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levans44 · 7 months

Text

Apartment #3 - Chapter 1

pairing: steve rogers x undercover!reader

warnings: 18+ SMUT*, Neighbors to Friends to Lovers, lots of angst, heavy mutual pining, hurt/comfort, eventual smut/romance/fluff

summary: as an undercover agent at SHIELD, her newest assignment involves moving in across the hall from her target. she's strictly ordered to keep her distance—no personal contact besides the absolutely necessary. the only issue? her new target neighbor turns out to be Captain America.

excerpt:

Jessica Grace Parker December 4th, 1989 569 Leaman Place Apt. #3, Brooklyn, NY 11201 Registered Nurse NewYork-Presbyterian Hospital

It’s the undercover alias she’s been assigned as a member of SHIELD’s Special Operations unit. The mission objective was rather simple—monitor the target and report updates as necessary.

She’s gone undercover more than a dozen times, so it’s not the details of the assignment or the temporary relocation she’s concerned about.

It’s just that her target was well… more unusual than most.

author's note: an idea that's been living in my head ever since steve asked sharon for that cup of coffee in their apartment hallway. as a SHIELD agent, the reader's real name has been [REDACTED] to preserve anonymity.

masterlist

A thick manilla folder slaps onto Nick Fury’s desk, landing with a sharp ‘splat’ on the glass table.

“You can’t be serious, Nick. A nurse? Really?”

She’s huffs out a breath, a dramatic eye roll and a hand on her hip just to articulate the pointed look she was giving him.

A sharp, one-eyed stare trails up from the folder to meet her gaze, immediately sending a shiver of regret down her spine. To her surprise, her boss glances off to the side, letting her off with a disapproving sigh.

“It’s just a temporary measure, agent.”

“Yeah? Until when?”

“Until we can confirm that he’s appropriately adjusted to civilian life.”

She snorts, sauntering over to the leather couch near the window, just a few feet away from where Fury’s sitting, and plops down with a loud ‘thud.’

“Yeah, like that’s gonna happen.”

She huffs out a breath, feeling the burning stare of her boss out of the corner of her eye. A small pause before he rustles, shifting in his seat. When he speaks, there’s a slightest tinge of challenge in his voice, lips quirked up in a smirk.

“Are you saying you’re not up for the challenge, [REDACTED]?”

Asshole. Always knew how to push all the right buttons.

She sighs, running her hand through her hair as she tosses her head over the back of the couch.

“But Nick, civilian life? For a guy with that kind of history?”

Then, a sly smile and a slight wiggle of her brows because Nick Fury’s not the only one with game around here. Swiveling around in her seat, she tosses an arm around around the back of the seat and licks her lips.

“…come on, Nick. What aren’t you telling me?”

And as if he knows she would coax the answer out of him eventually, he gives in rather quickly, dropping his shoulders with a quiet sigh. He leans back in his chair, folding his hands over his lap.

“He’s been refusing SHIELD-commissioned housing. Insists on staying at his own place in the city.”

Her entire body perks up with renewed interest.

So that’s why Fury’s so desperate. A clearance level 10 agent let loose in the concrete jungle? Talk about a PR nightmare.

Convincing one of SHIELD’s greatest, and most famously stubborn, agents to live under round-the-clock company surveillance was no easy feat.

But bringing that round-the-clock surveillance to said agent by deploying a secret undercover mission?

That. That was so classically Nick Fury she found it all a bit amusing, concerning, and ingenious at the same time. The plan was smart (albeit a little controlling, no doubt about that), so she had agreed to read the mission brief she had thrown on Fury’s desk despite the fuzzy outlines of its morality. Besides, she figured, SHIELD protection would ensure the safety of the agent and that of the city (and, of course, it would be her and Fury’s ass on the line if the whole independent housing thing went haywire).

“Well, wouldn’t exactly blame him for wanting to move away from your warm embrace.” She murmurs, picking nonchalantly at her nails.

Fury’s eyebrows raise disapprovingly at her second smart-ass remark of the hour, volume rising by a hair.

“Should I be looking to reassign the mission, then?”

The corner of her mouth twitches, because she already knows her answer. Lets a small pause wash over the room anyway, just to watch the scar over his eyebrow twitch.

“Ugh, all right, all right. I’ll do it.” She groans dramatically, bouncing up from the couch, and snatches up the abandoned file back from his desk.

She turns around, sauntering out of Fury’s office the same way she had stormed in. Reaching the doorway, she stops, swiveling around with a hand on the metal frame.

“But really, Nick, a nurse? That the best you could come up with?”

Fury rolls his eyes, but she doesn’t miss the small smile that breaks across his face as he ducks, hiding it with a gruff hand.

“Strategies thought it might be a good idea. His mother being a nurse and all.”

She throws her head back, an incredulous laugh echoing across the room.

“What kind of fucked-up Freudian logic is that?”

Fury sighs, giving her a look, though they’re both smiling at this point.

“…just to be clear, I’m not gonna fucking mother him.”

She raises a pointed finger in his direction.

“Oh I know you’re not, agent. Your primary directive is to maintain minimal contact with him. Nothing over what’s absolutely necessary. You’d know that, if you had actually read the mission brief.”

“Aaand that’s my cue.” She murmurs, giving Fury a playful salute and quickly shutting the door behind him before he gets a chance to protest.

Once outside, she lets out a quiet breath, sliding her newly assigned credentials out from the thick pile of paperwork. A fake drivers license and nurse ID card, freshly laminated and perfectly glossy.

Jessica Grace Parker December 21st, 1989 569 Leaman Place Apt. #3, Brooklyn, NY 11201 Registered Nurse NewYork-Presbyterian Hospital

It’s the undercover alias she’s been assigned as a member of SHIELD’s Special Operations unit. The mission objective was rather simple—monitor the target and report updates as necessary.

She’s gone undercover more than a dozen times, so it’s not the details of the assignment or the temporary relocation she’s concerned about.

It’s just that her target was well… more unusual than most.

She opens the folder, slipping her identification cards back into their slot. Her eyes then trail over to the top of the page, where the personnel file of her mission’s target stares up glaringly.

Steven Grant Rogers July 4th, 1918 569 Leaman Place Apt. #4, Brooklyn, NY 11201

Apartment #3 Masterlist

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hithertoundreamtof23 · 4 months

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Since Ao3 decided to be evil::

Here's chapter one of A Strange Christmas Carol, my new Christmas fic starting Stephen Strange. I'll post this sample and then upload the rest of the fic to ao3 when it decides to grace us with its presence. ~~

Summary: A retelling of the classic A Christmas Carol by Charles Dickens.

Stephen Strange is visited by three ghosts that teach him the value of teamwork and self-preservation, all while finding the joy in Christmas again.

So... without further ado, Chapter 1::

~~~~~

>>> Sanctum Sanctorum, New York, NY; Present Day

“Stephen, stop! You're gonna hurt yourself!” A voice shouted in the distance. Stephen ignored it, instead choosing to continue the potentially fatal spell.

It took a lot of energy to conjure- arguably more energy than Stephen had to spare- but it was the only viable option to contain the tendrils of rogue magic escaping from every relic in the vast room.

A group of idiotic sorcerers decided to harness the Winds of Watoomb in the relic room (which they weren't invited into) on the night before Christmas. They didn't realize their naivete until it was too late; by then, the Winds bounced off the Brazier of Bom’Galiath, sending the energy throughout the Sanctum in unharnessed beams of blazing red and sickly green.

Due to the Macchina di Kadavus being destroyed in a battle he hardly remembered (he must have blocked out the memory), Stephen had to improvise and use a containment spell he'd barely studied. Praise the Vishanti for his eidetic memory!

The spell presented itself as a net, the entwining ropes straining to contain the various spells. It was ironically beautiful- the multicolored bolts fighting to escape the encompassing orange net.

Everything began to spin, whether because of magic or dizziness, Stephen didn't know. He felt the radioactive tendrils slowly withering away at his magical reserves, making him weaker by the second. Everything throbbed: his muscles, his head, his ears, and his soul. He wanted nothing more than to drop the spell, puke up his lunch, and take a nice long nap.

Despite the pain and overwhelming fatigue, Stephen's stubborn nature decided to keep going; after all, it wouldn't be the first time he died of overexertion.

Stephen grunted, bringing his hands together slowly in an effort to close the net. His eyes screwed shut, the bright lights assaulting his retinas.

Amidst the sweat, something warm and sticky trickled out of Stephen's nose and into his mouth, overwhelming his taste buds with a bitter, metallic flavor.

“Stephen, stop!” The voice cried again, barely audible over Stephen's panting.

He couldn't stop, not when the fate of sorcery hung in the balance. He'd rather sacrifice himself than risk anyone else getting hurt.

He spread his legs further, lowering his center of gravity to provide himself more leverage. Through the pain of his straining muscles and the nausea in his stomach, Stephen felt something hit his foot.

The Elixir of Ebenezer Scrooge

Blue beams of magic sprouted out of the relic, distracting Stephen enough to lower his mental defenses and allow the relic’s magical tendrils to enter his mind.

Cold enveloped his entire being as he felt his sore body go rigid.

A woosh of power blew at Stephen, not just from the Elixir, but from all the relics throughout the room, their pent-up energy being released at last.

A scream from behind and the recognizable fizzle of a spell dropping was all Stephen heard before being pulled under by the frigid embrace.

❆ ~ ❈ ~ ❆ ~ ❈ ~ ❆

>>> Stephen's Mind; Present Day

It was so bright!

In the back of his mind, Stephen knew he was still knocked out, but his mind was wide awake, albeit stuck in a dreamlike fog.

“Well, hello!”

Stephen quickly turned around, catching sight of an older man. He leaned over a cane, the position making his hunched back very apparent. His long nose was adorned with small spectacles that brought out the gray of his wiry hair and the wrinkles of his face. He wore a long, outdated black coat that fell to the pointy boots he wore on his feet. He had a black 1800s top hat that was long out of style, but who was Stephen to judge fashion?

“Who are you?” Stephen asked, his voice echoing throughout the white empty space.

“Ebenezer Scrooge,” the little man responded.

Stephen arched a brow. “Like the fairy tale?”

The man- Ebenezer Scrooge- rolled his eyes. “It's not a fairy tale if it truly happened!”

“Yeah? Then prove it!” Stephen looked at the man, awaiting an answer. There was no way this man was the same as the character in the Charles Dickens classic. But then again, stranger things had happened.

Rather than replying defensively as Stephen had anticipated, Scrooge chuckled heartily. “You are acquainted with the story, I'm sure. A well educated person such as yourself would know that I was visited by three ghosts: Christmas Past, Christmas Present, and Christmas Future,” he explained.

Stephen stared at him suspiciously. “Are you suggesting that I'm going to be visited?” He chuckled in disbelief. “I'm not a bah humbug!”

“I too was arrogant and selfish, especially around the time of Christmas.”

Stephen sardonically chuckled. He'd heard that one before.

“You're so selfish!”

“All you care about is yourself!”

“Come on Strange, have a heart!”

He let his bitter laugh melt into a frown. How was he selfish and arrogant? Before the accident, yes- he'd be the first to admit his mistakes- but now?

He'd been through too much to care only about himself.

“I don't mind Christmas!”

“Is that so? Then why is every December 25th dedicated to you trying to sacrifice yourself?” Scrooge tilted his head, revealing a cheeky smirk.

“W- when did trying to save the world become a bad thing?”

“It isn’t. The issue stems from when you become suicidal. Your life doesn't belong just to you.”

“I'm not suicidal,” Stephen spat defensively. It's not like he tried to harm himself.

“Then why do you recklessly dive into missions without caring about the outcome?”

Oh. Scrooge had a point. “But-”

“You purposely put your life in harm's way. You think that if you die, you won't be alone for another Christmas. That is selfishness, Mr Strange.”

“Doctor!”

“Yes, right.”

Stephen pondered Scrooge's explanation. Stephen truly didn't have issues with Christmas, it was just the loneliness of it. Sure, he had Wong, but all the empty seats at the table- seats that his family and the Avengers should be in- he couldn't help but feel guilty.

The radio blared songs about presents and family, but Stephen had neither.

It was true when Scrooge said Stephen tried to avoid Christmas. There were too many feelings.

“Maybe the root of your problems lie in the past,” Scrooge said a little too happily for Stephen's liking.

Stephen eyed him suspiciously, a gesture in which he got merely a giggle in response. “Behold, the first ghost: Christmas Past.”

The bright white backdrop repainted itself, replicating the familiar colors of the Sanctum. Stephen was now lying in his bed, its signature mahogany bedposts easy to distinguish.

Scrooge disappeared into thin air (and not via sling ring), replaced by a ghost that resembled a candle.

It was peculiar, neither young nor old, but rather ageless- light beaming from its head and body. It wore a simple garb of pure white, its head adorned with a white sleeping cap that didn't do much to dim the fiery glow sprouting from its head.

Shit. It was like A Christmas Carol.

#ao3 #ao3 down #stephen strange #Christmas #a christmas carol #hurt/ comfort #hurt stephen strange

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just-somerandom-thoughts · 1 year

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What is it about black haired blue/green eyed characters that have such a choke hold on me. They are literal fucking powerhouses but also have so much trauma and hurt and they just deserve so much better.

Dick Grayson? The first Robin, trained by Batman and literally everyone bc everyone likes him, and has successfully led multiple teams. But so much fucking trauma that he just pushed down and then it never mentioned again. Like losing his parents, getting fired and kicked out, tarantula, blockbuster, spyral, Ric, etc. and still being good. Deserves Better

Damian Wayne? Same thing he is a machine. Trained in the league and raised to kill but so much trauma. The way he became that machine, killed by his clone, the loss of Alfred, etc. Deserves Better

Merlin? Emrys? Most powerful warlock to ever live. Saved Arthur’s life for years without anyone’s knowledge. Could literally do anything that was needed all in secret. Like being hurt but still keeping up the the Dolma disguise and summoning the white goddess. The entire battle of Camlann when he gets his powers back. A fucking dragon lord. Buts still lives in fear of his best friend finding out he has magic and since it’s illegal being killed. The weight of the prophecy. The knowledge of what Morgana and Mordred turn into. The deaths of everyone starting with Will and ending with Arthur the one person he swore to always protect. Let’s not forget that he is still waiting for his return. Deserves Better

Percy Jackson? A child of the big three. One of the most powerful demigods ever and the best swordsman in the last hundred years aside from Luke. Erupted Mt. St Helens, made a hurricane in the middle of NY, defeat Ares and Hades, got the curse of Achilles, defeated Titans, gods, and giants. Hero of Olympus. But so much trauma. Gabe, his first quest at 12 years old, a war before 16, being the child of the prophecy, losing his memories and still going on a quest, being part of another prophecy, and let’s not forget that he fell in Tartarus and faced Tartarus himself. Deserves Better

Honorable mention: Sam Winchester? Saved the world multiple times, never seems to stay dead, one of the two best hunters, stopped the apocalypse, and defeated literal god. But so much trauma. The way he was raised, getting out and them back in bc hid girlfriend was killed, died, came back, tried to stop his brother from going to hell, failed and watched him die via hellhound, hooked on demon blood, let out Lucifer, hopped into the cage with Lucifer and Micheal, his body came back soulless so his soul was in hell for years bc time runs differently in hell, gets soul back but it counts with hallucinations, dies so many times, watched so many people die and so much more. The Winchesters in general go through so much shit. Deserves Better

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auspicious-manner · 2 years

Note

can you write mike faist x reader? Maybe something where reader isn't connected with entertainment industry but still goes with mike to west side story ny premiere? And feels a bit self-consious and unsure but mike comforts her?

love love love this idea

female reader x mike faist

warnings: some body dysmorphia talk

Ethereal

•

when Y/N got a call from her childhood best friend mike asking her if she’d like to attend the west side story premiere with him, she answered yes in a heartbeat.

when her and mike were younger, they danced at the same studio and grew to be fast friends. he was a year older than she was, and because they danced so similarly and had a strong connection, they were paired up to be dance partners. they performed at recitals, competitions, and everything together for years. they had become inseparable. they both had the same dreams of moving out to new york and living their dreams as professionals.

Y/N found it hard to find passion in dance after mike graduated and left for new york. because she was a year behind him, she stayed in ohio. however, when it came time for her to graduate, new york never ended up working out.

due to financial reasons and family issues, it just wasn’t possible for her to move away from her small home in ohio. while she was stuck in ohio, her best friend was living his dreams.

after mike got cast in newsies, his schedule got insanely busy. they tried keeping in contact as much as possible, but sometimes, it just didn’t work. when mike would come home to ohio, they always made sure to meet up. but aside from that, their in-person get togethers were few and far between.

Y/N watched mike’s success from afar, and although she was extremely proud, part of it hurt too. they always discussed moving to new york together, and it hurt to see mike living both of their dreams.

two days before the premiere, an unsuspecting Y/N got a call from mike.

“hey mike! long time no see.” Y/N said with a smile.

“hey Y/N! about that ‘long time no see’ thing, i was wondering if you were available on november 29th.”

she paused to go look at the calendar, and brought the phone back up to her ear. “i’ve got nothing going on. what were you thinking?”

“i was wondering if you’d like to come to the west side story premiere with me in new york.”

her jaw dropped. she lowered the phone, got all of her obnoxious giddiness out before taking in a deep breath and answering him. “are you being serious?”

“production said i needed a date. my first thought was you.” mike said back.

once again, she lowered the phone, freaked out and calmed herself down. “but mike, i don’t have the money for a plane ticket. or a dress. or accessories, for that matter.”

“i’ll pay for it all. please, i haven’t seen you in ages. i think we’ll have a fun time there.”

“are you sure you want to pay for all of it?”

mike laughed on the other end of the phone. “yes, i’m sure. are you in or not?”

there was a moment of silence. “i’m in.”

the next twenty four hours was a whirlwind. the next day, she was hopping on a plane and flying to new york, and when she arrived at the airport, her best friend was waiting with his car.

when mike saw her approaching his car, he got out and met her with a big hug.

“i missed you so much!” Y/N exclaimed, wrapping her arms around his torso.

“it’s so good to see you again.” mike replied.

after they pulled away, mike loaded her suitcase into the trunk of his car and drove off after they had both gotten in.

“so, are you ready for the premiere?” mike asked excitedly.

“you know, the more i’ve thought about it, the more nervous i keep getting.”

“what are you so nervous for?”

“i don’t really know,” she started. “this is my first professional event, if i don’t dress up properly i’ll look weird, and there’s going to be famous people there- oh my god steven spielberg is going to be there.” Y/N said, the realization hitting her hard for the first time.

mike grinned. “you’ll be just fine. i’ll be with you the entire time.”

“i know. i’m super excited to see you in the movie, though.”

“i’m super excited for you to see it. you’ll love it.” mike said back.

driving into new york city was surreal for Y/N. the city held a beauty that was unlike anything else. it simply felt magical to her.

mike and Y/N stopped at mike’s stylist’s studio to talk about the perfect dress for Y/N.

she explained she didn’t need anything too big and extravagant as that wasn’t who she was, and the stylist just happened to have the perfect dress for her right there in the studio.

it was a velvet sage green dress that went down to her ankles and had slits on either side near her stomach, exposing some of her skin. there was another slit in the leg that went up to her mid thigh, which made the dress flow just the right amount. the dress had long sleeves that hugged her arms tight, and around the neck, the dress had a square cut that showed off her chest.

she didn’t let mike see her in the dress when she tried it on, as she wanted it to be a surprise for him on the day of the premiere. she felt like a princess wearing it. the stylist made note of any alterations needed, and said she would stop by mike’s place the morning of the premiere to drop off the dress.

when asked about hair and makeup while the pair was getting lunch, mike said he “had it covered” for her.

“mike, i feel bad. you’re spending all this money just for me to look good. i feel so needy.”

mike gazed at her intently. “don’t feel bad, please. genuinely, i want to do this.”

“how could you want to spend all of this on me? that’s absurd.” she replied back.

“i feel bad about leaving you behind in ohio. i always have. think of this as a way of me saying ‘i’m sorry for not keeping in contact more.’ i really need to make more of an effort.”

“don’t apologize,” she started. “you’ve been busy doing big things. i’m surprised you still want to be my friend after all the recognition you have now. thank you for all of this, by the way. i appreciate it so, so much.”

he fixated his eyes on her, and gave her a soft glance. “of course. there’s no one i’d rather share my west side story premiere with.”

mike had a spare bedroom in his apartment, and after exploring the city with him the rest of the day and catching up, they headed back to his apartment and went to sleep.

the next morning, they had to prepare for their long day. mike got ready in his bedroom, while Y/N got ready in hers.

the hair and makeup people along with the stylist came by around 11 o’clock, and Y/N slipped on her gorgeous dress once again.

for hair, she kept it simple and had loose curls falling around her face. her makeup was natural, and she styled just a plain eye look with eyeliner, light eyeshadow, with some added blush and highlighter on her cheeks. she wore beautiful silver earrings with a silver heart necklace that laid on her chest, and silver bracelets and rings to match. her heels were relatively short, but Y/N didn’t need anything tall.

by the time both of them had gotten ready, mike walked out of his room and saw Y/N. if he were in a cartoon, he would have had hearts in his eyes while looking at her.

“Y/N, you look amazing. simply ethereal.” he said in awe, taking a few steps closer to her.

she admired his all black suit. “thank you. you look amazing too.” she stated, straightening his tie.

the pair walked out together and got into a limo that was to take them to the premiere.

mike noticed Y/N seemed extra quiet. “you okay?” he asked her.

she looked at him. “yeah, i’m just nervous, that’s all.”

he took her hand in his. “don’t worry. i’ll be with you the whole time.”

they had arrived, and they pulled up to the premiere, immediately being approached by photographers. she tried to hold her composure on the outside, but on the inside, she was panicking.

“follow my lead.” mike whispered. she nodded and took mike’s hand as he led her through the crowds to the red carpet.

“holy shit, i see steven spielberg!” Y/N whispered to him excitedly.

mike giggled. “we can meet him after we get through the red carpet.”

“i get to meet him?”

“of course you do.”

Y/N stood shocked and let mike go off on her own to get individual photos taken. she noted how he looked in his element and composed. it was quite literally the opposite of how she was feeling.

after mike had made his way down the carpet a bit, she calmed herself down and began to walk as well.

she posed for the cameras as elegantly as she could. all of a sudden, she remembered these photos would be plastered all over the internet, and when she remembered, she sucked in to create the image of a flatter stomach. all of the other girls here were so in shape and fit, and she felt completely out of place.

“Y/N, can you get together with mike for a photo?” a photographer yelled. mike made his way over to her and wrapped his arm around her waist, smiling. when mike touched the exposed skin around her stomach, she flinched and sucked in. unbeknownst to her, mike noticed this, and wondered if she was okay.

after surviving the red carpet, Y/N pulled mike aside. “do i look…out of place here?”

mike frowned. “no, of course not. what makes you think you are?”

“i don’t know. everyone here is just so glamorous and fit, and i feel like that’s not me.”

“Y/N, trust me. you are-”

“mike!” a voice called out. they both whipped around and saw none other than steven spielberg approaching them. Y/N’s jaw fell to the floor, and she stood up a bit straighter.

“steven! it’s great to see you!” mike exclaimed, giving steven a big hug.

during the hug, steven’s eyes fell on Y/N.

“and who is this with you?” he asked kindly, pulling away from mike.

“that’s Y/N L/N, my best friend. we danced together when we were little.” mike answered.

Y/N stayed speechless. mike looked at her, smiled, and looked back at steven. “she’s a big fan.”

“well, any friend of mike’s is a friend of mine,” steven started, walking up to her and taking her hand. “it’s a pleasure to meet you.”

she finally built the courage to speak. “it’s great to meet you too, sir.”

he laughed and released her hand. “that’s steven to you. sir just makes me feel so old.”

“right, sorry, sir- uh, steven.”

he gave a hearty laugh once again and walked away to talk to some of the other guests.

“oh my god i just met the steven spielberg and i can’t believe i was such an idiot in front of him. god, how did you not do that the first time you met him?” Y/N asked, slightly panicking.

“don’t be so hard on yourself. you’ve been hard on yourself all night.” there was a short pause. “by the way, are you okay? i felt you flinch earlier when i touched your stomach.”

she immediately wrapped her arms around her waist. “i am 100% okay.”

mike tilted his head, and gave her a knowing look. “we’ve known each other for twenty years now, i can tell when you’re lying, Y/N.”

Y/N sighed and looked around before leaning in a bit closer to mike and lowering her voice. “seeing all these beautiful people here is making me realize truly how much of the outcast i really am. they’re all so skinny and talented, and i’m not.”

mike took a small step back, admired her for a moment, and stepped closer to her again. “Y/N, you are the most beautiful girl here tonight. you danced alongside me for almost ten years, so i know just how talented you are. if no one else knows, that’s their problem.”

he placed his hands on her shoulders. “you fit right in with these people, got it? you are just as amazing as everyone else here, and even more perfect. so please, please stop being so hard on yourself. seeing you sad breaks my heart.”

Y/N softened her body. she looked down at her stomach. maybe it wasn’t so bad after all. maybe she just fell into a spiral of overthinking once again.

“thank you mike. for everything. and i don’t just mean for the past few days, i mean the past twenty years. you’re the best person i could possibly have by my side.”

mike smiled wide. he squeezed her hand, and gently rubbed the top of it with his thumb.

“now go socialize with all of your cast mates, i’m tired of holding you back.” she said, kissing mike on the cheek. he immediately turned red and nodded before finding his on screen partners.

although Y/N never kept him away from his friends, he always found his way back to her. she tried telling mike that she really was okay, because she was. but all mike kept saying was that he didn’t want to be with anyone else. he wanted to show her off all night and show the world how pretty his date was.

while watching the private screening of the movie, mike held Y/N’s hand the entire time. when he would come on screen, she would flick her head to the side and see mike next to her, who seemed to be in astonishment with what he was watching.

Y/N was just as astonished by his performance. he was the scene stealer in every scene he was in. mike’s success made her as proud as can be, because in her mind, there was no one more deserving than him. after the screening, she let him know that too.

while sitting in the limo for the ride back to mike’s apartment, she told him.“i don’t know what else to say, because your performance left me speechless. but i will say you were a total scene stealer, and i felt more emotion in my heart when i saw you die than anything i’ve ever felt before. you were incredible, mike.” she said sincerely.

mike’s heart melted hearing those words. “it meant the world having you here tonight.”

they side hugged on the limo seat, her arms wrapped around his waist from the side while his arms wrapped around her back.

“just please don’t ever die. seeing that scene with you getting stabbed caused me to almost start uncontrollably crying.” Y/N said within the hug.

mike’s chest rose when he giggled. “i’ll try not to, sweetheart.”

#mike faist #newsies #mike faist riff #mike faist imagine #newsies x reader #mike faist fanfiction #riff x reader #riff fanfic #mike faist x reader

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70slesbian · 2 years

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can’t believe i’ve had tonsillitis TWICE in like a month and the first time i reacted so badly to the antibiotics i had to go to the er TWICE and i got a rash i’m still not quite rid off and then it came back and i had to eat antibiotics AGAIN! and now my wisdom tooth is causing an inflammation in my gums and ny dentist wanted to prescribe me penicillin until she found out i took the last pill on the last antibiotics on FRIDAY<3 so she was like well honestly take this gel that’s meant to kill bacteria but if it gets even a little bit more swollen or ur fever gets worse just go to the er directly. and she called in several nurses to look at my face and they were all like yeah she Is swollen! so my body isn’t happy w me <3 have had fever the entire day ❤️ can’t open my jaws all the way and it hurts and it makes my cheek tingle and my ear feel weird

#i want everyone to feel sorry for me:(x

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endollvors · 1 month

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Health Check! Sneak Preview

The Pitch: MCU Steve Rogers, guy who never quits, is quietly sent home after the serum "fails." It did not, in fact, Fail. Steve Rogers, 5'1' Super Soldier, 6 time recruitment office applier, makes up a new fake name and Joins the Army anyway.

Thus starts the legend of Reeve Dodgers.

Below is the entire text of the document for this AU, including some planning materials, in roughly chronological order.

Content warning: I was left unattended with the crackfic and it got a little a The Horrors of War™ in it, sorry.

Steven Grant Rogers’ Shitty Aliases

Rebecca Stoker (pornlord)

Barney Harrison (recruitment office)

Jim “Jimmy” MacKenzie (recruitment office)

Abraham Buckner (modern NY “Cult Survivor”)

Corporal Reeve Dodgers (Military injoke)

Grant Carter(SHIELD Analyst)

Clint: he’s called Dodge because he’s so small no guns can ever hit him

What’s Wrong with him :)

Asthma

Scarlet fever

Deaf in one ear

Color blind

Scoliosis

Heart murmur

Yearly Pneumonia

Anemia

December ’39 Bucky discovers that Steve Rogers, 100 pounds soaking wet, has been rationing his food in order to save money to bribe a guard at the docks and get to Europe in order to join the war effort. He moves into Steve’s apartment immediately in order to prevent his favorite flight risk from dying of his own stupidity.

Feb. ‘42 A new recruitment office has opened just outside of Brooklyn, which means it’s time for Steve to come up with a new fake name. Jim “Jimmy” MacKenzie has shoved enough newspapers into the heels of his shoes to pass as five foot one and has mastered the art of breathing shallowly enough that the rattling in his lungs could be missed, probably. He ignores the twinge in his joints as he stands straighter than his body can really support and smiles as the doctor.

Bucky’s eyes flick over Steve in an automatic pattern. Steve can almost see the checklist in his head. His legs to see if he can walk, Chest to check his breathing, cheeks for fever, knuckles for fighting. He’s not even doing bad today, except for his mood. So he’s a little irritated when Bucky falls in step with him, firmly settled on his good side, and then deliberately slows his pace.

Steve meets Howard Stark once before he gets the serum. It’s kind of a whirlwind.

The vitabed is cold against his skin, the metal leeching what little warmth he’s able to produce. He hisses through his teeth as rows of needles inject him with a burning cold that sears through his body. He presses his palms flat against the table as it tilts up and the metal encases him, close and dark even with the reinforced window he’s not really tall enough to see out of. Things must have gotten really loud, because even he can hear it with his bad ear. Someone is screaming.

The light fades and he feels weirdly floaty, like something that should be there isn’t anymore. The metal casket opens with a burst of steam and the air of the lab feels cool against his chest. He opens his eyes to a dizzying sight. He squints at the scene in front of him, there’s something different. He blinks again as the world once again fails to coalesce into something that makes sense. He stumbles over the footrest as he tries to stand and Peggy rushes forward to try and catch him. He palm flat on his chest. It’s loud in here, so loud he wonders how they can stand it with two ears. There’s a high pitched humming coming from, somewhere, his left he thinks. And there’s paper shuffling and Peggy is asking him a question, her hair is weird right now but that’s not important, he should answer. It would be rude not to answer. It’s bright in here. How does he feel? He takes a breath, the shallow kind that doesn’t rattle in his lungs and manages to stand under his own power this time. His spine feels wrong, but it doesn’t hurt, there’s none of the tingling numbness he feels occasionally either.

“Taller.” He says, grasping onto the only really familiar sensation he’s felt since the experiment started. He knows what taller feels like. He’s faked it often enough. He opens his eyes again, not really sure when they closed, and looks up past Peggy to the rest of the room. Something sharp and sick twists in his gut. Without being lost in the buzzing sensation under his skin, he can focus on the faces around him now, the tension in their shoulders, the techs studiously avoiding eye contact. This too, is familiar. They’re disappointed. Some hide it better than others, Peggy’s wrapped up in real concern, her hand still ready to support him. Dr. Erskin’s in guilt, cleaning his glasses compulsively. He watches Howard turn back to his overloaded console with a sneer that shows teeth.

“Oh, uh.” He feels small and exposed for the first time in a while, since he was handpicked to try. Since he finally managed to get as far as basic training. He knows that there’s not much left for him here, that they expected it either to work or to kill him. He runs his fingers through the stretches he uses before drawing to keep them busy.

~ i'm considering having the nazis explode the lab anyway~

He blames the way emotions choke his throat for how long it takes him to notice. He knows his pace is too fast, he knows that his bag is too heavy, he knows that he’s pushing himself past his hard learned limits. He puts his key in the lock to his front door, already resigning himself to days of recovery when he blinks and realizes that he hasn’t had to stop to rest, on benches and garbage cans and strangers' front steps. He knows how this is supposed to go. Resting for longer and longer, measuring his path from block to block in single desperate steps. Instead, his twenty minute walk home had actually taken twenty minutes. His legs don’t even hurt. He takes a deep breath and feels his chest expand smoothly, he can’t taste blood in his mouth. His back doesn’t ache under the weight of his duffle. He’s thinking so hard about that he forgets to use the trick to get his door open, too long away and too much in his brain. It screeches as it opens smoothly under his hand. Too smoothly considering how poorly hung it is, considering that Steve’s almost dislocated his shoulder trying to get it unstuck before. He closes and locks it behind him before dropping his duffle only a few steps into his shoebox apartment. He scrubs one hand harshly over his face and back through his hair before taking the final two steps to drop onto the dusty bed. He’s tired, exhausted really. It’s strange to experience without the all encompassing fatigue that makes his bones ache. He’s asleep in seconds.

He wakes up the next morning to a painless existence and the fact that his door is definitely broken.

How to Make Friends and Influence Wars

Basic training is weird the second time around. Steve thinks that maybe he’s doing it wrong, but it’s an improvement over the first time, when, to everyone except Dr. Erskin and Peggy, he was doing it wrong, and they told him so constantly. He knows he can do what they ask, he knows that in a pinch, he could do it before, if he wanted to taste blood in his mouth and pain in his spine and be a bit feverish and bedridden doing paperwork the next couple of days. This time he focuses on control, on learning how hard ‘as hard as you can’ is for regular people, on learning how to fight with too little weight to offset his brand new strength. Because being able to deadlift a jeep matters a lot less than it should when he still weighs a buck fifteen and his sparring partners can pick him up just as easily. He’s considered putting weights in his shoes.

He gets into fights, at basic. He finds himself oddly off kilter to be on the other side of an uneven fight. He learns more than during actual instruction, mostly because, no matter how accidentally, breaking the bones of his fellow soldiers is a bad way of making it to where there are people who deserve their to have bones broken. He ends up settling on a surprisingly underhanded method of sort of tripping them, either onto the ground or his fist. It puts a kind of limit on the force he exerts.

Dear Miss Peggy,

It’s been a couple weeks since I last saw you, hope you’re doing well and keeping the boys on their toes. I’m thrilled to announce that after eight applications I’ve been accepted into the army for the second time. By the time you receive this, Private Reeve Dodgers will have already shipped out to put those bullies back in their place.

Your friend, Steve Rogers.

P.S. Find me, finally fighting fit in the 74th infantry regiment. Hope to receive your letter.

~ Horrors of War™ interlude~

There’s not a lot for him to do, his first couple weeks on the front. His above average assessments can only do so much in the face of his short stature and weedy build. Personally, he thinks that somebody that everyone believes couldn’t possibly be in the army is probably pretty suited to infiltration training. He’s put on ambulance duty, instead. It’s not as exciting as he’d hoped, but he enjoys it. It feels like helping. The girls at the nurse’s station are smart and no nonsense and they usually listen to him when he says he can do more, even if the first time they’re clearly trying to punish him for overpromising. He feels a smile spread across his face the first time he hears Sue call for Dodgers across the tent because she needs him to do heavy lifting. It’s more immediate than anything he could be doing with an M1911. The M1911 still feels heavy on his hip though. He stands in the medical tent and flexes his hands as he watches another ambulance full of stretchers get unloaded. He’s fast and strong and sturdy in a way that the men he helps the girls care for aren’t, and he knows it. It itches in the same way that made him go to the recruitment office eight times.

Sue catches him halfway through lacing up his boots, even though it's the middle of the night. He ties a knot and straightens up. She stops tapping her foot and sighs.

“Dodgers.”

“Ma’am.” Steve doesn’t fidget under her gaze. “Thought you’d be asleep.”

“Medical doesn’t sleep, Dodgers.” He nods, and she uncrosses her arms to grab his elbow. He follows as she drags him back to the main tent. “You want to be a hero? Take your gun and go kill some nazis?”

“Ma’am.” He says again. She laughs, and it’s tired. The gray in her hair catches in the dim lights of the ward. They come to a halt in front of the curtain to the intensive ward.

“Ok, Dodgers, here we go.” Her fingers tighten on his sleeve. They stop in front of a bed that’s sectioned off to protect burns. Steve can hear his breath rasp from where they’re standing at the foot of the bed. He doesn’t know if Sue can. “This is Sargent George Richards. He’s a hero. He saved the rest of his squad when their shelter was firebombed.”

She leads him to another bed. The shape under the blanket is missing pieces. There are dried tear tracks on his cheeks. “This is Captain Dume. He’s a hero. He and his men got cut off behind enemy lines and he brought almost forty of them back with him.”

The last bed in the ward has a man in it that’s even younger and thinner than Steve is. He’s twisted in his bed to keep pressure off his wounds. The pattern reads shrapnel. Most of his face is covered in bandages. Sue lets go of his arm and smooths her skirt. “This is Private Jones. He’s a hero.”

Jones twitches as Steve looks at him, takes a sharp gasp and shudders all over. It’s a nightmare, probably. “Who did he save?” Steve whispers, unwilling to break the silence of the ward. Sue looks at him, looks right through him.

“Nobody.”

Steve takes off his boots and goes back to bed. He lasts another week before he walks out of camp at one in the afternoon. He comes back a week later with eight men and a mostly healed knife wound in his side. He tells everyone but the nurses that he got lost. Everyone but the nurses believe him.

~Horrors interlude ends~

Private Reeve Dodgers, as is becoming true to form, has once again disappeared while on mission. Godspeed.

Bucky has lost track of time, the ceiling is fading in and out of focus and he’s pretty sure that he’s started hallucinating since the last scientists left, some, days? hours? ago. For example, He can hear Stevie talking to him, Stevie’s at home in Brooklyn. He shouldn’t be here, it’s dangerous. He opens his mouth to tell the Steve hallucination that, and only manages a hoarse creaking noise.

His head turns with what feels like monumental effort and he sees a familiar face juxtaposed with a short military haircut and baggy green fatigues. His eyelids flicker and he decides to listen to what Stevie is telling him instead. “Those nazi bastards are too dead to hurt you anymore, Bucky.” His split lip starts bleeding again when he cracks a wobbly smile. Steve always did know what to say. He feels the steel bands bolting him to a table release to the familiar sound of Steve’s pleased “Yes!”

He leans forward with as much of his strength as he can muster and promptly collapses against his own knees. He blinks back into awareness to the sensation of being carried. Yes, he’s being carried, and Steve is holding him like he doesn’t weigh anything. He knew he was hallucinating. He tunes back into the one sided conversation.

“Stevie,” He says to the ground as it passes by, and coughs. “I think I’ve been drugged.”

“Really?” His hallucination says, apparently not concerned with Bucky calling him by the wrong name. “Why do you say that?” It does sound just like Steve.

“You’re here.”

“Buck, I am here. Joined the Army and everything.”

Bucky nods and feels his whole skull try to rattle apart around him. “Ok, punk.” He says and loses consciousness before his hallucination can reply.

Phillips turns to Peggy and says, with a carefully even tone, “I know that man.”

Peggy brushes an imaginary stray hair out of her face and says, tone light. “Do you?”

“Don’t.” He says through gritted teeth, his jaw so tight it had to hurt. “You know. I saw your face, you weren’t surprised.”

Bucky’s spoon stops halfway to his mouth, the mess tent gruel threatening to slop back onto his tray. He fixes Steve with a look of deep disappointment. “Reeve Dodgers?”

Steve smiles back, unrepentant, and tugs his tags out from the collar of his shirt. Bucky puts his spoon all the way down and hooks his fingers in the chain to haul Steve halfway over the table and look himself. He groans.

“Reeve Dodgers.” He says again while Steve resettles. He picks the spoon back up and some porridge drips off it into his peas as he points at Steve. “That, is the worst one yet.”

“It worked.” Steve says, and watches Bucky try and fail to keep a straight face as that fact sinks in.

Under direct orders from Captain Reeve Dodgers.

Steve has been awake for several minutes longer than anyone realizes. Eyes closed and breathing steady while he listens to a ballgame for the second time. The room is quiet, outside of that, there’s no street noise that he can hear. The announcer takes a familiar 5 second silence before he continues his chatter. It hits him then, that he can’t smell cigarettes. He opens his eyes to gentle yellow light and rolls his head on the pillow while he tries to take in the room. It’s too clean, is one thing he notices immediately. There’s no life in the place, no ashtrays, nothing hung on the hooks, no forgotten coffee cups or scattered notes. The walls are freshly painted. There’s no scuffs on the floor, or grime built up in the corners of the room. His fingers tighten in his pristine sheets and he turns his head to the door to meet the heels clicking down the hallway.

The nurse comes into the room with a wide smile and too little urgency. Every nurse Steve has ever met either walks with a brisk efficiency that could cow generals or with the exhausted slump of too long hours. It’s the afternoon, or it’s supposed to be, and her uniform is still crisp. His eyes go to the top corner of her uniform pocket, looking for the reinforcement that’s always sewn there to help it handle the extra weight frontline medicine requires. He smiles at her and her too elaborate for daily work hair.

“Hello, Ma’am.” He rasps around a dry throat and smiles, bright and a little confused. “Where,” he trails off with a slow blink. “‘M I stateside?” he asks and he doesn’t bother to smooth out the brooklyn accent. He watches her face through carefully half lidded eyes for the tells he knows will be there and finds them. He already knows she’s lying to him.

The not-nurse hurries forward when he wavers a bit trying to sit up with too stiff muscles. Hes tired, more tired than he’d thought he was while lying in bed pretending to be unconscious, but he knows tired, he’s worked through tired worse than this. She catches his shoulder with manicured fingernails and he nods his thanks as she helps him slowly scoot back to lean against the headboard.

“There we go, Corporal.” She says, and the accent’s subtle in a way most people can't fake and American without a hint of anything else in there like his has, after almost two years in Europe with necessity upgrading his understanding of German from conversational to fluent. It occurs to him for the first time since he woke up from what he’s pretty sure was dying, that he might actually be in the United States.

New York is wrong. But it’s a better kind of wrong than the friendly cream colored room he woke up in. It’s real, and it is still New York. He survived six weeks alone in occupied France while only knowing how to say ‘I’m with the French Resistance’ and some extremely specific conversational German. It was the first time he’d ever been accidentally recorded as killed in action and when he learned that when he gets shot he has to get the bullets out immediately. All in all, an interesting trip. He can handle New York in– he squints, too quickly to be noticed, at an abandoned newspaper on a bistro table as he passes by –apparently the new millennium. He tucks his hands into the pockets of his slacks, picks a direction, and walks without urgency. Eventually, he finds a building he recognizes. He tucks his hands into his pockets, turns at the next corner, and walks a brisk couple miles to the library.

He ducks into the stacks the instant he arrives, and tries to remember his dewey decimals enough to not have to ask for help. He manages, though he’s deeply suspicious that some of them have changed since the last time he was in a library. He collects what he expects is an eclectic pile. He collects a few books on current events, an entertainment magazine, and a book on technology that, based on the size of the text and density of its pictures, is probably intended for children. He refuses to be embarrassed, if anyone deserves introductory material it’s him. He also, after his book on the state of the world names too many countries he’s never heard of, gets up and grabs an atlas.

He pretends to startle when the librarian approaches his table because he probably would have been engrossed in his book if he couldn’t hear her conversation with the woman at the circulation desk. His head snaps up and his eyes go to her hands before her face. He lets how unsteady he really feels slip through his wobbly smile in a way he didn’t at the facility he woke up in.

“Hello ma’am?” He looks at the page number for appearances’ sake and closes his children’s encyclopedia of technology. Her expression is briefly calculating before it smooths out and she asks the question that she’s been workshopping with the rest of the staff all morning.

“Hi honey, you finding everything you need?” Her smile is neutral and encouraging and he’d compliment her on it if he hadn’t decided to play into her assumptions. “Us Librarians are here to help.”

He can’t blush on command anymore, so he averts his eyes and lets out a slow deliberate breath through his mouth. “I, thank you.” he says and tugs a little at the collar of his shirt, aware after his jog through the city that it’s obviously old fashioned. “I’m, new here?” He makes it a question to avoid the way the truth is exactly opposite, smoothing out his accent into the broad neutral one he learned during the war. “And I don’t, really,” he trails off and shrugs helplessly at the bank of computers off to his left. He’d thought they were new study corrals, at first and then made an abrupt retreat once he saw it was set up like some kind of telegraph office. According to the encyclopedia, he’s kind of right.

The librarian’s face softens, “That’s exactly what I'm here for. I’m Emma.”

“Abe, uh, Abraham Buckner.” Steve says and starts to gather his books into a pile. Out of the corner of his eye he watches her watch him.

“Biblical.” She says.

“Yeah, it’s-” he starts, and almost says Jewish before he remembers that he’s supposed to be escaping a cult. “Catholic, mostly.” The verbal stumble apparently looks natural enough because the concern is back on Emma’s face as she hands him his last book.

Fury stops in the doorway to his own office at the sight of a stranger sitting in his visiting chair, the top of his blond hair and enormous ears peeking out over the back of the seat. The boy turns at his entrance and he catches a glimpse of blue eyes. “Hello sir!” It’s that kid, the one they found in the ice. Corporal whomever from World War II. The one who somehow managed to rabbit out of a secure facility and disappear. “That was a lousy fake 1943, I was at that ball game.”

“You don’t say.” He drawls, deciding to ignore the elephant in the room. “We worked with what we had.” He sits at his desk and focuses on the human museum exhibit that’s been missing the last three weeks.

“So I gather I’ve been, out of action, for a while.” The kid says with half a smile, apparently to break the tension. It doesn’t work, but he almost respects it.

“Longer than anyone expected, I’ve got some questions I’d be pleased if you could answer for me.”

The kid’s face scrunches up with a familiar distaste.

“What’s your name, Corporal?” The kid blinks at him, surprised for apparently the first time since getting defrosted.

“Carter.” He says finally. “Grant Carter. I’m uh,” he pauses and flashes a sheepish smile. “Pleased to meet you?” Well, that would explain some things. He narrows his eye at the kid.

“Any relation to a Margaret Carter?” A question and a test all in one.

“You mean Peggy?” The kid asks, leaning forward for a smile, his hair flopping over his forehead.

Agent Grant is pretty sure he pissed off Director Fury somehow. He doesn’t remember doing it, in fact, he’s only spoken to the man a couple of times, but Carter feels like a punishment for something. He showed up out of nowhere, said Fury hired him directly, and has been making his life complicated since. Grant Carter is a bizarre little mystery. This is not an opinion his other coworkers share for the simple reason that they’re not around him that often. Derek has to work with him directly, and thus gets a front row seat to the blue eyed boy wonder’s many idiosyncrasies. It wouldn’t be nearly as bad if the kid weren’t genuinely fantastic at his job, and also the at least two other jobs he’s invented in the footnotes and margins of his analysis, or if the two of them didn’t work well together. They’re referred to as a unit now, which bodes poorly for his chances to escape. They’re The Grants. He is, much to his chagrin, Old Grant, which everyone insists is because he was here first, and not because, outside of his jawline, New Grant looks like he should get carded at movie theaters.

The thing is, that there’s something wrong with Carter. None of his pieces fit together. When they’re not assembling reports that, despite being the same length as everyone else’s, contain vastly more information, he’s drawing what looks like comics at his desk and trying to make the oddest small talk that Grant’s ever heard outside of Strike Team Delta debriefs. He should just write Carter off as a liar, considering how often his stories seem to directly contradict each other, but this is SHIELD, and Carter was hired by the Director personally. So he just has to put up with it when he drops really alarming anecdotes into normal conversation. Field agent anecdotes. Things that pint sized twenty somethings who say they had asthma as a kid should not have experienced, let alone survived.

Two weeks into his job as Grant Carter, SHIELD Analyst, Steve is in the vents. He doesn’t technically have to be in the vents, but they’re surprisingly clean and he’s finished his assignments early enough to work on his extracurriculars. He’s in the process of investigating a new path to The R&D labs when he hears something. He goes entirely still, before turning his head to angle his good ear toward the sound, not that he has a bad ear anymore, but old habits die hard. There’s definitely a scuffling sound coming from the next junction. He assesses his options. He probably won’t be able to get away without alerting whoever else is in the ductwork with him. But he’s strong, and his size tends to give him the advantage in close quarters like this. So he sits and waits for what is definitely not a raccoon to turn the corner.

A head of shaggy blond hair appears around the corner, purple hearing aids hooked around his ears. The vent under his chin casts thin stripes of light across his face and the underside of his jaw. The tension in Steve’s shoulders relaxes when he recognizes the guy even as he freezes the same way Steve did when he realizes he’s not alone. Specialist Clint Barton turns to stare at Steve. There’s a few moments of what would be silence if the break room they’re situated above had been empty. Instead there’s the subtly surreal background noise of a man humming some 90s pop song people always expect Steve to recognize while he goes through the ritual of fixing himself coffee. It almost breaks the tension. Clint’s as allowed here as Steve is, by which he means not at all, but it’s not a matter of national security, so he smiles and presses a finger to his lips. The thud when Clint’s head hits his forearms and his shoulders start shaking with repressed laughter is probably quiet enough that other people couldn’t even notice it. He’s had to learn that all over again, what’s normal to hear, some funhouse mirror of when he lost his hearing in the first place. He props his chin on his hand and waits for Hawkeye to finish. Eventually he picks his head back up, gives a sloppy wave and shuffles through the intersection towards whatever his destination is. Administration was that way. Steve thinks through the building layout while he waits for Barton’s feet to clear the path. The guy is genuinely enormous. Steve has no idea how he fits his shoulders through here.

He meets Hawkeye twice more before they ever talk. Dubiously legal vent travel just doesn’t provide many opportunities for it. The closest they’ve gotten is Steve looking up the modern ASL sign for “criminal” and the two of them almost blowing their cover when he used it to tell him to go ahead. He had somehow failed to consider that they might see each other outside of dusty metal tubes. He puts his lunch tray down on the cafeteria table without looking and continues to make bewildered eye contact with Barton from across the room. Hawkeye changes his path and beelines to his table. Steve blinks for a second before just sitting down and poking at his potato hash. Hawkeye’s tray clatters in front of his eyes and a second later the man himself is sitting cross legged and grinning on the opposite side of the table.

“So,” he says, and gestures with his spork, “Agent or Analyst?” Steve swallows his bite and smiles his ‘I didn’t do anything wrong’ smile. He holds his hand out to shake.

“Agent Reeve Dodgers, at your service.” Barton’s holding his hand in a firm grasp and opening his mouth to say something else when his hand spasms in Steve's grip and he starts wheezing.

“Oh my god, that's amazing.” He says, to Steve’s confusion. “Reeve Dodgers. I’m gonna use that.”

“What?”

“Your name can’t actually be Reeve Dodgers, right?” Hawkeye says, and finally releases his hand. It isn’t, but he has no idea what would make Barton react like that.

“It is when I’m in the vents.”

Barton makes a noise like a wet shoe on tile and continues to shake with laughter. His fingers curl over his smiling mouth as he rests his elbow on the table and leans into it.

“What’s so funny?”

“You don’t know? You have to know. Captain Reeve Dodgers?”

“I-” Steve starts, It can’t actually be about him, he was never technically promoted past corporal and surely if SHIELD knows who he is they wouldn't let him be Grant Carter instead. “Captain?”

“He’s not a real guy. It’s this old military thing, ‘Under direct orders from Captain Reeve Dodgers?’”

“From the forties?” he says, somewhat strangled.

“Yeah! So you do know.”

“I’m familiar with the name.” He says helplessly, and takes a bite of his food.

“It’s when a guy goes rogue but he nails it. Crazy odds, excellent results. Save the base stuff.” Barton picks up his sandwich and shredded lettuce falls out of the bottom as he gestures with it. “They don't want to court martial him for going against orders. So they say he got orders, and then everyone pretends to believe him.”

Steve blushes from the tips of his ears down to his neck. He takes another bite.

“Hey, Pintsize. How was the espionage?” Steve barely pauses before he wiggles the rest of the way out of the vent. He brushes off his pants before he glances up at the man who caught him. Tony Stark is leaned up against the battered table out of the line of sight from where he crawled out.

“Hey, Stark.” He says, and checks how gray the dust has made his palms before he can track that into his hair. The answer is very, and he grimaces. “Can I get you a coffee?”

“You have to know I’m harder to bribe than that, kiddo.” Stark says with a disparaging snort at the pile of single use pods next to the machine. “I’m a billionaire.” His eyes go back to his tablet though his focus never wavers from Steve.

“Bribe?” Steve glances up from where he’s washing his hands in the tiny kitchenette sink. Through a well ingrained habit, he scrubs briskly and efficiently up to his elbows. “Why would I try to bribe you? It's manners.” He dries his hands and turns to the cupboard for the mugs.

“Is it also manners to break into the R&D labs?”

“No, that’s a hobby.” Steve says and flashes a smile over his shoulder. He sets the machine, then spins and hops onto the counter next to it. Just to be an asshole, he pulls the newest prototype he liberated from the labs out of his pocket and starts fiddling with it.

Stark’s head tilts a full thirty degrees.

“Is, are you confessing right now?” Stark asks and his eyebrows furrow over his sunglasses. “Because usually it’s harder than this.” One of his hands snaps up to gesture at where Steve is perched on the counter with a shaking emphasis on the prototype. “There’s a whole process to this, you know?”

“Oh?” Steve says encouragingly, and reaches out with his free hand to grab his coffee. Stark continues on like he hadn’t heard him.

“You deny it, maybe pretend to get angry. I pull out the security footage, read out part of your personnel file,” He flashes the tablet screen, paused on a view of Steve in the east R&D lab. “You cry or threaten me or something.”

Steve looks at Stark for a moment. “Do you, want me to threaten you?”

“Yes! No. Don’t tell Pepper I said that.” He points sharply at Steve. Steve takes a sip of his coffee.

“Are you threatening me?” He asks, entirely unthreatened. “Because, I don’t think this is SHIELD protocol.” He takes another sip of coffee while Stark vibrates in place.

“I don’t get it. It doesn’t make sense. You don't make sense! You put everything back. With notes. Good notes, even. for an analyst.”

Steve nods.

“You don’t steal from me though.” Stark says, accusatorily, angry for the first time the whole conversation. “Is Starktech not good enough for you?” Stark waves the tablet in his off hand with a sharp nonchalance that would make Steve worry if he didn’t know that Starktech tablets aren’t actually as fragile as all that glass makes them look. Steve puts down his coffee and pauses a moment to gather his thoughts.

“You haven’t pissed me off yet.”

“What?” Stark says, snapped out of the anger as quickly as he fell into it, and minimizes the security footage. He taps out a note in some incomprehensible shorthand even as he cocks his head at Steve in question. “I piss everyone off, it’s one of my many charming qualities, ask Fury, ask anybody.”

“Fitzsimmons’ stuff never leaves the lab. If Natasha didn’t exist I think Clint would be in platonic love with them.” He juggles the prototype sub sonic grenade between his hands. His ankles bounce lightly off the cabinet doors.

“I steal from Granger the most because he's an asshole who does shit work with unintuitive design.” Stark nods, sharply, and opens his mouth for what would almost certainly be a pretty amusing rant about Granger’s many various deficiencies. Steve smiles at him before continuing. He likes this Stark far more than Howard.

“Nothing makes him madder than a polite little post it note on the gizmo he’s just started the loss paperwork on. Admin thinks he’s embezzling.”

Stark starts to laugh like it’s been surprised out of him.

“So Granger deserves it, and your dad was a rat bastard. But I don’t know you, Tony.” He says, and leans back against the wall. “You seem nice.”

“Me? Nice?” Stark seems to be stuck somewhere between theatrically offended and genuinely bewildered. Steve shrugs.

“Yeah, you know the names of the whole R&D department and design almost all of the good armor and recon tech.” Something complicated and vulnerable flashes across Stark’s face for a moment. Before being replaced with a practiced smirk that would look more at home on Howard’s face.

“You’re also,” Steve starts, and leans forward into the edge of Stark’s space, dropping his voice into a conspiratorial tone, “not going to snitch.”

“You’re a weird kid, Carter.”

“You’re probably the only person in existence to sneak expensive equipment into a lab. We’re both weird.” He hops off the counter to go back to his job and Stark’s face snaps back to normal.

“Hold it, pipsqueak. I hacked SHIELD for this.” He says, and goes back to his tablet. “I mean, it’s not hard but-” he cuts himself off and flicks his wrist as if to dismiss something that's not actually there. “No, what I want to know is why your recruitment file is classified. Your birthdate is sealed, which I've literally never seen, by the way, and you’re talking like you knew my dad.”

“I did know your dad.” Steve says, because it's true. “He was an asshole.”

“You look like you escaped a daycare. You can’t be older than 30.”

“Yeah, and I knew your dad.” Stark looks like he’s winding up to scream, then he takes a breath that hisses through his teeth.

“He died in 1991.” He says, flat and accusing.

“I wasn’t there for that part.” Steve takes another sip of coffee.

Pepper’s heels clack on the tile before coming to an abrupt halt in front of Steve and, by extension, Tony. On account of the fact that Steve is all but carrying him.

“Hiya Pep!” Tony says cheerily even as he continues to flop bonelessly over Steve’s head and shoulders. Tony continuing to take shameless advantage of being six inches taller than him.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Ms. Potts. I’m Grant Carter.” Steve says, as polite as he can manage with Tony’s elbow mussing his hair into his eyes.

Pepper’s eyes snap to him and narrow in calculation. “Tony.” She says, a very particular note in her voice, one that Tony, at least, seems to recognize immediately, if the way his head snaps up is any indication.

“No!” The arm on top of Steve’s head repositions into an incredulous point. “No, Pep, he isn’t.” Pepper gestures at the two of them with the stack of paperwork in her hands and Tony makes a noise in his throat. “I know what you’re thinking, and frankly I’m appalled. He’s a consultant. I stole him.” Tony smiles. From what Steve can tell at this angle it’s one of his better ones, if a bit manic. “As if I would stoop so low-” and there’s the short joke, Steve shrugs his shoulders and Tony’s free arm swings wildly as he tips off balance before Steve rights him.

“I’d apologize for him, ma’am. But I think you might know him better than me.” Pepper’s eyes focus back on Steve and she smiles.

“Hello, Mr. Carter, what’d you do to get saddled with this idiot?” There’s a whine from Tony. Both of them ignore it.

“Stole from him.” Steve smiles broadly.

“He disrupted his inner ear all on his own”

Steve’s deskmate is ignoring him again, he’d thought they were getting along. He refills his water bottle at the station in the office hallway and tries to think of anything he’s done that would warrant it. It’s not a work issue, he’s pretty sure, because all of their evaluations have been almost glowing. He gets his part of the work done quickly, he doesn’t make that much noise when he’s in their shared office working on his other job, and he tries to get the dust off when he gets out of the vents. He’s jarred from the thought when Rosa tries to draw him into a conversation about a television show he’s never heard of. He extricates himself in his favorite way, by telling the absolute truth with a smile.

“You know me, Rosa. I’m a 90 year old man.” She laughs and waves him off. He flips his water bottle in his hand with a showy toss and turns back to his office. Dirch is standing in his direct path and glaring. Steve winces.

“Hey Derek,” Rosa calls, “Always good to see The Grants together.” His attention snaps to her for a moment and an insincere, closed mouthed smile before returning to Steve.

“Ok, I don’t get it.” Clint says conversationally from where he’s hung himself upside down from a support beam in the ceiling.

“Get what?” Steve simulsigns along with his words from his place on the other side of the hanger.

“You were in World War 2, Dodge. Why do you ‘mostly’ know Canadian French?” Clint makes air quotes before he nocks his next arrow. He draws and fires all in one motion, and it strikes the bullseye next to Steve’s head.

Steve considers how to answer the question, then considers whether he knows enough ASL to actually say his answer. Instead he says, “You’re from Iowa,” He signs ‘Corn’ instead of just finger spelling the name. “Why do you speak Russian?” He catches Clint’s eye and makes a point to look genuinely curious. Clint laughs loud enough for it to echo and fires another arrow at his head.

#my writing #reeve dodgers

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whatisonthemoon · 11 months

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Peoples Temple Was Not a “Cult of Assassins”

by Laurie Efrein Kahalas

As many readers may already know, I’ve been among the most vocal of the Peoples Temple survivors. Most, however, do not appear to know: I was never in Guyana; I have never hurt anyone (I mean, in my entire life); I was so aware of abusive patterns with Jim Jones, that I wrote in my book, Snake Dance: Unravelling the Mysteries of Jonestown, that “I would not put up with for seven minutes now, what I put up with for seven years then.”

I have great compassion for all other survivors who endured this unendurable life experience, if only because I am one myself. I wept as hard and long over the tragedy as anyone, with the respectful and heartfelt exception of people who lost their children or other dear relatives, but survived themselves.

I am also notably both sane and rational, and have and will respond to any challenges by way of verifiable facts. Moreover, unlike various other key figures, I have never lied; and although I fully understand the horrendous nature of what happened, I have worked to dissemble the countless smears mixed in with the facts, and to uncover facts that are so conspicuously missing.

We are not frozen in time. Only smears seem to remain the same; people don’t. Moreover, facts don’t change on account of smears, but smears can block out the facts, and even the mental, emotional, even physical access to the facts. But people can change their minds at any time, and learn to discern the difference between lies and truth, and between smears and facts.

Because of what I knew first-hand in 1978, and because of ensuing research that I did, I found myself in a position of historical responsibility. And one facet of that, to which this article is addressed, is refuting the common assertion that Peoples Temple was somehow “a cult of assassins,” i.e., the mythical package of, “bizarre murder/suicide ritual,” complete with “Jim Jones ordered this, Jim Jones ordered that.” That Jim Jones ordered up the whole menu of horrors, and there was no one else with any say in the entire cataclysm.

That is not true. It has never been true.

First witness the attached U.S. government-generated log of events the night of November 18-19, 1978:

In other words, the CIA was reporting directly from Jonestown at 3:29 a.m. No one else was on the scene. Even the Army MEDEVAC plane to attend to the wounded at the airstrip did not leave from Charleston, South Carolina – on the East Coast of the U.S. – until 3:04 a.m. and did not arrive in Guyana until 7:55 a.m.!!

So where did the soldiers who radioed in the deaths at Jonestown over NOIWON, the CIA radio band, come from? The sky? This was a remote jungle location. There were no other planes at the Port Kaituma airstrip but those meant to transport the congressman and his party. So.. yes, my incredulous readers, they were already there!

How could that be? Well, as I have been saying for many years now, complete with evidentiary details, it was not members of Peoples Temple who assassinated the congressman at all. Rather, it was a highly-trained, brutal, professional-military hit team, sent by the CIA.

I saw the actual film of the assassination a year later, on the evening of November 17, 1979, on WPIX-NY, before it was confiscated. (Now even NBC Burbank, the network of Bob Brown, the photojournalist who was killed during the filming, claims not to have the film anymore.) And I read all the early news reports. They were so highly professional, that they shot out the tires of the plane before advancing forward, with cracker-jack shots at a distance. Then they advanced forward in a symmetrical “squad diamond formation” (as identified for me by an Army veteran). After the initial shooting, they advanced towards one body (presumably the congressman) to be sure he was dead. “Mission accomplished.” Then what did they do? Ride off in a Temple truck? No. As eyewitnesses said, “They fled into the bush.”

Oh, “they fled into the bush”? And then where did they go? Did they disappear into the cornfields of Iowa, like in Field of Dreams? And then miraculously re-materialize at 3 a.m. at the scene of mass death? And now, twenty-six years later, everyone is still so shocked and traumatized, that there is no possible way to connect the dots? Well, what about fifty years later, or a hundred years later? Does it just become a discarded jigsaw puzzle that someone throws into the local landfill?

Congress had the chance to investigate the truth back then, but they did little other than to whitewash the tragedy. I personally confirmed with them all the way back in January 1979, that the “positive eyewitness identifications” of the alleged “eight Temple assassins” came from defector Jim Cobb, who was not only suing the Temple for a million dollars with a bogus lawsuit at the time, but who also told the press that he was on the other side of the plane when the shooting began, then headed in the other direction into the jungle! You know, the “eyes in the back of one’s head” kind of identification.

Let’s look further. It turns out that both Congressman Leo Ryan and Annie Moore, a young nurse at Jonestown, were killed by dum-dum bullets (which the community surely did not have at Jonestown), which moreover were believed to have come from the same gun. And even though Moore’s body was autopsied, it – along with the other six bodies selected for autopsies, indeed, all the bodies of Jonestown – was embalmed prior to autopsy, making a test for poison impossible. Not so much as a drop of blood or urine to confirm the type of poisoning, or whether poisoning existed alongside of gunshot wounds.

But then again, how could they? What if a body was both poisoned and shot? Did Annie first poison herself, then shoot herself through the head, or vice versa?

Then there was the matter of the coroner’s report. They cordoned Jonestown off – Jonestown to the CIA, Port Kaituma to the MEDEVAC team (i.e. Army) – and although just seven miles apart, never the twain would meet. Ah, but when Leslie Mootoo, the Guyanese coroner, was finally let into Jonestown on Monday, November 20th, he apparently deduced that hundreds in the community had been forcibly injected with poison, not just from behind, but in exactly the same spot between the shoulder blades! Nurses running amok, he speculated. Temple nurses pursuing the unwilling towards the jungle and forcibly, expertly, injecting “hundreds” of community member in exactly the same part of the back.

I suppose that that must mean that the Temple nurses and the Temple security team were trained together: you know, the bumbling, uncoordinated “Temple gunmen” practicing to shoot out the tires of an airplane with a single shot from a distance, and Temple nurses trained to shoot hypodermic needles right between the shoulder blades of their fleeing relatives and friends.

And what about the story that Jonestown was “an armed camp”? Well, according to both Guyanese and American authorities, no more than 40 weapons, mostly small arms were discovered in Jonestown, to defend a community some 1,200 people. “Armed camp”? They were completely defenseless! In a remote jungle setting, without even a phone, and no viable route of escape, they were cut off, isolated. Defenseless.

Can anyone say “sitting ducks”? All the more so with the publication of the mass suicide threat at an earlier time. Do anything to these people and call it “suicide.” Who cares? A thousand far-left-wing socialists, the majority of them black, making friends with Castro’s Cuba and about to re-relocate to the then-Soviet Union. Who cares? A key conspirator, Joseph Mazor, got right on TV within days after the tragedy when he announced that “It was believed that Jim Jones would become a major political force in the Caribbean within five years.” And who exactly, provided him with that.. intelligence assessment? Who cared? It was a blip on the screen, then gone.

And who reported it when the same man, Joseph Mazor (who can be traced from ex-con, to police informer, to FBI asset, to Interpol), came just two months prior to the tragedy, to “claim credit” for the snipers against the community in September 1977, to announce that the real plan had been “mass extermination,” to drive an already-dangerously-destabilized Jim Jones over the edge deliberately?

Who cares, anyway? “Cult.” “Armed camp.” “Slave labor conditions.” “Hitler.” “Brainwashed.”

But let’s backtrack to the airstrip again. The congressman is dead, and the CIA has soldiers in the bush. They do nothing to stop the suicides, but emerge following the deaths at 3 a.m. in the morning. Not only does the official log confirm their presence at Jonestown then, but there was a eyewitness. Stanley Clayton, having escaped the suicide ritual, watched from the bush and reported what he witnessed to the Matthews Ridge Grand Jury shortly thereafter. And yes, as reported in an article from The New York Times, he also heard gunshots after everyone was already dead. Shooting people who were already poisoned? Well, at least that solves the no-autopsy mystery.

Then a) no one but the CIA gets into Jonestown but them until a day and a half later, only to find mass injections to “prove” that the community went to their deaths by brutal force? So that someone as brutal as Jim Jones had to have also been responsible for (i.e., “ordered”) the assassination of Congressman Leo Ryan? And b) gee, the wounded at Port Kaituma sure could have used military help before 8 a.m.! This was all of seven miles down the road. And CIA soldiers were cordoning off a death scene rather than aiding the still-living whose lives were in the balance?

Is it really that much of a leap to conclude that at the very least, the CIA didn’t care about the wounded at the assassination scene? Much less care about the deaths at Jonestown? Is it really that much to consider that, well, maybe they just didn’t care who died, so long as their archenemy, Leo Ryan, was made the sacrificial lamb, and Jim Jones and his flock would never live to relocate to Russia during the Cold War (a plan that was well in the works by that date)?

It was a classic “kill two birds with one stone”: Leo Ryan and Jim Jones. And one of the “birds” was already suicidal, making their task all the easier. Easier? Easier than what? Well, why did they give “three cheers” upon entering the scene of mass death, according to the only eyewitness at the time? How could coming upon such a horrifying scene mean relief? What were they there to do? We already know they were not there to “save” anybody, either at Jonestown or Port Kaituma, so what were they there to do?

And although we know now that the CIA had soldiers in the area while it was all happening, why is it that the press was never given the body count for several days? And why is it that an Army MEDEVAC plane transported bodies out of Port Kaituma the very next morning, but no one came for the bodies at Jonestown until many days later? Were 900 dead Americans not a priority? What was more important: (1) to remove the bodies; do autopsies; and contact relatives; or: (2) to cordon off Jonestown so no one else even got in for 36 hours, misreport the number of dead; and inject hundreds of bodies in exactly the same spot in the back to confirm the “slaughter”, so that no one would question who was responsible for the assassination of Congressman Ryan?

And what about the congressman? Jim Jones wasn’t the whole picture by far. The enmity between Congressman Leo Ryan and the CIA was well-known (note: though not to Jim Jones. It was not researched at the time.) Ryan co-authored the Hughes-Ryan Act of 1974, requiring the CIA to report classified information to Congress. And he was looking into even more- such as CIA involvement in domestic matters, which was supposed to be prohibited by law – at the time he was killed. And certainly Ryan’s aides knew of Ryan’s anti-CIA investigative bent.

So what happened within a few weeks of the tragedy? A reporter from a paper, The Chicago Defender, nailed down Joe Holsinger, a close Ryan aide, to divert him with a story that Philip Blakey, the mild-mannered Brit who dutifully paddled necessary supplies up and down the river to Jonestown, was really a secret agent for the CIA, one who recruited mercenaries for the CIA in Angola in 1975. When the community was barely established. When Philip’s services were continually needed in that one task.

A trivia quiz here? Hardly! It just so happened that the CIA involvement in Angola was the very first anti-CIA campaign of the crusading Congressman Ryan! What a great way to snag, disinform, and neutralize a key Ryan aide! The story about Philip Blakey was preposterous. But Joe Holsinger might indeed rush to assume that “the CIA did it,” so clear was the enmity between Leo Ryan and the CIA. So why have the real culprit, the CIA, investigated, when key aides like Holsinger could be misdirected to nail Jim Jones as “the CIA culprit”?

Brilliant, yes? Well, in a way. Holsinger wound up rounding up all the Ryan children to sue the federal government over the lie that Peoples Temple was really a CIA front! But in another way, with historical perspective, it was not only “brilliant,” it was also stupidly obvious. Why go to all that trouble when “everyone knows that Jim Jones ordered the assassination of Congressman Ryan”? Why bother to disinform, if this was just “obvious”? Blared in newspapers all over the world. Does thinking even occur to people in the blare of headlines? And can we finally replace lies with facts now?

This is the thing. Jim Jones was dangerously destabilized and had way too much power over peaceful innocents by the time of the tragedy. Were the whole thing to (God forbid) happen all over again, personally I would opt for (and would only opt for) Gandhi. But nevertheless, that community was physically endangered, repeatedly and provably, long before the arrival of that dreadful day. By the repeated mercenary threats alone, the last known one being made by Timothy Stoen directly to the State Department on October 3, 1978, to “rescue my son,” a child that scores of people (including Tim Stoen, the child’s mother, Grace, and even me, who heard this discussed openly and repeatedly by these two!) knew was in fact the son of Jim Jones. Even key reporters knew it. Even the leaders of the anti-Temple crusade knew it. Apparently everyone knew it.

Everyone, that is, except Congressman Ryan. There’s a letter from him. He was going to Guyana “to retrieve Tim Stoen’s son.” So he didn’t know it at all. Why not? Well, why tell the sacrificial lamb the truth? Then he might not make the trip.

Tim Stoen also told a Temple member sent back to the States near the last to pretend-defect, that he was “counting on Jim to overreact,” and that Jonestown would be “destroyed.” Tim Stoen, who, as the top Temple attorney, co-authored the ghastly mass suicide “option” in the first place. Why could Mr. Stoen possibly have meant by “overreact”? And under what circumstances could he “count on it”?

This isn’t speculation – not any of it. This was reality in November of 1978. That that community was not safe to survive anyway.

But lest anyone doubt where I stand on this, I will say it outright: You face death together if need be, and protect the most defenseless as best you can. You save as many people as you can. You don’t do it to yourselves. And you sure don’t do it to your kids.

Am I saying that everyone would have been dead anyway? No, of course not. And God knows, for a single child to have survived would have been the greatest blessing in the world for that child’s mother, and that can never be diminished for any reason.

But I would daresay that in any case, Jonestown was no place of safety that night, Jim Jones or no. Even covering up the truth about an assassination would require killing people. And no one has ever even looked at that, or listened, or considered what terrible pressures that community was under even without the suffocating influence of Jim Jones.

And why really? Who would want to harm them? They were peaceful, they had built a beautiful community, they took joy in their breakaway from oppressive conditions in the United States. They were lavishly praised by visitors, which of course we would know if the guest book had not been confiscated (though many notations do remain). And there were no minor children there without legal consent – even that of Tim and Grace Stoen! (Or why were they going to court to nullify their legal consent if they had not given it?)

There was no viable reason to ever threaten these people’s lives! Yet they were threatened – heavily and provably.

So why? Because of their politics, their racial and economic equality, their defiance of the rules of the Cold War, their international breakaway. I know. I oversaw the record. You can lie and smear and cover-up to others, but you cannot do it to me.

And who has ever been brought to account for that? I can name two, six, ten or more key figures who smeared Peoples Temple and Jonestown for a whole year and a half prior to the tragedy, and no one has ever considered them anything but “heroes and heroines,” even though some of them were transparently government agents (indeed Elmer and Deanna Mertle a/k/a Jeannie and Al Mills got themselves killed over it – but not by Peoples Temple.) But no one questions, no one believes anything contrary to what was reported by the media.

But what is most interesting, is that all of this is facts – there is evidence. “Conspiracy theories,” you say? No, that’s not it at all. These are facts. So is one piece of evidence really worth less than a thousand lies and smears? What about ten pieces of evidence, or twenty, or fifty, or more? And what of the evidence that was confiscated, like the on-site filming of the assassination by NBC cameraman Bob Brown? Nowhere to be found. Nowhere. I know. I’ve looked. It’s as available for the viewing as John F. Kennedy’s brain.

I also know the dark side, the unbearable facts for those who this all hurt the most. I know from the depths of my soul what the worse of it was: hundreds of dead children. No one wants to look any further than hundreds of dead children, especially you can blame Jim Jones and be done with it. End of story. But is it? I spoke up earlier than anyone following the tragedy, but when it got to the subject of the dead children, I was so choked up, I could barely speak at all. So I know. But I also know that the CIA, who sent the soldiers into the bush, thought that those children were “expendable” to politics. They thought hundreds of dead children was fine and good. So they certainly were not people for history to give “a free pass.”

Finally consider the whole of what happened, and its vast lessons for the culture, even today. Rip away the plastic screen and look at all of it. Don’t say, I can’t stand this, I can’t look at that, I’m convinced so don’t try to persuade me with the facts. These were people – real, live, sentient people, and so many of them, wonderful people. Don’t blame them for their own plight when you, and the rest of the world, truly do not know the half of it. The half I have tried to tell because, if only by some quirk of fate, I know what that “other half” is, and can prove it.

Their plight was actually more desperate than ever acknowledged publicly, even past their endangerment by Jim Jones. They were people caught in a vice from pressures from both within and without. For which one must empathize, and love those people even in death, and give them that redemption that secret government destroyers and a corporate press never would.

And the redemption of their plight has lessons for us now as well, that we have been slow to recognize. In its own way, Jonestown was a magnificent breakaway for people who largely had no hope here. And why they were not just left to live in peace goes way beyond whatever anyone knows of, or thinks of, Jim Jones. It is also a story of bravery and determination, and how a crushing boot beyond the power of Jim Jones or anyone else at Jonestown to ward off, landed on those people’s heads just because of their politics, their racial and economic equality, their defiance of the rules of the Cold War, their international breakaway.

So should we start now at the end of that dreadful day, at how those CIA soldiers wound up in Jonestown radioing in their report of mass death at 3:39 a.m. that very morning? It’s as good a place as any. Just don’t close down your minds. Look. The evidence, the facts, are still there.

(Laurie Efrein Kahalas, a long-time Temple member and author of Snake Dance, created the website www.jonestown.com which now appears on this site here. Her previous articles for the jonestown report are here. She can be reached through [email protected].)

Source: jonestown.sdsu.edu

#jonestown #jim jones #cults #mass suicide #suicide #CIA #religion #u.s. government #u.s.a.#parapolitical #1978

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theluxuriansecret · 1 year

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Dear Diary 03102023

7:22 pm

Hey diary, things have been going mad well. I've been really enjoying my job and life has been operating smooth as fuck. I'm actually on spring break right now and things have gone really well.

I started my spring break seeing SZA at MSG and it was so much fun. Like my throat hurt for the next couple of days. My bestie and I met up with some friends after and went to a bar. Going out after the concert really helped with that post concert depression. When I got home, I wasn't even sad that the night had ended because I genuinely had such a good time.

On a subway train on the way back to NY Penn, I met this guy on the F Train and ever since then we spend hours on the phone talking and getting to know each other and its really crazy. Like, I'm staying up until 4 am to talk to him thats insane. He talks to me my entire four hour shifts and then some. Shit is really wild.

Anyway, there are a couple things that I am nervous about. One, I am scared that I am going to fall into him like I did in my last relationship and that scares me. I am a human being, with dreams and goals and wants and wishes and desires and I almost fear being trapped. I like experiencing things and people. So it really scares me to be tied down. And it sucks to say that especially because I feel like I've been talking about how much I desire love and a true genuine connection with someone.

Today we actually got into our first like.. argument kinda. I made the mistake of bringing up the way other guys made me feel and just my previous interactions with other guys in general. And he kinda snapped at me because I asked for him to not bring up his past sexual and no sexual relations with women. Because it grosses me out, so no figure it grosses him out too. And he did immediately stopped, and I couldn't do the same. He said he fears that I am careless, and that truly has struck such a nerve in me idk. I know this is toxic as fuck but low key I don't wanna talk to him anymore. That sounds so dumb because he has not only forgiven me after I did it twice and also taught me a lesson. But I do not like how it feels to be in fear of losing someone, like my heart was in my ass right there and I really don't freaking like that. I just know it would be easier to not real with this and tbhhhh it makes me feel like my ex was kind right about me and I hate that.

I have very strong feelings for him. But it feels like a lot. I like how it feels to talk to him. He validates me and makes me feel really goof. He didn't lie when he said he was a super sexual person and it honestly feels like a lot sometimes. It makes me feel like thats all people care about fr. Like I'm more than my body, I'm more than sex and he makes it clear that he likes me. But he talks about fucking me a lot.. a lot a lot. It kinda fucks with me but I play into it bc I can't lie, I wanna fuck him too and I think about it too.

Ugh. Honestly after our little argument I'm kinda exhausted. Just exceptionally drained. I wanna eat dinner and just go to bed because of how bad that made me feel. I really like how serious he is about calling me out. He's made me like think and use my brain. But because of that.. I'm tired.

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hobbybound · 1 year

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A sword drawn

This story is written based on a prompt; "Write a short legend, which reimagines some aspects of Arthurian legend, but with a dark twist or perversion to it"

"some things should be left where they lie", the words were etched into the stone before me. From a crack in that same stone the hilt of a sword stuck out, ever enticing. I was prophesied to draw it and become king, and draw it I did. The blade was shiny steel and along its blood-groove letters were engraved, they were unclear but from them I read "Excalibur".

The sword sent flashes of power surging through me, beaming from the handle throughout my body and into my heart. My muscles felt stronger and my vision was clearer, truly a blade of great might. Naturally I took it with me, and my companions were overtook with glee upon my return. Our coup on Camelot would now surely succeed, I was destined for king beyond doubt.

That same spring we stormed the castle, and how Excalibur cleaved through those men, I took the west side, my men took the east. Eventually however my luck had ran it's course and a knight in blue ran me entirely through with his spear.

But I did not fall, and my sword-arm lifted and lobbed the knight's head clean off. I stood confused but then a flash was again sent from the sword, "onward my Lord!" a voice sang in ny head and onward I went, as if pulled by my blade. I accrued many more wounds on my rampage through the rest of the castle, I fear some of my own men fell at my hand as well before I came to my senses.

We had won, but my men looked in fear at me and the many blades and spears that still rested in my flesh. That was the first battle in which I should have succumb, but not the last. Those goodhearted men did not stay at my side however, and the ones that took their place are not the company I'd keep if I had an option.

Over the years as the blade grew saturated with blood the letters became clear, "executioner, tongue of the earth" it read. And what's more is that this blade cannot be put down, when it leaves my hand all my wounds hurt again and it is a maddening pain.

I do not bleed then. I will only bleed and finally fall when the blade is returned to its stone. I know this for the blade told me, it whispers the most horrible things at all times now, my mind can never clear. This crown bears heavy on my head and soon enough I will forsake it for some of that longed-for silence.

My advisor Merlin tells me that this kind of relic will always be preceded by a warning. It is a slim blessing this land lends us but please heed it. I may be king of Camelot, but this crown is not one any should seek.

Do not draw the sword, or you will surely be king.

#writeblr #creative writing #fantasy #tw death

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dopaminegyro · 2 years

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today the kind of day where i dont want to get out of bed because my entire body hurts but ny brain is too awake for me to just lie down and watch youtube. also i have homework due tomorrow

#dpg txt

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wouldnt-it-be-hilarious-if-i · 2 years

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1 am thoughts

currently listening to: never grow up by taylor swift

i'm sitting in my room for the last(ish) time before i start my last first day of undergrad, and i just got full on body slammed into a heart wrenching sob session while listening to this fucking song that broke my heart when it first came out when i was like fourteen, and hurts worse now that i truly understand it.

"Take pictures in your mind of your childhood room Memorize what it sounded like when your dad gets home Remember the footsteps, remember the words said And all your little brother's favorite songs I just realized everything I have is someday gonna be gone."

the truth is that i was a military kid who never put down roots anywhere in her life before the age of eighteen. pieces and fragments and memories of the little girl and moody teenager and immature young adult that i was (and still am) exist all over the country.

i have a singular photo of one childhood room that i had as a four year old living in watertown, ny just a stones throw away from the canadian border.

i have selfies of myself from nine year old me in front of my god-awful cotton candy pink and blue walls from when we lived in oahu, hawaii.

i have memories of the bedroom i had in south carolina with all the flowers on the windowsill and my giant care bear collection that took up my entire room and my bright pink princess tv and the closet i'd read until the wee hours of the night inside of

i have memories of the wall of posters i had in my 7th grade bedroom where i cried to paramore nightly and never slept

the bed where i had my first kiss with a girl whose skin was so fucking pale it was illuminated in the moonlight and made her look like an angel

and i can't forget the bunkbed era in my third house in georgia where my niece and i developed a pully system to send secret encoded messages back and forth to each other in the middle of the night, or the big window in my high school bedroom where i used to watch the neighborhood and sometimes stand naked in front of the window in the middle of the night because i knew people couldn't see inside, and even if they could, they probably wouldn't be believed if they said something or would be considered pervy for watching a 15 year old "undressing" in her bedroom

all of these pieces of me exist in the houses that raised me and the people who knew me

and yet they are not roots quite like this house that drives me so insane everytime i come home to it

they don't pull at my heart the way this house does. the way my pretty blue room with the orange and yellow themes and butterflies on the walls and flowers in every corner

i'm realizing right now that i may never experience coming home to one of the houses that truly built me ever again after my senior year. my childhood dogs will not always be around (one is already gone). my best friend won't always be forty minutes away. and my mom won't always be here to throw things at my door when i wake her up in the morning

and that's a different type of hurt

it's a different type of hurt from the first time you leave home because it's real now. it's so real. you make plans to leave the country and not come back for a few years, and it occurs to you that you are going to be a real adult with a job and bills, studying in a university that predates your fucking country, and it all becomes so scary in both the most heart wrenching but exciting way possible.

it's a different type of hurt because i'm ready for it this time. i'm not sure what to expect from this year. i'm not sure what to expect from my mid-twenties. i'm not even sure what to expect from being two years out from having a fully developed adult brain.

but i'm ready and im okay with that fear i feel.

it's all scary and it's all so hard. and yet i feel so much more prepared than i ever have before, despite knowing i'll never really be prepared for a single thing in my freaking life. my life is full of curveballs that fucking look down at the earth and go, "yeah, idk her but fuck her in particular."

god, who knew 23 was gonna be such a big year for me? it's only just started (and more than half of the lessons i learned were when i was 22 lmao) and i've already learned so much

i'm so different from how i was in january, and yet so similar to how i was at fourteen. crying over the same songs, regularly writing in a diary again for the first time since i was seventeen, unlearning the lessons i had force myself to learn to survive, reconsidering weather or not i've outgrown my dolls (i return to this every five years or so), wondering what im really going to do for the rest of my life

i've grown so much in my understanding of who i am and what i stand for. in being okay with not knowing everything and admitting when im wrong and letting things be well with my soul and not caring so much when the effort i put in isn't returned.

things are going to move really fast now, and i deserve a moment to stand back and applaud the universe and the little brooklyn that carried me here.

what a production the show has been so far, right?

i can't wait for the third act to start. but while i wait, i think i'll stick around here for a bit and cry some more.

i don't have to really move on until im good and ready.

#personal post

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dontf8arthereaper · 2 years

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12:17 A.M.

During the summer night in the streets of washington the three varient children are exploring around the apocalyptic world right up until Junior notices a yellow flower that stands out from under the ground and well of course being the bully she is runs over to the flower poking it and then pulling it very aggressively. The two started panicking as the flower...it looked familiar.

" BEEHIVE! YELLOW FLOWER! YEAH! "

The two tries to stop the child of Reisen from pulling that flower as she's unaware the dire consequences that's about to put herself through.

" J-J-JUNIOR STOP THAT'S NOT A FLOWER!! "

" OH FUCK OH FUCK OHH FUCK! "

" YOU GUYS ATE PUSSIES OV- "

KROOOOOOMMM!!!

The ground beneath Junior burst knocking her in the sky flying until she crashes into both Otsuki and Nono. Emerged from the ground hungry and angry this creature is the horrific spawn of eight legged freak and the saurian jealousy. Kaida Mizuhashi stares into the three growling in hunger.

And this is where Otsuki begins screaming in absolute terror, tears in her eyes and her face is sweating like crazy while they all got up quickly.

" OH MY GOOOOOOOOODDDD!!!!!! "

" JUNIOR YOU FUCKING RETARD!!! "

Junior already became excited at the sight of the monster, she loads up her chaingun, laser, rocket launcher hybrid abomination of a weapon. This is the moment she has been waiting for, it's three against one and they all don't have a choice.

" LET'S

FUCKING

GOOOO ! ! ! "

Otsuki immediately gruesomely removing both her hatchet and claymore from behind her back gearing up to fight along with the girl Nono. Before the fight begins the large creature's entire body glows bright red as she changes into her human appearance revealing herself to be quite...adorable yet more menacing. Now the real fight begins.

" YUMMY YUMMY! NEW FOOD! I'M JEALOUS THAT FOOD COMES WILLINGLY INTO NY TERRITORY! LET'S EAT! "

[bom ♪ bom]

Without another world the child rushed to the first target she sees, first being Otsuki who she rammed into with little hesitation as the child of Reimu quickly swinging her weapons at the creature but right before the creature could deliver her slash she grabbed both her wrist, crushing and twisting both of her arms. Otsuki let out a scream of pure agony as she then lift her body slamming her on the ground, then lifting her up again spinning her around and slamming her on the ground multiple times up and down like a ragdoll. Nono being pissed that Otsuki is getting hurt, and Junior getting pissed that only she gets to pick on Otsuki rushed over towards the dinosaur arachne child as the rabbit varient child aims her weapon trying to get a clear shot while Nono's arms morph into shadow axes swinging towards her but the monstrosity grabbed the shadow beings wrist then proceeded pulling her before she delivers a horrific headbutt into her face and knocking her back breaking her nose and all the while busting her teeth.

" FUCK IT, ONE IN THE PIPE! "

Junior couldn't get a clear shot said fuck it and started fire multiple rounds which Kaida then uses her as a meat shield, as all those bullets piercing into Otsuki as she screams in agony from all the very ruthless assault she is recieving. Already bored with her old chew toy she tosses Otsuki aside and rush towards junior spinning her body around smacking and punching her across the face with both fist and tail pushing her back and this made her even more angry as both her eyes turned blood red in righteous fury and using her weaponize arm as a battering ram. Kaida suddenly sprouts her spider legs from behind her back negating each swing of her weaponize arm as Jumior continues trying her best to pummel her new enemy to a pulp. Otsuki finally recovering from all her injuries got up and gain the upper hand and slashes the girl from behind but her spider appendage negated her attack as well just without looking. Otsuki and junior continue swinging their weapons trying their best to get the upper hand but the little monster is relentless, tireless and so full of energy from being jealous they're not sure they can really defeated her, but Nono has an idea she turn herself into her shadowy form and appeared into to her shadow. Once inside her shadow the creature sprouts around the child now grabbing both her arms and legs apprehend her. The creature growled as it's now time to finally end this fight, though there's one big problem, those spider legs as they continue swinging their weapons the legs continued blocking and negating their attack and the legs are as hard as steel not even otsuki's blades can chop them off but no need to worry! Nono's fist manifested from Kaida's shadow swiftly punching her in the chest so hard she couldn't move her legs from all the pain. Now it's their chance as junior viciously swinging her weapon like a battering ram in her face, while Otsuki tossed her weapons on the ground before she delivers one last attack and that is her foot swinging into her face knocking out of the shadow varient's grip and collapsed on the ground defeating the creature at last.

#muse:The dishwashers #||| varient town |||#Meeting Kaida #hang in there otsuki san!#SoundCloud

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