#please go and be a pretentious hipster somewhere else

[aquareegia]

people: "this band is so underrated! i don't know why they're not more popular? more people should listen to them!"

the same people, when more people start listening to that band and they gain popularity: "they're so overrated! i don't know why they are so popular."

[qqueenofhades]

If you need some distraction - helnik + coffee shop AU? (If its not your thing, I'd gladly read any and every helnik prompt you feel like writing. 💙)

Everyone says New York is big. The songs, the movies, the popular culture, the overall zeitgeist -- that's what it is all about, the size of it, whether mentally or physically. The skyscrapers, the subways, the noise, the people, the way you can travel all over the world within the span of a few blocks, give as mathematically incalculable amount of a shit as possible and have the oddly comforting realization that everyone else will do the same. And sure, yes, it is big. Nina got lost three times on her first day attempting to navigate it alone, and while she can read English just fine, the insistence of New Yorkers on speaking a thousand miles a minute often leaves her trying to ask if they could just repeat themselves please, slower. Since the one thing the Big Apple hates is having to go slower, or realizing that the entire world does not run at the same manic pace they do, they usually sigh or roll their eyes or otherwise grumble about it. Thanks, guys. Helpful.

It could be worse, though. At least Nina has a place to stay, even if that is renting a tiny apartment with three other Russian girls -- Genya, Alina, and Marie -- in a recently privatized project on the Lower West Side that proudly flogs itself as "the next generation of affordable housing for New York City." (Is it really? Maybe, if you squint.) She stayed with Ivan and Fedyor down in Brighton Beach when she first landed at JFK with not much more than her backpack and the clothes she was wearing, but it's an hour-plus on the subway to get into midtown, and she wanted to get out of the Russian enclave, stretch herself, meet more American people. And maybe not be reminded every day about having to flee for her life, and not being sure if she can ever go back to her homeland. That would be nice too.

In any event, Nina has managed to get a job at a small cafe in Hell's Kitchen, tucked somewhere among the eighty thousand Irish pubs and coffeehouses, and she's working about thirty hours a week, trying to save enough for her share of the rent and figure out what the hell she's doing next. It's a nice place, homey, with an old Italian espresso machine and mismatched wooden tables, full of light in the morning, the kind of place where people come with laptops and books and settle in for the long haul, periodically buying another flat white or muffin to pay rent on their space. Nina served her time as a barista in the trenches of Skuratov Coffee back in Russia, as a student, and it's comfortingly familiar. Easy. Comfortable.

Of course, if it wasn't for Matthias fucking Helvar.

This tall blond paragon of paramount irritation turned up on her third day working there, and even more to her annoyance, he's a regular, so she can't get rid of him. She isn't sure what he does when he's not driving her crazy -- she knows something about a graduate program in international development at NYU, because he never fucking shuts up about that, but half of her thinks that he might be making it up just to sound like all the other pretentious hipster dipshits pounding the keys in midtown Manhattan. He does have a stack of books vaguely on this theme, and a Norway flag pin stuck to his backpack. Those clean blond athletic good looks make sense, then. Of course he's Scandinavian. Probably planning to Run Out And Save The World TM.

At any rate, it's a snowy evening in February, and Nina's working the late shift, the white fairy lights glowing behind the bar. There are only a few people in the cafe, and one of them, of course, is Matthias. Evidently considering that what this otherwise-pleasant situation really needs is his input, he gets up and makes toward her, handing over his empty cup for another refill of the house blend. "And make sure it's hot, please," he adds bossily. "Last time it was barely lukewarm."

Nina grits her teeth. "I just brewed the new pot," she informs him, charitably neglecting to add that she is happy to dump it over his head to check that it is warm enough for Mr. Perfect's tastes. That would definitely get her fired, and she needs this job. As if he doesn't know, she adds, "That will be a dollar fifty, please."

Matthias digs in his jeans pocket (she does not notice that they fit him rather well, absolutely not) and comes up with the exact change, as usual. He's like if IKEA made a person. Nina snatches it out of his hand and puts it through the register, takes his cup, and fills it up. She knows not to leave room for cream (too fattening) or sugar (the large-scale cultivation of processed sugar is responsible for many of the geopolitical evils in world history). Is Matthias here all the time because he's a horribly boring square who doesn't have any other friends to hang out with? That would explain a lot.

For half a moment, Nina finds herself teetering on the verge of sympathy. She knows, after all, what it's like to be alone in this city, floating along on the human tide, wondering if you're ever going to put down roots, or stand your ground, or matter. Then she shakes it off, vastly annoyed with herself. The reason that Matthias doesn't have any friends is because he sucks. Case closed.

"Here," she says curtly, handing his cup back. "It's hot."

"Thank you." Matthias's hand brushes her as he takes it, and for a moment, his eyes meet hers a little too long, a little too meaningfully. (He really is distractingly tall.) "I'm... sorry," he adds belatedly. "I'm just a little stressed. I have this big exam coming up at -- "

"NYU, yes, I know." Nina rolls her eyes. "We've heard. You are the Tesla owner of NYU attendees, Matthias."

He blinks. A little pink comes into his cheeks. "Oh," he says, almost shyly. "You know my name?"

"You come in here five days a week. How could I not?"

"Oh." He considers that, then smiles crookedly, and it does something absolutely awful to her insides, which they will never speak of ever again. "Thank you. Nina."

Nina is relieved when he retreats to his table, and picks up the rag to wipe down the self-service bar, even though it doesn't entirely need it. Just for a moment. Just to catch her breath. No reason at all.

Good thing she is never, ever going to like that guy a bit.

[lovelyirony]

Oh, can I please ask for one of your folklore prompts? “And I can go anywhere I want, anywhere I want/just not home” my tears ricochet  For a young Tony, maybe? It doesn't have to have a pairing if you don't want to. :)

A house and a home are different. Tony did not know this until he was in college, much to his surprise. 

A house is somewhere you live. A central place that you come back to in between visits to other people or places or countries or anything else. It is not personal. It is something you use until you no longer see the need or the desire. You can move to a lot of them. 

A home lingers. A home is where you smile late at night over drinks. It is where crumbs reside from last night’s takeout, and you spend lazy Sundays. 

(Tony also didn’t know what that was either.) 

He’s lived in a lot of houses. He has a lot of houses. There’s the one in New York that is looming and lonely and probably would be his least favorite except it’s in New York, which earns it its redemption. 

There is sunny Malibu with its beaches and great views. There are a few others. 

None of them are homes. It’s just a place to rest for a couple of months or a year or until Howard decides it’s not enough. 

He gets to MIT and gets a dorm room, same as everyone else. It is pitifully sad, he gets sun only in the mornings, and that sucks. He kind of hates it. He guesses that’s the college experience. 

He also has a roommate. Jarvis had told him it’d be good for him, and Tony had had to talk Howard out of about twenty-seven different legal documents that basically said “if you ever breathe a word of anything to anyone, you’re being legally sued.” 

James Rhodes. Literally studying to become a rocket scientist, has questionable taste in posters, and waves at Tony when they meet each other. 

“Call me Jim.” 

“...Jim. Are you eighty or something?” 

It’s probably the wrong thing to say. It definitely is the wrong thing to say by Jarvis’ raised eyebrows and down-turned frown. 

But James Rhodes takes it in stride. 

“You can call me something else if you want, but it has to be good and I have to approve it. Can’t be my last name, can’t be Jimmy. Anything else is fair game.” 

Different reaction. That’s...that’s weird. 

So Tony shrugs, smiles as Jarvis leaves, and realizes that he’s alone and Howard doesn’t really have an influence--except he does, god he does--and Tony asks James Rhodes if he’d like to get pizza. 

“You know anywhere with good pizza?” 

“Wanna find out if Hemingway’s is any good?” 

“It’s either going to be artisan hipster or the worst. Hell yes.” 

It’s artisan hipster. It is bad, and James laughs as he tells a story and burns his tongue when he’s reenacting his mother is chewing him out, using his full name, and: 

“Rhodey,” Tony gasps out. 

“I told you that you couldn’t use my last name!” 

“It’s technically not your last name, sugar plum,” Tony mocks, using one of his mother’s nicknames against him. “You are forever now Rhodey. Forever.” 

- 

From there, friendship progresses. Tony’s never actually had a real friend before, not that he tells Rhodey that. Besides, Rhodey probably knows. Tony just automatically assumes he’s paying for everything, and he’s not sure what to do with genuine affection for a couple of months. 

He looks at Rhodey with such love and affection. He does, really. Rhodey has created a whole new world for him. 

- 

And then, the holidays. 

Thanksgiving is Tony’s least-favorite-holiday for a variety of reasons. It’s all a fake kind of gathering. “Coming together to celebrate gratefulness” is the biggest goddamn crock of bullshit he’s ever cooked in his life, and for once his family isn’t doing a PR stunt, so his mother has announced that he’s welcome to be back home, but they won’t be there. 

Howard is taking Jarvis with him on a trip to England to visit Aunt Peggy and probably talk shop about Cap and ice and stupid fucking theories about the degree of alive he’ll be when he’s found. 

(When. What pretentious bullshit.) 

Tony doesn’t want to be alone in the house, because that’d suck shit and MIT would be better. At least he could make shitty ramen and cry and only get a noise complaint instead of one of the cleaning staff members saying that he probably needed therapy. 

“You are not staying in the dorms, what the fuck man,” Rhodey says. “You’re coming home with me.” 

“Now darling, I thought you said we weren’t going to be forward about this whole thing,” he purrs, putting on an old Hollywood accent. “Are you finally coming up and seeing me?” 

Rhodey rolls his eyes. 

“I’ll be as forward as I want,” he decides, and Tony wishes he wouldn’t say things like that, because that seriously get’s a man’s heart rising. “Besides, I told you that you need to have my Aunt Kendra’s rolls, and that’s a promise. So, Thanksgiving is now with the Rhodes’ family.” 

Tony doesn’t know if they know that he’s coming. He also doesn’t know the dress code, and Rhodey is absolutely no help. 

“What do you mean by casual?” Tony squawks. “Is it business casual? Dressy casual? Jeans casual?” 

“What do any of those mean?” 

“Oh my god, I’m going to look like a failure at this shindig. Your mother will die over her cooking because I’ll pull out of the wrong wardrobe and be a fool. I’ll die, and you’ll have to bury me, and you won’t even know which outfit I’ll want. God, this is going to--” 

Rhodey shuts him up, putting a hand over his mouth. 

“Just wear your red turtleneck and your dark jeans or whatever. That looks nice.” 

“You noticed?” 

“You don’t give me as much credit as I deserve,” Rhodey grunts. “Early wake-up on Monday. I’ll supply coffee as long as you give me gas money.” 

“I’ll give you anything for coffee. I’ll give you my hand in marriage for coffee.” 

“Don’t tempt me,” Rhodey teases. “I might actually do that.” 

God, I wish you would. 

- 

Rhodey’s house is a nice place, a wire fence bordering with a porch swing covered in a light dusting of snow, and swinging slightly with the wind that blows through the neighborhood. 

There are quite a lot of cars parked in the driveway and in the street, and Tony can see at least six people inside the house, which is more family than he actually knows on either side. 

It’s all warm and yellow, and Rhodey moves with an ease that Tony didn’t know happened outside of those cheesy family shows. 

He throws open the door and there are shouts of joy and happiness and “Jimmy-boy!” 

“I didn’t know Jimmy-boy was on the table,” Tony remarks dryly. “And here it’s been for months, Jimmy-boy.” 

Rhodey groans. 

“This is worse than Rhodey,” he mutters. 

A woman who could only be his mother steps forward, grinning. 

“Call me Mama, darling. And what’s this I hear about ‘Rhodey’?” 

“He burnt his tongue on pizza while telling me about a time he got a well-deserved talking-to by your own graceful words, Mrs. Rhodes,” Tony says. He’s charming. Oh, he’s very charming. 

She giggles. 

“I said mama, but I can’t say I’ll mind too much when you talk like that. Jim, you should’ve had us meet earlier.” 

“You see I would’ve, but I happen to value myself,” Rhodey says. 

“You do?” a man says. Mr. Rhodes, tall and a smile that could put any of the fake veneers in Hollywood to shame. “Could’ve fooled me.” 

Rhodey gets pulled into a hug, and he laughs, and Tony has the Distinct Memory that He’s Never Been Hugged by his Father. 

Well, isn’t this a time to realize family inadequacies! 

“Rhodey, light of my life, where am I setting up my suitcase?” Tony asks. 

“Come on up with me. We’re sleeping in my room, hope that’s alright.” 

It’s more than alright, and Tony smiles when he sees Rhodey’s room. 

He loves it. It’s decorated with model airplanes hanging from the ceiling, a peeling Star Wars poster that has most definitely been needed to be thrown away for more than five years (but won’t be), and a few trophies from soccer. 

Tony’s never had his own room decorated with anything but the current trends, his mother hand-picking his comforter and the decorations in his room. And they all say he’s so “fashionable” and “keeps an eye out for trends.” 

(Ha.) 

It’s odd for him to see a house look so...lived in. 

“Welcome home,” Rhodey says. “I haven’t grabbed it yet, but I’ll use a sleeping bag and you can take the bed.” 

Tony snorts. 

“No way, honeybee. I’m not kicking you out of your own bed. We’ve shared a bed before, this is no different.” 

"Only if you’re sure,” Rhodey says, smiling at him. “This is a bit different than both twin beds being crashed together because we wanted more space for the fridge.” 

“This time we don’t have the fridge,” Tony quips as Rhodey laughs. 

“Come on, let’s head downstairs. Mama’s probably gonna have us wash dishes or something. Maybe set up some more chairs.” 

What actually happens is that their laundry machine has gone rebel-mode, and is currently trying it’s best to fling the door open and spew laundry everywhere. 

“Shit,” Mr. Rhodes says, looking at it. “Another call to the repairman this month...” 

“He won’t get here until a week after Thanksgiving,” Mama says, sighing. “How much do you mind your jeans freezing up a bit?” 

He smiles a bit at his wife. 

-

Tony’s never seen that. But he likes it. 

-

“I can fix it,” he says. Family turns to him. This is all quite embarrassing. “I, uh, I’ve taken apart some washing machines before. I think I can figure it out, if you don’t mind me poking around.” 

“I wouldn’t mind a bit,” Mama says. “Jimmy, I like this one.” 

Rhodey rolls his eyes. 

“I’ll go get the toolkit for you. Need anything?” 

“Towels and you, honey-pie.” 

“You get one out of two of those options.” 

“You treat me like a vagrant,” Tony declares. Rhodey laughs as he heads to go get supplies. 

- 

The night goes on. People occasionally check in, and Rhodey assures them that it’s going well. 

“Instruction manuals are such bullshit,” Tony says. “Half the time they’re written by someone who doesn’t even know how to do it themselves. The other half, no one uses them.” 

“Well when you take over your company, write better instruction manuals,” Rhodey says. “Pass me a towel, things are about to get sudsy.” 

Forty-five minutes later, the washing machine is probably doing better than it was even at production, and Tony gets a kiss on the cheek and cheers all around him. 

“This calls for cookies,” Rhodey declares. “Tony, let’s go get some.” 

They sit at the kitchen table, and Tony learns so much about Rhodey’s family. He sees him laugh and relax and tell the funniest stories about when he was little and got stuck in a tree. 

-

It’s home. That’s how he finally understands it. Home where you keep on going long after, with people you love. 

He doesn’t have one of those.  

He thinks, maybe, that he could make a home of his own. Maybe he could have AC/DC posters lining a wall, or have the pictures of friends and vacation in the kitchen. 

And Rhodey would be there. For now, he’s going to enjoy his hot chocolate and try to get more embarrassing stories about his best friend from his family. 

[notquiteaghost]

there’s nothing i wouldn’t do

mcu/hawkeye comics, post-avengers, barney&clint, 2k

inspired by this post

AO3 link in notes

He wasn’t expecting it to be a thing, is the problem.

Like, how often do aliens fucking invade New York? Once in a lifetime deal, it’s gotta be. Clint was busy — with having a hole in his chest, but SHIELD wouldn’t like him picking fights with run-of-the-mill mobsters, so it was, once again, up to Barney to step up and keep his baby brother safe. Hell, even if Clint could’ve got out his building without passing out, Barney still probably would’ve gone instead. Clint’s just a guy.

He had a plan, and it should’ve been simple. Bandana tied round his face, hair hidden under a beanie, and only Natasha’s gonna notice which Barton is actually slinging the arrows around, and Natasha’s well-aware of Clint’s stab wound. Murder all the aliens, sit through Coulson’s lecture on Clint’s behalf, hopefully their building’s still standing by the end of it. Hold it over Clint’s head until they die. Never, ever do it again.

Except.

He goes after the wannabe god, and the wannabe god can, obviously, control fucking minds, so then he shoots a shit ton of almost-entirely-innocent SHIELD employees. And then Natasha knocks him out of it and they all murder a shit ton of aliens, so hopefully SHIELD will cancel the shoot on sight order, but after all the aliens are dead, Tony goddamn Stark drags them all to get shawarma, and it’s not like Barney can say no. He can’t make Captain America think Clint’s an asshole.

And then, three days later, when Barney’s trying to explain to Coulson that, no, Clint is absolutely not going to fucking Russia, Clint can’t lift his arms, and also they’re still trying to get back the power in their building and also also as far as SHIELD is concerned it was Clint who got used as a puppet by a hostile alien and then bounced without any kind of medical eval so what is this actually about, because it sure as shit ain’t a human trafficking ring — three days later, his phone rings. Caller ID says Your New Sugar Daddy, so it’s Stark, so Barney hangs up on Coulson and answers it.

“Y’know, I could use some new shoes,” he says, throwing Clint’s phone on the couch when it immediately starts buzzing again. “What’re your terms? How much skin am I showing to get some new shoes?”

Stark splutters, but recovers within seconds and says, “Shoes are a titty pic at least,” and Barney is suddenly, sinkingly certain that him and Stark could be friends. It makes him shudder. 

He bites back the joke he wants to make about how many titty pics he gets to send before Stark stops buying him shoes, and says, “Titty pics ain’t why you’re calling, though.”

“Heard you’ve been having some apartment trouble,” Stark agrees, casually, like he has any way of knowing that that isn’t really fucking creepy. “Y’know, I have this great big tower. It’s got, amongst a lot of other things, an entirely self-sustaining power system.”

“…You want me to move in with you?”

“I’m just letting you know it’s an option, that’s all.”

Barney narrows his eyes. “Anyone else say yes?”

Stark huffs. “You’re first on my list, actually. Figured I’d start with the easiest, work my way up.”

Again, Barney bites his tongue. He cannot flirt with Tony Stark when Tony Stark thinks he’s his brother, no matter how funny it is. He’s sworn off starting shit with Clint since they got banned from Lithuania. “And what if I like my apartment?”

The briefest of pauses, before Stark says, “Then you keep living in your apartment. Again, just letting you know your options.”

“Pay to have the power lines for my block fixed,” Barney says, just as Clint stumbles out his room, “and maybe I’ll swing by for lunch. That’s what this is really about, yeah? Team building shit?”

“Wait, your block doesn’t have power?”

Clint is staring at him, eyes narrowing. He’s been awake maybe ten minutes, and it’s a coin toss if he’s remembered to put his aids in yet. Barney makes a face at him. “Half the damn city doesn’t have power, don’t you watch the news? Hell, ain’t people waving big signs outside your front door?”

“I’ve been—” Stark starts, then stops himself, then presumably remembers he’s trying to tempt Barney into some kinda morning-cartoons perma-sleepover and that’s gonna require some emotional vulnerability, and says, “Been in the workshop, mostly. The suit didn’t cope so well in the vacuum of space. But, yeah, power, I can do power. Text me about lunch.”

“Only if Captain America’s there, too,” Barney says, then hangs up. Clint’s eyes are even narrower. He’s gonna give himself a headache. “What?”

“Were you talking to Tony Stark?”

“Yeah, he wants me to move in with him.”

“He wants me to move in with him,” Clint counters.

“Hey, I’m the one who actually fought the aliens, kid—”

“I was all for fighting the aliens! You ziptied me to the bed!”

“And that you couldn’t get out of those makes it clear you were in no shape for fighting the aliens.” Barney walks into the kitchen, digs through their pile of homecooked food — you showing up on TV saving the world makes everyone want to cook you things, it turns out — for Clint’s pain meds. Clint leans against the wall and looks pitiful.

“Maybe I wanna live with Tony Stark,” he says. Barney laughs, hands Clint the tablets and the water so his hands are free to talk.

“Thought you were gonna die in this shithole. Thought, next time anyone shoots you, you were gonna demand they carry you back here so you can bleed out on the floor since getting the blood out’ll be someone else’s problem.”

“Bet Stark’s eyesore of a tower’s got power, though.”

“And soon,” Barney assures him, “so will we.”

Clint shuffles back to the couch and flops over it, and almost hides his wince at the feelings his stab wound has about that. “Bet Stark’s tower’s got heated floors. Stupid fast internet. Bet he’s got chefs and cleaners and everything.”

Barney always forgets how being hurt makes Clint into a five year-old again. “If some stranger tried to clean your room, you would stab them.” Clint sticks his tongue out.

Then he jumps, because Barney’s phone is buzzing again. Got his aids in, then.

It’s a text, this time, from an unknown number.

???: Stark tells me you’ll only come out to play if I come out too - Steve

“Holy shit,” Barney says, “Captain America is texting me.”

“What the fuck,” Clint pushes himself up, “Give me the phone. Give me the phone! He’s texting me!”

“Again,” Barney says, typing complete nonsense so Clint hears the tapping noise, “it was me who he bonded with when we murdered a load of aliens together, he has no idea who you are.”

“Barney. He’s Captain America.”

Goddammit, that fucking whine. He throws Clint his phone.

Then stands behind him to watch him type.

You: he ain’t exactly my usual kinda buddy

You: appreciate the thing with the missile obviously but also i don’t think he pays taxes?

Clint backspaces four times to change his terrible text speak for actual words. It’s hilarious. 

steve!!!!: He fucking better.

You: if you yell at him about this please film it

You: i promise not to put it online i just want it playing on a loop in my apartment

steve!!!!: He says ‘Excuse me of course I pay taxes, I have to get rid of all this money somehow’

steve!!!!: I’m double-checking with Miss Potts.

You: did shield just give you the phone numbers of the entire population of new york

steve!!!!: No, I think it’s only 30%.

You: oh shit do you have fury’s number

steve!!!!: Strangely, no.

You: dammit

You: one day

“You are definitely the reason Fury didn’t give Captain America his personal cell number,” Barney says. Clint shoves at him. 

steve!!!!: Not planning on moving into Stark’s place, then?

You: think living somewhere that expensive would give me a rash

You: don’t tell shield this but i stole my apartment from the mob

“Oh my God Clint they are definitely reading his texts,” Barney groans.

You: hey uh unrelated but anyone give you an update on opsec

Clint glares at him, pointedly, then makes a truly inhuman noise when he reads Steve’s next reply.

steve!!!!: Is that an offer?

“Oh my fucking God I’m gonna become best friends with Captain America,” Clint says, low and reverent.

Barney rolls his eyes. “He still thinks he’s talking to me.”

“So? You wore a mask and shit, he won’t notice.”

“You are so fucking injured. He will definitely notice.”

“Okay, then you wear a wire, and I tell you what to say—”

Barney snatches the phone back, types out ‘hell yeah let’s get a drink, when you free?’, then locks it and tucks it away. Clint is fully pouting.

“I’m going out,” Barney reminds him. “Coulson wants you in Russia, I’m gonna find out the fuck why. Amuse yourself for a while, you can keep flirting with Captain America when I get back.”

“If you really loved me you’d wear a wire,” Clint huffs. Barney ruffles his hair and goes to find his jacket.

–––––––––––––––

“Explain to me again,” Coulson says, exasperated in a way Barney’s more used to seeing directed at Clint, “why you thought pretending to be Clint was in any way a good plan.”

Usually, they have chats like these in some pretentious hipster place, where all the drinks have dumb names and cost twenty bucks a pop, but for obvious reasons that’s not happening. So, they’re in a park, miraculously untouched. There’s a flock of pigeons going at what looks like some bodega’s entire stock of bread.

“Clint was stabbed doing something SHIELD don’t need to know about; SHIELD didn’t tap me for the Avengers, ‘cause they still think I’d sell them all out for the right price; aliens were invading New York; I live in New York and I didn’t have any other plans.”

Coulson pinches at the bridge of his nose. He for sure agrees Barney made the right call, given the givens, and he will for sure die before he ever admits it. Barney is the reason the wannabe god didn’t stab him through the chest, though, so Barney is gonna try and make him admit it.

“You don’t have clearance to know about the Avengers.”

“Half the world knows about the Avengers, we were on every news channel there is.”

“Prior to the Chitauri invasion,” Coulson says, exasperation ticking up a notch, “you did not have clearance to know about the Avengers Initiative. SHIELD already don’t trust you, and now you’ve been compromised by a hostile alien with unknown motivations and allegiances—”

“Which is why SHIELD’s gotta keep thinking it was Clint,” Barney agrees, “‘cause they'll just straight up shoot me.”

Coulson sighs, heavily. But he doesn’t disagree.

“Going forward, then,” he says. “Are you going to continue to be Hawkeye?”

“I kinda really thought the alien invasion was a one-time thing. You telling me we’re expecting more aliens?”

“Not with any certainty,” which is Coulson for ‘yeah, probably’. “But I, for one, would rather we were prepared. And with the way some things are going, the Avengers may be needed for purely Earth-based disputes.”

“You get superheroes, you’re asking for supervillains?”

“Unfortunately.”

Barney lets out a long breath. It should be hilarious, that some idiot might actually pull on a cape and a dumb mask and try to take over the world, but he just got done stopping the last idiot, and they’re still pulling out the bodies. Morning cartoons never have collateral damage.

“I gotta talk to Clint,” he says. “He’d be better at it, but he’s been muttering about bouncing from SHIELD lately. Taking it real personal that you don’t trust me, who’d’ve thunk it.”

“I trust you,” Coulson says, lightly. Barney rolls his eyes.

“Yeah, no shit. Look, I’ll go to Russia, but someone’s gotta babysit Clint while I’m gone. I’m sick of the fucker pulling his stitches.”

“I don’t know who’s going to be there to meet you—”

“This ain’t the first mission I’ve run in Clint’s place.”

Coulson blinks. Huh, Barney had honestly thought he knew about that. “Well,” he says, “then you leave bright and early tomorrow morning. Try not to get in too much trouble, would you?”

Barney grins, trademark Barton asshole. “No promises.” 

[ofmickcy-blog]

⋰ ◇ ⋱ ◇ ( twenty four / cismale / he/him ) was that troye sivan i saw walking into apartment 1D on hemlock street? i better look again, because that was just michelangelo ‘mickey’ fonsi. i wonder how long they’ve been in the neighborhood. i’ve heard three months, but i don’t know if that’s right. he has been pretty resilient but petty lately. i wonder if it has to do with the fact that they’re a scorpio. ( cecilia, 24, she/her, cst ) 

hi my name is cecelia but you can call me later any variation on it tbh. i’m all about that organic nickname life. in fact, i love nicknames so much that every character i have ever played ever probably has a cutesy nickname. hence, micheangelo -- my pretentious-art-parents-born son. i hope you love him as much as i love his stupid name. 

PAST STUFF YOU CAN TOTALLY SKIP

as promised, michelangelo was named by his art loving italian parents. he’s got naturally super dark hair but light eyes. v cute little bambino and the second born child in the fonsi clan. they’d go on to have one more little one -- a girl after two boys -- and that was their little family unit.

they moved to the states shortly after mickey’s little sister was born, settling down in new york. the move was for his father’s work -- he was a curator and got transferred along with a traveling art exhibit, loved the states so much he relocated his entire family

that was also where his parents’ relationship started to deteriorate. his father loved all things american but his mother was incredibly homesick. she had to leave her own job behind and resented papa fonsi for it. 

divorce was the natural next step but it hit the family hard. his brother demanded to stay with their father -- always being a bit closer to dad than mom. and little sis was still small enough that she didn’t really have an opinion but mickey felt right in the middle of it all

it was his first experience with heartbreak and he took it hard

BUT ! life moves on.

mickey was fairly quiet. he kept to himself and his sister was his best friend but he was also a real sweetie. definitely intelligent but more booksmarts nd poetry than artistically talented like his parents.

in fact, mickey cannot draw for shit and has no idea what constitutes good art but that’s just an ironic blow to his ‘rents.

despite her homesickness, mama fonsi kept her two kiddos in the states. she moved them from the hustle and bustle of new york into a sleepy little rhode island city where she had found work. it was ... nicer. mickey’s quietness wasn’t so odd in a quiet hometown. 

somewhere in that first year of moving, mickey came out first to his family and almost immediately more publicly. it just seemed like a fresh start and definitely helped him feel more comfortable in his surroundings. he even pulled out of that reclusive state now that he felt more confident in who he was as a person.

he got into a relationship pretty shortly after starting high school and honestly it was the best thing for him. it boosted his self confidence, helped him find a snarky sarcasm that he didn’t even know he had and made him immediately some level of popular because his boyfriend was ~older~ and cooler and his friend group blossomed. 

he became quite the little “hipster gay” trope and loves coffee shops, vinyls, dressing well. the whole nine yards. things all went really well until he got the call that his older brother who he hadn’t seen in years had passed away suddenly and unexpectedly.

it sent mickey’s upward trajectory into a tailspin of grief and he really just didn’t understand what was going on. 

he developed a bitter edge, pushed people away, ended up splitting messily from his boyfriend and sank into this depression he kind of felt like he had no right to have since he didn’t make the effort to stay in touch with his father & brother in the first place. 

PRESENT DAY STUFF THIS IS MORE IMPORTANT

mickey’s lovely mother got him into therapy and he had a genuinely lovely experience of it all. 

he went off to school and got a marketing degree with a psychology double major, the latter directly affected by his own life experiences

while the therapy definitely helped him get over his loss, his relationship ending sent him into what i call a breakup hoe phase.

that hoe phase has lasted the YEARS since his split -- the point where he’s accepted it as part of his personality tbh

he’s currently got himself an internship at a social media marketing firm in town (paid, lucky boy) and so he’s recently moved into apartment 1D (baby u light up my world and all that)

PERSONALITY WISE -- a natural flirt with any and all cute boys. kind of cagey and guarded with his personal life tho but because of that, he’s very superficially social. friendly with everyone but has few actual ‘friends’ if that makes sense. still has his eclectic hipster tastes and definitely has come a long way in his self expression. he tries to be easygoing and whatnot but occasionally has his slip ups. he can definitely be a petty lil b*tch when he wants to be. there’s still some bitter part of him deep at his core but he does his best to keep it deeply buried so as not to isolate himself again!!

PLOT IDEAS -- also the most important maybe

a casual friend group

neighbors

ex hookups

a super close friend (maybe they went to school together or just immediately clicked in the 3 months he’s been here)

a childhood friend from ny would be cute

eclectic hipster pal(s)

literally i can’t think of anything else but i’m game for brainstorming PLEASE

[fogmongers]

                                          L  A  N  E    K  A  T  Z .                          history major.                                           dorming  with  Robin.                              skater (amateur).    photographer (amateur).    musician (amateur).

a restless hipster born to an aggressively patriotic cop and his stepford wife in nowheresland, montana, the only thing that ever stood between lane and his parents throwing down to hell was his older brother and unaccredited role model jack: the perfect boy, and the only mediator empathetic and patient enough to not only suffer the arguments of ethics between his parents and their unfavorite child, but also to defuse them.

jack had the philosophical savvy to understand and relate to lane, but at the end of the day, didn’t have the passion or endurance to live the peace-loving ideology they discussed. loyal to a fault and desperate to make his insecurely lower-class parents proud in wake of lane growing up to be a smelly hippie who brought shame to the family in their rural town, jack enlisted in the army at 18, very much against Lane’s pleas advice, leaving his little brother feeling tremendously betrayed.

already showing early signs of manic depression in his teens, the feelings of angst and anxiety caused by and for jack led to lane losing his self-preservation instinct. his high school years would see him acting on his impulses of hyper-sexuality and letting his mood swings and irritability turn him into a toxic friend. he had days where he was endearingly quiet and earnest, but switched to moods of reckless thrill-seeking decadence, or venomous, moody irritability with no warning or signal of how he would feel at any particular moment. became a serial dater who got away with breaking hearts because he had the veneer of a sweet artist--- wrote a few songs and poems for girls, always taking candid photographs of happy times and posting them with lovely captions, knows how to give a good, personal compliment when he wants to--- but he wound up being kind of isolated by the end of his senior year after girls started talking to each other about his behavioral patterns and nowadays he doesn’t have many friends to visit back in montana.

his home life was an even larger abyss, especially around the times his brother would come home. with each subsequent visit, jack became more visibly hollow. everyone could tell that he lost the shine in his smile, and it was clear that his mind was somewhere else during conversations, even before you told him that your girlfriend left you for your best friend and he smiled and said “I’m so happy for you.” 

when efforts to talk to jack again became increasingly futile and frustrating, no one in the family was able to cope constructively. while his parents promptly Bottled That Shit Right Up and, to this day, actively deny any of jack’s visible trauma, lane has reacted with a lot of emotions and crying and lashing out and, to this day, is not finished “grieving.” and it leads to a lot of tension between him and his parents. their relationship for most of hi high school life consisted only of radio silence and arguments– especially between lane and his dad, who wanted him to Man Up, stop “reaching for shit to get upset about” and “making up problems” and thought it was time for him to get his act together and stop partying so much, get more controlled like his brother, talk back less like his brother, put down the camera and guitar and join a sports team--- start thinking about his future.

it all built up to the peak of one typical argument about how shallow they are vs. how bratty he is, and his father declared that the family has been expecting lane to enlist at the end of high school to learn respect and discipline if he wants to keep his room in their house, and after lane lashed out, his dad raised his hand to hit him.

lane flinched away and the heat of the moment was cut soon enough for him to lower his arm, but the general threat of physical abuse is still there every time lane sees his dad, and the one time he tried to bring it up his dad denied that it ever happened--- basically tries to gaslight him into thinking he’s just overreacting and blowing things out of proportion and all in all the relationship has lost all hope. within a month after the incident, he stopped talking to his dad entirely.

his mom was, fortunately, there to witness the situation, and is still outwardly in denial about the whole ordeal, but she was sympathetic enough to keep them separated for the rest of lane’s childhood and support her son when preferred to go to college than boot camp. she helped him fill out his applications and apply for financial aid knowing, deep down, that she probably wouldn’t see him again after he pulled out of the driveway and headed to rainier the next year.

persona:

your standard artsy, pretentious white boy. fake-deep entry-level philosopher, hiding any vulnerability behind a fort of irony and alleged self-awareness. the guy “sarcastically” playing early 2000′s indie-pop hits on acoustic guitar in the quad because he won’t admit that he earnestly likes the sincerity of songs. teasing/negging girls who instagram pictures of their food and judging people for scrolling through their phones in public when they should be paying attention to him. would have dread locks if he went to college just ten years ago. wears his ziggy stardust or velvet underground tee shirts on the anniversaries of bowie & lou reed's deaths and mourns artists like them belligerently publically. reads sartre & marx in crowded spaces with the book cover as visible as possible. 

a walking contradiction. uncontrollable mood swings. he flips between extreme arrogance and worrysome levels of self-deprecation at the strum of a chord. an alluring and unpredictable mine field of a person, flipping the switch between boughts of wrath and guilt, ecstatic passion and dreadful apathy, tyranny and self-harm. a rebellious party boy, very popular for a loner, with boyish charm and intrigue. but he’s much more self-aware than he used to be--- after realizing that he had no friends’ houses to stay at in his senior year of high school because he pushed everyone away, he tries much harder to be a better friend to people, both out of the need for self-preservation since he can’t spend summer breaks or holidays in montana anymore, and also out of a genuine empathy and understanding of other people’s behavior and feelings that he had to learn the hard way. 

grew up extremely passionate about studying history; refuses to admit that it’s not really his thing anymore. constantly triggered by his own textbooks. he would really do better in some philosophy or literature or psychology (or being confident enough in his own potential to major in photography and grow up to be the war photographer he was born to be), but he’s developed a masochistic streak in recent years.

attached at the guts to robin dundee. they have a complicated friendship with, but robin’s overpowering energy kind of forces lane to default to being calmer to balance him out. the boys are always saying they’re going to start a band together but can never decide what kind since they’re never interested in the same extremely specific and obscure sub-genre at the same time (one week robin will say they should be a dark vaudevillian cabaret goth band while lane insists that they should play ethereal folk and by the time one of them gets into the other’s taste, the latter has already moved on to psychobilly) and they always push away each other’s recruits to the band since all of lane’s friends find robin too psychotic and anyone robin attracts finds lane too pissy and sappy. 

wanted connections:

short-lived relationships or flings that ended ambiguously or badly because he’s kind of hard to handle for long periods of time. demure or ditzy/non-threatening friends who let him feel like the mischievous one for once (he tends to flirt with these kinds of people). unrequited crushes (on either side, but he should also have a huge crush on annona). dealers, or friends/clients of his dealer who he smokes with. a party squad. a white boy skater/weed/videogame squad (COUGH nate/sid/robin/lane what COUGH). someone who’s intrigued by his undiagnosed psyche and just wants to get close to him to figure him out - or - who finds him boring because they already have him figured out. people who are begrudgingly friends with him because he workshops and photographs their art for their portfolios (maybe someone whose name sounds like mattah sarhews). a friend of that friend whom he doesn’t realize is gay and keeps flirting with because he thinks she’s playing hard to get and just has a deadpan sarcastic sense of humor. someone whose family he spends breaks with (i’m assuming he usually winds up spending them with his fling at the time but a friend who he can consistently stay with would be good too), or someone who also on campus when school’s out; bonus points if they only talk when they’re having heart-to-hearts on the empty grounds. activists who recognize his energy and want to mobilize him (it’s tk i’m talking about tk @ nina bring tk to rainier please). good influence friends who are understanding of his behavior. someone who’s a little too forgiving of him and winds up getting stepped on because they assure him he’s safe to be emotional around them. bad influence friends who push him to act more like robin. enemies who do not have any patience for him or his antics, or anyone who actively tells people about what a bastard he is. maybe someone from his old school who he’s burned?

[shy-marker-pliers]

must...write...

@lamiasluck

Host hadn’t been able to write anything for weeks. No matter how hard he tried, all of his ideas seemed overused, his writing fell short, and he was spending the time he spent in his library, pacing and hoping that, like a tv antenna, he would be struck with an idea if he only got the right signal. But no such luck.

Eric was with him the whole time, of course. But, not knowing the slightest about how to write himself, he could do little more than offer encouragement. And occasionally, snuggles.

One day, Host was sitting at the kitchen table, hoping that a change of scenery would help his writers block. It wasn’t. pages full of half written ideas were scattered around the table, and he was just sitting there, tapping his quill pen against a piece of paper and william the blobs of ink to turn into words.

“Uh...What’s all this?” Bim asked as he walked into the room.

“The Host’s creative well has gone dry.” he mumbled dejectedly as he crumpled up yet another unsatisfactory page.

“Okay, well can it run dry somewhere else please? I use the table to write the script for Hire My Ass.”

“The Host has a script of his own to write. His supply on short stories for his radio show is running dangerously low, that’s what he’s been trying to work on.”

“Give me a break, No one listens to radio shows anymore! You’re probably just broadcasting to nobody.”

“People listen to The Hosts show...”

“Yeah, who?”

Host was silent, his lips pressed in a thin line. His hands were balled into fists, his nails digging into the skin of his palms enough to sting. But Bim didn’t appear to notice, as he was busy gathering up The Hosts papers and moving them all aside to make room.

“Why do you even still use a paper and pen anyway? is it cause you’re a pretentious hipster, or is it cause you don’t want to go out and buy a laptop?”

“T-The- The Host finds that a paper and pen just suits him better, that’s all. Now if Bim would give his papers back-”

“There’s not even anything on these.” Bim flicked through the papers. “I mean, there are barely even three words on some of them! ‘serial killer at a summer camp?’ that’s just friday the 13th...’Possessed house.” oh, that’s real original. ‘Pirates.’ just...just pirates? what does that even mean?”

Bim turned around and was completely shocked to find Host sitting at the table, hands fisted in his hair, his shoulders shaking as he tried to cry silently.

“What the fuck? um, overreacting much?” Bim put a hand on his hip.

Instead of Host throwing back a snarky insult at Bim like he usually would have, he just sniffled and looked up. Rather than blood staining his bandages, they were dampened with tears.

“I-Is Bim done now?”

“What- ...I guess so?”

“Can The Host p-please have his papers back n-now?” He asked in a small voice. He didn’t even sound mad. He just stood up and walked over to Bim, holding out his hand. Bim handed him the papers, and Host held them close to his chest, choking back another sob.

And then Eric walked in. He was humming a little tune to himself, carrying a plate of oreos and a glass of milk- Hosts favorite snack.

“H-Hey Host? You haven’t eaten anything all day so I have some-“ Upon seeing his normally stoic boyfriend crying in the middle of the living room, He panicked and quickly set the plate down, rushing over to him. He took his face in his hands and gently wiped his tears away, wearing a concerned frown on his face.

“Oh, Honey...what h-happened?”

“The Host w-was...B-Bim- He wanted to m-make a script a-and-“ Hosts voice was too shaky to respond properly.

“Shh, it’s okay Honey. H-Here, you take these oreos to your room and i’ll be with you in just a minute, o-okay?”

Host nodded as Eric handed him the plate. He got on his tiptoes to plant a little kiss on his cheek, and then Host walked out of the room, his shoulders slumped.

As soon as Eric and Bim we’re alone, all of the softness in his expression melted away, leaving only a steely glare.

“What did you do.”

“Hey, it’s not my fault he can’t handle a joke! plus, he was taking up my space-“

“Are you serious? Did you not notice how stressed he’s been lately, or were you too much of a self centered asshole to care!?”

Bim stared wide eyed at Eric, opening and closing his mouth like a fish out of water.

“I-“

“I don’t wanna hear whatever the you have to say! You made my boyfriend cry, you-...you fucking jerk!”

In all of the time Eric had spent at the manor, not once had Bim heard him swear. He was equal parts shocked and afraid.

“Is there anything I can do-?”

“You’ve done plenty.” He snapped. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to go find Host because someone made him feel like garbage.”

Eric turned around and stomped out of the kitchen. “Have fun writing your script, dickwad.”

Eric walked to Hosts room, taking deep breaths along the way to calm his anger. By the time he was at the door, he was his usual self once again. Host was sitting on the bed, staring down at his hands with a blank expression, half dried tear tracks on his face. Eric sat next to him, wrapping an arm around him. Host relaxed somewhat and allowed himself to Rest his head on top of Eric’s.

“I-I’m sorry about Bim. He shouldn’t have hurt your feelings like that.”

Host glanced up. His bandages were completely soaked, and Eric sighed as he repositioned himself so that he and Host were facing each other. Then he grabbed the spare roll of bandages he kept in his pocket for emergencies.

“Come here, baby. Let me get you fixed up.”

Host leaned down without complaint and allowed Eric to change his bandages. He was so gentle as he did so, being careful not to wrap them too tightly or make them rub up against his skin too hard.

Host felt better after that, and he hugged Eric tight, wrapping his arms around his necks and his legs around his waist. Eric rocked him back and forth and pet his hair, humming him a soft little song. And he kept doing that until Host was fast asleep, nestled in his embrace. He then laid him down on the bed and tucked him in, giving him a peck on the lips as he crawled in bed next to him.

“Get some sleep. You deserve it.” He pulled Host to his chest and held him until he too was snoring.

Some ego: *Makes Host cry* | Eric staring at them with the burning range of a thousand suns: You motherfucker | Literally everyone: :0 |

No stutters. No hesitation.

Eric just rants and swears and that ego immediately knows they fucked up

No more babey, Eric is angy

[juznaslovaska]

fictions, we need them so much

Ever since I moved out from Poland for the first a couple of moments after coming back are marked with a state of heightened perception and overclocked pattern recognition. There is a certain disbelief attached to it. Am I really from here? Is that how I remembered it? Sometimes it might be days, like when I came back from summer job vacation in the UK. I was quite sure that suddenly I discovered that that my country really is this sad land of endless gloom, to add ofense to injury, with polar bears missing. I came back from known for rain, yet sunny then, island and at home it was raining. It was September but it felt like winter already came. I guess I was mostly just lost finding myself out of established scheme of work-movies-work-movies and terrified with perspective of starting engieneering studies. There is also certain joy to it. Last Christmas when I was waiting in Warsaw for connecting flight to Kraków I overheard two airport crew members discussing lively. They talked about some drama with passenger flying with a dachshund having all sorts of demands and pretences. Story didn’t matter though, the language did. Its plasticity, playfulness, structure and melody filled me with giggly happiness. They spoke Polish in a way I would never speak it and none of my friends would, and yet it was so familiar and felt so satisfying. Yes, it was satisfying.

The real gem seems to be though when I enter on land instead of flying in. Airports are after all standardised and hygienic. As such, they carry less of a fuel for imagination. It might be well something completely different. Maybe sudden drop in the environment makes it feel like I’ve never actually left it? Or pretty prosaically, perhaps it’s just that when driving there is much more time for thoughts to wander. Counterintuitively that produces instant reactions.

The entry to Poland on my usual route from Slovenia that is almost perfectly transparent. Slovenia turns into Austria smoothly, Austria turns into Czechia with only small glitch of Breclav’s Casinos and then landscape of one Silesia turns into landscape of the other across the river. Not much changes but it seems that those minimal fluctuations change everything. First alarm is the font of the road signs. For most of my life just invisible element of reality, now grotesque and hideous symbol that frustrates me whenever I see it. Among its many offences, I blame it for the the fact that I’ve elevated frustration to be  main ingredient of my own formula to build a Polack if one would be ever needed for an interactive exhibition of forgotten fictions. This font is obviously made for roads full of potholes, surrounded by flatlands of mud and potatoes in which post-apocalyptic ruins are standing on guard even though it’s high time for retirement. It fits air brick cube-shaped houses, preferably with grey concrete wall decorated at the top with some clumsy flower motive, or blocks of flats newly insulated and painted in pastel rainbow but surrounded by pavements and driveways that are cambered and twisted.

There it doesn’t fit at all. The name “Rzeczpospolita Polska” is written on the blue sign and surrounded with 12 stars of European Union flag. The overall landscape is just an ordinary gayrepoean reality of autobahn experience. The road is new, smooth and wide, soon enough it turns into 3-lane motorway and whole thing is actually mindblowing luxury in contrast with surfing on asphalt on the verges of Ostrava. Furthermore, fatherland welcomes me with the widest extradosed bridge in the world. Of course I wouldn’t know what it means for the bridge to be extradosed or even care. It’s just one of the words I know and don’t understand. It found a place in my head cause the Mszana bridge was supposed to be (or at least it was painted like that in the media and this picture I’ve remembered, believed in and kept) proud gateway to modern Poland, monument of engineering aptitude and new-found European prosperity. Once over a beer I started speaking with awe about Slovenian road network, number of motorway tunnels and beautiful bridges over dramatic valleys, all this infrastructure they have. My Slovenian friend mocked me, we modern country, you know, developed. So this bridge was supposed to be, I believe, a big-ass banner saying exactly that to Czechs and anyone else crossing the border. Here’s masterpiece of bridge building, please respect us, from Poland with love.

In the end it tells a different story. The public tender to build it was won by Alpine Bau, Austrian company that after some time challenged the greatness and whined about design being based on “solutions unheard of in the international bridge building literature”. The contract was cancelled and a new tender has been issued. Alpine Bau offered its services once again, won once again and after a breakdown of some elements of the bridge once again blamed the design and refused to fix the damages. Construction was finished by Polish company and Alpine Bau got bankrupt. Their spokeperson claimed that stubborn Polish authorities and the fatal bridge project are responsible for 15 000 people around Europe losing their jobs. At least we’ve crashed the Germans on this one, huh? Now the bridge just stands there painted in violet and does not seem to think of itself too much.

I’ve just read “Międzymorze”, thenew book by Ziemowit Szczerek, my gonzo reporting crush. I’m sitting in a bar, looking at already emptied, calm and pleasant Ljubljana mocking myself for how writing short post turned me into some kind of Szczerek in English for the poor. Sukas, pizdas and khuis are coming to my ears from Russian teenagers sitting by the table 5 metres to the left.

Last time my entry to Poland was very different from this invisible border in which stories have to be tiresly looked for somehwhere in the microcracks on the fresh concrete. First I went to Berlin, city that looks to me East European, like East European megalopolis done right. It’s not very pleasant but somehow chill even when walking on the ground of multilingual chaos. In a way it this chill that Ljubljana has, this feeling that always struck me as most foreign about Slovenia. Somehow middle class does not look like a neurotic wannabes, instead they just do their middle class things and even the most ‘pretentious hipsters’ are less of play-pretenders. Ljubljana is though, apart from being chill and charming, peectly clean and orderly which Berlin is not. Perhaps after getting back and rebuilding their serious Prussian capital Germans felt that it might be too much and somehow ingeniously engineered something far away from rest of the country. It looks almost as if the only thing they left of their own character is a bit disarming habit of wearing new expensive clothes and still looking like actors from a movie about 1980s Düsseldorf (I have no idea why Düsseldorf is anything in my imagined geography). Even gentrified Prenzlaurerberg where my Macedonian friends live didn’t seem to me a bit tense and pretty tense stability is how I had imagined it to be. It’s surely as fictious but Prenzlauerberg is now for me two Polish guys sitting at the cheap plastic tables in front of the shop, sipping beer and talking in a mixture of German and English with their Turkish co-immigrants, just occasionally adding some kurwas here and there. True urban paradise, this Berlin is a land of hope, shining city on the hill I thought. Maybe somehow magically things won’t go to shit like everybody thinks they will.

Once I got out of Berlin and headed towards the border I found myself in forest and this forest refused to end. Somewhere on the way I passed signs inviting me visit Tropical Islands Resort. I almost took a detour but then I held my horses and remembered that it’s already pretty late. Pattern recognition engine pondered a bit about those Tropical Islands. They didn’t really fit the bucket “Deutschland is eternal 80s”, certainly it was more of 90s. It ended up there anyway and I kept on driving on increasingly empty road in the forest. The closer to the border the weirder this motorway in empty no man’s land seemed.

Finally I reached Poland. And what a tragedy was that! Shame, disgrace, humiliation, lack of reason and human dignity. The Nazi motorway, decaying washing-machine of concrete plates, I knew from childhood is still there. Or rather half of it, fresh silver concrete shines on the other side of barriers. Lanes towards Gemrany were renovated long time ago. Cars and trucks swiftly blitzed there heading West and there I was on this desert, on this empty post-apocalyptic road.  For some reason I was sure that it’s been fixed already, took-took-took tak-tak-tak melody of coming from the West is gone, scars got patched and all in all my experience of entering Poland will be the same as when coming from the South. I was amused and amazed. At me being so surprised and at the fact that despite amusement somewhere deep I felt shame, disgrace, humiliation and would gladly tell someone that this whole thing here is, kurwa, total lack of reason and human dignity.

I was so amused and amazed that I took the chance and just pulled out onto the emergency lane, just to breath in this wild wild land. Speedway or not, here it seems to be a perfectly fitting thing to do. On the side of the road I noticed plastic garden chair lying upside down on dry moss. It had no purpose and even though most possible course of its history suggest that it was just trashed there, this lack of purpose was a bit alarming. No purpose has a purpose I proclaimed and if nothing else it enabled me to imagine someone just coming there to sit down and look at this broken in half transport corridor. Perhaps it was someone’s pitstop on the way through the forest picking up mushrooms. Of course it was mushroom trip. What can be more Polish than that I thought. I knew it was senseless and it also made so much sense. I went back to the car. Once someone in Slovenia lectured me about his theory that actually on a road like that it’s just better for suspension to drive fast. You just skip the holes in between a bit he explained. I believed him now so I ignored speedlimits and my own common sense, pressed the gas pedal and levitated over the highway in my private drang nach osten that suddenly seemed so alien and so known at the same time. Tak-tak-tak. Road signs font was perfectly fitting, transparent, a masterpiece of design. Took-took-took. As I approached the place were this strained road joins proper motorway I passed the truck parking on the right lane opposite to the driving direction. Took-took-took. Tak-tak-tak. Psssssssss.

I hit the smooth road and suddenly it was crowded and busy. Just before Wroclaw I stopped at the gas station. It was BP and on paper it was in no way different than anywhere else by the autobahn but the lady taking my payment seemed particularly obnoxious. I came back inside to pee after I finished drinking Coca-Cola, somehow I felt that the lady follows me with her eyes, checking if surely I paid for something before, if surely I am a legit customer. Next to the building there was a stone replica of Fiat 125p. A bit further stood a shed with a generic skyline of a big city painted on the wall. It belonged to slot machines bars chain called “HOT FUN”. It was all so 90s, so much of what 90s were to me. I couldn’t believe.

2 hours later I stopped again. I’ve already joined the same road that I take when driving straight from Slovenia. I was back at home. Since my last visit the station extended its commercial offering with “Autogrill”, Italian brand of highway resthouses that was a chief gonzo element of  Italian trip a few months back. I turned on mobile data on the phone and checked the messages. My highschool friend pursuing PhD in Netherlands sent me another bunch of links to content from psychiatric hospital of hypernational lol. Our genetic code that is Polish DNA! The enemies of Poland are frightened by those of us who have once again become the heirs of the Sarmat and the Cursed Soldiers. And so on, and so on.

I didn’t really know about it but I think I was waiting for opportunity to post somewhere someday this song: