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seikilos-stele · 7 months

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Izzy, Ed, and Saying “I’m Sorry”

I saw a post recently that said Ed’s apology (“sorry about your leg”) was fine actually, because that’s just how Ed and Izzy are, it’s just how they talk.

So I wanted to stress: that’s how Ed is. That’s not how Izzy is.

When Izzy apologizes, it’s: “I said some things I regret last night. I don’t think you’re a shell of a man or a twat.” And: “Ed, I’m sorry. I’ve been terrible to you. I fed your darkness. Blackbeard. For years I egged him on even though I knew you’d outgrown him.”

In S1 and S2 we see how izzy apologizes. He acknowledges his wrongdoing in specific “I” statements — “I did THIS, and I regret it,” “I did THIS, and it was a terrible thing to do.” When Ed apologizes it’s “Sorry about your leg.” Not “Sorry for what I did to your leg,” and no eye contact.

Some people think that Izzy’s response, “Fuck off,” is evidence that he doesn’t accept Ed’s apology, but I disagree — I do think Izzy accepted. I think it’s the most he’s ever gotten from Ed and he knows he’s not going to get anything better. Ed himself says he’s never apologized before, and only does it (not to Izzy but to the crew) when Stede makes him.

It’s worth analyzing how the two apologies are treated by the narrative as well. When Ed apologizes, all is forgiven; he gets his crew (“Ed, they love you”), he gets his lover and his happy ending. For Izzy, the narrative isn’t so kind. In one case, his apology is met with deceit from Ed — to prevent Izzy from further apologizing (by leaving the ship) Blackbeard lies to Izzy and says he plans to kill Stede, then maneuvers Izzy into doing it for him. Only to let Izzy be banished, because he never really wanted Stede dead in the first place. To recap, Izzy is mean to Ed in private; he gives a sincere, unprompted apology the next morning and tries to repent by leaving the ship; he is narratively punished with a humiliating duel and banishment.

In S2, Izzy apologizes to the crew by protecting them from the Kraken, and he IS narratively rewarded for this. His wordless apology results in love from the crew, acceptance, and support. It’s worth noting that we never see Ed make the same concerted effort to change his behavior. Stede tries to push Ed into it, but Ed resists — he rolls his eyes, he treats it as a joke, and he tries to convince his crew that they actually enjoyed being tortured. This is very different from Izzy, who quietly changes his ways without being forced or prompted.

In the finale, Izzy apologizes for feeding Ed’s darkness and absolves Ed for the way he mutilated Izzy in the S1 finale and first two episodes of S2. These mutilations are physical acts including multiple amputations and forced auto-cannibalism; Izzy still bears the scar from his suicide attempt following the final and most severe amputation. Izzy gives a high-quality apology for his mean words (“namby pamby in a silk gown pining for his boyfriend,” “I serve Blackbeard, not Edward. Edward better watch his step.”) Ed doesn’t apologize for choking Izzy, for cutting off his toes and feeding them to him, for shooting him or for goading him into suicide; he certainly doesn’t apologize for lying to him back in S1 about Stede. As we all know, while Izzy dies, Ed doesn’t apologize at all. Izzy gets only one apology from Ed in S2. It’s a low-quality apology vaguely referencing Izzy’s leg, without taking responsibility for it. Ed’s apology is the same distant statement of pity that we might hear from Lucius or Black Pete upon noticing that Izzy is disabled. “Sorry about your leg” — not as in “I’m sorry for what I did,” but as in, “Wow, it sucks that that happened to you. And it has nothing to do with me.”

It’s made worse by the fact that Ed can’t just apologize to Izzy. It’s Izzy who approaches Ed, awkwardly extending the olive branch. Ed rebukes Izzy for avoiding him and makes a judgmental comment about Izzy’s recent uptick in drinking, then seeks out Izzy’s reassurance/comfort (“It feels like a storm’s coming…”). Izzy refuses to give Ed the comfort he seeks, and it’s clear that this bothers Ed; it’s a departure from their usual dynamic.

Ed has to work up to an apology over the course of a brief conversation where the first thing he does is subtly reprimands Izzy for avoiding him. Ed’s priority is not to say he’s sorry; it’s to make sure Izzy knows Ed is upset about the silent treatment and then to seek comfort for Ed’s own emotional turmoil. Contrast this with both Izzy’s apologies: in S1, when Ed approaches him, Izzy squares his shoulders and apologizes right away. There’s no waffling about it; it’s clearly been weighing on his mind, and he needs to say he’s sorry before the conversation veers elsewhere. In S2, Izzy is literally dying; he asks Ed to stay with him, and then launches directly into his apology. There are no insults; there’s no cattiness; he doesn’t try to make Ed feel bad for being hurt.

Conclusion:

There’s a world of difference between Izzy’s apologies and Ed’s. The first difference is in the quality. The second difference is in how the narrative treats them. Ed’s low-quality apologies are rewarded. Izzy’s higher-quality apologies are punished with banishment and death.

#ofmd critical #ofmd #Izzy hands

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buckleysjareau · 3 years

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this has been living rent free in my head pls go crazy with it

eddie trying to patch up buck’s wounds after he’s slightly injured on a call and buck saying he can do it himself, maybe eddie saying “well i’m willing to take care of you, i want to” at some point

unconditional, unadulterated / 1.8k you did tell me to go crazy...

It happens just as there’s a flashover. Buck just barely makes it out the front entrance of what used to be a two story home when the flashover happens and thanks to the adrenaline, there’s only a dull pain in his calf from landing on it rough during his escape. Even as Hen asks if he’s hurt anywhere, the ache— he wouldn’t even call it a pain— wasn’t even enough to mention.

As the adrenaline wears off, though, he realizes that it’s a little more than just an ache. It starts to hurt a touch more even as it’s resting on top of his turnout coat placed on the floor of the truck. It sucks but it’s manageable, nothing he hasn’t dealt with before. He only has to finish out the last hour of his shift then he can go home and ice it.

His optimism is dulled when the instant he puts pressure on it to walk he has to bite his tongue to keep from screaming at the pain that shoots up from his ankle to his knee. He swallows any more noises of discomfort as he tries not to noticeably limp to his gear rack, already knowing he’s not in the mood for Bobby to scold him for hiding an injury.

Which he’s not. He doesn’t think there’s any reason to say anything because he wasn’t injured. He was told that he’d might have pain flare ups for the rest of his life, this wasn’t new to him.

Except for the fact that it wasn’t a random flare up. He’d irritated an old injury by landing on it hard and there was a possibility, a small one, but still a possibility that it was injured. Finding even the thought of going to the hospital right now less than desirable is what’s keeping him from speaking up about the possibility.

“You alright, man?” Eddie’s voice pulls him out his head and it’s only then he realizes just how rough his breathing is as he tries to toe off the other boot.

He forces a smile that he hopes doesn’t resemble the grimace he thinks it does. “Yeah, never better. Tired though, that one took a lot out of me.”

Luck must be on his side tonight because Eddie doesn’t push him. There’s a little bit of disbelief in his eyes but he doesn’t push it.

Thankfully there’s no calls in the last hour of his shift and he didn’t have to move his leg until it was time to clock out. The desire to be home, in his bed, with his leg iced and elevated was almost immeasurable. He’d spent the last hour of his shift internalizing the worry that something could be hurt and if this shift alone wasn’t enough to fully drain him, the overthinking definitely helped.

He looked around him to see if anyone was around to catch him letting his guard down enough to limp and breathed out a sigh of relief when the only two people down there were people coming in from B shift. As he gets dressed into his civvies, he takes advantage of the empty locker room to openly wince and hiss whenever he’d put pressure on his leg.

He grits his teeth mid groan when Eddie walks in.

Please don’t say anything please don’t say anything please don’t say anything

“Hey, do you wanna follow me back to my place? Christopher has been dying to show you his new video game.” Eddie pauses before he smirks. “Well, I think what he said was more along the lines of he’s dying to crush you at his new video game.”

He wants to say yes, more than anything, but he just didn’t have the energy to pretend his leg wasn’t on fire the rest of the night.

Buck sighs. “Any other night I would, you know that, but I really think I just need my bed tonight.”

Something flashes in Eddie’s eyes but disappears quick enough for Buck to decipher it. “If there was something wrong, you’d tell me, right?”

Buck tries to reason with the guilt that comes when he promises Eddie that he absolutely would tell him if there was something wrong because it wasn’t a lie. Nothing was wrong, he was just in a little bit of pain. Like he kept telling himself, it wasn’t anything he hasn’t dealt with before.

The effort it took not to limp or cry out in pain as Eddie walked out with him was enough to drain him for the rest of the week.

And even as he wants to just cut off his own leg at that point, he can’t stop his heart from fluttering or his cheeks from reddening when Eddie waves at him as he drives away.

He focuses on the way Eddie makes him feel soft as he drives home instead of how bad it’s going to feel to walk up the stairs to his bed. It’s enough to get him home but by the time he’s unlocking his door, he’s out of breath from the walk from the elevator to his door.

He’s four steps up when the pain just becomes too much and he yells out as he collapses on his stairs.

As he squeezes his leg in hopes the pressure will help ease the pain he wishes he’d told someone he was hurt. He regrets not telling Bobby when he’d noticed it was more than an ache.

What if it’s another clot? It could very well be a blood clot, he’s been off of the blood thinners for a few months. Oh my God, Maddie is going to be so pissed.

He vows to never hide an injury again if he lives through this.

Then he realizes that the pain lessens just a little and he thinks maybe he can calm down because the pain that came with blood clots didn’t tend to simmer. Maybe he’s not dying and maybe the worst of the pain was over.

He’s too focused on massaging the pain away to hear the door open or the footsteps that made their way to him.

“I knew something wasn’t right.”

Buck startles, head snapping up at the sound of his best friend’s voice. When did he get here?

“Eddie? Why are you here?”

The brunette shakes his head, paces twice, then kneels in front of Buck. “I knew you were acting weird after that call. I saw the way you landed on your leg.”

“I’m,” a painful jolt that shoots up his leg cuts him off. “I’m fine, Eds.”

Eddie scoffs. “Yeah, you look real fine.”

“Not fake fine?” He can’t help himself from replying, grinning at the exasperated look on Eddie’s face.

He rolls his eyes before he stands and grabs onto Buck’s elbow. “C’mon, up you go!”

“No, no, Eddie… I can’t walk on it. Not like this.”

“You don’t have to. You’re gonna lean on me, okay? I won’t let it touch the floor.” He holds out his pinkie and Buck can’t stop the blush rushing to his cheeks at the treatment. He braces himself as he uses his upper body strength and Eddie as leverage to stand. Eddie threw his arm over his shoulder and gripped his side to keep him upright.

“Good?”

“Good.”

The journey to get from the stairs to his couch is a bit rocky at first but Eddie keeps his promise to not let it touch the floor.

“Now, do you have any pain medication you still take in case of flare ups?”

“Uh, no, not anymore. I just use Tiger Balm usually but we’re shit out of luck there. I ran out the last time this happened.”

Eddie’s expression softens, a grin adorning his face as he pulls something out of his jacket pocket. “Maybe not.”

He holds up a thing of Tiger Balm and if Buck wasn’t already in love with Eddie Diaz, that sight alone would have done it.

Eddie picks up on Buck’s expression before he can even ask the question. “Like I said, I knew something was off after the way you landed on that call so I stopped at the drugstore before I came here.”

Don’t tear up don’t tear up don’t tear up

Instead of handing it to Buck like he expected him to, Eddie is careful as he sits on the couch next to him and motions for him to move his leg towards him.

Buck scoots back and carefully moves his bad leg to rest on the couch instead of his coffee table. Eddie takes special care not to hurt him more than he was already hurting, whispering apologies whenever Buck winces. By the time he’s done maneuvering his leg it’s bent at the knee and the area where he feels the most pain is closest to Eddie.

“Does this feel any worse?”

Buck just shakes his head.

Between the soft look on Eddie’s face, his tender touches, and being so attentively cared for, Buck is left speechless.

“Eddie… you don’t have to do this. I can do this myself.” Buck has to stop himself from moaning when he massages a certain spot. “You should be home with Christopher.”

“I don’t have to, but I want to, okay?”

The way he says it is so tender and Buck’s heart flutters in his chest.

“Eds, that’s sweet, but you really don’t have to do this.”

Buck tenses when Eddie’s hand finds his and rubs a thumb over his knuckles that completely relaxes him.

“Buck, I’m willing to take care of you. This isn’t a hardship for me, okay? I want to do this, I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t. You always take care of me and it’s about time I return the favor so… let me help you?”

No amount of yelling at himself not to tear up stops the tears from blurring his vision. He’s so used to taking care of himself, he’s so used to dealing with the all encompassing pain alone and he never let himself feel the want of someone to care for him so he didn’t have to. Not until now, not until Eddie.

Eddie abruptly stops rubbing his leg and Buck whines at the loss of contact. “Hey, what’s wrong? Did I hurt you?”

Buck shakes his head. “No one’s ever cared for me like this before. No one but you.”

He doesn’t flinch when a hand cups his cheek using their thumb to wipe away Buck’s tears.

“No one.”

“Well you better get used to it, Buck, because I care about you. So much. You don’t have to suffer alone anymore, okay? Just say the word.”

“I love you.” He blurts out.

Even with his eyes screwed shut from embarrassment Buck can hear the sincerity in Eddie’s voice as he repeats the sentiment.

His leg is long forgotten, the pain back to a dull ache.

The only things Buck feels are Eddie’s lips on his and unconditional, unadulterated love.

#it's not exactly what you asked for but i hope you like it!#this turned out way softer than i planned for it too #buddie #evan buckley #eddie diaz #911 #my fics #my writing

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themaskedwriter · 5 years

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Home

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x reader

Word count: 4.6k

Warnings: Cursing

Summary: Saturdays are not for housing superheroes, and you don’t care if one of them is your army buddy and the other a cyborg who, okay, is kinda cute when he’s not clutching his twitching arm like it’s his goddamn teddybear. So of course, your tiny house becomes a tiny superhero central.

Author clues: An occasional angst queen with a sweet tooth who lives in a very fine country.

Generally, when the phone rings in the middle of the night, it’s never good news. It’s death and mayhem and all manners of misdeeds just waiting to ruin your night, your morning and possibly the entire week that follows. Your solution had been to move around a lot. If you never stay long enough in one place, then death and mayhem and all those misdeeds never get a chance to catch up with you. Unless-

“Someone better be dying,” you grunt when you answer, not bothering with greetings or pleasantries. Anyone calling at, fuck, 3.22 am can frankly go fornicate themselves.

“I need your coordinates.”

“No.”

“Come on, I promise, it’s just for the night.”

“Last time you said that, Wilson, you stayed for a week and Captain America bled all over my couch.”

At the other end of a very unstable line - is he fucking flying and calling? - Sam winces, because yeah, last time was a fucking rollercoaster of bad, and you ended up moving as soon as they were out the door and refusing to answer Sam’s texts for two weeks just to be sure you could get some actual peace and quiet.

“No one is bleeding. Much.”

“Sam…”

“I swear on my sainted nana’s grave no one will be bleeding when we get there.”

We? Jesus, did someone shoot Captain America again? You groan and roll over, pressing your face into the pillow.

“It’s just one night, I swear, we just need someplace to lay low before we can move on and haul ass back to base.”

You hate Sam Wilson. You do, you’ll put it in writing, you’ll write a goddamn op ed for the fucking New York Times listing all the reasons he is a terrible, terrible friend. All you wanted was a nice, quiet life, a little time to figure shit out after an honorable discharge from the Army, and then that idiot had to go and become a goddamn superhero with his goddamn wings and the goddamn Avengers as his goddamn squad. He owes you. He owes you so much and he’ll owe you even more- Aw, fuck.

“I’ll give you twelve hours before I kick you out on your asses.”

“You are the best, I’ve always said that, you know. The best. The goat-”

“Please, never call me that again.”

“Sourpuss.”

“I’ll bill you for anything you destroy,” you mutter, ending the call before Sam can say anything.

Rolling over on your back again, you breathe in deeply through your nose, staring at the light ceiling panelling. Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck. You text Sam your coordinates, telling him where to find the spare key because you draw the line at getting up to act as a welcome committee at this unholy hour.

>>Thanks, I owe you one. S

>>U owe me several. Don’t expect mints on the pillows and dont. fuckin. wake me. >:(

>>You’re adorable when you’re cranky. We’ll be there in about an hour.

>>Fuk u

Sam Wilson is a terrible, terrible friend, but at least he doesn’t actually wake you. He’s even up and looking far too chirpy when you crawl down from your sleep loft four hours later. Seriously, fuck Sam Wilson. Fuck Sam Wilson, and-

“I like your digs.” He hands you a cup of coffee and thankfully does not attempt a hug.

“Yeah, well, makes running away from unbidden houseguests easy,” you grunt back, taking a sip of the glorious coffee.

Sam snorts, pouring himself a cup of coffee. “As if you could fit actual houseguests in here. You’re lucky I spent half my childhood playing Tetris, or we would’ve had a problem getting in here.”

You glance over his shoulder, at the blanket-covered lump on your couch. Granted, the damn thing is from IKEA and required at least five curse words for every step in the assembly instructions, but the covering is a nice, pale shade of beige. “So who’s bleeding all over my place this time?”

“No one’s bleeding, I patched ‘im up just to preemptively get you off my ass.”

“So he was bleeding. That why you needed to crash?”

The way Sam hesitates makes it clear that blood loss is not the culprit here. You glare at him, and Sam Awful Terrible Friend Wilson rolls his eyes at you and walks past you and up to the couch, pulling down the covers.

“That’s…” You stare. There’s no better way to put it. “Sam, he’s- Why is his arm detached? Why is it wriggling?”

“We had a minor snafu. Barnes got dosed with something and it made his arm go a little haywire. It’s wired into his nervous system, so we had to do an emergency detachment until the thing is out of his system so he won’t helicopter himself into the sky or, you know, hurt anyone.”

“So why is it still twitching like a zombie limb? Please, don’t tell me he’s turning into a zombie. I can’t deal with a zombie apocalypse. I use Zombies! Run, but that’s the closest I ever want to come to the undead because even with that I fucking jump out of my skin when I start hearing heavy breathing in my ears and-”

“He’s not turning into a zombie, jeez!” Sam tosses the covers back in place, covering up Barnes and the twitchy arm. “It’s still receiving faint signals, so it’s acting like a nervous grandma. It’s completely harmless. Ha! I gotta remember that one when he wakes up.”

Jesus H. Christ. Where is a brick wall when you need one? “Sam!”

“Stark’s coming to pick us up in two hours, we’ll be out of your hair. We’ll even take the arm with us.”

You give an indignant sniff, heading back to the little ladder that leads up to your loft. “Fuck you, Wilson, I’m going back to bed and won’t come down until you and Terminator over there are out of my house.”

“Aw, come on! We’re delightful! Look, Barnes is even more delightful because he is asleep so you won’t even have to deal with him being Mr. Personality!”

You could tell him that from your perspective, Barnes is the preferable option in this situation because he is asleep and thus not bothering you. Instead, you opt for a succinct reply in the form of your middle finger and start to ascend the ladder, coffee mug tightly gripped in one hand. Saturdays are holy, okay? Saturdays are for waking up late, having coffee and then crawling back to your bed where the covers are still warm and just wait for the sun to rise high enough in the sky that you’re tempted to go outside. Saturdays are not for housing superheroes, and you don’t care if one of them is your army buddy and the other a cyborg who, okay, is kinda cute when he’s not clutching his twitching arm like it’s his goddamn teddybear.

To be fair, Sam cuts out his little comedian act, and shuts up. There’s the odd shuffling from below, but nothing more, and you manage to doze off, wrapped like a burrito in your covers. It’s almost enough to make you forget that you have houseguests.

Until Sam pinches your toe.

“Hey, sleepyhead,” he whispers, shaking your foot and you’re surprised you don’t kick him in the face.

“Piss off.”

“Delightful. We’re rolling out in five. I told Stark to bring you some decent breakfast as thanks.”

Well. Breakfast is an acceptable offering. There better be waffles, or you might need to kick Stark. With a grunt, you start extricating yourself from your covers, rooting around until you find a cardigan to wrap yourself in. Sam’s by the couch when you get down, ripping the covers from Sleeping Barnes and shaking his shoulder.

“Hey, Princess Elsa, our ride’s almost here.”

Barnes, who seems to appreciate sleeping as much as you do, tries to turn over and away from the rude awakening, but apparently manages to tickle himself on the detached arm, because the man gives a very high-pitched yelp before he very ungracefully tumbles off the couch and lands on his ass.

“Morning, Barnes.”

“Fuck you, Wilson,” Barnes grumbles with a glare that is… impressive.

“There’s coffee if you can inhale it in the next five minutes,” Sam tells him, shrugging of his umpteenth cuss-out in the last six hours.

“Bring… coffee…”

You’re not a rude host. Unwilling, but not rude. Coffee is a glorious drink, and you would never deny anyone the elixir of Life and General Functionality. You pour a cup for the man, bringing it to him, and Barnes stares at you, then at Sam, then takes a second to look around, mouth slowly falling open.

“Wilson, I think I’m-”

“What? You still not sobered up from the funky gas?”

“Either that, or I fell through the looking glass. Am I gonna grow and have my legs sprout through the window? Because that is not good,” Barnes says, gulping down his coffee and then peering up at you. “I’m not sure if you’re real, but either way, I have very impressive thighs. Hi, I’m Bucky”

He fires off a smile that is probably meant to look charming, but only succeeds in looking loopy. Sam, finally getting a fraction of the embarrassed he should be for dragging himself and this crazy ass man into your home, groans and facepalms. It is hilarious.

“Sam, I hate to say this, but I like this guy.”

“Sam, the hallucination is talking to you.”

“I’m not a hallucination,” you tell him, leaning down to pinch his left shoulder. “It’s a tiny house, made even tinier because yikes, you are built.”

Barnes, Bucky, yelps and his coffee sloshes dangerously against the edges of his mug.

“Well, that just seems very unfair to me. And Steve. Oh, jeez, and Bruce. Do you have anything against swole?”

“First of all, don’t knock it until you’ve tried it, and second of all, if you’re Bucky Barnes then I’d very much like to know who the fuck taught you the word ‘swole’.”

Bucky Barnes, the most handsome centenarian in the entire world, is a delight, all smiles and jokes, and Sam is terrible for dragging him away. A godawful wind kicks up outside, heralding the arrival of Tony Stark, and you decide this is way too many superheroes. One is acceptable. Two is pushing it. Bucky, having realized he has in fact not shrunk, takes his time looking around while they head out and ends up clipping his head and oh, how people would blush if they heard the downright filth that Sergeant James B. Barnes lets out as he stumbles down the stairs.

Stark makes a joke about custody exchanges, and you tune out more than half because he brought breakfast, and oh sweet Mary above, there are waffles. Sam and Bucky say their goodbyes, and you wave them off, too engrossed in the gorgeousness of waffles drenched in maple syrup and topped with fresh berries. For this, you could almost be okay with a superhero or two crashing for a night.

Not that you’ll ever be.

You have limits.

So of course, your tiny house becomes a tiny superhero central. First it’s Sam, again. Then it’s Stark. He almost gets his ass kicked out when he goes on and on about how you can live with the bare minimum of technology. You definitely kick him out when he wants to chip your house so people won’t have to call you at the asscrack of dawn to let you know, not ask, they are incoming. He does get back in your good graces by giving you a double serving of waffles.

Then, in quick succession, it’s Steve, Sam and Rhodey, Bucky, Barton and Bucky again. Most of them are okay house guests. Barton wins points by appearing genuinely interested in how you’ve set up your living space, quizzing you about layouts and building and the pros and cons of having your entire life confined to 240 square feet. He also loses those points when you wake up to find him sitting on the edge of the sleep loft, overlooking the house. Sam and Rhodey together is not as big of a disaster as one might think, mainly because Rhodey occasionally pulls rank on Sam and honestly? Thank god. Steve, bless him, tries to bend over backwards to not put you out, and his calls all include at least 75 permutations of an apology for calling.

Bucky.

He keeps his arm in place for the next couple of times. On the rare occasions when he’ll call in the middle of the day, he’ll always knock and wait until you open, he’ll insist on “earning his keep”, which is how you come to be the recipient of flowers, breakfast, and a very rare bathroom concerto that Bucky doesn’t know you overheard. The man has a very good singing voice, and it makes your heart skip a beat when he croons “It’s Been a Long, Long Time”. He’s the easiest to get along with, even one early morning when you wake up to his shuffling and cussing because your coffee maker refuses to cooperate. He doesn’t mind the quiet, doesn’t fret around like Stark (who insists that the laptop loaded with every streaming service imaginable and the usernames and passwords for each laid out on a sticky note that he left there is absolutely not a pity gift but a sound investment for both of your continued sanity).

“D’you like this?” Bucky asks one evening, his voice floating up from the living room area.

“I mean, it could be worse. I could be housing Stark for the night,” you quip, rolling over and making something that might be construed as a tumble to get to the edge of the bed.

“I feel like that might have been an insult wrapped in another insult. But that’s not what I meant.”

You can only see Bucky’s feet in the soft light of a lamp, peeking out from the covers. He always sleeps with his feet facing the door, always on his back. The only time he hasn’t was the first time when Sam brought him, and something in you feels bad that Bucky can’t relax even in his sleep.

“No?”

“I meant… this. Living in a small box. Moving around all the time. It’s… Doesn’t it ever get hard? After I got- When I got back, Steve almost had to fight me to move into the Tower. I wanted to go home, you know. To Brooklyn. I don’t know, it was a stupid thought, but I kept thinking if I go back, it’s all still there. The apartment we lived in, the same streets and the same shops and… my family. It felt weird to make another home, but now I don’t know if I could move again.”

His voice is soft, a far cry from the persona he’s portrayed as in the media. The Winter Soldier is hard edges and cold steel, but Bucky Barnes… Bucky Barnes is soft, a whisper in the darkness and a longing for something that’s no longer there.

“It wasn’t that hard for me, because I needed this. I was out there, in all of that big space with nothing but orders and trusting that someone else knew what we were supposed to do. I’d had a place back in Atlanta before, and I’d packed up all my stuff and rented the place to some college kids. They’d already moved out when I got back, and I thought I was gonna go nuts the first night back. That place had felt like a shoebox before I shipped out and now it was so… big. Had a friend who made these kinds of houses, so he helped me build one pretty much from scratch and my first night here I slept like a baby.”

“It’s not that I don’t like it.” God, he sounds almost a bit panicked, like he’s insulted you.

“No, I don’t mind. It’s not for everyone. I just feel I have myself better together on less than 300 square feet. I mean, I don’t go from house to house. This is still a home. It’s just a home I can move around with when I need to see new places.”

There’s a little huff. “Like the middle of nowhere, New Mexico?”

You glance back to the small window next to your bed, at the clouds tinted in burnt orange and vivid pink, the sun setting slowly into the vast horizon. “Yeah. I’ve never been here. I wanted to see it, and now I have.”

“You know, that sounds like I’m gonna wake up in the desert tomorrow morning because a bird is trying to steal my covers.”

“Don’t flatter yourself, Barnes,” you tease, crawling back to roll yourself into your own covers again. “I wouldn’t leave you with that blanket. It’s my favourite.”

“Yeah.” His voice is almost a whisper, but you can still make out his next words: “Mine, too.”

When he leaves the next morning, something feels different. He’s tentative at breakfast, burns a few pancakes and once again clips his head on the doorway heading out when Nat touches down the quinjet to pick him up. Breakfast changes hands, Nat fills you in on some gossip. Bucky’s shoulders are slumped when he trudges up and into the cargo hold.

“Wait!”

You run inside, depositing the bag of breakfast on your counter, grabbing the blanket from the couch and folding it into a mess that would pass exactly zero inspections before heading back out. Nat’s joined Bucky on the quinjet landing, and she quirks and eyebrow when you all but thrust the bunched up fabric into Bucky’s arms.

“A bit of home,” you blurt out, immediately feeling heat creep up your cheeks. “Can’t hurt to have more of that.”

Bucky chuckles, “No… I guess it can’t.”

You move three days later. The New Mexico desert makes you restless, makes you itch for something else. For a couple of weeks, you drift further and further north, looking for a place that doesn’t put you on edge. You plough through the Midwest, but there’s always something. You text Sam just to become annoyed and feel something else. He calls a couple of times, facetimes you on your birthday so the whole gang can wish you happy birthday. you smile, taking a screenshot to save the memory for a rainy day. They’re all there, sitting around an obscenely big dinner table, glasses raised, mouths open mid-sentence. Stark looks magnanimous as always, sunglasses perched on top of his head, Steve’s got an expression that’s somewhere between his Captain America-smile and a genuine Steve Rogers-grin. Bucky… Bucky is not there. Or at least you can’t see him. Maybe he’s at the very end of the table, obscured by the others. Not that you care. You don’t. You absolutely don’t. You definitely don’t look for him in the picture every time you bring it up.

You move again. It’s too calm. You’ve had no superheroes visiting in two months, no late night calls inquiring about coordinates. Stark’s laptop is shoved into a drawer where you can’t see it, there’s a new blanket draped over your couch pretending it’s always been there.

>>Coordinates?

The text from the unknown number comes in late one evening when you’re gearing up to let bygones be bygones and forget the Midwest ever existed. You could cry with how happy it makes you, even though a text means one or more of them is in trouble and maybe you should be a little worried, too. The Avengers are good people, but they’re not unlike cats, dragging others with them. Like murder bots and weird aliens. You dutifully send your coordinates, biting your lip before adding:

>>Don’t wake me, and don’t make me wake up to bad guys on my porch

>>They scare the neighbours

>>I have a reputation to think of

Your only neighbours are trees, but still. No one likes bad guys.

Setting your phone down, you tuck yourself into bed. Whoever’s coming knows where to find the key to get in. Stark, again, wanted to set you up with some biometric doohickey that would make it impossible for anyone not in the system to get in, since “keys are so unreliable, look at Parker, he could probably pick it after five minutes on youtube”. He stopped talking when you pointed out your house is a glorified box on wheels, and that there are far easier ways to get in than to pick the lock or even rush the door. You’d had to tell him he was not allowed to turn your house into a tank.

When the sun rises, waking you up with a well-placed ray right in your eyes, you expect to hear… something. Sam, Nat and Steve are all early wakers, there would be the telltale sounds and scents of breakfast being prepared. Tony, much as he tries to vehemently deny it, snores. God, is it Barton? You raise your head, and let out a sigh of relief to see the loft empty save for yourself and the sparse furnishings. Could still be Barton, he’s just learned to stay out of your nest and accept that he’s not top of the pecking order here.

But when you get down from your loft, there’s no one there. Blinking, you look around, as if whoever texted you last night will jump out from some impossible corner. The couch is untouched, everything is where you left it. Was it Bruce and he couldn’t de-Hulk so he slept outside? You check your phone to see if there are any unread text or missed calls, but there’s nothing.

>>Did you leave already?

The reply comes within seconds.

>>No. Outside.

So… Bruce? Furrowing your brow, you go pull a pair of sweats from the hamper, yawning wide before you head for the door. You’re not exactly sure what to expect, but finding the clearing you’ve set up camp in empty is… anticlimactic, to say the least.

“Hello?” you call out, stepping down the stairs, a shiver running down your spine from the cool morning air.

Nothing. The wind sighs in the tops of the trees, a crack from a branch breaking the calm. Ahead of you, something catches your eye, far too colourful to be part of the wooded area.

“What the hell?”

Folded neatly on the ground is your blanket, your old blanket, the one you gave to-

“Sam told me you’d been moving around a lot. Figured maybe you could need a bit more home.”

You yelp and whirl around to find Bucky sitting on the stairs, filling up the doorway and smiling smugly at you.

“How-” You look at him, then around at the clearing and back to Bucky, pointing at him. “You- What?”

“Sorry, I… thought it would be fun. It was creepy, wasn’t it?” He scratches the back of his head, getting of the stairs, approaching you slowly. “I wanted it to be a surprise.”

“Are you okay?” It’s second nature by now to give him a once-over, to expect bruises and scrapes and, let’s be honest, blood. Seeing nothing doesn’t necessarily mean he’s okay. These yahoos are notorious about playing off little things like internal bleedings, cracked ribs and concussions.

“What, no! I mean, yes, yes, I’m okay. I wasn’t in any scuffle. Haven’t been for a while. You can check me if you like.”

Pursing your lips, you look him up and down while you circle him, prodding at his ribs, his hands, his cheekbone. Satisfied that he’s not injured, you come to a stop in front of him.

“Not that I don’t enjoy seeing you again, but… why are you here?”

“Been travelling. Sort of like this, but without the… tiny house, was it? I thought about what you said, about home and all that, and I realized that maybe I need to reevaluate what home means. Going away to figure out what I miss and what I need.”

He raises his right hand to drag the fingertips along the soft blanket, a small smile tugging at the corners of his lips. It sounds cheesy as all hell, but your heart skips a beat, your breath catching in your throat, because he looks so content, so relaxed.

“Yeah? Did you find the answer then? What’s home?” you ask, cursing your voice for sounding breather than you ever intended it to.

“See, I packed light. Couple changes of clothes, toothbrush, the regular stuff… and this.” He takes a firm hold of the blanket with both hands, pulling it from you, shaking it out. “And I missed a lot of things in the beginning. People… things… comforts. But I learned to make do without all of those. Only thing I couldn’t get past missin’…”

You watch wide eyed as Bucky wraps the blanket over your shoulders, tugging at the ends to bring it in tightly over your chest, cocooning you in it.

“…is in this blanket,” he finishes, his gaze focused on where his hands holds it close. “I missed mornings with you. Even the first morning when I woke up feelin’ like a drunk sailor after pub crawl thinking Stark or someone had shrunk me down to the size of a bean. I missed your tiny house and your couch and your coffee and… and you.”

And you.

Maybe it’s another cliché, but you can’t help the smile, the sudden joy that bubbles up along with the sensation of right. All these days that have somehow bled into months of moving, of unease, they are drawn into this moment. They breathe a sigh of relief, settling. This is it, this is what all that drifting was about. Finding the spot where your roads would lead you to stand toe to toe, wrapped in a well-worn blanket and realize that home can grow from a warmth that accumulated over so many mornings. You push at Bucky’s hands, making the blanket part, tugging the ends from his grip to sling your arms around his neck, bringing him into it.

The kisses don’t happen until later. First, there’s the quiet, the seconds and minutes wrapped in the blanket. Then, there is breakfast and coffee strong enough to make a spoon stand up straight and slightly overscrambled eggs and Bucky’s voice drifting from the bathroom with hums breaking up the lyrics. You kiss him like you want to taste him, commit him to memory, pulling him down by his neck and drawing in a sharp breath when drops of water fall down the neckline of your t-shirt. He kisses like he’s finally at rest, safe even when his attention is diverted.

>>Coordinates? Bit banged up, wings took a hit, out of your hair before tomorrow

>>image.jpeg

>>Sorry, find another safehouse, this one’s occupied

>>TMI WAY TMI DO NOT SAY ANOTHER WORD

>>It was just a selfie!

>>IN BED

>>Get ur head out of the gutter /JBB

>>I hate you guys

You smile at the final message, setting down the phone and curling up against Bucky with a sigh. The sheets are a mess by your feet, Bucky’s body heat enough to keep you both warm.

“Occuped, huh?” he smiles, tracing your lower lip with the pad of his thumb.

You nod, pressing a kiss to the finger.

“Welcome home.”

#fic

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andaleduardo · 5 years

Note

“Dear Diary” for the red die drabble

First of all, thanks to whoever sent these

11. “Dear Diary…” 19. “You’re Satan.”

Childhood entries (AO3)

“Hey, what’s taking so long?” Eddie asked as he burst through Richie’sbedroom door.

Richie, who was squatting on the other side of the bed so that Eddiecould only see the top of his head, lost his balance and landed on his ass.Eddie opened the door to its fullness and lifted one eyebrow at the sight ofhis friend looking up at him with an ‘I’vejust been caught’ expression.

“What are you doi-”

“-Nothing.” Richie answered before Eddie even finished the question.

Suspicious and curious, Eddie got on his tip toes in a useless attempt tosee past the mattress and get a glimpse at whatever Richie was hiding from him.Not so subtly, Richie moved his arms behind his back, still sitting on thefloor. The bed standing between them was starting to annoy Eddie to a great level.

“Watcha hiding there, Rich?”

“Nothing.” He spoke quickly again.

“Uh.” Eddie nodded, lowered himself from his toes and shrugged, as if hewas ready to brush the incident off.

Richie cleared his throat but made no move to get up. The two boys keptstaring at each other until Eddie couldn’t keep it in anymore.

“So, you just left to get more pillows and ended up leaving the groupfor almost ten minutes?”

With a troubled expression, Richie stammered through his words. “Ah,funny, right? I must have lost track of t- AH!”

Eddie didn’t let him finish. Like a predator in attack, he launchedhimself onto the bed and jumped Richie’s frame on the other side, desperately tryingto grab Richie’s arms from behind his own back to retrieve whatever he was hiding.Turned out he didn’t have to do much, for Richie fell backwards with the scare,making him shoot both arms forward in order not to crash them under his weight.A small black notebook came into view and Eddie wasted no time in tearing itout of Richie’s hand.

Eddie crawled back onto the bed and got up on his, luckily, shoeless feet.He struggled a little bit with his balance but managed to stand with an armabove his head, the notebook on his hand. He watched, amused, as Richiescrambled to get on his feet with a terrified expression, ready to jump Eddie’sbody just to retrieve his precious belonging.

“No-no-no!” Eddie exclaimed while holding his free hand out between thetwo of them. Richie stopped with his leg already propped up on the mattress. “Ifyou so much as touch me, I’ll open this notebook right the fuck now.” Eddie threatened.

Richie whined helplessly, a troubled pout looking up at Eddie. Heattempted to move again, both hands grabbing the air in desperation, but Eddiecut him off with a warning.

“Uh-uh!” Eddie stepped back. “Don’t test me, I’ll do it!” Slowly, andnever looking away from Richie, Eddie lifted his free arm until he had bothhands on the notebook, ready to open it at any given time.

Richie whined again, his mouth falling open many times like a fish. Eddieflipped the pages with his thumb, making Richie’s breath hitch.

“You’re just making me more curious, you know?” Eddie asked. As aresponse, Richie mumbled something under his breath. “What was that?”

“I said that’s private!” He blurted out.

Eddie sighed and sulked a bit, lowering his arms. “Well, in that case…”He handed out the notebook. “Take it.” Relief took over Richie’s face as heaimed for the notebook, but before he could grab it, Eddie snatched his armabove his head again. “So is it like a journal?” Eddie smirked.

“You’re Satan, Eddie Kaspbrak!” Richie screamed before finally followingEddie up on the bed. The smaller boy screamed with adrenaline before jumpingoff the other side. This started a full on race within the small space of Richie’sbedroom, and Eddie couldn’t help but giggle. It was fun.

“Is it a diary?” He exclaimed over his shoulder while jumping over apile of laundry on the carpet. He hugged the notebook close to his mid-section.

“Fuck you, that’s what it is!” Richie groaned when they foundthemselves, once again, separated by the bed. Both of them stopped. For a few secondsthey could only hear each other’s heavy breaths from the small run until Eddiespoke again.

“So, a diary it is.”

“WRONG!” Richie screamed before snapping both hands over his mouth.Eddie jumped, startled, and noticed Richie’s face turning pinker by the second.

Eddie looked around for a second, trying to formulate a plan. “It’s nobiggie. You can read mine, too.” Eddie shrugged. He was trying his hardest notto laugh.

“You don’t have a fucking diary, Eds. GIVE IT BACK.” Richiedidn’t wait another second to jump over the bed.

“NO!” Eddie screamed and turned around, running out the bedroom dooronto the hallway while snapping the diary open. “DEAR DIARY, TODAY-”

“I WAS FUCKING TEN YEARS OLD!” Richie ran off after him, shouting outthose words as an excuse for whatever he wrote down eight years ago. Eddie kepton reading the embarrassing entry as they burst into the living room, where Bill,Stan and Mike were entertained playing ‘go fish’ while they waited for both ofthem to come back.

Eddie started running around the living room, jumping over blankets,pillows, almost falling onto the coffee table and finally managing to climb onthe couch where the boys were sitting. He glued himself to the wall behind thecouch, leaving Bill, Stan and Mike as a safety barrier between him and Richie.

“-Today Stanley fell on a puddle on our way to school- oh fuck!” He exclaimed when a pillow hithim in the head. “What was that for?”

“What was that for?!” Richie threw his arms in the air. “You’re readingmy childhood diary in front of our friends!”

“You wrote about me falling on a puddle?” Stan asked, annoyed, as he snatchedthe notebook from Eddie’s hands. Richie groaned and plopped down on the coffeetable, sitting over the deck of cards.

Stan worked his way to a random page and cleared his throat. “Deardiary, me and the boys went to the Aladdin today, the movie was gross. The bestpart was Bill falling off the stairs. I think my friends fall too much. I couldn’tstop laughing but Bill didn’t cry. If it was me I think I would cry but Bill isamazing so he didn’t.”

When Stan finished, everyone erupted in giggles and it was Bill’s turnto steal the little diary to check the words for himself.

“I’ve never read a sentence with more spelling errors than this one.”Stan said. Richie buried his face on his hands and accepted his poor fate atthe sound of pages turning under Bill’s hands.

“Oh, this seems puh-promising.” Bill smirked. “My dad took me to thehair man-” Bill paused. “What the f-fuck’s a hair m-man?”

“I was a fucking child! How was I supposed to know how to write barber?”Richie hissed at the floor, still keeping his face planted on his palms.

“Correct grammar didn’t seem to be an issue for you.” Stan said.

“This is so not funny. I hate all of you.” Richie lifted his head andstared at his friends in annoyance. He could feel his face burning despite notknowing that the next things in the diary entry would finish him for good.

“Doesn’t matter, keep going.” Eddie said with excitement while he sat onthe back of couch to peer over Bill’s shoulders.

“Right. My dad took me to the hair man this week and my f-f-friendslaughed at me. I was really ss-sad because Eds said my hair looked stupid.”

Richie froze in place, too embarrassed to move. He stared at his diary inBill’s hands so intensely that he thought it could catch fire.

“Well that’s depressing.” Stan concluded.

“Great, I feel like a jerk.” Eddie said quietly. “I’m sorry, Rich-” Theapology was cut off by someone chuckling. All of them turned to look at Mike,who was laughing so hard by that point that he was grabbing his own stomach.

“Oh god.” He exclaimed while rubbing his eyes. “I’m so sorry, I justfind that really funny.”

“Doesn’t look like you’re very sorry, mate.” Richie deadpanned.

“I can’t help it, okay? It was so obvious you had a crush on Eddie.” Mikeshrugged.

Richie choked on his own breathing and Eddie’s smile was so bright andplayful it could light up the whole room. Meanwhile, Stan and Bill joined thelaughter.

“Here, I bet I can find proof in any of these pages.” Mike stretched himselfover the couch to get the notebook from Bill’s hands. He flipped pages for afew seconds before stopping on one, reading it in silence, and then smiling upat the group. “All right listen up: Dear diary, today Eds had a yellow shirt atschool and he looked really cute. I liked the shirt a lot. I think I like Edsmore than the others.”

“Fine. FINE!” Richie got up and teared the black notebook from Mike’shands and tossed it across the room. “Are you guys done making fun of me?”

Eddie had to physically hold his laughter in. “Aww, Richie. It’s kindacute, though, that your crush comes all the way since like, 5thgrade.”

Despite trying to stay serious, Richie’s lips were breaking off into asmile. “I’m so never forgiving you for this.”

Eddie giggled freely and got up from the back of the couch, pushing Stanand Bill’s torsos aside to climb down from it. He walked over to the diarylaying on the floor and picked it up before going up to Richie and holding hishand.

“C’mon.” He started pulling him onto the hallway again so that theycould go get the forgotten extra pillows. “I’ll make sure to wear yellow forthe rest of the week to make up for it.”

Richie rolled his eyes and bumped Eddie’s shoulder. “Oh, bite me,Kaspbrak.”

“Will you write about it on your diary if I do?” Eddie teased him.

From the living room, they heard groans of disgust. “Oh, gross!”

Perma tag list: @constantreaderfool @mrs-vh

#reddie #request #prompt #it 2017 #it book #richie tozier #eddie kaspbrak #stanley uris #mike hanlon #bill denbrough #losers club #diary entries #teasing #fluff #me #original #writing #ao3

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rejectedusername-trashfics · 7 years

Text

Shot by the Gods- The One in the Hole

Summary: A series of One Shots, Ficlets, or Drabbles from my Gods of LS AU. What's a god to a non-believer who don't believe in anything? Not sure. But a non-believer to a god, is a nuisance.

Chapter: 10/?

Word Count: 2,423

Note: Takes place after Causing Chaos and after Cheating

WARNING: TORTURE albeit very poorly written since it's been a while since I've done anything like it.

Previous / AO3

It had originally been a good week for Ryan. He had gotten the man of his dreams, as well as one of his best reapers. Life, or well existence, was going pretty well for him. But of course, he still had a non-godly job to do. He was part of a crew, which coincidently happened to be full of demigods, and he had a terrifying mercenary persona to uphold. And it was about time he held up that persona again.

A man named Edgar had been trying to run all of the different types of “Fakes,” down. His effort was successful in disbanding the Fake Creatures. They had been giving Fake Attack trouble, and ran Kinda Fake into San Fierro. When he started to mess with Fakehaus, The Fake AH Crew stepped in saying that they were the only ones allowed to have a messy rivalry of any sorts with them.

The Fake AH Crew had set up a Gala hopping Edgar would get cocky and show up and make a scene. And of course, they were right. Meg was brought in to help Lindsay pull Edgar away from the crowd. Edgar was able to recognize Lindsay and a big scene was made. He shot Lindsay, causing a panic throughout the Gala, but Meg was able to keep Lindsay’s soul working and connected, saying it wasn’t her time yet.

Jeremy and Michael can in to corner Edgar. He tried to escape, but Jeremy used his past as a fighter to make him back down. Michael as soon as Edgar was in a corner, Michael knocked him out with a bat, saying that that was for shooting his wife. He went in to hit him again, but Jeremy stopped, saying it would have to be Ryan’s kill.

The tied a knocked-out Edgar up and shot him up with tranquilizers. They carried him into a car and drove him to an interrogation cell while Jack stayed behind to clean up the mess of the Gala. They unloaded a still unconscious Edgar tied him to and sat him up in a chair in an interrogation room. Geoff and Ryan stood outside the room and waited.

Michael and Jeremy finished up and exited the room. “He’s all yours,” Jeremy announced as he waved and dragged Michael away.

Geoff turned to Ryan. “You know why I called you away from your little boy and you’re doing this today?” he asked.

“It’s okay, Gavin was tired and went to bed. And I know I have to do torture someone again so I don’t go soft,” Ryan answered.

“I mean, I’m really happy you and Gavin are finally dating. Honestly not sure how I feel about you dating the reaper who has been screwing you over, as well,”

“She’s a friend who I don’t mind sharing Gavin with,” Ryan interrupted to explain.

Geoff rolled his eyes in response. “I don’t know how you can be open to a relationship involving her after what she did to you,”

“It was all a big misunderstanding that I brought on myself,” he interrupted to explain, again.

“THAT’S NOT THE POINT!” Geoff huffed. “The point is that this guy has been screwing with our allies.”

“And as annoying as they can be, it’s still better to have allies.”

“So, we need to take him down.”

“Alright, but that doesn’t explain why you didn’t just kill him on the spot, tonight at the Gala you held. Or do you just want me to practice my torturing again?”

“We think he’s using the likeness of something that’s yours.”

Ryan shrugged. “This guy could just be named Edgar and have a cow fetish. I mean, my little calf doesn’t do anything unless he’s told.”

“Whatever, I just want you to try torture again.”

“So be it. But if the likeness thing is true, I can’t guarantee he’ll make it out of my custody, alive.”

“That’s what I’m counting on.”

Suddenly, Edgar began to wake up. “Hey… HEY!!!! DID YOU COWARDS WANT TO ATTEMPT TO TEACH MY A LESSON OR SOMETHING?!?!” he screamed.

“I guess that’s my cue,” Ryan told Geoff.

“YOU’RE AN AWFUL CREW IN MATURITY AND I WILL MAKE IT OUT OF HERE ALIVE!!!!!” Edgar continued to scream.

“Did you put torture tools in there for me?” he asked Geoff next.

“Yep, you’re all set,” Geoff confirmed.

“GGGGGAAAAAHHHH!!!!!!”” Edgar kept screaming.

Ryan nodded and made his Vagabond mask appear on his head. He saluted Geoff as he entered the torture room. Edgar kept screaming and Ryan walked in. “Gods, you’re loud. If you really think the Fake AH Crew in immature, you should listen to yourself,” he commented, shutting the man up.

“Oh, they sent in the Vagabond,” Edgar attempted to taunt. “’What, is that supposed to do, scare me?”

“If I do, I do. If I don’t, well, it doesn’t change the situation you’re in.”

“My employees WILL get me out of here!”

“But, they aren’t here at the moment. While we wait for them, why don’t you answer a few questions for me,”’ Ryan suggested.

“What, you think I’m going to tell you why I’ve been messing with every crew with ‘Fake’ in their name?”

“Yes, I suppose that is a good place to start.”

“Well, I’m not going to tell you. You don’t scare me. And are you too stupid to know that you’re supposed to start with a smaller question first? God, how many people have you even tortured before?”

Ryan sighed. “More than you can count.” Then he walked over to the table with tools and grabbed a pair of pliers. “Did you know I just got into a new relationship?” he started.

“Are you too dumb to know you shouldn’t be telling me that?”

“I’ve been thinking about exploring kinks with my girl and boyfriend to keep things interesting in the bedroom,” he continued as he walked over to Edgar.

“And you told me you’re with a boy? Wait till I tell the whole world, the Vagabond is GAY!”

“Did you miss the part where I said girl as well? No matter,” he said as he sat down and began to untie Edgar’s shoes. “Some fetishes have never interested me before. But, I don’t know I don’t like something unless I try it,” he finished as he removed the socks and shoes off of Edgar’s feet, and grabbed his left foot.

“A foot fetish!? That’s stupid and gross!” Edgar chastised. Ryan rolled his eyes and plucked out his pinky toe. “I’ve cut my pinky toenails off when I cut my toenails. This is nothing.”

Ryan ignored him and moved on to plucking out his bigger toes. “Ow. Owww,” he whined as his toes came out. Finally, Ryan got to his big toes and began pulling it out. “Owww! OOOWWWWWW!!!” he wailed. Ryan finished yanking out the toe. “Fuck. That actually hurts more than I thought,” he heaved.

“Watch your language!” Ryan commanded. Then he dropped Edgar’s bleeding left foot and grabbed his right. “I’m going to ask you again. What is your problem with all of the ‘Fakes’?”

“Fuck… You…,” he breathed heavily. Ryan shrugged and grabbed his right foot. He began to pluck out the toes on that foot. When he got to the right big toe, he started pulling it out slowly. “OWWWW! FUCK, ALRIGHT!”

Ryan stopped pulling and looked up at Edgar. “Yes?”

“Fakes are all fake criminals. Just for show. They need to stop messing around and turning the criminal community into a big joke,” he explained.

“I see. While we try to have fun with the crimes we commit, we are all still, without a doubt, criminals.”

“Whatever. I told you what you wanted. Are you going to let me go now?” Edgar asked.

Ryan got up and went over to set the pliers back on the tool table. “Not quite yet. I wanted to test out a new, moving up the body, torture technique, and I have a few personal questions to ask,” he clarified as he grabbed a scooping knife off the table. “I was wondering if you’ve ever heard of Ed-Gar?” he finally asked as he sat back down on the floor in front of Edgar.

“Of course, I’ve heard the legend, why the hell are you asking me about that?”

“How much do you know about him?”

“Why does that legend, OW!” he was interrupted but Ryan digging the scoop into the side of his knee. He continued to wedge the scoop under the kneecap. “OWWW! He was the three-headed cow of the god of death, Vaga, from ancient legend! Ed-Gar would torture the masses and eat people until a hero or something came to stop him, I don’t know!!!!”

Ryan popped the scoop out the other side and scooped the kneecap out. “That’s preposterous. Ed-Gar only do… did what Ah… Vaga told him too. And Vaga normally wasn’t one to start conflict.”

“Your name is Vagabond, you would be the one to study the death god.”

“I know Vaga better than anyone alive.” The he moved the scoop onto the other knee. “Are you using Ed-Gar’s likeness?” he asked as he began to dig the scoop into the other knee.

“What do you think?!” Edgar yelped in pain.

“I’m asking,” Ryan began twisting the scoop in deeper, “for a CONFIRMATION,” he continued.

“YES, YOU FUCKING IDIOT, YES!!!” Edgar confirmed. Ryan popped the other kneecap out of leg. “Why is thing so important to you?” he wheezed.

“You’re clearly uneducated on the sweet calf. I told you, Ed-Gar wouldn’t do anything without Vaga’s orders.”

“Sweet calf? What are you even...”

Ryan ignored him and went back to the tabled and grabbed a regular knife and the pliers again. He walked back over to Edgar and turned his chair so that his back was facing him. He grabbed Edgar’s wrists and saw that his fists were balled up. He stabbed through Edgar’s hands, forcing him to open his hands. “Last question. Why did you choose to disparage Ed-Gar’s name by using it?”

“Why does it even matter?” Edgar asked. Ryan rolled his eyes and began to pluck Edgar’s fingernails out. “God, that hurts way more than the toes!”

“I’m waiting,” Ryan prompted as he pulled out another nail.

“Vaga told people back then that they should fear Ed-Gar!” Edgar argued.

“Vaga told people that because Ed-Gar was their punishment if they did wrong; so, people wouldn’t disparage him or the other gods,” Ryan explained as he plucked out another nail.

“What does any of that matter? It’s not like the gods are real!” Edgar exclaimed.

Ryan finished pulling out another nail, then his eyes widened once What Edgar had said clicked. He immediately dropped the pliers in response. “What?”

“The ancient gods aren’t real!”

Ryan stood up in anger and turned Edgar’s chair around to face him. “The gods are VERY real.”

“God, you really are stupid. They’re just something the ancient people made up. It’s all fake. Just like your credential as a criminal crew is fake.”

“You want proof the gods, especially VAGA, are real?”

“What’s a god to a non-believer who don’t believe in anything?” Edgar sing-songed to taunt again.

Ryan groaned and grabbed Edgar by the neck. He turned the both of them into smoke and they dissipated. Ryan brought him to the underworld. Ryan reformed wearing his mask and godly robes. next to Ed-Gar, who mooed happily; he was very happy to see his owner again. Edgar reformed. He was tiny enough to fit in Ryan’s hand. “A non-believer is nuisance to a god,” Ryan announced, in his booming god voice.

“What kind of drugs was I given?” Edgar asked, confused.

“There were no hallucinatory drugs in those tranquilizers. You were to be sober for your torture.”

“Then what is this if I’m not high?”

“Your proof that Vaga is real, and the rest of the gods by extension!”

Edgar rolled his eyes, “Yeah right. Like hell, I’ll believe the Vagabond actually is Vaga, the god of death.”

“Fool.” Then Ryan turned to face Ed-Gar. “Hey buddy, it’s good to see you.”

“Mmmmmooooo!” Ed-Gar replied, happily.

Ryan pet his far-right head. “I’m sorry I’ve been gone for so long. You want a treat to make up for it a little?”

All three of Ed-Gar’s head nodded. “MMMMMMMMMOOOOOOOOO!” Ed-Gar excitedly mooed. Ryan put Edgar up to the cow’s center head. Ed-Gar took it, happily and began to munch on his treat. Edgar screamed as Ed-Gar crunched him in his mouth. Ed-Gar swallowed his snack and all three heads smiled.

“I gotta go back to the human world.” Ryan told the cow. All three heads pouted. “I’m sorry, I have people I work with there, I have to go back. But listen, next time I come and visit I’ll bring my girl and boyfriend. My girlfriend is a reaper, so she’s used to the underworld. And my boyfriend is the newest Midas reincarnation. I know it’s not the same, but he’ll be under my protection.”

“Moooo,” Ed-Gar mooed.

Ryan gave him a pat on each of his heads. “See ya,” he gave the cow a quick side hug and poofed away. He reappeared in the torture room. He immediately walked to the door and exited.

Geoff gave Ryan an up and down look. “What was that?”

Ryan clapped his hands together. “Turns out you were right?”

“Alright, but that doesn’t explain where you took him.”

“Also turns out he doesn’t believe in the gods.”

“Ooh…”

“So, I decided to pay my pet a visit and, give him a snack.”

“Oh, well at least no need for body disposal,” Geoff joked to lighten the mood.

“Yeah, but I was thinking. Gavin’s probably sad that he can’t get a cat because Meg and I are both basically allergic, do you think Gavin would mind meeting my cow?” Ryan asked.

“You know what, Gavin likes animals. And if your three-headed cow is the best thing you got. I think he’ll like it anyway.”

“Excellent! I’ll talk to him about it tomorrow. I’m gonna head out so I can go cuddle. Good night,” Ryan waved as he left the torture area to go join Gavin and Meg in bed, seeing as Meg would be off from her human job by then.

Geoff yawned and went to lean again the wall of the room. He closed his eyes for a second, then shot them right back open when he realized something. “Did I just give the God of Death relationship advice?” he asked himself.

#Gods of LS #ragehappy #rt fanfic #fanfic #fake ah crew

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More Ideas on Population and Immigration

If there is one thing that would bring population back into the national debate over immigration it is challenging the media’s near refusal to connect the two. Only rarely does one see the implications for population mentioned in articles about immigration. This is also true of environmental reporting in general as was first discussed by T. Michael Maher more than four decades ago. Talk of population is forbidden in the media unless it’s someone else’s population, like China’s or India’s. Paul Ehrlich’s now classic 1968 book, The Population Bomb, sold 2 million copies and changed not only popular attitudes about population as an environmental issue, but made population a key issue in the media as well. In 1969, Richard Nixon devoted an Oval Office speech to population and appointed the Rockefeller Commission on Population Growth. We need to rekindle the national consensus on reducing population growth created by Ehrlich’s book and apply it to immigration.

One reason The Population Bomb created such a stir is that it came at a time of widespread public questioning of entrenched policies and of anti-establishment skepticism created by the Vietnam war. The social and political movements of the 60s led to the first Earth Day and the modern environmental movement. For reasons discussed in Roy and Leon’s “retreat from stabilization” article, population is no longer the signal environmental issue it was 50 years ago and is now taboo among many environmental organizations. Despite this, the key to reviving population as a domestic issue is access to the media. In an earlier message, I said that we needed something like the Worldwatch Institute. In fact, there already exists two similar institutions for immigration, the Center for Immigration Studies, and, of course, NumbersUSA. The closest existing organization for population is Progressives for Immigration Reform (PFIR). PFIR must raise its profile.

The following is an example of how that might be done:

Most Americans have no idea how much U.S. population will grow under different immigration scenarios. But the graph of population drivers pasted into Table 1 from the Census Bureau’s web site and the projections of future population growth pasted into Table 2 from the PFIR EIS report give a glimpse of an overpopulated future no one wants. There is a YouTube immigration channel in Canada. Can NUSA set up its own YouTube channel that shows the inevitable future mass immigration will impose? Such a “channel” would be the most cost effective way of getting the message out. NUSA could also use the channel to better publicize its work on sprawl and other issues. The audience is potentially much larger than on-line YouTube views of current material, which are short and may be attracting only the converted, that is, immigration activists who may be bumping up the view number with repeated viewing.

Table 1

Contributions of Fertility and Migration to Future U.S. Population

https://census.gov/library/visualizations/2018/comm/international-migration.html

Table 2

Estimated U.S. Population Based on Three Immigration Scenarios: No Change (green), Reduction (purple), and Expansion (red)

file:///C:/data/immigration/LeonPFIRFina-immigrationEIS2016MayComplete2016.pdf

This Op-Ed by Hahrie Han appeared in the New York Times after the Las Vegas shooting last October. The author is a Political Science Professor at UC, Santa Barbara, who has also written a book, ”How Organizations Develop Activists: Civic Associations and Leadership in the 21st Century,” available at Amazon. Chapter 1 is online here.

In explaining why in the debate about gun control at the federal level, gun rights nearly always win over gun control, she notes that, “Gun-control groups focus on persuasion, while gun-rights groups focus on identity.” People join the NRA because gun ownership is a way of life. They find the passage of gun control measures personally threatening and like nothing better than defending gun rights. The NRA might be the original grass roots lobbying group. Much like NUSA, the NRA mails warnings to the rank and file of pending legislation on gun rights and provides post cards each member can mail to their elected officials. This has made the NRA a feared lobbying force on Capital Hill with a proven record of unseating congressmen who failed to toe the NRA’s party line. Han notes that 80,000 NRA members from all over the country attended its annual meeting in 2017. How many would attend a similar meeting held by NUSA? Han also notes that she joined a gun-control group and sent emails and made calls until, feeling like “a prop” in someone else’s game, she quit. Over a number of years starting in 1997, I sent hundreds of faxes, and made thousands of calls, as many as 50 in a day. But I also quit recently because there was little satisfaction in being one of the “lone wolves” Han describes in her Chapter 1, although other matters were also more pressing.

It might be worthwhile for NUSA to hold a national or regional meeting, just to see what emerges from it. A meeting would bring people together and build friendships around immigration reform, and might, as Han describes in her Chapter 1, engender a greater sense of commitment among activists. Another possibility is to create “organizers” in Han’s sense by making one NUSA member a “leader” in an area who contacts others to make sure they send faxes in a timely fashion. The leader could hold meetings to generate a sense of shared mission. We need to remind people that if mass immigration isn’t stopped, there will be no place to take a vacation from overpopulation, including their favorite Montana fishing spot. My guess is that this would be too expensive and would require organizational structure beyond NUSA’s resources. Despite this, the thought experiment might still be worthwhile.

Here is what Han says about which groups are effective and which not:

“When I studied groups that were most effective at building a grass-roots base, I found that the key factor to success was the nature of the relationships they created. The most effective groups used relationships as a vehicle for bringing people off the sidelines of public life and teaching them to speak truth to power. You can’t convince someone to rethink who they are or what responsibility they want to take for their community through a mailer.”

“Building a movement will require organizations to invest in the leadership of ordinary people by equipping them with the motivations, skills and autonomy they need to act. Most organizations never give people that opportunityIn her Chapter 1, Han mentions on-line video conferencing as a means of organizing. You might want to keep your eyes peeled for this as a way of having virtual meetings that might serve as an cheap, convenient organizing tool.

In her Chapter 1, Han mentions on-line video conferencing as a means of organizing. You might want to keep your eyes peeled for this as a way of having virtual meetings that might serve as an cheap, convenient organizing tool.

Start an immigration “truth squad.” Call out James Fallows whose cheery self-righteous comments about African immigrants in Nebraska meat processing plants left out any mention of how jobs that were once well-paying and unionized are now reminiscent of Upton Sinclair’s Jungle, which was written in an era of mass immigration much like ours. I may be cherry picking this one comment, which I mentioned in an earlier letter, but someone needs to correct writers who believe that mass immigration has no consequences. The Times columnists, David Brooks and Brett Stephens, are singularly oblivious in this regard.

Another whooper was by John Kerry, who commented before he ran for President that, “America is underpopulated.” And this by the co-author of This Moment on Earth: Today’s New Environmentalists and Their Vision for the Future. The book is about the activists Kerry met during his 2004 presidential campaign. Apparently, it never occurred to Kerry that blowing up this country’s population would undo all the efforts of his “new environmentalists.” Someone needs to clarify this for him.

A third example is from Senator Lindsey Graham, who recently said, “We can’t reduce immigration because we need economic growth.” If continual population growth is required to have a “good” economy, then population will have to grow indefinitely. This is one of the fundamental flaws in the triumvirate globalist policy espoused by Republicans like Paul Ryan and free traders like the Koch brothers: Tax cuts, free trade in goods and services, and free flow of labor. This juggernaut is what dominates thinking in the U.S. Senate and makes NUSA’s job impossible. Note that immigration was not slowed at all during the Great Recession, even with 10 percent unemployment.

One particular group that might be a source of recruits for the immigration wars is local growth controllers. After looking at web sites and exchanging emails, I’ve learned that the leadership of groups like American Farmland Trust and Sprawl City don’t want to be seen as blaming immigrants for sprawl. But some rank-and-file members might feel differently.

I wouldn’t make too much of the most recent Pew poll on attitudes toward immigration. Even though it was largely done before the “zero tolerance” policy made headlines, which might have created a “social desirability” effect (telling the interviewer what the respondent thinks the interview wants to hear), the poll shows public attitudes on immigration softening. But the real story is how ignorant the public remains about basic aspects of immigration. Some 35 percent of respondents believe most immigrants are here illegally. This means that a third of the public does not understand the distinction between legal and illegal immigration, the most basic distinction of all.

In his book, Huddled Masses Muddled Laws, Kenneth Lee describes how in 1996, pro-immigration lawmakers made use of this confusion to essentially hoodwink the public into settling for a weak bill on illegal immigration while leaving legal immigration untouched. The book is relatively short and should be required reading for all population activists. Our job is to educate the public on immigration basics (that YouTube channel?) and how the status quo is unsustainable.

I hope there is at least one good idea here. It’s ironic that one immigrant “sob story” gets more space in the New York Times than even a mention of projected population growth and all it entails.

Sincerely,

Fred W. Johnson

[email protected]

#Immigration population sustainability

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