, sweet. That's the one you want. The Thomas 3000!Smoker?Ninety puffs a minute, semi-automatic. Twice the nicotine, all the tar. A couple breaths of this knocks them right out.They make the honey, and we make the money."They make the honey, and we make the money"?Oh, my!What's going on? Are you OK?Yeah. It doesn't last too long.Do you know you're in a fake hive with fake walls?Our queen was moved here. We had no choice.This is your queen? That's a man in women's clothes! That's a drag queen!What is this?Oh, no!There's hundreds of them!Bee honey.Our honey is being brazenly stolen on a massive scale!This is worse than anything bears have done! I intend to do something.Oh, Barry, stop.Who told you humans are taking our honey? That's a rumor.Do these look like rumors?That's a conspiracy theory. These are obviously doctored photos. How did you get mixed up in this?He's been talking to humans.What? Talking to humans?!He has a human girlfriend. And they make out!Make out? Barry!We do not.You wish you could.Whose side are you on?

if this gets 1k notes (it won't) i'll put away the 7 baskets of clean laundry that have been piling up on my bedroom floor for weeks and weeks. it's been 3 months. come on guys. 1k. or at least 500.

[bipirate]

fma and/or cql?

FMA:

My rating (1-10): 8.5, it's really not perfect but it's so dear to my heart i can't score it lower than an 8. i've definitely grown more critical of its political messages over the years, but when i watched fmab for the first time i was Obsessed and it's been very important to me ever since. it also got me into anime and that's why it was also unlike anything i'd ever seen before

My favourite character: ed....... i am a simple man. but i also really love ling and scar and greed

My least favourite character: kimblee...... he was very well written but i'd squash that little rat under my boot if i could

The character I think I'd be friends with: oh so many! ed and al, ling, lan fan, and paninya and winry. probably also greed because i think he's hilarious. i wanted to say hawkeye but i probably wouldnt be friends with war criminals lmao

The character I think I won't hit off with: file roy mustang under gay people i don't respect

My favourite episode/scene: i love the whole gluttony's stomach arc and especially at the end where ed opens the doorway and sees al's body... that hit me like a truck when i first watched it. also the scene where al sacrifices himself for ed and ed sacrifices his alchemy to get al back. al using the philosopher's stone in his battle against pride and kimblee. the briggs arc is fantastic as well.

Whose clothing style I like best: ed, i love my edgy son

Times I watched it (and if I would again): i've lost count.... i actually watched it twice in a row when i first watched it, then i watched 03, then i watched fmab again, read the manga, and i've rewatched 03 twice and fmab multiple times since then. my guess is i've watched fmab 7 times? and i would definitely rewatch it again (and im currently rereading it)

CQL

My rating (1-10) 9.5..... i can't rate it a perfect 10 bc i frankly think no media deserves that and cql has its imperfections in the writing and the handling of its female characters, but i don't think i've ever watched a show that had this much of an emotional impact on me. it truly has so much heart and you can tell every single person working on it had so much passion for it.

My favourite character: lan wangji my beloved, wei wuxian and wen qing

My least favourite character: jin zixun. go king give us nothing

The character I think I'd be friends with: lan wangjiiii lan wangji. also nie huaisang and mianmian

The character I think I won't hit off with: jiang cheng

My favourite episode/scene: episode 42 and 43 make me go insane. special mention to wwx's death scene in episode 33 because it's truly one of the best scenes of the show imo

Whose clothing style I like best: wei wuxian style icon

Times I watched it (and if I would again): once again i've lost count. i think. 5? and i think i'll be rewatching this show until i die so

[everybodyscupoftea]

drunk in love

jj x reader

word count: 2136

warnings: lots of drinking and not really responsibly (some underage but mostly of age); cursing (as usual); weed and smoking

synopsis: a headcanon thing where jj is your long time drinking buddy but with feelings

a/n: please drink responsibly friends

The first time you met was at a house party thrown by one of your new coworkers freshman year. You’d heard of the infamous JJ and his wild tendencies, but you’d never seen them or even him in person.

That is until you were sitting on the couch with another girl you knew and he dropped into the empty spot next to you, promptly spilling his full beer all over your leg and the couch. He slurred out, “Oh fuck, my b,” more to the couch than you.

The second time you met JJ was when you were the only one brave enough to take on the cement mixer with him. Four shot glasses, two with Baileys and two with lime juice, sat on the counter in front you. The group of people standing in the kitchen counted you down and the two of you quickly shot both and started shaking your heads quickly, allowing them to mix.

JJ accidentally spilled some down his chin but you swallowed no problem, resulting in cheers erupting all over the kitchen. You heard one of your friends scream, “Noob!” at him while wrapping you in a victorious hug.

He held a hand out for you to shake, “I yield to the superior drinker.”

The third time you met him was when your flip-pong team wiped the floor with his. You shook your head at him as he pouted, “Absolute fucking amateurs.”

He scoffed, “Your ass got carried through that game.”

You couldn’t let that stand, so you pulled up your friend’s story showing you absolutely annihilating him in a flip cup matchup which led to his team having to drink. And what exactly was he supposed to say to that?

The fourth and final time you met JJ before finally becoming friends was at a tailgate. Your friend was dating one of his frat brothers, so the two of you often tailgated with them. Admittedly, your one weakness when it came to drinking competitions was shotgunning.

Naturally, when JJ saw you there, he challenged you immediately, and you had a point to prove. You’d let to lose to JJ and it couldn’t start now. Your friend knew you were bad, but handed you an unopened beer and squeezed your shoulder for luck.

You lost but barely. JJ wrapped his arm around your shoulder, “Maybe next time, fucking amateur.” And you had to laugh at that.

“Hey I’ll get you one day and then you’ll never be able to beat me. I’ll be unstoppable.”

He shrugged, “In that case, you’re my new pong partner. John B who?”

From then on, anytime JJ got invited to a party or planned a night out, you were involved. Your favorite nights with JJ were when a group of you got together for bar-hopping downtown. One time in particular, about two years after meeting JJ for the first time, stuck out from all the others.

After a tailgate, you went back to your apartment to get dressed to go out instead of going to the football game. The plan was for JJ to come pick you up after the game to go back to the frat house to pregame before going downtown for the night, and you were excited.

It was dark by the time JJ pulled up and most of your closet was on the floor due to indecisiveness of what to wear. JJ had his pregame playlist blasting when you opened the door and his whole truck smelled like weed. You picked up the dab in the cup holder and took a hit as he sped off toward frat row.

“You look nice.”

A blush you didn’t want to acknowledge warmed your cheeks and you blew out smoke, “Thanks bud, wish I could say the same to you.”

He rolled his eyes, “Fuck off, I’m going to change before we go out.”

You just laughed and took another hit as he turned into the driveway. Following him to his room, you sat on the bed while he dug through his drawers for a shirt he hadn’t sweated in yet. He threw a shirt off the floor at you to get your attention, “Call John B and make sure he picked up the alcohol from Sarah’s please?”

“He’s your brother, you do it.”

JJ gave you a dirty look as you stretched out on his bed, “I’m getting dressed, can’t you just call him off my phone?”

You rolled your eyes, feeling unusually difficult, “I think you’re done getting ready, you look pretty, J, call him.”

He tossed the phone at you, already unlocked, and you begrudgingly pressed John B’s contact. You kicked your shoes off and got more comfortable in his bed as it rang.

“J, I’m on my way home, chill.”

“Not JJ, but I am calling to make sure you got the juice.”

“You’re just as bad as him, yes we have the alcohol.”

“We?”

John B paused for a few seconds, clearly hesitating, “Me and Sarah.”

“You’re bringing Sarah to pregame?” you asked incredulously and JJ’s head snapped up to look at you. He motioned for you to give him and phone and you shook your head.

“Give it,” he whispered.

“No,” you hissed at him, backing into the wall as he walked across the room to you.

JJ lunged toward the bed and held his hand out, “I just need to have a word with him.”

You hung up just before he ripped the phone out of your hand, and he gave you a dirty look. You smirked, “Gotta be faster, Maybank.”

“You’re the one who’s going to have to hang out with her.” And fair enough.

He crossed his arms, “Fine, you can find your own alcohol source tonight, I’m cutting you off.”

Pouting, you scrambled off the bed and wrapped him in a hug, “No, I’m sorry, I promise I’ll be nice to you.”

With an eyeroll, he wrapped his arms around you too, “Fine but only because you’re my girl.”

When John B finally showed up, you and JJ were sitting on the couch scrolling through twitter together with a plate full of pizza rolls on the table in front of you. John B lifted a heavy looking cooler over the threshold and set it down next to the table, he huffed when you two didn’t even look at him, “Hey you lazy fucks, here’s the alcohol, venmo me $20 each please.”

You walked to the cooler to grab a few beers for you and JJ while he set up drunk jenga on the table and yelled out for the other residents of the house to come play. Using one of your rings, you popped the bottles open and handed one to JJ before sitting back down next to him on the couch.

Several rounds were played as you got into a comfortable buzz. One of the freshman brothers of JJ’s frat was assigned designated driver, so he sat on the floor near you, sipping on water instead of beer with the rest of you.

After Pope lost the third round in a row he stood up, annoyed, “I’m going to play beer pong, anyone up to join?”

And obviously you were down. You followed him over for a solos game and JJ followed close behind you. Pope was a little drunker than you because of all his losses, but he was still a pretty good pong player anyway, definitely one of the best in the house behind JJ.

One of his shots hit the rim of one of your cups just as JJ blew smoke in your face, causing you to miss the swat. You glared at him, “Fuck off, J.” Of course, it landed in another cup and you quickly drained both cups before tossing the ball back to Pope.

“Fuckin right, JJ,” Pope cheered, “keep up the good distraction work.”

Pope missed the rest of his shots, and you shoved JJ away long enough to make three in a row. And from that point on, you were on fire, making quick work of the rest of the game. JJ cheered as you sank the last shot and wrapped an arm around you excitedly, “That’s my girl!”

You weren’t really in the mood to black out that night, and you knew you’d be drinking downtown, so you declined Pope’s rematch challenge.

When the sober freshman finally managed to gather everyone up to be dropped off downtown, you found yourself squished in the back seat between JJ and Sarah who had been pretty quiet all night, really only talking to John B. You didn’t know much about Sarah, just that JJ didn’t like her much plus some of the stories he’d told you that didn’t give the best impression.

Kie met you in front of your favorite bar, and your group quickly shuffled inside, barely stopping to get your hands stamped before going up to the bar. Your roommate worked there and gave you discounted drinks, so it was always your starting spot.

She leaned over the bar to press a kiss to your cheek and slid a vodka cranberry to you, “Cheers, bitch,” she yelled over the blasting music.

JJ ordered shots for the group and you ordered a beer for him in return. The whole group quickly took the lemon-flavored shots and you pulled JJ onto the dance floor, barely giving him enough time to grab the beer off the bar.

An hour and three vodka cranberries later, you were screaming along to Post Malone’s I Fall Apart, one hand holding an empty cup and the other clutching the back of JJ’s neck. He was laughing at you slurring the lyrics, but he was just as drunk, and you really considered kissing him to shut him up, not for the first time.

But before you could work up either the nerve or the coordination, the song ended and he leaned down to talk in your ear, “Wanna head next door, John B just texted me they’re doing half priced shots for the football win today?”

You nodded and stepped away from him, which was a little disappointing, but JJ didn’t let you go far. He wrapped his arm around your waist and let you lead the two of you off the dance floor and out of the bar. The air outside was warm, but cooler than inside, and a breeze chilled your sweat soaked neck.

The two of you stumbled inside the building next door and met your friends at the bar where they had shots lined up for you. With a cheer, everyone slammed their shot glass on the bar twice and tossed it back.

Three hours later, you and JJ stumbled out of your fourth bar of the night and headed slowly down the sidewalk, hanging onto each other. JJ’s arm was thrown around your shoulder and your arm was wrapped tightly around his waist, hand gripping his t-shirt.

You weren’t sure how, or why, but the two of you ended up on campus, two miles away from the bar. JJ stumbled over to the fountain in the center of the quad and climbed onto the raised edge. He was swaying and you were suddenly overwhelmed with the urge to shove him in. So you did, and unfortunately, he grabbed your arms and pulled you in with him.

“Fuck, J, why?!”

He splashed you with a bright, dopey smile, and you rolled your eyes, kicking water back in his direction. That started a fight, one you weren’t prepared for, and he overwhelmed you quickly, moving closer to wrap his arms around you.

Before you even realized what was happening, he was kissing you. You responded immediately, returning the kiss enthusiastically. It seemed to go on forever before you heard yelling coming from the edge of the quad.

JJ turned and waved clumsily at his freshman brother who had apparently tracked the two of you down to drive back home. He huffed at the two of you exasperatedly and held out towels, “Thank god for snap maps but Jesus fuck, the fountain…really guys?”

You started giggling and climbed into the backseat, plucking the juul out of JJ’s fingers to take a hit of your own before he could bring it to his lips.

“You owe me so many pods.”

Pouting, you held onto his hand, “But you love me so I get privileges.”

JJ muttered something under his breath and you leaned in trying to hear. He raised his eyebrows at you encroaching his personal space and spoke up, “Yeah I guess I do, you absolute menace.”

“Good because I love you too and that’s why I’ve been letting you drag my pong record down for two years now.”

Instead of answering, he just rolled his eyes and kissed you again.

[bluecookiedisaster]

Anger, jealousy, lust.

Oh, my goodness! Are you OK?

Yeah.

- What is wrong with you?!

- It's a bug.

He's not bothering anybody.

Get out of here, you creep!

What was that? A Pic 'N' Save circular?

Yeah, it was. How did you know?

It felt like about 10 pages.

Seventy-five is pretty much our limit.

You've really got that

down to a science.

- I lost a cousin to Italian Vogue.

- I'll bet.

What in the name

of Mighty Hercules is this?

How did this get here?

Oute Bee, Golden Blossom,

Ray Liotta Private Select?

- Is he that actor?

- I never heard of him.

- Why is this here?

- For people. We eat it.

You don't have

enough food of your own?

- Well, yes.

- How do you get it?

- Bees make it.

- I know who makes it!

And it's hard to make it!

There's heating, cooling, stirring.

You need a whole Krelman thing!

- It's organic.

- It's our-ganic!

It's just honey, Barry.

Just what?!

Bees don't know about this!

This is stealing! A lot of stealing!

You've taken our homes, schools,

hospitals! This is all we have!

And it's on sale?!

I'm getting to the bottom of this.

I'm getting to the bottom

of all of this!

Hey, Hector.

- You almost done?

- Almost.

He is here. I sense it.

Well, I guess I'll go home now

and just leave this nice honey out,

with no one around.

You're busted, box boy!

I knew I heard something.

So you can talk!

I can talk.

And now you'll start talking!

Where you getting the sweet stuff?

Who's your supplier?

I don't understand.

I thought we were friends.

The last thing we want

to do is upset bees!

You're too late! It's ours now!

You, sir, have crossed

the wrong sword!

You, sir, will be lunch

for my iguana, Ignacio!

Where is the honey coming from?

Tell me where!

Honey Farms! It comes from Honey Farms!

Orazy person!

What horrible thing has happened here?

These faces, they never knew

what hit them. And now

they're on the road to nowhere!

Just keep still.

What? You're not dead?

Do I look dead? They will wipe anything

that moves. Where you headed?

To Honey Farms.

I am onto something huge here.

I'm going to Alaska. Moose blood,

crazy stuff. Blows your head off!

I'm going to Tacoma.

- And you?

- He really is dead.

All right.

Uh-oh!

- What is that?!

- Oh, no!

- A wiper! Triple blade!

- Triple blade?

Jump on! It's your only chance, bee!

Why does everything have

to be so doggone clean?!

How much do you people need to see?!

Open your eyes!

Stick your head out the window!

From NPR News in Washington,

I'm Oarl Kasell.

But don't kill no more bugs!

- Bee!

- Moose blood guy!!

- You hear something?

- Like what?

Like tiny screaming.

Turn off the radio.

Whassup, bee boy?

Hey, Blood.

Just a row of honey jars,

as far as the eye could see.

Wow!

I assume wherever this truck goes

is where they're getting it.

I mean, that honey's ours.

- Bees hang tight.

- We're all jammed in.

It's a close community.

Not us, man. We on our own.

Every mosquito on his own.

- What if you get in trouble?

- You a mosquito, you in trouble.

Nobody likes us. They just smack.

See a mosquito, smack, smack!

At least you're out in the world.

You must meet girls.

Mosquito girls try to trade up,

get with a moth, dragonfly.

Mosquito girl don't want no mosquito.

You got to be kidding me!

Mooseblood's about to leave

the building! So long, bee!

- Hey, guys!

- Mooseblood!

I knew I'd catch y'all down here.

Did you bring your crazy straw?

We throw it in jars, slap a label on it,

and it's pretty much pure profit.

What is this place?

A bee's got a brain

the size of a pinhead.

They are pinheads!

Pinhead.

- Oheck out the new smoker.

- Oh, sweet. That's the one you want.

The Thomas 3000!

Smoker?

Ninety puffs a minute, semi-automatic.

Twice the nicotine, all the tar.

A couple breaths of this

knocks them right out.

They make the honey,

and we make the money.

"They make the honey,

and we make the money"?

Oh, my!

What's going on? Are you OK?

Yeah. It doesn't last too long.

Do you know you're

in a fake hive with fake walls?

Our queen was moved here.

We had no choice.

This is your queen?

That's a man in women's clothes!

That's a drag queen!

What is this?

Oh, no!

There's hundreds of them!

Bee honey.

Our honey is being brazenly stolen

on a massive scale!

This is worse than anything bears

have done! I intend to do something.

Oh, Barry, stop.

Who told you humans are taking

our honey? That's a rumor.

Do these look like rumors?

That's a conspiracy theory.

These are obviously doctored photos.

How did you get mixed up in this?

He's been talking to humans.

- What?

- Talking to humans?!

He has a human girlfriend.

And they make out!

Make out? Barry!

We do not.

- You wish you could.

- Whose side are you on?

The bees!

I dated a cricket once in San Antonio.

Those crazy legs kept me up all night.

glad that im not popular enough to have an evil shadow version of my blog that exists just to make contradictions on my posts

[lambourngb]

Why can’t I change

The irony is, you inspired this story. You posted a ficlet about Michael and Max going out to distract themselves from the pain of being separated from their soulmates...  and this hit me hard:

Max is drinking too much tonight.  This is a good bar – Michael’s actually been in here before.  Twice.  Both times over the last few months, since Alex and Forrest… yeah.  He’s left with guys, both times. He’s… he’s trying to figure some stuff out, with himself.  What he likes.  What he wants, outside of Alex.  Um, and hopefully, eventually, with Alex. It’s been… fine. Fun.  Light.  Uncomplicated.  Pretty much everything the rest of his life isn’t right now.

So I started writing a fic where Michael is exploring things about himself, dating and figuring out what he wants, while he lingers in that “hopefully eventually” feeling in place. Of course, dating is hell, and especially it’s hell when there is so much about Michael that is hard to explain to someone- not just the alien parts, but his genius IQ, his “adopted” siblings, his past in social services, no parents, etc. Then the awkwardness of how he can’t stop from watching Alex whenever their paths cross.

SNIPPET :

It started innocently enough like most of Michael’s life-ruining decisions, during a beer break from his newly re-established lab bunker. 

“Alright, worst date you’ve ever been on, and go!”  Charlie started, taking a long pull of her IPA, before sending a look over to Michael. “You win on the most embarrassing sibling, Guerin, someone needs to teach your sister to knock, but I bet I have you beat on bad dates.”

So five minutes after she had decided to stay in Roswell, Charlie Cameron had ended up tracking down Michael at Sanders, and opened the conversation unceremoniously with, “So aliens are real and I’m guessing you’re one. Consider me the newest member of your Scooby Gang and tell me everything.” He had dropped a heavy wrench on his boot, pain stealing his voice for a moment. Perhaps there was a man out there that was able to resist the no-nonsense stare of a Cameron woman, but that wasn’t Michael, or even Max for that matter.

And that was that, one more person in on the second biggest secret Michael held (he was still in love with Alex being number one). It came with it’s own valuable reveals, finding out from Charlie that although Helena Ortecho had covered her tracks with the group as a red herring for Flint’s sake, Deep Sky was a very real paramilitary group and they were the source of the depowering serum that Helena had used on Michael to keep him compliant.

So ten minutes after catching her up on all things ridiculous and real in Roswell, New Mexico, Charlie had raised a perfectly sculpted eyebrow at him and drawled lazily, “Any plans to combat that drug, or are you just going to hope that the next time it’s another benign manipulator? Because the way I see it, I’m a genius biochemist, and you’re a genius period, maybe we can do better than blind hope?”

Whether it was hubris at play to see if it was even possible, or a renewed determination to just fuck up whatever military sponsored plot that was in play, Charlie Cameron signed on to research an antidote to the depowering serum and in the process had become Michael’s newest, and surprisingly easiest, friend to have. 

It was strange but Michael was starting to number his friends beyond just Max, Isobel and the currently absent Liz Ortecho. He could begrudgingly add Kyle Valenti to the list, now that Max had come clean with everyone over his heart condition. Although it was exceedingly awkward at times in the wake of their breakup, Maria was trying for friendship with him and it probably said something about them that they fell into that rhythm much easier than he had with Alex. 

On paper he could consider Alex his friend. They shared beers together at neutral locations, there was always a conversation to linger over with coffee, and finally, Michael was the person Alex called now, every time he was scheduled to go out of town for work. That was less friendship, and more of a coping mechanism for them both after his abduction by Jesse then Helena. 

It meant that Charlie Cameron had won the contest of easiest friend probably by default, but that didn’t make being the target of her knife-sharp sense of humor any easier to deflect when she smelled blood in the water. Thinking about his past, he knew that any conversation about dating was sure to leave him bleeding out.

Michael eyed the open hatch of the bunker lab, wondering if the spanse of time they had spent in the open air was enough for Charlie to nip this conversation to a close and return to the task of experimentation. Long periods of time in solitary confinement in a military prison had left her with a dislike of closed spaces, and it didn’t matter what sort of faux-Restoration Hardware light fixture he hung from the ceiling of his bunker; the walls would start closing in on her after two  hours or so of work.  

“You win this round, okay?” 

“Come on, no bowing out. I told you about the ‘bring your child to work day’ my father suffered through with his conservative asshat co-workers, you can tell me about your worst date.”

“I haven’t dated enough to have a bad one, okay?” Michael admitted, looking away. There was no way he was going to talk about the drive in charity benefit with Alex, when he couldn’t be legitimately sure that it was even a date. Did sharing a six-pack on his tailgate even count? The way that night had ended was better off forgotten. Then there was Maria, where drinks at her bar had started as the natural postscript to an evening together. Did that count? He remembered bargaining with debts to arrange a dinner with Chinese food, that had been postponed almost indefinitely after her visions took center stage. 

“Bullshit! Almost the second thing my sister told me about you was to be careful I didn’t end up in your bed.”

Michael ducked his head with an acknowledged wince. Well, Jenna Cameron did have a front-row seat during most of his questionable decisions regarding women and his poor restraint when it came to a certain brand of asshole at the Wild Pony. When he ran across men who reminded him of Foster Dad #5 who thought respect could be beaten into Michael, or men who were like Foster Dad 3 who kept his wife nervously popping pills for her nerves and caked in pancake makeup most Sunday mornings. Some people just needed punching. Michael was always happy to be the one doing it if someone gave him reason to and drunk assholes often did.

He tipped the bottle back to drain the last swallow of nearly flat beer to buy some time as he thought about what to say next. There was little hope of escape, Charlie had the mind of a scientist, sharp and inquisitive and ready to press for more answers. “I’m no virgin, that’s for sure. But that was mainly sex.” He shrugged, dropping the empty into his trash barrel. “From all the movies Izzy makes me watch with her, I gather going on a date is something of a higher tier than a one-off in my truck after last call.”

“What about with Mr. Complicated?” Charlie’s smile was closer to a smirk. Michael revised his assessment of her, from scientist to sadist. 

“More than a one-off in my truck,” Michael agreed quietly. “Everything else was why it was complicated. And no, I don’t really want to talk about it, just to say, I have no stories about lost entrées at dinner or suddenly being a part of someone’s wedding reception with him.” 

Instead of pressing the knife deeper into him with more questions about Alex, Charlie backed off with a mixed expression. Shit that was pity on her face, wasn’t it? God, it really was a sad story, his relationship with Alex and his life currently, Michael thought. Charlie, who had spent time in the last couple of years in a military prison and was actively evading a paramilitary group interested in her research, actually pitied his life. 

“You’re trying to tell me you’re thirty years old, and you don’t have a single dating story to share?” She shook her head giving a sarcastic *bzzz* sound with her lips. “I don’t buy it. What about the hot bartender you were with last year?”

“You ever try to date someone who works in a bar? Her work hours were prime recreational hours. Who wants to go see a movie after last call and closing the till? You especially don’t want to go to another bar during off hours.” Michael pointed out. “Anyway, we kept it low-key. I cooked. Or we had drinks at the Pony. I dunno, life kept getting in the way of anything more.” 

“That’s just sad.”

Michael placed his hand against his chest, “Ouch, don’t hold back!”

Charlie straightened up from where she was sitting, on the steps of the old school bus to get to her feet. “Okay you’ve basically described two relationships with feelings, but I’m talking about something different. You swipe right on someone, trade messages, ghost them when they are creepy, you’ve never done any of that? No one has ever slipped their number to you when you’ve gone out with friends?”

“I just told you, those were just one-offs in my truck.”

“Oh my god, give me your phone, we’re downloading some apps.”

[seaanimalonland]

All Wild Animals Were Once Called Deer | Brigit Pegeen Kelly

Some truck was gunning the night before up Pippin Hill's steep grade

And the doe was thrown wide. This happened five years ago now,

Or six. She must have come out of the woods by Simpson's red trailer—

The one that looks like a faded train car—and the driver

Did not see her. His brakes no good. Or perhaps she hit the truck.

That happens, too. A figure swims up from nowhere, a flying figure

That seems to be made of nothing more than moonlight, or vapor,

Until it slams its face, solid as stone, against the glass.

And maybe when this happens the driver gets out. Maybe not.

Strange about the kills we get without intending them.

Because we are pointed in the direction of something.

Because we are distracted at just the right moment, or the wrong.

We were waiting for the school bus. It was early, but not yet light.

We watched the darkness draining off like the last residue

Of water from a tub. And we didn't speak, because that was our way.

High up a plane droned, drone of the cold, and behind us the flag

In front of the Bank of Hope's branch trailer snapped and popped in the wind.

It sounded like a boy whipping a wet towel against a thigh

Or like the stiff beating of a swan's wings as it takes off

From the lake, a flat drumming sound, the sound of something

Being pounded until it softens, and then—as the wind lowered

And the flag ran out wide—there was a second sound, the sound of running fire.

And there was the scraping, too, the sad knife-against-skin scraping

Of the acres of field corn strung out in straggling rows

Around the branch trailer that had been, the winter before, our town's claim to fame

When, in the space of two weeks, it was successfully robbed twice.

The same man did it both times, in the same manner.

He had a black hood and a gun, and he was so polite

That the embarrassed teller couldn't hide her smile when he showed up again.

They didn't think it could happen twice. But sometimes it does.

Strange about that. Lightning strikes and strikes again.

My piano teacher watched her husband, who had been struck as a boy,

Fall for good, years later, when he was hit again.

He was walking across a cut corn field toward her, stepping over

The dead stalks, holding the bag of nails he'd picked up at the hardware store

Out like a bouquet. It was drizzling so he had his umbrella up.

There was no thunder, nothing to be afraid of.

And then a single bolt from nowhere, and for a moment the man

Was doing a little dance in a movie, a jig, three steps or four,

Before he dropped like a cloth, or a felled bird.

This happened twenty years ago now, but my teacher keeps

Telling me the story. She hums while she plays. And we were humming

That morning by the bus stop. A song about boys and war.

And the thing about the doe was this. She looked alive.

As anything will in the half light. As lawn statues will.

I was going to say as even children playing a game of statues will,

But of course they are alive. Though sometimes

A person pretending to be a statue seems farther gone in death

Than a statue does. Or to put it another way,

Death seems to be the living thing, the thing

The thing that looks out through the eyes. Strange about that . . .

We stared at the doe for a long time and I thought about the way

A hunter slits a deer's belly. I've watched this many times.

And the motion is a deft one. It is the same motion the swan uses

When he knifes the children down by his pond on Wasigan Road.

They put out a hand. And quick as lit grease, the swan's

Boneless neck snakes around in a sideways circle, driving

The bill hard toward the softest spot . . . All those songs

We sing about swans, but they are mean. And up close, often ugly.

That old Wasigan bird is a smelly, moth-eaten thing.

His wings stained yellow as if he chewed tobacco,

His upper bill broken from his foul-tempered strikes.

And he is awkward, too, out of the water. Broken-billed and gaited.

When he grapples down the steep slope, wheezing and spitting,

He looks like some old man recovering from hip surgery,

Slowly slapping down one cursed flat foot, then the next.

But the thing about the swan is this. The swan is made for the water.

You can't judge him out of it. He's made for the chapter

In the rushes. He's like one of those small planes my brother flies.

Ridiculous things. Something a boy dreams up late at night

While he stares at the stars. Something a child draws.

I've watched my brother take off a thousand times, and it's always

The same. The engine spits and dies, spits and catches—

A spurting match—and the machine shakes and shakes as if it were

Stuck together with glue and wound up with a rubber band.

It shimmies the whole way down the strip, past the pond

Past the wind bagging the goose-necked wind sock, past the banks

Of bright red and blue planes. And as it climbs slowly

Into the air, wobbling from side to side, cautious as a rock climber,

Putting one hand forward then the next, not even looking

At the high spot above the tree line that is the question,

It seems that nothing will keep it up, not a wish, not a dare,

Not the proffered flowers of our held breath. It seems

As if the plane is a prey the hunter has lined up in his sights,

His finger pressing against the cold metal, the taste of blood

On his tongue . . . but then, at the dizzying height

Of our dismay, just before the sky goes black,

The climber's frail hand reaches up and grasps the highest rock,

Hauling, with a last shudder, the body over,

The gun lowers, and perfectly poised now, high above

The dark pines, the plane is home free. It owns it all, all.

My brother looks down and counts his possessions,

Strip and grass, the child's cemetery the black tombstones

Of the cedars make on the grassy hill, the wind-scrubbed

Face of the pond, the swan's white stone . . .

In thirty years, roughly, we will all be dead . . . That is one thing . . .

And you can't judge the swan out of the water . . . That is another.

The swan is mean and ugly, stupid as stone,

But when it finally makes its way down the slope, over rocks

And weeds, through the razory grasses of the muddy shallows,

The water fanning out in loose circles around it

And then stilling, when it finally reaches the deepest spot

And raises in slow motion its perfectly articulated wings,

Wings of smoke, wings of air, then everything changes.

Out of the shallows, the lovers emerge, sword and flame,

And over the pond's lone island the willow spills its canopy,

A shifting feast of gold and green, a spell of lethal beauty.

O bird of moonlight. O bird of wish. O sound rising

Like an echo from the water. Grief sound. Sound of the horn.

The same ghostly sound the deer makes when it runs

Through the woods at night, white lightning through the trees,

Through the coldest moments, when it feels as if the earth

Will never again grow warm, lover running toward lover,

The branches tearing back, the mouth and eyes wide,

The heart flying into the arms of the one that will kill her.

via @Poetry_Daily

[365days365movies]

February 14, 2021: Brokeback Mountain (2005) (Part 1)

Happy Valentine’s Day!

Or Palentine’s, Galentine’s, Single Persons Appreciation Day, what have you!

Anyway, on this day where we (and the greeting card companies) celebrate love in all of its forms, I think it’s about time to diversify my movie choices a little bit. SO, for the next few days at least, we’re going to change it up, starting with a film that shook the 2005 public’s perceptions of love: Brokeback Mountain.

And who brings this movie to us? Same guy who gave us this:

And this:

And would give us this:

Ang Lee wasn’t originally meant to be the director of the film, as Gus van Sant was signed on to do it. You know, Good Will Hunting, Drugstore Cowboy, that one movie where Una Thurman plays the greatest hitchhiker in the world with giant thumbs, and eventually finds herself meeting multiple people, including Keanu Reeves, Pat Morita (Mr. Miyagi from The Karate Kid), and a group of radicalesbians who like in the Great Plains, coexisting with a group of critically endangered whooping cranes to whom they;’ve fed peyote, while also opposing the intentions of an evil feminine hygiene product company that seeks to take over the land for their factories? YOU KNOW, THAT MOVIE?

It’s called Even Cowgirls Get the Blues, and I wasn’t even slightly exaggerating with that summary, I SWEAR.

Anyway, he couldn’t do it, and Joel Schumacher also passed on it eventually, so they asked Ang Lee if he’d do it. After CTHD and Hulk, dude was on his way to retire, but after he cried at the end of the script, he accepted the job. AND HISTORY WAS MADE

Before I get into it, I should probably frank about something. I’m a cissexual, heterosexual man in a straight relationship with my girlfriend. She says hi, by the way. Here she is, a massive Jake Gyllenhaal fan, getting ready to watch this movie for the first time with me:

Isn’t she lovely? Anyway, just thought I’d be totally transparent about that. Incidentally, I remember when this film came out, as well as the fervor around it. This was JUST as the gay marriage debate was EXPLODING into the public scene, so this was obviously quite the talking point at the time.

 Anyway, shall we find out who’s not going to quit whom? SPOILERS AHEAD!!!

Recap

Cowboys Ennis del Mar (Heath Ledger) and Jack Twist (Jake Gyllenhaal) are waiting outside of a trailer, with Ennis having just arrived  on a truck that reminded me of Optimus Prime, and I’m sorry. They’ve been hired by Joe Aguirre (Randy Quaid) to look after a group of sheep and guide them over Brokeback Mountain, a fictional mountain in Wyoming.

The two finally introduce each other, with Ennis seeming considerably closed off as compared to the open Jack Twist. They head to a bar, where the two get to know each other a but better Jack’s an occasional shepherd, but highly involved in rodeos throughout the year. Ennis, meanwhile, is a regular ranchhand at his family’s farm.

Time for sheep-herding, as the two guide their flock of sheep on horseback, with soft country guitars playing in the background over all of it. And I gotta say, the music combined with the visuals is giving me this real sleepy ambience vibe that I 100% would watch specifically to fall asleep to. Which is not an insult by any means, by the way; it’s just super relaxing.

The two make camp with the sheep in a mountain valley, and now I want to go camping. I realize that it’s February, and I live in a place VERY non-conducive to camping, but GODDAMN this movie makes me want to go camping. In the wilderness, surrounded by bird calls and crisp mountain air, LET’S GO.

We find out that Ennis is engaged to be wed to a woman named Alma, while Jack is yearning to break free of needing to take jobs like this. And all the while, they’re eating beans, scaring away coyotes, and fending of REALLY REALLY FAT American black bears, who you could really easily scare away without too much difficulty. You ever stared at a bear while both of you were in the woods? I HAVE. And we BOTH took off from each other in opposite directions. They’re not the bravest of animals, black bears. Grizzlies, however, you don’t wanna fuck with.

Anyway, after they face off against that bear and lose their newly bought supplies, they go hunting the next day and take down an elk. Which is a LOT of venison, I tell you what! Oh, and I’m not a hunter, just to be clear, but elk are fuggin’ HUGE. Seriously, XL deer they are.

Anyway, time goes on after that, and they continue to make their way through the mountains. And they get to know each other more, sharing their rodeo experiences and family backgrounds. Ennis also opens up pretty considerably, a fact not missed by Jack. The two become friends.

My girlfriend asks an interesting question: if I had never heard of this movie in any capacity...would I have known the extent of the relationship of Ennis and Jack? And honestly...I’m legitimately not sure at this point. I think I would’ve just assumed that they’d stay close friends, but no further than that. Call that being raised in a society with heterosexual bias towards relationships, or call that me not being a natural shipper. Both are probably accurate, to be honest.

Anyway, it’s getting cold out, and Jack’s sleeping in the tent one night while Ennis is freezing his balls off outside. With Jack’s insistence, he goes inside the tent to sleep next to Jack. And then...

Oh. Well, OK. Again, though, still not sure that at this point I’d...oh wait...OH...OH.

OK. Think I’d be able to tell at this point what the movie’s about.

So, yeah, they have sex. It’s spontaneous, it’s wild, it’s heat of the moment passion...and it’s REAL awkward the next day, I tell you what. That next evening, Ennis and Jack both insist that they “ain’t queer,” and that this is “a one-shot thing they got goin’.”

Uh, boys? There’s some important evidence to the contrary that we should consider here. But, OK, it’s a different culture, this is super new to you both, I get it. I’m not one to talk on the coming out or discovery experience (again, straight cis dude over here), but I understand that there’s some inherent denial. But still, they continue their relationship as is, for the time being.

Which is not as private as they thought, as Joe Aguirre observes them chasing each other naked on the mountain from afar. Whoops. Well, it doesn’t matter as much, as they still have a job to do until summer ends. And that job continues. They encounter another herd of sheep that gets tangled up with theirs, snow falls on the mountain and they have to deal with that, etc.

Then one day, the two need to head out. Jack goes to fetch Ennis, who’s moping on a hillside about something. He does this play lasso thing, which seems cute...

...until it turns into a full on brawl right there on the hillside. OK. Well. Some heavy denial going on here, I think, especially on Ennis’ part. Which is somewhat understandable, given the culture, and the fact that Ennis is engaged. Oh, by the way, hello infidelity. GodDAMN IT. Escaped you for TWO MOVIES IN A ROW, and you’re back rearing your ugly head.

Anyway, the job is done soon, and Aguirre’s not exactly happy with them, as they’ve apparently lost some sheep and picked up some from the other herd’s flock accidentally. With a light rebuke from Aguirre, the two part ways with not much else said. Jack asks if Ennis will come back the next summer, and Ennis reminds him that he’s getting married that fall. But as Ennis leaves...

Huh. Interesting reaction, that. Well, in the next scene, Ennis gets married to Alma Beers (Michelle Williams), and they seem to have a very happy relationship. They have two daughters together in a pretty small amount of time. The next summer, Jack tries to get a job with Joe Aguirre once again, but is refused on account of his relationship with Ennis on the mountain...kind of.

See, here’s the thing. Joe rebukes Jack for having their relationship on the mountain, leaving the dogs to babysit the sheep, rather than do the job they were hired for. And, uh...he’s not wrong, honestly. Yeah, OK, there’s definitely some homophobia laced in there, obviously, but they were hired to watch the sheep, and we only really saw them do that once or twice. So, yeah, sorry to say, but Joe’s not entirely unjustified in not rehiring Jack.

At a Fourth of July festival, Ennis brings his wife and daughters to see the fireworks, when a couple of bikers antagonize the crowd as a whole. This results in Ennis telling them to stop, and a fight takes place, with Ennis IMMEDIATELY taking out the two bikers, with little effort. Anger issues there, Ennis? 

Jack returns to the rodeo, with new other options for money. He’s clearly also coming to terms with his own sexuality, as seen when he not so subtly hits on a cowboy at the bar. However, he also meets a young woman, a barrel racer named Lureen Newsome (Anne Hathaway), whom he seems to get along with fairly quickly at a rodeo. They dance together at the bar that night, and, uh...park.

And that, of course, leads to their eventual marriage and parentage as well. Looks like Lureen’s parents arent the biggest fans of Jack, though. Sure that’s going to lead to a healthy relationship down the road.

Been about 4 years since Brokeback Mountain, and this is punctuated by Jack paying a visit to Ennis’ place, which Ennis is told about by Alma. He seems...very anious, waiting nervously for a day to see him. But he finally arrives, and the two embrace happily. And then...

Oh, and Alma sees? Sure, sure, oh, and they go to a motel IMMEDIATELY? Oh, OK, OK, infidelity? Yuuuuuuupyupyupyupyupyup, halfway point? Yeah, sure, see you in Part 2. Geez.

[trashyswitch]

The Struggle is REAL!

Patton gets aggressive and surprisingly giggly when the car won't start. Logan is left in awe by the strange reaction, while Roman laughs his head off and further teases him and annoys him. It doesn't take long for the Moral and Creative side to start up a playful and slightly aggressive tickle fight.

I got this idea from a TikTok about a guy struggling to get his truck started. I hope you like it!

Patton, Logan and Roman were sitting in Thomas’s car. Logan was in the passenger seat, Patton was in the driver's seat, and Roman was in the back. They were planning on picking up some take out from a local chinese food restaurant. But the boys weren’t going anywhere until Patton got the car started.

Patton sighed as he attempted to turn the car key in the ignition. It was turning, but the car engine wasn’t turning on. Patton turned it over, and over, and over again, but nothing would turn on. “Um…” Patton removed the key and stared at it. “Excuse me, please work.” Patton told it before shoving it back into the ignition. Patton turned it once: nothing. He turned it twice: nothing. Patton frowned and turned it a third time! Nothing! Patton ripped the key out of the ignition. “What did I just tell you?” Patton asked it with a stern voice.

Roman was snickering at him, while Logan was looking at Patton with slight worry. “Would you like some help, Patton?” Logan asked.

“No.” Patton said back.

“Are you sure?” Logan clarified.

“I can do this. The key is just...being...VERY difficult.” Patton explained as he struggled with the key again.

Logan nodded. “I can see that.” He reacted.

Roman was covering his mouth and struggling to keep himself together. He could tell Patton was getting close to raging, and he couldn’t wait to see it.

“Is it really that hard?” Roman asked. Patton let out a high-pitched growl and smacked the steering wheel with his palm.

Logan widened his eyes for a moment. “Here Patton. Would you like me to-” Logan brought his hand over to the key and the ignition, and started trying to turn it himself. Sure enough, the ignition was failing to start the car. “The wiring must be faulty. It may take a few more tries to get-”

“I’m doing it!” Patton declared as he basically ripped Logan’s fingers off the key and grasped it with his own hand.

“Uh-...Okay.” Logan replied in a calm, but worried tone.

Patton tried turning it half a dozen times in a single run. But nothing was starting the car. Patton tried gripping the key a different way, and turned it a couple dozen times in a row. He tried turning it quickly: nothing. He tried turning it slower: nothing. He tried turning it with immense force: no reaction. And finally, he calmed himself down long enough to try it lightly:

Nothing.

“GRRRAAAA! YOU STUPID-” Patton ripped the key out of the ignition and floored the gas petal in anger. Since the car wasn’t actually on, the car didn’t even move an inch.

Logan looked at Patton in surprise. “Okay...Patton, let’s breath...alright?” Logan told him. Patton took a moment to breath in, hold his breath and breathe out. He breathed in, held his breath for a few seconds, and let out his breath. He breathed in-

“Yohou gonna start the car yet?” Roman asked.

Patton’s breath exploded from his mouth and came out in a mix of hysterical laughter, and frustrated growls. “Ihihihi’m TRYYYYYIHIHING!” Patton yelled over his shoulder. “IHIHIT WON’T START!” Patton added before taking another shot at starting the truck.

Logan sat back and stared at Patton in disbelief. Was Patton...laughing out of frustration?

Meanwhile, Patton was turning the key dozens of times per minute in an attempt to get the car to do something. Patton’s emotions were a mix of a trainwreck, and failarmy all in 1. His brain was growing insane from frustration, but his brain was also laughing over the stupid conundrum. Patton let out a quick growl, and headbutted the middle of the steering wheel in anger.

HOOOONK!

Patton screamed and threw his head back up, before bursting out laughing and leaning into the driver's seat. Roman bursted out laughing at the moment as well. “OHOHO MY GOHOHOD I’M DYHYHYIHIHING!” Roman shouted.

Logan was the only person not laughing. Instead, he was just staring at them in pure confusion. “I...what in the world is so funny?” Logan asked.

“Ihihi cahan’t start the car! And I made the car go HOOONK! WITH MY FOREHEAD!” Patton told him before falling into another laughing fit.

Logan didn’t know what to say to that. The other two sides were acting like idiots, but...they were acting like rambunctious, cute little idiots.

“Cohome on Patton! Start the car already!” Roman told him.

“YOU DON’T THINK I’M TRYING?!” Patton exclaimed.

“Well yeah, but...try jiggling it-”

“JIGGLE IT?!” Patton yelled.

“Yes! Jiggle it as you turn it!” Roman told him.

Logan narrowed his eyes at Roman in slight anger. “That’s just gonna make the wiring worse-”

But Patton was already jiggling the key while he turned it. He tried to jiggle before he turned it: it didn’t work. He tried to jiggle the key while he turned it: that didn’t work either. He tried jiggling it after it was turned all the way: That failed. He even removed it, put it back in, turned it again and jiggled it like a mad man! And would you know, it didn’t work.

“FUUUCK!” Patton shouted before he pulled the key out of the ignition again.

Logan’s jaw dropped in surprise. “WHOA...Patton! Your language-”

“I’m DONE! I’M DONE WITH THIS STUPID CAR! IT’S BEEN CAUSING THOMAS SO MUCH TROUBLE FOR SO LONG…” Patton yelled with a slight smile on his face.

“Pahahat- Hey Pat…” Roman called.

Patton sighed and sunk down in the chair. “What.” He replied.

Roman’s smirk widened as he changed his voice to a raspy, elder Karen voice. “You just gotta JIGGLE IT, I SWEAR!” Roman joked, referencing the TikTok audio. Patton wheezed and hit the steering wheel again. “Fuck you, Kevin.” Roman added as Patton resumed his attempts to turn the key.

Logan sighed and rubbed his nose. “Is now really the time for TikTok jokes?” Logan asked.

“Are you kidding?! Now is the PERFECT time for a TikTok joke!” Roman told him.

Patton resumed his key turning for a good few minutes. But like a computer with no battery, it just wouldn’t start running.

“Bro, start the truck!” Roman added.

“IT WON’T! STAHAHART! DO YOU WANNA TRY IT?!” Patton yelled at Roman.

“No, no, no. I wanna see you and your flimsy little arms start this car.” Roman replied in with a smirk.

“I-De-I-UM- FLIMSY ARMS?!” Patton shouted at him.

“Roman, stop pissng him off!” Logan ordered sternly.

“Patton’s not pissed off. Patton, are you pissed off right now?” Roman asked.

Patton widened his smile as he shook his head in shock. “YYEHEHEHES!” Patton shouted over his shoulder.

“Aw, come on Pat. You just get stronger and jiggle the key until it starts!” Roman explained.

Patton let out a long growl and a whine and rested his forehead on the top of the steering wheel. He was going insane, over a simple car issue! And Roman wasn’t making things any better! Logan was being an angel by keeping quiet and trying to help him, but Roman was being annoying, just for the hell of it!

“Hey...hey Pat…” Roman called calmly. Oh gosh...what does he want now? “You gonna start the car yet?” Roman asked.

It was as if a switch was flicked on inside his brain! Because almost immediately after those words were spoken, Patton abandoned the driver's seat, climbed right into the back and started tickling Roman as revenge for being SO ANNOYING!

“BAAAHAHAHAHAHA! NO! NOTICKLES, NOHOHO TICKLIHIHIHIHIHIHING!” Roman shouted at him through his newfound laughter.

“Are you done? Are you done bothering me, Roman?” Patton asked, slight frustration still present in his voice.

“WHAHAHAT HAHAPPEHEHENED TOHO YOHOHOUR PAHAHATIEHENCE?!” Roman exclaimed.

“Oh! Patient Patton isn’t here right now! Wanna know who IS here?” Patton asked.

“NOHOHOHO TIHIHICKLE MOHOHONSTEHEHEHER!” Roman begged.

“Nope! It’s the HANGRY TICKLE MONSTER! AND BOY, DOES THIS MONSTER NEED FOOD!” Patton declared before shoving his face into Roman’s belly and nibbling loudly.

NONONONAAAAAAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA! EEEEEEHEHEHEHEHE! OH GOD, PLEHEHEHEASE STAHAHAHAHAP!” Roman begged.

WhaAaAaAat? But the Hangry tickle monster barely got a few bites in!” Patton whined.

Roman couldn’t talk. The laughter from earlier, mixed with the laughter from Patton tickling, was leaving him gasping for air. So, Roman shook his head helplessly.

“Awww, the poor man can’t talk! Perhaps he should’ve thought of what he was doing when he’s making a hungry tickle monster even more hu- EEEEK! LOHOHO! NAHAHAHAHAAAA!” Patton declared. Quickly though, Patton was interrupted by his own laughter! Logan appeared to have climbed into the back seat of the car as well, and was now hugging Patton and squeezing his sides and ribs.

“It appears that the hangry tickle monster needs a little help calming down…” Logan said in a calm, but sly voice.

Roman quickly took the free opportunity, to get up and grab Patton’s foot. Patton yelped and tugged on his foot, but failed to get it loose. “NOHOHO FEEEEHEHEHET!” Patton begged.

“Oho! No feet? I didn’t know the hangry tickle monster had ticklish feet!” Roman reacted jokingly. “Please explain by laughing as I tickle!” Roman ordered before tickling his now bare, left foot.

Patton widened his eyes for a moment and burst into hysterics, before squeezing them shut. Logan lessened his own fingers to let Roman take over, and primarily watched the poor Father fall apart just from one ticklish foot. “Aah...I get it! The tickle monster is extremely ticklish!” Roman commented.

“YOHOHOU THIHIHIHINK?!” Patton shouted back.

“Now what would happen if I sloooowly moooove to your…ticklish widdle toesies?” Roman moved his fingers up and up to Patton’s 5 toes and started scratching under them.

Patton fell into cackles almost immediately. He attempted to move his foot around to tug it free, but Roman had a really good hold on it. Plus, moving his foot around would only tickle him further.

“NOOOHOHO TOHOHOHOES! NOHOHOHO TOHOHOHOES!” Patton begged as he squirmed around.

“No toes, huh? Funnily enough, I see 5 little toes right here! This little piggy went to the market…” Roman started grabbing his toes one at a time, and started pushing them back and tickling under them.

“AAAAEEEEEEEHEHEHEHE!” Patton squealed.

“This little piggy stayed home!” Roman continued, pulling back the 2nd toe and giving the skin underneath a few scratches.

“COHOHOHOME OHOHON, ROHOHOHOHO! NOHOHO RHYHYHYHYMES!” Patton begged despite his powerless state.

Roman ignored Patton’s plea however, and only continued the rhyme.

“This little piggy got the giggles…” Roman continued, pulling the third toe back and giving the underside some little scratches.

“THAHAT’S NOT HOHOHOW IHIT GOHOHOHOHOES!” Patton protested.

“It is now!” Roman declared before continuing. “And this little piggy got de tickle-tickle-tickles!” Roman rhymed, lifting the 4th toe up and tickling under it.

“NUUUUHUHUHUHUHU! HAHAHAHAHAHA!” Patton laughed and squirmed in Logan’s arms.

Logan decided to join Roman for the last verse: “And this little piggy went WEE WEE WEE WEE WEE WEE! All the waaayy home!” Roman and Logan both spoke proudly as Roman tickled the underside of Patton’s pinky toe.

“EEEEHEHEHEHEHEHEHEHAHAHAHAHAHA! IHIHI’M DYHYIHING, I’M DYHYHYHYHYIHIHING!” Patton yelled fruitlessly.

“Alright, I think that’s enough.” Logan told Roman.

Roman stopped tickling almost immediately. “Sounds good.” Roman replied and stepped back. Patton was a giggly mess of emotions within Logan’s arms. Logan happily welcomed this giddy behaviour and pulled Patton into a big hug from behind. Patton giggled through almost the entire hug, and hugged Logan’s arms as best he could in his position.

Suddenly, the sudden roaring of the car engine filled the car for a moment. Patton and Logan looked towards the driver's seat, and widened their eyes at Roman’s magical fingers. Roman had managed to figure out how to start the car! But how?! Roman’s never driven!

“WHAT?!” Patton shouted.

“Huh…” Was all Logan could say.

Roman giggled at him. “You’re welcome.” Roman replied with a smile.

And with that, the three boys headed off to get some good ol’ chow mein, sesame chicken and amazing chicken balls covered in cherry sauce.

The perfect meal for the hungry sides.

[etherealwaifgoddess]

Extraordinary

Characters: Steve Rogers x Reader

Summary: Steve is just trying to get through his day to day life in the wake of The Battle of New York, working at SHIELD and trying to ignore his own personal demons. Then he meets Y/N, a librarian who sees more than just the mantle of Captain America. 

Content Warning: some negative inner dialogue

Word Count: 3.1k

Author’s Note: Hello lovelies! This was written for the oh-so-talented @lancsnerd ‘s 1k Challenge. I picked the quote “You’re not special. You’re extraordinary.” for Steve. I really had a blast with this prompt and I hope you all enjoy the fic! XOXO - Ash

Extraordinary

“A hero? Like you?” Tony spits out incredulously,  “You're a lab rat, Rogers. Everything special about you came out of a bottle!”

Tony’s words echo in Steve’s head as he wakes with a start. Heart pounding, chest heaving, he tries to get his bearings. A dream. Just a dream. The words though, those still sting. Even a year later Steve can’t shake the feeling that Tony was right. Shit. He’s never getting back to sleep now. 

Steve drags himself out of bed, ignoring the alarm clock’s judgmental blue glow of 4:15am. At least he made it past 3am this time. Sleep problems are common in people with PTSD, his therapist had told him. She offered him medication to help but Steve declined, not sure how well it would work with his super soldier metabolism anyways. He dresses quickly, wanting to get a run in before breakfast. Steve has plenty of time, SHIELD doesn’t require him to show up until 9am, but he’s normally there before eight. He likes feeling useful, and having a steady job at SHIELD has been centering for him.

Steve runs a full marathon before the sun even comes up. He returns home just over an hour later, sweaty and finally starting to feel his muscles burn a little. It’s nice being able to lose himself for a little while in the steady rhythm of his feet hitting the pavement. He stares at his coffee maker for a moment before deciding it isn’t worth the hassle. It’s strange, having the luxury of getting coffee out just because he feels like it. The 1940s still feel like they were a few years ago and Steve’s depression era values run deep. He will admit though, there’s something to be said for takeout. Steve powers through two protein bars as he gets ready for a shower, needing something in his system before he crashes. It’s obnoxious some days how much his enhanced body requires, but he manages. It’s just one of the many unexpected side effects of Erskine’s serum.

Surviving Project Rebirth had been a blessing and a curse. Steve had finally gotten everything he wanted; a chance to fight for what was right, to do something meaningful with his life. But it came with a high price: his freedom. Steve’s life hasn’t been his own since the moment he stepped out of the vita-ray pod. He wasted so much time being the military’s dancing monkey and then once they realized he could fight, it was one battle after another. Even in this new century, he was thrust into a battle for mankind shortly after thawing out. Working for SHIELD for the past year has felt like a vacation after WWII and the Battle of New York. 

Steve clears the steam from the bathroom mirror after his shower, needing to do a quick shave. He stares at his reflection long after his face is back to its standard smoothness. Tony was right, his inner demons whisper. Fraud. Nothing. Worthless. Steve knows he’s supposed to reframe his thoughts and move past his negative inner dialogue, but in the moment he just can’t summon the will to care. Running a comb through his hair, he heads into the bedroom to dress for the day. He may not feel up to it at the moment but given a little time and some coffee, he’ll be okay by the time he gets into the office. 

The sounds of the city in downtown DC remind Steve of the Brooklyn of his youth and he’s comforted by the familiar hustle and bustle. He almost doesn’t see the oncoming trash truck when you step off the sidewalk to cross the street. A step behind you, Steve catches the large green truck out of the corner of his eye. The truck barely stops at the light and makes an illegal right turn on red, barreling straight for you. Steve, in a burst of speed, slams into you, scooping you up in his arms and rolling into the other lane out of the way of danger. As his broad shoulders collide with the pavement he holds you as tightly as he can, letting his body take the brunt of the impact. People on the sidewalk scream watching the scene unfold, but it’s all background noise to Steve who is only focused on the squeak of surprise you make as you roll. 

You come to a stop with Steve below you and he’s frantic to make sure you’re okay. “Are you alright? Are you hurt?” he asks urgently.

You blink a few times, gaining your bearings. One minute you’re crossing the street to work, the next you’re using America’s most famous super soldier as a human mattress. Not how you expected your day to go, to say the least. “I’m okay. I think.”

Steve frowns, still concerned. “You could be in shock. Here, let’s get you up.” 

You start to get up on your own but the second you’re off him Steve jumps up and reaches out. You accept his hand, pulling yourself up from the dirty DC street and trying in vain to straighten out your clothes. Steve collects your messenger bag and has it ready to hand over as soon as you’re done fussing with your silk blouse that is definitely going to need a trip to the dry cleaners after this. “Thanks.” you give him a small smile as you take your bag. 

Steve feels his breath catch in the wake of your smile. You’re petite compared to him, your smart bun is a little mussed from the rolling and your cheeks are flushed. He tries to ignore his interest in your soft feminine curves but Steve would have to be blind not to notice you. Almost a hundred years old and he still doesn’t know how to act around a pretty girl. Idiot. Useless, his demons hiss. “Let me buy you a cup of coffee,” he blurts out before his brain can catch up, “If you’re in shock then I can at least keep an eye on you for a bit.” 

First he saves your life, now he’s offering you coffee. Captain America indeed. “You don’t have to, really. I was going to just stop in at La Columbe on my way to work.” 

“I was headed there too! Come on, I’ll feel a lot better knowing you’re not gonna pass out the second the shock wears off.” Steve gives you his very best earnest expression, “Please? I’m Steve, by the way.” he adds as an afterthought.

“Hi Steve.” you try not to laugh. Like you hadn’t recognized the literal symbol of America. “I’m Y/N.” 

“Nice to meet you, Y/N. So, coffee?” 

“Sure, why not?” you agree. Steve’s face lights up like the sun and you’re blinded by it. Part of you wonders if the truck actually hit you and you’re dead, or maybe in a coma dreaming. Only the slight ache in your shoulder gives you confidence that this surreal experience is your real life.

You follow Steve down the block to your favorite coffee shop, making small talk along the way by explaining you work at the library two blocks over. You’ve run the children's programs and adult literacy group there for the past four years. Steve seems genuinely interested in your work which is both surprising and sweet. 

There’s no line at the coffee shop so you take a minute to pick your drink while Steve orders his usual Americano and a bag full of breakfast sandwiches. He looks bashfully over at you once he’s done, insisting you add your coffee to his tab. You settle on a smoked butterscotch latte, it’s been a while since you had one. You stop there every morning before work but never order the same drink twice in a row.

You try to get Steve to talk about himself while you wait for your drinks but he’s adorably vague. “Steve,” you stop him with a gentle hand on his forearm, “I know who you are. It’s okay.” 

Steve barks out a laugh, “Sorry. I forget sometimes. Okay then, I’m heading into the office to consult on a mission from last week. They have me review mission reports to make notes on how we can improve things in the future.” 

“That’s actually really cool.” you tell him. You would have said more but your orders are up and Steve hands you your paper to go cup. “Well, thanks for the drink, Steve. And the whole saving me thing.” you joke.

“Any time ma’am.” he quips, full of cheesy Captain America charm. You’re surprised and delighted to find he has a little bit of sass to him. “Really though,” he adds in a normal tone, “Are you sure you’re okay?” 

“I am, thanks to you.” 

There’s an awkward moment before you part. You don’t want to come across as a crazy fangirl but you also want to talk to him again sometime. Then again, you’re a librarian who’s closest friends are books and he’s Captain freaking America. You squash down the impulse and part ways with a smile. At least you’ll have an interesting story to tell Ellen at work. 

A few days go by and Steve keeps hoping to see you again at the coffee shop. It’s completely ridiculous but he wants to check on you and make sure you’re okay. It also doesn’t hurt that you’re beautiful. Steve spends two days debating with himself if it would be creepy or kind to pop by the library to check on you. By Friday morning he’s talked himself into it as he wraps up his run. He throws on a smart looking button up shirt and makes sure his hair is slicked back nicely in a way Natasha insists is stylish. Fool. Impostor. Idiot. His head demons whisper as he checks himself in the mirror one last time. He forces himself to ignore them and heads out in the warm summer air. 

Steve realizes as he stands on the steps of the library that he doesn’t know your schedule. Or your last name. He steels himself for impending failure and heads inside. He can at least try. 

Your voice carries through the quiet library and it calms him immediately. “- and he hopped so high that his ears brushed the branches above. That’s good hopping thought little nutbrown hare…” 

Steve follows the sound of your voice across the library where he finds you sitting cross legged on a brightly patterned carpet in front of a small herd of preschoolers. Your tone and expressions keep the kids engaged as you read them a story and Steve is spellbound. He hangs back quietly leaning on a bookcase, watching you lead the group and waiting for you to finish. It doesn’t take long before the group disbands and you’re on your own to clean up after receiving a few enthusiastic hugs from the kids. 

“Hey, Y/N.” Steve says walking over to you. 

You look up, not having noticed him before. “Steve!” you try to stifle how excited you are by his presence. “How are you?”

“I’m okay. Thought I’d drop by to see how you’re doing.” 

“I’m fine, really. I promise. Your life saving skills are excellent.” 

“Glad I haven’t lost my touch being behind a desk.” 

“Definitely not.” you assure him, “So, anything I can help you with while you’re here?” 

Steve realizes he hadn’t thought much past seeing you again. “Could I take you out for a cup of coffee?” 

“I’m working right now.” Steve’s heart drops in his chest, “But I’ll be free for lunch around one.”

Lunch. Not just coffee, but an actual meal. Hope renews in Steve. “I can do that. I could pick you up here?” 

“Sure. There’s a few places around here, so we have options.” 

“Okay great,” Steve tries to reign in his enthusiasm, “I’ll see you then.” Steve gives you a blinding smile before you part ways and it makes you wonder if the fluttering feeling in your chest might be reciprocated after all. 

Steve arrives back at the library at one o’clock sharp, not really caring if it messes up his schedule at Shield. He never takes a real lunch, often just grabbing a tray of something in the cafeteria and dragging it back up to his office to eat while he works. It’s nice getting out in the warm sunshine in the middle of the day. Steve spots you coming out at the same time he’s heading up the stairs and he gives you a small wave. “Ready to go?” he calls as he meets you on the stairs. 

“Absolutely.” you grin, “What are you in the mood for?” 

“I eat just about anything.” 

“Me too. Um, there’s a really good taco truck around the corner. We could eat in the park?” 

“Sounds great.” Steve agrees easily. It’s not a conventional type of first date and that makes it almost more exciting to him. 

You show Steve the way to your favorite food truck where you have to suppress your surprise when he practically buys out the truck. He apologizes profusely, making sure the guys know if they need to wait on other people first he’s fine waiting. 

“Steve,” you finally attempt to get his attention, “You know it’s okay to order yourself a meal, right? You don’t have to keep apologizing, these guys are used to the lunch rush.” 

Steve’s cheeks redden and he rubs a hand on the back of his neck, a visible nervous tick. “I know.” he says, but his words don’t sound convincing even to himself. 

A few others do show up while you wait but as expected, the guys are used to the rush and have no trouble keeping up. After only a few minutes they’re calling Steve’s name and he hurries over to collect your bags. A pair of girls are eyeing him as he accepts the food, whispering in the least subtle way possible. They can’t be more than twenty and they’re frantically typing on their phones as they whisper. 

“Are you, Captain America?” the braver of the two asks him.

“Yes, ma’am.” Steve replies. His tone is friendly yet guarded and you watch him with curiosity. 

The girls giggle, and the other speaks up, “I did a whole history project on you and the Howlies a few years ago. You’re a real inspiration.” 

“Um… thank you.” Steve says, rubbing the back of his neck nervously again. “You ladies have a nice day.” He’s moving away before they can even say goodbye, making a beeline for you.

Finding a picnic table over by the shade trees Steve lays out the food, your taco platter looking pitiful next to his spread. Steve’s shoulders start to loosen a little as you start chatting about your day. You see him cringe when the girls from earlier walk past, but they don’t stop or say anything, only giving him quick little waves as they pass by. 

“That has to be a little overwhelming.” you comment mildly.

“Hmm?” Steve hums, mouth full of taco.

“Being recognized all the time.” you clarify. “It has to be a little overwhelming.” 

Steve nods, “Yeah, I’m still getting used to it. I just don’t get it. I’m really nothing special.” 

You laugh lightly, “Steve, you’re Captain America. You’re not special, you’re extraordinary.” 

“I’m just a kid from Brooklyn who never learned to stand down in a fight.” he shrugs. 

“And grew up to save the world. Twice.” 

“Nah, I had a lot of help with that.”

“You really suck at letting people compliment you, you know that?” you tease.

Steve sighs, shaking his head, “I just don’t get it. I don’t want to be Cap all the time. Sometimes I just want to be Steve Rogers.” 

“Well there’s your problem then.” Steve looks at you expectantly to continue. “Because Steve Rogers is pretty damn extraordinary too.” 

Steve stares at you for a stunned moment. He doesn’t even know how to respond to adequately express how much your words mean to him. No one has wanted Steve just for himself since Peggy and that had been a lifetime ago. For once the demons in his head are silent. Steve takes a long, steadying breath before speaking. “Thank you, Y/N.”

“Nothing to thank me for. Now, tell me, what does Steve Rogers do for fun?”

Steve laughs at the topic change. “Have you heard of the show Parks and Recreation?”

“That is literally the best show.” you give your words a Chris Traeger inflection and watch as a wide smile breaks out on Steve’s face.

“Nice. Well, I’m watching that right now. I’m about halfway through the list of important things to watch and this show’s actually pretty good.” 

“You have a list? What else is on it?” you wonder who made it for him and if any other of your favorite shows are on it.

“How much time do you have?” Steve jokes.

“For you, I have all the time in the world.” 

But you didn’t have all the time in the world. You didn’t need to get back to the library for the next group until 3:30 and you had thought that would be more than enough time. Instead the minutes flew by as you talked with Steve and by the time you finish, you’re racing back to the library to make it there on time. Talking with Steve was as easy as breathing and you were disappointed when you realized you were out of time. You had kept the conversation on generic ‘getting to know you’ topics, keeping away from anything Avengers related since he seemed uncomfortable talking about his public persona. While a tiny part of your brain had swooned over Captain America at first, you’re currently swooning over Steve Rogers himself. He’s kind, surprisingly funny, and as you suspected, genuinely a good man. 

“Y/N, wait!” Steve calls out, causing you to stop in the doorway to the library. You had already said your goodbyes but Steve’s mouth had gotten ahead of his brain yet again. 

You look to him expectantly, waiting for him to continue.

He takes a long breath, bracing himself against his own nerves.“Can we do this again sometime?”

“Yeah, Steve. We can.”

[cheshiresense]

Oooh! Um... How about Kisuke/Yoruichi/Ichigo? Shadowrun AU (Fantasy AU if you don't know Shadowrun)

Lol I have no idea what Shadowrun is, did a quick google and it’s something like magic + cyberpunk + vaguely futuristic post-apocalyptic setting + virtual reality?? Omg it’s too complicated to write just from reading the wiki lmao, I’ll just give you a cyberpunk fantasy AU.

Edit: This got away from me a bit whoops.

1. Kisuke is your average humble toymaker in the Slums who may or may not supply the underground Robin Hood-esque rebel faction Visored with not-so-average weapons and prosthetics and various repairs and upgrades. The Visored are pretty much wanted in every kingdom in existence, partly because half of them used to be nobles themselves and were part of the minority who hated the way they treated their citizens, mostly because they keep fucking with the other nobles, but no one except said nobles actually wants them to stop because everybody who isn’t nobility pretty much hates those who are. Mostly, it’s the three neighbouring kingdoms - Seireitei, Silbern, and Las Noches - sitting cozy up in their walled off flourishing cities up high, constantly at war with each other but with plenty to eat and plenty of money to fund their large-scale chess games, and paying almost zero attention to the poor and homeless outside their walls. That doesn’t stop them from forcibly conscripting the lower class as cannon fodder or using the Slums as their personal dumping grounds or imprisoning or executing anyone they decide is breaking one law or another. Kisuke’s stayed under the radar so far, so nobody knows he’s the man even more wanted than the Visored, if only for his prodigal skills with cybertech. He’s the one who built their equipment and vehicles, who repaired Hiyori’s spine after she’d been left unable to walk from an ambush and produced a new arm for Hachi after it was cut off in a skirmish, both of which work just as well as the original parts. Most of the nobles either want to kill him or “hire” him. But a toymaker in the Slums who cobbles together tiny cats and dragons and chickens and pixies out of scrap metal for children to play with isn’t anything to look twice at.

2. Here is a secret only a handful of people know - Shihouin Yoruichi was born a cripple. She couldn’t walk, at all, and even the best prosthetics money could buy from the various cybertech companies were clunky and awkward and only allowed her to limp a certain distance. Her family, one of the great noble houses of Seireitei that specialized in seduction and assassination, hid her away out of shame, right up until a rebellious teenaged Yoruichi had had enough and snuck out one night on nothing but her wobbly fake legs and a crutch. She’d spent enough time on her own for the majority of her childhood to know just about every passageway and secret door that snaked through the length and width of Seireitei. She didn’t stop until she appeared in the Slums, and she fainted from exhaustion and hunger only a few days later, but she never looked back. Kisuke found her, took her in, and then made her legs on a whim, upgrading them every time he figured out something new and better that he could add to them. In exchange, Yoruichi used her newfound mobility to retrieve better materials for Kisuke, robbing delivery trucks en route to Seireitei’s cybertech companies or outright stealing from her own family’s weapons storage. Anything they could buy, Kisuke could reverse-engineer and make better. Ten years after she left her old life behind, her legs are a work of art, connected to her nerves to give her complete control over them but granting her superhuman speed and jumping ability, and she’d practiced enough with them over the years that her mind had no problems keeping up with both.  The prosthetics are lightweight but strong enough to withstand the swing of a blade or the impact of a bullet, and she would give a lot to see her family’s faces if they ever realize just who has been ransacking their vaults.

3. Most people carry some kind of weapon these days, but the best - for those who can afford them, or can call Kisuke a friend - can take the form of a companion when not in combat. Shinji’s is in the shape of a sphinx, all sleek lines and feline flexibility, but one that shifts into a sword in a silent whir of pulsing blue lines and polished metal at his command. Mashiro’s is a pixie, not unlike the toys commonly seen in Kisuke’s part of the Slums, except hers includes translucent wings threaded with pale green wiring. It’s perpetually perched on her shoulder, but in a fight, the pixie fuses with her hands and legs, the wings melting and sliding over her skin like liquid mercury to form gloves and boots that increase the power of her kicks and punches.

Yoruichi’s is a black cat but nobody actually knows what kind of weapon it can turn into. More often than not, Yoruichi sends it off as a spy because the thing is so realistic nobody can actually tell it’s not a real animal unless they get close enough to see the delicate wiring in its yellow eyes.

Nobody’s ever seen Kisuke’s either, weapon or otherwise, until a spy from a cybertech company snoops too closely around his shop. Then the other occupants get front-row seats to the bright red threads that extend from his hands - hands that light up with the many, many upgrades inside, a complicated maze of crimson circuits swirling beneath his flesh - and attach themselves to their target like strings on a puppet. At least he takes it out back before he literally rips the spy apart.

4. Once upon a time, before Yoruichi was even born, there were five noble houses instead of four. But the fall of the Shiba Clan is never talked about, and most don’t even remember the details anymore, only that most were put to the sword and the rest were scattered. One of the runners in Kisuke’s employ - the many who scrounge through the Slums’s trash heaps for parts Kisuke might find useful - is a boy on the cusp of twenty who looks uncannily like the last Shiba clan head before the family’s collapse. He goes by Ichigo and doesn’t seem aware of his lineage, and if he notices the way Shinji almost always makes an appearance when he comes in with his haul, and his payment always ends up including several extra portions of food and some high-grade medical supplies and even a new change of clothes now and then, he never says anything. After they find out he has two little sisters to feed, a handful of toys get bundled in as well, free of charge.

Kisuke wouldn’t know a Shiba from a Shihouin, and Yoruichi’s family never bothered teaching her all the things an heir or even just an average noble-born child would’ve needed to know, so neither of them treats Ichigo differently because of his blood or background. They do treat him differently because none of Kisuke’s runners have lasted as long as Ichigo. Sooner or later, they disappear, arrested by guards or killed in a back alley scuffle. Ichigo slinks into the shop at fifteen and still comes around every week like clockwork five years later. He always shows up with a decent haul too, and once, Yoruichi follows him, just to see where he’s getting his loot because surely most of the trash pits in the area have been picked clean over the years? There’s always more added to them, but not at the rate Ichigo is scrounging materials. So Yoruichi follows him one day when he leaves and that’s how they find out about his sisters and the makeshift hole in the wall they live in, shabby-looking on the outside but clean and cozy on the inside and insulated well from the cold. That’s also how they find out about all the enhancements Ichigo has, because Yoruichi makes the mistake of underestimating him and almost gets beheaded when he disappears and almost shivs her from behind with a hand-turned-blade, teeth bared like an animal as his eyes burn with golden circuitry.

(The Shiba Clan had been widely feared, once upon a time, for their genius in the more explosive weaponry and their talent with artificial intelligence and robotics and other biological cybertech enhancements. It was why they’d been so swiftly sentenced to death when they’d come down on the side of the poorfolk. Even one Shiba would’ve been equivalent to having a small army in one’s arsenal.)

Ichigo moved faster, jumped higher, hit harder, than anything Yoruichi had ever come up against. The crack of his heel coming down against the ground shattered rock and cement everywhere, and the only thing that saved her life that day was her dodging ability and a quickly shouted explanation for why she’d followed him in the first place. Ichigo wasn’t unreasonable, even if he wasn’t entirely human. His enhancements explained how he could move further through the Slums for loot and still put down roots in the area. It took some coaxing and several dozen more months of coming and going from the shop, but eventually, he’d also admitted that he didn’t know where his enhancements had come from, he couldn’t remember anything from before waking up the Slums with two regular human toddlers who called him brother depending on him. The only thing imprinted in his memory were the directives: 1) Take Care of Your Sisters, and 2) Survive.

But he was the most powerful thing around for miles, and Kisuke was fascinated because the work done on Ichigo was only vaguely like his own, and far more advanced than anything the nobility churned out these days. Yoruichi didn’t care as much, but she liked having a new sparring partner, not to mention Ichigo was very easy on the eyes, and a few more years on him meant Yoruichi could appreciate the sight without feeling like she was preying on a child.

Ichigo kept coming back, and eventually Kisuke managed to wheedle Ichigo into getting a checkup and upgrades, especially when he started outgrowing a few of his joint ports. Yoruichi watched the two of them make moon eyes at each other, listened to Kisuke ramble about something Ichigo told him the day before, noted the way Ichigo’s eyes sometimes strayed to Kisuke when the man wandered outside without a shirt and his pants on backwards after too many hours in his lab, and she was almost tempted to lock them in a closet together.

(She doesn’t notice the way Kisuke smiles indulgently at her when she comes home from a trip into Seireitei with an icebox of fresh strawberries from the Kuchikis infamous gardens because they’re Ichigo’s favourite, nor does she see Ichigo blink and cock his head in new understanding sometimes when he observes the way she drapes herself over Kisuke, comfortable and relaxed, but never does it with anyone else.)

In the world they live in though, trust is more important than love. Yoruichi has trusted Kisuke since she met him, and Kisuke’s trusted her since she was down two legs and still flung herself between him and a thief with a knife who thought the shop easy pickings. And the day Ichigo brings his sisters over and lets them run around out of his sight is the day they know he trusts them. It’s only natural to offer him and his little family a room of their own at the shop.

5. The day Yoruichi comes back with news of the Silbern Kingdom’s royal family and Las Noches’ royal family both being overthrown by several of their own noble families - the Ishidas and the Kurosakis, and the Coyotes, the Tu Odelschwancks, the Cifers, and the Jaegerjaquezs respectively - is the same day Shinji comes to them and tells them about the revolution movement that’s been in the works for a while now, about the remains of the Shiba Clan currently helping the Ishidas and Kurosakis take over Silbern, and about Ichigo’s own past - memory wiped for his own good because rumours of a Shiba child successfully integrated with his clan’s still experimental but groundbreaking technology had leaked, and if they’d gotten their hands on him, they would’ve turned him into their weapon. Better to hide him in the Slums, along with his two sisters who wouldn’t be of any use in a war for several more years, until they need him again, which they do now, because as soon as Silbern and Las Noches are theirs, they’ll be moving on to Seireitei post haste, and a two-pronged attack while the Gotei is still scrambling to defend themselves would hit them hardest, because for all that the kingdoms have been at war with each other for years, it had never been so direct, nor had their goals ever moved beyond poaching each other’s technologies. But for the revolution movement to succeed, they need Ichigo on their side, and it wouldn’t hurt for Kisuke and Yoruichi to join them too, technically Kisuke’s been their weapons-backer for years, and Yoruichi’s been their ear to the ground in Seireitei for just as long, and they’ll need all hands on deck. The kids can be left with Tessai.

Ichigo storms out. Yoruichi demands to know why they were never told before. And Kisuke surveys a tense-looking Shinji (who explains that it was supposed to be for their safety too - because Yoruichi was their only successful spy in Seireitei, and very, very few could match Kisuke’s genius, and it was just better to keep them out of the way) from beneath his hat before smiling blandly and promptly catching the man with a flick of his hand and five threads, unceremoniously tossing him out the window before he and Yoruichi both go to find Ichigo. It doesn’t take a genius to guess he’d returned to the hole-in-the-wall home he’d made for his sisters, and they join him after Ichigo acknowledges them with a jerk of his shoulders. They don’t speak right away, Ichigo sitting in stony silence, Yoruichi curled on one side of him still seething, Kisuke on his other, absently flexing one red-tinted hand in that way he only does when he’s contemplating murder.

They’ll help, all three of them. They don’t even need to discuss that. It’s high time for the upper-class to get their lives shaken up, the Slums are a disgrace, and if they have the chance to change that, they’ll take it, even if it means working beside people who have been using them for their own ends without giving them so much as a heads-up. Or in Ichigo’s case, will be using him since it’s pretty apparent he might not be the Gotei’s weapon but he is still very much the Shibas’ weapon, reserved for emergencies.

“Regimes come and go every day,” Kisuke remarks first, right hand fanning open, then closing, then opening again, crimson circuits shimmering along the vein lines of his palm.

“What a shame,” Yoruichi agrees with a grin that’s two-parts teeth and all-parts spite.

“…Three of us against three kingdoms that’ve just taken a beating?” Ichigo muses, but his eyes flare gold, and he’s smiling too. “Sounds like fun.”

[kingofdirtandnothing]

@polyfacetious big ass Christmas Drabble Extravagaza: Day Eighteen

This isn’t the first time Clark has been interviewed about the farm. He remembers being about twelve years old, sitting on the front of the tractor while his dad talked about immigrating, and starting fresh on an entirely different continent. 

The reporter at the time was a beautiful woman, with dark hair and bright blue eyes. She had smiled and took notes, and even asked questions that went beyond the breadth of the “fluff piece” this was supposed to be. 

Clark always had a soft spot for reporters after that. They were people searching for the truth. That truth had to be harsh sometimes. They had to work hard and chase leads and bring light to unsavory things. 

But sometimes, a good story was just talking about life, and making other people feel good. It was a balance that Clark could respect. Because he knew as much as anyone how difficult it was to find balance in your work. 

Because Clark loved what he did. He loved the farm, he loved continuing on his parent’s legacy. But there were days that he wondered what it would be like to chase stories, to go on adventures, to peel back the layers of the world and find what was waiting beneath. 

Those were the days he took a little longer out on the tractor. Clark was a known daydreamer. His mom always liked to tell people that he had that faraway look in his eye the day that they met, even though he was three months old. 

(That’s another story he finds himself daydreaming about chasing. Finding out who his biological parents were. Why they didn’t want him.)

But those were thoughts for another time. Because there was a reporter back on the Kent farm again, and Clark needed to focus on that. This wasn’t the classy woman with her wedge shoes and her big pearl earrings from his childhood. This was a young man, dark headed and dark eyed, wearing a flannel shirt and work boots. (He’d have an easier time getting around the farm than Ms. Lane did.)

The one thing they did have in common was the bright light of curiosity in their eyes. 

“Farm fresh is one of those things you see written all over packages in the grocery store, right? They say that it’s farm fresh butter, or farm fresh cheese, and that’s almost never the case.” Clark has been practicing his little speech since he first got the email from Mr. Stilinski about wanting to come to the farm and interview him.

It’s going pretty good, if Clark can say so himself. 

“But farm to table? That’s exactly what the name implies. We work with local businesses to get them fresh produce, fresh dairy, and even fresh meat at certain times of the year.” Clark had thought about going into the logistics of meat production in a small scale business, but that kind of stuff probably wasn’t palatable. No one really wanted to know where their beef, chicken or duck was coming from. 

So he would keep to the easier things. Harvesting vegetables and fruit, and milking the cows. Everyone always got a kick out of milking the cows. 

“And I think that’s something to take pride in. Not that there’s anything wrong with mass produced food, everyone needs to eat.” There was a lot wrong with mass produced food, especially meat. Carbon emissions were a problem, as well as the discarding of less than attractive looking fruit and vegetables. But this wasn’t Clark’s pulpit. This was about the farm. 

“I like being able to walk down the street and know that what we’re doing here at the farm is nourishing people. And that it’s making them happy, too.” Clark looks over at Mr. Stilinski, who’s told him twice now to call him Stiles, but he can’t stop him from thinking about him as Mr. Stilinski, and grins. 

“We’ve come a long way from parents just slopping veggies out of a can and onto a plate.” Not that his mom ever did that. Martha Kent wasn’t a fancy cook, but she was a good one. She knew how to make the most out of what they pulled out of the ground at the farm. A little homemade butter and some herbs went a long way when it came to green beans. 

Stiles is taking notes on his phone, Clark can see his thumbs flying. That itching urge to check the screen over the top of his shoulder is there, but Clark squashes it down. It wouldn’t be polite. 

It also wouldn’t be polite to let Stiles walk into that cow patty that was right in front of him. They were crossing the pasture because it was the fastest way to get from the barn out to the fields. But it was a mine field out here, and Mr. Stilinski was about to step into one stinky mine. 

“Watch out.” But Stiles was still lifting a foot. Clark reaches out to grab slim shoulders in his hand, turning Stiles just about fifteen degrees to the left so that he bypasses the cow patty and can walk on. “Sorry. Didn’t want you to get your shoes dirty.”

Clark waits, a beat of silence as those big dark eyes zero in on him. “Dirtier. Because you’re in the dirt already. And that’s dirty. So…” Great. He sounded like an idiot. But Clark couldn’t help it. Those were the prettiest brown eyes he’d ever seen. 

Not that he was going to say or do anything about it. Clark spent enough time as a kid watching men hit on his mother when she was just trying to get her work done. That wasn’t how you showed interest in somebody. Clark was just going to let the man do his job and keep that appreciation to himself.

But Stiles just grins right back at him, and Clark breathes out a sigh of relief. “We could go into the paddock, if you wanted to see them up close and personal.” Not an improvement, Kent. “The cows. Not the cow patties. You don’t want to see them close up.”

Before he can say anything else dumb, Clark shifts away from the path towards the fields. They could go look at rows of carrots and potatoes after this. The cows were more fun, and they always appreciated the company. 

(There was more than one reason they only slaughtered once a year. Clark had a bad habit of getting attached to the cows and the pigs and ducks and chickens.)

The cows are already milling near the front of the paddock. They’re not used to being penned up during the day, so they’re curious about the change. “Alright guys, make a little room, make a little room.” Clark’s voice is soft with amusement as he nudges his way into the paddock, shoulder brushing against Stiles as he reaches behind him to shut the paddock gate behind them both. 

If they got loose now, there would be no rounding them up before nightfall. And that meant he’d put a heck of a kink in this whole interview plan. 

“I don’t know how much you’ve been around cows…” Clark tries not to assume things about people. Of course, the first time he laid eyes on Stiles, his thoughts wouldn’t have gone to reporter. So he’s not going to make any assumptions here. “But they’re pretty much like big, laid back labradors.”

Case in point, Krypto, a big old white lab who hadn’t made his way off of the porch at all when Stiles showed up. Clark had mumbled ‘some guard dog you are’ and gotten a wag of the tail for his trouble. 

“They’re curious. They’ll want to smell you.” Clark laughs as he’s jostled to the side and has to shift his stance a little wider to make room for him to stand without getting knocked over. “And they don’t realize how much they weigh. So they’ll bump into you, thinking you’re just another cow and you’ll brush it off.”

Clark reaches out, scratching behind a big ear. “This is Bessie.” He sees the look from Stiles, and laughs. “Yeah, I know. I’m not the most creative guy these days. I used that all up on Krypto.” He gestures back towards the big farm house, and the wrap around porch where his white lab was currently sunning himself, belly turned up towards the streaming sunlight.

“Bessie is one of our dairy cows. She makes the milk, which helps us make the butter and cheese.” There’s a big nose pushing into his stomach, and Clark reaches out absently to keep one of the other cows from knocking Stiles over, a big palm against his back. 

“Sorry. They mean well. They’re just…” Clark laughs. “Fat isn’t the nicest word I can think of, but it’s the only one coming to mind right about now.”

Clark chews on his lip for a minute, and tries to remember where he’s at in his bullet points for this interview. It’s long gone, because he didn’t even plan to bring Stiles over here with the cows to begin with. 

But it’s feeling nice and worth it because Stiles is smiling down at the two cows who have bunched up in front of him. Clark watches as the reporter scratches behind ears and under chins, cooing sweet nonsense to the cows that were eating up the attention. 

“We do a lot less meat sales these days.” Clark admits sheepishly. “I don’t have the heart for it. I was lucky when I was a kid that my dad never made me help when it came time for culling the herd. I got to stay inside. So now that he’s retired, I only really sell meat in special circumstances.”

Even the chickens and the ducks were too sweet for Clark to butcher them. It just wasn’t in his nature. His dad liked to call him a soft touch. Clark is pretty sure that’s just the polite word for ‘pansy’ that his dad chose. 

“We also have a small amount of rescue animals.” Clark cranes his neck, looking around at the milling cows to try and find who he was looking for. There’s a soft ‘aha’ and Clark points to the back. “That’s Petunia. She was abandoned when another farmer closed up shop. When we found her, she was all skin and bones.”

And Clark had spent more than a few nights in the barn with her, trying to get her to eat and feel better. Thankfully, the winters didn’t get too cold here, but there was at least one night that Clark slept under a blanket in the pen with her, until she was well enough to join the herd. 

“We’ve got a duck named Popcorn who my mom found in a parking lot.” He shakes his head, warm and fond. “Little guy flew right into her open truck window and sat down. He was ready to go. So Mom said it was meant to be.” 

Stiles is watching him again, though his fingers are still scratching absently at whichever cow was near enough to be under his fingers. “So you’re not the only one around here who’s adopted.”

It’s not a question, and Clark is caught off guard by the words. Stiles must have read the other article on the farm, even though it was probably printed before he was born. That was the only way Clark can think of that he would know that Clark was adopted. 

“Yeah.” Clark agrees softly after a moment of thought. He nods, and feels the words really settle into him. “Yeah, we’re big on adoption around here.” For a moment, Stiles looks like he’s thinking about apologizing. But he smiles when Clark smiles. 

“And since you’re here, why don’t you go ahead and help me get everyone fed? That way you get a feel for what a day in the life on the Kent farm is really like.”

[teaboot]

hello! i’m writing a story where a bunch of ghosts befriend a still-alive person, and i was wondering if i could ask you about cemetary caretaking in dms? (because that’s the setting, and i know nothing about cemetary caretaking.) or if not, could you point me in the direction of others who know more?

Yep! Keep in mind though that each Cemetary can have different rules about what markers, headstones, and offerings are allowed, so. There is that.

1. The older parts of the Cemetary are recognizeable because the headstones there are usually upright land in a bunch of varied shapes and sizes. They don't stand in tidy rows, and some of them sink into the ground and tilt or fall over completely. Pieces break off all the time, too, and can get launched back at you with a weedwacker or damage the lawnmower blades, so they have to be moved.

2. A serious concern for maintainance workers is potentially being hit by falling stones, so when they fall down, they tend to stay down until they are paid for to be properly replaced or repaired. My mom said she knows a guy who died that way.

3. Some stones from the late 1800's have weird dog-looking figures carved in- those are lambs, and are put on christian children's graves. They look odd when they erode.

4. Some older graves will be homemade, or have countries of origin included. Some will simply say "baby", "mother", or "father".

5. Some headstones only have one date- those are typically for infants who didn't live long, or were stillborn. Sometimes they won't have names, either, but a few do.

6. When cleaning a headstone, first you now as close as you can through rows, then you go to each individual headstone with a weedwacker and remove whatever's been left to cut the grass down. Then, you put whatever isn't broken or a hazard back as close as you can, and take a leafblower to the whole place so the loose clippings don't end up sticking all over and looking terrible. This takes twice as long when there's a whole pile of stuff, so some places won't let you leave anything at all. I believe in finding a happy medium, but that's me.

7. Loads of local critters and wildlife use headstones and other constructs as shelter. I'm always keeping my eyes out for small birds, snakes, toads, etc- toads are the most common, I try to move them to nearby woods, bushes, or finished areas so they don't get cut or run over.

8. I don't know about anyone else, but I liked to talk to the folks sometimes. A simple 'hey nice flowers' or 'sup kiddo nice truck'. I think it might be cause I used to work with a morgue and it was easy to chat with the people who came in, but Idk. Dead people aren't nearly as eerie or creepy as TV makes them out- I guess it's a tiny bit sad, especially with kids, but like... what can you do, you know?

9. You gotta watch where you step, because some places- especially older ones- are FULL of small holes or sudden dips. These can be from animals, but more often graves that don't get enough dirt on top or super duper ancient ones where things have caved underground let the earth sink in over time. It leaves about a person-sized divot that's easy to trip on and needs extra attention.

10. Some people like to leave candy or bottled drinks for their loved ones. I.... understand the sentiment, but. It gets gross, over time, when the packages fade and split, and critters get in, so most places don't allow it or throw it out.

11. Wal-Mart knicknacks. Are the bane of my life. Little hollow statues that break and get full of wasps nests, wreaths made in China where the flowers pop off, five hundred individual fabric flowers stuck into the ground one-by-one that you have to painstakingly remove and put back every single time, with sharp rusty metal ends and wire cores that pull the equipment apart... just. Ugh. I understand, I do, and I get that it's not something people generally think about, but... just. Whatever you're thinking of leaving, give it a quick shake. If something comes loose, I can't recommend leaving it.

12. Some headstones are homemade by friends or family, with glass beads or shells in cement. Those are sweet,and I like to see them.

13. The back of your neck will burn. No amount of sunscreen will prevent it. I recommend a collared shirt, or tying a bandanna around your neck. There is nothing else you can do.

14. Your whole body will be covered in sweat. I wore jeans, boots, a tank top tucked in, and a sleeveless T over top, with a bandanna, safety goggles, and a hat. The jeans got sweaty every day, and rubbed my upper thighs red-raw after the first three weeks. The skin grew back dark and dry and I need to apply moisturizer constantly to avoid cracking. My old sunburns have turned, and some of the worst ones left strips of dry, papery, red scarring that took forever to fade. Again, moisturizer and sunscreen. Constantly. I still have a callous at the base of each finger on both palms.

15. Your whole body will sweat. Your whole body will be covered in grass clippings. Some will fly up your ears and nose. Sometimes tiny rocks will hit your shins and face and feel like bee stings. You have to towel off every couple hours and drink water damned often, because you will literally sweat full litres every day. You will attract flies. They will crawl on your skin. You will learn to ignore them, because at least they aren't mosquitos or ticks.

16. There is no bathroom. The men will disappear in the woods or behind a tree. I would go to the bathroom at home and just make sure I didn't drink more than I could sweat, I guess. I'd take the worst days of my period off and stay home because there was no way to deal with that on an eleven hour shift with no washroom break. Ta-da. I still worked longer and harder than most of the men, though, so whatever.

17. It's unskilled hard manual labour, and our group had no toilets and long hours. Most of our workers came fresh out of prison, but I can't speak for everybody. We were small town, no-union farmers and kids with free time, and most our new guys quit after a day or two. Literally. We had one dude three years younger and over half my size who showed up for 45 minutes before quitting.

18. Your fingers get stiff and hard to move, and your elbows and feet get sore. It took me a while to make it more than two days in a row without a breather day in between, but three and a half was my max. By the end of it I'd be stumbling, missing spots, irritable, sore, and tired. Given a day or two to get back on my feet, and all was good. But there were some older folks who'd been doing that work for thirty years without a day off, and Damn. They've got my respect.

19. The skin on your feet and hands gets hard like leather. Be ready for that.

20. The older guys, or whoever's worked there longer, will have stories about some of the graves. Special ones they're extra careful with, or spots where old school buddies or family is buried. I'd like to say we treat them all equal, but I guess you can't help but be a little more thorough for the young mom who's daughter just turned nine, or the baby from 1920, or the brothers who died in a house fire. It's like... we're supposed to die from old age, after living a full life, right? It sucks a little harder when you know someone didn't get to have that.

21. You can't work through rain or lightning. You see a strike overhead, you haul ass to the truck and see if you can wait it out. That shit'll blow the bark off a tree.

22. You lose weight, gain muscle, turn darker, and your hair bleaches out at the ends. After about a month I was five pounds lighter, with bigger biceps and shorter hair 'cause it was too hot to leave long.

23. Water grass. Is hell. It's thick, it grows fast, it loves rain, and it's a bitch to cut. It will grow a foot high in two weeks, I shit you not. You gotta come back two, three times a month to keep it down.

24. Hearing damage from not having proper protection is a noticeably advancing issue

Best part of the job: feeling yourself get stronger, seeing your work at the end of the day, plenty of time to think and daydream, regular eating and sleeping schedule, easy to save money because you have long hours and no time to spend anything.

Worst part: physical discomfort, aches and pains, the repetition makes it feel like an ordeal of Greek damnation, always exhausted, coworkers keep quitting.

I can't think of anything else right now but ill update if I can! Hope this was helpful!!! :D