#Walk-in Cold Room suppliers

[osworld9]

Walk in Cold Rooms Manufacturers

[awotech2023]

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[rottenpumpkin13]

Do you think Sephiroth ever does things that his friends find cute? Little moments where he’s being unintentionally endearing and it just throws people off

Cute Things Sephiroth Does

• Sometimes when he's eating something he enjoys, his cheeks puff up and get squishy (like a hamster), and if he's having pasta he might end up with sauce on his face.

• Before bed he either braids his hair or throws it into a messy ponytail if he's too tired to bother with it.

• When he lies down he instinctively cuddles whatever’s nearby—pillows, blankets, random objects, Genesis and/or Angeal, you name it. + Because he's usually too tall for most spaces, he subconsciously shrinks his legs even when he actually has room.

• Loud noises easily bother him even though he's used to suppressing it. His friends find it cute when he pulls away, shuts his eyes or covers his ears in response.

• He gets a petulant expression whenever someone interrupts him while he's eating. Kind of like this -> (￣◇￣;) but his mouth is full of food.

• He acts awkward in front of cameras, especially when he's being filmed. Angeal finds this especially adorable since he's the resident photographer. Sephiroth either rubs the back of his neck, looks away, or covers his face.

• When he gets cold, he pulls his blanket all the way up, covering his nose.

• If he enjoys a new food, he'll look it up online to order more of it before he even finishes eating. One time he did this with an apple granola bar Genesis offered him, not knowing that his parents' company were the suppliers. Genesis also found Sephiroth's excited expression when he presented him with a box full of them very cute.

• He tries to pet stray cats in the slums and gets quietly upset when they don’t return his affection, though he never admits it. He just gets very quiet, sighs, and then keeps walking. When they were on a mission one time, Zack was tempted to chase the cat down and force it to love him.

• He looks unexpectedly cute doing yoga because he's fully relaxed and focused.

• While Angeal never uses sticker sheets (saves them for special occasions) and Genesis uses his selectively, Sephiroth uses all of his at once, sticking them on random places since he never had the notion of saving them for something special. Genesis and Angeal found matching moogle stickers on their coffee cups one time. Sephiroth's giddy expression as he waited for them to say something was, unnervingly, very adorable.

[stirthewaters]

Too Sharp to Touch pt.12

Word Count: 2.5k

Summary: Wednesday comforts you in your fear of the rain

Warnings: language, pills/drugs? Fluff

Pairings: Wednesday x Reader

Too Sharp to Touch Masterlist

The darkening skies had you on edge as you walked along the sidewalk.

The presence of Wednesday at your side was starting to become surprisingly familiar as she strode beside you, her pale, well manicured fingers gripping the straps of her backpack rather tightly as her deadpan expression remained focused straight ahead. It was starting to become quite comforting.

The two of you were in town for different reasons; Wednesday specifically wanted to visit the hunting store to look over the recent customers to add to her evidence board, and while you of course were devoted to the case the two of you were engaged in, you were in town for an alternate purpose; supplements.

Not that you found anything wrong with your wolf, merely because you preferred not to spend full moons in the lupine cages. Your most recent prescription had unfortunately been completed right before the full moon; about two days away from now. All you had to do was show your prescription to the outcast doctor and be on your way.

“This way.” A slight nudge on your arm tugged you from your thoughts as you glanced over to see Wednesday turning the corner, barely slowing down as she pointed out without even sparing you a glance. “You’re nervous.”

You scurried back to her side, unable to resist a soft roll of your eyes as you mumbled, “it’s a perfectly normal phobia.”

“I’d hardly label the fear of rain as rational.” Wednesday remarked, shooting you a look as her boots clomped along the sidewalk, a rhythm you repeated with your fingers against your side. “Perhaps some therapy would do you good.”

“Oh and where did that get you?” You retort hotly as her glare darkens. “I’d rather not look for psychological help in a town that’s known for murders. I’m already breaking the rules enough being out here.”

“It’s merely a medical trip for you. Consider it that way if you prefer a clean conscience.” Wednesday almost shrugged, pausing abruptly and causing you to stumble, nearly bumping into her in the process. “I’ll meet you back here once I’m done.”

“It’s a pharmacy, not a drop-off center…” you grumbled under your breath as you stepped into the building, the warm heat welcoming you as opposed to the cold outside. You turned and watched as Wednesday walked off in the direction of the hunting store.

Approaching the counter you instantly recognized Dr. Kennedy, the same man who’d started to become familiar with your occasional visits.

“Ah, Y/N. Welcome back.” The man smiled over his glasses with a warm expression, placing his clipboard down as he approached the other side of the counter to meet you. “How’s life at Nevermore treating you? I didn’t think any students would make it to town with the storm on the way.”

You felt yourself pale slightly at the mention of the storm before responding, putting on a smile to match his. Although you were never very particular about doctors, Dr Kennedy did a decent job at making you feel welcomed in a town like Jericho. It only made sense, seeing as his business catered specially to outcasts. It was lucky that Nevermore had a medical supplier so close to the school anyways.

“Nothing out of the ordinary, honestly; it’s a little chilly but nothing I can’t handle.” You paused before pulling your crumpled prescription from your jacket pocket, slipping it onto the counter for him to see. “I was looking for a refill on my supplements.”

Dr Kennedy adjusted his glasses down the bridge of his nose slightly as he took the paper into his palm, rereading the words. Taking a pen in his palm he re-signed it, turning into the back room as he spoke.

“You're quite lucky you got here in time, Y/N. Our shipment of lupine suppressants came unusually late and with a lot less too; apparently the pharmacist up in Vermont had to deal with some sort of robbery at his place.”

He returned a few moments later with the usual brown paper bag, sliding it over the counter to you as he leant on his elbows, continuing.

“I hear pharmacies aren’t doing too well nowadays. Or at least around here, they’re not.”

You frowned slightly as you reached for the bag, double checking as usual that it was the correct bottle. Spotting the ever familiar green label you stuffed it into your pocket.

“There must be some sort of shortage wherever they’re growing or manufacturing these… probably nothing bad.” You shrugged, not taking notice of Dr Kennedy’s skeptical expression. “Thanks for the pills, Doctor. I appreciate it.”

The man nodded softly and smiled warmly; “good luck, Y/N. I assume you’ll see me in a month or two.” With that he disappeared back into the back room.

You stepped out of the building, looking up at the darkened skies; a low rumble of thunder met your glance, making your skin crawl. Yes, Wednesday had specifically instructed you to wait here until she returned, but there was no way in hell you’d be caught in the rain; besides, she wasn’t in charge of you, was she?

There was a brief moment of hesitation but when you felt a light sprinkle on your shoulder you flinched and immediately made a beeline for the hunting store.

The doorbells clanging over the door announced your arrival to everyone inside and you felt yourself grimace in disgust at the sight of all the different rifles and guns mounted upon the wall, distaste lingering in your mouth. Fortunately there weren’t that many customers; the occasional fisherman here and there but otherwise it was surprisingly peaceful for a hunting store.

As you walked through the stand of furred hats you spotted Wednesday at the counter, speaking with the cashier; a man wearing a Bulls baseball cap and a torn leather jacket. You watched as the raven spoke, recognizing the slight look of impatience in her eye you’d become familiar with lately. Clearly the man’s attitude wasn’t one she was happy with.

“-listen, Miss, I’d love to help you, I really would, but the data we track from our customers is private. We don’t just give it out to anyone, y’know.”

You watched as Wednesday’s grip tightened slightly on her backpack straps as she spoke through slightly gritted teeth.

“My motives are in the pursuit of the school's safety; you’re willing to risk that in order to protect a store policy?”

“Just because Jericho and Nevermore are on decent terms doesn’t mean we’re responsible for each other.” The man frowned slightly as if in slight distaste as he met Wednesday’s glare. “And all that shit that went down last year with the Hyde is over. I highly doubt the safety of the school is at risk.”

“Then explain where the deputies are right now.”

Wednesday folded her arms, her gaze darkening as the man sighed.

“I don’t know everything that goes on in this town, kid. It’s probably just another bear attack up north.”

“How ironic,” you caught Wednesday mutter under her breath as he continued.

“You’re just a high schooler. Even if Nevermore is in danger like you said, I’m not giving just any goth who walks into my store important information. So unless you’re planning on buying something you can leave.”

You weren’t surprised when Wednesday slid a knife across the counter without a moment’s hesitation; the blade was short and straight with a nicked top that looked quite sharp; the handle was a deep black, with silver hints down the sides, making for a tasteful choice of knife. Of course she had good taste in knives.

“I can make it worth your while.”

The raven held up a small stack of bills she had retrieved from her backpack, raising an eyebrow at the employee. He eyed the money for a moment, his eyes narrowing before folding his arms and scoffing.

“I don’t do bribes, kid. Just buy the knife and get out of here.”

Jaw clenched, Wednesday thumbed a bill from the stack and handed it over, placing the rest in her backpack as she took the knife and slid it into her jacket pocket, not bothering to say goodbye as she headed out.

“You’re dreadful at hiding.” Her voice startled you as she paused in front of you, an eyebrow raised. “You’d think a wolf would have a better sense at subtelty.”

“You’d be surprised.” You gave a soft grin of your own as you folded your arms, glancing at the man who was now watching the two of you with a distasteful expression, eyes narrowed as he examined you closely. “Let’s get out of here.”

The two of you were at the door when you were stopped by a hand on your shoulder and you froze, eyes narrowing as you slowly turned on your heel.

“I recognize you.”

“Don’t touch her.” Wednesday shouldered you aside somewhat roughly, but you didn’t mind, you were too busy glaring at the man as you retorted

“Leave us alone. You said you wanted us gone, didn’t you?”

“Yeah, whatever.” He waved dismissively, removing his hand at the sight of Wednesday’s death stare. “But you’re that Lyall kid, right? The one from Vermont?”

“What’s it to you?” You frowned, suddenly hyper aware of Wednesday’s cold hand on your wrist.

“I’d be willing to give that intel your girl was looking for in exchange for some information. I mean, you’re famous after all, aren't you?”

“She’s not my- my-“ you stuttered dumbly as you felt yourself blush slightly, Wednesday’s eyes on you as you fought for words. “I’m not famous, you’ve got the wrong person.”

The guy frowned slightly, examining you for a moment until eventually muttering something under his breath, “not worth it”. Turning on his heel he started to head back to the counter, but Wednesday stepped forward quickly, gripping his jacket tightly in one hand as the other bore the knife she’d just purchased, pointed at his neck.

“If you want to keep your head attached to your body I’d suggest staying away from us.”

Your eyes widened slightly as the man’s eyes widened in shock and slight fear as he gave what little of a nod he could until the raven stepped back, folding the knife in disgust and putting it away as she turned back to you.

“Let’s go.”

-

By the time you and Wednesday had returned to Nevermore a good rain was already falling, the rumbles of thunder now more pronounced through the school’s walls. If not for the umbrella Wednesday had brought just in case you would’ve been soaked.

“That was a waste of time,” you grumbled as you followed her into the dorm the Addams shared with Enid. “Other than my suppressants we got nothing.”

“Not necessarily.” Wednesday pulled her jacket aside, hanging it over the side of her bed as she faced the recently set up investigation board by the window. Thing scuttled out from her bag, perching himself atop the board; in his fingers he held a pair of keys.

A wild grin burst upon your face as you held out your hand and Thing tossed you the keys, speaking with excitement “how the hell did you get these without being seen?”

“Simple diversion. I would’ve thought you’d learned a bit more after all this time.” Wednesday gave a little roll of her eyes as she examined the board; there wasn’t much on it; a map of the woods, a diagram of a shotgun, and a couple receipts. “Tonight would be more than a sufficient time to break in.”

You started to respond with a grin until a crackle of thunder split through the dorm, sending a chill down your spine, fingers tightly gripping the edges of your jacket. Wednesday clearly noticed, as something akin to a frown flashed across her face.

“I still don’t understand how you can fear such a beautifully gloomy sound. Just because it is meant to instill fear does not mean you have to be afraid.” The Addams paced across the room, until she was facing you directly, her dark stare flitting over your shaking form. God you hated the fact that you were shaking. “What will it take for me to get your pitiful shaking to stop?”

You fought for words, at a loss for what to say. You’d never been asked that before. You didn’t notice the way Wednesday’s gaze softened just ever so softly; the way her furrowed eyebrows lifted slightly and her chocolate-toned eyes met you.

You had no clue what she was thinking.

For Wednesday she was left utterly confused at the muddled mess of disgusting feelings sitting in her stomach like a pile of rot. The Addams had no clue how to handle them, especially since she had such a lack of experience with… emotion. You must have cursed her… at this point she was positive that you were the one making her cup your chin, your skin ever so warm on her cool hand as she lifted your head so that you met her gaze. Her usually confident and sure footed mind was left scrambling to remember all do Enid’s advice on comfort.

“If it will get you to stop quaking like a frightened puppy I will allow you to reside on my bed.” Wednesday paused, before her eyebrows furrowed. “Don’t stain anything or I will kick you out.”

The way your eyes faintly brightened made her heart twist; oh god, you weakened her. She most certainly despised you. Another boom of thunder seemed to end any hesitation you might’ve had as the raven watched you scramble for her bed.

Glancing over at the investigation board she spotted Thing, cutting off his tapping as she gritted her teeth - “not. A. Word.”

A quick look back over at the bed confirmed your still shaking form. You were just sitting there, stiff and awkward on the edge of the mattress. Wednesday couldn’t help rolling her eyes as she strode towards her cello case, kneeling down as she muttered, “one could easily think you were a corpse.”

“I’m getting comfortable.” You defended hotly, clearly a little embarrassed. She decided not to mention it, merely pulling her beloved instrument from its casing; settling herself atop her chair she pulled the cello in front of her carefully, tuning it.

“You’re going to play for me?”

Wednesday halted, her fingers freezing momentarily over the knobs as she slowly looked over at you, her eyebrows furrowing. “Of course not. Your phobia of the rain just happened to interfere with my playing time.” She turned back to the pegbox, giving one of the pegs the slightest of adjustments before picking up her bow. She didn’t need sheet music to play the song she desired.

Her bow pulled across the strings as her fingers maneuvered the fingerboard. The haunting melody of “Cello Sonata in D Minor, Op.40” began to fill the room, a deep sense of satisfaction stirring within her as the piece unfolded.

—

Halfway through the song she noticed you’d fallen asleep, draped in a slightly uncomfortable position over the foot of her bed. Sighing, she reluctantly put down the instrument, standing to step over to the bed.

You didn’t even rouse when she draped a blanket over you.

She was unconscious of the fact that she played her cello just ever so slightly softer when she returned.

-

Taglist:

@idkjustliving2 @alexkolax @tekanparadiae

[headphones-ct-09978]

So....I saw this earlier today. Apparently this is Kylo Ren's quarters and it's just.....so freaking sad! 😢

That being said, I had an idea: What if Kylo's apprentice, who works for/with Hux and is paid a hefty wage, buys him a new bed and other comforts?

Comfy

Kylo Ren X General Hux X Reader

Warnings: None

Summary: Kylo Ren's apprentice worries about him.

Tags: @kylorenny @jaynesilver @lifeofroos @knightsofladyren

(I tagged some of you cuz I thought you'd like this. Lemme know if you don't wanna be tagged in any more 😅)

. Your master was away on yet another solo mission, the directive unknown to you. While he was away, you were back to working for Hux as his assistant. Things were running smoothly, and with Kylo gone, Armitage seemed a little more at ease. Either it was that tea he was sipping once again, or the absence of your master, but he was smiling more and was generally more relaxed. That morning, or rather, the start of your rotation, was no different. You were busy filling in data into your data pad when he walked over to you and rested his hand on your shoulder, a gesture which was rare but welcome. "How's the report coming along, Y/n?"

You flashed him a startled smile, his action shocking you out of your thoughts momentarily. "It's going fairly decent, General. Everything is accounted for and the updates from our suppliers just arrived. Is there anything we need, aside from rations and weapons?"

Hux thought for a moment, reading what was on your data pad over your shoulder. After a moment, something seemed to click in his head. "You have everything listed, but Lord Ren has...certain preferances in regards to rations."

"He's a picky eater?" you asked in jest, glancing over your shoulder at the ginger general. Hux snorted "I wish it were that, but no. He's on a strict diet, at least that's what he's mentioned."

"Do you know what he prefers? He hasn't told me much about his...personal habits." you replied, opening a new tab on your pad so you can jot down any notes or suggestions Hux had. But Hux shook his head. "I haven't the faintest of clues as to what that man likes or doesn't."

"Fair enough."

A moment passed as Hux thought of a solution. "He may have some products in his quarters that may clue us in as to what he eats." he retrieved his own data pad and swiped the screen a few times before he pulled up a pass code and sent the set of numbers to you.

"What's this?" you asked as you stared at the lengthy line of numbers.

"That is Kylo Ren's pass code to his quarters. He's an extremely secretive and private man and it was a pain to figure this out."

You tried to hide the smirk on your face. "And why, General, would you want to enter his quarters?"

Hux flicked the tip of your ear, a tiny playful gesture. "We have regulations here aboard this ship, and those regulations require a certain level of tidiness. Kylo has very little time, it seems, to keep his quarters neat. The pass code is for service droids to clear up any...messes he leaves." The General was, of course, referring to the times when Kylo vented his rage on anything within reach, often destroying furniture or consoles. Hux, as always, had to either pay for the damages himself or clean up the debris.

"Ooooooh, oh I get." You said, still flashing him a cheeky smirk, a smirk which he returned moments before he took another sip from the mug he was holding.

"Well, in that case, I'll go take inventory of what he has and get back to you on that." With that, you gave him a tiny salute and headed towards your master's quarters.

...

"Whoa..."

As the doors whooshed open, you were greeted with a cold, stark sight. The room was entirely black, it's lights a cold white. The table was empty, the bed that was against the wall was entirely too small for your master. The room was devoid of comfort and warmth, at least the kind of warmth that a man with such status should have. There was no furniture whatsoever, aside from the one chair that was near the table. You walked in and immediately shivered. It would appear that not even the heat was on in this room. "How can a man live like this?" you mumbled, feeling pity for your master as you walked towards the cupboards.

The cupboards, which were also a smooth, obsidian hue, were situated on the opposite side of the room, near what you assumed was a sink. You opened one of the cupboards and found...absolutely nothing. His shelves were empty save for a few dust bunnies. The sight concerned you. "How the fuck does he eat or sleep? No, no, this isn't good. Screw it," you shut the cupboard quite forcefully. "He's getting fed and sleeping when he gets back, I don't care how mad he gets."

With that, you swiftly left the room with plans and a grand scheme.

...

"You want me to do what???" Hux choked out after he spat out his tea in shock when I informed him of my plan.

"You don't have to pay for anything, I'll use my own credits, but I think he needs this." you said again. You showed Hux the list you made, as well as the already filled out request papers you had signed. He scrolled through the data pad, reviewing everything you had requested, brows furrowed in concern. "You sure about this, Y/n?" his grey green eyes looking back at yours. You nodded, not changing your mind. This had to be done. Hux sighed. "Fine. I'll have these sent. Everything should arrive before he returns."

You smiled and gave him a hug, earning a surprised "oh!" from him. "Thank you, Armitage!" you said, giving him a kiss on the cheek. Hux cleared his throat a little, trying to hide the blush that was making it's way onto his face. "Alright, alright, don't get used to it. I'm not in the business of granting everyone's requests. This is a one time deal, since you are paying for everything."

You chuckled and nodded. "Very well, General."

...

The mission had been brutal and Kylo was battered and bruised all over. But when he exited his ship, he walked with his masked head held high. His confident stride, however, held a bit of a slight limp. A shot from a blaster had grazed his calf, leaving him wounded. He tried to ignore the pain, but the could already feel that the bandage his leg was bound with was starting to leak, blood dampening his trousers. Exhausted, he made his way to his quarters, ordering a passing officer to send a medical droid to his room.

Unlike most who returned from battles, looking forward to whatever comfort they had, Kylo knew he had nothing to feel good about returning to. At least, comfort wise. He almost grimaced when he envisioned his baron room, knowing that rest and recovery was not an option. Or so he thought.

When the doors opened, his eyes widened beneath his mask. "What the-"

Kylo walked into the room, looking around in confusion. 'Did I walk into the wrong room?' he asked himself. He turned around for any telltale signs of his presence, and sure enough, there, to the left of the door, was a burnt gash where he had slashed his saber across the metal.

He turned back to the interior of the room, and stared at his new surroundings. The table was no longer empty, but had some bottles of sweet beverages and crisp water on top of it's smooth surface, and there was also a bowl filled with fruits. But that was not all. The tiny bed that Kylo once had, was now replaced with a lavish looking one. The frame appeared to be made from metal materials found and mined from Cantobight or somewhere from that planet's region. The bed posts were tall and had what appeared to be hooks on them, for holding/hanging articles of clothing. Kylo approached the bed and placed his hand on top of the black comforter that covered the bed. All his life, he never had anything quite as nice or comfortable. In fact, he felt he never deserved anything quite like this.

He took his mask off and placed it on the nightstand beside the bed. When he did, he saw a little piece of paper poking out from under one of the pillows. He reached over and pulled it out, recognizing your handwriting right away. As he read your little note, he felt a small smile spread across his weary face. When he was done reading it, he tucked it into his pocket.

That sleep rotation, after the droid had left and gave him the usual programmed "You need to rest" speech, he pulled back the covers, curled up, and for the first time in years, he slept, resting both his body and soul.

-End-

[em-prentiss]

no proof, not much (but you saw enough)

----

The SUV hums beneath the hands of someone new. These ones are softer, more at ease, more than often one casual hand on the wheel rather than two. It’s a blissful break from the perpetual ten and two, and as the Unit Chief grows increasingly drowsy in the passenger seat, the SUV carries them further into the sunset.

Or, how Aaron and Emily fall, through the perspective of multiple settings: the jet, his office, the SUV.

Word count: 3.5k

----

It happens slowly.

Harsh exteriors are worn down, distrust morphs into mutual respect. Slowly, yes, excruciatingly so, but it happens. Sir’s and Agent’s lose their pointed edges, mellowing on lips that start out reluctant, end up blazing with warmth.

The office is the first one to note it. It’s a cold place, despite the minimal personal touches littering the Unit Chief’s desk. There are scarcely happy memories here, between the lifeless beige walls and the polished oak carrying pounds upon pounds of bloody files, their contents heavier than the sheets of paper they’re printed on. There is no room for light, though the sun streams through the windows in gossamer curtains—the Unit Chief knows this, he knows it well.

And yet a ray of light walks hesitantly in and hands him a peace offering, though peace has for a while been settled in a still sheet above their heads. She’s no longer new to the disjointed family they call a team, but where she’s starting to loosen with the others, she’s still stiff with him. Even the office knows it, from its omniscient view over the bullpen. Her voice mingles with the others’ in a laugh, the pale shape of her hand curls around the media liaison’s shoulder in a lighthearted squeeze.

Both the office and its occupier are well aware that this is something new. They’re good friends; it sees him more than his family does. He keeps it company on dark nights, the lamp at his elbow the only source of warm light across the whole floor, burning steady amber. The office knows the man at the desk more than the agent tentatively crossing it, and yet they both catch the way his brows tick up in surprise when he spots the sweet treat in her hand.

His mouth curls around her name. The tail end of it sounds like a question; she greets it with a bashful smile the office guesses doesn’t often cross her features.

Emily reaches the edge of his desk, says so and so about a sale at the bakery—and quickly clarifies that she bought for the rest of their coworkers too, don’t worry. She thrusts out her hand, he takes the chocolate croissant, murmurs a quiet but genuine thank you. 

Nodding, she takes her leave, chewing on the corner of her lip as she slips past the open door. Her retreating form is traced by his eyes, curious, lingering, before they drop to the pastry held in his hand. The office watches as he picks it apart, takes a bite—two, three—even though it’s a well known fact (to the office, anyway) that the team leader has no stomach for a sweet tooth.

Still, he eats the croissant. Lets crumbs tumble messily on top of his desk, sweeps them away neatly with a tissue. His eyes travel to the window; both he and the office watch as the rest of his team tear into their own pastries. The generous supplier perches on her desk, satisfaction in her eyes and a small smile on her lips. She looks up, as if sensing his gaze, and he flicks his eyes back to the file in front of him.

That is the tentative start.

From there it’s a smooth, sloping hill—impossible to determine when trust had deepened to a professional relationship between coworkers, when that had formed into camaraderie. When butterflies began to flap their wings and flutter, when eyes started to linger and touches ached to do the same.

___

The jet rarely flows with heat. Its frequent occupants know that, and more than often they’re well prepared with blankets and warm beverages, no matter the weather outside.

For the most part, the newest addition to the team also knows this. She’s bundled in professional blazers and soft cardigans most of the time, but the Florida heat doesn’t allow for anything heavier than the barest of tank tops. Her skin is faintly glistening when she plops into one of the lone chairs, shoulders stiff as she holds herself away from the leather of the seat.

The Unit Chief sits with her, evidence of the sticky heat shown in his loosened tie. Their eyes meet and they share a look, unanimously miserable but unwilling to voice it.

It’s something new, these shared looks between them. The jet notes them with interest, tries to pinpoint when exactly they’d started. The farthest it gets is Milwaukee. 

But looks are all they share. No words are exchanged, no pleasantries swapped as she digs out a book and he opens up a file, his pen in his hand even before they’re in the sky. The jet hums around them, providing white noise that makes some of the team curl up and sleep as it takes them home. It rises above the clouds, stabilizes at over a thousand feet, absorbs the subzero temperature outside and allows it to leak through the walls. 

The woman shuffles back comfortably against the seat, cooled enough to let it touch her bare skin. But it doesn’t take long before she’s shifting again, leaning away, tucking her arms into her body. Covering her elbows with her palms, surreptitiously kneading her skin with her thumbs. She does all this quietly, but being the boss means being ever aware.

Without fuss, the Unit Chief gets up. He walks over to the table next to the couch, pops it open and reaches into the hidden cavity there. Everyone eventually learns about it; it’s stocked with soft, downy blankets that are mostly unused because everyone has learned to carry their own.

Still, every once in a while, the compartment is cracked open. 

Hotch picks up a blanket and carries it back to the shivering agent. She looks up, glances at it, then at him, and immediately refuses, so fast it must be reflex. The jet ponders this, as does the Unit Chief, his brows pinched in a gentler version of his usual frown.

Emily, he says softly, the rumble of his voice running parallel to the hum of the jet. Of all things, it’s what makes her pause.

The sound of her given name seems to take her by surprise, even more so than the offered blanket. Eyes rounded, brows momentarily raised, as if caught off guard. She quickly composes herself, smooths out the surprise in her features as she shakes her head, refusing again. 

One too many take it’s and I’m good, thank you’s later, the blanket is resignedly wrapped around her shoulders. But she stops shivering, her muscles finally easing back into the seat. Her head is turned decidedly away, facing the window, but when her eyes flit to him they catch his gaze.

One more exchanged look, a hidden smile in his eyes that doesn’t show on his lips. She looks away.

___

The SUV doesn’t see much, compared to the other places they’ve been. Its mission is always brief, and yet it’s well acquainted with the man at the wheel. Seldom does someone else steer it, so long as he’s there.

This time is no different.

It’s not that the woman doesn’t try—she does, valiantly, to push him to the passenger seat—but the fact that she’s here is already too much. The SUV knows this from the way the man grips the wheel. He’s never gentle with it, always firm, always alert. Ever aware of the lives in his hands, be it in the face of a Glock or under the wheels of a Suburban. 

But a plate of brownies is placed carefully on the console between them and his grip loosens. She offers him one, around a chocolatey mouthful, and the way the corner of his mouth tilts upward is seen only in the side view mirror, a secret tucked between him and the road.

He declines, she grumbles, and then a warm hand is taken entirely off the wheel. The SUV doesn’t lament the loss. Hotch’s careful eyes no longer pierce the windshield with a heat more acute than the sun overhead; he turns, eyes falling to her, and the SUV finds itself without attention.

This is a first. But the open road ahead of them is forgiving, and so the SUV is, too. It watches, listens above the crunch of gravel, as he protests—it’s all sugar, won’t do any good—and she wraps a tissue around a brownie and places it in his hand.

You haven’t eaten anything all day, she refutes stubbornly, though she’s already won. When she brings up the medication Hotch bites the brownie between his teeth without further complaint. It’s the reason they’re driving past the airstrip and toward the long road, after all.

Slowly, Emily forces another brownie into him. And then his medication. And, when the sun dips lower down the sky, she’s somehow able to kick him out of the driver’s seat altogether.

The SUV hums beneath the hands of someone new. These ones are softer, more at ease, more than often one casual hand on the wheel rather than two. It’s a blissful break from the perpetual ten and two, and as the Unit Chief grows increasingly drowsy in the passenger seat, the SUV carries them further into the sunset.

___

The bullpen witnesses his first laugh—at least, the first one she’s pulled from him. The coffee machine separating them, the handles of their mugs almost touching as they wait for the coffee to brew, she makes an offhand comment about diesel fuel, the government praying for their demise, and a Nespresso machine. Her tone is bone dry, a halfhearted grumble that’s more for her than for him. It’s not even meant to be a joke, but the sleep deprivation is getting to them. 

Hotch laughs, stoicism cracking under the soft curve of his lips, and Emily stares. The bullpen—the kitchenette, rather—watches a light dusting of pink spread across her ivory cheeks. It witnesses her wide eyes in return, before lightly dissolving into the same laughter.

These precious sounds are contained within the kitchenette’s walls. Nobody hears them, save for the two living souls pouring their coffee and the lifeless entity surrounding them. Lifeless, yet still swelling with the same surprise that etches across the woman’s features, long after they’ve both dissolved into silence and her face is downturned to the bitter depths of her coffee.

It’s so very interesting, the brightness in the Unit Chief’s eyes as he similarly looks down at his own coffee, lips thinned back to their original shape. So very interesting how the brown of his irises warms, suffused with light even though he’s yet to take a sip of his coffee.

So very interesting how he lingers after he’s done—because he does nothing to prepare his coffee but pour it, and she dumps boatloads of sugars and creamers until the swirl of her coffee lightens to the color of his eyes—and observes her for a fleeting second.

His mouth parts, then softly joins again, bottom lip slotting against top. Picking up his mug, he turns away and out of the kitchenette, shoulders slackening beneath his jacket. He goes, and her eyes follow.

___

The room is not fully dark. The thin curtains let in street lights; they stream in and carve long golden rectangles on the threadbare rug, illuminate hastily packed bags and files stacked neatly atop a desk.

Rooms like this often get visitors like this—fleeting, temporary. The man and the woman have been here for two days, but they only occupy the room to sleep. It knows they won’t be here for long, though it ponders their business. They carry badges and firearms, heave around files and gory pictures. At night, the two hardly speak to each other, except for unnecessary pleasantries—would you like the bathroom first? No, thank you, you go ahead—that speak to their upbringing.

The inky dark of midnight wraps around the gaps between the street lights. The motel room sits, quiet, observing the two sleeping figures bundled in separate beds, until one starts to thrash. The other one stirs, groggy, while the other still fights demons. 

A ragged cry shatters the silence. Even coated with layers of sleep and terror, the room can tell it’s the woman. Her companion blinks sleep from his eyes and tosses the thin comforter from his body, slipping from his bed and to the edge of hers with surprising speed.

Eyes impossibly alert, brows slipping into concern, he stands some distance away and calls out her name.

Emily. 

It’s a hoarse whisper, then urgent. She still thrashes, so he places a hand on her shoulder and shakes, fingers gripped into the flesh of her shoulder. Louder this time, more insistent, desperation curling around the letters of her name.

She wakes up. Opens her eyes with a gasp, the damp patches on her pillow explained by the tears pooling under her lashes. 

The man lets out a similar sound, only lower. You’re okay, he whispers gently, his hand still on her shoulder. You were dreaming.

They’re typical comforts in a situation like this.

What’s not typical is the way she launches into his arms instead of away. A pained sound tumbles from her lips; she curls into him, folding over herself, and the arm he wraps around her back keeps her secured to his chest.

A whimper of his name, a breath of hers. Whispered shhh’s that the room suspects he’s had plenty of practice at. His hands rove over her back, fingers smoothing the sweaty fabric of her shirt. She clings to him so tightly he has no choice but to perch on the edge of the bed, half holding her, half slipping out.

It’s hard to tell whether she’s crying or breathing. The man encourages her to breathe anyway, the low timbre of his voice carrying a bit of firmness that she bends beneath. Minutes stack up on the other side of midnight, a new day starting as the woman’s chest begins to slow beneath the man’s—Hotch’s—instruction.

His lips nudge against her forehead. It’s not yet a kiss, but the gesture is loving, and well practiced. Soon after it’s his hand on the nape of her neck, his fingers threading through the tangled mess of hair he finds there.

The woman doesn’t relax for a while. Not until he situates her back against the pillow, her arms still clutched around him. Neither of them say anything further; it seems an unspoken deal that he’ll lay back with her, run his palm between her shoulder blades until her breath evens out.

Eventually, it happens. The man’s eyes blink through the semi-dark as the woman sleeps on, still wound around him. He waits—and the room does, too—until a half-circle is traced by the clock’s arm, before carefully untangling their limbs.

He’d been sleeping on the opposite side before he woke. His back to her bed, almost hiding. But now he slides again beneath the sheets and turns to face her, the target of his eyesight clear to the room, even half shrouded in darkness.

___

In the office it starts, and in the office it comes full circle.

Only his shoulders are stiff with tension. The office guesses that it has something to do with the lumpy gauze under her sleeve, the butterfly bandages along her left cheekbone. She’s not as upset as he is, and not for the same reason. Lips pursed, brows furrowed, she still tries to fight back even though she’s in the wrong.

“You would’ve taken ages to come, Anna didn’t have that much—”

“The unsub was armed—”

“And I was, too—”

“That’s not protocol!” He shouts. 

Emily sucks in a breath, the office takes a pause. Not because of his raised voice, no. It happens—rarely, but it happens. What doesn’t happen is his voice cracking, breaking in half. Fading into silence.

The air thickens. Hotch swallows, the solid lines of his body turning to liquid. “Jesus, Emily, you know better.” His voice is weary, wilting. 

She’s silent. Stricken, lips parted, eyes searching. Emily has intelligent eyes, the office thinks. They see practically everything, absorbing the world with a desperate hunger drawn in the circular outline of her pupils. So it makes sense that when the office glimpses a shine in its Unit Chief’s eyes, she does too.

“Why…why are you…?” She steps closer to him, boldly swipes under his eye with her thumb. He jerks away, a shuddered breath heaving his lungs when her finger comes away wet. 

Her mouth still hasn’t snapped shut yet. Emily takes another step, understanding dawning on her features. 

About time. 

“Hotch—”

“I can’t,” he breathes, shaking his head. 

“Can’t what?” She murmurs. There’s hardly distance between them; her hand molds around his cheek, hesitant. The lines of her shoulders are stiff, as if she’s waiting for him to pull away. 

The office knows he won’t. He’ll say he will, but as long as she’s giving in first, he’ll have no choice but to follow.

Fingers twitching at his side, he blows out an exhale. 

“I can’t.” His hand finds her waist; the office swells with satisfaction. She bends into the touch, her grip tightening on his cheek. “We can’t, Emily. It’s not…”

But he’s bowing into her. Their heads almost touch, his bending down, hers looking up. The glossy darkness of their hair glints almost identically beneath the lights, raven on raven.

“Do you want to?”

The office holds its breath. Its owner is good at denying himself of what he wants.

Thick, suffocating silence. A string pulling taut. And then another shake of a weary head. “We can’t.” He repeats; a broken record, a mantra.

Pale fingers curl around his ear. A thumb with bitten nails swipes under his eye, smears the wetness on his skin until it dries. “That’s not a no,” she says quietly. “I’m waiting for a no, Hotch.”

He doesn’t give one.

Silence rings. For a beat, two, three. Then she’s tilting his head further down, rising on her tiptoes even though she’s in boots, and pressing their lips together. His silhouette shakes, shoulders trembling. Three sticky heartbeats later and he skates tentative hands up her sides, squeezing and shakily exhaling into her mouth. She’s slow with him, patient, and when they’ve broken free they haven’t broken free at all, because his forehead is on hers, an inch between their noses.

“You can’t do that again.” He rasps. 

Emily hums, lips turning up. She tilts her head, catches his mouth again with unusual slowness. “We’ll talk about it later, boss.”

When they leave the office, there’s hardly space between their bodies.

___

The park is one of many in DC. It’s not anything special—yes, there’s benches and tall trees and a gravel pathway, but nothing that could tempt a restless pair of lovers. Today it’s doubly cold, a frigid crunch to the grass that scares away everyone but the two figures strolling around under the watery sun.

There’s soft murmurs between them, passed occasionally like the steaming paper cup they share. The woman holds it for longer, sometimes to drink, sometimes to squeeze around in her bare, pale hands. The man notices, and brings them to a stop, quietly chiding as he covers both her hands with his. He doesn’t wear any gloves but she sighs, shifting to hide her hands entirely beneath his own. The corners of her mouth tip up, as does her head, her eyes searching for her companion’s.

They meet and the park almost blazes with heat. Her smile, somehow both sly and bashful, curls around an excuse, her shoulders shrugging helplessly. 

The man shakes his head. It seems a practiced move, exasperated and fond. His thumbs are restless on the back of her hands, kneading fervent circles into her skin.

She tolerates it for a minute before dragging her hands from his grip to get him walking again, passing him the cup and instead hooking her free arm through his. They stay for longer than the weather allows, some identical tension melting from their shoulders, a heavy weight in their eyes fading as pink bites their cheeks. Talk isn’t frequent, but touches are—his lips to the top of her head, her fingers sinking into his coat, her chest against his arm.

When the cup is drained—he lets her have the last sip—the woman tosses it and curls her fingers into her palm, the pad of her thumb skimming under her nails as if it’s habit. She nudges him off the path, onto the grass. Their shadows follow: long, starkly black companions that trail after them, turning a party of two into four.

They lean into each other. Hard lines fade, blur. Two silhouettes become one, joint from shoulders to feet. 

A right hand reaches for a left; fingers interlock, forming a weave of soft skin and calluses. The shadow of them is cool above the grass, and when he gently cradles her cheek in his free hand, tilting her face upward until their lips join in a kiss, the silhouette warps. It merges into a single, fluid shape, formless and inelegant. 

Even when they break apart, they’re still joined.

[sgtmickeyslaughter]

65+87 please?

this has been sitting in my drafts for almost a month lol, i hated it when i wrote it but i just stumbled upon it again and realized it was sad to leave it sitting unread even if its not my favorite - so i hope someone enjoys my slightly angsty take on the prompt

65 First Kiss/Date + 87 Unresolved Sexual Tension

If it were anyone else calling Mickey ‘patient’, he’d laugh in their face.

But Ian had brought out much more outlandish qualities in him over the last few months, so it's no surprise that when it comes to him Mickey could find nearly endless patience. 

Three months ago, standing in front of Ian with his lungs screaming from the cold air he listened to Ian tell him that yes, this was him breaking up with Mickey. 

Mickey looked at Ian for a second. Looked at his pale, shivering form and couldn't find any anger for him. He was fucking heartbroken, and had to turn and look down the street just to take his eyes away.

“Take your meds, Ian” he simply. “Break up with me, sure. I can’t make you love me, I don’t want to. But you have what it takes to get control of this thing, with the meds or therapy or whatever and you’re really, really going to regret it if you don’t just because you were too busy being a mopey asshole to try.”

 “Fuck you, Mickey. I’m doing this because I love you, I’m letting you go, you don’t fucking owe me anything.”

Mickey shook his head, indignation finally welling up in his chest. He pushed the gate open harshly and stomped up to stand toe to toe with Ian “you’re doing this for you, because you want it to hurt. You think you deserve it, and you think I deserve it too.”

Ian looked so tired, like he wanted to cry. So Mickey just huffed a sigh, bringing a hand up to his cheek, patting it once before turning to walk away. 

“I can’t do it with you watching” Ian said suddenly. “I can't make any promises but if I’m going to try to make it work with the meds and get myself back on track, I need to do it alone.”

Mickey looked back with a huff, he knows that Ian wasn’t trying to be mean, but he couldn’t help but feel like Ian was blaming him. And maybe Mickey was the problem, Fiona and Lip and even little fucking Debbie had told him enough times that Ian needed to be in the hospital. 

“But if I can get to a better place, can I come find you?” Ian asked hopefully.

It was like their moods had swapped in a matter of seconds, Mickey just drew his mouth into a tight line, shaking his head slightly. “Let’s not make any promises to each other,” was what he decided on before walking away, back the way he came to crawl back into the den of misplace objects that had taken over his home and get drunk.

The next morning Mickey called over some guys he knew from the moving business that went bust to buy all the suitcase shit and haul it away. He took all the baby stuff Svetlana left behind and shoved it in the attic, working away at a bottle of whiskey as he went. 

It was like doing an autopsy to see how fucked up his life had become over the last couple of years. Unearth a condom here, a little baby sock here, Mandy’s blonde hair dye-

Mandy, Mickey realized with a pang of horror. Mandy left and he’d hardly even noticed. He spent the rest of the afternoon calling (almost) everyone Mandy knew and narrowed down where she moved to. He woke up the next day before the sun was completely over the horizon and started driving South East. 

Kenyatta might not have seen it in the moment, but he got very lucky that all it took was a bullet in the leg to get Mandy into Mickey’s car. 

She got a job at a high end restaurant, as hostess and then quickly moving up to waitress. Mickey started small time dealing again, making just enough cash to cover his meager expenses. They didn’t really hang out for a while, both siblings holed up in their rooms, licking their wounds. 

Mandy left him alone until he came home with a busted up face after he missed off the wrong supplier with his big fucking mouth. She hounded him after that, about getting his GED with her, going to community college.

“What are you going to do when dad gets out?” she asked, following him to the kitchen.

“Hope that this stint of fucking guys for a few months liberalized his views on same sex relationships” Mickey snarked back.

“Mickey, come on.”

“Or claim there was a gas leak that made me crazy for dick” he continued sarcastically reaching into the fridge.  

“Look Mickey, you’re twenty years old, you have no record as an adult and you should be making an effort to keep it that way unless you want to end up in and out of prison like dad” Mandy said testily, snatching a beer out of his hand.

“What the fuck do you want me to do Mandy?”

“Jesus!” she exploded. “The only thing I’ve ever seen you give a shit about was your stupid fucking boyfriend. You’re worse than me!”

Mickey just stared her down with a brusque fuck you and started walking away. 

“He’s getting out in less than a year Mickey,” she warned. “I’m saving up to rent my own place until then, and I suggest you do the same.”

She was right, he knew that and he just wanted to be a pigheaded asshole for a little while longer so he started scrolling through craigslist ads for security until something caught his eye. 

He lied through the interview, surprisingly at ease as long as he was able to be pulling a con in some way, even if he was just lying about who he was. He was armed with the knowledge that he’d bribed Linda Karib into saying that he was a valued member of the security staff at her large, upscale market and that Mandy would pick up the phone and follow any lie he’d told them.

“You got a job where?” Mandy asked incredulously, picking up the two suits he’d been given as a uniform from where he’d tossed them on the couch after he was hired.

“The Art Institute” He said around a mouthful of cereal. “You know, the big building on Michigan Ave with the Lions out front.”

“Why the hell did you want to work there?” Mandy asked incredulously. 

“It pays more than any other security gig I could get without a GED,” Mickey said. “And it’s like really cool, I’ll be guarding fucking Van Gogh and Michelangelo.”

“Yeah, guarding them from fifth grade class trips,” Mandy teased. “There’s a Michelangelo in Chicago?”

Mickey scowled and sucked his teeth, “you know what I mean.”

Against all odds, Mickey loved his job. He was vigilant enough to keep kids and entitled adults from touching anything they weren’t supposed to, but mostly spent his time rotating with the shift changes, getting exposed to something new and beautiful. Ancient Korean pottery, massive modern canvases, baroque paintings applied to wooden triptychs, and he had a front row seat to all of it.

He had nothing but time to think, he’d start his shift hating the painting across from him, and after a few hours he’d come to understand it, if not like it. 

It kept his mind off of Ian, which was important. He’d be reminded of his ex-boyfriend in a particularly golden shade of red, or the odd bright splash of green, but after a while he’d learned to let those thoughts come and then quietly escort them out without any anger or resentment. 

In short, four months after Ian broke up with him, Mickey was relatively happy and fulfilled. He had a good relationship with his family (the only member that mattered anyways), a job he liked (well, didn’t totally despise), and modern technology took care of everything else (grindr).

He was getting ready to meet up with a guy from the app when a wrench got thrown into the whole machine. He had showered and gelled his hair, putting on a clean shirt that showed off his arms, he was grabbing his wallet from the kitchen table when he noticed the shock of red hair contrasting with the grey of his living room. 

Ian turned around once he’d realized Mickey had come out of his room. Mandy must have let him in, seating him on the couch and leaving him like a sadistic little gift for Mickey to find, the fucking bitch. 

Mickey froze, hand outstretched as Ian turned to face him, scrambling up off the couch. 

“Hi Mickey,” Ian said breathily, attempting a grin. He looked good, healthy and normal. He looked like the Ian that left Mickey in his room to run off to the army, just a little older. 

“Uh” Mickey said, unhelpfully. “What are you doing here?”

Ian surveyed him up and down hesitantly. “Your sister let me in,” he said lamely.

Mickey raised his brows to say not the question I asked, fuckhead.

“Do you want to go get something to eat?” Ian asked nervously. 

“I’m not really hungry” Mickey said stupidly, not understanding why Ian was standing in his living room.

Ian deflated slightly “we could get a drink, or just go for a walk or something.”

“What are you getting at, Gallagher?” Mickey asked tiredly.

“I’m trying to ask you on a date” Ian said with a halfhearted smile. “I’ve been on my meds consistently for three months now so I thought-”

“Congrats, Ian that’s really great” Mickey said, bittersweet. “But if you got your shit together because I was gone, I should probably stay away.”

“No!” Ian blurted out. “No, I got better so I could see you again. I wasn’t going to put you through anymore than I already had.”

Mickey didn’t say anything to that, so Ian continued. “I know that I hurt you when I said that I needed to do this alone. But I’ve been working for the past few months to try and become someone I was proud of, so I wouldn’t feel so fucking sick every time you looked at me.”

Taking a deep breath, Mickey tried to calm down. He wanted to yell, he wanted to hug Ian, he wanted to leave and never see him again. But most of all he saw that he was being given the chance to start over, and he wanted to take it. 

“Fuck it, yeah, let's go to dinner” he agreed. 

“I thought you said you weren’t hungry,” Ian asked curiously, grinning wildly. 

“I can always eat,” Mickey said, finally sliding his wallet into his back pocket. “Can we get pancakes?”

“Yeah, hell yeah. Let’s go get some flapjacks” Ian agreed excitedly. “Wait-were you going somewhere?”

“Nah” Mickey dismissed. “Faceless Jonny can murder some other twink tonight.”

Ian laughed. It didn’t have that hyper, nasty quality Mickey had grown to flinch away from. 

It seemed like they agreed to set any uneasiness aside for the night so they could sit together and share a stack of pancakes. 

He told Ian all about the rescue mission to Indiana, the way Kenyatta charged at him in the living room before he could get his gun out and had to hold his own against the absolute mountain of a man before he managed to get his gun out. He told him about the spring he’d mostly shared with his sister, about the museum.  

“You do what?” Ian said, letting out a stalling laugh, nearly choking around a mouthful of bacon. 

“Stop laughing, it’s fun and I make good money” Mickey grumbled. “We can’t all be training to save lives.”

“Do you wear the little suit?” Ian asked, ignoring him. 

“Do you?” Mickey shot back. 

“Not yet but I will,” Ian said proudly. 

Ian didn’t share very much about what he’d been doing. Mickey managed to figure out that he was working working at Patsy’s for a while, before he started EMT training, he talked a lot about his family, Debbie getting pregnant and Carl going to juvie, but he had this was of talking around himself that made Mickey realize he probably spent a lot of the last few months pretty miserable. 

“So, I mean-this is our first date, right?” Ian asked with a grin, leaning forward on his elbows.

“Yeah, I guess so” Mickey said hesitantly.

“So, tell me stuff I don’t know” Ian said like it was obvious. “You know, siblings, childhood, likes and dislikes.”

Mickey snickered sarcastically leaning back with his arms crossed “number of siblings unknown, childhood was horrific. Likes; guns, redheads, tattoos, dutch renaissance painting, italian futurist sculpture, Bon Jovi, high fructose corn syrup. Dislikes; boston accents, bostson sports teams, men who can’t fight, vegetables that aren’t fried, and any pop song on the top 100.”

Ian grinned wildly, giddy and joyful “That is a very comprehensive run down, A+.”

Mickey chuckled a little, leaning forward and letting out a quick thanks. He turned to Ian and motioned for him to start talking.

“Five siblings. Mixed childhood, mostly good. Likes summer, professional hockey, pop music, thin highlighters, bad boys-hey, don’t kick me!-call of duty, and these days green tea. Dislikes Romantic comedies, football, mood stabilizers, menthol cigarettes, and hoodies without zippers.”

Mickey grinned at his stupid list, and his stupid smiling face. He felt himself getting sucked back into Ian’s magnetic orbit. 

“Would you let me take you out again?” Ian asked eagerly. “This was a pretty good first date.”

Reality came crashing down on Mickey again, and he remembered that this wasn’t really their first date, that nothing was normal between them “are you sure you’re ready for-whatever if is you’re trying to get out of this?”

Ian’s face fell, “I wouldn’t be here if I wasn’t. I’ve spent the last few months trying to get to this point so I could come back to you.”

Mickey leaned forward to make eye contact with him, trying to decide wether or not to trust him. His eyes were wide and anxious but steady. Taking a deep breath and praying that it wasn’t a mistake. 

“Yeah, okay. I believe you,” Mickey agreed. “But I’m not doing this again, if we break up again it’s fucking over, I’m not going to spend the rest of my life running around in circles with you.”

Ian nodded enthusiastically “yeah, no, that makes sense. I don't want to do that either.”

He paid the check and they left together, when they got back to Mickey’s house he nodded up at it with a grin, “come in, Mandy won’t be back until later.”

Hesitating slightly, Ian took a deep breath and paused. “So, I’m totally ready to start dating you, totally ready. And I’ll come up to watch a movie or play video games or just hang out, but I don’t to have sex tonight, or for a little while.”

Looking down at his crotch automatically, Mickey pulled a questioning face. 

“It works,” Ian supplied with a blush. “It’s back up and running and everything. I just-once I could finally think clearly, I started getting this really uncomfortable feeling like my body isn’t mine, because I didn’t make choices I’m proud of, all the time. I’m still kind of struggling with that so if we can just go out and not fuck for a while that would be great for me, but-”

“Ian chill out. That’s fine, we can hang out.” Mickey said urgently. “You’ll want to eventually though, right? ‘Cause if this is a never again thing we'll need to figure-”

“No! No, definitely not never again, just like give me a couple weeks” Ian amended.

“Yeah, that’s fine. However long you need” Mickey agreed, walking up the stairs, “come on, I’m gonna’ kick your ass at the new grand theft auto just as bad as all the others.”

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Ian groaned and flopped down on Mandy’s purple comforter.

“What’s got you all moody?” Mandy asked, uncapping a bottle of nail polish. 

“Your fucking brother won’t get naked for me” Ian whined.

“Ew! Jesus Ian” Mandy shrieked. “Just apologize for whatever he’s pissed about.”

“He’s not pissed,” Ian insisted. “Why would he be pissed?”

“I don’t know, why else would he be holding out on you?”

“On first date after we broke up, I mean-I guess that was our first date period, I told him I wanted to take it slow, at least with sex. After everything I’d done before getting diagnosed I just-didn’t want to jump into a physical relationship right away” Ian explained. 

“Yeah, that makes sense,” Mandy agreed. 

“Yeah but that was almost three months ago and I have been very ready for a while and making it very fucking clear, but every time he shuts me down.”

“Shuts you down how?” She asked noncommittally, carefully painting her big toe. 

“The other night we were making out on the couch so I was trying to take his shirt off and he just pulled it down and looked at me like I was trying to fucking deflower him.”

Mandy let out a laugh, moving on to her other foot “have you tried telling him point blank that you wanna’ bang?”

“Kind of, not in so many words but I’ve tried to imply, in a seductive way, that I am really, really beyond ready and that by balls are starting to hurt.”

“You’re just being dramatic,” Mandy dismissed. “Just tell him what you’re telling me, which is what you should have done a week ago.”

“Yeah, I should have just told him. But now it’s like, weird. Like it’s weird that he’s purposely ignoring the like, big neon sign stuck to my forehead that basically screams I’m horny.”

“Maybe he’s not ready,” she said disinterestedly.

“He was three months ago,” Ian said, eye brows drawn. “So you think I’ve like, turned him off?”

“I have no idea, Ian!” She exclaimed. “I’ve already talked about my brother’s sex life way more than I wanted to this afternoon, it’s weird that you guys sleep in the same bed every other night but don’t have sex. And if you’re not the one with the problem, maybe he is.”

Ian laid back, deep in thought until Mandy kicked him out so she could get ready to work. Mickey got back an hour later, dressed in his dark suit. It didn’t fit him perfectly, but it made the darkness of his hair and eyelashes stand out even more. 

He said hi to Ian quickly before disappearing into his bedroom, unaware of Ian perking up and following him. “Mickey?” He asked curiously through the door. “Can I ask you something?”

“Hold on,” came a muffled reply.

“Can I just come in?” Ian asked impatiently. 

He waited a beat, then Mickey came out fully dressed in jeans and a teeshirt “jesus, where’s  the fire?”

“Why won’t you have sex with me?” Ian blurted out. “I mean, we both want to, unless I’m reading the signs wrong but the sexual tension feels pretty fuckin’ intense.”

Mickey licked his lips and looked away, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” 

“You don’t know what I’m talking about?” Ian asked incredulously. “So you’re going to pretend that I haven't been basically practically jumping you every night for the last few weeks?”

“Whatever, you’re the one who didn’t want to have sex” Mickey shot back defensively. “You haven't said anything else since and I know I can be-y'know a little pushy, so I backed the fuck off.”

Ian moved forward quickly, moving to bring both hands up to Mickey’s cheeks and pulling him close before allowing his hands to travel downward slowly until he could tuck his hands comfortably into the back pockets of his jeans. “I get that it’s been weird not having sex, and I really appreciate you being so considerate, but if it’s alright with you I’d like to to back into your bedroom and suck your dick to say thank you for your extraordinary patience.”

From this close, Ian got to actually feel the affect this words had on his boyfriend and watch as his cheeks flushed and pupils dilated sightly. “Yeah,” Mickey nodded, nonchalant like his voice didn’t pitch up a couple octaves. “Yeah, I mean you can do that, if you want.”

Smiling, Ian ran a hand up his back so that he could lead Mickey back through the doorway by the back of his head, rubbing and rocking it lightly, stomach flipping in excitement.  

Believe me - I will be revisiting museum security guard mickey again, taking down heists, helping lost kids, and knowing where all the major pieces are so when wimpy little art students like me come in looking for specific pieces he can give directions -the possibilities are endless.

link to AO3

[namusthetic]

Marauders' Era

The Slytherin Skittles

From the Marauders' Era fandom. Decided to lounge about in the Slytherin common room? Join the Skittles for a late night Slytherin chat.

Regulus A. Black

"From far away I wish I'd stayed with you, but here face to face, a stranger that I once knew.

I thought if I wandered I'd fall back in love. You said distance brings fondness, but guess not with us."

- Astronomy, Conan Gray

Doesn't ask for help

Overachiever

Covers his deep insecurities with a god-complex

Abandonment and trust issues

Suffers panic and anxiety attacks, the others know exactly what to do when it happens and huddle around him, holding hands and grounding him, until he starts breathing normally again and stops shaking

Protective of his chosen family

Instead of fighting to keep people in his life, he lets them go because in the end he thinks he's never enough to stay for

Hates loud noises and making noise when moving or walking

Deeply misunderstood

Tries to remain detached and cold as much as possible because knows he'd end up caring too deeply

Self-isolates when he doesn't know how to deal with his feelings, luckily, whenever that happens, the others storm his usual hiding spots and force him to go outside and enjoy himself

Escapes from his own thoughts by reading or listening to music compulsively

Barty Crouch Jr.

"I used to like liquor to get me inspired but you look so beautiful, my new supplier. I used to like smoking to stop all the thinking, but I found a different buzz.

The world is a curse, it'll kill if you let it I know they got pills that can help you forget it, they bottle it, call it medicine, but I don't need drugs. 'Cause I'm already high enough, you got me, you got me good."

- High Enough by K. Flay

covers his need for attention and approval with loudness and chaos

Fear of missing out

Afraid that people will forget about him and leave him behind

Avoids talking and thinking about his own feelings

Cannot control his emotions when overwhelmed

Hides it when deeply hurt

Clingy drunk, cries if left by himself

Has a soft spot for pets, especially dogs (once he even accidentally cuddled Padfoot without knowing it was actually Sirius)

Hopeless romantic when in a serious relationship

Incredibly intelligent, he just doesn't want to please his father in any way so he acts out

Jokes about his trauma in public, but ends up sleeping in Evan's bed whenever he has nightmares

ADHD kid

Makes dirty jokes all the time but is afraid of having a stable relationship and not being enough for his partner

Evan Rosier

"And hey, you, don't you think it's kinda cute that I (I) died (died) right inside your arms tonight? That I'm fine even after I have died? Because it was in your arms I died.

I cry in the afterlife, I cry hard because I have died, and you're alive. I try to escape afterlife, I try hard to get back inside your arms alive."

- Arms Tonite by Mother Mother

Calm and collected most of the time

Silent anger

Insomniac, spends the nights reading and listening to chill music

Deadly afraid of spiders, always asks Pandora to take them outside

Energy drinks and caffeine

If looks could kill

Tries to keep everyone from getting in trouble together with Dorcas

Doesn't pay attention in class but gets good grades anyway

Grew up too quickly

Joins Barty and Dorcas whenever they are tipsy and start a singing contest

Likes nights out with friends, randomly walking with no precise destination, a few drinks in hand and the warmth of chosen family around him

The observant, silent one

Always carries small perfume vials since he can't stand smells (sweat, cigarette smoke, etc.)

Pandora Rosier

"You don't have to be like everybody else, you don't have to fit into the norm, you are not here to conform. I am here to take a look inside myself, recognize that I could be the eye, the eye of the storm.

I am not my body, not my mind or my brain (ha), not my thoughts or feelings, I am not my DNA. I am the observer, I'm a witness of life, I live in the space between the stars and the sky."

- Ancient Dreams in a Modern Land by MARINA

Already figured who was going to end up in a relationship with whom years before it happened

Has a private gardening spot where she grows their own plants (especially herbs)

Follows the lunar calendar instead of the solar one, they all celebrate both new years with big parties

Wears long airy dresses with flower patterns and a dozen crystal necklaces and rings

Talks enthusiastically about everything she's passionate about with no restraints (and everyone loves listening to her talk)

Knows weird knowledge nobody knows from where

Walks Hogwarts' halls singing and with a spring in her step

Spends afternoons in the forest sketching fantastic beasts and feeding them treats

Loves making flower crowns, Regulus wears them whenever she makes one for him and hexes anyone who dares say something about it

Always has paint on her hands or face

Dorcas Meadowes

"Say my name, as every colour illuminates. We are shining, and we will never be afraid again.

And when we come for you, we'll be dressed up all in blue, with the ocean in our arms, kiss your eyes and kiss your palms.

And when it's time to pray, we'll be dressed up all in grey, with metal on our tongues, and silver in our lungs."

- Spectrum (Say My Name) by Florence and The Machine

Hates small talk and superficial friendships

Direct, immediately cuts straight to the point

Politically active against all kinds of discrimination and violence

Strong and determined to achieve what she wants

Ready to argue with anyone, anytime, anywhere

Knows exactly what she wants

Stays up late to read and listen to music in the common room

Has everything planned out

Neon lights and cocktails, loud music and cherry flavored lip balm

Travels a lot but is ready to return home immediately if one of her close friends needs her help

Elegant style, always impeccably dressed

Storms out of the dorm and takes a long walk whenever she feels she can't control her anger

Loves to listen to true crime podcasts

------------------------💚🐍

So I love the Marauders' gang, but (I don't know if you guessed it) I really have a soft spot for the Skittles. To me they feel like the ones who never really even had a chance to be saved, who were left to fend for themselves and to die just because of their families and house. They were damaged as much as the others but found no one to help them but each other.

[nerdieforpedro]

Day Twenty Nine - Brick House

Word Count: 624

Warnings: mention of past drug use, fertility issues, mention of sperm donation and clinics, false pretenses, Dieter might be a bit obsessed or a lot

Notes: I wasn’t sure where this was going. I read @fhatbhabie ‘s Dieter fic where he’s being a dad and @wannab-urs has me listening to all the Hozier for her challenge. This is where we are people. We’re on my second D which is Dieter, my first D is Din.

Main Masterlist / March Spring Prompts 2024 / Writing Challenges

A safe place for the both of you is what Dieter Bravo wanted. Finally in the spring, the house was ready. He'd studied your likes and dislikes, favorite colors, asked his assistants and interior designer to decorate according to what you wanted. He believed he had to make things perfect for you. Bravo is aware he’s not - far from it. He has numerous issues with drugs, the law, his career. Never stopping, never slowing down. Always moving forward and not always in a positive direction.

Never would he have expected your request. Dieter was aware of your search, your dream. It wasn’t uncommon but you’d convinced yourself that it would never happen. The doctor had told you there was little chance of it happening ever. Still you believed despite your fears. Dieter watched your perseverance in awe. The idea of you getting what you needed from some donor that you’ve never met kept him up at night. More than the last flop he’d made. It more than paid for renovating the brick house over the last eight months and he was willing to do another one if it meant that he could afford to keep you in that house on bedrest for the last month like you were supposed to be and get him some new oil paints from this one Italian supplier he favored.

You asked if he’d be your moral support as you went to one of the clinics, if he’d hold your hand as you went through the door. Dieter suggested that he could have a physical now that he’s been healthy for a good bit and give you a donation that was more likely to take. He swore that it’s the only form of support he would give you, besides being your friend of course. The clinic thankfully made the process feel ‘impersonal’ as you put it. Bravo knew the first try he was hoping it wouldn’t take, just to be able to have you again. Over two months, he only missed two ‘bun in the oven’ appointments with you and suggested some extra, you know just in case.

It was wrong. He should have felt guilty. Dieter did not and would not. He’d use this process to show you and himself that he could be relied on, constant, strong, like the house he bought you.

He’d gotten you to agree to put his name on the birth certificate and he had his schedule cleared for the most part so he could be wherever you needed him to be. In the room, outside, in the parking lot of the hospital.

Climbing the stairs and walking to the master bedroom he was able to talk you into sharing with him because, rubbing oil on your belly helped calm you and lull you to sleep after proper placement of pillows, he crept toward the door. Your sleeping form was rare to see during the day, among a mountain of pillows and blankets you’ve kicked off because you get hot then cold. Dieter watched your chest rise and fall softly, he had taken a few pictures and saved them on his phone of you at first but that wasn’t enough. Leaving to grab his sketchbook he’d need to draw it, then he may be able to paint this moment later.

This moment that despite the lies and reasons covered under the pretext of helping you with your dream, you were giving Dieter Bravo his - a family with you. Maybe you’ll be mad at him later or even laugh it off but after the baby is safely here, he’ll tell you everything. That you’ve been his ambition for years and regardless of people thinking he’s a scatterbrain, he can focus quite well - on you.

[sixteen-sugars]

Who Are You (Really?)

a dead plate hannibal au

AUX: misery meat - sodikken

Credit: @lcg-lgc

Rody felt his feet skid on the floor as he pushed the door open with his shoulder. A litany of curses filled his head as he frantically checked his watch. I have to be in Quantico in 15 minutes . Vincent had held him late showing him his latest dish, deer tartare topped with a quail egg, where do you even get deer? The beautifully plated tartare turned into a weird slush in his backpack, and just as he went to hop onto his Vespa, it sputtered and died. To try to revive the motorcycle, he attempted to hit the side with his heel. All the key did was spark in the ignition. So, Rody had to make a run for it home. 

The cherry on top was getting a call from Jack just as he was frantically untying his shoes, hands fumbling, he answered the phone, 

“We have a new case, we're hoping you could be in the lab in 10,” Jack said tersely, leaving no room for complaint. 

“Yeah, yeah of course”

Rody took what might be the fastest shower ever, checking his watch, panicking as every minute seemed to pass by slightly faster than the last. Stumbling, he reached blindly into his questionably clean pile of clothes. The haste resulted in a ratty flannel, with a stain of fish guts on the right cuff, and a pair of washed jeans. 

Rody walked through the doors of Quantico with 30 seconds to spare, 

“Now, Jack, what do you need me so urgently for…”

 His voice trailed off as he saw what, or who was on the evidence table. He drew a breath. She was the sixth victim in the last two months and just the same as the five before her; wind-chafed, plain but pretty with auburn hair, trademark Minnesota Shrike. Jack continued his spiel, 

“We need you on the case, you’re the best we have,”

Rody wrought his clammy hands, 

“I can do this, but this is the last one, I have a life outside of this,” 

Jack nodded, 

 “This will be the last one,” He put his hand on his heart, “Scout’s Honor” 

He said that the last five times, Rody could only sigh as he preemptively mourned the next nights of sleep.

-

The file felt like it was made of lead in his backpack as he headed towards his shift at Vincent's restaurant. It was like the girls were holding onto his ankles as he scurried around, serving and bussing. The only time he got a moment to think was when he was taking out the trash. The cold air bit his cheeks as he fought to open the dumpster without covering himself in trash juice. He thought about her , the crime scene as it came back hit him like a semi-truck. Her pale limbs seemed to reach for him as he tried to close the dumpster, the slam rung in the twilight like a death knell. 

Just as he bussed the last table, Vincent came up to him with another elaborate dish, presented with an almost bow, 

“This Antelope is served with stewed collard greens and deglazed carrots,”

“Antelope?”

“Yes, My supplier got some exotic cuts recently,”

“Cool…”

As Rody trailed off he took the dish in his sweaty palms. Being around Vincent was like being around a caged lion. Held back by his instincts and fear, but still scary nonetheless. Vincent was all grace and long limbs as he presented Rody with the Antelope. Rody nervously laughed, 

“I feel all this effort for plating is going to waste, when in my backpack it all runs together,” Vincent almost balked, 

“No, sometimes the plating isn't just to enjoy, it is to see the result, beauty in the infinitesimal,” 

Rody quickly took the dish and scraped it into his stained tupperware and bid Vincent goodbye as he hopped on his Vespa, the Antelope already shaken in his ragged backpack. 

-

That night, the light of the desk lamp was drilling into his already tired eyes, clammy hands pushing back auburn curls as the words inside the file all swam together. His computer was open to College directories to try to track down the Minnesota Shrike’s next victim. In the field, Rody was painfully average. He was an okay shot, and could collect evidence as well as the next, but what he was given acclaim for, was for his focus. When he was given a case, it was all he could think about, he would throw himself wholeheartedly into the investigations. 

Rody’s dreams were full of deer with bloody antlers, dark and shifting. He turned over and saw her, next to him, glassy eyed; mouthing words Rody couldn't understand. Rody bolted upright, patting the bed, checking for unwanted companions. Instead, all he found was his ratty comforter and a shirt he accidentally left out on the bed. Rody shivered nonetheless, taking a hot shower to quell the goosebumps. 

Poking at his now much more pronounced eyebags, He buttoned his white dress-shirt up. Donning the black slacks and socks required by Vincent. Picking up his backpack on his way out, and hopping on his Vespa, he sped off to work.

-

Rody wasn't able to look at the case until early afternoon. It was the tail end of the morning rush and not yet lunch, so the only people in the restaurant were an elderly couple who were brunch regulars. He chewed on his already abused ballpoint pen, red ink staining his lips like fresh blood. There was an idea sloshing in his frontal cortex. Maybe the girl in the field wasn't the Shrike’s victim. Even though it followed the previous patterns, something was off. He drummed his fingers on the lacquered table in thought.

He was startled when Vincent put his hand down next to him and looked over Rody’s shoulder like the nosey person he is. Rody tried to cover up the file, it was classified FBI information.  

“I think I’ve seen that before, maybe on the news, this one seems different from the others,” noted Vincent. 

“That’s why I think this is a Copycat Killer,”

“What evidence showed you that conclusion?”

Rody thought about how to phrase his answer as not to come across like he was insane,

“This one just felt different, the Shrike, he loved those girls but this Copycat, the body was treated like livestock. This Copycat is a killing machine, he sees these girls not as objects of love, but as pigs,”

Vincent looked lost in thought and just as he was going to remark, a party of 8 came through the door. Personable Vincent was gone and now it was Chef Vincent as he went back to his lair in the kitchen. Rody went back to the meek bubbly server. 

The dish that night was cold-smoked pork with a side of roasted mexican street corn. Vincent had changed the meals to be better eaten cold, still presented with the same beauty and care. Given the reverence of a in-house shrine to a forgotten god, dusted and maintained but without the original purpose. Even though the god was gone, Rody could still taste the care and reverence in the food. He could even see Vincent painstaking basting the pork and smelling the wood chips. He felt the microwave annihilated the flavor, but cold pork seemed worse. 

-

Rody smiled sheepishly, the Shrike’s file had gotten stained from a wayward piece of corn. Before Jack could yell at him for staining evidence, Rody gave a peace offering of new insight, 

“Jack, he loves these girls, the body in the field isn't the Shrike, it’s a Copycat, I just needed to see the Copycat to see what made the Shrike,”

Jack looked at him, nodding,

 “Any insight into where the Shrike is from. What he does,” He punctuated with a handwave.

Rody nodded vigorously, 

“Yes, yes, the Shrike is a man, he is a father, he loves those girls not in a… sexual way. But, as daughters, as things he could never keep,”

Jack seemed satisfied with Rody’s insights thus far, 

“We had forensics look into the wounds and clothes of the victims, they found some pipe-threading metal. We have a lead,”

He seemed happy at that, the cat in the game had zeroed in on the mouse. Rody had neglected to mention Vincent’s insight on the Copycat. Letting himself bask in the warm light of victory and appreciation a little longer. 

-

Now that forensics made a lead, Rody was taking his ‘work’ to work. Worn backpack overstuffed with the resumes from every single pipe-threader in Minnesota. His Vespa skidded as he turned into the restaurant's parking lot with 5 minutes to spare. Unceremoniously shoving his bag into his locker, he clocked in.

Rody felt dead on his feet this shift. Customers were more snappy than usual, it seemed they were sending every other plate back to the kitchen. The dress shoes Vince insisted he wear pinched even more. Rody was over it. The cherry on top was spilling the dozen of resume files all over the sticky breakroom ground. Of course, Vince had to be there to witness Rody’s frantic shoving of the files back into his locker. 

“More ‘top secret’ FBI files Rody? You’re getting sloppy…”

“These are just resumes,” Rody shot back defensively.

“Still looking for the Shrike?” Vincent glanced down at the pictures of the workers.

“Yeah, we just got a lead, the Copycat really helped,” Rody admitted.

For a few seconds, Rody deliberated, should I tell him my hunch…Or just keep it to myself . 

“So, off the record, you wanna know what I think about the Copycat?” 

Vincent looked more invested than usual in Rody’s ‘crime shenanigans’, actually making eye contact, and blase barely-recognition, 

“Sure, what has your brain cooked up this time?”

Rody almost vibrated, this was the first time testing his ‘theory’ 

“So, I think this Copycat is the Chesapeake Ripper. What I felt, when I saw her in the field, was unique to the Ripper murders I saw when I was in training. He holds so much contempt for them, it was almost palpable,”

Vincent’s eyes widened, he cocked his head, 

“Really, how intriguing,”  

He added nothing else, and spun on a heel, disturbing the piles of paper. Rody sighed and went to cram them back into his locker. 

The dinner-rush was a fraction of the hell of the afternoon, it was about as nice as working in customer service, so hell but in like the cold circle. Customers were heavy tippers as they left, dresses sparkling in the fluorescent lights. The dish offered to him tonight was a ‘breakfast’ for dinner with homemade sausage. Into the tupperware it went. The lid snapped as Rody hummed the Bach that was playing earlier. 

-

At home, the scramble was reheated as he poured over the resumes, little progress was being made. Everybody looked the same, nothing was out of the ordinary. Just as he was going to give up, words began to run together in his tired brain. He saw something, a lead. Rody traced the letters and under his breath said, 

“Garret Jacob Hobbs, there’s my Minnesota Shrike,” a daughter that was wind-chafed and had brown hair, a carbon-copy of all the other girls. No address was listed, but Rody went up that weekend to do some house to house interviews. Vincent was with him, Rody had to borrow his car, and Vince didn't trust him to drive. Looking at his Vespa, it made sense. They were at the office at the construction site Rody got the papers from, Rody was talking to the lady who worked there about if she knew anything about Hobbs. Turns out he lived only a 5-minute drive away from where they were. 

He and Vince pulled into the gravel driveway, tires crunching. The house was dated, with 70s style window panes and faded drapes. A man looked to be on the phone inside with a silhouette of another shorter woman. Rody laid his hand on his holster in preparation, and knocked. Presenting his temporary badge, 

“This is agent Rody Lamoree, FBI, come out with your hands up,”

Hearing nothing from inside the house, Rody extended his arms into the weaver stance, looking down the sight of the gun. Then, he and Vincent went into the Kitchen and saw Hobbs with his daughter. He was holding a knife to her neck, as she mouthed words too fast for Rody to read her lips. Hobbs leveled a stare at Rody as he shook, he was always too squeamish to work homicide. 

Vincent stood behind him like a shadow, observing as Rody panicked. Then, the silence broke like shattering glass as Rody shot Hobbs in the hand leaving the man reeling. Hobbs’s back hit the cabinet with a thud as the other gunshots echoed. After his ears stopped ringing, Rody heard Abigail choking on the ground, her throat gaping open, blood spilling out onto the linoleum floor, her chest stilled.

Rody heard a low whistle, he startled as he remembered Vincent was standing behind him, Vince spoke, 

“10 bullets Rody? You’re getting rusty, what happened to your academy days?” 

“ Well , getting stabbed in your shoulder will do that do you,”

“Anyways, let's call the police and get in the car, I have to make the marinade for the pork tomorrow,”

The Police showed up minutes later, lights flashing and sirens blaring. That night Rody couldn't sleep, Abigail showing up behind his eyes, mouthing and pleading as she bled out. All Rody wanted to do that morning was stay in bed, but the bills won’t pay themselves. So, up he went, sipping his drip-coffee and blindly stabbing at his soggy eggs, eyes still bleary. Rody spaced out, just as he was nodding off at the table his chin hit his chest, and he snapped awake, he looked at the clock, 

“I’m late, my god , Vincent is gonna kill me,”

[osworld9]

Walk in Cold Rooms Manufacturers mumbai

Walk-in Cold Room

[28-reasons-to-run]

VERA FACTS PART 1!!

Eerie Beauty Rituals: Vera has bizarre, almost occult-like beauty rituals, including using obscure, ancient remedies that make her skin look porcelain-perfect. Rumor has it she has a secret supplier for "forbidden" beauty treatments that border on the mystical. Either that or Botox because woman’s face DOES NOT MOOVE.

Superstitions: Despite her cold, calculating demeanor, Vera is secretly superstitious and avoids certain "bad omens" like broken mirrors or walking under ladders. She believes these will sabotage her image and career, though she’d never admit it.

Dark Inspiration: For roles that require deep emotional depth, Vera listens to creepy, unsettling music or old horror soundtracks to get into the perfect headspace. It gives her that edge of danger when performing.

Snake Whisperer: She has a pet snake, a rare albino, that she named after a Russian queen.

Obsession with Youth: Vera is obsessed with maintaining her youth and often uses her daughter Katya as a reminder of the younger version of herself. She’s terrified of aging and will do anything to stay in the spotlight and retain her beauty. She probably has spent thousands of dollars on stuff like plastic surgery and stuff to keep herself young. Making a deal with a vampire or something to turn her in order keep herself from aging isn’t above her either.

The Puppetmaster: Vera secretly enjoys watching people she’s manipulated collide with each other’s lives. She’ll subtly set up scenarios where people in her circle are bound to betray or clash with each other, just to see how it plays out like a twisted social experiment.

The Ultimate Critic: When she watches movies or stage performances, she’ll either silently or vocally critique every actor’s technique, believing no one can ever reach the level of mastery that she has achieved.

A Secret Garden: Vera maintains a secret greenhouse filled with rare, poisonous flowers. She’s memorized each flower’s effect and uses them to "study" how people react to certain toxins. She claims it’s for future acting roles but sometimes toys with the idea of using them in real life.

Living in a Museum: Vera’s home is like a museum of high art, with priceless artifacts and sculptures scattered around. However, it’s almost too pristine—cold and devoid of warmth, much like her personality. She thrives in this environment, where everything is perfectly controlled.

Inspired by Royalty: Vera often imagines herself as Russian royalty, like a modern-day Tsarina, and subtly dresses the part in her private life. Her style reflects this with long, regal gowns, ornate jewelry, and extravagant furs.

Chess Master: Vera is an avid chess player and uses the game as a metaphor for her approach to life. She’s always several moves ahead of everyone else, orchestrating situations with precision. She’s never lost a game—because she only plays when she’s certain of victory.

Secretly an Opera Fan: Though she hides it well, Vera loves opera. It’s one of the few things that moves her, and she occasionally attends private performances under a different identity to maintain her mystique.

An Eye for Talent: Vera has a nearly supernatural ability to spot young talent before anyone else. She enjoys grooming new stars for their rise to fame, but only if they serve her larger plans.

Signature Perfume: She always wears a custom-made perfume that no one else has access to. It’s a blend of rare flowers, spices, and something almost unplaceable—an unsettling scent that lingers long after she’s left the room.

Elaborate Lies: Vera loves crafting elaborate lies about her past, and no one really knows what’s true or not. She enjoys keeping people guessing about her origins, making her all the more enigmatic.

Ghostwriter: In secret, Vera writes ghost stories, channeling the eerie energy she cultivates in her own life into short stories about revenge, manipulation, and hauntings. She’s even considered turning one into a film.

Luxury Hobbies: Vera takes up extravagant hobbies to match her image—like falconry or collecting rare, antique fashion pieces from the 18th century. She never practices these hobbies in public, but they add to her eccentric, high-society persona.

Psychological Manipulation: She’s mastered the art of gaslighting and will subtly twist words and situations until people begin to doubt their own perceptions. She’s so good at it that even other manipulators are caught off guard by her tactics.

The Meaning of Numbers: Vera has developed a fascination with numbers and their symbolic meanings. She often plays with the number 28 in her life, sometimes as an internal joke, assigning it an almost sacred significance for her schemes.

[redhillconfetti]

Blog post 28-01-2023 - Attending a Wedding Fair as a guest

Attending a wedding fair can be slightly intimidating for those people that may have never visited one before. You'll be walking into a room where every single person is an expert at all things wedding, and could end up asking you a whole load of questions you may not even have considered were options or things you need to think about.

My very first piece of advice is to set up a free email address (hotmail, gmail etc) for your wedding. This can be the email you put on your wedding invitation for RSVP's, and by using this to register with suppliers, once your wedding is all done you haven't had your personal email added to a hundred mailing lists.

Next is to make sure you wear the right clothing. You're not there to impress anyone, but you could end up being on your feet for hours, so wear comfortable shoes. Depending on the venue it could be baking hot or freezing cold, with no correlation to what the weather may be doing! If you're shivering or sweating you may feel like leaving earlier than you planned and could end up missing information or meeting a supplier that is just what you are looking for.

Plan your transport there, check for parking or public transport links. Google maps is your friend as some places can be hidden down narrow lanes or streets, or in a very rural location. If you have accessibility needs I would advise you to message the organisers in advance and ask if your requirements will be able to be met. Not all venues can guarantee to have a lift or a quiet space if you have sensory needs and can get overwhelmed by noise, crowds or lights etc. Try and send these questions to the organisers before the day of the fair, as on the day they will likely have limited access to their social media channels as they will be setting things up.

Once you’re in the fair, you’ll get approached by many people, the event organisers will usually meet you at the door and check your tickets. A lot of wedding fairs are ticket entry only, though the cost is usually minimal and simply for insurance purposes. As I covered in a previous blog, goody bags are a great perk of attending wedding fairs, and can be a useful little tote bag to store all the business cards, flyers, and samples you may get given on your visit.

When you are approached by the vendors, usually the very first thing you’ll be asked is ‘When is the big day?’, as this will give them an immediate way to start a conversation with you and gauge how far into your wedding planning you already are. You can give them as much or little information as you feel comfortable to. Some vendors will be very chatty, others will stand back and let you have a look over their display of their work. There may be an option to add your details to a mailing list to be entered into a prize draw for a free service or discount, this is where your wedding email account that i mentioned at the start of the blog comes in handy! If the product is something you are interested in, take a flyer or business card, you could even write notes on your phone or on the back of the card. If however its not a product you want or need, a simple ‘No thanks’ will suffice. No one is going to chase you across the room or force you to sign up for something you don’t want. I would also strongly advise against signing any deals on the day for ‘show bonus discounts’. Go home, do your research and make sure you are comfortable with the company. Check out their reviews and online presence in your own time rather than be rushed into handing over money the second you meet someone.

Take pictures whilst you are there! This is a great way to remind yourself of who you have met and what they do. Sometimes business cards can be very neutral and not give an indication of what the company does. If after the event you can’t recall a company that you would like to approach for a service, drop the organisers a message with where in the hall/event they were and a description of what their stand looked like, and they’ll be able to come back to you with contact details for that company.

I hope this blog post has helped give you an insight into what it’s like to visit a wedding fair. They can be extremely fun to go to as a guest, and a great source of inspiration for your big day. So that’s all folks,

Until next week,

Simone

[crones-trash]

Two years ago today, my brother—V—kept calling Papa all day to wish him a Happy Valentine's Day. By 10pm, when he still didn't get an answer, he called the Vero Beach FL police to do a Wellness Check. When they arrived one of the next door neighbors came out w/ a key to Papa' door & he was found unconscious on the cold tile floor in his living room. He was rushed to the nearest hospital. By the time they reported back to V it was nearly midnight & he didn't want to wake me up w/ the bad news.

Instead, I was awoken at 7am the next morning by a nurse at the hospital who told me my 98 yo father had been admitted for apparently having a stroke. Papa had asked for me. Would I come? Of course, I would.

I didn't cry. I panicked & scrambled to set my life in order before I could drive down to FL to help Papa. This was the beginning of the worst 2 years of my life. Papa left his body on 27 February 2021. A year later my husband left his on 24 February 2023.

Here I sit in Portland OR in 2023 suffering anxiety attacks. This is not intentional. Vivid memories associated w/ dates on my calendar percolate out of my subconsciousness & set off my past emotional states. I play endless games of Solitaire & put together jigsaw puzzles to distract myself. I dunno. Maybe I should just hysterically cry myself into a stupor.

The other day I noticed the neighbor across the street getting a delivery from the same oxygen supplier my husband used. Sunday, I saw her wearing her portable oxygen tank walking w/ her housemates to the community center to watch the Super Bowl. This morning there was an ambulance outside their house. It quietly pulled away & respectfully didn't turn on its sirens in a Senior+ Community until it got on the main street.

I feel I should go over & visit strangers to console them. But honestly, I have no comfort to give. She's gonna die sooner rather than later. We all do.

[raghawaytech]

Unlock Efficiency in Cold Storage: The Importance of Door Heaters

Cold storage facilities play a vital role in industries ranging from food processing to pharmaceuticals. The efficiency of these facilities relies heavily on maintaining a controlled environment, free from frost and ice buildup. One essential component that ensures seamless operation in such settings is the door heater. This unsung hero of cold storage systems not only prevents frost but also contributes significantly to energy efficiency and operational safety.

In this blog, we will delve into what door heaters are, their benefits, applications, and why choosing a high-quality product like those offered by Raghav Industries is crucial for your business.

What is a Door Heater?

A door heater is a specialized heating element installed around the perimeters of cold storage doors, freezer doors, or other refrigeration units. Its primary function is to prevent condensation and frost buildup by maintaining the temperature around the door frames. This is particularly important in environments where there is frequent opening and closing of doors, leading to temperature fluctuations and humidity ingress.

Door heaters are commonly used in:

Cold storage warehouses

Walk-in freezers

Refrigerated trucks

Pharmaceutical cold chains

Industrial refrigeration systems

Their ability to combat frost buildup not only improves functionality but also protects the structural integrity of the refrigeration unit.

Benefits of Door Heaters

1. Prevents Frost and Ice Accumulation

One of the most significant benefits of door heaters is their ability to prevent frost and ice buildup around door seals and frames. Frost can interfere with the door’s sealing mechanism, leading to energy losses and increased cooling costs. By keeping the edges warm, door heaters eliminate this issue.

2. Improves Energy Efficiency

A door that cannot seal properly due to ice buildup allows cold air to escape and warm air to enter. This imbalance forces the refrigeration system to work harder, consuming more energy. Door heaters help maintain a proper seal, reducing energy consumption and lowering operational costs.

3. Enhances Safety

Ice and frost around door frames can create slippery surfaces, posing safety risks for workers. Door heaters mitigate these hazards, ensuring a safer working environment in cold storage facilities.

4. Extends Equipment Lifespan

By preventing frost-related damage, door heaters contribute to the longevity of refrigeration equipment. They reduce the wear and tear on door seals and frames, minimizing the need for frequent repairs or replacements.

5. Reduces Maintenance Costs

Without door heaters, businesses may face increased maintenance costs due to frequent defrosting and repair work. Investing in a high-quality door heater minimizes these expenses, offering long-term savings.

Applications of Door Heaters

Door heaters find applications across various industries, including:

Food Storage and Processing: Maintaining the right temperature is crucial to preserving perishable goods. Door heaters ensure that cold rooms and freezers operate without interruption.

Pharmaceutical Industry: Medicines and vaccines require strict temperature controls. Door heaters help maintain these conditions, ensuring product integrity.

Logistics and Transportation: Refrigerated trucks often experience temperature fluctuations due to frequent door openings. Door heaters help stabilize the internal environment.

Hospitality Sector: Hotels and restaurants with walk-in freezers rely on door heaters for efficient refrigeration.

Why Choose Raghav Industries for Door Heaters?

When it comes to reliable and durable door heaters, Raghav Industries, based in Delhi, India, stands out as a trusted manufacturer and supplier. Here’s why our door heaters are the preferred choice for businesses:

1. Superior Build Quality

Our door heaters are crafted from high-grade materials, ensuring durability and consistent performance in challenging environments.

2. Energy Efficiency

Designed with advanced technology, our heaters consume minimal energy while delivering maximum results. This not only reduces operational costs but also contributes to environmental sustainability.

3. Versatility

We offer door heaters in various sizes and wattages to cater to diverse industrial needs. Whether you need a solution for a large cold storage facility or a small walk-in freezer, we have you covered.

4. Customization Options

At Raghav Industries, we understand that every business has unique requirements. That’s why we offer customization options to tailor our door heaters to your specific needs.

5. Excellent Customer Support

Our commitment to customer satisfaction extends beyond product delivery. We provide comprehensive support, from installation guidance to after-sales service.

How to Choose the Right Door Heater for Your Needs

Selecting the right door heater involves considering several factors, including:

Size and Dimensions: Ensure the heater fits your door frame perfectly for optimal performance.

Wattage Requirements: Choose a heater with the appropriate wattage to prevent underheating or overheating.

Environment: Consider the ambient temperature and humidity levels in your facility.

Compatibility: Ensure the door heater is compatible with your existing refrigeration system.

By partnering with a reliable supplier like Raghav Industries, you can simplify the selection process and find the perfect solution for your needs.

Final Thoughts

Door heaters are an indispensable part of any cold storage or refrigeration system. They enhance energy efficiency, improve safety, and ensure the seamless operation of your facility. Investing in high-quality door heaters, such as those offered by Raghav Industries, is a smart choice for businesses looking to optimize their refrigeration systems.

Don’t let frost and ice disrupt your operations. Equip your cold storage with reliable door heaters and experience the difference in performance and efficiency.

Learn more about our Door Heaters here.

[antes2222222]

The Importance of Choosing the Right Cold Storage Solutions for Your Business

Introduction:

In today’s competitive industries, maintaining the integrity and freshness of goods is paramount. Whether you're in food processing, pharmaceuticals, or any other sector, investing in reliable cold storage solutions is crucial. Antes Global offers industry-leading cold storage products to meet the specific needs of businesses across various sectors, ensuring safe, efficient, and cost-effective storage options.

Why Cold Storage is Essential for Your Business

1. Ensuring Product Freshness and Quality Cold storage is essential in industries like food processing and pharmaceuticals to maintain the quality, freshness, and safety of perishable goods. By using state-of-the-art cold storage systems, businesses can extend the shelf life of products, reduce waste, and keep customers satisfied.

2. Regulatory Compliance For many industries, adhering to safety regulations and quality standards is mandatory. With cold storage solutions from Antes Global, you ensure compliance with health and safety regulations, keeping your business aligned with industry standards.

3. Improved Efficiency and Cost Savings Investing in the right cold storage system improves operational efficiency and helps businesses save costs in the long run. With solutions like Walk-in Cold Rooms and Blast Freezers, your business can optimize storage space and energy consumption, reducing operational expenses.

Why Choose Antes Global for Your Cold Storage Needs?

1. Expertise Across Industries As a top cold storage supplier in India, Antes Global offers tailored solutions for industries like poultry, dairy, food processing, and seafood. Our years of experience ensure we understand the unique demands of each sector, providing you with customized solutions.

2. Comprehensive Cold Storage Products From Blast Freezers and Cold Rooms to Supermarket Display Chillers and Docking Solutions, Antes Global offers a full range of products designed for durability, efficiency, and ease of use. Our products are built to meet the needs of modern industries.

3. Reliable and Durable Equipment We prioritize quality and reliability, ensuring that each product is built with high-quality materials for long-lasting performance. Our cold storage solutions are designed to withstand demanding conditions, providing you with the reliability you need for optimal storage.

Conclusion:

Choosing the right cold storage solution is crucial for your business’s success. With Antes Global as your partner, you can be confident in receiving the best in quality, efficiency, and customer support. Our range of tailored cold storage products ensures your business stays ahead of the competition.

Contact Antes Global today to learn more about how our cold storage solutions can enhance your business.