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jay-and-dean · 4 years

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I don’t need you Chapter 4 : Raging Fire

Dean x reader

Summary : She’s a warrior, she’s a loner. Nothing can stop her, nothing ever had. She doesn’t need Dean, does she ?

This is a request by @magssteenkamp that I decided to turn to a serie, see the original request on the serie Masterlist.

Serie Warnings : Swearing (duh). Mention of death. Smut, probably all kind from rough to fluffy, I’ll precise in the chapters if there are specific warnings. Fluff. Angst of course.

Chapter warnings : Swearing (duh). Alcohol abuse. Mention of death. SMUT (light, distant? I don’t want to say too much, still 18+). Angst and flames.

Words : 3.2 k

Note : I’ll try to stick to the 3k rule, like for Rescue You

If everything goes as planned, you’ll get one chapter every wednesday (Thanks to @magssteenkamp, I call it WednesJay, lol. Sorry okay, I shut up).

***Want to read more ? => MASTERLIST***

*** I don’t need you MASTERLIST***

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4. RAGING FIRE

Reader’s Pov

The ceiling is spinning.

I get up but stumble and almost find myself on the floor, leaning to the wall, I grunt. Another sip on whiskey, then another. I’m breathing heavily, trying to think though that thick haze I created myself.

I must have freaked him out, Dean.

Shit, why did I kissed his neck ? Or was it the attempt murder that scared him ? I grunt again, trying to walk straight to my psycho wall but I stumble once more, and catch myself on the table.

“Shit !”

On the wall, with all my researches : the articles that shows Holloway’s head on the Lincoln statue in the circle of the anti-possession symbol, to sign from the hunters ; with crazy titles like “Gang or Satanist secret society ? Are the missing teen related to that ritual ?” And the articles about the fire that burned out an entire building to the ground without spreading at all to the others. That magic fire is a real blessing.

I’m just so tired and confused. Nothing feels right. I knew vengeance wouldn’t be enough to move on, but I didn’t know I would feel that void inside of me. The worse is, I don’t really know what left that deep hole inside my chest.

“Stupid” I whisper, taking another sip of whiskey.

I throw myself at the wall, ripping everything, tearing up each piece of paper one by one. Making everything fall from my desk in a rage I don’t quite understand.

My phone rings, it’s Joe again… If I don’t answer, he will show up, and I don’t want that. I pick up the phone and sit on the floor, among the pieces of my life.

“What. Joe.”

“Y/n ? I was worried” he says with his honeyed voice.

“You always are.”

“Are you drunk again ?”

“Yes” I chuckle, feeling the tingling in my face skin.

“Y/n… I know this is a hard time for you but… Maybe you shouldn’t stay alone for a while, you could come at my place if you want…”

“Was they scared of me ?” I cut him and he sighs deeply.

“You have to stop being obsessed with Dean Winchester, Y/n. He left, you were doing good before him, what is the problem ?”

Before him ? When was before him ?

“You’re such a party pooper, Joe…” a hiccup punctuate my sentence. “Maybe I just wanted to have fun with him.”

“Yeah I think we all noticed that” he grunts. “Listen, please stop drinking and I’ll be here after my shift… You should come back to work, Y/n, Gerald won’t buy the sick things longer, and you know you need that job.”

“I do” I admit.

I need that stupid job. I need it because it pays food, and heating, it pays for safety and dignity. And when you stopped school at 12, you don’t have that much options.

“I’ll come to work tomorrow, but don’t come tonight, I won’t open the door. I’m getting drunk until I pass out, and tomorrow I’ll be back to my shitty life…”

I take another sip of whiskey.

“Don’t say that… You have me and you’ll find other cases. You’re the best woman I know… Please be careful” he tries but all I can hear is the love in his words.

A love I don’t want, a love I don’t deserve or need at all.

I hang up and notice the Winchesters notebook on my right. I sigh. I’m not obsessed with Dean Winchester. I just like his story.

I just feel like I knew him, like Sam and him had been my only friends for years.

And now I like his face too. And his smell.

I smile and close my eyes for a second, picturing my lips on the skin of his neck. I hum, and put a hand on my lower stomach, where it tickles. I take a deep breath and let my hand go a little south, my head a little back. Shy with my own body, almost surprised by its strong reactions.

“Dean…” I murmur in the dizziness of my drunk state.

I open my jeans with one hand, and slip my finger where I rarely go for anything else than cleaning.

Oh fuck…

The bottle of whiskey I was holding on my other hand falls and spills everywhere.

“Shit !” I kneel to try and save my precious notebooks, opening the Winchesters one to check no alcohol damaged it.

785-555-0128

I’m one call away.

D.W

My eyes widen.

Why the hell would he give me his number if he doesn’t want to see me ? Or maybe was it before I almost killed him…

My sober mind tries to tell me to let go, but my drunk mind… I dial the number, my jeans still open, the notebook in my hand.

It rings three times…

“Dean Winchester” his sleepy voice answers and I smile like an idiot.

“Hey…” I just say, my stupid smile in my voice, and I hear him move.

“Y/n ?”

“I found your note” I state, shrugging although he can’t see me.

“I’m glad you did. How are you ?”

“I’m drunk” I answer, his voice somehow relaxing me.

“O-okay… So Joe didn’t give you the note Sam wrote I guess.”

“A note ?” I think hard, the alcohol making it even harder now, like Dean accentuated its effect.

“That’s what I thought” he grunts. “We left him a note for you, with our numbers. I-I was worried about you. So, no fangs ?”

“No fangs” I nod. “You can relax.”

He chuckles and I smile at the muffled sound of his laugh.

“I am relaxed, sweetheart.”

“Do you call all the girls like that ?”

A silence.

“Does it matter ?” he says lower, and I’m suddenly very aware of my open jeans.

“I was going to touch myself” I state, my drunk mind winning completely, but take another sip anyway, like I needed courage to be at ease with my words.

“Oh really ?” his voice goes even lower. “Why did you stop for me ?”

“I found your number…” a hiccup. “I thought…” I let a finger linger on my own cleavage, lost in the haze of whiskey and in Dean Winchester.

“Did you want me to help you with something Y/n ?” he grunts and my heart races.

“You’re not even here… Why did you left ?” I whine.

“I was… I didn’t want to but… You didn’t need me, us. Do you need me to drive to you ?”

“No… By the time you arrive, I won’t be drunk anymore…”

“That’s even better, Sweetheart.”

“Yeah but not drunk me is no fun… Her p…” hiccup. “Pants is always in place.”

He chuckles again.

“And now yours is not ?” he asks like he was weighing his words.

I shake my head, forgetting he can’t see me, and hear him take a deep breath.

“You should have fun, you deserve that” he states calmly.

I drink from the bottle again, and put my hand back in my panties, grazing my folds.

“I am.”

Something is yelling inside of me to stop that madness, but it’s so far I can’t hear it behind the desire and the alcohol.

“Oh really you are ?” he asks, as I slip a finger between my folds. “I should let you then… Call you tomorrow to speak to not drunk Y/n.”

“But it’s now that I need you…” I exhale, a soft moan escaping my lips when my already too sensitive clit swells under my fingers.

A short silence, then he sighs.

“What are you doing ?” he says with an authoritarian tone.

“Rubbing down there…” I fully moan now, my desire like a fire raging inside of me. “Imagining you can touch me through the phone.”

“Fuck… If I was there, I would definitely put my fingers inside you… You know… Replace yours with mine… Are you wet ?” he almost pants, and that makes me clench around nothing.

“Yes… very.”

“Then use your middle and ring fingers Sweetheart, go deep. And think of me.”

I do. Spreading my legs wide, I cry out, my stomach shaking, frustrated that my hands are not thick enough, not strong enough, not his.

“Dean…”

“I’m here, I’m right here. How does it feel, Y/n ?”

“G-good…” the alcohol is pounding in my head, and I flatten my palm to crush my clit as my fingers go the deepest they can, again and again… And again. “Fuck ! Dean…”

His breathing is fast and heavy, he groans at the sound of his name. I have no idea if he’s touching himself, if he’s hard… I think he is, he sounds like he was craving, another louder groan escapes his lips after one of my moans.

That all it takes. I come in a strangled cry, my legs carrying my hips a little off the floor, dropping the phone to grab my own thigh. I don’t say a word but whine loud, and my butt finally hits the floor again.

I’m panting and so drunk. Trying to catch the phone that bounced a little further, I fall on my side, grabbing it as I can.

“Hey Y/n ? You’re still there ?”

“Yeah…” I answer sleepily, my body bathing in the liquor I spilled earlier, the room spinning too much to keep my eyes open.

“You… Sweetheart, you really are something…” I hear him chuckles, holding my phone close to me like it was him, the same way I used to do with the Supernatural books. “Y/n ?...”

His voice is distant and I nod…

*******

Hot.

Burning hot and hard to breathe.

My aching hangover brain tries to register what is wrong, and I open my eyes.

Fire. Fire everywhere.

In a movement of panic, I try to get up, leaning to the desk, but burn my hand and cry out. The flames are already eating the ceiling and all my notes are flying in the smoke.

My phone still in my hand, I look around : my life is going to aches… Then I think of the other people in the building.

Running outside I strongly hit every doors, yelling at people to go out, breaking the fire alarms with my fist, cutting it, to make them ring. I hear barks and kick my neighbor’s wooden door as I can, grabbing his old dog to run in the stairs.

Outside, everybody is stunned or crying, waiting for the firefighters. I give the dog to the janitor and run.

My head hurts, my stomach hurts, and adrenaline is making my heart beat almost painfully.

They were targeting me, they tried to burn me to aches as I killed their king. That means they know who I am… And if they have my identity, they have everything.

Run.

I run, taking my phone I try to call Joe, jostling people.

No answer.

My heart is pounding in my head, the alcohol burning my eyes. Images of last night come in flashes and a punch of anxiety hits my stomach. I have no time to think of that.

Turning left, I ignore people staring at me and keep going as fast as I can, the winter sun dazzling me, the cold wind hitting my cleavage and neck with his thousand needles.

Then I see it. Firefighters, cops… The bar burned, and judging by the fact that it’s already extinguished, I’d say it burned hours ago.

Stunned, I walk to the scene, hoping to see Joe’s face in the middle of the crowd. A cop sees me, and stop me firmly.

“This is a crime scene, you can’t be here, Ma’am.”

“Crime ? I work here…” I try to see above his shoulder. “Have you seen a tall man named Joe ?”

A somber look appears on his face and my heart misses a beat.

“Did Joe work here last night ?”

“Y-yes.”

He sighs.

“Someone put the bar on fire and blocked all the issues, Ma’am. I’m sorry. I’ll let you know when we identify the bodies. Could you give your name and address, we will need to contact you…”

Address.

Joe.

They… They killed Joe. They burned him alive and the last thing I said to him was that I didn’t want to see him. The air seem thick suddenly. So putrid and thick.

I turn on myself and look at the phone in my hand. I have nothing left, I can’t even buy a sandwich or change clothes right now. It’s back… It’s all back…

And Joe died because of me.

Feeling the panic rise, I give the cop a fake name and address. They will make the link between the two fires, and find like thirty illegal weapons in the ashes of my apartment. And I called sick yesterday…

I have to disappear.

So I run the other way. But where will I go ? I have no gun, I have no money, I can’t even buy a bus ticket. I can’t breathe, and the cold suddenly feels so painful. My coat burnt. My notes burnt with the few money I had saved…

My only friend, he burnt too.

I look down at my unbuttoned jeans and feel nauseous. I don’t need them, I don’t need him. I can be on my own, I’m a warrior. I’m a warrior…

*******

I spent the day walking, I have no other choice, if I stop, the cold grabs me by the collarbones, and the vampires will spot me. The night is here again, and I can feel the hunger growing inside of me, threatening.

I have no plan and I have no shelter. My phone rings once in my hand so I look at the screen, a delusional hope makes my guts flutter for a second, what if it was Joe after all ? But the screen only says I only have 10% battery left… I don’t have a charger.

I can’t feel my hands.

Letting my back slide down the wall behind the Chinese restaurant, I burst in tears. Am I ready to die ? Or should I fight a little more ?

My shaking hands light the screen again and I take a deep breath.

Dean’s Pov

I can barely focus on the movie playing on the crappy screen of the little motel TV. Sam is talking about the case and I pretend to listen : probably the ghost of the wife, bla bla bla.

I wish I could call her, but she uses a withheld number, of course she does. She probably won’t call again, and I can’t stop thinking of her…

I could do researches on Joe, I know his first name and where he works, maybe I could get to him and convince that son of a bitch to give me her number, or…

“Dude, are you even listening ?” Sam sighs.

“Yes, dead wife, angry ghost.”

He rolls his eyes but the phone in my palm buzzes, making me forget Sam in an instant.

I get up and walk to the bathroom, looking at it : withheld number.

“Dude !” Sam calls, annoyed.

I pick up, not even doubting a second.

“Y/n ?”

“Dean…” her voice is sad, broken even, and exhausted.

“Are you okay Sweetheart ?” I frown, half-sitting on the sink.

“Not really… Joe’s dead, my… my apartment burnt and the bar… Everything is gone. Now they’re after me but I have no weapon and… No fucking phone charger so…”

My heart breaks and I get up, going back to the bedroom to take my coat and keys.

“Where are you ? Y/n, I’m coming for you, I will be there in seven to eight hours Sweetheart, you hold on okay ? Turn off your phone and only turn it on to tell me if your location has to change, okay ? I’m coming Y/n.”

She gives me a street name and I hang up.

“What’s happening ?” Sam gets up, starting to follow me outside.

“Y/n needs me, they killed Joe and burnt her house, you take the ghost, I go get her.”

*******

Seven hours is really long when you have no idea if the person you’re driving too is still alive. Sammy called, after the bones were burnt, he made some researches on what happened in the bar, the cops already made the connection with her apartment, and the firefighters reported suspicious items.

During those horribly long hours, I tried to think of the first time I saw her, how fierce and deadly she was, and I convinced myself that she is hard to get and impossible to kill. But in the night, on the highway, my mind kept drifting to a thousand other things, and among them : the fear of how she makes me feel.

This city is way too big, way to crowed and I hate every street of it.

She never called me so I really hope she is where she’s supposed to be. Anything could have happened in one night. Mumbling “Come on, come on, come on”, I look for the streets I’m supposed to cross.

The morning is slowly raising between the buildings, a white sky and lazy sunlight morning, held back by the huge shadows of the city line. A few snowflakes flutter around the black of the Impala.

I finally spot the Chinese restaurant she talked about, I park as I can, running out of the car right away. And when I enter the alley, I breathe out.

She’s here.

Her hands around her shoulders, sitting in the corner beside the restaurant’s dumpsters. She’s wearing only her jeans, shoes and that corset, her phone next to her.

“Y/n” I say, getting close and she lifts her eyes on me, her face is pale, and her lips are blue. “I’m here… I’m here” I assure her, my hand reaching her knee, cautiously squatting before her.

Her eyes search my face and I swallow hard, like it could get my heart back down.

“I’m sorry” she states with a low voice. “I had no idea how to…”

“It’s okay” I cut her, taking her arm. “You’re freezing, come here. You don’t have to hide anymore, it’s day, and I’m here.”

She gets up as she can, leaning to my shoulder at first, and I take her to the Impala waiting for us. The second she’s in it, next to me on the front seat, I turn up the heater and put a cautious hand on hers. I just can’t help touching her.

“I’m sorry for Joe, for your apartment… We will make them pay, Y/n.”

“I want them to burn” she says through her teeth.

I turn the keys in the ignition and nod.

“We find something warm to drink and eat, I take you home, and we find a way to clean your city” I state. “Y/n, you will win, okay ?”

________________________

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#supernatural #Supernatural Dean Winchester #supernatural fanfiction #supernatural fic #dean winchester fic #dean winchester fanfiction #dean x y/n #dean x reader #spn dean x reader #Smut #fluff #angst #jay-and-dean

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taexual · 4 years

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HOLIC - 46 | jb x reader

pairing: Im Jaebum x Reader

genre: enemies to lovers au | roommate au

warnings: angst + some conflict resolution

words: 3k

disclaimer: i do not own the gif, please let me know if it belongs to you, so i can give proper credit

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You’d left a hundred voicemails. You'd called a thousand times. You’d sent a million texts. And yet, even despite your ruthless ambush, Jaebum – in an equally as ruthless manner – still did not reply to you. That was understandable, however, and, more than expected, really – but it still brought you great distress.

You didn’t know where he was and, after having stayed awake the entire night, trying to get ahold of him and waiting for him to return home, you suddenly weren’t too sure where you were, either. Your own room felt foreign and the apartment itself lost all of its’ familiarity.

Finally, at around five in the morning (or, in other words, about five centuries later), your phone rang with a text from Jaebum. You nearly gave yourself whiplash as you leaped from your spot on the bed to reach your phone that you’d left charging across the room.

His text was short and right to the point – he was simply letting you know he was with his friend – but the very fact that he had texted you lifted some of the heaviness off your shoulders. There was plenty more of it still there, though, and you crouched down, hugging your knees to your chest as you re-read Jaebum’s text message another dozen times.

You wanted to call Mark and Jackson to see if he was with them but then you paused. Jaebum obviously needed some space – and time – right now. And, although you felt like he’d left the apartment a long while ago, it was obviously not long enough.

You were dying to explain yourself but you also recognized that he needed to be away from you for a little while longer. The text he’d sent you sparked a new hope that this period of you and him being away from each other wouldn’t last long. You just had to endure it without losing your mind completely. The text had to mean that he knew you cared about him – even despite what you’d done – and he didn’t want you to crawl out of your skin with worry – even if that was precisely what you’ve been doing since he’d left – which, in turn, had to mean that he cared about you, too. But you knew that already – you didn’t need his text to show you that; his reaction when you told him about Jiho was proof enough.

You’d postponed the conversation so you wouldn’t hurt Jaebum and, predictably, you ended up doing so anyway.

Giving him some space was the right thing to do now, so you let him be. Until, a few hours later, you couldn’t take it anymore. It had started to feel like the more space you were giving him, the more place you left for his doubts to take over him. Soon, there would be no space left in his mind to hear you explain what had happened in the past few weeks.

But, just like before, no matter how much you called or texted, Jaebum didn’t answer. Shortly, he turned his phone off altogether. The phone could have died, of course, but still, hearing the operator announce that the person you were trying to reach was unavailable felt very personal. It felt like he’d turned his phone off specifically to avoid seeing your name on his screen.

You knew you called this upon yourself by not telling him earlier but knowing didn’t make this easier. If anything, the guilt you were feeling only seemed to magnify whenever you allowed yourself to think about how easily this could have been avoided.

Jaebum didn’t return home the whole night—this wasn’t the first Sunday night you’ve spent awake but it certainly was the most significant one—and, although your heart had already torn itself into the smallest pieces, you resisted and gave him the space he needed. You still called periodically and left as many messages as you could before your service provider got concerned, but you weren’t going out of your way to get him to respond to you.

By Monday afternoon, you were really only leaving him voice messages so he'd know that you really did care about him and you were aware of how big of a mistake you’ve made by not talking to him about this sooner.

By Monday night, however, you’ve started to have auditory hallucinations and lost count of how many times you thought you’d heard the lock of your apartment door click. Choosing to wait until nighttime, in case Jaebum would choose to return home after all, you sat patiently in your kitchen, doing anything and everything to keep your gaze from shifting to the door.

You wondered if Jaebum would have admired your loyalty – he’d have certainly called you clingy and, perhaps, even compared you to a dog waiting for its’ owner to come home – or if he’d have hated to know that you were still waiting for him to return even after what you’ve done. Frankly, you didn’t spend all of this time sulking – you got angry a couple of times, too. Sometimes, you’d think you didn’t do anything wrong – really, nothing happened between you and Jiho; you were just working on your career in the only way that was possible – but, immediately after, you’d find yourself admitting that this wasn’t even the real problem here.

Jaebum didn’t really storm out of your apartment just because you were working with Jiho and he hated the guy. He left because you worked with Jiho behind his back, purposefully dodging his questions about your work just so you wouldn’t have to admit the truth. Even after giving you a fair amount of openings – not that you needed an excuse to share the events of your day with him, considering your relationship status – you still stayed quiet, choosing vague words and plain silence as a way to answer his questions. It was a form of defense in a way and, consequently, a form of lying.

While you listened to Jaebum give you breakdowns of his day and updates on his career, you did not reciprocate and secretly cherished his carefulness – how many times did you thank God that Jaebum was so understanding and so willing to ignore your unusual behavior? – and that was so much worse than just lying about Jiho to him.

When your alarm clock rang the next morning, you got out of bed with a definite plan – you would seek both Mark and Jackson out to see if Jaebum was staying with either of them and you would do anything in your power to talk to him and explain. You could only give him space to think for so long before you drowned in your own thoughts and watched him to drown in his.

Before you could follow your plan – although, perhaps calling it a plan was generous; you really had no idea what you were going to say to his friends if they even agreed to help you – you still had to get through a full day of work at the gallery.

Having always dreaded to see Jiho there, you didn’t really expect today to be any different but a surprise awaited you on your phone when you picked it up to check the time after exiting your car outside of your gallery. It was a text notification from Hyojin, warning you about an article, evidently recounting the photography event you and Jiho had gone to on Friday night. Your stomach sunk before you even opened it, completely disregarding the message your friend wrote before she attached the link.

Instead of reading Jiho’s recap of the event – he’d sworn he would use your pictures for it but you ended up not taking any – you were forced to read through another pile of tabloid-like garbage that, predictably, focused completely on your relationship with Jiho.

Now, on the one hand, the article proved that Jiho’s publicity stunt was a complete success – you nearly suffocated when you saw a picture of yourself leaving the gallery and Jiho storming off after you, an ominous “young photographer couple” written in the description of the shot; clearly, you and him have been noticed – but, on the other hand, not a single sentence in the entire article even mentioned your aspiration to become a successful photographer.

Not only did the writers – tipped off by Jiho, no doubt – assumed that you and him were together but they also allowed themselves to speculate if, perhaps, you and him were going to be the next big artist-and-his-muse names in the world of photography. They even went as far as to compare you and him to Andy Warhol and Edie Sedgwick – which was right on point, considering that Edie was, really, one of many Warhol’s muses – further proving that they didn’t even consider you a photographer. At least, not in the literal sense of the word – they saw the camera in your hands and pointed it out in the description of another photograph of you by the entrance to the gallery. But Jiho was “the photographer” and, according to the writers, in the relationship hierarchy, you were either Jiho’s apprentice (the writers dismissed the possibility after merely toying with it for a sentence of two) or his muse. Not his colleague. Not a photographer. Barely even a person, really.

Beyond frustrated, you walked through the double doors of the gallery and, before you could toss your phone across the empty foyer, you caught sight of Jiho, talking to someone on the phone next to the staircase. You really considered strangling him for a hot minute but, after taking a few deep breaths, you decided to handle this like an adult – or, as close to one as you could get with your blood boiling and pulse pounding in your ears.

“Did you fucking read this?” you demanded as soon as you reached him, pushing your phone to his face. “This is the second god-damn time this happens.”

“Wh—I’m—l-let me call you back,” Jiho said before hanging up the call and putting his phone away so he could focus on yours. He squinted as he read the headline. “Oh, so we’ve definitely been seen, huh? That’s good.”

“That’s not good,” you disagreed. “And we were not seen at all. You were. I was your shadow if even that. Again!”

Jiho wasn’t listening to you as his eyes continued to scan the contents of the article.

“Your little stunt of leaving early worked out nicely, too,” he added in regards to the last bit of the article that recounted, in epic little detail, how you left the event early and Jiho “followed right after like a love-sick puppy”.

“It wasn’t—Jesus, how much money did you pay to get them to write this bullshit?” you asked, retrieving your phone after noticing that it didn’t bring the expected result – not that you knew what you were expecting; it was hard to imagine Jiho doing something other than grinning like a deformed jack-o-lantern.

“You think I paid for this?” Jiho’s eyebrows reached his hairline. “Wow, you must think I’m a millionaire.”

“What are you talking about? You knew so many people who were there—”

“So, I talked to them,” he said as if that was the most obvious thing in the world. Probably rolled his eyes, too, but you weren’t looking at him – you were reading the article and further fueling your anger. “I mean, some damage control had to be done, you caused quite a fuss there. I tried to give the others the impression that—”

“This is your fault, then!” you cut him off with a high-pitched shriek that he seemed to flinch away from.

“I’m not sure I understand what I’m being accused of, here,” he said as calmly as he could. The calmness was a façade, as you’ve already learned, and the veins on his neck were becoming more prominent by the second. “We needed exposure and we got it. What’s the problem?”

“What kind of exposure is this? You told me this wouldn’t seem like a romantic relationship. That they would focus on our professional relation instead of twisting it around to make it seem like—”

“Professional relationships don’t sell nearly as well as—”

“Sell?” you scoffed. “What are these people buying, exactly? That you’re a photographer? Well, they knew that already, I would hope. Or you’ve surely wasted the past years of your life.”

“Right—”

“There’s not really much else in there about me. Except that I’m—”

Seemingly having had enough of your endless tirade, Jiho crossed his arms over his chest, cutting you off, “maybe if you wanted there to be more descriptions of you, you shouldn’t have left early.”

“Oh, so they could have taken more pictures of us to strengthen their narrative of us being romantically involved? No. That’s not okay,” you shook your head, finding it difficult to voice your thoughts rationally and not start screaming. Screaming would have felt so nice. “These articles… they’re not helping anyone but you. Next week, they can write one about you and some other “muse” you’ve brought to a photography event. No one will give a shit about me. I agreed to do this to get myself more exposure as a photographer. Instead, I’m just a new toy you can play around with to get yourself more well-known.”

“Listen, you have this warped sense of how this works,” Jiho said. His patronizing voice made you clench your fists. “These things take time. You think you’ll get popular overnight—”

“Don’t tell me what I think!” you yelled, your patience wearing thin.

“Okay, alright. I’m sorry,” he said, not sounding one bit apologetic. He just felt like he was winning because you were suddenly shouting and he was still successful at resisting to raise his voice. “Let’s not talk about this here—”

You took a deep breath and closed your eyes for a second or two – purely a precaution so you wouldn’t punch him and get yourself fired – even if you were already one step away from quitting – and probably arrested.

“There’s nothing to talk about,” you said then. “This is the last article depicting me as someone’s rumored girlfriend.”

Jiho didn’t seem surprised to hear this.

“See, that’s good because, actually, I’m having second thoughts about this, too,” he said, the bitter tone of his voice dripping with arrogance and entitlement. “Clearly, you’ve got it in your head that you’re in a position to demand an exhibition when you’re virtually nothing in the photography world. You don’t listen to a single word I say and you have enough guts to give me ultimatums as if you know how this works better than I do. I don’t know who you think you are but this is not how any of this works. All I did was try to help you—”

You thought you could only recall one other instance when you felt this frustrated – and more than ready to either rip all of your hair out or to beat Jiho to a pulp – and that was when you met up with Suji and had to listen to her boast about her happy relationship with Jaebum. My God, what a pair her and Jiho would have made – both bull-headed, arrogant, and so unbelievably thick, it was a miracle they’ve gotten this far in life without getting all of their teeth knocked out.

“This was no help for me,” you said through clenched teeth and then unlocked your phone to see the headline of the article again. You pointed your phone at him as proof. “This was all for you.”

“It was meant to help both of us and the gallery we represent—”

“Oh, open your fucking eyes, the gallery’s not even mentioned in the article,” you groaned.

Jiho swallowed, an undeniable – and very well-executed – image of someone who felt wronged and disrespected evident on his face.

“This isn’t working,” he stated, then, obviously taking immense pleasure in having the ability to say this. He knew he was above you in this situation and he relished it. “I’ve lost count of how many rules listed in the contract you’ve broken and yet I closed my eyes, thinking it’d be worth it. I don’t really think so anymore. I think you’re too full of senseless pride and I’m afraid I can’t work with that. You told me you’d quit if we didn’t host your exhibition and, admittedly, that caught me off-guard and, perhaps, even impressed me. But I can see everything clearly now – you’re absolutely not the sort of artist we’re looking for.”

“What sort of artists are you looking for?” you asked, your blood hot and about to pour out of your ears in rapid squirts of burning rage. “Pushovers, willing to follow you around like newborn puppies? Fresh, vulnerable university graduates who lack the spine to tell you that what you’re doing is preying on their lack of experience and using them to your own gain?”

“I’m sorry if that’s how you feel,” Jiho said. “Unfortunately, this partnership is over. Don’t worry about the contract anymore. We’re not going to be hosting your—”

“Oh, good! Perfect!” you shouted before he could finish. “I never wanted to work with you in the first place.”

You turned around, walking away, but Jiho couldn’t resist not having the last word. He simply felt too proud to let you leave this easily.

“Hopefully you’ll continue to feel that way,” he called out after you, “because you can forget all about your dream of hosting your own exhibition.”

You didn’t want to turn around and say something else because it felt like admitting defeat but you couldn’t resist it. You’ve still had a few things you’ve always wanted to say to him and now was finally the time to stop holding yourself back.

“Fuck you,” you dropped over your shoulder, your expression – finally – calm. “And fuck that exhibition. That’s not what my dream is.”

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truthsower · 3 years

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WHAT IS FAITH?

CHECK OUT THIS INSPIRING VIDEO ABOUT FAITH: https://bit.ly/3rHPu1p

"When the Son of Man comes, will he find faith on the earth?" (Luke 18:8)

On the island state of Tasmania there used to be a native dog, called a thylacine, or Tasmanian tiger, because of the black and white stripes on the back half of the animal. The last known specimen died in captivity more than fifty years ago. However, there is now talk of cloning more Tasmanian tigers through DNA taken from a preserved specimen. Embryos could be implanted in other dogs, until a pack of Tasmanian tigers could be produced. The film Jurassic Park was based on a similar concept for bringing dinosaurs back. Whether or not such a feat is a realistic scientific possibility, there is no doubt that the only way to bring back an extinct species would be to have some reliable specimen or other link with the original, from which you could make copies. Unfortunately, the world today is going through a time when genuine faith is going the way of the dinosaur. People have something which they call faith today, but it is almost universally a counterfeit of the real thing. Because of that, we are going to try to give a description in this article of what genuine faith is like, so that the world will not be without a link to the real thing, even if all genuine possessors of faith die out.

(The most amazing thing about faith is just how simple it is. Unlike currency or great works of art, which are very hard to duplicate, it is the various forms of counterfeit faith which are complicated, while the genuine article is really quite simple. To understand the difference between the genuine and the counterfeits, think of the difference between the words "believe" and "belief". When you use the word "belief" it conjures up a picture of a formal statement, usually one that has been well thought out, which states, often in legal jargon, exactly what someone believes on a particular subject. That pretty well describes the counterfeits. The world is cluttered with various "belief systems", but they tell us very little about genuine faith. In fact, our experience has been that the bottom line to all the so-called Christian belief systems is that they invariably oppose genuine faith in Jesus Christ. We will explain more about that in a moment. But first, consider the word "believe". We use it all the time, with very little confusion about what it means. It is amazingly simple. Whenever someone says something, you either believe it or you do not. Jesus described faith as a tiny seed which grows into a huge tree. He was saying that simply believing the things that he said seems so insignificant that most people are inclined to overlook it in favour of something more complicated to describe faith in Jesus. But if we would simply "believe" him when he says something, out of that would grow everything that God really wants to see in his followers. It is unfortunate that most translations of John 3:16 say, "Whosoever believeth in him shall not perish, but have everlasting life." I have strong suspicions about that word "in" having been placed there by a zealous scribe who took exception to the word "believe" on its own. The word "in" gives the impression that we need only believe in the existence of Jesus and we will have everlasting life. (See this 1-minute video about John 3:16 meaning).

James wrote that even the devils have that kind of faith. (James 2:19) He argued, instead, in favour of faith that "works". (James 2:18) Sadly, the people who preach John 3:16 most strongly also argue most strongly against just about everything that James wrote, and against the whole concept of "good works" having anything to do with salvation. Their counterfeit belief system systematically attacks the idea of simply "believing" Jesus, and then acting in accordance with what he has said. As we said above, the counterfeit belief systems which are supposedly built on believing "in" Jesus all seem to oppose "believing" Jesus. They have elaborate ways of justifying their traditions, but none of them come from the teachings of Jesus himself. Did Jesus tell us to build huge cathedrals, to recite prayers, asking him into our hearts, to bless bombs and become involved in world politics? What exists today in the name of Christianity bears very little resemblance to the early Christians. Of course, if the Bible really does teach that faith is a belief system more than childlike faith in the things that Jesus said, then who are we to argue against it? But take another look at the third chapter of John's gospel, to see if that is what it really teaches. The last verse of the chapter (John 3:36) more or less repeats what the 16th verse says. But in the second half of that verse, the infamous little word "in" (or "on" as used in the first half of this verse) does not appear. It merely says, "He that does not believe the Son shall not see life, but the wrath of God abides on him." Believe in Jesus if you like. Believe on him too if you like. But unless you simply believe him, you are lost. And how can we say that we believe the things he says, when our belief system says that we must not try to obey the things he says, or we will lose our salvation? You are going to have to throw out the counterfeit in order to find the real thing. (NOTE: Some translations actually have the word "obey" in the second half of John 3:36, in the place of "believe", which further supports what we have been saying. Whosoever does not "obey" the Son shall not see life, but the wrath of God abides on them.) True faith in Jesus means believing everything that Jesus said. And true faith in God is believing everything that God says. As the words to the song go, "Trust and obey, for there's no other way to be happy in Jesus, but to trust and obey." True faith just naturally leads to obedience. If I say that there is a bomb in the room and it will explode in ten seconds, you do not sit down and have a discussion about it. Your faith in what I have said will instantly be transformed into action. You will race out of the room. One could say that your faith in what I said is what saved you. But there would be very little difference between saying that and saying that your action (i.e. the act of leaving the room) saved you too. It was an action based on faith. Martin Luther once said, "Faith and works are two sides of the same coin. You cannot separate one from the other any more than you can separate the ability to give light from the flame on a candle." As James put it, if there are no works (or obedience), it is evidence that there is no faith. And as Paul put it, in Ephesians 2:8-9, if there is no faith, there is no grace, for God's grace is only available "through faith". When you remember these two points, it becomes easy to see that any teaching about grace without works (or worse still, any teaching about grace which opposes works) is based on a counterfeit belief system, and has not come from genuine faith in Jesus. That really is about all you need to know about faith. Faith in Jesus Christ means believing everything that Jesus Christ said. At the moment there are still Bibles around, if people would only open them and turn to the four Gospels (Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John) to read the things that Jesus said. Over and over he said things that require genuine faith in God for people to literally do them, which is why counterfeit faith is so much

more popular. What Jesus said is so simple and so clear that we do not even need to elaborate on most of his teachings. We have the confidence to tell you to just open the book, read it, and then do it. It is the counterfeits who must give you complicated explanations about how the teachings of Jesus don't really mean what they clearly say. When Jesus says, "Love your enemies," it is the counterfeits who must explain how that means we should have strong armies who are prepared to kill our enemies. We have often quoted Luke 14:33 ("Whosoever he be of you that forsaketh not all that he hath cannot be my disciple.") just as it appears in the King James Version of the Bible, only to have people respond with, "Well, that's your opinion." No, it's not our opinion. It's the opinion of Almighty God, as expressed through his Son. It is his unconditional requirement for anyone who wishes to follow him. It contains the same "whosoever" that appears in John 3:16. Whosoever believes it (and acts accordingly, of course) will not perish. But if you do not believe the Son, you shall not see life, and the wrath of God abides on you. This article is being sent out like a message in a bottle to a world that has been almost totally stripped of genuine faith. If you find it, and if you believe what it is saying, it can bring you new life. We are praying that you will find it, and that you will believe what it is saying. The rest is already programmed into the tiny seed of faith.

#faith #jesus #god #faithfulness #prayer #love #hope #inspiration #motivation #spiritualawareness #spiritualjourney #holy spirit #spiritualgrowth #spiritualguidance #spiritual insight #spiritualinspiration #spiritualawakening #spiritual development #spiritualwisdom

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wrongwiredmind · 3 years

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Before I start saying anything I'd like to warn that the content of this post is both gore and contains suicidal thoughts, if any of that triggers you, please do not read, I care about whoever is reading but I can't hold any responsibility for anything that might follow, stay safe, and remember that no matter what, what comes next in your life will be better, one way or another.

This post is rather long, but that's kinda the point of this page, here we go, then.

So, I had almost my weirdest dream to date, right now, and then I thought, to heck with it!! Let's share something!

So first of all, I need to set some points straight before writing so it might explain a few things, hopefully, without giving a lot away about my personality:

(I have no idea how to put them on order, so they're pretty much a mumbo jumbo. Ah~ My favourite type of writing~. Kidding, of course, I actually prefer reading well written stories and articles)

Anyhow:. 1- I have a really deep unexplainable fear of the vast beast called an ocean (or a sea, or really anytype of deep water), I still go to the beach and pools and whatever, but there's always some sort of an icy grip tightening around my non-existent heart.

2- I love IronMan! So so much, and I kinda adopted Tony Stark!! (no one tell him, please!).

3- my adoration of a certain supernatural series made me love batman! (well, not entirely true, I always loved him, but kinda from afar, you get me?)

4- want me to get hooked on something? Give me a fanfic of it!! (of course like a series or a book, not a substance, you bad bad people!!), that's how I loved Bilbo!! (imagine me saying it in my adorable voice, the one I use when I try to sound cute 😉)

5- I binge read a certain fanfic about those two amazing superheroes saving the world, and themselves!! (I refuse to give up the name since if you think this is me oversharing? You've got another thing coming, honey!) that had a cruise and another prototype of the IronMan suit (don't ask which mark it is but it's so fast it broke the sound barrier!!)

6- I'm a little bit under the weather, (not corona, folks!) and my throat is kinda itchy, to the point that I lost all my vocal prowess for a little more than 24 hours a few days ago, still kinda annoying, and my stomach rebelled so much yesterday (before and during sleeping) that I thought she should take the rebellion symbol from Mr. Che Jivara!! (with all due respect to him, I'm only joking, so please no one takes it seriously).

7- I'm a little bit of a spacetoon (and all that's good and beautiful in our childhood) encyclopedia, want a name of a cartoon or a song you can't remember? I'm usually your best bet, after the second mother, google, of course!!

8- this week is so dead that if you want to see zombies come to our lectures any time in it, seriously we're so under a lot of exams, thank God and the doctors for postponing our tasks and assignments' due-date.

9- if I was a little more of an extrovert I might not have had to write most of these strange snippets about me in a freaking post!!!

And finally, on with the dream! (another thing you probably know by now, that I kinda take you around and under and left and right before I say what I want to say).

So, it was an assignment to some sort of subject (don't ask me which, since as far as I know, not a single thing in our curriculum will make me do what I'm about to do here, or at least, I hope so!!!), we made some type of fall-body suit that needed analysing (who am I kidding, it was the IronMan suit!!), and guess who was picked as a pilot? That's right! Yours truly!!

Anyway, good thing to bad, we had to make the prototype test in the middle of the (as I said above) the vast beast! Mr. Oceanus (I know that that is a Mr. Titan, but who am I, the lowly mortal, to deny his decision to appear in my paragraphs? And no, he didn't show up in the dream, thank God! [ours, not any of the others]),

So, I was put in the cruise, in the middle of the ocean, with the IronMan suit, and a seriously sick stomach, can you guess where we're going with this? (I'm actually kinda enjoying writing this since it reminds me of a certain mad superhero/not superhero who finally joined the XMen!, of course he joined a few years ago but I only watch the second movie circa a month ago) no? let me tell you, a bit of dizziness, seasickness, and an already rebellious stomach? Not a good combination, and remember that I really, really fear the ocean (just remembering the dream and the images in my head is traumatising, let alone living it vividly for a few hours), so, I fell, and strangely enough, I was a good swimmer (ah~ I really count my blessings here since no matter who or when someone taught me to swim, I still can't manage), I was able to stay close to the ship, but couldn't really pull myself up, so all I could do was keep a good hold on a rope tied around the ship and keep my legs in a calculated, slow what feels like a walking-in-place exercise,, (I can still feel the water around me, and the gentle waves of the ocean, it was both a calming feeling and a horrible one) and then...

Something touched the soles of my feet, and it kinda hurt, and it continued to move under me till something hit my toes, it was a shark fin, that's right, a shark choose me as his next meal, how honoured I was!!! Kidding i was kinda terrified, but all that YouTube survival videos came to mind, I left the rope of the ship and kinda dipped under water (triple scare, here, yikes!) and I... pushed.. his muzzle?

Yeah, so not really what they taught you in the videos, my polite nature rears its ugly head again (politeness is not as good as it seems, people! actually once a stray dog entered our home and jumped on the couch, and I was asking nicely and politely if "Mr. Dog would pretty please leave us be", and no, I wasn't scared but mom told me not to touch it, and it kinda was a cute, if a mangy mutt)

I didn't really want to punch the shark, even if my life kinda depended on it here, for a few reasons and actually at least one of them was pretty reasonable, which is, my punch is pretty weak, guys!!

Anyway, of course since its skin kinda scratched my feet there was blood, so it didn't leave me alone, two things I concluded here, first, Mr. Shark was either a lazy guy since he was coming to me slowly as if he either was a giant cat coming for pets no matter how many times you push her, or he was playing with his food, aka, me.

The second thing I discovered was that I was really sick in real life since my imagination couldn't conjure another family member of my guest here (again with the small mercies, can you imagine being alone around all these carnivores? And I bet not all of them will be moving so leisurely!!)

So, I finally decided to be the champ of my cruise and punch the thing in the face, so I pulled up all the power I can in my fist and punched him in his snout!!!

And let me tell you, it's not as easy is they make it sound, first, his nose is actually pretty hard, not the sensitive area they led us to believe, second, my hand really hurt and his skin scratched my knuckles, and I believe it kinda broke a bone in my hand, third, and worse, it actually enraged the mister so much that it left me, J-squared again and this time, flew! in my direction and I swear I still feel his teeth sinking in the shin of my right leg, but before he tore it apart, I actually did the right thing to defend myself, I (and I apologise, Mr. Dream shark, but you really hurt both my leg and my feelings!!) poked his eyes, which made for a very awkward stretch to my body, but finally, I was left alone!! With a mangled leg, of course, but hey!! It's not real life, so let's be glad.

The saltwater stinging my feet, still sick, and more dizzy from blood loss, you have no idea how glad was I that I was still near the ship, a little bit more than a meter but still floating, and then, the bad became worse, I actually goT SWALLOWED WHOLE BY A WHALE!!!!!!!!, YUP!! THE WHALE IN THE PICTURE!!!

And then god with his mercies again, it swallowed the ship but opened his mouth for me to leave, neat, ain't it?

But let me tell you what happened in a little more details, I felt a ripple in the water beneath and around me, and the ship started to sway, and a faint sound of something between a roar and strange song-like-sound, feeling the rumble under me was what made me look, and lo and behold!! The mighty animal wanted the meal that the shark didn't get, bye bye world!! Bye bye the suit that I still didn't to get to wear! And bye bye the report I needed to write for this freaking assignment that because of it I might fail and my friends will rail me when they see me!!

The ship and I couldn't help but enter the mouth of the humongous fish, the sounds of the wood, metal, glass and whatever is the cruise was made of was deafening, so loud and cruel, and I got a more than a few bruises and abrasions, and the feel of his teeth behind my back, sharp and huge and bigger than my own size, was something I don't know how to describe, and suddenly between all the breaking and suffocating water and absolute darkness, something caught my eyes, the slits in the helmet of the suit were lit, I'm sure it was a malfunction because of all the destruction on Mark, but it took all my fear, as if sucking it from my own eyes, and as sudden as it glowed, it vanished, but the calm remained, I closed my eyes, since it didn't matter, and just stopped everything, even trying to hold my breath, but not breathing as well, as if all body functions just... Stopped.

And then my eyes flew open again, not because I woke up, but because of an almost crushing change in the water pressure, it just pushed me forward more inside the huge mouth, and when I thought that this is it, I found the whale mouth moving further away from me, taking the ship and Mark with it, and leaving me alone, in the middle of the ocean that I wanted to say "c'mon!! If you ate me it'll be a win-win situation!!!!" but the second I opened my mouth water rushed inside that I tried swimming up to breath (even though not knowing which way is up was problematic, since something similar happened in real life before I wasn't worried, but that's a story for another time), breaking the surface was a godsend, I tell you! But my misery wasn't in any way over, I was so thirsty I actually wanted to drink salt water a again (and then death, oh wow, how smart?), and once the adrenaline deserted me, my leg returned to trying to kill me, and I don't know if it was a real thing if it happened in real life but it actually stopped bleeding, which was both fantastic, since it means that I won't die of bloodloss, and horrifying since I'm not going to die because of bloodloss, at least then I would have been able to calculate an approximate time for my death, but no, I have to wait and see what kills me next, I almost wished that I just had my previous stomachache and be done with.

Anyway, moving was not really an option, and staying was not either, and the breeze was making me so cold my teeth almost broke from all the shattering they were doing, I wasn't really sure when the others might decide to check on me, and I'm not really sure if I was still in the place they left me at, and I really didn't know what to do, I was so helpless, and cold, and thirsty, in so much pain and so so tired.

I cursed the whale again for not ending my misery, and cursed the shark for being a coward and not finishing what he started and cursing the assignment for being so impossible yet important, and most of all cursing myself, though I don't know why, but my self-loathing decided that now is the time to remember how horrible I am.

As physics does, the water raised me till I was floating on my back, which made me feel even more cold but I didn't have any energy to do anything about it, and strangely, I fell into some sort of doze, not asleep yet not really awake and aware, my whole body half above half into the water, though my right, injured leg, was bend in the knee into the water, which made my pained scream when something took hold of it in its mouth the more agonizing since it made my upper body enter the water, and the thing holding my leg left it alone, and I was able to right myself and look around me for the next threat, the fear was immense that I thought I might get a heartattack, which, admittedly would be better than the pain going to be inflicted upon me any second now, looking around finally led me to what attacked me, and for a moment, with my blurry, and fear filled eyes looked like Mr. Shark has indeed returned to finish what he started, he even returned to his play-with-my-food attitude, but when my eyes finally focused they detected differences, from the lighter shade of colors, to the more smooth curves of the fin and snout, and the gentle, warm (even if it looked sleepy) strange brown tone of the mammels eyes,

The dolphin was about two meters away, and looking at me with intense, twinkling eyes (if they were blue and he wore glasses, or at least marking that looks like it, I would have thought that the dolphin was Dumbledore' animagus and I really wouldn't have hesitated this time to punch his already crocked nose.. err.. snout [which it isn't, the dolphin's snout was perfect] with my broken hand!!) and moved slowly towards me, he pushed me gently with his nose in my abdomen, swam back a few inches, then entered the water and moved towards my leg, not touching it, but he was close enough to feel with my already almost destroyed sensitive nerves, he did all of that while I'm standing/floating, stupefied, hardly even breathing, and then he left, and pushed me again with his snout on my back, this time with more pressure that my body couldn't help but move to the dolphin's right side to let him pass, with my hand just above his back, when my hand touched his prominent back fin, he pushed my hip gently, as if telling me something, and pushed his fin into my hand again, it felt like rubber, and I couldn't help but ask "you want me to hold you?" he made a strange clicking noise then kinda slapped the water with his side fin in the other side of me, and bizarrely, his actions made me feel as if he was saying "are you stupid? Why else would I offer you my magnificent dorsal?!!" I stared, flummoxed, at the creature and couldn't help but throw my head back and laugh, I'm certain that it was the tension, fear and hysteria that made me do it, but for me, the whole situation was so hilarious that it seemed like it made Mr. Dolphin look at me and think "alright, the pathetic, hurt, star-shaped blemish is, indeed, stupid and needs help from my majesty" and then, using his right fin, slapped me non-too-gently on the side of my left hip, squeaking something as well and pushed his dorsal in my left hand again, but when he noticed my wince, he actually kinda rubbed his slippery appendage on my thigh while honest-to-god cooed at me that I couldn't help but smile at him, "it's okay, big guy, and thanks; you know, you kinda remind me of flipper!" and then I petted him a couple of times (which he purred at, I think I need a cat! 🤔🤔) then grabbed his fin in a tight but non constricting grip, my right hand was swollen by now so my only hope was to keep holding using my left hand, after shaking his body a little as if to check my hold, he dove with me into the water!! I almost screamed in fright but then he broke the surface and jumped about three meters high into the air!!!

Hello, there, adrenaline, didn't see you since a few!!

He dove again into the water and this time gradually moved towards the surface, with the water flowing into my hair and pushing me from my saviour, my left leg moved on its own violation and moved around the body as if I was riding a horse,

"WOOHOO!!", I shouted once we were in the air again, it was exhilarating; cold, but thrilling, though the warm body beneath me was perfect, he took me in a straight if slightly curvy line, and when I noticed that, I also noticed that his right fin was not moving as his left, I even thought he was injured for a second, but then a sharp sting in my leg and a slight jerk from him made me understand, my injured leg was beneath his wing-like appendage, and he was being considerate, as a solution, I flattened myself on his back, kept my left leg dangling as if in the horse saddle, my right one, as gently as possible, bend on the knee above the dolphin's back, my left hand gripping the top fin with it touching my shoulder, and my broken right hand above Mr. Flipper's cousin head, and then I came into a a sudden realization!! "does that mean I'm Lopaka????" I asked Flipper the second, and he made a sound suspiciously almost like a snort, but my change of position made him move in a much more pronounced straight line; the speed decreased as I started to doze again, as if he was worried about dislodging me, though the annoying feeling of the salt crusting on my skin woke me up, no idea how much time had past, except that the sun was on either the verge of descending or rising, and finally, finally, I saw land and buildings and what not from afar, and I certainly moved to another continent all together, let alone another country, after reaching the area where I could stand comfortably on the ground beneath the water, people started to come to see what was happening, I ignored them for the sake of my silent companion, suddenly he actually stood on his tail fin, and kinda sort of awkwardly leaned on me without trying to put too much pressure, I didn't understand what was happening though it seemed sorta like a hug?

Anyway, I pat his back again, (and again with the weird purring noise), when he released me I felt buzzing in the back pocket of my jeans, I actually still have my phone!!!

Pulling it out and snorting that after everything that happened my phone was still working!! all I could say is "well, it seems like the time of a picture, Mr. Flipper, sir!" and after an awkward kneeling so I could put my injured arm around him and trying to stretch my bloody leg (both meanings are accurate here, tbh) so it wouldn't interfere with the selfie, I positioned my left hand.

And the last thing I remember is the picture of my (Lopaka the second 😂) wide mouth grin and an equally wonderful grin from Mr. Flipper the second!!!

The End.

It really was a dream I had, with all these details, the only thing that's not entirely true about this post, is saying that this is the weirdest dream I had.

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sareyen · 4 years

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Das Haus am See: The Lake House Cherik AU (Part 2/3)

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Chapter 2

A Lake House Cherik AU: Charles and Erik both lived in the lake house, Charles in 2017, and Erik in 2019. By magic or fate, the two find out that the house’s letter box is able to send letters through time - and, in doing so, the two fall in love despite living in two different years. They vow to meet in the future, but fate is fickle, and time waits for no one.

Unfortunately, with all the work he had to do, Erik couldn’t stay near the lake house for the entire weekend, not with so much work piling up.

If it were any one but Charles, Erik would have maybe postponed visiting – it wouldn’t be the first time Erik cancelled his plans for work, something that had contributed to the end of his marriage with Magda.

But Charles… Gott, Charles. Charles, who was so sure that he would have waited two years for Erik to call. Charles, whom Erik believed had waited 2 years for him to call, but for some reason or another, couldn’t answer.

In the week of waiting, Erik had searched up everything he could online about someone named Charles F. Xavier, but found practically nothing – considering the man had so many PhDs, Erik thought that something would come up on university pages. While his name was listed on some university sites – Oxford and Cambridge, in particular – there were no pictures of the man anywhere. No social media accounts seemed to match the Charles that Erik knew, no journal publications, no news articles.

Even though it felt like Erik knew Charles, the man was still an enigma. With the social media search being a bust, Erik tried to track the man down through their only shared connection – the lake house.

Unfortunately, the real estate company couldn’t tell Erik much about the property, even though he had lived there for over a year. With the squabble over its ownership, everything regarding the property, including government records and the like, had been clamped down, leaving Erik with nothing more than empty air to chew on.

So, the only thing he could do was talk to Charles.

Eventually, Erik was able to leave work – for once, Shaw was still in the office after Erik left, seemingly in the throes of a strained phone call with the Graymalkin client – Francis Graymalkin’s sister, Erik surmised.

From what Erik has observed over the past week, settling the Graymalkin estate was an absolute nightmare – the man’s death had been sudden, and his will had been some sort of mess. It didn’t help that the man was a multimillionaire, and when a multimillionaire’s belongings were up for grabs, estranged relatives always emerged from the woodwork, which was apparently what was going on right now two years after his death.

But, that was Shaw’s headache, not Erik’s.

Erik had his own life to worry about.

Erik left for the lake house very early on Saturday morning, the week after his lengthy conversation with Charles. Considering Erik only had the weekend off, and that he had to return on Sunday in order to get his work completed, he had to make the most of the time that he did have.

When Erik parked his car in front of the lake house, he smiled when he saw that the flag was down.

Erik had never walked so fast in his life.

As Erik expected, there was a letter waiting for him, his name printed on the front in Charles’s handwriting that Erik believed he could recognise anywhere.

I do hope you managed to get here safely, my friend. It is a long drive from NYC, though hopefully by your time they’ve fixed that bottleneck along the highway – it was a nightmare in 2017, let me tell you. But, if you’re reading this, then I can assume you made it here safely, which I’m grateful for.

Responding to your last message, I can say that I have read The Once and Future King before, but that was a long time ago, so long ago that I can’t even remember where my own copy is – so, I’m also grateful that you have lent me yours. I can see that it is well-loved, the spine is basically falling apart. But, Erik, I’m mortified to know that you’re someone that dog-ears your books. It’s blasphemous, and may or may not be a deal-breaker for me.

Unless you can persuade me otherwise?

Erik laughed, shaking his head at Charles’s words, all of his frustration with Shaw ebbing away at the first curl of Charles’s lettering.

***

Charles knew it was stupid, but he couldn’t sleep the morning Thursday came, and instead camped outside wrapped up in a blanket with a cup of tea in a thermos, keeping a stern vigil on the letter box. He knew it was irrational, and that Erik had a life and a job – there was no way Erik would get there at 2am on what would be a Saturday for him, but there Charles was, sitting and waiting.

Charles had just gone inside to have breakfast at 11am, and had walked back out mid-chew and carrying a bowl of cereal when he noticed that the letter box’s flag was up.

Charles promptly choked on his mouthful of cereal, milk and cornflakes spurting all over his lawn and down his pyjama shirt.

Charles raced to his spot in front of the letter box, placing his bowl beside him as he pulled out his pen from the pocket of his robe, the flag flicking down.

I did make it here safely, thank you, but I regret to inform you that no, they haven’t fixed the bottleneck along the highway. In fact, it’s probably gotten worse, the asphalt falling to pieces. There have been a few car accidents along the highway, especially when it rains. Do you think you can put in a complaint to the council or something in back where you are in 2017? Then, hopefully, they would have it fixed by now.

And I’m glad you enjoy the book – but, like you said, I’ve only let you borrow it. I’ll be expecting you to return it to me in 2 years, in person.

Charles looked at the letter, awed, his heart clenching.

And he realised that yes, he may be a little bit in love.

***

Erik talked to Charles for almost the entire Saturday, up until he had to leave at sunset to make it back to NYC in one piece. They talked about everything – the future, politics, books. At one o’clock in the afternoon, they both ordered delivery pizza – the same one from the same shop – and pretended that they were eating together.

Charles had asked Erik, seemingly teasingly, if this was a date. Erik replied back that it was, not teasing in the slightest. Erik swore that he could feel Charles’s blush through his words, and the German smiled at that thought with far too many teeth.

Again, parting from Charles and the letterbox was painful, but that was life, wasn’t it? Erik was used to parting with people, but it was somehow more painful with Charles. Erik thought that it was probably because the chasm between him and Charles was more vast than any other – time was a formidable foe. At least, this time, Charles didn’t leave Erik empty handed.

Let’s go for a walk together then, my friend. What about your Wednesday evening, after you finish work? The weather forecast in 2017 says it’ll be a surprisingly sunny day for me – not sure if it’ll be the same in 2019, though.

Here’s a list of the route I’ll take around NYC – and maybe you’ll find something I’ve left you.

Until next time, my friend.

So, it was that Wednesday that Erik shrugged out of his work clothes and into some comfortable jeans and a T-shirt, as well as a waterproof jacket since, unlike in 2017, the weather was moderately cool and drizzly. Still, Erik thought that the day was beautiful.

Erik pulled out Charles’s letter, even though by this point he had read it so many times he could recite it.

I’m standing in front of your apartment complex right now, Erik, but in 2017 it’s more like a construction site. From what I would think is the front entrance, turn right and walk east along the street, past the Starbucks I’m sure will still be there.

Erik chuckled, glancing at the Starbucks just a few doors down from his sprawling apartment complex, as Charles said. Erik let his feet step to the cadence of Charles’s words, following the man on his walk. Charles pointed out the things he saw, similar but different to the things Erik witnessed on his own walk, but with Charles’s letter warm in his hands Erik could imagine the man walking beside him.

Erik followed Charles to the park, where he directed him amongst the trees, before telling him to stop by a specific bench by the fountain.

Read the plaque on the bench, Erik. This is my gift to you.

Erik raised a brow, bending down to peer at the little metal slab bolted into the rain-damp bench.

‘To Erik, my dear friend from the future Two years is a long time But maybe you can rest your legs here on our walk while you wait for me to catch up.’

Erik choked, mouth popping open. Charles had bought Erik a bench. In Central Park.

Charles’s letter made a bit more sense, now – “wait for me”.

So, Erik sat on his bench and waited. And waited. And waited.

But, Charles did not come.

And Erik walked back home, alone and despondent.

***

Sitting in the study in the lake house, Charles pinched the bridge of his nose, letting out a groan before rolling his neck. His spine ached a little from being hunched over his desk all day, the words coming to him relentlessly. It had been a while since Charles felt so alive, so eager to tell a story – his and Erik’s, story.

Francis Graymalkin’s new novel, “Days of Future Past” was coming together chapter by chapter, paragraph by paragraph. The novel was vastly different from Charles’s previous work, and was essential a love story between an engineer named Max Eisenhardt living in the year 2019 and a genetics professor called Wesley Gibson living in 2017.

Well, that’s what the characters would be called in the final version. In the incomplete draft, Max was called Erik, and Wesley called Charles.

Charles had just written the final paragraph in chapter 13, in which Max went on a walk alongside Wesley, crossing through Central Park where Wesley had gifted the older man a park bench.

Smiling to himself, Charles looked at the certificate park management had sent him after he made a hefty donation of $10,000, allowing him to lay claim to one of the benches in the park. Giddy and with a fluttering feeling in his stomach, Charles allowed his fanciful imagination to envision the future between him and Erik.

Charles’s plan for 2019 was to lead Erik through the letter to the park bench dedicated to him, and then to appear. As a cheesy romantic, Charles imagined his future self emerging from behind a screen of trees brandishing a bouquet of bright carnations. Red ones, perhaps, because they symbolised love – and Charles was sure that he loved Erik.

Charles imagined Erik’s shock, and even though he had never seen the man’s face before, he’s sure that the expression on the man’s face would be beautiful. Then Charles could tell Erik that he loved him, and has loved him for two years – and hopefully, Erik could say the same.

Charles had to wonder, though – Erik had told him that Charles hadn’t picked up his phone call, two years in the future. Charles frowned at the thought. Charles doubted that his feelings for Erik would wane, even as new as they were. Charles had never felt anything like this before, and he doubted that two years would change that, not when he knew that Erik would be waiting for him at the end of it all.

Maybe Charles had changed his phone number. That was the most logical explanation.

Charles ignored the small kernel unfurling in his gut that, maybe, something else had happened.

But Charles was sure that he would have gone to meet Erik at the park, two years from today. Charles had already written it down in pen in his calendar, circling it bright red as to not forget.

Charles vowed to himself that, no matter what, he would meet Erik there.

Closing the screen of his laptop, Charles took a moment to check his phone, having ignored it while working. Charles found that, though the isolation at the lake house did wonders for his creativity, Charles had been a little starved for human interaction lately (despite his weekly correspondence with Erik via letter box).

Charles saw that he had two missed calls from Raven, calling her back as he reclined in his chair. His sister picked up on the first ring.

“Charles! You finally decided to call me back, huh?!” Raven screeched into the writer’s ear, the man wincing.

“I was busy writing, Raven. You know how it is,” Charles said, Raven silent for a moment.

“So, you got over your writer’s block? Good for you, Charles. I wonder who thought it would be a good idea for you to get out of the city. Maybe you should thank that person, they’re really very intelligent, don’t you think? Maybe you could even buy them a thank you gift, too… A little birdy told me that they’ve been looking at a particular Dior bag recently,” Raven said, playing at being coy.

Charles just sighed, too used to and too fond of his sister’s antics.

“Thank you, Raven. Yes, you were right, getting out of the city was a good idea. Send me the link to the bag and I’ll get it for you,” Charles said, Raven squealing and chanting “Love you, love you, love you!” which made Charles smile, shaking his head.

“Oh! But you distracted me! I was calling to see if you were free this Saturday?”

Charles was going to focus on writing his and Erik’s story on Saturday after finding out what happened on their park date – because it was a date, was it not? A date, booked two years in advance.

Raven could apparently smell her brother’s excuse through the phone, cutting him off swiftly.

“Please, Charles! You know my friend, Angel? She’s getting married on Saturday, and I had RSVP’d a plus one, since Irene and I were gonna go together, but… Irene and I are going through a rough patch right now, and I don’t want to go to the wedding alone!”

“Raven, I really do have… plans,” Charles said, wondering if telling Raven that said plans were him sitting in his house thinking about a man living two years in the future inside a mail box would end up with her committing him to a mental hospital.

It probably would.

“Charles, what plans could you possibly have all the way out there?”

“Raven,” Charles groaned, his sister pleading.

“Please, Charles? Just this once. Pretty, pretty please!”

Charles had never been able to deny his younger sister anything, and reluctantly agreed. Raven squealed, screaming “Love you, love you, love you” again, before promising to send Charles the details of the wedding.

Raven soon hung up promptly to browse dresses online for the wedding, leaving Charles in his quiet study. Sighing to himself, Charles wheeled his desk chair to the side slightly, reaching across his table to a small lockbox, unlatching it and smiling as he pulled out the first piece of paper contained within it, letting himself float amongst the comforting words of Erik’s letters.

***

At the wedding reception, Raven immediately drifted away from Charles to chat and dance with some of her friends, and Charles wondered why she needed him to come with her in the first place. She was clearly fine on her own.

Charles spent most of the night just hovering by the buffet, figuring that at least there was free food and wine, and he did end up sharing a dance with his sister partway through the evening. Still, the majority of the guests were much younger than Charles, and while the party was only getting more and more wild as the drinks poured, Charles was already knackered.

Needing to get some fresh air, Charles meandered outside onto the balcony of the countryside mansion Angel and her now-husband had hired for the reception, nursing a full glass of wine in his hand. The balcony overlooked a sprawling garden lined with neatly trimmed hedges, the quiet fountain in the middle of it gleaming silver with the moonlight.

Charles was busy admiring the quiet peace of the garden when the French doors to the balcony opened behind him. Charles jumped, whirling around, eyes locking with the surprise guest – it was a tall, handsome man with hair that shone a little auburn. His steely grey eyes locked with Charles, surprised to see someone already on the secluded balcony as well, and Charles noticed a slight shadow of ginger scruff across the man’s angular jaw. Like Charles, he wore a suit, but with his lean legs and narrow waist, Charles thought that the man pulled off the polished look far better than he did.

“Sorry,” the man mumbled stiffly. “I didn’t realise someone was already out here.”

“Nothing to be sorry for,” Charles said, letting out a soft laugh that was carried away by the wind. “Not quite sure why you’d be surprised, though. You would hardly be the only one wanting to get out of there.” Making a point, Charles shuffled along the balcony’s railing he was leaning on, making space for the man.

The left corner of the man’s lips curved up with barely-visible amusement as he stepped through the balcony’s threshold, closing the doors behind him. When the man made his way to stand next to Charles, he pulled out a cigarette from an inner pocket of his suit jacket and held it between his lips. As he held a lighter near the end of the cigarette, the man gave Charles a sideways look, questioning.

“You can smoke,” Charles said, shrugging. “You’re the one that will get cancer though, my friend.”

The man snorted at that, lighting up and taking a deep drag from the cigarette, exhaling through his nose. Charles ignored the bitter curl of the smoke through the air, the man tapping some of the ash off on the balcony’s banister with long, slender fingers.

“I’ve been trying to quit,” the man suddenly murmured quietly, Charles humming in response. “I did quit, while my wife was pregnant. The first time.”

“But you started again after your child was born?”

“No, I started after the child was miscarried,” the man said, the empty tone in his voice only making him seem full of anguish, though his face betrayed nothing when Charles glanced at him.

“Oh, I’m sorry to hear that,” Charles supplied, the man shrugging, tapping some more ash off his cigarette before snuffing it out against the stone banister.

“It is what it is,” the man said, like he was trying to convince himself.

“Just because it is what it is, doesn’t mean you have to pretend that it doesn’t hurt,” Charles said, his balcony companion turning to him with a raised brow. Charles let out a huff of breath into the night air. “But, you probably don’t need a stranger at a wedding giving you a pep talk.”

“Not really. I’ve had enough of pep talks, especially after the second miscarriage,” the man mused, Charles’s eyes softening.

“Then let’s talk about something else. How do you know the lovely couple we’re celebrating here tonight?” Charles asked, the man giving Charles a small smile.

“I don’t know them personally. My wife is one of the groom’s co-workers. I’m just here for the free food,” the taller man said, Charles chuckling. “You?”

“My sister is friends with the bride, and I’m also just here for the free food. Oh, and the open bar,” Charles said, gesturing to the half-empty glass of wine he had balanced on the balcony rail. “But, frankly, even the wine isn’t enough to make me want to go back in there. I always loved a good party, but lately I’ve come to realise that I’m no longer a spry twenty-something-year-old.”

“Can’t keep up with the kids these days?” the man said, smiling with a show of straight, white teeth. Charles huffed again, though he couldn’t help his own smile that was beginning to grow on his face. For some reason, this man reminded Charles of his Erik, who teased him good-naturedly through his hand-written prose.

“Oh, no. I just don’t want to steal their thunder,” Charles said, waving his hand in the air, winking. The man let out a chuckle at that, before turning away from Charles to stare off into the distance once again.

“Sometimes I wish I could go back to how things were when I was their age,” the nameless man said, Charles leaning his chin on his palm while resting across the balcony, glancing at the man beside him. The man felt Charles looking at him, and laughed under his breath, almost incredulous. “Sorry. I don’t know where this sentimentality came from. I’m not usually like this.”

“It’s weddings,” Charles said, shrugging. “Makes people sentimental. That, plus the wine.”

“Mm, you may be right. Weddings. They remind me of my own, and how… much things have changed,” the man said, Charles remaining silent, before tentatively reaching out to pat the arm of the man beside him, just once. That light touch seemed to make the taller man falter a little, throat clogged. “I just don’t know what I’m doing with my life anymore.”

“Just because someone stumbles and loses their way, it doesn’t mean they’re lost forever,” Charles responded quietly, the man beside him freezing, before turning to Charles with slightly wide eyes.

“Is that a quote from Francis Graymalkin? From the second novel in the X tetralogy?” Erik asked, Charles blinking. This man has read his books?

“Yes, it’s from when Professor X-”

“-Talks to his younger self, and gives him a pep talk, of sorts,” the other man responded, eyes alight. Charles laughed at the way the man brightened the moment he began to talk about Charles’s books, warmth spreading inside him.

“Indeed. I take it you’re a fan?” Charles said as he picked up his wine glass, bringing it to his lips while the other man nodded, a smile on his face.

“I am. Francis Graymalkin is one of my favourite authors, his work has gotten me through some… tough times. ‘First Class’ is one of my favourite books, probably second only to The Once and Future King,” the man said, Charles pausing, lips pressed against his wine glass.

That’s Erik’s favourite book.

No. There’s no way…

Coincidence?

Fate?

“You…” Charles started, just as the French doors behind him opened, for the second time that night. Charles and the man turned simultaneously to look at the interloper, revealing a pretty woman with dark brown hair and neatly trimmed bangs, a little rounded in the belly – pregnant – and a slightly stiff smile on her face.

“Magda,” the man beside Charles breathed out, the woman giving him a slightly tired look.

“I was looking for you everywhere, Erik,” the woman said, and Charles almost dropped his wine glass.

ErikErikErik.

“Sorry, I was just…” Erik said, glancing at Charles, who was staring at him with an indecipherable expression on his face.

“I know you don’t like big gatherings, but at least tell me when you’re going to get some fresh air,” Magda said, hand cradling her baby bump. “I just wanted to tell you that it’s probably a good time to go home, it’s best that I don’t strain myself… because you know…”

Erik’s face darkened a little, likely thinking about the previous miscarriages, nodding immediately. Erik flicked his spent cigarette onto the stone beneath his feet, walking over to his pregnant wife.

ErikErikErik.

“It was nice talking to you,” Erik said to Charles, small smile on his face. “And thanks, for reminding me. That, you know – ‘I’m not lost forever’.”

Erik gave Charles another tiny smile before stepping beside his wife, large hand splayed against her lower back, intimate and protective.

Charles could only watch as the man he loved walked away, blue eyes trained on the back of a man that was still too young to recognise Charles at all.

In the silence of the night, the sounds of the wedding muted as the French doors closed, Charles remember another line from his second novel.

“Countless choices define our fate: each choice, each moment, a moment a ripple in the river of time. Enough ripples, and you change the tide… for the future is never truly set.”

“How right I was,” Charles sighed to himself, draining the rest of his wine in one large gulp and revelling in the warm haze that swept over him.

***

I saw you, you know – on the 25th of February, 2017. You look good in a suit.

Erik stared at the letter Charles had sent through the letter box, heart hammering.

‘I’ve met Charles before?!’ Erik screamed in his mind, rifling through two years’ worth of memories to try and find the one with Charles. 25th of February, 25th of February. Erik couldn’t pinpoint a specific time or event, that period of his life a vague collection of moments labelled ‘Mid-Magda’ and ‘Post-Magda’. Magda’s third miscarriage was towards the end of that month, and it wasn’t long after that that they had put their divorce into motion. Erik’s memories were hazy regarding everything else, his mind focused on his broken marriage.

But he had met Charles back then? And he couldn’t even remember it?

In novels and film, the meeting between two people was always cataclysmic and seemingly life-changing. The world stops turning, time freezes, and the protagonists always think ‘Oh, this is fate, isn’t it?’. But when Erik had supposedly met Charles, time did not stop, and the world did not stop turning.

Erik couldn’t even remember him.

When did we meet, Charles? This was two years ago for me, and I can’t remember you and my memories aren’t clear.

Erik hoped that Charles wouldn’t feel disheartened about the fact that Erik couldn’t remember him, not when Erik didn’t even know what he was looking for at the time. Erik had been so lost, and…

Suddenly, it clicked in Erik’s foggy head, just as the flag on the letter box moved.

It was at Angel’s wedding. You were with your wife.

Erik swallowed thickly, his suspicions realised – the man on the balcony, the one with the smooth English accent and ocean-blue eyes. The man that quoted Francis Graymalkin, the man who told Erik that he wouldn’t be lost forever. The man that Erik never got the name of.

That was Charles?

Why didn’t you say anything?

Erik frowned, brow crinkling and wrinkles gathering on his forehead.

You didn’t know me back then, so what could I say? ‘Hi there, Erik – I’m your pen pal you’ll start writing to 2 years in the future by shoving paper into a magical time-warping letter box’. You’d think I was mad.

And besides, you were married.

I assume that’s not the case in 2019?

Erik could feel Charles’s hesitation through his penmanship, how his ink grew lighter like he was wary of pressing too hard into the thick note paper. Erik quickly replied.

Magda and I divorced not long after the wedding. Not long after our third miscarriage.

Erik did not know what else to say after that, sending the two sentences as they were. Charles took a moment to respond, Erik biting the inside of his lower lip in anticipation and nervousness.

I am sorry to hear that, my friend.

Erik smiled wryly.

You’re not really sorry, are you?

Another pause in Charles’s reply.

I am sorry – I can’t imagine that it would have been easy for you. But… I can’t say that I’m disappointed. Does that make me a bad person, Erik?

Erik chuckled, gazing down at Charles’s words fondly – now that he knew what the man looked like, even if his two-years-ripened memories were a little fuzzy, he could picture Charles nervously biting on his lower lip, which Erik recalled as being unnaturally red like wine.

Maybe. But if it helps, I’m glad that you feel that way – it appears that we are both terrible people.

But, on another note – you’re a fan of Francis Graymalkin? I shouldn’t be surprised, not when you seem to share his naïve beliefs.

Erik could imagine Charles scoffing, blue eyes rolling as the man crossed his arms over a lithe chest.

Really, Erik? Let’s talk about you for a moment. You’re a fan of m his work as well, and yet you can’t seem to let go of your divisive separatist ideas.

Erik laughed, feeling heat flare in his belly. Suddenly, the image of arguing with Charles face-to-face, maybe over a drink in front of a warm fireplace, a chess board between them quickly being forgotten as they chatted relentlessly.

I assure you, Charles – I firmly believe that Magneto is correct, even if Francis Graymalkin turned him into a foil for the Professor.

I prefer to think of them as two sides of the same coin – frankly, one cannot exist without the other. In the end of the fourth and final book, they united and began walking the same path, did they not?

Yes. Even with their differences, they came together, in the end.

Do you think it could be the same for us?

Erik kneeled by the letterbox, waiting for Charles’s response. Erik had been thinking about this for a while, ever since Charles had failed to appear during their walk through the park, and not to mention when the man had failed to answer Erik’s phone call. Erik knew that he liked Charles, more than he has liked any one before – even maybe more than he had liked Magda when they had first started dating.

But, Erik has known too many failed relationships to risk being hurt again, especially when Charles had already failed to keep his promise twice. Maybe Erik was the naïve one now – was it perhaps foolish to think that a divide of two years was surmountable?

Yes, for Erik, seeing Charles would be like no time has passed at all. But for Charles – sweet, genuine Charles – it would be two years. Two years of waiting for Erik, who didn’t even know that he existed. On the balcony at the wedding, Charles had known Erik, while Erik hadn’t even given him a second thought. Erik couldn’t imagine how that would have felt.

Maybe two years was too much. Or, maybe Charles’s feelings for Erik just weren’t enough.

‘One last chance,’ Erik thought to himself, as he opened the letter box, reading Charles’s response.

I’d truly like to believe so, my friend. I want nothing more.

How about we meet for dinner, exactly two years from tomorrow – March 3rd, 2019. I’ll make a reservation, and I’ll see you there. You should choose the restaurant – it would be a shame if I made a reservation for a place that went out of business before 2019.

Erik swallowed, running his fingers over the date. A promise written in ink.

Erik preferred it to be written in stone.

Make a reservation for Genosha.

Done. See you at 7pm in two years and a day, Erik.

Yes. See you tomorrow, Charles.

***

For Erik, tomorrow came quickly, but he could imagine that the same could not be said for Charles.

Erik spent most of Sunday morning on March 3rd, 2019 lying on his couch just watching the clock tick on, a monotonous countdown until 7pm. At four, Erik showered. By five, Erik had ironed his dress shirt and black slacks. By half-past-five, Erik’s shoes were polished and his hair dried. By six, Erik was doing up the buttons on his shirt and tucking it into the waist of his trousers, sliding a sleek leather belt through the beltloops. By six-thirty, Erik was on the subway heading towards the restaurant, Genosha.

And, at ten-to-seven, the manager of Genosha was asking Erik if he had a reservation.

“Yes,” Erik said, a little breathless as the woman smiled at him patiently. “A reservation for two for 7pm. It should be under Charles. Or maybe Erik.”

The woman’s eyes seemed to widen with recognition as she looked at Erik, before a smile began playing at her lips.

“Oh, we’ve been waiting for you for a long time,” the woman said, crossing the name ‘Charles’ off her reservation book. Erik glanced down at it, noting that the woman had jotted down in the margin ‘the two years from tomorrow reservation!’, making Erik’s heart squeeze.

“Yes, two years,” Erik mused, the woman smiling in understanding, likely having been the one to take Charles’s initial reservation two years ago. She didn’t say much more as she ushered Erik to his table, low-lit with tea lights.

“Would you like to order a drink while you wait?” the woman asked, Erik shaking his head.

“No, I’ll wait for him.”

Charles has been waiting for 2 years, after all. What was ten minutes?

“Very well, sir,” the woman said, giving him another gleaming smile, before ducking back off to greet some other patrons.

Erik nervously smoothed the ironed legs of his pants, then began fiddling with the white table cloth, and then making his hands busy by straightening all of the cutlery in front of him.

Erik checked his watch – 6:58pm.

Two minutes, then.

Two years. What was two minutes compared to two years?

The minutes ticked by, and 7 o’clock came and passed. The manager stepped in with some water just after 7:00, filling Erik’s glass and asking him again if he wanted something to drink. Erik declined.

7:05pm.

7:10pm.

At 7:15, Erik ordered a glass of wine.

7:25pm.

7:40pm.

8 o’clock.

Erik caught the manager looking at him with a forlorn expression from the front of the restaurant, but her expression could not even touch the turmoil brewing inside Erik’s chest.

Erik’s hands were tightly fisted under the table as he found his eyes growing hot, and he gritted his teeth.

He was not going to cry, not over something like this. Erik rarely cried. In recent times, he could only pinpoint three times that tears had slipped from his eyes – his mother’s death, the first miscarriage, losing Magda.

So, Erik was not going to cry over someone who couldn’t keep a promise. Not over someone who clearly didn’t care about Erik.

***

On his Thursday (and Erik’s Saturday), Charles waited eagerly for Erik to respond to the letter he had placed in the early hours of the morning. It would have been just under a week ago that Erik and future Charles would have had dinner together at Genosha, and Charles was giddy thinking about what would happen now.

Would Erik tell him how well it went? Would he have a photo of the two of them together, a Charles that was two years older than the one he currently knew?

Or, would Charles accompany Erik to the lake house and tell the past him that everything turned out as Charles hoped it would, and assure him that it’s alright to still have hope.

Charles could only wait, feeding his anticipation with fanciful scenarios in his head.

The note Charles had left in the letter box was simple:

Erik, please tell me I recommended the tuna nicoise to you. The tuna nicoise at Genosha is to die for.

It took a while for Charles to gain a reply, which wasn’t surprising considering Erik had to travel from NYC to the lake house every week.

As Charles was envisioning him feeding Erik said tuna nicoise, the letter box squeaked, and Charles immediately leapt to his feet. Pulling out the letter, Charles licked his lips, unfolding it.

The words that he read made all of the colour from his face drain, Charles’s usually pink cheeks turning ashen.

You weren’t there. You didn’t come, Charles. Again.

‘No,’ Charles thought to himself, before speaking out loud. “No, no, no, no, no. That’s impossible. I would never…”

Charles felt frantic, reading into Erik’s words – the harsher-than-usual slope of his lettering, the way the ink seemed to rip into the page. Erik was angry, or disappointed, or both.

And it was future-Charles’s fault.

I don’t understand. Erik, something must have happened. I am so, so sorry, my friend. I would never… At least, the me writing this to you, right now in 2017, can’t even fathom the idea of not showing up. I’ve thought of nothing else since.

I have two years, Erik. We can try again.

Charles shoved the letter into the letter box, gnawing on his lower lip. The response was surprisingly swift.

No, Charles. It’s too late. It already happened, more than once, and every time it didn’t work.

“No,” Charles gasped, voice cracking as his eyes grew wet, Erik’s words growing blurry behind the veil of tears. “No, please.”

Charles’s hands were shaky as he wrote, his cursive wonky across the page. Some of the ink smeared as the tears that slid down his cheeks dribbled onto the page.

Please don’t give up on me, Erik. Remember Professor X and Magneto – they waited for each other for years. Decades. They meet again, time after time. They have another chance.

Please.

Charles loosed a sob as he saw the flag on the letter box shift up and down, and part of him dreaded opening it to read Erik’s reply.

Life isn’t a book, Charles. No matter how much we may wish it to be.

I let myself get lost this time. I got lost in this fantasy where time seemed to stand still. You helped me forget my troubles, even for a short while.

But, Charles – I have to learn to live the life I’ve got. I can’t wait for you to show up, and you couldn't keep your promise. We clearly don’t want the same thing.

So, please don’t write any more. I won’t be coming back to the lake house. Don’t try to find me.

Let me let you go.

Charles cried, writing frantically across the paper, a litany of ‘please’ and ‘Erik’ and ‘I’m sorry, forgive me’.

Charles sent his plea, but the letter box didn’t move again.

Next chapter (3/3) →

#cherik #Charles Xavier #Erik Lehnsherr #X-men #x-men fic #marvel #magneto #professor x #ao3 #AO3 fanfic #james mcavoy #Michael Fassbender

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theexleynatureblog · 3 years

Text

Sorry, but letting your cat outside is a sign of a lazy owner.

Scientists estimate there is between 60million to 160million feral cats in the US. July, 2018.

“Bring in the dog and put out the cat!” - Yakety Yak. Letting our cats outside is almost a part of Western culture, since the days of Fred and Wilma. But we should all no by now that a cultural norm doesn’t make something automatically right.

At the end of every episode, Fred Flintstone let’s the family saber-toothed cat outside, only for the cat to jump back inside through the window and lock Fred out of the house.

Unfortunely, real-life cats aren’t as responsible. If you let your cat outside, and they are comfortable, they will take advantage of the opportunity. I know from experience living in a house with five outdoor-cats.

An article from Battersea.org gives instructions on how to safety introduce your cat to the outdoors, stating ‘your cat may want to explore.’

Well, of course they do! They’re a cat! It’s like telling a human they may want to walk. Here’s the thing: animals are high-wired to do what they want, not what they should. Because in the wild, the things they want is to find food and hunt, which helps them to survive. A captive cat doesn’t need to do that, but they’ll still have that interest in the outdoors and the high-energy associated with it.

The biggest arguments I hear for letting cats outside it ‘it’s their nature’, ‘they deserve freedom’, ‘they need the exercise/stimulation’. This is true. Cat’s are living animals who are designed to expend energy, just like us. Exercise is essential to a pet’s health, and as a pet owner, it’s your job to make sure they’re getting what they need.

The problem is, if you’re doing this by letting your cat roam the neighborhood unsupervised, you’re doing it very wrong.

A cat wheel, recommended for owners of high-energy cats, like Bengals.

First, I’m before I list the many reasons to not let your cat outside, I’m going to list alternatives.

Number one - play

Did you buy a box of cat-toys for your new kitten? Did your new cat play with them a little bit and then loose interest playing by themselves? Purina recommends two 20minutes play sessions for your kitten every day. This time can change depending on your cat’s energy level. Obviously, a really active cat will need more, and an older cat may need less. You cant just dump a box of toys on the living room floor an expect your cat to keep itself busy all day like a toddler would, you have to engage with them!

Cat’s ‘play’ as an extension of their hunting instincts. They’re not doing it to pass the time, they’re doing it to learn and practice how to kill things. The key to productive play is thinking like prey. That long rope? Pretend it’s a snake. Grab that mouse toy and bounce it around in front of your cat like you think an actual mouse would move. Don’t poke or bonk your cats with they’re toys - its not encouraging their hunting instincts and may just make them annoyed and not want to play.

Aside from keeping them stimulated, playing with your cats every day can strengthen their bond to you. A happy and tired cat will have no interest in going outside. The amount of time you’d expect to play with/walk your dog is the same amount, maybe a little less, you should expect to spend on your cat. If you don’t have the time of day to take care of a dog, don’t get a cat.

Also, FYI, don’t use your hands as a toy, especially with kittens. A bad cat bite can put you in the hospital with a serious infection - even if your cat has lived indoors all it’s life. Using your hand to play instead of toys will teach kittens that your hand is in fact a toy. Good luck trying to pet them later.

Number Two - Cat furniture

Ever heard of puppy-proofing? Well, cat proofing is also a thing! If you want to take on the responsibility of owning a pet, be prepared to rearrange your entire house - and buy some new stuff. Cat’s are designed to climb and travel, so they may try to jump to to the tallest places in your house. Don’t want them up there? Consider getting a dog. Spray bottles and scolding may work, but unless you’re giving them an alternative to flex their muscles, it’ll only lead to behavioral problems down the road.

Cat walks are a fun and safe way to let your cat have the run of the house. Not only will it be fun for them, but it’ll make them feel safer. If you cat feels trapped, it may hide a lot of the time. This is especially important if you bring another cat into the house. One cat acting scared may invite the other cat to attack. Cat-walks give your cat the advantage to ‘oversee their kingdom’, and escape a situation that makes them uncomfortable.

But, I wouldn’t expect everyone to have this. If you rent your home, can’t afford this, or can’t build it yourself, it’s not an option. But you can be aware of how you arrange your furniture and shelves. If the cat’s gonna jump up on stuff, you might as well make sure it’s safe.

The bare minimum cat furniture you need (besides a litter box) are scratching posts. Even a declawed cat will want one, because they’re not just shedding nails - they’re marking their territory.

Most predators have a way of marking territory to keep invaders away. Cats do too, with a host of special glands. One of those is called an interdigital (inter-digital) gland located - you guessed it - between their toes, or digits. In the wild, when cats scratch on trees, they are rubbing that scent gland on the bark, to warn other cats this is their territory.

Your indoor cat probably won’t have to worry about invaders, but they will still want to use that gland. In their minds, your house is their territory that they must defend. This is why litter boxes are also important.

You may have seen pictures or videos of cats being trained to use and even flush toilets. It may be cute, but its actually not that great from a cat behavior standpoint. This article from The Dodo does a good job of explaining why NOT to potty-train your cat.

Don’t wanna deal with litter boxes? Get a dog! Because with cats, litter boxes are essential. Not only does it give your cat a place to do its business, but it allows them to exercise more of their natural behaviors. After all, ‘natural behaviors’ are the reason owners let their cats outside, right?

For every cat, there should be one litter box plus one extra. Two cats should have a total of 3 litter boxes, and so on. The boxes should be scooped once a day, with their litter changed about once a week - depending on specific needs. Sounds like a lot of work? Yeah - it is! Plus the smell of ammonia isn’t pleasant. If you don’t want to deal with this - Don’t. Get. A. Cat.

Naturally, people look for short cuts, like training their cat to use the toilet, or letting them outside to do its business. Hey, it works for dogs, don’t it? Well - cats aren’t dogs. They have different behavior. While you can count on that fence keeping your dog in your yard, your cat is going to parkour over that like nothing. While dogs will go anywhere they feel comfortable, cats have an instinct to bury their feces. According to Live Science, this helps them hide from other predators. Cats can be eaten by anything bigger than them, and they know it. It’s a behavior that gives them security. Think about it like having a lock on the bathroom door - in a public place. Would you be brave enough to go without it? Personally, I’d hold it until I got home. Cats probably feel the same way, so they’re going to want to find substrate that’s easy to bury stuff in - fresh soil in a flower bed, or little Jimmy’s sandbox.

This is also why toilet-training is a bad idea. It’s not a natural behavior for cats, and it denies their instincts to bury their waste and mark their territory. Also, what happens when your cat gets elderly or injured, and they can’t jump onto the seat for a few days?

Your Cat can still enjoy the outdoors.

Did you know they make cat leashes? That’s right, you can allow your cat to transverse the yard and neighborhood in safety! The downside of this is cat’s don’t tend to be as excited about walks as dogs do. When I bought a harness and leash for my cat, they plopped on their side and refused to move. I never got to take him on a walk.

If your cat is similarly lazy, that doesn’t mean its impossible, it just means training will be required. With the right balance of motivation and knowledge, a pet can be trained to do anything physically possible. Yes, it’s consistent work and slow progress, but exactly the thing a good pet owner should be willing to do. If your cat is staring out the window and practically running out the door, then they might not even need training. With a lease, you can prevent your cat from killing small animals, keep them from climbing too high in a tree, and keep them out of the street and away from possibly dangerous animals.

On that note, now may be a good time to list the reasons why NOT to let your cat outside! (Warning, this next section may contain intense images of blood, violence, and dead animals. Reader discretion is advised).

Parasites.

Hold onto your stomachs, everyone! We are not taking the gentle road.

When I say parasites, I’m not just talking about fleas and ticks - very common and very overlooked. There are worse things out there. Toxoplasma, for one. This parasite that causes flu-like symptoms sheds from cat feces, and it can be much worse for pregnant mothers (this is why your doctor recommends not cleaning a litter-box while pregnant). To make matters worse, its one of the most common parasites in the world, spreading by - don’t throw up on me - fecal-oral contact, which is exactly what it sounds like. A cat can host the parasite without any symptoms and spread to humans, and that’s not the only one.

Outdoor cats are much more likely to get parasites and harmful bacterial. This is because they consume wild animals harboring parasites, and they can pick up stuff from the environment. A squirrel could defecate somewhere that a cat walks, and later licks themselves to clean. Boom! Infected. Now, your outdoor cat could spread stuff like toxoplasma to your neighbors! There’s your neighbor, working in their flower garden, unaware your cat used it for the bathroom (and buried it). Ope, now she’s whipping her nose with her unwashed hand! Boom! Infected.

Want to learn something really crazy? Cat parasites have made their way to aquatic mammals!

This National Geographic Article gives more information on how the ‘Kitty Litter’ parasite has made it to marine whales and dolphins. This is due to feral and stray cats defecating near waterways that eventually wash out to the ocean. While cats and some terrestrial mammals can host the parasites with out any major symptoms, marine mammals are very different. They are the incorrect hosts for these parasites, and anyone who’s studies parasites (like me) knows, parasites in the wrong host is a recipe for disaster. AKA, death. And like many other species, our marine mammals are going through enough troubles right now.

If you keep your cat inside and use a litter box, there is still a risk of infection, but you’ve significally lowered the potential spread. I say, anyone you takes the responsibility of cleaning a cat box is a hero. I mean that from the bottom of my heart. You are doing your cat and your neighborhood a huge favor. I sincerely thank you. So, when you’re scooping or changing litter, wear gloves, wear a mask, don’t touch your face, and wash your hands thoroughly afterword's. Also, take note of the condition of your cats dropping. Sometimes, to can clearly see worms, or something may just not look right. Remember - as an owner, it’s your responsibility to monitor your pets health. If you see something that doesn’t look right, you can take them to the vet. You can’t do this if you let your cat outside to do there business in the garden a few houses down.

High Death Rate

For feral cats, lifespan is typically two years. 50% of kittens don’t survive their first couple of days. Cats are killed by anything from car collisions, poison, coyotes, raccoons, raptor birds, and other cats. Male cats constantly fight each other for territory and access to females.

This brings up an interesting question. If cat’s death rate is so high, how are there so many in every town? A couple reasons.

Cats have a lot of kittens - multiple litters within a year. Even if only 50% of those kittens survive, that’s a lot of cats that are ready to breed themselves not long after.

Another reason is artificial healthcare. What this means is people will feed, spay/neuter, or rescue injured animals, and then release them. Because of their cuteness, cat’s have a charisma advantage over native predators in a neighborhood like coyotes and raccoons. No one’s going to trap a coyote with a broken leg to take it to the vet. I know that if I hit a cat with my car, and it was still alive, I would definitely rush it to emergency care. Supplemental feeding goes hand-in-hand with this. When people see a large cat colony outside, they may want to leave food out for them to help them out. Cats will eat the food, but it won’t end there. You may end up attracting more cats to an area, increasing the population. But if you were to suddenly stop feeding them, the extra cats are going to starve. You have only provided the animals with limited extra resources. Also, more cats in an area may lead to more fighting amongst them.

Because cats have a high death rate, the population’s method of survival is putting out high numbers. Feral and stray cats are constantly competing for food and running from dangers, and the ones who can put up with the suffering the most survive. This is the reality of nature. Nature is not a garden of Eden with fairies dancing with deer. This is the brutality you are exposing your pet cat to when you let them wonder alone outside.

Cats Kill Stuff

Cats are one of the few animals that kill for fun. Its not that they’re sadistic - they’re instincts tell them to bat that thing that moves, and they’ll do it until the thing escapes or stops moving. People automatically think about birds and small mammals, but cats will also eat insects, amphibians, and reptiles.

Some people swear by this argument, and some people counter the argument by saying stuff like ‘yeah, but windows and windmills kill more birds!’. Really? That’s your argument? Can you imagine if we said that about serial killers? Oh, its not a big deal if Freddy killed a few woman, James over there has killed a lot more!

Like... okay, that’s not as bad, but... we should still do something about it.

Cats, windows, and windmills. Instead of looking at these as three separate problems that we can only solve one at a time, step back and look at the big picture. “Human-caused fatality.” An article from the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Services talks about migratory bird fatality numbers and causes. You’ll see a handful of different causes, each with different solutions needed.

You can’t solve a problem by pointing your finger at someone and say “They’re doing it worse”. EVERYONE involved in the problem has to do their part and correct it. For example, window collisions with birds can be decreased by window stickers and ecologically-mindful building planning (not building tall things in high-traffic bird routes).

These small, decorative stickers can help prevent bird-strike deaths.

Another angle to combat the problem is reducing industrial-caused mortality. Open oil pits are a hazard to migratory birds, who land in and ingest the oily water as they migrate. The Migratory Bird Treaty Act hold companies who do not cover their ponds accountable for ‘preventable fatalities’. However, the Trump Administration recently attempted to roll back regulations like these, in order to increase profit of oil and gas companies. Contacting politicians and being a thoughtful voter can prevent policies like these, and save birds and wildlife.

Of course, cat owners can put their foot forwards to help save wildlife life by keeping their pets inside or on a leash. People argue ‘cat’s are natural hunters. So what if they kill a few birds?’. Okay, well, first of all, if you look carefully at the stats, its clearly not just ‘a few birds’. Second, do you know what kinds of birds? No? I don’t either. In fact, we have no control what kind of bird/reptile/mammal your cat will kill. They kill whatever they can catch. This includes endangered species.

This website lists North America’s Endangered Animals. Notice that some of these animals are large mammals, like cougars. But most of the species are small animals that cats are capable of catching and killing. And cats don’t care if a species is endangered. Now, I’m confident that NONE of these species are threatened by cats alone. That’s not how nature works, it takes more than one factor to wipe out a species. Species like the Yellow-legged Mountain Frog are threatened by predation, disease, habitat fragmentation, and climate change (which can make diseases and parasite spread worse). A road through a wetland may not look like a big deal, but that may as well be a ocean for small amphibians and reptiles to cross.

Not only do these animals risk getting crushed by pedestrians and vehicles, but they have no cover from predators - and predators WILL exploit these places. Keep in mind, these animals can’t always just pack up and go - they need specific resources for food, shelter, and reproduction. Some turtles will nest in the gravel of a road because it provides the best substrate for digging a nest. This includes suburban areas - where your cats are waiting. When you add exotic animal predation pressure to a species already suffering from diseases and habitat loss, well - that’s how we lost the passenger pigeon.

In conclusion, please find ways to keep your cat healthy and happy without allowing them to roam unsupervised outside. There are programs that help remove feral colonies using live animal traps, but there are others, like places in Australia, that use lethal means. I don’t like the idea of killing cats. After all - they are adorable, and it’s not they’re fault they are there. That’s purely our fault for releasing out domestic cats into delicate ecosystems. As much as I love cats, I prioritize the health of our ecosystems and environment more, and that calls for removing large feral cat colonies. A few random barn cats of course is no problem, but the thousands of cats living in suburb yards needs to be reigned in. Whether it is done with live traps or kill traps is dependent on the people. One thing is for sure - if we don’t take responsibility for our exotic invasives, we will be paying for it for a long time in the future.

Sources

nola.com

American humane society

Caticles

US Fish and Wildlife Services

#biology #cats #feral cats #exotic animals #pets #pet owners #ecology #enviroment #parasites #endangered species

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clumsyclifford · 4 years

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you’re the photographer who’s been camped in front of my penthouse apartment for two weeks and i finally got lonely enough to come downstairs and share my leftovers with you” au or the child star one please i am begging you -it’s me rye rye rye your boat

ok im working on the child star thing but its gonna end up being much longer so heres this which honestly also ran away from me let’s see if tumblr will even let it all post it’s almost 2k ENJOY thank u for the prompt ily

The first day, Calum glances out the window and sees a whole host of paps on his front step and thinks, good thing I did the shopping yesterday.

The third day, most of them have gone except a few stragglers. Calum is determined to wait them out.

The sixth day, Calum is starting to run low on milk, and there's only one person left out there. He’s properly set up camp, actually, in a beat-up Volkswagen that makes Calum chuckle, then catch himself for chuckling because this man is for all intents and purposes his mortal enemy. Calum finds it strange that someone with such brightly colored hair and (squinting, he thinks he can make out) tattoos would be a paparazzi. He looks more like a punk groupie than a photographer, but to each their own, Calum supposes. He's tempted to make a break for it, or maybe sneak out in a cap and sunglasses, but leaving the apartment at all will get him photographed, and sue him, he’d like to be left alone. This is, like, the only month he gets to himself before training starts up again. He intends to take full advantage of it. Total invisibility.

Which would be a lot easier if this fucking pap wasn’t dead set on snapping his photo. Calum sees him turn the lens of the camera towards Calum’s front window, and he hastily moves out of sight.

The tenth day, Calum calls Luke.

“What?” Luke asks.

“‘Hey, Cal, nice to hear from you,’” Calum says. “Thanks, Lukey, right back at you.”

“I thought you were doing radio silence for a month,” Luke says. “Like, keeping your head down.”

“I am,” Calum says, exasperated. “There’s just one guy who’s been camped out in front of my building for, like, almost two weeks.”

“So what? Just go past him. He’s just one guy,” Luke says. Calum envies Luke. It must be nice to not care what the press thinks. Not that Calum cares, exactly; he just hates that they’re so insistent on being invasive. Calum’s not supposed to be a public figure, he’s supposed to be a symbol of Aussie pride. He plays soccer, that’s all. Nothing to be excited about.

“No,” Calum says. He’s not sure where this dogged determination is coming from, but he knows he would rather die than acknowledge the paparazzi out in front of his building. He’s got a right to his privacy, damn it. “Look, it’s a whole thing, I don’t want to get into it. But, uh, I’m sort of short on a few groceries. D’you mind…”

Luke heaves an exhausted sigh that Calum recognizes well. He calls it the fucking hell Calum the things I do for you sigh. Sounds similar to the fucking hell Ashton the things I do for you sigh, but less horny.

“Fine,” he says. “Send me a list.”

Luke gets photographed on his way both up and down the building. Calum watches the one stubborn pap take his picture, look at it on the camera screen, and slump over as if thoroughly drained.

Well. That’s his problem.

After two weeks, Calum caves.

He’s been subtly watching the pap out the window, and every day he looks a little worse for wear. Not that Calum can see him very well, but he can tell in the set of his shoulders, the way he leans against the steering wheel of his car or slouches against the driver’s window. Calum hasn’t been consistently staring, but he’s pretty sure this guy hasn’t even left. How is he eating? Is he eating? UberEats, maybe? Calum shudders to imagine living off of delivery Maccas. Here he is, eating home-cooked food, and this poor pap has been sitting out there, probably wishing he could go home and make some pasta.

For the first time in his recorded life, Calum takes pity on the paparazzi.

He cobbles together some leftovers from the past few nights — homemade pizza, a bean dish he’d got off the internet that hadn’t been half bad, and some spaghetti bolognese. He heats it all up and then takes the elevator down to the lobby.

Calum has genuinely not left his apartment in two entire weeks, so the greying evening takes him aback, but not nearly as much as when he makes eye contact with the blue-haired pap and the guy doesn’t instantly take his picture. Also, Calum thinks, despite his best efforts not to acknowledge it, he has to admit this is the most attractive paparazzi he’s ever met, and easily the most laid-back. Is that an eyebrow piercing? Fucking hell.

The pap rolls down his window. “Uh, hi?”

Calum starts to feel a bit silly, but whatever, he’s already here. “Hi,” he says. “Uh, you’ve just — you’ve been camped out here awhile, and I thought…maybe you’d want some real food? Not just, like, UberEats?”

The blue-haired pap looks suspicious. “Is this a bribe?”

“No, I wish,” Calum says, laughing a little. “If anything, this feels like feeding a kitten to encourage it to stay. I’d love for you to leave, but if you’re not going to, the least I can do is make sure you’re eating well.”

“I’ll leave,” the blue-haired guy says, surprising Calum. “I — I’ve wanted to leave since I got here. I’m sorry. You don’t have to feed me —”

“I insist,” Calum says, because he’s already gone through the trouble of heating it up, and he has a fork and everything. God, he’s going to regret this, he thinks, before adding: “Unlock the door? I’ll sit with you.”

The blue-haired guy looks positively dumbstruck. “Um,” he says. “You don’t have to.”

“Believe me, I know,” Calum says. “You just look like you could use the company. And, to be honest, so could I. What’s your name?”

“Michael,” blue-haired guy says, smiling gratefully with just a touch of apprehension. “Alright, if you say so.”

He hits a button, and Calum comes around to the passenger side and climbs into the car. It occurs to him that Michael could easily kidnap him right now. Calum’s entirely defenceless, and has just willingly gotten into a car with him.

(But Michael doesn’t look that strong, and Calum’s an athlete, for god’s sake. He could take him.)

“Here,” Calum says when he’s settled, offering up the food. “It’s all warm and everything.” He hesitates as Michael takes the tupperwares and cracks one open. “You — you said you wanted to leave? Why haven’t you?”

Michael already has a mouthful of spaghetti, so he covers his mouth with his hand and swallows before speaking. Calum tracks the way his Adam's apple moves, then mentally slaps himself for doing that.

“‘S my job,” Michael says. “Not because I like it. It just, it pays well enough, and…it’s not like I have anything better to do with my time. I’m usually not invasive like this, I swear. I try to keep at the back, I just get some blurry photos and people pay me for them, nobody usually cares. But my boss was, like, crazy about this. He kept pushing to get exclusive photos, and then when he heard you had a month off, he told me to stake you out like my life depended on it.” Michael looks incredibly sheepish, hanging his head. “Sorry, mate. I thought I could just get a few pictures on the first day and be done with it, and then when you didn’t come out, I tried to tell my boss you’d holed up. But he wasn’t having it. Told me to stick it out.”

“Christ,” Calum says, aghast. “Your boss sounds like a real dick.”

“He is,” Michael says agreeably. “But, you know. I need the money, so.”

Calum likes how honest Michael is. It’s refreshing. People tend to lie to him a lot, especially in regards to his job, which he’s usually very good at, but gets told he’s good at even when he’s not. Michael’s forthright, though. Calum appreciates it about him.

“Well,” he says obligingly, “take a few photos now and take them back to your boss. Can even say you got an exclusive interview if that wins you any points.”

Michael raises his eyebrows. “I didn’t.”

“Fine,” Calum says. “Ask me a question. Wait.” He pulls his phone out and opens up the voice memo app. Hits record. “Alright, ask me a question.”

Michael looks amused. “Okay, but you’re not going to like this question very much.” Calum gestures for him to go on. “Okay. Um, what exactly are you famous for?”

Calum stares at him and then bursts out laughing.

Once he’s calmed down, he manages, “I never thought I’d say this, but I am absolutely delighted to have met you, Michael. I’m the center forward for Socceroos.”

“Oh,” Michael says, grinning. “Explains why I don’t know you, then. I’m not really a sports guy.”

“Yeah? What kind of guy are you?”

Michael shrugs. “Music, really. Part of why I ended up in this line of work.”

So Calum’s initial instinct had been correct. He’s weirdly proud to know that.

“Well, Calum Hood,” Michael says, and Calum likes how his name sounds in an unfamiliar voice, saying it because it’s what he’s called, not because it’s some big name to throw around, “what’s your favorite color?”

“Blue,” Calum says.

“How many years have you played soccer?”

“Most of them. Boring question, been asked that a million times,” Calum answers. “Come on, be creative.”

Michael arches his eyebrow, like he’s ready for the challenge. “Alright then. Worst drink you ever had?”

“Any time I have to drink beer in America, it’s a dark day,” Calum says. American beer is awful, and he will die on that hill.

“Favorite song at the moment?”

“‘Monsters’ by All Time Low.” Michael hums appreciatively.

“Good taste. Favorite article of clothing you own?”

Calum glances down at himself. “Probably this sweatshirt,” he admits, because he’s pretty sure at this point the sweatshirt is legally part of his body. Has he even taken it off in two weeks? Hard to say.

“Uh, worst way you’ve ever tried to pick someone up?”

Calum really only thinks for a moment before diving headfirst. “Well, once there was this pap who sat outside my building for two weeks, so I brought him my leftovers because I felt badly, but then he turned out to be fairly interesting and very attractive, so.”

Michael turns pink. He grabs Calum’s phone and turns off the recording.

“You’re not picking me up,” Michael says. “You can’t. This is my car.”

Calum laughs. He likes Michael. “Humor me,” he says. “You can say no. I’ll still let you have the pictures and everything, I’m not a total dickhead.”

“I didn’t say no,” Michael says. He lifts up his camera. “Smile.”

Calum makes his most serious face at the camera and listens for the click. He makes another face, and the camera clicks again. Then again, and once more.

“Alright,” Michael says. “That’s my job done. I’m officially off the clock. You were asking me something, I think?”

“You’re a shit,” Calum says. “I might take it back.”

Michael grins. “You will not.”

No, he won’t. “Fine,” he says. “Dinner? Or, uh, ice cream? You’ve sort of just eaten.”

“Won’t say no to ice cream,” Michael says. He looks over at Calum and smirks. “Imagine if this is the ‘how I met your father’ story.”

It’s an extremely forward thing to say, Calum’s too busy laughing to call him out on it.

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kosmosian-quills · 4 years

Text

Bad to Worse

A very poorly written thing because I’m tired and tried to finish this for today. It also is probably not going to get used in the final version, but I wanted it written anyway.

Anyway, meet Tomasz! I have @cirianne to thank for the creation of this kind boy. I’M SORRY I HAD TO GET THIS OUT OF ME OK.

WIP: Angel

POV: Tomasz

Date: Monday, May 4th 2026

If exam preparations have taught me one thing, it’s that I really should listen to past me when they say go to bed on time, because it is now 8:52am, and I am going to be late for class if I don’t hurry up.

I look a mess, I know, I’m wearing yesterday’s jeans, a t shirt I found on the top of my clean clothes pile, and my backpack is slung over my shoulder as I hurried to grab it on my way out of the halls. I hadn’t even had the chance to grab anything real for breakfast yet. Urgh, I can’t be like this. Not when I have an exam tomorrow. I should be better than this.

It’s fine, calm down. I think I’ve still got that chocolate bar in my bag from yesterday. That’ll do until I can grab something else later.

The journey from halls to my lecture hall isn’t that far, about a 10 minute walk at most, but if I run like I am now, I can probably be there for just about 9am. I hope.

I had been awake until almost 4am this morning, so I’m running on nothing but will power at the moment. I’ve been so carefully diligent with my work this year, I don’t know why I thought studying at 3am was a good idea. I know that it isn’t an option tonight, not when one of my final exams is tomorrow morning. 9am sharp!

I make it into the lecture hall with barely a minute to spare, and find my seat with my friends, already seated and waiting.

“Running late, Tomasz?” Heidi smirked as I practically threw my bag down beside my seat, panting like a dog.

“I am not late, thank you very much,” I replied. “Class hasn’t started yet, has it?”

“Close enough,” Bruno nodded in the direction of the door, tapping his pen against his notebook, where the Professor was just coming into the room. “What did you do, sleep in?”

“Maybe, maybe not. I’m here, and that is what matters,” I pulled out my laptop, turning it on and tapping it impatiently. I really need an upgrade for this, but it’s all I can afford at the moment. It does its job well enough, just when I am a little more punctual.

I settle into the rhythm of the lecture quickly enough, sat with the friends I’ve come to know and learn with for the past seven months.

The time does pass ridiculously quickly during these formal-informal study sessions in preparation for our exams, but even I was surprised that Heidi actually looked at her phone when it buzzed.

Heidi was a student from southern Germany, somewhere bordering Austria I think. She’s a lovely girl, even if she is easily distracted. I can’t fault her though, she does well in classes and tests.

Bruno is quite the opposite. He is normally the one telling us to stop slacking and get studying. He’s technically German, but his family lived over in Kosmos for a few years when he was younger. I have to say, it’s very comforting to have someone from home here, even though he and his family left a few years ago.

She passes her phone aside to me, whispering aside “Look, Tomasz. You’ve still got family over there, right?”

The screen was a breaking news report, something that had happened in the last ten minutes.

Terrorist attack in Kosmosian capital.

I took it from her, skimming through the article. An explosion rocked the main street in the capital city as the citizens partake in their independence day festivities… there are dozens of confirmed casualties and at least 7 deaths…

Explosion. Casualties. Deaths!

Oh, no!

Terrorist attacks in my country are virtually unheard of. I don’t think there has been one, ever! At least, in my lifetime. What is going on there? I had totally forgotten that today was the Flower Festival, especially since my attempts at staying up until the early hours of this morning, but that’s a despicable strategy in order to ensure a lot of victims. Everyone is out in the streets today, it’s tradition for many of them.

“Not… in the capital, thankfully. But that’s awful.” I whispered, being careful not to distract the other students here.

That’s not entirely true though. I don’t have family there, true.

“I’ve got a friend there, in the capital.”

“Maybe you should give them a call?”

“She won’t have her phone, she’s not allowed it during the day,” I tell her as I pull out my phone, scrolling through my instant messages to find her contact. Słoneczka, I have her noted as, the picture is of her smiling back at me, taken the day she left Obokplaży before she started her shiny new job.

“Not allowed? Why wouldn’t she be allowed her phone?” Bruno joined in.

“She works for the Royal family. It’s kind of, a rule. She’ll see it later, I’m sure.” I told them as I started typing my message. Hey, Słoneczka. I saw the news, I hope everything’s okay over there. Stay safe.

I feel awful that I don’t try and call her, but I know it’s useless to even try. She just won’t be able to answer the call, so there’s no point. I hope she’ll see my message later, though. Maybe she’ll be allowed her phone to call her parents when things have calmed down, and she’ll see my message then.

“Oh yeah, I remember you saying. She’ll be fine. They’ve got tonnes of security, though, right?”

“Yeah, yeah…” I murmured, waiting for the confirmation that the message had been successfully delivered. It had.

I sent a message to my parents too, even though they’re home in Obokplazy, so I know they’ll be safe, but I wanted to be sure. It’s a terrible thing to happen.

“Tomasz, if you need to go, just go,” Heidi whispered to me, obviously aware that I hadn’t been paying attention for the last few minutes.

“No, I’m fine, I’ll be fine.” I said dismissively, putting my phone away and finally getting back to my lecture.

---

Date: Monday, May 4th 2026

By the time our morning break arrived, it seemed more frightful news reared its ugly head.

Something had happened at the castle, it seemed, due to the sudden arrival of the military and the total communication breakdown. One of the most unifying days in our calendar and it’s chaos over there, it seems. The last update was over an hour ago, and we had heard no more.

All I can think about it Matylda, over there in that castle. Whatever’s going on, she’s in the thick of it. I find myself staring at the message I sent her – still unread, and I just wish she would answer me. The rational part of my brain knows that if something is going on inside the castle, her last priority will be returning to her bedroom to fetch her phone and answer a half-hearted text from me, sent when I wasn’t aware that this had happened. I am also aware that even if she had her phone, the chances of her calling me are slim. I know what she’s like, she’ll call her parents first. In fact, should I call them? Should I just let them know that I am thinking about her? Ask them to let me know if they hear anything from her?

No, I shouldn’t. It would be rude and presumptuous of me. She’ll let me know in her own time, I’m sure. Besides, what Bruno said earlier is true. They’ve got the best security they could possibly have against any potential threat. She will be fine.

I still can’t shake the feeling, though, that something catastrophic has happened there. The radio silence is not helping either.

And of course this is happening around exam time.

There was one other Kosmosian national beside myself in our class, and she was shaken by the news, but her family live in Wgórach, so they’re safe from all the chaos. I’m thankful all the same that my family aren’t involved in any way.

Hey Słoneczka – I begin typing again – I hope you read this soon, and that everything is okay where you are.

I send the message before I even process what I wrote, and I am aware that the message I sent is probably… not the best way to end that.

I mean, I know it’s not. But I hope you and everyone else is alright. Let me know when you can.

The messages are still left unread, marked “Delivered”. It seems like an insult, mocking me, that I don’t know any more. Damn it, I’m worried about her. I haven’t seen her in almost a year, and I hope that the events over there haven’t taken her away from me. Of course I’ve spoken with her, and had conversations with her, but it’s not the same.

I don’t want to say there was something special in that kiss she gave me, because I am probably thinking too much into it, but there was something. The way she had stood on her tiptoes just to reach my cheek, and how scared she looked afterwards. I remember being stunned by her action, and could do no more to make her feel better than to return the kiss.

It was wonderful to share that with her. I just hope she’s okay.

---

Date: Monday, May 4th 2026

By the time 4pm rolls around – a whole 6 hours since the first reports of a terrorist attack – things have gone from bad, to very bad.

The headline this time is simple.

Kosmosian monarchy overthrown.

---

Date: Tuesday, May 5th 2026

I tried to focus on my exam, I truly did, but I knew it was a lost cause all the same. I was too distracted from the task at hand. I had hoped that my endless studying would prove an effective enough way to keep me occupied until things had calmed down, but it’s not working. It’s a plague eating at me, and I can’t help but worry about the implications.

Heidi thinks I shouldn’t even try the exam, not when all this is going on, but I wanted to give it a try anyway, hoping that the distraction is enough.

But it’s not, it’s really not.

Things were bad, over there. I promised myself that I wouldn’t read any news articles until after my exam, but that was a fruitless endeavour from the start. Someone who had read the news this morning said that the only airport in the entire country had been closed. No flights in or out. Same with the ports, no boats leaving the country anymore. Total radio silence too.

What is going on? It’s been totally closed off.

I really shouldn’t have tried to do this exam. I can’t think clearly. My mind is filled with these painful thoughts. I previously, naively, stupidly thought that my family would be okay because they aren’t in the capital, but now I am not so sure. Total isolation, and I haven’t heard a thing from them. Not even since yesterday.

The worst part of this is the implications for me now. I am a student here, yet still a Kosmosian national. I am expected to return home for the summer after term has ended, but that seems unlikely. That headline last night made sure to strike that fear into me, well and truly. How am I supposed to get home if they’ve closed the borders? Will I be allowed to stay here? Just what can I do from here, when my country is in turmoil just across the sea? Barely a two hour flight from here?

What about my parents? My friends? Matylda? I have no idea if they’re even alive. Matylda was there, she must still be in the castle, at best. She could be dead right now, if that takeover was as violent as the article sounded –

Stop it. Don’t think like that. She’s fine.

But it’s still sickening to think about. I can’t be here, but if I miss this exam I doubt I will have the student visa to allow me to stay. I have to at least try. Heidi and Bruno seem certain that I could have missed this exam with zero repercussions because of what’s happening, the turmoil, but as I said to them – I want distracting whilst everything calms down.

I don’t think that will be happening.

I should probably just admit to the professor what a terrible piece of work this essay is becoming. We’re barely an hour into this exam and it feels like I have been here for almost a day. My head is throbbing, and I can’t focus anymore on this.

I somehow managed to make it to the end of the exam, not that I am proud of the little I did write, but when I turned my phone back on, what I saw made me physically ill.

Someone had livestreamed what was going on, and a news reporter had picked it up. Just two hours ago, whilst I was still in that hall, was the live, public execution of the King.

The news station couldn’t show the actual regicide, of course, but it was more than enough for me to be sure of one thing.

Matylda is probably as dead as he is.

#my writing #my OC's #WIP: Angel #POV: Tomasz #can you tell I'm tired #it's not great #I can't write articles can you tell #but yeah #Tomasz is the previously (at one point) mentioned sweetheart of Matylda #he's a student studying in Germany atm #and things are........... bad #i think I'll post the wholesome stuff I have wrote for the two of them #they're precious and innocent and WHOLESOME DAMN IT

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echoise · 5 years

Text

first of all: i promise you this hurt me at least as much as it will hurt you. (but i promise it ends soft!!)

Bad Things Happen Bingo #8: Taunting

"help me,” you whisper, and he does. (steelstep, m!sidestep (it’s Keith but the only namedrop is... you’ll see) trigger warnings galore past abuse, hardcore panic attack, flashbacks, intense dissociation, short identity confusion, grounding techniques and emotional fallout to go with it all. also spoilers.) 3,415 words

You dream.

Oh, you dumb little doll.

You dream of needles in your skin, of the beeping of machines, of rough hands pinching and prodding. Of intrusions of any and every kind while you laid strapped down, restraints at your arms and your ankles and your midriff. This one is quite resilient, isn’t it? Too hazy to struggle, to protest, to scream for help, but not lucid enough to block it out, to retreat to what ruins remain of the safe space at the very back at your mind. The jagged shards of your psyche, torn apart by a little girl’s hands and relentless blue eyes.

Did you really think you could be like them?

You dream of whispers, of barked orders, of venom and hatred you never could understand before. Of dozens of eyes staring at you, multiplying into millions, boring into your skin, little pinpricks of light stabbing you along the orange etched into your skin. Man, I hate how human they make them look. Naked, bared, exposed, stripped of name and identity, of mind and heart. A blank slate, an empty vessel, screaming under your skin but keeping your form carefully blank because that was the only choice you had.

Look at them. Would they be in this situation without you? Miserable and dead?

You dream of news reports, of videos playing on loop till the words and pictures melted together into lights and white noise. Of headlines, blurbs, entire articles scrolling before your eyes so slowly you had no choice but to read them. They should terminate it, put it out of its misery. Pictures, recordings, every little piece of evidence of the fallout scrounged up and presented to you as a grand feast, force-fed to you until you no longer cried choking on the rot and filth.

You couldn’t even defeat one little girl. What use do we have for a broken tool?

You wake up screaming.

Chen is awake and upright before you can wrestle out of your blankets, heart hammering, breath catching, sweaty skin sticking to sheets. Black hair over your eyes, tangling with your eyelashes, blinding what little vision you have in the darkness of the bedroom. Chen reaches for your arm but you bat him away, not stopping until your feet are safely on the ground and you can bury your face in your hands, digging the heels of your palms into your eyes so hard it hurts, so hard the muted fireworks begin firing in the blackness.

You feel the mattress shift as Chen scoots closer to you, a delicate civilian hand brushing your shoulder. You flinch and he withdraws, but you can feel him hover, feel the anxious buzzing of his mind against yours: worry and fear and adrenaline at the violent awakening, and for you, what’s wrong, are you alright, do you need anything, what do you need--

You can’t take it.

He speaks your name, a low rumble from his chest that at any other time might calm you, but now it’s the same as the static of the TVs you were forced to watch, the same as the slow scrolling of text, burning black on white searing headlines into your retinas. Whispered taunts, chisels wedging neatly in the cracks of you, exposing every little weakness and mistake, look what you did, it’s all your fault, did you really think you were helping anyone?

You stand up so fast you nearly topple over, headlines in your eyes changing into the slow blinking of stars before your blood catches up and clears your vision. The mattress creaks and Chen’s mind surges and you just can’t take it.

You never helped anyone. You only made it worse.

You snatch your clothes and are out the bedroom door before he has a chance to fully realize what you’re doing. Maybe it’s unfair: he can’t follow you, not as fast as he’d like to, with his legs resting on the chair beside the bed. Where you placed them the night before. Could he reach them? Have they toppled over, like last time? You didn’t look. You don’t care. You need to get out. It’s better if he doesn’t stop you.

He is faster than you expect, though. Maybe you’ve just never seen him put the legs on in a hurry. Maybe your own movements are still sluggish from the dream and the memory of drugs and restraints, muscles straining to discern the past from the present. Maybe it’s the damned trembling of your hands, so intense you drop the shoe you’re trying to put on. Maybe it’s all three at the same time. Nevertheless you find yourself being pulled into a hug when you stand back up, the weight of his arms around you and the warmth of his chest at your back. You flinch, but don’t recoil, don’t fight back, and let the hand reaching for the doorknob fall.

“Talk to me,“ he pleads.

There’s a whine from around your knees and another warmth presses against your legs, Spoon’s familiar mind somewhere at the edges of your own frayed consciousness. Dog’s mind. A soft mind. Worried. Anxious. Simple. Animal.

Mangy curs. Did you see its eyes? Creeps me out, man.

You choke back a sob and bury your face in your hands again, feeling your mind clamp down on itself, unable to stop it. Unable to do anything, a stranger in your own body, hammering at the door to be let back in but getting no response. Staring at yourself in a broken mirror, a distorted whistling radiating in anger, more jagged edges and impossible angles: you’re a shadow of yourself, crudely painted over, and the paint is flaking off. And there you are underneath: you, not you, a forgotten you, and it’s all the same and yet completely different.

You don’t know how you end up on the couch. You don’t know how long you sit there, wrapped in a blanket and Spoon pressed up against you. You don't know if the hand holding yours has been there the whole time. You're not here; you're burrowed deep inside your mind and you're outside your body, you're numb and you're aching all over. Your hands are static and your heart drums a steady rhythm that means nothing. You’re-- you’re not you.

You're a unit number, without a name, without an identity. Mind and heart stilled to keep yourself safe, to be what you need to be: a blank canvas for them to paint on.

There’s a hand in yours and a voice at your ear, but you have no context for either. You have no context for anything. You are-- Who are you?

State your identification code.

You breathe out numbers. A familiar string, chiseled into your very spine, hiding deep in the marrow to emerge in moments like this. The one thing you can always be sure of, your nature and purpose condensed into ten characters dictating your life.

534-845-966E.

There’s a brief silence, and then the man sitting beside you gently turns your face towards him. He calls out a name that sounds wrong. He tells it’s yours. That you have a name. You’re not a string of numbers. You have a name.

“I know,“ you hear yourself say, voice hoarse, heavy with tears you don’t remember crying and panic you don’t remember feeling. You have a name. You chose a name. Your first act of freedom, first act of rebellion, first choice. First thing not given to you, decided for you, first step on a long road that led you right here. You are--

Well done, pup.

You grasp at the hand on your cheek, trying to dig your nails into the skin, finding it impossible. Hard. Cool. Artificial. You remember. Broken, like yours. You’re not the only one here with fucked up hands. Your fucked up hands. Not a tool’s, broken tools are discarded, and you’re still here.

Or are you?

“I don’t feel real,” you choke out. There are tears on your cheeks again and you squeeze your eyes shut, willing the pain behind them to go away. It doesn’t, there’s still chattering in your mind, your shields are cracked and they’re bleeding in and you’re bleeding out, people all around you, up, down, left, right, everywhere and they’re all screaming in your head. “I don’t--“ You breathe sharply, and when Chen calls your name again, you recognise it. You open your eyes and meet his.

“Help me,“ you whisper.

He does.

He dries your tears and holds your hands as he tells you how to breathe. In deep. Hold. One, two, three, four. Long breath out. Again. Count to four. Then count to ten. Count your breaths, count your fingers. Count his fingers. Four, ten, twenty, back down to zero again. He squeezes your hands when your sobbing quiets to shaky gasps, then soft breaths, an achor that you cling to like your life depends on it. Your sanity just might.

He traces your scars, and his. Remembers them with you, to prove that you’re real. That you exist. Runs his fingers along your collarbone, points out the bump where it fractured when you miscalculated a jump and disappeared before anyone could drag you to a hospital. He lifts his own shirt and reveals the scar on his side, the emergency cauterization you did for him in-- where was it? Somewhere outside the city. Too far to wait. You roll up your sleeve to look past the orange lines, instead focusing on the parallel whites, left by the Catastrofiend. Lines, bumps, ridges and dips on both your skins. Memories. You feel like you can breathe again.

He takes your hands and puts them on Spoon, has you feel his fur, keeps a reassuring hand on your arm when the dog spasms and looks at you with wide eyes, startled out of whatever dream it was having. Smiles when you laugh at Spoit on getting tangled in its own spindly legs jumping up and into your lap, stumbling against your chest in its hurry to lick your face. Slobbery tongue all over you, warm and affectionate, and your heart that had sunk to your toes gradually makes its way back up to its rightful place in your chest.

The string of numbers retreats back into your spinal cord and settles there.

You don’t even notice Chen has gotten up before he returns, shooing the dog off you long enough to hand you a glass of water. Half full, and even your trembling hand can’t possibly spill it.

“Thank you,“ you croak, free hand holding onto Spoon and his warmth, the simplicity of his mind giving you respite from the void that is your own. Simplicity is what you need now. The echoes in your ears have quieted.

“I put the coffee on,“ he says, reaching down to scratch behind the dog’s ears. You catch a glimpse of the world outside between the blinds: the pale blue of approaching sunrise. You don’t know what time your episode began, but you know it was dark then. A wave of guilt, followed by shame, washes over you. You should be better. You shouldn’t be weak like this. You--

Chen speaks again and you wrestle your tangled mind out of itself, force it to stack back into the fragile tower-like structure you’ve managed to rebuild. “Can you stand?“

You gulp down the water and pull yourself up. You tremble, but don’t fall, and you decline the hand Chen tries to steady you with. He gives you a long look, assessing you, and a part of you wants to challenge him on that, but the tired part of you is much stronger. Finally, he takes the glass from you and nods towards the bathroom. “Wash your face, you’ll feel better.“

Your legs wobble less than you feared as you head that way. You hear Chen flick his tongue and Spoon trots after you, the patter of his paws a welcome sound, the soft brush against your knee keeping you grounded. The bathroom tiles are cold under your bare feet and the sink under your hands as you lean on it, calming the endless static in your fingers.

You don’t look at the mirror, face carefully angled down the entire time, afraid of what you might see. A shadow, a Re-Gene, or just yourself, as miserable and pathetic as you see yourself. You don’t need a reminder of that.

By the time you get to the kitchen, Chen has set two mugs on the table, each steaming. You sink into a chair and Spoon curls up by your ankles, trapping your feet under him. A faint smile pulls at the corners of your mouth and you wiggle your toes, making him bark up at you, tail madly wagging. You chuckle and when you look up, you find Chen eyeing you fondly over his mug. You’re quick to avert your eyes and pull your own closer, inhaling deep, welcoming the familiar scent to your system. It courses through you, nostrils to lungs and from your lungs to your limbs, arms, legs, fingers, toes. Exhaling remnants of your panic and you feel just a little bit better, letting your eyes close, shoulders relax, head drop.

Shit, you’re tired.

“I’m sorry,“ you mumble after a while, laying your elbows on the table to brace them as you lift the mug to your lips. There’s no spillage and you pretend it’s not only because Chen has developed the ability to somehow tell exactly how full a cup you can handle at any given time.

“It’s fine,“ He says, quickly, like he was expecting that. He probably was.

“It’s really not,“ and reluctantly meet his eyes. “Did I hurt you?“ You’re not sure. You can’t tell. You probably did, but he hides it well. Either way, the ouroboros of guilt in your stomach slithers, curls up tighter, digs its venomous fangs deeper into its own tail.

“No more than you have before.“ It’s a jest, a callback: said with not quite a smile, but his features are soft. You respond in kind with what’s not quite a chuckle, just a soft exhale through your nose. “Again, it’s fine.“

You set the mug down and brush your thumb over the top of the handle, trying to hide the slowly heating shame and guilt working their way up through your throat. “I think... I woke half the building.“ You don’t just think, you know: you felt them. Your mind, unguarded, crashed into theirs and you weren’t the only one who woke up screaming and crying. Invaded them and tapped into the darkest part of them, like a little girl with blue eyes did once before.

“You didn’t hurt anyone,“ Chen says, quickly again, too quickly. Eager to reassure you but it’s all empty words, he knows even less than you do - he knows nothing, and you know for a fact. You could know even more, if you reached out, if you had the presence of mind to. But that might just do more damage right now, so you keep a tight rein on your thoughts. As tight as you can, unraveling as they are.

But you have to make a point, because that’s what you would do, you remember, so to make that point, you raise an eyebrow, aiming for some semblance of sharpness in your words. “Really? Did you go knocking at every door while I was in the bathroom?“

“Don’t do this.“ He’s set his own mug down now, expression solemn. You allow him to take one of your hands as he reaches over the table, eyes on his. Gunmetal grey against deep blue. “Focus on yourself for now.“

He’s right, and you hate it. You lower your eyes and untangle your hand to sip at the coffee again, not trusting yourself to hold the mug with only one. You can feel Chen keep looking at you and his mind is calm, a summer pond, a midday shade, morning frost. Musing. A veil between your minds held up mostly by him, because your shields are still fractured, brittle, a fourth floor window breaking against your arms. Welcome home.

His voice drags you back from the edge and you blink. “What?”

“Do you want to talk about it?“

Your hands grip the mug tighter, you see your knuckles go white and the tremors intensify, but feel nothing. You’re drifting outside your body again. Remember: we own you. “I--“

“You don’t have to,” Chen says, reaching out with both hands this time, prying yours off the mug and holding them with gentleness you’re not sure you’ll ever get used to. Cool hands. Hard hands. Artificial. Four fucked up hands between you and you count the fingers, twenty of them, then back down to one. Breathe in. Hold. One, two, three, four.

The air you exhale flutters and you pull one hand back to rub at your eyes, but allow him to keep a hold of the other. “I don’t know if I can,“ you admit, and your voice breaks. You can’t remember, another pair of gunmetal grey eyes, easy smiles, half-finished crosswords and cups of coffee. You can’t. You won’t. Breathe in. Hold. One, two, three, four.

“That’s fine,“ he says, his voice coming from somewhere far away, and through the static you feel a squeeze. His thumb brushes over your knuckles and when you regain enough of yourself to look at him, you find him looking back. He smiles softly, but you're too tired to return it. “More coffee?“

“I think,” you turn his hand over in yours and slip your fingers between his. Easy as lying. As lying used to be. Before you stopped. Before he stopped you. “I want to sleep.“ You don’t know if you can, after all that, after the caffeine, in the daylight, but your limbs are weighing you down.

“Alright.“ He squeezes your hand once more and stands up, grabbing your mug along with his to put away. Your feet have gone numb and you nudge them slowly, awkwardly, until Spoon gets up and lets you go. He circles your chair and barks up at you, and you reach out to scratch the top of his head before leaning on the table and standing up. You keep leaning and shake your legs, willing them to wake up faster. Spoon cocks his head at you, wondering what you’re up to, but his attention is quickly stolen by the rattling of food in his bowl. He he makes a beeline for it, and you smile at the joy he can get from such a small thing. Simple mind. But maybe simplicity isn’t bad.

You don’t realize you’ve zoned out watching his wagging tail before Chen’s hand at your elbow literally makes you jump. “Shit!“ You recoil, then rub at your eyes again. Your mind is starting to fall apart again, but in a different way than before. The blocks on the tower coming apart and floating in every which direction, rather than collapsing under unforgiving gravity. “Sorry.“

“Come on.” You let him take your arm and lead you back to the bedroom, now painted in soft blues where the morning sun shines behind the curtains. He helps you change, out of the clothes you haphazardly threw on so many hours ago, and you help him take off the legs again. You wonder if he doesn’t have anywhere to be later, but you don’t want to ask. You don’t want him to leave.

You can’t be alone right now.

He pulls you close to him and you curl up, burying your face in his chest. His breath is steady and you focus on that, match yours to his, pull him closer by his shirt and inhale deep. Safe. Safety. A real bed, in an actual apartment, loved by another human. Not a slave in a dampened facility somewhere in the vastness of the silver state.

Did you really think you could be like them?

“They called us dogs,” you whisper, eyes closed. Mutts. Mongrels. So many other things. Chen tenses momentarily and then brushes at your unkempt hair, leans down to kiss the top of your head.

“Try to sleep,“ he murmurs, and you do.

And you sleep soundly, because you’re not a dog, not a doll, not an identification number: you’re a person, a someone, maybe not exactly human but enough for this little family.

You’re enough.

#fallen hero: rebirth #fallen hero: retribution #fh:r #badthingshappenbingo #writing #mine #my disaster children #keith #guess you can read it as anyone but the backstory specifics are there #i'll release them in a more comprehensive form soon #points to anyone who can crack the meaning of the numbers in the code #(hint: it's a substitution cipher)#the one calling him pup is his handler the og kwon #theres a story there

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purkinje-effect · 5 years

Text

The Anatomy of Melancholy, 27

Table of Contents. Go to previous. Go to next.

‘Choly lagged behind the rest of the group on their walk to Sanctuary. As they passed what remained of the Walden Drugs, he sighed, half-inclined to stay behind where he belonged. But he shoved down that flagellation and instead focused on how the bombs had blown out the Fallon’s Department Store at the Northwest of town, and weather had done the rest. There couldn’t be anything left of value in there, beyond a few articles of gold and silver--and even that speculation was suspect, considering how thoroughly looted Concord was. After what had transpired with Jared’s outfit, he didn’t trust anything to have the same kind of value it once possessed. He hated having to continue wearing his service uniform as daily attire, but he had no other choice until he located something more dressed down. He loosened his necktie and unbuttoned the first button of his dress shirt, and sighed.

The chemist got lost in thought on his way out of town, a path he had once walked no fewer than twice a day, six days a week, for nearly a year. He was so glad the work day was finally over. This shift had taken so much out of him. He couldn’t wait to slip into the bathroom ahead of Hawthorne and take a long, hot shower, then unwind with bourbon and whatever sci-fi movie his favorite channel was broadcasting for the evening. He nearly asked Angel aloud what it had planned for dinner tonight, but he caught himself short of stuttering on the first part, only to cover up the rest with a sputtering cough. He kicked at a small hunk of rubbled concrete with a sneer.

Hawthorne wouldn’t be there when ‘Choly got home. He wouldn’t be there later, either, he imagined. ‘Choly tangled up inside himself with grief. Of all the people he’d failed since emerging from the vault, he’d failed Jacob Hawthorne. Immediately. He could have told him the insects had been dealt with. Could have told him it was safe to go home now... But he left Jacob at the Red Rocket with that furiously territorial dog... Was there enough for him and the dog both to eat? What had the ghoul even been eating all this time? There couldn’t reasonably have been much food left in Sanctuary or the recoolant station...

“Would you look at that,” Sturges awed. “I think I just found my new vacation home.”

The recoolant station. Still phased a bubble off reality, ‘Choly’s attention fell upon the building as they passed it. His chest tightened.

“Your idea of heaven, eh, Sturges?” Preston Garvey turned his head to grin at him, but continued moving. “Looks like there could be lots of salvage. Let’s get to Sanctuary first, though.”

The ghouls’ bodies. The ghouls’ bodies were gone. They’d either been moved, or had gotten up on their own. Surely the dog hadn’t--

“Y-- there’s already somebody living there,” the chemist blurted out. His poker face failed, between his withdrawals and episode fumes. “He’s got a dog that. Despises visitors. We should steer clear of him. Give him and his dog some space.”

“Ah yes. A German shepherd, as I recall,” Angel quipped absently, still carrying Mama Murphy. “Angry thing.”

“A reclusive neighbor.” Sturges paused thoughtfully a spell, to wipe his brow. “Suppose I’d pick the recoolant station, too, if I could live in any building in this blasted corner of the Commonwealth. No offense, Carey, if you’re from around here.”

“None taken. It is pretty ruined out here, isn’t it?” He let out a self-conscious chuckle. “Not much salvage anywhere. I’ve already been through most of Concord a few months ago...”

“We’ll just have our work cut out for us, fixing up Sanctuary,” Preston encouraged. “Making it our little slice of paradise.”

“Oh! to see it restored to its former glory!” Angel had to bestill its body language or risk tipping Mama off balance atop him. “My servos swell at the thought of it, Mister Garvey!”

With the verdigris-bronze statue in the near distance, Preston let out a low whistle.

“Well I’ll be damned. It’s the monument to the original Minutemen. I knew that was somewhere around Concord. That means... this right here... must be the Old North Bridge.” He pointed to the half-collapsed wooden bridge across the water which isolated the suburb of Sanctuary Hills from the surrounding area. “Where the first shots of the American Revolution were fired. I’d call that the best omen I’ve seen since we left Quincy.”

“I don’t know what you’re talkin’ about, Preston, but I’m glad you’re happy about it,” Sturges said.

“Never would have imagined I’d end up back here.” The words were out of ‘Choly’s mouth before he could even register he’d said them.

“Your energy’s tied to this place, isn’t it, Carey?” Mama Murphy inquired softly.

At Mama’s nudging, Angel had fallen back to where ‘Choly had loitered even further behind the rest of them. She wanted to talk. He didn’t.

“I used to live here... a long time ago.” ‘Choly felt like he could be vague with her, but that she could see through an outright lie.

“The distant past ain’t so distant for you. When we first met, I saw you leave that ice box. This whole world is like some bad dream you can’t wake up from, isn’t it?”

‘Choly flinched and squirmed, hating that here on this turn of the road of all places, was where she wanted to have this conversation.

“...Stop. Please, just stop. I don’t know how it is you do what you do, but I can’t handle reliving this. Not again. It’s bad enough to be coming home.”

“I’m... sorry.” Her brow raised as her eyes fell distant, and the rest of her face slacked into a vague frown. “The Sight doesn’t tell me what’s private and what’s not. I see it plain as day. You, waking up in a world that isn’t yours. Finding what’s become of everything, of... everyone. I... can feel the hurt and confusion you felt right here. On this street. You’ve been through so much, Carey. Angel, are you sure you don’t want to take him the rest of the way, dear?”

“--No, Angel. Don’t worry. We’re almost there.” The chemist gave Mama a thousand-yard stare, distraught with how horrific it must be to have whatever the Sight was. He struggled all the while to shove down any recollection what happened the week he emerged from Vault 111. “You can’t direct what kind of information the Sight gives you? You can’t... turn it off, either, can you?”

She shook her head.

“I get... flashes all the time. The energies imprinted in things and places and people. I’m lucky when it makes sense immediately. The chems, though.” She smiled a little, her gaze still miles away. “The chems piece together the flashes into a... motion picture? Isn’t that what they were called? You used to see them all the time.”

“Is-- there a chance that I have the Sight, too?” He bordered on tears. “Because of the Jet, I saw what was going to happen to Jared, and I made it happen. For months before that, Jared thought I might have it, except backwards. Ever since I stepped out of the vault, I... I keep reliving things. Vividly. Lucidly. I thought it might be daydreams, but it’s too traumatic, too automatic, and too throttling. I come out of the episode, and I can’t remember what I was doing. I keep remembering exiting the vault. Things from my military work. Things that transpired between me and my roommate. The day the bombs fell, Missus Murphy. Surely, if anyone could understand what I’m going through, it would be you, with your Sight.” He nearly reached out for her in his desperation for her to understand what he was describing. His face slacked in recognition. “--Murphy. You couldn’t be related to a... Nate or Nora, could you?”

“I can’t trace my lineage back to before the war, kiddo. I don’t think anyone in my family’s from around here, though. Grew up in Quincy. It’s all I know. Didn’t gain the Sight, either. Was born with it.” Her face furrowed with warm concern for him, coming back to present day finally. “Surviving extreme pain can rewire the brain where it does really horrible things to us. It’s an organ, too, just as much as any part of us, and it can get ill all the same. The Sight sees forward, Carey. You’re describing a quintessential survivorship. You and Jun Long have a lot in common in that regard. He lost his son. Recently, to the ghouls in Lexington. Neither of you’s handling it so great, but it’s to be expected. The losses you’ve both experienced in such a short time, it’s bad enough to walk through it through the eyes of the Sight. I can’t even imagine what it must do to the two of you, to go through it firsthand.”

“It’s unimaginable, to know that you’re subjected to all this through your Sight. I hate to be callous, between your description and mine...” He swallowed, forming the words. “Are you absolutely certain that you don’t simply always have the Sight, and that you use the chems to dull the agony of seeing what you see?”

“Oh, kid. Kid. No.” She frowned, heartache evident on her face. “The chems only make it worse. More real. Clearer. If you think the chems make it easier for you to cope, what you’re experiencin’ is not in any way the Sight. I don’t know what to tell you about you knowin’ he’d be a monster, other than it inspired ya to do somethin’ horrible with a good outcome. The chems are a tool, and nothin’ more. There ain’t nothin’ in this world makes it easier to handle what I see an’ what I know, besides learnin’ that it made a difference to somebody.”

“You... you really think that the Sight can help me? You said something about having unfinished business. You can’t tell me anything about what you saw, can you? Did you see Lowell? Did you see the military base?”

“If I use chems to intensify the Sight, anything I see during it is that much hazier when it wears off. If you’ve got Jet, it’s the easiest on my system, but I suppose I can work with just about anything. I can sort it all out for you. Once we’ve gotten to Sanctuary. Once we’ve gotten a chance to rest. We all deserve some rest, Carey. Even you. Come on. The rest of the group’s already way ahead of us.”

“You’re right,” he relented.

So the chemist, his Mister Handy, and the seer pressed onward across the bridge.

Nothing makes it easier, besides learning that it made a difference to somebody... Making a difference to somebody. 'Choly marinated on what Mama’d had to say. He had to find some kind of value in these visions. Positive value. He’d convinced Jared of their value, and all it had done was hurt people, kill. Every action he’d taken since his reawakening was self-serving and an unbridled, capitalism-fueled survival instinct. Surely, through the episodes he could also heal, and heal others. And one person in particular was owed the distinction of his first extension of an attempt at bringing healing to the blighted suburb of Sanctuary Hills.

But Mama was right. He needed to rest, to collect his faculties, before he could even try. He’d start trying to do better tomorrow.

Not even paying attention to where Angel and Mama went off to, as he crossed the bridge into Sanctuary, 'Choly’s eyes followed his cautious, hobbling feet so the tip of his cane didn’t get stuck in the planks, and remained on the ground once back on the concrete. Second house on the left. He caught himself staring at the Chryslus coupe on its side. Though rust had eaten away the paint job, he knew that it had once been sky blue.

Jacob loved that car, he lamented to himself with a sardonic smile. It would kill him to see it like this. Maybe I could ask Preston to at least tip it back on its belly, with the strength of the power armor. He barely kept himself from thinking about how Jacob had thrown him into the car that day, and sped the two of them home so ‘Choly could run to the vault. I promised him they’d let him in. The military made me a liar...

“I wonder what else the military made me,” he mouthed in a haunted delirium, stepping through the blasted threshold of the house they once shared.

“Hey, we were here first,” Marcy snipped with her feet tucked up in the seat of the armchair with her. “There’s no beds in here, either. Jun and I are sharing the couch for right now.”

He glared at the married couple and came unhinged.

“--OUT!” ‘Choly bellowed. He pointed his cane at the doorless door. “OUT!! There’s no beds here! There’s beds in several of the other houses! If you have to have a bed! Take your pick!”

“Didn’t you hear me?”

“OUT!”

‘Choly threw down the coat rack and started throwing all the flush-mount shelves into the floor. Anything he could grab, he toppled, until they left in a panic.

He stood there heaving in the middle of the mess he’d made. The sound of heavy pneumatic steps of power armor approached, and he looked up to find Preston standing on his front step with a confused scowl.

“Woah. Woah woah woah. On what planet was that okay?” he started, flourishing his body language with his laser musket. “There’s a dozen houses here.”

“And this one’s mine.” When Preston didn’t understand, the chemist pointed at the mailbox label. The Minuteman humored him and glanced at it.

“But it says Hawthorne,” Preston started, befuddled as ever. “You said your name’s Carey--”

“Roommates,” he heaved. The loathing exhaustion of everything that day was finally crashing down on him, only compounded by the stress of being stared down by someone in power armor.

“What are you trying to say?” He squinted difficultly at ‘Choly.

“What do you think I’m trying to say?” Words failed ‘Choly.

“That you... lived here. Before the war.” Preston’s eyes widened, and he adjusted the brim of his hat as he thought on his wording. “Like one of those prewar ghouls... Certainly look a lot more together than any I’ve ever seen, but you’re nothing but surprises.”

“You... you think I’m a ghoul?” ‘Choly couldn’t tell if Preston was being serious, or mocking him, and it burned to be compared to something as beautiful as what his roommate had become. “I still don’t think I understand what a ghoul is.”

“Not exactly, no. They get all gnarly, from the radiation. Lose body parts and some flesh usually. Their voice gets all hoarse and raspy. I mean it when I said they’re people just like you and me. The normal ones, they’re good people. It’s the ones that got too much radiation that get violent and dangerous.”

“They really are just like other humans, right?” ‘Choly didn’t like asking it, but had to, after what he’d seen on the return trip in front of the recoolant station. “If they die, they can’t just... get up and walk away?”

Preston glared at him in fear.

“I don’t know what kind of stories you’ve been hearing, but I hope that never happens in my life.”

“There were things in fiction, before the war, that were dead things. But they weren’t really dead. People called them ‘zombies.’ I’d say life imitated art, but you just told me that ghouls stay dead.” Then, to comfort the horrified man, he lied, “I’m grateful that much is true. Of all the ways to violate nature, defying death is among the most upsetting to imagine.”

“Fiction needs to stay fiction.” Preston shook the thought from his mind, only to have a gap in ‘Choly’s logic sink in. “Wait. You mean to tell me you’ve been alive over two hundred years, but you still don’t know what a ghoul is?”

“I... only just woke up a few months ago.” The chemist gave him a self-conscious smile before breaking eye contact. He had to sit down, and rested against the back of the couch. “I was... frozen. In a vault. It’s what damaged my body. Either they didn’t do it right, or something malfunctioned. I made it out, but...”

“It’s all right.” Preston held up a hand, not wanting ‘Choly to continue. “You don’t have to relive that stuff if you don’t want. It’s not my business, unless you want it to be. This whole group has some painful baggage we’re hauling around with us, myself included. For what it’s worth, I’m glad you made it out alive, and I’m glad you came to help us in the museum. It was some good fate.”

“--Don’t go in the vault,” ‘Choly managed to say. “It’s up on the hill to the Northwest of the suburb. It might seem like it’s safe, but it’s been filling up with asphyxiating gases from the cryogenics pods for months now. You’ll suffocate without proper respiratory gear.”

“Looking out for us, in advance. I’ll get word around that it’s not safe yet.”

“Can I ask you one more thing before I ask you to let me get some sleep?” He half-joked, “All I want to do right now is sleep another two hundred years.”

“Shoot.”

“Why... do you believe that what Mama Murphy sees is always true, or going to be true? Isn’t it just chem fumes?”

“Well, it’s gotten us this far, hasn’t it?” Preston grinned at him. “I’ve gotta have faith in something. I’ll talk to the others and do my best to explain how this is your place, and to give you some space. We all deserve some boundaries.”

The Minuteman tipped his hat brim to leave and went to go check on the Longs.

Once he was alone, out of habit ‘Choly went to his room to remove his orthotics and take down his hair, leaving the braces and bobby pins in the chest of drawers. He returned to the couch, and collapsed in his untucked shirt and slacks, using his muddy pharm corps coat for a blanket. His glasses went on the armrest, and the instant his eyes shut, he was out cold.

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#fallout 4 fanfic #mama murphy #preston garvey #fallout 4 #fo4 fanfic #sole survivor #automatron mister handy #the anatomy of melancholy #sanctuary hills #red rocket truck stop #melancholy

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101percentindia · 6 years

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Two Girls Accompany Paranormal Experts To A Haunted House

Hunting spirits and busting myths at Panvel.

It was full moon. I was told not to get involved with unknown energies. But I have an unhealthy interest in the paranormal. So I went, and it was nothing like I imagined.

“Media se hain. Photo nikalne aaye hain,” (We are here from the media to take pictures) Sarbajeet says slyly to the security guard who gives us an inquisitive look as we trespass into his property. It’s not a complete lie. The photographer and I are media. But we are also guests of Sarbajeet Mohanty and Pooja Vijay, co-founders of P.A.I.R.S (Parapsychology and Investigations Research Society), who have invited us for a paranormal investigation. Like any other investigation, this one aims to reach rational conclusion through a scientific approach about a supposed paranormal phenomenon – simply put, the presence of a spirit or ghost. These guys are certified experts and we are outside an abandoned commercial colony in Panvel.

Entry to the haunted house

“Friends tipped me about this location. They felt a certain heaviness here, like someone was lurking around. They think they saw an apparition in the dead of the night,” Sarbajeet states looking around. The 21-year-old who claims to be the world’s youngest certified demonologist doesn’t seem to know much about the place. Neither do we. The bungalow was vacated years ago. Apparently it used to be an office, but was deserted for unknown reasons. Which is why we want to understand the paranormal phenomenon here, create a portal to contact the spirit, hear her side of the story and help her crossover.

Related: At A Small Dargah In Mumbai, You’ll Find Demons, Exorcism, Faith And Fear

It’s a warm night. With just the moon guiding us, we enter the colony. There are no gates, but lots of trees. It is separated from the main road by a short compound wall. A cobbled path leads inside beyond the guard’s room to a tiny temple which lies empty, dilapidated and eerie looking. Dogs bark in the distance to add to the spookiness of the experience. A white cat scurries along the bushes but stops momentarily to give us an evil gaze. I can see the fear on my friend’s face. Perhaps she can see the same on mine. Sarbajeet and Pooja seem unfazed.

Surrounded by bats, rats and ghosts

Sarbajeet tells me the last time he was here he was able to establish contact with the spirit of a lady. “What do you mean by contact?” I ask. Pooja, who is a psychic, past life regressionist, reiki master and an investigator, explains the physics. Apparently, unlike films, it’s not easy for us to see the spirits or hear them. Since they do not have a physical body, it requires a lot of energy to even hear them. “We ask them to give us hints of their presence by making simple actions,” Pooja adds.

Before heading into the house, the duo acquaints us with the equipment. There are two torches to guide us through the night, temperature readers to monitor fluctuations that occur in the presence of the spirits, a pair of walkie-talkies in case we get separated and most importantly EMF sensors to observe earth’s magnetic fields. Sometimes the spirit will use the energy of the earth to establish contact with the living and thereby disturb the earth’s magnetic field. The device will sense that and blink with a red light. “For example, I tell the spirit if you are here, please blink on the sensor three times,” Sarbajeet demonstrates by holding up the device. Suddenly, three red lights blink on the sensor. I am taken aback. Even Pooja seems surprised. “Looks like this is our welcome,” Sarbajeet chuckles.

The equipment used to detect spirits has to be imported from the US or UK

I was nervous and excited. The real investigation hadn’t even begun and I could already sense the presence of someone, or something. We finally make our way into the first abandoned shanty. Most walls are broken. The others are cracked. The ceiling is gone and a huge tree looms over us. Its branches have crept into the house through holes in the wall and window sills. The floor is filled with muck and dry leaves that crumble beneath our shoes. There are spider webs in the corner, and there’s four of us in the centre of what must have been the living room of the house, hoping to catch something.

“If you are here, please give us an indication. Please blink the EMF as you did outside,” Sarbajeet says talking to the supposed spirit in the room. I keep my eyes fixed on the sensor that is placed against the wall. Nothing happens. Pooja repeats the same. Still nothing. There’s an eerie silence. “Umm..can the spirit understand us?” I whisper in Pooja’s ear. Responding in the affirmative, she explains that they connect on a telepathic level. “Language does not matter. Though they may be more forthcoming if they hear a familiar dialect. Why don’t you say something in Marathi?” she suggests, nudging me.

So here’s one of the many firsts. My first conversation with the living dead. “Ithe koni aahe ka. Indication dya. Nusta bhetaila alo. Traas nahi denar. (If there’s anyone here, give us an indication. We are here only to meet you, not to trouble”) I say awkwardly. Nothing happens. Honestly, I am a little disappointed. I would have felt special had the spirit chosen to communicate with me.

After waiting a few minutes, we decide to explore other parts of the house and walk through a narrow corridor. I can feel a mild change in temperature. It is much cooler in the corridor than the living room which is hardly three steps away. Suddenly I hear a rustle of leaves. There’s no wind. Perhaps it’s an insect? Heading back to the living room Sarbajeet again pleads, “If there’s anyone here, please give us some kind of signal.”

THUD! There’s a loud sound from behind. Shaken, I turn around. It sounds like a heavy footstep. Pooja and Sarbajeet spring into action. “If that is really you, could you do it again please?” Pooja requests. Within seconds there is another thud, much lighter than before. “Thank you for responding. Was this house yours? If yes, please blink into the EMF. If not, you may knock.” We wait five minutes and hear another thud in the corridor. Thinking that the spirit has left and perhaps wants us to do the same, we decide to investigate the next house.

Any takers for a haunted one BHK?

Almost at once we notice our fully charged devices including cellphones and cameras are drained of 60% battery. “The spirit has used it.” I shake my head and look at the second house that seems spookier and is accessible only through a path lined with ruined broken walls and bushes. Treading carefully I ask Pooja, “What if the spirit does not want to communicate with us?” “Then it won’t. Just because they are dead does not mean they don’t have moods. They have the same personality they did when they were alive. So they’ll do what they want.”

This was news to me. Reading my mind Pooja continues, “This is why we want to create awareness. Not all spirits are evil. Some are just lingering. Some are confused. They do not know they are dead. Sometimes we need to make them realise that and help them crossover.”

Related: The Old Bastora Road | 101 Great Indian Ghost Stories

The second house was like a one BHK. The ceiling, a tin shed, is intact. There’s just one window which is sealed. Feeling claustrophobic and uncomfortable, I think of all the scary stuff from horror films. Will I see a ghost staring at me from the window? What if something attacks me from behind, or worse, tries to possess my body? Thankfully, my thoughts are interrupted by a squeaking sound. I hear something move amidst the dry leaves. It's a rat. I shriek! This is more terrifying than a ghost.

Sarbajeet initiating conversation with the spirit

I see Puja fumbling with the temperature reader. “Look how fast it is fluctuating,” she says. Withing seconds the reader drops from 26.8 to 25 degrees. Sarbajeet places the EMF on the floor and begins a conversation with the spirit. “Last time, I was here, I had spoken to a lady. Are you still here?” There is no response. “Please give us an indication of any kind,” he adds. I repeat the same in Marathi. Suddenly something falls on the ceiling. Is it the spirit?

“Is that you. Is this house yours?” Sarbajeet asks again. There’s no response. “Do you want us to leave?” Again, something falls on the roof. Probably a bigger rock making a stronger sound. The message is loud and clear. I hurry outside and the rest of the team joins me. We don’t want to anger the dead.

But Sarbajeet is in the mood to play a little more. We turn back to the old house. “Why don’t just the three of you go in? Maybe it will react differently to women.” We walk in, this time with a spirit box which is a mobile app fed with Hindu scriptures that have been reversed. When switched on it continues saying words that don’t make sense. “Are you male or female?” “Female,” it says amidst the gibberish. I am astonished. “How many of us are here?” “Teen,” it says. “Do you want to talk to us?” “Nahi na,” it answers. “Should we go?” “Bye…see… you,” it says in gaps.

The Spirit Box has been created with the help of international paranormal organisations

I hurry out, spooked. We had an actual conversation. This app is genius.

“For our actual analysis, we will listen to the recording of words in slow motion to understand any other messages we may have missed and then make a report of the investigation. But that will take some time and perhaps more visits,” Sarbajeet says.

Related: Marna Mana Hai | 101 Phir Se Ramsay

In my head I am still processing everything, putting faces to words. Yes, this investigation has busted myths. It has made me more accepting about the supernatural. It has made me realise that spirits are not always negative and something to be feared. I head home wishing I had seen the spirit or atleast an apparition. Never mind though. It has seen me. As long as it hasn't followed me back.

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Disclaimer: The views expressed in this article are independent views solely of the author(s) expressed in their private capacity and do not in any way represent or reflect the views of 101India.com

By Priyanka Kapoor Photographs by Rashi Arora

#101india #horror paranormal ghost

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theadventuresofalexandjake · 6 years

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The Adventures of Alex and Jake Book One: The Lone Wolf Chapter One - 3.4k~

Chapters available immediately on Patreon for $5+ Chapters available here and on AO3 one week later.

((READ IT HERE ON AO3))

Chapter Two >>

I often think about what it means to be legendary. When I was in elementary school, there was this kid who could shoot milk out of his eyes. Everyone then thought he was legendary. I can’t remember his name now, but I remember the deed, so maybe he was. Still, I don’t think that’s the type of legendary that means something.

Jake gave me this journal to write down everything that happens so that we might become legends one day. I’m not entirely sure what he means by that. I’m pretty sure he doesn’t mean the “milk coming out of your eye” type of legendary, but I don’t see how we can be anything more than that.

He’s a sixteen-year-old high school student who likes soccer and has a crush on my sister. I know he’s been through some difficult stuff; I found him in the woods outside of town when he was fifteen, bloody and near starvation. Clearly he has a story. Every werewolf does. But he didn’t give me this to write down his story. If he did, he would’ve told me what it was.

But I don’t think I’m supposed to write down my story either. I’m seventeen (no, sorry, I’m eighteen now. Do birthdays still count when you no longer age?), and I’ve never done anything legendary in my life. I think my father wanted me to. Ever since I was a kid I was told I was smart enough to do anything; to make millions and be successful and attribute it all to the wise teachings of my parents. That was a lot of pressure for a kid, and when I got into college I tried. I really did. But I choked.

They found me in my dorm bathtub, blood everywhere. I was supposed to die that day, but I didn’t. It was only three days later when the symptoms started that I realized what had happened. I became sensitive to light. I lost my appetite for food, but my thirst grew no matter how much water I drank. It was only when I almost attacked my sister Abigail, and she saw the fangs in my mouth that we figured out what I was.

Vampire.

That sounds pretty legendary, right? But I live in an apartment paid for by my father who has no idea what happened to me, writing freelance articles for online magazines, and I rarely go outside for anything. Me finding Jake in the woods had been a fluke. I finished the stash of blood my sister brings me too soon and grew thirsty. I went out into the woods to hunt an animal, and I found Jake instead. It’s honestly a miracle that I didn’t attack him, as bloody as he was.

He’s been living with me ever since, and I think he has the same expectations my father did. That I’m going to do something extraordinary one day.

I don’t know how to tell them that they’re wrong.

***

The ghost is Jake’s fault, naturally.

I’ve only just opened my eyes at ten in the evening to start my “day” when Jake suddenly accosts me. He jumps onto my bed and sticks his freckled face directly into mine. I can smell hamburgers on his breath. I turn away with a scowl.

“Alex! Wake up! That new club opened tonight. The Witching Hour. We gotta check it out!”

I pull the covers up over my head. “What is it about the past year that makes you think I’m the type of person to go to a club?”

Jake grabs my shoulder and shakes me. “You never go out. That’s why you should come with me tonight! It’ll be fun!”

“I doubt that very much.”

A pair of hands yanks the covers down from my face. Through strands of my dark hair, I glare at Jake, as he widens his bright blue eyes and pokes out his lower lip in a pout that I’ve never been able to refuse. With his soft white-gold curls and cheeks still slightly rounded from childhood, he looks like a freckled cherub. I know there’s mischief behind those wide eyes, but I find myself relenting before I can think better of it.

“Fine. Now get out of my room.”

Jake’s face brightens, and he beams at me. “You won’t regret this!”

“I already do.”

Unperturbed, Jake hops off my bed and bounds out the door. I lay in bed a few more minutes before sighing and pushing off the covers. Standing, I cross over to my closet, flinging it open and staring at the contents. Thanks to my father still paying rent and utilities on the apartment, I’ve been using the funds I get from my freelance work to expand my wardrobe. A rather impressive collection of clothes in black, dark purple, and burgundy greet me, and I contemplate what to wear before pulling together an outfit I deem club appropriate.

Jake smirks at me, as I make my way out of my room. “You really like to embrace the whole vampire thing, huh?”

I look down at my combat boots, ripped black jeans, studded belt, scooped neck burgundy shirt, and black trench coat. On my hands are fishnet fingerless gloves, and my eyeliner is dark and dramatic. I shrug. It’d been my aesthetic even before I was turned. I don’t see a reason to stop now. And hey, if you can’t escape it, flaunt it, right?

“What are you wearing?” I ask then, just noticing the ridiculous shirt Jake has on.

“It’s a doge!” Jake said happily, pulling on the hem to stretch it out and look down at it fondly.

“You’re seriously wearing a meme to a nightclub?”

“Why not?”

I shake my head and walk past him toward the door. “If anyone asks, I don’t know you.”

“But we’ll be arriving together!”

Ignoring this detail, I lead the way out of the apartment, making sure to lock it behind us. I slip the key into my pocket, making my way down the steps that would lead to the front door of the building. Jake bounces after me. I don’t know where he gets his energy, honestly. He’s already been awake all day. Shouldn’t he be ready to sleep after a full day of school and soccer practice?

“Hey, hey, look! It’s a squirrel!”

I grab the back of Jake’s windbreaker to keep him from darting after the creature. “Honestly, sometimes you’re worse than an actual dog,” I say, shaking my head.

“You’re just jealous because you can’t run after small adorable creatures.”

“Why would I want—”

“Hey, look! It’s Raphael!”

This time I stiffen, even as Jake runs forward to greet the young man walking down the sidewalk towards us. Raphael Mendez slows to a stop, an easy smile settling on his features, as he returns Jake’s greeting. When his dark eyes flit to me, however, his smile shifts into a smirk.

“Alex,” he says with a nod.

“Raphael,” I return flatly.

He only seems amused by this, which makes me hate him even more than I already do. One might think that I hate him because he’s the second-in-command of the werewolf gang Los Lobos Luna, but it’s not nearly that cliché. I hate him because he’s been an irritating thorn in my side ever since I took in Jake. He wants Jake for his pack, and he’s been doing everything in his power to manipulate Jake into agreeing. The only reason Jake hasn’t yet is because he knows the gang is into some pretty shady stuff, and he’s a good kid who doesn’t need to get corrupted by company like that.

Abigail says I don’t want Jake to join because then he’d be leaving me, but I’m not that sentimental.

“We’re heading to the new place that just opened up,” Jake is saying to Raphael.

“The Witching Hour? You know that place is haunted, right?” Raphael raises one black eyebrow, and he looks rather smug at the wide-eyed stare Jake gives him.

I roll my eyes. “There are no such thing as ghosts.”

They both turn to look at me.

“Says the vampire to the werewolves,” Jake says pointedly.

I stare off across the street, ignoring this, even as Jake turns back to Raphael.

“How do you know it’s haunted?” he asks.

“Strange stuff’s been happening ever since they started building the place,” Raphael says, sticking his hands into his tight skinny jeans. (Honestly. Why would a werewolf own skinny jeans? They’re just going to tear in half when he shifts. Wouldn’t it be more practical for them to wear giant baggy clothes? Whom is he trying to impress anyway?) “Workers falling off of catwalks, tools going missing, machines breaking down. The whole bit. Some even said they heard screaming, like a little girl was in pain.”

Jake’s enraptured. He leans in, and his bright blue eyes gleam almost green in the yellow light from the street lamps around us. He can’t honestly believe this. There has never been any evidence to suggest ghosts are real.

“Stories made up to make the place more interesting,” I say, stepping forward and taking hold of Jake’s elbow. “Come on, Jake.”

“But what if it’s true?” Jake asks, even as he allows me to pull him away from Raphael and further down the sidewalk.

“We can go home if you want,” I suggest, honestly hoping he’d take me up on that.

But Jake’s expression grows resolved, and I resign myself to a night at the club, as he straightens his shoulders and shakes his head.

“I ain’t afraid of no ghost!” he declares, before dissolving into giggles.

I release him and walk faster. Jake calls goodbye to Raphael before hurrying after me.

***

The Witching Hour looks like your typical city club built to appeal to the grunge and underground type of partier. The outside is shiny and new with darkened ceiling to floor windows spray-painted with neon colors that seem to glow. The sign has what looks like a full moon for the “O” in Hour, and the “G” in Witching is a black cat sitting with its back to the viewer and its tail curving. Rather on the nose, but I guess it’s what I expected. As we draw closer to the doors, I can hear the music pulsating from inside, causing the windows to vibrate with each drop of the bass.

The bouncer asks for ID, then stamps our hands, as we walk through the door. As he does, I can’t help but wonder what’ll happen once too many years have passed for me to match my ID picture. I can’t exactly hand someone my license in fifty years looking like I do now. Will I need to keep getting new IDs with different birthdates on them? Will I have to change my name and social security number every ten years? There was no way I could look older than maybe twenty-five with my current appearance. Could I pass for thirty?

As I’m stressing about this, I find myself suddenly in the center of the club. I didn’t even realize I was still following Jake. He’s thrashing around in front of me in some sort of dance move I don’t recognize. He looks ridiculous, honestly, and I can feel second-hand embarrassment squirm inside me. I take a couple steps away, not straying too far but not wanting to appear like I’m with him, either.

“Hey!”

A girl with long dark hair streaked with blue and red highlights grins at me, her teeth glowing in the black lights. She’s bouncing and swaying to the music, not quite on tempo, and her eyes look me up and down in a way that makes me distinctively uncomfortable.

“Are you a boy or a girl?” she asks, tilting closer to me in order to shout over the music.

I instinctively step back, resisting the urge to roll my eyes at the question. “Does it matter?”

“It might,” the girl says, winking this time.

I turn my gaze away to look for Jake, but I’ve lost him in the sea of writhing bodies. Almost immediately, my chest feels as though someone’s taken my ribcage and started squeezing. I turn away from the girl without answering her, scanning the area behind me, but there’s no sign of him anywhere.

“Who are you looking for?” The girl again, yelling in my ear.

I jerk away from her, bumping into a dancer behind me. It’s a taller guy, who grunts and shoves me back, sending me stumbling. My heart no longer beats, but if it did I know it’d be pounding rapidly. The music is too loud, and the air is humid with the smell of sweat and blood. I can hear heartbeats everywhere, disjointed rhythms that don’t match the music. There’s laughter and voices and colors, swirling, swirling, swirling . . .

And then everything goes black and silent.

Someone screams, which is followed by laughter. A few people groan and boo, and the DJ yells over the sound, informing us of a power outage. Everyone starts getting out their phones, using them for light, as they mill about and talk.

I still feel like I’m suffocating.

A hand grabs mine, and I almost scream. Almost. I catch it in my throat once I realize it’s only Jake, suddenly standing next to me. His curls are somewhat flattened, sticking to his freckled face with sweat. He smells like wet dog, but I honestly couldn’t care less in that moment.

“Alex!” he exclaims. “It’s the ghost!”

I scoff, glad to have something to focus on instead of my trembling hands. “It’s not the ghost. It’s just a power outage.”

“But it’s not even storming,” Jake says, shaking his head with wide eyes.

“A fuse could’ve blown. Wiring gone bad. There’s dozens of things that could’ve happened, Jake.”

“No, it’s a ghost. I can feel it.”

Almost as soon as he says this, there’s a flash of light near the ceiling. I glance up in time to see one of the black lights fall toward the floor. Without thinking, I dash over, shoving the two people standing beneath it. They shout in surprise and anger, but their eyes widen in horror, as the black light smashes onto the floor directly where they’d been standing.

“It’s the ghost!” someone yells.

Suddenly the club is a stampede, as people scream and rush toward the exits. Someone knocks into me, and I find myself falling. A foot stomps on my hand, and I grit my teeth against the pain, even as I force myself to my feet.

“Alex? Alex!”

I can hear Jake calling for me, but even as I stand, I can’t see him in the sea of escapees. Then suddenly he’s in front of me, grabbing my arms. The relief I feel is almost palpable.

“Come on,” I tell him, turning toward the doors. “We have to go.”

But Jake digs his heels in and doesn’t budge. He shakes his head. “We can’t go. We have to help.”

I stare at him. “Help? Everyone’s leaving.”

“Not them,” Jake says, shaking his head. He looks toward the ceiling, then, and I understand what he means with a sense of dread.

“No. Absolutely not. We’re not going ghost busting. We’re going home.”

Jake sets his jaw, his expression hardening in a look that I’ve come to know as his “stubborn glare.”

“You can go home if you want,” he says, releasing my arms. “But I’m staying.”

I glance longingly toward the doors. I didn’t even want to come to this stupid club. Am I really going to stay and help Jake find a ghost?

Groaning, I turn from the doors, peering up into the catwalks above the club’s dance floor. “Fine,” I say, shaking my head. “But I swear if we get our asses kicked by this thing, I’m holding you personally responsible.”

Jake has the audacity to laugh. “We’ll be fine,” he insists.

“You have no way of knowing that for sure.”

The club is nearly empty now, and even the DJ has disappeared. There’s a hum and then dim yellow lights come on. The backup generator, most likely. There are only a few people left aside from us, brave (or stupid) souls taking photos of the fallen light with their phones. One of them, a boy around Jake’s age with a stocky frame and a crew cut of brown hair, looks up and sees us. More specifically, he sees Jake. With a grin, he lifts his hand in a wave.

“Jake! Hey!”

Jake looks over, his expression brightening. I can hear the way his heart rate elevates, and a faint flush colors his cheeks, as he waves back. I frown.

“Who is that?”

“Brandon Reaper! He’s from my school,” Jake explains, as Brandon jogs his way over.

He has hazel eyes, and when he grins again, I notice he has dimples.

I hate him immediately.

“Hey, man, I didn’t know you were here,” Brandon says, as the two exchange an elaborate handshake. “Crazy about that light, huh?”

“Alex and I are gonna investigate,” Jake informs him, gesturing to me.

“Oh, hey,” Brandon says, holding his hand out to me. “Jake mentions you a lot. I gotta say, you look different than I pictured.”

I raise my eyebrows, not taking his hand. “How did you think I looked?”

Brandon shrugs, sticking his hands into the pockets of his jacket. It’s a letterman’s jacket, complete with the high school’s logo on the front. A sports man. Of course. Probably a football player, from the way he’s built. He’s not massive, though, so maybe he’s on the soccer team with Jake. Though I suppose he could be a quarterback.

“Jake mentioned you were gender-neutral and looked androgynous, so I guess I wasn’t expecting . . .” He gestures to me vaguely.

I reach up to touch the dark strands that rest against my shoulder self-consciously with a faint frown. “Not every androgynous person is white and five-foot-four with delicate features and a pixie cut,” I say with a little more snide than I’m necessarily proud of.

“No, yeah, for sure,” Brandon says quickly. “It’s cool, man. Er, dude. Uh . . .”

I sigh. “Look, I’m fine with any pronouns, just don’t expect me to conform to any gender stereotypes.”

“I call Alex ‘dude’ all the time,” Jake informs Brandon, laying his hand on his arm. “It’s fine.”

Brandon looks relieved. I just look at Jake’s hand, watching as it squeezes gently before falling away. An uncomfortable lump grows in my throat, and I clear my throat to get rid of it.

“Anyway, we were just leaving,” I say, tugging on Jake’s sleeve.

Jake pulls away from me. “No we weren’t. We were going to find the ghost!”

Brandon glances between us. “Ghost?”

“He thinks there’s a ghost,” I say, emphasizing how ridiculous I think this is.

“There is a ghost,” Jake insists, puffing out his chest. “I’ll prove it.”

He stalks toward the back of the club, then, where there’s a staircase leading up to the catwalk. Brandon looks over at me, but I keep my eyes on Jake, gritting my teeth and weighing the pros and cons.

“Are you two coming or what?” Jake lingers halfway up the stairs, calling over to us as he leans over the railing.

“Guess we’re going ghost hunting,” Brandon says with another grin before jogging to meet Jake.

I watch as Jake beams happily, and that lump returns. Only now it’s in my stomach, and it feels more like a heavy boulder pressing up against my lungs. Jake waves at Brandon, as he approaches, and the two of them speak briefly. I could hear them if I wanted to, but I find myself blocking them out.

I don’t like this. I don’t like any of it.

“Alex! Come on!”

Jake beckons to me, and I square my shoulders, making my way over to them. I might not like it, but I’m definitely not leaving Jake alone with Brandon. There’s something not right about that kid. He joined in a ghost hunt without batting an eye; like it was a natural thing most people did in an empty club at midnight.

He has to be up to something.

#original story #vampire mc #werewolf mc #lgbt fiction #fantasy fiction #ya fiction #ch1

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fullformworld · 3 years

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500+Instagram Captions - Cute,Couples,Workout,Friendship,Cool,Sassy,One word,Short,Selfies,Adventure,Happy,Aesthetic,funny,Sunset,Fall,Fire,Beach,Dog,Savage

INSTAGRAM CAPTIONS

Looking for Best Instagram captions - Cute,Couples,Workout,Friendship,Cool,Sassy,One word,Short,Selfies,Adventure,Happy,Aesthetic,funny,Sunset,Fall,Fire,Beach,Dog,Savage. Now a days , everyone is using the Instagram app on their mobile. Instagram is one of the most popular and widely used Photo sharing application which is owned by Facebook allow users to share their Photos and Videos. WHAT ARE INSTAGRAM CAPTIONS ? An Instagram caption is a written description or explanation about the Instagram photo to provide more context. Instagram captions can include emojis, hashtags, and tags. Instagram captions are very useful for making your post (photos/videos) look attractive.Without a caption a post doesn't look good at all. Having an excellent and attractive Instagram Caption is very important! It can be very useful to you for receiving a lot of likes of the articles and finding none. But thinking about great Instagram Captions might be challenging, so we made it easy to run out of unique Instagram caption ideas in 20+ different categories when you’re publishing a lot of photo. HOW TO WRITE INSTAGRAM CAPTIONS ? As you upload a selective picture of yours after clicking 100+ of them just because its perfect. So, you need to check out these points : i) Use Smileys with your Instagram captions Using Smileys or Emojis with your captions make the post really attractive and cool. An emoji describes your posts very clearly if you use it in a right way. An emoji only can be placed as a caption on your post. So, keep in mind that a caption with a perfect emoji will make your post look better than others. ii) Do use Hashtags (#) Using appropriate Hashtags with your Instagram captions can help you to grow your profile reach. There are millions of hashtags used by peoples. A a particular hashtag determines your category, so that anyone searching for your type, will easily find you. Best Instagram captions 2021 Instagram is a social media platform where thousands of pictures and videos are uploaded daily with Instagram captions. As the audience on Instagram is increasing day by day.There are approx 400 million+ users on this social media platform. Here is my collection of 30+ Instagram captions categories which you will definitely love to use as your "Instagram captions" and bookmark this Homepage for regular uses.Here in this article, we are going to share Instagram captions for Instagram 2018.

Cute Instagram captions

cute instagram captions Being in a relationship is a full-time job. So don’t apply if you’re not ready. Your speed doesn’t matter, forward is forward The secret of getting ahead is getting started. Lift up your head princess, if not the crown falls. Always wear your invisible crown. Never look down on anybody UNLESS you’re helping him up. Always hold your head up. You have to be ODD, to be number ONE. Time is precious, waste it wisely. Don’t tell people your dreams, SHOW THEM! Do not worry, be happy The road to success is always under construction. If sky is the limit, then go there There are no shortcuts to any place worth going. Love is when you accept a person the way he or she is. You’ll never understand love until you You can love the person you trust but you can not always trust the person you love. Love is the greatest feeling in the word but it can also be the worse. Being in a relationship is a full-time job. So don’t apply if you’re not ready. Your speed doesn’t matter, forward is forward The secret of getting ahead is getting started. Lift up your head princess, if not the crown falls. Always wear your invisible crown. Never look down on anybody UNLESS you’re helping him up. Always hold your head up. You have to be ODD, to be number ONE. Time is precious, waste it wisely. Don’t tell people your dreams, SHOW THEM! Do not worry, be happy.

Couple Goals Instagram captions

Couple Goals Instagram captions You are mine, I am damn yours. You are my today and all of my tomorrows. You know! I want to be the reason of smile😀 on your face. I might be too late to be your first, but I can certainly be your last. Borrow me a Kiss💋💋, please? I wanna give it back, with full interest. They say it’s rude to stare, but I don’t care. You are too cute 😊not to stare at. If you’re alone, I’ll be your shadow.👥 I thought I was normal until I met you. Then, I realized we’re both pretty weird and I like that about us. What I have with you is something I never want with anyone else. You are the lovely distraction. I can resist any more, not to love you. What made you fall for him? He never asked me to justify my past. Cold nights, warm blankets, cozy days. I still fall for you every day of my life. Life starts again when fall hits, but I’m so glad it’s with you. Friends say you are a distraction to me. Believe me, I want to be distracted forever. She knew she loved him when “home” 🏠went from being a place to being a person. Love is a two-way street constantly under construction. Love: Two minds without a single thought. You’re my reflection, all I see is you. If I lost you I would cry, oh how I love you baby. Without you I would be so lost. You are the compass that guides me in life. We balance each other out so perfectly. You have made me the man / woman that I am today. You are my rock, my home, and my everything. I can’t wait to tell our love story to our children and our grandchildren one day. all I used to see you make me see the world in brighter colours when before was dull shades of grey. My life has been such a wonderful adventure since you came along. Our life together is one for the history books. Forget the fairy tales, I think our love story is the best one ever told. Even after all this time you still make me weak in the knees I barely remember what I was doing with my life before you came along.

Workout instagram captions

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Friendship goals Instagram captions

workout instagram captions Nothing last forever, except these memories. I and My group of friends are the funniest👭😃 humans I know. A friend👬 knows the song in my heart 💙and sings it to me when my memory fails. Best friends👬 stick together till the end. They are like a straight➖ line that will not bend. Strangers think I’m quiet, my friends👬🤔 think I’m out-going, only my best friends know that I’m completely insane! A real friend 👬is one with whom you can be silent. Good friends are like stars 🌟. You don’t always see them, but you know they’re always there… True friendship 👭is seen through the heart, 💛not through the eyes.👁 Best Friends make good times better and hard times easier! Friends take the word WORRY😔 out of my vocabulary and just replace it with HAPPINESS.😊 Friendship is the candle🕯 that lights up your heart❤ whenever it is dark outside. It is not a lack of love, but a lack of friendship that makes unhappy marriages. The truth is, everyone is going to hurt you. You just got to find the ones worth suffering for. If I had a flower for every time I thought of you...I could walk through my garden forever. I would rather walk with a friend in the dark, than alone in the light. Life is an awful, ugly place to not have a best friend. What is a friend? A single soul dwelling in two bodies. Only a true best friend can protect you from your immortal enemies. It's hard to tell who h There's not a word yet, for old friends who've just met.as your back, from who has it long enough just to stab you in it. “Be slow to fall into friendship, but when you are in, continue firm and constant. Stay is a charming word in a friend's vocabulary. We should meet in another life, we should meet in air, me and you. The best mirror is an old friend. Wishing to be friends is quick work, but friendship is a slow ripening fruit. Storm Sister--a friend who sticks close when storms hit her friend's life. On our own, we’d look totally normal. Together, we’re something else. Together, we’re special. Being first to ask for help in a friendship takes courage and humility. Stick by your friends, and they'll help resolve your issues. Or, at the very least, help you forget they exist for a while. Conversations between friends are the craziest and funniest of all.

Cool captions for instagram

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Sassy instagram captions

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One Word instagram captions

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Short Instagram captions

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Instagram captions for selfies

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Adventure Instagram captions

Adventure Instagram captions Work hard, travel harder. Travel expands the mind and fills the gap. Have a safe flight back home✈🛫 Happiness is looking down for the next destination from your plane 🛬 window. The best part about solo travel is rediscovering that I enjoy my own company. Travel has a way of stretching the mind. Travel is not really about leaving our homes but leaving out habits. To take travel is to take a journey into yourself. Adventure is worthwhile. Where ever I go, it became part of me. Life is short and the world 🌏is wide. Forget champagne and caviar – Taste the world instead! The world is a book 📕, who do not travel read only a page. Travel✈ brings power and loves ❤back to your life Some beautiful paths 🛣 can't be discovered without getting lost. Travel is never a matter of money, but of courage. Let's pack our bags 👜 and travel the world. Travel makes one modest. You see what a tiny place you occupy in the world. Someday I'm going to be free and I'm going to travel the world. Let's go on a road trip together.

Happy instagram captions

Happy instagram captions - Put some color in your life 🌈 - Happiness is a little corner of paradise in my life. - Happiness is not a goal… it’s a by-product of a life well-lived. - If you want to be happy, be. - We don’t stop playing because we grow old; we grow old because we stop playing. - Be Wild. Be True. Be Happy 💕 - Being happy never goes out of style. - Look for the magic in every moment💙 - Don’t stop to dream. - Be a flower in a world made of stones🌺 - Life is a gift, live it now - You decide to be happy or not - No matter how hard I try, I can never be unhappy. - Happiness consists of living each day as if it were the first day of your honeymoon and the last day of your vacation. Read the full article

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teensoftware444 · 3 years

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Best Tinder Hookup Profile

Ever wonder who has the best Tinder profiles? What “best of Tinder” status actually looks like?

Best Hookup Bios For Tinder

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Best Tinder Hookup Profile Photos

Here are 3 of the top Tinderers (by likes):

Apart from The Chive, in choosing 5 best hookup Tinder strategies and statistics to get laid we used an interesting piece of advice given by successful male Tinder users on Bustle and official. The Best Tinder Bios to Get Laid. I’m going to come right out and say it; there are no best Tinder bios to get laid. Your Tinder bio is the least important facet of your profile to get laid. If you want to get laid on Tinder, you need good photos first. No matter how witty your profile description is, it won’t make up for unattractive photos.

When these 3 appeared on TV, many viewers were stunned by how ordinary they were.

I mean, they’re good-looking. BUT they’re not the hottest people you’ve ever seen. Instead, what sets them apart is they’ve mastered the art of making a killer Tinder profile. Like this one:

If you’re an average-looking guy who wants to clean up on Tinder like the best, these are the Tinder profile examples you need. Here are their secrets.

1. About Me Examples (Copy-Paste)

According to guys with the most high-performing Tinder profiles, your “about me” tagline needs to be light-hearted and short.

Avoid raising red flags with whining or complaints, sexual innuendo, or anything negative. Try one of these proven Tinder taglines:

“If you like water, you already like 72 percent of me.”

“I’ll treat you the way Kanye treats Kanye.”

It’s fair to say that our interracial dating community represents the enlightened majority in American society. A Gallup poll in 2013 found that 96% of black people and 84% of white people approve marriage between blacks and whites. This means that 87% of Americans overall see no problem with black-white marriage, up from a meager 4% in 1958 1. https://teensoftware444.tumblr.com/post/657489259390959616/elite-singles-interracial-dating. Questions about online dating? Enjoy our ultimate online dating guide; Interracial Dating. If there were previously stereotypes, preconceptions or presumptions about interracial dating, these outdated attitudes are transforming as more and more American singles are seeking partners from other ethnic groups, and couples’ relationships no longer being defined along racial lines.

“I know all the words to ‘Butterfly’ by ‘Crazy Town’.”

“I can make a better sandwich than you.”

(For more suggestions for your Tinder’s “about me” section, check out The Best Funny Tinder Bios for Guys: Clever, Geek, Jock (Copy-Paste).)

2. Tinder Profile Photos

a) Copy the best profiles— use all six slots.

The best Tinder profiles start with a clear shot of the person’s face.

For the rest, variety is key: a pic with friends, in a suit, travel pic, hobby candid, athletic candid.

b) Test your pics on Photofeeler to find your best.

The best of Tinder have great photos of themselves. They aren’t the most attractive people necessarily, but they know how to sell themselves with a picture.

Most guys COMPLETELY FAIL at using pictures that are even as attractive as they are in real life. Most guys choose pics that bring their number down.

Before you waste your Tinder matches on the wrong photos, be sure to run yours through Photofeeler to know exactly how women are responding to them.

Choosing profile pictures this way has been known to increase matches on Tinder by 200-400%.

Go to Photofeeler.com now and give it a try!

Free message dating app. Know all about tinder bio and right swipes here with our best list of suggestions for girls and boys.

I don’t mind telling you- that for whatever reason you think you need to copy paste something about yourself from a web page, you are wrong. I hate beating around the bush so am going to cut right to chase. As gayish and as girlish as it may sound, folks…write what you are. Yeah and do sprinkle some necessary ingredients along with sarcasm, humor, wits, stay cute a bit, reflect you’re a man of words and most importantly for god sake’s don’t fake.Read along everything you need to know about tinder bios to flourish with a maximum number of swipes. I will let you know few best pointers to follow once you are on to write down about you on tinder, and you will see how the plus counting will follow once you build your bio according to your personality traits. Well, there has to be some chance of you knowing the fact that bios are written to let the other party know what you are like.Frankly, the statistics have been done. Yet, needless to say, a human brain works in peculiar ways my friend, mostly when it comes to online dating. Every individual listed are not looking for something special and you will come across that some time or the other. It’s really important to say that reflects your personality and your intentions as a whole. You don’t want yourself lying dead in some dark alley because you dated a criminal or worse scenario you attracted some psychotic to be your date.I am going to show you few of the best bios where you can understand and learn how amazingly you can frame out your words because as long as online dating and tinder is concerned, WORDS play to be a lethal weapon in grabbing attention and gaining a maximum number of swipes.Related article: 10 Best Hookup apps you’re searching for!

6 BEST TINDER BIO FOR BOYS

Boys are a different race altogether and the way their alternatively wired brains function are utterly praiseworthy. I mean come on, if you are a guy reading this, you probably have a smirk on your face because I know you feel me. See there isn’t anything terrific about writing a mind-blowing bio in tinder. It takes nothing more than some smoking words to set the girlish brains on fire with a first glance and BOOM! you’re a right swipe.

1. No Fuss Bio

There is an absolute requirement for being straightforward while you writing on tinder and being a guy its necessary for you lay down your intentions on the table like whiskey on the rocks. Let me just show you an example from a guy’s tinder bio I peeped into from my sister’s phone that sounded something like this-“Like living alone, Food, cold beer, dogs, sci-fi books, rock music, love to discuss and talk about everything related to being creepy, ask me for skating in Michigan lake, people my kind will be appreciated”Dude… even I would swipe back right for this guy for being so straight up. This is how you’ve got to nail the bio shit on Tinder. It’s all very straightforward and this guy seems to know what he wants to reflect to a girl.

2. Creative Stuff

Creativity is picking out your own flaws and selling them a hand on fist. Boys, if you have to rate to the top, you really have to dig out some creative stuff trending on tinder. I mean you won’t imagine the level of creativity guys put into their tinder bios. Don’t believe me yet? Check this out-

“Facts about me only on request.

I go six feet without heels and 6’6 with, got a six tuxedo wardrobe so don’t hesitate to ask me out for summer weddings. Friends call me outgoing but I don’t mind Netflix on my couch if you are comfortable doing me there”Now that’s humor and creativity blended into a nice morning smoothie to gulp down for chick’s on fleek. Creativity has always been sexy. Take an artist or a musician for an example… girls scream and sigh to be with one.

3. Laid Back Me

When I say ‘Be you’, take it seriously because there is absolutely no need to pretend about your laziness, if only I could add a LOL here I would. So what I mean to say is if you are laid back, PLEASE let it reflect in your bio. Girls aren’t much behind boys these days when it comes to craziness and some of them love petting guys. So if you are lazy and romantic so be that to the fullest. Take a look at this guy who totally nailed it when it came to reflecting his interests.“Love traveling, surfing, tech is my thing, long walks on the beach, spontaneous trips to Paris for freshly baked bread would be great for weekends, I am a guy to have espresso with, take your chances I might just get off the market soon”Aweee, as gayish as it may sound… this dude sounds unreal! But guys reading this please try to be romantic for F sake. It’s required sometimes. Girls would love a lazy weekend and awesome sunset walks along the beach and know it’s absolutely addicting when it comes to Paris and freshly baked bread.

4. Humor off Radar

Adding humor to tender bio is adding fuel to fire. You don’t agree? You will be surprised how easy it gets to have right swipes when you have a sprinkle of funny write up to showcase on tinder. It’s to build up that “want to know him more” thing in their forever working brains.

“I am an astronaut, appeared for the cover of GQ and later became a French spy. I am psychic and love time traveling, recently have been to 2025 and saw myself sailing across the Caribbean with a girl with red hair, shaken yet?Okay exaggerated a bit, but I did complete science as major and luckily can humor more than the regular once in my batch, gotta swipe right to know more about me”That was too cute to have been said he sounded futuristically unreal for a girl to fit her brains around, any which ways, do try out humor because girls love it. Humor is all that a smart girl looks for with some mix of right attitude and sexy along the side.

5. Short and Attractive

There is always space for you to be all sexy with the max effect. And that’s how few men do it with least minimum action words but with more depth.

“Dog lover, food is worshipHave been a drummer so love banging”

Cool bro, this guy is all set to get laid on his first date, mentioning about his musical skills and all. Not that I am jealous, just saying.

6. Lengthy yet Interesting

If you are planning to write a long list of details about you, make sure you sound interesting. No girl has time to really open up to a complete essay about you even before she knows you in person. Save them some time, and even if you do write, write some insanely sexy words to blow their mind off, then and there.

Best Hookup Bios For Tinder

“Precise EnglishAwesome cookRegular to gymFoodieDisney World returnOwner of three cars Love to ride Audi on Saturdays” Over 40 friends date. That is some really good stuff and it explains how writing lengthy can pay off in the end.

6 BEST TINDER BIO FOR GIRLS

I guess girls on tinder don’t really have to worry about getting right swipes because they already do. Yet I exactly know where their interest lies… girls face problems in getting the right swipe from the right person. But there isn’t a lot of hard work to get what you want on tinder.Best tinder bios for girls are the ones which are really witty and yet again straightforward. They always rank to gain the highest swipes on tinder. Check out our six best bios for girls after which you too can easily take some ideas and tweak around to build up your own flawless tinder bio.

1. The Perfect One

A perfect bio build up by a girl reflects how serious they are with tinder profile and that is actually a good thing for boys to handle. Girls, if you are a fan of building up a nice and perfect bio about yourself then please go ahead like this one

“I love dogs, and prefer men in shape because I find men out of shape to be overly sensitive somehow”

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It reflects what kind of men you like and a little glimpse of your liking as well. It really leaves something to the imagination of men, just don’t forget to add up a nice display picture.

2. The Realist

Realist girls would love bios like these and why not do something similar when it comes to building your own bio? I suggest you write something which really turns out to be an exact replica of your realist nature. It really does work. Guys love girls who are clear with their ideas and aren’t afraid to express that on tinder. Take a look at this bio for an instance“I like long walks on the beach, and i know why you are swiping along instead being surrounded by friends because somewhere your search is still on, know that i like to cuddle in baggy clothes while I watch Netflix happily all weekends, so don’t expect me to dress up and go out for a date night when am all cozy, and just so you know I am currently in an open relationship with 3 female roommates, text to let me know if that would be a problem with you?”

Wow, that’s just so inviting. I mean you read this and it’s like “let’s see if her roommates are out this weekend”.

3. The Cheesy One

This is my personal favorite because it’s amazing how guys react to a cheesy pickup line or bio. It’s like cheesy words just drills a deep impact on them and they are golden. Yet nothing can beat the kind of cheesy stuff girls write on tinder these days sure you can if you put in that effort but first check out these two which turns out to be gaining thousands on swipes overnight“I believe men have two emotions to the maximum, Hungry and Horny. If I don’t see with an erection I might get you your favorite sandwich”“Since I’m good with cooking I can make you some dessert but if you are hungry for oversweet dishes there is always me”It’s so cheesy that any guy would swipe right. Don’t just copy paste through built up your own because there is nothing like putting your own words into action and see the results.Related Article:=' color:=''>='color:>Best Flirting App for both iOS and Android=' color:=''>='color:>

4. The Pizza Lover

I personally categorize people into two different sects, one who likes pizza and the other one you know who. I know girls like 99.9% are in love with pizza and it’s utterly cute when that is reflected on your tinder bio. Get that extra sense of your pizza love into play and build up a tinder bio. Believe me, guys love girls when they talk about eating, I mean that intensity itself is mind-blowing to them. “Finally to have someone of the same taste, pizza lover if you are reading this grab your chance and rescue another pizza lover from these mundane”

“You might not know me yet but if pizzas are your thing only then bother texture”

My God, it’s hard to believe but trust me pizza lovers do take their obsession to next level. It’s almost like a religion to them. So girls if you have a certain obsession with food, please bring it up in your tinder bio because real is always attractive.

5. The Dark Side

Once you decide to type your tinder bio by explaining something about your dark side, don’t step back, guys love reading something different out of the ordinary and it’s so cool. To be honest, don’t start planning a murder in your bio or discuss about a long lost crime you did as a child. But be that girl if you are little nasty, that is like 10/10 for boys to swipe right for.

“Can you meet me in the dark alley beside barneys in 20 min? Lol”

“I love star wars, watching saw after midnight, a game of thrones is a religion for me and I breathe and eat Vikings, oh! Also, I can’t sleep before I repeat watching an episode of my favorite psychological thriller Hannibal. Text if you match my taste”

Wow, that’s like sex with words, I would love to know about this girl more and more and you just know what I mean.

6. The Captivating One

I know most of you would think this one is probably the best one of them all. I guess it has to be because being captivating is something that not all girls can carry. Truth must be told it’s really important to understand the mentality of a guy when he has been swiping more than hundred profiles daily.Making your profile captivating and getting them hooked to your don’t really take much effort yet it does require a little tweaking of words to get to frame that perfect sentence that can really blow their mind off the radar.

“I wonder why would you be on tinder if you’re already.Taken?”

That is exactly what you want your guys to know about you- Nothing. In that way, they will swipe right and your work starts there… to sort the best among the rest.

How Can Tinder Bios Reflect You As A Person??

I am literally writing an answer to this question because it has been asked on our website for like a zillion times. Tinder bio reflects a great deal of a persona and it’s not just about how witty, pretty, funny or awesome you can sound but what you really are as a person. I know it sounds bookish as few words can’t reflect a person’s nature but you really can make a difference. If you are looking for something to match your taste then know that the other person writing about themselves are looking for the exact same things as you are.You’ve been through the entire article and I know what is going round in your mind. You just want to switch to another tab or pick up your other device to get this thing into place. Knowing what a tinder bio should look like calls for an action.I hope this article helps you chalk out a great bio on tinder and get you that right swipe that you deserve. Also when you read your section make sure you read it carefully because putting some of those suggestions into your writing can really help you build a bio that you become an irresistibly interesting person one can’t wait to know about.

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Also Check: Bored of Tinder? Here’s=' color:=''>='color:>Best Tinder Alternatives=' color:=''>

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imjustthemechanic · 6 years

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The French Mistake

Part 1/? - A Visitor Part 2/? - The Kulturhistorisk Museum Heist Part 3/? - Cutscene Part 4/? - The Marvel Cinematic Universe

Now that our heroes have figured out what’s going on, the next question is what they’re going to do about it.

“Well done,” Steve said as they headed for the trailers, amused in spite of himself.

Nat smiled. “I don’t get to do full-tilt diva very often,” she replied.

“You just enjoy watching people who hate you have to put up with you anyway,” Steve said. He’d done some of that during the war, with the generals and politicians who hated that this musclebound fool in a costume was showing them up. It did make him feel powerful.

“Everybody enjoys that,” Nat said. “It’s the evil queen in all of us.” She chose one of the RVs at apparent random, and grabbed the door handle. “This one’s yours.”

“No, it’s not ,” said Steve. The sign on the door had the same name as had been highlighted on the front of the script: Chris Evans. It was a very nondescript name, Steve thought, like John Smith. Or, for that matter, Steve Rogers.

“Considering that Mr. Evans is probably picking himself out of the remains of the Museum of Cultural History in Oslo right now, I think he’s got other things to worry about than who’s in his trailer,” said Nat. “You can tell him we borrowed it, if that makes you feel better.”

“I’ll do that,” Steve promised.

Nat opened the door.

The first thing Steve saw was the dog, which had stood up on its hind legs to rest its paws against the inner screen. When Nat opened that second door to climb the steps and go inside, the dog bounced out past her to greet Steve. It was a floppy-eared, brown and white animal of indeterminate breed, and like most of its kind it seemed to have recognized Steve immediately as a dog lover. He knelt down to rub its head and neck, and the dog wagged its tail and lolled its tongue out happily.

“Hi, there, boy,” said Steve. “Or girl.” He held out a hand for the dog to sniff. It licked his fingers, and with his other hand, Steve found its collar rand tag. “Dodger,” he read. “Nice to meet you, Dodger. Did somebody leave you here all alone?”

“Steve!” Natasha called from inside. “Come and take a look at this.”

“Coming,” said Steve. He straightened up and gave Dodger’s head a few more pats. If this were Chris Evans’ dog, he thought, somebody was going to have to take care of it until its owner returned. Evans might be badly injured, or even under arrest – if he looked so much like Steve that nobody had noticed the two switching places, right now he was probably telling a SWAT team that he wasn’t Captain America. They probably didn’t believe him.

With Dodger right behind him hoping for more affection, Steve climbed the steps into the trailer. The first room was a kitchen that was practically the size of Steve’s entire apartment in 1940s Brooklyn, and it was a mess, with dishes in the sink and half a bowl of cereal uneaten on the table. Script pages were scattered around, and books and magazines on the American space program – but the first thing to draw Steve’s eye were the photographs taped to the cupboards. Some of these were of strangers, but many appeared to have Steve himself in them. If that were Chris Evans, then yes, the resemblance was absolutely uncanny.

Some of the pictures were probably of Evans’ family and friends. Others were perhaps from his movies. There was a photo of Evans standing next to an astonishingly tall black man, both of them smiling. A picture in which Evans was bundled up against winter cold and looked like he’d just been beaten black and blue, but beaming as he posed with a younger man and a very schoolmarm-ish looking woman. There was, of all things, one of those ridiculous Doritos bags Stark had found so funny, framed on the wall as if it were a work of art.

Then Steve’s stomach seemed to drop out and hit the floor with a splat, as he moved further along the cupboards and started finding people he knew.

There was a picture of himself, Natasha, and Sam in street clothes, grinning and laughing. Worse, there was one of Steve, Bucky, and Peggy in uniform, leaning on the counter of that café in northern Italy in 1944… where had some actor gotten that? Another was of Peggy making a face and pointing at a smiling Steve, both of them with twenty-first century clothing and hair and looking directly into the camera. Yet another was of Steve, Stark, and T’Challa with their arms around each other’s shoulders like they were all best buddies, standing against a background of advertising images. Steve didn’t remember any of those pictures being taken. Some of them could not possibly have been taken, because the people in them were dead!

“Steve!” Natasha repeated.

“Nat, have you seen this?” Steve asked. Whatever she was calling him for, it couldn’t possibly be as distressing as what he’d just found.

“Steve,” she insisted, “have you seen this?”

When Steve tore his eyes away from the impossible photographs, he found that Nat was in the living room, at the front of the trailer. This was built around a fake fireplace that was really just a television screen playing video of burning logs. Steve had never understood the point of such a thing, since it didn’t keep anybody warm and couldn’t be cooked on in an emergency, but there it was – and hanging above it were three framed movie posters.

These were done in what Steve recognized as an old-fashioned style by the standards of the twenty-first century. Modern posters tended to go in for teal and orange and a lot of photoshop filters. These were in watercolours, and were for separate but related films: Captain America: the First Avengers, Captain America: the Winter Soldier, and Captain America: Civil War. Each bore a list of actors’ names, but the portraits were of people Steve knew. There was himself, Peggy, Bucky, Natasha, Sam, Stark… even Pearce and the Red Skull.

There had been Captain America films, of course. There were the ones Steve himself had been in, and then there’d been a couple more made by Howard’s Stark Pictures in the late forties and early fifties, starring Burt Lancaster, Ronald Reagan, and Angie Martinelli. There’d also been the two terrible made-for-TV movies from the early eighties, in which Steve had been played by a guy who looked like his name ought to be Bolt Vanderhuge or something, and who was, if possible, a worse actor than Steve himself.

The last few years had produced more recent Avengers-themed movies, too. There’d been that one with Eric Bana as Dr. Banner, and the Battle of New York movie The Tower, which everybody seemed to have hated except for Dr. Foster’s friend Darcy. The team had watched those, and had a good laugh at them. These were different. The faces were too perfect, and the titles suggested events uncomfortably close to the last several years of Steve’s life. Anybody making movies about that was doing so without his permission.

“Those… aren’t real movies, are they?” asked Steve, taking in the lists of names on each. He recognized none of them. If these were actors they were none he’d ever heard of… or most of them weren’t. He did see the one from the trailer door. Chris Evans. His own apparent doppelgänger.

“They’re not real movies in Kansas,” said Natasha thoughtfully.

Steve turned his head to look at her, and found her in her ‘thinking’ pose, head cocked and brow creased. After a moment, she caught his eye, and took a deep breath.

“This is going to sound weird,” she warned him.

“Weird?” He snorted. “What’s weird? We were just in Oslo fighting an alien who thinks he’s a god, and now we’re making a movie. I don’t know what weird is anymore. Tell me.”

She didn’t, though. Instead, she stood there thinking a moment longer, then looked around the room. “Find me a computer or a cell phone,” she said. “I want to try something.”

They searched the living room, which was neater than the kitchen but only slightly, with Dodger doing his best to help and mostly getting in the way. Underneath a pile of magazines Steve found a laptop. When he turned it on a password screen popped up, but Nat got them past that easily, and Steve sat down on the ottoman and brought up google.

“All right, what am I looking for?” he asked.

“Museum of cultural history explosion,” Nat said, leaning on his shoulder to watch.

Steve typed in the terms, slowly – SHIELD had gotten him lessons in touch-typing, but right now his fingers, like everything else, were clumsier than normal. The search engine thought for a moment, then presented a list of results.

To Steve’s surprise, none of them were about what had just happened in Oslo. Never mind that it had been less than an hour ago, in this age of instant communication and constant media presence, an event like that ought to be all over the news. Instead, the first page of links was mostly articles about an exhibit at the Maritime Museum of the Atlantic in Halifax, Nova Scotia, which was being taken to task for neglecting black history.

“Try Avengers in Oslo,” Nat suggested.

Steve tried it, and read off the first result that came up. “Oslo – Marvel Cinematic Universe Wiki,” he said, and clicked on the link.

The article that came up was in white text on a black background surrounded by ads, and it was very brief. The first paragraph discussed the paganist riots, which were something Steve vaguely remembered hearing about, although he’d been busy elsewhere at the time. The second part of the article was about Stark’s visit to the NEXUS, and it quoted a conversation Steve remembered having with Stark, Banner, and Fury about Ultron’s attempts to launch nuclear weapons. The men’s names were all highlighted in blue – they were links to other pages. Steve licked his lips, then clicked on his own.

Nat leaned a little further forward, and this time it was she who started reading aloud. “Captain America is a fictional character appearing in American comic books published by Marvel Comics,” she said.

“What?” Steve asked. “Fictional?”

“Scroll down,” said Nat, and when he didn’t, she put a finger on the touchpad and did so herself. “Here we are! In Other Media. Actor Chris Evans portrays Steve Rogers in the Marvel Cinematic Universe Films Captain America: the First Avenger, The Avengers… yadda yadda yadda.” She kept scrolling through a list rather longer than the three movies whose posters were on the wall.

“What?” Steve repeated. When he’d first awakened, back in 2012, he’d learned that a lot of people did assume Captain America was a fictional character – somebody invented for comics and old films as an embodiment of the optimistic allied war effort. Five years later, after Steve had been on the news, the Ellen Degeneres show, and that stupid Doritos bag, they ought to know better.

“I was right,” Nat said, sounding uncharacteristically surprised by it. “Huh.”

“What were you right about?” Steve asked. “What’s going on? Whatever it is, it can’t possibly be any weirder than this already is, so just tell me.”

Nat reached over his shoulder and clicked on one of the movie titles, apparently just out of curiosity. “Are you familiar with the idea of parallel universes?” she asked.

Steve had heard the phrase. It was something Stark and Banner occasionally talked about, but he had only a very vague understanding of the concept garnered mostly from movies and television. “That’s where there’s an alternate world where things happened differently, and it somehow exists at the same time and place as our world, but we can’t get there.”

“Right,” said Natasha. “Supposedly there’s an infinite number of them, where all possibilities happen. There’s a world where we lost in New York and Loki now rules the planet, there’s a world where Ultron destroyed the earth…”

“If you’re trying to make me feel better, it’s not working,” Steve pointed out. “We’re in another universe?” Could the tesseract do that? Well, if this were actually happening, then yes, evidently it could.

“Loki said he would find another planet to rule,” said Nat. She found the cast section of the article on The Avengers, and grabbed a piece of paper and a pen to write down the names. “I figured he was talking about a different planet.”

“I didn’t stop to think about it,” said Steve. Though if he had, he would probably have come to the same conclusion. “He went to a universe where we’re fictional, so we can’t stop him from taking over.” That made a certain amount of sense, although in that case… wouldn’t Loki himself be fictional, too? How did the people of this world know what to put in their movies, if those events had never happened here?

“Maybe – maybe we all ended up here by accident when Thor broke the rune stone,” said Nat. “So if you and I are the actors who played Captain America and the Black Widow in these movies… although I don’t know why they’d name the movies after you when I’m the one who does all the hard stuff…” she added with a smirk.

“Thanks, Nat. That means a lot,” said Steve. He could guess where she’d been going with the first part of that statement, though. “If we’re here, we can assume that Thor and Loki must be, also, while the Steve and Natasha from this world… I mean…” he looked up at the central poster. “I mean Chris Evans and Scarlett Johansson…”

“They must be in our world,” Nat agreed.

Steve had already assumed that, but now he started seriously contemplating what it meant. “Getting arrested for breaking into the Museum of Cultural History in Oslo,” he said.

“And then handed over to the World Security Council for taking on a supervillain without the permission of the Norwegian government, in non-compliance with the Sokovia Accords,” Nat agreed, with a grimace of concern.

“All while they insist that they’re not Captain America and the Black Widow, they just play them in movies!” Steve groaned. That was a very bad situation indeed. “All right, how do we fix it?”

“That,” Natasha said, “is a very good question.”

#fanfic #steve rogers #natasha romanov

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