Title: The Moment Fandom: Marvel Word Count: 585 Characters: Alex Summers x Reader Reader Gender: Not specified Warnings: Mentions of nightmares Notes: Request from anon for “Alex Summers dealing with his PTSD and nightmares about Cuba and Vietnam and waking up in a cold sweat and his s/o is there and she’s telling him it’s all gonna be okay and stroking his hair and he just loves her so much and oh my god ima make myself cry, I have issues and I need some Havok fluff, whenever you’re free love?”
Nightmares weren’t uncommon for Alex Summers. They always involved waking up in a cold sweat with intense fear filling him completely. The bed looked like he’d gotten in a fight with the blankets, leaving him with nothing but a messed up sheet and a trembling body. He fell into the routine of waking up from a nightmare, steadying his breathing, then getting up and taking a shower, as it was always impossible for him to fall back to sleep after such an event.
Tonight had the potential to be just like all the others, but there was one factor that made all the difference: tonight, Alex had you.
Instead of waiting for the terror to jolt him awake, he was woken by you softly shaking his shoulder, saying, “Alex, wake up. C’mon, babe, wake up.” He bolted upright into a sitting position so fast that if you had been leaning over him, he most likely would have knocked you out. His head whipped from left to right, checking his surroundings, before realizing that he wasn’t in some camp in Vietnam – he was in his bedroom. Upon hearing you murmuring, “You’re okay, Alex. You’re safe, you’re okay,” he fell back onto the bed, breathing heavily.
Gently, you pulled Alex’s arm so that he would come to you. He complied, laying his head on your shoulder and chest, slinging a heavy arm over your waist. A sigh of contentment immediately left his lips when you began running your fingers through his hair and rubbing slow circles on his back. There was a long silence before Alex said softly, his voice still raspy from sleepiness, “I’m sorry, doll. I forgot to warn you about my nightmares.”
“You have nothing to apologize for, sweetheart. You’ve seen a lot of shit; I’d be surprised if you didn’t have nightmares. Just relax and get some rest, okay? I’ll be right here if you wake up again,” you replied, pressing a kiss to his still-damp forehead. You felt Alex nod, his nose brushing against your neck, and his arms tightening around your waist. You continued to rub circles on his back, and it wasn’t long before his breathing slowed, returning to the steady pace you had had heard before you first fell asleep. You were right behind him, falling into another deep, dreamless sleep.
When Alex awoke the next morning, sunlight pouring into the room through the cracks in his blinds, he nearly panicked when he felt that he was alone in the bed. His arms darted out in an attempt to pull you closer to him, but he felt nothing. Then, the scent of bacon and coffee found its way to his nose, and he sleepily stood from the bed and made his way to the kitchen.
You heard his heavy footsteps, and turned to see Alex in nothing but his plaid pajama pants. He was rubbing his eyes with the heels of his hands, and his hair was sticking up in all directions. After a long yawn, he trudged over to you, wrapping his arms around your waist from behind you, and resting his chin on your shoulder. Peering over you, he could see that you were making bacon and pancakes, and he could hear the dripping of the coffee pot. He pressed a kiss to your cheek, before nuzzling his face into your neck and closing his eyes.
Unbeknownst to you, that was the precise moment Alex Summers decided that he was completely and utterly in love with you.
on him, arms cradling him; he tensed, but he knew that voice. Saying the wrong
name, and wobbling with fear, but he knew it. “Sebastian? Oh god—Seb—no, no,
you can’t be, you aren’t—help, someone help us, please—”
his eyes and said, “Steve?” because Steve sounded heartbroken, terrified,
confused, and that couldn’t be right. “Steve, you okay?”
“Steve—” Crying splintered off,
astonished. Steve stared at him. “Seb, I—do you know who I am? This isn’t funny…”
under him. More accurately, a body under him: strong arms cradling him. Steve
didn’t look right. Not because of the fear, either. Bucky shoved himself
upright, heart hammering in his throat. Blank amazed hotel walls watched them,
silently memorizing the tale for themselves.
Hold me close – it is dark
In the failing light, I am weak
Alone with the demons without known faces
Unseen in the grandest of lands
I pray for the night to end
And for daylight to embrace my fears
Do you believe in vanquishing your fears?
Or succumbing to the beauty of the dark
Know this – there shall be an end
This darkness preys upon the weak
Across the harshest of lands
But we seek to only find their faces
It is time to look past the faces
For it holds no bearing upon your fears
As they travel alone the distant lands
Constructs of a mind that is dark
But make no mistake for it is weak
Oh it knows, yet, fears the end
Will there be ashes or a gravestone in the end?
Will you recognise the faces?
Or shall they turn away from the weak?
As they try to conceal their own fears
And disappear like many into the dark
Where are these cursed lands?
Hell is what they call these lands
Where we shall all be in the end
For you could never outrun the dark
Or recognise any of those hidden faces
No one here can repair your fears
We are all the same – weak.
A broken soul – mark of the weak
Across all of these cursed lands
But we try again to run from our fears
Yet we know there is always an end
In this hell where we hide our faces
Even though we are consumed by the dark
Face your fears for it is now the end
No grave for the weak in these blasphemed lands
You chose the dark even when you feared unknown faces
It will be almost a month since you wrote to me and you have possibly forgotten your state of mind (I doubt it though). You seem the same as always, and being you, hate every minute of it. Don’t! Learn to say “Fuck You” to the world once in a while. You have every right to. Just stop thinking, worrying, looking over your shoulder wondering, doubting, fearing, hurting, hoping for some easy way out, struggling, grasping, confusing, itchin, scratching, mumbling, bumbling, grumbling, humbling, stumbling, numbling, rumbling, gambling, tumbling, scumbling, scrambling, hitching, hatching, bitching, moaning, groaning, honing, boning, horse-shitting, hair-splitting, nit-picking, piss-trickling, nose sticking, ass-gouging, eyeball-poking, finger-pointing, alleyway-sneaking, long waiting, small stepping, evil-eyeing, back-scratching, searching, perching, besmirching, grinding, grinding, grinding away at yourself. Stop it and just DO!
From your description, and from what I know of your previous work and you [sic] ability; the work you are doing sounds very good “Drawing-clean-clear but crazy like machines, larger and bolder… real nonsense.” That sounds fine, wonderful – real nonsense. Do more. More nonsensical, more crazy, more machines, more breasts, penises, cunts, whatever – make them abound with nonsense. Try and tickle something inside you, your “weird humor.” You belong in the most secret part of you. Don’t worry about cool, make your own uncool. Make your own, your own world. If you fear, make it work for you – draw & paint your fear and anxiety. And stop worrying about big, deep things such as “to decide on a purpose and way of life, a consistant [sic] approach to even some impossible end or even an imagined end” You must practice being stupid, dumb, unthinking, empty. Then you will be able to DO!
I have much confidence in you and even though you are tormenting yourself, the work you do is very good. Try to do some BAD work – the worst you can think of and see what happens but mainly relax and let everything go to hell – you are not responsible for the world – you are only responsible for your work – so DO IT. And don’t think that your work has to conform to any preconceived form, idea or flavor. It can be anything you want it to be. But if life would be easier for you if you stopped working – then stop. Don’t punish yourself. However, I think that it is so deeply engrained in you that it would be easier to DO!
It seems I do understand your attitude somewhat, anyway, because I go through a similar process every so often. I have an “Agonizing Reappraisal” of my work and change everything as much as possible = and hate everything I’ve done, and try to do something entirely different and better. Maybe that kind of process is necessary to me, pushing me on and on. The feeling that I can do better than that shit I just did. Maybe you need your agony to accomplish what you do. And maybe it goads you on to do better. But it is very painful I know. It would be better if you had the confidence just to do the stuff and not even think about it. Can’t you leave the “world” and “ART” alone and also quit fondling your ego. I know that you (or anyone) can only work so much and the rest of the time you are left with your thoughts. But when you work or before your work you have to empty you [sic] mind and concentrate on what you are doing. After you do something it is done and that’s that. After a while you can see some are better than others but also you can see what direction you are going. I’m sure you know all that. You also must know that you don’t have to justify your work – not even to yourself. Well, you know I admire your work greatly and can’t understand why you are so bothered by it. But you can see the next ones and I can’t. You also must believe in your ability. I think you do. So try the most outrageous things you can – shock yourself. You have at your power the ability to do anything.
I would like to see your work and will have to be content to wait until Aug or Sept. I have seen photos of some of Tom’s new things at Lucy’s. They are impressive – especially the ones with the more rigorous form: the simpler ones. I guess he’ll send some more later on. Let me know how the shows are going and that kind of stuff.
My work had changed since you left and it is much better. I will be having a show May 4 -9 at the Daniels Gallery 17 E 64yh St (where Emmerich was), I wish you could be there. Much love to you both.
“Remember that you are the angel of your own life. Look past your ugly thinking; your fears, mistakes, worries and doubts. Your struggles seem to be external, but we are always destroyed from the inside out. The way you transcend your challenges is by listening to the inner-guide within you. Your good judgment, your discernment, your kind thoughts and your own loving heart — in service of your highest good — is the angel you have been looking for to deliver you. The moment you accept your own beauty and power is the moment your deliverance begins.” — Bryant McGill
I accidently knocked my Sam funko pop off the table as I picked him back up I swear my Dean funko pop had turned and was glaring at me. It looked very menacing and for one second I actually feared for my life.
im like toeing the line between kin and synpath tbh, but being kin is like, close e-fuckin nough
like theres SOME KIND of connection there. idk if i have the same soul as roxy lalonde for homestuck, or if my trans egg ass saw this character that was heavily coded as trans and had the same interests as i did and all that shit and i just imprinted or whatever
but ultimately, i can confidently look at a panel of homestuck, point to roxy lalonde, and say without fear “that is me”
Also for a more serious question, what is Cecil's motives to wanting to basically rule Shopwell's
Cecil doesn’t want to rule shopwells so much as he wants all of shopwells to bow to him. He wants to be respected and feared and loved and he wants everyone to look up to him as if he wasn’t some slutty cute little plaything-juicy pop, but a god. He really, mostly wants to be looked at the way gods are. Sung about, loved, but .. Kind of feared at the same time?? He loves CONTROL and caramelizing everyone in the store is the only way he can have them all under his thumb. And those he can’t or doesn’t want to caramelize (el guaco, sauerkraut) he wants them to be obsessed with him, at his feet, the way everyone else sees his kind of product.
Tl;dr- CECIL WANTS CONTROL, AND HE WANTS OTHERS TO KISS HIS CUTE LITTLE BOOTIES AND BEG FOR HIS SWEET JUICY ASS THAT HE KNOWS HE DOESNT HAVE TO GIVE THEM BECAUSE HES IN CHARGE
So today, as I was looking through my archives, I got this idea. A sudden stroke, a eureka, a spark of madness, whatever you may call it. An idea that has now gripped me completely, consumed my mind and I can think of little else.
It is the same feeling I had when I first first conceived of my thesis with the Partitioned objects, or when I looked out from Cape Sounion, despite my fear of water, onto the vast Aegean Sea, or stood inside the historic Wazir Khan Mosque in Lahore or rode an auto rickshaw through Chandni Chowk, or listened to stories of one’s migration across the border. The same vast, overwhelming, all-consuming feeling.
There are so many things I am yet to discover, so many things await me. The world is endless, absolutely endless and I am simply standing at the edge, looking in. There are so many larger than me, my own being. When I began my thesis research, this feeling wouldn’t leave me, reminding that I have a responsibility to make full use of the world around me. Learn, discover and share.
Today I have this feeling once again as I begin to conceptualize this new project, which I hope will allow many people to come together.
Do you ever just suddenly feel really shitty because you’re not particularly good at anything and you don’t know what you wanna do with your life and like you didn’t ask to be born and have to deal with all of this and yet here you are, confused and anxious and paying to exist on this trash planet