#and be careful because some caps have sharp edges
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Would bestie reader just say that she and felix are soulmates?
For example: her and farleigh are talking about the future and what they want to do and she just says "i would probably work and move somewhere sunny because felix doesnt really like the rain". " You want to live with felix?" " OFC, hes my soumate"
Felix: 🥺
yes yes yes! omg they so would pull the platonic soulmate card
You don't know who decided to label group study sessions as 'productive', but you're convinced they've never actually been to one. As a concept, they're the perfect way to balance social needs and academic responsibilities. It's a way to focus on your school work without isolating yourself completely.
In practice, group study sessions are an academic-hang-out purgatory.
"Y'know how you asked to not be interrupted until you finished your organic bio reading, unless there was an emergency?" Farleigh's voice has now yanked you out of the world of protein and enzyme molecules.
You sigh. If this is him giving into his inability to not snark at you, you might have to pick up your text book and hit him over the head with it. "Is there an emergency?"
The dryness of your response does little to dissuade him. You lift your head slightly. The reading break that's being forced onto you is an opportunity to get ready to copy some bullet points into your notebook. You reach for your highlighter, but before your fingers can grasp it, Farleigh's pulling it out of reach.
You straighten, back pressing into the wooden back of the library's chair. He ignores your glare, thumb pushing the neon pink cap upwards before snapping it back into place.
"I'd be careful, Farleigh." Felix's chair shifts with a soft groan, all four of the chair's legs fully settling on the ground as he sits up and flattens his feet. "That's not one of her nice looks."
"You'd know."
You frown, some half thought out sarcastic retort balancing on the edge of your tongue. Felix beats you to the punch. "You'd know if you had any real friendships."
Farleigh presses down on your highlighter's cap, a quiet click interrupting his silence as it clicks into place. "Friendship. Is that what we're calling it?"
There's a knowingness to the comment that has a hint of warmth attempting to tinge your cheeks. You're used to the jokes and little comments about you and Felix, especially from Farleigh, but his tone hints at a sharpness you're not in the mood for. Sometimes he feels like pushing, turning his jokes and comments into something more. You've been in the library for some time now, you're sure the stillness is making him restless in a way that will only add to that.
"Is this the emergency you interrupted my reading for?"
He shakes his head once, forearm moving to rest against the table in front of you. "Theoretically," he starts, the single word drawn out in a way that has you rolling your eyes, "If Madison was seen leaving a party with Abigail's ex-boyfriend, would that count as an emergency?"
No way. Your jaw drops. Madison and Abigail, roommates that seem perpetually trapped in the outer orbit of Felix's friend group, started the year as total best friends. Then, one day, for reasons that no one you know has been able to figure out, everything turned into a sort of unspoken competition between them. It's such an odd dynamic, you and Farleigh have to talk about it every time there's an update.
"What?" You set your arms over your textbook, leaning forward to better listen. "Why didn't you say anything?"
"You wanted to read organic bio."
Farleigh knows exactly what he's doing. He sat on this piece of information and only dropped it when it became convenient to have something worth saying. "You knew before I said that." You turn in your seat to look over at Felix. "Did you know?"
"I spent the entire night with you," he says, "I know what you know."
Yeah, you and Felix were particularly invested in your own world the last time you went out together. The two of you spent most of the night trying drink combinations you'd normally never get, Felix laughing as your negative reactions grew more theatrical as the night went on. "Well, you're not very invested."
It's not an accusation. You know Felix well enough to know that he's rarely particularly interested in most gossip. A part of it might come from the fact that everyone goes out of their way to present themselves in certain ways when around Felix. Rumors about palpable passive aggression seem a lot less real when the people the rumors are about are constantly trying to gloss over any imperfections in his presence.
"You two are too invested." He turns his head to look at you, a small smile playing at his lips. "You only get along when you're gossiping."
You straighten, lifting an arm off of the table to poke Felix's arm. "We all need hobbies." You then turn your head forward to look at Farleigh, "Okay, tell me everything and do it in less than 5 minutes, or I'm not going to go back to studying."
Farleigh's eyes briefly drop towards the textbook in front of you. "You worry too much." The way he says it feels less concerned and more like an observation of something he finds grating. "We all know you're going to end up at John Hopkins." It lacks any type of inflection. It feels like fact. An inevitability.
Graduate school is currently a foreign, distant concept, and you'd like to keep it that way. You're not sure why, but picturing your future education isn't as easy as you had hoped it would be. It's as if there's some kind of mental wall blocking your ability to connect with the next step in becoming a doctor, when all your classes will revolve around the subjects you don't love and you'll have to dissect and watch more surgeries than ever.
You tap our fingers against the wooden surface in front of you. You're not sure what the right kind of response to this type of thing is. "Uh--realistically, John Hopkins is far from everyone I know, and I don't think Felix would like Maryland, so..."
Farleigh raises an eyebrow as he finally sets down your highlighter. "You're factoring in Felix?" The question is still registering as Farleigh gestures in Felix's direction. "You want to live with him?"
"Yeah." While a lot of your future is blurry in your mind, Felix is clear, certain. "Yeah, he's my soulmate."
Farleigh's eyes widen slightly at the candidness of your admission. It didn't feel that heavy when you said it. There are a lot of ways for someone to be your soulmate.
"You want to--to live together after this?" You turn your neck to look over at Felix. He's already facing you, but his eyes are focused on his lap. "Like with me?"
"Yeah..." You admit again as you pull your hands towards you. Maybe you shouldn't have said anything without thinking. "Do you not want to live with me?"
"No, I do," he forces out the words quickly, his gaze briefly falling towards you. "I didn't realize you were--" He clears his throat, forcing himself to straighten. "Soulmate." Felix's hand reaches for the underside of your chair, pulling you towards him with no warning. "I'm your soulmate."
You're never speaking without thinking again. "There are a lot of ways to be someone's soulmate, so don't start."
His fingers move up the edge of the chair before finding your knee. He's beaming. "'M not starting anything."
----
taglist; @vader-is-hot @spiritofbuddha @getosangie @freyafriggafrey @ilovehyperfixating @aryiannarae @willowpains @ker0senebunny @lilyrachelcassidy @khxna @imbabycowboy
#felix catton x reader#felix catton#bestfriend!felix x reader#bestfriend!felix#saltburn x reader#jacob elordi x reader#jacob elordi
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Ahh I love the food thing that you got asked <3 food can have such a special place in our lives it's so precious
Ya think Hound develop concerning eating habits due to Makarov? Due to the whole stressful situation
I just want someone in the 141 to cook him a meal, filled with love and care, maybe Hound is in the kitchen watching them cook it for his own security.
I just want him to have a nice meal 😔
-🐙
I do feel like Hound would have some food hoarding habits or just distrust about eating something he didn't make himself. It wouldn't be the first time he'd gotten drugged through food...
But the 141 making food communally would be a fun idea lol so here's a quick brain fart :D :
You feel out of place. Well, you're always out of place, but you feel especially out of place sitting at the table while Soap and and Gaz busy themselves by the stove, Price humming to himself to the side as he gets the mugs to make tea. Ghost sits next to you grumbling under his breath, both of you in 'time-out' — you hadn't done anything (save for not being trusted around anything sharp), it's Ghost that had gone and microwaved beans in the can. Now Johnny swears up and down the microwave is possessed.
Your eyes flicker between Soap and Gaz, watching them cook you don't even know what. The only British 'cuisine' you know of is the cremated steaks Price would sometimes make you before. . . that. But nothing the two are making smells nearly as bad as the charred hockey pucks Price would feed you and Simon.
"Hey!" Your brought out of your thoughts in time to see Kyle swat away Price's hand with his spatula. "Don't you dare cap! I'm not about to get rained on because of your bad cooking." You hadn't considered Gaz could take charge, too soft in your eyes, but you're surprised by how tight of a ship he runs when he's by the stove.
"Alright, alright." Price huffs while Ghost lets out an amused huff. He's not quite laughing, but you can see the subtle tremor of his shoulders in silent laughter.
That gets Soap to point a spoon in Ghost's direction. "Oh yer one te fockin' giggle. Mr. 'ah cursed the damn microwave with me beans'."
"Sod off." Simon grunts, but there's no edge to his words. Soap tuts, but soon enough starts off rambling about something you're not quite able to follow along to when your eyes once again focus on where their arms are, how they move, paying especially close attention any time they rest them by their sides (even though realistically you doubt they'd try to drug the same food they'd eat).
You still tense when you feel Price's hand on your back, only now noticing that you'd started hunching your back, your shoulders raised closer to your ears. "You're alright, straighten your spine, sweetheart." His voice is calm, his hand warm as he applies gentle pressure on your back until you straighten back out. "There you go, good man." He rumbles, hand going up to ruffle your hair before he pulls away before his touch can turn into stinging pain to your skin.
You blink as a plate full of food is placed in front of you. The food smells good and doesn't look like it had been cremated, made with care you don't deserve. "I. . ." You don't know why but your throat feels clogged, like someone had poured hot tar into your mouth and forced you to swallow, the collar around your throat constricting your breathing even more.
Simon's shoulder bumps into yours, "If you don't eat that I will." The childish threat makes you breathe out a small laugh.
"Aye, the bastard's like Henry the hoover, he'll eat anything." Soap supplies as he sits down opposite of you with his own plate. Though you get the impression he's talking about himself when he stabs a sausage with a fork and almost inhales the entire thing.
"Mhm," You grunt, taking the fork. "I don't doubt it." You stab a piece of black pudding. It tastes earthy, but the small coppery tang of blood sizzles down your nerves, but fuck it tastes good.
"Look at that, is it good?" Kyle chuckles as he watches your facial features shift as you swallow the food, his own face that of pride like he already knows your answer, but you nod your head all the same.
#gnome correspondence#🐙anon#x reader#cod mw2#male reader#trinkets from the hoard#captain john price#good dog fic#Hound-reader#simon ghost riley#kyle gaz garrick#john soap mactavish#john soap mactavish x reader#simon ghost riley x reader#captain john price x male reader#kyle gaz garrick x male reader#this was pretty quick and I intend to do an extended version of this when i finally get around to writing the next chapter of Good Dog
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Choose Your Own Adventure (jan 2024)
I think the problem is that I want to write GOOD things instead of writing anything at all, and I think that's kind of a mistake or at least i think it's not helping me. In any case, I've decided I'm going to write BAD things. Do y'all remember the choose your own adventure novels from the 70s and 80s? No, because so many of your are in class with my daughter fingerpainting, but trust me they were always bad. They were always bad! So I'm writing something like that, and it's going to be bad, or maybe accidentally good, but I don't fucking care which. I'm going to add onto it every month, and you can play along if you like. After every segment it'll basically ask the audience what we do next via a poll. Enjoy. Or hate. I gotta do something and this is something. The perfect is the enemy of the good and the good is the enemy of the accomplished. It's a haunted house story. OKay.
Some houses are histories in themselves. The story is told, complete, before all witnesses, in the lean of a building, a rough and torn roof, or a well-kept garden with an elm grown old, a bench curved around it. You imagine lives for these houses, even moreso than for the people in them. They are the old men in the pub, they are the spurned spinster, they are the young mother. These bricks and stones and lines of wood contain our tragedies and triumphs and turn them to their own. They are the books of our lives that we cannot write for fear of the honesty.
It was, to the observer, such a house.
It must have been grand, once. The knockers bore witness to such a thing, iron and old brass twisted together like snakes into the letter of a family that must have prospered here long ago. The moon shone off that knocker, silvering her like a wilted duchess, her back bowed by the swell and retraction of time’s seasons. The door itself was not one, but two, a pair of twins craved by craftsmen and then by circumstance, the detailing of leaves and acorns in its edging torn away and scratched in places, offering them a violent individuality.
The house branched from those two doors, the twins made mere siblings still echoing each other into an angle on either side, slowly boxing in a sandy courtyard where only a handful of shabbat bushes now grew. Cracks crept up the side of the house, splitting and spreading like a rumor as they dug into the high walls, dipping under the roof eaves. Where the cracks could not be seen, it was only for the veiling of more than half dead vines slowly climbing the stained and sickly yellow paint, pushing out the dark and tattered shutters.
For all its scars, what one noticed at the approach was the sheer immensity of the place, as modest as a whore, as spartan as a pope. The grand doubling of it, rows of windows staring in the moonlight, reflecting a life out into the grit of the courtyard, the house curving at either end in grand octagonal bays, one enclosed, and one free, suggesting a difference that might have been born and not made.
All of it was perfectly bisected by a high tower that rose above the doors, peering over a widow’s walk. It, too, was made with the sharp lines of an octagon, square glass panels neither revealing nor glimmering, only taking in the night, capped with a dome so dark it blended into the night sky, even as the moon looked on. A clock, stopped at three fifteen, adorned the front of the tower, its white paint once stark against the black but now faded to a dispassionate grey. An iron flag atop the dome should have shown which way the wind was going, but stayed it its place, pointing outward to the front gate.
Fog settled over this forgotten ruin like a tender blanket over the dead, hiding it from the world.
Standing in the middle of a great path of weedy grass, a flashlight held in her hand, Lena Oxton gazed up at the house. She was not immune to the human sense of augury in such a house, but neither was she immune to the pouring rain that fell off the edge of her cap and brushed against her chin, nor the bickering taking place in the van behind her. Signs and portents may or may not be real, and ghosts might only be a suggestion, but the rain was very real, she was sodden and cold , and someone was about to die in more than a suggestive way if they had to spend the night in that small van.
She looked back toward the wall where the van was parked, its headlights only just visible over the wall. Even with that being true, she glanced over her shoulder toward the house and considered, just for a moment, bolting back toward that crumbling brick and throwing herself over it. But only a moment. Fear did not get to hold the yoke. She had never allowed it before, and she wasn’t going to start with a house just because it had gone to rack and ruin.
Lena stepped toward the carved and pitted door, took a breath, and knocked.
Who's in the van? <-- I'm a voting link!
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Hi! I love your clintasha stuff so much.
Do you have any headcanons for clintasha angst?! I’ve always imagined that with their age gap, nat’s closeness to Steve (in the MCU anyway), Clint’s insecurities and hidden anger streak (as seen in Endgame with Ronin), and the fact that they both have quite dominant personalities, conditions can sometimes be ripe for an argument.
And when they do fight, they fight! Like all the avengers/SHIELD are on edge for days because of the tension. And eventually one of them just gets so upset not having the other there that they will work up the courage to apologize.
Aww! Why thank you so much I’m glad you’re enjoying them!
I picture the fights between Clint and Nat to be a micro equivalent of the Cold War. Well, unlike the Cold War it does get hot! (Pun intended!) Picture the Cuban Missile crisis but make it between two very dominate and very opinionated and highly skilled individuals whose combined capabilities could level any building with a three block radius.
That my friend is what happens when Clint and Nat trade blows. Fortunately for New York and Avengers Tower they’ve managed to reserve their anger to sharp-tongued barbs and egg-shell tense silence. At least while in front of the team…until one or the other cracks and a dish gets thrown.
(Clint threw a coffee cup and missed Natasha obviously, Natasha predictably got offended that he missed on purpose. Steve had to cut in between them, which only redirected their anger onto him much to his supreme confusion.
“Oh wow look at Cap really putting your namesake to use huh? Do you have a list of thirteen points?!”
“Kindly fuck off old man, not every fight needs your fucking help!”
Clint and Nat promptly shared a look. Twenty minutes later everyone heard the ‘kiss and make-up’)
Clint definitely has an anger streak roughly six miles long but he hides it very very well. It took Phil a lot of blood (literally), sweat, and tears to help Clint get a handle on his shit when he first joined SHIELD. While his anger bursts are few and far in between, when they do explode out of him he has at least learned to redirect that anger onto his physical surroundings and be mindful that maybe punching a concrete wall wouldn’t do his shooting hand well. One of the first things Natasha ever gave him was a tennis ball. She picked it up on a whim during a mission because Clint was annoyingly restless, and figuratively bouncing off the walls with energy that he needed to expend but couldn’t because the mission was geared towards her skill set rather than his. He still has it to this day and whenever he feels the tell-tell hotness burning up his spine that comes with a burst of anger he’ll take out the tennis ball and start ricocheting it off the walls. (It drives Tony absolutely fucking nuts.)
Natasha’s anger is far more…precise. Like a surgeon’s scalpel compared to the mini nuke that is Clint’s. She specializes in using silence, passive aggression and careful word choice to express her anger, which inevitably triggers Clint’s mouth because he hates getting ignored. Especially by her. If by the fourth day neither of them crack Clint will start the truce with her favorite meal, a hot drawn bath and a list of apologies. Afterwards they’ll talk it out, between rounds of sex. (Clint’s of the mind that Natasha will just start some if the fights for the make up sex. Natasha only confirms this much later when physically backed into a corner. He really can’t blame her, he’s done it at least once or twice.)
Natasha’s apologies require a lot less forethought. Clint drops whatever argument they’re having at the sight of her bare breasts, along with his pants. This neat trick lasted for ohh about the second big blow out, when Clint afterwards rolled over and demanded that if she was gonna just fuck their problems away they might as well call it quits. “Don’t get me wrong you’ve got great tits and the sex is mind blowing but if great tits and mind blowing sex is all it takes we’ve got bigger problems, Tasha.” In the end they keep the sex, but Natasha makes an effort to truly truly talk it all out, which in returns Clint rewards. Quite enthusiastically.
For the more minor spats, they save those for the training mats, trading punches and ass pinches. By the time that’s all done they’re lying on their backs sweating through their clothes and laughing. They might be dating, but ultimately they’re competitive best friends through and through.
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@manebloom
It was a rare treat for Dexter to be allowed the entire day inside of his laboratory. Even more so with the guarantee that his sister wouldn’t arrive to interrupt him— a lucky break, it seemed to have been, that she’d had ballet practice during the weekend. With that, he’d been left in the care of his babysitter, who was the only other person with knowledge of his laboratory that wouldn’t put that knowledge to dubious (or irritating) use. Today had been a series of fortunate events, and Dexter would prefer to keep it that way.
The temptations that came with such a special opportunity was notably not firmly established within the realm of safety. Specifically, he has plans to experiment with various nitric compounds, which possess a reputation for being highly reactive and explosive. Anyone beyond himself would likely lecture him about the fact that he was but a fledgeling— a child who should no doubt be kept miles away from such dangerous things. That is precisely why Dexter must keep it a secret, even from his babysitter, who had already earned a remarkable level of his trust.
He's made his way to a far-off corner of his laboratory, green-tinted goggles shielding his eyes and ginger hair pulled up into a short ponytail. He is using a rag to clean the surface of a particularly large device, one that was unmistakably some form of ranged weaponry. The boy pauses after a few more good-measure wipes, sighing contentedly at his creation. He was going to have fun today.
A blast, Dexter mouths to himself silently, which elicits a short burst of stifled giggling. He grins as he pulls back a small piece of the device's casing, unveiling a glass container set within. He opens it, then squats down to peruse a lower level of his workbench. He grabs a sizable bottle of colorless liquid, stands back up, and places it on the table while he unscrews its cap.
His glove, still holding the cap, rests back at his side. A drop of the fluid, condensated on the cap's underside, falls and strikes the floor. It combusts, emitting a sharp sound and a miniature flash, and Dexter jolts, whipping around as he instinctively attempts to locate the source. He grips the edge of the workbench, his hands trembling somewhat as he stares at the imprint of soot on the ground. He has little time to process it before something else catches his attention: the bottle on the table is teetering as a result of his abrupt motion. Already panicked, he overcorrects his attempt to stabilize it. His fingers hit the bottle, causing it to fall altogether.
Dexter feels his stomach drop. He sees the tip of the bottle touch the floor for only an instant before his senses become numb and overloaded all at once.
Time lapses. Suddenly, he's on the ground, staring at the mortar between two tiles as his vision fades in from white. His ears ring, and he closes his eyes, unable to move or breathe. He feels immeasurably heavy, and the sensation of feeling trapped fills him with a wave of terror. Everything is too much, and it feels like eons that he lies there, waiting for it all to subside.
Dexter opens his eyes. He stares at the floor, listening to little pieces of metal falling onto it somewhere nearby. Fire crackles, distantly. He wheezes, forcing out a cough, and tries to pull himself up. Almost immediately, pain sears throughout his body, and he crumples back down. Nothing is on top of him, but he can't move, and it hurts too much, and he can't move because it hurts too much, and it hurts too much to move—
He cries out. He yells into the floor with as much energy as he can muster. Someone will hear him. He doesn't care who. Someone has to hear him, because he doesn't know what happened and he's confused and scared and hurting.
#ic#manebloom#i warned you about that nitroglycerin bro!! Bro!!!!#tw child harm#child harm tw#tw injury#injury tw#nothing described specifically but injuries. they happening
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WIP Wednesday
thanks @messyhairdiaz, @sibylsleaves, @spotsandsocks and @elvensorceress my beloveds!
I wont tag anyone because its officially Thursday here now.
I'm cheating this week because not only is it not Wednesday anymore here, this is also not a wip, I just posted it. But it was a wip this afternoon?? I dunno. lol!
Was feeling crummy today so decided to make Eddie feel even worse, have some Whumptober no. 13 'Hyperthermia' as the latest chapter in my odd little h/c collection.
read on ao3
The thing is, Eddie knows better.
He was a medic in the middle of the desert for Christ's sake. He’s been trained on what to watch for both by the army medical corp and the LAFD, heat stroke is no joke and the last thing he ever wants to do is put a patient or his teammates in danger because he’s been ignoring his own body. He’s more careful than that.
It's just–he hadn’t noticed, truly he hadn’t, or at least he’d just thought it was normal on the job overheating. Nothing he couldn’t solve with a bottle of water or two and a cool shower back at the station. Yes he’s been feeling overly warm today, its August in Los Angeles, its fucking boiling. And sure, his arms have been cramping a little, but he and Buck have also been hanging off this glass and steel building for nearly 45 minutes while they try to secure the window washer’s rig that had gone rogue and smashed into the plate glass windows of the boardroom mid meeting. Rope rescues always put a lot of strain on your arms and he’s not as young as he used to be (something Buck, an infuriating 5 years younger, is so quick to remind him). But now, as his vision blurs out for the second time in as many minutes, Eddie is starting to worry he might be in a little bit of trouble. Right on cue Buck glances over at him and raises an eyebrow.
“Hey.” He says, squinting against the glare of the mid-afternoon sun reflecting off the tinted glass that seems to stretch around them for miles. “You ok? You’re looking really flushed.”
So here’s where Eddie makes his first real mistake. Because he should probably just tell Buck he’s not feeling great, that his stomach has started to roil uncomfortably and he can feel his heart rate picking up. But they’re so close to being finished. The window washer with the broken arm has already been whisked away to the ambulance, the remaining board members trapped between the ruined scaffolding sticking halfway out of their office have been evacuated, and he and Buck only have three or four more points to tie off before the rest of the metal pipe and wooden slats of the rig can be safely removed. Ten minutes–tops–until he’s back on solid ground, or at least solid rooftop. So instead he just tries to make a reassuring face and says,
“I’m fine, just ready to be out of this sun.” He has to stop there and clamp down because his gut is clenching painfully and sour acid is creeping up the back of his throat. He focuses instead on the rig in front of him, trying to get his clumsy fingers to clip the final ropes in place, checking the soundness of the connection while Buck, who is still looking at him with a frown etching itself deeper and deeper between his eyebrows, radios up to tell Bobby they’re almost done.
Just a few more minutes, he tells himself, just a little longer–
“Eddie.” Buck says, and the sharp edge of his tone makes Eddie think maybe it's not the first time he’s said it. “Cap needs a verbal response.” Oh. Right.
“Copy.” He says, keying his radio, “Diaz here, good to go.” God is he ever.
It feels like it takes an age to get back to the top of the building, by the time the top ledge is in sight Eddie knows it's no longer a question of if he’s going to throw up, but when.
It's here he makes his second, and arguably biggest mistake. The top lip of the roof projects out eight or so inches so it takes a bit of effort to pull one’s body out and over the edge. He should wait for help, be sure the extra slack is out of his rope then let the others hoist him up onto steady ground. But he’s starting to feel a little frantic, he really doesn't want to vomit while he’s still hanging off the side of a building, so as soon as he can get hands on the lip of the roof he’s straining to push himself up, feet scrabbling for purchase against the stonework.
Maybe it's all the extra time he’s been putting into the gym lately, maybe it's the sick adrenaline making his heart beat so fast he can barely breath, maybe it's sheer desperation, but somehow he gets himself up on his hands and knees on the edge of the roof. It's wildly against protocol, and he can vaguely hear Bobby yelling at him to stay down, but he can’t do that. Nothing feels real and he can’t quite remember what’s so urgent now, but he knows he has to get up, has to–
He forces himself to his feet, his vision swimming, head spinning so badly he loses all sense of direction. His stomach lurches violently and he doubles over to be sick. Hands are reaching for him and he doesn’t know why, he doesn't want them touching him. He twists away, stumbling back a step and then–
Oddly the fall isn’t much more disorientating than standing still had been, his vision still a spinning blur, his insides lurching with the feeling of wrong wrong wrong, his ears are ringing so badly he can’t hear the cries of the voices around him, it won't be until much later that he even understands what’s happened. The fall is fine. It's the sudden stop at the end that nearly obliterates his consciousness for good. The line pulls taught so fast it takes any breath he has left, pain searing along the lines of his harness. He thinks maybe he swings into the side of the building, that maybe it's the impact that whites out his already spotty vision, but he can’t be sure. It's too much, pain and light and sound and heat, he can’t bear it. He thinks maybe he’s sick again, or maybe he just wishes he could be. For the first time in his life he wishes for unconsciousness but it refuses to come, leaving him trapped in a burning twilight he can’t seem to find his way through.
There are hands on him again, but these are familiar–safe–so he leans in, something like a sob wrenching itself out of him when he hears Buck’s shaky voice right beside his head.
“I’ve got you, I’ve got you Eddie, you’re ok.”
It's too much to answer, but he tries to reach for Buck anyway, there’s a thrumming in his bones that tells him no matter what’s happening to him right now, Buck will see him through it.
“Just stay still ok? I’m gonna get us back up, you just let me do the work.”
He has no choice but to comply, going pliant against Buck’s body, his forehead pressed to the rough fabric of Buck’s uniformed shoulder. Hands work to anchor them together then slide up his shoulders and pull him closer still, one hand cradling the back of his head while the other locks around his aching ribs. Then they are moving again, or maybe not–it's hard to tell when he’s still so dizzy–but they must because the next thing he knows he’s on his back on the scorching concrete of the roof and god its so fucking hot. His blood must be boiling in his veins. He doesn't want to be here anymore.
“Hey hey hey.” Buck’s voice in his ear again, frightened. “Stay with me Eddie. Open your eyes.”
“Here.” Someone else says, and suddenly the relentless beat of the sun is blocked. That’s better, it's still bad, but it's better.
“Come on Eddie, open your eyes.”
He couldn’t do it for anyone else, but it's Buck asking, so he pries his eyelids up, blinking tears and dark spots away. He’s still dizzy, but it's better than it was. Buck is there, crouched by his head, face panicked.
“There you are.” Buck says, a shaky smile curving up the corners of his mouth. He shifts and presses a wet cloth to the back of Eddie’s neck and it feels better than anything has ever felt in the history of everything. Someone is cutting his shirt open, Hen he supposes, because Chim is busy sliding an iv into the back of his hand. Rodriguez stands above him, uniform shirt off and held over his head like a tent. Eddie thinks it might be the nicest thing anyone’s ever done for him. He tries to say so, but the sounds that tumble out of his mouth aren’t even close to words. Buck shoots Hen a frantic look but her attention is locked on the pressure cuff she’s got strapped around Eddie’s left arm.
“Pulse is 173.” Says Chim, and the medic in Eddie’s brain recoils. Too fast, it's too fast and he can’t– “180.” Chim corrects, then meets his eyes “Try to breathe ok Eddie? We’ve got you.”
“Temp is pushing 106.” Hen says, then swears, “His bp is tanking, we’ve got to get off this roof.”
Everything is going white around the edges and Eddie knows that it doesn't matter how much he wants to stay, he’s going under. The thought should scare him, but he’s so tired, feels so bad, that the idea of not feeling that anymore is welcome. He wishes he could reassure Buck though, knows it’s going to scare him. His mouth simply refuses to work, but he does manage to tip his head to the side, pressing his cheek into the curve of Buck’s wrist where he holds the cool cloth in place. Buck’s other hand comes up to cradle his jaw, fingers brushing sweat soaked hair off the side of his temple.
“I’m right here.” He says, so softly that Eddie isn’t sure if he actually hears it or just knows…knows in his deepest self that Buck is always, will always, be there to catch him. It's the thought he takes with him into oblivion.
#911 on fox#911 fic#whumptober 2022#no.13#eddie diaz#evan buckley#megs writes#wip wednesday#sorta#just some unedited feels is all#its all fine
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So we’ve gotten some trollish behavior in the Arya tag for the last few days, and one of the questions they posed was about how Arya could possibly adapt and go unnoticed, if she is in fact pretty/beautiful, which I am going to answer right here with canon supported text. This post is not about whether Arya is in fact pretty/beautiful (even though she canonically is growing into a wild beauty, as seen in several different passages in the books) so if you want to disagree and cry about it I suggest going somewhere else because I am absolutely done with that daft nonsense, because it’s irrefutable CANON and I’m sick to death of saying it over and over again.
Anyway, I highly doubt that Arya is going to leave the HOBAW with the magical skills of face changing and magical glamour, but that doesn’t mean she’s not learning alternative means of disguise. I’ve said this before, but Arya and Varys share several skillsets and Varys is a master of disguise due to his experience as a mummer in his childhood. Arya is also learning mummery, not just acting, but also how to disguise herself with different make-up, hair, clothing, and scent. And logically, she can even change her height if she so chooses by a few inches with boots and other footwear.
First let’s look at a few of Varys’ disguises:
The man who stepped through the door was plump, perfumed, powdered, and as hairless as an egg. He wore a vest of woven gold thread over a loose gown of purple silk, and on his feet were pointed slippers of soft velvet. "Lady Stark," he said, taking her hand in both of his, "to see you again after so many years is such a joy." His flesh was soft and moist, and his breath smelled of lilacs.
[...]
Varys giggled like a little girl.
[...]
"Careful," Catelyn told him, "it's sharp."
"Nothing holds an edge like Valyrian steel," Littlefinger said as Varys sucked at his bleeding thumb and looked at Catelyn with sullen admonition. (Catelyn IV AGOT)
The visitor was a stout man in cracked, mud-caked boots and a heavy brown robe of the coarsest roughspun, his features hidden by a cowl, his hands drawn up into voluminous sleeves.
"Who are you?" Ned asked.
"A friend," the cowled man said in a strange, low voice. "We must speak alone, Lord Stark."
Curiosity was stronger than caution. "Harwin, leave us," he commanded. Not until they were alone behind closed doors did his visitor draw back his cowl.
"Lord Varys?" Ned said in astonishment.
"Lord Stark," Varys said politely, seating himself. "I wonder if I might trouble you for a drink?"
Ned filled two cups with summerwine and handed one to Varys. "I might have passed within a foot of you and never recognized you," he said, incredulous. He had never seen the eunuch dress in anything but silk and velvet and the richest damasks, and this man smelled of sweat instead of lilacs.
"That was my dearest hope," Varys said. "It would not do if certain people learned that we had spoken in private. The queen watches you closely. This wine is very choice. Thank you." (Eddard VII AGOT)
"What would you have me do?" asked the torchbearer, a stout man in a leather half cape. Even in heavy boots, his feet seemed to glide soundlessly over the ground. A round scarred face and a stubble of dark beard showed under his steel cap, and he wore mail over boiled leather, and a dirk and shortsword at his belt. It seemed to Arya there was something oddly familiar about him. (Arya III AGOT)
"Food," he croaked.
"Wine," a voice answered. It was not the rat-faced man; this gaoler was stouter, shorter, though he wore the same leather half cape and spiked steel cap. "Drink, Lord Eddard." He thrust a wineskin into Ned's hands.
The voice was strangely familiar, yet it took Ned Stark a moment to place it. "Varys?" he said groggily when it came. He touched the man's face. "I'm not … not dreaming this. You're here." The eunuch's plump cheeks were covered with a dark stubble of beard. Ned felt the coarse hair with his fingers. Varys had transformed himself into a grizzled turnkey, reeking of sweat and sour wine. "How did you … what sort of magician are you?" (Eddard XV AGOT)
As we see, on a normal, everyday basis, Varys presents a soft and effeminate demeanor in order to appear as non-threatening as possible. He has a bald head, perfect for wearing wigs, and it’s obvious he is very skilled when it comes to make-up, as seen with the scars on his face when he is speaking with Illyrio. Varys also changes his scent upon disguises. Not only that but his demeanor and voice change as well, making him even more unfamiliar, especially to people that aren’t that familiar with him. He also utilizes hoods and cowls when needs be. Varys is a master at deception and disguise and mummery. No doubt about it. Arya is learning these exact same skills as I mentioned above.
When she was not working, Arya was free to wander as she would amongst the vaults and storerooms, so long as she did not leave the temple, nor descend to the third cellar. She found a room full of weapons and armor: ornate helms and curious old breastplates, longswords, daggers, and dirks, crossbows and tall spears with leaf-shaped heads. Another vault was crammed with clothing, thick furs and splendid silks in half a hundred colors, next to piles of foul-smelling rags and threadbare roughspuns. (Arya II AFFC)
Down in the vaults, she untied Cat's threadbare cloak, pulled Cat's fishy brown tunic over her head, kicked off Cat's salt-stained boots, climbed out of Cat's smallclothes, and bathed in lemonwater to wash away the very smell of Cat of the Canals. When she emerged, soaped and scrubbed pink with her brown hair plastered to her cheeks, Cat was gone. She donned clean robes and a pair of soft cloth slippers, and padded to the kitchens to beg some food of Umma. (Cat of the Canals AFFC)
That evening, after supper and a short session of the lying game, the blind girl tied a strip of rag around her head to hide her useless eyes, found her begging bowl, and asked the waif to help her don Beth's face. The waif had shaved her head for her when they took her eyes; a mummer's cut, she called it, since many mummers did the same so their wigs might fit them better. But it worked for beggars too and helped to keep their heads free from fleas and lice. More than a wig was needed, though. "I could cover you with weeping sores," the waif said, "but then innkeeps and taverners would chase you from their doors." Instead she gave her pox scars and a mummer's mole on one cheek with a dark hair growing from it. "Is it ugly?" the blind girl asked.
"It is not pretty." (The Blind Girl ADWD)
She was no stranger to the waterfront. Cat used to prowl the wharves and alleys of the Ragman's Harbor selling mussels and oysters and clams for Brusco. With her rag and her shaved head and her mummer's mole, she did not look the same as she had then, but just to be safe she stayed away from the Ship and the Happy Port and the other places where Cat had been best known. (The Blind Girl ADWD)
The vaults were full of old clothing, garments claimed from those who came to the House of Black and White to drink peace from the temple pool. Everything from beggar's rags to rich silks and velvets could be found there. An ugly girl should dress in ugly clothing, she decided, so she chose a stained brown cloak fraying at the hem, a musty green tunic smelling of fish, and a pair of heavy boots. Last of all she palmed her finger knife. (The Ugly Little Girl ADWD)
Supper was for language lessons. The blind girl understood Braavosi and could speak it passably, she had even lost most of her barbaric accent, but the kindly man was not content. He was insisting that she improve her High Valyrian and learn the tongues of Lys and Pentos too. (The Blind Girl ADWD)
It’s frankly all laid out here. Arya is learning how to act and adapt even better than she did before. She is learning a multitude of things about disguises, including make-up and clothing and scents. She knows when to avoid certain people in case she is recognized even through the disguise. She keeps a shaved head for wigs. And she is learning different languages and accents which she can utitilize depending on where she is and who she is with. I honestly don’t know what to tell these people, because what they question is already explicitly in the books. It’s canon that Arya is growing into a wild beauty like Lyanna, and it’s canon that Arya is becoming a master of disguise as well, that has nothing to do with magic, just like with Varys. Arya can clean herself up and polish herself and make herself even more beautiful if she so chooses, or Arya can dirty herself, add some moles and scars, put a stench on her and be ugly, and anything in between. The fact that this question is even poised just says to me that these people don’t actually read and analyze Arya’s chapters in an unbiased manner. So yes, Arya can still be pretty/beautiful and still be able to adapt and go mostly unnoticed, if she so chooses. She is definitely skilled enough and smart enough to do so and she already has excelled in it, so why is this even a question?
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break another little bit of my heart now
Summary: Hotch & Jess in college...I guess? Hotch's dad is dying, and he's being sucked in to helping his mom out with preparation.
Pairing: none
Warnings: a lot of talk about death & some mentions of abuse
Words: 4.6k
Notes: Set in the same universe as We Shall Be Monsters, Emotion Sickness, How It Feels to have a Heartbeat and Hold Out the Palm of Your Hand...I'll probably create a landing page to pull all of these together when I stop being lazy.
**
“His name is Gerald,” she said quietly, rifling through her small purse for what he presumed was a business card. His feet were cold and he wiggled his toes inside of his shoes, delighting in the memory of his morning spent trudging around through icy thick mud at the bank of the creek. Their little sanctuary. Barefoot, he and Sean laughed and whined about the cold mud slurping up between their toes, but never once thought that putting back on socks and shoes would be an appropriate fix. No, they needed that mud.
Their father was dying, that they both knew though in very different ways. And they cared differently, too. Sean was ten and his understanding of the finality of death was shaky at best, but he was sad and needed a distraction from a weight far too heavy for his young years. He'd been watching their father steadily decline for years. Aaron, on the other hand, felt no sadness for the man's eventual passing, and he hadn't been there to watch most of it. The way he wasted away, the way he changed from a man whose shadow features and pinched scowl were mean enough to melt paint off of a brand new car...the man who used his fists more than his words...no, Aaron wasn't going to be sad. Except for Sean.
“I found a butt!” Sean shouted, and Aaron leapt up from his perch on a large rounded boulder and felt his feet sink deep into the squelchy muck. He ran for Sean, forgetting momentarily his nearly twenty-one years and reverting back to a youthful pleasure at finding the remnants of crawfish shells and interesting rocks. Aaron was finding more rusted out sharp-edged bottle caps, beer bottles and soda bottles alike. New and old. Treasures.
“Gerald, got it,” he said, returning from his reverie reluctantly when she nudged the business card into his hand. Zip went his boyhood, disappeared, turned to dust. Now he stood, a young man about to meet with an attorney to go over his father's will, his plans for the family's future, things he had no vested interest in any longer.
“Don't be late. He's expecting you in ten minutes.”
He was late, on purpose. Let his mother pay for the extra few minutes of time, he needed to walk, to get his head straight. That Mercedes in the parking lot, so out of place among rusted old pick-up trucks and barely chained bicycles had to belong to him, and inside he managed to pick out the attorney without any trouble. There was Merle and Wilma, seated in their usual corner (same place they'd been seated for the same Saturday lunch for the last thirty years) and there was Roy Brooks playing dice with Stuart Mason. He nodded to them, received the customary condolence nod back...the whole town knew that his father wasn't long for the world.
“Aaron Hotchner, I presume?” The lawyer stood and shook his arm free of his burnt orange sport coat, the over-sized Rolex on his arm catching on the material. Aaron shook his hand quickly, an impressive pump, a man's shake. His father taught him some things. “Have a seat. I already ordered...” That statement, pointed as it was, Aaron let roll right off of his shoulders. Yes, you've ordered because I was late, but see...I just don't give a fuck. That's what he would like to have said, but he smiled a little sheepishly and nodded.
And then he apologized for his tardiness. Like a coward, he told himself. Like a damn coward.
Aaron had known the owners of this diner his whole life. His grandfather brought him here every Sunday morning for coffee and donuts (or, hot chocolate in a coffee mug when he was too small for coffee), so he was never given the opportunity to order. Darcy brought him out a peanut butter milkshake and a hamburger with a huge pickle right alongside Gerald's full plate of bacon and eggs and hashbrowns covered in thick, yellow hollandaise. The richness of it turned Aaron's stomach. He'd never been one for that kind of heavy food, it never sat well.
“Your father's will is pretty straightforward, there shouldn't be any issue with execution...when the time comes...” Gerald faltered, and Aaron cringed knowing what came next. The backtrack, the sympathetic show of support. “I'm very sorry about all of this. Martin has been a good friend for a long time. I remember, we were on a course down in Palm Springs when he told me that Grace was pregnant. Never saw him so happy.”
Aaron tried to force a look that would read as anything other than pure confusion, but he barely managed just this side of distress. Gerald didn't seem to notice though, he'd said his piece and now it was back to business.
“Pretty cut and dry. Your mother gets the estate, of course, aside from the few specific items he's willed to others. Your brother Sean will receive the Cadillac, for instance. And let me see if I can...oh...” he paused on the second page and Aaron thought his skin turned just the slightest shade of gray. He could almost predict the next words. “There are a few discrepancies here I'll need to speak to your mother about.”
“He cut me out,” Aaron offered, stirring the milkshake with the absurdly long spoon. “You don't need to hide it. He told me he would.”
Gerald frowned. “Why would he...”
“I assume it was because I chose to attend George Washington University instead of going to Georgetown, but who knows. It could be that he doesn't care for my haircut, or perhaps he's simply telling me for the last time that he's only got one son.”
The conversation stalled there, and Aaron finished his meal in thoughtful silence while Gerald poured over the remainder of the will with a puzzled look on his face. “I'll need to speak with your mother before we proceed.”
“My bus leaves in two hours, I really should go get packed. Are we finished here?”
That was it, he had nothing more to say. Darcy refused his money, the way he walked toward her was haunting and eerie in its sublime quiet. No way that meeting went well, she knew by the way his shoulders slouched though he tried to hide it. He wanted desperately not to be disappointed in his father, not to disappoint his father...for some reason he still sought his approval...and the time was near enough now that he'd have to call it on that forever. There could be no hope of redemption for them.
“Thank you, Mrs. Emerson,” he said when shook her head and pushed his cash right back at him. “It was great as always.”
“Bless you, boy. Come see me next time you're in town, okay?”
“Yes, ma'am.”
(x)
“Where the hell were you this weekend?!”
Jessica was standing there in the middle of his apartment with her hand on her hip, her blonde curls unruly and thrown up on top of her head. Aaron stopped dead in his tracks, stricken, his eyes flickering wildly toward the clock posted on the otherwise barren wall. It was a clean focal point in the midst of his confusion.
“What...why are you here?”
The apartment was chilly, a window thrown open even though it was a blustery windy fall day. He would rather have had the heater going full blast. The card table that he and his roommate were using as a sort of makeshift dining room table was taken over by a huge, messy game of Risk. He couldn't seem to sort out the scene, make it make sense.
“I called you three times on Friday, left you messages on your machine...” Long, rambling, urgent messages she implied but didn't say aloud. Some things were better left unsaid between them.
“Okay, well lets operate under the assumption that I never got those messages. Enlighten me.” He was, perhaps, a little shorter with her than he intended but he was feeling a little out of sorts. His weekend had been less than ideal, definitely a far cry from relaxing. The diner visit was one of the more pleasant bits, looking back. At least he'd had a peanut butter shake.
She only made that little irritated puffing noise and flopped down on the couch. His couch. In the kitchen he could hear his roommate Dale tapping away on the counter, probably chopping something...god, he thought bitterly, if Jessica and Dale were sleeping together he might have to move out.
“A pipe burst in my building. A wave of shit water filled the whole basement, bio-hazard central. It's shit show. Literally.” She smiled, and eagerly awaited his. He didn't feel much like smiling but it was kind of funny so she managed to get a little smirk out of him. It was good enough. “Anyway. They kicked us all out for a week...you really didn't get my messages? I need a place to crash.”
“I told her she could stay!” Dale chirped from the kitchen over the new sound of sizzling. The apartment smelled like mushrooms and onions. Dale was a pretty incredible cook, and Aaron benefited greatly from this talent. “Hope you don't mind.”
Aaron groaned but shrugged. “It's fine. You've been in my bed, I presume?”
She barked out a laugh and he heard Dale chime in from the kitchen. “Well if you're implying I might have slept in Dale's bed...”
“That's a big fat negatory, soldier.”
“I'll move to the couch. No problemo.”
“No, the couch is fine for me. It's only a few days.” Aaron realized he hadn't moved, the door was still open, he was still standing there like he didn't live there. Slowly he eased it shut behind him and folded his arms over his chest to stave off the chill of the place. “I would appreciate it if we could have the windows closed though.”
“You're such a wuss. Maybe if you ate some of this stuff Dale cooks sometimes you'd put some meat on your bones.”
“It's not even that bad!” Dale shouted, and Aaron groaned. They were going to gang up on him all week, that much was clear. They might not be sleeping together but they clearly shared one overworked brain cell. “It makes the place smell less like dirty socks.”
“If you did your laundry more than once a month, that might help the dirty sock smell,” Aaron grunted with a smirk, doing his best to shake off the filthy feeling of the last weekend. The way it made his soul ache. Jessica let out more laughs and pulled the blanket from the back of the couch, beckoning to him, begging him to sit down beside her. He did so only because the blanket was enticing.
“So,” she said quieter, maybe so Dale couldn't hear on purpose. “Wanna tell me where you were this weekend?”
“No,” he replied even softer than her voice, pulling the blanket tight around his shoulders and curling his long legs up beneath him. “I've got an hour to try and catch a little shut eye before my first class and I'd like to take advantage.”
“Okay. Okay...how about we go to lunch? You can tell me in the safety of our booth.” The booth, where secrets could be shared over plates of food. It was almost sacred.
He smiled and let his tired eyes drift shut. “Sure. But you're buying. I'm broke until Thursday...” He wasn't, not really, but the money in his account was money he refused to touch. Especially now.
(x)
“We'll start with a pot of tea and two huge bowls of hot and sour soup...” Jess said, already so in the habit of ordering for him that she didn't even ask. Truthfully, they'd moved into their apartments and found the restaurant that was the absolute closest to center for them to reach...and that was that. Chan's Dragon Inn, all decked out in jade tschotchkes and red vinyl seats and gold flecked everything. It was gaudy, and old, had a cigarette vending machine in the back hallway that was dimly lit, more like wandering through a carpeted cave that smelled like old ash toward the bar they weren't old enough to enter. Yet. Not that they couldn't have...this was the sort of establishment that might not care terribly much. Aaron liked the vending machine, though he rarely smoked. He liked to keep a pack on him when he felt too cold, when Jess hauled him to some concert he didn't want to be at or a movie he had no interest in seeing, it gave him an excuse to walk outside and have a few minutes to himself. It reminded him of Haley and Max and theater productions and as much as he hated the way it made his mouth dry and taste like rot, the way it hurt his lungs, he kept it up in small ways. When the future felt too big and he needed a little hug from the past.
“Okay. Give it to me. Where'd you spend your weekend?”
“Can we eat first?”
“Absolutely not. You went home to see Haley, didn't you?”
He chuckled and shook his head. She couldn't have been further from the truth. “No, I didn't. She's seeing Mark now, she called and told me that two weeks ago. It's fine. I'm okay with that.”
She made that irritated puffing noise again and bit into an egg roll that was definitely still too hot to eat. She gasped and made the sounds of desperation, her tongue now summarily burned, but gulped it down and tried to smile. “She's gonna marry you though.”
“That's still not where I went, so it really doesn't matter.”
“Okay, so you didn't go see Haley. Thennnnnnnnnn...you....” She had nothing left. Nothing she wanted to add anyway.
“You're so nosy,” he said quietly, defeated. “I went to help my mother with Sean.”
She rolled her eyes. It was an enormous, intensely dramatic display and he almost laughed out the spoonful of hot soup he'd just eaten. Nearly choked on a mushroom and gulped desperately while she responded. “She doesn't need your help with Sean. He's 10. By the time he was six he was practically babysitting me when I would come over.”
“Yes, under normal circumstances I'd agree...but our father went into the hospital this weekend. It sounds like he hasn't got much time left, she's already making hospice arrangements.”
Jessica briefly looked stricken, older under the harsh pendulum light dangling precariously over their table. Her eyes went wide and she seemed to be searching his own shadow features for a reaction, how he felt, how he was taking it. But how was he taking it? Well, right now, he simply wasn't. It hadn't even registered. Going home was simply a job. He made fifty dollars for staying at the house and writing essays while Sean did Sean things. Sometimes he even joined in the Sean things. He'd enjoyed their walk to the creek, the way the freezing water felt like it was burning his bare skin.
“Yeah, and she's also popping a ton of fucking pills...probably your dad's...and putting it all on you. Did you really drive all the way back there just to watch your brother for a weekend so your mom could go on a benzo vacation?”
He couldn't look at her, not directly. Not even a little. “I didn't see her for more than a few minutes, I don't know Jess. And I took the bus, if you must know. She bought me a round trip ticket. Made sure I got in after she was out of the house and left before she got back. I saw her long enough for her to hand me a lawyer's business card.”
With a mouthful of food, Jessica groaned. “Grace Hotchner, mother of the goddamn year. And then there's Martin, good ol Marty, why he's a regular old Mike Brady.”
The rest of their food arrived without them ever asking for it, and Jessica batted her eyelashes, winked at the waitress and offered a pretty hefty tip at the end if she'd kindly bring them two bloody mary's. If they hadn't been the only people in the dining room, maybe she would have turned them down, but those drinks with their sticks of half-limp and frosted chunks of celery teetering over the top and the mushy sour onion and olive sticks floating inside arrived at the table without any hassle over identification and birth dates. Aaron hated them...he wasn't even sure Jess liked them...but it was what they did. Jess threw a dash of soy sauce in hers and gulped it down like it was a shot, pushing the celery away from her face to open wide. She nibbled on the vegetables happily, sliding the olive and onion artfully off of the little plastic sword with her teeth. Aaron would nurse his until the ice melted and made the overly peppered concoction taste somewhat palatable. He didn't see how adding something other than water would help in the least. He wanted less flavor, not more.
“Jess,” he said, leaning back in his seat, head resting weary and heavy against the vinyl. The vodka was kicking in, quieting his demons a little, relaxing his coiled muscles. “He's going to die.”
“We all die.”
“Don't be a jerk,” was his retort, but he'd already seen it coming. “I mean soon. Maybe this month.”
“Yeah, and maybe he'll live five more years...maybe he'll die before I finish this sentence...I don't really care what happens to him. But I do care about you...”
He didn't open his eyes because then she would have seen the tears there, and he couldn't explain them. He had no idea what they were for. “I know.”
It wasn't just that he was dying, though, and if he dug a little deeper or opened up she would know too. That was too much, too fast. Meeting with the lawyer handling his father's estate had been his one task that had nothing to do with Sean, and it had left him feeling hollowed out. Sitting down in a little diner across from this man who looked like he'd been pulled right out of some mob movie with his burnt orange suit and his shellacked hair, Aaron didn't know what to do with himself. Was this his future in law? Cheesy suits and cheesier hair? The man drove a Mercedes, parked it right in front of the window so he (and everyone else) could stare in awe. The content of their conversation had been distressing in ways he hadn't anticipated, and he couldn't articulate that yet.
“The world isn't going to be any worse off without a man who turns his kid into a punching bag because he can't handle the stress of his life.” Good riddance, she'd essentially said. And when he did die, Aaron knew damn well she'd say those words aloud. She was tiptoeing around them now, but not delicately. He didn't mind it. “That last pile of celery chow-mein is yours. Eat it.”
“Celery chow-mein, celery in the rice, celery in the drink...” he was muttering, a distraction from the wet sound of his voice and the wet feel of his eyes. He liked celery, it was among his favorite foods, he was just...well he was acting this way to avoid crying. “You're trying to give me celery poisoning.”
“That's not a thing. Eat it now so we can go home. You need a nap, and Dale needs his ass kicked out of South America.”
“Yeah, about that...I might have changed my mind about you taking my bed. And my apartment.”
“Nope. No way. No take-backs, buddy.”
They walked back, trotted back, ambled back. Varied speeds for different areas. They always hustled fast past the alleys and across the busy intersections, but when they reached the path through a little park they slowed nearly to a crawl and listened to the trail their feet padded, the crunch of leaves beneath shoes, watched their breath puff white vapor in front of their eyes. She looped her arm in his first, then twisted their fingers and pulled him close. She sort of hated the way he'd weaseled his way into becoming her best friend, in spite of all their arguments. Delicious arguments. But this time she knew she'd crossed a line, and while he'd never tell her, she did feel a little guilty. For better or worse, he was losing his father. She needed to remember that.
“I guess I am a little sorry about your dad...” she admitted into the silent afternoon. He nodded. He hated this more than he hated how blunt and mean she'd been at the restaurant and the tears beat at his eyes again only this time they were icy and hurt. Burned in the wind.
“Don't be. You were right.” He paused, let the sound of footsteps spur on the rest of his voice. “I'm not.” He was lying, perhaps, but it felt like the right thing to say. It felt honest, the rawness of it anyway. Even if the words were a lie, the pure pain in his voice was as honest as it could be.
His father didn't last a week. It wasn't a surprise to anyone, not really. Hospice barely intervened, and his mother was begging and pleading for him to make the trip down. “Take some time off, help me,” she pleaded and it was the last thing he wanted to do. “You simply must make it a priority to say goodbye, Aaron. He's your father.”
But what choice did he have? “I have my Thanksgiving break in a couple of weeks,” he offered, a sort of peaceful middle ground. “I'm not dropping out of my classes to come say goodbye, he doesn't want to see me in his final moments. You and I both know that. But you can make me a list of things to get done while I'm home for break.” She hated it, left him antagonizing messages on his answering machine that Jessica decided were better off deleted before he heard them. She was there an extra two weeks, her building needed more work than originally thought. Dale didn't mind, he loved having someone to play Risk and Dungeons and Dragons and other horrifically nerdy games with, games that Aaron loved to moan about...though his complaint was usually only about the fact that their dining table had been taken over by these games and why did he (who paid a full 50% of the rent) have to eat sitting on the counter or on the floor when he'd bought that table specifically for food?
The night he found out his father had died, he was eating a pile of spaghetti with red sauce from a jar (Jessica's Wednesday night tradition, she may not have been paying any rent but she was cooking for them often and washing their laundry as a thank you) on a paper plate that was getting wet and soggy on the bottom. He watched them go back and forth for territory, calling one another cowards, and ruminated on the news his mother had shared with him. He hadn't said a word aloud, but Jessica seemed to know. The way she looked at him out of the corner of her eye, the way she followed him room to room. Making excuses to watch him, like he might do something. Maybe her worry was well-founded, after the things he'd put her through in the past, but he wasn't sure it was warranted now.
“I hate to be a buzzkill, but I'd like to go to bed,” he announced after hours of them playing. It was well into the night and he had an 8am lecture...he didn't care too much about sleep but he wanted to simply be alone with his thoughts. Jessica looked at him with that strangeness, caution tape invisibly covering her mouth. Dale cleared their game after taking note of where everything should go, a small concession they'd given Aaron when he begged to not have a game covering the table all the time.
“Nite buddy,” he said, and Aaron thought he detected something strange in his voice...like maybe he knew too. They'd figured it out.
Jess sat down on the couch beside him, impeding his ability to pull his blanket up, to lie his body down and stretch out his long long limbs. “Jess,” he whisper-groaned and she shook her head.
“Out with it, Hotchner. What's eating you tonight? You've been quieter than usual. Don't make me guess.”
“He died,” he offered without further prompting. He was too exhausted to play their games. And just like that, like flipping a light switch, the tears fell. A sob caught in his chest, and words failed him entirely but she wrapped her arm around his shoulder and pulled him close to her whispering something over and over in barely words. Ghostly wordlike apparitions, directly to his soul, skipping all other recognition. He knew what she meant without really hearing any of it. “I'd like to be alone.”
“Yeah, yeah...sure...” she said, kissing him on top of the head. Like a mother. Something he hadn't known in far too long. “I um...you know where I am if you need to talk...”
“I'm going to sleep. Thank you though.”
She wandered off slowly, cautiously, affording him one last look before she closed her bedroom door. His bedroom door. Sleeping in the living room came with certain drawbacks, like a lack of privacy, and she'd offered to give him back his bed numerous times over the weeks but he staunchly refused even though the couch was hurting his back and making him walk like an elderly man in the morning. Hunched over, but assuring her he was fine. And he was, mostly. Just the ghost of past injuries that made some things a little more challenging but a nice hot shower or his flannel Snoopy heating pad full of smelly dried corn always set him right.
A hot shower wouldn't fix the pain he was in now. Snoopy couldn't mend it. Physical pain was easier for him to handle, he could fix it or ignore it, but this was a fire burning through him and there was no way to extinguish it. If he thought for a moment about good times with his father...few but they were there...he wept into his pillow until it was soaked and then flipped the side. Then he'd think about all the ways his father dragged him through the pits of hell and he'd cry even harder. Eventually his pillow was a sopping mess and he had no way to sleep on it.
That was when he got up, without even thinking about it, and walked to the bedroom. Walked right to the bed, and even knowing Jess was sleeping, he fell heavy into it and curled around himself. The pillow was dry and that was his only thought until he felt her hand on his back. Silent, sure, she never asked him a single question, just put her hand between his shoulders and ran it up and down the ridges of his spine until his breathing, too rapid, slowed and the choking sounds gave way to deep, solid breaths. Maybe he was asleep, maybe he'd just calmed, she didn't know and she wasn't going to ask. She fell asleep with her hand warm and soft on his neck.
#aaron hotchner#jessica brooks#aaron hotchner's mother#aaron hotchner's father#sean hotchner#criminal minds#fanfiction#the only ship here is the friend kind
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A Different Kind Of Hunt
Featuring : me, @fangsandseascales (Sonny), and someone from a couple years ago (i wonder how he's doing, honestly. is he still a bit of an asshole? anyways his name is Alexander)
Author's Note : weeeee it's kinda short but who cares </3
🌊🐠🌊🐠🌊🐠🌊🐠🌊🐠🌊🐠🌊🐠🌊🐠🌊~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The wind whipped past our faces as me and Sonny raced along the beach that served as part of the Rainfang Pack's territory, heading to the top of a cliff that overlooked the ocean.
The cliff luckily didn't have any sharp rocks at the bottom, which was why it was our prime choice. Panting as we slowed to a stop at the drop, we took a moment to take in the seascape, white-capped waves crashing against the rocks of the steep cliff.
Tapping my paws excitedly, I turned to Sonny, "So we just jump in? It's that easy?" They chuckled. "Yeah, it's that easy. I don't know how it works, but it does! You ready?"
Glancing at the drop, I hesitated. "Uh, why don't you go first, heh." Shrugging, Sonny made no comment as she backed up a few steps, and took a running leap into the water.
I paced to the edge, trying to spot their form in the deep blue salt water. No sign, but I knew she were in there, waiting. With a huff, I stepped back, more than a little daunted by the hieght of the cliff. Nonetheless, my paws beat against the earth until I reached the edge, and leaped.
Closing my eyes, I felt something in me shift and change as I hit the water. It was only until a few moments later, did I realize I had fully shifted into a siren! I flicked my finned, deep green and aqua blue tail closer for inspection, and eyed my clawed, webbed hands with delight.
I spun in the water, taking in every new part of me. My gills, my cropped, brown hair, the spines and frills that flicked gracefully through the water along my body, and I cooed appreciatively. Sonny came up beside me, transformed into their siren form, as well.
"This is amazing!" I said, my voice somehow carrying through the water. Sonny spun in place, giggling, and nodded. "We have some new abilities, too!" I perked my head, "Really? What can we do?"
She shot off towards the open ocean at an incredible speed and called, "Follow me!"
Sonny led me out towards a distant fishing village, pointing out cool reefs and ocean sight-seeing spots along the way. They slowed suddenly, putting out a webbed hand to have me stop, as well. I cocked my head at her, curious.
They flashed a sharp-toothed grin. "We can't get too close right now, because it's daylight and the humans might see us. But, when night falls, us sirens can use that to lure sailors away. It's like hunting, but different."
"Cooooooool."
~ time : 7:33 PM (sunset 🌅) ~
Sonny and I had spent the rest of the daylight exploring the ocean. She had shown me the best places for various activities like fish hunting, sleeping, shell gathering for making things, and etc. Now that the sun was going down though, it was time to head back to the seaside village.
As we approached, I could see the bright, artificial lights of the humans' houses and streets. A cold lump of anger settled in my stomach. Humans were cluttering the Earth, stealing homes from creatures that did nothing to them. They polluted everything: the water, the air, even the wilderness they stole from it's inhabitants. Sonny and I's hunting them was our revenge, our way of taking back the Earth for Mother Nature.
We hid in the dark water and waited for boats to leave the man-made docks that kept them. Eventually, a boat small enough to ensure only a few passengers cut through the water above us. We tracked it out past the buoys that marked the end of the safe swimming space for the humans.
Following the boat farther, Sonny quietly gave me some last minute tips on using my call. Soon enough, Sonny's sharp eyes spyed an outcrop of rocks on the sailors' route. They gestured, and I sped ahead to take my place on the rocks, making sure to stay out of the human's line of sight.
I scrambled onto the rocks, wincing a little as my scales scraped against some of the sharper pebbles. The boat wasn't in view yet, luckily. With a deep breath, I began my song.
I had no set tune in mind, but my voice carried the melody across the water, ethereal and tempting. The boat appeared, and I shifted my position to be a bit more... flaunting. From my position, I could make out the person in the boat, with my improved vision.
A young man, blonde haired and blue eyed. He had rectangular glasses, and he was dressed in a dark grey tank top, with some khaki shorts. I sang a bit louder, casually turning my head to face him, as if I was singing just for him. I was, in a way. But he didn't need to know that.
The boat slowed as it came closer, and I could see the man inside gawking at me. I waved demurely, and turned up the hypnotics in my song, a little anxious it wasn't working. The man's stare slowly turned glassy-eyed, and he fumbled to turn the boat's course closer to the rocks.
Closer, closer... The boat drifted to a stop by the rocks, close but not enough to hit them, or have the threat of it. I ended the song, and cooed sweetly at him. The man leaned against the railing, and I chittered as if having a conversation with him. Sonny flashed a signal from behind the man, a tail quietly sprouting out of the water to let me know they were in position.
I flicked my tail in response, and the boat suddenly lurched, the man falling over the side with a shout. I leapt off the rock into the water hungrily, all traces of hypnotics gone. It felt good to be back in the water again, but I had no time to focus on that as my underwater night-sight kicked in. Sonny was already grappling with the man; although they were slightly bigger, he was apparently not going down without a fight.
He must have scratched himself when Sonny tipped the boat, because I could taste blood in the water, only fueling my instincts to hunt. Speeding over, I caught the man's foot just as he tried to kick Sonny in the head with a sneakered foot again. With our combined forces, we dragged the man down, down, down into the deeper waters.
Satisfied with our successful hunt, I was excited to enjoy my first prey as a siren.
~ THE END ~
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🌊🐠🌊🐠🌊🐠🌊🐠🌊🐠🌊🐠🌊🐠🌊🐠���
#story#writing#my writing#therian#therianthropy#therianthropic#sirenfolk#siren therian#mermaid therian#merkin#merfolk
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@daily-writing-challenge
Daily Writing Challenge - May 2022 - Day 2 (Catch Up) - Gluttony
TW: Cannibalism, mentions of gore and death. Sentences entirely in caps due to a shrieking imp.
Notes: Quzkol, Silas’s imp, reflects on his warlock’s gluttony for flesh.
Smallest mentions of Iranji (who is played by the other writer for this blog) and Ikezerzul (@jotaro-kuujo)
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Boring. Bore. BORED.
Every so often- very frequently often- the old man gets like this, leaving Quzkol absolutely, undeniably bored. Most times the little imp could find something to entertain himself with and with most of those times involving getting into something troublesome. Typically, Silas would be available to keep a demon-warlock bonded ‘eye’ on him. But other times, such as now, Silas was a little preoccupied.
Quzkol probably would have found the activities that lost his master to him like this strange more often if Silas wasn’t forsaken, but when the two first met Quz was perplexed by Silas’s efficiency. See, from what he understood from what he heard, new undead could be frantic and messy about eating. There were the ones that just lost their minds entirely, neglecting the option or focusing only on that. Then the others, like the later of the former, would rip and tear and frantically dig in like animals. His buddy even told him a hilarious (though annoying to the imp) tale of a warlock who lost appendages when they were set off at the sight of raw flesh.
But SIlas was different. And in the beginning Quzkol would watch, and judge as he do. With the first time, he had been undeniably emotional and desperate, but not as chaotic. Now it was almost normal. Boring.
So as Silas knelt down next to the still warm corpse and tore the chest open neatly- easily pulling flesh from itself and exposing the goodies inside.
Can’t see came across their bond as it did most times Silas set upon a task such as this. Quz was familiar enough with his master now to know it wasn’t a demand, just a fact. An acknowledgement. More often than not their intentions or subconscious thoughts went across the bond first, then conscious thoughts or statements.
Quz threw the old man a bone (hah!) and gave a glance over- he wasn’t focusing on anything else after all. The corpse of the dark skin elf was fairly neat in how it fell. The edges were dry, withered, and now tainted by Silas’s rot magic and singed by Quz’s fire alike. Silas had warned Quz of this one’s purpose, so he was as careful with his fire as he could be. Cooking it was probably undelectable for this sort of thing anyways. Quz scrunched his nose and curled his upper lip back at the thought of the hair and the fire. Maybe around the others, because they wouldn’t enjoy it either.
With the corpse in sight, Silas was able to do the mental angling to properly get his hands in where he wanted. Avoid the rot and decay and organs suffering from mana withdraw, or whatever he needed. Did it really matter?
Rather than giving the thought more effort the imp decided that this was as good entertainment as he was going to get.
Skipping toward the old man, doing a flip over the fallen’s staff just cause, and without meaning to replying to the bond’s question on if he was moving as a response to a threat, (no, just bored) he found the old mans robes. Palms full of loose fabric allowed the imp to climb without disturbing the process due to familiarity of the action. As Silas pulled back a cupped handful of blood and gore to drip down his open throat, Quzkol was able to find his spot on the warlock’s shoulder. Sharp claws digging in to keep purchase as the master dipped back down for more.
He had to admit, for no jaw, claws of his own, or tools, the old man was good at this.
Just not quick. He was taking too long, and it was boring.
We should get going he sent across the mental bond. When that was ignored, he gave a frustrating growl out loud. “The trolls are gonna be LOOKING soon.”
Again, nothing.
“Come on! LEAVE SOME FOR THE BUZZARDS!” Quz scrambled across the old mans shoulders to the other side, grabbing an ear as he went to keep balance. The mental bond latched claws into the hyena like scruff on the back of his neck in turn, magically and mentally pointing him back to the ground.
If he couldn’t be calm, he wasn’t welcome on the shoulder.
So Quz calmed down physically and just yelled.
Undeterred, the dead man calmly continued shoveling gore and meat down the hatch until the movement of brush was close enough for imp’s tall ears to catch with a twitch.
Go.
Obeying, he jumped off and scampered in the direction of the movement. Stationing up next to the blue plant thingy and sticking an ear out which caught the flapping of parrot wings and the chatter of two trolls.
“It’s just the CREW.” Quz announced aloud and to the bond alike. He could feel Silas’s disappointment pool across their bond. Not a shame- just disappointment that he had to finish. A glance his way wouldn’t give that away at all. He was pulling himself to his bony feet and wiping the ichor from the sides of his face- not that most people would care to tell the dead man’s rot from blood of his enemies.
“SIlas, if you found more plants you should have taken the hunter a-- oh.” The troll woman paused, staring down at the once withering magic-elf. She wasn’t disgusted, which was as disappointing as Silas leaving his meal, but she dropped her thought. First Mate Iranji, though, his good eye twitched. Unfortunately for him, Quz thought better of pushing it. The hunter’s gun still looked warm. “He’s ready to move on.” Quz announced flatly. Oh, an idea. Scrambling around her ankles and grabbing the leg of her pants. “HEY IKI, can I have a tuft of your fur?”
This will be fun.
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Flashing Empty Smiles
CLANG.
Freddy opened the fenced gate and stepped off the freight elevator, entering the access corridor of the top floor of THE MALL. Harsh white light emanated from the fluorescent tubes lining the long ceiling. Expensive designer shoes clopped down with rhythmic, sharp echoes along the way.
Exiting from a room filled with monitors and quickly closing the door behind him, a man clad in black—SECURITY, as it read on his uniform—headed the opposite direction. He tipped his baseball cap to Freddy while passing him by.
"Sir."
Freddy ignored him. Kept his hands buried in the pockets of his black three-piece suit, the lit cigarette in his mouth burning all the while, trailing a tiny blue cloud of smoke behind him.
The security guard stared burning holes into the back of Freddy's head, grimacing, but they both kept on walking.
Freddy did not know nor care. He strutted around like he owned the place. And to some extent, he did.
Even so, the prospect of this meeting left him with an uneasy pit in his stomach. Uneasy enough that Freddy paused in front of the door to the mall manager's office. No hints as to why Philip had invited him to speak, here, today.
It made him uneasy because Philip was his friend, his ally, and his greatest rival.
It made him uneasy because they matched each other in their ruthlessness. Because neither of them harbored any respect for human lives other than their own.
Standing there, he took a long shuddering drag from his cigarette, staring at the door. Two voices, talking inside, muffled. Freddy refused to eavesdrop. Whatever it was about, it was not important.
He took another drag and entered.
Two men sat inside the manager's office.
The little plaque on the opulent mahogany desk read "MANAGER". Lounging in the big winged and leather-upholstered swivel chair behind the desk—Philip Byrne, the owner.
Not the manager.
The other man sat in a smaller chair in front of the opulent mahogany desk—Paul Castelli.
The manager.
Both cradled a tumbler of Tennessee bourbon. The according bottle stood on the desk between them. Philip raised his glass in greeting Freddy upon his entrance into the room. Paul craned his neck to look back at Freddy, welcoming him with a simple nod and a skeptical look plastered across his face.
Freddy ignored Paul and simply stared into Philip's eyes.
"Alright, see you later, Paul," Philip said. He took a sip from his glass.
Paul blinked in confusion, like he was seeing stars after having been clocked in the face. Before he could protest, Freddy spoke up.
"Get the fuck out of here, Paul." Cold. Sharp. Zero emotion behind it. A simple order.
In utter disbelief, Paul turned his gaze to Philip, earning nothing but a cold glare from his boss.
Ice cubes clinked in Paul's tumbler as he set it down on the desk, rose to his feet, and harumphed on his way out, however averting his eyes while he walked past Freddy.
Another sniveling little toad, as far as Freddy Fletcher was concerned.
When the door clicked shut, Freddy went over to the desk, seized Paul's abandoned glass of bourbon, and took a seat on a different chair—one without the residual impression or warmth of Paul's buttocks. He examined the glass with a critical glance, checking if Paul had marred its edge with his greasy lips. Assured he wasn't being subjected to the toad's germs, Freddy took a healthy sip.
Philip followed suit, eyeing Freddy all the while.
Freddy sighed and eased into the black leather upholstery of the chair. The shape and weight of the switchblade in his pants pocket made itself noticeable to him.
For just a few seconds, part of him wondered what it would be like to sink the knife into Philip, to feel the heat of his blood on his hands, to—
"Thank you for stopping by on such short notice," Philip said. It sounded rehearsed. Probably had said that line more times than anybody could count.
He put his cup down, began opening drawers behind the desk, and rifled through them in search of something.
"And turn down free drinks and cigars?" Freddy responded with a toothy grin.
Almost as if on cue, Philip produced a box of Havana cigars, placing it atop the desk between them. He flipped it open, obviously offering Freddy to help himself to Paul's cigar stash. Philip then slapped down a pack of matches branded by the oldest gentlemen's club in Louisville, with a rather tasteful silhouette of a nude woman on the velvety blue cover.
Freddy looked up from the matches and continued, "Besides, I just got back in town. I treated myself to some vacation time. A completely stress-free period before and after our ritual."
Philip bit off the end of the cigar and snapped a match, taking his time to light it up. Puffing. Puffing. Freddy stamped out the butt of his cigarette in the expensive crystal-shaped ashtray on the desk. By the time he was done, Philip was puffing out little clouds, purring with relish as more smoke billowed out of his nostrils.
"Yes," Philip breathed. Once the smoke had cleared, he spoke with fire and a growl. "That's exactly what I want to talk about with you. The ritual. I want your honest opinion. Who of the Triangle should leave their life for us? So that the rest of us may find our promised land?"
Freddy shifted in his seat. He feigned the act of pondering the question in earnest for an awkward amount of time, before setting his jaw. Philip waited patiently and smoked his cigar.
Finally, Freddy took another small sip of bourbon.
He had long settled on a suggestion, even before Philip dropped the question.
Freddy had someone in mind he wouldn't miss.
Someone he would, in fact, rather see dead. And rather sooner than later.
"Jessie. He would serve the Triangle well in this capacity. Some part of him must know that it's his destiny to pave the way for others to tread upon, even if he is not privy to see the destination."
Philip narrowed his eyes and tapped the cigar over the ashtray.
"I don't think you understand the meaning of the word 'sacrifice'," said the owner of THE MALL.
"And what does that matter? Do you really believe there's some sort of metaphysical mumbo-jumbo that makes it matter?"
Philip guffawed, but it was hollow. Admonishing. Almost angry.
"Yes. Of course it does. How long have you truly spent time studying a language that none of us can decipher?"
Now, Freddy squinted in return.
"I don't think you can call it 'deciphering' anything. What is there to compare it to? Judging by the drawings in the Thaum, it was not even made by humans."
Philip leaned over the desk, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial growl.
"It is a feeling, more than a knowing. I can feel its meaning, rather than know it for sure."
"Great. So, you can feel the things you've instructed others to do. Very inspiring for confidence. Why are you so convinced that it requires us to wear the skin of a living sacrifice?"
Philip scoffed and puffed on the cigar again.
"Do you see another way to interpret those hieroglyphs?"
"There are many ways to interpret them, and without the makers to tell us what they truly mean, we are stabbing in the dark. Come on—look at them carefully. To me, they look like a puzzle of masks and pieces that the aliens wore."
Philip leaned back. The leather of the chair behind him creaked. The window front of the office behind him framed him with a blindingly bright blue sky, cloudless and vast. And hungry.
Instead of answering what Freddy had confronted him with, he reached into his inside jacket pocket.
Freddy's heart skipped a beat. He almost expected Philip to draw a gun. Or a knife of his own.
Though it was unlikely for either of them to enact violence with so little provocation, some part of Freddy felt like their knives were already out. The way they both spoke—enunciating clearly, sharply—it resonated with him.
Tongues lashing out like blades.
No—no knife. No gun. Instead, Philip pulled out a newspaper snippet from his jacket pocket. Slapped it down onto the desk between them.
In big bold letters, a lurid headline preceded the print of a frontpage article.
THE SKIN THIEF KILLER ROCKS WINCHESTER
Freddy needed not read the rest of the article. He was fully aware of the people he had murdered in Ohio, and no doubt such a newspaper article would not do justice to his meticulous handiwork.
Philip tapped on the paper snippet after Freddy pretended to read the print beneath the headline.
"This is you, right? Are you really this fucking stupid? Don't lie to me."
Freddy's first instinct was to lie in response, but he rarely followed his initial impulses. The trick to lying well, he always reasoned, was to tell as much truth as possible and only weave in rare and subtle lies so they become harder to detect.
"Yes, that was me. But my work is complete now, and none of it will fall back onto us. I made sure to cover my tracks. I'm ready for the alignment."
Philip shook his head and sighed. Puffed more smoke from his cigar. The tiny cloud had not even cleared from his face as he spoke.
"Whatever your way is, we're not doing it your way. Not yet. This is the only shot we have in our lifetime. We have to cover all our bases. I will allow you to attempt it your way if my way fails."
Freddy pursed his lips and reached into his own jacket's inner pocket.
Philip locked his gaze onto the motion, studying carefully what Freddy would produce.
A small, silvered case. Instead of grabbing a Havana, Freddy clicked the case open and removed one of his favorite cigarettes from it. In a flash, the case was gone, his stainless-steel lighter flicked open, and he took a long drag from his cigarette.
Before even exhaling all the smoke, Freddy asked, "What if we only get one attempt, and we waste it on yours?"
"It won't be wasted. Perhaps one of us will live just long enough to try again and witness the results. Or we'll leave it for others after us to pick up the mantle and complete our quest."
Freddy did not feel like protesting. Instead, his mind ran through scenarios of Philip's untimely demise—perhaps by his own hand—and taking over control of the Triangle. Who of the sheep would stand in his way?
Visions swirled in his mind. Visions of how they would do things his way.
Philip did not expect an answer and continued speaking.
"You truly see as equals, don't you? You should. We've been business partners for so long."
Freddy did not answer. Philip's nostrils flared.
"Just don't forget who found the Thaum. You may have helped build all this," Philip said, gesturing with the cigar to the room around him—gesturing to THE MALL. "But it was I who found the artifacts. It was I who saw their potential, and it was I who built the Triangle. It was I who shared it with you all."
Equals, huh? Why lord this supposed position of leadership over him, then?
Beginning to feel uneasy again, Freddy once more felt the weight of his switchblade. The temptation to pull it, to draw blood—it grew. The seed had always been planted there, but this conversation made it blossom.
" And I do not think you would have reached your interpretations of the Thaum without me," Freddy snapped. " We are equals in this. I've been with you every step of the way."
Philip tilted his head and his tone shifted to the higher registers of an accusation. "Does that include meeting my wife at the Riverview picnic tables?"
Freddy clenched his jaw. He fought to hold back any anger from bubbling up to the surface. If the temptation had blossomed already, this was pouring just water on it to feed it. To turn it into action.
Philip did not await an answer and said, "Jessie told me."
Jessie, Freddy thought. Jessie, the filthy little rat. Was that why Philip opposed sacrificing Jessie? Spite?
Philip squinted again and sipped the bourbon. The next words came out all gravelly, "I know it's got nothing to do with infidelity. Rebecca would never, no matter how much you pretty yourself up or wave wads of cash around in front of her face."
The switchblade. Its cold contours, its subtle weight. Such a fine little tool, so effective in staying hidden until needed, effective in severing vital vessels, in causing the blood to flow like water.
"What are you meeting with her in secret about? Come on, tell me. If we are equals, you owe me that much."
"Nothing," Freddy growled. "You know we've always talked a lot. You're conveniently forgetting that I introduced you to her, aren't you?"
This time, Philip turned speechless.
"See? I've been with you—every step of the way," Freddy said.
Still, Philip stayed silent. The next sip he took washed down any sort of resentment he might have been feeling in that moment. Resentment—that is what Freddy expected from him.
Freddy continued, "There's nothing secret. We philosophize a lot about what it might mean if we discover worlds beyond our own."
Philip chortled. "Rebecca becoming a philosopher?"
Freddy almost sang when he said, "Our discoveries will change everything we know about our world."
Philip chortled again. "Sure, discuss that all you want. But Jessie will not do as a sacrifice."
"Why the fuck not?"
Philip thrust out the rest of his fingers of the hand holding the cigar, pointing them at Freddy.
Freddy hated it when people pointed at him. Such a rude gesture.
Philip said, "There is no sacrifice in giving up something—or someone—you want to rid yourself of. It's in the word. Sacrifice means giving up something that means something to you. Perhaps it's in the effort, sacrificing a piece of yourself to charge the act with symbolic tension."
Freddy shook his head. The knife still tempted him, but his anger simmered. He mustered a lopsided smile.
Perhaps it was not spite at all. Perhaps Philip simply thought even less of Jessie than Freddy did.
With the most sincerity he had mustered in a long time, Freddy asked, "Come on. That's thinking in terms of the common occult. Magic. What we're dealing with is far more tangible. Alien, but tangible. Do you really think this is magic we're dealing with?"
"Anything is possible. I prefer not to waste any time philosophizing. I prefer results. You like to crunch numbers and theorize. I like to do—make, change. That's why I made my money with real estate, like this temple of commerce, and you made your money out of money itself."
Philip pointed at him again.
Ah, the weight of the knife never faded. It only grew.
"We made our money together," Freddy said with a sneer he could no longer suppress. "Don't forget that."
"I never will, my friend," Philip said. The last word dripped with dishonesty, bleeding into the rest that he added. "Men like us, we're not afforded any margin for error. That's why everything has to be just right when the planets align. There is so much about this ritual that we do not understand, which is why we need to eliminate as many possibilities as possible. You said we're stabbing in the dark. I agree. If I say we need to observe occult symbolic principles to be safe, then we need to observe symbolic principles to be safe. Surely, we're on the same page there. Right?"
With the same dishonesty, Freddy oozed out his reply. "Right. Okay. So, it won't be Jessie. The sacrifice has to mean something."
Nobody meant anything to Freddy, though.
Not even Rebecca. Even though he desired her, he desired to own her. She just did not mean that much to him.
Bridging the silent gap, Philip said, "The time draws near. You have one week to pick a suitable candidate. We'll go with your choice, but it must make sense. Then we begin the ritual."
The knife still tempted Freddy.
He wondered what it would be like to remove some of Philip's skin. Maybe while he was still alive, pumped full of sedatives that allowed him to feel everything while rendering him incapable of defending himself.
Then he thought of Rebecca. Of how it would sabotage his chances at stealing her from Philip.
That thought held him back.
He got up and smiled at Philip.
Philip reciprocated. A cold smile that reached his eyes, while disingenuous; crinkling crow's feet that took on an almost painted air. Trained. Practiced.
The man who owned THE MALL knew how to smile and pretend it was authentic. Freddy knew him better and saw through it. Like the fake mien of any other big-shot businessman or politician who had been playing the game for long enough.
Calculating. Freddy wondered: What calculations went on behind Philip's forehead?
Shaking your hand and feigning warmth in the accompanying smile, before giving the same treatment to the next fifty people he'd rub shoulders with at a fundraiser. Caring of nobody.
A perfect mirror to himself.
Flashing an empty smile.
Freddy got up onto his feet. Stamped out the second cigarette in the ashtray, where his reflection was scattered among countless distorted fragments staring back up at him. He put down the empty tumbler and extended a hand across the desk.
"See you soon, Philip," he said. Coldly. Calculating their next moves.
Oh, the knife. It weighed a ton. Patiently, it waited.
Philip took his hand into a firm grip, matching his own.
They shook hands, both.
Flashing empty smiles.
—Submitted by Wratts
#spoospasu#spookyspaghettisundae#horror#short story#writing#my writing#literature#spooky#fiction#THE MALL#Freddy Fletcher#Philip Byrne#Paul Castelli#zombie apocalypse#cosmic horror#knife#blade#serial killer#Skin Thief Killer#conspiracy#cult#ritual#Thaum#Triangle#artifact#occult#sacrifice#psychological#mystery#violence
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I made inhuman noises at this chapter. Planted my face on my keyboard. These two absolute idiots.
But first: to address my last ask! I'm graduating next week! My cap has an assortment of fake flowers in different shades of pink and white in different sizes
They're on two out of four of the edges, situated across from each other. The quote "The more you say, the less I know" (from Taylor Swift's Willow) takes up the middle of the cap in gold metallic marker, except for the words "say" and "know", which are written with fake pearl beads.
I also love Cassandra Clare with all my fucking heart. My mom is flying in for my graduation and I asked her to bring me my copies of The Mortal Instruments so I can re-read them and celebrate. Infernal Devices has to unfortunately wait for the next trip (sorry, Will, Tessa, and Jem—I love them too). I haven't read Chain of Gold yet, but I've wanted to for ages. I just wanna have a hard copy when I read it.
“Just kiss her” the theme of the whole fic! JUST KISS DAMMIT. Just had a bizarre image of Alfred being like Sebastian in the Little Mermaid singing Kiss the Girl 😂
You made me laugh out loud in the bus because of that. Graced all the MTA patrons with my snort. I hope you're happy.
Also, I can't wait for the vacation scene. I look forward to it. I don't care if I have to read 100 more chapters to get to it, I will (happily).
Now! Onto this chapter!
Bruce went very still but didn’t turn around to look at her.
Bruce is an actual vigilante who constantly has to think on his feet every single night, but when the reader throws him a curve ball, he can do nothing but freeze like a deer in headlights. Are you batman? Freezes. I'm leaving. Freezes. Bad guy tries to punch his face? Counters. Enigma.
Except not really, because he's just in love. This is the one thing he can't figure out and that's endearing.
She didn’t want to have to move, but he so obviously hated having her in his Batman business. He was worried about her getting hurt. Worried so much that he would get himself hurt by being distracted. She was a burden to him. You keep getting in the way. He didn’t like her meddling, didn’t want her help. And once this was all over…she couldn’t work at Wayne Manor forever and be in love with him. It would hurt too much.
Madam—
Listen, she's not wrong, but she's assuming his reasons and assuming what he feels instead of just talking about it. Clear the air, you'll breathe easier.
But also I feel for her. "You keep getting in the way" is harsh. Nobody would think straight with that being thrown in your face. It's just human nature. Nobody wants to be the impediment. People generally want to help, so being told you're doing the opposite would fucking hurt. Not saying it's completely on Bruce to fix shit, but, like, that was a proper Fuck Up.
Again, I know why he did it. But I have drama degree and have access to therapy and I watch Cinema Therapy on Youtube. So, if I didn't, I'd be really shitty at my job (which is to analyze characters and motives). The Reader, however, likely does not have the same curse luxury, so they need to Talk.
also i'm really shit at analyzing characters and motives in real time in realistic situations. In arguments, for some reason, I'm really good at it (to the point that I've frustrated my past partners because they feel like they can't really hide and I see all of them whoopsie). But god forbid somebody flirt with me in a coffee shop. I would not know. I would have -100 clue.
Both men looked at her. Alfred with bemusement, Bruce with something akin to angry betrayal.
lmao snitch. Love that for her.
Also Bruce deserves it. He did almost get himself killed again.
Alfred gave Bruce a sharp look that was ignored.
HAHA
I LOVE THAT SO MUCH
Alfred really assumed it was completely Bruce's fault and is like "what the fuck did you do fix this". He's not wrong either, so like—
I love that moment.
See, Shelby, this is one of the things that you just do so well. These little if-you-blink-you'll-miss-it moments help so much with world building and reader immersion. It's so easy to imagine and fill in the gaps because there are usually no gaps you leave us to fill (if at all). Helps with the suspension of disbelief perfectly. Especially because, even in serious angsty moments, there are generally funny things that happen (like sharp glances that go ignored) that people involved just don't notice in the moment, but people outside do notice.
At the same time, it tells us so much about the relationships between characters. So, it functions as both world building and informing the reader.
“No, I’ve been thinking about it already. I think it’d be better for everyone. I don’t–”
JUST SAY IT.
Say it. "I don't want to be a burden." Say it, so that Alfred can slap Bruce upside the head and tell him to fix it, so that he does fix it. Say it, so that poor Bruce, who probably doesn't really understand, can realize what's bothering you and help ease it.
Of course it hurt. It's allowed to hurt. Just say that it hurt, so that people can help. Not saying it hurt doesn't do anything—it doesn't get rid of the pain, it doesn't make it okay, it doesn't make anybody less uncomfortable.
Stubborn little—
The reader's really jamming out to "He's Not Yours" and "Someone Else" by Beth Crowley EXCEPT BRUCE LOVES HER TOO—
She and Bruce had barely spoken. She still crept into his room. That same night, he’d found her on the floor again and told her to just sleep in the bed from then on. So she had. But she still tried her own bed first. She tried to stop herself from being so pathetic that she couldn’t sleep alone. But it never worked.
Hey, reader, did you know that sometimes, you know, you can get nightmares in certain situations, like say, I don't know, when you're distressed? Like, you know, if there's something bothering you that you haven't let out or spoken about or addressed?
Have you thought, you know, that you if you just TELL THE MAN YOU LOVE HIM—
He wasn’t even hers
Lmao I didn't even see this line when I suggested the reader listening to "He's Not Yours"
In case you didn't know, I read a chapter multiple times. Usually twice or thrice. The first time I read it, I'm just reading it. The times after are usually when I'm trying to refresh my memory and make sure I didn't miss anything. I missed the "He wasn't even hers" line on my first read through and, as I'm doing the second and writing down my thoughts while doing that second read through, there it is! After I wrote the song thing! Funny how brains work.
Maybe she should start seeing a therapist
Madam, this is not a maybe. You should. You just should.
Take Alfred and Bruce with you.
okay, my dog's getting impatient with me. She's saying it's time for cuddles in bed, so I might have to be more concise.
“I have noticed the house becoming rather sparkly,” Bruce said drily.
SIR—
God, she was a goner. Her chest ached just looking at him. The smile, the messy hair, the baggy shirt. She loved him so much she couldn’t breathe.
SO JUST TELL HIM—
“Or are you afraid you can’t win without using the cape to cheat?”
BRUCE WAYNE HOW DARE YOU
I'm offended!
Full disclosure, I fully expected her to play dirty and just kiss him to distract him before pinning him to the ground.
Like, sense-wise, I knew it wouldn't happen because they're not there right now, what with all the stubbornly refusing to tell each other of their feelings and talk about the elephant in the room, but still.
“I didn’t know you had a medical degree,” Bruce said in a low voice.
God, I'd kiss him just to shut him up—
Sorry, but somebody had to say it. He's being such a snarky bastard right now and he knows it.
“Are you stalling?” Bruce asked. One dark eyebrow rose. There was a hint of a smile in the corners of his mouth.
Snarky. Son. Of. A. Bitch.
“I told you that I’d prove I was alright,” he said.
Bruce has such a weird way of assuring people he's alright. Like, it would be so much easier to just assure them and take care of yourself, but nah, he'd rather just show them by challenging them to a fight.
This man will really go to any lengths necessary to not talk about his feelings. I disagree with it, but, you know what, I gotta admire it a little. He's nothing if not determined.
(That being said he would totally talk about it if the reader asked him to, as part of the moving mountains thing—it'd be one hell of a mountain, but he'd do it.)
Fighting, fixing things, figuring things out.
This applies to everything except for his feelings for the reader. In which case, he is a headless chicken. Worse, even.
She suddenly felt like crying without exactly knowing why.
Reader should cry. Just cry in front of him. Confuse the ever-living shit out of him. Create chaos. Watch him squirm.
Listen, I know I'm really beating up Bruce right now, but him being a snarky asshole really brought it out of me, so—
It was the middle of the night
*roll credits*
as if she hadn’t turned his world upside down and given it a shake for good measure.
THAT'S ONE HELL OF A LINE
I hope you're proud of that line. It's fantastic. Watch me say it when I dramatically confess my love to my dog.
Sometimes, when she was asleep, she reached for him.
But then she’d said she was leaving
THAT CONTRAST— UGH
I love it. It makes it more painful, but damn, it's in the best way.
But she wasn’t his, and never would be.
lmao Bruce is listening to that Beth Crowley song too. Now I have to link it because I'm referencing it so much.
He’d taken to drinking coffee just because she liked it, though he preferred tea. Anything to feel nearer to her. It was pathetic.
Making me melt.
It's not pathetic, Bruce, just talk to her, goddammit. Tell her that you drink coffee because of her, that you spar just to feel her skin against yours, that you crack jokes to hear her heavenly laugh—JUST TELL HER SO WE CAN ALL MELT AT THE SOFT
Fuck man, at this point, I'd write the confession for you and you can just read it out, as long as the words get said, Bruce, goddamn—
“Little early for you to be up, isn’t it?” Alfred asked softly.
YES ALFRED!!! FIX THIS!!!
Alfred's the real MVP of this entire story. The saving grace of Wayne Manor. Getting these two dysfunctional idiots to be functional together.
“I think it matters more than you’d think.”
Alfred's telling Bruce everything I've been saying in this entire ask.
“I can’t stop her, can I?”
YES YOU CAN
I mean, you can't. She'll do whatever the fuck she wants, we know that. BUT she deserves to have all the data she needs to make an informed decision. She thinks you hate her, you idiot, that's why she's leaving. So, if you tell her the contrary, what do you think will happen?
And besides, if it doesn't matter, if she leaves anyway, what do you have to lose? Her? She's leaving anyways. I don't think she'd leave though. At least not leave Bruce. She may leave the tower because she wants more independence, but she's not gonna leave him because she loves him too.
How could he explain in words that he would die for her? That he would give up Gotham to save her? How could he express how thoroughly he worshiped her, how fearful he was that she would die, how much he craved to know her every thought? It wasn’t that she kept getting in the way. It was that he was always, always going to care more about her safety than anything else. And that got in the way.
Say it like that. Just like that. Exactly like that. That would be enough.
“I think you at least owe her the truth about how you feel about her.” [...] “Just think about it. She’s leaving, right? What could it hurt?”
Alfred and I are on the same page here. I love that for us. Same wavelength.
Plot twist: Alfred also watches Cinema Therapy and has a therapist.
He loved her, and he would have to let her go. That was all there was to it.
These two—
Nope. No. No. No.
Don't make decisions for each other. Don't decide to "let the other go" without their consent.
You know what, I hope they say that exact line so that Alfred or someone could point out how silly that is. Also how disrespectful it is. Like you're really gonna make a decision on their behalf and change the other person's life without any regard to their own autonomy and opinions? Rude.
As always, fantastic job, Shelby. My dog is now very frustrated with me and I have to go, but I love you bestie.
⌨
***CH 26 SPOILERS***
Hi bestie!! Yay for graduating next week!! Your cap sounds amazing and the lyric made me laugh because wow, what a perfect summary of college 😂
Look we were besties before but this seals it. If you like Cassandra Clare I know you probably have great taste in other books! I actually have a bookstagram and like....600 books in my house (this is an accurate number, I've counted. And I've since bought more books so it's probably 650 ish now). What other books do you like??
Also, Chain of Gold is a contender for my new favorite Shadowhunters series. We'll see after I read book 2 and then when book 3 comes out but I loved CoG!
I'm glad my dumb kiss the girl comment made you laugh 😂 Also it's not exactly a vacation scene but uh I can't really explain it without potentially spoiling like 8 different things 😂 oops
Poor dumb Bruce has to confront emotion and freezes. I imagine his whole mind goes blank. Error 404 not found. He can act on instinct with everything else except feelings.
They need to clear the air so bad! It was a proper Fuck Up to be sure. And poor dumb Bruce is too dumb to figure it out! They definitely need to sit down and be very very very explicitly clear with each other.
I haven't heard of cinema therapy but now I must look it up! I get such joy from analyzing media (movies, shows, books, fanfics, etc) that I know I'd enjoy it.
Also that's so endearing and funny that you're good at it in arguments but not with casual flirting etc. I love it. I relate to it. I'm so much better at figuring stuff out when the emotions are high so I get it!
Look it isn't a spoiler to say that the reader can always be counted on to snitch on Bruce. It will probably come up in the sequel. I haven't written it yet but there's a very good chance.
Alfred knows Bruce and how Bruce is with emotions, so he knows Bruce fucked it up. Like I said to 🦇 anon, poor Alfred was coming downstairs having expected them to have talked it out and maybe boned it out only to come into this absolute shit show.
And wow thank you 🥺 those are always my favorite moments to read (and even catch irl) so I can't help from throwing them in. That's such a nice compliment 🥺
So much could be fixed if these two dummies stopped stopping themselves from completing sentences!! The reader knows Bruce pretty well at this point so like, why isn't she trying to clear things up with him 😂 She knows he's awkward and a little dumb. (I mean the reason is that I love angst, so....my fault on that. But I sometimes I swear these charles have minds of their own and I'm just hanging on for dear life and writing it down)
As for the nightmares etc you're so right. And if the stubborn little reader just went to therapy she might realize that!
That He's Not Yours song 🥵 Yep that's it. "It's all so easy between us/ I start to forget for a while." That's it!! And Someone Else makes me think of the gala scene. You'll see!
Love that you read a chapter multiple times 🥺🥺🥺
Again, they all need therapy. If they have a concierge doctor like Dr. Torres they should just get a concierge therapist.
Have I already asked what type of dog you have??? Because I've forgotten if so. What's her name?
Sassy Bruce here was just so fun. Like there's a few points in the movie we see him kinda peek through that I just know he's secretly hilarious. Couldn't stop myself from making him kinda flirty for once! I, too, wanted them to just kiss and turn the sparring sexy but alas--the angst was calling.
And yes Bruce is so dumb. Instead of being like "here look at the wound and see for yourself that it's healing well" he's like let's fight. He really would go to any lengths to avoid talking about his feelings. Remember the scene where she first calls him Bruce Wayne when he's Batman? Man literally jumped off a fucking roof to avoid confrontation.
"In which case, he is a headless chicken." 💀😂 Dead. You're so right though. He can figure everything out pretty well except anything having to do with emotion. Then he's just like 👁👄👁
"Create chaos. Watch him squirm." Yes exactly. She can create chaos every other way, like stealing the Batmobile, except this!
I don't know if I've ever said it but you crack mw up bestie. Every time. A true comedic genius. Literally your asks are always so full of hilarious lines that if I pointed them all out I'd just have to copy & paste.
Also I am proud of that line thank you for noticing 🥺 Sometimes my brain works well!
Yeah when I was rereading this chapter before posting, and especially when I got to Bruce's POV, I was like damn Shelby you're kind of sucker punching them here.
And it isn't over
Alfred is probably having similar thoughts at this point. Alfred almost definitely wants to write out a confession, hand it to Bruce, and say "Just read it out loud to her."
Alfred is the i voice of reason in Wayne Manor (at least with emotions--we won't talk about how he lets his adopted son dress up as a giant bat and get the shit beat out of him)
You're right though, Bruce has all the words already! Just say it! Just fucking say it!
Y'know Alfred probably does have a therapist. He'll come in every week and the therapist is probably just as invested in these two idiots as Alfred. "Have they confessed their love yet?" "No." "Alright well I'll see you next week."
I am a huge hater of the "I'm leaving to make you safer" or "love them and let them go" trope. So why did I include it? Angst. But also because this Bruce Wayne is the embodiment of those tropes and I love him, therefore I am naturally a bigger fan of those tropes.
Sorry to your dog!! But thanks for the long ask!! 🥺🥰 please let's talk about books sometime because!! I love books!!
#asks#anon#motn spoilers#my bestie ⌨️#⌨️ anon#⌨️#sorry to everyone for my asks always clogging up the dash#I am not that sorry actually
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"I might not be trained in conventional kidou healing, but I have spent a lifetime in warzones."
The thousand-year blood war has proven to be detrimental to the Gotei in ways which cannot be described in ordinary terms. They are bleeding manpower and spiritual resources. Those who are the strongest have been run into the ground, barely any energy left to stand let alone use their abilities. It is a truly a daunting situation.
Hayden in this moment has made himself useful. He might not be a trained medical professional, nor was his skill with Kidou remarkable in the least, but he had not let his time in the human world be useless. He had seen firsthand some of the most traumatic wounds a body can suffer, and done enough to prevent death.
"Everything will be ok, Miki."
His baritone is smooth, calming. Reassuring. It's good that it is because the number one thing you want to do to reassure a patient is to keep calm. He can already identify she's suffering from a tension pneumothorax; uneven rise and fall of the chest, difficulty breathing, and of course the blue-ish gray skin peaking from above her robes.
First he must expose and seal the wound. Callous fingers grasp the edges of her robe and pulls them open exposing her torso to the air of the Seireitei. Immediately he seen the vertical sword stab which is barely an inch long, small bubbles of blood indicating air leaving said wound. He places the back of his palm against it, while reaching behind him into a little backpack full of supplies he's brought from the world of the living. He removes some wrapped up gauze bringing it to the wound as he wipes away not only the blood but dirt as well, clearly exposing the wound. He reaches behind him a second time to remove what appears to be a rectangular adhesive bandage with a smell vent in the center.
"Exhale."
On her full exhale he places the bandage centered on the wound, smoothing down the adhesive. While keeping a hand on the bandage he removes a roll of medical tape and begins to tape all four corners down. Only then does he remove his hand and moves upward to her face.
"See not so bad."
He offers a smile. The worst is yet to come.
His hands move down to the side of her ribs, probing carefully. He's looking for her fifth intercostal space, because that's where he's gonna insert the needle decompression to relieve the pressure in her chest. He's glad that Shinigami anatomy is relatively similiar to that of humans. He finds it, while speaking to her.
"So I found myself briefly in the Gulf War in the 90s. You might not know what that was, but it was a military. I picked up some skills over there regarding the treatment of wounds like this, I spent a lot of time overseas learning about the world. I figured that such a thing might give me a deeper insight into the world. Ya' know maybe I could bring something back to the Gotei and they would've mark me a traitor."
While he's speaking he has an alcohol wipe scrubbing the side of Miki's ribs. It's a cold, tickling sensation. He's care enough to not do it so quickly or sharply that she might move. He needs her relaxed. His hands bring out a long needle device, he's careful to not let her see that. As he gets to the word traitor he presses the needle inside, a sharp but mild pain all thing considered. He comes at a 90 degree angle and inserts it deeply, into a loud POP is heard. A hissing of air for five seconds, and immediately relief from the pressure in her chest. He pulls the needle out but leaves the cap in to allow air to vent. He takes the cap in place, not covering the hole.
"I just performed a needle decompression on your chest, to relieve a tension pneumothorax. Chest in your air wall, I mean air in your chest wall. Sorry, I'm a bit tired."
He places two fingers in the crook of her neck, and counts the pulses.
He might not be a Kidou expert, but he's certainly an expert in something.
@hanabiira
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Cigar Cutters: How to Cut a Cigar for Different Smoking Preferences
A cigar cutter is a must-have accessory for each cigar smoker. Whether you’re just starting out or are an old pro, a quality cigar cutter is an absolute must. Understanding the various methods and strategies for cutting a cigar to get the right draw is vital because different smokers have varied preferences for cutting a cigar. Whatever your smoking preference may be, this guide will teach you how to use a cigar cutter properly.
Cigar Cutting 101: A Crash Course
To enjoy a cigar the way it was designed to be smoked, it must be cut properly. If you want the best possible draw and flavor from your cigars, you need to know how to cut them. You’ll need the proper equipment before you can cut a cigar. A guillotine cutter, a compact handheld instrument with two sharp blades used to produce a clean, straight cut across the cigar cap, is the most popular type of cigar cutter.
Cigar cutters come in a variety of shapes and sizes, with the guillotine cutter being just one of several choices. Depending on your preferred way of smoking, you should select a cutter that best suits your needs. is crucial. A straight cut will result in an easy, uniform draw, while a punch cut will result in a more concentrated draw but a tamer flavor.
No matter what kind of cigar cutter you use, you must take care to make a clean, straight cut. The cigar’s wrapper can unravel or the burn might be uneven if the amount is skewed or jagged. To avoid this, make sure to apply consistent pressure while cutting the cigar. After a miss, it’s important to check the wrapper for any damage that could detract from the smoking experience, like as tears or nicks.
You should be able to experiment with different cuts of cigars now that you know the fundamentals. Figure out the differences between the straight, shaped, v-cut, and punch cut.
Cut in a Distinctive Form to Enhance Your Smoking Pleasure
Cigars with a cat’s eye or butterfly cut are an entertaining approach to increase the cigar’s complexity and depth of flavor. The procedure involves creating a one-of-a-kind form by notching the cigar’s head in a curvy fashion. In order to produce a shaped cut using a cigar cutter, you’ll need one specifically made for that purpose.
The curved form lets some smoke to get through while the notch stops other smoke, making for a fascinating variety of draw methods. This produces a novel aroma and taste that might enrich your tobacco smoking experience. Because more air can flow through the curved incision, the resulting smoke is smoother and less abrasive.
The risk of shattering the wrapper from using too much power is also diminished with the contoured cut. There is also less risk of the wrapper cracking or of clipping off too much of the head because the blade just cuts around the outside of the cigar.
If you’re seeking to spice up your cigar smoking experience, try a shaped cut. You should give it a shot to see if it improves your smoking experience.
For a Clean and Even Pull, a Straight Slice
The standard cigar cut is a straight cut. Align the cutter’s blade with the cigar’s cap and make a single, clean cut along the middle. The end result ought to be an effortless draw that releases the full flavor of the cigar.
If you’re looking for a reliable cutter or are just starting off with cigars, we suggest using a straight edge. They are simple to operate and always give you a great draw. Also, they can be used with cigars of any length or diameter.
V-Cut for a Stronger Flavor and a Deeper Draw
If you want a deeper draw and more powerful flavor from your cigar, a V-cut is the way to go. This cut makes a little notch at the end of the cigar, allowing for increased airflow and smoke delivery—it’s a favorite choice among experienced smokers who know how to get the most out of their cigar.
It is crucial to remember, however, that if not done correctly, a V-cut might produce a cigar overly hot and harsh. So make sure to remove just enough tobacco leaf, but not too much. Otherwise, you will have a terrible smoking experience.
Punch cut for a stronger draw and a milder flavor
Various cigar cutters allow for various types of pulls. A punch cut, for instance, will create a small hole in the cigar, allowing for a more concentrated aroma and flavor. This is because when a cigar is smoked, less air can move through it. Alternatively, if you need a more robust flavor, you may want to try a guillotine cutter. This cutter will provide more air to enter the cigar, resulting in a more robust flavor.
Cigars are trimmed for varied smoking tastes
There are a variety of ways to cut a cigar when it comes to cigar smoking. Others prefer a looser cut, while some smokers prefer a tighter cut. Here are a few suggestions on how to cut a cigar to accommodate various smoking preferences:
Use a sharp knife or cutter to make a close cut. Place the blade in the middle of the cigar top and make a straight, clean cut. Be cautious not to cut too deeply, resulting in a pull that is excessively tight.
Loose Cut: For an open cut, use a guillotine or V-cutter. Position the blade near the cap’s edge and make a clean, shallow cut. This will allow more air to travel through the cigar, resulting in a smoother smoke.
The sort of cigar cut you choose will ultimately depend on your personal preferences and smoking experience. Experiment with various cuts to discover the one that offers you with the optimal smoking experience.
Conclusion
You should now grasp the fundamentals of cigar cutters and how they function. Depending on your smoking preferences, a variety of cuts are available. Although not required, cigars are best savored with a pre-rolled quantity that maximizes taste and smoke. Take your time and practice until you can achieve the ideal cut every time, regardless of the cutter or style employed!
from Grand Humidors Cigar Lounge https://cigarlounge.grandhumidors.com/cigar-cutters-how-to-cut-a-cigar-for-different-smoking-preferences/
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hermes mini kelly 28
Meet The Shopper Who Discovered Kanye West And Julia Fox Five Birkins
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( chapter 6′s gif by @buckysbarnes from this lovely set ! )
✪ — VACANT MIRRORS ; B.B. | 6/?
summary: gunshot wounds, panic attacks, and evil next door neighbors.
pairing: bucky barnes / f!reader
tags: set before & during tfatws, friends to lovers, therapy positive, trauma healing techniques, ptsd mentions, the normalization of anxiety disorders, and a good ol’ slow burn
word count: 5.3k, a filler before the real sexual tension.
a/n: be warned, this chapter has a diy medical procedure where bucky removes the slug from rabbit’s shoulder. it’s nothing too graphic, but keep that in mind! also, i wanted to say thank you to everyone who has rec’d, reblogged, commented, kudos, liked, looked at this fic. the response to every chapter has been so overwhelmingly kind and i’m so thankful that i have the oppurtunity to share this fic with you all. that being said, i broke this chapter up. next week has some spice. ;-)
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Bucky wakes up with a headache that feels like someone’s tapped an icepick between his eyes. A fire-bright burn radiates under his ribs.
It’s a slow creep back to reality — he just lays there and stares at the peeling wallpaper that meets the corner of the ceiling for a while, knowing deep in the back of his muddled, confused thoughts that he most likely has a nasty concussion, maybe a few broken ribs.
How? Hm. Fighting. Music? The club.
Rabbit.
He sits up fast and Bucky’s blue eyes struggle to adjust in the low-light of the scarcely furnished apartment. The searing pang of his headache is enough to make his stomach churn, but he’s had worse. So much worse. This is manageable. So, he swallows down the nausea and looks around the room like a wounded animal — and almost immediately, relief greets him at the sight of you in the armchair across from the couch.
Your hair is a mess, falling from it’s previous style that you’d proudly worn to The Glass Cannon. Your lipstick is smeared, there’s glitter on your cheeks, and your make-up has transitioned from starlet beauty to broken-hearted bombshell. Bucky notices, with a bit of dismay, that you’re even missing an earring. There’s a nasty bruise forming along the peak of your cheekbone and a gash there from when Alexei had cracked you across the face with the pistol — and even despite all this, Bucky can feel his heart clench at the sight of you. A good clench. The sort that makes his heart kick into a stutter step.
You look… well, you look like someone who’d had the shit choked out of them and then was shot.
Shot.
Your jacket, punched clean through with the single bullet hole, is hanging over the back of the chair and there’s gauze taped to your shoulder. You’re leaning your good cheek in your hand, attention turned totally to Bucky, where you’ve fallen asleep. From here, you’re a picture of exhaustion.
Anxiety flashes in his heart and he swings his legs over the edge of the couch.
Suddenly, there’s a hand on his shoulder.
“Take it easy.”
It’s the woman from before, Kiwi, and she’s got an ice pack in her hands. It’s wrapped in a ratty, green dish towel, and she hands it off to Bucky with a pitiful little look. Rounding the couch, Bucky finally gets a better look at her.
She’s older than you, maybe by a handful of years, but sharp and beautiful nonetheless. Her hair is dark as night and the tips are drenched in a lime colored dye. Her eyes are dark, too, ringed by kohl and glitter, and Bucky wonders if he’s ever seen her before.
“You heal quick,” she says quietly as she plops down into the chair across the room. On a makeshift desk, there’s a laptop, “Care to explain how you know our dear friend Rabbit here?”
Bucky shifts uncomfortably. Again, his eyes fall on your sleeping form.
He maneuvers the ice pack in his hands, then gently presses it to his ribs. He melts a bit, ignoring the evident tears in the silk shirt. He feels bad — he’d busted some of the seams in the midst of the brutal scuffle and it seems like this artifact of Jaimie’s was most likely beyond salvation.
His dog tags jingle against his chest.
“Therapy,” Bucky croaks, “We, uh, we met in therapy.”
A new voice comes into the picture now, one that’s muffled by a mouthful of food.
“That’s cute.”
It’s the other one, Climber. He’s traded in his all-black, all-polyurethane outfit for an expensive looking t-shirt. Without the strobes, without the tunnel vision, Bucky can now see the intricate buzz cut that sits beneath the mountain of blue curls on his head. There are patterns buzzed into his tight-shave. He’s got a smile, too, the glimmers a little too artificially. Bucky spies crystals inset on his incisors between bites of what looks like a bowl of cereal with no milk. Spoon and all.
“I don’t think we’ve properly met,” Climber says as he plops down next to Bucky on the couch, “What’d you say your name was?”
A hand is jutted his way. Bucky blinks. He shakes it with his vibranium hand.
“I’m Bucky.”
“Well, I’m gay and you’re gorgeous,” he says candidly, giving it a good shake, “So, if that’s of any interest—”
“Can you please shut up, Climber?” comes an irritated rasp from you in your armchair. Bucky turns to watch as you raise your head and rub your eyes, “Christ, I just fell asleep.”
“And your little supersoldier just woke up,” Kiwi chirps from her preoccupation with the laptop and contents on it, “So why don’t you stop being a little baby and let him look at that gunshot wound.”
Bucky’s face falls flat. He drops the ice pack to the coffee table with a thwunk.
You sit up, gingerly trying to maneuver yourself so as to not bother both your ribs and your shoulder. It takes a moment, but finally you’re sitting up with only a dull ache of pain throbbing beneath your skin. Now, the real sting comes from the bitter look Bucky has pinned you with.
“You haven’t cleaned it yet?”
“The shits in the kitchen,” Kiwi waves at Bucky, as if to say told you so, “She fuckin’ refused to let me take care of it.”
“You’re going to get an infection if it stays in you any longer,” he snaps, standing to his feet, “Get up.”
“Kiwi isn’t exactly the most gentle person I know,” you manage to supply as an excuse as you move through the room, “And I know that thing isn’t coming out without a fight.”
He can feel the grey hairs coming in already.
You stand slowly, and Bucky looms behind you as you weave into the small apartment’s kitchen.
It’s barely lived in, but a few years ago it most definitely had life. Now, it’s mostly abandoned save for a few necessities. Kiwi had told you, a long time ago, about this spot — it was her parent’s place before the Snap. After the Blip, they ended up moving back to Massachusetts. Now abandoned by anyone seeking to really live in the one bedroom, it sits collecting dust until Kiwi inevitably needs it.
Like now.
“Up on the counter.”
You wince at his tone, but still thankful to be away from Kiwi and Climber’s prying eyes.
For the entire time Bucky had been out, you’d been subjected to a myriad of questions — all were fair, really, since Bucky did just bust out the Avenger-level super-moves on some Russian mafiosos for your sake, vibranium arm and all. The arm was really the biggest stuck point in the conversation as you tried your best to explain the nature of your relationship with the unconscious supersoldier on the couch. It was met with plenty of looks, both curious and skeptical.
You’re slow to hop up on the dusty marble countertop. From there, you watch Bucky poke through the kit that Kiwi had pulled from under the sink.
Then, with the calculated process of a man who has pulled one too many bullets from himself, Bucky slams the kit shut and wanders into the bathroom.
He returns with a pair of large tweezers. He’s silent as the dead as he rummages for a pan, fills it with water, and sets the gas burner on. He stares, watching the pot boil, as his foot taps against the floor.
You swallow down any comments.
There’s a clean towel beside you, and Bucky casually reached into the boiling water with his vibranium hand to retrieve the tweezers — whether or not he purposely ignored the pain is lost on you. You’re too busy anxiously spiraling into silence.
(He’s trying to ground himself, to feel something other than panic. It’s a mild spike, but it’s still panic. Because you’re hurt. Because you still have a fucking casing lodged in your shoulder and he doesn’t want anything bad to happen to you. Ever. Because he saw it happen and then it was black, and now that anxiousness is creeping in.)
Rubbing alcohol, tweezers, gauze, tape, and… Jack Daniel’s.
It’s from the top of the fridge. It’s got a layer of dust on it — and it’s unopened.
Bucky unceremoniously pops the cap and hands the open bottle to you.
You take it and pause.
Bucky’s gaze is cold.
“You’re gonna want to take a few swigs, Doll.”
You almost snarl. You take a long drink then, ignoring the burn of the whiskey down your throat. It’s only when you’ve had enough to nearly gag that you hand the bottle back and then hiss:
“Don’t call me Doll.”
He takes the bottle and unceremoniously slams it down on the counter.
His movements are rough as he washes his hands — and if Bucky was a better person, maybe he’d take a second and parse through why he was feeling so damn irritable. But, no, no, he could figure out that he was angry at himself and you and Alexei Gardzov and Innessa Sidrova and fucking… everyone because he can’t have any normal relationships in his life without there being bloodshed or pain or suffering. That was enough, and he didn’t want to dig deeper into the nipping fear of losing you, not now, not when he had a job to do—
You suck in a sharp breath when his fingers brush your collarbone. He gently moves the delicate strap of your bodysuit, ignoring the soft skin beneath, and pulls the gauze away from your shoulder.
Your jacket had taken most of the impact it seems. Bucky frowns deeply at the pink fibers clinging to the entry wound. It’s a nasty puckered bit of flesh, smeared with blood, right in the soft muscle of your left shoulder. The hole is a little smaller than a quarter — Bucky recognizes it as shot from a 9mm almost immediately. He’s taken a few of these in his days. He’s glad it wasn’t close range. The burns from the muzzle flash make for nasty scars. He’d know. He has one on his back, right above his hip.
Bucky’s jaw is tight. He’s gritting his back teeth. His headache throbs angrily behind his eyes.
Bucky leans, eyeing the wound carefully. His limited reaction is enough to spark a little light of bravery in your gut, and you move to look at the hole — only to find a vibranium hand rooting your jaw in place. It’s gentle enough as it recorrects the line of your gaze straight ahead. His thumb rests on the curve of your chin as his index climbs your jaw, and the vibranium is warm and cold all at once. It’s an odd sensation. Not bad, but not flesh.
You like it.
(You find your mind quickly flashing with the thought of what that hand would feel like in other places. You ignore it.)
Your eyes are stuck on Bucky.
He’s clearly upset — the pinch between his brows and the evident scowl on his lips is enough of an indication. The bridge of his nose is busted and there’s a bruise crawling under his left eye. The shirt you’d given him is a wreck, and as he bends to snatch up a rubbing alcohol soaked pad, the feeling of shame creeps up on you. The anxiousness that’s settled in the pit of your stomach doesn’t help.
Arguably, it exacerbates the symptom.
The whiskey is slow to make an impact.
But, when Bucky finally swipes the gauze across the wound, your ankles have begun to tingle and it isn’t blinding white pain you feel — not yet. It’s sharp and it feels like he’s touching your shoulder blade when he presses his fingers into the holes to clean the immediate area. That has you grimacing tightly.
His obsidian-hued hand holds your face still through it.
So, you opt to stare.
His arm reminds you of some pottery you’d seen back at the Museum of Modern Art once, on a school trip. In a dimly lit room, spotlights lit up a row of vases that had been gilded back together with gold-dusted sap. You’d sat there for nearly an hour, staring at those things. You can’t remember the name now, not while Bucky does one more pass across the wound. It started with a ‘k’. It was beautiful. You loved that exhibit. Why can’t you — fuck — remember the name? Kinsi… kinsigumi? Gumi. Kintsi —
You grit your teeth and grip the counter tightly. He pauses. You exhale.
You inhale.
Kintsugi.
The seams of his arm remind you of Kintsugi.
It’s beautiful.
Bucky’s eyes flit to yours. He sees your stare.
Maybe it’s the pain, or the half-cocked daze, but the look in your eyes is enough to spur an immediate reaction. Bucky scowls. He yanks his hand back, retreating to the supplies on the counter. He’s pulled, hard and fast, and now he seems miles away.
Quietly, and with a bit more chill than he intended, he speaks. “If it was making you nervous, you should have said something.”
It.
Your head snaps to him.
“What?” you ask, nearly incredulously.
He’s silent. He has the tweezers in his hand now.
Your eyes narrow critically — and instead of shame and anxiety, it’s hurt that flies off your tongue. It’s drenched in enough pain that Bucky hears it in the waver of your voice.
“You think I’m afraid of you?”
It’s nearly a whisper.
He swallows.
He ignores it. He has to. He doesn’t want to know the answer. Either way that conversation goes is enough to drag him into territory he can’t handle right now. Not when he needs to do this without his hands shaking.
“This is going to hurt.”
Your mouth is open — be it shock or anger, he’s not sure. Bucky, however, makes a point of ignoring your expression and your reaction by handing over the whiskey once more. You snatch it from his hands quickly. There’s a look on your face that makes his chest ache. With one last pass over him with your eyes, you take a long swig.
You feel like crying.
You won’t, though. Not now. Not while he does this.
You deserve this.
And holy fucking hell does it hurt. It’s like someone’s taken a hot poker and punctured your skin, then rotated it around and around and around. You can feel every time the tweezers touch the bullet because the metallic little click echoes in your chest. It’s enough to make your head spin, and you grit your teeth and close your eyes and try to breathe — but even after a handful of minutes, when Bucky finally retrieves the slug, there’s no relief. Just a desperate throb.
Your hands are shaking when you reach for the whiskey once more.
You do cry, finally, when Bucky packs the hole.
He rolls the gauze up tightly into a cylinder and, as gently as he can, pushes it in.
It’s a horrible choke of pain that you smother into your palm and pant through. It reminds you to breathe, and while you stare up at the water damage on the kitchen ceiling, Bucky tapes a square piece of gauze over the bruised wound and wraps your shoulder tightly. He takes his time, but there’s a curtness to his actions.
Finally, when he begins to clean up the mess of bloodied gauze, you speak.
“If you’re mad at me, then just say it.”
He snaps almost immediately, like a kicked dog. “And say what, Rabbit? That I almost lost you?”
Your mouth slips shut.
Bucky pauses what he’s doing. He drops the gauze onto the towel and he bares both hands against the counter top. He leans and exhales and drops his own head back — then, you can see his own waves of anxiety knocking him against the shore of composure. His eyes move back and forth, he inhales, and then after a long while he speaks.
It’s calmer. Not so horribly mean.
“You should have told me about Alexei.”
You go to speak — but he stops you.
“I mean really, really told me,” he explains, “Had I known he wanted your fucking head mounted on a spike, I would have kept you far away from that place.”
“We had to—”
“No,” he says sternly, standing up full height, “No, we didn’t. We never have to do anything that’s going to put you in danger. Never. I won’t do it again. You should have fuckin’ told me.”
You’re quiet.
“A few more inches to the right,” he says, gesturing to your throat with his finger. His eyes are expressive and he’s speaking like he’s lived this experience, “You’d be dead. Cold and dead and I’d be here, carrying the fucking guilt around with me because I wouldn’t have been able to do anything.”
His voice splinters at the end — but he’s moved to throw away the gauze and dump the tweezers in the sink. He can’t look at you as he says it, and you know that. Because, just like before, people like you and him have a hard time looking the truth in the eyes.
You slide off the counter.
Your heart is sad. It’s heavy and mournful and weighed down with guilt.
“Bucky.”
It’s soft. He’s scrubbing your blood from his hands.
He doesn’t turn around. He can’t. He can feel the prick of an anxious breakdown beginning to climb into his eyes. Instead, he scrubs and scrubs and scrubs and your blood is stuck in the plating of his hand and it’s not going to come out—
Think of what could have happened if it had been a few inches to the right. The arched spray. Blood everywhere. She can’t speak through the gargle, she’s going cold, she’s gone. And, like always, you’re alone again, Bucky.
Then, your hands are on his.
The touch is enough to stop him. It’s enough for him to move aside at the large, inset kitchen sink. You exhale slowly as you run the water a little warmer and gingerly run his hands under the tap. Your hands are smaller than his, a bit more delicate, and he’s stunned into a sharp silence at the feeling of your fingertips gently washing away the crimson blood.
You grab another dish towel from a drawer beside the stove.
Then, in the dim light of the kitchen, you take both his hands and dry them.
It’s the vibranium hand that you pay special attention to, though. And Bucky feels like a fucking idiot — just standing there, just watching as you run the rag between the gilded plating and use gentle pressure to get into the harder to reach spots. You turn it over, and you dry his knuckles.
You take your time.
You don’t look up when you speak. You’re focused. Almost reverent.
He doesn’t deserve this.
“I’m not afraid of you,” you say sternly.
His mouth is dry. “Rabbit…”
Bucky shifts on his feet and takes a deep inhale. He feels lightheaded.
The whiskey, and the closeness of the two of you, makes your skin warm. His whole nervous system feels like it’s on fire.
“I didn’t mean to stare, I don’t ever mean to,” you apologize as your hands still over his arm. He watches your irises trace the plating above his wrist. The rag is forgotten, its purpose null. Your words are heavy, and Bucky can hear a little shake in them as you swallow, “I just… think it’s beautiful.”
You’re beautiful.
Even now, blood-soaked and sweat-stained. With makeup running down your cheeks and your composure in shambles. Even now, on the run and apparently wanted, you’re incredibly beautiful. Bucky hates how easy it is to admit and how hard it is to keep off his tongue. It nearly gets the better of him. He watches your eyelashes flutter. When you look up at him, the world is suddenly drowned in honey.
“I’m sorry.”
You mean it.
Your bottom lip wobbles.
Bucky, immediately, regrets being so goddamn cold.
You were just trying to help — you were just trying to do the right thing.
“Stop it. Come here.”
The hug is the first time you can remember touching him like this. You think you’ll always remember it, too. It’s sturdy and warm and gentle and honest and you bury your face into the shoulder as his arms come up around your neck. He’s careful of your own injured shoulder, and his fingers find the base of your neck. Around his waist, your fingers dig into the back of his shirt. Both of you ground yourselves in the other’s arms, and for the first time in a handful of hours, you both find peace.
Quiet, sturdy, lovely peace.
And the two of you stay like that for a while in the quiet little kitchen.
It’s not until Climber’s voice rises from the living room that you’re pulled away from Bucky — and even then, your face linger inches from one another for a moment too long. Neither of you say a word, only swallow down confessions that could have been, and move on.
“Oh, girlie, you’re gonna wanna see this.”
Bucky frowns. With your brows knotted tightly together, you weave through the kitchen and back into the living room.
Kiwi has sat up and both her and Climber have their eyes on the bulky flat screen on the dust-covered entertainment center. It’s cable news, and as Climber leans to turn the television up, a picture of you flashes across the screen.
It’s a photo from your arrest six months ago.
“Local authorities are asking that anyone with information on the whereabouts of this young woman call the FBI’s anonymous tip line—”
“Is there a reward?” Climber whispers almost excitedly, eyes on the screen.
“—Authorities are offering $100,000 dollars to the person who provides enough information to lead up to this dangerous fugitive’s capture.”
“Dangerous fugitive?” hisses Bucky.
“A hundred thousand dollars?” cries Kiwi, “Who the fuck did you piss off?”
You inhale deeply as you wave your hands. “The bigger question is who the fuck knew I was going to The Glass Cannon last night. Because they’re looking for me — not you.”
You point at Bucky and the gears are turning in your head.
The pacing is almost immediate, and Bucky crosses his arms tightly as you begin to walk back and forth behind the full length couch that Climber is currently spread out on.
It’s cut short, though, by Kiwi’s laptop chiming successfully.
“Well,” she stands quickly, “I have a feeling that someone knows you’re onto them. And the facial recognition software just got a match. A three point one, too.”
Your eyes brighten.
You’d given Kiwi the photo of the young Innessa, with all her decorated furs and blonde curls. She’s laughing and she’s young and she’s in love and it’s hard for you to imagine a woman like her to be dangerous. While you’d made sure Bucky was propped up comfortably on the couch and then finally calmed down from the adrenaline high enough to get comfortable yourself, Kiwi had dug out the hard-drive she kept on her at all times and began pulling data from the Alexandria Library files.
It had been a handful of hours, so it was clear that Innessa had hid herself well in the vast, expansive database SHIELD kept for all those years while it was in operation.
Bucky is quick to gather behind Kiwi, eyes scanning the screen.
Sure enough, when you come to look at the photos pulled up on Kiwi’s screen, there’s a hit. There’s an identification card photo of an older woman, maybe in her forties, pulled up alongside the photo Bucky had given you. Her hair is no longer blonde, but deep auburn color. She’s marked as having worked with Rumlow — a supervisor of some sort. Makes sense. You didn’t need to see a picture of Crossbones to remember Brock. Even when you’d interned, he’d been infamous.
And that was when he was one of the good guys.
There’s a handful of other photos of her — candids, professional photos, and even one where she is shaking Tony Stark’s hand.
And in all of them, you see your next door neighbor Bonnie McLayne.
“Fuck.”
Bucky blinks. Kiwi turns to look at you over her shoulder.
Again, you speak. Your eyes are wide. You can’t look away from the screen.
“Fuck, fuck. Fuck. Fuck.”
“Rabbit…?”
“Fuck.”
Bucky’s face narrows considerably, confusion melting to make room for realization.
His voice is quiet.
“Do you know her?”
“Oh my god,” you say loudly, shaking your head and blinking, “Oh my fucking god, that’s my neighbor.”
Bucky can feel his whole face go clammy.
“The neighbor who—”
“—Who I showed your fucking picture to,” you nearly shriek, “Like it was some cute little matchmaking game!”
Immediately both hands are over your face as you throw your head back. Now, the pacing has begun, and like you’re being carried on autopilot, you begin to move back and forth and back and forth and—
“You don’t think she’d hurt Poke, do you?”
“Rabbit.”
“Oh god, oh god—”
Oh.
Oh, you’re having a panic attack.
Oh, that was quick. Brutally fast. Nearly immediate.
After all, she knows where your family lives. She gets Holiday cards from mom to give to you. She’s been your closest friend for nearly six years. But she’s not Bonnie, she’s Innessa fucking Sidrova. She’s seen you with Bucky. She knows — she knows a lot and you don’t know anything and you’re miles from home, from Poke, from Mom, from Ana… Oh, god, the baby. The baby.
“The baby.”
Bucky’s voice is level. “Rabbit, you gotta calm down.”
“I have to call my mom.”
“No,” Kiwi snaps immediately, “They’re going to be watching for your cell phone pings. No calls, no texting, none of it. And god forbid this woman is one step ahead of the FBI—”
“Oh, god.”
You gasp like a fish out of water, paralyzing fear sending you to lean against the back of the couch.
You claw at your chest and try to remember what Dr. Hart said about these sorts of moments. Square breathing. In and hold and out and hold. Again and again.
“Sit down,” Bucky says as he returns to your side, nearly sweeping you up long enough to plop you down into the armchair from before, “And do me a favor and breathe.”
The whiskey isn’t helping right now.
“I’m trying.”
Another gasped breath.
Climber and Kiwi watch.
Bucky shakes his head sternly, kneeling on one knee and snagging your hands. “Don’t try. Just do it. You can do it. Just follow my lead — you’re the sidekick, after all. Remember? C’mon. There’s the smile. Breathe.”
So you do.
In, hold. Out, hold. You draw a square with one hand on your jeans and hold onto Bucky’s with the other.
Again, in and hold. Out and hold.
And again.
And then, you just listen to Bucky’s breathing.
You’re not sure how long it takes — half an hour, ten minutes, who knows — but finally you’re able to calm the spiraling thoughts in your head. Finally, the loudness quiets down, you catch your breath, and the world isn’t falling apart. The bite of anxiety still remains in the hollow of your chest and Bucky can see that when you finally open your eyes and squeeze his hand.
There’s that look again between the two of you. The one from before, in the kitchen.
“Good?” he asks quietly, blue eyes swimming with some sort of emotion you can’t really pin down. Not now. Maybe, if you’d been a bit more collected, you would have seen it as infatuation. But, no. It’s just… nice.
You swallow and nod.
“Damn, girl,” says Climber from his spot on the couch, “Now I’m starting to get the whole therapy thing.”
“Thanks, dickhead.”
“That’s recent, isn’t it?” he asks, genuine worry crossing his face as he stands to gently pass a hand over your back, “I don’t remember it ever being this bad.”
Your face is sad. “I was just partying through it back then. Distraction was always the best method and then… When I had no more distractions and it was just me? Alone? And, psh, the accident with Jaimie? It got worse. So much worse.”
Climber’s eyes soften. “I’m sorry, bunny.”
You try to put on a brave face.
Bucky stands from in front of you and begins his own pacing. This one isn’t so much born out of anxious nature — but more of a tactical logic born out of keeping you safe.
This wasn’t exactly the turn he was expecting.
“You didn’t recognize her?” he asks after a moment, voice high and tight.
“I’m sorry,” you wave a hand, exasperated, “She doesn’t exactly look the same as she did in the 70s.”
Kiwi frowns at the screen. “Definitely botox.”
Bucky squints. He looks to you for an explanation.
You vaguely gesture to your face.
His brow lifts, he closes his eyes, and he sighs.
Kiwi is next to pipe up. “It explains why the feds are looking for you, especially if she saw you with the one man she knows is looking to hunt her down — so, I think it’s best the both of you lay low for a couple of days.”
“Not to mention,” Climber wags a finger, “Bucky the Babe over here did just piss off one the smaller Russian crime families in New York. So, there’s always that ontop of the evil Nazi-HYDRA-woman-next-door.”
You groan.
“Poke has enough food for a week,” Bucky says nearly reading your mind, “He’ll be fine.”
“So, what? We just wait here? Until something happens?”
“Sidrova is going to try and bait us out,” Bucky mutters, “She knows she can’t just disappear. She’s been settled for too long and we know too much. Engaging us in an altercation is how she’ll do it. Plus, I have a feeling she wouldn’t pass up an opportunity to shoot me in the knees after a few decades. So, we wait.”
“Few decades?” Kiwi whispers.
“How old are you?” Climber asks.
“Hundred and six.”
Both of them just blink at an unphased Bucky.
You sigh, finally standing on wobbly legs. “This feels like a bad idea. I’m just stating that for the record.”
“Better than her hunting the both of you down,” Kiwi supplies, “You can stay here. There’s cable, there’s booze, and there’s plenty of instant ramen to last you until winter.”
“Stale cereal, too.”
“Wait— where are you two going?” you ask, narrowing your eyes, “You’re leaving?”
“Keeping our hands clean,” Kiwi says, closing her laptop, “And letting you be the sidekick, bunny.”
The sadness in your heart grows a little heavier at those words, but there’s a little bit of pride in Kiwi’s tone. As she stands, she moves to wrap her arms around you in a gentle hug. Quietly, she murmurs into your hair.
“Your dad would be proud of you, y’know.”
Bucky watches.
Climber is next, and that hug is bigger, more brotherly, more like sunshine and less like autumn.
“Don’t be a stranger, Rabbit.”
“I’m sorry,” you blurt out as the two of them gather their belongings, “For dragging you both into this. But, thank you. You didn’t have to help me—”
“Yeah, we did,” Kiwi chirps as she knocks Bucky on the arm three times, “Keep her safe, aakarshak purush.”
The Hindi rolls off her tongue with ease.
Bucky laughs. “Bahut lamba.”
Kiwi pauses mid-step. She narrows her eyes. There’s a smile on her lips. “Your pronunciation isn’t bad.”
He shrugs plainly. “I get lunch almost everyday at the Indian place below my apartment, so. The owner has been teaching me some stuff on the side.”
An approving nod.
Kiwi hucks you the keys across the room.
She points at Bucky.
“I like him. Try not to fuck that up, eh?”
And then, the two of them are gone.
And it’s just you and Bucky in the empty apartment.
#vacant mirrors#bucky x reader#bucky barnes#bucky barnes x reader#bucky barnes imagine#bucky barnes x y/n#bucky barns x you#bucky/reader#winter soldier x reader#mcu imagine#tfatws imagine#A LITTLE LATER THAN PROMISED BUT SHE IS HERE
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