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V. "I Trusted You!"

"Trust" Series Masterlist

John "Bucky" Egan x WAC!Female Reader

The unthinkable happens on Bucky's next mission, leaving both of you to deal with the aftermath of your idyllic day in London, and his harsh parting words to you during that final phone call.

Warnings: ANGST, Language, Grief, Death, Imprisonment, Interrogation, Near-Death Experiences, Despair, Self-Loathing, Pregnancy, Era-Typical Sexism, Inevitable Historical and Military Inaccuracies, Mature/Explicit Themes - 18+ ONLY.

Author’s Note: I cannot believe we have reached the penultimate installment! As always, letters/notes have image descriptions that can be accessed by clicking the 'ALT' button. Special thanks to Marina @precious-little-scoundrel for helping me untangle numerous plot points in this and the final part of the series. I could not have done this without you. This is a work of fiction based off the portrayal by the actors in the Apple TV+ series. I hold nothing but respect for the real life individuals referenced within.

Word Count: 7477

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Your eyes were burning as you struggled to decipher the last few lines of scribbles on the page of notes you were attempting to transcribe. Two nights of little-to-no sleep after weeks of fourteen-hour days had done you no favors, and the addition of the heavy weight of dread you had been lugging around in your lower abdomen since your disastrous phone call with Bucky yesterday afternoon was not helping. Your eyes lifted to the clock on the wall for the fifth time in as many minutes, once again hoping that no news was good news. It was nearly 1930, surely one of your dependable trio of friends would have delivered word to you by now if there was bad news.

The shrill ring of the telephone on the corner of your desk physically jarred you, your right hand nearly colliding with the cup of coffee you had brought up from the mess in a desperate attempt to make it to the meeting at 2200. Under Myrtle’s expectant glare, you lunged forward to answer it, providing your last name in greeting.

“Darling…” Vi’s drawl crackled over the line, dripping with sympathy, and you were convinced your dinner of army noodles and watery tomato sauce might make a reappearance right there on your desk.

“Vi I don’t…” You blurted out and then snapped your mouth shut because you did want to know, you were just not sure you could take it.

You clenched your eyes shut as your heart began to race, palms sweaty as your stomach continued to churn.

“He didn’t come back…” Her voice trembled and the world tilted completely off its axis, a wail clawing at your throat, desperate to be released.

“Thank you for telling me.” You gritted out before clumsily hanging up the phone, fairly dropping the handset into the cradle, before leaping to your feet and wrenching the office door open to dash down the hall to the washroom.

It was a miracle you made it in time, collapsing into the first stall to empty your stomach, tears streaming down your cheeks as your knees stung from their impact with the tile. When the urge to retch finally subsided, you hit the handle to flush and slumped back against the metal dividing wall between the next cubicle, sniffling pathetically.

‘He didn’t come back…’ Echoed through your mind and your hand rose to clamp over your mouth, desperate to smother the noise of pain that ripped through you.

Before you could fully surrender to the shuddering sobs that were about to wrack your body, however, the sound of the faucet running had you forcing your emotions down with brutal efficiency, snapping your head to the side to see who was bearing witness to your second public breakdown since your posting in England.

The sight of stoic, icy Myrtle holding out a dampened handkerchief to you had your watery eyes widening in shock. After a moment of your bewildered staring, she heaved a great sigh and crouched down to begin blotting at your cheeks and brow, dewy with the effort of losing your dinner. The handkerchief was blessedly cool, even if her touch was less than gentle, and brought a modicum of relief.

“What’s his name?” She asked quietly, tone not at all softened, but the tenderness of her actions and the words themselves had your eyes brimming with fresh tears.

“John…John Egan” You rasped.

“It’s heartless how the entirety of a man’s existence is boiled down to three letters. Just focus on the M for now. Doris in personnel is always willing to keep an eye out for a familiar name, I’ll ask her to add your man’s name to her list. Let’s get you up.”

You thanked her softly as she grabbed your elbows and pulled you to your feet. Beginning to tug your uniform back into place, you shuffled toward the mirror to tidy your hair.

“What’s your fellow’s name?” You asked her quietly once you felt confident in your ability to speak properly.

“Bobby Vendetti. Flew with LeMay and the 3rd Division to Regensburg. KIA.” She replied in her clipped, stoic voice and slipped out of the washroom leaving you to wonder if she was a grim glimpse into your own future.

Bracing your hands against the sides of the wall-mounted sink, you leaned against it heavily as a cruel wave of weakness overtook you, your body feeling an awful lot like a bowl of Jello in someone’s unsteady hand. Screwing your eyes shut, you locked your knees against the desire to crumple to the ground and forced slow, steady breaths into your trembling body until some semblance of control was restored.

Frowning deeply, you lifted your eyes to the mirror to re-adjust a few pins with sharp, self-chastising movements – using the pain as a point of grounding and focus – before you looked acceptable enough to return to your desk. Myrtle glanced up as your chair creaked slightly upon your return and nodded once. You barely managed to return it before glancing at the cup of coffee in disgust. Pushing it further away, you took a deep lungful of air and turned back to the task at hand.

Every time your fingers struck the M key you took a moment to send a silent plea up to every power above that might possibly hear you.

‘Please keep him safe.’

‘Please don’t let it change to a K.’

‘Please let him be alive.’

‘Please bring him back.’

‘Please.’

‘Please.’

‘Please.’

Reaching the end of the report, you swallowed roughly to see that it was just after 2100, time to set up for the last meeting of the day. Punching a pair of holes in the stack of sheets, you secured the report in its dated folder before dropping it off at the filing office and then made your rounds to collect the final weather and supply reports to be reviewed by the senior operations officers. Stepping into the darkened conference room, you laid your burden of files down on the large table before hurrying over to pull the blackout curtains closed. Clipping your hip on the sharp wooden corner as you made your way over to the light switch, you had to furiously blink back the tears that had been threatening to fall since you had emerged from the washroom.

‘Just a few more hours, then we can lose it completely in the sanctity of our attic closet-turned-bedroom.’ You mentally promised yourself with a shuddering breath.

Working your way around the table, you set out targeting information at each place for the Generals and their subordinates to review.

‘To send the next group of boys to the slaughter.’

Shaking your head with enough physical ferocity to send yourself slightly off balance, you succeeded in momentarily knocking such petty thoughts from your head as you confirmed the list of slides with those in the projector. With preparations complete, you settled into your out-of-the-way seat in the corner of the room. WACs did not sit at the decision-making table – your presence in this room was not for the purpose of being seen nor to be heard. It was simply to ensure things ran smoothly and were recorded for posterity.

Would that you could have done something yesterday, after Bucky announced his intentions to fly, as the target of Münster became ever more likely. Bucky sure seemed to think you could affect things – perhaps he would have come back if you had done something. Gulping roughly, you robotically slid to your feet as the jovial voices of several of the operations officers sounded just outside the door, warning of their imminent arrival.

They filed into the room in clusters and bunches, chatting and sipping at cups of coffee they had brought as they flipped through the latest reports. Once everyone was assembled, the meeting began more or less at 2200 and you set to your diligent notetaking, pushing aside the snarling voice in your head that wanted to question their every decision.

It seemed, in their packets, were the loses that had been accumulated in that day’s mission, Bomber Command 114 to Münster – thirty planes and their crews. A horrifying thirteen of these from the 100th. With their determination to mount another assault on Schweinfurt, the lack of operational aircraft and men would mean several days’ delay, but this would certainly afford the Divisions and Wings extra time in the planning. With a tentative date set as October 14, 1943, the meeting was adjourned, the junior officers hurrying to deliver the news via teletype as you cleaned up the room.

You had very little recollection of completing the last report of the day or the journey up to your room, only fully returning your body as you shed your uniform to collapse onto your cot in a flood of tears no longer willing to be kept at bay.

But loosening your hold on your emotions did not provide much relief. In fact you found yourself fading day by day to no more than a hollow shell of yourself, an empty ache replacing all that used to fulfill you. The world grew grey and cold around you, even if the sun dared to show its callous face, and food was barely tasted or tolerated. If you had possessed the mental capacity to notice, the other girls began to call you ‘mouse’ behind your back for the way you would idly nibble at crackers or toast while staring vacantly at things unseen before giving up on the idea of a meal altogether. The majority of your breaks were spent rambling outside, warm or cold, rainy or fair, circling the grounds as you gnawed at the worn ends of your nails and silently repeated your threadbare pleas for Bucky’s welfare.

Nearly two weeks of such dismal behavior seemed to be Myrtle’s limit as she turned to you sharply one afternoon and declared, “We need to get you a hobby. Do you know how to knit?”

Your head whipped up from your typewriter to look at her in startled silence for a few moments before you shook your head pathetically.

“I will show you how tomorrow at lunch so you can stop haunting the grounds like the Hound of the Baskervilles.”

Your lips may have even twitched slightly at her literary admonishment, and you nodded meekly in agreement. Though when she handed you a pair of long wooden needles and a skein of midnight blue wool as soon as you returned to the office after a lunch of cold toast and a few sips of soup, you certainly felt out of your league.

“Watch.” She said sharply and leaned back in her chair to demonstrate. “Stab it, strangle it, scoop out the guts, toss it off the cliff.” Myrtle rattled off as she slowly moved her needles through each step.

To the surprise of you both, a soft snort escape your nose and she gave you the tiniest of smirks.

“It is rather memorable. I’ll show you again.” She repeated the process several times, accumulating numerous stitches along one needle before looking to you expectantly.

Tucking your lower lip under your teeth in concentration, you did your best to follow her example. Your fingers found the motions foreign and awkward, the needles slippery, and the yarn uncooperative. But you were not one to surrender easily in any aspect of your life. Narrowing your eyes at the challenge set before you, you poured more of your concentration into the effort and slowly but surely cast twenty stitches onto your needle.

“Good. They will get tidier as you go. I think your first project should be a scarf – something useful and a no more than a large rectangle. Add another sixteen stitches to that and then I’ll teach you how to cast off.”

Glancing at her nervously, the idea of a new step and attempting to create a garment both intimidating, you took a steadying breath before turning back to look at the needles in your hands.

‘One step at a time. Sixteen more stitches.’

It turned out casting off was not nearly as terrifying as it initially sounded. And the hobby of knitting? Remarkably forgiving, unlike the rest of life. When a stitch was dropped or poorly executed, it was a simple matter of unravelling the error-filled portion of the scarf and remaking it. Knitting filled the empty times when you could not sleep, could barely eat as your stomach seemed hopelessly snarled in worried knots. You were still by no means living a healthy lifestyle, but somehow everything was a little less abysmal. Your nerves a little less frayed, your tongue a little less sharp.

The resulting scarf was in no way a work of art, but it was entirely serviceable and would certainly be a welcome donation to the Red Cross to keep some poor soul warm. It was upon the completion of that project, within one week, that Myrtle decided you ought to try and follow a pattern. A knit cap to match perhaps?

Patterns were an entirely different beast and certainly slowed your progress, though your slightly aching hands did not begrudge the slackening in pace as you worked and reworked, knit and unravelled and reknit your way through it. The weather turned genuinely cold by the second week of November, dropping to the single digits during the day and below zero at night. There was still no word on Bucky. No change to his three letters, still holding as MIA.

‘Please. Please. Please.’ You repeated silently with each wooden clack of your needles as you sat cross-legged on your cot, knitting by the light of your bedside lamp until your eyes refused to focus.

Three envelopes with writing as distinct as their personalities were tucked into the small dresser beside your cot – letters from Vi, Ruth, and Mary that you simply could not bear to open. The threat of their sympathy was too frightening to contemplate. Would surely shatter the fragile semblance of normalcy you had cobbled together. Holding equilibrium and hyper vigilance seemed to only way forward. If you were to upset the balance, something catastrophic might befall Bucky and you could not risk such an outcome by changing your well-worn habits now.

The third week of November brought the arrival of a familiar and, frankly, unwelcome face. It appeared you had not seen the last of Captain Miller yet, for she transferred to Pinetree as the replacement for the WAC commanding officer Captain Burns who had suffered a rather severe fall down those treacherous attic stairs a couple days prior. Your greeting was professional, if a bit on the frosty side, and you could feel her beady eyes boring into your back as you left her office along with the other WAC officers to inform the enlisted women of the personnel change.

Despite being a Lieutenant, you had yet to be placed in direct charge of any personnel yourself, a fact that you might have mused further upon if you had the energy to spare on useless pursuits. As it was you were barely getting through the day-to-day struggle of survival while awaiting news of Bucky.

It came not two days later, in the form of a note dropped on your desk as Myrtle shuffled past with a stack of folders. Eyeing it with trepidation, you slowly reached out for it before unfolding the torn scrap of paper to reveal three entirely new letters.

POW

An exhaled sound of elation escaped you before you could stop it, quickly clamping your mouth shut against further outbursts in respect for Myrtle’s lost loved one. Setting your elbows on the wooden top of your desk, you lay your hands over your face and rambled off a silent litany of gratitude to the powers of the universe for this outcome. It was by no means the best – Bucky would most certainly be furious to have been apprehended by the enemy, to be kept behind fences and barbed wire. But it was absolutely not the worst, and for that you could feel nothing but relief.

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Every time he closed his eyes, all Bucky could hear was your shaky inhale, laced with pain, which had seeped through the phone after his careless statements on October 9. Even as he had slammed down the receiver, it had already begun to echo in his ears as he wrenched open the door of the telephone booth and stormed back to the hotel room. The only anger he felt about the entire affair was at himself. He had not been there for Buck, and then he had hurt you.

Each piece of flak, each bullet that struck his plane, felt like divine retribution for his personal failings. And while he was utterly furious when that third engine died, forcing the crew to bail out, he was also convinced on at least some level he deserved it. Deserved to be caught by those snivelling kids and their fathers. Deserved the beating in that godforsaken town that the RAF had failed to flatten. Deserved to have died on that wagon, but the sunlight still pricked at his eyes stubbornly.

Your agonized sound ricocheted through his throbbing skull and his eyes shot wide with the realization that if he were to give up now, he would only be hurting you more. Failing you and everyone else he cared about. His stomach lurched in horror and, seizing upon the distraction of the two repellent grave diggers, he rolled himself off the cart, making for the woods with all the grace of a newborn giraffe. Everything hurt, most especially his head, and he could barely see out of his right eye, yet somehow, he managed to evade them. Before everything went black.

By the time he arrived at the interrogation centre he knew he had missed his chance to escape. But there was a bed, and a blanket. Some questionable food, but it was better than wormy cabbage. His interrogator, for all his claims of insider knowledge, knew nothing about Buck – the famed sports hater, nor you. Everyone around Thorpe Abbotts was more than acquainted with the fact that he was utterly devoted to you and yet the slimy blond tried to insinuate he was still up to his good time ways. It did not make the barbs and intimations of Buck’s death any less painful, however. But it failed to make him crack.

When at last he arrived at the prison camp, first spotting Crank and to his unspeakable relief, Buck, he was convinced his legs might give out right there on the spot. Refusing to give those sneering guards the satisfaction, he forced himself to continue putting one foot in front of the other, remaining curt yet polite through registration and combine assignment until he was delivered to his quarters. Barely able to summon the energy to embrace Buck, he asked him to point in the direction of an open bunk before crawling in and passing out for hours.

Bucky’s memory of the next few days was spotty, consisting of vignettes and flashes rather than full days. Brady and Buck had seen to it that he had made the twice-daily roll call, forcing watery broth down his throat, and Bucky had even managed to wash the last of that soldier’s brains from his hair with shockingly cold water. All the while he felt the need to mutter the apologies to you that he should have spoken. He should have called you that night when he reached base, or even right after he had hung up in London. He vaguely recalled Buck soothing him, uttering platitudes like ‘your girl isn’t stupid she’ll understand’ ‘just hang on you’ll tell her yourself.’ It was around his fourth day in camp when things began to clear, and he felt more like himself. Then the monotony set in.

The weather was already cold, even for late October, and he was sorely missing the sheepskin coat he had swapped with Kidd for his plain leather jacket. It only grew colder as the days grew shorter, darkness coming to dominate the time they spent huddled together around the small table eating their meagre rations. Apparently, the Red Cross packages, though frequently delayed, had their captors feeling entitled to provide them less than their full allotment. The atmosphere was grim among all the prisoners there, particularly the Brits and Canadians who had been POWs since ’41. Bucky was not sure if he had the fortitude to last that long.

The first mail call did not come until December and Bucky did not even bother raising his eyes as the enlisted man tasked with the duty called out everyone’s name.

“Cleven, DeMarco, Brady, Egan…”

Bucky’s eyes lifted slowly, and he looked to the young man, who’s name was just on the tip of his tongue but seemed determined to escape him, to see him holding out an envelope expectantly. Bucky reached out to take it, swallowing roughly as he recognized your writing immediately.

“…Cruikshank, Murphy…oh and this is for you too, Egan.”

Bucky’s eyes tore from your delicate cursive to look at the small box he was holding out, taking it with a mumbled ‘thanks’ before setting it on his lap. The box bore your writing too, his fingers idly tracing the loops and whirls before he heard a soft laugh.

“Go on then, Bucky.” Buck smirked at him, already well into his letter from Marge, eyes alight with pure excitement.

Bucky exhaled slowly before tearing at the paper covering the box, a broad smile forcing its way onto his tired face as he was struck by the scent of you. Pulling the first woolen object from inside he turned it in his hands a few times before recognizing it as a hat, misshapen though it was, and quickly pulled it onto his head. Several of the guys laughed and he was certain he looked a fool, but he also felt immediately warmer for it. In pulling out the much longer garment, clearly a scarf, a small note fluttered to the ground. Wrapping the scarf around his neck he scooped it up to read.

There was a total of thirty-one words on that small piece of paper, with your name included, but he only cared about the last three, just above your signature. Taking a slow breath, Bucky was thankful for whatever divine entity existed that had prevented him from ruining his relationship with you. He turned back to look at Cruikshank as he mocked his new winter fashions.

“I’m sorry Crank, what did your girl send you?” He smirked good naturedly, picking up your letter from the tabletop, feeling the thickness of it, hoping there were a lot more than thirty words to lose himself in.

“My mom sent me this fine number.” Crank cracked back, pulling on a comparatively well-knit cowl scarf which he seemed more than a little proud of, but Bucky would take your questionable textiles any day.

First and foremost being he was currently wrapped in a cloud of wool that smelled so distinctly of you he had to be careful not to let his thoughts wander. He shook his head, laughing along with the rest of the guys, each of them basking in the glow of their first contact with home, as he carefully tore into your envelope. He was very obviously not the first to open it, probably not even the second, which sent a flash of annoyance through him, but he was learning to conserve his energy for things he actually had control over.

He closed his eyes tightly as his mind was flooded with the memory of you falling apart in his arms all those weeks ago. It seemed like another lifetime now, but it was heartily reassuring that you too seemed to have such memories on your mind in writing this. Slowly opening his eyes once more to return to his grim reality, his eyes drifted below your signature to your post-script.

The grin that split his face was near-painful and if he had not already reached the conclusion, the words would have surely been the final piece of evidence required to confirm that you were the perfect woman.

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

January brought with a continuation of daytime temperatures below zero, the return of your appetite, and your first letter from Bucky.

How something so small and thin as paper could both wound and soothe at the same time was perhaps the greatest of all mysteries to you. Elation at seeing his writing, hearing his voice in your head, was mottled with grief and pain at knowing what and who kept him from you. It was almost too horrid to think what he must have endured to date – what he could very well be enduring in this very moment for his letter was dated over a month ago.

‘Please keep him alive.’

Using your next Friday off you, made a special visit to the shops, collecting things like dried soup, nuts, and other things from Bucky’s list. Chocolate was harder to come by, but managed by accumulating your own rations of it, despite how you could not seem to get enough of it lately. That and apples. The staff in the mess line seemed to always have one on hand for you now, at every meal, after your constant requests, and the first crisp bite brought almost as much pleasure as a kiss from Bucky.

Adding a pair of hideous, in your opinion, mittens to the box of provisions, you sent it off via the Red Cross hoping he would not have to wait too long before the items reached him. A short note was all you added.

As you were making your way up to your room to begin a more detailed letter, you were startled to see Myrtle and Captain Miller walking down the hallway together, heads bent close, the sight giving you more than a little unease. They had not noticed you, several steps short of the landing, and you happily remained hidden behind a stone pillar as they stepped into Miller’s office together.

With a frown, you continued on your way, hoping that nothing was amiss, but struggling to shake the sense of foreboding that had settled around you like an unwelcome, smothering blanket. It was an odd sensation, considering the way that you had been desperately fighting off the deep chill of the English winter that seemed to have snuck its way into the very marrow of your bones. You were constantly burrowing beneath blankets and coats and scarves, even going so far as to squirrel a lap blanket into the bottom drawer of your desk for use during your long motionless periods of typing.

Your suspicions were confirmed when Captain Miller asked to have a word with you in her office the following Monday. Nothing had ever gone well when you spoke to this woman alone and this time proved no exception to the rule.

“How have you been feeling lately, Lieutenant?” She sunk her teeth right into the meat of the issue not two seconds after gesturing for you to take a seat across from where she sat, perched behind a rather ornate desk in her remarkably well-appointed office.

“A…alright I suppose, Ma’am, no complaints.” You did your best to answer lightly, very much desiring to keep your exhaustion, born of the constant worry combined with the demands of your position, from reaching her untrustworthy ears.

“Hm.” Captain Miller replied, tone conveying that she remained utterly unconvinced. “I must say you seem rather changed since your time at Thorpe Abbotts. You look less than well to me, and some of your colleagues have brought such concerns directly to me. I’ve scheduled an appointment for you to see the surgeon tomorrow at 0800, just to be sure you’re right as rain.”

“Ma’am I assure you, I am–” You began to protest, wondering just whom considered you unfit for duty.

“That will be all, Lieutenant. You’re dismissed.” She replied brusquely and you rose to your feet to salute her quickly before slipping out of her office, mind racing.

Certainly, your lack of sleep was less than desirable, but your work or various knitting projects were safe haven from the darker thoughts that seemed prone to find you during periods of rest. Aside from that, though you were fine. Improved, even, since communication had been somewhat restored with Bucky, though you could not seem to shake this annoying sniffle. But everything else was just…

Your eyes flew wide as your steps abruptly halted in the middle of the busy hallway, hardly registering the sharp bark of the man behind you as he narrowly avoided slamming into your back. In all your desperation to lose yourself by blindly trudging forward through life, just trying to get through it, it seemed you had lost track of something rather important. Springing back into motion, you hustled to your desk, digging out last year’s calendar, flipping back through the dates, racking your brain for the last time you’d had your monthlies. Your fingertips grew colder with each turn of the page until you reached September. That was the last time you could confidently say that you had bled.

And then there had been the ‘idyllic day’ in London with Bucky. Or more specifically the night.

Looking down at your abdomen as though it were some separate entity; having acted entirely on its own agenda, you felt your lower lip wobble. The door to the office opened, the sound of the pane of glass rattling lightly in its wooden frame startling you into an upright posture as you slammed the calendar closed. The look Myrtle gave you was one of confusion laced with guilt and had you bristling defensively as you vividly recalled her chummy conversation with Captain Miller a few days ago.

Colleagues.

“I trusted you!” You snapped under your breath, the waspish cruelty of your outburst stinging your own ears and flooding your eyes with tears. “How could you go to her…”

“I was worried about you.” She replied guardedly, retreating to her desk as a place of safety. “You are clearly not well.”

You sniffed indignantly but it was beginning to register just how true that statement might be. Because you most certainly had not been taking excellent care of yourself and if…Who were you kidding, four months with no bleeding. The exhaustion, the nausea, the susceptibility to cold. The signs had been there all along, you had simply chalked them up to the emotional turmoil you had been experiencing related to Bucky’s disappearance, capture, and internment as a POW. A strangled sob escaped you before you could stop it, quickly burying your face in your hands as you gasped for air, struggling to get a grip on your rapidly fracturing composure.

The soft ‘snick’ of the lock on the door had you peeking through your fingers as you watched Myrtle approach you not unlike one would a wounded animal.

“I thought as much…How far along do you think you are?”

“I don’t. I’m not.” Every attempt at denial turn rotten in your mouth and though you knew that your words could very well travel from her lips to Captain Miller’s ears, who else did you have to unburden yourself to here in this former girl’s school where women were nothing but replaceable the moment they became an inconvenience. “Three months probably. No, definitely. If I am. Which I’m sure is what I am.”

Myrtle set her hand on your shoulder, offering a short sharp squeeze, fairly rending your heart in two at the realization that it had been far too long since you had received any form of comfort from another human being. “You’ll get to see your family soon.”

It was meant to be soothing, surely, but all you could think of was the ocean that was about to open up between you and Bucky. The statement wrung a fresh sob from you before you scrambled with the lock to get out of that room and down the hall to the now too-familiar sanctuary of the washroom.

The remainder of the day passed in a fog, the looming morning appointment dangling over your head like the executioner’s axe poised to fall. You even felt encouraged to begin tidying and sorting through your belongings that night, starting to assemble them into your suitcases. The puzzle pieces simply fit too well for you to ignore. The faint knocking on your door just after midnight had you tilting your head in confusion, and cracking the door open cautiously.

A rather tentative Myrtle stood on the other side, a small envelope in hand.

“This might help when you get back. Here.”

Take it slowly, your fingers traced over the lump in the middle, opening the flap to reveal a gold ring with a small diamond.

“Myrtle I couldn’t–” You blurted out quickly, certain it was from the man she had lost over Regensburg.

“Oh it’s costume jewelry, and I want you to have it. It’ll make things easier.” She replied firmly and turned to head back to her room before you could reply.

Swallowing roughly, you shut the door and moved to sit heavily on your cot, sliding the ring onto your left ring finger experimentally. It was a bit loose and felt like a lie. Tugging it off roughly, you returned it to its envelope, tucking it into a pocket of your suitcase before turning in to try and get some rest.

The surgeon, as sympathetic as he portrayed himself to be, was utterly convinced you were ‘in the family way.’ However, before he could have you discharged from the Women’s Army Corps, he ordered a Hogben test. Your urine was collected and sent to a local pharmacist to be injected into a frog, or so you were told. If this frog produced eggs by tomorrow morning, you would be confirmed as pregnant and immediately evacuated by to the United States. Until then, he ordered you to rest.

Captain Miller delivered the news personally the following morning, tone more than slightly patronizing. You sat quietly in the chair in front of her desk, trying to take slow, even breaths and remind yourself she would have to eventually run out of things to say. The next words out of her mouth, however, had your spine straightening sharply.

“You know, Lieutenant, this was precisely the situation I was trying to avoid when I recommended you for this promotion back in September.”

“You did this?!” You snapped, feeling somewhat blindsided.

For all her coldness you had never seen her for a schemer. Never once suspected her hand in your sudden removable from Thorpe Abbotts and Bucky’s side.

Captain Miller looked down her nose at you and exhaled impatiently. “You may dislike me, Lieutenant, but all three more weeks at Thorpe Abbotts would have done is hasten your due date.” She narrowed her eyes as she twisted the verbal knife.

“Dislike you?” You repeated incredulously, that icy rage which you had first become acquainted with back in August once more flooding your veins. “No Ma’am. I do not dislike you. I pity you. I pity whatever lack of love you have in your life that you could so easily brush off three weeks with someone you care about.”

The woman was taken aback for a moment. Most likely for the first time in her life, before she cleared her throat. “Please proceed to your quarters and pack your things at once. You will be transported to Prestwick for transport by air back to the United States for immediate discharge due to the medical inability to serve. You are dismissed, Lieutenant.”

“Ma’am.” You muttered and gave a half-hearted salute before making your way upstairs.

Your belongings mostly packed, you instead pulled out a fresh piece of paper to write to Bucky to provide him your new return address. The question that hung in the air, however, was whether or not to inform him of your…condition…

Knowing the fragility of such things, and given that his daily life was already such a struggle, it seemed prudent not to burden him with anything unnecessary until this baby was born. Besides, it had been your choice, your initiation – that last, final, reckless, unprotected coupling. You had been a greedy thing and look what it had gotten you.

Your hand found its way to rest on your lower abdomen unconsciously and you let your gaze follow the motion absently. You had never reached the stage in your relationship where you had been able to exchange gifts and yet…here you were carrying what some might call quite a gift.

Most of all, bleak as he found life as a POW you were unwilling to force him into the position of putting that life in jeopardy. He did not need to become reckless as you had been. Inhaling a shaky breath, you put pen to paper to keep it brief and vague.

Sealing the envelope with a kiss from lips coated with fresh lipstick, you made a trip down to the post box before visiting the mess for an early lunch.

Within twenty-four hours, you were enduring your first plane ride, clinging to the seat inside a C-54 on the first leg of your journey from Scotland to Iceland. It was uncomfortable, unfamiliar, and on a plane filled with seriously wounded men, you stuck out like a sore thumb. The flight nurse had the grace not to comment, but the slightly oversized engagement ring you had ultimately decided to wear felt like a piece of armor on your left finger when her eyes fell onto it.

Bless Myrtle and her foresight. Whatever her motivations in bending Captain Miller’s ear had been, she had provided you with some of the best defence against judgement you could possibly have been afforded in your complicated situation. A wedding ring would have been too easy to disprove with no marriage licence. An engagement? Well it was still a bit fast of you to have spread your legs before the wedding, but at least he had bought you a ring first. Or so it appeared.

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

The ongoing mail issues finally resolved in a flood of mail in early March. Two letters and a large package arrived from you, bringing a broad smile to Bucky’s face after a barren, cold set of months. The food was quickly stashed to be meted out, but the mittens were not to be shared. There was some kind of magic in the yarn you used that trapped your perfume and held it for several weeks. He supposed it was because you had to cradle and hold it close for some time in your crafting of the garments you sent him.

He had never been jealous of clothing before, but life was full of new experiences these days.

Turning to the pair of letters next, he was immediately drawn to the impression of your lips on the slimmer of the two envelopes, tearing into it with utmost care to preserve the mark for later use in the darker, more private hours. The letter inside, however, was the most confusing and vague piece of correspondence he had ever received. And it was not due to some obvious attempt to skirt censors or other prying eyes. You were being evasive.

Tearing into the thicker envelope with less concern, he noted an earlier date, though only by a few days, but no trace, not even a hint of an explanation, for the second, odd letter.

As he and Buck went on their daily walk about the camp – a necessity to keep fit and stave on the stir-craziness that came from spending too many hours indoors – he exhaled slowly before breaking the silence.

“Hey Buck?”

“Hm?” His friend lifted his head from where his eyes traced their boots through the endless, frozen mud that had become their landscape.

“What do you think the odds are on a WAC getting a discharge to care for a grieving mother?”

Bucky did not need to hear his answer. Buck’s doubtful facial expression said it all.

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

Read Part Six - "Trust Me, Doll..."

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[elliewithcellie]

Long Cool Woman - Chapter 6

chapter summary: Nowhere to go, and nowhere to hide. Will the Winchesters get to you in time?

wc: 5.1k (oops)

cw: spn canon violence, torture (semi-graphic), demon taunts reader, deaths, insecurities, ANGST, hurt/comfort w/ sam, reader takes a bath, scars mentioned, panic attack briefly described

a/n: thank you so much to those who made it this far. it has been so cathartic to rework this from 6 years ago, and i appreciate all of you who stayed for the whole journey. feedback rocks, and stay tuned for the second of the three installments. find the rest of this story here

Trapped.

You frantically searched for a way out. Tanya and James blocked the only exit. You had nothing to defend yourself with, no knife or gun. Your phone was in your bag. You couldn’t even call the Winchesters. You had nothing.

Desperation is a funny thing. It’s the last slither of hope when there should be none left. There’s always one more gear, one more chasm of motivation to dig deeper, to give everything you have. Everything primal and innate takes the lead and goes into overdrive, screaming survive, survive, survive. But in turn, all logic is lost and tossed to the wayside, ultimately to your disadvantage.

You charged for the door.

James didn’t even look at you, so bored by the interaction, it seemed. He barely flicked his hand to the left. Your body slammed into the door and fell to the ground, your head cracking against the tile. As your world faded out of view, James crouched beside you and moved the hair from your face.

“I told you I’d make it personal.”

******

You woke up in a dark room. A warm, dim light spread around the room from behind you, flickering to an uneven rhythm against the walls. Your head pounded against your skull, and your vision blurred, liquid leaking into your eyes. You weren’t sure if it was blood or sweat. The rest of your body perspired as well, dripping down your back in a near-constant stream. A mix of salt and metal infiltrated your lips. You moved your hand to wipe your face, but both were tied behind your back. You sat upright in a folding chair, each hand tied to a different post. Your feet suffered the same fate, tied to separate legs of the chair. You were so tired, your head resting heavy against your shoulder.

“She’s up, babe,” you heard Tanya say from behind you. She circled you and flashed big black eyes as she smiled. Chills shot through your body.

James followed close behind. He closed the distance between you, resting his hands on your thighs. “Good morning, sunshine. How are you feeling?”

You scoffed. You tried to lean away, but there was no escaping his grasp.

“What?” James said. “Not enjoying the view anymore?” He laughed and stood above you.

“Yeah, you’re suddenly not my type,” you said, spitting blood out of your mouth. “If you’re gonna kill me, then do it already.”

“And take away all his fun?” Tanya asked. “No, no. He wants this slow and sweet.”

Your eyes scanned hers. “So, what, are you here because you wanted to play dress up? Or do you just do what your little boyfriend tells you to?”

“It’s fiancé,” she said, her teeth grit together.

“Must be hard to watch your fiancé fixate on me right now,” you egged her on. “How often does he tell you it’s ‘for the job’ and not some fetish he gets to play out? And how often do you get to do the same?”

“Shut up!” she screamed. She pushed you, and your chair fell back, your head slamming into the cement floor.

You groaned, tears welling in your eyes. She pulled you back up by a fistful of your hair. You yelped in pain.

“You don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about,” Tanya said, her words laced with venom.

“Easy, baby,” James said, unnervingly calm. “Don’t take my fun. She’s mine, remember?”

Tanya released her hold of you, and you released a breath. The room’s temperature rose by the minute. Your mouth was parched, begging for a drop of water, but only sweat and blood continued to accost your lips.

“Isn’t—” you breathed out “—isn’t the real fun with the pageant? Isn’t that where you wanna wreak havoc?”

James chuckled and shook his head. “She’s still not getting it. You still don’t get it, do you? You really don’t remember me? After I gave you those scars, I thought you’d never forget me. I get it’s a different get-up, but come on!”

Your vision blurred as your world caved in. Your heart dropped to the base of your stomach. “It—it’s you? So, what, none of this is real? This is all just to finish me off?”

James smiled, his eyes blinking black. “I’ve been planning this since the day you all sent me back to hell.”

“The dead Vermont girl, the position for me to fill, the serendipitous meetings with you, the date…” Your voice shook, shuddering as you put all the pieces together once and for all. “Every bit of it was staged?”

“Down to a science,” James sighed. “But what I couldn’t have even hoped for was your naivety, your utter imprudence! You walked right into my arms without a second thought! Honestly, do you actually think anyone would stoop low enough to want you? I know everything there is to know about you now, and all I’ve learned is that you’re pathetic. You think you’re tough and capable, but you’re not. You’re a liability. You’re just an unwanted weight on the Winchesters’ backs.”

His words crashed down on you, tears streaking your battered face. “Stop. That’s not true.”

“Isn’t it, though?” James asked. He circled you, closing in little by little. “You’re lying to yourself, babe. How much longer are you going to convince yourself that you're wanted? That you’re loveable when everyone in your life leaves? The pattern continues, yet you stay delusional. But deep down, you know the truth. You’ve always known, haven’t you? The Winchesters babysit you because they have to. But they are seconds away from dumping you on the side of the road as soon as they’ve used up what little you can offer. You’re so useless to those boys, they haven’t even tried to touch you, have they? Have you ever considered that? That they are so fucking disgusted by you they haven’t even tried to get in your pants? They don’t want anything to do with you. You’re nothing, and everyone can see it.”

Your breathing quickened, panic setting in. You couldn’t see straight anymore. His words cut you like a knife, and there was nothing you could do to defend yourself. It was true. All of it was true, and you could deny it for the rest of what little life you had left, but what was the point? You felt the hope you had left draining right before your eyes.

James stopped pacing and grabbed your face, ensuring there was nowhere to look but him. “You made me do this. Don’t you forget that. Whose fault is it that you fell for the first guy who looked at you? Whose fault is it that you wanted to pretend to be pretty for once in your life? I know you. So, I waited patiently – so patiently – to build you up. Because now tearing you limb from limb in the face you fell for is going to hurt you so much worse. It was a job, yes. But now, I get to enjoy it.”

James moved behind you, the sound of scraping metal causing you to flinch. He returned with a large steel rod, the edge a blazing orange. Beads of sweat rolled down your face as it neared you. You fought your restraints, leaning back from the heat. You used what little strength you had left to shift the chair back, but the chair tipped, and you began to fall back. With his free hand, James caught the seat between your thighs and pulled you back toward him.

“This is my favorite part,” he said. “There’s nothing better than watching a human’s eyes dilate with fear. And now, for my fun.”

With every burn, you screamed in agony. Each mark bubbled up within minutes, and no spot was left unscathed. He was slow, careful, as if performing a work of art. It was calligraphy to him.

Hours passed, and your screams devolved into whimpers, no longer able to muster up a cry for help. Pain overloaded your senses, dulling the sounds of footsteps and the fire crackling behind you. Your eyes could no longer focus on anything past James. He was all-consuming as he worked on your body relentlessly. You couldn’t believe that this was it, that this was how you’d finally go.

A hazy light pierced through the shaded orange of the dark room, drawing your attention. The light grew stronger and brighter, but just as quickly as it shone, it began to fade. The slam of a door took the light away. You tried to focus your blurred vision. James stood toward the sound, your gaze following his.

Sam and Dean stood at full height, their eyes narrowed and their weapons in their hands.

Tanya lunged first. She charged at Dean, but she didn’t stand a chance. Dean stabbed Tanya, and she flickered a bright orange. She sank onto his angel blade. He pushed her forward, and she collapsed to the ground.

“You killed her!” James screamed. He charged toward Dean and raised his hands in the air. Dean slammed into the wall and dropped to the ground, his blade sliding across the room.

Sam attacked James. He caught Sam’s wrists, a battle of brawn taking form. James slammed Sam against the concrete wall. James shook the blade from Sam’s hand and kept him pinned. Sam pushed back with all his might, but James didn’t let him budge. Sam peered over at you, his eyes frantic, before returning his gaze to James head-on, a rage behind his eyes, his eyebrows furrowed, and his jaw clenched.

James recoiled for a split second in response. Then his lips curled into a grin. “You have a fire in your eyes that your brother doesn’t.”

Sam said nothing. He continued to fight against his hold to no avail, his eyes never leaving James’.

James chuckled and shook his head slightly. “It’s for her, isn’t it? You burn for her, don’t you?”

Sam’s eyes widened only a hair. Still, the façade had broken.

“You do!” James said. “It must have hurt, then, knowing she was with me. Picturing the two of us together.”

“I’m going to kill you,” Sam said through gritted teeth.

Dean came to and stayed low. He slid out of James’ periphery toward his angel blade.

“I bet it kills you knowing I’ve had my way with her. That I’ve gotten to touch her before you could. That she wanted me and not you.”

“ENOUGH!”

Sam found one final gear and pushed James off of him. He punched James square in the jaw, knocking him down. James turned his head, smiling through bloody lips.

“Now, this is what I was warned about! There’s that Winchester ruthlessness. Let me have it! Your girl’s gonna die if you don’t.”

Sam took James by the collar and beat him down again. The smile never waned as Sam wailed punch after punch. He lifted James by the shirt one final time. He spun James around and gripped him by the shoulders, revealing Dean who stood before them. He stabbed his blade into James’ stomach. James gasped for air, his bones flashing orange and yellow before slumping to the ground.

The sudden silence deafened your ears. Sam ran to you, the clattering of weapons overwhelming your senses.

“Oh my god. What did he do to you? Dean! Help me!” Sam took a deep breath as he frantically untied your legs. Dean joined him and worked on your wrists behind you.

“It hurts, Sammy,” you whispered as your whole body trembled, full-body chills setting in.

Sam gently wiped the matted hair from your forehead. “I know, baby. I know. We’re here, now, ok? Everything’s gonna be fine. You’re being so tough for us. Just hold on. Just hold on for us. Please.”

As soon as you were free from your ties, you fell forward against Sam’s chest, no longer able to hold yourself up. He scooped you into his arms and picked you up, cradling your head. You couldn’t keep your eyes open. You rested your head on his shoulder, sinking deeper into his touch as he carried you toward the daylight.

“Dammit, stay awake for me. Come on. You can do it. Please, Y/N. Dean! Help! Please!”

You couldn’t hold on. Your head fell back against his arm, and your arm slipped from his hold as it fell limp, lifeless.

******

A surge of air awoke you as you were greeted by two fingers placed on your forehead. Castiel knelt beside you, an endearing smile forming on his face. “You should feel better now,” he said.

You were in your room in the bunker, the soft lamp light humming against the walls. You rested above your sheets, still in your gown. The dress was destroyed, tattered with holes and rips and splattered with dried blood. But your arms had no gashes, no residual burns, nothing that remotely resembled the torture you endured.

You tried to sit up, but Castiel stopped you, gently resting his hand on your shoulder. “You still need to rest. You’ll be sore for a few more days.”

“Did, did I die?” you asked.

“No,” Castiel said, a small chuckle escaping his lips. “I only healed you. I’m not a miracle worker.”

You released a breathy laugh, though apprehension settled under your skin. You lifted the top of your dress. Your older scars remained, and your sternum scar stayed strongly visible.

“That I couldn’t heal, since it wasn’t yours to begin with,” Castiel said.

You nodded. You exhaled an air of relief.

Your door swung open to Sam in the center of your doorway, his chest rising and falling. His lower lip trembled, and his puffy, red eyes widened at the sight of you. Castiel stepped aside as Sam approached you, taking Castiel’s place beside your bed.

“You’re ok?” Sam’s voice rose barely above a whisper as if he couldn’t believe his own words.

Your heart swelled at the sight of him. You nodded, the small smile juxtaposing the tears welling in your eyes. You held your arms out for him, and he accepted, pulling you into his chest with an urgency you’d never experienced from him before. His hold was firm but soothing, one hand across your back, the other burrowed into your hair as you nestled into his shoulder.

“I thought I lost you,” Sam said, his voice shaking.

“But you saved me. I’m here,” you said, almost more to reassure yourself.

Nothing in you wanted to let him go, and something told you he wasn’t going anywhere.

“How’re you feeling, kiddo?”

You lifted your head and found Dean sitting on the edge of your bed. You released Sam and leaned back against your headboard. “I’m still kicking.”

Dean rested a hand on your shin. “That’s what I like to hear. Now, why don’t we all let you rest, hmm? You can get cleaned up or take a nap. Maybe I’ll pick up some milkshakes for all of us. I think we’ve earned it.”

You smiled up at him as he stood up. “Thanks, Dean.”

He returned a soft smile and placed his hand on your head, lightly tussling your hair. “I’m glad you’re ok.”

You took his hand in yours and squeezed it, hoping he’d receive your message where words failed you. He squeezed your hand back and released a shaky breath, as if to compose himself, before heading out of your room.

Castiel approached your bed, joining Sam.

“If you’d like,” Castiel began, “I could help you wash up. You must feel incredibly weak.”

Your eyebrows raised at his offer, your cheeks shading a light pink. You looked at Sam who only returned a small shrug.

“I think I can manage,” you breathed out, not entirely convinced of your words. “Besides, I can’t ask an angel to do that for me.”

“‘…[N]o servant is greater than his master, nor is a messenger greater than the one who sent him.’ And I am God’s messenger. God’s servant. It is precisely my job to provide for you. If you would like.”

You thought for a moment. You weren’t sure you could do it on your own. You were so tired. You took a deep breath in and nodded.

Sam and Castiel helped you out of bed and walked you to your bathroom, your arms resting on both of their shoulders. Your steps were small and delicate as you supported your weight on each foot. The boys kept to your pace, Sam’s hand resting on your back.

Castiel removed his coat and tie then rolled up the sleeves of his dress shirt. Sam lingered in the bathroom while Castiel tested the temperature of the bathwater. Sam leaned on the doorway, his face flush, his eyes longing. If it weren’t for the state you were about to be in, you’d have asked him to stay. His comfort radiated from him. You hoped that his energy would linger after he was gone. He promised to leave the comfiest sweats he could find on your bed before he closed the door behind him.

As the water drained from the tub, Castiel met you with a towel. The blood, sweat, and tears had all washed away, but your memories remained. James’ words taunted you, a torture that continued even after his death. Your reflection haunted you. Shame forbade you to look, sure you’d find your failures written across your face.

Castiel helped you dress in the clothes Sam had laid out for you. Both the sweats and the shirt were his; much too big for you, but you didn’t mind. Your bare feet padded down the hall as the two of you joined the Winchesters.

The brothers cracked open beers as you sipped on your milkshake. The boys reminisced of a time before either you or Castiel were in the picture. You tried to settle in, perfectly content to witness a firsthand retelling of the history of the Winchesters, but the monster in the back of your mind took center stage. Pathetic, incapable, a liability. You’re nothing. Chills ran down your spine amidst the chatter and laughter.

Sam caught your eyes, pulling you from your haze. You managed a small smile in his direction. His eyebrows pinched together briefly. He silently mouthed, “You ok?”

You nodded. You were desperate to avoid a scene and allow the boys their time without your problems interfering.

The evening dwindled to night, exhaustion evident on everyone’s faces. The fatigue hit you as well, but fear overtook you as the others packed up for the night. You dreaded the emptiness of your room. The panic swelled in your lungs as you all walked down the hall to your rooms. But you didn’t dare say anything. You refused to continue relying on them, hoping they wouldn’t be as quick to leave you if you kept under the radar.

You all said your goodnights, and you sat in your bed. You couldn’t settle in, though, afraid he would find you as soon as you closed your eyes. But with your eyes open, you swore the small shadows moved along your walls in the dim lamplight. Your heart beat faster, and your breathing accelerated. Beads of sweat lined your forehead as you scratched at the phantom burns across your arms. You held your pillow in front of you and rocked, an abysmal attempt at self-soothing. But if the boys could handle this, so could you.

A knock on your door shook your attention. You tossed your sheets to the side and headed for the door. Sam stood in the hall, concern marking his features.

“I just wanted to check in with you before heading to bed,” Sam said. “Today was a lot. And just because Cas healed you, doesn’t mean you have to be fine.”

“I am fine. Really,” you said. You lied through your teeth. You weren’t going to fold that easily. It was up to you to handle this, not Sam.

Sam’s eyes narrowed as if to study you, then released a sigh. “Well, if you need me, you know where to find me. I’m here for you, ok?”

You nodded, careful to keep your composure.

He closed the door behind him, leaving you to manage your waking nightmare on your own again.

An unfortunate routine formed over the course of the week. You didn’t sleep. You didn’t dare to see James in your nightmares. Every night, you took watch of your room, ensuring every inch was accounted for. The fear dawned on you like clockwork, ritualistic in nature. Your bedroom became a warzone, a dreaded place to be, but you had to brave the storm alone if you were to get through this.

Daytime greeted you with grogginess from the night before, and you kept your distance from the boys. It wasn’t your place to ask for help. You were a guest on borrowed time. And nothing scared you more than your time being up, so you were cautious. You gave them their space as much as it pained you, and as much as you missed them. You refused to be an extra weight for them.

But six nights without sleep would wear down even the strongest of soldiers.

Your paranoid eyes darted across your dimly lit room. You held your pillow, sure that any tighter and it would burst at the seam. Tonight, you couldn’t settle your breathing. Your breaths shortened and quickened until you were hyperventilating. Panic overtook you as tears fell down your cheeks. You couldn’t take it. You weren’t strong enough to handle this. You needed help.

You gasped at the sound of the knock on your door. Your heart pounded in your chest. You quickly wiped the tears from your eyes and did everything you could to hone your breathing. You’re fine, you repeated to yourself. You’re ok, you’re ok. Just breathe.

You opened the door and found Sam on the other side.

“Hi," you said. "Is everything alright?”

He didn’t respond right away. He pursed his lips, a grimace and a deep concern in his eyes residing in his features. “Can—can I come in?”

You felt the color drain from your face. “Yeah, of course.”

Your throat was closing, the air being sucked from your lungs. You were sure your time was up. You’d have to pack your bag and leave. With all the effort to keep to yourself, it wasn’t enough. You still weren’t enough.

You closed the door behind you and walked Sam to your bed. You leaned against your headboard while Sam sat opposite you. He kept to himself, as if careful to allow you your space.

“Are you doing ok?” Sam asked. “You’ve been distant since we got back, and I get if you need space maybe to process, or just space from us, but I just need to know if you’re alright.”

You released a shaky breath. “I’m ok. You don’t have to worry about me.” You sucked in your lip, hoping he would buy it.

Sam scanned you and then shook his head. “No. See, I know that’s not true. You don’t have to lie about this. Not to me.”

“What do you mean it’s not true?”

“I know your tells. You bite your lip when you’re not confident in what you’re saying. You did the same thing before your date.”

Heat rose to your cheeks. You averted your eyes from him.

“You can talk to me,” Sam continued. “If there’s anyone who gets it, it’s me.”

“I can handle it,” you said, pulling your legs to your chest. “I’m not here to be a burden.”

“Burden? There’s no burden.”

“You guys do enough by babysitting me after all this time. I don’t need to add to your load. I can work on being self-reliant, I swear.”

“What are you talking about?” Sam asked, shaking his head in disbelief. “Where is this all coming from?”

Your lip trembled. “James said—”

“James?” Sam said standing up. “The demon? Demons lie. You can’t listen to them.”

“You didn’t hear him,” you said as tears welled up in your eyes. “He was right! I’m pathetic. I got myself into this mess.”

“That’s not true.”

“It is. I walked right into it. It was my fault I wanted to pretend to be pretty for once. It was my fault I fell for the first guy I looked at.”

“It’s not your fault.”

“And I’m useless to you guys!” you cried. “I’m a liability. I walk around thinking I can help, but I’m just a chore for you guys to clean up. And I’m scared that any day you’ll toss me out on my own because you’re too sick of me.”

“Stop,” Sam said.

Tears streamed down your face. “He said”—you shuddered at the memory— “He said” you stuttered, scared that speaking the rest out loud would make it true, too. “He said I was so fucking disgusting that you wouldn’t—that I was too gross to even be touched. Is there something wrong with me? He said he knew me. He said no one would stoop low enough to want me. Is that true? Am I disgusting?”

“Enough,” Sam said, his voice firm.

Sobs poured out of you. You convulsed into your hands, unable to collect your breathing. Sam sat beside you, his hands rounding your back as he pulled you to his chest. He kept his hand on your head, pressing you to his steady beating heart. You felt his breaths rise and fall at a slow, deliberate pace as he rested his head on yours. He allowed you the time to cool off before you continued.

“I wanted to—I needed to prove him wrong,” you continued, your teeth chattering as you shook. “So, I kept my distance to show him I’m not useless. To show him I can be self-reliant. To show him I don’t need babysitting. But I can’t even do that! I’m just so scared that you’ll kick me out. I want to be useful. I want to be good.”

“Listen to me,” Sam said. “None of what he said is true, ok? He took your fears and twisted them. It wasn’t your fault. It was Dean and I who signed you up, not you.”

“Sam—”

“Let me finish. He set it up. He set it all up, so of course you fell for it. We all did. You’re not stupid for not seeing it. And you’re not a chore. You’re someone who almost died. You almost died. So, if there’s any burden I can lift from you, I want to do it. If I could kill him again for what he said to you, I would. There is nothing wrong with you, ok? I—” Sam took a deep breath. “Anyone would, should, be happy to have you in their life. I mean it.”

You exhaled and nodded, keeping your head down.

“You don’t seem convinced,” Sam said.

You shivered. “Every time I close my eyes, I see him. I haven’t slept in days. I’m sorry. I tried to handle it by myself to not be a burden on you—”

“What can I do to show you you’re wanted here?” he said. “What can I do to let you know you’re not worthless? And certainly not here just for our use! The only thing fucking disgusting was all the bullshit James said to you. You are capable. You are lovable. You are beautiful. And you are worth so much more than just what you can offer. So, what can I do to show you you’re not alone here?”

Your lip trembled before you broke out in tears. “I was so scared, Sam. It hurt so bad.”

You reached out for him, pulling him flush against you.

“I know,” he said.

“His words won’t leave me alone,” you said, “him just taunting me as he left burn after burn. I still feel him everywhere. I want him gone. I just want him gone,” you cried into his chest.

“You’re safe. I’ve got you, ok? I’ve got you.”

You couldn’t be sure how long you held him. Nothing could tear you away. And Sam let you as he continued running his hand down your hair. You shuddered in his grasp, but his warmth soothed you as you settled into the rhythm of his breathing. Soon, your eyes hung lower and lower, the threat of sleep pursuing you. You fought it off, but the weight of it loomed over you.

“I’m so tired,” you whispered against his chest, “but I’m so scared.”

Sam lifted your chin between his thumb and forefinger. Your eyes locked with his. “I want you to use me. What can I do to help you? Please.”

His conviction startled you, but his words comforted you. “Would—would you be willing to stay?” you asked. “The night, I mean. Just so I know he’s not—”

“You don’t have to explain,” Sam said, a sympathetic smile forming on his face. “I can do that.”

You exhaled an air of relief, your body relaxing for the first time. You pulled your covers back and allowed the both of you to settle into bed. Sam rested on his back with his hands at his sides. You did the same, now thoroughly aware of the first taking place. You took a deep breath, his comfort exuding off of him like heat from the sun. It drew you nearer, pulling you like a magnet. You willed yourself closer, daring to rest your head on his chest. You felt his heart thud against you.

“Is this ok?” you asked.

Sam nodded. He pulled his arm out from his side and wrapped it around you. He twisted his body to face you and pulled you into his chest. You nestled into his touch, wishing to be impossibly closer. Sam hooked your leg with his and pulled it toward him, resting it in between his thighs. A content sigh escaped your lips.

Your head rested against his heart, staying solid and steady, keeping in time with your breathing. The rhythm soothed you, his words still playing in your mind like a lullaby. Every bit of this moment felt natural, so undeniably right. The demon’s words had dulled in your mind, Sam now saving your senses. A small smile rested on your lips. If Sam was all you needed to sleep, you’d be happy to stay here the rest of your life. Your heart skipped a beat, heat flooding your cheeks. Falling for him would have to be tomorrow’s problem, you decided, opting to fall asleep in the comfort of his arms instead.

Second Installment coming soon!!

[berrymascarpone]

A Brief Tour of Seireitei

So I’ve been reading the Soul Society Arc again after finishing the Bleach manga a while back and now that all the plot tension has already been resolved, I’ve found myself looking at the scenery. And by scenery, I mean the architecture and city planning of Seireitei.

Now, the good thing is Ichigo and co really get around a bit in this arc, not to mention the cuts to the captains and lieutenants doing there thing in the background, so here’s a brief tour following along with them.

The first thing we notice about Seireitei is that clearly they spend much more on infrastructure in the city than in Rukongai. That is where all your tax money has gone folks, to nice tiled roofs, whitewashed walls, fancy windows.

But also, considering the magically appearing wall that just straight up falls from the sky when you go near, it’s probably a good idea to have some way of demarcating where you have to stay away from in order to stay un-pancaked.

(Also electrical wires? Just what era is their infrastructure from?)

It looks like there’s a pretty open layout here, but later on, the streets get more labrythine, with long walls splitting the space into narrow roadways.

However, from above, it appears that these complicated halls are actually just blocks of mazes, separated by normal roads. Are they compounds? Is this just the geography of that particular area? Are they individual houses? Who lives there?

And although the streets look pretty narrow from these angles, another ground angle shows that they are actually pretty wide. But also, you might run into something like, uh this.

We all knew the Gotei 13 was pretty fucked up, but uh, yeah. Makes me wonder which earlier generation captain had this installed.

Anyways, after destroying many of those walls, Ichigo and Ganju eventually make it below the uniformly tiled floors to make it to the sewers (or are they storm drains? They feel very tall for sewers.

These remind me somewhat of the Tokyo Metropolitan Area Outer Underground Discharge Channel, which I had to look up once for a fic, so that makes me think it’s more of a stormwater system. Also, apparently they don’t mark their manhole covers in Seireitei? And it looks kinda fragile too, what with only that tiny little ledge to hold up such a big board. What happens when a particularly heavy person (and we know there are some real big boys in the Gotei 13) steps on one of these tiles and falls through? I imagine Komamura and Zaraki Kenpachi have learned to memorize the locations these manhole covers, or they accidentally step through the floor every few blocks.

Once we exit the underwater canals, we arrive at Sōkyoku Hill, the most scenic view of Seireitei, and also where they lock up and execute their prisoners. I guess they would at least get a good view before they die?

Not only is it on a hill, but the architecture takes quite a brutalist turn. All square blocks and flat tops (except for the nice little row of towers up there? And also a few sky bridges, for the scenic view.)

As a side note, this area appears to be surrounded by several warehouse-like buildings. Not sure if it’s actual warehouses, and this is the prison/industrial district of Seireitei, but interesting to note.

But also, when Ichigo and Renji absolutely wreck a few of these buildings in their fight they appear to contain…absolutely nothing?? Like not even some broken furniture, or debris.

Anyways, after a bit of regrouping back in the underground waterways (which also have some room-like areas a bit further away from the water…for…reasons…) our heroes finally venture forth into brutalist architecture wonderland.

I assume this area is a prison complex, since, judging by the texture, it appears to be made out of Sekkiseki, the reiatsu-suppressing stone. Also interesting to note, the buildings appear to be placed haphazardly, at odd angles. Is this to confuse invaders and/or escaped prisoners? Is it because their city planning consisted of Yamamoto scribbling out something on a napkin? Is it because this hill was one big sekkiseki deposit and they had to carve buildings out from the ground, so their planning had to follow the natural contours? And why is there absolutely no one here? Like the empty warehouses, this area seems to be abandoned. Are there not enough prisoners, or did the last crisis in Soul Society wipe out enough people that there aren’t enough to fill these houses? Is it like those fake buildings that are actually subway stations and the top part is just for show?

Anyways, it seems like I’ve hit the limit on the number of images I can add on the mobile app, so I’ll continue in a part 2 once I get around to it.

[bomberqueen17]

backsplash

ok so after they put the countertops in, it was time to tile the backsplash, and install the last cabinet, which rests on top of the counter in the corner.

"I don't remember what color tile we picked," I said.

Jim laughed, and got one of the tiles out, and laid it on the counter.

"Oh," I said, "right. Yeah."

[image description: a white tile. It's a white tile. Lying on the new white countertop.]

In my defense. It's a glossy white subway tile, but it matches the white in the countertop, and it also has a subtle undulating texture.

They covered the countertops with a dropcloth and taped-down thin cardboard (just like the taped-down cardboard they've covered the floor with since it was installed), brought in a tile saw, and set to work.

[image description: my in-progress kitchen, with a Ridgid brand tile saw set up on a plastic tray on the new counter in front of the bay window, and tools spread out across the rest of the counter. Max is laying out tile along the north wall, and the foreground is my stove, covered in a towel, being a surface for tools to lie on.]

Max found the center line of where the stove is going to be installed, and spaced the tiles based on that. I figured they'd start at one end and work over but no! They start from a center line and work out. The tile is going to the ceiling above the stove, so that was their center line, even though it's not anywhere near the middle of the wall.

[Image description: Max is bent over facing away, and has just placed the first tile in the center of a piece of trim mounted behind where the stove is going to go, after covering the whole wall in whatever the stuff is that you stick tiles to. Above him is the square of plywood that the stove fume hood is going to get mounted into.]

Meanwhile, Jim had retrieved the last remaining cupboard from the living room. It is meant to rest atop the countertop, over in the corner. The electrician had accidentally installed an outlet in that corner, and when he discovered his mistake, Jim suggested just leaving it there anyway and cutting a hole in the back of the cabinet to accomodate it. So I said sure, and now Jim was slightly moving the outlet to fit, and then sawing the hole out of the back of the cabinet. He got it all nicely lined up, and then he and Max went to lift the cabinet up onto the countertop and there wasn't clearance, so he had to uninstall the LED light fixture there. Which was fantastic, as now I know how they go in and how they come out, and he also showed me that there's a set of switches in there-- if I want, I can pull all six of them out and change their intensity and color temperature, because there are five total settings! Wild. Now I know!

Anyway he got the cabinet into position and attached it and installed the outlet, which was pretty cool.

[image description: The north wall of my kitchen. On the left, Max is tiling; in the center, there's a pyramid shape of the tiling in progress, where he's done a line all along the bottom where the stove will sit, and then has worked up from there. To the right, a sunbeam is coming in the bay window and illuminating the glorious warm-birch interior of the cupboard, which doesn't have doors on at the moment, and in its lower right corner it has an electrical outlet nestled in position just above the bottom drawer.]

I'm going to make a lil basket of some kind (possibly with a grid bottom for air flow? or maybe i'll just use a wire basket to begin with?) along which I'm going to clamp a bunch of Managed Cables with a variety of ends on them so I can throw Devices in there to be Charged, neatly and out of sight. Temperature management is going to be important though, lithium batteries get warm when they charge, so i'm going to have to give that some consideration. I wonder if I can construct some sort of heat sink. Well, I won't have too many things in there probably, so it won't be critical. Maybe I'll get a spare like, wire cookie cooling rack and have that be the surface the charging items lie on.

[Image description: A close shot along the north wall, showing the textured surface of the tiles. There are little plastic spacers at short intervals sticking out of them, and an outlet is sort of poking out of the wall with the faceplate off; tools lie on the cardboard-covered countertop, and in the center of the photo is the blue-gray side of the cabinet installed against the east wall.]

It suddenly has gone from a construction site to looking like a kitchen that like, tasteful, normal adult people would have.

[image description: a text message from Dude, to whom I'd been sending photos. Dude: it's starting to look like a regular person's kitchen me: It suuuuper is Dude: gonna have to find some way to get weird with it me: Well. Yeah.]

[specialinterestshows]

Tread carefully in this section my Rhea Ripley x lady!reader fic. Tomorrow’s post will be another installment of the request fic Dom (&) Me.

Warnings for this section: Dirty talk, blood

-

Absolute Smokeshow (Part 27 of ?): Shower Head

The pile of clean clothes you had just put on less than an hour ago grew as you stripped to join Rhea in the shower - despite already having cleaned yourself up a bit earlier. It was worth having to do laundry early this week to get to spend more time with the absolute goddess that stood in your bathroom, currently bending over to check the temperature of the water pouring into the tub. The sight was enough to bring any woman to her knees.

“Oh good,” Rhea said, pleasantly surprised, “Looks like the temperature settings in your shower are as responsive as you are.”

She turns around to watch you blush before directing the water to the shower head. Stepping in under the water, she looks over her shoulder and beckons you closer with one moving finger.

Carefully entering the shower, you pull the curtain closed behind you, shivering slightly. Rhea stood before you, water running down every beautifully-sculpted curve of her body. The sunlight filtering in through the small, frosted bathroom window gave her an almost ethereal glow.

“Don’t tell me you’re just here for the view,” she teases, hands resting on your hips before pulling you closer.

“You can’t blame me for staring,” you counter, resting your hands on her shoulders and sighing slightly as the warm water hits you, “My eyes naturally gravitate to the most beautiful thing in the room.”

“What a coincidence,” Rhea said, holding your gaze, “So do mine.”

Your lips meet hers before one of her hands wanders down to grab your ass. Biting her lip in response gets you pushed up against the cold tile wall. Her hands move to hold you there by your shoulders as she pulls her mouth away.

“Come whenever you want, love. No rules this time,” Rhea says, one hand moving to stroke you between your legs, “Just enjoy yourself.”

“Thank you, Mami,” you moan, bracing yourself as she kneels down in front of you, one hand on your hip.

Your noises joined the steady sound of the water hitting Rhea as her mouth makes contact with the ache between your thighs. Trying to grind against her mouth proves fruitless as her hands pin your hips to the wall, her pace steadily increasing.

“Ohmygod, Mami,” you whine, pleasure building. She moans against you in response, the vibration getting you closer and closer to coming. Forgetting Rhea dropped the rules for a moment, you start trying to delay your own release. It’s a moment before you remember, slightly embarrassed.

“I’m gonna come,” you whimper, still feeling the need to announce yourself as your fingers gripped Rhea’s dark locks. Humming against you again, she kept her rhythm steady as you moaned loudly. Riding out your orgasm, you felt pure ecstasy flow through your body. Her mouth was a gateway to heaven and you had arrived.

The world slowly rematerializes around you once you finish and you hear “good girl” before Rhea stands again. You pull her in for a long kiss as soon as her face is near yours.

“God, I love the way you fuck me,” you sigh, making her smile widen.

“Switch places with me and I can fuck your mouth, then,” Rhea tells you, already moving.

“Yes please,” you moan, making her chuckle as you walk under the stream of water.

With one clumsy step forward, you slip, arms flailing before Rhea catches you in her arms. The sharp pain in your already injured hand spiked from hitting the wall, but what demanded your attention most was a cut on your ankle that bled into the water, aching from hitting the lip of the faucet.

“I got you,” Rhea says, gently setting you down on the floor of the shower before pulling back the curtain and wrapping her dripping body in a towel.

“Wound kit?” she asked, opening a drawer once you pointed to it and removing the first aid kit, “Think you can clean up your ankle and hand for me before I wrap them?”

You nod, grabbing the soap nearby and working up a lather as Rhea sits down on the edge of the tub. Once you’ve rinsed away the soap, she helps you slowly stand up and get out of the shower.

Her hands moved quickly and efficiently, bandaging both your knuckles and ankle. She clearly hadn’t been overstating her skill in treating injuries. Moving your hand, you marvel at the security in the way she wrapped your knuckles.

“There you go,” Rhea said with finality, wrapping you in a nearby towel upon seeing you shiver, “You go get dressed and relax. I’m going to get clean and I’ll be right out.”

“Sorry,” you can’t stop the word from leaving your mouth, feeling like you did something wrong.

“Hey, no, none of that,” she insists, holding you tight and kissing your forehead, “Shit happens. I just want to make sure you’re safe.”

[end part twenty-seven of ?]

Part 28: https://www.tumblr.com/specialinterestshows/726124267436146688/absolute-smokeshow-part-28-of-siren-song

-

Tag List (thank you!)

@cherryberryshine , @littlemiss-fanficlover , @elisewithak , @babybatlover , @girlofpink

[averagejoesolomon]

WELCOME TO THE KIDS. God, we are not ready for this installment, I'm so serious. Matt and Rachel are going to kill us all. To say nothing of the upcoming spycraft and general ass-kickery. Thank you for reading this with me. If you're new here, you can read Full Circle in full on Ao3. Enjoy!

Chapter Two

Before Matt boards a plane to New York, he pastes an OTS-issued mustache to his upper lip and switches the passports in his backpack.

There are no direct flights from Washington DC to Moscow. The reasons for this span far and wide, but the most significant factor also happens to be the simplest—sheer distance. At nearly five-thousand miles as the crow flies, there ain’t a whole lot of civilian aircraft that can make the flight in one go, to say nothing of the fact that neither country is especially amicable to the idea of direct contact. As part of a global effort to reduce the friction between two nuclear superpowers, Morocco offers up its services as the geographical and political buffer between the two destinations, its liminal and atmospheric nightlife acting as the ideal backdrop for the world’s transfers, layovers, and delays.

The trip usually takes eighteen hours if flown straight through, but the gin joints can eat into a full day if given the chance. For his part, Matt’s latest trip takes thirty-seven hours.

But he can’t blame the bars this time around because he doesn’t stop in Morocco, and hasn’t since he picked up a Soviet tail in the CMN terminal last spring. For every US intelligence agent flying through Casablanca, there are five Russian officers waiting on the ground with direct orders to identify and apprehend incoming westerners. The behavior has become too predictable. The Soviets have become too prominent. As Joe puts it: an agent in Morocco is an agent in the grave.

So Matt begins with a trip to New York, then London, then Istanbul, where he switches passports again to fly to Dubai, so he can finally make his way up to Moscow. He survives off of complimentary peanuts and ginger ale, stopping only at the occasional newsstand for the latest local headlines and a fresh packet of M&Ms—one of the few candies sold consistently across international borders. Vigilant airport hours are balanced with the relative safety of the sky, and his only sleep happens alongside the low, rattling drone of jet engines in his ear.

By the time he lands in the Soviet Union, he’s already added a goatee and traded his honey blond hair for a bleached wig that more closely resembles his newly assumed Slavic heritage. After deboarding, he identifies the nearest bathroom to the gate and enters the last stall on the left. As instructed by his CO, he runs his fingers along the wall until he finds a ridge in the tile. He carefully peels back a damn near invisible panel, revealing the compartment Langley promised him. There’s a change of clothes. A pair of contacts. A note written on evapopaper: E ibvltn aely ldrm oor we uti I. The key to this particular skip code was already given to him in New York, which helps him decipher the message that a driver will meet him in Lot 2. Thank God he doesn’t need to hail a taxi.

He drops the note into the toilet bowl and watches it melt from the edges inward. After changing into the provided outfit, he silently shreds his old travel clothes to be discarded in various trash cans on his way to the parking lot. Finally, he pops both contacts in, replaces the panel, and flushes the toilet in case anyone is listening. When he approaches the sink to wash his hands, unfamiliar blue eyes blink back at him from where his own brown eyes ought to be.

Between the sporadic sleep and the changing time zones, he has no idea what the local time is, but the dark sky narrows his possibilities to either very late or very early. The weight of travel saturates every muscle, every joint, every step, but he can’t afford to turn off his senses and slip lazily into the night—not in Moscow. Never in Moscow. After five consecutive flights in less than two days, the hard part has only just begun.

The Soviet Union has always been dangerous to western agents, but the capital has only gotten more hostile in Matt’s time as an operative. Last summer alone, ten US informants were executed in the city, including two of Matt’s most reliable contacts. In the following winter, a handful of Russian specialists left Langley for a field mission and didn’t come home. The last time Matt was here, he met with a Circle informant named Omar who offered to talk in exchange for medication not available in Russia, but easily acquired at a US pharmacy with a forged prescription. Omar is dead now, too, and Matt suspects an assassin finished him off before the illness did. These days, Moscow is a loaded spring trap ready to snap at the slightest tick in the wrong direction, deadly enough that even a skilled Pavement Artist stands to don a disguise or two.

Despite the ocean between them, Joe’s voice rings through Matt’s head. It’s always strongest in Moscow, imploring him to pay attention. Notice things. This is the sort of place where it’s best to lean into strengths, so Matt jumps in with the rest of the red-eyed passengers as the mob progresses through customs, down to baggage claim, and toward ground transportation. From his pace to his posture, he strives to put on a seamless Soviet appearance.

When he reaches the lot, he identifies a license plate number he was instructed to memorize, then enters the backseat of the boxy beige Lada. The driver doesn’t look back when he says, “Nice weather we’re having, yes?” in the sort of thick, Russian dialect that only natives can pull off.

Matt replies in his own practiced Russian. “I hear rain is imminent,” he says. “But I seem to have forgotten my umbrella at home.”

Satisfied with the exchange, the driver shifts gears and squeezes out of his parking spot, working his way toward the main city. By now, Matt knows the streets of Moscow as well as he knows the streets of Hay Springs, so he pays close attention to the route, just in case the driver has been compromised in the past forty-eight hours. The two of them do not speak, wary of bugs. They do not exchange glances, wary of pinprick cameras sewn into buttons. Instead, they embrace their existence as total strangers, not eager to leave any impression of an alliance.

This suits Matt just fine. That is, until seventeen minutes later, when the driver takes a right-hand turn away from the city center, then another.

In this business, in this part of the world, two right turns are a surefire signal to any veteran agent that something significant is about to happen, though it’s impossible to predict whether he’s looking at a positive or negative outcome until the moment actually passes. That’s probably why Joe’s voice is in Matt’s head again, anticipating the worst and providing Matt with escape plans. 

The sidewalks look reasonably empty, easy enough to run.

The rear doors appear to be unlocked from the inside. 

If the doors are jammed shut from the outside, Matt’s shoe has an iron wedge embedded in the rubber heel, which will help him kick through the window.

The driver isn’t armed, but if he makes a move for the glove box, Matt’s best option is to choke him from behind.

The little Lada pulls up to an alleyway tucked between high-rise apartments and a seemingly abandoned liquor store. There are no streetlights. No witnesses. The driver shifts the car into park and says, “You exit now.”

Risk assessment is a key component of any covert decision and, in that moment, Matt senses some serious risk waiting for him at the other end of that alleyway. At the same time, he also senses an even greater risk if he overstays his welcome with this native Russian driver who, by the way, has about a hundred extra pounds on him. Matt doesn’t need to be told twice. Hands up, he slowly exits the vehicle and prepares himself for the next piece of this rapidly evolving Moscow puzzle.

The instant Matt kicks the door shut and slings his bag back onto his shoulder, the Lada’s engine grinds into full gear with a squeal of the tires. He has officially run out of CIA instructions, but the good news is that he doesn’t have any time to doubt himself before his next priority makes itself apparent. The bad news is that his next priority should probably be to get away from the knife that was just pressed against his side.

The pointed end of the blade pokes along the muscle just above his hip. It hasn’t cut through his shirt yet, but one wrong move could change that and much more. “This is a nice surprise,” Matt says, sticking with Russian in a rushed attempt to keep his cover intact. “Where are we going?”

The answering Russian is good—excellent, even—but it has the subtle lilt of someone who learned it as a secondary language. “Is that all it takes to best you? One knife to the ribs and you roll over completely?” It’s a woman’s voice, and one of the few commonalities between the CIA and the KGB is the rarity of female agents among their ranks. Plus, the hold on the knife is petite and graceful, belonging to someone who was taught to fence before she was taught to fight. Matt decides he’s not up against a Soviet agent, but this ain’t a friend either. Not yet.

Joe’s voice is telling him to fight, but Matt’s curious enough to say, “In my experience, the person with the knife usually gets to make all the rules.” He continues with Russian, hoping that the woman will respond in kind and give him a chance to identify the accent layered below. “And, by the way, if you’re aiming for my ribs, you’re about two inches too low.”

She doesn’t disappoint. British accent, maybe. Or Australian. It really is impressively subtle. “Bold thing to say to someone with a knife to your side,” she says. “Remarks like that could get you killed.”

Matt huffs. “Maybe one day, but not today.”

She twists the knife a little deeper, pricking a hole in his shirt. “And what makes you so certain?”

“Because if you were going to kill me, ma’am,” he says, “I’d already be dead.”

This is a bit of a risky gamble. Few things make one human want to kill another more than spite, and Matt’s gone ahead and welcomed it with open arms. His mama always did say he had a real way about him, when it came to tempting fate. Thankfully, this particular bet seems to pay off as the knife finally falls away from his torso. The woman grabs him by the back of his collar instead, pulling him deeper into the alleyway. “You’ve taken all the fun out of it,” she says with a sigh. “Come with me. And don’t ever call me ma’am—that much will get you killed.”

This is a joke. He thinks. And jokes are awfully promising in a place like Moscow. 

At the end of the alleyway, another car sits idling. No headlights. No plate lights. Matt can’t know for sure, but he reckons the brake lights are probably cut, too. In the presence of a car designed for a perfect covert getaway, Matt recognizes this moment for what it is—not an attack, but an escape. A high-tech game of keepaway.

In this particular instance, Matt is not an agent. Rather, he’s an asset in need of transportation, and he’s just met his new driver. When this stranger opens the rear door and shoves him inside, Matt knows that she’s putting on a show for potential onlookers. When she says, “Stay down,” he understands that his silhouette can’t be seen driving through the city. It is not enough to blend in—not when he could have a tail leftover from travel, not when the customs office could have bugged his backpack, not when a patrolman might recognize him from another visit into the city and assign a car to follow close behind. Agents have been known to disappear between an airport and a safe house, which means Matt is only safe if he becomes completely invisible. It’s the sort of thing that can only be accomplished with careful timing, meticulous planning, and an appreciation for redundancy, after redundancy, after redundancy.

In other words, this plan has Rachel Cameron written all over it.

He’s managed to avoid the thought for the past thirty-seven hours—and, frankly, for the entire two years before that—but the idea of being in the same city as Rachel after such a long time away has him wishing for a knife to his side instead. Knife wounds, at least, are an isolated pain with one clear source. They can be cleaned and stitched up. Bandaged and healed. This business with Rachel pings around all of his insides, taking turns with his stomach, his heart, his throat, his lungs. Rancid regret rots his brain and radiates down to every last muscle. Laying alone in the back of a stranger’s car, staring up at the velvet interior, Matt gets caught in a loop of all the things he wishes he’d said sooner.

He didn’t expect it to all stop.

He never should have made her cry.

He didn’t think it would last this long.

He lies, sometimes. He’s sorry he has to lie.

He’s doing good, good, good as often as he can.

Matt has always meant to say these things to her, but the longer they went without, the harder it got to call. Now it feels like too much time has passed to say any of it—like apologizing will only serve as a bitter reminder of just how deeply they tore into one another. Like acknowledging it will only reopen scars that have only just started to heal over.

The longer they drive, the more Rachel’s proximity presses down on his chest, squeezing him into the seat. He knows he ought to count the seconds. Track the turns. Try to get some sense of where they’re headed. But Rachel Cameron fills every last available space in his thoughts and, God almighty, she would lecture him straight to high heaven if she knew how distracted he was.

Once he’s fully worked himself up into a tightly wound ball of unspoken mistakes, the tires hit a gravel drive. The car takes an awfully long route over bumpy back roads and heavily forested hills, which is especially impressive given the lack of headlights, before it finally slows to a stop. His driver turns to the backseat, moonlight catching on the curve of her cheek, an icy white steak against smooth dark skin. “Congratulations on surviving your trip,” she says, and Matt thinks it might be an American southern drawl hiding beneath her Russian, with the way her vowels drawl. “You may leave. Your bag, however, must stay until morning.”

Matt sits upright, his silhouette visible to the night once more. “Sure thing,” he answers. “It’s like I said—the lady with the knife gets to make the rules.”

This earns him a subtle tick of the stranger’s lips. Matt latches onto the near smile and vows to turn into a broad, toothy grin sooner rather than later. But in the meantime, he’ll settle for the semi-charmed side-eye she casts his way, just before she opens the driver door. “Bloody Hell,” she says as she exits, finally switching to English. “She was right about you.”

British. Damn. Matt should have trusted his gut.

Wait. 

He bolts out of the backseat and jogs to catch up. “Right about me?” he echoes, falling back into his own American English. “Who was right about me—right about what?”

The Brit’s stride is incredibly long, and would probably be better suited to a runway than barely-used backwoods paths overgrown with weeds. Matt has to quicken his own pace just to keep up with her. “Never you mind,” she says. “This way.”

“Doesn’t seem right,” he tries, “that you get inside info on me when I don’t even know your name—”

“This way,” she says again. “Surely I don’t have to remind you, of all people, that Moscow’s trees have ears.”

Matt has spent a significant portion of his career listening to conversations picked up by precisely placed bugs exactly like the ones she speaks of now. He doesn’t have the heart to tell her the surrounding trees probably aren’t bugged—at least not in the way she expects. The Soviets wouldn’t go to the trouble of tagging each individual tree, only to have an opposing agent uncover them within an hour of arrival. The birds, foxes, and deer, however, are worth a second glance. 

Either way, she’s right. The forest is no place for introductions. Instead, he follows as she hikes toward a tiny cabin tucked between one hillside and another. It appears perfectly plain on the outside, built from cedar logs and a tin roof. Shrubs and pines surround the perimeter, and Matt knows from experience that these are probably prickly and unpleasant, making it difficult for any unwelcome guests to get too close. The curtains are drawn. The chimney is without smoke. If he didn’t know any better, he’d say no one was home. 

They cover their tracks as they go, wordless right up until they reach the door. Mind split in the dozens of different directions demanded by good countersurveillance, Matt forgets to be nervous until the last minute, when the Brit knocks in a unique, four-rap pattern, then opens the door. The cabin’s light flashes into the nighttime forest, so they waste no time stepping inside. 

A new voice greets them. Then again, this voice ain’t really new. Not to him. He’d know this particular voice anywhere, even if he spent years, decades, centuries away. “Grace?”

Rachel Cameron waits for them just inside, seated at a small dining table at the center of a small kitchen. Rachel Cameron has lists, and blueprints, and notes scattered all across the tabletop, the chairs, the linoleum, splayed across kitchen countertops, and taped to cabinets, and stuck to the refrigerator with little black magnets. Rachel Cameron scans one stack of papers with the pencil in her right hand, then another with a highlighter in her left. Rachel Cameron looks up. Rachel Cameron meets his gaze. Rachel Cameron sighs.

Genius. He’s always known the word applied to her, though it strikes him anew. Rachel’s brilliance is better experienced in small doses, when he can slowly acclimate himself to the raw appreciation of it. The last two years have robbed him of his resilience and it’s like he’s seeing her for the very first time all over again.

Except it only takes a single moment for all of their history to come rushing back, filling the room from wall to wall, floor to ceiling, until there’s no more space for words, or gestures, or glances. Rachel looks away first, eyes falling back to a set of blueprints, and Matt follows her lead.

Thankfully, their companion cuts through the silence without a trace of discomfort. “Found your boy,” she says, kicking off her shoes. “He’s cheeky, this one.”

Matt starts to protest with “Oh, I ain’t—” at the same time Rachel says, “He’s not my—”

They both stop, and wait, and wait some more. Neither of them meet the other’s eyes. When enough excruciating seconds have passed, Rachel starts again, and Matt lets her. “Thank you for picking him up,” she says. “I know you were eager to stay in tonight, but—”

“But we aren’t taking any chances with this op,” the Brit finishes. “Understood. Really, Rachel. Though I will say, I was a bit surprised at how easily this one came along with a complete stranger.”

It is as if all of Rachel’s years of etiquette training hit her at once. She brings her fingers to her forehead, suddenly remembering. “Ah, yes, sorry. You haven’t been introduced yet.”

“Not unless you count my putting a knife into his side,” she says.

Matt clears his throat, finally finding his words. “In this business, that’s sometimes the only introduction we get.”

The Brit smiles again. It’s still not the full grin he’s looking for, but it’s closer. “Quite right.”

Rachel studies the pair of them, analyzing something Matt can’t see. She squints back and forth between them, her face twisting into something sour, as though she’s not sure she likes what she’s looking at. “Right,” she says, slowly. Then, clears her throat. “Right, well, anyway. Grace, this is Matthew Morgan. Matthew, this is Grace Harris—”

“Baxter,” Grace cuts in.

“Right,” says Rachel, squeezing her eyes shut, remembering again. Matt’s not sure he’s ever seen Rachel forget anything, and he takes note of the fact that she’s gone and forgotten twice in a sixty-second span. A data point he’ll save for later. “Grace Baxter.”

Grace Baxter holds out her hand to shake, meeting Matt with a far firmer grip than he’s expecting. He feels a couple of knuckles pop in his own hand, and resists the urge to call out. “It’s so great to finally meet you,” she says. 

That’s an awfully interesting choice of words. “Finally?” says Matt.

Grace does not elaborate. “My husband is around as well, but he’s being a good little agent and sleeping off his jet lag while it’s still dark.”

Matt, who hasn’t had more than two hours of consecutive sleep since DC, can’t quite hide the longing in his reply. “Smart man.”

“Outrageously so. It’s infuriating, really,” Grace agrees. “You’ll see him at breakfast tomorrow, but in the meantime we should all probably join him. The last thing we need is four exhausted agents trying to run an op in Moscow.”

Matt has about a million more questions for Grace Baxter, but none of them form quite right in his head. A fog fills his brain, clouding all of his better thoughts, and he reckons Grace is probably right. He’s useless to Rachel like this, and she’ll be the first to call him on it. “Sounds like a plan to me,” he says. “Do you think we ought to run it by the boss, first?”

Grace risks a glance toward Rachel, who has already returned to one of her blueprints. With Rachel’s attention occupied, Matt steals this chance to take her in. Her clothes are worn with travel and her shoulders slump with a need for sleep. Some of her curls have escaped the denim scrunchie holding back the bulk of her hair, falling into her face, and Matt remembers all at once that Rachel never did know how to stop, once she got started.

“Good luck,” Grace scoffs. “I’ve been trying to get her to sleep for hours. Maybe you can talk some sense into her. She’s been planning since the moment she walked in.”

Matt ain’t got any sense that Rachel doesn’t already have ten times over, and he doesn’t dare pretend otherwise. Thankfully, Rachel recognizes this and provides an answer of her own. “I’ve been planning for the past three months,” she corrects, just as she circles something on the page. “I just wanted to get some last-minute changes down before bed.”

Grace turns back to Matt. “You see? Hopeless,” she says. “You two may do what you please, but I intend to get some sleep. Pulling off a fake kidnapping at the edge of Moscow is exhausting work, you know.”

With this, she sends a playful jab into Matt’s side. Only problem is, Grace’s idea of a playful jab is most people’s idea of a full-on elbow to the ribs, and Matt has to catch his breath afterward. It takes all of his might not to let out an unmanly yelp in front of these two women. “Right,” he gasps. “See you in the morning.”

“Thanks again, Grace,” Rachel calls, not looking up from her writing.

With a wave of her fingers, Grace disappears behind one of the two available doors and shuts it with a twist of the lock. Matt realizes too late that her absence leaves just him and Rachel. Alone. Together.

This silence just won’t do.

“Flights good?” he asks.

“Yes,” she answers, scribbling away.

“Abby okay?”

Scribble, scribble. “Yes.”

“You okay?”

Scribble, scribble. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“No reason.” This is worse than the silence, actually. Out of questions and energy stores depleted, Matt decides that his only remaining move is one that has been employed by desperate agents for centuries—a retreat. “Listen, I think I might join the others and try to get some sleep. Unless you need me?”

Scribble, scribble. “Not yet.”

“Great,” he says. “Just point me to my bed and I’ll be on my way.”

Rachel’s pencil freezes mid-sentence. This is Matt’s first clue that something is horribly wrong, followed by the fact that her eyes finally meet his and this time, she doesn’t look away. “No.”

“Um.” Retreat, retreat, retreat. “Okay? I guess I can find it—”

But Rachel is already up, dashing through the sliver of a living room that hosts a single chair, a coffee table, and a throw blanket. When she reaches the second available door in the cabin, blood drains from her already pale face, turning it to an alarming, ashen white. Her voice is hollow and distant when she squeaks out a soft, “No, no, no.”

When it comes to Rachel, Matt is woefully out of practice, but it doesn’t take an expert to see the panic, and Rachel’s panic ain’t built the same way everyone else’s is. The sight of Rachel out of sorts is enough to get Matt’s heart really, truly racing. “Rachel, what are you—?”

She flicks on the light, and when Matt steps up behind her, he’s met with an instant understanding of the situation. “There’s only one other bed,” she says, spinning to face him as she explains. “Abby and I usually share. I booked the safe house when it was going to be the two of us, but between the hospital, and the flights, and coordinating our assets…” Sometimes Matt wonders how loud the inside of her head must be. He suspects she doesn’t realize when her words dissolve between inner and outer monologue. It takes some deciphering to understand her complete thoughts from start to finish. “I forgot. I’m so sorry, I forgot to account for the beds when I switched agents, I’ll take the couch.”

By couch, he supposes she means the ancient loveseat tucked away at the end of the bed. The leather cushions are scratched and cracked, and the silver shine of a spring peeks out from beneath the quilt laid across its back. A grease stain rests along the arm where agents have laid their heads for years and years before. Throughout his travels, Matt has seen more than his fair share of uncomfortable furniture and this one has serious potential to rank among the worst, but this is Rachel’s third strike at forgetfulness when she’s usually a home run hitter. She needs to sleep, and sleep well, and it simply won’t do, for her to sleep on that old thing. “I’ll take the couch.”

“No it’s my mistake, I should—”

“Rachel,” he says, and his hands fall to her shoulders out of habit. Out of familiarity. “I’m sorry, but there just ain’t no way I’m letting you take the couch.” She’s looking up at him with big, brown eyes. They’re glassy, and tired, and he spares Rachel her dignity by ignoring the twinge of tears sneaking into either corner. “She may be all the way in Nebraska now, but there’s no quicker way to get Joy Morgan to Moscow than if I let you sleep on that couch.”

She shakes her head. “Matthew—”

“I’m telling you,” he tries again. “My mama can sense that sorta thing, and believe me when I say she’ll shake down the entire agency to find this cabin and knock me six ways from Sunday, right upside my head.”

“You’re worried that your mother will intimidate CIA agents into disclosing the location of one of their most heavily protected safe houses?”

“You’ve never seen my mama when there’s a matter of chivalry at stake.”

“Matthew, I—” she interrupts herself, this time, freezing when she meets his gaze. “Your eyes,” she says, studying the intimate features of his face. “Your eyes are blue.”

This is outright nonsense, and even more proof that she needs to sleep. That is, until he remembers the light blue contacts. He blinks, as though he might be able to get rid of the color, because everything artificial seems so ridiculous now that he’s in the presence of someone who knows him to his core. “Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, sorry.”

With that, she studies him more deeply, and he notices the faint lines that have started to form where her eyebrows always furrow, the freckles she’s accumulated along her cheekbones with years of missions spent in the sun, the ease with which her lips fall into a tight, even line. Her eyes bounce between each of his, debating her next words before she finally says, “Why are you apologizing?”

Matt’s breath catches, and he knows this is it. The opening he’s been waiting for. But it’s late, and they’re tired, and they both smell like planes, and airports, and taxis. So despite the desperate words trying to crawl from his heart to his mouth, he settles on something softer. “I think we both know I’ve got plenty to apologize for,” he says, finally letting his hands fall. “But I think we both know this ain’t the time to do it.”

Genius. She’s always been smarter than him in more ways than he can count, and this moment is no exception. She’s smart enough to know that they both need clearer heads. That they both need a moment of quiet. That morning will come and they’ll both be better for it, and that tonight is no place for their usual fights. “I’m sorry I didn’t think about the bed,” she says, barely more than a whisper. “I didn’t mean to—”

“I know you didn’t—”

“I’m not mad at you.”

“I know you aren’t.”

“I’m so tired.”

She has this way of taking small words and making them feel big. Of making them span years, when they shouldn’t last more than a second or two. Rachel isn’t tired, so much as she’s exhausted, and burned out, and lonely, and weighed down—and she manages to convey all of this by simply shaking her head, and folding her face into her hands, and standing in front of him with all of the humility in the world.

He has this way of feeling her when she most needs it, in a way that no one else seems to be able to. Of hearing those great big words tied up in all of her small ones, and trying his best to say the right thing in response. “Let’s get some sleep, then,” he says, as though it’s the simplest thing in the world. “We’ll get some sleep, and when you wake up, you can tell me exactly what all of those crazy kitchen plans mean.”

Despite herself, she laughs. It's a pitiful, mangled thing, but it still counts. “They’re not as crazy as they look.”

And Matt can’t hold back a smile. “Well thank God for that, because they look…” he tries to find a word, but this is much like everything else Rachel does, in that it defies explanation. “I mean, seriously, Rachel, you’ve gone full Doc Brown in there.”

She shoves him, gently, and Matt makes a show of clasping at his chest in faux hurt. “They’ll make more sense in the morning,” she tells him.

“Everything will make more sense in the morning,” he assures her.

And she believes him. “Okay,” she says.

“Okay,” he says.

That’s enough for them, for tonight, for now. It’s all they need. And maybe tomorrow will be bitter and hard at the center of Moscow, working an op that Rachel has given her whole heart to, but right now is easy and safe. Right now, they’re old friends who need each other more than they knew. 

Rachel finds his eyes again, and sighs something that sounds like relief and regret mixed together. “At least let me ease some of my guilt by hunting down a truly outrageous number of blankets on your behalf.”

Matt looks back to the loveseat and knows in his gut that there will not be enough room for more than one blanket. There is barely enough room for Matt, as is. Even so, he smiles at her. “Rachel Cameron,” he says. “I’ll always take any blanket you hand me.”

[iserlohndiary]

looked at some photos of the inside of kowloon walled city and finally realized that part of what enticed me to those images are that they looked similar to what i would see in my childhood, visiting family relatives from my mother's side who were mostly merchants in the market in their hometown. the conditions of places that are very well used and not pretty but maintained by the users to the Best of their ability (the alley floorings had dirt between the tiles, but it was packed dirt, smoothed by daily sweepings)

sometimes my mother would shop alone and leave me with my uncle, who served for and delivered coffee and instant noodles to every part of the market. he was always busy running all over the place and so i actually got babysat by the people whose stalls were beside his. i remember an old lady who sold pots and pans, and an imposing man selling fermented cassava and yeast (the stall had this big scale installed on its ceiling that i always thought could be used to rock a baby to sleep). further out were some other family relatives, with trades ranging from school supplies to tea and rice. always came home with a full stomach, plastic wrapped snacks and soft cakes on my pocket, and some other new things

as far as i know the sprawling market had only one bookstore. it was kind of grimy but well lit and had a good circulation because it faced outside towards the dusty field that was the minibus station. because it was near the station i could always whine about how i hadn't got a new book in so long and my mother would concede, because we were going home and she was already so tired and only wanted to get into a minibus as soon as possible. the selection was not great. but the old man who manned the store was kind. almost always reading whenever we went in. most of the time i'd choose some attention grabbing magazines, but he would offered me something else that i didn't think i'd like but ended up liking anyway. if my love of reading started at any one place i think it was in that store

[msbarrows]

Did a bunch more progress on my tall ship base. Finished the masts, including rebuilding the larger platforms partway up to have less of a gap between them and the yards under them. Removed and rebuilt the stern rudder to be something vaguely more correct in shape, and installed a Captain’s wheel at the rear. Shortened the bowsprit a touch, since it was kind of comically long.

You can see in the underwater views that I’ve included a keel, and also what a mess the nose of the ship is from underneath due to all the overlapping slanted roof tiles in use to shape it. Looks nice and smooth from inside the hold though, so I can live with the weirdness outside, where it’s only in view from some angles anyway. Also I am pleased I thought to replace the flooring inside the hold with stone “ballast” in place of the planking I originally had; among other things, it has a better contrast vs all the wooden walls and decking.

Built a couple more small boats in the waters near the islet, just because I could - a larger sailboat, and a little rowboat.

Have started on dressing the interior spaces of the base.

Also, have to say that I hate starship pilots, they knocked me down to the deck when I was working on the upper parts of the masts so many times. Though it was funny when I was up in the tallest crow’s nest and was looking down at them flying by beneath that level. Tall ship masts are tall.

[mlek13]

A New Neighborhood

I keep seeing posts about Decades Challenges and Test of Time Challenges that made me want to try something similar again.  I gave in and started a new neighborhood, but I have been hesitant to share about it because the last time I tried something similar, it fell apart and I abandoned it as soon as I posted.

But this time it has gone very well and I have made a lot of progress.  Be warned that I may abandon this at any time.  I will eventually get back to my kingdom neighborhood.  I have already played through most of the merchant class and I have a couple of posts started in my drafts from almost a month ago.

So, as usual, I started out with 8 sims, 4 men and 4 women with a mix of genetics, random names, aspirations and personalities and moved them into an empty lot.  I set them up with the bare essentials (empty fridge, a couple of counters, straw beds, tree stump chairs, squat anywhere spots and waterfall showers.)  Then I filled up the lot with trees that can be chopped, harvestable berry bushes and fruit trees.  They got a fishing pond, garden plots, and all sorts of crafting stations.  I’m not using the in game money system at this point, so I use motherlode anytime they need more funds.  Also the visitor controller blocks all NPCs, so I don’t have to bother with bills.

They were off to a good start, with everyone getting along well.

Aside from some inevitable cheating and jealousy, but fortunately, no one holds a grudge over it for long.

At the start there wasn’t much interest in gardening or fishing, but with the fruit trees and berry bushes that I edited to be harvested autonomously based on hunger, they were well stocked with food.  (It doesn’t mean they were always smart enough to fix something to eat before they were near starving.)

Or that they were successful at cooking when they tried.

They chopped enough wood that they were able to build shelter before winter.  I trade one stack of wood per wall section or floor tile to build a roof. 

This first room is the nursery to separate the crying babies from the sleeping adults. 

They had enough wood to build two more rooms for adult sleeping quarters (minus part of the roof on the third room) before winter.

Things were going well, except for the fact that just one man was the father of most of the children in the camp and another one of the men had no children at all.  I knew that was going to pose a problem in the next generation or two, so I decided I needed to add another family.  I decided to wait to see if they survived the winter first, since that’s where I gave up last time, but the winter was mild.  There was only one incident of freezing and he survived, so I decided to start a second camp.

The second family was a total disaster.

They did not seem to like each other from the start.

Those that did were same sex couples, which is fine, but not helpful to my population problem.

When sims from my first camp would visit, they would wreck their relationships.

It turns out I didn’t have the empty templates installed and I forgot to clear out the neighborhood before starting, so I have all the Peasantview townies. 

I blocked them from my first camp, but decided to let them in the second.  That introduced roaches and the flu to the neighborhood.

A blind date from one of the townies did lead to love for one of my sims.  Unfortunately, she died young and I can’t find a picture of what happened.

I decided to separate the group and see if the less troublesome sims from this camp would do better on their own.

They were just two happy couples.

These two (Rex and Tomas) would autonomously get engaged, then break off the engagement, every other day.

This group . . . just as soon as I would start to like a couple, one of the pair would die.  Ultimately, they did introduce a little bit of new blood to the neighborhood, but not as much as I would have hoped.  I’m still adding in new sims as potential partners.  I’m trying to do better at making them matches for the sims that I already have rather than just random sims.

Here are the sims I started with in my original Alpha camp.  (In alphabetical order, because that’s how they were listed on my screen.)

Anthony was the only sim who could not find love among the original camp members, which is unfortunate since he was a family sim and wanted nothing more than to fall in love, get married, and have a baby.  I had to add in a third group of sims before he found the love of his life and started a family. In the meantime he was the camp lumberjack and was one of the first to get into chopping trees and processing boards.

Dinah was interested in nature. It took until the second year for anyone to want to plant crops or fish, but once she started to take an interest, she consistently wanted to plant more crops everyday.

She was also into hiking and once or twice in her later years, she took a group of children who were interested out on an excursion.

Doug was the other garden enthusiast in the first generation and he eventually took up woodworking too.  He only had one child of his own, but he was very active with helping out with the other little ones in the camp.

Fernando was the camp Casanova.  He had romances with three out of four of the women in the camp.  At one point all three of them were simultaneously pregnant with his children.  He ended up fathering ten children in total. At the time 2/3 to 70% of the children were his.

Having that many children eventually took its toll on his romance sim aspiration.

Magda was the only woman in the camp who did not fall to Fernando’s charms. 

Magda had a difficult time.  Her pleasure sims needs weren’t being adequately met and she started spending time in aspiration failure.

She was also the first sim in the camp to die.  Dinah had a close call previously and I decided to intervene because she was pregnant with her first child.  I tried to intervene with Magda too, but with the bed in the way, I couldn’t get anyone to her in time.

Misha is a sim that kind of fell under the radar.  She was just a solid, low drama sim, who kept her head down and did her thing.  She was the last of the women in the camp to have a baby.

Rosalyn was the first sim in the camp to give birth to a baby.  She was a very devoted mother with her first child and was constantly nursing the baby.

After giving birth, she immediately wanted to make a wish on the genie lamp that I hadn’t realized was on the lot.  I decided that she earned it.

Wishing for the power to cheat death, definitely paid off.

(I think Doug ended up taking the last two wishes and used them for beauty.  Can a sim make the same wish twice?  It didn’t do him any good.)

Being a mother was fun the first time around, but by the fourth time, it was a bit too much.

Theron is another sim that I don’t have a lot to say about.  He was the first one to get engaged when he spontaneously proposed to Dinah.

And he was the first to call of the engagement after catching her cheating with Fernando while at the neighbors’.

He was very sweet to comfort Dinah’s children (and Fernando’s not his) after the breakup to let them know everything was okay and nothing would change because of the breakup.

He also turned out to be the sim that proved to me that I was smart to disable teen-adult relationships when he was an elder and the second generation was reaching adulthood

[sidhmukhlegend]

Bathroom Renovations & Remodeling Dubai

The bathroom is more than just a functional room to clean yourself up in, it can be a serene spot to take a pause from a hectic day. We are specialize of Bathroom Renovations Services. One way to ensure the best bathroom remodeling company is to hire a bathroom renovations contractor with experience who can see your project through to its successful completion. Looking for extraordinary bathroom renovations services? Of course you are, that’s why you’re here!

Our team of skilled Bathroom Remodeling Specialists is committed to delivering reliable and top-quality solutions tailored to your unique needs. At Sidhmukh Legend Building Contracting LLC, we understand that a bathroom renovation can be a significant decision, that is why we prioritize transparency in the Cost of Bathroom Remodeling, providing you with a clear understanding of your investment. If you are searching for “Bathroom Remodeling Near Me in Dubai” look no further, as Sidhmukh Legend Building Contracting LLC is your local go-to expert for all your bathroom renovation needs.

LUXURY BATHROOM RENOVATION SERVICES

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If you simply want to give your existing bathroom a new look, we can provide that too. As the leading Bathroom Renovations Contractors, we work with a wide range of appliances, fittings and tiles. Our design experts in Dubai will help you choose the best products to create your new look.

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Sidhmukh Legend Building Contracting LLC include modern bathroom cabinet remodeling, luxury bathroom cabinet remodeling, and even the opulence of Marble Bathroom Cabinet Remodeling. 

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Whether you desire a sleek and modern look with bathroom floor tiles, the warm and inviting ambiance of wood bathroom floors, the comfort of heated bathroom floors.

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Bathroom Tile Remodeling

If you are planning to remodel your bathroom tiles, Sidhmukh Legend Building Contracting LLC is your trusted source for all things related to enhancing the beauty and functionality of your bathroom. 

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[landscapeconstruction]

Stone Installers Near Me|External Stone Tiling Expert|Stone Tile Installation

Looking for reliable stone installers near you? Our skilled team specializes in professional stone installation for a variety of projects, including patios, retaining walls, fireplaces, and exterior cladding.

[boylesflooring]

Top Carpet Stores Near Me: What to Look For

When searching for the best carpet stores near you, finding a store that caters to your specific needs is crucial. If you're in West Chester, PA, you have access to a variety of reputable stores that offer top-quality flooring solutions. Whether you're looking for hardwood, carpet, laminate, luxury vinyl, or tile, it's essential to choose a store that meets your requirements. At Boyle's Floor and Window Design, we understand the importance of selecting the right flooring, and we're here to guide you through the process.

1. Expert Installers: Why It Matters

Choosing the right flooring store is more than just picking out a beautiful carpet or tile; it also involves ensuring that the installation is handled by experts. Look for stores that offer services from experienced installers. At Boyle's Floor and Window Design, we provide professional installation services for various types of flooring, including:

Hardwood Installer West Chester PA: Our team specializes in installing hardwood flooring, ensuring a perfect fit and finish.

Carpet Installer West Chester PA: We offer expert carpet installation services to give your home a fresh and cozy look.

Laminate Installer West Chester PA: Laminate floors require precise installation for the best results, and our skilled installers are here to help.

Luxury Vinyl Installer West Chester PA: Our luxury vinyl installers will ensure that your new floors are installed seamlessly.

Tile Installer West Chester PA: We handle tile installations with precision, transforming your space with quality craftsmanship.

2. Diverse Flooring Options

A top carpet store should offer a variety of flooring options to suit different styles and budgets. When visiting flooring stores in West Chester, PA, look for a wide selection of:

Carpet: Available in various colors, textures, and materials to match your home decor.

Hardwood: Timeless and durable, perfect for adding elegance to any room.

Laminate: An affordable and stylish alternative to hardwood.

Luxury Vinyl: Ideal for high-traffic areas due to its durability and ease of maintenance.

Tile: Offers versatility and durability, suitable for both floors and walls.

3. Quality Customer Service

Excellent customer service is a key factor when selecting a carpet store. The staff should be knowledgeable, friendly, and ready to assist you with your flooring needs. At Boyle's Floor and Window Design, our team is dedicated to providing personalized service, helping you find the perfect flooring solutions for your home.

4. Reputation and Reviews

Before making a decision, check the store's reputation and read customer reviews. Look for stores with positive feedback regarding their products, installation services, and overall customer experience. Boyle's Floor and Window Design has built a reputation for excellence, with many satisfied customers in West Chester, PA.

5. Convenient Location

When searching for "carpet stores near me" or "flooring near me," consider the store's location and accessibility. Choosing a store close to home can save you time and make it easier to visit for consultations or follow-up services. Boyle's Floor and Window Design is conveniently located in West Chester, PA, making it easy for you to find the perfect flooring solutions without the hassle.

6. Flooring Specialists

For those searching for specific types of flooring, it's beneficial to find a store that specializes in different categories. Whether you need a tile store West Chester PA or a carpet store West Chester PA, ensure that the store has a diverse range of options and knowledgeable staff to assist you.

In conclusion, finding the right carpet store involves more than just selecting beautiful products; it's about ensuring you receive top-notch service and quality installation. Boyle's Floor and Window Design stands out in West Chester, PA, as a leading provider of flooring solutions, including hardwood, carpet, laminate, luxury vinyl, and tile. For expert advice and exceptional service, visit us today and let us help you transform your space with the perfect flooring.

Media Contact : Boyle's Floor and Window Design 705 E Gay St, West Chester, PA 19380, United States 610-429-9773 https://boylesflooring.com/

[allpropertyservicess]

Kitchen Renovation Ideas on a Budget - Expert Tips

Kitchen remodeling is a very fascinating exercise in most cases but can be very challenging,especially when working within a set budget. Here are some budget-friendly kitchen renovation ideas by experts from All Property Services. They offer all sorts of repair, and renovation work. You can search “Repairs & Renovation Company Near Me”, to contact them.

Get a Revamped Kitchen with These Proven Tips

Have a Right Plan

First things before you begin with any kind of makeover, it is pivotal to come up with the right plan. Analyze your current kitchen environment, determine what should be changed for the better, and establish practical objectives for remodeling. This way you will avoid unnecessary spending while at the same time ensuring that your project is on the right track.

Replace Kitchen Cabinets With New Ones

Don’t invest a huge amount in buying new cabinets and instead repaint the existing ones in your house. That way they can be painted again and you can give them a new look like they are new all over and change the feeling of the kitchen. 

Furniture painted in pastel colors such as white or light gray will make the room look larger, while darker colors like navy blue or emerald green are more classy. Also, replacing outdated cabinet solutions, including knobs and handles, with new fashionable ones is among the simplest and cheapest techniques to update.

Update the Backsplash:

Kitchens are one of the focal areas in a home where the first thing that one’s eyes will catch will be the backsplash. Ceramic tiles used as backsplashes are easy to change; a simple swap of your old backsplash with a new one can already give that new modern appeal to your kitchen. 

Those on a small budget should think of getting peel-and-stick backsplash tiles. These are cheaper, thus DIY-friendly, and are available in numerous designs that resemble costly materials such as ceramics or glass.

Countertop Solutions

Countertops are very costly when it comes to the replacement; however, do not despair; there are cheap substitutes that can be used. If you want to install expensive granite or marbles, you could always compromise with the laminates or butcher blocks and achieve a fashionable look at a cheaper price. 

A second is refacing your current counters by repainting or putting on a new laminate surface. There are countertop resurfacing kits on the market that enable you to refinish the surface to look like more expensive materials.

Refresh the Flooring

Floors are also costly when doing a kitchen remodel, but here is how you can get your floor to look brand new even on a tight budget. For instance, the vinyl flooring has improved as a design material and as a durability material, and it costs much less compared to the hardwood or tile. 

It is also very simple to install, and this means that you stand a very good chance of saving on the amount of money you would have paid to a contractor to do it for you.

Change the Lighting

Lighting is another factor that, when properly selected, can boost the mood and general feel of the kitchen massively. Replacing bad lighting with beautiful new lights is easy and inexpensive, thus making it one of the methods to change the appearance of the room. 

LED lights emit less energy, and they are cheap to purchase since they do not require frequent replacement like the normal bulbs.

Open Shelving

If your kitchen feels too small, then it would be helpful to replace several upper cabinets with shelves. The materials for open shelves are relatively cheap, and they are also easy to fix on the wall, so they can create the illusion of a large kitchen space and get full access to the utensils constantly used in the kitchen. 

If you are not willing to completely demolish your cabinets, perhaps you can as well remove doors to make it look like an open shelving. This will allow the kitchen to look brighter and more open without the need to purchase new shelves.

Repurpose and Reuse 

You need to always remember to reduce costs and cut expenses to the minimum; hence, recycle and utilize old items. For instance, instead of purchasing a new kitchen island, you can transform a table or a dresser with new paint.

Focus on Small Details 

This reminds me that it doesn’t take a lot to make a significant change at times. Replacing such items as dish towels, rugs, and curtains that you may already have outgrown is a cheap way of changing the interior décor of your kitchen. It is also possible to include other stylistic accessories such as plants, paintings, or colorful and beautiful bowls of fruits in such a space.

DIY Where You Can: 

This is why when renovating, it is easy to spend lots of money hiring professionals for each task needed. Owing to the fact that you may end up spending a lot of money, it might be economical if you take charge of some of the tasks. 

A simple dollar store solution in this case is painting walls instead of putting new ones or painting the cabinets instead of replacing them. On the Internet, there are many lessons and videos for those who would like to learn how to do it by themselves.

Prioritize Your Renovation 

Last but not least, intentionally allocate your money. Choose what you think are the critical areas of your kitchen that need intervention and which of them you should spend on.

Conclusion

Kitchen renovation can be done on a limited budget as long as one follows some effective strategies during the process. Hence, all the changes that have been discussed as important to be made in the kitchen include painting cabinets, updating a backsplash, and incorporating do-it-yourself ideas, which will help transform the kitchen into a contemporary kitchen without necessarily having to spend a lot of money.  Just remember that minor changes and major decisions that are made can sum up to a lot, meaning that after renovation, you will get a nice-looking kitchen that you’ve always wanted without necessarily having to spend so much. For repair, and renovation work, try All Property Providers. They also offer Airbnb Property Manager Toronto.

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Why A.B.C. Labors Is Your Go-To Solution for Handyman Services Near Me

When it comes to home repairs and maintenance, you need a reliable and skilled team that can handle a variety of tasks with professionalism and efficiency. A.B.C. Labors is the solution to all your home repair and improvement needs. Whether you're searching for "handyman services near me," "general contractor near me," or "home repairs near me," we are here to provide top-notch services tailored to meet your specific needs.

Understanding the Importance of Home Maintenance

Your home is more than just a structure; it’s a significant investment and a place where memories are created. Keeping it in good condition ensures its value appreciates over time and provides a comfortable and safe environment for your family. Regular maintenance can prevent minor issues from escalating into major, costly problems.

At A.B.C. Labors, we understand how crucial home maintenance is, and we are committed to providing expert services that keep your home in pristine condition. Our team of skilled professionals is equipped to handle a wide range of home repair tasks, from minor fixes to major renovations.

What Makes A.B.C. Labors Stand Out?

Versatility in Services: As a full-service general contractor, A.B.C. Labors offers a comprehensive range of services, making us a one-stop shop for all your home repair needs. Whether you need plumbing repairs, electrical work, carpentry, or even painting, we have you covered.

Skilled Professionals: Our team consists of experienced professionals who are experts in their respective fields. We take pride in our work and ensure that every job is completed to the highest standard.

Local Expertise: Being a locally-owned and operated business, we understand the unique needs of homeowners in our community. We are familiar with the local building codes, climate challenges, and common issues that arise in homes in our area.

Timely and Efficient: We value your time, and we strive to complete every project on schedule without compromising on quality. Whether it’s a small repair or a large renovation, you can count on us to get the job done right, and on time.

Customer Satisfaction: At A.B.C. Labors, customer satisfaction is our top priority. We listen to your needs, provide clear communication throughout the project, and ensure that you are completely satisfied with the results.

Comprehensive Handyman Services Near You

Finding reliable handyman services can be challenging, especially when you need someone who can handle a variety of tasks. At A.B.C. Labors, we offer a broad spectrum of handyman services designed to meet the needs of homeowners like you. Our services include:

Plumbing Repairs: From fixing leaky faucets to repairing broken pipes, our plumbing experts are ready to handle all your plumbing needs.

Electrical Repairs: Electrical issues can be dangerous if not handled properly. Our licensed electricians can troubleshoot and repair any electrical problems you may have, ensuring your home is safe.

Carpentry: Whether you need custom shelving, furniture repairs, or door installations, our skilled carpenters can create and fix anything made of wood.

Painting and Drywall Repair: A fresh coat of paint can transform your home. We offer interior and exterior painting services, as well as drywall repair to ensure your walls are smooth and flawless.

Flooring Installation and Repair: From hardwood to tile, we can install or repair any type of flooring, giving your home a fresh, new look.

General Home Repairs: No job is too small for us. From fixing a broken window to repairing a fence, we are here to help with all your general home repair needs.

Why You Need a General Contractor Near You

A general contractor like A.B.C. Labors can be invaluable when undertaking larger home improvement projects. Coordinating various trades, managing timelines, and ensuring quality work can be overwhelming. That's where we come in. As your general contractor, we oversee every aspect of the project, from planning and permits to the final inspection.

Hiring a general contractor near you has several advantages:

Local Knowledge: We understand the local market, including the best suppliers, materials, and practices that will ensure the longevity and success of your project.

One Point of Contact: Instead of juggling multiple contractors, you’ll have one point of contact to handle all the details of your project, ensuring seamless communication and efficiency.

Project Management: We manage every aspect of your project, including timelines, budgets, and coordinating with subcontractors, so you don’t have to worry about the details.

Quality Assurance: With A.B.C. Labors, you can be assured that every part of your project will be completed to the highest standard. We take pride in our work and stand behind the quality of our services.

Home Repairs Near Me: The Importance of Prompt Repairs

Home repairs, whether big or small, should never be ignored. Delaying repairs can lead to more extensive damage and higher repair costs in the future. A.B.C. Labors offers prompt and reliable home repair services to ensure that any issues in your home are addressed quickly and efficiently.

Common home repairs we handle include:

Roof Repairs: Leaks, missing shingles, or damaged flashing can lead to significant water damage if not addressed promptly. We provide roof repair services to protect your home from the elements.

Gutter Cleaning and Repair: Clogged or damaged gutters can cause water to pool around your foundation, leading to costly repairs. We offer gutter cleaning and repair services to ensure your home stays dry and protected.

HVAC Maintenance and Repair: Regular maintenance of your heating and cooling systems can prevent breakdowns and extend the life of your equipment. We provide HVAC services to keep your home comfortable year-round.

Appliance Repairs: Broken appliances can disrupt your daily routine. Our team can repair most household appliances, saving you the cost of replacing them.

Structural Repairs: Foundation issues, cracked walls, and other structural problems can compromise the safety of your home. We offer structural repair services to address these critical issues.

Why Choose A.B.C. Labors?

When you search for "handyman services near me," "general contractor near me," or "home repairs near me," you want a company that is trustworthy, reliable, and skilled. A.B.C. Labors checks all these boxes and more.

Experience: With years of experience in the industry, we have the knowledge and skills to handle any project, big or small.

Licensed and Insured: We are fully licensed and insured, giving you peace of mind that your home is in good hands.

Competitive Pricing: We offer fair and transparent pricing, ensuring you get the best value for your money.

Personalized Service: We take the time to understand your needs and provide customized solutions that meet your specific requirements.

Commitment to Quality: Our commitment to quality is evident in every project we undertake. We use only the best materials and employ the latest techniques to ensure lasting results.

Whether you're dealing with a minor repair or planning a major renovation, A.B.C. Labors is here to help. Contact us today to learn more about our services and how we can assist you with your next project. Your search for "handyman services near me," "general contractor near me," or "home repairs near me" ends here!

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Navigating Your Home's Transformation with a Local Renovation Expert

Choosing to renovate your home is a substantial decision that can rejuvenate your living space and add significant value to your property. When embarking on such a project, finding the right home renovation company near me becomes pivotal in turning your vision into reality. This article will explore the comprehensive process of full home renovation and the importance of partnering with an adept local company to ensure a seamless transformation.

Assessing Your Renovation Needs

Before diving into renovations, it's essential to assess what aspects of your home require updating or complete remodeling. Full home renovation can encompass various areas of the house, from kitchen upgrades and bathroom modernization to living room expansions and bedroom redesigns. By thoroughly evaluating each space, homeowners can establish clear objectives for their renovation project, ensuring every change aligns with their lifestyle needs and aesthetic preferences.

The Benefits of Choosing a Local Renovation Company

When searching for a home renovation company near me, you'll find that selecting a local business offers numerous advantages. A local company has an intrinsic understanding of regional architectural styles and building regulations, which is crucial for maintaining integrity in design while ensuring compliance with local codes. Moreover, proximity allows for more accessible communication and quicker response times throughout the project.

What Full Home Renovation Entails

Full home renovation is far-reaching; it requires detailed planning from both homeowners and their chosen construction partners. This type of project may involve structural changes such as reconfiguring layouts or adding additional rooms. It also includes cosmetic updates like installing new flooring, painting walls, replacing fixtures, and updating lighting systems. The goal is not only to enhance the visual appeal but also to improve functionality and energy efficiency.

Collaborative Design Process

Collaboration between homeowners and their chosen home renovation company near me during the design phase is vital for realizing personalized outcomes that reflect individual style and practical requirements. An experienced renovation team will work closely with clients through every selection process – from material choices to color schemes – ensuring that each decision contributes cohesively to the overall design plan.

Navigating Construction Challenges

Renovations are complex undertakings that often come with unforeseen challenges once construction begins. These might include structural issues uncovered during demolition or delays due to material availability. A reputable home renovation company will have strategies in place to handle these situations effectively, minimizing stress for homeowners by providing solutions that keep projects on track without compromising quality or design intent.

Attention to Detail in Finishing Touches

As renovations approach completion, attention shifts toward finishing touches that bring spaces together harmoniously. Quality craftsmanship in elements such as trim work, cabinetry installation, tile laying, and fixture fittings is what distinguishes an average remodel from one executed with excellence. Partnering with a proficient home renovation company near me ensures these final details are managed meticulously for results that stand the test of time.

In conclusion, full home renovations represent transformative endeavors capable of revitalizing entire homes into spaces that resonate personally while functioning optimally for residents' daily lives. Selecting an accomplished local renovation partner becomes fundamental in navigating this intricate process successfully from initial concept through completion—resulting in a beautifully renovated home tailored specifically for its inhabitants' enjoyment now and well into the future.

Company Name: Unicus Construction, LLC Address: 188 Rieber Road, Kyle, TX, 78640, US Phone: 737-345-3212