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xerox-candybar · 2 years

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That one time my Environmental Science teacher caught me crying in our greenhouse, composing sad breakup poetry that was somehow also my calculus homework (“I am just one function, missing a set.”)

So, I was getting some writing done while talking to the corn plants our class had been tasked with growing. Mine had just sprouted, and I was quite surprised. We had to keep tabs on their progress (track measurements, draw diagrams, etc), but despite all the tangibles, the the whole experience seemed surreal—I had never successfully kept anything like that alive before.

—-

So I spoke to my plant: you never send me mixed messages. You always let me know exactly what you want. Your needs are governed by biological principles—they are neither demanding nor objective subjective. I am glad that I can depend on you, and the very nature of your being makes it impossible for you to leave me.

I’m not being entirely serious here; I think I’m trying to cheer myself up. I suspect this was part of my creative writing project and I felt guilty for turning in so many breakup-centric pieces, but I couldn’t not think about my breakup, and despite then literal distance between us (because he had gone off to college, out of state) somehow the situation kept getting consistently weirder, and worse. I do not think this is how emotionally stable people speak to their plants, if that is a thing emotionally stable people indulge in at all.

Anyway. Unlike most rooms on my high school building, there weren’t always classes in the greenhouse so I guess I thought it would be a good place to cry. I told my study hall teacher I needed to work on my Ensci project (or, as I told her, “become a more respectable mother for the sake of my plant spawn”), and apparently those were the magic words. (Did I mention that everything about me was getting weirder and worse?) Anyway. She wrote me a hall pass and I was off. I left the classroom and began sobbing immediately.

My EnSci teacher must have been on hall monitor duty or something, and he noticed me skulking around my locker with with all my makeup smeared. We made eye contact so I know he saw me.

He gave me a little bit of time to calm down (and write some notes to myself, obviously), and then after about 15 minutes, he burst into the greenhouse and literally growled at me (“you had better not be crying”).

Then he ripped my little plant straight from its earthenware pot, and ate it in front of me.

…well, I certainly stopped crying, I’ll tell you that much.

Believe it or not, a lot of my high school faculty behaved like this. We were one of the best performing schools in the state (at least, in terms of academics), so I suspect the faculty got away with a lot. “You want to ceremonially retire all your vocabulary words at the end of the semester by tying them to a balloon and releasing them into the sky, along with your contact information? Alright. It seems to be keeping everyone’s ACT scores up; have at it.”

In any case, I suspect this was payback because I had made this same Ensci teacher cry a few months earlier, over sea snails. As our midterm, we had to write an essay on an endangered / extinct species, with two main constraints: the species could not be cute; and it must be smaller than a breadbox.

I wrote a particularly impassioned paper on the eelgrass limpet.

The eelgrass limpet went extinct relatively recently, but over 60 years passed before scientists recognized them as a separate species. The tragedy begins with our limpets’ beloved eelgrass wasting away, decimated by slime-mold. The eelgrass retreated to brackish waters where the mold could not follow, and so survived the crisis. But alas, the limpets could not tolerate such salinity, and so perished. If only we had been more attuned to the needs of our Gastropod brethren, and better able to differentiate between mollusk species, these brave little sea snails might still be among our numbers.

I also managed to win this same teacher a Charlie Brown Christmas tree (the Chicago Tribune used to give them away annually as a kind of homage / contest) although he seemed less happy about that. He said the tree was full of spiders.

#my writing #wilf #(work i'd like to finish)#good morning evil genius #I think this was probably rattling around in my subconscious when I wrote the first chapter of collateral damage

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bangtae-sohotddaeng · 3 years

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we’ll be counting stars | k.th. | 2

(^ gif cred: ON THE VOYAGE | pinterest)

pairing: idol!Taehyung x publisher!Reader

rating: nc-17 (for language and themes)

summary: You’d sworn off love and relationships forever. You were here to do your job - work with the biggest boyband of the world. Not forge friendships and...and whatever it was that you and Taehyung were building up with these sneaky glances. It was, to be very fair, your Chief Editor’s fault that you’d landed in this mess. Maybe you should quit your job? Maybe you should quit life -

Oh, he was staring again, and did he freaking lick his lips?

warnings: swearing (reader’s got a potty mouth) + this is set like 5 years in the future + reader has emotional issues, she's a relationship phobe + mentions of weed

genre: so much ANGST ugh + fluff + comedy + some crack

words: 3.3 k

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gimme feedback, much much appreciated!

“We’re all clear on the schedule, but I’ll repeat it for your sake,” you announced.

Your team was huddled around you, right outside the airport, with their luggage in their hands. You’d landed in Seoul less than an hour ago.

“So, right now, we’re going to take a cab to the hotel our company has booked us. We’ll rest, let our bodies recharge and adjust—because we left on Friday morning and reached Saturday morning in thirteen hours.” You grimaced. “Dunno about you, but my mind needs to adjust.”

You received collective groans of agreement in response.

“Great, you feel me. So we all do that first. And then we’ll collect in the lobby after lunch, at around 4 pm? I’ll have a word with BTS’ manager, and he’ll arrange for our commute. I’ll update you of the exact time, then. For now, let’s just go grab naps.”

You all hailed three taxis to the hotel, with Sana grabbing you by the elbow to make you sit with her. You did so, with a frown. She looked nervous.

“Y/N!” she almost wailed as soon as you’d shut the door.

The driver looked at her in alarm. You winced in embarrassment, and apologized in Korean. He started the car without a word.

“Sana, compose yourself. What is the matter with you?” you scolded the girl.

“Y/N, how am I gonna face him? I might freeze up at sight! And—and what if my brain starts to think up scenarios from… oh God, you won’t believe the kind of fanfiction-stuff I’ve read about him!”

Your ears started to warm up. You had some idea. It had been a while, sure, but you could still vividly remember the kind of fanfictions you yourself had indulged in—

Wait a second. This girl was gonna make you nervous, too!

“Okay, Sana, enough. It doesn’t matter how cute you find Yoongi, he’s our client. We’re gonna have to be formal with him. At all costs. We mess it up, we lose our jobs. You get that? So, think about your husband, try to be the professional woman he married, and for God's sake, stop making me overthink shit!”

Sana shut up, then, but her eyes still looked worried. "How do you do it, Y/N?"

You frowned. "How do I do what? I don't have a fucking crush on Yoongi!"

She gave a small laugh, looking slightly more at ease. "Exactly! How?"

You blinked, confused.

"I mean," she elaborated, "not just him. In general. How do you manage to not get dragged down by feelings and stuff?"

"I kinda had to." You snorted. "People are like leeches, Sana. You only stand a chance for a good, peaceful life if you avoid getting too close to them. Get caught up in feelings, get your soul sucked out of you. Get crushed under expectations, live the rest of your life trying to fulfil them. Die on the inside before your body perishes.” You shrugged. “A pretty horrid way to die, if you ask me.”

Sana gave a huff of laughter. “Who hurt you, Y/N?”

You froze. Sana probably said that rhetorically, but it still hit you hard enough.

It wasn’t the question of who hurt you, but actually, who you had hurt.

You shut your eyes for a few extended seconds, willing yourself to not think of the past. You succeeded for the most parts, too. But then Sana nudged your shoulder.

“Hey, I didn’t—I didn’t mean to upset…you…” She trailed off with a worried look on her face when you shot her a glare. “I’m sorry.”

“I’m not upset,” you grumbled, turning to look out of the window. “I’m just done with my quota of personal-unnecessary-unneeded-interactions with people, for the day.”

You heard Sana sigh. Mentally, you sighed, too.

You all found the two vans a bit excessive. There were eight seats in one—there were seven of you. But Manager Woo insisted that the boys actually used three of these to commute, so even this was a bit miserly of the management.

Rich people problems.

You shook your head with a small smile. “It’s all okay,” you said to the Manager in Korean, following his lead into the BigHit offices where you were to meet your clients for the first time, ever.

You chanced a discreet glance at Sana. Maybe your frustrated, shitty pep-talk in the taxi had actually worked, because she looked a lot more held together than she had ever since you dragged her onboards with this project.

“This way,” Manager Woo instructed you, gesturing towards a lift. “The security personnel will lead you to the second floor, and into the meeting room. I will join you in a while.”

You bowed and your team followed, and then you all stepped into the elevator that looked big enough to hold the meeting within itself. Two security guards, all suited up with a tie and fitted with earpieces in a stereotypical bodyguard look, followed you in.

You exhaled, rubbing your hands together. “Guys,” you addressed your team in English. “You all have the detailed itinerary on your tabs, right?” At their nods, you pulled your own iPad out. “Good. Keep it on you when I talk about it with them.”

“Y/N,” Simon called out to you.

You looked at the fidgety guy with raised eyebrows.

“Are we gonna stick with the choices…” He trailed off when your eyes narrowed.

“We’ve spent more than seventy-two hours researching, Simon. Please stop with this.”

Simon gulped, but shut up.

The elevators opened up, just then. One of the guards stepped out, and gestured towards the glass doors on the right. “That is the meeting room,” he said in Korean.

You all stepped out, elegantly, and you turned to bow to the two guards. “Thank you,” you said in Korean

They bowed in return, looking slightly flustered, and stepped back into the lift. You turned to face the meeting room, inhaled deeply, and then exhaled.

“Come on, guys. Showtime.”

You led your team as they walked behind you in pairs. Once you got to the doors, a guard stepped up from inside the room, and opened the doors for you.

A long meeting table sat in the centre of the room, with seven occupants on one of its sides. BigHit’s Founder and CEO sat at the head of the table, and the foot lay vacant—reserved for, you assumed, the Manager. Seven chairs also lay vacant for your team, opposite the BTS members.

As the door gave way, the CEO met your eyes. You gulped your nerves, and plastered a smile on your face. As you all crossed the threshold, the eight people seated on the table stood.

Dragging in a deep breath, you placed your tablet on the table before you faced them all. “Hello everyone,” you enunciated in Korean, and then bowed.

Your team followed your lead, and the people in the room bowed back. You kept your professional smile in place, discreetly wiping your sweating hand on the thigh of your cotton pants. Then you nodded at the CEO and he asked everyone to settle down.

“Welcome to Korea,” the CEO started. “Did you get here okay?”

“Besides the jet-lag, we’re actually very good,” you told the CEO to receive chuckles in response.

“Manager Woo will join us in a few seconds,” he then continued, looking between your team and the boys—that you were yet to properly look at—and gestured towards them. “Meanwhile, let’s introduce ourselves. I’m Bang Si-Hyuk, BigHit’s founder and CEO. Nice to meet you.”

You bowed, telling him your own name, and then shook hands with CEO Bang. Standing from your place, you finally willed your gaze to focus on the faces of the members instead of nervously looking into space.

Oh, wow. Cameras didn’t do these guys any justice, apparently. Not even the 8K ones, because they were really freaking beautiful human beings.

Dressed in lounge wear consisting mainly of extremely baggy hoodies as far as you could gauge, they still managed to look jaw-droppingly gorgeous. And their skin was glowing so bright, it looked unreal. But it was very much real because you were sitting across a three foot wide table from them, you could tell. It looked so soft.

You’d tightly held your lips up in a smile to save your mouth from dropping open.

While you were trying to get a grip on yourself, your eyes landed on a pair of brown ones framed by gorgeous lashes, right opposite to you. They were looking down. But then, they were looking up, as if sensing your gaze on them. Your professional grin involuntarily melted into a genuine one as Taehyung gave you a bashful nod of acknowledgement. You nodded back.

“Hello,” you mumbled, watching as his eyes grew wider. You blinked, releasing how private that sounded. You cleared your throat and ducked your head before looking at all of the seven guys in turn and nodding at each one of them. “Hello to you all,” you addressed them in Korean this time and told them your name. “And this is my team.” You gestured with both hands to your sides. “We’ll be your interviewers and companions for the next six months.”

A flurry of bows, nods and hellos passed over the table, followed by your teammates announcing their names. You doubted any of these would be retained, including your own. Which is why you handed over the seven identical copies of all your resumes to the CEO. “Here, Mister CEO. My boss had mailed them over to you, but these are to help the boys get acquainted with us better,” you told the man, and he gave you an appreciative seeming smile.

“That’s thoughtful of you,” Namjoon suddenly said, smiling with dimples up at you from his place on Taehyung’s right. His black hair was ruffled and a circular framed pair of glasses rested on his eyes. “I’m RM,” he said in English, “but please call me Namjoon. It’s a pleasure meeting you and your team.”

You smiled wide, shaking his hand when he forwarded it. His skin felt super soft, just as you’d expected it to be by looking at it.

The rest of the boys followed suit, minus the handshaking. They all insisted you all call them by their real names, which felt almost funny to you, because you were gonna be unwinding their whole life. This felt so unnecessary.

Just then, the door opened and Manager Woo reappeared. He bowed his head in the CEO’s direction before taking a seat to your extreme left, at the foot of the table. “Hello, everyone,” he said, “did I miss anything?”

“Just the introductions,” Namjoon filled him in with a smile.

Manager Woo nodded and then looked at you. “The next thing to talk about is the schedule your team has planned for us, so that we can sort out any doubts or disagreements that might be there.”

Nodding, you pulled up the itinerary on your iPad, and cleared your throat. “I have planned out a strategy of working on interviews, and then sitting back to compile everything in an orderly fashion,” you announced. “We’ll divide each one of the six months we have on our hands into two groups—three weeks of discussions, and one week of compilation. All seven of us would be working with one member each, one on one, continuously for a time span of three weeks. After that my team will sit together, compare notes and move forth with the actual writing part. Then we’ll check if something has been missed by someone and arrange for its cover up, before we move forward into the next set of three weeks.”

You turned to look at your team to see if any of them wished to add anything, but they nodded at you with discrete thumbs ups. You exhaled in relief.

CEO Bang nodded at Manager Woo, who hummed in response. “Sounds workable to me. Boys?” He gestured towards the band members.

You looked up to find seven pairs of round eyes and gawking mouths.

Murmurs ran across the seven angels seated opposite you. While they were distracted, you took your sweet time looking at each one of their faces. They really did look unreal.

Next to CEO Bang, Jin and Yoongi were engrossed in some discussion. With their heads bent, their hair shined blindingly bright—Yoongi’s like liquid silver, and Jin’s like molten lead. Next to Jin, Namjoon was adjusting his glasses over his shut eyes as he listened to Taehyung whisper something in his ear, and kept shaking his head in response every few seconds. Taehyung was almost drowning in his oversized hoodie with the hood up, as he used his hands with those elegant ass fingers of his to cover his mouth while speaking into Namjoon’s ear. Next to him, Jimin was nodding along to Hoseok as the latter spoke in whispers, gesticulating widely.

Your eyes fell onto the far end of the table, then. Jungkook, who was already looking at you, shot his hand up when your gazes met. His eyes were literally sparkling with curiosity.

“Yes?” you asked with a big smile.

Jungkook flashed his teeth at you, looking not a day over five years of age. “Is one week enough time to write?”

You frowned. “In theory, yes. But if things go south and we need more time, we can always extend the contract. Mr. CEO?”

“According to the clauses in the contracts, definitely.” CEO Bang nodded with a small smile. “The book has to be good. We can compromise with everything, except for the quality.”

You nodded in understanding. There was an extendable clause in your contract, but you had every intention to not have to employ it. Not only did your boss have huge expectations from you, but you yourself were determined to give this project your best. Better than your best. You’d wanted to manage a complete project by yourself for so long, this was your chance of a lifetime to shine.

Taehyung’s hand shot up, breaking you out of your thoughts. He looked beyond adorable with his eyes rounded and lips nervously folded in.

“Ye—yes?” you stuttered very unprofessionally and then covered up with a cough.

“Who works with who?” he said in a breath, confusing you for a moment. “Will you take chits out? Or ask us to choose?”

“Oh, no no.” You chuckled when you caught his drift. “We’ve already decided among ourselves and also done some homework. You’ll find your personal interviewers in your contract copies.”

“Did you decide by picking out chits?” Namjoon grinned at you, and you laughed.

It had been chits, but you weren't about to tell them that. “Something like that.” You shrugged, playfully, and giggles rolled over the table.

Manager Woo, then, launched into a set of instructions for the band members. CEO Bang kept adding details in the middle, and the band members just kept nodding along in a bored fashion. Maybe they’d been over this multiple times.

You sat back to relax, observing everyone as you listened to the set of rules and procedures you were already familiar with. You looked from the corner of your eye as Jimin elbowed Taehyung.

“Did you want to work with someone in particular?” Jimin’s whisper into Taehyung’s ear floated over to you.

Taehyung’s eyes briefly met yours, nearly burning a hole through your head by the deep curiosity emanating from them. And then he ducked his head again, shrugging Jimin off of him.

You swallowed, roughly. Oh, God.

Manager Woo wound up his instructions with a repetition of be as honest as you can be, and then called out to you. “Do you wish to add something, Miss?”

You looked at your team. They shrugged. You shrugged, too. “You’ve covered it really well, Mister Manager. I’d actually like to emphasize one of your points—this is not an interview.” You looked across the table, at each of their faces, turn-wise. “There would be no cameras, no recorders, and no one monitoring your actions. Relax and be at ease. You should, in fact, think of the sessions as making new friends. You tell them about yourself, and they tell you about themselves. Only difference being, what you tell them will get compiled in a book so there must be a bit more of that.”

Your eyes met Taehyung’s and he nodded with a small laugh. The others gave you similar reactions, with Hoseok giving a two-fingered salute.

“That’s good. Also, Miss, we would like to request your team to work around the boys’ bodyguards.” Manager Woo looked at you earnestly.

“We’re really very grateful that you’ve agreed to our request for privacy and not enforced the sessions to be with the boys’ managers.” You shrugged a shoulder, and exchanged glances with Sana and Nathan. “And so, we would be okay working in the presence of the bodyguards, no issues.”

Your team hummed and nodded their own agreements. Manager Woo nodded back with a huge smile, looking relieved.

“We have the first interview scheduled for the day after tomorrow,” he then said as he distributed the individual contract copies among the BTS members and then your team. “Have a look at the details, one last time.”

You could, by this point, recite the clauses of the contract in your sleep. Yet, to be respectful, you accepted the file and placed it before yourself. You looked to your right and then left at your team. “Any questions, guys?”

Meryl raised her hand. Your eyebrows rose in intrigue. You gestured for her to speak up. “Yeah, um. About the secrecy clause—can we get a rough estimate as to when the news of the biography will be released?”

You nodded along. That was kind of a good question.

Manager Woo looked at CEO Bang, and all seven boys’ eyes adorably followed. CEO Bang readjusted his glasses. “We are planning a press conference at the end of six months.” Whoa. “I believe you’re going to have to keep this secret for the entirety of the project.”

You exhaled. It was gonna be kinda hard, but you’d manage.

“I got you!”

Your head snapped up at Jungkook’s shout of joy. He held the file in one hand and the other was raised up, mid-cheer. When all eyes fell on him, he froze for a moment before folding onto himself, bashfully. The boys all broke out laughing. You too had to stifle yours, by looking down in your lap, to maintain your professionality.

When you looked up after a moment, your eyes met Taheyung’s again. He seemed to be slightly confused and kept looking between the file in his hand, you and Jungkook.

“Si… Simon?” he whispered with a heavy accent, but it was all you could hear despite the chaotic discussions happening all around you.

You pointed at the guy sitting next to you. “Him,” you responded in English.

Taehyung’s eyes reverted back to you. “You?” he asked in English, very quietly.

You paused. “Jungkook,” you responded, gesturing to the still blushing boy with your eyes. And then, realizing how intimate your exchange was, you flashed him a professional smile. “Simon is great at conversation! You’ll have a good time with him,” you old him loudly, in Korean, earning smiles from the Manager and CEO.

Taehyung had still looked a bit lost when you tore your gaze away from him and picked up your tablet, but you willed yourself to unlock the gadget and not let your eyes stray.

This was just your first meeting, and Taehyung’s person’s intensity was already too much to handle. You thanked God you weren't gonna work with him one on one, or you won’t survive.

But, little did you know.

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gimme feedback, much much appreciated!

Tags: @tangledsparkles @hoefortaeshands @getmemyfries

#taehyung angst #bts angst #taehyung fluff #bts fluff #taehyung imagine #bts imagine #bts v #v angst #v fluff #v imagine #wbcs #*mine

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helahades · 4 years

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The Goddess and the Grocer

(Steve Rogers x Fem!Reader)

Summary: Sappy and hopelessly romantic, the part time art student, part time grocery bagger, and full time fantasy creator Steve Rogers lives in his head, with you as his muse. Making puzzles out of your groceries, and portraits of your every curve and edge, he fears and craves every interaction, while living with you as a lover in his mind.

A/N: Well. I have struggled with motivation for the longest. Something hit me though, and by something I mean other supportive writers and great friends. Hugest shoutout to @threeminutesoflife for being a darling and @imanuglywombat for making TWO beautiful mood boards I stare at more than Steve stares at the Peggy compass.

Warnings: creepy, obsessive Steve. ideation of creepy thoughts. food focused talk. mention of overeating. dub-con concepts. two mentions of alcohol consumption.

New blog, new me! I’ll take this moment to say I’m taking requests, and I love feedback even more than Steve loves you! hope you enjoy

Word Count: about 3k

Now rain slicked, the sheen of oil and water twists the reflections of the tonights red, red, green—-“can I make the turn, no too late” on yellow—now red traffic lights into a twisted rainbow on the city streets.

Down those streets, and across a barren parking lot, parents, lovers, businesspeople and more squeak and clack and slap their rainy shoes on the old speckled tile at the entrance (that Steve had just mopped) as they do every week.

At the Potts Grocery Store, nothing ever changes. And never in the night.

It isn’t just night though, it’s dead night. The odd time after things have slowed for sleep, after the rush in between when people bumble in (promising themselves promises they won’t keep about doing the shopping sooner next month), after the ten minute period within which Dr. Banner wordlessly picks up the same array of bland teas.

The night has crawled beyond all the events that happen as they do, and entered the dead night.

Maybe Steve is too poetic—like his dad says he is—too tied up in fate, and hope in life’s mystique, but he holds hope for what happens where the night is dead.

When the night dies, and most are asleep, with it, facades die too. The only people to come in the dead of night, are drunks, doctors, various night shifters, and… you.

He hasn’t yet questioned your reason for showing up so late. Hasn’t really, technically, spoken to you at all, really.

Some part of Steve thinks, maybe if he startles you, says something that clangs too loud or awkward, all your pieces will blow away, like some agitated dandelion, and he will never know you again, if he ever even knew you at all.

No, Steve’s job isn’t to startle you, or to take up your space. It’s to try and meet your eyes as you hand him the reusable bags. It’s to try and figure out what meal you’re planning from what he’s bagging, and what he already knows lies unused in your kitchen. It’s to put the bags in your cart if you’ll let him.

He hasn’t seen you yet. It’s getting late, where are you?

Somewhere between cold fluorescent and neutral warm desk lamps, the lights of the grocery store seem to exist both to chase shadows on tired shoppers' faces, and to mock him, like a candle finally blown out by a stood up date.

Had he done something wrong the last time? If he had, that couldn’t be helped. You were wearing those shorts and looked like you had just gotten ready for bed and you had your hair pulled back, but just a little fell into your face anyway.

And your scent. It always wraps around him like the saccharine spice of pastries when he swings open the bakery door for his morning shift.

The moment you breezed by him after checkout was almost too much to bear. He caught the fresh damp scent of your tied up and deep conditioned hair. You smelled like fresh linens and a life he can only imagine having when he’s chasing orgasms alone and twisting up his sheets.

He could have devoured you.

But he didn’t.

Not even when your shoulder accidentally grazed him while you were rushing out in a frenzy.

“Oh my goodness, I’m so sorry,” came your frantic whisper.

He dreams of making you that delicate again. He thinks he could shape your unsure apologies in his hands like clay, or spread you thin on a canvas when you whisper so soft. But he didn’t do those things at all.

Steve being Steve, he tried to make his large frame slouch, your aura wrapping him up into a double life Clark Kent shyness, despite your gentleness.

He didn’t say a word.

A wordless, mirthless stretch of his lips. An “It’s okay, walk all over me” grin. You regarded him with a flicker of an odd glance, and then you were out the door.

As he finishes up with the last shopper in his lane, his worn Converse squeak as he leans his frame against the bagging station at checkout.

Last class, last week, his art teacher dropped a big assignment. Stuffy and sadistic, the man seemed to only eat the pain of lovers kept from expression, so of course, he relished in the moment he told the class to try a new medium, with a subject they hadn’t previously captured.

He seemed to look directly at Steve as he delivered the blow.

Steve's problem certainly isn’t creativity. It isn’t talent or lack of effort. He surely is adaptable, he rarely tells on his love!

For the still life project, he captured the tree that blocks your kitchen window. Heavy strokes in his sketchbook.

He even painted the park in blooms on a paper towel—yes a paper towel—when you justified to a cashier one day that all the crackers and deli meats were for a picnic.

So he has a muse. But he’s not a fool. Sometimes he spends so much time trying not to look like a fool, and paints so much around you instead of you, that it’s a self portrait of his own obsession.

Your face. Your curves. The many separated sections where he tried to master the texture of your hair. All those traces of you live in his sketchbook. Only twice has he turned in a portrait of you.

Being told he can’t have you makes Steve feel like he’s been too obvious. You’re his little secret. And he is no fool. He’ll have to be more careful. So here he is.

The canvas is as bare as the walls of his studio apartment.

Three jobs and a potted plant from his mom just aren’t enough to decorate life. He wishes he could capture sleep in a picture frame and hang it on the wall. When he got too tired and caffeine stopped working, he thinks he’d pick up those frames and absorb the sleep in the way he can absorb nostalgia when looking at a real picture.

Then, he thinks, that’s the sort of thing art majors say when they haven’t slept in three weeks.

The canvas is still bare. It isn’t like Steve. He always knows where to go, what he feels, what he wants.

His teacher told him to try something different. Had the nerve to clap Steve on the back after class and say something about stretching creative wings and finding a new muse.

He thinks the guy should have punched him in the face instead.

There’s nothing stuck about Steve. He knows what he wants and how to get there.

He also knows that schooling ruins the intent of art, he knows how to put love into colors, that art teachers know the least about expression out of everyone on earth, and that he works two night jobs a week to barely afford to be taught by that man anyway.

Life is full of oddities.

Some of life’s oddities are right there in your cart as you approach. Steve notices the rain has frizzed your hair, the lovely heart shaped curve of your lips as they stretch into a smile, and the way you yawn before you say hello to the cashier.

He makes a mental note that your hair might have a warmer tinge when illuminated by the sun. You’re already his sun. His stars too. Maybe even his whole universe.

You’re always warm in his paintings. Anything to separate you from the dreadful scheme of this commercial death trap.

What’s for dinner this week?

Your groceries thump onto the counter in practiced succession. Perishables together at the front, and non perishables as neatly as possible following behind.

So thoughtful, my sweet darling.

Your produce today mostly consists of fruit. It reminds Steve of how practiced he is with a knife. How he’d slice up your apples just right for you. He has the practiced skills of an artist. He’d take care of you.

Bucky likes to tell him that cooking is the art and baking is the science. That’s meant to mean that it’s no surprise that Buckys got a perfect little life with a perfect little baker who smiles like the sun and only trusts Bucky in her kitchen.

...And it’s no surprise that Steve’s artsy streak has led him here. Thinking about folding mandarin slices between your perfect lips and letting the flavor explode across your tongue.

He thinks about kissing you. How you would taste tangy and sweet as you try not so hard to push him off so he gets back to cooking and doesn’t burn the house down.

The house. A house with you. A home.

He sees you’re wearing a sundress, and tries not to pity you for the irony. In the closet of some cookie cutter three bedroom, you might ask him how you look in it. He would beg you to wear it just for him a little longer, but ultimately, he would have been able to warn you about the rain.

You wouldn’t have listened though, my stubborn angel.

He thinks about your thighs beneath your dress, and the heat between them.

Sometimes, his dreams betray him, and he steps through the threshold to your shared home, not an artist, but a “Honey, I'm home” suit wearing prisoner.

He fears the simple life, but with you, he believes simplicity could be enough. Maybe he would be rich enough to buy you a million sundresses.

But without his art, he’d be powerless to show you how rich you look, bathed in color, divine from his perspective.

Without his art, he has no outlet for imagination. The only thing that gets him off these days is imagining what you look like under your clothes, and how it might sound if you spoke his name.

When you buy lotion, or a candle, he makes a mental note of the scent, and uses it to color his experience later. You like warm sugary scents, or natural outdoorsy ones, with no in between.

As you small talk with the cashier, your card slips from between your fingers and clatters onto the unswept floor. Finishing a thought, you delay in retrieving it, but by the time you’re leaning down, Steve’s already handing it back.

Eyes flitting up to meet the baggage boy standing up at full height, you melt into an easier smile.

You notice first that his eyes are incredibly blue behind the dark window frames, and second that his hands are incredibly warm as he hands your card back.

Frazzled, and just a bit smitten, you smile kindly.

“Thank you,” you say sweetly, regarding him fully, perhaps for the first time, and pausing only to let your eyes drift to the knitted cotton polo stretched across his broad chest—no, to the name tag resting on it…

“Steve,” you finish with a smile that makes it ring like an exclamation point. To hear you finally pronounce his name… it’s like church bells. But they’re muted because now he can only consider your eyes locked on his.

He’s never wanted to escape somewhere and go home with someone so badly. And would it be so wrong?

He could slice up fruit for you. He could bring sausages and deli meats and blocks of cheeses whole from the market where they slipped him things free. He’d slice them up nice and wrap them in cloth and surprise you with an old fashioned wicker basket picnic in the mountains.

He’d let you eat yourself round. And after you were full, he’d still offer to feed you grapes, to pour you more wine.

Steve never understood why the rich ate bread with olive oil, but God he wanted to be rich enough to give you that. All the things that sound ridiculous to people who work to live. He wanted to work so hard you’d never work again.

He wanted to kiss you dizzy, bunch up the fabric of your dress on your hip and tell you he loves you while you’re wine drunk. He’d carry you back to the car and surprise you with wildflowers in a bunch.

Later, he’d paint you nude with them in your hair, and he’d feed you more grapes.

He would tuck you in and wrap you up for later when you woke up missing him. Maybe he wouldn’t leave at all. Maybe you would want to spend the whole day with him too.

He’s got a twinkle of charm in his eye and just a bit of sadness that looks every bit like the starving artist people believe him to be. Bucky hasn’t stopped bringing him the leftover rolls at closing since he found out Steve spends more money on paint than meals.

And is it so wrong? As Steve looks into your eyes, he musters all that charm his mom said he was born with. He blinks brighter the twinkle in his eye.

“You’re welcome,” comes Steve’s gentle, but sure reply.

You pause at that, because really it’s nothing... But people always seem to say “Don’t worry about it!”, “It’s nothing”, or maybe nothing at all.

You pause at how the reaction seemed genuine, in a world of practiced replies, and on a day that you’re feeling shitty because the rain ruined your hair and happiness.

You smile at him again, grateful for a pocket of truthful kindness, and turn back to the cashier, effectively ending the interaction.

Steve’s mind is spinning in ways he just can’t bring himself to understand. So he bags your groceries. You forgot the reusable bags, he doesn’t pause to wonder why.

Click. Click. Click. Beep!

Tomatoes. He bags them with the apples. Double bags for good measure.

Beep.

Spaghetti. The good kind that most people overlook in favor of a more common brand. New bag.

Beep.

Frozen garlic bread. He adores you. You’ve got garlic and basil and more herbs than you’ll ever need at home. You’d probably make the spaghetti noodles and parmesan yourself if you could. But you love five minutes at 400 garlic bread.

He imagines your pretty little kitchen, with all its various knick knacks, smelling like garlic and tomato sauce. He can’t help thinking you’d be impressed with his chopping skills too. Just how his mom taught him.

He imagines cooking with you in the dead of night, instead of being here. He imagines you bending over with your legs straight and your back curved and the oven mitts on to get garlic bread out of the oven. You put the tray on the cold burners Steve’s not using.

Maybe he would ask you to try the sauce, he’d hold the spoon to your lips after blowing off for you. Your eyes always flutter closed to process the taste of things, and sometimes he swears he could read your mind.

Then they would open. Wide. The same way they did when you tasted the new product double chocolate brownie sample last Tuesday. You would tell him how perfect it is and praise how he finally isn’t shy about using garlic anymore. Turning off the burners, he’d pull you into his arms, he’d kiss you til you saw stars…

Walking you backwards, still entangled in the breathless kiss, he wouldn’t stop until you bumped the padded kitchen bench. Then he’d fall to his knees.

“Steve, honey”—

You’d cut yourself off with a breathy moan because he’d already be under your skirt.

Kissing up your thighs, flattening his tongue against you, kissing you gently, before sucking your clit, while working it with the tip of his tongue, he’d show you again, like always, how passionate of a lover he is.

You’d moan like heaven, because you are.

You’d lean back, propping yourself up on an arm and pushing the other hand through his golden hair. You just can’t stop your hips from rolling against his tongue that’s still worshipping you.

He won’t use his fingers. It wouldn’t be proper, he’s just been cooking. So instead, he uses those hands to pull your thighs up onto his shoulders.

Still swirling his tongue around your clit, Steve is drawing you closer, your body seeming to know it’s own ways to pull him to you too.

It’s electric. You can’t stop and you’d never want to. He’d make love to you every single—

That’s not where he is though. He grabs the paper bags he’s bagged up with your ingredients and some other oddities, and he places them in the cart you’ve pushed forward.

He tries not to think about the fact that you’re going home alone. He tries not to think about how he’ll be sleeping alone, and in cold colors. Tries to skip forward to later when he has all the time in the world to imagine the way things should be.

A quiet goodnight and you’re on your way. You’re careful not to graze him as you walk away, and he’s careful not to be obvious watching.

The cashier leaves the station, and Steve puts his head down as he passes, before looking up in your direction as he always does.

Except… when he looks up to see your sundress swishing, it isn’t. And you’re turned back looking at him with this funny little look.

You smile. A twinkle of embarrassment, nervous to have been caught looking. He tries not to chuckle for all the irony.

He watches you as you watch him just a bit longer, before your sundress swishes out the door, and the light of your halo fades into the distance, consumed by the rain.

By the time his shift is up, the rain has stopped and the sky is colored like a bruise. The sun knocks at a threshold unseen, just slightly feathering light through the sky.

Steve is dead tired, but he won’t sleep a wink. Once he arrives at his apartment, he begins the project.

A mixed medium piece. Acrylic paint, charcoal shadowed details. It’s a wicker basket, full of apples, grapes, and wildflowers.

Later, as the sun rises, and the painting is half done, he flops into bed, finishing up a stale roll from the bakery, and dreams about waking up to you.

He pretends there’s no job to be at in three and a half hours, but instead, that it’s a quiet Sunday, and he’s waking up to you in his arms...

Soft and ethereal.

Thank you for reading!

Whether or not this is your type of writing, or you liked it at all, I just want to tag some authors who generally inspire me and helped in some way to motivate me posting my first piece: @threeminutesoflife @imanuglywombat @sherrybaby14 @jtargaryen18 @heavenbarnes @tropicalcap @allaboardthereadingrailroad @thotty-tatertot @sapphirescrolls

#dark!steve #steve #steve rogers fanfic #steve rogers #steve x reader #dark!steve x reader #dark!steve rogers #steve au #steve rogers au #civillian!steve #artist!steve

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gingyboo · 3 years

Text

Mirror Mirror

A/N: Again many thanks to @booglebug

Description- Soulmates existed. People knew that much. Soulmates were rare, a handful in each generation, an unexplainable phenomenon that formed a bond closer than blood and more sacred than marriage.

Bucky finds his soulmate when he needs her most. Little does he know how much she needs him too.

(Soulmate au that slots pretty much in to the MCU but with soulmates. Set after TFATWS.)

Pairing- Bucky Barnes x OFC

Warnings- Mentions of violence and guns, but its mostly fluff, drama and angst.

This is a multi chaptered fic.

Please like, comment, reblog!

prologue Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3Chapter4Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8

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Chapter 9

Shuri led Nancy back to her lab, Nancy looked around in awe at the screens and monitors. She saw one with Bucky’s face on it, lines of data forming around the edge.

“I’m monitoring Bucky, trying to see what caused last nights relapse, but it got me thinking.” She explained leading Nancy to a chair beside her desk. “Soulmates have been around as long as anyone can remember, but no real research has been done, they tend to be quite secretive.” She said inspecting Nancy’s neck with warm fingers. “If your willing I have some theories I’d like to test.”

“What were you thinking?” Nancy asked,

“There’s some form of bio-chemical link between you and Bucky, symbiosis of sorts, I’ve seen your medical records, I know what happened to you following the blip. From what I’ve found those soulmates who were separated, well most of them didn’t make it, and their soulmates never returned.”

“And you want to test how far this link goes?” Nancy said, realising the plan.

“Exactly that.” She grinned opening a small metal box beside her. Inside was a small, round metallic device, it looked similar to the beads around her wrist only flatter. “May I?” She indicated to the back of Nancy’s neck. Nancy swept her loose hair round to her front as Shuri pressed the disk to the nape of her neck. It felt cool and weightless. “There, that’ll measure your brain activity, your vitals and the like. I’ll compare the two of you, see if there’s any consistencies.”

“That’s so cool.” Nancy remarked seeing her own picture appear on the screen next to Bucky’s, her own data starting to appear.

“It you think that’s cool, you haven’t seen anything yet.” She stood up gesturing Nancy to follow. “I was thinking about why you should have survived when the other separated soulmates died. I thought what the difference could be. The serum that runs in Bucky’s veins, it’s never run in yours, but you’re bound to him and you were born decades after he was experimented on. If I’m right about this link then I think you might have some of his capabilities.” Nancy stared at her bewildered.

“I have never had any form super strength.” She protested.

“Maybe not, but recovering, like you did, that was impressive.” Shuri insisted. She led Nancy to the training room.

“What do you need me to do?” Nancy sprung lightly from foot to foot, she’d missed her gym back in London.

“Just a few basic exercises at first, we’ll go from there.”

Shuri started her running on a treadmill built into a panel on the floor. Her heart rate was monitored as well as the impact her feet were having on the ground. She then moved her to some loose weights, measuring the nerve activity in her muscles. She led her over to some targets on the wall, passing her some throwing knives. Her aim wasn’t poor but far from perfect, Shuri kept tapping away on her screen in the corner. By the end of the session Nancy’s bones ached and her head was dizzy with exhaustion. When they returned to the lab Shuri indicated to a bed in the corner.

“Do you think you could rest in here, I’d love to take readings from your sleep state.” Nancy simply nodded, the poor sleep the previous night twinned with the exertions in the training room allowed sleep to come easily.

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“Buck we need you on your A game today,” Sam said coming to sit beside Bucky as Torres flew the jet over Europe. “We’re doing this for her.”

“I know.” Bucky said scratching his head, “I just thought this was over.”

“I know you did. This was just a relapse. Shuri will figure out what’s going on up there,” he indicated to Bucky’s temple, “And we’ll fix it.” Bucky shook his head.

“It’s not that simple he could’ve killed her Sam. I could have killed her” He almost shouted.

“No you couldn’t, don’t you see?” Sam persisted, “She stopped you, she brought you back. No Russian words, no powers, no helicopter to the head. Just her. Now I only know one other person who could do that.”

“Steve.” Bucky sighed.

“Exactly.”

“But I hurt her, how could she ever forgive me. Who wants to be with someone capable of that?”

“She’s your soulmate, you’re not capable of hurting her and she’s not capable of hating you.” Although Sam’s words were encouraging, Bucky still felt the guilt pulsing through his veins. Every time he closed his eyes her face appeared behind his lids, contorted in pain, pleading with him. He tried to focus on mission at hand, finding the dark-haired man, getting to the bottom of his pursuit of Nancy. He just had to focus. He dove into his pocket pulling out the compact mirror Nancy had given him the night before. Before it had all gone so wrong. He opened it seeing only himself staring back. He imagined her there smiling back at him. He snapped it shut again pulling out his phone to send her a text.

‘I miss you.’ He started, staring at his phone not knowing what else to say. He sent the text closing his phone and heading into the cockpit to see the sky opening up in front of them.

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“Miss Cartwright,” Shuri gently shook her awake. “There’s something I’d like you to see.” Nancy stretched out on the bed.

“Please, it’s Nancy, Just Nancy.” She protested, dragging her aching limbs out of the bed.

“Alright Nancy, look at this.” She enlarged a stream of data on the screen. “This shows your brain activity whilst sleeping, your subconscious.”

“Okay.” Nancy said following the rise and fall of the red line.

“Okay, so this is Bucky’s subconscious.” She dragged his data across to overlap Nancy’s. “Do you see the spikes here?” Nancy nodded, “it echoes the spikes in yours.”

“No, that’s not possible.” Nancy starred at the overlapping lines in amazement.

“You see the Winter Solider, he is part of Bucky’s subconscious,” Shuri explained.

“So you mean…” realisation dawned in her eyes.

“I think it’s possible something in your subconscious woke him up. And in waking him he reverted to what he knows.” Shuri continued.

“Killing.” Nancy sobbed.

“But you also managed to stop him. The winter solider stood down for you.”

“He did.” Nancy sniffed, she’d stopped him, she’d brought Bucky back.

“He did, and I think I might be able to figure out what it was that woke him to begin with, but I’ll need to do some more tests with you first. Are you up for it?” Shuri asked, excitement ablaze in her eyes.

“Could it help him, stop it from happening again, he’ll be tearing himself apart over this.”

“I think it might.”

“Then yes, whatever it takes.” Nancy said with all the conviction she possessed. “But I wonder if you could do me a favour?”

“Of course,” the Princess agreed.

“I’d like to look into the circumstances of my brother’s death, would you help me?”

“Sure.” She said smiling sympathetically. Nancy always hated other people’s pity, but she had gotten used to it. She closed her eyes.

“We can’t tell anyone what we’re doing though, please, not my father, not even Bucky, not till I know what I could be looking at.” Nancy bit her lip nervously, she hoped she was right in trusting Shuri, she knew she couldn’t find what she needed alone.

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Christopher Cartwright had been at the top of his game, fresh out of Eton, good grades, a loving family, when he’d decided to enrol at Sandhurst. He felt with everything going on in the world he had a duty to his country to serve. So, serve he did, throwing himself into military training with enthusiasm. He’d never seen his mother look as proud as the day he passed out, an officer of the Royal Navy. That night he’d partied like it was the last night on earth. After that he was fully committed, swearing his life to the military, dumping his then boyfriend, throwing away any previous ideas of joining politics like his father, rejecting his sisters calls. He was a solider now, his duty had to come first. Two tours and 5 medals later he was recruited by a specialist training facility. It was on one of these training missions that tragedy struck, and he perished at sea along with his whole unit. All further information was classified, an empty casket had been buried, no body could be recovered.

Nancy had been 18 at the time. It had destroyed her parent’s marriage, caused her father to flee the country, her mother to move county and Nancy to be left alone. Nancy remembered the funeral well, the black coffin draped in the union flag, Kit’s military portrait standing at the front, the rose arrangements reading ‘Brother’ and ’Son’. People she hadn’t known had stood up sharing stories she’d never heard. They’d shaken her father’s hand and patted her on the shoulder. The whole day had seemed surreal, like it was for someone else’s brother.

The months following were filled with crippling grief. Then university provided a helpful distraction and Nancy managed to throw herself into her degree. In all that time she’d never really dealt with what his death meant for her, her heart never could accept that her big brother, who had always been there, was gone. He was the one who’d chase her around the garden with a water pistol and the hottest day of the year. He had snuck into her room during the thunderstorms to hold her hand because he knew how much they’d scared her. They’d grown together and played together. He’d pulled funny faces behind their mother’s back when she was being told off. She’d snuck into their father’s study to steal back Kit’s Gameboy when it was confiscated for pulling faces behind their mother’s back. She remembered terrorising Acedown Court’s garden with screams and cheers playing pirates with the neighbour’s children. Falling asleep in the back of the car on the way back from holiday after eating too many travel sweets. They had been a double act. Until he’d joined the Navy.

Then a few weeks ago the first glimpse of hope, a hope she didn’t dare speak out loud, not even to Bucky. The man in with dark hair, he could be lying, he most likely was, but there was a chance. Kit might just be alive. She’d be damned if she didn’t find him.

#bucky barnes #winter solider #sam wilson #captain america #mcu #mcu fic #soulmate

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dragonswithjetpacks · 4 years

Text

I’m going to say this one time about Cullen and that’s it. And my opinion will be out there and done. This is not a negative post. But this is a long post so buckle up babes.

*warning for use of language because I swear like a sailor*

*also brief mention of rape*

Anyway, Cullen is a perfect example of poor planning in the gaming industry.

He is also a perfect example of fans thirsting so hard and wanting something so bad that the writers and developers change a character and even game elements to suite their needs. They didn’t even give him a book or a comic for redemption. You know what they did instead? They switched writers. Cullen has three writers. All of them with a different character in mind.

Cullen was a fucked up mess in Origins. He was meant to be creepy and sociopathic. I get that. The writer who basically created him had no idea he was even going to be not only a reoccurring character, but one that was going to be romance able in future games. She even apologized. Which wasn’t necessary. And so many people who played the game missed a big point about Cullen. He was never supposed to recover from Origins.

“The young templar Cullen never quite recovered from his ordeal. After months of attempting to convince his superiors that the tower was still a danger, he finally snapped and killed three apprentices before being stopped by his fellow templars. Eventually, Cullen escaped from prison, a madman and a threat to any mage he encountered.”

“Once the tower was rebuilt, Knight-Commander Greagoir stepped down from his post and retired to a life of private contemplation as a brother in the Chantry. His health failed over time, and after refusing treatment, he perished in his sleep. Knight-Commander Cullen was said to be more strict and less trusting of the mages even than Greagoir was. He ruled the Circle with fear.”

I’m sorry. But yeah. That’s the epilogue on two different choices involving the Circle’s fate in Origins. And it was ignored. I agree with that, too. But it wasn’t just Cullen that was ignored. It was the entire Circle at Kinloch Hold. If the mage warden sacrifices their own life, the Circle is supposedly free. Which... is not mentioned... ever again. And not to mention is impossible? Like okay thanks Anora or whoever but I don’t think you can just do that.

Poor writing.

I’d also like to mention for the record I did not like Cullen in Origins. I still don’t.

Now, I don’t know why exactly Cullen was brought back in DA2? I know his writer got bullied out of Bioware. I do not have an opinion on that. I mean the woman co-wrote my favorite part of Origins (Anvil of the Void). She also wrote Anders. Which I don’t think is a coincidence. People, men and women, often have this idea of fixing a broken person. It’s heavily romanticized. It’s called codependency. And you see it a lot in romance novels. But that’s another topic. It seems this writer implemented that in the game (along with some of her own personal things she had) without fully knowing Cullen would even be a romantic interest in Inquisition, but also still wanting to give him some sort reason to be desired. And all the while knowing Anders was fully romanceable. Even... a little forcefully... romanceable... if I may add... (I am uncomfortable) I also dislike some of Anders’ writing but that’s another post and I don’t want to compare the two. But Anders was the opposite side of Cullen that was done better because they had time to write it.

Regardless, Cullen seemed to hold some resemblance to his former character. But we do see a lot hesitance with him. He’s basically that “good” cop that doesn’t do anything when the bad cop is beating the shit out of everyone. Still not good, hence the quotes. Not a good guy. He has his meh he’s alright moments. And seems to generally disregard Hawke in every single way. But he’s still an ass hole for letting things happen the way that they did when he could very much so have put a stop to it. Maybe it was the writers’ intention to make it that way to show he was still suffering from trauma in Origins.

Again. Poor writing. BECAUSE WE DON’T KNOW. DIDN’T HE KILL THREE PEOPLE, BIOWARE? ISN’T HE SUPPOSED TO BE KNIGHT COMMANDER IN FERELDEN, B I O W A R E??? WHAT. HAPPENED. BIOWARE.

So here’s the next thing. They decided to slip him into Inquisition for whatever reason. His writing was fair enough in DA2. Could have been better. But these people are still thirsty. They want some Curly. At the last minute, they throw romance on him. Not a bad idea. But are we supposed to forget the man was basically raped by desire demons? Is he even ok to have a relationship? OH WAIT THAT’S RIGHT. We didn’t closure on that because they ignored it.

Anyway, Cullen in Inquisition seems to be different. But because they couldn’t just, oh I don’t know, write a different character with the same traits but better, they had to somehow put the events of the previous games and how it affected him into this new current game where he supposed to be... better? Ish? Which is where we get the stereo type soldier with PTSD and a substance abuse problem. Now, if you’re any good with imagining and writing fanfic, then you probably know or already have figured out a way to connect everything better than Bioware could. But hey. Last minute romance written in on a character who was already all over the charts? Count me in. I like a good writing challenge. Poor girl who took the job of writing Inquisition Cullen likes a challenge too, apparently. Because it was her first big project. And she didn’t do a bad job. But imagine working hard on trying to write a character half the fandom hates into someone somewhat likeable just for everyone to shit all over it.

The way I look at it.... we have three different characters. And he is not really a good example to look at analyze wise. He is inconsistent. And was molded for Inquisition for thirsty fan girls. And some boys (I see you). A good example for study would be Morrigan. Or even Alistair. And Alistair is in several of the comics and still remains pretty consistent. Leliana is a prime example of character development over a course of three games. And I highly recommend you fall in love with her good and bad side because she is written beautifully. Don’t @ me.

Cullen, and I mean Inquisition Cullen, has a lot to like. And a lot to dislike. Every character is flawed. I think a lot of hate that gets tagged onto Cullen is really from poor writing. They really got lazy with him. And it is a shame. I feel like he could have been redeemed way better. He could have had one hell of a redemption. Or possibly just skipped over all together. I see a lot of posts about putting Samson in his place and I often agree. It was never quite the character that made him appealing to me. It was the personality. And they could have easily done with anyone. They could have made Samson sexy, too. It didn’t have to be sexy Cullen. And let’s face it. With Cullen’s writing in Origins and even some of the writing in DA2, Cullen siding with Coryphedouche is way more fitting than Samson.

Basically, it is up to us to fill in the gaps. So I love seeing fanfic with Cullen backstory. Because it gives better insight than what the writers could accomplish. And I applaud you if you’ve done that. BUT the over sexualization of this character is a bit... wrong. It feels wrong. And that’s all I’ll say to that. Personally, I’ve been working on some Cullen romance fic for awhile and it’s been challenging trying to find a way to make him less douchey. One minute, he’s yelling at you about mages. And the next, he’s got this soft tone and nervous look. Like, yeah... you can tell it’s rushed. And awful. And even the dialogue is just... painful. It doesn’t fit. (you can check my Cullen tag in blog to see how I feel about that). I will say that even speaking to him on a personal note, asking him questions about life as a templar, he even says he does not agree with the Order. And he wants to change his thinking. But he still gets angry when you go to side with the mages. It feels like they wanted redeem him but they also needed someone to side with the templars to provide conflict at the war table.

So in my opinion, calling him controlling and abusive is a bit of a stretch. He was clearly used by the writers. It just seems ridiculous to put so much effort in bashing the character when clearly... he was not planned out... or put together... I just... I don’t get...

I know what you’re thinking at this point: Kay.... why do you like him then?

Beacause. I am weak for a man who gets nervous around girls he likes. His awkward mannerisms despite being a man of power makes me weak. The need to protect also makes me weak. But also the ability to admit vulnerability makes me suuuuuper weak. So like I said. There was a lot there. It just was not delivered correctly. You know what I would have done? If I had to put him in the Commander shoes, I would have made the whole Kirkwall thing a life changer for him. Maybe even give him a soul searching type situation before joining the Inquisition. And definitely tell him to keep his mouth shut about siding with the templars.

Long story short: Ya’ll thirsted over a weird dude in Origins and Bioware went hmmmm okay. But by the time they gave him to you on a silver plate, it was last minute. Like you just found out your crush Jared is going to Becky’s party but you’re already at Jessica’s house and have like nothing to wear so you have to just wing it. And your shoes look tacky, but Jessica’s shoes don’t fit. So you either have to wear shoes that don’t fit or just look like omg total garbage. And Bioware went with the shoes that don’t fit. And Jared totally likes them.

I’m also going to say the most controversial thing on this entire post by just... saying... by calling Cullen out as trash without realizing the writing, the directive, the lack of development, the rush on this character, and the complete absolute bullying this community does to it’s FANS AND WRITERS kind of feels like you didn’t really put any effort into understanding why and just jumped on a band wagon. And the fact that some of you make other people feel bad for liking this character is awful. Some of the most toxic shit I’ve seen. Like maybe they like this character from Inquisition because, I don’t know, maaaaaaybe he was written out almost like a new character with a last minute fantasy romance.. because he kind of was...

Now for my opinion on Greg Ellis.

FUCK THAT GUY.

And that’s it. Thanks for stopping by. If you agree cool, if not cool. I’m not here to argue with anyone or say your opinion is invalid. We all have reasons why we hate or love the color blue. So we can all disagree or agree and live in peace and still love a game.

You can always message me, too, guys. I have a lot of opinions. And reasons for my opinions. And theories. And just things in general. But I will not hate characters written in Dragon Age. Someone wrote them. Someone is out there working their ass off to deliver a character. And I refuse to hate someone fictional.

#dragon age #dragon age critical #cullen rutherford #commander cullen #cullen critical #dragon age cullen #analyzing cullen #fuck greg ellis #kay has spoken

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blurry-fics · 5 years

Text

Chapter Twenty

Prove Me Wrong | Series Masterlist

Warnings: The tiniest bit of angst

Word Count: 1883

Author’s Note: Would you believe me if I said this was the last Tyler chapter of this book? This series has gone by wayyyyy faster than I expected it to! Anyway, I hope you enjoy this chapter :)

Today was the day.

I rinsed the last bit of shampoo out of my hair before shutting off the water. It would be awhile before I got to shower in the comfort of my own apartment again. I would miss the consistent water pressure and ability to shower for as long as I pleased. Tour wouldn’t have the same luxuries.

Not wanting to waste any time, I dried myself off and pulled on a pair of sweatpants and the shirt I had worn to bed. I wanted to spend as much time relaxing this morning as I could before the afternoon was spent running around making last minute preparations. There were still a million things that I needed to pack, but that could wait until after breakfast.

The coffee pot hissed while I cooked up some eggs for myself. Over the last few days, I had been trying to use as much of the perishable food in my fridge as I could before I had to toss all of it. The last thing I wanted was to come back from tour to a fridge that reeked of spoiled food. That wouldn’t be fun.

I wondered what Y/N was up to as I cooked my eggs. Her classes would be starting again in just a few more days, and I knew she had been really enjoying her break from constant studying and going to class. I wished that I could stay for the rest of it, but our label had been insistent on leaving as soon as we possibly could.

My thoughts were interrupted by someone calling me. With my free hand, I picked up my phone and and held it to my ear while continuing to stir up my eggs with the other.

“Hello?”

“Hey, man,” Josh said. “I just had a quick question for you and calling is easier than texting.”

“Sure, what’s up?”

It turned out that Josh’s “question” was more like twenty. He was asking about everything under the sun, from how many shirts he should bring to what equipment he had to be in charge of. By the time that he finally finished the interrogation, I had finished cooking my eggs and made it halfway through my first mug of coffee.

“Alright, thanks, Tyler.”

“Yeah, no problem,” I said before shoveling more eggs into my mouth.

“I’ll see you in a couple hours?”

“Sounds good.”

Josh ended the phone call and I tossed my phone down onto the couch. It bounced along the cushions for a moment before landing face down next to my leg.

I thought about calling Y/N for a moment, just to distract me for awhile, but ultimately decided against it. She was probably busy - or asleep - and it was better not to bother her. There would be plenty of time to get on her nerves with phone calls while I was on the road.

Far away from Ohio.

The idea of it still put an uncomfortable feeling in my stomach, even though the reality of the situation hadn’t really set in. There was still a good chance that it wouldn’t be as bad as I was expecting it to be, right?

Maybe it would even help me finally get over my feelings for Y/N. Or finally give me the confidence to tell her.

Now that was an interesting thought.

I had come so close to telling her again last night. Everything had just felt so natural with her wearing my sweatshirt and laying on my chest, like that’s where we were meant to be all along. She had probably been able to hear my heart pounding in my chest while I debated if I wanted to tell her or not.

But no, instead I just told her that I would miss her. At least I knew that she was going to miss me too.

I shook my head in an attempt to get the thoughts to leave it. Today was supposed to be about leaving for tour, not ruminating on what could have been. With a sigh, I took another large bite of eggs and washed it down with a gulp of coffee.

My phone buzzed.

Y/N: I don’t know exactly when you leave, but have fun today! I’m going to miss you lots and can’t wait to see you when you get back :)

The text made me smile.

Tyler: Still have a couple hours, but of course I left everything until the last minute :P going to be a packing tornado until everyone gets here

I quickly finished my eggs as I waited for her response. Knowing my tendency to get distracted, I was going to need as much time as possible to pack up and clean my apartment.

Y/N: Don’t forget to take care of yourself! Anyway, I don’t want to distract you. Just let me know when you leave, please :)

Tyler: Will do :)

I quickly cleaned off my dishes and left them out to dry for now. There were two hours until everyone got here and an endless list of things to finish before we left.

The countdown started now.

* * *

It felt like I was being pulled in twenty different directions: trying to finish packing up the apartment, coordinating with all the crew members, and carrying everything downstairs. If I didn’t calm down soon, I knew I was going to forget something vital.

“Shoes? On feet. Music folder? Backpack. Ukulele? By the door,” I murmured, all the while trying to take a few deep breaths.

I walked into the kitchen and grabbed the packing list that Y/N had helped me make a few days ago. Most of the stuff was already packed up in the van, but I was doing one last sweep of my apartment before we left, just to make sure that nothing was left behind.

There was a knock on my door, pulling my attention away from the list. It was probably one of the crew members.

“Come on in!” I called.

The door swung open, revealing Josh standing on the other side. He stepped inside and closed the door behind him.

“I just got here,” he said. “How are things going?”

I glanced around the room, “They’re going.”

“Do you need help with anything?”

“No, I think I have everything handled.”

Josh walked over and hopped up on the counter next to my packing list. He pulled it a little closer to him and looked it over.

“Did Y/N help you make this?”

“What gave it away?” I laughed.

“I’ve read your handwriting enough times to know that this isn’t it.”

“I wouldn’t have had anything except for musical instruments if it wasn’t for her. Half of the stuff on that list was her idea.”

Josh nodded and slid the paper back to where it had been sitting. I wandered over to the couch and began to wrap up some loose cords that were hanging over the back of it.

“How are you feeling?” Josh asked.

“I’m doing alright. Still trying to wrap my head around this whole not-being-in-Ohio-for-three-months things that we have going on, but it will sink in soon enough.”

“Yeah, as soon as we’re out of Ohio,” he laughed.

“Exactly.”

“What about Y/N?”

“What about her?” I asked, turning to look at Josh.

“Are you going to miss her?”

“Of course I’m going to miss her. She’s my best friend.” Josh shot me a look. “Alright, the thought of leaving her almost made me bail on this whole tour thing but if I let myself think about it, it’s only going to hurt worse in the end.”

“That’s more like it.”

“Yeah, thanks for that,” I said sarcastically.

“How is she handling it?”

“Fine, I guess. She was really positive yesterday, but I’m guessing that was just a front for how she was really feeling. My guess is that she’s doing about how I am.”

“Are you going to see her again before we leave?”

“No. Yesterday was our last day together.”

“Did you tell her how you feel?”

“No.”

“Ty, come on, man!”

“Listen, I wanted to tell her. It was just - I didn’t want to tell her and then leave for three months. That isn’t fair.”

Josh raised his eyebrows, “It sounds like you’re just making excuses.”

“It’s more complicated than that. Can we just drop this?”

“Fine. Sorry for bringing it up.”

“It’s fine,” I sighed. “Want to help me carry this stuff downstairs?”

“Sure.”

Josh and I made a couple trips between my apartment and the van out in the parking lot. My legs were protesting more and more with each time that I went up and down the stairs, meanwhile Josh seemed to be having no issues going back and forth.

“Is that everything?” he asked as we arrived upstairs for what felt like the millionth time.

“I think so.”

“Ok, I’m going to head downstairs and see what they need help with.”

“I’ll meet you down there. I just need a few more minutes.”

Josh gave me a pat on the shoulder before walking out the front door. I wandered over to the couch and sat down on it, kicking my feet up onto the coffee table. It felt so empty in here, now that most of my favorite possessions were gone. The corner looked too empty without my keyboard in it.

The plants that I had tasked Y/N with taking care of were still sitting by the window. She had told me that she was going to pick them up tomorrow on her way home from running errands with her brother. I wondered what she would think of the empty apartment. It hardly even felt like my apartment anymore.

“Hey, Tyler!” someone called from the other side of my door. It wasn’t Josh.

“Yeah?”

“We need to get out of here in ten minutes.”

“Ok, I’ll be down soon.”

There was no point in wallowing alone in my empty apartment, so I stood up and did one final walk around, just to make sure everything was how I liked it. Once I was happy with how it looked, I grabbed my keys from the counter and walked out into the hallway. I double checked that the door was locked - not that it really mattered since Y/N would be over tomorrow - took one final look at the door, and went down the stairs.

“There he is,” one of the crew members said as I joined the small crowd that had gathered in the parking lot. “Let’s do one final check of everything and get out of here.”

Josh walked over to where I was standing and resting a hand on my shoulder, “Still doing ok?”

“Yeah. Are you?”

He nodded. I forced a smile.

“It’s going to be ok, Tyler. All of it.”

“I know. Tour is just a whole new concept to me and I’m not quite sure how to handle it.”

“It’s only three months,” he reassured me. “We’ll be back before you know it.”

Josh raised his eyebrows as I turned to look at him. My stomach was twisting uncomfortably, although I wasn’t quite sure if it was excitement or nerves at this point.

“I just hope things haven’t changed by the time we get back.”

* * * * *

Taglist

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virzafar · 5 years

Text

From the archives of The New Yorker, 04/21/12: “Stargazers” by Vir Singh

“I’m leaving,” Astrid announces as she unceremoniously plops a camper-style backpack down on her bed.

Moesche looks up suddenly from where he’s lounging on his own bed with a government-issued book in hand. Astrid looks frantic with her hair in her face and the corners of her eyes puffy, looking like she just cried or she’s about to cry or some winning combination of the two.

Moesche puts his book down as he sits up, trying to get a better gauge of the situation. Astrid is unrelentless as she starts packing, grabbing things from the closet without much regard. Too many shirts, Moesche notices, and not enough pants. Is she even packing socks?

He watches her hands move, quick and unsystematic. She’s shivering slightly, keeps pulling her sleeves down lower. Nervous. She’s nervous. She’s leaving.

“Oh,” is all Moesche says in response. It’s not like he hasn’t seen this coming at all. Astrid hasn’t exactly been a happy camper since the president issued a nation-wide containment order, but they’ve been in this bunker for nearly three months now and Astrid’s disdain has almost faded, become background noise for an otherwise mundane life. “Why?”

“Because,” Astrid says as she chucks a first aid kit into a side pocket of the backpack, “I can’t just sit around here anymore doing nothing. If the government isn’t willing to give me some answers I’ll go out and get them myself.”

“Oh,” Moesche says again.

“You sound like a parrot, Mo,” Astrid says.

Moesche doesn’t reply, taking out a lighter from his pocket and playing with that instead. The flame flickers on then off, on then off, on then off – he finds solace in the repetition of it.

“Well?” Astrid asks. “Are you coming?”

Moesche looks up from the lighter at the guards standing by the doors leading outside. He thinks of the large fence towering over the Safety Facility and the unknowns waiting for them beyond that.

“Eh,” he says, running a hand through his curls and gives a curt shrug. “I’ll try anything once.”

Astrid seems to accept that as she tosses an empty backpack towards him.

“I’m still a little lost,” Moesche says. “What makes you sure there’s going to be aliens at this place?”

“No, not aliens,” Astrid tells him. She sounds tired. “Information about aliens.”

“Fine. What makes you sure there’s going to be information about aliens at this place?”

“It’s called ‘Area 51’. The government kept classified information in it years ago, inaccessible to the public eye. It was eventually abandoned once their secrets became too vast to keep confiscated to a single facility, which is when they adopted Island Luesch for use instead. But there’s hundreds of official statements claiming that they never fully cleared out their facilities. All we have to do is get there, break in, and find the right files,” Astrid says matter-of-factly.

“And this is a theory you were just sitting on for a rainy day?”

“Before they rounded us up, I read a ton of books about it as a part of my research thesis,” she says. There’s a tinge of sadness in her tone, an underlying bittersweetness about the studies in history that she had to abandon. Moesche can’t say he doesn’t understand it – there’s very little he wouldn’t do to live just another day in the life he had before the UFOs made the sky black and turned society into a place to be evacuated.

“When was this 51 place shut down?” Moesche asks.

Astrid scratches the back of her head, avoiding his gaze as she answers with a timid, “Around 2050.”

“Almost 80 years ago?” Moesche asks in disbelief. Astrid’s silence is enough of an answer. “You snuck out of the safety of government care to investigate a hunch from a place that shut down nearly 80 years ago? We might as well deep-sea dive to find Atlantis!”

“I know!” Astrid shouts back. “I know, I just – I don’t know. I have a gut feeling about this place. I have to trust myself. I need you to trust me too.”

Silence swallows them. When Astrid meets Moesche’s gaze again she looks decades younger.

“I trust you,” Moesche says finally, and he tries to sound sincere. Astrid smiles at him and the thank you is spoken without a word exchanged.

With that, she gains a new perk in her step, picking up the pace slightly from the casual strides they had been taking. Moesche follows right after, gripping his backpack as if it would fall off otherwise.

“Come on, I want to get through at least another two miles before we rest for the day.”

It doesn’t take long for them to grow tired of walking. Moesche spends a whole day trying to remember what his father had taught him when he was still certain Moesche would inherit the family body shop, but he eventually manages to hijack an abandoned car with three paper clips and some radio gadgets.

“Impressive,” is all Astrid says before she claims the driver’s seat.

They switch off cars each time they run out of power, sometimes lasting longer if they find a working charging port on the side of the road. They try their best to avoid driving by other Safety Facilities scattered across the countries. Like scavengers, they keep moving out of fear of what may follow them.

At night, Moesche begs desperately for his subconscious to bring him pleasant dreams, memories of what Earth once looked like – greens, browns, blues. Instead, he gets blackness with snippets of dialogue he think he may have once said.

“I want a war,” his voice at age 12 echoes one night. “Life is so mundane. I want the world to see what I’m capable of.”

It seems he’s gotten his wish.

He was most worried about finding food sources when they first left, though it turns out they have more food at their disposal than they could ever consume. With the government promising an endless supply of federally issued supplies in their designated Safety Facility, there was no need for the people to raid supermarkets out of blind panic. As a result, the two of them bounce from town to town and pick up whichever perishables appeal most to them with plenty to choose from.

Today, they sit on the roof of their latest ride and eat lunch in silence. For Astrid, this consists of a can of peaches and a jar of strawberry jam; for Moesche, a stale loaf of bread and a can of corn.

“What’s your theory?” Moesche asks as he rips a bite from the baguette in his hand.

“About the aliens?” Astrid asks.

“Mhmm,” he says. “Where do you think they came from? What do you think we’ll find in those files?”

“You’ll never be able to look at me again without imagining a tinfoil hat on my head,” Astrid says.

“I think we’re well past that.” To make his point, Moesche gives a wave-around at the terrain around them as if to say ‘look where you’ve gotten me’. Astrid laughs.

“I have a few theories,” she admits. Moesche quirks on eyebrow at her as if to prompt her to go on, which she does. “Mainly, it’s that the government did this as a reason to expand their military-industrial complex. A month before the aliens invade, all of Earth’s world leaders finally sit down after a human history spent fighting each other to finally find some international peace and decrease military spending to effectively zero.

“Then the aliens arrive, and after a century of the media brainwashing us to fear them, we’re willing to do just that. The government jacks up its defense spending to more than double of what it was to fight off the immediate threat, and eventually the UFOs leave and the people come out of their bunkers.

“But wait! The government insists that it keep expanding its military to get bigger and better technology in case they ever return. The military is left to stay rich forever, the people feel protected from intergalactic threats at the cost of trillions.” Astrid pauses to express a self-satisfied smirk before adding on, “It’s just a theory though. What do I really know?”

“Maybe a little too much,” Moesche says. He scoops another heaping of corn onto the bread and takes a bite. It goes down dry and tasteless.

“I was going to be an astronaut, you know,” Moesche says. They lie on a field looking at the stars somewhere in Middle America – Kansas, maybe. It’s hotter than where they came from.

“Were you?” Astrid asks.

“I just finished a summer internship with NASA when the aliens came,” he says. “Ironic, no?”

“Bitterly so,” she says with a frown. “Were you any good?”

“They certainly thought so. Offered me a permanent position after my internship ended. I said no,” he admits.

“Why?” she asks.

“There was something else I needed to do.” His voice breaks ever-so slightly at the thought as he clenches the grass they’re sitting on a little tighter. “I told myself I’d come back to it.”

“You still could,” she offers, though it’s laced with a kind of false optimism that neither of them can quite buy into.

“I’m not so sure,” he says. There’s a long pause as he stares up to the stars, and when he speaks again, he speaks with a whisper. “How do we forgive ourselves for the life we never got to live?”

They’ve been on the road for two months now. According to their heavily-calculated, maybe-accurate, please-God-don’t-let-them-down predictions, this means they should be arriving at Area 51 today. Astrid buzzes; Moesche might throw up.

“Maybe we should think a little more about this,” Moesche suggests. “Take some time to really hash out the details, make a more concrete battle plan, consider all possibilities —”

“There it is,” Astrid says. Moesche looks up from the dashboard of today’s car and squints into the distance, only to be met with an imposing gray building barely a mile away.

“There it is,” Moesche confirms. Astrid grins manically and steps on the gas pedal. Moesche holds on tight to his seat and mutters a prayer to a god he stopped believing in long ago.

They pull up as close to the building as they can, and when they step out, Astrid all-but sprints to get to the building as Moesche jogs behind her. He expects an electric fence, a pack of dogs, a well-regulated militia to be awaiting them at the entrance of this place. Instead, a door that’s only just pulling through hangs by a hinge that the two of them can push to the side with ease.

“Where do we even begin to look?” Moesche asks, but Astrid pays him no mind. She’s too busy walking towards a large filing cabinet with a stretch of tape covering it labeled ‘CLASSIFIED’. “Oh. I guess that’s a start.”

Astrid wastes no time, ripping the label off hastily and throwing it away with a kind of dying urgency. Moesche stands warily to the side, watching as she opens cabinet after cabinet and sifts through file after file, only to find nothing. He thinks perhaps this is a good thing, that the government is hiding nothing from them after all, that they can pack their bags and get out of here. With time, he could forget this whole trip even happened.

“Oh my god,” Astrid breathes so quietly Moesche almost misses it. She stands over what must be the hundredth file she’s gone through, and by the look of her wide eyes, it seems she’s finally found what she’s looking for. “Oh my god, Moesche. It’s everything I could have imagined and more. You’ve got to see this, this is absolutely —” Astrid voice cuts off as soon as she turns around. “...Mo? Why are you holding a gun?”

“You never should have come here,” is the last thing Moesche says before his fingers pull the trigger. The first bullet hits Astrid’s rib cage; the second bullet hits her head. She falls to the ground, hands splayed in front of Moesche’s feet.

He steps over her corpse delicately, grabs the file from where Astrid had left it, and proceeds to unlock the bottom drawer of the cabinet. There, an explosive awaits him, which he bends down and programs to go off within five minute. He picks up the holo-phone from inside of his shirt, presses two numbers, then holds it to his ear. “It’s done,” he says. He flips the device closed and throws it behind him.

He doesn’t look back.

#m: about #okay so pretend this is good enough to get into the new yorker even though they have like a .0004% acceptance rate for short stories :/#focus on the essence! the vibe! vir's crushed dreams! etc etc #anyway still cant believe i wrote a fictional short story for a fictional character fuck my life

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fdhfjdafdajfa · 6 years

Text

PLEASE SIGNAL BOOST: I need to raise money for myself and a friend, both currently homeless.

THE SHORT VERSION:

-I am in India without access to my money due to a pickpocketing and bank-related technicalities.

-I am without housing due to repeated, egregious, explicit discrimination. This has depleted most of my funds and I relocated to Calcutta due to air quality, low cost of living, and beef.

-At the same time, a close friend and her partner (located in Delhi and Paris, respectively) have brought to my attention a friend of theirs who is literally being physically restrained in an abusive marriage. We are talking black eyes and bruises. It's a horrific situation but I need her also because she speaks Bengali. So the house hunting process is stalled until she escapes.

-I am staying at an airbnb very close to her place. Even after we manage to get her physically removed there'a more stuff we have to do like filing a police report etc. The airbnb is expensive by Calcutta standards, but it's cheaper than rent anywhere I've lived in the USA.

-I need money for two reasons: to pay the deposit on our flat, and to keep me alive until I can sort things out with the bank, which may not be possible until after I move into a permanent place.

THE SHORTER VERSION:

-Idiot foreigner and victim of ongoing battering need rescue funds so we don't die.

PLEASE SIGNAL BOOST THIS

Paypal here.

https://www.paypal.me/pcoolpearl

Further details under cut.

ON THE PICKPOCKETING AND BANK ISSUES:

-I was pickpocketed in the market about two months ago. That's life. It happens. Welcome to India. Some idiot got like 200 rupees so that's great for them but I had to cancel all my bank cards. Not really much I could do. I just got home and realised my wallet wasn't there anymore.

-Delhi does not have a functional mailing system at all. This means that the banks were more or less at a loss for how to get the cards at me. This is part of why I relocated to Calcutta. That's Bank Account A. The easy one, but also the far smaller one.

-But as for the larger and more consequential Bank Account B, which contains easily enough money for me to live off of in Calcutta for quite some time, they do not have any kind of policy for what to do in the event that someone ever manages to escape the land of the free and the home of the brave. This is the one tied to my social security payments, and is where all my money lives.

-So when I called Social Security they did that thing they do where they try to play gotcha with inconsistencies in your story. In my case I had already tried to get a replacement card weeks earlier, for reasons unrelated. "If it didn't get there weeks ago, wouldn't you have called weeks ago?" "What the fuck? No, I didn't solve any of the problems so why would I have called again and wasted my fucking time on this fucking phone line for no reason, again?" This was after a good 15 mins or so of this kind of grilling, which I find especially grating now after almost a year of living in countries where nobody can lie for shit and so there'a no point in every single fucking person pretending they're a TV detective whose purpose in life is to stop Moriarty from abusing welfare benefits. "If you're going to raise your voice at me, what I'm going to do is I'm going to place a security hold on your account and you'll need to verify your identity." Let me reiterate that she stated explicitly that this was in retaliation for raising my voice and not due to any real suspicion about my identity. In later calls to Social Security it would be revealed that she could

have easily seen on her computer that the card never got to me. That is information very easily verifiable by the World's Greatest Goddamn Detective over there.

-So the next person I called sent me on a wild goose chase to the American Embassy to pick up a form called a Memorandum of Understanding. Judging that the very limited funds I'd had stockpiled in my dresser was not best spent on an auto ride, I walked nearly an hour from the metro station to the embassy. There was a dust storm in this period and I read later that over a hundred people fucking died in it, but I just kept walking towards it because that's where the embassy was. Also I'd never seen a dust storm in my life and had no idea what it was or why the sky was pink.

-When I got there they told me straight up that 1. they don't do mail pickup, which is why the card hadn't gotten to me, and 2. they don't do memorandums of understanding. They offered to send me a different form for 50 USD. "Can't you borrow it?" they asked. "That's not a reasonable thing to say to someone who lives in India," I said straight up. "That's not a real amount of money that people in India have." That's American for "fuck off". So they wrote me a different letter in an attempt to verify my identity. I send this in with my only other forms of identification: my passport and an expired driver's license from Washington state. Waited 3 business days as instructed.

-They told me they can't use these because of issues relating to my legal name change a couple years ago. Social Security had not been updated as regards the change. "I have my birth certificate and my court certification for the name change, and I can fax those in."

-"What you'll have to do is go to you social security office in person--" "Look, I'm gonna cut you off there. You can see my current address right? Read that off to me. What city is that in." "New Delhi." "That's right, New Delhi. What country is that in? Great. So can, can you tell me where my local Social Security office is here in India?" She could not tell me where my local social security office was in India. There aren't any. That's why she couldn't tell me that. But again, no protocol for this situation and if an American bureaucrat breaks their protocol I'm 90% sure Obama's legally allowed to kill them.

-What I'll need to do is a complicated process involving appointing Americans to act as proxies to go in and file paperwork on my behalf. There are other ideas, but none of them are more sure or less complicated, and they all require me to have a permanent address.

ON WHY I DO NOT HAVE A PERMANENT ADDRESS:

-Those close to me know that I have had a hell of a time finding housing in India. It's not all that bad for an Indian to find housing and when my Indian friends have tried they've consistently been able to find me something in a few hours. But that something is living alone. Which 1. is depressing and 2. is tactically disadvantageous when you don't speak the language of a country because how you will tell the food panda guy where to go...

-So I moved in with an Indian girl who seemed nice enough, and her sister who seemed if anything even nicer. This was about a week before I was pickpocketed as described above.

-In India there's this big thing about vegetarianism where it's a highly important in determining one's role in caste hierarchy. Unfortunately for me I do not give a shit and think the caste system is dumb and scrambled myself some eggs. The disgust my caste Hindu roommates displayed towards me from that point on was palpable. Within another week they were asking me to leave. They got the landlord on their side fairly easily because that's how the caste system works and I was given less than a week to vacate. (To my knowledge there is no law like in USA saying they can't do that.) (Also if you're going to try to argue with me about how caste works shut up, I don't care, not the time.)

-The next day I would eat a straight-up poisoned "cheeseburger" and be sick for the following two weeks.

-Regardless of this I managed to miraculously line up a living arrangement with a Muslim roommate who expressed her approval of my award-winning omelettes and stated a willingness to go with me on beef crawls. (It's technically illegal in Delhi but if you know where to get it you can.)

-But it took about two weeks for the landlord to run my papers. I'm not sure why. Previous landlords had it done in 20 minutes. Most of my information about the landlord comes from this roommate, who is not a reliable narrator for reasons which will be explored shortly.

-During this period of 2 weeks, I, with alarming competence, managed to collect money from various friends and places to pay the deposit. I left my boxes of things at the old apartment and couch surfed around Delhi for like a week and a half while this was pending.

-To be honest I don't know what the fuck this roommate's problem was. She was just not a good person. She'd previously agreed to help me cash the contents of my paypal account through having it transferred to her bank, but now she was saying that if she stepped outside even for a second in this heat due to fasting.

-"Then you should not be fasting," I said, matter-of-factly. Look. Islamic law is my literal, actual field of study. You can't really pull one over on me as regards it. This is the ruling accepted by everyone who's not a goddamn lunatic. She didn't buy it though. Because she was lying. The next day she went to her cousin's house and somehow managed not to perish in the heat. Also, she'd previously explained to me how you can call the bankers to your house in India and do work that way. Then she tells me I am paying rent for the entire month despite moving in on like the 20th. "That's how it works everywhere in India," she told me. Wrong again, because this was literally the fifth house I'd moved into and none of them were like that.

-I now believe that this was something she made up on the spot because everything she would say for the remainder of our relationship would be.

-At this point my sense of stranger danger is going fucking haywire and I know I don't want to live with this person. I announce that I will leave in a matter of days. This was a GOOD decision.

-Citing "feeling unsafe" because I had raised my voice in an earlier argument, she invited her brother's sister-in-law(?) basically to troll me on etiquette because "people do not yell in India" which I actually laughed at because, not to claim expertise in a foreign culture, but ya-huh. "Not us," she clarified, "we are women from good families." Ah. A gender and caste thing. "What do you mean good families? My dad's in jail," I said, a statement about 20% likely to be true; I don't fucking know. I'd already agreed to vacate anyway. Anyway then she looked at me like I stabbed a cat in front of her.

-For the record, I didn't stab anything. But that night my roommate (Abaa) would invite her ex-boyfriend to stay the night. The next day he'd investigate a few of the claims Abaa had made.

-"Don't you agree this is a little threatening? Throwing boxes at her..." "What?" I asked. "Throwing boxes?" "She said you threw that box at her," he said, pointing to a container made of thin tin or aluminum which had been full of popcorn when I bought it. The tin drum was sitting on my desk, undented, full of medications and things. "I didn't do that," I said, truthfully. "She also said you grabbed a kitchen knife and tried to stab her." "What? And you believe this?" "She is my friend. I have to believe her." God bless this guy but he was not regarding me as one would regard someone who had just tried to STAB a friend of his. Also the kitchen knives sucked and would not have been practical stabbing implements; if I were going to attack someone surely the better choice would be the brass punchers I carry on my person at all times.

-She also called the police on me twice. I don't know what she was claiming, it was never explained to me. But both times they basically told her to chill, this isn't an ethno-state.

-Even on the way to the train station to Calcutta she's calling my cab driver trying to get him to turn around so she can yell at me over misplacing the key to the apartment. She texts me this:

In her defence, I had accidentally taken the key, but still, not done, man. She blocked me after saying that so I couldn't arrange a way to get the key back. I guess she wasn't from such a great family after all.

TO CALCUTTA:

-Rent in Calcutta is about a quarter as expensive as in Delhi. Also, Delhi is kind of an overcrowded polluted place where people go to be slaves to capital and die of smoke inhalation and indigestion. The "cheeseburger" gave me my worst case but I pretty much never didn't have indigestion there. Also it's like 45 degrees every day with an Air Quality Index of like 350. So I felt pretty good about going to Calcutta where beef is legal and there's an active art scene and I have almost as many friends as in Delhi and AQI rarely tops 50 and everybody's a communist.

-On the train ride over, a very close friend and her boyfriend (who live in Delhi and Paris, respectively) alert me to a friend of theirs who is in a physically abusive marriage. She needs help escaping. After that, the two of us should get a flat together. They think it'll be good for her to live with me because I'm an abuse survivor who is strong and independent and has experience in DV counseling. Truthfully, they're right. And I didn't stop needing an Indian roommate or anything. So I enthusiastically agree.

-The place that had agreed to host me for my first stretch in Calcutta until I get a permanent place has two complications. One, to get to where my new roommate lives, I need to pay 500 rupees for a 1 hour uber ride, or I can ride the train for 3 hours. Secondly, and perhaps more pressingly, the family I was staying with were forced to vacate because the father's debtors had threatened to kidnap his daughter.

-So I get an airbnb about a block from where my new roommate lives so that she can head over easily when she gets the chance. That is where I am now. It's a little over ₹600 a night. I'm pretty much stuck here until she manages to escape and we manage to get a place, although I have other people working on it as well. Frankly this suits me fine. I'm tired. I've had basically no downtime in like two months. The food here'a fucking fantastic. If I can spend a few days just stuffing my face with ₹40 beef biryani and momos and gain back the weight I lost by having indigestion for six straight months then fuck me up.

Compounding issues is the fact that my computer broke. Fortunately it's under warranty but I had to type this on an mp3 player and it took two hours good night.

ON MONEY:

I need some. If I raise €50, I'll be fine. If I raise €100, I'll be comfortable. Assuming the Apple store doesn't blindside me tomorrow. I'm really hoping for €60 or more.

PLEASE SIGNAL BOOST

PAYPAL HERE

https://www.paypal.me/pcoolpearl

#ramadan #laylat al qadr #zakat #sadaqah #signal boost

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novadreii · 6 years

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a diatribe about the emotional unpacking i’ve been doing this summer, specifically regarding my anxiety, how it’s affected me, and how i’m trying to drop kick it in the face.

i will be honest and say that this weekend i’ve been sitting with some mild anxiety. mild, but still there, enough to set off alarms. just this...undercurrent of fear about the future. i go back to school in exactly 1 month, and getting my degree means more to me than arguably anything right now. some of you have been watching me bitch about this for years, but i’m stubborn as fuck and refuse to let it go. it’s not about the status, or the diploma. it’s a struggle of significance for me; since 2012 i’ve wrestled on and off with my mental health and this made staying in school consistently impossible. so in 2015 i made the decision to not go back until i was properly ready. a lot has happened since then, but to make a long story short, i’ll never be more ready than i am now. finishing this means everything to me; it means digging my heels in, working hard, and earning something for myself. something that, for a long time, i really lost hope that i was even capable of achieving.

but as always, doubt always starts to creep once the deadline approaches: what if i fail again, what if i can’t handle it, what if i drop out and have to work boring low-level jobs my whole life, what if i panic, what if i can’t do it?

every piece of text on the subject that i’ve ever read, every meaningful message from all my favorite books/series, has pointed me towards this one solution for when i’m paralyzed with fear: just feel it, sit with it, don’t run from or avoid it. and once you’ve done that, go through your fear and do the thing you’re afraid of anyway. that’s called bravery, and if you repeat this process enough times it will give you the confidence to keep doing it in the face of anything you fear. how often have we heard that being brave is not synonymous with being fearless? fearless is a lofty concept, an ideal, but honey, it’s just not realistic. everybody has fears. the most incredible people throughout history had their own fears; what sets them apart is how they dealt with them.

my methods for avoiding pain/fear these days are 1) weed 2) tv/video games in excess and 3) avoiding my responsibilities/doing anything that would progress my life. obviously this will not work out for me, not in a long-term sense anyway.

so recently i’ve just....stopped using coping methods when i’m getting into my fear. i do anything other than my usual destructive habits. i force myself to clean in a frenzy, i listen to loud music on my headphones, i go for a walk around the block, i read a book, i’ve even forced myself to do boring paperwork that i was avoiding. i make a challenge out of forcing myself to do the exact opposite of what i really want to do in that moment.

and THAT’S where the magic happened for me. once i confront Fear and do it over and over and over again, it begins to lessen. i’ve done this before, and i survived. it wasn’t that bad. it was worth the effort it took to just deal with it.

the truth is that everything in life is a trade-off. you can’t get anything you want without sacrificing something of equal value whether it’s money, time, energy, or any other resource. and on the flip side of that coin, you can’t just avoid your life and desires, not without paying for it emotionally. so logically speaking, if both paths are equally as difficult, if they take roughly the same amount (but a different TYPE) of effort, which one will i choose?

it’s become obvious to me now, whereas it wasn’t before, that i should choose the path with the end result that is most worth it for me. depressed bastard who never did anything with her life? or...who knows? someone who actually tried and maybe got SOME of what she wanted? so now that the two choices are so clear, i’m beginning to feel drive, determination, and ambition again. goddamn, i was born with those traits burned into my personality and identity; losing them temporarily during the last few years fucking hurt, i really did lose a part of myself. but they were just dormant, inactive, because i can feel them faintly taking root again. and it feels friggin amazing.

so nowadays i’m practicing a new skill: willpower. i believe it is absolutely a skill that anyone can cultivate and work on. i realized that i can force myself to do shit i know i should be doing instead of running from my problems. knowing that i will feel so much better if i just address and overcome what is scaring me is enough to motivate me. i can do this without resistance, without wanting to go hide in my bad habits. my awareness (my true self, separate from ego), knows the right answers, the correct path. i can physically do what i know needs to be done even if my mind is screaming at me to self-destruct instead; i have that power, because i am not my mind. none of us are; we are the awareness behind the mind, so to speak. if this sounds too new-age for you, i’m sorry. but i’ve been reading books on the topic for years without understanding completely. it made about 75% sense to me up until now, and i found the missing piece. mindfulness, the Self, the Ego...it’s all interconnected, and i used to think it was more religious BS that I didn’t care for. but it really isn’t. it’s a logical approach to heal yourself emotionally, and it starts with recognizing that your internal dialogue, your thoughts, and even your emotions, do not make up who you are, so you don’t have to be a slave to them. i wish i could articulate this better, but i barely understood it myself when i first started researching the topic. but something inside me knew that the answer i’d been looking for was somewhere in this train of thought, so i’ve kept with it (if you’re interested, the one book I would recommend is the power of now by eckhart tolle. i know, i know. but it really is the most easily digestible medium for this subject. just know you will have to engage with it and put in the work to fully understand).

so anyway, that’s what i did this weekend. no weed, no mindless distractions, no emotional eating, despite the low burning of fear about school in the back of my mind. i cleaned the shit out of the kitchen and my room instead, which was distracting and physically tiring. then because i still felt restless, i went for a jog. now i’m showered and tired, about to watch a movie that i feel i actually earned. i think Fear produces a nervous energy that i can dispel with any kind of physical activity, which takes the edge off and makes it bearable.

and lo and behold, by not being destructive at the first sign of feeling afraid, i didn’t burst into flames or anything. sure, my heart rate might jump for a bit, i might feel a bit sweaty/nauseous for a couple minutes. but then i swallow it and continue on my path. by going through Fear instead of doing a 180 away from it, i can continue moving forwards instead of backwards. i can grow and progress, not stagnate. and another hard lesson i’ve learned is that the stagnation from avoiding my life has arguably caused me the most pain, far more than the fear of life itself.

i isolated myself from my friends (missing one of their weddings which i have to try to not beat myself up about for the rest of my life). i stalled in my education. i was cut off socially, emotionally because i was in denial, and going nowhere.

so i think i’ve just reached a point where anything is better than this. than a lonely, unfulfilled future where i reach none of my potential. on my deathbed all i’d feel is profound disappointment. and to that idea my gut reaction is HELL NO. is this what they mean about actually hitting rock bottom, even though i felt like i’ve hit it countless times before?

because now, i am finally willing to fight for what i want even if it’s the hardest thing i’ll ever do. once school starts, my days are gonna be long as hell. work during the day, and schoolwork on evenings/weekends, so logistically i need to make my life flow to accommodate how hectic my schedule will become. i’ll do so with the following steps:

gonna clean my apartment and car to stepford-levels of cleanliness (in progress, about 50% done). will also go on an organizing spree. i’m generally a neat person, but it could always be better you know? my state of mind is usually amplified by the state of my surroundings, so that’s one of the best ways to help myself.

gonna stock up on non-perishables/cat supplies/toiletries to keep effort spent on grocery shopping and errands to a minimum from september to december.

gonna nail down a healthy meal prep routine so i can properly fuel my carcass through everything. cereal for dinner won’t cut it anymore.

in general, i will develop solid self-care routines in the areas of sleep, fitness (will work in occasional exercise where i can to let off steam), food, and giving myself mental breaks. again, this will keep me from losing my shit.

this is my 4 point plan, and notice how little of it has to do with school itself. but i know that if i take care of myself properly, i can ground myself enough to get through anything.

studying, homework, going to class, the pressure of exams...i feel confident, finally, that i can take all of it on. in fact, i’m starting to feel my old competitive spark slowly coming to life again, and i’m tempted to say bring it on.

and sure, Fear isn’t going anywhere. i haven’t vanquished it or anything. far from it; it’s still right there, making my chest tight when it gets really bad. but what’s changed is that i’m not afraid of Fear itself anymore. that is a huge distinction i’ve had to make, and it’s taken me years to get here. it’s much easier to do The Thing and confront Fear while doing so, rather than avoid both The Thing and Fear altogether. because that way of life was miserable for me, whereas option 1 will actually yield results. and weirdly enough...avoiding Fear doesn’t even make you like, less afraid or anything. what the hell?

so, after years of struggling and cowering and letting myself off easy for everything, it’s that simple. i’ve boiled my approach down to something weirdly logical and direct, because i’m over this shit, to put it elegantly. i will enthusiastically and unabashedly go after what i want in life, and when Fear inevitably pops up on occasion, as it always will, i’ll acknowledge it with a nod or a small dab (lol), and then continue doing what i was doing. i can be afraid without letting it paralyze me. fear isn’t really able to stop my body from doing what i want it to, i can actually smash my way through that mental barrier. i think that is what is at the core of the concept of bravery, and anybody is capable of it (yes i got that from soul eater, a life-changing message).

so i simultaneously feel insanely motivated and driven for the first time in years, and also scared as shit. it’s the strangest feeling, a kind of nervous euphoria. but it’s okay. knowing that if i just trust the process and take things a day at a time, i will get to where i want to be eventually; that makes it so much easier. in my mind, this lends incredible significance to every little step along this journey. keeping good work habits and taking care of myself are what it’s going to take, and truly understanding that every Good thing i do for myself, even the tiniest thing, is what will get me there one day. it removes resistance from my thought process, and resistance is usually what gets me to cave, and run away. it makes every difficult, necessary step worth it to me, and that is what fuels me.

so ultimately, my conclusion is this: i’m just going to have to get strong enough to carry my fear with me throughout the whole journey and use it to fuel me, instead of letting it pin me in one place for the rest of my life. and that’s the thing: invariably, over time, the relative burden of that weight decreases as you get stronger.

so knowing that, how could i not just charge forward like a maniac, fear be damned? because the truth is that i can overcome it in the present moment with enough effort, and in time, it won’t take anywhere near the same amount of effort. pain is always temporary, so i don’t need to fear it right? i just have to use pain, and Fear of pain, and that’s the promise i’m making to myself as i attempt to close an unpleasant chapter in my life.

i’m finally getting back my drive, my spark, when for so long i just tried to convince myself i didn’t actually want the things that i did. i thought that my goals were unobtainable, that i was too weak or incompetent to achieve them, so i may as well convince myself i didn’t even want them in the first place. isn’t that sad? it really is, and i’m trying to reflect on Past Me with compassion, instead of frustration for all the lost time and unhappiness. it won’t change anything, and i want nothing more than to move forward. because one day, it will all have been worth it.

#diary of nova #holy shit this got long #it's a culmination of all my introspection and analyzing of my state of mind since april #that's my form of therapy #diving into my own mind for answers and trying to be 100% honest with myself #i know it's long but if any of you struggle with anxiety chronically or acutely #there are some tidbits in there that i hope can help you #anxiety

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easyfoodnetwork · 4 years

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Restaurant Suppliers Are Opening Up to the Public to Keep Their Businesses Alive

Photo by Isabel Infantes/AFP via Getty Images

Foragers, farmers, and fishers across the U.S. are offering delivery and pickup to the general public

“Probably until the recent past, and I do mean the recent past,” Jason Roland says with a laugh, “about 70 percent of our sales were to restaurants.” He and his wife run Organically Roland, a two-acre farm in South Carolina where they grow produce like sunchokes, broccoli, sweet potatoes, and collard greens. On March 18, the governor ordered restaurants and bars in the state to close to dine-in customers to curb the spread of coronavirus, echoing efforts that swept throughout the country. “I think everybody knew it was coming,” Roland says. A few days before the governor’s announcement, his customers started pulling him aside and canceling or reducing their orders. All but one order was fully canceled after the statewide closures.

“I just finished planting 400 pounds of seed potatoes which I was assured chefs would be buying by the bushel,” Roland says. “That’s just not going to happen now.” Other than one $80 invoice he’s letting go to help out a client, most of his produce was paid for on delivery, so Roland’s new normal is more about finding new buyers for perishable foods than chasing unpaid bills. And of course, Roland is not alone. Across the country, governors and other officials are mandating the closure of dine-in establishments in many states, leaving these suppliers, like so many others, scrambling to sustain their businesses. As Roland says, “I feel confident that this will be one of those things that you always say ‘there was a before time and an after time.’”

“The hardest thing I’ve ever done was build up this business, and overnight, it disappeared”

Many businesses might not exist if it weren’t for chefs on the lookout for unusual flavors or something special to give their diners. Often these businesses — those providing specialty produce, fresh seaweed, or mushrooms picked directly from the woods — go unseen by the general dining public. “A pretty good chunk of my business are flowers that chefs are tweezering at Michelin-starred restaurants,” says Bryan Jessop of Morchella Wild Foods in California. That income is now gone. “The hardest thing I’ve ever done was build up this business, and overnight, it disappeared.” For entrepreneurs who grow their product, losing restaurant contracts doesn’t just mean there’s no income coming in — it means weeks or months of money spent on seeds and labor that might not be recuperated.

Like every supplier I spoke with, Jessop is hoping to pivot to a home delivery or CSA model through posting on neighborhood groups like Nextdoor; others are relying on their social media followings to offload product. “I don’t think it will make me whole, but it will keep me busy and doing what I love to do,” Jessop says of direct-to-consumer delivery sales. “The silver lining might be that I can get to know some of my neighbors and maybe when things are back to normal, I’ll have something to supplement my restaurant business.”

Suppliers who grow, forage, or catch specialty foods that go beyond the realm of the typical grocery store shopping list have long had a symbiotic relationship with the restaurant industry. “Restaurants have the ability to use a really specialized product” compared to supermarkets or even farmers market patrons, says Tyler Akabane, who runs foraging tours through his company Mushrooms For My Friends and works as a forager for Wild Mushrooms in the Boston area, where 99 percent of clients were restaurants. “When patrons go out [to restaurants], they can try something they’ve never had before,” Akabane says and notes that most laypeople don’t know what to look for when buying some of these specialty foods or how to cook them.

On Saturday, Akabane posted to Instagram asking if people in the area would be interested in having mushrooms delivered to their house for $20 a mixed bag. People were excited, not just for the opportunity to support a struggling business, but to get their hands on rare mushrooms without venturing into the woods. Akabane sources over 50 seasonal varieties throughout the year. He’s posted videos about different mushroom varieties and how to cook them on his Instagram both as a way to help out new buyers and give people stuck at home something to do.

“It was not easy and could have used a lot of streamlining,” Akabane says of the first deliveries. He’s hopeful that he can make it work with better planning on his delivery routes. Last week he sold 140 bags to 100 households. “It seems sustainable if I could keep orders like this up,” he says. But so far there are only 42 orders this week. “We have to assess and see if this is something we want to do or not,” Akabane says. “But we don’t have anything else.”

New York City’s Farm One, a hydroponic farm that focuses on specialty produce, microgreens, and edible flowers mostly grown to order for 40 or so restaurants and bars in the city, is in the same boat. “We went from planning for the spring menus with a number of restaurants to a place right now where the majority of our customers are no longer open,” says sales manager Marissa Siefkes. Less than 10 percent of Farm One’s customers are still operating, and with restaurants switching to a delivery- or takeout-only model, small edible flourishes may not make it onto the new menus.

“We’re pivoting from a grow-to-order model where we have hundreds of crops growing at a time to a narrower set of crops we can grow and offer to the public,” Siefkes says. Farm One is hoping that it can stay in business selling fresh herb kits, DIY cocktail kits, microgreens, mustard greens, and other, similar products. Unfortunately many of its crops take one to five weeks of lead time to grow, and with the sudden restaurant closures, Farm One was left with “more waste than we would want,” as Siefkes puts it. “We didn’t have the staff to redirect product to a charitable cause,” he says. And the team has had to scrap some ideas for generating income — like drying herbs or making other value-added products — because it would be so labor intensive that it might put employees at risk of transmitting COVID-19 in a small enclosed space. Luckily, Farm One hasn’t had to lay off any of its full-time employees as of last week, although it stopped having interns or volunteers come in.

While these small suppliers are struggling, overall they may be in a better position than larger companies: Some argue it’s easier for a supplier that consists of just a handful of people to pivot quickly to a new business model. “I feel like we’re in a much better place because we aren’t over-extended,” says Kenny Belov, owner of the “small to mid-size” sustainable seafood distributor Two X Sea. “Right now we’re so boutique we can’t seem to find any customers interested in what we offer,” he jokes.

Although Two X Sea sells items that the average customer could prepare at home, including tuna, trout, scallops, and salmon, there’s not enough volume of direct-to-consumer sales to make the fishing worth it. “I had to tell my fishermen there was no need to go fishing, which was me telling them there’s no need for you to make any money,” Belov says. “That’s been devastating.” Two X Sea does own a trout farm which Belov describes as a “very expensive aquarium,” until he can find residential buyers for the fish. He’s been running deliveries by himself for the dozens of home delivery stops he’s managed to get. It’s about a third of the orders Two X Sea used to get from restaurants, and these are all smaller, family-size orders as well. “I have no problem doing whatever needs to be done to keep as much staff on as possible while we weather this,” Belov says.

Jessop feels similarly about his chances to make it out of this as a small supplier. “I was depressed Monday through Wednesday but seeing the level of support was really encouraging,” Jessop says. “Maybe there are some good opportunities to pivot.”

These suppliers realize that they’re not the only ones struggling, and while they’re doing what they can to stay afloat, their small size also puts them in a position to help others. Organically Roland’s CSA has more than doubled in size in the last week, but he brought a few boxes of produce to one local restaurant so service workers could take what they need for free. “I don’t know how many of the restaurants will be able to come back,” Roland says. “We’re going to help them as much as we possibly can and as long as we possibly can while looking out for our own needs as a business.”

Roland is confident that unlike some larger farms nearby, his two-acre farm will survive. “I know of some folks around here who are bigger and they are in trouble,” he says. Others used to urge him to grow his farm, and he’s now glad he never took their advice. “They don’t have the resources to get rid of their stuff the way that I do.” Now, more than ever, he’s happy to be small-scale.

Tove Danovich is a freelance journalist and former New Yorker who now lives in Portland, Oregon. Follow her on Twitter @TKDano.

from Eater - All https://ift.tt/2QHHOMO https://ift.tt/3dr9VJY

Photo by Isabel Infantes/AFP via Getty Images

Foragers, farmers, and fishers across the U.S. are offering delivery and pickup to the general public

“The hardest thing I’ve ever done was build up this business, and overnight, it disappeared”

Tove Danovich is a freelance journalist and former New Yorker who now lives in Portland, Oregon. Follow her on Twitter @TKDano.

from Eater - All https://ift.tt/2QHHOMO via Blogger https://ift.tt/2Uf6NsS

#Blogger #cooking #Eater #food #recipes

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theherothechampiontheinquisitor · 7 years

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Undercover Boss - Chapter 1

That’s right it’s the Undercover Boss Rumbelle AU that no one asked for! Except me...and @anonymousnerdgirl ... and I think someone else too...Okay the AU that SOME asked for.

Shout out to my lovely Beta @shipperqueen93

Summary: Undercover Boss Rumbelle AU: Life was great for, Mr. Cluck's Chicken Shack, CEO Aiden Gold. At least until he finds himself roped into a reality show where bosses go undercover in their own companies to find out how their businesses are really being run. Gold nearly gives up when he is paired with a young Manager named Belle who teaches him what's really important in life and work.

Read it on AO3 or FFN

Chapter 1/3

If there was one thing that Mr. Gold hated more than normal social interaction then it had to be forced social interaction on a reality television program. Oddly specific he knew, but given his current situation it was understandable.

Wearily, he pulled the hotel room key from his wallet and frustratingly had to insert the key three times before the damn green light would come on and grant him entry. He trudged inside the darkened three star quality hotel room with a great sigh and quickly peeled off the hot wig from his head and threw it onto the bathroom counter as he passed by. It was part of his contract with the show that he not remove any of his altered costume or break character until he was back in the hotel room for the evening, lest he be spotted. Spotted by who or what he had no fucking idea, but he believed that the producers delighted in making this as antagonistic as possible for him.

He ran a hand through his short sweat filled strands as he collapsed backwards onto his bed. He could deal with the beard that he had had to grow out, he had the odd one from time to time throughout his life but the low quality, polyester monstrosity was another thing. It was hot and itchy and he looked fucking ridiculous. When he had first been presented to his 17 year old son in his new transformation, Neal had laughed hysterically and questioned why he had roadkill on his head.

The glasses he wore were actually his own. He didn’t need them all the time but they were particularly useful reading the fine print of his dealings. He pulled those off and folded them, gently tossing them on the nightstand. Gold pinched the bridge of his nose where the glasses left their mark and gently massaged the area. A headache would be coming, he knew, as it had every night since he’d been forced onto this television show.

It all started several months back when his Public Relations Manager, Ursula Finn, had come to him with a proposition. A popular reality show, Bosses Undercover, had approached them to appear on the show. A higher up from their corporate ladder would go undercover in their chain of restaurants, Mr. Cluck’s Chicken Shack, and work with their everyday employees to gain insight into the front lines of the business. Both she and the Chief Talent Officer, Ella Deville, thought it was a brilliant idea, and a great way to increase their public image and moral.

Gold didn’t think it could hurt. He had been with the company for around 7 years now, and though their numbers were generally good and they were consistently named one of the top chicken joints in the US, he knew there was always room for improvement. It wasn’t until after he’d already signed off on the venture, (he’d left his glasses at home that day), that he realized that he would in fact be the boss going undercover.

“Well, it couldn’t be either of us, darling,” Ella had drolled, leaning back against his desk. “We are the beautiful faces of the company. We visit the stores on occasion. Too many people know us and see us.”

“You on the other hand,” Ursula picked up, “You are a virtual ghost. You’ve been here forever but aside from us and the people on this floor, I don’t think anyone even knows what you look like. You’re more recognizable by your signature in the monthly memos than visually,” she laughed and Ella nodded in agreement.

Gold had groaned realizing that there was no way out. This was one deal he made that he truly hadn’t understood. The women carried on laughing at his misery and thinking up all of the terrible jobs that he would be forced to do and worse yet, the horrible disguises they could come up with.

“You know...they’ll probably make you wear…” Ursula paused, a glint of laughter in her eyes. She leaned closer into Gold and whispered, “Jeans!”

“Ohhhhhh perish the thought!!!” Ella exclaimed, clutching at her heart and throwing herself back across Gold’s desk knocking off several items and howling in laughter.

Gold internally cringed. The thought of dressing down almost more terrifying than the fact he’d been stupid enough to sign off on something without reading the fine print. Ursula and Ella may be his only friends but he had seriously began thinking of all the different places he could hide their bodies.

His phone buzzed gently in his pocket and he groaned just knowing instinctively who it would be. He ignored it deliberately, not ready to go down that avenue yet. The day had already been too fucking long.

The filming that was done that day had been the most humiliating of them all. It had started out with a young know it all cashier named Killian Jones being his “trainer” for the day. He spent most of the day patronizing Gold as if he had never operated a cash register before, slowly walking him through every button and its function, going even slower on the self explanatory ones like, “Total.” As if speaking slowly wasn’t bad enough he also would often adapt his tone to speak louder than necessary when answering any of Gold’s questions drawing the attention of everyone around them.

He was less than an hour into filming when he wanted to throttle the man. While Gold ended up doing all the work Killian flashed his smile and batted his eyelashes at every female under 40, striking up conversations and inviting them to see his houseboat on the harbor. Anytime that the line would get backed up Jones would placate the line of customers by reminding them that the elderly needed jobs too and to give Grandad a break.

Gold could only scream internally and question for the millionth time why he had decided to give up smoking. A cigarette or two or three would have taken the edge off that he so delicately teetered on these days.

After the lunch rush, the producers decided that it would now be a good time to film the pair outside of the restaurant. Each episode featured one of these “intimate” scenes where the employee would spill their guts with their tragic background. Many of the people were genuine enough but Gold already had a feeling Jones was far less deserving than the others he had met along the way.

They headed outside to take out the trash with Gold doing the bulk of the work. Jones dragged his feet behind him and offered no assistance with the heavy bags.

Killian Jones was the worst kind of employee and so far nothing that he had said about his past in this “intimate session” made Gold feel anything but disgust for the man. He had after all seen the man in action all morning. He was the type of employee that made the general population look down on the customer service industry. He was the guy that accosted every woman he saw no matter how uneasy she seemed or who was with her. He was the guy that forgot to wash his hands and then handled your food without gloves. The employee that then later was caught sneaking chicken strips off the pass to eat himself or taking a bite and putting it back. Killian Jones was the employee that dropped your food and just picked it back up and served it to you with a smile.

Gold had stopped trying to feign interest until his own real name had been brought up in conversation, and how it was specifically his fault that he had been passed over for a shift leader promotion over the company’s stricter attendance policy. “I miss a couple days without calling or come in an hour late and it’s as if the world has ended.” Gold rolled his eyes and really wanted to tell him that corporate and he especially had no hand in the appointment of individuals for smaller internal positions but he knew that wouldn’t matter.

The ranting was far from over as he rattled on about the company’s core values; integrity, accountability, customer first, enjoying your work and one team one goal; and how unrealistic it was to expect the employees to follow this “code of honor.”

“Gold thinks that we should treat this menial job as some sort of a career instead of the low class slop it is. Take pride in what we do and how we do it. It’s fucking fast food, mate. There’s no pride in this. The guy is just another shit for brains corporate clown. No one’s even ever seen the guys face. Even he isn’t proud of this monstrosity. Why should we be?”

Gold was tempted to relieve the man from his job then and there but that would have meant breaking cover, and as much as he wanted to rip the sweltering wig from his head and dump it in the trash, it would just be a bigger pain in the end.

“Why stay then? If you hate it so much?” Gold had to wonder if it would it be too much to hope that perhaps the man had some redeemable quality in his background. Working to support an ill parent maybe, or to put himself through college?

“Well, mate, between you and I, I’m only working here for awhile longer. I have a band on the side. Perhaps you have heard of us. Hook and the Jolly Rogers?” he questioned with the self importance only youth could bring. Gold just quirked a brow and kept his face impassive.

After a moment Jones growled and finished his thoughts.“Well, I suppose I can’t expect the leader of the geriatric society to know anything about music, but we’re this close to signing a deal with Midas records. When we do I’ll burn this place to the ground. Til’ then though, this place is just a means to an end. I take some buckets of chicken with me, maybe pull in some off the record tips for my services rendered and call it a day.”

Gold focused on one of the garbage bags still between them, processing all the information this idiot had not only told him but the camera crews as well and felt a smile quirk over his lips. The reveal show could not come soon enough.

“Did you say Midas Records? As in Stefan Midas?” Gold asked, lifting the bag up and tossing it into the open dumpster.

Jones eyed him warily. “Yes,” he spoke softly drawing out the word. “Why?”

“Oh, no reason. My son and I are fans of some of their artists. You see in between my early dinners and naps at the retirement home, they sometimes let me out for recreational activities like concerts and such. I was just having a hard time imagining Midas and company willing to diminish the quality of their content and reputation with some petty thief and his rag tag gang.”

To Jones credit he took Gold’s comments without much much of an outward reaction. His eyes registered the insult but he just smiled back at Gold with his bright, bleached teeth, a predatory edge in the corner of his grin.

“Here, mate, let me help you with that last bag,” he said reaching for the large trash bag in Golds hand. Before Gold could decline he pulled a small pocket knife from his trousers and slit a hole in the side of the bag spilling its contents across the pavement. “Whoops, would you look at that? Better get that cleaned up straightaway,” he laughed and dashed back across to the restaurant.

Gold let loose a string of profanities so immense in their detailing that he knew that the scene would have to be heavily edited if not cut all together. The nerve of the bastard. He was still fuming ten minutes later after he had finally gotten all the chicken bones and assorted trash up. He slammed open the back door uncaring of who he startled and made a beeline to Jones, who was chatting up a young looking blonde at the front counter.

“Hey, mate.” Gold bumped into Jones harshly. “Do you have a problem with me? Why don’t you come back outside with me for another little chat and I can tell you exactly how I feel about you and your pathetic little life.” He shoved at Killian’s shoulder again and this time he shoved back but Gold stood his ground. The customers had all began to turn their heads and gather to watch the conflict. The cameramen were practically in the men’s faces, excited to finally catch some action.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, mate. Perhaps you should head on back to the retirement home for your early dinner and a nap. Maybe then you won’t be such a crotchety old man,” Jones hissed back.

Gold would have punched him then and there but they had been broken up by the store manager Sydney Glass. The men were brought back to the office where he spoke to them calmly about how they were improperly representing Mr Cluck’s franchise and lectured them on teamwork and character, using phrases like “One team, one goal.” as he brought up the restaurant's core values. Gold genuinely liked Sydney, he seemed a fair man, but he didn’t appreciate the lecture at all.

“We just simply put cannot have this level of behavior out on the floor in front of customers. Carl,” he addressed Gold and it took a moment for Gold to remember his alias. “I know that we were going to have you working with Killian the rest of the day but under the circumstances I think that it may be best to separate you for the duration. Especially, considering we are due for a corporate visit today.” Sydney folded his hands over his desk and stared at the men like a principal breaking up a schoolyard fight.

“Corporate visit?” Gold questioned, hoping this didn’t mean what he thought it did.

“Yes, we received a call this morning that Ursula Finn and Ella Deville will be making a stop to our store this afternoon. They wanted to see how our team was getting along with this Job Swap show and observe some of the filming. You can see now why this behavior is especially unsavory,” he concluded.

“Of course they’re visiting,” Gold mumbled under his breath.

“I’m sorry?”

“I said of course it’s unsavory, and I apologize.” Gold covered and extended his hand to Sydney. Sydney took it without hesitation and then shook Killian’s too.

“Glad we are back on the same page. Now about the new job we’ll have you do...how tall are you, Mr. Benton?”

Gold’s phone buzzed again in his pocket and he groaned. Why couldn’t they just leave him alone?

He pulled the phone out and unlocked it with a quick swipe of his finger, the home screen indicating two new messages. One of them was from Neal telling him good night and that he loved him. He quickly responded back with the same and let him know he was sorry he hadn’t called and he’d speak with him in the morning.

The next message was a picture message from Ella and he already knew without opening what it would be. He contemplated deleting it without ever looking but he knew it would drive him crazy if he didn’t verify the monstrosity with his own eyes. With great reluctance, he opened the message was assaulted with the self portrait that Ella and Ursula had taken with him during their “surprise” visit.

They stood on either side of him with biggest grins. He was pretty sure that Ella even had tears in her eyes from her barely contained laughter. Right in the fucking middle was Gold in the yellowest, feathery, and hotter than the sands of hell chicken suit. Sydney’s job had been to spend his remaining time drawing in customers in the sweltering July heat and handing out coupons.

Underneath the photo was a single caption.

Have a cluckity, cluck, cluck night, Aiden!

Gold text back furiously sending nothing but dozens of knife emojiis and Ella responded back immediately with a winky face and a kiss. Gold just sighed and plugged the phone into the charger beside the bed and set his alarm for 545am.

He pulled the yellow uniform shirt over his head and angrily tossed it into the corner as he headed in to take a shower.

“One more day,” he whispered to himself looking in the mirror feeling older than all of his years. One more day of this madness and he’d be free. Well, technically. He still had the reveal show and wrap up but at least then he could finally be himself and not some fool nearly dying of heat stroke on the corner telling all the people to have a cluckity, cluck, cluck day.

That motto would be the first thing to go, he promised. In fact he was pretty sure it had started as a joke by Ella in the first place before somehow managing its way into their marketing campaign.

He took his time in the shower, washing the smell of chicken, grease and sweat from his body, using copious amounts of soap and body wash to be sure the smell didn’t linger. The inside of the suit had been the worst. He wasn’t sure when the last time was that the thing had been dry cleaned but certainly not in recent memory. It reeked of sweat and body odor, making him gag whenever he breathed in too deeply. The suits would be the second thing to go. No human should have to degrade themselves like that, advertising be damned.

When he was satisfied he no longer smelled like the rotting insides of that yellow suit he got out and dressed for bed. Exhaustion finally took its toll as he collapsed back onto the bed and pulled the covers up, reaching a hand out to switch off the bedside light.

The next day would be easier. At least he didn’t have to make a mad dash for a red eye across the country again. This time he’d be working at one of the company’s top stores just on the other side of the city. The work would be in management and his task was to work with the store manager to get an idea of what they were doing differently from their lower performing stores. What was the manager’s name? Something French he thought? He was too exhausted to remember as sleep slowly began to claim his weary mind, thoughts of dancing yellow chickens, fueling his nightmares.

#rumbelle fic #rumbelle #rumbelle fanfic #rumbelle fanfiction #UB1

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instantdeerlover · 4 years

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Restaurant Suppliers Are Opening Up to the Public to Keep Their Businesses Alive (1) added to Google Docs

Restaurant Suppliers Are Opening Up to the Public to Keep Their Businesses Alive (1)

Photo by Isabel Infantes/AFP via Getty Images

Foragers, farmers, and fishers across the U.S. are offering delivery and pickup to the general public

“The hardest thing I’ve ever done was build up this business, and overnight, it disappeared”

Tove Danovich is a freelance journalist and former New Yorker who now lives in Portland, Oregon. Follow her on Twitter @TKDano.

via Eater - All https://www.eater.com/2020/3/24/21192437/suppliers-sell-direct-to-consumer-as-restaurants-close-coronavirus-delivery-pickup

Created March 25, 2020 at 12:52AM /huong sen View Google Doc Nhà hàng Hương Sen chuyên buffet hải sản cao cấp✅ Tổ chức tiệc cưới✅ Hội nghị, hội thảo✅ Tiệc lưu động✅ Sự kiện mang tầm cỡ quốc gia 52 Phố Miếu Đầm, Mễ Trì, Nam Từ Liêm, Hà Nội http://huongsen.vn/ 0904988999 http://huongsen.vn/to-chuc-tiec-hoi-nghi/ https://drive.google.com/drive/folders/1xa6sRugRZk4MDSyctcqusGYBv1lXYkrF

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infinityknight25 · 7 years

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Avengers Illuminati: Oval Office part 8

The Punisher never even put up a fight. He just turned around and allowed the officer to cuff him peacefully. After all it was the Punisher who had the backs of the police officers during the shootings over the past few months. A few hours later the Illuminati, the Eviscereight and the entire cabinet were at the local precinct to check on Frank Castle. Castle was sitting in a visiting area by himself. Only two were allowed to see him. So Xavier and Wolverine went in to see him. Both still wearing the clothes they had before now sat with an orange jumpsuit wearing Punisher. In a calm somewhat caring voice Professor Xavier spoke. "Frank, thank you so much for what you did tonight. You are a hero and you are appreciated. Have they been treating you well?" "Yeah a lot of the officers here think I'm a hero too. Knocking down these cop killers have helped them feel safe doin their job. Protecting the people who don't even care." Castle shook his head. "It makes em feel good to know even one guy has their back." "Murdock has stepped up to be your defense lawyer for your case. He thinks he can get the jury to let you off with a type of community service. One that is right up your alley. We want you to be a member of the Eviscereight. It was actually most of Logan's idea." Xavier said. Wolverine smiled. "Hey bub you helped me and Tyron and the rest of the guys big back there and we can't have eight without you." Logan said. "Now there is one part that may have to be added to help work things out and that is you going away for a few months. To say another dimesion or universe or something. That was Strange's idea." Xavier said. "It's a lot to think about and I know I dont have the time. I feel that you are gonna win Charles. And if you guys think I can help serve my country again by being a member of the Eviscereight. I'm in." Castle said. Things began being in the works for the Punisher's trial. As well as for Monica Williams and all the other conspirators in the assassination attempt on Xavier. The democratic part kept pushing for her to be the candidate and somehow she continued to hold her own in the polls. The third debate was canceled in fear of something terrible happening to either one of the two candidates that would be present for the debate. It all came down to election day. "Good evening I'm your host Jameson Carlisle, from the independent party watch party at Avengers Tower. My co host for this evening Laura Thompson is at Hartford square in Minneapolis, Minesota. And our other host, Samantha Stephens is at the democratic party in Washinton D.C. Lets go to Samantha Stephens. Whats the feeling there I'm Washington?" said the reporter with hundreds of heroes behind him dressed in a grey suit with an American flag tie. " Jameson the feeling in this room is very optimistic. Despite all that has happened Williams is still in second in the polls. Albeit it's almost a three way tie. There seems to be a lot of people standing behind her. Laura what is it like in Minneapolis?"said the dark haired early thirties woman in a navy blue dress. "Brian Hartford feels confident he will pick up a couple of the important state's early. He feels that he will pick up Ohio and Texas. He is however concerned with New York and California. What is the Independent party like tonight Jameson?" asked Thompson in her red dress and her hair tied back with what seemed "Xavier and Strange both share the feeling that New York will be a lock but it's the other major state's they are concerned with. Even though they lead in the polls , its only one point. It should be quite an interesting election night." As the night went by each party won a major state here and a major state there. "Well with the night dwindling down Xavier is two major state's ahead and has the majority vote. There's only one more state. Pennsylvania has been finishing the votes up and trying to get a good count on the votes. This IS the state that makes or breaks the Xavier/Strange campaign. And I'm getting word the votes are finished and Xavier has won Pennsylvania. An independent is your 45th president of the United States and will be sworn in January. Charles Xavier is taking the stage with Doctor Strange now." With Doctor Strange standing behind him, Xavier felt confident and proud. "Today a mutant has won the election. But it's not about that. Its about us getting us all together, on the same page. No matter our differences. We will work together to make this country and world a better place to live. We shall strive for excellence and handle ourselves with a sense of dignity and accomplishment. For today we all practiced our free will. And a majority has trusted in us to be the representatives and leaders of this great nation. And if you didn't, that's fine. I hope over the next four years that I earn your trust and respect. Thank you for this opportunity." A few weeks later at a federal prison facility the Illuminati consisting of Xavier, Black panther, Doctor Strange, Namor the sub mariner, Black Bolt the Inhuman king, and Tony Stark were there to pick up Frank Castle. They met in a visiting room that was empty. The room was painted a very bland tan color and felt depressing. Today was a day of liberation. The jury on Frank's trial agreed to the sentecing that he serve as a member of the Eviscereight where he would be under the watchful eye of the other seven members. Under one condition, that he indeed does experience a short time of exile until after Xavier was sworn in as the next president. "I suppose some sort of congratulations are in order Frank." Said Namor. "Black Bolt as well as do I hope your exile does you well to reflect and maybe find a small amount of peace." Xavier said rolling forward to Castle. Castle was wearing his dark black combat style pants with combat boots and his trademark skull bullet proof vest. "I think this hoodie may be more appropriate for our journey." Said Strange handing him a black hoodie. "It appears we are ready. So Frank this is where you say your temporary goodbyes." Strange said. "Thank you all so much for your help." he let out a small sort of chuckle. "I'm not one for much sentiment these days but maybe with you guys running the country some things can be set right. Stephen I'm ready." Strange opened a portal with his sling ring. They stepped through the portal to the swampy outskirts of a giant city that had a gothic architecture tone. "So this it huh?" Frank said looking at the city. "In a few months I'll be back for you and you'll be back in your dimension. I truly hope you can use this time to find some sort of peace. Try to keep your head down and stay out of trouble okay." Strange said as he opened a portal to go back their home dimesion. He stepped through and was gone just like that. Castle picked up a duffle bag he brought with him. Castle passed a city limit sign as he walked on the shoulder of the road toward the city. City Limit: Gotham. A few months later on January 20, 2017 in front of the U.S. Capitol Professor Xavier was sworn in as President of the United States. Xavier took to podium to give his first speech as President. "It's a new day. The beginning of something different. A time where we look to bring in a time of learning and pressing forward that would rival the renaissance. A time where we redefine ourselves not as mutants and humans but all of us together. As Americans. Not matter our genetics makeup if we are one we will be the famous saying United we stand. Divided we fall." The crowd errupted with applause. Erik Lensherr who said his Brotherhood of Mutants would not attack any humans during the Xavier/Strange administration was there. Lensherr walked up and shook the hand of Xavier. "Well done old friend." He whispered. Then in the sky the Dark Aster appeared above the crowd. A ship who's design is a long horizontal shape that twist into a spiral type shape. The Dark Aster cast a dark shadow over the city of Washington D.C. Then a figure that resembled a man but had blue skin dropped down to the surface. When he landed his stood up tall. His face had a black clotted war paint on his face. His eyes were dark with hatred under his alien hat like hood. "People of Earth! It's time for you to surrender for if you do not! You shall dine with death tonight!"said the man. Tyron Owens walked up with his chain's out. "Ronan the Accuser!" Owens called out. Ronan turned around to see War Machine, Night Crawler, Hawkeye, Spiderman, A-Bomb and the newley returned Punisher behind Owens. Wolverine walked up and stood between the rest of the Eviscereight and the Accuser. He let his claws out. "Leave now and you can go without punishment." Owens said. "You fools! Do you really think the eight of you can stand between my army and the inevitable defeat of Earth!?" Owens skin began to melt away. His chain lit on fire. "For all who take up the sword shall perish by the sword."

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