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dragonrajafanfiction · 3 years

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The Red Well: (Part 4) Merry Christmas

Here we go yo. Thanks for reading

You really thought you had Herzog pinned. But Herzog knew you too well. Even though he wasn’t sure how you’d escape the well, he had calculated that you would and prepared not a deadly trap, but a non-lethal but extremely strong net. He knew your Soul Skill and he likely attracted you up here intentionally, to get you out of the way.

In fact, he was so prepared that you saw a massive wall of large dump trucks that you figured were full of deadpool. While you were down in the well with Ruri, these trucks were already parked as a barricade for any further escape.

You smile up at him, completely bound in super strong and extremely sharp nanofiber. It was engineered to tighten as you struggle. If you wanted, you could probably break it but only at severe injury. Already the near invisible threads were cutting off your circulation. If you continued to struggle, you would probably lose limbs as the threads cut through completely.

You smile up at him peacefully. “Ahh… you got me.” You say in a soft voice.

Herzog was wearing a slim-fitting tuxedo with straight suit pants and a bright purple shirt, a white silk bow tie, and black and white brogue shoes. Herzog crouched next to you and stroked your hair. “I’ve been meaning to talk to you. I hope you can have a bit of a chat!”

“Of course!” You say brightly. Your heart is beating but you feel a weird mix of joy and chagrin. You wanted to kill him but he’d knocked you flat, and you weren’t even angry.

Herzog put away the gun, pulled a knife and neatly cut the fiber. You glanced at the blade but didn’t say anything. Something strong enough and sharp enough to cut these strings wasn’t ordinary. Cutting those threads was a clear threat not to misbehave. You sit up and he helps you up with one hand behind his back like a gentleman.

A table was already set up on the engineering lift platform. There were candlelights on a white table cloth and a bottle of Red Label vodka with two glasses and ice. “For me? You shouldn’t have!”

“My work took me away from the wedding! I had to make it up to you somehow. I had a friend record it for me. It was quite beautiful.” Herzog pulls out a chair and you sit down smoothing what was left of your dress. Herzog sits across from you.

He had a front row seat over the heart of the storm, but the scene below was so calm. A curtain of huge raindrops hit the bloody battlefield and make ripples on the red lake.

Chisei Gen and Ruri Kazama walk slowly around in a circle, as if this is the stage where the actors say their long-written dialogues. Ruri Kazama walks silently, the wind pulling his robes away from him like a frail maiden, while the dragon-type Emperor Gen Chisei makes a heavy sound like an armored warrior.

You take a sip of the vodka and feel its warmth radiate down your throat. Herzog was relaxed, tranquil as a Buddha. Right now, you could ask Herzog anything you wanted and he’d probably answer honestly. He’s won and you were going to die. So you switch to your familiar home Russian language and call him softly, like you used to in Black Swan Bay. “Doctor.”

He turned to you. His face was still covered in the white mask.

“Why… do this? You’re so smart. You could do anything. You could change the world in countless ways. You could stop everything now and … go cure cancer or end world hunger… or something”

He closed his eyes and laughed, speaking to you in that voice from your childhood. “Those are all very high level aspirations… but the world is very basic, my dear. Dragons ruled thousands of thousands of years and, even though they were defeated, they are so enduring that they will rise again eventually. When that end of humanity comes, only those who are on the dragon’s side will endure.” He replied.

“So you … want to endure. Then… When humans win, will you go back to human’s side?”

He picked up a cigar and lit it. “If humans win again. Once the Black King rises, he might do with them what he did with the White King. Or… attempted to do. Now… more to your point about … stopping now.” He breathed in and let out a puff of smoke. “Let me ask you this. If I did stop now. Let’s say, I decide that I don’t want what I’ve pursued all my life. What then? Would you let me live my life peacefully? Just walk away and cure cancer?”

You’re silent for a moment. It was unlikely. Even if you didn’t pursue him and forgot he existed, there was no doubt that Cassell and the Japan Branch wouldn’t forget and pursue him.

“You see, you could pass a merciful judgment, but the people over you.” He pointed up to the sky. “They feel differently, so your judgement has no standing. You do not make the rules or the decisions here because you don’t have the power. Only those with the power can make the rules. So no, I cannot stop until I am over all and no one can challenge me. That is the way of evolution.”

“I disagree with your views on evolution…”

“Go on.” He puffed again.

You’re getting suspicious of his lack of urgency. Wasn’t he watching the clock a minute ago? “You say that Evolution is just the weak against the strong, that it’s just the strong devouring the weak. But even the weak have strategies or else they would die out. If the strong stop adapting to the strategies of the weak, they die out. If the strong become too strong and devour everything, they die out. Evolution is about balance and equal competition. Your theory of evolution has no balance. Your way of thinking, this one way pursuit of greater strength, will not destroy the world or devour the weak. You will just die out once you run out of food. Surely, you’ve considered this.”

He smiled. “It feels good to discuss these topics with you. You’ve always been possessed of great spirit and intelligence.”

“You’re changing the subject.” You grumble.

“If I die out, then it means I have been unable to change the world, and it will be a fitting end for me. Now, I have a question for you, my dear.” He reached up and took off his mask.

You gasp. “Bondarev? … w...wait.” Under the mask was not Herzog, like you expected but the face of Tachibana! You tilt your head. “I figured you escaped the fire…” It hits you again, harder this time.

Herzog waits, smiling watching the magic unravel in your mind.

“At Tokyo tower. The other body was a fake. No… it was a real body but a different person. Wearing a mask. You were controlling a body double? To make them pretend to be you? You did that from up here too? You never entered the Red Well yourself.”

“Body doubles are a common spy practice. After I escaped the fire that killed the identity of Tachibana and Bondarev in the mind of Hydra, I was able to suppress Ruri while I completed my preparations.” He said. “I see you weren’t quite fooled. But you still believed Bondarev was alive as an individual. No… I killed Bondarev long ago and assumed his identity.”

“I see. So you were aware of Hydra’s and The Devil Clan’s activities.” You say, sinking into your chair.

“Indeed, I created both organizations to complete my work. Now I need to ask my question. How did you do it? How did you escape Black Swan Bay?”

Your mind was still flipping through your memories. Herzog knew from the beginning, from the moment you arrived in Japan, that you were here, that you were alive. Through his Hydra contacts, he knew your every move. When you met Ruri, he tracked you again through the Devil Clan. No wonder he knew where you were to send Hydra operatives after Chance in the park. He knew ...everything. Everything was his fault. All the pain, all the sorrow and loss and danger and struggle. He was behind all of it. One hundred percent.

You answer his question. “I wish I could tell you how I came here today. But I don’t know. I fell into the ocean.” You said. “Even though the ocean was frozen solid that time of year, there was a gap in the frigid water that I fell through that was created when the Lenin ship arrived to take the dragon specimen away. I must have been encased in ice for those 20 years. But I don’t know how anyone found me and I don’t know how I lived.”

“So there’s someone else out there who knows about the unnamed port?” He looked at you.

You nod. “He’s been pulling my strings from beginning to end. To this day, I don't know what his aim is.”

Herzog was silent and his face grew serious. “Is he here?”

You answer. “Probably.”

An unnamed piece of the puzzle, another variable!

There’s an explosive boom and you’re suddenly pushed out of your chair and launched back. Pain explodes in your abdomen and you’re surrounded by a cloud of poisonous mercury vapor! Herzog rises again, his mask over his face. He snuffs out the cigar. “I’m going to miss you.”

Herzog is carrying Western Watch, the pistol with a huge muzzle that could fire explosive mercury rounds and is extremely effective against Deadpool.

You stagger to your feet, gasping. You try to summon your abilities through the blood of Ruri Kazama. Your eyes flicker, but that surge of power never comes. Surrounded by mercury gas, you’re weakened. The wound in your stomach is gaping and pouring blood. The skin around it is turning white and the scales are falling off! A cough stings your lungs and splatters your dress with red.

Ruri’s blood was only a temporary solution. Ruri had warned you. You couldn’t stay apart from him for long without your condition deteriorating. It seemed that while you chatted with Herzog, you were weakening rapidly.

A low chuckle came from the fog of mercury. It seemed to come from left, from right. Like he was moving so fast to keep you guessing where he would appear. But you didn’t need to rely on your ears. Those spiritual tendrils were still in the ground. You could feel the vibration of his steps.

Behind you! You whirl and you’re suddenly gripped in a hug. But this wasn’t a friendly, loving hug of a father. This hug shoved a dagger in your back. It squeezed you so tightly you couldn’t breathe. It squeezed so tightly your bones were starting to strain!

Something hard was pressing against your chest and shoulder. They weren’t the King’s bones, but something under his jacket. Your eyes widen and turn bloodshot and then they turn bright fiery gold! Snakes slither about in your mind and reveal piercing golden eyes!

If you used blood rage now, there would be no turning back. But it was fine since you were going to die anyway. You would die on your terms and take Herzog with you! Your dragon blood surged rapidly. Your whole body becomes covered in fine scales one by one, your knotted muscles protrude like iron bars.

Had Chu Zihang been here to help you, he would have told you that Blood Rage comes in degrees. You’d never be able to ascend to be a pure blooded dragon this way, but you would come very close. He would have told you that, like a very fine grain of sand, your humanity cannot be crushed and, as a result, you will be a Deadpool, not a dragon. He would say you ascended from nothing to the highest level, Third Degree of Rage!

But that was more than you needed to tear through Herzog’s fine suit. Your bones fractured to twice their normal joints and those bones all move independently. Hundreds of barb-like bone spikes penetrate his body all at once!

He pushes you away with a mighty yell and kicks you so you skid across the dirt. He’s bleeding in countless places. The whole front of his suit is stained red. But those wounds rapidly heal and the bleeding stops.

He’s frowning, irritated, and a bit disappointed in you for sacrificing your life so pointlessly.

But you’re laughing as you stagger to your feet. Your heart is gleeful, so gleeful that you shout. “Merrry! Christmas! Merry Christmas, Father Frost!” in Russian.

Herzog scowls but then he smiles brightly, looking like the Herzog he always was. “My, my… you’re quite the powerful deadpool aren’t you! It’s been a pleasure. Now. I must go. Time is short!”

He reached into his jacket and frowns. He pats his jacket and pants and then stares with horror as you stand there holding those two dark colored pieces of wood in your hands.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

You’re laughing, your hot dragon breath coming in a fog. “MERRY GODDAMN CHRISTMAS!”

Tap. Tap. Tap.

The trucks that surround you come alive with the sounds of babies crying. But these babies were big and strong enough to rock these 10 ton vehicles off their wheels. Gigantic serrated claws tear through the metal like they were tearing fine linen and hundreds of eyes glow golden in the dark and the rain. Every single truck was filled with deadpool nearly a hundred each! With at least 10 trucks they were about a thousand! These were the last of Herzog’s creations. After today, he wouldn’t need them any more and he had wanted to use them on you. But you had stolen that power.

The deadpool fall over each other in a mad dash, tumbling out of the trucks in a pile and rushing towards the cliff, dragging their heavy snake-like bodies on the ground, driven by the sound of the clapper. You back into the crowd of them as they rush Herzog. Herzog himself doesn’t bother to run. He knows there’s no escape from the trap that he himself set.

He looked at you and smiled one last time. “Perfect. Merry Christmas, MC.”

Then he was engulfed by the seething mass of golden bodies. They shredded his suit, dismantled his bones and ate his flesh. They took the mask and shattered it like it was so much pottery. Herzog could not come back from this. You smile and watch, filling with triumph and a bit of sadness.

Your time was up. You were going to lose your mind any minute. Even now, the strong pull of the blood of Herzog was drawing you to see what it might taste like. But you had a feeling that once you started licking that blood you could never go back. You tapped the woodblocks in a second pattern, one you were familiar with that was used to control the children, and the deadpool were seized with epilepsy, wailing and hissing and screaming until they fell silent, flopped to the ground all at once like empty wooden dolls.

You staggered over to the lift elevator and pressed the button. The mental tendrils of your Soul Skill are telling you that no one was moving in the well. In fact, Chisei and Ruri Kazama were just staring each other down, but you didn’t hear voices other than Ruri’s soft singing.

“Ruri… Herzog is dead. I killed him for real…” You say once you’re at the maintenance platform again.

Ruri is standing there, his smile stretched in horrible joy. Chisei faced him. He didn’t move or speak or acknowledge your presence. You step around them looking between them. Ruri’s eyes were spinning with bright gold mandalas. When you look into Ruri Kazama’s eyes, the Red Well disappears and you’re plunged into darkness.

You feel paralysed. You can’t move. Your eyes roll around in fear and you startle as you see at least 12 women. They were beautiful but they were frozen like statues and dressed in elaborate kabuki costumes. You count twelve of them. You were the thirteenth statue.

You seem to be in some sort of basement. Discarded equipment sat dusty against the wall. And there were old dirty gym mats on the floor. It smelled horrible and that horrible smell was coming from a cast iron tub in the center of the room that was filled with chemicals. And in front of that tub, Chisei sat, looking human again, looking much younger, wearing the black trenchcoat of the Executive board, with his Spider Fang sword in his hand. He was staring at the door of the basement, as though waiting for someone.

#Dragon Raja

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thecosmicsen · 3 years

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𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐑𝐀𝐂𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐓𝐒 .

𝐋𝐀𝐘𝐄𝐑 𝟎𝟎𝟏 : 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐎𝐔𝐓𝐒𝐈𝐃𝐄 . NAME: Ahn Jaewoo EYE COLOUR: dark brown, reminiscent of frightened doe-eyes caught in headlights HAIR STYLE / COLOUR: fluffy jet black hair with the faintest of natural brunette highlights underneath the sunlight HEIGHT: 5'9" / 175cm CLOTHING STYLE: cool dark colours ( mainly black, grey & plaid blue ) & warm & wrapped up as possible with thick chunky jackets, he usually dresses up in multiple layers going all the way from a cotton vest to a cable-knitted sweater in the winter with merely a vest & long-sleeved shirt in the summer. he hates showing off skin so he remains bundled up with his cosy layering. he likes to wear whatever smells of Inés & fits him so he ends up wearing a lot of her looser / oversized shirts + sweaters / jackets. it is unconscious but he always wears cargo pants & combat boots because it subconsciously reminds & soothes him of the times he spent in the army. BEST PHYSICAL FEATURE: his rounded eyes that usually glisten with his surfacing emotions

𝐋𝐀𝐘𝐄𝐑 𝟎𝟎𝟐 : 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐈𝐍𝐒𝐈𝐃𝐄 . FEARS: going to Hell for his committed sin of treachery, being hated by his twin brother, being unloved, getting potentially rendered helpless to help those he loves, losing Inés for any reason, going up against shamans & anything that has the power to exorcise him although this ties with his first fear GUILTY PLEASURE: indulging his sweet tooth with gourmet doughnuts & cakes, getting a power trip out of leading others amongst other fantasies that he doesn’t associate as guilty pleasure anymore since he is dating an actual demon BIGGEST PET PEEVE: someone using their phone in front of him whilst engaged in a conversation. it makes him think of the old days back in the 70s when people had nothing to distract them from maintaining basic eye contact & have a genuine heart-to-heart talk about the universe. AMBITIONS FOR THE FUTURE: not going to Hell, obtaining forgiveness from his family for being a failure of a son, being the best husband for Inés so she will love him forever

𝐋𝐀𝐘𝐄𝐑 𝟎𝟎𝟑 : 𝐓𝐇𝐎𝐔𝐆𝐇𝐓𝐒 . FIRST THOUGHTS WAKING UP: N / A since he doesn’t sleep but when he sees dusk he thinks I’m glad I still get to witness another sunrise I’m not in Hell yet WHAT THEY THINK ABOUT MOST: what is Taesoo doing right now ? is he mad at me still ? is my father waiting for me in Hell ? is that a fucking demon or just a jerk ? what has number six been up to lately, he’s been too quiet ? don’t people know that ghosts have evolved too like vampires ? wait, should I get this for Inés ? is she thinking about me like how I’m thinking about her right now ? ahh, I love her so much. my heart hurts. I’m hurting. it’s fine. I need to be strong. I have no choice. I have to make do with my circumstances. this is my last chance. can I go home & cuddle with my girlfriend already. WHAT THEY THINK ABOUT BEFORE BED: when he settles down for the night if not summoned for a wish or out on the call of paranormal trouble in area, he snuggles with Inés for the night and thinks I’m the luckiest boy in the world, she is too perfect for me WHAT THEY THINK THEIR BEST QUALITY IS: his adaptability to lead & take care of others regardless of how dire circumstances may be

𝐋𝐀𝐘𝐄𝐑 𝟎𝟎𝟒 : 𝐖𝐇𝐀𝐓’𝐒 𝐁𝐄𝐓𝐓𝐄𝐑 ? SINGLE OR GROUP DATES: single dates, he wants Inés’ undivided 100% attention on him. TO BE LOVED OR RESPECTED: to be loved, he believes in the softness of opening up & being whole in a love with someone. creating memories are meant to be cherished together. a life without life is meaningless. BEAUTY OR BRAINS: brains. he is drawn to intellectually-stimulating debates and conversations. he used to be a keen pursuer of new knowledge as he loved soaking in the details of mystifying objects. DOGS OR CATS: there is a history of bad blood between Jaewoo and cats ( don’t ask ) so he very visibly prefers dogs especially when they vibe on the same level. both need tons of attentive & playful love. he loves carrying big fluffy dogs up like babies & coddling them.

𝐋𝐀𝐘𝐄𝐑 𝟎𝟎𝟓 : 𝐃𝐎 𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐘 … LIE: rarely, only in circumstances that call for a certain amount of manipulation such as dealing with exceedingly threatening supernatural entities will he lie to favour of the situation BELIEVE IN THEMSELVES: yes & no. he believes himself to be a big failure to his family & that he has let them down so he lives with such guilt that resides in him but he does have certain faith in his abilities like his capacity to be a leader & to genuinely love with all his heart BELIEVE IN LOVE: this is a belief that he has kept close to his heart ever since he was a young boy. love comes first & foremost for him. it is a concept that he will fiercely defend. he still has whimsical interpretations of it since he has fallen in love with a demon who opposes the side of the God who appointed him. this is something he willingly sacrifices for. WANT SOMEONE: yes. he wants Inés ever since he realised he feels something deep for her, something that was beyond his initial moment of lustful attraction & curiosity. now that they are together, he cannot get enough of her. when she isn’t with him, he’s just left of thoughts of when he will get to be reunited with her & how much he wants to smother her with kisses as if it’s his last day on earth.

𝐋𝐀𝐘𝐄𝐑 𝟎𝟎𝟔 : 𝐇𝐀𝐕𝐄 𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐘 𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐑 … BEEN ON STAGE: he had been up on stage behind the scenes for @vulpesse‘s performances to cheer her on. DONE DRUGS: once he ate a lot of gummy multivitamins once to see if it would give him 2kg of bicep muscle mass in a span of 10 minutes. CHANGED WHO THEY WERE TO FIT IN: at core, no. but he has adapted according to his situations & what is the best way to assimilate such as the time he spends commanding the other urban legends versus being out with his friends.

𝐋𝐀𝐘𝐄𝐑 𝟎𝟎𝟕 : 𝐅𝐀𝐕𝐎𝐔𝐑𝐈𝐓𝐄𝐒 . FAVOURITE COLOUR: red. it delightfully reminds him of all things romantic. thousands of rose petals doting plain surfaces. lipstick marks smeared on skin. dribbles of blood elicited from passionate love. maroon neon city lights glowing up the fog condensed on windows. robust berries adorning fresh cream cake. FAVOURITE ANIMAL: puppies, he has a soft spot for the animals that subconsciously remind him of himself. even when spirit puppies drive him mad with ceaseless hours of chasing around, he is tremendously endeared to them. in a way, their excitable nature reminds him of his own twin brother a lot. this is usually elicits bittersweet tears. FAVOURITE BOOK: star stories for little folks by Gertrude Chandler Warner is very nostalgic for him as it was an easy read for him whilst he was still alive & invoked his interest in astronomy. FAVOURITE GAME: for board games it is chess but he has gotten the hang of cookie run on mobile.

𝐋𝐀𝐘𝐄𝐑 𝟎𝟎𝟖 : 𝐀𝐆𝐄 . DAY THEIR NEXT BIRTHDAY WILL BE: 9th November, 2021. HOW OLD WILL THEY BE: he would technically be 66 years old if he was still alive but it would be his forty fifth year haunting the toilets as a ghost.

𝐋𝐀𝐘𝐄𝐑 𝟎𝟎𝟗 : 𝐅𝐈𝐍𝐈𝐒𝐇 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐒𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐍𝐂𝐄 . I LOVE: Inés. I FEEL: guilt. I HIDE: grief. I MISS: my brother. I WISH: for forgiveness.

𝐓𝐀𝐆𝐆𝐄𝐃 𝐁𝐘 / @phantombs took you some time but <3 𝐓𝐀𝐆𝐆𝐈𝐍𝐆 / @shesin @lavtiena @lapeirla @vulpesse @lupusxdei @cvvalier @cvntagiious @moonsseas @sarmentnoir @infernoath + you !!

#I think all Jaewoo thinks about is Inés #head full of Inés nothing else #will he ever stop being the biggest simp for her? no #so I will not fight it #this is who he is #a big thank you to Dean for allowing me to express this .#anyway I love him sm he's so cute wtf #he's so worried about going to hell cries #* : ✮ ┆𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑓𝑎𝑟 𝑠ℎ𝑜𝑟𝑒 (ℎ𝑒𝑎𝑑𝑐𝑎𝑛𝑜𝑛𝑠).

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falconxwinter · 5 years

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sambucky fanfic rec list

Since I’ve read each and every sambucky fanfic that exists I think it’s time to list the ones I love the most, in no particular order.

there is a sweetness in you by Someone_aka_Me

AU: Your soulmate is the only person who cannot hurt you. Sam gets kicked off a helicarrier — yet he can't help but notice the boot to the chest doesn't hurt like it should.

The Captain's Club for Wayward Veterans by ShannonXL

What's a superhero to do when the Big Bad is finally defeated and the world doesn't need the costumes and capes anymore? Sam and Bucky use their newfound spare time wisely. Looking out for the little guy, seeing more of the world, and flirting as only two wisecracking sweethearts can.

A quick detour and a sudden arrival by iwillnotbecaged

He found Wilson shivering in the snow, left for dead. Sloppy. You couldn’t trust the elements to do your job for you. They were rarely so obliging. A mission gone awry, unexpected help, and close quarters makes for an interesting couple of days.

I Want Statements by chase_acow

“His therapist suggested he work on his ‘I want’ statements,” Steve explained in a stage whisper once he and Sam finally crossed paths in the kitchen. “You don’t have to do whatever, but it’ll help him start to think about his preferences and then practice verbalizing them. Maybe, be nice to him, okay?”

“You know he still has super hearing, right?” Sam pretend whispered back, rolling his eyes as the blush conquered Steve’s face. “Anyway, Sam Wilson does not acquiesce to anything Sam Wilson does not want to acquiesce to.”

“I want to sit in here now,” Bucky said, slouching to the table and aggressively sitting down in the corner. He glared at Steve until the other man ducked his head and shuffled out.

“Damn right, you do,” Sam agreed, handing over the sudoku and flicking a pen at Bucky’s face.

He Can't Cook, But Gosh He's Cute by wickedwitchcraft

Prompt: some Bucky being the most terrible cook ever fluff would be nice

in your black heart (is where you'll find me) by notcaycepollard

“Hey,” he tries, “hey darlin’, can you pass me the milk?”

“Oh sure,” Sam responds after a long pause. “Here you go. Sweetie.”

“Thanks, hon, you’re a real doll,” Bucky drawls, and pours himself another bowl of cereal, tops up his coffee, takes a mouthful of milk straight from the carton just for good measure. Sam narrows his eyes.

“That’s disgusting,” he sighs, and Bucky makes deliberate eye contact, swallows another mouthful. Sam holds his gaze. “Cupcake, come on, I gotta drink that shit, stop putting your mouth all over it.”

“I’ll put my mouth all over wherever I want,” Bucky tells him. “Sweetheart.”

“Will you just,” Sam mutters, and sips his black coffee like he’s totally unruffled, and Bucky is startled to discover that he’s the one who’s blushing. Shit. Maybe this was a tactical error.

i'm a ghost when i walk in (holy spirit when i walk out) by notcaycepollard

Remembering is like nothing.

It’s like nothing and like everything all at once. He’s two people or three or four, crowded in together against the bone of his skull. Tight in the skin of him. Startling as if he’s coming sudden into himself, coalescing like smoke into the shape of a person.

Finding his way back, that's harder.

the grace in monsters series by notcaycepollard

you touch me within and so i (know i could be human once again)

It’s inevitable, the way it goes. He’s my friend, Steve says, and he is, he is, he must be. Sam’s best friend is Steve, and Steve’s best friend is a werewolf, that’s just how Sam’s life works now.

But once he realizes he’s attracted to Bucky and Bucky can tell, everything becomes, like, a thousand percent more difficult to negotiate. Sam’s just trying to live his life, that’s all, and he keeps getting confronted by Bucky Barnes in a soft flannel shirt, sleeves rolled up, hair all soft and shiny. Bucky glances over at him and smirks, and this is really very embarrassing, how Sam can’t hide his attraction even if he keeps a totally straight face.

Hunger for Your Touch by coffeeinallcaps

Of course it’s not the first thought that crosses his mind when he loses the arm, but. Well. He really did like those smooth hard metal fingers a lot, is all. The new arm looks similar but feels different. Lighter. Its nerve sensors and pressure pads are more sensitive, and the surface adapts to his body temperature, which takes some getting used to. The first time he runs one of its fingers down his crack and over his hole, his entire body jerks. “Oh,” he gasps, surprised, and does it again.

This is exactly where I want to be by Kajmere

Sam doesn’t think Bucky and him are quite at the sentimental gift giving stage of their friendship, so he settles on the first Falcon themed merchandise he spots.

Steve laughs in his face and tells him he is going to regret this.

Sam does.

i wanna be the place you call your home by notcaycepollard

Sam is pretty sure he’s gonna die.

He’s been fucking sick with this fucking cold for two fucking weeks now, and he’s reasonably goddamn certain this is how he’s gonna go.

It’s not the cold that’s going to kill him. Bucky’s looked after him so well he’s in no danger of dying on that front. Honestly, Bucky’s the best nurse Sam’s ever had, which is nice and all, of course it’s nice, but he’s still fairly sure he’s gonna die right now, or at least soon, because he is so sexually frustrated he’s just gonna go up in flames.

Progress by ImpishTubist

Sam's getting better at fielding Bucky's more difficult questions.

Your Eyes Are My Sunrise by patchwork_daydreams (orphan_account)

“Can you pass me the last slice?” Bucky says, motioning to the box next to Sam.

He’s not sure what makes him do it – maybe some last ditch attempt to break this weirdness between them – but Sam picks up the remaining slice of pizza and stuffs the whole thing into his mouth.

“What last slice?” he asks thickly, through his mouthful of pizza crust.

A smile breaks onto Bucky’s face, and Sam thinks thank god. He holds his gaze, just a little too long, and is surprised when Bucky responds by glancing very deliberately down, running his eyes down Sam’s body. Holy fuck, what is this?

“Dick,” Bucky mutters after a moment, his eyes flicking back up to Sam’s face, and quirking an eyebrow.

In Our Bed by Unclesteeb

5 times Bucky came into Sam's bed and one time the bed belonged to both of them.

Far Away by misspronounced

5 times Bucky thought he wasn’t good enough for Sam + 1 time Sam told him so.

and i run, further than before by hermionesmydawg

Basically, the 5 times Sam actually found Bucky and the 1 time he tried to hide from him. Don't tell Steve.

just flesh and blood exist by hupsoonheng

honestly i don't know how to summarize this neatly. this is a fic about bucky, and this is a fic about sam, and this is a fic about how neither of them believe they're "ready" to be loved, and how wrong they both are. this is about making zines, and baking tarts, and training falcons. this is not about finding yourself in other people, but in finding understanding in them, and healing. and maybe making out, too.

He says his name is Sam, and you're instantly embarrassed.

Not because of him, exactly, although the way he holds out his hand to shake when the only one you have is occupied holding up the rest of you on a cane, that's pretty awkward in itself. It's more that he's beautiful, clean, smiling—a human that got put together right and keeps himself that way. And you're anything but.

The Lion Sleeps Tonight by prettylittlementirosa

Sam’s too cold to be embarrassed by how quickly he scrambles to get in there. It’s a tight fit, getting two grown men into one regular sized sleeping bag, but they make it work. Bucky shifts this way, Sam slithers that way. Bucky pulls Sam flush against his chest, Sam tries not to dwell on it. Bucky breathes hot air onto Sam’s exposed neck, Sam tucks his ice-cold toes in between Bucky’s legs. Bucky sighs contentedly, Sam wills his dick into submission.

(Or 5 times Sam and Bucky are forced to share a bed + 1 time they choose to.)

do i tell you i love you or not (cause i can't really guess what you want) by notcaycepollard

Shampoo, he thinks. Conditioner.

The kind of hair that’s nice to touch, he hears Sam say again, and reaches for one of the bottles.

It’s different than soap. Smells nice, like fruit and flowers. The shampoo lathers up soft as clouds, washes away easy. Conditioner’s worse; he can’t tell when it’s fucking rinsed out, his hair feels weird. But he grabs the plastic comb - yes, thank you, Wilson, he does know what a goddamn comb is, he’s not a barbarian - and it slides through without catching, like all the knots are just gone. There could be benefits, he’s willing to admit.

Talk to Me by bioloyg

Sam finds himself hurt after a mission. Badly. But, when he gets back it seems he isn't the only one walking around with some bruises.

~ Something small for SamBucky week 'cause I found out that's a thing that was happening.

Ok, this is it for now. Maybe I will come back later for a part 2!

#sambucky #sambucky fic #falcon and the winter soldier #sambucky fic list

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tisthenightofthewitch · 5 years

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AN INTERVIEW WITH TOBIAS FORGE.

The Swedish rock band Ghost will be performing at the TaxSlayer Center on October 8. Coming off a European stadium tour with Metallica, the group has headlined summer festivals and has embarked on a massive North America tour that includes New York, Los Angeles, Chicago, Toronto, Boston … and Moline.

Tobias Forge is Ghost's creative force, front man, singer, songwriter, musician, and architect of the storylines woven through the band's albums, videos, webisodes, and live shows. Although Ghost has been awarded a Grammy and had three consecutive number-one songs on the Billboard mainstream charts, it is the musicians' tongue-in-cheek anti-pope appearance that truly defines them. In a July 30 interview, Tobias spoke about developing the band's visual identity and his aspirations as a filmmaker.

Visuals define Ghost’s image. Are they as important as the music?

Oh, absolutely. Even though I don’t sit down and specifically draw and paint our album covers, I’ve always been very specific in what I wanted. And how I wanted the record sleeve to embody the record I made.

As a record collector, I am more than often compelled by the artwork of a record. I’m a firm believer in a really nice-looking record sleeve. And that makes me want to like the record more. Today, even though people might not consume a recording in the physical way we used to, it’s definitely a case of your visual presentation that accompanies whatever file they are going to listen to. If the graphic content is aesthetically pleasing to the eye, it opens up an avenue into people’s souls. I know this because I’m so easily charmed by record sleeves.

Are the album titles also important?

Absolutely. There needs to be a sort of a narrative between the artwork and the title of the record. And, of course, its content. In some way or form, it helps if the title summarizes a little what the record is about. Usually, most good records have some sort of theme – even though the songs might be about different things.

A lot of singer/songwriters go through phases: it’s the “divorce” album, it’s the “I’ve just gotten married” record. “I’ve just became a father or mother” record. And “now I’m older” record. And “the midnight crisis” record. And “the beard” record. In some way or form, it’s good to communication a little of what kind of state of mind you were in while making it or which state of mind you want the listener to think you were in. As opposed to just leaving it blank.

There’s a fascinating word play in your titles. Do you enjoy playing with words? Creating a sense of mystery through words?

Very much so. I’m also very much influenced by cinema. Even though I know there’s no film called Infestissuman (the title of Ghost’s second album), I also try to come up with a title for a record that could be a film as well. Like a big epic, three-hour mastodon matinée film. (Laughs). I’d like to make a film called Meliora (the title of Ghost's third album).

I understand that you have aspirations to be a filmmaker. That you’re working on a film. Could you speak about the film?

About a future Ghost film?

Yes.

I cannot speak about it in detail. But, yes, I’ve always been very fascinated with the art of filmmaking.

I definitely am in the process of exploring the possibilities of combining my musician career with a film project. Let’s put it that way. And as with anything cinematic, it takes a lot of time – and way more politics – than making a record.

In the process of this, I’m trying to vet my brain and my ideas into being super-sober about making a film that is actually needed and called for and will turn out really great – so that it doesn’t just became a really confusing project.

Over the course of rock history, there are a few films that have been made that are really cool. Even though many of them end up in more of a cult section because they are … weird. I don’t mind weird at all. I grew up watching a lot of films like that.

I would love to make a film. I would love to make it good-weird, but it needs to be good as well. It needs to be something that people can watch. I’m currently in the process of learning if I can.

The humor in your webisodes complements your albums, which sound epic. That’s a fascinating combination.

Yes. Just to give you a hint of what I spoke of in my previous answer about a possible film: a full-length film would be in that vein. Based on that sort of mythology. I believe that there is something more to tell within the storyline – within the concept of what we’ve outlined briefly – in those episodes.

Most of my favorite films have some sort of absurd humor in them.

I think it’s important for films, too. Just as with any dish at any restaurant, there are certain ingredients that you need to have. Even if its just a pinch of salt. Usually you need that. There are certain aspects in there that make it a consumable plate.

Even if you’re making a horror film or drama or thriller, there needs to be some sort of comic relief at some point. I guess what would change in a long format, is that it wouldn’t be as comedic every minute as it is in the short form.

As there is comedy in a horror film, your music has a unique dichotomy. You have metal riffs and an understated singing style. That’s very appealing to me. Was this natural to you? Is it something you developed?

Everything develops on the basis that it is being received. So I believe that to a certain degree if you’re an artist – be it a musical artist or a filmmaker or a writer or a painter – you need to be somewhat auditive when it comes to the needs and the wishes of your receiving part. As much as any aficionado of subculture, I like a lot of artists that just go against everything and make whatever that comes into his or her head regardless of what a public thinks. But most successful artists have in some way or form nurtured the relationship they have between themselves and their audience. The way that you would nurture any relationship with another part – be it a partner in life or a partner in work. There’s some sort of collaboration.

If you look at big bands that went from debutantes playing clubs to big arena acts, their first records are usually slightly more raunchy and maybe faster in tempo and might include a little bit more complicated arrangements. What you usually find over the course of time and further into their careers, they start making records that are more moderately paced. Or they are paced in a different way. Certain songs don’t really translate very well in a very, very big room in front of thousands and thousands of people. Common lingo among rock fans is that, “Oh, they sold out. They just want to sell records.”

No, they write music that will feel comfortable in the setting – in the forum in which they are performing these songs.

You do what you feel is good for both parties, and that’s how you develop your relationship with your crowd. You don’t do this 100 percent all the time. But you should be aware that if you start doing shit that your significant other – in this case the crowd – doesn't like, you’d be stupid if you continue doing it.

Coming out of a Swedish metal tradition, your music is surprisingly melodic. Sometimes hauntingly beautiful tunes with beautiful choirs. How did this sound emerge?

I have always listened to lots of different music styles. Everything more or less oriented in punk and rock. Except for my love for underground extreme metal from the '80s, most of the other types of music that I listen to are actually quite melodic. I’ve always been melody driven. Ninety-nine percent of the time, my way of listening to a song is to listen to the melodies. It doesn’t hurt if there’s a really good rhythm.

For me, melody is like the dialogue of a film. If you just make a film with just background, it might be an interesting idea. But if you want the film to be of value, you definitely need to have someone within frame saying something. And it’s important what he or she is saying. That, for me, is the melody of a song.

But then you can pimp the song out in so many ways and that’s part of the craft of songwriting. But without a melody, the likelihood of a song being good is not big.

On your first album, I understand that you played all of the instruments except the drumming. Is it hard to only be the front man in live performances?

No, I’ve learned how to deal with that. I just had to sort of disregard how I viewed myself. I always thought that I was going to be the lead guitar player of a band. A Keith Richards in the band. My intention with Ghost was the same. During the first four years – between 2006 and 2010 – up until the very last moment of recording the album, I still thought that, just before mixing the record, that we better find a singer. We never found a singer. So we kept my demo vocals basically. I re-sung them to get better takes. They were on the demos just to explain how the song goes.

That’s the way I’ve always worked. When I write a song I always play everything. So regardless of who might have executed it on a record or executed it on stage, it’s always my way of playing. If I were to play a bass in another band, that’s how the bass would sound. If I were to play drums in a band, the basics of how I arrange songs, that what you hear in Ghost. That’s how I play the drums. Then I get a really good drummer in to play really well, but that’s how I approach thought in all these different instruments. And that has become a signature thing for Ghost.

That makes writing records easier. That makes having a band together very hard. But that is just the nature of the beast. It’s just coming to terms with accepting and owning that. It has definitely taken some time.

Fame doesn’t seem to be your prime mover. What do you think of fame now that your identity has been revealed?

I have, as much as anyone who has any inclination to rock in a band, always wanted to be in a well-known rock band. What comes with that is fame. Up until I was probably 30 years old, I wanted to be very famous. And I wanted to be known. After I started working with Ghost, I was definitely enjoying … . I wouldn’t say anonymity. I was never anonymous. But Ghost and the visual side of Ghost was definitely overshadowing anything that I was. Over the years of being in a well-known band without being a very well-known person myself, I actually started to prefer that over being a recognized person myself. Despite having wished for that before, there are definitely two sides of being recognized. When you dream about it, you only see the upsides. It’s only about the perks of fame.

I don’t feel in any way or form that my so called “coming out” was negative. It was just a weird thing having to deal with a higher level of recognition so far into your career. That was a little bit weird because it usually comes gradually.

For example, for seven years I never took photos of people. If you ever saw a photo of me, it was always a friend of mine that took a photo and I thought it would never be posted online. Or it was someone taking a photo of me without me knowing it. So all of a sudden, when I was out of the closet, you couldn’t really tell people any more that you wouldn’t take a photo with them. All of a sudden, you can’t say no to anyone.

That is something I suddenly had to adopt to because it was very easy earlier to say no, no, no, no. You know how it is. Now if I say no, someone could be very offended. Which is a little sad because I might be on my way into a car that is leaving in 10 seconds and we’re in a hurry. And there are 10 people by the car and you’re like, “I really don’t want to do this to you but … .” And I can’t even finish that sentence before the door is closed. And people get offended. I don’t want people to be offended and sad.

Fame is something that sort of came overnight. But it’s a good problem to have.

All content owned by River Cities Reader

#Tobias Forge #Tobias Interview #The Band Ghost #Ghost Band #Cardinal Copia

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silencedsonatas · 4 years

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petra nikonova is an americanized version of her name that she had to assume because of her aunt who is now her guardian. her aunt is her father’s sister but unlike her dad, her aunt took off from russia at literally the earliest convenience, marrying the first person who could take her far away from russia and all of its corrupted politics and general state of ‘shoddiness’ as she calls it. her aunt is also a black widow having killed three of her four husbands in the last decade. her aunt has been married a total of seven times. the first died naturally, the second and third were divorces.

her aunt has control of petra’s rather impressive inheritance which is a combination of her father’s business profits, her mother’s (minor) inheritances from the titled side of the family, all of the proceeds of petra’s performances and compositions – she still composes and publishes (she writes mainly pianist pieces though has written a couple of orchestra pieces and is working on an opera off and on though it’s mostly in her head). her manager still retains a large percentage of her profits though her aunt is trying to fight that ‘on petra’s behalf’. petra never performs in front of anyone. ever. ever ever. she literally has such stage fright and true terror of performing in front of anyone ever again that she physically freezes and her head spins and she can’t breathe and the walls close in and all of that manner of reaction. she also still has night terrors regarding performances, regarding her parent’s death, regarding her various suicide attempts.

she has attempted suicide three times. the first was a year after her parent’s death, approximately at around age fourteen when she took a bucco of sleeping pills with a fifth of vodka and slit her forearms from pretty close to wrist to elbow. she tried again in the asylum in russia by hanging herself. a year and a half or so later after being trapped under the aunt’s thumb she overdosed again // still isn’t quite sure herself if it was intentional or not. she half has the idea that she is immortal, that Death itself doesn’t want her. she is also incredibly self conscious of the scars on her arms and keeps them covered almost every single moment of the day, waking or not, whether by sleeves, fingerless gloves, that sort of measures.

in terms of wardrobe she wears a haphazard combination of most of whatever she happens to grab hold of. she is the epitome of glitter grunge. she will wear ten dollar jeans with a two dollar tank top from goodwill and a ratty sweater that belonged to her dad for twenty years with six hundred dollar shoes and a twenty thousand dollar necklace and not even think about it / bat an eye or care. makeup is a constant but it’s just as much a mess and mix. nails are always kept short to keep from getting in the way of her playing but usually painted (chipped of course) and ink stained.

she is usually a mess of bruises of one kind or another whether it’s from shooting up or getting into a fight or a fist fight with her current fuck boy that got pissed at her for whatever fucking reason under the sun. she has a horrible horrible horrible horrible history with relationships. she doesn’t believe in them. people die people leave people beat her up people abuse her use her take her money steal her drugs lock her up you name it. she has maybe one or two friends in the mass of humanity and they had better be well used to her absolute bipolar madness that is only made worse with her drug use and addiction of the month. fickle is her middle name, but let’s be real if you get under her skin and into that one little tiny miniscule part of her heart she will literally fight tooth and nail for you and will do anything to keep you safe (from anybody but herself honestly…) and would literally die if it meant you’d be ok. this is not something that most people would ever get the chance to see or know but because this is the rp world it’d probably more likely that a larger number of plots will creep into that role because i can…

she also totally needs fuck buddies and enemies and people that abuse the fuck out of her because… again… i can

she is always listening to music. she reads everything and anything and almost always has a book shoved into her purse or back pocket or backpack. she speaks at least five or six languages. she hates math but she’s really good at it but she’ll never admit it. wickedly intelligent. never EVER uses contractions, it’s a huge huge huge pet peeve. always has a russian accent when she speaks english because it pisses off her aunt but she’s absolutely capable of speaking perfect and flawlessly, accent free at her whim. she’s also got an amazing singing voice, and if you get her drunk or high enough she will serenade you or kick ass at karaoke.

she loves animals but refuses to keep any because she knows she is entirely incapable of that amount of responsibility.

she has dropped out of school. she could easily get her ged and even probably test out of a lot of subjects at a collegiate level even in her teen / late teen verse and even without her formal education via public schools or anything. she did have private tutors with her manager and on tour and such which was a wonderful experience for her because she was so so hungry for knowledge but she can’t stand going to school with the idiots that are the mainstream american teen and she cannot stand the teaching to the lowest common denominators so she just doesn’t bother. if anyone bothers to ask her aunt says she is being homeschooled with private tutors and what not and, there was some attempt at making that a reality but after her aunt walked in on petra and her tutor banging in the manor’s library, that was discontinued.

on that note as far as sex goes any pretense of being a good girl has never really been a thing for petra. she was molested and abused by her manager, whom she was given over to at the age of seven when she was being pushed into performing and writing and studying and just very very very much being pushed to excel in every way with her musical abilities. she saw her parents on very few occasions, holidays and when she was on vacation from classes, and whenever they decided they wanted to come see her perform. they were not lacking for money by a long shot – her father had seized a number of businesses when everything fell apart and was making a killing financially, her mother was a noble (minor title) – they were just very busy and very focused on their own lives —- which is not to say they didn’t dote on petra, because they did, they just thought they were doing what was best for her by letting her throw herself into her passion.

unfortunately with no other continuous adult supervision, her blossoming mental and emotional instabilities and the control (physical, mental, emotional, financial) that her manager had over her, she never reached out or acknowledged anything in regards to the abuse even after she was abandoned by him and even during her time in the institution and after. ie she’s never told anyone. her parents died when she was thirteen on the way to a grand premiere performance at a renowned hall (have to do some research to see if i can remember which one i’d settled on). they were run off the road by another car. it was believed an accident but it was actually a hit by one of her father’s business partners [ she has never learned this so she blames herself entirely ] and her parents were rushed to a hospital nearby where she was performing. her manager was informed, but he chose not to inform her until after her portion of the performance. she arrived at the hospital basically in time to sit with her father for a few minutes before he died. her mother had died in the interim.

she was institutionalized a year later after her manager gave up his custody of her due to the fact that she would not perform and would not compose and refused to do anything in terms of her music for anyone // combined with the fact that she was now reaching mid-teens, he had no more use for her and dropped her like a hot potato when she tried to kill herself.

in terms of sexuality as a whole, she gives no cares at all for anything in terms of morality. she sleeps with anyone she wants, or anyone (mostly) that wants to sleep with her if she can get something out of them, or if she needs a place to crash, or a ride from one end of town to the other, or finds them attractive or is high and doesn’t care. she’ll sleep with men or women, girls, boys, one, two, many. the more it hurts, the more she feels the better she likes it, which means especially when she’s high on something like ecstasy or heroin. she drinks, like all the time, but she laughs it off as saying she’s russian its vodka which means its like americans and water.

she has scripts for medications for her bipolar depressive disorder and acute anxiety, add, etc. but she really only fills them so she can sell the or for things like her sleep meds when she really needs to crash out she’ll take a handful, she’ll take a handful of her add meds to stay awake and buys scripts for pain meds on a constant basis to level out any other high or crash etc. etc.

she likes sleeping with older men, married ones, married ones with families especially, though she is just as happy to fuck him and his wife if that’s his thing. she likes fucking angry men too, teen or above, and she definitely definitely pushes everybody’s buttons just daring them to beat the shit out of her and/or have their way with her. she is the type that can be on the ground, the guy on top of her, fucking her and throttling her / and or literally punching her for sassing off and she’d just laugh and spit the blood back in their faces. she is rarely likely to call anything with a guy a ‘relationship’

she’s definitely not as violent seeking instinctively when it comes to females she’s just as masochistic with them if the opportunity presents itself. she does tend to be less angsty / violent / sadistic towards anyone of the female persuasion that she sleeps with, and is definitely more likely to have a repeat performance combined with something that resembles a friendship before during and or after the fact.

she has zero problems being somebody’s fucktoy and encourages age gaps in her own relationships but. if it ever came to her attention that somebody was messing with a kid / their kid / somebody else’s kid (and it probably has given the type of people she usually opts to hang out with) it will not end well. as in, in different rps over the years, she’s hired hitmen and or people to castrate people sexually abusing children. physically, she might not hire someone to KILL them but she probably finds a way to encourage a few guys to give the asshole a taste of their own medicine (ironically, unless it’s her aunt who does still physically abuse petra when petra is around and doesn’t do what she wants)

she encourages corruption of self and others, outside of that one area, however and is a hedonist in all things. despite her roman catholic upbringing / because of her roman catholic upbringing she hates religion and, not surprisingly, thinks that if there is a god he’s an absolute asshole and should basically fuck off and die. she has a branding of a pentacle on the back on her neck, following the junction of neck and shoulders about three inches high in almost every verse. she has a multitude of piercings and some tattoos (they tend to vary a lot on verse specific things).

#HEADCANON.#BIOGRAPHY.

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newstfionline · 4 years

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Headlines

Americans hit hard by layoffs worry about homelessness (Yahoo Money) With unemployment claims at historic highs as the pandemic grounds the economy to a halt, many Americans are struggling with diminished savings, unpaid bills, and worries over homelessness, according to a new study from Varo Money shared exclusively with Yahoo Money. One in 4 renters who lost a job or income due to the COVID-19 outbreak worry they could become homeless, while 1 in 7 homeowners with a mortgage said the same, the survey of 1,234 lower and middle-class Americans earning up to $75,000 found. Among the renters who have lost their income, 2 in 5 expect to make their rent for a maximum of three to four weeks and 1 in 4 expect to be able to afford their rent for one to two months. “Many of these people actually fear if they will be able to cover the rent, and homelessness is becoming a real issue,” Varo Money’s CEO Colin Walsh told Yahoo Money. “We’re talking about people that do not have emergency savings, they really don’t have any backstop.”

Reopening Has Begun. No One Is Sure What Happens Next. (NYT) Politicians and public health experts have sparred for weeks over when, and under what circumstances, to allow businesses to reopen and Americans to emerge from their homes. But another question could prove just as thorny—how? It isn’t clear what, exactly, it means to gradually restart a system with as many interlocking pieces as the U.S. economy. How can one factory reopen when its suppliers remain shuttered? How can parents return to work when schools are still closed? How can older people return when there is still no effective treatment or vaccine? What is the government’s role in helping private businesses that may initially need to operate at a fraction of their normal capacity? “We live in an economy where there are lots of interconnections between different sectors,” said Joseph S. Vavra, an economist at the University of Chicago. “Saying you want to reopen gradually is more easily said than done.”

Advertising adjusts for a new reality: Sweatpants for staying home and toilet paper that cares (Washington Post) “Just stay home” seems like an unusual sell from a hotel-booking service, but these are unusual times. Companies large and small are figuring out how to make ads that don’t seem insensitive or as if they’re from a different time, when people took beach vacations, ate in restaurants and wore shoes. On television, brands are switching to reassuring platitudes, telling viewers, “We’re in this together,” or in the touching words of one toilet paper company, “Together, we’ll keep America rolling.” On social media sites like Instagram, more advertisements are targeting those shut in, with extremely to-the-point messages shilling sweatpants, wine and food delivery, DIY hair dye kits, and home-office gadgets.

Foreign Students Stranded by Coronavirus (NYT) When universities abruptly shut down last month because of the coronavirus pandemic, many students returned to their parents’ homes, distraught over having to give up their social lives and vital on-campus networking opportunities. Graduating seniors lost the chance to cross anything but a virtual commencement stage. But the campus closures have created much greater calamity in the lives of the more than a million international students who left their home countries to study in the United States. Many had been living in college dorms and were left to try to find new housing, far from home in a country under lockdown. A substantial number of international students are also watching their financial lives fall apart: Visa restrictions prevent them from working off campuses, which are now closed. And while some come from families wealthy enough to pay for their housing or whisk them home, many others had already been struggling to cobble together tuition fees that tend to be much higher than those paid by Americans. As their bank accounts dwindle, some international students say they have had to turn to food banks for help. Others are couch surfing in the family homes of their friends but don’t know how long they will be welcome.

Skip college this fall? (Miami Herald) With time growing short and the future uncertain, many high school students are considering skipping college in the fall. The coronavirus pandemic has left many universities uncertain whether they’ll be able to welcome students to campus after summer, and many students don’t want to pay for top-flight universities if they can’t get the full in-person experience. Some say they may skip a year. Some may opt for cheaper alternatives like community colleges. Either way, the coronavirus could leave its mark on higher education long after the pandemic fades.

US senator Lindsey Graham believes Kim Jong Un ‘dead or incapacitated’ (The Independent) US senator Lindsey Graham said he believes North Korean dictator Kim Jong Un is “dead or incapacitated” following unconfirmed reports of his demise. Rumours of Kim Jong Un’s death have swirled since he missed the commemoration of the 108th birthday of his grandfather, North Korea founder Kim Il Sung, ten days ago. North Korean authorities have said nothing to counter media reports that Mr Kim is unwell, prompting concerns about who is next in line to run a nuclear-armed country that has been ruled by the same family for seven decades. South Korean and US officials have repeatedly indicated that there have been no unusual signs that could indicate health problems for Kim. A US official told Reuters the latest rumors about Kim’s health had not changed the US assessment of the information as “speculation.”

A pandemic of corruption mars the coronavirus response (Washington Post) When officials in his home state began giving food boxes to families hit by Colombia’s coronavirus lockdown, lawmaker Ricardo Quintero was struck by the exorbitant prices being paid to the vendors. So he armed himself with pictures of the coffee, pasta and other goods and went down to his local grocery store. There, he bought the same products for roughly half the supposedly bulk-rate prices being paid by the government of Cesar state. The comparison shopping prompted one of what is now 14 coronavirus-related criminal probes in Colombia. The South American country is one of many around the world now seeing a surge in corruption allegations. Countries large and small are shelling out trillions of dollars to combat both the coronavirus outbreak and its brutal economic fallout in what analysts are calling the largest financial response ever to a single global crisis. As governments race to source everything from food aid to face masks, they are prioritizing speed over transparency, dropping competitive bidding and other safeguards to keep pace with the pandemic. Most have no choice. Given the speed of the still unfolding crisis, it’s either buy quickly or put millions at risk. But concern is rising about the percentage of the taxpayer dollars—and euros and yen and pesos and more—lining the pockets of corrupt bureaucrats, crony contractors and crime syndicates.

UK PM Boris Johnson returns to face growing virus divisions (AP) British Prime Minister Boris Johnson is returning to work after recovering from a coronavirus infection that put him in intensive care, with his government facing growing criticism over the deaths and disruption the virus has caused. Johnson’s office said he would be back at his desk in 10 Downing St. on Monday, two weeks after he was released from a London hospital. Foreign Secretary Dominic Raab, who has been standing in for the prime minister, said Sunday that Johnson was “raring to go.” Britain has recorded more than 20,000 deaths among people hospitalized with COVID-19, the fifth country in the world to reach that total. Thousands more are thought to have died in nursing homes.

Kids in Spain relish outdoor hour as virus lockdowns ease (AP) Shrieks of joy rang out Sunday in the streets of Spain as children were allowed to leave their homes for the first time in six weeks, while people in Italy and France were eager to hear their leaders’ plans for easing some of the world’s strictest coronavirus lockdowns. The sound of children shouting and the rattle of bikes on the pavement after the 44-day seclusion of Spain’s youngest citizens offered a first taste of a gradual return to normal life in the country that has the second-highest number of confirmed infections behind the United States. “This is wonderful! I can’t believe it has been six weeks,” Susana Sabaté, a mother of 3-year-old twin boys, said in Barcelona. “My boys are very active. Today when they saw the front door and we gave them their scooters, they were thrilled.”

Japan challenged in working from home amid pandemic (AP) When the Japanese government declared an emergency to curb the spread of the coronavirus earlier this month and asked people to work from home, crowds rushed to electronics stores. So much for social distancing. Many Japanese lack the basic tools needed to work from home. Contrary to the ultramodern image of Japan Inc. with its robots, design finesse and gadgetry galore, in many respects the country is technologically challenged. But the bigger obstacle is Japanese corporate culture, experts say. Offices still often rely on faxes instead of email. Many homes lack high-speed internet connections, and documents often must be stamped in-person with carved seals called “hanko,” which serve as signatures. So many Japanese really cannot work remotely, at least not all the time. A survey by YouGov, a British market researcher, found only 18% of those recently surveyed were able to avoid commuting to school or work, even though a relatively high 80% of people in Japan are afraid of catching the virus.

Netanyahu ‘confident’ US will support West Bank annexation (AP) Israeli Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu says he is “confident” he will be able to annex large parts of the occupied West Bank this summer, with support from the U.S. Netanyahu says President Donald Trump’s Mideast plan envisions turning over Israel’s dozens of settlements, as well as the strategic Jordan Valley, to Israeli control.

#headlines #news

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relationshipsandpolitics · 5 years

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The Hufflepuff Manifesto

While I never took the Harry Potter sorting games seriously, I fully admit to rigging the results to make myself a Gryffindor. Gryffindor is the house of the heroic and the brave. Who doesn’t want to be the hero? We’re all heroes in our own story, after all. Some people boast of being sorted into Slytherin. They like to be cunning, powerful, and ambitious. These certainly are traits valued in society. Or you can be in Ravenclaw, the house of intelligence and wit. And why not enjoy being a Ravenclaw? If you aren’t powerful or heroic, it’s because you’re too smart to seek power, too pragmatic and wise to even believe in heroes.

And then there are the Hufflepuffs. At first, no one wanted to be a Hufflepuff. I denied that I could possibly be so ordinary. Even Hagrid, a lovable moron, called them duffers. Then Cedric Diggory happened, and we started rooting for them. We held up their loyalty and overall goodness. Whereas Gryffindors were reckless and rude, Slytherins cutthroat and discriminatory, and Ravenclaw’s haughty and cold, the Hufflepuffs could be viewed as the soul and conscience of humanity. They are the pure goodness in us all. That was what Rowling was going for with the Hufflepuff House, right?

Not quite. While Rowling may have believed in the innate goodness of us all, ultimately, she made Hufflepuff an arbiter for the common man, flawed as he may be. Now, it’s clear that Rowling altered her message about Hufflepuff’s as the series went on, perhaps in response to the initial reaction to them. Fair enough. But it can be argued that what Rowling was saying when she created the Hufflepuff house was that in life, there are the aristocrats and the plebes, the strivers and the content. And the Hufflepuff are the plebes and the content. Remember the first song from the Sorting Hat in Philosopher’s Stone:

You might belong in Hufflepuff,

Where they are just and loyal

Those patient Hufflepuffs are true

And unafraid of toil

The line ‘unafraid of toil’ shows the Hufflepuffs as the working class, the laborers, the office drones, people who make up most of the population. Hufflepuffs are just and loyal, meaning they support their families and friends in a way worth mentioning compared to the other houses. It’s not saying that other houses lack loyalty, but rather that it is such an intrinsic quality for a Hufflepuff. In other words, a Gryffindor or Ravenclaw could be unloyal. A Hufflepuff cannot. This makes sense when you view House distinctions through the lens of achievement.

See, to achieve greatness often requires an abnormal amount of selfishness, of putting your needs and goals front and center. It doesn’t mean you can’t love and support family and friends, but the ambitious and talented tend to sacrifice those relationships to achieve greatness. The working class instead hold firm to those familial ties. They are more likely to stay in the towns they grew up in, near to family, and take care of that family as they age. They may never have achieved greatness regardless; perhaps they were not ambitious, brave or intelligent enough to be more than what they are. But they also sacrifice those lofty dreams out of loyalty to their friends and family. Perhaps they could risk opening their own business, but they are not willing to risk the security of a stable paycheck which supports their family.

The point of Hufflepuff in this sense is not that they are just as great and awesome as the other houses. Judging by the traditional metrics of success, they simply do not meet the threshold. But there is value in them as a group. Essentially, the working class or ‘regular people’ are necessary to exist to balance out the traits of the successful or extraordinary people. And to be clear, Rowling does view Hufflepuff’s as thoroughly unexceptional as a group.

During the sorting ceremony in The Order of the Phoenix, the Sorting Hat sings the following:

Said Slytherin, “We’ll teach just those Whose ancestry is purest.” Said Ravenclaw, “We’ll teach those whose Intelligence is surest.” Said Gryffindor, “We’ll teach all those With brave deeds to their name,” Said Hufflepuff, “I’ll teach the lot, And treat them just the same.”

Here there are no distinct characteristics given to the Hufflepuffs. They are quite literally the left overs. This directly connects with people in general. There are the select few who will have their names remembered for generations and then there are the billions of the rest of us who ensure society continues to hum along. They are the ones who work the ten hour shifts to make sure the extraordinary still have food to eat and working plumbing and tech support when their iPhone is on the fritz. In fact, let’s hone in on the Apple example.

Steve Jobs was the visionary. He was the genius. He was the one smart enough to lead Apple through a period of enormous success. He was brave enough to take a chance starting Apple in the first place. He was also conniving and ambitious enough to destroy his competitors and even some former allies along the way to greatness. He is a Ravenclaw and a Slytherin and a Gryffindor. But he is not a Hufflepuff. He was ultimately loyal to himself above all others. He was not always just and noble. No, the Hufflepuffs were those that worked for him and enabled his success. The Hufflepuffs were the engineers working 20-hour days on the lasted OS update. They were the marketing team burning the midnight oil on how to explain why the iPhone 5 was vastly superior to the iPhone 4 in one thirty second spot. Yet when it was time to debut the next iPhone, it wasn’t the thousands of Apple employees on the stage. It was Steve Jobs alone. He got to be the hero who gifted us this lifechanging phone (Gryffindor). He was the one earning millions and millions and had the CEO title (Slytherin). He was the genius who came up with putting all your music in one small device (Ravenclaw). The Hufflepuffs were nameless and faceless.

But less you think the Hufflepuffs are really the unsung heroes of the world, Rowling was quick to disabuse you of that notion. Recall in Chamber of Secrets when Justin gets petrified. The Hufflepuffs are quick to turn on Harry. Despite all the evidence to the contrary, and despite Harry’s objective goodness, the Hufflepuffs scorn him. They join with the rest of the school. In Goblet of Fire, when Harry’s name gets picked from the flames, the ire of the Hufflepuffs is even more severe. But in both cases, once the evidence is impossible to ignore, the Hufflepuffs do an about face.

Perhaps Rowling was making a connection with how people handle fear or jealousy. The Hufflepuffs were quick to turn on Harry when one of their own was harmed and when they felt they were not getting their just moment in the sun. They looked for a villain to blame for their troubles and Harry made the perfect target. But ultimately, they did the right thing when push came to shove. People are like that. We allow truly terrible things to occur because we can be swayed by fear. But at some point, when the line gets crossed and it is time for us to choose between good and evil, we side with good. For the most part. Maybe that was Rowling’s point. That sometimes, in our efforts to protect ourselves and our loved ones, we go down the wrong path. But our innate nature will always allow us to return to where we belong.

Harry Potter was about a Gryffindor going up against a Slytherin. Two diametrically opposed individuals that shared exceptional traits and both bound for greatness. But in the end, the war they fought was a war for the souls of the Hufflepuffs. For the masses who would ultimately pay the ultimate price in the war. We are the Hufflepuffs, and we allow ourselves to be ruled by the Gryffindors and Slytherins and Ravenclaws in exchange for them allowing us to live the lives we want. But every year, we lose more ground and the social construct gets chipped away again and again. But as Rowling shows us when the Hufflepuffs answer the call at the Battle of Hogwarts, you can only strain that contract so much before we push back. Before we return to the right path.

Look, it’s true that Hufflepuffs might not be overly brave or intelligent or ambitious. Of course, there are the exceptions like Cedric and Tonks. But I also believe Hufflepuffs make the choice to focus on different values. Like loyalty to their friends and family. The Hufflepuff doesn’t need the fame or money. They just want enough to get by for those closest to them. The problem for Voldemort, the reason I believe the Hufflepuffs eventually fought against him, was that he took that from them. He went after their families. Susan Bones, a Hufflepuff, lost her aunt to Voldemort. She, in turn, fought against him at the Battle of Hogwarts.

The Hufflepuff is represented by the badger, loyal and full of perseverance. Live and let live could be its motto. But again, the Hufflepuff is represented by a badger. And when they feel their family is threatened, when their basic way of life is at risk, the badger becomes ferocious and incredibly dangerous.

We are all Hufflepuffs. Far more than we are Gryffindors or Ravenclaws or Slytherins. We are loyal, we love our families, and we work hard to provide for our families. Right now, it feels like there are too many Slytherins and not enough Gryffindors, while the Ravenclaws look around and shake their heads. But there will always be Hufflepuffs, thousands of us. Millions perhaps. And we are incredibly dangerous.

#hufflepuff #gryffindor #slytherin #ravenclaw #harry potter #voldemort #resistance

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winterromanov · 5 years

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keeping all the promises (we made years ago) - a romanogers fic

Peter’s mixing a bad gin and tonic when Natasha and Steve finally come into the back. Her tiny frame guides him through the throngs of people as a The 1975 song plays in the background, crooning about skinny jeans and spare time and she’s got a boyfriend anyway. They disappear down the basement steps and Natasha must be a little drunk, he reckons, because the door is barely shut when they start kissing. And this—this, he realises, is the only narrative of the two of them that matters. (rock band au. chaos, man.)

/one

It’s Uncle Tony that gets him the job. Well—perhaps gets isn’t quite the right word, because get implies a bit of shuffling behind the scenes and handshakes when in reality Uncle Tony can get whatever he wants whenever he wants. He’s not even his biological uncle. Sometimes, Peter wonders if Uncle Tony just fancied having a nephew and saw him in kindergarten and thought, hey, he’s the one. May’s never told him how Tony ended up being his sort-of guardian, usually financially but sometimes otherwise. He’s just…always been there.

The always been there feels a little more literal now, ever since Peter mentioned that he might not want to go to college after all. Yeah, sure, the Princeton physical sciences program is like, the best in the country, but is that really all there is? He likes music and evening walks and the shitty little apartment he shares with May in the city. He likes the familiarity and the way it covers him like a safety blanket.

It wouldn’t be an understatement to say that Uncle Tony was pretty fucking pissed at the idea. Of, you know, not making the most of the thousands of dollars he’s invested in Peter’s education and not going to an Ivy. Nevertheless, there’s not much he can do about it. Even Tony Stark can’t force him to go to college, even if he looks at him with that disapproving glare every single goddamn day for the rest of his life.

(Uncle Tony’s disapproving glare is one of the scariest things Peter has ever seen, period. And Ned once made him watch all The Exorcist films in one sitting back in freshman year. Took him a good few weeks (months) to shake the paranoia and realise that, realistically, he probably wasn’t going to get possessed by some angry old spirit anytime soon.)

But Uncle Tony can ask him what he’s doing instead of going to college, and Peter quickly discovers that a nonchalant shrug of the shoulders is not an adequate response. He thought that maybe Tony would get him some sort of starter position in his company, but Tony isn’t the kind of guy who gives out jobs to anyone (even if they’re his sort-of nephew). No, if Peter ever wants a job at Stark Industries he needs a college degree first, and a good one at that.

“You need a taste of the real world, kid,” Tony had said, Peter idly spinning on the office chair in front of his desk. “And then you might think twice about giving Princeton the boot.”

And that’s how he ends up in front of Endgame.

Peter knows a hell of a lot about Uncle Tony, but also absolutely nothing at all. There are things he deliberately keeps hidden and Peter knows better than to ask about but he’s also ridiculously open, especially about how fucking rich and clever and sexy he is. May says it’s a confidence thing—that he must be hollow under all that blithe arrogance, but Peter has never met anyone more solid. He thinks. Tony cannot be anything other than whole, because he’s sure helped keep Peter’s foundations stable all these years.

He knows that Tony’s business is his life. That he’s a bit more…forward, with women than he should be, but it’s all talk because Pepper wouldn’t stick around if it wasn’t. He knows he prefers Turkish food over everything else and that he cares more than he lets on, always.

But he absolutely didn’t know that Uncle Tony kind-of owns a nightclub in the city; the super cool kind that has live bands and plays British indie rock and a menu with over fifty different kinds of cocktail on it. It makes so much sense, when he thinks about it. It’s exactly the kind of place he imagines Tony heading to after a day working non-stop at the tower.

It’s only three in the afternoon but the place is unlocked, Tony pushing open the double doors at the front with his shoulder. Inside, there’s a jarringly bright room with a bar and a stage that feels wrong not swathed in darkness or the muted glow from overhead lighting. A woman with long, brunette hair that falls down her back is mopping the floor off to the side. She looks up when she sees them enter.

“Wanda,” Tony greets, pushing Peter forward. The girl smiles bemusedly, shoving the mop back in a red plastic bucket. “Working hard?”

“As always, Mr Stark.” Her accent is soft, European. Peter likes the twinkle in her eyes. “You’ve just missed Nat, but Clint is still in the basement, if you’re looking for them.”

“Barton. Perfect.” He tugs on Peter’s arm, and Peter vaguely feels like some naughty kid being dragged around by their dad. This must be what that feels like, he muses, not that he knows much about the whole parent thing. “Come on, Peter.”

Peter rolls his eyes. Wanda catches him, and she laughs a little, returning back to the mop.

Tony drags him through a hallway lined with black-and-white checked squares and down a set of stairs labelled staff only, the walls covered in aggressive-looking graffiti which he assumes are song lyrics he’s never heard of. He likes music, but he’s the soft-spoken acoustic type. Not the mosh-pit type.

(Alongside Tony Stark’s disapproving glare and horror movies, he’s also kind of terrified of being swallowed by crowds. He doesn’t like the feeling of being lost or untethered. He likes being anchored to something. Someone. It’s kind of ironic, really, considering.)

Tony opens a door at the bottom of the stairs that leads onto what he assumes is some sort of staff common room, the walls all exposed brick and lined with tattered leather sofas probably pulled from a garage sale. Band posters either hang loosely with blue thumb tacks or, in some cases, in black frames—some scribbled with messy signatures. A makeshift bar stands in front of a small kitchen, lined with more liquor bottles than he cares to count. A coffee table is littered with vinyl cases and sloppily written notes, a wire charging an iPhone trailing all the way from the door. A man with brown hair and a strong jawline sits on the sofa nearest the back wall, Doc Martens kicked up on the table, scrolling through his phone. His eyes barely flicker when they enter the room, like he’s waiting for Tony to talk first.

“Welcoming as always,” Tony remarks, urging Peter to walk further into the room. The other man snorts.

“If you want a fucking parade every time you enter a room, Stark, you should stick to those dumb expo things you still insist on doing.” He’s still scrolling through his phone. “Who’s the kid?”

“I’m not a kid,” Peter can’t help but say, because he’s eighteen and a high school graduate, for God’s sake. Both Tony and the man raise an eyebrow, in that patronising way Peter is all too used to. Like, you’re basically just fresh out the womb, boy.

“You’re a kid until you stop thinking like one,” Tony says, and it looks like Peter is still going to be getting a lot of that. He gestures towards the man and back again. “Clint Barton, Peter Parker. Peter, Barton. He’s your new boss.”

“Half-boss,” Clint quickly corrects, “Nat would probably slit your throat if she heard you say that. Also…” Clint pauses, finally putting his phone down. He seems to examine Peter carefully, eyes flicking up and down. He feels oddly exposed. “Shouldn’t you, I don’t know, be doing AP Literature homework or something?”

Peter sighs, shoving his hands in the pockets of his jeans. “I’m not in high school. I graduated high school.”

“I refuse to believe that. How old are you? Fourteen?”

“I’m eighteen!”

Clint narrows his eyes. “You sure about that?”

“Yeah, I’m pretty sure I know my own age.”

Clint hums. He shifts his feet from the coffee table and to the floor, leaning forwards. “Don’t get me wrong, Peter, but are you sure you want to work here? Aren’t you better suited to…like, a computer science major? You just don’t look like the kind of guy we’d usually hire.”

Peter takes that to mean you look like a massive fucking nerd, moron. Well, Clint’s not wrong, but it’s always a bit jarring to hear someone say it actually out loud. He’s not the kind of person who works in a cool bar with cool people who wear Doc Martens and listen to the Arctic Monkeys.

“He’s hired because I say he’s hired,” Tony interjects, pressing his hands on Peter’s shoulders. “And because this little punk thinks that he doesn’t want to go get a STEM major.”

Clint smirks a little at that, like he’s gone from zero to just a touch of respect for him. “Teenage rebellion, huh?”

“No,” Peter replies, not that convincingly. “I just don’t want to go to college, alright?”

“Not right now, but a few weeks of working with these absolute head-cases will have you handing in your transcripts before you can say Ivy League,” Tony states and Clint chuckles, “You will be begging for the sweet release of the Princeton marching band and that compulsory calculus class.”

Peter looks over at Clint, who merely nods in a faux serious manner. “We’re special here, Parker. Absolutely one-of-a-kind.”

“Who’s one of a kind?” Another voice rings out behind them, clearly feminine but surprisingly low and sultry in tone. When Peter turns, he sees a petite woman with red hair that scuffs her shoulders, skinny jeans hugging her legs and a leather jacket over her shoulders. She clutches a shopping bag in her left hand, her nails painted the same shade as her hair. Her Converse sneakers are black and streaked with dirt, but like they were made that way, like it’s all staged.

He has to actively fight his jaw from dropping open. Because, Jesus—he isn’t blind. She’s the most beautiful woman he’s ever seen…and there’s something about her, a familiar quality he can’t quite place, like he’s seen her before in another time or place. She smirks when she finds him staring. Peter flushes, looking away, and thinks idly about beautiful gardens and being tempted in by a Devil.

“You are,” Clint replies effortlessly and, like that, Peter realises that there must have fucked at some point. Her eyes glint as she drops her bag on the counter.

“I assume you’re here for a reason, Stark,” she says, “If this is your new intern, I’m dying for a coffee.”

“Funny,” Tony shoves his hands in his pockets. “And as I was just telling Barton, this is your new employee.”

“As of when?”

“As of right now.”

When this woman assesses him, it feels more scathing than it did with Clint. Her eyes are slower, her expression less readable. Clint was clear in his uncertainty. It’s impossible to tell with her. Eventually, she halts, lips pursed. “Huh.”

“My sentiments exactly,” Clint responds. He’s back on the coffee table, like he’s bored by the whole situation.

Tony stands back, folding his arms. “You have an opening now the other Maximoff has moved on, and this moron needs a reality check. You lot are probably the worst people I could think of to give it to him.”

The redhead blinks slowly. She rests her chin in one hand, her elbow on the bar. She’s looking straight at Peter, green eyes blazing like exotic jewels. “You have any bar experience?”

“Uh…” Peter scratches his head sheepishly, “No?”

“You train him, Nat,” Tony says when Nat looks skeptical, “You train the hell out of him. Or get him to do the 4am bathroom cleaning shift. Your choice.”

“We have Clint for that,” she says, and Clint throws a scatter cushion at her. She catches it with ridiculously quick reflexes and dumps it on a bar stool before hopping onto it. Her shopping bag is exclusively filled with grapefruits. “Although, we do need a new bartender now Pietro has fucked off.” She pulls a knife from seemingly nowhere and points it in Peter’s direction, which gives off a threatening air that Nat looks all too comfortable with. Worryingly. “But no doing homework at the bar. It’ll ruin our image.”

“I’m not…” Peter starts, but Nat’s smirking again. So. He’s just going to have to accept the fact this is going to be a running joke, right? Anything that gets Tony off his back.

“You’re kind of adorable,” Nat says, looking over at Clint. “Steve will love him.”

“Steve will try and adopt him.”

“Steve will try and adopt anything that looks vaguely pained and puppy-like,” She chops a grapefruit in half, then into quarters. “It’s taking everything I have to convince him we don’t need a golden retriever right now. It’s exhausting.”

(At this point, he stands gormlessly and watches both Clint and Nat bicker back and forwards about this Steve, this guy that Nat must be dating, and nothing clicks. Nothing clicks yet. He feels like a bit of an idiot when he eventually does, though, because of course. That’s why Nat looks so familiar.)

“Well,” Tony interrupts in a tiny pocket of silence where Clint and Nat aren’t snarking at each other, “Consider Peter your anniversary gift. He’s every bit as charming as a golden retriever without having to pick up the shit. I think he’s already potty-trained. I think.”

Peter shakes his head out of disbelief. Not biological, but every single bit as embarrassing as a blood relative in front of anyone cool. Nat doesn’t take her eyes off the grapefruits.

“Our anniversary was last month, asshole, and all you gave us was a fucking star named after us. You know, one of those dumb certificates you buy online for about ten dollars.”

Tony clutches his heart dramatically. “It’s romantic, not that I’d expect you to understand. Imagine looking up at the night sky and knowing a little piece of you and Steve is up there, glimmering just for you, courtesy of me. That’s special, Nat. Money can’t buy that feeling.”

“Money can buy that feeling. You bought it for ten dollars. Fortunately for you, Steve is a gullible and the sappiest son-of-a-bitch we know so at least someone enjoyed the sentiment.” Natasha pauses for a moment, resting the knife down on the counter. “Now. You—Peter—how much, exactly, do you know about cocktails?”

There are things he learns incredibly quickly when working with Nat—facts, logistics, statements. Both Clint and Nat have known Uncle Tony for a while, but he’s not sure why or how. Tony helped Clint and Nat buy Endgame and he continues to invest in the business, taking a share of the profits. It’s been open five years, but Clint and Nat have known each other way longer than that. He’s not sure why or how. Actually; he’s sure why, because Clint and Nat are pieces of the same puzzle, irrevocably interlocked. The way they look at each other is haunted by years and years of shared history. You’d have to be blind not to see that.

Also—Nat mixes drinks with a speed and precision that is impossible to replicate. He watches hopelessly as she grabs spirits off a rack on the wall from memory, barely glancing at the labels. Wanda occasionally brushes past and Peter can see the amused look in her eyes, like she’s in on a joke he doesn’t know about.

She’s trying to teach him how to mix a basic mojito—not their most popular drink, but one of the easiest—when the front doors swing open and a man walks in, tall and broad-shouldered, blonde hair mussed from the motorcycle helmet that hangs in his right hand. His shirt is way too tight for his torso and arms but he looks so good anyway, in a way that Peter could only ever replicate in his dreams.

It takes Peter a moment to realise, when the man smiles at Natasha like she’s every good dream he’s ever had, that this must be Steve. And then it takes another moment once he gets a decent look at his face, that this isn’t just any Steve. This is Steve fucking Rogers. And Nat… Nat is Natasha Romanoff.

“You certainly took your time,” Nat says coyly as Steve sidles over to the bar. He reaches over and takes her face in his hands, kissing her gently and casually on the lips. It’s like Peter isn’t even here. It’s nothing too intimate, though; Nat seems aware of her privacy and what she wants other people to see. She seems to have a strict code on showing and telling. Peter isn’t part of her exclusive inner sanctum (yet).

(Clint struts in, then promptly struts out again, muttering something about letting someone else be the third wheel for a change.)

“Meeting overran,” he confesses, still curved over the bar, “Honestly, I keep telling them I’m retired.”

“Show them your birth certificate. Can’t possibly expect a man in his nineties to record another album.”

Steve laughs, and honestly, it’s like watching a scene out of a romantic movie. “For some reason, they just won’t believe me. They might believe you, though. You have a way of getting people to do what you want.”

Natasha pats his cheek gently. “Absolutely. Oh—and this is Peter, by the way. Anniversary gift from Stark.”

Steve’s eyes settle on him for the first time since he arrived, because it’s very clear that he’s the kind of guy who tunes out the rest of the world when his girlfriend is in the room. “I thought Stark got us a star for our anniversary. I love that star.”

“Of course you do,” Nat titters, “And Peter is filling in for Pietro.”

Steve offers Peter his hand, and he shakes it tentatively, because this is still Steve fucking Rogers. “Great to meet you, kid.”

“Oh,” Nat lowers her voice, “He’s not a kid. He just graduated high school.” When Peter’s mouth opens, she grins. “This is Steve. He hangs about here sometimes. Can’t seem to get rid of him. I have tried, believe me.”

“You’re Steve Rogers,” Peter breathes, dumbstruck, and it’s only when Nat and Steve share a bemused look that he breaks out of his stupor, cheeks flushed. He nervously looks at his feet. “Sorry—it’s just I’m a big fan.”

There isn’t anybody who hasn’t heard of Steve Rogers, as far as Peter is aware. He’s got all his albums on CD stacked on the shelves of his bedroom and he listens when he’s feeling particularly nostalgic, pressing them into the portable player May got him a lifetime ago and lying back on his bed. Steve is the Golden Boy of America’s pop music scene, his songs soulful and sad with a quiet, yet constant, lingering optimism. It’s the kind of music that reminds him of leaves in the fall and sitting alone on the subway. The kind of voice you could get lost in, but not in the unknown, terrifying kind of the way. It’s like he’s trying to guide you home.

Steve and Nat share a look and Peter fears that he’s made a bit of an idiot of himself. Again.

“Whatever you do, don’t ask for his autograph,” Natasha scrunches her nose, glancing up at her boyfriend. Steve looks mildly entertained. Like he’s used to it. “His ego is big enough as it is.”

Steve shakes his head. His hand reaches across the bar and squeezes Natasha’s shoulder. She softly runs her hand over his knuckles—it feels weird, to use the word soft to describe Natasha, because from what Peter has seen (in his admittedly limited experience) she’s never anything but razor sharp. “You’ll come to realise, Peter, that this woman never has a day off.”

Natasha’s smile is wistful, longing. “I don’t have time for days off.”

The room suddenly feels heavy and Peter can feel something lurking under the surface of their dialogue, something that’s not being said while he’s there watching. Steve looks away, smiling at the ground. Look—he’s not that into tabloids or dumb E! News twitter threads where their pictures are plastered about like incriminating photo albums, but he’s not totally unaware of it either. He knows Nat’s surname because he’s seen her red hair on the cover of magazines at the drugstore countless times, on May’s coffee table. Some of them have been holding Steve’s hand. Some of them are just Steve. Some of them are Steve with other women.

He’s got enough knowledge to know that this relationship mustn’t be…easy. Or conventional, at the very least. Not that he knows much about that. He knows about as much about romantic love as he does parental.

(Aka, not much at all.)

Wanda is the one who breaks the moment. “Nat, Clint is asking—oh, hi Steve!”

Steve smiles and the two share a quick embrace, because Steve definitely seems like the hugging type. Meanwhile, Natasha walks round the bar and beside him—Steve slings an arm casually round her shoulder, and it’s so comfortable and natural that Peter feels something shift in his chest. Wanda lets them know that Clint needs to run over the inventory before opening in a couple of hours, so Nat leaves Peter in Wanda’s capable hands while her and Steve head down to the basement together. Peter can’t seem to drag his eyes away from them.

“You too, huh?” Wanda remarks, one eyebrow raised. Peter blinks, not sure what she means. “They’re magnetic, right? And not just because they’re both ridiculously attractive.”

Peter flushes—for what seems like the millionth time since he arrived—and covers his hands with his sleeve. “I don’t—“

“We’ve all thought it, one time or another. There isn’t anybody else like them.” Wanda smiles softly. “They haven’t had it easy but they’re happy now, so. Every cloud, yes?”

Peter nods hesitantly. “What do you mean…haven’t had it easy?”

Wanda’s smile is still gentle, but there’s an unwavering nature to it. She seems to float past him, like she’s not quite real, an ethereal ghost. “That’s not for me to tell. But I can tell you how to make more than just a mojito, if that’s adequate?”

Peter feels himself relaxing, the tension vanishing from his shoulders. Wanda is a little less terrifying than Natasha. Her eyes are big and touched with melancholy, but there’s no bitterness there. “Yeah. Yeah, that would be really adequate, thanks.”

His first shift—well, his first shift is insane, and he completely and totally understands why Tony thought this place would cure his college related existential crisis. The bar is packed from the moment the door opens because even though there’s no live music tonight, Clint and Nat’s sick playlists seem to reel in people from all over the city and further out. A bearded guy in a Led Zep shirt drunkenly tells Peter that he’s come all the way from Toronto to listen to Hawkeye and Black Widow, and he’s really not sure what that means.

There are also people who are here when they realise Steve is about, from Twitter or whatever. He’s not exactly under the radar as he seems to spend a lot of his free time in Endgame (for obvious reasons) but as soon as the customers start coming in, he edges away, disappearing off into the basement while Nat, Clint and the rest of them work. Other than Wanda, there’s only one more employee who turns up—a tall, buff British guy called Thor who wanders in about fifteen minutes before opening time with hair off a Herbal Essences commercial. He slaps Peter on the arm and almost knocks the wind out of him.

By the time closing time hits Peter feels battered, bruised and a little like he’s fallen out of a top floor window, his shirt covered in shit tons of unnameable alcoholic combinations and his head beating like a bass drum. Clint, Nat, Wanda and Thor weave between people and the bar like it’s ingrained in them, grinning and laughing and seemingly knowing everybody. As the cool, 2am air of August hits his face like a slap round the face, Peter wonders if he’d actually been holding his breath the whole time, waiting for the storm to be over.

He almost throws up on the stairs. Almost. He kind of wants to go home, go to bed, and never come back here again. Everything—it just happens a lot, always. Maybe he is just a kid. Maybe he’s not ready for a life outside of education, like Tony had said.

He feels a hand curl round his shoulder and he starts, but when he turns he sees Steve, oddly reassuring and stable in this new world that makes no sense whatsoever.

“You alright, Peter?” he asks, warm and empathetic, “Maybe you should sit down.”

He doesn’t wait for a response, instead sitting on the damp, stone steps that lead up to the entrance. Peter sighs heavily, goosebumps bristling up and down his arms. Cautiously, he eases down next to him. Wonders how his life got to this.

“It can get pretty intense in there, huh?” Steve nudges him with his shoulder. “I thought that when I first started singing in public, like my heart was just going to rip out my chest. But it gets easier. Maybe you’ll even enjoy it.”

Peter laughs a little at that. There’s a scab on his left thumb and he picks at it out of habit. “I think Clint was right. I’m not the kind of guy they like here.”

“God, don’t let him hear you say that. Clint can’t ever be right. The universe would implode.”

Natasha appears at the front door from nowhere, as is the pattern, and it’s the first time Peter’s seen her all evening properly—she’s wearing a black lace camisole and leather pants that leave very little to the imagination, but Peter knows better (and is better) to let his eyes hover for too long. Her lipstick matches the color of her hair. She’s absolutely breath-taking, like a rebellious Hollywood starlet. It’s the first time he’s seen her tattoos, too; she has a spider on her left shoulder, an arrow on the other and there’s the smooth curve of a circle that peaks out of the waistband of her trousers. She hands Peter a paper cup filled with water. Come to think of it, not drinking anything all night was probably a bad idea, adding dehydration to a general sense of, you know, existential dread.

“It’s just your first day, buddy,” Steve says, “It’s new. That’s all.”

“I think you did pretty well for someone with no experience,” interjects Nat. Steve gives her an exaggerated look of shock. “Hey. I said pretty well. He’s still got a lot to learn.”

“Praise indeed! You should be proud, kid. Took her over a year for her to say anything remotely nice about me.”

“That, and also I’d take every opportunity to prove Tony Stark wrong about something.” Nat smirks. “You just got to get into the music, then you won’t be able to fucking wait to come back.”

“Yeah,” Steve smiles, looking up at her, “She’s pretty exceptional at making mixtapes.”

He’s entering yet another moment that feels like an intrusion just being there, another conversation without words. He’s been the third-wheel before—countless awkward dates at the Cheesecake Factory—but this feels like a whole other level of it, because the worst kind of couple to tag along with are the ones that use silence like it’s not silence at all.

“Am I…alright to go?” Peter asks quietly, folding the cup in his hands. He’s not sure how all this works.

Nat nods. “Yeah, seeing as it’s your first day. But tomorrow you’re helping with the clean-up.”

“How are you getting back?” Steve is already sifting through dollars in his wallet, “Get a cab on me.”

“Oh—Mr Rogers, I couldn’t possibly…”

“It’s Steve, and you absolutely can.” He hands him twenty, and Nat audibly sighs from behind him. “What? What is it?”

Natasha looks totally unsurprised. “Clint was right about something. You’re totally adopting our new bartender. He’s only been here a day!”

Peter has to admit, having Steve Rogers look out for him is hardly the most disastrous thing to come out of this shift. He half-smiles, mostly to himself, unfurling the twenty between his fingers. Steve just shoots Nat a withering, long-suffering look, because this is what Steve calls being nice.

“Thank you, Steve,” Peter says, standing up, “And thanks for the water.”

Steve salutes a goodbye and Nat walks down the stairs, filling the space Peter leaves. As he saunters down the sidewalk, he picks up snippets of their conversation:

“Which star do you think is ours? You know. The one Stark bought us.”

“Oh, shut up about that goddamn star. Stark will really try and buy anything, won’t he? Even bits of the universe. You’re supposed to—I think you should just leave the cosmos the hell alone. We don’t have to understand everything.”

“Yeah, you’re right.” A pause. “The science is neither here nor there for me. And Stark’s capitalist consumerist ideology aside…I just like to think the stars all come out for you.”

(He thinks about that all the way home, in the slow hum of the cab, the buzzing tinnitus in his ears. He thinks about loving someone so much you want the whole universe to exist just for them.)

The first thing he does when he gets home is Google them. He can’t help himself. He just—he has to know more. But as soon as he types in their names, and a ton of unsavoury articles mentioning other women and possibilities about Natasha’s past come up, he feels disgusted with himself. This isn’t the truth. This is just hearsay and shady sources and the edges of facts cobbled together with hyperbolic adjectives and PVA glue. This feels voyeuristic and weird, like he’s doing something explicitly wrong, like he’s listening to high school gossip.

He turns to Instagram instead. Natasha’s—predictably—is on private and he’s too awkward to send a request, and the blur of red on the icon might not even be her. Steve’s is a lot easier to find. He’s got almost three million followers and a blue tick, his photo an outtake from some shoot where he’s laughing like a maniac. His most recent picture isn’t even of him. It’s Natasha, caught off guard in the basement of Endgame, looking through the stack of records he’d seen on the coffee table. When he swipes along there’s another where she’s using a Bon Iver vinyl to cover her face, looking beneath her eyelashes at the camera. The caption reads though she be but little, she is fierce.

And this—this, he realises, is the only narrative of the two of them that matters.

The next day he wakes with a thumping headache. When he asks May if there’s any aspirin, she looks at him with a mix of disappointment and muted shock.

“Yes, I agreed with Tony when he said getting a job would be good for you, but really Peter?” she tuts, to Peter’s confusion, popping two tablets out of the tray and into his hands. “What was it, then? Beer? Rum? Vodka?”

Oh. Oh. She thinks… “Relax, May. I didn’t do anything. The music was just loud, that’s all.”

May doesn’t look entirely convinced, her eyes slightly narrowed, but it admittedly isn’t in Peter’s character to engage with any underage drinking (even though that’s what he’d probably do in college, if he was still going). Clint had slid him across a jack and coke with a wink at some point after midnight, but he’d let it go warm on the counter. The only time he’d ever really drunk was at Liz Allan’s New Year’s party at the end of junior year, and that was only to prove to that dumbass Flash Thompson that he wasn’t a pussy. His puke tasted like beer and then that just made him puke more.

“I just worry about you. I’ve never pictured you working in a place like that.” May sits at the kitchen counter, watching him as he swallows back the pills. “Couldn’t you send your resume to a bookstore or something? Bryony from Pilates says she’s looking for a new waiter at her place. Maybe that’s more your… thing.”

It’s quite likely that’s more his thing, but the told you so that would come out of Tony’s mouth is persuasion enough to keep on at it. Yeah, he feels like death and another night like yesterday is not going to make that any better, but surely he’ll get used to it. Right?

“I’m not quitting already. It wasn’t so bad. Plus, I got to meet Steve Rogers.”

May’s eyes almost bulge out of her head. “Excuse me? Steve Rogers as in…?”

“Yep,” Peter pops the ‘p’, grin tugging at his lips. His aunt isn’t exempt in the nationwide crush everybody has on Steve Rogers. “The manager—well, one of the managers—is his girlfriend. You know Nat Romanoff?”

“Oh, so she’s Nat Romanoff to you,” May chides, “Didn’t realise you two had got so close already.”

“Shut up. She’s kind of terrifying. So is the other guy who runs the place. But there’s a girl there—Wanda. She’s pretty awesome.”

May purses her lips, studying his expression. “Is she pretty pretty too?”

“No!” Peter replies a little too quickly, to May’s delight, “No—she’s… nice, but she’s a bit older than me. Anyway, I’ve told you before. I’m not looking for anything like that.”

(It’s been almost a year since Liz Allan tore his heart to pieces and he’s still not over it. It’s kind of pathetic, really. They were never really dating to begin with, but it all felt so real anyway.)

“Alright,” May hums, “Just…be careful, okay? I heard you come back late last night and I hate thinking about you walking about on your own.”

He wants to say that he’s eighteen and basically an adult and that New York City at 3am doesn’t scare him, but him and May have been so close his whole life and it must be difficult, her watching the little boy dropped abruptly on her doorstep all those years ago growing up and moving on. Other than Uncle Tony, who walks in and out of his life when it suits him, May is all he has. And she’s only got him. There’s a lifeline there that holds them indefinitely together and she hates watching it stretch, fray.

“Steve got me a cab,” he says gently, “And I’ll bring my bike tonight. I’m totally fine. I promise.”

She gets up, kisses him on the top of his head, between the curls that are still damp from the shower. It makes him feel like a kid, but not in the restrictive, controlling way Tony does when he’s pissed at him. It makes him feel nostalgic for the time where May would kiss his scraped knees better when he tripped on the sidewalk and make him peanut butter sandwiches with the crusts cut off for his lunch box.

“I love you more than anything,” May says, her mantra. You don’t have a lot, but you do have me.

Peter smiles. Blinks slowly. “I love you too, May.”

Just before he leaves the apartment for another round, a notification lights up his phone. He doesn’t recognise the number, but he opens the text anyway, and it’s a link to a Spotify page ran by username blackwidow. The playlist is titled for peter.

“You’ve looked them both up on Instagram, right?”

Wanda says this as she drops on the sofa next to him, propping her feet on the coffee table. Clint and Nat are bickering in the office adjoined to the kitchen and occasionally he can see one of them through the window—he’s almost certain at one point Nat had Clint by the throat, but Thor looks at him, shaking his head. You just gotta let them ride this one out.

“Uh…what?” Peter absent-mindedly replies, dragging his eyes away from the pot of pens that has just collided with the window. Wanda doesn’t react. It must be normal.

“Steve and Natasha,” Wanda elaborates, “I did. It’s the first thing I did, after I met them. You wanna know about someone’s life, you find their social media. Or lack of it.”

Peter sighs. Well, at least it’s not just him. “Yeah, I did.”

“I’m assuming you haven’t sent Natasha a request.”

“Nope.”

Wanda grins. “She’s meticulous. Natasha. Obsessed with privacy and who gets to see what. I’m surprised she has social media at all. I mean…it’s not illogical, considering, but she does not reveal her soul to just anybody. Steve, on the other hand, is an open book. Not very good at hiding anything. Which is usually a good thing, sometimes not.”

Peter tilts his head, taking Wanda in. She’s wearing makeup today, black smudged round her eyes. May’s right, she is pretty pretty. “You seem to know quite a lot about them.”

“I’ve worked with them for a while now. And anyway. They’re interesting. You see it, too. Sometimes it’s hard to look away when they’re together.” Wanda doesn’t flinch when another crash comes from the office. “You wonder how they work, because they seem so very different.”

Peter shrugs. She’s not wrong, obviously, but he doesn’t want to look too interested, like the creepy fans that leave leery comments on Steve’s pictures. “People do say that opposites attract.”

“People are stupid. And vague. What even are opposites?” Wanda’s laugh is low and sort of croaky. “I am just glad they found their way back to each other.”

“How did they even meet?”

Wanda’s smile is the same one he saw yesterday, like he’s encountered a dead end and she knows it. This is not her story to tell, like so many others. “I am sure you will find out eventually.”

Clint bursts out of the office, then, dabbing at a cut on his cheek with a napkin. He looks kind of like he’s been dragged through a hedge backwards, flustered and breathing hard. His eyebrows lift when he sees Peter sitting there, offering the two of them a quick greeting.

“Oh, and Clint!” Natasha calls out, appearing from behind the door, “Could you get me an iced latte?”

Clint considers for a second, before nodding. She throws him her reusable mug and he catches it with one hand before turning to leave.

“Don’t even try and get me to explain that relationship,” Wanda says, “I wouldn’t know where to begin.”

Peter laughs under his breath. It’s like Nat said, in the conversation he shouldn’t have heard. We don’t have to understand everything.

At about 11pm that night he joins Wanda for a cigarette out the back fire door and for the first time, he feels kind of cool, watching as the end burns a tiny amber dot, ripping a hole in the black. He’d never smoke one himself—the fact that May is horrified by him consuming alcohol is bad enough—but he likes watching her, how oddly and decadently beautiful the smoke unfurling from her lips is.

At the bottom of the alley, a motorbike pulls up and a man that looks vaguely Steve-shaped jumps off of it. Wanda glances at him with a smirk, stubbing out the cigarette with the toe of her boot. His arms fold out, and a woman runs into them, their laughter echoing down the street. They obviously don’t know that him and Wanda are watching; it feels like a private glimpse that they’re not supposed to see, a privilege. Natasha’s legs wrap round his waist. They hold each other for what feels like minutes, hours.

He can’t take his eyes away the whole time.

“I told you,” Wanda elbows him, brushing past to get to the door. “They’re magnetic. You’re pulled into their orbit.”

“I just…I don’t know why,” Peter says, dumbfounded, “Maybe it’s the way they look at each other? Like the whole world could burn to ashes and they’d just…stand, in the afterglow.”

“You’re poetic, Parker,” Wanda muses, “But you’re not wrong, either.”

They’re pulled back into the heat of the club when Clint realises they’re not working, grabbing them both by the shoulders and violently shoving them back onto the bar. He’s not paying them to gossip about snapchat and heelies, or whatever the kids are into these days, apparently. And Thor can only handle so much attention before his ego combusts.

He’s mixing a bad gin and tonic when Natasha and Steve finally come into the back. Her tiny frame guides him through the throngs of people as a The 1975 song plays in the background, crooning about skinny jeans and spare time and she’s got a boyfriend anyway. They disappear down the basement steps and Natasha must be a little drunk, he reckons, because the door is barely shut when they start kissing.

It takes about two and a half weeks, give or take, for things to start to feel normal. The hours fuck up any semblance of a sleeping pattern, but he’s no longer waking up with a thudding in his skull like a second heartbeat and Wanda’s tip about earplugs help a ton. He arrives at about three, sometimes earlier, sometimes later. He’s usually off again by two unless Nat or Clint are feeling generous about clean-up. The bar is shut every Sunday and the freedom is near divine. He doesn’t get up until midday and spends the rest of the day in his pajamas, eating pancakes and watching shitty reality television about people who are paid to sing badly or hate each other.

Steve is in the bar most nights and whilst he doesn’t always talk to Peter, he begins to miss him when he’s not there. He’s usually got a motivational speech or two in his back pocket, and it feels pretty fucking awesome that Steve Rogers seems to care a little about his wellbeing.

He hasn’t had the nerve to ask about how they met, yet. Wanda is still tight-lipped and Clint is borderline psychotic anyway, so each of them feel like a dead-end. He’s stuck with assumptions and watching them from his peripheral.

“You know, he wrote his last album about her,” Clint says in a rare moment of honesty, while they’re preparing for opening. Steve and Nat are tucked in a booth by the door, her knees brought to her chest, speaking impossibly close together. “It’s abhorrently adorable. Almost puked when I heard it.”

“What?” Peter says skeptically, “You mean the whole of See You In a Minute is about Natasha?”

“The whole goddamn thing. Sickening, isn’t it? I think the title is some sort of private joke between them.”

Peter doesn’t mention that Steve’s last album is his favorite, because he doesn’t need more excuses for Clint to bully him. Plus, he needs to push on. He needs to know more. “Have they always been like that? You know. Close.”

Clint pauses. He’s polishing glasses, but lays the cloth on the counter, looking over at him. “I’ve known Nat a long time. Long enough to know that it takes…a lot, to impress her. To pull her in. Even with me—and with Steve—it took her months to realise there was a mutual trust there.” He grins a little, showing the softer side to all that strident energy. “If you tell her this, I will violently murder you, but I love that girl to bits and I wouldn’t accept just anybody taking her away from me. But I accepted Steve immediately. So take from that what you will.”

It doesn’t really answer his question, but he supposes it answers a bunch of other unasked ones.

There’s a moment of silence. And then—

“Have you and Nat ever…?”

The look Clint gives him makes him realise he knows better than to finish that sentence.

(He brings up See You in a Minute on Spotify the moment he has time alone before opening, back on the leather couch in the basement. He figures the songs might have a new meaning now he knows who they’re about. His thumb taps the titular song—a slow, atmospheric ballad that sits in the recesses of his heart as soon as he hears the opening piano chords.

I have one last dance all saved up for you

He really wishes he wasn’t crying, but he just can’t help it.)

A band is playing that night called The Guardians who everyone but Peter seems to know well. They’re a six-piece retro rock band that the crowd goes wild for—they all have crazy hair colors and equally crazy names, apart from the lead singer, who’s messy brown hair is barely brushed and is weirdly also called Peter. They stay for a while after their set has finished, building up a substantial bar tab that Clint’s on their ass about. Peter Quill and his girlfriend Gamora (the other singer and guitar player of the band, her hair bright green and her lips painted black) sit on the stools and tease Peter (who they call Little P, hilarious) until closing time.

“Are you even allowed to serve alcohol?” Quill jibes, sipping a beer, “Isn’t there a rule against children being anywhere near liquor in public?”

Gamora pokes his shoulder. “Maybe it’s some sort of psychology project. He’s studying us for a paper.”

Peter can’t even be bothered to argue at this point. He still gets this same genre of comedy from Clint on a daily basis so what’s a couple more age-related jokes? He just smiles, mixing a cosmo for Gamora’s scary looking sister who silently glares at him from the stool next to her.

“You know what would be a fun psychology project,” Quill points a finger in Peter’s direction, “Nat Romanoff.”

Peter pauses for a second. “What makes you say that?”

Quill’s limbs are loose from all the drink he’s been downing before, during and after his performance, so his movements are all exaggerated and floppy. “Don’t tell me you’re not interested. Clint too. They both have shit in their pasts they don’t want us to know about.”

Gamora is decidedly more composed. She shakes her head, looking at Peter seriously. “All conjecture, of course. And none of our business.”

“I heard she was a spy for the Russian government,” Nebula casually mentions, her tone completely void of inflection. “She can slit someone’s neck with an envelope.”

All three of them look at Nebula, slightly aghast, but Nebula’s expression is so stoic and emotionless Peter can’t tell if she’s joking or not. Even Quill blinks heavily, knocked speechless.

“That’s…not what I meant,” Quill slurs, leaning in closer, “But there’s something there.” He taps the side of his nose. “Mark my words.”

“He doesn’t know what he’s talking about,” Gamora says, “Having a past you want to remain in the past is hardly rare.”

Peter’s beginning to notice a pattern with his colleagues. They all guard their memories under heavily armored doors and it’s only in occasional moments of softness or weakness where anything is ever revealed, and rarely by the person themselves. Clint let’s something slip about Natasha, Wanda about Clint. None of them really know anything about him.

“How long have you guys known Nat and Clint?” Peter asks, before tentatively adding, “And Steve?”

Quill and Gamora smile knowingly, like maybe this is a question that’s been asked before. Gamora presses a hand down on Quill’s shoulder. Peter hides the urge to sigh at another dead end. “We’ve been performing here since they opened, but if you actually want to know anything about them we’re probably the worst people to ask.”

Quill nods. “They don’t talk. If you ever find anything out, though, feel free to let us know.”

Peter laughs disbelievingly. “As if they’ll ever tell me anything.”

“Have you asked them?” Gamora replies, and Peter’s expression answers her question. “Little P, if they didn’t think they could trust you, they wouldn’t have hired you. They don’t let just anybody into their inner circle.”

“My uncle got me the job—he’s like, an investor, or something. Trust had nothing to do with it. Probably the opposite.”

Gamora’s lip curve, unconvinced. “I think you know it’s never quite that simple.”

“I don’t…I don’t even know why I’m so interested.”

“That’s what everybody says,” Gamora says wistfully, sliding him a tip across the counter. “And we should probably leave before he makes a fool of himself.”

(The he in question is Quill, who has since disappeared to join the dancing crowds with his shirt off. Nebula’s eye roll is mechanical, like the rest of her. Peter wonders if Quill and Gamora are her Steve and Nat; two wildly different individuals that seem joined together by something no-one else can see, that no-one quite understands. She downs the rest of her cocktail and makes her way towards the couple, who have since started kissing in the middle of the dancefloor.)

Gamora kind of reminds him of Michelle. Clever, beautiful, existing on a plane that floats way above everybody else. He swallows hard. He’s not sure where that thought came from.

By coincidence, MJ actually messages him about a week later. He’s been so busy either sleeping or working that all his friendships outside Endgame have taken a bit of a back-burner, texts stacking in his inbox that he’s been too tired to respond to. Besides, the only person he really keeps in contact with from high school is Ned and he’s spending the vacation before he goes to college with his family in Hawaii—he’s kept updated with sunkissed snapchats from the beach, exotic flowers and drinks in coconut shells. He’s hovered over Michelle’s name a few times over the past few weeks, but she isn’t always the kind to message back. She flies off grid as soon as school is out. There’s no point in tormenting himself over her lack of read receipts.

But when she messages, asking if they want to meet at the mall, he types sure before he can properly think about it. It’s a Sunday, after all, and he’s been thinking an awful lot about the limited relationships he has lately. What he wants them to be.

(That’s definitely a bi-product of Nat and Steve. He can’t put it down to anything else.)

MJ is sat by the fountain in the middle of the shopping complex reading a copy of Marx’s The Communist Manifesto, making notes with a tiny wooden Ikea pencil. Her dark hair is long and loose and she’s wearing a plaid shirt with sneakers, casually beautiful in the way she’s always been. It takes her a minute to look up and actually see him standing in front of her and when she does, her mouth opens a little, curved in a bemused grin.

“Woah, Peter,” she says, closing her book, “Didn’t realise you were edgy now.”

(She’s talking about his new Doc Martens that Wanda helped pick out. They’re shiny black leather and extremely uncomfortable, but you know, he’s getting down with the culture.)

“I’m…not,” Peter says. MJ laughs at his awkwardness. “You should see the people I work with.”

“This your new job, huh?” MJ eases back into the bench, crossing her legs. “Now you’ve decided to fuck college. Is this the beginning of a crisis? I’m getting vibes, here. Smart kids who screw college to work in a nightclub are definitely going on some sort of downward psychological spiral.”

Peter shrugs, smiling. Trust MJ to be brutally honest about his life choices. “Do you wanna grab coffee?”

“Yeah, as long as it’s not Starbucks. I’m not using my limited finances to fund their crooked corporate empire.”

They trail around for a bit before they find a cripplingly expensive but decidedly independent coffee house, filled with mismatched vintage furniture and hipster-types crowding the front windows with their moleskin notebooks. Peter feels out of place but Michelle fills the space like she owns it, lounging in an armchair angled away from the counter. She closes her eyes and asks for a chamomile tea and a blueberry muffin which he—he just gets for her.

He returns with an Americano for himself, because for some reason he wants MJ to think he’s the kind of person who drinks black coffee now, when in reality he’d prefer something fruity and sugary that has him flying off the walls.

“So…” Michelle starts as he falls into the sofa opposite, “You’re definitely not going to Princeton?”

Peter folds his legs. Tries to get comfortable. “I’m definitely not going to Princeton.”

“Interesting. Even though Tony Stark will probably fund, like, all your tuition fees?”

Peter rolls his eyes. He hates her insistence on bringing up the fact he has Tony in his life, a handy billionaire safety-blanket, like he can’t complain about anything ever. Yeah, sure, Tony would probably fund his way through college—but he wonders how much of that is guilt money, the dollars his mom and dad would have scraped together if they were still alive. Not everything is about money. Tony Stark is the kind of person MJ hates with every fibre of her being, but… Peter still loves him, and not just because he’s rich as shit. Even when he’s being super annoying.

Michelle smiles sadly when he doesn’t reply. “I’m sorry, Peter. It’s just hard for me to get my head around, you know? I would commit homicide for someone to fund my way through college. Maybe I already have.”

Peter chuckles. Has a sip of his god-awful coffee. “Where are you even going for college? I don’t think you’ve ever said. In-state?”

“It’s what I’ve been meaning to tell you, actually,” MJ admits, “It’s a bit further out than in-state.”

“Oh. Right. Pennsylvania?”

“Bit further than that.”

“…California?”

“Not exactly.”

“MJ, are you going to make me run through every college I know about? Tony’s shoved just about every prospectus in my direction so we might be here a while.”

“I got accepted onto a philosophy program,” MJ starts, bringing her teacup to her lips. “At University College London.”

Peter almost spits his coffee out everywhere.

“I honestly didn’t think anything would come of it. The whole admissions process in England is completely whack, and they don’t have SATs and stuff over there so I didn’t think I had a chance. But—I don’t know. Something happened, and I got in. So I guess I’m moving to London.”

He’s not completely sure what she’s saying, just watching her mouth move and nothing but blurred, incoherent noise reaching her. She said London. MJ is moving to London, and that’s a hell of a long way from anywhere.

“You’re moving to London?” he just about manages to squeak.

“Yep. Totally aced it, dude. Time to live my English dream. You know. Try and abolish the class system they have over there and stage a revolution against their monarchy.”

A vacuum opens in his stomach, like he’s just now realising that he doesn’t really want to live in a country that isn’t the same as MJ’s. But she looks so happy. He doesn’t want to be, but he can’t help it. He can’t not be happy for someone who is about to do everything they’ve ever wanted.

Nevertheless, it’s an inconvenient epiphany. Wanting to hold onto someone as soon as they tell you they’re going to leave.

“Congratulations,” he says, hoping there isn’t a crack in his voice. “That’s…incredible, MJ. You’re awesome.”

“I know! And now you’re earning a proper wage like an adult, you can totally come and visit me over there. We can eat scones and laugh at how ridiculous British accents are.” She kicks him gently, grinning. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” Peter says quietly. “Yeah, of course I will.”

“Cool. Now we’ve got that out the way…” MJ reaches into her bag, bringing out her little black copy of The Communist Manifesto. “Can I interest you in a dialogue with my new BFF, Karl?”

He sinks back into his chair, feels his whole body bleed between the fabric and through the floorboards.

He walks into work the next day and finds Steve and Natasha sitting in one of the booths. Steve has an acoustic guitar and he’s strumming chords while Nat is nodding along, pointing at something on a scrap of notebook paper in front of him. Occasionally, he’ll grab a marker and cross something out or scribble something down. When the door shuts behind him, the two of them look over. God. He’s got a running habit of ruining moments.

“Hey Peter!” Steve calls out in his usual, friendly way, “What’s up?”

He’s about to reply, but Natasha edges in first. “Come over here. Let’s talk.”

There’s something ominous in her tone but Natasha is impossible to predict, so a vague sense of anxiety haunts him as he sidles over to the booth and sits slowly in the space Nat has made for him. He wonders if she’s firing him but Steve looks chipper—surely he wouldn’t look that happy if he was about to lose his job, right? Maybe his not so discrete interest in their relationship has…got back to them? He’s already imagining the look on Tony’s face. I said you needed a reality check.

“Am I in trouble?”

Nat laughs. Even that is low and sultry, somehow sexy. Steve laughs too. “Peter—I know we tease you about it, but you do realise you’re not in school, right? And…calm, measured conversation isn’t usually how we deal with things here.”

He recalls the argument in the office a few weeks prior. Yeah, sounds about right.

“We just want to know about you,” Nat continues, “Because—I know a lot about the people I work with. But I don’t know anything about you, other than what Stark has said. And I trust his judgement about as much as I trust Steve’s.”

“Hey!” Steve says with a pout, “My judgement is perfect, thank you very much.”

“It’s the opposite of perfect, but okay, Mr I-trust-everybody-I’ve-met-ever.”

Steve shakes his head at him. “This is what I get for not being openly hostile all the time.”

“It’s got me and Clint this far. Anyway, I digress.” She nudges Peter gently. “Tell us something about you.”

Peter is mildly suspicious about the whole thing and doesn’t know what to say, so just stares vacantly at the two of them.

“Okay…well, at least we know you’re not a talker,” Nat murmurs, “So how about I ask you a question. Who was the girl you were with at the mall yesterday?” Peter’s jaw swings open like a door on a loose hinge. Nat half-smiles. “I saw you when I was coming out the Urban Outfitters. I’m curious.”

Steve glowers at her. “Peter, you don’t have to answer that if you don’t want to. She’s insatiable.”

“Oh, yeah. But if you don’t answer it you’ll be kind of answering it, if you get what I mean.”

Peter’s taken aback. For someone who is so private about everything, she’s appears to have no qualms investigating his private life. He coughs on nothing and shifts in his seat awkwardly. “Just a friend. From school. It isn’t—she isn’t…”

Nat laughs under her breath, looking over at Steve. “He’s right. It’s none of my business. But you two looked good together. That’s always a good start.”

“Is it?” Steve asks, and she sighs.

“I think so,” Nat splays her hands out on the table. He notices her fingernails are painted electric blue. “But, sure. It isn’t everything.”

“What is everything?”

The question catches both of them off guard and Peter instantly regrets asking, wishing he could catch his words back in a butterfly net and shove them back inside of him. The two of them are…they’re untouchable, Wanda and Clint have both made that equally clear. It’s something you find out, not something you’re told. But it’s too late now. Steve and Nat look at each other in a minute of an intense, burning eye contact and not for the first time Peter imagines being swallowed up by the seat whole.

“I guess…” Steve begins but trails off. Peter watches as his fingers inch closer to Natasha’s on a table, like they’re playing a complex game wherein they discover where their boundaries are, how far they can go while he’s still there. “I guess everything is when you’re sat in a room, and there could be just one person it or thousands, but it doesn’t matter because none of those faces are the one you want it to be. The only perfect room, the only one you’ll ever be happy in, is the one they inhabit with you. To leave it…or for them to leave, feels like you’re constantly just gasping for air.”

Natasha looks away. Somehow, Steve manages to drag his eyes away from her, after saying all that, and back to Peter.

“But sometimes everything is just knowing the favorite brand of ice cream they like to eat when everything is awful or the setting they prefer their washing machine on. It’s all about striking a balance.” He half-smiles. “Sometimes it takes a while to find it.”

Peter frowns. He likes Michelle, likes her more than he’d ever let on if the uncontrollable reaction his body had after she said she was leaving is anything to go by, but how can he know if it’s everything? What Steve is saying sounds suspiciously like soulmates, if they exist. That not being with them feels like dying. What he feels for MJ is blurry, inconstant; but it’s there all the same. He’s not sure if that flame is supposed to become anything more. Not that it matters.

“Michelle is moving to London for college,” Peter says desolately, then rolls his shoulders. “She’ll be living a whole other life over there. I can’t expect her to fit me into it, even if she liked me back.”

“Hey, Peter?” Nat says with a sympathetic smile, “Distance sucks, but you know what sucks more? Waiting too long. We know a thing or two about it, and I’d recommend quite heavily against it.”

“Oh, yeah,” Steve adds his two cents, “I’d give it a one star review on Amazon for being the worst ever. Not what I ordered, arrived broken, the lot.”

Clint enters and asks if they need a witness to sign the adoption papers and Nat throws a dirty washcloth at him, everything returning to normal. But there’s a warm feeling in Peter’s chest, because this is the closest he’s ever got. Maybe Gamora was right.

He sends Michelle a text that night, asking if they could maybe meet up again. She doesn’t reply. Maybe she never will, because that happens. But he’s not waiting too long. It’s not what he ordered.

They have an evening off a couple of weeks later because it’s Nat’s birthday. Apparently it’s tradition that whenever her or Clint turn a year older they fuck potential profit for a day and spend the night drinking whatever they can get their hands on. Instead, Peter’s invited to a small party that is hosted at Clint’s apartment across town—he’s still dragged to the bar a couple of hours before, however, to roll kegs of beer and various bottles of multi-colored spirits from the storeroom to Clint’s car for the occasion. He vanishes back home to shower and change before returning, May hastily shoving a bottle of wine into his hands as a gift as he leaves. He’s pretty sure he’s never seen Nat drink white at all, but hey. He’s only little. He doesn’t know much about liquor.

Clint buzzes him in and he follows the drum beat in the corridor to his top-floor apartment; the door is open so he just walks in, but is surprised when he sees nobody about. The speaker is blasting music into an empty room and if it wasn’t for Wanda entering the kitchen, he’d assume he’d come to the wrong house.

“Peter!” she says excitedly, squeezing him into a tight hug. Her dark hair is loose across her shoulders and she’s wearing a burgundy dress that floats above her knees. He can’t help but smile at her. “So glad you could make it!”

He leans out of the embrace, putting the wine on the counter. Glasses are spread out without any clear design, interspersed with opened bottles of various drinks. As far as he can see, there’s no non-alcoholic alternatives—May would probably freak out. “Where is everybody?”

“Did Clint not tell you? We’re on the roof. I’m just off to the bathroom but if you go through the door off the kitchen and up the fire escape you won’t miss it.”

She bounds away so he slowly makes his way up as per Wanda’s instructions. As soon as he opens the door he can hear chatter and laughter, and upon reaching the top he finds an area covered in strings of white fairy lights and odd chairs from jarring furniture sets. A bar runs along the edge near the wall where Clint is mixing drinks, rows of glasses filled with a very generous amount of vodka and garnished with olives. There are people he recognises—Steve and Natasha are tucked into a loveseat, finally comfortable with the eyes on them, with Thor perched on the edge—but mostly people he doesn’t. A man with white hair sits comfortably with a brunette woman, while two unknown men stand deep in conversation off to the side. Nobody notices him straightaway and he feels little odd, the youngest there, but Clint dramatically fist-pumps the air.

“Parker!” he exclaims, walking over and clapping him ferociously on the shoulder. He wonders just how long the drinking has been going before he arrived as he tries not to cough up his lungs. “No extra-curriculars tonight? Lacrosse, maybe?”

“Leave him alone, Clint!” Natasha says, to Peter’s surprise, but then— “He’s way too little for lacrosse. I think he’s more of a mathlete.”

“Who’s kid brother is this, then?” One of the men he clocked earlier calls out before heading over, “Could be Rogers, I suppose. You both have that needy white boy look about you.”

Peter sighs, stretching out his arms. “Should we just get all the insults out the way now? Then we can move on with our lives.”

Needless to say, the insults don’t decrease with time—if anything they continue to spike as more vodka is consumed and less fucks are given, which are outstandingly little to begin with. Sam—a friend of Steve’s from his touring days—is by far the most scathing, not letting him rest for a second. Peter kind of likes it, though. It’s the way a lot of them show affection for each other, brutally kicking the shit at every opportunity. Steve’s other friend is Bucky, someone from childhood, and the white-haired guy is Wanda’s brother Pietro who left Endgame for music management somewhere. Maria and Phil work in legal and know Clint and Nat from wherever they were before Endgame. A good-natured yet authoritative man called Rhodey turns up later, who Peter recognises from Tony’s offices but has never actually met. Maybe Tony and Pepper will turn up at some point. Maybe they won’t.

Clint offers him one of Nat’s Special Birthday Martinis. He’s on the edge of turning it down, but everybody is laughing and he kind of feels part of this, so why not. The taste is bitter and awful and Clint laughs at him for a very long time, until his eyes water and he has to go and sit down. He talks to Wanda and Pietro, about their life in Sokovia before civil war ripped it to pieces, and Steve mentions how he took Nat out for Chinese food and champagne.

Steve brings in Natasha’s cake and Nat flushes—just a little—as she sees the candles flicker in the relative darkness, like Steve is holding a fire in his hands. Her eyes flutter closed as she blows out the candles and Peter muses on what she wished for, or if she wished at all. The alcohol makes his stomach feel warm, and the people make him feel warm, and he thinks this little party in this pocket of New York City may be one of the happiest moments of his life.

As the hours lull into the coolness of the morning, guests in various states of drunkenness either leave or continue on into Clint’s apartment. Peter takes a minute to steady himself, his heady heart and clouded head. He clings onto the metal railings until his knuckles turn white, staring out over the city. His city. He can’t go to college because he can’t leave here, all the lights and the heat and the music. New York is him and he is New York. This is something that cannot be ever taken away from him.

He hears footsteps and instead of you know, staying, like a normal person, Peter’s instinct is to duck behind the bar. He’s not ready for anyone to see him yet. He just wants a couple more moments alone with the world—plus he feels a little drunk, and being drunk is the best right here.

The footsteps come to a halt barely feet away from him. He’s not trying to listen as this is weird enough as it is, but it’s difficult not to. It’s Steve and Natasha.

“Another year, another one of Clint’s illegal martinis.” Steve’s voice. “Or two. Or several.”

Nat laughs lightly. “I’m going to go with several. I better not be holding your hair back while you puke tonight, boy. It’s my birthday.”

“Well—technically it stopped being your birthday a few hours ago, Nat, but I’ll let it slide because I love you.”

“You love me, huh? That’s certainly a new development.”

“Nah, it isn’t. Loved you the moment I saw you.”

“You fall in love with everybody.”

“Not in the way I love you. God, Nat. Do you actually realise what you do to me? Every time I look at you—you rip all the air out of my lungs.”

“That sounds pretty painful.”

“Oh, yeah. It’s agony. But it’s worth every second because…because you’re you. After everything. You’re you.”

There’s a few seconds of quiet. Peter wishes he’d just gone because as much as he wanted to know about them, to feel closer to them, this isn’t…this isn’t it. This is too private. Maybe if he edges along, he could sneak…

“Marry me.” Steve’s voice hangs in the night, like one of his songs. Poignant. “Marry me, Natasha.”

Nat is quieter than Peter’s ever heard it. It’s quiet, and it cracks in the middle. “Is that Clint’s martinis talking?”

“No. No. This is me talking. Marry me. You know—you know I’d be happy, forever, with what we have now. But I want to. I really, really want to.”

“Steve…” her voice is barely a whisper. Peter’s hand balls into fists. He’s here and yeah, he shouldn’t be, but he’s goddamn invested at this point. “I’ve been told that I can be pretty hard to deal with, sometimes. I’m reluctant to inflict that on somebody forever.”

“For you to inflict your inconstant, confusing, ridiculous self on me forever would be a privilege, Romanoff.”

“You really do have an answer for anything, don’t you? Insufferable asshole.”

“I’m your insufferable asshole.”

“Oh, shut the fuck up.”

At that moment Peter’s leg just…involuntarily spasms. His foot collides with a nearby chair and it shifts across the concrete loudly, his cover completely blown. Shit. There’s no hiding now, so he peeks round the edge of the bar, finding Steve and Natasha stood with their arms around each other.

“Hello,” Peter says sheepishly, pointing towards the door, “I was just—“

“Parker, you’re not going anywhere.” Nat grabs him by his shirt and pulls him up, but there’s no malice on her face. Instead of violently throwing him off the top of this very high building for perving on their proposal, she drops him on one of the sofas. Steve hands him a nearby martini, amused by the whole situation if anything.

“You’re sitting there, and I’m telling you everything you want to know.”

#marvel cinematic universe #mcu #avengers #captain america #black widow #steve rogers #natasha romanoff #natasha romanov #stevenat #steve x natasha #peter parker #mcu fic #fanfic #romanogers fic

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jessiewre · 4 years

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Day 57

Sun 1st Mar

KILIMANJARO 5KM FUN RUN DAY (& half marathon apparently) 🏔🏄🏻‍♀️🥇🏃🏻‍♂️

Despite Phil’s clear natural ability to run extremely well, he gets himself all worked up when he has a race on, so he woke up that day feeling a bit anxious. He did about 8 nervous poos before we even left the hotel.

I was still not convinced about wearing running leggings in the heat and while Phil was in the loo, I looked around his bag for alternatives. Phil’s bag is a treasure trove of comfortable items and I needed something comfortable - shorts ideally - but not too short shorts. And then Walaaa! I found some. Perfect. I put them on and they were SO comfortable and airy. There was just one problem...which Phil spotted straight away.

Phil walked back into the room and looked at me with wide eyes, shaking his head

‘Jess, no, no no no you cannot wear those. You look...ridiculous’.

Ok so maybe Phil’s surfer board shorts weren’t the normal choice for running but they ticked so many boxes!

‘But they are comfy!’ I said, knowing full well that he was right.

I did look a little...casual and surfer-like.

He then said the ultimate supportive thing (even though he didn’t mean a word of it) and told me that If I wanted to wear them, then screw it, whatever would make me most comfortable. And I have to say I appreciated him saying it.

But I had a moments clarity and changed into the running leggings, crossing my fingers I wouldn’t regret it. Phil breathed a sigh of relief that I would not be embarrassing him in front of all his running pals.

Phil managed to stomach a banana and we left in the dark to flag down a tuc tuc. Annoyingly, 3 people had just left the hotel and were trying to flag one down in front of us, but they weirdly walked a few metres up the road. So we ended up flagging a tuc tuc down before them. As we went to drive past them, I told the driver to stop and asked them if they wanted to jump in, cos I’m a dead nice person an that.

I did have to sit on Phil’s lap which I don’t think his legs were very grateful for considering the task that lay ahead of them, but I personally thought it worked out fantastically for us as our guests insisted on paying, saving us a whole £1. THINGS WERE LOOKING UP, THIS WAS GOING TO BE A GREAT DAY AFTER ALL.

There were thousands of people around (none in board shorts weirdly and lots in running leggings) and we went into the stadium to watch the beginning of the marathon. The view directly behind it was an EPIC clear view of Kilimanjaro mountain. Amazing!

There was a great buzzy atmosphere and we watched as Olympian standard runners stood in position ready to go at the front of the pack. Then BOOM, off they went, all 800 of them! As soon as they did though, the panic set in with Phil. We rushed off to find his starting position for the Half marathon, as awkwardly, it was starting in a completely different place outside the stadium. We did a cringe speed-walk up to the start point where THOUSANDS of people were piling in to do the half marathon (WAY more popular than the full marathon - I guess people are just lazy huh). Phil made his way into the middle of the crowd, but I spotted a route to get closer to the front so shouted him over to give it a try. It worked, and he got closer to the front, but frustratingly I knew he would have been better even further forward as lets be honest, he’s normally faster than the majority of runners 💪🏽 😏

It was too late though and 7am arrived, Phil set off and that was it. GOOD LUCK PHIL I thought as I watched his butters red hat disappear into the crowd. But then I walked off to find the 5km starting point and thought Screw it, I need the luck now, he’ll be fine.

The 5km was full of all shapes, sizes, ages & genders. Some people had jeans on (still no board shorts though), there were LOADS of children and it was all very lighthearted with tons of people doing a lot of walking. A real mixed bag that goes to show that taking part is the most important thing. I was determined to run the whole way though and for the first 3km, I was feeling good! A few kids had started to run with me and we highfived as we went along, overtaking tons of people. But by 4km, they had run out of energy and sunk back as I stormed ahead (yep, I’m faster than 10 year olds, no biggie) and suddenly I could see the finish line! OMG I looked at my phone and realised I could achieve a sub 28 minute 5km here! Jeez I hadn’t run that fast in years! I picked up the pace a bit and felt so happy (that it would be over soon). I was BUZZIN. But as the finish line got closer, I started to notice that no one was stopping. What weirdos I thought. They were all continuing forward. Hang on a minute...oh shittttt I was approaching the START line, it was NOT the finish line. Urgh, my mood dipped and I was GUTTED. Taking part SUCKS, I thought and I trudged on feeling very tired. The next 5 minutes of uphills were not so fun and there were so many corners, every time revealing that the finish line was not there. But I FINALLY made it back into the stadium and finished the bloody thing, without walking at all (god I wanted to walk up those hills) and devoured the bottle of water they gave me. I looked at my phone. 34 minutes. Not 28 minutes lol but not bad. Considering I was at high altitude and there were so many hills, I was happy, and at least I did it like. Ok fine, it IS the taking part that counts. But no time to lose, it was nearly 8:30am and I needed to get into position to see Phil finish!

I wobbled my way over to the stands like a granny with piles (nb. Not all Granny’s have piles), and watched as half marathon runners trickled in. The weird thing was though that NO ONE was cheering or clapping. It was so quiet. Hundreds of people were watching on happily, smiling away, but there was zero whooping. So weird. I’ve not done loads of races but the ones I have done in England have been amazing, mainly due to the crowds of people cheering you on and offering support and encouragement. I felt kind of bad for the runners as reaching the end of the race with a quiet crowd staring at you looking like a bit of an anti-climax.

I found a spot by a sagging fence and was able to see the runners turn the corner onto the home straight. Every time anyone with red appeared, my heart skipped, but it wasn’t for another 15 minutes that I spotted Phils red vest powered towards the finish. Fortunately he was not wearing the hat but I saw that he hadn’t lost it, it was just strapped to his vest. Damn He was going super fast but I managed to film him as he finished with pure pain and relief on his face.

He got his medal and water and I ran round to congratulate him, but mainly for him to congratulate me of course.

He said the race had been super hard, with 10km of UPHILL to start off (HOW GROSS IS THAT) followed by some super steep downhills. But he said the views were incredible and that it was an amazing experience. He was glad he’d done it and he was glad it was over. I told him, its the taking part that counts babe.

We shared some cashew nuts and had a few beers in the shade then realised it was not even 9am 😂.

We went across to the unofficial ‘warm down’ that some bloke had decided to host and had a bit of a laugh doing that. But it was quickly getting much hotter and I still had my leggings on of course, so we jumped into a tuc tuc back to the hotel for showers and a refresh. We were back by 10:30am, madness to think about what we’d already done that day. And the fact that we’d basically had nuts and beers for breakfast.

We ate the leftover pizza slices from the night before and had a chill out for our aching bodies. Well, I was pretty knackered from the run, but on the other hand, Phil seemed rather spritely. Hunger kicked in and chirpy Phil offered to go and collect a takeaway for us! Well it was funny he said that, cos I was just about to offer myself, but hey, he got in there first. Good for him, and even better for me.

Phil rocked up 45 minutes later with a bag of curry - dahl makhani, veg biryani & garlic naan - and we sat on the floor having our romantic curry picnic like it was a midnight feast. An awesome way to celebrate my running achievement & also Phil’s half race.

After more rest, we went out to find a sports bar to catch some football, but Pepper’s bar was soooo dry with no vibe (or WiFi, can you bloody believe it) . We figured there must be a marathon party, so followed our hostels advice and ended up at the HUGE beer garden of Hugo’s. It was rammed with people who had obviously been drinking all afternoon (or perhaps since before 9am??) and they were having a great time. There were empty bottles everywhere as the staff couldn’t keep up with the drinking speed, with a DJ on a stage and TV screens showing football. In the middle of peoples seats, mini dance floors were popping up as peoples favourite tunes came on. We grabbed some beers from a lady who insisted on serving us like table service despite everyone else using the bar, and we found a box to sit on and watch the crowds & Man Utd game at the same time.

We drank beers for a few hours, chatting to people and having a laugh with others who were dancing. It was really fun. But Phil suddenly dipped and said he was too tired to stay out any longer. It had been an early start I suppose.

So we hopped into a tuc tuc and tipsily headed off back to the hostel for showers and bed, popping into a shop on arrival for some dinner-substitute snacks (Phil had discovered a certain crisp that tasted a lot like Wotsits apparently).

It was only when we got back to the (very hot) room and got ready for bed that I realised it was only 7:30pm...

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rudemaidenswrite · 5 years

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Cash Prize

Michael Myers x Reader

Part 1 by: @pusantheamazonian

You’re desperate for money. So you seek out the Shape of Haddonfield, hoping to strike a deal with him. Since there’s a contest you want to enter that’s happening at his house with a cash prize.

It is 5:30am and it's cold. You've been standing on the sidewalk in front of the old Myers house for the past half hour debating if you really should seek out his help. Double checking the time it's now or never, your shift starts in an hour.

Pulling your jacket closer you quickly walk to the door. Knocking on it there's no response. Internally cussing at yourself, you cautiously walk inside.

“Hello? Michael Myers? ….Mr. Myers I wanted to talk to you about something.” You slowly creep down the hallway, your voice threatening to give out.

The eerie silence changes your mind about this plan. Backing up you run into something. You know there wasn't anything in the hall behind you. This feels like a warm body and that can only mean it's him. Taking a ragged breath you quietly turn around to face him. Wide eyed your face to face with the Shape of Haddonfield. You don't know how long you were staring up at him until the raising of his knife shakes you back to reality.

“Wait wait! I came to talk!” Taking a step back you throw your hands up in surrender. He halts his movement, keeping his knife poised in the air. “I was wanting to make a deal with you. Next Friday night the Horror Lover's club is holding a contest.” Word vomiting he gives a head tilt which you translate as hurry the fuck up. “The contest is to see who can stay in the Myers house the longest. The winner gets a thousand dollars in cash.” Carefully you pull the fyler from your pocket and hand it to him. He snatches it, holding it close. “I was thinking you could go stabby mcstab stab stab them and I will win the contest. Except don't kill the host, well not until he hands over the money.” You feel the black eye sockets turn on you. “I really need the money. I'm willing to go 50-50, hell even go 70-30 with you. I just have to make it to 7am that Saturday morning.” You feel his attention return to the fyler and there's a long silence before he lowers the knife. “Well… they're supposed to have someone dressed up as you scaring the participants. That's why I thought we could do a deal… but if not... this is a heads up then.” You swear he can hear your heart pounding out of your chest.

It's another long silence of him staring at you before either one of you move. Ever so gracefully he tucks the fyler in his coveralls and walks upstairs. Leaving you alone, trembling in the dark.

Once you realize he's not coming back you dart out the door like a bat out of hell. Scared shitless you run all the way to work. You run all the way across town to work and you don’t run. Just barely getting there before your shift starts.

Your annoying presence stayed in his mind. Unable to shake the surprise that you willing searched him out. He stalks your every move, watching from a distance as you go back and forth to work and home. You live alone in an apartment complex on the top floor. The fire escape leads right to your living room window. Inside he learns everything he needs to know.

Your apartment isn't very decorated like the others he has visited. The fridge is covered with late notices about bills with a sticky note attached. Reminding you what order to pay them in. Your work schedule is also on the fridge. Apparently you've been pulling double shifts at work trying to scrounge up the extra money. You must truly be desperate since you risked your life to find him.

Today's the day. You'll see if he agreed to your deal in a few hours. Until then you change some comfy clothes, hell if you’re gonna die you might as well be comfy. Reheating some leftovers you plop down on the couch to watch The Aristocats on VHS for the umpteenth time.

Arriving at the Myers house it doesn't seem like anyone is here. But hearing some voices you wander around to the backyard.

“Hey! You here for the contest?” A goth dressed dude asks as you approach.

“Yes.”

“Sign up at the table.” He points to the shabby card table with a sign taped to it.

“Okay.”

Waiting in the sign up line you take note of other people. There seems to be only ten other people in the contest. You can make this work.

“Hey.” A voice comes from behind you.

“Uh hi.” You turn to face the voice.

“I haven’t seen you before. First time to one of these events?” The way he smiles creeps you out.

“Yeah, I saw a flyer for it and thought that it would be fun.”

“Name’s Tony. I go to all their events.”

“Y/N.”

Thankfully you reach the front of the line so you don’t have to continue talking to him. Standing in the back you stare at the windows, hoping for any sign of Michael. Loud yammering catches your attention as what you guess is the ring leader taking center stage on the back porch.

“Alright people! Thank you for coming to our contest! I have some ground rules before we begin. 1. You must sign the liability waiver. So if you are injured or killed, you and your family cannot sue. 2. You are not allowed to bring anything in to help pass the time. 3. No cellphones, all phones must be turned in at the door. You will receive them back at the end. 4. Once you leave the house either front or back door you are disqualified.” There’s a group groan at the cellphone rule. “Now if every would do so we can begin!”

One by one everyone walks up the steps, depositing their phones in the basket. You turn yours off before tossing it in. Shuffling inside towards the hallway you eye the stairs. You don’t believe the whole safety in numbers mentality right now. You’re better off alone since you already warned him. Minding your own business you walk into a room upstairs to basically hide. You wonder whose bedroom this is but you have the gut feeling it's Michael's. Since the bed looks sort of new compared to the rest of the house. You sit quietly on the bed and open the book you smuggled in.

“Hey hey. That's cheating.”

Looking up it's the creeper Tony from before. You really should have shut the door behind you.

“I'm just reading. It's not cheating.” You go back to the book hoping he will just go away.

“No I'm pretty sure that's cheating. They said not to bring anything to help pass the time.”

“Well excuse me for trying to catch up on my reading. I just don't think it's right to be snooping around a house that isn't yours.”

“Well how about we do something else to pass the time?” There’s a hint of naughtiness in his voice.

“Not interested.”

“Come on, I won't tell anyone about your book.” He shuts the door.

“You can-” Angrily snapping at him you freeze. Eyes glued to the shape in the corner. Michael Myers is home. He silently creeps up behind the man. Snapping his neck in one solid motion. Watching the body fall to the floor with a muffled thud you quickly look back at him.

You feel like you've been staring forever in the silence before he moves. The single movement of his arm has you jumping backwards, he brings a finger to the plastic lips of his mask. You nod in agreement to be quiet. Stunned you watch the shape throw the lifeless body over his shoulder and pat you on the head before exiting the room, closing the door with him.

Following orders you do not move from your spot on the bed and silent as possible. It’s hard to focus on your book with the knowledge that Michael Myers has agreed to your deal. The deal for him to go stabby mcstab stab stab on the other people. You swear you heard some screams too. But you think of it as he’s defending his home from intruders and your his guest that he doesn’t want to get hurt. After what seems forever it has become pitch black outside. Your only light is the moon and the outside lights from the neighbors. Putting your book up it’s not enough to keep reading.

There’s a loud scream followed by loud thuds as if someone is running.

“AAAHHH!!!” A girl runs in screaming.

“AAAHHH!!!” Screaming back at her you shuffle further into the bed. She’s bleeding from her arm with other blood stains on her clothes. You recognize her from earlier, she entered the house with you.

“You have to help me! Please!” She moves closer.

Shaking your head no you bring a pillow to your face. Michael told you to be quiet and quiet you will be. You don’t wanna end up like them.

“Please!-” Her plea is cut short with an unnatural crunch and squish. You count to a hundred to ease your nerves before lowering the pillow. Looking up you jump again. He’s standing at the end of the bed, the dude must be a ninja. There's blood covering a good portion of his coveralls and you have to hold back a gag.

“Oh hi... you’re super stealthy.” Not moving you stare at the black eye holes. Your attention is drawn away when he throws an envelope and your phone down. Confused you set the pillow aside and reach for the envelope. Opening it you almost dropping it, it's the cash prize.

“You..got money?” There's a slow head tilt as if he's monitoring your reactions. Petrified you take a deep breath before removing $300. You know he went and killed that dude, bringing the money back to you. Holding the envelope out you wait for him to take it. But he never does. “Here.” You jab the envelope at him again. He storms out the room. “Hey! Wait a minute. This is your part of the money!” Like an idiot you chase him down the stairs into the kitchen. “Don't you run off.”

Your voice dies down when you enter the kitchen, there’s blood dripping down the wall. With a body being held up with a knife. Abandoning ship with your mouth covered so you don’t gag. Blood was never your thing. Suddenly you’re thrown backwards to the floor.

“Ow!”

His hand placed firmly on your throat, not squeezing but with enough pressure that you are not going to be moving. With wide eyes you freeze, looking up at him. Like before he doesn't do anything but watch. Waiting to see what reason he should kill you or entertainment value you might have.

That's it, he's a people watcher. It's the best way to see how a person will react and then you can guess their movements. “You like to people watch huh.”

He doesn't move or say anything. You probably just made the situation worse. On que he removes his hand as if he heard your thoughts. He keeps close in case you show a reason to die. “...Thank you for your help...It’s been rough these past few months.” A gut feeling tells you he's not going to take the money. Maybe there's a different way you can repay him.

“Do you need me to dispose of anything on my way out?” With a head tilt you can feel him studding you. “I-I figured I could help. To make sure that they can't pinpoint that were last seen here. Let it be my way of helping you since you helped me.” After a long pause he backs away, allowing you to stand up. Rubbing your neck you watch him rustle with something on the counter. He abruptly hands you the basket of phones alongside the sign up sheet and waivers. “Okay I'll get rid of this..um well thank you again and… I'll see you later?” Not knowing what to say you ramble on as you inch towards the door. The invitation to see you again stuns him. You are a strange creature willing to see him again.

“Okie dokie… night then.” Since he showed no signs of stopping you. You took that as your cue to leave. You briskly walk through the backyard to the alley. Not daring to look back. To look back at the bloodbath you caused and the new acquaintance you have.

#slasher fanfiction #slasher #Michael Myers #michael myers x reader #reader insert #reader is squimish #contest #cash prize #desperate #the shape #lets make a deal

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arganesh3 · 5 years

Text

A Real Risk to Living Beings: Electromagnetic Fields (EMF)

You may not realize it, but you are participating in an unauthorized experiment—“the largest biological experiment ever,” in the words of Swedish neuro-oncologist Leif Salford. For the first time, many of us are holding high-powered microwave transmitters in the form of cell phones – directly against our heads on a daily basis.

Cell phones generate electromagnetic fields (EMF), and emit electromagnetic radiation (EMR). They share this feature with all modern electronics that run on alternating current (AC) power (from the power grid and the outlets in your walls) or that utilize wireless communication. Different devices radiate different levels of EMF, with different characteristics.

What health effects do these exposures have? There in lies the experiment.

The many potential negative health effects from EMF exposure (including many cancers and Alzheimer’s disease) can take decades to develop. So we won’t know the results of this experiment for many years—possibly decades. But by then, it may be too late for billions of people.

Today, while we wait for the results, a debate rages about the potential dangers of EMF. The science of EMF, discussed in the next chapter, is not easily taught, and as a result, the debate over the health effects of EMF exposure can get quite complicated. To put it simply, the debate has two sides. On the one hand, there are those who urge the adoption of a precautionary approach to the public risk as we continue to investigate the health effects of EMF exposure. This group includes many scientists, myself included, who see many danger signs that call out strongly for precaution. On the other side are those who feel that we should wait for definitive proof of harm before taking any action. The most vocal of this group include representatives of industries who undoubtedly perceive threats to their profits and would prefer that we continue buying and using more and more connected electronic devices.

This industry effort has been phenomenally successful, with widespread adoption of many EMF-generating technologies throughout the world. But EMF has many other sources as well. Most notably, the entire power grid is an EMF-generation network that reaches almost every individual in America and 75% of the global population. Today, early in the 21st century, we find ourselves fully immersed in a soup of electromagnetic radiation on a nearly continuous basis.

What we know

The science to date about the bioeffects (biological and health outcomes) resulting from exposure to EM radiation is still in its early stages. We cannot yet predict that a specific type of EMF exposure (such as 20 minutes of cell phone use each day for 10 years) will lead to a specific health outcome (such as cancer). Nor are scientists able to define what constitutes a “safe” level of EMF exposure.

However, while science has not yet answered all of our questions, it has determined one fact very clearly—all electromagnetic radiation impacts living beings. Science demonstrates a wide range of bio-effects linked to EMF exposure. For instance, numerous studies have found that EMF damages and causes mutations in DNA – the genetic material that defines us as individuals and collectively as a species. Mutations in DNA are believed to be the initiating steps in the development of cancers, and it is the association of cancers with exposure to EMF that has led to calls for revising safety standards. This type of DNA damage is seen at levels of EMF exposure equivalent to those resulting from typical cell phone use.

The damage to DNA caused by EMF exposure is believed to be one of the mechanisms by which EMF exposure leads to negative health effects. Multiple separate studies indicate significantly increased risk (up to two and three times normal risk) of developing certain types of brain tumors following EMF exposure from cell phones over a period of many years. One review that averaged the data across 16 studies found that the risk of developing a tumor on the same side of the head as the cell phone is used is elevated 240% for those who regularly use cell phones for 10 years or more. An Israeli study found that people who use cell phones at least 22 hours a month are 50% more likely to develop cancers of the salivary gland (and there has been a four-fold increase in the incidence of these types of tumors in Israel between 1970 and 2006). And individuals who lived within 400 meters of a cell phone transmission tower for 10 years or more were found to have a rate of cancer three times higher than those living at a greater distance. Indeed, the World Health Organization (WHO) designated EMF – including power frequencies and radio frequencies—as a possible cause of cancer.

While cancer is one of the primary classes of negative health effects studied by researchers, EMF exposure has been shown to increase risk for many other types of negative health outcomes. In fact, levels of EMF thousands of times lower than current safety standards have been shown to significantly increase risk for neuro degenerative diseases (such as Alzheimer’s and Lou Gehrig’s disease) and male infertility associated with damaged sperm cells. In one study, those who lived within 50 meters of a high voltage power line were significantly more likely to develop Alzheimer’s disease when compared to those living 600 meters or more away. The increased risk was 24% after one year, 50% after 5 years, and 100% after 10 years. Other research demonstrates that using a cell phone between two and four hours a day leads to 40% lower sperm counts than found in men who do not use cell phones, and the surviving sperm cells demonstrate lower levels of motility and viability.

EMF exposure (as with many environmental pollutants) not only affects people, but all of nature. In fact, negative effects have been demonstrated across a wide variety of plant and animal life. EMF, even at very low levels, can interrupt the ability of birds and bees to navigate. Numerous studies link this effect with the phenomena of avian tower fatalities (in which birds die from collisions with power line and communications towers). These same navigational effects have been linked to colony collapse disorder (CCD), which is devastating the global population of honey bees (in one study, placement of a single active cell phone in front of a hive led to the rapid and complete demise of the entire colony). And a mystery illness affecting trees around Europe has been linked to WiFi radiation in the environment.

There is a lot of science—high-quality, peer-reviewed science—demonstrating these and other very troubling outcomes from exposure to electromagnetic radiation. These effects are seen at levels of EMF that, according to regulatory agencies like the Federal Communications Commission (FCC), which regulates cell phone EMF emissions in the United States, are completely safe.

An unlikely activist

I have worked at Columbia University since the 1960s, but I was not always focused on electromagnetic fields. My PhDs in physical chemistry from Columbia University and colloid science from the University of Cambridge provided me with a strong, interdisciplinary academic background in biology, chemistry, and physics. Much of my early career was spent investigating the properties of surfaces and very thin films, such as those found in a soap bubble, which then led me to explore the biological membranes that encase living cells.

I also performed research exploring how electrical forces interact with the proteins and other components found in nerve and muscle membranes. In 1987, I was studying the effects of electric fields on membranes when I read a paper by Dr. Reba Goodman demonstrating some unusual effects of EMF on living cells. She had found that even relatively weak power fields from common sources (such as those found near power lines and electrical appliances) could alter the ability of living cells to make proteins. I had long understood the importance of electrical forces on the function of cells, but this paper indicated that magnetic forces (which are, as I will explain in the next chapter, a key aspect of electromagnetic fields) also had significant impact on living cells.

Like most of my colleagues, I did not think this was possible. By way of background, there are some types of EMF that everyone had long acknowledged are harmful to humans. For example, X-rays and ultraviolet radiation are both recognized carcinogens. But these are ionizing forms of radiation. Dr. Goodman, however, had shown that even non-ionizing radiation, which has much less energy than X-rays, was affecting a very basic property of cells—the ability to stimulate protein synthesis.

Because non-ionizing forms of EMF have so much less energy than ionizing radiation, it had long been believed that non-ionizing electromagnetic fields were harmless to humans and other biological systems. And while it was acknowledged that a high enough exposure to non-ionizing EMF could cause a rise in body temperature—and that this temperature increase could cause cell damage and lead to health problems—it was thought that low levels of non-ionizing EMF that did not cause this rise in temperature were benign.

In over 20 years of experience at some of the world’s top academic institutions, this is what I’d been taught and this is what I’d been teaching. In fact, my department at Columbia University (like every other comparable department at other universities around the world) taught an entire course in human physiology without even mentioning magnetic fields, except when they were used diagnostically to detect the effects of the electric currents in the heart or brain. Sure magnets and magnetic fields can affect pieces of metal and other magnets, but magnetic fields were assumed to be inert, or essentially powerless, when it came to human physiology.

As you can imagine, I found the research in Dr. Goodman’s paper intriguing. When it turned out that she was a colleague of mine at Columbia. When it turned out that she was a colleague of mine at Columbia, with an office just around the block, I decided to follow up with her, face-to-face. It didn’t take me long to realize that her data and arguments were very convincing. So convincing, in fact, that I not only changed my opinion on the potential health effects of magnetism, but I also began a long collaboration with her that has been highly productive and personally rewarding.

During our years of research collaboration, Dr. Goodman and I published many of our results in respected scientific journals. Our research was focused on the cellular level—how EMF permeate the surfaces of cells and affect cells and DNA—and we demonstrated several observable, repeatable health effects from EMF on living cells. As with all findings published in such journals, our data and conclusions were peer reviewed. In other words, our findings were reviewed prior to publication to ensure that our techniques and conclusions, which were based on our measurements, were appropriate. Our results were subsequently confirmed by other scientists, working in other laboratories around the world, independent from our own.

A change in tone

Over the roughly 25 years Dr. Goodman and I have been studying the EMF issue, our work has been referenced by numerous scientists, activists, and experts in support of public health initiatives including the BioInitiative Report (discussed in chapter 11), which was cited by the European Parliament when it called for stronger EMF regulations. Of course, our work was criticized in some circles, as well. This was to be expected, and we welcomed it—discussion and criticism is how science advances. But in the late 1990s, the criticism assumed a different character, both angrier and more derisive than past critiques.

On one occasion, I presented our findings at a US Department of Energy annual review of research on EMF. As soon as I finished my talk, a well-known Ivy League professor said (without any substantiation) that the data I presented were “impossible.” He was followed by another respected academic, who stated (again without any substantiation) that I had most likely made some “dreadful error.” Not only were these men wrong, but they delivered their comments with an intense and obvious hostility.

I later discovered that both men were paid consultants of the power industry – one of the largest generators of EMF. To me, this explained the source of their strong and unsubstantiated assertions about our research. I was witnessing firsthand the impact of private, profit-driven industrial efforts to confuse and obfuscate the science of EMF bio-effects.

Not the first time

I knew that this was not the first time industry opposed scientific research that threatened their business models. I’d seen it before many times with tobacco, asbestos, pesticides, hydraulic fracturing (or “fracking”), and other industries that paid scientists to generate “science” that would support their claims of product safety.

That, of course, is not the course of sound science. Science involves generating and testing hypotheses. One draws conclusions from the available, observable evidence that results from rigorous and reproducible experimentation. Science is not sculpting evidence to support your existing beliefs. That’s propaganda. As Dr. Henry Lai (who, along with Dr. Narendra Singh, performed the groundbreaking research demonstrating DNA damage from EMF exposure) explains, “a lot of the studies that are done right now are done purely as PR tools for the industry.”

An irreversible trend

Of course EMF exposure including radiation from smart phones, the power lines that you use to recharge them, and the other wide variety of EMF-generating technologies is not equivalent to cigarette smoking. Exposure to carcinogens and other harmful forces from tobacco results from the purely voluntary, recreational activity of smoking. If tobacco disappeared from the world tomorrow, a lot of people would be very annoyed, tobacco farmers would have to plant other crops, and a few firms might go out of business, but there would be no additional impact.

In stark contrast, modern technology (the source of the human-made electromagnetic fields) has fueled a remarkable degree of innovation, productivity, and improvement in the quality of life. If tomorrow the power grid went down, all cell phone networks would cease operation, millions of computers around the world wouldn’t turn on, and the night would be illuminated only by candlelight and the moon we’d have a lot less EMF exposure, but at the cost of the complete collapse of modern society.

EMF isn’t just a by-product of modern society. EMF, and our ability to harness it for technological purposes, is the cornerstone of modern society. Sanitation, food production and storage, health care these are just some of the essential social systems that rely on power and wireless communication. We have evolved a society that is fundamentally reliant upon a set of technologies that generate forms and levels of electromagnetic radiation not seen on this planet prior to the 19th century.

As a result of the central role these devices play in modern life, individuals are understandably predisposed to resist information that may challenge the safety of activities that result in EMF exposures. People simply cannot bear the thought of restricting their time with—much less giving up these beloved gadgets. This gives industry a huge advantage because there is a large segment of the public that would rather not know.

Precaution

My message is not to abandon gadgets like most people, I too love and utilize EMF-generating gadgets. Instead, I want you to realize that EMF poses a real risk to living creatures and that industrial and product safety standards must and can be reconsidered. The solutions I suggest are not prohibitive. I recommend that as individuals we adopt the notion of “prudent avoidance,” minimizing our personal EMF exposure and maximizing the distance between us and EMF sources when those devices are in use. Just as you use a car with seat belts and air bags to increase the safety of the inherently dangerous activity of driving your car at a relatively high speed, you should consider similar risk-mitigating techniques for your personal EMF exposure.

On a broader social level, adoption of the Precautionary Principle in establishing new, biologically based safety standards for EMF exposure for the general public would be, I believe, the best approach. Just as the United States became the first nation in the world to regulate the production of chlorofluorocarbons (CFCs) when science indicated the threat to earth’s ozone layer long before there was definitive proof of such a link our governments should respond to the significant public health threat of EMF exposure. If EMF levels were regulated just as automobile carbon emissions are regulated, this would force manufacturers to design, create, and sell devices that generate much lower levels of EMF.

No one wants to return to the dark ages, but there are smarter and safer ways to approach our relationship as individuals and across society with the technology that exposes us to electromagnetic radiation.

– By Martin Blank, PhD

Source: https://www.sevenstories.com/blogs/131-a-real-risk-to-living-creatures-electromagnetic-fields-and-their-dangers

#thoughts #health #inspiration #emf #radiation #cell phone #electric #magnetic #rf

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justheretobreakthings · 6 years

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Hey! I really love your fics! Can you please do a starving/dehydrated fic where Keith and any combination of the other paladins (1 or 2 others I think) get trapped on a forested planet that has some crazy ozone that prevents signals from coming through. Keith sacrifices his limited rations for the others without their knowledge and when they finally get rescued he faints from hunger/exhaustion and it takes him a while to recover. They are like 'how dare you we were so worried'. Lots of emotion?

Apologies for taking approximately five thousand years to finally get around to writing this. But, hey, better late than never, right? I’ve had this request sitting in my inbox for ages and have dipped into it a bit here and there, waiting for the motivation to finally get it written out in full, and that motivation came when I saw that this worked perfectly for one of my Voltron Bingo prompts. So, hope you enjoy!

Within Walking DistanceCentral Characters: Keith, PidgeGenres: Friendship, Whump, Fluff & AngstWord Count: 10,063Written for the “Hunger�� space for the @voltronbingo Hurt/Comfort cardRead on AO3

“I can’t believe it,” Pidge muttered to herself as shewalked alongside the Green Lion, grounded atop the crushed remains of the densegrove of trees where it had crashed, dark and lifeless as if its battery hadsimply been ripped out. “I cannot fucking believe it. ‘Ooh, Voltron, we’ve gotsuper special magical ores that you can use in weapons-building, why don’t youcome down here and get them!’ But do they bother mentioning that electricitystops working near enough to the surface? No, of course not, that would justmake things too easy on us!”

“Are we so sure that’s even what happened?” Keith asked. Hefelt awkward simply standing off to the side as Pidge did all the work ofassessing the damage on Green, but there wasn’t exactly much he could do to help;his knowledge of vehicles was fairly sizeable in regards to cars and bikes backon Earth, but giant magic robot lions were way beyond his pay grade. “Maybethere was something else that brought Green down, something that was wrong withher beforehand.”

“No, I’m sure of it. Spotted some weird readings starting topop up right before everything went kaput. It was picking up on something to dowith electromagnetic interaction in this atmosphere. Didn’t have time to gettoo close a look at the details before everything blacked out though. Besides,our suits are down too. Can’t be a coincidence.”

“Well, any chance of getting Green back up and running anytime soon?”

Pidge shook her head. “Not unless we can get her out of thisatmosphere, and that’s not exactly a viable option unless you wanna lift herwith our bare hands and toss her.”

Keith looked uncertainly toward the Green Lion. “So, what dowe do, wait for the others to finish their missions, notice we’re gone, andcome rescue us? Can’t exactly contact them with all our tech down.”

“Wouldn’t work either way,” Pidge said. “Allura and Shiroare gonna take another week or so on their mission, and we didn’t set atimeline for ours, so Hunk and Lance wouldn’t even know that there’s anythingwrong if we don’t contact them when they get back and tell them so. And if theydo catch on and stage a rescue, the moment they get low enough in theatmosphere, they’ll come crashing down too. Last thing we need is a dead lionpile-up out here.”

“All right then,” Keith said, crossing his arms as he cast afrustrated glance toward Green’s head, where the lights of her eyes wereexasperatingly dark. “What do you suggest instead?”

“Hm. We know that electricity and electrical signals aren’tblocked altogether; if they were, no missive from this planet would have beenable to reach Voltron in the first place.” Pidge paced back and forth in frontof Green as she thought out loud. “We managed to get fairly close to theplanet’s surface before Green went down, so maybe that’s it? Elevation? Sowherever they sent the missive must be kinda high up. If we could get to thepoint of origin of the signal we got from the castle ship, we should be able toget in contact with them again. Then I can let them know about the planet’satmosphere, and Hunk could get Yellow shielded against it, then come down toget us and Green. The question is, how do we get there?”

“How far is it to the signal’s point of origin?” Keithasked.

“Around eighty miles, I’d say? Give or take a few? A longway, basically.”

Keith sighed. “Then I guess we should start heading theresooner rather than later.” He made his way toward Green’s cockpit. “Youremergency supply stock is unlocked, right?”

“Hang on, you wanna leave? Now?”

“Well, yeah, as good a time as any.”

“But we haven’t decided how we’re going to travel.”

“On foot.”

“On foot?” Pidge repeated incredulously.

“Look, I’m not exactly looking forward to it either, but wedon’t have any other option. Our only other means of transportation is Green,and she’s down for the count. So, yeah. We’ll have to walk.”

Pidge bit her lip, turning to look toward the trees aroundthem, presumably in the direction the signal’s origin point would be. “I… guessI could navigate it. Looked into the topography and suns’ cycles on this planet,should be enough. But God, Keith, walking? Walking eighty miles?Uphill?! Are you trying to kill us?”

“Just the opposite,” Keith called from Green’s cockpit. Helocated the small storage space in the cockpit, the same location as it was inRed, and knelt down to open it and look through the supplies. There was arucksack full of first aid supplies and emergency blankets at the front, whichhe pulled out and set beside him before reaching for the canteens of water andpacks of dehydrated food.

The moment he started pulling these out, though, he realizedsomething was wrong. He tested the weight of the packs and canteens in hishands as he rooted through them, and they were too light, much too light. Overhalf of the containers seemed to be empty, and a portion of the remaining onespartially so.

What the hell? Where had the rations gone? Keith thoughtback, trying to think of when Pidge might have used them up. She had been onthat trash nebula planet for quite a while, the one where she’d picked up thoseodd little creatures that had made a home in her bedroom. Likely she had eatenthrough a portion of her rations then, maybe even shared some with her newpets. And there’d been a couple of missions where a day trip had turned intoovernight stays in the lions. But hadn’t she restocked after that?

No, probably not. When it came to anything involvingcomputers or technology, Pidge was absolutely meticulous, keeping everythingorganized perfectly and having a protocol in place for every possible situationthat could arise, able to write thousands and thousands of lines of codewithout so much as a single semicolon out of place. But as regards everythingelse – well, the state of her bedroom was a testament to her organizationalskills in matters that didn’t involve a screen lit up in front of her.

Keith shook his head as he pulled the packs and canteens outfrom their store, starting to move the food rations into a spare emptyrucksack. How could someone so smart still be so absent-minded?

He began redistributing the food and water, using thecontents of one half-empty canteen to fill another, then doing the same withthe next, trying to make the supplies take up as few containers as possible. Ittook him a minute to realize that Pidge was calling his name from outside.

“Hm?” Keith hummed, looking up.

“How’re we on food?”

Keith glanced down at the stock of food in his arms, tryingto rapidly do the calculations in his head. Between the two of them, if theywere conservative as possible with the supplies, they could make this stufflast a quintant and a half without starting to feel the negative effects oflacking food and water, maybe two quintants. That definitely wasn’t long enoughto go eighty miles.

Then again, that was only if they insisted on using thesupplies up at a regular rate. It wouldn’t be good for Pidge to try to cut downon food and water while they were out there, but Keith? He’d done withoutbefore. He’d had to be careful about conserving water back when he was livingin his shack out in the desert, and back during his foster care years, the moreneglectful homes and those more stringent with punishments had had him go a dayor two without food before. It had been a while, but if absolutely necessary,it was something he could probably manage to do again.

And judging by their current supply of rations, this lookedlike it might be one of those necessary times.

“Keith?” Pidge called again.

“Sorry,” Keith called back, gathering the rations and water,and remembering to grab up the bag of first aid supplies and blankets beforeleaving. He climbed out of Green and onto the ground, slinging the food andcanteens over his shoulder and tossing the rucksack of supplies to Pidge.“Yeah, we should be good to go. You know which way we’re going?”

“Got a pretty good idea,” Pidge replied with a nod.“Straight between those two suns for now, and we’re looking for a comms centerat a high elevation.”

“Fantastic,” Keith said. “Well, let’s get a move on.” Heturned and started marching off in the direction Pidge had indicated.

“Hang on,” Pidge said as she fell into step behind him. “Yousure that’s enough supplies for the full trip? It’s gotta be about a threedays’ walk.”

“Yeah, it’s fine. The food’s dehydrated, so it’s compact.Looks like less than it is.”

Pidge shrugged. “All right. There doesn’t happen to be atent in this bag, does there?”

“Did you pack a tent in Green?”

“No.”

“There you go. I’ve got emergency blankets, that’s it.”

Pidge groaned. “God, this is gonna suck.”

And with that, they were on their way. Pidge kept up a bitof idle chatter at first, just talking about the goings-on at the castle andtossing in a few reminiscences about life back home, but it flickered out aftera while. The hike was tiring, and talking was using up unnecessary energy. NeitherKeith nor Pidge were great conversationalists anyway, and the silence waspeaceful.

They stopped a couple of times for water breaks. Keith wouldslide a couple of canteens off his shoulder, hand one over to Pidge. She wouldgulp gratefully from hers, and Keith would take a few cautious sips from hisown, just enough to keep going. Gotta be careful with it, gotta spread out hisdrinks if he didn’t want to wind up cutting into Pidge’s share.

Besides their exhaustion, they ran into no major obstaclesalong their path. Their way got steep in a few places, sure, and they foundsome animal tracks weaving through the forest floor starting a couple of vargasinto their trip and had to keep their eyes peeled for the tracks’ owners, butnever actually encountered anything. All in all, they were lucking out on thetrip.

They agreed to find the clearest spot they could to makecamp when the one of the suns they needed for navigation had ducked out ofsight, its partner dipping low into the horizon ready to follow. Pidge spreadout their blankets, and Keith trekked into the trees to gather some drybranches before he got to work setting a fire for the campsite. Pidge watchedhim closely, not willing to believe that Keith actually knew how to start afire by rubbing sticks together until she actually saw it in action.

“Holy crap, man,” she said in awe as his arrangement of deadbranches caught flame. “How the hell did you even know how to do that?”

“Learned,” Keith said with a shrug.

Pidge rolled her eyes. “Okay, cool, thanks for not beingvague about it. Hey, toss me some of the food, will you? I want a bedtimesnack.”

Keith did, and she tore open the pack and started pouringthe contents into her mouth. “You gonna have any?” she asked after swallowing.

“Nah, I, uh – I ate some just a little while ago, I’m good.”

“When was that? I didn’t see you eating.”

“It was while you were on your pee break.”

“Ah. That explains it.”

Keith nodded. “So, should one of us stay up and keep watchwhile the other sleeps? We still don’t know if there’s anything out here.Probably shouldn’t let our guard down.”

“Oh, good, I was wondering when Mr. Paranoid was gonna stopby and visit,” Pidge said with a little smirk. “Seriously, though, sounds good.I can take first watch? Since I’m usually up pretty late anyhow and you alwaysget up insanely early. Put our bizarre sleep schedules to good use.”

Keith nodded. “Sounds good.”

They took up their positions, Pidge on watch, Keith on theground asleep. If there was one good thing to be said for how laborious thiswhole trip was, it was that it at least made it easier for him to fall asleep.He was exhausted enough that his lights were out within a minute of resting hishead on the ground.

Pidge shook him awake well into the night to take his turn,and he struggled to get his eyes open through his fatigue, but he sat up,readying himself to take watch. He spared a couple of sips from the canteen,enough to get the taste of sleep out of his mouth and make his thick salivafeel a little less like paste. Then, he waited out the rest of the night,finally waking Pidge come morning.

Pidge yawned widely when she woke, and she immediatelyreached for the canteen as well, taking a couple of gulps before asking, “Wegot breakfast?”

“Bon appétit,” Keith replied, tossing another food packether way. “I already ate, I’ll go ahead and get our camp cleared away.”

He stamped out their fire, covering it in dirt to hissatisfaction before moving to roll up his emergency blanket. Pidge finished offher food before rolling up her own, and, once she was assured of the directionthey were supposed to walk, they set off.

Today’s walk was just as exciting as yesterday’s had been,running into nothing that presented any real obstacle to them, insteadsteadfastly moving forward throughout the day.

At one point a couple of hours into the morning, Pidge hadthrown her arm out in front of Keith to bring them to a halt. Her eyes dartedaround them suspiciously, nervously. “What is it?” Keith asked.

“Did you hear that?” Pidge said quietly.

“Hear what?”

“That growling sound,” she answered. “I think there might bean animal nearby.”

“Oh.” Keith was glad Pidge wasn’t looking at him at thismoment, because he could feel himself blush as he brought a hand up to hisstomach. “I, uh, I don’t think it’s anything to worry about.”

Pidge turned to him then, raising a brow. “Seriously? Neverthought I’d see the day when you’d think a strange sound wasnothing to worry about. Didn’t you try to, like, attack Hunk once when youheard him snoring?”

“I did not attack him. I investigated the noise.”

“You brought your sword along.”

“Being armed is not the same as attacking, Pidge.”

“Oh, whatever,” Pidge said, rolling her eyes. “I’m stillgonna keep an eye out, though. You can go ahead and get mauled if you wanna, Iwon’t stop you.”

Keith let out a huff, but Pidge had started walking again,so he didn’t bother retaliating, just followed after her.

They carried on their way, Pidge occasionally asking him topass her a canteen, the two of them stopping once for a bathroom slash snackbreak. Keith didn’t make much use of it, but Pidge didn’t seem to notice. Or atleast, she didn’t get onto him this time about not joining in on the food.

She was really starting to grow bored, Keith could tell, andhe certainly couldn’t blame her. The walking was getting to him as well, and hewas becoming more and more exhausted, the way he would back when he was atschool and sitting through a particularly tedious lecture: zoning out, eyesglazing over before he snapped them back to focus, ever impatient. Not tomention a headache had started up, because of course it had.

Pidge tried after a while to find a new way to keepthemselves entertained as they went along, and decided to start up some classiccar games. Keith honestly didn’t particularly want to join in – all the walkingwas starting to make his head a little fuzzy – but he obliged for her sake.Dying of exhaustion would probably be a better way for her to go than dying ofboredom. So he found himself in the middle of a round of twenty questions thatwas making his headache throb.

“Come on Keith,” she said, holding up two fingers. “Twoquestions left.”

“Okay, um,” Keith said, bring his hand up to dig the heelinto his forehead. “Uh, does it, um, run on batteries?”

“Some can.” She folded one finger down. “One more.”

“Could you find it in a classroom?”

“Yes. Final guess.”

“Is it a, uh… pencil sharpener?”

“No. It was a thermocirculator.”

Keith stared at her. “How the fuck would I have ever guessedthermocirculator?”

“How the fuck did you guess pencil sharpener?” Pidge shotback.

“What classroom has a thermocirculator in it?”

“The biology labs at the Garrison do, so suck it. Yourturn.”

Keith sighed and took a moment to think, his heavy, sorelegs making that a somewhat difficult task. “All right, got one,” he said aftera couple of minutes.

“Okay, person, place, or thing?” Pidge asked.

“Person,” said Keith.

“Is it Shiro?”

“… Thing.”

“Nope, too late, I win,” Pidge said. “God, you suck atthis.”

“Come on, I switched, you can still try to guess the thing.”

“Fine. Is it the Red Lion?”

Keith scowled and dropped his head, crossing his arms overhis chest. “This is a stupid game,” he mumbled.

“You’re a sore loser,” Pidge said, clambering over a thickfallen branch in their path. Keith followed her, but as he hoisted himselfover, his vision went blurry in a wave of dizziness. He stumbled over the restof the branch, barely managing to not lose his balance completely and fallright over, and he took a moment to close his eyes and take some deep breaths.

“Keith?” Pidge said. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” Keith grunted, not looking up yet. His legs werestarting to feel like rubber, and he could feel his heart thumping rapidly. Hehad no clue what that was about. When he opened his eyes, Pidge was staring athim, her face crossed with worry, so he added, “Just lost my balance for amoment. I – it’s hot out here, probably starting to get to me a bit.”

“You need to stop for a water break?” Pidge asked.

Keith sighed, but he nodded – it would definitely seemsuspicious if he refused water right then. He pulled a canteen from hisshoulder and took a few gulps of it before capping it again. It was enough tosatisfy Pidge, so she turned around and continued leading them on their way,Keith falling into step behind her and swallowing back the nausea that thewater had brought.

They kept up their trek for the remainder of the day just asthey had the day before, stopping to camp only when they were running low onsunlight. Pidge took first watch, and when she shook Keith awake for his turn,waking up seemed like the most difficult thing he had ever done in his life. Hefelt like his body weighed about a ton as he got up off the ground, and hecould feel himself shaking. He wasn’t shaking enough that Pidge would notice,though, so long as he kept moving once she was up.

Pidge was confident that they had been walking long enoughthat the communications center they were looking for couldn’t be too muchfarther away, so she was in high spirits when they set out again. Keith was toofocused on staying upright to respond.

Pidge suggested I Spy to pass the time today, but Keithdeclined. He was pretty sure he’d get even dizzier than he already was if hetried looking all around for things Pidge saw, but the reasoning he gave Pidgewas that there wasn’t much around them besides trees. So she went with thealphabet game instead. Keith definitely would have preferred if she had justpicked the Quiet Game. His voice was growing dry from trying to keep upconversation, and he was started to have a bit of trouble hearing Pidge. Hervoice would fade in an out, like someone was slowly turning the volume dialback and forth, non-stop.

At least he wasn’t feeling as hot now as he was earlier.

About a varga after they’d had their – Pidge’s – food break,Pidge grasped Keith’s arm and pointed into the distance up the hill they wereclimbing. “Keith, you see that?” she asked.

Keith squinted, trying to focus. “See what?”

“That building there! See that corner sticking out, there atthe top! That’s gotta be the comms center! We’re so close!”

“That’s – that’s great.”

Pidge grinned at him. “Race you to the top?” she asked.

“What?”

But Pidge had already taken off. With a groaned, Keithclambered off after her, his legs and his armor feeling heavier than ever. Hetripped and stumbled at one point, and his world seemed to sway, lurchingoff-center. In the distance he could see Pidge through the tree branches,having turned back to him, probably stopping when she’d noticed that thefastest person on the team suddenly could not keep up with her in a race. “Youokay?” she called.

Keith couldn’t answer. He leaned his hand against the trunkof a nearby tree, pausing to take heavy, panting breaths that did nothing toease the dryness in his mouth. Vaguely he was aware of Pidge saying somethingelse to him, but he didn’t bother trying to decipher her words – all his mentalenergy was currently focused entirely on keeping himself standing upright.

“Keith?” he could finally make out through the fog pressingagainst his skull, and he looked up wearily to see Pidge’s blurred facespinning in front of him. She must have come back. “Keith?” she repeated, andher voice echoed dimly in his head. “What’s going on?”

He opened his mouth to respond, but no words came out, so hetried shaking his head instead. Bad idea. The moment he did so, another wave ofdizziness crashed over him and the edges of his vision started to darken.Distantly he sensed that his hand was no longer holding the rest of him upagainst the tree trunk, and that was all he could note before he fadedentirely.

The instant Keith started going down, Pidge darted backtoward him, her concern replaced with outright fear. “Keith!” she shouted,shoving branches aside to reach him and rolling his prone figure onto its back.

“Keith!” she called again, shaking him by the shoulders. Hiseyes cracked open blearily, but they were completely unfocused and fell shutagain after a few seconds.

She ripped off her glove and pressed her hand to his flushedforehead, testing for fever. He did seem a warm, but then again, that mighthave just been from being outside in the relative heat and walking for days onend. She was exhausted too, had the stench and the sweat to show for it –

She paused, staring at her hand where it rested on Keith’sforehead as she realized something odd. His skin was bone-dry. Normally at theend of a long training session, Keith would be pretty much drenched, faceglistening with a layer of sweat and hair plastered to his forehead and neck. Heshould have been in that sort of state now, like Pidge was.

How long had he not been sweating?

She supposed that the ‘how long’ didn’t matter as much assimply the fact that he was dry now, and she knew what that meant.

Cursing herself for not having noticed earlier, before Keithhad wound up passed out from dehydration, Pidge shuffled around him to tug oneof the canteens away from where it was slung over his shoulder. She noticed itslight weight and shook it in her hand, and, when she heard nothing inside, spatout some more curses and tossed it aside, reaching for another. She tested afew more canteens that seemed to be just as empty, before finally hearingliquid sloshing around in the last one.

“All right, Keith,” she muttered, uncapping the canteen movingaround him to prop him up. “Come on, drink up, let’s get some water in you.”

Keith still barely cracked his eyes open, but he appeared tobe just conscious enough to know that he needed to swallow, since he did justthat. Pidge sighed in relief as Keith gulped down the water, only stopping whenit was empty.

“Okay,” she said, “Okay, we’re okay, we just have to – ”

She stopped when Keith lurched away from her, stiffening andletting out a strained belch. He shuddered for a few seconds before he lurchedagain, this time horking up a large globule of translucent vomit.

Pidge watched in horror, only just now remembering thatyou’re not supposed to let a dehydrated person drink too much water tooquickly. She swore under her breath again as she rubbed at Keith’s back, thelatter weakly coughing up the rest of the water, wanting to kick herself forhaving just made things worse. As much as it revolted her to look at it, shecouldn’t help but glance at the vomit, and she realized when she did that itwas clear. Just water, no food.

Oh, God, Keith being dehydrated and overheating were badenough, but now adding starvation to the mix…

Pidge’s breaths came fast, and her head was spinning in apanic. Keith was sick. Keith was sick, and Pidge was the only one around, andthey were out of rations, and the last of their water had just been wasted, soshe could neither give him anything to drink nor cool him down, and thecommunications center they were looking for was so fucking close,but not close enough for Keith to walk – even as his retching was subsiding, hehad collapsed onto the ground again, only one shaking elbow keeping him proppedup, so it was unlikely he’d be able to walk any distance at all right now –and definitely not close enough for Pidge to drag him. If shehad been Hunk or Shiro, she probably could have carried Keith, but as it was,she was stuck.

She chewed at her lip and wrung her hands nervously as shelooked down at Keith. Keith couldn’t leave on his own power, and she couldn’tbodily move him anywhere, but she could still go. Get to the communicationscenter as fast as she could, get someone to come back with her, bring water andmaybe some food along or some kind of medical equipment – or would that slowthem down to much? Would they have to come back to comms center first beforetreating him? Pidge didn’t know which would be quicker.

Whatever. The people at the comms center probably knew, andshe was wasting time. And as much as she hated to leave Keith behind, it didn’tlook like she had any other choice.

She slung her rucksack to the ground, fishing through it topull out the first-aid kit. There wasn’t much in it that would be useful here –no water or food packets or, like, refrigerator, but there was an ice pack atleast. She snapped it between her hands and tucked it under Keith’s neck wherehe lay on the ground and she rolled him onto his back. “I’m so sorry, I’ve gotto leave,” she said softly. “I swear, I’ll be right back, okay? I’ll be rightback.”

She straightened up and started to sprint, praying that luckwould hold enough that Keith would be all right as she fetched help. The forestseemed to have little by way of wildlife, and she had an innate knack fornavigation and directions, so she knew she wouldn’t lose track of Keith’s location.

But still, thinking of the way Keith had looked when she’dleft, prone and exhausted and practically unmoving…

Pidge shook the image out of her head and forced her legs tomove even faster.

Ten minutes in when she was heaving for breath and had astitch in her side that felt like a knife through the ribs, her suit startedworking again, the soft electrical hum alerting her before she saw the lightscome on and felt the cooling system kick in. “Great timing,” she growled at it,but at least the fact that it was working meant she’d been right about theelevation, and she was close to her destination. And having the suit powered onagain made the last five minutes of her run easier than her first ten.

She burst through the entryway the moment she reached thecommunications center, slamming the door against the wall and then leaningagainst the doorway, gasping for breath. The room’s occupants turned to look ather. The place looked a bit like a simplified version of a mission control roomback at the Garrison, and the aliens here were more or less humanoid in shape,but boxier and with scute-armored skin like an armadillo’s and orange eyes atleast twice the size of a human’s.

One of the aliens, seated at a console at the far end of theroom, stood upon her entrance. “Ah, paladin of Voltron,” he said. “You’relate.”

“Yeah,” Pidge snarled through her heavingbreaths. “I know.”

“Is something wrong?” the alien asked lightly.

Pidge fixed him with the heaviest glower she could muster.God, and she thought Keith was bad at reading people.

Speaking of whom –

“Are you the one who sent the missive out to Voltron?” shebit out.

“I am, yes,” the alien answered with a nod. “Broniff.Pleased to meet – ”

“Well, thanks a lot for warning us about the fuckingatmosphere! I crashed my ship, we had to walk for days to get here, and nowanother paladin of Voltron is out there without food or water and he could windup dying if we don’t get a fucking move on!”

There was a pause as her words echoed throughout the room. “Isee,” Broniff eventually said. “Apologies. But what do you want us to do?”

“I want you to come retrieve him so we can start getting himhealed! Come on, if you’ve got any water or anything cold, bring that too, justget moving, now!”

Broniff frowned uncertainly at her. “We are a communicationscenter,” he said. “Not a hospital.”

“And you’re not gonna be eitherif you don’t get off your asses right this fucking minute and help my friend!”Pidge shouted, whipping her bayard out and brandishing it threateningly.Broniff took a step back and eyes widened all over the room. It was a smartmove on Allura’s part, Pidge realized at the back of her mind, to have sent herand Keith on a supply-dealing mission rather than a diplomatic one; this sortof threat probably wouldn’t have gone over well at a royal dinner party.

But it did its job, got the aliens up and moving, a couplegrabbing bottles as they left, and Pidge led the way, shoving aside herexhaustion from before and focusing only on getting back to Keith. The aliensdidn’t all follow – she hadn’t expected them to – but enough came along thatthey’d be able to haul Keith back to the comms center no problem.

Her leaden legs were ready to collapse from all thesprinting by the time they reached Keith, so she let herself drop to the forestfloor, apprehensively checking his pulse. She hadn’t expected him to have diedwhile she was gone, but she still couldn’t stop herself from feeling dizzy withrelief when she could detect it.

The other aliens had clamored around Keith as well, beforePidge reminded them to give him air, and one who had brought a bottle alongreached it out to give Keith a drink, but Pidge snatched it from them andlifted Keith’s head to pour it herself, being extra careful this time to onlygive him a couple of small sips, not let him drink too fast. The aliens weretalking to her, asking questions, and she answered what she could. One of themmentioned something about heatstroke, which wouldn’t have surprised Pidge atall, and it wasn’t long before two of the aliens were lifting Keith up betweenthem and starting back toward the center.

One who lingered behind asked if Pidge needed help gettingup as well. “No,” she answered, before trying to push herself off the groundonly to discover that her legs now seemed to weigh a few thousand pounds each.“…Yes,” she said, and the alien hauled her up onto their back and made tofollow the others.

They didn’t have much by way of means to help Keith feelcomfortable back at the comms center, but the aliens did their best – whetherout of concern for the red paladin or fear of the green one’s bayard, Pidgedidn’t know, but as long as something was being done, the motivations didn’treally matter. Keith had started shifting a little in unrest, but still hadn’twakened, when she’d entered a room that could have been a break room, couldhave been a storage room, to find two of the aliens setting him down across arow of chairs, and another was bringing water in.

Pidge supervised, ensuring that the aliens knew how muchwater to give him and the fact that they needed to keep him cool, before sheturned to Broniff. “You sent the missive, so you’d be able to get in touch withVoltron, right?”

“That’s correct,” Broniff said. “And you were expected toarrive over two quintants ago, you know. The mining corporation who extendedthe offer of their metals were waiting for – ”

“Yeah, that’s actually kinda taken a backseat now,” Pidgeinterrupted. “I’m not negotiating any rock prices until my friend’s better, andthat’s gonna happen a lot quicker if you get me Voltron on the line.”

Broniff huffed, clearly miffed at her tone, but he led theway to one of the consoles to open a line with the Castle of Lions. It took afew minutes, minutes that Pidge spent tapping her fingers anxiously againstBroniff’s seat, earning her dirty looks from the alien which she pointedlyignored, but eventually Coran’s face appeared in the screen. “Coran!” Pidgecried. “Thank God, it’s good to see you.”

“Number five,” Coran said with a nod, “I take itnegotiations on that ore have – ”

“No, no, we never got to them,” Pidge cut him off. “Is Hunkaround? We’re gonna need him.”

“Right here, Pidge!” Hunk’s voice called, and a few tickslater he appeared in the screen next to Coran. “Do you need all of us? Coranand I were working on some maintenance here on the bridge, so Lance took a nap,but I can go get him.”

“No, it’s fine, don’t bother. Look, I’m going to haveBroniff send you the specs on this planet’s atmosphere and electromagneticfields, and then I need you two to get Yellow shielded up so Hunk can come infor an extraction, and make it soon.”

Coran and Hunk both stared at her. “Wait, what?” said Hunk.

Pidge let out a breath through her nose. “We need you topick us up. Green’s out crash-landed in the forest about eighty miles northeastof here and we can’t get her back up and running until – ”

“Wait, you crashed Green?” Hunk asked.

“Yes, but it wasn’t my fault! There’s something all messedup in the atmosphere in this planet; the moment we got close enough to thesurface, everything electrical just went kaput. This spot is one of the onlyplaces where communications tech actually work.”

“What?” Coran said. He turned to Broniff. “Why were we notinformed of this before you asked us for an audience at your planet?”

“I had thought you already knew,” Broniff replied calmly.

Pidge rolled her eyes and nudged the alien aside to takefull control of the camera and screen. “Look, doesn’t matter, okay? Now weknow, and we can do something about it. Broniff can give you all the info youneed, and you guys can get Yellow ready and get down here and grab Green andpick up me and Keith. Coran, how long do you think that will take?”

“We’ve got plenty of shielding technology on the castle towork with,” Coran answered. “Depending on what’s actually in the atmospherecausing this problem, we might be able to get something together within a fewvargas.”

“Fine, just get to work on getting Yellow set up and getdown here ASAP, all right? However fast that is!”

“All right, all right, Pidge,” Coran said. “Why theurgency?”

“Because Keith is sick!” Pidge snapped.

“Keith is – ” Coran started to repeat.

“Sick, yes! And we need to get him back to castle and to themed bay, and soon!”

Hunk let out a little sound almost like a whine. “Man, don’tbury the lede like that! What’s wrong with him?” he asked, his signature worrydripping from his voice.

“He’s dehydrated. Badly. Someone here said probably heatexhaustion too, and – and it doesn’t look like he’s eaten a thing in the pastcouple of days.”

“What?! Why – why hasn’t he been eating ordrinking?”

“Because he’s a fucking idiot, I don’t know! Just get Yellowdown here so we can fix it, okay?!”

“Right, right, Roger that,” Hunk said, nodding vigorously.They gave no parting salutation before Coran turned off the screen, and thatwas fine by Pidge. At least it meant they were getting started quick.

Now all that was left to do was wait, and Pidge had neverbeen good at waiting. She took to pacing for a while, before realizing that shewas way too tired and sore to keep that up for the next few vargas, so insteadshe planted herself in a chair, arms crossed, glaring down at the floor whenshe wasn’t watching Keith at the other side of the room. She didn’t get up tosit next to him until he roused, and that wasn’t until another too-fast gulp ofwater sent him into hacking coughs that managed to fully wake him.

Pidge rubbed her hand in circles on his back as he groanedand tried to regain his breath, and she mumbled assurances that Hunk would behere soon, and Coran would get him all fixed up, and they just had to wait, butit was hard to convey the right tone when she was waiting so impatientlyherself. Yes, patience is a virtue, but Pidge had never thought of herself asparticularly virtuous.

And Keith and Shiro always had that ‘patience yields focus’mantra, but she didn’t need to focus on anything right now. She just had towait.

When Hunk finally came onto her now-working comms to let herknow he and Yellow were nearly there, she could have melted in relief. Butinstead she supervised as one of the aliens helped Keith up to half-walk out tothe lion, and she took over once they’d reached the ramp leading into Yellow’sjaw.

Hunk smiled warmly when they entered, although he couldn’t keepthe worry out of his eyes when he looked at Keith, who was leaning againstPidge like she was the only thing keeping him upright. “How you holding up,buddy?” he asked.

Keith mumbled something incoherent as Pidge lowered the twoof them to the floor to sit up against the wall. Hunk didn’t ask anything else,just took off to go retrieve Green. And after the long trek it had taken Pidgeand Keith to get from Green’s crash site to the communications center, the tripback at Yellow’s speed seemed to take no time at all.

Keith had fallen asleep again, with his heading lolling ontoPidge’s shoulder, by the time Hunk scooped Green up in Yellow’s mouth andannounced to Coran that they were heading back to the Castle. Once he finishedthat, he glanced back toward Pidge and Keith. “How’s he doing?” he asked.

“He’s hanging in there,” Pidge answered. She nudged Keith’shead back into place on her shoulder as it threatened to roll off.

“So, what – what happened? I mean, you said he wasn’t eatingor drinking, but, I mean, have you figured out why yet?”

Pidge wracked her mind, her thoughts finally landing on theempty canteens Keith had been carrying when he’d passed out, and a grim weightsettled in her stomach. “I think I can guess,” she mumbled. “I think – I thinkhe might have been trying to conserve supplies.”

“What?”

“He told me we were fine on rations, but I never actuallychecked for myself. And – and he said he was eating and drinking andeverything, and I didn’t think I had any reason to doubt him, so…”

“So he was lying?”

“Seems like it,” Pidge sighed.

“But… why?”

Pidge just shook her head, but the question occupied herthoughts all the way up until they had made it back to the Castle.

Pidge had hoped that when they got back, they would be ableto put Keith in a healing pod and be done with it, get everything back tonormal, but Coran had to remind her that the pods were for treating injuries.And Keith wasn’t injured, aside from the sorts of minor cuts and bruises he andPidge had both sustained from marching through a forest for days, so hisrecovery had to be done the old-fashioned way.

This meant a slow and ongoing process consisting ofcarefully measured and timed meals and drinks, strict sleep schedules, coolbaths and constant thermostat adjustments, and constant mother-henning fromboth Coran and Hunk. Hunk seemed to take Keith going days without food as apersonal offense, and was determined to ensure that Keith was back up to eatingnormally again soon, while Coran kept tedious notes on his food and waterintake and couldn’t go a varga without checking his temperature.

Lance, after getting over his bitterness about the fact thatneither Coran nor Hunk had thought to tell him about what was going on until afterhe’d woken up from his long nap on his own, had offered to supervise Keith andmake sure he didn’t overexert himself while he was supposed to be resting up,an offer that Keith had turned down immediately. He’d let Shiro take the job,though, once he and Allura returned from their own mission, and Lance hadinsisted, with a scowl, that he hadn’t wanted to do it anyway. No one but Keithbelieved him.

Pidge, for her part, stayed out of the way.

She avoided the med bay like it was toxic, and took her mealsand snacks in the kitchen when they didn’t overlap with the mealtimes Hunk hadscheduled for Keith to get him back to regularity. And about a movement intohis recovery, when he rejoined the other paladins in the lounge for the firsttime, she remembered some coding she needed to do and left immediately for herroom.

Every time she looked at Keith, she would get a glimpse ofthat overheated, dried-out, retching version of Keith that had passed out onthe forest floor, and she didn’t want to see that. Seeing that pissed her off.

She managed to avoid pretty much all interaction with Keithat all up until the day when, right after she had sat down with her lunch andstarted to eat, Keith had entered the kitchen too, going for the cabinets. “Whatare you doing here?” she asked sharply.

Keith raised a brow at her. “Eating.”

“I thought your lunch had just finished, like, ten minutesago.”

Keith shook his head. “We’re moving away from Hunk’sschedule a bit. He’s letting me eat without a babysitter today.” He opened thefridge, pulled out a plate with clear wrap over it, and walked to the table. “Mindif I sit?” he asked. Pidge didn’t answer, and he sat.

The two of them set to eating, neither saying a word to theother. Pidge kept her eyes pointedly on her food, shoveling it up as fast asshe could without getting sick or appearing suspicious. Keith ate much slower,still taking the small bites Hunk had instructed for him, and he was watchingPidge. Even without looking at him Pidge could feel his eyes on her. A coupleof times, he took a breath as if he were about to say something, but didn’t.

“Are you… mad at me?” Keith finally managed to ask when thesilence had stretched to the point where the awkwardness was almostsuffocating.

Pidge snorted, looking up at him for the first time sincethe meal had started. “Am I? Wonder why that might be.”

Keith frowned, furrowing his brow. “You haven’t talked to mein, well, a while. Did – did I do something?”

With an exasperated sigh, Pidge slapped her spork down ontothe table. Well, he’s the one who asked. Might as well have this talk. “Are youseriously asking this? You seriously can’t figure out why Imight be a little upset with you?!”

“Um…”

Pidge slapped her hand against the table. “You didn’t thinkI’d be a little upset with you about what happened after Green went down? Abouthow you, you know, lied about the rations and went and starved yourself andscared me half to death?”

“Oh. You’re mad about that?”

“Yes, I’m fucking mad about that!”

Keith sighed and set his spork down. “Okay, look, I knowthings didn’t end so great, but I wasn’t trying to scare you or upset you oranything. Honest. I was just trying to – we didn’t have a whole lot of rations,see. So, I took less than I usually would so they would last the whole trip.End of story.”

“No, not end ofstory!” Pidge spat. “Why the fuck did you not tell me about the rations?”

Keith hesitated. “Well, I, uh – ”

“We could have done something! We could have looked for ariver or a spring or something! We could have gone hunting or foraging forfood! We didn’t have to only rely on those rations!”

“Or maybe we did,” Keith said. “We might not have found anywater, and we don’t know what plants or animals would have been safe to eat.”

“Then we would have figured out something else! Come on, I’mthe guardian spirit of nature, and you lived alone in a desert for a year.We’re practically built for survivalism! We could have managed something! Imean, if you had actually told me therewas a problem, then we could have solved it!”

Keith sighed. “Pidge, I just didn’t want you to have toworry, okay? I did it for - ”

“You’d better not say you did it for me.”

“But I did.”

Pidge slammed her hand against the table. “I didn’t askyou to do that!”

Keith huffed, a strand of his bangs fluttering against hisforehead. “Well, yeah, you wouldn’t have. You didn’t need to.”

“Didn’t need to?”

“Yeah, I mean, I – I would’ve – ”

“You would have starved and dehydrated yourself either way?That’s just the automatic Plan A in your head?”

Keith just shrugged in answer.

“Keith,” Pidge said sharply. She leaned across the table andlooked intently at him. Keith glanced down, never one who had much of a knackfor maintaining eye contact, but Pidge was undeterred. “What if I had beenthe one who found out about the low rations, and I had decided to starve anddehydrate myself for your sake? Would you have liked that?”

“…No,” Keith admitted after a few seconds’hesitation. “But - ”

“But nothing. If you’d be upset with me ‘protecting’ youthat way, then you should assume the same goes for vice versa.”

“Wha– Pidge, I don’t need protecting!”

“Neither do I!”

Keith opened his mouth to respond, but nothing came out, sohe stuck to scowling at Pidge instead. Pidge scowled back, and they stayed thatway until Pidge finally let her expression drop and slumped into her seat witha sigh. “You know Matt?” she asked. “My brother?”

“Uh, yeah?” Keith said, raising his eyebrow at the nonsequitur.

“He broke his leg once.”

“… Is that the whole story?”

Pidge glared agin. “No, it’s not the whole story, shutup. It was - it was a couple years before Matt got accepted into the Garrison.The two of us had been walking home from my elementary school. We lived, like,three blocks from it, and Matt’s junior high was just another another twoblocks over, so we always walked together when neither of us had anyafter-school thing going on. Anyway, we were walking home, and some idiot fromthe high school had made a sharp turn onto the same street as us on a moped,wound up skidding onto the sidewalk, because, like I said, this guy was anidiot. Matt spotted him coming like a second before I did, so all of a suddenhe jumps up next to me to shield me or something, and the next thing I know,the guy’s back wheel catches Matt’s leg, and he takes Matt down with him whenhis moped topples over.”

She picked up her spork and was quiet for a few ticks as shestabbed idly at the food goo on her plate before continuing. “He broke his legin three places. Some old lady on the street who’d been looking out the windowor something called nine-one-one, Matt got the whole shebang, big old plastercast and crutches and everything. And he kept cracking jokes the whole time; Idon’t even remember what the jokes were, I’d just been too focused on freakingout because – because Matt shouldn’t have been there. He shouldn’t have been inthe path of the moped at all. I was there. I could’ve taken the hit.”

“Pidge,” Keith said slowly, “Come on, he’s your big brother.You can’t blame him for being protective of you. And you would have gotten hurtif he hadn’t, so – ”

“Yeah, that was his logic too. He was real insistent that hewas just doing his noble duty as the older sibling, and that it wasn’t a bigdeal. But you know what?” She let out a deep breath. “It was abig deal. Because for the whole two months that he had that stupid cast on, allI could ever think about was the fact that he didn’t have tohave broken his leg. If he’d just left things as they were, then, sure, Iwould’ve been the one to wind up with the broken leg, but the net result isstill basically the same: one person who broke their leg and one who didn’t.And Matt was closer to the moped guy by jumping between us like he did, so Iwouldn’t have even taken as direct a hit if it’d been me he’d run into.

“And, God, it kinda pissed me off. Matt kept brushing it offlike, oh, it’s fine, no biggie, but I know it wasn’t fine. I’d heard himcomplaining to Mom and Dad about how frustrating it was to bathe and stuff withthat cast on and how bad it itched and how sore his arms were from thecrutches. And he had to miss out on a full season of soccer, and meanwhile Ididn’t even play any sports. But every time I’d try to talk to him about it,he’d just grin and say everything was fine, that’s what big brothers are for,he’s just glad I was okay. And I hated it. I didn’t like post-noble-sacrificeMatt and I wished so bad that just once he’d actually, like, get mad at me. Getfrustrated. Ask me why I couldn’t have just moved out of the way of the fuckingmoped myself. You know, make me feel like a little less of an idiot forasking myself that all the time.”

“I don’t want to be protected, Keith. Not if you’ve gottaget hurt in order to protect me. I would much rather just take the bullet thanfeel horrible after someone else takes it for me.”

“Pidge, I – I can’t promise – I mean, we’re a team, we’resupposed to protect each other.”

Pidge rolled her eyes. “Oh, please. Like you wouldn’tbe upset if one of the others went and hurt themselves for your sake. QuickEnglish lesson, Keith: when you say ‘each other’, that means it has to go both ways.Which means you gotta be just as okay with me protecting you as you are withprotecting me. And I know that’s not even close to being true.”

Keith frowned. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, I’ve seen the things you do in training and onmissions. The way you act. We all have. I’ve seen you put more focus onguarding Shiro from training bots than guarding yourself, I’ve seen you run outinto crossfire like it’s nothing, seen you throw yourself on us like a humanshield. You don’t even give us a chance to protect you. It’s like heroicsacrifice is always your first instinct.”

Keith squirmed in his seat, and he didn’t meet Pidge’s eyeswhen he responded. “Look, I’m not trying to martyr myself or anything, and Idon’t - I don’t want to be hurt or to… you know…”

“Die?”

“Yeah. But, well, if there’s a situation where it looks likeone of the paladins is going to have to take the hit or get left behind orsomething, doesn’t it make the most sense for it to be me?”

Pidge blinked at him. “What the fuck are you – ? No, ofcourse it doesn’t.”

“It does. Think about it. All of the rest of you are kindairreplaceable. Shiro’s the leader, no question about that. You’re the techexpert, and not even the Galra army can match your skill with computers. Hunk’sthe engineer, and we wouldn’t be able to get half the things in the hangar orarmory working without him. Lance is the sharpshooter - and Coran also said awhile back that he’s the source of team morale. Me? I can fly, and I can fight.But we all can fly, and we all can fight, soit’s not like you couldn’t get on just the same without me doing it.” He took adeep breath and lowered his gaze. “I’m just trying to be practical here.Think about what would be the smallest loss.”

For a moment Pidge could do nothing but stare at him, jawagape. Then, she shook her head and said, “Keith, just know that I’m askingthis not to be mean, but as a concerned friend: are you out of your fuckingmind?”

Keith’s face fell into a glare. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, in what universe do you think you’d be a smallloss? No, no, let me talk,” she said, lifting her hand as Keith opened hismouth to object. “First of all, yeah, sure, we can all fight and fly, but notlike you. Shiro’s the only one who can match you when it comes to fighting, andas for flying? None of us hold a candle to you. They kept your high scores upat the Garrison even after you were expelled, and they made all the otherpilots look like total chumps. And next time we need to go darting through anasteroid field, who do you think is gonna be able to get through it besidesyou, huh? Me? Hunk? Fuck off.”

“Yeah, but – ”

“And let’s say, for sake of the argument, that youabsolutely sucked as a paladin. That you couldn’t pilot for shit and you couldn’tbeat a piñatain a fight. Guess what? I still wouldn’t wanna see you go up in flames inbattle. We like having you around, believe it or not.”

Keith stared at her. “Wait… what?”

“Yeah. I mean, you’re the only one whose presence I canstand when I just need some peace and quiet, since you don’t, like, talk much –and sometimes that’s nice, sometimes I just like having someone around to bequiet with. And Shiro just thinks you’re the light of his life, you know, thelittle brother following in his footsteps that he’s just oh so damn proud of.And you’re the only one who will ever eat Coran’s cooking, which is aridiculous superpower but it makes his day. And I don’t think Lance would workhalf as hard as he does in training if you weren’t around for him to try andshow up, so you’re, like, a good influence on him or something.”

“Oh…” Keith said. His expression was blank.

Pidge raised a brow at him. “Come on, you seriously didn’tthink we liked having you here?”

“I… I dunno.”

She frowned. “Well… we do. And none of us want to see youwind up hurt, or worse. Friends don’t let friends sacrifice themselves forstupid reason.”

“I just never…” Keith said carefully, “I never thought you –I mean, I’m not very good at – at being able to tell if – I figured you justkind of, thought of me… as your teammate, but, like that’s it. Not – not someoneyou would – I thought I kinda, you know… bothered you guys, or something…”

“So does Lance, but we still keep him around.”

Keith cracked a tiny hint of a smile. “I’m gonna tell him yousaid that.”

“Do it,” Pidge replied with a shrug. “I own my words. Butseriously, Keith. I – we – care aboutyou. And you can’t scare us like that, okay? I mean it. None of us want towatch you go through hell attempting to protect us.”

Keith winced. “Look, I get the sentiment, but, I mean – you can’texpect me to never get hurt in battles or anything. Or to not want to see youguys stay safe too.”

Pidge drummed her fingers against the table. “Okay, then,let me phrase this another way. I don’t want you to put yourself throughhell for us. I want you to put yourself through hell with us.”

“What?”

“You heard me. Look, Keith, I get it, we’re at war, sopeople are gonna get hurt, there are losses, all that junk. But we’re a teamnow, right? That means we’re supposed to get to protect you as much as you tryand protect us. More, probably, considering how much you seem to love throwingyourself into the line of fire.”

Keith took in a breath. “Pidge – ”

“And it also means,” Pidge cut him off,“That we split the risk. Okay? Next time we’re low on supplies, I don’t give afuck who you think ‘deserves’ it more or whatever, it’s gonna be split deadeven. It’s how teams work. Sharing is caring.”

She stood up and pushed her chair back, picking her plate upoff of the table. “Hopefully there won’t be a next time, but if there is, I don’twant it to end up going the same way this one did. We’re equals, we protecteach other equally, that’s the end of it. ‘Bout time you retired your littlelone wolf persona and embraced the pack. We’re teammates, yeah?” She held upher fist, and Keith stared at it. “Oh my God, Keith, you’re supposed to punchit, how do you not know – ”

“I know what a fist bump is!” Keith said, demonstrating saidfist bump irritably. “Just wasn’t sure that’s what you were going for.”

“Uh-huh. But do we have a deal? You’re gonna stop playingnoble hero and trying to protect us at every turn?”

“I – I can’t promise – ”

“You can try, at least. Promise you’ll try.”

Keith slowly managed to meet Pidge’s hopeful smile. “Yeah.Yeah, okay. I can try.”

#keith #pidge #voltronbingo #voltron fic #platonic kidge #Anonymous #fic: within walking distance #my writing

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army93gwenchana · 5 years

Text

You work with BTS, before your Debut

You were finally going to achieve your dream!!! 4 months away from debut... Years of strenuous work, paid off and you were so close to becoming an idol... Bighit entertainment had decided to create a new girl group called Cosmix, with 5 members. You were the sub rapper and maknae along with Kim Jisoo, Kim Jennie, Park Chae Young (Rosé) and Lalisa Manoban (Lisa). Your fellow members had fun, playful attitudes and were much closer to each other than to you. They could be scary sometimes, especially Jennie, the leader of the group, she was very lively and playful, but never worried about expressing her own opinion. (A.N NO OFFENCE MEANT, I just needed to portray someone like this, I love Jennie and all the members!)

It was especially intimidating, because of your depression and social anxiety, you’d struggled on the course of becoming an idol and it had been a really hard journey, you worried for the future and being in the spotlight, but there was nothing you could really do… You needed to become an idol or else the years or training would be worthless and you’d have no way to support you and your brother.

The members thought of you, more as a child, whilst they thought of each other as sisters, especially because of the 3 year age gap between you and the next youngest member, Lisa. Lisa was the one treated as the maknae and though you felt a little envy, you couldn’t help but think it suited her bubbly personality well. She was really outgoing and mischievous and she definitely wasn’t awkward like you.

It got a bit uncomfortable at times, but you’d all learnt the best way to get around it was to act like best friends on stage and have minimal contact, between you and the rest of the members offstage. You didn’t really mind as you weren’t a big people person, so as long as you maintained your image of being the shy,introverted maknae, nothing would go wrong. Bang PD-Nim chose the final line up and you were so relieved when he chose you. He believed all the member’s contrasting personalities would balance the band out, but it got too awkward. It was so much easier to just put up a front whenever anyone was watching. Although it would be an issue in future, you’d somehow get around it…

Now Cosmix has been formed and the final line up chosen, it was also decided you were going to be trained by the one and only BTS. You were a fan, but not particularly excited to meet them, in fact new people in general was a problem… You always worried about saying something wrong, or doing something embarrassing, so you found it really hard to interact with people.

Day 1 THUD! You shot up at the weird sound and realised it was you, who had rolled off the bed. Ugh, so much for being early. Then you looked at the time and realised it was 10:34, you were meant to be at the studio an hour and a half ago! Argh, you rushed and threw on a black hoodie, white shirt and black jeans, pulling your trainers on, whilst wearing a mask, you sprinted out the door. You got home last night at 1, after you’d finished your second job, it paid for your apartment and your brother’s school fees. Although the group members were all meant to be living together, you’d decided to move in later, closer to the debut date, so you wouldn’t spend too long hanging around awkwardly. It didn't really make sense because you had to get to know eachother sooner or later, but it seemed it would be later.

It was only a 15 minute walk, so at the speed you were running, probably 10 minutes max. Along with the dorm, BigHit had also offered to provide money for food and clothes and basic supplies, but you felt bad accepting it, especially since you weren’t even staying at the dorm.

Anyway, once you got home, you fell straight asleep and skipped dinner, at the thought of food, you realised you’d forgotten breakfast as well! Great, just the way to start a really important day like this. The weather wasn’t helping at all and it looked like it would start pouring down any minute, you were only halfway there when it started to rain and you couldn’t have hated yourself anymore.

You became extremely self conscious in running up the street, aware of people watching you. You did your best to ignore it and focus on getting to the building. As soon as you entered the building, you collapsed, catching your breath.

Your clothes and hair was soaked and you couldn’t do anything except for wait for it to dry, especially since you had no spare clothes... An idea suddenly came to you and you went to the dance room, you knew Lisa would be in. Peeking through the door you spotted her practicing to SNSD’s Mr Mr, one of your favourites. You knocked and waited patiently, until realising she hadn’t heard. You pushed the door open and walked in a little, bowing politely. “What the heck are you doing y/n? You can’t just barge in like this, especially when you are so late!!!” She looked upset, REALLY upset, you didn’t understand, as she was only practicing anyway.

But it only made you more nervous and you stuttered as you asked, “Joesonghamnida! Erm, it started raining as I was coming here and my clothes were soaked, so do you have anything I could borrow please, Lisa-ssi?”

“Ani. Now go see Jennie, about this mess.”

You trembled at the quiet, harsh words and the glint in her eye, which clearly meant ‘get lost’ and you hurried out the room, not before noticing two figures at the back of the dance room and you mentally slapped yourself. Yoongi and Jhope, were watching the scene unfold... Argh! Why were you so stupid?! They saw the whole thing and you realised Lisa probably forgot they were there, or else she would have probably given you some spare clothes... Now Yoongi and Hobi probably had really bad first impressions of you, dammit! Let’s see lazy,disorganised and impolite, sums it up... You debated whether or not to go see Jennie and decided not to bother her and just deal with the repercussions later. You hurried to your practice room, which was on a different floor to the rest of your band mates and started to practice. You threw your hoodie to the side and tried to squeeze the water out your hair.

You didn’t really know what to do and where to start as sub rapper. You would practice your debut songs later. So, you decided to start with some dancing and singing. You danced to BTS not today and sang to Exo’s Love shot. You didn’t have to worry about being heard or seen as, not many people came up to the 3rd floor, so you just danced your heart out, trying to perfect the pitch you were singing at and the exact timings of your movements. You usually just practiced group dances and vocals, but with little sleep and no clue what to do, you couldn’t focus at all.

You just started to scribble lyrics in your notebook. The day would usually fly by like this and you’d have a meeting as a group with the managers, later on. So you decided to record some of the lyrics you’d just written.

You stared down at the words:

I’m barely holding on Quietly slipping away Broken and bruised Trying to get through today Why can’t I forget The love, the lies, the pain? Why can’t I let go? I’ll never be same

Silent cries for help words I cannot say I just hope you understand This is my final day

Why did you leave me? Now I’m all alone Millions of shattered pieces Your heart was once my home.. As you rapped the lyrics quickly, you got lost in the meaning of the words, which hit you hard.

Tears streamed down your face and you got lost in a world of misery... Everything you’d given up and lost...

Your mother’s sudden death...

Your brother, who had to live alone with nothing but whatever you could scrape by and send him...

Your one friend who’d always been there for you... Yet you couldn’t be there when he needed you... He’d left you all alone in this world...

And the cruel man you once called your father... Who put you down everyday reminding you how insignificant and worthless you are..

You tried to pull yourself together, but couldn’t help fall apart... You just sat in the middle of the practice room, silently breaking, trying not to let them see how much everything hurt... So alone. You abruptly got up.

It was like your brain was being stabbed by thousand of needles and your eyes were assaulted by the bright lights of the studio.

You tried your best to practice, but something was definitely wrong, you'd never been like this before, your moves slowed and looked jerky and disoriented, the world spun and you fell to the floor, just as you heard voices... Lisa PoV I felt really bad after I sent y/n away, I was quite harsh on her and really on edge because today was the first training session with Bts... DAMN!! Yoongi and Jhope had probably witnessed my rude behaviour and poor y/n was probably soaked... I felt really bad, but at least Jennie could fix her up. I heard footsteps and saw Yoongi and Jhope walking over to me and I smiled, anxiously... "Lisa, why did you talk to that girl that way and who was she?" Wait, did they not know Y/n was the 5th member? "Oppa, she is y/n, the 5th member of the group and also the maknae and sub rapper..." J hope said, "but Lisa I thought you were the maknae, but we haven't met her yet, so it will probably become clear once we meet her." I giggled and replied, "probably not oppa, y/n is very shy and introverted, to a point when it's almost considered rude. She doesn't really interact with us much and we usually don't talk to her a lot." "That's not right. You should be interacting and getting to know each other if you want to debut successfully. This will only work if you are as close as sisters.." "See Yoongi oppa, we are like sisters... You should see us when we are being interviewed or on vlives..."

It was true although Yoongi looked sceptical... "Also no matter how you are feeling you should never take your feelings out on your members, you should be able to depend on each other. You should probably go find y/n and apologise, also lend her some clothes. If she gets sick, it will affect the whole group."

It was J hope who spoke this time.

"But she's probably talking to Jennie right now..." They both shot me a look and I said, "yes oppa," in defeat. I lead them to Jennie's practice room and knocked lightly. Jennie ran and opened the door and I gave her mini hug, even though we saw each 40 minutes ago. We all walked in and I searched for y/n, "Jennie unnie, did y/n come and see you?" She looked confused, whilst Namjoon and Jin looked at Yoongi and Hobi. They asked simultaneously, "Who's y/n?" I explained in the same way again,"y/n, is the 5th member of the group and also the maknae and sub rapper..." "Wait, I thought you were the maknae Lisa?" Here we go again, me and Jennie proceeded to explain. "Lisa was the maknae, before Y/n was added to the line up. We just treat her as the maknae, because of y/n personality." "Okay we don't need to go through this again, so why don't we all go meet y/n, we should go get the others. Oh and Jennie, Y/n needs spare clothes, she was soaked from the rain..." I never realised Yoongi spoke so much... I knocked on Jisoo's door and Jennie went to Rosé's calling them out. As a huge group we went to knock on y/n's door, which was the very last one. Walking in we realised it was a store room with loads of clothes, the members looked confused and Jennie said, “oh yeah, I remember y/n saying, she'd go to the 3rd floor, because of something..."

We went up the stairs feeling guilty, whilst Bangtan were shocked... They didn't say anything as we went to Y/n practice room. I really started to feel bad, because of the lack of communication . We didn't even know where her practice room was!!! I realised there was only 2 rooms on the 3rd floor so it wasn't hard to find out which one y/n was in. Jennie pushed the door open just as we saw y/n collapse with a THUD... Y/n pov You opened your eyes to a really bright light, which gave you a splitting headache... The room was a ... colour and you realised you were wearing dry clothes, a tank top and shorts. Luckily the make up hadn’t worn off…

The room itself was very pretty and modern and you noticed a framed picture on the dressing table. It was a picture of Rosé,Jennie, Lisa and Jisoo at the beach and you realised you were at the apartment. You envied how happy they looked and it only added to your insecurities of becoming an idol... After walking out the room, you heard voices and followed them to the living room. As you pushed the door open, you saw the girls and BTS lounging around eating pizza.

They all turned and looked at you as Lisa said,"Hey Y/n, how are you feeling?" Why was she being so nice?! It came as a shock to you and you replied in a stutter. "G-good thank you, sorry to have been an inconvenience!" They looked at you curiously as Jennie asked, "just out of interest,why were you late y/n?" You blushed,uncomfortably as you replied ,"Erm, w-well you see, I kind of, sort of, o-overslept..." You went beet red, staring at a particular interesting piece of carpet. Everyone stared at you silently and suddenly burst into laughter... "You're so cute y/n!" You looked at the person who spoke, it was J Hope. At this point you could do nothing but feel uncomfortable, stuffy and hot, your skin crawled at the thought of everyone laughing at you... You were trembling and had nothing to fiddle with and nervously twiddle your fingers. "Shouldn't we introduce ourselves? I'll start. Hi guys, I'm V!"

"I'm your hope. You're my hope. I'm J Hope!"

"Annyeong, I'm Jin, aka worldwide handsome!"

"Hello, I'm Kim Namjoon aka RM."

"Hi, I'm Suga or Yoongi."

"I'm JIMIN!! Nice to meet you!"

"Aneyaseo, I'm the golden maknae, Jeon Jungkook. Oh and I need to see ID before you can call me oppa.”

They all stared at you expectantly and you felt really stuffy and claustrophobic in the room, you couldn’t do it, so you just stood there awkwardly opening and closing your mouth a few times, like a fish.

“This is the part where you say, ‘nice to meet you, I’m y/n. KIM SEOKJIN YOU’RE SO HANDSOME.’ Then I can say ‘hi y/n, I know because I’m worldwide handsome!’

You looked even more shocked and feebly replied,

“Hi, n-nice to m-meet you, I’m y/n?” It came out sounding more like a question…

There was a dead silence, before J hope squealed,

“Awwww, you’re so cute y/n!!! I can’t wait to get to know you.”

Then for the second time in a day, being overwhelmed with emotions, you fainted…

—-

Hiii, hope you liked this, pls forgive me for any spelling mistakes, errors, lemme know if I should continue!!! Also this needs a NEW NAME, I’d love to hear any suggestions~Army93Gwenchana

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