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earthtooz · 1 year

Note

ik ur in ur reo phase BUT HEAR ME OUT EARTH ONLY YOU CAN DO THIS

rin ACCIDENTALLY publicizing ur relationship bec mf got jealous as hell when ur face appeared in the kiss cam IN HIS GAME??????? WITH A RANDOM GUY AND WAS HE FUMING??? YOU AND I KNOW HE WAS THROWIN HANDS

thats all

I'M HEARING YOU OUT. warning for unrealistic scenario, i wrote this in like 20 minutes so it's unedited :p apologies for any mistakes.

imagine being rin's secret partner, the one he keeps behind closed doors because he values you too much to let the invasive eyes of the internet see. he values your relationship too much to let it get tarnished by social media, so he hides any affiliation with you like his life depends on it, only to come home and shower you with the adoration and affection he wishes he could show to the rest of the world.

in the spotlight, he is itoshi rin, japan's prized striker, their golden player, but when he's out of the spotlight, he is your lover. the man who drapes himself over you when things get too rough and he needs a breather. he is yours to cherish, where you have to change your phone wallpaper every other week because there's so many good photos of you two. he is yours to love, he is yours to go to when you feel too lonely, he is yours.

but also imagine, itoshi rin's jealousy and possessiveness no longer being able to rest at bay. it'd been accumulating for the past few weeks, this desire to show you off and boast that it's him who gets to know you like no other.

then the cup overfills, his jealousy tearing him by the seams that he loosely stitched together to withhold this carnal beast resting within him.

all because of a damn kiss cam.

you had been sitting in the vip section of the stadium- where special members are granted tickets, and even though you tell rin that it's fine for you to just sit in the general area, he refuses and tells you that he's bought you the ticket anyway. leaving you with no room for arguments. well. not that there was any to begin with.

anyways, you'd just so happen to sit next to someone who bought vip tickets with no affiliation with any blue lock members. you think he's just a die hard fan, so when he asks you if you like them, you lie and say that you won these tickets at a raffle.

the guy wasn't the most favourable person ever, in fact, you found yourself awkwardly responding to what he was saying, sometimes giving him short and succinct replies because of how... weird... he was. not to be disrespectful but you did not like his vibes. you just hope these 90 minutes can be over quickly.

yeah well, how funny is it that the kiss cam lands on you and the insufferable guy beside you?

you're mortified when you see it on the screen but the person beside you doesn't warrant the same reaction. immediately, he turns to face you, anticipation heavy on his features. in fact, he looks rather... excited...

"no, no, i have a boyfriend, i-" you begin abruptly as he leans in and you have no choice but to helplessly lean back, evading his lips and delaying it as much as you can. you even try rejecting him by frantically waving your hands, panicked and unsure of what to do.

until you hear him.

"back. the. fuck. off!" comes a shout from the pitch; the voice very familiar to your ears that you can't help but instantly relax from hearing it.

your seat was relatively close to the field which meant that those around you could hear the distinct voice of itoshi rin ripping through the air, fury evident and baring its fangs as he all but punches the barrier with each word.

however, everyone in the stadium could see itoshi rin as all cameras pan to him, witnessing his wrath as he shouts from the top of his voice. everyone around you is silent and you don't know whether you want to shrivel up into the ground or run to him and embrace him as tightly as you can. to find sanctuary in his warmth, away from the pushy guy who can't wrap his head around the idea that no means no.

itoshi rin decides for you, effortlessly jumping over the (considerably high???) barrier and making a beeline for you, skipping some stairs. thank goodness for a side seat because he comes to a stop before you, adrenaline still coursing through his veins as he looks at you with heated passion, huffing and puffing.

"rin?" you whisper. he doesn't hear it, looking up at the various stadium screens to see if the kiss cams were still on you. smirking in satisfaction when he realises they are, rin all but pulls you up from your seat and kisses you with so much intensity and fervour that you feel lightheaded. very much so.

the stadium is cheering but you can't focus on it, not when rin's holding you to him so closely, practically trying to meld you to him. not even trying to push him away is enough to snap him out of whatever primal instinct has taken over him, so you grab his face and jerk away from him, not wanting to get too carried away.

before you can utter a word, rin looks behind you, and the coldness in his expression says everything you need to know.

he doesn’t care about dignity at this point. he just needed the world to know that you were his.

"you're dead if you try that again, you lukewarm fuckface," he then turns to you. you shiver from the intensity of his gaze. "i'll kill him next time," he promises before hugging you close to him once again, practically glaring at the cameras. "i'll kill anyone who tries to get to close."

THANK YOU FOR THIS ANON would u believe me if i said i'd been waiting for an opportunity like this? well i'm speaking the truth and i'm so glad u gave me the opportunity i've been waiting for AYEEEEEEE COME BACK ANY TIME YOU ARE SO WELCOME ON THE EARTHTOOZ BLOG, PRETTY <33

—

#this was so short #but i took the idea and ran with it tbh #UNEDITED LMFAOOOOO #OOO jumpscare #itoshi rin x reader #rin x reader #itoshi rin #blue lock x reader #*ੈ✩‧₊˚ earf's ideas that i'll never write #earf's itoshi rin rambles

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moralesmilesanhour · 4 months

Text

piece of cake

summary: meeting miles g at a bakery, and other happenings. wc: 3k+ warning: blood, grief (more at the periphery, not a major theme), and lightly implied mommy issues a/n: ngl i was hungry asf when i wrote this. why can't i ever write normal fluff fics anymore. first fic of 2024!!

Brooklyn Middle is closed for winter break. The basketball court where the snow-covered hoop no longer has a net is empty, save for the blinking Christmas lights strung across the chain-link fence.

In a few years, the pizza place across the street where students would linger after school will be demolished, replaced by a shiny new Oscorp building that reflects the sun from all angles of its glass exterior. But for now, the place is just closed early for the holidays, a few blocks away from a bakery.

The tall, bear-like frame of a father dressed in a long black overcoat can be seen entering with a wiry young boy in a red hoodie and bomber jacket tailing close behind. He has an afro as opposed to his father’s closely-cropped hair. The boy keeps trying to straighten his posture - as if his spine would suddenly lengthen and his shoulders would broaden from the act alone. He wants to make himself look important today, because he is on a top-secret mission:

Operation: Get Mom a Cake.

“I think mom’ll like that one.”

The boy points at a slice of tres leches cake sitting behind a glass display. It’s not as flashy as the other decorative cakes drizzled with chocolate and strawberries or encased in pink frosting, but those wouldn’t melt on the tongue the way tres leches did.

His father raised an eyebrow at the plain slice, but the boy looked at him with a certainty that he’d never seen before, through eyes nearly identical to his mother’s. The man knew then that he was getting an expert opinion.

“Alright, if you say so,” he chuckled, adjusting his glasses. “We’ll take that one, Val.”

The boy smiled proudly at the older woman as she handed him the pink box containing the cake. Mission accomplished.

Now, he looks up and frowns at the Oscorp building blocking the view of where his old school used to be as he picks at a slice of cake with a plastic fork.

The ‘Employees Only’ door behind the counter swings open, and Valeria Cruz hobbles out, removing her apron.

“It’s almost your shift, Miles, hurry up and finish that cake.”

Miles takes one more bite before rising from his seat near the entrance and pushing the paper plate and half-eaten slice into a small trash can.

“You got it, Miss V.”

“Did you take out the trash?”

He pauses, and his eyes widen.

“I’mma get that done right now, Miss V!”

The woman sighs, running a hand through gray and white-streaked curls as the teen sprints out the door and back outside.

A forest green puffer jacket rushes past you on the sidewalk. It’s the same one you had seen shuffling out of the back entrance of Val’s bakery the other morning, lugging two black garbage bags with a purple hoodie obscuring the stranger’s face.

He probably works there, then, you think. Good. She could use the help.

The place had been packed the week before Officer Morales’ funeral, and for several weeks after. But over time, business began to slow down to a trickle. Hipster cafés and towering condos sprang up and choked out the little pizza shops and restaurants that took their owners’ last names, like when an invasive species of plant grows taller than the local varieties and smothers them, blocking out the sun.

You had been seeing Val’s face since you were in diapers. Families used to go there for birthdays, for elementary school graduations, middle school graduations - or sometimes just to grab something sweet to eat after church on Sundays. You continued the tradition–even if just to buy a tiny bag of cookies–in the hopes that the place might still be standing for your high school graduation.

The bell above the door rings to signal your entrance. The once baby pink wallpaper has begun to fade, but the late-afternoon sun makes it feel as vibrant as it did when you were twelve. Valeria is standing in front of the display of freshly-baked pastries with her apron folded neatly over her arm.

“Oh, were you about to close up shop?” You begin to take backward steps. “I can come back later–”

“No, no, sweetie, it’s fine!” The woman waves her hand, beckoning you to stay. “I was just about to go on my lunch break. I have someone about to take over for me.”

“It’s cool, I can wait. I saw somebody taking out the trash, that him?”

She sighs wearily, “That’s him, alright. He’s a good kid, but he’s always–”

“Sorry I’m late!”

In rushes Mr. Green Jacket through a chilly gust of wind, who turns to nod in greeting towards you before weaving past Val and behind the counter, where he disappears through the ‘Employees Only’ door.

“That boy, I swear. Never on time!”

He reappears sans the jacket, wearing a white apron identical to the one Val is holding. The name tag on it reads ‘Miles’.

Miles. Where have you heard that name before…?

The hood on his sweater is no longer pulled over his head, revealing two neat cornrows that cascade all the way down his neck. The surrounding hair has been shaved and faded at the nape of his neck and hairline. He’s the sort of brown-skinned that looks golden when the sunlight hits his face as he approaches the cash register.

“You gonna be alright for the next half hour?” asked Val with an eyebrow raised.

Miles drummed his fingers on the counter and grinned. “Yup, I got it.”

“Don’t destroy anything while I’m gone!”

“I won’t, promise.”

She pushes the door open with a skeptical look and leaves.

With this new stranger temporarily in charge, you carefully approach the counter. He looks up at you with curious brown eyes.

“Whatchu want?”

“Um…” you blink before remembering what you were here for. “Just sugar cookies, please.”

“How many?”

“Five.”

He turns to grab a paper bag, then bends to drop the desired amount of cookies into it with the pair of tongs that sit on the inside of the display.

“If you don’t mind my asking, what school you go to? I haven’t seen you around here before, feel like I’d remember you if I had.”

Miles pops his head over the counter and tilts his head with a cheeky grin.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

You avoid eye contact, shifting from one foot to the other. Suddenly it’s not so cold anymore.

“I-I don’t know. You just seem memorable.”

He laughs a raspy, breathy laugh and hands you the bag of cookies over the counter. His hand is much larger than yours with slender fingers at the end of it, but still manages to appear almost clumsy-looking. Big enough to be a man’s, but with only half the dexterity.

“I go to Visions.”

“Fancy. You like it over there?”

“It’s aight. Kinda uptight, but my dad always said it was a ‘good opportunity’, so I stayed.”

You hum in consideration.

“Can't do everything for your parents, though. They'll have you living their dreams before you know it.”

The smile fades a bit, and Miles averts his gaze.

“Well my dad passed, so I just figured I’d just do this one thing for him.”

You cover your mouth with your palm.

“I'm so sorry, I–”

“It's fine,” he snorts without any humor. “You might be the only one that doesn't know who my daddy is. Kind of a relief.”

Miles encloses the money you just gave him in the slot beneath the cash register with a loud snap.

“You need anything else?”

You chew on your bottom lip in embarrassment and clutch your bag of cookies.

“No. Thank you.”

He doesn’t look up from the register.

“Have a nice day.”

Your mother is leaning on the window sill, nibbling on a granola bar when you get back home. She’s silent, which means she is observing. You’ll need to tread carefully.

“I brought cookies.”

She gives you a sidelong glance.

“Val’s cookies?”

“Yup, same as always.”

“That lady still working there all by herself?”

“She hired somebody to help out, actually - I saw a boy working the register.”

She notices the upward inflection in your voice at the mention of a boy, which interests her more than the cookies.

“What’s he look like?”

“He’s got, um,” you make a gesture over your head. “Twin braids–cornrows–and a green jacket? Kinda tall, too.”

Your mother nods, thoughtful. The description rings a bell, but she needs to confirm.

“You catch his name?”

“Miles, I think.”

“Lord,” she gasps, fully turning to face you. “That’s that Morales boy! I used to work with his momma, bless her heart. Barely saw his face after the funeral.”

The image of Miles’ face at the mention of his dad makes you cringe at your comment earlier. How could you not recognize him? He practically stole his face from the mural that was plastered above the precinct. You had only heard the boy’s name uttered once by your mother over the phone at 2:00 A.M., whispered like a secret.

“I can’t imagine how it must be for Miles. Didn’t he just get into that nice school down there? Of course they’ll have to let him go home. He should be with his mother.”

“He was such a sweet little boy. Then I saw him the other day?”

She shook her head, “Look like a different person. He had them flashy studs in his ears, nose pierced and everything.”

She wrinkles her nose. “Wouldn’t be surprised if he had tattoos under that coat as well. Damn shame.”

“He seemed nice when I saw him,” you remark quietly in a weak attempt to defend his character, despite having known him for all of five minutes. “Sweet, like you said.”

Your mother’s face hardens, all of her attention now focused on you as she folds the wrapping of the granola bar.

“That’s why you’re not bringing no boys home ‘till you’re eighteen,” she sharply reminds you. “‘Seems nice’ - How you know if he’s really nice or not?”

Again, Miles’ face appears in your mind’s eye. He didn’t seem to want your pity - rejected it, even. And what of his apparent chronic lateness?

Still…

“You don’t know that, either,” you say despite yourself. “I spoke to him while I was there.”

Your mother’s eyes narrow.

“Girl, I know that look. I better not see you runnin’ around with that boy, understand me?”

She looks set on not changing her mind now, so you only nod in defeat.

“Yes, ma’am.”

In your head, you’re already making plans to hit up the bakery tomorrow - both to apologize and to see the sun kissing Miles’ face again. Maybe tomorrow he’d even have the piercings in.

But when you get there the next day under the guise of ‘a trip to the corner store’, Miles isn’t at the register.

The sky has turned a pale shade of gray, and it has begun to drizzle. Pulling your navy blue coat tightly around you, you consider turning back around when–

Boom!

The sound of something hitting a trash can from behind the establishment catches your attention. It could be him taking out the trash at the last minute again.

Your assumption is proven only halfway correct.

Stepping over discarded boxes and tin cans, you find Miles doubled over, clutching his side. “Are you okay?”

Startled, bloodshot eyes glance at you before focusing on the ground.

“Fucking fantastic,” he grunts painfully.

As you get closer, you can see a dark stain blooming from where his hand is. A sick feeling swirls in your stomach.

“Oh my God, do you need me to call somebody?”

“Nah, I’m…I’m straight,” Miles says through labored breaths. “I just gotta…patch myself up before I get home.”

You whip out your phone and frantically unlock it.

“I’m calling an ambulance.”

“Hell no–”

“You are bleeding!”

He tilts his head towards a duffle bag lying near his feet.

“I got First Aid in there…that’ll do me just fine.”

When he tries to reach for the bag, his knees give out, causing him to collapse right next to it.

Miles shivers as you gingerly wrap white bandages around his waist, the flat expanse of skin on his stomach partially exposed to the elements. He fades in and out of consciousness, between your face and black nothingness. When he’s awake, he stares up at you in disbelief.

“I didn’t call 9-1-1, if that’s what you’re wondering,” you tell him with a grin. “This should stop the bleeding, but I can’t help you beyond that.”

“Wusyaname?” he mumbles, head lolling towards you. He’s on the brink of passing out again.

“Call me (Y/N).”

“Wasn’t gon’ call you anything else.”

“Shut up, I just saved your life.”

“Mmmm-hm,” Miles hums with a lazy smile that makes you wonder if he’s becoming delirious.

“Eeeeverybody loves sayin’ that. Everybody always…”

His eyelids get heavy before he can finish the thought, and he finally blacks out again in your lap.

There’s a short line inside the bakery that weekend, and you wonder if Miles has anything to do with it.

Word seemed to get around mysteriously fast that the former teenaged recluse had come out of hiding after that conversation (if you could even call it that) with your mother. From where you’re sitting–by the window, nibbling on a sugar cookie, observing–Miles does not seem to enjoy the attention.

Or maybe you’re just imagining the strained smile on his face as the line of customers becomes a Greek chorus of gasps and squeals.

“You got so big!”

“What did you do to your hair?”

“Oh, you look just like Jeff.”

“How’s Rio?”

“Good to see you out and about again.”

The sparkling curiosity is nearly drained from his face by the time he joins you at the end of his shift with a slice of cake. He does not have the fabled nose piercing in, but two diamond studs sparkle when the light hits them every time he moves his head.

“So?”

“So…?”

“Are you alright after I found you the other day? I saw you limping back there.”

Miles rolls his eyes.

“I’m fine. My mom’s literally a nurse. She got me straight.”

“What’d you tell her? Looked like you broke a rib.”

“Far as she’s concerned, I fell off my bike.”

“I’ve never seen you on a bike.”

“Doesn’t mean I don’t have one.”

You shrug. Touche.

“What did you have to say to me that was worth stalking me after my shift?”

“Stalking?”

“You buy the same thing every time, you think I ain’t notice?” Miles smirks, like a detective who’s just gotten a confession. “Who goes to a bakery and only gets cookies?”

“Lay off me, man, these are excellent,” you take another bite for emphasis. “Anyways, I actually came to apologize.”

His brows furrow in confusion. “For what?”

“For what I said the first time I saw you. I didn’t know you were that Miles.”

The corners of Miles’ lips pull downwards into a frown.

“That’s it?”

“Mm, well…”

You bite your lip by force of habit.

“I also wanted to talk to you again. Under better circumstances. That your favorite type of cake?”

Miles looks down at his plate when you point to it with your fork, as if he’s seeing it for the first time.

“Yeah, tres leches. What about it?”

“I dunno, I just always see you eating that and nothing else. Is there a reason?”

You expect to say something about the sweetness, or the texture, but instead he answers:

“It always tastes the same.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, like…” He puts down his fork and starts to construct an analogy in his head.

“It’s like when you see an ice cream truck. You run up to it before it drives off, and what do you ask for? First thing that pops into your head?”

“Vanilla?”

“Exactly. You could try one of the other ones, but what if it tastes like ass? Now you stuck eating something you don’t like–”

“And it’s a waste of money.”

“Exactly!” Miles laughs. “You get it. My mom makes fun of me because I’ve been eating the same thing since I was five. But it’s always good! And the same amount of good.”

“Can’t argue with that.”

You tap your nails on the table, thinking.

“But what if you find a new flavor that you really like?”

He shrugs, “Then lucky me, I guess. But that doesn’t tend to happen.”

“It could happen, though.”

He watches the strange way you eat. Slowly, teeth-first, as if you’re afraid to make a mess. It’s weirdly dainty, which makes him chuckle beneath his breath.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“Uh-uh, don’t do that. What’s so funny?”

Miles gives you that same head tilt again.

“It’s cute, the way you eat.”

Your hand freezes just as it’s about to lift another cookie to your mouth, and you stare at him blankly.

“That’s…”

He pauses too.

“...Weird, yeah. Sorry. I dunno why I said that.”

A beat of silence passes that’s so heavy with awkwardness, that the two of you can’t help but burst into poorly-stifled laughter.

You lean forward with your chin resting in your hand. “That’s fine. I kept coming here just to spy on you, so I guess I’m weird, too.”

“Ah, so you admit it!”

“Hey, if I wasn’t bein’ a total creep, you might’ve bled out next to the garbage dump. Val can’t lose a valuable employee, right?”

“If you put it that way.”

You can see the white of some of Miles’ teeth peeking out as he smiles. One of his canines is charmingly crooked, and sharper than the others. When the smile fades, he suddenly looks uncertain.

“Can I ask you a question this time?”

“Ask away.”

“Do you wanna make this,” he gestures between you, “like, a regular thing? Y’know, ‘meeting under better circumstances’.”

It’s your turn for a smile to spread across your face.

“We should. Whatever you did to end up bleeding out in the rain, I guess I’d be a witness now.”

“M-hm. Can’t have you yappin’ about that to my customers,” He plays along, then winks. “I’mma need your number too, just in case.”

Just before you reach for your phone in your pocket, you hear your mother’s voice in your head, casting a shadow over the whole thing and giving you pause.

All jokes aside, Miles had never explained what had landed him in that predicament behind the bakery in the first place. He’s always late. He lies to his mother. You’re about to lie to your mother.

But the sun is hitting his face again, and with the light bouncing off of his pupils, he looks like he couldn’t hurt a fly. The shadow remains at the corner of your eye. Just the corner.

You grin and hand him your phone.

“You got it. Just in case.”

#miles morales x reader #miles morales x black!reader #earth 42 miles x reader #earth 42 miles morales x reader #prowler!miles #moralesanhour

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bucksims · 10 months

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get to know a simmer

was tagged by @venriliz <3

show your wallpaper:

last song listened to: smooth criminal -- glee version.

currently reading: i wanna start reading inheritance games -- Jenniffer Lynn Barnes.

last movie: across the spider-verse (personal opinion: it was so goooood)

last show: marvel secret invasion

craving: filipino rice snack: suman (a filipino snack)

what are you wearing right now: jammies.

how tall are you: 5'2 my friend says im barely 5'1:'>

piercings: none yet;>

tattoo: none yet;>

glasses/contacts: none

last thing you ate: double fried chicken

favorite colour: dark shades of green and

current obsession: marvel

any pets? a cat:>

favorite fictional character: bucky barnes.

last place you've traveled: dallas, texas:p

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

tagging!!

@lynzishell -- @softuelle -- @angelgnome -- @softle0 -- @akitasimblr -- @fand0m-idi0t -- @arcadiaxgay -- @alinelie -- @d4isy-nukes -- @sims4thehoes -- @d-licates

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

luv, buck<3

#bucksims -- non-sim post #simblr #the sims 4 #sims 4 #sims4 #other simblrs

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galiccfinds · 10 months

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♡ get to know the simmer ♡

i just wanna do it bc i’m bored :)

also i tag everyone who read this, so yeah

✧ ✧ ✧ ✧

show your wallpaper:

pls don’t judge me but im really in love with them and with this screenie :’)

the last song you listened to:

currently reading:

im reading “pequena coreografia do adeus” by aline bei since march so……….

last movie:

a man called otto and i cried like a baby

last show:

breaking bad for like the 4th time 😭✊🏻 and currently im watching secret invasion heh

craving:

get a job…….

what are you wearing right now:

my snoopy pajamas

how tall are you:

5’2

piercings:

no :(

tattoos:

4 and i want mooore i have 5 actually what

glasses/contacts:

glasses unfortunately

last thing you ate:

peanut cookies and coffee with milk

favorite color:

i can’t choose so i asked my bf and he said: pastel tones specially pink, lilac and yellow. beige, earthy tones etc etc etc etc

current obsession:

creating sims 😭

any pets?

2 cats and 2 doggos

favorite fictional character:

i can only remember about anne shirley though i think i have other ones

last place you’ve traveled:

a small city near mine to a friend’s bday party

#simblr #non sims #i feel so boring rn omg #simmer tag

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idyllicsimmer · 11 months

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get to know a simmer tag

thank you so much @akitasimblr (aka auntie harper) for tagging me! i love these types of tags, they’re just so much fun!

show your wallpaper: my friend made me a summer mood board that i’m obsessed with! it’s my lock and home-screen cover.

last song you listened to: artemis by lindsey stirling

currently reading: a broken blade by melissa blair

last movie: i honestly can’t remember 😅 i don’t watch a lot of movies.

last show: marvel’s secret invasion

craving: weirdly, water💧it’s so humid here right now. and as always, sushi 🍱

what are you wearing right now: black crop tank and black lululemon pants … aiming for the cozy aesthetic 💕

how tall are you: 163 cm

piercings: ears, one whole in each

tattoos: not yet 😏

glasses/contacts: readers 🤓

last thing you ate: a protein bar

favourite colour: i can’t choose one! so pastel pink, sage green, and yellow/gold

current obsession: reading, which as been really nice since i was on a reading lull for a long time.

any pets: 2 adorable kitties😻😻

favourite fictional character: matilda (90s movie version) and winnie the pooh, always. some new favourite ones from some books i’ve read are wendall bambleby from “emily wilde’s encyclopaedia of fairies” and charlie lastra from “book lovers”.

last place you travelled: elora, a small and adorable town near my parents.

tag! @bakersimmer @estah @simopeia @shysimblr @peonypyxels

please feel free to ignore OR if you weren’t tagged, please feel free to do it anyways!

#get to know the simmer tag #tag game #ask meme #ask reply #ask response #ask #response

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ralturman · 11 months

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sliced raccoon? nope, just remake of Secret Invasion D+ poster for friend's Marvel fan group.

and wallpapers version for phone. 1080x1980 and 1080x2280

#rocket gotg #rocket raccoon #secret invasion #marvel #marvel mcu #guardians of the galaxy

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themarysuep · 2 years

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Ms Marvel episode 3: Spoiler-y Ramble

We got a mendhi and the wedding??? Plus a medley dance scene at the wedding? Yeh mera dil??? That was excellent. I absolutely loved all the wedding festivities. I liked that they included a bit about Aamir's financial situation, which is from the comics. I loved that Sana Amanat cameo'ed at the wedding!

So djinn and tonic huh? Uh the Clandestine/djinn reveal. I'll admit I'm a little disappointed and confused. Why would the show choose this path when Kamala is scheduled to appear on The Marvels? When the MCU is on the cusp of Secret Invasion? There's already been set pictures of her with the Kree. That would have tied together so well with her being an inhuman, or even just a hybrid for now. I also don't know how I feel about Kamala Khan being a djinn??? That's so... strange. It also doesn't fit with the MCU so there doesn't seem to be any reason for the change? I know there is more to the story. But how much more?? It's also really not making sense. Just some vague understanding that the planet may be destroyed if they open a portal? How does this portal fit with the larger MCU? Also why did Nimra Bucha say to remember that Najma means 'star'?

Ok.. onto my favorite part! We have a found a universe where Kamran doesn't betray Kamala at every turn! *squeal* I guess he doesn't have his cool powers but he does have some moves. I'm definitely team KamalaKamran. I'm sorry but Bruno needs to go to Caltech. I need one win on this show and it has to be a desi romance. But also that's all there is with Kamran? No powers and he didn't know about his mother?

Kamran arriving to save us from the white savior trope:

Nakia is a legend as always. I loved her standing up to the FBI. And I screamed when she found out about Kamala's powers. I'm so so so glad it happened so soon. Her wedding outfit was also just so beautiful. I'm so happy about her reaction and that she seemed upset Kamala didn't come to her and tell her. The agents stepping into the mosque with shoes?? Their disrespect towards ALL the Muslims. With all due respect this show does tackle Ismalaphobia but it is not the only thing it tackles and that's what makes it special.

I'm very excited to see Pakistan and what connection Laal Khanjeer has to everything.

Shout-out to Kamala and her wallpaper of Carol:

I've also just realized that N.I.C.E hasn't been formed yet?

For the millionth time I have to reiterate that this show is beautiful and has some of the most accurate representation of South Asian culture and religion that I've ever seen. I think those things make the show AMAZING and that the powers and origin is just secondary.

Edit: this hand is blue?? Like the Kree?

#kamala khan #ms marvel #marvel mcu #kamran #kamala x kamran #nakia bahadir #bruno carrelli #marvel shows #ms marvel spoilers

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peachy-ash · 7 months

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𝐥𝐨𝐜𝐤𝐬𝐜𝐫𝐞𝐞𝐧 𝐬𝐞𝐜𝐫𝐞𝐭 𝐢𝐧𝐯𝐚𝐬𝐢𝐨𝐧

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whiterabbitmemes · 3 years

Text

100 Days of Flash Fic Prompts

Time travel, a bookmark, the angel gabriel.

“He twisted his fate between his fingers…”

“There was a ring in his teacup…”

“Walking back home along the rim of the galaxy…”

“The dress spoke for her…”

A moth-craft, ether, a plant that tells your fortune.

“There were 48 000 gods in their mythology and not one…”

“We were going to have to find a locksmith.”

“Third Terra was going the way of First.”

“The kingdom was like a quilt.”

“The garden shrank at night.”

Lancelot,flannel,aeronautics.

An impulse buy leading to intergalactic warfare.

The underworld, a tea party, a lost jewel.

Write a story that begins and ends with a bicycle.

“Being painted wasn’t what she had expected.”

Someone goes to extreme lengths to return something he/she borrowed.

Myrmidon, roulette, opera-glasses used as a weapon.

“Smoke hung so thick in the library’s rafters that she could read words in it.”

A substance which generates ideas, a spy, 1 minute.

Invent a creation myth involving string and feathers.

“The letter lay untouched on his desk, its creases marked by dust.”

“When they were at war, everything was easy.”

The language of flowers, pyjamas, a secret passageway.

Steampunk sleeping beauty.

“His wife was having tea with the King and he didn’t even know about it.”

A glasshouse, romance between an entomologist and a doctor.

A party in an underwater world, sealace, a duel.

“The house was like nothing she’d ever seen before.”

An intermission, mistaken identity, a château.

A story entitled “The Fate of the Telegraph Operator.”

A light-tent, an actress, 2 worlds.

The story of how your parents met, transposed to the Victorian era.

A hungry ghost, a holiday, ice cream.

A sailor returning home finds his wife knows every detail of his life while he was away.

A potter, six pastries, a song on the radio.

Someone’s life takes on new meaning after they discover an unusual tree.

A scene from your favourite novel rewritten as a fight.

“She’d been coming here every day for four years, and there was never any work to do.”

A burglar, a bishop, piccalilli.

Something mundane seen for the first time.

“Teaching might seem like a strange occupation to choose, for someone who has never been to school.”

A balloon, a ball, balustrades.

A story about someone who is obsessed with marmalade.

A shy priestess, a weaver, rain.

A very bad day with a very good ending.

“How do you feel the day before you meet your soulmate?”

A language class for aliens.

“No one is too ordinary for our agency.”

Your favourite historical figure is in love with you.

A single lily, a cliff, 3 hours.

A literary one night stand.

A camel, a military crisis, shoestrings.

Where have you been?

“I wanted to stand and fight. He just wanted to finish his tea.”

A fashion faux-pas leading to untimely death.

“Is it true you took a bullet for my father?”

A war after which everyone comes back to life.

“She liked to fit people into the world like puzzle pieces.”

Mind controlling wallpaper creates happy ending.

“The colour of her blood was the least of my worries.”

A writer succeeds in writing a novel in a day, and remains terrifyingly sane.

An explorer with MPD, a widow, a house in the woods.

“The vision trembled and fell away like a cataract.”

A diary, a red setter, crinoline.

“Only after the third attempt had he become unhinged.”

“It was flowers.”

A random word: HTTP://WORDNIK.COM/RANDOM

Economy, a cable, a hostess.

A woman who uses her pet as a means to escape reality.

“He lay back in the snow.”

“Eavesdropping had become a habit that winter.”

Afire, a feather, a fan.

An invasive species leads to war.

“Winter was the only season we could be together.”

“She had looked straight into its eyes and said…”

Baklava, a manuscript, 2 servants.

“Have you ever been held in an interstellar zoo?”

Lavender, lust, leaping.

“They were between me and the exit.”

An artist’s studio, a stolen disc, grit.

“It was the most elegant breakfast.”

A lepidopterist meets his nemesis.

“Please shut the…”

A pottery painter, a barn, a strange message.

“It was the event horizon. There was no turning back.”

A dialogue between a conductor and his best friend.

Story sandwich.

Ballet, rooftop, flashback.

A mistake turns out beautifully.

“With the tip of his paintbrush, he soaked up one of my tears.”

Someone has lost an ability, someone else has gained one.

“I knew I’d found something crucial when…”

A plague, a piece of chalk, viridian.

“The bus stopped so suddenly that…”

An unfinished work of art, a mycologist, a sense of foreboding.

“The floor tasted like…”

Someone’s life’s work has vanished.

A gate left open, a bookshop, gold bars.

“What did the confectioner say?”

You decide to celebrate.

#writing prompts #fic prompts #prompt challenge #flash fic prompt #story prompt #writing prompt

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if-you-fan-a-fire · 4 years

Photo

“Perhaps 6 April 1989 will go down in history as the first 'designer drug raid'. As heavily armed and flak-jacketed SWAT commandoes stormed the alleged 'rock house' near 51 st and Main Street in Southcentral L.A., Nancy Reagan and Los Angeles Police Chief Daryl Gates sat across the street, nibbling fruit salad in a luxury motor home emblazoned 'THE ESTABLISHMENT'. According to the Times, the former first lady 'could be seen freshening her make-up' while the SWATs roughly frisked and cuffed the fourteen 'narco-terrorists' captured inside the small stucco bungalow. As hundreds of incredulous neighbors ('Hey, Nancy Reagan. She's over here in the ghetto!') gathered behind police barriers, the great Nay-sayer, accompanied by Chief Gates and a small army of nervous Secret Service agents, toured the enemy fortress with its occupants still bound on the floor in flabbergasted submission.

After frowning at the tawdry wallpaper and drug-bust debris, Nancy, who looked fetching in her LAPD windbreaker, managed to delve instantly into the dark hearts at her feet and declare: 'These people in here are·beyond the point of teaching and rehabilitating.' This was music to the ears of the Chief, whose occupation thrives on incorrigibility. 'Gates fairly beamed as television cameras pressed in: "We thought she ought to see it for herself and she did. ... She is a very courageous woman".'

It was a heck of a heavy date, even if Nancy's press secretary Mark Weinberg complained obnoxiously the next day about the media's failure to take better advantage of the photo opportunity. In the larger picture, however, Nancy Reagan - who had lived in Southern California for nearly fifty years - had made her first visit to the ghetto, and Chief Gates, who dreams of becoming governor, had his perfect drug bust. It was an easy victory in a drug 'war' that the LAPD secretly loves losing.

VIETNAM HERE

Tonight we pick 'em up for anything and everything. LAPD spokesman (9 April 1988)

Flashback to the previous April. A thousand extra-duty patrolmen, backed by elite tactical squads and a special anti-gang taskforce, bring down the first act of 'Operation HAMMER' upon ten square miles of Southcentral Los Angeles between Exposition Park and North Long Beach, arresting more Black youth than at any time since the Watts Rebellion of 1965. Like a Vietnam-era search-and-destroy mission - and many senior police are proud Vietnam veterans - Chief Gates saturates the street with his 'Blue Machine', jacking up thousands of local teenagers at random like so many surprised peasants. Kids are humiliatingly forced to 'kiss the sidewalk' or spread-eagle "against police cruisers while officers check their names against computerized files of gang members. There are 1,453 arrests; the kids are processed in mobile booking centers, mostly for trivial offences like delinquent parking tickets or curfew violations. Hundreds more, uncharged, have their names and addresses entered into the electronic gang roster for future surveillance.

Gates, who earlier in the year had urged the 'invasion' of Colombia (in 1980 he offered Jimmy Carter the LAPD SWAT team to liberate the hostages in Tehran), derided civil libertarian protests: 'This is war ... we're exceedingly angry .... We want to get the message out to the cowards out there, and that's what they are, rotten little cowards - we want the message to go out that we're going to come and get them.' To reinforce the metaphor, but meaning it literally, the chief of the DA's Hardcore Drug Unit added: 'This is Vietnam here.’

The 'them' - what a local mayor calls 'the Viet Cong abroad in our society' - are the members of local Black gangs, segmented into several hundred fighting 'sets' while loosely aligned into two hostile super-gangs, the 'Crips' and the 'Bloods' - universally distinguished, as every viewer of Dennis Hopper's Colors now knows, by their color-coding of shoelaces, T-shirts and bandannas (red for Bloods, blue for Crips). In the official version, which Hollywood is incessantly reheating and further sensationalizing, these gangs comprise veritable urban guerrilla armies organized for the sale of crack and outgunning the police with huge arsenals of Uzi and Mac-10 automatics. Although gang cohorts are typically hardly more than high-school sophomores, local politicians frequently compare them to the 'murderous militias of Beirut'.

Across town, or increasingly in Southcentral itself, there is another large, traditional constituency of Latino gang membership, frequently depicted in the same lurid images. Indeed the primary focus of gang hysteria in the 1970s was the rising violence amongst the third generation of East L.A. vatos locos. But a major community counter-offensive, unabetted by the police, and led instead by priests, parents and gang veteranos appealing to 'Chicano unity', managed to dramatically reduce Eastside gang killings from 24 in 1978 to zero in 1988. A major recrudescence of Latino gang warfare in recent days may be directly attributable to new liaisons with the crack trade.

If anything made ghetto turf rivalries so much more deadly than the Eastside's during the 1980s, it was the incomparably higher economic stakes involved in control of the retail cocaine trade. 'Gangbangin', rose in a murderous arc from 1984 in rough synchronization with the emergence of crack as the narcotic equivalent of fast food and the rerouting of the main cocaine trail from Florida to Southern California via Mexico. Since the beginning of 1987, 'gang-related' slayings, principally in Southside city and county areas, have averaged over one per day.

This very real epidemic of youth violence, with its deep roots (as we shall see) in exploding youth poverty, has been inflated by law enforcement agencies and the media into something quite phantasmagoric. In a numbers game that ceases to distinguish the authentic 'high rollers' and 'stone killers' of the gang world from the 'claimers' and 'wannabees', the city attorney's office has steadily escalated its estimates of hard core gang membership from 10,000 to 50,000. Local media have amplified this figure to 70,000- 80,000, while Sheriff's 'gang experts' have invoked the spectre of 100,000 'rotten little cowards' overrunning Los Angeles County. Meanwhile an Andromeda Strain of Crips and Bloods is reported to have infected the entire West, from Tucson to Anchorage, before invading Middle America itself (with new sightings from Kansas City to Buffalo).

Like the Tramp scares in the nineteenth century, or the Red scares in the twentieth, the contemporary Gang scare has become an imaginary class relationship, a terrain of pseudo-knowledge and fantasy projection. But as long as the actual violence was more or less confined to the ghetto, the gang wars were also a voyeuristic titillation to white suburbanites devouring lurid imagery in their newspapers or on television. Then in December 1987 frisson became fear as Southside gang hitmen mistakenly gunned down a young woman outside a theater in the posh Westwood Village entertainment district near UCLA. Westwood's influential merchants, who had recently induced the LAPD to enforce curfew ordinances to repel nonwhite youth from the Village, clamored for extra police protection, while local Council member Zev Yaroslavsky, then essaying a Koch-like challenge to Mayor Bradley, posted a huge reward for apprehension of the 'urban terrorists'.

The dramatically different press coverage of, and preferential police response to, the Westwood shooting ignited the simmering resentment of Black community leaders, who blasted Yaroslavsky, Bradley and the LAPD for failing to respond comparably to the mayhem in their neighborhoods. For several weeks the council chambers resounded to an arcane debate over relative police response times in different divisions and the comparative allocations of department personnel. This ideologically circumscribed and loaded debate, focusing exclusively on the demand for a more equal and vigorous prosecution of the war against gangs, was a cue for the ambitious and media-hungry Chief to reclaim center-stage.” - Mike Davis, City of Quartz: Excavating the Future in Los Angeles. Photographs by Robert Morrow. New York: Vintage, 1992. pp. 267-271.

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irfanansari01-blog · 4 years

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marvelousbirthdays · 5 years

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Happy Birthday, sarratorrens

April 13-Sam & Bucky after CW AU: "What did you say?" Platonic soulmates for @sarratorrens

Written by @iamartemisday

When it was all over, from the fighting to the politics to the alien invasions, they finally sat down and talked about it.

“You’re an asshole.” Sam had no interest in dancing around the issue. Good. Neither did Bucky.

“I’m not the one who wouldn’t move his seat.” Bucky eyed Sam’s shoulder, where those fateful words from that fateful car trip had been inked by the universe in silver writing.

Sam adjusted his shirt, even though the words were already covered. “I’m not the one who rips steering wheels out of cars.”

“I said I was sorry.”

“I loved that car.”

“You can buy another one.”

“Would you say that to a mother who lost a child?”

Bucky massaged his forehead. This was worse than trying to stop Steve from jumping out of planes without a parachute. “You know what? Fine. Have it your way.”

He stalked out of the room, not caring in the slightest if Sam watched him go. He definitely didn’t look back.

He didn’t want some dumb platonic soulmate anyway.

Two days later, his brand new box of Rice Krispies went missing.

It was Sam. He had no evidence, no witnesses, and no clear motive, but it was absolutely Sam.

When Steve didn’t believe him because Sam was such a stand-up guy who’d never steal, Bucky took matters into his own hands. He picked the lock to Sam’s apartment and walked in to find him at the kitchen table, the offending box of cereal right there in plain view as he enjoyed a crackling bowl.

“That’s mine,” Bucky said, making use of his ‘soldat’ voice as Natasha liked to call it.

Unlike a trainee or Peter Parker, Sam was entirely unmoved. “We’re soulmates. Soulmates share.”

“We’re also human beings. Human beings ask before they take things. Otherwise, their spines get broken.”

“Nobody’s stopping you from having somel.” Sam gestured with his head at the empty seat pulled out as if in wait of him. “Go ahead. I dare you.”

Bucky snatched up his cereal box and knocked the milk carton to the floor for good measure. White liquid spilled everywhere. It would take Sam all morning to clean it up.

For the moment, Bucky was satisfied.

He woke up from a nap with a photo stuck to his metal arm. Attached with a kitchen magnet. It was one of those New York skyline magnets they sold at souvenir shops in Times Square. Bucky hated those things.

The photo was of Sam’s hand flipping him off. How childish.

Bucky dropped his pants and Sam’s phone was soon graced with the image of his perfect ass. That’ll show him.

Sam’s redwings malfunctioned in a battle against a terrorist cell holding an investment bank hostage. Instead of attacking the bad guys, they staged a mutiny. While Sam batted them away, Bucky dispatched all seven terrorists with ruthless efficiency. Every single one of them was an amateur. They couldn’t even aim right. Why the Avengers had been called when a rookie with a donut in his hand could’ve handled it was beyond him.

The headlines the next day were awesome.

WHITE WOLF DEFEATS TERRORISTS. RESCUES TEAMMATE.

“You still haven’t thanked me for saving your ass,” Bucky grinned at Sam as he dropped another copy of the paper onto his lap (there were seven hundred more stashed away in his closet to wallpaper Sam’s bedroom with later).

Sam had the eyes of a hungry leopard. “What did you do to my babies?”

Bucky gasped. “Are you accusing me of sabotaging your equipment to embarrass you on a mission? I can’t believe you think so little of me.”

“I can’t believe suck my dick,” Sam snapped, crumpling up the paper and throwing it at Bucky’s head. To his credit, he made the shot.

“No can do. After that horrible offense, I don’t even want to be in the same room as you. Goodbye, dear platonic soulmate of mine.”

Bucky departed to a cacophony of bad language.

“Hey there! Any superheroes around? I need some new photos for my album.”

It was a curly haired young woman with glasses and a hat. Bucky had never seen her before, so he figured she was one of those new ‘consultants’ Steve was telling him about. They were getting two: a physicist and an administrative assistant. This girl didn’t look like either of those things, but as this was a private lounge no visitors should have access to, he wouldn’t call security just yet.

“Hi,” he said, waving her over. “I’m Bucky, I-”

“I know you!” She skipped over and shook his hand. That was the idea anyway. If she hadn’t grabbed the metal one he’d worry about his shoulder dislocating. “Bucky Barnes, Winter Soldier, White Wolf. So many names, dude. You need to consolidate. I’m Darcy Lewis, intern and assistant extraordinaire. You may have heard of me.”

“Vaguely,” Bucky took his arm back as quickly and politely as he could. “I knew you were coming, but-”

“Yeah, this is way more exciting than when I went to New Mexico to be Jane’s assistant.” She flopped down on the couch like this was her own apartment. “Not that New Mexico can’t be fun if you’re in a place like Albuquerque, but we were in a real dust bowl. Actually, a dust bowl would’ve been good. This was like a dust bowl within a dust bowl. I remember this one time I had to charge my phone, and-”

Thirty minutes later

“I say to the guy, ‘I don’t care about your grandmother’s bowel movements, just pay me five bucks so I can go. And then he gave me the money and I bought a new charger, and I could finally charge my phone.” Darcy took the first breath Bucky had seen her take. “And then there was the time I had to get Jane a new battery for her laptop.”

“You know what? I just remembered I have to be somewhere right now.” Bucky shot off the couch like it was on fire. “Somewhere important… but you know, that was a really great story you were telling. I have this buddy, Sam Wilson, and I bet he’d love to hear it.”

“You mean the Falcon?” Darcy’s eyes lit up. “He’s my favorite! No offense.”

“None taken.” He entered Sam’s number into her phone, along with his apartment number and other relevant information.

“I’ll just pop on over and say hi.” She raced out the door, only to poke her head back in seconds later. “Almost forgot. Say cheese!”

Bucky did not say cheese and he didn’t smile. Darcy took the picture anyway.

“Nice,” she said, tapping a few buttons. “Friend me on Facebook. I’ll tag you.”

When she was gone and beautiful silence was restored, Bucky fell on the couch in a dead faint.

‘Have a good time, Sammy,’ he thought evilly.

Bucky went back to his apartment and ate dinner while waiting for the obligatory threatening text message he was sure to receive at any moment. By noon the next day, it still hadn’t come.

A full twenty-four hours after Bucky unleashed the Chatty Cathy horror that was Darcy upon an unsuspecting Sam, his phone finally went off. Sam had sent him a photo. It was of him with Darcy in his lap, kissing his cheek. There was writing on her neck he hadn’t seen before. It looked like the singular ‘no’ on his bicep.

‘Thanks for finding her for me.’

Bucky crushed the phone.

‘Just great,’ he thought later on after failing to fix his ruined phone. ‘Now I need to buy a new one and Sam is one up on me. I can’t believe that guy. Here I was trying to make peace with him, and all he wants to do is be a two-year-old kicking sand in my face. Un-fucking-real. Of all the people I have to be destined for. I don’t even want to think about what my romantic soulmate will be like.’

He stepped outside and ran straight into a petite figure, stopping his train of thought. The woman, soft where he was solid, bounced off him like a ping pong ball. She was no bigger than Steve before the serum, and some long-buried protective instincts rose to the surface as he bent over her.

“Jesus, I am so sorry. Let me help you.”

“I’m fine,” she said, pushing the hair out of her eyes. “Should’ve looked where I was going. I always do that.”

She got up using his arm as leverage. Bucky would’ve helped properly, but her words were burning in his brain and on his back. He stared at her like an idiot, like he hadn’t been lectured by his father every day on what to do when this day came. Something about being a gentleman and inviting her to dinner which he had to pay for. Maybe that last part was different with the modern day’s more egalitarian attitude towards dating, but at the very least, he shouldn’t be staring so much. Or at all.

“Sorry,” she said nervously, hands stuffed in her pockets. “I’m Jane Foster, I think you know my friend, Darcy.”

Bucky nodded. “Uh huh…”

Jane bit her lip. “She told me I should come and talk to you. I’m not sure why... actually, did I just say your-”

“Soulmate words,” he said with her. “Yeah, I… I think you did.”

He took Jane’s hand and squeezed it. Not too tight, just enough to feel her warmth. She squeezed right back and suddenly, the day was a little brighter.

It became easy to avoid Sam. He just had to spend all his free time with Jane. Getting to know her, learning about her research, taking her on long walks through the park, kissing her in the moonlight, making her cry out his name in ecstasy under the sheets.

He barely thought of Sam for a whole month. If they worked together, they didn’t speak unless it was mission critical. Nobody knew about their secret bond as of yet. Steve chalked the animosity up to stress and never tried playing mediator. For Christmas, Tony gifted them a ‘get-along’ shirt, which was promptly stolen by Jane and used as a sweat rag while she performed maintenance on her weather machines.

It was, shockingly enough, she who breached the topic two days after he and Sam took down a suicide bomber and only got the bomb dismantled with four seconds to go.

“Look, it’s not that simple,” Bucky said, pressing an ice pack to his head. He wasn’t in pain anymore, but with the cold came numbness. He needed some of that right now. “I’ve been trained in a lot of things, but diffusing bombs is not one of them. We got it in the end.”

“Yeah, barely,” Jane said, turning a wrench way harder than she needed to. “If you’d been one second late, we wouldn’t be having this conversation right now. Because you’d be dead. You understand that, right?”

Bucky did realize it, and it really sucked. He never wanted to be one of those guys who complained about ‘nagging girlfriends’, especially when Jane had every reason to be mad at him. He just… really didn’t want to have this conversation.

“What do you want me to do?”

Jane dropped the wrench and took a seat on the table. She was so light, it barely squeaked under her weight.

“Darcy told me you and Sam were arguing the whole time,” she puts a hand on his face, making him meet her gaze. “That’s why you were having problems.”

“He’s an idiot.”

“He’s your partner. And your soulmate.”

“You’re my soulmate.”

“Look, I know romantic and platonic soulmates aren’t the same thing, but they’re not so different either.” Jane wrapped her arms around him, moving from the table to his lap. “Most people don’t even have one soulmate, let alone two. People like us… we’re basically born with an emotional support system already laid out for us, and that’s not something to run away from.”

Bucky furrowed his brow. “Us? You have a platonic mark, too?”

The non-sequitur bugged her. He could tell without her saying anything. She pulled back her hair to show him the words behind her ear. It was such a small space, no wonder he’d never noticed before.

“Man this place is hot as balls. How do you even stand it?” he read, a grin forming. “Darcy, huh?”

Jane giggled. “The first few weeks were the worst. We couldn’t agree on anything. She drove me so nuts I had to sleep on the roof by the firepit.”

That didn’t sound right. Bucky had seen them together a bunch of times (without Sam of course) and those girls couldn’t be closer if they were sisters.

She seemed to read his mind. “We needed time to get where we are now, and I think you can have the same thing with Sam if you try.”

“He won’t try,” Bucky said. “He’s hated me from the start. Not that I blame him. We didn’t meet under the best circumstances.”

“None of that was your fault, Bucky. Sam knows that.”

“Does he?”

“Yes.” Jane touched her forehead to his. “I know I can’t force you to talk to him, but at least think about it. Because deep down, I think you guys do care about each other, or this wouldn’t be hurting you so much.”

“It’s not,” he said, even though lying to her felt worse than a punch to the chest.

“Just promise me you’ll be civil with him. You know, so you don’t get blown up.”

“I promise,” Bucky mumbled. Then he buried his face in the crook of her neck where he could forget all his troubles.

Sam was in the lounge, which sucked because it should’ve been empty this time of day.

Bucky was only there because he had no bad guys to fight and Jane wouldn’t be back from her meeting for another half hour. With nothing else to do, he’d hoped to get a nap in and maybe watch some TV. Instead, he found the bane of his existence resting in a recliner (the one Bucky usually sat in of course) reading a book and pretending to be dead to the world.

Which he wasn’t. Bucky knew that because his hands tensed and his breathing sped up as Bucky made a spot for himself on the couch.

The TV was in the corner and the remote within reach. He should’ve turned it on, but he didn’t. He grabbed a magazine off the coffee table. Nobody knew why Tony kept them when nobody ever read them. When asked, he’d only say it was for aesthetic purposes. Whatever that meant.

“So…” he licked his lips. “Nice weather we’re having.”

“Yeah,” said Sam.

“Pretty warm for March. Must be that climate change thing I keep hearing about.”

“Right.”

Bucky rolled his shoulders. Sam scratched his nose. They continued their reading as Bucky found himself on the same sentence six times. Every few seconds, his eyes flicked to Sam, searching for the slightest shift in expression. He soon gave up on the illusion of reading and set the magazine down.

He was ready to just leave, but if he didn’t say his peace, Jane would never let him hear the end of it. Best to get it over with and then go back to their mutual denial of each other’s existence.

Bucky took a breath-

“I’m sorry, okay?”

-and released it. Hard. His chest hurt now. “What did you say?”

Sam groaned like repeating himself was worse than the labors of Hercules. “You heard me. I’m sorry. I’ve been acting like a jerk and being unfair, so I’m sorry. I promise not to do it again.”

Bucky appraised him, his pursed lips and tight posture, like he was reciting lines for a play. “Did Darcy put you up to this?”

“You bet she did.” Sam returned to his book. He appeared to be on the wrong page. “Jane put you up to it?”

“She wants us to make up and get along because that’s what soulmates do. Did you know she and Darcy are platonic?”

“Yeah, I saw the mark.”

Bucky sighed and rubbed his face. “They’re not going to let it go until we make up for real.”

“Eh, they’ll get bored.”

“No we won’t!” Darcy and Jane stuck their heads out from behind the kitchen counter. Jane’s cursed as she realized they were caught and forced Darcy down. “Uh… I mean, pay no attention to the women next to the fridge. Carry on as you were”

Sam rolled his eyes but couldn’t hold back a grin. Neither could Bucky.

“I guess we could try,” he said. “Make a fresh start or some shit.”

“We could also do nothing,” said Sam.

“You could also sleep on that couch for a month,” Darcy snapped. “You, too, Bucky.”

“That’s not up to you, Lewis.”

“Bucky,” Jane said in her rarely used but deadly ‘I’m pissed’ voice. “Couch.”

Sam and Bucky looked at each other. They both knew how this was going to end, no point in delaying it. Bucky curled his fingers, then relaxed them. He held his hand out to Sam. “Hi, I’m Bucky. I’m your platonic soulmate. Nice to meet you.”

Sam looked at his hand like it was covered in mud, then took it anyway. “Sam Wilson. Nice to meet you, too.”

They shook and, somewhere in the back of Bucky’s mind where he never ventured, he was actually kind of glad for the semi-truce. Maybe one day, they really could have a nice friendship the way fate intended. Darcy and Jane certainly thought so. They came out of hiding, Darcy already with her phone out.

“This is gonna be my new Facebook header.” She motioned at Sam. “Come on, Sammy, let’s do this.”

He stood reluctantly and let Bucky put an arm around him.

“Sammy, huh?”

“Shut the hell up.”

They smiled for the camera. The photo proudly adorned Darcy’s page for the next few months. And of course, they’d given each other bunny ears.

#sam and bucky #sam wilson #Bucky Barnes #soulmate au #platonic soulmates

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queerspeculativefiction · 5 years

Text

Don’t forget to buy milk

Was talking on the discord about old writing in the first person and went and re-read some stuff and still kinda fond of bits in this one even though it’s hella old and clunky.

Story under the cut.

The stairs make a sound when I walk on them like a puppy whimpering from its master's kick. Did it always creak like that? I can't remember, like I can't remember yesterday, my brain stuck on repeat.

I am following old notes like a guide to a past I had quite forgotten. Little scrawled maps to dark corners and kicked puppies. I should never have come back here.

...

The phone call had come a week ago. A voice on a distant line giving condolences I did not need. He was dead. An accident. Gone. The shadows of memory turning into just shadows, now forever unconnected with reality. No more.

I didn't cry at the funeral. I stood there in stony silence, watching the coffin being lowered. Just me and the priest and some curious bystanders. I stood there and I did not cry, and then I went back to the house. This house. My house. The house he had lived in. That I had lived in a long time ago.

Ten years. Was that a long time? String enough moments together and you can convince yourself it is a lifetime. Walk enough steps and you can fool yourself into thinking they can never be retraced. Look up at the sky and it is still the same moon, staring unblinkingly down at both of you.

...

I slept in my old room that night. The bed was still there, the covers dusty like everything else. Had he just left this room alone? Untouched. Was he hoping I would come back somehow? The thought made me sad, even though I didn't want to grieve. Hate is easier than sorrow. Had he missed me after I had gone? Had there been a hole in his life?

When I woke up in the morning, the mirror was broken. Had it been broken when I went to sleep last night? Had I got out of the bed, sleepwalking, smashing my own hated reflection? There was no blood on my hands. Such a kind lie. My eyes stared back at me, my face faceted as if viewed through the eyes of a fly.

There were no flies here. I always remembered flies, buzzing in the heat of the summer, but this was winter and they lay dead on the window sills. Mummified little corpses. Dirty windows. Someone had drawn symbols on it, happy little suns and trees and houses. No dog. No people. Someone had written 'mommy I miss you' and the fingers were too large for mine. I didn't dare to compare too closely, fearing that I would be caught in the glass, a reflection haunting a deserted past.

...

I found the first note in the bathroom, it simply said 'remember'. The handwriting was mine. I pulled it down and wrote the words again below it to compare. The same pen even, the common bic blue. I didn't remember writing it, and I didn't remember what I was supposed to remember.

The milk in the fridge had gone off. The carton smelled like murder when I opened it, curdling milk like vomit as I poured it into the sink and rinsed the carton. Had it been off when I bought it? The note on the fridge said 'buy milk' and it was my handwriting again. I should go and buy milk, but it was raining outside and that always made him anxious.

He's not here anymore. I need to remember that. He is dead and the house is mine alone. I do not need to lock the doors anymore, but I do anyway, each frame of wood a barrier between me and the past. Barriers breaking down. Some locks have scratches around them, little gouges made by screwdrivers and scissors. The paint scratched. But the house is old and the wood is solid and holds its secrets.

...

I hear the handle rattle in the night and scream myself awake in the abandoned darkness. Nobody to hear. Nobody at the locked door. Everything is quiet but my panicked heartbeats. I turn on the bedside lamp and the bed is filled with notes. Little yellow post-its scrabbled with messages. Little reminders to a past I would forget.

'Lock the doors,' one of them said. 'He can Hear you breathe,' said another. I crumpled the rest without reading, turning them into a yellow ball of advice and accusations. 'How Dare you Bitch,' still stuck on my retinas. How did I dare?

I didn't want to die. That was the simple truth of it. I didn't want to die, and eventually I realized that if I stayed, I would. So I did the only thing I could and left. Washed my hands of my past and my mistakes, trying not to remember. Vowing never to come back.

But I remember now. And I have come back.

...

'The CELLAR.' the note had said, left on the bathroom mirror, now smashed like the others. The house kept breaking around me, one piece at a time until I was no longer sure whether it had always been that way. The wallpaper in the living room now hung like shredded skin, revealing the childlike drawings beneath it. They had never truly covered them, in the right light the red shapes still shone through, like butter stains on cloth. Now they were revealed in all their hideous glory.

Hate is easier than grief but how do you hate your own flesh? Your own blood? Worse, how do you fear it? I stood there staring at the pictures, hearing the slap echo through my memories. The first blow. I remember how it felt. First the betrayal. Then the fear. Then the little traitorous thought 'there is something wrong with his eyes.'

Something wrong. Something creeping, cutting, captured on notes now forgotten. Butterfly wings broken and put back together. I remember writing in a diary, then tearing out the pages, flushing them furiously because there were no words for my feelings. Forbidden, even for myself. Even when the puppy disappeared, when the flies started hovering around the cellar door. It was winter now. No flies. The door to the cellar gaping open like a wound.

....

The stairs make a sound when I walk on them like a puppy whimpering from its master's kick. Did it always creak like that? I can't remember, like I can't remember yesterday, my brain stuck on repeat, skipping notes like a scratched vinyl record. I am following old notes like a guide to a past I had quite forgotten. Little scrawled maps to dark corners and kicked puppies. I should never have come back here. But I did.

I am walking down into the darkness, in the cold and in the memories. The smell surrounds me like a wet embrace, old and dank and invasive. I flick the light switch and the bulb refuses to work. There had been a note on the fridge. 'Buy lightbulbs,' it had said, next to 'buy bleach.'

The beam of the flashlight catches the wall, the stairs and the floor. Marking the way. I am descending now, I have to. I can't stop. The wrapped forms down there could be carpets but I know they are not. It is winter and there are no flies, and no heat down here. The bodies are old. Desiccated. Faces distorted through the plastic. Barely recognizable as human. The flashlight shatters as it drops.

....

I should tell someone I suppose. I should call the police and tell them what I found, what I always knew I would find. Instead I walk back up, closing the door behind me. I would have locked it but the key was gone. 'Buy a padlock,' I write on on a yellow post-it note and puts it on the cellar door. My hands are shaking and I need a drink, but when I go back into the kitchen the fridge is open and empty. 'Get a flashlight,' I write, then adds 'and vodka.' Maybe I will go outside later. Not now.

I take the knife in my hand and looks at it. I put it to my chest, the matching scar under by shirt tingling like ants had crawled over it. Fifteen years ago I was stabbed, thought I would die. I lay on the floor in the kitchen and bled, and when I hunch down I can still see dried blood stuck between the floorboards. I didn't call the police then either. I just couldn't.

There is a bottle of wine left and I drink it, hands shaking. I walk around the room screaming at the shadows, fighting ghosts in empty rooms. The smell of evil is everywhere or maybe it is just the unwashed laundry. A decade of it, worn and worn again until some of them were stiff with filth, the washing machine unused. I put a note on it. 'Do the laundry.'

...

Maybe if I hadn't been his mom, those are the words that escape me while I get drunker, tonight like all the other nights. What kind of mother would admit being afraid of their own son? Not me. I would lock the doors and forget the looks, the glares, the way he randomly hurt and kicked and struck out at everything. Homeschooling. I could handle it. Nothing was wrong. He would mature. Grow up. He had not meant to kill the dog. He was just curious when he cut it open. He didn't understand that he hurt me when he kept hitting me with things.

'But he did,' the little voice in my head insisted. He did understand. That was why he did it. The blows. The words. The growls. I didn't dare to hit back, not after the first time. Not after I'd seen those eyes. He would kill me if I did. He would get the door open and crawl into my bed and stick a knife in me. I was his mother and he would still do it. And them one day he did.

And I left. He was fifteen and I ran away, it should have been the other way around but the house was his territory and I had just hoped he would stay there. He knew how to order in, I made sure there was always money in the bank account and I just ran and tried to forget. Sleep in strange hotel rooms, under stranger men, trying not to keep an eye on the handle. It never turned.

I never turned back. Until now.

...

I am living in this house now, surrounded by memories and ghosts. I write notes to remind myself what I forget, and sometimes they answer back. 'Lock the doors,' they tell me, 'it is not safe.' The stairs still creak, and I can't remember why I shouldn't go down there. The darkness holds secrets, and the last note on the door just said 'NO'.

'Buy an axe,' I write. 'and pens.' The notes are running out but there is always the walls. And the windows. 'help' I wrote in one of them, my hand sticky with red though I no longer remembered why.

There are no notes left to remind me.

#my writing

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