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well-its-not-human-anymore · 3 years

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Hi Hi!!!! So I've been following your account for a little while now and I love every single comedy bomb you drop on what you write so I was wondering....

How would the boys react to their S/O who is usually reserved when at the lair, doing a full 180 when at April's? Like they could be April's roommate or something?....

Like crackhead energy, dishing out memes and vines and literally having a duel with Casey about leftovers in the fridge?... Yeah I know it's very specific 💀

I don't know.....the idea just popped into my head but I lack the creativity and comedy skills for that...so I was wondering if you could do something with this?.....

It's totally fine, if not 😁😁

This is... 100% me. I love this and I'm gonna pour my soul into it. Also I have started mentally referring to these as comedy bombs and I refuse to stop.

Also, I hope you don't mind that I wrote these in oneshot form instead of bullet points. It just made more sense for my brain.

TMNT Oneshots

The boys with a partner whose reserved at the lair but an absolute crack gremlin at home 🤣

Donatello

Donnie may have been a man of science, all logic and facts and numbers and things. But he absolutely believed that everyone had three separate faces, you were direct proof of that theory. While the purple terrapin had known you for nearly a year you’d only started dating a month ago and it shocked him that he was still uncovering new things about you. He loved it, sure, but it had a tendency to give him figurative whiplash.

He’d always known you to be calm and collected, maybe even a bit shy. He swore you’d explode if more than one person tried to talk to you at the same time. So it wasn’t an over exaggeration for him to say that your behavior at home nearly made him break his neck.

He was only there to help April fix a bug in her laptop and to confirm your next date, he was excited to see you since you’d had no contact in person for a week because of your schedules. Just lots of phone calls and exchanged text messages. You both missed each other like crazy and your roommate had neglected to inform you that your boyfriend was coming over.

Hers was already there and he was driving you up the wall, you’d never actually thought about committing a murder but Casey was pushing you very close to the edge of snapping. And he might as well have crane-kicked you off your cliff of patience and into the rushing river of “you little fucking shit I’m gonna piss on your grave” below. You hadn’t even heard Donnie come in through the window much less his conversation with April over her computer.

All you knew was that Casey had come parading into your room like a tyrant eating the leftovers in the fridge that you had specifically put your name on. That did it. Your eyes had skimmed over the top of your textbook to meet the asshole in front of you.

“Casey?”

He couldn’t speak through the mouthful he was trying to chew and grunted in pathetic response.

“Is that my cheeseburger?”

You’d never seen a living person imitate a pug’s facial structure so well, the man’s eyes bugged out of his head and he tossed the takeout box on your desk before turning and bolting out of your room. You followed about two steps behind with a bottle of shampoo in your hand. No, you weren’t entirely sure where you’d grabbed it from, all you knew was that it was your weapon. And it quickly became a very messy problem when it missed your target (Casey’s head) and slammed into the wall, exploding on impact.

You didn’t think you’d thrown it that hard.

“April April help help help helpppppppppppppp-'' The two on the couch had looked up during the chase throughout the apartment, Donnie was mostly curious at what Casey was screaming about. Not a lot usually made the guy make that noise. He was then distracted by April grabbing the laptop and passing it to him, she then clambered over his legs to sit behind him.

“YOU UGLY ASS CROISSANT! FUCKING PANINI HEAD- IT HAD MY NAME ON IT YOU DAFT AVACADO!”

Your boyfriend almost went vertical upon watching you tackle Casey to the floor and knee him in the groin. You shook the terrified man under you and slammed him a little harder into the rug.

“Touch my shit again and I’m gonna make the beaches of Normandy look like a goddamn family vacation.”

Then you climbed off of him and stood, brushing your disheveled t-shirt off with a huff. Donnie caught your attention and you raised your head to grin excitedly at him.

“Hi Dove! April didn’t tell me you were coming over,” you practically skipped over to the couch to peck him on the cheek, “I missed ya, are we still on for Saturday?”

He nodded in complete shock, his gaze flitting from you to Casey, who was still wheezing on the floor and clutching his dick.

“Uhhh yeah! Yeah, yep, Still good for Saturday. Uhm, completely unrelated question, where the hell did you learn to grapple like that?”

You shrugged absentmindedly, already walking to the hall closet to grab cleaning supplies for the puddle of shampoo in the walkway.

“Just kinda picked it up I guess? I’ve watched you guys train enough.”

Leonardo

See, Leo had always known that you were hiding something from him. Be it your true personality or some deep dark secret. He wasn’t really in a rush to find out, you’d tell him when you were ready. The leader enjoyed your quiet disposition anyways, you gave good advice and liked to meditate with him, what more could he ask for? What more could he want?

Well, maybe if you got along better with his family, although he supposed that wasn’t your fault, you always had been a bit shy. Even six months into your relationship with him, Leo only hoped that you’d warm up to his brothers eventually. You seemed to do alright with Splinter, that was a plus for the situation. It wasn’t that you were mean or impolite to the others, you were just… avoidant. Distant, quiet, whatever word you wanted to use. You just didn’t seem comfortable at the lair.

He was excited that April had asked to host a game night though, maybe you’d come out of your shell (haha, see what I did there?) and socialize, even for a little bit. They’d all shown up a few minutes early to make sure April didn’t need help with anything, she’d assured them that everything was handled and made sure to inform Leo that you would be back shortly with Casey from your snack run. Mikey had joked that you’d ditched the get together to avoid them but they all knew it ran the possibility of not being a joke.

You unlocked the door and held it open so Casey could get inside without tripping himself before entering yourself and kicking your shoes off. Leo looked up to meet your eyes and you sent him a wild grin, your entire face lit up with amusement.

“Hi babes! Are you ready to get your ass kicked at Monopoly?”

All the poor turtle could do was nod.

“Good. I did grab drinks by the way, April there should be a mixer in the cooler bag, Donnie there’s some of that lemon lime stuff that you said you wanted to try, Mikey, orange crush as usual, Raph I tried to go for Dr. Pepper but they were out so I figured that root beer was a safe second. And Leo they had a new boba flavor that you haven’t had yet so I grabbed one. If you don’t like it then you can have mine, I just have the peach royal.”

Beverages were tossed and they were lucky that their surprise didn’t throw off their catching skills. You and April shared a quick word in the kitchen as you took your coat off and ran a hand through your hair.

After some arguments team captains were decided and Donnie nearly had a heart attack when you picked him instead of Leo or either of your friends. He even went so far as to point at himself to make sure you weren’t joking. You declared that while you loved your boyfriend his morals were too strong to be competitive, Donnie’s were not, he said so himself.

They were all surprised that you’d remembered that conversation.

It wasn’t until halfway through the game that things started getting heated, you and Mikey were nearly jumping across the table at each other. And it visibly took all of your strength to not burst out laughing when he started yelling.

"YOU KNOW WHAT? THIS IS CHEATING! YOU'RE CHEATING! GET ON TOP OF THE FRIDGE!"

April and Casey were snorting into their arms as you got to your feet and walked towards the kitchen, making a poor attempt at climbing the appliance.

"THIS HOUSE IS A FUCKING NIGHTMARE!"

Raphael

Raph had always been under the impression that you were never really 100% yourself around him, he knew for a fact that you weren’t when you stayed over. He’d never seen someone so aggressively avoid someone, except himself of course. You were his partner of almost a year and it seemed like you were never going to let your true self shine. However you did seem to lighten up when you were alone with him, he supposed that was normal, but you may as well have been a pair of old earbuds that only work when you held them a certain way at the lair.

He honestly hadn’t expected that to change tonight, not given the text that Casey had sent him informing him of April’s recent breakup with whatever guy she’d been dating. So when he climbed in through the window and saw both you and Casey sitting on the floor in front of the bathroom he really didn’t think that the words out of your mouth would be-

“April you’ve got another twenty minutes of this then I’m ripping the door off the hinges!”

Casey shot you a look and you shrugged nonchalantly before getting to your feet and walking over to your confused boyfriend.

“Hey, sorry about this. Casey only texted you as a last resort if he needed someone to stop me from tearing the door off.”

Raph found that peculiar, “Uh, couldn’t he do it himself?”

The man in question looked up from his spot on the floor.

“Nah dude, they’re crazy. Last time I tried stopping them from doing something they nearly knocked my damn tooth out while screaming, and I quote, “If you put your hands on me I’m gonna fucking rip your face off” and quite frankly I don’t have the balls to test that.”

“No no dude, that’s valid. I wouldn’t either. Babe, why are you so-”

You raised an eyebrow at him over a glass of water, “Violent? I’m not Raph. These two just have little bitch feelings.”

He found it hard not to laugh at that and fifteen minutes later when you left his side to approach the door again it sent him reeling.

“This shit’s temporary April. You’ve got nice teeth and a fat ass, stuff your feelings down!”

Michelangelo

There would never be a time where Mikey wasn’t a prankster with you, it was just simply non-negotiable. You were cool with that and he was aware, he was also aware that no pranks were to be pulled at the lair. So he’d reign it in while you visited, just for a short while. But you’d never said anything about the apartment and Mikey was a creature of opportunity.

Unfortunately Leo talked him out of it and forced him not to pull anything while they visited. The leader was already on edge so when he walked in with the others following closely behind you were the first person to see him. Your eyes caught Mikey’s instantly and you might as well have been telepathic at that moment. But you took one look at Leo’s solid, angry face and seized your moment.

They weren’t at all ready for the scream.

“GET YOUR FUCKIN’ DOG BITCH!”

And they also weren’t ready for Mikey’s response of, “It don’t bite.”

And Leo was not ready for the pillow that got whipped at his face at incredibly high speed.

“YES IT DO-”

So when Leo finally realized that they were yelling at him his mood did not improve at all and in fact declined sharply into a pit of “oh fuck”. And that was how you ended up on Mikey’s shoulder getting dragged away from any sort of repercussion for your actions.

These got a little short near the end but I hope you like 'em and I hope I was able to capture what you had in mind! 😁

-Mars 🌠

#tmnt bayverse #tmnt headcanons #tmnt x reader #tmnt leonardo #tmnt raphael #tmnt donatello #tmnt michelangelo #writing blog #writing requests #ask box #ask response

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palettepainter · 5 years

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Part 1 of the MHA NG bios! DO NOT REPOST/EDIT/COPY/TRACE MY ART OR OC’S!!! All of these guys (besides the one of the top left) are in class 1A, these are my NG’s to some of the characters in the show so bare in mind in this NGAU they’re all grown up and are pursuing jobs as hero’s or other. How did Aizawa and Mic have a child?? WITH A SPECIAL QUIRK! These characters live in a world FULL of people with powers, pretty sure there’d be one quirk that would allow two men or two women to have a biological child - also NO neither Aizawa and Mic carried her for the pregnancy. They had miss Joke carry their child, but she is in no way related to her. Kanpekina Aizawa (Meaning: Princess, daughter you Mic X Aizawa) Quirk - erasure and voice Kanpekina is a scruffy little ball of moodiness and bluntness, she has inherited Aizawa’s resting bitch face and tendency to be straight to the point on most subjects. She’s not really good at making friends so she spends most of her time alone, unlike Mic she isn’t as social as he is so she tends to shy away at socialising or hiding behind him. She’s a hardcore lover and video games and music, and despite her quite nature she can be very passionate and talkative when she’s discussing the things she enjoys (she detests her name, Mic chose it cuz he won a bet with Aizawa, if it was a girl he’d get to name her) Furōra Woods (means Flora in English, daughter to Kumai Woods X MT Lady) Quirk - Abore Furōra is a calm, propper and polite young lady, and is also one of the class reps. She’s a bit of a worrier and is the typical mum friend amongst her classmates. She gets along with most of her classmates but does tend to become more irritated if things aren’t going to how she planned. Her secret passion is ready sappy romance novels and slightly more adult themes novels her mother recommends, she probably has a whole stash of sappy romance novels hidden under her bed. Senshi Kirishima (Means warrior in English, son to Mina x Kirishima) Quirk: Acid + hardening (he can create acid and harden it to make shields or weapons, however if he tries to make a sword from his acid, it’ll just take the shape of a sword, it won’t look like a real one) Senshi is just as energetic and spunky as his parents but no where near as competitive, he takes more after his mother in the sense he focuses more on having a good time, he’s kind of a goof most days which makes it easy for others to talk to him. He likes to experiment with his hair and try different styles, it’s naturally scruffy, so he wears a bandana round his forehead to keep it out of his face. Kita Kaminari (name may change since I couldn’t think of one I liked for him, son to Jirou X Kaminari) Quirk: Earphone Jack + Electrification (he can blast his heart beat at a loud volume like Jirou, and can also use his earphones hanging from his ear lobes to take electricity from appliances, he can then shoot that electricity through his fingers) Kita is the cool kid of the class, he’s got a degree in sarcasm and smugness streak a mile long. He’s overall pretty chill but hard working towards things he enjoys, it’s very hard to shake his confidence, so he sometimes accidentally ends up sounding full of himself. Due to his parents he’s for a wee bit of a potty mouth, which can tend to get him into trouble. He loves playing guitar and drums! Due to his laid back attitude most people in his class come to him to vent off their worries, he’s a good listener and actually offers pretty solid advice. Runa Tokoyami (Means Luna in English, daughter to Tokoyami x Asui) Quirk: dark shadow (similar to her father but instead of having dark shadow leave her body, it’s more like a voice in her head that offers her guidance in a fight. Instead she takes on features of a bird when using her powers, such as having feathers spawn in her hair and have her arms turn into wings) Runa is smart and intelligent, she finds comfort in the world of books and most enjoys reading more dark stories with more adult themes. She’s been raised well by both of her parents, she is very loyal to close friends and family (to the point she sometimes tends to put others needs before her own), she physically cannot lie. It’s an impossibility for her. She’s a prefect mix of sociable and preferring time alone, she’s good at holding conversations with close friends but sometimes struggles to speak with new people. Her hobbies include star gazing, gothic fashion and, art and poetry Taishiro Toyomitsu Junior (Son to FatGum X Kumo (my OC)) Quirk: Spider + Fat absorption (Like his mother he has the abilities of a spider (just think of spider man, his powers are like his), but like FatGum he can also absorb a certain amount of attacks thrown at him and then use that energy to make his own attacks stronger) Taishiro junior, or called TJ by most, is a lot less driven then both his parents and isn’t very enthusiastic about living up to the expectations out upon him at birth by being the son to a well loved hero. His strength lies in tests and research, he’d much rather prefer to learn from a book then physical experience. He’s pretty socially awkward since he isn’t good at telling who genuinely wants to be his friend, and who just wants to be friends with him due to him being the son to a famous hero. He doesn’t strive to be number one like many of his other classmates, and is way more happy settling for a lower rank in the spotlight - as long as he makes his parents happy and that he is happy Rekkei Toyomitsu (adopted son to FatGum x Kumo, biological dad is Rappa) Quirk: Strong arm Rekkei is a troubled youth, he is reckless at times and does enjoy a good fight, but unlike Rappa he doesn’t just blindly go into a fight without a plan, he has a moral compass which he more or less knows how to follow. He and TJ has a rivalry before Rekkei came to live with Fatgum, thought it was mostly Rekkie doing the threatening since TJ didn’t want a rivalry in the first place. Rekkie eventually comes to live with FatGum and Kumo and is put into UA by his new parents. Rekkie currently attends therapy sessions to help him find new ways to cope with his anger and stress (when he lived with Rappa he just went somewhere to punch a wall till he felt better, he’s finding more affective ways to release stress) Taimatsu Todoroki (name means torch/light in English, son to Todoroki X Yaoyorozu) Quirk: Hell flame Taimatsu puts up the act of being very calm and collected, always acting as if he has everything under control and that in the face of a big exam, there is nothing to worry about. However deep down he is incredibly self conscious over his quirk, this is something he often struggles to talk about so he tends to let his emotions out in the privacy of his room. He hates being compared to his granddad Endevour for..reasons. Many people tend to make comparisons between himself and Endevour due to him inheriting his quirk, however Taimatsu doesn’t like his quirk that much for this reason, so he tends to let others take the spotlight. He relaxes by painting in his free time Yari TetsuTetsue (Name means spear in English, son to TetsueTetsue X Kendo) Quirk: Steel and Big Fist Yari is a bit of a smartass and is quite sarcastic, like his mother he’s pretty straight forward when saying his opinion and is very smug when confronted with people he doesn’t like or people who are too full of themselves. He’s the one friend that will actually speak up if he thinks they’re all going to do something that will get them in trouble. Despite this he is incredibly passionate about fighting like his father, and takes every opportunity he can to perfect his abilities.

#MHA #My Hero Academia #NG's #No ship hate #Aizawa X Mic #Kumai woods X MT Lady #Kirishima X Mina #Jirou X Kaminari #Tokoyami X Asui #Fatgum X Kumo (OC)#Rappa NG #Todoroki X Momo #Tetsuetetsue X Kendo #My OC's #Palettes art

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sollea · 5 years

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Dolorem et Consolationem Ch16

LeaIsa fic. Characters in chapter: Lea, Isa, Ienzo(, Balsam) Words: 1611 Read the entire fic on AO3

Summary: House hunting with Ienzo. Dog time!

They’d gone home to look over things and decide what homes they should actually bother going to check out. Isa sat down almost instantly because didn’t feel like going through papers while standing up. Felt too much like the past for comfort. Standing and going through paperwork was too Saïx for comfort.

“So, are any of those locations places you’d be interested in living? They weren’t ideal home locations when we were younger, but, I assure you, they’re very nice now, even if isolated from most everyone else,” Ienzo hovered over Isa’s shoulder as they looked at the papers.

Looking up at Ienzo, Isa shrugged. “It’s not as if we’re against walking to get places we want to go. The main world area is small enough that it doesn’t matter much, it’s not as if any of these homes are in the surrounding area that we can’t get to but by boat, right? Unless I’m mistaken? Lea?”

Lea had wandered from the kitchen table to the fridge a few minutes before Ienzo and Isa actually started talking about things, so when he was directly addressed, he blinked. “Yeah, what’s up?”

“Am I making a mistake in assuming we don’t mind the outskirts of town?”

“Nah, I just want a place big enough that people can crash when they visit and Balsam can be happy without breaking things with his giant body,” Lea said as he gestured to the dog sitting directly next to him while the fridge door was open. He’d opened it to get a snack while the other two were talking, bored of talk and papers. Balsam was a magnet to the open fridge, watching for any opening to steal food right out of it. “We have a fridge and some space and we’re all happy.”

“Ah, yes, that does take some of these homes out, I believe. Not all of them have had appliances installed.” Ienzo began to pull some of the papers aside, taking them away from Isa without letting him have any real say in it being taken. Isa sat back and watched as Ienzo decided which houses weren’t worth their time. Suddenly, nobody was able to do any work as a dog bounded over to the people who didn’t just eat food without giving him any.

Balsam shoved his nose against Ienzo’s leg, whining for attention after the heinous crime Lea had just committed. Ienzo looked down at the dog then up at Lea. “Did you not give him anything?”

“He’ll get fat, Ienzo,” Lea said, perched on the kitchen counter with a bowl of leftover curry. “And dogs can’t eat everything I’m eating. It’s got onions and I think garlic?”

“Of course it has garlic. It’s the curry, right? Why would it not have garlic in it, Lea? Would either of us make something without garlic?” Isa reaches down to scratch at Balsam’s head. “No curry for you, no matter how many times you ask.”

Ienzo frowned and looked from dog to Isa. “But if he’s asking for food, doesn’t that mean he’s hungry?”

Immediately after the word “hungry” passed through Ienzo’s lips, Balsam barked and bounced. Isa tapped the table, drawing Balsam’s attention back to him. Paws hit Isa’s legs and legs were turned away from the dog. Ignoring Balsam’s behavior was the only real way to get it to stop. Isa collected the papers that remained on the table and looked at Ienzo. “Well, I think we’ve narrowed it down enough. As soon as Lea puts the curry he didn’t even warm up-”

“It’s fine like this,” Lea interjected, offended by Isa’s pointed attack on his unwillingness to bother warming food up.

“It’s disgusting like that. Warm up your food,” Isa snapped. Breathing slowly, he handed Lea the papers and took the bowl away from him, shoving it straight into the fridge. “We’ll come back and you can eat that after you warm it up. You are not immune to having your food bowl taken away.”

Lea stared at the papers in his hands and sighed, shaking his head in mock-disappointment. “Wow, Isa, just stealing my food. What if I wanted to hang out here for a while?”

“We shouldn’t be keeping Ienzo,” Isa said, rolling his eyes. “Not so you can sit around and not warm up your curry.”

“I’m actually fine here, I’ve been told there’s no rush for me to come back to the lab. Apparently I’ve been overworking myself, but none of the other apprentices have been willing to tell me.” Ienzo shrugged, looking down at the dog who was again at his feet. “I enjoy being around you both, if you don’t mind me being here.”

Lea snorted and hopped off the counter, handing the papers to Ienzo. “Why would we mind? I’d think you’d mind being around us. Me.”

“Lea,” Isa said in a flat voice. The kitchen was not the place for Lea’s existential dread and guilt anymore, it tore Isa’s heart and soul to shreds to think about… things. “Please don’t.”

Lea rubbed at the back of his neck and sighed. “Yeah, okay, well.” He looked to Ienzo. “You wanna show us where those places are?”

“Ah! Yes. Yes, we can go.” Ienzo shuffled the papers around based on how close the homes were then smiled up at the two. “Can we take your dog as well? Maybe he’d like to see your possible new homes?”

“Uh, yeah, sure. Hey, Balsam, wanna go on a w-” Lea was stopped by the dog bolting for the door, bouncing happily by the place they kept his harnesses, the current one and the last one he’d grown out of that they hadn’t thrown away yet. Balsam was happily barking and Lea smiled, amused. There was nothing better to bring a person back to good thoughts than a happy dog.

Isa walked over and calmly got Balsam into his harness and clipped the leash on. “You’ve alerted the dog, we have to go now or Balsam will rip my arm off.”

“Yeah, yeah, we’re coming.” Lea gestured for Ienzo to come with him as he exited the kitchen, holding up his fingers to count down from three for Isa. Balsam had a tendency to try to bolt out of the house and he was getting too big to do that without preparation. He opened the door with his hand in fist, watching with glee in his eyes as Balsam’s excitement redirected from the doorknob to the outside world.

Isa held tight to the leash despite Balsam’s pulling until the dog circled back. He was still an excitable puppy, so pulling was all too frequent at the start of walks, so they had to find something for him to keep him from dislocating shoulders with the strength he didn’t know he had. It had been a few months since they got him, so he was getting bolder in his attempts to break the rules. It was a good thing Lea and Isa had practice with dogs from their first time as somebodies.

Ienzo watched silently as Isa got Balsam under control. Lea and Isa watched Ienzo walk up to the dog and begin to pet him, forgetting momentarily that they were doing something that wasn’t just about the dog. Eventually, he looked up at the two taller men and let out a small, “Oh,” before leading the way to the houses Isa had chosen to look at.

The first house was nothing special, it was small for Radiant Garden, far away from the main hub of life. It was furnished, so they had to keep Balsam on his leash to avoid ruining things that might not become theirs. Isa loved it, but Lea hated the idea of not having more space when they had a dog and enough friends to populate a small world. Isa eventually agreed that the small house just wouldn’t work out, no matter how comfortable it was to stand inside.

The next home was bigger, completely barren, and closer to the town they were familiar with. Technically not a stone’s throw from houses that were originally good with the upkeep, but Isa could easily make it one. After Lea double checked the doors to make sure they were all closed, Isa took the leash off of Balsam’s harness and let him roll around on the floor, quickly attracting Ienzo’s attention again.

Isa walked to stand next to Lea, leaning against the taller man with a smile on his face. “Is there any point to looking at the other places?”

“I mean, yeah? But not extensively… We both know we’re just gonna love this one, don’t we?” Lea was never sure what to do when Isa was initiating the affection, so he just stood there until Isa sighed and moved Lea’s arm back with his shoulder. They were back to being able to communicate silently, Lea knew exactly what that meant, he did it to Isa every single day. Wrapping his arm around Isa and placing his hand on the other man’s waist was more than comfortable. He was happy. They were starting their own life that didn’t include going through hell.

Isa continued to watch Ienzo play with the dog then looked up at Lea, smiling gently. “Think this can be home?”

“You know anywhere can be home when I know I’m with you,” Lea spoke quietly while meeting Isa’s gaze. “We just gotta know.”

Isa nodded and leaned to kiss Lea gently before turning back to look at their friend, the youngest that called Radiant Garden home, play with their puppy. Balsam was getting big, Ienzo was getting comfortable, and they were finding home.

#kingdom hearts #lea #isa #ienzo #leaisa #akusai #balsam #time for soft

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bitsandbobsandstuff · 6 years

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Safe with me (15)

Summary: When an unknown threat enters your life, protection is offered at the highest level. As Bucky Barnes comes into your life, the game changes, and you realise falling for the man tasked with keeping you safe is the last thing you expected.

Characters: Bodyguard!Bucky Barnes x Reader Warnings: Bad language. Extremely graphic descriptions of violence. Character death.

A/N: Well, here we go.

Tags for this story are CLOSED Link here for posting schedule

SAFE WITH ME MASTERLIST PREVIOUS CHAPTER

Previously…

“Alright then, if that’s what you want,” he steps even closer to the barrier, so close you can see the gleaming whites of his eyes. “I gave you a chance, so – just know that this is your fault Barnes, it’s all on you. I hope you remember that. In the end.”

Jack reaches behind him, grasping for something in his pocket, and Bucky crouches slightly, a snarl on his face as he settles into battle stance.

When his hand reappears, Jack’s holding a thick paperback book.

He smiles.

*****

"Do you know my favorite novel?" Jack asks casually, giving the book a small shake.

Peering around Bucky, you see a faded red cover, a worn and cracked spine, pages fat from decades of moisture and grimy fingers. A familiar title is stamped across the front.

"George Orwell, 1984. In my day, it was required reading for new recruits. Hydra's ideals, laid out in black and white. So easy, so obviously the right choice. Orwell understood perfectly. A shining example of how the world could prosper if you eliminate the temptation of choice."

"That story was satire you fucking moron. It was taken literally by arrogant dicks who were looking for a reason to be assholes," you scoff.

Bucky clears his throat quietly and pushes you behind him.

"Uncultured swine," you add, poking your head back around.

Bucky sighs and shoves you harder.

Grumbling under your breath, you press close to his back and he reaches around, capturing your fingers. Folding his thumb against your palm, he rubs small circles on your skin, his grip hot and reassuring.

"Let him talk, the team'll be here soon," he murmurs , squeezing your hand when he hears the annoyed huff.

Jack ignores the exchange, his attention fixed on Bucky.

"You know when I took the Head job, they gave me instruction manuals for you? So logical and clinical. Like a new appliance. Read them cover to cover, but they missed some important context."

Rifling through the paperback, he lands on a dog-eared page. Glancing down he finds the opening sentence and begins to recite, his voice as steady as the fanatic stare he levels at Bucky.

-----

"How does one man assert his power over another, Winston?"

Winston thought. "By making him suffer," he said.

"Exactly. By making him suffer. Obedience is not enough. Unless he is suffering, how can you be sure that he is obeying your will and not his own? Power is in inflicting pain and humiliation. Power is in tearing human minds to pieces and putting them together again in new shapes of your own choosing."

-----

There's silence when he finishes, still looking expectantly at Bucky.

"That was dramatic," you pipe up sarcastically.

"Oh my god, would you shut the fuck up," Jack finally explodes. "Or I swear to God, I'll rip your fucking tongue out, you mouthy little whore – "

"Stop fucking talking," Bucky snarls. "You don't touch her and you don't touch me. I won't play this game, it's not happening. Sooner you accept that, the sooner we can stop pretending like I won't tear your heart out the second this barrier comes down."

Jack cocks his head. "No, you won't. What I did all those years, it was right. My Soldier suffered because he was made to. I tore him apart and put him back together and he thanked me for it. He always thanked me. And he will again, because he needs it, he needs me."

"Jesus Christ. You're insane. I'm telling you with absolute conviction – you're extremely fucking wrong."

"Guess we'll see," Jack shrugs and gives a sly smile. "I saw the look on your face though. Expecting a little red notebook?"

Bucky is silent, but you feel his body tense.

"I was pissed when I heard Rogers destroyed it. Talk about great literature. But hey, doesn't really matter, right? We both know, I had those words memorized the first time I read them. Used to sing them to myself when I couldn't sleep."

"What the hell's he talking about?" you murmur.

Bucky glances over his shoulder, meeting your confused stare. Jaw clenched, he swallows hard.

"Ah, you forget to tell her that little party trick?" Jack asks gleefully. He throws you a taunting smile when you peek around Bucky. "Ten little words. Barnes hears them and all hell breaks loose. Ten little words and you can meet my Soldier. Trust me, he's magnificent."

"It won't work," Bucky warns. "I promise it won't. Your funeral if you try."

"You know Barnes, the funny thing is, I just don't believe you. So, let's see what happens."

This is it then.

In his heart of hearts, Bucky knew he'd end up here. For all his threats that it won't work, the unfortunate truth is that it will. After all this time, the words still exist, an intrinsic part of his DNA that's impossible to strip away. He's tried, God fucking knows he's tried, but every attempt was a spectacular failure.

But hopelessness is the lifeblood of creativity, and those failures gave him an idea. Steeling himself for the fall, he clings desperately to the hope that his untested and fragile safeguard will work, because he knows what Jack will ask when the Soldier arrives.

Clutching your hand, terror prickles down his spine and Bucky watches Jack's lips part, sees the tip of his tongue touching his front teeth as he forms the first word –

*****

EARLIER (6 HOURS AND 5 MINUTES AFTER ABDUCTION)

Down in the cargo hold of the Quinjet, Bucky kneels in front of him.

"No," Steve breathes. "Absolutely fucking no."

"It's not a request Rogers."

"I honestly don't care. I'm not doing it."

Gritting his teeth, Bucky looks up, heart aching when he sees the panic-stricken blue eyes. His voice softens. "I'm sorry, I really am. But you're the only one who knows them and I need you to do this for me. Please."

Scratching nervous fingers through his fine blond hair, Steve shakes his head in frustration. "You said you'd never willingly lose control again. How are you comfortable with this?"

"Christ, I'm not comfortable, but if this is the price, I'll pay it," Bucky shrugs, looking beseechingly at Steve. "I gotta try, and she – she's worth it."

"What if you can't get back Buck? What if I can't get you back?"

Bucky considers him for a long moment before answering.

"The book – it didn't explicitly say it. But there are eleven trigger words. Not ten."

Steve looks taken aback. "The hell do you mean? What's the eleventh?"

Dropping his gaze back to the floor in front of him, Bucky rubs his palms down his thighs and takes a steadying breath, but his voice still cracks when he replies.

"The first ten words force involuntary paralysis, but the whole thing depends on the final word. On the name you use," Bucky's throat is suddenly dry. "It's the word Soldier that finally activates him. Use my name when you want to bring me back, because he won't show up if you don't complete the string."

He hates this. Not just being triggered, although – sure, when someone says a list of code words that make your body go into shock so your murderous alter-ego can take over, yeah that does suck pretty hard. But what he hates more, is that Steve will see this, because Bucky knows without it'll give Steve nightmares for months.

But he's running out of options.

"I – god fucking dammit, I just – fuck, fuck, fuck! You're sure Buck, you're absolutely sure?"

Bucky barks a humorless laugh and wipes away the bead of nervous sweat rolling down his temple, trembling fingers gathering his hair in a messy knot at his nape. "Yeah buddy. I'm sure. I just need you to get me in there, I'll do the rest."

Steve scuffs his feet angrily, waging his internal battle while Bucky waits patiently, his head bowed. He knows when Steve runs out of steam, because he stops dancing around and stomps his foot.

And while he's pissed as hell, his voice is strong when he begins.

"LONGING – "

*****

Everything is muted.

Bucky opens his eyes.

The world around him is perfectly empty and filled with a soft gray fog. Looking down, he sees the blue coat and his worn boots, feels his knives and guns strapped comfortably across his body. His hands are clean white and shining silver, wiped clean of the blood and grime of battle. The mist swirls around his feet and it feels so tangible, he wonders if he could scoop a handful if he tried.

Has he been here before? It feels familiar.

Everything is muted. And then it's not.

He hears the soft creak of leather and he turns slowly.

Stepping from the mist, the Soldier stands before him, dressed in the last uniform Bucky remembers donning before that final day in Washington DC. Straps of thick black leather criss-cross his chest, plastic guards cover his knees. His dark hair swings forward, the edges framing the black mask covering the bottom half of his face.

He's drenched in tragedy.

Streaks of dirt line his pale face, dark circles glow like bruises under his eyes. Rivers of blood run down his arms, vivid lines of red dripping soundlessly into the fog rising at his feet. Even from here, Bucky recognizes the scents of gunpowder and copper, feels the aura of despair surrounding him, can taste the flavors of stale sweat and heat forever trapped in the confines of that mask.

He's drenched in tragedy and remains as he has always been. Death personified.

Bucky stares in silence, drinking in the image. He thanks whatever God will listen, that you've never seen him this way and he hopes you never will. But Bucky Barnes is a realist and Fate's a bitch with a tendency to kick him in the balls, so he crushes that burgeoning hope and embraces the man before him.

"He'll try and take you back. You know who I mean."

Bucky's voice sounds odd in his ears, the quiet statement filling the cavernous void of nothingness.

The Soldier merely watches him, blank eyes betraying nothing.

"I think I found a way. For you to stay in control – after."

The Soldier tilts his head and even with the mask, Bucky sees the skepticism.

"You know how the triggers work. How they're linked to my – to your – shittiest memories. I can't change that. But I think if you could just connect them to something else, to something happy and not so fucking terrible, it might take away his power."

A strange sound comes from behind the mask. Bucky hears the derisive snort clearly and thinks how unnerving and god damn weird it is to watch himself like this.

"Yeah I know. Your whole life's been one giant train-wreck, but things are different now. I've got a life again, friends to help me and a girl to fight for, and I need this to fucking work. I'll do everything I can to help you, and if it works, if you get hold of him - he's all yours. Take your revenge however you want. Make it slow, make it painful, make it bloody. Do your worst."

Something shifts beneath that flat, dead expression. A flash of interest.

Bucky holds up his hand.

"I'm asking for something in return. No matter what he says or what he orders you to do, you fucking ignore all of it and you – you protect my girl. You keep her safe. That's the mission. That's the only mission that matters." Bucky extends his metal hand, offering it palm up. "Do we have a deal?"

The Soldier stares unblinkingly at Bucky, weighing the proposal. Truth be told, Bucky understands the risk better than anyone. He knows the Soldier inside and out, because as much as he hates this fact – at his core, he is indeed both men. And when the Soldier lets go, when that carefully controlled rage spills out, no one is safe.

But Bucky also knows this. If the man in his mirror has any emotion left, it's this – an all-consuming lust for revenge. So, he's unsurprised when the black-gloved hand reaches forward, pressing his fingers into Bucky's outstretched palm, and giving a single nod.

Entwined in this gray world, identical blue eyes watch each other.

"I'm trusting you," Bucky whispers.

From somewhere far beyond the tepid waters of his subconscious, he hears Steve calling his name.

The Soldier fades away.

*****

When they created him, when they added the triggers, the process was simple.

As each word lands a new part of his body shuts down, sparking a psychological pain that feels terrifyingly real. He gets three seconds between them, three excruciating seconds, to fight the nightmarish memories tying his brain to these words, but he loses every time.

Every time. Every single time. Bucky has never won this game, not once in seventy fucking years.

This time though, if luck can just for once in his god forsaken life be on his side, maybe his hail Mary can work –

"LONGING."

The first word is always the worst. Scorching pain races up his right arm, the sensation of his fingernails ripped from the beds, of razor blades flaying open his skin and he takes quick, shallow breaths as the first memory hits –

-----

For three straight days, he's strapped to a chair, his shiny new arm hanging disconnected and useless, while doctors shoot icy liquid in his veins, press chalky pills under his tongue. Every possible variation of medicine is pumped into him, sending him flying to inconceivable heights and crashing him into the terrifying depths of bone-weary depression. The Soldier remembers the desperate desire to die flooding through him, his heart longing for it to just fucking end –

----

–"I want you Bucky," you whisper hoarsely, your lips still brushing his, and he swallows the confession with a shaky sigh. "I want you and I want this. I'm in, if you are." Bucky feels the heavy swell of longing pumping through his veins at your words, at the promise behind them, and he'd give everything to stay here forever –

-----

His vision returns with a slap and Bucky feels a surge of courage when the sweet memory stays in place –

"RUSTED."

His right leg crumples, an iron bar shattering his shin, and groans as he falls to one knee –

-----

"Internal wiring's rusted, I need to replace it. Don't knock it out, keep it conscious." The Soldier sits quietly in the chair while they disassemble the metal arm, dismissing the fact that each piece of the arm is connected to his central nervous system. It's surgery without anesthesia and with every jerk and tug, the pain blooms so fierce, he nearly blacks out. Without realizing, he concedes to silent tears, unaware as they drip down his cheeks until one of the techs huffs in irritation. "Is it fucking crying? Jesus Christ." The Soldier starts in surprise and then –

-----

– "Question. If you get caught in a rainstorm, do you get all slow and rusted? Like the Tin Man in Wizard of Oz?" Bucky grins when you look up expectantly from the ice cream cone. "Also, follow-up question. Did you see the original run of Wizard of Oz in theaters?"

"No to the first question. Yes to the second."

"God you're old, I'm buying you a case of denture cream for your birthday," you say, taking a huge bite from the ice cream cone, recoiling at Bucky's outraged gasp.

"What the hell's the matter with you, that's not how you eat ice cream – "

-----

Bucky sees you standing beside him, reaching a shaky hand toward him, and he snarls in panic.

"No, get back, get back, stay back – "

"FURNACE."

His command rolls into a high-pitched scream when the metal arm turns to fire, electricity jolting through it, shocking him over and over, until he can't breathe, he can't fucking breathe, he's suffocating –

-----

Flames rise higher into the black night, transforming the world into eerie shades of orange and gray. Like waves of heat from a furnace, the flash burn singes his eyelashes and melts the tips of his boots, but the Soldier doesn't flinch. He smells charred wood and gasoline and burning flesh, but he stands in place with his gun trained on the exit door, waiting for anyone still able to escape the roaring inferno –

-----

– Bucky feels you stirring beside him. "Cold," you sigh and at the words, Bucky pulls you closer, folding your patchwork quilt carefully around your neck. "You're always so warm," you yawn, words slurring together, and he realizes you're not quite awake. "Like a furnace. Giant asshole furnace."

"Thanks," he whispers, choking back a laugh –

-----

Electricity still crackles up and down the arm, but the sharp edges blunt and Bucky draws a shaking breath –

"DAYBREAK."

His left leg buckles and he slumps on his knees, dead arms dragging him down. His teeth go straight through his tongue when he moans, blood instantly filling his mouth.

"Bucky what can I do, what the hell do I do?"

Heart cracking when he hears you sobbing, he spits a mouthful of red saliva in front of him, trying like hell to focus on your voice –

-----

Daybreak. Sunlight filters through the dirty windows high above him and the Soldier opens his eyes for the first time. He feels the steady drip of blood winding down his scalp, itching at the back of his neck. Vocabulary lost in the foggy chasms of his brain, the only words he can summon are a strange set of numbers, 3...2...5...5...7...0...3...8..., so he mumbles them until they arrive again, with dirty knives and syringes full of fiery green liquid that makes him scream –

-----

– Sunlight is creeping over the horizon when Bucky pads into his bedroom and pulls up short at the sight. Curled in the middle of his bed, you're sound asleep, hugging tight to his pillow. He leaves a glass of water and a packet of pain medicine on the night stand, shakes out his favorite blue blanket. Draping it gently over you, he allows this single moment of weakness – his quiet bedroom at daybreak, filled with the soft sounds of your breath and the whisper of fabric when you roll over. He stows the memory carefully away, something nice to hold onto –

-----

Gritting his teeth, Bucky whispers the mantra under his breath, something nice, something nice, something nice –

"SEVENTEEN."

White hot pain licks up his spine, every nerve along the vertebrae igniting and the muscles in his back seize up, locking him in place –

-----

Stalking through the warehouse, the Soldier counts the bodies as he goes. One, two, three. There's a hand still twitching, so he adds another bullet. Seven, eight, nine. He leaves sticky red footprints in his wake. Twelve, thirteen, fourteen. Harsh breaths are coming from the man crawling toward the red alarm button under his desk. The Soldier lands a bone crushing boot in his stomach and kicks him onto his back. Staring down into a defiant face, he steps on the man's trachea and shoots. Seventeen –

-----

– Legs dangling through the railings, Bucky waits on his fire escape wearing a ragged green sweater. The March night is fresh and clear and cold, and he puffs out a frosty breath. When the midnight church bells begin to ring, he swings his legs excitedly. Behind him, he hears shuffling footsteps and Steve is crawling out the open window, carrying a slice of banana bread with a stubby candle jammed in the middle. Settling next to Bucky, his skinny legs slide easily through the metal rails and he pulls out a shiny silver lighter, the flame dancing merrily in the dark night. Lighting the candle, he wipes the sleep from his eyes and hands it to Bucky with a grin.

"Seventeen, huh? Happy birthday pal."

-----

The tiny flame still flickers and he feels tears leaking from the corners of his eyes and he braces himself for what comes next –

"BENIGN."

The metal plates buried in his shoulder twist violently and his left shoulder dislocates, his arm bending behind him with a sickening crunch and snapping in place –

-----

"Your orders were to make those deaths as painful as possible, why the fuck did you kill them quick? Useless piece of shit," the Handler hisses and slaps the Soldier's face. The Soldier says nothing, eyes cast to the floor. Turning to the technicians watching in amusement, the Handler narrows his eyes. "I'm tired of this shit. Zola promised me a cold-blooded killer, not some benign little pussy who can't do a simple fucking job. Wipe everything this time, clean it out completely and don't leave a god damn thing behind." The Soldier is silent as the techs lead him toward the chair and he begins to shake –

-----

– "Barnes, You're a sweet, neurotic, perfectly benign human being. Don't be nervous." He doesn't believe Pepper Potts, but here he is anyway, loitering in the back of a crowded hospital room, watching tiny humans wearing casts and breathing tubes bounce on Steve's shield. Bucky begins to relax until he feels a tug on his sleeve and looks down to the serious face of a determined little girl, her dark braids framing wide brown eyes. She crooks her finger and he crouches awkwardly next to her with a hesitant smile. Reaching tentatively for his metal fingers, she offers her own arm for inspection and Bucky sees a new prosthetic. His entire soul melts when he hears her fragile voice say, "Hey Mr. Barnes, we match – "

-----

Nostrils flaring, Bucky breathes faster and faster, and he looks up to where you stand, watching silently as tears slip down your cheeks and he tries to give you an encouraging smile –

"NINE."

Like a gunshot, his right shoulder dislocates, the harsh crack ringing through the air –

-----

This is familiar. The Soldier's been shot dozens of times, but tonight the Voice is in a mood and he asks to see how long the Soldier can go. "Count them for me," the order comes dangerously soft in the Soldiers ear and he's thankful his face is obscured so the voice can't see his fear. He hears the click of the hammer, a pause, and the force of the bullet makes him jerk when it hits his arm.

"One," he grunts breathlessly. Click, pause, boom. "Two." Click, pause, boom. "Three." Every time a bullet hits his body, the Soldier replies without fail. Four, Five, Six. It carries on, until Nine comes out as a broken sob and he begins to lose consciousness and the Voice begin to laugh –

-----

– Bucky drops to his stomach on the floor of his apartment, and peers under the couch. "I found nine of your M&Ms, how many did you have in that bowl?"

"Umm," you respond absently, opening containers of Chinese food. "Let's say nine."

Bucky sits back on his heels and shoots you an exasperated look. "They'll melt on my nice wood floors you know."

"Your face is a nice wood floor," you mumble, and Bucky really wants to be annoyed but he sees your little smirk and then he's laughing –

-----

Harsh laughter echoes off the bare walls, cold and insane and Bucky shakes his head in confusion, because his mouth is open and he's laughing but that can't really be him –

"HOMECOMING."

An invisible hand appears, wrapping around his neck, choking him as it slowly forces his head back –

-----

The Soldier gags, trying to find fresh air under the hood of the thick canvas bag. He can taste the sour smell of his own breath coming back at him and he switches tactics, inhaling through his mouth. Wrists secured behind him, he's balanced on one knee while waves of pain radiate from his crushed kneecap. This is always the preferred homecoming reward. He hears the Voice close behind him and braces his nerves for what comes next.

"Welcome home Soldier," pain rebounds through his body as the metal bar fractures his back –

-----

– The smell of sawdust and fresh paint hangs in the air, the wind from the river coaxing the scents through the open wall. Snapping the caps on two bottles of beer, Bucky hands one to Steve and collapses next to him with an exhausted groan. Stretching out his legs, he laughs when he sees the smears of paint on his feet and he wiggles his gray speckled toes. Steve grins and clinks his bottle against Bucky's.

"Not a bad homecoming."

Bucky gazes into the nearly finished apartment, swimming in contentment. Shoulder to shoulder, they lean against his balcony wall and drink in silence, the comforting sounds of Brooklyn drifting up from the streets –

-----

Bucky sees you shivering and his blue eyes are shiny as he pleads with you. "He won't hurt you, trust me, fuck, please trust me, I have a way back, I'll find my way back – "

"ONE."

His voice evaporates, as though his tongue was cut from his mouth. Lips moving soundlessly, he sneers at Jack through the barrier –

-----

"You're the one," the Voice whispers. "The one thing I'll always want. The one thing I need." The promise rings in his ears when the whip hits his back and the Soldier jolts against the restraints. The voice is in his ear again, with the same request that follows every session. "Thank me now, tell me you deserved it." The Soldier complies, an automatic response, but then the voice asks something new. "I love you," it breathes, fingers trailing down his neck. "Tell me you love me too." But the Soldier doesn't understand so he stays quiet and the Voice is enraged and the lash falls again –

-----

– "You're such a pain in my ass Bucky Barnes, but I love you too. More than you can imagine." Bucky feels his body turn weightless at the words. This was it, the one thing he needed, the one thing he wanted, and the one thing he never expected to have. The words are magic in his ears and he knows he has the silliest smile on his face, but he just doesn't care –

-----

His tongue feels like cotton and he aches to say the words one more time, just in case –

"FREIGHT CAR."

And then he hears Jack's victorious voice, he sees you falling to your knees in front of him, but his head drops forward and his eyes slam shut –

-----

After all this time, the Soldier still feels his heart race when the cold smoke of cryofreeze billows up around him. He has no real emotions, no anxiety, no desire, except when it comes to this one thing. When he goes under the nightmare kicks in, running on a perpetual loop until he wakes again. Sometimes he wonders if the dream is another memory he's managed to forget, because it feels so real. Blasts of blue light, holding tight to the fractured metal bar, the agonized wail of another voice, and his left hand strangely human, so cold and slipping, slipping, slipping, until he falls from the freight car into the icy ravine where sharp black rocks and pain are waiting –

-----

– Bucky moves smoothly, rocking you back and forth and never breaking the tight hold, making sure you stay pressed flush against him. His breath trails down your neck, he laces his cool fingers with yours, and he hums in contentment. Bending closer, his nose brushes the shell of your ear and he closes his eyes at the scent of your skin. There in that dark ballroom, the music washing over him, he feels the understanding roaring in like a freight car knocking him sideways. The world around him upends and when it rights itself, his entire life has changed –

-----

Lost in the darkness, Bucky sees bright silver coming closer –

*****

His breathing stops, the ragged panting going quiet. His chest still rises and falls, but each breath comes slow and steady. Clutching the lapels of his jacket, you give him a rough shake.

"Bucky. Bucky, come on. Open your eyes. Please, Bucky, please. Open your eyes for me, wake up, wake up, please fucking wake up," you beg, but his eyes remain closed, lips slightly parted.

The electric barriers are dissolving and Jack creeps forward. Leaping to your feet with a growl, you spin around to block his path, but in a flash, you're starring down the barrel of his gun.

"You are so annoying. Could you not ruin this for me? I've been waiting a long fucking time. Thanks."

"Well you can keep on waiting and fuck off, you absolute twat."

Jack points the gun at your feet and fires a single shot, cracking the concrete floor. Tripping backward, you catch yourself against the wall with a furious shout.

Bucky doesn't move a muscle, still on his knees, head bowed.

Jack reaches forward and places his hand under Bucky's chin, yanking it up.

"Soldier?"

Blue eyes snap open. In one fluid move, he rises to his feet, towering above Jack. It takes a second before he replies.

"Ready to comply."

Dark and shredded, his lifeless voice makes your skin crawl.

"What the fuck have you done?" you grit out.

Enamored with the sight, Jack strokes a long finger down the metal arm.

"I've fixed him," he says blissfully. "Finally. Barnes is gone, my Soldier's here to stay."

Jack backs up, eyes running over Bucky's stiff posture, assessing.

"You know," he says conversationally. "This is the first time we've been face to face. You really are beautiful."

He lifts the gun and pulls the trigger.

The roar of the gun covers the sound of your terrified scream when you see the bullet slam into Bucky's shoulder. It knocks him back with a grunt, but the vibrant blue fabric of his jacket is so thickly padded, so tightly woven, the bullet never finds flesh.

Jack sighs happily and holsters his gun. "That felt good. Just like old times."

"You're a fucking psychopath," you spit, pushing away from the wall.

"I really am just so fucking tired of your mouth, so let's get this show on the road. Soldier – turn and face her."

There's no hesitation when he spins crisply on his heel.

"Bucky, don't," you whisper.

"Left hand around her neck. God, I hope Barnes is awake in there, I really want him to see this."

The fingers are a silver blur when they shoot forward, long digits curling around your throat.

Wrapping both hands around his wrist, he is utterly unmovable. You feel the hard plates shifting under your panicked touch.

"Bucky, god dammit, please," you choke out, tears filling your eyes. "Please don't do this, please, please!"

Behind the hard blue, a shadow moves.

Yes, his touch is iron and unbreakable. But when that shadow appears, you realize something new - it is oddly gentle. His fingers are curved around your neck, but there's no pressure behind the grasp. Even stranger, his thumb is rubbing a small circle against your fluttering pulse.

"Squeeze until she's nearly unconscious," Jack orders. "And then let her breathe. I want her to focus on your face, before you break her neck."

The fingers tighten briefly, an unconscious flex, but then he relaxes, his thumb still slowly massaging.

"Bucky?" He follows the path of tears sliding down your face, watching as they splash on his wrist.

"Soldier!" Jack barks. "Now!"

Again, there's a small spasm of his fingers, but nothing else happens. The grip remains loose.

"Are you fucking kidding me? What the fuck did I just say? Do it now!" Disbelief rattles Jack's voice when he bellows the request.

The Soldier's eyes narrow at the repeated instruction and then a small smile lifts his lips.

Very carefully, he releases you.

Turning to Jack, he moves you gently behind him and the small smile slowly transforms into something hideously vengeful.

Jack realizes his mistake a beat too late and backpedals, scrambling furiously for the gun he mistakenly tucked away. The Soldier allows him to jerk it free and fire a wild shot, blocking it with a triumphant laugh. Stalking forward, he rips the gun from Jack's hand, twisting his wrist so hard you hear the bones snap in a long crackling rhythm.

Flipping the gun, the Soldier grips the barrel and swings it forward, whipping Jack across the face, the heavy handle caving in his cheekbone. Screeching in pain, he trips backward and the Soldier catches him by the throat, lifting him high in the air. Feet kicking uselessly, blood pouring down the Soldiers arm, you watch Jack's face turn red, mouth gaping soundlessly as he slaps weakly at the metal arm crushing his windpipe. His eyes begin to bulge and roll back in his head and you want to feel sorry for him, but the bruises on your face and the sound of Bucky's screams are too fresh. Huddling against the wall, you shudder at the sight.

You think this is it. This is the end.

But no.

The Soldier isn't through.

Loosening his grip, he allows oxygen to pour into Jack's lungs, gives him a momentary reprieve before crouching down and slamming the flailing body on the floor. The sickening crack of his skull bouncing on concrete is so loud, it makes you gag.

The Soldier pulls out the M9 strapped to his thigh and presses the barrel to Jack's forehead, digging the metal cruelly into the skin.

"Beg," the voice is shockingly guttural when he speaks, so different from Bucky's even tone. "Beg me for your life."

Gasping in pain, his body jerking and convulsing, Jack manages to lift a trembling hand to the Soldiers face, a solitary finger stroking down his cheek.

"Please – "

"Not good enough," the Soldier growls and he moves the gun down and blows apart a kneecap. The responding scream makes you cover your ears. "Try again."

Jack is crying now, coughing up spurts of blood and he tries again. "I love y – "

With a savage snarl, the Soldier cuts the sentence short. He pushes the gun back to Jack's forehead and pulls the trigger. Blood and fragments of bone spray his face, but he doesn't flinch, watching with relish as the life beneath him bleeds away.

The gunshot reverberates off the walls and settles in your ears, a drawn out echo that eventually fades, leaving only the frantic drumming of your heart.

Absorbed in his victory, the Soldier stays kneeling over the body.

"Bucky?"

With an effortless grace, he rises from his carnage and turns to you. There's a strange look in his eyes at the question in your voice.

Stepping carelessly over Jack's inert form, he walks cautiously toward you. Covered in blood, watching the slowly receding anger in his eyes, you can believe at this moment that he really is a different person. But then he scrunches up his nose and you see the tiny wrinkles around his blue eyes and it's so clear – it's all the same.

Bucky and the Soldier, two halves of a whole. You pity Jack in this instant, a monster in his inability to see the worth of each.

"Thank you," he says gruffly and his voice is so stilted and full of gravel, you wonder how often in his past life, he was ever allowed to speak.

"You're – welcome?"

You have no idea why he's thanking you, but it seems the only polite response.

He watches you so seriously, you see the gears cranking in his head. It seems as though he wants to say more, but the slap of hurried footsteps breaks through the web around you, and with a low hiss, he spins around, putting you safely at his back and raising his gun again.

Rounding the corner, Steve skids to a stop at the gruesome scene.

"Bucky – " the gunshot pings off his shield and Steve curses. "Fucking hell, stop!"

He tries to step forward and the Soldier sneers, lifting the gun again and aiming for his knees. Steve blocks the bullet with a frustrated shout.

"God dammit Buck!"

Bristling at the name, the Soldier evaluates the situation further and raises an eyebrow. "Your legs used to be skinny," he says roughly.

Steve looks irritated at the comment. "Yeah, thanks for the reminder. Dick."

"Drop the gun, please," you say quietly, wrapping your hand around the Soldier's forearm, trying to push his arm down. He looks down in surprise, perplexed at the insistent hand on his sleeve.

"I'm – supposed to – protect you," he says haltingly.

"You did," you reply, his words carving path straight to your heart. "But it's okay now and he's your friend."

The Soldier blinks, trying to unpick the word. Friend. A concept he knows, but one that is personally foreign.

"Okay," he finally says. "Okay."

Glancing at Steve, you see him inching slowly closer. He grimaces helplessly as his eyes flick a curious path from the Soldier to his shield to you, and Bucky's weak jokes about something the team called cognitive recalibration arrive with a thunderclap of clarity. Looking into the Soldier's newly trusting eyes, it hurts your heart.

Keeping your hand tight on his bloody blue sleeve, you hold his intense stare.

"Thank you for protecting me. I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, but I – I need him back. I hope that's okay."

Disappointment clouds his features, but the Soldier lowers the gun. This was the mission, to keep you safe and take his revenge, and here the mission ends.

Success.

He knows it's time to go, but he feels the hot pull of something deep inside at the soft touch of your hand. He doesn't quite remember who the hell Bucky is, but he thinks he must be one lucky bastard to own the memories the Soldier saw today.

Resigned to his fate, he focuses on your face and reaches tentatively for your hand. Something nice to hold onto, the fleeting thought enters his mind. You feel his fingers tangle in yours and give them a comforting squeeze, right as Steve slams the shield into his head.

*****

The world is soft and cool.

Bucky feels the gentle pressure of fingers stroking his hair. It feels so damn good, he leans into the feel. It's nice here in this meditative state, but he wants to thank whoever belongs to that soft touch. It seems like the polite thing to do. Forcing himself to swim up from the depths of unconsciousness, he kicks hard through the black night surrounding him.

Cracking an eye open, he whines when the dim light sends his pounding headache into overdrive. Every pulse of his brain makes his entire body flinch and he aches like he's been hit by a truck, but other than those minor issues, he's quite comfortable. Stretched out in one of the fluffy sleep pods on the Quinjet, his arm is curled tight around your waist, his head pillowed on your stomach.

He hums and nuzzles against you. Other than all the pesky murdering required, he thinks he could get used to this.

Brain still rattling loose in his skull, he turns himself carefully, trying not to vomit. Propping his chin on his fist, he squints up at you.

"Hi," he whispers.

"Hey," you whisper and the word unlocks a waterfall of tears. Bucky feels his headache evaporate at the look on your face, or maybe it doesn't bother him that much, so he scoots up and pulls you into his arms.

"Hey now, you're okay. Where'd that fuck 'em up attitude go?" His voice is so calm, so soothing, so completely different, you cry harder. Tracing his fingers lightly down your arm, he makes soft shushing sounds while you sob.

God you really hate ugly crying, but after everything that's happened, you deserve it.

Tears are finite though, and once your head feels good and stuffy, the well runs dry. Nose running everywhere, you dry your eyes on his dirty jacket.

"Steve told me what you did. How did you know that would work?" Wrapping your arm around his broad chest, you burrow closer to his side.

"I didn't," Bucky admitted. "I was fucking terrified it wouldn't, but I had to try."

Running your hand up and down his chest, you think of the man you met. It takes several minutes of silence before you can find the right words.

"I thought that was it. I thought you were gone," you say, so quietly Bucky strains to hear. "But when I looked in his eyes, it was still you. Underneath that, I could see it."

Sorrow fills his voice when he responds. "I know."

"No, don't do that. Don't. He saved me," you say fiercely, looking up at him. "You saved me."

He lays gentle fingers under your chin and runs a finger over your lips. "You saved me too. Because of you, I had something worth fighting for."

Reaching up, you tuck a stray piece of hair behind his ear. "You know, you're a real fucking sap, Barnes."

He grins at your words, the light back in his eyes. "So true. You like it, don't lie."

"Stop talking you fuckwit, you have a concussion," you murmur, snuggling back against him. The smell of blood and sweat surrounds you, but it doesn't matter. It smells like safety. Like Bucky. You hug him tighter. "Just shut up and sleep. I'm here and I've got you. You're safe with me."

*****

Epilogue

*****

#bucky x reader #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes #bucky #safe with me #bucky barnes fic #bucky fic

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sunsetinmyvein · 6 years

Text

Just Off the Key of Reason - Chapter Twelve - Me and My Plus One

Saturday, 28th of April, 2007 – Chicago, Illinois

This time around, Patrick at least knew why he was being ignored. He couldn’t say he was overly comfortable with the situation but this time he knew what the cause behind it was. At least he was pretty sure he knew what it was; his memory was kind of hazy up until when Joe had interrupted them. As his head hung over his toilet bowl the following morning, he tried to recall everything to the best of his ability through his pounding headache. It felt like a freight train had pushed its way through his ear canal and left a train of destruction as it pushed from one side of his head to the other, but he could make out some details through the debris. He had sent her a few half-drunken texts shortly after Pete had interrogated him about his opinion on their party planning, and unsurprisingly, they went unanswered. The night had ended not long after that, partially due to Patrick kicking people out one by one in his attempts to find her, and partially due to people actually having to go home. Once everyone had left Patrick found himself moping in his bedroom until the sun started creeping through his curtains the following morning. In the cold light of day, being forced to throw up the contents of his stomach, he was beginning to feel like maybe last night wasn’t his best decision. He should’ve known better. He should have known that it would only leave him feeling worse and wanting even more answers than he had been given. She had told him to forget it, so maybe that’s exactly what he should, would do.

Thursday, 14th of June, 2007 – Chicago, Illinois

The time gradually ticked by in their time off. Andy had a low key family get-together for his 27th birthday in late May; meanwhile Pete had another raging party in a privately hired club for his 28th in early June to celebrate getting through his 27th year on this Earth that he never felt he’d make it to. Eventually they had to start getting ready to go back on tour. The bus was hired for the month that they would need it and was scheduled to meet them in Washington after their flight. Guitars were packed, drums were neatly slipped into their boxes, and merch was chosen. Mostly that had all been sent earlier so that it could take the longer, and cheaper, way around. Interviews were had, signings were attended, promos were released – anything to make sure that people knew Fall Out Boy were coming. If the first of their two months off had been a break, the second had been intentionally made as busy as possible just to make touring seem easy in comparison. In the process of all this commotion, Patrick had found himself meeting many new people. One of whom took a shine to him, and he took a shine to her. All of a sudden he found himself with a girlfriend. A girlfriend who wanted to come on tour with him. This was unfamiliar territory for him; he’d never properly dated anyone since they started touring regularly. She was one of the people who worked in the studio, so she wouldn’t be coming on the road normally, but he had assured her that she could come along to the first two shows with him. From there she was going to meet a friend in Oregon and they’d drive home together. He was more than happy to let the excitement of the new experience keep his mind occupied.

The band and immediate crew members had crammed themselves into a row of seats at the airport, waiting patiently – or impatiently in Andy’s case – for their red eye flight to Washington. He sat there bouncing his knee as he watched the clock in the corner of the electronic poster in front of them. The time gradually counted up and up as he anxiously glanced around the waiting area for their missing bassist.

“Where the fuck is he?” He grumbled under his breath.

“He’ll be here, man. He was in that group chat with the flight times, just like the rest of us.” Joe reasoned from under his eye mask. He had decided as soon as they sat down that it was far too late to still be functioning and had opted to take a nap in the waiting room seat. But their drummer’s constant worrying had mostly prevented that from happening.

“It’s five minutes until we board. You’ve not heard anything from him?” His question fell upon deaf ears. Joe was either ignoring him or half asleep already and Patrick was too engrossed in his conversation with his girlfriend to care. He kicked Patrick’s shin across the aisle, earning an ‘ow’ in response as he attempted to rub the pain out of his leg. “Pete? Have you heard from him?” He asked again.

“No, I haven’t spoken to him since the day after my party.” Patrick glared back.

“Well, I’m going to call-” Before he could even punch the numbers into his phone, a familiar, overly loud, laugh filled the mostly empty gates.

“I told you he’d be here.” Joe mumbled.

“Are you not meant to be my babysitter?” Pete laughed as he dropped his backpack from his shoulder. Patrick felt himself tense at those words, trying to remain interested in his conversation but suddenly finding it very hard to remain focused. “I’m pretty sure you shouldn’t be giving me tips about how to get as drunk as I can on the plane.”

“You said you don’t like flying. If you’re totally wasted, you won’t even remember you did it.” She shrugged as the two of them walked up to join the group. Patrick felt the hairs prickle on the back of his neck. They hadn’t spoken in over two weeks. He had assumed that she wasn’t coming back for the second leg of the tour. The label had never mentioned her staying on for another month.

“I might also try and join the mile high club though.” He chuckled as he nudged her in the ribs.

Joe snorted loudly with a laugh, “Don’t pretend like you haven’t already.”

Eventually Patrick caved to the nagging feeling in the back of his mind and looked up at her from the waiting room chair. She was rifling through her bag, he assumed for her boarding pass. The conversation he had been having was still droning on in the background of his thoughts. He felt like maybe he should say something about where they left off, but if she hadn’t wanted to talk then, why would she now? He stared at her in a stupefied silence until eventually she looked up from her bag and met his gaze. Her eyes flicked from his to above his head.

“New hat?” She asked with an eyebrow raised.

“Uh, yeah.” He absentmindedly touched the fedora atop his head. “The other one…” He swallowed hard as he tried to force the words out, “it kept getting in the way.” He could’ve sworn he saw a blush creep onto her cheeks, but he didn’t have time to dwell on it because soon enough his girlfriend was grabbing his arm and dragging him to the gate to board their flight.

Friday, 15th of June, 2007 – Seattle, Washington

The flight was mostly uneventful. To avoid his crippling anxiety of impending doom on a metal death trap, Pete doped himself up on some sleeping pills and in-flight vodka. When he came to he was draped across a couch somewhere. He felt vaguely like he was moving, but he himself wasn’t. Was he in a car? His eyes slowly came into focus and he realised he was facing a small living area. He rubbed the sleep out of his eyes and sat up, figuring he must have been relocated to the tour bus. A little part of him wondered who had the pleasure of hauling his unconscious ass here, but given the fact that a blanket was draped around his waist and a water bottle sat at his feet, he assumed it was probably Andy. Also he wasn’t entirely sure if anyone else would be able to carry him without assistance. He glanced around the small area at the back of the bus, spying the kitchen through the aisle of bunks and feeling his stomach growl. How long had he been out? Apparently long enough that he felt that familiar sleep induced unsteady feeling settling in his legs. The bus seemed dark; it must still be early morning. All of the bunks had their curtains pulled shut so he assumed they had left him here while they all went to bed. He ambled through to the kitchen, examining what was in the well-stocked cupboards. This was a hell of a lot fancier than what they had in the past. The appliances were all chrome and shiny, there was a proper benchtop and even an oven cooktop combo. They must have either hired or purchased this bus from new. He absentmindedly wondered how fancy a tour bus kitchen would have to be before he decided they had made it as he refiled through the food supplies. He couldn’t help but snicker with the knowledge that the label had intended for this to last the whole tour. It would last a week at best.

After much consideration he settled on a packet of pancake mix, it seemed the most practical option and he was excited to use appliances that he’d never had the thrill of using on a moving vehicle before. Would it be easier to flip pancakes with the momentum of the bus? But before his hand could even come into contact with the gas dial, it was rudely slapped away.

“Fucking hell,” He squeaked in surprise as he pulled his hand up to his chest, “don’t sneak up on people like that.”

“You are banned from the gas appliances.” She ordered as she moved in between him and the stove.

“What? Why?” He tried to reach around her to at least retrieve the pancake mix but she wouldn’t budge.

“Because you have a tendency to explode things.” She explained, narrowing her eyes at him. He vaguely remembered fireworks in hotels.

“No, I don’t.” He lied. “But even if I did, how am I going to cook pancakes without a stove?”

“I guess you’ll have fun working that out.” She grinned up at him. They stood there in silence for a few moments, waiting for the other to stand down, until he admitted defeat. He groaned loudly, instead grabbing a bag of chips from the counter and moving to sink back into the couch.

The two of them decided to watch whatever terrible show was on at five in the morning in the middle of nowhere, killing time until everyone else woke up. She had gotten up early to make sure everything on the bus was working before everyone attempted to use it, at least that way they would be able to accurately tell if Pete did break anything, or if it just came like that. They’d grown a lot closer in the month or so since Patrick’s party. Anyone who was willing to assist with Pete’s antics was someone he considered a friend. He was also beginning to find her company considerably more tolerable than what it had been at the start of their tour. Even despite that every second conversation was her reprimanding him for something. After a few minutes of static silence Pete threw a chip in her vague direction. She looked over at him in confusion.

“How’s things with you and lover boy?” He asked with an eyebrow raised. She rolled her eyes.

“How’s things with you and your girlfriend?” She shot back, voice laced with sarcasm.

“Good, actually.” He nodded. The confused stare he got in response urged him to continue. “We, uh… we didn’t break up this time, we’re going to try the long distance thing.” It was still a concept that didn’t sit well with him, but he figured if Patrick could work it out, then so could he.

“Oh. Well, good for you guys. I hope it goes well.” She smiled back at him, reaching across the table to grab a handful of chips. He pulled the bag away from her as he clicked his tongue.

“Nuh-uh. Answer my question.”

She let out a heavy sigh. “That should be pretty self-explanatory, Pete. He’s on tour with his girlfriend.” Since coming back onto the tour she was trying her best to ignore the changes that had occurred in their month off. Patrick’s hair had grown out quite a bit, nearly coming down to his shoulders. He also seemed very attached to his new hat, she was yet to see him without it. In addition, and probably the most hard-hitting change, they hadn’t spoken except for their brief exchange in the airport. It was odd going from being attached at the hip to suddenly having a minimum ten metre gap between you at all times.

“That doesn’t mean shit. She goes home after two shows and you’re still here.” He finally offered the bag over to her and allowed her to take a handful.

“They won’t break up just because she goes home. Patrick’s not like you.” She laughed dryly, trying to avoid the slightest amount of hope sitting in the back of her mind that maybe Patrick was like Pete.

“I take offense to that.” He gasped. “But you never know. Crazier things have happened.” He shrugged, stuffing a wad of chips into his mouth.

“Yeah, like you being a bass player in a band when you’re terrible at it.” She grinned.

“You’re sho mean ooday.” He garbled, spraying chips over the living room table.

#Patrick Stump #Patrick Stump x Reader #Sunsetinmyvein

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foundcarcosa · 6 years

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ccc.

1. Favorite childhood book? >> (Three hundred surveys posted to this blog, wow. --I mean, over the course of nearly a decade I’ve probably filled out at least ten thousand, but.) I think that distinction would have to go to The Phantom Tollbooth. It’s one of the only books I remember owning, probably because I’d paged through it so many times. I also modified all the illustrations with pen so that Milo looked like a woman. 2. What are you reading right now? >> Condensed Chaos by Phil Hine -- more like limping through it, because I stopped setting aside time specifically for reading so I just end up grabbing a half a chapter here and there. I’ll have to do something about that. I’d started The Poisonwood Bible a while ago, too, but I keep forgetting to continue it. 3. What books do you have on request at the library? >> I rarely borrow books from the library unless they’re e-books because of my tendency to have to repeatedly renew and eventually take it back before I’m finished because I ran out of renews. 4. Bad book habit? >> Not reading. 5. What do you currently have checked out at the library? >> I don’t, for the reasons stated above. But for all the shit I talk about Grand Rapids, it has a lovely main branch, so I’ll probably end up stopping in again soon, maybe spending a few hours there for a change of scenery.

6. Do you have an e-reader? >> I have a phone, which functions as my e-reader. I also have a Kindle, but between its wack amount of storage space and its quick-draining battery, it’s been relegated to the position of glorified mousepad at this point. (It’s too bad, because I like the screen size.) 7. Do you prefer to read one book at a time, or several at once? >> Two or three at once. I think it’s interesting to see if/how they subconsciously weave themselves together in my imagination, even if -- especially if -- they’re about completely unrelated things. 8. Have your reading habits changed since starting a blog? >> It’s the internet in general that interferes with my reading habits, not just tumblr, but tumblr obviously plays a part. 9. Least favorite book you read this year (so far?) >> I quit on Cormac McCarthy’s The Road like 10 pages in, and I don’t usually do that but for some reason I got bored really quickly and couldn’t see the point in pushing through. That’s not a total vote in its disfavour because I didn’t actually form a full opinion. Sometimes I just pick up a book at the wrong time and have to wait until I reach the point in my life when I’ll need it. I’ll probably try again in a couple of years. 10. Favorite book you’ve read this year? >> I really enjoyed Reincarnation Blues, I thought it was an amazing story. I also got a lot out of M. K. Asante Jr’s It’s Bigger Than Hip Hop. When the Stars Are Right by Scott R Jones was fascinating as hell, and then of course there was my long-overdue (or maybe right-on-time, considering...) American Gods reread... 11. How often do you read out of your comfort zone? >> Occasionally. The thing is, there are so many books in my comfort zone that I want to read... 12. What is your reading comfort zone? >> I don’t know if it’s quantifiable. I like a lot of different kinds of books. I usually know within 10-15 pages of a book if I’m going to like it or not -- I try not to judge books by their covers, but I definitely judge them by their first chapter. 13. Can you read on the bus? >> Sometimes, but I generally prefer to listen to music and look out the window.

14. Favorite place to read? >> In bed. 15. What is your policy on book lending? >> I’ll give books away. Just take it, read it. Pay it forward. I don’t like to hoard books. 16. Do you ever dog-ear books? >> Hell yes, I do. They’re not a sacred object to me; their contents may well be sacred, but their contents already exist in me because I ate them. 17. Do you ever write in the margins of your books? >> Nah. 18. Not even with text books? >> I don’t use textbooks. 19. What is your favorite language to read in? >> I can only read in English. 20. What makes you love a book? >> It’s a very visceral and subconscious thing, and it’s not dependent on genre or the politics of the author or any of that as much as it’s dependent on who I am at that moment in time, what story I need to hear, and how lovingly the author told it. That sounds like it only applies to fiction books, but it really doesn’t. 21. What will inspire you to recommend a book? >> Some level of understanding of the person I’m recommending it to. 22. Favorite genre? >> I don’t know, honestly. 23. Genre you rarely read (but wish you did?) >> I wish I read more science fiction. The thing is, most of the scifi stories I love I kind of stumbled into accidentally. Whenever I go looking for scifi specifically, I run into a lot of duds (not that they’re badly written or anything, just that they’re bad for me). I’m going to try Philip K Dick soon and I hope that works out okay. 24. Favorite biography? >> I don’t have one. 25. Have you ever read a self-help book? >> Sure, but I don’t make a habit of it.

26. Favorite cookbook? >> I don’t have one. Well, okay, Feeding Hannibal is pretty cool, ngl, but mostly for the information rather than the actual recipes. We can’t afford to (or don’t have the room/appliances to) make most of that stuff. 27. Most inspirational book you’ve read this year (fiction or non-fiction)? >> Definitely American Gods, but that’s a hard-to-explain thing, lol. The Taboo Against Knowing Who You Are is a good runner-up, because as far as inspiration is concerned, Alan Watts probably had more than his fair share of it. (Do comic books count, because if so I’d like to also add in Promethea.) 28. Favorite reading snack? >> Alcohol. (But also anything I can eat with one hand, or doesn’t require a lot of, like, attention.) 29. Name a case in which hype ruined your reading experience. >> I don’t think that’s ever happened. 30. How often do you agree with critics about a book? >> I don’t read critic reviews often enough to know what the ratio of agreement to disagreement would even be like. 31. How do you feel about giving bad/negative reviews? >> A negative review is just as valuable as a positive review. I’d prefer people not be nasty in their negative reviews, but like... I also don’t have to read their review if I don’t like it. It’s not that big of a deal to me. 32. If you could read in a foreign language, which language would you chose? >> Russian, probably. I imagine untranslated Russian lit would be amazing to read. 33. Most intimidating book you’ve ever read? >> And actually finished? Ha! Let’s see... as far as length, I’d probably pick whatever the longest Stephen King book that I’ve read is. (He meanders, man. He fucking meanders. It’s great, but dear god.) As far as content, I’m probably gonna go with Atlas Shrugged. For, I mean, obvious reasons, really. 34. Most intimidating book you’re too nervous to begin? >> That doesn’t really happen to me. If I want to read something, I’ll start reading it. If it proves prohibitive to my limited ability to understand shit, then I’ll put it down and move on. 35. Favorite poet? >> I don’t have one. 36. How many books do you usually have checked out of the library at any given time? >> Zero. When I do check out from the library, I stick to three books max. 37. How often have you returned book to the library unread? >> Quite often. Usually because I ran out of time. 38. Favorite fictional character? >> YEAH, OKAY. 39. Favorite fictional villain? >> Actually that is almost impossible for me to determine because I don’t even put the “villain” flag on characters unless it’s super fucking obvious (like in a comic book) that they’re supposed to be the Token Bad Guy. I just don’t even think in those terms. -- Now that I say that, though, I remembered that Stephen King characters are written very polarised despite my personal interpretations of them, so I suppose my favourite villain is Walter O’Dim. 40. Books I’m most likely to bring on vacation? >> I don’t know, I don’t usually have time to read on vacation. Unless it’s on the plane or something, in which case I just bring whatever I happen to be reading at the time. It’s usually on my phone, anyway. 41. The longest I’ve gone without reading. >> I mean, I don’t go a day without reading something, even if it’s just articles I saw on my facebook feed. 42. Name a book that you could/would not finish. >> Fifty Shades of Grey. (I did try. I wrote detailed posts about my thoughts during my attempt to read it. They’re still on my old blog.) 43. What distracts you easily when you’re reading? >> Everything. It’s just hard for me to turn the “noise” (literal and figurative noise) of the world off in general, which is why I like it quiet when I’m trying to focus. 44. Favorite film adaptation of a novel? >> Well, LOTR. I was going to say Predestination but All You Zombies isn’t a novel. Uhh.... :/ 45. Most disappointing film adaptation? >> Good god, so many. 46. The most money I’ve ever spent in the bookstore at one time? >> Around $100, I guess. I don’t have much money in general so I try to just... avoid bookstores. 47. How often do you skim a book before reading it? >> I don’t. The first-chapter test usually works just fine. 48. What would cause you to stop reading a book half-way through? >> Boredom. 49. Do you like to keep your books organized? >> Well, we don’t own enough for a complex system to be required. 50. Do you prefer to keep books or give them away once you’ve read them? >> I really prefer to give them away. It’s just... I’m not a hoarder (I don’t even mean that in the negative sense, I just mean I don’t like hanging onto stuff I’m not actively using). I spent just about all of my adult life up until 2 years ago homeless or some version of transient and having to be ruthlessly exacting about how many belongings I had at any given time really changed the way my brain works regarding material items. I love being able to own things now, but it’s... hard to enjoy having too many objects. I get tetchy. It feels inorganic. Maybe that’ll change in the future (these things often do), but for now owning more than 20 or so books feels like an overindulgence. 51. Are there any books you’ve been avoiding? >> I don’t think so. 52. Name a book that made you angry. >> I can’t think of one right now. 53. A book you didn’t expect to like but did? >> The Fountainhead. Any Rand book, actually, because Vlad couldn’t stand her and we had such similar tastes in media that I figured I wouldn’t either. But the immense amount of annoying peer pressure from Sigma eventually got me to pick it up just to get them off my back, and..... well, the rest is hilarious “I’m in love with a crazy Russian woman who makes me want to yell at her constantly” history. 54. A book that you expected to like but didn’t? >> I don’t know. That doesn’t happen very often. 55. Favorite guilt-free, pleasure reading? >> All of it? I don’t feel guilty about anything I read.

#surveysofsamedi #surveys

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maladaptive-dreamer · 7 years

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Here are some cool paras!

Yay para-talk! [Little warning: English isn’t my mother tongue and I also never really trained it so whatever it will be absolutely awful and embarrassing but I hope you can deal with that!]

[Little A/N warning: TRIGGER WARNING IN SEVERAL AREAS.]

- Self-harm

- Sexual assault

- Drug abuse

Asher Winter - Born as Shlomo Winter is a 22-year-old student (studies business administration) who currently lives in Vienna. He shares a flat with his boyfriend Emil and the siblings Moira and Jasille whom they keep calling Rommel (for some reason which I freekin dunno) or Vanilla (since Asher and Emil are into BDSM + Asher also enjoys pup play a lot and Jasille isn’t into kinky stuff at all). Emil isn’t his only boyfriend since the couple is polyamorous. Money is always a huge problem since none of them get help by their family’s (Asher left his family by the age of 18 without ever telling them where he went, Emil can’t stand his rich and patronizing parents, Moira doesn’t get any money either because of her huge drug problem and Jasille is able to earn money himself since he’s working on becoming a musical star and does a pretty good job with that but he rarely shares his money cause in his opinion the others have to get themselves together) and are mostly ‘not working’ themselves (Asher has some pretty bad payed jobs, Emil tries his luck as street musician and Moira can’t work since she got huge mental problems after she got raped by her very own boyfriend. This trauma also led to her drug addiction). Asher is something like the 'mother of the commune’ who tries to take care of everyone. He’s known for being a little bit weird because all of his plants and also the kitchen appliances for example got names (he has the tendency to overact if someone forgets a name) and also he’s got huge problems with concentration. The explanation for him being unable to focus for 'longer’ time spans is that he’s a maladaptive daydreamer himself. One of the reasons why he left his family was in fact that they became too concerned and he felt like he’d have to leave to 'safe’ his daydreams. He mostly doesn’t recognize that his disorder has taken over his life and is also able to use his fantasy for writing since it’s his goal to become an author (which he somehow already reached since he was able to sell two of his books already but they are pretty unknown). Other characteristics are his love for platonic body contact (he’s always cuddling with/hugging someone, running his Hand through their hair etc.), his heterochromia (his eyes are ¾ bluegrey but half of his right eye is dark brown) and his calm and somewhat 'slow’ nature (him being 'slow’ is a lil connection with the village he came from since there are many jokes about how the people from there use to be dumb + slow talking etc. which isn’t true about Asher but he never causes drama so whatever). Most people also wouldn’t see him as a Dom - just as they don’t think of Emil as a Sub. Both partners are polyamorous demisexuals and are a couple since about one year or may a few months more. Anthony Bishop - Dis boi needs therapy. Born as the oldest son of a Redneck family, Anthony is pretty conservative for an 18-year-old. Also he’s mentally ill and diagnosed with major depression, insomnia, pica-syndrome (eating non-nutritive substances such as plastic, nails, cigarettes and even dirt) and also used to experience psychotic symptoms. He’s pretty autoaggressive (mostly visible through cutting himself) and his psychotherapist also thinks that he’s got a personality disorder which combines antisocial and borderline symptoms. Anthony rarely has any interests except Gore and also got a Gore blog himself on which he uploads pictures and Videos oh him torturing and killing animals which sceletons he also collects. He’s pretty aware that he’s mentally ill and also that he may die cause of his destructive behavior but he doesn't really care and also plans on killing himself a lot even if he lately found some friends and spends lots of time with them, finally learning to socialize. It also seems like Anthony will have even more problems in the future cause of his romantic/sexual orientation. He isn’t 100% sure yet but even if he’s heterosexual he’s definitely not heteroromantic which is a huge deal since he’s homophobic himself - just like his whole family. His opinion on LGBT* changed a little after becoming friends with a gay jewish dude called Yves Honigblum and a bisexual boy named Oliver Coleman but it will still turn his word upside down when finding out that he’s romantically attracted to guys only. Janosch - Also called Kurosch sometimes was part of a whole other universe somewhere in the near/not so near future. He was a 27-31 year-old rebel who fought a dictatorship together with his 'mother’ (an ex-doctor who saved his life by the age of 12-13 years and became an outlaw after she got caught stealing medicine for the poor) and her followers. He got executed shortly before the Situation escalated and the rebels won the war. Even if he went through lots of terrible things (suffered any kind of abuse from an early age, had to work as a child-prostitute etc.) he grew up to be an energetic and lovely dude who never lost his spirit. His special talent was hacking both, machines and humans which was the main reason why he became the 'leader’ of a small group within the rebel formation. His team consisted of a female gun-fetishist. a mostly mute genius, the genius’ caretaker/a moral supporter and a bomb specialist who lost his mind after Janoschs death and got killed also after committing a few terroristic attacks against the military. Even if the rebels mostly supported a somewhat communist system Janosch himself was an anarchist who just accepted leaders for the period of striking down the dictatorship. It would have been pretty interesting to see him after the war but the revolution devours all it’s children and Janosch - even if he was a kind and loyal soul - wasn’t born to live in a good world. He was there to fight and also Change something but not to get what he deserved. [So this are three of my paras, even if one of them is dead already I thought it would be interesting to read about 100% different ones. If you want more information about them, just tell me. I love to talk about my paras and their experiences/lives/stories.]

[One last A/N: “My English will be absolutely awful” aaaand cue perfect English :) I cannot describe how thrilled receiving this submission made me!! Thank you so much for deciding to share your paras :) It’s funny, Asher is my younger brother’s name...so that was a bit weird, but that plot sounds SO INTERESTING so it was all good. Honestly, I would read the hell out of that book/watch the hell out of that movie with any of these plotlines. I hope this bolsters the courage of the rest of you - send in your paras!!]

#trigger warning #paras #maladaptive daydreaming #mental disorder #daydreaming #dreaming #submission #self harm #psychosis #death #drama #interesting #cool

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bibhabmishra · 5 years

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Ghostbusters

I’ve read a lot of film books and they’ve taught me a few things about how film books should be written if they are to be taken seriously, and these are lessons that I feel are as useful in life: 1. Drop in random French phrases wherever possible so it looks like you’re quoting from the French film magazine Cahiers du Cinéma, because even if you don’t know what the hell you’re talking about, nobody will be able to tell; 2. When in doubt, start waffling on about Godard; 3. Never describe a film as your “favorite film.” This looks unprofessional and childish. Instead, claim—in ringing tones comme les écrivains de Cahiers du Cinéma—that it is the Greatest Film. Zut alors! Malheureusement, not all the French in the world could convince any- one that I am more interested in Godard than The Goonies, so that’s a non- starter. But I shall make use of one of these handy life lessons and state that the best, most brilliant, most extraordinary, the most deftly created piece of au- teur film work of all time is Ghostbusters. For pretty much most of my life, I’d assumed that this was a fact accepted by everybody: Ghostbusters is the greatest movie ever made. Sure, people tend to say random words like “Citizen Kane!” and “Vertigo!” when asked by Cahiers du Cinéma for their favorite film.

But I thought they did this just as, when asked who they’d like to have at their dream dinner party, they say, “Mother Teresa and Nelson Mandela!” as opposed to who everybody would actually like, which is, obviously, Madonna and Bill Murray. Now, one could take my massive assumption that my tastes reflect those of everyone else on the planet two ways: 1. I have an ego the size of Asia coupled with a narcissist’s complex and incipient sociopathic tendencies; 2. Ghostbusters is so good that even if it’s not everyone’s FAVORITE movie, it is probably in their top ten and so whenever I mention my love of Ghostbusters people say, “Oh yeah, everyone loves Ghostbusters.” For the purposes of this chapter, we will go with option 2. I never thought of my Ghostbusters obsession—and it is, I fully admit, an obsession—as remarkable. If anything, I saw it as a perfectly natural response to a great work of art. Devoting an entire shelf to books and articles by or about the people involved, however tangentially, in the making of this movie? Com- mendable intellectual curiosity. Spending two hundred dollars on a book about Ghostbusters that came out the year the film was released, just because it finally explains why the character of Winston is squeezed out of the movie? Hey, that’s an investment piece! Refusing to go on a second date with someone be- cause they failed to recognize a completely random (and not, to be honest, wildly relevant) Ghostbusters quote over dinner?I Well, why waste time with losers? It wasn’t until I found myself awake at 2 a.m. at the age of thirty-three on a Tuesday scrolling through eBay in search of a rumored copy of Bill Mur- ray’s original Ghostbusters script, which obviously was not going to be on eBay, that I felt it might be time to look at what, precisely, was going on here and why, after all this time, Ghostbusters still feels so special, maybe even more spe- cial, to me. There is sentimentality, for sure, not exactly for my childhood but for the city of my childhood. Ghostbusters is as much a love letter to New York as any- thing by Woody Allen, and a less self-conscious one at that, showing New Yorkers reacting with relative normality to an invasion of the undead.II Many of the jokes in Ghostbusters stem from the idea that, ghosts aside, Manhattan it- self is an out-of-control Wild West place, a Gotham city where a man could collapse against the windows of the Tavern on the Green, the ritzy restaurant that used to be in Central Park, and the diners would simply ignore him. Trash is piled on the sidewalks and Checker cabs whizz around corners: this re- creation of New York, 1984—the New York of my childhood—is still how I think of the city, even though it has, for better or worse, changed a lot since then. Even the hilarious anachronisms give me a sentimental frisson: Louis being mocked for his love of vitamins and mineral water; Ray and Peter snarfing down cigarettes while toting nuclear reactors on their backs; Larry King in a cloud of cigarette smoke while chatting drily on the radio; the bad guy being the man from the Environmental Protection Agency. These all look particularly out of date in the Manhattan of today, and I can’t help but feel the city is a little poorer for it. But my absolute favorite New Yorky moment in the film is at the end, when a doorman brings Ecto1 round after the Ghostbusters have saved the world—or at least Central Park West—from destruction. Despite having battled a giant marshmallow man, Dan Aykroyd still has a couple of dollar bills in the pocket of his ghost uniform with which to tip the doorman. You cannot get more New York than that. But there is something else in Ghostbusters that makes me sentimental, something else that I love in it that doesn’t exist anymore. That is, its depiction of how a man should be. • • • Just in terms of sheer variety, one could do a lot worse than turn to eighties movies for lessons in how to be a man. When most people think of mas- culinity in eighties movies, they probably think of that strange genre that sprouted and bulged up in that decade like Popeye’s biceps after eating spinach, consisting of men who look like condoms stuffed with walnutsIII speaking their lines in confused accents and emphasizing random syllables, strongly suggesting they’d learned the words phonetically: Schwarzenegger, Lundgren, Stallone,IV and, toward the end of the decade, Van Damme. Chuck Norris, too, can be included here, despite his lack of walnutness, but he earns membership in this group with his similar lack of obvious acting talent and strong fondness for right-wing messages in his films.V But there is more to eighties men than that. For a start, there are the men who raise babies and children (Mr. Mom, Three Men and a Baby, Uncle Buck), which some feminist critics argued at the time was a backlash against femi- nism because the films seemed to mock the idea of feminized men. In fact, in retrospect, these films look more like movies awkwardly coming to grips with feminism (Tootsie, too, can be included here, with a man pre- tending to be a woman, and occasionally looking after a child, and becoming a better person for it). Mr. Mom (1983), in which Michael Keaton loses his job and looks after the kids while his wife works, is clearly none too sure what to make of this “feminist” thing: the movie’s message is that the swapping of traditional gender roles will probably destroy the marriage and almost certainly the house (somewhat dismayingly, the film was written by John Hughes). But by 1987, Three Men and a Baby was getting much more of a handle on things. The men (Tom Selleck, Steve Guttenberg, and Ted Danson) are unex- pectedly lumbered with a baby girl and, by the end of the film, very much want her to stay with them in their bachelor shag pad, even after the baby’s dippy English (foreigners—tchuh!) mother turns back up. It turns out that, unlike Mr. Mom, they are capable of looking after a baby without causing havoc to domestic appliances (men—amirite??). The men in Three Men and a Baby are

notably much less obnoxious than les mecs in the original French version, Trois Hommes et un Couffin, who have a pact never to let a woman stay more than one night in their flat and have a tendency to call the baby “a swine” when it has an accident on the sofa. Ahh, les Français—ils sont tres masculins, ooh la la!VI Which is not to say that the American version is without its anxieties. Three Men and a Baby goes to such lengths in order to reassure audiences of the übermasculinity of the three guys, despite their TERRIFYINGLY FEMINIZED baby-raising skills, that they become hilariously camp. Peak camp is reached, for me, when Selleck goes out jogging wearing little more than a tiny pair of shorts and an enormous mustache, and he picks up a sports magazine full of photos of muscled-up half-naked men. Now, if that isn’t the definition of throbbing heterosexual masculinity, I don’t know what is. Yes, the eighties were a different time and American movies in that era seemed to think that homosexual was merely Latin for “psycho killer or flouncy interior decorator.” But nonetheless, whenever I watch this movie (which is more often than I’m going to commit to print) I think it’s a shame the director (who was the late Leonard Nimoy, very pleasingly) didn’t just go with the obvi- ous option here and make the guys gay, living in a happy yuppie ménage à trois. After all, this would explain why three apparently very solvent guys in high- flying careersVII in their thirties would choose to share an apartment in mid- town Manhattan as opposed to getting their own American Psycho–style bach- elor pads. And for heaven’s sake, have you looked at that Broadway-themed mural Steve Guttenberg paints of the three of them in the atrium of their apart- ment? No amount of references from Selleck to his love of sport can obscure the fact he and his two friends are living in the campiest New York apartment north of Fourteenth Street. These guys—the actor! the architect! the car- toonist!—are basically the eighties yuppie version of the Village People. And let’s talk about that homoeroticism! Accidental homoeroticism is yet another one of the great joys of eighties movies, and it was the last decade that would be blessed with the pleasure because from the nineties onward, gay cul- ture and references would be too mainstream and recognizable to slip past studios unnoticed. The plethora of eighties buddy movies easily and frequently tip into acci- dental homoeroticism, with the female characters being explicitly excluded from pretty much the whole film and all sorts of intense emotion between the two male leads. Lethal Weapon is one example and an even more obvious one is Stakeout, in which Emilio Estevez and Richard Dreyfuss spend an entire movie living together in faux domesticity and, in the case of Estevez, voyeuris- tically spying on his male partner’s sexual encounters. The Lost Boys is the most blatantly homoerotic mainstream movie ever made for teenage boys. In this film, young Michael (charisma vortex Jason Patric) is initiated into the manly life of a new town by going into a cave with Kiefer Sutherland and his male buddies (none of whom seems the least bit interested in the fact that a half-naked Jami Gertz is wandering around drunk- enly in front of them) and drinking their body fluids. Sure, why not, right? Vam- pires are inherently homoerotic and the director Joel Schumacher (who later homoeroticized Batman—not difficult, admittedly—by sticking nipples on the batsuit) revels in the connection in this movie in a way Twilight later deter- minedly, somewhat dismayingly avoids. Michael does at some point have what looks like deeply unsatisfying sex with Jami Gertz, but the person he gazes at with the most intensity is young Jack Bauer. And I haven’t even mentioned that Michael’s little brother Sam (Corey Haim), who dresses like he’s trying out for Wham!, has a poster on the door of his closet of Rob Lowe lifting up his shirt. Because sure, why not, right?

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not-so-secret-nerd · 7 years

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I Can Fix That

Watched Holes and got an idea. All the fluff for you guys.

“I can fix that!”

It was Holtzmann’s preferred mantra since…well, since she’d first closed her little fist around a screwdriver at five and started making “repairs” to appliances around her home. Growing up, her mother heard that more than “I love you”—only slightly more on account Jillian was an affectionate child. It began as something said with a grin that showed too much teeth, a giggle trailing on the end like a kite caught by the wind. Innocent. Welcome. Laughed at during family gatherings and awed at during community functions. It was a novelty.

But childlike innocence was not something long meant for this world. Like snow, the delicate and fragile beauty melted under the heat of forced maturity. Childhood was fleeting. The bumps and tumbles of a child, once seen as amusing or adorable, morphed into annoyances met with sharp reproaches and sometimes sharper hands—depending on the family member. The smiles disappeared, replaced with deep scowls and louder voices.

Holtzmann quickly learned that the playfulness of her mantra had to stop. She couldn’t say it with a confident smile and expect a hand not to fly at her when she took apart her uncle’s TV and forgot to solder the right wires back into place. She couldn’t roll it off her tongue with a giggle when she experimented with her cousin’s dirt bike and wound up with three leftover screws after reassembling the engine—it had caught fire and she’s caught hell for it. And she certainly couldn’t pull off a playful wince when she’d disassembled a washing machine from the inside out and the local laundromat, flooding the tiny building with enough suds to make Mr. Bubble proud.

“I can fix that,” turned into a plea for more time. For leniency. For forgiveness. Oftentimes pushed from her lips with a blanch in her shoulders and a raised hand to ward off a blow. Sometimes it worked. Sometimes it didn’t. But she always tried. Her mother and father understood. They’d birthed a curious child with curious tendencies, but the world was far less understanding when that same curious creature undid its careful stitching.

So Holtzmann tempered herself—or at least tried to. When she headed off to high school a full two years ahead of her siblings, she tried. Tried to fit in. Tried being just another face in the crowd. But always the curious itch was there, scratched only when she was in shop class birthing new creations hands covered in sawdust or taking apart appliance scraps her father salvaged from dumpsters.

Slowly, Holtzmann’s “I can fix that,” changed from a please to an offer. Her first had come Junior year in high school, a stutter making her kind gesture warble in her throat. The girl had been beautiful. A cheerleader. Of course. Holtz had seen her struggling with her car on the side of the road, steam belching from under the hood like a fog machine.

Her offer was met with wary acceptance. Jillian didn’t take it personally. People usually didn’t take her seriously. She dressed like a thrift store hobo on good days. On bad, she wore the same pair of grease-stained overalls, hair knotted at the nape of her neck, hands and arms stained to the elbows in some type of grime—oil, dirt, grease, transmission fluid…it didn’t matter.

The beautiful girl relented with a slow nod. Jillian was off like a shot, waving away sweet-smelling steam and spotting the problem in the radiator. A hole. Easily patched. She attempted chatting. Making small talk. She was okay with that, coming across smoother than she felt and leaving women flustered and blushing. It was a game. The cheerleader was no different, but Holtz didn’t overstep where she wanted, keeping the offer of her number firmly lock behind her teeth.

The girl was beautiful.

Her boyfriend was muscular.

Jillian was gay, and she was strange enough as is. She didn’t need a target on her back. Jillian was gay but she wasn’t stupid.

“I can fix that,” got her a job in town at an auto repair shop—the owner was nice enough and the guys kept their distance…mostly—through her senior year, or at least the half she was present for before being swept off to MIT with a full ride under her belt and fresh promise singing in her veins.

Standing on the campus of a school Jillian had never dreamed she’d attend, she felt small. Back in her hometown, she was known—infamous or not. She might have been known as the town crazy, but at least she had a name and people knew of her eccentricities and quirks. They might not have been wanted, but they were tolerated. Here? Here, she was no one and had no fallback. Not yet.

The first time Holtz shouted, “I can fix that!” was in the middle of Dr. Rebecca Gorin’s open lab. One of the senior students had made a tiny—it wasn’t tiny at all—mistake in calculating her current flow and wound up setting her machine and her right arm on fire. Holtz slid in like a ragamuffin firefighter, dousing the girl and the table in extinguishing foam. The machine continued to smoke and fizzle menacingly on the lab table until Jillian did what she did best. She ripped off her gloves, stuck her hands inside, and began fixing.

Five minutes later, a pair of burned hands, and one skirted lab explosion later, Holtzmann was seated in front of a mystified Dr. Gorin nursing her wounds and explaining, in detail, exactly how she’d known what to do when the math surrounding the malfunction would have taken any normal student hours to sort out.

Holtzmann gained a mentor that day and her first real taste of what it meant to be a celebrated engineer.

Over the next few years, there were many instances of “I can fix that!” Sometimes, Holtz was true to her word and mended whatever was broken, making it better than new. Making it stronger. More powerful. More sophisticated. Sometimes, it was a cry of panicked dismay as something melted down, taking all her hard work with it. Sometimes, it was whispered to herself at night when the world became too loud and she felt like all her hands were capable of doing was destroying. It certainly was like that after CERN. After watching the man she’d accidentally locked in the particle accelerator wheeled off by paramedics scrambling to restart his heart. She’d chanted her mantra like a prayer that day—a never-ending breath—up until she was dismissed from the facility and her team in shame.

“I can fix it,” no longer passed Jillian’s lips after her plane ride home. Not for a long, long time. Not even when Gorin took her into her home and tried to nurse her back into “fighting form”. Not after months of broken silence, sleepless night, crippling depression, and dark thoughts better left untouched. Not until she met a wonderful researcher working out of a rinky-dink lab at Higgins Institute of Science desperately searching for a research partner.

Holtzmann had dared to hope that day—standing in the door to the lab with her duffel on her shoulder—and that hope turned into the wildest ride of her life.

“I can fix that,” slowly started coming back to the woman. First quietly then more assertively as she found her footing. Abby was kind, caring, and most importantly patient. She loved Holtzmann’s “fixes” and oftentimes joined her in the work. For the first time, Jillian could admit aloud she had a true friend, and together they struck off into a field no one took seriously. Into the paranormal. Into the void. Into the unknown.

Five years and one hell of a New York paranormal event later that unknown birthed the Ghostbusters and a new family for Holtzmann, one she never imagined she’d possess. One so unlike her own family but oh so similar. One that was her all and everything, strange and slightly broken though it may be.

“I can fix that,” became a daily thing. Between repairing and refurbishing old tech and creating new tools and weapons for the ‘busters, Jillian’s days were filled with unlimited opportunities to show the stretch her creative muscle.

“I can fix that,” was said with a shrug and a smile, or a frown and a scratch to the back of her head. It was muttered over equipment, into bunches of wires, into the white-hot nucleus of a welding arc. It was spoken cheerily from the alley when she and her colleagues tested new equipment and the technical bugs made themselves known. Sometimes it was even snorted through shaking laughter when clearing slime away from Erin’s face.

Erin. Now there was a conundrum Holtzmann couldn’t solve. It wasn’t for lack of trying. She was ace at taking things apart as much as she was at fixing them. After all, you learned to fix through disassembly. But her disassembly of Erin left her with too many pieces left over. Parts she knew went somewhere, but for the life of her she couldn’t puzzle it out. Whenever a step forward was taken Erin would shift directions, making Holtz recalibrate herself, reworking the math in her head. But it was a challenge the engineer reveled in because what kind of scientist would Holtzmann be if she left this puzzle where it lay and didn’t try her hardest to crack the code?

Birthed from curiosity and tempered in the fires of intrigue came something altogether foreign to the engineer. Yes, Jillian had been interested in women in the past. She’d bedded quite a few. Even lasted in a smattering of what would be considered “relationships” for a time, so there was no awakening to be had here for her part, but the subtle curiosity she felt towards Erin—the befuddlement left behind when her flirting wasn’t received or the rare but welcome half-smile gifted by the physicist—morphed into something altogether sharper, deeper, and warm.

“I can fix that,” quickly became a code word for three unspoken words. Holtz would find reasons to say it to Erin as much as possible.

A broken whiteboard? “I can fix that.”

Proton gun malfunction? “I can fix that.”

Slime in the eyes? “I can fix that.”

Cut arm from a bad bust? “I can fix that.”

Sniffles from a fall cold? “I can fix that.”

Each line delivered as the situation dictated but always flavored with a little more. Maybe a kinder smile or a heartier laugh. Maybe a wink—those always got her a blush from the physicist which was a win for the day. Maybe a slow, easy nod.

Intrigue became need became want and desire. This wasn’t a game anymore. For the first time. Holtzmann actively wanted to understand Erin, to get inside her head, to be something more than just a colleague and friend. It was selfish, Jillian knew. She was gay and proud. Erin…well, there was a lot about Erin she didn’t know. Too many variables to consider. Too many places where her hypotheses could be terribly wrong and no amount of “I can fix that!” would mend the broken trust. So Holtz went about her life as if it didn’t kill her inside watching Erin from the safe length of friend. She wouldn’t disassemble this woman. It wasn’t her place. It wasn’t mutually wanted. Holtz could respect that but there was never an “I can fix that,” far from her lips.

So the night she’d come back to the firehouse—mind abuzz with modifications their proton packs were in sore need of—and found Erin hunched on the couch, Holtzmann knew in her heart of hearts that someone else’s disassembly had been done to the woman. Disassembly. It sounded so clean and orderly. There was nothing orderly about the tears leaving long streaks down Erin’s pale face, dripping off her chin when her head shot up and her glowing blue eyes caught Jillian’s. There was nothing clean about the broken fragments of her heart she cradled to her chest, freshly smashed by the man—an old colleague—she’d attempted to rekindle a relationship with. Everything about Erin was damaged and broken and fragmented, cracked and ripped and smashed to pieces, and Holtz felt something hot floor her veins.

Carefully, she set her duffle down and walked towards the woman who looked away in shame. Erin wouldn’t raise her eyes. No willingly, and Holtz was loath to make her, but tonight was different.

Standing in front of the seated brunette was the only time Jillian was taller than Erin. The juxtaposition wasn’t off-putting. In fact, it worked in her favor. With gentle hands, Holtzmann lifted Erin’s face. The physicist went willingly. She didn’t blanch when Holtz’s thumb swept across her cheek to clear away an errant tear. She didn’t draw back from the intimate closeness of their bodies. Didn’t move. Because Jillian was looking at her in a way no one else had. She wasn’t looking at Erin for what she could be. What she would be once she picked herself back up and hastily glued her broken self together and soldiered on like always. Holtzmann was looking at her as she was: broken, disassembled, ruined. She was looking at the fragments and puzzling out their placement, piecing the woman back together in her mind.

Mending. Fixing. Healing.

“I can fix that.”

It was barely a breath across her teeth, but Erin heard it as clearly as if she’d shouted. And suddenly there was molten metal flowing through her cracks and breaks, scalding her to her core, bringing the tears afresh. Not because she was hurting. She was, but healing was a painful process. At least, it always had been up until now because in that moment Erin realized like a thunderbolt to the heart what Holtzmann had been saying to her since their first meeting.

“I can fix that,” was just a roundabout way of saying, “I love you.”

The moment held for a heartbeat more until Holtz shattered the stunned stagnation by bringing their lips together. No crashing bodies. No hungry pawing. No insatiable lust. This was gentle and careful. So careful, and oh so powerful. Like colliding black holes, the mass of their gravity stalling time and space, bending it around them to fit their whims and needs. Suddenly, there’s iron forming in Erin’s unraveling star, whipping the frenzied sensations within her body into a supernova.

When at last they separate, Holtzmann had taken a seat on the coffee table in front of Erin. Though their lips aren’t touching, the physicist feels the engineer’s right hand resting over her heart like she was holding it together with her flesh and blood alone.

“I can fix this,” she says, looking at her hand for emphasis.

Without breaking eye contact, Erin covers Holtz’s hand with her own, daring herself to take the plunge into territory she’d been anxiously terrified about entering until now.

“I love you too,” she whispers with a tearful smile that’s met with a thousand watt grin.

#Holtzbert #Jillian Holtzmann #Erin Gilbert

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avecorviidae · 5 years

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Fic: Aubade - Chapter Eight

Fandom: Mob Psycho 100 Rating: M Relationship(s): Kageyama Ritsu/Suzuki Shou Word Count: 3089

Ao3 Link

The funny thing is, Ritsu definitely knows Shou, and he’s not trying to brag when he says he’d put money on knowing him a whole lot better than anyone has in quite a while, maybe ever.

Ritsu knows what Shou looks like when he’s choking back tears, knows the hysteria that edges into his laugh when he’s running on no sleep, knows about his favourite movies, about the pet hamster he’d had when he was ten, knows that his mother used to tell him stories to make him sit still in the bath. He’s faced up against psychic apocalypses with him, written essays for him, has probably been dragged across every street in Seasoning five times over just talking to him.

He’s sat beside him on a pile of debris, far enough away from the city center that they wouldn’t be bothered by the news crews puttering about, filming pieces about a nationwide tragedy and talks of a memorial site, reciting lines about rising death tolls and search crews. He remembers the tremor in Shou’s hands, in his voice, when he’d said, I don’t think I’m ever gonna see my dad again, and above all, remembers the unguarded relief in his laugh when Ritsu had immediately said, Good fucking riddance.

So yeah, he knows Shou.

Therefore it’s naturally surprising when the first few weeks of living with him turn into an exercise in the ways that he apparently doesn’t.

Shou drifts into the living room one afternoon and grabs his wallet off of the coffee table, says, “Hey, I’m going out, wanna come?” And Ritsu would, except that he keeps getting these really worrying emails from the school about some paperwork that he’s definitely already filled out and turned in, except some fucking genius has apparently gone and lost it, and he tells Shou so. He winces in sympathy and gives him a hissed “Good luck, dude,” before leaving.

Between the paperwork and getting caught up grovelling with this one professor to make space in her psych class that Ritsu’s been dying to take, he’s been a little distracted the past few days, but he’s pretty sure he’s not imagining the fact that things keep appearing in their kitchen. Like, he’d convinced himself that maybe he’d just forgotten one of them buying the flour, the olive oil, even the garlic cloves he finds in the pantry, but he can’t quite resolve memory blanks with the fucking blender and toaster oven that seem to will themselves into existence on the countertop.

And he’d ask Shou about it, right, except that once the jetlag had worn off, Shou’s naturally nocturnal sleep schedule had reasserted itself, so more and more Ritsu’s mostly catching him in the afternoon and the evening, by which point just talking to Shou about whatever’s going on that day takes precedent over bringing up the little spontaneous appliance phenomenon in their kitchen. Honestly, he’s seen weirder.

It’s about four in the afternoon and he’s curled up on the sofa with a book when he finally hears Shou’s bedroom door open and close, and then footsteps in the hallway.

“Morning,” he calls out. “Should I order pizza for dinner?” Which is… kind of a chronological contradiction, but it’s one Ritsu’s chosen to embrace.

“Nah, don’t worry about it,” Shou answers, appearing in the doorway, and Ritsu blinks in surprise when he realizes that he’s already fully clothed. He’d become intimately acquainted with the sight of Shou wandering around the apartment in boxers and old shirts, moaning about how hard it was to shower and get dressed, and god, Ritsu, we can’t all be functioning adults, jeez.

A wide grin and then Shou’s gone again, and about ten minutes later, Ritsu starts hearing odd noises from the kitchen. There’s a distinctly metallic clutter, and at first he figures Shou’s probably dropped something, but then there’s the sounds of the fridge opening and closing a couple of times, cabinets clattering shut, and then beeping, of all things.

Ritsu glances down at his book, considering. It’s poetry, and not of the sort that he’d usually pick up on his own, but someone had warned him it was assigned reading for next year, and he’s intimately acquainted with professors’ tendencies to assign more and more reading during the busiest parts of the year. Better, he’s thinking, to have read it over summer and have a distant memory of it, than to have not read it at all and be four chapters behind with an essay due in three other classes.

The rustling in the kitchen abruptly switches to the sound of a very persistent SWAT team who forgot their battering ram at home and decided to use a hammer.

Ritsu looks down at the poetry book again.

It’s, well, it’s bad.

He’s more than willing to let himself be distracted.

In the kitchen, Shou is–

Ritsu raises his voice over the din. “What the hell are you doing, Suzuki?”

Shou looks up at him, unidentified hammer-like object still raised in mid-swing. There’s a hanging moment of dead, charged silence where Ritsu watches Shou’s eyes dart to the thing in his hands, down to the pink wrapped package on the counter, and back to Ritsu.

“I’m beating my me–”

“I will murder you if you finish that sentence. ”

Shou makes a face, tongue out, but corrects haughtily, “I am tenderizing my chicken.” He whacks the chicken on the counter lightly for emphasis. Ritsu elects to take the high road and not point out that it still somehow sounds alarmingly sexual when he puts it like that.

Shou’s “This is gonna be loud” is Ritsu’s only warning before he goes back to pounding.

Their kitchen isn’t massive, but it’s a decent size for an apartment, large enough that there’s a small island countertop up against the wall, and space for a couple of barstools. Ritsu hops up on one, surveying Shou’s work.

It looks like a disorganized disaster to his eyes. Every countertop is covered with a detritus of spilled flour and egg shells, bowls and utensils strewn about everywhere. Shou’s only been in the kitchen for about fifteen minutes, but Ritsu can’t tell how much of this stuff is already dirty and how much is yet to be used.

They’ve been pretty good about splitting the dishes evenly so far, but Ritsu’s already decided that this is Shou’s mess to clean up, entirely.

After what feels like an eternity of Shou going at his chicken with what, upon closer inspection, is a large spiked mallet that may be the most intimidating thing Ritsu has ever seen, Shou finally holds up his newly flattened chicken, grinning at Ritsu in satisfaction.

“Lovely,” Ritsu says, raising an eyebrow. “Should I tell the neighbours they can call off the noise complaints?” For once, Shou doesn’t rise to the bait and give him a response. He’s glancing over his shoulder distractedly, and Ritsu watches his eyebrows furrow, then tastes metal on his tongue as Shou absently gestures with one hand. For a split second, the air in the room hangs on a precipice, sharp and sweet and making Ritsu’s skin dance in anticipation. The kitchen jumps to life in a haze of glowing orange.

Ritsu blinks, and it takes him a few moments to grasp the movements of the intricate dance Shou’s choreographed. The chicken is now nudging itself to the side, fighting for counter space with a couple of bowls floating over from by the sink, one of which sends up a small puff of flour when it lands. He watches Shou weave his way towards the microwave, leaning easily to dodge the high-speed projectiles that come flying out of the fridge. He gets a little lost in it, watching dumbly as eggs crack themselves into the empty bowl, while on the other side of the kitchen Shou’s doing something with a cheese grater and a tray of toasted breadcrumbs. A knob on the stove clicks, a frying pan goes shooting over Shou’s head and settles on one of the burners, all the while a fork is doing its best to beat the eggs into oblivion, sending little flecks flying out of the bowl from sheer aggression. Shou appears back in front of Ritsu with his breadcrumbs in hand, as a small plastic-wrapped sphere makes its way from the freezer to the counter, settling itself politely just in front of Ritsu.

Just like a fucking Disney movie, he thinks, somewhat horrified, staring at the little bundle of… butter? He’s half expecting it to burst into song.

He feels it the second Shou drops his control, hadn’t quite noticed how thoroughly his aura had been spreading through the room until the warmth started to recede, seeping from his skin like he’s just stepped out of broad daylight into the shade. And yeah, they’re at the point in summer where even with the air conditioning blasting they’re both feeling worn out and hazy in the heat, but Ritsu still finds himself flipping his wrist on the countertop, watching as the last of Shou’s aura lingers on his fingertips, and still finds himself missing it a little once it’s gone.

The pinprick tingling that’s left on his palms is both foreign and familiar, echoes of being fourteen and trying to figure out why it felt weird and different when Shou grabbed his wrist or threw an arm around his shoulders, trying to get used to the feeling of an unfamiliar aura in his space. There’s this odd sort of pang in his chest when he realizes he’s barely touched Shou since they moved in, despite the constant proximity. It honestly hadn’t even occurred to him, and he’s so used to Shou being the one who comes to him… Well, maybe being around him so much meant that it wasn’t occurring to Shou either.

He shakes himself, looks up to see Shou, nose scrunched in concentration and the corners of his mouth twitching downwards as scoops spoonfuls of the butter ball into the center of each piece of chicken and wraps it around, then carefully rolling each bundle in the flour bowl, the egg bowl, and the breadcrumbs. Ritsu has to squint, tilt his head to see his aura clinging to him, distorting the air like heat off of a stove.

Ritsu’s distracted, off in his own thoughts, but he still finds himself leaning forward on his forearms, asking, “What are you making?” Shou glances up briefly to make eye contact, smiles at him, looks back down. “Chicken kiev,” he replies, a little distantly. “It’s tenderized chicken breast filled with garlic butter, breaded, fried, then baked.” A pause, then he adds, “Or at least, that’s how I’ve always made it. I dunno, it’s not exactly a family recipe passed down to me from an old babushka or anything, this could totally be a cultural disaster if I ever made this for a Russian.”

“I’ll tell Sergei to stay home then,” Ritsu quips, and holy shit is he grateful for his reflexive sarcasm because he really needs to be able to stall while his brain comes back online. Or at least, to tell himself not to be an idiot, because watching his best friend breading chicken should not be a severely existential crisis-inducing event.

Even so, it’s not until Shou’s floated everything over to the oven and started dropping chicken in the pan that Ritsu finally manages to ask, “So you cook?”

Shou nudges him with his elbow – Ritsu had wandered further into the kitchen, found himself squeezed between Shou and the corner of the room, leaning against the counter beside the stove – and laughs. “I mean, yeah, dude. I’ve been living alone for like, a while, and like, don’t get me wrong, I’d probably die for a bowl of ramen if it asked me to, but the takeout stuff gets gross after a while.”

So, don’t get Ritsu wrong here, it’s not like he thought Shou was functionally useless at being independent or anything. It’s more that, well, he just hadn’t thought, and his past year of living off of shitty college student food and six years of just kind of assuming he and Shou were on the same level until proven otherwise had chosen to fill in the blanks. Again, he tries to tell himself, this shouldn’t really be such a stunning revelation, or even as weirdly charming as it is.

And the heat of the kitchen is hazy and overbearing, full of cooking smells and fading sunlight and frankly, Ritsu thinks he can be excused his moment of overly emotional stupidity when he just smiles at Shou languidly, says, “There’s so much to you,” in this kind of indecipherable voice that has so many layers even he’s not sure what he means by it.

Shou huffs this little laugh but he’s not quite smiling, just staring at Ritsu with wide eyes like he’s waiting for the joke or something, and Ritsu watches as a flush rises high in his cheeks, spreading until his whole face is ruddy pink; when Shou blushes, he blushes hard. There’s this split second where everything is charged, Ritsu feels like he’s feeling everything at once, like he’s on the edge of something with the way Shou’s swaying further into his space–

–And then it breaks, when hot oil pops loud as a gunshot, coming flying out of the pan with enough force to make Shou jolt backwards, looking dazed. Ritsu yelps, practically leaps backwards from the stove, then throws up his barrier about half a minute too late to actually be effective against anything. This, of course, sends Shou into hysterics, bracing himself against the counter and clutching his stomach as he doubles over cackling. Ritsu rolls his eyes and huffs, puts on a good show of annoyance, but can’t keep the smile off of his face, not with Shou’s infectious amusement in such close proximity. Shou returns to his station, starts nudging the chicken with a spatula, but not before shaking his head at Ritsu gravely and teasing, “I see your instincts have slowed in your old age.”

Okay, so Shou can cook. Like, he’d kind of figured he could from the expert, practiced way he’d moved around the kitchen, but it hadn’t quite sunk in for Ritsu until he’d stuck a piece of chicken in his mouth experimentally and found himself moaning around his fork.

“Holy shit,” he says once he’s swallowed, lightly kicking at Shou’s thighs where he’s sat next to him on the sofa. “Yeah, I’m going to need you to make this all the time? Please?”

Shou just laughs and makes to run his hand through his hair, but aborts the motion as soon as he hits the gelled spikes. “I dunno, there’s other stuff, and kiev’s kind of an ordeal,” and Ritsu can’t quite stop himself from grinning because Shou’s rambling only sounds this aimless and shaky when he’s flustered, and he leans back as Shou continues, “I just needed to start myself making stuff at some point or we were gonna live off of pizza forever, and we had all the stuff for kiev, so.” Shou shrugs halfheartedly, then starts cutting up his chicken, just a little too aggressively to be casual.

Ritsu does the dishes. It’s a fair price to pay, if he’s gonna keep getting dinners like that.

jesus, it’s hot, and he can barely fucking sleep with the sweat running up his back, soaking him to the bed and the sheets are tangled around his feet and there’s

weight on his hips, and it’s burning and there are thighs on either side of his stomach, shaking with the strain and

he’s tracing imaginary patterns of freckles with his eyes and his fingernails and his teeth and then there are hands heavy on his shoulders, pressing him down and he’s

panting, hot breath joining the already sweltering room because there’s friction, grinding down hard and it’s almost too much and he’s dragging fingernails across sweat-slick thighs and an arching back and anything and everything he can reach and he’s

staring into eyes it’s too dark in the bedroom to see the blue of and it feels like he can’t hear for how heavy the heat is but he watches lips moving and knows he’s begging and

He wakes up with his hand down his boxers and the word please ringing in his ears.

Ritsu stares at the ceiling, waiting for his sight to adjust so that he can almost make out shapes in the pitch black of his room, and breathes, silently willing his heart to stop pounding, his chest to stop aching. Weird, he thinks, absently palming his dick; he’s lucid enough to know that it’s probably a bad idea to get himself off after that, but still hazy and hyped up enough from the dream that he’s going to do it anyways.

As it is, he’s just doing his damndest to ignore the distant sounds of Shou puttering about in the living room.

And, god, that was the strangest part of it. See, it wasn’t that Ritsu didn’t have a sex drive, but he didn’t… he didn’t get this sort of thing, the weird sex dreams and absent fantasizing about people, and hell, he’s figured he could probably go the rest of his life without getting off and not be all that bothered by it. Even when he’d been fourteen and viciously hormonal, the dreams had always been vague, or arousing while he was having them and then weird when he woke up.

But this was – well, it was vivid, to say the least, and it was sticking with him, Shou straddling his hips and grinding–

He bucks up into his hand, comes with a choked sound in the back of his throat.

And god, does he regret that decision immediately, when suddenly everything is sticky and disgusting and there is no way in fucking shit he’s risking the walk from his room to the bathroom while Shou is awake, so he settles with shucking out of his boxers, doing his best to clean up his mess with them, putting on a new pair, lying down on the other side of the bed, and resolving to deal with his brand new problems in the morning. Even despite the lingering unease climbing in anxious tendrils up his throat, it’s still easy enough to let himself drift back off.

If he dreams again after that, he doesn’t remember it in the morning.

#/#//#///#////#/////#robin fic #mp100 fic #fic: aubade

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andrewdburton · 6 years

Text

The perfect is the enemy of the good

I’m home! Over the past two weeks, I drove 1625 miles across across seven southeastern states. I had a blast hanging out with readers, friends, and colleagues. Plus, it was fun to explore some parts of the country that Kim and I skipped during our RV trip a few years ago. Most fun of all, though, was talking to dozens of different people about money.

After two weeks of money talk, I have a lot to think about. I was struck, for instance, by how many people are paralyzed by the need to make perfect decisions. They’re afraid of making mistakes with their money, so instead of moving forward, they freeze — like a deer in headlights.

It might seem strange to claim that the pursuit of perfection prevents people from achieving their financial aims, but it’s true. Long-time readers know that this is a key part of my financial philosophy: The perfect is the enemy of the good.

Here, for instance, is a typical reader email:

Thirty-plus years ago I was making much less money than when I retired so my tax rate was lower. I sometimes wonder now if it would have been better to pay the taxes at the time I earned the money and invest and pay taxes all along rather than deferring the taxes. You can make yourself crazy thinking about stuff like that!

Yes, you can make yourself crazy thinking about stuff like that. This reader retired early and has zero debt. They’re in great financial shape. Yet they’re fretting over the fact that tax-deferred investments might not have been the optimal choice back in 1986.

Regret is one of the perils of perfectionism. There are others. Let’s look at why so many smart people find themselves fighting the urge to be perfect.

Maximizers and Satisficers

For a long time, I was a perfectionist. When I had to make a decision, I only wanted to choose the best. At the same time, I was a deeply unhappy man who never got anything done. Although I didn’t realize it at the time, the pursuit of perfection was the root of my problems.

In 2005, I read The Paradox of Choice by Barry Schwartz. This fascinating book explores how a culture of abundance actually robs us of satisfaction. We believe more options will make us happier, but the increased choice actually has the opposite effect. Especially for perfectionists.

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Schwartz divides the world into two types of people: maximizers and satisficers. Here’s how he describes the difference:

Choosing wisely begins with developing a clear understanding of your goals. And the first choice you must make is between the goal of choosing the absolute best and choosing something that is good enough. If you seek and accept only the best, you are a maximizer…Maximizers need to be assured that every purchase or decision was the best that could be made.

In other words, maximizers are perfectionists.

“The alternative to maximizing is to be a satisficer,” writes Schwartz. “To satisfice is to settle for something that is good enough and not worry about the possibility that there might be something better.”

To maximizers, this sounds like heresy. Settle for good enough? “Good enough seldom is!” proclaims the perfectionist. To her, the satisficer seems to lack standards. But that’s not true.

A satisficer does have standards, and they’re often clearly defined. The difference is that a satisficer is content with excellent while a maximizer is on a quest for perfect.

And here’s the interesting thing: All of this maximizing in pursuit of perfection actually leads to less satisfaction and happiness, not more. Here’s what Schwartz says about his research:

People with high maximization [tendencies] experienced less satisfaction with life, were less optimistic, and were more depressed than people with low maximization [tendencies]…Maximizers are much more susceptible than satisficers to all forms of regret.

Schwartz is careful to note that being a maximizer is correlated with unhappiness; there’s no evidence of a causal relationship. Still, it seems safe to assume that there is a connection.

I’ve seen it in my own life.

Maximizing in Real Life

For a long, long time, I was a maximizer. When I had to make any sort of decision, I researched the hell out of it. I wanted to buy and do and have only the best. But you know what? No matter how much time I put into picking the perfect product, it always fell short of my expectations. That’s because there’s no such thing as a perfect product.

In the olden days, for instance, if I needed to buy a dishwasher, I would make an elaborate spreadsheet to collate all of my options. I’d then consult the latest Consumer Reports buying guide, check Amazon reviews, and search for other resources to help guide my decision. I’d enter all of the data into my spreadsheet, then try to find the best option.

The trouble? There was rarely one best option for any choice I was trying to make. One dishwasher might use less energy while another produced cleaner dishes. This dishwasher might have special wine holders while that had the highest reliability scores. How was I supposed to find the perfect machine? Why couldn’t one manufacturer combine everything into one Super Dishwasher?

It was an impossible quest, and I know that now.

Nowadays, I’m mostly able to ignore my maximizing tendencies. I’ve taught myself to be a satisficer. When I had to replace my dead dishwasher three years ago, I didn’t aim for perfection. Instead, I made a plan and stuck to it.

First, I set a budget. Because it would cost about $700 to repair our old dishwasher, I allowed myself that much for a new appliance.

Next, I picked one store and shopped from its universe of available dishwashers.

After that, I limited myself to only a handful of brands, the ones whose quality I trusted most.

Finally, I gave myself a time limit. Instead of spending days trying to find the Best Dishwasher Ever, I allocated a couple of hours on a weekend afternoon to find an acceptable model.

Armed with my Consumer Reports buying guide (and my phone so that I could look stuff up online), I marched into the local Sears outlet center. In less than an hour, I had narrowed my options from thirty dishwashers to three. With Kim’s help, I picked a winner.

The process was quick and easy. The dishwasher has served us well for the past three years, and I’ve had zero buyer’s remorse.

A Trivial Example At Camp FI in January, one of the attendees explained that he’s found freedom through letting go of trivial decisions. For things that won’t have a lasting impact on his life, he doesn’t belabor his options. Instead, he makes a quick decision and moves on.

In restaurants, for instance, he doesn’t look at every item on the menu. He doesn’t try to optimize his order. Instead, he makes a quick pass through the list, then picks the first thing that catches his eye. “It sounds silly,” he told me, “but doing this makes a huge difference to my happiness.”

For the past four months, I’ve been trying this technique. You know what? It works! I now make menu choices in seconds rather than minutes, and my dining experience is better because of it. This is a trivial example, I know, but it’s also illustrative of the point I’m trying to make.

Perfect Procrastinators

Studies have shown that perfectionists are more likely to have physical and mental problems than those who are open-minded and flexible. There’s another drawback to the pursuit of perfect: It costs time — and lots of it. To find the best option, whether it’s the top dishwasher or the ideal index fund, can take days or weeks or months. (And sometimes it’s an impossible mission.)

The pursuit of perfection is an exercise in diminishing returns:

A bit of initial research is usually enough to glean the basics needed to make a smart decision.

A little additional research is enough to help you separate the wheat from the chaff.

A moderate amount of time brings you to the point where you can make an informed decision and obtain quality results.

Theoretically, if you had unlimited time, you might find the perfect option.

The more time you spend on research, the better your results are likely to be. But each unit of time you spend in search of higher quality offers less reward than the unit of time before.

Quality is important. You should absolutely take time to research your investment and buying decisions. But remember that perfect is a moving target, one that’s almost impossible to hit. It’s usually better to shoot for “good enough” today than to aim for a perfect decision next week.

Procrastination is one common consequence of pursuing perfection: You can come up with all sorts of reasons to put off establishing an emergency fund, to put off cutting up your credit cards, to put off starting a retirement account. But most of the time, your best choice is to start now.

Who cares if you don’t find the best interest rate? Who cares if you don’t find the best mutual fund? You’ve found some good ones, right? Pick one. Get in the game. Just start. Starting plays a greater role in your success than any other factor. There will always be time to optimize in the future.

When you spend so much time looking for the “best” choice that you never actually do anything, you’re sabotaging yourself. The perfect is the enemy of the good.

Final Thoughts

If your quest for the best is making you unhappy, then it’s hurting rather than helping. If your desire to get things exactly right is preventing you from taking any sort of positive action, then you’re better off settling for “good enough”. If you experience regret because you didn’t make an optimal choice in the past, force yourself to look at the sunny side of your decision.

Train yourself to be a satisficer. Ask yourself what “good enough” would mean each time you’re faced with a decision. What would it mean to accept that instead of perfection?

If you must pursue perfection, focus on the big stuff first. I get a lot of email from readers who fall into the optimization trap. They spend too much time and energy perfecting small, unimportant things — newspaper subscriptions, online savings accounts, etc. — instead of the things that matter most, such as housing and transportation costs. Fix the broken things first, then optimize the big stuff. After all of that is done, then it makes sense to get the small things perfect.

Practice refinement. Start with “good enough”, then make incremental improvements over time. Say you’re looking for a new credit card. Instead of spending hours searching for the best option, find a good option and go with it. Then, in the months and years ahead, keep an eye out for better cards. When you find one you like, make the switch. Make perfection a long-term project.

Don’t dwell on the past. If you’ve made mistakes, learn from them and move on. If you’ve made good but imperfect decisions — such as the Money Boss reader who wishes they hadn’t saved so much in tax-deferred accounts — celebrate what you did right instead of dwelling on the minor flaws in the results.

Embrace the imperfection. Everyone makes mistakes — even billionaires like Warren Buffett. Don’t let one slip-up drag you down. One key difference between those who succeed and those who don’t is the ability to recover from a setback and keep marching toward a goal. Use failures to learn what not to do next time.

I don’t think perfection is a bad thing. It’s a noble goal. It’s not wrong to want the best for yourself and your family. But I think it’s important to recognize when the pursuit of perfection stands in your way rather than helps you build a better life.

The post The perfect is the enemy of the good appeared first on Get Rich Slowly.

from Finance https://www.getrichslowly.org/perfect-is-the-enemy-of-the-good/ via http://www.rssmix.com/

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foursproutwealth-blog · 6 years

Text

The perfect is the enemy of the good

New Post has been published on http://foursprout.com/wealth/the-perfect-is-the-enemy-of-the-good/

The perfect is the enemy of the good

youtube

Here, for instance, is a typical reader email:

Regret is one of the perils of perfectionism. There are others. Let’s look at why so many smart people find themselves fighting the urge to be perfect.

Maximizers and Satisficers

Schwartz divides the world into two types of people: maximizers and satisficers. Here’s how he describes the difference:

In other words, maximizers are perfectionists.

To maximizers, this sounds like heresy. Settle for good enough? “Good enough seldom is!” proclaims the perfectionist. To her, the satisficer seems to lack standards. But that’s not true.

A satisficer does have standards, and they’re often clearly defined. The difference is that a satisficer is content with excellent while a maximizer is on a quest for perfect.

And here’s the interesting thing: All of this maximizing in pursuit of perfection actually leads to less satisfaction and happiness, not more. Here’s what Schwartz says about his research:

Schwartz is careful to note that being a maximizer is correlated with unhappiness; there’s no evidence of a causal relationship. Still, it seems safe to assume that there is a connection.

I’ve seen it in my own life.

Maximizing in Real Life

It was an impossible quest, and I know that now.

First, I set a budget. Because it would cost about $700 to repair our old dishwasher, I allowed myself that much for a new appliance.

Next, I picked one store and shopped from its universe of available dishwashers.

After that, I limited myself to only a handful of brands, the ones whose quality I trusted most.

Finally, I gave myself a time limit. Instead of spending days trying to find the Best Dishwasher Ever, I allocated a couple of hours on a weekend afternoon to find an acceptable model.

The process was quick and easy. The dishwasher has served us well for the past three years, and I’ve had zero buyer’s remorse.

Perfect Procrastinators

The pursuit of perfection is an exercise in diminishing returns:

A bit of initial research is usually enough to glean the basics needed to make a smart decision.

A little additional research is enough to help you separate the wheat from the chaff.

A moderate amount of time brings you to the point where you can make an informed decision and obtain quality results.

Theoretically, if you had unlimited time, you might find the perfect option.

The more time you spend on research, the better your results are likely to be. But each unit of time you spend in search of higher quality offers less reward than the unit of time before.

When you spend so much time looking for the “best” choice that you never actually do anything, you’re sabotaging yourself. The perfect is the enemy of the good.

Final Thoughts

Train yourself to be a satisficer. Ask yourself what “good enough” would mean each time you’re faced with a decision. What would it mean to accept that instead of perfection?

The post The perfect is the enemy of the good appeared first on Get Rich Slowly.

#Wealth

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