A/N: SO I JUST REALLYREALLLY LOVE THE NIGHT SKY AND I ALSO REALLY REALLY LOVE PETER PARKER AND THAT’S WHY THIS IS HAPPENING. ALSO, SHOULD I CONTINUE???
Summary: During a field trip to Nashville, [Y/n] gets trapped in an elevator and things go awry.
The astronomy club had their eyes on this meteor shower for months. The field trip was planned ages in advanced and offered ten spots. Since you are the most enthusiastic star lover in Midtown’s Astronomy Club-which is saying something since it’s comprised of mostly star lovers- you grabbed the first slot with urgent excitement. And with a bit of persuasion, Peter got the second.
‘Persuasion’ sounds better than what actually happened-you putting his name down without even consulting him. Either way, he eventually agreed to keep his name up and you’re glad because if he hadn’t, then he wouldn’t be at your side now.
The late April air is warm and humid in Nashville, but it doesn’t stop any students from exploring.
Your friend’s hand is swinging close by yours, though never touching, while you each breathe in the sights. On every corner is a street preformer of some kind, and Ned insists that you four stop to watch every one. Michelle tries to act unexcited but in reality she is enjoying herself.
You can tell because she doesn’t have a book or her headphones in.
“How much longer do we have?” Ned asks.
Peter looks at his watch. “Fifteen minutes. We are supposed to meet up with the others at the hotel.”
“Maybe we should turn around then,” you suggest. “I don’t want to be late for the slideshow.”
Michelle rolls her eyes. “You know everything in that slideshow. I’m not entirely certain you didn’t put it together.”
You smile at her mysteriously.
“Or we can ditch and go to that yummy looking sushi bar,” Ned points excitedly across the street. Peter pushes his friend’s arm down. “I’m not getting in trouble for ditching a field trip again.”
Michelle snickers at your side.
“Don’t be mean,” you chastise but your smile is contradictory.
“Sorry, I’m just recalling how hilarious Peter’s angry face was during all his detentions,” Michelle smiled, shoving her hands into her jean pockets. “I have the pictures.”
“You mean the creepy drawings,” Peter interjected.
“My drawings are not creepy,” Michelle told him, locking her eyes onto Peter’s. “If they are then it’s because you’re the muse.”
“I’m being serious. You look like you’re 12 and sound like you’re a chipmunk on crack,” Michelle said while you and Ned bit back laughs.
Peter frowned at Michelle with a furious intensity though not enough to be deemed a glare. “What does my voice have to do with it? You can’t hear a voice in a drawing. Hey, Michelle, answer me!”
You and MJ had already begun to walk away, and Ned pulled Peter behind him like a mother and her child.
“I don’t sound like a chipmunk,” Peter mumbles every now and then. “Do I, [Y/n]?”
You side eye him while walking into the foyer of the hotel your classmates are staying at. “No, of course not,” you assure him.
“Thank y-” he began.
“Yeah, you sound more like a pony.”
Peter pouts at you and you laugh, standing on your toes and patting the top of his head. “Whatever, whatever, let’s just go,” he sighed. You laugh and push him towards the elevator.
The gilded doors open up and you begin to walk in after your friends when a lady in a wheel chair wheels behind you.
There isn’t enough space for you and her, so you step aside and let her in.
“I’ll meet you guys up there. Tell them not to start the slideshow without me if I’m late!” you say. Your friends nod in confirmation.
The lady thanked you profusely over and over until the doors close.
You wait a few more minutes for the lift to take you up. When it arrives, you’re in there alone.
The hotel itself has twenty some floors and the meteor presentation is happening at the very top.
You lean against the railing and take a deep breath. The warm glow of the sun filters through the glass wall at your side; it allows you to look out at the bustling city and to the sky.
Ever since you were a small child, you loved the sky. The blueness of the day and especially the darkness of the night. It’s why you’re so excited for this meteor shower.
The stars and the moon felt like your closest companions in some weird way. In a different way than Ned or Michelle. And a different way than Peter.
For a long time now you’ve felt more than just friend feelings for Peter but there was a silent agreement with yourself that you’d never do anything about it. You know that you can’t unless you’re willing to lose someone and you know that you’re definitely not.
But the moon, the sun, the stars; you love them in a way you can’t love family, friends, or Peter. It’s hard to explain so usually you don’t. If you even tried then someone would surely make fun of you for being so ‘weird’ about it.
Weird. Are you weird? You ask yourself that question often. Of everyone you’ve ever known, you haven’t met someone who feels of the sky the way you do. Sure, there are sky enthusiasts but-
The floor beneath you lurches. There’s a sickening thud and then a squeak and then nothing.
The elevator has stopped.
Panic chokes your heart for a second but there is still the sun’s glow on your right cheek. You take a calming, deep breath. Obviously the elevator’s broken down. No reason to be so scared of that, right?
Red lights are flickering now. The power must be out. Twitching numbers on the floor display don’t help you figure which floors you’re trapped between.
You don’t notice that you’re gripping onto the hand railing while peering out the window with hopes of deducing the floor number.
All you know now is that you’re high up and you’re alone.
One step forward and you press the emergency button. There isn’t any sound and the buttons are glowing with little light bulbs. No way to know if it works.
And the red emergency light is getting brighter and brighter.
No. Outside is getting darker and darker.
“…What?” Your voice is the only sound. This shaking realization draws your attention to the city out below. No lights. No cars moving, no lively hum that all busy cities have.
City Wide Outage blares in your thoughts so loudly that you’re not entirely certain you hadn’t said it out loud. You dig into your back pocket for your phone. The screen does not come on despite your charge having been on 80% half an hour ago.
Apocalypse is then entertained by your thoughts. It makes you laugh to yourself because that’s utterly not possible.
And just what time is it? You know certainly it’s not late enough for the sun to have set.
Your fingertips graze over your cheek. You can still feel the leftover heat. The sun hadn’t set.
Your phone has slipped out of your hand now. You are staring out the window, looking for something to ease your mind.
Suns don’t disappear. Thick clouds are glazing over the sky and you cup your hands around the glass to adjust your view.
Rippling clouds part away and a blasting white light shines into the elevator. It’s blinding and the emergency light as burst away. The glass of the lightbulb rains against your skin. You shield your face with your hands, wincing as the small pinpricks sheer the topmost layer of your skin.
This light is not warm at all. It’s almost cold. And shadows dance on the floor, like small crescent moons, covering your arms and legs and the walls. Though as cold as this light is, it’s refreshing.
Being engulfed in it feels like diving into a pool of soothingly cold water on a hot day. Like that first lick of ice cream at the beach. Like swallowing small cubes of ice and feeling them trickle down your body.
Every bit of you wants to breathe the light in, swallow it up, lock it in your heart and never let it go.
You stand there for feels like hours but has to have been seconds, unmoving and dazed. You put your palm against the glass, as if to be as close as possible, when the sunlight began to leak into the elevator.
The glass cracks as though rocks are being thrown at it, lines as intricate as veins creeping all across the window.
Nausea wells up in your belly as the light as pale as the moon itself shrunk away.
No! a part of you cries-no, screams, begs, wishes so loudly that Thor in Asgard might have heard it. You want that light back. That blinding, beautiful light. Being wrapped up in it felt the way you imagined kissing Peter would. Cool and comforting at the same time. Beautiful.
God, is is so beautiful.
And now it is gone.
You saw where the sun had been, mixed up behind a huge orb and pulled away. Rays of light slowly pull themselves from beyond the orb and against the window. Through the window, onto you, like they were taunting your loss.
Each bead of sun made the glass window crack.
You step back, your heel digging into your phone which omits a small but urgent snap noise. The joints of your legs creak as if they hadn’t moved in ages. You stumble back and raise your arms over your face to block out the harsh sunlight which makes the backs of your eyes ache terribly.
And suddenly the glass had blown out towards you. There was a screaming sound.
Maybe you’re the one screaming. Maybe it’s the elevator giving in. Maybe you are falling, down, down, down to the bottom of the hotel.
Maybe you will never feel that pale light again.
The hinting drawls of consciousness feels the way a hangover probably would. Your head hurts bad and your eyes feel sticky. When you finally open them, you see chaos above you.
You’re laying on the ground surrounded by unfamiliar people in paramedic uniforms, lights and sirens ringing in the air along with the loud mix of voices.
“They’re awake!” a paramedic called over to someone.
“Oh, my God! Thank God! [Y/n]!”
You struggled to push yourself up and when you did, blood rushed over your body. You squeezed your eyes shut and shook away the headache.
You immediately remember everything. The elevator. The light. The sun and the moon, the glass-
“[Y/n! [Y/n]!” Suddenly all you can hear was your name, frantically being shouted by different voices, some familiar, others not so much. The person at your side, helping you to your feet, unfortunately isn’t Peter. Your teacher, the astronomy club’s sponsor, looks tired and relieved-
Blood trickled down the side of her face, sticking to her hair. She touched it then shook a hand. “It’s nothing,” she assured. “Sit down, sit down.” You were ushered to an ambulance and crowded by so many faces you just didn’t know. They asked questions that you did your best to answer. No one believed you when you told them the sunlight broke the glass. Why would they?
It had occurred to you only right then just how insane that entire moment had been.
“Mrs. Laurens?” you ask softly.
She has been at your side this whole time, telling you it would be all right, wrapping shock blanket after shock blanket over your shivering shoulders.
“Yes, dear?” she replies in an all too soothing voice.
“What happened, exactly?”
In a shaky voice, she explained that the city experienced a power outage around the same time the moon passed over the sun. A solar eclipse, one that had happened without any explanation. These things are usually charted, tracked, and mapped out on places like NASA’s website.
And yet no one had expected this one.
Perhaps the power outage happened because of panic. Maybe it was a coincidence.
You nod, continuing even after she had stopped talking. Her pursed lips conveyed worry.
She probably thinks you’re crazy. Or at least in some type of shock. The paramedics had given you a watered down version of her expression now, unbelieving and worried.
She excused herself to speak with the other students and assure them that you’re safe.
You rub the inner corners of your eyes, recalling the memory over and over again. It had happened. You know it did. How could it not have?
Everything about that had been so terrifyingly real and vivid. You brush your fingers over your chin. Even now you could feel the cold light on you.
Yearning for the light welled up in your throat, thickening your words when you tried to say hello to Peter, who rushed over the minute he had been allowed to.
He must have mistaken the choke up for fear because he slowly enveloped his arms around you.
“Where is everyone? Is everyone else alright?” you ask after the long embrace ended. “We are waiting around a fire truck over there.” You see it the first time he points it out.
“[Y/n]…I’m so…I’m so happy and relieved that you’re not hurt.” Now Peter is the one choking up with fear. “Someone almost died tonight. Someone in a different elevator but when I heard my first thought was of you. And I just kept on picturing you trapped in this fire, hurt and scared. But when we all heard that you were safe I swear I just…” He trailed off. You could see him focusing his eyes on blinking lights in the distance, attempting to keep his tears at bay.
You fold your hand in his. “I am okay. Are you?”
“We weren’t hurt. Well, aside from Mrs. Laurens. She tripped and hurt the side of her head. She got checked out already.”
So that’s why she had blood on her face.
“What kind of eclipse knocks out the power?” you ask, sharply swerving to a new subject.
Peter looks at you like he’s surprised you even knew about the eclipse. “I don’t know. It came out of nowhere.”
“So much for the meteor shower show,” you sigh, popping your lips.
“[Y/n], are you sure you’re alright?” Peter asks. He looks just as worried as he sounds. “Yes,” you told him firmly. “I have to tell you something. I think something went on up there.”
He asks, “Up where? In the elevator?”
You nod quickly.
“Mrs. Laurens already told us…she says you think the sunlight shattered the window.”
From the look on his face, he doesn’t believe it.
You drew yourself away from Peter and he reached out for you. “It’s not that I don’t believe you. But this is all really, really fresh. Everyone will want to hear your story once you’re feeling better.”
“I feel fine now,” you say urgently.
“That’s the shock talking,” Peter points out.
“I’m not in shock!” you argue. Peter tugs the corners of your blanket. “Yes you are, hence the blanket.”
“But I’m alright!”
You honestly are. Your headache faded away while you sat in the ambulance. Aside from the tiring night of being poked and prodded by paramedics, you feel normal.
Well. Physically normal.
Mentally, emotionally, not so much. You’re confused. And the loss of the light feels like losing a piece of your heart.
The night ended with the conclusion you had fallen against the window, broke it, then passed out. You suppose it makes enough sense.
And you’re phone is majorly broken from when you had stepped on it.
Just your luck.
You were cleared by the paramedics to sleep without any supervision. Michelle is your roommate, thank goodness. She is the only one who believed you when you said you were alright.
Everyone else had to have countless assurances. You made about a dozen phone calls to your family in New York.
Unfortunately, this fiasco meant the field trip would be cut short. Tomorrow you’ll all be driving back home first thing in the morning. The hotel had been cleared and deemed safe to reside in by officials so everyone shuffled in hours later, half asleep.
Ned hugged you before excusing himself to call his mom and calm her down.
Peter just held you for a long time outside your door, whispering good night in your ear, then walking back to his room.
“You almost died tonight so I’m not going to make a boyfriend comment.”
Michelle was fluffing her pillows when you toed the door closed.
You sigh. “Technically that’s a boyfriend comment,” you point out, rubbing your eyes.
She chuckled half heartedly. “I guess so. Are you really okay? I don’t want to wake up and find you dead.”
She isn’t joking, you see, as she turns to you. You hug her tightly. “Michelle. I’m alright. Seriously. See?” You twirl around for emphasis.
“Okay…” she says warily. “I laid out some of your pajamas in the bathroom while you were making out with your boyfriend.”
You gape at her. “I thought you weren’t going to make a joke about Peter,” you say with narrowed eyes.
She held up her hands. “You said you’re okay. I’m just trying to normalize the situation. Go shower up and get ready for bed. We can watch Riverdale on my laptop and fall asleep while admiring all the pretty people. Or we can watch videos of meteor showers since I know you’re probably upset we’re missing the viewing.”
You laugh. “I don’t deserve my friends. I’ll be right out.”
The door clicked shut behind you. You took the first deep breath you had taken all night long.
What a crazy ass day, you think. You drift back into your thoughts while unbuttoning your top. You think of the light and how absolutely insane you must be for thinking all that had happened.
It couldn’t have.
You know that.
Sunlight doesn’t destroy glass.
And you believed that for a solid three seconds because you dropped your shirt to the bathroom floor, you saw in the mirror a glowing orb in the center of your chest.
You batted it away to feel only your skin. You bit down on your tongue to hold back a shriek as you realized that the orb is your heart.
Your heart is glowing as white as that light you saw in the elevator.
i hope dc realizes what a great opportunity they missed when they gave dick the title of agent 37 instead of agent 47 while he was working for spyral. think about it, what are the 4th and 7th letters in the alphabet? d and g. what else begins with the letters d and g? that’s right, dick and grayson. i think about this every single time i see even a reference to agent 37 anywhere.
Oh wise vintagegeekculture, might I ask your opinion on Michael Moorcock's essay "Epic Pooh"?
I am American as all-get-out. Stranger Things is practically a documentary about my rural childhood;
there were a million little sense memory triggers in that series for me. So
there is probably a cultural context to that very very English essay that
discusses a very very English relationship to lulling sentimentality and class and the countryside that I willfully concede that I am simply not grasping. The English seem to
think entirely in terms of debating sentimental imagery: “Mother London” vs.
the “Ploughman’s Lunch” and “Little Britain.” Althought it is a serious issue,
listening to British debates on Brexit often felt like hearing to the “Darmok
and Jalad at Tanagra” aliens from TNG having a loud argument about who’s Mom
loves them more.
But…from my perspective
as an outsider and foreigner, I think the general point Moorcock makes is
correct: Fantasy was created by men like Tolkien and Lord Dunsany who were
violently hostile to the modern world and so their work very studiously avoided
talking about the modern world except in opposition to it (for instance, the
only person to push industrialization and scouring the countryside is an
asshole wizard; the only person who talks like T.S. Elliot’s Londoners is the despicable
Sméagol). Lord Dunsany was a great writer, but seems like a thin-blooded
aristocrat, like a Brit Ashley Wilkes from Gone
With the Wind, who even in the 1970s, wrote
his stories with a quill pen and wore an ascot tie to book readings.
Moorcock is right when
he says that fantasy often avoids reflecting the world around us, and that
being overly sentimental about the past serves the interest of reactionaries
(note that he did not call Tolkien and Dunsany and the rest reactionaries…at
least in a way that was visible in their work – he did say that about Adams and
Lewis though). The most important quote in that essay is “Ideally fiction should offer us escape and force us, at least, to ask
questions; it should provide a release from anxiety but give us some insight
into the causes of anxiety.” I mean, fantasy as a genre was so detached
from “real world” issues that when someone like Tad Williams started to include
something as fundamental as economics into his fantasy worlds starting in the
1980s, people treated him like a total genius (Which Tad Williams IS,
incidentally - these days, people only really know Tad Williams, if they know
him at all, as the inspiration for George R.R. Martin’s Game of Thrones).
One of the great themes
of Moorcock’s work is the way that authoritarians use sentimental imagery of
the past to manipulate people. If you read Epic Pooh, also read his other book,
“The Dreamthief’s Daughter,” the opening third to half is set in Nazi Germany.
It’s actually more helpful to understand the point of this essay to read “Dreamthief’s
Daughter,” since, in the words of Francois Truffaut, “the only way to critique
a movie properly is to make another movie.” Dreamthief’s Daughter starts with a
“Good German,” von Bek, who is horrified that his Germany was taken over by
Nazism, how they replace “self respect with a kind of strutting self-esteem.”
At one point, our hero has to hide in the German countryside, and he mentions
how sinister the small storybook German towns he passes through seem, romanticized by fascists after Hitler
came to power, as they were pushed front and center as the “true Germany.”
Of all the books ever
written about the Nazis and arch-reactionaries, Moorcock gets it the most right
in “Dreamthief’s Daughter.” They were boring failsons, not supervillains.
Rudolf Hess was described as the most irritating person to sit next to on the
bus to a con and who believed magic and ghosts were real; von Bek said that “in
my many adventures, I showed true courage only once: in not throwing Rudolf
Hess out of my car.” Von Bek’s comments on Hitler himself: “An evening with
Hitler was like an evening with an extremely boring maiden aunt.” He was also
the first person I can think of to point out how reactionary fascists often
have really bad taste, too: drawing imagery from bad comic operas and American
movies about Rome. That last bit should be all too familiar to people who
notice how many American reactionaries love the hell out of the movie 300 (a
movie I really like too, incidentally, but it’s okay to enjoy something if you understand it).
Daughter” had a great finale: imagine a flight of dragons coming out to fight the
Battle of Britain.
The point, that fantasy
can be infantilizing, is a good point, but Moorcock is the weirdest
possible person on the face of the earth to make it. Moorcock got famous by
writing about brooding angsty albinos who cry all the time for the benefit of
teenage heavy metal fans and dungeon masters in Reeboks. I love his stuff but that’s who he is,
that’s the stuff that pays his mortgage, that’s his audience. His stuff is good but it reminds me of
those White Wolf games in the 1990s that look silly and dated in retrospect
because they trowel on the angst and transgression and put on airs (White Wolf,
incidentally, was named after Moorcock’s greatest hero, Elric the White Wolf…and
in the 1990s, White Wolf’s publishing arm dedicated itself to reprinting some
of Moorcock’s less widely seen novels, a service for which I thank them very
much). I am actually legitimately surprised that Moorcock never wrote a “sad sexy vampire” novel. God, can you imagine the kind of satire that the anarchic MAD magazine of the 50s would do of the Elric stuff? Elric screaming his soul is black at the breakfast table, while threatening to kill himself over a hangnail.
i feel like the fact that (from what i’ve seen) people’s favorite moment of the homecoming movie was towards the end when it was peter, in his homemade outfit, following his own moral code, under a pile of rubble and stone, broken and beaten before raising himself back up. there’s no techy a.i’ish suit, there’s not iron man to really guide him (minus that first voice over bit which i will ignore). peter calling on the strength of himself and spiderman before pushing the debris off of him is really showing the off the markness of the movie. that’s the peter parker/spider man people wanted to see. not this techy suit flashy thing but the actualy spiderman
Ok. Here we go. Let's do... avengers x reader? I guess specifically Bucky x reader What if... avengers find reader amongst Hydra files and locate her only to find out she has no memories of her own, but has all Bucky's memories. What if there was no machine and she was the memory eraser and the more she erased Bucky's memories, the more she lost her own and gained his?!! Angst, some fluff, I think you can cook something up MCU of course ;) Ooo this is gonna be fun
Hi, dear! Thanks a lot for taking part to this celebration, and
sending in such a marvelous idea!
I hope you’ll like how it came out in the end.
Soldier and Eraser
Pairing: Avengers x reader, Bucky x reader
Warnings: oh well, this is difficult… there are so many bad things in here; I’ll
try but I’m sure that I won’t be able to name everything, so just be cautious. Lots
of angst, some fluff, violence (mostly mentioned more than depicted), manipulation,
messed up minds and induced way to think, stealing, passing frontiers
illegally, swearing and bad language, allusion to sex and to the use of it as
part of a conditioned behavior, guilt feelings, … and probably something else.
Notes: this is quite a mental trip, sorry. The story begins soon after the
events of CA:TWS; and X-men and the Avengers coexist in the same universe, but
normally they mind their own business and do not really interact much, unless
they are interested in the same thing. (I have heard that in the comics they
should live in the same universe, but that in the movies they are apart because
of licenses or something like that. By the way, I haven’t read enough comics to
have an idea of their coexistence there, I have mostly just watched the movies.
And I’ve thought that for this fic it would have been useful if they lived in
the same universe. That’s all.) I’d really love if you could leave some
Word count: 7094 (Yep, this is much longer than my usual.)
Steve reviews the files of the folder Natasha has given him. It has
been weeks and not him nor Sam have been able to find any good lead on Bucky.
He absentmindedly turns page after page. His eyes fall on something handwritten
on a corner.
‘Always keep the eraser to hand.’
Few pages later another note.
‘Keep the eraser out of cryo as long as the soldier.’
Steve frowns. There are mention of the ‘eraser’ through the entire
dossier and until now, he has supposed that it should be some kind of machine,
but a machine would never be kept under cryostasis. The ‘eraser’ must be some
kind of living being.
Steve updates Sam on the new piece of info he has just discovered.
“Wait a minute.” Sam hums on the other hand of the line.
Few seconds of silence follow. “I knew it! Meet me by my house in an hour.
We can have a lead.”
I'm curious, what is your favorite movie? I love love love puppet movies!
It’s The Dark Crystal!
Especially for the early 80s, it’s got some really impressive work in it; all the character designs are by Brian Froud, and it shows. The story is… well, it’s pretty standard fantasy, with a Reluctant Whiny Chosen One sent out to save the world, but the worldbuilding and the creature designs and the monsters and the general weird alienness of it is so GOOD.
It’s got a TV series coming out on Netflix soon and I’m excited for it, too!!