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sportsthoughts · 1 month

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Sorry if I missed this lore drop previously, but how'd you get into the Pens? I love your gifs and positivity that you bring to the lb!

Buckle up anon. I thought about one line answering this but I enjoy the phrase 'lore drop' so much I think you deserve the deep dive. It'll take a while to get to the pens but you asked for lore so...

I have been sportsthoughts on tumblr since 2015 ish - maybe slightly earlier - and this has always been a sportsblr/sports rpf-y type blog in various iterations.

This blog was originally used for liveblogging UK Premier League and La Liga football matches. I have always been a huge football fan (my childhood team is Arsenal - north London forever ❤️ etc etc) and when I moved away to university at 18 none of my new friends were into sports and I really missed watching games with my family.

Finding other likeminded fans online who were also watching games and liveblogging them was such a beautiful experience and I have amazing memories of 2015-2018ish when I was a very active football blog, spent a lot of the time in the Arsenal/FC Barcelona communities here and had some beautiful trips to Barca.

I do have a sideblog where I still dabble in that space but in truth I very rarely liveblog football anymore because nowadays it's returned to being something I watch with friends and family so I'm not on my phone during games.

Here's where the pens come in - sort of. I've scrolled back through my AO3 bookmarks and can see in 2015 I also got into sports RPF for the first time. There are some incredible football RPF fics out there (let me know if you'd like some recs!). Somehow - probably through raiding people's bookmarks - in early 2015 I ended up reading a Sid/Geno fic called And Never Been Kissed and I was absolutely hooked. At the time of reading this I had:

1. Never watched a game of hockey in my life (side note, I don't think I can understate how little hockey coverage there is in the UK. Even the most ardent sports fan would probably not be able to name a single NHL player or team. Not even Sid! Not even Gretzky!)

2. I had no idea, nor any desire to look up who these people actually were. It was just like reading really well written original fiction.

For the next 7 years I thoroughly enjoyed hockey RPF and created (in my mind) entire personalities and appearances for Sid and Geno, along with all the other 'characters I came across regularly in hockey fic. Sid, I got pretty close to the mark. Geno, not so much. One day I will try and find some reference pictures for what I thought they looked like because it’s quite hilarious. When I re-read fics I love from during that time I laugh because I remember my Sid and Geno and how different they were from reality.

So, hockey was sort of in my life from 2015 but exclusively in the form of fics. I would scroll through the actual hockey bits of works because I didn’t understand the rules and why every single fic was an AU where professional sports people were allowed to fight each other mid game.

At this point I’d left university, and because I no longer liveblogged football games, I found I really missed sports fandom. Another sport I grew up watching and loving was Formula 1 so when lockdown hit in March 2020 I started liveblogging F1 races to pass the time (and still do sometimes - now over on @vroomlive). I loved/still love F1blr, but it didn't quite fill my fandom itch because:

1. We joke about it, but F1 is a deeply unserious sport run by a dire organisation (Liberty Media). They change the rules every week and it's managed badly to the point of being comical. There have been a few major cock ups over the years (including the 2021 championship literally being taken away from the rightful winner and given to someone else. To put this in hockey terms: imagine a completely valid goal being overruled in the last 5 minutes of the Stanley Cup final and then the ref deciding to give the other team a 5 on 3 powerplay Just Because) all of this is quite disheartening for long term fans - and has resulted in quite a fractured and angsty fandom.

2. There are only about 20 F1 races a year - so it's just not a sport that's on regularly. I love sports, and I want to watch sports all the time - so a sport that only gave me content every third weekend or so just wasn't really enough for me.

At this point, when I was feeling rather sports fandom bankrupt, the wonderful work of Sid/Geno writers and the influence of the tumblr dashboard converged. I worked this out by scouring my AO3 bookmarks - in April 2021 I read a Sid/Geno fic called Game Plan that I fell head over heels for. I’m still not quite sure what about this fic grasped me so deeply but I started reading a lot more hockey RPF.

Around the same time an F1 blog I followed started posting about Mat Barzal All. The. Time. I had no interest in this man and did not know he was a hockey player but over the course of about a year I became vaguely exposed to hockey content on Tumblr through that blog, and at some point in early 2022, saw Sid on my dash for the first time. I don’t remember the exact post but I remember seeing the name, doing a double take and thinking oh Shit! That’s Sidney Crosby from fanfiction! I was flabbergasted because in my mind Sid was in his early 20s tops, so seeing this early thirties, bearded, fat bottomed man on my dash and realising that that was Sid was such a shock.

My hockey lurker era lasted from mid 2022 to early 2023 and I spent a lot of time, um, lurking. That sounds so creepy. I suppose I had never thought about actively joining a fandom before because my fandom engagement (one direction > football > f1) had all happened really organically so actually choosing to join a space as an adult was quite an interesting process.

By summer of 2023 my husband’s job changed again meaning he works away from home most weeknights and suddenly my late nights were extremely free because I’d hang out with friends and then go home at 10/11 to an empty house which I hated. I really found myself wanting to make fandom friends and have an at home hobby I could do late at night before going to bed so taking on a sport that happened 12am-2am (timezones!) seemed like a good fit.

Alongside this on a totally separate track was my longstanding interest in fandom - most of my professional work/research is pretty standard psychotherapy stuff but I’ve done a little bit of work over the last few years looking at sex therapy (not as sexy as it sounds) and I have a real interest in the role that fandom and especially shipping/fic plays in shaping and expressing sexuality. It’s a bit of a back burner research topic for now but I suppose over the years researching fic and expressions of sexuality via fandom and shipping has just made me fall in love with fandom itself a little bit.

Plus having lurked around the edges of hockeyblr for a while I was just like, yeah, I really want in on this, this seems like an awesome community. The reason why I chose the pens was pretty straightforward - I felt like I knew Sid and Geno and after exploring the real life hockey, I, like most of us, was quite struck by who Sid is as a person and was just completely enchanted. Another side note - hilariously, when my husband first saw a picture of Sid last year he immediately said “Oh, he looks like me!” - do with that information what you wish.

I really eagerly awaited the start of the 2023 season and without sounding too soppy, had already fallen in love with you guys before I ever watched a live hockey game. Every fandom has its difficult corners (pensblr included!) but I can honestly say - especially after the chaos of spending my teenage years knee deep in 1D fandom and my early and mid twenties in various parts of sportsblr - being part of this space has been the most lovely, fun, friendly, lighthearted, positive and beautiful fandom experience I’ve ever had. I feel like it’s the goldilocks zone of all the previous fandoms I’ve been in and I love it.

So yeah! That is the extremely long winded answer to your question, anon. I hope this is the ‘lore drop’ you were looking for lol

TLDR: I stumbled my way through sportsblr until I accidentally ended up here and I’m never leaving.

#ask luce #this has been a very interesting reflective exercise so thanks for the question anon!#also if you recognise some of this it’s because I’ve ripped chunks of this out of dms I’ve sent people recently because time efficiency #I’m also nosy and now want to know all of your tumblr journeys so I might even turn this into a tag game lmk #anyway thus concludes my blog history. feels appropriate at this point to say thank you to the lovely friends I’ve met here #you’re all wonderful wonderful people and I love sharing this little hobby with you 💘

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johnkrrasinski · 3 years

Text

started from a call

full masterlist

Pairings: Bucky Barnes x female!reader

Word count: 3,610

Warning: angst with a happy ending! that's all.

Summary: written for @wkemeup's 9k writing challenge with the prompt "character a leaves an embarrassing, drunk message on character b’s voicemail and spends the rest of the night trying to discreetly delete it from [b]’s phone." inspired by a bit of ross and rachel from friends too. you found out from steve that bucky was in love with you in high school but after he returns home with a girl in his arm, you cancelled your plans to tell him how you feel. will you and bucky have your happy ending?

a/n: please like, reblog and leave a feedback. :) enjoy!

"Alright, I'll see you tonight. Bye." He leaned against the kitchen counter and hung up the phone with a grin on his face. "You hear that, Sam? We're going on our third date tonight." He threw his phone up into the air and caught it so casually without spilling a drop of his coffee sitting on his right hand. "Looks like I'm getting that 300 bucks soon."

"Hey, easy. You ain't going to that date yet, who knows? She could bail on you. It doesn't count if the date doesn't end well."

"Oh, but it will. I just gotta turn on my charm and next thing you know, we're already meeting the parents stage."

"Meeting the parents? That's a big step from you, Buck."

"Hey, I'm a man of my words. If I said that I'm going to change this year then I'm gonna stick to it."

"So Leah isn't just a one-time thing to get 300 bucks?"

"Maybe yes, maybe no. We'll see how tonight goes. But one thing's for sure is that I'm getting that 300 bucks."

Sam and Bucky made a bet as their New Year's resolution that Bucky would never go on a second date with any girl or remember to call her in the morning after a wild night. His commitment issues had given him a reputation as the player in the gang. It wasn't a new thing anymore to anyone that when they visited Bucky's place in the morning, they would see a girl with a dopey smile and slightly ruffled hair walking out of his apartment, giddy that Bucky just made a promise to call her later.

You, Natasha, Wanda, Sam and Steve were hanging out at Nat's place. The six of you had been friends since college. You, Nat, Bucky and Steve had known each other since high school and the four of you kept in touch despite going to separate universities. You met Wanda when you went to NYU and Steve met Sam while he was in Harvard. Long story short, after the four of you graduated, you and Wanda lived together as roommates and even started your own bakery business. Steve and Bucky lived in the same building as you and Natasha and Sam lived nearly alone. They were too independent for roommates. Don't even start on Natasha and how much she valued her personal space. That's how the six of you ended up here, gathered at your place on a Saturday afternoon.

"Are you gonna pick her up tonight?"

"Of course. Gonna clean up well, bring her some flowers and knock on her door at 7 pm precisely. Which girl isn't gonna fall for that?" Bucky walked over to the couch you and Nat were sitting on and leaned on the headrest, his arms caging both you and Natasha.

You didn't say anything nor did Natasha because she knew about your feelings for Bucky. Despite never feeling that way about Bucky in high school, your feelings changed a week ago after learning that Bucky used to be in love with you but never had the courage to tell you. That's why he never had a girlfriend during his high school years and he wanted to take you to prom and confess his feelings to you but he was too late. Another guy had already snooped in first.

You were his first love but it wasn't reciprocated until now. That's why in college, he learned how to get over you and slept with as many women as possible because he felt like he lost four years of his life of finding the one. He never intended to be a player and feed girls empty promises, it just kind of became his way of dating. He was too afraid that no one could live up to you yet he enjoyed being with women. Hence, the bet.

The day you found out from Steve about Bucky's past feelings for you while playing truth or dare, you immediately wanted to call him up but Bucky was out of town for a few days and as soon as he was back home, he had Leah in his arm. Your heart was crushed. Wanda told you that it would probably last for a few days and that he'd eventually be single again but you totally did not expect this thing to turn into something serious. You loved Sam with every fibre of your being, he was like the big brother you never had, but you wanted to curse him for making that bet.

So you just rolled your eyes and stayed silent throughout this entire conversation, even though your heart felt like it was being stabbed over and over again. "Alright, I gotta go. Got a big date tonight. I'll see you guys in a few hours." Just like that, Bucky walked out of the room without knowing the pain his words caused you.

The next day you were sitting in your bed watching The Notebook in your pyjamas because you were too heartbroken to do anything productive. It was Sunday so you could just have a whole day to yourself and do absolutely nothing but cry. Wanda knocked on your door bringing a plate of cookies and she had a pitiful look on her face. "y/n? Sweetie? I made you these cookies, they might make you feel better." Sometimes you thank the stars for bringing her into your life.

"Thank you, Wanda. You're so nice to me." You know you probably sound like a hormonal whiny kid but everything made you cry at the moment.

"Do you need anything else? I know how it feels to get your heartbroken, trust me. When me and Vision had a fight and we didn't talk for days all I wanted was to curl up and never leave my bed, so in case you need anything, I'm here." She offered you that warm smile of hers.

"No, all I want right now is to just eat these cookies and go back to my film, thanks Wan."

"Okay, I'll be outside." Your pity party was interrupted when Nat arrived in her leather jacket and burst into your room.

"Get up, you are taking a shower and you're getting that face beat."

"Natasha, what the hell? Leave me alone."

"Y/N, listen to me. I got a date for you. His name is Scott and he's a real nice guy, he's funny, he's a good friend of mine and he is really smart. He is so much better than Bucky, I promise you. Now c'mon, I already told him that you are meeting him tonight at Stark's restaurant at 7."

You whined, doing anything you can to get her to leave you alone with your tears and your cookies but you knew that once Natasha set her mind on something, there's no talking her way out of it. Damn that woman with her determination.

"Y/N, c'mon! Wallowing all day isn't you. I know you and what's good for you. That's why I found you a great guy who will charm you so good that you will forget Barnes even existed. You can't let him win, y/n. If he's going to be happy with someone else, then you better show him that you can be much happier with other people."

You stared at her, trying to absorb her words. There's some wisdom in that. You're not the type to cry over a guy, not even for even Bucky Barnes. So you let Natasha drag you to the shower and asked Wanda to do your hair when she does your makeup. She chose an outfit for you, a dress that was not too sexy but chic enough to leave a good first impression.

Scott was early to the restaurant and he looked elated to see you. He was wearing a grey suit with no tie and he had a really exuberant smile on his face, the type that drew people easily. You could see why Natasha called him a nice guy.

"Wow, sorry, I just- didn't expect you to be this beautiful."

"Ah, thank you, Scott. Have you been waiting long?"

"No, not at all. I just arrived here like five minutes ago."

The night went on and Scott did most of the asking and talking, you answered each question curtly with forced enthusiasm in your face and body language. You weren't even listening to half of the things he said because your mind kept playing images of Bucky with Leah and how you heard from Sam that the date went well so he lost 300 bucks. You kept thinking about Bucky and Leah and how they would probably get married and have kids and live in the suburbs with a golden retriever while you'd still be single and you'd compare every man you meet to Bucky. Maybe it was your karma for not reciprocating his feelings in high school.

Five glasses of wine and you spent more time nodding than talking. Honestly, all you wanted to do was to just go home and go back to The Notebook because their love story was much better than your love life. Scott woke you out of your daze, "Natasha told you that I was cuter than this, did she?" after you gulped your sixth glass of wine.

"Oh Scott, I'm so sorry. It's not you, it's me. I know it sounds cliche but it's just... I'm not in a place where I'm looking for a boyfriend. You are a really likeable guy and I swear, if we had met at another time, maybe I would be a better date but right now, I just- I have someone else in my mind." You sighed, it felt like a relief to get that off your chest.

"Is this guy... an ex-boyfriend?"

You chuckled, "no... He wishes."

Scott nodded, "look, I don't know what your situation is but I've been through a divorce and it's never easy. But eventually, you'll be fine. You can't see it now because you haven't had closure." Then it was as if the bulb above your head was turned on.

"That's it. Closure, yeah. That's all I need. Okay, give me a minute. I'm gonna call him now and I'm going to get my closure."

Scott sat there watching you comically trying to find your phone in your purse and tapped on Bucky's contact number. The normal you would be sweating with every ring but intoxicated you had no worries in the world... For now.

"This is Bucky. Can't pick up right now, leave a message." Beep.

"Hello, yes, Bucky! Or James, should I call you James? I always thought Bucky was a weird name. Anyways, I'm just calling to tell you that I am fine and I am on a date with Scott. And speaking of dates, I just gotta tell you that I'm happy to hear that your date went well. And that, my friend, means that I am over you. That's right, I'm over you. Tell Leah I say hi." You said sarcastically.

You hung up the phone and threw your phone back into your purse. You felt like you just won a chess game.

The next morning you decided to sleep in because your heart was pounding and you could barely sit up without feeling like you might fall. You were supposed to be working at the bakery but since you owned the bakery, Wanda let you sleep it off until you recover. You couldn't remember anything from last night, how you got back to your apartment was a mystery. You tried to put the pictures together, from being forced to go on a date, meeting a guy named Sean? Simon? Sebastian? Scott! Yes, Scott. You ordered your meals and then... Nothing, it was all blurry. You weren't even sure if anything happened at all after eating your meals.

The apartment was empty because Wanda was working at the bakery and it was just you with your hangover pills. Bucky came to your apartment without knocking because Wanda told him on the phone that you were home. He greeted you with a smile and asked about your date.

"Uh, let's see. I think there was a restaurant, I know there was wine. And there's a guy, Scott and pretty much that's all I can recall."

Bucky made a yikes face. Seeing the state you were in, he could do the math (of the wine you had). You probably enjoyed the alcohol more than the guy. What a doofus, he thought. If he was the one going on a date with you, you'd definitely remember every detail from last night.

"Leah's downstairs and I'm taking her back to her place but I left my keys here last night. Have you seen it?"

"No, check the drawers. Maybe Wanda put 'em there."

"Ah, okay." He opened the drawers and found the keys to his bike.

"Did we... Speak on the phone last night?"

"Nope, my phone was dead and I didn't charge it all night so I haven't really checked it. Why?"

"Nothing, nothing. It's just... Never mind. My memories are a bit hazy right now. You should go, say hi to Leah for me."

Bucky nodded as you walked back to your room to go lie down. Your question reminded him that he should probably check his phone now because there could be work-related messages but the first thing he heard was a voicemail from you. "Oh, y/n. I got your message!"

That instantly stopped you in your tracks. Your eyes went wide and you froze. You immediately turned around and ran to grab his phone away from him. Bucky had a confused look on his face, "who's Scott?"

"Oh my God, no, Bucky, give me the phone. Give me the phone!" But it was already too late, he was already halfway through your voicemail and by the time you successfully snatched his phone out of his grasp, he had already heard every word.

Bucky stood there dumbfounded, he needed time to process everything you just said to him. "What do you- what do you mean you're over me?"

"Oh, God... Alright, um- lately, I've um- sort of, have... Feelings for you." You never had to chase a guy or confess your crush first so this felt new and my God, it was nerve-racking.

"You have feelings for me..." He said it as if he was convincing himself that his ears got it right. Bucky couldn't believe the words that just escaped through your lips, for years he had dreamed of this moment. Though never did he ever want you to make the first move but adolescent him wanted to hear you say what he'd been wanting to say to you too.

He didn't say anything for what felt like minutes and you couldn't decipher his thoughts from the look on his face. "I need to sit down," he pulled one of the dining chairs and leaned on his side in a defeated posture.

"Bucky... Please say something." You alerted him in a hushed tone, not wanting to startle him than you already did. But he didn't. He was lost at words. What the hell was he supposed to tell her?

"Look Bucky, I'm sorry for telling you this way but I had to. I just- I've been wanting to talk to you about it since you came back to New York, well- actually, since Steve told me but-"

"Whoa, Steve told you?!" He interrupted.

"Yeah, it just accidentally slipped when we were playing truth or dare..."

"Okay well," he stood up from his seat, yet he still couldn't look you in the eye. "I can't do this right now, Leah's waiting for me downstairs and I gotta go." He basically ran out of the room and slammed the door behind him, leaving you alone.

Once your hangover had begun dissipating, you decided to help Wanda at the bakery and took the night shift. She must've been exhausted from managing the bakery alone while also helping the employees in the kitchen so you told her to go home and leave it to you. The bakery's usually slower at night.

When it was nearing closing time and your employees had gone home, you decided to clean up and turned off the lights and checked everything one last time before locking the door. The bell above the door dinged and you were slightly annoyed because who the hell comes to the bakery at this hour?

"I'm sorry we're clo...sed." It was Bucky. He stood there in a black coat, with an expression you still couldn't figure out. "Bucky, what are you-"

"You have no right to tell me that you've got feelings for me." His tone was harsh, he never spoke that way to you or anyone... Ever.

"What?"

He walked closer to you, maintaining his gaze, "You can not tell me that you've got feelings for me now when I'm doing well with my life and Leah..."

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

"I was in love with you for years! Years, y/n! And you never said and did anything and now when everything's going well you're ruining it!"

"I am ruining it?" You repeated the question because you couldn't believe what you just heard. How dare he said those hurtful things to you.

"Yes! I was doing fine with Leah and now I don't know what's going to happen with me and her anymore..."

"Yeah, well, I was doing fine before I found out that YOU were in love with me and never had the balls to tell me!" You did everything you could to not cry, you hated crying in the middle of an argument.

"Hey, it's not like I didn't try. There were your ex-boyfriends and your dates and I had to move on. I couldn't wait forever! And now, now you're too late."

"Oh, so what? You're just gonna walk away and pretend that this never happened?"

"Yes, I'm going to do exactly that and I'm going to go see Leah." He turned around like he did earlier in your apartment and left you alone once again with your heartbreak.

"Fine! Go ahead and see Leah because I don't give a fuck about cowards like you or whoever you sleep with." You slammed the door and tried everything you could to not have a breakdown here because you really hated letting an argument hurt you. You sat on one of the chairs where the customers would sit and you hid your face with your hands and cried.

Not because you just lost an argument but because of what Bucky said and it felt like you had lost Bucky before you even had him. Now there was no hope left for you and Bucky, things were too complicated.

You didn't know how long you had cried there, alone, in the dimmed lighting of your shop but after you felt like the tears had dried, you wiped the traces of your tears from your cheeks with the back of your thumb. You stood from your seat and was ready to go home. You couldn't wait to eat some leftover pizzas, take a warm shower and cry into your pillows until you fall asleep.

But when you were about to leave, you saw Bucky standing on the other side of the door, watching you through the windows with a softer expression on his face. You opened the door and Bucky instantly grabbed your waist and kissed you as if his life depended on it.

You gave in to his kiss, letting him pour every desire and yearning into your lips for as long as he wanted. You grabbed his face because you wanted him impossibly closer and you shut your eyes, letting your guard down. Because it was Bucky, and you'd known him for as long as you could remember and you both deserved this moment.

Bucky eventually pulled away until both of you were running out of air. You were breathless from his kiss, you never knew he was such a good kisser. (It's Bucky and he's had a lot of women on his bed, of course, he was excellent at it. Who were you kidding?) But now that you've had your own front-row experience, you felt a tad of possessiveness at the thought of sharing those lips or any part of him with anyone else.

"I couldn't go back to her knowing you are here alone and I had thrown away what I've wanted for as long as I could remember."

"I'm glad you came back." You pressed your foreheads and you rested your hands on his chest. You could get used to this.

"I hope it's not too late to say this but, y/n y/l/n, will you let me take you to dinner and see a movie after maybe?"

"I wasn't the one who said it's too late," you halfheartedly teased him.

"Shut up, so is that a yes or a no?"

You bit your lip and nodded, "yes. Definitely a yes." You stared into his ocean blue eyes, so deep and beautiful, you could easily get lost in it.

"y/n y/ln, I'm going to put all of your ex-boyfriends to shame."

"Hm, we'll see about that." You put your arms around his neck. Then a thought crossed your mind and your smile faded away, "what are you gonna do about Leah though?"

"I'll talk to her in the morning. Let's take you home now, yeah? It's getting late."

You bit your lip and nodded, "okay."

Ninth grade you dreamed of popular jocks and athletic seniors, but little did you know that, sometimes, the one who sincerely loved you was the book nerd who loved The Hobbit a little too much.

#bucky barnes #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x y/n #bucky barnes drabble #bucky barnes imagine #bucky barnes fanfic #bucky barnes smut #bucky barnes angst #bucky barnes fluff #bucky barnes one shot #bucky barnes series #bucky barnes modern au #sebastian stan x reader #sebastian stan imagine #sebastian stan smut #sebastian stan fluff #sebastian stan angst #sebastian stan fanfic #friends to lovers

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nonstoplover · 3 years

Text

protagonist ~ joe liebgott (band of brothers)

my masterlist | my hbo war masterlist

pairing: joe liebgott x female reader

short summary: joe's assigned to search for the perfect house for easy's hq in the new town they'll soon arrive to on their way through germany and finds one with a girl in there who's like the protagonist of one of the comics he's read - courageous, fearless, heroic.

words: 2.5K

a/n: first of all, sorry for disappearing, exam season has started at my uni and i've been hella busy these past weeks (and gonna be for the following few as well, u g h ).

anyway this fic came around from a conversation i had with the lovely @now-im-a-belieber when i was telling her about an idea i had and she technically came up with the base of this. thank you, Pearl, i love you xx (i hope i did justice to your idea)

oh and let's just say i have no clue if this would have been possible, at least the exact way i wrote it.

taglist: @how-are-those-nuts-sarge @50svibes @pennyllanne @nowinnablewar

gif credit: @basilone

Four loud bangs sound against her front door right as she starts washing the dishes after they finished lunch. With her eyes widening in surprise she rushes back into the room, telling the family of three to hide as she's drying her hands in her apron before making her way to the door.

After taking a deep breath she grabs the handle and opens it. The next thing she knows is being pushed to the side as a figure storms in past her without a word. A gasp leaves her lungs as her back lightly collides with the wall, head turning to watch as the soldier barges in the house.

What is going on? Has someone found out about them?

With a hand reaching behind her back she pushes herself off the wall and hurries behind the man. Trying hard to sound completely calm and innocent she asks him what is going on, but he only barks back something almost inaudible - only a few German words reach her ears.

The soldier is moving with such speed that she hasn't got a single chance to get a better look at his uniform as he's entering every room one by one. Who is he? Worry swiftly floods her veins - more importantly, what is he looking for?

She can only pray the family has had enough time to properly hide.

As he reaches that door, she holds her breath back, repeating her little prayer like a mantra inside her head. The man comes to a sudden halt just as he steps through the doorframe and in an instant fear makes her blood turn freezing cold. She carefully moves closer to glance inside next to his body, not knowing what to expect.

And what she sees makes everything else in her mind disappear - just the thoughts of all hell breaking loose any time now move around inside.

Her best friend crouches on the other side of the room, clearly frozen mid-movement as her body is still half out of the hiding spot, eyes wide as she stares at the soldier, not a single muscle moving. It's like everyone's got frozen in time, none of the three people makes a move.

Liebgott's mind slow to catch up to what he sees - he didn't expect to see that as he rushed through the house. He's only been trying to decide whether it's a good place for Easy's HQ, as he has been ordered to do when Winters sent him ahead of the company.

His eyes then start moving around the room, trying hard to find a good reason as to why that girl is half inside the wall. A book is laying on the table next to the door, open at around the middle. With one glance at the pages he recognises the letters of the hebrew alphabet, and suddenly it all makes sense.

She's a Jew.

His breath hitches in his throat as he struggles to comprehend this new information, and just in that very moment the silence is broken by a voice. And it's not coming from either of the two girls in the room - more like it's coming from inside the wall.

One simple sentence, ending with a Yiddish term of endearment - one he can perfectly understand. It came from a woman, asking the girl crouching facing him from across the room why she's stopped moving.

There are more Jews in there.

His lungs fill with a sharp breath he's taken and he spins around, staring straight at the girl who opened the front door only minutes prior. The question must be clear in his eyes as she starts stammering in defense, her voice audibly shaking.

Joe shakes his head, stopping her mid-sentence. "No, they're Jews, I can see it," he says in perfect German, and the already pale girl suddenly seems even whiter.

He swiftly grabs her arm and pulls her in the direction he remembers finding the dining room in, trying to find a chair for her to sit down on, as she's visibly close to fainting - though the reason behind it he can't find.

(y/n) flinches with utter fear, weakly trying to resist being pulled away - he most probably is now taking her away to kill her, right? He's a German soldier, that's what his job is. But no matter how hard she tries to wiggle away, his grip is too tight around her arm and she can't do a thing.

Just when they arrive to the dining room and he kind of pushes her into one of the chairs is when Joe realises that she's scared of him - she immediately pushes the chair further away from him as soon as he lets go of her. So that's why she's shaking so bad.

"No, wait, don't be scared," he rushes to say. "I'm a Jew too."

This finally breaks the scaredness - instead her eyes fill with utter confusion. Her forehead wrinkles as she tries to make sense of what he's saying. How can a German soldier be Jewish? It makes absolutely no sense.

With a sudden wave of suspicion she moves her glance down to his uniform, examining every detail she can lay her eyes upon.

Is he not German?!

Suddenly she can see differences - details about his uniform that she's never seen on a German soldier before, and she's seen her fair share of those in the past years.

But if he's not German, who is he and what is going on?

She takes a still shaky breath and looks back up into his eyes - seeing the waiting expression on his face as he's standing there in patient silence for her to say something.

"Are you-" Her voice cracks mid-sentence. It's not good. She clears her throat and tries again. "Are you German?"

All of a sudden he bursts out laughing - so loud, and somehow so dark that her eyes widen once again. She just can't decide if it's from fear again, or only surprise.

A minute or so goes by with nothing but Joe laughing - this must be one of the most hilarious things he's heard in the past couple years. That he is a German.

Then his laughter finally quietens down to slight chuckling and he speaks up once more to confirm the truth. "No, of course not," he shakes his head in amusement. One look in her eyes tells him that somehow she still has no clue about his nationality, so he opens his lips again to give an answer to her question in advance. "I'm American. Don't worry, you're not in trouble for that," Joe points back in the direction of the room with the hiding spot above his shoulder.

A loud sigh escapes her lungs, her shoulder visibly falling a bit as she slumps more into the chair. It feels like years worth of stress and nervousness have just come to an end - it's truly like an enormous stone has rolled down from her chest and shoulders. She somehow feels free again for the first time in years.

Relief completely replaces the worry and fear in her veins as all other thoughts leave her mind. She's not gonna die. At least not today.

"They're Jewish," the soldier speaks again - and it's not a question. More like a statement.

(y/n) nods, unable to say a word as she's still overwhelmed with her new feelings.

"You're hiding them?"

She just raises an eyebrow, and Joe mentally slaps himself - what a stupid question. He could've might as well just asked her the colour of the wall.

"Since when you've been hiding them?" He corrects his question.

"Ever since the whole thing has started," she answers, her voice so quiet it almost disappears in the air between them.

"Wow," Liebgott breathes out before he can stop himself. He stares at the girl in disbelief. She looks so innocent and young - she's probably one or two years younger than him. How could she pull off something such a thing? Such a dangerous and pretty reckless thing?

"Esther is my best friend, she's been ever since we were little kids, they all are like a second family to me, I've spent most of my days with them," (y/n) explains, the relief causing her to ramble and Joe - for about the first time in his life has to struggle to keep up with the German words that come flying out past her lips. "I just had to help them, you know. I couldn't just leave them here."

"Where's your own family?"

"My parents left to France to be further away from the chaos, and my brother joined the Luftwaffe, and since then I haven't heard from none of them."

"Why didn't you leave with your parents as well?" The young soldier keeps asking, moving closer to the table and sitting down on a chair on the opposite side, facing her. Pushing his M1's strap down his shoulder he places the weapon on the table, pushing it only a little further in order to calm the girl more. He knows he probably shouldn't do this - and keep Winters waiting, but he's too curious to stop himself, he has to hear the rest of her story.

"I love this town, I was born and raised here," she shrugs as if it's obvious. "But more importantly, I didn't want to leave and let innocent people like my best friend's family suffer. I wanted to stay and fight back as good as I could."

Joe subconsciously mumbles under his breath before he can stop himself - words that praise her absolute bravery, words that give away his true feelings he suddenly feels towards her - then he has to move his gaze away from her, fearing that she sees the embarrassment in his eyes. He tries hard to think of another question while also trying hard to forget the look of the half-smiling expression that took over her face just a moment before - it does nothing good for his heart.

"Did you make that hidden room yourself?" He asks in the end, thinking back to what he saw in the room.

"Oh," she giggles - and it's the prettiest sound he's heard in a very long time. "No, my father made it when me and my brother were young and often played hide and seek. I just improved it a little so they can fit in more comfortably."

Liebgott hums, not knowing how to tell her - or if he should even tell her in the first place - how absolutely super impressed she left him with every single thing she's told him and what he's seen. It's one of the craziest things he has ever heard, and he had a fair share of unbelievable stories told to him in his life. He simply couldn't even imagine how on Earth this girl could manage to do this - and not get caught. Throughout the whole war.

In that very moment he swiftly decides that he'll go and find another house for the HQ, and that he'll somehow get back to this particular one, no matter what it takes. He wants to get to know her better. He has to get to know her better.

She's the most incredible woman he's ever heard of, read about or met. She's a woman who fits in the stories of the comics he's been reading his whole life - as the protagonist, the hero. He can't leave this town without hearing more about her, seeing her face more. That would be the biggest regret of his whole life, he can already tell.

But for now, he has to leave. It wouldn't be a good idea to keep his officers waiting even longer.

He stands up, fingers reaching out to grab his M1 before looking back into her eyes. Damn, he doesn't even know her name.

"I have to head back to my company, but I'll come back later, if that's okay with you."

Her eyes are already on his, seemingly staring straight into his soul with that intensity that lays in her (y/e/c) orbs. The girl then rises to her feet - still never breaking the eye contact.

Thoughts race inside her head, and it's like an angel and a demon are sitting on each of her shoulders, one telling her to say no whilst the other trying to convince her to say yes.

What if he only wants to use her? What if he only wants to sleep with her? Maybe force her to do so, threatening her with his knowledge of the Jewish family. He might not even be who and what he says he is. How could she know?

But on the other hand, there is this feeling she has about him. A feeling that tells her that nothing she previously thought will happen. She doesn't know what it is, but it's there, right in her chest, and she can't fight it. He seems genuinely curious and impressed, and honest. And she feels a pull towards him. She wants to see him again.

In the end, the devil on her shoulder wins, and she simply nods - right before she could change her mind.

"I'm Joe," the young soldier moves around the table, one hand held out towards her.

A glance cast down and right back up to his face she takes his hand and gives it a shake, holding onto it tightly, as if only to let him know how strong she actually is.

It probably works, 'cause he raises an eyebrow, slightly tilts his head and the corners of his lips curve up into the smallest smirk she's ever seen - but it's there.

"(y/n)," she eventually answers with her own introduction.

A few seconds pass and neither has let go of the other's hand, not yet. They just stand there, staring into each other's eyes, only the small noises of them breathin breaking the silence.

Then Liebgott blinks, clears his throat, pulls his hand out from her grip and instinctively places his fingers upon his weapon hanging from his shoulder whilst nodding towards her as a gesture of saying goodbye without words.

She watches as he turns around and walks out from the room, and after a tiny, happy sigh she follows the sound of his steps.

Just as he opens the front door and moves through it is when she arrives to the hall. Joe glances back over his shoulder for one last time, offering her a small smile, then looks back ahead of him and continues his walk as if nothing has happened. None of the past dozen of minutes.

(y/n) leans against the doorframe and watches him right until he disappears in the distance with a dreamy look in her eyes.

She can't wait until he comes back again.

.::the end::.

(might write a part two if i'll have time and you'd like to read it)

my masterlist | my hbo war masterlist

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andithiel · 3 years

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I've been feeling a bit detatched from my writing lately, but I wanted to do something for Harry's birthday. So I managed to get out 2k of, I think maybe fluff? Many thanks to @booktopusmunro for the speedy beta and encouragement ❤️ Happy birthday Harry! Sidenote: Sega Mega Drive was called Sega Genesis in the US. This fic is loosely based on a scene from the Friends episode “The One Where Rachel Finds Out”.

Start Level

“Everybody! Hey, everybody, settle down! It’s time for Harry to open his presents!”

Ron’s sonoroused voice made Harry wince as he sat cross-legged in his favourite squishy armchair. A belly full of birthday cake and the comfort of his friends surrounding him made Harry sleepy; but as he watched them all scramble to get seated as close to him as possible, a warmth rose in his chest. Ron had, of course, already sat down on the sofa closest to Harry before he made the announcement, but at Harry’s single raised eyebrow he shrugged with a crooked grin.

Harry snorted. He knew that with five older brothers, it was inevitable that Ron knew how to get to the front first. He looked around the room, trying not to tear up at the sight of all his friends gathered around, sitting on each other’s laps or perched on tables and armrests, all looking expectedly at him.

“Oh dear, what’s wrong with him?” Pansy stage-whispered to Hermione.

“Nothing,” said Harry, to let Hermione off the hook. “I’m just happy to get to spend my birthday with the people I love.”

Well, all except one, he thought. Draco hadn’t been able to get out of his work shift, and Harry refused to admit how disappointed he’d been when he’d found out about that, because it wasn’t reasonable for him to be. It wasn’t as if he expected Draco to be around all the time now just because they were sort of friends, or at least hung out in the same friend circles. But still, it wasn’t every day you turned 25 and wanted to celebrate with the people you cared most about.

Harry accepted the gift that Ron handed to him with a smile and a “Happy birthday, mate.” He tore the wrappings off to reveal a set of Wizards Chess. At Harry’s puzzled expression Ron explained. “Well, since you lost your old set I thought I’d give you a new one so we can play again!”

“Right,” Harry said with a tight smile, not mentioning that he knew damn well where his old set was (buried deep in a box in his attic because he was sick of losing to Ron all the time). “Thanks,” he managed to grind out, hoping it sounded sincere.

The rest under the cut or on ao3

“Maybe this one will be more useful,” said Blaise, as he handed Harry a thick, heavy parcel.

“Thanks Blaise!” Harry turned the package in his hands. “Hmmm, it feels like a book. Pretty sure it’s a book.” He unwrapped it. “And it’s a book! It’s— oh.”

“What, Harry?” Luna straightened up a bit to try and get a look.

“Um, nothing,” said Harry, trying to hide the Kama Sutra for Beginners behind his back. “Nothing, it’s, uh, I’ll have a closer look at this later.”

Blaise smirked and Harry whipped his head around to the stack of gifts next to him, wanting to occupy his mind with something other than the writhing bodies on the cover of the book currently taking up all the space in his head. “Who’s this from?” He picked up a big box wrapped in black paper with little golden snitches on it and a big golden bow on top.

“Oh that’s Draco’s,” said Pansy. “I promised I’d give it to you since he couldn’t make it today.”

“Right, right. Thanks Pansy,” Harry mumbled as he carefully peeled the tape from the paper, both so he wouldn’t tear it and so he could busy himself with the task instead of thinking about how Draco was holed up in St Mungo’s on Harry’s birthday.

He finally managed to get all the tape off and unwrapped the gift slowly. The sight of the box made him let out a gush of air, unable to believe that this was really real. Had Draco actually bought him—?

“What is it, Harry?” asked Hermione, trying to lean in closer to see what was in the box.

“I can’t—” Harry began, before swallowing and starting over. “I can’t believe he remembered.”

“What? What is it?” came a collective query from the group, everyone edging closer now.

Carefully, Harry opened the box to see if the content really matched the exterior, and when he’d made sure it really did, he had to pause again to blink repeatedly against the sting in his eyes. Then he picked up the black plastic box, twisting it in his hands. The room was silent, probably because few of them knew what this was.

“It’s a Muggle video game,” Harry tried to explain. “It’s… It must’ve been weeks ago, months maybe. We passed a Muggle second-hand store and I saw this and I… I made some throwaway comment about how Dudley used to have one of these but I was never allowed to play.” He stroked his thumb over the white letters forming the words “Mega Drive SEGA”, while memories of how he’d desperately wanted to play resurfaced in his mind. This console, like so many others before and after it, had not lasted long in the Dursley household. Before Harry had had any chance at trying it out, Dudley had stomped on it after the umpteenth attempt of getting past Dr. Eggman in the Oil Ocean Zone.

“Oh,” said Hermione softly in his ear, making him realise how close she was. “I remember these! Never had one myself but I sometimes played on my friend’s.”

Harry couldn’t stop staring. It wasn’t an extravagant gift, money-wise, but the thoughtfulness and the effort it must have taken Draco to find this for him was astounding. The game was almost mint condition. Draco must’ve gone back to the store to get a better look, and then found it in another store, because the one they’d seen had been old and battered. The gift made something stir in Harry, something he hadn’t allowed himself to think about before, and he wasn’t sure he was ready for even now.

“Oh, come on, remember when Draco went to Healer school and he fell in love with Keith Hendricks and bought him that ridiculously expensive non-spatter cauldron?” Ron chortled on Harry’s other side.

The room fell quiet and it took a few seconds for Ron’s words to process in Harry’s brain. He snapped his eyes up, looking sharply at Ron, whose ears had gone bright red.

“What did you just say?”

Ron’s eyes went wide and he gave Pansy, who was staring at him with a thunderous expression, a panicked look. “Uh…” said Ron, then cleared his throat several times while shrinking into the sofa. “Er… huh… ummm, non-spatter cauldron?”

“No. No, no,” said Harry, trying to wrap his head around Ron’s words. “The um, the ‘love’ part?”

Ron was now spluttering, frantically looking around the room for any sort of help from someone, and that was enough for the truth to register in Harry’s brain.

“Oh. My. God,” was all he managed to get out.

“Oh, noooo nononononono,” Ron chanted, rubbing his temples. “Noooo, I’m such a lousy friend!”

“I cannot believe this is the first time I hear about this!” Pansy snapped. “And to think that Draco confided in you, of all people!”

Ron straightened up and threw her a sharp look. “Hey! The ferret and I have a very trusting and mature friendship!”

“Yes, clearly he did the right thing trusting you with this information!” Pansy said, crossing her arms over her chest.

“Well it’s not like I’ve told anyone else! I’ve even kept it from my own wife!”

“Oh, bravo, Weasel, ten points to Gryffindor.” Pansy inclined her head in Ron’s direction and clapped her hands in mock applause. “And then you chose this moment to spill the beans, very clever. I’ll have you know that I’ve kept it a secret that he had a crush on Potter back at Hogw—” she said, but interrupted herself. “Er, nevermind.”

Harry felt like he was watching a ping pong match, his mind reeling at all this information. Draco’d had a crush on him at Hogwarts? And now he was in love with him?

“Aha!” Ron shouted triumphantly. “Who’s the bad friend now?”

“Can the two of you shut the fuck up?!” Harry said, surprised at his own words and the force behind them. “I need to think.”

“Yes! Yes, give the poor man some space to think!” Ron hastily said, his expression amix of relieved and frantic.

But before Harry had time to properly panic, the door opened.

“Well, I had to bribe Healer Merriweather by taking all her night shifts for a month, but at least I managed to get here,” said Draco as he stepped inside, impeccably dressed as ever. “Please tell me I haven’t missed the cake.” He paused in front of the doorway, looking around the room, all eyes turned on him. “What? What happened? Is there something on my shirt?” He started patting himself all over, looking for a non-existing stain.

Harry could only stare at him, at the way his hair fell into his eyes and how he had to constantly flick his head to keep it away. The flush on his cheeks from apparently having rushed from the hospital, just to be able to celebrate Harry’s birthday because he knew how important it was to him. Or maybe because he’d seen how disappointed Harry’d been when Draco’d told him he wouldn’t be able to make it and now he‘d wanted to make it up to him. The care with which he had selected a present for Harry just to make him happy. There was a swooping sensation in Harry’s stomach, and suddenly his mouth started speaking before he could stop himself.

“You’re in love with me?”

Draco froze, his eyes widening comically before flitting around the room to finally land on Ron, who seemed to try to make himself a permanent part of Harry’s sofa. After a split second, Draco leaned back into the hallway, not meeting Harry’s eyes once. “Wait, what’s that? Oh, no! I see Head Healer Patel’s patronus, oh this can’t be good, I really must be off.”

He turned around and bolted for the door, but with the reflexes of a seeker, Harry apparated into the hallway, right in front of the stairs.

“You’re in love with me,” he repeated, more like a statement now, or maybe a confirmation to himself.

Draco folded his arms across his chest, lifting his chin. “I have no idea what gave you that impression, Potter, but—”

“Ron told me. Or, well, to be fair he accidentally let it slip.”

“Weasel,” Draco hissed. “I should’ve known it was unwise to get drunk with him. That red-headed buffoon act is a great cover to trick people into trusting him with—”

He didn’t get any further, because right then, Harry decided that he needed to do what he did best: use his gut. And his gut told him that he was pants with words, especially compared to Draco. And he wanted to make Draco stop talking, so he did the first thing that came to mind. He stepped closer and pressed his lips to Draco’s. It was probably the most chaste kiss he’d ever experienced, and yet it gave his stomach that funny swooping feeling again. Draco made a funny sound, like a mix of a squeak and a sharp inhale, and Harry realised that maybe this wasn’t what Draco wanted and started to pull back. But then he was thoroughly proven wrong when Draco grabbed him by the collar and pushed him backwards until they hit the opposite wall. Harry gasped when his head thumped against it, and then again when Draco opened his mouth and really kissed him, hands still fisted in Harry’s shirt.

It was the kind of kiss that, had they not been in Harry’s hallway, it would’ve led to other things. Harry’s body responded immediately, and he desperately wanted more. But their frantic snogging came to an abrupt halt when they suddenly realised they weren’t alone anymore.

“Oh,” someone said softly, and Harry didn’t need to look to know it was Luna.

Then someone (who sounded a lot like Pansy) shouted “What?” and there was the unmistakable sound of all their friends rushing to get to Harry’s front door first, then someone else (definitely Ron) yelled, “I don't need to see that!”

Harry kept his gaze firmly on Draco, cheeks gone pink and lips wonderfully kiss-swollen.

“Let’s go to your place, yeah?”

Draco nodded, eyes bright, his bottom lip disappearing between his teeth. Harry couldn’t wait to suck it into his mouth again.

“Right, hang on for one second,” Harry said, fishing out his wand from his pocket. “Accio Draco’s present!” With a spark of satisfaction he heard Blaise mutter “Ow!” when the box undoubtedly smacked into his head as it zoomed towards Harry’s outstretched hand.

But just as he was about to catch it, Draco cast a Depulso, making the game fly towards Luna, who caught it with an expression of curiosity as she twisted it in her hands.

“I’m very happy that you like your present so much, but trust me, Harry,” Draco murmured into his ear, “there won’t be time for any video games when I get you alone.”

#drarry #drarry squad #andithielwrites #getting together #fluff #I think?#references to video games from my childhood #i had my cousin's old sega master system though #I have the peticopter theme from Alex Kidd in miracle world as a ringtone #and the start level sound as a text signal #it’s not the same if you don’t have to blow in the game and the console as an error fix

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gerryconway · 5 years

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Stan the Man

Since the news of Stan Lee's death I've wanted to write something meaningful about my own feelings for him, what he represented to me as a creator and as a human being, and what kind of impact his life had on my life. For many reasons (I was dislocated by the Woolsley Fire and haven't fully settled down since our return) I haven't had a chance to give such an in-depth appraisal much thought. Honestly, I doubt I could do a full appraisal of Stan's importance in my life even under the best of circumstances. His work and presence as an icon and as a human being helped form who I am today. To write a full appreciation of Stan I'd have to write my autobiography.

Among my most vivid childhood memories is my discovery of the Fantastic Four with issue 4, the first appearance of the Sub-Mariner. I was nine years old, and I'd been a comic book reader for years at that point. I knew about Superman, I knew about Batman, I'd read the early issues of Justice League. I was a compulsive reader, voracious (still am)-- devoting hours a day to books and stories and comics and even my parents' newspapers. (Both my parents were avid readers. My dad read science fiction, my mom loved mysteries.) I vividly recall the astonished joy I felt when my mom took me to our local library and got me my first library card. I was six, I think, and the reality of a roomful of books just for kids seemed like a gift from heaven. I won all the reading awards at school-- any competition for reading the most books in a year was over as far as I was concerned the first week. By nine, I'd already graduated from "age appropriate" books for pre-teens to Heinlein's juveniles, Asimov's robot stories, and the collected Sherlock Holmes stories of Arthur Conan Doyle. I was a total reading nerd.

And then came Fantastic Four.

I've never been hit by lightning but I have to imagine the shock might be similar to what I experienced reading that early adventure of Reed Richards, Sue Storm, her kid brother Johnny, and Ben Grimm. If you weren't a comic book reader at that time you cannot imagine the impact those stories had. There's nothing comparable in the modern reader's experience of comics-- nothing remotely as transformative. (To be fair, I suppose both "The Dark Knight Returns" and "Watchmen" come close, but both remarkable works built on prior tradition and were perhaps a fulfillment of potential and creative expectations. The Fantastic Four was _sui generis_.) Over a series of perhaps five issues, a single year, Stan and Jack Kirby transformed superhero comics in an act of creative alchemy similar to transmuting lead into gold, and just as unlikely.

They also changed my life. Because Stan credited himself as writer and Jack as artist, he opened my nine year old eyes to a possibility I'd never really considered before: I could be something called a comic book "writer" or "artist."

Think about that, for a moment. Before Stan regularly began giving credits to writers and artists, comics (with a few exceptions) were produced anonymously. Who wrote and drew Superman? Who wrote and drew Donald Duck? Who wrote and drew Archie? Who knew? (Serious older fans knew, of course, but as far as the average reader or disinterested bystander knew, most comics popped into existence spontaneously, like flowers, or in some eyes, weeds.)

Stan did more than create a fictional universe, more than create an approach to superhero storytelling and mythology-- he created the concept of comic book story creation itself. Through his promotion of the Marvel Bullpen, with his identification of the creative personalities who wrote and drew Marvel's books, he sparked the idea that writing and drawing comics was something ordinary people did every day. (Yes, yes, to a degree Bill Gaines had done something similar with EC Comic's in-house fan pages, but let's be honest, EC never had the overwhelming impact on a mass audience that Marvel had later.) He made the creation of comic book stories something anyone could aspire to do _as a potential career_.

That's huge. It gave rise to a generation of creative talent whose ambition was to create comics. Prior to the 1960s, writing and drawing comic books wasn't something any writer or artist generally aspired to (obviously there were exceptions). Almost every professional comic book artist was an aspiring newspaper syndicated strip artist or an aspiring magazine illustrator. (Again, there were exceptions.) Almost every professional comic book writer was also a writer for pulp magazines or paperback thrillers. (Edmond Hamilton, Otto Binder, Gardner Fox, so many others-- all wrote for the pulps and paperbacks.) Comic book careers weren't something you aimed to achieve; they were where you ended up when you failed to reach your goal.

Even Stan, prior to the Fantastic Four, felt this way. It's an essential part of his legend: he wanted to quit comics because he felt it was stifling his creative potential, but his wife, Joan, suggested an alternative. Write the way you want to write. Write what you want to write. Write your own truth.

He did, and the rest, as the saying goes, is history.

When I picked up that issue of Fantastic Four, I was a nine year old boy with typical nine year old boy fantasies about what my life would be. Some were literal fantasies: I'd suggested to my dad a year or so earlier that we could turn the family car into the Batmobile and he could be Batman and I could be Robin and we could fight crime. After he passed on that idea I decided we could be like the Hardy family-- he could be a detective and I could be his amateur detective son, either Frank or Joe. Later I became more realistic and figured I could become an actor who played Frank or Joe Hardy in a Hardy Boy movie. In fact, by nine, my most realistic career fantasies involved either becoming an actor or an astronaut, and of the two, astronaut seemed like the more practical choice.

Stan and Marvel Comics gradually showed me a different path, a different possible career. By making comic books cool, by making them creatively enticing, and by making the people who created comics _real_ to readers-- Stan created the idea of a career creating comics.

Stan alone did this. We can argue over other aspects of his legacy-- debate whether he or his several collaborators were more important in the creation of this character or that piece of mythology-- but we can't argue about this. Without Stan's promotion of his fellow creatives at Marvel there would have been no lionizing of individual writers and artists in the 1960s. Without that promotion there would have been no visible role models for younger, future creators to emulate. Yes, some of us would still have wanted to create comics-- but I'd argue that the massive explosion of talent in the 1970s and later decades had its origin in Stan's innovative promotion of individual talents during the 1960s.

Nobody aspires to play in a rock band if they've never heard of a rock band. The Marvel Bullpen of the 1960s was comicdom's first rock band.

That was because of Stan.

For me, Stan's presence in the world gave direction and purpose to my creative life, and my creative life has given meaning and purpose to my personal life. I am the man I am today, and I've lived the life I've lived, because of him. From the age of nine on, I've followed the path I'm on because of Stan Lee. (So much of my personal life is entangled in choices I've made as a result of my career it's impossible for me to separate personal from professional.)

My personal relationship with Stan, which began when I was seventeen years old, is more complex and less enlightening. It's a truism your heroes always disappoint you, and I was often disappointed by Stan. Yet I never stopped admiring him for his best qualities, his innate goodness, his creative ambition and unparalleled instincts. People often asked me, "What's Stan really like?" For a long time I had a cynical answer, but in recent years I realized I was wrong. The Stan you saw in the media was, in fact, the real Stan: a sweet, earnest, basically decent man who wanted to do the right thing, who was as astounded by his success as anyone, and who was just modest enough to mock himself to let us know he was in on the joke. I imagine Stan was grateful for the luck of being the right man at the right place at the right time-- but it's true he _was_ the right man. No one else could have done what he did. The qualities of ego and self-interest that I sometimes decried in him were the same qualities needed for him to fulfill the role he played. In typical comic book story telling, his weaknesses were his strengths. And his strengths made him a legend and a leader for all who came after him-- particularly me.

This has been a rambling appreciation, I know. Scattered and disjointed. Like I said, trying to describe the impact Stan had on my life would require an autobiography.

When I started thinking about Stan in light of his death I realized, for the first time (and isn't this psychologically interesting?) that Stan was born just a year after my father. When I met him, as a teenager struggling with my own father as almost all teenage boys do, Stan probably affected me as a surrogate father figure. Unlike my own father, Stan was a symbol of the possibilities of a creative life. He was a role model for creative success, like other older men in my life at the time. But unlike them, he'd been a part of my life since I was nine years old. A surrogate father in fantasy before he partly became one in reality.

Now he's gone. Part of me goes with him, but the greater part of me, the life I've led and built under his influence, remains.

Like so much of the pop culture world we live in, I'm partly Stan's creation.

'Nuff said.

#stan lee #comics #superhero #pop culture #Spider-Man #punisher #creators

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solo1y · 5 years

Conversation

A Facebook Convo; 7 Years Ago

Timothy O'Fallon [in a status update about his bible study group]: Let's do this Hemingway style (except badly): Exodus. Tomorrow. We journey The Bible in 1 Year then. And it will be 10AM. Climb the steps to the class above the Cafe at CCC. You might hear something new. You might not. More than likely you will. I would enjoy seeing you there. Well, except for Barry Purcell. Everyone else.

Barry Purcell [me]: You're full of bravado when you have the machinery of Florida's justice system behind you, aren't you? Remember, the restraining order runs out in two weeks. Then I can show up to your bible class any time I like and not a single person in this fine democratic nation you have can stop me.

Stupid joke time - "I had to go to a talk about Exodus, but I managed to get out of it."

Tim: That's the day I will teach the class using the gift of Tongues, Barry. And you can interpret. Ha ha! Er...wait...

Barry: I'd probably translate incorrectly: "And lo he said unto Ezekiel, 'I am shuffling. Yea, verily even unto Israel am I shuffling every day.' And every day he was shuffling."

Tim: But does He stack the deck? That's the controversy you know.

Barry: I guess if he's the one who built the deck in the first place, it would be technically impossible for him to "stack" it.

Tim: I'm telling you, you could teach this class

Barry: I don't think so, Tim. At the end of every class, I'd have to say "Just don't take any of it literally", which is probably anathema to the standards and practices department.

Tim: That would work for everything except for the stuff that was intended to be taken literally

Barry: The further back in time you go, the more likely that it's a more helpful approach to the material, regardless of the intentions of the author.

Tim: Chronological snobbery! Personally, I subscribe to the notion that determining what people mean when they say or write something is critical to understanding what they said or wrote...no matter how far back you go.

Barry: The further back you go, the less literally you have to take what was written in order to understand it. Not only are the earliest documents historically inaccurate, but they don't seem to understand "historical accuracy" even in theory. It's a relatively modern idea which we are imposing on the ancient texts, expecting them to bend to our conception of what "accurate" means. Whose fault is it when they snap under the strain?

A wonderful example is the literature of prophecy, which always, without exception, tells you nothing at all about the future and everything about the people making the predictions. This is true of all predictions made my any people in any culture, ever. But you'll miss that entire layer of reality if you interpret the prophecies literally.

Tim: I see historians (including very good ones) impose modern ideas of history on ancient texts all the time. Finding instances of that sort of thing is one of my most amusing pasttimes (pathetic, I know). But we mustn't mistake that sort of misdeed with the equally false notion that the ancients never intended to relate something that actually happened. That's not a modern idea at all, any more than the embellishment of events is exclusively an ancient habit. There is far less separating you and I from an ancient Chinese calligrapher or an Akkadian scribe than not, a fact that modern historians are at great pains to point out in every area of life except that of writing. Again, I find that amusing. And again, I continue to find it instructive and intellectually fulfilling to try to discern what an ancient writer actually inteded to say. In the case of Scripture, I find it a lot more than intellectually fulfilling. *********** Regarding prophecy, of course prophecy tells you nothing about the future if in fact prophetic prediction of the future is impossible. Ever. But one thing it DOES dell you abou the "people making the predictions" is that they were the sort of people who believed you could make true predictions about future events. And again I find that at least in this way, they aren't much different than me. And this adds a layer of "reality" to me that a skeptic, by definition, cannot attain.

Barry: I'm a skeptic and I accept that they were the sort of people who believed you could make true predictions about future events. You get those sorts of people today too, and their predictions are just as accurate at predicting the future.

Also, it's not so much that they never intended to reflect reality, it's that they would have been unaware of the psychological construct of a 'metaphor'. They frequently used metaphors to reflect their reality in a way that we wouldn't, at least not without flagging it down first. It wasn't a question of 'accurate' or 'inaccurate'. They just didn't think of things in those modern terms. However, as you say, once you are made aware of the common symbol database to which all our cultures refer (thanks to the good work of people like Joe Campbell, Carl Jung and James Frazer inter alia), it becomes easier to work out what the authors of these ancient works were getting at.

As far as I know, the Greeks were the first people to understand this, the first people to question their divine myths, the first people to even be aware of the fact that they could be questioned, and hence philosophy.

Tim: The Greeks were not the first people to question their divine myths, though they may have been among the first to misunderstand their own myths, or mythology itself for that matter. Their work in that area has certainly flourished in modern times. And becoming aware of the symbol databases to which all our cultures refer does indeed, in my view, give us some excellent tools to misunderstand the ancients more conveniently. As far as the ancient unawareness of the psychological construct of a metaphor goes, if by that you mean that they used metaphor much more brilliantly than we do today, and that in most cases they had a much greater understanding of how it ought to be used, I would agree with you wholeheartedly. And you missed my point about the skeptic (I am a skeptic too, just about different things). It was a joke. The skeptic can't share the layer of reality in which he identifies with the belief in prophecy. Now that I've explained it, it doesn't seem funny any more.

Barry: Oh well if you're identifying with prophecy in the sense that you think it's true, then yes. That facility will be denied the skeptic. At least until one of them comes true. Then the skeptics will all be on board.

I don't think they used the metaphor more brilliantly than we do. It was just a different way of looking at things. The Greeks may have misunderstood their own myths, but let us not forget that Socrates, the inventor of philosophy (more or less) got sentence to death specifically for the crime of blasphemy.

Timothy: Of course they won't be on board. See, told you I was a skeptic on some things. **** The way the ancients looked at metaphore was infinitely more mature, subtle, and poetic than the modern method. That's what I meant by brilliant. Admittedly, they were less encumbered by psychological theory and the new philology, but I think that's a good thing. And Socrates was sentenced to death in part for blasphemy, but everyone then as now knew very well that is not why he was sentenced to death. You might say he died of metaphor.

Barry: Blasphemy was the charge on the ticket, but of course he was killed for more practical reasons.

Socrates had absolutely no fear of anything; felt like he was on a divine quest to improve the lives of everyone in the world; never wrote anything down himself (so we are forced to rely on the accounts, often written long after his death, of others who make various claims on him); amassed a small gang of followers who delighted in his witty and intellectual take-downs of establishment and authority figures; tried and failed to reject his responsibilities; had his early life (at least the first 30 years) completely shrouded in mystery, relegated to one or two anecdotes; refused to defend himself properly against the charges of blasphemy when called upon to do so; accepted the death sentence even though it was well within his power to avoid it; and ultimately put more value on the truth than his own life.

You might indeed say that he "died of metaphor".

Tim: And we know all this about him because we believe we have ascertained the intent of those ancients who wrote about him. Barry, listen, I just think that when we apply modern theories of interpretation to ancient authors (the "what he REALLY must have meant (even without realizing it)" school of interpretation, we do the author a disservice. And I think we are further from understanding him or her, not closer. For example, I doubt very much I have ever met anyone in my life more misinterpreted than you. I see it happen all the time: you say something clever, it gets interpreted as a personal insult, and a personal insult gets thrown at you in return for your non-insult. But unlike the ancient authors, you are right here to clarify what you intended. Still, the person who originally misinterpreted your intent holds fast to their misinterpretation. It is comic and a little sad. But it shows that people prefer to interpret things based on their perception of things (such as the perception that you are an offensive little snit) rather than the intent of the author. Imagine, if it is that bad for you, how badly our modern perceptions - even ones not formulated by the Jungian school - mangle the intent of the ancients, who aren;t even here to clarify. In my class, I teach (or try to) on the theory that before we can evaluate anything about a text, we first need to do our best to figure out what the original author of that text intended it to mean. Sometimes, as you pointed out, they have a different way of looking at things than we do, and so of course that goes into determining their intent as well. But I do not subscribe to the notion that just because an author is ancient, that he thinks COMPLETELY differently than we do, or that the further back we go the more alien it is when he writes "the emperor made a sacrifice to the gods to cure his toothache" (oracle bones) or "and he shall be like a tree planted by the rivers of water that bringeth forth his fruit in his season; his leaf also shall not wither, and whatsoever he doeth shall prosper"(psalm 1). The intent of the author is comprehensible because we are more alike than not; the distance between us in time does little to distance us in basic inference or the conceptions that follow from it.

Barry: Fair enough. My original concern was that not so much that we might think of modern ways of interpreting texts as "better", but that we would subconsciously parse all those ancient texts through our modern filters *before* we even get around to asking what the author meant. We are often unaware of how much damage we can do to an ancient text just by deciding what does or doesn't count as inside the parameters of what the author meant, and we are often unaware that we're even doing it.

Nothing I've said here is peculiar to the bible, by the way. All this would work as well for the Iliad, or any other ancient text. Despite the sterling work of Schliemann, we may never know for sure what went on at Troy, or if it happened at all. But *something* happened to cause some literary masterminds to record it. And that's as good a start as any.

Maybe what I'm saying is that the further back we go, the less likely it is for us to encounter literal, accurate history in the modern sense, because there was no modern sense of literal, accurate history back then. Does that sound better?

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