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tethered-heartstrings · 2 years

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Not trying to be confrontation or rude. How is will wealthy? Like he seems p securely middle class considering his job's average income is right there at the mid of middle class. Like it's a lot compared to most service industry jobs and poverty wages but he's not descendant from royalty money or tried to raise peacocks as a kid wealthy.

I thought the show spent a lot of time establishing the differences in experience he had verses his counterparts like Dr. Bloom or Hamable or even Crawford. From clothes to housing to childhood stories and background career work. Like he's not poor any more but he's certainly not in a life of actual wealth ?

Sorry to talk so long I am unsure what I'm missing :( and nervous:((

Will Graham grew up very poor, and we see those habits carried with him into adulthood. But he is wealthy by the time we see him in the show. He works for the FBI. Not just casually. He teaches people who will work for the FBI as special investigators. That is a very niche position. He also consults on cases, hired by the head of the FBI. He is making a lot more than you think he is. He also likely has hazard pay on top of that because he is dealing with serial killers. He repairs his own clothes because he is frugal by habit, and he likes fixing things and working with his hands. He also doesn't throw things away, another trait from a poor childhood. He works on boat engines because it is a skilled he learned in childhood and a hobby he enjoys. He also goes long stretches of time without working, and that goes beyond sick leave/vacation. The house he got with Molly also has INSANE property. We don't know what she makes, but that is still an expensive piece of land. It costs money to have that kind of privacy AND for it to be pretty. He doesn't dress lavishly because he doesn't want to. He doesn't want the attention, he doesn't like how fake it feels, he dresses comfortably. He still has a pretty decently sized house and HUGE property. It is surrounded by trees, presumably near a decently sized creek. That is competitive real estate. He did not inherit that property, so you know he bought it. Or at least earned enough to get a mortgage. And to get a mortgage, you need to show you have enough in savings to pay that loan off OR have a job that earns a certain amount monthly. So even if he didn't buy it outright, a bank won't loan you a lot of money if they think you can't afford it.

He also adopts any dog he sees. Having pets is expensive. Dogs have several core vaccines depending on where they live (rabies, distemper/parvo, influenza, lepto, bordetella) All of those they need because they go outside and can interact with wildlife (rabies/distemper/parvo are required regardless). Will also likely gets them vaccinated against lyme disease because the east coast has a lot of ticks, and a lot of those ticks carry lyme. Not sure about the rattlesnake situation in Virginia, but if it was of concern, I guarantee he would vaccinate them for it. Rabies/distemper/parvo are the only vaccines that can be given every 3 years (sometimes distemper/parvo is every year). The others are yearly. So that could be up to five vaccines yearly per dog. Not to mention, his dogs are in incredible health. That's one to two exams a year. Monthly flea/tick and preventative, likely annual dentals, and since his dogs go outside, they likely get minor injuries that he would take them in for. That is INCREDIBLY expensive! That doesn't even cover the cost of food! And regarding pet insurance for all the dogs, insurance is still an expensive monthly payment. And many of those dogs he just found and would likely have a lot of preexisting conditions that wouldn't be covered by insurance anyway. Still on dogs, when the Dolarhyde poisons them all, all seven are taken to emergency. ONE pet can knock out people's saving. They were kept OVERNIGHT which is extremely costly. Multiply that by seven. One dog was likely a couple thousand. Neither him nor Molly blinked an eye.

Will has wealth but he doesn't value it, he doesn't feel the need to spend it on things that don't matter. If he can fix it himself, why would he talk to a stranger to do it for him? He likes his privacy. It's not about cost. Will likes to feel useful, that is his whole schtick. Also, he can afford to drive to Baltimore whenever he has an upsetty spaghetti day, AND drive to Quantico's lab for work. Gas is expensive and so is car upkeep. Even if you change the tires and brakes and oil and shit yourself, that still is a lot of wear on tear on the car and it is expensive.

Not to mention he has a boat. The boat is small, but it is a nice boat. Having a boat like that is still a cost, even if he repairs it himself.

Middle class is considered between $46k and $126k a year. I can promise you he earns more than that. Most of it goes into savings because he doesn't care to "live rich", he sees no value in it. Now, I see "wealthy" as more subjective, but you could argue that there is a finite definition for "wealth". Will is not of the 1% but he still has a lot more money than he looks. I do think it is important not to erase his upbringing, because it does play a part in his interactions and how he spends money and treats his possessions. What someone looks like is no accurate gauge as to what their bank account holds.

And after Mizumono, I am sure his health insurance through the FBI covered medical costs, but that was a pretty swanky room. He did not have a roommate. He might have went out of pocket for that one lmao.

Also this is just me thinking and no real proof, but did they mention what Will did during the three years between Hannibal being imprisoned and going back to work for the FBI? Because if he didn't work for three years, that means he had a sexy pile of savings he was going through. Which, good for him. He needed a fucking break.

Sidenote: The average price of a grown peacock is less than $300, however, peachicks are less than $30. They are more expensive than chickens for raising, but they are not extremely expensive. Now if Alana is raising them, it is likely she started with peachicks. If she didn't care about the sex of the birds, and it was more "I want them as pets", then she could get away with the cheaper option (likely female birds). I don't know the husbandry and enclosure needs for a peacock, I imagine it is similar to a chicken but larger due to their size. So, Alana had more money than Will growing up, but I wouldn't guarantee she was extremely wealthy by any means. I don't know her backstory, but if she grew up in a small town, it is easier to get more property to raise outside animals.

#your question did not come off as confrontational and I think it was fair to ask for clarification #I don't mean this answer to sound argumentative or abrasive either so I apologize if that is the case!#I also just like talking about vetmed so that was a fun little bit to add #anonymous #the curious clown #sorry this was long

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mcgowanmacdonald02 · 11 days

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Fantastic Suggestions For Getting Care Of A new Cat

Owning a cat may seem like an easy job. After all, these are notorious for staying independent. However, when you are a new cat owner, there are lots of things you want to know. These article is total of helpful suggestions and tricks that guarantees you and your cat live contentedly together. If the cat is definitely an outdoor cat or possibly a cat that has a new habit of having outside, they want suitable identification. The cat should have a security collar and the ID tag. Security collars that have elastic bands let cats to acquire out of the particular collar if these people get it caught on something. A good ID tag or perhaps an implanted microchip can help your current cat get delivered if they're nowhere to be found. To keep your cat healthy and balanced and strengthen their bond with you, always reserve tons of play time. Kittens especially need a lot of attention, which often you can quickly give to these people through play. 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The particular advice will advantage both you plus your new cat friend for yrs to come. anti vomiting cat bowl

#anti vomiting cat bowl #orthopedic cat bowl

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morganmccaskiecogc · 4 months

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Photojournalism | News Research

Video Notes

Changing from physical papers to internet/online presence

Decline in newspaper sales

Fewer people are interested in physical newspapers

2.25 million readers lost interest in newspapers

Half a million people stopped buying Sunday papers

Advertising makes up the majority of newspaper pages

Adverts have moved from physical newspapers to online advertising

Local papers have taken the largest hit

Advertisements are the main source of income for newspaper businesses

Journalists, editors, and newspaper staff face job loss

The newspaper has faced revolutions before (radio, TV, etc.)

Modernisation began in the 1980s

Fleet Street was the newspaper 'hub' of the country up until the '80s

"Modernisation" was transferring to computerised offices

The only major British paper not to lose readers in the previous year was The Sun

The Sun won more awards than any other paper

They reduced their price to keep customers (still retaining good profits)

The Sun's main competitor is The Mirror

120-page newspaper, 30,000 copies per hour (40 pages in colour) upgraded to 80,000 copies per hour (all pages in colour)

Investing in new technology and processes

Due to these investments, some papers had to increase prices

Free giveaways are a technique used to boost sales i.e. when The Sun was giving away a free CD copy of McFly's newest album at the time - The Sun gained 300,000 additional readers and the McFly album reached 2.5 million listeners in one weekend

Metro 55% news and 45% advertisements

Robert Murdoch - CEO of News Corporation

The digital revolution is bringing more competition

If readers can't immediately find something on your website - they'll look elsewhere

Videos were being introduced as a form of news outlet on websites/online

Online news is generally free which has an impact on newspaper profitability

Two-thirds of the Guardian's readers are out with the UK

The market is global - no longer physically/geographically restricted

Reader-specific advertising to improve adverts and reader experience

Amazon released the Kindle - subscriptions to newspapers available (as well as books) portable, user-friendly

The younger population tends not to read traditional newspapers

Presentation Questions

Where do you get news?

Television

Radio

Social Media e.g. Twitter

Online newspaper websites

Word of mouth

Four tenets of a newspaper:

Accessible by the public

Published at regular intervals

Information is current

Covers a variety of topics

Why were newspapers so powerful?

The main or only source of news for a long time

Influential

With the inevitable demise of newspapers, what are the implications for photographers today?

Less work

Reduced pay

Stock photos over hiring out

More easily accessible images via the internet

No job security

Paparazzi dominating tabloids

"Citizen" Journalism i.e. newspapers buying images from citizens/pedestrians who happened to take a snap on their phone

Benefits of online news

Larger audience

More exposure

Opportunities for press photographers

Freelance work

Agency work

Can send images to papers rather than working for them

Don't have to wait to be "discovered"

Benefits of working for an agency

Guaranteed work

Additional opportunities

Job security

Benefits

Photo Agencies

Agent France Presse

Reuters

Corbis

Getty

Magnum

Broadsheets

The Times

Sunday Times

The Telegraph

The Guardian

The Observer

The Herald

The Scotsman

The Independent

Tabloids

The Sun

The Mirror

The Daily Mail

The Daily Record

Sunday Mail

Tabloid/Broadsheet Task

What is the photographic style of the paper? Why do you think that is? Daily Record - Attention-grabbing with various images to keep the reader's attention. The Independent - Takes a more organised/structured approach primarily full of informative articles and fewer images.

How many images are in the paper? 161 images in the independent vs. 189 in The Daily Record.

How many are credited? Only 18 of the 161 images were credited to The Independent

Comment on the layout of the paper. What proportion text, what proportion images? In The Independent, there is an even split of images and text, whereas The Daily Record has slightly more images than text.

Freelance or Staff - can you tell? When looking for credited images, sometimes the same names appear which might indicate these photographers are staff for the paper as their images are used consistently throughout.

Comment on the quality of the image and effectiveness; does it tell the story? The images with accompanying text work well to help convey the story.

Look for similar stories/events. An article regarding Russia and Ukraine.

Where is the article? Page 23 in The Daily Record, page 33 in The Independent.

#cogc #hndphotography #photojournalism

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couponawk · 9 months

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How to Get a Reasonable Price by Using Illumiflow Discount Codes?

Table of Contents

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5. How about the Payment Options?

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https://linkcoupon.wordpress.com/2023/06/11/how-to-get-a-reasonable-price-by-using-illumiflow-discount-codes/

#Illumiflow

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vilemajik · 1 year

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Great Secrets To Handling Locksmith Work Yourself

There are many times in your life when you might need a locksmith. For example, when you buy a home from a previous owner, you'll have to change the locks. Of course, the first situation which likely came to your mind is being locked out. Regardless of why you need them, find out more about hiring a locksmith in the text which follows.

Do not let the locksmith begin work until he or she has given you an estimate. Rather than simply getting a verbal estimate, insist that the locksmith write the quote down on paper. This way, you have proof of the number that you were quoted. As long as you agree with the price, work can commence at that point.

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If you cannot get into your home, do not let someone drill into the lock prior to trying any other tactics. In addition, someone that wants to immediately replace the lock is probably not legitimate. A good locksmith can get into just about any door. Therefore, the two steps mentioned above should not be necessary.

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If you call a locksmith and they show up in an unmarked vehicle, you should be a bit concerned. Most legitimate locksmiths have a company vehicle. While having a plain car does not guarantee you are dealing with someone underhanded, you probably don't want to risk your security by working with them.

Having an established relationship with a locksmith can help you when you need help. It can be financially beneficial and save you from wasting time. Either way, you know the best characteristics for a locksmith and have his number in your phone. Use the tips and tricks from this article and never be left out in the cold.

Read more here Peterborough Locksmiths

#Door lock repairs

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olivia-anderson-fanfic · 3 years

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Into The Unknown, Part 5

First

Tim finished up pretty quickly.

After all, all the baby toys seemed to just be different variations of each other. Some crinkle, some make sounds, some squish, some… do nothing at all? Tim had no clue how he used to get by as a kid.

He ended up getting Damian three toys:

A tiny rubber duck. He’s almost completely sure that Marinette would have bought one if Tim hadn’t. At least when he was the one buying it he could opt to get the Darth Vader one (Damian had always been woefully uncultured, this was his one chance to make the kid watch sci-fi without risking getting stabbed).

A plush cow with crinkly ears. He had to hope that this could maybe jog memories of Batcow and, in turn, everything else. Tim had tried to think of something a little more relevant but all he could think of were things related to Batman, to Superboy, to the League of Assassins (did their lives really revolve around vigilante-work that much?)... and, unfortunately, this reality didn’t have merch that he could give the kid.

And a squishy plastic baguette. Because that was all he could think of to get back at Marinette for the duck thing.

When it came to little kid books he hesitated for just a bit before getting the basics -- stuff like animals and the letters and Spot The Dog. He wondered, vaguely, if he’d have to teach the kid numbers since they already used the Arabic numeral system. He got a book on it just in case.

Then he got a couple of books on parenting.

He checked out and then walked back to the sitting area where he was supposed to meet Marinette.

… she was taking forever.

He sighed quietly and skimmed through a book on parenting.

… oops they were supposed to breastfeed until Damian was about two. No clue what to do about that. Maybe the kid was already used to a bottle? He hoped so. He’d watch him more carefully while Marinette was holding him to see. In the meantime, he’d get a bottle and some formula on top of the baby food they’d been getting so far.

Alright so the kid was supposed to learn behaviors and language through observation. Good. That, hopefully, solved that problem. Tim probably would have just given the kid a textbook and said ‘good luck’. Marinette… he didn’t really know what Marinette would have done, but the woman wasn’t a teacher as far as he could tell and asking her to teach the kid properly was a little unfair.

Babies around his age are supposed to speak in something called… protowords? Like… a baby language? Damn, he has a miraculous and it seemingly allows him the power to understand every language but apparently ‘baby-speak’ didn’t count as a language. Tim called bullshit.

He felt a weight settle down on the bench next to him and absently glanced over.

Marinette sent him a slightly tired smile. She was wearing a new, dark red scarf.

He opened his mouth to say something only to have her shake her head and adjust her scarf a little to show him something.

Ah. It looked like Damian had fallen asleep on her shoulder so she’d fashioned the scarf into a makeshift baby sling.

“Could’ve used the stroller,” he whispered, setting his receipt in the book to mark his page.

She snorted. “And risk waking him? He cries every time he wakes up, I’m not dealing with that right now.”

He bit his lip. “You know… this book says he’s supposed to cry for, like, an hour to an hour and a half a day.”

She tipped her head to the side a little. “He’s cried like… three times.”

“Yeah, and he was really easy to shut up. Decidedly not normal.”

They looked back down at Damian, identical frowns on their faces.

“Does it have an explanation for why he’d be like this?” Marinette asked, her voice soft.

Tim hesitated.

“The only reasons I can think of are that he doesn’t think we’d help him if he cried or he thinks crying is something he’d be punished for. Considering how he was raised… it could be either. Or both.”

Marinette yawned as she sat back on the hotel bed. She leaned back against Tim, leaving him to bear the weight of both her and Damian.

He, to his credit, barely even blinked. He turned slowly until they were both leaning back against each other.

She tipped her head back to rest on his shoulder.

She could fall asleep like this, she thought. Propped against Tim. Damian, in her arms, watching an episode of something called True and the Rainbow Kingdom… it was nice.

Or, at least, it would be if Tim could stop that infernal tapping.

“Ugh, could you stop that? Some people actually sleep.”

He gave a tiny puff of laughter that acknowledged that he heard her but, alas, he continued typing.

She groaned a little and reached a hand behind herself to give him a tiny bap to his side.

“Hm. This may shock you, but hitting me really hasn’t helped your case.”

She huffed and twisted around to try and see over his shoulder. She’d given up on sleeping, anyway.

“What are you even doing?”

He shrugged just slightly. “Trying to figure out what to do about money.”

She nodded slowly, looking over his shoulder as he scrolled through jobs they could do with zero experience or degrees. That could sustain a family of three and pay for the daycare they would have to take Damian to. The options... weren’t great.

Damian tugged on her shirt for her attention and she looked down as he pointed at his screen with a bright smile. There was a black cat on the screen. She didn’t really know what he wanted until he kept saying ‘ma’ over and over. She nodded and said ‘cat’ in both Arabic and English, which seemed to sate him as he went back to watching… the giant green yeti monster stealing a basket of candy? What the fuck was even going on on this show? Were kids’ shows like this in her own world, too? Or was this one’s shows just especially weird?

A thought occurred to her and she looked back over at Tim.

“You exist in this world, right?”

He nodded absently and opened a tab that, despite its claim that it was an entry level job, apparently required two years of experience and a degree. He closed it quickly.

“Why don't we just mooch off of the other you?”

Tim sighed. “Because that’s illegal?”

“You’re a vigilante. I don’t think that ‘borrowing’ money from your alternate self is where you should draw the line on illegal activities.”

“I draw the line when it harms innocent people.”

She laughed at that. “He’s rich. It’s not like he’s going to miss it. Think of it as… giving the money to people who need it.”

“You’re a regular robin hood,” Tim said sarcastically.

“I know. I’m so kind,” she agreed, grinning.

There were a few moments of silence.

Then, finally, he shook his head. “Even if we could somehow do that -- which I can’t guarantee because I’m not completely sure I could guess my passwords -- the fact that we’re in Texas… he’d notice.”

She shrugged. “Then let’s move back to Gotham.”

He blinked and finally looked up from the computer. “What?”

“We don’t have much of a life here, really, so why not move?”

He considered this for a while before sighing and flopping back on the bed. “Let me see if I can even get into the account. There’s nothing to say that I even have the same social security number here...”

She nodded her understanding and laid back next to him. Damian whined a little at the sudden displacement but just ran a hand up and down his back absently until he was watching his show again, completely silent as he stared at the screen. Now the main girl was reaching into her bag for a weird orb of light that was, apparently, sentient. Was this the Dora of their world? God help their children.

Speaking of helping their children...

She picked up a parenting book to read while Tim tried to guess his otherworldly counterpart’s passwords.

Tim managed to get in.

He rested his head in his hands, cursing quietly.

She glanced over and smiled at his slightly flushed face.

“What was the password?”

He grumbled under his breath.

This only seemed to encourage her more because she started nudging his shoulder, the soft smile morphing into a cheeky grin.

He sighed and took a moment to gather himself before looking over at her. “It’s… ‘<3Richard<3graysons<3little<3brother<3’.”

“... I don’t get it.”

“Good. So you can’t tease me about it,” he said, sticking his tongue out at her.

She scoffed. “That’s not fair.”

“Totally is.”

He set the computer down beside himself and stretched his achy old bones. He’d had a baby for approximately two days now and he could already feel the bad back setting in. Tomorrow he would have gray hair.

“I’m going to look it up if you don’t tell me.”

“... he’s a celebrity,” Tim said quietly.

Her grin wavered back towards that genuine smile for just a second before spreading into an even wider grin. She reached out and pinched his cheeks. “Awwww, Tim, that’s so cute --!”

“Shut up,” he complained, batting her hands away.

She snickered. “No. I’m going to write that password on your tombstone.”

“You’re assuming I’m going to die first.”

“I have an extended lifespan. You’re only going to have that for another fifteen years. After that? Unless I’m really stupid you’re gonna die first.”

He rolled his eyes. “I’m going to find out how to be immortal now. Purely to spite you.”

She snorted. “Okay. Good luck with that.”

“Thank you.”

With that, he pushed himself up with a groan. “I’m going to get him ready for bed.”

She nodded her understanding and continued with her reading.

Damian whined a little when Tim tried to take him away from where he had curled up next to Marinette but that seemed to be more because he was tired and cranky than genuine distress.

Tim was the one to bathe him. It wasn’t a bubble bath, he wasn’t eager to repeat the previous night’s mistakes, but he did give Damian the rubber duck. This seemed to work for all of them, since Damian now allowed them to take him out of the bath as long as he got to bring his duck.

Marinette grinned when she looked over at where Damian was chewing on his rubber duck as Tim struggled to click the annoyingly difficult buttons of the onesie into place.

“Told you he would love it.”

“We both know that wasn’t why you wanted to get it.”

“And we both know you didn’t get that squishy bread-thing just because you thought he would like it, either.”

He smiled. “Maaaaaybe.”

The onesie finally allowed itself to be buttoned and Tim picked Damian up so he could get into bed.

Marinette frowned. “This book says we shouldn’t let him sleep with us every night. Says it creates a bad habit that’s hard to break.”

Tim raised an eyebrow at her but, reluctantly, carried the kid over to the crib so they could sleep separately.

“Fine. But I’m going to sleep before him so I don’t stress out all night.”

She snickered. “Fine. Fine.”

He climbed into bed, set a pillow between them, and promptly dozed off before he could get woken up by Damian whimpering through the night.

… Tim woke up a few hours later -- his body wasn’t quite used to sleeping through nights just yet -- to find that Marinette had brought the kid into bed with them again.

He smiled a little and moved the pillow out from between them. Even if Damian was currently too trapped in Marinette’s arms to even reach it, it was best to make sure it couldn’t happen.

Damian whimpered a little in his sleep again and Tim tipped his head to the side. He reached over and gently combed his fingers through the fuzzy little tufts of hair that the kid had so far. Damian relaxed.

Tim sighed and shifted in the bed until he was closer to Damian, then maneuvered through Marinette’s mess of limbs to press a tiny kiss to the top of his head. The baby smiled in his sleep and, though the kid couldn’t see it, he returned the smile. He rested an arm around the kid as well in hopes that it would keep the kid feeling safe before allowing himself to drift off.

~~~~~

@nathleigh @peachmuses @unoriginalmess @hammalammadamdam @astrynyx @laurcad123 @927roses-and-stuff

#into the unknown #maribat #tim drake #marinette dupain cheng #ladybug #red robin #timari #timmari #shutterbug #timinette

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writingindulgence · 3 years

Text

Painting Nails with Gojo Satoru (x reader)

Pairings: Gojo Satoru x (unspecified-gender) reader

Genre: Good friends with some mutual pining, a bit of fluff and a bit of uncertainty, reader has their mind in the gutter for a split second

Lmao, how long can someone write about painting nails T.T 2800+ words

When you recently mentioned that you had no free time to refresh your nails due to the influx of odd jobs here and there, you didn’t think that it would lead to your long time friend, Gojo Satoru, sneaking into your room at the Tech with a bag full of nail polish.

He was in the middle of laying them out haphazardly onto the coffee table. Colours ranging from neon bright to the darkest of shades stood before your very own eyes on full display. Their shapes were as varied as the palette. Standard round, rectangle shapes, funky stars and fragile butterflies just to name a few.

The shock of what was transpiring had yet to register in your mind, a dumbfounded look creeping onto your face.

It wasn’t even the first time that this has occurred. Once in a while you would come back from a mission in another city, ready to fall down onto your bed in the one place that you could call home, only to have this excuse for a friend barge in on your time of relaxation. Sometimes, you didn’t inform anyone when you would be back in the hopes of being left alone but he always seemed to find out the best time to annoy you. When you were tired.

“What the actual fuck are you doing in my room Gojo-san?”, you drop your tattered bag onto the ground before closing the door.

The feeling of his incoming whines and guaranteed pout had become something of a sixth sense to you now. You thought that maybe he would grow out of it after his teenage years but the gods weren’t as merciful as you once believed them to be.

“(Y/n)-channnn, why are you so mean to me? I haven’t done anything for you to call me that”, he dramatically groaned out before flopping onto your bed.

Glancing at the table, you notice that his sudden movement knocked over some of the bottles.

You also know what he meant by that. You only ever call him ‘Gojo-san’ when he screws up or when you are both in the presence of his students.

As much as he likes to tease you in front of important people, you aren’t that unprofessional as to disrespect him as an educator in front of the students that he teaches. The kids already make fun of him and if you were to join in at the same time then you would begin pitying the man.

You walk over to the sprawled lamp post of a human and indicate with your hand to scoot over before proceeding to throw yourself down beside him.

“What is this about, Toru-kun?”, your eyes lazily scan over the nail polish. Of course you know what is going on but Gojo Satoru is a man that enjoys being humoured.

Poor Ijichi-kun ends up as the victim of a lot of his whims when you’re away. Scratch that, even when you are around the unfortunate fellow gets bullied like a kindergartner at a playground.

“So~ I’ve noticed that your nails-,”

“I mentioned it.”

“.. have been looking rather-,”

“I mentioned it.”

“..duller than usual so-”,

“I-”,

His body flew up from the lying position and a hand suddenly came into your view. Before you could do anything, Gojo clamped it over your mouth, an unseen eye-roll definitely going off under his blindfold.

He wasn’t really irritated but you took it as a win for all the times he irked you in the past month.

“I NOTICED YOUR NAILS LOOKING DULLER THAN USUAL SO I WENT OUT OF MY HUMBLE WAY TO BUY THESE,” he finally lets you go after finishing what he wanted to say.

The sheets under you have become disheveled, your thrashing around to get away and shut his loud mouth in case Principal Yaga hears brought about no results. There was no rule against being in the same room, you weren’t some silly teenagers and even if you were, the Tech wasn’t that strict anyway, but the thought of his disappointing gaze burning into your soul…

Your thoughts are disrupted when Gojo throws two pillows onto the floor. Knowing that there is no escaping this, you dust down your clothes and gracefully sit down.

Who knows? This may actually turn out to be relaxing. Even if you’re wrong then spending time with friends is precious, no matter the activity. Especially in this line of work. There is no telling when one might hear the news of their comrades’ death.

Gojo sits on the other free pillow and smiles. “Any colour pulling you in? If not then I would love to recommend, you know, I’m sort of an expert at this.”

You laugh slightly at his confidence before agreeing to his proposal. As long as it’s not too ugly then you really don’t mind what he ends up picking.

In fact, you trust his judgement when it comes to fashion. His casual outfits always end up taking your breath away. You’re forever glad when he forces you to go along with him to the shopping district. You know your style and what you’re comfortable with but Gojo presents you with something unique every time.

“Hmmmm...then, what about this one?”, the hand that was under his chin as he was contemplating leaves its position and he quickly picks up a (f/c) nail polish.

The container is cute too, a glass cat face. Though how did he figure out what colour this was with that blindfold? Only Gojo knows.

You reach out for the item but he leans back and pulls it to his chest. Your eyebrows scrunch in confusion.

“(Y/n), (Y/n), (Y/n)...,” he creates an X with his arms before continuing, “Bzzzt! Did you really think I would be so rude as to leave you alone with that tedious job? Who do you take me for?”.

He grasps the fabric where his heart is located and fakely sniffles. Oh, so he wants to paint them for you. Figuring out that you may as well indulge in a little care, you extend your hand for him to hold.

Gojo twists the nail brush open and dips it into the bottle a few times. His tongue is poking out as he tests how much of the liquid is on the brush. You don’t even question how he will paint your nails without seeing properly. Understanding his infinite capabilities has become second nature to you.

Instead, you focus on the feeling of his hand when it grasps yours.

It’s bigger and somewhat rougher, though not uncomfortable. Really, it feels secure to have around your own.

Jerking back at your line of thinking, you can feel the heat growing on your face by the second. Calm down there, no need to get ahead of yourself. You’ve held hands many times in the city before so that you don’t get ‘lost’, how is this any different?

“Hey now!,” Gojo grips your hand more firmly than before.

“Sorry, sorry. I had an itch,” you come up with an excuse and double down when you scratch your shoulder with a free hand.

He doesn’t say anything in return, there are none of his usual comebacks. That’s suspicious, he always needs to have the last word in no matter what.

Instead he applies the first stroke of nail polish on one of your nails.

His movements are steady, no shaking, and he doesn’t miss any spots. The process is...pleasant, being attended to by another.

He moves on to your second finger, repeating the action from the previous one, applying just as much attention.

Now that you are sitting still, barely breathing as you look on, his hold has become almost airy. Unless you focused purely on the skin to skin contact, it was as if your hand was levitating.

Ah, technically he could be using ‘Infinity’ and keeping your hand away but...it made you feel weirdly unhappy. Your mouth tugged down in dissatisfaction unconsciously.

At the same moment, Gojo grasped the next finger on the list, the sudden feeling coming as a surprise. You barely held in the shocked gasp, tingles travelling up your arm.

He didn’t say anything and continued the procedure.

You peeked at his face to see if you could read him but there was nothing at all to go off on. No smile, smirk, pout or frown.

Sheer concentration.

It wasn’t unwelcome, in fact it was peaceful without the usual banter. And it wasn’t unbearably serious either. If you had to put a word on it then it felt...intimate.‘Wow, what the hell? Chill, he’s only a friend and this is simple nail painting’.

The clock in your room ticked continuously until eventually your fingernails were all finished. It took extra long because Gojo insisted that the proper way to do it was to paint two layers. So in the end you had to sit through another few minutes that honestly felt like an eternity.

You hoped that you hadn't sweated with how warm it had gotten on your end.

“Alright! It’s your turn (Y/n)-chan,” he made finger guns and pointed them at your bewildered expression.

“It isn’t fair if only you get this spa worthy treatment, no?”.

“Satoru, I think you overestimate my ability to paint nails. Of course, I do a fantastic job on myself but I am hopeless when it comes to others,” you explain.

You may have over exaggerated a bit but if this goes on then your thoughts will enter dangerous territory, not that they haven’t already.

Distractions aren’t helpful when you are a jujutsu sorcerer, particularly in the romantic scene.

Have you daydreamed about such scenarios? Yes.

Would you like to experience them? Definitely.

However, what you want and what you can have are at odds with each other.

“Don’t be a bore, come on, come on,” he sticks out his own hand before thinking up something and reaching towards his blindfold. “Let’s make it a challenge. I had such a difficult time so you have to suffer too”.

He frees his eyesight and stands up. You’re about to follow but he shakes his head and kneels behind you.

The smooth fabric covers your eyes and the pressure as he tightens the blindfold rubs against the back of your head. This feels like the beginning of a dirty situation-

A resounding smack travels in the enclosed room as you slap your cheeks simultaneously. This isn’t the time nor place.

“I’m accepting my resolve,” you throw out before Gojo can ask you why you hit yourself in the face.

You hear him shuffle back to the pillow as well as glass tapping against glass. A nail polish bottle is shoved into your unprepared self. “I’m in your hands now,” he laughs stupidly to himself at his own pun. You can’t help cracking a small smile too.

Blindly, you fiddle around in front of you, wanting to start this. Clicking your tongue, you’re about to give out but Gojo finally decides to stop being a prick and gives you his hand. His shakes from laughter make themselves known but you ignore him.

Unscrewing the bottle cap, you get to work.

Only, you have to feel around for his fingernail. It’s impossible to hit the target without searching around first.

You become overwhelmingly aware of the close proximity yet again and your heart skips a beat. The fact that you can’t see anything makes it far worse as your sense of touch becomes more sensitive. Your shaking hand dabs the point where you think the nail polish goes and you begin painting.

Gojo’s amusement must have stopped too since you don’t hear him chuckling anymore. Is he looking at you? Or is he looking at his poor skin whenever you miss the fingernail? He doesn’t have his blindfold on so his eyes have to be focused on something.

But what?

The silence becomes unmanageable and the constant skin against skin friction twists your insides. Is it just you? Or does he also think the same way?

“You know, you have pretty eyes. If you start an Instagram page with photos of them then you’ll get a following in no time,” you offhandedly mention to start a conversation. Knowing Gojo he’ll take the compliment, tease you a bit and move on. You shift around in the pillow before progressing onto the other hand, having speedrun the first, before he starts talking.

“That’s not a bad idea. You can do the eyeshadow and we can make some money,” he hums in agreement. The sound of extra cash nearly makes you drool but then a realisation hits you, like a truck an isekai protagonist. If you were to do the eyeshadow then you will no doubt have to be very close to his face. No way.

“On second thought, I don’t think we have the time,” you laugh it off.

His disagreement comes soon after.

“Haaaaaaah?! Then why did you mention it?”. His muscles tense, about to pull back to cross his arms but he remembers that you’re in the middle of painting his nails.

After that, you both fall silent again.

In the end, you get through the last finger and close the nail polish bottle. You tried your best, having taken your time despite it making you feel a certain way whenever you had to touch him longer than is necessary.

You get up and reach out to unhook the blindfold but larger hands stop you in your tracks from behind. They pull yours away and drop them at your sides.

“Allow the amazing gentleman, Gojo Satoru,” he gently takes it off as you stand unmoving.

When light from the window hits your face, you scrunch your eyelids shut, waiting to adjust to the bright atmosphere. A hand patting down your hair makes them shoot open and you turn around to complain.

Whatever you were going to say gets caught in your throat as you look up into his light blue eyes. His expression is serene, free of any worries but his eyes seem to be trying to speak a thousand words.

They too look composed but you get the feeling that he’s trying to communicate something to you.

Swallowing, you clench your hand (conscious of the recently dry nail polish), and place it over your chest. “Satoru..um,” you pause, not fully comprehending what you want to say, or rather, how you want to say it.

Your eyes widen when you notice his hand traveling towards yours.

Clumsily spinning around, you head for the pillows and shake off the dust that accumulated on them.

“Thanks for today. I’ll have a nap, since I’m still tired from the flight.”

You show your gratitude but hide the words your heart wanted to really express.

You don’t turn around to see his expression. The sound of his blindfold going over his eyes is what you hear first. Then,

“Don’t worry your sleepy head over it! Sweet dreams, (Y/n)”.

The door opens and closes gently behind you.

Once you’re sure that he is far down the hallway, you throw yourself onto your bed, put the pillow over your face and scream. Feeling a little foolish, you stop and look over your nails.

He really did a great job.

-Next Day-

The sun is shining brightly therefore there is no better time to take a walk. Which is why you aren’t surprised when you stumble upon Sukuna’s vessel, Itadori Yuuji.

The teenager has a tub of ice cream with him. Maybe you should get some too? Gojo is bound to have some in his mini freezer.

“Ah! Hello, (L/n)-san,” the boy waves his hand in greeting and jogs over.

“Itadori-kun, is it alright for you to be outside like this?,” you ask with concern.

There are only a few people that know about his current state of being alive. When you heard that he died, you came as fast as possible to comfort Gojo.

“It’s fine! Everyone is gone and Ijichi-san is on the lookout at the front gate. He’s meant to give me a ring you see”. He looks down.

“Oh! You’ve got some nice nails there,” he points out as he takes a bite out of the dessert. “You match with Gojo-sensei,” he adds after a second.

You pause your appreciative smile at his compliment. Excuse me?

“Excuse me? Match?,” you prod him to elaborate.

The teenager scratches his cheek.

“Ehh, but he said the plan was to match all along. Though they don't exactly look the same”.

Your eyes tear up in embarrassment at the turn of events. You’re matching nails? You thought for definite that he would wash them off when he gets back to his room. Not only that but putting the blindfold over your eyes must have been his sly way of making sure that you don't notice they're the same colour.

Itadori shakes his hands in front of him before bowing. “I-I’m sorry (L/n)-san! I did not mean to insult the way you painted Gojo-sensei’s nails. They are a bit tactless compared to yours but that’s okay,” he apologises profusely, mistaking the root of your shame.

‘That dumbass Gojo Satoru’

#gojou satoru x reader #gojo x reader #jujutsu kaisen #jujutsu kaisen x reader #fanfiction #oneshot #I like hands duh but if i went into more detail i would get high blood pressure

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haifengg · 3 years

Text

Genre/TW: mentioning of alcohol consumption, indication of molesting

Pairing: Idol!TaeyongxFem!Reader

Word Count: 1.6k

Neither one of you was usually into turbulent or spontaneous dates. The common ground of wanting to spend your days off or maybe just nights off with some quality chill activities was what originally drew you towards each other. You appreciated Taeyong a lot for his ability to manage a loud Kindergarten-like group of people and guiding them through everything safe and sound, so you knew very well how mad his job could be. How much energy it drained from him and you were more than happy to spend your time with him recharging.

That being said, neither one of you was a huge troublemaker either. You liked having a great time wherever you went but you always made sure to stay out of trouble. The fact that Taeyong was who he was made it difficult enough to schedule date nights and actually go somewhere outside your apartment. Getting into trouble or even worse - attracting bad press was unspeakable. So you did your best to stay out of anything shady.

With all of that in mind, there still were nights like this one from time to time. Nights when friends of either one of you ask you to go out with them. Checking out some clubs or bars, enjoying alcohol and music and dance. Which is what Taeyong was truly amazing at. Even if it was just jumping in a crowded club - this aura around him would never fade.

So tonight was one of these nights. You were all dressed up, sitting in the corner of this exclusive club one of Taeyong’s producer friends invited you into because he knew what a pain dating a celebrity/non-celebrity was. At this location everyone was either well-known or with someone well-known. Everyone appreciated the selection of clientele.

A few hours had already passed and a few drinks already found there way into your system. You were dancing with Taeyong a lot, having his hands subtly roaming over your body when things got so intense on the dance floor that no one was paying attention anyways. At first you laughed it off and told to take it down a notch because even tho the club was upper class and selected customer only, there was no guarantee no one would record you, or leak anything to some sort of social media news account. But you quickly noticed that all your warnings didn’t really reach your boyfriend. He was way too caught up into the surroundings. Loud music, bass banging, crowds of raving people. The lights, the time of the night and the alcohol. It all added up to his urge of letting off steam, wiping work out of his head just for a few hours.

By the sixth song and after countless attempts from his side you finally gave in and turned around. Since you stood still in a pit of jumping people a few of them bumped into you but you paid them no mind. Instead you pulled your boyfriend in closely, bringing you lips close to his ear and whispering shouting into his ear:

“How about we just go somewhere more private?”

You pull away and observed amusedly how the expression on his face changed within seconds, as soon as he noticed that he didn’t mishear.

Taeyong nodded, strongly agreeing and shaking his head towards the door shielding the hallway and the restrooms from the main dance floor.

You softly patted twice with your flat hand on his chest before turning around and leaving towards the restrooms. He would follow in a few moments, maybe after the song finished. Just waited long enough for no one to really catch any suspicions.

The door closed behind you and suddenly you noticed how obnoxiously loud the dance floor was. There weren’t a lot of people in the hallway since most of the guests rather enjoyed what they came here for instead of hanging around in some meadow. So you shook your head adjusting to the absence of noise and made your way across the hallway, past some people heading to the restrooms. One mustn’t forget what you came here for and what you were expecting.

But when you were walking past a group of maybe 3 or 4 guys one of them dropped his drink, the glass bursting on the floor and the raining alcohol splattering across the wall and floor. You quickly turn around thinking that you might have bumped into him causing the small accident and apologised even before you could overlook the entire situation.

“I am so sorry, I didn’t mean to-“ You say crouching down and starting to pick up the shards of glass but stop immediately as you noticed that no one else was making a move to help you. Instead the men looked at you interestedly just as one of them seemed to recognise you.

“Hey, aren’t you Taeyong’s girlfriend?” He smirked."

“Taeyong?” One of this guy’s friends asked and another chimed in.

“NCT Taeyong. This SM boygroup. Yeah, I think it’s her."

“Oh look at her, she’s really pretty up close. I can see why he’s into her."

By the time he said that you had already gotten up and regained full posture just to notice that even fully standing up these guys were much more intimidating than you originally realised. “Listen, I am really sorry I spilled your drink and I will get you another one later but for now I really have to go."

Offering him to buy another drink was insanely stupid in this situation but like most of the time your manners got the better of you. Of Course you noticed how they looked at you. And of course you were aware of what dress you wore and how it make you look. “Where you gotta go?” One of them asked looking past you and smiling. “To the restroom? We’d be more than happy to accompany you. Just to make sure, you know, you don’t forget about that drink you owe my friend here."

“If she owns him a drink, I would be more than happy to pay for it but I honestly doubt that she made him drop it in the first place.” Someone said and your head spun around just to see your boyfriend being the owner of those words.

“See, that’s him.” Someone of them said, bopping his ellbow into his friend’s rips. “I honestly don’t see why so many women are into him. You’re actually real skinny up close. Your girlfriend here really deserves better and she will know once we show her what she’s missing out on."

As soon as the sound of these words hit his ears Taeyong shoved himself between you and these awful men to keep them from looking at you any longer. He reached into his pocket pulling out some random small bill that would surely be enough to cover another drink and shoved it into the drink-less guys chest pocket.

“I would really like you to leave now. I hope this will do. Now if you excuse us."

He grabbed your wrist more firmly than you would have expect him to and was about to march out of the club but one last comment from the group of strangers made him freeze on the spot.

“That’s so like you!” They laughed. “Throwing money at problems so that they go away. What an unfair world we live in. Being born handsome really is a guarantee for being successful regardless to how talentless one is."

You had never in your life seen Taeyong opting for violence and you honestly thought you never would. But within the blink on an eye he appeared in front of whoever said that and was about to place his fist frontally on to his opponents nose bridge but luckily for Taeyong the other one was quick enough to dodge his swing.

Now it was your turn to grab your boyfriend’s arm and whisper:

“Don’t lose your temper over someone like him. Your career isn’t worth it."

You pulled him away before anyone could say anything else and when you reached the door to the foyer you could hear them shouting something about how he weak he was having to be saved by his girlfriend and that all he could do was look good for money. Taeyong bit his tongue to not shout anything offensive back at them.

You on the other hand made your way cool heatedly towards the coatroom getting your jackets. In the nicest and most professional way possible you asked the lady at the counter if you may report this group of gentleman in the hallway since the not only cat-called you and threatened you but also insulted your boyfriend and provoked a fight.

Via the entire time of the two of you getting through the process of explaining everything to the security Taeyong stood by your side, still holding the jackets in one hand and your hand in the other.

Eventually you were waiting outside the club trying to flag a cab which would take you home.

“Thank you.” He suddenly said, not looking at you.

“What for?”

“For keeping me from folding this dude right there."

“Don’t thank me. I would have loved to see that. But as I said: Your career isn’t worth some fist fight in a club."

“You are tho.” Taeyong now looked at you and you could see how what those men said earlier really got to him.

Taglist

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cap-winter-barnes · 4 years

Text

Dessert Sounds Good - Bucky Barnes x Reader (2/2)

Okay lovely people, here is the second part to Dessert Sounds Good. Not quite sure where I was intending on going with this bit, was a rollercoaster to write. So here you have a bit of angst, a bit of fluff and a whole lot of Bucky.

@amisutcliff thank you again for requesting this to start with.

Warnings: none, unless you count sad Bucky?

Buy Me A Coffee

You can find Part 1 here

Retreating into the kitchen, you place the empty dinner plates onto the counter, leaving them for you to clean afterwards. Your cheeks are still flushed as you pace the tiled floor. You check to make sure you are out of Bucky’s view as you rush to the sink, running the cold tap. Cupping your hands together, you splash your face with the cool water and then using the hand towel, pat your cheeks dry. Why did he have to have this effect on you? Taking deep breaths, you wait for your heart rate to return to normal and compose yourself before preparing dessert.

When you feel the burning in your cheeks calm down, you turn, slipping on your oven gloves. Opening the oven door, the smell of warm, freshly cooked apple pie, wafts into the room. You had found the recipe online and knew it would be the perfect pick me up.

Carefully placing the pie dish down on the granite counter, you quickly remove the gloves, throwing them back in their drawer. You then serve two slices onto plates, accompanying each with a scoop of vanilla ice cream. Before returning to Bucky, you take a deep breath, picking up a plate in each hand before tiptoeing back to the table.

“Your dessert, Mr Barnes.” From his seat, at the mention of his name, Bucky’s head raises after absentmindedly staring at his hands.

“That looks amazing.” A smile crosses his face as he watches you place his plate directly in front of him.

“Shut up.” You brush off his compliment as you take your seat opposite him.

“No, seriously. This looks amazing, Y/N.”

Your head shoots up as he says your name. “What?” Bucky’s face immediately fills with panic at your reaction.

“That’s, er-,” you think of a way to explain your reaction to him without sounding ridiculous, “that’s the first time you’ve called me by my name.” The words are said so delicately under your breath that he has to strain his hearing to understand you, but he does perfectly. A stupid smile spreads across his lips as he tilts his head to see your face which is hiding behind your hair and hands. “Stop looking at me like that Barnes and just eat your pie.” Not sensing any movement from him, you raise your head reluctantly and make eye contact. “Please.” The tone of your voice loses all teasing as you plead with him.

Bucky leans back in his chair then, chuckling silently to himself as he directs his attention to the pie in front of him.

Discreetly from your seat across from him, you watch his expression as he takes a bite of pie from his fork. Bucky closes his eyes as he chews the sweet pastry in his mouth as he finishes the mouthful he stills, savouring the taste. Leaning his head back, Bucky tries so hard to hold back the tears that threaten to pool in his eyes.

“Doll, this is incredible.” Still he doesn’t look at you, but you are quick to notice the Brooklyn accent is thicker in his voice.

“It’s just a pie, Bar-“

“You don’t understand.” He’s looking at you again now. “This tastes, and I don’t know how, but this tastes exactly how my ma made it.” The glossiness of his eyes is still there as he continues to reminisce, gesticulating as he does so. “It looks the same too. God, you’re perfect, L/N. I mean, I honestly can’t believe that this tastes the same. Thought I’d forgotten what ma’s food tasted like.” A lone tear spills from his eye and runs down his cheek, as soon as he feels it, Bucky rubs it away harshly. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have-“.

He scrapes his chair back on the floor, bolting from the table and away from you to his bedroom.

It takes everything within you to hold back the tears in your eyes as you watch him go. Contemplating whether to go after him, you glance towards his slice at his empty space and then towards the remaining pie in the kitchen. The latter seemed a better option, so rushing you grab the forks you have both already used and the pie dish from the counter. Without further hesitation, you follow in the direction that Bucky had left.

Approaching his door slowly, you rap your knuckles against the hard wood. When you are met with nothing but silence, you decide that your options are to either open the door and let yourself in or wait him out. It doesn’t take much for you to know what the smartest and kindest approach to this will be. So, placing the dish on the carpeted floor in front of his door, you kneel down and then place yourself opposite his door, back pressed against the wall. You wait patiently, knowing that what Bucky needs is time and you will be waiting there for when he is ready.

Exactly twenty-two minutes since you sat down, Bucky’s door opens by an inch. When he peeks through the crack, he is met with the sight of you lightly dozing, your head lolling forwards. In front of you, placed outside his door is the leftover pie from your meal. His heart wrenches as he looks at you. No one, other than Steve, has ever been this patient with him.

He doesn’t want to disturb you, yet he knows that the position you are in is uncomfortable, he has found himself on too many occasions sat hunched over against his wall to understand. Bucky bends down and takes the dish inside his room, balancing it on top of a stack of books he has been meaning to return unnoticed to Sam. Happy that it is secure, he returns to you.

Crouching next to your sleeping form, Bucky wraps his left arm underneath your legs, hooking it beneath your knees, hoping that the cold sensation doesn’t startle you awake. He gently manoeuvres his other arm between your back and the wall. Lifting you up, Bucky makes sure that you are secure in his arms before he walks back into his room.

Moving towards the bed, that is bare besides a grey bedsheet, a result of the fact that Bucky does not sleep, he treads carefully on the floor, trying his best to not disturb you. Unsure of how to get you onto the bed, he stops for a second before he lowers your slowly. When he feels your body touch the bed, he begins moving his arms from around you, letting you go when he knows you are completely on the mattress. You stir slightly as you adjust to the feeling of the softness beneath your body. In the effort of carrying you, the hem of your shirt had been pushed up to your thighs, your legs covered in goose bumps. At the realisation of this, Bucky diverts his gaze and goes in search of a duvet.

His own duvet had been discarded long ago, after one of his first nights in the compound, after he had torn through it with his hands as the result of a nightmare during his sleep. Rummaging through his walk-in closet, he finds a cover still in its packaging, a note taped over the label in Sam’s writing. ‘You’re welcome.’ Shaking his head at Sam’s ego induced joke, Bucky reminds himself to thank him in some way when he sees the man next.

Quietly unwrapping the cover, and laying it on the floor, he searches for a sheet to put it in. Once he has one in his hands, he makes a swift job of getting it together.

Walking back towards the bed, he notices that you have rolled over, your head pressed comfortably into one of his pillows, your arm bringing it closer to your face. There is something so domestic about seeing you this way, that he cannot help but imagine what it would be like to see you like this every day. Before his mind can wander any further, he softly places the duvet over your sleeping form, ensuring that your body is completely covered.

After turning off the main light and plunging the room into darkness, Bucky takes a seat at his desk. With nothing else to do, Bucky flips the switch on his desk light, checking on you over his shoulder. He takes his most recently started book, a mystery novel, that he can guarantee he has already solved; and brings the pie towards him, grateful for the forks you had brought along.

Before he realises it, Bucky has finished a majority of the pie and a feeling of shame washes over him. He hears you begin to stir behind him, thinking nothing of it, with only a few chapters to go, he continues with his book. Hearing no further movement from you, Bucky relaxes.

“No.” Your voice cuts through the silence of the room and Bucky freezes, his book dropping to the desk. Keeping still he listens on.

“Get off of him.” Again, your words cut through the room and he knows that it’s a nightmare plaguing your mind. “Let him go.” Immediately, Bucky is up off of his chair and kneeling on the mattress. Looking at you, his heart aches, a lead weight in his chest. Your hair is matted to your forehead with sweat and there are tears running down your cheeks, eyes tightly shut. Body physically shaking with fear induced from the nightmare in your head. Bucky knows what nightmares can do to a person and seeing it happen to someone else is the most painful of all. Especially watching it happen to you.

Without thinking it through, Bucky attempts to soothe you, placing his metal palm against your temple, brushing your hair back softly. Still, your breathing is laboured, and he can practically feel your heart beating through your skin. “Please, let him go.”

“Y/N, you’re safe.” Bucky knows that you won’t be able to hear him, but he knows that ripping you from your sleep would only make things worse in the long term. “You’re safe.” Words barely above a whisper.

“Bucky! No!” With no warning, your body shoots up from the bed and if it weren’t for his serum-enhanced speed, your forehead would have collided with his. Looking into your eyes, Bucky sees the pure fear hidden behind them. He knows that look. The look that he sees in his own eyes when he looks in the mirror. He pulls you tightly into a hug, wrapping both arms around you. It isn’t the most comfortable or ideal position, with him balancing on his knees and you halfway between sitting up and lying down. But this what you need.

“I’ve got you.” He strokes the back of your hair with his hand, tenderly brushing through the strands that have become tangled from sleep. “I’ve got you.”

#Bucky Barnes x reader #bucky x reader #winter soldier x reader #James buchanan barnes x reader #mcu imagines #marvel imagines #bucky imagines

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illshowyourhurricanes · 4 years

Text

Flash: Zoom (Part one)

Sometimes, there’s this thing that happens and a request grows a mind of it’s own, and there’s nothing you can do to stop it. This is what happened here, and the culprit is @something-tofightfor, who snatched up this image prompt and made a request before anyone else had the chance:

This one is something a little differently than I’ve done before, and with that being said, it’s quite the ride, but a fun one! Here, we see Billy as a Marine, and over a decade later, as a TBI patient. Thank you for reading, and I hope you enjoy-- there’s a lot more to come in this one!

Image prompt 7: Billy Russo x reader

Rating: R for language; possible trigger warning in mentions of crime and mental health

Word count: 3530

Tag list: @obscurilicious @the-blind-assassin-12 @something-tofightfor @logan-deloss @lexxierave @madamrogers @yannii04 @gollyderek @carlaangel86 @maydayfigment @vetseras @thisisparadisemylove @malionnes @thesandbeneathmytoes @crushed-pink-petals-writes @delos-destinations @luminex3 @fireeyes-on-teller-dixon-grimes @tenhargreeves @witchygagirl @fific7

As always, if you’d like to be added to or removed from my tag list, just shoot me an ask or DM!

Billy smiled like he’d never seen the atrocities of war. He grinned, and he showcased perfectly straight, unnaturally white teeth. His expression always reached his eyes, dark eyelashes framing his lids and accentuating the slight upturning of the corner of each, the left and the right. His jaw, strong and angular, could cut glass. Billy Russo was so organically gorgeous, so naturally photogenic, it was frustrating.

“People spend all of their money and years of their lives to maybe get photographed for a damn JC Penney catalog, yet here you are putting zero effort forth and looking like this.” You stopped fanning the instant Polaroid, took one more look, and rolled your eyes, offering the photograph to Billy. “Take a look, George Clooney.”

Billy smirked and plucked the photo from your fingers, giving it a quick glance before handing it back. “Imagine how much better they’d come out if you let me buy you a real camera. What’s your brand, Y/N? Nikon? Canon?” Billy turned toward you, his palms skimming down the length of your arms. “You want somethin’ digital?”

You cocked your head at Billy. His hands had dropped to your hips. “Polaroid. Classic. I’m all about instant gratification, Russo.”

Billy laughed in a deep timbre, pulling you closer and into a lingering hug. “One day,” he spoke into your hair. “When you grow into having patience… patience waiting for me until that next time I come home… I’m buying you that camera.” His New York accent was coming through strong, and that tended to happen when Billy really believed in something. You tightened your arms that were circled around his middle and pressed your cheek to Billy’s chest, listening for his heartbeat.

As you listened to that rhythm, your face fell and your posture deflated with your exhale. You slumped your shoulders and your arms dropped from Billy’s midsection, but you continued to linger in his arms. He always made sure to speak as if coming back was a guarantee; as if fighting on the front lines in Kandahar was just a normal trip overseas. You swallowed past a lump that had formed in your throat. You wouldn’t succumb to it in front of Billy. Not yet.

He was attuned to your posture, however small the shift in the way you carried yourself may be. Billy was attentive— he knew things about you, little nuances, unconscious mannerisms or habits, why you hated steak fries but loved waffle fries. There was a file in his brain, one specifically dedicated to you. He cared about you, your well-being and your happiness… your life. And he was a part of it, an essential part, whether he knew it or not. When he was gone, across oceans and continents and hemispheres, he took that essential part of your life with him.

It wasn’t lost on you that you were long past the falling head-over-heels, missing meals because your thoughts were all- consuming, dreamy-eyed and irrevocably smitten phase of what you had with Billy. You cared about him a lot, maybe more than he cared about you. The two of you had never exchanged “I love you”s; it was very rare and circumstantial the handful of times you or Billy talked about the future. And he’d made nods toward that precarious, never guaranteed place twice in just the last 10 minutes.

Lifting your head, you looked up at him, that woozy feeling of being drunk with one look into his darkened eyes very akin to that intoxicating feeling that came with love. “I’m holding you to that, Lieutenant.”

***** *****

You’d snagged a job with a popular psychiatric publication, and you chalked it all up to luck. Between your blog, business cards, spending all of your free time (and money) advertising, and networking with anyone who’d pay the smallest bit of attention, your name had been mentioned to a person with serious media connections. A random, brief phone call during a leisurely shoot one afternoon in the park resulted in a request for a viewing of your portfolio. Deemed “supremely impressive”, you were hired for a very specific field job.

That was how you ended up at Sacred Saints Hospital, deep in the heart of New York City.

New York was home, yet you’d been away for a good amount of time, traveling to build up your portfolio. The health facility you were to feature in the job you’d be hired for was a well-known facility. Sacred Saints was expansive, offering physical health services—surgery and recovery, intensive care, extensive stay— as well as mental health services and rehabilitation. Your goal for the piece was to photograph a host of mental health-centered techniques and options while still presenting patients as “normal” human beings, human beings that were not untouchable and should not be stigmatized.

The challenge was going to be finding a balance between clear, clinical photos and those of therapy at work versus the personal aspect of mental health care. Whatever got written wasn’t up to you, but one of your niches was getting shots of moments that captured emotion: someone throwing their head back in laughter, a person staring blankly, eyes full with tears of grief. You could only hope those shots would provoke receptive emotions in their viewers. Photography was deeply personal work when allowed to be. It was also a matter of legality in many situations, and this was one of them.

You needed clearance. The publication had kicked things off by securing permissions from the hospital-- you’d been issued a temporary badge for security issues, identification and such, and being cleared to enter the wards. The rest of what was required was consent from patients being photographed. The latter was much trickier given certain mental disabilities and the quick unpredictability that came with some personality disorders and brain injuries, but it was necessary, no exception. Day 1 was mostly dedicated to obtaining patient consent.

You treaded lightly. These people were still mothers, sons, sisters, uncles, still human… still people. They had the right of integrity, and you weren’t there to take that from them; you were there to bring awareness to the public, to remind everyone on the outside that the people inside of this facility were no different than those that read the magazine… that humanity is something every person deserves and should be given.

You were satisfied with your work for the afternoon, which had been surprisingly productive. A small stack of patient consent forms had been signed, and if you could get one to two more, you could start with your favorite part of the job-- the actual photography-- the next day.

Not merely content but happy, you walked along the tile floor of the main corridor with your camera hanging around your neck. The glint of artificial light reflecting off something shiny grabbed your attention; it was a badge on a policeman’s uniform, just above his left chest pocket. You felt a sudden surge of adrenaline. Another deputy appeared from the threshold of what appeared to be the same room and your footsteps quickened, your shoulders and head held higher as you approached them. As far as you’d seen, there were no other rooms guarded by any sort of law enforcement official on the ward. Your mouth was dry in anticipation; you knew you had to get into that room, to do all you could to coerce the patient to be photographed. It was blatantly obvious they had something no one else at Sacred Saints did, and that something needed to be captured on film. With a professional nod and a smile, you greeted the policemen, showing them your temporary badge of secured access and offering a short summary of what your goal was.

“I did notice you’re the only two officials on the ward,” you added, coming toward the end of your hopefully successful allowed entry of the room to your right. You’d only gotten one quick glance through the square-paned window set in the patient’s door and the only thing you could make out was dark hair, cropped close to the skull.

One of the deputies, a short and stocky male with a no-nonsense expression, eyed you with one raised brow. “We ain’t here for fun, lady. He’s convicted of multiple felonies, including several counts of murder for starters. This ain’t the circus… though the asshole looks like a sideshow freak.” He elbowed his partner in a jovial manner, the two of them snickering.

You narrowed your eyes at both officials, a total lack of any sort of amusement apparent on your face. You were seriously doubting this level of holding guard was necessary, as if these two clowns were serving a purpose standing outside of this person’s room dehumanizing him to a stranger.

“I understand he’s a felon, officer, but the two of you seem like competent individuals.” Taking a long stride to peek more closely into the patient’s room, the taller of the guards stepped in front of you. Holding up your hand, you continued to speak. “It seems he’s restrained to the bed, his arms and legs are strapped like he’s in a straight-jacket. What harm can he possibly do in such a position?”

The steeled look you’d been given by the cop attempting to block you from entering softened marginally as you stated the obvious. The patient couldn’t move from the bed, convicted felon or not. He was utterly powerless.

“You ain’t gonna get nothin’, lady,” the first man you’d encountered piped up. “He claims he got no clue why he’s in here, don’t remember, nothin’.” This policeman’s thick Brooklyn accent gave you some sort of uneasy deja vu, but you couldn’t put together the pieces, what it was a reminder of.

“I just want to ask if I can take his picture. No coercion, a simple yes or no question. It won’t take longer than five minutes, if that long, and you can see the entire interaction if you open those blinds.” There were windows the length of the room on either side, though the view was obstructed by cheap, plastic blinds, drawn so no outside view was available.

Both officers looked extremely bored, ready for you to get out of their hair and scamper away in defeat. You weren’t giving in, and you stood even with them, brows raised just a fraction in anticipation. The cops shared an exasperated glance, and the one standing in your way moved to the side. “We can see all we need through the door, ma’am.”

Of course you can, you thought to yourself bitterly. This man doesn’t have the freedom to move anything more than his head.

“You’re wastin’ your time even askin’.” You turned your head to look blankly to the cop from Brooklyn, his increasingly stupid, know-it-all commentary really starting to irk you.

“It’s my time to waste, officer.” You managed to plaster a forced smile on your face, taking another step toward the door. “I’ll take it from here, thank you.” You spoke to the less obnoxious deputy only. Your hand already on the doorknob, you stepped inside the room within half a second, closing the door with a soft click behind you.

***** *****

He hated being strapped to this goddamn bed. He hated that his goddamn face hurt. He hated that he couldn’t fucking sleep because of those fucking dreams, and he hated every goddamn thing about this fucking place. The cops guarding his room twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week; the nurses who tiptoed around his room, terrified; that stupid bitch of a doctor who wanted him to finger-paint like he was in kindergarten; that woman who was always at the foot of his bed, just standing there and staring with a self-righteous smirk of contempt and satisfaction. All of it was a living hell, but he hated nothing more than to be strapped to this goddamn bed.

He could hear voices outside his room; the useless cops, no doubt, and also the voice of a female. Everything was muted, words muffled; he couldn't hear actual words, but he could hear sound and tone. Who was the woman this time? Was it Dr. Dumont? The mystery woman who watched him sleep? A nurse, perhaps? Whoever it was, Billy didn’t want to be bothered or provoked… but maybe whoever it was would unstrap him. He could ask Dr. Dumont, or scare a nurse into asking for him. God, he wanted to walk, he wanted to go to the fucking gym, he wanted to look outside. Anything but these same four, drab walls, the smells and sights and sounds of Sacred Saints hospital.

With a click of his door opening, in walked a woman he’d not seen before. Who is this? Billy was in thought immediately, but the question he’d asked himself didn’t unnerve him that much anymore. People were always in and out; some repeat offenders, some he’d never seen before and would probably never see again, if he had any luck in his new joke of a life. But the one person that should have been there, that was never there, was Frank-- his best friend, his brother, the only family he’d ever had. Where is Frank?

Nobody ever answered him. He just continued to wonder, to ask, to hope. Desperately, he attempted to push the question from his mind, peering at the woman who had just entered his room. At least she ain’t a repeat offender.

He’d never seen her before, and through his suspicion and wariness, he didn’t fail to notice that that she was extremely attractive. In another life, he’d stride over to her, get her number, and her legs would be wrapped around him that same night. She’d be writing beneath him, screaming his name. In another life, Billy, he thought bitterly. In another life.

***** *****

There was already a small pit of sympathy that had settled deep down in your chest. This man had obviously done some terrible things, but who knew what had been haunting his mind then, what was haunting it now. There were no excuses that needed to be made for him, but to be talked about and ridiculed by men of the law that stood just outside his door… that would be dehumanizing for anyone.

As you opened the door cautiously, stepping inside in the same fashion, you kept a shadow of a smile on your face and somehow kept it from faltering. Not because he was confined, strapped to his bed— you'd seen that through that small excuse of a window paned with plastic in his door— but because there wasn’t a man looking at you as you’d expected; it was a phantom.

A stark white, generic plastic mask was pulled down over his face, and all you could see that reminded you that this was indeed a human being were his short spikes of black hair. And as you got closer, you felt your heart quicken at the stark contrast of inky black and blinding white between eyes and mask.

You kept your wits about you, but couldn’t help but think how badly you wanted those cops to be wrong, how badly you wanted and needed a photo of this man— how this was what you felt deep in your soul that you were trying to convey. This opportunity was fated; nothing this perfect happened by chance.

Just as you spoke a hello, a loud rapping at the door interrupted your pending introduction and in walked an older woman, wearing scrubs, clogs on her feet that squeaked over the flooring with each step. She held a small paper medicine cup in one hand, a drink of water in the other. She set both down on a bedside table.

“Time to get you out of this.” She reached out and roughly tugged at the restraints, a deafening sound of the pulling back of more Velcro than you’d ever seen in your lifetime. The man in the bed pushed himself up, still not saying a word as he was given medication. “The Tylenol you requested.” With a turning of his head, the man lifted his mask just enough for a quick swallowing of the pills, still revealing nothing. As he turned back to face you, he rolled his neck to the right, then the left. You briefly wondered what the mask meant to the patient as the nurse took his trash. Nodding at you briskly, she quickly left the room, leaving the two of you alone.

The stranger in front of you was tall, the length of the bed he lay in, and rail thin— skeletal, even. There was nothing imposing about him, no danger or peril in the air. From the little you’d seen, you couldn’t imagine this man as being dangerous at all, much less a felon, a murderer. But he was quiet— so quiet. Not one utterance, one word, one sound since you’d entered the room. You wondered if this was a tactic, a technique, or a result of his TBI.

Greeting him again, you got down to business by introducing yourself, explaining why you were there. “I’m Y/N, and I’m a photographer. I was assigned to take photographs for a periodical, and wanted to ask if you’d mind if I took a few pictures.” You spoke in a professional manner, kept your voice amicable, and spoke at a volume just shy of what you considered “normal”. You felt the need to keep the patient placated, at ease, and you wanted the cops to hear nothing you said.

“I have a release form, I’d just need your name and signature, and if you choose, your photo won’t have to be captioned and your name never mentioned. I only need the information for your release. Nothing more.” You gestured to the clipboard you held, the thin stack of release forms secured there, and tried not to look as hopeful as you felt.

This could be it— the photo, the one that would give you more exposure, and more importantly, the one that would evoke emotion and draw readers in. The humanity and recognition for these patients that you were initially working to capture could very well be debunked by this one photo of a man who was desperately trying to shroud his humanness. Then again, the obvious contrast could be striking. That, however, was ultimately left up to the writer.

Your attention was captured as the man in the bed slowly tilted his head to the side, regarding you through the cut-out eye holes of the plastic mask. The color of his eyes were jarring, almost black, and they bored into you with a type of intensity you’d never encountered before. Your pulse quickened and you could feel the pounding of your heart against your chest. He’s convicted of multiple felonies, including several murders for starters. You remembered the policeman with the Brooklyn accent, his warning, and just as you felt a cold, creeping fear crawling up your spine, you remembered the rest of what had been said: This ain’t the circus, even though the asshole looks like a circus freak. Your fear twisted into determination, and you didn’t shy away from his stare; in fact, your posture shifted as you stood up straighter, never looking away from this masked man.

“You got a pen?” The voice was muffled by the barrier of his mask, the tone was deep and rough from disuse. He also had somewhat of a Brooklyn accent and his voice sounded vaguely familiar… you rationalized that you didn’t know this person, and perhaps the voice just reminded you of that arrogant prick of a cop you’d had the pleasure of meeting just outside. In response to his question, however, your triumph skyrocketed. You knew your emphatic nod was eager.

“Yes, right here.” You calmly took the few steps to his bedside, keeping in mind to not ambush a TBI patient with sudden movement. Holding out the clipboard, you referenced points of the release to be filled in with the pen he’d asked for. “All I need is your name, printed here, today’s date, and your signature here. This second box can be checked, stating you do not want to be identified as the subject of this photo at any time.”

He took the pen and clipboard and you began to toy with your camera, adjusting the focus, the drive mode, and the aperture. Your fingers were quick, working deftly, and you peeked once through the viewfinder for verification. In the silence of the room, you heard the faint sound of pen scratching over paper, and then, the clipboard was raised, pen laid on top. Holding back a beaming smile was difficult, but you managed as you were given back the clipboard, this time with a signed release.

“Thank you, Mr—“ You glanced down at the information he’d given you, and your heart seized in your chest. William Russo. It was there in clear print, block letters you recognized from your past, a signature so familiar you’d know it anywhere... the certain curving of the R and perfect circle of the O. Your stomach lurched and a wave of nausea washed over you, and then, your voice was stolen and replaced with his own as he finished for you.

“Russo.”

#dani's 150 followers event #drabble requests #image 7 #billy russo x reader

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